I’m not quite sure when it happened.  I think it was around 2007 or so when I realized I was a sucker for Bill Marriott’s chain of hotels.  Courtyard.  Fairfield Inn.  Renaissance.  Didn’t matter.  I became Marriott’s bitch.

When I was traveling on the road for work, they called out to me like a crazy hoot owl.  I would drive an extra 20 miles just so I wouldn’t be trapped in (shudder, cringe) a Holiday Inn … or worse, a Motel 6.  I’m sorry — I really don’t care if they “leave the light on for you”.   It’s probably a dimly lit Fluorescent bulb anyway.

I just did the math.  Over the last two years, I’ve spent 216 days in a Marriott hotel.  Give or take 20 days.  From Reno to Long Island, Modesto to Wilmington, I’ve quickly become one of Marriott’s favorite clients.  There’s a lot of pressure to excel when you’ve reached the upper echelon of guests.  Bill Marriott called me personally to say thanks for single-handedly financing a Springhill Suites outside of Poughkeepsie.

Why do I stay there instead of, say, at a Hilton?  Because I know EXACTLY what to expect when I check in … good service and clean rooms.  When I have a persnickety TV crew that I travel with, there’s often free WiFi and breakfast to appease them.

And, yes, they’ve finally gotten with the program and now usually offer me some sort of warm baked good when I walk in the door.  Screw you, Double Tree!

This weekend I suffered while staying at a Comfort Inn in New Holland, PA.  The room was musty.  The carpet hadn’t been cleaned since the Clinton administration.  A silverfish the size of a Slinky crawled out of the shower drain.  And they still offered a smoking wing — which caused the entire hotel to have the faint odor of an ashtray left out in the rain.  I knew it wasn’t a good sign when you could purchase “room-freshening spray” at the front desk.

Know what I love?  I love that Marriott’s are updated/remodeled every ten minutes.  I love that they choose a color scheme that doesn’t resemble a disemboweled blood orange.  (Are you listening, Howard Johnson?)  I love that they call me “Sir”, even though I hate it.

When I had my stroke last year, I keeled over in a Residence Inn.  Miraculously, I made it down to the front lobby on my own.

Four hours later, I found a banana in my laptop bag.  I instinctively must have grabbed it on my way out the front door to the ambulance.  “I’m having a stroke!” I thought.  “I’ll need this potassium for later.”  The beauty of it is Marriott was kind enough to have a banana at the front desk for anyone and everyone who was in the midst of a medical emergency.  I don’t think room freshener spray would have come in handy at that exact moment, right?

They didn’t even charge me for my stay … mainly because I nearly died.  Happens.

Bless their hearts.

The best Marriott I ever stayed in?  It’s a toss up between the gorgeous Casa Magna in Puerto Vallarta and the decadent Ko Olina Resort in Hawaii.  The mammoth JW Marriott in Palm Desert isn’t half bad either.  It’s glam, tasteful and expensive … not unlike me.

Thank you Marriott for five wonderful years of first-class service and attention to detail.  Last time I looked I had nearly 500,000 reward points thanks to you.  You may be pricey, but you’re worth every penny.  And then some.  I will forever be your bitch.