What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, unless nothing happens -- nothing of any real consequence, anyway.
One of my earliest Vegas memories involves a foreign stranger, a broken boot heel, a pair of handcuffs, and a missing key. Nothing like being escorted out of the casino restroom by a security guard and a locksmith to get the party started.
Ah, yes. Those were the days.
Okay, so not really. Unless you consider being sawed out of a pair of cuffs half-naked as “good times.” In the days before marriage and motherhood, Vegas was a common escape for my friends and me, who, when tired of our local strip (Sunset) fled to the only strip that didn’t close at 2 am -- the strip that never closes. Nights became mornings. Clubs shape-shifted into seedy after-hours joints where we emerged as footsore drunks walking home in our party dresses in the harsh daylight. Of course, months later, we would all pile in the car to do it again.
I haven’t been to Las Vegas since Hal and I married and, memorable as it was, it was hardly a party weekend. And just as I went from single to bride all those months ago, I have come full circle, back to Vegas for a bachelorette party weekend in honor of one of my oldest friends.
I tighten the straps on my bra so my boobs look bigger. It doesn’t take much to turn a rack into a rack. I adjust, lift, pull, and push out and voila. Vegas ready!
“Can you see my ass when I bend over?”
“Just a little bit.”
This is my first time away from Archer, and I plan to make it worth my while. I don’t have a curfew or a babysitter to relieve from her duties. I don’t even know what time it is, and that’s just fine with me, I think.
Don’t think! Keep applying eye shadow, and don’t think!
So I don’t. I apply double the makeup and spritz an extra spray of perfume under my arms. I pack my ID and cash in an old clutch bag and find, as I do, an accidental time capsule of broken cigarettes and old ticket stubs: Azure Ray at The Troubadour and the New Pornographers
at The Wiltern. I shake out the dried tobacco over the toilet, but I can’t bear to throw away the faded stubs. I safely place them in the secret front pocket of my bag, and ziiiiiip.
I leave our hotel room satisfied with my ensemble, excited by the night ahead. Rawr.
“Let’s go get trashed! Wooooooo!”
And we do. We make friends with a bunch of single guys who have a reserved booth and plenty of bottles. Bottles they let us drink in exchange for our presence. It’s a trade everyone is happy with. We get to drink for free. They get crotch-shots from drunk chicks with penis necklaces. Everybody wins.