F Is For "Fragmented, Friday & Frustrated"...

Come on, you didn't think I would not throw a random post in here somewhere did you?

And so, as today is Friday, I thought I'd share my Fragmented week with you.

On Monday, I worked all day. It sucked pickles. And not even the good pickles that I like. But, I did finish the final book of the Fifty Shades trilogy.   Seriously, an excellent read.  It's a classic girl meets boy, boy is bad for girl, blah blah, kind of like Twilight but without all the supernatural stuff.  There were parts that made me cheer, parts that made me say "WTF no way!", and parts that made me blush.  There's action, love and a whole lotta gettin' bis-zay.  Thanks so much Diane for suggesting it.

Tuesday was Super Tuesday and therfore, no school. I did not vote. because Mitt Romney is an idiot and the rest of the candidates are pansies, Please do not judge me, I gave up politics for lent. I spent the day cleaning and catching up on laundry, honnoring the domestic goddess that I am. Later that night I picked up the rest of the flooring for the kitchen so there's 3 boxes of flooring just hanging out on the sun room floor. And yet another obstacle for me to break my ankle on. Sunday, I had finally gone to Bj's (It's like Sam's Club or Super Walmart) and stocked up on several items that we use all the time. Toilet Paper, Fruit snacks, hamburger, cheese, an industrial sized box of Oreos, and the like. You get the idea.  So Tuesday I decided to make Beef Stoganoff in the crock pot whilst I was getting my domestic on.  The house smelled fantastic! Tony and I sat and ate, it was yummy, tucked the kids in, and then... it started.

Seems I unknowingly attempted to poison us.

Tip Of The Week: Don't buy your meat where you also buy your tires. Just not a good idea for quality control.

This post has also been inspired by the word FRUSTRATING as well, since Youngest has decided to test all my patience this week.  By Wednesday I had just about had it with him.  Remember, he was off all day on Tuesday, and Wednesday was a half day so I was home all day as well.  And of course, he had saved all the last bits of his project that's he's had a month to do, for Wednesday at 3pm.  And instead of just getting it done, he fought me tooth and nail and nearly collapsed from exhaustion after coming up with ways to avoid the tasks at hand.  Seriously?  Who's kid is this anyway?  Eventually I collapsed from exhaustion on the new couches that had been delivered that morning (at 8:15).  I love them, I really do, but they are HUGE.  And honestly, I have no idea how to make them work in the room.  Plus they are a deep chocolate brown, which now doesn't go with the wall color. *sigh* Because we needed another painting project, right?

Thursday I worked as well, and I'm happy to say it didn't suck anything.  Then we were off  for Tech night, at which Youngest was asked to present to parents and family the functions and use of the iPad within the classroom.  He was chosen to do this by his teacher AND the principal of the school based on his knowledge of the product.  HELLO?  You know how I found out?  Via answering machine on Wednesday night.  Seems Youngest thought this opportunity to showcase his knowledge was no big deal. *sigh*

So that's what's been going on for the week.  I'm headed into town tomorrow to see my friend who's up from Florida. No worries, I'll figure out a way to turn that adventure into a "G" or "H" post by Monday-ish.

E Is For "Enabler"...

I am an enabler.  Admitting it, so I'm told,  is half the problem.  It only took years of therapy to understand it, and then a few more years of rolling my eyes and getting fed up to do some thing about it.  My whole life has been about taking care of people.  In high school the only boys who turned my head were the broken ones.  The ones who needed me to take care of them.

Completely unhealthy, I know, but that's just the way it was.  Right out of high school I was engaged to a boy that I had met at 16.  Eventually he moved out of his parents place, and with my help, found a fabulous apartment in Boston. It was a beautiful old building with 12 foot ceilings, mosaic tile, and a mirrored elevator.  After living there about a month, he came to me and said he couldn't bear to send me home on the bus again, and since it was so close to my school, he wanted to live together.  So I moved in.  I lived there for two years.  I was really, really good, until it really, really wasn't.

You see, I took care of everything.  I cooked, cleaned, made sure the bills went out on time.  I even laid new tile in the kitchen, stenciled and painted the walls, and fixed the plumbing.  He went out, got drunk, and often times didn't come home.  And when he did, he thought I was being unreasonable when I'd ask where he'd been.  One day, while sitting in the living room working on a final exam project with a fellow classmate, he and one of his friends blasted through the door, and locked themselves in the bedroom.  My friend left and once they decided to leave for the night, I found the charred tin foil remnants of his crack problem staring me in the face.

And yet, it still took a few months for me to leave. Sadly less because of his problem, and more because I could no longer give him what he needed.  He needed money and a lot of it, both of which he found with a brilliant (and I mean brilliant ~ she did brain research) enabler just 5 years older than him. She bought him a motorcycle, and covered his butt when it needed to be covered. One night, at 11pm the phone rang, the voice on the other end deeply regretful and apologetic of all he had done. I think in hindsight he knew it was over, but wanted to confirm it for sure.

Next, enter, my ex-husband. At 20 no one ever thinks that they are marring an alcoholic, they just think that their 23 year old husband just hasn't out grown his wild days.  After all, he was working two jobs, not drunk driving, and things were more or less under control.  I had them under control.  Again, I took care of everything.  When the kids came, it became way too much for me to handle alone.  His spiral became an F5 tornado, threatening to suck us all down within it, and I knew once again, it was time.  He needed more help than I could give him, and in the end he needed more than anyone could give him.

I am still an enabler of sorts.  I need to know that things are taken care of, and have a very difficult time delegating important things.  I struggle everyday to not fall into my old patterns.  Tony is without a doubt, a very patient man.  He's spent years gaining my trust and instilling in me that if I throw him the ball, while he may have no idea what to do with it, he will catch it.  But he too has an addiction.  One that is taking over our lives one small eBay sized packet at a time.

Are you ready?

Welcome, to Gordon Ave my Pen Pals. You'll know when you're here, by the brightly colored sign on the door to the office.  It is filled floor to ceiling in Nascar memorabilia...

Ignore the dust, I can only spend limited amounts of time in this room as I start to have small panic attacks by the sheer amount of it all.  Every single car is different and even more remarkably, he can tell you when randomly shopping if he already has that particular car or not. *sigh*  What is even more over whelming for me is the sports cards collection also housed in this room.  They have taken over every nook and cranny from the top of the shelves...

To the floor...

To multiple shelves within the bookcases...

Each one of those books hold approximately 1,000 cards each.  And that is his own personal collection.  In the basement, as well as several Rubbermaid totes, is the "traveling" collection that he takes to card shows and sells on eBay.  There is also another entire room in his Mother's basement that houses the rest of his collection. *deep cleansing breath*  In fairness, he used to own a sports collectible store, and his collection isn't just limited to Nascar.

There are various hockey cards, baseball, and basketball cards as well....

 

The sheer magnitude of this collection makes me nervous.  I have had nightmares of the Jeff Gordon and Jimmy Johnson dolls action figures coming to life and killing us all.  But you see here's the problem, and once again the root of this post.

 Because who bought him all of the display cases for these cards?  That would be me.

And who built, from scratch, the wall shelves with the peg board inserts and tilted shelf  for the opened models?  Me again.

Who cleans this room, rearranges it, and makes sure he can display the best of his collection?  Um....Me.

Bought him the signed Jeff Gordon card?

And the Larry Bird card?

Me.


(she hangs head in shame)

And while desperate to spend some adult time with him away from the kids, I was sitting in the office the other day looking through his favorites, he pulled out a limited edition series collection of Jimmy Johnson cards, complete with race tire inserts, what did I do?

I snuck them out of the house, and to the custom framing department where I spent an hour choosing just the right mat to match the background on the cards and the diamond plated outside matting.  After spending an obscene amount of money, I had them all triple matted in museum quality framing with 90% UV reflective glass for him for Valentine's Day.

Because you see my friends, I am an enabler. Every crack addict has someone who can get them a new pretty pipe, just like the 600 pound man no longer able to walk or bathe himself,  has the woman who brings him 16 number threes from the local burger joint for breakfast.  And Tony has me.

Because no matter how much stuff he continues to bring home, I will continue to make it pretty for him.

But I'm drawing the line here...

Honey, keep your nasty habit out of the bedroom.

D is For "Didn't"....

During my college years, after reassessing the brilliant plan to live in a dorm room with three other girls I did not know, I commuted in and out of the city.  On nicer days, I would walk from the subway to the bus station, cutting trough small back alleys and side streets. I would spend much of the walk watching people.  Clearly, this had it's safety advantages, but mostly it was because I was curious.  Why were they here?  Was it school like me, or work?  Were they chasing their dream or were they just hopelessly lost in the city?  I would look at the skyscrapers and wonder how these people came to work in these buildings.  Did they aspire to that position all their lives?  Did they work hard, start in the mail room and get promoted accordingly?  Did they just sleep with the boss?

Now a days I spend most of my life in suburbia.  Delivering the mail, riding through the neighborhoods, I look at the houses and wonder about the people who live there.  Some of it I already know, having been a mail person for the last ten years, you begin to recognize the signs. You can tell that Suzy's coming home from college when random boxes of media mail start arriving in mid May.  Mr. Jones is away on business when his mail doesn't get picked up for three days or so. And while it's often easy to judge these people that live in these homes, based off their mail or how their yards are kept up, I don't.

All my life I have been judged by others.  It's human nature, I understand, but when people look at my dark blue ringed baby blue eyes, they think I am naive and innocent.  That I would never, and have never.  And they are so wrong.  My eyes have seen things that can  not be unseen, have gazed in awe the sight of a miracle, and have blazed with bewilderment as my inner goddess squeals and jumps for joy. They would never suspect that under my mom jeans my skin bears a ten inch tattoo in a kaleidoscope of vibrant color, or that my belly once flat and taught housed a diamond studded ring.

People assume that my blond hair and ample top, coupled with a (once) perfectly shaped hourglass figure left me with my choice of men all mine for the picking.  In reality, I had very few and had to pursue all the men I have ever dated with the exception of one.  Now older, my face has many creases, I rarely wear make up and most often my hair sits a top my head in a worn elastic.  I know that many would think that I am tired, worn, and having a bad day. Every day.  No one ever thinks that my wrinkles are skillfully crafted from years of laughter, and my appearance simplified from having far too many more important things to tend to, like my children.

I have often been judged by how I speak to my children, how I joke with them, dry and sarcastically.  It's perceived as mean, callous, and insincere.  When in reality, there's an unspoken inside joke that is our lives, that we all find amusing and not harsh at all.  Underneath it all, there is a mutual respect for each other. A respect that allows me to do less controlling and more teaching. I have been scrutinized over not calling my children when they sleep over someone's house.  Claiming I am a bad parent, who doesn't care enough to hear her child's voice before they go to sleep or want to reassure them that they are safe while they are away.  But in fact, if I thought for a second they were not safe, they wouldn't be there to begin with. I have even been criticized by letting them walk away from me, shoes untied. Really? Yes, they will trip, and in a way I hope they do. They will not leave them untied again, and they will have learned that lesson all on their own.  Not by my nagging.

My house keeping has been judged, that I am lazy or failing as a mother and wife. The foot prints on my floor are from rambunctious healthy boys who are safe to play outside in their neighborhood. The dishes and crumbs on the counter are from real meals cooked that have filled satisfied bellies.  And countless times, I have been judged by the car that I drive. While it is true that it is older and unremarkable, and may not have a built in DVD player or even a radio,  it is paid for, and doesn't come with the strings of a financial institution who can at any time, pull it back. Quite simply, I prefer to own my life rather than rent my lifestyle.

The list of mistaken assumptions is endless. Brought on by false bravado and preconceived notions of how things should be. And yet, most of us still feed into this craziness even though most of us are all in the exact same boat, rowing mundanely, rhythmically down the river, just hoping to get to the bank without capsizing and not get stuck upstream missing a paddle. Think about what would happen if we all stopped to see how much we all have in common rather than assume we don't.

Think about how amazing it could be the next time someone thought of judging someone else...

they just Didn't?

C is for "Stephanie"...

When I started blogging it was more or less to journal my thoughts and record our lives so that if in fact, my life was to end tomorrow, my boys would know exactly who their mother was.  (And then I discovered that I could future date posts, so it could be like I was talking to them from the grave... "Hey! I saw that"... "Call your grandmother".... "Do not spray paint the cat"....)  To be honest, I love to write.  I find it a much better way to express myself.  I can be completely uncensored, or very vague.  I can speak figuratively and literally at the same time. I can record tiny details that would otherwise go unnoticed, recreating an event as mundane as riding a bike and display it as a great adventure.

What I did not expect is to find a Common Connection with people I had never met.  The internet is full of so many other people like me and some not so like me, who could make me rethink my position on things, make me laugh, or make me cry simply by leaving a Comment. The blogging universe, I soon found out, was full of special people who supported each other and also championed the mundane.  They shared all their best how-to advice, and Confessed their vices without ever meeting each other face to face.

One of my most favorite Confessions, was my love of Cadbury eggs.  It was my favorite because it was the first time Stephanie Commented on one of my posts, also Confessing her love of the Chocolate Confection.  Flash forward a few months later, to a moment at a train station where she gave me her very last Cadbury egg of the season.  Yes, my Pen Pals, she flew her very last Cadbury over 1,000 miles to see me.

Me.


(and because she had a work conference in Boston.  But for the purposes of making me feel AWESOME, she flew here to meet me... Mkay?)

And she became my very first Collision of real life and imaginary life. It. Was. Fabulous. Like we were old friends, we caught up for lunch at Cheers, gossiped, and we hugged fearlessly just as Cinderita had Coached us.  And now, every time I see a Cadbury egg, I think of her. And when I saw this on Pinterest....

Image and instructions for this Cadbury in a Cupcake here...

I  thought maybe we should maybe start a nationwide support group.

So my Pen Pals...

That is why C is for Stephanie.

B is for "Box"....

Tony: "I like the third picture..."
Me: "Why?"
Tony: "Because you're out of your box."


And what exactly is my box? Exactly.  There's nothing wrong with my box.  It has four sides that are only a bit smooshed.  There's only a little bit of water damage in the corner from my multitudes of broken hearts, and really, no one even notices the hot fudge and ice cream residue any more.  Hell.  My box even has a lid that fits nice and snug and easily closes out the world when necessary.

And there in lies the issue.

I am really not an extrovert.  I like my box.  It's safe in there.  It's my own little world full of control and over calculated chances.  I have had it for many, many years.  No one picks on me there.  No one mocks, and everything gets done.  And if it doesn't, well I just close the lid so no one can see.

See.  The box is good.

Except when it's not.

Because my pen pals, when you open that box up for the world to see, and then decide to utilize it's paper "wings" to accommodate more people within it, it becomes overly apparent that the box is more of a hindrance.  Because if you stay safely tucked into your box so that nothing can happen to you, that is exactly what happens.  NOTHING.  Nothing good.  Nothing bad.  Nothing exciting, or wild, or boring, or musical.  Nothing that will make you look back and say "Remember when?" or "I can't believe I really did that."


Over the years I have had to open my box up to the world and show it off in all it's glorious technicolor. I have para-sailed, been tattooed and pierced, designed accessories for Bridal Gowns before they hit the run ways of New York, packed up the kids for spontaneous getaways, caught jumping water in my mouth at Disney World, and walked a red carpet in California.  And yet, I am nervous to talk to new neighbors, meet new people,  and have been paralyzed by having to go to the dump an laundromat on my own. Because those are things I am supposed to know, things that are easy to do, the other things, well, honestly aren't.

So, I hide in my box, controlling everything around me, keeping everyone safe and secure.  I forget about the world and all that goes on, until the kids come marching through my box with muddy shoes chanting something about needing this or that and 2,000 cupcakes in twenty minutes.  And that's when the safety and security of my box gets to be exhausting.  And overwhelming.  And... unrealistic.

And so,I once again am forced to step out of my box and ask for help. Luckily, I have a man who likes my box, who welcomes my box and sees it's potential despite it's limitations. For this I am eternally grateful.  Because asking for help, and relinquishing control is very, very, hard for me.  But I am learning that by allowing him in, I have more time for me.  More time to look at my box and see all that is missing, and who is missing.

My inner goddess.

Somewhere among the three inch layer of dust and amazon sized cobwebs, she has fallen asleep behind the tattered sofa.  I am happy to say that while she is still a bit cranky, she's is at the very least awake.  Today she decided we're beginning to look too much like the men we live with.  So she took me to try  threading.  I discovered it was good.  Really good.  Then she decided to update my foundations with some new lace and frills.  Again, good choice. 

Then she stopped at the Zumba place and signed me up for some lessons.

Yip.  She likes when I'm out of my box.  And while I'm still not quite ready to abandon the box all together, I'm thinking it's time for some new curtains, a fresh coat of paint, and maybe a dishwasher sized addition.

You know, like a west wing of the cardboard box....

...for the Zumba lessons.

A Is For "A-guess-ive".....

Picture from here...

Today it hit home that my Youngest, in 15 short days, will be all of two hands old.

Two hands.

Ten.

*sigh*

Where does the time go?

I think back to both of their early days, the days before they walked and talked.  I wanted so much for Oldest to gain his independence and sure enough, by eleven months old, he was barrelling down the hallway of our perfectly sized duplex-style ranch.  The windows in the living room, though perfectly placed looking in from the outside, had sills approximately 18 inches off the floor.  This made for a prime standing area, just high enough to pull himself up and gaze outside at all that went on outside.  He frequently banged the windows and talked loudly to the squirrels, much to the cranky old bitty pansy-ass man neighbor's dismay.  Already five months along with Youngest, I couldn't wait for him to talk, to be able to tell me what he needed.

And oh, man, now that he does talk... jeez, what was I thinking?

Soon enough, he began to talk. His first word was "but-ton", clear as day.  Quickly followed by "bawl" and "truk", of course not having fully mastered the "T" sound, it came out sounding more like his father's favorite adjective.  I stumbled upon a postcard from my sister weeks ago, sent to him while on her honeymoon in the Caymans.  It was simply signed, "XOXOX Ant-tee Bet, and Unca Muck". His special names for them are perhaps my sister's favorite memory of Oldest's toddler days. That, and his favorite phrase of amazement, "Oh. My. Fu*k.".

Youngest was a different animal all together.  Perhaps in an effort to keep up with his older brother and not get left out of anything, he walked at six months. His vocabulary however, was stunted. He was quiet, a thinker, he took it all in and reacted physically instead of verbally.  The kids never saw us fight before the divorce.  After the divorce was a different story, and they were often caught up in their father's tyrannical rants. While I tried as much as I could to remove and protect them from the chaos, often times it was futile.  I blame myself for much of Youngest's internalizing of his feelings.  He saw and processed more at 1 years old than any child should have.

After extensive tests, random hearing screenings, and much bribery, it was determined that he indeed, had nothing wrong with him.  He just didn't have anything to say, evidently.  But when he did, it was never less than entertaining.

He has always been an early riser.  It was common to find our lights on at 4 am, home in full swing.  But as worked picked up, and their day care days got longer, it became apparent that I needed to find creative ways to get more sleep if I had any hope of surviving until he was 6. So, in those early mornings I would turn on the Disney channel and find his favorite, Stanley.


Stanley, for those who may not know, was really big into animals.  He had a "Great Big Book Of Everything" that he could jump into and learn all about every animal on Earth.  And of course, Youngest and I made him his very own "Big Book" and cut out various pictures of animals he was learning about.

One day, I think he was maybe three at the time, while driving in the car, out of the blue he started up a conversation....

"Mom?"
"Yeah?"
"R swarks, aguessive or not aguessive?"
"What?"
"R tey agessive?"
"What?"
"R they car-nee-vores or do they eat care-rots?"
"OH! Most sharks are aggressive.  But some eat just snails, and not carrots or people."
"OK, tanks."

This was one of my favorite conversations with Youngest, because it sums up who he is.  He a complex thinker, always curious, and has a comprehensive vocabulary far beyond his years.  Like the time Tony was teaching him random Portuguese words and he came up with cabeca coucinho, loosely translated in English meaning "little butt head". A phrase he riddled his brother with for months.

A few nights ago while they were sitting on the couch, the usual banter went back and forth amongst the boys, Tony included.  There was mocking, there was spattering of sarcasm every where, and I'm thinking there was some faulty claiming of bodily gasses.    Oldest said something, I'm not sure what, Tony responded, and Youngest came back with a real zinger, totally throwing Tony under the bus.

Tony gasped.

*blinks*

Youngest replies... "What??? I'm just drivin' the bus."

To which a roar of laughter ensues.

Very a-guess-ive my young one, a-guess-ive indeed.

Still Here...

Still alive.

Not much to report....

Dumpster arrived, and Tony, being the Jenga master that he is, managed to pack the entire contents of the sun room demo into the front third of the dumpster.  This left 6 yards of dumpster to fill with anything and everything Tony could pry from my hands   random stuff that really needed to go.  When it was all said and done, we packed it completely to the top, and this morning as it was wheeled away, I had the sudden realization that I could once again park in the garage.

That is... once we finish staining the new table and corner bench.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Oldest crawled up next to me on the couch the other night as I was reading my book.

"Mom"
"Yeah."
"I had health class today."
"Okay..."
"They gave us the booklets..."
*blinks*
"Okay...."
Oldest sticks out his tongue and makes a gagging noise.
"It's just so gross...."


He's growing up so fast.  But for now, I'm still relived and reveling in the fact that he still thinks it's all so gross. I'm hoping it stays that way until he's like... twenty.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I have not been on the computer much lately.  Just for a few minutes a day to scan emails and such.  This is mostly due to the fact that the kids have commandeered my computer stating that the house lap top is "wicked slow".  And also due to the fact that I am completely sucked into the Fifty Shades Trilogy.  I will catch up at some point over the weekend, promise.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Discover card sent me an email wanting a payment this month.  I paid over 50% of my bill two days ago, yet they still want more. *sigh*

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For lent I have given up all things politics.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

March is set to be a busy month.  I will be making my niece's first communion gown from my sister's wedding dress. Bonus Brother needs another costume for Anime Boston. Youngest turns TEN. Holy cow. I have a friend visiting that I have not seen in 11 years with her son, whom I've never met. Bonus Brother's finishing up his drivers education driving time. I was forced to take three days off for school being closed and my lack of day care. Then of course, there's the rest of the kitchen floor to finish. And, oh yeah, these kids still want to eat.

I had entertained the thought of the A-Z blogging challenge that's going around.  For those who don't know, you post everyday the entire month of April, skipping only Sundays.  The first day, your post is inspired by the letter A and so on, until you get to the end of the month with Z.

Then I thought, WHO AM I KIDDING?  I can't even color coordinate my socks on a daily basis.  So I've decided to do my own thing, starting with my next post, and continuing as I feel like it. This will most likely interfere with Truth is Thursdays, but feel free to continue your own, I do so love reading them!

We'll call it the ABC's of me...


Ready?

Getting Lucky...

With three kids between us, aging parents, working full time, and the normal complexities of life, Tony and I know all full well, that if we don't make time for each other, no one will. So, on a somewhat regular basis, Tony and I will do just that.  Ideally, we will grab a sitter and take off for the night, but even if it is just for a few hours to have dinner to ourselves, we try to do this at least once a month.  We were successful at this for about the first 6 years of our relationship. We took in many concerts, sporting events and movies, usually on my ex-husband's weekends.  About two years ago things went south for him, he lost all his over night visitation, and we lost our built-in sitter, and now of course, he's deceased. Still determined, we still try though to have date nights and get away, just the two of us.

Until we got married.

And for the last six months we have gone NO WHERE without children.

Not even to dinner.

So, with Valentine's day upon us, and also our six month wedding anniversary (was that not the fastest six months ever???) we decided to get away.  Twenty four hours of not worrying about anyone else but ourselves.  No fighting kids.  No talk of work.  The ability to watch whatever show we wanted on TV, at any hour of the day. The ability to walk around in our underwear, or no undies at all.

So, on Thursday we headed for the state line, armed with only toothbrushes and a teeny tiny working class wad of cash.

Foxwoods Casino, here we come.

After safely checking in to our hotel, drawn by the daunting neon lights and jingling of slot machines, we headed to the casino.  Having skipped lunch, we decided to splurge on a nice early dinner. We dined in a corner booth doted on by several wait staff.  He chose the baked cod with lobster, while I indulged in the special of the day, a nice porter house with garlic mashed potatoes, with a side of spinach topped with pan seared scallops.  It may have been the best meal I had ever eaten.

After dinner we decided to try our luck at the slot machines.  He won a little, I lost it all.  He won some more, I lost some more.  He won again, and we decided to cash out and see a comedy show.  Sitting in the high top tables in the back was nice, as you're too far to be heckled, and yet still close enough to see the stage.  And it was dark enough to still snuggle like teenagers.  After the show, we wandered the tables a bit before returning to our room and the peace and quiet of each other.

Sunlight poured through the tiny crack in the black out style drapes at the lovely hour of 7am.  Gazing out the window revealed a snow covered landscape, steep in contrast to the fifty degree day we had just had.  We returned to the casino, hit our usual buffet for breakfast before again, heading to the tables after a quick stop at a photo booth.  Having found his favorite Let It Ride table, Tony settled in nicely while I walked the resort.  I window shopped for a bit as nothing was open yet, and eventually plopped myself in front of yet another slot machine.

It was a Sex In The City penny slot machine.  It had four screens, each played twenty lines, and it had some sort of video screen on the top that played clips from the show, as well as boasting some sort of progressive payout for each of  the characters.  Careful inspection of the machine revealed that if I was not careful, I could in fact bet $12 a hand on this "penny" machine.  I decided to start out slow and only play the first screen.  After a couple of spins, I got bold and played all four.

And then the lights went off.

The video screen on top started talking and spinning a wheel.

It landed on Mr. Big.

Then it told me to pick a case off the screen.

The case opened.

More lights went off.

Firework noises sounded from behind my head.

And the bells, and dings ticked off for a long time.

CASH. OUT.

CASH OUT.

CASH OUT!!!!

I could not hit the button fast enough.

I returned to Tony just as he was leaving the tables.  He had done well, doubling his money. He attempted to give me half, as this was what we have always done, but I refused.  As we walked to the car, we tallied the gains and losses of the weekend.  So far the weekend was by far our cheapest (less than $400 spent) and we even broke even on gambling.

When we reached the car, I gave him his half.

"What's this?"
"Your half"
"My half of what?"
"I hit the progressive payout on a penny slot machine."
"WHAT!  GET OUT! YOU'RE KIDDING ME!...NO WAIT! YOU'RE SERIOUS. YOU JUST HANDED ME MONEY!!!!!"
"I won $1,131"
"I can't believe you kept a straight face this whole time.  I'd have been running through the casino, ticket in hand, screaming "HONEY! LOOK WHAT I WON!"

We laughed a lot on the way home and I couldn't help but think how great it was to spend this time with him.  And while I am no fool, and would never turn down a thousand dollars...

....he truly is the best prize of all.