of all my writing children (web copy, copy, letters, specialized projects, flash fiction, short stories, novels, blogging, SOC, email, and whatsherface)and although i love them all equally, (i do!) i have to admit one shines about the others.

but i think blogging is my favorite. (on the days when blogging is misbehaving and must stand in the corner as punishment, flash fiction is then the favorite. and vice versa.)

i know it's not acceptable for a mother to have favorites, but it's a fact and there it is.

i think i have the stronger bond with blogging because i do it so much and it's very comfortable to me. i wonder, as i do more and more copy, if the copy will become my favorite.

and THEN (as if that weren't enough) i wonder *why* it is that blogging is the favorite. and i say to Myself, "Self? It's obvious why blogging is the favorite, dumbass. Here, it's all about YOU."

Myself says, "Self? You really need to stop watching Dr. Phil and get over yourself. Yes, it's about me, but it's also about universal themes and connection and who's going to win "Survivor". It's about the strange characters of life and how they impact the universe."

Myself snorts (she does that a lot.) "Srsly, who says that shit? Sometimes, you're so pompous you make me laugh. Blogging is your crack. In the time you wrote this, you could have finished two copy pieces."

"Slave driver. Gimme some air, wouldja? And give Dr. Phil a rest too, while you're at it."

****

sassy bitch.

****

oh, the morning. it was hateful. i got my ass ate out three times over housekeeping issues (NOTHING more embarrassing than being screamed at because there was FECES on his toilet! in front of ten people,) and thirty people checked out before nine AM. the phone was a nightmare (when isn't it?) and hungover bowlers are not the nicest people first thing in the morning. FOR REAL. we sold out last night, the housekeepers got a late start, and the bus driver for a band performing at the local venue strutted in at 12:15 and demanded (yes, demanded!) his room.

not happening. the last check-outs hadn't even LEFT yet. not a clean room in the hotel. i calmly explain this to the fellow, but he was not believing me *or* having it. he wanted his room.

sorry.

so, he left and walked back to the bus.

five minutes later in comes this huge (i mean, at least 450, six-and-a-half foot tall) man and he's demanding i give him his bus driver's room. can't do it, i'm sorry. i wish i could, i'd love to, but i can't give you what i don't have.

he commands me to call corporate. i give him the number. he demands i call Gem. i refuse, she's in at three, and she can no more give you a clean room this very moment than i can. one hour, sir, just give me one hour. we were full last night and .... but he's not listening so i shut my mouth and let him chew me over a little. okay, well, a lot. almost a half hour worth.

then, he decides, he's going to sit right here, in the chair next to the desk, and wait. it creaks alarmingly.

fine. you can wait in the other room, where there's a TV and coffee.

i don't need any coffee! i need a room!

i nod. Buddy's on lunch, there's not a housekeeper that's not already neck deep in it, i'm on my own here.

****

he waits, and i go into the back office. one of the band members comes in and walks up to the desk, and i start out to see what he wants. i stop by the partition, where neither man can see me, and i hear the guy ask the Big Man, "Did you get your room?"

"Not yet, but I'm gonna. She's fucking lying, I can't believe there's not one clean room in this scuzzy hotel. I refuse to believe that."

okay. i hit my limit. i start shaking.

i figure this is a good time to go for a walk. a Very Good Time.

so, i walk around the desk and start down the hall, but as i pass the Big Man i stop, and look right at him.

"I don't appreciate being called a liar."

"I didn't call you a liar."

"Yes. You. Did."

and i walk to the end of the hall and try to get my shit together. what do i care? i don't know this guy. fuck it.

Buddy's brother see me and says, hey, MzNettah, yo a'ight?

no, not really, but it's okay.

****

two minutes later Buddy comes screaming into the parking lot and he's behind the desk in a flash.

Wha's wrong?

i tell him this guy is a real asshole, and i need a clean single. Buddy gets me a room, and i ask him to stand at the desk while i check this guy in. he makes me nervous.

i checked him in without looking at him once.

told him the shit he needed to know, thanked Buddy, and told Gem later i am not working next sunday. it's the last sold-out weekend for these bowlers and someone else needs to do it. i've had it.

****

Buddy says, git a tissue and wipe dem eyes. doan yo eber let em see dat. yo strong, yo doan eber let em see dat.

i didn't cry out here. i cried back there. he didn't see me.

yo bettah not eber play pokah, mz nettah. fo' real.

how'd you get here so fast? you still had a half hour on lunch.

mah brotha call me. he say, "Buddy, yo gotta git up heah. Mz Nettah all upsit an' sumpin' ain't raight." ah come straight up. yo gotz mah numbah, mz nettah. yo call, enytime. i be raight heah.

i nod. and feel a lot better.

****

i finished last night's copy, but i have a lot more to do. i need to make a list and prioritize, but honestly, right now it's beyond me.

i'm really tired.

(thank you, Favorite Child, for allowing me to vent, record, and generally de-stressify. that's why you're my favorite.

and fuck you, Dr. Phil.)

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