Okay. I’m not really moving to Holland, but this might make me change my mind:
Daunting for sure, but I think I’m up to the task. The real question is, after I conquer the mountain, where do I stick the flag?
Anyway…
No poker last night. Instead, I had to listen to hours and hours of poker stories from the dear and patient wife’s Vegas Chick Trip. Now I know how she must feel listening to me when I come back from the Boy’s Trip.
I kid.
In fact, their trip was a rousing success. I have been encouraging her to take a Chick Trip to Vegas for years. I’ve been going once or twice a year since residency, and it’s always been a blast. Unfortunately, I've always felt a little guilt (intended?) because she stayed home with the kids while I was playing. Now I can truthfully say that she has been to Vegas more recently than me.
Hand, baby!! (Obscure Seinfeld reference. You know: I’ve got the upper hand. Never mind.)
I’m sure she’ll find a way to quantify our Vegas experience (I’ve been 5 times without her and she’s only been once without me), so I’ll lose that one too, but deep inside, I know I have hand. Besides, if she wants to push it, I’m headed to Holland (see above). The email I got with the picture says she is 7' 4" and 320 pounds. Maybe Qantas has cheap flights. They fly to Holland, right?
Final thought: Guys, if it's within your means, send your better half to Vegas on a chick trip. Forget the hand thing for a moment. It’s a great thing to do if they go with the right people (thanks sis!), and it may make it easier when you start the begging process for the next WBPT.
4 comments:
There are a couple, but the most reliable is either rubbing two fingers together (usually the index and middle finger) or, more commonly, rubbing clothing between your fingers - usually while walking through a department store.
Was that the same tell you were thinking of?
-DrC
All I can say is Damn! That's a whole lotta woman, and she comes with a sidecar. As much as I enjoy a woman on top, I'd be afraid that she might kill me! Thanks for the amusement, and see ya in Holland.
You don't have hand . . . not only do you have more Vegas trips (even if not more recently), but they cost you more than mine do (quote "we don't ride the Duece, we take a limo"). Don't make me add up the cost of your so-called "Hand" . . .
By the way, I'd like to use your post to say to the stupid drunk man who played his hand blind and capped my pocket aces pre-flop and up to the turn, "Thanks. May you always play blind and stupid when I have the aces. Its so cute when you say "I gotcha" with your pair of fives against my pair of aces . . . remember, I'll always just call you at the river to show the table what stupid s**t you played. Kiss my girly butt, 'cause I got your chips."
Thanks, love. That was fun.
Ah yes, a rousing suceess was the Chick Trip indeed! And riding the Duce on the top level in the front seat afforded a much better view of the city than does riding in a limo. Besides, people see the Duce coming and they get out of the way. Even when there are drunk vegas partiers throwing up on the Duce forcing the immediate disembarkment of the passengers right after we finally snagged the prime seats. There was an entire proceedure in place for when drunk people throw up on the Duce. Your wife and I were amused by this and wondered just how many times it had to have happened before they instituted the official evacuation process.
Your loving and patient wife is an awesome chick trip buddy! Never once did she make me feel stupid for saying, every single time we arrived back at the Bellagio from our daily trecks into the city without fail "Ooooh WE'RE staying HERE!!" and proceeding to giggle like a poor little girl who had been given a slice of cake in place of her daily slice of day-old bread.
As I headed back home to the trailer park, (ok, maybe not quite IN the trailer park, but I have to drive AROUND a few of them to get to my house)I began to think we may make the chick trip an annual, perhaps even semi-annual event. Be afraid...be very afraid...
The sister
Post a Comment