Dear Beth,
Your cottage leaks like a sieve, your neighbor raped my dog, and your shitter is held steady, a term I use in the loosest sense, by a wooden shim. It’s a bit off-putting to say the least; I’ve utilized steadier facilities with less fear of falling in or off on cruise ships in a hurricane. The poor dog, bless her heart, came home with tooth marks in her head, with a little hitch in her giddy-up. I’m hoping it was your dog that did this, and not either of your drunk teenage boys. I’m still unclear on why exactly it is that the loo wasn’t updated, at the very least, a new wax ring thing that keeps the smelly part of the septic tank down. It might even have balanced out the shaky shitter, thus getting rid of the Holy Very Scary Shimmed Shitter.
The toaster, perhaps the first one ever invented, as it retains the cloth sewn electric cord, eats whatever is popped inside, with little regard to my feelings. Currently, it’s enjoying the remainder of a cinnamon pop tart. My cinnamon pop tart. The one I was planning on enjoying for breakfast. The one now missing giant toaster sized bites out of the frosted side. It couldn’t even be considerate enough to gouge out the non-frosted side.
The stove burners, in case you didn’t know, have only three that work, and one, that finds heating to high such an exciting experience it practically orgasms under the pot boiling the baby bottles. We are both hoping this does not shatter the glass bottles our little sweetie requires, as no one up in this corner of non-commercialized Hell carries them. J and I whipped up blueberry pancakes, which to our great horror, as three whiney, starving children were chomping at the bit for these pancakes, remained stuck so firmly to the bottom of the “pan”, we could not pry them off to flip them. Or, at all.
The oven, should you be interested to note, has one setting: Burn It. Be it set at either 200 or 400 degrees, anything inside comes out bearing a striking resemblance to remains at Chernobyl. A frozen pie left in for less than the time recommended for baking a thawed one burned so fully even the dog, who eats anything, turned up her un-sophisticated nose.
Bacon, if watched carefully, turns a into a lovely crisp almost momentarily.
I’m rather impressed with the fridge, circa 1963: the Standard Factory Recommended Setting freezes milk within an inch of its life overnight. We’ve been freeing ice from the bag with a screwdriver, as the sporks and knives left for our use, in a drawer under the one housing ant bait, an egg beater that should rest in peace somewhere in an antique shop, snuggled up in the septic installation directions do not penetrate the Siberian cold of the freezer.
The coffee pot brews coffee. Thankfully. I admit, I’m a touch annoyed that it’s safety features (turning itself off so as to not burn the house down) also allow the coffee to cool prior to the first cup being fully poured. Jonathan, bless his heart, drinks iced coffee in the dead of winter - prefers it that way, so this doesn’t really seem to faze him. I, however, would rather sip coffee so hot it scalds my liver as it passes through, have finally come around to complaining about the lack of updated amenities including (but certainly not limited to) a microwave. I’ve openly berated Jonathan for being a spoiled diva for always staying in his families houses that have had one, while climbing upon a white horse declaring their lack of value in quaint summer cottages.
I have changed my tune.
This is the closest to camping I will ever come to again in my lifetime. I do not enjoy camping. I do not enjoy bugs, snakes, or whatever in God’s creation graced us with it’s frightening growl last night. Upon further investigation, we could find nothing; but it’s convinced me that Sasquatch truly exists. I highly doubt it arrived to sample any fine cuisine we may have turned out off a grill so small I think Barbie and Ken used it last.
Needles to say, in case you missed reading between the fine lines, your add was a tad short on details, and long on filler. There are indeed two docks; we did indeed, bring a boat. Much to my shock, the boat with a hole in it floated, the motor works, and okay, so it isn’t going to keep up with the skiing crowd out here, we might, on a good day, be able to get a kite off the ground if the wind is in the right direction. There is a tub, but the shower you promised? It’s. The. Lake. Yes, I am most likely breaking a ton of regulations here, but I will washing up the chitlin’s evidently the way you intended....in the dark, in the lake, behind the neighbors back.
The neighbors, the ones you were sure to be interested in us, sure were. The same kind of “interest” I reserve for my neighbor, Lois. They were most interested in discovering when we are leaving, as well as counting down the days, hours and minutes until we do so. I daresay, if given the chance, they may help us pack up. The fact that their dog barks so obnoxiously all day and night escapes them - their hearing aids do not register that noise - but God forbid our children get a tad rambunctious on the floats - the ones you specifically pointed out were for our use?
They beg to disagree.
Trust me when I tell you, the crying baby they most assuredly will complain about? Hardly the same decibel level as that blasted mop of a mongrel they call a dog. Not to mention, we actively calmed our dog, tucking her into the house, or on the long line if she could not obey, or, bayed so outstandingly we were concerned for other’s comfort.
They felt no need to be so considerate.
The septic tank backed up, into the tub and sink, so we’re down to a Once A Day Flush, meaning that on our trip out, to replace a float of yours the kids popped (the one I no longer feel any compunction to replace) I strongly encouraged them to leave any of their waste in the bowls in the hallowed halls of Walmart. Yes, that’s right: I drove my children, at least two of the big ones, and the one who thankfully (I never thought I would say this) shits in her diaper 20 plus minutes away to stink up someone else’s loo. One of them, told me she was fine, she’d go at home - originally, she did not grasp the severity of our toileting issues. Once explained? Well. All of us went home a good deal lighter than when we arrived.
In short, or should I say, closing, I will point out that despite the obvious drawbacks (if you were unclear what might annoy a renter, now you’ve a concise picture) we did indeed have a great time with the kids. They went out in the boat, swam, fished, and all three rotated through the much non-coveted position of being the one child we planned to drown at the earliest opportunity. The original fight over sleeping in the loft ended abruptly upon finding out your latest decorating technique: huge, empty, stick embedded bee and hornet nests. Seriously? As if the oversized cock in the kitchen thruway wasn’t enough artistic horror.
My personal favorite, gee, we had such a hard time leaving it behind, was the hand made (quite possibly by you, or a passing three you old) birch bark lamp shade, decorated with acorns, dried berries, and some weird beads I couldn’t name. A lovely compliment to the eagle lamp perched on a dresser containing in the top drawer, a scary compilation of your stained underpinnings. We made a game out of who could look at the huge two pieced string bikini you obviously still don left hanging out in the open living space the longest with becoming physically ill.
We’d like to thank you for the memories we made, the laughter your home inspired, and assisted us in making a list of what we don’t want in a summer vacation home next year.
I fully expect my deposit back, since I not only had to clean up our own mess, but the slimy, disgusting remains of your septic contents from both the bathroom sink and bathtub.
Our Family
ps. The marriage quilt adorning the bed in the master bedroom, the one with your names cross stitched on the back?
Yeah.
We had After Baby Sex on it.
Hope that’s not a problem.
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