Next Stop, Vegas Please- Part II

Lest you think I spent the entire trip sulking like an Angsty Party Girl, allow me to speak briefly of the high points of the trip (drinks with Harvey "Celeb Fit Club Trainer" notwithstanding).

THE DIGS:
Catalano's dad scored us a sweet time share. It really was delightful; three bedrooms (I think...there might have been four...it was a confusing weekend), kitchen, dining area, living room, three (or four?) full bathrooms, and a sweet jacuzzi. Mrs. Spaz and I put our bathing suits on and occupied said jacuzzi one evening with a bottle of wine. It was truly magic. The best part about having a kitchen (aside from the fact that we turned it into our own makeshift bar where drinks went for the hefty price of FREE) was the ability to have food on-hand. If Legs hadn't stocked the fridge and cupboards, I believe it's entirely likely we might have forgotten to eat all weekend. Except for....


THE EATS:
Oh God, the eats. We went to Happy Hour at Koi on Friday night and had some lovely sushi rolls at half price (half price being nine bucks a pop). This was lovely, but nothing compared to the two buffets we devastated.

On Saturday we went to brunch (at 3pm, mind you...) at the Bellagio. I am well aware that there are starving people in this world; that countries are pained for fresh water and fresh eats. I felt guilty for a full four minutes until I popped a salmon mousse tart into my mouth and finally clued into the fact that there is a time and a place for human compassion, and a sensitivity for world hunger has to be checked at the door of the Bellagio along with any tight-fitting pants you might deign wear. I wore what I referred to as my "Eatin' Dress," which comfortably allows for some serious eating.

I mean, serious. Sushi, rack of lamb, prime rib, ahi poke, Kobe beef, steamed pork buns, pizza, Beef Wellington...it just went on and on. When one conjures images of buffets, it's usually of overcooked, overstarched college food sitting out to bake into oblivion under heat lamps. This is not that.

Cocktail shrimp posed sexily on mountains of slivered ice molded to look like bowls. Grilled quail splayed on a bed of rosemary. The whole thing was nothing short of food porn- and all of it up for grabs. (Although Legs's sister did comment that my mom's Beef Wellington is better than the Bellagio's...a compliment she took as the highest of praise, and rightfully so.)

And the desserts.

Oh, the desserts.

Everything dressed up to look like designer couture, complete with hardware. Chocolate buttons, marzipan bows, edible gold etching. These desserts made other desserts look like trusty farm hands. I shall now scoff at things like Milano cookies, which are overweight and clumsy compared to the slivers of shortbread and chocolate delicately placed headfirst into an air-whipped bed of chocolate mousse.

Sunday, we hit up the famous Spice Market in Planet Hollywood. Same deal with the "Eatin' Dress." Same deal with the ridiculousness. I wish I had brought three extra stomachs with me. I would have gladly paid Delta to check them.

THE AMENITIES:
I'm well aware of the dangers of skin cancer. I know that tanning is a blight upon humanity and has even prompted legislation (the "Anti-Snookie" bill preventing teenagers from tanning and asking for higher taxes on tanning services) .

I KNOW THIS.

However.

One of my most favorite things is Lying Out With A Book. I'm like a cat. Give me a puddle of sun, a nice towel, and I'm in it to win it. And our hotel came with a gorgeous outdoor pool. Multiple pools, in fact, and one very nicely reserved for "Adults Only," and outfitted with a tiki bar. My kinda place.

I probably laid out in the sun for all of three combined hours this weekend and walked with a tan like the one I got after four days in Ocean City last summer.

Why?

Well, funny you should ask. My masseuse (I'll get to that...) informed me: "Enjoying that sun? Don't stay out there too long. There's no smog here, you know. Nothing to block pure sun rays. Coming straight through. You'll burn in less than ten minutes."

It was at that moment that I realized that Vegas, despite being disgustingly full of sin, is a delightfully clean city.

Say what you will about hookers and gambling, there ain't no smog. Or grime. Sure, the tap water tastes a bit off (it is the desert), but after having spent a lifetime on the east coast and four years in what is ranked one of the dirtiest cities in America (sorry, Baltimore...) it was rather a treat to breathe in a lungful of humidity- and smog-free air.

So, the pool. The laying out. Oh, the luxury. Which leads me to....

THE COUPLES' MASSAGE:
Mrs. Spaz and I, and Catalano and her sister opted for the couples' massage package that included a hot stone session. Nevermind that it was couples' massage. It was a deal we weren't gonna pass up, and no one asked any questions about the all-girl pairings.

And there was nothing even remotely romantic about it, believe you me.

Our masseuses were a pair of what I assumed to be sisters, bred of the same football coach stock and hailing from Flatbush. And, lemme tell you, while I'm sure either of them could crush my very being between her pinky and ring finger, they had the lightest touch of any masseuse I've ever had. Which was good. Because they took one look at us, raised their twin eyebrows, and said, "We are not going to do the deep tissue."

"Why not?" we pestered.

"It releases too many....toxins." They eyed us up and down. Hungover and guilty, we were.

Let me tell you things you should not do before getting a hot stone massage. First and foremost, nobody should be getting a massage after two days of hellish behavior in Vegas. Talk about toxins released. Secondly, nobody should be getting a message after falling asleep in aforementioned direct sunlight for an hour after two days of hellish behavior in Vegas.

You know that sick, cold sweat, headachey feeling you get from sunburn-slash-heatstroke? Combine that with severe self-induced dehydration, and then lie- FACE DOWN- on a massage table and have someone put hot stones on your back.

Oh, the torture.

I paid someone fifty bucks to put burning hot stones on my sunburned back, thus causing me to sweat out what I can only assume was pure champagne and sin.

IT WAS NOT PLEASANT.

I saw black spots before my eyes for roughly two hours afterward. A shaft of sunlight came in through the hotel window, and I shuddered and curled up in the corner. If anyone had approached me at that point, I might have yelled "I PUT THE LOTION ON MY SKIN."

Stay tuned for Part III.

Next Stop, Vegas Please- Part I

There's not too much I can say about Vegas that hasn't been said by any of the nearly 40 million people that grace the Strip each year. It's flashing LCD lights, it's quick, it's loud, it's nonstop, and it's pure spectacle.

Thankfully, so are we.

The first night, we went to Tao. It was shoulder-to-shoulder packed, and from the looks of it, most patrons had given up any sense of attempting social graces and commenced immediate lap-sitting purely to save space.

But somehow, we began graduating upwards in the club. First, we were being Night-at-the-Roxbury'd down on the dance floor, then somehow a velvet rope was lifted, and our group was escorted onto the second, less-crowded tier. The one populated by bottle service and paid dancers.

$9 for a domestic bottle later, another rope was lifted and we found ourselves in this dude's VIP lounge. I used to be addicted to Celebrity Fit Club. Seriously. Taking in bottle service with Harvey was pretty high on my list of top moments this past weekend. Say what you will about random celebs, at least they let you drink their free booze in a place where a vodka soda will run you a stifling $12 a pop (before tip).

Eventually we tired of the oomf oomf oomf and Katy Perry remixes and decided to head to the casino. In my mind, it was probably around 1 or 2am. I had forgotten two things:
1. We'd gotten into Vegas around 11pm. Then gone to dinner. Then gone out.
2. Nothing ever closes in Vegas.

It wasn't 1 or 2am. It was probably closer to 4:30 when we left the club. Which, given that we had all just flown in, was approximately 7:30am to our internal clocks.

At approximately 8:00am EST, a friend from Baltimore called me, not knowing I was in Vegas.

"Hey! I know it's early, but I just HAD to tell you before you head in to work-"

"WHAT?"

"I said I know it's early, but I had to tell you what happened-"

"WHAT TIME IS IT?"

"Um, like 7:50, why? Aren't you getting ready for work?"

"WHAT DAY IS IT?"

"What? Where are you?"

"A CASINO. IN VEGAS. IT'S 8AM THERE????"

"Um, yeah..."

"I HAVEN'T GONE TO BED YET. I HAVE BEEN UP FOR 27 HOURS."

Such is Vegas.

Day Two was also a blur of activity. I think we all got a whopping 4.5 hours of what I'm sure was completely rejuvenating sleep before we headed to the pool. I might have gotten a nap in between the shot Catalano's sister got us and the pina coladas. Maybe.

After the pool...off to Planet Hollywood to blow some cash. I was out of chips within about five minutes of getting to the casino and clearly didn't know The Rules of playing roulette. The dealer kept barking commands at me, and I felt shifty and uncomfortable. I didn't know any secrets or classy lingo. I just put chips down and she took them away from me and the freakishly affectionate couple next to me kept winning things. The whole thing made me angry, and so I stormed off to the penny slots where I proceeded to immediately lose five dollars.

Devastated.

I'd been filled with thoughts of cashing out, walking out of Vegas with pockets stuffed with cash. COME ON, THAT HAPPENS ALL THE TIME.

I'm still getting over it.

What happened next is a blur of insomniac-like haze (you know, when you haven't slept in 2 days and you start to feel like you housed a bottle of NyQuil). There was dinner at Koi. There was champagne. There was the Getting Ready (the best part of traveling and living with girls- the Getting Ready), there was an intense discussion of which strip club to take Catalano, there was a limo, there was more champagne, and then there was a Very Rude Stripper.

I did not want to go to the strip club.

I did not want to go to the strip club, and I was tired and cranky.

I made this very evident by sitting in a chair and emitting the word "huff." Arms crossed. Someone, I think Mrs. Spaz, gave me some more champagne, which briefly placated me. And then I got angry again when Very Rude Stripper came over and began using my chair as a dance pole.

"Hey," he purred, leaning in to me. "What's your sign?"

"Gemini," I barked. I did not like this shaven-greased-up-man-dude, but I didn't know yet that he was Very Rude, and so I was only mildly bitchy towards him.

"I'm a Taurus. We get along." At this point, Very Rude Stripper was now straddling me, his mouth very near my neck. This was Uncomfortable. I did not like this.

"You want a dance?" he breathed into my ear. I became Very Angry. And Very Grossed Out.

He was clearly having quite a good time, whereas I was the one suffering. And so, I calmly informed him: "You should pay me."

Very Rude Stripper did not like this one bit. In fact, he disliked this so much, he nipped me on the neck.

HE BIT ME.

VERY RUDE STRIPPER BIT ME.

I believe this might have been the moment that pushed me over the edge. I spiraled from Angsty Party Girl straight into Three-Year-Old-Tantrum.

I believe we left shortly afterwards.

Stay tuned for Part II.

Shake the Glitter Off Your Clothes

(Insert random photo here.)

As soon as I get all of the casino chips out of my suitcase, find my liver (which I'm pretty sure I might have left floating in the jacuzzi), and get more than five hours of sleep, I shall post (some) of the ridiculousness. A quick perusal of my Twitter feed should tell you all you need to know at this point.

Except for the part where the stripper bit me.

Yes, that happened.

Viva Las Vegas.

"Totes Inappropes..." Bachelorette Mayhem

Fifteen years ago, Snap and I were frenemies who dated each others' exboyfriends. After finally realizing in high school that we actually loved one another quite muchly, we stalked each other online through college via now-antiquated LiveJournal. We both attended grad schools in the south and bonded further over Academia and the fish-out-of-water acclimation we both endured moving from the mid-Atlantic. Post grad-school, we shared a lot of heart ache over terrible jobs, terrible boyfriends, terrible bills, and terrible car problems.

Last night, we donned pink furry mustaches and glittery sashes and bar hopped through downtown Annapolis for Snap's bachelorette party. In May, she'll marry the best dude for the job. And, somewhere around 2am in a dark kitchen over some quite-delicious greasy pizza from that place downtown where we both worked at various times in high school/college, we re-enacted the history of our friendship for the entertainment of other old friends and soon-to-be-family members. We recited old diary entries, dredged up first kisses, and acted out the moments that were linchpins in our shared histories.

Fifteen years, and you're still my most favorite bitch, Snap. And you damn well better believe I am bringing middle school diary material into my speech at your wedding.