After five days of doing nothing for myself, I am helpless. After I landed last night in Portland, I actually thought to myself, "why am I carrying my bags through the airport? Shouldn't I be able to tip someone to do this for me?"
Mind you, I had a small gym bag and a backpack.
The first time I ordered room service at The Aladdin, my cabana boy, or whatever you call him, asked if I wanted him to pour my coffee. I looked at him as if he was joking. He wasn't. I let him know I felt pretty confident about the whole coffee pouring process in spite of some previous mishaps.
I don't think I opened a door for myself the entire time I was in Las Vegas. No cooking, no making my bed (like I ever do that anyway) and no carrying anything except for the hundred dollar bills I loaded into the slot machines.
I love room service. I have discovered the joys of eating breakfast naked on my bed. One morning I ordered breakfast from room service and the servant girl asked if I wanted her to butter my english muffin for me. Again, I thought she must be joking. Juju thinks the girl was hitting on me. Gross. Anyway, I reassured her I could just take care buttering my own muffin. When your boyfriend is away, you become used to doing things for yourself, you know.
After a few days of royal treatment in Vegas, I quickly became spoiled. I was once told by an astrologer that in a past life I was a kept man for a very wealthy Italian family. My every whim was catered to, and all I had to do was offer my services as a plaything for the family. Sometimes I believe this story of my past life may be true, because I so quickly adapt to being pampered.
On the last morning in Vegas I ordered breakfast and demanded that it be brought to my room in 20 minutes or less. Then I yelled at the maid to scrub the toilet faster and get out. I called the front desk and complained about the fact that I only had one small bottle of bath gel for my morning soak and made them bring up a case carried by the Chippendales dancers. Then I had the guys run my bath and scrub me down.
When my driver was late picking me up for the airport, I had him fired. Then I threw a fit when Hermes wouldn't open for me so I could buy a watch for Tina Turner. "This is living," I thought, as I sipped champagne in the VIP lounge of the airport.
Now I am back in Portland being treated with no respect. Don't these people know who I think I am!? Heads are gonna roll...