Norman Rockwell Halloween

Halloween was never a big holiday for me.  Sure as a kid I loved the free candy, but I don’t remember classroom parties or endless decorations.     I am not a fan of horror movies and didn’t party like my friends,  so Halloween just became another day made a little better with fun size candy bars.  In my early twenties, I started going out for Halloween.  Nothing huge just hanging around with friends as we watch the crazy unfold. Then I met SoHubby.  The man lives for Halloween.  He likes the dressing up, the decorations and the scaring the crap out of people, especially the little ones.  It isn’t Halloween until you make a kid cry on your porch and then console him with some free candy, hoping his parents are too drunk to remember this.  And, now, with kids, Halloween has taken on a whole new turn.

If you haven’t notice Halloween has become almost as big as Christmas.  Matter of fact all the holidays have.  The kids celebrate each holiday with the same excitement that was once reserved just for the big one, Christmas.  I think the stores play a big part of this, because where there is excitement there is some one spending money.  Tis the American way.  So they start putting Halloween items out starting in the beginning of August and people start to get the fever and the only cure is to spend, spend, spend.  I have no problem with this.  Heck, I welcome it because it just means more clearance once the holiday is over.  Too bad candy doesn’t last a year, at least not in this house.  Besides, Halloween is the first big holiday since school started.  So yeah!  Party, party, party.

Sohubby did get my Halloween spirit going in those early days of our relationship, but I think the kids, especially Sam, have thrown them into overdrive.  No, I am not covering my face in blood, watching Friday the 13th Part 103, or doing my best to give little kids heart attacks, but I am looking forward to Halloween.  I haven’t gotten my vision, though.  As soon as someone mentions Halloween, usually Sam, I can pretty much smell the cool crisp air with a touch of warmth in it.  This is odd only because we live on the edge of the 7th circle of Hell, weather wise.  It is rare to have a cool crisp Halloween in these parts, which means while the rest of the country is choosing costumes for warmth we are steering our kids toward ventilation and  mosquito protection.   However, if we do get that rare cool Halloween night, it is usually spoiled by the heavy hint of humidity in the air.  How can you have humidity and coolness at the same time?  You, my friend, haven’t been to New Orleans in October.  It happens and it sucks.  Still we march on like the true holiday soldiers that we are.

Next are the decorations.  I dream of hay bales with cute and friendly scarecrows and lovely round pumpkins scattered around our yard.  The look that screams come on in, sit by the fire and sip a cup of cider with me.  The husband and the kids steer the decorating more toward the blood, demented minions, gravestones, and things that look as if they have been underground for a century but love to pop up just as you walk by.  You know the look that screams 1950′s haunted, abandoned mental institution that would have been the center piece of any Geraldo special.  Not my ideal, but, again, I go with it, because I am out numbered.   I am sure when the kids are grown and on their own I can torment my lovely husband with all the cute and cuddly Halloween decorations I have always dreamed of.

The pumpkin patch.  I had seen and heard about them from TV shows, but had never seen one in real life.  Unfortunately, when I say pumpkin patch down here, I am not talking the drive to the country from the city to wander the land of a farm searching for that perfect pumpkin.  I am talking the parking lot of a local church who charges by the pound and has made up area for photo ops.  If you are really clever with your camera you won’t get the cars zooming pass on the major street in front of the church.  But if you close your eyes for a second and let the hay scratch you a bit you can imagine that you are in that far off farm in New England finding that perfectly round pumpkin.  As for the pumpkins, while they are better than what you will find at the local Wal-mart or grocery store. They are never perfectly round and most times you are lucky to get one that has one good side.

The one thing I can count on is the candy.  There is just that special mixture of chocolate and wax like candy that smells like Halloween.  And, of course, you can’t have Halloween without the candy corn.  That is grounds for explosion from the holidays altogether.  If you are not rolling on the ground screaming from pain by November 1 you didn’t have a good Halloween.  None of that Harvest Mix, either.  Those waxy pumpkins and brown “chocolate”and candy corn are enough to send me racing to the toilet like I am knocked up with triplets.  Things start to look up on October 1 when I have an excuse to get the candy bowl out and keep it filled with candy corn and other candy that signal which holiday is coming.  We never know why our pants are a little tighter with each passing month from October to January, because surely that small handful of holiday candy, that we grab on the way to the sofa to sit on our ass with our computers and TV, isn’t enough to pack on the pounds.  And all that exercise we get walking the kids from house to house to beg trick or treat for candy, or shopping for the perfect gift or turkey would be more than enough to use up the minuscule amount of candy we consume on a second by second basis.  Not to mention, the stop we make at our friends’ house for a second go around at dinner while trick or treating.  Nothing says love or holidays like food.

I will probably never get my New England Halloween (yes, I think of New England for Halloween) with it’s cool crisp air, apple picking, perfect pumpkin patches and hot cider, which I am almost positive I wouldn’t like.  I will continue on with our Halloween filled with ghoulish decorations that get knocked down day after day, because along with cold humidity comes big gusts of wind.  The kids changing which costume they want and the never ending fight over which costumes is not too sexy (yes, even in the pre tween section) or too satanic or too ghoulish or just plain too gross.  The bowl of candy that screams for me to partake of it’s sweetness until all the good chocolate is gone and then hangs around on my ass until New Year’s.  It is not the Norman Rockwell Halloween that I have in my mind, but it is a good time because it tells us that the cool crisp air we have been dying for since the middle of May is around the corner.  Thanksgiving is knocking on our doors and Christmas is getting ready to make it’s visit and stay awhile.  It is the holiday that comes knocking to let us know that it is that time of the year for families and friends to get together, hopefully, forget the everyday mundane stresses (traded in for those frivolous holiday stresses) and that a new year is coming filled with promise and happiness.  Yes, Halloween never meant much to me growing up, but it has a whole new meaning now.

Read Full Post »

The Lady Who Spas

I never considered myself one of those women.  Sure I was a stay at home wife and then a stay at home mom, but I was never one of those well to do women who had nannies, went to the salon and spa on a weekly basis and lived in Old Metairie or Uptown.  And I am still not one of those women.  Hell, all you need to do is stand out in my backyard on a windy day to smell the dump a few miles away to know I am telling the truth.  They sneer at me when I walk into my favorite salon and spa, which use to make me uncomfortable, but they no longer rule the roost.  There are more of my kind than theirs these days.  I have, however, taken a liking to a couple of spa treatments here and there.  I give all the credit to my husband.  He, who has wondered out loud if I should consider a pedicure because he is bleeding after being clipped by a wayward toenail during the night.  Or who gives me a spa gift certificate on most gift giving occassions.  I am not complaining and I am not overdoing, but I am venturing out from just my hair cuts and pedicures.

The first time I had a spa treatment was before my wedding.  I wanted to look my best and the spa had some kind of celluite massage.  I figured I would try it out.  Even though it focused mainly on my lower half (legs, people), it was great until I was informed I would have to get 6 more to see any results.  At over a $100 a pop, I didn’t see it in my future, so I bought the fancy, expensive lotion instead and try it at home.  Needless to say, my legs are not completely smooth.  Although, I don’t know if I can blame the treatments I didn’t get, the 2 babies I popped out or the fact that I have rarely passed up a dessert in my life.  It was a nice treat, though.  I moved up to a massage when my mother-in-law gave us free nights at many Mississippi casinos.  And let me tell you, that woman could gamble and was throw free stuff from the casino like she was Queen of Mardi Gras.  With her passing went the freebies and so went couples massages and chocolate strawberries. 

Later on SoHubby and I decided that since we were so worn out from having a life and one child we would treat ourselves to a weekend at the New Orleans Ritz Carlton and partake in some of their spa services.  Yeah, I look back on that and want to smack that woman, because, HELLO!, on the verge of 3 kids over here.  Oh how naive and innocent were those days.  After massages, SoHubby took a dip in the hot tub and I got a facial.  It was okay, but nothing to write home about.  The woman talked the whole session and I felt like a greased pig when I walked out of the place.  No matter, I could just go to the room and take a bath.  Problem solved.  However, this problem would plague me on future spa treatments.  I am not keen to feeling like I have been greased ready to be chased by a Bubba in overalls when I leave the spa.  I would like to leave pretty much as I came in only relaxed ready to let the world slide off my back like water off a duck’s back.

This pass Christmas, SoHubby stayed true to form and got me a gift certificate for the spa.   This time I decided I would branch out and try some different treatments.  It is odd to me how seriously a lot of these treatments are, in the respect that they need to know a lot of information about you before they get started.  And being pregnant limits you a bit.  My first treatment was a pre-natal massage.  It was okay, but I don’t think I am a massage type of girl.  Maybe if I could take a nap for about an hour after, it would be heaven, but to expect me to get up and drive home to deal with kids and husband didn’t really relive any of the stress.  Besides, my monthly pedicures did a lot to energize me.  I am telling you that little woman, who massages my legs, is worth every penny I spend.  I feel like I can run a marathon, which I don’t because why run when you can nap?

The next treatment I would try was a facial.  I had high hopes for this treatment.  I wanted her to get rid of all my skin ailments and make me look 20 years old again.  Apparently, that is the ultra secret treatment that cost more than we make a year and is hidden in the back room.  So, I decided I would just do a regular ole facial.  I was informed at the time I made the appointment that the lady would talk with me and then we could decide together what was the best for my face.  HUH?  I just wanted a little time away from the kids and maybe have my skin look a little better.  I arrive at my appointment to a 2 page questionnaire.  Was I there for a relaxing time or was I going in for some medical treatment?  I was asked about any medications I took, if I had surgery in the last 9 months, was I pregnant, was I trying to get pregnant, what was the contents of the face products I used, which products did I use, and on and on.  I guess it doesn’t help that I lied a bit on the form.  Not overly, mind you, just when asked how much water I drink a day I said 8 ozs.  I think that might be how much water I consume in a week.  A good week. 

I met the lady who would be rendering me my treatment and we got to work.  I was left in the dimly lit room with ping-ping music and a fountain that made me have to go pee in the background to get undressed and under the covers.  You know that feeling you get when the gynecologist leaves the room so you can get undressed for your exam? Yeah that is the one.  Soon that feeling would fall away as I slipped under the covers and felt the warming of the table and no stirrups.  My skin professional came back and got to work.  She wiped, examined and asked what I was looking for.  Basically, I am sick of all the blackheads and just wanted some purty skin.  She suggested a peel, which scared me. My mom had gotten a “peel” back in the mid ’80′s as an experiment.  Um, this was not my mother’s peel.  Hers left her face looking like chopped meat and my brother and I scared to go near her for weeks.  Although once healed her skin looked far better.  I didn’t need quite that amount of work.  I came to realize that the spa people throw this word, peel, around like nothing.  Some are more than others, but my lady assure me that mine needed no down time.  Really? Downtime?  There is downtime from a facial?  Okay, good to know that I could walk among the normal people once my “relaxing” time was over.  I got some c-enzyme thing, which felt cool and tingling for a few minutes.  That didn’t compare to the extraction.  What is an extraction?  Basically, she popped my blackheads ALL OVER MY FACE!!  It felt like someone had thrown me into a sack of crawfish who proceeded to pinch me to death.  It was not pleasant.  I remember, at my first facial, that the lady had told me she wasn’t going to do this part, because it was my first time and I was there to relax.  I was disappointed at the time, but I appreciate her more, now.  SoHubby would ask why I wasn’t all red after the “extraction”?  I replied, because the woman is a professional and has some fancy tool she used.  After all that, I did receive some relaxing treatment with a neck and shoulder massage.  Can’t I just hire some little woman to stay in a box under the bed to only come out before bed to give me a neck, shoulders, and leg massage?  That wouldn’t be expensive, right?  Of course, I could have beautiful, perfect skin after 6 more treatments.  I will admit I am considering it.  I did enjoy myself and I can do 30 minutes instead of the full hour at only $275.  That price tag is why I am still considering it.

Overall, I have come to realize that I like the pedicures the best and facials come in second, only because of the extraction.  I can see some difference in my skin, but nothing huge.  My question is am I becoming closer to one of those women who spa?  I would like to think of myself as a simple girl with a few pleasures in life, but all these spa treatments are not helping that image.  I wonder if there will be a new tax deduction for stimulation of the economy, because if that happens they are going to have to transfer my mail.

Read Full Post »

The Mystery of Sweet Pea is Solved

 After almost 20 years the mystery of the rescued child of Popeye and Olive Oil has been solved.  As I sat and watched Popeye the Sailor learning all about love triangles and getting free burgers, one problem plagued me, where the hell was that child’s feet.  We would never see his/her feet.  The baby would crawl, no feet, just a little trail of fabric bringing up the rear.  It was weird, to say the least, but no one else seemed to notice, so maybe I shouldn’t rock the boat.  Then we took a trip to Alexandria, LA and all questions, on this topic, were answered.

I present my son, the new Sweet Pea:

Yes, my son sleeps in a bag every night.  Matter of fact, he insist on it.

Don’t worry your little head, he seems to have no problems in getting around.
Dammit!!!

Whew!  I can mark this mystery as solved off my list of about a billion.  I can rest a little easier knowing that the sac children around the world are doing just fine.  And to think I thought Popeye and Olive Oil were the worst kind of parents, stuffing their kid in a sac for their own convenience.  I guess you have to sleep a mile in someone else bed next to their screaming child to totally understand.

Read Full Post »

The Crumbling of America

Updated below

I remember very little of what I learned in college and even less of what I learned in high school, but I thought somewhere I learned that America was not only a democracy, but a capitalist society as well.  So why in the hell am I, and the rest of us, being raped on a daily basis by monopolies?  I have had my problems with Cox and basically think they are the devil sent to earth to drive me batshit crazy up the fucking wall, but now they have a new partner in crime,  AT&T.

Recently, I have noticed the house has become very quiet.  I soon realized that we are unable to receive phone calls in our home.  Odd, eh?  I instruct George to call the phone company.  He deals with them on a regular basis, so he should know how to get them to fix this problem, right?  WRONG!!  He calls them and tells them the problem.  I hear nothing about it and assume all is well.  I will never learn.  We arrive home, from Amber’s dance revue, to find a lovely note so well written it made Baby Jesus cry.  I figure great problem solved.  It won’t EVER be that easy.  So George calls them again.  They are set to come sometime between 2-6pm on Monday.  Don’t you just love that?  It basically says, drop your whole day and we will show up when ever the damn hell we feel like it. 

An AT&T tech shows up early within the time frame given and sets up to figure out the problem.  He checks the box outside our house, makes me do some kind of song and dance regarding unplugging and replugging my phone and declares that he is finished.  All is well outside the house.  Well, sorry my phone still doesn’t work.  “Well ma’am, it will cost you $110 for me to step inside your house and discover the problem.”  Uh, yeah you can go, now.  Later, George got upset because I sent away the one man in the universe that can fix his precious phone.  I politely explain to jackass my husband that I could not reach him on his cell phone to discuss this little issue of the shakedown, so I let the man go.

I ask George to call a friend of a friend that happens to work at said phone company and ask what they can do for us.  Well, it turns out nothing, but he could me that we were charged $85 to come out and determine the problem.  This is when my head explodes and the curse words start piling up.  I call AT&T and proceed to get connected to the 2 most uncaring people in the world.  Basically, there stance is “Your problem not mine” and have a fuck you kind of day.

The best part was when I asked to speak to a manager, the lady comes back and says he will call me back.  After about 20 minutes of going over my problem with my phone and my huge problem with them charging me to come out “just to see what the problem might be” and then never explaining the problem, I exploded, “NO, HE CAN’T CALL ME BACK. MY. PHONE. DOESN’T. RECIEVE. PHONE. CALLS. DUH!”  About the only thing I didn’t do with these 2 non-helpful customer service representatives was curse at them.  You know, because I am a lady and no matter how badly I get treated I will not stoop to their level of stupidity and unfeeling jackassness.

I spent another 30 minutes on the phone with this so called manager who has the power to tell me nothing.  He would inform me that if only I had the maintenence plan all of this would be taken care of free of charge.  Well, where is the information regarding this PLAN?  I was never informed that there was such a thing.  I am told that I should have been told about the PLAN when I got my phone service.  Well, I think if I was told about the PLAN, then I would have asked some questions.  I just always assumed that anything to do with my phone was the business of the phone company and they were suppose to fix it.  I guess that would mean they actually did something for their money other than give me the privilege of a dial tone in my house. (Please do not tell me about internet phone service.  We can’t use it and I will be damned if I give more money to Cox Cable.) Then he goes on to tell me that there is info about the PLAN on my bill, that is sent every month that I pay well ahead of time.  See this is where you don’t mess with me.  I have everything filed away and I usually have 2 years of anything at my finger tips.  I look through my entire bill and past bills, nothing about the PLAN.  I ask the man on the phone where on the bill…and that was the last I heard of him.  I am thinking this was the time wild boars broke into the office dragged him off to eat out his brains, because why would someone in customer service not answer a simple question?  I change my line of questioning, “If I sign up for the PLAN, can you be out here tomorrow?”  Oh look, wild boars didn’t carry him off, because he said, “Sorry ma’am (in case you are wondering, in this situation ma’am stands for bitch.  I ain’t stupid, I did it myself when I worked in the service industry), you will have to wait 30 days for the PLAN to be activated.” “Why don’t you send someone out, tomorrow, and I will pay the $85 blood money you already charged me and I will keep the PLAN on my bill for the rest of my life?”  “Oh we can’t do that.”  “How about if I cancel the PLAN before the month is over you just charge me your stupidly overpriced fee, anyway?”  “Oh sorry, I can’t do that.”  “Well, why don’t you give me the name of the CEO of your company.  I would like to ask him what he does with my money.”  Again, those wild boars busted into the office and began feasting on his innards.

My biggest problem is that whenever I call with a problem, it appears I am bothering these people.  I mean it is not like I am a paying customer or anything.  It is not like I am keeping their jobs firmly in place.  Hell, when I call and get India, I may not be able to understand them, but I understand enough to know they are not wishing my death because I called their center for help.  Well, at least, they don’t show it.  When I continued to ask this manager, if that is what he can be called, why I wasn’t given all the information by the tech or his company, he had no answer.  I told him all I want is answers, because it is not my habit of opening my front door and throwing money to the wind.  If it was my practice, I would be a more popular neighbor. 

Look, I know it sucks to listen to problems all day, but what ever happened to treating the customer with a little respect?  What happened to fake caring to get your paycheck?  I recently called a hotel we are going to be staying at, soon, and asked a few questions.  I literally heard an audible sigh like I had just interrupted her important nail filing and Cosmo reading, because I wanted to know about their Internet service and available safes.  I would just like to let everyone out there in these big companies know a little something: If it wasn’t for me and my dumbass questions, YOU WOULD BE OUT A JOB.  I know it is a sucky job, but at least work a little for the money and do like the rest of us did, talk about the dumb fuck after they have hung up.  I can’t tell you the amount of wine and cheese trays I sent to dumb hotel guests who yelled at me because their travel agent screwed up.  However, when I was super nice and even gave them something free, I felt not ounce of guilt telling everyone in the bowels of the hotel what an PUCKER ASSFACE you are and your room number.  Hey you get your satisfaction where you can.  Learn a little respect for the customer and how to properly blow off steam when you are done talking to them and then you won’t get me yelling at you for over an hour.  Because let’s face it, I am a stay at home mom.  I have no where to go and I am surround by whiny little humans all day.  I get my satisfaction where I can, too.  SHITFACE!!!!

I asked the hubs to take a look at it, since he works with phone lines a lot in his line of work.  After much huffing, puffing and general disgruntlement, he agreed.  I am glad to report that we, now, have a completely working phone at the mere price of 3 seconds of work from changing the line from the phone to the wall. 

I have decided to blame my husband for most of my grief and he has paid dearly. 

Read Full Post »

Have I Mentioned it is Mardi Gras Time?

The last Mardi Gras I actively participated in was probably when I was about 16 years old.  That would, also, be my first Mardi Gras in the French Quarter.  Oh the sights a young girl can see in the French Quarter at Mardi Gras time.  It is wild that I was even allowed to go across the river to that den of sin on my own, but those were simpler times.  I often rode the ferry across the river, by myself, to go to the library, ride the streetcar or just meet Grandma for lunch in Jackson Square.  This Mardi Gras I was with my friend, let’s call her, JayJay. 

JayJay is interesting for some many reasons and I lived much of my teenage angst through her. I was too scared of my mother to do it myself.  JayJay was a rebel.  She snuck out of her house, smoked cigarettes, drank and other various things that shall remain untold.  The most interesting thing about JayJay was her family.  She had 2 sisters and 1 brother and they were all gay.  This was our in.  Her brother was a swinging 20 something bartender in the hottest gay bar in the Quarter.  If you want fun and dancing, then you go to the Pub.  This is where I spent my first Mardi Gras in the Quarter.  We were allowed to drink, which I think I might have.  However, I was smart about it and didn’t get wasted.  How could I go home wasted and explain that to my mother?  If you are going to break some major rules, you need to do it the smart way.  We danced, sat around, let the crowd move us and just enjoyed the day. 

Since that point on, Mardi Gras would become a source of aggravation for me.  It would interfer with my getting to work ontime, forcing me to show up to work 3 hours before I was scheduled.  You could be fired for showing up late or calling in around Mardi Gras time.  I would be forced to deal with crazy drunk people, since I worked in hotels this was not much fun.  Have you ever tried to have a conversation with a Jamacian man clearly high on the weed?  Have you ever tried to talk a soccer player into taking the lamp shade off his head and stop jumping on the lobby sofa?  Well, I have and it ain’t fun.  Do I really need to mention that we don’t really do Mardi Gras?

I have thought about braving the “Family” parades in our area, but then I remember the getting there early, the waiting, the cold (sometimes), the shoving for trinkets that I would prefer not be in my house, and the whining that always happens when we try to do anything “fun” for the kids.  I keep in the back of my mind that when the kids are older and in better control of their pain in the ass ways we will brave Mardi Gras again.  Or maybe we will do what many do during Mardi Gras, go somewhere else.  At this point, we board up in the house and wait for it to pass.  There is no moving anywhere in this city during carnival time.   

However, there is one tradition that we fully take part in during Mardi Gras:  the King Cake.  We all have our different reasons for loving the King Cake.  Amber’s main goal is to get the baby.  I was informed, today, when she saw the fresh Haydel King Cake on the counter,  “Mama, if you or Daddy find the baby you put it back and let me get it.  Do you understand?”  She has collected 9 babies so far.  Her next goal is to get the baby at school, so she can be declared Queen.  If it doesn’t happen, soon, we may have a real tragedy on our hands.  Sam is just interested in anything that has the word cake in it.  This became apparent to everyone standing in line at Haydel’s as he licked the glass case and spun himself into the ground when he heard the word, Cake, screamed from behind the counter.  Sam and I have much in common and the people at Haydel’s were greatly amused, today.  George loves Mardi Gras, even though he must fight the crowds, work all hours of the day and night and field calls from many a drunk, but in the end the green rains down and I am not talking about beads.

I fear that this year NOLA will try to get us out to the Metairie parades.  Pray for me, because if the cold doesn’t get me then the kids will surely drive me to throw myself under a float or take a drink for the first time in over 10 years. 

Read Full Post »

And the City was all Gay

There is a fine southern instiution going on in New Orleans this weekend, Southern Decadence.  Gay men and, I hear, lesbians from all over come to New Orleans to celebrate their…well…gayness.  There is no other city in the world that opens it’s arms and rolls out the dirt covered red carpet for the party.  Much of what goes on in the Quarter this weekend is nothing new to the citizens that have visited St. Ann and Bourbon any other night of the week, although maybe on a bigger scale.  If you want to dance like no one is watching and have fun like those who don’t have a care in the world than come to Decadence.  I mean where do you think it gets it’s name from, anyway.

 In honor of all the fine homosexuals coming to our fine city to spend all their disposal income (and we are truly grateful for that), I want to tell you my Southern Decadence story.  Don’t worry family and friends, I didn’t discover something about myself that I have hidden from the world.  I was just a bystander of all the merriment.

It was the late 90′s when I was working at the small, quaint French Quarter hotel, The Dauphine Orleans.  I worked the evening shift Tuesday through Thursday and then was the Night Auditor on Friday and Saturday.  There was not much excitement pass midnight, most nights.  Unless you count the calls I got from guests of noises in rooms that were either vacant or non-exisent, but those stories are best saved for Halloween.  There was the ocassional crack whore looking for an ATM for her John, drunk hotel guest who didn’t remember if this was his hotel or not, and the night to keep my company.  I was working with a Bellman, who doubled as security, and an engineer, fancy name for maintence.  They were never to be seen, unless they couldn’t find good porn on the TV in the engineering department.  You think I am making this up, but truly this is what goes on in the darkness and quiet of the night in New Orleans’ hotels.

Back then, I wasn’t up on most of the events in the city.  I knew when we were full and when it was going to be a slow night.  I settled in to what seemed to be a regular night at the old hotel until the wee hours of the morning.  I get a call from a guest complaining of 2 men yelling at a man who was laying in the middle of one of the floors.  I radioed for security/bellman so that he could check out the complaint.  It took forever to get an answer, so when I finally got the bellman, a black man that towered over me to the point of giant portions, I gave him a good scolding.  Once I calmed down, he explained that it was him and the engineer yelling at a man who appeared to have passed out on the floor.  I inquired as to why they didn’t pick the man up or roll him over to see what was wrong, I was informed that he was naked.  I was, also, very sternly informed that there was no way in hell that either of them was touching a passed out naked man.

I get a little fuzzy on the details, but I do remember calling the police about the situation well after midnight.  The man was left laying there until almost 630am, the end of my shift.  I had told myself that I had had a long night and I was leaving at 630am whether or not the man was taken care of or not.  It would become the morning shift’s problem at that point.  After much discussion, we were all in agreement that we had done all we could and just went about our business of the night; waiting for the cops to show up.  Then a rather large man in leather short shorts and vest comes to the lobby to partake of some free coffee.  I mean you really do need to keep your strength up when you have wrestled with your clothing so early in the morning.  He inquired about the naked man in the hallway.  I explained that I didn’t know how he had gotten there or where he belong and we had informed the police.  I think I would have noticed a nude man walking into the hotel, but it was late so I could have missed him.  Hey, I was being paid barely over minimum wage, I don’t think policing the lobby for nude patrons was really in my job description. 

The large man in the tiny leather shorts then mentioned something that lead me to believe that he was more involved than he wanted us to know.  He told me that the nude man’s clothes were folded neatly in the closet that housed the ice machine.  Hmmmm….I wondered, for a moment, what was going on and then decided I didn’t need to know the sordid details.  Large leather shorts’ man left with his morning coffee to experience Decadence in the daylight.  Finally, the cops showed up with an ambulance to take care of Nude Man.  He walked out of our small, quaint hotel wrapped in a bed sheet.  It seemed that Nude Man was so drunk that he thought we were the Holiday Inn, which is downtown and not in the French Quarter.  He thought he had gone into his room, taken his clothes off and went to sleep.  That explains his clothes neatly folded in the ice closet. 

I still believe that Large Leather Short’s Man had his way with Nude Man and when he was done kicked him to the curb, so to speak.  To us it was just another day in the hotel business in New Orleans during a special event.  We were there to make sure we served our guests the best way would could, which did not include dressing them or touching them in a nude state.  Life was sometimes slow in the hotel business, but never dull.

Happy Southern Decadence, everyone! 

Read Full Post »