Three weeks from right now, I will be on a plane to Sin City.
Because, honestly, where do you go to beat the summer heat?
Right now, the temperature there is a steady 105.
When people hear this, their response is usually “But it’s a dry heat!”
(and they say it enthusiastically. Because they truly believe that 105 won’t feel hot because there’s no humidity. The point that they’re missing? It’s still ONE. HUNDRED. DEGREES. Dry heat my ass.)
I’m super-psyched to go, as I have not been on vacation since last March.
And, because I’m a total loser, I already have my plane outfit picked out.
And most of my outfits for the week.
Hey, Vegas is a hip place. I want to look good when I'm partying with Paris Hilton.
So I was telling my mother about my outfits last weekend when my (drunk) uncle was in town.
Coincidentally, my (inebriated) uncle will be in Vegas the same week we are. So we are planning to meet him for dinner one night with a bunch of his friends. If that night is anything like the 4-martini dinner night (when he was presumably holding back because he was visiting his family), we’re in for a real special treat.
My mother gets this worried look on her face.
MOM: “You better bring sneakers to walk in.”
My uncle goes on to tell me that he wouldn’t be caught dead with me if I wear sneakers.
Truly – my family loves me.
ME: “It’s a hundred degrees. My feet will DIE in sneakers.” Plus, I don’t tend to wear sneakers unless I’m exercising. And the chances of me exercising in 100 degree heat – even a dry heat! – are less than zero.
ME: “I’ll wear flip flops.”
MOM: “What if you fall out of them and then your foot touches the hot sidewalk? KK, you’ll BURN your foot!”
Does my mother think I’ll be that drunk that I won’t be able to keep my shoes on? (Or, perhaps, she thinks I will be that clumsy.)
If you had to bet, smart money’s on an alcohol-induced foot-burning accident.
Afterall, it’s Vegas, Baby!
(and Mom knows me pretty well)