Pretty in Plaid: A Life, a Witch, and a Wardrobe, or the Wonder Years Before the Condescending, Egomaniacal Self-Centered Smart-Ass Phase (27 page)

Except in this film, all the clerks are happy to help me when I hand them my American Express.

Or maybe it’s just because I’m not a prostitute?

My Kind of Town

(Cubs Bucket Hat)

F
eedback from my reinvention has been overwhelmingly positive. Everyone’s noticed the changes I’ve made. With a professional cut and color, well-tailored clothes, and cute shoes, I’m way more self-assured in my negotiations. My recruitment numbers reflect this bounce in confidence.

So how come I’m still in my boring old workaholic life and crappy apartment? The only difference is now I stuff better brands of shoes into my tiny closet.

I want to feel like I’m living in a movie and maybe a makeover’s only part of the equation. Maybe some kind of cool hobby would make my life seem more ready for the big screen? But what should I do? Back in college, I used to take horseback riding lessons. That’s as good a place to start as any.

So, Fletch and I take my Tercel to the stables in the southern suburbs a few times. Given the expense of the activity and my inability to walk for
days
after each ride, turns out I’d rather use that money to buy pony-skin shoes.

I hearken back to my childhood again when I decide to take up ice skating. I sign up for adult lessons, and every Tuesday for a month I leave work by five to drive to the rink in the northern suburbs.
¹⁶¹
I enjoy the skating but my classmates are a bummer. I find out they’re all nannies who’ve been tasked by their employers to learn to skate in order to keep up with their charges. My classmates are always freezing and quietly cursing in Spanish about having to be there. The sessions become less about gliding effortlessly across the ice and more about class struggle. Granted, I do feel like I’m living in a movie . . . made by Michael Moore.

When I get stuck at work on the fifth Tuesday and I miss my lesson, I’m not so upset. I miss it the sixth week and then I kind of forget about ever going again. (The added bonus is David and Tim stop calling me Peggy Fleming.)

I don’t want to give up on my quest, though. Fletch says I should look for something that gives me an endorphin rush, but I’m not about to start robbing banks like the adrenaline junkies in
Point Blank
. I have no desire to become a Navy SEAL à la
G.I. Jane
,
¹⁶²
nor do I want to skydive like in
The Drop Zone
. Shoot, I don’t even like to fly commercially. The very thought of being on a plane makes my pulse race and my breathing shallow and—

Hey . . . I may be on to something.

Conquering a fear—you see
that
all the time in the movies. And surely it speaks to my self-awareness that I realize this is a problem, right? Really, no one’s more scared of flying than me. I was on a plane coming back from corporate training that almost went down last year and ever since then air travel—which had never caused me any distress before—suddenly petrifies me. What if I booked a flight and made myself take it?

This could work. I’ve got the money from my bonus and I have plenty of accrued time off because our bosses wouldn’t let us use any vacation days during the busy recontracting season over the past few months.

Where should I go?

Luckily, my movie boyfriend Vince Vaughn has the answer—I’m going to Vegas, baby!

If I wanted an adrenaline rush, I’ve got it. My plane has been stuck on the tarmac for-freaking-ever during this enormous May thunderstorm. The captain came on the loudspeaker and said something about losing our window and having to wait, but he mentioned
nothing
about it taking multiple hours.

Just being strapped into this confining seat has been enough to kick my adrenal glands into overdrive. The top I’m wearing is drenched in frightened perspiration. I’m in one of my favorite old Lacoste shirts paired with khaki shorts because I wanted to be comfortable. What I didn’t count on was sitting here perspiring so hard that I’d even wreck my ’do. I had to grab my Cubs bucket hat out of my carry-on about an hour ago just to keep the sopping strands up off my neck.

The worst part is I’m by myself. Fletch had some mandatory training come up this week and he wasn’t able to join me. Now I get to conquer my fear of being on vacation alone, too.

I sit on the tarmac for four hours, terror-sweating in a middle seat, sandwiched between a compulsive throat clearer and a harried mom holding a colicky baby. We finally take off, and the flight is so bumpy I spend the entire time white-knuckling the armrests and bargaining with God.

When we finally land safely on terra firma,
¹⁶³
I find out my luggage decided to vacation in
La Guardia
(airport code LGA), not
Las Vegas
(airport code LAS). The airline baggage clerk apologizes profusely and assures me I’ll have my things back soon.
¹⁶⁴
Although I’m relieved all my bags aren’t gone forever, I’m daunted by the prospect of spending the rest of my vacation in this sweaty polo.

It’s one a.m. when I finally arrive at the hotel. After getting lost on the way to the Strip,
¹⁶⁵
the cab drops me off at the wrong door for registration. I drag my carry-on the length of ten football fields until I find the main reception desk. Normally the combination of flashing lights, clanging coins, and euphoric gamblers makes my heart smile. However, at the moment I’m ready to go Donald Rumsfeld all over the next person who squeals in celebration. All I want to do is take a bath and go to bed.

I’m staying in the new Luxor tower, so it doesn’t have the weird slanted walls or the creepy sideways elevator of the main pyramid. I had a room there the first time I visited Vegas when I went with my waitressing buddy Fiona Fleur. Over the course of that trip she stole forty dollars out of my purse and a handful of quarters out of my Harrah’s bucket. I also discovered she was bulimic and, more disturbing, that she’d been trying (unsuccessfully) to put the moves on Fletch. We parted ways as soon as we left the airport and never talked again. (Honestly, I should have figured our friendship would end badly. I’d met her years earlier when we were in the same dorm freshman year. She was in my rush group and when we were formally introduced, I said, “Fiona Fleur—what a pretty name!” to which she replied, “I know.”)

My second trip out here was marginally better, at least until my friend strong-armed me into putting all my slot machine winnings toward prime seats at what she promised to be “the most fan-tabulous event in live theater!!” I’d wanted to get the gorgeous pearl bracelet I’d been eyeing in the Forum Shops at Caesars Palace, but she was so sure I’d love the show that eventually I capitulated.

We ended up front row center at a
fucking
Andrew Lloyd Webber musical about
fucking
trains that took place on
fucking
roller skates. Every time the actors whizzed by within an inch of my face, my fury grew. My anger deepened when I then couldn’t get the stupid “One Rock and Roll Too Many” song out of my head for days.

Now that I think about it, I’m struck by the fact that being here alone isn’t such a bad thing. Everybody says this is the greatest vacation city in the world, but every time I come, I end up mad at my friends. Inauspicious start notwithstanding, I figure if I don’t have a good time on this trip, then the problem is me and not Las Vegas.

When I get to my room and open the door, I’m blissful for the first time today. Sweet setup! I’ve got super-soft linens,
¹⁶⁶
a big squashy bed with tons of pillows, a bigger TV, and a bathroom that hosts a separate shower and a large Jacuzzi tub. Vegas, baby!

The air-conditioning everywhere in this city is set on “polar freeze” and I can’t wait to get out of my damp travel clothing and into a warm bath. I stop up the tub and run the water. When it’s halfway full, I turn on the jets and pour in a capful of my pear-scented Victoria’s Secret body wash, then go to unpack my carry-on. I don’t have a change of clothes, but at least I have the essentials—grooming supplies, pajamas, underwear, and a bathing suit. I finish up and stretch out on the lovely bed, anticipating how amazing that bath is going to feel . . . which reminds me, I’d better turn off the water.

I notice some foamy stuff spilling out from under the door, but the full impact of what I’ve accidentally wrought doesn’t hit me until I enter the bathroom and walk into the wall-o-bubbles.

Not only is the entire floor covered in a foot of pear-scented suds, but the bubbles have climbed so far up the wall they’re spilling into the detached shower stall.

I appear to be hosting my very own foam party.

I have to dive into the center of the heaving, sudsy mass to shut down the jets and turn off the water. This is exactly what I’d hoped would happen years ago when my mom would put me in a bath with a bottle of Palmolive dish detergent.
¹⁶⁷
I’d sit in my tub, kicking my feet and splashing my arms, wishing I could generate results like this. Now that I’ve finally achieved such an august goal, I find that it’s not so great, actually.

I’m sliding all over the marble floor as I open the door to the shower. I try to gather up the froth in my arms, but it squishes out and trails down my legs, making my trajectory even more hazardous. I need some kind of scooping tool, so I go into the main room to grab the ice bucket, leaving a dozen cotton-foam footprints in my wake.

Fifty buckets, twenty minutes, and four towels later my bathroom stops looking like the dance floor at Senor Frog’s during spring break.

Finally—it’s bath time! I throw my wet clothes on the floor next to the bed and slide back into the bathroom. I dip one toe in—ahhh,
nice
. I decide to make use of the facilities before I get into the tub.

Business complete, I flush.

This quick foray onto the toilet has been no different an endeavor than any other time I’ve used the restroom in my adult life. Try then to imagine my surprise when instead of the waste going down the u-bend like the thousands of times previous, the bowl’s contents go not gentle into that good night.

Instead, they shoot directly up at me . . . at approximately 80 miles an hour.

As I leap backward, slamming into the glass shower door, the only thought going through my now-banged head is,
When did I eat corn?

I’m well versed in the four principles/forces of gravity,
¹⁶⁸
so I find myself vaguely surprised when, flushing again, I get the same results.

Twice.

As I look around my sodden and befouled bathroom, I long for the salad days of twenty minutes ago when my only problem was suds. Fluffy, effervescent, sanitary suds.

The screams that inadvertently escape my lips far rival anything Jennifer Love Hewitt produced in
I Know What You Did Last Summer
. And I realize I’m not living a movie so much as an episode of
I Love Lucy
.

I care not to speak of the specifics of what happened with the ice bucket next. Please know I gave it a hero’s burial, first tying it in one and then another plastic laundry bag before depositing it deep within the bowels of a casino Dumpster.