Images of hedonism and general (or genital) naughtiness come to mind when one hears the phrase, "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas". Tales of waking up in the honeymoon suite at the Palms, married to a cocktail waitress named Bambi or a sweaty dancer who has the Thunder from Down Under abound. Tattoos, piercings, strange credit card purchases are omiyage brought home by those who were not prepared for the impact that free drinks and legal gambling can have on a sheltered mind from the rock.
Well, being from Hawaii, the whole "What happens in Vegas" aura of sexiness and scandal is pretty much non-existent, especially if you are with the other local kine cattle staying at one of the Sam Boyd hotels downtown as part of a Vacations Hawaii package. Anonymity is disposed of the moment you check into HNL, tossed aside like that mango from Grandma's yard that she snuck into your carry just in case you get hungry. Chances are amongst your fellow passengers are several members of your graduating high school class, a distant relative of one of your parents, someone who works with one of your siblings, one of your kid's teachers and of course, someone who goes to church with your grandparents and thinks you are still a virgin even though you have eight kids by eight different daddies.
It must be a Hawaii thing since for the rest of the normal world, Vegas is a place of escapism. It's where you go for that last fling before you commit to a life totally devoid of the joy of being single (in other words, that death sentence known as marriage). It's where you go when you need to reinvent yourself after that bad break-up, horrible divorce or criminal conviction. It's where you can make out with Elvis (or at least a semi-decent facimile), see more silicone boobs per capita than anywhere else (some even on women) or pretend you are the person you secretly aspire to be. More importantly, you can have your face tacked on a bag of M and Ms - WOO HOO.
However, this is not the case for us Hawaii folks - particularly if you are Downtown and in one of the aforementioned hotels. My friend, SH, said it was tiring just to walk across the casino to get to her hotel room because she was stopped every few steps by someone who knew her and being a nice person, she felt obligated to share everything that had happened to her in the past 10 years since she had seen that person. It's true - if you have taken a religious vow of silence, do not go to the Cal because if you don't speak to the folks who know you, they will invoke a wrath on you worse that Jesus. Eternal damnation post-death is one thing, a lifetime of people believing you think you are high-maka-maka is even worse.
This is why I cannot understand why people from Hawaii bring their "side salads" with them to Las Vegas, stay at the Cal and eat at the Main Street buffet? If ever you want to be caught, that is the way to do it. Each time I have gone to Vegas with one or both of my parents, they have bumped into a friend or a classmate, had a lively long conversation and then, within seconds of leaving, whispered, "Can you believe he brought his sidekick here? Ho da stupid!" Perhaps it is the local version the Mafia's code of silence - nobody ever rats out a cheater, even one dumb enough to bring his Korean bar girlfriend or her "platonic co-worker" for a weekend Downtown.
This trip, as none of the comforting home away from home Sam Boyd hotels were available, the Mad Cow and I opted to stay at the Golden Nugget. At first, I was happy about it - it was $30 a day cheaper than the Cal, it was right on the Fremont Street experience so no spooky nighttime walking in that alleyway from the Cal to the lights, and it had a real swimming pool (not a cement square on the roof that was shut down because of cracks). However, it was a little strange to be in Downtown LV and not being one of the lemmings in the sea of slippah wearing 'ohana. Instead, the Mad Cow and I spent our Golden Nugget meal times playing "Can you spot another local person?" We were thrown off a few times by kotonks but we Hawaii folks have a distinctive strut when we walk, leading off with the stomach and pelvis and we always swing our arms. We also look incredibly uncomfortable wearing shoes. It's true, try it sometimes when you are in an area where local people are scarce - like the Louis Vuitton store in Ala Moana or the Pacific Club.
When you are with your kid, the whole meaning of "What happens in Vegas" changes from sexy to shameful, especially if you are an older parent like myself. Most of the time is spent trying to look and act like your child's parent instead of looking and acting like your child's grandparent - which, quite honestly, you could be at your age. I could see it clearly on the minds of every service provider the Mad Cow and I came across, "uh, is that the Mom or the Grandma? What should I say? Should I tell the kid how lucky his Grandma brought him here? Should I ask him if his Mom wants coffee? I guess I will just call her Ma'am to be safe". I felt so bad for them, so much so that I considered getting a shirt that said, "Yes, I am his Mom (even though I am old enough to be his Grandma)." On these occasions, I would make an effort to roll up the sleeve on my right arm to reveal most of my tattoo, thinking that this would tip people off that seven years ago, I was still young enough that I was capable of breeding. If this didn't work, I'd make sure the Mad Cow said, "MOM" loudly, even though he too would be confused at times and call me Grandma.
Of course, when we went to the pool, I just gave up and let people assume I was Grandma. It was easier than trying to suck in my belly, push up my boobs and pack on the make-up in an attempt to blend in with the other Moms who had 1% bodyfat, wore bikinis and spent their mornings getting their chocho waxed while I pondered how idiotic I would look if I swam in the pool with my bathrobe on. Well, as I did forget my swimsuit and had to buy some men's board shorts and rash guard, perhaps I passed as the lesbian "aunty" instead of the dried up lumpy Grandma. I think the Mad Cow was bummed that I had somehow forgotten to bring my phone with me so we could not take any photos by the pool but he attributed that to (as he loudly informed everyone in earshot) "my mom's menopause brain". There was no way I was going to bring any images of myself in my attractive butchy swimwear back with me from Vegas.
To top off my totally humiliating pool experience. as we were headed down to the pool one morning, we were joined by a young guy also in swimwear (my shorts were much manlier than his and I am pretty sure I had more leg hair). The guy started talking to us about the pool and whether we had gone down the slide, etc. My very helpful son then offered this tip about pool usage and potential hazards, "You better go on the slide before my Mom because she is so fat, she will probably get stuck and it will take them a long time to get her out of there.".
That was a time when I wished that kid could STAY in Vegas indefinitely.
No comments:
Post a Comment