Back to the Bay

Through a series of snafus, plans for the precious "use it or lose it" vacation I'd stockpiled for the holidays degenerated over the course of the last couple of months from:

Whole family in Bavaria, to
Me with kids in Bavaria and Italy, to
Whole family minus youngest in Cancun, to
Me with buddy in Puerto Vallarta, to
Quick, five-day, full-family Griswoldian road sprint San Francisco.

As beneficiaries of the generosity of a friend who works for the InterContinental group, we lodged way above our tax bracket, at the same hotel where my wife and I stayed during our weekend getaway a few months ago. On New Year's Eve, while passing through the überchic lobby with two bags of incredible shawarmas etc., I was humored to pass all of the fashionistas heading from their rooms to the street for their night of revelry. Then, and as I gave my toddler his first bite of falafel, it felt right that I would be feeding chicks up in the nest, rather down mingling with those who were out on the town.

Marital tensions mounted during the course of the day on Friday, and by that night, my family at the hotel while I awaited pizza to go, I stood with Florida drubbing Cincinnati on the TV to my left, and a beautiful, sandy blonde twentysomething sitting with with her girlfriends at a table to my right. I thought about the "Go fish" scene (start at 9:00 and grab a dictionary) between Leonardo DiCaprio and Jennifer Garner in Catch Me If You Can, and wondered for a moment what amount of cash would overcome inconvenience, inhibitions, unknowns, age differences, and whatever else she might find distasteful about me or the proposition, and facilitate a quick tryst somewhere, anywhere, nearby. Back up in our hotel room, I thumbed through the in-room copy of Esquire's Fall 2009 Black Book and noticed a Helmut Newton quote to the effect of, "A man must assume that, under the right circumstances, any woman is available." Evidently, my decline is such that even when I fantasize, the "right circumstances" require a cash outlay. (I also noticed Kate Hudson looking particulary perky and pleasant on the cover of the January Bazaar that was stacked between Esquire and Wine Spectator.)

The "male products" dispensor in the Shell restroom somewhere west of Winnemucca this afternoon touted the benefits of The Screamer, yours for only 75 cents: "If she's a MOANER, it'll maker her a SCREAMER. If she's a SCREAMER, it'll get you ARRESTED." The bitter guy in me wants to say that doesn't exist in The Real World. But both the woman who lived and loved directly below us in our second apartment as newlyweds and the roommate of one of my grad school girlfriends, made the very vocal and convincing case otherwise. The resigned guy in me wondered whether it really matters.