All we need is an Elvis sighting
We pick up our wacky weekend at the Las Vegas airport ...
* For those of you who have never been in the Las Vegas airport, there are slot machines EVERYWHERE. Bright, shiny, pretty pillars of iniquity, smack dab in the middle where the shoe shine stands and SmartCarte rows are in other airports. Naturally, I HAVE to play. I pick a machine in the middle and slide in a dollar, and go 25 cents at a time. First pull: Double sevens! I win a dollar! I’m not so lucky on the next six pulls, which I suspect is not a coincidence. I decide I’m not going to let myself fall under the spell of the great gambling gods--if I win again, I’m getting out before I end up hawking my laptop and beloved, discontinued Bobbi Brown lipstick for gambling money.
Next pull: I win another dollar! I immediately cash out, up 50 cents overall, and go to collect my $1.50 payout from the bored-looking girl in the booth. I almost just keep the little slip of paper instead of cashing out a measly $1.50, but a win is a win, and please, I’ve done about 1.3 billion more embarrassing things in my lifetime than ask a stranger to give me a paltry sum of money. Besides which, I need to take a picture of the dollar and two quarters for my blog! OBVIOUSLY! (More on that in a minute.)
* Random observation: There are a ton of hot guys in the Las Vegas airport on a Sunday night. Unfortunately, they are probably all leaving penniless and destitute, not being big winners with a lucky touch like yours truly. Also, a good half are also probably newly minted disease carriers thanks to the hookers on the strip. So the rule here is: Look, but don’t touch.
* I go to a fast-food place that shall remain nameless and try to order a kid’s meal. I almost always get kid’s meals at fast-food places because, you know, you basically get the same thing, only a smaller portion. Plus, hello, the toy!
So I go up to the counter and try to order a kid’s meal and the woman WOULDN’T LET ME GET ONE!
Her: You should just get a regular meal.
Me: But ... I LIKE the kid’s meal.
Her: I’m going to give you a regular meal.
Me: Can I just get a kid’s meal?
Her: I won’t give you a toy with it.
Me: You won’t ... what? (Pause.) That’s all right, I don’t need a toy.
Her: So a regular meal?
Me: You’re really not going to let me get a kid’s meal?
Her: A regular meal is only five dollars.
Me: It’s not really the price ...
Her: OK, good. Regular meal.
And a regular meal is what I get.
* They have the Golden Globes press conference on TV at the gate. I can hardly even talk about the Golden Globes. You KNOW how I love them. I probably don’t love them as much as my oldest future unborn child, but definitely as much the second-oldest one. DEFINITELY. And they were reduced to a press conference? HOSTED BY BILLY BUSH? Are you kidding me?
I plan on watching the whole debacle when I get home, but I cannot handle that kind of stress when I’m trying to get across the damn country in one piece, so I go hide down a side corridor while I drown my sorrows in my adult-sized Diet Coke. I turn on my computer, and the man next to me glances over and immediately gets an appalled look on his face. I look back at my computer and realize that I’ve forgotten, for about the thousandth time, to change the wallpaper on my computer. (When I was home for Christmas, my sister Stephanie hijacked my laptop and changed the wallpaper to read “Stephanie is a sexy bitch!” in huge writing.) Turns out this man is some sort of clergyman who is going through church paperwork. I feel mildly guilty, but I mean, he snooped first!
And yes, I said first. I start peeking at his papers and realize it’s actually notes on every single person in his congregation. It doesn’t matter that I have no idea who these people are or even where they live--I HAVE to know why he thinks John and Sue Mariano need to be on a “different track” and just what makes Joe Wilson so well-educated on doctrine.
* I am so engrossed in snooping and emailing and avoiding the faux Golden Globes that I don’t realize that I am being paged for my flight. Apparently they are about to close the door. Apparently the flight leaves in like seven minutes. Apparently I am an idiot. I throw my laptop in my bag, grab my purse and book it down the hall to the gate. I flash the Southwest guy my most charming, self-deprecating smile, and he just shakes his head. “Oh, Swishy,” he says with a sigh, which totally makes me laugh, because it’s almost like he really knows me.
This is horrible, though. I’m walking down the ramp to the plane, and of a sudden I think, OH, SHIT! Here’s the thing: I wanted to take a picture of my dollar and two quarters--my big, impressive gambling win--and I wanted it to be authentic, so I didn’t put the winning quarters in my wallet with all of the common quarters. Instead, I stacked them neatly on the floor next to my laptop until I could take their picture. And in my rush, that’s where I left them--on the floor. So now, instead of being up 50 cents, I merely broke even. And someone else is gonna walk by and pick them up and win a million dollars. Or, like, one dollar.
Worst part? I didn’t even get a picture!
* I am on the plane, and I can see the guy in front of me fiddling for the button to recline his seat. I am a very easygoing traveler, I truly am, but if one thing gets me going, it’s seat recliners. I HATE seat recliners. I can see him looking for the button, and in my head, I’m like, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you ... I HAAAAATE YOU! Why? Just ... WHY? It’s two inches. Two inches that make the difference between me being able to actually open my laptop all the way yet probably do not make it any easier for you to shovel nacho-flavored Bugles in your mouth and watch American Pie on your portable DVD player.
Yes, that’s what he’s doing, and yes, the nacho-flavored Bugles are completely assaulting my nostrils and infiltrating my brain. Also, the crunching is making me deaf, and also? American Pie? I would rather peek over your bandwagon Yankees hat at a movie that’s not on USA and/or TBS a thousand times a month, thank you very much, seat-reclining Bugle boy.
* Which brings us to the weekend itself! It was wonderful. Crazy and exhausting but super, super fun. The wedding was lovely and the bride was beautiful and I got to see a bunch of people that I hadn’t seen in forever. I just love my friends to absolute little pieces. It was awesome. I also got to visit my old work, and oh, they were so, SO nice to me. They were like, Swish, we talk about you all the time, we totally miss you, you’re so fun and nice and talented, and I was like, guys, I swear, I do not have ANY incriminating goods on you, you don’t have to say all of that! It was so nice to be remembered that fondly. And they remembered so many things! I’m a very sentimental type, and I always sort of assume that people mean more to me than I mean to them because I’m more sensitive and nostalgic and things like that, so it just made me feel good.
So it was a good weekend. Even though I got my lotion confiscated (Oh! I forgot to tell you that! I will later.) and even though the Bugle boy keeps trying to push his chair in my face. And even though my major 50-cent award is languishing in the Las Vegas airport right now. Even though, even though.