Okay, I sold my business a year ago, or so I thought. Unfortunately, after 10 months in the business, the couple began divorce proceedings. That is normally someone else’s problem, but since I financed the whole deal, I am back in business. Well, I was back in business, for three weeks in November. But before I could even spray paint the porch rockers, another couple came along, this time from California; African-American lesbian drummers, with long dreadlocks. We’re in Georgia down here and we’re not in Atlanta. But hey, they were up for the task and I already had a foot and a half out the door. And I enjoyed four months of sweet freedom, marred by certain long periods of non-payment. Finally, sometime last month, (28 days, 28 minutes ago), after almost every imaginable excuse was applied to the situation of non-payment, these two were asked to vacate. Like I told someone, I’d have left in the middle of the night, if I were in their shoes. The power was disconnected in part of the inn, telephone service off, no gas. It was crazy. The good news is that the business itself is healthy and there are reservations pouring in, along with many already on the books. So, I’m thinking, not too bad, lots of rooms coming in, a couple of parties, a wedding. And at first, the wedding woman seemed calm, laid back and even reasonable. I’m sure in her former life of singlehood, she was just, well, her. But, as time has rolled closer to the big date, I find my inbox to be visited by her on an hourly basis sometimes. Not only that. She has diagrams. And she’s had them since the first time I inherited her from the lesbian drummers. But way back then it looked like a different situation. It appeared to be a simple, small wedding,plastic plates preferred . The only thing I can relate it to is a curve ball. It looks easy on the outset, but then it goes around the bend just before the finish. And that’s where I am now, running ahead of a curve ball. Isn’t there a margarita somewhere she needs to be drinking? I know I’m looking for one. Or skip the whole sour mix thing and break out Senor Cuervo. This headache hurts worse than a hangover. Did I mention the lesbian drummers had to be FORCED out? Inn, anyone?