First off, I never thought I’d find myself in a hotel that has a basic room rate of $525. I have written before about how I love a cheap suburban motel that offers free breakfast because I was raised by my dad to be a skinflint of the highest order.
When I saw the Mom 2.0 Summit was at the Ritz-Carlton Laguna Niguel this year with a special conference rate of less than half the rack rate, I got out my credit card and signed up.
I got myself a roommate, too (Schmutzie!), so I ended up paying about what I would have paid for a noisy motel on the highway somewhere, and instead got to stay, for once, at a real five-star resort.
If you don’t make a habit of staying at the Ritz (and I had certainly never imagined that I would), you might be wondering what $525 per night (at least – the suites go up to $2,750) buys you. Well, let me tell you in my own super special helpful bullet point list.
$525 per night gets you:
- A property so beautiful that it causes a weird little ache behind your breastbone, because it is too much beauty for your eyes to ever absorb all at once, so your heart has to expand to take it all in. When I checked in, the desk had this giant travel poster-type photo behind it. Except it wasn’t a travel poster and it wasn’t a photo. It was a giant screen with a live feed of the beach view from the hotel itself, complete with glassy green waves dotted with surfers.
Isabel Kallman and Georgia Getz relaxing on the lawn furniture
- A staff that will really do everything they can to make you happy. No really. Really. If you’re used to customer service in the everyday world, prepare to have your socks knocked off – and then washed, pressed, and returned to you wrapped in tissue paper tied with a bow, because that’s just how they would do it there. If you ask someone for directions, they will walk you where you need to go. The staff will call you by name. They will clean up your room not once, but twice per day. They will hand you towels, pick up after you, make messes disappear and ensure you are happier than you have been since your mom wrapped you in a sun-warmed towel after you got out of a cold swimming pool when you were four. (If you asked, they would probably even do that, too, but please don’t. It’s kinda creepy. And their pool is heated to 88 degrees, so you’ll be nice and toasty when you get out anyway).
- A staff that is way better looking than you. No insult, but they are. The person who brings your mojito or iced tea will be as beautiful as the location, which is stunning. Memorize their names, because someday when they pick up an Oscar, you can muse “And to think, he was the towel boy at the Ritz when I met him.”
- Food that doesn’t taste like hotel food. It’s expensive, but it also makes your tastebuds stand up and applaud. We had little trays of sea salt chocolate cookies delivered to our rooms one night that had Schmutzie and me counting them so that we didn’t have to have a fistfight over the last one. Even the coffee bar has pastries made by a real pastry chef (Opera Cake!), and fabulous steel-cut oatmeal and Peet’s Coffee. It’s $5 per cup, but you get free refills all day long.
- An experience you won’t ever forget, unless you’re some kind of crazy rich person who does this sort of thing all the time. This is a Destination resort with the capital D. If you want to make someone you love feel very special, a stay at a hotel like this is a good way to do it.
The pool area. One of them. Sigh.
Gym with a view
The only problem with the Ritz (as I now like to call it, since we’re on a first-name basis) is that is is almost TOO good. Every corner of the place is so beautiful that you want to chop yourself up like a starfish so you can be everywhere at once. The pool area is lush, tropical and fully staffed, so that next icy drink is just 2 minutes away. The beds are so soft and comfy that you feel like you’re floating on the wings of tiny angels. The third-floor outdoor bar has a view that would have made Ansel Adams weep. AND YOU WANT TO BE EVERYWHERE AT ONCE BUT YOU CAN’T, ARGH! That’s a good problem to have.
Sunset at the outdoor bar
Two thumbs up. The Hilton Garden Inn will never be quite the same.
Sometimes Progress is Nobody Even Caring
I was with a group of women yesterday. We ranged in age between 35 and 55, about. Some married, a couple single, some divorced. We were standing around eating snacks and drinking wine or lemonade (yeah, of course as soon as I get done drinking, I get invited to a party in a wine shop OF COURSE).
Some of the women work together and one was telling a story about a guy who didn’t like her because she’s a single mom. Long story, details not important.
One of the other women said “I wonder what he think of me if he knew I were a lesbian?”
Everyone laughed and kept talking.
Later, I thought how she couldn’t have said that without a major shocked reaction 50 years ago. Even 25 years ago. 10 years ago, that sentence probably would have led to some discussion of whether people were ok with that or whether she should have said that or how we were all really ok with that and how we support her “choices.”
Yesterday, it was just part of the flow of conversation. Yay for progress, when once unthinkable things become normal and people can just live their lives.
Conversations With Mom #172
(You might think this conversation is due to dementia, but we have been having the very same conversation for at least 25 years).
Mom: I saw something really cute on that program I like.
Suebob: Which program you like?
Mom: The one where that nice man travels around, on CBS.
Suebob: When is it on?
Mom: Sunday morning.
Suebob: Do you mean CBS Sunday Morning?
Mom: Oh, I guess. I can never remember.
Every single time.
Full Moon
Abbie Lynn and I went for our first trail hike yesterday. We got passed by a group of five on bikes – two adult men and three boys, who looked to range from about 8 to 12 years old. Soon we heard:
Kid Voice 1: Eeeeeyah!
Dad Voice 1: What?
Kid Voice 1: John showed me his butt!
Dad Voice 2: I did not!
Kid Voice 1: He did, he did. He was right in front of me.
Dad Voice 2: I was riding and my shorts slipped down.
Kid Voice 2: Oh yeah, like THAT happens.
Kid Voice 3: Was it hairy?
Dry
I quit drinking, which is worth doing just as an emotional Rorschach test for the people you tell. Drinking and the quitting thereof are just incredibly fraught for so many people, including, I suppose, me. The reactions varied from “Oh, yeah, right, you’re quitting” sarcasm to “Oh, ok, you can always get a Coke when you come out to the bar with us” nonchalance.
But despite the sarcastic responses and the friends who told me I could “just cut back,” I’m serious about quitting, done, no backup plan, no “special occasions.” I quit for good, and I would be truly disappointed in myself if I started again.
I don’t suppose I would quit drinking altogether if I didn’t have a drinking problem. But I didn’t have, and don’t think I ever would have developed, what we think of as classic troubled drinking behavior.
I have never had a hangover nor a blackout. I have only been drunk a handful of times and most of those were more than 25 years ago. I never missed a day of work, never drove drunk, never got in fights or fell down or whatever Lindsay Lohanesque behavior people usually imagine when they say “problem drinker.”
And yet, drinking was a problem to me. I drank nearly every day, a couple glasses of wine, maybe three. I’m affected disproportionately by alcohol. I’m the proverbial cheap drunk. So what might seem like moderate drinking to other people is more serious for me.
I’d often think “This is stupid, I should stop.” Then I’d vow just to drink on weekends or when I was out with friends, but those resolutions would quickly slip away.
Here’s my problems with drinking, as I see them:
- Drinking stole my motivation. Even one glass of wine makes me much less likely to do anything productive.
- Drinking covered emotions that I should have been feeling and dealing with. Not just bad emotions, but it dulled my good emotions, too.
- Drinking took away my free will – I did it because it was a habit, not because it was bringing me any good things.
- Drinking led me to eat more because my inhibitions were lowered and my resolve was weakened.
- Alcohol is a depressant. It struck me that this may not be the best treatment for someone who experiences pretty severe seasonal depression.
- Drinking made me boring, even to myself. My brain just didn’t work as well after even one drink.
- Drinking is expensive. I could have drank cheaper wine, but I liked wine to actually taste pretty good, which costs money.
And on my list of reasons for quitting completely, not just cutting back:
- I wanted more from life. I knew I could accomplish more and stretch further if I didn’t have alcohol in my life.
- I wanted to be free to not have to think about it anymore. The way to ensure I’m not drinking too much or too often is to not drink.
- Most of the people I truly admire are non-drinkers. These are people who are living really full, rich, authentic lives filled with risk and reward and goals and accomplishments. They inspired me A LOT. People like Schmutzie, Ellie of Shining Strong, Heather of the EO, Marius, Cindy Hitsman, and on and on. I want to be like them, not like Team Drunky.
- I don’t want to be buzzed. I want to be present. Something just suddenly flipped in my brain to make that possible. It’s perfectly acceptable in our society to spend a good part of your adult life in an altered state, and I’ve been thinking more and more why that isn’t something I want to do, why that doesn’t work for me anymore.
Ah, that felt good to write. I have been struggling with this for a long time, and to have made this decision and to be on this path feel so good.
I don’t plan to become an alcohol-free Scoldy McScolderson. Feel free to continue boozing it up in front of me. I have passed many happy hours with drinks and wine and friends, and I don’t want to change any of that, except for the me drinking part.
It’s not tough at all, not right now, though who knows? That may change. If it does, I have Marius’s number. He let me know I could call him anytime I felt like drinking, which is a nice ace-in-the-hole. Maybe I’ll even go sit on a metal folding chair in a church basement with him if I feel like I need it. I know help is out there.
At times, I feel a little sheepish, quitting without developing a big, life-threatening addiction. But then I realize that life-threatening is a continuum, not an all-or-nothing proposition. I want a bigger, more free, more interesting life than I had with a head full of alcohol. All I have to do is leave fermented grape juice behind. I think I can do that.
Like a Mythical Bird From the Ashes
“It’s going to be some kind of weird thing, I just know it,” Jim said.
“Like what?” I answered.
“Oh, we’re going to show up and they’re going to be swingers and they’re going to invite us to sit in the hot tub and when we get there, they’ll be naked.”
“Well, it has got good reviews,” I said.
That Jim. Always suspecting nefarious activities are going on all around us. I’d like to see the movie playing in his head some time. No, I wouldn’t.
Our plans in Phoenix involved a new type of adventure: staying at an airbnb. Airbnb is a website where people list private accommodations for rent – couches, trailers, rooms, whole apartments or homes – to the public, many at significantly below-market rates.
Ever the cheapskate, I jumped right in.
Jim was suspicious, but the process was pretty smooth. I researched places in Phoenix – and this was on Monday, and we were traveling on Friday.
I found three places, signed up on airbnb – you need a real phone number to sign up – and requested information. One place was already booked and another did not respond. But the third, a granny unit centrally located, responded right away with a rate of $90 per night.
Jim and I don’t sleep together, so we needed 2 beds, and most hotels were going for at least $150 per night (and I assumed we would need 2 rooms), so I thought this was a great deal.
The reviews were good, and there were lots of them, so I booked. The place was exactly as described, a cute granny unit in a quiet neighborhood, full kitchen, dining nook, living room with a TV we never quite figured out, bedroom, bathroom. No swingers in site, just a nice guy who showed us around, told us to make sure to lock up when we left, and pointed out that they had put food in the fridge for our breakfast. Success.
I had more success than Jim. He insisted, in gentlemanly fashion, that he would sleep on the air mattress and I could take the real bed. Then the air mattress wasn’t pumped up all the way the first night and he was afraid to wake me by futzing with it. So instead he woke me by thrashing around trying to get comfortable. The second night was better, though.
So hey, airbnb. Give it a try. Not sponsored. Just sharing.
Hitting the Road
When I was a little kid, one of my favorite things in school was getting a hall pass from my teacher. Everyone else would be in class behind closed doors and I could roam the quiet halls, free for a minute or two. I knew I was supposed to go to the restroom and come right back, but I often got a pass for the sole purpose of getting out of the classroom to be by myself.
I’d go to the bathroom, but then in a thrilling moment of rebelliousness, would walk back the long way, taking a hallway that wasn’t the most direct route. I had to be careful, of course, because adults were always on the lookout to mess with my fun. If I saw an adult, I would smile at them and walk quickly and purposefully, as if I had somewhere important to go.
I think it is this delicious thrill of a stolen, unauthorized moment that carries over into my love for heading out on the road with no one knowing where I am going. A tiny, short interlude in life, unmoored from all of my usual connections.
I was going to baseball Spring Training on Friday with Jim, driving from his place in Orange County to Phoenix. I snuck out early, on Thursday night, telling no one where I was going, and not knowing myself. The plan was to drive late in the evening to his area, find a hotel, and not have to get up early for the drive the next day.
I didn’t tell him my plan, or my mom or anyone. I drove through the dark alone listening to NPR and electronic music and my own throughts, weaving my way through LAs freeways until I got to Anaheim. After some minor setbacks (a cheerleading convention was in town, and I was damned if I was going to stay in a Sheraton with 3000 cheerleaders), and consultations with my iPhone travel apps, I found a small, well-reviewed suburban motel at about 11 pm and settled in for the night.
Settling in wasn’t without its struggles. First, the motel was designed rather oddly, with a dark parking lot behind a diner and no discernable lobby entrance. I drove around the parking lot and almost flinched at staying there – I was poised to head on, but then I realized how late it was and how much I didn’t want to go back to downtown Anaheim.
Once I found the entrance, however, I was relieved and happy to find it was clean and decorated in a pretty Mexican style, with shiny tile floors, colorful fountains and lots of bright artwork.
I found my room, got into my jammies and called the front desk for the wifi code. I had a bottle of wine and a corkscrew and wanted a glass of wine. The kitchenette even had nice wine glasses. But my corkscrew was cheap and I could not, for the life of me, get the cork out of the wine. So I put clothes back on, went to the front desk, and asked the nice young men there to open my wine.
Sure, single middle aged lady who arrives at 11 pm and comes out in different clothes at 11:30 with a bottle of wine, we’ll help you. I’m sure they’ve seen nuttier things, probably that same shift. I felt a bit gratified that it took them quite a bit of time to get the cork out, too. It wasn’t just my weak arms.
A caveat about staying anywhere near Disneyland: the kids in the motel get up early, and they are EXCITED. Excited as in “screaming their fool heads off without stopping.” It was loud but surprisingly didn’t annoy me much. I mean, who can blame kids who are waiting to go to the Happiest Place on Earth?
Jim and I met up at the IHOP while he got his car washed and cleaned. The guy at the next table was going on about Obama and socialism and people living off the system. Old white guy with a big gut and aviator-style glasses. Massive eyeroll at Orange County conservatives. Jim and I managed not to duke it out with him.
We headed southeast toward Phoenix in Jim’s black Mustang. He loves that car. Pink fuzzy dice and all. I nag him because I think he has a lead foot. He claims you have to drive a fast car like that. I roll my eyes.
Lunch in Palm Springs. My first visit to the fabled hideaway in the desert, now a bit of a gay mecca. Gorgeous landscaping, architecture, beautifully remodeled old hotels, charming cafes and shops. If this is the way gay people run things, I say, hand over the reins of power. They’re doing a good job.
We lingered a while, sitting on the lawn under a tree drinking fabulous coffee, having a chi-chi lunch of panini and beet and goat cheese salad. Part of the lingering was that the cafe had horrible service – our server took our order and disappeared for almost an hour with no other contact. I went in and tracked her down (it was not busy). Annoyed, she informed me that there was only one guy in the kitchen. Dude. One guy in the kitchen at Denny’s could have turned out 300 meals in that time.
I got my salad and started laughing. The big yellow beet slices were warm. The food took so long because they had to COOK THE BEETS. I think the server might have mentioned that they were out of beets. Ah whatever. We were sitting on comfy couches on a patio on a warm Palm Springs day. Not really so awful.
We drove around Palm Springs for a while with the top down, considering abandoning our plans to go to Phoenix. If we didn’t have four baseball tickets in our hands, we might have.
Then we were on the road again, heading across the big wide desert.
Next post: Phoenix.
Mom and Abbie Lynn
Abbie Lynn and I go to Mom’s for a visit.
“Wanna go see Grandma?” I say.
Abbie won’t stop licking Mom’s feet.
I mean, seriously, she will NOT STOP.
“What is wrong with that dog?” I wonder.
Mom laughs and laughs. “It tickles!”
After about 10 minutes, Mom finally says “Oh, I guess I DID drop a bunch of bacon on my feet this morning.”
Abbie Lynn when she hears me singing.
Dinner hour
I can sit at the counter at my favorite restaurant, watching the chefs cook.
Shem runs the place with a quiet, funny authority. He knows what he is doing. The way he moves shows it. No wasted motion. All the best cooks are like that. He’s cooking chicken parts, flames shooting out everywhere.
No one else gives him crap, but I do.
“You need a better vegetarian special,” I opine. “Linguine al pesto is so weak. What is this, 1987?”
To rub it in, I show him photos of my almond & parmesan crusted portobellos I made for lunch the other day. The sous chefs are impressed, but Shem just turns back to his chicken.
Lucky me – it’s grease-trap cleaning night. David sits the gunky full trap down in the sink, right in front of me.
“Mmmm, tasty,” I say.
“Fat is flavor,” Shem says.
“You got that right,” I reply.
Outed
My friends and I went to the Jewish Film Festival to see “Hava Nagila.” Highly recommended. Opens in Los Angeles at the Laemmle theaters and Encino Town Center next week.
We’re standing in a slow-moving shuffling line to get out of the theater. The man behind us says “Funny, you don’t look Jewish.”
He’s right. We’re caught. Ish is clearly brown and CC looks pretty Latina. Me? My friend Jim described me as “The most goyish looking person in the world.” Huh. I thought Jessica Simpson had me beat.
“Just fans,” Ish says.
Suebob's Red Stapler 