I really really really hating the Mcmenamin's Edgefield hotel. It is not accessible and no one cares about that and its staff just stare at you blankly and smugly when you bring it up -- like ignorant hippies who think if you just believe hard enough, anything is true. I am sure I should have a postive attitude and hug a crystal, or something... dumbasses.
It is family unfriendly and disabled-unfriendly and I freaking loathe it. They booked our room-with-bathroom that I asked for on the 3rd floor, and unlike every other goddamned hotel in this country which last time I checked had something called the ADA, the elevator does not go to all the floors of the hotel. So they put us in a room on the first floor, but the room has no bathroom. So any time I need the bathroom or my child needs the bathroom, I have to haul my ass into the wheelchair and down the hall through three heavy doors.
Also there is no room service.
And the paths around this sucktastic place are gravel.
I am in a lot of pain, very ill tempered, and exhausted, and have been having to take Vicodin steadily just to not be crying all the time from pain. That's the context.
This is a work-retreatish place for grown ups to pretend they are in college ... I swear this small plot of land has like 10 "brew pubs" on it, and a golf course, and a statue of jerry garcia. And one of those fake-fancy restaurants with $25 meals that are sort of fancy and okay, but not actually good. And I hate everyone here and they can go to hell.
To leave the building at all I must go down an enormous ramp and then there is one place I can go without being in a street or parking lot. Then I have to come up the enormous ramp. The hotel's main floor is an entire story up. Effectively this means I am trapped in the hotel unless I have someone with me to push me up the 1-story ramp. I left twice today and it sucked and was painful and exhausting. These morons need to put a lift in. Or, quit pretending, and make it really clear on their web site that they are NOT accessible.
I'm in too much pain even to walk around the room freely. I had to bring crutches. But even that is pretty bad. So it is the wheelchair for me even to go across the room and I am having trouble bending, can't pick things up off the floor, putting on my socks is hard.
The EMG clinic called me to schedule the next electric shock torture appointment and I asked to talk to the dr. and they transferred me to the medical assistant but the phone rang and rang and then hung up on me. They block their number so I will have to try to look them up later online and leave a message.
The hotel staff (two separate sets of them) said they would try to get someone to trade rooms with us. But, apparently they asked one guy, who said his wife was pregnant and didn't want to switch rooms. So, an enormous hotel full of people and not one set of them will trade rooms with a crippled person with a kid?
Also their advertising said they had a hot soaking pool thing, and they don't, they haven't even finished building it yet.
I went to their "spa" to get a massage as my big panacea of the day, but guess what, it is not in the hotel, and it is down a hill and a street and full of stairs. There was a lot of behind the scenes fuss. I said I would haul myself up the stairs. They instead set up a room specially. But the massage therapist seemed super perturbed by me. And I told her right off she was hurting me (doing this rocking thing, where she would grab me and shake my whole body) and I told her not to do that, that it hurt, and why, and made suggestions like "maybe instead, I think gentle steady pressure, on particular points, would work and be helpful". So she would try for a few minutes but then go back to shaking me or jabbing and dragging, until I said again that that hurt too much (after flinching first or stopping her with my hand... which cues she did not follow.) And repeated my line about slower, single point, steady pressure. It was never quite bad enough for me to walk out on the spot. But, it also sucked and made me nervous and upset. She kept being mad at me for being hurt... and then started saying things like "Well I've NEVER in all my time massaging people come across someone who didn't like the ROCKING. Usually it helps people just relax right into it! I've never known that anyone could not like it!" And I said "Well now you do." That was tense. That was probably where I should have walked (rolled) out. I kept asking for pillows also and she would say that she would rather have me how I was.
Then, when I left, I had to roll myself up the enormous hill, up a curving unlit narrow street, in the dark and cold, and then up the 1 story ramp.
I feel filthy and cold and covered with massage oil, and I am trapped in this room with Moomin and no internet connection and can't even bathe or shower. When he goes to sleep I will sneak out and try to shower in the stall with the bench thing. And I will post this mean and bitter and hateful post.
Why did I come here?
I think I hate these people most for acting all surprised like I do not automatically love their little enclave of hippietastic quaintness and fake commercialized communalism. I lived in a real commune. And this is not one. And a poorhouse where you are forced to live by the state is not either.
I am not the perky well-adjusted smiling heroic crippled girl today.
The thing I hate the most though is the art on the walls. This building used to be the poorhouse, or workhouse, or Poor Farm, for the area. There is painting after painting of happy smiling old people looking super fulfilled while knitting and playing chess while magical realist things happen and there is especially painting after painting of people in wheelchairs. That is what has enraged me past the breaking point. I seriously have been fantasizing all day about taking a taxi to the walmart, buying some spray paint, and painting some bitchy disability activism slogans all over those fucking murals. WHO ME, OFFICER?? Their little brochures go on and on about the guy named Lucky who "though confined in a wheelchair, became a champion pool player" as if you need to have legs to hold a pool cue and as if playing pool made him some kind of hero. There is a giant wall sized painting of him in his wheelchair smiling from different magical hippie mural perspectives... IN THE STAIRWELL.
Come on people. If you were in the poorhouse living in a barracks or dorm in 1920 or whatever, and were crippled, and it was full of stairs I am seriously doubting you were all smiling and happy with your smiling happy indigent old-person friends. And I don't really care if you were.
It is dumb, dumb, dumb, and offensive, how this place fetishizes happy poor crippled people on their happy institutional farm.