It's bad enough that I have taken to crocheting scarves, but last night I went to roll over and my hip cracked so loudly it woke up the cat.
Little Bunni needs to pour herself a big glass of shut the fuck up because despite historical precedent I had a wonderful Valentine's Day. Kiss Kiss tried to talk me into ditching my classes and just spending the day in the bathtub doing decadent things. He is always encouraging me to be such a bad bunni (as if I needed help with that) , but it's ok because he also threatens to kick my ass about writing so it all balances out. Early in the afternoon, Peter the Psychotic Poet (Kiss Kiss referred to him directly in my valentine's day comments) gave me a box, ok a SMALL box, but still a box of godiva chocolates. Kiss Kiss met me across town in suit with a maroon shirt (if only I had worn my boa we would have matched) and took me to dinner at one of my old favorite restaurants. He also gave me my presents: a Hill Have Eyes mutant stress ball (complete with disembodied eyes, ears, and tongues) and a CD wrapped in my very own signature Bunni wrapping paper. (He emailed me the image he used, but blogger is being evil so I can't upload it today.) OK near the end of dinner, he and I ended up trapped between two rather frightening conversations. On one side, we had a couple seemingly on the verge of breaking up (right before we left the man said to his date "OK well if this is what you want to talk about why don't we just leave right now?") and a group of people who were "humorously" discussing that the origins of the term "penne" comes from "unenhanced penis." Uh not to sound like an idiot, but what is an "enhanced penis"? I mean, aren't most of them "unenhanced"? Is an "enhanced penis" something like what Mark Wahlberg, AKA Dirk Diggler, wore in Boogie Nights? Luckily, we were about to leave so it didn't disturb our lovely dinner.


Afterwards we had wine and magnolia cupcakes at my place as he had gone down to Bleeker before dinner to get us dessert. This morning I woke up to find my rabbits all arranged in a lovely audience on the couch and a box of cupcakes on the table.


Today my office elf gave me a copy of Saw II on DVD for Valentine's Day.


Yeah, I'll shut up now.
So I was in Upstate this weekend attending Daddy Warbuck's Valentine's Day party. He demanded that not only I come, but I wear a corset. Well I hauled my ass complete with Betsey Johnson corset, silk skirt, fishnets, and a vintage maroon feather boa to Upstate New York. I can't tell you how much Amtrak loved me that day. Before you get excited I want you to remember that MY MOTHER was my date, and she was ferrying to the party several octogenarians. So there I am crammed in the middle of the backseat wearing a corset and fishnets in a car where the average age was 87. Oh and I should mention that this fabulous bash was taking place from 5-7 in the afternoon. Oh yeah people PAR-TAY.


Once I got the party, people were dressed, well, normally. And I come sweeping in with my Mae West tribute ensemble. Of course, the only thing to do in such a situation is to start drinking heavily. And since this is a Daddy Warbuck's party, this wasn't hard to do. He had two signature drinks-a striptini (vodka and pomegranite juice) and a big heart on (a cosmopolitan with some kind of twist). The Showgirl was there with her new man, and they spent most of the time holding hands on the couch. Meanwhile, the caterer, who my mother has nicknamed Kooky Mandrooky, spotted me. He fell a little in lust with me when he catered the margarita party during the Blogathon and was at least very happy to see me. He fed me raw oysters and apple fritters. The pianist also came to love me because I knew all the old standards. It's not often that a young woman asks for All of Me or can immediately identify Cry Me a River, but of course I can. He was thrilled and invited me to hear his new show Side by Side (all early Sondheim songs). I ended up sitting by him listening to In the Dark while a woman told me about living through WWII in Paris. Not exactly how I wanted to spend the evening.


Of course after the party thinned out, it was only gay men left and they all took the time to compliment my outfit. Any event that involves costuming it's pretty much a given I'm going to own it. The next day Warbucks left me a message thanking me for "turning it out" the way that I did. As if I would ever disappoint.


This weekend also cemented into place how happy I am I don't have a TV. This weekend AMC played Bloodsport with Jean Claude Van Damme and Smokey and the Bandit with Burt Reynolds. I can only hope that is a harbinger of the apocalpyse.
I get up early the next morning so I can indulge in a bath before I leave. The Showgirl, Princeton and I have coffee and chat about events. The Showgirl tells me that Frog Prince is a "playa." I wonder at what kind of deranged necriphiliac would go after such a specimen.
Then I realize I'm looking at such a deranged person. Not only does she want to sleep with him but she was DENIED. Let me tell you this is not the kind of guy that should be allowed to turn down sex from Goodwill. This is what pure capitalism breeds people-that personality bereft toads can be "playas", and a girl like myself wakes up alone the majority of her life.


In college, I took Introduction to Psychology. Part of the course is participating in psych experiments. Often you are called upon to fill out long forms which ask questions like "Do you believe I'm more fun when you're drunk?" The question that is not on the form is "Do your friends tell you that you are more fun when you are drunk?" Princeton and I chat on our own. We decide that the Showgirl is only tolerable when she is drinking. Otherwise she is obsessed with monitoring every facial expression of the Frog Prince. We decide that she has a two drink minimum. We should have laced her coffee with Bailey's. The Frog Prince takes us to the Aladdin for shopping and brunch. Throughout brunch the Showgirl is quiet and removed.


After brunch, I manage to fulfill one of my Vegas goals. I buy a black cowboy hat with a few tasteful rhinestones. Afterwards I look in the hat to see what brand I have bought: Jack Daniels. No joke.


Princeton insists we all go to the Liberace museum before my flight home. Considering how much time time we have left, we literally run past the crystal encrusted cars and plumed capes. We quickly cruise through the gift store. I buy the Best of Liberace CD to listen to on the plane home.


Even up until the last moment, Daddy Warbucks keeps asking Frog Prince, "But what would be fun for you?" And he doesn't seem to get that the concept of fun for this guy is like trying to explain a desert to an Eskimo-at best it exists as an abstract concept.

Driving by Treasure Island on the way to the airport-I flinch. Again the lesson learned from Eric is the strange things that can induce nostalgia. My last night in Vegas, on the previous visit, his mother took us out to dinner there. She wanted me to see the staged pirate battle. She loved Vegas. She took me for cocktails at the Bellagio and to parties at Mandalay Bay. She taught me how to play video poker. The last night she took us all out to dinner at Treasure Island. They had a woman who comes around and takes pictures. She took our picture together. His mother bought it for me. I carried it around in my backpack. Even after he left, I carried it as a talisman almost. To remember that it was real, that it happened. To remember what he looked liked in case he ever came back. I forgot about it a couple of times, only to find it jammed at the bottom crusted with pencil shavings.

I though about calling her, his mother, the one who used to call me Eric's rock, the one who told me how happy she was her son found me. Of course, I wasn't going to. What would I say? Yes my life is a howling emotional wasteland where I continue to fail at EVERYTHING I've attempted to achieve in this life and only briefly populated by the hope of a peaceful death, and how have you been?


It's not exactly appropriate tea time chat.


At the airport, Princeton leaps out of the car to give me a hug. The Showgirl barely offers me her cheek to kiss through the car window. I take my bag and start to roll it towards my departure gate.


I'm finally leaving Las Vegas.

Upcoming Posts: Leaving Las Vegas and You Would Be So Nice to Come Home To-the conclusion of the Vegas Diaries-and also a very special Valentine's Day post