That...and my hand was practically mauled in an near-death hotel elevator incident in Anaheim last week which makes typing painful and very, very difficult.
Actually my hand is fine. My psyche, on the other hand, is traumatized.
And I will be suing the horrible negligent hotel chain responsible for this near-tragedy.
Actually, no I won't. But only because it was a Marriott and not a Ritz-Carlton. Suing the Ritz Carlton would be fun. There's no joy in suing a Marriott.
Let me back up a bit.
So last week I went to the All-Star Game/Home Run Derby festivities in Anaheim. The Boy was "working" so, as guests of Major League Baseball, we stayed in the official Marriott with the All-Stars, press, agents, entourages and a few hundred smart autograph hounds. And while the Boy "worked", I generally did nothing and took stupid pictures.
Case in point
Of course, George, my tranny lego, came with me.
Case in point #2
George with the Boy's Chilean Three-Legged Good Luck Pig - I really have no explanation
It was a surreal experience. Walking through the hotel lobby was a bit like trying to walk past the Ivy on Robertson Avenue...head down, shoulders squared, hold out hotel key for three layers of security, brace for line of autograph seekers and the disappointment that radiates from them when they realize we're nobodies, slide past last layer of security before elevators, and then SCORE...collapse in your room.
I learned a few things at the All-Star game...things I never learned on ESPN.
No. 1... If you get your hand caught in an elevator, All-Star baseball players will look at you blankly and absolutely not help you.
So since all the autographers tended to hang out in the lobby, the All-Stars tended to congregate and socialize in front of the elevator banks - two levels of security past the lobby. It wasn't sexy, but it seemed to work for them.
On Sunday night as we were headed back to our room, the Boy and I ran into All-Star Pitcher and All-Star Outfielder in front of the elevators. The Boy knows them both and struck up a boy-style conversation with lots of grunts and hand slaps while I stood nearby feigning interest in the conversation while really mentally piecing together the next day's outfit. At some point I hear the Boy start to say things that would indicate the conversation is ending so I push the "Up" elevator button because it's midnight and I'm assuming that since we're all standing in front of the elevators, that everybody wants to...I don't know...GO UP TO THEIR ROOMS.
The elevator door opens and nobody but me moves towards the door. So I hesitate and the elevator door closes. I hit the "Up" button again. I look at the Boy to make sure we are indeed still going up. He's oblivious and still yapping but takes a step towards me.
The elevator door opens. I make a move towards the door and as the door starts to close - yet again - I throw my arm in between the doors so that they will stay open. Except they don't. The door closes on my arm.
I panic and look at the Boy. And he just looks at me. I look at All-Star Pitcher and All-Star Outfielder. And they just look at me too.
In my head I'm screaming "What the fuck?!" and "Ouch, goddamn motherf***er" but, as I glare daggers at the Boy, I calmly throw all of my weight into prying the door open with my other hand and extricate my dented arm from the offending elevator.
"Now are you ready to go up?" I say, holding my dented arm and shattered ego.
The Boy looks sheepish and nods. We all get on the elevator. All-Star Pitcher looks up as the floor numbers light up one at a time and says "Did that just happen?".
More things I learned at the All-Star Game (Nos. 2 & 3) and more stupid pictures are coming soon. Frankly, I started writing this and it got long and I ran out of wine, so I think a sequel is warranted.
And I'm lazy. Whatever.