Taco huh?

I've been in Columbia about one month now. It would probably be appropriate to report that I've dropped the useage of my car to 1-2 days a week with 10-15 miles tops put on the vehicle per week. That's going to round out to 60 miles a month, assuming I don't make any major trips, which means a tank of gas may well last me several months. THAT is something I'd die to see.

Tonight though, I found myself firing up my Saturn for a clandestine trip. As I plugged my coordinates into my Garmin and located my destination I was very aware of the cars around me. Would they know where I was going? I didn't want to give any clues, so I drove speed limit and stayed in the lane opposite to where I'd need to be. Then, 2.1 miles from my apartment, I made a left hand turn...

Into the Taco Bell drivethru.

Okay, there's really nothing clandestine about that. I wasn't really worried about it. But I was CRAVING Del Taco tonight with a passion that I can't even describe. I have heard of such cravings, had laughed them off as weakness of people who had moved away from home, but to actually EXPERIENCE this craving...it was too much for me to bear.

In my mind were pictures of spicy jack quesadillas and Big Fat Chicken tacos (especially the ones I'd get with jalepeno poppers after me and my workout buddies would hit the gym. I know, it totally defeated the purpose, but they were SOOO GOOD!) I imagined Coke products and Del Scorcho sauce.

But alas, there are NO Del Tacos in the great state of South Carolina. There are Taco Bells...but Taco Bell is a cheap bastardization of a perfectly delectable fast food creation, in my opinion.

Still...tonight I was up a creek without a paddle...er, taco. I slid into the drivethru and ordered something random. It was there that I received my first bit of South Carolina rudeness, and I'm happy to find that some things (ie, the rudeness of Taco Bell employees) are just universal truths no matter what state you're in.

As I headed home with my ill-gotten goods I had to laugh at myself. I felt so un-Southern. I felt so un-South Carolinian. I felt so...Las Vegan. Sigh.

I guess its true. You can take the girl out of the city...

But you'll never take the craving for really decent fast food out of the girl.

"And I won't be back..."

Today is a day of reflection. I've been settled in Columbia for over a week, have spent more than I care to know about (it was all necessary, I keep telling myself...I mean, the tire went flat, I had to fix it--right?), and am finally settling in to this world that is now my own. What can I say?

The campus is beautiful. I have gotten to the point of irritating my classmates because I keep repeating, "This is unreal. We go to school here?!" There is more natural green than anyone has a right to, sunlight for miles, and regular rain. My cats are learning to be indoor creatures (though Oliver isn't exactly thrilled at the prospect. I'm just too neurotic about the road I live on to have him trying to cross it), and I'm finding routine.

I have a full kitchen here, which I admit is nice. The full bath tub has also been nice.

I'm not fully fitting in yet. I don't guess I ever really feel like I fit in anywhere, anyway, so this is really par for the course. I've met a few people who are quickly becoming fixtures and a few people who understand and can support my faith and its dominance in my life. This whole move is God's move, and I know for some that sounds really corny, but I have no clue what I'm doing here. I have to hold on with both hands.

I'm losing weight, thanks in large part to the amount of walking I'm doing these days. I try to walk everywhere I go. This isn't difficult since school is at the end of the street and the supermarket is just a few blocks down. When the weather is more pleasant I'm sure it will be even better to be walking.

At the moment I'm hosting my younger brother--we were sure the truck would take forever to get here so we scheduled his return flight for very close to school starting. Poor kid, his whole summer has been spent traveling. I have to admit that although there have been brother/sister feud moments and he and I are very different, I will miss him terribly when I take him to the airport. It has been nice to have someone to cook for and talk to. Even if he is often poking fun at me. That's what brothers are for, I suppose.

I miss the ones I love, but I don't miss Vegas at all. In fact...I am finding that anything that even remotely reminds me of the "Vegas" that I left is receiving an extremely negative reaction from me. A lot of people thrive in Vegas. I've never been one of them. And now, its almost like having a wound that someone is picking at--when people bring up things that remind me of the negative experiences from there I am super sensitive. Hopefully time will numb that and I'll be able to say the word without cringing.

Beyond that--nothing much to report. Stay tuned though...I'm sure an adventure is just around the corner.

Leaving Las Vegas PT. 1

It is Friday July 31st. I am sitting in a Clarion Hotel room (on the site of Sherman's Columbia headquarters during the Civil War...be jealous history buffs. Very jealous.) in Columbia South Carolina. I've got no clue where the week has gone. All I know is that I have mental whiplash.

Let's begin at the beginning:

Sunday rolled around and I was finishing the final touches on my packing. Packing is about as much fun as getting a root canal and probably equally painful. I was supposed to have heard from my driver, but nothing came. I had a laundry list of things my mother wanted me to do and things she wanted me to take with me on my trip (in order to drop them off to her, of course.)

I had originally planned to leave on Tuesday after meeting a classmate for a little while to say, "Hello," and my mentor for a bit to say, "Goodbye!" We (my brother and I) were going to arrive in Blanco, TX for a while to stay with my father for a day or two. Then we were going to drive down to Houston for a day or two. I then had planned to head north through Dallas to say hello to a friend there, then on to Oklahoma to say hi to a friend in Norman. We'd planned to hit CoLa some time on Tuesday. I figured we'd be sleeping on the floor of the new apartment for a few days.

Well....

Monday rolled around and I called Movex, my moving company, to say I hadn't heard from my driver and thought they'd given him my disconnected number instead of my good number. They gave him my new number and about ten minutes later I hear from my driver: Richard. He will be at my house at 12:30 for loading purposes.

When he comes by he opens the truck and there before us is a space that is about 8 feet across and about four feet deep. It was definitely 15-20 feet tall, but a lot of good that does us. I looked at my porch. I looked at the space.

"This is never going to work." I muttered.

When I was a child my family used to make frequent visits to a museum in Cedar City (or maybe St. George) Utah, that commemorated the crossing the Plains of the Mormons during the great wagon train crossings. This museum had a little scale sized model of a wagon with about two dozen blocks in different sizes to represent barrels, foodstuffs, beds, dressers, and other things that pioneers might have wanted to take with them across the Plains. The goal of this exhibit was to see how carefully one could pack the items in the wagon. You had to decide which things to keep and which to leave...and sometimes, if you got really creative with the packing--everything fit.

That's what happened.

After an hour and a half of dragging, hauling, pushing, and tugging, Richard and my brothers had managed to fit nearly everything in the back of the truck and shut the doors.

Obstacle One: Score.

So now we start to talk about arrival dates. Movex had told us that they were going to be arriving somewhere between the 31st and the 9th...I shot for the middle of that with my plans.

Richard informs me that since I was the last one on I'd be the first one off of the truck. He wanted to drop me off in CoLa on Friday.

"Woah, woah, woah..." I said, "I wasn't planning on being there until Tuesday!"

"We can do Sunday at the VERY latest," he said, "Can I do Saturday?"

So, I did some quick thinking, realized that all things considered this was the best possible option, and agreed.

I immediately cancelled everything. Lunches, appointments, roadstops.

The only person who put up a fuss (as usual) was my mother--in Houston--who threw at me every single method of guilt in her tool box until I finally agreed to make the 12 hour detour and stop for the night in Houston.

Now we just had to make it to Columbia.

I told Michael to have everything ready by noon. This was 7 hours sooner than our original departure time. SecondSister came over and helped me eco-pack the car so that again nearly everything fit. I cleaned out the apartment, handed my key back to my adoptive family and after a few semi-tearful goodbyes, we were off. I didn't have time to cry, I didn't have time to think, I didn't even have time to process.

In fact, I was all the way to Louisiana before it hit me that this was real and I was actually moving.

I drove for 28 hours straight from Vegas to Houston (with a pit stop every 200 miles or so since Michael and I have the Zabonik bladder and constantly need to go). Michael and I had a lot of good talks about our lives, things we've done (or not done), family issues, and ourselves. He made me laugh, he made fun of my music, and he washed my windows. Not bad, since I'm only paying the price to feed him.

In Houston, we basically fell asleep in our food. We crashed on the couches at my parent's condo, got up the next morning early, grabbed som Kalachis (if you've never heard of it, Google it. They're delicious) and hit the road again.

My GPS, Alice, took us through Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama before we made a harsh left. Up through the state of Alabama, then to Georgia, finally arriving in South Carolina at about 2:30 local time (AM).

Today has been a day of wandering and wasting time. The key to the apartment wouldn't be ready until six pm, so we drove my neighborhood and around the campus and then out to Lexington to talk to my contact there. It is raining, and has been most of the day. It is warm, but not terrible, and humid--but not awful. Maybe the weather will get worse. My contact in Lexington said this was a normal day, weather-wise.

If that is true, I've arrived in Heaven.

The truck comes tomorrow. I'm sure new adventures await there. Stay tuned!

Wax on...Wax off!

Vegas is a grand illusion. For whatever reason, the combination of tacky colors, neon lighting, and unrealistic body images has come together as the recipe for perfection and keeps this town stocked in tourists willing to pay good money for just about anything. This being the case, I could think of nothing more fitting on my final tour of the town than a visit to Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum at the Venetian. At least here, they advertise that the people inside are fake.

Currently admission is somewhere around $25 for tourists; however, us locals get a nifty discount and only have to pay $10 for admission. Normally, locals admission is $18; but, since they're celebrating their ten-year anniversary, the museum has opened itself up for just over half of that price. It really is a good deal.

Mme. Tussaud's has two floors filled with an ever rotating circuit of celebrities. Sure, there are the staples: Whoopi Goldberg is always out front. Hugh Hefner and Jenna Jameson are always near the entrance (you can pose with Hef in complete bunny ear regalia). But other exhibits change or move and so if you haven't been to the museum in a while, now is the time to go.

He made that shot without even looking!

If you've never been to a wax museum (Mme Tussaud's is by far the best I've ever seen) then walking in can be a little awkward. Guests are encouraged to touch the statues, pose with them, act like total dorks around them, and overall just have fun. So long as the statue isn't on a platform that says "Please don't climb," anything goes.

Some of the exhibits are more interactive than others. Guests can don a wedding dress and marry George Clooney. They can pull out a putter and play golf with Tiger Woods. Stand on the stage of American Idol and let Simon Cowell give you the evil eye. Join the Blue Man Group. Ride Evel Kneivel's motorcycle.

Of course, that first statue is always the weirdest moment. Today, it was Indiana Jones (my personal hero). Now the question is--how much is too much? Do you just pose next to him, or do you yank out all the stops? Within a few minutes, you too will be choking, kissing, hugging, and mugging it out with the celebrity of your choice.

Some of the statues (Ben Affleck, Brad Pitt, George W. Bush) look close, but wouldn't fool you. Others (Angelina Jolie, Barack Obama, Mayor Oscar Goodman) are so lifelike that if the picture is taken correctly, you could absolutely confuse your neighbors.

"Come on Ben, let me show you a thing or two. Trust me--I'm a local."

After gasping at Criss Angel's abs, singing with Sinatra, and landing on the moon, my friend and I landed in the gift shop (where every hilariously snarky novelty known to man is sold at an overinflated price). I bought a few kitchen magnets with snarky sayings (hey, I saved a bunch of money on admission--I figured it'd even out) and we were on our way--completely entertained on a skinny budget.

Madame Tussaud's gets two thumbs way, way up for being one of the few attractions in town that is absolutely honest about what it is--a museum full of imitations. Not to mention--its a lot of fun!

Since we're discussing things that aren't real--later tonight I took my SecondSister to Town Square, a shopping district on the south end of the Strip. There really isn't a good way to describe this place except to say that it is a cross between Disneyland and a zoo for humans. Everything is polished and perfect (kind of like "Main St. USA") with false shop fronts (that lead to real--and really expensive--boutiques), perfectly groomed trees with speaker boxes that play music, and a park in the center. The park has a water feature for the kids, but the water is the only real part about the place. The expanse of grass is fake, the shrubs that make up the kiddie maze are fake, and the overall atmosphere is just one tick off of weird. SecondSister and I come to this place for Yogurtland, the frozen yogurt place that sells yogurt and toppings by the ounce. It makes for a very cheap but interesting way to spend an evening.

Most nights we take our yogurt and head over to the park to people watch. There are couples dancing to the music under the plastic gazebo (which is made to look like marble), there are families with blankets on the fake grass and kids on that same grass playing football, there are people walking their dogs (huh?). Its surreal.

I turned to SecondSister and started to tell her that I thought the place reminded me of a zoo for yuppies. We began to make up Dr. Suess-like rhymes to describe the place:

"Come my little child to the people zoo

Where the grass is fake, and the people are too!

They come in couples and as singles,

They're here to show off and to mingle

Proving that they have got so much money

They can pay to make this place sunny!"

There was more too it--but I can't remember it all. In essence, this place is part of why I can't stand this town. It is absolutely fake--everything about it is fake--but people are enjoying it as if it is real. This is frustrating. It isn't real. It is a guilded cage people, a guilded cage!

And for me the glitz and glamour has entirely worn off.

Only in Vegas...

Today I was treated to a taste of Vegas I'm actually going to miss.

I got a really good discount on some show tickets to take my stepdad to a show for Father's Day (pays to be a local with connections), so I made the necessary calls. I waited until the sun had begun to go down to actually make the drive down (we've been having weird heat here lately. It has actually been hottest at 5PM, no at 1 or 2 like it usually is).

Traffic on the I-15 is one of my biggest gripes, but tonight it wasn't that bad. This may have been because of the hour, or because I got off at the Spring Mountain exit before it got the chance to slow down, but it definitely added to my mood. I started to take in the Strip, realizing that there really is nowhere in the world quite like it and on some level I will someday miss being able to see the colorful neon buildings from anywhere in the city.

I pulled into the Mirage, continuing to wax nostalgic about the memories I've had and the new buildings that have gone up in the past few years (and sadly noting the number of abandoned projects that stand with unmoving cranes as a silent witness to what the Vegas economy has become in the last 18 months). I headed down to the casino floor to get to the ticket box office. On the way through I took special notice of the people around me.

I passed a woman in a white sundress and a big sash across her chest that read "Bride-To-Be" with a half dozen women in purple sundresses following her around in a fit of giggles. They looked like they were having a lot of fun.

Then I saw the group of guys making bets over who was going to be able to drink more tonight without getting sick. I rolled my eyes. The night was young, and these guys were still sober, but I could imagine what they'd be like as they stumbled across the Strip with the giant 3 ft tall plastic glasses filled with alcoholic concoctions. Then I imagined them waking up tomorrow not entirely sure what they'd done the night before but knowing they'd had one helluva time.

I got to the ticket counter and noticed that there were a whole range of people in line. People dressed like they were going to the opera. People dressed like they were going to the beach. People dressed like they were going to a nightclub. And me....dressed like I'd spent my day in a UNLV dorm (UNLV flipflops, UNLV shorts, UNLV t-shirt...I was a walking billboard for my alma mater).

Then, I headed back to my car. I passed through the giant atrium with the huge skylight that had the coolest (and tallest) palm trees I've ever seen. The atrium is inside the casino (which is filled with smoke) so you can't smell any of the gorgeous flowers...but I'm sure the flowers would smell lovely otherwise. I crossed the bridge and was passed by a group of girls. One was playing a eukelele and singing.

On the way out, I passed several international visitors in clothing that seemed to say they were from India talking to a man in a Yamulke about the best places to eat in this particular casino.

I took a moment at the top of the parking garage to take some pictures of the buildings around me and consider exactly what I'm about to be leaving.

Don't get me wrong. There are some quirks and some weird things about Vegas that make it interesting...that really set it apart from other cities. These are things you'll never find anywhere else. But this is a place I'd like to visit...not a place I'd ever want to live permanently.

But...I will miss it.

Stoney's Night Out (Attempt Numero Dos)

"So I was thinking," says second-sister on Friday night, "What's say we go to Stoney's tomorrow?"

This is how the fun always starts with us.

Saturday night, after spending the day trying to keep my younger brothers from losing their minds (my parents are out of town and my teenaged brothers are sometimes not really 100% trustworthy), I made it back to my apartment to try to find something (anything!) to wear. Usually I would throw on a sundress (my latest outfit of choice) but I decided that I wanted to ride the mechanical bull--totally negating any skirts.

Well, darnit.

Open up the closet only to realize that I have a mound of dirty laundry about as tall as a professonial bull rider where I quickly realize I've tossed my best blue jeans, my favorite capris, and all of my gauchos. Half of my nice sundresses are there also, since it seems I haven't done laundry since Bill Clinton was claiming he had not had sex with "that woman."

Finally I see that up on my overhead shelf I have a pair of Daisy Duke shorts that I bought when I was in high school (a million and some years ago). I'm looking at a night with my cats if I can't find something to wear (read: I was pretty desperate) so I drag them down, say a prayer, and yank them up my caboose.

Ok--for your info they fit just fine. I've gained a little weight since senior year, but I'm healthier now than I used to be and most of my mass is muscle--honestly! However...I'm a grown woman now and that means I have things I didn't have in high school. Like cellulite masses clumped on the back of my thighs. Yeck. I'm out of options though, so I pray that all the guys will catch me from the front or side and that it will be too dark/they will be too drunk to notice that I look like a commercial for liposuction from behind. Throw on my Texas Longhorns t-shirt (HookEmHorns!) and off I go.

Secondsister invited her friend Gorgeous. Between us we look like a bad joke...you know, the ones that start "So a blonde, a brunette, and a redhead walked into a bar...." We look pretty good. We have plans to have some fun.

"You gonna ride the bull?" SecondSister chides. She normally would, but her back is giving her some trouble today (convenient excuse!) so she can't.

"Ok!" I say. Check that thing off my list.

I pay the guy $10 (he works on tips) and toss my sandals. Then, like a pro, I mount the mechanical bull and prepare for a ride.

*Here is where I put my disclaimer. I've been riding mechanical bulls for about three years now. I like to see how long I can stay on without being thrown and I prefer to have no-stops-pulled when it comes to how the guy runs the machine. However, being female, I can not escape this particular bull-operator's fancy for making you look hellaciously suggestive. I'm just looking to ride, he wants you to look like you're about to drop your top for the bar. Yuck.

The ride starts with the usual "Vibrating Bull" where the operator shakes it back and forth. I casually scratch my forehead with my middle finger. This is not why I paid him $10. He continues with the slow up-and-down of the bull. I yawn. I'm not playing this game. The bull operator is now tired of me not playing along. He spins the bull around and promptly throws me off.

I'm slightly ticked. I mean, if he'd done the bucking that he does for the guys, I could've stayed on. Spinning is harder to hold on because he spins you one direction and then the other--because he wants you off.

Whatever. I smile, tip SecondSister's hat to him and put my shoes back on.

Now they're playing the Cha-Cha slide on the dance floor. I go running. I love to dance. Any dance. I love to two-step but that's hard to do if you're not in the mood to be molested by guys you don't know. So--SecondSister and I just hit all of the line dances we know (and I sometimes screw up the ones I don't). Unfortunately, tonight her back hurts enough that dancing is out. So she sends me and Gorgeous to the floor.

I start dancing. Come on--the Cha-Cha slide is about as difficult as making toast. They GIVE you the directions.

Gorgeous refuses to dance. I don't care. She goes running, I keep dancing.

Then I look over and who should I see next to me but SecondSister. I want to hug her. Talk about friendship! I know her back is going to be killing her in the morning, make a mental note to buy her painkillers, and we dance the song through.

The whole night comes to a head though when we find a table and take a seat. I'm sitting in such a way that my legs look pretty good (casually hiding my cellulite and showing just the runner's muscle I've been working so hard to get). I only know that this worked because several cowboys came by and sat at the table next to us. I looked over just in time to watch one of them take a long appreciative look at my legs. He didn't bother with my top half--his eyes started on my shorts then from shorts to knee, from knee to ankle, back up to knee, then back up to shorts. He nodded, smiled, and looked away without ever acknowledging me. It was as if he said to himself, "Huh. Nice legs." and went on with his night.

It made my night.

SecondSister and I left soon after and headed to one of the 24 hour pancake houses where we giggled and contemplated the decade we've been friends. It was a great night.

Chalk one more up to the check list!

A Stone's Throw from a Tiki Lounge

Yesterday was Wednesday, which is to say that yesterday was my weekly night of shenanigans with my second-sister (best friend). We were originally planning to go to Stoney's--the country bar and dance club at the far south end of the Strip. They just opened a new location in the Santa Fe Station (far north side of town) called Stoney's North Forty. My ex-boyfriend told me that this was the place to be.

First mistake: taking advice from my ex on good hang-outs.

We showed up at Stoney's North Forty with a load of expectations. I wore a handkerchief sundress and my boots. My friend was in her trademark pink cowboy hat. We were ready to take advantage of cheap drinks, cute cowboys, and a dance floor. We were sorely disappointed.

The room was maybe as big as my parents' living room. It was also full of people who were most definitely drawing the Senior Citizen discount. We had been promised young people. We had been promised good dancing. We left with a mission.

"Fine." I said, "Stoney's South Strip it is!"

Fast forward to two extremely determined cowgirls making a 20 mile drive to the other location, where we had never been disappointed before.

"Are they open?" she asked, as we pulled into the mega-parking lot.

"I'm sure...maybe its just early." I said.

"It's nine o'clock." my friend said. "Where is everyone?"

Well...as it turns out: Stoney's North Forty has lady's night on Wednesdays (where they STILL charge you an entrance fee. Seriously?) and since this is the case, Stoney's South Strip now is no longer open Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday--which forces you to go to the lame new property to get your kicks. With the senior citizens. And the claustrophobia. Are you KIDDING ME?

Completely disappointed, but still looking for a cheap buzz, I suggested that we head over to Frank's Tiki Lounge on Charleston.

Frank's is a dive (to put it mildly) in a not-too-pleasant part of town. From the outside it looks like a concrete Cold War bunker.

Walk inside though...and its as if you've been transported into every terrible 1940's-1950's surfer movie you've ever seen. Tiki lights, Tiki gods, and terribly uncomfortable chairs compete with the really overdone surfer music for "tacky-prize-of-the-night." Its a neighborhood bar so the people are certainly not glamourous and its small so you're not going to find a lot of night life there.

In truth, Frank's has one real purpose on its little corner: Getting you drunk quickly and cheaply.

I've never had a mixed drink as good as they make them there (or as strong!) and for 8 bucks you get a buzz in a glass. Its awesome. Before you know it, you're floating away to happy land with a fruit/rum/ice mixture rated on a scale of 1-5 skulls based on how trashed you're going to get.

Being that I was the designated driver for the night, I couldn't get such a buzz...and so really got to soak in the tacky-factor from Frank's. My friend, on the other hand, had two drinks and didn't even make it all the way through her second one before she was basically rolling on the floor hysterical.

The best part of course, was her insistance that she could shoot things down the top of my dress with appropriate aim. Suddenly ice, lime rinds, match sticks, and all other weird objects were fair game for the shoot-things-down-my-blouse game. Funny, yes, but would've been funnier if I would've also been imbibing...since Frank's is certainly not the place you go for atmosphere.

I hobbled her out of there at half past ten, sloshed and hatless. Someone would come running out to tell us that the hat had been put on one of the Tiki gods behind the bar.

Only in Vegas.

Just another real night in Sin City...