Thursday, July 8, 2010

I'm Not Very L.A.

I had the privilege of staying in a swank hotel with my husband last night, compliments of his company. Nice, I know. The thing is, the W hotel in Hollywood was so swanky and so cool, and I am so uncool and so unswanky. However, kudos my man for the nice hotel.

The fact that I have four children and can barely spell the word hotel had nothing to do with my insecurities as I wandered the white carpet hallways with crystal bling circling every peep hole on the outside of every door. Angelina Jolie could have pulled off this hotel and she has six kids, or is it seven? Although without a formal sign, this hotel screams, "No children within 400 yards please, even you Angelina."

This was the type of hotel in which you keep your sunglasses on at night, where the water cooler is stocked with slices of oranges and cucumbers, mint leaves, and berries, and if the wedding ring that you are wearing doesn't have an 18 karat diamond mined from the caves of Istanbul, people will wonder if you made a wrong turn out of Motel 6.

I did my best to fit in. At least my clothes matched, I wasn't carrying a canvas black tote with small plastic pockets to house the photos of my family and children, and I knew most of the words to the songs flooding the lifts, lobby--called the Living room, and echoing out from the doors of the spa. Okay, so maybe I only knew some of the words.

The pool area was off limits unless you were a celebrity, with a limousine full of beautiful people with fat wallets. This was a good thing, since I wouldn't dare go near the pool wearing my 10 year old swim suit and sporting a Target beach towel on my arm. People would point and shun. Shunning hurts.

The valet parking attendants all looked like male models--good thing, and I was old enough to be their mother--not a good thing. The workout room called "Sweat" had free bottles of Fiji water. Another good thing, and each treadmill had it's own television with a touch screen. Again, good thing. Banging my thigh into the bench press while on my way out the door, not a good thing. Not knowing my way around Sweat was very non-L.A.

Bottom line--I'm not very L.A.

Perhaps that is why I live in Orange County. L.A. wouldn't have me, and that's okay with me.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

Nothing's Really Mine

When did my computer become every one's computer? When did my ice cream become every one's ice cream? When did my stuff suddenly become the domain of any and all others? When?

No one wants to lay claim to my bra, my jogging shorts, or my whole wheat English muffins, but the good stuff, they all want.

I hold no grudge or admit any error on my part for being too generous with my things, I suppose it's just part of being a mom.

I draw the line though when I sit to type on my computer and the keys are sticky. Remnants of soda sipped through a straw got misguided and landed on the keys of my computer while some seven year old was playing Club Penguin. I'm not happy about that.

I love how Club Penguin entertains my seven year old and keeps him from spewing snide remarks to others who live in our home, but I can do without the sticky keys on my computer. Really?

Nothing is really mine except the feminine hygene products and tank tops I wear to bed. No one wants those things, and one day, I hope, they won't want to use my computer either. They should really save their money and buy their own.