Dispatches from the Armpit of New Jersey

This past weekend, The Wife surprised me by secretly securing me some days off from work so we could take a mini vacation. Awesome, right? The long weekend was our first trip away without The Girl since, well...since Grace was born.  To say we both needed the time away is an understatement.  We tossed around various destinations-time and budget meant not too far or too expensive- and once Amanda decided she wanted to drink, gamble and beach it, the decision was easy.  Look out Atlantic City, you Ersatz Paradise, here come the Haileys.  Of course, our decision was met with scoffing from every corner.  You know A.C. is called the Armpit of New Jersey, right?  Oh my God, Atlantic City is a shithole!  Why do you want to go there? Everything is closed. Amanda was unbowed, confident in her suggestion.  Personally, I was just happy to be away.  Did I mention the trip was alone with my wife, away from the kid for a few days?  I would have happily spent the weekend in a dumpster.  (Which some people no doubt feel I did. *Rimshot*.)  Ready to relax, we packed the car and headed for the coast.

While in Atlantic City, I learned and confirmed a few things:
* Time well-spent with a beautiful woman is about as good as it gets.  My wife is witty, sexy and a great person to relax away a day with. 
*People watching never gets old.    From the oiled-up old timer that squeezed his leathery hide into a mankini to the lady smoking a joint walking down the street in broad daylight, there is plenty to see.
*I am a terrible gambler. Like "cooler" bad.
*Massage and parlor become two skeevy words when paired together.  Seriously, there were like a half dozen massage joints within a few blocks.  And I mean the "Love you long time/Happy Ending included" kind of massage "parlors".
*Don't outthink yourself when your wife says, "Sure, I'll go into Scores with you."  It might not have been a trap.
*Meals taste better when you don't have to ask your kid to stop dancing in the booth every five seconds.
*Some people passing you on the street take a simple "Good Morning" as an opening to inquire exactly how straight you are.  First time I have been propositioned by a large black man before breakfast.

Most importantly, I was reminded that any situation is what you make of it.  Sure, Atlantic City is a shell of what it once was.  It's equal parts shithole and sweet vacation spot.  But guess what, three blocks from Camden Yards is a war zone.  Guess what, I don't wander too far from the National Mall after dark, either.  Guess what, I see more panhandlers on a daily basis in Salisbury than I did in three days in New Jersey.  Every place is what you make of it.  Yes, the faux opulence is stacked on the pretend luxury is piled on the last remnants of a bygone era of high rollers and fat cats.  Yes, the desperation wafting off many casino patrons  mimics the sagging desperation of the entire town.  But these are all part of the charm.  With a little imagination you can lie on the beach and daydream that you are in another era.  An era when, with a pretty lady on your arm, a drink in your hand and a little change in your pocket you can be a high rolling king of the boardwalk.  Every place is what you make of it and we made out just fine.