Welcome to the Hiawatha!

(NOTE: THIS POST IS NOT FOR ANY READERS UNDER THE AGE OF 18!)

Hello everyone!

This past week Hubby and I trekked across Lake Michigan (literally...we took the SS Badger Car Ferry) and had ourselves a little vacation time.  I don't get out of Wisconsin terribly often, so maybe the following story won't surprise you world travelers out there, but I can tell you...people do NOT talk this way in The Dairy State...at least, not to perfect strangers who are also customers.

(It should be noted that I spent a good portion of my childhood and a tiny bit of my adult time in Michigan, and I think of myself as having grown up as a "Michigander.")

So after a few days on the road we reached the city of Escanaba, Michigan. Now, if you haven't been to Escanaba...well...Let's put it this way:  Much of the U.P. is super tourist friendly.  Clean, wooded roads, charming parks all along the lake shore, national forests every five feet, quaint little villages offering salt water taffy, fudge, and post cards to everyone. 

Escanaba...a little less so.

Escanaba is a city where people actually live and work and when people insist on living and working someplace, that place tends to get messy, dusty, worn out.  Sort of like my house because there are four people and five cats living here and I can't keep up with it all.  Escanaba is NOT a tourist town.  There's a charming park where boat folk can part their rides and children play on the shore of the Little Bay de Noc, and in that park is a lighthouse/museum (which has pretty short hours). We also had a lovely breakfast at The Swedish Pantry and picked up coffee at the most fun coffee place, "Joe to Go". That said, Escanaba is a city like most that really doesn't depend on tourists and therefore doesn't feel the need to maybe clean its windows once in a while.

Having just come through the Michigan Tourism Centers of Ludington, Mackinaw City, Cheboygan, and Manistique, I can tell you, Escanaba was a jolt back to reality.  Not so much in a bad way...but I will say this:  Stuff got weird when we got to the motel.

The motel we stayed at there, The Hiawatha, was a room we booked online, as we had all of our other hotels/motels/lodges.  I'd been utterly charmed by our selection of "no frills" places thus far, so pulling up to the Hiawatha was a bit of a jolt.  This looked a lot like a dumpy motel I'd worked at...in 1981...and it didn't look like it had been updated since.  But we don't judge a book or a motel by its cover. Besides, we were tired from walking along lovely lake shore boardwalks and shopping in quaint little places that specialized in cherry jam and candy.  We just needed a place to shower and sleep.

We discovered, upon entering the motel office, that this little hotel offers its own brand of entertainment for tourists.

Personally, I should have known something was up when we read a hand printed sign on the front door that said, "Sorry, we don't rent to locals."

I mean...

Anyway, this is how check in went:

Check in Girl:  So you're checking in?

Me:  Yes.

Check in Girl:  So one night?

Me: Yes.

Check in Girl:  Okay, you're in room 108.  (Pause)  Ooooh, hot tub room! Whoo hoo!

(It is at this moment that she does a little move I call the "whoo hoo dance.")

Me: Yes, we saw the hot tub on the website when we booked the room. (I'm trying not to blush. I mean, this girl is younger than my daughter and I'm certainly not about to get personal with her.) 
We've been hiking a lot and I tweaked my knee.

Check in Girl: Oh yes...that hot tub is going to feel good on...your knee.  (I swear, the girl winked at me.  Honestly!)

Anyway, I recovered from this blush inducing conversation and took our key (yes, a key...not a card...this place was a little old school!) and went to room 108, located...I'm not making this up, right in the crotch of the hotel.  Right in the corner where the two arms of hotel rooms meet.

Our actual room 108.

All I'm saying is that it's a good thing I'm a fan of mid century modern decorating.  Because the room's furnishings hadn't been updated since Don Draper took his first workplace drink.

But hey, the room was clean, the towels were plentiful, the water pressure was great, and YES, the hot tub was really good for my tweaked knee.

And if that's where it ended, I wouldn't be posting about this hotel.

But that's not where it ended.

The next morning, I went to check out. The check out girl was now a check out man.  And older guy, maybe ten years older than I am.  He was on the phone with someone when I walked in.

He had that low creepy voice that makes you feel slimy. You know the voice.  And he spoke slowly, drawing each word out like it was an ice cream cone he was licking.

Gross.

I figured he was talking to his wife or girlfriend or something, given his tone of voice.  I found out otherwise the minute he hung up and started talking to me.

Check out Creeper guy:  So, you're checking out of room 108?

Me: Yes.

Check out Creeper guy:  Did you enjoy...the hot tub?

Me:  Yes. It was good for my knee.

Check out Creeper guy: Oh...yes...your knee.

Then, for reasons I will never fathom, he asked me if I'd heard of a certain local artist.  He used that same sleazy tone of voice, so I had no idea what ring of hell I was about to view online as he clicked the web address in. But I'm a well brought up girl, trained to be polite, so I waited until the site came up. Fortunately, the artist did photographs of waterfalls in the area. Quite lovely. But Creeper guy kept looking at me looking at the pictures and he...smiled.

Is there a fetish I'm not aware of? Like, one where a guy enjoys watching a fat 50 year old woman look at waterfall photographs done by a local artist?

Anyway, I felt really slimy at this point, so I dropped the key on the desk and made my escape...I mean...left the office.  While walking out, I heard the check in girl from the day before as she chatted with another girl while they were cleaning rooms.

Folks, I am NOT making this up.  This is how that conversation went:

Check in girl: Did you hear about her?

Other girl: No, what?

Check in girl: Oh, she got chlamydia!

Other girl:  (giggles)

Check in girl: And it's worse than that. She got ....(word unintelligible)...because she didn't get the clap treated. And you know what they say, "Get the clap, then get (word unintelligible.)

Tell me you get this movie reference.

I was going to go ask what you got, because, well, I mean, as a writer I'm super curious like that. Plus, she used a word for when you get after the clap and it was a word I'd never heard before, like some sort of local slang for Pelvic Inflammatory Disorder (which is EXACTLY when you get, girls, if you don't get your chlamydia treated.)  But I didn't.  I got in the car and said, "DRIVE!" to Tom.

So, if you're in Escanaba (because remember, they don't rent to locals) check out the Hiawatha hotel. The staff is creepy, but the hot tub is A-OK.

Fun Fact Friday: Now that it's dead, Sarah reveals a childhood dream.

Happy Friday all!

What do you want to be when you grow up?

That's a question we ask little kids...and I haven't a clue why.  What does a 5 year old know about anything?  What kind of job hunting experience do fourth graders have?

Yet in our society we insist on asking children what they want to be. And the list is short at first: " I want to be like my dad or mom.  I want to be a fireman.  I want to be a teacher."  Because life experience is short.

As kids get older, the list is a little more varied:  "I want to play for the Packers." "I want to be a model." "I want to be a baker."  "I want to write a best selling novel, something bigger than "Gone with the Wind"  and spend my days doing nothing but book signings and public readings for the rest of my life."

That last one was just for me.  Because that exact thing is what I've wanted to be since I read "Gone with the Wind" in seventh grade.

Sure, I have a list of stuff I wanted to be when I grew up. Who didn't?  And no, I've never been a paramedic, a rescue dog (yes, in 3rd grade I was convinced I was a dog), a librarian, or a jockey.   (Other than being an author, that's literally the list of stuff I wanted to be as a kid.)

I have been a waitress, a teacher, a nursing assistant in a CBRF, a 3rd shift retail stocker, a janitor, a telemarketer, a newspaper girl, a hotel maid, a cook in a CBRF, a babysitter, a receptionist, a janitorial supervisor, a 3rd shift  gas station attendant,  a sales person, a cashier, a data entry clerk, an office manager, and the person in charge of collecting plumbing permits for a bath remodeling company.  Right now I'm an employment analyst, and I would explain what that is, but it would take too long.

My point is that when we're kids we dream of great stuff we want to be from a very short list of what I like to call first level jobs.  Fireman, police, teacher...the obvious ones.

But reality, when it comes to jobs, is far more...detailed.  I was already too fat in 8th grade to be a jockey...my mother talked me out of being a paramedic and a librarian, and I'm obviously not a dog.  And, since at my ripe age I've yet to write anything better than "Gone with the Wind" (I'm still working on that one) it's clear I'm probably not going to be any of my childhood dream jobs. 

Which is okay, because the jobs I've had in my life have been colorful. But, let's be honest,  no little girl dreams of the day she's a data entry clerk for the quality control department of a medical equipment manufacturer.  Joe versus the Volcano anyone?

However, there's one dream I've had my whole life, only a very, very few people actually know about it, that I recently had to let go of forever.

I'm never going to be a rock star.

You heard me.

Since the day I bought my first curling iron (Girls from the 80's will understand that) I've held this dream that I would one day sing onstage with thousands of people screaming my name. The closest I ever came was playing "Eeyore" in my high school children's theater production of Winnie the Pooh. The only person screaming my name then was the director. She really didn't like me much but it was a small high school and I kept signing up for parts so she had to give me something.

My official relationship with my singing voice has long been disappointing. In high school and college I tried out for all kinds of select choirs, but didn't make them because...well...I'm not good.  In fact, in high school I only got to go on choir tour with my high school swing choir because some other kid got into trouble and wasn't allowed to go.  Not exactly a ringing endorsement of my talents.  I even had a choir director tell me once after a try out, "I thought your voice would be better."  Turns
out, he knew some of my extended family, all of whom are great church singers.

A friend of mine and I even formed a band in college and called it "Generic."  Why?  Because I'm old enough that when there were non national brand items in a grocery store they had black and white labels and were called "generic" products. My friend, Todd, and I thought that would be awesome for a band. We'd always wear black and white and people would love us for are amazing lyrics and killer vocals.

Full disclosure, Todd and I realized, thanks to a recording booth at an amusement park, that we probably were not meant to sing duets together.   Yes, the tape exists.  No, I will not share it with you.

Me with friends from college acting like rock stars.
Note my drumsticks. Not sure what I was thinking with the
sailor hat.

By the time I graduated from college, I'd come to accept my limitations as a singer and I stuck myself in church choirs.  But that never stopped the dream.  That didn't stop me from using my curling iron as a microphone.  That didn't stop me from hanging colored Christmas lights in my room and pretending I was on a dimly lit stage.  That didn't stop me from singing in my car, thinking I was AWESOME!

Me with some college friends,
pretending we're a rock band.
 Note my headband and drumsticks.

No, the rock star dream died only recently, months after I'd hit the mid century mark for an age.  It died not because I realized I have no talent. I think we all know that's not a roadblock that troubles me.  No, it died because every year for the last several years I get a terrible cold that doesn't act like a cold. I'm not congested, I just cough, HARD, for several days, lose my voice, and then get over it.  Happens a couple of times a year sometimes. 

Back in June I got such a serious cough I started hacking up blood. This was new for me so I went to the doctor and he gave me a name. Bronchitis.  Yep...looking back I figure I've had bronchitis at least fifteen times and every time I get it, I lose another singing note off the top of my register.  I used to be able to wail on a High A.  Probably why a lot of choir directors kept me around. I could read music and I could hit a high A.  Also, I was always in NO CUT choirs. 

Now, I've lost almost an entire octave to bronchitis.  I've gone from a soprano in a no cut choir to an alto in a no cut choir and there are days I don't have the vocal strength for that. 

Which makes me really begin to doubt my plan to be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame as a performer.

Thanks to this last round of bronchitis, there are times when I attempt to sing in my car, the place where I ROCK THE HARDEST, and no sound comes out. Nothing.  I know the notes and I'm forcing air over my vocal chords, but nothing comes out.

So, this past week I figured I would reveal this childhood dream, the last of mine to die, now that it's gone.  I'm never going to be a rock star. I'm never going to perform at Red Rocks or the Hollywood Bowl or on Sunset Strip.  I might even have to quit my church choir because no sound is coming out of my face. 

I still have a curling iron, though. It's actually the same one I used in college.

Hope springs eternal.

Soccer, Summerfest, and Ben Franklin's Sex Life: Reasons why I feel old.

It is no secret that I enjoy the music of Rick Springfield and Pat Benatar.  I've documented my trips to Rick concerts many times in this blog, and last summer I was able to see Pat Benatar in concert for

the first time and had a blast.

So, when the world's largest music festival opened its doors last week (That's SUMMERFEST in Milwaukee, for those of you not in the know) you can bet I was going to go see one or both of them. Unfortunately, due to TERRIBLE scheduling on the part of the Summerfest planners, both 80's icons were playing on the same night at the same time...but on stages on opposite ends of the park from each other.

Sigh.

What to do, what to do?

Well, Father's Day rolled around a couple weeks ago and Hubby is not super easy to shop for.  He really doesn't collect much, unless you count records, and I haven't a CLUE what he doesn't have or what he wants. He reads a lot, and I've gotten him books, but he can only read so much and his "to read" shelf is overflowing.  He doesn't collect movies like I do.  So, I did what every good wife would do:  I got him Pat Benatar tickets. 

See, he's a bigger fan of hers than he is of Rick.  And, I had to purchase actual tickets because the stage she was playing actually had a reserved seating fee for only some of their acts. (Generally, if you pay the admission fee at the gate, any act playing on any stage is then free.  Seriously, if you haven't been to Summerfest, it's AMAZING.)  Since I didn't want to just leave it to chance that we'd get a seat I bought some.  But, in what I can only assume was a spasm of old age, I also bought ticket insurance.  You know...outdoor venues in Wisconsin are subject to Mother Nature's whims.

The concert was last night.  How was it, you might ask.

No idea.

We didn't go.

See, I did the Waukesha Farmer's Market on Saturday, selling my books and meeting readers in person. (LOVE doing that!)  Wisconsin has been trapped in some sort of Hell-inspired heat bubble since Thursday of last week. We can handle cold. But when it's 95 with a heat index of well over 100, we Wisconsin folk hide in our basements.  That's what I should have done on Saturday instead of working the Market because I got home and pretty much dealt with heat exhaustion the rest of the day.  (Fluffy girls don't do well in extreme heat.)

Yesterday Hubby and I got up, did brunch at the The Gingerbread House and church and then went home.  Looking at the weather predictions we were not just looking at hot and humid for the day...we were looking at some seriously stormy, tornado-y type weather.

And that's when Hubby turned to me and said, "So...how does that ticket insurance work?"

Yes, friends, Hubby and I bailed on seeing a favorite act because it was hot and the weather guys said it was going to storm. AND we had ticket insurance to cover us in case we didn't make the concert.

We are either getting OLD or we've developed common sense and I'm not sure I'm loving either of
those choices.

I mean, who wants to be known as a person with a lot of common sense?  Besides Benjamin Franklin, I mean.  (And he balanced common sense out with a ridiculously not-at-all-sensible sex life over in France.)  Everyone wants to be remembered as a free spirit who lived life to the fullest and moved
around the world on his or her own terms.

No one is going to remember you if you stayed home and didn't lose any money on the thing because you bought ticket insurance.

Everyone is going to think you're AWESOME (or stupid but still cool) if you brave the storm and ROCK OUT to some great 80's music while trees are being uprooted and cars are swirling around you in a cloud of dirt and wind.

Instead...Hubby and I took naps, watched some FIFA world cup, and then at night we saw "Twister" which was on TV.  This was all some time after all the worst of the weather passed over us.   Yep, we watched soccer and a movie that was on TV, not even one from my collection or one on a streaming service.

We watched an "edited for time and content" movie on TV like...OLD PEOPLE!

I mean, I make fun of my mother for stuff like this. Next thing you know I'll be calling the kids to come up and fix "the Netflix."

Although...Netflix hasn't been working well on my living room blu-ray player lately.

Kids?