The True Story of Hotel Iroquois

I’m not gonna lie to you, I often lie on this blog. My life is not that exciting so often what you’ll read, my one-and-only reader, will contain only a germ of my actual life and the rest will be gratis. But not today. Today my dear friend and former roommate, Jenn, sent me a link that is so horribly funny and true and, well, it was like a big honey pot poured over my morning.


Brief Back-story:
Jenn and I met for the first time when we were assigned to share a room as summer employees of Hotel Iroquois on Mackinac Island, Michigan. This was our apartment building. She got there the week before I did. When I opened the door to my new home, a little worse for the wear after a turbulent ferry ride and a mile long walk, uphill, through horse crap, I saw that while my half of the room was bare, the other half had been plastered with red and green sorority deco. I’m not exaggerating. Even a little. If I hadn’t been so exhausted and poop-covered, I’d have turned tail and gotten the hell out of there. Would have been a huge mistake. She’s the best, Best, BEST. Did I already say bestest?

Please read on. The owners of the hotel are all women. A family of old Irish women who, I am of the opinion, hate men. They also hate women who, again, my opinion, are living and, even more incredibly, have the nerve to work for them. They’re haters. Again, my opinion. One of them is a lawyer who, just my luck, probably specializes in libel. My opinion, only.

For two girls who loved to break apart human weakness and ogle its parts, they were the best kind of employers. One of them in particular, the eldest daughter, whose initials look a lot like the letters ‘M’ and ‘K,’ was the worst—my opinion. She lived in a beautiful and spacious cottage across the street from the hotel, not surprisingly, all by herself. That part is a fact. When she would come into the hotel you could hear her immediately as she was the only person IN THIS WORLD who would wear three-inch heals that early in the morning on an island covered in horse shit. That is also fact. That pretty much tells you everything you need to know. Let me recap. Hates men, and women, and anyone who works for her who dares to make eye contact with guests, or with horses. or with horse crap, lives in huge cottage by her lonesome, oh, and I almost forgot, is a lawyer who most likely specializes in libel—but that’s only my opinion.

So Jenn sent me this link this morning.

MK is renting her cottage for the entire summer, indefinitely. Apparently, not even IT was good enough for her. I hesitate here because, though Jenn will be disappointed in me for not remaining hardened, maybe she had a calamity befall her. Maybe she’s broke or maybe she’s brok-en. Maybe she got married and has adopted more babies than Angelina and they can no longer fit into that palatial palace. Or maybe she just wants to have some poor, rich family move in for the summer so she can have even more people under her thumb. The attached ad leads me to believe that it is most likely the latter. This sentence says it all:

“Incredibly well trained dogs are welcome with references and an additional fee.”

As tempted as I was to put “with references” in all caps and bold font, I think it’s just the kind of crazy that doesn’t need any feathering, if you know what I mean. WITH REFERENCES!!!

Um, does anyone have the number for the dog-catcher in Detroit, a group of ex-cons who’d like to earn a buck as stand-in referents, and 10,000 bucks to invest in a month you (and MK) will never forget? Please write.