Side Story: One Last Thing About the Weekend…

Granville, OH

One last thing to say about Granville: I’m in love with it.

 

There are multiple reasons why. For instance:

Pies!

Spices!

Fresh flowers!

Dried flowers!

Pumpkin trucks!

The library!

The Buxton Inn

Haunted hotels!

Candy!

Stickers of candy!

Pretty sidewalks!

And my dream home, where my family will live one day—as soon as I find $998,000 in my pocketbook.

 

The streets are languid and familiar, like the cool side of a pillow—which should be strange, since I’ve driven through Granville only a handful of times. It’s just that it looks and sounds and smells like the tiny suburb where I grew up. It has the soft and lovely sleepiness of home.

 

There’s so much of the world to see, and I want to see it all. But at the end of the day, just give me this.

 

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Other Firsts: The Grim Reaper and The Fire Starter

“Help me, Obi-wans. You’re my only hope.”

On Monday, I told you about my friend Katy, and how she sacrificed her ankle to protect our kids from drowning (or at least getting their pants wet) in the creek behind her pop-up camper. Today, let’s rewind that scene one hour to go Trick or Treating across Lazy River campgrounds in Granville, OH.

This is a first for me. And that’s not just because we’re Trick or Treating away from home. It’s because I’ve never taken my kids Trick or Treating before, period. GB takes them out, and I stay home with a bowl of candy in my lap, waiting for a knock at the door. I’m ashamed to admit it, but there it is. And I have the weirdest case of social anxiety to blame for it.

Because here’s the thing: Mostly, I’m fine in a crowd. Assuming we’ve met before and I know your name, we can sit down and have a laugh or a nice conversation. The problem only arises if we’ve met before and I can’t remember your name—which sends me into such a frenzy of shyness and embarrassment that I’ll skip the neighborhood Christmas party to avoid it, or I’ll lay as low as I can at Parents’ Night.

But this? This is perfect. I’m not expected to know anyone but Katy and the four kids we’re leading around: Optimus Prime, Frankie Stein, Obi-wan Kenobi #1 and Obi-wan Kenobi #2.

For the most part, everyone on the Trick or Treat route is normal, friendly and generous with the Snickers bars. We prompt the kids to say please and thank you, and we’re on our way.

Then we meet up with this guy:

I never thought I'd actually find this costume online! Thanks, Google Images!

He’s handing suckers and marketing postcards to all the little kids passing by. When Madeline approaches, he says, “Wanna touch my eye?” and when she does, he screams like he’s been felled by his own sickle. Then he laughs and says, “I’m kidding! My eye is fine!”

He looks at Obi-wan #1 and says, “What about you—wanna touch my eye?”

Obi-wan #1’s face says no, but he follows proper Trick or Treat etiquette and grabs the eye anyway. The Reaper screams again, laughs to himself, and hands a sucker and a postcard to each child.

Then he turns to me. “Heeeere,” he says, in the creepiest voice possible. “Yoooou can have a sucker, toooooo.”

We all take a step back. The Reaper says, “You sure have pretty moms, kids. That’s why they get these suckers.” He hands a lollipop to Katy, she and I look at each other, and we leave without speaking.

When I look down at the postcards my boys have shoved into my hands, I see that The Reaper is promoting his martial arts business. Of course, I think. Of course, martial arts.

Two pop-up campers later, when we’re out of earshot, Obi-wan #2 whispers, “I knew that guy wasn’t real because I could see his man neck under his hood.” I laugh until my eyes well up with tears. That’s when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

It’s The Reaper, and he’s in my personal space. He hands me another postcard and says, “Come take a self defense class.” My inner monologue freaks out, but I muster a quick “Thanks,” grab the Obi-wans and bolt.

Well this is a first, for sure: I have never before been hit on by a 7ft-tall, googley-eyed phantom trained in the art of taekwando. It was just so weird.

~*~

It’s Sunday morning, and I’m making pancakes in our tiny kitchen. H and Madeline are planning their future together, and I’m dropping chocolate chips into the batter. The cabin is smoky, so I hit the fan on the microwave above the range and start flipping the bacon.

When the smoke alarm goes off, GB opens the door. It’s almost a conditioned response, because our smoke detector at home is too close to the oven, and it goes off almost every time we cook. After a minute or two, he walks into the kitchen and says, “Do you smell smoke?” and then “Why is the stove turning black right behind the frying pan?”

I lift the pan, and see that the toaster cord has somehow fallen onto the gas range. The plastic has melted, and a flame has sparked.

I told GB once that he has trouble in crisis situations. It wasn’t a fair thing to say at the time. And now, as I’m standing frozen with fear and a pan of sizzling bacon, he proves how wrong I am by saying, “It’s ok. Just turn off the burner.”

With shaking hands, I do. And then I watch as he calmly blows out the fire.   

We blink at each other, then he pats my shoulder, smirks and walks away.

~*~

I feign confidence as I walk through the doors of the campground registration post. A friendly guy sits behind the counter, so I cloak myself with every ounce of charm I can muster, and hand him our keys. “How was your stay?” he asks brightly.

“Oh, it was great, thanks. Although…well, see, I set fire to the toaster. It wasn’t plugged in at the time. I’m wondering how you’d like me to replace it?”

He looks at me for a moment. I can see on his face that he’s bracing himself. “What’s the damage?”

“Oh! Well, it’s not anything really. Just a melted toaster cord. But I’d hate for someone to plug it in and, you know, be electrocuted or something.”

He leans forward conspiratorially and says, “You know, don’t worry about it.”

“No really, I…”

“It’s fine, I promise. Just come back and see us again.” He nods, so I nod back. Then I turn on my heels and leave. I suspect I’ve gotten away with something, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.

So. As far as weekends go, this one was lovely but strange. And while it was chock-full of new “experiences,” we are never going back to Lazy River.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Rule #1: You Do NOT Talk About Book Club

I had Book Club again last night. This means I came home happy and late, with an itch to write about all of it, but I stopped myself. That’s because Book Club is a lot like Fight Club: what happens there, stays there, and you respect the discussion.

In a way, that’s too bad, because I think you’d really like the women behind the greatness of The Club. They’re smart and funny and honest, and they’d make the perfect blog post—if it weren’t for my desire to support their privacy. But who knows—I’m hosting next month’s meeting, so maybe? You never know.

I still have a lot to tell you about our trip to Granville, including the accidental fire I set in the kitchen, the flirtatious giant goblin head, the house I’m going to buy, and some charming photos of a farmer’s market. And I will, tomorrow and Thursday. But for now…

Roadside Shoe!

Today, we have another Nashville installment, sent to you by my blackjack-loving friend, Kim. She said it was sitting sadly just outside the United States Post Office in Pleasant View, TN. 

And here’s another Columbus installment, this time sent to you from my brother SC’s lady friend, Kelli, who just added to her already high cool quotient by sending me this:

 

There’s also something important I need to say: There’s a Roadside Shoe on 315 South, and it’s taunting me. I’ve passed it in blazing sunshine and in the rain, in heavy traffic and on a nearly deserted road, in broad daylight and under the dark of night, and I can never. get. the. shot. It’s driving me crazy. Columbus readers/photographers? Anybody feel like living dangerously?

Back to the Granville posts tomorrow. Meanwhile, happy Tuesday, all.

Have a Roadside Shoe!? Send it to 36x37blog@gmail.com. I’ll feature your shoe pic here, and if you have a blog, I’ll pimp that, too.    

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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Side Story: Wait…That’s Not Magic!

image via eliteentertainment.nl

I had the most unexpected weekend.

Our friends, Katy and Jamie, asked us to join them on a trip to Granville, OH, which isn’t far from here. Our plan was to book some space on a campground, let the kids wear each other out, roast hot dogs and talk about grown-up stuff. It sounded lovely—Ohio in October and the great outdoors—and it was, it was just different than we’d planned. 

The weekend started well. And it ended well. And a whole lot happened in between. Today, you get a magic show, a hay ride, and a kindergarten love story. I’ll tell you the rest over the next few days.

~*~

I’ll start by stating flat out that Katy has sprained her ankle. Oh, an ugly sprain, too—the kind that immediately swells and turns purple and is agonizing. It happens as my good-hearted friend walks toward the creek to lure her kids (Madeline, age 5, and James, age 2) and my own precocious five-year-old H away from the water. She steps in a hole, twists her ankle, then falls in a pile of leaves.

I’m not there when Katy goes down. Instead, I’m in our cabin with O, trying to coax him out of his Halloween costume. When we arrive at Katy and Jamie’s camper, she is sitting with her foot wrapped in ice. Pain is etched all over her beautiful face, but when I sit down with her, she is nonchalant.

“Are you going to the ER?” I ask with a wince.

“What would they say. It’s a sprain. They’ll tell me to wear an air cast and use crutches. I have all of that at home.” And she does. She sprained this ankle five years ago when she was pregnant with Madeline.

In the end, she goes, because she cannot walk. GB helps Jamie settle her into the car, then the three head out toward the hospital.

I wave goodbye with the kids. When I look down at them, I see four worried faces, so I try to distract them. “Wanna go on a Spooky Hay Ride?” I ask.

What a silly question.

~*~

It’s dark, and we’re standing in line with 100 strangers. The guy behind us is making a lot of noise to get the kids’ attention. He’s trying magic trick after magic trick, including one that involves wearing fake thumbs that light up at the fingernails. Each thumb turns on or off when he squeezes his hands, making it look like a red ball is bouncing from one thumb to the other. “It’s going in your ear, it’s coming out! Now it’s in your pocket! Now it’s going in your mouth!”

He performs these tricks on my four charges, and I’m irritated, because who knows—this guy could be some kind of freak show. But we’re surrounded by other families who are cheering and laughing. And the kids? Utterly enchanted. So I put on my game face and joke around with the rest of the crowd.

Eventually, the guy gets tired of himself. “I’m going to switch to a new trick now,” he announces. “I’m going to open this beer and make it disappear. I’ll let you know when the trick is over.”

I sigh and scan the road, thinking, Come on hay ride tractor. Get us the hell out of Crazy Town.

~*~

The tractor halts in front of us. The crowd surges ahead like it has never been introduced to the concept of a line, or standing in one, or taking turns like a rational group. I tell all four kids to hold hands so we’re not separated by the mad rush. *Poof!* The Magician turns into a teddy bear, saying “Step aside for these little ones!” Then he nods to me with a drunken smile, and says, “Enjoy the ride, ma’am.”

When we settle on the hay bales, I notice Madeline and H are still holding hands. Madeline looks at me with wide, earnest eyes and says, “Miss Mawah, can you move down a little so H and I can have some alone time?”

I do my best not to laugh. Madeline and H were born three weeks apart. I held her when she was only hours old, I’ve watched her grow along side my H, and so I adore her. Katy and I have joked for years that our first-born children are destined to be sweethearts. And now this: Madeline’s imploring expression, plus an unfamiliar goofiness in H’s grin.

“Oh, there will be no aloooone time,” I say with a laugh, wishing Katy were here to see this. They blink back at me in disappointment.

This must be a glimpse into how the teen years will be: the giddy smiles, the handsy playfulness, the exasperation (theirs) and the banishment (mine).  I decide on the spot to control this scene as long as I can, because kids grow up fast, and the next thing you know, they’re asking you to drop them off a block from the school dance, and it’s all downhill from there.

It’s years down the road. Still, I wonder how to prepare for it—the slow passing of the torch from me to whomever my boys choose. I’ve watched my mother do this for my brother and me, and my mother-in-law do the same for her children. I wonder where that sort of open-hearted graciousness comes from. Is it the passing of time that makes us able? Maybe it’s magic? Or is it like an ankle-twist in a hole—you just ice up, crutch up and get on with it?

Madeline stays with us that night to help Katy rest. In the morning over pancakes, I hear Madeline say, “We’ll go to college, and then we’ll move in together. And then we’ll get married, and you will be my husband.”

My sweet boy says, “And my mama will live next door, and she’ll make us breakfast every morning.” He does his funny five-year-old wink at me and laughs. I laugh, too.

And while I do, I make a silent promise not to hold him to it.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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(100th Post) Naan-sense, and Celebrity Sightings!

Vindaloo.

I like the word. Vindaloo.

I had big plans for today’s post. I knew it would be my 100^th, so I really wanted to play it up. Do something special. Tell you about how my colleagues joined me for my very first Indian lunch, and how the Chicken Paradise was so spicy and so delicious it almost brought tears to my eyes, and how the server made sure I knew that the hellfire in my mouth was only a “mild spice.” And how I have a special place in my heart now for naan.

Naan. I like that word, too.

That was my plan. I was going to spin that into an 800 word story, much like my first Sushi experience. Lucky for you, Jen said she was planning to spend a day in New York before flying out to Cabo, and Jack suggested going to Soho to watch for celebrities.

Next thing I knew: Scoop on Celebrity Sightings!

~*~

“New York is crawling with them, and you’d never know it. They fit right in there, because real New Yorkers don’t care. You wouldn’t believe who I’ve seen just sitting outside at a sidewalk café.”

He begins by saying he once spotted Al Pacino and Robert DeNiro—one of them in a Broadway play. (I’ve admired and confused those two esteemed actors all of my life, so I’m equal parts “Wow!” and “Which one was Scarface?”)

(google image from tumblr.com)

This is when the conversation gets interesting.

“I saw Bruce Springsteen at a shop once. I’d just seen his show in Cleveland the week before, so I wanted to tell him how much I’d enjoyed it. Bruce was just standing there with his hands on his hips, staring at the ceiling, while his wife and kids checked out a display of sunglasses. I said, ‘Hey man, I loved your show last week.’ He said thanks and introduced me to his family. Can you believe it? He wasn’t a musician at that moment. He was just a nice guy—a husband and a dad waiting around at the mall.”

(google image from http://www.thelatestnews.in)

(That’s exactly what you want to hear about Bruce, isn’t it? Jack’s story makes me think of a recent quote from my boy Jon Stewart: “Have you hugged Bruce Springsteen? I have. And it was nice.”)

“One time, on the street, I saw this women. She looked really familiar. I kept watching her, thinking, ‘Do I know her from somewhere? Why do I feel like I’ve seen her before?’ Then she smiled at me. Julia Roberts! We just stood there, smiling at each other.” He jokes, “It’s like we had a ‘moment.’”

(google image from genxnews.com)

~*~

A few days later, I’m at Starbucks with Angela and Shannon. Angela joined the editorial team a few weeks ago, and she has flown in from Seattle so I can train her in person. She’d picked the Indian restaurant the other day, so she’d heard all of Jack’s stories. I think she kept quiet then because she knew she could trump him.

Now we’re talking about Seattle, and the late 80s-mid-90s Grunge Rock scene. Angela says she worked at the Sorrento Hotel when Grunge was at its height, and since she worked in Sales and Reception, she encountered a lot of celebrities.

“I helped Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love check out once. They used everything in their room but the towels. They pulled the mattresses off the beds and threw those Styrofoam packing peanuts all over the floor. And they had a huge doll collection lined up around the room.”

(google image from music.ninemsn.com.au)

“Oh wow…did you see it?” I ask. I’d always heard that Kurt wrote “Doll Parts” for Courtney’s band, Hole, and now I know why.

“No, we heard it from the cleaning staff. They always let us know what was happening upstairs.”

We laugh.

“I also helped Duran Duran check out once. They were past their prime by then. It was kind of sad to see them standing around all tired in their crushed velvet jackets.”

(google image from kevchino.com)

“Do you remember Alice and Chains? I checked in Layne Staley once. All the bell hops were like, “OH MY GOD, THAT’S LAYNE STALEY!!!” I think Layne thought I was cool because I wasn’t freaking out on him. But really, I just didn’t know who he was. I was surprised, though. He was such a little guy with that great big voice.”

(google image from heavenrocks.co.uk)

“And remember Mary Ann from Gilligan’s Island? A bell boy got high with her in the back.”

(google image from blogs.dixcdn.com)

~*~

I love stories like this. And I’m not even the sort of person who reads celebrity gossip magazines. It’s just that I like flash reminders from the universe that we’re all just people skulking across the same soil at the same time. Basically we want the same things: To breathe in the air, and to survive; to form connections and blood lines and friendships and spiritual understandings; to find knowledge and comfort in the lessons others learned before us; and to communicate what we’ve learned—to pass it along, like ancient storytellers, from generation to generation.

Celebrities do all of these things in the public eye. They surge and stumble, and they face our reactions to that. Some handle it, some don’t, but if they can, they stick with the limelight. I think that’s mostly because they use their art as a means to be understood. That’s another thing we all want: Understanding.

And when you think about it, isn’t that what a blog is? A chance to stake claim on your own soil, and to be understood in spite of yourself? Or in my case, to help me find out at age 36 who the hell I’m supposed to become?

Happy 100^th Post birthday to you, little blog. We have roughly 100 more of these posts to go. And if we walk away from this on April 17 meaning something to only each other, that will be alright with me. And that will be enough.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page

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Side Stories: O and the World’s Smallest Apple

Every October, we go apple picking at Lynd’s Fruit Farm. The kids love it, and it’s one of my favorite family traditions. 

When the weather is nice, like it was this weekend, the orchards are packed. It doesn’t really matter, because the branches look like this:

As you can see, there are more than enough Fuji apples to go around.

I like that the branches are low. That way, it’s easy for the boys to pick their share.

Occasionally, however, they need to exert themselves.

It’s a lot of hard work. And in this case, hard work should be rewarded with pumpkins.

But, as big and orange and beautiful as the pumpkins are, I think O is more impressed with this:

It’s the smallest apple in the world, and it’s a gift for Special Kitty.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page 

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Side Story: The Saddest Song in the World

It’s 10 AM sharp on Monday. I’m in my orthodontist’s office, waiting for a set of braces, when this video comes on:

Have you heard this? I think it might just be the saddest song in the world. It’s about a young man who works in a home for the elderly. Each morning he brings coffee to a sweet but aged Alzheimer’s patient, and she confuses him for her son.

It’s a beautiful, striking tune. It’s also a prime example of why I can’t listen to Country very often: I internalize lyrics too much. A song like “Raymond” will cut me to shreds. And the next thing I know, I’m sitting, waiting for my teeth bling, trying not to cry in a room full of strangers.

It makes me think of a game GB and I play sometimes when we’re on the road: Musical Combat! I’ll say something like: “What’s the saddest song in the world? Go!”

And he’ll shuffle his saved tunes to this:

Chris Isaak - Cheater’s Town (it’s just a link–no YouTube video available)

I’ll nod in agreement and say, “That’s a cold, cold song, but it’s not as sad as this:”

“It just wrecks me,” I’ll say. “I am wrecked.”

Then GB will counter, and I’ll counter-counter, and we’ll go back and forth until we’re both shaking our heads, feeling happily depressed.

It’s a fun game. And morbid. And fun.

~*~

Later, I consult the omniscient Google, and find:

• The 25 most exquisitely sad songs in the whole world (Including Bruce Springsteen’s “The River” and Radiohead’s “No Surprises”)
• The Top 100 Saddest Songs Ever Recorded (Including NIN/Johnny Cash’s “Hurt” and George Jones’ “He Stopped Loving Her Today”)
• The Walrus’ Top 30 Sad Songs (Including Kermit the Frog’s “It’s Not Easy Being Green” and The Smiths’ “There is a Light that Never Goes Out”)

I click around for a while, and I listen a bit. But oh! the sadness. It is too much.

~*~

Back to the bling…

Really, there’s not much to say about it. The first time I had braces—from 1986-1991 (!!!)—I figured I’d try to woo the world with the “I-have-glasses-AND-giant-silver-brackets-AND-the-teenage-angst-to-match-so-CHECK-out-THIS-action” look. It was really quite fetching.

Now that I’m older, I’ve opted for the more demure, unassuming clear brackets. They look better than the silver kind, but they still feel every bit as dorky.

And that’s cool. Dorkiness, I can do. Dorkiness is my badge of honor. Because this time, who the hell cares? There’s too much else to think about. Is my family happy? Am I keeping my promises? Am I focusing on what matters? Am I doing what I can? Yes, yes, yes, and God, I hope so.

I wish that’s how I’d looked at life all those years ago—with a bit less self-involved reluctance and a bit more quiet confidence. I’d like to sit next to my shy, younger self now, because I think we’d have a lot to say to each other.

It makes me think of a sad, sad song I heard last January when some friends invited us to a Brad Paisley concert. Again, not knowing much about country music, I didn’t know what to expect. I was blown away by his showmanship and his mad guitar skills. I could have walked away happy with just that. But then he sang this song:

…and the residual angst inside every heart in the room “Flicked a Bic” in quiet agreement:

google image from trueslant.com

It was the saddest, most hopeful, most universal song in the world.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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#18: Maura Goes Cold Turkey on the F-Bomb

google image from http://www.legaljuice.com

Five-year-old H and I are reading a book on the couch. He laces an arm through the crook of my elbow and looks up at me cautiously.

“If I ask you somefing, will you promise not to laugh or be mad at me?”

Uh oh. What’s this? “I’ll make you a deal,” I say, closing the book. “As long as you’re asking me honest questions, I’ll promise to never laugh or be mad.”

He sighs, then shyly flips me the bird. “What does it mean when you hold up your middle finger like this?”

I stare blankly until I notice how closely he’s watching me.   

“H, honey, did you see someone make that gesture?”

“A kid at school. He showed one kid his finger and then ran away. So I showed it to William, and he said it meant the worst word in the world.”

“Wow. William is right. It is a bad word.”

“The worst?”

“Well, one of them, anyway.”

“What word is it?”

I laugh. “H, I’m not going to tell you. But when you flip your middle finger, you’re telling people you’re really angry at them, or that you don’t like them very much. It’s not a very nice thing to do.”

He frowns. “I didn’t know dat.”

“It’s ok, buddy. I know you’re not that kind of kid.”

“Who is, doh, Mama? Who would ever be dat way?”

Well, me, I guess. I guess the answer is me.

~*~

I swear a lot, ok? Not constantly, and certainly not when the boys are around. But there are times when I have the potty-est of potty mouths, and gargling with soap won’t help. I don’t feel badly about it, either, because to me, swearing is a pure and legitimate form of self-expression. So when the situation warrants it, here comes the trucker talk! 

“You know, when people swear a lot, they just sound uneducated.” GB throws this one at me from time to time. [Unless he's watching the Buckeyes lose] he almost never swears, so he’ll use the “I thought you were smarter than this” tactic on me when I get out of hand with my language. It always makes me think of my dad’s old and equally outdated theory that a woman isn’t truly “cultured” unless she knows something about jazz and good wine.

So, I go through periods where I take GB’s feedback to heart, and tuck away a lot of my favorite words and phrases. In my head, I still swear like a teenage boy, but the actual words never pass my lips. The result is a strange, staccato speech pattern, and I don’t feel right in my skin. I keep it up until I can’t take it anymore. And that‘s when I fall off the wagon.

But this? My son flipping the bird at school? Maybe GB’s right. Maybe I should rein it in. It’s not like H learned that gesture from me, but he could always learn the verbal equivalent. Which means it’s time to go cold turkey on the f-bomb. Or at least resign myself to 36×37 assignment #18: “Go a Whole Week Without Swearing.”

~*~

Have you ever gone cold turkey on swearing? It’s effing hard! For instance if you’re a Broken Social Scene fan like I am, you might totally bust yourself 12 hours into your strike because you’re singing along to their excellent “Texico B*tches”:

Again if you’re like me, you can’t believe you’ve screwed up so easily! Still you refuse to give in, so you reset the “I’m not going to swear for a week” clock to zero.

Or, let’s say you’re walking toward The Venetian in Las Vegas, and you’re making conversation, and you spout a sentence that includes an innocent little word like “damn,” and everyone with you agrees that “damn” is fairly innocuous, but still, you’re committed to keeping your language clean for a week. So what do you do? You set the clock to zero again, and mentally drop the f-bomb like crazy, because #^@*! #^@*-ing #^@*!!!

~*~

This assignment is hard. Really, really hard. But in the end, I get the hang of it, and actually get a little creative. For instance, here’s what I say at 3 AM when I step on a Lego on my way to the bathroom: “Son of an effing Miiiiiiiitch!!!”

That’s all it takes. That’s it! I sound so stupid, so ridiculous, that I finally see the error of my foul-mouthed ways, and have no trouble completing the last three days of the assignment.

So. Yesterday (Sunday), after 12 days of trying to go seven straight days without swearing, I can finally cross this one off with a clean conscience. My curse-free mouth feels minty fresh.

Before I sign off for the day, two unrelated notes:

• We’re half-way there! I’ve hit my goal of completing 18 36×37 assignments before October 17, the project half-way point! So, bully for me!
• Today’s the big day! I’m getting braces at 10AM Eastern time. Depending on when you read this, I’m either preparing to have my teeth pimped, or I’m in the middle of the pimping, or I’m walking around with some new, old-skool bling on my chomps. More on that tomorrow…

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
~*~ Visit the 36×37 facebook page 

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#17: Go Big or Go Broke, then Go Home

Dale Chihuly's Glass Flowers, Bellagio Lobby, Las Vegas

I’m about to say something that won’t shock you at all: I play by the rules. Always.

I follow the speed limit. I arrive on time. We don’t fudge on our taxes, and we rock the vote each November. I don’t smoke, I hardly drink, I don’t share my friends’ secrets. If I could remember to change my car’s oil every 3,000 miles, I would.   

But when something like Las Vegas comes along, all bets are off. Go big or go broke or go home. Shrug off your Sandra Dee, put on your Mae West, and viva Las Vegas like you mean it.

For my 17^th 36×37 assignment, that’s exactly what Kim, Mason, GB and I did. For three days, we lived as large as we could, and it was absolutely brilliant.

Find the High Rollers.

Pronounced "Porsh-a"...for the non-Italians in the room

We knew exactly where The Bellagio‘s high roller room was, but when we pushed our way through its gilded doors, the floor was empty. The only thing remaining was an open bottle of very expensive Cabernet Sauvignon, and we weren’t about to load up on someone’s leftovers.

Instead, we settled for playing pai gow with a little red-headed man and his fistful of $10,000 chips. We knew he meant business when he slid one across the table and opened with two $200 hands. Five minutes later, he walked away again, with a cool net gain of $3,000.

Win big (or go broke trying).

• Roulette. Kim took a class on game theory when we were in college and learned that roulette stacks the odds against you more than any other game in the casino. I think that’s funny now, because I watched her leave the table with a larger stack of chips than when she started. I, on the other hand, lost every chip I had.  
• Slots. I pulled the lever just once and said “What a stupid little game.” I kept thinking that and thinking that until some half-crazed woman shrieked “Look at what I won!!!” then hugged an uncomfortable stranger. Luck, be a lady tonight, I guess. 
• Blackjack. If you missed it, read about my love/hate relationship with blackjack.
• Craps. Just when I decided the casinos weren’t for me, I tried my hand at this lovely game. As it turns out, I love the dice, and the dice love me, and together we know how to make money.  

Pamper thyself.

My stubby little fingers look so pretty, even if Javier was nowhere to be found.

See the sights.

Like Caesar’s and Paris and The Venetian. Fine hotels, each one.

The gondolas outside The Venetian

GB and me in front of the "real" Ceasar's Palace

Kim and Mason at The Mirage

Hit the rock, fool playa.

 Still, none of them could match The Bellagio.

The Bellagio lobby

The Bellagio lobby, part 2

Chocolate fountain

Eat like a queen.

We tried the buffet, because that’s just part of the Vegas experience. It was big on selection and low on flavor, so we took the rest of our meals elsewhere.

On Sunday night, we tried Mario Batali’s B&B Ristorante in The Venetian, where GB ordered a pasta blackened with squid ink, Mason ordered the most incredible pork chop in the world, and Kim and I had pappardelle with a bolognese that nearly rivaled my mother’s exquisite version.

On Monday, we broke bread at Voodoo Lounge from the 50^th floor of The Rio. We watched the sunset from the rooftop, and spent the rest of the evening laughing over good food and great company.

Enjoy the show.

We caught Penn & Teller at the Rio Hotel. I slept through most of it because wine makes me snoozy. However I can say that Penn talks a lot and Teller doesn’t talk at all, and there was a clever bit about coins turning into fish and fish turning into coins. That is all.

See someone famous.

We spotted Pete Rose at some sports memorabilia shop in Caesar’s Palace. I thought that was so ironic—Pete Rose! In Vegas!—until a colleague said she saw him at the same store when she was in Sin City. So I guess it’s all just a big joke, with Pete laughing the hardest.

But that’s not all. Kim and Mason stayed in Vegas an extra day. On Wednesday morning, I woke up to this text:

“We just saw Webster by the elevators. Mason said holy sh*t, it’s Gary Coleman!”

I’ve been laughing about that one for days.

Finally, enjoy thyself without a hint of guilt.

But, ah. That part was easy.

~*~ 

Kim and me, sunset at Voodoo Lounge

In November, it will be 15 years since Kim introduced me to GB. The life I live today comes largely from that one well-timed and generous act of putting two friends together and then taking a quiet step back. I didn’t know the day I met her how important she would be to me. And I never would have guessed that we’d one day meet up in some glitzy, gaudy, wild city with two remarkable fellas and have an absolute ball together.

It’s funny how friendship works. I really can’t explain it. But I’ll tell you what, Kimmy—I’m just so grateful for you.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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#16: The Dealer and the Double Down

google image from secretofblackjack.com

On the green felt tabletop before me there lies an ace, four, five, three and ace. My mind is closed and frozen, and the dealer is glaring at me.

I meet his aloof demeanor with an eager smile. Friendliness seems like my best option since my mind is suddenly blank, and I need his help. “Ok, John, what do I do?”

He raises an eyebrow and looks irritated. “What do you think you should do?”

“Hit? Stay. I don’t know! I’m new at this.” My mind swirls as I look at his cards. His first is face down. His upcard is a seven.

I can’t think. I can’t think! This is awful.

“What do you have. Count it. Soft 14, right? Can 14 beat a hard 17? Just think about it.”

So I tap my cards twice. “Fine. Hit me.”

“Don’t touch the cards,” he mutters.

I add another ace to my hand. That makes 15. “You’ve got to be kidding! Hit me again.”

So he does. With a seven.

John smirks as he takes my chips. When I bang my forehead just once against the table, he scolds me for breaking the house rules.

~*~

I read J. Edward Allen’s The Basics of Winning Blackjack on the first leg of our flight to Las Vegas, and I felt like I understood it. Because look: I can tell you to never hit on a hard 17 or higher. Stay on all hands between 12-16 when the dealer’s upcard is a 4, 5 or 6. Hit or double down on all soft totals under 17. And Mikey? Always double down on 11.

But when the cards start flying and the pressure is on and John the Dealer openly shows his ire, I just shut down. I can’t explain it. My entire life is like this. If I’m good at something, then I’m good at it. If I don’t catch on right away, I fall to pieces.

I know just how I look–like Austin saying ”I’ll staaaay,” on a five.

I won’t lie: Cards are not my bag, baby.

~*~

Meanwhile, my betting buddies are having their way with the blackjack table. To my left, Kim splits a pair of aces, gets a blackjack on both, leans back and says, “That’s how it’s done.” To my right, GB watches the cards methodically and collects and collects and collects. And Mason? Who knows what on earth Mason is doing—he’s fluent in this game, and he knows tricks that aren’t in the J Edward Allen guide. He takes big risks, plays big money, and the cards try to do him some favors.

Their stacks are getting higher. John still hates me.

I slide two more chips into position, and watch as they’re greeted by a pair of threes.

“Should I split ‘em?” I ask Kim. She’s distracted, “No, probably not.”

“What do you think, John? Split ‘em?”

“I would.”

So I do. John tosses me an eight and an ace. “Now what?” I ask.

“Double down.”

“For real?”

“Do it.”

So I do.

I can’t remember the rest of the hand. I only know that I won it, and the payout was nice.

“That’s it for the free advice, kid. You’re on your own.”

Shortly after, he takes a break. When he returns, he’s even angrier.

~*~

In the end, I win twice what I started with. I thank John for his cranky, spiteful help, and thank  my husband and friends for their more cheerful and steadily-flowing assistance. There wasn’t a moment in the game when I knew what I was doing, and that was fine, because guess who walked away in the black?

I wasn’t the only one who came out ahead, either. Thanks to GB and his wicked smart blackjack skillz, he tucked $210 dollars into his pocket as we walked away from the table. Not bad for a fellow first-timer. (Blow it up, G-dog!)

So there you have it: My first Vegas double down. That means I can cross 36×37 assignment #16 off the list, and move on to telling you about #17. There are some fun stories rolled up in tomorrow’s post, and I can’t wait to tell you all about them.

~*~ Follow me on Twitter: @36×37
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