Wednesday October 21
If you stay at the Tuscany Resort from Sunday to Sunday, Wednesday is the day housekeeping comes. I was surprised when mom said that a lot of people actually don’t want housekeeping to come. I could understand that. A total stranger coming into your suite, and most of the time, they come when you’re not ready for them. Then you have to quick get dressed, and scramble to move all of your stuff, so they could clean. Then there are those awkward times when there’s a language barrier.
That happened to me, during our last Tuscany stay. I tried to tell the housekeeper that she didn’t have to do much. All I needed was more towels and washcloths, and for the kitchen and bathroom trash to be taken out. The poor thing didn’t understand a word I said. I heard her moving my suitcase off the bed, and I tried to tell her that she didn’t have to change my sheets. She patted the comforter, and struggled to say a few words in English about making my bed. I told her again, what I needed and didn’t need her to do, but added pointing and gesturing and head nods. She tried to communicate back, having a hell of a time annunciating English words. The words she was able to say more clearly, had a foreign accent that I didn’t recognize. I heard motion, as though she was probably pointing, nodding, and gesturing too, but I can’t see. This was very awkward for the both of us, so I just went over to the parents’ condo, and let her do her thing.
It was a little after 8:00 when I dragged my lazy ass out of bed. My place was a sty. There were dirty clothes on the bathroom floor, clean clothes haphazardly piled on one side of the bed, along with a clutter of other belongings. And the wet bar was piled up with dirty dishes and unwashed recyclables. I hurried into a change of clothes, and started to straiten things up. Then the parents’ doorbell rang. I was like, “Shit.” I didn’t remember housekeeping ever coming this early.
Thankfully, the housekeeper feared covid, and wanted to avoid cleaning condos that were occupied, as much as possible. Mom was cool with this, and just had the lady bring her clean towels and washcloths. The housekeeper didn’t even bother coming to my door, but at least she brought mom enough towels and washcloths to hold the three of us over until Sunday.
That day, I got hooked on this ginger beer that dad had picked out for me, from the Publix across the street. For those of you who never tried ginger beer, it’s like ginger ale with a kick. This stuff kicked like a kick boxer. Yeeeeeow! But I love hot stuff. If it doesn’t turn my nose into a snot fountain, I don’t consider it to be that hot.
What is up with painful food being so delicious? That intense burning sensation in the mouth, and watering of the eyes and nose just somehow pulls the “Yummy” lever in the brain. I think the love for all things hot and spicy is genetic too. My parents like it, but they’re not crazy about it, like me and Christa are. Gina can’t handle that much heat, but our grandparents on dad’s side were obsessed with it. Poppy woj put black pepper on almost everything, and not just a few shakes. He shook that pepper shaker until everything on his plate was nearly gray. Nannie Woj could snack on jarred hot peppers, like they were potato chips, and she ate raw onions, like they were apples. As devoutly Catholic as they were, you’d think they had devil genes in them.
My eight-year-old nephew, Jaden, inherited the hot food gene, I believe. He was eating chicken wings with hot sauce, one day, and was baffled about the effect. “This sauce is too hot for me,” he said. “But for some reason, I want to keep eating it.”
After coffee, breakfast, and a ginger-flavored assault, I plugged the old Mac Book in, at the wet bar, and proceeded to work on outlines for future blog posts. I know, really? Could a writer get any more anal? Don’t even get me started on how I like to put my classical music, writing playlists in order, according to the number of minutes and seconds each song is. And my knit picky hang-up about how every story I write has to have even numbers of nouns, and odd numbers of verbs.
Nah, just kidding. I don’t listen to classical music.
I worked on blog outlines until well into the afternoon. Mom came knocking at the door between our suites, to ask me if I wanted some cantaloupe. So I went over to her and dad’s place, and hung out for a while.
I had a craving for beer. Mom and dad didn’t just have beer, they had Voodoo Ranger beer. That’s the hardcore stuff, with twice the alcohol content as regular beer. Mom and I watched Barack Obama campaigning for Jo Biden, while I got nearly drunk. This one dude in the background kept laughing, and it was cracking me up. He sounded like an old, squeaky recliner.
I came back to my lock-off, pretty buzzed. The intoxication made me suddenly feel like relishing in how grateful I am, that it was the present time, and not the 0’s. Wow, did I hate those dam 0’s, the darkest decade of my life. A decade of failures and disappointments, health problems, psychiatric drugs, and drinking way too much.
When I hear music from that time of torment, it doesn’t bring back painful memories, and old wounds. I love rocking out to 0’s music. Hearing those fun old tunes from people like, The Pussy Cat Dolls, Fall-Out Boy, and the Black-Eyed peas makes me feel an odd, warm and fuzzy, happy sense of gratification. A sort of content fulfillment, and satisfactory towards overcoming all those challenges and shitty life lessons from back then. I love that I got over the 0’s, and that they’re gone for good, and never coming back.
I put on Apple Music’s Pop Hits 2007 play list, and went on a smily, drunken musical trip to songs from people like, Amy Winehouse, Gym Class Heroes, and the Shot Boys, feeling all like, “Ha ha ha, yeah, fuck you, 2007. Ha ha ha, you stopped existing, 13 years ago. Good riddens.”
Dad came home from work, and barged into my room, to give me a ghost chili flavored doughnut. Speaking of my adoration for hot food. His job site was near a Duncan Doughnuts that day. Ghost chili is one of their Limited-time flavors, for the halloween season, because it’s ghost chili. The lady at the drive-through window told dad that they sometimes pull a prank on people who order a dozen or more doughnuts, and sneak a ghost chili one in the mix. Hilarious.
I ate it later on, for dessert. I’m not too proud to admit that, yeah, it was hot. But it was more like jalapeño hot, not real ghost chili hot. Cherry icing was drizzled on top. This flavor combination was surprisingly good, and it made the doughnut even more unique.
After dinner, we went on a mile walk around the resort. Then I ended the night with watching Once Upon A Time, In Hollywood.
Clennell got the movie with audiodescript, and shared it with me via Drop Box. I loved it, and couldn’t understand why it didn’t make a hit. For those of you who’d never seen it, it’s about a famous actor and his best buddy, who is also his stunt double. The movie takes place in 1969. At first, the storyline seems to be about their relationship, and the actor’s ambition to not end up a has-been. But then it turns into, kind of an alternate universe version of the Sharon Tate murders. Dad told me, later on, that that’s why people didn’t like it, because it wasn’t the real Charles Manson story. The ending was pretty bad-ass, but in a totally disgusting, gory way. The video describer didn’t need to tell me that much about what was going on. All the nasty blood splattering, and flesh taring noises helped me figure it out.
I liked this version of the story a whole lot better than the real one, and I’m sure Sharon Tate herself might agree. According to one of those paranormal investigation shows—I think it was either Ghost Hunters or My Ghost Story—Sharon Tate became an Earthbound spirit who couldn’t move on, and leave her mansion. Because she never got over the trauma from how she and her friends were killed, and how her life was cut short, before she got the chance to experience motherhood.
I’m so glad they had that movie with audiodiscript. There were a shit-load of visual scenes with no dialog, and so many signs and Billboards. However, in the beginning, I mistakenly got the idea that Brad Pitt and Leonardo DiCaprio were an item, because the video describer kept referring them as a couple. Saying stuff like, “The couple drives down such-and-such street.”, “The couple enters a bar.”
The only thing that bothered me about the movie is, nobody bathed the dog, after she made a bloody mess out of those people. There was all this pit bull vs human, violent bloodshed action. Then the wife just lets the dog sleep in the bed with her! Eeeeeeeew! Ah, man, there I go, being anal again.
Love you all! Post you on Sunday or Monday, depending on your time zone! Have the best covid-proof halloween EVER!