Wait. Let me start over....
I'm a fan of birthdays: someone you love survived another year, there is the buying and giving of gifts, cake is shoved into your cramhole, and if you are lucky, there is a party... or an entire week of partying.
This year was my sister's 40th and to celebrate, she invited me and my bestay (bestie gay friend) to Las Vegas.
Naturally, we both said, "FUCK YES."
Then came the big question- what I going to wear in Vegas?
After careful consideration, I decided on anything that goes with my rhinestone 'Oh Shit' pin, including my $2.45 Pink Floyd t-shirt from the little boys' sale rack at Macy's. Sometimes it pays to have the chest of a 12 year old child.
|This is my bestay and my Oh Shit pin.|
Bestay courtesy of college. Oh Shit courtesy of the fabulous Jen e sais quoi.
When I asked my sister where she wanted to stay, her answer came fast, "At the Excalibur. That is where The Thunder from Down Under performs."
Know your priorities, folks.
So together, me in my 'Oh Shit' pin and my sis in her rockin' skinny jeans, we boarded the airplane for Nevada and the rest was history... or herstory in this case.
The Greatest Gift
Even though I had already purchased and sent my older sis a birthday gift, I continued to lovingly gift her a variety of things throughout our Sin City trip. Upon our arrival at our not-so-luxurious-$27/night accommodations, we were immediately swept aside and promised a "free gift". My OLDER sister and I stood at a service desk, trapped by the geriatric salesman behind the counter. He wanted us to donate a mere two hours of our time to tour a new hotel. For only three hours of our attention, we could listen to more pushy salespeople tell us about a new location in which we should spend our money. For no more than the better part of a day, we could get a "great discount" on tickets to local shows. When he magically inflated the original price of said tickets at the counter, the savings were quite phenomenal. For a mere contract in blood and all of our free time away from our families, we could eat free two-day old bagels and tell everyone we knew about the wonderful new Las Vegas hotel! What a fantastic deal!
I didn't know how we were going to get away. I could see my sister, a time-share owner in Twiddlefuck, Missouri, getting sucked into his pitch. Then it happened and my escape route was paved in gold.
The salesman looked at my older sister and I, pointed at me first and asked, "Are you two mother and daughter?" He glanced back at the shocked look on my face and tried to amend his question with, "Not that you look old...."
I flatly responded with, "You just lost your sale." Then I turned on my boot heel and made a silent vow to get a facial STAT. I also immediately considered cutting bangs to hide my etched forehead. I could feel my sister's glee as she whispered to the gargoyle, "We may be back later."
You couldn't have dragged me back there with a team of mules and a log chain.
When she caught up with me, I said to her, "Happy Birthday!" I continued, "That's the best present I could ever give you. He either thinks that you look 21 and I was loose in high school, or I look motherfucking 65. In any account, you win and I lose."
Her youthful, wrinkle-free face was glowing in a way that was familiar to me. It was reminiscent of the other time some random douchenugget thought I was her mother. That's what I get for choosing to have children with a man who snores and eats bananas loudly.
From that moment on, I decided to tell everyone that I was her mother, because while I may look like ass for 38, I look damn fine for 65.
|Here's to my abused old liver and wrinkled face.|
We checked into our room and discovered that the "great deal" that we found online wasn't quite so great when the hotel tacked on an additional $18 service fee per day. That was only the beginning of our experience with service fees in Vegas. The motto should really be, "What happens in Vegas is a hangover and a 20% service fee!" But I suppose if people knew that in advance they may not fly to Nevada.
I have never said or heard the word "vagina" more in my life then when I was in Las Vegas. I blame the gay man. Mostly because he was the one doing all the talking about vaginas. I don't know if it was my period or the billboards of someone's daughters posing sexy in a g-string that created the atmosphere of vagina speak. Some things will always be a mystery.
Vagina Vagina Vagina
The word was spoken in our hotel room more than at a lesbian gynecological convention.
Many women, who have a vagina, wear makeup during the day. At night, most of those women wash off said makeup. Sometimes a washcloth is used for the makeup removal and left near the sink. The washcloth is then soiled with the makeup. At that exact moment, somewhere in Mississippi a woman starts a load of laundry.
Gay man enters the bathroom:
He exclaims, "Why is this washcloth moldy???? Oh my Gawd, is that BLOOD?"
Cue laughter from women, "It's not MOLDY... and it's not BLOOD."
Gay man asks, "Then what IS IT???"
My daughter answers, "It's makeup. Why? What did you think it was?"
Confused gay man says, "I thought it was vaginal."
Blunder from Down Under
The time had come for us to purchase our tickets to The Thunder From Down Under. We found a coupon, which was cancelled out by the service fee. For only $51.65 (weird how geriatric insult man told us the tickets were $100 apiece!) we could see Australian hotties defrock and dance. But we were not to tip them, because that would be insulting.
We walked into the darkened viewing area, found our table and ordered drinks. Everyone ordered vodka except me. I ordered seltzer because I was bloated and gassy from dinner of chicken and artichoke hearts. It's part of my charm. Then the men entered from Stage left and began their routine which involved a lot of pointing and reminded me of cops directing traffic.
Just as the giant billboards all over Vegas promised, all of the blokes were fine, indeed. They looked as if they spent three hours a day lifting weights and ate nothing but protein shakes and edible underwear. Carved from stone, they were. "Bodies by Nautilus", for sure. Except one guy. He came out with bags under his eyes, scrawny arms and something of a beer gut. Who knows, maybe he also had the chicken and artichoke hearts at the restaurant next door, but I suspect it was something else. I had seen that look before. I think he had been working hard at his "Body by Alcohol".
I said to my bestay, "What is going on with that guy? He looks like he hasn't slept in four days and snorted a bunch of coke right before the show."
My bestay wrinkled his nose and said, "He looks like he would smell bad."
Still, that didn't stop us from enjoying the show. For an hour we were treated to dudes jumping around the stage in banana hammocks while flexing their muscles and teasing us with gyrating hindquarters. The Aussies brought joy to the lives of many women that night, particularly the four sour-faced, elderly Asian ladies at the table next to us. It was a blessed event to see those women smile. Those rollicking schlongs brought sunshine to their cloudy skies.
I won't divulge details, you'll have to see for yourself, but I will say that "Body by Alcohol" smelled fine when I kissed him on the cheek. Clearly, I have no boundaries. We all remember the Naked Cowboy debacle.
Then I shelled out a $20 service fee so that my sister could get her picture taken with the steamy Australian hunks. It was worth it just to see her smile.
|See how happy she looks!|
Most people go to Vegas to gamble, drink and have sex with random people. My sister and I went to catch up on sleep, eat without children present and refresh ourselves. Like true party animals, we ended up spending a good deal of time in the basement of the hotel. No, it wasn't the location of the top secret parties, it was the location of the gym and the spa. Yes, we are those annoying people who actually like to work out. The service fee was only $10 a day and the facility was quite nice. In a rating of all our Vegas service fees, the spa fee was hands down the most worthwhile.
The beautiful thing about using a work-out room in Vegas is that you basically have the entire space to yourself. While everyone is upstairs dragging off cigarettes, ordering Bloody Marys, puking into trashcans and feeding slot machines at 10 a.m., my sister and I were sweating out years of toxins on the treadmills and lifting weights- UNINTERRUPTED BY CHILDREN AND PETS. It was beautiful. And no, I did not miss Red Dog's tongue on my face as I did downward facing dog on the community yoga mat.
After a good workout, we hit the steam room, hot tub and dry sauna to sweat out the remainder of our years of disappointment and rage. Because my sister forgot her bathing suit, I opted to be nude as well. It was one of my many birthday gifts to her. I also had a louder voice for yelling, "Shield your eyes! Naked old women approaching!"
But then again, I do look pretty amazing for 65.
We also treated ourselves to some spa services (I got that much needed facial). It was so revitalizing that I walked out of there looking 62. Now I am going to convince Brock that we need a dry sauna and a steam shower. Regular facials may be called for as well. And more nakedness, obviously.
If you've never been dancing at a Gay Club, you're missing out. If you never been dancing with me and my bestay, you probably have never really experienced fun.
Some people take dancing very seriously. We are not those people.
What I do take seriously is being in my own space on the dance floor (read: please, no grinding up in here). The very best place to have your space (read: ass) protected is at a gay club. Okay, so maybe that doesn't exactly work for men....
Now I have a very graphic visual in my head.
The standout moment from our evening of club music and dance was a toss up between our new choreographed "two days of sunrise" move and the moment that my bestay set his drink down next to the two adorable, plump Latina lesbians, shook his finger at them and said, "No roofies."
Oh, and the feather boa on the birthday girl.
And the lack of service fees.
Back to Reality
Alas, the time had come for us to return home. As my sister and I walked to grab a taxi at 4:30 a.m., we viewed many people stumbling back to their rooms. We both eyed each other in other in appreciation for our mutual low-key take on Vegas. We felt revived, refreshed and ready to start the next decade of our lives (in her case- her 40's, in mine- my 70's).
Then we flew home to our realities: kids, men, snoring and cleaning. I entered my home, only to be hit in the face with a horrendous smell that made my eyes water. After lighting 48 scented candles and some intense searching, I discovered the culprit: a rotten potato. My sis was welcomed back to snowy Iowa on the actual day of her birth. She was greeted by multiple loads of laundry, a trashed out house and an un-scooped sidewalk. Nary a service fee, spa or Body by Nautilus in sight!
There will always be my 40th.... or 66th.... whatever.
|Totally at peace with 40, man.|