Guests' Sleeping Arrangements

     Charley and I had been dating for six months when I took him to meet my parents at their home in Connecticut. After the introductions, my mother escorted him down to the finished basement. "I made this cot up for you," she said, depositing fresh towels on the bed. "The bathroom's at the top of the stairs."
      Charley joined me later in the den to watch television. "Where are you going to sleep?" he asked.
     "My old bedroom's upstairs," I said, nudging my thigh against my parents' poodle, Cherie, so Charley could squeeze next to me.
     "Is there a guest room upstairs?"
     "Yes."
     "Does this sofa open into a bed?"
     I looked away from the t.v. and directly into his eyes. "It does," I said, grinning.
     "Then why can't I sleep here?"
     "My parents probably wanted us separated by two floors. Besides, this is where Cherie sleeps."
     "Well, now I know where I rank in the pecking order."
     The next morning I asked Charley if he'd slept well. "Not at all," he said. "My bed was right next to the oil burner. Every time it went on, I woke up."
     Somehow, our relationship survived. By the time we were engaged, Charley had moved up to the sleeper sofa next to Cherie.



     My hair dripped into the sink behind me at the beauty parlor. A woman in the next chair explained the preparations she'd made before her granddaughter visited with her boyfriend.
     "My guest room has twin beds. There was no other place for them to sleep, but I figured they'd move the beds together. Since my bedroom backed up to their wall and I didn't want to listen to their shenanigans all night, I put chocks under the feet of their beds so they couldn't move them.
     "Well, that didn't stop them! They must have crowded into one bed and I didn't sleep a wink all night."



     Friends from Massachusetts planned to visit us in Florida. After we'd decided on a date, I sent a list of attractions and restaurants they might enjoy, if they wanted diversions from the beach and pool. Finally I received a call.
     "Pam, we have one concern and I hope you don't mind if I ask you this. Do you have a guest room with twin beds? Our sleep cycles are different now that we're in our seventies and we try not to wake each other up. Also, I've got to warn you that Pete snores. I'm used to it, but I hope he doesn't disturb you. Sometimes even I can't sleep."
     "Oh, don't worry about Pete's waking us! Our master bedroom is on the other side of the condo. And yes, we have twin beds in one guest room."
     "Perfect! Just one last question. Sorry to be such a pain! Is there a bathroom close to the twin bedroom? We have to get up a lot during the night."
     "You'll have a bathroom right outside your bedroom door. And our grandchildren's night light." We both cracked up.

If you have any stories of guests' sleeping arrangements, I'd love to hear them! Please leave them in the "Comments" box below.

A Bedroom Scene

     Frank is ninety-five.
     Rita is eighty-eight.

     Frank and Rita and their spouses were best friends.  They all immigrated from various regions of Italy and ended up within five miles of each other in Florida.  Every Sunday after mass they went to breakfast together. They alternated Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter holidays at each other's homes, and visited each other's relatives.
     Frank still drove.  After his wife, Maria, and Rita's husband, Tony, passed away, Frank stopped by every day to visit.  He changed light bulbs, tightened screws, and took Rita for groceries or appointments. Every Saturday he delivered her to the hairdresser and picked her up afterward for a matinee and early dinner.  On Sunday after mass and breakfast, they visited Perpetual Gardens Mortuary, where Maria lay on a slab directly above Tony.
     Five years after Maria had passed and nine months after Tony had passed, Frank put his house on the market and moved into the guest room at Rita's.

     Frank (his first night in the guest room):  Rita, I can't find my glasses.
     Rita (in her bedroom):  Look on the kitchen table.
     Frank:  Where?  I can't hear.  I took my hearing aides out.
     Rita (louder):  In the kitchen.  Put your ears in.
     Fran (with loud squeal from his hearing aides):  OK.  Where the hell is the light switch?
     Rita:  Next to the phone.
     Frank (fumbling):   There they are!  When should I shower?
     Rita:  When you want.
     Frank:  There's no shower in my bathroom.  Now or in the morning?
     Rita:  In the morning.
     Frank:  Do you eat, then shower, or shower first?
     Rita:  Do what you want.  I have coffee, juice, Italian bread toasted.
     Frank:  I always have oatmeal with bananas.
     Rita:  Too bad.
     Frank:  What?
     Rita:  Never mind.
     Frank:  What can I put my dentures in?
     Rita:  A glass from the kitchen.
     Frank:  I'll get it.  I forgot my Polident.  You got any left from Tony?
     Rita:  It's in my bathroom under the sink.
     Frank:  OK.  What time you get up?
     Rita:  Seven o'clock.
     Frank:  Seven o'clock?  Why so early?
     Rita:  I say the rosary.  Sleep, if you want.
     Frank:  Yeah, I don't say the rosary.
     Rita:  Do what you want.
     Frank:  Can I come in for the Polident?
     Rita:  There's no-thing exciting here.
     Frank (going through Rita's bedroom to her bathroom):  I heard on TV Dentu-
               cream poisons people.  You might find me dead on the floor.
     Rita:  You no wear them enough to get poison.    If I find you dead, I scream for
              Dolores (next door).
     Frank:  Call 9-1-1 after you scream.
     Rita:  You check the stove?
     Frank:  Why should I?
     Rita:  I check at night to make sure no gas.
     Frank:  We had cold sandwiches tonight.
     Rita:  Oh, yeah.  You check the front door?
     Frank:  I locked it myself.
     Rita:  Then go to bed.
     Frank:  I'm trying.  Night, Rita.
     Rita:  Good night, Tony.  I mean Franco.


   

   

Key West Revisited

Charley and I head south every year in late April for the Conch Republic Festival.  It's Key West's version of Mardi Gras, a celebration of the island's unsuccessful attempt to secede from the Union.  The fact that they didn't succeed in seceding doesn't seem to matter.

We head as far south as we can go until U.S. 1 runs out, ninety miles from Cuba.  Key West is a paradise for writers - and artists, lovers, snorkelers, divers, boaters, fishermen, campers, birders, foreigners, lesbians, gays, transvestites - ANYONE!  Just the drive down is worth the trip.  It takes five hours from Delray Beach, over forty-some bridges.  The sea changes on both sides from deep azure far out to vibrant turquoise in the channels to beige over the sand bars to thin pea-soup green in the runoffs.  Nonstop photo ops, but not at 45 mph between Key Largo and Duval Street.

The bizarre becomes commonplace here and acceptance is the norm.  A young Irishman walks the sidewalk with pink dye in his blond Mohawk.  The spikes on his head are outdone only by the spikes on the green iguana grazing on the sea grapes at the edge of our beach.  A van in orange and white psychedelic swirls advertises a number to call for transport to "Live! Naked Dancers."  As opposed to what - dead naked dancers?  The mainland seems a million miles away.  CNN reports that authorities have surrounded a suspect from the Boston Marathon bombings.  He is lying wounded under a tarp in a boat in someone's backyard.  We are in the twilight zone.

There is the drag race down Duval Street.  Men in drag - sequined dresses, bright makeup, wigs, and revealing undergarments - RUN in stilettos, then jump through tires down the street.  Some of the

shaved legs are pretty shapely, and the butts aren't bad, either.  The contestants must work out for this. There are no bulging guts.

Another event during the two-week Festival is the bed race.  Beds become floats, pushed by the aforementioned "beauties," while real-life beauties sit on the mattresses, feathered, flocked, or fried.  Monkeys and a lemur squat on spectators' shoulders peeling peanuts, while parrots and macaws squawk at the contestants.  The pigeons are busy!  We see a dog dressed in doll clothes wearing a straw hat.

The other event that is a blast, literally, is the Coast Guard's attempt to subdue the rebel Conch Republic pirates on their ship off Mallory Pier.  The Pier is the site of sunset kisses, cruise or Naval ship dockings, and acts of wonder under spotlights.  We've seen the same contortionist, now age 60, remove himself from a chained straitjacket for ten years.  It's also the spot for the water fight.  The Coast Guard, with its superior hoses, subdues the rebels, but not before it has doused the spectators to their bones.  None of us care, since we all have a glow from the sun or whatever. 

I no longer wear flip flops with cute crystal beads cutting between my toes, as I did when we first started going here.  Charley doesn't walk in sandals, either.  Instead, we ramble up Duval Street and back (two and one-half miles, total) in the morning in sturdy walking sneakers and socks.  Charley dons a safari hat, looking for native Key West species.  The temperature will climb near ninety.  He sports a three-day beard, Papa Hemingway-style, and blends right in.

We no longer peer into the Hog's Breath Saloon, Sloppy Joe's, or Margueritaville.  The stink of beer venting onto the sidewalk in the morning takes away my appetite.  Instead, we stop on a porch near the Southernmost Hotel for glasses of ice water, coffee, lemonade, and muffins. 

There is a problem during our walk.  I must shop by memory.  "I hate to shop," Charley reminds me.  The first day I do a memory snapshot of the exact item I see in a window, the shop where I saw it, and where the shop is located.  The following day Charley indulges me by retracing our route while I try to locate the items.  He prevails upon the nearest shopkeeper to provide a plastic chair.  One year a shopkeeper actually gave him a key chain as a reward for his patience.   On the way back to our hotel, we look at shirts to replace what he forgot  or "Y" straps that will hold his sunglasses in place, since they are slipping in the heat.  It's a trade off.

In the afternoon we collapse on our hotel beach and order a late lunch from our chaises, without moving.  Reminds me of a story.

We took another couple with us to Key West a couple of times.  The first time we set up at the same beach but had no idea our section was designated "Topless."  Tom settled in, took one look at what was in front of him, and never moved a muscle for the rest of the afternoon.  He didn't even open a book.  "This is where I want to have lunch the rest of the trip," he said.

One College Reunion

                                                                                

      It seems that June is a good time to head down memory lane.  Since I posted a blog about my 50th high school reunion on October 10, 2011, and wrote about my senior prom in last week's blog, I thought I'd  write about one of my college reunions.

     Charley and I both graduated from Colby College in Waterville, Maine.  Although he graduated well before me (Ha!), we attend each other's reunions because we know each other's classmates.  When I sent in our deposit for a particular reunion of mine a while back, it seemed a good idea to take advantage of the option to stay in one of the dorms.  My class would have its headquarters there, so it would be just a short walk down the hall after late nightcaps - no driving.  And we'd save some $ by not getting a hotel room.

     Our core group gathered at headquarters in the morning, organized the keepsakes and memorabilia, and put on the tee shirts that our classmate, Chris Brown, had designed for the parade of classes.  The weather had been perfect for the boat ride the day before, and remained that way for the lobster/clambake, tennis, golf, seminars, lectures, and class dinner.  The trouble started when we went to our room to sleep.

     Trying to relive your youth at forty is one thing.  Trying to relive it at sixty-something is another.  The twin beds, which we'd expected, looked miniscule.  Could they have really been that narrow when we were students?  Or was this an attempt by the college to cut the budget by purchasing from Job Lots?  If we turned over at all, we'd bump into a wall.  The pillows felt like lumps of coal.  Fortunately, we'd brought our own.

     Maine gets cold at night, even in June!  On each bed were sheets and one thin blanket.  We changed into warmups.  We put our socks on.  Then we hopped in.

     As I eased under the sheet and 1/4" blanket, I heard a crinkly sound.  When I turned toward Charley, I heard it again.  "What the heck is that?"  I yelled across both desks to the far wall, where Charley was curled into a ball on his pallet. 

     "It's plastic on the mattress," he mumbled.  "Come over here.  There'll be more body heat."  A tiger doesn't change his stripes!  I put a sweater over my warmup and pulled a raincoat over the blanket on my bed.  Like I said, reliving your youth at sixty-something is another matter.

     I heard singing.  It seemed to be in the next room.  I pulled myself out of bed and unlocked the door.  The music wasn't coming from the hall.  I pulled the shade up on our window and looked down.  There was a bunch of twenty-somethings celebrating below us on the grass.  A couple of guys were doing a really bad job of "Celebrate Good Times."

     It was three a.m. when they disbanded.  After that, I dozed off.

     I have been known to get up several times during the night to use the bathroom, if I've had lots of liquids.  Ditto for Chas.  He went first - down the hall to the far corner.  I heard a shout echoing off the tiles, but didn't budge.

     When he reappeared, he woke me.  "What now?" I asked. 

     "The bathrooms are co-ed!  Guess who I just met in there?  Cindy Mello, the homecoming queen!"

     "I'm sure she didn't look any better at 3 a.m. than you did!  Go back to bed." 

     You can bet I showered in the ladies' locker room at the field house the following morning!  Another safe bet would be that the Holiday Inn became our home during future reunions.