A Day in My Life at the Hotel

Awake at ten minutes to seven, I try to recall the last wispy remnants of dream before jumping out of bed. As I put on my slippers, I check the weather on the phone. High of 64, cloudy, and a chance of rain. Ugh! I'm supposed to go to lunch with Harriet at a beautiful location. I'd hoped for sunny skies, but we need the rain.

Pushing the thought aside, I hurry through my morning routine. It's Sunday morning, so I put gospel bluegrass in the Sirius app and listen while getting ready.

At 7:20 and still in my pajamas, I pad out into the motel lobby to make coffee, turn off exterior lights, and get the computer warmed up for the day.

Back inside the room, I hurry up and select something wearable. For this morning, it's green army pants and a long sleeve black shirt. My Kim Possible outfit, I think as I hurry to dress and think about what cuteness I can wear later for the Kiva Koffeehouse. I look at the clock. 7:29. Hastily, I throw my hair into some braids and put some earrings on my ears.

My eyes look tired. They're also red from lack of sleep and allergies. I hope the guests, particularly that interesting guy in 36, won't notice too much.

At 7:30 I'm at the front door, opening to receive the first guest who asks about breakfast places. I explain that breakfast is the bane of my existence in Escalante. There is no place to get a made-to-order plate of eggs, bacon, potatoes, and toast. There's nowhere to get pancakes. Instead, I pull out the easy-to-read disposable Escalante map and show him where he can find food.

Buena sill needs to go out, so I hurry to take her to the perimeter, hoping she will be quick with her business.

I come back inside, and receive the room keys for rooms 4 and 8 and check them out of the system.

I look at my mounds of paperwork and think about the grading I still have to complete by midnight. Only ten 8-page student stories. Each one takes between 30 and 60 minutes to grade. I'll sleep when I'm dead, I think sardonically.

At a few minutes after eight o'clock, I check the coffee. I already need to make a new pot and wipe the counter. Then, I think about my own caffeine still on the stove in the apartment and rush to pour my tea. After that, I quickly step into the bedroom to put away my pillow and sleeping bag. I stop in the kitchen to grab a caffeinated chocolate. It's one of those mornings.

I try taking a picture of myself, but the way the light hits my red eyes and wrinkles, I look half dead. I return to the bathroom area and use some fast-acting allergy stuff, hoping it will reduce my red eyes. I also tie a bandana on my head and wish I had some glasses to hide my tired eyes.

I grab another caffeinated chocolate on my way back to the office.

I receive a guest email to my personal email address and wonder how that happened. No time to think about it. Instead, I assign the names to the rooms we have reserved.

The bell dings on the door. "Room one checking out," announces a spry grey-haired guest. He told me yesterday he's an avid hiker at the age of 70, but he doesn't move as quickly as he once did.

A younger guest follows him in, asking about hikes in Bryce Canyon. They forgot their national parks pass in Oregon and are tired from yesterday's hike, so I point him to some red Bryce-like rock formations in a free area where they can hike as little or as much as they want. "You won't have the same crowds as Bryce," I add. I give him a map and circle where the red-rock formations are found, putting a star near free, shorter hikes.

Room 21 checks out.

After the guests leave, I look at the clock. 8:34. Housekeeping will arrive shortly. Time to prepare their daily sheets.

Buena hops up on my lap. She's trying to tell me the sunlight is breaking through the clouds, and she wants to play the light-reflection game. She hops up a second time, and I reluctantly play.

For a few minutes.

I have to return to that guest list in my email and figure out if they want the rooms split up or if it's being paid for out of one account. If it's one account, I don't think I can split the rooms. I determine to try, hoping I don't mess up the booking.

Room 6 checks out. A middle-aged woman hands me the key and asks, "Is there anywhere I can get an espresso drink?"

"Maybe at the Outfitters," I suggest. "Which way are you headed?

"West."

"If Outfitters doesn't have it, you'll probably find it near Bryce," I suggest.

Back to the booking, I split the rooms from the main booking. Then I see that the booking doesn't remain on the same invoice. I send a hasty email: Will these rooms be on individual invoices or will each guest pay for their own rooms?

With housekeeping about to arrive, I gather necessary keys to give them.

Room 28 comes in. "I want to add a night, but put it on this card," he says, sliding an American Express card across the desk. While I'm inputting his data, I listen to the scripture reading on the gospel bluegrass channel. He interrupts my listening. "Do you have an extra bar of soap?"

I finish inputting his card number and look for the small bucket of soap and shampoo I had on the desk, but it's missing. "I'll have to run to housekeeping to get some," I say.

"Nevermind. She can make do with what's left from my shower."

I try not to let my disgust show as I tell him I'll tell housekeeping to put more soap in their room.

Two more rooms check out. All three housekeepers show up. I unlock the laundry, while using my limited español to explain to the new housekeeper that our other housekeeper will guide her in her duties for the day.

With the rush of the morning over, I check the coffee area one more time, ensuring pots are filled and the counter is clean.

I check the front door for fingerprints.

I put the maps and restaurant guide back in place.

Finally, I can attack my stack of paperwork and grading.

At 9:24, I remember to check the hotel voicemail. Thank the Lord there are no messages.

I load up my coursework and start reading the first student paper. But my eyes hurt. They burned and felt puffy. They are watering at the corners. This has been going in for about a week, and I don't understand why. Maybe I'm going blind. I think about the John Milton poem, "When I consider how my light is spent." In it, Milton ponders his dimming eyes and contemplates the spiritual and physical.

Room 9 checks out. I check him out on the hotel system and return to my school work, trying to see past the burning in my eyes.

But I just want to cry. I don't want to be here. I don't want to do any of this anymore. On days like this, living on the desert and in poverty seem preferable. My eyes start to water, but I'm not sure if it's tears or from something else.

At 9:33, Buena scratches at the door, and I need to take her out.

I still haven't started reading the first story. I dug into my reading, wiping my eyes.

Of course, the cute guy from 36 came into the office to check out right then. I hoped my eyes didn't look too bad. We talked about Rockhounding and boondocking. Then, he left me with a rock and a promise to return in a few weeks.

At almost-ten, I think about breakfast and grab a Clif Bar and an allergy pill. I also take a naproxen to help with the pain in my hands. My fingers feel a little stiff this morning, and I still have lots of grading to do on la computadora.

While reading the first student story and making grading comments, I'm frustrated with having to type the same response multiple times. My pained eyes and worn keyboard do not make grading easy. Again, I think about the struggles of trying to make ends meet and the glories of living in poverty on the desert. Maybe if I can get my bills to a manageable level, I can go back to poverty and freedom. When you ain't got nothing, you've got nothing to lose. Lay up for yourself treasure in heaven when moth and rust doth not corrupt. These thoughts run through my mind while trying to make sense out of a poorly-written paper.

The business guy from Room 10 hands me the keys to his room and from 5 & 7.

"Checking out? I ask.

"Yep."

"Did 23 check out?" The upstairs room was part of his party.

"Yeah. He's my boss. He left already."

"Bosses always leave first," I note my observation aloud.

Next I receive a call from another boss-man who is having his crew work in the area. We spend a solid ten minutes on the phone discussing rates, accommodations, and payment schedule before he gives me his card number.

I take another phone call and another check out before returning to my grading. Maybe I shouldn't go out with Harriet today.

It's already 11, and I haven't even finished grading one paper. On to of that, it's time for Buena's run.

At 11:11 I finish grading the first paper and dash out the door to take Buena on her run.

Back at 11:45, I have 15 minutes to get cute for going out to lunch and pack the RV. While running Buena, I noticed my favorite camping spot close by is open. I'm going to move the RV there for the spring and live out there for awhile. It's what I need. I'll still work the hotel, but I need my own headspace. With Harriet picking me up, she can follow me to the campsite, and we'll head to Kiva from there. Then, she can drop me off at the hotel where I'll have my car. This portaging of multiple vehicles drives me crazy, but today is a golden opportunity I don't want to pass up.

After getting as cute as is humanly possible for me on this day, I load up the RV with some things I'll need and wait for Harriet. Once I get to the campsite, I'll jump out of the RV and throw a tarp on the roof. Water is still getting in from the roof, even after my recent repair. Hopefully, the tarp held down with rocks will keep out the water until I have a chance to look into the issue some more.

While waiting for Harriet, I look at my class count of drafts to grade. 11? That means I must have miscounted last night. I open one of the drafts. The student went over by a page. Now I have 9 pages instead of 8 to read. I determine to control my rage while grading, while also determining to be firm in my feedback and dock some points for going over.

After 3 p.m., my phone glitches, and I lose all that I had written about lunch with Harriet, learning more about the Kiva Koffeehouse, returning to the hotel, running Buena one last time, taking a quick 15-minute nap, collecting timecards for the boss, checking cleaned guestrooms to ensure they're "rentable," pulling my hair out of braids, and re-opening the office at 3 p.m. I pray for a quiet evening as I return to my computer, hoping the grading goes quickly. I'm only two pages into that 9-page story, and I can already see it's going to be a struggle to provide any positive feedback. My brain feels like it's bleeding, but I press forward.

At 3:37, I don't care if the whole website crashes and burns. I put down my attempt at writing a blog and get back to my work. I'm ready to cry, and my nose starts running. I'm in such a foul mood again. I do not want to be here or doing this. But I feel trapped.

Now with red eyes, a runny nose, and a miserable outlook on the evening, I try to gain control of my thinking. I go grab a Red Bull, and a car pulls up outside. Buena starts barking. I dry my eyes and check a young masked boy into Room 5. I want to shout at him that the plandemic is over, but I don't care. He looks ridiculous with the face diaper. Let him continue to look ridiculous. He's from Washington state and is probably already brainwashed.

When he steps out of the office I start crying. What is wrong with me? I run to the back, wipe my eyes, and put on a pair of glasses. Hopefully, they will obscure my red, tired, moist eyes from guests.

By 3:56 p.m. I've returned to my grading. Only 8 hours to go until midnight when all of these stories are due to be graded. I dig into my work.

A gaggle of older women enter the lobby, looking for a room. While I check them in, one asks about breakfast in the morning. "We're the worst breakfast town in the nation," I intone. They look at me, and I continue: "There's no place to sit down and get eggs to order with crisp bacon and homefries--not hashbrowns--and toast." They all nod knowingly before one of them says, "We're on our way to Tonopah, so I'm sure we'll find something to eat before we get there." I laugh, agreeing to what she'd said before pointing out where in town morning-food is available. I add, "One good thing about going to Tonopah is that you can sing that song..." I forget the name of it, so I start singing:

And I've been from Tucson to Tucumcari,

Tehatchipi to Tonopah

Driven every kind of rig that ever been made

Drivin' the backroad so I wouldn't get weighed.

"This is just great!" one of the other ladies pipes up. "We're going to Winslow, Arizona, on this trip, so now we get to sing another song!"

I smile at her. This lady knows how to road trip.

At 4:38, I finish that absolutely awful 9-page short story. I review my comments to ensure I sound somewhat uplifting with some praise about creativity and how this looks like a novel-length story that's trying to be told in 8-pages. I also look at the criticism about plot, setting, and character, and find that even with that, I'm being professional by expecting my student read the announcements and learning modules and just didn't fully apply what should have been learned about narrative arc and sensory details.

I finish the 8.4 ounce can of Red Bull.

Another guest shows up at, and I turn away from my computer work to check him in. While checking him in, I realize I forgot to start the new daily spreadsheet, so I prep that so I can enter in all the recent guests who checked in since getting back from lunch.

By 5:02, the spreadsheet is finished, and I return to the paper grading. Only more to go.

The first paper I open reveals a note in the student comment box: I'm sorry my paper is so long. If there is anything I can do to shorten it, please let me know.

Grrrrrr.....

I keep a polite air about me and write a response in my own comment box before I start reading: Student X, I saw you recognized your story is too long. You definitely need to make sure you shorten it to 8-pages for the final draft. As a writer, you'll have to tailor your stories to fit certain page requirements, so this is part of that practice. Please review the feedback on your rubric to determine what to work on to better reduce word count and bring more focus to your story.

At 6 p.m., I finish the story. (I'd also checked in about five more guests and began to think seriously about not teaching the next term of online classes, particularly since it would be super-busy later in April and May.) Nine more stories to go!

This story was about a daughter trying to find her explorer father against all odds. It was quite well written and actually had a series of obstacles that contributed to rising action. By 6:41, I'd finished reading it, sold some earrings in the shop, and repaired a TV in Room 10.

Eight more to go! I take the eight remaining short stories and open them all up as separate tabs on my computer, arranging them in order from shortest draft to longest draft. I'm pleased to find two 5-page drafts, but I'm dismayed to see one very full 11-page story. I move that one to the back of the line.

After answering a short text from John asking what songs we will perform at Wild Potato Days Festival, I start with my first 5-page short story at 6:54.

At 7:31, I'm finished grading that one and move on to the other 5-pager, which takes me 31 minutes to grade because in that time I check in three different rooms. I begin the next story at 8:03, only to hear Buena pawing at the door to go outside. I pause what I'm doing to take her out into the grey night.

When she comes back inside, she engages in her scheduled night terror where she growls at my feet while bouncing back and forth, trying to grab my shoelaces. She succeeds in untying one, but I tell her we can't roughhouse tonight because I need to get to work. She doesn't understand that, and I make her settle down with a few stern words.

I return to my grading at 8:13. Only six more to go!

At 8:31, I'm on a roll, having finished an extremely well-written short story that didn't require too much commentary, other than praise and a few things for the student to consider as we work our way toward the final drafts of the short stories.

I go into the kitchen to get another can of seltzer water. Then, I return to the computer at 8:34 and begin the next story. My phone's alarm keeps going off, reminding me to boil hot water for tea, but tonight I'll just make tea from the coffee's hot water spigot. I don't want to risk forgetting about the pan of boiling water while I race to finish these final five stories before midnight.

At 9:16, I have three more stories to read, but my legs feel sore from being in a mostly-sitting position since three in the afternoon. It's time to call it quits for the night and close the motel lobby. I could just post a notice to those three students whose papers remain ungraded. If I give them an extra day to submit their final draft, it makes up for me being a day late on returning their graded first draft.

My only dilemma is I won't be sleeping any time soon as I can still feel the energy from the Red Bull, despite my sleepy eyes. So, at 9:20, I gather my personal belongings from the front desk area and move to lock up the hotel lobby.

While closing up, I think about my RV out at the campground and hope I did the right thing in leaving it out there. I do plan to move out there this week and boondock for at least two weeks.

Tonight needs to be a bath night, complete with epsom salts and lavender oil. I need to take the charge out of that Red Bull and calm it down with some pleasant aromatherapy while completing mi espanol lessons online. As I make my way toward the bathroom, I catch the sweet scent of river willow and look to stick I have placed above my mirror. I kept it from a landscaping job I did in 2020. The neat thing about the stick is right before it rains, the stick makes a smell like a Colorado mountain stream, and I'm transported back to Buena Vista.

Oh no! I forgot to do the dishes!

I make my way back to the kitchen and eyeball the two buttery small plates in the sink. Reluctantly, I turn on the water. I grab a pan from the dish rack. I hadn't taken the time to make my tea earlier. I might as well start it now. Filling the pot with cold water, I move it to the stove and turn it on.

I have a thing about water that's gone through the hot water heater. I'd rather start my tea water from the pipes that reach down to the earth than from the pipes that route water through a hot water heater. I'm funny that way. I saw a nasty, rusty hot water heater once. It was cracked.

I place the pot in the exact center of the circle on the glass-topped stove.

Turning back to the sink, I start the warm water. While the warm water runs over my hands, I scrub the plates with a soapy pad and think. I ate like crap today. The day started well enough with a Clif Bar, a nutrition bar filled with nutrients, the day went nutritionally downhill at lunch when Harriet suggested raspberry scones for lunch. Only, I didn't have a scone because only one scone was still available. Instead, I ate a grilled cheese on sourdough...cooked to perfection with pepitas scattered atop it and a side of dried cranberries. Later, when I went to look at the counter, I saw more raspberry scones in the case. Why hadn't they told us these were available in the cooling rack when we expressed we both wanted scones, and they said they'd run out? How did these magically become available? I ended up getting one because I really wanted to try it. That and a grilled cheese! I could feel the carbs poking outward from my belly. Later in the evening toward night fall, I couldn't get that grilled cheese out of my mind. It was that good. So, I rummaged in my refrigerator and pulled out a loaf of sourdough and butter. Yep! Two buttered pieces later, I was already regretting the days' carb fest! I appeased my conscience by pulling out the raspberries that remained in the carton, about a half a pint. At least that was something. I'll start the diet afresh tomorrow, I think as I finish washing the plates.

Oh no! I forgot to post those three notes to the papers that I'll finish tomorrow!

I make my way over to the computer and sit on the floor in front of the couch. Buena curls up next to me and nuzzles my lap. I reach down and give her a hearty belly rub. She's been wanting one all day.

Oh no! My tea water is boiling!

Gingerly, I move Buena's head off my lap and race over to where the almost-boiled water makes that swirling noise as bubbles form along the silver-bottomed pan. I put two tea bags of Boldo! into the hot water and cover the pan with a glass lid. The tea is one of my favorites from a hispanic store I visit in Arizona. It's made from a South American herb and always helps settle my stomach. And I need that tonight...after all the carbs.

I sit back down at the computer and type a note to my students. Then I copy and paste it into each student's assignment text box. I personalize it by pointing the cursor to the start of each textbox, right in front of the pasted text and place each of their names followed by a comma. Personal address, kind note apologizing for delay, offer for an extension on the assignment, followed by a "Prof Pyra."

There! Finished!

I check the announcements page, thankful I'd planned ahead to this trying week--Week 5 is always difficult!--and scheduled a pre-written, perky, engaging announcement for Monday morning.

Next, I returned to my Wix blog (as I'd been doing throughout the day) and finished writing the blog. It's 10:12 now. Sunday night. I still have to complete mi espanol lesson, practice one or two songs on ukulele, and take a bath. I'll do all that, brush my teeth, and take a bath.

With any luck I'll be in bed and asleep by midnight to start a whole new day tomorrow.

God bless!

~Pyra