Summers in the District are SWELTERING hot! You can walk outside and turn into a puddle of body odorous-sweat in about half a second, which is the state I found myself in on Friday afternoon ... it was about half past 5 when I decided that Mav and I were going to play hookie from the city and set off on a weekend mini-break to Atlantic City.
I changed into my glittery-pink thong and stopped off at Wrapworks for some road snacks. I went to pick up Maverick at his pad on 15th, we threw our match luggage in the trunk, jumped into the car, and blazed off on the open road.
Then we got stuck in traffic leaving the city (of course we did) and I ended up with half a "Big Juan Wrap" all down the front of my shirt and on my shorts. "You look like you just had disgusting sex," commented Maverick. I laughed out loud, but I was crying inside.
We jammed to iPod mixes of Thievery Corporation, Ace of Base, Abba, Madonna, and Prince; then we stopped along the way at Maryland House for our requisite Starbucks Red-Eyes. This is when all the trouble really started. See, Mav and I each have our respective caffeine addictions. We have far surpassed any kind of "coffee of the day" dependence. No, now our mornings consist of Red-Eyes. Red-Eye = "coffee of the day with a shot of espresso." So imagine the state of one's bladder once one consumes a Red-Eye and two bottles of Deer Park water while cruising north on I-95 and then South on the Atlantic City Expressway. For those of you who cannot imagine this bliss, it is because you have never driven the length of the Expressway before. The ACE is about 80 miles of pure bladder-mayhem, basically because like its counterpart (the New Jersey Turnpike) there are NO exits save for one every 15 miles or so!
So cut to me turning to Mav and saying "Mav, I really have to go." Two minutes later: "Oh my god, I really have to go." One minute later: "You know when it really sneaks up on you and you ... AHHH, oh my god I think I'm about to pee my pants." During this last comment, I began to swerve the car violently over to the right shoulder of the road, forcing myself into a standing position in the drivers' seat of the car by flexing my left leg in an ungodly way while maintaining constant speed with my right foot on the accelerator. I don't know why I was trying to stand in the car, but it seemed to really make some sense at the time. I happened to pull over enough that I was about halfway onto an off-ramp. This whole time, I was thinking (and Mav told me later I was screaming) "Oh my god, I'm not going to make it. I'm an adult woman about to urinate all over her messy-sexed shorts." I switched on my hazards and ran around the back of the car, I ripped my shorts down, and started peeing the most forceful pee I have ever released. Mav was in the car, laughing his head off, as The Jackson 5 sang "I Want You Back" to the sounds of my Red-Eye relieving itself of the confines of my bladder. Through his laughter, Mav shrieked, "Sassy, are you sure you made it? It looked like the expression of relief washed over your face before you got your shorts all the way off!"
I replied, "Shut UP! Ahhh god this feels so good. Don't you ruin this for me! Oh god, I think a car's coming!" Of course, we hadn't passed
anyone on the Expressway for quite some time ... the road was virtually empty. But I'm here to tell you that during the 3 or so minutes that I was squatting on the side of the road, about 6 cars got a full view of my lily-white ass hanging out over an embankment. I was mortified, but Mav got a huge kick out of it. I'm always glad I can entertain him for even a few short moments.
So I hopped back into the car and we were on our way again. We showed up at my Aunt Katilda and Uncle G's South Jersey house at about 11:30PM. When I say "South Jersey House", it is because it is the epitome of Jersey White Trash. On the lawn are pink flamingos, a gnome holding a mirrored ball, and a hummingbird feeder. In DC, people would stop and think there was a yard sale; in Jersey, people stop to admire the representation and craftsmanship of a mirrored ball.
When we arrived, Uncle G was awake and he poured us some "Dego Red" (his version of cheap red wine) to help us unwind from the trip. We made ourselves comfortable in my cousin's bedroom and fell asleep quickly.
In the morning, Mav woke me up with a shriek. "Where are we and what has happened to our couture?!" I groggily opened my eyes to see what the trouble was: my cousin had painted her bedroom pitch black and there was evidence all over the walls of why Spencer's Gifts is still in business. "I'm the Bitch My mother always wanted me to be", "Daddy's Little Girl", "Pot is reason that God loves us and wants us to be happy" are just some of the stickers adorning her wall. I turned to Mav and said "Don't worry, we'll just put on our bathing suits and head out to the beach ... just think of this room as a place to sleep."
So we packed up our beach things and headed downstairs to leave. Katilda and G had made us blueberry pancakes and they were already going back and forth with each other.
"Have her take the cooler." "No, we'll take the cooler, have her pick up the sandwiches." "Well if we have her pick up the sandwiches, she'll need the cooler or they'll go bad." Back and forth this went on and on. We finally decided that Mav and I would take the cooler and Katilda and G would pick up the sandwiches from White House Subs (if you ever go to Atlantic City, you HAVE to have a White House Sub ... these are the best sandwiches in the world!).
So then it was a discussion about beach chairs:
"You need to go out to the shed to get her some beach chairs." "No, the beach chairs are in the car." "The beach chairs are NOT in the car, you left them at the beach with Mario." "Sassy, the beach chairs are at the beach with Mario." "Mario Beneducci, not Mario Fanacelli." "You want the skinny Mario, not the pregnant Mario." "You tell Mario that you want our beach chairs, he'll give them to you." "Well now she needs directions to the beach." "You go to the Texas Avenue entrance." "You'll go all the way down Arkansas. (Pronounced: Our-Kan-Suhs)." "You'll see three entrances, you go all the way to the one on your right." "You'll see a lifeguard tent." "Well, it's not a tent, you see. It used to be a tent." "Now it's just a tent." "You go right all the way down the beach, we'll be right behind the lifeguard stand in front of the lifeguard tent."And so with all that, we were set on our way off to the beach.
This elusive cooler they were fighting over weighed about 50 pounds. It carried two cases of Heinekin bottles, and two quarts of Aunt Katilda's own special "Hummingbird Juice." We walked onto the beach at Texas Avenue, following perfect directions, and set the cooler down finally somewhere in front of the Tropicana. We shlepped a beach chair, a 50 pound cooler, and about 6 bags full of stuff we didn't end up needing. After we set out our plot, we went into the water and had a grand time in the waves, where Maverick reminded me 86 times that he couldn't swim. We came out of the water to find that I had 10 missed calls from Aunt Katilda on my phone. Turns out, we had gone about a half mile in the wrong direction down the beach. So we found ourselves packing up the bags and cooler and making our way back down the beach. "How will we know where to find them? There are so many lifeguard stands on this dang beach," said Maverick. "Trust me, Mav. I'll know."
About 20 yards later, we heard a woman screaming,
"If you touch me again, I will rip your face off. I am in no mood!"
"What the hell was that?" asked Maverick.
"Believe it or not, we've found them," I said.
That screaming woman was Katilda's sister, Tricia. Tricia is everything you would expect an Atlantic City yenta to be: covered head to toe in gold jewelry, always burned to a crisp, and has a cigarette-gravelly voice with only one volume ... loud.
These women were born and raised in Atlantic City and spend EVERY SUMMER DAY from 9AM to 8PM on the beach with their chairs in a row, drinking, and yelling at their kids and husbands. This day was no exception.
"Sassy and Maverick, you get down here with that cooler and pour us some beers!" "No, let's all take a shot!" "Sassy, do you see this freckle on my shoulder, does it look bigger than the last time you saw me?" "SHOTS!" "Have you seen Mario for the chairs?" "What, you never come visit anymore? I could have cancer and she never comes visits!"
Maverick stood there in utter shock. But we played their way: we took shots, we poured beers, we ooh-ed over the irregular borders of Aunt Tricia's melanoma. About 5 glasses of Hummingbird Juice deep, Tricia turned to Mav and I and said
"You's want to hear a story?" And before we could answer, she said
"I was in Church the other morning, like I always go. You know, Sassy, you tell him. I go every day." "Every day she goes."
"Right, every day. So I'm in Church the other morning and I rode my Pink Mercedes bike down there. I parked it in the vestibule, right up next to the choir loft and I went into mass. Well, after mass, my Pink Mercedes was M ... I ... A! [She proceeded in her Christine Baranski-esque voice]
SOME LOW LIFE STOLE MY PINK MERCEDES RIGHT OUT OF THE CHURCH! I was livid! I thought I was going to kill someone. I ran out of the Church and saw a homeless man with all his bags on my Pink Mercedes right across the street. I lost it. I ran over there and grabbed hold of the handle and said 'You skank of a man, how could you steal my Pink Mercedes from the Church. You stole my bike, get off my bike, this is MY BIKE!' Well he said, 'This ain't your bike lady.' So I said a quick Hail Mary and promised God I would never curse again and I said to him 'You son of a bitch, my husband is on his way and when he gets here, he will kick your ass unless you get off my BIKE!!!!'" So she got her bike back from the homeless man after verbally assaulting him. Mav just stared at me and whispered, "I finally understand why you are so weird and I apologize for ever calling you crazy."
About 10 minutes later, Maverick and I passed out from near-alcohol poisoning and only awoke at dusk to go get changed for the Casinos. We started at Caesar's where Mav won $25 at the slots. We weren't getting our free drinks from the cocktail waitresses, so we made our way to Bally's and had some drinks at the famous Blue Martini lounge. But lo and behold, the sea sang her salty siren song to us and we found ourselves back drinking on the beach at Bally's Bikini Beach Bar. There was a great band playing and Mav ordered us up some "Girls Gone Wild" shots and Strawberry Daquiris. We left from there at about 1:30 and ended up playing craps at the Taj. Call it beginner's luck, but after 5 free vodka tonics each, Mav and I were up $400 and I was a hot roller.
By 5 AM, we were back down to our $200 and we called it quits. We ended up walking down the boardwalk with our vodka tonics from the Taj Mahal back to Caesar's as the sun rose over the Atlantic Ocean. We stumbled into Aunt Katilda's and Uncle G's finally at 6.
Sunrise is quite the way to see Atlantic City, and Mav and I agree that Luck has a funny way of manifesting itself throughout our laughter-filled weekends ...
ty eclectic, there were a bunch of scenesters milling around, a girl sitting on the floor with her head in her hands (we couldn't figure out if she was praying or sleeping or dead), and a guy we swear was Jesus (he was even drinking wine and wearing sandals). At about 11:00pm, the two main DJs with Thievery, Eric Hilton and Rob Garza, came out onto the stage and drove the whole crowd wild.
