A Post Every Day Until I'm Fifty Life

Bonsai Kittens, Yoga and Vegas Pimps

January 18, 2016

My Monday:

Bonsai Kittens are from Japan. You raise them in jars, and their little bones form into the shape of the jar. That’s the story, but it’s a hoax. It’s not real. I read all about them for something twisted (no pun intended) I’m writing. I decide to make up a similar hoax, just for the hell of it. I spend the rest of the afternoon thinking about cats and possible hoaxes.

I teach my 4:00 yoga class. I’m completely convinced it’s particularly horrible and I’m upset for three solid hours. Like, I’m gonna get fired upset. Which sucks, because for two of those hours I’m on the road with Mauro to Vegas. We stop halfway there at a cowboy store and I buy some grape vines and Mauro gets beef jerky and I feel better. He’s incredibly relieved I’m not sulking anymore.

We get to Caesar’s at 10:30 at night. The stress and anxiety have gone away. Our room is on the 42nd floor. A different stress and anxiety appear because heights scare the bejesus outta me. I book it outta there and tell Mauro we might have to change rooms. He tells me, “just don’t look out the window,” which may sound like decent advice, but I’m too smart for that and I already know for a fact I’m on the 42nd floor. We go downstairs and order nachos and steak and I forget all about it.

We play slots, we win, we lose, we walk to The Mirage even though I have no jacket on and talk about how Vegas was funner when it was dirtier. We sit at the bar to play computer blackjack and a very nice man strikes up a friendly conversation with Mauro. He’s from San Diego. He’s lived in Las Vegas for 38 years and works as a limo driver. That’s nice. And he’s with a very lovely young lady. Within a minute he tells Mauro, “a limo driver can get what you need.”

All I’d like is free money, but I know that’s not what he’s talking about.

Mauro whispers to me, “I’m pretty sure that girl is a hooker.” I tell him I already figured that out. And Mauro says the most genius thing ever about the pimp at the bar, that he’s just glad we have the look of two people who may have come to party, that we aren’t just a couple of 50-year-olds who slid into town to stupidly dump some money into some slot machines and eat and leave. Even though that’s completely accurate.

We finally get to bed at 4:00am. I’m so tired, but I can’t sleep because I know how high up I am. And I’m back to thinking up hoaxes.

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