Continued Adventures of Super-Belle! Part Deux — Vacation Submission into Acceptance . . .
So, it goes like this . . .
SO, JUST TO GET US STARTED AGAIN, A LITTLE EXCERPT WHERE I LEFT OFF — OR CLICK HERE FOR THE
So, yes, after the “hotel” has checked every ID I have to confirm my seemingly outrageous signature, including my frequent buyers card for the Mobile Buzz-n-Wash-n-Fluff for my dog, they have agreed to hand me some hotel keys. It’s about sticking time. However, they have efficiently diverted me over to the “activities director” in order to obtain my parking pass.
No activities director, no parking pass.
So, I shuffle my numb 3.5-hour sedated butt over to the activities desk so that I can register our SUV and finally check-in to the unit so I can place semi-lame derriere into the couch and watch some freaking TV. That’s why I drove all the way up here, right? To nag my kids and watch television. Evidently I can’t do that well enough at home, that I have to come up to mountains and share my blastings with people from around the globe in the midst of a calm hillside with tiny white yarrow flowers dotting the paths and rocks, and inhale the green effervescent misting of allergenic pollen spores.
Where’s my frigging Allegra, man?
So, I finally get the parking pass from the tenacious talons of the activities commandant, however she does not relinquish it without the covert mention of the possibility of me attending a timeshare presentation. “And, you get entered in the $100 drawing if you go on the weekend!”
What did you just say? Do my ears deceive me? Timeshare presentation? Did she really just say that? Or was it just the dread lingering in the back of my crowded head? Were one of my voices whispering it — just to scare me?
I look at her. She looks at me. “$50 dollar gift card.”
So, she DID say it. She said IT. Those words…timeshare presentation. I don’t even have the balls to type it in capital letters…
So now they have admitted it.
They acutally want me to come on this Saturday afternoon, just after checking in, just after having driven all the way from the bees nest of LA County . . . that, yes, they want ME to march in and be a willing participant for a 90-minute hurl of timeshare goosh-gosh.
Yeah, right, and throw in an enema while you’re at it, okay?
Like I want to hear that crap after I made this 3 1/2 hour drive up into the mountains on my government spends-pre-tax dollars on my bright and beautiful stinking Saturday afternoon with them talking about timeshares?
So, after I gave them a hysterical laugh and an emphatic “No,” they followed up with an “invite” to come on Sunday morning.
Uh, Sunday morning…hmm…. let me think about that. Uhhhh…. NOT..
Okay, now that they have determined from that I am, like, from the San Fernando Valley with all my “Valley girl” rhetorical responses like, uh well, “like” and like, “ya know, yeah ri-ight,” and like, “talk to the hand, dude.” I think somewhere in there they figured out that I wasn’t going to come in on Sunday morning.
Yes, kids. It is a fact, that no matter where you go – especially in this market people need to sell what they have. In this case it’s timeshares. I can only imagine that they are not moving with the same speed as they were forked out in prior years.
Yes, however, in order to get away, without giving up my first-born’s virginity, and my second born’s jewelettes, I eventually agree to a Monday morning submission to listen to the exciting world of timeshare.
So, yes everyone, you guessed it, after writing my name in her calendar of timeshare editorial enchantment — 8 am Monday morning, I finally got the stinking parking pass.
You’d think that I had just negotiated a multi-million dollar deal. Fricking sweating at the dang check-in. I mean, crap, right?
I dread that I have now decided that I’m going to spend my first weekday morning getting the inevitable pitch of why I would rather spend $42,000 for one week a year (plus maintenance fees, taxes and miscellaneous expense. All these recurring fees for the rest of my life – I repeat – for the rest of my life, okay just once more for effectiveness – for the rest of my life for a “chance” to book a larger unit (yes, they are larger than a hotel room) but timeshare locations are rarely on the beach, or convenient, or frankly, just anywhere where ANYONE would WANT to be) instead of just spending $200-$300 a night anytime I want for any location I want — even on the blinking beach.
Yeah, well, I think I am jumping ahead of myself.
But, I guess my time is cheap on a Monday morning at 8 am, while everyone else sleeps… yes, I guess my time is cheaper then.
We finally get to the room, and it’s actually quite spacious, and has a BBQ, a porch and some green grass.
Woo hoo. Gotta party with me, right?
We get all the crap of “had to bring” vacation doo-dah out of the car, which incidentally, takes about 2 hours. Let me tell you — I’ve got a lot of crap. And, the mountain bikes, helmets, and all the refrigerator stuff that is now leaking low-Goddamn-fat 2% milk all over our nice frigging SUV.
Man, is that going to stink in three days.
Now that all my “help” has conveniently disappeared.
So, I use our swimming towels to mop up the milk that has now seeped past the carpet fibers that line the seat back it’s sitting on. It is now slurdged it’s way in between the folded seat and is going between the beautifully sewn upholstery threads and soaking it’s little white-lakey-of-milk-puddle into the flipping seat . . . right where someone’s butt is supposed to go.
So, I use those ugly swimming towels, with nobody else to help me. I figure those get the most abuse anyway. I don’t even want to think about what pool towels have been used for in the past to clean up “accidents” by prior “guests.” You get the drift here?
By the way — Never, and I repeat, NEVER use an ice bucket without a plastic liner at a hotel. ANY hotel. Even the Ritz. Especially the Ritz. The fancier the place the more arrogant the “accidents.”
Here’s the 411, for you unsuspecting hotel-ites — ice buckets are commonly used for . . . (NOT BY ME OF COURSE . . . Don’t even go there — we want to remain friends, right?) ICE BUCKETS ARE COMMONLY USED AS vomit buckets and the occasional port-o-potty.
There. I’ve said it. It’s the truth.
Consume ice at your own risk, baby!
we I clean up all the frickin’ mess out of the car. We’ll trade them out later, but for now, just have the get the now somewhat curdling cottage cheesed milk up of my blinking car seat.
And, all of this fun . . . gives me time to think . . . think about how my son will get to sleep the day away, while I . . . get the “golden ticket” to go what I constructively call boredom, polite smiling, nodding, bad coffee and last week’s muffins to attend this grand timeshare presentation.
I don’t know necessarily what I was thinking of at the time, but it could NOT have been good thoughts toward myself. Why I should submit myself to this type of torture for a parking pass ….
But, when I checked in, they assured me that it was going to be a “delightful” (yes, that was the exact word) 90-minute conversation in which they were going to try to convert from the triviality of my mundane existence to the bright sunshine of timeshare ownership.
I am a cheap fricking 90-minute date.
They offered $50 for this 90 minutes of my precious vacation time which I have now given up to spend with them.
So like I said, I have the time to think about the fact that I have agreed to waste 90 minutes of my life on a Monday morning in exchange for a $50 gift card to a restaurant have no interest in eating.
So, y’all come back, now. Ya’ hear?
Be well Dahhhhlings,
S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
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Tags: $50, 2009, accident, adventures, Author, belle, BLACK, Book, California, Death, deux, Grief, ice, ice bucket, karper, Life, Los Angeles, Memoir, milk, monday, Outspoken, Speaker, submission, sunday, super, Survivor, timeshare, vacation, Valley Girl, vomit, voo-doo
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