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Healthy but Abnormal

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This morning I was eating freshly baked pumpkin-spice-oatmeal muffins at a cafe–I had brought them in a tupperware container as a gift–with my adorable but injured graduate student. Her surgeon, she explained, had recently diagnosed her as ‘healthy but abnormal.’ We giggled and sipped on the cappucinos that the sexy-but-too-thin-for-my-liking barista had brought over. Oh that’s great, I said. Can I use it for my blog? Of course, she enthused, before describing the simultaneously painful and pleasurable itch-relief she had felt when her surgical staples were removed. She knows where I live. Is it wrong that I am compelled by everything corporeal and abject? Probably not. Is it troubling that I had an adventurously erotic dream about Mantracker last night? Most definitely. Oh Mantracker, the passions that lie behind your steely blue eyes…    Continue reading →

What Happened in Vegas #4: Facing Fears

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Sunday was a low key day, devoted to resting, naps, and eating. G had said that the day following the after party should be ‘reserved for vomiting,’ but things never went that far. In contrast, Monday was filled with activity. It was our last full day in Las Vegas and we had booked one of those bus trips to the Grand Canyon, including tickets for the Skywalk. You probably know all about the Skywalk and might even have taken a stroll on it yourselves. In brief, it is a U-shaped platform made of thick glass imported from Germany that juts 70 feet out from the canyon wall, offering glorious views of the huge expanse below it, some 4,000 feet down to the Colorado River. After lining up, placing all of your valuables in a locker, and pulling fluffy slippers over your shoes, you walk on this glass floor, or jump on it while laughing as G did, much to my chagrin. More about that shortly. So we dragged our sorry, hung over asses out of bed at about 5:30 am to be taken to the canyon by a loquacious driver named Frosty. Frosty was literally brimming with information that he could not wait to share with us. Unfortunately, he knew little about the Hoover Dam or Grand Canyon, and instead spoke at length about his granddaughter, a 13-year-old belly dancer, his childhood in Ohio, and the Las Vegas laws against washing your car in the driveway. He did so in such an annoying manner that even the agreeable—though ultimately wretched; I won’t bore you with the details—Australian family seated behind us on the bus began to seethe in unwhispered voices ‘Shut up Frosty.’

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What Happened in Vegas #3: The After Party

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G-Smash got invited to the Saturday night Olympia After Party at Rain, a club in the Palms Casino, and I was lucky enough to tag along. Before meeting up with the usual crowd at the Alligator bar at the Orleans, we walked down the strip, eating pizza and drinking beer like the classy ladies we are, making occasional pit stops in some of the fancier casinos. G and I enjoyed comparing the custom scents that each casino-hotel complex has pumped through its ventilation system. Treasure Island smells like spicy rum; the Aria is suffused with vanilla mixed with cinnamon. And what does our cheap-cheap hotel smell like? An unforgettable combination of feet and mould.

Drinking in public is thrilling and we had a great time getting ready, stashing cans of beer in our purses. Just before leaving we sent the following text to my partner, who was playing in a poker tournament at the Venetian:

“About to hit the strip. Packing purse. Bud Light, check. Panties, check. Toothbrush, check. Vagina wipes, oops all out.”

Oh yes, it was the height of hilarity, my friends. But the fun had only just begun….

Can I first say how great it is to be a girl in Las Vegas? Men we didn’t even know—nice, lovely men–drove us to and from the Palms, no charge, and we drank for free all night. Glen Livet makes me very, very happy. I downed lots of it—straight up of course–and then began to dance with a close friend named Mr. Glowstick. We could have danced all night, and that’s just what we did, until the lights went on at 4 am and they kicked our asses out. Sadly, I then became separated from Glowy and we did not spend any more time together. Actually, I seem to recall tossing him down G’s bra, lighting up her cleavage in an impressive fashion. But that’s enough discussion of the party hijinks.

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What Happened in Vegas #2: Bashing the Bikini

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During our second day in Las Vegas, all three of us headed over to the Convention Centre, lining up to enter the fitness expo. I was bored so I took a photo of the entrance. Now you can see what I saw for about 10 minutes.

Once inside we were handed huge plastic bags for collecting free samples of protein powders and bars from booths promoting nutrition, weight loss, and muscle gain. There were plenty of activities too, with power lifting performances—how I love those strong women whose faces puff up like tomatoes when they squat with five times their body weight on their backs—chin up competitions, costumed super heroes, and even The Incredible Hulk himself. I can’t remember what he was selling, but I saw him later with his much younger short-skirted wife, chowing down at the seafood buffet at the Orleans Casino. Insider’s report: Lou Ferrigno likes crab legs and is not afraid to attack the dessert cart. Continue reading →

What Happened in Vegas #1: Gender Dynamics at the Olympia

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I am writing this blog in Las Vegas, where I am attending the Olympia Weekend 2010.  Obviously this is a serious research trip for Feminist Figure Girl. I am here with G-Smash, a heavyweight bodybuilder planning to network, and my partner, an enthusiastic poker player who has never been happier. He is able to play in tournaments to his heart’s content, knowing that I will be drinking free vodka sodas at the Alligator bar with G instead of resentfully crying into my pillow back in the hotel room. Ha. Like I have ever done that in my life! Immediately after arriving yesterday, we headed outside to drink cans of Bud Light while swimming in the hotel pool. Fuckin’ A!

The Olympia events started that first night, with G and I taxiing it to the Orleans to ‘meet the athletes’ (my partner went somewhere else, wearing sunglasses and a baseball hat).  At the Orleans, all the competitors were sitting behind tables laden with photographs and posters, alternately signing autographs and standing up to pose for pictures with various devotees and wanabees. Was I one of them? Hell yes. The social event was very crowded, with what seemed like hundreds of people lined up to see Jay Cutler, Mr. Olympia 2009. He did not interest me, though I like his frosted blonde fauxhawk. I like it even more on his poseable action doll, which includes an alternate hairstyle as an accessory (Word of advice to children of the 1970s: do not try to stretch its arms like pull taffy; they will break). I rushed to see my idol, Iris Kyle, Ms. Olympia five (and now six) times running. An image of her back hangs over the desk in my home office, each huge and well proportioned muscle clearly delineated from the other. Strangely there was no one in front of Iris’ table at the Orleans. We walked right up, blurted out awkward statements of our love for her, and then grinned crazily while standing beside her for photos.  I wish I could include some shots—those who know me can check them out on facebook—but at least I have pasted below an image of her on stage during prejudging, so that you can see her wonderfulness for yourself.

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