jobs, wacky friends, hot crushes, and an unraveling marriage are
all part of this darkly funny novel describing 45 year-old newlywed
Sinclair’s life in Las Vegas after she impulsively decides to stay
bizarre girls’ weekend in 2005.
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Slot Machine Ate My Midlife Crisis...
Three times a day, saloon
girls with fluffy hair
and florid red cheeks perched atop them and belted out songs while
flashing lace garters and more thigh than you’d see in a bucket of
Kentucky Fried Chicken. Tacky, yes, but it captured the Old-West
ebullience of Vegas perfectly. The crowds loved it!
On an elevated stage at the center of the action
was Paige, with the face of an angel, the bod of a vixen, in full Dolly
regalia. Her apple-pie-à-la-mode shoulder-length blonde hair was a
cascade of lush curls and waves, her pale skin luminous, her big blue
eyes heavily mascara’d and generously coated with glittery blue shadow.
She was poured into a short, lemon-meringue-pie-yellow dress with a
full skirt, lacy elbow-length sleeves, and a tight, low-cut bodice
embellished with a sparkly-silver butterfly.
“Holy sh*t! Is that Paige?” Paula snorted, doing a
“No, it’s Dolly Parton,” I shot back.
“She looks like Mothra with a boob job!”
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