We’re going to Vegas soon.
Hell no, we’re not bringing our kids.
This is a mommy/daddy vacation. Wait, what am I saying – mommy and daddy?
Julie and Scott. Bug and Pook. Ms. Can-I-get-another-whiskey and Mr. Hey-watch-this-dance-move. The birthday boy and his cuter, smarter, younger wife. Call us what you want. I just don’t want to hear mommy and daddy. I don’t even want to hear it from random kids … people! Vegas is not a place for children. Especially on the strip. They can’t possibly have fun walking the strip while their dad gets hooker cards snapped into his hand.
We are going with our good ‘ole college friends. And yes, Casey the Cowboy will be joining us. Be looking for that future post.
Scott and I are no Vegas virgins. This will be my 7th time. Scott, maybe his 10th, 11th or 12th? We know what we want to do. Pools, gamble, a nightclub, maybe breakfast at 4 am. I know better than to pack any heel higher than 2 inches. I am purposely bringing a purse large enough for flip flops. SPF 70 is packed and ready. We know taking a limo from the airport is actually cheaper than several taxis. We are getting a VIP table set up at a popular club – it’s the only way we will go to a club in Vegas. You’re seriously treated like a celebrity: front of the line, escort to your table complete with the escort staff waving their little flashlights in people’s faces to get them out of the way for you, your own waitress that stays with you all night, sometimes your own bouncer, an actual seat for everyone in your party, good view. Yes, you are paying extra for VIP but we set money aside for that ahead of time – come on, it’s Vegas. I freaking love it. I’m ready to show off my kid’s Yo Gabba Gabba dance moves on the dance floor – oh Lord, someone help me.
But oh how our bodies have turned against us after a night out. Funny how that happens. Our 30-year-old bodies cannot take the 4 days of drinking anymore. The morning after, we will all be feeling those free beers at the Blackjack table. I am not going to make the mistake of getting too excited the first night then feeling like complete shit the rest of the 3 days. Gone are the days of filling the hotel bathtub with liquor and beer. We will be filling it with bottled water. Lots of it. The only pills we’ll be popping while out are Tylenol. While shopping for Vegas, my girlfriends and I have made a pact for every shot we take, we will have a glass of water too. I have a hangover pack consisting of Excedrin Migraine, Clear Eyes, water, and bread. We will eat big full meals. We will actually sleep – it might be at 4 in the morning, but we will sleep well into the afternoon.
If all else fails, we have this little ace up our sleeve:
It’s called Hangover Heaven.
I’m sold just by the name. It’s a bus that has a doctor and staff onboard. The company claims your hangover will be cured in 45 minutes by IV. This is a real thing. I already put the number in my phone.
Re-hydrating myself via IV? Yeah, it definitely works. I’ve had it done before.
2008. Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. We went with Scott’s family and some friends. The tequila went down smooth. I found a new love in a beer named Los Pacificos.
The same day Scott and I set foot back in U.S. soil, we brought something more than a sunkissed Mexican tan. A little nasty thing called Montezuma’s Revenge crept into our digestive system. We were blowing out both ends of our bodies for hours. It started out funny. But then slowly, our laughs at each other stopped. We swore we were dying. Little 2-year-old Emma would run from me on the toilet with a trash can to Scott on the toilet with a trash can. We were unable to take care of her. We couldn’t even put her to bed. We could barely walk. I called my parents to come pick us up and take us to the hospital. I felt strangely drunk, in pain and weak. All I wanted was a big glass of water but I couldn’t keep it down. My dad yelled “Hola! Viva Mexico!” as we crawled into the hospital doors. Just the thought of spanish words made me puke as we were checking in. I told the doctor my symptoms on a toilet, as straight-up poop water was pouring out of me. I didn’t even care at that point. I yelled at Montezuma – whoever the hell he was – to back the eff off me. I’m half Mexican! Tu familia!
My body is definitely American-made and very accustomed to clean water and ice.
Scott and I each got a couple IV bags to re-hydrate our bodies. Within an hour, we were cured. Tired, but cured. Normal. We were able to walk again. I wanted to hug the doctor and nurses on my way out.
Hopefully, we won’t have to use Hangover Heaven at all. I’d say I’m prepared for any hangover coming. I hope I can keep my giddiness to a minimum at the thought of not being in Kansas anymore. Toto is getting left at home while this Dorothy rolls the dice.