VEGAS ADVENTURE, Part 2

Day Two in Las Vegas, and we should be exhausted after all of the walking and traveling we did yesterday, but, of course, we are not. Up early, we place an order at the 24-hour Starbucks, which just happens to be at the bottom of our hotel's elevator, and bring coffee and breakfast back to our room. 

I promptly drop my (outrageously expensive Las Vegas) iced coffee between the bed and the night table. By the grace of Elvis's ghost, my coffee lands upright against the bed frame base, and I merely splash a strange tannish stain along the side of my sheets. Coffee is saved! It's going to be a good day.

Today's itinerary has three activities: wax museum, gondola ride, and The Sphere. Since we are already up and moving, we decide to squish one more excursion into the mix: The Shark Reef and Aquarium at Mandalay Bay. One internet search, four online tickets, and an Uber ride later, we are at the casino, working our way through to the aquarium so we can arrive the moment the doors open. This plan is key since multiple school groups are queued up to enter as we are exiting after an hour or so touring through the place. We spend the most time watching the sharks swim over, under, and all around us as we walk through.

Madame Tussaud's Wax Museum is cool. (It's definitely not London cool, but I've only seen pictures of that one, and this museum is in the waxy flesh.) At first I am intimidated by the fact that the realistic figures are just out there, available to walk up to without so much as anyone to stop us. It takes me a moment to understand that we can wrap our arms around the statues if we so want. We pose and get cheeky with famous "people" and are generally trying to behave ourselves, until ... 

Until we encounter Miley Cyrus on the wrecking ball. 

In front of Miley is a life-sized wrecking ball with a rubber mat surrounding it. Yes, folks, people can pose on the wrecking ball. So, of course, that is exactly what we do. One middling lady and three seniors, all taking turns having our Wrecking Ball Moment. We heft each other as needed because these old hips don't lie like they used to, but no one needs an ambulance, and no bones are broken during our photoshoot. 

We goof around with Elvis, grab The Rock, wave to Snoop Dog, pose with Evel, and take silly pictures with celebrities we will never meet. We comment on how unexpected the heights of some of them are, from ridiculously Tupac-small in stature to RuPaul-willowy. Wayne Newton next to Tom Jones is like looking at the Jolly Green Giant with a Hobbit. On our way back to the hotel, we take a quick gondola ride and are serenaded by the only true Italian gondolier of the bunch. 

We have tickets to the early show at The Sphere, a giant globe that seats 20,000 people and provides what they call a 5-D experience. The climb to our seats requires mountaineering equipment and mountain-goat nerves of steel. The pitch of the place is dizzying. After the initial panic between my daughter and me that perhaps we have made the biggest mistake of our lives coming here due to our shared anxiety, we hang on to each other for dear life through the hour-plus Wizard of Oz experience. It's a fun show, but it is not for those with visual vertigo. We are glad that we went, but it's probably a one-and-done. I recommend it for an experience, but I could never get a job inside the theater itself.

The evening ends early, as two of our companions have one more day of gambling and Vegas shenanigans planned, while my daughter and I prep for our Grand Canyon Experience. It's cold in Vegas -- we've brought the New England weather with us, and it may well follow us to Arizona, but we have long sleeves, sweaters, sweatshirts, and vests. We are going to the Canyon, and even Mother Nature cannot stop us.

Can she?

VIVA LAS VEGAS, DAY #1

LAS VEGAS -- Day #1 

Heading to Las Vegas with my daughter and two other women, I have to research four things ahead of time. The most important is our side trip to the West Rim of the Grand Canyon (what's worth the money and what isn't). The second is the weather (we bring New England temperatures and snow with us). The third is where not to be caught walking (north of Old Vegas around the Neon Boneyard, which is also the last monorail stop). The fourth is how to gamble at the slot machines.

Yes, I am heading to Las Vegas and have never gambled beyond friendly card games of Poker, Whist, and 45's (a card game brought to the Merrimack Valley by Irish immigrants). I'm still not sure how the whole thing works, but I do win $18 for the few minutes that I gave it a try.

The Vegas airport is wildly entertaining. We could easily spend a day or two just in this place. It has shops and slot machines and restaurants and a whole lot to see and do. We Uber over to the hotel, and the first sight pointed out to us is the scene of Tupac Shakur's murder. Since it happened in a car-to-car shooting, there is a memorial utility pole at the corner of Flamingo Road and Koval Lane. It actually sets the bar pretty high for us.

We drop our luggage and decide to go off exploring. This involves hitting several casinos. My daughter and I are more into seeing sights, like places where The Hangover was filmed and just taking in the grandeur or Caesar's Palace, Paris Las Vegas, The Venetian, and the Bellagio's fountains, which are not running because of the winds. (Yes, we bring with us cold temperatures, high winds, and snow.) We even sneak into Hell's Kitchen. Our co-travelers mainly play the slots and win a little money. It's the Lunar New Year, and the hotels are doing it right -- there's a lot to see, but the places are mob scenes of tourists like us.

We notice that the ashtrays, which are everywhere because smoking is not only encouraged but required, are plastic at our hotel casino but glass everywhere else. We also notice that we need water ... badly. The relative humidity around here is about fifteen percent, a far cry from what we are used to, plus all of the smoke is enough to choke a freaking camel. Water, apparently, is a hot commodity at around $8 a bottle. We spend it. It's worth it.

We check in to the hotel by standing in a long line. Afterwards, we locate the automated check-in, but, by now, my daughter and I have been put through the VIP lane, which is a great start. Our friends' window on the ninth floor faces The Sphere, and our window on the twelfth floor faces the Hard Rock Hotel construction site. Both views are actually fascinating.

After dinner, we decide to visit the Neon Boneyard. We could take the monorail and walk to it, but I remember what I found out about that last stop, the one we would be using, so we Uber over. The Uber driver apparently believes he is Mario Andretti and flies across multiple lanes of traffic while doing 84 in a 55. Yes, I looked over his shoulder to see the speedometer. As we near the Neon Boneyard, the Uber driver does caution us against walking around the neighborhood. Actually, he says to make sure we get an Uber right from the exact spot he left us and not to wander. Solid advice since we have no idea where we are, anyway.

We pass Old Vegas, all lit up, and finally feel like we have our bearings back when we see The Sphere, which is tomorrow evenings' adventure. It will be hard to beat Tupac's utility pole, but we are darn well going to give it a try while we're here.

ANOTHER OLYMPIC MOMENT

The Olympics are on.

It has been a lot of fun watching the events, especially the ones with exciting finishes, like the women's hockey and the ski relay, and luge, and ski jumping . . . Okay, they're all exciting.

Sunday morning will be the gold medal round of men's ice hockey.

I was away in Las Vegas and at the West Rim of the Grand Canyon, and still I was able to catch the men's hockey quarter final (while in a restaurant), and semi-final (while on the plane). Despite still recovering my sleep and the time change, and despite the fact that today is Buy Milk, Eggs, and Bread Because We Are Under Blizzard Warning Day, I am going to watch the gold medal game this morning.

Oh, sure, this blog will be decided a few hours after posting, but, seriously, people. 

THIS IS AN OLYMPIC MOMENT!

It's exciting. It's epic. And, with luck and amazing talent, perhaps again the moment is ours.

Go, USA!

GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME

I've been on a cooking kick lately. 

The problem with this is that I am usually unprepared to cook correctly. What I mean by this is simple: I crave certain meals, but I lack the proper supplies to actually follow the recipes.

So, I punt.

Chicken casserole? Sure, I'll just throw some stuff in a glass dish, things like chicken and spinach and frozen cubes of squash and some fresh green beans and shredded carrots. Hey, is that a can of cream of chicken soup? Sure. Sounds good. Low on bread crumbs and no Ritz crackers? No problem. I'll just use a package of cornbread, all mixed together and thrown on top . . . because why not!

Baked ziti? Yes, that sounds marvelous. I have a half-pound of ground beef I can cook, a half a box of pasta, and a jar of sauce. Oh, wait. No ricotta cheese? That's okay. I have shredded mozzarella and shaved parmesan and some grated Romano. That should work, right? Who needs ricotta cheese when you can improvise.

My sister tells me that she is making nachos for the Super Bowl. She is a far better cook and baker and crafter and pretty much better anything than I will ever be. Now I want nachos, too. I have corn chips and salsa and more ground beef and shredded cheddar cheese. I could go high-brow and actually cook the nachos in the oven (even the toaster oven would work). But, no. I must cheat. Into the microwave they go. And, dagnabbit, they're not half-bad.

I suppose I should actually open up my recipe file, especially since I recently made an honest effort to put everything into order in a binder, complete with tabs and everything. I suppose I should go to the store that's only a few miles away and buy the correct stuff to complete these concoctions. There just isn't as much adventure in any of that.

And, so, as I said, I punt. The results, like the New England Patriots, are worthy enough for recognition, impressive enough to make it to the table, but not quite the crowning achievements they could or should be. Either way, they're are good enough for me.

GAME ON!

The Olympics are on. 

I am much more of a fan of the Winter Olympics than Summer. Who doesn't love watching bobsled and luge? Ice skating? Hockey? Biathlon -- skiing and shooting? Who remembers the glory of Eddie the Eagle? The Miracle on Ice?

I have a television subscription (not cable) that allows me access to a lot of channels. After a very long week at work, I drag myself home on Friday afternoon and settle on the couch, hoping for something mindless and mildly entertaining. An old western, a Hallmark movie, an old sit-com, perhaps. 

As I flip through the channel guide, a movie jumps out at me. An old one, but one I can't resist. 

Slap Shot.

Nancy Dowd, the writer, was born the same place I was: Framingham, Massachusetts. I already feel a kinship toward her early vision of the world. The fact that she used her own relatives' hockey experiences and a real team and real characters in this, makes it even better.

This movie is as real as it gets. Is there fighting? Of course. Are there shenanigans? Puhleeze -- have you never attended or participated in a pick-up game or a midnight league game? 

This is as real as it gets.

So, strap in for the Olympics, if you dare, but remember: Old-time hockey (no helmets, limited pads, bare knuckles) brought the elegance you see today, the finesse, the timing, and the raw emotions.

Oh, and sex appeal. Paul Newman in leather pants? Now, that's worth the price of admission.

ROLL ON

It has finally happened, and it only took six years. For the first time since that ridiculous Covid blasphemy, I have relaxed enough to allow my toilet paper supply to dwindle to a reasonable low.

For the first time since the infamous toilet paper hoarding of 2020, I am down to only two spare rolls.

In all honesty, one of those rolls has been with me since 2020. I borrowed it from school when we went back for the Fall session (teaching remote and in-person at the same time) as my emergency back-up roll. I have kept it as a reminder that we were once all insane and that some people are/have bigger arseholes than the rest of us. When I finally retire, I might quietly slip it back into the staff bathroom. 

I do not panic in my two-roll back-up position. Technically, I still have three rolls since the one on the toilet paper holder is a full roll, as well. I live alone. Unless I have a sudden influx of unwanted guests or catch the Norovirus (again), I should be safe until I get to the store in a couple of days.

Still, though, it's a slightly off-center feeling, this knowledge of toilet paper weakness, that I am finally, for the first time in more than half of a decade, low on toilet paper.

When I do finally get to Market Basket, there is no shortage whatsoever in brand, style, scent, size, ply-strength, or package capacity among the choices. I go for two-ply unscented, swooping in and bringing home an eight-pack of rolls.

I won't lie: Even though I was never in danger of running out of toilet paper, not now and not even during the pandemic when we all traded rolls for things like meals and medicine and Covid tests, it feels strangely satisfying and somewhat reassuring to have more toilet paper than a single person could possibly need for the next foreseeable future.

CANDLE SAFETY

A snowstorm or two ago I pulled a bonehead move: I left a candle burning while I went outside to shovel off my car.

I'm pretty cautious about candles. They have to be self-contained, in glass or metal tins, and they're rarely taller than votives or tea lights. Nothing happened -- no harm; no foul; nothing burned except my ego. However, it scared me enough to put a kibosh on candles unless I am certain that I will be right there watching them. Certainly certain.

I am also slightly nervous about the smoke from the candles setting off the alarms and then the waterworks. I mean, the darn detectors are so sensitive that who knows what might set them off. My neighbors certainly set off their alarms often enough, and I doubt their cooking is truly that horrible since they are all still robustly alive.

I finally decide to invest in some battery-operated candles to see how I like them. It turns out that I like them a lot.

I have some votive ones already, so I get a few pillar candles and some tea lights. Score! I thought they'd look cheap and just aggravate me with their crappy pretend-light. But, it turns out that these bad boys are pretty realistic when put inside candle holders and tins. Best of all, they can be put onto timer mode.

Next holiday season I am going to invest in battery-operated Advent candles, too, so I don't have to panic about too much smoke on Christmas Eve when all of the candles are burning. No worries about setting the table linens on fire! Oh, I still have the lovely-smelling real wax candles, too, the ones that have the aromas of balsam and cinnamon and cookies. I'll burn those under strict supervision (which will be me, since I live alone).

At least from now on if I leave candles burning when I go to shovel out my snowed-in car, I won't be so worried about coming home to wax, smoke, or flames. Now the only bonehead move will probably be dropping a pillar candle on my toe, or some other such idiocy. Either way, I'll only need stitches instead of the burn unit. 

 

OFF WITH HER HEAD

My sister and I enjoy playing cards. It's has been this way since we were young, and sometimes these card games involved the whole extended family -- our grandmother openly cheating, and our grandfather pretending he didn't understand "shooting the moon" in Hearts while lying through his teeth.

I'll play Cribbage with my sister because once in a great while I might even win. If you don't know the game, the play starts in motion by the flipping of one card after each player has been dealt a hand (and given two cards to the "crib"). In addition to winning the game, a major objective is not to get skunked, or, heaven help us all, double-skunked. It is predominantly a two-person game: one person against the other.

A few months ago, we had identical hands of the same five cards (opposite suits). Anyone who plays Cribbage knows that this is very rare. In all the years we have played, the thousands upon thousands of times we've dealt out cards and discarded into the crib, my sister and I have never, ever had identical hands. 

It's creepy yet kind of cool.

This visit, though, Cribbage is still being weird to us because we keep flipping the exact same card: Queen of Hearts. Doesn't matter which of us is the dealer or the card flipper, that starting card continues to be Queen of Hearts.

I start wondering: What the heck does this mean?

I used to have a fascination with Tarot cards. I still have a couple of decks of them, and I've even gone so far as to study what the Major and Minor Arcana cards mean and how the suits interplay and how the meanings change upon being reversed or next to certain other cards. Something as subtle as a card being flipped from one edge rather than the other makes a shift in the cards' meanings and presentation. As a matter of fact, you can often tell an amateur by the way he or she may lay out and turn the cards, or just by the number of cards they use depending on the "reading" being done.

Of course, my sister and I aren't at a tarot reading; we are engaged in a heated Cribbage match. What is the meaning of the constant appearance of the Queen of Hearts? Could she be tied to something deeper than fifteen points or thirty-one points or a double run of eight?

Here are some of the old-school and newer-school interpretations of our frequent visitor to the game:

• She is a good friend and will help in any situation
• Maternal, home-loving, and fond of animals
• She represents deep emotional intelligence and intuition
• Creative
• She can also be manipulative, self-absorbed, insecure, and not always trustworthy
• However, she is the card for advice and strength to overcome obstacles
• She is one of the most powerful of the Minor Arcana cards

Queen of Hearts sounds a little bit like my sister and like me -- especially while we play Cribbage: Oh, nice hand, well played, good job, fine score ... yah filthy booger ... We feel outwardly sorry when the other gets skunked (but inwardly joyous that the other gets skunked). 

Lewis Carroll depicted Wonderland's Queen of Hearts as blind fury personified, handing out death sentences over the smallest offenses. Put that way, I suppose she is the perfect card for a friendly yet highly competitive game amongst siblings. After all, with whom but your own flesh and blood can you speak out of both sides of your mouth and not pay dearly for it!

That being said, queue up the cards, Dear Heart, and let's play another round. I'm quite certain my sister understands that I might wish her bonne chance, but what I truly mean, according to the cards, anyway, is off with her head (in the kindest, most familial of ways).

SKATING AND HUMILITY

 Ice skating: Skill that does not return after decades away without humiliating and injuring you.

My siblings and I were active children. We rode bikes all the time, we swam, we roller-skated (on the old ones with four wheels in opposite corners), we skied downhill recklessly through tree-laden woods that even cross-country skiers wouldn't attempt, and we ice skated. We would trek miles and miles just to get to the local pond when we became bored with our own small swampy semi-frozen ice rink.

Two of my siblings have already tested me multiple times on grown-up bicycle skills. In my defense, I am short, and the bikes available to me did not allow my feet to touch the ground if I were tilting into a spill. These vehicles were simply too tall for me, but I toughed it out each and every time, and I will continue to do so if challenged. (Unless I actually invest in a bike my own size, which would probably be the brighter idea.)

But, skating? That was always my jam. I've been privy enough to have entire hockey rinks to myself. I don't twirl or jump or spin; I fly. I've always flown. I do hockey stops on my figure skates, and quick spins on my hockey skates. Long story short: I. Can. Skate.

Or, rather, I could. 

I can blame major foot surgery and nerve damage, but I suspect it's more a combination of old age and no practice along with failed muscle memory.

My freshly-sharpened skates accompany me to the outdoor Waterhouse Center in Maine. It's early, right after the town opens the rink up to the public, and it's a weekday morning. In other words, there aren't too many people here. The last time I tried this, a few years ago, I used my figure skates, but I missed the cutting of the ice afforded by hockey blades. This time, I have three pairs of skates with me: the old figure skates, as needed, and two pairs of hockey skates. 

I start with hockey skates #1, the ones I suspect will be the best. I step onto the ice and promptly ... grab the freaking siderail like my life depends upon it.

What in the name of Bobby Orr is going on here?! I mean, I have my own hockey stick, for chrissakes.

It takes about five minutes before I can skate without one hand on the railing. After ten minutes, I give up on this first pair of skates (which I will donate or sell) and go for pair number two. These skates feel a little better and I am steadier, but it could be that I am past my initial idiocy. After fifteen minutes, I am able to move around the ice at a semi-reasonable pace, somewhat low with my center of gravity because my thighs are screaming and because I want a shorter fall in case I break a hip. After all, I do have to drive back to Massachusetts at the end of the day.

When we're done skating, I have been mildly successful. I never do put on the figure skates, which is fine. As I leave the rink, I wave to the few guys who were whipping past me on the ice. As one gent calls out, "Happy New Year," I reply, "You, too, and bless you for not laughing. I really do know how to skate!" My humiliation may be complete and nothing is bruised too soundly except my ego, but I will openly confess that I had a wonderful (if wobbly) time.

MOVING INTO THE NEW YEAR

It strikes on Christmas night around midnight. Technically, I guess that makes it Boxing Day. I mean, whatever and whenever, it still hits me. I am suddenly overtaken with the urge to move furniture around.

For those who know me, especially siblings, this is nothing new. I used to rearrange my bedroom all the time growing up. It became almost a game. At school, I am notorious for rearranging the student desks (and my own desk placement, which moved three times during school last year) to the point of driving the custodial staff to madness.

Unable to let my Christmas night thoughts rest, I sneak into the living room and very quietly move the chaise part of the couch. When I wake up, I'll look at it in daylight and decide whether or not I like it. (Case in point, the couch, which is relatively new, has changed sides of the room before now, and the chaise portion has been moved five times back and forth to opposite ends.) When I awaken, I discover that I do like it.

Then, I wonder, as I often do, why I place my couch against the wall. It was fine when the couch was a big futon, but now the couch has a straight fabric back. I don't need to hide any moveable parts against the wall. So, I hitch the couch forward and decide if it cuts into my apartment-sized living room too severely. I let it be for a few hours, looking at it, walking around it, and sitting on the couch to see if I feel too close to the television. 

This new placement leaves the wall open, so I start moving bookcases. Yes, even though I sent seven bags of books to the Used Book Super Store last summer, I still have books, books, and more books. This means unloading all of the books that I own. I let the bookcases sit empty for twenty-four hours.  After all, now that I've emptied the bookcases, wherever they end up, even if back where they started, books need to be sorted and redisplayed on the shelves. 

This arrangement is a go, so I start putting the books onto the shelves. For anyone who has ever tried to reorganize books and shelves, just know that this is an arduous, all-day undertaking. It becomes even more convoluted when shelves need to be readjusted and when the shelf braces snap off. I smartened up the last time I moved bookshelves, so I have plenty of replacement braces, but it still requires pliers to get some of the little plastic tabs out, and a hammer to beat them into the new hole placements.

Finally, the bookshelves are done, so I start moving bedroom furniture around. My bed has to remain along on particular wall because of my neighbors. There is only one wall that doesn't leave me visible to the parking lot and opposite apartment buildings -- not that anyone would be looking into my apartment windows, but I probably am not the most graceful of sleepers. I often awaken completely wound up in the sheets as if there had been an attempted mummification in my private chambers. As the expression goes, ain't nobody need to see that.

Once the furniture is rearranged, including moving my work station back out to the living room area (from whence it came already as it has been moved four times in the last few years), I start on storage benches, which leads to closets, which leads to laundry room shelves, which leads to plants and lamps and knickknacks and pictures and . . .

It's like watching dominoes fall and trying to beat them to the finish line. Actually, it's more than that. It's more like a game of Mousetrap because so many things seem to be happening at once while the wrecking ball moves through the maze. I think I'm at the "plastic man jumps off diving board into empty plastic tub" point of this re-do. I just hope I can pull this place together before I have to go back to work on Monday.