Opinion: Nirvana: A survivor’s tale

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Last weekend was a travesty, people. Doo and I were forced to spend the Saturday before Christmas in a swanky hotel in Louisville, without our precious little angels. Can you imagine? We drove two whole hours to celebrate with my family and they could only muster enough air mattresses for our kids. Such bull.

This stupid arrangement meant we had to leave the party early, before we could help clean up after 15 grandchildren who’d devoured a deep-fried turkey, three trays of mac ‘n cheese and four dozen sugar cookies with sprinkles. Total bummer. I’d been dreaming of doing those dishes for ages! But the Uber driver wasn’t going to wait forever to whisk us off to the dreaded, marble-clad Omni, so we karaoked one Adele song and snuck out the back. After checking in, we wandered around the dump and discovered its 1920s-inspired Speakeasy Bar. White-coated servers mixing cocktails and pouring bourbon alongside a charming two-lane bowling alley? The horror! Even worse, our room had two beds. That’s right, Doo and I had to sleep separately, tolerating six down-filled pillows each and an absurdly heavy but not-too-hot comforter. Very disappointing.

In the morning, I was stuck eating French toast and eggs perfectly cooked over-easy across from Doo, commenting on the industrial-loft feeling as we perused newspapers and sipped coffee. Ridiculous.

The kicker of this nightmare? I wrote this piece alone in a quiet space called “The Library,” next to a fireplace and surrounded by wall-to-wall bookshelves, black-and-white photos and tufted velvet settees. Think Restoration Hardware meets Maker’s Mark. Truly uninspiring.

I hope at least part of your holiday was as awful as mine.

Peace out.

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