Sunday, August 4, 2013

Las Vegas. Shirts, pants optional

I'm lying in bed to write this. I had to unplug the clock to charge my laptop, so I have no idea what time it is. My phone is off, and.......somewhere around here, I guess. Maybe in my fanny pack. Yes, that's right, I said it: FANNY PACK. I wore one. Deal with it. I could use the clock on my computer, but it's in Hawaii time and I am not sure if Vegas is Pacific or Mountain, and honestly rather than googling it I am just enjoying the mystery of it all. Ignorance is bliss.

Sami is asleep next to me, Sarah is asleep - I think - in the other room. We have an "other room", you see, because we have a suite way up in one of the towers. We are high fucking rollers, literally. Rollercon and all that.

A one bedroom suite at the Riv is kind of like driving a top of the line Yugo. It's circa 1983 up in here. Case in point:

multiple ashtrays in all the rooms for convenient in-bed smoking - they even provide matches!

The biggest thing so far about the room is that it has two bathrooms, which is fucking awesome. It also has 3 doors to the hallway - a door in the bedroom, and a set of double doors in the living room. I hate those fucking double doors, because I always try to open the one on the right - which doesn't open. I also spend a lot of time opening the closet door instead of the bedroom door. And people keep kncking on - and sometimes trying to enter - the hallway door to the bedroom. Too many doors. First world problems, holla.

But by far, the most exciting part about our room is that when we exit the elevator in the lobby, we are looking out glass doors and across the parking lot to my version of an oasis shimmering in the desert heat.

The Peppermill.

The Peppermill is the happiest place on earth because they don't care whether you are dressed appropriately - appropriately here in Vegas is wide open for interpretation, and I am pretty sure we test the limits at least once a day during Rollercon. Notable was that one time I wore nothing but underwear. Now that I am not drinking, I am more aware of social niceties like, you know, wearing pants in a restaurant. Shirts are still a gray area, so last night Sam went in at midnight wearing half a suit - pants and vest - but no shirt. Also, the vest doesn't fit, so it was unbuttoned. Also, he had an unfortunate incident while repairing our deck - so unfortunate that he had to warn me about it before he took off his shirt. His entire right side is covered in an enormous bruise, with patches of healing skin where his stomach scraped against the foundation when he plunged not-quite-but-almost-to-his-death through the joists last week.

Apparently my husband needs a spotter when doing home improvements. Noted.

Anyhoo, the bruise is pretty gnarly, and he was wearing it proudly last night. I am sure our fellow diners were thrilled. But we had to go out to eat, because I needed some straws. Read on, I'll explain.

Rollercon has been fantastic - my highlight reel includes learning how to transition from skating forwards to skating backwards (next on my list: figuring out how the fuck to skate backwards, because oh my god no) and attending Vagility - a one hour roundtable discussion about harnessing the power of your genitals to do really important stuff like smoke and drink water. Because hydration is very important in Las Vegas. Las Vegas is also the last place in the US where smoking indoors is acceptable,so this was the perfect time to learn how to smoke a cigarette using your vagina. After all, I already had an ashtray. But I needed to practice control of airflow with a glass of water first. Thus my need for straws. Which is why we were in the Peppermill at midnight. This is how my life happens.

So we enjoyed a lovely meal, paid the bill, thanked the staff because really they were very lovely even to old shirtless Mr Magic Mike himself. As we walked out, Sam froze.

"What's wrong?" I asked.
"I forgot the straws."

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