People love the phrase “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.” It leaves so much to the imagination. It implies that you might possibly have done something completely out of character…shhh. We must not ever speak of it. I’m sure sometimes that’s true, but my guess is that phrase pertains mostly to the clothing people choose to wear while on vacation there. Glitter and sequins in the daytime. Paisley or loud tropical scenes. Dresses whose hemlines may or may not cover the entire rear-end. Women of all ages and sizes stuffing themselves into what looks more like a tube top than a dress, and always 3 sizes too small. Mesh shirts with nothing underneath, revealing large breasts. On men.
Our time in Vegas this past week was a lot of fun, but we certainly didn’t do anything that left us unable to look ourselves in the mirror in the morning. Or, as you can see, blog about it once back home.
Our first night in town we decided to walk the strip and search out the discount ticket booth to see some shows while we were there. When what to our wondering eyes should appear?
Ross Vegas. A Ross discount clothing store, emblazoned in neon, right on the strip. You’d be surprised at how many people are jammed into Ross at 1030 on a weeknight in Vegas. As I flipped through the dress racks I looked around me at my fellow late-night bargain hunters. I started seriously questioning my judgment when I realized I was flanked on one side by a 70 year old woman in a silver sequined tank top and rainbow feathers in her hair, and on the other by a 20 (?) year old in 6 inch heels and a dress with less fabric than my bathing suit.
The next morning we did a little work and then headed down for breakfast. I’m still trying to figure out how an order of French toast, an omelet, a side of bacon, some coffee and orange juice for two people came to $65- not including tip. Of course, the bacon alone was $6, and since there were 5 slices, that comes to more than one dollar each. So, I suppose that’s not unreasonable. O_O At the buffet, it’s all the bacon (and other stuff, too) you can eat for $18. Something isn’t right with that math.
Jeff left the restaurant ahead of me. They were in the middle of remodeling, so I had to follow some signs to the temporary exit. I came to a dead end. I backed up a few feet, looked at the sign again and tried another route. Once again, I found myself at a dead end. I could see where I needed to get to, but I was surrounded by frosted glass walls at every turn. I felt like a rat in a very beautiful maze. Helplessly, I stood there for a minute, contemplating my next move. Jeff texted me asking where I was. I texted back, “I’m lost. I can’t find the way out.” A family came behind me and I said, distressed, “It says this is the exit, but there’s no way out.” The woman walked towards one of the glass walls and asks, “Did you push on this door?” I stared as she pushed the wall open. I mumbled, “There’s no handle. It doesn’t look like a door.” In truth, this was the second time that morning I had been stymied by a frosted glass door; I had a momentary panic earlier as I found myself unable to figure out how to exit the bathroom in our hotel room. In my defense, it was pre-coffee, and frosted glass can just be confusing.
As we made our way through the hotel, we came to discover that many people were in town for the Gem show. Jeff felt pretty confident that he could spot the gemologists that were in town for the event. But soon I began to notice that most of the time when he said under his breath “gem show,” a gaggle of attractive women were passing by. Throughout the next couple of days this became code for pretty girls. Sometimes, perhaps out of guilt or some sense of fairness, he would occasionally throw in a “gem show” after a man walked by. Eventually I said, “Clearly you and I have different ideas of ‘Gem Show’ men. You say ‘Gem Show’ but all I see are Abercrombie model- wannabe d-bags.” The next night, as we entered one of the shows we attended, the tall, very dark and handsome man at the door took our tickets. I said, “Gem Show.” That was the last time he uttered the phrase on our trip. (* editor’s note- Jeff disputes this retelling of events. If you would like to hear his version, you will have to ask him.)
The other groups we noticed a lot of were the bachelor and bachelorette parties. These were easy to spot: The bachelorette parties all wore matching pink t-shirts, one of whom was wearing a sash and/ or tiara. Usually both. The bachelor parties were either wearing matching tuxedo t-shirts, or were discussing the idea of buying matching t-shirts, usually ones that said, “wolfpack.” We passed by four different groups of guys saying something along the lines of, “You know what we should do? We should all get wolfpack t-shirts!” Genius.
We spent most of our days relaxing poolside, reading, writing, and drinking something called “The Miami Vice.” A combination of pina colada and strawberry daiquiri, a “Miami Vice” tastes like Sonny, but makes you feel like Tubbs, so we limited ourselves to just one per day. I should say, It’s not that we didn’t miss our kids, but we definitely enjoyed the time away.
Our second night in town, we went to see a Motown tribute group called “Human Nature.” Last year when we were in Vegas and deciding which shows to see, Jeff tried to get me to see this show. My answer was the same last year as it was this year when he brought it up- “But…they’re white. And Australian.” In my mind, I imagined “the Wiggles” singing Motown. It felt sacrilegious. It was just wrong. Jeff said, “It’s like the highest rated show in Vegas.” In a town where ventriloquists, creepy magicians and Donnie and Marie thrive, this was not a glowing recommendation as far as I was concerned.
He said, “Look at this. May 30th only- special event. Some actual people from Motown will be there.”
Now THIS peaked my interest. If REAL Motown people were willing to sit through this show, then so would I. And boy, was I glad I did. Besides being adorable, those white boys can dance and sing like nobody’s business. The accents didn’t hurt either. And instead of just being a Motown cover band, they were clearly passionate about the music.They had been performing Motown and their own Motown- inspired music for 23 years since three of them were in high school and one was 12 back in Sydney. Australia.
Even if it had just been them that night, standing less than 5 feet in front of me singing and dancing their… hearts out, it would have been worthwhile. But having a member of the original Four Tops, Duke Fakir, sitting right behind me, and then Mary Wilson of the Supremes coming up on stage and singing so close that I could almost reach out and touch her, sent me over the moon. And it didn’t even bother me that the drunk Australians next to me kept singing along loudly out of tune. After the show, we walked out shoulder to shoulder with Duke, and I was able to get my picture with him. I am only mildly ashamed of the fact that I used my cleavage to talk him into taking the pic after he had said the picture before me was the last one.
I sent the picture to Zoe, as the “Four Tops” song “I Can’t Help Myself” (otherwise known as “Sugar Pie Honey Bunch”) was on her baby video, and a very special song to her. She, in turn, texted it to all her friends with the caption, “Look- my mom with an old man.”
( I made it black and white. It somehow seemed appropriate.)
Tune in tomorrow for part two of our Vegas adventures- ” Mr. Baxter I presume?”