Friday, September 17, 2010

Hoping I Don't Get Stabbed This Weekend

Well, the Husband and I are currently about 30,000 feet above the surface of the Earth, hurtling through the skies on our way to Orlando, Florida. My dear friend Dyan is getting married in Cocoa Beach tomorrow, and I can’t wait to cheer her on! However, I’m a little nervous about after the wedding, when the Husband and I retire to our (almost) beachfront accommodations.

You see, we were a little procrastinatory in making our hotel reservations. Our conversations since I booked the airfare six weeks ago at first went something like this:

Me: We really need to book the hotel and car, dear.
Husband: What? Oh, yeah. Let’s take care of it later tonight?
Me: Sure. Are we staying in Cocoa or Orlando?
Husband: Um. Either?

Our flights were in and out of Orlando International, arriving late Friday night and leaving Sunday around 10:30am. But the wedding was in Cocoa Beach, about an hour’s drive away. Did we want to drive an hour on Saturday night before going to bed? Or wake up Sunday morning and leave Cocoa by 8am? Friday night was covered, because we could crash with my awesome sister-in-law. As the weeks rolled by, I grew more urgent in my nagging, while still remaining mired in indecision:

Me: We REALLY need to book this, darling. The wedding’s in eight days!
Husband: Okay, well book it.
Me: Where do you want to stay?
Husband: (blank stare, as though I haven’t asked him this seven times before) … a hotel?
Me: What CITY?
Husband: Oh. Either?

Well, last night I made up our minds. We were going to stay in Cocoa Beach and awake to the sunrise over the Atlantic, before making a mad dash to the Orlando airport. I really, REALLY hoped that this would not be a terrible decision. Because if we overslept, we would miss our flight, I would miss my afternoon class, we would almost certainly miss the closing-night performance of Phantom of the Opera for which we had scored super-cheap student tickets, and the universe would possibly start to fold up like an accordion. I tend to worry a little too much about the future.

Today at work (yes, the day before the wedding), I sprinted across the web looking for a hotel in Cocoa. I quickly picked an inexpensive, family-owned motel that had pretty good reviews on and was across the street from the beach. Even more useful, it was down the street from the church! The thoughts of playing in the surf until an hour before the wedding and zipping in and out of the shower, emerging like a sun-kissed sweet pea in time to cheer Dyan down the aisle, seemed like a terrific utilization of my brief time in the Sunshine State. Then I realized something dreadful.

I had made our non-refundable reservation at a family-owned hospitality establishment with the ominous moniker, The Luna Sea Motel.

Let me repeat that with a little more flow. The LUNACY MOTEL.

How does that even happen? How, in forty-four years of family ownership, does not one son or daughter chuckle uneasily and say, “Hey, Pops, maybe we should think about changing up the name a little. Y’see, there’s a movie that just came out called Hostel, and…” But no, apparently the luna sea has just trickled down from one generation of the Bates family to the next.

Also, being in business for forty-four years means that the Lunacy Motel was opened a mere five years or so after a little film called PSYCHO was released. Who thought that would be a good marketing strategy? (I mean, I guess it’s worked okay so far, but seriously. Really?)

So basically all afternoon, I’ve found myself wondering, with mounting trepidation, what the Luna Sea Motel will be like. Will there be shady bungalows and a dingy sign that reads “Vacancy”? Will our check-in clerk be all kinds of strange and talk incessantly about his mother? Will there be stuffed birds, winding staircases, and fruit cellars? Will everything be in black and white?

I sure hope not.

Anyways, please wish us luck in staying stab-wound-free for the next forty-eight hours. I’m posting this as soon as we land tonight, since we probably won’t have internet access through tomorrow morning, and I don’t think the Lunacy Motel has wi-fi.

Which makes sense. If you updated your Facebook status with, “Back from da beach, time 2 SHOWER! LOLZ”, and twenty minutes later you tweeted, “I JUST GOT STABBED!”, Norman at the front desk might fall under suspicion. And Mother just wouldn’t stand for that.

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