Tuesday, February 15, 2005

If NOTHING happens in Vegas does it still have to stay there?

Yes, I had fun in Vegas, but not in a "Girls Gone Wild" kind of way. More in a bankers-and-middle-management-types-out-with-their-housewives kind of way.

Both the hub AND I get orange carded at the airport including a full pat down. I told the lady touching me that if she could occasionally exclaim "Have you lost weight?" that it would make the process more enjoyable for everyone.

The guy doing hub was just plain strange, resulting in the following conversation...
Me: That guy was weird
hub: yeah
Me: Like, still lives with his mother weird.
hub: yeah
Me: Like still lives with his mother's corpse weird.
hub: Nice honey. That's comforting.

Our flight had a connection in Phoenix and both Phoenix and Vegas were just getting pounded with rain. There were delayed flights all over the place. I actually got the pleasure of seeing one of the gate agents picking his ass while telling passengers that our flight was going to be delayed three more hours. It was a golden moment.

Oh, and a woman behind me in one of the stand-by lines asked "Did you just come from Tulsa? I THOUGHT I saw them patting you down." Really.

So we finally get there, skooch into our hotel to throw some non-traveling clothes on and go over to Caesar's to meet our friends in the Shadow bar. They are mostly hammered and when they see us they all start cheering so that everyone in the bar is trying to figure out if we are celebrities or something (which, of course, I am). So one hour, half a beer and four shots later, I'm pretty caught up and in a big discussion regarding whether the shots are called red-headed something or bloody bitch (we never did figure it out but it was red and had Jaeger in it). Here are various other bits of conversation (as near as I can recall)....

During our masturbation discussion, H is SWEARING that she has NEVER EVER masturbated, Kr & I are discussing the merits of The Rabbit, Ke is laughing and telling H to get with the program whereupon I tell her "Yeah! I mean, I masturbate so much I have Carpal Tunnel" and Ke laughs so hard she practically falls off her chair. Then we ask the waitress what she thinks.

I have to touch Ke's husband P's chest because, well I don't really know why, and he feels so waxy that I get creeped out and spend the rest of the trip giving him the fish eye.

H & Ke get up and start reverse oreo dancing with some poor unsuspecting black man from the table across from us. They look drunk and he looks confused. I think he's afraid they are going to try to sell him cookies. Or Jesus.

Then I go to the bar to try to get H some water (as she is starting to look a little rough) and spend the next good ten minutes getting my whole right side molested by some guy from Wisconsin who is telling me how bad he feels because his wife, back in WI, is in emergency surgery and he HAS to be in Vegas. Apparently a good grope can assuage guilt.

Have I mentioned yet that at this point my friend Kr has kissed EVERYONE at least three times? But then she is the one who gets drunk at her own Christmas parties and puts on chaps and dances to "Cherry Pie" (including gymnastics moves).

So we finally stagger out of the bar at maybe 3-ish and I am SO DRUNK I proclaim to hub, "Let's go do a little gambling". So we sit down to play "Let it Ride" (because it requires NO SKILL whatsoever). I immediately tell the dealer that I am hammered and to feel free to laugh at me. Which she does. Freely. I know for sure I alienated a couple of Canadians (you know how they are) and probably a Russian from California.

I finally lose all my money (surprise, surprise) and out of nothing but concern for me in my delicate state, my husband says "Why don't you go ahead and head up to the room. I'm going to stay and gamble a little more." Have I mentioned how drunk I am? There was a very good chance I was going to stagger out onto the Strip and live out the rest of my days as a crack whore, but, you know, don't let me stop your non-existent "streak" honey.

So I stagger off toward where I think the elevators are. Stagger stagger stagger. Three steps forward, one wiiiiide step to the side, attempt to regain course, two more steps forward, one more wiiide step into a bank of slot machines where I attempt to smile and nod at a 90-year old chain smoking hag snarling over her video poker. I was so ridiculously, obviously hammered I think a group of Japanese tourists was taking pictures of me, but I can't be sure.

So I finally make it to my elevator. As the doors are about to close, a guy hops on caring a drink and bag of food from Burger King. From now on I will refer to him as Poor Rick because that is what I call him in my head. So poor unsuspecting Rick gets into the elevator with ME - drunkest person in the world.

After about three floors of me trying to stand up straight and look normal, he innocently remarks, " You know, you look like Julia Roberts." At which point I come COMPLETELY UNGLUED (not that my glue was sticking very well at the moment anyway) and start YELLING at him..."What is the deal with that? I look NOTHING like her? Why do people keep telling me that? What is it? Hunh? Can you PLEASE tell me what it is that makes ME look like HER? Seriously? What is it?" etc, etc, etc, until he manages to whimper something along the lines of "I don't know. Something about your profile maybe?" I snort derisively in his direction.

Then notice the straw sticking out of his drink. Lightning like, I re-apply my "normal" personality and innocently ask, "What cha drinkin'?" To which, again poor poor Rick, who hasn't learned yet it's best to just ignore me, says "Diet Coke". And I'm off again. "DIET COKE??!! What is the deal with you MEN and Diet Coke?" Another derisive snort.

And another question, "What's in the bag?" again, slow learner Rick tells me, "A cheeseburger". Psycho me - "WHAT!!?? No fries??!! WHY on earth would you NOT get fries? What is WRONG with you."

At about this point the elevators doors, in a act of clemency toward Poor Rick, open on my floor. Yet another reason to call him poor poor Rick? It's also HIS floor. In fact his room is only like TWO DOORS DOWN from mine. So he is stuck with me.

Somewhere along the line (gee, you'd think I could remember) I offer to take a digital picture of us and e-mail it to him. Yeah, I have NO IDEA.

So I go to my room, get my camera, go BACK to his room, barge in (why on EARTH did he even open the door?) and proceed stomp around trying to figure out where to put my camera - the coffee table, his open luggage, the bed, etc - so I can take a picture of me sitting with him on the couch. This takes a few minutes and I just can't get it right. I eventually grab my camera, muttering something about something and stomp off to my room.

THIS IS WHY I DON'T DRINK PEOPLE!!! Can you SEE the crazy stuff I do?

So then I spend the next hour or so vomiting several hundreds of dollars worth of alcohol into the toilet and the trash can. It was delightful. I was also laying on my bed and cursing loudly at my clothes because I just couldn't get them off. Somewhere along the line, hub came back in a good (aka winning) mood and undressed me and tucked me into bed.

Cut to next day where I dry heave for about an hour until hub and his best friend, not even TRYING to act concerned for my welfare or the welfare of his equally ill wife upstairs, run out the door to go gamble. But here is, almost verbatim, what hub's friend says to me before he leaves...

Me: Well is she going to come down here to meet me for breakfast?
Him: Well, you might want to call her because she is forgetful.
Me: Okay, what's your room number?
Him: I dunno. I forget.

AND he doesn't even realize what he just said. I even replay the whole conversation for him and he just shrugs. Freaking men.

So I slowly make my way up to their room, walking the entire time all hunched over and shuffling my feet like an escapee from the geriatric ward. I fall into her room and we both spend a good half hour lying in fetal positions on her bed with me relating my tales of the stagger home and my torturing of Poor Rick. She is alternately laughing her ass off and trotting off to puke.

We finally decide to get some room service as neither of us could possibly make it down to a restaurant let alone try to eat in one. I open the room service menu and the first thing I see are the words "Giant Banana Split". I immediately slam the cover shut, simultaneously laughing and moaning. If you knew about the recent development in how I feel about bananas, this is more entertaining. So we both gross out about that for a while. Then I try again. This time I get "Asian Chicken Wrap". Oh good god! Slam goes the cover again. How the hell am I going to eat? I can't even READ about the food?!! H has pity on me and since she has just thrown up is enjoying that small respite of "feel better" before the nausea creeps in again. She calls and orders us both BLT's and Pepsi's (because Pepsi has apparently cornered the restaurant / room service market in Vegas).

I moan a little more and make her laugh a little more and she tells me that I should be a comedian (I KNOW I told her a ton of funny stuff, I just can't remember what it is). She tells met that she thinks her brother would love me and I tell her that I think her brother thinks I'm a complete dork ball. (Side note - I love her brother just because he is HER brother but also because he told his three boys that they should never get in a car with strangers because "they will take you out in the desert, fuck you in the ass, and kill you and you will never see your family again." Sometimes a little truth in advertising is the best thing. Keeping in mind that for entertainment for his three boys routinely involves taking turns punching each other in the nuts.)

Where was I? Oh yes...

So the room service guy FINALLY brings us our food. He doesn't seem to impressed with the two of us moaning and curled in fetal positions, but then I can't imagine what a room service guy in Las Vegas sees on a regular basis. I sit on the floor with my plate in my lap and slowly chew my way through 46 pieces of bacon on toast with lettuce and tomato. H lays on the couch and eats hers. Then we both want to take a nap. So I stagger back down to my room, take off my clothes and slide back in to my ridiculously disheveled bed.

Oh, I forgot to mention that earlier that morning, before hub left, I was trying to pry my revolting (in more ways than one) body from bed and I look down on the floor between my bed and hubs (no, we don't routinely sleep in separate beds, it was just all they had when we checked in at midnight) and guess what I see? I big long fingernail. OF COURSE IT ISN'T MINE. Good lord. I made record time leaping over it to spring to the bathroom. Hub came and picked it up with a tissue and disposed of it, but I'm now thinking there is a dead hooker under my bed (those stories have to start SOMEWHERE you know).

So later "the girls" go shopping in the Forum shops and the guys gamble while I try to sleep until I can open one eye and see the walls acting in a stable manner. I finally give up and try to make myself as presentable as possible so I can work my way down to the casino. I find hub & friends playing at a table and I sit behind them at a slot machine cautiously nibbling a croissant and sipping a Pepsi. Oh, and they had been telling every dealer and every other person who sat down at the table about my "condition". I think my crappy looking state is what lead the woman sitting next to my husband to tell him that she thought I looked like Winona Ryder. Has that EVER been a compliment? I think not.

The rest of the trip of pretty uneventful except that I won like $500 and we saw Pete Rose.

The End.