Thursday, February 14, 2013

Bloody Valentine

Sometimes Valentine's Day needs to FUCK OFF. And that title is not a hint about my monthly cycle, although the rage I am in could be due to estrogen build up of an impending time of the month episode.

I usually treat Valentine's Day like most others. Nothing special and I don't have any high expectations for sweeping romantic gestures or picture perfect plans. But sometimes shit just happens on Valentine's Day that makes me want to scream WHAT. THE. FUCK.

For instance a few years ago... Wait. Belay that. More like 10 years ago since Fifi wasn't born yet. I had made reservations for Wiener and I to enjoy a romantic Italian dinner then go home and open cards and have chocolate and snuggle time. When I got home from work in the late afternoon before him, I was greeted by a flood of water pouring out of the garage as I opened the door. Long story short, our water heater had overflown and was flooding water from the ceiling in the attic down to the hall and out the garage. Because who DOESN'T keep their hot water heater in the attic of a one story house so it can nearly fall through the ceiling and flood the entire house ruining every single shred of flooring and requiring its replacement? Everyone should experience this because it is such fun!

Fast forward several years later and I can't really think of any major Valentine's Day issues, but I do recall a few being just sucky in general for no particular reason. And today is no exception. I swear I didn't have any high hopes or even really care that it was Valentine's Day. Maybe the day I was born the February 14 gods were just like " for this one, every February 14 will be a shitastic day from henceforth." I did not get that memo.

So here we are today and I'm in an especially pissy mood due to some personal family stuff, which I shan't go into and whine about, but the icing on the cake is this: Transferring the kids laundry from the washer to the dryer, I come across some slimy gelatinous material which I quickly realize is the remnants of an old pull-up that must have gotten left in the hamper and thrown in the wash. Good times. NOT. So here I am spending Valentine's Day elbow deep in slimy goo that I can only hope will easily clean out of the washer and wash off the clothes, but I'm not holding my breath.

And when I'm done there, I guess I'll start slaving over the Valentine's Day dinner for my loving family who I'm sure will scarf it all down before I have nary a bite then begin demanding dessert. Ungrateful bastards.

Happy Fucking Valentine's Day, y'all!


Aw Yeah...




Wednesday, February 6, 2013

The Vegas Curse

I have spent the last week in a narcotic induced haze and I am just now piecing together all the details to share with you. I fear some parts may be true, while other memories a product of my hallucinatory imagination. But before you get all judgy and call Dr. Drew, you should know that the narcotics were legit and prescribed to me. For the most part.

January 11, 2013- a handful of friends and I were to depart on a weekend of debauchery in Las Vegas to celebrate multiple 40th birthdays. Not mine, of course, as I am the youngest of the gang. (I will be mentioning this a lot. Get used to it.) I was to leave with everyone Friday and Wiener was to join us Saturday for one night.

A week prior to our departure I slightly hurt my back while doing some minor housework- vacuuming etc. Now you know why my general rule of thumb is to never do housework and to stick to the bon bons and champagne. I had a week to recover and by the time the 11th rolled around I was good to go.

We made it to the airport on time. Wiener took us all in Lola's giant black XL SUV. Because that's how she likes things. Baby D, Lola, Pepe and I met Raquel and her husband Jake at the airport. I promptly tossed back a Valium with a vodka-cranberry chaser, 9:30 am be damned. I hate to fly. Despite statistics, I'm pretty sure it's still a 50/50 chance you'll make it alive to your destination.

Cheating death, we arrived and tried to check into the hotel. We had to wait until 3 pm so we wandered around. Once in our suite that we were sharing frat-house style, we relaxed until it was time to get ready to go to da club. Yes, I said da club. I'm not forty yet so I can say that. Lola had a local friend who got us the hookup with VIP entry, a table and bottle service. Da club did not open until 10:30, so we had plenty of time to get ready. As the hours passed, we began to question why it opened so late and if we could stay awake until then and considered calling it off. 

Word.
But that night was Lola's 40th so we had to soldier on. We got to the the hotel where the club was a bit early and enjoyed some gambling and cocktails while we waited for it to open. This gave the cigar chain smoking Asian next to us (I can say Asian- Wiener's got some Asian in him) the opportunity to send me over a drink that was most assuredly roofied and stop by to say, "That drink is for you because you're my Vegas girl." Okaaay? I frantically spent the next ten minutes trying to dispose of the roofied concoction without looking like an ungrateful bitch. Sticking it on the floor under the table was the perfect solution. As we left, he blew me a kiss and by the time I saw him heading towards us again standing near the bathroom I was in full Taken  panic mode convinced he was seeing if the roofie kicked in and he was ready to whisk me away to be sold into sex slavery to his Sheik boss. Why does this always happen to me? More on the Sheik another time. But I foiled his villainous plan and we made our way to the club.

In the club there was some wildly inappropriate and awesome behavior that I cannot share because of some bullshit rule about what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. I can report that lap dances were involved. It was not a strip club. There was a shit ton of vodka. Raquel could not feel her teeth. Some 50 year old lady was solo Elaine dancing near us. (Foreshadowing the future us perhaps?) There were gay Germans dirty dancing with a member of our party. And let's just say that this happened: 

Just some innocent table dancing.
On the way out we met a merry band of brothers with British accents and somehow we began to refer to them as The Hobbits. To their faces. I'm pretty sure this was racist. It was a drunken nightmare. Raquel told them they should come to Dallas to visit because we shot JFK. I had to remind her we weren't alive when this happened, so technically we did not shoot him. Jake told them incorrectly to meet us the next night at the show we were seeing called Abstinence. Who would want to see that? It was called Absinthe. One Hobbit kept trying to kidnap Baby D and diversion tactics were employed to make our escape. We thought we made a clean getaway, but we ran into a Hobbit outside. Finally, the valet brought our car and as we drove off Raquel told the Hobbit to say hello to Gandalf for us. I'm pretty sure we're going to hell.

And did I mention that by 'on the way out' I meant on the way out at 3:30 am? And if you add the two hour time difference coming from Texas it was 5:30 am, so we'd been up 24 hours? Aw yeaaah- take that Vegas and fuck you 40! (I'm still 39) 



Not 40 yet, bitches!

So the next morning we were happily hung over and lounged in the room most of the day. I casually bent over to pick something up from my suit case and felt a sharp pain in my back. The last time I traveled to Vegas I was pregnant with Fifi and had a horrible case of sciatica right before that trip. And here I was again, never usually having back issues, in Vegas, the youngest of the group, (I'm milking it for all I can) with a thrown out back. Vegas hates me.

We had plans that evening for a nice birthday dinner and a show. Wiener was arriving at 2 pm so I sucked it up and slammed some wine and an erroneous hydrocodone. Dinner was great and the show was even better, especially after a double Malibu and cranberry. Malibu was substituted for Belvedere vodka after being told the vodka was $27 per shot. No thanks. I can buy a few entire bottles for that much. I was in excruciating pain and had to kill it somehow. We saw Absinthe at Caesar's and it was fucking hilarious. Completely raunchy and politically incorrect and right up our alley. 

Afterwards we roamed the Caesar's Palace casino where I have a vague recollection of talking to some Canadians about the show who wanted to know if there was nudity or visible side boob and I involuntarily said AY a lot. I'm also told that I kept demanding a hover round and at one point yelled at a legless man on a hover round "Hey! I need that!" Not my finest moment.

I'm sure this happened.
I also have foggy memories of playing blackjack with Lola and Wiener and discussing Cuban-American relations with our 24 year old newlywed dealer who was Cuban and has dual citizenship. I did this so no one noticed me counting on my fingers under the table to add up my cards. But somehow chips kept appearing so I must not have done too bad. Or Lola and Wiener kept putting them there for me. Or maybe it was the (gasp) Asian!!! Eventually we left and headed to Bellagio where we had some breakfast then back to our hotel.

By the next morning I was completely unable to move and in the worst pain of my life since childbirth. I tried relaxing and taking Advil and after feeling nauseous all day and still in pain I decided to throw in the towel and book a flight back home that night with Wiener. After a trip to the ER, where plenty of heavenly narcotics were dispensed, the doctor sent me to get an MRI which showed a herniated disc.

So although I may be the youngest in age, I'm certainly the oldest in body. How lame. Throwing my back out getting something out of my suitcase in Vegas. And that may be the true story known to you, dear reader, but in my real life the tale I shall tell is "I got a little out of control with my mad dance moves on the stripper pole during my encore performance."

You're welcome for that image. You cannot un-read that.