How To Sell Your Wedding Rings In Las Vegas

How To Sell Your Wedding Rings In Las Vegas

A year ago on December 20, I discovered my life as I knew it was a lie. I ended my marriage and started to pick up the pieces to begin assembling a new life. How does one mark a milestone like that? For me, there was only one way: take a friend to Las Vegas, hock my wedding rings, and gamble whatever I got.

Las Vegas is a strange and interesting city. Beyond the Strip with its technicolour displays of excess, the town has a way of revealing to you parts of yourself that would be otherwise glossed over at home. It’s raw in a way only something built in a desert of nothing can be. So after a year of living through my own strange adventure, it made sense to close this chapter in that place.

Step One: find a pawn shop

Every city has pawn shops. They put our stories under harsh fluorescent light and strip away the memories we layer on our tokens; these places remind us that things are just things. Now, even pawn shops in Vegas have become a simulation of themselves. But all it takes to find something real is a willingness to turn away from those shiny neon distractions.

I found a pawn shop just off Fremont Street, in the decay of old Vegas. This is a condensed version of what transpired.

“I’d like to sell my wedding rings.”

“Are you sure? The most we pay is on the value of the gold and stones.”

“Yep, I’m sure. They’re not worth very much.”

a pause while the woman contemplates what to say next

“Most people can get more if they sell them privately.”

“Nothing you say will offend me. Let’s just see what they’re worth.”

the woman takes the rings and motions for me to follow; she weighs them and inspects the teeny tiny diamonds before turning to me with some reluctance

“With the amount of gold and small size of the diamonds, the best we can do is maybe… $60?”

I glance over at my friend, who shrugs

“That’s ten bucks more than I’d hoped. I’ll take it.”

the woman looks at me like she can’t believe this is what I want, so I try to reassure her

“Oh, this isn’t a bad thing. A year ago today I ended my marriage. I’m okay now. And I’m gambling the money to leave behind the bad juju.”

the woman smiles, obviously relieved, and fills out a form we take to the cashier to collect my $60

“Good luck to you.”

“Thanks.” We walk out the door and grab a drink.

Step Two: find the casino

Las Vegas is all about vibe. Superstition is everywhere, down to the guy playing the slots and the feeling of tables. No one is immune to the vibe; it clings to you like the decades of cigarette smoke not even remotely masked by the air freshener pumped in through the ventilation.

As much as it is about vibe, the city is also about history as it continuously reinvents itself. Classic casinos like Binions, The El Cortez, and The Flamingo are part of the essence of today’s Las Vegas, holding its stories in an ever-changing landscape. There’s a grit to these places, something that can’t be covered over by new carpet or fresh paint.

Walking through the lobby of The Flamingo, I knew. But not yet. Tomorrow.

Step Three: place a bet

We gamble every day of our lives. Maybe it’s not a table game or slot machine, but life is a gamble. We hedge our bets on buying a house at the right time, selling an apartment in a hot market, taking one job over the other in pursuit of career advancement, crossing the street on a red light. We trust our gut and are guided by instinct in the hopes of making the right decision. Sometimes we even weigh the odds.

The house, we know, always wins. Las Vegas is successful because of and despite this. It’s built on hope. Strangely enough, this might be one of the last vestiges of hope. And here hope is naked in all its forms, from beautiful to ugly and everything between. But however it appears, it’s honest.

The Flamingo had an open table with a dealer named Brian who explained roulette. I told him the story behind my wager and that I wanted to bet it all in one go. He nodded. I placed my bet on 20 black, the ball spun and spun before eventually dropping into a slot, and the house won.

Brian smiled and collected my chips from the table. I thanked him for helping close the door to this chapter. Goodbye, bad juju.

Step Four: walk away

That’s all there is to it. I left the table and didn’t look back. Everything I need now is in front of me.

The first year will have been the most difficult and the road ahead is far from clear. I’m not a whole person yet, but I’m living this life in honesty. That’s better than whatever comfort I thought I had in the lie.

And there’s always hope. We just need to look for it.

~ Jeannette

thanks to Erin for capturing the sale of my rings and the moment I placed the bet, and to Sandra for reminding me that my truth and this reality is always better

 

new writing: risk, safety, and longhand

We need to take more risks. It sounds like a cliché, but it’s the plain truth. As the social media microscope is trained on us without reprieve, having space to take risks is increasingly rare and while we’re busy being safe we neglect opportunities – however brief – to step where it’s not expected of us; someone is always watching and a video of a misstep can go viral before we know it. So, it’s easier to be busy being safe.

Safe is absolute garbage. It’s an illusion we afford ourselves from a place of inert reluctance, lulling us into complacency while assuring us it’s okay to be there because everyone else is. Through the constant bombardment of a hyper-realized ‘normalcy’ created through social media platforms (i.e. Best Day Ever! posts), safe is the mainstream we feed ourselves when some small part of us wants to rage against the machine.

We’re discouraged from taking risks by using scary labels. What was once considered a midlife crisis might now be generational disengagement and part of the social culture, painted for us too large to find a way around or through but small enough for us to take away a measure of guilt for being part of the problem. The message is that it’s better to be safe than speak out for fear of saying the wrong thing and bearing the brunt of commentary backlash. Everyone knows that what happens on the internet lives forever.

This autumn I took a risk and launched Longhand, a digital platform on which to write about things I love and in a manner that best fits my voice. Longhand is not monetized, won’t be a place for harsh criticism, and will be as transparent as I can make it. Do I risk coming across as a cheerleader? Sure. I can’t put mind to that if I want to focus on what’s important to me: growing a platform that supports those who are trying to put their best foot forward. This is who I am.

Where does that leave this site? Well, it’s changing. There will be more opinion-editorial here, and also (I hope – again, taking a risk) critical content on writing and the industry/industries I’m affiliated with. Complacency does us a disservice. Even the smallest step moves us forward.

I like being safe. I have a mortgage to pay and would like, one day, to take a vacation somewhere warm where I can lie on a beach with a cocktail in hand. I also have a responsibility to the larger narrative in which risk plays a part, and I need to take those steps – even the smallest of steps – to help us move forward. So despite a craving for safety, I’ll push myself to take those risks. That beach might have to wait a little while longer.

Meanwhile, keep an eye on Longhand. There’s risk there, too, only it has better camouflage.

op ed: please stop mansplaining to me

The term to mansplain is described as a verb “(of a man) explain (something) to someone, typically a woman, in a manner regarded as condescending or patronizing.” Merriam-Webster has mansplain listed as one of the words they’re “watching”, indicating its current use is changing. Ultimately, the action behind it has been part of our landscape for years and continues to be something we encounter with enough regularity to justify creating a verb. Sad, but true.

I have been mansplained to more times than I can count. In my mid-to-late twenties I worked in automotive repair. For clarity, my job required technicians explain to me what was wrong with a car so I could estimate the repair and translate it to the customer: I literally had men explaining things to me daily, some with respect for my existing knowledge and others not so much. Customers mansplained their own car repair to me, others were angry I knew more about their car than they might. Some women found it difficult to understand I had knowledge of cars because they didn’t. It was a mixed bag of sexism, ageism, and education.

For the past ten years I’ve worked as a copywriter for businesses in wine and written tourism / lifestyle articles about wine, with a focus on British Columbia. I continue to have a lot to learn about the subject. My experience includes copywriting (bottle labels, websites, newsletters, technical sheets), winery business operations (tasting room, office administration & finance), production (harvest and cellar work), and consumer/tourism article writing for print and online. I have a broad understanding of new world wine businesses, specifically in this province. I know enough to ask informed questions and make fair observations based on my current knowledge.

Yesterday a peer mansplained something to me on a social media platform and in doing so appears to have missed the point of my message.

At first I asked myself if I saw this as mansplaining because of a project I’m working on, and perhaps my lens was a little more focused in that direction. I looked at the exchange of comments, their nature and flavour, and tried to get a read on who was engaging and how. Nope: this was mansplaining.

I commented that an international brand demonstrated a better understanding of my need to engage with them than some local businesses, and over a period of time. The larger message was about how an industry communicates and perhaps our local BC wine community had some growing to do.

Did I know, as a professional writer, that the company I queried is larger than many locally? Yes. Was I aware that the company likely has a larger team to respond more quickly and professionally, better than some locally? Of course. Am I comparing the experience directly? No.

I posted my comment to illustrate a point: the growing BC wine industry which I support wholeheartedly and often without financial compensation can do itself a disservice by not engaging with those who advocate for it. Yet somehow despite my years of working in and for this industry, a fellow had to mansplain about it to me.

To use a colloquialism: I just can’t even.

I know there are women in my network who have experienced and continue to experience mansplaining, sidelining, and other actions (or inactions). I’m here to support you. I have your back. We need to be there for each other. If you need to, please connect with me or someone else in your circle who will remind you of your value contribution.

For the record: I know Bollinger is a large organization and probably has “way more people doing admin so they can respond and tackle these types of things” than many of the BC wineries I query regularly. I stand behind my statement that “I’m still waiting to be added to some BC winery email lists despite making several requests, some for years”. At least four of these are BC wineries with larger operations. Some make 60,000 cases of wine per year and others produce hundreds of thousands.

BC wineries: please add me to your media email list, because I’m tired of asking and one day I might stop.