My Mardi Gras

Night view from indoor balcony, originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn.

Same view, different (part of the) day. Pretty. Now to remember not to dance around in mah gutchies ’cause people can like see in here and stuff. And since every Tuesday is a fat one (I prefer “pudgy”), I forgot to bring beads to commemorate this particular Mardi Gras.

OK actually there will be no dancing, as my ankle has now officially swelled to the size of my head and I’m thinking they’d rather have me bleeding than be in Crocs tomorrow. Le sigh. Le motherfuckin’ ouch.

Anywhoo, I decided to check into the spa. And I’ve officially become a spa snob. Yes, a spa snob. As in, I’ve been to the St. Regis spa in Aspen and Spa Mandalay in Vegas, so I Can Officially Judge You. And the spa at the hotel? Meh. The former has an oxygen lounge and the latter has hot whirlpools, so I was bored at this one.

Actually, I jest, although there is more truth to my unimpressed-ness than I care to possess. I spent a half-hour in the wet eucalyptus steam room and came out and put some cold cucumbers on my eyes.

I was well-aware that I was neither in a flattering pose nor in flattering attire (read: with mascara under my eyes and a towel around my person), but I was in la-la land for a good 15 minutes when the spa monkey brought two women with high-volume voices on a tour.

And one of them said, “WE KNOW HER!”

I un-cucumbered my eyes and I’m pretty sure an expletive slipped out. Colleagues! Aaaah!

Zen-like trance GONE. I said I wasn’t expecting to be seen in this state, and they said they’d pretend they never saw me. Spa Monkey led them to their lockers, and I ducked into the dry redwood sauna. Luckily, I could hear them talking from down the hall, and they chose the wet spa. *whew*

I hid in what’s called the “Tea Room” (i.e., where they serve tea — clever, that) but I could actually hear the women talking. About work. So I left.

Hobbled out, is more like it.

Oh God, they’re playing Jimmy Buffett at the bar on the boat below. (An acoustic version of “Margaritaville.” Wasn’t I just there last night? Feels inappropriate to be drinking a skinny vanilla latte whilst listening to that tune.

I got a bucket full of ice and I’m looking forward to putting it on my injured foot. Preferably while sitting on my balcony.

There ain’t an ACE bandage in sight in this hotel, so thanks to all this pain, no kicking anyone’s asses if they annoy me. Because just like when your parents told you it would hurt THEM more than it would hurt YOU, kicking those who might need it would DEFINITELY hurt me more!

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