Viva, Lost Vegas

I suppose I shouldn't be complaining since I came home with more money than when I left. . . and the room really was free, thanks to a casino host who will probably never invite me back again.

But here I go.

On Wednesday at one of the major casinos on the strip, I saw something that should have defied nature. Picture, if you will, a 35-ish mother. Breastfeeding an infant. In the casino. While simultaneously dragging on a cigarette and pressing the spin button at a slot machine.

Now that's multitasking.

Whine on, I'm buying. The slots at the Monte Carlo are both outdated and tight. It's as if their slot buyer shopped at the 99 cent slot shop. Bring on the Monopoly, Price is Right, and other 70s TV-themed slots. Your I Dream of Jeanies just don't cut it anymore.

I ate too damn much. That said, I enjoyed just about every bite. Yes, dear, even the salad.

Should someone in your group decide to go retro and buy tickets for the Rat Pack Revisited, either book a spa appointment for yourself that night or wear a gas mask. While the show isn't bad, the venue is blessed with the most foul stench ever to grace a tourist attraction. Evidently the patrons like to mark their territory like a bunch of feral cats. My husband can't smell, and even he was choking on l'eau de pissreek. I ran out of the building and went straight to the first sink.

In and Out burgers are much more delicious than Fatburgers. But Fatburger has better shakes.

One last thought: when a waitress raises her eyebrows and beams when you order a large margarita, do yourself a favor and downsize to the medium. I think it was meant to quench the thirst and buzz needs of a family of sixteen. Lordy. I am still amazed that I was able to walk from the restaurant.

I didn't come here to listen to you, dumbass

Attention, loudmouth:

Your wife is talking to the people at the next table, and your whining kindergartener is crying too damn loud for a little girl who's eating a $75 steak. And it's all because you are an arrogant buffoon with that cell phone.

So hang up!

You're at Peter Luger. This is Valentine's Day. The entire room has to listen to your blather, and no one gives a shit! We are here for the meat and the experience, not to spend an hour with you.
And PS, the crying kid needs to shut the hell up, too.

If I only had a heart

I don't have kids, and at this stage in my life, I don't think they're happening. I've long given up on the whole pregnancy and passing on the family name thing, but somewhere inside I still harbor traces of wanting a Chinese baby girl. My inner Women's Studies minor gets activated and I get indignant and want to spoil my own little one and zip her into a pink snowsuit.

Oh well.

Anyway, last night, after seeing the movie Hitch (pretty damn good), feasting on chicken taquitos and fresh guacamole at Baja Fresh (their Salsa Baja is like crack to me) my husband decided we should bring dessert to our friends' house. Since we are both trying to shrink, we brought fruit. And it wasn't bad. Nor was the visit, probably because their three kids had already gone to bed, and other than a few wailing protests from upstairs, we didn't hear a peep, which meant we got to talk like grownups all night.

So there we were, slurping down melon chunks, talking about C going back to work when the youngest turns five, when she expressed her concern that if she worked far away, who would help her kids if there was a crisis at school one day.

And I sat there and didn't say a word. My mouth wanted to open and remind them that I'm a mere 10 minutes away, that I work from home, and that my Beetle is kid-friendly and has at least 15 Happy Meal toys in the back. Oh, and that I would be happy to help out in an emergency.

But all my car-loving mind could conjure up was the thought of one of those kids barfing all over my car.

So there it is. I am unfit for even substitute parenthood.

The bassmaster

Somewhere in my neighborhood, there's a nitwit who loves his bass. At night. And while the rest of us are sitting here enjoying suburbia and our $7500 tax bills, he's pumping it up. It's not even rhythmic. It's just banging and jamming and it gets to my teeth.

If I knew who it was. . . well, I wouldn't do anything about it. What does one do in these situations? Ring the bell and say "hello, your sorry-assed excuse for music is too damn loud?" Uh, no. For one thing, who would hear the bell?

And for another, this is New York.

My husband would probably suggest we retaliate with bad opera (and we have plenty) but then the other neighbors would probably come after us.

No wonder my parents insisted that we grow up in the woods. What gets to you there? Raccoons? Nut-hurling squirrels?

Toe woe

I broke my baby toe this week.

In a moment of utter stupidity or semi-blindness, I whacked it right into one of our Pier One pine kitchen stools. Whatever they tell you about pine, it's not a soft wood when body parts are involved.

Four days later, it still hurts like hell, the nail is trying to fall off, and underneath my Scarlet nail polish, I think the damn thing is turning black. And did I mention it hurts?

Tomorrow I'm supposed to go get a pedicure, but I haven't decided if I'm ready for them to handle my delicate little foot yet. I wonder how you say "don't touch my baby toe, damnit" in Mandarin.

Veggie, veggie fruit fruit

We went to the grocery store yesterday, but my husband fell into such a tizzy when I disappeared down the laundry aisle that he called me on my cell phone (that incidentally plays "Evil Ways") to share his angst. I didn't pick up, but that meant I forgot the egg whites.

So off I trudged this afternoon, to another grocery that has the misfortune of being attached to the local WalMart. Meaning, of course, there is always a battle for parking, the clientele have that harried look, and you can always find an open pack of cookies.

Not that I eat them. I'm diabetic. If I want a cookie, I'm going for the good stuff.

But I digress. What I must bellow about today is this store's cashiers. Why oh why are they incapable of packing bags of food? Isn't it easy enough to put the cold things together? To put the soapy things in a little bag home of their own, and not in with the lemons and cauliflower?

And why the fuck can't they manage a simple thank you?

I grew up working in a supermarket, and if I had treated customers with such disdain, my ass would've been out the door and the manager would've had my mother on the phone. And we would've been forced to shop somewhere else out of pure shame.

Whatever happened to shame?

Hello darkness my old friend

What is it about editors? They've got this anti-social thing going on, and I don't like it one bit. I mean, how hard is it to respond to a simple query or follow-up? I'm so eager to please, I send follow-ups that ask them to merely type yes, no, or need more time in the reply, and they still can't fucking bother. How rude is that?

It irks me more because most of my editors are great at responding to whatever I send. Why can't the others play nicely with freelancers?

It's as if silence is an acceptable response. Please.