Friday, September 25, 2009

So, I'm guessing a nightcap and a foot massage are out of the question.

Christ, you'd think I asked for her kidney with the kind of reaction I got. All I wanted was a decent pillow – one that didn't make those annoying crinkling noises like it was full of styrofoam packing chips – and maybe to dim the lights just a wee bit.

It was late, and I was trying to get comfy for the first time since Labour Day. Fucking nurses. You'd think in a children's emergency ward they'd at least have a little bedside manner.

Between Machiavellian hockey tryouts and back to school, I've had just about enough of September. Bring on October with its miniature chocolate bars and dime-size bags of chips I'll have to replenish twenty-five times before the annoying little bastards arrive at my doorstep begging for treats and forgetting to say thank you.

And what is September without a trip to my favourite late night establishment – the emergency room. God love Obama for being so sexy and smokey sultry that even the words "universal health care" make your hips start gyrating like pre-death Patrick Swayze. Ours may not be the most perfect country in the world but at least when my kid is sick I know he'll get good care, even if it means a crappy pillow and a 6-hour wait.

While I was lying there waiting for Jack's x-ray, all I could think about was an email I had received earlier in the day. My friend said she was at the Algonquin Hotel, to which I replied, "which one?" (you lucky bitch). Either the St. Andrews-by-the-Sea or New York City Algonquin would have suited me just fine. Sipping a $12 dollar glass of bubbly in the room where Dorothy Parker used to cavort was lost on Jack, but I was in heaven way back then, and it was certainly a far cry from where I was at that very moment, trying to get comfy on a plastic sheet while my kid nursed his broken knuckle in the nearby chair.

Which also reminded me that I have an invitation to go get horizontal in a Jacuzzi at the elegant little Inn on the Lake in Fall River. I have been passing by the Inn for decades, always assuming it was a hateful bed & breakfast type place, which I avoid because farting in someones doily covered guest room while the proprietor listens with their ear to the door isn't my idea of accommodation. Boy, was I wrong. The Inn on the Lake is a class-act mini-heaven, perfect for an affair with Barack Obama or just about anyone with a pulse. The Inn's rooms are newly refurbished and elegantly appointed which is flowery marketing lingo for fucking awesome. Imagine fireplaces, and in-room Jacuzzis, and of course, my all time favourite pleasure – room service.

If I will be able to drag myself out my room, the Inn on the Lake dining room has the comfort quotient and lighting that just begs for a night of indulgence before toddling back upstairs. But wait. There's a cozy English style pub that could possibly lure me in for a nightcap before pouring myself into the Egyptian cotton. If only I could ditch the kid and the dogs for a night.

Thankfully, the hand is healing, and the teams have been chosen. Some children are happy, some crying themselves to sleep at night. But such is life. Hockey tryouts only prepare the little darlings for a cruel world that is dictated by men and will crush you at every turn. Weeks of heartache and bullshit to accomplish what a few hockey Moms could have done over a box of wine in a matter of hours.

Hey, maybe if I leave late and get home early, I can grab cousin Sarah for a night of decadence and debauchery before anyone even notices we are gone. I could fall into a Courvoisier-induced coma, on feathery, goose down – dreaming of the man who makes universal health care sound like post-coital pillow talk.

The Inn on the Lake is a short drive from Halifax. Perfect for a romantic encounter or escape from the rink with some gal pals. Check it out online at or call 1.800. 463.6465.