On Being Hotel Dad: Prologue.
You can't be an AirBnb Dad.
In order to be a Hotel Dad™️, you have to be eagle-eyed. If you can’t notice the peeling paint on the back wall of your house, then, my friend, it isn’t going to happen for you.
In all my years (3, tbh) in Southern California, I’d never seen rain like this. Which is what made the wet, peeking spot on the wall bad enough that I called up the landlord (hereafter LL) to take a look. I should say right out the gate that my LL is attentive and good, probably because she isn’t a professional LL and just a lady that owns a house.
Anyway, pretty immediately her insurance adjuster is like ‘there’s a ton of water in these walls. We gotta open ‘em up and dry ‘em out. Let’s go.’ (My thought here is you are picturing Sam Gerard (Tommy Lee Jones) from The Fugitive giving this speech. It wasn’t like that).
In came giant fans, dehumidifiers, and out went the tenants. That’s us. We’re the tenants.
In order to be a Hotel Dad™️, you can’t be an AirBnB Dad™️. Oh no. Which is why it was convenient that, after loading up two cars and driving to your AirBnb in the hills of Eagle Rock, your AirBnB can’t have power. So you drive home and unload the cars, and stay at your house, delaying all the work that has to happen in the house so you can respond.
Then you book a hotel 4 minutes from your house.
And now, my friend, you are close to being an Hotel Dad™️.
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