A Drunk Guy, a Bad Call, and an Unexpected Cure

I was playing poker recently at a casino when a very drunk guy, dressed to the nines from a wedding and still clutching his drink, sat down at our table.

Security almost escorted him out immediately.

They didn't.

In hindsight, maybe they should have. 😂

For over an hour, this drunk guy slowed the game to an agonizing crawl. The poker dealers had to repeatedly explain basic rules to him.

Eventually, I found myself down to a third of my starting stack. Holding pocket sevens, I watched the flop come Queen-Queen-Four. It was just the drunk player and me left in the hand. I pushed all-in for my remaining $65, hoping his altered state might make him fold.

Instead...

He confidently tossed out $15 and declared, "I call."

Everyone at the table was confused. The bet to him was $65, not $15, but in his drunken fog, he was proudly convinced he'd made the right move.

In poker, verbal statements are binding, so when he said "call," that meant he needed to put in the full $65.

As the players and the dealer tried to explain this over and over to him, he looked back at his cards and apparently realized he should fold.

His confidence suddenly gone, he slowly slid his cards face-down across the line and said,

"I fold."

His cards went so far across the betting line that they actually wedged themselves under a few chips in front of the dealer. In any poker room in the world, that's an absolute, undeniable muck—a dead hand.

By now, things had gotten so ridiculous that the floor managers were called over. After several minutes of trying to explain to the drunk guy that because he'd verbally called, he owed the full $65, one of the managers added,

"But you can retrieve your cards."

At this point I was standing up, and I asked, "Why is that not a muck?"

I asked again. "Why is that not a muck?"

One player at the other end of the table seemed to read my plight. He looked at me with a face that practically said, "Oh, if he doesn't fold, you still might lose."

I asked again. "Why is that not a muck?"

While I kept interjecting, one of the managers finally responded, "We're not going to make him pay without letting him use his cards."

I couldn't believe it!

I tried one last time.

"The cards are touching the chips!"

The drunk guy finally put in the rest of the money he owed, dug his cards out from under the pot, and said, "Maybe I'll get lucky."

He did.

Of course an Ace came on the river.

Of course he had an Ace.

Of course he won.

I slammed my cards down and snapped,

"Thanks a lot!"

Without missing a beat, one of the managers replied,

"You're welcome."

Seriously? Really?

I was L I V I D.

An hour later, I was sitting at a slot machine still steaming.

At least I had enough awareness to realize I was still piping mad, so I was literally trying breathing exercises to calm down (which sounds funny now, but at the time I was beyond livid).

My mind started doing what minds do best: taking one embarrassing moment and turning it into a full-blown catastrophe.

Great.

Everyone saw that.

The managers hate me.

The players are talking about me.

The whole poker room thinks I'm unstable.

I'm going to have to find a new casino.

Maybe move to another state.

Witness protection might be my only option.

To the casino staff, this was probably just another Tuesday.

To me, it was apparently the end of civilization.

Looking back, I doubt anyone would remember that I got mad—just that the ruling itself was ridiculous.

They'd remember the incident.

Not me.

A little while later, I spotted one of the players from the table and practically flagged him down.

"Hey," I asked, "did he muck those cards?"

Without hesitation, he said,

"Absolutely. Everyone was talking about it."

Then he added,

"I'd have been pissed, too."

And just like that, the steam was gone.

Apparently, "I'd have been pissed, too" is oddly therapeutic.

Who knew? 😂

Well… It Worked.

My Mom dealt with severe anxiety for as long as I can remember. She was on medication her entire adult life, and to her, running out simply wasn’t an option.

Navigating that anxiety became a constant thread throughout our lives. 

When I was around 40, I had to take my Mom to the emergency room, and we already knew she’d be admitted into the ICU overnight.

My Mom was absolutely spiraling at the thought of going without her anxiety medication, Ativan.

So she asked me to bring some.

Once she got admitted, the two of us suddenly became part of an undercover operation trying to sneak the Ativan past the nurses. 

(Please do not do this 😄)

That’s how serious her anxiety was.

Which is why it became a full-blown crisis the day her longtime psychiatrist retired when I was about 14 years old.

She found a brand-new psychiatrist and booked an appointment, even though she was incredibly nervous about it.

While she sat across from him, the doctor reviewed her chart, and then suddenly looked up at her with complete confusion.

“So, uh… what medication are you currently taking?" he asked flipping to another page.

Mom told him.

He blinked.

Then looked back at her again.

“Ma’am… that medication is for bedwetting.”

Without missing a beat, my mother looked him dead in the eye and shrugged.

“Well… it worked.” 

To her, it was a perfectly reasonable answer.

Honestly, it still cracks me up—and I wonder if he tells this story, too.

In her mind, the important thing was simple:

The medication helped her. 

End of discussion.

That was my Mom—completely unintentionally hilarious.

The doctor probably never recovered from this 😄

Where She Sat

Every so often, a particular memory resurfaces—one that, with the wisdom of adulthood, takes on an entirely new meaning. This one comes from my childhood, spent mostly along the Frio River in Concan, Texas.

From about eight years old, weekends at the river were our ritual. My mom eventually bought a few acres, and it became our second home. We camped there—our land—while spending our days a couple of miles away at a small park that gave us access to the river.

For a few years after her divorce in ’77, it was just the two of us. A quiet, steady rhythm of mother and daughter.

My Mom had a spark—playful, a little wild, and completely at home out there.

Concan sits in the heart of the Texas Hill Country—clear, cool water winding through limestone, cypress trees stretching over the riverbanks, sunlight dancing across everything. In the summer, it could be crowded—families, coolers, laughter echoing across the water, every good spot claimed early.

But this day wasn’t like that.

It was quiet—almost too quiet.

I don’t remember many people at all—no clusters of campers, no steady line of tubers drifting by. It felt more like a weekday than the busy weekends we were used to. Open. Still.

The Texas Hill Country—open, safe, and mine to explore.

The part of the river we loved sat just beside Neal’s Lodges—
a place full of hidden corners I knew by heart.

The Bear Cave. The Blue Hole. Casey’s Fall. 

Names I had given them myself, as if I were claiming little pieces of the world.

Trails crisscrossed the area, and I wandered them freely—sometimes with my mom, often on my own—completely at ease in a place that felt like it belonged to me.

“Bear Cave”—a name I gave it, and a place that felt like my own little discovery.

One day, I ran into a couple of older kids—teenagers, I realize now—near the river. I was probably ten. A total tomboy. Completely trusting.

I started showing them my favorite places—the ones that felt like mine.

We wandered through the quiet, nearly empty campground, cutting across areas that were usually filled with people. I proudly pointed out the Bear Cave—one of my favorite places to explore. Massive boulders sat stacked and scattered, like they had fallen from the cliffs hundreds of years ago. At least, that’s how I imagined it.

We searched for tadpoles in the shallow water, moving slowly along the edges, but I also made sure to take them to what I considered the best spot—the deepest part of the campground. A place where one large boulder sat alone in the water, the surface dropping off into something darker and quieter. It felt different there. Still. Like its own little world.

I remember feeling proud—like I was letting them in on something special.

The deepest spot I knew—quiet, still, and a little mysterious.

At some point, they asked if I wanted to join them for dinner. I told them I needed to check with my mom—it was getting close to dark—and they didn’t hesitate. They walked back with me without question.

We headed toward the park—the one we used during the day, a couple of miles from where we camped.

I didn’t realize then how much she was always watching out for me.

As we came around the bend, I saw her.

She was sitting alone at one of the concrete picnic tables.

Everything else was gone.

The cooler, the tubes, the lawn chairs—the usual mess of a full day—had all been packed up and put away. That alone told me something was off. I always helped her pack everything up. That was just what we did.

But this time, it was already done.

It was just her. A drink. A book sitting open in front of her—one she clearly hadn’t been able to read. Her cigarettes nearby.

Waiting.

“Hey, Mom,” I said, casually introducing them. “They invited me to cook out with them.”

Her response came fast and sharp:

“No. We need to leave. Right now.”

There was no discussion. No softening. Just urgency.

The boys backed off immediately.

At ten years old, I didn’t fully understand what I was seeing—but I felt it. Something wasn’t right.

Looking back now, I think she was caught somewhere between two instincts in that moment—relief that I was okay, and anger that I had been gone so long. The kind of split-second tension only a parent could feel.

But what stayed on the surface was the urgency.

We were leaving.

What I didn’t realize then—and what she never needed to say—was what those hours must have been like for her.

Now, I can picture it. Calling my name into empty trails. Walking farther and farther, trying to stay calm while something deeper starts to take over. That moment when time stretches just a little too long, and the questions begin.

Where is she?

Is she okay?

I had wandered farther than she could find me. Out of sight. Out of reach.

And I had no idea.

As a child, I was just doing what children do—exploring a world that felt safe, trusting the people in it, never questioning that I would be fine.

But now, I see the other side of that day.

Not as something I did wrong—but as something she carried.

The fear.
The waiting.
The not knowing.

My mom is the one who taught me to love the outdoors—to wander, to explore, to feel at home in places like The Frio River.

She passed away in 2011, yet her hold in my heart is still very strong.  

And sometimes, when this memory comes back, I think about that day—not from where I stood—

but from where she sat.

Alone.