I get weird in hotels.
Under normal circumstances, in my home, I’m a germaphobe. I don’t use the upstairs bathroom because it perpetually smells like boy. I have my own orange juice in the fridge because I’m the only one who likes it extra pulpy, but also because I drink out of the bottle and don’t want anyone else’s mouth on it. When guests come over and they use the bathroom off my bedroom, which by the way is weird that you are in my bedroom but whatever, and they use my towels to dry their hands, I basically throw them in a pool of bleach and light them on fire. I’m not calling you dirty, I just like the towel dampness I feel to be my own.
But when I get into a hotel, the (sterile, rubber) gloves come off and the suspension of disbelief kicks on. I willingly forget about the thousands of people who have slept in the bed, regretted bad decisions on the toilet, and passed out drunk in the tub. If I turned a black light on, would I find the sheets covered in hooker juice and fecal matter, probably. But, I don’t own a black light and that fluffy pube-lined robe has my name written all over it.
One of the perks of my career is travel, and I always try to bring Andy and the kiddos along as much as possible. It’s fun for them; the kids miss school but get to experience amazing new places, and Andy gets the pleasure of trying to have sex with me in a bed exactly adjacent to a bed of sleeping children. It’s like home, only with cleaner sheets.
I left for L.A. on a Wednesday, and this time due to schedules and appointments, travel companions were not in the cards, so leaving was a snotty mess. I don’t even wear make-up on travel days anymore, and I always try to leave at some insane time of the morning, so the kids are still asleep and I don’t traumatize everyone.
I just kiss them and whisper all creepy-like in their tiny ears, then squeeze Andy and remind him to keep the kids alive and to set the school/ballet/basketball/guitar lesson/dinner alarms. It’s not that I don’t trust him, it’s just that I don’t trust people who are not me.
In reality, it was probably for the best that I was going to L.A. alone. We had a super tight and jam packed shooting schedule with really long days and nights, and it would be easier for me to focus if I knew I didn’t have to wonder if Andy was going through my suitcase wondering why it’s packed full of shapewear and menstrual pads. I have no proof he does this, I just feel like maybe he would.
Despite that, I found myself missing him like crazy at 3am California Time under the top coverlet of my hotel bed. The one they never wash. I texted him but he was already at work, and busy, which was fine because I only had seven hours until I needed to be in the lobby, and I still needed to shower and watch 40 episodes of Law & Order (you know, the rapey one we all secretly love).
Late Friday afternoon, I was sitting in the back of our wood paneled station wagon on the way to Venice Beach when Andy texted me a picture.
What is this a photo of?
A bar in the Dallas Fort Worth Airport.
WTF where are you!?
I’ll be there in six hours.
Well shit, I married myself a Ryan Gosling, y’all. So I did what I do best when I travel, and much like the sitting room couch I sprawled naked across that morning, I suspended the reality of how many businessmen had their hairy balls there before me and didn’t worry about how much a day-of ticket from Detroit to L.A. probably cost or where the hell our kids were, and instead, embraced the romantic gesture, full monty.
When I got back to the hotel around midnight, I walked into my room to find him fully dressed and sleeping on my side of the bed next to a room service tray, and for the second time in a month, I renewed my vows to him in my head and passed out beside him.
The next morning, we ate breakfast together at 4am and he told me about how he had a 13 hour travel day, and then his bag didn’t come in on his plane (he checked it because he’s still apparently nervous about people seeing lube and vibrators on the x-ray screen, it’s adorable), and then he couldn’t find a cab. So much trouble for the pleasure of sitting in a hotel room waiting for me to come back from shooting.
So why did you come, do you not trust me around all these famous people?
Not even a little.
I knew it.
And there are less fees when I just withdraw your bail money directly from an ATM as opposed to having to wire it.
Makes sense, at least one of us is fiscally responsible in this relationship.
Seriously, I see you have been drinking and eating food from the mini bar, and you ordered a 24 hour block of porn, I mean… what have you been doing in this hotel room you needed 24 hours of porn?
Actually, porn is cheaper when you buy in bulk. I’m surprised you didn’t know that.
He changed my flight home to his airline, and upgraded our tickets to first class, something I superstitiously never do, even when it’s free, because I’m paranoid God will think I’m greedy and smite my plane into a mountain. But, when other people do it for me, I’m sure it’s fine.
While first class sounds like a grand gesture, it was really just a smart business decision. I mean, alcohol is free up there and the upgrade is way cheaper than the in-flight bar tab to get me home would have been.