Never has this icon been more appropriate.
Dear The Hotel Visiting World,
Yes, any who know me would tell you that I'm a woman of Capslocky!Rage. I thrive on it. I revel in. I'm composed of it, at least three parts per million.
But that does not mean that I am unjustified in it. I try, on the whole, not to give in to the desire to throttle you until at least you've told me your name, and I've begun the check in process. I smile, and welcome you, and genuinely hope that you are going to the light of my day, because I like to be happy.
If you would like for me to be happy, here are some things that I encourage you, as guests, to try.
PLEASE BE ABLE TO PAY FOR YOUR STAY.
If you are traveling out of state, and you have no credit card, no check book and only enough money in your account to cover one value meal indulgence at your local fast food venue of choice (until Friday, I know, you swear, because that's when you get paid and it's your company's fault anyway because they didn't tell you that you would be expected to be able to put money down as collateral in what is essentially the purchase of a room, which somehow then becomes my fault, as the harbinger of cashiering) I will not check you in. No. Nosies. Nopers. Not even if you ask nice, and ESPECIALLY if you're a giant tool box. I'm sympathic. I believe you (well, sometimes. I'm also inherently distrustful of the enactment of that old Popeye joke (("I'll gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today!"))) and I wish that we were all rich enough that we never had to wait until payday. If they paid me to hand out free rooms and upgrades like The Little Princess did with hot cross buns, my job would probably be a whole lot more satisfying, and my blood pressure would probably hover around normal instead of my veins spastically constricting like reverse cracked out pupils. Newsflash: they don't. And I am sure as hell not risking my only port in the storm of my student loans for a stranger. Unless you pay my student loans off. But if you could afford that, you could afford the fucking room.
PLEASE HAVE AN ID.
We have passed the point in the conversation in which we have established your sufficient funds. Across my company, we are required by law to check your picture ID. We sign an accounting agreement to that effect, and we could be fired, fined, or legal action could be brought against us for violating it. And knowing some of my managers, just give them a reason. They're like pain sharks who feel sexual pleasure from the agony of biting the hearts out of their employees with their giant, bitter, shark teeth. They make me fail at metaphors, that's how bad they are.
No, two credit cards with the same name on it won't work just as well. I'm sorry they didn't ask you for it when you went to England, or Italy, or bought ice cream three days ago, or when you stayed at the Hilton. Don't say that goddamn word here. I don't care what they do at the Hilton. I don't give one iota if the Hilton is made of rainbows and ponies and kitten mews. If the Hilton jumped off a cliff would you? No, I'm really asking, would you? Please?
This doubles for people who want a new key. I'm sorry. I'M SORRY. I AM. It's a policy in place for your security. This triples for people who are not on the reservation. Now we need an id and the id of the person whose room it is. Tough luck, Chuck. We've had crazy ex-wives, clever thieves and scammers, desperate homeless people and jerk-off pranksters. We've had thousands of dollars worth of damage from all of these people. We certainly don't want to be known as the hotel that let the serial killer stalker who had the same last name as you in to murder you with aplomb. I'm pretty sure that might force a drop in our stock options which in turn affects our 401ks.
Also, crazy murder hotel is not a huge selling point, even in the luxury market.
BATHING HAS NEVER BEEN OPTIONAL AS FAR AS I AM CONCERNED.
If you are palpably odoriferous, enough so that when you pass by you notice other people smacking their lips, trying to place the sudden vomit cheeto flavor, please don't come to our hotel. Please don't leave the house, actually. Stay home and make intimate personal friends with the Ivory soap baby. (Wait...) If for some reason you ignore this suggestion, please don't take advantage of the fact that I have to be nice to you. Please don't stand in my bubble, come around the desk, touch my hair (EVER EVER AGAIN UGH SHUDDER IT WAS HORRIBLE TRAUMA NIGHTMARES), linger, and/or complain to my manager when I gag involuntarily on your heinous rank. I am sorry, Ms. Grammer. I tried. But the combination of you and your breath ACTUALLY MADE MY EYES WATER SO BADLY MY CONTACT SWAM OUT. IT JUMPED SHIP IN AN EFFORT TO GET AWAY FROM THE FILTH CLOUD YOU EMANATED. I HELD MY BREATH AS LONG AS I COULD AND YOU *JUST* *WOULDN'T* *LEAVE.* (Although we found out later that she does that a lot when she checks in to try and get a free night or breakfast comp. I don't know what dumpster she dove in to achieve her goal when she checked in with us, but the SDPD needs to search it for the festering corpse she rubbed up against to get her stank on.)
I'm not asking for you to smell like primroses and honeysuckle. I understand grabbing your key after a work out, or coming off an eighteen hour plane ride is not going to leave you Downy fresh. I'm asking that if you cultivate B.O. like Brazil does coffee beans then you respect the fact that I want to have as little to do with you in person as possible. If you have questions, please call down.
SPEAKING OF CALLS.
They cost money in hotels. Lots of it. Ridiculous is the term for the mark-up on telecommunication services in hotels. Ditto In Room Dining, the minibar, movie services and the giftshop. Don't ever, if you can avoid it, fall prey to these treacherous money pits. They're like the lightning sand of wasteful spending.
But this isn't a surprise. Who doesn't know that? We attach signs and prices to the phone and the fridge and the menu to WARN YOU. EVEN WE ARE SAYING, "TURN BACK NOW! RUN! BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE!" Do you know when it's too late? Forty minutes into the phone call you're making to Canada, or Vermont, or Paris, or Asia, or Germany or your mom, when you finally allow your mind to process the words your eyeballs have been staring at avidly during the conversation that say something to the effect of: $2.00 a minute for the first half a minute and your first born son or daughter for every minute after that.
After that, I am not adjusting it. Particularly if you come with three days worth of phone calls that you claim you didn't know you'd be charged for. I'm sorry. THAT'S WHY WE GLUE A BIG WARNING ON IT.
And people, we can look up exactly how long you watched what on your television if it's pay per view. Telling me you clicked it accidentally and never watched it when my printout clearly shows you working on some blisters while watching porn for three hours will not endear you to me and will achieve nothing. Accounting will charge you back even if I adjust if off because they are even more heartless than I am, and they don't have any incentive to avoid your wrath because they're not going to be bearing the burden of it.
So there you are. Please try to avoid these pitfalls. I genuinely want to help you. After all, I'm not getting paid to hold down the floor for eight hours. Something about the job obviously appealed to me. I don't know why everyone assumes that only the partially retarded and generally unsuccessful go into hospitality and customer service. There's a true satisfaction in helping others. It can be thankless and horrifying and scarring, but on the whole, I can tell you that everyone in my hotel likes what the do. And we pride ourselves on being extremely good at it.
But that doesn't mean that it's not a two way street. I might have to drag your dead weight if you decided to go metaphysically boneless in
my hotel's proverbial arms. That doesn't mean I don't have to make sure you feel every scrape, bump and rough patch I can find during the process.
Thank you for listening, and I'm sure everything will be smooth sailing from here on out, n'est-ce pas?
Sincerely and with great heaping spoonfuls of that lovin' feeling,
Your Maria
Yes, any who know me would tell you that I'm a woman of Capslocky!Rage. I thrive on it. I revel in. I'm composed of it, at least three parts per million.
But that does not mean that I am unjustified in it. I try, on the whole, not to give in to the desire to throttle you until at least you've told me your name, and I've begun the check in process. I smile, and welcome you, and genuinely hope that you are going to the light of my day, because I like to be happy.
If you would like for me to be happy, here are some things that I encourage you, as guests, to try.
PLEASE BE ABLE TO PAY FOR YOUR STAY.
If you are traveling out of state, and you have no credit card, no check book and only enough money in your account to cover one value meal indulgence at your local fast food venue of choice (until Friday, I know, you swear, because that's when you get paid and it's your company's fault anyway because they didn't tell you that you would be expected to be able to put money down as collateral in what is essentially the purchase of a room, which somehow then becomes my fault, as the harbinger of cashiering) I will not check you in. No. Nosies. Nopers. Not even if you ask nice, and ESPECIALLY if you're a giant tool box. I'm sympathic. I believe you (well, sometimes. I'm also inherently distrustful of the enactment of that old Popeye joke (("I'll gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today!"))) and I wish that we were all rich enough that we never had to wait until payday. If they paid me to hand out free rooms and upgrades like The Little Princess did with hot cross buns, my job would probably be a whole lot more satisfying, and my blood pressure would probably hover around normal instead of my veins spastically constricting like reverse cracked out pupils. Newsflash: they don't. And I am sure as hell not risking my only port in the storm of my student loans for a stranger. Unless you pay my student loans off. But if you could afford that, you could afford the fucking room.
PLEASE HAVE AN ID.
We have passed the point in the conversation in which we have established your sufficient funds. Across my company, we are required by law to check your picture ID. We sign an accounting agreement to that effect, and we could be fired, fined, or legal action could be brought against us for violating it. And knowing some of my managers, just give them a reason. They're like pain sharks who feel sexual pleasure from the agony of biting the hearts out of their employees with their giant, bitter, shark teeth. They make me fail at metaphors, that's how bad they are.
No, two credit cards with the same name on it won't work just as well. I'm sorry they didn't ask you for it when you went to England, or Italy, or bought ice cream three days ago, or when you stayed at the Hilton. Don't say that goddamn word here. I don't care what they do at the Hilton. I don't give one iota if the Hilton is made of rainbows and ponies and kitten mews. If the Hilton jumped off a cliff would you? No, I'm really asking, would you? Please?
This doubles for people who want a new key. I'm sorry. I'M SORRY. I AM. It's a policy in place for your security. This triples for people who are not on the reservation. Now we need an id and the id of the person whose room it is. Tough luck, Chuck. We've had crazy ex-wives, clever thieves and scammers, desperate homeless people and jerk-off pranksters. We've had thousands of dollars worth of damage from all of these people. We certainly don't want to be known as the hotel that let the serial killer stalker who had the same last name as you in to murder you with aplomb. I'm pretty sure that might force a drop in our stock options which in turn affects our 401ks.
Also, crazy murder hotel is not a huge selling point, even in the luxury market.
BATHING HAS NEVER BEEN OPTIONAL AS FAR AS I AM CONCERNED.
If you are palpably odoriferous, enough so that when you pass by you notice other people smacking their lips, trying to place the sudden vomit cheeto flavor, please don't come to our hotel. Please don't leave the house, actually. Stay home and make intimate personal friends with the Ivory soap baby. (Wait...) If for some reason you ignore this suggestion, please don't take advantage of the fact that I have to be nice to you. Please don't stand in my bubble, come around the desk, touch my hair (EVER EVER AGAIN UGH SHUDDER IT WAS HORRIBLE TRAUMA NIGHTMARES), linger, and/or complain to my manager when I gag involuntarily on your heinous rank. I am sorry, Ms. Grammer. I tried. But the combination of you and your breath ACTUALLY MADE MY EYES WATER SO BADLY MY CONTACT SWAM OUT. IT JUMPED SHIP IN AN EFFORT TO GET AWAY FROM THE FILTH CLOUD YOU EMANATED. I HELD MY BREATH AS LONG AS I COULD AND YOU *JUST* *WOULDN'T* *LEAVE.* (Although we found out later that she does that a lot when she checks in to try and get a free night or breakfast comp. I don't know what dumpster she dove in to achieve her goal when she checked in with us, but the SDPD needs to search it for the festering corpse she rubbed up against to get her stank on.)
I'm not asking for you to smell like primroses and honeysuckle. I understand grabbing your key after a work out, or coming off an eighteen hour plane ride is not going to leave you Downy fresh. I'm asking that if you cultivate B.O. like Brazil does coffee beans then you respect the fact that I want to have as little to do with you in person as possible. If you have questions, please call down.
SPEAKING OF CALLS.
They cost money in hotels. Lots of it. Ridiculous is the term for the mark-up on telecommunication services in hotels. Ditto In Room Dining, the minibar, movie services and the giftshop. Don't ever, if you can avoid it, fall prey to these treacherous money pits. They're like the lightning sand of wasteful spending.
But this isn't a surprise. Who doesn't know that? We attach signs and prices to the phone and the fridge and the menu to WARN YOU. EVEN WE ARE SAYING, "TURN BACK NOW! RUN! BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE!" Do you know when it's too late? Forty minutes into the phone call you're making to Canada, or Vermont, or Paris, or Asia, or Germany or your mom, when you finally allow your mind to process the words your eyeballs have been staring at avidly during the conversation that say something to the effect of: $2.00 a minute for the first half a minute and your first born son or daughter for every minute after that.
After that, I am not adjusting it. Particularly if you come with three days worth of phone calls that you claim you didn't know you'd be charged for. I'm sorry. THAT'S WHY WE GLUE A BIG WARNING ON IT.
And people, we can look up exactly how long you watched what on your television if it's pay per view. Telling me you clicked it accidentally and never watched it when my printout clearly shows you working on some blisters while watching porn for three hours will not endear you to me and will achieve nothing. Accounting will charge you back even if I adjust if off because they are even more heartless than I am, and they don't have any incentive to avoid your wrath because they're not going to be bearing the burden of it.
So there you are. Please try to avoid these pitfalls. I genuinely want to help you. After all, I'm not getting paid to hold down the floor for eight hours. Something about the job obviously appealed to me. I don't know why everyone assumes that only the partially retarded and generally unsuccessful go into hospitality and customer service. There's a true satisfaction in helping others. It can be thankless and horrifying and scarring, but on the whole, I can tell you that everyone in my hotel likes what the do. And we pride ourselves on being extremely good at it.
But that doesn't mean that it's not a two way street. I might have to drag your dead weight if you decided to go metaphysically boneless in
my hotel's proverbial arms. That doesn't mean I don't have to make sure you feel every scrape, bump and rough patch I can find during the process.
Thank you for listening, and I'm sure everything will be smooth sailing from here on out, n'est-ce pas?
Sincerely and with great heaping spoonfuls of that lovin' feeling,
Your Maria