Case Of The Tuesdays

Jammahs has a serious case of the Tuesdays. That’s street lingo for the official MLWTCO diagnosis of the Tuesday Blues (http://jammahs.blogspot.com/2006/07/tuesday-blues.html and yes, I actually wrote about being staffed in Harrisburg in July 2006). Yes, the Tuesdays have hit and hit Jammahs hard. Not even a road trip to my dealer for a quick fix could cure these blues. Before you think that Jammahs is going to room with Lindsay at Promises in Malibu, allow me to explain that my dealer is at Hershey Park and my addiction is the Twizzler. My drug of choice tonight—a modified blend called the Pull N’ Peel. And, ok, ok, I admit it, a few Nibs.

It’s sort of surprising that I have such a critical case of the Tuesdays. Impending Doom Sunday worked out pretty well as it has been ever since I’m no longer bound to choosing if it’s going to be a “black” or “brown” week. Unlimited carry-ons doesn’t limit my choices, but it limits my pack time.

And, Monday was just fine, too. It started out with a panicked voicemail and call at about 5:45am from my Mom to inform me of the dense fog in New Jersey. My own personal Al Roker. I was a little nervous for the drive, but it turned out to be absolutely clear with just a tad of fog. Let’s just be thankful that my Mom doesn’t work at EWR as the airport would be on permanent ground delay. The drive out to PA was uneventful and the work day was interesting and enjoyable.

And then there was check-in.

I got to the hotel early—around 7pm--and tried to be extra friendly to the Check-In Woman in hopes of getting a good room. That didn’t work out very well. For the third consecutive week, I was assigned a double bed room. Sheraton, what gives? I’m Platinum. I used to slut it up at a Sheraton every week for about 7 months. Are you turning your back on me because I've been hangin' as a Hilton Ho? Come on’….show Jammahs some love. There are so many freakin’ families at this hotel, you would think that they would save a double bed room for parents traveling with their screaming monsters. Or, maybe the monsters sleep on lounge chairs at the outdoor pool or have sleepovers at Camp Sheraton? I walked into the room and thought it smelled a little bit funky, but most hotel rooms do, right? I didn’t think much of it and went down to the hotel gym.

And then, sweaty from the gym and in need of a shower, I attempted to find a clean towel.

Just one little face towel and one little bath towel. It probably would have been easier to single-handedly eliminate middle seats from airplanes or, say, bring the Troop(s) home from Iraq. Every towel had either a really nasty stain on it or a long black hair. Yes, I inspected each towel—and not even that carefully—just a quick glance. By the last towel, I was just hoping that it would be somewhat passable, but then I saw a hair and threw it on top of the growing heap o’ towels that had formed on the bathroom floor. As I waited for Housekeeping to deliver some “new” and “clean” towels, I used that time to remove other unwanted hair from around the bathroom and bedroom with a tissue. If only I smoked. Or drank whiskey. I was in desperate need of a stronger hobby—something with a little more edge. Times like this, celebrity gossip, collecting points/miles and stalking tennis players just doesn’t cut it.

And then I crawled into the bed closest to the door and farthest away from the robbers at the window.

I woke up on Tuesday morning to my next door neighbor’s alarm clock going off at 5am. I fell back to sleep thinking that I will never, ever complain that the walls are too thin in my apartment. I slept until my own alarm went off at 6:30am. As I started the six snooze process, I thought that the smell from the time of initial key-in to the room had become even worse. It smelled like the NYC subway platform on a hot July day—a cross between urine and body odor from the homeless man who lives on the bench.

And then I decided to find the source of the smell.

A little afraid of what I may uncover, I tentatively searched around the room. I glanced behind the curtains and by the beds. I couldn't will myself to look under the beds.

And then I looked in the trash can under the desk.

I didn’t expect to find anything in the trash can as Housekeeping always empties the trash when cleaning a room. But there it was—the source of the smell. There was a wide assortment of trash like a Mountain Dew can and some other random things and, my faithful readers, a pickle. Yes, a pickle. A half-eaten pickle. There was mold growing on it. I can’t get the picture out of my head.

And then I gagged as I was putting the trash can out in the hallway.

And then I called the hotel Manager.

And then I got 5,000 Starwood points and a “sincere” apology for the lapse in cleanliness.

And then I decided that I’m going back to the Hilton.

I was semi-nauseous the entire day, but full-on sick of being away from home and having to endure dirty towels and sour, smelly pickles and long, black hairs. So, maybe the Tuesday Blues are justified this week. I mean, there’s just so much one Road Warrior can stomach. The thing is, there’s really no cure for the Tuesdays. The only way to feel better is to pop a Tylenol PM and know that when you wake up the next morning to your neighbor’s alarm clock that you’re one day closer to traveling back home.

And then there was Wednesday.