09.27.2007
What happens in Vegas
 |
Kate gives her stink eye to a gross man while walking in Vegas with her Canadian friend. |
Cliches bore me. Using a cliche is like saying, “I don’t have an original thought in my head.”
That’s why I’m not going to say that “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,” and I’ll prove it with the henceforth detailed, Bridget-Jones-style diary of my trip to a city filled with skin (not mine), sin (not mine either), gambling (eh, I’ll take that one) and the best 48-ounce margarita (or two) I’ve ever had.
Day 1 - The beginning
Weight: 130
Drinks: None
Sleep: A few hours
5:07 a.m. EST: Arrive at Charlotte Douglas Airport.
5:11 a.m.: Strike up conversation with robust man awkwardly asking small-talk questions. Another man joins in and discussion of 3-ounce bottles of liquids on planes ensues.
5:46 a.m.: Praying no one sits in vacant window seat so a) can get window seat and b) get two seats in which to stretch out.
5:47 a.m.: Man who was previously in another seat takes window seat, demolishing hopes. Am glaring at man while jotting down, “Am glaring at man.”
3:34 p.m. PST: After plane delay and slight miscommunication with Mandy, former co-worker and obvious choice for Vegas-galavanting buddy, have arrived at the Target in Palm Springs, Calif., to pick up supplies for harrowing trip through back roads of Mojave Desert and into The Strip. Have not yet been to The Strip, but have pictured ambling along casino fronts, drink in hand, hopefully running into a dashing celebrity who tosses a $1,000 chip with which to win millions.
Day 2 - Getting on the road
Weight: 132 (thanks to heavy Mexican food on Day 1)
Drinks: Wine tasting in Palm Springs and two glasses red wine to wash down heavy Mexican dinner
Sleep: Lots - red wine has that effect
Supplies for trip to Vegas:
4 pre-packaged Starkist tuna lunch kits
1 box of Triscuits
2 1-gallon jugs of Gatorade (fruit punch and lemon lime)
1 box of generic frosted shredded wheat cereal
1 package of gum
1 barrel of trail mix
$200 cash
2 credit cards
1 moderate tolerance for alcohol
10 a.m.: Pile into Mandy’s Honda after packing enough for three months instead of three days.
10:47 a.m.: Rain. In the desert. Tons and tons of rain.
11:06 a.m.: Mandy takes a very last-minute right turn from the left lane, tires squealing. Remain calm. Vegas or bust (is that cliche?).
11:59 a.m.: Find only gas station in the desert for much-needed bathroom break. Sign clearly marks bathroom sink noting “NOT drinking water.”
As if.
12:56 p.m.: While traversing completely washed out roads in the desert, large bird narrowly escapes the wrath of the Honda’s windshield, causing heart to briefly stop.
Note: Still an hour outside of Vegas and have already had one near-death experience.)
2:19 p.m.: Arrive at the Chateau de Las Vegas, more commonly known as Motel 6.
4:51 p.m.: Have walked The Strip for hours only to encounter gross men distributing “advertisements” for women and have been asked if have desire to “shaky shaky.” Am not sure Vegas fits lifestyle.
8:57 p.m.: Stranded in Mexican (again) restaurant along The Strip due to utter downpour flooding the streets. Have already gotten into two arguments over Cincinnati Bengals football. Have told restaurant manager who identified himself as a Steelers fans that he is a “Carson Palmer knee-snapping” something or the other. He then says he actually enjoys the Jaguars, not the Steelers, and flees. Am proud.
10:15 p.m.: Escape rain to go to casino, shooting mean looks at porn distributors along the way. One flees. Am proud.
10:45 p.m.: Dance (not the MTV bump-n-grind way, the “this is the way Chubby Checker looked” way).
10:50 p.m.: Dance.
12:30 a.m.: Still dancing.
1:10 a.m.: Get into super-dramatic argument with Mandy.
1:11 a.m.: Resolve over hot pretzel.
3 a.m.: Have been chugging water all evening. Meet Australian boy and English boy. Tell them both their accents aren’t impressive. Have discovered that after a few drinks, have lost ability to be polite.
3:20 a.m.: Receive phone call from the boyfriend, who is already awake on the East Coast. Feel homesick.
4:30 a.m.: Wait for rain to stop so I can make trek home sans blister-wielding stilettos.
4:35 a.m.: Receive another call from the boyfriend: “Go home.”
4:36 a.m.: Go home.
Day 3—You mean there’s more?
Weight: Even more due to Mexican food and late-night hot pretzel
Drinks: Many beers, much more water
Near-death experience: One
Fights with Vegas-galavanting friend: One
Vegas-galavanting friends: One
Headaches: One very big one
9:18 a.m.: Wake up to chug ibuprofen and lemon-lime Gatorade.
That is the last recording in my Vegas diary, most likely due to the two 48-ounce margaritas consumed later in the evening. However, Day 3 went much like Day 2 (including eating Mexican food again), and the headaches on Day 4 were much worse than the ones on Day 3 - again, likely due to the two 48-ounce margaritas.
However, having now been removed three days from the trip, I can proudly report the following:
Weight: 130
Drinks: Absolutely none and probably none ever again
Mexican food: See above
Vegas-galavanting friends: One
Pictures of dancing, drinking and mean looks at porn distributors: 50
Mean looks at porn distributors: Countless
Blisters from walking The Strip in stilettos: Three
Near-death experiences: One
Time spent in jail: None
Money lost on drinks: $80 (I’m not a lush - those 48-ounce margaritas are expensive)
Money lost gambling: None - actually made about $60
Money lost on Mexican food: Too much
Boyfriends: Still one
Planned trips back to Vegas: None anytime soon