The whole Utah clan drove to Idaho this weekend to be with Jon and Julie when they had Liam blessed in sacrament meeting. We wanted cheap.  We should raise our standards by about ten bucks.  The Shiloh Inn (not to be confused with the Shiloh Suites, which is newer and nicer) was one of the top five rattiest places we have ever stayed.  Keep in mind that we have stayed in whore houses across Europe.  Just because it’s a “pension” in the daytime doesn’t mean it’s a “pension” at night.  One of them had carpets on the BEDS.

Anyhoo, this particular Shiloh Inn’s exterior was rotting.  We were greeted by four wranglers smoking at the entrance, each in varying states of decay.  They were there when we left for dinner, and they were there when we returned.  In the morning they were still there.  The room had a masking floral scent, but masking what?  Semen?  Armpit hair?  Pee? Ear wax? Sloughed off dead skin?  Ailing maggots? Blood? Boogers?

Yes.  All of the above.  One didn’t want to walk barefoot on that carpet.   The above photo is exactly the way our room looked except for an added one hundred years of fading, body fluids, and a poof of aerosol.

Sunday morning we were ready to go forty minutes before church started at nine AM.  Tom was blessing the baby, an important role.  We were dressed like the respectable old folks that we are, raised in the fifties and early sixties: pantyhose and all.  Not Tom.  He only wears pantyhose on Wednesday nights.

Tom unlocks the deadbolt, but the door doesn’t open.  He tries again.  No go.  I try.  No.  He tries.  No, no and no.

He calls the front desk and explains that we are locked into our room.  A woman comes with a key to get us out, but it doesn’t work.  Tom calls the front desk again.  “I have an important appointment at nine.  We need to be out of here in ten minutes!”  

He calls back in ten minutes.  “Don’t you have a screwdriver?”  His voice is menacing.

“Yes, it’s in the maintenance room, but only the maintenance man can get in there, and he’s on his way now.”

I think Tom’s head will explode, and I go to a zen place, which means staring at a dot and listening to my own breathing. 

At nine, the maintenance man arrives with a screwdriver, slips it under the door, and Tom unscrews the deadbolt.  We get there two minutes before the sacrament is over.

Tom gives a lovely blessing.  We have lunch at Jonathan’s.  (I still want that chicken salad recipe)  and we all drive home in heavy rain.

Do not even THINK about bringing up the pioneers to me.