Lately, I’ve felt this compulsion to go to Las Vegas. It’s not the first time; when the USAF decided we were entirely too comfortable in California and had to move somewhere new for the last 2.2 years the Spouse Thingy was active duty, we put Nellis AFB at the top of our list. We’d heard good things about the base and the area, and, well...Vegas, baby!

We were sent to Wright Patterson AFB in Ohio instead, where we lived amongst the Evil People and where we got Red Drink Stupid with them many, many times. Partway through our 2.2 years there we contemplated what would come post-retirement: back to CA, stay in OH, or maybe try Las Vegas.

I could take the heat in Las Vegas. It’s dry heat. I can do that. I think.

But the Boy came to visit and brought A Girl, whom we liked a whole lot, and we realized we’d already missed out on a couple years of his life, and there would only be so many more where our presence would not be too much of an intrusion, so we decided to go home.

But lately...I feel that pull to Las Vegas, a place I’ve only been in a couple of times, and that was when I was too young to gamble or do anything that might get me into trouble.

There has never been a logical explanation as to why I feel so compelled to go there. If it were just the gambling thing—heck, we have casinos here. And Reno is just a 3 hour drive away. I could gamble there AND see some friend-type people.

But Las Vegas keeps calling to me.
And today I learned why.
Las Vegas has Schlotzsky’s.

Northern CA does not have Schlotzsky’s. There was one not too far from where we resided amongst the Evil People and Drinkage in Ohio, just far enough that it wasn’t an every day temptation, but close enough we could go if we wanted. But there is none here, and I wants it.

My preciousssss...

Las Vegas has what I need. It has sunny days and cool nights. It has Stuff To Do. Topless driving weather. No state income tax. And it has Schlotzsky’s.

Either I need to go to Vegas—hell, just a few days there would do every few months, enough to eat there until I barf—or Schlotzsky’s really needs to open up in Vacaville, CA.

Do you hear me, Schlotzsky people?

I’m sitting here, longing for an Original Turkey, no black olives. I’m almost drooling at the thought. Save me from uprooting the Spouse Thingy. Open a Schlotzsky’s here.

I’ll even work for you. Minimum wage!


No comments: