Rules of the Table

I decided the perfect way to wrap up my trip out west was a tryst in Vegas. And by "tryst" I mean the latest nightclub to take Sin City by storm, Tryst at the Wynn Hotel. The club has a two-story waterfall in the back. But what really amazed me was the VIP status my friends had. Before entering the hot spot, I met up with my friends who are both on-air talent at a local TV station. My girlfriend had sent me a few texts during the day and stated in no uncertain terms that "the girls" needed to make an appearance because we weren't waiting in line. This, after she called the Jose Ebert salon (it's a pronounced joe-zay for my fellow neophytes) and got me an appointment with the top colorist. My roots were showing and I wasn't about to hang out with her newfound club-connection without my boobs on display. "He's a boob-guy," she pointed out as she threw on her orange Tahari suit while holding for the salon manager, "and for a limo pick-up and free drinks in the VIP room, you'll deal with it." Fine. As long as I know up front that my face is NOT up here, I'm cool. He's the owner of The Palms for the love of God.
But I didn't have a thing to wear and my gray roots made me look like Jane Gooddall minus the Gorillas in the mist. Mist. I needed a facial, too.
With instructions on getting a slutty shirt and new do courtesy of Jose Hebert, I was off to the mall. Four hours and $350 later, I was in serious sticker shock and in awe of my fantastic fucking hairstyle. Was this really my hair? I looked hot. Now I just needed to find an empire waisted, baby dollish, flowy top thingy that would accentuate the girls without clinging to my mom pouch. Easy enough. Bebe beckoned. Must resist. Arden B. called but it screamed Wet Seal on a slightly higher budget. I ducked into Neimen Marcus and glanced at my watch, 8:30?!! Where had the time gone? Quickly, I grabbed a few Marc Jacobs and Betsey Johnson tops and dashed into the dressing room. The Marc Jacobs top made me look like a stylish librarian. The Betsey Johnson tops had the fashionista price tag with the Forever 21 style. Desperate and delayed, I opted for a generic brand that was made of-- brace yourself-- nylon and some other synthetic material. Whatever, it was black and that can pass for chic. Plus, my girls were smiling proudly at the world. This will have to do.
I arrived at the station newly coiffed but wearing a black, drapey blousy thingy that I had picked up at Anthropologie the week before. It wasn't exactly slutty but my cleavage could be prominently displayed.
My friends were disappointed. "Why are you wearing a blanket?" my friend demanded. "Doesn't she look like a nun?" she asked her friend, the svelte news kitten that was kinda, sorta but not really dating the VIP. (It should be noted here they had a huge falling out before our big night out so now my girls were instrumental in line avoidance) "Ummm," she stalled not wanting to offend the girl she had just met. "It's cute but you're going to be hot," she offered. But I wasn't about to wear flammable fabric out in public. I looked cheap and pregnant. Enough about my clothes.
Upon our arrival, there was a line winding through the lobby filled with hot girls and guys. Sadly, not all the girls were in their 20s (sad because I couldn't blame the marked difference in our abs on age). Many of them were well-heeled 30-somethings. Had I pursued my career in Vegas, I would have had a serious eating disorder.
Now, I'll cut to the chase.
News kitten dropped someone's name at the door and suddenly we were led to an area in the middle of the jam-packed club. A velvet rope was lifted and voila! VIP access. We met a hot Middle-Eastern guy with a 5 o'clock shadow. His appeal was muted by his awareness of said hotness. He was surrounded by a motley crew of two guidos ("How YOU doin?"), one elderly man in a cardigan, another elderly gentleman wearing black and lots of gold jewelry and an overweight white guy who I was told, "made the Terminator movies." I told HPG that and he was like, "James Cameron?" and I realized that no, that wasn't him at all. This one had Santa's belly. Introductions were made and I looked at the table covered with carafes of liquor and mixers. A tiered platter was filled with strawberries and chocolates- score. But to my surprise, no one made a move towards the alcohol and that's when my girlfriend schooled me on the "Rules of the table." Far from table manners, these were guidelines on Do's and Don'ts when partying with rich, otherwise unattractive, men.
"OK, girlfriend, these are the rules of the table." She really talks like that, I swear. "You don't reach for the alcohol. It must be poured for you and it's at their (the men's) suggestion. You do not flirt with guys outside of the velvet rope nor do you go outside and bring men back inside the rope." The problem was, no one was pouring and no one was asking if we wanted anything to drink. They were just ogling, and pawing news kitten who seemed to be enjoying the attention. Finally, a waitress showed up and began pouring. That’s when the fun started.