Being a good Sou’ Philadelphian, I spent the weekend “down the shore” at my parents’ beach rental with my college roommate. At least that was the original plan. After a rather disastrous evening in Atlantic City, we high tailed back to Philadelphia on Saturday night, where I intend to stay for the rest of my days.
And so here you have it, a short list of things that seemed like a good idea at the time:
- Walking the three miles from my parent’s place to Atlantic City in order to avoid paying cab fare both ways. I entertained the notion of carrying my silver patent leather Carlos Santana heals and making the trek in flip flops, then stuffing said flip flops into my pants, but they wouldn’t fit, which brings me to my next point.
- Buying an entire box of red velvet chocolate chip cookies from the 50% off bin at the grocery store. They were supposed to last “the whole weekend” but we finished them in less than 36 hours.
- Going to a nightclub before 12:30am. I thought 11:30 would be late enough but then again, I’ve never been terribly in touch with reality. We left and returned to the same club three times while waiting for it to fill up.
- Arriving in Atlantic City without having sufficiently pre-gamed. Do you have any idea how expensive it is to drink in Atlantic City? Well, I will tell you this much: it is beyond the budget of a woman looking to buy a house. And the only way to deal with the sort of shenanigans that go on at clubs in AC is to leave your sobriety at the city limits.
- Leaving a nightclub with a bunch of 23 year old boys. What were we thinking? Sure they were cute, and sure they invited us to join them at another, trendier club across town, but when they filled the first cab and left without us, all the while calling each other “faggots” and bragging about how much they drank in college, we finally came to our senses.
That said, I’m proud to report that our errors in judgment paled in comparison to those of the woman in the pink dress.
Wait, I haven’t told you about the woman in the pink dress have I?
Well, she was very large and very drunk and wearing the tallest, skinniest stilettos I’ve ever seen. They were having a hard time holding her up, as was her boyfriend (who was also very skinny). She wasn’t so much as dancing as she was falling and try as he might, her boyfriend couldn’t keep her upright.
One of the security guards tried to get them to leave but she refused and offered to take a seat instead. The only problem was she took a seat right on the edge of the dance floor, on a little set of steps that led up to one of the half dozen or so do-it-yourself stripper poles spread throughout the club.
Sitting on her boyfriend’s lap, she then proceeded to bounce up and down for the next fifteen minutes, forever ruining Rihanna’s “Cake” for me (not that I was ever such a huge fan to begin with). I’m still trying to determine whether her gyrations would be best described as dry humping, lap dancing, grinding or a combination of all three. Truth be told, she looked like a five year old in a bouncy castle, albeit a very large, very drunk five year old with a poor boyfriend stuck underneath trying (and failing miserably) to cover her exposed nether regions with his hands.
We had much better success in Philly, but as I’m due at my home inspection in a few minutes (!) I’ll save those stories for next time.