On my Way to the Bar in Tucson . . .
Pro: Arrived early at the hotel (11am), but Michael at the front desk was very friendly and had no problem with letting me do an early check-in. I verified that my room was non-smoking, but did not ask about king bed. Assigned room on 9th floor.
Con: Room booked was Deluxe, which was supposed to be large corner room. The room I got is pretty small, and has two double beds. No complimentary bottled water (says all rooms have it on the hotels web site).
Pro/Con: Signs on 9th floor advertising happy hour in lounge Mon thru Fri. Hotel's web site describes one of the special features of the Presidio Level as a complimentary evening happy hour with free drinks/appetizers (along with free continental breakfast). Before asking whether I was in correct room class, I asked restaurant hostess (twice -- she forgot the first time) which floor or floors were the Presidio Level. She checked, and said the 9th floor. I suspected, correctly, that Michael upgraded me on room level, but room seems smaller in size than advertised Deluxe. Presidio Level rooms are also supposed to have plush bath robes and an extra row of pillows on the bed. I have neither. I'm going to verify with housekeeping (if they ever get here -- see #10) whether this room should have a robe. I'm not going to get surprised by a $120 charge on my credit card statement in a couple of months for a bath robe they think I stole. I'm still trying to decide whether to request the bigger Deluxe room I booked or just stay here. Right now, I just really want a nap, but as soon as I doze off, housekeeping will knock.
Con: Restaurant ordering / potato / server / timeliness problems. Was thinking I wanted to order the cod. (The cod was prepared with a potato-cheese crust). All of the entrees come with Chefs choice of potato and vegetables. Asked what kind of side potato came with the cod. "Will the "Waiter" looked at the menu, read the cod description and said he thought it must be some kind of cheesy potato mixture. I told him I meant what kind of SIDE potato, pointing to the bold print (see above). I have no idea how this confused him, but he said the New York steak usually came with a baked potato, but he'd check and make sure, and off he went. He came back and said that the steak did come with a baked potato, but they were out of the steak. Note, the word steak never passed my lips, nor did my finger go anywhere near it on the menu. I patiently (really!) explained that I didn't want steak, I was asking about the cod. Told him I wanted the cod, with a baked potato with butter and sour cream. He was all happy to take care of that. Few minutes later, back comes Will. He informs me it'll take 18 minutes to fix the cod but, "They have started!" At least he gave me a free iced tea, as I had to wait 25 minutes for my food. When it came out, there were fries. I told the girl who brought it that there was supposed to be a baked potato. She didn't think they had any (baked potatoes), but she'd check. Never saw her again. Will came back and told me that the New York steak (no idea where he came up with the whole steak thing or why he was obsessed with it) always came with a baked potato, but they didn't serve the steak anymore, so they didn't have baked potatoes anymore. Apparently, there is some sort of downtown zoning ordinance in Tucson against serving baked potatoes in a restaurant unless the restaurant also serves specified cuts of beef. I gave up and just went with the fries. Looked at the bill when I was done. The bill was $4 more than the menu price on the cod. (Premium charge for fries?) Took it up to the hostess and asked for a menu to verify. Pointed it out to her. She took it to Will (no idea why this was), then to someone in the back, who told her to get back out there and fix it. She punched and pecked and poked and prodded but she just couldnt figure out how to get $4 off the bill because, and I'm not kidding, there's no button for that. 20 minutes later, we got it worked out (see #6). Note about Will the Waiter: nice enough fellow, but I think he must have done WAY too much of the happy drugs back in the 60s/70s.
Pro: Restaurant hostess fixed overcharge difference (price in computer was $4 more than menu price) by giving me employee discount, so my meal ended up being about $4 less than the menu price.
Pro: Wireless Internet access is free. I think.
Con: Guest services guy (Tom) who set up my access code spelled my code wrong (he gave me Parker123 (my middle name and -- hey! numbers!), but spelled it in the system as Paker123), so I kept getting an invalid code error. Called him back, and he was supposed to check and call me back in 5 minutes. About 40 minutes later, having heard nothing, I called him back. He had no clue, so connected me with LodgeNet tech support (Craig), who figured out the spelling error. Problem fixed. I think.
Con: Went into small bathroom and noticed there were NO wash cloths and NO bath mat. Towels looking a little on the yellow side (think they're supposed to be white). Called housekeeping and requested 2 wash cloths and 1 bath mat about an hour-and-a-half ago. Still waiting.
I've been in Tucson a grand total 4 hours and 25 minutes.
Part Two
Okay. Chrissie has heard most of this. But now I've become sort of wrapped up in my own story, wondering what will happen next and how it will all turn out in the end.
For convenience sake (my own), I've copied and pasted the emails between Chrissie and myself as of the last document I sent. Since then, I did leave my hotel room with the intention of looking at the hotel's restaurant menu again to see if there was something I thought I could eat that they might not screw up, or if there was some place very close that I could reach on foot (I didn't rent a car, remember) and that I could get to without (a) getting lost or (b) getting murdered or otherwise criminalized.
But, I'm getting ahead of myself. Here are the Victoria / Chrissie chronicles (our email addresses have been deleted to protect us, not because we are innocent, but because I can do it:
From: Chrissie Sent: Saturday, July 22, 2006 4:57 PMTo: VictoriaSubject: Re: Arizona Adventures So Far . . .
OMG! I'm sorry but the whole thing is just plain funny!
From: VictoriaSent: Saturday, July 22, 2006 5:12 PMTo: ChrissieSubject: Re: Arizona Adventures So Far . . .
I know it will be funny a month from now. It is a little now, only because I know it will be later. If that makes sense.
By way of update . . . the housekeeping manager finally came by. She spoke very good English, thank God! I am, after all, on the Presidio Level. (I'm certain I'll be giving Michael-the-front-desk-guy a thousand thanks at that complimentary happy hour on Wednesday after I'm done with the exam). And, I AM supposed to have a luxurious, plush bath robe. I told housekeeping lady I didn't need one right away -- I brought my own -- but that I just wanted her to know that there wasn't one in my closet so that I didn't get charged. She left, and eventually came back with my wash cloths and bath mat. Maybe their bath linens are supposed to be that color.
Another Pro that I inadvertently left off: the bath amenities are ones I actually really like. They're Bath and Body Works . . . the lotion is the Cool Citrus Basil, which is my favorite of theirs. And the shampoo, conditioner, and soaps all smell really good.
I so need a nap.
From: ChrissieSent: Saturday, July 22, 2006 5:22 PMTo: VictoriaSubject: Re: Arizona Adventures So Far . . .
well now there ya go.....none of that was negative....except that it sounded like you weren't actually gonna nap....
From: VictoriaSent: Saturday, July 22, 2006 5:29 PMTo: ChrissieSubject: Re: Arizona Adventures So Far . . .
Well, I was getting ready to take a nap. I put on a pair of yoga pants, took out my contacts, and closed the curtains most of the way. Then I started to feel a little hungry again. I also forgot to mention that the cod I ordered was about a 4 oz. portion, the last ¼ of which was, I don't know, gristle? Inedible.
So, I'm trying to decide whether to just take my damn nap, or try to scope out some place that delivers for later, or take my chances at the hotel restaurant again later (after nap) on something besides the cod.
I know I'll laugh about this later. Much later.
From: ChrissieSent: Saturday, July 22, 2006 5:31 PMTo: VictoriaSubject: Re: Arizona Adventures So Far . . .
LOL! Definitely find a place that delivers!
From: VictoriaSent: Saturday, July 22, 2006 5:35 PMTo: ChrissieSubject: Re: Arizona Adventures So Far . . .
Oh, but THINK of the potential for a continuation of my adventures in Tucson if I go back downstairs! It's almost TOO tempting . . .
Besides, by now, the bar will be open. It'll just get funnier after a couple margaritas.
This must be why people blog!
INSERT BREAK HERE
That means this part of the emails between Chrissie and me are done. We did text message on our phones, but I can't put that in there, so I'll just have to type the gist of it. Actually, the text messaging was the gist, so I can type the long hand. Hah.
So, I put my jeans back on, put my contacts back in, fluffed up my hair, put on lip gloss, pulled in the fangs, put on the shoes and I was ready to go. I punched the down button and an elevator -- actually two -- opened almost immediately. I should have been suspicious.
I strolled right into one and pressed the Lobby button. All went smoothly. For two floors.
My elevator and I stopped on the 7th floor, and a couple of kids of Hispanic origin got in. Hell, they were Mexican. I knew there had to be parents around, so I waited. Patiently, I thought. (I'LL NEVER BLINK!) (Ask Brian, or watch the comedian/ventriloquist Jeff Dunham ("cousin Jeff") and that thought will make sense . . . maybe). Anyway, by now, I don't remember in what order and by what age group they happily trickled into what, by now, in legal terms had become my elevator by adverse possession just by the sheer time it took them all to get in.
By the time the doors finally closed, there were 13 Mexicans in my elevator. That sounds like the makings of a song. But I did a head count. There were 4 adults and 9 children under the age of (I'm estimating here) 12. I don't speak much Spanish anymore (lack of practice -- 15 college credit hours of Spanish and now all I can say is Where's the bathroom?;, Another margarita, please.; and Thank you, very much. And a couple curse words. But it seemed like there were 4 or 5 different conversations going on in Spanish among these 13 people, including one little boy who was talking to himself in the elevator mirror. My head was near to exploding. These are pretty small elevators compared to the elevators in the chain hotels, and I was squashed into the back corner. After the day I'd had, I was petrified the thing was going to get stuck between floors and I'd end up digging my own brain out with the stylus from my PDA. Luckily, though, the elevator made it to the lobby. Not surprisingly, I was THE ONLY person who was getting off on the lobby level. The rest of them were going to the LL level, which I presume is the parking access. I had to salsa/limbo my way out of there. I headed for the lounge.
Side note here: If you want to get all politically correct on my ass, save it. I. DON'T. CARE. Having said that, I can't resist. First of all, if you think it's politically incorrect to call someone who is apparently from Mexico, well, Mexican, then your logic dumbfounds me and your reasoning probably would, too. Second, if those folks were vacationing, good for them. I don't care that they speak Spanish just like I wouldn't care that vacationing Italians were speaking Italian, Brazilians speaking Portuguese, etc. The point of that whole little story above wasn't about those people and their origins / nationality. It was ABOUT ME. If you haven't figured that out by now, just stop reading.
This whole thing is just a running documentation of my perception of how surreal my day has been in my own head. And I really thought the elevator thing was kind of funny. But, hey, maybe you just had to be there. Also, for the record, I do believe that if you want to live and work in this country, you should learn English. I'm not justifying myself on that point. Finally, I would have written something if 13 rich, snooty old white women had piled their perfumed and liposucked tails in on top of me; same for 13 long-haired Come to Jesus 70s throw-backs; same for 13 drunk fraternity / sorority kids; 13 of just about anybody was fair game. Exceptions might have been a blind man with 13 seeing-eye dogs, because I love dogs and blind people are generally pretty tolerant if you don't patronize them. Okay, done with that. Moving on.
I stopped by the lounge to fortify myself with a glass of wine and, as I said way back when, see if I could find something on the menu I could eat that they wouldn't poison me with. (Forgive me for dangling my preposition). This was the best time I've had all day. Granted, I wouldn't have been horribly surprised if a radical faction of some obscure something-or-other had run in here with a real bomb threat (did I mention there's some sort of National Guard thing at the hotel going on?), but I actually was able to just sit there and do absolutely nothing for a while. I texted (is that a word?) back and forth with Chrissie about the elevator thing . . . it was just so funny at the time and in the context of the day.
At the end of all of this, I decided I just didn't want to go anywhere. All I wanted was mimosas and a bath.
So I put in an order for some (hotel) pasta and told "Leigh Ann-the-bartender' (we'll call her LA from now on). Apparently, in Tucson, mimosas are a concept drink. What I ended up doing was just ordering a bottle of champagne (just Moet, don't have a cow -- you know who you are) and a pitcher of OJ. LA got the bottle of Moet and put it in a nice silver cooler that I'm trying to figure out how to put into my suitcase, and filled a pitcher full of OJ. She put champagne glasses on the side in the cooler. It looked very nice. She called over "Doug-the-old-security-guy" to have him help carry up the stuff when I was ready to go. He asked if I just got married. I thought this was funny, as I'd been sitting there for a LONG time ALONE. If I'd just gotten married, I hadn't done a very good job.
My pasta is done, my champagne is on ice, my OJ is in the pitcher and I'm ready to go. My bill is really cheap. I figure out LA hasn't charged me for about half of what I owe.
Karma.
I had to tell her and wait for her (my ice is melting) to fix the tab. I left a huge tip. She was a sweet gal.
On the way out of the bar, a beautiful black woman with very short hair that I only wish I could wear (the hair, not the woman), says, "Ooohhh, making mimosas." I'm thinking, thank you! Someone else knows what this concoction is! I tell her, "yes, ma'am I am. And I plan to enjoy every single one of them." She tells me to toast to her and I tell her I'll be toasting to everybody. Naturally, I say all this in a very thick Southern drawl (comes natural to me in certain states, and I don't just mean Arkansas), and I mean every word.
Doug gets the liquids up to my room without even sloshing a droplet of condensation off the champagne bucket, all the while carrying on polite and entertaining conversation worthy of the finest Southern gentleman. They don't make that model anymore. Pity. What a fella. He gets it into my room and, naturally, there's not a single solid space to put it on (I dangled again). I smush my computer over, and he puts the stuff down and even compliments my computer. He's not overdoing it at all. He asks if I'm here on business and I tell him I'm here for the bar. Exam.
He says . . . Oh, we know all about you people. He said it with -- not kidding -- a twinkling charm that they definitely don't make anymore -- that it wasn't at all offensive as it might sound in the text of it. I tipped him when he was leaving and he looked a little bit surprised (as I intended) and said it wasn't necessary. I told him if I thought it was necessary, I wouldn't really want so much to do it. That seemed to satisfy him a whole lot. He's going to pray for me to do well on the bar exam. I told him a direct line would be very helpful.
Now, how's that for a day in the life?
Oh, just when I think I'm done.
I'm flipping through the TV stations, trying to force-feed myself the now-cold fettuccini alfredo that I had ordered earlier. Watch a little of this, a little of that. I'm a sucker for the ends of movies, so I always watch the last 15 to 20 minutes of movies I really like.
The hotel has some cable stations, and I'm doing that usual thing. They even have the usual hotel information channel. I'm reading the things that are on the lunch buffets on various days. It starts to repeat, so I flip the channel.
The next station is the city view. It's completely black. THERE IS NOTHING THERE. I thought we'd been bombed. (Young Child in Cold War Syndrome). Of course, it doesn't occur to me to think, Go look out the window and see the pretty city lights you saw earlier. (Mimosas kicking in). It also doesn't occur to me to think that, well, I AM STILL HERE. No. What do I do? I flip through a few more channels to make sure they are still there, then go back to city view. It's still black. The entire world around me could evaporate but, hey, I've still got Friends reruns.
Time to take my bubble bath.
Oh, no. Still not done.
Well, I took my bubble bath, tried to relax and just blank out my mind. Don't laugh -- it's harder for me than you might think. I finish my bath, get all lotiony and smelly-goody like we girls like to do, and put on the stuff I'm going to sleep in. Now, here's where I have to digress for a second.
Remember Terminator 2: Judgment Day (1991)? Of course you do. Now, remember toward the beginning of the movie, they show Linda Hamilton dressed in a white tank top and a pair of loose gray sweatpants, doing pull ups in her cell in the kooky house? Yep, you probably remember that, too. That whole movie made very good use of Linda Hamilton's absolutely fantastic shoulders and biceps -- so much that I remember people making it topics of conversation, and magazines writing articles about those body parts. I admit, I was pretty impressed myself. To the point where I decided that I had to have my own Linda Hamilton shoulders and biceps (I mean my own body parts, not trying to hack hers off for my collection . . . I'm not THAT psycho . . . shut up). Anyway, I was already in pretty damn good shape back then, so it wasn't a really great stretch to kick it up a notch and get an outstanding built and cut upper body. So, after seeing the movie, and deciding to work on that goal, the first thing I did in pursuit of said goal was, naturally, to go out and buy some white tank tops and a couple pair of loose gray sweat pants. But I did work even harder and, in just a couple of months, I had my very own honest-to-goodness Linda Hamilton shoulders and biceps.
Now, fast forward to 15 years later. Or is it more like 437 years later? Whatever.
So, after my bath, I dressed in . . . wait for it . . . a white tank top and a pair of loose gray sweatpants (these days they're called yoga pants or, and I swear I'm not making this up either {according to J. Crew -- resort pants }).
Now, as is part of my nightly ritual, I'm standing at the bathroom sink brushing my teeth, then flossing. (Yep, I'm a flosser). I finish, look in the mirror at myself, just reflecting back on what a hoot of a day it's been. (Get it? Mirror . . . reflecting? Never mind.)
Now, really, nothing THAT outrageous has happened, I'm thinking. It's just that I'm in a particular sort of mood because I have this bar exam coming up that I'm not really feeling prepared for (dangling). I'm sleep-deprived from 2 months of severely insufficient rest. The words "proper" and "nutrition" aren't even on a nodding acquaintance with each other in my world lately. If the city view channel is blank, does that mean Tucson is gone? Did my plane to Tucson cross a rift in the space-time continuum and will the return flight take me to another alternate reality? If I were forced to choose between Hugh Laurie and Josh Lucas, which one would I pick? Should I start a blog on MySpace.com? Does "Tom" really exist on MySpace? Ah, the important questions in life.
As I ponder these things, I lean backward with my arms stretched out over my head and my back arched (hey! mind out of gutter!) to try and get in a good loooong stretch. I make the haunting mistake of glancing in the mirror in the middle of this stretch. Now, keep in mind that I no longer have the completely fantastic Linda Hamilton shoulders and biceps, but I am well aware of this and this is not the absurdly silly / mildly exasperating sight that greets me in the mirror.
As I stretch backward, my white tank top is pulled tightly over the waistband of my gray sweatpants which, in the middle of my long stretch, have dropped rather lower than they normally sit (around belly button level). The tie-band of the sweatpants which I tied in a knot once and has since become permanent is, to put it in medical terms, a little ways above the pubic bone. So, with the tank top stretched across that knot in the sweatpants, my private parts-area looks like a 13-year-old boy getting a lap dance from Carmen Electra.
I GIVE UP.
Where the hell is my Ambien? I'm going to bed. In my dreams, I get to have Hugh Laurie AND Josh Lucas. HAH!
P.S. Tomorrow is another day. I just can't decide if I want it to be a normal one so that I can be a reasonable facsimile of a productive human being, or a weird one just for the potential future entertainment value. Assuming I survive tomorrow, that is. Nighty-noodle.
posted by The Biskit @ 1:57 AM
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