Kate's Motel

What you don't know about your bedspread won't hurt you.

Teenagers + Alcohol + Weed + Kate’s Motel = Fun For Kate!

I sure hope that Doo wasn’t expecting me to come home anytime soon. Finally, after 9 months of sitting at Kate’s Motel with no action or significant drama to speak of, I have at last had to call Henry County’s Finest to come to my aid.

Kate’s Motel loves the popo.

The popo loves Kate’s Motel.

I KNEW when they checked in this afternoon that I was probably going to have trouble, but I relented and checked them in anyway, secretly hoping that before the night was over, I would have the opportunity to exert my au-thor-I-TIE and throw someone out, sans repayment of room and board.

For two hours straight, I watched and listened to countless people going up and down the elevator, tried to convince myself that what I was smelling was NOT weed, and wondering just what the monetary damage to the room was going to be by the time all this was over.

The first noise complaint came 5 minutes before my shift was over.

*JACKPOT* (insert cha-ching sound here)

I went up to the room and warned them of the noise curfew….once.

Kate don’t play.

Twenty minutes later, Kate learned that Henry County’s Finest has a hard time taking one phone call at a time. I got put on hold at least twice. Fortunately, less than 2 minutes after I hung up the phone with the dispatch officer, 3 policemen walked through my lobby doors. Good service so far, Henry County.

Over the next hour, my protégé and I watched ten (10) people under the age of 21 pile into the lobby of Kate’s Motel. We watched ten people under the age of 21 get questioned about their age and I had to restrain the urge to stand up and shout, “You’re all just babies! Why in the hell would you want to jeopardize your future by fucking up like this?!? You were born in 1993 for Christ’s sake! I was already in high school by then!!! You’re all idiots.”

I have to admit that I enjoyed, down in the deepest corners of my acrimonious heart, watching those kids all receive breathalyzer tests. It was like being in the middle of my very own Cops show. I kept waiting for one of the girls to lose it and start fighting the officers and screaming stuff like, “I AIN’T DONE SHIT! YOU GOT TO LEAVE ME ALONE! LET MY PEOPLE GO!”

I wasn’t that lucky tonight.

While I’m not quite sure what happened to the delinquents, their alcohol came home with me. I got a half gallon of cheap Russian vodka and a flask of MadDog 20/20 out of the whole ordeal. If you look close, you can see the used breathalyzers floating in the bottle in the middle.

Life is good.


January 10, 2010 Posted by | Uncategorized | , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

When Childhood Dies, Its Corpses Are Called Adults.

When I was a little girl I loved spending the night with my grandma.  She lived right down the road from us, and I could walk or ride my bicycle to her house.  When I was too young to go there by myself, mom would take me and pick me up early the next morning.  One of my very fondest memories of these slumber parties is that at bedtime, after I’d donned my nightclothes, my beloved grandmother would lay in the bed with me and tell me bedtime stories.  Three Little Pigs, Little Red Riding Hood, Goldilocks, all the really good ones.  I loved it.  Just my super-fun grandma and me, making memories.

Last Saturday night, The Cable Guy made some spectacular strawberry daiquiris. (The Cable Guy = Andy) The offspring had already gone to bed for the night, having crashed hard into a sugar coma from the Halloween festivities, and we just wanted to relax.  A daiquiri for each of us.

That night as I was lying in bed trying to fall asleep, (The Cable Guy always falls asleep so much faster than I do, almost like he has nothing worth stressing over to keep him awake.  I’m jealous of this.) I could smell The Cable Guy’s breath.  It wasn’t overpowering, so I didn’t get nauseous or anything; I could just smell it.

“Sonofabitch,” I said.  I was immediately transported down memory lane to my bedtime stories with my beloved grandmother.  The Cable Guy’s breath was the same as hers.

She was toasted every single time.

And here, all my life, I thought we were having tea parties.  I didn’t know there was tea in my cup and Jim Beam in hers.

November 5, 2009 Posted by | Uncategorized | , , | 12 Comments