Back in the Saddle

Alright, folks, I return from the fifth layer of hell...*ahem*...Southern California. Honestly, I don't think I can really talk about the family matters that happened. Everything is still swimming in my head, and my heart is still too full of grief. In a nutshell, it was not as bad as I thought, in fact the majority of the family embraced me like some prodigal daughter returned. I know Nathan watched over us that day, and would've been pleased to see the reuniting bonds that he created. He would've also chuckled at the fact that his funeral service looked like a damn mafia family reunion. His father's highly Southern Italian Side, our Northern Italian side, and the Spanish family that married in just for kicks. I swear to God I felt like a damn Gotti. Especially when one Uncle started offering that Aunt Nina's new husband needed to be 'taken care of', but no one would let him. *gulp* More Ziti, anyone?
Well, since that's all I will share about that, anyone want to hear my tirade? Aha, thought so. Here you are, kiddies, Sharona's bitch fest du jour....
BEST WESTERN FUCKING SUCKS!!!!
'Kay, my mother is never EVER allowed to make hotel reservations for me again. The first time, it was the fateful toothbreaking stay at the Hampton Inn of San Francisco. And even though this was only strike two, it's a big enough strike to say enough. Allow me to give you the dirty details:
Tuesday - I arrive in Orange County's reknowned John Wayne Airport (complete with a very creepy statue of The Duke in the Baggage Claim area...'better git yer bag thar, pilgrim') right on schedule at 4:45pm. Mom said that she reserved the hotel shuttle for me, so it would be waiting for me as soon as I exited. Yeah, right, good thing I called. It should've tipped me off when I had asked at the information booth about which courtesy phone to use and she said there wasn't one. And according to her snide chuckle (fucking Californians) and snippy response, my lovely accomodations, though called Best Western Airport North, were in fact, no where near the damn airport. Greeeeeeeeaaaat. So I call, and some twit answers and says he forgot me, and was sending a driver. "should be fifteen minutes". Whatever, three cigarettes, a strangled cellphone and half hour later Senor Dumbfuck pulls up in the van and dumps me in the backseat. We sit in traffic, because it wouldn't be a trip to the OC without smog filled lungs, and I redub my non-English speaking Latino friend Jose Smiley. I get to the hotel, and the check in girl (yes, girl, she was younger than me) chirps happily about the weather (shut UP) and asks for the $100 deposit my mother had pre-arranged. Now, since mom couldn't get them a credit card verification, she asked via phone if cash was acceptable. The management said it was fine as long as I paid at least $100 up front as a deposit. Since the whole hotel bill would've been $140, it was no biggie, and Mom promptly packed my wallet with a cool $220 so I could have some money for food. Why I'd need an entire $80 for food, I don't know, but that's Mom for ya. Okay, so I hand Blondie the $100, and wander up to my room. I go to put my soda in the minifridge, only to realize the pathetic contraption doesn't work. You can all see me starting to twitch at this point, eh? I go to the bedside table and flip on the light, but THAT doesn't work. Right as I'm about to curse, the phone rings. It's Blondie, and apparently there's been some 'confusion'. I was supposed to give a $100 deposit AND the $140 up front when I checked in. Now, that was NOT in the fucking plan, and I asked to speak to the manager. I proceeded to tear him a new asshole, explaining that I was not equipped with $240 to simply hand to him (well, I was, I had $25 spare in my wallet, but $5 for three days to eat and smoke, and buy the alcohol required to get through this trip just didn't work), and that this was completely and totally out of the question. Dickweed proceeds to hem and haw as to what to do (I was mentally daring him to evict me, since I was so not familiar with the area, which I assumed as a bario, it was quickly getting dark, I was seething on the point of Lawyer calling at this point), he finally decides he'll take a $50 deposit and have me pay nightly. So I need to traipse down with $24 for the night. I get on the horn as I slam my feet into my flipflops and call my Uncle to check in, and my buddy Chris who lived nearby to come get me (punky people rock!). I threw the money at Dickweed (no, he doesn't get a real name, nobody at this godforsaken pit of idiocy does), and inform him I will not be pleased about the two non-working appliances. He crows apologies, and says he'll send a maintenance person up immediately. Chris & his daughter hits the road to meet me up at the room, so I go change and stew some more. I call the other mamatropolis area contacts I have, but no one else can hang, which is a bummer. Chris and his ridiculously damn cute daughter appear at my door right as I finish talking to my other cousin. As they sit down and I search for my cigs, the maintenance person walks in the door. It's Jose! He's apparently the one man show there. As he proceeds to delight us all with a great view of the buttcrack, we decide it's now time to hightail it and find a Del Taco and a whole lot of booze. I finally return to an empty room, with a working refridgerator, although Jose forgot the bedside lamp. A few Schmirnoff Ice's later, and a perturbed call to Mom, I drift into oblivion.
The next day I wake to my crappy abode, and a call from the day manager (not Dickweed, so we'll call this one Captain Kissass). Apparently, Mom was busy this morning, and called to rip him a new one about yesterday's little deposit fiasco. He was giving me back $25 of it so I could graciously eat dinner, and felt