Caterwauling

Live music at Mandalay

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

When I travel on business, I either do my partying with my associates or I wait till long after they leave town. And on neither occasion do I act like a drunken fool.

On my last night in Vegas, I saw “Mamma Mia!” at the Mandalay Events Center and spent the remainder of the evening at the J-Pop Lounge (pictured) where the service is fantastic and the live music is nothing short of amazing.

I was sitting alone at a table when a gal came up and asked if she could pay me for a cigarette (as Vegas is the last town where smokers can take refuge, even though they removed the smoking lounges at the airport, YOU BASTARDS). I gave her one and she invited me to join her and her friend at a table by the stage. And what the hell, right? I took her up on her offer.

That was my first mistake.

So I sat with Ashley and her friend Ward/Wyatt/Weirdo/Whatever and she tried to help us bond over the fact that he and I both live/work in D.C. So he said to me, “What do you think of the new president?”

I wasn’t sure what kind of company I was in, so I said casually that I was really a Hillary supporter but I was still pleased with how the election turned out.

At which point they groaned and said, “You can leave the table now.”

And believe me, I wanted to but I was hoping I just didn’t know how to read them at that point.

So these two go into a full-scale attack on Obama and why he’s not qualified to run the country. They said how much they hate him and Biden and they just KNOW that someone’s going to take out Obama in the next two years and we’ll be stuck with Biden as our president. And they will be thrilled in 2012 when their party resumes office again.

My head was spinning. I’m getting tired of forgiving every sore-pawed Republican who feels the need to tell me how much they hate my candidate. They aren’t the first, they probably won’t be the last, but you’ve got to do what I did — quit whining and go support your party in the next election. Period.

And I don’t want to call them racist because that’s a powerful word and certainly not a nice one. But if the shoe fits, please to allow me to beat you with it.

So Ashley wanted another smoke (she couldn’t smoke in front of this guy who she swears was not her boyfriend), so I pretty much just slid her the pack under the table and decided to keep the idiot company. There were football highlights on the TV and we actually had a very pleasant discussion about the sport. But then Ashley returned to the table with some latent comment about Sarah Palin and I decided it was time to change the subject. Since Weirdo works at Andrews Air Force Base (locally), I asked if he were a Redskins fan.

His answer? “Redskins SUCK! Go Cowboys!”

At this point, I’m thinking great, here’s a redneck Republican who loves Dallas. Please to be shooting me soon, yes?

I opted to ignore them for the rest of the night in favor of watching all the crazy white people trying to dance. Which, I assure you, is always good for a laugh.

There was a guy who had tried to pick me up earlier in the night, whom I had pretty much run screaming from (pickup line: “Your first baby’s going to be black!”), and he was there with someone he had managed to pick up. Awww. Barf. Does that line actually work or was she even drunker than she looked?

I was laughing my ass off at them trying to dance — it’s a pop-music lounge, and he was making this poor girl slow-dance to Fergie and Gwen Stefani tunes. I mean, come on. I was glad I had passed on that sorry sap.

I did tell Ashley that he had tried to pick me up earlier. And since his hue was similar to Obama’s, she almost crapped in her seat. At this point the cogs in my head are starting to turn to figure out how I can offend them by trying instead of my mere presence making them sick.

And opportunity presented itself when the sorry sap came over and grabbed my wrists to pull me onto the dance floor.

I shot a terrified look toward at Ashley and Weirdo, and they said go have fun.

Yeah, not likely. You know WHY this idiot couldn’t pick up a girl and keep her? Because he’s an asshole. We were on the floor no less than 60 seconds when he starts trying to pinch my nipples.

Seriously? The hell?

I started slapping his hands and shouted, “This ain’t the hokey poke-me!” But I don’t think he was smart enough to get that.

I kept smiling because I wasn’t about to cry rape on the dance floor. But what the fuck is it about Vegas, or business trips in general, that makes people think they can act like total douchetards in public? Clearly he can’t get laid at home, wherever that is, but trying to molest classy ladies such as myself (shut up!) isn’t going to get you very far either, cowboy.

For the record, it’s cold in the casinos because they pump in fresh oxygen to keep the smoke at bay and to ensure everyone’s nice and awake to keep gambling all night. Ergo, I don’t wear anything but padded bras when I’m in Vegas. So nyah, no titty-twisters for you!

Meanwhile, I had given this guy all of two minutes on the dance floor, if that, and I decided to make my escape. I looked toward the table, only to find that Ashley and Weirdo had taken the fuck off.

Which, I was perfectly fine with — he’d bought me two drinks and it was definitely a great substitute for intelligent conversation — but to leave my pocketbook sitting there with my credit cards and room key? NOT COOL.

The idiot on the dance floor asked me to stay but I said I needed to find my friends. Fuck that, I grabbed my full glass of wine and went over to the next bar, where I moved on to tequila and lots of it. (Yay $20 half-yard mojito with extra shots!)

Luckily, I had kept one cigarette for myself and definitely celebrated being free again.

Anyway, I don’t really know what to make of that night. Clearly that alcohol plus destination city equals freedom to be an idiot. But what of Ashley and Weirdo? Maybe if what I saw of them was who they really were, maybe they could stand to act like different people when they’re on the road.

I had liked Ashley instantly because she, like me, is accustomed to traveling alone, and she said she knows how hard it is to go into a bar by yourself and she always wished someone would invite her to sit with their group. But that’s where my admiration began and ended.

I mean, you don’t ditch a fellow female, do you? I’m sure she was even more disgusted than I was by the idiot pawing me up, but I was the one getting molested, thanks much. If she’s so concerned about women having to fend for themselves at the bar, why did she think it was OK to run in the other direction?

Just goes to show why I’m mostly happy to hang out by myself when I travel. I can handle myself just fine, and I’m the same person you meet at the beginning of the night as you say goodbye to at the end. Just a little drunker, that’s all.

Eiffel Tower, Paris Las Vegas

Originally uploaded by dcwriterdawn

I love Paris Las Vegas for its shopping, its beauty and its food. Did I mention the food? I have access to world-class restaurants within walking distance and, yet, I am addicted to Le Creperie, Le Boulangerie, Le Notre and, as of tonight, Le Village Buffet.

I was contemplating dinner at the Venetian, but meh. I realized it was 3:30 p.m. and the dinner buffet was opening at the Paris. I also realized that the $25 for the buffet equaled what I paid at New York New York earlier in the day for coffee and an omelette il formaggio, so what the hell.

I tried to pick mostly healthy things at the buffet. I just so happened to pick ALL of them. And then some. And then some more!

I took a crab leg and a crab claw, the latter I couldn’t crack to save my life, and the former — while tasty — left my hands smelling like a stripper pole. UGH. When seafood smells like seafood, it’s time to stay far, far away from it.

In any case, the Food Baby is pleased. I’ve got a 13th-trimester-caliber muffin top going on tonight. Not to worry, though — I’ve spent my life savings here in Vegas — I won’t be eating again till January, if I’m lucky! It occurs to me that food has been a sex surrogate. And I’ve been sort of fine these past few months with living on salads. But when my hunk o’ man meat was unable to come (heh) on this trip, I had to compensate for one void left unfilled by stuffing another!

Anyway, it’s about 7 p.m. and I’ve single-handedly liquidated Citibank with all my spending on clothes, jewelry and food. It occurs to me that I should take in a show at some point before I hop on a plane and head back to hades.

It also occurs to me to maybe listen to the voicemails that have been left for me by people who CLEARLY know I am on vacation, or otherwise they wouldn’t be trying to reach me that way. Humph. It’s bad enough I can never find time to schedule a vacation — why you gotta take a dump on the days I’m trying to sneak in before I re-tether myself to my cube? Nah, don’t wanna set a precedent of sharing my rare days off, although I may live to regret that little rebellion.

I mean, at the rate things are going in my industry, I may not even have anything to go back to, in which case, I might just not buy a return ticket when there may be nothin’ to which to return.

Oh, on that note, if you saw what I wrote on F-Book last night, I TOTALLY blame the recession for the dearth of available men in the bars. I went out last night (and not a goddamned decent club is open in Vegas on a Sunday, Monday or Tuesday night, FYI) and was appalled at the tumbleweeds rolling through the club I DID manage to find.

Damn. I’m FINALLY allowed out of the office — my only chance to meet someone! — why God WHY isn’t there anyone out there to meet?!?!

Oh, speaking of, I have been getting my kicks by watching men grab handfuls of Trojans in the hotel stores before a night out. *snicker* I mean, if I’m the only chick available for pickup and I wouldn’t do ya, who the hell are ya gonna score with?

Oooh, I totally forgot — I was at the MGM Grand the other night, contemplating something or other around midnight. I’d just come back from dinner at Tao with my friends and who the hell knows why I was wandering the streets at that hour. I know I wasn’t lost — I’d apparently had a double-shot of stupid ’cause I could see my hotel but I couldn’t GET to it.

Anyway, a guy actually MISTOOK ME FOR A HOOKER. Which, I was showin’ the girls and all, but I wasn’t whorish or anything. He wanted some company and was trying to get me to come with him. I’m like, wow, but uh NO. One wonders whether someone like me wasn’t sniggering as he was buying condoms in the hotel probably not too long before he saw me!

So I was staying at a lavish little resort for the past week, and there were all sorts of amenities and such in the room, like a corkscrew. I bought a lovely bottle of 2004 Pinot Noir while I was there, and brought said bottle to my next (not too shabby) hotel. Problem is? This one doesn’t have a corkscrew in the room! FAIL.

Spent the day shopping. Oh, the bling this girl bought without batting an eye. It’s hard to buy clothes these days because they won’t fit for long (well, with the exception of this week — I keep joking that my diet has filed for divorce due to all the damn cheating I’ve done on him!), but even jewelry fitting is transient, as I managed to drop a ring size, too. Go figure.

But I did buy the cutest boots on earth, because they are awesome and I can’t find shit that I like when I’m at home. I was wearing capris with them in the store and I didn’t love how they looked. The salesgirl noticed the disapproval on my face and said they will look so cute with jeans. I laughed and said you know, there are two types of uniforms in Vegas: sweatsuits and high heels, or dresses and Uggs. And NOTHING in between.

I’m debating whether to go out tonight, since I spent my life savings already and I do have a jacuzzi in my suite, waiting for me. I already had a gloriously long, hot candlelit bath this morning (made better by a Witches Ball from LUSH) so my skin is dried out enough for now.

I’m sure I’ll roll down to the lobby for a drink at some point — I’m Internet-surfing after spending four fucking days trying to get the Verizon access card to work and after an hour on the phone with tech support at work on Friday (to no avail), I figured out the problem on my own just a minute ago). Anyway, I was wondering whether to try to get into the uber-exclusive club or whether to just find an open table at any number of the other bars that were empty when I walked by a few minutes ago.

OH! Speaking of exclusive (my ass) clubs, I bought dinner for my team at the breathtaking miX atop THE Hotel the other night to the tune of $1,000. Then two of us broke away and had a few drinks at Rum Jungle, which turns into a nightclub complete with cage dancers. Anyway, my friend and I were almost finished with our adult beverages when a server came over and rudely told us to leave the area. We were all, who the hell are you? And he said that we were sitting in the VIP area, which is a bottle-only space.

It was about to turn into a wine-glass-smashed-into-his-skull space, if I’d had my way about it. We weren’t even asked to order a bottle so we could stay — we were just told to move it elsewhere.

Now, I go to Rum Jungle about once a year. It’s usually packed to the gills. But not the night I was there. Shit, I could have counted the number of patrons on both hands and maybe a foot. B and I were taking up two seats in an otherwise-deserted space. I’m not kidding. B actually sent the little runt on his way and said to send over his manager, who swaggered over like he had a 10-foot dick. (Meanwhile, I was taller than this dude.)

So we pointed out that people weren’t exactly killing themselves to take our two seats. And, for the record, we only needed five more minutes and, if someone needed our seats in that time, we would be HAPPY to leave the club.

The manager threw his weight around for a minute and I was wishing B — at 6-foot-6-ish — would stand up and flick him in the forehead and send him flying across the club.

He did try one last-ditch, “This is a VIP area, so we need you to vacate it” schtick, but I said, you know, we just dropped a grand on dinner at the hotel so why are we NOT worthy of sitting on these stools for two more minutes? He declared, “We operate independently of the hotel so what you do elsewhere doesn’t affect our business.”

Fair enough, but fuck you, you stupid little snot. We did vacate and laughed very loudly as we counted the SIX people standing at the bar, NOT drinking bottles other than BEER BOTTLES. And of course, there was no line outside. SHOCKER.

We rolled down to the J-Pop Lounge and had a fine old time ordering drinks and being ALLOWED to enjoy them before rolling back to our respective hotels. I had a terrific night, but Jesus, I will NOT be going back to Rum Jungle EVER again!

Oh, how cute — housekeeping just came by to offer turndown service. I said no and she asked if I at least wanted the chocolates. Aw. I said no, as my ass has already partaken of a nummy crepe and a sugar-free chocolate mousse cake and that was QUITE enough diet-wrecking for one day. Although, that PALES in comparison to the past two days, when I ate all my points AND apparently everyone else’s in the vicinity!

Remember when I paid $15 for a glass of Estancia pinot noir?

I found ESTANCIA PINOT NOIR at Wegman’s (which is God’s gift to grocery shopping) for $14.99 a bottle. A BOTTLE …

… which I of course bought when I saw it.

Now, I know the wine I had at the restaurant on Friday was an older vintage (I picked up a 2007 and plan to let it age), and it came from the vineyard’s “Pinnacles” collection, which seems to be worth about $30 a bottle.

You know, it’s hard trying to be a sommelier on an Arbor Mist budget!

Am clearly not so good at the daily blogging part of National Blog Posting Month. Oh well. I’m sure I’ll have 30 posts by the end of the month, just concentrated in four days!

I was on a Top-Super-Seekrit Mission this week that mercifully ended last night. I was asked to moderate a panel at a convention and it would also be webcast. I wasn’t really nervous about it until yesterday when I realized I hadn’t prepared a thing for it.

So I did write down some remarks that were mostly boring but at least they served the purpose. And I was fine as I sat on the dais in front of about 300 people (and who knows how many viewers at home). But when the dude doing the recording in the back signaled to me that it was “go” time, I damn near had to stave off a full-fledged panic attack.

I’m one who gets nervous about nothing, mind you (other than wondering whether I’ll ever get my happily ever after. Everything else, I presume, will work itself out).

I figured with the very, ah, strong personalities and love of talking that my panelists possessed would save me. I mean, for all intents and purposes, it was just a televised staff meeting. And they did great. Really, really great. I mean, to be considered “good enough” to be seen in public with this crew is not a small feat.

But when I heard the sound of my own voice … in the microphone … and people waiting for the pearls of wisdom I would share and bring out of my guests … the only thing that ran through my head was, “Don’t say fuck. Don’t say fuck. OMG, don’t say FUCK!”

I didn’t say fuck. Clearly, it was the only thing ON MY MIND, but it didn’t come out. And, in that, success!

Everyone assured me that I did fine. (Could they not HEAR the terror that overtook my voice? Which went away when the session ran longer than expected and the cameras got shut off?) I even got higher compliments than that, actually.

The highest compliment of all came simply from being nominated me to do this, as some Very Important People actually thought I would do well and not publicly embarrass the company. And really, everyone was happy with me as the choice. I don’t know why. Do I NOT come across as a blithering, blathering dipshit? Because, I do have more of those moments than cohesive, articulate ones. In case you haven’t gleaned that from reading this page.

Anyway, it’s over. Yay. I treated myself to a $15 glass of pinot noir and a bowl of pumpkin soup to celebrate. (I didn’t know the pinot cost as much as a BOTTLE elsewhere.) I figured I’d be served the house label and not the Estancia.

But you know what? That wine was da bomb. Truly worth driving the ol’ checking account deeper negative numbers. Hey, I earned it!

To top off a great night, I heard from my out-of-town connection, and I find myself actually starting to get a little antsy. Like, OK, I like being a few hundred miles apart because I don’t have the time to devote to anything other than my career and preserving my sanity.

But yesterday was the first time I hung up the phone and held it to my heart for a few moments, not quite sure what I was feeling but knowing that this is fine but maybe it’s not enough. I’m very cool with things unfolding as they may, if at all, and if it’s nothing, then that’s quite OK too. But at some point, a girl’s gotta find out.

In either case, as I swirled my wine in the glass, sniffed it like the pro I’ve become and nodded at all the people who looked my way, I smiled. A real, genuine, from-the-depths-of-my soul smile. It’s not that I was proud of anything I said or did last night, or that I was happy to not have embarrassed myself or my organization, but that I felt like I was going to turn out OK after all.

Here’s to hoping that wasn’t just the wine talking.