I slip out to Boston for, like, five seconds and what happens? Steve spectacularly fails in his parental responsibilities, that what happens. Namely: he neglected to keep Patrick safe from Disease and Contagion and now the poor little thing is so congested he can only breathe through his ears. Packy spent most of last night whimpering pitifully in my arms, his hands twisted in my hair and his wet, gross nose pressed somewhere near my right eyelid. I was vividly reminded all night long of my post-college vow to never, never again share a single bed.
Bleh. And, damn I am tired.
Boston was, um, what's that word that conveys a notion of having been thwarted at every turn and yet a great sense of hilarity prevailed? Well, that. It was that.
Cab drivers dropped us* miles from our expressed destination, leaving us shoeless (literally) and drowning (figuratively) in the pouring rain. Bartenders blithely asserted they had already rung last call... at 10:15. Waiters blew ass in every possible way but the good one. Doormen failed to open doors, secure cabs, or tell the truth when asked for the loan of an umbrella. In sum, le Service de Boston, it was poor. It was incredibly fucking poor. And, as our goal was to wallow in luxury for a couple of days, the bewildering and comprehensive suckitude of everything was keenly felt. We felt it keenly. We keened.
On the plus side I have not laughed as hard as I did last weekend since that time in REI with the tiny boots, thirteen years ago. The company was magnificent (well I thought it was). Our mistake, we concluded, was ever leaving the safety of the suite and the warm glow of the collected bottles therein. Or, I suppose, our mistake was trusting people when we asked for directions or when we instructed a cab driver to take us to 123 Main Street and only discovered after he had zoomed away that he had actually opted to leave us at the intersection of Atlantis and Hell. I am sure I am not the first person to say this, but next vacation we are definitely going to Delaware.
Now I have to go bathe in carbolic before Patrick wakes up and covers me in germs - again. Back, you know, later.
*I am quite certain that I did not obtain her express written consent to go blabbing all her business (which I am remarkably prone to do) but I have the vague impression that I did secure her implied oral consent so... yes... Julie and I battled Boston together. She was the one in the pink flip-flops. Boston won.