Trixieland

words about words

Hotel Hell


I will not name the hotel I stayed in last night; not because they failed in any way, but because I am afraid of reprisals from them. A lifetime ban for instance.

This weekend I wanted to do something special for the kids. Saturday night I took the older two (19 and 15) to PUSAfest at the Showbox. A night out without the baby was something we all needed, and we’ve been waiting a long time to have a chance to see Presidents of the United States of America. It was a great show. Presidents always are fun. I know most nerds have loved him long time, but I fell a little in love with Jonathan Coulton Saturday night. Funny songs aside, he has a surprisingly lovely singing voice. I just have one quibble with Saturday’s show. If you are a band I have never heard of, and are rather crappy and give off a vibe I can only describe as “mormon” AND you are standing between me and a couple of GOOD bands: Don’t play 12 fucking songs. Don’t inflict your not horrid, but sonically identical songs and your forced and insipid stage banter on my ears.

Sunday night was for just the girls. My two daughters and I spent the night at a very nice hotel in Downtown Seattle. We chose this venue because there was a fireplace in the room and a giant clawfooted tub. It was a great room. There was nothing wrong with the room, the hotel, or the staff. I could have done without the latenight unce unce unce from the wedding reception. But.

Here’s what went wrong in chronological order.

  • The baby puked on her jammies and the bed. The king-size we were all sharing.
  • The baby then threw an F4 on the Fujita scale shitfit when I tried to put her in the bathtub. Sorry, neighbors.
  • My older daughter spent the next 7 hours coughing and blowing her nose.
  • I brought about a dozen diapers to the hotel, and the baby and her green, noxious, watery poo steadily depleted the supply.
  • The baby woke up and stayed up between 3 and 5 am. This required a purchase of a 4 dollar episode of Mickey Mouse Club.
  • Breakfast arrived at 7:45. It was yummy, but the frequent diaper changes for one daughter and the mountain of snotty Kleenex from the other put a serious damper on my appetite. Neither of my girls felt like eating.
  • Then, poop. Poop on the bed. The baby’s product had breached the diaper.
  • Then, screaming. The screams of an angry toddler who does not want to be in the shower. Sorry again, neighbors.

The plan today was to check out of the hotel at noon and spend the day at the Aquarium and Pike Place Market. By 10am I was down to one diaper and had reached the end of my rope.

We checked out, went home and went to bed.

The pricetag for spending 17 hours in a hellstorm of shit and snot and vomit? 550 bucks.

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