I’m not usually given to blogging at 11:00 p.m. on Wednesday nights, but I’ve had four cups of coffee this evening and I’m so wired you could hook me up to a Bose sound system. Nor am I normally given to drinking coffee after, oh, 9:00 a.m. but my beloved, who has been out of town on business since Sunday evening, was supposed to arrive at the airport at 11:00 p.m. tonight. Knowing full well from past experience that this means I would be up until at least 1:00 a.m. Thursday morning (if not 2) while he winds down, I felt it might be wise to fortify myself with a little well-timed caffeine.
Of course his flight was canceled and he’s stuck in Atlanta overnight. So here I am, hopped up on French Market coffee, seriously considering baking a lemon chess pie and a loaf of homemade raisin bread. And no, I do not mean with a store-bought crust or with the bread machine.
Actually, I spent the last hour or so calling up every Howard Johnson’s within a 50 mile radius of the Atlanta airport trying to find out if he had a reservation – apparently, the person at the gate shoved a piece of paper saying “Howard Johnson’s” with no phone number, address or directions at him, said it was “about 30 minutes away” and told him to “go there.” Which left me to find out just where “there” was. Silly me, when they told him to “go there” I thought they had made him a reservation, which – of course – they had not. But I did get a good look at the internet reviews for the one closest to the airport; it had about 30 reviews, with a 1 1/2 star rating…out of 5. From what I could gather, calling this place a flea-bag would be a kindness.
Now, I’m not exactly renowned for ability to stomach ickiness and guck and goo (to say nothing of televised surgical procedures) and the reviews were far more descriptive than I cared for, so you can imagine my reaction when he called to say that’s where he was headed. Nor could I have been more relieved when he called back to tell me he was going to another hotel, further away. However, I like to cover my bases, so the minute he checked in to his room he called me (mostly because I nagged him to and he has a strong sense of self-preservation), I asked anxiously, “There aren’t any hookers or drug dealers hanging around, are there?”
“No,” he replied, brightening considerably. “Should I go look for some?”
Yes, friends and neighbors, we are together for a reason.