I’ve gotten used to it by now: The looks I get from various hotel, motel, and efficiency apartment front desk clerks as I check in–almost always alone; wearing no wedding ring because, like the employees at Starbucks, labor and delivery nurses aren’t allowed to wear jewelry anymore, and I’m usually in such a rush that I forget to put it back on.
Because making reservations is my job, I register us as a Mr. and Mrs., with a credit card in my own name, and tell the clerk that my Mr. will “…be arriving in a little while.”.
I’ve grown used to the nonchalant nodding. They probably wonder why I bother lying.
Mostly I know they don’t give a shit, but sometimes my Mr. arrives in the lobby just in time to flash the clerk his own gorgeous wedding ring, a treasured heirloom from a distant relation that speaks to a level of wealth not quite our own. We can both see the instant the story begins crossing the clerk’s mind like one of those old ticker tapes.
The clerk sees my husband in his fine grey suit, wearing his dazzling, well-endowed wedding ring, and their eyes immediately dart to my own naked left finger. From there their eyes wander over to my plunging v-neck “Let’s Party” Hard Rock cafe tee I picked up in New Orleans a couple of years ago; then down to the yoga pants that have become my non-work uniform.
At this point, the clerk looks up, (Do I detect a note of condescension?), and asks me how many keys I’ll be needing.
There’s my husband, the dirty, yet somehow admired man who’s obviously successful and getting lucky tonight, and me, the pitiful fading rose who’s fooling herself that someday this well-to-do man will leave his poor, betrayed wife who doesn’t understand him.
Occasionally I’m tempted to say out loud, “Oh, trust me, his wife understands him all too well.” But I never do. I just look down, shaking my head, knowing my husband loves this part of the game at bit too much because at that moment everybody at the front desk knows:
This is a Booty Call
Maybe we’re making it all up in our minds.
Maybe we’re anthropomorphizing hotel clerks, and all they are thinking about as they check in the man sporting a dark grey suit and a fine diamond ring, and the bleached blonde woman wearing tight Lululemon yoga pants and a push-up bra, who both just happened to arrive in separate cars, at different times, is when they should start heating up that little oven they use for baking those chocolate chip cookies due to be set out on the front desk at 5pm.
But let us have our fantasies, please. We are talking about the art of the booty call after all.
That’s the story we joke about anyway.
But what we’re really talking about here is how two people with a big dream and a bold plan cram an entire week of marriage into the mere 18 hours they’ve managed to carve out for one another somewhere along California’s Interstate 5.
Making it Work
Since walking away from the American
Dream Nightmare in 2012, I can’t remember how many temporary homes we’ve had. My Airbnb reviews from all the places I’ve stayed are plentiful (and positive), and I have so many hotel key cards that I’ve started a collection. Some are pretty snazzy, like the one from the Hotel del Coronado in San Diego, or the one from Hotel Monteleon in New Orleans, where my husband accidentally locked himself out of our room in the middle of the night. Naked.
I fantasize that someday I’ll frame all of these key cards as an art piece for our future love shack in the mountains.
Speaking of the Love Shack
During this week’s booty call, we serendipitously discovered a slice of
weeds lawn between the Sacramento International Airport’s Residence Inn and a leftover piece of undeveloped land. Trees blocked the vew of the parking lot of the hotel and, once reclined, we could just barely see the romantically backlit Tuscan-inspired rooftop of the strip mall located on the other side of this tiny sliver of nature. There we laid in the grass together enjoying a bottle of wine while watching the setting sun.
I didn’t have my phone to catch the gorgeous Sacramento sky–a sky that always reminds me so much of Paris–but as we were driving away this morning we caught sight of a turkey roaming our temporary backyard.
Our new house, that I’ve affectionately nicknamed The Love Shack, and which is the inspiration for this blog I’ve started, absolutely must have a slice of lawn like this, but with more grass than weeds if possible.
Song of the Week
I listen to a lot of music. Each week, some song or another speaks to me. This week’s song is Walking Between the Raindrops by Lifehouse. The official video is weird, but the lyrics are straight out of my heart. My love and I are living like we have nothing left to lose because we don’t. And while the state of California might be between us, we’re better than alright.