Rick, the girls and I headed back to my in-laws’ on the Jersey shore this weekend. You know how it goes. We threw a couple things in an overnight bag.
What? Seriously, what? Like who doesn’t need a few outfit options? At first, everyone is a bit les miserables in the car but then it gets good.
and then it gets awesomely good.
On Saturday night, Rick and I decide, gosh damn it, we are still young and sprightly so we head to “The Pool” bar at Harrah’s casino and resort in Atlantic City. As you can see, the joint has a small, quaint pub like feel….
Rick and I grab drinks and scan the scene of bikini-clad cocktail waitresses and almost 20-somethings. We hang particularly close to a group of gray haired, middle age women in the hopes of looking younger and hipper. I am reasonably confident that it’s working.
Then Rick starts acting ultra, super perky and I realize it’s because these gals are in the house.
In fact, there is a whole posse of guys ogling them and Rick (who always takes the time to help those in need) says to a couple of the guys…
“I’m married. Go for it. Com’on! Go talk to them.”
I’m telling you, that man never thinks of himself.
Then we did a little white man overbite dancing…
But alas, it’s time to dump this taco stand, and hit the casino. Of course, hanging out at the casino is like being on an airplane in 1978. Smoking is only permitted in certain areas but the whole place wreaks.
Still, there is something electrifying about all those slot machines, crap tables and seniors pouring their social security funds into video poker. You can’t help but feel the casino fever.
Rick decides to play a little black jack. I think it’s kind of sexy when a guy gambles. I mean, not when they risk the college tuition savings but like the preschool savings.
Shortly after that picture was taken, it became abundantly clear to me that you are, in fact, most definitely not allowed to take pictures inside the casino. Therefore no snapshots here of those smokin’ hot pit bosses who keep order at the tables, and apparently (although this can not be confirmed) have never actually had sunlight on their faces.
After a few hands, we realized we are kind of tired and maybe-not-so-sprightly after all, so we head home.
Upon leaving, I notice the elevators smell remarkably like a gerbil cage, which I’m sure studies show encourages people to gamble more.
But thanks to my husband’s savvy blackjack skills, we end up $31 dollars richer. That’s right. Get out the passports and ring Chevy Chase because we are now going on a 1st class European vacation.