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Los Angeles, California
I am 47 and thriving in Southern California. One day at a time.
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Monday, December 19, 2011

vegas, maybe?

"hi, vegas: welcome to not so fabulous, henriette".

or "four days out of rehab and i'm sleeping in sin city".

[a.k.a. i literally can't believe my life]

my one condition for doing the l.a.-winnipeg christmas slog was that i MUST hit a meeting every day.

and hit it hard.

then came vegas...

and as the strip's midway glare hijacked all thoughts of serenity, like a twirling rolodex, my brain rocketed frenetic through vegas adventures past.

"there's the killers's concert you went to at hard rock...", exclaimed, k.

yup. the one where i got so drunk, i peed down the back of my jeans in the port-o-potty. classy.

"south point!", kevin exclaimed, joyously.

the hotel where i shoved so many fiorinol into my glassy-eyed face, as i black-kohl-ed away from my loathed reflection. dressing up my zombie eyes with glitter and powder and catatonia in cerulean blue. orbited so sky high, that husband could spot his loaded lady away and far across a loud, drunken, crowded casino.

"we should stay at the four seasons again", dreams my excited, beautiful man.

the scene of my official spiral into the unofficial drink of siberia. frozen fingertips, clutching my icy salve; sporting my cossack with pride as the word "da", like a thawing icicle, never ceases to drip from my freezing tongue. bloodymarys poolside. martinis for lunch. and don't ever stop the vodka sodas with extra lime. it was the trip where i unequivocally drank my husband under the table...under the table, across the room, out the door, down the private elevator and lying face first in a gutter on las vegas blvd...

not as glamorous as nic cage made it seem in "leaving las vegas"...

and he ended up dead.

but as we curved a quiet back street on the way to maggie's first hotel sleep, he made one more observation,

"motel 6! you went running here one morning. i was so worried about you."

i laughed, "you are always worried about me".

and of all the hundreds of runs in my life, i remembered circulating my playlist over to ABBA that morning. and i was busting. busting like an ol' skool pop, chompin' on a cigar, skipping, handing out stogies to a hundred of his closest friends.

unbridled joy.

i've had that. fuck, it. i've had that in vegas. so i said,

"well, that's one good vegas memory".

what happens in vegas, definitely stays in vegas...

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