Mr. (and Mrs.) Cellophane

I don't like to brag, but I've long possessed a super-power, a power many people covet. And yet, if they knew it's true essence, they might think twice about their desire to have it.
For I have long had the power of . . . invisibility.
It started in grade school, whenever I would attempt to answer a question posed by whatever nun was unfortunate enough to have me in her class ("Ha! Short straw! You take him, Sister Malevolent!"). The power grew stronger during my high school years, especially around popular classmates, jocks and girls. And now that I've reached a certain level of "maturity", shall we say, it's become devastatingly effective against any member of the opposite sex between the ages of 18 and 45.
Were this cross mine alone to bear, I would do so with a silent, begrudging reluctance. But, as I have only recently discovered, my "Cloak of Non-Existence" is expansive enough to swathe others.
Enter, Mrs. Cellophane . . . my poor wife.
Now, if you know my wife, you know that the very last word you would use to describe her is "invisible". She is not one accustomed to going unnoticed. But I'm afraid a near-lifetime with me has rendered her translucent.
The weekend of our anniversary celebration was rife with examples of our transparency. On the way out of town to celebrate, we stopped at a local tavern (I don't want to name names, but it rhymes with "The Breen Furtle"). It was early on a Friday afternoon and the waitstaff out-numbered the guests four-to-one. But that didn't prevent all of them from walking by our booth dozens of times, never once acknowledging our presence. Finally, we flagged down a busboy, who seemed confused by the whole concept of "customers" wanting to be "waited on", but who eventually succeeded in getting a server's attention long enough for us to order tall frosty glasses of "dinner".
If this had been an isolated occurence, I would have laughed it off as the "usual dark cloud that seems to follow me everywhere, even the bathroom". But it would set the tone for the entire weekend.
The drive to Our Nation's Capital was uneventful, especially for a summer Friday. The check-in to our swanky hotel went smoothly, so we decided to hit the lounge for another round of "dinner". The restaurant's bar was packed with golf fans (as evidenced by their colorful attire and general Republicaness), in town for the U.S. Open. We found a table in the back, sat down and waited for someone to take our order. And waited. And then, waited some more. Finally, my wife, who's reservoir of patience is surprisingly small considering who she's married to, leapt to her feet and corralled an employee. And using an elaborate series of guttural sounds and hand gestures, was able to secure for us a round of potent and very expensive drinks.
The next morning, at breakfast . . .  same deal, different day. We couldn't get anyone in the restaurant to wait on our table. And we had planned on having the buffet, so all we needed was something to drink. Oh, and silverware. That would make enjoying the scrambled eggs a little less conspicuous. Still it took monumental effort to get any attention, making us feel exactly like Tareq and Michaele Salahi, if they could feel anything besides shame.
On our way out, it occurred to me to make a dinner reservation for that evening, as we had tickets to see a play at the Kennedy Center. It was an early curtain so I requested an early reservation, 5:00PM. The hostess replied that 5:30 was the best she could do, but that we could arrive early.
We spent an enjoyable day museum tromping but rushed back to put on our fanciest duds and head out for an evening of fine dining and delightful musical theater. When we arrived at our room, we discovered the management had arranged a surprise: the room was EXACTLY as we had left it, seven hours earlier. I can only guess it was so that we could preserve the memory of our special weekend. It wasn't until we began getting ready that a plaintive knock came from the door. I answered it, only partially attired, and found a member of the crack housekeeping staff fully prepared to enter. I explained that the room was currently housing two full-sized adults and that she would have to come back some other time. It turns out that "some other time" in housekeeping lingo means "never".
Oh, well . . . one less tip to leave.
We arrived at the restaurant at 5:05, only to discover . . .  it was closed. It seems the restaurant doesn't even OPEN until 5:30. But in the hostess's defense, when she told us we could arrive at 5, she never actually followed it with, "so we can seat you early". What she meant was, "so we can seat you at the bar and serve you several rounds of potent and very expensive drinks BEFORE we seat you". My mistake.
Dinner was fabulous. What I can remember of it. I've never consumed that many dollars of aged prime rib that quickly before. Kathy's mahi-mah was equally superb and speedy. In spite of the fact that I had informed our waiter of our urgency (and in spite of the fact that the we were the only ones there) dinner was painfully slow arriving. We gobbled, we paid, we bolted. And just made our 7:30 curtain.
The next morning, back for breakfast, I briefly considered setting myself on fire as we strolled into the restaurant, just to get some attention. But then I remembered how long it took to get our beverages the morning before and changed my mind. Sunday's service would prove to be no better than Saturday's. But they do make a damn fine waffle, so I'm almost tempted to forgive them.
Almost.
So, there you have it . . . "Mr. and Mrs. Cellophane Go to Washington". It spite of it all we thoroughly enjoyed the weekend and each other's company. But the near complete absence of anything resembling good service?
Not so much.
I'd write a letter detailing my disappointment to the hotel's management, but recent similar efforts on my behalf have proven fruitless. Apparently my words are as easy to ignore as my person.
I wonder if they'll ever notice if I neglect to pay the bill?