Let me explain.

I am not meaning to suggest that people dying as part of the mining of diamonds in Africa are suffering at the same level as me.

No, not at all.

In fact, I would willingly volunteer to mine diamonds right now rather than spend one more night with my vacation renters.

“Oh please!” you’re probably thinking. “It’s not that bad!” you might insist.

Well, I would have to bitch slap you at that point. Let me tell you: you are so f#cking wrong.

IT. IS. THAT. BAD.

It is worse.

In space, no one can hear you scream.

In Maui, no one can hear you scream over the sounds of the nuclear farts…and no one would enter to help even if they did hear you dying inside.

With my luck, one or both of these guys is staying with me next week...and I'm pretty sure at least one of them is dead.

Forget “Hostel III” and “Saw VI”: this situation is a horror too real and too unspeakable to document.

And yet I’m going to try.

Exhibit A: tonight R, the male half of my elderly tenants,  shared with me – unsolicited, of course. The only thing I would actively solicit at this point would be details of their return flight itinerary – the list of everyone he’s ever voted for, and I believe that list started with Lincoln. I am not making this up. Who could make this up??? Who would want to?????

I stood there, my  mind a blur of annoyance and narcolepsy, and yet I somehow managed to maintain both consciousness and cordiality until the tedium – Ford when he was running against Carter, but Carter when he was running against Reagan. – finally ceased…and then a new line of “I could not care less if you put a gun to my head” information commenced. It had to do with a son-in-law’s brother’s stint in the Army, or deer hunting in Northern Wisconsin, or maybe he gave me a list of pre-school children he murdered and buried under his house. I would not know because my brain -  no doubt in an effort to protect itself – shut off for a while. However, if that is the case, I can honestly say there were moments this evening that I would have envied those children the peace and quiet of their shallow graves.

It hasn’t all been bad, however.

I have learned a thing or two about the lifestyles and habits of the senior population. If I were to ever head up an anthropological study on such matters, I would be well ahead of the pack.

For instance, thanks to the Viagra prescription bottle in my bathroom, I now know I have to burn my bed after they’re gone.

And perhaps more significantly to my own survival, I am now equipped to dodge a gastrointestinal disaster before the pin is even pulled from the grenade. This morning I was on my back lanai with a friend, when I heard the telltale jangle of my male roommate’s belt buckle through the adjacent bathroom window.

“Clear the deck!” I bellowed, throwing anyone and anything in my path to the ground. I fled into my living room  just as a colon-collapsing fart emanated – long and low – from striking distance. We dodged inside before the actual toxic cloud hit us, and that’s probably why I’m still coherent enough to type this up for you now. Sadly, I was not so lucky a few times this last week, and I can only say the odor was an affront to nature, if not God Himself.

So, yes, I probably have some PTSD from this experience, but they helped a lot with the rent and it looks like I”m going to be left with a half bottle of Wild Turkey 101 – not that I ever drink that, ever…but I may need to start in the hopes of blocking some of the memories from my  mind.

Ah, the memories.

Misty, water-colored nightmares…

And still, I would honestly say there were nice people. I wish them well. Truly.

Godspeed, R and B. Safe travels and happy homecoming…just don’t come around here no more.

Take it or leave it, but I have recently been informed that animals reincarnate.

Probably every good Hindu could have told you that, but it isn’t really something I’ve ever given much thought to…at all.

And if I had, I probably would have thought it through incorrectly.

Somehow I didn't realize/remember how smoking hot Elvis was.

Similarly, when learning of Dozer’s insistence on being called “The King” and already knowing of his bad hips (he walks a bit like Mae West) and voracious appetite, a friend suggested he might be Elvis Presley reincarnated. It kind of made sense. The hips were weakened from a (past) lifetime of shaking them silly, and he really loves bananas, peanut butter, bread, and butter. Imagine if I fried the whole melange up at once….

Elvis indeed.

Alas, Dozer/King informed my tenant of his actual past one morning while I was showering. They had a 30-minute conversation (I cannot even fathom) in which he informed her that in his last incarnation he was a Russian bear. And he ate a cat once…and really enjoyed it.

Apparently at this point in the story, he glanced at Fu Manchu – my cat – and winked.

However, she reassured me…sort of, he respects me and knows I love Fu, so he won’t kill him.

***ahem***

That’s very generous of him…I guess. And not terribly far off from what I already expected his inner dialogue to be like where the cat was concerned.

Meanwhile, she asked Dozer/King what else he enjoyed, besides eating cats. He commenced licking his privates. “He has quite a sense of humor!” she told me, laughing, although I would honestly say I already knew that. I also knew about his sweet tooth, but I think what I find more amazing about all this is that she did too.

Good God. It really kind of reminds me of him.

So anyway, as the story goes, Dozer/King was a Russian bear. He sired many cubs and enjoyed himself in the baby making process, but he used to watch humans in the distance and was curious about them. He decided to come back this time as a Malamute so that he could live with people, and he’s quite loving the experience – the physical affection, stealing their food, getting doted on, etc.

Apparently she doesn’t hear cats so well as dogs, so all we really know – still – about Fu is that he thinks he’s a dog. But he’s not a dog so she can’t hear him, so…yeah. That’s all we got.

I imagine he has a regal and even despairing inner dialogue (think Stewie on Family Guy), but I suppose until the next pet psychic comes to stay, we won’t really know that for sure.

For now I am suffering – truly suffering – with my current guests. A couple in their 70s who WILL NOT SHUT UP. And they’re here CONSTANTLY. I think they left for an hour today.

This one reminds me of him when I cut his nails or try to brush his tail.

In fact, as I am typing this I am getting a lecture on the exact items that should be in my toolbox – down to the brand – and the reasons why.

This morning I was regaled for over an hour with tales of the banking practices of the 1950s.

This is a test of my patience if ever there were, and I am quickly turning into quite the AirBNB profiler. I won’t judge you on race, but rest assured I’m making a list and checking it twice. Sorry men traveling alone – my girlfriend with the terrible habit of taking all her solo male guests into her bed schooled me on that one – and sorry retirees from Wisconsin.

I am a sweet and patient girl, but not that sweet and patient.

So I recently signed up with a vacation rental site, renting out my house when I went to the mainland and now – for the very first time – my guest room while I am here.

It will help with the bills, and I figure I’ll get to meet some interesting people and hopefully zero serial killers. I don’t rent to men traveling alone (sorry men traveling alone!), so that should help minimize the freaky encounters factor.

Meanwhile, the meet interesting prople part has proven true in spades with my first guest, an animal stylist (which appears to be the same thing as being a groomer, except maybe she’s a really good one) and animal intuitive/psychic.

Yes, you heard me right.
My first guest can hear what animals are thinking.

So can you guess what my dog told her?

I’ll give you a clue: it’s as absurd as it is predictable.

I hope you’re sitting down, because he told her he’d like to be referred to as “King.”

Of course he would.

I would expect nothing less of King Tut…er….King…er…Dozer.

He also put in a specific order for a cot bed, explained that he knew how smile (and no doubt realizes it helps him get his way) and had her suggest on his behalf, “How about a bone!?”

Naturally, I gave it to him because I’m a fool for (his) love.

To be frank, I’m a little weirded out by this…but not enough to stop trying to weasel insight out of her. God only knows what Fu is thinking and perhaps this is my window to convince them both to quit hairing up the couch. And also tell Fu he really needs to spiff up his gecko hunting skill set: attack with a prejudice. No more of this drag them off into my bed (!!!!) to toy with their heads and eventually lose track of them as they leap for their lives into my closet.

Super.
Thanks, Fu.

On the other hand, those self-important, fur-covered, wannabe royals of mine better remember which side the bread is buttered on and keep my secrets to themselves. They may not be scandalous, but they ate embarrassing. Nobody needs to know I ate the better part of a pizza all by myself last week, and I hope they keep their brain waves to themselves in that regard.

For the most part, I’ve been completely and totally poo-pooing this end of the Mayan calendar slash end of the world stuff.

I mean, since when have we given a hoot about what the Mayans or Incans or Algonquins or Mohicans or any of them have to say about anything? Case in point: as a society we tend toward monotheism, we don’t play soccer with people’s heads, and I haven’t been able to trade anything for a handful of colorful beads since I was about eight years old.

This guy shows up, and I'm getting drunk and staying that way until the shit blows over or I'm dead, whichever comes first.

However, all that changed when I recently learned (and decided to accept as fact, so forgive me if this isn’t accurate) that the last time the Mayans predicted the end of their civilization, Cortés showed up and….um…kicked off the beginning of the end of their civilization by laying waste to the Aztecs.

So maybe it won’t be all polar shifts and earthquakes and John Cusack on an ark in China, but more like seeming good thing that we later realize has actually come to smote us? Thus, in honor of that possiblity, I offer some humble suggestions as to what we might look out for so as to recognize Quetzalcoatl,  our formidable conqueror, when he/she/it arrives and party it up while there’s still a little time left:

1. The reanimation (no pun intended) of Walt Disney’s head. There’s Pixar animation now: the man could easily rule the world.

2. The occurence of any of the following being interviewed by one of the fine folks at CNN: Grays, Reptilians, Pleiadians, Alf, Mork, John Lithgow, or E.T.

3. Anything remotely resembling the Mayan Jaguar Diety of the Month of Pax, described by Wikipedia as having jaguar paws above his ears, a removed lower jaw, and vomits blood. I don’t know about you, but he had me at “vomits blood.” The missing lower jaw isn’t even necessary at that point, but I’m sure it adds some additional horrifying flair.

4. The physical manifestation/return of ANY diety –  jaguar or not – to include but not limited to: Jesus, Buddha, Vishnu, Xuan

This is how the Mayans depicted the jaguar god soon come to lay waste to our asses. He's kind of like a furious Mr. Potato Head.

Wu, Ahura Mazda, Pele, Zeus, Kwan Yin, Ganesha, or Haile Selassie.

5. Say what you will, but any continued growth of the celebrity or success of Sarah Palin, and I’m volunteering for a mission to Mars.

So there you go, folks. Charge it all to your credit cards as you will. Just tell them you’ve put it on the Jaguar God’s tab, ’cause for all we know, we’ve got only 345 days, 13 hours, and 33 minutes to party like it’s 1999….er….2012, and I, for one, could use a new pair of shoes.