Hubby and I had to leave the house by 3 in the morning to get to the airport in time for our fabulous Las Vegas adventure. You remember--the one where we stayed at Circus effing Circus?
I didn't have time to put on make-up and didn't care at that hour of the morning. I figured I'd have a chance to apply Bondo and a coat of paint in the lot of the park-n-ride while Hubby was inside filling out the paperwork. It would have been a flawless plan except that we arrived just as the shuttle operator was climbing into the driver's seat. It was a mad dash for me to load the luggage while Hubby scrawled our info onto the registration card. There would be no leisurely make-up application in the car.
Oh well. We were plenty early, the airport ladies' room would suffice. I would buck up and brave being seen naked faced in public long enough to check in and go through security.
The handsome ticketing agent noticed our address. "I went to high school there" he mentioned. I was guessing he was about 10 years younger than me. Hubby asked the young man, "What year did you graduate?" His answer shocked me, "1984."
How dare he. How dare he look 10 years younger than me but have graduated a year ahead of me! Grrrrr.
"Oh," I said in surprise, "I was '85. What's your name?"
"No way! Don W? I remember you! We worked together at that pizza restaurant!"
Don smiled politely. And blankly. Don had no recollection of me. Don was football star, top-tier popular. I was a quiet second in the social strata. We may have worked together, but it was only for a very short time and, after all, it was 20ish years ago. There wasn't even a flicker of recognition across his face . . .
Not only was I standing there feeling stupid for bringing up the subject of our mutual (and evidently forgettable) teenage years, but also the airport was a balmy 80 degrees. Celsius. Making my non made up face sweaty and blotchy. I felt like a million bucks . . .
But really? Our trip was wonderful. Hubby and I had a great time together--just the two of us for a change. We did the tourist thing--looked at the fun themed hotels and window shopped. Went to some interesting shows and did a tiny bit of gambling. Neither Hubby nor I can stand to chance our money like that, but we were both willing to play the nickel machines just enough to get free drinks. We sat together pushing the slot machine buttons every so often, but mostly we talked and laughed.
I suck at gambling. I don't understand the machines. Too many choices. At one point I accidentally hit the "maximum bet" button. I panicked. Hubby reminded me, "Kristin--it's 75 cents--calm down." I am indeed a country mouse : )
On our last night there we went to the Freemont Street Experience. In one of the funky old casinos there was a sign advertising deep fried Twinkies. Deep fried Twinkies!!!! I had to try one. It was served just like a corndog--on a stick. It tasted a lot like . . . a Twinkie . . . deep fried . . . on a stick . . .
Hubby took a bite and accidentally pulled the stick out too. I jokingly commented that he got the "Twinkie bone." Naturally, that led to some mature and sophisticated repartee. References were made to going down on the Twinkie. And about getting Twinkie splooge on his shirt. I am such a grown-up. You can take the girl out of the trailer park, but . . .