A Cursed Town



Scene: It’s Friday & I’m in Las Vegas, a place that has never previously appealed to me by it’s high rolling charm, but I’m a bachelorette, and I’m ready to conquer. I zip myself into a black little number that Bryan thinks looks remarkably like a trash bag, put on some red lipstick, and get ready for ‘the night of my life.’ We arrive at the Pink Taco, where a suitor Ryan met on the plane has assured us ‘reservations’ = a buzzer and an hour and a half wait. Low blood sugar hailed the first ridiculous move–I sat down at a table of men there for a bachelor party and had to endure their strip club stories while I ate all of their chips and salsa. I unzipped the entire back half of my dress because I was beginning to get a stomachache. I ate my 2-bite taco and then performed a hard-to-get routine with the bathroom (I went in, I came out and washed my hands, I went in again, I came out…). We show up at a club called Vanity with girls in tassels and mediocre abs (in my opinion), flashing lights, and the gentlemen mentioned earlier welcoming us to his bottle service table on the dance floor. After a few puns he made in ill-taste–including my nauseated response of ‘we’re easy’ to his question about our drink of choice, I leave. I have so far had zero cocktails in Vegas.

It’s Saturday, and I’m still shaking off whatever new plague has infiltrated my stomach (the previous weekend it was the stomach flu). I put ‘tester’ sunscreen on my face at the nearest gift shop because I am not paying $15 for sunscreen. Is this stealing? I don’t know, but it smelled good and was hypoallergenic. We are again hooked up with reservations at the Hard Rock Club Rehab on a giant mattress and were told that there was a huge minimum yet to be fulfilled and to help ourselves (this part being mentioned the evening prior). So we give the waitress our orders, watch her walk over to the suitor, and return to ask how we’d like to pay. It’s $22/drink and the discomfort was tangible on that mattress. I decide this guy is a real neighborhood gypsy. I watch the girl in the white bikini shake her tots for about three hours while standing on the mosaic divider in the middle of the pool and wait for her to slip and bust ane, but it never happens. We debate whether she was hired or not to create such a scene. A Jersey Shore almost-reject lingers at our pad, but even he doesn’t offer drinks…

Sequin madness is the best way to describe Saturday night. A commonly overheard question in our room was ‘can you see my cheeks?’ It’s Hugh Hefner’s birthday party at the Palms and we have line passes to Ghost Bar, PB club, and Moon from a separate vendor. We show up (some of us in sequins, some of us looking like we’re going to church. We look like an unlikely squad. We were able to fudge our way into the GB (where I shimmied violently exposed myself just once), but were somehow left off the list of the clubs and, by virtue of the big event, were unable to hack our way in= looking hot and nowhere to go. So we went back and played slots in our pajamas, where I lost $26 and my friend won $300, and I decided that gambling wasn’t fair.

Breakfast the next day went like this: I order pancakes from McDonalds, some of the other girls come down and want to eat at a better restaurant. I feel badly and want to go, so Libs licks my pancakes so I have to go with the others. I do. When we get there, the line is too long and I come back and eat my half-licked pancakes.

I left Vegas with a tickler sticking out of my bag, stupid high wedge shoes (so I could fit all my junk in the carry-on) and a seat next to a man recovering/drinking his way through this post-Vegas flight. Even though it was completely backwards from everything we had intended, it was probably the best trip we could’ve had. Let me just say that I was super hydrated and well-rested on the way back, albeit my fellow passengers who had actually done it Vegas-style. Woot Woot!

Wow. Now that I’ve really cut loose, I suppose I’m ready for marriage 🙂

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