Thirty years ago I wasn't so picky.

On a recent san-kids jaunt to Florida to visit my in-laws, my husband decided to try a different hotel.

"This one might be better for the kids the next time we bring them" he rationalized.  "This one has a kitchenette."

For some reason, the combined words of kitchenette and vacation got me twitching. In an instant he saw that look on my face.

"Don't be such a princess" he said. "Remember the tent?" 

The "tent" was what he built for us thirty years ago on a 10 day camping trip to the bear filled Algonquin National Park in Canada. It was supposed to be an all-season tent. Although waterproof, it was pencil thin and flimsy. When we tucked ourselves in, we were like a sushi roll, a blatant advertisement for a bear appetizer.

It gave "shitty bed" a whole new meaning but it was one of the best trips of my life.

Back in Florida, I managed to make it one night in the kitchenette hotel. I reminded myself that I slept on gravel once in the day. I was determined to keep my mouth shut because contrary to popular opinion, I'M REALLY NOT A PRINCESS. Without any prompting, my husband suggested we move to the nicer hotel down the street. The one with the spa, the special soaps, the over-sized flat screen tv and the fabulous bar in the lobby.

Hey sweetheart, you didn't like the florescent light from the kitchenette in your eyes? What a prince.