My Weekend Trip to an Ultra Creepy Bed & Breakfast (As Told in Relatively Hackneyed Southern Gothic Prose)

Perched on the banks of the River Ohio, its sagging limestone foundations wrapped in a swaddling of nightshade; elevation punctuated by two towering columns supporting a crumbling eave, the colonial plantation house keeps vigil over the tiny Midwestern town, stately still even as it recedes into a bed of leafy horticulture.
Manipulating the escutcheon-ensconced lock cylinder allows passers-by to step back in time to a cornice-moulded antebellum retreat. Taking a generous handful of pages from Eastlake's movement, the foyer introduces visitors to a forgotten Confederate aesthetic. An ornate signatory book with gold foil pages on the marble-topped lowboy invites guests to memorialize their sojourn in perpetuity.
In the parlor, a silent lonely fortepiano consorts with the gut-strung antiquity harp in the corner. The highly-wrought porcelain swan's neck pediment supports an equally elaborate knife urn; perhaps housing the remains of some long-lost carpetbagger or anti-Northern rogue scalawag.
Stepping onto the bull nosed flight, the balustrade and Turkish stair runner escort adventurous souls to the upstairs landing where the second floor guest bedchambers segregate overnight visitors from one another.
Curiously locked doors-to-nowhere add intrigue and mystery to the lavish ensuite. Framed daguerreotypes of impish pixie children and neoclassical oil funeral portraits regard one another with eternally unspoken dialogue.
A double duvet warms the four-poster mattress, skirted by a delicate ruffle; all below the velvet-lined tester. At the end of the bed rests a mahogany canapé matching the similarly upholstered chaise longue under the window. The handsome mirrored chifferobe stands in solitude saluting the books of antiquity on the nearby shelf.
But it was hella spooky, y'alls.
Fo' realz.
As a Christmas present last year, my folks got my wife and I a one-night stay at a bed and breakfast in southern Indiana. I won't name the town specifically because that would narrow it down significantly and I don't want the creepy couple who own the place to place some kind of supernatural hex on me.
We redeemed our stay this past weekend.
Just in time for Halloween.
There's a last time for everything.
At first glance (in daylight, at least), the place appears innocuous enough. A great big mansion on the outskirts of town, the hotel is a throwback to a nineteenth century estate, complete with concrete cherubs on the lawn and an azalea-lined walkway.
Through the doorway, however, the interior is adored with all kinds of faux-Rococo accoutrement procured from somwhere in New Orleans or Mississippi.
Or Hell.
Each piece was intricately carved with some creepy design or sculptured face fashioned by demonically possessed ébénistes and fiendishly deranged artisans. Nothing says romantic getaway like the distinct feeling of being watched by an in-room waterspout gargoyle (fully functional).
But the decor wasn't necessarily the big creep-out. A bit unsettling maybe, but not a dealbreaker.
No, the most disconcerting nuance of the scene wasn't the mint julip bombé or the gilt-bronzed wall sconces, it was the couple who ran the joint. One-half eclectic Wiccan, one-half folksy proto-hippie and three-quarters craaaaaazzzzzy, these two had us sleeping with one eye open - on the watch for lurking shadows and hoping they wouldn't put the Gris-gris on us.
While at a tasting that evening, the sommelier at the local winery cellar door asked us where we were staying. When we told him, he made the sign of the cross and refused us any more pinot. Then he said three Hail Mary's and swatted a fruit fly.
Later on, wafting through the halls of the manor like phantasmal apparitions, the owners guided us through an inital tour, then stole our souls and fixed us steak and eggs in the morning.
They had this eerie je ne sais quoi that raised our hackles. That certain something being poop-your-pants-psycho-scary-voodoo-vibe.
As they commented on our aura and luminous energy, they showed us around their house of horrors. They took great pleasure in explaining to us that the grand estate was formerly used as a Civil War hospital where bedraggled soldiers would retreat there from the battlefield and die grisly deaths from any number of horrific, gory wounds.
But feel free, they suggested. To explore the place on your own. And then they retreated back to their living quarters presumably to sacrifice a goat to Mephistopheles.
But in the end, we escaped unscathed with - like all good vacation getaways - a story to tell. Our memories will be haunted by our visit to the spookiest bed and breakfast ever. Our troubled dreams will be disturbed by the witch and the warlock who own it. We will never forget that dark night of fright when evil itself manifested itself in the form of various macabre home furnishings. We will never be the same.
But I left without flushing the toilet. So the trick's on them.

Workation

With the economy reeling, one of the current trends in vacationing is the much-ballyhooed "Staycation". A portmanteau of "stay-at-home vacation", the Staycation is a low-cost alternative to taking the family on a road trip to a traditional destination. I did not make this up.

With gas prices and hotel fares what they are these days, the Staycation is becoming more and more popular. Staycationers take their alloted time off work and stick around locally - enjoying the freedom from the office - but avoiding the stress, cost and headaches associated with travel.

This year I used up all my vacation and personal time in caring for my sick wife (thanks, cancer) so I'm taking the Staycation a step farther:

This week I'm on Workation.

The concept of a Workation is simple. It's a vacation that happens to be spent at work. Instead of sun and sand, it's flourescence and low pile commercial carpeting.

So I've cleared my Outlook Calendar of all meetings, tasks and deadlines and have mentally checked out for the week. When you're kinda quiet and unassuming (for the most part) around the office like I am, you can slip through the cracks completely unnoticed. Just flying below the radar. Zoning out.

I don't have to pay a thing for this mental holiday. In fact, they pay me. This, I think, is brilliant.

There are challenges with the Workation. For example, the boss. Avoidance and misdirection is the simple solution. I kinda just hang out in the conference room with the door shut. File folder in hand, shuffling papers, murmuring to myself. But in my mind, it's breakfast in bed and hot stone massages.

Every few hours I'll make an appearance around the printer, pressing buttons, cursing at the feeder tray, pretending it's malfunctioning. Then I'll retreat back to my office for more relaxing Workationing. The phone's forwarded to voice mail, so when clients or co-workers call, they just think I'm on it. The desk chair is no hammock, but it'll do for a quick snooze.

The nature of my job allows me to set my own schedule and work at my own pace. I'm not micromanaged or checked upon. So this week is total ease. Aimless. Paceless.

Workation.

Dear John

Back in the summer of 2000, when we first met, you and I were heading in opposite directions on the electoral spectrum.

You had just lost a brutal primary to our current President, you'd been disgraced by your party and labled - not as a maverick - but as a defector.

I had recently been elected vice-president of the Pre-law Club at my liberal arts undergraduate college, gaining the respect and admiration of my peers (of course by respect and admiration I actually mean ambivelence and anonymity, but stick with me here).

At 64, kinda surly and curmudgeonly, you were way beyond over-the-hill. Chances were, you'd fade into insignificance as a senior Senator and slowly but surely be forgotten by the political landscape.

At 21, bright-eyed and full of fervor, I had my whole life ahead of me. While you toiled in obscurity in the United States Congress, promoting the surge and writing legislation, I was charged with the humbling and awe-inspiring responsibility of organizing the quarterly Pre-law Club meetings at the local Pizza King.

When we shared our moment, all those years ago, I noticed the hangdog sadness in your rheumy eyes as you had just let victory slip through your fingers. I tried not to gloat. After all, I had run unopposed but still, I saw no point in rubbing it in. Your handshake was firm, but hinted at sheepishness. You were so brave masking your bruised pride, but I could tell you were intimidated by me when you refused to sign my copy of your book. Don't hate the playa, John. Hate the game.

So while you continued your downward spiral into inevitable senility and irrevelance, I became president of my law school class (unopposed, again). It must have been tough to watch as I pulled off one of the most kick-ass 3L parties ever while you were fooling around confirming judicial appointees and promoting immigration reform. Again, I could almost feel your jealousy from D.C..

Now here you find yourself once again, in the public eye - old, tired, down in the polls, kind of a wet blanket, watching the country you served turning its back on you and being suckered into voting for some condescending Democrat full of hot air.

But Johnny Mac, don't be discouraged. Listen, just because I feel bad for you , I'm gonna throw you a bone. Ol' Duke's here to help you out. Nevermind that I disagree with your dispicable campaign, 80% of your policies and your choice of that Eskimo gal as a running mate. Since we go way back, I've got an offer for you.

Now I won't vote for you (because voting is dumb), but I'll do you one better: The Tortfeezor is endorsing you for President.

I don't know what it means to 'endorse' someone for President. If it involves anything actually proactive, then I reserve the right to renege. But call it love for the underdog, or pity, or whatever, but I kinda like your style. I can relate to ill-tempered, churlish grumps. I'm kinda cantankerous myself.

So enjoy the endorsement. You can thank me later.

Your old pal,

Duke

Party Update

Day Two of the weeklong party has arrived (see yesterday's post) and, since you ignored the invitation, you may be wondering how it is progressing. Well, I have two words for you friend: a.) AWESOME! and; b.) AWESOME!
So what elevated the evening to the level of such palpable awesomeness?
Subway sandwiches, of course. And strippers.*
Every party is defined by the quality of its guests and so it is in this case as well. It was just me. Which is just the way I like it. Two's a crowd; an entire party full of people spilling Jägermeister on the berber is an anxiety attack waiting to happening. So I can cope with the crushing weight of my own existential loneliness. After all, I've been through this before; no one came to my 12th birthday party.**
So I partied by eating sandwiches. I did not order an entire party sub. That would be putting the cart before the horse. I wasn't sure if anyone would show up and I can't eat an entire party sub in one sitting***.
But I can eat a six-inch cold cut combo in one sitting. And that's exactly what I did. By myself.
Best. Party. Ever.
Just me, a bag of Snyder's of Hanover, and a submarine sandwich. Watching Prison Break on Tivo. Folding laundry.
Awesome.



* Not true.
** True.
*** I actually can, in fact, eat an entire party sub in one sitting.

Party at my House

My wife is out of town this week. She's in Arizona for a conference. And when the cat's away...

The party's at my house.

And I don't mess around with parties. When I throw a bash, it's legendary. Get ready for an epic fun-filled evening of moderately enjoyable merrymaking.

What kind of party, you ask? A rollicking house party, that's what. The party to end all parties, in fact. Home base will be Bachelor Central, for sure. It's gonna be crazy, for realz.

How will this party go down, many of you may be wondering? Imagine this:

After you kick off your footwear in the foyer (no shoes on the carpet) you'll be delighted by the faint aroma of a Cinnamon Stick Yankee Candle. Not one of those off-brands from Wal-Mart, but a genuine Yankee Candle from Bed, Bath & Beyond. Yeah, cuz that's how I party, yo. Sparin' no expense for my homies.

You want hors d'oevres? Try these Sour Cream 'n' Chive Ruffles on for size. That's all I got, so don't get greedy. I guess we could potluck. Whatever. And there won't be any Jell-o shots. Just Jell-o. With suspended pears.

Actually, I don't have any booze, per se, but there's some cooking sherry in the pantry and you may be able to find half a bottle of Mai Tai mix in the downstairs mini-fridge. Also, feel free to use the Brita.

But please use the coasters. They're there for a reason. No one likes an inconsiderate partygoer. And remember: those toilets don't flush themselves.

How about some music from my iHome MP3 deck/alarm clock? Do you like Phil Collins? I hope so, 'cause that's how I rock the party. With soft rock sing-a-longs. Something in the Air Tonight, indeed.

I don't care if you dance, but be sure to carefully move the coffee table. It's expensive. I'd hate to see someone slip in their sock feet and end up hurt. In fact, just keep the dancing to gentle swaying. That way, everyone can have a good time. It's all fun and games until someone face plants into the hearth and ends up with 27 stitches like last time. No one likes horseplay.

Be mindful that seating is limited. You can sit on the sofa and the ottoman, but the antique rocking chair is for show. It won't hold you and I'm very cognizant of the liability issues associated with this kind of get-together. Especially if someone breaks out the cooking sherry.

If it gets too crazy, you can crash on the futon on the sun porch. It's covered in dog hair and pretzel crumbs, but it's still pretty comfy.

Ain't no party like a Duke house party, 'cuz a Duke house party don't stop.

Until 11:30.

Because that's my bedtime.

Fever Dream

The coffee machine in the local hospital's waiting room has this really great ersatz cappuccino maker that makes the best cup of French Vanilla you could ask for. It's all sugar and foam, but for free coffee, you can't beat it. I drank four cups yesterday and took another for the road.
I hope to never taste it again.
You see, I've been hesitating writing a follow-up to last week's post because we weren't really out of the woods yet. My wife was cured of cancer, but there was one more hurdle to jump. And strangely, I had yet to have that moment of catharsis that would bring closure to this chapter in our lives. I craved it badly.
Before chemotherapy begins, a surgeon has to insert a small portacath under the skin to administer the medicine. The jugular is tapped by the small catheter attached to the port and becomes a spur of the circulatory system. The treatments are literally poison, and they can wreck your veins and tear up tissue, so a direct route to the bloodstream is needed. The port provides venous access safely.
And what comes in, must come out.
I can pinpoint the exact moment when this whole cancer thing sunk in. I hadn't really processed the significance of her illness until that day last March when they put the port in her chest. My mom came for support and I'm glad she did. When they wheeled the gurney out of the prep room back to surgery, it felt as if I was falling to the floor and the whole world rushed up to meet me. I knew it was the beginning of a long, arduous, uphill climb that was paved with uncertainty and angst.
There, among the empty Styrofoam cappuccino cups and year-old Field & Streams, I lost it. With my tears staining the knees of my mother's jeans, sobs racking my body, I was awash with fear and emotion, not having any idea of what the future held.
So yesterday, we found ourselves in that same exact room, once again watching her being wheeled into surgery. The removal of the port, however, is a super simple procedure. In fact, the entire surgery ended up lasting a whopping 8 minutes. It's a strange thing though, to see someone you love in a hospital bed, hooked up to IVs and monitors. They give you a general because it is somewhat invasive, but the sedation is mild. When they ushered her back into the room, she was asleep, but woke quickly when the team of hovering nurses and doctors buzzed around the room hooking her back up to the various machines.
Pale and sallow, her nearly-bald head wrapped in a baby blue bandana and her neck and shoulders coated in orange surgical antiseptic, she groggily opened her eyes. Through the foggy haze of anesthesia she lifted a weak hand to her chest and gingerly patted the spot where the port used to be. She looked at me with a heavily medicated smile and simply said, "It's all gone."
With those three words, she provided me with the catharsis I'd been waiting a week to experience. I know she was likely referring to the port being gone, but I took it much differently. Not only was the round disc under her skin gone, but so was the anxiety, the apprehension, the worry, the occasional melancholy and most importantly, the cancer. All gone.
I lost it.
Ignoring the tubes, peripheral drip lines and wires, I leaned over the bedrails and give her a great big healthy hug. We kissed and embraced through the tears. The pure joy I felt at that moment was unlike any relief I've ever experienced. And just like that, it was over.I would say that life will return to normal. But what’s normal? If it’s apathy and ambivalence, then I want no part of normal.
Not every story has a happy ending. I can’t imagine the pain and grief associated with the bad ones. But this one does. Not just because the cancer’s all gone, but because of the lessons learned out of the experience: Faith works. Hope works. Prayer works. Kindness works.
I’ve received countless reassuring words and smiles. Pats on the back. Hugs. Notes. Phone calls. Casseroles. Emails. Texts. Some of them from you, dear readers. I do not and will not ever take them for granted. Thank you.
I’m a lucky man to have friends like these.
And moreover, a wife who’s a fighter. An inspiration. A pillar of strength.
A survivor.

Cliffhanger

All right, so yeah, it's probably not cool to leave you all hanging like that. Some of you have been leaving angry voice mails wondering what was up.
Everything's fine! She got a clean bill of health! I'll write more toward the end of the week.
I will say that I was actually late for the appointment and completely missed the disclosure of the results.
I did meet her in the parking lot of the doc's office, however.
A regular high-five was exchanged.