Another 99% True Story

Fear is a funny thing. I, for one, am afraid of many things: if I am a passenger in your car, I will be stomping on an imaginary brake our entire car ride. If you are making dinner, I will not let you speak to me if you are holding a knife. If you have a pet, I have to know where your soap is before I can give your dog or cat (or weasel or raccoon) a hug. I sort of tread that fine line between hopelessly neurotic and a whopping nervous breakdown, and I actually like living on that line. It keeps me on my toes and speeds up my metabolism. But, surprisingly enough, when something real and serious goes down, I have been known to not only be fearless, but also aggressive as hell.

Take, for example, the time I was in San Diego on a business trip. First, let me tell you what it took to get me out to the west coast: a lot of alcohol, a lot of prescription medicine, a lot of furious and heartfelt pleading with God and the cutest shoes I could find, because I’m convinced that the universe does not want to see a cute pair of shoes destroyed in a fiery plane crash. When I got to San Diego, I then had to negotiate the California freeways in a tiny rental that essentially had the pickup of a kick-n-go. I screamed all through the 25 minute drive, which probably looked hilarious to the other drivers, but I would like to note that, even the most terrified Ohioan still has much better merging skills than most Californians. Go Bucks!

I careened into my hotel, and checked in, only to find that I had been placed in a smoking room. The reason why I’d been put in a smoking room, the front desk person explained, was because the hotel was packed with professional bicyclers from all around the world, who were finishing up the Amgen Tour of California, basically, the Tour de France of southern Cali, and the hotel was crowded! I changed rooms, and as I made my way to my room, I ran the gauntlet of the aforementioned professional cyclers and their crews, who were all horny little comment-making bastards, who made me feel dirty, dirty, dirty. And a little bit attractive.

I only had enough time to throw my bag on my bed, because I was due for dinner in Vista, about twenty minutes north, where my sister Carroll lives with her beautiful family and adorable dog, Buck. I only had to wash my hands, like, twice on account of the dog and the fear of the crazy mergers on the freeway. We had some wine, and I was back at my hotel by around 9:30.

When I finally got a chance to look around my room, a half-suite with separate sitting and bedroom areas, I noticed that there was garbage in my garbage can and a used towel on my bathroom floor. I knew that there’d been quite a turnover at the hotel and a lot of activity from the race, plus my last-minute room switcharoo, so I called housekeeping and told them that I think they’d forgotten to clean my room before they’d turned it over to me. I didn’t care that much because I’d had a fair amount of wine and xanax and delicious dinner, and anyway, these things happen sometimes. A housekeeper came up right away, cleaned the bathroom, remade my bed, taught me Spanish, and emptied the garbage while I checked my email and got some work done. By the time she left, the Academy Awards were on.

You may remember the 2009 Academy Awards as the year that Slumdog Millionaire won in the Best Picture category. Now, I like Slumdog Millionaire as much as anyone else, but do you know what it was up against? The Reader. The Reader! Boy, that movie sucked! Also: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Ugh. 2009 blew for movies. ( By the way, I finally saw Up in the Air, starring George Clooney. I was not impressed! Does anyone want to talk about that?)

So anyway, I had just settled into my super sexy sleeping outfit of Carhartt overalls, a flannel shirt, a wool coat and size 14 Ugg boots and was sitting on the bed, watching TV, when all of a sudden, there was a thump against the door, the click of a key, and someone’s face peeking through the partially opened door! Thankfully, I had latched the security chain, but that didn’t stop the man from slamming into the door repeatedly, trying to get it open.

It’s a killer! I thought to myself! Someone’s gone all Jack-Nicholson-in-The-Shining on me! Get ready for the axe! Knowing myself, I expected myself to run into the corner, and then wait to die. What I did, however, was the exact opposite.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I screamed, leaping from the bed and running TO the door.

“There’s someone in there,” I heard a guy say. And then another guy answered with something muffled and foreign sounding.

“Get the hell away from my door you fucking asshole!” I screamed. And I mean screamed. Then, I launched myself against the door and slammed it shut.

“JACKASS!” I yelled for good measure.

(Completely unrelated side note: The other day, my mother said to me, “I like your blog, but why do you swear so much?” I told her that I swear so much in my blog because I swear so much in real life. “And besides,” I added, “You are an old lady and shouldn’t know about blogs. Now get back to your slot machine and earn me an inheritance.”)

Anyways. Having dispatched the intruders with a few well-placed curses, I strolled away from my door and back to my bed, where I resumed watching the Academy Awards for, like, three minutes, before I thought to myself, “Hmmmm. There was just a killer standing at my door with a key to my room. I should probably notify the front desk.” So, I called the front desk, and they were like, “Ooooops, sorry. That’s totally weird.”

“Oh,” I said. “Is that all? Do you think that maybe you should reset the key to the room and issue me a new key?”

“That’s a good idea,” the front desk person said. “We’ll send someone up shortly to deliver your new key.” A minute later, there was a soft knock on my door. A bellhop stood at the door with the new key, and behind him, were three sheepish looking bicyclers. The bellhop explained that the bicycler who’d unexpectedly intruded on my room earlier had been the previous occupant of the room. There had been a mix-up about his checkout date.

“Umm…,” I said to the trio of bicyclers, thinking about the launching at the door, the out-of-control swearing, and the fact that I’d been prepared to do hand-to-hand combat with these guys just five minutes earlier, “…..do I owe one of you an apology?”

“We just wanted to say sorry,” the spokescyclist said, looking at me like he was about 70% afraid of me. “And we’re glad that you latched your door.” They didn’t mention my outfit, or how hot I looked in it. I made nice with them, wished them luck in finding a room, and went back inside, shaking a little bit at the fact that, on the instant of sensing my life was in peril, I had run toward the battle, ready to defend my life, instead of away from it, which is what a reasonable person would do.

So my point is this, friends. Maybe you are a scaredy cat like me, but when push comes to shove, never fear. You, too, will have the strength to swear at tired European bicyclers who disturb your television-watching. It will all be okay.