I am writing tonight from the uncomfort of a bed in a lodge in the big mid-western city that I frequent when for no good reason I feel the need to leave the comfort of home. I think I have a chromium imbalance or something.
My son loves this place... this Great Wolf place. We came last year and although I swore to the OCD gods that I would never return, my love for my son is so great and my memory so crappy, here I is again.
First of all, the rooms here cost approximately one-jiggetyy-jillion dollars a night. Not only is the OCD Chick crazy in that special obsessive-compulsive way that makes me irresistable to psychiatrists, I am also crazy cheap. Thanks to my loving Pop, I tend to see money as something evil that I will never have enough of...therefore, I should never spend it on anything fun or frivolous.
This hotel epitomizes all that is fun and frivolous, if you're 12 years old that is. I honestly don't think my parents spent this much money on me for the duration of my childhood from birth to eighteen. In fact, I don't think they would have spent this kind of dough on me if I had needed surgery.
There is a massive indoor water park, outdoor pools, an arcade, and a fort with bunk beds and TV in it. It's Beulah Land for kids. He and his friend are in fact so happy, I think they may be actually having tiny happiness seizures.
Me? Not so much.
My OCD doesn't like for me to be in the top floor of any building for a myriad of reasons. Imagine my delight when I discovered our room was on the very bottom floor. As is often the case for me, my delight turned to sheer panic when I began to ruminate about the terrible things that happen to bottom floor dwellers.
People who are on the lowest level are the poor saps who get raped and pillaged when escaped prisoners break in their patio doors.
People who are on the lowest level get flattened when the fat people on the upper floors jump up and down and cause the hotel to fall down.
I sent the boys packing to the water park so that I could perform my many inspections, sanitizing rituals and acts of voodoo. While they were sliding down sky high water slides, I was wiping down every surface with Clorox Wipes, pulling back the covers to check for the stray short and curly and looking under the table for gum.
It was during said inspection process that I noticed the crack in the ceiling and the off color spot where I am certain shoddy contractors instructed poorly paid illegal immigrant laborers to patch an area of stress in the hotel's structure. After running my fingers through my hair rapidly and throwing up a little in my mouth, I did what I always do when I am having a tiny freak out attack.
I called someone who gives a damn. Since Puddin Butt aka Mr. Man was at work and unavailable to assist in taking me down, the Evil Red-Headed Berta Lou is speed dial number eight.
"I'm freaking out!" I said.
"Afraid there is sperm all over your room, are you?"
"No. Well, yes. But I've already sanitized the room thereby making it sperm free. Now I'm afraid the hotel is going to fall down and squish us," I said.
"Go get an umbrella," the Evil BL said. "If you can't find an umbrella, get yourself one of those picnic cover things and sleep under that."
You see why she's my best friend. She's brilliant.
I'm trying to be a good girl and not do anything that would take away from the happiness my offspring and his peer are deriving from this adventure. Though it's true I'm a wreck on the inside, on the outside I'm June Friggin Cleaver.
Oh! And did I mention our room number has a number I don't like and can't even type in it? You know... that one between five and seven.
On the bright side, I'll probably be on national TV before this "vacation" is over. I'll be the bleach blonde spot at the bottom of the debris that was once the Great Wolf Lodge. At least I'll look thin.
Copyright © 2004-2006, Sherri Bailey
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