Comfort of Olympic Proportions

I am sitting in a hotel called “The Comfort Inn”.

The irony? This is me right now:



That’s right: Sitting in bed, dressed in a parka.

Comfort, according to this corporation, apparently doesn’t include anything over, say, 53 degrees. (And I’m in OLYMPIA! Hello? Does it even get that cold here? Ever?)

I turned the thermostat up as far as it would go an hour ago, and I let the water in the bathroom run for twenty minutes without results.

I’m thinking about building a small fire in the bathtub maybe. There’s some furniture in this room that would burn nicely.

I’m only here for one night, though. Meetings all day tomorrow, and then home to my own bed.

Even if I have to walk there.

I left my boys home with a pan of potato casserole I made early this morning for them to put in the oven, and I hear rumors that they actually pulled off the cooking thereof, so that’s impressive. And possibly the first time ever. I’d send you a picture of the casserole dish and the note I left, if I didn’t have to cross a frozen wasteland to get to my phone, on which the picture is saved.

Because, you know, “Comfort” also does not entail having power outlets near the bed. Obviously.

Maybe they didn’t anticipate their guests being warm-blooded here. Maybe the west side of this state really is populated by some kind of alien, reptilian life form…

Maybe I’ll post it tomorrow–since I highly doubt I’ll be cooking anything then–if I still have my digits and haven’t lost them to frostbite.



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