Harrah’s Cherokee Casino may be the saddest place I’ve ever accidentally visited.

Romping around the mountains in North Carolina, playing in the leaves of the Smoky Mountains and wandering around its vast expanse inhaling all its fresh air (don’t worry, we left a little for you) we found ourselves among the worn out, hungry and thirsty. Before heading back to our cottage at Lake View, we opted for a spontaneous stop.

What could present a bigger shift for our mellow, tree huggin trip than an overpriced cocktail, noms and loosing a handful of bills at blackjack?

The casino and hotel are out of place to begin with, two dozen stories of glass with an amusement park lot for cars complete with shuttle bus in the middle of nowhere America. Dozens of once thriving motels dot the road before and after the casino, their pools empty, weeds as high as my shoulder eking out through the cracks in the pavement. Reminders of a simpler time when people visited to get away, not to gamble their life savings.

The first experiential assault beyond the landscape interruption: the casino is dry. No beer, no wine, no adult beverages of any kind. How does that work? They expect people to gamble sober? This has to be a challenge to the house odds of success. Still, the sandwich consumed at one of the two restaurants wasn’t all bad and the cheese fries consumed were a gamble of their own - with our cholesterol.

The casino itself is a sad, sad place. Visitors have to sign up to play, and are equipped with an ATMesque piece of plastic with their name printed on it. The card is attached to a coiled tether with a clip on one end - when playing a game the card must be plugged into the machine. Big Brother meets child leash…beyond demeaning and creepy.

Wandering around the floor, I was nearly toppled over by the sheer tragedy of the other patrons. Grandmothers and grandfathers abounded with their tracksuits, oxygen tanks, walkers and cigarettes dangling from their fingers and lips. All plugged into machines, fixated on the screens. Both the hope and hopelessness of the scene floored me.

The card tables added another level of disappointment. Crammed in tightly, our parents (and parents parents) were fixated on the computer displays in the table. Computer displays because there were *no cards* present…the dealer merely hit a Simple Simon style button on their console to deal, hit, stay.

We were in and out in one lap, one slot (to say we did) and less than 20 minutes. If this visit and this exposure to the death of America is what I get for being spontaneous, you can have it. I’ll stick to my plan from now on.

I still have yet to find a sports bra that holds me still a fraction as well as two old fashioned numbers layered.

In this age of technological and scientific breakthroughs, you’d think someone would have perfected this by now.

I sit and think sometimes about running away. About packing a bag, heading to the airport and grabbing a ticket to anywhere. Usually in my little daydreams, it’s Ireland on a bottomless budget and I never come back. I have fabulous carefree hair (with curls) and a thin fabric scarf and a pile of books in a leather satchel and a big old silly dog I’ve collected along the way that accompanies me everywhere.

Yesterday, I spent a lot of time with that fantasy, kicked off when The Mc got from our real estate agent yesterday morning, which began something like this: “Good morning!” “I have terrible news!”

Oy.

We aren’t the only people who fell in love with the house (even though I fell in love two weeks ago, I mean really, what is wrong with them? Can’t they see I’m clearly committed to the house? How rude.) and we aren’t the only people who made an offer this weekend. In fact, two other people made offers, the sellers have selected who they’re going to work with, and it’s not us.

My self esteem is in the toilet. Did I do something wrong? Did I have a boog? Do I offend? Was it my potty mouth or was it the being mean to Sarah on the playground in 3rd grade coming back to haunt me? Did they find my blog? Do they not like us because we aren’t married and don’t have/want kids?

*sigh*

We’ve accepted the jagged painful shard of truth being jammed in our hearts after a not-so-healthy dose of mourning, whining, cursing, pouting, and blaming. I’m pretty sure we covered most of the phases of grief in spades and a sprint. We had a wee wake and consumed the better part of a jumbo bottle of red wine, reminiscing about how lovely the house was, recounting our visits and it’s adorable quirky qualities and how we’re going to miss it. Then talked about which apartments I need to go look at tomorrow on my “day off”, ate some stupid yummy frozen pizza (all I remember is garlic and bacon…) and passed out before 8pm.

Everything happens for a reason. There is clearly an even more fabulous house waiting for us, even if it’s as hard for me to fathom that such a thing could exist any more than I can imagine myself liking prison. Hm. Then again, I’d have plenty of time to knit and read…

The anti-Barbie dream house must be out there somewhere, because here we are. Here we are on the verge of saving mortgage money by paying rent at a fraction of the amount, cowering at the threat of moving twice, and taking our sweet southern summer time waiting for it to be time. Waiting for it to be not too hard, not too soft, but just right.

Oh, and BTW…whoever said there’s a housing crisis [in Atlanta] is full of dirty kitty litter and old lady roll down knee high pantyhose. So there.

Lemme give it to you straight.

If your momma never taught you to clean up after yourself and to have a tidy house for guests, that’s one thing. Maybe you were raised by a pack of High Life guzzling, ball scratching men with failing livers and an unhealthy affinity for bleach blondes with blue eye shadow and chests that remind you of rocks in socks. But you probably weren’t. And even if you were, I know for a fact you own a TV. I’ve seen it in your sty, and along with the tell tale dent in the couch directly across from it - it was still warm. Which means you’re probably not oblivious to the likes of HGTV, or one of the other half gaziilion channels with programming about how to sell your house. In fact, I also saw a computer in your “home office”, and a blinking router. That means you have access to them thar interwebs and could have done some homework ala Al Gore. You know. Research. On how to get top dollar for your house.

No? You’ve never thought of such a thing?

Well shucks. Then let me make it E-Z for you with my uber simple patent pending list of how not to waste a buyers time.

- Smoking in your house is probably not a great idea. It’s spring, your house is for sale. Go outside.
- Maybe clean the 15 years of cat hair collection memorabilia off your fabric window coverings
- Hide the Rogaine and fifteen other bottles of crap in your shower. Do not showcase the lack of space by propping them all up on the towel bar.
- Clean the toothpaste crust out of your sink.
- Scrub your shower. If you can’t, hire someone to do it for you.
- Get a foundation guy to come by and put a new brace under the dining room floor so I can’t feel the sinkhole/hear your china rattling when I walk across the room.
- Put up some screens on your roof line where the squirrels have been crawling in. This is Atlanta. They’re as plentiful as pollen and in all the same places.
- If you know the cellar has a leak, disclose it. Leaving the wet vac out with it’s nozzle in a puddle doesn’t count.
- Once upon a time you thought lavender was a good color for a room, or that “white washing” a door with primer was artsy. You were wrong. Spend the $100 to correct your mistake.
- Clean up all that crap from home improvement projects gone wrong from under the garage.
- I have no need for your old hangers, paint, broken clothes rods, BBQ or tacky azz wardrobe. If you’re going to vacate the house, take all your crap with you.

Hmmm…what am I forgetting…

I hear this more and more, it seems:

“I’m just touching bases with you to see blah blah blah…”

Your turn. I’ll widen the berth to include words that aren’t words, but people use anyway.

Go.

I wish GPS could plug into the brain of a car and remind the driver to USE THEIR TURN SIGNAL.

That is all.

Dear Past Your Prime Hoochies,

I realize you may not have known that Gordon Lightfoot would be a sit-down-and-be-quiet kind of concert. I say this because when you walked in during his first song and thought you were cute with your loud and feeble attempt at cuteness with your “excuuuuuuuuuseeee meeeee” you looked surprised when I glared at you. I say this because when you finally sat down your quieter companion was still pounding her remarkably over-sized cocktail. I say this because when he did play the songs everyone knew and came to hear, you would not SHUT UP. I say this because your gal-pal nodded off (helped, no doubt by her rapidly consumed cranberry looking beverage) halfway through the first set. I say this because you slumped down and passed out during intermission while your hounds tooth coat wearing cohort dropped an airbiscuit while attempting to escape your companionship.

For the love of all things good and calorie laden, please stay home next time. Not only did you annoy me to within an inch of your life (you can thank The Mc later for trading seats with me), you were an embarrassment to women everywhere.

Thank you.

-Me