I know it’s been a minute since I last posted a blog; I’ve been realizing lately that working day shift doesn’t afford me quite as much free time as working the night shift does.  I kinda got used to being able to sit down and write a blog while I was still on the clock.

Not only can I not write a blog while I’m working now, I can’t even get on the internet. 

I have decided that God created Interstate Hotels just so there really would be a place to send all the stupid people.  And He put me there so that I could write blogs about them.

Over the last few days, I’ve come up with a few additions for my “Things to Remember When Checking Into a Hotel” list.

- You can’t barter with me.  I do not work on the trade system.  My boss does not pay me NEAR enough to stand behind the desk and convince a person that the rate quoted is the rate they get, and the more you try to talk me down, the less likely you are to get a discount.  I have a certain rate that I can't go below, but if you irritate me, the sky is the limit.  The bosses like when I get $99 for a $69 room.  So watch your attitude.

- I cannot pull a parking space out of my ass.  When the nice men laid the asphalt in the parking lot, they only painted in a certain number of spaces.  Then this crazy thing happened.  The paint dried.  If you got the last room in the hotel shortly before midnight, don’t complain to me because you can’t find a place to park.  It’s not my fault you can’t think in a straight line and your family has turned into a pack of walking zombies from exhaustion because you were too much of a dumbass to pull off the Interstate 3 hours back when there were still rooms (and parking spaces) available.

On that same note, I also cannot change the layout of the parking lot for you because your husband isn’t very skilled at maneuvering the trailer that you talked him into bringing along on your trip through the South.  Please do not waltz into my lobby like the Queen of Sheba, wagging your finger at me and informing me that I’m going to have to do something about that “horrible” parking lot design.  

a) They built it before I got here, I had nothing to do with it, stop yelling at me.
b) This is south Atlanta.  There isn’t an extra inch of space in the city to just redesign a parking lot on a whim.
c) It’s your own fault that you can’t drive a car in reverse.

- This is Atlanta.  This is not the one redlight  town that you passed in south Georgia.  There are approximately 6 million people living here.  When there is an accident on the interstate, the traffic will be backed up, severely.  It may take you 2 hours to go 10 miles.  But here’s the thing: If this supposed accident happens while I’m at work, I won’t know about it.  Don’t come in and ask me why the traffic is backed up on the Interstate.  I don’t know.  I’ve been standing behind a desk for the past 6 hours answering stupid questions.

- I have to ask for your I.D. It’s my job.  Personally, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass who you are or where you live.  But I can’t afford to lose my job because you're only 17 years old and you decided it would be fun to steal the curtains off the wall and piss on the carpet in the corner, your credit card conveniently declined for incidentals, and I didn’t get your name and address because I chose not to follow procedure and ask for your identification.  TCB and CYA.


- Don’t ask me what the elevator is for.  We usually use it to get to the second and third floors, but you can just ride it if you want to.  I don’t even need your I.D. or credit card for that, but if you piss on the floor in there, I might have to call the cops.  It’s your call. 

- Last but not least, I feel the need to clarify exactly what my title here at this lovely interstate hotel actually is.

I am Kate’s Motel, Front Desk Clerk.  

I am NOT Kate’s Motel, Personal Slave to Guests.

When I get there, housekeeping is gone.  I will be more than happy to provide you with fresh towels, should you need them, fresh soap or more coffee.  I will even take the trash to the dumpster for you if your trash can is full.  But here is the catch.

I don’t HAVE to do any of that crap.  It’s not my job.  My job is to check you in, give you keys, set your wakeup call, and take your money when you check out.  If you’re not nice to me, you’ll be drying yourself with wet towels for the next 2 days.

K: “Ms. Williams, I’m so sorry that housekeeping didn’t make your bed today.  Let me explain.  Because you’re staying for 2 days, you’re considered a “Stayover”.  Housekeeping doesn’t change the bed linens for 2 night Stayovers.  Did you get fresh towels this morning?”
Ms. W: “Yes, but I’ll need more.”
K: “If you’ll give me five minutes to get everything together, I’ll be right up with those things.”

(Important note: I have a “hotel voice” that I can turn on and off as needed.  Imagine the Barbie airline stewardess from the Toy Story movie.  Or the receptionist in the movie Office Space. ‘Corporate Accounts, Nina speaking.  Just a moment.’  I use this voice when speaking to ANY guest, be they bitches or no.  There is no such thing as race or ethnicity on my side of the desk.  A guest is a guest.)

What happened over the next 15 minutes was meant to humiliate me.  There can be no other explanation.  Who knows, maybe it’s my own fault for being nice.

I gathered two sets of fresh towels including wash cloths, hand towels, and a new bath mat.  Along with that, I brought fresh soap, shampoo, coffee, and coffee cups.  I DID NOT bring fresh sheets because, as I’d already explained to Ms. W, we did not change the sheets for 2 night Stayovers.  And because my manager had instructed me not to change her sheets.  TCB and CYA.  Great rules to live by.  (Take Care of Business and Cover Your Ass)

I knocked on her second floor door.  The sound of her cell phone conversation came back to me through the door.  When she opened it, I got barely a second glance from her.  She was too busy on her bluetooth.

Instead of waiting for instruction, I went into the bathroom and noticed that before I was going to be able to deposit her clean towels, I was going to have to remove the nasty, wet, used towels all over the floor.  Absolutely. Fucking. Gross.

I bit my tongue and did it.  I even changed the bathroom trash that had remnants of sanitary pads stuck to the bottom.  I placed the coffee and coffee cups next to the coffee maker and the soap on the shelf in the shower.  I did all of these things (these things that are NOT listed in my job description) while she stood and watched me from the corner of her eye.

When I was finished, I waited for her to get off the phone.

K: “I’ve brought you fresh towels, new soap and shampoo, more coffee and coffee cups.  If there should be anything else that you need, feel free to call the front desk.  I’ll be here until 11pm tonight.”
Ms. W: “Um...you’re not going to make my bed?”

(It’s also important to note here that she was SITTING on the bed the whole time I was cleaning her nastiness.  Besides the fact that it’s not my job to make her bed, and I was told not to.)

For a split second, I couldn’t speak.  In that brief fugue moment, it dawned on me what this was all about.  I’m white.  This is Atlanta.  The person standing in front of me is treating me like some odd reverse scene of Mammy in Gone With the Wind where I’m Mammy and she’s Scarlett O’Hara.

K: “Well, I’m the only one here right now.  Housekeeping has gone, and I have guests waiting for me at the desk.  I’m not even supposed to leave the desk at all.  I see you have your purse, are you getting ready to go shopping?”
Ms. W: “Yes.”  (with an exaggerated roll of her eyes)
K: “I can’t guarantee anything because it’s Saturday night, but IF I get a chance while you’re gone, I will do my best to get up here and make your bed.”

I could feel my dignity going out the window.  As far as I was concerned, it left when I tied up the bag with her sanitary pads in the bottom.  I did manage to hang on to a tiny shred by offering no commitment.

She shrugged me out of the room, rolling her eyes as I left.

The night passed, a typical Saturday night at an interstate hotel, and I was busy.  Guests back to back, phone reservations, and stupid questions that simply MUST be answered before the end of the world comes and we’re all dead.

Then she came back.  I watched her walk up to her room and I watched her come back down to the desk five minutes later.

K: “Yes ma’am?”
Ms W: “I just need to know the reason you didn’t get a chance to come and make my bed.”  (tapping her longer-than-necessary acrylic nails on my nice pretty granite countertop)

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

K: “It IS Saturday night.  Like I told you before, I am not supposed to leave the desk.  I have been too busy to leave the desk for any amount of time.  I do apologize.”
Ms W: “Is that my fault?”

Bite your tongue, Kate.  It could cost you your job.

K: “No ma’am, it’s not your fault.  Again, I apologize.”
Ms W: “We won’t be staying here again.”

WELL THANK FUCKING GOD.  Please tell me where you’re going next so I can call the hotels there and warn them.

The thing is, if she’d just been nice to me, I’d have made a point to go up there and make her stupid bed.

Tip of the day:  Be nice to everyone you meet.  You never know when someone is writing about you on Myspace.

And to Ms. W, I just wanted to let you know that I was really disturbed by this past Saturday's events.  So much so that I actually lost sleep over it Saturday night.  You'll be glad to know that, after I was able to purge myself and get it all off my chest here on Myspace, confessing your guilt and nastiness to the Free World, I feel much better now.  I'm totally over it.  Thank you so much!