Keys in Strange Places

One of the services my office provides is to unlock people's apartments when they lose their keys/get locked out of their apartment. Usually I dread someone coming in saying, "Can someone open my door for me?" First of all, I revile these people for being so stupid/unorganized/lazy and losing their keys in the first place. Secondly, this usually happens five minutes before closing and we have to rush maintenance to cut another one (which is very stressful and difficult not to mention we all just want to go home.)

Boo!!!

And finally, it means I have to drop however many hundreds of balls I happen to be juggling at the moment (tee hee balls), get the keys from the box, and escort them all the way to their apartment. Depending on where their apartment is located, this could mean quite the trek. Especially if it is 100 degrees like the other day and I'm wearing a full suit. Then I secretly chant makeshift voodoo curses in my head while making cheery small talk.

But sometimes, I enjoy rescuing people because they often have hilarious or unusual stories about how they came to be without their keys. Here are the top five:

1. Guy who lost his keys several months ago in The Body Shop, a strip club off Sunset. To this day he still has not paid the $5 fee to cut a new key. He simply locks his front door from the inside, then goes out his patio door and jumps over some bushes. This is someone who pays at least $1200 for rent every month, (and god knows how many thousands on strippers), and he won't fork out five bucks for a key. I hope she was worth it, buddy.

My favorite part is "18 Years OK!" Classy joint.

2. Guy who left his keys in Israel. God knows how expensive it must have been to overnight a package from a place where the local post office is probably getting bombed constantly. Reliable courier services must be hard to come by there.

3. Guy(s) who left their keys in Vegas. From one type of pilgrimage to another. This one happens quite frequently. I just chuckle at them and ask them if they had a good time. They tend to respond with a sheepish grin.

4. Guy(s) who pissed off their crazy girlfriends who are now holding their keys hostage until they grovel. Seriously, I encountered this with two different residents, one of which not only stayed with the girl, but she did this twice! I don't know what they did to piss them off, but it sure is a brilliant way to get revenge.

Bitches, man. Bitches.

5. Guy whose keys are at the police impound lot. I asked him if he had had a rough night, and he replied, "Not as rough as some." Badass. But it turns out that it was his friend who was caught smuggling something nefarious unbeknownst to our hero, and his car was impounded because of it. Doesn't that suck? Anyway, the guy told me that now anyone who enters his car will be subjected to a strip search in case they too may be holding. I thought he was joking until he exclaimed, "If you don't want my finger up your rectum, then you won't be getting in my car." True story. Needless to say, I will be avoiding this person for several reasons from now on.

If you've noticed that this list is comprised of entirely male residents, then you would be spot-on. Girls get locked out all the time too, but they don't have nearly as good stories. (Usually it's because they went to the gym and their roommate locked the door. Yawn) I will update the list if I get any more good ones. Just so you know, the curse I put on these people is less severe depending on how entertained I am by their excuse.

"Holy crap, Wayne Newton's hitting on Mom!"

Now that the hangover has subsided, the blistering heat has been replaced with pleasantly warm, and I'm no longer stuffed into Spanx and a little black dress, it is finally time to recap my adventures in Vegasland. While it was a fabulous three-day weekend filled with all kinds of amusing debauchery, the highlight definitely was my pilgrimage to what should be every straight girl and gay guy's Mecca, CHIPPENDALES. But I'm going to save that for its own blog. Because it was that good. For real...

Obligatory Vegas Sign

I'm sorry, where was I? Oh yes. Vegas. Which, like all trips I end up not regretting one bit, I started off dreading like nobody's business. Mostly because, despite the fact that I am gainfully employed and have been for six whole months now (practically a record!), I am still crazy broke. Also, because traveling even just to the next state over, is incredibly stressful. There are flights to book, taxis to reserve, and itineraries to plan. Not to mention strict budgeting that I will inevitably completely ignore while actually on vacation. Then there was the added stress of attempting to pull off a short Youtube video in approximately 24 hours (a topic for another blog altogether. Suffice to say, there will be Running Man). Basically, I had to work overtime like mad just to take one day off.

But by Friday night, I was in Vegas, reunited with my UC Irvine/University of Bordeaux girls, some of which for the first time in the two years since graduation. There were seven former Anteaters in total, and Vegas was stoked for us. We landed at the Carriage House sometime after midnight, then hit up Walgreen's for supplies. Meaning booze and junk food to stock our hotel room that was bigger than my whole apartment, including full fridge and dishwasher. It was a little alarming seeing Vegas for the first time since I was 15 and with my family. Probably because Vegas at 3 in the morning is a little alarming no matter how old you are. Crazies and drunks everywhere. It was fabulous.

The next day, we slept in, then headed out to the Strip. We made it as far as the Paris before deciding to partake in the grand Vegas tradition of comically large souvenir cocktails. My Eiffel Tower-sized margarita was delightful, as was the prospect of getting fairly drunk before one in the afternoon. It was even better knowing that I would have been at work, probably stressing about dog poop or parking snafus, had I not been traipsing down the corridors of various gambling establishments. The only downside was that it was hot as balls in Vegas. Everyday was at least 105 degrees, maybe 90 at night. So hot that if I even tried to sweat, it would evaporate before it could cool me down.

Me, Stefan (The Eiffel Tower Cocktail), and Tiffany

We only hit a few hotels before giving up to the heat, exhaustion, and extreme tipsiness. We came back to our own decidedly less impressive hotel to get ready for the evening's festivities. The lady Anteaters had decided early on in the planning stage to purchase slutty dresses to really get into the spirit of the place. We quickly discovered that California slutty is nowhere near as intense as Vegas slutty. We felt positively Puritanical with our skirts that extended longer than an inch past our cooters and heels less than seven inches tall. I don't know how those girls did it. My feet were screaming after walking a few blocks in my relatively conservative peeptoe wedges.

Mutinous Feet

Saturday night was Cirque du Soleil's Mystere. The primary reasoning behind our selection was that it was the show that Seth Rogen watches in "Knocked Up" where he freaks out whilst on shrooms. I am telling you now, you don't need shrooms to be freaked out by that show. I'm pretty sure it was the closest thing to an acid trip I will ever take. Especially that fat baby with the big orange ball. I fucking hate that baby. He is the stuff of your most obnoxious nightmares. There was also this ventriloquist in hot pink that just spoke jibberish and held a creeppy Dr. Seuss-looking dummy. Boo. But the actual acts were amazing. Especially the two half-naked guys who lifted each other with impressive strength. And I won't lie, despite the intense homoeroticism, it was kind of working for me. Then there was this big snail thing that was just bizarre. But I'm glad we went, because it's not Vegas without a big snail thing.

Weird big snail thing at Mystere

After the show we went to Botero Steak House for a fully vegan meal at the Wynn. Yes I can appreciate the irony of going to a steak house for vegetables. But Miss A.K. Brown as she was known by her assassin name had an in with the chef who created the menu. The same chef who also catered Ellen's wedding (be impressed, dammit!). So her family offered to pay for the meal as long as we all ordered vegan. I never thought I'd be so stuffed just by eating veggies and tofu. But five slow courses and gallons of water made eating just painful after a while. The food was fantastic, especially the mini-churros. And our waiter looked exactly like Chuck, so bonus. We had planned on going clubbing after dinner, but one look at the slutty and/or douchey mob outside XS (with one exception being the adorable guy in full formal Scottish regalia), we were over it.

Pretty fabulous

Sunday mornings were made for brunch buffets in my opinion. And Planet Hollywood had an amazing one. After brunch, we did some more Strip-ping. I made the mistake of wearing super thin flip flops so my feet were still not happy. But I consoled myself with another souvenir margarita cup, not quite as spectacular as the tower I named Stefan, but nearly as effective. Then came the Jello shots. And the vodka cranberries back at the hotel. Basically I was drinking from 3pm to 1am. Since it was over a long period of time, I never got crazy drunk, but I maintained a nice buzz. Vegas should be experienced no other way.

INSERT CHIPPENDALES SEGMENT HERE!!

Monday I woke up feeling slightly ill. But I considered it a seminal right of passage having vomited in a Vegas hotel toilet. But after a handful of dry Cheerios, I was right as rain. We checked out of the hotel and wandered around the City Center, this time at a much more leisurely pace. After killing some time at the Luxor, Mandalay Bay, and Excalibur, we dragged our tired, hot, aching butts to the airport. We were no longer drunk, unlike many people at McCarren who extended their walks of shame to the plane ride home. But I was done. Vegas is good for 2.5 days tops. After that, it is just too much stimulation. Plus there's nowhere to sit.

It was blissful coming back to Burbank where it was a perfect 72 degrees. It was weird to no longer be surrounded by intoxicated bachelorette parties and belligerent frat guys desperate to reenact the Hangover at any cost. But I appreciated the peace.

So now I think I'm all set for Vegas for the next several years. Though I'd be happy to fly in every other week to meet up with my Chippendale's husband...