Crescent Moon?

There's a million names for the many different, shall we say, wardrobe malfunctions. You've no doubt seen or heard of many of them and if you haven't, google them, you'll get a plethora of information.

Nip slip. Upskirt, Camel Toe. Pokies. VPL. Downblouse. Etc. ad nauseum.

Believe it or not, Britney Spears has NOT cornered the market on nearly all of the above (but she does own a huge portion of it). Friday night, dealing at the casino, I saw one that I propose we call Crescent Moon.

A somewhat overweight, 30-ish Hispanic woman was at my table. She wore a black clingy low cut top wherein the lower hem of the top pretty much lined up with the top of her also black bra. Is that clear?

Dunno. But after a time, perhaps because she kept leaning onto the table, both garments were tugged down enough to reveal the top of her left areola. Since I was dealing I didn't get a real good look, nor did I want to in order to embarrass her, but this thing was peeking out at me for a good half hour before one of her friends across the table said something in Spanish and I could hear and sense all sorts of elastic snapping and adjustments. Upon another glance as I dealt her a card, things were all back in order. For a while.

The Crescent Moon made an appearance about 2 hours later for another half hour or so.

How could one not sense that?

Casino Tales

Good title? Casino Tales?

Except I don't really have any.

I really thought working at the Casino for 16 hours a weekend would get me some good blog fodder. But it really hasn't.

Its a drag to get there. I miss looking forward to my weekends knowing I have to work Friday night into Saturday morning and then Saturday night starting it over again. Having said that, once I'm there its fine. The time totally flies by and I really love that direct deposit on Fridays.

My most obnoxious player so far, believe it or not, has been a drunk lady of about 70, who when learning I had to put some new cards into play (which takes a couple minutes to inspect, wash and riffle) asked why I can't just "deal the fucking cards". Took me by surprise. I thought she was just being funny at first, but she wasn't. From then on I silently rooted for her to lose, just as I do other people I think are obnoxious or a pain.

Last weekend I had a drunk guy of about 30 who didn't understand how to play BlackJack but was funny and not offensive despite the fact he referred to the older Asian woman sitting next to her as Feng Shui and high-fiving her three or more times.

The night before that was sort of slow. I had a bunch of players who just stared at the felt indicating hit or stand but showing no emotion. At one point I'm thinking, "Lady. I just dealt you two Blackjacks, its really okay to smile." I'm sure you've guessed that table didn't tip for shit either.

A few weeks ago I paid a guy $4000 on a bonus hand win and he tipped me $500! That was nice. We pool our tips, but it was still nice nonetheless.

I'm into the rhythm of the place and most of my floor supervisors have been pretty cool.

Upon reflection, I'm thinking perhaps its a good thing I don't have too many stories then. It might be that that makes my nights all that much tougher.