Grilled salmon, asparagus and parmesan risotto. Nice. Add a nice glass of champagne. Ok. After a long day of shooting, I needed a nice little nightcap. A little bubbly perhaps. After I make the order, I start the shower… thinking I have half an hour, like the concierge noted. I forgot that I was on the phone for twenty five of those thirty minutes. As soon as I hopped into my waterfall wasteland of awesomeness, I hear a pounding on the door. Yay! Oh wait, Dammit. Room service. I’m wet. I need to let them in. I’m elated -and naked- all at the same time. I rush to put a towel on and slip on the mock travertine shower floor. Whew. Close one. I catch myself… this time. I’m not always this lucky though. Klutz. Yep. Always.

Shuffling my wet flippers out of my wading pool of bliss after nearly cracking my head open against the shower door… which, by the way, isn’t even really a door. It’s a glass partition approximately a foot wide, that isn’t even keeping the shower water from escaping its designated area. It looks cooler than it functions. Water is all over the bathroom door, the floor and forget the towel I had lay down to keep me from being the elderly broad on the commercial shouting, to no one, “Help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.” Where’s my necklace button when I need it? Oh, I’m not elderly. Dammit. The universe amuses itself with me. I struggle with my towel, as naturally, it doesn’t want to wrap around me. I’m munchkin-size… why is this oversized, moveable sponge NOT cooperating? Just wrap around my petite frame, so I can open up the slammer keeping me from my nourishment.

I finally get to the portal that separates myself from my stunning sustenance and the look on the guys face making the delivery is comparable to probably seeing a unicorn was hiding behind a lamp in my room. He apologizes for disturbing me and is very sweet. I feel bad. Now I’m repeating “I’m sorry” also. It’s ok. Story of my life. Oddball dysfunction has made quite a home for itself. Shrugs. I’ve accepted it. But this poor guy… he never saw me coming. And I’m still fighting my towel. Stupid towel.

Flash forward a few minutes. I plop on the tv, doesn’t work on the channel that I want to watch. Shocker. Oh well, and I’m looking at my glass and it doesn’t look like a pretty, clear sparkler at all. It looks like a cabernet. Hmm. I’ll investigate this in a moment. I remove the lid to my feast and it looks amazing. Picture perfect. Yep, you guessed it. The risotto tastes microwaved, the asparagus is soggy and lucky me the salmon is a weird cross between over-cooked and sloshy. I eat it anyway. I’m too tired to complain and too hungry to care. And yes, cabernets don’t go with fish. I’m aware of this fact so I wait to drink that later, because I’m thinking, it’s possible what sparkling fizzle I ordered looked much different than I anticipated and maybe, I’m just clueless or something. Don’t screw with my alcohol people.

It’s a cabernet. It’s horrible, horrible cabernet… and I’m waking up with a headache. I wanted a fizzle and I got a buzzle. Buzzles are busted fizzles. Fizzles that didn’t quite work out. Yes, I made it up. Next time, I will be more specific. Apparently, descriptively placing an order for a sparkling brut champagne gets you a cabernet in this town. I wonder what comes to your room when you want a mimosa…

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