As I’m starting to ‘kind of’ get acclimated to living in Mississippi – heavy emphasis on ‘kind of’, thus the quotation marks, for effect – I think it time to get into the nuts and bolts of what constitutes “Living Life Lakeside"; and living life lakeside is all about exclusive keyed entry into 2945 Layfair Drive, Apartment # 1122, at the beautiful Reflection Pointe apartment complex, a literal stones’ throw from the Ergon HQ’s at Mirror Lake Plaza.
The Reflection Pointe Apartment complex, (the ‘e’ at the end of the traditional spelling of ‘Point’ indicating an air of elegance; this isn’t your normal old point, no, this point is dripping with…well, something special that warrants it an ‘e’ on the end) is a 100+ unit development that was built in, I would guess, the early 1970’s. They haven’t done much to the infrastructure since then, save for repairing what breaks, as it breaks, in the individual units. My heater/air conditioner sounds a lot like a 1954 Ford truck with bad wheel bearings flying out of control down a gravel road; the few times that it’s kicked on in the middle of the night had me fast awake and scrambling for cover. They are at the point where they’re replacing carpet when the units turn; my unit had fresh paint and new carpet when I moved in, but that still didn’t mask the smell of how many months/years of cigarette smoke infused into the walls by the previous occupants. It was so bad, that even when wearing clean, newly washed clothes that had hung in the closet for a few days, I still smelled of rank, old cigarette smoke when I went out of the apartment.
The 40+ year-old vinyl siding, and all of the interior and exterior wood trim, which is rife with rot, is in desperate need of replacement. My 5’x10’ balcony – quite an accoutrement to this bachelor’s dream pad – is shaky to the point that I hold my breath when I step out upon it, fearing that the extra weight and motion involved in my inhaling and exhaling a belly full of air might pull the deck from its supports, tumbling me headlong into the Mississippi flora and fauna that, year-round, flourishes 10’ below.
I don’t spend a lot of time at Reflection Pointe, as I mostly travel during the week on business. But the weekends alone at Reflection Pointe are special, spent mostly doing laundry at the Reflection Pointe laundry center, located about 150 yards from my apartment. I save my quarters all week, and plod across the green space, around the pool, and into the laundry room, with my basket of dirty clothes in tow. I’m quick to get my stuff in and out, as young neighbors who might venture into the laundry room while I sort and fold my whitey-tighties might look at me and ask themselves, “Wow, what sort of a retro-throwback thing lives amongst us and actually wears, well, what are those elasticized little white things he’s folding?”
I’m gonna come clean here and admit that I am, by far, the oldest dude that I’ve seen living at Reflection Pointe. The complex is inhabited by 20-30 year-olds who work at the nearby medical facilities, National Guard and USAF bases, and/or kids or newlyweds just out of college who inhabit this place as a short stop-off until they age enough or wage enough to buy themselves a house and get the hell on with their lives. Those that notice me have to ask themselves, “What has this poor bastard done to end up here at this point in his life, toting his laundry basket across the green space at Reflection Pointe? Geez, how can I avoid that happening to me? Maybe I should go talk to him. Nah, I’d rather not know. And he's a little scary.”
Part of me wants to go door to door and explain myself, “No, I’m not a newly paroled sex-offender, divorcée, AA-member; I’ve got a good job, a wife and family, and I’m a minority owner (Lucy being the majority owner) of a 13,000 square-foot hotel, bar & restaurant on the Colorado River!” My guess is, the truth would scare them even more, as upon hearing that truth, it would only confirm their pre-supposed suspicions of me not only being a newly paroled sex-offender, divorcée, AA-member, but a crazy, delusional, lying SOB as well. A grey-haired, not quite so good looking John Edwards comes to mind.
I’ll further come clean and tell you that I hate living at Reflection Pointe, alone, in a place that I would have turned my nose up at shortly out of college and gainfully employed. And the key word here is ‘alone’. Julie and I are getting ready to celebrate our 30th wedding anniversary this June. That isn’t an accident; we love each other and have enjoyed living together for 30 years. Living without her, whether it is in Reflection Pointe or the Taj Mahal, sucks!
“Oh woe is me, and woe is my situation!” I've spent a lot of my Reflection Pointe weekend time having this self-pity party. And now, I’ll stumble all over trite and obvious territory and tell it like it is.
Haiti happened, right smack dab in the middle of my 'woe is me' party.
I live in a warm, comfortable one bedroom apartment with running water, a shower and flush toilet, a full kitchen and cable TV. HDTV to boot! I have a sketchy wooden deck with a Weber Little Smoky that I cook on most nights, enjoying the 50+degree Mississippi winter evenings.
The King of Haiti would kill for what I have.
When I look at how the rest of the world lives, what they daily have to deal with, and what constitutes pain and suffering to them, I now understand and appreciate the ‘e’ at the end of my pointe. It is a special place, and I'm fortunate to be able to live at the Pointe. I just wish my wife was here.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Lucy.......The Conclusion (To this Lucy story, at least)
So I’ve strung you along for a few weeks waiting to find out about dog poop. I apologize for this cheap literary device, as I use the ‘To be continued...’ thing as a means to juggle jobs, responsibilities to family and friends and personal time used to watch sports (it’s NFL playoff and college B-ball season, dammit!), which doesn’t leave much time to devote to the blog.
And you, you’ve allowed yourself to be strung along to find out about dog poop; there’s maybe something interesting to that as well, but I’ll leave it lie.
The day after Christmas brought not only more guests, but more dogs: four more dogs, to be exact - four BIG dogs, all in one room. Now Lucy has developed a bit of a reputation when it comes to picking fights with small dogs, and she may have a bit of a violent streak, kind of like Amy Winehouse has a little thing for drugs and tats; but unlike Amy Winehouse, Lucy’s no idiot, and can quickly distinguish between whom to bully and from whom to back down. There were two Labs, one German shepherd mix, and a sled dog/husky sort of thing; they were a united front, and would have drawn and quartered Lucy in short order. Their owners were good about following the Lucy rules, i.e.no dogs in the common area, and we really didn’t even know they were staying with us. We didn’t, but Lucy sure as hell did. The dogs weren’t even up the stairs and in their room before Lucy began planning her post pooch-departure statement. I contend that she didn’t poop for two days, in an effort to make the event really special.
The next two days passed without any significant events; we were busy as hell at the hotel, with all of the rooms being full, and Lucy quietly passed the time making every waking second of Busters’ life a living hell.
“Sure thing Buster, I’m cool with you being here, so long as you’re cool with me biting any and every square inch of your body whenever I feel like it, which is ALL THE TIME, but I promise you I’ll take an occasional break from biting you to flip you over and sit on your throat. So sure, I’m OK with you living here, you little son-of-a-bitch!”
December 28th arrived, and all of the guests eventually departed. We didn’t have anything too pressing going on the next two days except…...except for showing the hotel to two potential buyers!! As you probably know, the Riverside is for sale, what with me living in Jackson, MS away from my wife and all, and we had interested parties coming up at noon on the 28th of December and the next on the morning of the 29th. So we basically had about two hours to bust hump and get 12 rooms turned, the bathrooms cleaned, the downstairs tidied up, etc; we had to flat rock to get the place up to speed, and rock we did. All was going well, until it hit me that I never really nailed down a time for our “lunchtime” visitors, and no sooner did I consider this than, lo and behold, at 11:00 AM, there they stood, waiting for their tour.
All was well downstairs, and I knew Julie was wrapping things up upstairs, so no big deal. I even bought a little more time by getting them coffee and excusing myself to change from my work clothes. I sent word to Julie that the guests were here, and Julie sent word back to “show them the downstairs, and stall!!” So stall I did, lingering in the dining room, stretching out my stories on the past history, taking every opportunity I could to let them examine while I explained. Inevitably, we headed upstairs; first to the “East Wing”, which houses the main hall with the chandeliers, the bathrooms and the bookshelves. Again I stalled, asking them a lot of questions, many a ploy to forestall what, I wasn’t sure, as we headed to the “West Wing” of the hotel, where I believed Julie was still cleaning, as I’d yet to see a sign of her.
“Yes, these books are for all of our guests to read. We’d keep them here if you’d like. Look through them all and see if there’s any you’ve read before. If you see something you haven’t read but would like to read, by all means, have a seat and get started on it! I’d suggest Moby Dick if you’ve never had a go at that one!”
No interest in reading, but continued interest in seeing the rest of the hotel, so off we headed into the unknown. We walked past the bathrooms into the short west hall, (the hall where the ghost was standing that parallels the long west hall) viewed the rooms, and headed into the sitting room in the Tootie suite. Suitably impressed with this room, as it is the largest with the best view, we headed down the long west hall towards the Lennon room. About halfway down the hall, I encountered a sensation that was something akin to getting smashed in the face with a fungo bat; the smell took my breath, and all but buckled my knees. I continued to prattle on, acting like I didn’t notice anything; I’m certain the first question that entered the guest's minds was “Is there a violently churning raw sewage plant that we didn’t notice located immediately next to the hotel?”
We entered the Lennon room, and I hastily pointed to the plaque on the wall detailing his Riverside stay, laughing nervously as I said, “yep, heh..heh..he stayed here, all right..heh..heh”, the guests thinking, "Stayed here? He obviously died here, and we're certain he’s still under the bed!”
I simply couldn't hide it any longer; I had to mention what was as obvious as the pea-green pallor of my complexion.
“Hmmm. Smells a little like dogs in here. We had guests stay here that had four dogs, and wow, that smell’s a little overwhelming; my apologies. We probably shouldn’t allow dogs.” (I’m thinking, yah, the dogs stayed here, but I didn’t know they pooped in here for the last two days and piled it all under the bed, ‘cause that’s what it smells like!!)
The guests were quick to say, “Oh no, this is Colorado, you’ve got to allow dogs!”
Downstairs we go, tour all but complete, and there stands Julie, looking lovely, calm and collected. After introductions, she pulls me aside to tell me the raw truth. No, it wasn’t the four guest pooches that fouled our attempt at selling the Riverside; rather, it was our own little hoyden that did potentially permanent damage to not only our relocation efforts, but to our olfactory systems as well. And this time she didn’t do it outside the door, as is her usual modus operandi for saying goodbye to our big-dog guests, nor even did Lucy have the good grace to simply do it on the room’s floor; nope, she laid it right smack in the middle of the bed, on the comforter that Julie had replaced two minutes prior. This was the ultimate “up yours!!”- a two-day, fine-wine-aged poop, planted deliberately and skillfully, with love and obvious pride of ownership. When Julie discovered Lucy’s contribution to our efforts to sell the hotel, her first thought was to throw the comforter out the window, but she heard us below on the west deck, and thought better of it, as a flying, poop-filled comforter might have been a little tough to explain. Even in Grand County!
The interested party laughed when they heard the story (good that they have the necessary sense of humor to take on a venture like The Riverside), as we had to explain the source of the smell. I’m certain they were relieved to learn that it wasn’t the result of a hotel full of shared bathrooms. It was in fact, another little, and not quite so subtle, reminder to us all, of who really owns The Riverside Hotel; per her exceptional breeding, as she’s just doing her job.
And you, you’ve allowed yourself to be strung along to find out about dog poop; there’s maybe something interesting to that as well, but I’ll leave it lie.
The day after Christmas brought not only more guests, but more dogs: four more dogs, to be exact - four BIG dogs, all in one room. Now Lucy has developed a bit of a reputation when it comes to picking fights with small dogs, and she may have a bit of a violent streak, kind of like Amy Winehouse has a little thing for drugs and tats; but unlike Amy Winehouse, Lucy’s no idiot, and can quickly distinguish between whom to bully and from whom to back down. There were two Labs, one German shepherd mix, and a sled dog/husky sort of thing; they were a united front, and would have drawn and quartered Lucy in short order. Their owners were good about following the Lucy rules, i.e.no dogs in the common area, and we really didn’t even know they were staying with us. We didn’t, but Lucy sure as hell did. The dogs weren’t even up the stairs and in their room before Lucy began planning her post pooch-departure statement. I contend that she didn’t poop for two days, in an effort to make the event really special.
The next two days passed without any significant events; we were busy as hell at the hotel, with all of the rooms being full, and Lucy quietly passed the time making every waking second of Busters’ life a living hell.
“Sure thing Buster, I’m cool with you being here, so long as you’re cool with me biting any and every square inch of your body whenever I feel like it, which is ALL THE TIME, but I promise you I’ll take an occasional break from biting you to flip you over and sit on your throat. So sure, I’m OK with you living here, you little son-of-a-bitch!”
December 28th arrived, and all of the guests eventually departed. We didn’t have anything too pressing going on the next two days except…...except for showing the hotel to two potential buyers!! As you probably know, the Riverside is for sale, what with me living in Jackson, MS away from my wife and all, and we had interested parties coming up at noon on the 28th of December and the next on the morning of the 29th. So we basically had about two hours to bust hump and get 12 rooms turned, the bathrooms cleaned, the downstairs tidied up, etc; we had to flat rock to get the place up to speed, and rock we did. All was going well, until it hit me that I never really nailed down a time for our “lunchtime” visitors, and no sooner did I consider this than, lo and behold, at 11:00 AM, there they stood, waiting for their tour.
All was well downstairs, and I knew Julie was wrapping things up upstairs, so no big deal. I even bought a little more time by getting them coffee and excusing myself to change from my work clothes. I sent word to Julie that the guests were here, and Julie sent word back to “show them the downstairs, and stall!!” So stall I did, lingering in the dining room, stretching out my stories on the past history, taking every opportunity I could to let them examine while I explained. Inevitably, we headed upstairs; first to the “East Wing”, which houses the main hall with the chandeliers, the bathrooms and the bookshelves. Again I stalled, asking them a lot of questions, many a ploy to forestall what, I wasn’t sure, as we headed to the “West Wing” of the hotel, where I believed Julie was still cleaning, as I’d yet to see a sign of her.
“Yes, these books are for all of our guests to read. We’d keep them here if you’d like. Look through them all and see if there’s any you’ve read before. If you see something you haven’t read but would like to read, by all means, have a seat and get started on it! I’d suggest Moby Dick if you’ve never had a go at that one!”
No interest in reading, but continued interest in seeing the rest of the hotel, so off we headed into the unknown. We walked past the bathrooms into the short west hall, (the hall where the ghost was standing that parallels the long west hall) viewed the rooms, and headed into the sitting room in the Tootie suite. Suitably impressed with this room, as it is the largest with the best view, we headed down the long west hall towards the Lennon room. About halfway down the hall, I encountered a sensation that was something akin to getting smashed in the face with a fungo bat; the smell took my breath, and all but buckled my knees. I continued to prattle on, acting like I didn’t notice anything; I’m certain the first question that entered the guest's minds was “Is there a violently churning raw sewage plant that we didn’t notice located immediately next to the hotel?”
We entered the Lennon room, and I hastily pointed to the plaque on the wall detailing his Riverside stay, laughing nervously as I said, “yep, heh..heh..he stayed here, all right..heh..heh”, the guests thinking, "Stayed here? He obviously died here, and we're certain he’s still under the bed!”
I simply couldn't hide it any longer; I had to mention what was as obvious as the pea-green pallor of my complexion.
“Hmmm. Smells a little like dogs in here. We had guests stay here that had four dogs, and wow, that smell’s a little overwhelming; my apologies. We probably shouldn’t allow dogs.” (I’m thinking, yah, the dogs stayed here, but I didn’t know they pooped in here for the last two days and piled it all under the bed, ‘cause that’s what it smells like!!)
The guests were quick to say, “Oh no, this is Colorado, you’ve got to allow dogs!”
Downstairs we go, tour all but complete, and there stands Julie, looking lovely, calm and collected. After introductions, she pulls me aside to tell me the raw truth. No, it wasn’t the four guest pooches that fouled our attempt at selling the Riverside; rather, it was our own little hoyden that did potentially permanent damage to not only our relocation efforts, but to our olfactory systems as well. And this time she didn’t do it outside the door, as is her usual modus operandi for saying goodbye to our big-dog guests, nor even did Lucy have the good grace to simply do it on the room’s floor; nope, she laid it right smack in the middle of the bed, on the comforter that Julie had replaced two minutes prior. This was the ultimate “up yours!!”- a two-day, fine-wine-aged poop, planted deliberately and skillfully, with love and obvious pride of ownership. When Julie discovered Lucy’s contribution to our efforts to sell the hotel, her first thought was to throw the comforter out the window, but she heard us below on the west deck, and thought better of it, as a flying, poop-filled comforter might have been a little tough to explain. Even in Grand County!
The interested party laughed when they heard the story (good that they have the necessary sense of humor to take on a venture like The Riverside), as we had to explain the source of the smell. I’m certain they were relieved to learn that it wasn’t the result of a hotel full of shared bathrooms. It was in fact, another little, and not quite so subtle, reminder to us all, of who really owns The Riverside Hotel; per her exceptional breeding, as she’s just doing her job.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Lucy..........Part III
As I hadn’t seen Julie, Rachel or Scott since
Turkey Day, the 2009 Christmas season was much anticipated, especially after spending three weeks alone in Jackson, MS - at my job during the day and my Reflection Pointe bachelor pad evenings and weekends. While I desperately missed my wife and kids, I could at least interact with them on the phone. I missed my pooch as much as the others, but knew I could only get my Lucy fix in the flesh, as my numerous attempts to communicate with her over the phone fell on very pointy deaf ears. As smart as Lucy is, she’s yet to master the phone; emphasis on ‘yet’.
Home in Hot Sulphur on the 23rd, and on Christmas Eve the 24th, our nuclear family was enjoying a wonderful Christmas meal, including our shameless little pooch, her oversized schnozz nestled between my knees below the dinner table, begging scraps with a look that could thaw a Grand County winter. After the meal, it was time for gifts, and what came next for Rachel was indeed the ultimate definition of ‘the gift that keeps on giving.’
No, not a ‘jelly of the month’, not a library card, not even the promise of hope and change; nope, this eternal little reminder of Christmas 2009 was named ‘Buster’. That’s right; not only did my new dog-friendly lifestyle have to embrace Lucy, but I now had to deal with TWO DOGS – 24/7, it was now The Lucy & Buster Show, starring, of course, Lucy!!
This wasn’t a surprise to me, as Julie had been discussing this for the past month. During those conversations, had I a nickel for every time I said “that’s a horrible idea”, my cash shortfall would be non-existent. “But Lucy needs a friend!” was the rationale which Julie offered; “like Mr. Clean needs a haircut”, I countered, “that dog would kick the butcher’s sorry ass if she thought he was trying to supplant her as Queen Bitch of The Riverside!”
Despite my attempts to enlighten Julie regarding the downside of having two pooches in a hotel (one of them being Lucy, to boot!), Julie rescued Buster – an Australian Shepherd/Corgi/Dachshund mix – from the Dumb Friends League in Denver. Buster is cute like the ocean is deep, like Everest is tall, like politicians are crooked – you get the picture; all puppies are cute, but Buster would for certain win some contests.
But Lucy thinks Buster sucks!
Lucy’s thinking “What is this uninvited little koala-bear looking thing, with an adorable personality and an overbite to match, DOING IN MY HOTEL??? I barked, I growled, I notified the bosses of this things’ intrusion, and they’re obviously deaf to my protestations. Whoa, what’s this??? They seem to actually like this intruder, and possibly at my expense! Oh, damn this little thing! I’ll bite its ears, I’ll bite its neck, its legs and its back; I’ll show this little mutt where it lives, and let it know who the landlord is!”
The Christmas Season is principally about peace on earth, and good will towards your fellow man (or pooch); I can now, after having experienced sharing space with two dogs (again, Lucy being one of them), that you can throw that notion right out the Riverside window into the Colorado River. The next few days were nothing but every waking hour being an endless display of a non-stop, doggie rough-housing, one-up-man-shipping, ear-biting, butt-sniffing, ass-in-your-face, who’s-in-charge-here domination contest. Lucy’s normal routine is to awaken at 7-ish for a quick trip outside to do her business, then it’s back to bed – sometimes until 10-11 AM. No more; after that 7 AM nature call, she’s sitting outside of Buster’s door – “Hey Buster, you want a piece of this? You ready for me to Jesse Ventura your ass? Whoa, wait a minute, what’s that I smell? Poop? Damn straight that’s what you smell, cause I just pooped outside your door, you little half-breed!”
And so begins another day at The Riverside. It ends like this too.
But back to the December 28th "In Your Face" poop that may have been the loaf smelled 'round the world; or certainly our world.
....................To be concluded.
Home in Hot Sulphur on the 23rd, and on Christmas Eve the 24th, our nuclear family was enjoying a wonderful Christmas meal, including our shameless little pooch, her oversized schnozz nestled between my knees below the dinner table, begging scraps with a look that could thaw a Grand County winter. After the meal, it was time for gifts, and what came next for Rachel was indeed the ultimate definition of ‘the gift that keeps on giving.’
No, not a ‘jelly of the month’, not a library card, not even the promise of hope and change; nope, this eternal little reminder of Christmas 2009 was named ‘Buster’. That’s right; not only did my new dog-friendly lifestyle have to embrace Lucy, but I now had to deal with TWO DOGS – 24/7, it was now The Lucy & Buster Show, starring, of course, Lucy!!
This wasn’t a surprise to me, as Julie had been discussing this for the past month. During those conversations, had I a nickel for every time I said “that’s a horrible idea”, my cash shortfall would be non-existent. “But Lucy needs a friend!” was the rationale which Julie offered; “like Mr. Clean needs a haircut”, I countered, “that dog would kick the butcher’s sorry ass if she thought he was trying to supplant her as Queen Bitch of The Riverside!”
Despite my attempts to enlighten Julie regarding the downside of having two pooches in a hotel (one of them being Lucy, to boot!), Julie rescued Buster – an Australian Shepherd/Corgi/Dachshund mix – from the Dumb Friends League in Denver. Buster is cute like the ocean is deep, like Everest is tall, like politicians are crooked – you get the picture; all puppies are cute, but Buster would for certain win some contests.
But Lucy thinks Buster sucks!
Lucy’s thinking “What is this uninvited little koala-bear looking thing, with an adorable personality and an overbite to match, DOING IN MY HOTEL??? I barked, I growled, I notified the bosses of this things’ intrusion, and they’re obviously deaf to my protestations. Whoa, what’s this??? They seem to actually like this intruder, and possibly at my expense! Oh, damn this little thing! I’ll bite its ears, I’ll bite its neck, its legs and its back; I’ll show this little mutt where it lives, and let it know who the landlord is!”
The Christmas Season is principally about peace on earth, and good will towards your fellow man (or pooch); I can now, after having experienced sharing space with two dogs (again, Lucy being one of them), that you can throw that notion right out the Riverside window into the Colorado River. The next few days were nothing but every waking hour being an endless display of a non-stop, doggie rough-housing, one-up-man-shipping, ear-biting, butt-sniffing, ass-in-your-face, who’s-in-charge-here domination contest. Lucy’s normal routine is to awaken at 7-ish for a quick trip outside to do her business, then it’s back to bed – sometimes until 10-11 AM. No more; after that 7 AM nature call, she’s sitting outside of Buster’s door – “Hey Buster, you want a piece of this? You ready for me to Jesse Ventura your ass? Whoa, wait a minute, what’s that I smell? Poop? Damn straight that’s what you smell, cause I just pooped outside your door, you little half-breed!”
And so begins another day at The Riverside. It ends like this too.
But back to the December 28th "In Your Face" poop that may have been the loaf smelled 'round the world; or certainly our world.
....................To be concluded.
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