The Epic Vegas Weekend of Epicness, But Also It Wasn't

I don't count the one time I've been to Las Vegas since turning 21. I was a month into my legality & was invited by a friend whose birthday is just a few weeks after mine. Our room was free & we didn't have to share with her like we thought we did. Turns out her grandma died more than half her family decided not to go. So there's a buzzkill right there. My friend received a visit from Aunt Flo & kind of turned into a bitch. She said she was feeling sick & didn't want to go out. It was our only full night there & she didn't feel like doing anything. Biggie T & I ended up walking to the casino across the street, in search of a bar that wasn't actually there. I didn't gamble. I didn't drink. I didn't do anything adults do in Vegas.

We were invited to a bachelor/bachelorette party weekend & Taylor happened to have complimentary rooms for the same dates. Fate! Queue the angels & their weird, long trumpets. We set a budget for ourselves & I was super stoked. Biggie T was telling me all about Pai Gow & Roulette. I rarely leave my post in the kitchen & he's been a few times in the last two years. I figured he knew what he was talking about & would know how to show me a good time.

The trip started off really well. We left early in the morning & about a hundred goodbye kisses to the boys. No traffic. Sweet! We even managed to have enough conversation to last us the entire three & a half hours without repeating ourselves or boring each other. Then I noticed the temperature had gone from a comfy 77 at home to a blazing 105. That, my friends, is the very definition of hot as balls. The 45 second walk from the parking garage to the hotel lobby was death. It didn't help that my back was so packed I couldn't carry it. I had taken to filling the extra space in Biggie T's bag with more of my essentials. You know, like three more pairs of shoes that didn't fit into mine.

My first mistake was blurting out, "TOP FLOOR!" When the man at the check-in desk asked which we preferred. Our room was on the 19th floor; I thought it would be good for the views. The views were pretty decent, but it was my no means worth it.

It was FSM-damn cheerleader weekend. WHAT. THE. FUCK!? Cheerleaders & I have never been friendly. Probably because I was in that group of girls in high school that made fun of everyone, wore band tees, & didn't do girly things like lead cheers. So our elevator ride up was full of 10 year old girls with southern accents & way too much fucking makeup. I think someone told us there were 1,900 cheerleaders staying at our hotel--as if we asked for fucking cared. Which meant cheerleaders on every floor. That makes for a terrible fucking ride when you're hungover the next afternoon.

Our room was very nice. At least, it was nicer than I expected, staying at an off the strip hotel. The King size bed meant I didn't have to touch my husband while I slept (WIN!). We had some time to kill before Biggie T had to make a phone call to the government (super secret intelligence type information...loljk he was calling about his unemployment checks--SCORE!) so he showed me what Roulette was all about. Twenty-five on black. WINNER! Fifty on black. WINNER! Ohh man. I realized gambling is too adventurous for me & I made him walk away.

After some antiques shopping (er, window shopping? No way am I paying $1,000 for a used faux fur jacket THANKS!) we headed back & I got to play the roulette myself. Stoked! Biggie T kept telling me to bet on black or red. BO-RING! I started betting on Odds. WINNING! I switched it up. WINNING! Did you know roulette is really freakin' fun when you're winning? It's like a high. Seriously. I just wanted to keep playing, but every time I would listen to Biggie T & bet where he told me to bet, I would lose!

Eventually it was time to meet up with our friends. They said we were going to a strip club. Yeah, that's what I want to do in Vegas; see titties that aren't mine. And pay. Why do I need to pay for something I have? Hello, it's called a mirror & imagination. I can pretend my fat ass doesn't sag, can't I? Plans eventually changed though & we ended up just walking. Word to the wise: Before you drink, EAT! Don't forget dinner. Dinner is very important if you plan to take shots of Ouzo & Everclear. Or, you know what? Maybe just stay away from those things altogether. Because you'll wake up in the morning with a wrist band to a club you're not sure you went to. You'll have puked in your hotel room's trash can even though you don't remember actually getting back to the hotel. And your hangover will last for 3 days.

Biggie T didn't have much a good time that night either, I suppose. We split up into groups of boys & girls, much to his chagrin. He didn't really know anybody & didn't think he'd enjoy himself. But he got a really cute tuxedo shirt. He was lookin' pretty hot if I do say so myself.

The next afternoon I was feeling too sick to do anything until I ate. I asked Biggie T if we could go to the pool. "No." I asked if we could drive down the strip. "No." I'm surprised I managed to get him to buy me ice cream. You know what we could do though? Gamble. In fact, that's all he wanted to do. And he got mad at me for yelling at the stupid video poker machine. It's not my fault that thing is stupid & cheats. Vegas tip #23: Video poker & slot machines suck serious ass. Seriously. Ass.

So far in the trip I hadn't really done what I wanted to do. Biggie T managed to stay out until 7 in the morning & won extra gambling money. Money he said I could get a cut of. Yay! More roulette! When we finally got around to not feeling like total shit, I was super excited for the buffet. If there's one thing you should do in Vegas, it's visit a buffet. It's the fat kid in me, but it's the best place to be if you love food.

We were FOUR FUCKING MINUTES LATE. They closed at 9 & we walked up at 9:04. And though I tried in vain, I could not convince Biggie T to take me to the Rio buffet. That place is Fat Kid Heaven & costs a small fortune, but dear FSM is it worth it. "We'll go to one tomorrow." That seemed to be the theme of the weekend. "We'll do that tomorrow ... We'll do that later." He failed to realize that we were leaving Sunday morning.

We ended up at a stupid cafe & I ate a shitty steak. Like seriously, this steak was gross & the only thing I managed to eat were the steamed vegetables. And the soup burnt my tongue. After dinner we were given directions to the Oktoberfest beer garden to meet our friends. I wasn't completely looking forward to it because I don't drink beer, but I figured Biggie T would have fun at the bar. Turned out it wasn't a bar at all. It was a Bavarian restaurant that happened to serve beer & close at 11, so we spent maybe 15 minutes there. Oooh SO FUN!

We ended up at the bride & groom's hotel, where we waited for everyone because they decided to walk 3 blocks instead of take a taxi. By the time we met back up with them it was one & we were bored as shit. I had further declared slot machines as my nemesis & was ready for bed. Instead of swimming in our underwear, as my friend had suggested we did, we went back to the hotel. My hangover was in full force so I went to sleep. Biggie T asked if I wanted to go back down to the casino with me, but I declined. The room started spinning again & I needed something stable to latch onto.

He turned it into another late night. And wasted my portion of the extra gambling money, trying to "win more for me." The next morning we hardly spoke. I was furious with him & he was too tired to argue with me. I didn't make it down the strip. I didn't buy any cute souvenirs for the boys like I told him I wanted to. I didn't go to the pool. I sat in the car, staring at the clouds coming in.

"So I owe you big time."
"Don't fucking talk to me."

Unfortunately, with rain comes accidents & we were stuck in traffic. It took us 4 hours to get to Baker--which is roughly 90 miles from Vegas. That meant loads of time in the car with Biggie T. I had to eventually talk to him. He apologized profusely & I told him it was fine--but I'm a woman, so I'll hold it against him for the rest of his life. He knows he had a hand in ruining my trip. Simple conversations turned into friendly jokes & eventually laughter. I let him think I was over it, because didn't do any of it to spite me. He's just...stupid.

I think I'm going to quit my job & become a spokesperson for Murphy's Law.

The Cloth Diaper & Me

E loves his Fuzzibuns!

When I was 7 weeks pregnant with E, my mom told me about BabyCenter.com. I'm not sure where she found it, but she said it was a great place to learn & talk about pregnancy. She said, "You can join groups where everyone is due at the same time." Yeah okay I figured I would try it. I didn't have any friends who were pregnant & didn't feel like being alone like I was when I was pregnant with A.

Turns out I met a few girls who have become some of my best friends. And they've taught me so much. I mean, mostly about how to be a skanky ho & get drunk, but it's all useful information if you ask me. One of the points of discussion was cloth diapers. I've use those long, cotton diapers (did you know those are called pre-folds? My ass. They aren't pre-folded at all. How the hell is that a diaper?!) but only ever as a burp cloth. Talking with them, it was the first time I've ever heard about cloth diapers in their modern form. Elastic & snaps & Velcro (oh my!) that are guaranteed to save money & look so damn cute.

I checked out a few websites. I read, eyes glazed over, about Fuzzibuns & Happy Heineys & GroVia. And all about inserts & all-in-ones & pre-washing & funk & stripping. I had no idea what the hell I was reading. My head is STILL spinning! But it sounded like it wouldn't be too difficult. Maybe it could even save us some money. And the prints? LAWDY the prints theses diapers come in! Your baby's ass could be dressed better than you with all these prints. So I checked it out.

Twenty-five dollars for one diaper? Biggie T would never agree to this. I could never buy as many diapers as I would need to start up front. Ridiculous! And I have to buy special detergent?! Why does everything I ever want to do fail? I gave up. We got enough diapers at my baby shower to last us a decent time. A was probably 6 months before Mount Huggie was destroyed. Dear FSM, I had so many fucking diapers!

E wasn't all that big when he was born. I was a fucking planet the day before he popped out. I couldn't sit comfortably. Driving sucked & sitting at my desk was almost worse. He was a beautiful 8lb baby. But he looked so tiny still. After a slight bout with jaundice & a latching problem, he left the hospital at 7lbs 11oz. He fit into the newborn diapers for about a week. We bypassed 2 pretty quickly & suddenly the 3s weren't fitting! At 5 months, he's rocking size 4 diapers. Just to give you a little perspective, A was fully potty trained at 2 1/2. I found a few of his leftover diapers. Size 6. Fuh-Keen-A.

About a month ago I started looking into cloth diapers again. My momma friends were pleased. I tried to look around for cheaper, previously loved diapers. No luck. Again, FAIL. But it didn't matter that I couldn't find affordable diapers. On came on onslaught of negativity. MIL told me it was a pain. My own parents were convinced that I would be grossed out. Biggie T still couldn't get over the price of one diaper. Despite the constant support of my lovey ladies, I was feeling beat down.

And then! I received a package from my guardian angel fairy FSMmother. Cloth diapers! For me! And detergent! I had received enough diapers to start me off & enough Rock N Green to get me through the year. I still can't put my gratitude into words. I simply fucking love my guardian angel fairy FSMmother. The only problem was, I kept putting it off. I was still afraid of the cloth diaper. When you live in an apartment, doing laundry ain't easy. I don't have the luxury of doing a load for free, nor do I get to walk 10 feet into my garage to get to the washing machine. If I want to do a load of laundry, I have to Chevroleg it down a flight of stairs, basket & detergent in tow. Then I have to make sure the TWO washing machines aren't already in use. And then, you know, pay $2.50 per load. SUCKS.

I was afraid I wouldn't be able to wash the diapers in a timely manner. I was afraid of poop stains (isn't everyone?). And I was afraid that Biggie T wouldn't cooperate. After a few weeks of getting shit from the girls, I gave in. Last Thursday night was the official start date of my cloth diapering experience. It was fun. E's butt was so fluffy & cute. Even Biggie T agreed that it was awesome. Duuhhh, because it totally was. We hit a small speed bump when I got home from work Friday afternoon & found out E had been in 'sposies all day. WTF!? WE HAD AN AGREEMENT! BOO YOU WHORE!

I started over on Saturday. Biggie T was sleeping in & when E woke up, I put his ass in a skull & crossbones print Happy Heiny. But...shit...HE PISSED RIGHT THROUGH IT. He was soaked. Dammit. Must. Not. Tell. Biggie T. Any slight hiccup & he would hop of the bandwagon real quick. I stuffed the diaper into the wet bag & put him into another. Then he went down for a nap. Shiiiiiit. When we woke up, SOAK CITY! He had peed through the new diaper & was practically swimming in his crib. I could not hide this from my husband. And he was starting to distrust the cloth. NO! It's okay it's okay! I...uh...probably just put the diaper on wrong! Yeah! He wasn't wearing it right! It wasn't tight enough & the liner was sticking out! Onto the third cloth diaper of the day. A cute blue star print.

That day we went swimming at a BBQ. When Biggie T took off E's swimmers, I could hear him calling for me.

"So the liner just goes down right on the inside? The snaps go in the front, right?"

He was putting on his first cloth diaper! I was absolutely BEAMING with pride! There were disposable diapers in the diaper bag & he opted for the cloth! I later found out that he didn't hear me tell him about the Huggies, or apparently he would have gone with that option.

By this time I had gone through my mini arsenal & it was time for laundry. We put E in a 'sposie & sent him off to bed. The next morning, he was covered in piss again. It was then I realized he wasn't just leaking through the cloth diapers. My son had turned into a Super Soaker overnight. Sure, I shouldn't be proud that he's peeing all over his clothes, but that means the cloth diapers are NOT to blame!

I did a jig. In your face, Biggie T. IN YOUR FACE!

Using cloth is still a struggle. I mean, it's only been a weekend. The next step is to get Biggie T to commit all day while I'm gone. Then the step after that is convincing him I need to buy more cute diapers. In cute prints. Because if my kid's ass doesn't look good, then dammit I don't look good!

Wednesday's Treat: My Cousin Chicky

Biggie T bowls on Tuesday nights, so I'm basically left to my own devices. Most of the time I rearrange furniture, much to his chagrin. When I'm not loading A up with sugar to keep him awake (I need some company!) sometimes I like to make food. Hell knows I sure do love to eat it!

Having said that, I have decided to put together a lil su'in su'in. I don't expect this to be a weekly thing, so don't look at me like that. Look, I told you I wasn't looking for anything serious. We both know where this relationship is going. C'mon, please don't cry. Don't you think this hurts me too?! Look, I'll call you tomorrow okay?

All awkward high school breaks ups I've been on the losing end of aside, I love chicken salad. A really good chicken salad has to have chicken (DURRR), mayo, & pickles. Other than that, you are free to let your imagination run wild! And you know what? Screw measurements. Add as many or as few accoutrements as your little heart desires. But if you want to be awesome, you can use my method.

Leah's Bomb Ass Chicky Sal-Sal
You will need:

• Chicken breast
• Mayo
• Grapes
• Celery
• Walnuts
• Relish
• Pepper
• Sugar
  

Step 1: Cook & cut a chicken breast. Or, have your husband cook the chicken because you can't be dragged away from the Sims. But you'll tooootally make it up to him later. Unless he forgets. He'll probably just forget.

Mmm, Gallus gallus domesticus!

Step 2: Chop yer fixins! You are the master of your chicken salad destiny; add what you want! You think it needs apples? Add apples, dammit! Sprouts? Oh hell yeah! I went with red grapes, celery, walnuts, & relish. I realize pickles & grapes don't sound great together, but trust me on this one. Momma knows what's up. And feel free to chop your ingredients however you like. The best part about chicken salad is, it doesn't matter!

"Accoutrement" is French for "Yeah sure, add that shit."

Step 3: Take a break from chicken salad making to fix your unappreciative 4 year old a raspberry, pineapple, orange smoovie.

He seriously asked for broccoli in it.

Step 4: Time to make the donuts! Put everything in a bowl & add desired amount of mayonnaise. Mix it up! Mix it reeeeal good! I added a little pepper & sugar. Because I read that sugar brings out the flavors of the entire salad. I don't know. I read it, so it must be true. Just do it, okay?!

I CAME!

Step 5: You're done! You did it! Good job! Don't you feel special? You should! I like to refrigerate my chicken salad overnight. There is something about soggy food that I love. I'll have to give up my Chinese cabbage salad recipe, because when that shit gets soggy? OHHHH MAN! But I digress. Make a sandwich! Make a wrap! Eat it with a fork! Or you can offer it up to an uninterested 4 year old.

Me? I just wrapped that shit & put it next to my valuables in the fridge.

"I just want Pajama Jeans!"

Over the weekend I watched an episode of The Joy of Painting. It's not like I made sure to be home when it was on or anything; when you have a baby they tend to wake up at random times of the night. And then you go into zombie-mode & blankly stare at anything on TV, all the while trying to stay awake & not drop the bottle. Or, you know...the baby. So there I was, 4 in the morning, staring at Bob Ross' frobeard as he banged out another landscape (My grandma has 2 landscape paintings in her house that I'm convinced are Ross works & I told her I want them when she dies. She already wrote my name on them. STOKED!).

He impresses me, whatever I'll say it. I'm impressed because I can't do that. He paints with a freakin' piece of metal for crying out loud. Easy strokes create waterfalls, but if I tried the same thing, it would be a blob. I think being a kid is like being Bob Ross. Everything is happy (happy little trees, happy little streams, happy little roadkill--right?) & the world is beautiful. Bob Ross can start with nothing & turn it into something great, using his imagination.

A impresses me every day. He's come a long way from the NICU four years ago. He was a charmer then & he's been a charmer ever since. And his dance moves are impeccable. I'm just going to say he got his rhythm from Biggie T, because he certainly didn't get it from me. I could go on & on about this kid. Simply put, he is AMAZING. I'm not surprised of course; he was birthed from my loins. I don't mean to brag, but I'm pretty awesome myself.

I think my favorite thing about A is his sense of humor. Biggie T & I have this sarcastic, dry sense of humor & he gets it. He's beginning to master the come-back ("You're up past your bedtime!") & his mocking tone is almost too good. I can hear you cringing now. That girl is raising a rude little boy. He'll never know right from wrong. You couldn't be more off. He is polite & respectful...most of the time. He knows when to joke & when to be serious.

We were playing Toy Story Memory on Saturday morning. He was winning, mostly because I would flip certain cards so he knew where they were & mostly because my short term memory is shit. Biggie T was feeding E & a commercial for Pajama Jeans came on. I told Biggie T I needed them. "So comfy! I could hang out all day in my jeans & not worry about be uncomfortable when I fall asleep in them, because they are pajamas!" He seemed less than impressed. He doesn't seem to get that I have this infomercial addiction. Anything half-way decent that I've ever seen on TV (Magic Bullet, Jack LaLanne Juicer, Tony Little's Gazelle) I've wanted. Desperately. One could argue that it's not a real addiction if I don't actually buy the stuff. 'Cause I don't. Not having a credit card as a kid kept me from spending before. And Biggie T's iron grip on the bank account keeps hindering me now. As the commercial ended & I complained to Biggie T that he never lets me have anything, I kept losing at Memory.

Time had passed. When I asked A what he might fancy for dinner he stood up, proclaimed, "I just want Pajama Jeans!" & galloped off into his room.

A, birth of my loins. Fifty-percent awesome me. He'll probably grow up & need therapy, but dammit at least he'll have some sort of self-aware humor about it.

I Never Want to be Pregnant Again -- & Also I Hate Breakfast

I'm the middle child. Whether that has anything to do with my emotional well-being, I'm not sure. All I know is that I use it as a crutch to explain my sensitivity. I cry about everything. For the last seven or eight years I've been trying really hard to dispel the rumors running rampant in the family, though.

Being pregnant does not help my case. When I was five months along with A, I locked myself in the bathroom, sprawled out on the floor & cried. I WAS FAT! NOTHING FIT! Biggie T tried in vain to get me out, but I wasn't moving. How could I move? I was a house! You'd need to cut out the wall & shovel me out with a fork flit. Oh, I might add I'm a bit dramatic.

I'm not into astrology really, but I assume drama is a Leo characteristic. It should be at least. Also, I'm pretty sure not liking breakfast is another one (We both know it's not, but I needed a decent segue). I do not like breakfast. First off, eggs are gross as fuck. All runny & rubbery & ugh just gross. Aside from cereal, eating actual breakfast items makes me feel sick. I'd rather be hungry really than eat breakfast. Any time of day, too. But being pregnant kind of make me want eggs. Over-easy eggs. Sunny side up. A nice dippy egg, as we call them at home.

So imagine my surprise when I wake up one Sunday afternoon, deep into the eighth month of my second pregnancy, & actually convince Biggie T to take us to Denny's. I was going to get my eggs, God dammit. And they were going to be runny as hell & I was going to dip my toast into that yolk & enjoy being fat pregnant. I squeezed myself into a booth & didn't even need the menu. I ordered without looking. And then it came. Country fried steak, soaking in white, sausage-y gravy. And two beautiful eggs, sunny side up & ready for toast. Could this be the best day of my life!?

No. It couldn't be. Because I have a 4 year old. And while his intentions are usually good, isn't that road paved in dog shit or something? Because just as I was about to take a bite, A decided I needed syrup. I needed syrup all over my fucking steak & all over my eggs. I couldn't stop him. I watched in horror as the sticky, golden goo engulfed my plate. I. Was. Speechless.

Don't cry. Don't cry. Bitch, don't you fucking cry.

I bit the inside of my mouth & stared at my food. And then my nose tingled & my eyes swelled up. I ran to the bathroom. And I fucking cried. My food was ruined. I figured I might as well go hungry after that. What the hell was I going to eat?! Nothing! I was just going to starve! I'd sit there while A & Biggie T got to enjoy their food. Their food wasn't covered in syrup. Or if it was, it was supposed to be. I tried to collect myself. I marched straight out of that Denny's bathroom & sat back in the booth. The plate was still there, now a mixture of syrup & gravy, looking fucking gross.

The waitress must have sensed the distress signal I was putting out. She came back & offered to rustle me up another plate. She was an angel. But of course, by the drama kicked in & when she came back, I just didn't feel like eating.

But you know I did. After all, I was creating a miracle. And that miracle had to grow somehow.

I haven't been able to look at the gravy the same way since.