Okay, so I apolgize because this isn’t very sexy, but it was so hilarious I needed to share it with the interwebz.
Yesterday, we (my mom, aunt, uncle, my-age cousin and a 40-something 2nd cousin) decide to have a mini family reunion in Atlantic City. It was already ill-advised, because I had laser surgery the day before and apparently the sun, lonely for blinding me due to my constant refuge in World of Warcraft, decided to make up for lost time. I squinted my way uncomfortably up and down the boardwalk with my family, hidden behind two pairs of sunglasses on top of my regular glasses like I was either crazy or insanely hungover; a fitting assumption since we abruptly found ourselves unexpectedly in the middle of a late St. Pat’s/Beerfest parade.
Fast forward a few hours, everyone’s gone home, mom and I are staying to play some penny slots. After dropping seven bucks each, we decide to turn in some free drink coupons we stumbled upon, sipping on $12.50 estrogen-laced martinis that were made with unicorn spit and rainbows or some crap like that. Sufficently buzzed, we wandered over to the ridiculously-priced $25-a-head buffet, and decided against it. While we were trying to give away the coupon we had for half-off one dinner, someone up and hands up $50 worth of food vouchers. So, in we went.
The buffet was the saddest excuse for food I’d ever seen, with desserts that made me reflexively adopt what mom and I affectionately call the “dead squirrel face”. Mildy pissy at the quality and fueled by unicorn-spit martini fumes, we decide that no, damnit, we would get our money’s worth. I slipped out to go to the bathroom and stopped in a candy shop to get some bags. While ringing up my purchase, the nice guy behind the counter and I heard a crew hollering for their friend Britney. He frowned, sighed dramatically, and wished out loud someone would call for him. I asked what his name was, and he said “Brenton”. I patted his shoulder and assured him that maybe, someday, he could be Britney too.
I returned. Two plastic baggies and some clandestine plate-scraping later, my mother’s purse doubled in volume with a furtive surf-and-turf of london broil and butterfly breaded shrimp. We swaggered out. Yes, we are mildly white-trashy. On the way out, I briefed my mother in the Brenton situation. We snuck in the store behind an aisle, popped out, and screamed “WOO! BRENTON!” before running out. I looked behind us and saw him grinning wildly. I hope we made his night more tolerable.
So, we decide to head out and THAT’S when things get interesting. We’re about five miles outside A.C. when the car starts pulling wildly to the right and making noises fit for no beast or man. We struggle to get it in the first possible place, a nightclub. Only, it wasn’t a night club, as those of you who follow my twitterstream already know. It was a strip club. Because, of course, I summon illicit places, people, and objects wherever I roam. My mom, who is mid-menopause and thus had no coat with her, was only able to dig up a dayglo yellow mickey mouse poncho from the backseat to stand between her and the cold. She made me turn it inside-out because she hates mickey.
So, here we are, at 2am, in the parking lot of an Atlantic City strip club, me wearing sunglasses like a Horatio-Caine fangirl in the dead of night, my mother in an inside-out neon yellow poncho when there’s not a cloud in the sky, holding a purse full of stolen surf and turf. We finally got home some two hours later at a cost of nearly $500 for towing. Free $50 Food + Free $25 Drinks + Winning $20 in Slots = $95
We came out of A.C. $95 up, and physically left the town over $400 down. The house always fuckin wins.