Plastic Fantastic

It was exciting at first. Coming in on a red-eye flight from Denver, I saw the lights of Vegas creep up on my plane window and I felt the excitement well up in me. This is it, I thought. Finally. Vegas, baby. Vegas.

I decided the next morning to head out onto the strip and take it all in. I got so far as the Sphinx in front our hotel.

There were a dozen or so tourists out taking photos of it, and I stood there trying to figure out what was interesting about it. Usually, I'll take pictures of anything. But this, meh. I had no desire to take a photo of the big, fiberglass, day-glo blue trimmed Sphinx.

And that kind of sums up my general feelings about Las Vegas. Eh.

I feel like a failure for not loving it. Tell someone you don't like ice-cream and they'll think you're freakish, but they'll forgive you. Tell someone you're unimpressed by giant fiberglass Sphinxes, and Vegas as a whole, and they're likely to have you carted off by men in white coats.

Then they'll tell you all the reasons they loved it and why you're lame because you didn't: You didn't gamble enough. You didn't drink enough. You weren't with enough people.

But truly, the lights are the best part. If you've seen one casino, you've seen them all. They're like bowling alleys - smoky and sad with bad '80s carpet. Only they're worse, because you can't get out of them. I spent hours walking listlessly through casinos looking for the way out. Like department stores and malls, they're intentionally disorienting.

And the spectacle - or what I thought would be the spectacle - of casinos and pyramid shaped hotels, scaled eiffel towers, roller coasters and fake New York City skylines, all of it was so... plastic and ordinary. Dare I call Las Vegas boring? I dare!

I was trying to explain my feelings about it to a friend of mine last week when he asked me if I thought Vegas was as ridiculous and garish as the giant Jesus on I-75.

"Ridiculous! Are you kidding me," I said. "That Jesus is awesome. I'd take my picture with that fiberglass beauty anyday. Sheesh. I can't even believe I'm friends with you."

Barf-A-Rama

I've gone months, years even, without seeing someone throw-up. But today I saw two people vomiting.

The first was David Beckham during the England versus Ecuador match. I could watch him toss his cookies onto the pitch all day, I decided.

And the second was some poor girl who was heaving into the grass at the outlet mall in Jeffersonville.

Some days you just get lucky. And some days you get lucky enough to see David Beckham bent over, with that sweet ass in the air. Yes please!

Grrr Is For Ghana

Ugh! It was so frustrating watching the US vs. Ghana World Cup match this morning.

How big does the hole in front of the net need to be before you shoot the damn ball? Geezuz.

And let’s talk about flopping. How un-American and unseemly.

When Americans get hurt during games, they really get hurt. Bone-crushing, ACL-tearing, concussion getting hurt. They’re certainly not lying on the grass clutching their shin, wincing and whining to get a penatly. And when American’s are carted off the field on a stretcher, they don’t jump back into the game 12 seconds later.

But back to the playing.

When Clint Dempsey scored the only U.S. goal, the packed house at McFadden’s errupted, with strangers slapping double-high fives and cheering and clapping. During the at least half dozen replays, everyone got excited all over again and would cheer each time. It was fun.

But that was the only time the U.S. stretched the back of the net.

By the end it was painful for me watch the U.S. squander its ample opportunities to score again. Mostly I stood there saying, “It’s so painful. So painful. JUST SHOOT THE DAMN BALL!”

Wal-Mart: More Than Low Prices

The bathroom floor in my parent’s house has been slowly but surely sinking.

Whenever I would go home, it was more and more dangerous to step too close to the toilet or put all your weight down too near it because there was the real possibility that you could go through the floor.

My dad finally got around tearing up the floor last week, and told me that the water damage was far worse that he’d expected. Though I’m not sure how this is possible considering nearly everyone who went in there would come out and say, “Your floor is about fall through.”

Dad and his friend Willie fixed the leak and built a new floor, and mom picked out new tile. The tile was supposed to arrive three days ago. It didn’t. So they have no toilet for three days.

Where are they using the bathroom, you wonder? Me too.

“At Wal-Mart,” my mom said.

“But where are you going in the morning when you have to go really bad. Or what if there is an emergency,” I asked.

“Wal-Mart,” she said.

I asked my dad why they don’t just use the neighbors’ toilet.

“Mmm. I don’t want to do that. For one thing, I don’t want to track through their house. Besides that, Marianne is always about half drunk and Tom’s house is kind of dirty.”

But Wal-Mart is just a mile away.

Oh Snap!

Of all the things I saw in Vegas, this sign was my favorite.

It totally cracks me up. It's the mustache. And the question the sign raises: What's he snapping about? What is it in Mandalay Bay that makes this Latin honey snap his fingers?

The reason the commercials say, 'What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas' is because nothing actually happens and they don't want the word to get out. At least nothing was particularly crazy during my stay. Just ringing slot machines and shiny facades rising out of the dessert.

The craziest thing I saw in Vegas was Bob Roncker. I was getting out of a cab at the Las Vegas airport when I looked out of the window and there stood Bob at the curbside check-in. He and Joe were in town for an Asics conference and the three of us shared the same flight schedule back to Dayton.

Bob refused to let me pay for my sandwich during our two-hour Denver layover, and the three of us sat watching the World Cup and chatting about running shoes.

Crazy!

Like Peas and Carrots

My friend Mike got married last weekend, and I made the trek over state lines to watch.

It was my first Jewish ceremony, and it was incredible.

There was a time, when we were both just out of college and living in Virginia, that Mike and I were like peas and carrots. We ate dinner together most nights, stayed up late writing cover letters and drove into West Virginia to go to a sketchy bar/dance club to get down.

It always surprises me when someone surmises something about me I haven't before noticed. But this weekend, my Tall Drink of Water pointed out that I never think the people who marry my friends are good enough.

"No I don't," I said.

"You always say, 'She's lucky to have him' or 'He's lucky to have her,'" he said.

Hmmm. It's true. I do always say that.

Not that I don't think Mike's new bride is good enough, but if I were to, say, pick out a woman for him, she'd probably be a cancer-curing supermodel who hung on his every word.

Vegas, baby. Vegas.

This blog is on vacation in Fabulous Las Vegas.

Wow. No Really. Wow.

Sunday's dance retical was brought you by Kentucky's finest - bourbon. Cut with a little water and served in a Gatorate bottle, my fellow dancer, Jane (not pictured), kindly passed it around.

I helped myself to a few swigs to take the edge off.

I was more nervous than I thought I'd be back stage - wringing my hands and biting my fingernails. (What else is new?) And during the first tap dance, I had a few moments of "What the hell is the next step? Crap. I'm just gonna stand here smiling until I figure it out."

During the kick line, the audience started clapping and I sort of stopped kicking. Like, "Hey, that's all for me folks! I'm going out on a high note!"

But by the second and third dances, my nerves had calmed and I was on FIRE! Fo' real. I remembered all the steps, added a little extra hip to the jazz moves and embraced center stage during the second tap dance.

It was almost as for real as these costumes.

Susan here, whom you may remember from the CiN Weekly story Bye Bye Batwings, did all sorts of saucy moves that many of you, had you seen it, would not have been disappointed. I sure wasn't!

For those of you who didn't attend the big recital (which is all of you), I'll be having a special DVD showing in July when the video comes in.

Hot!

Last weekend I went home to Indiana for the first time since Christmas.

I'm ashamed to admit that I hadn't been to visit my parents, just three hours away, since December. So I used the long Memorial Day weekend to my advantage and even spend the night! Shocking, I know.

It was about 900 degrees and my dad decided that the window that the air conditioner is in HAD to be cleaned. So he took the A/C out and proceeded to spend the afternoon wiping down the windows and putting the A/C back in. He was right - the window did need cleaned.

I thought this photo of him was hilarious. That's the housing of the A/C, without the A/C in it. I never realized that some window units aren't one piece. Crazy.

This weekend will be a whirlwind.

Tomorrow morning is my dance recital rehearsal at 9, then I have soccer at 11. (I'm spent just thinking about it.)

Sunday is the big dance recital, which I've decided to dance in. My class has been ramping up all week for the stage with extra practices. Though I'm not sure it's helped me any.

I'm getting ready to practice right now in my kitchen while I wait for my soccer clothes to dry.

Sound Advice

This afternoon I interviewed Wall Street Journal reporter Dorothy Rabinowitz.

I rarely get nervous before interviews, but I was a bit nervous today before calling her because, well, she's a columnist for the Wall Street Journal and she's a Pulitzer Prize winner. In fact, she's the only Pulitzer Prize winner I've ever interviewed - or even talked to - I'm sure.

She won the Pulitzer in 2001 for commentary, mostly for columns about people wrongly accused of crimes. You can read the pieces here.

After a few questions I relaxed and she also became more open and conversational. I of course found her wildly entertaining. She must be at least in her 60s.

Anyway, we were discussing what journalists love to discuss: The supposed any-day-now demise of newspapers and the fact that advertisers are leaving them.

I told her it is worrisome for me. She agreed that it is very worrisome.

Then she said: "But if I were you, my dear, I would write more and worry less."

Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty

Free zoos rule!

When I found out the Lincoln Park Zoo was free I anticipated some stray dogs, maybe some kittens napping on each other and perhaps a bear.

Instead I found this gorgeous beast. He was in a cage by himself, and of course I felt a little bad for him that he wasn't out stalking prey on the veldt. But a few cages down was a lion and lioness, who were taking turns roaring, which I'd never seen before, and their roaring made the tiger roar too.

They were very passionate cats.

It's the closest I've ever been to these big kitties. They were only about ten feet away, with no glass between us. It was pretty cool.

Here's a crappy picture. The lighting was low and my hand wasn't steady enough to keep the shutter open long enough to take a decent photo.

In other whirlwind weekend news, Jen and Pat got officially engaged, which was why I was in Chicago. Apart from the engagement and tiger, my next favorite part of the weekend was the pizza pot pie I ate at Chicago Pizza and Oven Grinders.

Hello? Pizza pot pie... Best food ever.

AND... drum roll... we won our first soccer game!

To Move Or Not To Move

The first night I came to my apartment to see it after I signed the lease, there was water leaking from the light fixture and onto the floor in the foyer.

Months later during a heavy rain, my apartment sprang about a dozen leaks, with water coming up through the floor in the living room and closet, seeping through the drywall and light switches, even down through the ceiling fan.

I called the fat perv of a maintenance man and he gleefully came down to have a look-see and then asked, "What do you want me to do, hold an umbrella over the roof?"

He was soon replaced by another maintenance guy, who had high hopes of fixing the problem. The funny thing is, I live on the fourth floor of a seven floor building, but neither of my neighbors' apartments leak, only the crazy lady downstairs, and they fixed her leaking pretty early on.

Over the last year or so, these leaks have occurred with varying degrees of magnitude. Sometimes there's a lot of water and it smells really bad, other times there's just a little water.

I lovingly call my apartment The Maxi-Pad. Because it's super-absorbant.

Granted, there should be no water at all, but I've gotten kind of used to fearing heavy rains. Besides, the worthless yet genial rental girl knocks my rent in half whenever it happens. So it's saved me a lot of money, really. But it's also caused me a lot of grief. Fortunately it hasn't damaged any of my belongings, but my couch has gotten plenty wet. But it's been shredded by my cats, as well, so it's not like I care much what happens to it anymore.

The last time it leaked, a few months ago, it was really bad, like it was raining inside my apartment. So they replaced the horrible, indoor/outdoor type crap carpet that was in here with some really nice plush carpet. I was pleased. And the new maintenance guy stuck all sorts of stuff on the deck above mine to stop the water from coming in. So far so good.

I told them then though that I wanted another apartment. I couldn't deal with it anymore.

The rental girl called me last week to tell me another apartment on my floor, exactly like mine, will be open soon and I do I want to move into it? I told her I'd think about it.

It's very likely my apartment will leak again. (Which is really unfortunate with the new carpet and all.) But I really hate moving, which is why I've been tolerating this all this time. It's traumatizing for me. I've had some pretty rough days in my life, and I can truthfully say that some of them have been moving days.

Even though I'd be moving only a few doors down, I'd have to pack up my stuff, move it myself (it's not like they're going to hire movers for me), change my address, magazine subscriptions, cable, Internet, phone, etc., and then unpack. It would take up a weekend that I don't really have the inclination to fill with the tediousness of moving. And like I said, it really is somewhat traumatizing for me.

I haven't gotten back to the rental girl yet. I guess I'm still "thinking it over."

Right now, it is either thundering or the Reds hit a home run. I've got my fingers crossed for the latter.

Saturday Soccer

I whiff the ball three times for every one time I kick it.

But I'm really good at posing for pictures after games.

When I'm not whiffing and posing during games, I'm team photographer. Some of my finest work is on the The Kicking Kincades soccer blog.

Dance Class Costume. Discuss.

I’m thinking about not attending my dance class recital.

On the way to Starbucks with Kelly, Mike and Jon this week, I told them the story of how I don’t want to go because no one I know will be there.

The reason no one I know will be there is because I won't let anyone go. The costume is too ridiculous.

Kelly said she was surprised that I would worry what others thought of the costume. Her opinion was that I should own the look, no matter how heinous, and attend the recital.

Jon said the costume is just an excuse for not wanting to dance in the recital in the first place.

Mike said if the costume makes me uncomfortable, and clearly it does, then I shouldn’t go it if I don't want to.

It’s not bad enough that I danced at the Florence Mall wearing mariboo around my neck. That I can live with. Mostly because I was also wearing black pants and a long-sleeved shirt, and even though it had mariboo pinned around the scoop neck, it wasn’t too horrible.

But this. This awful, black, velvet body suit with the shiny pumpkin orange upper, not to mention the diamond studs, it’s just so bad. So very bad.

The capper is that for tap (of which there are two dances), we’ll be wearing an equally terrible black velvet fringed skirt. For hip hop, there are black velvet pants.

I’ve tried it on, and yes, it does look that bad.

The problem with dance classes is that the costumes haven’t progressed since I first started. In the third grade.

It’s not that I’m so vain that I can’t allow my friends to see me in it, it’s just that I’m not in the third grade anymore.

Initially I thought I’d dance in the recital, wear the outfit and just not invite anyone. But that’s no fun. I at least want someone I know to see the moves that months of dance class has got me.

But at what cost? At what cost I ask you.

Lucky shot, eh?

Suegus and Doogus kissing, just after being pronounced husband and wife.

Yay!

Public Service Announcement

Beware of this guy at Clearwater Beach. He is armed, with a camera (see his right hand), and takes pictures of all large breasted women in bikinis who come near him.

Needless to say, I wasn't worried for myself.

A woman with a pretty rockin' bod was on a towel near mine with her boyfriend and at one point Ol' Lech here walked over closer to her with his camera aimed right at her. It was brazen. But when her man sat up and caught him, he skittered away.

Just to ruin his fun, I would sit up and block his camera view of her when he'd try to photos while she was lying down. Whenever I'd sit up, he'd give up until I layed back down.

It was pretty shocking, really. Sort of.

Sick Mac

Poor iBook. For the last two months it's been tethered to the outlet. The battery won't recharge anymore yet the computer still thinks its fully charged. So sad.

I took it to the genius bar in it's gorgeous pink little Timbuk2 laptop bag to get it fixed last week. I was all excited to get home from Tampa and hopefully have it back, but no, it's not ready yet. I even called the Apple store twice yesterday to see if it was ready to bring home.

I'm nothing without my iBook.

Stay tuned for exciting photos from Florida and Sue's wedding! But of course, there will be no photos of lecherous fat men on the beach until I get my Mac back.

Horrible Soccer Injury!

Allright, so it's not really horrible. Or even an injury for that matter. But look, you can see the seams of the ball imprinted into my leg.

It's funny. You know how usually when you get hit, it hurts really bad for a few days whenever you touch it but it doesn't leave a mark? God I hate that, because it's like you're whining about an injury you don't really have because people can't see it.

In the case of the soccer ball imprint, it stung pretty bad when I got whacked, and there are still red lines and bruise marks on my leg where the seams were on the ball, but oddly, it doesn't hurt. No internal brusing at all. It's like skin injury.

I'll take what I can get.

I was hoping there would be another similar mark on my right arm from when I body blocked a different flying pass. It hurt pretty bad, but alas, it left no lasting imprint.

That's my contribution to defense: Block the ball with my soft tissue and hope it bounces off me in the general direction of our goal. (Being that I have no dribbling, running or technical soccer skills.)

FYI

Home brew is combustable, my dad told me last night.

"In case you've been meanin' to make any," he said.

Let's Glow Girls!

The shelves are glowing at Target, awash in daily moisturizers that also have self-tanners in them.

And I can't get enough!

Over the last few weeks I've been obsessed (you could call it my new hobby) with trying the different types.

Here are my very unscientific thoughts on three of them.


Neutrogena Summer Glow
Me and Neutrogena Summer Glow are like peas and carrots. Like peanut butter and chocolate. Thickern thieves we are.
It was the package that attracted me yet made me question how effective it could be. How could a product advertising itself as a moisturizer with self tanner not be copper or bronze like all the other lotions with tanner?
Didn't Neutrogena do focus groups and product testing with the public to realize that people only associate self tanners with bronze packaging? Apparently not.
But I bought it anyway, doubting my decision all the way through the checkout line. But I love it!
The smell is subtle (a big plus), and is a bit like baby powder. The lotion is fast drying so you're not still sticky after it dries and it leaves a subtle yet noticable amount of color. I've been using it the last few days on my face, and not to brag or anything, but I've gotten several compliments. (Ok the compliments were from girls, but girls notice stuff like that.) The color would likely be too subtle for someone with darker skin, but for fair and medium tones, Summer Glow is where it's at.


L'Oreal Sublime Glow
Before Neutrogena Summer Glow came into my life, I was singing the praises of Sublime Glow. But it was one of those things where you fall in love fast, ignoring the irritating things, then you realize that something is amiss. Sublime Glow smells nice enough, a kind of a sweet, thick smell, but what I kind of hate about it but didn't notice at first is the way it sticks to your skin long after you've rubbed it in and it has dried. I feel like I'm salve collecting dust and small insects when I'm wearing it, and it feels like my clothes are sticking to me.
The color is great, though, which is why I ignored the faults at first. It's a natural color, not orange or streaky, and aside from a few blotches around my knees and elbows, it developed pretty evenly.
I used it one day last week and let it dry several minutes before dressing to see if the stickiness lessened, but no. After about an hour or so, though, I either forgot about it or it absored enough into my skin that the stickiness went away.
Either way, I still use it and am a pretty big fan. I've been using both Neutrogena Summer Glow and L'Oreal Sublime Glow back and forth and can't decide if Sublime Glow gives me more color or if that's just my perception because I used it first and had such good results or if it's because the packaging is bronze and therefore I think it makes me darker. (Ahhh packaging.)


Jergens Natural Glow
Jergens Natural Blow is more like it. This one came out last year and launched lotion tanning boom. The tan with this one was fine, a light, non-orange type tan, but I could not get get over the smell. At first I thought it was OK, but then it really started stinking like regular self-tanner and I couldn't wait to wash off. I felt like I was walking around emanating that tannic, self-tanner smell. Because I was.
If you can handle the smell, by all means. Otherwise, leave this one the shelf.