Sunday, June 22, 2008
See, with all of the various things life has handed us, we spend a lot of time just rolling with the changes. I’m not talking about horrible things, like death, disease, or starvation. But both of us, from an early age, realized the only way to get where we thought we needed to go was to take a few leaps of faith and get out of the comfort zone. I left home at 18 to go to college . . . I haven’t been back since, except to visit. That meant living in dorms, living with families in exchange for childcare, living in “efficiency” (read “crappy”) apartments and working multiple jobs to save money and make ends meet. DrChako dropped out of college and enlisted in the Army, for crying out loud.
Collectively, since leaving home, we’ve lived in no less than 9 cities located in no less than 7 states and even called another country “home” for two years. We’ve borne two children in two different countries. Been paid in two different currencies. Purchased two houses; fifteen vehicles. Trust me - we have some experience in major life changes and decisions.
I write this on a plane bound for the east coast for a long business trip. It’s actually two business trips that happen to be in the same place, fortunately. But it will make for a long week that will drag into the weekend. I’ll be ready to hug the family when I get back.
But in this week, more changes will be rolling at us, and pretty quickly. My husband will find out if his first really big business venture is successful. And in this one, a couple other people are counting on him, too. If it is, he’ll have a new job in a week and a half. I’ll take on a new client – one that has been neglected for some time and may need a little hand holding to get everyone on board, including our team. I’ll also be setting up some things to help me strengthen my case for promotion next year – which will be time-consuming, labor-intensive, and will require an appropriate amount of well-placed ass-kissing, too, I am sure.
Not to mention what happens on the home front. Registering the littlest guy for kindergarten. Oldest one for sixth grade. Getting the au pair ready to move on to her new family in Florida. Starting the search for a replacement au pair (any takers?). Getting the fence fixed. Our foster dog returned to her mommy. Our downstairs flooring replaced.
It all works out in the end. Or at least that is one of DrChako’s favorite axioms. However, this time, the “all” seems to be pretty big.
I think we might need the help of a few guardian angels this time. Hope our “angel” credit is still good.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
This one I'll do chronologically, skipping the previously rehashed Rhino visit.
Friday - MGM
We arrive at the MGM early. Well, early by Vegas standards. Grab some dinner at Nob Hill. Walk around. Look at the lions. Head over to the poker room, to see if any degenerate gambler bloggers are there. There is interest in a HORSE mixed game - we don't recognize any names, but we put ours on there. Best place, my husband says, to find bloggers. Then we wait.
Friday - MGM (sans DrChako)
DrChako leaves to go to bathroom. Leaves me standing outside the poker room, still staring in, hoping to recognize a face. Seconds after he leaves (really, no more than 30 seconds), I hear a pleasant voice behind me.
"Care to share a drink with me?"
I turn to find a pleasant looking man about my age, my height (sans heels - which means with heels, I've got him by a few inches), standing there smiling at me. I'm being hit on. Wow. I mean, not that I'm not looking fabulous and all - black pleather skirt, silky snakeskin pattern top, 3 inch Franco Sarto patent slingbacks with the peep toes showing off my "ghetto-fabulous" toenails with the flowers painted on them. Lots of leg. But still. We're taking sans husband for under a minute - that has to be a pick up record for me. Only way to beat it would be to have someone try to pick me up while the husband was standing there.
Now, I'm not one of those women to be rude to the "hitter" . . . unless he's a total ass, being hit on is, of course, a complement of sorts. So I smiled politely, and said "Well, that is a really sweet offer, but I'm not sure my husband would approve . . . "
Not to be deterred, my persistent hitter smiles as says "Well, your husband isn't here."
Again, not one to be rude, I strike up polite conversation. Hi, I'm MrsChako . . . nice to meet you John (no, that was his real name . . . John . . . in Vegas . . . bet there are a lot of John's in Vegas). We talk about what he does (pilot), what he's doing here (flying wealthy businessmen in), and what he will do in his spare time (besides try to pick up wildly attractive married women) . . .
At some point, the conversation goes from casual sprinkled with mild flirtation to him telling me he couldn't help but notice my ass in the skirt and that he likes to suck toes. Probably more information that you'll get from most people inside of three minutes. DrChako arrived soon after that - I introduced the two and John, to his credit, owned up to the fact that he had been flirting with me. DrChako, assuming he was a blogger, took this as standard operating procedure and looked completely nonplussed. It was not until after John departed and I relayed the whole story did he realize he should have gone into "I'm gonna kick your ass" mode.
The Mixed Games
The bloggers finally arrived (mildly under the influence of the Hoffbrau House), and we started a mixed game. ORSE. No one liked H. But me. But oh well. Poor dealers . . . every time they switched we had to keep warning them about the table talk, the betting, and the weird rules we were sticking to.
Blogger games are interesting. First, be prepared for completely random betting, and lots of it. I've never seen so many pots capped. Particularly when Falstaff is in blind. I've never seen so much bluffing. So many pots dragged with shit cards. So many suck outs. And so much laughing about it all. What an awesome group of easy going folks.
I got down nearly a whole buy in (my limit - I know, I'm cheap). Bought another rack of chips. I think DrChako got felted too, at one point. But we stuck around long enough (and I managed to stay out of the craziness and only get back in with the good stuff) and it managed to pay off. DrChako ended up dead even (so basically managed to pay the rake and the tips), and I ended up almost a whole buy-in. I considered it a rousing success. Particularly I got a kiss (full on the mouth, not that wishy-washy European crap) from Falstaff and I got a fabulous table massage from CK. Complete with the hair waterfall over my face while she worked on my neck. Yummy. Until she got busted by the floor staff and given a cease and desist order.
We broke up the table and headed for the Rhino.
Saturday - On our own
We took this day as one of those husband and wife days. Got up late. Ate late brunch. Walked around looking and shopping. Played a tiny bit of poker. Had a nice dinner. Went to see "Zumanity". Finished out the night playing poker.
I played a mixed game table again. Up and down some, but never down far. Two hands stuck out in my head. Both pissed the table off.
Omaha 8 or better. I'm dealt A-A-2-8. One suit to the ace. I know this is a hand I should raise. But there are a couple stupid heads at my table who will do that for me. So the betting goes down and the pot is 6 people, two bets a piece. Flop comes out A-3-6. Now I hate this flop. All the low draws are in. I don't really have a good low draw, my flush possibility isn't out there, and I've flopped a set which is bound to get busted. But I gotta stay. Sure enough, there is a ton of action, and I call it all. Turn is a 4. So now I have a 64 low, but the wheel has got to be out there. I mean, really, it just has to be. I've only got one of the 2s.
River? The 6. And its a 6 that fills another flush possibility. A little chorus of angels sings in my head. I am pretty sure I have half of this pot. Rounds of betting, although a couple guys can't pull the raise trigger out there with a paired, flush board.
Moron at the end goes "I got the straight to the seven - who's got the wheel?" Everyone starts shaking their head and mucking. Action comes around to me and I'm looking at the guy. I'm not an Omaha pro, but this board, and he's saying "I got the straight to the 7."????? I flipped over my full house and my 64 low and scooped the whole thing. He spent the next five minutes trying to figure out why his straight to the 7, and his 6543A wasn't the winning hand.
The last hand that was memorable was, in fact, my last hand. I was up a bit, and DrChako had stopped playing poker and gone off to play craps. I was under the gun in Omaha and had decided I would get up when the blind got to be. My last hand dealt was 2345 three clubs. Not the best low hand. And certainly not a great flush hand. Or straight hand. But I figured, what the hell - I still had more than I came to the table with. I call, and the betting goes around and gets raised a couple times. The small blind is out, but by the time it gets back to me, there are six players including myself in the pot, so I call the raises. Flop comes out all big cards, except for an 8. And two clubs on the board. At this point, I check, because I need to go runner-runner to get a low (and not necessarily nut low), and I can't imagine the flush is good. There is a bet to my left, and one raise, and 3 callers, and I know the guy on my left will call . . . and I'm still playing with money I won from the table. Stupidly, I call. The turn is another high club. I check. Now there is lots of checking, except for one guy who bets. But he's betting big cards, I figure. Total position bet. So I call, and everyone else calls.
The river card comes out and its nothing. Doesn't pair the board, no low possibility. Now I'm rethinking. I'm starting to wonder if the flush is out there. I'm going to find out. So I bet out. I get one caller, one folder, one raise, and everyone calls after that. I figure at this point I'm beat. Until Mr. Raiser turns over Broadway. I turn over my flush with the 43 of clubs and scoop the pot. But not before I get berated for playing a shitty flush and low hand.
"Why would you be in that pot after the turn with no low possibility?" the raiser asked. "You can't have thought your flush was good."
I smiled sweetly, as I racked my chips . . . and said "I guess because I was playing with your money anyway . . . "
I never said I was nice at the poker table.
What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas . . . Unless You Run Into People You Know
I took my winnings over to the craps table to meet my husband. Found him standing next to one of his buddies. Apparently, he'd just randomly selected this craps table in this random casino . . . and found his good friend from Denver. The boys proceeded to lose some cash at craps, found out that I suck at throwing dice, and we all left happy, with plans to meet for dinner on Sunday.
Sunday is Spa Day
Well, not before brunch at the Wynn. God, I love that spread. I can never be a dieter. I really love food too much. And the only thing I love better than food itself? Is when there are so many different kinds ALL IN ONE PLACE. Where else can you have sushi, an omelet, fresh strawberries and cream, and a fajita, all in the same place? I dare to you to find it . . .
Then I ditched the hubby who wandered off to do god knows what . . . and after a short stint at Caesar's pool reading my John Grisham novel, I went to the Qua spa at Caesar's.
I knew it was going to be good when she said "go through those doors" . . . I walked through doors into this long, dark hall, with trickling waterfalls and soft music. Someone did a fantastic job of recreating the womb. It was a long, long walk . . . long enough for you to feel completely mellow at the end. I was shown the facilities and spent the next 30 minutes in the Roman bath before my treatment. I'm going to have a Roman bath in my house. Bubbling warm waters, spilling over the edge, cool bubbles coming up under your seat, lights changing the waters from a sparkling aquamarine to a deep violet purple.
I spent the next 90 minutes getting the Ayurvedic Journey. Which involves some wonderful soul scrubbing your body with some warm, sticky stuff, buffing it off you, wrapping you in warm blankets, dribbling hot oil on your head, massaging your hair and scalp, and cooing over how well your hair is absorbing the oil. After that I showered, did the steam room, the Arctic room (fake snow blowing on you feels AWESOME after a smothering steam), and more Roman bath.
I could have been Roman aristocracy. Totally.
We Go Home
We had time for dinner with our buddy, and then off to the real world. Where our flight was delayed. But all in all, it was a perfect combination of me-time, us-time, and blogger-time.
We can't wait to do it again in December . . .
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Last night, DrChako and I were playing one last night of Hold 'em before Nana Judy returned home, when Son #1 came down and asked "Is there any reason why Son #2 might have stuffed something down his pants and won't let me see what it is?"
There just isn't a good answer for this one. I was alternately amused that 5-year old Son #2 is using his tiny jockey shorts as a hiding place and that 10-year old Son #1 is so troubled by this. We went back to playing cards. Until we heard the bloodcurdling screams.
Apparently Son #1 tried to retrieve what was down Son #2's pants, and then was prepared to rat him out, when Son #2 objected vehemently (screaming) and kicked him in the crotch.
The object of such a heated exchange? A Valentine from one of Son #2's classmates with a Pokemon character on it. I guess when you sleep in your underwear, you don't have pockets for these kind of things . . .
Lesson learned? Much like you should never try to take food from the mouth of a hungry dog . . . never try to retrieve something in someone's jockey shorts without their permission.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
For one more evening, I enjoyed the sight of my officer and a gentleman.
Friday, June 13, 2008
. . . Us girls we are so magical
Soft skin, red lips, so kissable
Hard to resist so touchable
Too good to deny it
Ain't no big deal, it's innocent
I kissed a girl and I liked it
The taste of her cherry chap stick
I kissed a girl just to try it
I hope my boyfriend don't mind it . . .
Ok, Katy Perry kissed a girl. I didn't. Ok, if you want to pretend I did, that's fine. Use your imagination.
I just happened to hear this song for the first time today . . . seemed appropriate since I was about to write about my version of the fabled Spearmint Rhino trip. Although F-Train nailed it pretty well. But that was the guys version.
I'll cover the blogger games, the poker, and the rest of Vegas some other time. But the readership voted. It's girl-on-girl. So for now, I take you to the brave, intrepid souls that headed to the Rhino Friday night. I have to thank Falstaff, of course. Not only was he willing to fund a portion of the amusement, but he actually scheduled it just so the Dr. and I could join.
GETTING TO THE RHINO
So we show up late . . . almost 1 a.m. The place was PACKED. Couldn't believe how full it was. I tried to do the math on the cover alone and I didn't have enough RAM in my poker addled brain. I was still trying to process the Stud hand where my husband laid down his aces to Falstaff's bluff with the pair of sixes. Go figure.
So we wandered through the packed lounge, trying to find a place for the five of us to sit down and indulge in copious amounts of skin, silicone, and perfume. After my husband parted with a few bills, the bouncers found us a nice couch. Where we could nicely be ignored for a while.
I'm guessing, from an economic perspective, they assumed the five of us were negative EV. Three men, two women. Obviously two couples. So if I'm a stripper, I'm thinking a few things.
(a) 7 inch platform heels are ridiculous
(b) Girls probably aren't desperate for lap dances
(c) Men with girls probably aren't desperate for lap dances
(d) I wonder if I should have gone with the 600 cc implants
While we were being ignored, we formulated a plan. Got everyone's preferences nailed down. Not a one of us had a similar preference. Except we all thought that if the girl had no butt, it decreased her attractiveness factor. So now we had to find at least five different women to perform for us. The search was on.
- I hate watching dancers who look bored. Either on stage or on someone. I'm sure you are bored, ladies. But this is your job. Just like the guy who has to wear the big giant Mickey Mouse suit in Disneyland all day and still has to shake hands with and hug a hundred whiny kids . . . you gotta make us believe you're into it.
- I hate watching guys get lap dances who look bored and uninspired. At least look like you are liking it. Why else are you paying the $20 for it?
- I hate watching the girls who walk around with their arms crossed. Does this scream "I don't want to interact with you" or what?
- I hate tube socks and legwarmers. But for some reason, multiple girls had them. Somewhere along the way, someone said "black fishnet is out; Flashdance is in" - it wasn't me.
- I love watching the girls on stage who are good actors. Who can pretend there is nothing hotter than performing for that guy right down in front of them. And girls who can bring that out to the room. Act like there is no one that they could imagine being with (for that 3 minutes and 10 seconds) than you.
- I love girls who are good at pretending they love girls. It definitely makes it worth my husband's money. She lives the fantasy for three minutes; I live the fantasy for three minutes . . . he's happy for days.
- I realize I love dancers with nice curvy bodies. If I was a lesbian, I would want the same thing in my woman that I want in my man - intelligence, sense of humor, strong work ethic. Looks would be some secondary component. Since I'm not, and I'm only at the club for the visual/asthetic/tactile aspect of things, women with curves are infinitely more attractive. They look and feel like women.
- I realize why men are fascinated by naked women. We have very pretty curves. Very soft skin. We smell good (as a rule). We fit nicely into hands. We don't weigh that much (on a relative basis). We tend to be bendy and flexible.
- I realize why guys like to see girl-on-girl stuff, even if its pretend. See point above . . . x2.
- I don't realize why guys fall in love with strippers in the club. Even the ones who are good actors. You are a gig to them. A gig with a wallet. The deeper your wallet, the more they can pretend they are interested in you. But don't fool yourself. They are thinking the same things they were thinking for the last guy . . . "Can I get him to buy another?" . . . "Did I fill the cat's water dish?" . . . I think I like the 'Not A Waitress' color nail polish better than the 'My Chihuahua Bites' color" . . . "That girl I dance for last dance smelled way better than this guy and her female Asian friend is pretty hot too" . . . "I think I'll wear legwarmers next time."
- I don't realize how guys can come here all the time. I would think at some point, if you do it too much, it just becomes passe. I mean, by 4 in the morning, even I was oblivious to the massive breasts I kept bumping into on the way to the bathroom, or the copious amounts of T&A I had to wade through to wash my hands at the sink in the ladies room.
After 13 years of marriage (and 16 years together), I understand the importance of infusing your relationship with new and exciting things now and then. Indulging the fantasy. This is clearly one of my husband's little fantasies. It's pretty much all the visual thing. I was apprehensive the first time I did it, years ago. But I was an actress in high school and college. I could pretend for three minutes. So, now and then, I indulge him.
After we started narrowing down choices, we tried attacting attention. I think Falstaff managed to secure the first dance. His requirements were far less narrow than ours (pretty much "must be a girl - no bony asses"). And once F-Train and CK traded seats, so that CK and I were in the middle, flanked by our respective significant others, it was clear Falstaff could be singled out. These girls are like lionesses . . . separate the weak ones from the herd and then pounce.
We found a girl for CK that fit her requirements. She was not as enthusiastic as she could have been about it. But then, she wasn't watching F-Train's face. His appreciation exceeded the average bear's. So net-net, they were good. Then the Dr. managed to snag a curvy brunette for me. She was willing, and took her job very seriously. DrChako even paid for a second dance. I definitely got my money's worth out of that one . . . and the beauty is that being a woman, I am afforded more liberties in the "where I can place my hands" arena. Needless to say, I think the men in our party were appreciative. And the man across the aisle watching was about to pop an eyeball. Or something. Falstaff apparently had the benefit of receiving a dance and watching mine this time . . . clearly a double bonus.
We finally found girls for F-Train and DrChako . . . who enjoyed their dances, and then when the same girls offered to perform for us girls, they ponied up again. My girl was, again, totally into it. The girls were good at pretending, and they adjusted their moves to appeal to a woman. In fact, I think I had the best dances all night At least judging by the face on the guy across the way. Although when F-Train's little Asian dancer switched to dancing with CK . . . well, you can imagine the faces of the men watching the two waterfalls of jet black hair intermingling. Hell, even I had to admit it looked sexy. But that's only because I think CK's hair is totally beautiful. I should know - I had it draped all over me while she gave me a massage at the MGM. Eat your heart out boys (girls?).
CK was exhausted by this time, so we called it a night. Not before the last dancer the Dr. and I shared tried to convince us to take her home. "I get off in half an hour . . . yeah, I'm almost done for the night . . . only like half an hour to go . . . " I guess they technically can't ask us for anything. But by the time I left, I was clear that she had less than half and hour left on her shift. We compared notes and determined that had been our (missed) cue to say "why don't we pay you to come with us . . . " Wonder what that price tag runs. Guess we'll never know.
It was a night of hedonistic pleasures . . . maybe the best was actually watching my husband's face. It was like taking a kid to Disneyland, telling them that Christmas comes 365 days per year, telling them that dessert always comes before dinner, and that they don't have to brush their teeth afterwards. I'm guessing the only other thing that will make his face look like that is if I ever cave and let him put a Ferrari in the driveway . . .
And next time, I'm thinking I'm going to charge the guy across the room for every dance CK or I get. He got more out of those than any dance he paid for himself . . .
So who's buying my first dance in December?
. . . No, I don’t even know your name
It doesn’t matter
Your my experimental game
Just human nature
It’s not what, good girls do
Not how they should behave . . .
Respectfully (sort of) submitted,
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
I would take suggestions from the readership . . .
- Details of how I left Vegas with more poker bankroll than I came with?
- How weird but fun playing at an all blogger table can be?
- How MrsChako gets hit on?
- Details of the fabulous Qua spa?
- How the weekend was a fantastic couples getaway for me and the Dr.?
- What CK's hair feels like as it falls over your face during an AWESOME massage?
- Other hot girl-on-girl action?
Right now I gotta finish a technical memo for work. But if you all want to work out some voting system, I might honor it in future posts.
Or maybe not.
Although I figure if I use the phrase "girl-on-girl" action enough, it will probably drive up my traffic stats.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
DrChako and I are sitting in McCarran airport trying to amuse ourselves while we wait for US Airways to find our plane.
I'm post Vegas . . . which means I'm tired and dehydrated. However, I'm post spa, too, today, so I could care less. More to come later.
The brief recap . . .
- We did at least one of everything you should do in Vegas (eat, drink, gamble, see a show, get hit on, see a little nudity, kiss someone who is not your spouse, accept an indecent proposal (from your spouse. . . ), spa, lay out by the pool . . . )
- We saw friends we expected to see
- We met people we only knew OF, but would be pleased to call them friends
- We saw friends we didn't expect to see
- We won a little money, we lost a little money
- We are coming home content with our little break
The blogger games Friday night were great . . . the entertainment afterwards amusing . . . the time alone with my husband was one of our best weekends together.
Can't touch that.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
As if that was not gift enough. I got this card . . .
Inside was the inscription "Takes one to know one."
Complete with a gift certificate to DSW. (Cue heavenly choir of angels)
For those of you uninitiated, DSW is MrsChako code for "Shoe Heaven".
Thank you Nana Judy!!!!!!
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Regardless, I know I am not drunk. And I know I am not a child. Ergo, I must be a fool.
I'm a smart woman. Valedictorian in high school. Two college degrees. Graduated summa cum laude. Invited to join MENSA.
Today, I almost made a $50,000 mistake. I say almost. I made the mistake. I just didn't suffer the $50,000 consequences. It was a true blond moment. And I'm a natural brunette. I can prove it.
I had a last minute change in schedule. I was rushing this morning. Traffic was bad. I had to fill in at a meeting for someone. I pulled into the parking spot with only one minute to spare. At that moment, my husband called. I was talking with him, gathering my things, paying for parking, and watching the clock tick away. I rushed to the meeting, breathless. Sat through an hour presentation. Shook hands, chatted with the client, and left to get into my car and head into the office.
As I approached my car, I thought "That's odd - the headlights are on. I was sure they were set to 'auto'." Then, as I walked up and touched the door handle, it opened with ease. "Hmmm," I thought. "I left it unlocked." As I swung open the door and slipped into the seat, I realized the car was warm and the radio was on.
At this point, I think I threw up in my mouth, a little. I realized I had left my brand new Lexus unlocked and running for AN HOUR on a downtown street.
Change in routine. Keyless ignition. Quietest engine in the world. I know - a hundred reasons why it happened. But these things just don't happen to me.
It's safe in the parking garage now. Locked. Double-checked. Ignition off. And I'm only out the $10 in gas it wasted idling. Oh, and I might have just screwed my great-grandchildren out of some precious resources by the additional hole I chopped in the ozone with the unnecessary emissions and all . . .
I know it's only a piece of property. I'm just glad someone or something protected me from my own stupidity and carelessness - I owe karma one today.
On a side note, I had an interesting anonymous comment on an old post from February.
"I think friday would be the perfect date. I think it would be fun for us. Better to practice more."
Hmmm. Maybe I arranged a hook up for the trip to Vegas this weekend and forgot. Told my anonymous lover to confirm with me by leaving me a cryptic anonymous comment on an old blog where my husband couldn't find it. I'm pysched. Don't know who or what I'm psyched for, but I'm psyched. I'm sure I can find a NL table to keep DrChako occupied.
Just hope it doesn't cut into my Rhino time. Unless anonymous is buying my drinks and dances.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Painfully, I kept my wits about me. Played my game. Slowly made my way back. A second place finish and a first place finish (hard fought, as it were) restored my play money bankroll and more. Vegas, here I come.
Tonight, however, I have to finish a technical memo for work.
I don't suck. Work does.
Monday, June 2, 2008
The birds . . .
And the bees . . .