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.

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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).

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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.

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.