It's been two and a half weeks since I got home from Las Vegas and I still haven't written about it. Once again I blame the asshole GMAT because it's a whore and I hate it. When it's over, I'll be so happy that you'll find me dancing in the streets naked...nudity depends on how well I score of course....
In Vegas, anything goes and nothing is normal. In my competitive dancing days, (the jazz shoe and spandex kind, not the booby tassel and pole kind) I used to travel there for national dance competitions and I suppose I noticed these simple facts then, but definitely not as much as I had them shoved in my face this time. You go to Vegas to escape and live in a fantasy world for a couple of days before being thrown violently back into reality. I can't imagine living there because somebody would have to routinely smack you in the face to bring you back down to earth. While you're there, you tend to live by the motto, "Hey, it's Vegas," meaning, of course, anything goes, nothing is normal and you should automatically replace all your doubts and answer all your "should I..." questions with "Yes."
In fact, the first thing we did after landing at the airport and waiting for the guests of honor, the bride and groom, along with a couple of other people, was pile into a limo. It's like, fuck taxis when there are limos just hanging out ready to give me and my friends a ride for the same price. And, it wasn't our only limo ride. Later on in the trip, the wedding party hopped in a Hummer limo to the "Welcome to Las Vegas" sign for photos. But, hey, it's Vegas.
After a booze run and a trip down the strip, we got to the MGM Grand, then Kate, Lacey, Whittah and I threw on dresses and literally sprinted to see boobs...or should I say basically full female nudity - which none of the boys had a desire to see. While I was under the impression that this burlesque show, The Crazy Horse Paris inside MGM, that I insisted we go to was slightly more clothed, it didn't disappoint. The choreography was nothing short of amazing for several of the pieces, which was my reason for wanting to see it. Plus, the ladies were sans surgically enhanced making it sexy instead of skanky. The Australian boys in "Thunder From Down Under," which we went to see the next night, went more for the man skank appeal. However, watching ripped men in banana hammocks role play in random costumes and perform several Backstreet Boy-esque choreographed routines also makes for a great comedy show.
Speaking of boobs and skanks, I have never seen so many in all my life. Kansas City has it's fair share, but I tend to stay away from the places where they flock since I prefer to hang out with people who aren't dicks. However, in Vegas, it's unavoidable. My friends and I stuffed our faces with In-N-Out Burger, threw on swimsuits, shorts, sunglasses and flip flops and headed to the pool - one of our favorite activities of that weekend since pool weather in KC abruptly ended this year. And, as we strolled the mile or so through the casino to get to the pool, hoards of ladies in lingerie, four inch sparkly stilettos and sunglasses bigger than their faces with teased Bump It hair and full masks of make-up strutted in the same direction with that perma sneer on their faces that says, "mah, step aside, I am the SHIT." While my drunk ass was floating in the lazy river drinking a Bud Light, being retarded with my friends, probably burping really loud and having fun, I thought it might have been interesting to grab one of their little ankles and pull them into the water, you know, just to see if they actually disintegrated since my theory is that they aren't really made of anything human. Of course, I could never be that mean no matter how skanktastic, so we shrugged it off and said, "Hey, it's Vegas."
And, as we were sitting there people watching, I was amazed by the number of boob jobs that just looked incredibly painful. I mean, boob jobs can be done tastefully, although that rarely seems to be the case, and in Vegas, it never is. I remember seeing one waitress in particular - maybe 5 feet tall and petite with these over inflated basketballs for breasts, which were stuffed into this teeny tiny cocktail server dress. She was just all boob. That's all you saw. All the bulging and the stretching and shininess - I clutched my chest in pain just looking at them. I mean, I'm pretty sure the pain doesn't stop after you recover from the surgery when they're that overstuffed and then shoved into tiny clothing. I was thinking that if she made one false move, they'd surely explode and we'd all be splattered in silicone. Then, since we'd been exposed to such sights for a couple of days already, we'd probably just sit there blanketed in this woman's boob goo, look at each other, shrug and say, "Hey, it's Vegas."
The first day we were there, we decided to check out the Hoighty Toity pool at MGM called Wet Republic. We walked in and were surprised that the guy at the door felt the need to search through and inspect our stuff. Of course, I was the only one with a larger bag and the ladies had put most their stuff in it, so here I was for what seemed like a half hour while this guy pawed through everything - and I mean everything. I would have just left it in the room if I knew I was going to be violated. Even I, the one who laughs instead of embarrasses, turned a little red when he opened that bag that every woman has in her purse full of Ibuprofen, antacids, bobby pins...TAMPONS...A CONDOM...yeah...then after he questioned every pill in the bag, searched through all the pockets of two wallets, made Lacey test out her eye drops, asked me if I had a drug habit, demanded the name, address and social security number of every sexual partner and performed a full cavity search, I was free to join my friends standing a few feet away who then asked, "why do you have that in there?" Referring to the condom...I responded with, "Yeah, it's just...leftover...and it's probably expired...and that guy totally knew it by the shape it was in." I'm not sure what's more appealing, a ho that practices safe sex or an involuntary born again virgin. After realizing a chair...A CHAIR cost a minimum of $100 and purchasing a $16 strawberry daquiri, we retreated to the "commoners" pool, which we enjoyed far more. But, you know, hey, it's Vegas.
"Hey, it's Vegas" was naturally our theme for the trip, besides Whittah's made up word of "Ballshoot," a mixture of ballpark and shoot for, which didn't catch on quite as fully as I would have liked.
"Hey, it's Vegas" always answered a question with "yes" and pretty much guided every decision we made on that trip.
"That yard glass full of girly looking alcoholic beverage looks really good, but it's $27 and it will probably make me vomit. Should I still get it? "
"Hey, it's Vegas."
"I met this hot Armenian guy from L.A. at Studio 54, but all my friends are leaving. Should I stay and dance with him until 5 a.m. anyway?"
"Hey, it's Vegas."
"When I wear this dress, you can see the bottom of my ass cheeks and if I move my arms at all, my areolas peek out and say hello to everyone. Should I still wear it?"
"Hey, it's Vegas."
However, not even glittery shows, a delicious dinner at Craftsteak, dancing and drinking the night away and a reported sighting of Mike Tyson in the hotel lobby could overshadow the main event - Sam and Kate's wedding.
Kate looks good, but she's far less of a girly girl than me, so seeing her so flawlessly made up like a movie star was enough to make me tear up, but I saved most of it for the actual ceremony in the little Grand Chapel in MGM. In fact, all of the bridemaids were just short of sobbing through the entire thing. I'm kind of a cry-er lately anyway, but there was just something about watching my best friend and her guy, who has also become one of my best friends, make it official. Like I told them in my four page wedding speech, (yeah, I know, but you should always take any opportunity you have to tell your friends that they're kick ass) they have the kind of relationship that gives the remaining Bridget Jones' of the world some hope. Marriage never really seemed real to me until then and the fact that they're truly best friends and I know they'll be together forever makes me overwhelmingly happy for them and less cynical about the idea of marriage in general.
It was small, simple and intimate, yet as I looked out over the Las Vegas Strip from the 21st floor MGM suite balcony at the reception, I realized that it was also fancy, classy and fairytale-like. And, as I downed wine, danced and sung with my best friends and some new ones on that balcony overlooking the Strip, I kept having to stop, look around at where I was and say to myself, "Is this really happening?" Then I'd shrug and say, "Hey, it's Vegas."
Now, it's off to have some more fun in another city other than my home of KC...that is, after a decent night's sleep (hopefully) and a 9 hour solitary road trip to Denver. I'm leaving tomorrow morning to visit the University of Colorado Denver and make a weekend out of it with Whittah and the rest of the Denver. There will surely be tales of shenanigans to tell when I get back.