Call in the vice squad
By Rose Simpson
I don’t know what it is about the long May weekend, but it always makes me want to get out of my comfort zone and do a bit of damage.
The Victoria weekend, for most people, is about going to the cottage if you have one and drinking as much as possible. Or if you don’t have a cottage, paying a twenty and setting up the camp site and drinking too much. Or building a deck and drinking too much.
You get my drift.
I held off my celebration yesterday and spent a few hours out a Rideau Carleton Racetrack. The place was packed with gamblers, horse betters and bingo queens, as it has become the sin capital of the nation’s capital. Everywhere, people were jamming twenties into slot machines, riveted to screens full of eye candy. People were actually losing hundreds of dollars on two cent slot machines. I watched.
Not a lot of drinking goes on at the racetrack. They used to have a bartender who came around to take drink orders, but they gave up on this once they realized that Ottawa gamblers want to spend every cent on the slot machines. In fact, the last conversation I had with a serving wench, she lamented that she should have been hocking coffee and soft drinks, because she’d make more money.
Anyways, I took my alloted sum, which is about as much as I would pay a therapist, and shoved my twenties in about a hundred machines. I won three hundred dollars, then lost it in the Admiral’s Lounge, the place where the high rollers go. Then I went back to the cheap seats and played nickels til I lost my little money pot. Then I came home.
It was then that I dove into my pot of red wine, then a little white, then a little Scotch, and the mere fact I am writing this, this morning is a down right miracle. Scott and I watched My Sister’s Keeper, a schlocky Cameron Diaz movie about a little girl who is born to keep her sister alive. I cried like someone had shot my dog. Maybe that’s why I don’t feel too bad today, all that weeping, maybe it was weeping Scotch.
Today, we’re sitting around with my son, Nick, who has made the journey up from Barrie with a friend. I like the kids’ friends. They pick good ones.
Happy Victoria Day weekend, everyone. And a piece of advice. Don’t let anyone talk you into a Prince Albert, in honour of Queen Vic. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, read my previous column. Cheers!