Room service is so decadent. It's overpriced, it's brought to you on a rolling cart with those silver plate covers, tiny glass bottles of ketchup, and a little flower in a tiny vase. What's not to love?

There is a limit to how many bran muffins the human body can tolerate for breakfast in a single week, trust me on this. Bacon is proof that god loves us and wants us to be happy. So, after being pressed into work at 7:25 AM, (there I was in my nightie, minding my own business, watching a news recap of the Cuban Missile Crisis, when my phone rings...) I decided that it was time I did something for me for a change.

So I ambled down to the hotel restaurant. "Excuse me, I'm working in your hallway, and I was wondering - could you make me a bacon sandwich to go?" Being a hoity-toity restaurant, the help was not prepared to deal with a make-up-free 5'8" redhead wearing a namebadge proclaiming her name to be Scott Cooper. So they ran for the manager. Eventually they figured out I was relatively harmless, and said they could bring me breakfast via room service to where I was working, outside the lovely Milan Ballroom.

So my cow-orker Linda and I sat there in the hotel hallway, in front of all the engineers running late to the final day of Chuck-A-Palooza, and ate our $25 eggs and bacon. Suffer, Popes! (I kept the little ketchup bottles.)