That sweet, sweet smell...

If you ever have the desire to stop time, I have a suggestion. It involves The Four Seasons, a pot of tea, and a sister or a friend—preferably both. You can go, sit, and drink in a drop of civilized recreation. It is a rare and wonderful treat that warrants the extra effort to make it happen.

Note: Taking advice on relaxing, pampering, or just savoring a moment, from me isn’t at all prudent. I feel, I have to be honest---I am way too high-strung and anxious to give you a reliable suggestion in this department. I would liken it to handing a slab of filet mignon to a vegan for grilling. If there is anything left that is semi-edible, you can chalk it up to luck and proof that God is a carnivore. So, call it dumb luck or a loophole in the system, or maybe God is a closet-Darjeeling-freak, but I promise you, that this minor intermission in the comedy of life is worth your while.

As a committed control freak and someone who fully understands that I have little capacity for creative decadence or indulgence---I leave it to the experts. This is where the good people at the Four Seasons come into play, because even at your ugliest---they are true professionals. They will guide you toward your higher diva.

This begins my adventure with Anita.

We decided to go for our annual pot of tea talk at the Four Seasons. One, I knew they had tea---every Wednesday through Sunday until 4pm. Two, even if you miss the scheduled event, they habitually put it in pots. So, when you order tea for two, you experience time travel to a place where gloves and hats were customary and real honey makes everything a little sweeter. This small detail is crucial to a proper tea time and will make or break the ease and flow of the conversation. To the Four Seasons we go.

Anita came to the house, and I put on my over-priced black boots, which have been worn two times and removed within minutes of each showing. But I figured, I just had to drive, walk to the lounge and sit—the boots could come. And it would make me feel like an adult, an adult without children.

As I opened the doors to my stylin’ mini-van, I was accosted by a putrid wave of poopy-diaper-stench, which nearly knocked me and my fancy boots to the ground. Oh No! Oh, yes. I forgot to take Gabriel’s full Pull-Up out of the car on the way back from lunch. Crap! Crap! Literally, crap.

I removed the offensive item, but found that it had already left its calling card. But there was tea to be drank and a world removed from diapers, just moments away. We had to keep moving. I drove with my window down and said a small prayer that we could forgo valet. The poop-mobile was not user-friendly, especially to those in command of all five of their senses.

I drove in my psycho-stabbing heels toward nirvana and trying hard to outrun the fog of preschooler excrement. I am pretty sure we were trailing a smoky green fog from the rear. Anita was co-pilot and quickly learned that I have no idea of my left from my right. And, in the time it takes to conjure one of those clever, helpful tricks—we passed every turn. Thankfully, her quick adaptation to the “My side!” “Your side!” method got us there in no time.

We turned into the impeccably groomed hedges and picture-perfect lawns. As we followed the signs, I was beginning to have a sinking feeling in my stomach. Each sign directed us toward VALET and there were no welcoming little arrows toward general PARKING. I started to panic, as I assessed the poop-mobile. Not only did it reek of unmentionables, it was covered in crumbs, knee deep in sticky old apple juice boxes, rich with half-eaten sunflower seeds and popcorn bags, a veritable gold-mine of recycling with a dozen or so water bottles, and many a clean and dirty sweatshirt, sweater and changing square tucked in every corner.

You have to wonder if the pot might have been projecting their own shortcomings on the kettle, when it bitched the other out for just a few million random plastic bags. I was in no position to judge anyone—this car was a one-mother-train-wreck. No time for regrets, I had a valet to outsmart.

Anita rolled down her window in silent agreement that the poop-mobile was soon to be boarded by an innocent. She slyly gave the van an once-over and with a shrug of the shoulders and a slight smile, released herself from responsibility.

I should have followed her lead; I should have let it go. I should have handed over the keys, and sang “These boots are made for walking” all the way to my Orange-scented herbal-tea-with-honey-happiness, but we all know me better.

The minute the man in the gray suit opened that door, I opened my mouth and I wouldn’t stop until he know every last detail of my son’s potty training and my personal penchant for popcorn since my drug treatment therapy and my inability to vacuum because of the children’s sensitivity to sound and my lack of a portable wet/dry vac. He graciously closed the door in my face and told me to have a good time.

Is there a tip big enough for that verbal diarrhea? I can assure you that my son’s handiwork paled in comparison to his mother’s load.

To his credit, he rolled down the window on the mime-act that is a frantic, embarrassed mother, and sincerely conveyed his understanding. He promised to park the van close by—should I need to make a quick exit and attend to the little ones.

Anita brilliantly scurried into the hotel before we could be readily identified as a pair.

Aside from my entrance, the tea was exceptional. I transcended the poop-mobile and Anita shared some stories from school and her life. And I had a chance to visit with her away from the diapers, the apple juice and the chaos. I listened, and I learned.

As we left, I felt connected and refreshed--and even happy to see my dear, old chariot of stink. I took the keys, and took ownership of it, no excuses. It was mine, complete with every flaw, offensive and otherwise. And as I put my boot to the pedal, I drew a deep breath, and knew that pungent perfume that filled my nostrils was the smell of my personal destiny, and in its own absurd way, my success.