Vegas, Baby!

Every now and again, I read a post that I imagine (or wish) I might have written myself.  That’s exactly how I felt when this little ditty popped up in my inbox.

For the third in the series of travel-related guest posts, we have KLZ, of Taming Insanity.  If you’re not already reading KLZ’s blog, please go.  Now.  This woman is supportive, funny, and leaves what I think are the best one-liner comments in bloggyland.  Today she writes about a few of my favorite things: Vegas, bourbon, and traveling without your kids.  Ah, the good old days.

Vegas, Baby!

Vegas is an amazing spectacle of debauchery.

Unless you are pregnant.

Then it is a torture chamber. A torture chamber where you are forced to witness your husband’s spectacle of debauchery.

BTW, do you know how much one banana costs in Vegas? More than a drink. An alcoholic drink. So when your pregnant self is trying desperately to not gain 10,000 pounds, it’ll cost you.

But eventually it’ll come in handy.

Seeing as I was pregnant, you’d think I would have picked another destination. Except that I’m cheap. Plus, David always seems to manage to win cash in Vegas. I’m not sure how he does it and it upsets quite a few people we know. He’s been accused of having a horseshoe lodged up his butt by more than one person.

Ultimately, we were in Vegas because David had a conference there. Couple his company paying for his room and airfare with 300,000 United miles and what have you got? Say it with me: free vacation!

Let me clarify: a free vacation for my birthday.

My point is: this vacation seemed like a fantastic idea, expensive fruit and all. Not only would it be free but David would win money to pay off the expensive dinner we’d be having for my birthday.

Clearly, I’m not so bright.

The night of my birthday celebration started off harmlessly enough. I picked out a dress, which I slipped over my 13 week pregnant belly. A belly I thought was HUGE. I thought that everyone and their neighbors could see my belly. I thought that aliens in galaxies far, far away could easily identify me as pregnant. I mean, I couldn’t even button my pants!

We took this picture to document how “huge” I was at 13 weeks:

Again, I’m not so bright.

After that, we wandered over to the MGM for dinner. Where we had the slowest dinner service ever. David and I left pissed for different reasons. I had finally regained my appetite after all that morning sickness crap and hadn’t had my fill. David, on the other hand, was upset because he had intended to have more drinks before entering the Cirque Du Soleil show we’d bought tickets for.

Since he was sure they wouldn’t allow drinks in the theater (apparently he’d forgotten we were in Vegas and there were drinks everywhere), he ordered a couple at a nearby bar before we headed in. In his defense, they were pretty damn tiny drinks.

Still, this was the point where I should have headed back to the hotel by myself.

While David had his drinks, I got my pregnant self into line. Then I got out of line because I had to pee. I walked halfway across the casino, peed, then went and got myself back into line where David joined me.

We chatted idly when suddenly I noticed David was speechless. Speechless and gripping my arm quite hard. I followed his gaze. To the bar inside the theater.

The bar that was selling 32 oz. jack and cokes.

You know, I lied above. THIS was the point where I should have gone back to the hotel by myself.

Nowhere, ever, in the history of ever, should be allowed to sell 32 oz. jack and cokes. They lead to evil. They lead to your husband sharing his drink with a random stranger. Which wouldn’t bother you so much except that you are pregnant and the smell makes you want to vomit and you wish you could just go to bed already.

But you can’t go to bed. Because jack and cokes make your husband come down with “one more” syndrome. As in, “no, no, no, just one more hand and we’ll leave.” “just let the waitress come by one more time so I can tip her.” “I just need one more sip.”

Towards the end, these one more requests are met with one more death glare and one more threat of a punch to the throat.

Somewhere in here, I realized that I did not, in fact, look pregnant to anyone but myself. Which led to a lot of “Why are you being such a buzzkill, woman?” looks.

This in turn led to me loudly and frequently announcing “We have to go because I am tired and I am PREGNANT so we have to go.” Which is not super annoying at all.

Eventually I left my husband to share his drink with that stranger because I was tired and I was pregnant, so I had to go, as I reminded those at the blackjack table one last time. You know, just in case they hadn’t yet realized why I was so little fun.

When we awoke the next morning, David was not feeling so hot. So I handed him one of my mucho expensivo bananas. Bananas, if you don’t know, are high in potassium and potassium is good for hangovers.

He was…not enthused by my sacrifice. His head hurt and I was giving him a banana?

I fought the urge to tell him to store that banana with his horseshoe.

But the trip wasn’t a total bust. Since we’re talking about the horseshoe up David’s butt? We left that weekend up $400.

But neither of us knows how.