As much as I want to tell-all about my trip to Vegas, I’ll let the motto ring true — much of what happened in Vegas this past weekend, is definitely going to stay in Vegas… preferably somewhere hard to get to, like the bottom of the Bellagio fountain. After much YouTube research, I’ve realized that my 5’1″ self is much too short to climb out of that fountain should I ever decide to take a dip in it. That’s how I want much of my stories to stay — entrapped in a water tank filled with vomit and disgrace. (Literally, I’ve seen people vomit into that fountain before!)
But since I’m feeling generous, here’s how to get your own Vegas trip that will make The Hangover look like child’s play.
Pick a fun group of friends. This seems obvious, but it’s not. Avoid going with people who “just want to relax and have fun!” Las Vegas is NOT for relaxing — if you want to relax, throw a towel down in your backyard and play the Jack Johnson station on Pandora. Why spend the money, deal with the copious amounts of makeup it takes to look normal, and expose yourself to the cesspool of germs that Vegas is accompanied by just to relax? Also avoid going with couples — alcohol will make them feud, and you’ll be spending the night holding the hair of your barfing girl friend while her boyfriend dials the 1-800 number off of one of those topless women cards thrown around by Margaritaville!
Clothe yourself in sequins. No explanation necessary, but I’ll continue anyways. They’re fun to find in the days to come in your hair, on your pillow, in places you’d never guess! Each sequin will be a little memory jog of how much you hope security cameras don’t really record everything… especially if you’re planning for a professional career. And yes, this can apply to any male readers too.
Don’t sleep on the drive/flight over. Chances are you won’t remember a large portion of your actual Vegas trip of you’re the type of person who has trouble “pacing himself” when it comes to alcohol. Judging by my people watching skills, which are phenomenal, I’d say most people in Vegas have this problem. This means you need to be especially conscious for the ride over — doing whatever it takes to warrant laughs. An idea? Flirting with the people in the other car, and have someone suddenly “get carsick” out of the window once the other car starts flirting back!
Dance on any available platform. I’m not the most skilled dancer… my dad scared me out of freak dancing, grinding, or anything of the sort when I was a high schooler. Before my first dance, he drew a diagram of what-not-to-do at prom complete with stick figures “getting their freak on.” I still haven’t been bothered to really learn — I’d rather not get approached by a creeper from behind anyways. If that happened outside of a club, the guy would find himself with a stiletto stabbed through his chest and a stream of pepper spray to the face. This is why I’ve taken to dancing solely on raised platforms. You can scout the immediate area and choose who you’d like to interact with instead of flopping around on the dance floor like a guppy baiting a predatory shark! It’s also an ego boost when you acquire “fans.” My friend and I happened to get three this weekend (nevermind that one of them threw a dollar at her…). Apparently some people still appreciate the robot, which gives me hope for the world! All of the other ladies on stage were displaying their sexiest moves while I did the robot and a sad form of the moonwalk for 12 songs straight. It’s all about the 21st century, baby.
Obtain an alter ego. Thanks to my already “weird personality” and the ability to control myself, I haven’t really developed an alter ego for vacations. One of my best friends however, has. And her alter ego is amazing enough to put any person — reality or alternate reality, to shame. She’s a hilarious, witty, smart, and graceful dancer by day… prowling, clumsy, and foxy by night. Her alter happens to be named Mona, a name taken from a series of self taken pictures discovered on a digital camera on the drive home from Vegas — one picture perfectly portraying her alter ego that resembles the Mona Lisa — both in gender ambiguity and expression. Mona had decided at one point of the night to take a solemn self portrait, but did not notice that her lipstick had left her lips and ended up smeared among her chin area as a rash-like beard. Now, whenever any of my friends or myself doubt ourselves, we ask WWMD? What would Mona do?
Start a splash fight. Hands down, one of the best parts of my Las Vegas weekend was going to a pool party at The Palms. I had been to a few of these pool parties before, including MTV Spring Break, but this particular one trumped them all. My friends and I looked into the pool and saw girls sipping drinks with their hair completely curled, makeup on, and looking fine. The males waded through the babe-infested waters attempting to make some moves. My first thought when I saw the perfectly primped girls? Cannonball. My friends and I cannon-balled right by the groups of girls, soaking their hair and drinks. The other girls bee-lined it out of the pool like wet cats while my friend yelled “BEACHED WHALE!!!” and belly flopped in their paths. The boys in the pool could sense the fun taking place and joined right in. I kept reassuring everyone, “don’t worry, I’m a lifeguard!” while one of my friends swam around with her palms pressed together on top of her head like a shark fin. The splash fight began to get out of control with everyone acting like five year olds playing a violent game of Marco Polo — The whole time I thought to myself, life is too much fun.
Throw a faux bachelorette party. I happen to work with some of my best friends, and these best friends are the ones who accompanied me to Vegas. Contrary to popular belief, being a camp counselor does not pay a six figure salary. We decided that in order to save money, one of us should pose in Vegas as a bachelorette in order to score free drinks and entrances. We decided that the person least likely to get married should pose as this person. Any wild guesses to who was chosen? A tie occured between myself and a friend — we decided that we would say that we’re marrying twins, or that we’re marrying each other, depending on the person inquiring. While we didn’t necessarily score any free drinks, being a bachelorette is an effective method of fending off creepy old men. All I had to do was raise my left hand and point to the finger doting a mickey mouse ring. Boom roasted! The men would back away instantly.
Bond with a foreigner. Since I am planning on escaping to Europe for eight months come January, I have a tendency of getting too excited whenever I meet someone from a country I plan to visit. “Tell me everything about your town! Where are the best places to go? Where can I meet people? Who are you?!” I love talking to foreigners and usually find that it leads to a more interesting conversation, not solely because of their accents. You can typically spot a foreigner by looking at the shoes, the pants, and the face. Europeans will generally wear nice leather loafers and avoid the tennis-shoe route, especially in the daytime. They also tend to wear shorter bathing trunks and style their hair differently from the majority of the crowd.
Beware of promoters! Promoters are both a blessing and a curse. They can get you into the Marquee without a line, but it will come with a price. Your phone will forever be bombarded with text messages, “Hey! I know you’re in LA and nowhere in Vegas, but I’m going to annoy you anyways! I have three spots open at the …” One promoter was so desperate to get us to come to his club that he offered to drive us to it, free of charge. It sounded like a good deal, so all eleven of us followed him into the parking structure where he opened the door of his small Honda and said, “Squeeze in! Trust me, I do this all the time!” I’m no mathematician, but I’m sure that even the most skilled set of clowns couldn’t pull off twelve (including the promoter) people in a five seated car.
Get married! (Except not really) If you play your cards right, all of the above will lead you to your one true love! As for myself, it happened in a more spontaneous manner. I had just gotten off the escalator when I spotted the most handsome man that I, and all of my friends, had ever seen. I dropped my purse… he picked it up, we locked eyes, and he said, “Ello.” Score! An accent! The only problem is, he was Australian and I am notorious for giving Australians a hard time. I like to tease any Aussie newcomers about how they can’t be trusted — being a criminal is in their genetics and they can’t help it. We walked on the strip of Las Vegas, and I knew we were meant to be when he took a hat from a man getting arrested and gave it to me. He met the rest of my friends and one of them dropped her jaw and exclaimed (over and over) “You are so hot! Does every man in Australia look like you? If so I’m moving there immediately…” The Aussie and I joked about getting married, but he had an issue with his passport and was trying to get to Baja within the next few days. When would we fit in our honeymoon? Regardless, the joke of getting married went on to be a hilarious concept between my friends and I for the days to come. Don’t worry though, he’ll probably make a reappearance when he travels from Baja to LA — and by then, the invitations should be mailed.