Illegal immigrant, Vegas and the curse of the Timex watch

(I feel like a ghetto Harry Potter with my title.)

We took another California trip over Labor Day. One of those use-vacation-time-NOW-or-lose-it situations with GJ's job. A "Summer California photo recap" detailing both trips is due.

Our latter trip begins with a long, confusing history of a watch. A watch we were supposed to bring to California for a casually-crazy acquaintance who did not want to just ship said watch and, instead, waited impatiently while it traveled the country and changed a ridiculous amount of hands over the course of a few days.

This watch, one that was affectionately dubbed the "Sketch Watch," became the bane of my existence the few days leading up to our trip to California. It required much phoning and texting to figure out where-to-put-it-when just so it could end up in our car for the California trip. A lot of time was wasted on this watch, a watch that, when unwrapped, was reported to look like an $8 Timex.

We decided hours before the Friday drive to California that we would not be picking it up. Picking it up required us to stop in Provo on our way to California, and if you've visited the hoppin' college town, it's a solid 30 minute round trip just to get into the heart of Provo and back out on the freeway.

As I was leaving work after this phone call, I headed to the 7th story of the crowded downtown parking garage I park in to head home. After getting in my car, I looked behind me, saw no one and (here was my mistake) took a few seconds to grab my sunglasses off the console and put them on my lap before officially backing up. Then I backed up and...

CRUNCH!!!

Turns out one of the construction workers for the massive downtown construction site was parked right behind me. He began backing out before I did. Our bumpers whacked.

I got out of the car all shaken up. Thankfully, the bump just took paint off both of our cars - mine a lot worse than his. I asked him if we should exchange numbers and insurance information. His response: "No, no" (said in broken English while backing up back into his car) "No passport, no passport!"

I backed into the car of an illegal immigrant.

As if the kick-off to our California trip couldn't go anymore awry...

Before we left for California, we booked a hotel in Vegas. We were leaving Friday after work and, now that we're old(er), can't pull the "Drive all night" move we did in our college days. GJ had points at the Hilton, it has a good reputation, so we stayed at the Vegas Hilton on the strip.

We got there at 1:30 a.m. early Saturday morning. We were exhausted from our long, five-hour drive and were anxious to sleep. We were given a room in the central tower and immediately headed up to put our baby to bed and crash ourselves.

When we walked into the room, though, we were greeted by an unpleasant odor. Towels were all over the floor in front of the bathroom and, once we opened the bathroom door, we saw the culprit. POO and PUKE all over the floor and toilet.

I cannot even describe how disgusting this mess was. Someone clearly overindulged in Vegas and let it explode in the bathroom Hilton gave us.

I called guest services and explained the mess to them. I stressed that we had a fussy 11-month-old who needed to go to bed. Still, it took over 15 minutes for a housekeeper to arrive.

If you think I am exaggerating the mess in the bathroom, the first thing the maid said when she opened the door was a loud "Oh my G**!" And she's a hotel maid, you know she's seen all kinds of crazy stuff. She attempted to clean, but the toilet was clogged and the mess was too large, she told us. She called an engineer to fix the toilet.

Meanwhile, I called guest services again to tell them we needed a new room. It was 1:50 a.m. now, Peanut was mad, our room now reeked and we could not wait for the mess to be cleaned up. The guest services employee told us he was checking us into the neighboring room and a bellman would be up there shortly.

We moved all our stuff out of our room - the smell in there was getting worse and worse. Meanwhile, a couple walked out of the neighboring room - yes, the room we were supposed to be moved to. We waited in the hall for the bellman and, approximately 15 minutes later, he showed up. He handed us the keys for the neighboring room and we told him some people just walked out of there. He told us it should be vacant. We told him again that people just walked out and, when we opened the door, the beds were unmade and the TV on -- people were clearly using that room. Shockingly, he did not care. He told us "I was just told to bring you the keys." When we asked him what we were supposed to do, he began walking away and said: "It's not my problem. You guys are lucky you even got a room in Vegas this weekend, it's the Magic clothing convention."

Let me stress this situation again: It's now past 2 a.m. We have an angry baby who needs sleep. We are now two angry adults who need sleep. And the Hilton employee has just told us "It's not my problem."

At this point, we were both furious. Hilton checked us into an unlivable room, has taken forever to respond to all our VALID complaints and has now left us stranded in the hotel hall.

After a physical trip to guest services, we finally got a new room...all the way across the hotel in the north tower. Customer service extraordinaire Hilton did not provide any bellman, luggage cart or help with our bags. We had to pack-up everything, march across the hotel's long casino floor into a room on the 23rd floor.

By the time this was all taken care of, it was 2:30 a.m. -- an hour after we checked in.

Moral of the story (overused Vegas cliche time!): At the Hilton, what happens in Vegas stays in your hotel room and doesn't get cleaned up.

And when an illegal immigrant is involved, what happens in the parking garage, stays in the parking garage, and although your insurance rates won't go up, you'll feel like a jerk for not offering some cash to fix chipped paint.

And the watch? It was mailed shortly after all events commenced and, since then, no more major catastrophes.