WHAT A SLACKER!

Whether or not anyone reads my posts, it truly helps me sleep better at night, take my vitamins, and live with myself knowing my blog is up to date with my life's happenings. I mean, if they're not on the internet then they're not really legit, right? Well in that case, I've just convinced myself to write posts on all my one night stands and drunken rants simply to make them vanish from reality. God, I give myself great ideas sometimes.

Onto the news...

I haven't posted since my mothers wedding in Las Vegas. And let me tell you...

That whole "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" bullshit people say- that's just good advertising.

The copious amounts of debauchery fueled by alcohol and other unmentionables in one weekend left me with an empty bank account, three large and grotesque bruises on my thighs, and a weekend that will lurk in the dark depths of my mind and heart for all eternity.

The events, although blurred at times and censored for online, go as follows:

FRIDAY: The morning to start all mornings. Thursday night I worked a bike race during the farmers market, which really means I got hit on by disgusting men goggling my breasts and offering me 99 cent margaritas in exchange, I'm sure, for a good time in the Nugget bathroom. I'll pass, thanks. But anyhow...
I poured at the beer booth with our fabulous and absolutely adorable new intern, Jill. Jill is about my age, blond, slender, and a complete badass on the slopes. She and I decide we're going to traipse around downtown Sparks and then carry our good time to Chapel bar. After a romping good time of bars filled with folks at least 10 years our senior, we end of at the shittiest of shitty college dive hangouts, The Little Wall. This is the kind of place where kids throw up on the porch, order expensive liquors but mix them with coke and cranberry juice, and are most likely sniffing cocaine (or what they think is) off the toilet seat lids. It's a young meat market and the farthest thing from "my scene" besides some club-rat infested, well, club.
Point of describing Thursday night: I drank a lot. Too much, in fact. I rolled home around 2 am, complete with Jack in the Box, which I have no recollection paying for or even ordering. Needless to say, my dog George had a grand feast of greasy delight.
So, Friday rolls around. Or really, it was already Friday, but not necessarily for me. In case you haven't already figured out, I run my show on my time.
I wake up around 7:30, still intoxicated, a little flustered, and definitely unorganized. I realize I have to pick up the rental car in 1/2 an hour and I still have yet to pack my bag for the weekend. That might have been a good idea last night. Oh well, shit happens.
I jump out of bed, take my nappy ass into a scalding hot shower and attempt to regain consciousness and being my day.
I throw a few things into my backpack, which I will later discover are not only not enough, but just not quite the Vegas attire I was aiming for to being with. I grab what I consider to be the most important and essential tools to the car ride and trip, and lastly could not forget my "fun bun". (Backstory: the "fun bun" is a hair tie surrounded with real hair strands to help the woman-on-the-go, or rather the clueless-I-Can't-do-my-own-hair woman, make her weave look hip and snappy in 3-5 seconds. My mothers hairdresser pal, PJ, who refuses to reveal her birth name, forced me to purchase one a few months back. I'm now grateful I did.)
The small events that followed are not important. Eventually I made it to the small brick house a hop, skip, and jump away from campus, appropriately dubbed "The Burrow" (my friends are Harry Potter fans. That's cool.) Awaiting my arrival are my hot mess, but still hot, friends Ana and Mel. These are two "brown bitches" who can drink grown men under the table, dance harder and faster than Michael Flatley, and still bring home the finest man, or lady, and live to tell the tale.
So I grab them, their shit, and load up the car to get the hell out of Reno, at this point only an hour behind schedule. Yay us.

We arrive in the thriving metropolis of Fallon, NV, aka my hometown, where my 15 yr old sister Madeline and one of my most cherished pals, Ryan, are awaiting our arrival. Safely in the car with the entire crew, we head out. We make it to Schurz, which is about 2 1/2-3 hrs away from Reno when a ghastly discovery is made. MEL FORGOT HER FUCKING WALLET. Great. A city of sin where anyone under 21, or just without proof, is practically chained to the drab confines of the pool area and the Excalibur. With a weekend already set in motion of drinking and tearing up the town, there is no way that Mel cannot have her money and her ID. Fuck.
We turn around and head back. I call my roommate, whom I graciously left my car with for the weekend to at least drive the wallet to us in Fernley. After some finagling, she agrees. Wallet in hand hours later, we're back on track. Now 4 hours behind schedule. Shit.
During the drive about every 1/2-1 hour we would randomly scream throughout the car "VEGAS", just to keep our tired and slightly irritated moods on the up.

6 hours later we arrive in Vegas.
As we pull into the smog infested dump hole of a city, the air gets about 1182738917 pounds heavier and at least 20 degrees hotter. We are officially in hell.
Haul balls to the Henderson Elks lodge for the rehearsal dinner, which is really some good pizza and old folks hanging out on the porch. Don't worry, my kind of good time. We quickly burst inside for drinks and the madness officially begins.

After the "meet and greet" we head over the always classy Fiesta Station, where our bargain priced and smoking allowed room was located.
A quick change of clothes and a smoke, and an hour later we're on the strip, buzzing for a good time. Las Vegas Blvd is a nothing short of a complete bitch to navigate and drive through on a weekend night. After finally finding parking inside the Bellagio garage, we are ready for business.

We go to grab a drink at Planet Hollywood. Ana is first up, and orders a double bloody mary...girlfriend knows how to do it. After seeing her drink ring up at a whopping $20, I was ready to high tail it to the nearest convenience store for a 5th that would be half the price of her one cocktail.
Then God graced us with Yarek. Yarek is my Polish sausage- a real European gay man with calm, low-key style and an accent that could melt an iceberg. You can barley understand what the man has to say 90% of the time, but his eyes are piercing enough to turn me straight and I'm convinced he'll be the sperm donating father of my children, so I don't really mind. In my opinion, Yarek always makes great points.

We head a little off the beaten path of glitz, glam, and stunning ladies gliding the plethora of night clubs, and head to a place called Crave. Crave is a gay bar, divided into two halves, one side for men, the other for women. Yarek gets us in with no cover charge (gotta love how easily gay men can play each other) and inside opened up a whole new world. I'm used to watching movies and seeing TV shows where troops of metropolitan hotties roll into clubs that are wall-to-wall with gorgeous faces and bodies, go-go dancers in tighty-whities and every house remix ever made to the current chart topping singles. But I didn't think those really existed until that night. Oh how wrong was I!

A few reasonably priced drinks later and I'm ready for the dance floor. While I'm an absolute crap dancer, when I'm drunk and in the zone, there is nothing I enjoy more than burning a few beer calories on the floor shakin my romp. A little later into our time there, Mel and I decide to check out the offerings next door. As usual, the lesbian bar is a graveyard of girls who will mean mug your entire being up and down until you see their face wash over with the false pleasure that they know everything about you. It's a marking thing that gay girls do, which has always confused me, and I believe, the reason that 90% of lesbian bars just eventually turn into gay man hangouts. Why do my kind have to be such haters?

We decide that, despite the great atmosphere and good looking eye candy, we're ready to move on. So, we head to another homo hot spot, Piranha. Say that with a lisp, it's really quite entertaining.

Inside this much larger club, every bartender would not give us the time of day until either Ryan or Yarek ordered our drinks. Those bitches. More dancing ensued as the drinks kept flowing.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch my completely heterosexual friend Ryan being accosted by a man with fabulous metro hair, like something out of a Japanese cartoon, appropriately named "Fierce" (that one is just as fun to say with a lisp. Go on, try it). I think Ryan was born again on that couch in the corner. And yes, Ryan is still straight and no, he did not sleep with him. Experiences are experiences, and they don't all have to be sexual. Get your mind out of the gutter and back to the story.

We tramp around to several area bars for the next couple of hours. I do remember falling on Ana, licking beer off her thigh, watching Mel get hit on by the jolly green giant of lesbians, and then seeing Mel meet a Tegan and Sara groupie look alike named Kelly, and promptly disappearing for several minutes. It's Vegas, right? Let's have some fun.

4 am rolls around. We look at each other and realize my mother's wedding is in 12 hours and the night before we each got about 3-4 hours of sleep. Yeah, it might be time to call it a night. We still have Saturday.


SATURDAY: D-day.
I'm the first up at around 9 am, I shower and go down to the lobby for coffee, because the Fiesta is such a classy joint, they don't even carry coffee makers in the rooms, for fear of getting them stolen. Remember the next time you're in Vegas to Expedia that place.

Heading down to the Elks Lodge (which was the classic location for my mom's 5th wedding), I'm tired, hungry, and already slightly irritated. I cherish my sleep like I cherish women, so when I'm deprived, I tend to get a little on edge.
My mother is a complete trainwreck. Her flowers aren't ready, her ladyfriend caterer is being a complete nutsack, and it's already 100 degrees outside. My big gay brother and his husband decided to announce their divorce the previous day, so he's at his hotel getting rip-roaring wasted and refuses to answer her phone calls.
After a small bickering match, I agree to leave, go get my brother, and take him to pick up his tux.
We arrive at Lake Las Vegas and immediately have a cocktail inside the air conditioned confines of his hotel room. He proceeds to call his newly ex every vulgar name in the book, and added in a few new ones to me. You learn something new every day.

Running an hour or so late, we finally pour into our hotel room, ready to get the show on the road. Ana showers to try and relieve some drunkness still lingering from the previous night (Ana was also the wedding photographer), I slide into my dress, which I think made me look like a cross between a cocktail waitress and a hooker, but more importantly, openly displayed my epic chesticles which aren't normally brought to the attention of the public. Mel dresses in a sexy little black number from the night before, because she's a class act like that, and Ryan was already good to go- and looking quite debonair, I might add.

Finally, we're ready to go. We pile into the car and head to the Elks Lodge, like three kids straight from a bad Hunter S Thompson story.

And, let the festivities begin!

The ceremony was actually quite nice and went down with little issues. Speeches immediately followed. Champagne was flowing. Then the dancing music started. My friends and I were the only group of guests that willingly piled onto the dance floor, bottles of wine in our hands, and began to bump and grind on each other. Totally appropriate, right? If you know my family, you'd agree with me.

A few hours later and I'm a complete shitshow. Let's openly establish something right here and right now: If someone is more than 1/4 Mexican, DO NOT GIVE THEM TEQUILA. So, to whoever at my mothers wedding bought me (yes, cash bar. Thanks a lot mom) 5 shots of Patron...fuck you.
I proceeded to go apeshit on every detail of the evening that just happened to strike the wrong chord with me. I broke plants and decorations. I threw chairs. I threw drinks. I screamed. I tried to knockout (thankfully, very unsuccessfully) my best friend, and all the while my tits are flying all over place, along with objects and obscenities. I'm still claiming someone slipped me some PCP earlier and everything was out my control. Not really working, but inner peace is important.
Finally, after being asked to leave the Elks Lodge on account of my wild temper and 21093709213 sheets to the wind Ana passing out on the pavement slab in the parking lot, my Vegas pal and almost family member, Angel, drives us back to the hotel.

The rest of the night is a stream of arguing, making up, and a mass hint of awkwardness. Yeah, thanks drunk Connie.

After announcing to the room that she's going to the Bellagio and Treasure Island, Ana sets her drunk head down on the pillow and proceeds to pass the hell out. Good news. I sober up...slightly. At least enough to change out of my liquor-soaked dress and head down to the lobby bar with Angel and Mel.


To be honest, the rest of the trip isn't worth all the typing time. The next we kissed, made up, and hung by the pool. We met Angel's girlfriend, who turned out to be a drunken good time, and reminded me of about 200 girls I went to high school with. We kept it low key and simple. By the end of Sunday night Vegas had truly kick our ass to the moon and back, and our bodies, minds, and my voice box were drained beyond recognition.

In summary: If you're ready to party in Vegas, bring me and my friends. The things that were too inappropriate to write on my blog are scandalous and juicy and nowhere under a rating of NC-17. Oh, and, thanks mom for getting married. I hope you enjoyed your wedding as much as we did. Wait, scratch that. NO ONE enjoyed the wedding as much as we did.

Cheers, bitches!



O yeah, I once again suck at single of week.
Well, here it is:

In case you've been hiding under a rock from indie music for the past several months, I'm sure you're well aware of this amazingly talented duo, Sleigh Bells.
Her soft, angelic voice paired with roaring guitars and intricate drum beats, along with an almost industrial sound on the guitar. Fast beat, easy flowing voice, creates a harmony of pure heart-pounding bliss.