Living in Vegas, those words mean many things. I grew up here. I became a court reporter. I am not a tape recorder in a wool suit. I am not a timid, bland, unattractive, older woman with a bun, who blends into the background. I am young. I am sexy. I wear Ellen Tracy and the requisite double pair of shoulder pads. These are the days of big hair, and I have a big mop of naturally curly, dark, wild pony hair. I wear doily socks with heels. I make over $75,000 a year, and I am in my late twenties. It’s designer everything.