What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Except this stuff.

Seven days in Las Vegas.

And I made friends with a Republican, too.

Good God, Almighty, the whole world went upside-down.

It tends to do that, there.

Instead of retelling all seven days (because, frankly, I don't remember them very well) I'll give you the seven-hour version and let you guess at the rest, though if someone who went with me on the trip would like to enlighten me on why I thought it would be a good idea to...

Well, nevermind.

Monday, 11pm PST

The Redskins lost.

The Redskins lost, and I now know that it takes less than three beers to put me down if all I've eaten in the past twelve hours is two bunless hot dogs and a package of Altoids breath strips.

Tuesday, 4am PST

Ow.

I gotta get up. I gotta get up. The trade show opens today and that's the whole reason I'm out here at all and they gave me a suite and everything and I haven't hemmed the right leg of my pants yet and the Vietnamese delegation never picked up yesterday. I gotta get up.

Tuesday, 4:47am PST

I gotta not do this anymore. I am 32 years old. One would think I would know better than...oh God this thread is small. I'm going to thread this needle. I. Am. Going. To. Thread. FUCK. Okay, I can do this. Threading the nee-- FUCK.

Tuesday, 5:14am PST

Maybe I should get room service or -- God, no food. Please God no food. And don't bend over. Must. Not. Bend. Over. Flat hair is fine enough. It's not like my eyeliner went on straight anyway.

Did I put on eyeliner? Yes, yes, okay. SHIT! STOP BENDING OVER!

Tuesday, 5:54am PST

The elevator made it down one floor before it did the dippy-thing and stopped. Who the hell gets up at 6am except me? Shouldn't these people still be in the casino or something? WHO DOES THIS?

Okay, it's enough that we stopped on the 22nd floor; why are we stopping on the 21st?

And the 20th?

I swear to God if one more person gets in this elevator I'm gonna puke on them.

Wait.

Why are there 17 tiny Asian women in jean jackets in this elevator with me?

Oh, I see. I'm still sleeping. It's a dream! I'm dreaming about the Vietnamese delegation, and here they all are in the elevator! And I'm not really this hungover, and I really didn't resort to taping the hem on my pantleg, and I probably didn't even fall down in the shower. See? My knee doesn't even hurt!

And the elevator doors just opened on the casino level to THOUSANDS of tiny Asian women in jean jackets, all speaking a language I couldn't possibly understand, AND IT'S OKAY! IT'S JUST A DREAM! I'll write this in my blog and it will be just like Seinfeld!

I'm so funny!

"Juliet?"

Oh, no. No no no. You should be Bradley Whitford or Gladys Knight, or maybe even Doris Day. Course there's always Elvis, so maybe --

"Juliet, c'mon. We're going to be late."

Well, this is a pisser.

Slow down, asshole. The lady's limping back here...

*****************

The rest is up to you.

Because what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

I did wear the tiara, though. A couple of times.
Juliet
:: happy hour begins at 9:40 PM [+] ::

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