This weekend my Saturday was dedicated to The Fair (also known as The Puyallup and this year the Washington State Fair). The Fair literally put Puyallup on the map, and the only legitimate reason to go there is to eat something fried and proceed to throw it up after getting wild on the Tilt-a-Whirl.

As a kid, my mom made The Fair an annual tradition. She’d pack up all five cousins (how did we fit in the car? We didn’t have an SUV…) and we would spend one full day getting a sugar buzz followed by stomach ache walking the As Seen on TV pavilions and riding rides. Her three Fair rules are as follows:

1. Eat as much junk food as possible
2. Ride as many rides as you can
3. Close the place down

As an adult, reason for going to The Fair has evolved. Usually centered around a concert – this year our reason for going was the Rodeo Playoffs followed by a Trace Adkins concert. Instead of eating as much junk as possible, we now focus on drinking the caloric equivalent in Bud Light.

Because our focus is on cowboy butts and beer, we were sure to be there RIGHT when the gates opened to secure a clutch spot in the beer garden.


YES. It was awesome.

By concert time, I had a light beer buzz, sore feet and tired eyes. Naturally, 9:30pm is more bed time than Go Time for me but I pulled it together. Boyfriend and my cousin (aka Driver) patiently waited while E and I sang, danced and went to the bathroom more times than I can remember. Apparently I was well hydrated. During my 300th trip to the Lou, I patiently waited in line though I would have been more than happy to drop trou in the bushes if it emptied my bladder more quickly (alas, alcohol enforcement was out). I was finally next in line, when a Lady in Red came up and awkwardly stood next to me.

Here’s the thing, Lady-Lou cutting is not cool. I get it, you’re gonna burst, but that’s what Keigal exercises are for. And women, especially women in Wranglers, are not keen on cutters. So, the
gawks and mumbles started almost immediately.

Almost serendipitously the next stall that opened was her target. She rushed the door so fast I couldn’t even say, “it’s not your tuuuuuurn! I have to peeeeeee!” All of a sudden there was beer pouring, face slapping and more squabbling that a flock of seagulls. Red was screaming, “FUCK WITH MY HUSBAND AGAIN AND I WILL HURT YOU!” while her victim’s posse was trying to pull her away.

I turned to the woman behind me and said, “is this seriously happening” and her respond was, “here…hold my stuff.” She piled her purse and what not on me and headed for the stalls to join the action.

What? A bathroom brawl? Are you kidding me? A mascara running, beer-drenched hair and bitch-screaming brawl that reminded me of that scene from My Best Friend’s Wedding when Cameron Diaz goes all don’t-steal-my-man-bitch on Julia Roberts.

The victim of all of this didn’t want to press charges (guilt-stricken maybe?) and after finally getting to go potty I found Red returning to the scene frantically looking for HER WEDDING RING. That’s right in all of her open-palm slapping and hair pulling, this crazy lost her WEDDING RING. How do you explain that to your insurance agent?

Moral of the story: don’t get in bathroom brawls, you’ll loose shit.

Laundry: Reserved for Marriage

What’s going on right now? Well, let me tell you. My boyfriend (after a superficial conversation with one of my favorite satirist, I have decided to go back to boyfriend over manfriend) is studying for the Professional Engineering Test. And when he’s done studying, he studies a little bit more, eats a snack and then logs his hours. The man uses Excel in his personal life as much as I do at work. Respect.

Anyhow, with all of this studying pulling from the usual stream of attention slash annoying me, I have gotten to spend my free time at my condo, not going to the gym and taking baths.

Oh, and cooking for him because quote, “I am going to need you to make me lots of food while I am studying. I need to eat.” And so I do, because when he passes this test I can quit my job and focus on things like going to JoAnn Fabrics. (Ya right.)

Also note, I do these things with a big, fat smile on my face.

Last weekend I got up early, like 930, on a Sunday. I was zombie-walking around with bed head, coffee and morning breath being all sorts of attractive and eventually found myself trolling Pinterest. Y’know, the usual. I was making use of my Sunday and had no immediate plans to shower.

And then, this happened. I was focused in all of my laziness and Boyfriend says, “Can you help me do laundry today? I really need to do laundry and get six hours of studying in and it would be super helpful.”

There was a really long pause combined with a stare down, followed by me saying, “Are you serious?”

Yeah, I said that. Because I have guidlelines! Standards! We aren’t married. We don’t live together. I have my own laundry, and you don’t see him coming over to fold it for me when I have been bouncing all over the country from one thing to the next. First it’s laundry, then it’s cleaning his house, and before you know it I’m like a part-time wife without the medical benefits or access to his bank account. Besides, it’s important to save something for marriage, it gives them something to really look forward to, and a reason to put a ring on it.

So here we are, me ranting and you finding yourself thinking, “did she do it?”

But we both know I did it. Was there really ever a question in your mind? I turned on ABC Family (for the remainder of the day) and did laps between the couch and the dryer. (And thank you, ABC Family for the Kristen Bell marathon!)

Then I made dinner.


Went to Vegas: Lived to Tell You

Hi friends. As usual my motivation to write has ebbed and flowed with my work + personal schedule. I am of the age that my Facebook newsfeed reads more “look how cute my baby is” and “omg, we’re engaged!” and less “has anyone seen my ID?”

Anyways, I have spent my day thus far eating Brie + crackers and my weeks leading up to this cheese binge considering all the topics I could write about but not actually doing so. I have also been spending more time tweeting bitchy, complainy things like “why is the Comcast down?” and “give me my money back, Travelocity!” The power of social media with regards to customer service is truly mind boggling, especially when limited to 140 characters. Read my tweets here for a snippet of entertainment and a giggle (you’re welcome.)

So, let me catch you up on a few things I swore I would blog up about but ultimately didn’t because of my laundry-list of excuses.

Las Vegas: I went and survived, and didn’t ruin a pedicure.


That in and of itself is amazing. The four of us ladies stayed at the Bellagio, where they charge $9 for a poolside 16oz Bud Light Lime ($10 with tip). Though pricey, I will admit the pool guys are very helpful when you are looking for a pool chair, and even more so when you slip ’em a Lincoln (ball-er).


We hit up an ice bar the first night, before going to see Tony & Tina’s Wedding at Bally’s. The ice bar, Minus 5, is at the Monte Carlo, and was a balmy 23 degrees and fun! It was a cool experience to sip (chug) a cocktail from a glass made of ice and watch a drunkard take a shot of…something…from an ice luge in the shape of a woman’s upper half. I could tell you, or you could use your imagine as to where the liquor comes out. Hint: two people can take a shot at once. Anywho, our late-20 selfs  came, saw and left. We headed out to the show where we did more of the same: came, saw, left.

We spent a far amount of time bar-hopping: Monte Carlo > Bally’s > Cosmopolitan > Bellagio, picking up a drink or two at each stop along the way. It was after midnight, a time I hadn’t seen in months, and we were en route back to our room. My feet were screaming, “move your ass” and my eyes were drooping. Then we got stopped by a club promoter who offered us a cut-the-line offer only losers in Vegas would refuse. Free champagne? WHAT?! In.

Sadly, I think we got to the party a little too late and it was as if time was stopped in our circle of lifelessness. The four of us stood in the only space we could find, unable to talk because of the house music or sit because Las Vegas isn’t big on the chairs unless you pay for them, and so we stood.

The next day was dedicated to more pool time. It was raining in Seattle and nothing was going to stop us from enjoying the 90 degree weather outside. We walked the strip a bit, and had a happy hour sushi feast at RA (go there, it’s goooood) then picked up some vodka at Walgreens to get SERIOUS.

If my feet didn’t hurt already, they hurt more when I woke up. There was more dancing and eating at 3am. I woke up in the bed next to my own with the hanging taste of root beer and vanilla in my dry mouth. (PS vanilla vodka + diet a&w is amazing). We went to my favorite brunch spot, Mon Ami Gabi, at the Paris and had bloody mary bar. YUM-MY. Go there, drink this:

ImageImageI think I’m terribly funny, see?

I had been gung-ho on playing roulette after winning $70 a few weeks prior when I was at Foxwoods in CT. Instead, I didn’t gamble at all and got the most solid base tan ever. By the end of it, as usual, I was ready to come home, sleep in my own bed and be lights out by 10:30. But as always, Las Vegas won. It always does.

JoAnn Fabrics: Girls Only

Did I ever tell you about that time I took my Manfriend to JoAnn Fabrics? Probably not because it was equal parts stress and frustration. At one point I thought I was better off just cutting my losses and leaving him there.

To be clear, it’s not like he was acting like a small child (“ugh, can we goooooo”, “I’m hungry”, “I have to pee”) in fact he was being extremely patient as I ooo’ed and aww’ed at fabrics, batting, etc.

We were there for foam. Foam? Foam.

Four inch thickfoam that was on sale 50% off and I needed for my pallet-turned-ottoman project. Yes, I know I have referenced this twice now (that’s it?) and I swear I will post a tutorial once I complete the damn thing.

Anyways, we were in JoAnns surrounded by crafty, older ladies who were noticeably without husbands/boyfriends/lovahs. Not like they were single and/or widows, to be fair I didn’t question their FB status, but more like their sig-others knew better than to even set foot inside JoAnns.

And because I’m me, I did not have a schematic or blue print of my to-be-ottoman or how I was going to build it, which meant I was trying to pull up my Pinterest page and find the link to go to the page and then read what this other person wrote and did I mention I hadn’t eaten in awhile? Like a long while.

And how was I supposed to know how the foam was going to be sold? Why would I look that up online? I needed to SEE it.

So when Manfriend said, “Don’t you think you should have figured this out beforehand?” I literally almost lost my shit. I’m not positive what my facial expression was but I can only imagine it read as, “fetal position, protect yourself!”

I’m not sure what happened next because I was either so annoyed or so hungry I blacked out that portion of my memory. (I know what you’re thinking, I wish I was drunk too.) I calmly (yaright) walked back to the wall ‘o foam, pulled two pre-cut pieces and decided that would do.

Luckily, I am almost a mathematician (yaright x2, I was not math major) and figured out how to machete those pieces to fit together for my little project.

And because M was so happy to get the hell out of dodge/JoAnns and also knew there was a high probability I would try to pull a praying mantis, he promptly took me to Taco Time. Win.

(Writer’s note: I swear we went to Taco Time but M says we went to meet my parents for dinner. whatever.

Two weeks later, M went out of town and I was able to go to BOTH JoAnns AND Michael’s IN THE SAME DAY! It was the best day.

And while I was trying to pick fabric to upholster what will be the most badass ottoman of all time I was sure to text M a picture of each and every single fabric I liked until he finally said, “whichever one you want, sweetie.”

And now I think I found a new strategy to getting my way. This is what I decided on:


The smart lady that posted a how-to on making this ottoman said it took her four hours total. I couldn’t even tell you how many hours I’ve logged thus far because its taken my for-ev-ar to compile all my supplies.

And if you even think the words, “don’t you think you should have figured this out beforehand?” I will hunt you down. Hunt. You. Down.

Challenge Accepted.

Ok you guys, I have a few things to tell you. First of all, yesterday while I was trying to make my pallet-turned-ottoman (I’ll explain later) I was innocently putzing around in Manfriend’s backyard. In my spandex, naturally, since it was the weekend. 

Then out of nowhere, I was stung by a bee. A BEE. Confused, I started screaming, jumping and panicking while trying to pull my pants away from my leg. Manfriend, also confused by my circusing-about, began panicking because we are good, bee-fearing folk who just don’t get STUNG BY BEES.

I made it inside at which point he said, “do you want to take you pants off?” Smooth, Manfriend. And, yes I did want to take my pants off but as I was afraid the bee might try to attack me from it’s grave (aka the stinger was stuck in my spandex) so it was a bit of a process. I scuttled upstairs and waited for him to DO SOMETHING since all I could do was not cry.

Then, my parents showed up. And there I was, sitting on my Manfriend’s bed without pants on holding an ice pack against my thigh moaning, “Mooooooooooom I got stuuuuuuuung.”


I can’t even believe I wore pants today to be honest. Jeans, nonetheless. I had to apply 80 million layers of a Benedryl/Cortaid cocktail in order to survive the day without going mad. Then I was going to go to the gym, but my bee sting itched so I didn’t. (Love that excuse? Me. Too.) Redic. 

Since I feel as though this bee attack was unprovoked (it’s not like I dropped my pallet soon-to-be-ottoman on top of the deck under which it seems these little b-holes are living), Mother Nature and I are having a little bit of friction. I mean, ok, I threw away a few plastic bottles and sometimes I get plastic bags for my groceries when I am out of Seattle-proper but a bee-sting? Poor me.

So then, tonight, three-ish days before I leave to go camping with Manfriend and his high school “bros” I realize that I am going camping. But it’s ok because I am a camping pro. If “camping” is defined as staying anywhere that ends in “motel” and is classified under 3-stars on TripAdvisor.

Since it’s not, here’s how the conversation went:

Me: there a store near this ‘camp site?’

Manfriend: no. well, like 10+ miles away.

Me: how are we supposed to eat?

Manfriend stares. Then stares some more. I am pretty sure he was suppressing a smirk.

Me: does that mean we have to pack all our food? then cook it…over a…fire?

Manfriend: …yes…

Me: but what are we supposed to pack?!

Note: while I am not an idiot, I am really not acing the ‘play it cool, you can camp’ in front of my Manfriend.

Manfriend: beans, corn, steaks, hot dogs…

Me: oh, so this is like REAL camping?

5-minutes later…

Me: but we can shower right?

Manfriend continues to stare…and smirk…

I wouldn’t lie to you, when he pitched (hah! i’m so clever) this to me he told me it was like car-camping, which in my defense means there is access to a car which go on roads which lead to Starbucks.

Oh, shit. I just had the coffee-epiphany. Eff.

Except, yknow what? I was a Girl Scout. I can totally do this. Even when my troop mate picked a spot for our tent on a hill (what.the.hell) on a night that it monsooned (srsly.lakes.) I stuck it out.

So, I am going to pack me some Via, dry shampoo and bug spray and head to the “woods.” I use the “” because I feel like it’s going to be a clearing where there are no bears, snakes or things that bite…right? RIGHT. 

Challenge accepted, Manfriend.




Oh baby, baby!

Though I probably already mentioned this, I get a lot of ‘what kind of Asian are you?’ from various strangers. Most recently a customs agent told me I look like his old (prior, not age) Japanese roommate.

In fact, one of my most fond memories (they are few and far between) from my 21st birthday celebration was being hit on and having said [asian] dude say, verbatim, “so, what kind of Asian are you?”

He lost interest immediately after I said, “I’m not.” Who does that?!?

Anyways, this questioning often left me wondering if maybe, just maybe, I was adopted. You see, I am actually part Native American. And my parents were always like, the documentation proving that was lost, which could have totally been their way of covering up the fact that they really got me from overseas. My cheekbones are apparently reminiscent to those of Asian descent – but of which country, no one is ever all too sure.

Since I’m a little bit crazy (you are too), this adoption-theory was totally plausible to me. At 28, I still hadn’t seen a picture of my mother pregnant or in the hospital or me swaddled in anything. Plus, people always say things like, “omg you must get your Native American genes from your dad” except that I don’t. My mom is a blonde-hair, blue-eyed all American lady. And since the supposed gene comes from her side, this really left room for doubt.

Anyways This morning when I wasn’t working because of an ‘IT disruption’ day (a whole other story) I was digging around in my storage unit and found two lone pictures in my grandma’s old dresser (don’t ask). The first was me at 4-months looking really, really Asian. Like big time Japanese. And the second was my mom, in the hospital bed holding me!


I feel like I should carry it around in my wallet so I can say, “see! Not adopted, thanks for asking” to random strangers. A passport of my heritage, if you will.

(And yes, I realize a photo is not a) a passport or b) documentation of my descent – but thanks for thinking so little of me, asshat.)

That time I got lost: Toronto

I was lucky enough to get to go to Toronto this past weekend for work. There was a big event and it was the first my company participated in in Canada, so off I went.

Knowing my propensity to get lost, I opted to take a 6am flight out in order to get in earlier. I had never been to Toronto (woohoo, new city!) and even though 6am flights are my arch nemesis I sucked it up.

Did I get lost? Boy, did I ever.

I was in charge of bringing all of the sample product to the event, and I didn’t trust a 20-something even team to rent a van on my liability-watch, so I rented a full-size SUV. Now, I haven’t driven an SUV since the death of my dear friend Barney, a 1991 Ford Explorer, let alone a full-size SUV ever.

I ended up with a fully loaded Dodge Durango with less than 7k miles. I am so baller.

Rango was parked next to a pillar, naturally, and thanks to the side sensors (what rental cars HAVE THOSE?!?!!@#$) I navigated my way out of the parking garage.

Then I got lost 8 times. Even with a navigation system and a google maps print out, I somehow ended in a clover-like pattern first going north then west back south and then north again only to realize I needed to go west.

This went on for about 2 hours.

It’s important that you know there are signs that say “Toronto” and I chose not to follow them and instead listen to my nav system. It’s also important I tell you that I input the wrong address into the nav so it kept taking me OUT of the city rather than in.

My natural sense of direction took me to a Target, so I took a break from being lost to do some perusing. Targets are new to Canada, and this one happened to be quite deserted. (Note: Walmarts are also fairly new, but when I stopped of at Walmart it was like half the city was there. I couldn’t get out fast enough.)

I asked my checker at Target, “how do I get downtown?” and he said – get this – “hmm, I don’t know” and had to ask someone else who also didn’t know and so SHE had to ask SOMEONE else who didn’t know. This left my completely baffled as I was right off the freeway and, don’t these people LIVE HERE?!

It also made me feel slightly better about myself. And my directional abilities.

I gave the GPS one more try and ended up at my hotel almost THREE HOURS after picking up my car. Google maps told me it should only take 20 minutes.

So, that was pathetic.

I had some work to finish up and was so completely exhausted from waking up at 3am (again, 6am flights suck) that I couldn’t pull it together to go get food. To make matter worse, I was starving and having trouble making decisions.

I landed on ordering Thai food from this little spot on the next block that said they would deliver. I also looked like I hadn’t showered in 24-hours because I hadn’t, and if you know me you know that’s gross. My food (FRIED spring rolls, pad see ewe and coconut sticky rice – because my order needed to total $25 and also, yummy!) showed up around 930pm EST and by then I was completely ravenous.

I settled in to watch a marathon of Randy to the Rescue and I Found the Gown on TLC and realized that they DIDN’T GIVE ME SILVERWARE. No chop sticks. No fork. Nothing.

And even though the front desk SAID they would send up a fork they didn’t, so I still went ahead and ate my whole dinner, all three ‘courses’, with my fingers.

Bubblegum Barbie

Last week my friend Dub asked me to prom via text message. It was all so non-threatening and friend-like that I couldn’t say no. Plus, I love any and every excuse to dress up in sparkly things.

I excitedly told my co-workers, ran it by manfriend (yknow, in case he was all ‘no! you are mine and I will not share you on a Friday!’…yearight.) and frantically called my mom screaming, “gather the dresses! The time has come!!”

Yesterday I mentioned said invite in a small snippet of a post. But then you had no idea how whimsical adult-prom could truly be.

Though Momma Social Narcissist (forever now to be known as Momma SN) never said the words “stop obsessively calling/texting/Facebooking me, I will find your damn dresses” I’m pretty sure she thought it. She graciously had our local courier (read: Dad) drop them off for Dub and me the try on.

Who can still fit into her dress from junior year? This girl.

Anyways we were clearly unsatisfied with what we had, and rushed out to Ross the night before with 30 minutes before closing. Several gaudy, scratchy, tulle-layered dresses followed and I found my re-prom dress. Let me tell you, it is eighteen-dollars and ninety-nine cents of bubblegum pink goodness falling somewhere between my Big Fat American Gypsy Wedding and pure trashy. When combined with Vegas tan, I really look like a GTL-ing Jersey girl from the Shore.


Dub had some trouble finding a dress, and because she likes fashion-fueled stress and sheer panic of not knowing what to wear, she decided to purchase multiple (yes, multiple) dresses day-of. Ballsy.

Her top choice, a black and hot pink glittered gem, much like my own attire, was about three sizes too big. But really, it was just so perfect for the event. She showed up at my place looking like a taffeta hoarder. We established that yes, in fact, the dress was three sizes too big and could we a) tighten the elastic b) tie some extra tulle around her waste like a poor-trannies belt or c) possibly add straps? Then, the answer became obvious.

“I’m gonna take it in,” I said coolly and headed off to find my free-from-the-Sheraton sewing kit. It was about 6:30pm and our date was due to pick us up at 8:20. Which is a joke because, duh, what girl is EVER on time? ESPECIALLY on re-prom? I stitched up the left side, admired my hand work and proudly said, “See! I told you it could be done. Now I need to eat” then devoured an entire order of pad see ewe. The clock was ticking, I still hadn’t showered and Dub’s dress wasn’t finished. I got back to sweat-shopping and took in the remaining side – surprisingly with no needle-stabs (go me!).

And then, we were right back where we started. Dub pulled the three-sizes too big dress over her head and I went to zip her up and…

“Ut oh.”

“What do you mean, ‘ut oh’? Tell me it’s going to zip.”

I was laughing so hard I think I peed (thankfully, I still hadn’t showered), “It’s not going to happen.”

“What do you mean? This dress was THREE SIZES TO BIG!” Yup, I took it in about six inches.

I quickly removed the sticking from one side and said, “asymmetrical is so in!” then zipped her up (on the left.) Sure, she couldn’t breath but really, who can?

Our date was on time, and so we quickly threw ourselves together, iPhoned for an Uber and headed to prom! (OMG, PROM!) After much discussion, Dub declared that yes, in fact, the crown was too much and I should leave it at home – much to my chagrin. I decided to wear my sunglasses (at night & inside) for the majority of the night to make up for the loss.


Ok, even though I never plan on turning 30 (because I think 29 is a perfectly acceptable age), if I do bite the bullet and go for it I hope to have a party as fun as this one. We walked in, in all our glory, me with sunglasses (duh) and a boa and Dub with her gloves to find faux-flower corsages and boutonnieres waiting for us. After awkwardly and unsuccessfully trying to get Date’s boutonniere on, we took on turn for pictures.  Still waiting on those btw.


Then a table of jell-o shots happened. And Dub was busy socializing, so Date and I went ahead and helped ourselves.


So that happened. Maybe a little too much.

The rest of the night consisted of dancing, dancing without my shoes on, Dub removing her glove WITH HER TEETH and then more dancing.


I chose to wear these silver shoes I got as a bridesmaid gift years ago because they were the most prom-esque shoes in my closet. They have like a 2 inch heel so I was all, “I can rock these all night!”


After taking them off, my second mistake (the first was wearing them), I couldn’t put them back on as my feet decided to reject the idea of shoes entirely. There is essentially NO padding and it felt like I was balancing on wooden dowels.

I am pretty sure everyone at the party either kicked me or stepped on my feet at one point – which did not bother me at the time. However, when I awake with a scrape on my ankle I quickly remembered why steel-toed boots would have been a better choice, though less fashionable. (Or, maybe not?)

The party broke up around 1 am and Dub was set on having beers at her co-workers house. I was set on being home. We stopped at Dick’s (another duh) and I then proceeded to ask and ask and ask if they could just please please please drop me off at home. They did, and I woke up at 9am in a pile of boa feathers with a wounded-soldier-chocolate milkshake on my bedside table. I was awake long enough to let Dub in to get her keys, before claiming the world was too bright and pulling out my eye mask. It’s amazing how late one can sleep when all light is blocked out (1pm).

Re-prom was the exact OPPOSITE of my real prom. Thanks and happy 30th to our host, who threw one bitchin’ party!

Friday for Thought: Prom

I know I owe all of a break down of my recent trip to LV; don’t worry it’s coming.

In the meantime, I wanted to give a quick Friday snack to tell you that I, the Social Narcissist, got asked to prom.

Before you get all, ‘whoa…10 years ago much?’ let me tell you that it’s an ADULT prom.

My real prom was semi-disastrous considering my high school boyfriend 1) forgot about the dance and 2) prompted a breakup convo due to my lack of commitment. Which is ironic since he is the one that forgot about the most important night of my adolescent life.

No, we didn’t end it, and I swore I would put ‘more’ into the relationship.

I didn’t, and we broke up a few days later.

I spent prom night trapped on an Argosy cruise in a plain dress I got at T.J. Maxx because I love T.J. Maxx and at the time I felt that I could totally accessorize the crap out of my dress. Again, I didn’t and was ultimately bored with my choice.

Tonight is the night to re-do prom thanks to a fancy gent who is throwing himself a 30th birthday-prom.

How will the night turn out?

Rewind & Replay: Las Vegas

A few years ago, I jetsetted off to Las Vegas with a group of my bestest friends ever (you know who you are, right?) It was equally fun as it was extremely emotionally traumatic. My manfriend refuses to return (once was enough for him) so three of my girlfriends and me have planned a 3-day-vacay to Sin City for sun, booze, etc. Below is a post I wrote in March of 2010. Curious to see how much changes after three years…read up and compare against what I write next week. 😉

A Q&A sesh with Las Vegas and myself.

How low can you go?
Turns out, quite low. I apparently have the ability – even after a vodka/Redbull or two – to stabilize myself, heels and all, and still drop it like it’s hot. Important note for you rookies: always wear boyshorts. No one wants to see your Britney on the dance floor, except the creepy European guy that’s been following you around for the past 20 minutes while you dance with every other person to avoid his inevitable attempt to grab your ass.

Can I teach you how to snap two nudey cards together?
If you’re a guy, of the straight nature, I think that you should be issued a complimentary baseball card holder once landing in Vegas. No, wait. Even if you are a girl you should be given this free gift with airline ticket purchase, because regardless of what kind of situation (hehe…ye) you have going on down there in Mexico, it doesn’t matter. You will be non-verbally handed hooker trading cards everywhere you go. It’s kind of like when you were seven and your parents took you to Disneyland and gave you one of those autograph books. The purpose there was to get as many signatures as possible. I am going to go out on a limb and say if the same goal were true here, there would be free clinics on every other street corner. Legally these baseball card pimps can’t talk to you, or so I am told, hence the snapping. However, the hungover girls walking-three-wide to keep each other vertical are going to pass on the girl-on-girl action. Thanks anyways.

Is the phrase ‘What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas’ true to your experience?
Maybe it was in 1998 when you, sweet LV, felt the need to try and stimulate your economy by convincing unsuspecting travelers that you are a vortex of secrecy where they could fulfill any possible fantasy without their wife/hubs/coworkers/kids from knowing what kind of perverse things could come of them. Then, in an interesting turn of events, Facebook happened. Unfortunately, for these fratboy-wannabes-gone-wild, Facebook opened the front door to Vegas. No, actually, Facebook straight up bulldozed through it. And now there are tagged photos, quotes that have no meaning other than to the person saying it (HAHAHAHHAHAHA “CEASAR! WE’RE BACK!” – See? No idea.) and a plethora of wall posts that may or may not be about you. Wait…someone else made the same bad decision I made? No, no, no it must have been that other girl that I ran into..Also, I love signing into my account and getting a notification that says “Blank has tagged you in a photo.” Crap! Rack-brain. Thinkthinkthink. When was this photo taken? What was I doing? Did I have boyshorts on at the time?

Would you like an late check out?
No, I would not. I want you to get me to the airport as quickly as possible. The sooner I forget I was in the at-will Bermuda triangle of vacations and get back to reality, the better. Except, right now I can barely move and either I find $8 for a Gatorade or I might die a slow and painful death in this extremely comfortable bed/bathtub/hallway/doorjam. Lucky for you, I opted to bring my extra dignity with me, so you keep whatever I left by accident.

Do you have your exit buddy?
I do now. Did I this weekend? Debatable.

Would you do it again?
Wait which part? The coming to Vegas part or the…I’m sorry repeat the question please.