Part 1 of 3: Greetings from the Intersection of Convention Center and Debbie Reynolds Dr.!

An amazing thing happened this week; I survived 3 action-packed nights in Las Vegas with my best girls. It's amazing, but true- I am still alive, and, as yet, have had no symptoms of liver failure. Granted, I am fresh out of bed (at 4:45 pm), but I am told these things are readily apparent.

On Tuesday evening, the four of us (Emilie and Kelly, my bestest friends in the world, and Christine, Kelly's roommate and a super duper chickita also) met at Jose Cuervo's restaurant at McCarran airport. Normal people meet at the Information Booth, or gate C-something. We meet at a tequila-themed restaurant. Beer ensued, then we hopped a taxi to the corner of Convention Center and Debbie Reynolds Dr. I just have to say; only in Vegas, right? We'd all, separately, had the bright idea to bring our own pre-drinking supplies. (We're poor and cheap, Vegas is expensive.) By the way, the Marriott Suites in Las Vegas is highly recommended- clean, quiet, family-oriented yet okay with one stumbling in at 8:30 am, plus a very nice pool.

Much clubbing ensued. The bouncer at Club 54 in New York New York got an up-close-and-personal screening of Kelly's voice-volume modulation problem. Emilie wore heels for the first time in approximately, um, ever, so of course ended up with a choice blister. We also decided around 3 am that we were going to walk rather than take a taxi back to our hotel. Emilie insisted we were close, and since I would still be wandering around Amsterdam if it wasn't for her, I followed. Getting home was like The Odyssey, only instead of ocean there were several of the largest parking lots in the world. My feet will never be the same. We finally gave in and caught a cab and of course we were walking in the wrong direction the entire time. Fortunately, we had made good use of the bars at all those clubs, so all of this was irresistably funny rather than traumatic. Because Em would kill me (if she ever reads this, which I highly doubt), I won't mention popping any squats. To be continued. . .