Everything lost is found again, Part I

Like most other parents, every now and then Mrs. Family Man Muser and I like to escape the daily grind of raising children, to indulge in life in a way that is different than we are otherwise accustomed to.  

Not that we don’t enjoy our family life, far from it.

But it is nice to get away from having to change diapers, make lunches and dinners, give baths, and do everything else, and even better to periodically replace our normal day-to-day responsibilities with little or no responsibility at all. 

Our destination of choice, when the opportunity of a little freedom presents itself, is always the same.

Las Vegas.

Sin City.

A place of indulgence. Of excess and extravagance.

A place where a mom and a dad can lose themselves in drunken debauchery, stay out late and party the night away, without having to get up at 5 a.m. the next morning to put on some cartoons and spread Nutella on some toast. We don’t do it often, but we need it from time to time.

Our most recent travels to our favourite vacation destination came in early April, when we escaped to Las Vegas for five glorious days of eating, drinking, gambling and all-round corrupt behavior.

It was fantastic. So fantastic that I felt compelled to summarize our travels in writing for the benefit of the many, or the few, who patronize this page.

Below is Part I of the story; the rest will follow in the days to come. 

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PROLOGUE: I came to love Las Vegas quite accidentally. Up until 2008, I had barely ever set foot in a casino, let alone envisioned putting more than $20 in a slot machine or actually sitting at a blackjack table at even $5 a hand. It just was not my thing.

Then Mrs. Family Man Muser surprised me with a trip to Vegas for my 30^th birthday. By the end of the first day, I was so hooked that I fearlessly, but quite accurately, predicted that we would be back, and probably frequently.

That was not quite four years ago. We have been another five times since.

Our most recent return engagement was a five-night, four-day extravaganza that was so good that it prompted me to put together this trip report, if for no other reason than because I don’t want to forget the finer details of what was one of our most memorable trips yet.

NIGHT ONE: After landing in Las Vegas at 10 p.m., we hopped a cab downtown to The Golden Nugget, where we would be spending our first two nights. On the way, our cab driver bombarded us with tales of how his slot machine system can’t lose, and proceeded to give us the long-winded details of how we could hit it big playing Wheel of Fortune.

Okay buddy, I wanted say. If you’ve got it all figured out, why the hell are you driving a cab? But instead the wife and I just rolled our eyes and let him go on and on about it until he finally had no choice but to give it up as we rolled into The Golden Nugget.

Coming in from the east coast, we already were riding on fumes by the time we checked in to our Carson Tower room. Still, it’s Vegas, and The Family Man Muser wasn’t quite ready to call it a night.

We strolled down to Fremont, myself with the first of a few giant beers in hand, just in time to catch The Doors belting the classics while the light show flashed up above. This never gets old. After strolling the street awhile longer, and reluctantly agreeing with the Mrs. that it was best to save the bankroll for Tuesday, we made our way up to the room and hit the sack some time near 12.

DAY ONE: For the first time in recent memory, we managed to sleep in until 8 a.m. The three-hour time difference usually wreaks havoc on my internal clock; rarely do I ever make it past 6 a.m. in Las Vegas, which frankly is fine with me since the room is usually the last place I want to spend my time anyway.

We indulged in a fantastic breakfast at the Nugget’s Carson Street Café before finally emerging onto Fremont Street once again, this time to quickly cross over to our downtown gambling establishment of choice, Binion’s.

The combination of old-school vibe and friendly folks lures us in every time.

Within minutes we were finally—finally!—sitting at a blackjack table ready to break this town. It didn’t happen that way, nor, apparently, had the friendly faces arrived for work quite yet.

Within an hour, we were both cleaned out of the morning’s budget, at the hands of some sour-faced dealers no less, so we decided to venture down to the strip for the day and save Binion’s for later in the evening.

We hopped the Deuce, Las Vegas’ answer to the famed double-decker bus, and within about 10 minutes remembered why we hated taking the Deuce when we last fell for it on our prior trip nine months earlier. Yes, the Deuce is cheap. At seven bucks each for 24 hours, it is a decent deal compared to a cab. But it is slow. Real slow. Excruciatingly slow.

By the time we reached the Fashion Show Mall, we could handle it no more. Off we went, opting instead to continue our journey on foot—destination Flamingo.

We are fans of the Flamingo, for many reasons. Like Binion’s, it has some character. It makes us want to kick back, have some drinks and some fun, and hopefully win some money. Plus, we are more on par with the riff-raff that hangs at the Flamingo than some of the haughty, highbrow folks for whom the Flamingo just isn’t good enough. So off we went to play some more blackjack, hoping for a better result than that morning.

No dice. The Flamingo was no better than Binion’s, so instead we went to Bill’s, another of our favorites for many of the same reasons outlined above. Character, vibe, old-school charm.

Bill’s has it in spades.

And now Bill’s has our money too, because we failed to win a cent at their tables.

It wasn’t looking good, so with only $30 remaining for each of us from that day’s envelope, we stepped back from the table and went for a table of a different kind—the lunch table. Our choice, the Burger Brasserie at Paris.

I will spare you the details of what we ate and drank, but I will say that we came away full and fully satisfied, as always is the case at the Burger Brasserie.

From there, we lingered on the strip for a bit before deciding to head back to the Nugget to get our evening rolling. Reluctantly, we took the Deuce again, though this time it mercifully got us downtown far sooner than expected.

After the pre-requisite freshening up, and some dinner at Grotto, we walked up and down Fremont, enjoying the sights and sounds that only Fremont can supply.

The flashing neon lights of golds, and blues and reds, from the Nugget, to the Fremont, to Binion’s and beyond.

The hoots and hollers from high-above as the next daredevil whooshes by on the zip line.

The acrid smell of spray paint in the air as the artists so majestically put the last touches on impossibly perfect renderings of the strip or Spiderman or whatever whimsical images they can create from nothing.

The cast of characters—Captain Jack, the chick with the strategically placed pasties, Gumbi, Michael Jackson, KISS, the buffed up native American dude, the Gladiator—each one so absurdly out of place, so incredibly tacky, but at the same time so incredibly right for Fremont Street.

We ambled. Sauntered. Lingered, and otherwise enjoyed ourselves, taking in the fact that for the next three days this mom and dad would be rolling without three little kids in tow, unlike so many others who for whatever reason seem to think of Las Vegas as a great family vacation destination.

I don’t think so, and won’t debate it here.

It was just about at this point that all around us the lights dimmed and the crowd hushed. On Fremont Street, life has a way of standing still for that very brief nanosecond before the light show begins. There we were, suspended in time with so many others, when a thousand Don McLean’s sang out in unison: A long, long, time ago…

What a rush. So much fun to be in the crowd at the moment, necks craned towards the canopy, eyes darting up and down, back and forth, trying to keep up with the million and one images coming and going on the screen.

This is Fremont. This is Vegas. This is fun.

There are few things I enjoy more in Las Vegas than being in that crowd at that moment for what is always a highlight for me.

As American Pie hit its final notes, we began walking back towards our home base, but for whatever reason started drifting away from the Golden Nugget and instead across the street, pulled in by that charm and character and those friendly Binion’s faces.

Here let me point out that we sat at a five-dollar Party Pit blackjack table against my better judgment. With $30 each, the last of that day’s gambling budget, I could see us lasting no more than 20 minutes before the cash ran out. But the wife’s “what have we got to lose besides $60” argument convinced me, so we pulled up a chair.

Am I ever glad we did.

From the minute we sat down, we did nothing but win.

And win, and win and win.

Our five-dollar bets became 10, and 15, and 20, and 25. I may have even pushed it up to 40 on a few hands, seeking to capitalize on our decent run.

Others joined and they won too, even despite some less than stellar play. A 13 against the dealer’s six, and the guy to my right takes a card. I cringe. He hits a seven. The dealer busts.

Twelve against four. He hits. She busts. We win.

It was that kind of night.

By the time we wrapped up, the wife and I cashed out $550 between the two of us. Epic. At least to us, considering we started with $30 apiece and managed to reclaim all of that day’s losses plus a little more on top of that.

Everything lost was found again. 

Well into my cups by then, it was time to head back out onto the street for more of the same. The Doors on the light show. Singing. Dancing. Hooting and hollering and an all-round good time before we finally wrapped it up for the night.

We needed some rest. Day Two would bring a change in hotels and a late night after surprising the wife’s parents, who had no idea we would be in Vegas with them.

PART TWO

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This little piggy

(HOME) This little piggy showed up unannounced recently.

She hitched a ride in the bottom of a school bag, a little girl’s school bag, because, well, someone in the family, a little pint-sized someone, apparently thought nothing of wrapping her little fingers around the little piggy and claiming it as her own.

The little piggy came to my attention as I cleared the school bag of its daily contents—a half-empty lunch box, a few crumpled drawings, a daily agenda that always tells us that its pint-sized little owner is, on most days, a model citizen at school.

That may be because her penchant for pilfering pigs has not yet been discovered. At least not in her catholic school, where surely a sin like poaching piggies would produce a proportionate punishment.

But her thieving ways were addressed at home, where the perpetrator of the little piggy crime was busted mere moments after the little piggy’s presence was known.

It was, for the most part, a one-sided conversation.

When asked how the little piggy came to end up in our home, the pint-sized guilty party began to simply bawl.

Big time.

Big time bawled.

She had no explanation. No defence. No excuse. And no inclination to try to wiggle her way out of this one.

So the punishment was rightly rendered by the judge, jury and executioner.

By dad.

The guilty party would be made to return the little piggy into the hands of its rightful owners, in this case the ladies who run the before-and-after program at school.

On judgement day, after having discussed in great detail the ramifications of grand theft pig, the pint-sized perpetrator made the long, foreboding walk from parking lot to school with much apprehension, and a much slower gait than that to which we are usually accustomed.

When finally she stepped through the door with dear old dad announcing that daughter dearest had something to say, she reverted to the previous day’s explanation for having poached the pig.

She bawled.

Big time bawled.

Bawled enough to make the daycare ladies want to bawl with her.

They pitied the pint-sized perpetrator just enough to numb the sting of having been caught, but not quite enough to dim the lesson of crime and punishment.

Every action prompts reaction.

Particularly early on in life when little piggy pilferers must be broken of their pilfering ways.

Signed,

The Family Man Muser

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Hit the road, Jack

(CANADA) – It has been a longtime coming, but it is finally here. 'It' being a Floridian vacation for the Family Man crew.

The bags are packed. The car gassed up. The GPS programmed. The iPad ready to roll.

Just as we are, ready to roll. To hit the road. To flee the cold Canadian climes fora week under the sun. The real sun. The sun that generates heat. That sun.

Travel is an obvious challenge for a family of five. Flights are frankly unaffordable for us. Five grand it would have cost to fly the crew south for the week on the Canadian carrier, Air Canada.

Five. Thousand. Dollars.

The discount airlines could barely do better than that. Even the ones that startfrom the States.

A four thousand here. A thirty-four hundred there. All out of our realm—for reasons of cost, for certain, but also for reasons of convenience, considering the multiple accessories a family of five requires on vacation.

Like a car for a week.

And car seats.

And a double-seating stroller for a day at Disney.

And golf clubs. Can’t forget the golf clubs.

All that, plus luggage, plus the crew itself: Mrs. Family Man Muser, myself, and our multitude of miniature additions, combine to make me rather do anything but fly.  

So that is what we will do. We are travelling to Florida the old-fashioned way, but with the new-fashioned toys to make it more tolerable.  

With a trusty co-pilot, Ginette P. Sauvé, GPS, leading the way.

With an iPad strategically placed so three pairs of little child eyes can connect tothe goings-on in Glee: The Concert; Annie: The Musical; Gnomeo and Juliet; Cars; Coraline; and a couple of other classics that should at least tame the tiny and tempestuous tushes that can, and will, most assuredly struggle to stay in place in hours four, five and six, ten, eleven and twelve, of what will surely feel to them, maybe even to us, like an interminable trek.

We have taken to these trails before, four years ago, back then with but a couple of baby girls in our back seat. One was barely two, the other not even six months.

It went so well that perhaps the ease of that vacation set the tone for this one.

A 24-hour drive. A day. But over three days.

It will be a grind, for sure, although the reward on the other end promises to make it worthwhile.

Sunshine. Heat. Swimming. Disney. Golf. Laughs. Memories.

This will be our first real family vacation as a family of five. The first time we dare direct ourselves so far south that we can’t even say we will be there tomorrow. Or even the tomorrow after that.

That is how far Florida is from here.  

And how far we will drive. Just to get there.

Because we still have to get back.

But for now we are not thinking that far ahead.

For now we are concentrating only on getting to Maryland, then Georgia, then Florida.

The rest we can worry about next week.

But to do that, we have to get there.

It is time to hit the road. To hit the road, Jack.

Signed,

The Family Man Muser

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Graffiti artist

(THE PINK ROOM) -- The boy is two, and from time to time he disappears for long moments at a time, often to the playroom where we try to have our kids watch their movies, play their games, draw and otherwise occupy themselves without moving their mess to the rest of our square footage.

It's not unusual, nor is it something with which we generally concern ourselves, only because it has been a long time since the boy last went rogue in the house.

Still, we know from experience that when our children go off the grid, rarely is it to read a book, take a nap, or clean their room.

If they are somewhere in silence, most often they are up to no good.

Like today.

Today the boy was suspiciously silent, not making a peep. Beyond unusual, only because he hadn't pestered me to turn on the playroom lights, so I knew for certain that whatever he was off doing, he wasn't doing it where it should be done.

So I wandered around the house, searching for my son, wondering what he could possibly be up to.

And that's when I caught him in the act.

My little dude, dry erase marker in hand, making a statement all over his big sister's room.

A graffiti artist at just over two years old, like his old man adept with a pen, unlike his old man, using that pen for no good.

So I did what naturally came next: first a small smack of the fingers to make my point, followed quickly by the snapping of a picture so I could preserve forever the memory of my little man's mischief.

Signed,
The Family Man Muser

iGot One and iLove it

(HOME) iCame late to the technological revolution.

Without cell phone. Without texting. Without any desire whatsoever to be reachable at anyone else's whim.

My position was always that if iCouldn't be reached at home, then iDidn't want to be reached at all.

Don't call me, iWill call you.

If society could survive for generations without instant access to Twitter, Flikr, Whatever, surely iCould to.

Then slowly iStarted to come 'round.

Gradually. Apprehensively. Reluctantly. Until finally iTook the plunge.

iWent all-in from the start, starting my technological evolution with a fancy iPhone 4.

iWas hooked.

Quickly. Immediately. Whole-heartedly.

Now, iText.

iRead my email.

iEmpty my inbox.

Now, iNever leave home without my fancy iPhone 4, so hooked iAm on being reachable wherever, whenever, at anyone else's whim.

iLike being connected. In the know. Accessible and with access.

To knowledge. Information. To Angry Fu**ing Birds.

Next came Apple TV, the perfect complement to my iPhone 4 and a morning cartoon loop woefully unsuitable for three little rugrats who like nothing more than to lose themselves in animation over breakfast.

iLove it.

The flexibility. Usability. Portability.

Finally, the trifecta came together with the most recent addition to my puzzle of Apple products.

The iPad.

For weeks iSought to sell Mrs. Family Man Muser on our obvious need for an iPad.

A vacation to the warm Floridian sun made its immediate purchase doubly important.

How, oh how, iSuggested, will those poor children survive a 24-hour drive without the constant movies and music, games and goodies that an iPad can possibly provide.

Or better yet, how will we?

iWorked on my Mrs. until she could take it no more. Or something like that.

Truth be told, iThink she was in from the start but wanted me to sweat it out.

In any case, here iAm now, comfortably nestled under the covers, on a dark winter's night, with but a new iPad and snoring wife to keep me company.

iAm smitten.

She is beautiful. Silky smooth to the touch. Sinfully decadent. Delectable even.

But man can she snore like a drunken sailor.

iJest.

This iPad is all that it is advertised to be. The latest and for now, only for now, final addition in my troika of technological tools.

iWorked hard on my Mrs. to get it.

Now iGot one and iLove it.


Signed, 
The Family Man Muser

In a very 'parent' place

(HOME) — Mrs. Family Man Muser and I have been parents for five, almost six, years. Our little family of three in 2006 became a family of four in 2007 and finally a family of five two years after that.

In that time, we have evolved immensely.

And as people who obviously had no parenting experience prior to becoming ‘mom and dad’ what seems like a lifetime ago, we are acquitting ourselves well in the herculean task of raising children.

I am always amazed, after having been at it for years now, that I still have ‘I-can’t-believe-this’ moments.

Moments of the mundane, for the most part, when the simplest of parenting tasks reminds me that we are, in fact, parents.

Like last night.

Last night, we hustled the kids home from school, as always we do.

Two ran out the back door as quickly as they came in through the front, eager to capitalize on the fading light of a mild winter afternoon.

Another snuggled into the giant, filthy living room chair, enveloped by a giant, filthy pillow, captivated by a spider man weaving webs through the NYC skyline, absorbed by an episode that first aired probably decades, if not decades and decades, ago.

A night like any other night really, the kind of night that I presume repeats itself in countless other households, on countless other streets, in countless other towns like ours.

After dinner, the boy disappeared to the basement for roughly an hour, this time sitting in a clean chair, mouth agape for the most part, watching Woody and Buzz and the whole Toy Story 3 crew go about their business on TV.

It was upstairs that the parental pause occurred, of all things as I was wiping down the countertop, putting the final touches on cleaning the kitchen.

I felt like a dad.

Not cool, hip dad.

But dad.

Responsible, taking care of the family dad.

And over at the head of the table, Mrs. Family Man was being mom.

With two little daughters by her side, she went to town on Valentine’s Day trinkets for the girls to bring to school.

Stickers and tattoos to accompany the Valentine’s Day cards, each with a daughter’s name meticulously, in some cases not so meticulously, scrawled across the side.

I watched them, in between shakes of a grimy kitchen rag, thinking back upon my own childhood, to the days when it was my folks washing down countertops and making Valentine’s Day goodies, to the days when it was them being mom and dad.

It happens that way periodically, when past, present and future collide at once, reminding me of who I am, where I am, and how much my role has changed, even in just my near-six years as dad.

I still feel young. I still am young.

Yet from time to time, as the gap widens between then and now, between childhood and parenthood, it sure does feel like I am getting older.

Not old.

Just older.

Moseying around the kitchen with a dirty dishrag in hand can do that.

But I don’t mind.

I like that my frame of mind matches my frame of reference for a particular time in my life.

Just as my kids should not have to concern themselves with the business of being adults, as an adult, it probably is best that I do.

The same applies to being dad... a cool and hip dad, when I should be, but also just dad when I must.

Signed,
The Family Man Muser

That's just crappy

(LIVING ROOM) — My boy, my man, my son. My little dude. My buddy. The little guy is growing up. Getting bigger, bolder every day. He talks and talks and talks, my little dude does, always quick to let us know what he does and does not want.

Cereal.

Cars.

Another piece of toast.

Spiderman.

Another piece of toast.

And another piece of toast again.

No Barney. No bath. No direction contrary to whatever it is that he is doing.

He wants to scrap with dad. He wants to be independent and brush his teeth alone. He hates to have his hair washed. He has the toddler thing all figured out, this little guy does.

Almost.

Almost, because dude can’t be bothered to use the can like the rest of the family. Him likes his diapers, and is in no rush, none, to start doing his business where his business should be done.

Admittedly, Mrs. Family Man Muser and I have been less than stellar in getting him trained. Oh, but we have tried.

Begged and bribed him too, but nothing has yet compelled our little fella to take that next developmental step, one that, as a fortunate side note, will save us the sheckels we are still spending on diapers every month.

Last weekend, while browsing through IKEA, Mrs. FMM came across a four-dollar potty that just could not be left behind. Toilet be damned, let’s at least try him on a new potty again.

So we bought it and sat him on it that night.

And on that very occasion, his very first seating on the four-dollar potty, dude got it right and tinkled.

So proud, the entire family.

Way to go big guy.

Next morning, we tried again. Pants off and take a seat my friend.

He lasted all of two minutes, no inkling for the tinkling today.

It was breakfast-time, so I decided to let him roam, al fresco, while I was eating. But I did expressly point out that if he had to go, his only option was to go on the little green potty.

He nodded. May have even said yes.

Third kid, and still I fell for it; I am so naïve.

As I read the morning news, chomping down on my final few bites, a faint noise came from the family room, just a few steps behind me.

Uh-oh, he said. Uh-oh, I thought.

As I turned around, he stood pointing at the area rug, the area in question obscured by the large lounger we keep in the room to collect all manner of little kid filth.

Certain that he had peed on the floor, I rounded the corner into my boy’s vicinity, when what to my wandering eyes should appear? But a couple of turds straight from his rear!

That’s right, the boy done went and pooped on the floor. Within three feet of the potty too.

Yes, the little guy is growing up. Getting bigger, bolder every day.

Bold enough to drop a deuce on the living room floor.

Now that’s just crappy.

Signed,

The Family Man Muser