So then, I fake a ghastly gastro-intestinal malady to exit work early, grab a cab to my apartment, and throw together a couple ensembles appropriate for the flash and dazzle of Vegas.  Hey, why spend a lonesome weekend in my New York apartment when I can surprise my boyfriend at his business convention at a big casino hotel? 

I board the flight with much excitement.  Here I am, madcap gal, flitting cross-country for the weekend!  I am spontaneous!  I am wild!  I am…actually…exhausted.  How long is this flight?

Finally, I land in Sin City, ready to Sin.  In the lobby, I call my boyfriend’s hotel room but no one answers.  Hmm.  Perhaps surprising him was not such a good idea after all.  I call again.  Still no answer.  I had not planned on this.  

Plan?  Plan?  Madcap gals do not plan!

So I charge over to the registration desk and request a key for my “husband’s” room, certain he’d be pleased with the instant promotion.  And wonder of wonders, the clerk gives it to me!  I am amazed he does not require documentation of some kind before so blithely passing over a hotel key!  But hey, this is Vegas.

I zip down the hall, eager to freshen up before searching for my soon-to-be-surprised paramour.  But as I approach the door to his room, I hear voices.  My key poised just above the lock, I pause.  There is only one reason you do not answer your hotel room phone when you are in your hotel room.

Oh…my…God.  He’s in there with some blonde blackjack dealer.  He is having sex.  He is…shooting guns.  Shooting guns?  Wait.  Car crash.  Sirens.  Oh, thank God.  It’s the TV!  He left the TV on!  I quickly enter the empty room.  What was I thinking?  He would never shoot guns while having sex.

So I look in the mirror, as I am wont to do occasionally, OK, frequently, OK, obsessively.  And I notice that the cross-country trip and near brush with infidelity have taken a toll.  If I hurry, I can shower and change before my boyfriend returns to his room.  Then I can surprise him in clean and glowing splendor.

I strip, rush into the bathroom, slide open the glass shower door, and —  CRASH!  It smashes into a million shards of glass.  Good grief!  I didn’t slam it!  Now what?  I survey the pile of jagged glass.  My boyfriend could return to his room at any minute.  I can either notify the front desk…or I can succumb to vanity and take a shower anyway. 

Cut to:  Me showering, gingerly tiptoeing on bath towels covering the broken glass.

Hair dryer.  Curling iron.  Make-up.  Gold-spangled mini dress.  I lift the towels to survey the damage, nicking my finger in the process.  Damn.  Blood on the bath rug, the mini dress, and the curling iron.

OK, now how do I deal with the fact that I broke the hotel’s shower door – AND I’m not even supposed to be in his room in the first place?  How much do shower doors cost anyway? 

Not feeling so madcap now.  Descending in elevator.  Descending in mood. 

BRAINSTORM!  I march over to the front desk and demand the hotel manager’s attention post-haste.  “I almost killed myself in your shower!”  I exclaim.  “Your door shattered into a million pieces and look – the glass slashed my finger!”  I thrust my nicked finger in his face, wincing with pain, while still maintaining my accusatory glare.  “My husband is NOT going to be happy when he hears about this!”

Cut to:  Me, supervising the bellmen packing and moving all my boyfriend’s belongings to our new (and complimentary) hotel suite. 

I am ecstatic.  I nibble a strawberry from the complimentary fruit basket and sip the complimentary champagne as I lounge on the sumptuous king-size bed, wearing my most revealing nightie, waiting for my honey to enter and enjoy the benefits of my clever madcapping.

Regrettably, he is downstairs in his old room, frantically reporting to hotel security, “I’ve been robbed!  And look in the bathroom: Glass everywhere!  A bloody curling iron!  I think someone’s been stabbed!”

So then, my husband’s navigational system says: “Turn left here.”   David looks at me smugly and smiles, proudly heeding the advice of his new car as he turns left with a flourish.  I admit: I am pretty impressed at this equipment that has talked us from Brockwell to Sheridan, to the new house of our friends, Ted and Sara.  And before the system can say another word, we spot the valet parkers in front of our friends’ lovely new home.

The place is packed, indoors and out.  Everyone seems to be having a good time and I can hear a jazz combo on the patio.  David and I grab a couple crab puffs from a passing waiter.  I don’t see our hosts right away, but I see the gift table so I add our offering to the pile.  Based on the stunning array of elegant gift wrapping, I’m feeling a little embarrassed about my selection from Pottery Barn’s crockery sale.

We have a couple drinks, chat a bit, and eat a few more appetizers. Then David says, “You know, I don’t recognize anybody here.” 

I look around and, although these happy, animated couples could be friends of ours, I have to agree no one looks familiar.

Good grief, are we party crashers? 

I ask a passing waiter, “Excuse me, have you seen…uh…the host?”

“Yeah, he’s in the back,” he says oh-so-helpfully and pushes through the crowd.

David rolls his eyes at my failed investigative technique.  He heads to the bartender with that “I’ll find out what’s going on here” strut, but I pull him back. 

“Discretion, David.  Wait here.”  I head up the stairs.

“OK, ‘Nancy Drew,’” he says in a tone that I could swear borders on sarcastic.

So I conduct a brief surveillance upstairs and report back: “I checked out the family photos and no one even remotely resembles Ted or Sara.”

“Hasty retreat,” David mumbles as we hustle outdoors, trying to escape detection.

As the valet pulls our car around – yes, the deceptive, devious little car that led us so sadly astray  — David asks whose house this is.   

The valet says, “Ruth and Roger Perlman — 25^th Wedding Anniversary.  Why?  Where are you supposed to be?”  As the other valets giggle (yes, giggle), I realize my housewarming gift is still inside!  So while David gets the car, I run back in to get it. 

Just as I reach for my gift, I lock eyes with a woman in a stylish silver evening gown who looks more than a little surprised that I am helping myself to the gift table.  I smile tentatively, then dash out the door to the getaway car.

So we make it to Ted and Sara’s, a few blocks down, where we are teased for our tardiness.  David begins to tell the charming story of our mix-up until my swift kick to his right shin changes his mind.  Discretion, David. 

I hug our hosts, give them the gift, and head to the nearest bar.  We drink, we eat, we have a great time.

Just as we gather to watch Sara open the gifts, the doorbell rings.  And there is the woman in the silver evening gown.  Sara says, “Ruth!  I didn’t think you could make it to our party because of your anniversary.” 

Ruth hugs Sara and says, “We can’t, dear, but I think this belongs to you.”  And she holds out my gift to Sara.  Yes, my gift.  Which looks remarkably like the gift that I took from the Perlman’s gift table – which is now in Sara’s lap, about to be opened.  The woman scans the room and locks me in her sites.

“And I think you probably have something that belongs to us,” Ruth says accusingly.

Every head turns to stare at me. 

And this is how Sara returns the sterling silver tea set to Ruth in exchange for our gift, the equally elegant set of cow-shaped coffee mugs.  And this is why we’ve not yet been invited back to Ted and Sara’s – or, for that matter, to Ruth and Roger’s.

So then, just as we are experiencing the spectacular re-enactment of the Fall of Saigon, something comes hurtling off the stage and hits me square in the chest.  I am stunned.  I feel around on the dark theater floor but cannot locate the offending object.  I look to my left, my right.  No one looks aghast. They stare straight ahead.  Am I imagining this assault?  I could swear something came right off that stage and hit me and…oh, wow, look at that building go up in flames and now the villagers are running amok…this IS spectacular…

So then, after several over-priced cocktails in the lobby bar, we go up to our hotel room and Adam sexily swaggers over to me – although, frankly, it’s more like a stagger than a swagger – and he whispers, “Comeer, you Hatamala,” which I first assumed was some new Asian nickname, inspired by our recent viewing of the revival of the “Miss Saigon” Musical, but soon realize was meant to be: “Come here, you Hot Tamale,” which is not only not in keeping with tonight’s Asian theme, but somewhat of a misnomer since I don’t personally possess any Latin blood.

My tipsy and yet still appealing boyfriend, continues his sweet-talking/slurring, wraps an arm around me, kisses me, then quite expertly unbuttons my blouse with his free hand.  It appears the liquor has affected his diction more than his dexterity.  It is going to be a good night.

Then he shrieks.  And I don’t mean a manly shriek, like the kind that should come from a strong, strapping man of 6 feet 2 like Adam.  I mean a high-pitched shrill of a shriek, reminiscent of a high society grande dame experiencing her first bikini wax. 

“What?  What?”  I shout.  He points to my chest with considerable fear, and no small amount of revulsion.  And there, on my chest, is a HUGE blue bruise with purple tentacles shooting out in all directions.

So now I shriek.  I run to the mirror to get a better look at the mass and hue of this enormous skin condition, when it hits me – yes, hits me – just like I was hit not three hours ago in the theater!  I knew it!  I knew something had hit me!

I turn to Adam, who is anxiously seeking solace in the minibar’s mini bottles, and I exclaim:  “Somesing in zee shoo hit my chezz, my chezz!”  (Given my Irish heritage, I can only assume my current French accent is a temporary side effect of the over-priced lobby cocktails.)  And yet, Adam seems to understand exactly what I am saying as slurring is the universal language of all inebriated.

So he calls the hotel operator and asks to be connected to the “Miss Saigon” theater, which takes some time to communicate since the operator’s obviously not had the benefit of the afore-mentioned lobby cocktails, rendering her unfamiliar with our language.  Finally, we get through to the theater stage manager and I say, in my most sober and nonchalant voice, “Didja happen to lose any props in tonight’s shoo?”

Pause.

“Why do you ask?” he says. 

Aha!  I knew it!  That’s a clear admission of guilt!

“Calm down!” he says.  (It is at this point I realize I have spoken that accusation out loud.) 

“My chezz has a HUGE bruise onnit!  I wuzz hit by somesing from your stage!”  I proclaim.

“Oh.  Well, during the Saigon battle scene, we tie sandbags on the propellers of the helicopter to keep the blades from shooting out and…well, two of the sandbags are missing.”

“Missing!?”

“Yes, apparently, one flew off and hit a lady in the leg and I guess the other one hit you in the chezz…chest.  We’ll gladly pay for the doctor visit.  We’re really sorr—“

“What did the other lady do?”

“She said she’s fine, but the incident distracted her from enjoying the show.  So we’re giving her two free tickets to see it again.”

Pause. 

I sober instantly. 

I spout forth:  “Four tickets.  Backstage pass.  Autographed program.  And double-knot the sandbags this time!”