Does this bay window make me look fat?

Some lady at work today asked me if I was pregnant. Granted, I was wearing a big gray sweater-coat and one of those empire-waisted tops, but still. There I was in the kitchen, innocently preparing my lunch, when she shattered my illusions of...height-weight proportionality with one fell swoop. She was appropriately embarrassed and apologized slightly less than profusely. I, of course, brushed it off with my usual aplomb. Apparently, when she was pregnant with her first child (because I love to listen to strangers who think I’m pregnant tell me about their child-bearing/rearing experiences because that’s all we women of child-bearing age want to hear about anyway. Oh, and if you’re single, also about their singlehood/dating life/meeting their husband when they least expected) all she ate was salad.

That, and she thinks I’m fat.

This is not the first time in my life that someone has asked me if I was with child. The first time it happened, I was at work (at the Red Apple Kwik Fill in Binghamton, NY), when an older gentleman, who was concerned about my nasty cough, suggested I see a doctor “especially in [my] condition.” I thought that was very sweet of him, the concern for my health and all. I also thought that it was completely horrifying that he didn’t seem the least bit shocked or appalled that the 19 year-old girl smoking a cigarette behind the counter at his local gas-and-sip was pregnant. But I guess that’s just my middle-class showing. I also happened to be wearing a red smock that was like three sizes too big so I didn’t really take offense at his pregnancy-assumption.

Unlike today.

Today, however, doesn't quite trump a few weeks ago when I read a doctor's description of me in my medical records. "She is stocky, very casually dressed and with some althernative style attire (a nose ring and a large tattoo on her arm)."

A.1.: "Alternative style attire"? Who is this guy, my dad?

B.2.: Stocky? STOCKY?! BOYS are stocky! I am...curvy. Pleasingly plump. Slightly overweight. Big fat-ass. Whatever. I am NOT STOCKY.

However, on the bright side, I am "well-organized and enjoyable to talk to."

If I may, doctor-man, point out YOUR flaws: The description of my so-called stockiness was in the section entitled "MENTAL STATUS." The last time I checked being fat has nothing to do with being crazy, nor does being well-organized have anything to do with being a good conversationalist. You might want to watch your dangling modifiers before you get hurt. And I would really check that habit of ending sentences with prepositions.

YEAH. I may be stocky and pregnant (not), but YOU are a linguistic pinhead.

Las Vegas Adventure Part 2: Attack of the 50-Foot Gift Basket

Now, I love me some Amanda, but I gotta say it: girlfriend snores. She is not the only friend I have who snores (Marisa), but I don't buy her argument that everyone snores. To wit: I do not snore. (I do, however, talk in my sleep. Not all the time and I don't think very coherently, so I don't think it's all that interesting. Unlike my witty report when I am awake.) And if my lack of snoring were not the only proof necessary that all people (to which I think she was referring to female-type people) do not snore, I can name several to many other female types that I know that do not snore.

Sorry about all the snore-outing y'all, but even though I've managed to block most of it out by now, it was a huge takeaway from the trip at that time.

Saturday morning we wake up at the crack of 10:30. Amanda is immediately hungry, and tries not to get to pissed off while I shower. Before our trip I did a tiny bit of casting about on the internets for things to do on the cheap in Vegas and I located what seemed to be a promising breakfast spot. However, that meant getting back on the Deuce and taking a loooooooong ride back downtown so I suggested that we go eat at the Bellagio, which was right across the street, since that would probably be the only thing we could afford to do at the Bellagio. Fortunately, there was a Seattle's Best Coffee in our hotel (the only other thing I researched pre-trip was the proximity of coffee to me, more of a survival instinct really). For chain coffeeshops, I like SBC way better than Starbucks (sorry Noelle). Try the Breakfast Blend, you should be able to find it at the grocery store. If I don't buy local, I buy that. It's delish. And even though I believe the automated espresso machines that grind, pack, tamp, and pour espresso at the touch of a button take all the art, skill, and fun out of pouring the perfect shot of espresso, in certain instances I'm relieved that I don't have to rely on a slacker teenager who's more interested in checking his text messages than making me an excellent cup of coffee. Like this morning, for instance.

[At this point I stop making apologies for the digressions because since I'm me, digression is inevitable, and besides, I don't really make apologies.]

After strolling past the Bellagio promenade (Hermes, Prada, Dior), coffee in hand, without finding a thing to wear, we happened across "the Buffet," be-quotationed because that was actually the name of the four walls that housed the ubiquitous casino phenomenon, only to discover that the line was four miles long and the buffet was $25. WITHOUT champagne.

The next food choice was a snackbar. Am I at a roller rink? Because that's the only way I'm eating at a snack bar.

I'm just sayin'.

Feeling Amanda's quiet desperation growing (I had my coffee, see, so the hunger cranks hadn't set in yet) I found a bartender (because beer in the morning is awesome and increases my comparisons of Las Vegas to New Orleans when you take open containers, add in lots of neon, and subtract some abject poverty, stupid frat boys, and multicolored plastic beads) and asked him if there might happen to be any other place in el Bellagio where one might find a decent breakfast. The nice man pointed us to Cafe Bellagio, which was located in the Conservatory. Insert some obligatory Clue puns here, because you know I did. Professor Plum with a slot machine handle, anyone? (Amanda was curious what a professor would be doing in a casino but I don't really think practicality has any place in punnery, do you?)

As with all hotel/casinos we had to walk like a half-mile in order to reach the Conservatory. Let's take a look at the sights along the way, shall we?

This is the ceiling right by the Bellagio registration desk. You Atlantans may recognize the glass work. For the rest of you, it's Chihuly (which, by the way, took me like three years to figure out that it was some dude's last name. Also in Googling him for the link, I found a picture of him wearing an eyepatch. Which makes it like eight times cooler).

A small fountain inside the Bellagio, past the Chihuly, left around Colonel Mustard with the lead pipe, right outside the Conservatory.

There was a line at the restaurant but what else can you expect at 11:30 on the Saturday morning of a holiday weekend? But while I was looking at the menu, I heard the cashier tell someone else that from the end of the line (which is pretty much where Amanda and I were standing, because, apparently, that is our Vegas line-legacy) the wait was only 20-25 minutes. Thus, together with some tasty-sounding menu items, began my love affair with Cafe Bellagio.

My precious...

Do you like me? Check yes or no. TLA&F. xoxo Mills

While we waited, I explored the Conservatory, which was done up in Japanese-zen garden style.

I feel so calm, so peaceful...

It's the Year of the Rat. It's a good thing, otherwise, the giant topiary rodent would have seemed a little strange.

I have no good caption for this. Especially because I thought it was a lady from the back.

Obelisks are not Japanese. But they are pointy and right outside the Bellagio Conservatory.

Finally we get to the front of the line. There is sitting and ordering and then, there is this:

I want to do my best Madeline Kahn and bust into a version of "Oh sweet mystery of life at last I've found you!" And since I haven't eaten eggs in at least six months you know it was TOTALLY worth it.

Amanda went healthy with the "spa omelette." It was still frickin' tasty though. And pretty. They get, like, extra double bonus points just for the plating (I'll direct your eyes again to the picture of huevos rancheros. I could hang that in my living room.)

After breakfast, we walked past the Bellagio fountains, but I'm only going to post the pictures of the fountains at night, since those are the money shot. As we were walking we spotted Miracle Mile and decided that some shopping would be the perfect addition to a nice, full belly. Fortunately Amanda is of hardy stock because I can wear some folks out with my shopping endurance. I think we were there for a good 3-4 hours, partially because there were many shops at which we felt it necessary to stop (including an awesome convenience-store type deal that also had some wicked cool souvenir choices, including, puzzlingly enough, a large variety of Hawaiian and South Pacific items), and partially because they weren't lying about the "mile" part. Let's just say exits were not plentiful. There were, however, some highlights, or lowlights, depending on your p.o.v.: part of the ceiling was constructed to resemble an outdoor (I want to say faux-Venetian?) skyline, which kind of freaked me out (you're inside, but it looks like you're outside! but really you're inside!) and came complete with periodic simulated thunderstorms, which we missed because we were in the other highlight, the Bettie Page store. I would post the pictures of the freaky faux ceiling but they didn't turn out so good because apparently freaky faux daytime lighting is not super conducive to digital photography. They should really do something about that. Seriously, I took, like, five pictures and they all turned out crap-ay

But maybe it's because it looked like rain.

The other big draw, apparently, of the Mile of Miracles was this laser light phenomenon close to the exit near the French Connection UK store (where I bought this adorably cute sweater that I had my eye on for some months and finally found on ridiculous sale). It actually attracted quite a crowd (the laser light phenomenon, not the sweater, although I will say I get compliments whenever I wear it) which we thought was rather strange because it wasn't like the lasers were particularly showy or intriguing; however, somebody obviously thought so because there was this large octagonal space roped off in the middle of what could have ostensibly (and possibly lucratively) served as a courtyard, right below where the lasers were flashing on the ceiling. Seriously, it was a puzzle. I think the only rationale we could come up with is that the laser light octagonal space was right out front of the slushy-fruity alcoholic beverage stand and THAT was the REAL reason for the possibly-quasi-semi-hallucinogenic laser-trail spectaculaire. Which booze stand, incidentally, we stopped at the next day when we returned to the Miracle Mile mall, in order for me to return the totally cute, but completely impractical despite its 50%-offness dress I bought at the Bettie Page store the day before, but whose alcoholic fruity-slushiness (I had peach) did not serve to make the laser lights any more fascinating.

The mannequin on the right looked a little crazy, like she might spring to life and go full-on Tony Montana in Miracle Mile.

The world's largest Hawaiian shirt: the real reason people come to Vegas. Not quite as exciting as the World's Largest Ball of Twine but that's probably why there are so many call girls.

We finally escape the mall and make it back to our hotel room to regroup and rally the troops for the evening's activities. While we're in the room, I get a call letting me know there's something for me at the front desk which the bellman will be bringing up shortly. I know I'm getting "something" because Rebecca called yesterday to tell me she was having something sent to the hotel. I do not know what this "something" is, but all I can think is "please let it not be a stripper, please let it not be a stripper." (You think this is funny and somewhat improbable but wait until your friends try and buy you a lap dance from one of regulars at the Nursing Home for Strippers on your 30th birthday and see where YOUR mind wanders.)

It wasn't a stripper but I think I was just as appalled.

I tried to slip a dollar in its g-string but it was playing coy.

This thing was ginourmous. And the bellman brought it to me on his way to showing some hotel guests their room, so when I opened the door and he handed me the basket, I had an audience of, like, nine people. They almost applauded even.

It got even bigger when I opened it (dirty!).

Hungry?

The contents of the basket included:

• 9 (yes, NINE) pieces of fruit (3 bananas, 3 oranges, and 3 apples)
• a bag of Snyder's of Hanovers sourdough pretzel nuggets
• a bag of Babybel cheese
• a wedge of herb brie
• a bag of pistachios
• a Ghirardelli chocolate bar with toffee and almonds
• a bottle of champagne
• a Hebrew National salami (at least it was kosher. And, omigod, in getting the link for the post, I just discovered that they now make a kosher breakfast sausage. I will make a note of that for the next time I go to the store. I'm such a good consumer).

We ate as much of it as we could Becky, I swear. The pretzels, pistachios, and chocolate bar made excellent plane snacks on my return trip to Atlanta.

Stay tuned! The next installment of the Las Vegas Chronicles includes some punk rock bowling, punk rock bar shenanigans, and pictures of more food!

Las Vegas: The Adventure Begins

Are you sitting down? Are you ready to RAWK?!?! Can you handle the shenanigans?

Our story begins on a cool Friday morning. A newly birthday-ed brunette wheels a large suitcase down a city street slowly awakening with the bustle of a workday morning...

[I will skip the part where I made my connecting flight out of Charlotte with only minutes to spare, because everyone has one of those stories.]

However, I will regale you with an adventure I like to call "Shana and Amanda Take a Taxi to the Hotel," wherein our fearless heroines stand in line at a taxi stand at the McCarran airport behind 150 other people, some of whom are slightly to extremely inappropriately dressed even for the city of sin, wherein it dawns on them that they are the last people in line. They then proceed to spend the next 30 minutes debating about whether they should move to the other taxi stand line until it's finally their turn. Cue action sequence: our plucky protagonists hold on for dear life as the driver, mistaking instructions to take the fastest route to the hotel for an earnest plea to scare the bejesus out of the passengers so that they might enjoy their vacation more, slams alternately on the accelerator and the brakes while careening across lanes in Strip traffic.

After our refreshing life and death adventure we finally arrive at our hotel, Bill's Gamblin' Hall and Saloon (howdy pardner), which was appointed nicely enough. Apparently several people I talked to who visited the website were very impressed with the televisions in the rooms.


Welcome to Bill's, home of the 40" plasma screen.

There was an immediate need to seek out some type of food so we ate the Tropical Breeze Cafe in the Flamingo Hotel (what can I say? I was cranky and it was right next to our hotel. Mahalo!). I had a turkey club sandwich and Amanda had the open faced hot turkey (dirty!) with gravy. A lot of gravy, enough gravy leftover for my naked, ungravy-covered, freedom fries. Unfortunately there are no pictures of our very first, gravy-covered Vegas meal, but just you wait: food pictures are plentiful and forthcoming.

Given that neither Amanda nor I are big huge gamblers or clubbers and in the interest of not spending $8-10-plus per drink anywhere on the Strip in pursuit of our preferred activity, we caught "the Deuce," the Las Vegas Citizens Area Transit (CAT) double decker bus that runs 24/7 up and down the Strip from the south end all the way to Fremont ($2 for a one-way pass, $5 for unlimited rides for 24-hours).

See, when people say "life is about the journey, not the destination," I think about how I don't really like sitting on the top part of double deckers, or fat midwesterners for that matter, and then I think, 'suck it, destination-haters.'

So. But. We finally arrived in old Las Vegas where I immediately steered our path away from the "Fremont Street Experience." [I'm not so sure I appreciate being presented with a pre-declared "experience." I believe I should be allowed to name my own experiences so officiously. Like "the Nordstrom shoe department Experience." Or, more appropriately here, "the Cafe Bellagio Experience" (shortly my pretties, shortly...).] Amanda picks the bar, claiming that the Griffin has our name all over it. I think she just wanted to sit down and have a drink after our somewhat lengthy, fat midwesterner-laden bus ride. But it was next to a tattoo shop which she decided was rather auspicious and given my previous statements regarding fat midwesterners I was just about ready for libations as well so we went inside.

It was an EXCELLENT bar. We arrived rather early, I suppose, for a Friday night so we managed to cadge some seats at the bar which became prime real estate later on into the evening.

This is us, having fun at the Griffin.

We also met Our New Best Friends:

Cori and Sara (aka Gypsy)

and Bridget (ignore the dudes on each side. Bridget often has boys hanging on either side of her. But we forgive her because, well, she's Bridget).

Sara, Cori, and Bridget were in town from Los Angeles for the annual Punk Rock Bowling Tournament hosted by BYO Records and held at Sam's Town Casino.

And yes, I did say "Punk Rock Bowling Tournament." You were not mistaken: p-u-n-k-r-o-c-k-b-o-w-l-i-n-g-t-o-u-r-n-a-m-e-n-t.

Anyhoo, ONBF are AWESOME. By the time we left, we made plans to meet up the next day to watch them bowl. And be punk rock.

But first, MORE PICTURES!!!

This is the Griffin bouncer. I think.

We took the Deuce back to our hotel, where Amanda decided she was in immediate need of some pizza. According to the hotel bellman, the closest pizza was located at O'Shea's, which was right next door to the Flamingo which was right next to our hotel. Fortuitous, no? Fortunately, I still had some of my turkey club sandwich from dinner, since it was one of those quadruple-decker, four toothpick deals. Good thing too, because that pizza was narsty.

'Nuff said.

Amanda waits for bad pizza while Shana takes actions photos.

Lots more ONBF and pictures to come.

xoxo,

Millie

Hell Hath No Fury Like a Woman Ugged

Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

I can't quite decide which circle of hell Mr. Aligheri might place me in. The sixth circle, for my heresy? The eighth circle (ditch six, party of one!), for my "deliberate, knowing evil?"

I, ladies and gentlemen, have just purchased a pair of Uggs.

I wouldn't really believe it myself, were I not looking at them propped up on the coffee table. I, who have not only eschewed, but railed, against the numerous and plenty popular fashions that crop up amongst celebrities and culture vultures alike. Shall I list them out for you?

• Gaucho pants
• Shrugs
• Uggs
• Jeans tucked into boots
• Flip-flops as regular shoeware, especially on men (are you at the beach? I didn't think so)
• Sweatpants as regular, non-gym, pant-ware
• Scrubs, outside of any sort of hospital/clinical setting (and especially when one is not employed in the clinical field)
• Tunics

But I walked into the shoe store and I tried them on to rid my mind of the image of Uggs that have been haunting me for days.

And they were super cute.

They were even cuter unfolded than folded.

If the woman at Go Fug Yourselves can do a 360 and purchase and wear wedges then I can too.

I think I can only wear them around complete strangers but I refuse to pull a Kate Hudson and wear them in the middle of the blazing summer.

Now that I have broken one fashion rule I may end up breaking another - once I break these fuckers in, I'm thinking about tucking my jeans in 'em.

I also may need a pair in brown.

Survivor: Jim Crow Island

Thurgood Marshall is rolling over in his grave.

The new season of Survivor, a show I never watch (because who wants to see a bunch of dirty, ugly people - possible exception: Ethan Zohn and his Amazing JewFro - learn how to cope without indoor plumbing and TGI Fridays? I'm not at all curious about what would happen if I couldn't use my straightening iron and I firmly believe 20 million people can be wrong), presents you (again, you, not me), the viewer, with a BRAND NEW GIMMICK that will KNOCK YOUR SOCKS OFF! Contestants will be split into four groups!! According to race/ethnicity!!!

Yay!!!! Racial sub-grouping sounds like fun!!!!! I can't wait to see what happens!!!!!!

In a New York Times article, the series producer, Mark "Touched by Roma Downey" Burnett, chats about the show's wacky new format. "I'm not an idiot...I really don’t believe there are many people who hate each other because of their race."*

In rationalizing this load of crap that I would be forced to swallow if, again, I actually watched this tripe, this guy (if he is indeed, ladies and gentlemen, an actual man)** takes a page from the 'they-do-it-so-why-can't-we?' school of thought (and "it-is-what-it-is" ideology, which is mostly just a crappy cop-out for not having to explain yourself in a hailstorm of public outcry). In addition to touting his belief in the virtual extinction of prejudice and racism in our modern society, the King of Race Relations raises, as evidence of the tendency of people to divide their personal lives along "social and ethnic" lines, "areas like Little Afghanistan" in New York.

Well, color me impressed (no pun intended). It appears I was wrong about "Separate But Equal" Burnett. He must be an astute, experienced observer of human nature and interactions to so accurately reflect the microcosms of society in his forthcoming enlightened programming. And he is S-M-R-T. Gosh, who would have thought New York, of all places, had pockets of fairly homogenous ethnic groups? And if that happens in New York, it must happen everywhere. I bet that the separation of New Yorkers, and by extension, of course, everyone else, along class and color lines is totally their choice too...I wonder if they have him teaching classes at the CBS Diversity Institute. If not, he should. He's, like, got such a, like, grasp, on what the public is, like, thinking and feeling and experiencing. Especially, like, you know, black people and Hispanics and stuff.

It turns out that "We Are the World" Burnett probably doesn't like me as much as I don't like his show or the potential recipe for disaster that usually is television attempting to address social inequities and/or stereotypes. Because I have it all WRONG. My big mistake, according to "Black Like Me" Burnett, is that I don't 'get' the premise of the show. I can't seem to get it through my big, fat gourd that "[B]y putting people in tribes, they clearly have to get rid of people of their own ethnicity. So that's not racial at all." OMG! I totally get it now. You're soooooo right, it's totally NOT racial.

The change in format seems ostensibly due to criticism of the show's lack of diversity. Apparently, according to Marky-Mark and the Nappy Bunch, a whopping 80% of Survivor applicants are white. Umm...(look of confusion, hand slowly raised in the air), am I supposed to be surprised by this information? I'm not one of those people who normally says "Well, I have a lot of black [gay, etc.] friends," but...I have a lot of black friends and I'll bet you ten dollars that if I asked any one of them if they would ever try out for Survivor, they would look at me like "Are you serious? No way! That shit's crazy (read: for white folks)!"

But maybe that just me being racial.


*Note: While the actual words themselves have not been altered, the chronology of Mr. Burnett's statements has, in order to make him sound like an idiot. Which he does pretty well all by his ownsome.

**He is (as far as I know). I just wanted to join the sensationalism party. I like to be included in stuff. Especially parties. With open bars.

Did you hear that?

That was the sound of Dave Navarro officially selling out. I know what you're thinking: "Didn't he sell out when he agreed to host Rock Star: INXS in the the first place?" "Couldn't marrying Carmen Electra, formerly married to Dennis Rodman, kind of constitute jumping the shark?" "Isn't going from guitaring in Jane's Addiction to guitaring in the Red Hot Chili Peppers (after a failed band/album), who then proceeded to cut the best Jane's Addiction album to released by a band who wasn't Jane's Addiction, selling out?"

But I say no.

I throw Dave many bones, because, let's face it, he's Dave Fucking Navarro, and he both turns me on and scares me in equal parts. So I'm going to throw Dave (okay, and the Peppers) another bone for the prior offenses listed above. A man like Dave Navarro needs to rock and/or roll, in whatever incarnation of whatever band he can join or scrabble together. A man like Dave Navarro, mostly by virtue of his Jane's days, brings much-needed street cred to a show like Rock Star. And, by God, a man like Dave Navarro needs to bang a hot chick with a sweet rack, regardless of the crazy freaks she's been married to before.

That being said, after tonight, I am no longer forgiving Dave his sins. The bone sack is empty, the sweet shop is closed. No more muffin for you, Dave. Tonight, on a very special Rock Star: Supernova (whooo! Tommy Lee! you dirty, magnificent, big-cocked bastard!), the band announced that a very special guest would be joining their 28-city tour (once, of course, they get around to the business of choosing a rock monkey who will never, ever, no matter how many crappy tattoos or bad dye jobs they get, ever be as hot as the sexy product of our neighbor to the north, JD Fortune, who god bless him, prefers to appear in INXS videos shirtless. But I digress). The very special guest? None other than Le Navarro himself. Okay fine, whatever. But here's the catch, see. Dave's not joining Supernova for the tour, he'll be joining the show house band and all the rejects who didn't win when they open for Supernova on the tour, like some demented rocker-freak American Idol tour of losers.

Yeah. Next thing you know they'll be rolling out some sob story about how dude with obviously-made-up-name taught himself to read by using the mnemonic shortcuts, EVGBDF and FACE, on his sheet music. Because, even when it's all about the music, man, it's also about setting a good example for the kid you had out-of-wedlock at 14. Oh, and being able to distinguish the bottle of Jack Daniel's from the bottle of Jim Beam. Because they have standards, godammit.

Gawd, I hope at least Dave got one of those Honda Elements as his consolation prize.