That's what you get (for waking up in Vegas)

Staggering our way out out into the light, I couldn't help but feel a bit like a mole. Blinded by the light. Stunned by the sudden dazzling sunbeams.

Only instead of being a furry little rat clawing at dirt, this mole was wearing a low-cut LBD, clutching a handful of singles and a devil-may-care attitude. The underground we were emerging from was a strip club. The time was 7:20 am. It was departure day.

This was Vegas.

After three full days of shenanigans in the desert oasis, this was it. We'd made the most of the final evening and now it was time to make a frenzied return to the real world. The four of us found a chariot and were whisked back to our borrowed mansion, returning twelve hours after we had last left it. 

Pool inflatables lay scattered about. Most of the house was still asleep. Those awake were gathering belongings and seeking out additional trash bags to contain the overflow of bottles. Someone was rolling up a life-sized poster of the groom, covered with "decorative" stickers. This bachelorette party had been a roaring success. 

I nodded to my airport carpool buddy and we parted ways. She to a bed, me to a shower. Still filled with sugary sweet libations, I sang my best Elvis in the shower - wishing that there were more than 24 hours in the day. 

8:30 am, my head hit a pillow. 9:30, with those neon lights still flashing in my eyes, I was back up, jamming possessions into my bag as we summoned an Uber. At the airport, the tiger mom with the hook-up and I parted ways and headed to our respective airline terminals. 

Buzzing on a Vegas high that just wouldn't quit, I sought out the drunk food that I'd been craving all night. A retro diner in the airport, bumping the very best oldies, called my name. And I answered. In spades. Moments later I was at a table with a large burger, heaping basket of fries, and a chocolate shake, merrily watching the passers-by and stuffing my face. I perused photos on my camera, hummed along as Mr. Presley's ode to the city once again filled the air, and waved jovially at anyone who walked by. 

Eventually I moved to a slot machine (#BecauseAirportSlots #BecauseVegas), where I continued to lose money and have a good time, as is the way in that City of Sin. My own flight departure was not until 1:30, so I had plenty of time to walkabout, enjoy my food, grab a giant bottle of Mountain Dew to chug, etc. By the time we were boarding the plane though, the lack of sleep and constant frolicking in the 100+ degree heat from the past several days started to sink in... I was damn tired.

The second my butt hit the seat, I clunked out. Nestled against my window wall, using my scarf as a blanket, I was down for the count. 

Dreaming of that desert oasis and the fountain of boozy youth.

My dreamless sleep abruptly ended with a shudder. A child slamming into my seat from behind. I groggily looked about, my brain filled with the plane engine hum, thinking we must have landed at my layover in Minnesota. The woman next to me was mumbling curse words under her breath. No one was deboarding. I opened the shade and there it was: that same glaring desert sun and the glittering strip. Checking my watch, it was just after 2 pm... We hadn't even left yet. 

The engines flared up and an announcement came over the speaker: we were cleared for departure, apologies for the delay. The plane lurched forward. 

And that's when my hangover hit. 

(Like a ton of fucking bricks.)

As the plane slowly rolled forward, I was filled with utter dread. Waves of nausea swept over me. The woman next to me continued her quiet stream of swearing (apparently a nervous tick) as I muttered, "Get your shit together, girl, this'll pass" and started taking deep breaths. Mentally begging my stomach acid to chill and deeply regretting every round of bottle service. As we taxied in line, I leaned back in my seat, eyes closed, but it was no good. I was death.

The plane then made its final charge down the tarmac and I experienced what was literally the worst turbulence I've ever felt in my entire life (and I used to fly RyanAir so like, that's saying something). My deep breathing became frantic as we were jostled about and I gave up on the attempts to be zen. Ripping out the stupid airline mags and miscellaneous trash left by a previous passenger, I searched desperately for an air sick bag.... only to find that there was none.* The lady next to me glanced over, in realization, and her eyes took on a slight look of pity as she went into her latest round of what sounded like an explicit rap version of Hail Mary. She had her own shit to deal with. 

This wasn't going to pass. I looked down at my purse for a split second and then quickly thought better of it. My only hope was to make it to the restroom.

I stared up at the seatbelt fasten icon, still illuminated, and cursed the gods (the old and the new) for the lengthiness of this ascent. The unsteady rise through the clouds grew rougher. With the jolt of what was surely a battle-royale with a particularly gnarly cloud (or penance for every sin I've ever made), my stomach swayed - the burger. The shake. Oh sweet lord, the fries. All sloshing about with three days of booze and a giant Dew serving as the mixer.

The odds of me making it shot to zero as the seatbelt light continued to shine. 

But then - just after the jolt hit, I saw her. A petite Asian woman who had sprung up, clutching her willpower and her stomach, and had bolted towards the bathroom as the flight attendants squawked their warnings. That was all I needed. I, too, sprung up from my seat, emboldened by her mad dash. Pushing aside the woman with the extensive vocabulary, I clung from seat to seat, aisle after aisle. I heard the ding noise, as the seat belt sign finally went off, just as I made it to the restroom. Someone else had beat me to the second stall already, so I waited.

Now standing, I took a deep breath and thought, "This is okay. I'm okay. I think I just needed to stand and stretch out." Looking around, I saw several other folks, green in the face, glancing back to see when the bathroom line had died down. One of them, with a deep sigh, grabbed the nearest attendant and ordered a Bloody Mary. "Make it two," proclaimed his friend. And I smiled. We were all there together, having survived that bright light city, which had set all our souls on fire. With a little solidarity and some hair of the dog, we were going to make it. It was going to be fine. 

The bathroom door opened, and the petite lady who had inspired us all darted out. I shrugged at the guy in the back row and he chuckled, "Some people just can't handle Vegas!" I gave him a grin as I closed the door. We were a kindred, and we were a-okay.

And then I turned around.

I'll spare you the lavish details, but... as the smell hit me and I saw the remnants of her weekend sprayed about the tiny space... It was over. I was toast. 

No point in pretending that it's all glitz and glam. Sometimes, that's just what you get for waking up in Vegas. Til next time, Sin City <3

Party on, lil guy.

* What the HELL kind of plane doesn't have air sick bags on a flight OUT OF LAS VEGAS?! Are you mad?? That whole damn plane was full of hungover people! Was the staff just like, playing a practical joke on the entire plane??

Give up the Ghost

(Note in advance: this one isn't a happy fun post.* I promise to follow up with one of those soon. Just FYI.)

It's almost 11 pm in our tiny kitchen. I just baked a batch of cookies using wax paper. Apparently you're not supposed to put wax paper in the oven. I feel like this is something I've been told before, but so it goes.

Today is a special day, in an odd way. It's been two years now since my grandma decided she was ready. Ready to leave and go see her husband, son, and friends.

Standing in the kitchen, ripping off parchment paper, I think about a plaque that used to hang on her wall, that my uncle Vern had written about her. It talked about her kitchen, the tiny one that she had managed to feed a small army out of. Her kitchen had been filled with love and shared whispers. Secrets and sometimes tears, between her and her children. Whether by birth or by proximity, they were hers to care for.

Nearing midnight, mine is just filled with the scent of waxy cookies. And shared only with a ghost.

In a lot of ways, that ghost follows me around all the time. She appears in my mannerisms, in my weird choice (and semi hoarding) of knick-knacks, in my every day conversations. Only an hour ago, as I chided the beau out of the kitchen, I heard myself saying how there should only be two people in the kitchen, one for cooking and one for cleaning, and anybody else should get out.

That's a paraphrase of my grandma, I just know it.

Or at least, I think I know it. Two years gone and I feel like I've begun to curate a version of her in my mind that hits all the marks I need it to, while smoothing out anything else. I don't think about the later, cranky years as much. Except for the occasional smirk about her very best scowling faces. Or mockery of the pitiful voice she saved just for voicemails to guilt you into calling her back (even though you'd just spoken to her a day ago) - you know, the one that is half whiny, half 'help I've fallen and I can't get up,' and all the best mastery of manipulation. The voicemails that I wish I'd saved at some point. Instead of just rolling my eyes and making a note to call her back... tomorrow. Because there was always a tomorrow.

Until there wasn't.

The timer goes off, and batch two is through. I drop molten chocolate on my shirt, after burning my thumb. As I try and fail to fully remove the stain, I accept that this shirt will always be a bit chocolaty. But hey, if anyone is looking that close, you just smack em!

And there she is again. Putting words in my mouth.

All the memories I use to craft this ghost grandma, this cherished curation, they blur together to create something I can keep not on a pedestal, but can instead use as a shield against anything sad or bad in this world. She exists only in our minds, in our stories, and in the imitations of her walking about still. She may not be as vivid, but all the moments leading up to her departure are just so clear in my mind...

-

I typed up everything for you, dear friends. Every memory. Every moment from that week before. Every regret. Every thought and feeling from the day of and the days that followed. I put it here in black and white, while the ghost shoulder-read. The timer went off, and the oven ran on, and the cookies saw a darker shade of pale.

Then I wondered why I'd kept all those thoughts inside so long. If that had been that dull, aching feeling in the pit of my stomach all these years. Maybe I just needed to tell the story so I could move on. You know, hang out with the ghost only on special occasions and not just anytime I allowed a free thought to wander.

Or maybe I need that little bit of sadness, to better appreciate the present and the ones I love.

Maybe I'm not ready to give up the ghost.**

So I took that black and white, and I wrapped it back up. In a little box. With a bow. And I tucked it away again. In the back, bottom corner of the little metaphorical chest where I hide all my other treasured thoughts.

I'm sorry I couldn't share it with you today. There may come a point where I'm ready. Or there may not. Either way, I sure do miss her. But, at least - and I'm sure she'd agree - all things are better with cookies...



*If you know me, I'm not very "good" at grieving. I don't express it well in person. That's why I burrow into a blog post and hide there instead. It's easier to walk around with a smile on, then to try and explain what's wrong. Because no one accepts the answer "I'm just sad today, is all." (Or I just act bitchy and cranky so people leave me alone, but that more often backfires...)
**In this sense or in the typical sense of the phrase either! Yet another phrase I never understood the meaning of....