Party with my Belly

My Finnish DJ friend hosted a show at the Vegas version of Privé the evening following Christmas. I hadn't seen him or his wife since the music conference in Miami two years earlier, so I had no intention of missing his performance in my backyard. Sweet has patiently endured the trashy pop and trance tunes that so frequently blast from my car stereo that I figured s/he would either sleep soundly or decide to make a slightly early appearance as Mommy shook her tooshie on the dance floor.



In a room full of slender, pompous 20-somethings, I can only imagine the sneers my buxom, 9-months-pregnant belly must have garnered. In fact, as I pushed Sweet awkwardly through crowds of drunken, dancing suits, the bouncer not-so-kindly denied my request to leave through a roped-off exit (I feigned discomfort in an attempt to break the rules) saying "maybe you shouldn't be here." He was right - not because my unborn child and I couldn't handle the multitude of people or the body-vibrating bass, but because one should never have to stomach such a pretentious scene on orange juice and water alone.

Regardless, it will make a good story to tell the little one when I'm in dire need of "rock star" points, because Lord knows I tossed my cool out the window somewhere along Route 40.

Wonderland

Just when I began to accept my distance from the East Coast, the East Coast came to me...


And just as I ascend to the pinnacle of turmoil in advance of our baby's birth (transitioning work; year-end deliverables; prenatal classes; gift-buying; and preparation for all our relatives arriving for the holidays on the doorstep of our tornado of a half-painted and woefully disarranged house), our ages old backyard tree collapsed into our pool under the weight of the powdery goodness that Las Vegas is not particularly well-designed to handle.



Regardless, I say God bless the snow. In all it's infinite chaos, it will still never fail to calm me. I think I'll make some hot chocolate for Sweet.

Rainbow Pack

Mothers-to-be, carrying carbonated orange juice and a bandeau-covered, oversized belly through a casino are quite the attention grabber. It’s as unlikely an image as Grandma Hazel clinging to a walker and an IV pole, rolling dice at a craps table full of cowboys. I will not lie and say I don’t enjoy the attention, particularly the googly-eyed, approving smiles of gambling fathers. In my state of natural obesity, it’s nice to be appreciated.

Las Vegas residents do not typically rush to the Strip for entertainment; there is plenty to be found elsewhere without the insufferable crowds (or obnoxious drink prices, if you’re able). But local-discount (or free – courtesy of generous concierge-friends with strings) shows are still a draw, as is the intensity of a solid power-hour of…bingo. If you enjoy a $15 diversion, but still want to socialize with your companions, don’t purchase the “rainbow pack”. My teal-hued dauber saw more action in sixty minutes than a low-rent call girl does in a week. Empty-handed, save some aquamarine ink stains on my hand, I still left the casino bingo hall feeling a satisfaction that no money-sucking blackjack table can bestow. Gambling without breaking the bank and a free hot chocolate in the belly I share with my Sweet. This may become a Thursday evening habit.