a heart-shaped hot tub and my pure joy

During a road trip from the Upper Midwest to the West Coast with my daughter, who was eight or nine at the time, we made an agreement that we'd stay every night in a motel or hotel with a hot tub. I think it was not outdoor pool weather. And, as the sole driver, driving as far as I could stand it each day, the hot tub was a great way to end our long days cooped up in a car.

My fortieth birthday took place on that road trip. We ended the day in Lovelock Nevada. I don't remember why we stopped there. I don't recall any outstanding features of Lovelock. I do recall that our somewhat dumpy 'hotel' had a small casino, with slot machines all over the place and gaming. Minors couldn't go into the casino and I have never gambled. We would have liked to go in and see what the first casino we had ever seen was like but Rosie's age kept us out. Just as well. I have always been afraid to gamble. My dad was a compulsive gambler and his betting on the ponies caused a lot of misery in my childhood.

This was nothing like a Vegas casino. It was dreary, shabby and, at least to me and Rosie, depressing.

We couldn't find another place with a hot tub. Or maybe I was really tired. Or maybe I wanted to stop early because it was my fortieth. I don't remember why we ended up in that dumpy hotel.

I remember it seemed to be a former metal-walled building that had been converted into hotel rooms. It was a weird building in every way.

Oh, now I remember. We had pulled in because a sign for that dump said it had hot tubs.

Now, up until then, we had mostly stayed at Holiday Inns that had indoor pools with hot tubs alongside those indoor pools, sorta like mini beach vacations in those not-so-fancy hotels.

We had enjoyed our hot tub thing on that road trip.

When we checked into the hotel in Lovelock whose sign bragged about hot tubs, we learned that the hot tubs were 'in room' hot tubs and the only hot tub room left was the honeymoon suite. As the desk clerk told me about that honeymoon suite and its in-room hot tub, she said the honeymoon suite also came with a 'free' bottle of champagne. I said "Obviously we aren't on a honeymoon but it is my fortieth birthday. We'll take it. I should drink champagne today. And I definitely deserve a hot tub."

Now, only now, for I have not thought of that honeymoon hot tub in decades, I realize we might have kept shopping for another hotel. It was the free champagne, combined with my fortieth birthday, that had me thoughtlessly paying for the honeymoon suite.

The champagne was, of course, very very cheap. Twenty+ years ago, it probably cost less than five bucks retail. But that meant it had low alcohol content. I have never been much of a drinker. Rosie virtually never saw me drinking alcohol, other than an occasional beer when we visited my brother and his partner.

I don't know about other honeymoon site hot tubs, but the one in that honeymoon sweet was heartshaped. And shallow.

The clerk had explained to us that it was heart shaped and shallow. As soon as we saw that hottub, we realized the clerk had been trying to warn us away from that shallow hot tub. It was obviously shallow for honeymoon sex. Not a hot tub for a mom and her kid.

We had wanted to sit and soak in at least a couple feet of hot, roiling water. That heart-shaped hottub was, at most, six inches deep. It probably would make for a pleasant session of passion with a lover.

We put on our swimsuits, for Rosie and I did not soak nude in hot tubs together anywhere. We got in the tub and got out immediately. We didn't speak of the fact that the tub was clearly designed for sex but it was obvious.  Both of us felt awkward. I didn't verbalize my thoughts, i.e. that I thought it was designed for sex. She was, like, eight. I didn't talk to my kid about sex at that age -- or hot tub sex ever -- but I especially did not do so at age eight. Sure, I talked to her about sex as she got older and started dating. We had 'the talk'. And Rosie knew about sex.

To compensate for my fortieth birthday hot tub fail, I resolved to drink that cheap champagne. I knew it wouldn't get me drunk. It was too cheap to be anything like real bubbly.

Rosie was uneasy, worried that I would get drunk. The idea of a drunk mother frightened her, I guess.  I kept assuring her I wouldn't get drunk, pointing out that I was spreading out my few glasses of cheap wine, explaining that it was very cheap and even read the alcohol content level off the label.  I drank a glass or two before we headed to the bleak diner. And I drank a glass or two after. And I did not get drunk.

It was, all in all, a tacky fortieth birthday.

All the other hot tub hotels we stayed at had been a fun experience.

Now, whenever I remember stories from our shared past, I wonder if I had any awareness of what her actual experience was. Was she always hiding her real self from me?

I do wish I had recognized her anxiety about the champagne but I was not driving, the wine was not enough to get me drunk when drunk over several hours. And it was my big 4-0. I drank it, by golly.

That night, that hotel choice, was an epic fail.

As I have written this, I have heard the buzzing and beeping of slot machines.  Yuck.

Not, all things considered, one of my better memories of road trips with my cake cup. But any memories of hanging out with my Rosie still imbue me with joy. She is still my pure joy.