Hurricane Irene devastates the Albany area

But first, that’s right, folks. We were at LEGOLAND in Carlsbad, California, last weekend. I had a great time (in a “What the eff has my life come to?” sort of way) and I’m working on a funny post that you’re sure to love. But right now there’s something more timely to talk about, and that’s the flooding from Hurricane Irene in upstate New York.

Everyone was worried about what the storm would do to New York City, but the downstate area pretty much got off the hook. Upstate, however, is ravaged, especially around Albany and the Catskills, where one town got over a foot of rain.

For those of you not up on your New York State geography, my hometown of Albany is 150 miles due north of Manhattan on the west bank of the Hudson River, just south of where the Mohawk River meets the Hudson. Some trees were knocked down during the storm last weekend, but the real damage came—and is still coming—from the resulting floods.

This is a popular drive-up restaurant on the banks of the Mohawk River in Scotia, NY, not too far from the company I telecommute for. I ate here several times on my lunch hour when I was back East last summer.

And here’s how it looked yesterday.

Flooding has to be the worst. What a mess.

My family is fine, thank God. My daughter, Courtney, had the closest call. She and her family live in a rural area outside of Albany that was hit very hard because there are several creeks running through there. Her front and back yards were flooded, as was their barn. They evacuated Sunday night, but thankfully, they returned Monday morning to find their house untouched.

Not far from Courtney, a woman was swept to her death by the raging Onesquethaw Creek as she prepared to leave her home to seek shelter at the local elementary school. According to this article, she was last seen leaving her house and “like that, she was gone.”  So sad.

My son and his girlfriend expect to close on a house in that area sometime this week. Fortunately, their place is on higher ground. I guess the good news is, they know it can withstand both a flood and an earthquake. Yep, Albany felt the quake centered in Virginia last week—my company and several other offices even evacuated.

What the hell, huh?

You know, when we hear of these natural disasters, it’s human nature to get a little charged up. The folks are The Weather Channel get positively giddy, don’t they? In a sick way, we’re even a wee bit disappointed when things peter out and the devastation doesn’t quite live up to the hype of the predictions. But man, we tend to forget how serious these events are and how they can change people’s lives, sometimes in a way where they’ll never be the same.

I always say that if you wake up in the morning, can see yourself in the mirror and can take a proper piss and shit… well, right there you have nothing to complain about. It’s already a great day.

I know I have a lot of readers who’ve been affected by not only this storm, but by those crazy tornadoes early this summer. My heart goes out to all of you. Stay safe.

Where in the world was I last weekend?

I know.  I completely missed my Saturday post.  I hate that I did that; I really, really try to post on a regular schedule.  Between moving, working, having Connor here and taking the kids on a little trip, I completely dropped the ball.  I promise I'll write a proper post tomorrow. 

In the meantime, any guesses to where the hell I was last weekend?  (Or was I right here in Las Vegas?)

What were you in a previous life?

There’s a question for you. The topic came up the other night as Mike and I were working on the house. He’s convinced he’s had a previous life in the Excalibur era. (How else would you explain all the swords and shields?) As for me, this is what I wrote in my book:

I’d been drawn to the West my whole life; as a kid my imaginary friends were cowboys and sheriffs. I often told people, proudly and with absolute certainty, that in a former life I was a saloon girl. It made total sense, given my childhood obsession with Bonanza and my comfort level as an adult in the tavern environment. Not to mention my passion for lipstick. Then a couple of years ago someone took me aside and told me, to my surprise, that those women were prostitutes. Although I remain quite certain of that past life, I now keep the admission to myself.

It sounds weird, but I really do believe I've lived before in the Wild West. When I arrived in Wyoming ten years ago, I had a definitely sense of being home.  Oh, Wyoming--I will visit you again someday, I swear.  I also wouldn’t be surprised if I were a Salem witch. Just a feeling; that probably ties in somehow with my fear of organized religion.

Ever wonder about those people who participate in Renaissance fairs (something Mike used to do) (!) and Civil War re-enactments?  I’ll be honest with you—I’ve always thought those folks are a bit… different. But maybe people who are comfortable in another era aren’t really oddballs; maybe they feel that way because of a familiarity with a past life. Dressing up in those clothes, speaking that way, and reliving battles… maybe it’s all stuff they’ve done before.

What do you think? Do you feel you’ve experienced past lives? What were you before you were you?

Welcome to my world

Last night we were up till freakin' 2 o'clock in the morning arranging the formal living room.  And I do mean formal, people.  Remember last Thursday's post when I told you about the very significant differences in Mike's and my taste in home decor?  Southwest meets medieval Gothic?  Well, here's a glimpse of how one room came together.

I call this the "I'm sorry for your loss corner."  Just position a pleasantly somber man in a suit nearby and replace the kids' pictures with a sign-in book and we've got a scene straight from Six Feet Under.

My contribution to this corner is the Southwest hand.  Mike had to settle for a baby grand piano only because he couldn't find an operational harpsichord.

"Gomez, darling, would you light the candelabra?"

We had to rub my fake dog Stiff's nose in his fake poop for this one.  Really, Stiff?  Next to Joan of Arc?

Somehow it all comes together.  I keep telling Mike we need some color in here, but he insists that beige is a color.

And now for something completely different...

The guest room, designed by Linda Lou and Mike's 6-year-old daughter.  (His kids call this "the cool room."  Duh.)  Yeah, that's a shag area rug.  Yeah, that's a papasan chair.  Yeah, that's a blow-up bed.  You can't see my collection of crystals from this angle, but they're there.  Okay, maybe I'm a little stuck in the 70s, but at least it's the 1970s, not the 70s of the fifteenth century.

Mike is a saint, I tell you.  I tease him about his taste, but God knows it's classier than mine.

My grandson Connor will be sleeping there tonight--yay!  He arrives at 4:10 today.  I cannot wait.  Good thing his biological clock will be set three time zones ahead of ours--I think it's going to be an early night.  I'm exhausted!

House is coming along... and a celebrity look-alike

I am so diggin' this new house of ours.  How could I not?  We still have so much to set up, but it's coming along, slowly but surely.  The master bedroom is just about done; Mike just has to hook up the TV and we're pretty much good to go.

We've been able to blend our contrasting tastes in decor quite well.  Mike's pictures are above the bed and to the right of the bed; they're of old-timey guys on horses with their hunting dogs (how masculine).  The pictures above the couch and the dresser are mine; they're of Bell Rock in Sedona and tepees.  Somehow it all comes together.

On the other side of the couch is a sliding glass door to a balcony. Mike put a little refrigerator out there, which is stocked with dark beer and Two Buck Chucks from Trader Joe's.  This is the view looking toward the mountains.

And here I'm looking at the Strip.

Pretty cool.  Nothing can compare to the view I had at Linda Land, but you're not going to hear me complain--I can't believe I wake up here every day! 

Like I said, we still have a shitload of stuff to do, and I really want to get almost all of it done before my grandson Connor arrives on Tuesday.  He'll be here until September 3, and then I'm going back with him to spend some time in Albany.  I haven't seen little Hazel since April--I miss her so much! 

Hey, speaking of Connor... There's a teen idol kid named Grayson Chance who I swear is a dead ringer for my boy.  You may have seen him on Ellen a couple of times.

I can't get over it--the resemblance is really freaky.  Love that Connor's shirt is folded over so it says "Proud to be Awesone."  Grayson Chance wishes he were that awesone!

Hope you're all having a great weekend!  Now back to work for me...

I TOLD you we're a reality show waiting to happen...

Moving is never simple, but thanks to Purgefest 2010, I’m down to my essentials so vacating Linda Land is no big deal. My beloved Michael, however, is a bit of a pack rat. He has a ton of possessions he’s collected over the years as well as all the stuff that goes with having little kids. We’re moving into a big house, though, and there’s room for everything. Almost.

It’s fun putting a new place together; I look at it as a creative endeavor. Sure, lugging heavy crap up and down stairs is a pain, but I consider it exercise. Something has to make up for my atrocious nutritional habits lately—it’s hard to cook when you’re moving, so we’ve been eating out and hitting the fast food joints a lot lately. I feel fat as Elvis after Christmas dinner.

I’m digging it, though, especially the challenge of merging our two different—make that polar opposite—tastes in home décor. I don’t have time to post pictures today, but I go for vibrant, playful Southwest colors and designs and Mike’s taste is pure medieval. I’m talking giant heavy brass mirrors, statues, and swords. Lots of swords. And shields. I fully expect to come home some day to find he’s installed a moat and drawbridge.

With the exception of the TV and the sectional couch in the family room, every bit of Mike’s furniture looks like it was from a nineteenth century New England estate sale. I know it’s all good, expensive stuff, but I find it so depressing. Everything—everything—is some shade of brown. Okay, his ensemble in the formal living room is a cheery brownish, tanish gray.

When I saw the glass sofa table and Victorian wing chair arrangement he set up in one corner, I said, “I’m looking for the guest book.”

Huh?

“You know, the guest book you sign when you walk into a wake.” I pointed to the candelabra. “We can lay out the body over there.”

I’m talkin’ total 1942 funeral parlor, people.

So you can see it’s a bit of a challenge. Like where exactly do I put my crystals and native American sand paintings and Kokopellis? Where’s the best place for the funky green shag carpet I bought a couple of years ago at Walmart? How do you think my beloved fake dog, Stiff, is gonna look next to Mike’s statue of Joan of Arc on a marble pedestal? (Stiff would look awesome on that pedestal, BTW.)

These are the challenges I face. To put it in perspective, all Obama has to do is fix the economy.

Mike is so, so good about my crap. It has to drive him nuts, but (unlike me) he never says a word. Seriously—this is no exaggeration—except for my car, TV and laptop, I might not have one possession worth more than fifty bucks. But it’s all priceless—it brings me joy.

And you know what? I’m not so sure that Mike’s possessions—as fine and aristocratic as they are—bring him joy. Sure, I know he’s fond of a few things, but I get the impression that most of it was purchased to fill space. He holds onto stuff because he got a good deal on it, not because he loves it. So in a way, my crap is actually more valuable. My crap brings me joy.

Still, Mike’s a freakin’ saint. Just for yuks, last night I told him I found this really cool decoration I want to buy.

“You know those pictures of dogs playing cards?” I said, brimming with enthusiasm. “It’s like that except it’s battery operated and—get this—the dogs’ cigars actually light up.”

I shouldn’t do that to him. He has small children and I’m not current on my CPR.

Can you accept good fortune or do you wait for the bottom to fall out?

Albany, NY: Spring, 1978. I was 20 years old, living with my 23-year-old husband, Chris, and our beautiful baby, Christopher, who had been born in February. At that point, I was not yet pregnant with Courtney. Or maybe I was and didn’t know it; Courtney arrived in March 1979.

We were paying $220 a month for a very nice 2-bedroom apartment on South Allen Street near St. Peter’s Hospital. Besides food and clothing, housing was our only expense. We didn’t even have a car—Chris took the bus every morning to Bruno Machinery, where he worked in the warehouse. I remember he took home $108 per week.

Then one day he called with good news. He’d gotten a raise, a huge raise. He’d now be taking home close to $150.

I got off the phone and cried. I couldn’t believe it. This is too good to be true. Instead of jumping for joy, I became consumed with the fear that in only a matter of time, something would happen to spoil our good fortune.

Stupid, huh? Doesn’t the universe want only the best for us? Don’t our angels rejoice when things go our way? But forget that spiritual shit—Chris was a hard worker. He deserved that raise. So why not accept the inevitable?

Last weekend Mike and I set up the living room in the 4,000 sq. ft. Beverly Hillbillies mansion we’re renting. It’s coming along beautifully, and as I stepped back to admire our work, I had a flashback of my fear from more than 33 years ago.

This time I shooed it away. We deserve this. We work hard; we’ve been working hard for years. We’re educated people in our 50s with master’s degrees from smarty-pants schools (Stanford University and Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute). And hell, the rent is less than what each of us were paying separately. We chose this place. We created this life for ourselves. Our angels are rejoicing and so should we.

We are; we rejoice and give thanks. I walk around that place and think, Thank you, God… Thank you, God… Thank you, God. There’s nothing wrong with being grateful, but what a shame it would be to let fear spoil our happiness.

What about you? Can you accept the wonderful things that come your way without a bit of fear? Do you truly believe you deserve good fortune? Tell me your story!

Movin' on up... explained

Have you been losing sleep the past couple of nights, wondering how the hell the Beverly Hillbillies house came to be?  Per yesterday's little poll, most of you thought I'd be house sitting for a friend or sharing the house with girlfriends.  Two guessed correctly:  I'm back with Mike and we're renting a house together.

I've already heard from the chorus of skeptics:

"I can't believe you're giving up Linda Land."
"You and Mike have broken up so many times.  That's never a good sign."
"Why would you ever want to live with small children again?"
"Are you sure you want to do this?"
"Better you than me."

I certainly don't have to defend myself, as you and I both know.  But you're my loyal, beloved readers and my life is literally an open book.  I have no problem telling you what's going on; as I've said before, I hope some of you can be inspired by my life and/or learn from my mistakes.

It's true--Mike and I have split up so many times over the past two and a half years that my friends can hardly keep track of our current status.  I was always the one to break it off.  Why? I've written before about geniuses who appear to have not one iota of common sense. Mix that in with total disorganization, streams of consciousness that wear me out to the point where my ears are bleeding, obsession with Black Ops and working on trigonometry problems (!) when God knows there's more important things to do, absolutely no concept of time, and chronic tardiness (yeah, I said tardiness and I'm not even a school teacher).  As much as I loved him, it was more than I could handle.

Our very first break-up was over his showing up late for a date, and that was just the beginning.  "Why the hell can't you be anywhere on time?" I've often asked.  No, shouted.  I'm neurotic about being on time and respecting other people's time.  When he'd arrive how many minutes late or even entirely forget we were supposed to do something, I came to the conclusion that I simply wasn't important enough.  Fuck that--I am important and if I can't be treated well, I'm out of there.  I was living on a baseline of frustration, with occasional spikes of happiness.  I deserved better.

"How hard is it to get someplace on time?  It's like you're half genius and the other half is fucking retarded!" I've screamed, my chest heaving in anger.  "What's wrong with you?"
 
When he totally forgot his daughter's kindergarten graduation because he was working out at the gym, I realized something is, in fact, wrong.  I've long suspected he had ADD, but never took my hunch seriously; I was more like, yeah, the whole world has ADD.  Just look at your goddamn watch once in a while.
 
But he missed his kid's graduation.  So I got online and started researching, specifically what it's like to have a partner with ADD.  

Feelings can get hurt when the individual with ADHD blurts out thoughts without tempering them, forgets important events, doesn’t follow through with promises, or gets distracted from their partner’s conversations. An individual with ADHD may have difficulty seeing things from their spouse’s point of view.

Sometimes partners feel like they are parenting their ADHD partner rather than the relationship being equal. They end up being the one to provide structure and reminders. They end up feeling frustrated, disappointed, and fed up when their ADHD partner does not comply.

Oh, hello.  I approached Mike with my armchair diagnosis.  He did his own research and said it was like reading the story of his life. He'd always felt different and could never identify why; they didn't test for those things when we were kids.  We went to a counselor who affirmed that Mike's behaviors certainly indicate ADHD.  She said she was surprised that he's been able to achieve the level of success that he has and asked how he's managed in business all this time without a diagnosis.
 
"People are pretty forgiving," he said, referring to the instances where his behavior seeped into the business world. He hadn't had such forgiveness in his personal life.
 
When you truly understand, there is nothing to forgive.  Remember that line in my book? 
 
Things are different; I understand now.  I give him several gentle reminders when he has to be somewhere and I don't get pissed off when he doesn't show up on time.  The other night I watched him organize his coin collection--his way of preparing for our move.  Before, I would have said, "Are you kidding me?  Start throwing shit into boxes, for christsake!"   But I just said, "You know you're doing an ADD thing now, right?" and he said, "Yep."  And we both laughed.    Shit will make their way into boxes eventually.

I'll never forget an exchange we had last fall.  At that time, I knew so many women struggling with breast cancer (which can suck you know what) and I was feeling especially apprehensive about my yearly mammogram.  Mike took me in his arms and said, "You never have to worry.  I will always take care of you."

What's a little ADD where there's that kind of love between us?

Between Mike and his ADD, on top of living with small children again and my own picky-picky neuroses and self-diagnosis as a Highly Sensitive Person, we have a reality show in the making.  The spiritual books on my shelf say that people come into our lives to teach us lessons.  In my comedy act, I mention that I have the patience of John McEnroe in five o'clock traffic.  Well, it looks like these people I'll be living with at least for the duration of our 1-year lease are going to teach me how to be patient.  There's no turning back.  There's no running away.

The house is 4,000 sq. ft.  That's a good thing.  Wish us well.

What's your guess?

So how exactly does one go from living in a 1-bedroom apartment--sleeping on an air mattress, mind you--to living in a 4,000 sq. ft. home in a gated community?  One of my readers suggested I should have some fun with this before tomorrow's post, so here are some possibilities.  One of the following is true. What's your guess?

a)  Kindle sales of Bastard Husband: A Love Story are through the friggin' roof and housing in Las Vegas is cheap as hell these days, so I got myself a big old pad to run around in.  Not sure what I'm actually going to do with it yet, but I couldn't pass it up.

b)  I found this sweet house on craigslist and will be living there with two of my single girlfriends who are also germ freaks like me.  Think Monk meets The Golden Girls.  Why should be all live in tiny apartments when together we can live large?  And in supreme cleanliness?

c)  Mike and I reconciled (again) and found a place big enough for the two of us and his three kids.  There's no turning back now.  Think a reality show waiting to happen.  A scaled-down Linda Land will be recreated in one of the bedrooms, though the view is less than spectacular.

d)  One of my former co-workers bought the house, but he'll be traveling for at least another 6 months.  He doesn't want it to stay empty, so in the meantime, I get to enjoy the place (and his furniture when it gets delivered) for the cost of utilities.  

e)  None of the above.

Okay, there are your choices.  Which one do you think is true?

Movin' on up!

You may find this hard to believe, but earlier this week I gave my 30-day notice on my beloved Linda Land, the amazing apartment I've been renting since February.  Linda Land began as a place to enjoy some peace and quiet when I was living in my boyfriend's house with his young children, who were there at least half the time.  Then in early May, we broke up (for good, I said!) and I moved out completely and Linda Land became my full-time digs.

Oh, how I love Linda Land, with it's amazing view of the entire Las Vegas Valley, the balcony, the pools and hot tubs... and of course, my shabby-chic decor.   I took this video back in June.



My sister Lori couldn't freakin' believe my apartment when she was here a couple of weeks ago.  I told her I could feel the winds of change, though, and Linda Land would be time-limited.  But I assured her I wouldn't give this up for anything less. 

I saw online that the house I grew up in at 8 Lincoln Avenue in Albany is for sale.  That's the one I mention in my book, with five kids, two parents, a dog... and one bathroom. 

Yep, seven of us in 1160 square feet.  And now I'm moving into a house more than three times that size.

You never know how life is going to twist and turn.  If you'd told be a month ago I'd be living in a house like the one I'm about to move into, well, I probably wouldn't have been too surprised.  But if you told  16-year-old Linda Haber, the skinny cheerleader/bus driver's daughter from Lincoln Avenue, that someday she'd be a author and comedian living in Las Vegas in a freakin' a "Beverly Hillbillies" house complete with a cee-ment pond... I think it would have been out of the scope of her imagination. 

Dream big, people.

So how did this all come about?  How did I go from sleeping on an air mattress in 1-bedroom Linda Land to a place like this?  

You know, in the three years I've been writing this blog, I don't think I ever left you with a cliff hanger.  Until now.  Tune in Saturday!

(I agree--I'm such an a-hole.)

Men are people, too

A couple of years ago, I wrote a piece entitled "Are Middle Aged Women Invisible?" for Living-Las-Vegas.com.  It was one of their most popular posts.  Here's an excerpt. 

Even in the best of circumstances, middle age can be a trying time for women. Do a Google search and you’ll find countless books, articles and blogs lamenting that once women turn 40, they start to become invisible – not just to men, but to society in general. In our youth-obsessed culture, they say, gals my age are no longer considered attractive, so we remain under the radar, as if the world stops seeing us as part of humanity.

In the article, I go on to say that I never quite bought into that “Invisible Woman Syndrome” and I fancy myself as the type who would bloom wherever she’s planted. I don't know why, but I've always had a (somewhat annoying) sense of self-confidence and the related sense of self-worth. 

That said, I've still had my share of times when I'd look in the mirror in thorough disgust.  I'm too fat, I hate my hair... whatever.  Crazy shit.  Funny, the older I get, the better I feel about myself and my sense of attractiveness.  But I'm a total weirdo.  Probably delusional.

Anyway, women tend to think we have the lock on such neurotic-ness.  We believe men age gracefully and that it's a snap for them to attract women, even those much younger than they are.  Aging is a breeze for men, huh?  Hell, life is a breeze for men, right?

Wrong.

I'd like you to check out my friend Ray's R. Jacob Post, specifically yesterday's entry.  You'll get a glimpse into one man's perspective that, quite honestly, women don't get to see very often. 

Sometimes we forget that men are people, too.  Ray's post is a poignant reminder.

Comedy this Friday night!

If you're in Las Vegas this coming weekend, don't miss this show at the Leathernecks Club. I performed there a couple of weeks ago and it was a freakin' BLAST! The place was full of Marines and bikers--what a combo, huh? And it's all for a good cause.

BE THERE!!!

You tell me: How important is humor in a relationship?

I'm working on what I think will be an amazingly awesome project about humor (I'm not ready to divulge any details yet) and would love to see how you answer the following questions.  Respond to as many as you'd like as a comment, or if you prefer, shoot me an email at linda@bastardhusband.com.

1.  On a scale of 1-5, how do you feel about this statement? 
"A person's sense of humor is an important factor when choosing a dating or relationship partner"  (1 = strongly disagree, 5 = strongly agree)

2.  On a scale of 1-5, how do you feel about this statement?  
"A shared sense of humor is an accurate predictor of the success of a relationship."  (1 = strongly disagree, 5 = strongly agree)

3.  On a scale of 1-5, how do you feel about this statement?
"A good sense of humor can make a person seem more physically attractive."  (1 = strongly disagree, 5 = strongly agree)

4.  Do you:  a) consider yourself to be a funny person, b) consider yourself not particularly funny, but appreciate people who are, c) neither of the two.

5.  Name some of your favorite comedians.

6.  Name some comedians that the rest of the world seems to love, but you don't like at all.

7.  Name some of your favorite comedy movies.

8.  Name some movies that the rest of the world thought was funny, but you didn't.

9.  Name some of your favorite comedy TV shows.

10.  Name some shows that rest of the world thinks is funny, but not you.

Thank you!  I can't wait to see what you have to say.

Something to shout from the rooftops

Lori left today--bummer.  We have such a blast together, though we were a bit out of sync on our trip to California. 

"Can you believe we didn't see one bar we wanted to go in?" she remarked on the way back to Vegas.

And it was true.  We drove around a good part of Southern California and never came across a tavern, pub, or biker bar that beckoned us to stop.  Same can't be said of northern Alabama, that's for sure!  We're just a couple of weirdos.

Here's a picture Lori took of me at the gas station before we hit the road Saturday morning.

I was like, "Why the hell are you taking a picture of me pumping gas?" 

She said it would be good to document that we did, in fact, get gas--unlike the start of our East-West cross-country road trip last November.  This is hilarious, if you haven't seen it yet.



That is so freakin' funny.  Every time I watch that I crack up.  Our mother, Dee Dee Idaho, is such an excellent traveler--we dragged her all over the place, including a few biker bars, and she happily went along for the ride.

Mom had a birthday on Sunday--lucky 77!  Man, that is hard to believe.  One of my first memories is standing on the corner of Jay and Allen Streets in Albany with my little neighbor friend  Raymie Long.  After we discovered our mothers were the same age, we decided there'd be nothing cooler than to shout to the world, "My mother's 29!  My mother's 29!  My mother's 29! My mother's 29! "

I can remember when my mother was 29.  Damn!

If you've read my book, you know that Mom suffered from agoraphobia for years and hardly ever left the house.  Now she's making up for lost time, traveling around the country--even flying by herself--and having fun, as you can tell from her recent Facebook posts:

"Going to Ste. Chapelle winery and sit under the trees, drink wine and listen to Jimmy Buffet music."

And then a few hours later:

"Had a ball. Not only did we drink wine and listen to Jimmy Buffet music, but we danced up a storm, barefoot in the grass. I'm exhausted. I wish all of you were here; you would have loved it, too."

We tease her and say that all those years on the couch must have preserved her; she's outlived most of her friends in Albany and when she moved to Idaho, she had to get herself some younger BFFs who can keep up with her. 

"My mother's 77!  My mother's 77!"  I'll shout it from the rooftops--she won't care--she looks pretty damn good, huh?

Busy, busy weekend!

What a weekend.  I took yesterday off from work because Lori and I figured we'd want to spend an extra day in California, but we ended up coming back to Vegas on Sunday night.  I'll tell you why later, but first let me tell you about Friday night--what a freakin' blast!

I thought I'd be doing a set for a benefit show at the Las Vegas Leatherneck Club sometime next month, but as it turned out, they asked if I could perform last Friday instead.  The Leatherneck Club is a Marine/biker club, and you know I wasn't about to pass up the opportunity for get in front of a bunch of Satan's Helpers.  It was a great crowd and I had so much fun.  Lori recorded the entire show, and once I edit it a bit, I'll post some clips on YouTube.

(I always wear a short skirt and/or cleavage on stage so if my jokes suck, at least the audience can have some enjoyment.)

As soon as I got off stage, we zoomed over to Mandalay Beach and got there just as Frampton took the stage.  It was a fantastic show, just as I'd expected.  Peter Frampton is on Facebook and it's really him, if you want to be his friend.  He seems so nice.  Mandalay Beach is a lot of fun--one of those places you'd go to even if you were only marginally interested in the band because the venue is so cool.

After the concert Lori and I headed over to Big Al's Comedy Club in the Orleans for the Fryer's Club--the weekly gathering for local comics to socialize.  My buddy Kato Kaelin was there again (I'm a shameless name dropper), so I got to introduce him to Lori.  He's a really nice guy. 

On Saturday morning we hit the road for California a little later than I wanted because I had some freelance work to finish up.  Then we ran into a major traffic tie-up north of Escondido, and so we didn't get to the Del Mar Race Track until Sunday.  No matter--we had a ball bar hopping in San Diego with Lori's sister-in-law and her husband.  They put us up for the night, which was awesome.

The Del Mar Race Track is very nice, but I still think Saratoga is the most beautiful track there is.  Even better than Churchill Downs.

We stayed for a few races and then headed up the coast toward Laguna Beach, which was friggin' packed. I'd never been there before and always wanted to check it out.

I can't stand traffic and crowds, though, and by then both Lori and I were somewhat fried.  It seemed we'd been go, go, going since we left the house. Southern California is a little too crowded and busy for me, and after watching the sunset at Crystal Cove, we decided to head back to Vegas.  Crazy, I know.

We got into Vegas around 1:30 Monday morning and relaxed with a bottle of wine on my balcony, which overlooks the Las Vegas Valley.  Peace at last!  There's no place like Linda Land.

So this is funny.  We thought Lori was leaving today at 5:25, but we weren't able to check her in 24 hours before her flight. Guess why?  Her flight's not until tomorrow!  Oh, well... sucks to be stuck for another day in Vegas!