I've spent the last three days either sleeping, napping, or watching television. My eyeballs are sizzling and my mind and body are gelatinous mush. I wish I could say that the Food Network and home channels have sprouted a plethora of decorating ideas and gourmet cooking tips in my brain...well, actually, there is just one. "Use only roma tomatoes when you're making bruschetta sauce because other varieties are too watery." There. Isn't that impressive for an ungodly thirty hours of cable television? This is what happens when I'm sick.
The Zicams and Niquils are playing a sweet duet with my palate. I've been well taken care of....brought tissue, tomato soup, and grilled cheese sandwiches....but being sick...umm...sucks. Especially when you're at your future in-law's home, sniffling on their couch, drooling on their blankets, monopolizing their television with "Bridezilla," "Property Virgins," and "Top Chef" all day.
And when did I start my waltz with this pestry bug? On the very day that we were celebrating our engagement in high style at the Palazzo down on the Vegas strip. A fancy-schmancy luxury sweet on the 31st floor, plush furry robes, an elegant tub with dim lights, curtains that raise by remote, and a view of the pirate show below at the Tropicana. It was amazing! In between my sneezes and discreet sprays of Zicam, we had a fabulous time.
Our hotel was a bastion of hoighty-toity shopping. We rambled past one bling shop, purse shop, and shoe shop after another. The infamous Jimmy Choo's, which Carrie of Sex in the City wore so proudly upon the grimy streets of New York, were suddenly prancing in a window. I simply had to go inside and see why they were slightly more expensive than the Pay Less varietals that sit in my closet.
You have to have big fashionista chutzpah to wear most of his shoes. Not for the run-of-the-mill Old Navy t-shirt and Target jeans day. Here is a shoe (on the right), that given the right frock, I could imagine wearing...briefly...then needing to sit down. I am not sure when girls learned to walk in high heels, but I apparently was absent that day. I mean truthfully, leave me some comments about when you first tackled "the walk" because I simply can't do it. I'm 33 years old and I stumble, waddle, and trip when I even try to walk in shoes with a tiny heel. And platform-schmatform...anything with height has my face contorted in a nervous twist, my ankles jiggling, and my feet throbbing.
But back to these golden jeweled babies. Now, the woman at the counter spotted my dusty boots and continued chatting on her cell phone. We were thus, given the freedom to chortle about the prices. How much do you think these pearls cost? Well, if I broke it down in the number of sub days that I would have to work, it would come to eight. If I sat in a classroom for eight days with random teenagers, controlling chaos, I could come home and proudly sit in these shoes. Not stand...and certainly not walk...but sit.
Now, I'm naked, mind you. I don't have a single garment that could splash dignity above these shoes...and I need a pedicure, so I'd hide my toe tips under a blanket....hmmmm...the look is ruined. And you're dying to know how much they cost...so here goes. Click to enlarge the sticker shock.
And then it was hat time. I'm wearing "Oprah's Favorite Visor" and he's not.
Anyone for a sunlit stroll through the canals of Venice?
What about an overpriced almond cookie, coated with goo and flying dried apple wings at Woo?
All in all, our romp with the upper crust was fun. We managed to stretch our free $50 on the slot machines for a ridiculous amount of time. I floated on the same screen for twenty minutes while we waited for our free drinks.... pocketing the coasters, matches, and napkins for mementos, while milking the system for as many drops of free booze as possible.
And if you think there was single loofah, shampoo bottle, or lemon verbena bar of soap left in that suite at checkout? You've got me all wrong.