Services Rendered Left a Bit to be Desired

Hey! Did I mention that we were out of town for the weekend? That we took the back roads out of Backroads and headed for Columbia? The occasion was a statewide award event for Genius to receive accolades for being a genius. Him, and 99 of his cohorts from every corner of Missouri.

But we're not here to talk about a nerd convention. Nope. We're here to talk about the ambiance of the lodging. Sorry, I can't work in a statement about how I spent the night at a Holiday Inn Express. I was at the H. I. EXECUTIVE CENTER. Okay. So it's not that special and it's not that accommodating. I'm sure you knew that by the time you got down to this line, because why else would Val be using perfectly good blog space to discuss it, right?

I booked a mini suite because how often do you attend your son's genius convention? We had a sitting room with a fold-out couch, two puffy chairs, an ottoman, a desk, a rolly chair, two end tables, three lamps, and a big wall-mounted flat-screen TV. Whoa. It feels like I'm doing my end-of-the-year inventory already. The bedroom harbored a king-size bed with four flat pillows, a tiny upended shoebox of a closet, a mini fridge, a microwave, a dresser, two end tables, three lamps, and a flat-screen TV on the dresser. We'll get to the bathroom in a minute, as it is the cornerstone of Val's complaint manifesto.

Let the record show that neither TV worked. Lucky for us we had a Genius along. He fiddled with some hanging-down wires and a black box thingy on the giant wall-mounted TV and brought it to life. The remote, however, was deader than a doornail. I didn't use those words with Genius around, because that always fuels an argument over the merits of "doornail" and "door knob." When Hick tried the bedroom TV, he was rewarded with the blue screen of death. Genius fiddled and faddled with the cable box thingy until it displayed its channels. Left to our own devices, Hick and I would have gone out for Reynolds Wrap, fashioned some rabbit ears, and put them on Hick's head while he stood like an ample-drumsticked, pale, yoga-posing flamingo while trying to get reception.

After putting on their thinking caps, one being a Jed Clampett design, and the other a six-paneled, multicolored beanie with a propeller on top, the guys deduced that the remotes had been switched. From then on, we had a sitting room remote that worked, and a bedroom remote that was still dead.

The bathroom was a deathtrap. The tan tile floor was suitable for Nancy Kerrigan to skate upon just prior to collapsing in a pile of WHY after a vicious Gilloolying. I first ventured onto the killing floor in my well-worn New Balances. Bambi on ice was more sure-footed than I. Lucky for me, there was a sink counter I could grab to pull myself along like a beginning skater at the roller rink. I warned Hick, who scoffed, right before poorly executing a flying camel. "Something's not right!" Genius and his Adidas performed a lunge from door to second sink, and concurred.

Always the problem-solver, I ventured forth in my dress-up shoes. Not a good move. I tried sock feet, and almost split myself in half. Even bare feet could not get traction on that slippery non-slope. Hick grabbed a washcloth while holding on for dear life with his other hand. He used a foot to mop the floor with his damp implement. He swore that the cleaning staff had sprayed something on the tile to make it shiny. He declared that his treatment restored traction. I assure you, it did not. Rising from the toilet required more coordination and energy than a triathlon.

I think I have figured out the corporate benefit of the slick floor. We were unable to load up our bags with the tiny complimentary shampoo, lotion, mouthwash, and conditioner set out for each of our three paid adult fares.