One of the many fabulous things about Las Vegas is that we have some fantastic places to, um… relieve one’s self. Here’s a photo of the ladies room at The Wynn. You almost feel bad about doing what you went in there to do.
I know what you're thinking: "No syringe disposal?"
You can get used to this level of opulence. A few years ago it really hit me just how spoiled I’d become. Like everyone else, I’d been eagerly awaiting my economic stimulus money from the IRS. For a nanosecond I considered putting it toward my credit card balance, but that would be no fun, so instead I booked a flight to New Orleans, figuring I’d charitably pump a few bucks into their strained economy. Altruism always feels better when blended with self-indulgence.
The widespread news coverage of the lingering devastation from Hurricane Katrina in the lower ninth ward and around the 17th Street levy did not prepare me for the hardship I witnessed first-hand in the French Quarter, an area supposedly spared by Katrina’s wrath. There, in a restaurant on Esplanade Street, I had no choice but to use a toilet that didn’t automatically flush. That’s right, I had to stand there and face my own waste and then flush it away with a disgusted kick to the handle.
Afterward, my hands hovered in the sink and then under the soap dispenser in desperate search of a triggering sensor—nothing. I had to manually turn the faucet and push a lever for the soap to come out. On top of that, the lighting was so poor I needed a seeing-eye dog to apply my lip liner. I’m telling you, amid those third world conditions, I felt more like a Peace Corps volunteer than a tourist on vacation.
Could I BE any lazier?
One time it all backfired on me. I was having drinks and dinner with a friend at McMullins Irish Pub on Tropicana next to the Orleans and had to use the ladies' room. Well, I left my pocketbook on the edge of the sink while I applied my lipstick and somehow it fell into the sink, triggering the water sensor along the way. I must have looked like an idiot standing there watching water gush into the contents of my open bag, but to this day I laugh about it every time I'm in there.
But hey, nothing compares to this. Remember those cloth towels (usually found in dive bars) that just wound around and you’d have to find a clean patch to dry your hands on? I thought they were outlawed long ago, but no, my sister Lori and I came across one on our first cross-country road trip last May. I forget where we were; somewhere down South.
(My arms are not that fat in real life.)
Have a great weekend!