While I was meeting the Playboy Bunnies, one of their, um, handlers was asking whether or not they needed to freshen up before they went up to club. They looked fine--thick makeup, fake eyelashes, the whole shebang--but the Bunnies nevertheless requested some time in their rooms. I suspect that they didn't need to freshen up so much as they wanted a twenty minute break from all the drooling dudes with mullets and cowboy hats.
After meeting the Bunnies and getting packed up for the triathlon, we finally crawled into bed well past midnight, which was really 1 AM as far as we were concerned, because of the impending time change. We had to get up at 5 o'clock in the morning, a time of day I had not seen for a very, very long time.
And that's when the Bunnies started pissing me off.
The bass from the 9th floor club, where the Bunny party was taking place, was bumping through the walls, a constant rumble, rattling the window. I couldn't fall asleep and at 2:08, I plodded down to the lobby barefoot and in my pajamas to inquire about a set of earplugs.
The apologetic front desk informed me that the club would close at 2 AM, but that it was still only a little after 1 since the time change technically happened at 2. They could not locate any earplugs. They pointed out that the bumping was way worse for guests on the 8th and 10th floors.
I noted that I had to get up in three short hours for my husband's triathlon. The front desk clerk asked if I might like to speak to the manager. I said I would. It's not like I expected them to close the club or anything, I just wanted to point out that a hotel with a club poorly located over the guest rooms really ought to offer cheap earplugs to their early rising guests.
(I am thinking that it often appears that I am pushy or overbearing in these situations, which I assure you I am not. I am persuasive, yes, but only in the loveliest sort of way.)
They located earplugs. They also offered us dinner on the hotel.
(I suspect that I shouldn't completely blame the Bunnies. The Fantasy Springs Resort Hotel and Casino is surrounded by two things: desert and a trailer park. The casino was thick with smoke and people in fanny packs. It may sound like Vegas, but I can promise you that it totally isn't. My guess is that the Bunnies weren't super-enthusiastic about bumping in a club at an Indian casino in Indio, but that is pure speculation. Maybe they like that sort of thing.)
In any event, when we returned from the triathlon, I stopped by the hotel desk to inquire about the dinner. They asked about the race and I told them that Will had came in three minutes slower than last year but that it was definitely still fun. I expressed this in a most jovial, joking manner, but the clerk must have thought that Will was the Lance Armstrong of triathletes or something--where three minutes could really make a difference of some sort--because she told us that we could eat at any of the hotel restaurants! And that we should really bring our friends along, too! And order dessert! And charge it all to the room!
And I was like, no, no, no. That's crazy. It's really okay. Maybe just a pizza?
And she was like, Seriously! I insist! And get dessert!
And so we did. Monty, Lauren, Will, and I had mozzarella lollipops, Indian bread with apple butter, various entrees, and two desserts (something chocolate, something cheesecake). There was also sangria.
We were very happy:
And, also, drunk:
We intended to go gambling--you know, pay back our free dinner by losing at the slots--but by the time we were finished eating and drinking and eating and drinking, we were too tired to carry on. Had we gotten more sleep the night prior, we might have dropped a dollar or two.