Two weeks into the new year and we decided we needed a vacation. So we packed up the MomMobile and headed down to SoCal for a visit with my parents (who are apparently trying to recoup the costs of every vacation they take via the amount of tiny shampoos they return with – seriously, there are enough to last the muppets through college).
Vegas baby, VEGAS! Itâ€™ll be so money.Â
Destroy shouted, â€œBye! See you later!â€ while Search merely mumbled, â€œGo way, Mommy.â€ (Itâ€™s so good to know they careâ€¦I know, persona non grata when Gramma and Papa are around.) So Jon and I headed for higher ground. Or rather, the airport.
As our Vegas pre-party, I stripped down for the TSA and shoved the rest of my delicates through the x-ray machine while the gentleman in line behind me became increasingly excitable upon his discovery that persons 75 and older were allowed to maintain footwear and light jackets. (What a state weâ€™ve reached when that is a vacation highlight.)
Our Southwest plane pulled up to the gate, and the pilot darted over to the gate agent to inquire, â€œWhere am I going?â€ So that was comforting. But totally Vegas. Wheels up, and Sin City welcomed us at a balmy 30 degrees.
The technical term for this is Fucking Cold.
I am not making this up. Fountains were frozen solid. (Which totally explains why the ice rink at City Center was empty.)
Like throw a penny and watch it bounce right back up at you kind of frozen. (Which gives you better odds than coming up ahead at any penny slot machine.)
There was no one out. This gave me plenty of open space to stand in front of the Bellagio pretending I was cool like Danny Ocean. (Oceanâ€™s 11 was clearly filmed on a January Monday.)
Even the pushers of naked girl trading cards were wearing their â€œGirls Direct to Youâ€ shirts over puffy parkas and all went home shortly after the sun set. You will also be saddened to hear that all of the Adult Bare Beaches were closed for the season. I suspected this was due to the water being in the less-than-party-like atmosphere of a solid state.
We got a drink. Did you know you can take a glass and wander up and down the strip with an open alcoholic container? I KNOW!
(Stop laughing at me. This party girl is generally back in the hotel room being mesmerized by cars winding their way up a parking garage by 10 p.m.)
However, my excitement was quickly tempered. One, because as mentioned above, when it is quite literally freezing one does not get super jovial about holding onto ice beverages for long periods of time. (Irish coffee anyone? Adult beverage, caffeine, warmth â€“ all in one!)
Second, the bartender thought heâ€™d try to be funny. â€œIDs please,â€ he requested. When my turn came he waved me away with a dismissive, â€œDonâ€™t need yours. Youâ€™re obviously old enough.â€ Look dude â€“ I get that itâ€™s only 1 p.m. and youâ€™re stuck with the crappy shift. Jokes like that are not going to help your tip jar. Apparently I wear the look of mother of multiple toddling boys loud and proud. (Also, this means I need my drink even more. So hand it over funny man.)
Now Iâ€™ll be the first to admit the people watching in Vegas is better than any show. Where else can you find soldiers soliciting to help the homeless standing 5 feet away from a shady looking dude soliciting good-time-girls. (No, we are not buying show tickets from the guy standing in the middle of the street flipping the bird to taxis while promising $200 for free and VIP access to the hot par-tay.)
Others attempt to make a living by dressing up as popular characters and accepting tips to take pictures with tourists. Darth Vadar, Batman (with his own mini-replica of himself), Hello Kitty, to name a few. Yet, because they (obviously) did not spend the money to buy official licensed costumes, the getups were a littleâ€¦different. Needless to say, I now understand why Destroy is terrified of costumed characters. You see SpongeBob OblongPants pop out from behind a corner after two or three non-cartoon age beverages and youâ€™re gonna run screaming too.
Of course we did go see shows. It was all about Cirque de Soleil.
Love. A celebration of the musical legacy of the Beatles.
We waited for the show to begin with a beverage in the Beatles Lounge.
My mother-in-law requested we have a drink for her. We had three.Â Iâ€™M A YELLOW SUBMARINE! (I may be a lightweight cheap date.)
Love. Not sure if high or Cirque de Soleil. It was awesome.
The following day we wandered the strip staring at shmancy shops before checking out another show. (I have come to the conclusion that Fendi sells feathers. I cannot confirm said feathers were actually an outfit. Although they did appear to be trying) Also, I found it snort-inducing hysterical that as we perused $7,000 plain white t-shirts, a Color Me Bad soundtrack serenaded us overhead.
Zumanity. The sensual side of Cirque de Soleil.
Apparently this is where all the topless people who would normally be at the Bare Beach went to hole up until warmer weather. I actually thought the show was hilarious. But a word of warning. I typically travel to Vegas for work. Often, colleagues attempt to take in a show. Zumanity is about sex. Do not go see this with work people.
Vegas is exhausting. So tomorrow weâ€™re heading to Disneyland.