Blackout Shopping Disease

Today I'm getting ready to go to DC for the a couple days. Going for work, hoping to squeeze in some quality time with one of my best friends and her two week old adorable baby girl. A tiny baby! I get to start my corruption from the ground up. (insert evil laugh now).
All this means I should pack. Get ready to go to the install, etc, etc. Not actually a lot of work, I mean, at this point I could likely pack my suitcase with my eyes closed. Hower, I do need to finish cleaning the house. So I haven't.
However, while working through a monstrous pile of receipts, I discovered that my wallet was irrevocably stretched to pieces. And was not capable of holding anything, items simply slide out of the gaping pockets. Which is a shame and of course led me to the conclusion that I clearly shouldn't have emptied out my wallet. I considered putting them back in, but then remembered that I'd already mailed them. Therefore, since the clear solution was impossible, I was left with the second best option, buying a new wallet.
Which means, I ventured into a store.

Let's visit the facts:
Sarah needs new wallet.
Sarah has many things to do.
Sarah goes to store to get new wallet.

I remember walking through the front doors. Next thing I know, 90 minutes have passed, and I've just swiped my credit card fr my purchases.
The part in between seems a bit blurry.
Here's the part that completely flummoxes me. Items in my bag? Wallet (thank god), two uber cute shirts (okay, everyone always needs more cute shirts), and RED COWBOY BOOTS.
What?

While I'll admit that I've been wanting cowboy boots for....well ages really, I can't figure out what possessed me to purchase them. (I'm not revealing the price either so don't even ask. Just let it suffice that these are real honest to god boots, just like those expensive ones I'm always drooling over. In fact, exactly like them).
How does this happen??

I had no time to spare, I went in for a single item, and now, 90 minutes later, I found myself with RED boots and a feeling of being taken. Is this merely a symptom of being female? Does anyone else out there seem to blackout and purchase things?
I fear the disease might be spreading, so as a precautionary measure, I'm heading home, lounging on the couch (a safe distance away from my car keys and my wallet) and watching the second half of my Sherlock episode.
I mean really, who can pack when they know there's the second half to a thrilling episode to complete? Certainly not me!

Vacation bound!

In 24 days I will be boarding a plane to the United Kingdom. I can't tell you what sort of excitement is filling my heart at the thought of finally finally setting foot in the country that's held my fascination for the last two decades.
In preparation for my first proper holiday in over four years I'm getting ready for my British excursion in the best ways I know how.
Namely, I'm immersing myself in British TV shows; currently on my third episode of Sherlock in two days. I've finished the first three seasons of The Tudors (yes, I watched three entire SEASONS. What can I say? There's lots of sex and killing, it's rather addictive), and I'm on the second season of Luther. All of this is to attempt to numb my gut wrenching immediate reaction to British accents. Which is to say, I squeal uncontrollably. The trouble with having a life long interest in a place or person, is that, eventually, you get to go there or meet them. And you can either make an ass of yourself (like I did in March 2007 the night I met Eddie Izzard; it's a tragic story featuring myself as the buffoon) or you can prepare to try to conduct yourself as an adult.
Frankly, I'm expecting to fail miserably.
In other news, I'm getting excited. I'm thinking this might present the occasion to buy a hat. I'm thinking that the very act of setting foot in the "mother country" might be excuse enough for the purchase of a topper. I mean, Britain, it's the country of hat wearers. Hats for weddings, hats for special occasions. In fact, as a wedding photographer I learned to recognize a British wedding simply by scanning the wedding guests. Or rather, their head gear.
But this vacation. I feel like a kid waiting to go to Disney World. Not Disneyland, Disney World. The big one, the real deal.
Lucky for me, I've got an honest to god Londoner as my tour guide. So while the likelihood of me galavanting off at the sight of a black cab or a red telephone booth is still high, the chances that the lovely Mark will keep me from getting irrevocably lost are also high. Let us all pray for his sanity in dealing with an over eager and extremely excitable me for ten days. Perhaps I should pack some sedatives for when I get out of hand?
Did I mention there's been talk of Paris? Oh goodness. I haven't even considered it.
Yes, I'll be flitting around for the next 24 days in excitement. God help us all by the time I board the plane!

Note to self: Dog, Colonoscopy?

There's a cold war going on in my house. Actually, to be exact, it's more like a luke warm war. The war is being waged between myself, and my eldest pup, a 120 pound Mastiff mix named Hercules. (To his friends, he's known as The Hercum, or Mister Poop).

It's an established fact that dog farts are one of the more toxic scents in the universe. They trail behind the lethal squirrels of Papua New Guinea, but that's about it.
Now add to this the fact that Hercules is possibly the laziest dog known to man. His sheer capacity to sit motionless and/or sleep is unrivaled in the tristate area. He has, when given the chance, happily stayed in bed until 4pm, not even getting up to go pee. This is the level of devotion he carries for the art of sleeping.
Additionally, I've been instructed that Hercules needs more exercise, a declaration from the vet that he's been sulking over ever since. To oblige, I leash him and his "sister" (an overeager and caffeinated St. Bernard mix) up twice a day to go on walks.

Yesterday, this required leashing him on the couch. And then PULLING him off the couch and out the front door. I think I get more exercise during these endeavors. Regardless, these walks are the epicenter of the war. He thinks my offensive move is to drag him out twice a day. And so, in defense, he's taken to plodding up near me. Curling up (with his bottom facing me) and releasing the most foul, long, and LOUD farts ever. The stench is simply unbelievable. I've been considering getting a gas mask. In fact, last night I threatened to get him a colonoscopy. I mean, SOMETHING needs to be done. I'm starting to think there's a dead animal in there.

All of which, brings me to the weird fact for the day: "A recent study by Japanese researchers came out with an interesting finding that if trained properly, dogs can detect the bowel cancer even in the initial stages by sniffing out the patient’s breath or stool."
In these tests, a labrador correctly identified 91% of cancer victims by their breath, and 97% by their stool.
Impressive I feel.

But let's think about this, researchers spent LOADS of money, to study dogs, smelling poop. OH MY GOD. Seriously? There I was thinking that the All State Smelling team (my dogs for those who weren't aware of their title) were just trying to annoy me. But here's the other thing I can't stop thinking about. My dogs, when they've found some particularly smelly poop, LOVE to roll in it. It's literally all I can do to keep them out of it. And sometimes I simply don't succeed. Which leads to immediate baths. Which raises two main concerns
1. The "special" poop that gets my dogs all excited, could it be disease ridden and this is their way of telling me? (Which means, oh god, I've been washing cancer poop off them, WITH MY OWN HANDS!
2. Should I pay special attention to the next time Hercules meets a labrador? See if it's smelling anything not so good in his butt?

That seriously JUST happened. Well, yesterday. I'm a little behind in my update.

It was 6pm and I felt it was high time I leave the house for the first time that day. Lame right? The peril of working from home is that you never actually have a reason to leave the house. Anyway, I was out and about.
I've pulled up to a red light, at Eastern and Desert Inn and a little white convertible mazda pulls up beside me. The driver honks and waves enthusiastically trying to get my attention.
MY immediate thought is that either:
A. This is a weirdo and I shouldn't acknowledge them
B. There's something wrong with my car and I should acknowledge them

Ok, so I'm terrible at not giving into temptation. Unless the temptation is chocolate, because strangely, I've never cared much for chocolate. But, of course, I look over.

IMMEDIATE DOUBLE TAKE!
Gesturing for me to roll down my window (well, buzz it down, who has manual windows these days?) was Elvis.
Elvis!
He then called, "Sarah! How are you?"
Oh my god! Yes, we're getting looks from everyone. And this is when I realize, THIS ELVIS, this is my friend Chad.
Who is driving a brand new convertible. And apparently on his way to a last minute wedding. We chat for a while, ending the conversation with a promise to get together and have a drink or two soon.
And away we drive.

Maybe this doesn't seem like much.
But in my opinion, I was feeling the very epitome of being a Las Vegan. I mean, I was at a stoplight, an Elvis recognized me, and stopped to chat before heading off to officiate a wedding. (I'm likewise feeling slightly proud for spelling epitome correctly without needing spellcheck).
Ok, so sure, I live in Las Vegas. This isn't QUITE as bizarre as it would have been in my home town of Sylva, NC.
However, contrary to popular belief, you don't actually see Elvis all the time in Las Vegas. It's more like playing a grown up version of "where's waldo." You know they are there, you just can't usually find them. In fact, outside of Fremont Street or Las Vegas Boulevard sightings, I can narrow my personal Elvis sightings down to the following four incidents over the past five years:

1. Elvis, fat version, stumbling out of the Crazy Horse Two (a notorious strip club) around 6:45 am (i feel bonus points for the situational irony should be awarded)
2. Elvis, fat version, shopping in Sam's Club. (I feel this deserves an extra point or two as I also saw him prior in the parking lot too).
3. Elvis, fat version AND Elvis, young version, walking through a parking lot (clearly, double points!!!) This actually happened last week
4. Elvis, young version, events described above.

Which, in the, OMG It's Complete Proof that I live in Las Vegas game I've just invented, is worth about 50 points! I'm thinking I'm massively ahead of everyone else.

Other point earning items- people in the fountains. Last month I actually watched an idiot dive into the Bellagio fountains. I also have a random picture from last summer of a guy in the Flamingo fountains. I asked him to pose for me, he happily obliged.

PS: Rules for game, otherwise known as ways to keep it fair.
1. Sightings of Elvis or other celebrities on the Strip or Fremont do not count. All of it, so the wedding chapels and the signs are included.
2. Cirque parties do not count as Elvis sightings.

Welcoming any other thoughts on point worthy occurrences.