Do Not Disturb....Please?

Let’s discuss hotel rooms. In the beginning of the week, I was thinking how I adore hotels. I wish I could bottle up whatever smell hotel hallways have and make my bedroom smell like that all the time. It smells like a combination of freshly vacuumed carpets, hope and chlorine. Plus, staying in a hotel is like living in the mansion you never had: there’s a pool, a maid, a soft bed, no dogs crushing your legs or bladder and people who will serve you a meal at a phone call.

            However, actually staying at a hotel this past week, I remembered all too quickly why my family and I all have separate bedrooms. First of all, there must have been a yeti gene that skipped me, because someone is always setting the air conditioning to what could only be 32°. I say that because my iced green tea from Starbucks next to me isn’t frozen yet, but is perfectly cold, despite being purchased 12 hours ago. And in spite of me being the only one freezing, somehow I’m the always the closet to the air conditioner. After freezing to death for years when I was younger on our annual trips to Ocean City, I finally started to bring thick socks, a long sleeved shirt, a thick sweatshirt and pajama pants to bed but even then I was getting icicles.

            The second thing is that you learn things about your family you don’t want to know. And I’m not talking about your brother’s morning “blood circulation” problem. I mean like your mom snores like a ship coming into harbor. Your brother wakes up every few hours screaming like a Vietnam vet when he’s sick. When your dad has been drinking, he and your mom compete in the Olympics of snoring. Your other brother has to fall asleep to the T.V. turned up to just the point where the neighbors won’t complain, but so you can’t fall asleep until he shuts it off. And then there is the neurotic sister who wakes up in the middle of the night, turns on a light and starts reading or writing.

            Then, there is the fact that I’m the freak of my family and need to read before bed while everyone else is watching Adult Swim. And just saying, it is hard to read Hemingway while Robot Chicken is blasting.

            Finally, think abut the logistics of hotels. They are designed to fit the most amount of people in as little space as possible and lock them up in a small room. Where else does that happen? Prison, zoos and mental hospitals. Oh, and college dorm rooms but at least them, you get your own sheets.

            So, next time you’re on a family vacation, don’t forget your parka, the Breathe Right strips and industrial strength ear plugs. Otherwise, you will probably be reading this at 3 A.M. if you can concentrate over Family Guy.  

Sizing Me Up

Let’s talk about sizes. There are many sizes a lady has to memorize in order to have her outfit perfectly fitted to her body. Shirt size, pant size, shoe size, bra size, underwear size, ring size, dress size. It is all a mess of numbers.

            Then, to add to it all, there are the names of certain sizes. Sure, being labeled as “small” or “medium” sounds nice; it makes you feel better about yourself. I am small, I am medium. Then, with ladies with curves, you are considered “large” or “extra large.” I don’t want to be known as large. I am not large or extra large, I have curves and am probably a D cup. Why isn’t there a size called “curvy” or “non-stick figure”? Elephants are large. SUVs are large. Skyscrapers are large. Women are not large. Why do you think none of us usually admit we are bigger than a medium? Because we don’t want to be labeled as large.

            And then there are common misconceptions of pants and dresses, ranging from sizes 00-22. Working in retail, I learned that men’s pants are measured by the inches around their waist. Thus, a man with a 36 inch waste will wear a 36 sized pant. However, women have 00 and 12.What does 00 mean anyway? That you have a less than 0 waist line? Or 12? I am a size 13 and I know my waist isn’t 13 inches around. The common misconception is that any size 12 or up means that a woman is fat or unhealthy. I don’t consider myself either. I work out, I try to stay in shape and my job consists of running around for about 8 hours.

            The numbers don’t add up. Shirt size, pant size, shoe size, bra size, underwear size, ring size, dress size. I feel as though, with this particular subject, it is best to ignore numbers. It has worked well with me avoiding math so far.

Sticks, Stones and Words

      The common phrase “sticks and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me” is supposed to inspire confidence. I like to believe that this is, pardon my French, a load of crap. If someone throws sticks and stones at you, the wounds will heal but being insulted can stick in the back of your mind for the rest of your life.

            Two examples of common phrases that are worse than sticks and stones are “That’s retarded” and “That is so gay.”

            I will start with “That is so gay.” “Gay” in this case is supposed to be synonymous with “stupid.” One, homosexuals do not walk around saying “That is so straight,” because it would offend people. So how do you think homosexuals feel when “that is so gay” is used? I know, it is used so often to the point that no one really recognizes what he or she is saying, but it is still offensive. What is wrong with the world stupid? If you mean stupid, say stupid.

            And then there is the darling phrase: “That is retarded.” I will give you a scenario for this one. At my place of employment, we were a little hectic in getting ready for the season, which started last week. So, this boy I know had to write the menu for the concession stand by himself. He doesn’t have the best handwriting, but at least he tried. He was told to find someone else to rewrite the sign and he did. Even though the sign has been changed for over a week, his boss decided to still harp on the subject and told the boy that he, and this is a direct quote, “writes like a retard.” Now, the thing that his boss doesn’t know is that the boy has a learning disability that he doesn’t promote about himself, where he has trouble with motor skills, which includes handwriting. The boy didn’t tell his boss the truth and he isn’t one to start trouble, but you can sure as hell believe that his family is very offended. Do not use the word “retard.” You don’t know what people have or what they have gone through. You don’t know who that word would offend. There is not a certain look that a person with special needs has. And even if there was, why would you insult someone like that for having a different way of learning that doesn’t fit the mainstream?

            The moral of the story is think before you talk. Sticks and stones can break your bones, but words are something that hurt even more.