The Land of Milk and Honey

I'm home after nearly a week of visiting the land of sin itself: Las Vegas. Our trip didn't turn too sinful, though, partly because we couldn't find a dealer and partly because my feet were hamburger by day two. We did however start every morning off with a healthy dose of liquor and slot machines, which for the two of us lent the affair an air of dangerousness. This is where we stayed: On the last morning we sat at the quarter slots with Starbucks, a lemon glazed pastry and two rum and cokes in front of us one last time, thinking tomorrow we'd have to go back to harsh reality, away from the smiling faces of the waitresses who won't judge you as long as you toss a dollar their way with the delivery of those free drinks. There's something about experiencing the euphoria of a perfect caffeine/beer buzz with you're mom that's life altering: when the two of you find winning four hands of quarter black jack in a row more fulfilling than actually sight seeing... it's indescribable. We did see two shows: Folies Bergere, the one with all the scantily clad women wearing feather headdresses, and 'A Tournament of Knights,' a dinner show. It was a good time, but I'm a little bummed we missed all the Cirque de Soleil shows, especially Ka, which is supposed to be awesome. We probably would have explored a bit more, but on the first night I wore brand new heels all over and into my feet were torn several giant blisters. By day two they were infected and really REALLY gross, so by day three I had to perform home surgery under the influence of nearly six screwdrivers and some Darvocet, a task I nearly fainted completing. I distracted myself by humming little prayers to the Lord in Heaven that I wouldn't lose one or both of my feet to infection for the vanity of not wanting to wear my sneakers to see a bunch of thonged women dance around on stage. By the last day my feet felt good enough to wander around a little, but for most of the trip they were tucked daintily under a slot machine where I wouldn't accidentally bang them on something and shoot howling pain up my stupid legs. It was a nifty little trip into the desert, but boy it's good to be home to the kids. On our way home from the airport it was all I could do not to nibble their faces off. I think they did okay being away from mom, perhaps because of the steady diet of cheese curls and chocolate milk Clint fed them. That's alright, I guess, considering what my mother and I subsisted on while we were gone. Viva Las Vegas!