I don't think we're moving and it's probably Elvis' fault

Now that the computer has a new power source, the vacation laundry pile is mostly tamed and back to school nights are almost over, the oh shit there's so much crap to do fog lifted from my brain and I remembered that I have a blog and it's been neglected. I could hear it scolding me from the cyberworld. I have to say, blogs can be very whiny when they are not being attended to and have filthy language.

I took copious notes on so many things I want/need to write about, the thoughts were spilling from my head and rushing onto the page, and maybe with the help of a cryptologist, I just might be able to decipher the disaster that is my handwriting, because hey! computer was not working and words needed to be written.

I renewed my love affair with colorful gel pens and seductive journals. Ooohhh, I luuuurrrvvee me those luscious acid free pages found inside sumptuously decorative journals. It's just that sometimes the journal is an art form and intimidates my inner voice. I don't want to trash the shit out of a really nice journal with what could be a steamy pile of word poo. Because a nice journal deserves better, which is why there are many blank journals sitting on the shelves of my bookcase, just waiting for just the perfect opening sequence of words and thoughts to attain writer and journal harmony. Yes, I know. I have slipped beyond weird, into insane. I think it's nice here. Send Chocolate and Tea. Thanks

We headed down to Atlantic City on Sunday, because Bally's gave us a free hotel room in the hopes that SuperHubby would sit and play blackjack for hours. Our room wasn't ready when we got there, which was mildly annoying yet not unexpected so contingency plans were put into place. Drop the bags at bag check and go stroll the boardwalk.

The surf was pretty rough and could be heard over the chatter of voices and caw of the seagulls. I laughed when one particularly aggressive gull swooped down, strafing the shoulder of a woman to try snatching the pizza slice right out of her hand. The lady damned near jumped out of her skin, but she held onto the slice as the bird winged away, squawking out its displeasure in loosing a tasty snack.

Ace and Giggles love the Bally's pool and hot tubs, so we moved on to that when SuperHubby had to rest from walking. A two hour stint watching them play nicely together and then irritate the hell out of each other, is no real hardship. I zoned out, dozed a bit and daydreamed while the noise of splashing kids and gurgling water buzzed around my head. I watched the clouds and sunlight swirl over the ceiling windows while SuperHubby read.

And then we headed up to the room, realizing we forgot our bags, and headed over to the elevators to go back down to the lobby.

Amazingly Elvis exits his room and heads to the elevator with us. I swear it was too Elvis, down to the gleaming pompadour, sideburns, sunglasses, potbelly and southern drawl. The only thing missing was the glazed drugged look in the eye, which perhaps means it wasn't the real Elvis but his doppelganger, because the real one would totally be sporting that glassy eyed gaze. Let me not forget, the big ass belt buckle, resplendent with rhinestones and all chrome. Holy shit, this belt buckle was huge and glittery. It's not often I'm compelled to gaze at a man's package, but when it sparkles and winks at me, what's a girl to do?

I thought Ace was going to burst out laughing at the Elvis, he was so amused. He had to turn his back on the magnificent sight, to keep his shit together. Everytime he glanced over his shoulder, I could see his lips twitch.

Elvis, Elvis, Let me be!!

We all piled into the elevator with a few others and hit the down button. The elevator stopped at the 6th floor but the doors didn't open. Nor did the elevator continue descending. In fact the elevator didn't move at all. Door open buttons were pushed, door close buttons were pressed. several floor buttons were tapped in the hope something would respond. For a few minutes everybody just stood still, waiting expectantly for that initial dip of gravity, the mechanism sounds heralding the arrival at the next floor. Nothing. It's funny recalling the moment when we all realized the elevator was not going to move without intervention. Nine strangers looked around at each other, gauging reactions, the awareness that we seem to be stuck. In an elevator. Here, together.

Someone pressed the emergency call button. A disembodied voice asks if we needed assistance. We're stuck, we're not moving, we all began to mutter at once. The elevator is stuck, somewhere between the 6th and 2nd floors. Oh, said the voice. Hang on. Moments go by and the voice says, I can't reset the elevator, we'll have to open the doors manually.

The voice comes back again, Do you know what floor you stopped at last?

Great. They didn't quite know where we were.

The kids plopped down on the floor, the adults all leaned back on the walls, waiting for an update, a sound, something. Jokes began to emerge, laughter easing the nervous tension. More minutes go by. Elvis makes comments about getting a free brunch for the inconvenience. Another woman says free dinner. The kids moan about being hungry. My irritability begins to climb. SuperHubby is amused and cracks more jokes to keep the calm. The temperature in the elevator goes up with the anxiety level. I was very surprised how warm it got and how quickly it did so. We were all envisioning hours stuck in this box with no air conditioning.

Finally noise outside the door, metal on metal, clicking, tapping and muted voices from outside the door. And then the elevator abruptly descends a floor or two, the doors pop open and everybody swiftly gets the hell out of crazy elevator.

All told, we were stuck just about twenty minutes, nothing really dramatic to write about.

Being stuck on an elevator with Elvis? Oh, so worth a blog post.