I Meet the Other Woman
The descent into Baltimore was long, and my ears were completely plugged. When I arrived at my hotel, I could barely hear anything. In order to avoid accidentally screaming at the receptionist, I silently handed him the paper with the reservation N had gotten for me. (He’s the hotel and flight specialist in the family.)
“Oh, hello, Mrs. N,” the receptionist said, looking at the paper. “Let’s me pull up your reservation.”
He clicked a few keys, stared at the screen, and his face fell. He looked at me, at my paper, at the screen, clicked some more, stared some more, and started shifting uncomfortably.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. N,” he mumbled finally. “There’s something. . . erm. . . something that will possibly be upsetting that I need to communicate to you.”
“Ah, they must have given my room to somebody else because I came in late,” I thought.
But I was wrong.
“Mrs. N, your husband seems to have placed another woman in your room,” the receptionist said, his voice trembling. “Her name is Professor Bulochkina.”
“It’s OK,” I reassured the poor receptionist who probably feared a huge scandal. “I’m Bulochkina.”
And hey, these are the Eastcoasters who think we are flyover podunksters while they can’t imagine the situation where married people have different last names.
This is a funnier story than even my notorious one-night stand story.