Just Call Me Ellie Mae

As you may remember, last week we country folk headed to the big city of San Antonio (at this point it will be helpful for you to start humming "The Beverly Hillbillies" theme song). We got to the hotel Thursday afternoon, and to begin with, the valet guy apparently thought that we were all in military boot camp. He was snapping orders at hotel guests and bellboys alike. So, he asked me if we'd need a luggage cart and then in the same breath, informed me that if we wanted a cart we'd have to use a bellboy. So I answered "probably so" meaning "yes we'll need a bellboy". The guy looked at me and then told me to check with my husband and get back to him. Whoa! Excuse me? Anyway, I secured a bellboy, and we loaded up the cart. No thanks to you Mr. Valet.

Just as we were about ready to head up, the valet guy stopped Patrick, and said "Sir, you'll have to stay with me while we go over your vehicle. Ma'am, the bellboy will escort you to your room." Alrighty then. Then he saluted and marched off double time. Just kidding. But he did force Patrick to do a 100 point inspection of the car and spent five minutes informing him of the dangers of parking at Sea World. He followed that up by letting Patrick know that if he or one of the other valets damaged our car it would be in a big way. No small dents and dings for them. We were incredibly reassured.

So while Patrick was spending some quality time with Mr. Valet, Andrew, my new friend the bellboy, and I headed up to the room. Now, in my past experiences, the bellboy has brought our luggage up on a service elevator. But this guy was riding the elevator with us so, of course, I had to act like a complete idiot. Our room number was 1401, and for some reason, which is beyond me, when I saw that 14 I couldn't think clearly. I couldn't figure out what floor to push. In my mind I was thinking, "Obviously, it's not one. Maybe it's floor four? Oh my gosh, is it hot in here? I'm not sure if their air conditioners are working properly. I can't stay here if the air conditioners don't work!".

While I was having this conversation with myself (I have a lot of conversations with myself . . . it's rather concerning), another lady got on the elevator, and she and the bellboy both stared at me expectantly. Finally, I said, "Ummmm, 1401, that would be floor . . .?" The bellboy looked on me with pity, and answered, "Actually, that'll be floor 14." You know he wanted to add "you moron". I wanted to melt into the the floor. But no, I held my head high. Well that is, until Andrew started jumping up and down, and going "Whoa! Elevator! Whoa!". Then I began babbling, about how we live in a small town and don't get to ride elevators or go out in public very often.  Really Courtney? Just stop talking! Let me just say it was a long ride to floor fourteen.

By the time we got to her floor, the poor, poor lady on the elevator with us was looking at me like I was about the closest thing to crazy she'd ever seen. She may not have been far off. I mean I've stayed in a hotel before. I've ridden an elevator or two in my day. I lived in a high rise during college. I haven't been locked in a closet my entire life. But people, the older I get, the more things like this happen. Oh the stories I could tell you if we had 150 years. Please tell me I'm not alone in this. I'd love to know that at least some of you are losing your minds right along with me.