Wednesday night, at 1:30 AM, I was sitting at my desk in tears. Partly because I was frustrated that I was still working at that ungodly hour, partly because my eyes were so dry that I could no longer see the tiny cells in Excel clearly. So I admitted defeat, and went to bed. On Thursday I received an e-mail saying, “When you arrive at the airport in Florida, look for a driver holding a sign with your name at the bottom of the escalator. He will get your bags, and bring you to the Ritz Carlton. … !
On Thursday I was only up until midnight, but that was because I had to get up at 5 to catch a plane. I didn’t bother applying makeup because, well, it was 5:00 AM, which is just a fancy way of saying Very Late on Wednesday Night, as far as I’m concerned.
I rather regretted the lack of makeup and the dingy t-shirt when I met Gils at the bottom of the escalator, in his fancy suit, as he whisked me and my holey suitcase off to a Mr. Big car.
I arrived at the Ritz, and barely had time to drop off my bags before I had to start working, again. Fortunately, I was greeted with hugs and a fresh fruit platter, rather than the verbal lashing I was expecting, for not having finished the reports that I had been working on the previous nights.
We began drinking around 4, although we didn’t finish working until after 10. I was sent to my room with another hug, and direct orders to order whatever I wanted from room service for the rest of my stay, including alcohol.
As I sit here, well into my third amaretto sour, I feel not-as-guilty as I did for not having finished those reports. As a matter of fact, fuck the reports! I am drunk, and getting a massage tomorrow! I was taken to a dinner tonight that cost more than I earn in two months. We had ice wine for dessert. Because we were too stuffed from the pâté and tuna tartar with mango to stuff in any unpronounceable French souflee-esque gold encrusted chocolate whatevers. This was the first restaurant I had ever been to where, when I asked for a glass of water, they brought out a Fiji bottle and poured it into the glass next to my iced wine, chardonnay, pinot noir, amaretto sour, and I’m not sure what else because HELLO! I have not stopped for water in 24 hours!
I think I have been working a lot. I am not sure. My memory is, oddly, fuzzy.
But the people are nice, the conversation is lively, (I’m sure it is, you raging alcoholic!) and the bed is diiiiivine. I wish there was a Funasaurus here to partake. I’m lonely, here, just me and amaretto, listening to the jazz station… in our overhead, marble shower, right next to the sumptuous robe and slippers. Oh yeah- and Harry Potter? I’m almost done. Meaning: I can almost start reading blogs, magazines, and newspapers, again. Life isn’t all bad.
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6 comments:
Whoa. Sorry to hear you've been burning the midnight oil. But at least it seems the company takes mighty fine care of you.
And yeah, how about you work on your water to alcohol ratio. Lol, j/k.
Witty, hilarious post as always. Hope you're having a nice time in Florida.
Damn girl - even drunk you are snappy :)
Sounds rough, but with a happy ending.
Damn. The only place my job ever sends me is the post office. And you don't want to accept any massages being given out there.
If you've got to work that hard, doing it at the Ritz is the way to go!
How are you able to still blog after drinking your weight in alcohol? I would be a complete mess and make no sense. I barely make any sober.
AND, I will work for free for one week in exchange for a room at the Ritz, a massage, and an unlimited bar budget. I bet I could put a serious dent in the liquor supply.
You had a driver named "Gils", who picked you up in a town car, took you to the Ritz, where you got a massage and a gourmet dinner? That's insane! Make sure to steal as much as you can from the hotel room.
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