Nazi Bunker Weekend

Boy, did we have fun or what???!!!

I really like being exiled from our home while a great big fun-looking circus tent is wrapped around it and poisonous gases are pumped in to kill every living thing inside. Entomologically speaking, it is a fun-filled Final Solution. And if I ever have to go through it again, I will burn the house down first.

What made it even more fun was the place we got to stay for four days: The Vagabond Inn here in Pasadena. Not only that, but we got the best room: I call it the Nazi Bunker, because it has NO WINDOWS AT ALL! ("Zo, Eva, do you vant ze pill or ze bullet in der head?")

To be more precise, this weekend was probably the closest I've ever come to insanity or a nervous breakdown or whatever you might want to call it. It was that final stressor in a year full of shitty stressors: it was the dump that gave the camel permanent hemorrhoids; an experience that scars for life. Perhaps I'm being a little oversensitive, but it sure feels that way to me right now.

It really started the Saturday before, when the air conditioning went on the fritz. (Fritz: get the Nazi tie-in there?) So on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, while I was bagging up all the open food in the house and prepping everything for the impending gassing (another WWII tie-in), I was working in 90-something degree temperatures and surviving by sitting in front of fans and constantly hydrating. On Tuesday, the air conditioning guy came and told me the compressor motor was burned out. He ordered a new one and said he could get it installed on Friday. Since the house would be deadly by that point, we scheduled for Tuesday morning, when I knew everything would be fine.

All was packed and ready by Thursday afternoon, when Steve got home from work, so we schlepped all the plants from the patio onto the sidewalk inside the security gate, caught and bagged the seven fish in the aquarium, got the cats into their carriers (they just love being in those things, just can't stop yowling once they get in them), and headed for the Vagabond Inn (falda-frickin'-ree, falda-frickin'-rah).

Checked in, got the cats out of their carriers, got the fish into the holding aquarium we had. The stress levels of this small move were already through the roof for both of us, and the cats and fish were all freaking out over this ungodly disruption of their existence.

This is when we realized they had put us in the wrong room. Six weeks earlier, we had reserved a smoking room with a king-size bed with the two cats added at a small charge. We were now in a non-smoking room with two double beds (the small ones) and no windows at all.

Well, that's not true: there was one tiny window in the oversized bathroom (that, an iron with an ironing board and a serv-yur-self minisafe made this an executive suite). The window was about the size and position of those in old Alcatraz movies, and out of it was a view of one of the seedier sections of Colorado Boulevard and the Spy Shop across the street: "covert surveillance for the common man.")

Steve called down to the desk and was told we could move to another room on the third floor that was the same but a smoking room. We looked a one another and contemplated the stress of cramming the cats back in their carriers, rebagging the fish (who were already puffing like long-distance runners, a sure sign of stress), repacking what was already unpacked and moving everything to another floor.

Stress, stress, everything was stress. Steve and I could read the other's face: the move wasn't worth it, for us or the animals. So we decided to stay in the bunker to which we were assigned and forfeit the $250 no-smoking deposit which might be applied to our bill.

I rationalized it by saying that, even with the blood money, our stay was still cheaper than boarding the cats (our original plan). I came up with a couple more rationale like that in my mind, which was starting actively to crack at this point.

We turned on the television (high-def with cable!) and the signal barely came in. After some fiddling, Steve found the cable wasn't fully seated, and he fixed it. He had a picture!

We ordered in a pizza and, after flushing three fish who had expired by that time, we hunkered down for the evening.

On Friday, Steve went off to work and I was left with the animals. Three of the remaining four fish had died during the night, so flushing them was my joyful first task upon rising. The cats were still freaking out and jumpy as hell, so I decided simply to stay in the room with them until Steve got home from work.

Even with a television for distraction, it is odd the effect of being in an enclosed area with no window. The only source of "fresh" air was the air-conditioning unit in the wall, which made a sound quite similar to an idling 747 jet engine and, as it was hot outside, this machine was running for most of the day. During the brief periods when it was not churning air, my ears would ring quite loudly in the silence.

Steve came back from work and I was overjoyed to see him.

At this point, the rest of the weekend becomes kind of a blur. I know we went to dinner at our favorite fish place; I recall going into a furniture store and finding some nesting end tables that were perfect for the house remodel; and we had Saturday breakfast at our usual place, which happens to be across the street from the Vagabond (a couple doors down from the spy store, right next to the box store). I also recall that we went back to the furniture store and purchased the nesting table set, and we packed up on Sunday evening to be ready for our return home. I also recall that I got about three hours sleep Saturday night and none at all Sunday.

We left the motel on Monday morning to get back to the house by 8 a.m., since the gas company said they would be there between 8 a.m. and noon. The cats seemed not to mind getting back in their carriers (well, not too much), and the one surviving fish was still hanging on.

We were in our driveway at home by 7:30 a.m. To make a long story short, the fumigation people didn't arrive until 10:30 and the gas company didn't arrived until 1 p.m. And, don't forget, the air conditioner was still broken. But it was so-so-so-so nice to be back in our home. Oh, Auntie Em, there's no place like home.

The air-conditioning guy showed up at 7:45 this morning to install the compressor fan, and blessed cool air is issuing forth on this day when the temperature promises to hit 103 degrees Fahrenheit. I figure with the week I wasn't using it, I can run it 24 hours a day for at least three days without affecting the electric bill or our carbon footprint.

EPILOGUE
So that was Nazi Bunker Weekend. I plan to spend today getting my focus back and returning to the things I was doing before this lovely life experience descended upon us.

And what is the moral of the story of Nazi Bunker Weekend? What enduring life truth or morsel of universal insight do we glean from this tale?

As I see it, there are two pieces of wisdom I came away from this hellish experience with that I would like to share with you, and they are:

1) You can never have enough Xanax, and
2) It doesn't work if you don't take it.