Bacardi - Rhymes with Party

In case you didn't know, CinS and I have been together for over 8 years and spent 5 of these years in a long distance relationship. Why am I disclosing this lovely fact? For your admiration, of course!

But seriously, CinS and I spent 2 years flying across the country every 6 weeks, and 3 years schlepping between NY and Philly almost every weekend. So you can imagine our exhaustion (both physically and budget-ally) at the thought of travel. It is due to our history that my husband and I have only taken 2 vacations in our 8-year history.

We went to Jamaica for a week in 2004 from Christmas Day to New Year's Day. This vacation rocked. The resort where we stayed was super nice, the weather was great and we spent one full day on a tour of the Appleton Rum plantation/factory. Our love of fancy rum and our distain of vodka began on the white-sand shores of Negril. And for that, we thank you Jamaica.

Our next trip was a mere 3 years later and was our honeymoon. We went to Africa for 2 weeks and loved every minute of the trip, including our 24-hour flight from JFK to Johannesburg (thank you Ambien extended release). I could go on and on, but will instead lead you here for a small taste (pun intended).

I remind you about our past travel today because CinS and I are about to embark on what I consider to be our third vacation. Sure, we've spent long weekends in hotels in cities across the country, but most often our travel together involves a wedding or a national holiday. When I say vacation, I mean a trip where the only goal is to relax on a beach somewhere without any friends or family. Some alone time, preferably in a tropical climate.

We're heading to Puerto Rico (home of less fancy rum - Bacardi) on Thursday for a long weekend. Yes, we're going back to my "homeland."

I am not actually Puerto Rican, but don't tell that to actual Puerto Ricans, the guys in the "Spanish Food" place by my house, or the large black men of the Alexandria, VA metro stop.

Yes, my entire adult life, I have been mistaken for a Puerto Rican. Which I think is totally awesome. I guess it's my permanent tan and one-time peach hair (I saw myself in Feria. Those were dark days). Or maybe it's my decidedly-Latin figure, ambiguously-ethnic maiden name, and painstakingly-sculpted eyebrows. It is a mystery.

I wonder if when I arrive on the sunny shores of San Juan if I'll be mistaken for a local. I doubt it. My middle-eastern spouse may give me away.

Frank Sinatra's Got Lousy Taste

First, I would like to apologize to my loyal readers (all both of you) who have been eagerly awaiting my next post while I was out frolicking on the idyllic shores of Atlantic City. I was in a house without internet all week, but assure you that I have been blogging where it counts - on the inside.

And it's a good thing I went away too. I've been running out of material. But no longer, thanks to Chelsea Manor.

Chelsea Manor. Sounds glamorous, no?
I mean, it's a house with a name. That sleeps 26. And once had a speakeasy in the basement where Frank Sinatra used to hang out.
How could this house not be the funk?

I'll tell you how. 40-odd years of neglect and drunken orgies.

But I am getting ahead of myself. Let's start at the beginning.

We had 20 friends staying at the Manor this past week, spread across 9 bedrooms and one creepy gothic "library." And every single one of us shared the same sentiment, "If I had money, I would fix this place up and make it awesome." It's too bad the current owners don't feel the same way.

The main floor boasts a large entryway with a stunning inlaid Formica in mauve and tan. To the right, lies the dining room, complete with green felt table covering and china cabinet full of Southern Comfort hurricane glasses and creepy hand-painted cherubs donned with hot-glue-gunned lace. Beyond the dining room is the pool table, surprisingly clean and functional, against a backdrop of faux stained glass windows.

To the left of the foyer is the living room, where you can get a glimpse of the past by cowering in the corner amidst sunflower seed shells and cherry pits preserved from the Sinatra era. The bar in the back of the room includes a non-functioning sink that buckles under a 10-pound bag of ice. But fear not dear ice user, the Astroturf stapled to the bar will preserve this beauty for many years to come.

Beyond the living room is the sun room with poker table and 3 legged chair. At the back of the sunroom is a mysterious door that leads down a short flight of stairs to an unattached dungeon. Had we not been scared out of our wits, I'm sure we would have unearthed some animal bones in this cozy annex.

In the back of the house, the modern kitchen includes a stovetop range and dishwasher on an island that moves when leaned upon. I am quite suspect of the cooking / cleaning power of major appliances on wheels.

In the basement, the Sinatra speakeasy has been replaced by a large water stain and 300 variants of mildew. There is also a ping pong table and a craps table that features semen stains visible to the human eye without the benefit of CSI-grade luminal.

On the second and third floors, we come to a maze of bedrooms and bathrooms that would satisfy any Scooby-Doo chase scene enthusiast. The bedrooms are all fairly disgusting, but none is creepier than the "dollhouse."

The "dollhouse" is about 250 square feet (I think that's a generous estimate) with 2 bunk beds and plenty of pink floral wall paper. The ceiling slopes down against the far wall, cutting off the room from above and making the top bunk a very dangerous place for anyone over 3 ft tall. On the far wall is a tiny little door that went ignored for the better part of the week, and wisely so. When the door was opened, we discovered a closet, lined with pink silk, and completely empty except a solitary chair. Needless to say, no one slept in the "dollhouse" after that.

All in all, the Chelsea Manor was both much less and much more than we expected it to be.

Had the house been immaculate, we would have had much less to talk about all week. But then again, I may have gotten some because my husband would not have feared for the health of his genitals.

What I Did On My Summer Vacation...

I met a friend for dinner last night and needed to kill an hour before setting out to meet her. Inspired by my upcoming summer vacation (a week in Atlantic City over July 4th), I decided to make a vacation guide for myself and my friends.

And instead of wasting more time and creative juices, I thought I'd just repurpose my AC Guide here. And maybe inspire you to come see how the other side lives in Dirty Jers.

The Greatest Beach Vacation Ever!
Your Guide to Atlantic City

The Island (AC 101 for newbies)
Melissa’s parents were born and raised on the fair isle of Atlantic City, and she spent the summers of her youth on its fragrant shores.

Atlantic City is on an island with 4 towns that geographically range from schmanciest to shadiest. Not surprisingly, the further you get from AC, the better off you are. The towns are: Longport, Margate, Ventnor, AC.

Ventnor and AC are the only towns on the island with a boardwalk. Lucy the Elephant is in Margate. Rich stuff is in Longport.

Local Chow
The best subs in the world hail from AC. And if you don’t believe me, you’ve clearly never had one.

The Blogtari’s prefer Dino’s, the Margate sub outpost, because Melissa’s been going there religiously since birth. It’s also about 1/3 as crowded as its more famous AC competitor and they have YooHoo.

The best known sub joint in town is The White House. I am unsure about the YooHoo, so you may want to skip it. But like big city cheesesteak rivals Pat’s and Geno’s, I suggest you try both and see what happens.

Posh Dining
With the addition of The Borgata in 2003, fine dining came to AC. Your favorite restaurateurs (Wolfgang Puck, Bobby Flay, Stephen Starr) all have restaurants in the top casinos.

The annual Blogtari Christmas outing has allowed us to dine at some of the best spots, including Cuba Libre, PF Changs, Buddakan, Bobby Flay Steak, and Hooters.

Beach Bars
In the years before decent nightlife came to AC casinos, Jews from across the East Coast (OK, from outside of Philadelphia) flocked to a noble beach bar.

The Greenhouse has seen its fair share of nasty beach hook-ups. It’s 18 to enter, 21 to party, and right on the beach. What could be better?

Craving a poorly made Mind Eraser shot? The Greenhouse is where it’s at!

Clubby Guys
Again, thanks to The Borgata, nightlife is back in AC! Three casinos reign supreme in the nightlife department these days (sorry Mr. Trump).

The Tropicana

• 32 Degrees (bottle service vibe from Philadelphia)
• Red Square (Cold War bar from Vegas)
• Cuba Libre (salsa joint from Philadelphia)
• Providence (a new place I know nothing about)

The Pier at Caesars

• The Continental (best cocktail menu on Earth from Philadelphia)
• There’s also been a rumor that Rum Jungle is coming to the 4th floor. The website is not supporting this cause. This makes me supremely upset.

The Borgata

• Murmur (the chicks from The Hills partied here. Enough said.)

Gambling
Of course some folks head to AC for the gambling. Here’s a list of casinos listed in proximity to Ventnor.

• Hilton
• Tropicana
• Trump Plaza
• Caesars
• Ballys
• Resorts
• Taj Mahal
• Showboat


And over in Brigantine…


• The Borgata
• Trump Marina
• Harrahs

Shopping
For the ladies and the gentlemen who love them, there is some decent shopping in AC.

If you love buying discounted Coach bags from 1993 and ill-fitting slacks from Banana Republic, then the outlets in inner-AC is the place for you.

If you’re willing to shell out real dough for real products, The Pier at Caesars may be a better match. The Pier is a fancy mall with regular chains and high end shops. There’s also a candy shop for your Sour Power needs.

If you’re feeling naughty, why not pick up a novelty T with airbrushed boobs at one of the Boardwalk’s many fine retail establishments? Chase down your Puerto Rican flag towel with a soft serve ice cream and some salt water taffy and you are in Jersey Shore heaven.