Last week David and I left the kids with Grandma and escaped to Las Vegas for three days. We haven't been there since our honeymoon, except to the casino/shopping mall where planes occasionally land. ("It's a mall! It's a casino! Oh, it's actually an airport...")
When we checked into our hotel the woman at the front desk asked us if it was our honeymoon. Goodness, we giggled to ourselves. We've been married for 11 years. Do we look like honeymooners?
"Anniversary?" she guessed again.
"No," we said.
"What's the occasion, then?"
"To get away from the kids!" we said a little too loudly and in perfect unison.
Our goals for the trip were pretty much three-fold: 1) No puking (which you'd think wouldn't be hard, especially when you take into consideration our combined 65 years of total alcohol abstinence. But you know what happened the the last time we had a getaway). 2) Stay out late. 3) Sleep in.
We were successful at all three. We were also mostly successful at avoiding all the pictures of naked women scattered around the Strip. The only naked (well, half-naked) woman I really couldn't avoid was a forty-something spray tan addict whose obvious implants were perched so precariously in her shirt that it rendered her bra a mere balance beam. I would say worrying that her boobs were going to try for a five point dismount was the most disturbing experience of my life, but that distinction still belongs to the two minutes I spent watching "Here Comes Honey Boo Boo," after which I needed electroshock therapy to recover.
Of course, I will also need electroshock therapy to recover from seeing an elderly woman wandering through a casino in a skin-tight leather mini skirt and cleavage-baring top. My eyes!!
But, we managed to have fun in spite of the constant parade of fashion horrors. And besides, it made us appreciate anyone who left a few tidbits to the imagination. I almost stopped some random Muslim lady and said, "I LOVE your outfit!" but I didn't want her to think I was weird.
We went to a Cirque du Soleil performance (where David and I didn't send off enough "Don't involve us" vibes to prevent a clown from spending a few minutes balancing buckets of popcorn on David's head), attended a magic show (where we managed to slump down in our seats enough not to be called on), and were nearly thwarted in our attempt to view the dancing fountains at the Bellagio when police blocked off the access roads and pedestrian bridges to allow President Obama's motorcade to come through. The president may have thought he had legions of adoring fans. Actually, 75% of the people were just waiting to cross the street. The other 25% were hoping to see Angelina Jolie.
Overall it was a lovely trip. We laughed. We held hands over quiet dinners. We stayed in bed just because we could. And we ate way too many treats. On the way back to Grandma's, David tried to convince me to spring for one last chocolate-covered indulgence by saying, "It won't ruin our appetites if we s*** it." As my eyebrows shot up he exclaimed "SPLIT! I meant split! I was going to say share and then changed my mind to split!"
We laughed our heads off. And I can't really hold it against him. After all, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, right?
Or at least on I-15.