I had finished ironing my dress shirt, all proud of myself that it was still wrinkled, but less wrinkled than when I pulled it from my bag. I pushed the cord-retract button on the iron and as it whipped back, the plug clocked me. I now have a prong-shaped welt pockmarking my noggin. What fun.
I would be remiss if I did not mention I am in Phoenix today, cactus country. It’s like 82 degrees here, breezy. There’s a man bringing a Patron Silver-and-Grand Marnier margarita to my door, along with some chicken tacos, the handmade tortillas bundled in foil. Everyone gets his or her own hacienda here. I feel like any moment I will gain two roommates and a reality TV show crew.
My dinner will be a relaxing reprieve to a busy day that included a man on my flight who kept leaning onto my armrest and mashing the channel-changer buttons for my personal mini television which I otherwise kept rooted on VH1 Classic. Lots of great videos I’d never seen before and This is Spinal Tap in its entirety. What a bargain.
A short Hispanic man with a mustache just knocked on my door and asked if my room needed refreshing. It did not, I told him. ‘Would you like some chocolates” he asked in a thick Spanish accent, while thrusting at me a clear plastic bag sagging with candy. I found this funny and called my coworker for her to keep an eye out for the door-to-door chocolate man and his reverse trick-or-treat schemes.
I ate my chocolate squares sitting out on my personal patio. It’s eerily quiet here except for the wind in the trees and the occasional air conditioning unit kicking in a few roofs over. Strange coral-like trees sway in the breeze and the branches of a tall red-flowered bush scratch against the roof of the metal patio umbrella over my head. I completed this balmy romance of the desert by walking full force into my closed screen door. O tequila.