A few weeks back, I had lunch with my friend Chara. The subject of blogs came up, and Chara informed me that I, along with her current unemployment/stay-at-home-mom status, inspired her to start a blog of her very own. Every time a friend of mine starts a blog, I realize quickly that just about everyone is a better writer than I am, and maybe I should stop encouraging people to start blogs and effectively "steal my thunder." Then I remember: I have no thunder to begin with. Blog away.
Anyway, Chara was referencing my blog, and said, "Yeah, I read Katie’s blog, but every entry is about how drunk she was the night before, or how she went to this party or on that roadtrip." I wasn’t sure if I should be A) happy that she’s reading my blog, because she’s a great writer and a smart girl and I respect her opinion, or B) really offended and thereby revoking my friendship card with her. My blog isn’t all about drinking, nor do I lead a life of extravagance, where at the drop of a hat I will travel all over the land for a good time. Hrmph.
Having said that…
This weekend started innocently enough. A night at Girl Bar in Los Angeles, with Justine and Gina. We drank (for free…long story), we danced (a little), we had a lot of fun. Justine warned me she’d have to call it a night rather early because she was going to Vegas to see her mom the next day.
Then we started talking about Vegas… then we started talking about how I wanted to go to Girl Bar in Vegas the last time we were there, but instead wound up going to Rain in the Desert at the Palms with a bunch of hot straight girls… then Justine said: "I have an idea! You and Gina should come to Vegas tomorrow. You can stay with me at my mom’s, you can gamble during the day and we can go to Girl Bar at night!"
Now, this conversation came on the heels of a very disturbing email I received from my friend Chrissie last week, involving discussion that the Imperial Palace might be torn down at any time. The IP, as we call it, is our most favorite of all casinos, mainly because of their Dealertainers pit, where Ricky Martin will deal you black jacks, Dolly Parton will charm you with her southern drawl, and Bette Midler will shake her breasts over the table at each deal for good luck.
In my mind, the choice was rather simple. So I said, "If you can convince Gina to go to Vegas, I’m in."
Trying to convince Gina to go to Vegas is like trying to convince a Labrador Retriever to play fetch. It’s a sure thing.
We found ourselves in the car at 4pm on Saturday, full of Sharkeez fish tacos and a little bit of beer, on our way to Las Vegas. After getting stuck in traffic three times, Gina managed to get us there by 8:30. Nothing like going 105 miles an hour in the middle lane. We arrived, chatted it up with Justine’s mom, dropped off our stuff, and headed out in Justine’s car. We were at Girl Bar by 10:30, on the guest list, thankyouverymuch. We enjoyed the sights (the dancer looked like Kate Beckinsale!), and we drank our share (2 for 1 until 11… direct quote: "So, we should each buy one now and down it and then buy another before 11?" Justine, everybody. I feel somewhat responsible for this alcohol loving girl). We did a few obligatory drunken strolls through the nearest hotel (Aladdin), and we drove home and went to bed around 2:30.
The next day, Gina and I braved the strip and went to the Imperial Palace. And for the first time EVER, I left Vegas ahead. Not only was I head in gambling, but I was up on the weekend. I won a whole $50. I spent $30 in gas and $20 on food. Basically, a free trip. To Vegas. To the IP. With two of my favorite people. And we were home in time for The L Word.
On the way home, I was thinking Chara might be right. Maybe my life is a little crazy. Maybe I do go out a lot. Maybe I have one too many stories that start with, "I was sooo drunk…" And then I remembered: that’s what life is about. My plan for this long weekend was to do nothing. Relax. Watch movies. Sleep. I had a blast doing everything but that. I did something that will make for a great story in a few months or a few years. Or at least a great "Remember when..."
And really, I can’t ask for anything else.