Is it possible to have major let-down and intense freak-out stress all at once? Oh yeaaaah, it's called motherhood, right? Or maybe, it's called being a mother-writer-blogger-wife-sassy layday trying to squeeze a vacation in once in a while. Just when I felt I was catching up on sleep/blogspiration/laundry/email after BlogHer, we shipped the kid off to Camp Grandma & Grandpa and headed to Vegas with two of our BFF couples.
I am sure you are all fidgety with curiosity: How was Las Vegas?
My answer: Ehhh.
I realized about an hour into our vacation that I don't love casinos, which is not the best revelation to have when you are about to spend four days in Las Vegas. But to me, casinos are loud and depressing (again with the dichotomies) and put me into an overstim that is very similar to the first time I showed Lil E a Baby Einstein DVD (which quickly - thank the goddesses -- was replaced by American Idol).
Perhaps it is because we are on a pretty tight budget around here since the total disappearance of Miss Noncommittal Lazy Pants, Bruce's thrice weekly cash-wielding, crying out for therapy more than crunches client has disappeared into the northern 'burbs, most likely in a puddle of underdeveloped biceps and Egg Beaters (not that I'm bitter about clients who never call their personal trainers back, JACKIE!*). We shouldn't have counted on the income but we did, and so that led us straight to the casinos with very little to gamble.
But not gambling was not really the issue. Gambling bores me. I'm good for twenty minutes and then I'm ready for a detox, preferably in a non-smoking bar where they make excellent lemon drops.
I should qualify my boredom by telling you I grew up in a gambling family. When we played Hearts with my Grandma Alice, we were all expected to pitch in our pennies. If we won, we celebrated. If we lost, we lost. And if we cried or complained, according to Grandma Alice's father's rules, the cards went into the fire in the woodstove (or the junk drawer, in our case).
I grew up betting on the Kentucky Derby and if necessary, by round-robin phone calls minutes before the horses hit the gate. We heard many stories of my grandfather's ability to count cards effortlessly and how my mother spent much of her childhood at the track. Even though my parents have scaled back the gambling habits of their parents' generation, we still place wagers on the Oscars and pull out jars of change for card championships at the holidays.
The slots and craps and blackjack and roulette, though, just don't trick my trigger. To make matters more uninteresting, I just did not get why it was entertaining to walk the long, scorching strip to see hotel after hotel. After the initial ooh and ahh over rain from the ceiling or a leg of the faux Eiffel Tower sticking out in one corner, everything seemed swallowed up by the familiar bad cocktail uniforms, whirls and dings, tables and overstim.
Here's the good part: We were with our friends and they are amazing. We laughed and had drinks and told stories and used short-hand that only the six of us understand.
We lazed by the pool and hit the steam and sauna spa in the hotel. We ate one of those crazy Brazilian meatgasm dinners and saw a mediocre comedy show that was saved by Jimmy Schubert (who's he again?) and April Macie (if you saw April Macie on Last Comic Standing a couple of seasons ago, know that she's much funnier and much raunchier live).
We also had a blast at a little pub in New York New York where the dueling piano act is hilarious and rockin' and goes great with one or five Coronas (the beer here's only $5.50 a bottle...bargain!). Here's how much fun we had dancing and singing at the tops of our lungs for 3-1/2 hours until my blisters throbbed and my voice was nearly gone (oh effin' yes, more blisters, even in the
cute flats unpadded flats from the depths of Miss Thang hell I bought just for the occasion):
So it's not the most attractive of poses, but dude, we were singing Journey. What else was there to do? It was like a requirement to get all Rockstar: Supernova-ed like that.
Check out my Bizarro Mother-In-Law. I don't mean that as an insult, I mean it as the strange coincidence of my MIL look-alike (in the floral shirt) planted right next to our friend (in the red shirt) at the bar all night long. Crazy, right?
We did not make a burlesque show after all, but Bruce and I made a deal when we hobbled home one night while our friends cruised on to more casinos that we'd be sure to get to Lipschtick and soon. I'm a little disappointed that I missed all those feathers and sheer-rhinestoned costumes that gives my inner seven-year old a little thrill, but I will be just fine. After all, I may just become that dancing grrrl myself, and wouldn't that be a kick?
* Of course, that's not her name, people. And either is Miss Noncommittal Lazy Pants. Stop looking for clues. If you think I am talking about you, stop reading immediately and CALL YOUR TRAINER!