I have lots of stories to tell from my trip, but unfortunately circumstances dictate I take a break from blogging right now. I hope to be back with you fine people some time in the future. Until then, take care.

I'm having an amazing visit here in the Magnolia State so far. I've spent today helping my parents clean out closets and packing away framed family photos. One of the recommendations for home-selling is to get rid of personal things around the house, so we've spent the day sanitizing. I find a home without pictures to be incredibly depressing, but if it helps my parents sell the house, I guess it has to be done.

I've found all kinds of great things to write about as I pack up the things I've left here in this home. I can't wait to tell some of those stories. It's a major trip down memory lane for me. I'm very torn about this whole scenario. This is the only home that we ever owned during my childhood, and even though I didn't live here very long, I'm very attached to it. It's pretty weird being here and thinking that it may be one of the last times I'm ever here. It will also probably be one of the last times I ever visit this city. Once my parents move away, there won't be many reasons to return here. That's also kind of weird. I plan to spend a day going to take pictures of my schools and places I used to hang out as a teenager. I think that would be fun.

The trip here was relatively painless. I was kind of rattled Sunday morning, because My Little Sunshine decided to wake up at 5:30am. I hadn't gone to sleep until 1am, so I was really exhausted. I drugged my dog, fed my kid, and then started packing up the car. Before the trip even started, I needed a nap. My mom called at 9am as I was fighting with the DVD player in the car. I was exasperated because I couldn't get it to work, and my mom had to talk me down from the ledge.





I got on the road about 9:05am for the eight hour drive. Sunshine and Scoop shared the back seat. Sunshine started out watching Monsters, Inc. Scoop was doped up, but she was still trying to get out of her seat belt until about two hours into the trip. Once she calmed down, things were pretty smooth until we hit Atlanta, which always sucks. It was raining, and people run you over, even if you're speeding. I was going about ten miles over the speed limit, and people were riding my ass, honking at me, and passing me like I was parked on the interstate. There's no good reason to drive that fast with my kid and dog strapped in the back. I just stayed in the middle lane, put it on cruise, and white-knuckled it until I got through the Atlanta metro area. Sunshine didn't give a shit about the tall buildings, baseball stadium, and crazy traffic like I did when I was a kid driving through there. He preferred to keep his eyes focused on his movies. Fine by me.



Our first stop was Carrollton, Georgia, home of my first college roommate, Spoiled Rich Girl. I wanted to ask everyone I encountered at the gas station and fast food joint if they worked for her daddy, because the way she always talked, everyone did. And if they didn't, they worked for his really important friends. Either way, you better not piss off him or anyone in his family, or else, you'd never be heard from again. SGR and I haven't spoken since the day she moved out. I can't say I've missed her, but I have wondered what she has done with herself. I wonder if she's back in Carrollton, or if she went on to bigger and better things with other Very Important People like her daddy.



It cost me more than $28 for half a tank of gas. I could have driven across the country for that amount of money when I first bought my old Civic. I guess it's the price I pay for driving an SUV in America today. After I refuelled, I headed over to Satan's Supper Table, the Golden Arches. I hate that fucking place, no matter where it is. I had to wait to get into the bathroom, while some teenager finished "cleaning" it. I would hate to see what it looked like before, because his version of clean isn't the same as mine, and my house would never pass any white glove tests. It then took ten minutes for them to fuck up my order, which of course they did. What ended up in my bag wasn't even close to what I requested. At least Sunshine got his "ham-gah-burger" and toy, which is all that really matters in the end. After some readjustments in the car, we were on our way again.





It rained a lot through Georgia and Alabama. I think it finally stopped once I reached Talladega. I always forget that Alabama is actually a beautiful state to drive through, but the roads are complete shit. It almost feels like you're driving on train tracks it's so bumpy. I guess that's one thing Mississippi has going for it: Alabama's roads suck worse. I'm sure there's some study that names Mississippi the worst driving state in America, but that's just my layman's assessment.

Sunshine watched three movies during the trip. A couple of them I had to rewind so he could rewatch the second half, because I wasn't in a good position to change the DVDs at the time. He was pretty cool. He only got a little rowdy when he was around his nap time and right before I stopped the last time. Other than that, the DVD player was a lifesaver. For eight hours, he was fairly calm and quiet, which for my kid is absolutely not the norm.



I only made one other stop, somewhere between Forest and Morton, Mississippi at a rest stop. The main building looks like a mini-plantation home. There's a park around it, and the bathrooms are big. When I walked in, I had several memories flooding back to me. I know I've stopped at that rest stop many times before. My dad actually suggested it was a good stopping point, probably because he always stopped there with us and when he's on his many business trips. Nothing's changed about that stop, and I know I haven't been there in years.

I pulled into my parents' driveway around 4:30pm Central time, about eight and a half hours after I hit the road in the Eastern time zone. I got a little choked up as I rounded the corner. They've put a traffic light at the entrance to the neighborhood, something which has been needed for years. I passed the gutter I've blown countless tires on. Then, I saw the Spanish moss hanging from the trees in my parents' front yard. That is something that I've loved ever since we bought this house. It always evokes a mood in me, one of relaxed, soupy, summer days. I will miss that a lot even though I haven't lived here in so long. The Spanish moss always makes me feel like I'm home, and it made the lump in my throat a little larger this time.



I spent a lot of last night going through my stuff that I left in the tiny closet in my old room. I was 16 when we moved here, so I got the smallest room, since I would be going to college the next year. It's an itty bitty room that can barely fit more than a bed. It has its own bathroom, so I think it was designed to be a guest suite of sorts. I spent a lot of nights wide awake and staring at that ceiling fan. The time I lived here was a big time of transition for me. I got my first job in television news. I worked part-time after school and on weekends. I was applying to colleges. I eventually decided to keep my TV job and go to a community college in town for my first two years. That decision came after a lot of long nights thinking in that room. I also shed a lot of tears over boys in that room. The boyfriend I had when I moved into this house had gone off to Florida State. When that relationship ended, I started a two-year saga with a recovering alcoholic and drug addict. Oh, if those walls could talk they could tell some tales of serious heartache.

I was going to put a picture of my old room up, but there's really no point. My mom turned it into her office after I moved out. It's now Pepto pink and has different furniture. It's since been turned into a guest room with antiques from our family. As I was trying to empty out my closet last night, I felt like Chris Farley in Tommy Boy. I was singing "Fat Guy in a Little Coat" as I was trying to maneuver boxes around the bed in the middle of the room. It's funny that it never felt cramped when it was mine. Of course, half of my shit is in a cedar chest out in the garage. I haven't even made it to that yet.

I found some great old pictures, some cool memorabilia from all the places I've lived and visited, and lots of cards and letters. I found some things I wrote in high school, which I can't wait to go through, and lots of class notes from high school and my first two years of college. I hated throwing those away, because I was an awesome note-taker. My notes are all very organized in ringed binders with color-coding. They have diagrams and doodles. They reminded me how much I always loved school. I love learning more than just about anything. Even though I am learning a lot in my life's journey right now, I know that some day, I'd really like to be back in school. I wouldn't mind being a professional student if it weren't so damned expensive. I do have to think about how much it's going to cost to send Sunshine to college some day.

I came across a lot of things from a few people I've lost in my life. Lots of pictures of my cousin, my uncle, and a childhood camp friend. Their spirits are definitely alive in the stuff that I had saved over the years. What struck me most were their smiles in the old pictures, particularly of my favorite uncle. He committed suicide when I was in college in Missouri. I looked at his beautiful face and wondered once again if I could have seen something behind those eyes of his that would have told me to hold him a little tighter. Same thing for my friend. She killed herself after I had moved to South Carolina. I always knew both of them were troubled, but they were more alive than just about anyone I ever knew. I never would have imagined either of them would want to end it all.

We'll never really know how my cousin died, although I have a very strong theory. Her parents just assumed she had fallen off the wagon and ODed. They had her cremated. They were surprised to find out several weeks later that she had no drugs in her system at all, except for the prescribed amount of medication to treat bi-polar disorder. She was totally clean, just as she'd said. I winced when I read an old card that she had sent to me when we were kids. Before I left Ohio, we spent a lot of time together at our grandmother's apartment and at my cousin's home out in the country. She lived in a child's paradise. She had a pool and a sandbox and a ton of woods behind her house. We would spend hours out there, pretending to be characters from our favorite books and movies. She had an imagination of a thousand children, and she dreamed of being a writer. When I helped clean out her apartment after she died, I found dozens of packets of her work that she had either prepared to or had sent off to publishers. She had gotten back countless rejection letters, but she kept trying up until the end. That's a lesson for everyone, I think. She never gave up on her dreams. Through battles with depression and bi-polar disorder, she remained steadfast in her determination. I admire her for that.

As I was packing up our family pictures today, I came across a few really cool things. I found several envelopes of pictures from my grandmother's family, dating back to the 1800s. They are all carefully labeled, so I can't wait to inspect them further. I also found journals my cousin gave to my grandparents. The books contain a bunch of questions a child might ask a grandparent about his or her life. The one given to my grandfather is blank, but my grandmother obviously took a lot of time and care to fill hers out. It was really interesting reading. I knew some of the stuff, but a lot of it was new information for me. I think I'll try to get it copied for all the grandchildren and give the actual book to the cousin who gave it to her. I would also like to fill out the book for my grandfather. My when I see him later this summer, I can do that. I also found a daily journal from 2000 that my grandmother had faithfully filled out every day. It doesn't have a lot of space for each day, so most of it is in short-hand, but it's very detailed. She talks about the weather, where they went, who they talked to, how they were feeling, and a lot about sports. she even recorded scores for some of the games she watched. She also seems to judge the speed of her day based on what time she finishes reading the newspaper. She remarks several times that she's behind, because she hadn't finished reading it by 11am! All of this is a reminder that I am lucky to still have these grandparents alive. My grandmother has an amazing memory, and I need to spend some time talking to her. She has some amazing stories to tell.

This trip is sparking a lot of emotions in me. I'm very excited for my parents, but I'm also very sad. I love this home. If I could pick it up and move it where I want to live, I'd stay in it forever. I can't imagine another family in it. This is our home. You would think that a girl who's moved so many times in her life wouldn't give a shit about a brick structure, but I do. It's the only home I've ever felt this way about. I'm proud to own a home with my husband, but we never bought it with the intention of staying there forever. Frankly, the nearly-seven years we've lived there is much longer than either of us ever expected. We thought we'd be there half as long, so we've never really gotten attached to it. We've had some great times there with our chosen family of friends, and of course our own family, but it's not embedded in my soul. I know I'll have fond memories of it, but I don't think I'll be as emotional about selling it as I am about my parents selling this house. Over the course of my lifetime as a nomad, I have truly come to believe that Home is Where the Heart is, but I do think a little piece of my heart will always be in this home.

Labels: Grandparents, Home, Mississippi, Mom and Dad, Travelling

I'm on a serious rant about suspended South Carolina Treasurer, T-Rav. If you've been reading here, you might be sick of it by now, but this is my blog, and I don't care. The latest news in the T-Rav saga paints an ugly picture of the American Justice System.

You see, T-Rav's arraignment on cocaine distribution charges was yesterday. Ole T-Rav wasn't there for his court appearance, because he's in some cushy rehab center out of state, but his powerful daddy, sister, and attorneys were there in the full force of South Carolina Old Money.

T-Rav's co-defendant is a black man by the name of Michael Miller. In contrast to the white, millionaire T-Rav, Miller had to appear in court. He was wearing an orange jumpsuit, handcuffs, and shackles. T-Rav's people were all wearing expensive suits.

T-Rav's attorneys are powerful people. One is a former U.S. Attorney. One has a III at the end of his name, so he is likely from a long line of wealthy members of the South Carolina Bar. T-Rav's co-defendant, Mr. Miller, has a public defender.

Whereas T-Rav's daddy signed for a $100,000 surety bond for his son, Miller will likely sit in jail until this case goes through the legal process. T-Rav will be able to do his rehab, make a court appearance, and then likely return to his multi-million dollar lifestyle. He will likely only go to jail if he's convicted. Miller could rot in there before the case ever gets to trial. The sad thing is nobody gives a shit.

I was on the fence about T-Rav's daddy before yesterday. I mean, he did rat out his son in the media. He told the world his son had a drug problem before he was ever convicted of the crime. While I would hope my daddy wouldn't rat me out if I ever decided to become a coke head, I had a little respect for T-Rav's dad for not covering his ass and denying anything ever happened. That took some balls.

However, dude went on TV yesterday talking about all the support they've gotten from people all over the WORLD. He said many people had sent their SYMPATHIES and CONDOLENCES, and the family really appreciates everyone's concerns. I'm sorry, but last I checked, your son wasn't dead. He is just a coke head who was buying a ton of drugs while holding state office. Rav Dad is treating this like it's some terrible tragedy that has HAPPENED to their family, not something his son CHOSE TO DO. His son is not a VICTIM. Chances are when this is all said and done, the only victim in this case will be the poor black drug dealer who made the mistake of doing business with a wealthy, white coke head. I hope I'm wrong, but I bet I'm not.

Labels: American Justice System, T-Rav

I'm home again after two whirlwind trips. I am currently a ball of slime, since I haven't showered in two days. I'm not really sure when I'm going to shower, because my kid's nap time today will become Family Nap Time. I haven't really slept much in the past week either. Imagine that.

Right now, I'm working on about three hours sleep. I went to bed around 11:30pm, knowing I would have to get up at 5am to take my mother-in-law and father-in-law to the airport. I was blissfully sleeping when my house phone rang at 3:44am. Since I had set my cell phone to go off at 5am, I first dove for it, thinking it was my wake up call. When that didn't stop ringing, I dove for the phone on my nightstand that hasn't worked in a year or so. I had dropped it earlier in the evening when I was trying to give my mother-in-law my alarm clock, so the fucking thing was actually ringing. It would ring, but I couldn't answer. Shit. Call goes to answering machine. 3:45am, phone rings again. Fuckers. The first three numbers just happened to be the same as when the Sheriff's Office called to tell me they busted the dude who broke into my car, so I called the number back on my cell phone. It was not the Sheriff's Office. Instead, it was some red neck beeeeeatch's voice mail saying, "You know who theeeas (this) eeeas (is), and you know what to do." Um. No, I don't. Click. Drunk beeeeeeatch=no more sleep.

Yesterday was a hilarious comedy of errors. It always happens this way when my husband or another relative is about to leave. I've come to find this amusing for some twisted reason. I guess it's that whole Laugh to Keep from Crying thing, but I also know that things could be much worse. All this shit is a bunch of small inconveniences. They're not matters of life and death...well except that thing about my AC. Oh, and my microwave.

So, yesterday after I put My Little Sunshine down for a nap, I decided to nuke some leftover Alfredo and green beans...fancy cuisine, I know. I pressed start and turned to talk to my mother-in-law. We start hearing this loud humming/vibrating sound and then turn to see sparks flying inside the microwave. I press stop and the madness seems to end. When we open the door, smoke and this horrible burning rubber smell smack us in the face. There's a charred place on the side on what appears to be an important part. Um. Yeah. Bye-bye microwave.

An hour or so later, I remark to my father-in-law that it's getting stuffy in the house. I go check the AC thingy, and it says it's 77 degrees inside. My father-in-law says something about how it's 90 degrees outside, so that's why it's getting hotter inside. At that moment, I didn't bother to tell him what I already know. We've put a band-aid on this damn thing for the past five summers, because we didn't want to pay the money to get a new unit. We just had a dude out here about six weeks ago. Know what that means? It means I'm screwed. That's what.

This morning on the way to the airport, my father-in-law said, "Boy, it sure was hot in the house last night. I think your air conditioner might be broken." Yeah. Uh huh. The dude just so happens to have interrupted Family Nap Time. He's here right now, so I'll soon find out just how bad it is. Stand by for that.

While you wait, no commercials here. Instead, you get a tale of exploding ass. My kiddo woke up from his nap yesterday, covered in raised red spots. They were big, at least bigger than bug bites, and I just knew with the way my luck was going he was going to have some sort of flesh-eating bacteria. So, even though my father-in-law made fun of me for taking this parenthood thing too seriously, I made an appointment to take the kid to the doctor. Sunshine was wonderful and charming. The doctor remarked about how well he spoke. He said he was 3 going on 13 (God help me) and that he was the best-behaved patient he had had all day and maybe even all week. Parent pride aside, he gave me a diagnosis of hives, likely a result of an allergy to something he had ingested. Gave us some medicine and sent me on my proud mama way.

Well, we went on to have us some guacamole. It's kind of a tradition with my father-in-law and me, because we both really like us some guacamole. When they come to visit, we always go for Mexican at least once, but usually several times. Anyhoo, I smelled something horrific shortly after my meal came. I knew it was Sunshine, and for some reason, I decided to take him to the car to deal with the issue. It was a brilliant decision in hindsight. I'll spare you the details, but let's just say the next half hour involved a call to the doctor, the throwing away of disgustingly soiled clothing, bathing of both mother and son, scrubbing of new car interior, and getting our meals to go. Which was fucking stupid, considering my microwave exploded a few hours earlier. Those meals will just be taking up space in my refrigerator until I bother to throw them out. That should be some time around Christmas.

Pause for an AC update brought to you by Freon Ain't Free: the unit is frozen up and there is a leak. Repair dude will have to thaw it out before he can further diagnose. Fuck, fuck, double fuck.

So, after the aborted dinner, some watermelon eating, and running in the sprinklers, we put the kid down to bed, and I headed off to Home Depot with my father-in-law to get a new microwave. I was pretty proud of our timing. We had just found the microwaves when a woman came over the intercom system and said the store was closing in ten minutes. I made a quick decision, loaded a microwave in the cart, and zipped through the checkout line. When we got it home, we opened the box. It was not stainless steel as the box had indicated. It was blue. Teal really. Are you kidding me? For a half-second, I considered saying, "Fuck it. It's a microwave," but upon closer inspection, we realized the thing was covered in dents. It looks like someone dropped it, ran a forklift over it, and just put it on the shelf. Awesome.

Pause for another AC update brought to you by Freon Ain't Free: We apparently have two leaks in the valves in the unit. Unlike the last dude who came here in May, this dude says it's fixable. He says he can change out the two valves and pump it full of freon again. This ain't gonna be cheap, but it's not as bad as having to replace the entire thing. Rock on.

So, the Main Event of the World Series of Poker is getting started today. That means I'll have my husband back in two weeks. Rather than hang around here and remain lonely and bored, I'm going to pack up my car and head to the Bold New City of the Magnolia State. 'Cause that place is fucking rocking, let me tell you. My parents are moving out of the only home we ever owned. We lived in apartments or rental houses until I was 16 and my parents could finally afford to buy a home. Even though I got the hell out of that state as fast as I could, I still have a lot of childhood crap at my parents' house. It should be an interesting trip down memory lane as I pack all that stuff up and bring it here to clutter my own house. Hopefully, I'll have the courage to throw some of that junk away, but hopefully there will also be some fun memories that pop up along the way.

I'm strangely emotional about my parents moving. I moved every year for the early part of my life, and I've moved a lot as an adult. However, my parents have stayed put since I was in high school, and I've loved that home since we moved into it. If it weren't in a hell hole of a city in a hell hole of a state, I might consider buying it from them. For people who had a little more security in their lives as children, it might sound silly, but for me, that house is more than just a home. It's a symbol of stability. It's something that eluded us for so long that I clung to it more tightly than most, even after I moved away. I created a rosier-than-reality picture of what life was like there, because I needed that to be true. I needed to feel at home somewhere except in my own skin. Somewhere tangible.

Anyway, I don't know if my parents have a scanner, but I will try to share some junior high/high school yearbook goodness while I'm there. I had some bad ass mall hair, so that in itself is blog gold, right?

I don't know when I'll drug my dog, throw some shit in the car, and head out with Sunshine. This whole microwave/AC/strange hivey shit ordeal has set me back at least a day and a half. Whenever I get out of here, this will be my first road trip alone with kid and dog. I hope it's not adventurous. I hope it is painless and boring. It's eight hours though, and in TV time, that's an eternity. I've had seconds that lasted longer than that. We shall see. Good, bad, or ugly, I'll let you know. Until then, happy trails.

Update: The air conditioner damage was $278.00. Not as bad as expected, but it's the second time they've been here since May, so that's more than $500.00 of cooly goodness. Perhaps it's time to bite the bullet. Ugh.

Labels: Childhood memories, Las Vegas Vacation, Memorable moments, Mississippi, My Little Sunshine

It's five hours and counting before my Vegas Vacation is in the books. I'm sitting here watching planes full of suckers cross in front of the mountains outside my husband's suite at the Rio. It's a pretty bad ass view that is much nicer at night than during the day. The cool thing about the daytime view is that you can see the mountains. At night, it's nothing but endless lights. From this window, I can see how easy it is for people to get all caught up in the action here. Fortunately, I'm not one of those people. I'm just a regular girl here for a few hours of lovin' from my traveling wordsmith husband.



I was happy to see when I arrived here that Otis didn't look like shit. By this point last summer, he was ragged out as all hell. By the time he made it home at the end of the WSOP, he was barely recognizable. He seems to be faring much better this go 'round. It's his third summer here, and he's learned a lot of lessons about surviving the Vegas Grinder. The first summer, he got swept away in it all. Last summer, it ate him alive. This summer, he's surviving, and that makes me happy.

It doesn't mean this shit is easy. All the tournament reporters here are fucking exhausted. They're bracing themselves for the final push, the Main Event of the World Series of Poker (oh, and some shit about Presented by Milwaukee's Best Light or something...way to class it up guys. The blow-up beer cans are a really nice touch). A lot of fresh faces and minds will arrive over the next couple of days, because the Main Event starts Friday. This will both piss off and inspire the veterans who have been entrenched for weeks now. Even though they are exhausted, the arrival of the newbies helps them all see the light at the end of this brightly lit tunnel.

We've had a lot of fun in this short respite from my Hum Drum Every Day and Otis' Neverending Nights. I didn't make it to the Rio until after 11pm my first night. That's like lunchtime to the folks around here. They're just getting started. We said hello to Dr. Pauly, Change100, BJ Nemeth, Dan Michalski, and Mean Gene before we struck out on our own. Otis quickly gave me the tour. Hooker Bar. Tilted Kilt. Dragon Bar. The tournament and media areas. That's all you really need to see anyway. We eventually planted ourselves at the Hooker Bar for awhile, because I love to people watch. I can't get enough of freakshows. It didn't take long for a hooker to plop down at the video poker machine right next to me. That was lucky for me, because after a really long plane ride, I didn't need to be straining my neck to stare. I've been known to do that, you know.

The Target was your Average American White Guy. I don't know if he was married. I purposely didn't check his ring finger, because I didn't want it to make me biased against him. I just wanted to watch what happened. The hooker immediately put five dollars into the video poker machine in front of her and started "playing the piano." She really was talented. Her fingers were faster than some concert pianists. She really might be missing her calling. If you don't know, the hooker played video poker while loosening up her prey because you get free drinks at the bar if you're playing. If you can stretch five dollars out long enough to hook a customer, you get more than that back in "free" drinks. Eventually, the dude was putting money in her machine so she could keep playing, and, therefore, keep drinking.

Her nails were nasty. They were long. She had polished them some time in the past year or so, but most of the color was peeled off. That was nasty enough, but whatever was crusted under them really gave me the heebie jeebies. Strangely, that didn't seem to bother the guy she was about to blow. The small talk is so lame it's not even worth listening to. Guys don't want conversation from their hookers. They want to get their rocks off. The conversation is just a means to an end. The hooker said she was from Hawaii, but she lives in Vegas now. My husband said he'd heard countless people say the same thing over the past few weeks. I'm sure it just adds to the fantasy and allure, since Hawaii seems so far away for so many people. We didn't stick around long enough to see them leave together, but she had the guy "hooked" from hello. I'm sure they both got what they came for. I found myself wanting to pay her to tell me her story. Her real story. Not the one she tells her customers. Maybe on the next trip. This one was too short.

After a few drinks, we went to Otis' sweet suite to crash. I think we went to sleep around 3am Vegas time. My body thought it was 6am, and I was exhausted. It was nice to go to sleep in the same bed as my husband. When he's home for long stretches, it's easy to take something that simple for granted. Going to bed and waking up alone sucks for people who are used to having the comfort of company. I think that's one of the things I hate the most about this job.

Yesterday, I did Jack Shit at the pool for about four hours while Otis got some work done. If you are not familiar with the Sweet Potato Queens, Doing Jack Shit is a fine art that Southern women spend lifetimes perfecting. I'm not very good at Doing Jack Shit, but when I allow myself to chill the fuck out, Doing Jack Shit feels good.



Otis and I had a nice meal last night at an Italian place called B&B at The Venetian. We had planned to have dinner there with Ryan and his wife, but they couldn't make it. They have a new youngin'. I was sad that I didn't get to meet them, but I understand completely. After My Little Sunshine arrived, I felt betrayed by all of womankind. Those bitches never said anything to me about how fucking hard it was to squeeze a kid out of your body. It was all goochie-goo and fuzzy blankets and shit. Even worse, since they don't let you stay on the Good Shit too long, those Evil Women failed to mention how difficult it can be to recover from said squeezing. That's even harder work, because by then, you have this new little life you have to take care of in addition to taking care of yourself, which after an ordeal like that is incredibly important. So, Kim, I hope you can get back to feeling well again with the help of your supportive hubby. I know it's hard now, but you really do forget how hard it was. Some people actually do this thing more than once!

Anyway, B&B. It was Drool on Your Nice Shirt yummy. It was, however, one of those places that made me feel like a bit of an uncultured commoner. I made my first mistake on the drink order, because apparently the schwanky Italians frown upon Captain Morgans. Bastards. I hate it when waiters give you that Bless-Your-Heart-You-Little-Trailer-Park-Hussy look when you have no idea what you're doing or what they're saying. When he was telling me they don't have cheap American rum, he was apparently giving me two other choices. My "yeah, go for it" response was apparently not an appropriate way to indicate what I wanted. Oops.

Then, I really didn't have any idea what anything on the menu actually was. I mean, I knew I wouldn't be eating the Wild Boar or anything. That was pretty obvious. This, however, was the kind of place that expects you to know what their dishes are, so you don't get any cute TGI Friday's descriptions of what they're whipping up. That makes it tough for a girl who doesn't eat red meat or most pork products to make a decision. As soon as I saw something that said "Lobster," I stopped reading the words I couldn't understand.

We didn't plan well enough to be able to handle an appetizer, a pasta course, a meat course and a dessert. We should have chosen my awesome lobster dish and split it as the waiter suggested, but my husband and I often have eyes bigger than stomachs, or something like that. Every single thing I put in my mouth at B&B was absolutely fabulous. The staff there was very on top of things. They knew their menu well, and you never wait for anything. It's a well-oiled machine. By the time they brought us some final post-dessert dessert thing "Compliments of the Chef," I thought I was going to explode. I asked my husband why the chef couldn't have complimented me earlier, but apparently that wasn't as funny as it sounded in my head. There was a tiny little woman at the table next to me who weighs 100 pounds soaking wet, and she made it through the entire tasting menu with a wine pairing. She must have trained for months to do that. Otherwise, she was in the bathroom sticking her finger down her throat between courses.

Speaking of puking, Mrs. Otis CAN hang, bitches. Sure, I might have thought that all those drinks by the pool, the rum & coke, the beers, and the shot of SoCo in honor of Al were going to kill me, but I wasn't the Otis who puked. I'm just sayin.

After the B&B experience, Otis and I made our way back to the Rio. We hung out together and had some drinks for a little while. For those of you who know my husband, you know he's a bit of a musical elitist. That's why I giggled like a little schoolgirl when he started singing the words to a Justin Timberlake song. Dude. This is classic shit. Yes, it's true. I'm here to tell you that Musical Elitist Otis knows lots of words to lots of...wait for it...pop music songs! No, seriously. Watch out, Justin. Otis has your number!

After one of the tournaments broke for the night, Change100 and Dr. Pauly met us out. It was nice to finally meet Change100. I've been stalking her on her blog for quite some time now. I love her writing, and she's even cooler in person. Plus, it's always nice to hang out with someone who is Internet Famous, like Dr. Pauly. Bitches love him, man. If I were Change100, I would be smacking me some hos, let me tell you. Women hang all over Pauly like he has the secret to Eternal Life or something. Apparently, Change100 is a super hero. Oh, you didn't know? She apparently has the ability to become invisible when the Ho Train comes around. I mean, COME ON. It's pretty obvious that they're here together, people. Bitches don't care, though. They just want to get their Vagina Monologues on the internet.

At one point, one of Dr. Pauly's fans from the Tilted Kilt came a callin'. She was all, like, flipping her hair, and, like, talking really fast, and, like, telling Pauly why she wasn't all up in his business at the bar. "I was so slammed," she said. "So, you had your thumbs up your ass all night," Dr. Pauly replied. "Yeah. Literally," she snorted. I nearly gave the bartender a beer bath as I turned to my husband. "That must have hurt with those nails," I said to Otis, who graciously laughed at my Grammar Nazi tendencies. Even though I've abandoned them for the purpose of this blog, I still like to pull them out when I want to feel all high and mighty. Especially around giggly blogger stalkers. That's classic.

We had a blast hanging out with Pauly and Change100. It felt nice to sit around and laugh and tell stories for a while. I wish I could stay longer, because I'd have a blast here with these guys. This trip feels too short, but I know it's the right amount of time. If I were here any longer, I'd be too much of a distraction. There is work to be done after all.

Some good news came today from Otis' boss. Apparently, there's an article called "The Best of Blogs" in the August edition of Poker Player magazine. Otis is ranked number one on the list! Here's what they have to say about PokerStarsblog.com:

"You won't often find us plugging corporate blogs in this space but the PokerStars WSOP blog is excellent with insight into some of the game's biggest pros(Raymer, Hachem, Greenstein, Negreanu...). We particularly liked the description of the Amazon Room as being on tilt..."

That's awesome. He deserves that, and I'm not simply a doting wife. I used to be his boss. I worked with a lot of great people, and Otis is one of the most supremely talented writers out there. The work he's doing here is grueling. The hours are long, and the stress is high. It's nice to get a pat on the back, because often this work is quite thankless. In fact, it can be brutal at times. So, thank you Poker Player magazine for giving him a much-needed boost, and thank you to all you fine people who've taken the time to send him some words of encouragement. Even rock stars like Otis need some love every now and then.

Well, we have dinner reservations at Buzio's Seafood, and then I have to catch the Red Eye home to G-Vegas. Gotta spend Children's Day, er, Fourth of July, with my kiddo. Let's hope I don't get stuck between Fatty and Sneezy Dwarf on the way home.

Labels: Las Vegas Vacation, Soul Mate

It's not every day that I get to wake up cupping my husband's little biscuit butt. If this is how you greet each morning, you might not think it's that big of a deal, but for me, it's been a long time.

As if that wasn't a great way to start a day, I got some good news from home that set my mind at ease. The Sheriff's Office called to tell me that they matched the fingerprints of the fucker who broke into my car with some dude in jail in Spartanbunk. So, this morning they are signing warrants on him for taking my shit.

I'm fortunate that I've never been a victim of violent crime in my life. Knock on wood. I don't know how I would handle it to be honest. The two stupid little car break-ins really rattled me. It's not that the petty little thief took my shit. It's just a feeling of being violated. Everything feels dirty and unsafe. I'm sure the bastard won't do heavy time for stealing a couple pairs of expensive headphones, but at least it's something.

My morning got even cooler when I crawled back into bed with my husband and went back to sleep for another four hours. I had apparently only been asleep for three hours or so when the deputy called, but I was wide awake. My body was telling my it was time to get up and feed My Little Sunshine some breakfast. Well, this morning, I'm sure Sunshine got a meal lovingly prepared by his grandmother. I'm sure he's on Cloud Nine right now being the center of the universe and all.

Yeah. This morning (afternoon for my East Coast body) has been good. I'm really glad I made this trip to see Soul Mate in Vegas. Just the sight of him has made me feel infinitely better. The trip here blew some serious monkey balls, but now that I'm on the ground, I'm good.

I got up yesterday morning, packed up our stuff, and got in a car for the three hour drive home from the beach. Sunshine wasn't very sunny, because the band at the bar right outside our room played until 2am. Not to mention we were staying in a hotel that had a courtyard, so every drunk who came back echoed their slurry words into the night. Plus, the doors to every room slam like chop-off-your-fingers slam. It's fucking loud and annoying. I didn't blame the poor kid for not sleeping. I didn't either. It was just a little taxing waking up every ten minutes to, "Marlin, will you hold Nemo tight?" For those of you non-parents or non-animated-movie watchers, that's a reference to Finding Nemo, one of Sunshine's favorite movies. We spend hours on end pretending to be the characters from this movie and every other one he's ever seen. It's cute, just not so cute at 2am.

That trip was fairly uneventful except for a minor fiasco at McDontgetyourorderright. That place is fucking hell on earth. Why anyone ever intentionally goes there is beyond me. I mean, the food will fucking kill you from across the room, the service su-uuuuucks, the atmosphere is constant chaos, and you feel like shit for days after ingesting their version of "food."

We got back in G-Vegas just in time for me to shower, throw some shit in another bag, and drive to the airport. I've already recounted that part of the trip, so I'll spare you a re-telling, but things really got good on the flight from Cincinnati to Vegas. First, a group of loud, over-large, older ladies sat down to my left. The woman to my immediate left was definitely the leader of the group. She was wearing and pink and white striped knit get-up, which was less-than-flattering. Also less-than-flattering was the fanny pack serving as a boob-propper-upper. That shit just ain't right any way you look at it. Anyway, I heard her bitching about how she was too fat for this 757, and that made me chuckle a little. When she screamed, "My knees are in my pits!" at the top of her lungs, I laughed out loud. She proceeded to play some hand-held gaming device, which she narrated for everyone around her. All I know is that she was starting on Level 10 "for the benefit of the lady next to her," but she usually plays Level 15. I mean, that's why she was screwing up, folks, because she just doesn't play this low of a level anymore. Puh-shaw.

That's while the people from Northern Kentucky behind me argue about who's fatter. They all had to ask for seat belt extentions, and the woman was quite proud of it. When she called her 300-plus pound husband a skinny ass, I almost lost it. She was proud of her ample middle. She wanted the world to know she needed more beltage. Be proud of who you are, sister. More power to you. Just don't make the rest of us listen to your justifications.

Then, nerdy, woman-wears-the-pants couple sat down to my right. I knew this one was going to be bad when I saw them walking down the aisle toward me. When the woman stopped in front of my seat, I asked, "are you in there?" She scoffed a "yeah" as she stuffed herself into the seat against the window. She was obviously disgusted by me. Her husband nervously asked her, "am I 42C," in a way that said he was asking her for permission to sit next to another woman. It was obvious he was 42C, since the empty seat was between her and me, but he was clearly uncomfortable sitting there without her blessing.

The drama started immediately. The I'm-on-top wife immediately asked him if he used his nose spray. It was just above the acceptable level of conversation in closed quarters, so it was as if she was trying to remind him how emasculated he already is. The Mousy Man then opened up his carry-on bag to reveal an over-the-counter buffet. Dude had shit for everything in there. He proceeded to spray shit in his nose, eyes, hands. He popped a few pills. Then, he pulled out the tissue, and that's where I wanted to stab him in the eye. He started blowing his nose like a fucking fog horn, digging his fingers up as far as they'd reach after every blow, you know, just to make sure we didn't miss anything. Then, he started hacking. The man wasn't sick. He was in some weird hypochondriac stressful-situation, too much nose spray-induced mucus situation. After a few times of this ritual, I wasn't shy about turning my body completely away from him and covering my mouth with my entire arms. It was just nasty.

I ordered a stiff drink at the first opportunity. My plan was to get completely hammered and say inappropriate things to the nerdy little man next to me just to piss off his holier-than-thou wife. She kept commenting about how unhealthy everything on the plane was, but she didn't have any problem stuffing extra shit into her purse. She was chastising her skinny husband for eating poorly when she outweighs him by a good forty pounds. I find that annoying. Perhaps she has a medical condition that makes her unable to lose weight. However, I think it's more likely that karma is packing the pounds on her ass for all the hell she puts her poor little pussy husband through every day of his natural life. I'm just saying.

The buzz-kill started with ass-wipe to my right answering my trivia questions for me. Incorrectly. Don't fuck with my trivia. If you want to play, play. But since you are a pussy and too afraid of being wrong in front of your superior wife, leave me alone! I want to beat those two little punks in row 40 all by myself thankyouverymuch. I did, by the way. Ooooh, another annoying thing Little Man kept saying was something about the jet fuel. Something like JP5 or some shit? Obviously, it was the latest useless fact he crammed into his little head, because he thought it was really special. He kept saying to his wife, "did you get a whiff of that JP5, honey? I mean, that JP5 is strong stuff. I wish I didn't have to smell that JP5 in order to sit in a comfortable cabin. Boy, that JP5 sure is potent!" If I could have figured out a way to shove some JP5 up his ass and launch him to the moon, I would have.

Little Man was my nemesis until Big Girl to my left shoved her ass in may face as she ran to the restroom to puke. She was one of those public pukers, you know the ones who love to tell you about it? Yuck. Since she was really loud, I got to hear all about it when she returned from Puke Number One. Fuck me. At this point, I had a puker on my left and a hacking nose-blowing pussy on my right. I had my knees up to my nose and my arms wrapped around me at that point. Screw all you people for trying to ruin my time with my husband. I have a lame constitution, people! How dare you bring your germy asses in my air circle? Uh!

When the captain informed us that we had arrived too early, so we were going to have to shut off the engines and sit on the runway, I nearly lost my shit. I mean, every second sitting in that recirculated, germified air was putting me at risk. Plus, I was tired as hell, since my body thought it was after 1am. I was not in a good way.

I hate to cut this off, but my husband is still sleeping, and I think I'm going back to bed. That's the beauty of vacation in my opinion. Perhaps I'll finish this bullshit later. Perhaps I'll wait til I get home. I don't know. Until then, hope everyone is having a great time wherever you are. Don't hate me because I'm sleeping. Love me. Love me.

Labels: Vacation

I'm sitting here in the airport waiting for my flight to Vegas. No plane and no gate agents 30 minutes before the scheduled take-off. All the boards read "ON TIME," but I've come to learn those boards are agents of deceit.

I'm not sure how this trip is starting out. The TSA agent asked me if my husband likes to go all-in. The dude sitting in the gate area told me I was entertaining as I sat down. I said, "At least I have something going for me," and he took that as an invitation to keep talking. It wasn't. I finally shut him down by talking about my husband a lot. That usually works. Usually.

Now I'm hoping for a plane sometime soon. It was hard leaving My Little Sunshine behind with the grandparents, but I'm really looking forward to seeing Otis. I'm going to be all ragged out by the time I get there. Three hours in the car with my family and 20 minutes with my family and my dog who hadn't taken a shit in four days can be taxing enough. Add to that the unpacking/re-packing job and a two-leg flight to Vegas on four hours sleep, and I should be ready to rock when I get there, right?

Well, my plane's here. That's good news. Here's to hoping for a successful connection in Cincinnati. Hello to the Zips! I'll be in your neck of the woods, but only briefly. I'll shout at you from the air!

Labels: Las Vegas, Travelling, Vacation