Besides “married to the right person…….”

Went to Terrible’s on Flamingo last night to watch The Thunder almost get me to heart-attack status again, but this time, was surrounded by smokers and came home smelling like a luau pit. But that’s OK. Made some “friends,” talked some trash, got to yell at the top of my lungs, and enjoyed turning around and saying, “It’s getting pretty quiet over there.” Hell. These guys don’t care who wins, they just care if they won their bets.

I was lucky and got the end seat in front of the two TV’s that were at eye level, and they were right beside two ATM machines. All night long, my eyes were diverted because I realized the ATM machines were getting more action with the slots. Some people got lucky. Evidently it was the only machine that popped money in their direction that night. Others, not so much. I watched one woman go through her first, second, and third  cards and I could see just enough of the screen to see the words “available balance.”  One by one, she pushed “cancel” and put the next one in. After the third, she walked away. It happened over and over and over again.  Let me get this right.  “I’ve been losing all night, so let’s go get more money and keep the lights turned on in Vegas.”

Maybe it would be a better option to go have a $9.99 steak, maybe go to the bar and have a drink, or head back to the room to watch TV. The slots do not love you tonight. They probably never will. It’s slots that keep even more casinos being built in an already over-populated-with-glitzy-casinos-town.

I miss the days (I know – freaking old) when Vegas meant glamour. Everyone dressed up to go to the less than ten casinos, real stars were at all of them, and they’d travel the tunnels underneath the casinos to pop in and perform with friends in other houses. Then the glitz started — with Circus Circus, of course, and everything went straight downhill after that.  Bye Bye Stardust, Sahara, Flamingo, Desert Inn. Did you know the original casinos weren’t even in Las Vegas? They were outside the city limits. The “Welcome to Las Vegas” sign was about 4 miles outside of town. Now, Vegas is on its way to merging with Los Angeles.

Anyway, the whole demographic has changed. BackInTheDay, women played the slots, and men played poker and blackjack. And everyone played craps when they got drunk, because like fishing, you can’t be too drunk to play craps. Now, it seems there are at least as many stupid men as stupid women. They ain’t called “one-arm-bandits” for nothing — but you don’t even have to pull the arm anymore. That would take effort. Now, you can push buttons all night — until the one on the ATM tells you to go home.

I’m a risk-taker in just about every area of my life, but I’ve never understood gambling. I used to date a guy who would take me to Vegas four times a year, hand me money to gamble, hand me more when I ran out, and split the winnings with me when we left. We only played blackjack and gai pow poker, and that was fun, because whether I won or lost I went home with money.

Then I went on a cruise and played blackjack with my own money, and found it wasn’t nearly as much fun.  Abbi and her friend, Dayna had better luck. They were young, absolutely adorably gorgeous, effervescent, and knew how to flirt. The dealer walked them through every play. I wasn’t young or cute any more, and evidently I wasn’t effervescent enough, because I was on my own. I didn’t stay long. I left to buy a gold charm for my bracelet. At least I’d have something to show for my investment.

The people who win are the professionals. The top 10% of any sport are the pro’s. They know it takes time, patience, continued education, and money for them to win. But they play poker. Pro blackjack players don’t last long in casinos because they’re asked to leave under the (correct) assumption that they’re counting cards. The rest of us schmucks? We’re lucky to leave Vegas with the airline ticket we came in with. I’d rather bet on jewelry. Or good purses. At least those can be sold for gold weight or on e-bay.


But there are so many other things I don’t understand.

Like how some people can wear clothes in public that make them look — well — not good. I can almost visualize them in a department store putting on outfit after outfit after outfit and buying the one they’re wearing because, after looking in a three-way mirror, they honestly believed that was the one that looked the best on them.

And I don’t get the people who go to Walmart and bitch because they’re standing in line. They’re always going to stand in line at Walmart. That’s why God put the McDonald’s close to the exit — so you can send someone to buy you a burger and fries and not starve while you’re waiting to get to a checker — who puts up a “line closed” sign right before they get to you.

Target isn’t a whole lot better, but they have popcorn. I’d rather have popcorn anyday. Sadly, their popcorn and coke special has gone up dramatically. At started at about 99 cents and is now at $2.00. It’s still a bargain. Popcorn (and tacos) may be nature’s perfect foods.

Here’s another one. I don’t understand why men my age — and older — want to date 20 year olds. Yes, I understand that they have those firm butts and perky boobs, but what do they have to talk about? What music can they share? I understand some of my high school classmates are guilty of having “married the young.”  They seemed so smart BackInTheDay.  And the only reason I can see “the young” dating/marrying someone my age is (surprise) for their money. I guess they figure if they (fill in the blank) enough, they’ll kill the geezer off and get all his property/cars/loot. But what if he’s healthy. What if the blue pills work? That young thing may be in for a very long investment in time. I mean, really. Why not rebuild the one you’ve got. Just look at Ann Romney. There’s not an inch of that woman that has moved in years. (OK, slam me, but you know it’s true. She could go through a full-blown Oklahoma tornado and not one hair would move. And that is so NOT a political statement.)

And why do we think we need to get rebuilt anyway? I’m 65. I’m proud of it. I’ve earned it. No, my body isn’t perfect anymore. But my heart, my soul, and my spirit are stronger (and perkier) than they were when I was 20. And I know football and basketball. And cook. And after living with about 65 college girls every year for the lasts 6 years. I can put up with just about anything. I didn’t even like Me at 20. But at 65? I’m a hell-of-a-broad, and loving every strange and unpredictible minute of it.

And what about the guys. How can a man who is hanging over his speedo to the point it’s invisible say out loud, “You know, if you’d loose 10 pounds, you’d be hot.”

I dated a guy back in Oklahoma who was 6’9, had a bald, rippling (kind of like a roller coaster) head with that little halo around the bald spot, wore glasses so thick they looked like Coke bottle bottoms, had pasty white skin, wore zinc acid (that white stuff) on his nose when he went in the sun, had feet that were way too big (the rumor is SO not true), and a flabby body. He stood buck naked in front of his bedroom mirror and actually said out loud, “You know, if I had to change anything about myself, I’d add hair.” I wanted to say, “You’re kidding me, right?”  Dan was a photographer who specialized in boudoir photography. After we stopped dating (he was a lousy bridge partner), everytime he’d tell me he was dating someone new (usually someone he’d met in one of those boudoir shoots) , I’d ask, “Is she in therapy?” He’d just growl.  The last time I saw him he was with a woman almost his height and almost as homely. Guess he ran out of girls with new boob jobs who would go out with him.

And I don’t understand why nobody has adopted Kenny G. I’m going back to PetSmart today and pray he’s not there. He deserves so much better. If any of you guys know anyone in or near Vegas, he’s at the shop on Decater. Have them call me. I’ll give them directions.

So, until tomorrow, I’m off to run errands and go see Kenny. Be careful out there.