Forgotten

At least Tracy had toys in the nursery when Mom left my youngest sister at church that time when we were little.

Today my husband forgot we were carpooling and left me at work.  Soon after 5 when I went looking for him it didn’t take me long to realize he simply forgot me.  The only other co-workers who live even remotely close to us whom I could ask for a ride home were either gone or had dinner plans close to the office.  Sighing, I called my husband’s cell phone.

When he answered I asked where he was.  “Uhm, I’m coming back from getting my tire checked,” he said.  “Are you close to the office?” I asked.  He hesitated.  “I’ll call you when I’m close,” he replied and hung up as I was asking where exactly he was.  I knew immediately he had forgotten me and wasn’t about to admit it.

Replacing the handset I sat at my desk for a few moments as I considered my options.  We had been in all day meetings and corporate dinners for two days and I had plenty of work to do.  But I didn’t want to start on any of it if he was just a few minutes away.  If he wasn’t I was only going to get more frustrated by the minute not knowing how long I would have to wait.

Lemonade out of lemons, I decided, foraging in my wardrobe for a pair of walking shoes.  Yes!  Rummaging in my bag for a hair clip I scored again.  Heels off, hair up, I grabbed my purse and set out to put my wait to good use by taking my walk.  Outside the weather was nice and as I moved along the parking lot I began to feel pretty good about how I was handling this little change in plans. 

I had logged 25 minutes when my phone rang.  “I’m here,” he said.  “I’m walking, be right there,” I said, pressing the End button as he began to ask where I was.  I had waited half an hour, he could sit for the additional two minutes it would take me to get back to the office.

As I got into his truck I mentally prepared my gracious acceptance of his apology.  I was sure he felt bad enough about leaving me and keeping me waiting, there was no reason to be unkind.  I climbed into the passenger seat and waited.

“At least you got your walk in,” he said.  Then we drove off.  

No apology.  No “gee, I’m sorry about all this.”  No need for my acceptance speech.  I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised.  He is a great guy, but the words “I’m sorry” don’t come easily to him.  As we made our way through traffic he tried to start up work conversation a few times, but I just couldn’t get interested in talking to him.  Finally he turned on the radio.  As always when I need a way to process my emotions,  a blog was quickly coming to me and I started tapping on the screen of my smart phone.

By the time we pulled into our driveway I was almost finished writing.  He got out of the truck wordlessly, pulled the trash cans into the garage, and entered the house.  All the clichés came to mind – “All’s well that ends well”, “It’s no big deal”, “a hundred years from now you won’t even remember it”.   And at least I didn’t have to bring in the trash cans, only the mail and our meeting luggage from the truck.  I recalled my devotional from just this morning.  Galatians, 5, Fruit of the Spirit.  Just another opportunity to practice love, joy, peace, patience, and longsuffering.

Yes, there was a little fruit of the spirit in me, but mainly I was glad to have my blog.  It served me well 4 years ago when it was born out of the Duke Disaster, and it serves me well now,  funneling my feelings and saving me ammunition.

Take my Husband. Please

I’ll be the first to admit I’m a horrible patient.  I hate being sick, and when I feel bad I want to be left alone.  I don’t  want to talk or be touched, and I especially  don’t want to argue.

Recently I had to leave work early.  Nausea and fatigue turned into a headache, a backache and a general feeling that things were not good.  By the time I got home the aches were so severe all I could do was crawl into bed, pull on an extra blanket and hope to fall asleep.

 

Which I did until my well-meaning husband came home early to take care of me.  Bless his heart, he doesn’t have a quiet bone in his body, so I woke to the sound of him opening and closing dresser drawers for a change of clothes.  Even though his tshirts, jeans, shorts, socks and underwear are always in the same drawers he likes to rummage around each time in hopes he’ll be surprised.  

I turned over, moaning at the pain in my back.  “Is it 5;30 already?” I ask.  “No, I came home early to take care of you.”  Great.  Just what I didn’t want to hear.  He means well but I really need to be left alone when I’m ill or I get pretty snarly.  He had stopped on the way home to get a new thermometer and naturally he purchased a digital one instead of the old school mercury one I’d asked for.  After pressing the metal tip hard against my aching forehead we heard the beep and he removed it to take a look.  “Oh, that’s bad, you have 97.8”.  “That’s not even a fever,” I say.  But I feel feverish and have chills so he decides to take his temperature to make sure the device is working.  “Dang, 36!” he exclaims.  Somehow in the process he has managed to change the measurement to Celsius.  

I ask for some Tylenol.  “Are you sure that’s the best thing for you to take?” he asks.  Growling, I tell him I don’t want to debate pain medicines I’d just like to have some Tylenol.  He finds a bottle in the bathroom cabinet and asks, “How many?”  It would be too easy to look at the dose on the bottle I suppose.  I drink the last sips of my 7up with the pill and slide back under the covers.  He tries to pat me or arrange the blankets, and I ask as nicely as I can (which isn’t nice at all, it sounds more like yelling “don’t touch me!”) for him to leave.  I tell him I’ll call him if I need anything.

Not much later I realize I’m hungry.  I press the intercom button on the upstairs handset and listen to it ring.  No answer.  A few minutes later I try again and I hear my husband pick up and say loudly, “Hello?  Hello?”  Unfortunately I can’t hear him through the handset, only hear his voice floating up the stairs.  Finally I give up, call the home number from my cell phone and he answers.  I ask if he can make me some rice with butter and salt, that sounds good to me since all I’ve had is a few crackers.  “Brown or white rice?” he asks.  I sigh and hang up.  When he appears in the door he is holding the downstairs handset.  “Let’s try that intercom again, I think we just need to wait a bit longer after we speak then we can hear each other.”  I am not in the mood to play walkie talkie.  “How about this,” I interject.  “When the intercom rings you just come upstairs.  There is no one else in the house to call you so you can safely assume it’s me when it rings.”  He considers this then agrees.  I am exhausted.

For the next 40 minutes I try to sleep but it is impossible.  I answer some work emails then put the phone down and close my eyes.  Finally I press the intercom again, hoping my food is ready.  This time he doesn’t answer but comes up the stairs.  Progress!  I ask about the rice, and he says, “It’s probably ready.”  “Can I have some, and some 7 up too please?”  “We don’t have any 7up.”  “Could you get me some?”  “You want me to go the store?” he asks.  I reply sarcastically, “Unless you have a manufacturing machine I would say yes”.  He turns to go, then turns back and says, “Would you like your rice before I go?”  “Yes please.”

A few minutes later he appears with a nice bowl  of warm rice.  “Could you bring the butter and salt please?  That’s really how I like my rice.”  “Taste it first.  I already put some olive oil on it.”  I grit my teeth.  “Could you PLEASE bring the butter and salt?  If not, I’ll just go down and get it while you are at the store.”  “Just be sure not to put too much salt on it,” he says.  If I had the energy I’d throw something at him.  He returns in a few minutes with the butter dish and salt shaker, wordlessly leaving to get 7up.

While he is gone I hungrily wolf down my rice, adding butter and salt as often as I please.  I hadn’t realized that part of my problem was I was “hangry”, which is the annoyance you feel when you are hungry.  Thanks to my friend Amanda for this gem of a term.  Scraping the empty bowl for the last grains, I set it aside and lean back to try and sleep.

Before I can drift off my kind husband walks in with a big bottle of 7up for me.  He hands it over and turns to go back downstairs.  Poor guy, he has decided it’s not safe to even speak to me at this point.  I don’t have the heart to ask him to take my cup and fill it with ice.  I wait until he has gone and drag myself out of bed, cup in hand.  Surely I have energy for this.  As I head down stairs I hear him open the door to let the dog in.  “Did you give Duke a good brushing before you bring him in?”  He turns to walk back outside, the dog slowly following.  “Come on, Duke, I have to brush you…….”  

I know I should give him a break, he’s been so sweet to want to take care of me and try to make me feel better.  But like I said, I’m a horrible patient and I’m not feeling sweet or generous or anything but cranky.  Walking back upstairs with a cup full of ice, I reach the bedside and open the 7up.  Taking several long gulps I consider what my boss suggested.  Maybe I’ll fire him as my nurse.  After all, he fired one of his at the hospital post-surgery.  Hmmmmm.

Mornings - They Aren't For Everyone

It’s no secret that I’m not a gracious morning person.  There are exceptions – when I’m with my grandchildren or when I’m on vacation and can awake naturally without need of an alarm clock – but most days I need my quiet alone time before I’m good company.  My boss learned this years ago and in the past was known to toss a shoe into my office before he entered.  If it came back at him, he’d wait.

My husband knows this of course, but he has the most unusual approach to it.  He wakes up each morning like a dog, ready to go and excited about whatever the day will bring.  He has this notion that one morning things will be different, that I will wake up and be just like him.  Ain’t happening.

My non-morningness is one reason I don’t like to duck hunt.   Getting up at 4 a.m. to go sit outside in the cold or freezing rain isn’t my thing.  It is definitely my husband’s thing.  He’ll go duck hunting at the drop of a hat, he and #1 Duck Dog Duke.  I’ve learned how to get him packed up quickly so that on those mornings when he leaves our house at 3:30 a.m. I don’t have to get up and help him find things.  That’s the theory anyway.

Last Friday night we were packing for the hunt.  His plan was to leave between 3 and 3:30, and I sure didn’t want to have to get up and hunt for clothes/guns/ammo on a Saturday, my only day to sleep in.  I filled a small canvas bag with thick hunting socks, thermal underwear, cammo pants and shirt, a sweatshirt, and a clean pair of underwear.  He retrieved his heavy coat from the closet, his shotgun and .22 from the gun safe, and loaded them into the truck along with Sir Duke’s life vest.  Ammo?  At the Ranch, check.  Clothes laid out for him to jump into when the alarm went off in the morning?  Grubby jeans and hunting boots on the dresser, check.  I asked him a couple of times if there was any special clothing he wanted me to pack for him.  Nope, everything he wanted was ready.  He assured me he wouldn’t need to wake me the next morning.  Ha.

At 3:00 a.m. the alarm went off.  I woke briefly to wish him a safe trip then turned over under the warm covers.  After a few minutes it became clear to me that he was still here, in the closet messing around amongst his shirts.  He came out into the bedroom and in the light of the closet door held up his best, flannel shirt.  “Should I wear this?”  “No!” I said, annoyed at this last minute clothing issue.  I thought he had learned there are hunting clothes and there are other clothes so I don’t have the Great Laundry Challenge when he gets home.  I’d made sure to put out his hunting jeans the night before, but made the mistake of assuming he’d just grab a shirt out of the laundry hamper and go.  But No, he decides to stroll through the nicely laundered shirts hanging in his closet for a trip that will involve dirt, grime, mud, and blood.  Seriously?

Grouchily, I threw back the covers and put my feet on the floor, grumbling about having to get up and help him, how inconsiderate he was and a few other things I’m not proud of saying.  Then he decided he wanted a different sweatshirt than the one I packed.  At that, I launched into my spiel about how I hated last minute changes when we had decided on everything the night before.  Poor Paul  - I helped him alright, but he paid a 3 a.m. nagging price for it. 

At last he seemed to have everything he wanted and I headed back to bead, wishing him a safe trip and asking him to please turn off all the lights so I could go back to sleep.  I heard the clomp, clomp, clomp as he went downstairs, heard the door to the garage open and close several times as he and Duke did whatever it is they do to get ready to leave the house.  Snug under the covers I listened until I heard it.  Silence.  Beautiful, peaceful, undisturbed quiet.  Time to get back to dreamland.  Except that darn stairwell light was putting off just enough light into the bedroom doorway I couldn’t sleep. 

One more time out from under the warm covers, flip the light off, and back into warmth.  I said a prayer for safe travel, then thanked the Lord that I have a good husband, that I ‘m able to be his helpmate, that he puts up with my grumbling, that we have a lovely home and he is a good provider, and that the Lord forgives our bad attitudes and harsh words when we humbly ask.  Besides, I knew that after a couple of days of beautiful, peaceful, undisturbed quiet I’d be ready for the sound of that truck pulling into the driveway, ready to hear about the hunt, ready for a break from the quiet – something that comes naturally to the Hunter and Sir Duke.

Anniversary Adventures, Part 3 - Fishing Can Be Fun, Who Knew?

My husband made it very clear when we first decided to go to S. Padre for this year’s anniversary trip that he wanted to go fishing – hopefully a day trip but minimum ½ day.  That was fine with me, but then he said he wanted me to go with him.  Fishing.  On our anniversary.   I love fish, but only eating it – I’m a city girl, not interested in trying to bait a hook or cast a line or heaven forbid clean it.    But I felt it was the least I could do, go on a fishing trip with him if it would make him that happy.  Especially since many of the things were doing were things I wanted to do.  We agreed on ½ a day trip with a guide, and he would make all the arrangements.

On Day 3 he found the captain he wanted, finalized the trip and returned to the condo excitedly telling me all about Captain Cliff and how great it was going to be and how we got a great morning time slot and all we had to do was be there at 7:00 a.m.   The Capt. would teach me everything I needed to know about how to fish.   I’m not exactly a morning person but a promise is a promise.  I dutifully set the alarm (one time during this vacation wouldn’t kill me) and the coffeepot for 6 the next morning.

It wasn’t the same as waking up naturally but it was doable.  Plus there was less than zero need to fix hair or do makeup.  We packed our cooler of water and snacks and arrived at the dock promptly at 7.   Capt Cliff was there waiting for us, leaning against the door frame, no doubt sizing up ‘the wife’, remembering what he had been told about my complete lack of knowledge of all things fish and wondering what he had signed up for.  

We walked out to the boat.   I don’t know what I was expected but it wasn’t very big, or at least it didn’t seem that way to me.  But once we went aboard, found our seats and settled in for the ride way out into the bay it was quite nice.  The weather was perfect – cloudy, cool but not too windy and only a few other fishermen were out.  Capt. Cliff is a very nice man with a calm voice, even temperament, decades of experience and plenty of patience.  As I would discover, he also had the heart of a teacher which made all the difference for me. 

He stopped the boat at the first spot and climbed down from his seat to show me the ropes.  Capt. Cliff has four rules for fishing:  1) grip the rod securely with the reel stem between middle and ring finger, 2) position the line correctly, 3) open the bail, 4) always have both hands on the rod.  I’m a rules and regulations kind of a gal, so I figured I could do this.  I learned that there are actually techniques to fishing – things like stance, when to release the line, how to set the hook, how to free your hook from grass, and how to land both small and big fish. 

As the morning progressed, I realized I was enjoying myself!  My dad and brothers would never believe Paul got me to go fishing.  I actually caught 3 fish, one of them a pretty decent size.  Got my picture taken with the Capt. and The Fish – and the brothers who would definitely want to see proof.   Capt. Cliff has a great sense of humor, and when he saw I was practicing what he taught he began to give me other ‘tips and tricks’ too.  How to store your rod safely with the hook in just the right place while the boat was in motion or you weren’t using it.  How to untangle a line that got crossed with another fisherman’s line (I had to use this one several times) and when to set the hook so your fish doesn’t get away.  I had to learn that the smaller fish got pulled into the boat on the hook but the bigger ones have to be brought in with a net.  When the net is used, you have to make sure to keep the fish under the water but not too close to the boat and definitely don’t let the fish go under the boat.  That I could do because it meant I was the boss of that fish – bossy I can do :)    Heck, he even loaned me a pair of polarized sunglasses so I could distinguish the different colors of the water and which areas make a good fishing hole. 

The time really went by quickly, although towards the end of our 5 hour journey I was starting to feel muscles I hadn’t used recently from the casting and reeling in.  When the trip was over and we arrived back at the dock, we had caught our limit – 10 beautiful speckled trout ‘in the box’ (that’s the technical fisherman term for ones that are big enough to keep as opposed to all the smaller ones you catch but have to release).   But here’s the cool part:  they clean them for you!! And bag them up too.  Now THAT’s the kind of fishing I can do.  I won’t say I’m chomping at the bit to go right back out for another fishing journey.  But I must admit that fishing really can be fun – who knew??     

Anniversary Adventure - Part 2, The Luxurious Life

When we arrived last night, Paul went up first to open the front door and be ready to prepare me if necessary.  As I slogged up the slippery steps, bags on each shoulder and hands full, he called out, “Honey, come in here, it’s really nice.”  Hmmm, he didn’t sound like he was kidding, maybe we had lucked out with this place.

I dropped the bags on the porch and stepped inside.  High ceilings, big rooms, perfectly selected Pottery Barn furniture, flat screen TV, completely equipped kitchen with lovely granite counter tops – and yes, a coffee maker with automatic timer.  Separate living and eating areas, 2 baths, 2 bedrooms with comfy and pretty bedding in the master and closets stocked with beach accessories.  Ah yes, the trip was shaping up quite nicely.   THIS is my idea of a vacation.

We settled in then accessed email by phone looking for ‘Paul’s Survival Guide’ Becky had sent earlier, coming to the rescue with the only thing we managed to leave behind – all the intel about restaurants & recommendations.  We chose Dirty Al’s for dinner on this arrival night; the shrimp and atmosphere did not disappoint :)

One of the best things about being on vacation is not waking up to the alarm clock.  Day 2 dawned a bit hazy but with the promise of a gorgeous sunny day, and I slowly opened my eyes to the realization that I really was on vacation and I really didn’t have to go to work and I really could sleep as late as I wanted.  I made it until 7:30 – what can I say, it’s my natural wake up time and as long as I’m rested it works for me.

One of the best things about ANY morning is waking to the smell of freshly brewed coffee.  Whoever invented the automatic timer on a coffee maker deserves a medal.   After a leisurely cup we decided to make the one block walk to the beach and take a stroll, getting the lay of the land.   As we walked across the sand to the peaceful sound of the ocean waves and the steady cool wind Paul quipped that he “loved long walks on the beach.”   If he had a Facebook page I’d post that comment just to see the witty comebacks of his friends. 

On our way back we spotted the Café on the Beach, a must on our list for breakfast.  We sat at a table overlooking the water, savoring the eggs cooked to perfection, toast from a variety of breads, superb bacon, and just the right amount of fresh juicy fruit.  I could feel myself starting to relax.

The one item I didn’t own to pack for the beach was The Right Hat.  The Right Hat is very important:  it must be a perfect fit with elastic to hold it securely against the wind; not too wide or floppy a brim or you’ll sail away in these winds like the flying nun; able to be folded without losing it’s shape; and of course pretty and stylish.  To my delight Paul was quite happy to take me shopping for one, and as soon as we found it we planned to head to the beach for the afternoon.   There aren’t that many shops on the island, but we hit almost every one.  I found The Right Hat at Renee’s, the first store we went to, but was hoping to find a less expensive version elsewhere.   I found gorgeous sundresses, fabulous swimsuits and sandals to die for, but no other hats like that one.  When the shopping excursion ended, I sat happily in the car patting my big shopping bag with a new pair of sandals, a new swimsuit, new sundress, and The Right Hat.  Paul’s wallet was much lighter and I was feeling extremely spoiled – just the way I like it :)

Our afternoon at the beach was so relaxing, and a reminder that married couples need to take time out just to be with each other and do things together for fun, strengthening the marital commitment in the process.  Plus I got some good sun, which I really wanted to do.  The people watching can’t be beat – we watched as one couple took turns burying each other in the sand, creating designs on top of the burial mound and taking pictures.  The kicker was that the first one to be buried was the girl, who had apparently fallen fast asleep on the beach.  We couldn’t figure out why she was so quiet and the guy kept smiling widely and laughing to himself as he arranged the sand on top of her.  When his masterpiece was done he took a picture with his cell phone, partially dug her right arm out of the sand and yanked on it to wake her up, then raced out into the water.  She was buried in up to her neck and it took her several minutes to dig herself out.  When she did, she too raced into the water but with a different motive than his.  Let’s just say that when they came back to their chairs on the sand, he submitted to her burying him in the sand, with his help, and she took her time to get him completely covered with an elaborate picture carved in the sand before she slowly got the camera, took several pictures and satisfied, smiled and sat down.  To her credit, she did end up helping him to dig out, and he needed it.

Dinner at Gabriellas.  Oh my, how can I describe it.   A lovely old world style Italian place with the most attentive (but not too) wait staff you could wish for and food that is just out of this world.  Paul had a seafood pasta dish, and I had fish with a delectable jalapeno-butter-oil-garlic sauce served on a light bed of spaghetti.   A slice of Italian wedding cake to celebrate our anniversary completed the heavenly meal.  Perfect end to a perfect day.

Anniversary Adventure - Part 1

If you’ve seen the movie National Lampoon Vacation you’ll have an idea of how our trip began.   With the perspective of a couple of days I can now call it an adventure, but I wasn’t in too forgiving a mood Thursday.  After driving most of Wednesday night for the Surprise, I had planned to pack for the 6 day trip on Wednesday morning before we left.   But first I had to blog about the Surprise since I was still enjoying the “after Surprise glow” the following morning. 

As soon as I hit “save” and prepared for a final read-through, I heard a loud, thunderous boom and immediately the power went out.  Thank God I’m in the habit of saving while I write.  It had started to rain, for which we were very thankful – heck, I’ve been praying for rain for weeks now.   The ending entry in my prayer journal for Wednesday was “we’ll drive in it all the way, Lord, just let it rain, rain, rain!!”   God certainly seemed to enjoy answering that prayer on Thursday.  

As the rain’s intensity increased it began blowing sideways.  I realized all the things I still had on the upstairs back porch from Monday’s new carpet install were going to get soaked.  Fragile and photo items were all in sealed plastic, but the furniture was just draped in sheets (it looked pretty Jed Clampitt out there).   Since there was no light in the house I opened the doors and started hauling things in – so much for my plan to bring things in a little at a time, rearranging and organizing as I went. 

When the power went out around 8:00 a.m. that morning, my husband had taken the Duke (of the famous Duke Disaster, see Blog in January) out for a walk before we left.  They came back soaking wet, and reported that the power was out for blocks around – a transformer had gone out.  It was going to be a while before we had power.  We busted out the flashlights and began packing.  I had gathered all the clothes already, it was just a matter of arranging them in suitcases.   Apparently this would be a trip I would not embark on with my hair done or any makeup – I needed light to make that happen.  I hated to start an anniversary trip looking like Ellie Mae on a bad hair day but I had no choice.

Suddenly the lights came on and fans roared back to life.  Now I could get ready.  I went to the bathroom to plug in the flat iron and pulled out the putty knife for my makeup.  Then the power went off.  Back to the bedroom to pack by flashlights.   The next time the power brought the lights on I raced to the bathroom – the flat iron got a good 30 seconds of electricity, almost enough to do 2 sections of hair.  Lovely.  To heck with that, just finishing packing and go.   I brought a packed bag downstairs and found my husband in the kitchen, packing what looked like leftovers into a very small cooler.   When I asked what it was for he calmly stated that we would just have a snack lunch on the road and then eat out when we got to South Padre.  Not exactly my idea of lunch on the first day of our anniversary trip with a 6 hour drive ahead of us. 

As we pulled out of the driveway I had quite the attitude about the lunch situation.  I figured we’d at least stop and get something on the way, but nooooo, his idea was for me to handle slimy lunch meat, processed cheese slices and oh by the way here is a bell pepper and pocket knife could you slice that up too?   I didn’t know I was going to have to ‘cook’ on this trip.  Too bad I hadn’t taken time to read my devotional that morning.  When I read it later it spoke directly to my crappy, selfish attitude:  don’t let petty grievances occupy emotional space, turn your energy to the challenges.  Basically, ‘get over yourself’.  Which I was able to do after a couple of hours of pouting and acting childish, while my husband wisely remained silent, knowing there would be calm after the brief storm.  Good man.

It rained hard, cats and dogs and elephants and rhinoceroses hard, the entire 6 ½ hour drive.  Like I said, God was truly enjoying bring answer to all the prayers for rain.  Thankfully I didn’t have to drive, it’s so grueling to drive in rain that hard, looking for your exit in lunch hour traffic in a large city, then hoping you don’t miss your next one after 60 miles of gripping the steering wheel to avoid hydroplaning.  It worked for me though, I had a captive audience so I read out loud, asked questions, and in general used up a lot of my words for that day.   And we had lunchmeat-cheese-bell pepper roll ups to sustain us :)

At one point I had to stop for a restroom break, regardless of the pelting rain.  We found one truck stop in Kingsville that still had power, and after taking the 4 steps to the entrance I was soaked.  It was a good thing after all that I hadn’t spent time on hair or makeup, it would have been totally wasted.  Back on the road for the last couple of hours.  We gassed up in Port Isabel and I agreed to drive the last little bit of the trip.  Which involved a long causeway bridge, invoking my fear of driving over long bridges.  The experience was especially nerve racking given the high winds, driving rain, and other drivers who felt no need to go slow.

The nav system took us right to the front door of the rented condo, which we had never seen.  The outside looked nice, but with the day we’d had who knew what awaited us inside.   We had a good deal on the price, so I envisioned scratchy starched sheets, tiny kitchen table with matching metal chairs, and broken plumbing.  Sure hope they at least had a coffee pot. 

As we started unpacking the car and carrying bags up the stairs, it began to rain harder.