You know those tacky shirts that say, "My mom went to Lake Tahoe and all I got was this stupid shirt"? My children didn't even get one of those stupid shirts. I went to Vegas -- sans kids and husband -- and all I brought back was this stupid photo.
I didn't come home with a tan.
I didn't come home with scores of cash that I won playing slots/poker/baccarat/placing bets on the derby.
I didn't come home skinnier.
I didn't come home with ticket stubs from a show.
But I did come home. And that is saying something. It's not very often that I get to escape my day-in-day-out responsibilities of loading the dishwasher, folding those damned fitted sheets, and walking the kids to school. (And lest you think I do more than that, you're mistaken.)
I did reacquaint myself with my dancing bone. (Please don't make any porn-y jokes. I just went out and shook my backside to the beat of some questionable music. That's all.)
I did have a relaxing time with my friends by the pool, if by relaxing you mean I laid really still and pretended not to worry about how far my gut was sticking out, how many sunspots I was acquiring, and where my next drink was coming from.
I did make a new friend who I proceeded to give a scandalous nickname -- which will not be repeated here because as is true with most things coming out of Vegas, you really had to be there.
I did meet up with a very old friend. Well, she's not really old so much as my first friend I ever made. Or something like that. The main point being, we're still spring chickens, seriously.
Anyway, what's important here is that I didn't buy that stupid shirt. I just posed stupidly for this stupid picture that I thought my kids would find awesome. But in fact, they didn't recognize the gigantic wax guy. Coolness fail.