I Fucking Love You Too November 28, 2007

My boyfriend and I had already committed to the idea of staying up all night on our last night in Vegas. Our flight out of Vegas the next morning was at 11:00 and staying up all night just seemed more fun (and oh so Vegas of us) than plunking down $250 for a hotel room.
 
This is the type of logic that frequently pops its head into my life and enables me into situations that help me realize how lucky I am to not be jailed/unemployed/dead.
 
Like the night before my first office holiday party two years ago when I decided to go out, get absolutely hammered to eliminate any chance of me getting a little too friendly with the open bar that would be at the holiday party the next night so to not be that girl, and ended up in the bed of my boyfriend who was only a boy I had recently met back then, drunkenly texting my coworker to please oh pretty please bring me work appropriate clothing the next day. And how the next morning, I woke up with possibly one of the worst hangovers of my life. And how I went to the bathroom that belonged to my boyfriend who wasn’t my boyfriend then and desperately tried to find something, anything, to put my J.B.F hair into a ponytail. And settled on the miniature scarf on the snowman soap dispenser that I later learned was from his mother. And showed up at my office building and hid behind a pillar until my coworker arrived, my coworker who is beautiful and cute and? 4 inches shorter than me. And tried to decide between the black skirt and the brown pants in the office bathroom because my coworker was sweet enough to bring me a plentiful selection. And decided that I’d rather appear slutty in a black skirt that ended above my knee rather than fashion-backward in pants that ended right above my ankles. And smiled half-heartedly (and queasily) when coworkers told me I looked so festive with my black going out skirt and red and white hairtie that oh isn’t that cute it looks like a miniature scarf! But, the moral of the story, is that I was by far the least drunk person at my office holiday party. Although, in hindsight, it didn’t matter because no one will believe the stories I have in my arsenal from that night because over time, I’ve established I am that girl anyway so I should have just gone ahead and gotten drunk that night. So the real moral of the story is to always get drunk when the opportunity is available. But I digress.
 
Our first stop was a hotel room in the Flamingo, where my boyfriend’s friends from high school had a room. Friends he had not seen in months and friends I had not yet met. Friends who, when he called them to tell them we were in their room, were at Bill’s Gamblin’ Hall to see Big Elvis. Friends who, with that little bit of information, I knew I’d love.
 
And oh, did I. My boyfriend had already warned me they were crazy. But see, my boyfriend and I, we went to the same college. And knew the same people. Yet somehow didn’t meet until the fall after we had both graduated when a mutual friend dragged me to his and his roommate’s apartment party that I did.not.want.to.go.to (Ed. note: Another post will have to be dedicated to the Story of Us - it’s not pretty). And since dating, I have met his friends that live in Chicago. And they are fun and adventurous and up for a good time and practice the mandatory drinking-too-much and staying-out-too-late behavior I encourage, but crazy - really, really crazy - they are not.
 
But Adam and Matt and Phil and Woods? They are crazy. Crazy. My kind of crazy. And not just crazy, but good people. And they clearly loved my boyfriend. And I loved it. Because is there anything more endearing than seeing your significant other with their friends and seeing how much they all love one another and thoroughly enjoy one another’s company having a kickass time together? It was fitting that the running line of the night was (cue: Southern Twang) “I motherfucking HEARD you, boy! I fuckin’ love you too!,” something the guys had overheard a model yell into her cell phone the night before, a model hired by Matt to pose for faux wedding pictures at famous Vegas sites. A line that was frequently uttered all night. During dinner at Mr. Lucky’s 24/7 Cafe? Yes. Bottle service at LAX? Oh, hell yes. And many, many drunken cab rides.
 
(Oh, and Matt? Is an incredible photographer. I saw his stuff and it is good. Good enough for me to almost post the link to his site and risk my anonymity. Please email me if you are in need or know someone in need of a photographer who is unbelievably creative and hilarious and innovative. He will blow you away.)
 
My boyfriend and I did manage to stay up all night, although the hours between 5am-7am were rough. And using the booth at the 24-hour cafe at Flamingo to catch a quick cat nap at 6:30am did not please the waitresses. Neither did I feel very comfortable walking around in a short (Ed. note: Short) black dress and chocolate brown 4-inch heeled suede boots once the senior citizens in matching warm-up suits started showing up in hoards.
 
We made it back to his friend’s hotel room to pick up our suitcases and change. And it was dark and all of his friends were asleep. So we changed quietly and tried to pack and gather as quickly as possible.
 
Just as we opened the door to leave, we heard Matt whisper to us, “I motherfucking HEARD you. I fucking love you too.”
 
It was the perfect (fucking) end to Vegas.
 
(Vegas!)

Multiple Vegasms November 28, 2007

Exiting the plane and walking into the airport, I immediately sensed warm weather. That was Vegasm #1.
  
My skin, it likes sun. It needs sun. Some women look absolutely beautiful alabaster and paler and I salute you and your decreased likeliness of getting skin cancer someday from too much tanning today. But I am not one of you. I must be sun-kissed, tan, glowing to pass as healthy. It’s not something Chicago winters like to encourage so trips like this one during a Chicago November are even more necessary. Even when it means being pestered endlessly by a mother raised in a society that prized porcelain skin untouched by the sun to take along the Dior DiorSnow Pure UV Ultra Protective Whitening Base SPF 50 she gave you last winter before your trip to the Caribbeans that is still sitting inside it’s box. 
 
[Ed. note: For those of you keeping score at home, that's one father who kept me locked up inside a house with a door covered with newspaper articles about raped, kidnapped, murdered women and one mother who applied whitening cream on my face while I slept at night and insisted that I exercise pressing my lips together firmly to minimize their natural pout.]
   
If my laptop would cooperate, this is when I’d post photos from the vacation. Because Zebra-striped Jeep? Sweet. Click. Large black man in Escalade with a 4-foot-tall white teddy bear in the passenger seat? Yes, click, definitely, click again just in case the first one didn’t turn out. The oxygen bar inside the airport? Click. The old couple sitting at the oxygen bar? Click click. The four Jäger shots I ordered to the blackjack table for me, my boyfriend, and our new honeymooning Mexican friends who had never drank Jäger before? Click click click click.
  
And, by the way, palm trees lining the street outside of McCarran International cued Vegasm #2.
  
MGM Grand is where we stayed. And it’s some where we probably would not stay again. While it was fine, it was more a place for us to change clothes, sleep, have sex in the shower, fix broken toilets and pay an additional $30 for a 1979 Sanyo Mini Fridge to store our booze than a place we utilized to dine, club or gamble.
 
But dinner at Nobu? Vegasms #3 to … too high too count. The Toro Tartar with Caviar and Fresh Yellowtail Sashimi with Jalapeño were enough to encourage some genuine Yes! Yes! Yes! moments. Additionally, my boyfriend and I both ordered the Chef’s Choice 8-course menu because we are fatties and foodies and oh my gawd. A ceviche salad that was the perfect blend of acidity, spice and sweet; a Chilean sea bass topped with both black and white truffles (Yes! Yes!); kobe beef accompanied with a decadent portion of foie gras (Ed. note: Stay away, Charlie Trotter. Stay far, far away); and a dessert of potstickers filled with glazed pears is why I am so glad I live to eat rather than the other way around. (Ed. note: This is not a food blog and I am not a food expert so I will stop pretending now.)
  
I did, however, find the service less than top-notch. My boyfriend and I had to wait a while to be seated even though we had reservations; our waiter seemed uninformed and out of place; and the noise was just enough to have to shout at times to hear one another. Little things that could have gone either way and nothing that stuck out as particularly bad, but enough for me to think Thank God the food is so good to make Nobu worth the $450 check. I don’t remember sounding like a prima donna being on my to-do list today, though, so I’ll just stop looking down my nose now.
 
Sugar & Ice inside the Wynn is absolutely delicious and adorable. I would like to bathe in their pistachio ice cream, and the jamón serrano sandwich hit the spot for my stomach filled with at least 4 Bloody Mary’s and not much else. (Ed. note: I like to not keep track of the exact number of drinks I’ve consumed once it gets past 3 or 4.)
 
The casinos at New York New York (cute, quaint, cozy - for a casino?), Bill’s Gamblin’ Hall & Saloon (loud, unpretentious, mullets and tank tops on men … and a saloon!), and the Wynn were my favorites. The Wynn gets included because Kanie the Blackjack Dealer is the coolest lady I have now ever met and I wish very much I could have packed her into my suitcase and brought her back to Chicago with me. She and I talked and talked and talked (leaving my boyfriend to card-count, apparently, which he later told me was why he was so quiet) about the pearls or diamonds question asked to Hillary at the end of the Democratic debates that occurred the week before; Wolf Blitzer (woof); People magazine’s choices for Sexiest Men Alive; the famous elbows she’s rubbed; the kiss on her cheek from Bon Jovi; and her role in the movie The Cooler as a craps dealer. (Ed. note: When she asked me if I had Netflix to order The Cooler, I answered “yes” a little too emphatically.)
 
Eva Longoria & her tall French basketball-playing husband played craps not too far away from us at MGM and yes, she is that beautiful in person and yes, her body is like whoa.
 
We never made it to the pool or rode the roller coaster at New York New York (I like roller coasters in all shapes and sizes pleasedontmakefun), and I can’t believe that with all the time we spent at Bill’s, we missed seeing Big Elvis in person.
  
Our last night in Vegas was the Friday after Thanksgiving. We arrived in the evening after three days in Mormon Utah, his parents kind enough to drive us and, really, they couldn’t be any sweeter. Although being dropped off on the Strip by my boyfriend’s parents that include a Mormon mother was, in a word, surreal.
  
This night justifiably deserves its own post.
 
And I have some NaBloPoMo catching up to do for the 9 posts that never were during my vacation.
 
So scoot along.
 
Come on, to the next post, off you go. 
  
Yes?
 
Yes! Yes! Yes!

The Mile High Club November 27, 2007

I fucking love to travel.
    
Not just in the sense we mention it on Facebook after Interests: so to appear worldly and experienced. No. I am of that rare breed who also fucking loves the process of traveling.
    
I love packing. I spend actual time making lists and drawing accompanying pictures imagining all the outfits that will be just right for wherever I am going. The actual packing part is usually a hectic production of cramming in jeans and dresses and tops and skirts and boots and 4 different pairs of heels for a seven day trip into a cumbersome, unforgiving black box because my personal amnesia is forgetting before every single trip I take that packing takes time. And sometimes I even like to forget that the clothes I need for these outfits that are just right are less than clean, leaving me to pull wet clothes out of the washing machine at 5:30 a.m. - after coming home from the bar, watching Frasier at 2:00 a.m. while drunk, and just, you know, hanging out - and desperately fanning them with a hair dryer because the dryer is broken and damnit is it really time to get ready for work already and how will I finish packing for the week long trip that I’m jetting off to right after work?  (Ed. note: Packing wet clothes into a suitcase is stupidity at its most heightened.)
 
I love trying to figure out if today will be that day I master the outfit of the effortlessly chic traveler (Ed. note: No). I love deciding what I want to carry on, collaborating a smorgasbord that normally consists of the Economist and the Us Weekly, my current book du jour, certainly some Dior Diorshow Mascara and Rosebud Salve, and a bottled water. Sometimes the plastic flask.
 
(But a word: The McCarran Airport security team does not take kindly to finding 9 separate lip glosses in your purse after a search for a corkscrew that set off the security alarms and they will escort you out past the security checkpoint so that you can purchase a Ziplock bag to hold the 9 separate lip glosses that you didn’t have the heart to throw away. They also do not take kindly to quips about the potential danger thwarted by placing a bottle of Guerlain KissKiss Lip Gloss behind the protective plastic measures of a sandwich baggie.) 
 
My father was an adamant enthusiast of road trips during my formative years. Which was unfortunate because I also happened to be very susceptible to carsickness during my formative years. The 8 hour trip to Mackinac Island when I was 9 years old is marked in my memory by the record 12 times my father had to stop the Ford Windstar so that I could throw up on the sides of Michigan’s freeways. And the 14 hour trip to Washington D.C. in seventh grade during Memorial Day weekend? I knew I shouldn’t have eaten those 4 pieces of Sabarro’s Pizza at that rest stop off of I-76 that later ended up on the extra-large white tshirt displaying rows of yellow ducks that clothed my extra small body. And damnit I was sad because I loved that tshirt. I found it incredibly stylish and had looked forward to showing it off at our nation’s capital.
 
The call of the open road rang a little louder for my father and, as a result, flying was never in our repertoire of travel. Which meant that when I was finally able and old enough to do things as I please, like everything my father tried to enforce upon or deny from me during my childhood, I said Fuck You, Childhood Memories and did the opposite, which in this particular case meant recklessly relishing traveling on planes.
 
I love to drive and, scarring childhood memories aside, I love road trips. I love the control and the power and the speed and the blared music and the singing and the open windows. And luckily for me (and other travelers who happen to find themselves in the same mode of transportation with me), my travel-induced nausea days are in the past.
 
But flying will always have an aura of glamour to me that I suppose is the result of its elusiveness when I was younger. Even when:

• My boyfriend and I are crammed into the last row of seats on our flight to Las Vegas because we checked in late, resulting in my boyfriend rubbing elbows with strangers’ asses for the entirety of a 3.5 hour flight (Ed. note: For the majority of our flight, there was a line at least 10-people long for the bathroom. I found this confusing.);
• I accidentally spill my ginger ale all over my tray and the flight attendant hands me a blanket to soak up the spilled liquid and one may be surprised to learn this but sopping up liquid is not what faux fleece fabric was meant to do in its lifetime; or
• The person sitting to my left wants to get a little too friendly during our flight and starts to grab our camera - without asking, off my lap - to capture the Grand Canyon as we fly over it and even has time to remark between bouts of being filled with the spirit of Ansel Adams that my boyfriend and I will have stunning children someday should we ever choose to procreate.

And those bathrooms? Unless you’re Nicole Ritchie and her skinnier, more anorexic younger sister, squeezing two bodies in there to partake in nefarious activities is just an exercise in futility.
 
Especially when the flight attendants’ seats filled with the watchful eyes of flight attendants are located so nearby.
 

A Digression About Good Intentions But Less Than Satisfactory Results November 26, 2007

Once upon a time nine days ago, I wrote that my blog would endure no lack of posting while I holidayed in Vegas (Viva Las!) and Utah (Mormon filled!) and sent that message out for all the internets to see.
 
Even when I knew that I’d be in Vegas - sinning: the seven deadlies - and Utah - playing: the golf, the thanksgiving, the role of angelic girlfriend. 
 
When I knew that unreliable internet connections and uncooperative laptops trail me as closely as the pavarotti do Britney’s britney (Ed. note: Celebrity Tabloids, it’s her vagina, we get it. Moving on, shall we, pretty please?). 
 
And even when I knew I’d be with my boyfriend who does not yet know about this blog and of course I should have known that insisting on sitting at my laptop (and lowering the screen anytime he came nearby) for at least 30 minutes everyday while on vacation would begin to look suspicious and odd.
   
One aborted post on Thanksgiving (Ed. note: I continue to have trouble distinguishing between the “Publish” and the ”Save and continue editing” buttons) and not another word from me again till today later, I stand (Ed. note: Sit) before you a humbled person because once upon a time some nine days ago, I made a bold claim that I emphatically failed to fulfill. And while this helps a little part of me now understand how Bill Clinton must have felt when he faced the world and admitted that he had lied when he had said he did not have sexual relations with that woman, Miss Lewinsky, I led you on and then I didn’t deliver and, let’s be frank, no one likes a goddamn tease.
 
So I feel bad. Because guilt and I, we’re quite familiar, what with me being a pair of immigrant parents’ first born, who: 1. Failed to apply to Harvard University as a senior in high school (on purpose); 2. Failed to follow through on any of her acceptances into several law schools two years ago (on purpose); and 3. Failed to mention Madeleine Albright as one of her heroes when interviewed by a local news station a few years ago for some feature on 20-something females and had to hear from her father for days after, But I give you her book! What if she watch? You miss chance to tell world you follow Madeleine Albright! (by accident because who in their right mind has Madeleine Albright on the forefront of their mind?).
   
But while I was unable to blog while in Vegas (Viva Las!), I now sit upon a small mountain of potential reading material for you. And while I was raised with too much of a good Midwestern upbringing to stay behind a laptop while my boyfriend’s parents - who are of the very nice, very sweet, very mannered variety - mingled around me in Utah (Mormon filled!), I am now back at my office desk where I have no moral issues with posting on my blog all day.
   
So enough with the excuses and on to some posting, yes?
   
   
[In all and complete seriousness, I hope everyone had a very happy thanksgiving. And remembered to say a little prayer for the Indians.]

Sin City And A Mormon Thanksgiving November 16, 2007

Four delicious inches of cobalt blue, peep-toe, suede stiletto heel currently dress each of my feet as I sit here at my desk.
  
Office setting? Sorry, you can be damned.
  
Today’s lunch hour consisted of heavy retail therapy. Or can it be considered retail necessity if the shoes were purchased for a purpose? The shoes that are now on my feet even though I am at the office because Hi, I’m Impatient And I Really Needed To See How They Looked On My Feet Again. The office that now smells strongly of water repellent spray for fine leathers, suedes and nubucks because Hello, I Buy Things Based Not Always On Practicality (i.e. suede shoes in cold and wet Chicago) And Must Take Advantage Of Protective Measures. The water repellent spray that I decided had to be sprayed on my shoes right this moment because Hey, I’m Impatient and we’ve already met two sentences ago. Admittedly, I now feel slightly dizzy, faint, and nauseous.
    
But my feet? They are happy. 
 
And even happier yet because tomorrow, they will find themselves and their cobalt blue open-toe stiletto compatriots in Las Motherfucking Vegas. Vegas! Viva Las!
 
(My long introduction that led you to think this post was about shoes alone is what they would refer to as “slow-playing it” in poker terms. I’m so topical.)
     
My boyfriend and I leave Chicago in approximately 12 hours to embark on a week long vacation (a week! a whole week!). The joy that madly pumps through my veins right now leads me to think that maybe it is possible to live high on life! alone. 
   
I had a very creative, very hilarious post prepared (Ed. note: This is not it) but it’ll have to wait to be posted till I’m in Vegas (Vegas!). Because today has been a very busy day at the office, a wild scramble on my part to finish what I can and hide what I can’t. Laptops will be brought along on the trip and posting will seamlessly continue. When I agreed to NaBloPoMo (Ed. note: Cue giggle), this week long trip had already been planned. Which means that I knew there would be a week when I would not be chained to my office desk - where it’s easy to blog - but in Vegas (Vegas!) - where there are many distractions that may - just may - outweigh blogging. But I welcome the challenge. There is a small part of me that envisions sitting by the pool or laying out on the hotel bed and writing some of my best posts yet. You may slightly loathe me as you read my posts that are written in Vegas (Vegas!), but I promise I won’t be that person who just rubs it in your face that she is in Vegas (Vegas!) while you are not in Vegas (Vegas!).  Really.
       
If you need any more reasons to tune in this upcoming week, know that while tomorrow (tomorrow!) through next Tuesday will be spent in Vegas (Vegas!), starting Tuesday morning, I will be at my boyfriend’s parents’ house located in Small Mormon Town, Utah, an hour outside of Vegas, playing golf, canyoneering with my boyfriend’s father (??), celebrating Thanksgiving, and hopefully not becoming someones 4th wife. 
      
See how this could have been a very hilarious post? Scene: Me - a very not blond, very not blue-eyed, very olive-toned complexioned person - preparing herself to travel to a town full of Mormons to celebrate Thanksgiving with her boyfriend’s family for the very first time. Hilarity ensues!
         
But I just can’t do it justice right now. Because I am at the office, and I am busy finishing what I can and hiding what I can’t. I am dizzy and faint and slightly nauseous due to the greater concentration of aerosol water repellent spray than oxygen in the air surrounding my desk. And I can’t stop wanting to shout at the top of my lungs so that everyone in this office can hear: I’M GOING TO BE GONE FOR AN ENTIRE WEEK, SUCK ON THAT!
       
I’m beginning to think that the 4th cup of coffee I had a moment ago was a bad idea.
    
Oh, and my boyfriend? He doesn’t know about this blog yet, not so much because I am hiding it from him but because I haven’t told him about it (Ed. note: …). So I imagine that’ll provide for some interesting future posts as well. Perhaps I’ll even attempt a live blog post for that conversation. It would be so topical of me.