Thanks for the compliment

(MASTER BEDROOM) -- At four years old, The Middle Child is still prone to rising early, far before anyone else in the house, and moseying in to the master bedroom seeking to squeeze in next to mom and dad, not to carry on with the previous night’s sleep, but mostly to carry on a conversation, or watch TV, or play with an iGadget of some sort, or just to generally do whatever it takes to keep Mrs. Family Man Muser and I from sleeping.

Last Sunday morning was the same, with our little pint-sized princess prancing in just after six in the morning. She was her usual chatty self until I put a stop to it and let her know that on this morning, if she were to stay in bed with mom and dad she would have to close her eyes and go to sleep.

For a minute or two, she did, until it became obvious that while her eyes were indeed closed, she was fake-sleeping her way into an extended stay in bed with us.

It was cute, made even cuter by what came next.

First, she reached out to stroke my cheek, the soft tips of her itty-bitty toddler fingers rubbing up against the hard grain of my three-day-old scruff.

Then she crawled in close, snuggled up tightly against me with both arms wrapped around my neck, gave me a big, sloppy, wet kiss on the cheek, and said daddy, I love you.

Very cute.

Then she ran her same itty-bitty toddler fingers through my hair, back-and-forth, to-and-fro, a casual but concentrated effort to soothe me at the scalp as I tend to do when the roles are reversed.

Then she leaned in, drew in a deep breath from her nose as if she was leaning to smell the roses, and said daddy, your hair smells like puke.

Thanks for the compliment kid.

Signed,

The Family Man Muser

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Trickery and tomfoolery

(DRIVEWAY) From the moment we added a second and third child to the family, the oldest of our three almost immediately ‘grew up’. Having much smaller, more demanding children behind her in the family line can do that.

But The Eldest is also far easier to manage than the other two, and has been since the other two showed up four and three years ago, respectively. Perhaps it is a function of her personality, perhaps the result of her age. Most likely a combination of the two.

At six years old, The Eldest is still but a little bean sprout, but also capable of surprising us with what she knows.

Like last weekend when she explained to her little sister that spiders are not insects because they eat insects and have neither antennae nor six legs.  

She looked to mom and dad for back-up. Mom and dad had to go to Google.

Google told us The Eldest was right, also that we should have paid closer attention in Biology 101.

In any case, the child is whip smart, and clever too, in ways that make her so alarmingly like her old man that her old man is legitimately concerned.

Let us first detour through the archives of my life to the year 1984 or so, when The Family Man Muser is himself but a little bean sprout of roughly six years old.

I am sitting at the kitchen table, fussing over a bowl of vegetable soup according to my customary dinnertime routine when the meal put in front of me consisted of anything put a peanut butter sandwich.

The soup had been in front of me long enough to go from piping hot to cold potage. Soggy crackers had turned it to mush. I was disinterested, disgusted and disinclined to carry on with what seemed like a gargantuan task at the time, namely, to slurp that soup down stat.

It is entirely possible that dinner had been served at five o’clock. By now it had to be after six, with only my pleading father left at the table with me. But so frustrated did he grow at my ingestive ineptitude that he, too, eventually vacated the dining room, probably to keep from committing a crime against his own offspring, but not before specifying that I was not to leave the table until the last spoonful of soggy soup went down.

So there I was, sitting alone at six years old or so, expected to put back a bowlful of barf-inducing, disintegrating vegetables and cold broth, when the natural solution came to mind.

Just ditch the meal, do away with the evidence and never be found out.

In retrospect, I often wonder why I did not just dump the soup down the sink, rinse the bowl and put it away. It seems like the logical approach now.

Instead, I took my mush to the pantry, pushed it to the back of the highest shelf I could reach, and proceeded to build a fort of canned peas and corn around it. As if that was not enough, I carried the ruse further by yelling to the basement to let my father know that I had polished off my soup and had even done my dishes.

He was impressed, until about two weeks later when he reached for a can of corn and came upon what I can only imagine was a bowlful of fuzzy mush by then.

Thankfully, I escaped without much punishment, I think because my creativity earned me some sympathy with the jury.

Fast-forward to 2012, with me as the father to a sly and slightly sneaky six-year-old.

Mrs. Family Man always puts yogurt in the girls’ lunches, and on a few recent occasions, The Eldest’s yogurt has come home from school with her.

Unopened. Uneaten.

After watching this happen a few days in a row, we made it clear to The Eldest that she was to eat her yogurt or risk an à propos punishment.

So she did, and every day for the past little while, her first words to me when picking her up from school have been dad, I ate my yogurt today.

Fantastic. High-fives for everyone.

But wait a minute.

Last weekend, as I cleaned out the family car, I made a discovery.

In the backseat, next to where The Eldest sits alone, is a small storage compartment. And as I looked over at that small storage compartment I could see that its tiny little door could not completely close.

Flipping it open, I came across not one, not two, but three little drinkable yogurt containers, all full, all surreptitiously snuck away in the car’s hidden backseat crevasse.

It was vegetable soup in the pantry all over again! And really, I could not help but laugh about it.

As I brought my find to Mrs. Family Man’s attention, I remarked that I probably should look under the seat too, wondering what else could be festering in there.

Sure enough, as I dipped my head below my darling daughter’s backseat spot, I found another of the “dad, I ate my yogurt” yogurts, another one sneakily snatched from the lunchbox during the five-minute drive to or from school, and left to go bad in the far backseat.

Here I understood my own father’s predicament in punishment when he discovered my soup-and-bowl shenanigans from roughly 28 years ago.

We attempted to scold, but that became impossible against our stifled laughter. It was one we could let slide, if only because I have walked that path before, and appreciated the clemency I received.

Signed,

The Family Man Muser

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Everything lost is found again, Part V

Click here for Part One, Part Two, Part Three and Part Four.
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Three hours later I was up again, sharing my stories with Mrs. Family Man. Considering where I began, where I maxed out and where I finished, she didn’t hold my drunken, gambling absence against me.

She really had to no reason to anyway; our combined wins bought us a couple of extra hands before we were to leave for the airport.

In every previous trip to Vegas, we have lost on Departure Day. It never fails. Up or down, the last day has always been a loser for us. Why we thought this one would be different is beyond me.

Without dragging it out, let’s just say we gave a small fraction of our winnings back. But it was a very, very small fraction, an amount we were prepared to leave behind anyway.

What Las Vegas giveth, Las Vegas taketh away.

But Vegas had been generous enough by then that we didn’t hold it against her.

This trip goes down as one of our best; coming home on the plus side probably has plenty to do with it.

For that I am forever indebted to Mrs. Family Man Muser.

She introduced me to Las Vegas in the first place, made me sit at that table at Binion’s after a first full day of losses, but most importantly of all, she accepted that for most of our Vegas vacation I wore the same white shirt over and over and over again.

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EPILOGUE: In my limited experience, I have found gambling trips and golf games to be similar in many ways.

In golf, it is often the one good shot, the one birdied hole, that keeps the weekend hacker coming back for more. On rare occasions when the stars align just right, the bad holes are minimal and the good ones frequent. Those are the rounds we most remember, the rounds we want to talk about, the rounds that bring the average golfer back to the game week after week, in pursuit of the most elusive of golf course commodities: consistency.

A good gambling trip is like that.

Losing bites the big one, but the lure of walking away a winner, with another purple chip, or a pile of greens where once four red ones were, or at worst, some fantastic stories to tell—and to do it all with at least some frequency—is enough to make us want to keep taking chances, and to keep coming back.

The analogy is a good one, particularly fitting in our case considering how our trip ended.

We left Las Vegas on the Saturday, but on the Friday morning Mrs. Family Man joined her father at the Flamingo Sports Book to place a few bets. Some for them. Some for others. Most on hockey. Some on golf.

On Sunday, back at home, we sat together in a semi-melancholic state, reminiscing about the special moments we had shared in the previous few days in Las Vegas. It is always that way for me; it usually takes at least a week to break out of the post-Vegas funk I am always in when we get home.

In any case, in our post-vacation lull we tuned in to The Masters Golf Tournament to see if Mrs. Family Man’s guy might win. The leaderboard fluctuated, up and down her guy went, when finally Bubba Watson—on whom Mrs. Family Man had bet $10 to win—sealed the deal on the second playoff hole.

In the grand scheme, it was a small win—$100—but a significant win nonetheless.

A day earlier, our losses before leaving for the airport, the very small fraction of our winnings that we had left behind: $100.

Everything lost was found again.

- The End -

POSTSCRIPT TO THE EPILOGUE: Nearly two months have passed since the Mrs. and I dashed to the desert for what turned out to be one of our most memorable trips to Las Vegas yet.

Since putting the last period on my original Trip Report and posting it here, I have secretly hoped that a return addition would be required, based on the lost and found theme I followed as I recounted the ups-and-downs and all-round shenanigans that made this trip as good as it was.

Now I am back, and this is why.

On our first full, post-Vegas day back home, the Masters Sunday when the Mrs. cashed in on her Bubba Watson bet, I spent the early morning carefully looking over the Pro Sports Futures betting sheet I brought home with me from The Flamingo, seeking to choose right on a few Stanley Cup Playoff dollars I was going to wager via the in-laws who, much to our jealous chagrin, were still living it up in Las Vegas while we were re-integrating into normal society, normal life, back at home.

A few texts later, all bets were placed, and a few days later when the in-laws stopped in to pay up on the Watson ticket they cashed in for us, they also passed along the tickets for my Stanley Cup predictions.

Round One went exceedingly well, with all four of my choices moving on. That meant I had money riding on four of the final eight teams still vying for Lord Stanley’s fabled mug—a 50 percent chance of cashing in.

Round Two caused the first casualty early on, with the Nashville Predators done in quickly by a pesky team from Phoenix. In the East, my long-shot 30-1 bet on the Washington Capitals looked good for awhile, but they too were ultimately eliminated; unlike Nashville, it took seven hard-fought games that went down to the wire.

That left me with two improbable 20-1 teams playing in the NHL’s Conference Finals, one in the East, one in the West.

In the Western Conference, my dark-horse Los Angeles Kings made quick work of the Coyotes, guaranteeing that at worst, I would have a team to cheer for in the Finals.

In the East, it was a back-and-forth, see-saw battle between the New York Rangers and New Jersey Devils, a series that took seven games and overtime to decide. If my team won, it meant I would have bets on both Stanley Cup finalists, ensuring a $210 return on one of my $10 bets.

Thankfully, the winning goal came only minutes into the fourth period; the last thing I wanted was to be sitting on the edge of my seat for an endless triple-overtime game that would carry on well into the late-night, early-morning hours.

And so it was that when Adam Henrique of the New Jersey Devils tapped the puck home off a mad scramble in the Rangers crease only 70 seconds into the extra frame, my left arm instinctively cut through the air, ironically much like the Statue of Liberty so emblematic of New York, signifying to nobody else but me that, much like Mrs. Chubbs’ Bubba Watson bet of two months prior, my Stanley Cup prognostications had proven fruitful.

Everything lost, found again.

Again.

- THE REAL END -

Everything lost is found again, Part IV

Click here for Part One, Part Two and Part Three.
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Our last full day began with two peppy travelers thrilled beyond belief to have much more bankroll remaining by this point in the trip than ever expected. It meant we could take some chances. Push the envelope. Not worry that we wouldn’t even have enough to hail a cab to the airport the next morning.

Las Vegas was probably built on the backs of people like us. Instead of just pocketing the winnings and stopping there, we wanted more.

But as any seasoned gambler will tell you, what Las Vegas giveth, Las Vegas taketh away.

And sure enough, she did.

After another fine breakfast, this time at Margaritaville, we meandered back over to Casino Royale for more $1 Michelobs and Margaritas, and to try our luck again.

None was forthcoming at the table, but the slot players among us walked away up at least $120.

From there, we set our sights on The Venetian.

Here let me say that I have never been a fan of The Venetian’s. Every dollar I have ever put down here has been lost in a snap. Of course, that meant I had to try again.

I lost $100, and just like every other time I have gambled at The Venetian, my loss came quick. Too quick. So quick that when I was down to $30 I decided to try my hand at Casino War to change my luck.

Highest card wins, between me and the dealer.

I lost.

And lost.

Then lost again.

It was that way for everyone. At least now I know that my $100 is the last I will ever lose in there. The Venetian is too big. Too corporate. It has neither cachet nor character, at least not to Mrs. Family Man and me.

So we decided that a return to Binion’s was in order.

We walked up the strip, past The Palazzo, The Wynn and The Encore. We dodged the street vendors—some trying to get us into the clubs that night, others wanting to sell us some cheap sunglasses and spray paint art.

We approached The Riviera and, having never entered before, decided to give it a shot, but not before rubbing some dancing girl behinds for good luck.

So much for that. Another $100 gone in an instant. Not much different for the Mrs.

Outright hated The Riviera. From the rude dealers, to the dingy interior, everything about this place rubbed us the wrong way.

We gave up on The Riviera before she even had a chance to convince us to stay, and before long were finally back on Fremont Street, sitting in the Golden Gate for the very first time.

I liked it there.

Until I lost.

And lost.

And lost.

That’s it, I told the Mrs. I’m going to Binion’s. She followed, as did the others.

At the Party Pit, I lost again, while Mrs. Chubbs and her folks at least were up and down.

I was about to pack it in when near the back of the casino I spotted a $5 table that paid 3:2.

I sat there for a solid few hours and turned my last $50 into $250. Good thing too, because by then Mrs. Family Man was broke and my $250 was the last $250 I had on me.

At that point, all in our group were certifiably drunk and in desperate need of food.

Over to Grotto we went, for a final Golden Nugget dinner for the foreseeable future. The pizza here is to my liking so I had my second serving in three days. A perfect way to end our downtown evening, but not before we caught Don McLean’s American Pie one last time.

“Drove my Chevy to the levy but the levy was dry…”

Beautiful, but not enough to tie us to Fremont on this night, so back to the Flamingo we flew, quite literally too, with a lead-footed cab driver scaring the bejeezus out of us on the way.

At home base, I briefly went up to the room. This is how the mind of a degenerate gambler works: every night that I won, I wore the same long-sleeved white shirt under my t-shirt, and sandals, not shoes.

I concluded that my clothing had contributed to my losses, so naturally I had to change.

Back down in the casino, I cracked open my wallet and gave Mrs. Family Man $100, kept $100 for myself and tucked away the last $50 I was carrying so I wouldn’t use it should push come to shove.

We started at the Party Pit but our hopes faded fast. Both of us were up and down, mostly down. The vibe at the table was all wrong, so up we got, moving to a 3:2 table near the cage.

Quickly, I was down to my last $40 so pulled my chips and decided just to hang with the Mrs. for awhile.

What happened next was beautiful.

Everything I experienced the night before, Mrs. Family Man was experiencing now.

Her red chip bets were paying out in greens, and oh boy were those greens piling fast. Up, up and away they went. At one point, the dealer even stopped paying out in green and went back to red, just to maintain a few more 25’s in her tray.

I was having as much fun watching as I do playing. As the streak continued, our attention was drawn from the table to a slot machine not far away. The mother-in-law was calling for the father-in-law’s attention at his table, but not leaving her seat as the numbers on her penny slot kept climbing, and climbing, and climbing.

Here I was torn. Part of me believed Mrs. Family Man was doing so well because I was there with her.

Could the mojo of my white shirt and sandals be working by osmosis?

But as the numbers on the mother-in-law’s machine kept going, I had to see for myself. I ran over as quickly as I could, peaked down, looked up at the mother-in-law who by now was grinning sideways, gave her a high-five for the $985 win, ran back to sit with Mrs. Family Man, but not before high-fiving the father-in-law at his table on the way.

As I finally regained my seat, I hoped beyond hope that my departure hadn’t caused the wife’s streak to come to a premature conclusion. In my rational mind I know that isn’t possible, but such is the power that Las Vegas lords over the hopeful gambler.

The streak continued awhile longer until finally Mrs. Family Man ran out of reds. At that point, there was no way she was betting greens and losing her gains, so she colored up, asking for and receiving, you guessed it: purple!

If you want to win a purple, win a purple. Maybe it was that easy. 

As we counted Mrs. Family Man’s winnings, it became more than clear that with my $250 win at Binion’s earlier in the evening, we had again mostly reclaimed the day’s defeats, even despite my lacklustre luck by then at the Flamingo.

Everything lost is found again.

I had $40 left and wasn’t about to go quietly into the night.

The father-in-law was still over at his double-deck, $25-a-hand table, and acquitting himself quite well, so I joined him.

With not even enough for two hands, I opted instead to add $5 to each of his bets. My $40 became $45. Then $50. Then $60.

At that point, I really felt like I had nothing to lose so I put down $25 and won.

Sweet. I just bought myself another hand.

Then another and another.

Things were going well.

Mrs. Family Man was tired so she retreated to the room. The mother-in-law was almost right behind her, tuckered no doubt by the strain of that outstanding penny slot win.

It was me and the father-in-law now, with all signs pointing to a night of drunken Vegas gambling not unlike another that may (or may not) have occurred on a previous trip.

Just as the table really started to get hot, the mother-in-law summoned the father-in-law to the room—not for those reasons, but because by the sounds of it some dude one room over was beating the crap out of his lady friend.

Even if that guy won a million dollars in Vegas, he still went home a loser and will be one for the rest of his life.

For obvious reasons, I was left to gamble on my own, so it was just me and my tablemate, a guy the father-in-law presumed to be an arms dealer of some sort, but to me just some dude wearing sweat pants.

We won a few hands and at least an hour passed.

It was about 1 a.m. when Mrs. Family Man texted me.

Her: Text me when you come up, ok?

Me: Ok, all good down here.

More time passed, the wins continued, another text arrived.

Mrs. Family Man: Please come up soon ok? Big day tomorrow.

Radio silence; I was winning.

Mrs. Family Man: Please?

Me: Will be up soon.

Mrs. Family Man: I’m serious... it’s almost two.

Me: All good. Having fun, still playing on fives from earlier.

And it was true. My four red chips from earlier had become a pile of greens. Now those greens were proliferating like gremlins gone swimming after midnight. Or something like that.

I looked down and counted, careful to arrange my greens into neat piles of four.

One pile. Two piles. Three piles. Four.

Another pile for five, and just a little more.

I was up to $575 and change. No way was I leaving the table now.

So we kept playing. I was up, I was down, but I maintained around $575.

A Spanish couple joined the table. Some mediocre drunken Spanish was spoken. "Mi daughter se llama..."

I was still up and down, still maintaining, and by now downing water like it was going out of style, trying to sober up, which meant I was also leaving the table every twenty minutes or so to make room for the next bottle.

At one point in the men’s room, a 20-something fella in a suit stumbled in front of me, caught himself, looked at me, then at himself in the mirror, then at me again. He looked like hell.

“Man,” he said. “That cocaine is a powerful drug. You want some?”

Uh, I’m good, was all I could muster and I left as fast as I could, though I do confess that I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of everything that was going on.

I had been gambling solo for almost three hours.

It was going on three a.m.

My $40 had become $575.

I was just offered coke in the bathroom.

And I was drunk as a skunk.

Vegas baby!

Back at the table, I had to make a decision. On the one hand I didn’t want to lose my gains, but on the other I had rarely played at $25 a hand long enough to really enjoy it as much as I was.

I counted my money again.

One pile. Two piles. Three piles. Four...

I was going for it, but not irresponsibly.

I put $300 aside and vowed I wouldn’t touch it. At worst, with Mrs. Family Man’s winnings we would have $800 between us for the evening. That day’s defeats reclaimed, and then some.

With everything lost having already been found again, I was playing with house money.

I took my remaining $275 and tried to make the best of it, but it just wasn’t happening.

My splits lost, my doubles lost. Everything lost.

And that was that.

But I still had turned four red chips into twelve greens, and had a heck of a time doing it.

It was 3.30 a.m and time to call it a night. I bid my sweat pant-wearing, alleged arms-dealing friend farewell, and stumbled up to the room where I couldn't help but muster a smile as I undressed and crawled into bed.

Over on the floor, piled on top of my dirty jeans and the smelly shoes I left behind earlier that night—the white shirt that made the whole evening possible.

Thus goes the mind of the degenerate gambler.

PART FIVE

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Everything lost is found again, Part III

Click here for Part One and Part Two.

Less than three hours. That’s how long we slept before waking up ready to face the new day. I reasoned that by combining those three hours with the 3.5 we got before the in-laws arrived, we really did get 6.5 hours sleep, more than enough to sustain us until our heads would next hit the pillow.

Off to the casino we went, turning the lobby corner to see a familiar face sitting in a familiar spot at the blackjack table. The father-in-law was already up and running. The mother-in-law too. Somewhere else Mrs. Family Man’s aunt and uncle were mobile as well. The day had just begun.

Time to put some money on the table, so I grabbed a seat with a cheap buy-in and summarily lost $50 before my first Vodka/Red Bull had even arrived. My day would not begin that way, so I cut my losses and ambled over to the father-in-law’s table, just to watch.

After five or six hands, I could watch no longer. My last two green chips, worth $25 each, were burning a hole in my hand so I thought to myself, self, you are in Las Vegas to play, so play.

Before I knew it, my two greens had become a pile of them; by the time everyone else was ready for breakfast, I cashed out $350, more than happy to have once again reclaimed the previous night’s contributions to the Las Vegas economy.

Everything lost is found again.

We hit up Bill’s for more breakfast, then concocted a plan to walk up the strip and visit a few casinos along the way. Now there were six of us, two of whom, my wife’s aunt and uncle, had not been to Vegas in more than a decade.

I have always found that the best days in Las Vegas are the days where you are pulled off the beaten path and end up somewhere, anywhere, having an unforeseen grand time.

One trip saw us sidetrack into the Wynn because, as Mrs. Family Man said at the time, she wanted to “win at the Wynn.” And we did.

So as we ambled up the strip, we knew not where the day would take us. All I knew was that my first stop would be Casino Royale, not to play, but for the $1 Michelobs and Margaritas. I am a sucker for cheap beer in dumpy casinos, and as far as dumpy casinos go, the Casino Royale can hang with the best of them.

As we waited in line, obviously not the only bargain beer hunters in Las Vegas that day, Mrs. Family Man’s aunt slipped a few dollars into a slot machine and seemed to be doing well. The mother-in-law followed suit, and both were enjoying themselves tremendously.

By all indications Casino Royale would be our first gambling stop of the day. We played single deck $5 blackjack for what seemed like forever. The father-in-law and I each bought in for $20 with a plan to split the winnings, while over on third base Mrs. Family Man bought in for $40.

Hours passed. Hours.

In Casino Royale, of all places.

By the time we wrapped up, the father-in-law and I had won a whopping $30 between us, but the Mrs. was up $100. No jackpots by any means, but wins are wins. It was also closer to dinnertime than lunch, which we hadn’t even had yet.

So can go the day with nary a plan to guide the way.

The only fixed destination we knew of was P.F. Chang’s for the father-in-law’s birthday dinner, so off we went, trotting down Las Vegas Boulevard to Planet Hollywood.

As always, dinner at P.F. Chang’s was outstanding. From there, we decided to stick to home base for the evening. While all were incredibly impressed by the previous night’s atypical endurance, the early morning bedtime was starting to catch up, so there would be no adventures beyond the Flamingo’s pink neon lights and flashy felt blackjack tables that night.

With $100 in hand, I jumped from one spot to another, up and down, losing here and there, until finally I took my last $70 to a $15 table that paid out 3:2.

Some blackjack moments you remember because of the company you keep. Even a good table can temper bad loses.

Other times, the dealer makes the difference.

But most often, winning is what truly makes a blackjack session memorable.

It was Binion’s all over again, but this time with higher starting bets. Up and down I went, adding to my piles of reds when suddenly the payouts turned to $25 green chips.

The pile grew.

One green. Two. Three. Five. Eight. Twelve. Sixteen.

Woah.

Everything lost was found again. And then some.

Earlier in the day, Mrs. Family Man and I had started joking that “if you want to win a purple chip, win a purple a chip,” as if it were that simple to turn small bets into $500.

As I colored up to leave the table, I had a vague idea of how much was in front of me but wasn’t completely sure. As The Gambler would sing: “You never count your money, when you’re sitting at the table, there’ll be time enough for counting, when the dealing’s done.”

“Do you want those in black or purple?” the dealer asked, as if there was any question.

“Purple!!!”

My first purple! A moment to savour, so I took a picture of my chip then cashed it almost immediately.

No way was I risking losing that one.

By then we were tuckered. Just beat. But satisfied too. Nothing quite caps a hard Las Vegas day like winning big.

PART FOUR

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Everything lost is found again, Part II

Click here for Part One.
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We went to bed sometime around midnight, and by four my internal clock was telling me it was seven, in every way possible for a regular dude. There was that, and also the rush of the previous night’s sweet run that just wouldn’t leave my mind. I kept replaying it over and over, how we turned $60 into $550, and just wanted to get out there for more. It took the better part of two hours to steal another half-hour of sleep.

When I finally re-opened my eyes near 6.30 and saw that my lovely Mrs. was still fast asleep beside me, I could do nothing else but nudge her, accidentally on purpose, so we could get this day going.

While she woke up, I fired off a quick email to her parents from my work email address, wishing them safe travels on their way to Vegas that night. We were there to surprise them, so an email from my work address would throw them off if they had even the smallest of suspicions, which we later found out they didn’t.

Don’t forget to stop by and take out our garbage was the main message we got in reply. Yeah, ok, uh huh. Sorry, but your garbage is staying in the garage this week!

After getting ready, we made our regular morning stop at the Carson Street Café for a reprise of the previous morning’s breakfast, but with an added Red Bull for this non-coffee drinker.

Someone’s eyes were bloodshot!

With time to kill before our 11 a.m. check-out, we returned to the scene of the crime to see if Binion’s might still have a few dollars left over for us. No such luck. We hung in there for a bit, but a repeat was not in the cards, so we decided to pack it in, save the gambling budget for later, and head for the Flamingo where we would be spending the next three nights.

After a 30-something dollar cab ride, we were standing in line at the Flamingo, hoping our room would be ready. Here is my only qualm with the Flamingo. No matter the time of day, the check-in line is impossibly long, and impossibly slow. We waited, and waited, and waited, to finally be told that our room was not yet ready but to keep checking throughout the afternoon.

How could we possibly occupy our time, I wondered facetiously. If you can’t find yourself a game-plan in Vegas, Vegas isn’t for you.

With the Mrs. off to the spa for a massage, I had some time to kill, so I moseyed on back over to Bill’s to play some $5 blackjack. Not wanting to blow our gains by any means, I opted for a table that would let me play at least 20 hands, hopefully spread out long enough to have some drinks, and get just goosed enough before meeting up with the Mrs. later.

Well, within about a half-hour I had a couple of beers, maybe three good hands, and a dejected look on my face. Thanks Bill! The casino was not kind to me this trip, and would not be seeing my gambling dollar again, but little did I know, we would be back.

From there, I returned to the Flamingo and gave it a shot at $10 a hand. Another hundo gone in a flash. Well this is fun, I thought to myself, so off I went to check on the room. Still not ready, so I grabbed a seat at the Sports Book and quite easily fought back the urge to hit the tables again.

When finally Mrs. Family Man found me, the beer buzz was wearing off, I was yawning and ready for a nap. Time to check on the room. Mercifully, it was ready, so up we went to the 23rd floor, hoping our GoRoom was as nice as we remembered it from the only other time we stayed at the Flamingo two years ago.

It was, and better, with a sweet view of the Bellagio fountains, though no music to accompany the to-and-fro swaying of Steve Wynn’s gargantuan ode to excess. We watched for awhile, but really, the fountains do nothing for me, with or without Celine wailing in the background, although it is nice to be able to say we had a fountain-view room.

After chilling for a bit, we both were getting hungry and decided to try a new place. Three trips ago I read about The Pub at Monte Carlo, but each time we somehow got sidetracked and never managed to go. Since it was still just the two of us for another few hours, we thought we should take advantage so we walked down to the Monte Carlo for Happy Hour at The Pub.

What a disappointment.

The service was slow. So slow that after sitting for ten minutes in a near-empty restaurant nobody had been by to even offer us a glass of water. That was enough for us, so we got up to leave.

Long story short, they convinced us to stay. Gave us another table. Sent us a waiter. And let us enjoy our evening. The Happy Hour finger foods were good, but the slow service when we got there doomed them from the start. We will not be back, nor will we be recommending The Pub to anyone else.

By now it was nearly 7 p.m. Early by Vegas standards, but late by ours. The in-laws would be arriving around midnight. We needed to rest up if we wanted to keep up with them when they arrived, so off we went, back to The Flamingo against the backdrop of a fading sun, to catch a few winks before they rolled in.

We turned in at eight and woke up at 11.30. A solid 3.5 hours is a good night’s sleep in Vegas, is it not? A quick check on the in-laws’ flight status revealed that they had landed and would soon be on their way.

We hit the Party Pit to kill some time, and during shuffles I shuffled off to check the lobby. I spotted Mrs. Family Man’s parents, aunt and uncle on my second stealth fly-by. This would be fun.

The original plan was to wait for them in the casino, then grab a seat at their table and wait for the hilarity to ensue when it finally occurred to them that we were actually there.

But the impossibly slow check-in line was still impossibly slow.

I went back at least twice over the next half-hour and still they were in line. Finally, on the third go they were checking in so we changed our plan of attack. With drinks for everyone in hand, we snuck up behind them as they walked to the elevators and began singing happy birthday to the father-in-law who was just now into the first few minutes of his 60th year.

They were shocked. So shocked that the mother-in-law’s first words to me were “F*******k you!” in an “I can’t believe you guys are here!” kind of way.

Priceless.

If they weren’t already excited about being in Vegas, they were now. And they are Vegas veterans.

It was about one a.m. when finally we filtered back down into the casino. We each went off to our own separate tables, choosing to play with the minimum bets that suited our respective budgets. I was done in no time, so in no time was sitting with Mrs. Family Man’s father at his preferred double-deck, $25 minimum table.

Too rich for my blood, unless I’m really feeling it.

That I had no money left for the rest of the night bothered me little. I can have as much fun just watching blackjack as I can playing, though I do much prefer when my piles are going up too.

Before long, Mrs. Family Man had joined us, and the mother-in-law too. We got good and drunk, having a grand old time, when all of a sudden the casino seemed oddly quiet. I can now confirm that the transition from busy night to quiet night happens sometime between 3.30 and 4.15 a.m. Wow. We couldn’t believe we were still up. And we kept going too.

Bud Light.

Captain and Coke.

Caesar.

Whatever.

Just keep them coming.

By five, the in-laws were starting to fade. They were on Eastern time after all. But Mrs. Family Man and I were starving. If we had put our Happy Hour dinner at The Pub to music it would have started a lot like the Don McLean song: “A long, long time ago…”

So we did something that I never thought we would do but am so happy to say that we did.

Steak and eggs at Bill’s for $6.99. Yeah buddy! You may not see my gambling dollar again, Mr. Bill, by your steak and eggs for seven bucks will draw me in every time.

It was 5.15 a.m. and we were rolling in for breakfast before turning in for the night. So proud! Such a Vegas thing to do.

Finally, we crawled into bed at about six a.m., ready for this night to end but eager for the next day to begin.

PART THREE

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