The place: The kitchen table of my youth, where I sometimes worked on my homework and where I had breakfast with my Daddy every morning while he read the paper.

The problem: Pre-algebra. Juan's father is one third as old as he was when Juan was born but twice as old as when Juan's sister was born. If Juan's father takes the 4:15 train to New Jersey, how old will Juan's first cousin, twice-removed, be when Juan's father turns 52?

Now my recollection of this word problem is not entirely accurate, as I have since consumed copious quantities of a chemical substance (ETOH) to purge this experience from my mind. You see, Juan's father kicked my father's ass. My Daddy is a mechanical engineer and as such was always a reliable homework helper when it came to math. He wouldn't do the problems for us, but he would gently outline a systematic approach to a given problem and guide my sister and me step by step until we arrived at the conclusion, which we would then check in the answer section in the back of the book. A foregone conclusion ... Until we met Juan's father, who was a "bonus" question and therefore, not included in the answer section in the back of the book.

Suffice it to say, we worked on that problem until well past my bed time, and even after I trundled off to sleep, my Daddy continued wrestling with Juan's father. When I came down for breakfast the next morning, my bleary-eyed father shared his solution (choose all that apply):
1) Juan's father was a $^%*&#*@ and there is no answer to this problem. They must have made an error in the printing of your textbook.
2) Juan's father was from Arkansas and his family tree is a wreath
3) You're going to have to get your math teacher to work this problem on the board for you - and copy down all the steps - because I cannot for the life of me figure this out.

The answer was what we'd call a "Duh! moment" - so simple, it's best left to the forgotten confines of history. And really, it doesn't matter now because Juan's father has been usurped by gold leaf. Behold - the word problem that took me six attempts before I finally looked in the back of the book for the answer and still had to work it backwards twice before I came to the correct conclusion:

(And I don't even have to look in the book to transcribe it because it's burned upon my cortex)

Gold is an element that can be expressed in extremely thin sheets called "gold leaf." The density of gold is 19.32 g/cm^3 (grams per cubic centimeter). If a 200 mg (milligram) sample of gold is formed into a sheet with a surface area of 2.4 feet x 1 foot, what is the thickness of the sheet in meters? Please express your answer using scientific notation.

The answer: In a subsequent post.

The conclusion: Juan's father can kiss my (and my Daddy's) asses. Welcome to chemistry!

**Oh, and I'll buy a drink for the person who comes up with the first correct answer. Still not sure if the comments are working, so send me an email just in case

As the rust (a chemical reaction) flakes off the gears of my mind, I retrieve snippets of chemistry from the long-locked closet of learning. Reviewing the Periodic Table of Elements last night, I remembered Ni (nickel), Au (gold), Fe (iron), Be (beryllium) right off the bat - and how often have you heard the word 'beryllium' since high school? But get this, since I took chemistry in high school 20 years ago, THEY'VE ADDED NEW ELEMENTS!!! There's like 117 of them now - I think we only had about 100 when I was in school.

When I was in school... I have already promised my chemistry lab partners as well as my recitation team that I will not say, "When I was in school..." Of my three lab partners, one was born the year I started college THE FIRST TIME - that would be 1989. I didn't fare too much better on recitation - five boys plus me - and three of them were born in 1990. Another is GARRETT THE INVISIBLE MAN who didn't show up for recitation (which, by the way, is forced study hall) and made our exercises all the more difficult. The other is Dave who wouldn't say how old he was until I said, "Dude, I was born in 1971 - bring it." He was born in 1980 - and is doing the same thing I'm doing: Going back for his pre-reqs so he can get into dental school.

So at least I'm not the only one, but I know I'm still the oldest one.

My head hurts from all this learning. Last night was my first without post-work class this week, and I took time off to watch the Obama speech. I awoke in a panic this morning, thinking I'd already forgotten the definition of matter (anything that has mass and takes up space) but then I realized that chemistry serves as an apt metaphor for my brain matter: Chemistry takes up space formerly occupied by food and wine pairings... Italian grammar... Shakespeare's sonnets... and maybe the infield fly rule.

Dude, this is gonna be so hard.

Yeah, I feel old - but then again, I'm 36 and taking freshman-level chemistry for science majors. At the bookstore today when I was standing in line to buy my 16.2 pounds worth of text book, lab manual, lab notebook, sexy protective lab goggles, student's guide and student's guide answer book, the kid behind me tapped me on the shoulder:

"Ma'am, is this a line to buy books or just T-shirts?"

"Well, I sure hope it's for books because I'm standing in the same line as you," I said. "And by the way, it's charming that you called me ma'am."

"Better than the alternative," he said. So much for respecting your elders.

Suffice it to say, you will hear this more than once from my fingertips during this semester: WHEN I WAS IN SCHOOL (15 years ago), WE DIDN'T HAVE ANY OF THIS STUFF!!! THESE KIDS HAVE IT SO EASY!!!

I mean, seriously, Dr. Scruggs literally spelled out how to pass his class: He put the instructions in bullet points. Review 8-12 hours per week. Read a half-chapter ahead of each class. Read after class. Do the practice EXAM questions, and if we can't figure those out, take advantage of one of the THREE (3!?!) additional study periods where they review what he just went over in lecture. Download his notes off the Internet so I can preview before class, follow along during class and review after class. I don't even have to take notes - I just have to pay attention and read and show up and do the practice problems ($42 study guide) and check those against the practice SOLUTIONS (another $42 for the answer book- there's a nice little racket for you). I'm not going to say it will be easy, because truly, I could feel the rust grinding off the gears of my brains when he started talking about molecules and elements today, but still...

I may not be the brightest bulb in this stadium, but I'm certainly not the dimmest either. When he asked how many students were pre-med, about 60 percent of the hands went up... including mine. I will be interested to calculate the attrition - which is math that we salespeople do all the time.

Stay tuned... tomorrow we have chemistry lab and I'm wearing my goggles!

For the first seven years, I worked as a sportswriter, won some awards and had many adventures. There was a gap year when I got married and worked a soul-crushing stint at a hellhole I'd not care to recall. And for the past seven years, I've been in sales at Public Radio Partners, doing a job I love with people I adore, serving clients that are the coolest in the world, and helping fund my favorite nonprofit, public radio stations, KJZZ-NPR/Jazz and KBAQ-Classical.

But tomorrow - Monday, August 25, 2008 - at the ripe old age of 36, I'm going back to school - taking Chemistry 113, plus a lab, plus a recitation (?) at Arizona State University - so I can (hopefully) complete my science prerequisites in 2-3 years, take the MCAT (pass the MCAT), apply and get into to medical school.

Don't worry, none of my other three regular readers saw it coming either. Nor did my parents or my husband or my best friend or my employers or even me. So here's a little background... WAY background:

When I was in high school, I wanted to be a doctor - so much so that I took a one-year, unpaid internship in the recovery room of Schumpert Medical Center in Shreveport. I got to make beds, wheel patients to their rooms, empty urine bags and containers, sort supply cabinets, run mindless errands (that seemed REALLY important to me) and observe stuff that goes on in a hospital recovery room. I loved it.

As my term was coming to an end, one of the surgeons took me aside to have THE TALK: "Stacy, you are really inquisitive and bright. You're a hard worker. You're good with the patients, great with the staff and you've been a tremendous asset to us - we wish you could stay... But when all of the work is done, you're off in a corner, writing in your journal. We've all read your stories and loved them, and I just want you to think about whether medicine is what you REALLY want to do with your life. Medical school is grueling, exhausting, frustrating and hard. It requires a lot of sacrifice from you and your family - but it's only a means to an end - and you have to ask yourself, is that end what you really want, what you're called to do?"

To that end, I took the path of least resistance, accepted a scholarship - tendered primarily because of said writing skills - and enrolled in English at Texas A&M. Afterward, I stumbled into sportswriting, mowed the Ballpark in Arlington, completed the London Marathon, covered more than 100 high school football games, generated hate mail, fan mail and an invitation to the prom, cut sheet metal for a NASCAR Winston Cup Team, watched my very first story roll off the press at the Shreveport Times at 1:30 in the morning and saw my byline atop roughly 2,500 stories before I was done. In short, writing let me live a life writ large.

And then I parlayed the skills I learned in the sports department (meeting deadlines, asking questions, listening to answers, working well under pressure) into a sales gig at Public Radio Partners. Through sales, I've honed my problem-solving skills, fallen in love with radio (but not the soulless corporate kind), and discovered that it's not about my station or my client - it's using our wonderful medium to speak to the client's clients. I've learned to introduce myself unsolicited to complete strangers (not that I had a problem with that in the past). I do more research than I did in sports... and I've learned to be an entrepreneur in my own small way - I'm fortunate to work for really thoughtful people who give me room to try (and fail) new things... including this med school prerequisite adventure.

Which brings me to this new adventure - where did it come from? Why now? Why not?

About two years ago, I started working on my current novel which is medical in nature... and then about 18 months ago, I started playing cards with a bunch of doctors... and then, a few months ago, I had a neat conversation with my oldest friend Penny about what we would have done differently way back when - or what we would do now if we went back to school... and then a few weeks ago, sitting on my couch, I looked up at my husband and said, "I want to go to med school."

"OK," he said, "Let's figure this out."

Now I'm enrolled in Chemistry 113. As far as the med school prerequisites go, I face the most interesting academic challenge of my entire life: Two semesters each of chemistry, biology, physics and organic chemistry, which is what they say separates the doctors from the patients. I'll know soon enough: Back in the day, I satisfied my science requirements for the English degree by taking science for sorority girls, aka, meteorology (and I can draw a WICKED weather map, thank you very much!)

Though I graduated with honors from high school, I recall chemistry being a bitch for me - in truth, I can't say whether it was the fact that my teacher's first name was 'Coach' (it wasn't) or if I was just a typical 16-year-old girl who was more interested in boys and my hair than the periodic table. Honestly, how many 16-year olds know what they want to be when they grow up - and fully grasp what they need to do to get there? For that matter, how many 36-year olds know that?

Taking chemistry, I'll know pretty fast. ... Truly, there is an Everest of steps between today and that far away tomorrow when I can even APPLY to medical school - but if I don't try, I'll never really know if this little itch in the middle of my back is the half-life of an old dream or just me being restless (because I'm certainly not young anymore). So the first step - it's a doozy - but in that, I look to an amazing inspiration: My own mom, who left her safe but soul-sucking job as a bookkeeper to become a florist at the ripe old age of 46.

I figure I'll turn 46 regardless - might as well be a doctor when I do (or at least know that I tried)... and to that end, I'm starting with Chemistry 113 tomorrow afternoon at 5:40 PM.

As I told my professor, I'll be the old one in the front row.

Granted, I don't hate it as much as I hate the New England Hatriots and their coach Bill Belicheater, but I definitely hate LinkedIn more than I hate Harleys.

LinkedIn bills itself as the "busy person's" Facebook or MySpace - it's for people who do important things, like make money and broker deals. Mainly, it just annoys the hell out of me. Initially I signed up for it because I kept getting pinged by colleagues who used it, and I'd get emails saying, "Invitation to Connect on LinkedIn." So I accepted the first invitation... then the second... then the third and then I realized it wasn't so much an invitation to connect as it was an invitation to receive a ton of LinkedIn-generated, unsolicited email from people I already contact regularly - as well as a ton of unsolicited email from people I DON'T REALLY WANT TO TALK TO.

I got an "invitation to connect" from some guy who used to read my newspaper column in COLLEGE. I don't even know this guy - and even better, I DIDN'T even know this guy 15 years ago: IF I WASN'T YOUR FRIEND THEN, WHY WOULD I WANT TO BE YOUR FRIEND NOW??? Or is this some kind of trophy hunt: You want to list me as your "friend" so you can show all your other "friends" that your "friend" is the former Stacy Feducia - the chic that wrote the buttcrack column back at Texas A&M? Are you serious? Graduate, dude!

I hate LinkedIn because I'm a salesperson. I make unsolicited contacts through my job all the time, letting people know I have a solution for problems they didn't know they had. It's a tough enough job without the knowledge that these poor souls are now being "invited to connect" by every other jackass in the universe with a cool widget to sell. Thanks, assholes!

LinkedIn is supposed to make my life easier by helping me "Find People and Knowledge I Need to Help Me Achieve My Goals." Well here are my goals - Tell me, LinkedIn, how can you help?

GOAL NUMBER 2: Keep the onslaught of spam in my in-box at a reasonable level. Gee, not only can I learn about the "No1 Online Casin0" and "Cheap & Discount V1agra!" via email, but now I can also be annoyed by people I don't want to talk to. Now I get so many freakin' pings from LinkedIn that I don't have time to devote to online hobbies that REALLY matter, like keeping up with my favorite website, www.hotchickswithdouchebags.com. Looks like you FAILED again, LinkedIn. Thanks, assholes!

GOAL NUMBER 3: Maintain a modest level of privacy. When People magazine reporters call your UNLISTED PHONE NUMBER IN ARIZONA LOOKING FOR A QUOTE ON YOUR SISTER-IN-LAW'S PENDING DIVORCE IN CALIFORNIA, privacy becomes an issue. Now, because I made the fatal error of signing up for LinkedIn, anyone can find me ANYWHERE, including that chic that stalked me back in Fort Worth. Thanks, assholes - now I'm going to go buy a Taser. Where do I send the bill?

GOAL NUMBER 4: (And this one comes straight from LinkedIn) Control My Professional Identity Online. Well, when I tried to control my professional identity online by REMOVING myself from LinkedIn, I continued to be assaulted by "invitations to connect." Now every time a REAL FRIEND or a PROFESSIONAL COLLEAGUE THAT I REALLY LIKE sends me an "invitation to connect" I have to respond saying, "I like you and want you to be my friend but I don't participate in LinkedIn" and I sound like an UNFRIENDLY jackass, like I'm some kind of down-on-her-luck Luddite rocking back and forth on the side of the information superhighway with a cardboard sign that says, 'Thanks, assholes!'

GOAL NUMBER 5: Use good grammar. FRIEND is a noun. It's not a verb. Granted, this applies more to other equally abhorrent social networking sites like Facebook, Friendster and MySpace. The fact of the matter is, the act of "becoming friends with a person" is the definition of the verb "befriend" - but in the universe of social netstalking sites, you're not even "befriending" anyone - you're just hanging their pelt of thrice-removed acquaintanceship on your wall of glory. Have fun with that! So no, LinkedIn, you and your unseemly ilk do not help me realize my goal of using good grammar, and now, I'm going to use my favorite word in its noun, verb, adjectival and adverbial forms on your lame LinkedIn ass: FUCK YOU, LINKEDIN - YOU HAVE FUCKING FUCKED UP MY GOALS, YOU FUCKING FUCKS. For those of you playing at home, here's how that breaks down: verb, adverb, verb, adjective, noun.

Oh, and thanks, assholes: In writing my LinkedIn screed, I've realized that I DO HATE YOUR SITE MORE THAN I HATE BILL BELICHEATER!

There are winners. There are losers. The clock, the finish line, the knock-out punch, the yardstick, the checkered flag, the scorecard: These objective criteria determine who goes on, who goes home - or in the case of the Olympics this week: Who gets the gold and the glory (or the silver and salutations or the bronze and a nice trip to the pawn shop).

By my criteria, many of the most popular Olympic events fail to qualify as actual sports though they are, undoubtedly, athletic endeavors: Gymnastics, figure skating, synchronized swimming and its diabolical twin, synchronized diving, regular diving, dressage... I mean, really - DRESSAGE? ... and of course, rhythmic gymnastics. And even though it's not in the Olympics, it is still my favorite punching bag: Cheerleading = Not A Sport ... though I'm sure the cheerleading stage moms are doing their best to garner their pastime a place in the five-ringed medal count. (And I will likely hear from them, but guess what, Wanda Holloway, the comment function is conveniently broken!)

Sport / Not A Sport - This is all you need to know to be the judge: IF THE OUTCOME OF A CONTEST IS DEPENDENT ON WHETHER THE EAST GERMAN JUDGE IS HAVING HER PERIOD, THE CONTEST IS NOT A SPORT; IT'S A PAGEANT

If you're not pissed yet, keep reading... you will be (but you also might learn something if you pay attention).

Like gymnastics, most of the not-a-sports cluster in the "female" realm of competitive activity and thus historically have involved conformation to an aesthetic and not entirely athletic ideal - in part because girls weren't allowed to compete in "real" sports for fear they would overexert themselves. Yeah, talk to Babe Didrikson Zaharias and Wilma Rudolph about that.

But consider the aesthetic ideal as you watch the not-a-sports during the XXIX Olympiad (and others): The tiny gymnasts, the leggy figure skaters, the disturbingly thin divers... and whatever it is that dressage is judged upon. In real life, we call it "style points," and in the realm of many of these not-a-sports, it's not that far from a dog show. Sadly, to conform, these girls have higher levels of eating disorders and bizarre behavior than in the real sports. It's just as unhealthy as doping / steroids and just as far from the Olympic ideal - swifter, higher, stronger. Seriously: How do you reconcile the Olympic ideals with figure skating - Bitchier, glitterier, most likely to kneecap you in an alley?

This is not to say these gals aren't athletes - they kick ass, and could easily take you or me in a fight ... until they turn 35 and have the bone density of a 90-year-old. And truly, they experience the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat: It brought me to tears to see team captain Alicia Sacramone's falls on the beam and floor exercises... Let me just say this: I do not pretend to be more of an athlete than any of these women: I couldn't carry their maxipads... (not that they need them). After all, for me, tumbling is a by-product of attempting to walk. I don't do it on purpose.

Though the powers that be have figured out ways to make gymnastics more "sporty," it's still a competition that borders on being a pageant, and so, I throw myself on the spears of 10,000 rabid not-a-sport parents and present for your increased knowledge and ease of understanding, an event-by-event analysis of SPORT / NOT A SPORT.

Synchronized Diving: Not A Sport - I prefer to call it gravity-assisted gymnastics. Anytime a commentator discusses "pretty form," you can warm up the microphone for Bert Parks.

Anything in the X-Games that has "Freestyle" in the Name: Not A Sport - It's entertainment for the ADHD masses.

Dressage: Not A Sport - It's modeling on horseback, but the horses have better teeth and I have yet to see a horseback rider that looks like a Brazilian supermodel. And by the way, WHO EXACTLY IS THE ATHLETE HERE? If you consider the horseback riders to be athletes, then you have no argument against motorSPORTS.

Figure Skating: Not A Sport - Any event that has a sub-category called "ice-dancing" shouldn't even aspire to sports status... It has Atlantic City Boardwalk written all over it. Curling is a sport. Figure skating is a Disney show coming to an arena near you.

Boxing: Not A Sport - It's organized crime. See Don King. Olympic-level boxing and amateur boxing straddle the tightrope between Sport / Not A Sport, but as soon as a judge is called upon to render a point on a punch, the sweet science becomes a contest. (And those of you who know my abject worship of Muhammed Ali know how much this pains me to say.) Sadly, my new favorite passion, Ultimate Fighting Championships, also straddles this balance beam of ball-busting pseudosportism.

Diving: Not A Sport - It's proof that gravity exists. I like to call it pretty falling... then again, you've never seen me go off a diving board.

MotorSPORTS: Sport (no question) - And this includes motorcycle racing, NASCAR (shudder), Formula One, go-karting, motorcycle racing, IndyCars, lawn-mower racing, drag-racing, tractor pulls and did I mention, motorcycle racing? See dressage - if you consider the horseback rider to be an athlete, you can no longer look my husband in the eye. Besides, the first one to the finish line, or the one that pulls the sled the furthest, wins - doesn't matter how they look when they get there.

Bowling: Sport - Seriously, you cannot begin to think about style points in this competition (that's a compliment, Yvonne). The winner in bowling is determined by a scorecard, and they exert themselves while they do it. Therefore it has more right to be in the Olympics than RHYTHMIC GYMNASTICS. Bowling = Sport.

Cheerleading - Not A Sport. It's a sideshow... which is why those girls are on the SIDELINES and the real female athletes are spiking volleyballs and draining 3-pointers and pitching no-hit shut-outs. When was the last time you saw a cheerleading "team" attending one of their school's girls athletics events? And isn't their mission encouraging the student body to support their schools' teams - rather than flaunting their student bodies in underage auditions for future roles on stripper poles? NOT A SPORT.

Synchronized Swimming: Not A Sport - It's a motion-picture dance number. Sorry... this historic "women's" pseudosport doesn't even believe in gender equity, i.e., they won't let boys participate, regardless of how well they conform to the aquatic ideal. Screw You, Syncrhonized Swimmers!

Rhythmic Gymnastics: Not A Sport - This is for home-entertainment purposes in the Bertinelli household. The ribbons... Pat loves the ribbons.

No-Limit Texas Hold 'Em: Not A Sport - Yes, it's broadcast interminably on ESPN... and yes, it's an event in which I can actually participate, but to compete at its highest level, aka, the Olympics - YOU DON'T EVEN HAVE TO QUALIFY, YOU JUST HAVE TO BUY YOUR WAY IN. Plus, though my heart was racing at the World Series of Poker, you can drink a beer while you compete so it doesn't qualify as an athletic endeavor. In fact, women's gymnastics is more of a sport than poker... and women's gymnastics is not a sport. Ergo: Poker = Not A Sport.

That said, I will bravely face the onslaught of pissed off not-a-sport parents. As they say in cheerleading (not-a-sport), "YOU BITCH!" But as they say in beach volleyball (sport), football (sport), field hockey (sport), golf (sport), basketball (sport), hammer-throw (sport), rowing (sport), bass-fishing (sport) and mountain biking (sport), BRING IT ON!

Things you need to know before you think about entering, courtesy of my friend Mike Sochacki and my own surreal experience: EVERYONE is a good player. They play fast and aggressive and they know exactly what they’re doing, and they will eat you alive if given half the opportunity. Truly, I’m still not so sure what happened, but I think I am missing a few limbs. Here's me when I still had chips...

And could you PLEASE pass that trash can so I can vomit.

Technically, I reached my goal of making it to the first break because the tournament director called the break while my hand was still in play. With only $1,725 left of an initial $3,000 in chips, I went all-in on an open-ended straight draw, with a 4-5 off-suit, and a 5-6-7 in spades on the board. Mr. Eurotrash looked at his cards once again, and I read him for a flush draw, so I figured I needed to make a move and take down a pretty good-sized pot of about $600. He had the ace of spades, 7 of clubs, and I had plenty of outs: any 5, any 4, any 8 except the 8 of spades, and any 3 except the 3 of spades. Guess which card hit on the turn? The 3 of spades.

Yes, my tournament life had ended, but I would play the hand the same way again: Because people are so aggressive and because you start with so few chips relative to the blinds, you need to make moves to build your stack. About 20 minutes before, I laid down an A-9 with an A-J-4 on the board after the other short stack check-raised me all-in after a pot-sized, $700 bet. He showed me his A-Q, to my great relief. Have fun with those chips, my friend!

The guys at my table were super-nice and complimented me on my play, which was incredibly generous of them – because I was SO freakin’ nervous. I thought I’d settle down after we played a while, but even this morning, my stomach is still doing flip-flops as the tide of adrenaline recedes and the cocktails I had last night slosh around. I didn’t drink during the tournament, but neither did I eat – not the funnest way to lose weight.

Fun moves: I won the first hand I played (and folded about 800 hands). With the blinds at $25-$50, I played the Tami Simmons special – an A-7 off-suit – on the button and raised to $150 after two limpers had come into the pot and I took down $175. Hooray. On the whole, I was disappointed in myself because I played pretty passively – I called pre-flop much more than I normally do. I usually like to raise when I get involved in hands, but each hand, it was all I could do to keep track of how big the pot was, who was involved, what position were they in, what size was their chip stack relative to mine, relative to the blinds and relative to the pot, why he bet that way, what his history of betting was, which hands had been showed down, what he might have and why couldn’t HE WEAR DEODORANT OR AT LEAST SHOWER BEFORE THE TOURNAMENT?

Yeah, that was nice. The event really is the WORLD Series of Poker. At my table, we had a Canadian, a Czech, a Eurotrash of indeterminate origin and two Frenchies to my right who wafted their eau de body eau-dor my way all morning. No wonder I thought I was going to hurl. From my vantage point, I could count only six other girls at the tables surrounding me – so I was definitely in the minority.

My friend Mike Sochacki (who played in last year’s tournament too) finished in the top 50 percent and he too went out on a bad beat – made a move with two overcards and got beat by a pair of 10s. Poor Phil Guana lost on his first hand after the break: Pair of Aces – he got called all-in (HOORAY) and the guy made trip-kings. (ARGH) Phil and I finished in the top 74 percent – not exactly anything to write home about, but we were under 2,000th place out of a sell-out starting field of 2,700. I’m also proud to say I was not the first person out at my table. Three others went before me! Hooray!

Afterward Mike, Phil and I consoled ourselves with cocktails and bad-beat stories and grinded the gears of our brains on the blackjack table: OH COOL, I HAVE A PAIR OF 6s – THAT’S A DECENT STARTING HAND… But not if the dealer is showing a King! D’oh!

So will I come back next year? Absolutely. I learned a lot at the World Series – mainly not to confuse luck with skill, to play more aggressively pre-flop and to wear deodorant at all times.

Thank you all for coming along for the ride, and most importantly, thank you to my sweet husband Pat for supporting me in my crazy hobby. I love you, Buh!

It's scary. Phil Helmuth was 2 tables over from me. I lost when my straight got beaten by a flush. Fortunately I finished in the top 2,000... Not that it's very good... but that millions of other players weren't here, and a total of 2,700 REALLY good players were. ... Mike & Phil finished shortly after me so I feel bad for them. And I console myself with "But at least I played." Now I'm going to eat a big steak...

Lucky boots... CHECK.
Clean underpants... CHECK.
Skanktacular sportswear... CHECK.
WSOP Registration... CHECK.
Table Assignment. Amazon Blue, No. 38, Seat 3... CHECK.

Holy SHIT this place is huge! Not only does it take 15 minutes to walk from the front desk to the convention center, the room is literally the size of a football field and lined with poker tables. No flash photography - learned that little tidbit a little too late, but they were nice enough about it. Lining the halls of the convention center are chair-massage stations, souvenir stations, food kiosks and information stands for "THE OFFICIAL VITAMIN SUPPLEMENT OF THE WORLD SERIES OF POKER." From the air quality surrounding many of the players, I thought that was Vitamin 2-C (Caffeine and Cigarettes). They have mini tournaments going on throughout the day, for those who haven't dropped enough coin already.

What have I gotten myself into? T-minus 2 hours, 11 minutes and counting.

I’ve entered the World Series of Poker, Event 27 – No Limit Hold’em. No Rebuys. No Add-ons. Yes, this is the same World Series you see on ESPN at all hours of the morning – but it’s not necessarily the same tournament. It’s not the $10,000 buy-in Main Event – if I had a spare $10,000 lying around, I could think of a lot more creative things to do with it than play cards… Then again, you could say the same thing about a spare $1,500, but at least I have a chance to win a coveted World Series bracelet, and I get to test my skills against the big boys.

When notified of my decision to play in the Series, one of the Friday night / Sunday afternoon rabble-rousers said, “You’ll be fine, Stacy – you’re a talented player… Really, if there’s any shortcoming in your game, it’s that you’re not using all your talent to its fullest potential.”

“Really?”

“Well, you come out here wearing T-shirts and jeans, sweat shirts – nothing that really shows off your true talent. I’m just saying, at the World Series, you should bring your ‘A’ game.”

Or D game as the case may be.

Honestly, I hadn’t thought about my World Series wardrobe beyond the skull-n-crossbones cowboy boots I wore when I won on consecutive Sundays and brought home $812 (and covered half the cost of my WSOP entry). I shared Phil’s comment with Pat, thinking he’d enjoy the chuckle.

“I think it’s a great idea. There’s gonna be a lot more guys there than girls playing so it’s to your advantage to do what ever you can to help your cause – I mean, you’ve got a nice pair, might as well show ‘em.”

Not only did my husband agree with Phil’s statement, so did the Ladies group… or at least all their husbands did.

“You gotta play with what you got.”

“Actually, I play with them all the time,” Pat said. ”But I agree.”

Normally, they are for home-entertainment purposes only – I mean, we’re obviously not using them to nourish any kids… but using them to nourish our bank account is altogether a different idea. The winner will take home upwards of $600,000. So with that return on my investment, I’m all-in for “showing down my pair.” Unfortunately, my play-clothes veer toward T-shirts collected from locally owned taco stands, corporate schwag from my clients, and Van Halen concert memorabilia. Thus, this weekend I will be headed out to Skanks R Us to invest in at least one new shirt.

“And make sure it’s short-sleeved,” Phil offered. “Like a tank-top.”

“Dude, it’s cold in the casino – I freeze my freakin’ ass off.”

“My point exactly.”

This story will be continued next Saturday, June 14. Tournament starts at noon at the Rio All-Suite Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas. For my $1,500 investment, I get $3,000 in chips. Blind levels are one hour long, starting at $25-$50. There’s a 20-minute break, every two hours, and a 90-minute dinner after Level 6. The first day we play to Level 10 – should be around midnight – and my goal is to make it to Day 2, after I make it past the first break and then to dinner. The second day, we start at 2 PM and play to the Final Table, and play for the Final Table begins Monday, July 16 at 2 PM. I hope to see you there – watch this page for live updates… and wish me and my pair good luck!

Created by OnePlusYou -

This, from a woman who got her ass kicked by a 5th-grader in a poker game on Sunday night... but so did 25 other full-grown adult males (including his dad) and 2 more adult females... so I don't feel too bad, well, not really.

But next time, Alex, don't think you can scare me with that BB gun you're buying with your winnings. I have no moral compunction against using your 45-pound buddies as human shields or even grabbing some Brownies by the pigtails and deploying them as a shrieking set of tween-nunchucks.

It's ON, punk! It's ON!

BEHOLD: THE PAT AND STACY / KREWE OF HELIOS-ARIZONA GUMBO RECIPE, also known as, a handy way to drink beer and work out your shoulders at the same time...

TOOLS (in order of appearance)
• 1 penny – not a new penny or a bad penny, just an old one that’s been in your pocket for a while and doesn’t have any green spots or scum on it.
• 6-pack of beer
• Long-sleeved T-shirt and your most comfortable shoes or clogs
• Your four biggest soup pots, or at least a collection of biggest vessels you’ve got
• Stove with at least 4 burners
• Several bowls to hold chopped vegetables and meat
• Colander
• Trash bag
• Wooden spoons
• Frying pan
• All your Rubbermaid or Tupperware or plastic containers – WITH MATCHING LIDS!

INGREDIENTS
For the stock:
• Skin, bones and neck of leftover Thanksgiving turkey or same from 2 store-bought rotisserie chickens
• 1 large white onion, chopped into fourths
• 2-4 carrots, cut in thirds
• 3-6 stalks of celery, cut in thirds
• 2 tablespoons black peppercorns
• 1 handful parsley, chopped
• Whatever spices you like to put in stock (rosemary, thyme, etc.)

For the gumbo:
• Meat from leftover Thanksgiving Day turkey or 2 store-bought rotisserie chickens, picked apart into chunks and put it in a big bowl on the side
• 8-10 cloves of garlic, chopped
• 1 large white onion, chopped
• 6 stalks of celery, chopped
• 3 green bell peppers, chopped
• 1 bunch of green onions, chopped
• 1 cup plus 2 tablespoons of cooking oil (canola, corn, vegetable), divided
• 1 cup flour
• 2 15-ounce cans diced tomatoes
• 2 pounds andouille sausage, chopped in half-inch slices (grilled if desired)
• 2 pounds smoked sausage, chopped in half-inch slices (grilled if desired)
• 2 tablespoons (or more) kosher salt
• 1 tablespoon (or more) freshly ground black pepper
• 1 tablespoon (or more) cayenne pepper
• 3 bay leaves
• 1 bag of frozen chopped okra, thawed
• Instant rice (but if you insist on being a martyr, you’re welcome to do regular rice)

COOKING INSTRUCTIONS
Dress for the Occasion: Put on your long-sleeved T-shirt and most comfy shoes. You’ll thank us later.

Make the Stock: Fire up one burner on high and dump all the stock ingredients in your second-biggest pot, fill with water, cover the pot and don’t watch it because you want it to boil. Put your third-biggest pot in the sink and put a colander on top of it. (Could this be foreshadowing?)

Do Your Gumbo Prep Work: Chop everything up – all of it. You won’t have time to do it while you’re cooking your roux, so open up a beer and start chopping. Put all the chopped vegetables, including the garlic in one big bowl. Put the sausage in another and the bird meat in yet another. You can grill your sausage if you like a smokier flavor before you cut it up, but it adds a little time to the process.

Check on Your Stock: By now, it should have been boiling violently for about 10 minutes. You can turn down the heat and let it simmer as long as it cooks for 20 minutes total. Finish your beer. Before you proceed to the next step, strain your stock into the third-biggest container in the sink. That’s what the colander is for – to strain the stock and catch the solids – and that’s what the trash bag is for, to contain all the solids so your dogs won’t dig them out of the trash. Suffice it to say, the stock should be clear of debris.

MAKE YOUR ROUX (the Most Important Part): First, you find your penny and another bottle of beer. Put the penny beside the stove where you can see it. Open your (second… or third) beer. Put your biggest pot on your biggest burner, turned on medium heat. Dump the cup of flour and cup of oil into the pot. Grab your wooden spoon and start stirring. Sip your beer. Keep stirring or else it will burn. You will rue the day you burn your roux because it will stink up your kitchen and you’ll have to start over. By the time you're done drinking your beer, the roux should be the color of the penny. (But if you drink like Pat and Stacy, it may be after your second beer.) Regardless, you’re gonna stir for anywhere from 25 minutes to an hour – I always lose track of time – and this is where you thank us for making you wear comfortable shoes. Cooking times vary depending on the cooking surface – we use a cast-iron pot which cooks a little more slowly and evenly. We’re also using an electric stove, which is not my preference but I'm not running a gas line just to make a better gumbo recipe. I’ve used a stainless pot and it tends to burn in a hurry. The moral of the story is: You have to KEEP STIRRING. The flour mixture will go from vanilla to beige to caramel to dark caramel to penny. Do not stop stirring, and keep an eye on that heat – adjust downward as necessary, especially when you hit caramel-colored. Behold, the pictures:

DUMP YOUR VEGGIES! As soon as you hit the penny, empty all the vegetables into the roux-pot. Don’t wait! Dump and stir! This is where you thank us for making you wear a long-sleeved T-shirt because, along with random splatter from stray veggies, you’ll get a major steam up when the cold veggies hit the hot roux.

Don’t Panic: Keep stirring until the onions become translucent and soft, about 5 minutes. Add in that wonderful stock you made earlier, but only enough to cover the veggies. Give everything a good stir! Don’t worry if the roux separates and looks a little sandy, it'll all come back together in a moment… After the initial blast of steam-and-stir, add both of cans of tomatoes including juice, sausage, salt, black pepper, cayenne, bay leaves and the rest of the stock – about 3/4s of the way to the rim – if you have that much stock and space. Bring to a boil then reduce heat and simmer. Freeze whatever stock you’ve got leftover (see Rubbermaid, Tupperware, et al).

Sling Some Snot (or Let Good Times Roll with Okra): While the pot is simmering away, heat a large, nonstick skillet over medium heat with the rest of the oil, about 2 tablespoons. Add the okra to the skillet to heat it up. The okra will shed a slimy-looking substance – it’s OK, you can call it “snot.” Keep stirring until it starts to dry up and get stringy – about 10-15 minutes – just be aware that it won't go away completely. You're just trying to blow the okra’s nose so it doesn’t smear your gumbo.

Boil Some Water / Make Some Rice: If you plan on eating this now, throw your smallest pot on the least-splattered remaining burner and follow instructions for instant rice (or regular rice, if you’re a martyr).

Add the Okra, Add the Bird, Call it a Day: When the okra is done, add it to the pot and quickly bring everything back up to a boil. Reduce the heat and simmer. Taste and decide whether you need more spice. Add turkey or chicken and simmer until heated through. At this point, the gumbo is basically done, but it will only get better the longer it cooks down (2 hours). Drink a beer to toast your achievement.

WORD OF CAUTION, Part 1: If you want to cook it down or won't be serving it right away, be careful adding spices because it becomes more concentrated as it cooks down, and hold off on adding the turkey meat until you’re a half-hour from being ready to serve so it doesn't disintegrate on you. If using a brined turkey, it's better to err on the side of caution with the salt. Please note, Pat and I use a LOT more pain / heat when cooking for ourselves.

WORD OF CAUTION, Part 2: Remember, you eat gumbo with rice, but you let the individual person scoop as much rice and gumbo as they want. Do not even think about mixing the rice and gumbo altogether in the big pot. Then this entire exercise would all be for naught. When you’re done, store whatever is left (see Rubbermaid, Tupperware, et al) Enjoy. Laissez les bon temps rouler!

It's where I spent my springtime... there, and hunched over my computer furiously emailing members of the Arizona state legislature, the editorial board of the Arizona Republic, other unsuspecting members of the press, and innocent bystanders like yourselves, who (used to) call themselves my friends.

I am (unofficially) a lobbyist... which means I have now worked in three of the most reviled jobs in the universe: Journalist, salesperson, lobbyist. If only I were to enroll in law school, then I could hit for the cycle!

SO DON'T SAY YOU WEREN'T WARNED: YOU ARE ABOUT TO WITNESS THE CURTAIN BEING PULLED BACK ON THE SAUSAGE-MAKING EXERCISE OF LAWMAKING. (And it's a long, blow-by-blow process) Make a drink, take a seat and continue... we're gonna change government for the better, and we're gonna do it TOGETHER!

I figured the electoral process could only get better from there... then I jumped head-first into the concrete swimming pool that is Arizona politics.

I serve on the board of Local First Arizona - a coalition of more than 1,300 locally owned, independent businesses whose mission is to encourage consumers to "shop local" for the economic, environmental and cultural benefits that this simple act gives to our community. In November, we facilitated a study by Austin-based Civic Economics on the local impact of state procurement. Where you and I can make an everyday difference by spending our $5 at a local coffeehouse, state, county and municipal governments spend millions each year. Civic Economics found that three times the revenue recirculates through the local economy when an in-state business is used compared to an out-of-state firm or national chain. Read the full study here.

My friend Penny - who does a lot of bid work in Texas - asked whether Arizona had a "resident-bidder" program, in which the government entity gives preference to in-state companies competing for state contracts. Some resident-bidder provisions are overtly protectionist, requiring out-of-state firms to underbid the resident bidder by 5 percent or more. Others are more modest and "break the tie in favor of the home team." Come to find out, 48 states and U.S. territories, including Guam, have resident-bidder programs. Arizona, New Hampshire and Massachusetts do not - and I truly believe that Arizona is as good as Guam.

Sen. Jim Waring, R-Phoenix, agreed.

He's our District 7 state senator, and I have found him to be thoughtful, responsive and incredibly generous with his time whenever I've had a question about the way our state works. Next thing I know, he has introduced Senate Bill 1233 (state procurement code; Arizona preference) and off we go to the Senate Commerce and Economic Development Committee. Local First executive director Kimber Lanning and I testified before the committee and we even got an "AMEN" from Republican Senator Robert Blendu who said, "I agree - we're as good as Guam." Even my old friend John, who is a REAL lobbyist (and we don't hold that against him), was impressed with our testimony after he recovered from the heart attack he almost suffered from seeing me show up unannounced on his home turf.

We passed the committee 6-0... agreeing to an amendment that would clarify our definition of a resident-bidder and promising to streamline the bill to a simple idea - BREAK THE TIE IN FAVOR OF THE HOME TEAM. If price and quality are equal, give the state business to the IN-STATE BUSINESS. I then appeared with Kimber on The Pat McMahon Show on AZ*TV about the sexy goodness that is state procurement (Find a link to the show here); I had my first newspaper byline since 1999 - an op-ed piece, no less; we took our case to Air America radio and even spoke before the Greater Phoenix Gay and Lesbian Chamber of Commerce. Everyone agreed: Breaking the tie in favor of the home team is a GREAT idea - why didn't we think of this before?

We went on to the full Senate where we passed 22-5 (3 absent). We'd made it to second base and needed to get through the House committee then the full House to get home to Governor Napolitano's desk.

Sadly, the baseball metaphor for Arizona politics is only appropriate if you're standing on the pitcher's mound being charged by an angry batter with wood in hand. The Arizona Chamber of Commerce and Industry... all of the major city Chambers of Commerce... Bank of America? ... the Arizona Wholesalers: All these Goliaths of Arizona business came out AGAINST our bill. Our House of Representatives quarterback, Michele Reagan, R-Scottsdale, asked, "What kind of hornet's nest have you girls stirred up?" She encouraged us to meet with the Arizona Chamber to see if we could come to some sort of compromise.

Through other channels we'd learned their definition of compromise: They wanted us to drop the part of our provision that required an Arizona company to "have a substantial portion of their business in Arizona." And by dropping that provision, how would they be an ARIZONA COMPANY? They also threw us a bone and said they weren't crazy about the phrase "identical bid" and felt it'd be easier to implement if we substituted "comparable or similar" - which seems reasonable on the surface, EXCEPT THAT IT WOULD MAKE OUR BILL UNCONSTITUTIONAL AND IT WOULDN'T STAND UP IN COURT. Nicely played.

So, Kimber and I met with Glenn Hamer - president and CEO of the Arizona Chamber of Commerce - who happens to be an old family friend of Rep. Reagan's. Great meeting - seriously: He's a huge fan of local business and went on and on about his favorite local places. We explained our bill, its genesis and our intentions: Break the tie in favor of the home team. Especially when our state faces a $1.7 billion shortfall, it makes sense to keep every dollar in-state - ESPECIALLY WHEN OUR BILL REQUIRES ALL PARTIES TO SUBMIT TO THE STANDARD, COMPETITIVE BID PROCESS. SB 1233 only comes into play to break a tie.

"But I don't see how you could have an identical bid - I mean, even if it's just one penny? It should still go to the lowest bidder. I just don't understand this," Hamer said. He asked us to find some case studies and see how SB 1233 would work in practice. We agreed - and asked him to take a neutral stance on our bill. He made no promises. We shook hands and left him with a box of our Local First "Small Wonders" maps of independent restaurants and boutiques in central Phoenix.

I got back to the office cheered from our meeting - I had a job to do... I also had an email from Senator Waring: A representative (read: lobbyist) from the Arizona Chamber had just called his office to say our bill was DEAD. Sen. Waring even saved the message for me. That afternoon, I received an email back from House Speaker Jim Weiers: He'd assigned our bill to the Government Committee and to Rep. Reagan's Commerce Committee. Unfortunately, we have to go THROUGH Government to get to Commerce and then we have to get through Commerce to get to the floor. The only problem: Government is basically the place where bills go to die and the Chair of the Government Committee, Rep. Kirk Adams, R-Mesa, said point blank that he would not hear our bill.

At this point, you'd think it'd be nice to hang up my spurs, drink a cold beer and call it a night... but according to my friend John the Good Lobbyist, that's not how the game is played. The boxing metaphor is more appropriate than the baseball metaphor - even though there is no mercy rule. To be taken seriously in this legislative session and the next and the one after that, you basically have to be Joe Frasier in the Thrilla in Manilla: Amid a withering flurry of punishment from Muhammed Ali, you just have to keep coming back for seconds, in hopes that when they finally call the fight, your trainer Eddie Futch will say, "It's all over. No one will forget what you did here today." Which is all fine and good when both of your eyes are swollen shut and you think your name is Thursday. So I made an appointment to speak with Rep. Adams about our bill.

True to our word, I also met with the director of the state procurement office and her lobbyist. We reviewed the bill and their initial concerns: As originally presented - without the Senate Committee clarifications - they felt it would have created huge burdens on the state office because they would have had to check against every other state's rules and it would have increased the likelihood of protested-bids which delay the delivery of services and cost us taxpayers more money... but breaking the tie in favor of the home team?

"We like this bill as it's written now," said Jean Clark, the Director of the State Office of Procurement. "I'd like to break the tie in favor of an Arizona business. It's better than what we do now."

"Well, how exactly do you break a tie bid now?"

"We draw lots."

EXCUSE ME? YOU DRAW LOTS? YOU ARE LEAVING MILLION DOLLAR APPROPRIATIONS TO CHANCE? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? WHY NOT JUST PLAY ROCK, PAPER, SCISSORS? WHY NOT FLIP A COIN?

"Well, we're not exactly flipping a coin - this is pursuant to the code and we have witnesses. It really is a formal process, but yes, we do draw lots... It happens a handful of times, and I'd prefer to give the business to an Arizona company, but that's not how the code is written now, and your bill would do change that... and you can tell them we approve of breaking ties this way."

Let me repeat: THE STATE OF ARIZONA DRAWS LOTS!!! Granted, it's a lot easier than picking between a Klansman and a felon, but I digress.

I called Glenn at the Arizona Chamber to report my findings. He sounded like someone was inserting bamboo shoots beneath his toenails.

"Look, I'm not asking for anything - I know my bill is dead. It has to get through Government to get to Commerce and Government refuses to hear it ... and I know you didn't promise anything. But I did my due diligence, and you need to be aware that we have a handful of these 'tie bids' each year, and the ties are defined in the statute, and they currently break the tie by drawing lots."

"They draw lots? Like a rabbit out of a hat?"

"Well, they have witnesses, but yeah, they draw lots. Million-dollar contracts basically determined by a coin-flip... and our bill would change that. Our bill would keep that money in state rather than leave it to fate."

"I can't believe this - do you understand how important this information is?"

"You better believe I do - and know this, I know our bill is dead and we're just playing out the string right now... but if by some unforeseen circumstance I get through committee and I get to tell people how we currently break ties, our bill will pass. There's no way they can vote against this... and we're coming back next year with this information."

And here's the good part: Glenn thanked me for my time and my effort. He said that he could tell Kimber and I were positive people with true intentions and that we honestly wanted what was best for the citizens and the state of Arizona. We weren't carrying anyone's water and we conducted ourselves with professionalism and integrity. Which was nice of him to say, but it still didn't help our bill... this year.

The next day, I received a call from Rep. Adams' assistant Karen: "You're on Rep. Adams' calendar for Thursday, but he will not be hearing your bill. Did you still need to speak with him?"

"Yes, I do. I have found out some very important information that may clarify some of his concerns."

"But he's not going to hear your bill."

"But I'm on his calendar and I'd still like to talk with him."

"But he's not going to hear your bill."

"I will not cancel my appointment."

"Well, I'm sure you don't need the whole half-hour. We'll just scale it back to 10 or 15 minutes? Rep. Adams is extremely busy right now."

"I appreciate that and I will not waste his time, but I will take my full half-hour. I'll see you on Thursday."

I got to wait an hour for that half-hour. Good times... but it was worth it when Senator Waring escorted me back to Rep. Adams office and introduced me to the assistant: "Hello Karen, this is one of my constituents, Stacy Bertinelli. She has an appointment with Rep. Adams. I know you'll take good care of her."

Rep. Adams outlined his concerns: He feared that this bill would force out-of-state companies to underbid Arizona companies. My response: So what you're saying is, this bill would drive down prices - and how would that hurt the Arizona taxpayer? He then said he was concerned that out-of-state companies would not want to compete for bids in Arizona because of this provision. My response: 48 states and US territories, including Guam, have similar provisions - some that are much more protectionist - and yet, companies continue to submit bids in all of those states. We are merely trying to put Arizona businesses on a level playing field. ... Plus, this provision would come into play only a handful of times in a given year - our bill still requires companies to submit competitive bids and it still rewards the contract to the low bidder. This bill merely breaks a handful of ties in favor of Arizona companies... rather than leaving it up to a coin toss.

"Well, I appreciate that you want to help Arizona companies, I really do, and I appreciate that tie bids happen only a few times a year and I was unaware that we broke ties by drawing lots... but I understand economics and I think this bill will limit competition and I think this creates a slippery slope, and that's not a place I want to go."

I have a good friend who is an ethicist and he explained that "slippery slope" is the place where people go when they have no good arguments left. Small consolation, and with that, Rep. Adams refused to hear my bill... IN ITS CURRENT FORM.

SB 1233 was heard yesterday by the Government Committee - and it passed: BUT ONLY AFTER REP. ADAMS GUTTED IT WITH A STRIKE-EVERYTHING AMENDMENT AND USED THE HUSK OF MY BILL AS A MULLIGAN FOR HIS ARBITRATION MEASURE. @#$%&#&@!!!!!

If you've stayed with me for this long, you can stick around for the closing arguments - or, what I would've said to the Government Committee had my original bill been heard instead of eviscerated.

MY BILL IS NEITHER A KLANSMAN NOR A FELON. It ensures that our state agencies abide by their fiduciary responsibilities and seek the lowest possible bid. It requires a competitive, free-market approach to fulfilling our state contracts. It allows the in-state companies to give their best shot against the national corporations and their supposed 'lower prices.' But if there is a tie - in the handful of times that may occur in a given year - our bill will send three-times the revenue back to state coffers because it breaks that tie in favor of the home team... rather than leaving it up to a fateful piece of paper in the anonymous bottom of a hat. I defy you to vote FOR leaving this decision to chance because doing so is a vote AGAINST Arizona companies.

But I didn't get to say that. Instead, I got to send a thank you note to Rep. Adams. I got to make gumbo for Sen. Waring (who felt awful because he couldn't get our bill through) And I'll get to take my friend the Good Lobbyist out for a beer to thank him for his time and counsel. Plus, I'll get to start calling people again as soon as the session is over and find more friends and supporters for next year.

But that's not to say we didn't learn a lot this year: This may sound really corny, but I have a good friend serving right now in Iraq, and if anything, this experience made me realize that there are few places in the world where a regular citizen can just go to the legislature and try to get a law passed, and I've learned that though the process may be convoluted and confounding, it's something we shouldn't take for granted.

What else have we learned? We've learned to stand in the hurricane, rub dirt on our wounds and ask for one more round... we've learned who are friends are and how to approach our enemies... we've learned how to handle ourselves gracefully in defeat and graciously in victory... and we're coming back next year... and when we do, we're bringing our slingshots.

Yes, it's real.
Yes, my Mom and Dad know.
No, they have not disowned me.
No, I'm not the first in my family to get a tattoo - that would be my Dad, and he did it when he turned 60.
Yes, it hurt.

Wanna hear the whole story? And see photos of what real pain looks like? We'll see you after the jump...

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It's Saturday morning. Hungover and chagrined, we stumble into the French Quarter toward the Cafe Dumond in search of a deep-fried, powdered-sugared plate of goodness. We spot a girl tending to her shop sign, her arms sleeved in ink.
"Let's go ask her!" Kellee shrieks. Before Pat can protest, we're looking up and down her arms, asking questions.
"If you really want to get a tattoo while you're in New Orleans, you gotta go to Electric Ladyland," she says, pointing to the intricate calligraphy trailing around her forearm. "They're here in the Quarter and they're the best in New Orleans."
Pat shakes his head and rolls his eyes. We drop the subject, eat our doughnuts, drink our coffee, put him in a cab to the airport and lose ourselves in a melancholy city (more on that later).

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It's Sunday afternoon. Two hangovers from four Pat O'Brien's hurricanes, one four-hour Ultimate Swamp Adventure air-boat tour, three alligators, one dead nutria-rat, a half-a-dozen raw oysters and a half-hour nap later, Kellee and I are walking through the Quarter toward the St. Charles streetcar terminus on Canal Street.
"So are you serious about getting a tattoo?"
"Yeah, I'd like one - I've been thinking about it for a while - ever since I started watching Miami Ink on Discovery a couple years ago... and I'd been thinking about getting something related to Louisiana. At first I was thinking a magnolia, but they're white and I don't think the ink would work out, but now that we're in New Orleans, I'm thinking about a fleur-de-lis - you know, rebirth of the city and all that. And I'd want to get Mardi Gras colors to commemorate the krewe and..."
... and I almost walk into a lamppost... with an Electric Ladyland bumper sticker attached to it. No phone number, just an address. Kellee consults her map.
"It's not far..."
"Let's go!"

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

They close at 8. Two-hour wait... at minimum. I ask for a fleur de lis. They give me a binder full of them.
"Call back at 5 and we'll see if we can fit you in," says Shelby, the girl at the counter. "That design? You're looking at $180 - $200 or so. Cash only."
"If it's meant to be, it'll happen," I say. We make our way back to the street car line, stopping first at an ATM to empty my checking account. We ride up through the Garden District. See Anne Rice's house (former orphanage, go figure). Clackety-clacking back into the Quarter, we call again.
"You said to call back at 5. It's 5."
"Try back at 7. We're slammed."
We make our way back to Bourbon Street to drink "Hand Grenades" - apparently the "other" quintessential New Orleans adult beverage behind Pat O's hurricanes. I smell boiled crawfish (which I cannot get in Arizona and which I had been craving our whole trip).
"It's a sign!" Kellee says.
I eat three pounds. It's 7. We call back.
"First-come, first-serve, baby."
"But you close at 8."
"We got an artist who's gonna stay here until the last one. But we're not taking anyone after 8, so get on over here."
We buy two more Hand Grenades and hoof it.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It's Sunday night. 7:45. I want a fleur-de-lis with a Mardi Gras crown and beads. Full color. Big as my hand. We're looking at a 2-hour wait.
"Go on across the street to the bar and have a drink. We'll call you when it's your turn - but don't drink too much. Drunks won't hold still and they bleed too much... and you can't bring your drink back in here. You have to drink it out on the curb, so just go over there and stay there till we call."
Pat calls. I hem and haw... yeah, had a nice time at the Swamp Tour... no, we're just hanging out in the Quarter... had a Hand Grenade... oh wait, my phone's beeping, uh, I think it might be my Aunt Diane. Lemme let you go. Love you! Bye!
"Stacy, it's Shelby. That tattoo you want? Full color, that size? $260. Cash only."
SHIT. Kellee has me covered. They throw in an extra "free" T-shirt for my trouble. It's only 8:30.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It's Sunday night. 9:45. My phone buzzes to life. I look at Shelby and at Adam the piercing guy. I'm the last one in line.
"Terry says he's feeling fine."
"Yeah, but I don't want to be the last one... you know, I don't want to have my body permanently altered by someone who's tired and wants to go home and make sweet love by the fire to his woman... and instead he has to be drawing his 15,000th fleur-de-lis on some tourist from Arizona by way of Shreveport."
"Talk to Terry. See what he says."
So I talk to Terry. Tell him my story. I'm a Louisiana girl. My husband and I founded the first and only Mardi Gras krewe in the state of Arizona - we have a parade and everything. I really want to get a fleur-de-lis to show off my Louisiana roots.
"What part of Louisiana?"
"Shreveport - and I know you folks in New Orleans think Shreveport is East Texas but I know from Texas and Shreveport is still in Louisiana."
"I'm not dissing Shreveport. My Dad's from Shreveport. I've spent some good times in Shreveport. ... And I want to do this tattoo. Seriously, I like you and I like your story. This is going to be a beautiful tatttoo."
"Well, then, let's do it, Terry!"

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

First question everyone asks: Did it hurt? Duh.
Second question everyone asks: What did it feel like?
Like dragging a hot scalpel through your skin. Like two hours of consecutive hornet stings. Like someone is carving your flesh with broken glass. But there are waves of pain... it comes and goes. You ride it and just when you get used to it... a) He changes the needle and has to color it in, which is a lot like doing calligraphy on your butt with a razor-blade or b) Kellee starts to wail about how painful and agonizing it looks, and "How can you stand that? It looks like it hurts so much! I don't think I could ever do this. It just looks awful. I can't believe how much you're bleeding! Can you feel that? Do you want me to rub your shoulders?"
"You can't rub her shoulders - I'm working here."
"But it looks like she's in so much pain."
Yeah, I am, but it's much worse when you talk about it... now you have to step away and go outside and have a drink because you're wearing me out. Here's how it feels:

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It's Monday morning... at 12:30 AM. We're done.
Terry gives me the instructions for the "care and feeding" and he gives me a warning.
"We're putting a bandage on it now, but I don't want you sleeping in it. So you stay up for at least 2 more hours. Take the bandage off. Wash it - no wash cloth, no soaps with fragrance, just skin on skin. Put lotion on it - no fragrance. Then take a Benadryl - it'll help with the itching and go to sleep. You wash it twice a day for a couple weeks. It'll itch. It'll scab. Don't pick at it. Don't panic, just take care of it. It'll heal up fine. That's a nice tattoo - lemme take a picture of that. Congratulations."

Here's the aftermath...

Yes, it hurt... and yes, I'd do it again in a heartbeat... and yes, I'll post a picture when it's all healed up.

Laissez les bon temps rouler!

Krewe of Helios-Arizona Mardi Gras Parade and Party VI
Saturday, February 2, 2008 (Yes, we know it's the day before the Super Bowl and the Saturday of the FBR Open - it's not our fault those idiots can't consult a calendar and figure out when Mardi Gras is)
3 PM - 11 PM (or until Stacy gets tired and cranky and kicks everyone out!)
AND WHEN WE SAY 3 PM, WE AREN'T KIDDING. THE PARADE WILL START AT 3, SO TO SECURE YOUR PLACE IN LINE, ARRIVE EARLIER, like say, around 2:30 PM (But please, don't stay later)
Krewe of Helios-AZ World Headquarters
24952 N. 74th Place, Scottsdale AZ 85255
View Larger Map">(Handy Google Map)

For those of you who've been there before but whose memories have been wiped out by our fearsome Hurricanes... or for those of you who've never been there before, but want to act like you have: Please read the jump for handy traffic tips / alternate routes, parking advice, parade etiquette, dress codes, and arcane pieces of Mardi Gras trivia that might just save your life!

- Avoid Hayden Road and Pima Road at all costs.
- Use Scottsdale Road with extreme patience and caution.
- Approach from the west or north, even if you have to drive way out of your way, unless you like to be stuck in traffic with a bunch of obnoxious golf fans who smoke cigars, go sockless in loafers and look like John Daly (but aren't as charming).

Our suggested route: Take SR 51 to Loop 101. Exit Tatum Road, go north to Pinnacle Peak Road. Go right (east) 2.5 miles on Pinnacle Peak to Scottsdale Road. Go left (north) 1 mile on Scottsdale Road to Happy Valley Road. Go right on Happy Valley to North 74th Place (the second right). Our house is the first on the right.
View Larger Map">Here's a handy Google Map for you!

THE NEIGHBORS ARE ONTO US AND SHUT DOWN OUR FREE LOT: PARKING SUCKS
Yeah, we knew it was bound to happen the year we broke 100 attendees. The neighborhood next door that was under construction during our two previous parades and served as a pretty handy parking lot erected a fence at the end of the cul de sac and a gate in their community. I don't know if they're trying to tell us something (They have referred to our street as 'The Ghetto') but this means you have to park elsewhere. Our suggestions: 1) Carpool. 2) Do not block our neighbors' driveways. 3) Get some exercise: There's a dirt patch on the southeast corner of Happy Valley and Miller - about a block east of our street. If you drive east through the intersection of Happy Valley and Miller, you can park up on the dirt.
View Larger Map">Here's yet another handy Google Map (with satellite imagery - cool) so you don't get lost.

WE KNOW YOU'VE NEVER BEEN TO NEW ORLEANS, BUT YOU CAN ACT LIKE YOU'VE BEEN THERE BEFORE IF YOU HEED PROPER PARADE ETIQUETTE! Step off for our parade is PROMPTLY AT 3 PM. We are not waiting around for your lame self to navigate FBR Open-Container Traffic because you didn't heed our handy traffic advice. THAT'S WHY WE ARE STARTING SO EARLY - TO AVOID CONGESTION. So here's what will happen: You will follow the handy traffic advice. You'll drop off your friends because you carpooled. You'll park somewhere and find your way back. You'll grab a non-adult beverage because you're the designated driver (and your passengers will already be nursing hurricanes). You'll await instructions from Stacy B delivered via BULLHORN. You'll stand on the side of the road, wondering why someone would give Stacy B a bullhorn. The parade will start. You will move into the street and holler, "THROW ME SOMETHING, MISTER!" all the while, being careful not to remove your clothing. You will catch SO MANY BEADS THAT YOU WILL HAVE TO FIGHT OFF THE MANY CO-EDS YOU'LL MEET LATER ON AT OTHER STUPID BOWL PARTIES THAT YOU HAD TO PAY TO ENTER. Or you'll laugh as your kids tump over because they have so many said beads stacked around their necks that their growth is being stunted. The parade will make VI historic laps around the cul de sac - maybe less because we don't have said permits to conduct said parade. We'll finish up the parade and everyone will line up to EAT AMAZING, HOMECOOKED CAJUN FOOD.

It bears repeating, though we've said it for the past VI years and some people have yet to figure it out: If you arrive for the parade, YOU WILL BE FED. You'll eat GUMBO and RED BEANS AND RICE and MUFFALETTAS! If you arrive late, like say, at IV PM, you won't be fed and you'll be sad, like Hatriots coach Bill Belicheater when he was caught FLAGRANTLY VIOLATING NFL RULES. ($&%*$&%!!!)

WE DON'T WANT TO SEE YOUR MANBOOBS, SO ADHERE TO THE DRESS CODE AND KEEP YOUR CLOTHES ON! Yeah, we live in North Scottsdale, not Gila Bend, so please... PLEASE! KEEP YOUR CLOTHES ON.
We know that the pageantry and pomp and circumstances are so overwhelming that you might want to throw caution and undergarments to the wind, but we don't want to see your manboobs. It'd be different if we were inviting... oh, members of the Spice Girls or the Thunder Down Under... but we're not. We know what you look like, you're our friends... and friends don't let friends disrobe. Otherwise, jeans and T-shirts will suffice. If you decorate a float, you'll get a T-shirt. Otherwise, you're throwing elbows to catch one... if you're lucky. And no, if you've been surgically enhanced, it will not enhance your chances to catch a T-shirt.

ARCANE PIECES OF MARDI GRAS TRIVIA THAT MIGHT JUST SAVE YOUR LIFE:
1) There's a plastic choking hazard, aka BABY, in the King Cake! No, we're not cannibals. It's a Mardi Gras tradition. You too can be the King or Queen of Mardi Gras 2009 if you find the plastic baby in one of the King Cakes and live to tell the tale. Just find Pat or Stacy or King Ryan or Queen Cynde when you find the baby and you'll be crowned for next year. Hooray! Just don't choke on it, OK?

2) Gumbo is not Cajun for PAIN... unless your name is Patrick Bertinelli: We like our food a little spicy, but even if you don't, YOU WILL LOVE IT. We will measure up our gumbo next to all and any comers. But if you're a vegan, we'll have a small pot of VEGETARIAN red beans and rice on the stove, and we promise not to laugh at you (well, not loudly). Grab two bowls while you're in the food line - use one for gumbo and one for red beans. Pour each over rice. ALL GOOD.

3) LOOK OUT FOR THE ADULT PINATA! Yeah, it's gonna be fun. It will hang from the tree in the backyard - and we'll have a kiddie pinata and an adult one. They will be clearly marked. You must be XXI to participate in the Adult PInata - and we don't recommend you stand too close while they're trying to whack it because you might get hurt.

4) IF YOU'D LIKE TO BRING SOMETHING, CONSIDER LAWN CHAIRS AND NON-HURRICANE ADULT BEVERAGES - We provide hurricanes and hurricane's only, made with the Pat O'Brien's Top Secret Recipe from New Orleans. If you like BEER or WINE or OTHER, bring it. We will have nonalcoholic beverages for our designated driver friends.

Questions?
Call Krewe of Helios-Arizona Founders and Co-Captains
Stacy B (602-751-4506 ) or Pat (480-297-9091)
See you on Saturday, February 2!
Laissez les bon temps roulez!