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to my strut going on inside my new favorite size-ten jeans. Something about the lights, the people, and the energy were exceedingly alive that evening. There was a crackle in the desert air that I had never experienced before. I was followed around by a warm, fuzzy, radiant glow the entire evening—well, not quite the entire evening.
    I walked up to my husband-to- be sitting at a blackjack table. He was looking pretty flush with a mile-high, Mack Daddy stack of chips in front of him. I stood quietly behind Trent, watching him play cards. I started to second-guess my feelings for him and it caught me off guard. I felt strangely hollow in the midst of all the excitement. My guts internal, "check engine" light, kept flickering off and on—the bastardly thing would not quit flashing a bright orange warning sign. Unsure, was my state of mind, about the man I intended to marry. I thought that it must be a case of frickin cold-feet. I believed that Trent was the mythical "one"—eighty percent of the time. The other twenty percent of the time, I told myself that the forever love concept is a bunch of malarkey we are brainwashed to believe so that we don't all become an unruly bunch of immoral whores. Since I did not want to eternally smash around in the rouge waves of Trampland, I sold myself on taking the marital high ground. I was knee-deep in the process of convincing myself into some kind of outlandish relationship submission. So there I stood, uncomfortably muffled and frozen on the extremely elaborate casino floor.

He glanced behind the mahogany high-back chair and noticed my tall shadow lingering behind him. Leaning forward, I softly whispered in his ear that I lost my last twenty dollars to a greedy slot machine. Regretfully, that night I decided to leave my favorite credit card upstairs in the hotel room. I ever so sweetly mentioned to Trent that I was in need of a few bucks to keep playing the one-armed bandit. I wanted to try my luck out a few more times until Trent was finished playing cards. I only wished to spend a bit more time on the lively casino floor before we retired for the evening.

Trent stopped everything and screamed at me, "No, you are done for the night,” in a loud and belittling tone! I could not believe my stunned ears. The card dealer looked at me with an unsaid expression of dismay that was clearly defined across his brow. Every eye in a stones-throw radius was on me, and yet I felt somehow invisible. I was so ashamed inside that moment to be standing beside a man who treated me like a tiny bug that he squashed under his four-hundred- dollar patent leather shoes. There I was, feeling like a young girl who wet her polka dot panties on the playground—the only exception was that the playground was for adults only. Everyone was staring at me. I was standing inside my own golden spotlight of embarrassment. My startled brain went numb as his painfully cruel words slowly churned like barbwire in a metal blender. My emotions felt naked and exposed—they needed a dark place to quickly hide!

My first thought was to pull the fire alarm and run out of the bustling casino screaming , “Trent is a rude, cheap asshole!”  I wanted all of Nevada and any bordering states to hear me roar! My face had red hives developing as the seconds went by. I remember staring at the green velour of the blackjack table right before the fury of my rage overwhelmed me. As an automatic gut reaction, I yelled loudly right back in his tightwad ear, “You are not my father!” I placed my pride in my pocket and abruptly headed the other direction—away from his ugly mug. The beautiful glow of the evening had turned pitch black and the shimmering lights that illuminated moments before had instantly disappeared into the darkness.
    I am a strong woman—with a sprinkling of Irish. Thanks to the spun ky shamrocks, I also have a red-hot, push-button temper. So, I did not take to well to Trent trying to run my life, or my