Classy Is As Classy Does

Mixing the New York and DC crew can be a challenge, especially if you're lazy like me and strong arm the New York crew into regular visits in exchange for 2-buck-chuck (there may have been a coupon involved as well.), but after some intense negotiation the NYC ...ok just Adam...managed to talk us into meeting him halfway. Literally. Atlantic City.

It's the perfect overpriced getaway to enjoy all the fruits of life...the beach (with a hazmat suit), gambling (only when lubricated with plenty of free booze), and shopping (of the pretend discounted aka "outlet"). So of course I mobilized the team for a little weekend getaway!

Being the stellar cruise director, I immediately delegated the heavy lifting to Adam - booking the hotel room. Which, like a good bureaucrat, sat on for three weeks, before sending it right back. Then proceeded to keep his travel plans nice and loose, as I assured him that if we left DC at 11, we would promptly arrive at 1pm - just in time for lunch. Only on a good day, yes even with an easy pass, takes the average lead foot 3 hours.

Now throw in a little gas stop, breakfast, and said cruise directors inability to pack until after the departure time so she was appropriately briefed on the latest Real Housewives of OC episode, and you have a recipe for a wee bit tardy for the party - I mean fashionably punctual.

Fear not, Adam booked the later bus. Relieved we stopped for breakfast. Now there is no road trip to long or short for a little Cracker Jack (Barrel) stop. In an attempt to exit though somehow we missed the turn. Luckily for us Stephanie saved the day with a little introduction to the Waffle House! HOLY HASHBROWN - where has this dive chain been all my life! Roach coach doesn't begin to describe the level of awesome happening under this roof. On Steph's endorsement, we had, yes, waffles, and customized hash browns - chopped, covered, and smothered. Then it was back on the road.

We had four objectives in AC, and 24 hours to complete the mission: gambling, shopping, eating, and dancing. Within 20 minutes of checking in at the Marriott - (no need to Sh** where you eat), we zoned in on some blackjack at Trump. Within 10 minutes I had downed both my gin and tonic, and my $45 daily gambling limit. So while Katie and Adam raked in $250 together, we took a tour of the stellar shopping scene. That killed 30 minutes, 20 of which were spent trying on some elegant stripper shoes, which double as casual heels to wear with your weekend jeans the sales woman assured me.

Then we glammed up for dinner at Buddakan in Ceasers. After all the overwhelming decadence of the day, I was surprised by how genuinely fabulous this restaurant was. From the Saki and cleverly named cocktails to the over-the-moon edemame ravioli, wasabi mashed potatoes and perfectly cooked scallops. They offer a tasting menu at $60 per head, but we opted to go family style and order a la carte. Well worth it.

Then we finished the night learning craps and paying too much for their night club, dusk, which seemed appropriate for bachelorette parties and underage drinkers. I learned a valuable lesson - I am too old to put up with overpriced cover, lycra uniforms, and underwhelming cocktails. I am kicking myself for not suggesting Ri Ra at the Tropicana.

After sleeping off my poor life choices (and a bottle of pinot) we detoxed at 6ix in Bally's. Not the greatest turkey burger, but the back waiter made up for it with a repertoire of jokes you'd find inside bubble gum, spiced with expletives for good measure. While we had a few hours to burn we thought we do a little outlet shopping, not to be confused with discount shopping.

Steph got some baller high tops, circa 1987, and I fell in love with a pair of tennis shoes shaped like penny loafers. CLASSY. We thought we'd finish the tour with a little trip through Coach., which should have been like a spa for spending therapy, but it was more like a blue special at k-mart on Christmas Eve. Every second person with mammary glands in the greater Trashville area turned up to slip a monogrammed wristlet home to their hive. We barely made it out alive (and I got a clutch thank you very much!).

To complete the glam trifecta, on our drive home, I awoke to a motorcyclist outside my window waving. Then his pleasant waving turned to a pat on his seat inviting a little ride along. When our car full of chicks giggled like kindergartners, he popped a wheelie...at 80 miles per hour. Then the Suburban behind us, pulled ahead to sweeten the offering with donut holes. Ah armatures. Too obvious.