So I pulled out the laptop and did some writing - some really good writing, believe it or not, and I was only very mildly hung over, nothing that two Advil couldn't take care of. I did wake up feeling like birds had made a nest in my mouth, but that's small penance for drinking damn near a two-liter of daquiri.
Once the roommates were up, we headed out to catch the Deuces bus, which whisked us away to the strip, and the incredible Bellagio Hotel and their massive - oh God, so massive - buffet, with unlimited mimosas.
When we rolled out of there some time later - and I do mean rolled - we were uncomfortable and hot and bitching about it a lot. But I was something else. I was $123 richer. Check this out:
Five dollars in, Two cent slots, and viola! Jackpot! And this meant....I could now afford to join my traveling companion in her quest for her first tattoo.
I should stop here and now and tell you that I'm not big on tattoos. I've never wanted one. And when I see them on others, I think, "What the hell are you going to do if you get tired of that?" If I see a lot of them on someone, I think - and I know...this is really snobby of me - but I think, "Who the hell is going to hire you?"
But in the last year or so, I've been contemplating it. I'm at that "Oh, what the hell" phase of my life, and I had a small, simple design that I loved dancing around in my mind and it was most certainly something I would never tire of, so I let that seed germinate, and told myself that eventually, I would do it.
And I was in Vegas, baby. I'd just won enough to cover the cost and tip the guy who did it. And I had a friend who wanted to do the exact same thing and we'd been recommended personally to a tattoo place not far from where we were. The stars were aligned and I decided to just do it.
Ouch. It hurt. But y'know...it didn't hurt as much as I thought it would and when it was done, he cleaned it up, disinfected it again, put some A&D Ointment on it and then wrapped my arm in a hefty bag. Why I got wrapped in a hefty bag, I don't know. But I had to leave it on for a few hours and then, the big reveal...
Whadda ya think? It's a quill and ink, on the inside wrist of my writing hand, and it's small and tells a story and I love it. No regrets.
So after all that, we went back to the room and got all glammed up and hit the town:
See? I clean up good. My companions were equally glamorous and we walked down Fremont street in search of an incredibly cheap steak dinner that Jill had learned of at the El Cortez, which was owned by Bugsy Siegel at one time and apparently, his former acquaintances are just about the only people who dine there. I think we were the only people under seventy in the place, but the food was good (and cheap!) and I had no complaints. After that, we walked Fremont street, drinking our yard-longs (mine was a mudslide) and taking in the lights and the street performers and then going to three different casinos where I promptly lost everything but the money for my shuttle to the airport on Sunday. And that sucked. A lot.
I have never gambled while too inebriated to properly form words, and I never will again. Ever. Eff you, Vegas. (Okay, more like 'Eff you, Ellie, you big idiot)!!
Would Sunday see our heroine eating nothing but the smashed granola bars she found in the bottom of her carry-on? Would she get back home only after having sold a few fillings from her teeth?
Stay tuned for my final day in Vegas...