Las Vegas with my better half is in 11 days. Thank you, sweet, beloved, amazingly awesome JESUS!
I know you’re wondering what the heck the picture is above, and what it has to do with Vegas. Nothing, actually. But it was today’s science project with Little A. He’s learning about ecosystems in science, so we decided to make our very own ecosystem. It’s kinda cool, actually. It’s like a separate little world within a mason jar. Tiny people live in there. I’m kidding…It’s not Avatar, folks….
My son is smitten with his “planet”. My dog on the other hand, hates it. She has been staring at it for an hour. I have no idea why. I guess she wishes she could live inside the jar. Dogs are weird. Especially mine. Sometimes she watches the dust float around in the air when the sun filters through our living room windows just right. I have a feeling her head isn’t screwed on tight enough. Or maybe she just wishes she was a scientist. Like Phineas and Ferb. Now those two dudes are COOL.
Then there’s me. I’m a mess. Not in terms of “causing trouble”, at least not today…
But in terms of my body is a complete disaster area. So I tried to be this crafty mom last Thursday. I took the boys and met a friend of mine and her son at a nature preserve across town to take pictures. I’m too cheap to pay for a real photographer, so I thought I’d do my own work. I have to say, I think I did pretty good, but I’m being paid back for being crafty. Dang it. Never again.
By Saturday morning I had large red welts that itched like holy heaven along my torso and back. Even my armpits. Joy.
Mosquito bites? Nah, too easy. Try chigger bites. I haven’t had chigger bites in like, 30 years. I forgot how freakin’ awful they are too. I mean, re-donk.
Then my kids start complaining they itch, and they are covered as well. NOTHING CURES CHIGGER BITES.
I have tried everything except cutting them off with a steak knife. That’s next…
My husband has been working like a fool for the past week. That’s a whole other story I won’t get into. But his schedule has been brutal. So Saturday afternoon, with my chigger bites in tow, I mowed the lawn. No biggie. I’ve done it before. Sometimes mowing with my headphones on is therapy. I needed a distraction from the awful itchiness…you feel me?
Saturday night, my lower back feels like someone kicked me repeatedly with a pair of old cowboy boots. It hurts. Aleve does nothing. Not even Aleve taken with a glass of wine. Maybe two glasses.
I go to bed. I can’t turn over. If I try, my breath leaves my lungs when my muscles tense. I NEVER have back problems. Word up?!
I sleep terrible. My husband snores. I think about things in the dark. Like, if someone breaks in tonight and tries to kill me, they will. My back hurts too much to move.
I need to pee. I refuse to get out of bed. I finally give in after half an hour of trying to talk myself out of it. It takes me ten minutes to scoot off the side of the bed. By the time I get back from the bathroom half an hour later, I’m wide awake. Getting back into bed takes another ten minutes. This is what old must feel like. I hate it. I think about ordering a Hoveround and Life Alert. Maybe these things really ARE awesome…
(Do you like the spotted background? I did it as an honor to my chigger bites that make me want to chew my skin off.)
Today things aren’t much better. At 2pm this afternoon, I announce to my kids that I’m going to take a bath. They look at me weird.
Big A – “It’s the middle of the day.”
Big A – “So, like, when was the last time you actually USED that bathtub, Mom?”
Me – “Probably 3 or 4 years ago.”
Middle A – “Does the whirlpool tub still ACTUALLY work?” I shrug. Guess we’ll find out whether or not I get electrocuted when I push the power button.
I hobble off, bent over like an old woman, scratching her chigger bites.
I fill the tub. I grab a book, a glass of tea, some chocolate covered raisins and some old bubble bath I found stuffed in the back of my bathroom cabinet. Does bubble bath go bad? I sniff it. Smells fine. A little “cabinet” like, but it’ll do. I figure, if I’m going to take a bath in the middle of the day on a Monday, I might as well make it count. We’re going all out, folks.
Fifteen minutes in, I break out in a sweat. This is why I hate taking baths. They make you sweat. What’s the point of even bathing if you’re going to sweat through the whole darn thing?
I wipe my brow and continue reading while I eat my snack. The jets feel heavenly on my back. Thirty minutes later I have to get out, or risk suffering a heat stroke.
So where is Vegas?! Seriously…Where.Is.It? I can’t wait to leave. To get out of here and pretend to be someone else for a while. You know you do the same when you go to Vegas, don’t lie.
You leave work behind, family, friends, kids, chores, dirty toilets…and it’s epic.
You lay by the pool and read uninterrupted, and drink something vodka infused and fruity at 9am without ever blinking an eye.
You sleep in. You wave at strangers and eat Subway sandwiches at three in the morning just because you can. And that sandwich costs you $900 dollars (that’s Vegas pricing), but it tastes better than any Subway sandwich back home. Ever.
You go to see a show at 10pm at The Mirage, and drink Red Bull to stay awake because you’re old and you can’t stay up past ten anymore without nodding off during a re-run of ‘Cheers’.
You laugh, eat, reminisce and fall in love all over again with your better half. I do, each and every time. We are so alike. We enjoy being together, making fun of people in the shops of Caesar’s Palace, ordering room service while getting dressed to GO OUT and eat again, playing $.01 slot machines and winning nothing, but it doesn’t matter because you’re together.
And this is why I love Las Vegas. Because it’s just the two of us. That’s it. It’s that simple. We love our yearly trip to this crazy city just to reignite the “crazy” in both of us. Because life is short. And it’s worth living, savoring…all of it. So that’s what we do. Together.
Hopefully by the time we leave, the dog will have stopped staring at the terrarium, and my back and bites will have dissipated. One can only hope. I have eleven days. Eleven days to buy that Hoveround….
Itchin’ and Hurtin’ For Vegas ~