I don't care much for actual Las Vegas. I've only been there once, for work, spending the days in the convention center, which was preferable to being outside in the 109 degree heat. I'm far to stingy to gamble, or to spend real money on shows, and at the time I was still a very anxious and edgy person (unlike the mellow, laissez faire, carefree girl I am now.) It was hard for me to have fun in unfamiliar surroundings, and it was all a little much for me.
But the fake Las Vegas last night was super fun. All those perky blondies that I write about? They seem to take this opportunity to get wasted and dance around the dance floor like middle aged Britneys, and their husbands, clearly looking forward to the after party in the bedroom, dance up behind them and wiggle their hips and just look so silly. One of them flopped into the chair next to me and asked me if I knew where her purse was and then rubbed my thigh. Last year, one of my mom-friends said, "You know how when you go to a wedding with your parents, and you get totally embarrassed when they dance? We are now our parents. Its really sad." She said all of this while grooving to Brick House.
Don't get me wrong. I was one of those boozey housewives last year, whooping it up to She Shook Me All Night Long (and, really, who wouldn't?) and Rob was drunk enough to dip one of our friends, drop her and then fall on her. He also kept lifting his shirt, and pinching other dads' butts, at which I would have lifted one eyebrow if I had that particular talent. I'm fairly certain he got lucky that night, too, but who can remember? This year, though, is the year of my Near Death Experience, so everything is dialed back a bit. My knee, or actually the fear of aggravating my knee, and the so-uncute shoes I had to wear, prevented me from embarrassing myself with everyone else on the dance floor, and I got tired so we left before it was over. But next year, I'll be out there, baby, you can count on it. Rob says I'm a bad dancer, but, at this age, we all are. Sometimes I space out on the dance floor, and when I come-to, I'm just standing there, staring off into space, like a freak. Luckily, everyone else is too wasted to notice.
Here's another funny thing. There is a live auction where they raise big chunks of money. We're talking a couple grand for a parking space on the school campus, or another couple grand for some artwork made by third graders, and as I watched this without the benefit of a buzz, I noticed that its just a big pissing contest for the dads. I'm all for this if it means my kid's school has a computer lab and a music teacher, but its interesting to watch. The professional auctioneer clearly knows about the dad thing, so he eggs them on, tells them their children wont feel loved if they don't big higher on this trip to Mexico, and pits the balding guys against each other. You see the pride on the winning bidder's face, you can see that he gets a little charge by spending $2K on a football game in front two hundred other parents. So, the moms compete by dressing up and looking fabulous, and the dads compete by spending money. Luckily, Rob and I have no money, and I can only look so hot with my supportive shoes and extra 50 lbs. which means the pressure's off. Phew.