Having to Work All of the Days

So, I went to Philly.

I decided I hadn't had enough vacation. After three days back at work, I determined that I needed to "just get away."

Also, I had not been to the Mutter Museum in two years, and I wanted to make sure it was still gross.

It was.

So this week, it is back to, as Jaunt says, "working all of the days."

The torture.

After two weeks of 2-3 day work weeks, it seems nearly impossible to condemn oneself to a five-day week. It just seems so overwhelming.

Still, I have finally unpacked my suitcase(s). This is Progress. And I did Laundry. This is also Progress. I felt the need to capitalize the "L" in "Laundry" because it was that epic.

I'm 90% sure that the reason the cats are acting like total asses is because I have been gone so much.

I'm sorry, cats.

But, really, was it necessary for one of you (FIONA) to puke little white foam puddles everywhere and freak out my roommate who now believes you to be possessed?

What was the deal with that?

And (FIONA) thank you for racking up another $140 vet bill. For the vet to tell me that your little tummy is upset. My tummy is upset, I chew on some Tums. Your tummy is upset, you spew forth a level of sickitude that might have shocked a nurse in a 19th century cholera tent. How is your tummy even big enough to hold 19 piles of white foam? How is this not rabies?

I would have been grossed out had I not just returned from seeing the Soap Lady.

I forgot about the Soap Lady until I eating a lovely lox bagel. This is not the time to be remembering the Soap Lady. Now I'm grossing myself out.

Anyhoodle.

Working all of the days.

I'm sure I need to write up a Part III of Vegas Vacation but dealing with a cat that needs an exorcism and Working All Of the Days this week. Also trying to determine if I need a liver transplant or not...leaning towards yes...

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.

Gimme Some Cash Out

In preparation for the Vegas trip, the group has amassed key survival materials/strategies.

1. Leg's sister went to Costco and purchased a case of 5-Hour Energy, and a case of some fizzy powder packets containing tiger blood and the sum caffeine of forty seven cups of coffee per packet that is meant to be added to a glass of water. In sum total, we now have over 270 Hours of Energy to be doled out amongst the pack. I believe this will be enough, given that we will be in Las Vegas for 65 hours.

2. Fake eyelashes. I can't underscore the vast difference a pair of falsies makes in pictures. If done right, (that is, cut those spiders in half and only apply on the OUTSIDE of your upper lash) it's possible to bypass anything that smacks of cross-dressing and be tasteful and subtle boosts to what nature already blessed you with. I once had a roommate that swore that a modest set of chicken cutlets (I think you know what I mean by that) had the same effect.

3. En masse, we have invested many hours of crucially analyzing outfit choice. Our methods of rating ranged from "Kim Kardashian" to "Dirty Pirate Hooker" to "Little House on the Prairie." As you can imagine, any outfit that shied away from these categories was entered into the final round before cuts were made based on similarity to someone else's outfit, packability, and versatility. No one can say we aren't practical. And, we can all sleep soundly knowing we avoided the embarrassing moment of running into a Lady of the Night wearing the same outfit; by the same token, no one will confuse us for a Half Pint.

4. Cameras, and strict rules upon how to use them. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas; unless it's Facebook-worthy. And even then, it must go through strict Channels of Approval before posting, and even then, there must be explicit permission granted before anyone goes tagging willy-nilly. This isn't a free-for-all, and several of my friends have sneaky, paparazzi-tendencies to take questionable photos of people doing questionable things. Any by "several of my friends," I primarily mean "me."

5. I promised my parents today that I would kindly only post certain aspects of the trip on my blog. This kind of outright, anti-First Amendment, gross censorship is completely and utterly OK by me and I fully support this. If I wouldn't tell my parents, it sure as hell doesn't belong here.

6. That having been said, I'm still disappointed in the fast "No Hookers" rule. I'm still arguing my point that no one needs to engage in anything other than research. I just want to hear some stories! And who would have better stories than a Vegas hooker? Even a retired one! Ooooh- a retired one would be even better. I would be curious to know how she spends her days. Yoga? Transcendental meditation? Teaching those pole-dancing classes that are so hot in every fitness center in the US right now? Cooking? I MUST KNOW.

And so, Glitteratis, tomorrow Book Club takes its show on the road and migrates, en masse, out to Vegas. 270 hours of energy, and fake eyelashes batting away....and nary a petticoat or hot pant in sight. We are pure class.

Mostly.

Vegas Update

It's rainy and cold and disgusting. I have 2 work days left before vacation after today. Also, it's Friday.

The emails fluttering back and forth on the Vegas chain have started to include words like "Pussy Cat Dolls," and "Kardashian." No one has specified which Kardashian, but I hope to God it's a drunk one. Or- even better- a Bruce Jenner. Remember the episode where he "goes out" with his "boys?" In his corner, however, is the fact that no one can tell when he's completely Wasteface because his facial features still don't change due to the massive amounts of plastic surgery he's had done. He makes Joan Rivers look like Mother Earth.

I digress.

In short- I am ready for VACATION. As in...brain-wants-to-check-out-ready.

I don't want to write a memo. I want to fantasize about eating lobster at a brunch buffet with Bruce Jenner and knowing I can make fun of him without fear of facing retribution because he pretty much never knows what's going on anyway.

Sigh....less than a week.

Also, my friend and I are on the same flight going out and coming back and we have a layover on the way there in Salt Lake. We are already taking bets on whether or not we can become Sister Wives in the 55 minutes between flights.

One Week to Vegas

Since 2007, Book Club has been the axis around which my social world has spun.

No, really.

The idea was conceived when I met Catalano. She and I were bridesmaids in Mrs. Spaz's wedding, and met shortly after I'd moved to the city from Florida. I knew very few people outside of a couple of college friends. Catalano had moved back to Maryland from Los Angeles a few months prior and was still single at the time. Shortly after I met her, she began dating her now-fiance.

I'd had a small book club in Tampa that met every few weeks for wine and gelato at an Italian cafe near my house. Catalano was keen on the idea to start our own book club in Baltimore, and volunteered a couple of her college friends and roommates. We started out as a core group of about seven girls. Five of those girls are still active book club members, nearly four years later.

Book Club began as a Tuesday-night affair, every two weeks. But, as the wine and gossip began to flow more heavily, Tuesday nights spilled into Thursday nights, Friday nights, Saturday nights. A couple of girls dropped out and, seeking new members, we placed a cheeky ad on Craigslist. Jaunt, who had recently moved to Baltimore from Pennsylvania, found said ad. She agreed to meet us, and we came up with an exit strategy should she turn out to be creepy. After all, who the hell answers an ad for a boozy Book Club on Craigslist? We were certain Jaunt would turn out to be a strapping bachelor in his mid-5o's with a delightful comb-over and a pocketful of double-entendres and invitations to his "beach house."

"If s/he's creepy," we agreed, "Book Club ends in thirty minutes, we all ditch him/her, and join up at the bar down the street."

Instead, we got Jaunt. Who is now, happily, my new roommate.

We picked up other girls as well. Some stalked Book Club through my blog, some came on as referrals from other members, and some (like Joel) simply happened to see a bunch of girls being loud and obnoxious on a Tuesday night in a wine bar and arguing over modern feminism and decided he must be a part of the action. (Joel is still the brave, sole male in Book Club. Whenever we go out to dinner, it's Joel and eight girls. I think he's quite proud of this fact.)

As Book Club became less "club" and more "urban family unit," we tossed around the idea of going on vacation, unofficially as a group. We've done weekends in Ocean City, but a few years back someone dropped the idea of Vegas and it's sort of floated around in our miasma for awhile.

And then Catalano got engaged.

Two words: Bachelorette. Party.

Hence, Book Club Goes to Vegas. While not an officially sanctioned vacation, and sadly not everyone was able to go, it's still the culmination of years of friendship here in Baltimore. I've done just about everything with these girls; from running errands to meeting past and current boyfriend(s), or Friday night dance parties at the gay club to weekends at the beach. Moving to the city was a lonely, difficult, startling experience. Finding this group of friends changed everything for me and, I think, for most of them as well.

In preparation for Vegas, emails have been flying. And, as is only appropriate, a list of Rules is being drafted bit by bit. So far, the following have been established:
1. I am not to let Mrs. Spaz out of my sight, as per Mr. Spaz's orders. This is the blind leading the blind as Mrs. Spaz and I have been known to rile one another up into tailspins of terrible behavior.
2. Catalano and I are not to let Legs fall down or lose her purse. This will be a full time job.
3. No hookers. Dead or alive. (I argued mightily against this one. How fun would it be to pool our cash, hire a hooker, have her come to our room and tell us her life story and/or secrets of the Vegas underground while we drink champagne and compliment her on her Lucite heels? I was overruled. Lame.)
4. No tigers. Dead or alive.
5. If your fellow teammate is passed out, apply sun screen for her. She'll thank you later.

Other rules to be drafted, voted upon, and established upon arrival.

I can't wait.

Seriously Owe A Lot Of People Favors

Dudes.

You are awesome.

Thanks to you, I moved out in four hours, start to finish.

Moving from one row house to another is fraught with ridiculousness like having to lift furniture up through the sky light and lower it down from the roof because one's dresser won't fit down the tiny, 19th century stairwell. I'm telling you, without the small army that so kindly assembled for me on Saturday, it would have taken nothing short of a raging inferno to get my furniture from the 3rd story out to the UHaul outside.

And, let me tell you, I might have been tempted.

But my stuff is moved, much beer and pizza was consumed, and I can finally begin the unpacking/breathing process. You know, breathing- that thing I pretty much forgot to do the last month or so.

Just in time, too. Vegas with Book Club is in T-minus 2 weeks.

Book Club Goes To Vegas

Flights are booked; it's official!

Book Club is going to Vegas in April.

If ever I needed a reason to start blogging again...........................