Dear Jack,
Right now I am sitting quietly, listening to the rain, with my feet propped up on the coffee table. This is the first time I have had in over a week to simply sit and breathe. With my luck though, the phone will ring at any moment, destroying the semblance of calm I have finally managed to at least fictionalize for myself.
My boss' mother-in-law (or would be his mother-in-law if those kind of marriages were legal here) has brain cancer. They discovered it three weeks ago and my boss and his partner have been running back and forth from Salado to Tyler nonstop since. It's been rough of all of us, them especially. Will has left me in charge of the Inn, which is fine, but tiring. And the play is opening this weekend. Right now I don't know how that's going to work. My guess is not well.
I'm at such as loss as to what to do for them. All I can do is try to keep things running here as smoothly as possible. We shall see.
Right now, I'm going to concentrate on breathing.
Always,
John
Monday, May 28, 2007
Friday, May 18, 2007
Frustration
Dear Jack,
Right now I want to rip out my eyes, dangle them in front of a rabid dog, and see what comes of all the blood, gore, and decimation. *sigh* There are times when I really hate being management. As a mere peon, one can be slightly rude, or say things like "I don't know, allow me to get the manager for you." When you are the manager, there is no such reprieve.
Take, for instance, the fact that I just spent the last hour showing a couple around the inn. They had already booked separate rooms for this evening and tomorrow evening in order to "see more of our quaint establishment." That's fine, no big deal, happens all the time. BUT! When they got here, the wife saw that there was a bathtub with a handheld shower instead of a walk-in shower. She threw a hissy fit and demanded to see other rooms that were available. So, being the kind, patient, professional that I am, I showed them around to other rooms in which no one was staying this evening. Three rooms later they finally decided to stay in the same room which they had rented for tomorrow night.
My patience level has gotten dangerously low. This is how weekends work. I have just enough patience to go from Friday morning at 11am to Sunday afternoon at roughly 3pm before I start losing it. That is on nice, relaxing weekends in which guests are the pleasant people that I'm sure God intended them to be. In busier, more combustible weekends my patience level has been known to take severely damaging beatings that end in tears for my staff (they are the only ones who can here me bitch, because if I said exactly what I wanted when I wanted to to guests, I would no longer be employed).
This weekend is going to be a doozy.
Not to mention this new play has caused a crisis of conscience and self-doubt. I know I'm a decent actress, but it's a nice thing to actually hear from a director on occasion, and all I'm hearing from him is that I need to project. I AM TALKING PLENTY LOUD, GET A HEARING AID!
Blah.
I need a vacation.
Always,
John
Right now I want to rip out my eyes, dangle them in front of a rabid dog, and see what comes of all the blood, gore, and decimation. *sigh* There are times when I really hate being management. As a mere peon, one can be slightly rude, or say things like "I don't know, allow me to get the manager for you." When you are the manager, there is no such reprieve.
Take, for instance, the fact that I just spent the last hour showing a couple around the inn. They had already booked separate rooms for this evening and tomorrow evening in order to "see more of our quaint establishment." That's fine, no big deal, happens all the time. BUT! When they got here, the wife saw that there was a bathtub with a handheld shower instead of a walk-in shower. She threw a hissy fit and demanded to see other rooms that were available. So, being the kind, patient, professional that I am, I showed them around to other rooms in which no one was staying this evening. Three rooms later they finally decided to stay in the same room which they had rented for tomorrow night.
My patience level has gotten dangerously low. This is how weekends work. I have just enough patience to go from Friday morning at 11am to Sunday afternoon at roughly 3pm before I start losing it. That is on nice, relaxing weekends in which guests are the pleasant people that I'm sure God intended them to be. In busier, more combustible weekends my patience level has been known to take severely damaging beatings that end in tears for my staff (they are the only ones who can here me bitch, because if I said exactly what I wanted when I wanted to to guests, I would no longer be employed).
This weekend is going to be a doozy.
Not to mention this new play has caused a crisis of conscience and self-doubt. I know I'm a decent actress, but it's a nice thing to actually hear from a director on occasion, and all I'm hearing from him is that I need to project. I AM TALKING PLENTY LOUD, GET A HEARING AID!
Blah.
I need a vacation.
Always,
John
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