I love to gamble. I love to drink wine. I love food (especially food I didn’t cook).

I booked a trip to Vegas, partly because I wanted to enjoy the loves of my life. But mostly because of these people.

Me, Mike, Suz
at Cut in Las Vegas

We ate at the most amazing restaurant, Cut. It was one of the best dining experiences I’ve ever had. I’ve been there one other time (in 2008) and said the same thing. Un-fucking-believable!

Pairing is an art. When you get the perfect pair, life is grand. I learned this on my recent trip to Vegas.

For instance, when gambling I love to see 8’s paired up (when the dealer shows a 7 or higher). I love to split them…like a hooker. This term is explained in my recent post Like a Hooker. I won money on this trip. Paired up 8’s helped, but discovering the term “like a hooker” made it a complete success.

Another example of pairs is when finding wine. I love to have it perfectly paired with my meal. Cut’s Sommelier had to help us select a wine. Fuck, the list was huge. And our choices started at well over $200 per bottle. Many bottles cost over $1000. I can’t deal with that. My taste is so much less discriminating. Plus I had been drinking cocktails for several hours prior to dinner. Anyhow, I still can appreciate a lovely wine paired with my meal.

This pairing up idea even works with food. I love to eat food that pairs the perfect flavors together to cause a party in my mouth. Cut did this. The food was flawless.

But the best pair of all…Suz and Mike. They are married. They met in law school.

Suz picked the perfect husband, Mike. And by perfect, I mean perfect for her. He’s far too hung for me. (I kid, I have no idea.) They are the healthiest married couple I know. And by healthiest, I mean in the married sense. Sure they eat healthy, but that’s not what I mean. I admire them.

Suz has been my dearest friend who I’ve known for 20 years. We met in college right before our freshman year. Obviously we stayed friends long after college.

Cheers to Suz and Mike, the perfect pair! I love you guys. xo

And what post talking about pairs couldn’t mention boobs. Yep, they are also the perfect pair. Trust me on this one.

Wino Wednesday…this weekly feature is designed to share my wine alcohol related stories.

Take this one: Your many hidden talents will become obvious to those around you.

Now spice it up: Your many hidden talents will become obvious to those around you in bed.

Spiced up version is much funnier and sexier. Right?

While in Vegas this weekend, I came up with my own additional phrase which can be added to almost any sentence. This is better because, let’s face it, nobody eats fortune cookies everyday.

My new phrase: like a hooker.

It all started at the blackjack table. I had a pair of 8’s. That’s when I threw down another $50 and told the dealer,

“Yes! Let’s split those…like a hooker.”

In an effort to cheer on my table mates I’d add the phrase to common table side banter.

“You’ve got to hit that…like a hooker.”

“You’ve got to go down on that…like a hooker.”

Pretty soon everyone at the table was using the term “like a hooker”.

Well the fun didn’t end there.  Nope. Of course it didn’t. Not when vodka sodas were flowing and keeping me hydrated.

After hours of gambling and winning and drinking and even playing a little pool (which by the way my stellar pool skills paid off since I won at that too), the hooker theme continued. [Inserting a short hooker story now.]

We were riding the elevator. (<~ Oh, opportunity to add…like a hooker to that sentence. See how easy it is.) It was a crowded elevator. Very crowded. There was a woman on it who was wearing the world’s shortest leopard dress with obnoxious red fuck me stripper pumps and was clearly heading up to her mobile office a hotel room  to pay a visit to a man who was paying her to be there.

The elevator was dead quiet. All of us, except the slutty one, were in pairs. Nobody was saying a word. I leaned up into my friend’s ear and in my quietest drunk whisper I said, “I think she’s a hooker.” Smirks filled the elevator. I thought I said it quiet and because I was quite tipsy I didn’t notice the smirks. I only heard about them later. The response with a huge laugh was, “I think you’re right.”

Please note that you can use the term “like a hooker” for nearly anything. I have been. For example, I pounded my Zinfandel…like a hooker. And I licked my homemade coconut ice cream…like a hooker. I really did those things. I also really said those things.

So here’s to not taking life so seriously and enjoying the ride…like a hooker!

=

I just did. And it feels fabulous.

I was given the opportunity to fly to Las Vegas this weekend. Hotel is already covered, I just have to get my butt down there.

I sat on the fence for 45 minutes doing the normal second guessing game. “No, I really shouldn’t.” “I don’t really have the extra money with Christmas around the corner.” “I really should stay at home and do chores that I’ve been putting off.” “No, it’s too last minute.”

“Stop that!”, said my crazy side.

So I booked the trip.

And here’s how I justified it. Who wants to die having passed up fun times with few hundred or thousand dollars in their pocket? Not me. I’d rather die breaking even and having a blast up until then.

Of course, this is under the assumption that I have Elle (my 10 year old daughter) financially covered in the event of my premature passing. And I do. So there, I am responsible!

I’ll share my adventures with you upon my return. xo

When I’m in Vegas I often say, “You aren’t allowed to use the terms woulda, coulda, shoulda because they are all filled with regret.”

I must say…I love Vegas. I love to gamble. I love free drinks. I love time at the pool. I love people watching. But that’s it. Therefore it is not a destination that is great to go, say when I’m married. Or at least it wasn’t back when I was married. We (husband and I, before we were exes) went once. It was a disaster.

So here’s the story. I gambled all day. Husband was attending a chef show thingy all day. Again, I was gambling all day and they serve a damn fine house wine at the Bellagio. Trust me on this one. It’s lovely.

I sat in the same exact chair all day long. I sat there through a zillion shift changes. I was doing okay gambling. Not winning big. Not losing either. Just staying even.

Hours later husband came back from conference thingy. He reminded me of our dinner reservations. He planned our entire trip around this dinner. It was a like a 15 course meal and every critic raved about every fucking course. My response to the husband, “I’m doing really well. It’ll only take me a few minutes to freshen up so I’ll meet you at the restaurant at our reservation time.” (<~ big mistake) Anyhow he went up to the room to get ready.

Time passed and I finally peeled myself away from gambling, ran up to the room to change and then raced to the restaurant. Probably forgetting panties…mostly because I was rushed and also I needed a diversion tactic for husband. These tactics don’t always work. Anyhow I got there before out table was ready. He was in the bar. I joined him, for yet ANOTHER drink. (Remember I was drinking chardonnay all day long). This time I indulged with a martini.

Finally we are seated. We get through a few courses and I realize something very important. I’m tired. Exhausted really. So I tip my head and take a cute little nap. Really though, I was sitting up the whole time. I just closed my eyes. But I also missed a few courses.

Finally I opened my eyes. I yawned and stretched. And I quickly realized husband wasn’t thrilled with dining alone. Or with me. I was in trouble. Big trouble.

We came back to the hotel room after dinner. Husband got into bed. I was no longer tired. Naps at dinner help.

As I glanced over at husband in bed I also noticed the clock. It said….11:11. It was a sign. So I bolted. Said I had to go gamble. Figured I was already “in trouble”. He was ready for bed. And I left the room.

In the casino I felt free. All alone I had a blast. And I won. BIG. HUGE. On the blackjack table.

The rest of the weekend was silent. I didn’t care. I gave him money for my portion of the fancy dinner. Hell it was only a fraction of my winnings.

Turns out…husband was pissed. Really pissed. So much so, it came up in counseling months later. And now we’re divorced. Not because of the Vegas disaster. But that trip didn’t help.

However what I did learn was that 11:11 is my good luck time. And that I should never marry a man who doesn’t gamble.

Wino Wednesday…this weekly feature is designed to share my wine alcohol related stories.