So I had my tonsils taken out a while back. I realize that people my age don't normally have their tonsils taken out. There is a reason for that...because it hurts like hell. For me however, there was little choice. My tonsil-related illnesses were getting worse as I got older. My last bout was a doozy, it hit me like a truck five days before Christmas of 2010. After three days in bed struggling to breathe (swollen tonsils were obstructing my breathing) and no relief from antibiotics, I almost dialed up St. Nick and cancelled Christmas. Finally my doctor prescribed a steroid. Not only did I feel better fast, I was like an elf on, well, steroids. I was up all night long wrapping packages with gusto, assembling toys and vowing to try and get my hands on some 'roids come next Christmas.
I promised myself that was going to be my last throat infection. My doctor recommended I see a specialist and get them removed. The throat doc agreed. I scheduled the surgery for the end of February 2011. There are some people out there that will tell you that this surgery is a piece of cake. It TOTALLY is...if you're five (**see my sidebar below). As is usually the case, those toddlers bounce back quick. Not so much for the older set.
The throat doc told me to expect two weeks of pain and two additional weeks of discomfort. She told me I would need to arrange for someone to take care of my children during the two-week painful period. I remember her telling me that and thinking, "I've had three kids, I'm a stay-at-home mom, I KNOW pain. How bad could this really be?" But I did as I was told and arranged to have my mom come for the first week post-surgery and my mother-in-law the second.
On the morning of the surgery, I was the only one over the age of six in the tonsillectomy pre-op waiting area. The child-life specialist working the room gave me the evil eye when I asked her why she passed me by while handing out Dora stickers. Really, lady? I deserved a hell of a lot more than a sticker for my bravery in that situation. Their post-op pain was going to be nothing compared to mine. I could have totally ruined that woman if I wanted to. I could have easily thrown together a massive panic attack and started to scream and cry about the impending pain. You don't think those kids would have started a Shawshank-style prison riot seeing a mother of three freak out like that? That child-life specialist got off easy, that's all I have to say.
I came out of the surgery and felt okay. The narcotics were lovely. I had a popsicle or two and went home. That's when the fun started. I had done my research ahead of time and learned that it was crucial to stay ahead of the pain. So Mark filled my percoset prescription and set alarms for the precise hour that I could take more. Once the heavy-duty stuff from the hospital wore off, it felt like someone had taken a weed-wacker to my mouth. Which makes sense, cuz that's what happened. I maintained that level of agonizing pain for nine days. Nine. Zero improvement from day to day. I ate nothing except popsicles and Slurpees. I laid in my bed and watched Paula Deen cooking shows and Keeping Up with the Kardashians. I basically shuffled around my house and did a lot of moaning because the pain was so intense.
On day nine, I became an emotional wreck. In an attempt to make myself feel better, I decided to try on clothes that had been sitting in the back of my closet since my law school days and hadn't fit since shortly after graduation. That was when I turned the corner. Laying in my bed, in a percoset-induced funk, wearing decade-old clothing, I started to feel better.
About the weight-loss... it can't be overstated. Aside from never having a throat infection again, this is the best outcome from the surgery. I lost almost 20 pounds and kept almost 15 of those off even after I started eating again. Talk about an amazing way to lose those last prego-pounds! No, I didn't do the surgery to lose weight, but sweet Jesus, that was one heck of a fantastic bonus. Who knows how many hours on the treadmill I would have spent trying to do the same. Naturally, I wouldn't have expected the same weight-loss if for example, I had knee surgery. But tonsils are different. Removing a part of your body that keeps you from being able to eat is quite possibly the least-used but most-effective diet out there. If the weight comes back, I may start thinking of other nonessential parts of my digestive system I can remove next.
Another upside to the surgery is that you get to schedule your pain and plan for it accordingly. For a control-freak like myself, this was ideal. And in some ways, it is like a vacation. Even though I was in pain, I did get to do an awful lot of lying around. I drank frozen drinks. There were plenty of people around to help take care of my children. All that was missing was the beach and sunscreen.
All in all, I absolutely recommend having the surgery if your tonsils stop working as they were intended and start wreaking havoc on your life the way mind did. Here are my takeaways:
1. Keep a scale nearby. Step on it whenever you're in major pain. It will perk you right up. That I can promise you.
2. Keep on a schedule for your pain meds. Don't sleep through a dose. You'll wake up crying and believing that a grenade exploded in your mouth. Trust me on this.
3. Even if you follow #2, whenever you wake up, your pain will be intense. Sometimes so bad that you can't even swallow your meds. If/when that happens, eat a popsicle first, then take your meds. It will numb your throat and stop your tears.
4. Stock your fridge with popsicles and eat them often. Forget the ice cream. Whenever a friend calls to see if you need anything, tell them yes. You need more popsicles.
5. Find the closest convenience store that sells slurpees. Find a flavor you like. Get a friend to deliver them daily.
**As a sidebar, six months after my surgery, my daughters (aged 5 and 6) had their tonsils removed. What can I say? Big tonsils run in the family. It was almost comical seeing the difference in their experience from my own. I was prepared for the worst, I had lived it. I filled their prescription for their pain medication expecting them to need it... they never even touched it. They felt totally fine. The only downside was that they had to stay out of school for a week for fear of infection. They could have gone back the next day. The big risk for kids, as in adults, is that the throat scabs can rupture causing massive hemorrhaging. That risk is higher when the person is active. Not applicable for me as I was catatonic for two weeks. But it was a big issue for the girls since they felt great and wanted to run and play. Keeping them sedentary was the biggest challenge. Thankfully, their scabs stayed intact. And since then, we have been tonsil-free and healthy!
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Monday, April 4, 2011
Mount Washmore
I do not like laundry. Perhaps it's the self-diagnosed-ADD in me. It's not just the loading of the washer, I can do that. But then you have to stick with it enough to actually move it to the dryer. And what's my reward for remembering to flip it (other than keeping my clothes from smelling moldy)??? Ah yes, I then get to fold it all, the most time-consuming of the whole process. Then comes the sorting and putting away and by then I need a cocktail. As if that wasn't enough, I get to repeat this task countless numbers of time throughout the week. The mountain of laundry at my house is like a dinner-size salad at Cheesecake Factory, the more work I do on it, the bigger it seems to get. My mother always called it Mount Washmore and she's right.
I complain about it and complain about it and wish someone else would do it for me. But who??? Who has the skills??? We'll take the first and most obvious of choices...my husband. He'll do laundry (aka "climb the mountain") every once in a while when it has gotten truly out of hand. But he's terrible at it. When he folds laundry he needs constant supervision because he can't multitask to fold and sort at the same time. Everybody's clean clothes get put in the same basket. What good does that do me? As anyone with self-diagnosed OCD like me can tell you that the only way to do it is to sort WHILE you fold. You gotta have multiple baskets going with everyone either getting their own basket of clean clothes (or at the very least, separate pile within the basket) to make it easier to put the god-forsaken stuff away in the appropriate drawers in the appropriate rooms.
And let's not forget to give a special shout-out to Mark's two signature moves, the "put-something-dark-in-with-Kristen's-whites" move and my own personal favorite, the "throw-everything-in-the-dryer" move. In his hands, my "skinny jeans" become my "when-I-lose-ten-pounds jeans" and my sweaters become Shelby's. I swear to you, it's calculated. He's no-doubt thinking to himself that if he can find a way to screw it up, he'll be begged NOT to do it. And I tip my hat to him, because it totally works.
Then there is my mother. God love her, she does laundry for me when she visits. And she sorts AND puts away. Which would be fantastic if I didn't have two daughters 11 months apart. To be honest, I have no idea what method my mother uses to decide whose stuff goes where but it's riddled with flaws. It takes me weeks to get the girls' clothes back in the correct spot, usually after I catch Shelby in a few pairs of high-waters and Reagan swimming in a few shirts.
Some may argue that I bring the problem on myself by being so awesome at laundry that I preclude help. Or at the very least, that because I'm the only one who really knows whose is whose, then I am the only person who CAN do it. Or the clinical response, that because I have delegation issues and am a control-freak, I deserve to do it. But that doesn't change the way I feel about it.
I'd write more but the dryer buzzer beckons...
I complain about it and complain about it and wish someone else would do it for me. But who??? Who has the skills??? We'll take the first and most obvious of choices...my husband. He'll do laundry (aka "climb the mountain") every once in a while when it has gotten truly out of hand. But he's terrible at it. When he folds laundry he needs constant supervision because he can't multitask to fold and sort at the same time. Everybody's clean clothes get put in the same basket. What good does that do me? As anyone with self-diagnosed OCD like me can tell you that the only way to do it is to sort WHILE you fold. You gotta have multiple baskets going with everyone either getting their own basket of clean clothes (or at the very least, separate pile within the basket) to make it easier to put the god-forsaken stuff away in the appropriate drawers in the appropriate rooms.
And let's not forget to give a special shout-out to Mark's two signature moves, the "put-something-dark-in-with-Kristen's-whites" move and my own personal favorite, the "throw-everything-in-the-dryer" move. In his hands, my "skinny jeans" become my "when-I-lose-ten-pounds jeans" and my sweaters become Shelby's. I swear to you, it's calculated. He's no-doubt thinking to himself that if he can find a way to screw it up, he'll be begged NOT to do it. And I tip my hat to him, because it totally works.
Then there is my mother. God love her, she does laundry for me when she visits. And she sorts AND puts away. Which would be fantastic if I didn't have two daughters 11 months apart. To be honest, I have no idea what method my mother uses to decide whose stuff goes where but it's riddled with flaws. It takes me weeks to get the girls' clothes back in the correct spot, usually after I catch Shelby in a few pairs of high-waters and Reagan swimming in a few shirts.
Some may argue that I bring the problem on myself by being so awesome at laundry that I preclude help. Or at the very least, that because I'm the only one who really knows whose is whose, then I am the only person who CAN do it. Or the clinical response, that because I have delegation issues and am a control-freak, I deserve to do it. But that doesn't change the way I feel about it.
I'd write more but the dryer buzzer beckons...
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Sandbox Insanity
So a few months ago, I bought a sandbox for my girls to play with in the backyard. As far as tactical parenting mistakes go, this was one of my biggest.
It seemed like a simple solution to a rather annoying problem... my girls like to dig. I can't blame them, they have watched me for years out in my garden, planting flowers, shrubs, and trees. I even went so far as to buy them cute little gardening tool sets complete with gloves, spades, rakes and sun visors. (See what an enabler I am???? Geez, I was BEGGING for trouble!) So what did they do with these cute tools? They would follow me around and dig up what I had just planted. They would "help" me weed the garden by pulling up one or two weeds along with all of my annual flowers. They would take buckets and bowls from their indoor play kitchen, fill them with mulch from my garden beds and dump them out all over the patio and grass. They were kids being kids for sure, but they were making a huge mess.
So I had this epiphany... I'll buy them a sandbox. Yeah, that's the ticket. They won't dig in my mulch anymore, they'll dig in the sandbox. Great!!! Their digging will all be confined to one little space. Yeah, that's it. I'll buy a really cute one that has an adorable circus tent fabric, shade cover on it to keep them shaded in style while they play. I am the smartest mother EVER! I'll order 500 pounds of sand to keep them entertained all summer while I sit on the patio drinking sangria and toasting to my profound intelligence. What could possibly go wrong???
After the first week, I realized it was messier than I thought it was going to be. Occasionally, the girls and their friends would track sand in the house and sand would sometimes end up outside of the sandbox and on the patio. But it was nothing that a broom and a well-placed towel inside the back door to wipe their feet couldn't handle.
After a month, I was definitely starting to question the purchase.
Two months and 200 pounds of sand tracked into my house later, I am now ready to admit defeat. I have sand everywhere. According to my daughters, the best part of having a sandbox is figuring out all the places you can put sand other than inside a sandbox. And my girls are creative! They would dump it all over themselves, throw it at each other, feed it to their brother, pour it in their pool and water table, dump it in my garden, bring it inside the house and the straw that broke the camel's back, turning the entire sandbox into a mixing bowl in which to make chocolate chip cookies (with bucketfuls of mulch as their chocolate chips of course). It's no longer a sandbox; it's an eyesore.
I am the type of mother that doesn't let my kids use paint in my house because it's too messy. I rarely let them play with play-doh, and when I do it's always the 30 minutes immediately preceding the arrival of my cleaning lady. Whenever we get home from a trip to the beach, the first thing I do is vacuum all the sand out of my car. So why exactly did I buy a sandbox??? Don't get me wrong, I'm fine with sand inside my house if that house happens to be situated on a beach on Cape Cod or in the Virgin Islands.
So this morning I put it up on craigslist, giving it away to the first gullible parent that will haul the entire thing off of my property and out of my life. I'm not saying that anyone who owns a sandbox is insane (although I am implying it). What I AM saying is that someone like me, who is anal and can't stand a mess should never buy one. If after reading this you still think owning a sandbox is for you, come on by and pick mine up. It's yours free.
It seemed like a simple solution to a rather annoying problem... my girls like to dig. I can't blame them, they have watched me for years out in my garden, planting flowers, shrubs, and trees. I even went so far as to buy them cute little gardening tool sets complete with gloves, spades, rakes and sun visors. (See what an enabler I am???? Geez, I was BEGGING for trouble!) So what did they do with these cute tools? They would follow me around and dig up what I had just planted. They would "help" me weed the garden by pulling up one or two weeds along with all of my annual flowers. They would take buckets and bowls from their indoor play kitchen, fill them with mulch from my garden beds and dump them out all over the patio and grass. They were kids being kids for sure, but they were making a huge mess.
So I had this epiphany... I'll buy them a sandbox. Yeah, that's the ticket. They won't dig in my mulch anymore, they'll dig in the sandbox. Great!!! Their digging will all be confined to one little space. Yeah, that's it. I'll buy a really cute one that has an adorable circus tent fabric, shade cover on it to keep them shaded in style while they play. I am the smartest mother EVER! I'll order 500 pounds of sand to keep them entertained all summer while I sit on the patio drinking sangria and toasting to my profound intelligence. What could possibly go wrong???
After the first week, I realized it was messier than I thought it was going to be. Occasionally, the girls and their friends would track sand in the house and sand would sometimes end up outside of the sandbox and on the patio. But it was nothing that a broom and a well-placed towel inside the back door to wipe their feet couldn't handle.
After a month, I was definitely starting to question the purchase.
Two months and 200 pounds of sand tracked into my house later, I am now ready to admit defeat. I have sand everywhere. According to my daughters, the best part of having a sandbox is figuring out all the places you can put sand other than inside a sandbox. And my girls are creative! They would dump it all over themselves, throw it at each other, feed it to their brother, pour it in their pool and water table, dump it in my garden, bring it inside the house and the straw that broke the camel's back, turning the entire sandbox into a mixing bowl in which to make chocolate chip cookies (with bucketfuls of mulch as their chocolate chips of course). It's no longer a sandbox; it's an eyesore.
I am the type of mother that doesn't let my kids use paint in my house because it's too messy. I rarely let them play with play-doh, and when I do it's always the 30 minutes immediately preceding the arrival of my cleaning lady. Whenever we get home from a trip to the beach, the first thing I do is vacuum all the sand out of my car. So why exactly did I buy a sandbox??? Don't get me wrong, I'm fine with sand inside my house if that house happens to be situated on a beach on Cape Cod or in the Virgin Islands.
So this morning I put it up on craigslist, giving it away to the first gullible parent that will haul the entire thing off of my property and out of my life. I'm not saying that anyone who owns a sandbox is insane (although I am implying it). What I AM saying is that someone like me, who is anal and can't stand a mess should never buy one. If after reading this you still think owning a sandbox is for you, come on by and pick mine up. It's yours free.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
No mo' fo' sho'
So I'm done having kids. How can I be sure??? Step foot into my house around 5 in the evening and you'll understand. Not only will you see where I'm coming from, you may just pop in to your doc for a quick tube-tie to make sure this circus doesn't set up a tent in your home. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy. Blissfully so in fact. I love my life. I love my husband and kids more than I ever thought was humanly possible. I wouldn't change a thing... BUT three beautiful children is enough.
I don't know what it is about people always asking me the question, "Are you done?" It's the same stupid line of questioning that you get when you're dating someone, "So when are you getting married?" Then you're married and it's, "When are you having kids." Then you have one and before you're even sleeping through the night it's, "When are you having #2" and so on and so on. Granted, I realize that I never REALLY heard anyone ask me that last question, because I beat them all to the punch by having my girls 11 months apart. (see my Irish Twins post)
Ever since we decided not to have any more kids, it seems to have changed the way I feel about a lot of things. It's as if we've suddenly moved on to an entirely new phase in the life of our family. For a majority of the years that Mark and I have been married, we've been in the "expansion" phase where every few months or years we welcome a new member to our brood. It's a crazy and fun time but also very uncertain. It's filled with questions about whether to have a child, when to have one, how will you manage one, etc. It's remarkable how those questions and conversations can infiltrate every facet of your life from whether you take a job to whether you take a vacation.
Now we've moved out of the Expanding-the-Family phase and into the Enjoying-the-Family phase. And it's been so much fun. We can focus on creating a good life for the kids we do have instead of creating lives for the ones we don't. We can plan vacations and start showing our kids the world. We can see the light at the end of the tunnel when it comes to bottles, pacifiers and diapers. In fact, we've already started planning the huge party we're going to throw when we change our last diaper. Its tentative name? The "Happy Campers, No Longer in Pampers" party. It's going to be wild. We'll expect the police to shut it down.
It's neat knowing that our family is complete. The group is closed; we aren't accepting new applications. We're a party of five. Growing up, I always knew I wanted a family, but I never knew what that would look like years down the road. Now I know, because I can look around my kitchen table and I see all of their beautiful faces. It's an awesome feeling.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
My son, the bulldog
I used to own a bulldog. We named her Pudge. She was a nice dog... unless of course you happened to be a Jack Russell Terrier, then you needed to watch out or you might lose an ear. Pudge lived with us for many years until we had kids. I was afraid that she would confuse one of our little ones with a Jack Russell, so off went Pudge on a one-way American Airlines ticket to my in-laws farm in Kansas.
Having lived with a bulldog, I feel qualified to say that my eight-month old son exhibits an alarming number of Pudge characteristics:
1. He drools...a lot;
2. He moves pretty slow, until you put a piece of food in front of him;
3. He likes to chew my shoes;
4. His favorite place to hang out is under the kitchen table. Just like Pudge, he knows that the girls drop a lot of food down
there and thus it is a solid place to visit when hungry;
5. He's like a wrecking ball whenever his sisters are playing a game on the floor. He crawls right through it, destroying
everything in his path and stops just long enough to smile at the girls and drool all over the game. And if he gets his paws
on a gamepiece??? It's goin' in his mouth.
6. He likes to go outside for walks; but
7. He overheats easily; thus
8. He likes to sit on the air conditioner vents;
9. He chases the vacuum cleaner;
10. I'm constantly cleaning up his poop;
11. He loves to sleep and cuddle.
Just writing this blog about my son makes me smile. He is my dessert. The girls were the meat and potatoes, but my son is the dessert!
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Irish Twins
Four months after having my first child, I realized I was already 8 weeks pregnant with my second. Was I surprised??? To quote Clark W. Griswold, "If I woke up tomorrow with my head sewn to the carpet I wouldn't be more surprised than I am right now."
A lot of people seem to love this story, in fact I think it may be part of some "suburban legend", so I'll retell it here.
I didn't believe the home-test. I mean, why in the hell would I? It shouldn't be physically possible, right? So I read the fine print on the pamphlet and it said that HCG-levels (the pregnancy hormone that the ol' stick is able to pick up at home) could be high a few weeks after having a baby. Great. A loophole. I called my doctor and went in for the blood test. She told me I was pregnant. I said, "No, I WAS pregnant." And she said, "No, you ARE pregnant." And again I told her, "Nooooo, I just WAS pregnant." And pointed to the thirteen-pounds of proof sleeping in the carseat beside me. I then proceeded with a line of interrogation:
Me: Couldn't my HCG-level be high because I was just pregnant?
Doc: No.
Me: Couldn't my HCG-level be high because I'm breast-feeding?
Doc: No.
Me: Could it be high because of something I ate?
Doc: No.
Me: Something I drank????
Doc: No you're pregnant. And according to this test, your levels are high enough that you're either more than half-way through your first trimester with one baby, or you're earlier on in your pregnancy with twins.
Me: (In total disbelief) How did this happen????
Doc: Would you like me to draw you a diagram?
It took a while for it to sink in, but one thing that helped was telling our friends and family as soon as we knew. My husband and I got a sort of bizarre joy out of seeing the looks on their faces and their inability to form coherent sentences upon hearing our news. A lot of people (like my mother) couldn't stop laughing and thought it was fabulous. Other people (like my mother-in-law) didn't know what to make of it and said nothing.
So I had a baby in early-January of 2006 and another in early-December of 2006. Some people call them Irish Twins. http://multiples.about.com/od/glossary/g/irishtwins.htm
I just called it chaos. I had to get two cribs. I had to get a double stroller. I had to get a bigger house. I had to get two of those "Baby's First Christmas" ornaments.
Needless to say, it was not part of the master plan for our family. But as my dad loves to say, "People plan. God laughs." And it's true. Thank the Dear Lord that my second child had to "cook" for 9 months as it gave me time to get used to it! I'm also lucky in that my first was such a good baby. I mean she had to be, right? The situation would have been MUCH more traumatic had that not been the case.
We found out as soon as we could what we were having and were thrilled when we learned we were having another girl. I can't tell you how many times over the years I've heard random people say, "Oh two girls! How lucky for them! They will be best friends!" And they were right. Because they are.
Two kids in one year? I can't imagine my life any other way.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Vegas
It's been a few weeks since I returned from Vegas and the blisters from wearing high heels every night are now gone. Other than my credit card bill and clothing that smelled like an ash tray, the blisters were one of the few pieces of physical evidence of what an unbelievably fabulous time we had in the city of sin.
We've given ourselves different names over the years, "The Stanford Wives" and "Flirtinis" to name a few. But how we came together is simple; our husbands (or as we recently celebrated on this past trip...one ex-husband) were all pursuing their MBAs at Stanford. As our husbands met and became friends (and golf buddies) the eight of us ladies became close friends. The wives got together once a week for happy hour and then someone proposed a trip to Vegas. We had so much fun we vowed to do it again...and often. We try to get together once a year for some much needed girl time. After our initial trip, we went to Vegas a few more times after the boys graduated, but then had to take a sabbatical from that locale while most of us took time to breed. In the interim, we went to more tame locations, Chicago, Boston, and Phoenix. 2010 marked our triumphant return to Vegas. And what a triumph it was.
In November, I sent an email proposing the trip and within 24 hours we had found a weekend that worked for everyone, booked flights and a hotel. And after years of staying at sub-prime Vegas hotels, this year we decided to stay at The Venetian. Our goal for the weekend was to spend time together, have a few too many cocktails, shop, regroup at an incredible spa, gamble, dance and flirt just a little. "What???? A bunch of married ladies flirting?" Yes. It's nice every once in a while to prove to yourself that ya still got it. Vegas is one of the few locations in the world where men will approach a group of eight married ladies wearing substantial hardware on the left hand, and offer to buy them drinks.
There is just something about Vegas, it's so easy. Anything and everything you need is available without ever having to leave your hotel. It's no secret, that is in fact the goal of the casino owners. And I must say that at the Venetian...mission accomplished. It's all there.
So what did we do? One of my besties and I flew in on Thursday night. She and I were flying from the east coast and both had babies in the last few months and were due for some extra zzzs. We ended up having a few champagne cocktails at the champagne bar and catching up until 2 in the morning. We slept in, hit the breakfast buffet (hard), did some shopping and then awaited the arrival of the rest of the crew. It was great to see everyone again as we are now spread out across the country, me in Boston, 2 in NYC, 1 in North Carolina, 1 in Chicago, and 3 in the Bay Area. One of my favorite things about this group is that when we get back together, we pick up where we left off with no awkwardness. We ate lunch, had a few drinks and did some more shopping.
We went to a trendy-Mexican spot for dinner in the Palozzo (the new hotel/casino part of the Venetian). The place was filled with large groups of girls on similar weekend trips like us. Not gonna lie, we felt a little old. BUT, we felt confident that we were in much better "places" in our lives than the 20-somethings we were surrounded by and were much happier being 30-somethings. Well, maybe I would have preferred my 20-something body instead of the 4-month postpartum one I had to drag to Vegas... but I without the baby-weight, I wouldn't have my babies!
After dinner we opted to go to The Hard Rock hotel/casino as we'd done on Friday night during all of our previous trips. It ended up being our only bad decision of the weekend. The crowd looked like something you'd see at an Alabama IHOP at 4 in the morning. While there, we heard that Hard Rock had rooms available for $39/night. When you're giving rooms away that cheap, you're bound to bring in some major riff-raff. Apparently, we didn't get the memo that this was no longer 'the' place, but now we know. Some of us played some blackjack and we ended up leaving when I was up $3. That's right... I know when to quit! :) We were thrilled to get back to the Venetian to mingle with pretty people again.
Saturday, we hit the breakfast buffet (even harder), then checked in to the spa for the day. This is the part of the trip that separates the 20-somethings from the big girls! We know spas. And spas in Vegas are incredible. The Venetian has a Canyon Ranch spa that did not disappoint. Before our appointments, we sat in the sauna, steam room, jacuzzi, salt grotto and experienced a "tropical rain" shower, which was like a spa version of a ride at Disney. You get in the shower, push a button and then it rains with varying temperatures and pressure. We then waited for our spa appointments in a lounge filled with round sofas, huge pillows and oddly enough Kirsten Dunst. The massage was solid and our entire experience was the perfect way to relax and detox.
After the spa, I hightailed it to the sports bar at the Palazzo to bet on and watch the Kansas/K-State basketball game. Priorities, people...priorities. The bar was sweet, it had stadium-style seating with sofas and chaises. And I even managed to sit next to some other KU alumni. Two of my girlfriends ended up coming down to watch the game with me, but I'm told they didn't come to watch the game so much as to watch ME watch the game. Apparently, it's an experience. What can I say, I'm a fan, albeit a loud and often-obnoxious one. The Jayhawks won the game, but thanks to a last minute, half-court shot from K-State, we didn't cover the spread so I lost $50. Dang.
And now the highlight of the trip....Saturday night at Tao. We opted for getting a table with bottle service at Tao, the nightclub at the Venetian. From beginning to end, we were treated, and thus felt, like rockstars. First and foremost, we were dressed to kill. We bypassed all of the lowly serfs standing in line and were immediately ushered behind the velvet ropes into Tao. They gave us an awesome table, with the dance floor on one side of us, and former "Bachelor" Andy seated at the table next to us.
Here's my advice... if you're doing bottle service... make sure you're the one who gets to put down the credit card. It will ensure that you are not only treated like a rockstar, but the band's lead singer. As soon as we sat down, there were four Tao people fussing over all of us, and mostly me. 1. the nightclub host - he made sure the table was to my liking and got us all situated. He came by to check on us throughout the night; 2. the waitress/bartender - she was decked out in Frederick's of Hollywood and as nice as the girl next door. She made all our drinks and shots, and kept our glasses full all night long. We ended up ordering a bottle of vodka and a bottle of rum. Between the eight of us we finished both and then had to dip into the Bachelor's bottle of vodka at the next table (did I tell you my girls can throw 'em down???); 3. the barback - he kept our bottles of mixers and tub of ice full, kept the table and floor clean and escorted us to the bathroom (yeah, you read that right); 4. the security guard - yup, we had our own security guard. He watched over our purses while we went to dance and made sure that no one got near our table unless we invited them. I mean seriously, how could you possibly not have the time of your life with all that going on???
I think we left Tao around 3 or 4 then it was back to the room for a quick nap before the flight home on Sunday morning.
Needless to say we all had an amazing time in Vegas. The funny thing is that some of the girls were kind of vanilla on going back to Vegas and a few were not too keen on the table service idea at Tao. I think everyone agreed by the end of the weekend that both were awesome ideas. To quote Tiff as she yelled it across our table Saturday night while sharing cocktails with the Bachelor and other randoms, "WE'RE NEVER GOING ANYPLACE ELSE!!!!!!!!"
Cheers to that.
We've given ourselves different names over the years, "The Stanford Wives" and "Flirtinis" to name a few. But how we came together is simple; our husbands (or as we recently celebrated on this past trip...one ex-husband) were all pursuing their MBAs at Stanford. As our husbands met and became friends (and golf buddies) the eight of us ladies became close friends. The wives got together once a week for happy hour and then someone proposed a trip to Vegas. We had so much fun we vowed to do it again...and often. We try to get together once a year for some much needed girl time. After our initial trip, we went to Vegas a few more times after the boys graduated, but then had to take a sabbatical from that locale while most of us took time to breed. In the interim, we went to more tame locations, Chicago, Boston, and Phoenix. 2010 marked our triumphant return to Vegas. And what a triumph it was.
In November, I sent an email proposing the trip and within 24 hours we had found a weekend that worked for everyone, booked flights and a hotel. And after years of staying at sub-prime Vegas hotels, this year we decided to stay at The Venetian. Our goal for the weekend was to spend time together, have a few too many cocktails, shop, regroup at an incredible spa, gamble, dance and flirt just a little. "What???? A bunch of married ladies flirting?" Yes. It's nice every once in a while to prove to yourself that ya still got it. Vegas is one of the few locations in the world where men will approach a group of eight married ladies wearing substantial hardware on the left hand, and offer to buy them drinks.
There is just something about Vegas, it's so easy. Anything and everything you need is available without ever having to leave your hotel. It's no secret, that is in fact the goal of the casino owners. And I must say that at the Venetian...mission accomplished. It's all there.
So what did we do? One of my besties and I flew in on Thursday night. She and I were flying from the east coast and both had babies in the last few months and were due for some extra zzzs. We ended up having a few champagne cocktails at the champagne bar and catching up until 2 in the morning. We slept in, hit the breakfast buffet (hard), did some shopping and then awaited the arrival of the rest of the crew. It was great to see everyone again as we are now spread out across the country, me in Boston, 2 in NYC, 1 in North Carolina, 1 in Chicago, and 3 in the Bay Area. One of my favorite things about this group is that when we get back together, we pick up where we left off with no awkwardness. We ate lunch, had a few drinks and did some more shopping.
We went to a trendy-Mexican spot for dinner in the Palozzo (the new hotel/casino part of the Venetian). The place was filled with large groups of girls on similar weekend trips like us. Not gonna lie, we felt a little old. BUT, we felt confident that we were in much better "places" in our lives than the 20-somethings we were surrounded by and were much happier being 30-somethings. Well, maybe I would have preferred my 20-something body instead of the 4-month postpartum one I had to drag to Vegas... but I without the baby-weight, I wouldn't have my babies!
After dinner we opted to go to The Hard Rock hotel/casino as we'd done on Friday night during all of our previous trips. It ended up being our only bad decision of the weekend. The crowd looked like something you'd see at an Alabama IHOP at 4 in the morning. While there, we heard that Hard Rock had rooms available for $39/night. When you're giving rooms away that cheap, you're bound to bring in some major riff-raff. Apparently, we didn't get the memo that this was no longer 'the' place, but now we know. Some of us played some blackjack and we ended up leaving when I was up $3. That's right... I know when to quit! :) We were thrilled to get back to the Venetian to mingle with pretty people again.
Saturday, we hit the breakfast buffet (even harder), then checked in to the spa for the day. This is the part of the trip that separates the 20-somethings from the big girls! We know spas. And spas in Vegas are incredible. The Venetian has a Canyon Ranch spa that did not disappoint. Before our appointments, we sat in the sauna, steam room, jacuzzi, salt grotto and experienced a "tropical rain" shower, which was like a spa version of a ride at Disney. You get in the shower, push a button and then it rains with varying temperatures and pressure. We then waited for our spa appointments in a lounge filled with round sofas, huge pillows and oddly enough Kirsten Dunst. The massage was solid and our entire experience was the perfect way to relax and detox.
After the spa, I hightailed it to the sports bar at the Palazzo to bet on and watch the Kansas/K-State basketball game. Priorities, people...priorities. The bar was sweet, it had stadium-style seating with sofas and chaises. And I even managed to sit next to some other KU alumni. Two of my girlfriends ended up coming down to watch the game with me, but I'm told they didn't come to watch the game so much as to watch ME watch the game. Apparently, it's an experience. What can I say, I'm a fan, albeit a loud and often-obnoxious one. The Jayhawks won the game, but thanks to a last minute, half-court shot from K-State, we didn't cover the spread so I lost $50. Dang.
And now the highlight of the trip....Saturday night at Tao. We opted for getting a table with bottle service at Tao, the nightclub at the Venetian. From beginning to end, we were treated, and thus felt, like rockstars. First and foremost, we were dressed to kill. We bypassed all of the lowly serfs standing in line and were immediately ushered behind the velvet ropes into Tao. They gave us an awesome table, with the dance floor on one side of us, and former "Bachelor" Andy seated at the table next to us.
Here's my advice... if you're doing bottle service... make sure you're the one who gets to put down the credit card. It will ensure that you are not only treated like a rockstar, but the band's lead singer. As soon as we sat down, there were four Tao people fussing over all of us, and mostly me. 1. the nightclub host - he made sure the table was to my liking and got us all situated. He came by to check on us throughout the night; 2. the waitress/bartender - she was decked out in Frederick's of Hollywood and as nice as the girl next door. She made all our drinks and shots, and kept our glasses full all night long. We ended up ordering a bottle of vodka and a bottle of rum. Between the eight of us we finished both and then had to dip into the Bachelor's bottle of vodka at the next table (did I tell you my girls can throw 'em down???); 3. the barback - he kept our bottles of mixers and tub of ice full, kept the table and floor clean and escorted us to the bathroom (yeah, you read that right); 4. the security guard - yup, we had our own security guard. He watched over our purses while we went to dance and made sure that no one got near our table unless we invited them. I mean seriously, how could you possibly not have the time of your life with all that going on???
I think we left Tao around 3 or 4 then it was back to the room for a quick nap before the flight home on Sunday morning.
Needless to say we all had an amazing time in Vegas. The funny thing is that some of the girls were kind of vanilla on going back to Vegas and a few were not too keen on the table service idea at Tao. I think everyone agreed by the end of the weekend that both were awesome ideas. To quote Tiff as she yelled it across our table Saturday night while sharing cocktails with the Bachelor and other randoms, "WE'RE NEVER GOING ANYPLACE ELSE!!!!!!!!"
Cheers to that.
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