There's no escaping Reno
Last night, after driving for hours and hours across incredibly desolate stretches of Utah and Nevada, we finally ended up in Sparks, which is right next to Reno. This was after I specifically stated that I did not want to stop in Reno, spend the night in Reno, eat dinner in Reno or do anything else Reno-related. But there really was no other option, because it was getting dark and we were exhausted and the Fairfield Inn was right there... and technically, Sparks is not Reno, but it sure is close enough to see the radiant neon and blinking lights of the nearby Nugget. Ah well. In the spirit of making lemonade out of lemons, I'm hoping that we can make a quick stop into a pawn shop and buy the gargantuan belt buckle that I have been dreaming of since witnessing that spectacular specimen on display in Mom's Cafe a few days ago.
Last night I decided to take a dip in the hotel's hot tub because my back and shoulders have been hurting from all the time in the car. Previously Randy has accompanied me down to the pool room to keep me company, but last night I went alone and was almost instantaneously accosted by a pair of creepy men who allowed me approximately two minutes of solitary hot tub time and then plunged right in, disgustingly brushing my feet periodically beneath the water as they settled themselves. I understand that hotel hot tubs are public places to be enjoyed by all, but I have to ask why there seems to be this tacit assumption amongst all men that any woman sitting alone in a hot tub must be a lonely slut looking for some action? El Creepo #1 broke the ice, followed by his friend El Creepo #2, an enormous, excessively hairy guy who I soon found out was in the process of moving to Reno in order to become a magician. El Creepo #1 was his magic mentor, apparently, and was the creepier of the two, quickly getting down to business by asking me whether "a pretty girl like you is travelling alone". After finding out that a) I had a boyfriend upstairs and b) he is a photographer, Creepo #1 waxed philosophic: "Gosh, he's a photographer!? I sure would love to see his photographs of you, because a pretty girl is much harder to photograph. A homely girl is much easier to make pretty in a picture. You're such a pretty one..." I don't remember much more than this, because I was busy plotting my escape. As I get older, I care less and less about potentially offending these jerks, and more about getting the hell out of there as quickly as possible so as to not waste any more precious seconds of my life making retarded conversation with lecherous men. It just pisses me off that my freedom to do what I want in life is curtailed by this endless stream of dimwits who always want to chat me up, whether I'm alone in a hot tub, having a beer at a bar, or whatever. I don't exist to prop up the sagging egos of balding, fat, hairy magicians who think they can regain a bit of their youthful vim and vigor by flattering a twentysomething woman in a hot tub. Yecho.
All that aside, today we do the final leg of our journey and arrive in Fairfax after making a pit stop in Davis to eat lunch at the In n Out Burger.
Last night I decided to take a dip in the hotel's hot tub because my back and shoulders have been hurting from all the time in the car. Previously Randy has accompanied me down to the pool room to keep me company, but last night I went alone and was almost instantaneously accosted by a pair of creepy men who allowed me approximately two minutes of solitary hot tub time and then plunged right in, disgustingly brushing my feet periodically beneath the water as they settled themselves. I understand that hotel hot tubs are public places to be enjoyed by all, but I have to ask why there seems to be this tacit assumption amongst all men that any woman sitting alone in a hot tub must be a lonely slut looking for some action? El Creepo #1 broke the ice, followed by his friend El Creepo #2, an enormous, excessively hairy guy who I soon found out was in the process of moving to Reno in order to become a magician. El Creepo #1 was his magic mentor, apparently, and was the creepier of the two, quickly getting down to business by asking me whether "a pretty girl like you is travelling alone". After finding out that a) I had a boyfriend upstairs and b) he is a photographer, Creepo #1 waxed philosophic: "Gosh, he's a photographer!? I sure would love to see his photographs of you, because a pretty girl is much harder to photograph. A homely girl is much easier to make pretty in a picture. You're such a pretty one..." I don't remember much more than this, because I was busy plotting my escape. As I get older, I care less and less about potentially offending these jerks, and more about getting the hell out of there as quickly as possible so as to not waste any more precious seconds of my life making retarded conversation with lecherous men. It just pisses me off that my freedom to do what I want in life is curtailed by this endless stream of dimwits who always want to chat me up, whether I'm alone in a hot tub, having a beer at a bar, or whatever. I don't exist to prop up the sagging egos of balding, fat, hairy magicians who think they can regain a bit of their youthful vim and vigor by flattering a twentysomething woman in a hot tub. Yecho.
All that aside, today we do the final leg of our journey and arrive in Fairfax after making a pit stop in Davis to eat lunch at the In n Out Burger.
posted by cindym at 8:27 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home