Chocolates on my Pillow

Blog POST preface:

Do you think if I start writing a blog post on the last day of one month and write past midnight into the early morning of the first day of the next month that it would count as two months worth of posts?

Just wondering.

The post on the list of LOVEs felt surprisingly satisfying. Especially considering the frame of mind I was in, prior to starting that post. I think it may have actually changed the chemical balance in my brain as I wrote.
I heard somewhere (probably in a Talking Book as I drove to work) that if you are in a bad mood and you deliberately smile, going against your emotional grain, it changes the chemistry in your body and decreases your hostility, or sadness, or loneliness or whatever has you down.

I tried it. And I have to say there may be something to this. I don't think it's the smile that makes so much of a difference, as much as the fact that I cannot seem to smile and scowl at the same time. I feel the relief of negativity much more around my eyes than I do around my mouth, when I try this. It actually feels better even as I sit here and write about it.

Anyway. . . .

The LOVE list post inspired the following . . . . . actual POST:
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I love staying in hotels.

Why do I love hotels? And is it true love, or just infatuation?

I can tell you that I love endless ice. A magic machine that produces crystal clear perfect chunks of ice with out end. I love that.

And I love room service. I hate the price but love being served my desired meal in my room. I love that. Clam chowder and sour dough bread. Cheese burger, milk shake and onion rings. Prime rib, baked potato and mixed green salad. Serve me. Love, love, love.

Then, and I love this too, clean up after me. Take away my mess and leave me to my glass of deep red wine. Or my deep glass of red wine.

I love relaxing in a tub that I didn’t have to clean before I climbed in. And I won’t have to clean after I get out. All the good of a bath and none of the bad. I love that.

I love that I don’t have to keep track of how much toilet paper there is. It simply is magically refilled every day. Every day! Sweet, sweet toilet paper fairy.

And the magic toilet paper fairy must have a best fairy friend responsible for the cute little shampoos and lotions and soaps. I love the little hotel fairies.

I'm writing this as I sit in a hotel. I wish I were here alone. Definitely and indefinitely.

But it isn’t all perfect.

It should be quieter.

What is it with parents thinking that their children do not require their supervision just because they are with in the walls of a relatively nice hotel? Putting aside the safety issue, why do they assume the rest of the hotel occupants are happy to put up with ten year old girls running laps around the third floor, while these parents drink draft beer or the house chardonnay in the lounge?

Or seven preteen boys unsupervised and huddled around the single free and unfiltered Internet terminal in the building?

And there is that nagging feeling of wondering just how clean these sheets really are. These pillows, the towels in the bathroom. That crystal clear ice? Try not to let yourself think about that too much.

And this room could be better ventilated. Or ventilated at all. I want to open a window that doesn’t over look the alley. I want to breathe well. I want to sleep with a cool breeze brushing my face. I need fresh air, for heaven sake.

There’s also the distraction factor.

I imagined sitting alone and undistracted in the tranquil courtyard of trees and plants and fountains and attractive décor. Typing away happily, productively. My goal was to write.

But instead I am not alone and I am not undistracted. The chairs here in the garden courtyard are stylish as hell but hell to sit in. And I can’t stop ‘people watching.’ Uninteresting people at that. Not a single interesting man, woman or child has crossed my path. No one worthy of study or speculation.

If I am to be distracted, at least it could be by a parade of attractive, interesting and dynamic individuals. But that, sadly is not the case. Ordinary is all I see. I’d be better off in Pioneer Square with a sleeping bag and a bottle in a plain brown wrapper. But we know me better than that, don’t we? I hate camping.

My last sixteen minutes of paid time. Check out at noon. And let’s review.

• Get a lot of writing done about Jenna? No. None.
  


• Get a lot of personal journal type writing done? No, none to speak of.
  


• Any writing at all? I don’t know what you’re talking about.



• Okay, then reading. Finish any books? No. Any chapters? No. Shut up.
  
  
  

So there you have it. I suck.

I have a very difficult time thinking of myself as an author, as a legitimate writer in any context, when this kind of thing happens. Wouldn’t you? Seriously. Time, space, opportunity, stories waiting to be told, and nothing. Impressive.

Why do I find it so easy to chew on myself like this? Why is it not as easy to build myself up, when the time calls for it? Seems unfair. I hate it, but this defeated feeling is the most comfortable one I know. And the saddest, suckiest part is, I am probably the most frequent fuel source for this particular emotion. How about that?

Wow, apparently I can seriously digress. . . . Back to hotels and what I love.

Is the key to my love of hotels, the infrequency of my hotel stays?
If I could live in a hotel, would the magic fade, just as it does with any love?
After the infatuation wears thin, and all you can see are the flaws ….

Would the fairies start to get on my nerves?

Flippin' fairies!