What happens in Vegas...must not happen to me.
My husband and I headed to the so-called Sin City last Thursday to have a weekend of fun and attend the wedding of a couple of his old friends. Neither of us had been to Las Vegas before, so we were looking forward to seeing what it was all about. We'd heard a lot about the bright lights of Vegas, the glitter, the tacky overdone-ness of it all. And we were looking forward to being a part of it, or at least observing it.
It wasn't to be quite what I expected.
I got my first clue as soon as I boarded the plane in Chicago. Stepping into the cabin to find my seat, I flashed immediately to a Sex and the City episode in which Carrie and Miranda take a bus to Atlantic City with a bunch of old ladies. The first ten rows of the plane were packed full of senior citizens.
That's strange, I thought. These are the people you see at the casinos in Indiana and Joliet. Why do they need to go all the way to Nevada to gamble their money away? Isn't Las Vegas a little too happening for the seniors?
Short answer: Nope.
I guess I thought of Las Vegas as the place I'd seen in the movies, a city where winning too much too fast will get you busted kneecaps, where you could practically get a prostitute through a drive-up window -- where they wouldn't let you leave before you'd done something completely out of character.
The Vegas I found was quite different. It was touristy. It was tame. It was Disney World with slot machines and booze. The craziest things I did were drink a $13.50 martini and watch TV in the bathroom of our hotel room. (Side note: There was no remote for that TV. I don't get that. I mean, if you're just doing your hair or something, fine, but otherwise, wouldn't a remote be a necessity for a bathroom television?)
The casinos were full of the same old people I'd seen on the plane. (Now I know why the Viagra folks went with a jingle that played on "Viva Las Vegas.") There were tons of parents pushing strollers up and down the strip. There was a Gap, for cryin' out loud.
That's not to say there weren't a few smarmy elements. In the cab to our hotel, I picked up a travel guide which included a $10 off coupon to a show called Bite, which, from what I gather, is some sort of porno vampire rock opera. There were scantily clad girls dancing on gaming tables in one casino. And there were guys on the street wearing tee shirts that said something like, "Girls Direct To You, Fast" and handing out cards with pictures of nearly naked women on them. But they were more of a curiosity than anything. I wondered about their tactics, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in groups of about 10, slapping the cards on their wrists and waving them in people's faces. I openly mocked them every time we went by one of their groups, but the only time they didn't persist in trying to get me a live girl was when they saw me walking down the street with a Starbucks.
Despite the lack of obscene and over-the-top craziness, I had a good time in Vegas. I gambled (and lost, but that's to be expected), oohed and aahed over the decor of the various hotels and considered purchasing a light-up sign that spells out Elvis. I even got to experience one of those famous casino buffets, the only place in Vegas where you'll truly get your money's worth. And, of course, I witnessed a Vegas wedding.
They say that Vegas is a place people either love or hate, with no in-between. I wouldn't say that's true. I had a great time, and I'd like to go back, but I wouldn't say I'm in any huge hurry to do so. I think for my next trip, I'll head to Orlando. I hear it's pretty seedy there.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Careless Whisperer
I have a bone to pick with Cesar Millan.
Well, that's not really true. I have a bone to pick with fans of Cesar Millan.
Since the day we brought Stella home, people have asked us if we watch Dog Whisperer. It's meant as a friendly question -- we have a dog, and the show is about dogs. And I have seen it a few times. I liked it; the guy is great at what he does and helps a lot of people with their problem dogs.
What bothers me is this idea that Cesar Millan is the one and only authority on canine obedience. If I so much as casually mention to someone that Stella has misbehaved, the first words I hear in response are inevitably, "Cesar says...."
It's nothing against Cesar himself. He's very gifted. And I've no doubt that if he happened to come over for coffee and Stella barked at him, he'd know exactly what to do. But it seems to me that he's becoming the Oprah of the dog world -- the one everybody hopes will solve all of their problems.
The worst part is, my husband has become one of those people. Ever since he watched his first Dog Whisperer episode two weeks ago, he's been trying Cesar's methods on Stella when she barks inappropriately. And hey, I'm willing to give anything a try.
But the thing is, it's not working. Maybe it's user error, or maybe it's just that this particular method doesn't work on this particular dog for this particular problem. In any case, after two solid weeks of trial and obvious error, I think it's time to try something else.
We have taken Stella through a great deal of training, and except for a few social issues (barking included), she is a pretty well behaved dog. For that, I credit our wonderful obedience trainer. Thanks to the trainer's guidance, Stella will sit, lie down, stay, walk nicely on a leash and come when called -- things she previously had no idea how to do, and things we had no idea how to get her to do. She's even excelling in agility class after only two sessions.
So my thought (and call me crazy, but I think it just might work) is that instead of watching a TV show for help, we should ask one of the experts in our area. One of the people who knows us, who knows our dog and who can actually see the problem first-hand and show us how to correct it. In other words, get help from a trusted local professional.
Anyway, that's what Cesar Milan says to do.
Well, that's not really true. I have a bone to pick with fans of Cesar Millan.
Since the day we brought Stella home, people have asked us if we watch Dog Whisperer. It's meant as a friendly question -- we have a dog, and the show is about dogs. And I have seen it a few times. I liked it; the guy is great at what he does and helps a lot of people with their problem dogs.
What bothers me is this idea that Cesar Millan is the one and only authority on canine obedience. If I so much as casually mention to someone that Stella has misbehaved, the first words I hear in response are inevitably, "Cesar says...."
It's nothing against Cesar himself. He's very gifted. And I've no doubt that if he happened to come over for coffee and Stella barked at him, he'd know exactly what to do. But it seems to me that he's becoming the Oprah of the dog world -- the one everybody hopes will solve all of their problems.
The worst part is, my husband has become one of those people. Ever since he watched his first Dog Whisperer episode two weeks ago, he's been trying Cesar's methods on Stella when she barks inappropriately. And hey, I'm willing to give anything a try.
But the thing is, it's not working. Maybe it's user error, or maybe it's just that this particular method doesn't work on this particular dog for this particular problem. In any case, after two solid weeks of trial and obvious error, I think it's time to try something else.
We have taken Stella through a great deal of training, and except for a few social issues (barking included), she is a pretty well behaved dog. For that, I credit our wonderful obedience trainer. Thanks to the trainer's guidance, Stella will sit, lie down, stay, walk nicely on a leash and come when called -- things she previously had no idea how to do, and things we had no idea how to get her to do. She's even excelling in agility class after only two sessions.
So my thought (and call me crazy, but I think it just might work) is that instead of watching a TV show for help, we should ask one of the experts in our area. One of the people who knows us, who knows our dog and who can actually see the problem first-hand and show us how to correct it. In other words, get help from a trusted local professional.
Anyway, that's what Cesar Milan says to do.
Monday, February 02, 2009
An Open Letter to Mr. McCrochety
Note: Last night, my downstairs neighbor, known on this blog as Mr. McCrochety (not to protect his true identity but because I hate him too much to learn his real name) banged on his ceiling with what I presume was a broom handle when my dog was running around. She wasn't barking, mind you. She was running up and down the hallway, making little pitter patter sounds with her feet. I honestly don't know how he even heard it.
When he banged on the ceiling, I was so angry that I wanted to storm downstairs, pound on his door and give him a piece of my mind. My husband stopped me for a few reasons. First, it wouldn't do any good, and second, the guy is scary. I mean scary. He watches out his window when we go outside and looks in the dumpster after we throw things away so he can see what we're getting rid of. The guy is going to go after someone with a tire iron someday, and we don't want it to be us.
But just in case I run into him in broad daylight when there are witnesses around, I worked up a little speech. I don't often run into him, though, and I think it's a pretty good speech, so I'm posting it here in case he happens to know any Stapling Jello readers. I'm sure he is not one himself -- he doesn't even have a TV, so I'm pretty sure he doesn't have a computer either.
Dear Mr. McCrochety,
Because of your complaints about the excessive noise in our building, my husband and I have stopped doing laundry after 10 p.m., wearing shoes inside, speaking in the hallway after dark, using a meat mallet when we cook dinner and allowing our dog to bark, even when it is appropriate for her to do so.
We have gone above and beyond what neighborly politeness dictates, living our lives as quietly as possible simply to avoid yet another confrontation with you.
So if you want to bang on your ceiling with a broom handle every time you hear signs of life in the unit above, that's just fine. But I'm here to tell you, the next time it happens will mark the end of our courtesy.
Sincerely,
Erika
When he banged on the ceiling, I was so angry that I wanted to storm downstairs, pound on his door and give him a piece of my mind. My husband stopped me for a few reasons. First, it wouldn't do any good, and second, the guy is scary. I mean scary. He watches out his window when we go outside and looks in the dumpster after we throw things away so he can see what we're getting rid of. The guy is going to go after someone with a tire iron someday, and we don't want it to be us.
But just in case I run into him in broad daylight when there are witnesses around, I worked up a little speech. I don't often run into him, though, and I think it's a pretty good speech, so I'm posting it here in case he happens to know any Stapling Jello readers. I'm sure he is not one himself -- he doesn't even have a TV, so I'm pretty sure he doesn't have a computer either.
Dear Mr. McCrochety,
Because of your complaints about the excessive noise in our building, my husband and I have stopped doing laundry after 10 p.m., wearing shoes inside, speaking in the hallway after dark, using a meat mallet when we cook dinner and allowing our dog to bark, even when it is appropriate for her to do so.
We have gone above and beyond what neighborly politeness dictates, living our lives as quietly as possible simply to avoid yet another confrontation with you.
So if you want to bang on your ceiling with a broom handle every time you hear signs of life in the unit above, that's just fine. But I'm here to tell you, the next time it happens will mark the end of our courtesy.
Sincerely,
Erika
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)