This is a story about a romantic occasion gone wrong … of course. I figured this was the farthest thing from our current election that I could get.
For the last several weeks, A and I have gone back and forth about whether or not we wanted to return to the scene of
the crime our wedding to celebrate our first anniversary. The conversation pretty much went like this:
me: “Hey, do you want to go back to our place for our anniversary?”
A, the wet blanket: “Well, it IS the weekend … and I reeeaaally like sitting … ”
This went on for weeks. Finally, THE NIGHT BEFORE we were to embark on our romantic weekend, I finally expressed my desire to go back to our spot for our wedding.
I began calling any lodging listed for the town at about 10 p.m. on a Thursday night, and, wouldn’t you know–EVERYONE WAS BOOKED. Don’t know why …
I called hotels, overpriced “resorts” and even the dreaded DREADED bed and breakfasts, but no dice.
Finally I was able to uncover a standard queen room at a standard chain hotel for the very UN STANDARD price of $130 … PER NIGHT. After seemingly exhausting all of my options, I scraped the depths of Google to find my final choice, often overlooked in cutesy tourist towns: the motel.
Now, when I hear the word, “motel”, I think of a smaller hotel without breakfast. And if I was saving $50 per night, I could skip the continental breakfast. EVERYTHING ELSE IS THE SAME IN A MOTEL, RIGHT?
When we finally rolled into our moderately welcoming motel parking lot, it was 10 p.m. A’s excuse for being late was because he was working hard. My excuse was because I was held hostage at a basketball practice and almost killed myself twice driving on gravel and trying to keep Beef content sitting on the floorboards as I drove haphazardly to our dog sitter’s home.
So, at 10 p.m., our motel looked positively idyllic. The motel owner even had two puppies running around. I became quite smug in my cost-saving decision.
We plodded into our room … it felt quite chilly, but we basically just tipped over into bed anyway, so it was not a big deal.
Then, my friends, the poop hit the wood chipper, as it usually does when I try to do fun things. And it all started with me innocently trying to shower.
It turns out, in addition to motel rooms providing a rustic atmosphere by mimicking the temperature of the outdoors and seemingly inviting the sounds of traffic smoothly into your eardrums, they also continue with the “roughing it” theme by NOT PROVIDING ANY HYGIENE PRODUCTS.
This was quite a treat when I am in the shower, preparing for some sudsing, and realize: NO SHAMPOO.
All I have is a wimpy “beauty bar” that smells like a sub-par nursing home: lye and sadness.
I am already in the shower. And our motel is a solid five miles from any retail establishment.
So what is any thrifty, resourceful, sodden domesticait to do? Well I use the lye-sadness ON MY HAIR OF COURSE.
It sudsed up pretty luxuriously, so I thought that not only had a dodged a bullet here, while also discovering a new niche industry for other idiots who choose motels.
Instead, the results left me feeling like The Scarecrow from “The Wizard of Oz”–with straw-like hair and longing for a brain.
Did I mention that this was our anniversary weekend? So I was trying to look alluring and sophisticated for our photos and romantic endeavors together?
Thankfully my hair is just long enough to be pulled back halfway. In all honesty, it is also long enough to be pulled back completely, but I looked like Axl Rose and Mrs. Potato Head had a freaky, starchy lovechild when I did that, so I stuck with the half-up style.
And the wisdom did not end there, folks. Of course not.
The next day, with four bottles of trial sized shampoos now in my arsenal, I was feeling fresh and able to run my fingers through my hair without whimpering. We were packing up and leaving our mo-asis, when I decided to look under the bed.
Since this is a G-DAMN MOTEL, they don’t have those convenient bed stands that only allow shoes, wrappers and other jetsam to travel a few inches before halting. This bed was free and clear all the way across, so I took a long look to make sure we weren’t losing anything under here. We were not ever coming back, if you didn’t catch that already.
Under the bed was all clear, except for something that looked suspiciously like a Hot Pocket envelope. You know, those cardboard thingies that protect your hands when you are transporting the Pocket from the microwave and deceive you into thinking that the “food” is cool enough to eat, since it is cool enough to hold? And then you burn all of your flesh with molten Hot Pocket juice?
Yes, this object under the bed looked exactly like one of those. INNOCENT, RIGHT?
So, of course, I grabbed it–being the helpful citizen I am who apparently did not realize her husband was eating Hot Pockets all weekend and pitching the envelopes everywhere.
Guess what that thing really was? A STICKY VESSEL OF HELL for, and I quote, “RATS, CATS AND INSECTS.”
I think that’s what it said, anyway, because it only took a few seconds for me to process that my fingers were stuck inside a tacky, demon tunnel filled with the corpses of unlucky bugs and etc. There may have been rats and cats in there too, but I was waggling my entire arm too quickly to notice, and then the not-Pocket envelope flew across the room and my arm continued straight into the wall and I washed my hands in boiling water for a few minutes.
Before we left our dreamy town that weekend, we made reservations for a lovely hotel for our anniversary weekend for next year.