In which I try to take proper care of my fetus:
Doing this trip while 6 months pregnant is a rough situation from start to finish. When I got to the airport, they were using the stupid millimeter wave detection machine to scan people at security
This stupid piece of shit.
... which meant that I had to opt out and have a TSA pat-down instead. Is that machine safe for pregnancy? Maybe. Probably. Not really. But at the end of the day, I'd just as soon NOT go through it than go through it, so alas I got a brief full-body massage from a large but friendly TSA employee. I felt good about myself, knowing that I had made the right choice to protect the baby inside me from damage.
... and then I spent the next two and a half days breathing a mix of 50% air conditioning and 50% secondhand smoke, because you can still smoke inside pretty much everywhere in Las Vegas. I also had sushi for dinner one night, because that's where everyone else wanted to go and because I LOOOOOVE sushi (and it's okay to do in moderation).
But hey, I opted for another pat-down on the trip home, which I'm sure totally made up for all the other damage poor Trevor had endured. I got your back, buddy.
In which the ATM angers me:
Knowing that I would be splitting checks with coworkers and such, I decided that I'd better get some cash out. So I went to the ATM and withdrew $100.
And that stupid f***ing ATM gave me this:
The only way this could have been more inconvenient would be if the machine spat out 100 Sacajawea golden dollar coins instead. At my face. At high speed.
A $100 bill? Seriously?? So then, I had to find one of those bill breaker machines and use that to turn my stupid $100 bill into twenties. So my trip to the ATM involved two separate transactions at two separate machines that were located roughly one mile away from each other.
Thanks, Vegas. I especially appreciated the $5.99 "convenience fee" you charged me for this incredible inconvenience. At least USAA refunds that shit, or else I'd probably be in jail right now.
In which I accidentally do the saddest thing in the world:
By midday Sunday, I was kind of peopled out. I don't consider myself an introvert by any stretch of the imagination, but apparently even I can reach a point where I need to not be around people I'm expected to talk to and socialize with. So I decided I would sneak off early and go out to lunch by myself. At a restaurant. I was gonna "table for one" it up and I was looking forward to it.
When I was younger, I thought that going out to eat at a restaurant by oneself was weird and sad, and totally something people looked at you funny for doing. But now that I'm older, I realize that nobody gives a single flying f*** about what anyone around them is doing (unless it's REALLY weird ... like if I went to lunch by myself whilst wearing a clown suit), so I have no problem treating myself to a lovely meal alone. Hell, I'll even order appetizers and dessert if I want to. When nobody's watching, you can do whatever the hell you like.
So I went to a restaurant in the Paris casino that I have been to before and that I know is good. And I walked up to the hostess, staring nervously at the giant crowd of waiting people, and said "umm, how long for a table for one?" And she responded that I could be seated right away. Woop woop! All these suckers waiting 45 minutes for a table should have considered being weird solo losers like me!
I got to my table and sat down.
And was handed a brunch menu.
And then I realized: today is Sunday. Mother's Day.
I am at a Mother's Day brunch.
By myself.
This is the saddest thing I have ever done in my life.
See this woman, happily surrounded by her children and loved ones?
This was not me.
But you know what? It was f***ing outstanding. I had Eggs Benedict with smoked salmon on it (DELICIOUS) and hash browns and bread and butter and endless strong-tasting decaf coffee. I sat there looking around at everyone in the restaurant, watching people walk by out the window, and letting my exhausted brain rest.
And I convinced myself that I wasn't out to brunch alone at all, but rather that Trevor-the-fetus was treating me to a nice mother-son brunch. How sweet of him! Audrey, how come you never take me out to brunch? WHY CAN'T YOU BE MORE LIKE YOUR BROTHER.
In which I learn that I am lucky to be married:
So it turns out that I find pretty much everything that is currently in style for young men to be absolutely repulsive. At the airport in Vegas, as I prepared to head home, I saw all these groups of guys and my thoughts were pretty universally "ugh".
The Hitler Youth haircut -- ugh. The light linen button-down shirts that are unbuttoned to halfway down the chest to show off some wisps of chest hair -- ugh. The tight pants -- ugh. The beards -- ugh. The goatee with very light facial hair over the rest of the face -- ugh. The brightly-colored tight-fitting board shorts -- ugh. The loafers and boat shoes -- ugh.
The "Hitler Youth" look: short on the sides, long on the top, combed over to one side.
LOOK FAMILIAR?
If I were single and trying to date right now, it would not be a good time. I'd have to start dating women. Women always look good. And they can't grow rapey facial hair, which is a huge bonus.
Also, one guy had the Hitler Youth haircut but the hair on top was so long that he had pulled it into a little ponytail in the back.
Ugh.
This guy even has the rapey facial hair.
Double ugh.
Thank God I'm married. To a guy in the military. Whose hair is usually cut by me. If Jesse ever loses his mind and is like "leave the top a little longer this time," I can just be like "Oops, I forgot that the smaller numbers mean the haircut is shorter, not longer! MY BAD."
Not in my house, bitches. Not in my house.
But I'm back now. And not a moment too soon. Smell ya later, stupid Vegas.
You did look pretty nice from the turnaround point on my morning walk, though. But you'll never hear me say that out loud.
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