Now, one thing I didn't mention in my Saturday posts, because they were already So! Long! ...On Friday night the Beef indicated that I should go check with the front desk because maybe (wink) something was waiting for me. I immediately beelined for the lobby, only to be told that whatever it is, is being held hostage by the UPS store, which was now obviously closed for the night. Discouraged, I set my alarm for about five minutes before they were supposed to open in the morning, and fell asleep.
Bright and early (bright, I like - early, not so much), I wandered downstairs again, probably still in my pajamas (I don't really remember) and waited for the UPS employees to find whatever it was. Given the nature of the various hints from the BF and the fact that it was stashed away somewhere that the regular packages didn't live, I had concluded that it was something perishable. I am apparently quite daft and clueless because for some reason I was completely floored when they handed me a big ol' box of flowers. I was honestly expecting some sort of food or something.
One of our mini-milestone anniversaries (youuuuuu know, because we're vomiticiously adorable and make note of them all, because we're still under a year) was happening while I was in Vegas, and he sent me flowers. Roses, to be exact. It was a gesture that meant so much more than just "happy anniversary" - it was more than that, a reassurance that he wasn't going anywhere (I get paranoid, especially around that particular landmark, because it's traditionally when I always get dumped) and that he cared about me and wanted to tangibly express it. I cried. Multiple times. Because I am sappy and sentimental. I no longer consider this to be a bad thing.
The problem, of course, is that those roses probably weren't going to make it back to Iowa in any semblance of wholeness, but I couldn't bring myself to throw them away. They were too beautiful, too perfect, too special. I pressed one in between the pages of whatever book I brought but didn't read, and then brought the rest down to the farewell brunch and distributed (ie, tossed) them around to the various tables and various BiSCuits. It was the best sendoff I could think of.
The farewell brunch is always bittersweet. By this point in the weekend, we've all pretty much bonded, so it feels completely natural to meet up for a buffet and chat and have fun. The elephant in the room is, of course, that soon we'll leave, one by one, for the cabs and shuttles to take us to the airport, which will send us in different directions, thousands of miles apart.
Last year, as we were checking our bags at the bell desk, it was decided that the farewell brunch should be the "misfit brunch" - to wear whatever wild and crazy things that you brought to Vegas for the sole purpose of wearing in Vegas, but maybe hadn't had a chance to wear yet. Somewhere in the time leading up to BiSC, it was suggested that it be a wig brunch - inspired, perhaps, by Almie's hot pink Nicki Minaj wig the previous year. Sadly, I was not able to stuff my giant curly blonde wig in my suitcase (I was down to having space for only one more thing: the wig or a pair of glitter heels. The glitter heels, of course, won.) BUT Simone was kind enough to bring an extra.
The brunch was a blur. There were a lot of hugs. Lots of last-minute pictures. The contingent of ladies who all purchased spirit hoods at the ice bar posed for a picture. The VEDA crew posed for a picture. The PopChips had finally arrived (there was a shipping snafu, causing them to miss the boat for the goodie bags) and the boxes of new, not-yet-in-stores flavors were there for the pilfering. More hugs. So many hugs.
For those of us that were sticking around for the entire day (seriously: I wish I had done this last year), we had a primary objective that was to be accomplished immediately.
I had, of course, never been to an In-N-Out Burger before, mostly because we don't have them in the Midwest. I was advised to order the neapolitan milkshake, which was not on the menu but was available by request. This was one of the best pieces of advice I've received in recent memory. The burgers were great, and cheap, and delicious, and who am I kidding, my favorite part of this experience was the hats.
I didn't know you could get hats. But then Terra asked for one and I was all, "whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa" and then we got a whole stack and gave them to all the BiSCuits and it was awesome and wonderful.
I think from here, we returned to the hotel, and since I can't remember doing anything interesting during the afternoon, I am forced to conclude that I probably took a nap while the other girls went to the pool. Napping is always a suitable alternative to wearing a bathing suit, in my oh-so-humble opinion.
Anywho. We went out for sushi for dinner, and it was amazing (and obviously much fresher than the sushi in Iowa, because it doesn't have to travel quite so far to get there).
The last order of business was to properly watch a Bellagio fountain show. I mean, I'd SEEN the Bellagio fountains - I've walked by them when the show was going on, I could see them from outside our hotel, I could see them from the rooftop of Paris, but I've never stopped and leaned against the wall and just watched. I can't remember who it was that suggested we do this, but I'm glad they did.
I'll be in Vegas again soon, for work. I'm indifferent to being in the city again. Without my BiSCuits, the magic won't be there. (And, sadly, neither will the VIP treatment.) It will be a hot, dirty desert city with tourists and casinos and people making bad decisions and there will be neon and glitter and sparkle, but it won't be the right kind of neon and glitter and sparkle. It will be devoid of the things that make me love the city. Because I'll only love that city when I'm there with these people. The stars only align for a few days each May to make it all worth it. I don't think I can enjoy myself without the fifty-nine pieces of my soul that I leave there every year. Those pieces are spread all the way from California to Canada, sprinkled here and there in between.
At least I'll know which buffets to hit up.