Please note: It is April 23, 2014. You’ll have your deposit within seven business days, just like it says on Getaway.com. I’ve put through a refund to your credit card for the full amount, minus $200 to replace the sheets. I couldn’t get the stain out despite professional laundering and bleaching, and it was rather large (gray, about the size and shape of a typical house cat, though the house rental didn’t allow pets). That’s neither here nor there. At any rate, I already told you about this.
Miranda
That’s it, the entire e-mail. No Dear Dawn or I’m sorry you had to stalk me to get your deposit or Sincerely or All the best. Just Miranda. And does she really think I don’t know today’s date?
I haven’t felt anger like this in I don’t know how long. No, I know how long. Since before Rob. He’s the antidote for all my inadequacies. I’m good enough because I have him in my life. Because I’m the woman he loves. I’m that woman now.
Stop reading. Stop rereading.
But I can’t.
I’m sitting at my battle-scarred kitchen table, staring at the screen of my five-year-old laptop in my one-bedroom apartment in a rapidly gentrifying neighborhood in Oakland (soon we’ll be priced out), and I’ve been struck dumb. A stain the size and shape of a house cat? Like my husband and I are, collectively, Pigpen from Peanuts, and we leave a cloud of ash in our wake?
I’m an honorable (enough) person, and for sure Rob is. If we’d ruined Miranda’s sheets, we would’ve owned up to it. I would’ve contacted her myself, apologized profusely, and said, “Take my deposit, please.” No, I would have bleached the sheets, and if that hadn’t worked, I would have run out to the nearest Target in a state of abject mortification and bought a new set (because those were not $200 sheets, I promise you that). Then one or the other of us, Rob or myself—whoever had left the ejaculate or the powder or whatever state (solid, liquid, or gas)—would have sought medical attention immediately, because WTF?
But that sequence of events never took place, because there’s no way the stain is real. This woman, this Miranda, is trying to scam us out of our $200, half the amount of the security deposit. She’s stealing from me, from us.
That’s neither here nor there.
She’s a thief and a liar, and she’s trying to make me feel like I’m filthy, literally. Like I’m beneath her. Sure, she owns an ocean-view house in Santa Monica, and I own nothing, but that doesn’t give her the right to . . .
Breathe, Dawn. WWRD—What Would Rob Do?
He’d let it go, because life is too short for grudges. But then, he’s never been wronged, not in any way that matters.
I already told you about this.
Another lie.
What gets me is that she’s so undeserving of that gorgeous house she doesn’t even need to live in. It’s an extra, a spare. I wonder about the opulence of her first home, if that’s her second. How does a person like her get a setup like that? Where’s the justice in this world? I bet she doesn’t even appreciate her good fortune. I would, if it were mine.
I should be studying. This semester’s been brutal, and I’m closing in on graduation. My good fortune is in being with Rob, someone who supports me in finally finishing my college degree. It’s not every man who insists that his wife devote herself exclusively to her studies. I am incredibly, insanely, painfully lucky.
But I’m so pissed—both about Miranda’s actions and about the snotty, deceitful tone she used to justify them—that I can’t concentrate. Miranda stole my husband’s hard-earned money, and how can I just let that go? Not to mention she’s stealing my time and my energy. She’s hijacking my emotions. I’m a slave to my outrage.
It’s not only about the $200 (which I could most definitely use); it’s the principle. She’s trying to shame me, to make me think I did something wrong, something dirty, in order to buy herself what? A dinner? A pair of cashmere socks? That’s after we paid her usurious price for a rental that was, admittedly, beautiful, but with no add-ons. No sweet surprises. Not like in Monterey, where we discovered a bidet and two free member passes to the aquarium. We went every day just to stare at the jellyfish, getting lost in their hypnotic undulations, imagining what it would be like to go through life with your own attached parachute, knowing you can never crash.
Monterey was my favorite getaway with Rob, because there was something about that house rental that allowed us to inhabit another life completely for those five days. I could envision a future where Rob and I are members of the aquarium ourselves, regular visitors with our kids, a boy and a girl (twins?) who stand agog as thousands of sardines swim in their circles like a silvery carousel.
It might sound shallow, but I’m pretty confident that Rob and I will have attractive children. Rob’s handsome, and I’ve often heard that I’m beautiful, in an old-school, Christie Brinkley way (blue eyes, big toothy smile, no one suspects that I’ve been dyeing my long blond hair since I was a teenager).
The truth is, I don’t feel beautiful, or even pretty, because I’m barely five-foot-one and at thirty years old, I still have the temperamental skin of a teenager: always at least one pimple, usually more, plus the brown dots that are the slowly healing legacy of pimples past. I’m constantly trying out new skincare products—no, not just products, entire systems. I start with great optimism (“I think I see something! I’m smoother and more supple!”), only to have my skin reassert itself with a vengeance. When people look at me admiringly, I feel like I’m putting one over on them.
Hopefully, our kids will inherit Rob’s complexion, among other things.
But back to Miranda, the matter at hand. It’s probably unfair to compare her Santa Monica rental to the Monterey house. I’ll compare it instead to the one in Mendocino, a pleasant median: with a hot tub perched on a sea bluff, the kitchen sans the Vitamix that was shown in one of the pictures (but not promised in the text so I couldn’t officially complain), the mattress that sagged slightly in the center, and the dun-colored days despite being outside the parameters of fog season.
Miranda’s house still loses. Six hundred dollars a night and we had to go searching through cabinets to find replacement lightbulbs. Not to mention how loud the dishwasher was, and the hairline crack in the living room ceiling, and the absence of mini-shampoos or bodywashes. I felt her stinginess at every turn. A quarter inch of olive oil left in the bottle, grocery store brand. No spice rack, only salt, pepper, and thyme. How did thyme make the cut? How about some basil, or oregano? Red pepper flakes, for shit’s sake?
When Rob and I get away, I’m after five-star accommodations, but in a house rather than a hotel so I can marinate in that lifestyle for a little while. It’s the adult version of playing dress-up. I dislike when hosts meet us at the house because then I’m reminded it’s theirs, and I have a visual to go with that knowledge. But that’s only happened once. Normally, rich people do it like Miranda does, with minimal contact: key in a lockbox, call in an emergency.
Burned-out lightbulbs, lack of basic cooking supplies, and cracks in plaster remind me of my real everyday, where things need replacing and fixing and sometimes you run out. Vacations are for abundance. While Rob and I are away, money is never an object, and that’s the biggest break from real life. I even have a different wardrobe for vacation (slinky cocktail dresses for which I scour consignment shops, and stiletto heels instead of wedges), and I start using Crest Whitestrips a month out so I can wear the red lipstick that’s too much for everyday.
I’m reborn in those houses. They scrub me clean of all the debris from my past. I’m Dawn 2.0. Because the true American dream is that you don’t have to be who you were, you’re not where you grew up, you’re not defined by the family you left behind or the family that left you behind way before that.
Getaway.com has never let me down before. I read through all the reviews thoroughly before I book. I pay special attention to the three-star ones, which seems to be as low as anyone will ever go, and that’s probably because a one- or two-star makes you look like a disgruntled ex-lover, bent on vengeance, not to be widely trusted. As I parse each review, I can tell who has a sensibility similar to mine; I can tell who to believe.
Miranda’s house had twenty-seven reviews, and nearly all of them were five stars. There was nothing below a four. People loved the ocean views, the proximity to the pier, and the hospitality, oh, the hospitality! You could call Miranda any time, no need too small. She recommended the most fabulous Thai food; she knew the best car service. When a toilet broke down on Christmas Day, she had a plumber out there within the hour, and she sent flowers afterward, with her apologies.
Who was that Miranda? I would have liked to meet her.