What Happens in Vegas...
Sometimes the voice of the universe speaks so loudly that you can’t help but hear it. Unfortunately, sometimes it’s only clear in retrospect what the message was. In this case, it was “Janet, stay away from Las Vegas. And stay away from festive Star Trek-themed beverages, as well.” Wait, that second message was for me.
It was clear early on that the fates had it in for Janet on our getaway weekend. When we landed at the airport in Las Vegas, she wanted to enjoy a margarita while we waited for our friend Diane to arrive, so we went to a Mexican restaurant at the airport. There we were dumbfounded to discover that we’d found the only Mexican restaurant in America that didn’t serve margaritas. Disgruntled but thirsty, we chose to order beer, although not Mexican beer, because they probably didn’t have that either. Shortly after our drinks arrived, we were treated to the sight of the couple at a nearby table enjoying OUR margaritas!
Once we had collected Diane and enjoyed (by which I mean, “did not enjoy, because the driver was a little creepy”) the taxi ride to our hotel, Janet was able to procure her longed-for margarita in a large souvenir cup shaped like the Eiffel Tower. Shortly thereafter, she learned that that (a) the top of the Eiffel Tower doesn’t stay on very well, (b) large souvenir cups hold a surprising amount of liquid, which will splatter far and wide if it happens to fall, say, onto cheap hotel carpet, and (c) it’s hard to get margaritas off the ceiling when you have nothing to stand on but your suitcase or your girlfriends. That drink is probably still a part of the hotel room décor.
The next morning, when we searched for breakfast, we discovered that all the nearby restaurants had a 1 ½ hour wait. Deciding we could do better elsewhere, we hit the streets. Finally, we found a restaurant with no line at all, which should have been a clue that all was not right with the world, but we hadn’t had any coffee and were not thinking clearly. We sat down and waited, and waited, and waited, only to realize that we’d found a restaurant with four stars in the Monumentally Bad Service guidebook.
Desperate, we cornered a waitress and begged for coffee. After she brought us a brown, coffee-like liquid, she permitted us to order our breakfasts. The service continued to be ‘remarkable’, which gave us plenty of time to savor our beverages before being served vaguely synthetic substances masquerading as eggs and hash browns. We were actually afraid to eat the food, and afterwards agreed that astronaut food, fast food, or even dog food would have been better. We’re not sure anyone noticed when we left.
When we dressed to go out for the evening, Janet found she had packed the left shoe from one pair, and the right shoe from another. Faced with a choice of shoes that didn’t match her outfit or shoes that didn’t match each other, she chose the former, thinking that she could avoid the potential injury inherent in walking around in different-height shoes.(Ha ha! Nice try! said the universe, but we weren’t listening.) After reassuring her that she looked just fine wearing those shoes with that outfit, assuming she wanted to look like a prom queen with bunions, we went out to dinner, and had a meal we could actually recognize as food. Unfortunately, Janet left her purse in the restaurant and we had to go back for it, which made us late for the comedy club, where we were heckled.
After dinner and the comedy club we spent some time at a dueling piano bar, where two pianists played and sang a variety of popular songs while everyone sang along. (Everyone except me. At the request of my loved ones, as well as complete strangers in nearby counties, I don’t sing.) This was fun until we noticed the Elvis impersonator near the stage, holding a hobby-horse. Okay, it’s Vegas, we thought. Let the man ride his pony. But as the evening progressed, his antics with his steed began to alarm and then appall us, and we left the building. I’ll never think of “Love Me Tender” the same way again.
The next morning, still game in spite of our minor difficulties, we all headed for the hotel spa. We enjoyed relaxing massages, after which we felt compelled to shower to get the massage oil out of our hair and our nostrils (these were really thorough masseuses), and then we spent some time in the steam room. After a while we felt like crawfish probably feel just before you pull their legs off and eat them, so we had to get out.
I got into the Jacuzzi while Diane lounged on a chair. Janet decided to join me in the Jacuzzi. Because she was holding her water bottle in one hand and her towel in the other, she couldn’t hold the stair rail, so when she missed her footing on the step, naturally she fell. I saw her fall toward me and I reached out to catch her, or at least break her fall, when a little voice in my head suddenly piped up with, “Warning! Warning! That person is NAKED! “, and I unthinkingly pulled my hands back. Janet hit the water with a spectacular splash, which I found highly amusing, but I didn’t actually start laughing aloud until her water bottle gracefully bobbed to the surface, followed by her towel, spreading out on the water like a terrycloth jellyfish. I quickly stopped laughing when Janet herself emerged, cursing with gusto. Seems she’d hit her leg on the edge of the cement step as she went down, and the rapidly rising goose egg on that leg was causing her some dismay, by which I mean severe pain. By the afternoon she looked like she was smuggling an eggplant under the skin on her thigh.
The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully. The highlight was a delightful drink at lunch called a Warp Core Breach, which is a smoking purple rum concoction served in a glass the shape and size of a fishbowl. But I’m sure that had no bearing on what happened next.
Near our hotel there was a moving walkway which led to an escalator. As soon as we got off the walkway, we sprinted toward the escalator. Racing up the escalator (tricky, since it was going down), Janet and I quickly passed Diane (who was handicapped by having shorter legs and quite a bit more sense than us) and, urged on by the cheers of those riding the other escalator in the correct direction, we headed toward the top. Of course the universe was not through with Janet, and she fell only a few steps from the summit. Having failed to catch her in the Jacuzzi, I could have used that moment to redeem myself and pick her up, but instead my competitive nature kicked in and I tried to pass her. That’s when my own karma caught up with me and I fell, too. I rammed my knee into the edge of the step as I collapsed next to Janet (actually, Janet claims I fell directly on her, but it serves her right for tripping me anyway), and we both lay sprawled on the steps, slowly and inexorably being carried back down. We got to our feet and managed to make it to the top, although with considerably less enthusiasm than before.
As we staggered off the escalator, I noticed a copious amount of blood running down my leg, so we put our evening plans on hold and went back to the hotel room. Despite the fact that we are all moms and have spent years dragging around purses full of sippy cups and crackers and cardboard books and yes, bandages, we discovered that none of us had thought to pack a first aid kit. Janet and Diane, who should get some sort of honorary Girl Scout award for resourcefulness, wrapped toilet paper around my bleeding knee and secured it with the plastic tie from the hotel laundry bag. We headed down to the lobby to purchase a $5 band-aid, which was considerably less bulky than my toilet-paper tourniquet. Thankfully, it was our last night there, so no more mishaps had time to occur. And the next time I travel, I’m going to be listening a little more closely. Especially if the Universe says, “Bring a band-aid.”
