It was wonderful waking up on Friday morning for a couple of different reasons. The first, and at first glance the biggest reason, was that I woke up feeling great. This seriously should not have happened considering the staggering array of alcoholic beverages and the amounts consumed. Must be the desert climate. Well, that or simple anticipation which let loose a bit of the adrenaline cure-all.
To me, though, there was an altogether more important factor that made the morning fantastic to wake to. It’s a special feeling, one that is all too rare in the life of a cubicle dweller:
I still had three solid days left in Vegas.
It was as though I was eight years old again and my parents had just come downstairs to let me know that not only did I not have to go to school today, but that today was actually Christmas and because of some funky magic it was going to last 72 hours. It was a great start out of the blocks with no false start, and I was picking up speed.
Staying true to my word, it was time go do some shopping with Mrs. Head. Before, when we were set to arrive on the originally planned Friday, the shopping trip was just going to be a hit and run. Since we had arrived a day earlier, however, I was mentally prepared for an extendo-shopping session, and it was exactly that. Out of all the places in Vegas a person could choose to shop, one could stand to do a lot worse than the Aladdin and I was simply thankful that Mrs. Head is not a Forum Shop lover. The thought of the Caesars shops with its crowds, the noise, and all things animatronic makes me throw up in my mouth just a bit. .The Aladdin is calm and easygoing. Perhaps it simply appeals to me because of my affinity towards most things Middle Eastern or my love of anything even loosely associated with the desert (NOTE: desert, NOT “southwest”). The fact that it is quiet and sedate could also be part of the reason it had to be rescued by Planet Hollywood, who knows.
Perhaps my affinity for this casino simply stems from the fact that I’ve had great luck on the Wheel of Fortune slots during my time there. While my love of slots certainly doesn’t reach Grubby-esque heights, I loves me a few spins on the Wheel of Fortune slots. I love them so much that I find myself periodically checking to make sure I’m not a grey-haired 57 year-old lady wearing oversize pink short pants and a fanny pack. It’s odd, this Wheel of Fortune obsession, because I hate the actual show with quite a passion and the wheel itself has only shown me glimpses of fortune but never quite gets me there. As I write this last sentence I can’t help but think of how much those damn machines are like your sophomore girlfriend. You always catching a glimpse but never quite get there. Back then I wanted a looser girlfriend; now I want looser slots. Hell, it’s probably for the best though, because if you get there you’re likely to keep coming back even if you know it’s no good for you.
The slot high carried me through the next five hours while all 5’6” of Mrs. Head proceeded to unleash a whirlwind of AMEX-presses throughout the complex. It’s still a bit hazy because towards the end I had to sit down, but I think Sephora had to call in extra staff to deal with it. Sephora=Porn for Women. Miraculously still riding my Christmas morning-like high, I ordered Mrs. Head a massage while she tended to natures call and scored some nice bonus points and a much needed rest upon return to the hotel. No, that’s not a euphemism. I really did need some rest because the hour was approaching for two things: A great meal and a $2-6 Spread Limit game that was even better.
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