I just spent an entire week in Las Vegas, Nevada performing at the Comedy Stop in the Sahara Hotel & Casino. I knew it was going to be a trip when this was the first sight I took in when I got off the plane.

Let me preface by saying, this was the longest time I have ever been in Vegas voluntarily. If it were up to me the kitschy slogan wouldn’t be “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.” But, “Las Vegas- where you can get more than just hope sucked out of you!” I think you’re already starting to catch my drift about how I feel re: “Sin City”. Now, I’ve been to Vegas a couple of times before. Staying the perfect amount of time—3, maybe 4 days max. There are cities all over the world like that. Perfect example: Pisa, Italy. You go see the Leaning Tower, grab a slice of margarita pizza or gelato; call it an afternoon then high tail it to Roma. Done. End scene.

Part of the issue is that I am a snob. I have no problem whatsoever admitting that. All of my previous stays in Vegas were in gorgeous hotels like the Mirage or the Bellagio which also happen to be right in the center of all the action. This trip, I was at the dead end of the Strip. Which is like the difference between living in the hood vs. living in Beverly Hills, shopping at Wal-Mart vs. Saks Fifth Avenue, eating spam vs. filet mignon. It was rough y’all. But in all fairness Las Vegas, Nevada is a different experience for different people. For some it’s pure heaven, for others it’s a hell they can’t escape.

I don’t gamble or drink so I was REALLY out of my element. I swear to God I have never seen a greater collection of people who were missing teeth but made up for it in mullet length. I didn’t stand a chance of fitting in where I was, because I wasn’t a morbidly obese tattooed chain-smoking gal whose wardrobe was made up of mostly spandex and halter-tops. But had I the urge to get inked up all I had to do was hit my hotel’s lobby and pay a visit to these guys (who were very nice by the way).

Most of the folks I encountered had waddles that put ducks to shame. Almost everyone I encountered just looked like they’ve lived HARD. I ran into a 5 year old at the arcade in the NASCAR section of the hotel (Yes, there was an entire section of space dedicated to NASCAR!) This poor kid looked like it was all he could do to make it to the first grade.

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the highlights. And there were some. I worked with two really great and funny guys—Mike Donovan and Robert Duchaine; and all the staff at the Comedy Stop were wonderful. That said, if my dear friend Christy hadn’t come out from Ohio I probably would have started cutting myself. We went shopping- not one of my favorite pastimes, but I did find Lealah, my Chihuahua, a killer pair of red boots for this winter.

Oh, and on Halloween Christy’s friend, Nikki took us to Stoney’s—a local hot spot that was also having a costume contest. I don’t recall who won the grand prize of $1,000 but “Eve”…a girl only in green body paint with a g-string of leaves and an apple in her hand, came in 2nd place. My recollection is probably foggy because the most memorable event that evening was the 6 foot 8 inch cowboy, with a missing ring finger, who kept me on the dance floor for 3 different versions of the electric slide. Ah, Vegas… Good times.

When I was a little girl I had many instances where I thought I was being wronged or getting the short end of the stick. I know, you’re probably thinking who would intentionally rob such a sweet little brown girl of her joie de vivre? Well, let me tell you, I promise the answer will shock and awe you.

When I was 4 years old I couldn’t blow a bubble to save my life. So it soon became the mission of all the neighborhood kids in our quaint close-knit suburb to help little Karith Foster blow her first bubble. We did everything—after pre-k tutorials, weekend workshops in the clubhouse – but nothing worked. My friends were disheartened and I was devastated. I thought there was something seriously wrong with me. Or as we say in Texas, that I was “special.” Well, turns out, that wasn’t the case; nor was it the case of my friends being incompetent teachers. It seems that Yours Truly was attempting to blow gorgeous masterful bubbles with the only product my mother would allow me to chew. Nope, I didn’t have access to Bubble Yum, Double Bubble or Hubba Bubba like the other kids had.

Nooo! Un-uh! I had a piddly teeny-weeny tiny piece of the gum that 4 out of 5 dentists recommend. That’s right I had sugar-free, cavity-fighting, spearmint-flavored Trident. And that tiny piece of gum gave me a complex for years! Years I tell you!

A little piece of happy my ass! Now I’m not casting blame. I get it. My mother, who I love dearly and who loves me more than chocolate, was trying to be a “good mom.” But I think we all know that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Her loving attempt to keep me cavity free instigated much more psychological distress than a visit to the dentist for a few fillings ever would have caused. You want to know the sick twisted part of all of this? I actually liked going to the dentist as a kid.

Still do to this day. I’m not saying it’s natural, but if lying in an overly well lit office with my mouth held unnaturally wide open while someone with a medical degree scrapes, pokes and prods my gums all in the name of dental hygiene is wrong—then gosh darn it! I don’t want to be right!