All Super 6's Are Not Created Equal

Everything you ever needed to know about getting a cheap hotel room on a road trip

• Location is key but a dump is a dump is a dump – no matter how close to your attraction.

• Check on line: I found a differences of more than 100$ between the hotel’s site versus a discount (not to mention the crap prices they quote you in person). You can sometimes negotiate for web prices in person but not always.

• Amenity differences: Super 8's has a Kleenex dispenser by the sink and Motel 6, a bottle opener.

• Seriously, move away from the highway. If you’re forced to get a place cuz you’re gonna crash if you don’t at least request a room on the other side of the road or as far away from it as possible (and babies, and pools, and anyone likely to be hooking). Just a suggestion.

• Request to see a room before giving them any money. Make sure it’s actually the room you’ll be sleeping in. There are such things as decoy rooms.

• Would you like a diet cherry Fontana? Check out the vendi situation before you settle in for the night.

• Wi-Fi: if they don’t know what it is chances are they don’t have it. (In the case of Motel 6 they only certain rooms offer it and they may or may not require that you purchase a card for $3.99; if you stay at a few chances are the first one you bought will actually still work at the others).

• All confidence is lost when the GM of the hotel gives you the key to someone else’s room.

• Don’t look too closely – yes, I found a wall booger.

• Flip Flops – highly suggested!

• The check-out times are negotiable, especially if you’re checking in later. Have yet to talk someone into 5 o’clock but we did manage 3 o’clock once.

• Bring your own pillow.

• All Super 6’s are not created equally.

• Cleanliness is subjective.

• Mold, optional.

• Ditto on “non-smoking.” One non-smoking room came complete with ashtray and cigarette burns on the comforter. The topper: we had to sign an agreement that assesses a $175 fine if they decreed the room to have been smoked in.

• Alarm clocks grow scarcer the farther south you go.

• What about “DO NOT DISTURB” do you not understand?

• Even bad coffee (either in your room or in the lobby) can be better than no coffee. Never knew it but coffee houses can be scarce.

• Who cares if they offer free continental breakfast (cereal, stale donuts, canned fruit. . .) if you don’t rise before 10?

• Guess what, if you actually tip your housekeeper the room does get cleaner and they’re less likely to steal something from you. I’m just saying.



OK, it's not everything you need to know but it is a good primer.

Otherwise Known as Useless

Although it did my soul a world of good catching up with my BFF over the phone it nearly killed the rest of me. I couldn't tell you exactly how I got that drunk (OK, that's kind of obvious) or why I stayed up so long but come rising time I was a wreck.

I figured it was Monday and despite being stuck on a double it would be slow and my walking-dead status would go barely noticed. Au contraire, we were under staffed and very busy. We ran out of glasses, of silverware... 30 minute ticket times for burgers, I had a new serving partner - who is an idiot - and 35 covers all at the same time glaring at me in that way that says "where is my food you dumb bitch?" Compounded by the fact that was simultaneously still drunk and hung-over, I was doing lunch the hard way.

I managed to run into every corner, knock into every chair, pour wine onto the table instead of the glass, dump whole loaves of bread on the floor and drop a tray onto another server's head (don't ask I don't even know how I managed that one). After 5 hours of hell I walked with a measly 67 dollars. My head still hurt. I was starving and now terribly craving a burger - of which I sold probably 15 of the previous shift - go figure.

My meager hour and half break was spent with the in-law, my man, and my neighbor. Instead of that burger I got the left overs from their boring ham, brie and apple panini but - god help me - my man made me a spicy bloody mary. I was feeling better already. (The glass and half of wine helped too).

I literally ran back to work (damn, I gotta start doing some cardio!) to do it all over again. Dinner was really no easier than lunch and karma has a way of sneaking back up on you.. . Or, rather, a way of sending someone else to hit you in the face with a large tray of food. (Thanks, Evan).

6 and a half hours (and 25 dollars) later I took myself out for a burger and a bloody. Both were delicious.

Today I may have crossed the threshold from being a functional drunk to alcoholic. Oh well, I guess all there is to do is poor myself another drink. Which I did promptly.

A Love Letter to the Minneapolis Food Scene

Earlier this week we actually had some good ethnic food; a giant bowl of phở that warmed my heart as much as it did my belly. We also had a gloriously scented jasmine tea and a ho-hum bánh mì sandwich but it was the best Asian food we’d had in months in a kitchen other than our own. In a place where a firm percentage of the population is Vietnamese you’d think it not be the challenge that it is to have good, honest food prepared simply with the fresh ingredients that I know must be here. Alas, they seem to focus more on the sale of Sysco based GI-Chinese food that has failed us at every try.

With the success of our bowl of phở I was reminded of the many ethnic haunts we so regularly visited in Minneapolis. Never more than a bike ride away my craving for Thai or the like was quick to be satiated. Sadly, these days, there’s a lot of risk involved (Will this place be any good? Oh please let this place be good!) in addition to a journey that requires the commitment of time, a ferry or long winding bridge to somewhere unknown – typically, the trip requires all three.

Never were the (hunger) pangs of home sickness greater than today when I received my issue of Metro’s food issue. Although small in size, the food scene in Minneapolis is large in heart and diversity. I miss it deeply.

Having moved to a city whose culinary identity is vastly cliché and often poorly executed, I miss the authenticity and commitment to good food done well. I miss the fine food and friends I had come to take for granted in Minneapolis and St. Paul.

You’re in my heart, Twin Cities, but –unfortunately for me – not in my stomach.

What do you tell a woman with 2 black eyes?

… Nothing you haven’t told her twice before.

I have been walking around as the punch line to this joke for 5 days now and no one has said one word to me. Not one. Not my managers, nor my co-workers, nor anyone on the street. Not a single soul.

If I were in the Midwest dozens of people would have inquired; asked what happened, suggested I move into a shelter, offered me a place to stay with the assumption someone was beating me . . .

For the record: a freak baking accident where I dropped a heavy ball jar on my own nose. But still, not one inquiry?

Why Can’t You Get Along with Anyone?

I’ve been called “difficult” several times since our arrival here, particularly by real estate agents. It is not to say others haven’t thought the same elsewhere but the term “difficult” seems to be the term they fancy instead of calling someone a bitch. Additionally, I guess their idea of “reasonable” is different than mine and for that matter their idea of “move-in ready” is significantly different than our idea up north too but that’s hardly where the differences stop and start, but I digress.

After having looked at some 80 or so properties we finally decided on where we currently live. Our decision was in great part out of pure exhaustion: tired of looking, of negotiating, of having phone calls not returned… so here we were signing a lease with a pinched real estate agent that owned our soon to be home on Bourbon street. We were later warned she too was “difficult” but we’ve since found that out for ourselves.

2 weeks back we had a cold spell so we turned on the heater, discovering that it didn’t work properly. She argued with the Mr. about its working condition and why we would even have our heater on yet to which he replied, “I pay for it, what business is it of yours when I turn it on.” After much debate she finally agreed to have a repairman come take a look.

Upon her arrival her judgment and disdain was palpable although it wasn’t until after the heater repairman concluded their diagnostic that the disagreement ensued. (Fortunately, they had figured out the issue; according to Brigitte, there was no problem, in her opinion the heater was turning off because the apartment was up to temperature. There was no explaining to her that the apartment was 60 degrees and the heater was cranked to 85 …)

In her departure I brought up 2 other issues: the motor on the fan in the bathroom stopped working and the rosemary in the backyard was dying. It was then she begun lecturing and chastising me. For anyone who knows me they know I don’t take kindly to be talked at and I have a particular disdain for a demeaning tone.

Although I had agreed to care for the yard (grooming) despite receiving no compensation I concured with her statement that I had expressed an interest in maintaining the yard. (On our last chat however she had lectured me on watering the yard so which was it, am I to care for the yard or not?. Anyway, I stated very clearly that there was no way I was going to pay for soil replenishment, fertilizer or anything else that required out of pocket expenses on my end for her plants in a shared courtyard. Period. So, in punishment, she’s going to send in “her lady” who will severely cut back all of the plants. She does this twice a year and does nothing more to condition the plants, nor does she provide any on-going yard maintenance. She just whacks it down twice a year. So be it. Then there was the issue of the bathroom fan seizing up.

Instead of repairing it she askd, “Can’t you just open a window?”

“Brigitte, with it getting cold out I would prefer NOT to open the window.” I mean, really, the window is in the shower and the bathroom is all of 3 square feet, would you want to open the window?

I guess since she saw her side of the “conversation” as a lose-lose so she thought it an opportune time to discuss the "fact" that we're using the middle room as "storage." I told her it was none of her business what we did with the house…that I'm busy and haven't had a chance to figure it all out/decorate... she wanted (demanded numerous times in fact) to know what our "plan" was (Were we going to open a restaurant, rent a storage facility...?) and I told her it was none of her business and then told her she wasn't my mother so back off. My plan was, as I explained to her, to return her property to her in the same --if not better-- condition than we received it. She was concerned we were ruining the floor. . . How you stupid cow-pig? How would we being ruining the floor by having things on it?

"Do we not pay our rent?" I asked. "Do we not pay it in a timely fashion every month?" To both she responded yes yet was quick with a “but…” Then she berated me for the volume I was listening to PUBLIC FUCKING RADIO on the computer while I was doing my housework. She said she could hear it next door and "if someone was there..."

"Well, there isn’t anyone there now is there?" I added, "have you received any complaints? You see, we have wonderful relationships with our neighbors so I'm sure if there were a problem they'd say something to us."

I offered that if she were unhappy with our tenancy she could sever the lease and we'll move on. No, she said, she didn't want that but then complained that we were taking up more space than we should - with the Vespa and pots outside, etc. "All things," I pointed out "you, pre-approved prior to our tenancy."

Oh I hate the bitch and I thought the Mr. was gonna be mad at me but his only response was this: “Why can’t you get along with anyone?” That’s great, I thought, I stand up for myself and I’m the difficult one. Story of my fucking life. And then there was today . . .

I’d like to say it ended all sweet and she apologized but she came with her guns a blazing – actually more like quivery face and finger a waggin’. It’s not that I was likely to apologize (because I wouldn’t – I did nothing wrong) but I didn’t even have a chance to play nice, she just started right in. She literally came inside and started in on me; she was within 12 inches of my face with her finger in my in my eyeball telling me off and threatening to give us 30 days to move. I told her she needed to back up out of my face and step outside. I demanded it 3 or 4 times before she finally did.

I told her, "I’m standing here gargling in my residence minding my own business, how dare you come in here at speak to me like that. Now, step back and go outside where we can continue the conversation in a civilized manner as soon as (the Mr.) gets here.” She continued to try and argue with me even as she backed out. I shut the door on her not saying another word until my man arrived.

When he arrived she says, “I just had another lovely conversation with your wife.”

We tit and tat about some bullshit with the pots and some plants – petty bullshit really – but clearly she went home yesterday all worked up and tried to find something “legit” for her to berate me about. I again reiterated, this time directing it to the Mr. that I was not going to have someone in my face yelling at me. I re-enacted how she was behaving. The Mr. broke us up with a “now, ladies…” and I marched back inside. I didn’t slam a single door or blare my blasted public radio but I was seething. Once again I was being vilified for not tolerating someone else’s bad behavior. I guess I really infuriate people when they can’t win an argument with me. Maybe I am a little combative (OK, I am) but I will not be belittled and talked down to. Maybe I’m a little full of it, maybe I can’t get along with anyone?

She was kinder with the Mr. but still difficult – still argumentative and mentioned giving us 60 days to move. Good man that he is, my man made it clear that if SHE wanted us to move it would not be at our financial expense – if we moved she would be severing the lease and the penalties/losses would be hers and not ours. She then reconsidered, “can we be friends?”

“I don’t know, can we?” he joked. They shook hands and agreed that she and I would never again speak.

To pee or not to pee

As you can tell from my recent posts, after months of active searching, I finally secured a position. Finally. Don’t get too excited –I’m not—it’s as a fucking server. What I haven’t told you is how I ended up at this joint.

Le restaurant (not so cleverly) is really Le Meritage. After several interviews (see Another One Bites the Dust I & II) the chef offers me a spot on the team much to the chagrin of the cunt-faced manager who clearly disliked me. Come to think of it, I wasn’t so much offered the job but welcomed aboard as if there weren’t options (or a choice) on my part. In kind of a whirl wind I was shuffled to a terminal in a hallway to fill out an online application then into the HR manager’s office to sign away my life in the way of a background check and drug screening.

Although I’m a pretty good girl all considering, I find both a background checks (and some check your credit too – WTF!) and drug tests extremely intrusive. As a former manager I don’t frankly care what people do off the clock. On the clock is a different story but do you think, for example, the occasional marijuana consumption would actually impact someone’s ability to wait tables, cook a steak, or wash a dish? That’s right folks, all this hoop-jumping is for the great pleasure of severing food on a plate. Give me a fucking break. During my 2-hour stint at the clinic there were a handful of actually druggies and problem consumers parading in and out of the place. Here was one conversation:

Random 20-something black dude, "Hey, can I ask you a question."

Me, "Sure, shoot."

"Uh, I had a couple of drinks before work will they be able to tell?"

Me, "depends on what they're testing for."

him, "awe, shit."

Me, "awe shit maybe."

(Background conversation: breathalyzer test)

Me, "Dude, you're having a breath test?"

"Fuck, I dunno. What's that mean?"

Me, "Did you have an accident?"

"Fuck no!" "Well, it wasn't my fault."

There were a few other actual druggies that came in for regular screenings, a cold frigin’ nurse who practically ignored everyone and then there was the dude who nearly mislabeled the “tamper proof” containers that contained my blessed pee. So if the question is to pee or not to pee well I guess my answer was to pee cuz’ hey, I needed the job.

During my stay waiting to pee it was sunny our while I was trapped in one of a dozen of versions of hell. This one: a boring room with intermittently retards and druggies coming by to also piss in a cup and a blaring television parked on Fox news (more retards). I’d like to ad the folks that worked there weren’t all that bright either (hence the whole labeling near-snafu)). 2 hours and 2 liters of water the sun went behind dark clouds, I peed and I spent the next 30 minutes riding my bike home in the pouring rain. Totally fitting. In the meantime I was offered a position where I am currently at.

Having already gone to the trouble of peeing in the cup and all – and I actually preferred Meritage as the surroundings, food and wine were -hell, I might have actually learned something- I told my current employer I had another offer and needed a few days to consider. What I also needed was what kind of hours I’d be scheduled and at what pay; thus far they had been extremely elusive. And then I waited for 5 days.

At 4:45 on the 5th day the HR gal from Le Meritage left a message that declared I had passed on all counts and to give her a call by 5 or during business hours the next day. As it was 5:15 by the time I got the message I called the following day, and the next, and the next. I also tried to call the manager. No message was returned. As a last attempt I e-mailed the chef. He was, after all, my first point of contact and he is the man in charge of the entire food & beverage program. Here’s what I wrote:


Chef Farrell:

Good afternoon. I read your review last week; congratulations to you and your staff.

I trust you are very busy so I'll get to the point: I have been unable to touch base with Ms. Smith regarding orientation, training and scheduling. Cindy has received confirmation on my background check and screening but I do not yet have a start date nor have my scheduling inquiries been addressed.

While I understand the protocol of the training regimen and that shifts may change due to the demands of business, the number of "scheduled shifts" for a typical work week has not been clearly outlined. I am certainly eager to join your team; however, for my own financial stability it is necessary that I have some comprehension of the base hourly commitment. Since last we spoke, I have been offered a position that guarantees 7-8 shifts per week and, while it is my preference to be a part of your organization, I need to move forward in my decision for employment.

Thank you for your time.



Again, there was no response. After waiting one more day I contacted the GM from the other place and accepted the position. It took several months and more than a dozen interviews to land this gig so I figured, despite my apprehension (rightly deserved by the way), I oughtta get back to work and finally start making some money.

P.S. In case you were wondering, I hate my job.

The Job, Day 2:

So I punch in for my 6:15 shift and my trainer is nowhere to be found. Sometime after the scheduled in-time she’s on the floor but not yet changed into uniform. She’s busy venting about the boyfriend. She proceeds to tell me it’s an awful day for me to be working with her because she’s not in a good mood, not in the mood for it, and they have a party so I won’t even learn anything. Well she was right about me not learning anything.

In retrospect maybe I did learn something. Let’s review:
• My trainer speaks Italian (because she lived there), some French and a little German so she likes to talk to foreigners to practice.
• My trainer is an awesome beverage sales person, if she says so herself.
• My trainer doesn’t follow most of the rules – but I should. Whatever those rules happen to be; I wouldn’t know because she and her partner actually exhibited very few of the standard protocols.
• My trainer used to manage there.
• My trainer can eat bread all night there but apparently eating butter with that bread is a fire-able offense.
• The chef is a yeller.
• The manager is a greasy haired slovenly dressed woman who also likes to yell.
• We’re not supposed to leave a tray on the tray jack; that’s one of the MOD’s pet peeves. I learned that when she snapped at me, otherwise known as the first time she talked to me.
• My co-workers are nice but are both LAZY and sloppy.
• Latin dishwashers are all the same – everywhere.
• I hate my job.

Truthfully, it took everything in me to not walk out. It was simply the most unprofessional rag-tag bullshit I’ve experienced in decades. It is the worst training program I’ve ever gone through. The “team” does whatever they want whenever they want to and unless you are un-liked it’s mostly tolerated. I will likely be un-liked by the cool kids because I didn’t hit it off with my trainer. She’s nice but if she put even as much energy into actually training me as she put into telling me how badly she did train me (“but I swear, I’m usually a really good trainer; I used to be the training manager here.”) I might have actually learned something. The bad experience was not reserved just for today; it was not just a fluke.

Yesterday, I personally witnessed 14 customers walk out the door because of the hosts’ attitude. They couldn’t be bothered to invite them in to the bar for a drink while they waited for the table. The standard response was “it’ll be 30 minutes for a table,” when really it was more like 10 – tables just needed to be reset. I haven’t seen one real professional there in any capacity. Every pork chop was burned (the chime was totally blackened presumably because it was too much work to cover the bone with a little foil), every plate had slop and finger prints all over it. The asparagus was sprayed with baking spray and what the menu merchandised as “wood fire grilled” is totally gas; the sauces were squiggled from a squeeze bottle, and every single plate presentation was circa 1980 – at best. Menus were dirty, the staff was greasy, decorative shit on the wall were broken, and the kitchen was filthy.