No, not globally or in large swaths of the economic sector. Just a solemn announcement from the Princess during her recent visit. “The service is declining in this establishment.” Sad but true. This came about when she’d asked about breakfast options and was told that Eggs Benedict and Crab Cakes were off the menu. (In fact, we’ve been out of Hollandaise sauce for quite some time.) This terse pronouncement came on the heels of the initial disappointment of the day that, as I got up early and drained the first pot of coffee, there wasn’t much left when she arose and made her grand entrance. Her breakfast options were bagels, English muffins, or cereal. She often has to make her own breakfast sandwiches, so there frequently isn’t a gratuity added to the check. But the cereal option is served promptly and always with a smile, although, as she pointed out, it was the “generic”, store brand raisin bran. Life is full of let-downs.
Apparently, the high standards and quality service she’s come to expect when she comes home have dropped precipitously. It’s rather like the first time she was arriving back from DC for Thanksgiving. Her Ladyship and I were in the waiting area almost two hours early so we wouldn’t miss her. By junior year, we had to watch the end of “Amazing Race”, and saw her plane flying overhead as we headed out to the airport. In fairness, we have had to lay off most (all) of the domestic staff due the pandemic, so she’s had to fend for herself much of the time. She cooks from time to time, and bakes quite frequently when she’s home. This provides ample opportunities to point out the deficiencies of our kitchen. At Christmas time, we were without a proper zester. I know – just say to yourself, “When was the last time I zested?” As I never use one, that makes perfect sense. This time, I couldn’t provide one of those baking piping things where you pour dough or frosting into a windsock and it comes out all swirly at the bottom. Her cookies, I was informed, would lack their normal pizzazz. I was also out of vanilla extract and chocolate chips, which, from the reaction, is in the Constitution somewhere in the section under “High Crimes and Misdemeanors”. It’s become fairly routine that I’m running to the grocery store for items we don’t typically stock (or use, ever), like malted milk powder or avocado extract.
Room service has been another area of concern. Historically, the princess has never been what one would call a “bed maker” while in our home. In her own home, yes. The bedroom is neat and tidy. But here in our house, she relies heavily on maid service, and as that service is clearly deficient, her room often resembles one of those tragic flood stories you see on television. The double bed is a repository for all manner of materials from electronics to wardrobe to bedding. Even the turn-down service has been suspended because we can’t tell what exactly to turn down. More is on the floor where the suitcase was apparently the victim of a minor explosion. You know that overall look – before everything has a chance to fold itself neatly and put itself in a drawer. Shoes and boots create a nice obstacle course should survivalists come by. I was told on several occasions – actually numerous times over an extended period, she’s corrected me, that were I to get rid of all the bookcases, which are holding books I might add, and put a proper bureau in her room. Then, I won’t ever see nary an item of clothing on the floor. So, ok. I brought up a bureau from the basement last summer – a very nice one that her grandfather made for her when she was little. Five of the six drawers remained empty during her recent visit, while her room was, well, clothing inventory as far as the eye could see, and knee deep. There is, however a large box about the twelve feet by six – she manages to find the biggest boxes in the Western Hemisphere to store her things – that contain much of her winter wardrobe. Suggestions that perhaps we seal the contents in swaddling plastic and put it in the basement meets with an icy tone that they’ll “get musty”. I’m never quite sure what is clean and what wasn’t on any given day, so I didn’t dare touch, much less straighten up anything. The washers and dryers in her apartment building are coin operated (I know, right? I thought those things had gone the way of the telephone booth, but I digress.) and in consequence, she brings her laundry home every chance she gets, usually about once a month. Her usual laundry on any given visit – whether it’s a weekend or two weeks, includes not only her wardrobe, which is Kardashian in size and scope, sheets and pillowcases, blankets, comforters, along with everything from the bathroom except the toilet paper. She mocks her father endlessly for overstocking laundry detergent. I like to have an extra bottle or four on hand. In a recent, rather snarky text, I was told that I could “go into the apocalypse freshly laundered.” (She gets that sarcasm from her mother. I would never descend to that level.)
The living room is transformed into a virtual spiderweb of cords and cables, allowing her various electronic devices to come to life and connect her to the outside world. There’s a very handy, super extralong charger cord for something that she plugs in to next to our computer, which manages to wrap itself like a cobra around the computer chair and threatens to tip me over. In the normal course of things, she’ll be on the couch wrapped like a soon-to-emerge butterfly in a gray puffy quilt, surrounded by Pentagon-worthy electronics. There is usually a paper, a journal article, or presentation in the works. I know this because, from time to time, a head will pop up from under the quilt and ask, “How does this sound?”
When a visit is looming on the horizon, as it is in a couple of weeks – the Princess comes home to get her second vaccine, I’ll stock up on some of her essentials like almond milk – no, wait, it’s now oat milk that is preferred – and a couple of snacks that she likes. I also had to get my car repaired because, during the last visit, she went out to have dinner with her close friend from high school. On the way home, she was stopped by the local constabulary for having a “brake light out.” I was of course accused of more heinous crimes that provoke notoriety and increase her anxiety levels. The Princess tends to go to the darkest place possible in emergencies. In this scenario, she had herself handcuffed, moved to the nearest women’s prison, and expelled from graduate school. In that case, of course, I’d have picked up the car and driven it home. But, with some fast talking, she got off with a warning. My explanation that one normally finds out about an expired brake light bulb in one of two ways: 1) at the yearly inspection, and 2) when the flashing blue lights draw up behind you at night. It’s difficult to keep one foot on the brakes and run around to the back to see what lights up.
As we are now seriously in danger of losing our treasured Five Orchid rating, significant changes will have to be made. I’ve contacted Paul and Pru to find out exactly what baking utensils I should have on hand. I’ll make a trip to Whole Foods before she arrives, and just buy one of everything. The car has been thoroughly inspected, and everything is in top shape. The sheets on her bed, as well as her suite of towels, are freshly and crisply laundered. Her bathroom is scrubbed, and her bedroom has been dusted and vacuumed. There’s fresh oil in the reed diffuser, so it will be nicely scented. Even the gray puffy quilt has been fumigated, washed, disinfected, and neatly folded in the closet, ready for its next tour of duty.
I'm Thinking...No! 