Tales From The Tuxedo Inn

Life, Art, Auto -Not Tuxedo Rental

November 7th 2013

Written By: Justine - Nov• 08•13

I’m supposed to be writing something.  Something, anything, about this crazy place called the Tuxedo Inn.  It’s not in New York, it’s in Maryland.  Twenty five miles outside of the nation’s capital.  Twenty minutes from the state capital.   I promised myself I’d write something about this place  just in case I woke up one morning and it turned out the Tuxedo Inn was like “Fight Club”.

Maybe I just snapped one night at work and I’m in a nut house someplace on thorazine dreaming the whole place up.   If I am, well I’m certainly perking on the front burner.  Thorazine must be better than any of us ever suspected.

But I can’t stay in la la land forever.  I have to get back and take care of my mom. She’s 82  and her memory shorts off and on.  If she falls prey to the state, they’ll toss her someplace that I wouldn’t put my worst enemy.

Hell, without me the expensive assisted living she’s in wouldn’t do her any favors either.  I keep light bulbs, toilet paper, facial tissues, a first aid kit, a sewing kit, canned dogfood, and a six pack of canned root beer in the trunk of my car just to keep things at that joint on an even keel.

Management is so cheap they lock up the light bulbs. Then when residents blow a light the staff can’t get to the bulbs until the next day.  By then it’s a different shift and the lights aren’t on.  The bulb doesn’t get replaced when the supply closet is unlocked.

More than once I’ve gone down the short hallway where mom’s suite is and replaced bathroom light bulbs for everyone.

The toilet paper is the same way.  They’ve switched to the most vile splinter filed stuff they can find and they won’t put a multi-role holder on the wall.   Since it takes ten sheets to clean up and afternoon tinkle, a shared bathroom is empty of paper in not time.

I made sure mom always has a jumbo roll of the “good stuff” hanging on a piece of yard on the inside of her bedroom door handle.  I also stash a few extra rolls in her sock drawer.

So if I’m in a thorazine induced coma, dreaming about an art deco hotel hidden in the woods along the severn river, I better write this down and wake the hell up before the toilet paper runs out.

If I’m not, if this fantastical place is real.  I better write this down anyway because I don’t think I’ll be able to keep it secret no matter what I promised.  If I write it down, I’m spilling the beans.  But if I don’t put what I write on my blog, then I’ve kept my word.


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