Where The Heart Is

Posted by in Pokerish

The more I travel, the more I come to realize that right here is where I really belong. The sight of the first bluebonnets of the season is that much sweeter when you woke up in cold snowy Newark. I had a great time visiting Heather, seeing NYC [where I rode the subway several times, but thankfully never the F train, as it likely would have died on the middle of the track due to a loss of power], and spending two days in Atlantic City. I’ll maybe kinda sorta consider a more extensive write-up later, but right now I have an adorable dog who has missed me and a body rejoicing at getting out of that damn sweatshirt and bra and into a tank top. But in the interest of providing a Monday morning chuckle, I point you to my Flickr stream, and recount the following –

At the B bar in the Borgata, with Al and BG:
Me: “I like Atlantic City. It’s just like Vegas; only ruder.”
BG: “Well, you are in New Jersey.”

And my favorite exchange of the weekend, the one that is likely to make me randomly giggle for at least the next week… needs a little bit of background first.
Saturday, St. Patrick’s Day, found me in the Borgata poker room playing a few hands before the impending arrival of Al and BG. Once I got word that the boys had arrived, I left the poker room and immediately headed for the B bar fully intending to consume a steady flow of alcohol for the remainder of the day. Thus, at 4pm Eastern time I texted JoeSpeaker to see if it was too early in California for a dial-a-shot. I was told indeed it was, as there was a t-ball game going on and apparently the league frowns on a parent bringing his own flask to knock back shots every time his phone rings. Those of us on the East Coast moved on; specifically to Red Square at the Tropicana. As it was now 8pm Eastern, I thought a second try was in order, so after finally securing a cell signal, fired off another text message to Mr. Speaker asking if it was okay now. The reply came:

Haha. Not yet. At moms bday party. DRY bday party. 3 hours from beer.

I read the message. Being a native English speaker, I took it all in, made sense of the words, how they fit in the sentence, etc. I got the general gist – no – but I was hung up on one part. I could not, for the life of me, figure out what the fuck a D-R-Y birthday party was. I mean, I’d heard of BYOB, and DUI, and since we had been talking about dial-a-shots, and I (along with everyone within a 20 yard radius of me) had been drinking like a champ that evening, I figured this DRY had something to do with it, but I couldn’t make it out… Drink Really… or something something Your? I was stumped. I handed the phone to Heather, showed her the message, and told her of my problem. “What the hell does D-R-Y mean?” She too was not immediately familiar with this acronym. For about twenty seconds, our brains both went to work at it, faces showing we were completely stumped. Finally, a few of my brain cells floated up through the Malibu and cranberry, reached the surface and triggered the lightbulb. “Oooooooooooooooooooohhhhh!!” Cue hysterical laughter.

BG returned to us and we decided to try him and see if he too found Speaker’s message mysteriously cryptic. “He means ‘dry’. As in, no liquor. And it’s in all caps for emphasis.” Cue BG’s eye-rolling, head-shaking “girls” look.

Upon relaying the story to Mr. Speaker later that evening, he laughed and then asked “And did you continue drinking?” to which I replied “Of course!”

Maybe not our proudest moment, but definitely one of the most memorable.