The Bed Rest Book Club

From best to worst:

Mad Men (AMC):  The fifth season of this remarkable show may just be its best. And coming from someone who had a hard time getting into the slow, deliberate nature of each scene, I've been on the edge of my seat most of this season.

Maybe it's fat Betty or this new, family-friendly version of Don Draper, but I cannot get enough of Mad Men right now. As Brian and I discussed this morning, "If you can't have zombies, I guess the next best thing is ad execs in the 1960s." Juxtaposed in real life events of that era, we've laughed, gasped, and looked on in horror at the subtle nuances of life transform the folks at Sterling Draper Campbell Price. The best line of this year? Roger, as he encouraged Don to stump for clients during the American Cancer Society dinner at which he was being honored: "Who knows? Maybe Jesus was just trying to land the loaves and fishes account."

Whether it's Don's go-get-'em speech from last night (the Jaguar account!), Peggy's turn at co-habitation (and extreme maternal disappointment), Roger's trip on LSD, the weird new guy Ginsberg, or Joan just being awesome as Joan ("Here's a surprise! There's an airplane here to see you!"), I adore Mad Men Season 5. Only three episodes left! Will Betty lose the weight? Will Sally continue to play psychological war-fare with her mother? Is Don going to cheat on Megan? Will Lane get caught? Are the writers setting up Pete to kill himself?

Ahh! Regardless of the answers, we all know they will look good doing it. Cheers, friends.

Grade: A+

The Real Housewives of New Jersey (Bravo):  Oh, the Gorgas/Guidices/Manzos/Lauritas/Wakiles of the world. Let's just get it over with, okay? This retched family fight that has now been dragging on for the past two years is getting a little tired. I'm exhausted just watching the bickering, so I can't imagine how they feel.

Best of all, this season was filmed a year ago. I'm wondering what the state of these relationships are currently, considering all of the drama. Just to catch up you in case you don't know, here's a quick history: Melissa is married to Joe, Teresa's brother. Teresa is also married to a Joe, and her Joe has had a tough couple years. There's a chance he may "go away." (don't say 'prison'). Teresa's cousin is Kathy, who is married to Rich and they have two hilarious kids. Jacqueline and Caroline (sisters-in-law) are still on the show, but Dina, Caroline's sister, dropped out two seasons ago and has (had?) a show on HGTV. Who knows where Danielle is. Either way, sisters-in-law Melissa and Teresa are at odds, mainly as a result of the fight Teresa and her brother Joe are in. At this point, that's all I can keep straight. I forgot how it started or who started it, and quite frankly, I don't care. It's just a lot of finger-pointing and shouting.

On this Sunday's episode, it was especially painful to see Teresa's 10-year old daughter get dragged into the mix. I don't understand how the powers that govern reality TV can be okay with letting a minor get dragged into family skirmishes and then aired for all the world to see. The show's most redeeming characters are the (adult) Manzo kids Albie, Christopher, and Lauren, and Kathy's sister, Aunt Rosie. And let's hope we see more of "Ham Linky" in the future, too.

Grade:  B-

Game of Thrones (HBO): Oh my goodness. Don't even get me started on this show.

I gave it a chance. I watched all of last season, and really ended up enjoying most of it. But this year, it feels more like we have an appointment with our DVR than any level of real enthusiasm when we sit down to watch Game of Thrones. Yes, you may argue, but it gets better. Or perhaps you'll encourage me to read the series by George R.R. Martin (why two middle initials? Can anyone explain that to me?) But the thing is, if I can't sit through an hour-long drama on television, there is no chance I'll be able to finish a 600+ page book, let alone a series of books. (no chance, people. Naps around here about 90 minutes at best). The number of characters, the fantasy of the world they live in, the totally different language they speak...I'm lost.

I tried to simplify things in my brain and came up with this:

First 20 minutes: Lots of talking by characters we've never met before
Next 5 minutes: Gratuitous fight scene. Lots of blood.
Ten more minutes: More talking
Next three minutes: Walking through a desert. I'm thirsty.
Ten minutes: Gratuitous fight scene.
Five minutes: Nudie people! Gratuitous sex scene
Five minutes: More talking
Two minutes: Shocking ending! Let's kill babies!

And we're done.

Considering there is a finite amount of space on our DVR, this one is likely to get clipped. Sorry, GOT.

Grade: D (for dull)

Getting pulled over when your child is in the car with you.

No, it's not because they have a front-row seat to witness Momma getting her ass handed to her by some dude on a motorcycle. And it's not because this event has the potential to plant seeds of delinquency in the very fertile soil of your child's mind.

No, the real reason it is so awful is that the child - or mine, at least - will think Momma getting pulled over is THE GREATEST, FUNNIEST THING EVER,  causing them to squeal, clap, giggle, and shout their excitement through the whole embarrassing ordeal, all the you slink lower and lower in your seat, wishing to disappear completely. And you will want to throttle your child out of total frustration.

This fun little event happened for us on Tuesday night. With the days getting longer, Scotty and I didn't leave the park until well after 7pm. Yes, I did make a right turn on red (totally legal) and yes, I did speed up to keep up with current traffic. What I did not expect to see was a policeman on a motorcycle peel out of a parking lot across the street,  cross six lanes of traffic, and plant himself directly behind me, lights flashing. I mean, yes, Hualapai is well-known in Vegas as one of the most dangerous streets in town (not, not, not) and with it's many crosswalks (read: zero), yes, pedestrians are getting picked off daily (um, no). Our tax dollars are really going to good use to ensure cars do not go over the ridiculously low speed limit of 35 (what?!?) to avoid more (non-existent) fatalities. And for the record, the only things I've ever seen run over on Hualapai south of Flamingo was a crumpled paper bag and one sad gym shoe.  Oh, the horror.

So as you can imagine, I was mildly annoyed that my car got singled out, literally two minutes from our house. Since leaving the park, Scotty had been playing this new game in the back seat where he screams as loudly as possible until I crack and start screaming back.  When the cop pulled me over, I was thisclose to winning. But with the Bear's attention now diverted  by the nice man at my window, demanding my license and registration, he began chattering incessantly about the events unfolding around him. Gleefully.

"Da motorcycle! Da...da...da police motorcycle! Da lights are on! Momma, look! Look, Momma, look! Da lights on da motorcyle are on! Oh, Scotty love da lights! Scotty LOVE da lights!  Say it Mom! Mom, say it! Say 'police motorcycle!' Say 'lights!' Say it! Momma, SAY IT! SAAAAAAY IT!"

Considering my emotional fragility at this time, from the prior screaming game to having to dig through my purchases at the farmer's market to get my wallet out, which included pawing through the fresh kale I had purchased, I was really about to lose it. I mean, don't I get a break for the kale? How can you ticket someone who has fresh kale in their car? Everyone knows that no one actually likes kale. We only buy it and eat it because it's good for us. It's the most sadomasochistic vegetable known to man, and this cop wasn't going to cut me a break, despite the fact I eat kale not because I want to, but because I should. He was completely unsympathetic towards every aspect of my life - the annoying toddler, the obnoxious leafy greens, the fact that Hualapai essentially poses to no risk to anyone, ever. It was infuriating to say the least.

But I couldn't take my frustrations out on the man in blue (technically, light brown), so I took it out on the tiny person in the car who would not shut up.

"STOP TALKING!!! JUST...STOP....TALKING!" And I banged my hands on the steering wheel for good measure.

It was like Demon Mother erupted out of me. Even I was taken aback at the tone of my voice and the crazy flailing motion of my hands. Motorcycle cop paused for a second and looked up at me as he wrote the ticket, probably thinking this is part where I flee from the car and start ripping out my hair.

Scotty paused for a long second. His bottom lip quivering. His eyes welled up, and then he, too, erupted into all-out wails. Oh, my sensitive little Bear. I had pushed him too far.

And that, folks, is how we returned home - Kim a crying, angry mess, and Scotty, howling like a bee had stung him. Brian arrived home just a few minutes before us and wasn't sure who to look at - or tend to - first. I just shoved the paper ticket in his hands, sniffed, and walked upstairs silently.

Stupid cop. Stupid ticket. Stupid kale.

::sigh::

Hey y'all! I got ABC to build me a reality TV mansion in Charlotte!

That's probably what our newest Bachelorette trilled to her friends earlier this year. She somehow managed to convince production to transplant the entire franchise on the other side of the country...and I'm kind of proud of her. Nothing against Nevada's neighbor, but it's nice to see things taken out of LA for a bit. Let's go, Charlotte!

And for a second, I thought maybe not only had they moved production to a different city, but a different year as well...like, 1984? Between the boom box and Jef's haircut that was reminsceint of Anthony Michael Hall's "the Geek" from "Sixteen Candles," I had to check my calendar to ensure we were safely in 2012. But then again, I'm not even sure these folks acknowledge the irony of their actions: the median age for both Emily and her bachelors is 27, meaning they would have been in utero or not yet conceived when John Hughes' classic hit the big screen. God I feel old.

Thankfully, Emily seems pretty grounded. Yes, she has a dramatic story. She has a sweet little girl that I like to call Ricky Bobby and a very cool make-up storage case in her bathroom. (Container Store, perhaps? Thanks for pointing that out, Nieva!) And she likes to wear pink - lots of pink - and brush the "sugar bugs" out of Ricky Bobby's teeth at night. The think I like the least about Emily is how she gets her 7-year old daughter to bed at 7:30pm, when that is the time we are starting bubble tub for our two-year old. Really, Emily? Can you write a parenting book after you find your Prince Charming? Us sad sacks are really in need of your wisdom.

They were kind enough to skip the Brad-Womack-part of the story fairly quickly - Brad's a cad, blah, blah. But as for her future suitors? Let's just say I wrote the word "douchebag" no less than 11 times in my notes. Has reality TV jumped the shark? Are these really the best guys ABC could find? And let's face it - Emily is gorgeous. There is no question about that. She possesses just enough Southern sass to make her interesting, while her outside is darn near flawless. She looks like a walking, talking Barbie doll. And Brian, my trusty Bachelor/ette sidekick (clearly he forgot his New Year's resolution - shh!), provided a very helpful deciphering of Guy Code to help me better understand the contestants motivations.

For example: when they say, "She's so genuine," it means, she's so hot.

- She's so down-to-earth: she's smoking hot

- She's so funny! = she is the hottest girl that has ever spoken to me

and finally,

- I really feel a bond with her = I want to touch her boobies

Thank you, Brian, for your indispensible help, and proving once again, men are a very, very complicated species.

Okay, on to the dudes. Some stand-outs? The guy that did the jig coming out of the limo (Joe)  made me laugh, though I wrote "douchebag" next to his name. Arie is smokin' hot, though ABC really had to play the race driver card? Really? He was nice to let her know early on, and you could tell she was surprised. I hope these two are able to work through whatever weird feelings that might bring up, because I like him and dub him a front-runner.

Aaron the bio teacher had a cheesy line, but I liked him. Be sure to not confuse Alejandro with Alessandro; one is from Brazil, the other is from Colombia (I'm already lost). Boombox guy (Magic Mike) lost me with that green shirt and the strange dance moves were horrifying. (she has a child! Some respect, please!) Dear Charlie has a traumatic brain injury from a fall off of a balcony, but he has the world's cutest bull dog (aside from Teddy Bullfeathers) and I give him a cautious thumbs-up. Ryan, the sports trainer, also appears competent with caring for animals AND children, so he gets a thumbs up as well.

Kalon. Oh, Kalon. Where do we begin? Next to his name, I had written: CHRISTIAN GREY. CHARLIE TANGO. BDSM. DOUCHEBAG!

I hope he proves me wrong. Helicopter, my butt. Pffft.

There's a dude in the mix named John but claims his friends call him Wolf. (Run, Emily, run!) Travis saw fit to cart around an ostrich egg for the entire night, proving his ability to care for Emily and Ricky Bobby AND pass a high school health class. (who had to do that? I went to Catholic high school so we just pretended babies came from storks. There was no advanced planning). I was praying that egg would break half-way through the night, just so Travis could come up with just another dumb line ("Life is messy...and sometimes you get scrambled up! You will always eat a good breakfast if you pick me!") to tell Emily.

In the end, though, it was David-tuck-your-shirt-in, Jackson the two-thumbed fitness model, Lerone the sole African-American in the group (nice try, ABC), Randy-the-creepy-grandmother, Jacques Cousteau, I mean, Jean-Paul, and Brent, the dad of six (SIX!) kids, who were sent home. They cried, they lamented, they showed their abs. And Lerone's exit interview was strangely absent. Boo, ABC. Boo.

My early predictions? Arie, just because he has nice eyes. Doug, he-of-the-first-impression-rose, and Jef that has some legs. I'm curious to know who calls Ricky Bobby "baggage." And finally, I really, really want to know...now that Chris Harrison is single, is he next in line to be the Bachelor? Could we be so lucky??

I hate doing laundry.

I should correct that - I don't hate stuffing dirty clothes into a giant washing machine drum. No, that's the easy part. I always think to myself, "I could be beating this against a rock...washing machines are awesome." It's the folding that kills me.

I hate folding laundry so much that I attempt to outsource at every given opportunity. Brian does a fair share of folding, and our once-a-week-babysitter has proven her worth by diligently and peacefully taking on this task. I cannot emphasize how much I love Sierra, and it's not just because she takes great care of the Bear. It's mainly because she makes my yoga pants seem crisp and new again.

So after the Container Store Blogger Party on Thursday, I noticed that in our bags 'o' swag they had given us something called a "Flip Fold Jr." It essentially is a giant piece of molded green plastic that promises "the perfect folded shirt!" I hate molded plastic. I kind of looked at it, considered throwing it away, and then on a whim, decided to find out if my dislike for molded plastic is greater than my dislike for folding t-shirts.

And what I found is...I no longer dislike either. In fact, I'm kind of in love with my Flip Fold Jr. I love it so much I spent Mother's Day reorganizing parts of our dresser. I was like, in the zone. The folding zone. 

Let me explain.

This is a Flip Fold Jr.

Place the t-shirt over the entire contraption, with the collar of the shirt touching the top of the green.  I shall be using my shirt from the "Six Tunnels to Hoover Dam" 5K Thanksgiving run as an example.

Fold the bottom part of the shirt up to the bottom of the green edge.

Using the bend-y sides (these are technical terms, people), fold one side into the middle. Tuck the sleeve in gently.

Do the same to the other side.

And then - this is the fun part - flip the bottom part (it bends as well) over the top, like so:

Viola! There you have it - a perfectly folded t-shirt!

I know, isn't it great? I love this little piece of green plastic so much I spent Sunday afternoon refolding our dresser. 

This is what it looked like before:

And after:

I know, I know. We're not exactly curing cancer here. But, this is my thing: if looking into a cabinet that is neatly organized improves your mood for the day, then it's worth it. And I am LOVING this new organization.

Thank you, Container Store!

The Flip Fold Jr. retails for $21.99 and can be found at your local Container Store. Don't have one in your area? You can buy it online at www.containerstore.com.

Despite what you may think, I was not compensated for this blog post in any way (other than scoring a cool swag bag.) I'm just so darn excited about loving laundry again that I wanted to share it with you fine people.

...and it is good.

Opening at 9am on Saturday, May 12 at Town Square Mall, Las Vegas will never be the same. I am so, so, so excited.

We are all going to get ORGANIZED!

Before I start talking about the thousands of amazing products (80% of their products are less than $20!), I first have to introduce the strange way I found myself in this story. See, the thing you need to know about the Container Store is that they are good people. Good Texas people. Started the same year I was born (word to all my '78ers), they believe in giving back to local communities. Whenever they open a new store, they select a local non-profit to partner with for their grand opening.

Unbelievably, they selected Junior League of Las Vegas.

We were thrilled. And honored. And of course - happy to do whatever we could to get the word out about the fantastic new store coming to our town.

Because of my position in Junior League as Communications Chair, I found myself on the front lines. When I found out they were hosting a luncheon for local bloggers, my head snapped up and I asked, "Can I come?"

So yesterday, two days before the big grand opening, I joined about 30 other local bloggers for an early preview of the store. They provided lunch, a brief history of the company, and a tour of the new store. I won't even get into how cool it was to finally meet other bloggers here in Vegas (yay Vegas Bloggers!) - I'll just get to the good stuff. Like the photos.

And before I forget, let me just say: the best part of attending a blogger party is phone use (photos, emails, texting, Facebooking) is not only permitted, it is encouraged. I did not have to covertly check my phone at all - it was a little slice of heaven.

Not surprisingly, the Container Store has a lot of containers.

Lots and lots and lots of containers.

Rows and rows of beautiful, brightly colored containers.

And gorgeous "what-lovely-treasures-should-I-put-in-here" pretty boxes?

Even if you are a color-phobe, they have you covered.

Or perhaps you are a weirdo like me and buy only brown things?

And it doesn't just stop with actual physical storage. Their best-selling modular shelving and drawer system, called "elfa," can be customized to meet any storage solution - your master closet, the garage, the pantry in the kitchen. The best part? It costs a fraction of the price of those other custom closet organizer companies.

Don't even get me started on the other innovative products on the shelves. A modern acrylic bowl (gorgeous in it's own right) with secret storage for ice, so your summer cole slaw doesn't turn into a sloppy mess of food poisoning in it's ninth hour at the 4th of July BBQ? Genius. The seemingly innocent tube of plastic that actually CONTROLS CORDS so the back of your TV isn't a wormy trail of confusion? Love at first sight. And that magazine rack that promises to organize all of my US Weeklys (finally!) without taking up more space on my ottoman? I think that might be my first purchase. It's like organization with intelligence.

The gift wrap aisle almost brought tears to my eyes.

I knew the Container Store was a class-act having worked with them for the past four months. Their customer service is top-notch and they really, truly believe in their product. What I saw yesterday, however, was the passion that they have for what they are doing. They want to help you get organized and are willing to work with you and your specific needs to make that happen. I can't wait to transform our house into a model of organizational beauty and function.

Oh yeah, and they threw Junior League a party last night. Twenty-five hundred people descended upon the store for chilled champagne, awesome apps, and some serious booty-shaking live music. And of course, some good photo ops. 

I want to personally thank the Container Store for providing me with an amazing learning experience over the last few months, and thank them for selecting an organization close to my heart to partner with. Junior League of Las Vegas works tirelessly to improve the health and wellness in the Las Vegas community, and I am beyond excited to see what the future holds.

Grand Opening is less than 24 hours away, and ten percent of the proceeds will go back to Junior League of Las Vegas. PLEASE go out and shop! Please go out and support this fantastic store!

Or as I like to call it, "Fifty Shades of Stupidity."

I'm sorry, hate me if you must, but I am not a fan. I tried - really, I did - to find a redeeming quality to this book. And I'll be the first to admit it, I am not done with the book. I've been reading it off and on for the past six weeks and given it a solid 427 pages (out of 657) to get someplace. Maybe I'm dead wrong and the book suddenly picks up speed in the last two hundred or so pages, and if that's the case, please feel free to tell me that and I'll finish. But I have this sinking suspicion that it doesn't and I'm just going to waste more time. And I hate wasting time.

The only analogy I can draw for the book is that it's kind of like trying a new casserole - you're not really a big fan of casseroles to begin with, but everyone's talking about this new recipe. So you give it a go. It has some weird ingredients in it, but you tend to trust the masses, so you plow ahead. It looks a little weird, and the first bite tastes strange. You give it another chance. And then another. And then, by bite #3, you realize: this is really bad.

I'm currently on bite #3.

In the event you don't know what the book is about, let me give you a brief (hopefully un-biased) synopsis: the author, E.L. James, imagines what it would be like if "Twilight's" Bella and Edward had met as adults - and no one was a vampire. Set in the pacific northwest, just like Twilight, Christian Grey (aka Edward) is a 27-year old dashingly handsome self-made billionaire who runs a massive corporation. He's smart, intelligent, and controlling (by his own admission). Enter Anastasia "Ana" Steele, a virginal 21-year old recent college grad with smooth skin and a simple naivete about her. She and Christian have a chance meeting, and sparks fly. Ana seems to always be in some kind of danger, and Christian, her night in shining armor, manages to find the time to save her from whatever peril has befallen her: drunk college guys, a old beater of a car, the job market, etc.

Okay, sounds pretty normal so far, right? Sounds like your standard romance novel. As I said to friends yesterday, I'm not a fan of the "He's a pirate/I'm a maiden/my corset shows my heaving bosoms/help me!" but that's cool - a lot of people do like romance novels, and who am I to fault them? It's not my genre, but that's cool.

But then it gets weird. My exact reaction? "Okay, okay, okay...okay, no, whoa! Whoa! WHOA! Holy Jesus my eyeballs are bleeding!"

Because as you find out (SPOILER ALERT), Christian has a certain, um, propensity for, ah, types of, well, kinky sex. (Mom, please stop reading). Specifically, bondage, dominance, submission, sadism, and masochism (BDSM).

(Yes, I had to look that up. And yes, now my computer has been flagged.)

Regardless of what government watch-groups I am now on my Google searches Christian essentially wants Ana to be his Submissive, and he her Dominant. Like, to the point that there is a contract - an actual, written contract involved. That outlines what is and not okay in their "relationship." Things that 1.) I didn't know existed and 2.) I cannot bring myself to type in my sweet little PG-rated blog. Just use your imagination. Aside from the crazy stuff, she must refer to him as "Sir," she cannot show disrespect (like rolling her eyes), she cannot touch him, look him in the eyes, and she must do whatever he says when in his company (every weekend for the next three months). Oh, and she must not say a word about this to anyone. And if Ana doesn't adhere to the "rules" set forth by Christian? She gets punished. As in spanked, hit, slapped, or paddled.

Call me crazy, but this sounds like an abusive relationship. Oh wait, it's BDSM. And there is a contract involved. Never mind.

Anyways, according to him, this whole arrangement is consensual and she can opt out at any time (yay for contracts!). The upside to their "relationship?" A clothing allowance, a new car, flying around in Charlie Tango, lots of spa days.

Now this sounds like prostitution.

Eek, there goes my opinion again. Must. Remain. Unbiased.

I don't know how the novel ends - maybe he goes to therapy? Maybe she walks away? Or - this is what I'm guessing - her love "changes" him and helps him to unlock the reason why he is like this (cue the abusive childhood narrative), thus making him a better man. (cue the violins)

Regardless of the ending (and please, tell me if I'm way off base or something), my biggest issue with the book isn't the incredibly graphic sex scenes or terrible writing - it's the violence against women. It's the power difference that exists between this 20-something female and an older, rich man. It's the fact that women are already one-down in society and books like this simply perpetuate - and glamorize - misogyny.

But, you argue, they are engaged in a consensual BDSM relationship. She can walk away anytime she pleases. This is not your textbook abusive relationship but simple exploration into sexual fetishes practiced by a percentage of the population. In fact, you state, this is the very definition of feminism - individual freedoms to express herself and practice beliefs, whatever they may be. There is no known connection between BDSM and sex crimes, so step off your soapbox, Kim.

(I'm really trying hard to see both sides of the argument)

And to your argument, I would say: you are right. But this is my thing: I'm guessing you are NOT part of the percentage of people who practice BDSM, and this is not an argument about the right or wrongness of BDSM. For me, this book is simply not entertaining. And it's insulting. The part where he punishes her - and she is surprised that she enjoys it - makes me worry that some guy out there is reading this, thinking, "Yeah, that's cool! I can do that too! When I hit my girlfriend, she's going to get turned on!" without understanding the subculture or inaccuracy behind that scene.  It's troubling, to say the least.

And don't even get me started on the media's sensational coining of the term "mommy porn." I know, we house-wives are just so darn bored that we need stimulation and a fantasy world with playboy billionaires with kinky sex practices to escape. Um, no. I'm too busy with actual, real concerns - childcare being first on that list. And making sure my child never grows up to become a Christian Grey.

Sorry to be all Debbie Downer about this book, as I know a great many people like it. But I feel like it is insulting to women, insulting to me, and a dangerous example for others that maybe don't have the best moral filter. I'm not advocating censorship nor am I advocating against BDSM, but E.L James takes a man that was abused in childhood, brought into his own BDSM relationship at the age of 15, and tries to turn him into a prince, through the naive eyes of a young woman with no additional sexual experience. The whole thing just falls flat. It's insipid, juvenile, and the characters are one-dimensional.

::yawn::

Thanks, but no thanks.

Grade: F

Sometimes, you just gotta throw a party.

And in this case, I broke out the good crystal.

Maybe it was because our wedding anniversary was on the 6th or that the beginning of May always reminds me of flowers. Or maybe it was just because I wanted to do a mobile spray tan (you know, the kind where they come to your house?) and the price goes down if more people are present. Regardless of my motivations, it was fun to plan and fun to put on and sometimes the best reason to celebrate doesn't require a reason at all.

Yes, we had a mobile spray-tanner come out. She set up shop in the downstairs bedroom and Scotty had a ball running in and out of her giant pink tent - before the festivities started. (this is not Toddlers and Tiaras, people. I did not spray tan my child). Mystic Mona, the fortune teller, was stationed in the living room and worked for two hours, reading tarot cards and telling us things about ourselves we didn't know. The food - a gastro-dynamic medley of awesomeness - included Jamaican jerk chicken with spicy dipping sauce, mac 'n' cheese with truffle oil, pesto aioli goat cheese with flat bread, signature salad, and a sampling of dessert (red velvet cake, cherry cheesecake, and carrot cake) paired nicely with the Vevue that was chilling in the ice bucket. The flowers, my favorite, favorite part, brightened the whole scene, with white and green hydrangeas, rich blue lisianthus, orange tulips and some red flowers I didn't know the name of in clear glass vases (anemone? Is that a flower? Or a sea creature? Not sure). I don't know why it is, but I firmly believe it's not a party unless there are fresh flowers present. 

Excessive? Maybe. But it was fun. And at one point in the evening, as everyone sat outside, chatting, sipping their drinks and snacking on jelly beans -

- I looked at all of my friends and thought to myself, "I am really happy right now."

                                                   **************

Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once and awhile, you could miss it. Just be sure to take it in while holding a glass of the good stuff.

Big Thanks to my fabulous Vegas vendors:

- Bryce at DW Bistro (dwbistro.com)

- Randi (looooove her!) at Naakiti Floral ((naakitifloral.com)

- Mystic Mona (monavanjoseph.com)

- Rachel Mohr with Body and Soul Sunless Tan (bodyandsoulsunlesstan.com)

and Costco for just about everything else. :-)

This was, quite honestly, the easiest party I've ever thrown. Cheers!

I had a party last night. The synopsis from the party will be posted on Monday (tentatively titled, "Life is Short: Drink Good Champagne") but like all good parties, I'm left with the aftermath of clean-up today. It's cool - it's expected - but who knew a dozen women and some Jamaican jerk chicken pops could wreak so much havoc on my kitchen floor?

I managed to avoid the floor most of the day, but once Scotty went down for naptime, I had to face the inevitable. After a fun pool date this morning, I begrudgingly agreed to a date with some Pine-Sol and some rags. I planned to scrub the floor on my knees (which is how I normally clean floors), but then I realized I was still wearing my bathsuit cover-up from this morning: a little cute dress that I didn't want to get dirty. The first thought that popped in my mind was to take the dress off and scrub the floor in my underwear. And then the second thought?

OMG...Megan Draper.

Needless to say, I kept the dress on.

Zou bisou bisou, indeed.

The blog will likely be dark for the rest of the week, while I attempt to find a spare moment.

See you May 7.

First, select an awesome hotel with a gorgeous lobby.

Make sure your room has a kickin' view at night.

After telling everyone you want to lay out by the "quiet pool" to read a book, completely cave and purchase lounge chairs at the Euro-trash day club and drink your weight in Ambhar tequila. Groove to the sounds of the resident DJ and take in the scene of those around you who are at least 15 years your junior. If you start to feel old, just keep drinking tequila.

Note: it's best to leave your phone, iPad, and/or any type of communication you might have with the outside world in your room. You do not want to be tempted to tweet/text/update your status in this kind of environment.

Do a little shopping. Accept the free champagne that the lovely clerks offer you. It makes shopping that much more fun.

Eat a completely unhealthy dinner. I mean, really. Go all out. Find whatever is on the menu and order the one thing you know your boot camp trainer would just die if they knew you had consumed. In our case, it was bread, cheese, and beer. Take photographic evidence of your tiny rebellion.

Do a little gambling, of course. Try to find the cheesiest slot machine you can find. As you can see below, we succeeded.

Accept all freebies the hotel offers you. After paying $18 a drink at the Euro-trash pool, free wine sounds like a pretty good deal.

And finally, acknowledge the fact that all good things have to come to an end, and drive the ten minutes - though a world away - back to your own residence in this crazy town. Profusely thank your childcare provider for allowing you 48 hours to feel like a normal adult again and placate the natives with giant pink lollipops. All is good in the world again.