Nearly a pun, that will become more clear as you read!

I've thought about a few different ways to write about our trip to Vegas, and I think I've finally settled on rating the events we experienced while we were there. I know it's not completely original, but I figured it would give me a good idea of what to do and not do during future trips. Like next spring. Or in the fall. Or three weeks from now.  The ratings scale will range from 5 (comparable to the Greatest Night of Greg's Life) down to a 1 (equal to a slumber party with Amanda Pacer).

                                                                                 
                                                                                  Dave gives our arrival two thumbs up.

Anyway, we got in around 8:30 on Sunday night, and as usual, I figured the cab driver was ripping us off on the ride to the hotel. He took the highway, and it was the first time I've stayed mid-strip, so maybe it was legit, but as will be evidenced in a later tale, I'm not sure I completely trust cab drivers. So, about two weeks before the trip, I'd called The Flamingo, and asked for a remodeled room, which was exactly what I'd read, in reviews, to do when staying at The Flamingo. The kindly operator assured me that everything was set, and that not only would the room be remodeled, it would be upgraded. "Possibly with a view of randy flamingos, " I speculated, but would have settled for an unimpeded view of the strip.  Excited that our hotel checker-inner was from Germantown (of the Wisconsin, not Maryland variety) we chatted her up about not misspelling Cudahy, and how much the weather in her old hometown sucks more than anything else in the entire universe.

That is, until she informed us all she had left was a non-smoking (lies! all lies!) room, that was indeed, not remodeled. I assured her she was mistaken. I had confirmed our 21st century room aways back, and she should just take another look. She explained to me that the operators that take the calls for the hotel state that the upgrades are confirmed in a manner in which they are not actually being confirmed. For instance, when the operator says "Ok, everything is confirmed, you are all set for an upgraded, remodeled room," they, in fact, mean exactly the opposite of that. Our non-smoking room smelled of smoke and by trip's end, everything we owned smelled of smoke. And the air-conditioning did not work. I found it a little surreal, complaining about how hot I was, how I was getting sweaty for our first night in Vegas, considering I'd spent the last four months crying bitter, frozen tears each night as I slipped off to sleep, but there I was, sweaty and needing another shower.                                                                                                                                             
                                                                                                                                                                                                        
           So pink, and yet, so icky.
 
                                                                                                                          
                                                                                                                                               If only we'd stayed here instead.

The Flamingo experience neither improved, nor worsened, by any noticeable degree as the trip continued. The air conditioning was sort of fixed, the bed was comfortable, but the blankets were weird and spotted with burned plastic, and on the last night we were there, Steve found some trash next to the couch and Doritos under the bed. I did walk away from their Wheel of Fortune machine $27.00 richer, and their buffet was so-so, despite the fact they went to great efforts to hide the breakfasts food. (Great for those that crave a cilantro-laced ceviche, not so much if you're craving french toast. And hate cilantro.) So on a scale of 1-5, The Flamingo gets 1 star. I would have given it less, but Donna just threw all my diet pills across the Walsh's living room.

                                                                  
                                                              Steve gets a kick out of spending time with the grown up boys. 

Moving on, our first big event was our night at FortyDeuce. We had gone there a few years ago when we were there for Thanksgiving, but knew nothing of the bottle service, and how it's necessary if you want to actually see the show. So after donating both kidneys and a liver, I confidently handed my bank card over to Joel, the club host. He assured me he'd close out the tab right away, because I was a little nervous our friends would show up hours later, when my judgement wasn't so sharp, and I'd insist they all order bottles of Dom on my dime. There was no need to worry, as Steve and Greg were the only ones that showed up.

And weren't they impressed beyond all get out, when they were (forced to pay a reduced cover charge) and escorted up to the "VIP area" behind a velvet rope! I said to the gigantic bouncer, who we had already seen drag a passed-out college student back to the FortyDeuce secret recovery room, "They're with me," and he unhooked the rope and let them through. He even moved our tiny champagne-holding table to our newer, roomier location. From that point on, things got a little fuzzy.  You'll find that when, on your first night in Vegas, pretty girls in no pants liberally pour you champagne, after you bypassed dinner in favor of JUST GETTING INTO THE CLUB THE SOONER THE BETTER, NOW, NOW!, you end up ordering every flavor of martini on the menu, and insisting that the equally drunk Navy boy, that is sharing his flask of rum with you on the casino floor, accompany you and your friends to the other club Joel said he would get us into FOR FREE, IN A LIMO!  Alas, it was not to be and Greg and Steve (cruelly) put an end to my evening, and just in time, because I'm not sure I remember a taxi ride back to a hotel quite as dizzying as this one. (I'm lying, I totally do, and EWilson741, you keep your mouth shut.) FortyDeuce, you cost me a $12.58 mystery charge and $200 more than I intended and I still give you 5 stars.

Morning after Fortydeuce, I give you negative 1,000 stars. I'll hate you forever.


The dress was cute, but the face aflame was not.

Monday night Steve and I had booked a Mystery Adventures tour. I've always wanted to do one of these, and to this day I remember the murder mystery dinner that a high school friend hosted at her house, and how much fun that was. I guess I should include the screaming match I got into with the cab driver on the way to the Mystery Adventures location, but that would lessen the score I give Mystery Adventures, and that would not be fair. While waiting for the bus to pick us up at the Sahara, we met a nice couple from North Dakota named Jamie and Dirk. It was pretty much the last time anyone would speak to us. Steve and I were pretty good sleuths, but most of the time, we'd say something three or four times that we'd discovered , and then one of the louder, middle-aged people would shout it out, and they'd all high-five, and hoot-hoot. The host of our adventure tried his best to include us, and he did a great job, but this would have been a lot more fun had it been all of our friends participating. I'm usually all for meeting strangers in the middle of a faux crime scene, across the street from the number one Thai restaurant in the US, but this could have been more fun. The adventure was solved in a room filled with bloody gauze and neatly arranged medical instruments, and anyone that knows me knows that if there's something that will make my bowels quiver, it's this. The night ended with a certificate declaring Steve and I Master Sleuths, and a copy of The Manchurian Candidate DVD,so all in all, it was a fun night. Mystery Adventures gets 3.5 stars.


Steve is looking so satisfied here because now, he's a Master Sleuth.

Tuesday started rough, because apprently, in Vegas, it takes twenty-nine times more minutes to get anywhere and do anything than you are planning for it to take. I walked over to the Forum Shops to buy my obligatory Vegas vacation Swatch. I rushed back to meet Dave in front of Spago, so we could then meet our friends to eat at the Augustus Cafe, home of the world's longest wait for anything you want to eat. They separated us into two parties, defeating most of the purpose of our attendance, since the person that was leaving later that day was at the other table. I shoveled salad into my mouth, and speed-walked toward the Venetian, mumbling about this not being the best way to begin the greatest spa experience of my life. You know what? Everyone on the strip at noon on St. Patrick's Day is not only drunk, they are walking more slowly than anyone has ever walked in their entire lives. Once again, sweat threatened to ruin a much-anticipated Vegas event. 

                                                                               
                                                                             That guy on the far left? Totally worth making it to brunch for.

The great thing about Canyon Ranch Spa is that you have to walk about a mile down long hallways to arrive at the locker room/place where your soul melts into goo. By the time I arrived at the counter where the spritely woman gave me my shower shoes and cozy robe, I was no longer sweaty (but not all that in the mood for the cozy robe, either). While you wait for your therapist to call your name and escort you, miles away, to your treatment room, you get to sit in this large area where there are magazines, and water with lemon, and soft furniture in soothing colors that make you want to learn to meditate.

My massage was far better than many I've had, although probably not the best. I was returned to the lemon-water sanctuary, to prepare for my facial. The facial included the horribly painful extraction of stuff on the sides of my nose, and yet, it was probably one of the top five happiest times of my life. I wish someone could have taken a picture of the event. I was swaddled in my cozy robe, with lotion slathered on my hands and feet. The therapist placed giant, heated booties and mittens on my hands and feet. She then put goopy, wonderful smelling stuff all over my face, repeatedly complimented my shiny hair, young, firm skin, and nail polish, and massaged various parts of my scalp. When that was all over, she escorted me to another lounge, with terry cloth chairs, where I read Oprah magazines, alternately visiting hot stone and ice salt rooms, while listening to new-agey, plinkey music. I didn't (ever) want to leave, but alas, I had to get to The Burger Bar, and my date with Greg (and Criss Angel). Canyon Ranch Spa? It gets 4.75 stars.

This is how Matt would look after a day at The Canyon Ranch Spa.

I know I don't get out much, but it was exciting to have showered at the spa, using their organic-y hair products, and anti-bacterial dipped brushes (an extra plus, since Dave and I left our brushes at home.) All I had to do was switch into my burger-eatin', magician-seein' clothes, and be on my way. The show was at the Luxor, so after a pleasant monorail ride with beefy, drunken frat boys oggling half-dressed college girls, I set about my short walk across the street to the Luxor, THAT WAS THE LONGEST F-ING WALK OF MY ENTIRE BLISTER-FOOTED, DAMNED LIFE, I HATE YOU BROKEN MOVING SIDEWALKS, AND STUPID, STUPID, BROKEN ESCALATORS, AND DAMN'T CAN THE MGM BE LABELED WITH ANY LESS INFORMATION ABOUT THE APPROPRIATE EXIT TO TAKE TO CROSS THE STREET IN THE MOST CONVENIENT MANNER TO REACH EXCALIBUR, WHICH IS ALSO STUPIDLY, STUPIDLY UNLABELLED???

                                                                                                                                     
                                                                                                     "I wonder why all of the moving walkways in Vegas have been disabled?"

So, my burger at The Burger Bar was magnificent. In all the writing I've done,  I've probably neglected to mention that my greatest food mistake of all time was ordering their kobe beef burger well-done during a trip a few years back. Well, if for nothing else, Vegas is a land of reshaping regrets, and my burger was delivered to me cooked in a manner in which I rarely order meat. Matt R., feasting upon the same heavenly patty of meat, described it best when he bit into the burger and said "ohhh, oh, ohhhhhh." The Burger Bar, you get 4.25 stars, but only because I do not love your sweet potato fries and I am always too full for dessert.

                                                                           
                                                                 You may have your In-and-Out burgers boys, but nothing beats Kobe beef.

It was a short walk from The Burger Bar to the Believe theatre (and yet, Greg still managed to trip (I didn't laugh too much though, because I've seen Greg during way funnier tripping experiences at the Luxor, and because he made it a point to tell me I looked nice as we walked to the theatre. Oh Greggy Bear, how I look foward to your caring for Dave and I in our golden years.)), and our seats were outstanding. We'd debated for weeks which tickets to buy, and actually passed up uber-pricey front row tickets. As it turns out, we were in the first row of the balcony, which was right by the walkway Criss Angel ran down during one of his trips through the audience. It seemed like the other side of the theatre got more action than we did, but we had the pleasure of "speaking" with one of the drunken clock moppets pre-show. The show has gotten pretty rank reviews, and the locals (at least the one I spoke to) tended to hate it. It's the only Cirque show I've seen, so I have nothing of that caliber to compare it to. I can understand why the reviews weren't so great. Angel seems a little uncomfortable at times, and the plot is a bit cryptic. If you are a Criss Angel fan though, you are probably going to love it. Greg's enjoyment of Angel's illusions has made it possible for me to admire more than just his abs (Angel's, not Greg's, although I'm sure Greg's are spectacular as well), and I especially liked the dark nature of the show. I didn't have specific expectations, so there wasn't a lot that could go wrong. Believe gets gets a solid 3.9 stars, which would have risen to 4 stars had Angel and Holly Madison not broken up, and she'd been in attendance.

Check out those guns! And those abs!

After the show, we met up at Shadow Bar, where girls dance behind screens and you see only the black, shadowy outline. Had fleshy, costumed memories of FortyDeuce still not been in my head, it would have probably been a lot sexier. As it was, I had a much better time about an hour later when we headed toward Cleaopatra's Barge, where there was dancing and a far more organized waitress. It was St. Patrick's Day, but we forewent the green beer in favor of drinks of every single other color of the rainbow. We discovered the tequila sunrise, and the valuable lesson of never letting a drunk friend out of your sight. Had the evening ended for every single one of us at exactly the same time, St. Patrick's Day in Las Vegas at Caesar's Palace would have clocked in at 4.35 stars. Alas, let's just say when you average together 4.35 and negative 12, you get negative 7.65, which seems to accurately describe things.


A dining event in which Dave and I were not involved.

During the day Wednesday, there was a lot more walking, and a lot more poorly planned pathways to "the mall with no seating and no drinks, at least that Kelly can find." I snagged some cute emergency shoes, and squeezed in a nap before heading off to MGM Grand with Dave. Surprisingly, the trip went smoothly, so we arrived an hour before our 8:00 pm reservations, allowing Dave time to toss more money into slot machines. I'm not sure mere words will aptly describe the exact experience that is Craftsteak. And if you're one of those food people, the kind that criticizes everything (which makes me one of those "everything other than food people, because I criticize basically all things but food), you may say Craftsteak doesn't measure up to something or other or something else. I say to you, good sir or ma'm, "whatever".

I knew it would be good. I knew that in the months leading up to our trip, every Wednesday when I'd see Tom Collichio's perfectly tailored suits, his coquettish smile, his tongue slipping past his pert, firm lips to suckle in the tiniest drop of soup, that it would be good. But nothing, and I mean no amount of G&M crabcake, Kansas City omellete, or Bubbala's chicken sandwich, prepared me for The Lobster Bisque. I'd aleady begun sipping my sparkling moscato (because in Vegas, at Craftsteak, my favorite grape comes in a glass with happy bubbles) when the porcelain crock arrived, shaped in such a way that one's thumb slid gently, but firmly, into either side of the apparatus allowing for appropriate tiltage, later in the consumptory process.

                 
                                Deliciousness awaits you.

As the soup would slip into my mouth, it would leave a warm, creamy coating on the spoon, momentarily making me question if my spoon were not inlaid with some new-fangled white metal. There were big buttery chunks of lobster, filling the crock at least halfway, and I never wanted it to end. Except it had to, in order for the Best Scallops In All The Sea, Before They Were On My Plate, and Now, In My Belly and later, banana brioche bread pudding that left me speechless for at least forty-five seconds, to be delivered to me. Also, the chocolate ice cream on top of the banana brioche bread pudding? I'd cut off both my arms to eat it again, and I'd be happy about it because then I could just insert my face into the miniature casserole dish it arrived in, and later freshen up with the Meyer lemon sorbet. I realize this is the least food critic-y food critique ever, but sometimes writing must be led by emotion. Craftsteak, and your depilated patriarch, in addition to anything you may request, you receive 38 stars. I think I heart you.


When all the stars align, and Tom Collichio creates soup, Dave gets vibrationally happy.

And since nothing could top a week filled with sparkly dancing girls gyrating from the ceiling, and the greatest meal of my life, I chose to relax on our last day in Vegas, wandering from The Forum Shops, through The Grand Canal Shoppes, onward to the Palazzo, where there's a store filled with first edition books signed by their authors, and a place called Annie Cream Cheese, which is apparently the only full-fat dairy Nicole Ritchie has ever sampled. I ended my browsing extravaganza at the Fashion Show Mall, where $112.00 Betsey Johnson shoes look cheap compared to all the other loot I could have scarfed up that day. (Disclaimer: The Betsey Shoes are worth WAY more than $112.00. I want to build them a shelf and display them in my home.) Day of traipsing through some of Vegas' best shopping locations deserves 3.75 stars. One day when I am floating in excess cash, and can pillage your fashioney goodness, you will earn the full 5 star reward.  Our last Vegas meal was at The Mirage, and despite Craftsteak having ruined food for me forever, the sea bass was fairly excellent, the sushi sort of sucked, but hey! sushi on a buffet! and yum, macaroons. Our waiter cracked our shit up, and got a wide variance of diet vs. regular cola orders just right. The Mirage buffet gets 3 stars.

                                                                              
                                                                                                               Mmmm... sea bass.

So that's it. Our Vegas trip in a long-winded nutshell. I'm fairly certain I forgot about fourteen things that were horribly important, and there's a fair chance a few things will come boomeranging back to me in a few months in alcohol-related flashback fashion. We had built the excitement of the trip up so much that there was little it could do to measure up to our expectations, and yet, Dave and I have treated the entire thing like a bad break-up since arriving home last Friday. When we drive past the airport, we mist up a little, and we stop every few hours to remember "what we were doing this time last week." Thankfully now, it's pretty much the same thing I'm doing right now. We've priced trips back to Vegas, as well as any other city I can think of that might offer me a glimpse into what it's like to jet-set. We've been mopey and grumpy, and basically intolerable to everyone accept Anais and Henri, who, thankfully, did not offend the cat sitter to the point where she refused to ever sit for them again. They were on the behavior they are best capable of, and for that we are proud. They are also now even more incapable of letting us out of their sight for more than five minutes, without going stark raving berserk.  So basically, our time away did little to change things.

Lastly, my thanks to our friends who actually remembered to pack, and insert, batteries into their cameras. Along with forgetting to feed their hungry mouths, and spending their diaper money on shoes, things like that will put me in the worst-at-home mom hall of fame one day.