Gambles with Hmong

We don't have any normal family holiday traditions. You know what I mean. Things like the annual family snow golf game, a group reading of the Night Before Christmas, or cramming stockings with gag gifts. Heck, we don't even hang stockings. Nope. None of that happens in my family. It's hard enough to get my husband or son to help put up a tree. They couldn't be less interested.

The closest thing we have to an annual holiday tradition is spending Christmas morning at the local casino. While others are in church celebrating, my husband and I gather our gambling money (set aside for just such occasions) and drive downtown to make our monthly donation to the local Native American tribe.

If you've never gambled on Christmas Day let me describe the experience. The usual suspects are not there. No WASPS, no Baptists (do Baptists gamble?), no Episcopals either. There may be a Presbyterian or two, but they are hard to find. I'm sure the Unitarians are represented, but they must be hanging out in the buffet. Also missing are the ragtag riffraff that usually hog the 1 cent video poker games. The well-heeled who languish in the high stakes poker room and the $5 slots aren't there either. No sir. It's just us, a few Chinese (the lady who owns our local Chinese restaurant can always be found at the blackjack table) and almost every Hmong person who lives within shouting distance of our fair city. How do I know they are Hmong? I can't explain it but just like some people have "gaydar" I have "Hmongdar". I can (for reasons unclear to me) distinguish Hmong from Korean, from Chinese and Japanese. A gift I guess.

Hmong are skilled, fierce gamblers. They are in it to win. On days other than Christmas, my husband avoids tables with Hmong. It's not about prejudice, it's about giving yourself a fighting chance. It's also about being able to keep up with the Trangs. Their money flows (ours trickles). Serious, focused gamblers take no prisoners. They bet big. If you can't afford to lose you shouldn't go on Christmas. (Maybe you shouldn't ever go...)But on Christmas the rules change. He has to gamble at tables with the Hmong. Afterwards he grumbles.

I don't gamble at tables anymore. I won't play blackjack because I'm sure I will embarass myself. I don't add quickly. I can't figure out the cards fast enough to make good decisions.I can't count on always remembering that that damned Ace has two possible values. If you can't add and think (all while chewing gum), don't play Blackjack. This has now become part of my life philosophy.

I used to like Let It Ride but you can't put your elbows on the table and rest your head in your hands when you play this. Since I do not understand what resting my head in my hands has to do with screwing up the game, I no longer participate. My head is heavy because there is so much crap in it and my neck is weak...I need to rest my heavy head from time to time. Don't we all?

There was a time when I was SURE that Roulette was my game. Now, if you know anything about casino games, the odds for Roulette are TOTALLY with the house. You don't stand a flying freak of a chance to really win. It's a sucker's game. I loved it. (Big sucking sounds) I, like so many others, had a "system" that usually worked for me. No - it didn't involve statistically analyzing the frequency of the winning numbers. That would take math (see above paragraph). I bet small, spread out my minimum bets over a series of personally meaningful numbers and NEVER bet on a single number, always a combination. Slowly, over a period of time, I would accrue (big math word, "accrue")small winnings , which I would set aside. I only allowed myself to play with the money I brought. Eventually my money would double. I would quit and leave the table feeling smug.

If you play Roulette on Christmas, things change. Hmong bet BIG and they do it on single numbers. And damn it, they win. Big. Their enthusiasm and skill at this game would eventually convince me that I too should be betting single numbers. So I did. They won. I didn't. Merry Christmas.

When I was younger I didn't gamble. I had few discretionary funds. I did't like losing. And I'd have preferred a mink on my back than a monkey on my shoulder. (Who knew that one day it would be "ok" to have the monkey but to wear the mink would be unconscionable?) Gambling was a midlife acquired "hobby". I do it sparingly because I no longer win. In fact, I am not allowed to come near my husband or any of our friends when they are actively gambling. I am known, in my small circle of friends, as "The Cooler". My mere presence disrupts the positive energy that people are experiencing when on a hot winning streak. My energy trumps theirs. I am a pariah. While this is not something I am proud of, I will tell you that I have used it to my financial advantage. I make them give me money to stay away from them. I can now leave the Casino with a pocketful of cash without once touching a machine. I am golden this way. I am always a winner.

I Don't

There are a lot of things I don't do. I don't do some of them for darn good reasons. The others, well, maybe my reasons are weaker, but they're still MY reasons.

As a rule, I don't send Christmas cards. I don't like them. I'm not even sure I like getting them because there is always the possibility that one of them will contain the dreaded Christmas Letter. I hate Christmas letters. Apparently they fill someone's need to boast, brag and generally bore me to tears with the sheer` perfection of their life. Honestly, do I really care that John and Mary went Spring skiing in Vail? Or that little Jessica won the school spelling bee? I don't even know little Jessica! If people were really honest in those letters they would tell you how bored they are, or how crappy their job is or how lazy their kids are. Now that would be fun to read. One year in a burst of madness I wrote a Christmas letter. And I mean A Christmas letter. I sent it to my friend Terri because she was the only person who would appreciate my candor. I was careful to frame everything in the same positive, chipper language that is found in the Christmas letters I've received. I remember talking about all our family adventures at the local jail where my son was languishing for a recent brush with the cops and marijuana. (Oh those crazy, fun-loving cops!!) I talked about the joy I was experiencing while sailing through the latest corporate reorganization at the hospital where I worked and how cool it was that Administration was going to make us re-apply for our jobs!!. I emphasized the enormous pleasure I was getting from knowing how much my Mom was enjoying her romp through AlzheimersLand where she had made a new BFF - her reflection in the mirror. Yes, it was a real knee slapper. My audience of one truly enjoyed it.

I don't give dinner parties. I don't like entertaining. It freaks me out. What if I screw up dinner? What if the Flan flops, or the appetizers aren't? Oh no, that is way too much pressure. But, I will gladly, and thankfully attend a dinner party at YOUR house where all I have to do is bring wine and eat.

I don't swim. I have a cellular fear of drowning...proof positive that in a former life I drowned. I like to look at water. I like to drink water. I love showers. But do not expect me to slip the bonds of dry land and enjoy the pool - or the ocean for that matter. I cannot walk on water (not yet anyway). I may be made of mostly water but this is of no consequence. I don't stand anywhere near the side of a pool because you will push me in and think it's funny. I will freak out and never speak to you again. I will spend the rest of my life looking for ways to pay you back.

I do not fund raise. I will not sell you cookies or chocolate, or popcorn, or cheap wrapping paper. I will not ask you to give to my favorite charity. When faced with the prospect of asking anyone for anything I will instead, shoulder the financial burden myself. When my son was little I bought so many chocolate bars and tins of popcorn that there is a possibility that some still exist in the bowels of my basement freezer. On the other hand, I will always buy whatever you are selling because I have trouble saying 'no'.

I do not eat anything that is still outwardly intact...or that I once knew. A stuffed trout with it's head still on, that stares back at me with rheumy, dead, eyes is not on my gastronomical menu. Ditto for crayfish, dungeness crab, or (heaven forbid) a pig that has been roasting on a spit all day. I think pig roasts are repulsive. How would you like to end your life with a metal rod shoved up your butt spining slowly over an open fire pit while onlookers drool? Ugh. Another "don't" is duck. As a child I owned (at various times) ducks. Every Easter my Grandmother would buy me a duckling...it was often pink, purple or green because it was dyed to make it more appealing (go figure). Back then, we didn't know any better and you could pick these things up at Woolworth's for a buck. When the duckling got too big, off it would go to a farm until the next year when the new duckling would arrive courtesy of the Easter Bunny. I never knew that people ATE duck until I was an adult. The first time I encountered a roasted duck I ran from the table. The next time it was simply served to me (looked like chicken) and after finding out what I was eating I promptly barfed. No duck, no way. You get the picture.

I don't bake. Nuh uh. Baking requires one's full attention. Ingredients must be measured precisely. Cooking time is finite. Even bumping the stove can mess something up. Way too much attention to detail for my taste. I'm the kind of person who doesn't know (or care to know) the difference between baking powder and baking soda. I'm told there is a big difference. I don't really want to find out. I often give my friends recipes for things I wish I wanted to bake. Sometimes they actually bake it for me. Not often enough, though. Too bad. I might make "loves to bake" a requirement for my next BFF.

Well, that's a partial list of my don'ts. There are many more. Being older allows me to be quirkier than I was at say, twenty five. At twenty-five I might have done some of this to make you like me. Now, if you don't like me, that's your problem. I don't need anyone's approval to be me. Really, I don't.

Got Soul Mate?

Somewhere along the line someone decided that we all have "soul mates". A soul mate is the ONE person with whom we have a deep connection, someone we are fated to be with, someone who completes us. Have you found yours? How's that working for you?

It's been my experience that whomever we are dating, whomever we are currently in love with is the person we refer to as our soul mate. When this relationship ends or drags on and becomes mundane and boring, we re-consider and search, yet again, for that one individual we were meant to be with.

I personally have had several people whom I believed (at the time) to be my predestined other half. I married a few of them and dated the others. As for that feeling of "completeness", it lasted a few years each and every time. From this I have concluded that soul mates are no more viable than the Prince Charmings in the fairy tales. Beauty found her soul mate in a Beast of a man (Aren't they all, in the end I mean?) Cinderella found her soul mate (or is that sole mate) when a good looking guy slipped a breakable shoe on her delicate little foot. Of course there is always the Governor of South Carolina who found his soul mate on the Argentine Applachian Trail. Ever wonder how these stories played out (or will play out). Betcha that once the drama is over and the day to day stuff of life takes over, the fairy tale ending changes....Real life isn't a Fairy Tale....I am so cynical.

A few years ago in Arkansas, some avid birdwatchers, long on a quest for the elusive and possibly extinct Ivory Billed Woodpecker, were convinced they had located the bird. People came from all over to help search and although they claim to have not only spotted but filmed the bird, conclusive evidence has not been found. And still they search. Soul-mate hunters are no different. While it is hard to produce conclusive evidence of the Ivory Billed Husband/Mate a legion of women still believe He exists. Midlife does not dampen the soul-mate quest. For some women I know midlife only intensifies the search. After all, time is short. If he IS out there the need to find him drives some women to the brink.

For a few of my friends, the need to believe that they have snagged Mr.Wonderful has blinded them to any flaws or cracks in their mates' veneers. The need to convince themselves that He is The One meant only for Them borders on hysteria. The quest to have the perfect marriage overwhelms any grasp on reality. And then, years later, when he turns out to be Mr. Not-So-Wonderful their fantasy worlds are shattered. And they resume the search for the elusive soul-mate. Why do this to yourself????

I have a few friends/acquaintances who swear they are married to their soulmates. Good for them. I, an astute observer of reality and finder of facts, know that some of these perfect relationships have deep flaws. No one is perfect. Souls wear out. Souls have holes.

And what about mature men? Quick name five men whom you know who are searching for their soul-mates...okay, then name two. Difficult? Yep. In general men don't harbor the same illusions as women. They appear to have fewer needs and fewer expectations. They are far more pragmatic and far less likely to be disappointed. Men are basically simple. Once they're done screwing their brains out and decide to settle down, they look for someone they love, might want to have kids with someday and who won't embarass them in front of their friends. A few might even look for someone they can actually talk to. (Don't count on this) Simple wants for simple creatures. "Honey, bring me another beer", seems to meet most of their relationship needs. (Now that I think about it, maybe this is why men die sooner. No fire in the belly, just beer)

So what's a woman to do? Give up? Naw, that would be foolish. Giving up is wrong; getting real is highly recommended. We're not teenagers. We know by now that "happy endings" means something totally different than being swept off our feet and riding into the sunset. We know there is a second act. At 40+ it might be wise to concentrate on the second act and write off the first act to fairy tales and little girl fantasies. The second act is what matters. The second act is real.

As the curtain rises on the second act women are more grounded. We have a much better idea of who we are and who we want to become. To accomplish our "becoming" we need a strong partner. A good friend. A person who finds joy in watching us (shall I say it?) self-actualize. A person who is always there when we need him and who loves us with morning breath and finds us beautiful even with a saggy tummy and cottage cheese thighs. Of course, it doesn't hurt if this person still makes our toes curl and yell out for God when we make love. (But even if he doesn't, there is something to be said for quiet, familiar and cozy love-making.)

The man in the second act is probably the closest thing a woman will find to approximate an authentic soul mate (as opposed to a fantasy one). After all, He's still here and still involved. He knows us. We can still count on him and he on us. Our partnership is strong. If all this exists after the passion and intensity has waned, then maybe, just maybe, this is what we should be thankful for.
If we want to call this guy a soul mate, then have at it. They are only words. We give them meaning. Words don't hold a relationship together, love does.

Of course, you can always get a dog.