Or should I call this blog entry, "Cougars Take On Vegas", because I can't tell you how many times we were called that as we strutted our hot mommy bods down The Strip this last weekend. One of us, would yell back, "We are NOT Cougars!", like that would effectively convince the young male passersby that indeed, we were still in our 20's. But in our defense, we did have ONE cutie patootie with us who was all of 31 years of age. And she was our Bobcat mascot.
Until this past weekend, I had never been to Vegas. I had no idea what to expect. And quite honestly, I don't think there is any way that one can physically, mentally, or spiritually prepare for a girls weekend away in Sin City.
I'll be the first to admit, that I was filled with anxiety, and felt a bit uneasy about this trip. I was going with the same core group of ladies, more or less, that got kicked out of the PINK concert, plus 2 other women, whom I had never met before.
People just kept saying, "If you have something in your closet and you don't know when you'll ever wear it, bring it to Vegas." And that I did. As soon as I checked my bag packed full of more stilettos than one should own, I boarded the plane. With Charlotte being only 6 months old, I carried on my pump. Oh yeah, cause that's how mommy's roll.
I should have known from the moment I sat down on the plane next to two cute little 21 year old's who were doing vodka shots, I was in trouble. One was saying she needed to get her nails did (which had yellow tips, by the way), and the other was telling me how great Vegas is because "You can smoke anywhere!" I wanted to tell her, "Smoking is very bad for you," but I saved my Mommy pep talk for another time.
All the girls arrived at the airport, and the timing could not have been better. I anxiously waited for my suitcase at the baggage claim. As more and more passengers from my flight collected their belongings and rolled off to get drunk, or gamble all of their money away, I stood there. Waiting. Until I was the last one left. Of course, this was just my luck!! My first weekend away in FORever, and my bag was lost.
How, oh how, would all that sequined hooker gear, glitter, and high heels be replaced? The Southwest assistant, assured me, "As soon as your bag arrives, we will deliver it to your hotel."
I wanted to scream at him, "DO YOU KNOW THAT I STARTED PACKING MY GLITTER AND SHORT DRESSES A WEEK AGO? DO YOU KNOW HARD IT IS TO FIND COMFORTABLE STILETTOS IN A GOD DAMN SIZE 10?"
But I didn't. I held back tears, and soldiered on.
And the girls were great about it. In fact, come to think of it, when we arrived at the hotel, no one dared even unpack their bag because I think they were afraid I would spontaneously combust. Instead, we went shopping "just in case" I would need a dress for that night. We were quickly schooled on the symptoms of alcohol poisoning when out of a gaggle of young drunk guys ahead of us, one hit the deck with his HEAD on the marble floor, and then started bleeding.
Again, I wanted to shout out, "THAT is NOT being SAFE!" But I held back, and just watched in horror, as this guy's "friends" loaded him into a wheelchair to go get more drinks. "That's not cool," we said to them. WTF? Crazy!
Just then, my phone rang. Lo and behold, my bag was found. Glory and hallelujah on high! I have never felt so much relief in my life. I mean, unless you count the time I delivered the twins, and they were finally out of my body.
Anyways, the progression of debauchery basically started from there, and the weekend went somewhat like this:
Thursday night was spend at Studio 54, and Rok; two clubs where ladies get in and drink for free before 12. There is no mistake. You read that right. A man I'll refer to as, The Leprechaun, tried to spin me on the dance floor. I had to tell that small little man, "DO NOT spin me, or I will squish you like a bug, thank you." We got home around 3 o'clock in the morning.
Friday was spent at Walgreen's investing large sums of money in band aids and protective Dr.Scholl's goods. After one night in heels, most of our feet were toast. We hung by the pool. And then rallied for another night out at The Venetian for dinner, and Club Tao. We met another small little man there named Bruno. He was nice and let us sit on his couch, because by this point, we could no longer walk, and had resorted to hobbling. By the time we got home it was 4:30 am, and we thought our Bobcat would need a pinkie toe amputation. As Ella yelled at us, "WASH YOUR FEET", I stared in horror at Bobcat's little toe. I had never seen anything so purple, and swollen, and angry. I wanted to help Bobcat by draining those blisters, but I wasn't strong enough. Cornell stepped in and took care of business, while French Gulch prepared yummy grilled cheese sandwiches. If you haven't guessed already, we had all gained a nick name by this point. However, I still have too much mind fog to remember what mine was.
By the time Saturday rolled around, we decided to start our evening with a show at The Wynn, followed by yet another night of clubbing, at Surrender. By now, we broke the code, and figured out how to get our names on the guest list. No line. No pay. THAT's what I'm talken about. We got home by 3 am.
I have never experienced anything like Vegas in all my life. We rallied. We owned that town. We were Cougars on the prowl. With one Bobcat, to boot. I spent time with my besties. And I met two women who I am now honored to call my friends.
I'll never forget that before I left, my girlfriend warning me, "You are going to be out until 4 or 5 in the morning." I shrugged her off, and said, "No way. I never even did that in college. I won't be able to hang."
But you do. Cause it's Vegas, baby!
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