Vegas, babee

The Scream, Lucky Cheng's

I'm in a danger zone.

I've always enjoyed breaking rules, not so much testing the boundaries. There is a difference which we can discuss if you like.

I'm susceptible to my own fantasies, ridiculouly unafraid of bad judgement, see little value in postponing gratification but do it regularly.

I'm fed up with my own maturity.

So I decided to go to Las Vegas.

Me. Lucky Cheng's.

My brother and his partner flew in from New Mexico, and I drove up from Los Angeles. There are time jumps in this narrative, kind of like my best night in Vegas. There is also ChiChi.

Before the lights of the city came the drive.

Some of the weather on the road to Vegas: light spatters in L.A. Dense fog on the I-15. Love entering those patches, especially when there is no highway line as touchstone. Wind battered the car and turned into a thick sandstorm, followed by heavy rain which washed us clean. A rainbow arced from snow capped mountains to dry plain, and I slowed under it, hoping for a tingle. Volcanic memories poked up through ashy sand, cloud-dappled when the sun appeared.

Just me and my vehicle and music and weather. Getting out of L.A. No one to please but myself.

Back to Vegas. Ever been the third wheel with a couple who is bickering?

This was my first go. Didn't notice the tension between my bro and his partner for a long time because I was . . . well, let’s just say I was high on life and enjoying some quality me-with-me time. When I did notice, they were each walking off in opposite directions --- the high drama huff.

I was alone, trapped in Caesar's Palace which seemed to cover half of Vegas. Couldn't find my way out. Did some booze-ridden shopping. Got a taxi to go downtown, and then changed my mind, and met another friend who was gambling at Wynn's.

We had a late night snack at a Japanese restaurant, Okada. I invented a new drink here --- Jasmine Gin, which prepared me for our next adventure at Lucky Cheng's, where I was outrageous, but the place called for it.

ChiChi

Then and Now

            Cleaning my office is like an archeological dig.  My attempts at organization are evident in research files for two novels, but they're not just in one place.  Then, there’s the financial stuff that I couldn’t make my mind up about, the old payroll receipts from my previous career, and certain emails which I print and treat as a diary, labeling them by year.  I have every intention of rereading them at some point in the future.  There are also letters and cards from friends with description worth keeping because I mentally and emotionally chart their lives alongside mine.  My sons made holiday cards for me when they were in grade school.  I especially love the Valentine’s Day ones, back when I was their only sweetheart. 

            Photographs are everywhere interlaced between folders like the special sediment created in a volcanic blast.  What seismic event rained down the array of photos that seem to crop up everywhere?  My children's pictures span their lifetime ­­­­– holding a soccer ball, a violin, sulking in front of the camera.  My plan has always been to organize everything into scrapbooks when I retire, in those hazy, long-into-the-future days when I have nothing new to do but consider the past.  But how can you look at a photograph, especially one with you in it, without a nostalgic backward glance?  

            Take the Christmas photo when our son was four.  He was the first grandson so my in-laws went nuts with the presents.  Eric is in a frenzy over his loot, and is stretched out full length on top of his hoard reaching into the recesses under the tree for more.  His brother, 4 months, is in the stroller looking like a chubby replica of his brother at the same age.  My husband is behind the $800 video camera we gave to each other.  His mouth is curved in speech because he’s narrating the present for the future.  What a clever man I married.

           There I am, holding court over the proceedings, a young self-conscious mother.  I look uncomfortable and avoid the camera while still holding my head erect, acting like I’m royally pissed about something.  My diffidence disguises shyness, my sharpness masquerading as matriarchy.  No smiles from me.  Not like now.  

            I look at myself, and think that I was beautiful, and that all my bravado hid a deep well of fear.  Did I find joy in myself?  I think not.  Those were days of stress, and overwork, and pervasive loneliness.  Now is better than then, but then is still in my now.