It was a Crazy Party!

I was born in San Diego. Maybe that’s why I return for my birthday, like a trout swimming upstream against terrible odds and a heavy current to reach that mythic birthplace.

Also my sister lives there and she will babysit.

It would be a civilized adult weekend of quiet and reflection. The hotel let us in early—before we had a chance to dump—I mean drop off the kids—so we had them in tow.

All employees wore black outfits with mirrored shades. No one looked over twenty-two. There was a Prius displayed prominently outside the lobby.

I translated all that to mean “We are a young, green, and rockin’ cool hotel.” Memorabilia from rock stars was framed and autographed. I felt old. After all, my husband and I were the only people in the hotel who remembered when Mick Jagger actually looked like that.

We followed neon blue lights embedded in the floor to the elevator. The walls were all red glass except for one that was shattered, as if someone had put his fist through it.

I lectured the girls on taking care of things as we all stared at the spider web of cracks. I was bummed that a brand new hotel was already busted up. My husband said nothing.

The doors opened to our floor. Big fans were blowing, wallpaper was pulled up, baseboards and drywall had been cut away. I didn’t think twice about it. I know how construction goes.

Our room was modern, sexy, and wild. The huge rain shower was separated from the living room by only frosted panels of glass. Same thing with the toilet. Privacy is so old-fashioned.

There were all sorts of provocatively packaged goodies you could buy. Everything from jelly beans to sensual candles and more. I felt like a minesweeper with the kids there. “Don’t open that drawer!” But they were focused on the spinning barstools and flat-panel televisions. The platform bed was cool until I whacked my shin on the corner.

I understand now the power of provocative lighting. The artwork was backlit. The bed had built-in spotlights—I mean reading lamps. Even the iron glowed neon pink. I couldn’t wait to get rid of the children.

We headed back out, in a different elevator. This one had the same broken glass. My husband smirked as it dawned on me it was all a ruse. Then some guy got on and told us there had been a flood on the upper floors, hence the big fans and ruined wallpaper.

I asked the black-clad girl at the front desk what happened. She sighed heavily, “It was a crazy party…”

Wow! I relayed the info to my husband. He laughed and said probably a pipe burst. He didn’t call me gullible.

What a gift! I had stumbled on the perfect excuse for any occasion. I won’t ever sound lame again, just wild, young and sexy.

And as for that big bruise on my shin…well, it was a crazy party.