If you want glitz, go to the Ritz

There were no mirrors on the ceiling or pink champagne on ice on check-in.

Instead, a ghastly green bedspread, the exact shade of meconium, greeted mom when she walked into the hotel room.

“Er …, the owner does her own decorating,” said the genial general manager in an apologetic tone, as he guided mom and a few of her co-workers around his three-star property for an impromptu, behind-the-scenes tour.

Mom steadied herself against the closest wall as she took in the matching bedspread and curtains, the yellow bed skirt, the pink shower curtain in the bathroom and the geometric-patterned purple carpet in the hallway.

“Almost reminds you of Vegas, doesn’t it?” the manager joked feebly, pointing to the carpet.

“Imagine walking out of your hotel room with a hangover and looking down at that,” stage-whispered the woman next to mom.

As she listened to the manager wax eloquent about the finer points of his hotel (few and far between), and lead the group through an assortment of conference rooms, gym and supply rooms, mom learned that running a hotel – even a midsized property with mismatched furniture - was the probable cause of the man’s receding hairline.

“The owner invested her alimony in this hotel,” revealed the housekeeping manager on the second half of the tour.

As she ushered the group into an elevator for the penthouse tour, she said, “Ladies, take my advice. If you ever get divorced, don’t put your money into a hotel.”

Throwing open the door to a room that bore further testimony to her mistress's decorating prowess, she announced, “The owner lived here for three years. Can you imagine what it’s like to have your boss 24/7 on the property?”

In between running a gloved finger over the headboard, the top of picture frames, the bathroom mirror and the television set to inspect for traces of dust missed by her Latina crew, the woman informed the group that her team was the lowest paid in the industry, but worked the hardest.

“My girls have 30 minutes to clean each room,” said the woman, who reminded mom of Mrs. Tharakan, her physical education teacher in high school, who tended to smack children on their heads and blow a whistle in their ears.

The group watched in awe as one of the “girls” stripped a bed and remade it in a minute. She changed the pillow covers, fluffed the cushions and tucked the sheets in hospital corners in less time than it takes mom to successfully operate a hotel key card.

“People can be such pigs when they stay in a hotel,” continued the housekeeping manager as she lifted the ruffled bed skirt to peer under the bed. “You wouldn’t believe the stuff they leave behind.”

As an example, she narrated the time her hotel hosted a gay convention.

“It was just one big porno fest. That’s what it was, I tell ya,” she said, recalling the reek of marijuana in the hallway and the “No women allowed on the 3rd floor” rule imposed by the demanding delegates.

“It was a three-day orgy, yessir,” the woman shuddered. “Some of the guys were really cute, but they were as gay as I'm female.”

At the tail end of the tour, while wolfing down complimentary chocolate chip cookies at the front desk, mom asked a question that had been bothering her the entire day. Spurred by guilt at having made off with one too many unused shower caps and lotion samples over the years, mom wanted to know what the most common items filched from hotel rooms were.

“Anything that’s not glued or nailed down,” said the housekeeper, a look of disgust spreading over her face.

Unused toiletries, thankfully, were not on her list.

The Bible in the drawer, however, is a different story.