Read Online I See You Made an Effort: Compliments, Indignities, and Survival Stories from the Edge of 50 by Annabelle Gurwitch - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Annabelle Gurwitch
Ads: Link
small pond.
“The spa was built around this geode.”
“Really? I thought it was built around a pile of money.”
I later learn that amethyst is supposed to promote clarity of thinking. Maybe it works, because he lets my comment pass without even registering it. It’s time to host the charity event, so I rub on every lotion I can find, then pocket a few disposable razors and travel toothbrushes, hoping they don’t have hidden cameras inside the vault.
I head upstairs, change into my clothes and proceed down to the ballroom. It would be too tedious to explain my duties, but they involve two and a half hours of facilitating a panel about the preservation of wetlands that includes an elderly philanthropist, a noted film producer and an American alligator. One of them urinates on my lap during a spirited moment.
After the show, I see that mistress of efficiency, blandiful Monica, and ask her to point me in the direction of a bathroom. She says there is one I can use just down the hall. I follow a hallway that narrows until I’m practically brushing past the walls. The lighting starts to look different, dimmer, and even the paint looks less lustrous. The hallway ends in a stairway lit by a single naked lightbulb. Where am I going, Anne Frank’s bathroom? I open the door at the top of the stairs. It’s a restroom. It is not unlike other bathrooms I have used tens of thousands of times. There’s a row of individual stalls separated by dented metal dividers and an industrial soap dispenser with a greasy pinkish film coating the pumping mechanism. Water drips into a rust-stained cracked sink, and rough, brown paper towels are stacked haphazardly in a pile on the grimy windowsill. It’s simply outrageous. Where’s my bathroom with the heavy door? Where are myproducts? It doesn’t smell like any kind of money here, old or new. She’s sent me to the bathroom for The Help. I am not The Help. I am a guest. I turn, march down the stairs, run out of that hallway and search until I find a hotel guest bathroom.
I didn’t sleep at all that night. I would like to say I was kept awake horrified by my own self-involved, entitled, elitist behavior, but that would not be accurate. After dousing myself with more Asprey Purple Water, I lay awake because the pillow had my initials monogrammed into them. That’s something I am still a little confused about. Do they keep stacks of initialed linens? Is there an algorithm that predicts the frequency of combinations, otherwise the linen closet would be immeasurably vast? Was my head resting on the same pillow used by Alan Greenspan? Do they remove the embroidery after you check out or was I expected to take the pillowcases home? It was truly vexing. Plus, I didn’t want to waste one minute of how pleasurable the bedding felt by sleeping. The thread count of the sheets was so high they felt cold and creamy. The texture was not unlike what became one of my mother’s signature dishes at our island home. Key lime pie, made with the limes from our backyard tree. The lime custard filling was terribly deceiving. It was so light, you’d be fooled into thinking you’d sampled a single bite only to find you’d devoured the entire thing.
It takes two, maybe three calls from the front desk to remind me of the checkout time. I take a shower and a bath. I suppose I subconsciously don’t want to leave, because as I get into my car, I realize I’ve left my evening clothes upstairs in the room. The valet brings them down for me. I tip him ten dollars, even though thatwas six dollars more than I was planning on spending on a carne asada burrito sin frijoles for lunch.
The attendant asks me if there is anything else he can do for me.
Where do I begin?
I think. “Oh, nothing,” I say. I head back across town, where the air is hotter, the streets are dirtier, where a sticky cough drop and half an Ativan can be found in my bathrobe pockets.
Arriving home to my block, I pull up in front of my
“The spa was built around this geode.”
“Really? I thought it was built around a pile of money.”
I later learn that amethyst is supposed to promote clarity of thinking. Maybe it works, because he lets my comment pass without even registering it. It’s time to host the charity event, so I rub on every lotion I can find, then pocket a few disposable razors and travel toothbrushes, hoping they don’t have hidden cameras inside the vault.
I head upstairs, change into my clothes and proceed down to the ballroom. It would be too tedious to explain my duties, but they involve two and a half hours of facilitating a panel about the preservation of wetlands that includes an elderly philanthropist, a noted film producer and an American alligator. One of them urinates on my lap during a spirited moment.
After the show, I see that mistress of efficiency, blandiful Monica, and ask her to point me in the direction of a bathroom. She says there is one I can use just down the hall. I follow a hallway that narrows until I’m practically brushing past the walls. The lighting starts to look different, dimmer, and even the paint looks less lustrous. The hallway ends in a stairway lit by a single naked lightbulb. Where am I going, Anne Frank’s bathroom? I open the door at the top of the stairs. It’s a restroom. It is not unlike other bathrooms I have used tens of thousands of times. There’s a row of individual stalls separated by dented metal dividers and an industrial soap dispenser with a greasy pinkish film coating the pumping mechanism. Water drips into a rust-stained cracked sink, and rough, brown paper towels are stacked haphazardly in a pile on the grimy windowsill. It’s simply outrageous. Where’s my bathroom with the heavy door? Where are myproducts? It doesn’t smell like any kind of money here, old or new. She’s sent me to the bathroom for The Help. I am not The Help. I am a guest. I turn, march down the stairs, run out of that hallway and search until I find a hotel guest bathroom.
I didn’t sleep at all that night. I would like to say I was kept awake horrified by my own self-involved, entitled, elitist behavior, but that would not be accurate. After dousing myself with more Asprey Purple Water, I lay awake because the pillow had my initials monogrammed into them. That’s something I am still a little confused about. Do they keep stacks of initialed linens? Is there an algorithm that predicts the frequency of combinations, otherwise the linen closet would be immeasurably vast? Was my head resting on the same pillow used by Alan Greenspan? Do they remove the embroidery after you check out or was I expected to take the pillowcases home? It was truly vexing. Plus, I didn’t want to waste one minute of how pleasurable the bedding felt by sleeping. The thread count of the sheets was so high they felt cold and creamy. The texture was not unlike what became one of my mother’s signature dishes at our island home. Key lime pie, made with the limes from our backyard tree. The lime custard filling was terribly deceiving. It was so light, you’d be fooled into thinking you’d sampled a single bite only to find you’d devoured the entire thing.
It takes two, maybe three calls from the front desk to remind me of the checkout time. I take a shower and a bath. I suppose I subconsciously don’t want to leave, because as I get into my car, I realize I’ve left my evening clothes upstairs in the room. The valet brings them down for me. I tip him ten dollars, even though thatwas six dollars more than I was planning on spending on a carne asada burrito sin frijoles for lunch.
The attendant asks me if there is anything else he can do for me.
Where do I begin?
I think. “Oh, nothing,” I say. I head back across town, where the air is hotter, the streets are dirtier, where a sticky cough drop and half an Ativan can be found in my bathrobe pockets.
Arriving home to my block, I pull up in front of my
Similar Books
