So I kept promising a Vegas recap. Alas, life, gets in the way. Life, and migraines. So since I'm bedridden with the last vestiges of one, I thought I would try to catch up the Vegas recap . . . so I could move onward with the rest of life.
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 . . .