Holy Hangover, Batman! I am officially too old to party.
My 20th high school reunion was this past weekend. I know what you’re thinking . . . “but BoyMommy, you look WAY too young to have been out of high school for 20 years.” But, alas, it is true; two decades have passed since I last walked the halls of my high school.
I dropped Small off at my brother Slim’s house, essentially so his new bride could take care of my offspring. As is the case ANY time I try to treat myself to a night of drinking and general debauchery, the Mommy Guilt is thrown in my face; Small got stung twice by bees, so my SIL called to ask what she could do and to reassure me that all was well. She kept apologizing, and I kept telling her that sh*t happens. Mother of the Year . . . again! I worried about him until that first beer kicked in. Then I was okay.
My adventure began at the swanky digs known as the Olde Towne Inn. It’s very fancy. I know it’s fancy because of all the E’s.
The motel was not bad. You get what you pay for, right? I’m anxious to see the credit card bill so I can determine whether I was charged for the entire night or I was charged by the hour.
My first task was to remove the comforter from the bed. I usually travel with my own blanket so I don’t have to use the hotel blankets, but in my haste to
escape my house get to the motel, I forgot it. I called the front desk and asked for an extra blanket.
I did not ask for exotic truffles or fine caviar. Just a blanket, thanks.
“Ooooh,” the front desk manager replied. “I’m not sure I have a key to the Maid’s Closet.”
I was a little surprised that the Maid’s Closet was ensconced in such heavy security, but whatevs.
“What do you need a blanket for anyway in this kinda weather?” she asked accusingly.
Did she think I was trying to swindle the hotel out of money and that I was harboring unaccounted-for guests?
Incredulous, I replied, “It’s really none of your business why I am requesting an extra blanket. I am a paying customer and my wishes come first, regardless of your personal opinion about my sleeping habits. If you must know, I do not want your semen-encrusted bedspread anywhere near my face because I have watched one too many Dateline NBC episodes. Furthermore, I’m afraid a black light would reveal “evidence” that would support my claim that the communal bedspread at the Olde Towne Inn has not been cleaned recently and therefore belongs nowhere near the vicinity of my face.”
Except it came out more like, “Um, I just like an extra blanket when I’m sleeping.”
I mean no disrespect to the Olde Towne Inn, because it served its purpose . . . which was mainly be-close-to-the-bar-so-I-can-party-like-it’s-1991.
I do, however, have photo evidence of what a fine establishment it is.
To Be Continued . . .
(It was Reunion Weekend and I haven’t even gotten out of the hotel yet.)