Vegas, Baby


There are three things my delicate sensibilities just can’t bear:

Poor grammar, absurd plastic surgery, and Las Vegas, Nevada.
Nevertheless, when you live in Southern California, sometimes you can’t escape Sin City. A well-meaning bachelorette, birthday reveler, or boyfriend plans a trip, and suddenly you find yourself in a casino at 4 a.m. wondering why in heaven’s name the person next to you is pushing a stroller.
There’s simply no place tackier, and even the so-called posh hotels can’t obscure this fact. Let’s say your party is staying in the penthouse suite from The Hangover. I’d still think twice before walking barefoot to the bathroom.
But every desert must have an oasis. In Vegas, there’s only one place that offers a true respite from fanny packs and pinging slot machines:
Nordstrom.
That’s right, darling readers. The Nordstrom on Las Vegas Boulevard is the only place you’ll feel at home. Breathe deeply! There’s a lovely shoe department and a wonderfully predictable Nordstrom pianist. No one is smoking indoors or drinking anything out of a 36-inch tumbler.
There’s even a standard-issue department store cafe where you can have a glass of wine and a cute salad. You, dear girl, could be in any other Nordstrom in the country. I wouldn’t blame you for staying until they close.
I can only think of one reason to brave the land of wedding chapels and terrifying buffets.
Rumor has it a sequel to The Hangover is in the works. Bradley Cooper, if you’re reading this, I’ll come visit you on set for three days and not one second more.
While you’re shooting, I’ll be in the Individualist department taking greedy gulps of fresh, retail air.
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