by Janet Periat

You never know when a goal will be accomplished. Normally, if you don’t reach your goal within a few years, you give up. But recently, I learned a lesson: Never stop trying, even if the goal was set when you were 5 years old. And even if the goal is silly. Recently, I took a trip to Reno with my cousin to satisfy both my claw machine addiction and my slot machine jones. I had no idea I would also be fulfilling a lifelong dream.

As soon as we arrived in Reno, I headed for the Circus Circus carnival midway to rescue some badly sewn, deformed stuffed animals from the claw machines. A small bar adjacent to the entrance to the midway offered “Party Yards” of either frozen strawberry daiquiris or lime margaritas. Since I was on vacation and had never bought myself a giant frozen alcoholic beverage, it seemed like a good idea. I ordered a margarita, since fake lime flavor is normally less barfy than fake strawberry flavor. I forgot about my body’s natural aversion to tequila.

The Party Yard is a skinny plastic glass about 15 ½ inches tall — talk about gross misrepresentation in advertising. After the mixer, the bartender added two shots of a slightly amber liquid and one shot of a clear liquid. He’d clearly been instructed to turn the bottles away from the customer so the labels could not be read. Probably because they were imprinted with a skull and crossbones and labeled “cleaning fluid” and “poison.”

Soon, my drink was ready. Thrilled, I eagerly took a draw off the margarita. And nearly gagged. It tasted like limeade made with 20 cups of sugar mixed with tequila-flavored battery acid. I took a second draw to confirm my initial findings. My tongue nearly jumped out of my mouth in an effort to flee the horror. At this point a wise voice in my head said, “Throw this away, Janet.” And as I normally do with the wise voices in my head, I ignored it. Besides, by the fourth sip, the alcohol hit. And as with all rot gut, it hit hard.

Soon, I realized that I really liked my margarita. My margarita was my friend.  A symbol of letting loose, of a great vacation. Like my own personal billboard that proclaimed “Party on, dudes!” Or more likely, “I have no taste and questionable judgment!”

As happy as I was, the claw machines took on a new level of difficulty. At 50 cents a throw, I only got four animals for five bucks, far below my norm. My less-than-stellar achievements told me it was time to go.

On the way out, the last midway   game I passed had giant stuffed animals as prizes, meaning the odds of winning were nearly impossible. I’ve always wanted to win a giant stuffed animal and have tried since I was 5. Fueled by the Party Yard, suddenly it seemed like a good idea to try again.

The game consisted of a table filled with upright Coke bottles with a single red Coke bottle in the center. The prizes were either giant stuffed animals or   foot-long stuffed flowers. I assumed the   flowers corresponded to the clear Coke bottles and the giant prizes went with the red Coke bottle. Object of the game was to throw a small, 3-inch wooden ring over the top of the bottle. Ten rings for a dollar, 25 for two bucks. Taking into consideration the fact that I was impaired, I got 25 rings.

I threw the first ring and it landed on top of a clear Coke bottle. The girl running the game said, “I’ve never seen anyone do that before.” I missed the remaining 24 throws, then waited for her to hand me the stupid stuffed flower. She indicated the giant stuffed animals hanging above us. “Which one do you want?” I looked at her, stunned. “Are you sh—-ing me?” (Thanks to the Party Yard, I’d lost my swearing-in-public filter.) She said no.

Now extremely stunned, I happily chose a giant blue shark. Tip to tail, it’s 9 feet long. Luckily it’s in the shape of a comma so it only stands 5 feet tall. And I had to carry it — along with my Party Yard and the other stuffed animals — back to Harrah’s, which was three casinos plus two blocks away.

Giddy with victory, I hoisted the shark over my shoulder and began the long trek back to my room. I caused quite a scene. Probably because I giggled madly during the entire journey and told anyone who made eye contact with me “I may not be winning on the machines, but I won me a giant stuffed shark!” People were very amused — and not just by my use of bad English. That walk back to my hotel was some of the most fun I’ve had in years. Even the homeless drunks in the gutters greeted me with happy cheer.

When I finally arrived at Harrah’s, a  security guard stopped me halfway to the elevators. “I’m sorry ma’am, but we don’t allow sharks in here.” Then he burst out laughing. The rest of the night, I was the Shark Lady.

What was even funnier was trying to fit the damn thing into my cousin’s Prius for the journey home.

The only bad thing about my fun evening was the hangover that hit at 2 a.m. and lasted for the following 48 hours. The Party Yard giveth (giant stuffed sharks), the Party Yard taketh away (umpteen brain cells).

Still, as I gaze at the prize dominating my living room, I giggle. Not only is my shark ridiculously silly, winning it was a great lesson for me. If I want something, all I have to do is try. If I keep trying, eventually I will succeed. I just never know when.

I also learned another very important lesson: Stop setting goals that involve acquiring things that don’t fit in the house.

©2009, Janet Periat