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What Happens in Vegas Will Probably End Up in a Book

As I make the final preparations for this vacation, I remember the discussion my husband and I had in March about not taking a trip during the summer.

We went to Florida in March. Spring Break. Yep. It sucks, but we had our exchange student and spring break was the only option. I can count on one hand the times I've been to Florida on Spring Break as an adult.

So, by virtue of a gift or mistake by an airline, we found ourselves with enough flyer points to take a trip. Not wanting the airline to realize their goof, we quickly booked a flight to Vegas.

Five years ago, we celebrated a milestone birthday there, and before that, we hadn't been to Vegas since the Bellagio was a big hole in the ground.

Neither one of us gamble much. Ten minutes in, and I'm ready to leave. By that time, I've already calculated how many drinks I could have bought with the money swallowed by the shameless SOB slot with pretty lights and charming bells.

Well then, whatever do we do? We stay at the Bellagio. Once we experienced Bellagio, I was ruined for any other hotel, even those who offer $79 per night rates.

For me, walking into this grand hotel is like the peasant dipping a filthy toe into the king's own bathwater. I can pretend to be someone I'm not. I can fantasize about walking across the lobby in a short skirt, backless top, and five-inch heels. I say fantasize because, while there are no morality cops in Vegas, there certainly is a "you are not capable of pulling this off" voice in my head considerably smarter than I am. Once we unpack toothbrushes in a bathroom as large as my kitchen, we follow a strict schedule.

This is our Vegas schedule.

At 7:45 a.m., we get up from a bed so dreamy, I'm excited to crawl under the cover as soon as possible. At 8 a.m., we're at the pool gate waiting for the attendants to unlock and let us in. One section of the Bellagio pools is completely shaded all day long. Since my Scandinavian, Irish heritage makes me the poster child for "likely to get skin cancer," we make an Olympic dash to the coveted shady spot, because we are too cheap to rent a cabana.

Ten hours later, we shower, have dinner, and mosey the Strip watching the free entertainment. Mostly the human kind. The great thing about Vegas is how the spirit and vibe of the city can completely strip anyone of their inhibitions, even a few of my own. I've been known to drink too much, dance around outside, and sing. In two of the three, I am sorely lacking in talent.

That doesn't stop me, because you know what they say about Vegas. Who's gonna know?

I'm sure everyone who's every attempted or completed anything stupid, thought the same thing. Thankfully, most of my forays into the altogether senseless happened before smart phones and YouTube.

On this trip, somewhere between the pool and bed, I'll take some serious notes about what I witness. For every entry I make, at least one of them will be worthy of at least a scene in an upcoming novel.

I might even draw some inspiration from the Ricky Martin show.

How could you not?

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