Walter looks like he went to hell and back. As in he shook satan’s hand, sold his soul for a treat and had his hair charred off by the fiery fires of hell. And then came all the way back here TO EMBARRASS ME. Proof that not ANY dogs go to heaven. Because if there was a God for these animals, there’s no way he’d let this abomination of a grooming happen. I told him this morning that my work no longer allows dogs. I hope he believed me.
Disclaimer: I still love Walter. He’s my baby boy. Shorn asshole and all.
Is that? No. That can’t be my Walter. My highly civilized, sit-and-handshaking, gourmet-treat-eating, socialite-poodle-butt-sniffing dog Walter. My dog wouldn’t let himself go like that. Wait a second. I just, yep, I just remembered something. He’s a dog. I’m his owner. It’s MY job to get him a haircut. I’m sorry, buddy man.
Nothing is better than a comfy room with a big TV full of good friends, fried things and sweet things. On the menu from last night’s American Idol marathon: 3 wings, handful of french fries, 2 cookies, 1 diet pepsi, more fries, 2 more cookies, one last wing, just kidding one more wing, 2 cookies, 1 mint milano (ok, fine, that’s a cookie). The only thing missing was my hand down the front of my jeans like Al Bundy.
The last couple of days I can’t seem to get my shit together. The smallest things leave me feeling overwhelmed. Turned down the wrong street…I don’t know if I can go on. Prescription not ready at the pharmacy…I think I’m going to cry. Out of coffee…Apocalypse. I even saw one of those commercials for people struggling with depression featuring a voice that sounds like maybe she could be your doctor but way hotter. Voice: “Do you ever feel hopeless?” In my head: YES. Voice: “Do you ever feel like you can’t get out of bed?” In my head: YES, YES, YES. Always.
This is going to sound really ridiculous, but there is only one difference in my life now than it was last week. Are you ready for it? My straightening iron is broken. My hair looks like a squirrel crawled up there, made a cozy little squirrel nest and died in its sleep. I can’t get out of bed for fear of people noticing my dead squirrel head and stoning me until I leave their sanitary village. I would just go and buy a new one but, due to my current straightening iron status, I can’t get my shit together to find the time. Yes, my hair resembles that of a teenager lost to the streets with a face-of-meth to match. No, I do not have enough shame to fix it.
There is an odd harmony in Vegas. For every corner hooker there is a corner wedding chapel. For every craps table there is a bank. And for all the smoky, air-conditioned hotels and subsequent casinos, there is an Oxygen bar.
The oxygen is accompanied by weird flavors that resemble the ghost of alcoholic drinks past. (i.e. “lemongrass” smells a lot like a red bull and vodka when you’re hung over). In the words of the ladies man: ‘Yeah, that is disthustin’.”
The trip began last Thursday on a plane full of Nascar fans. Yes, NASCAR. I was the only person who was not wearing a racing jacket and who did not smell like Cheetos. I sat in front of 3 particularly pungent Nascar-types, all of who were drinking heavily and talking about, um, titties. Go Vegas!
Fae and I stayed at the fabulous (-ly trashy) Tropicana hotel. The Tropicana sounds exotic, right? Crystal clear swimming pools, ladies with fruit on their heads, clean bathrooms. Uh, no. Thankfully we didn’t stay in our room long. The following was our itinerary for all of Thursday, Friday and Saturday night:
7:15 am: Wake up hung-over. Kill a bottled water. Moan. Fall back asleep.
10:15am: Room service. Pay-per-view (bonus points for anything involving gay cowboys) More water.
12pm: Regain human-like qualities for immediate release into real world. Eat. Shop. Eat Shop.
6pm: Sex & The City rerun. Nap attack.
7:30pm: BIG SEXY HAIR. Teeny tiny shirt.
8:30pm: Dinner? Could I possible eat dinner? Um, of course.
10pm: Until the break ‘O dawn. Shwanky bars, giant mutant-clubs, boob shows, Busta Rhymes, Champagne, snacks and enough Vegas characters to fill a comic book. Albeit, a comic book nobody would want to read.
A big fat thank you to my Vegas playmate Chloe, I mean Fae. We should probably start booking our trip for next year.