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 The slots at the Monte Carlo are both outdated and tight.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.
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