Mush For Brains

Yep. That’s the situation today.

Let me back up to Saturday. After zipping down to San Diego for my Uncle’s 80th birthday (which was a blast, by the way) I met friends Marty and Ann at the Ramada Inn-San Marcos. You read that right. The Ramada Inn-San Marcos. See, Harrah’s Rincon was booked, so after much Internet research, well…that’s where we ended up.

That night we drove to Harrah’s and let’s just say I made another of my ongoing contributions to the Native American community. Assuaging my white woman’s guilt and all.

Anyway, blah, blah, blah…we checked into Harrah’s the next day. Writer friend Brooke trekked over from Fallbrook and we had a delightful poolside lunch. Later, I went to my room for a nap, halfway believing I’d spend the rest of the night there. The notion of getting in my jammies, ordering up room service, and hunkering down for an episode of Desperate Housewives was enormously appealing. After all, my plan was to get on the road about 6 a.m. in order to roll into work mid-morning.

I’ll bet you can already guess things didn’t exactly go according to plan, huh?

So, Ann called about 6 just as I (don’t laugh! don’t laugh!) finished donning gym clothes. No, really. I’d decided to hit the treadmill before the aforementioned jammies plan. With very little arm twisting, I agreed instead to go downstairs for “just awhile.” (Plus, I was feeling a little flush from an earlier Wheel Of Fortune interlude and figured I owed those poor Native American children who might need a new school or something.)

I should have recognized the first sign of my plan’s disintegration. That was when Marty abandoned the poker table and started looking for slot machines to get rich on. Then, exhausting that inadequate revenue producer, we stumbled on the source of my doom.

A Texas Hold ‘Em table.

Not exactly how you see it on TV…for instance, you play against the dealer not each other, nevertheless, essentially the same game but without the stress and strain (and intimidation) of a serious poker table. Suddenly, without so much as a nonverbal cue, Marty and I were “catching the flop,” “betting on the river,”…all that good Texas Hold ‘em stuff.

Meanwhile, Ann sat out, claiming she didn’t know how to play. Well, y’all know how that turned out, right? After Marty and I dragged her kicking and screaming into the game, she virtually took over. We even named pocket aces the “Ann Hand.”

The next thing I knew, it was last call. Not a good sign unless tribal casinos shut down their bars at 10. Which they don’t.

And the NEXT thing I knew, it was 3 a.m.

Bad, bad, bad.

We’d spent HOURS at this stupid table, with only a couple of interruptions for, as Ann put it, “doin’ the Harpo walk.” (This is “casinospeak” for the odd gait of a person suddenly in need of a bathroom break who’s so stiff from sitting in one position that he or she can barely walk to the restroom. Trust me, it’s aptly named.)

As we left the table, the casino folk generously provided a $60 comp for food (at three o’clock in the morning???) but I declined and said good night. The last I saw Ann and Marty, they were headed for steak and eggs.

So, that’s why the mush for brains today. Alcohol + sleep deprivation + long drive = mucho exhaustion.

Not to mention boring blog.