The 27th of Elvis

Cafe Society
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It just so happens that my wife and I were married on the 15th anniversary of Elvis’ “death”. It turns out, this makes it impossible not only to forget when it’s our anniversary, but how many years we’ve been married! Take the number of years Elvis has been “dead”, subtract 15 and voila! Our anniversary number!

This year, we started the celebration early. On Friday night, we went to the Hollywood bowl to see my cousin (my maternal grandmother’s nephew) conduct The L. A. philharmonic program of Tchaikovsky, culminating in fireworks at the climax of the 1812 Overture. We had great boxes, just about stage center and 4 rows above the main concourse. A delicious dinner was delivered to us (albeit 50 minutes late, but we got free dessert because of it), we split a bottle of good wine, and it was quite romantic. Afterwards, we went backstage to congratulate my cousin and tell him how much we enjoyed the show. Then we got to sit in our car in the gridlocked parking lot for 45 minutes trying to get home. Good times.

Saturday, we played with kids in the morning, then dropped them at MIL’s for a sleepover and drove to the historic Casa Del Mar hotel in Santa Monica. This place was once a ritzy beach club built in 1926 and recently restored to all it’s former Deco glory. It is gorgeous. When we got there, our room wasn’t ready, so the manager apologized, and bought us a round of drinks. We sat drinking our bloody marys and looking out the window at the beach and feeling the stress drain away. When the room was ready we were impressed. King size bed, creamy soft duvet, cushiony divan, spa tub and separate glass-walled shower. Luxury. Later we had a great dinner in the hotel’s restaurant during sunset and then took a walk on the beach, though it was a bit chilly. Of course, we retired to our room early. Do Not Disturb.

The next morning, we read our complimentary Sunday paper and the manager comped our breakfast, which we ate in the restaurant, watching the surfers jostle each other in the waves. I went and picked up the kids and brought them to our oom where they bounced on the bed for a few, then we all went upstairs to the 5th floor pool deck and swam and splashed and had a great time. Then the kids had to try the spa tub. Unfortunately, all good things have to end some time, and so we checked out and went home for much-deserved nap time.

Today, Mrs. Xavier is playing hooky (Goddammit, I have to work), having a spa day at another local hotel, and I am sending fresh flowers to her at the spa. Tonight will be another fancy dinner and then I will give her her present: a brand new leather softball mitt. Because the 12th anniversary is the ‘mitt’ anniversary, right? :wink:

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August 16th is also Madonna’s birthday. Today she is 46.

::blows party horn::

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Welp, that didn’t work out so good. Observe:

At about 4:15 yesterday afternoon, my wife called me from her car. She had had a wonderful time at the spa. “Great”, I said. There was a pause. I asked “did you get anything while you were there?”

“No. Why, did you send me something?”

“Yes. I sent flowers. You didn’t get them?”

Nope, she didn’t get them. Now this is a high class spa, and it was my first order with this particular florist, so naturally I assumed the florist had screwed up. I called the florist and got an answering machine. Oh boy was I upset. I left a message: “My wife didn’t get the flowers I ordered. I am leaving work now, so please call me on my cell phone so we can rectify this.”

I get home in about an hour, and as we are getting ready to go out for dinner, the phone rings. It’s the spa. They have the flowers. I guess the florist called them first to find out what happened. Apparently, the flowers were delivered while my wife was getting one of her spa treatments, and no one at the spa ever told her about them. So the flowers sat there at the spa desk for 6 hours before they finally figured out who they were for. The spa offered nothing. No apologies, no offer of free certificates, no offer to bring the flowers to us. Just that they were open until 9, so if we wanted to pick the flowers up before then, we were welcome to. ARRRRRRGHHHHH!!! A few minutes later, the florist called. I explained what the spa told me. The florist was apologizing! They did nothing wrong, and they said ‘I’m sorry’ about three times!

So, after a nice dinner, we go home, and the girls settle down to watch some Olympics and I haul ass across town to the spa. I get there, and there’s some waste-of-air guy behind the desk. “Hi,” I say. “I’m here to bring my flowers home.”

“Oh, good,” he says, like I’ve finally arrived to remove an overfilled diaper pail. He hands me the flowers. I stare at him for a second. He drops his eyes. No more words are exchanged. I feel like unloading it all on him but it’s all too clear that he would only understand maybe every fifth word. I leave with the flowers.

At home, I present the flowers and mitt. My wife is pleased, but I’m so tense the mood is somewhat dampened. I surf the net and track down the Director of the spa and fire off an angry and disappointed email.

If I get no response, I will begin telling everyone I know to avoid this hotel like the plague and I will talk up the luxury hotel a block up the street.

:mad: :mad: :mad: