You Wish You Knew What Went On At The Omni.

Today I went to the Omni Hotel and ate Reese's Peanut Butter Cup cake and avoided toilets.
I am unable to go to the Omni anymore without thinking about the fact that a football team camps out there and drives large rectangular black buses to and from their playground behind the Science Museum once a year. I've never seen or confronted one of those football players in real life, but that's probably because they don't frequent 7-11.
At the Omni I pull up very regally to the valet parking station. I wait very regally in my car for just shy of five minutes before I realize that I need to remove myself very regally from my car and let someone know that I would like them to park it for me instead of just sitting there making very regal assumptions. The valet attendant-person gives me a beige scrap of paper with a red number printed on it and takes my keys. I was considering removing my knife from my key ring, but it's too late now.
I look presentable. I have brushed my hair and teeth, showered and applied to my person a charming taupe sweater and some slacks. Slacks is the term my Grandma used to refer to pants. Slacks or "britches." Mostly she wore seersucker capri britches. More on that Grandma later. These britches today were also capris. They are pants bequeathed to me by the unfailingly brilliant and generous costume shop personnel at Virginia Repertory Theatre. I was supposed to play Charlotte A. Cavatica in these britches, but it turned out that clambering across a floor-to-ceiling rope net in snug fitting capris provided some less than appealing views to audience members, so the pants were scrapped and passed on to me. These are important pants because I wear them in any and all situations in which I am called upon to look "professional."
[The aforementioned costume shop deserves and will receive an entire essay all their own. My breasts owe them a great debt of gratitude. Each.]
Anyway- I've got on my slacks, sweater, sensible ballet flats AND a business blazer (again- costume shop/bless you Sarah Grady). I feel itchy and like an imposter. But I do some business acting. I incline my head to the reception desk staff and pretend-to-be-Julia-Roberts-near-the-end-of -"Pretty-Woman" my way all the way up the staircase. I stop dead. There is an omelet station. I love this job. I stash my pizza backpack under an elegant armchair and survey the perimeter. Bagels, tiny boxes of cereal, creams, jams, jellies, fruit, coffee, tea, and big bowls of peanut butter and Peanut M&Ms. I am hoping at this point that they realize I'm not going to be doing any actual work today. After I finish all available breakfast food, I hurry to place my lunch order and then set about locating my folder of paperwork for the day which will tell me what I'm actually supposed to be doing there.
I carry out my morning mission. This is a top secret mission, but suffice to say that I am given a briefing and then shown into rooms with various unsuspecting people and encouraged to behave in an insubordinate manner until either someone starts crying or a timer goes off.
It's fun. I arch my left eyebrow and huff a lot.
Finally it's lunchtime. Magically appearing in front of me is an elegant drawstring bag containing gorgonzola cheese and salmon. There's also some lettuce and carrots and tomatoes, but those are inconsequential. My partner in today's mission, Nancy, and I retreat to a floor higher in the Omni where we show ourselves into a inexplicably unlocked suite and take off our professional shoes. We eat lots of cheese and use hand towels for napkins and watch something on TV which, in retrospect, may have been a hallucination but seemed very much to be a TV show starring Tim Allen and one of the Jonas Brothers.
I head downstairs where I am blindsided by a (not even exaggerating) 6-tier Reese's Peanut Butter Cup cake. So I ate that.
Afternoon mission: going along nicely. I'm in a groove until a petite Russian woman surprises me with her phone alarm and I nearly have my pancreas sucked out my rectum by the notably overzealous Omni toilets.
I attend my de-briefing and ring for the car to be brought round. I always pretend I'm in Great Britain when I do that.
I encounter a woman in the restroom on my way out who tells me as she is squinting to put on her eyeliner that the light fixtures in the bathroom are in the absolute wrong places and that on days when she's asked to wear her T-shirt to work she shouldn't be bothering with her makeup anyway. Fully in agreement, I say "Chapstick," and walk out.