I rarely join my husband when he goes to conferences, but this one was at the Hotel Hershey – close enough to drive for the weekend and in an area with enough attractions in case I needed to create my own adventures.
At 4 a.m., we awoke to get ready to be on the road by 5 a.m. I hate mornings. Loathe. Despise. Want to murder everything and anything in my way. I am not happy to speak with anyone before 10 a.m. and that is only after a pot of coffee and maybe an unexpected TLC song on the radio to brighten my commute. Pete knows this, yet, he insisted on leaving at this ungodly hour for two reasons. 1) He’s cheap (didn’t want to spring for the extra night in the hotel), and 2) he actually likes mornings.
With a coffee mug in one hand and a snarl on my face, I managed to get myself out the door on time. The drive up wasn’t too bad. He let the beast (me) sleep and even “allowed” for a coffee break on the way there.
Something about Pete that I’ve come to tolerate is that he is the tyrant of road trips. Tyrant. Stops are limited to legitimate bathroom breaks (you already held it for 45 minutes and have to sprint to the bathroom so as to not piss yourself) or to get gas. Hunger or thirst must be coordinated with one of these already appointed breaks or they are a no-go. It doesn’t matter if you see a Starbucks, organic smoothie shop, or outlets with a Saks OFF 5TH. It doesn’t matter if you want to stop at a strange landmark to create a memory. “Get out your iphone, sweetheart, and snap a blurry window pic – quick. I’m not going to slow down, or we will be off our target arrival time by an inconsequential amount of time.” And god forbid, that you picked up a drink during the sanctioned stop and end up having to pee before the next stop. That’s just quite irresponsible and possibly grounds for divorce.
Fortunately, the ride was only 4 hours long. I managed to make it to the sanctioned stop for a bathroom break. Bonus! There was a Starbucks.
We arrived at the hotel just as the conference started, and I was able to go to our room to rest. I was excited to pretend to be a full-fledged doctor’s wife for the weekend – you know, day drinking, spa appointments, planning fundraisers between social events…
I began unpacking my toiletries in the bathroom as I planned which spa services to get and – plunk. The f-ing bathroom phone falls into the toilet.
WHO THE FRICK PUTS A PHONE IN THE BATHROOM?! Sure, I usually get my highest solitaire scores in the bathroom, but a cell phone is completely different. I mean, this phone couldn’t entertain me. I couldn’t text someone back that I forgot to reply to hours earlier. It was only good to do two things 1) order room service or 2) call 911. Ordering food from the bathroom is just gross, and I’m guessing if you need 911, you’re not going to be able to reach the phone halfway to the ceiling.
The Starbucks stop was starting to catch up to me, so I needed to remedy the situation immediately. Being the classy broad I am, I used a washcloth and fished it out of the toilet and hung it back on the wall. Yup. I didn’t even leave a note for the cleaning person… I was too ashamed of myself.
(FYI, don’t use the bathroom phone in room 228.)