The weekend of living dangerously
I'm still recuperating.
Good lawd! Where do I start?
I suppose I hafta start with the fact that last weekend was Thanksgiving weekend. "Black Friday". The busiest shoppin weekend of the year. Traffic snarls that could make a nun cuss like a stiffed, one-eyed whore.
Just before I left home, I called my cohort in crime, Jill, to tell her I'd be there in an hour to pick her up. But...um...I forgot about Peoria's Santa Clause Parade.
I got caught right smack-dab in the middle of that mess. It took me a hugely illegal U-turn right in the middle of Washington street...and forty-five minutes...to get outa town.
About two hours later, we're on our way.
I decided to take the scenic route to St. Charles, a 'burb of St. Louis, rather than the interstate. That was pretty much the smartest thing I did all weekend. It took a little longer, but the traffic was great.
We got to our hotel, got checked in and headed downtown to grab an early supper...a delicious rib-eye sammich at
Stuffed full of rib-eyes, we decided to try our luck at the casino. And that's all I've got to say about that.
On the way back to the hotel, we decided to gamble (botulism and e-coli, be damned!) a little more and grab a bag 'o burgers at a nearby
Saturday was "shopping day". Jules wanted to take us to this designer knock-off handbag place she said was in the 'hood. Handbag whore that I am, I was all for it, 'hood or not. But *I* wanted to drive. See, Jules' drivin scares the shit outa me. Especially in St. Louis traffic. So, with her ensconced as "navigator", we headed toward St. Louis proper. Dandy.
Except Jules, bless her wittle heart, is...um...shall we say a bit directionally challenged?
Drivin in 70 mile-an-hour, bumper to bumper, four and six lane traffic, I'd ask her what lane I needed to be in or what exit I needed to take. She'd say, "left". I'd head across four lanes and arrive without managing to create a 15 car pileup, only for her to say, "Uh...I mean right".
We finally find the place, only to be confronted by a jam-packed parkin lot, full of gigantic SUVs, Cadillacs and BMWs...all sportin black-tinted windows and spinners.
Well...she did tell us it was in the 'hood, didn't she?
Passing four of St. Louis' finest, who are pretty much stationed in the parkin lot during business hours, we entered this...place. It was like a giant, ghetto flea market. No, it was a giant, ghetto flea market. As promised, it was just chocked full of designer knockoffs. Handbag heaven. Sorta. Prada. Jimmy Choo. Dooney & Burke. Chanel. Dolce & Gabbana (my personal fave). Coach. Pick a designer name and they had it. And amazingly enough, most were high quality knockoffs...and you could dicker. A little.
Anywho, we spend an hour or so there, snag a coupla bags and decide we wanna head to
Um hmm. Remember? I said she was directionally challenged.
We turn left...and drive...and drive...and drive. And as we drive, the urban...ah...city-scape is gettin more...uh...well, let's just say it was startin to look like...well, hell. We were in the ghetto. I mean IN. We wound up in
Oh, hell. Our little pasty-white faces were the only ones within 10 miles. Remember the scene in National Lampoon's Vacation where Chevy and family get lost in St. Louis? Uh huh.
When we discovered just exactly where we were, Jules started to sweat. Jill and I, on the other hand, thought it was kinda funny. Well, at least I did. Jill, safely tucked in the back seat was probably a little rattled, but she didn't say a word. heh
Deciding that maybe Jules didn't know where the Garden Ridge store was, after all, we headed back the way we came, found some lunch and a nice, safe Kohl's. We shopped there for a bit, then headed back to Julie's and dropped her off. Thinkin that we didn't have our pee-pees slapped enough the night before, off we went to the casino again. I mean...we did manage to survive our little trip to Wellston unscathed. Lady Luck must be smilin on us, right?
Well, she smiled on Jill. She flipped me the bird. (sigh)
Already becoming creatures of habit, we stopped at Jack in the Box on the way back to the hotel. Hey...by this time, it was like 11 at night...and St. Charles isn't exactly a late-night, fine dining kinda town. A word of warning, though, peeps...don't try the tacos at Jack in the Box. I think they import 'em directly from Mexico.
Sunday morning dawned, cold and snowy. Snow? Shit. But it wasn't bad, so we figured we'd get a little more shoppin time in before headin north. The trip home was good...until after I dropped Jill off. From Lewistown to Chillicothe, I drove through snow, rain, sleet, fog and more snow. At night. Did I mention that I can't see worth shit at night?
At any rate, I finally made it home, safe and sound. And exhausted.
But we had a blast, as usual. And I even managed to get a good portion of my Christmas shoppin done...despite the casino takin a bite outa my budget.
Can't wait to do it again!
Except for the Jack in the Box tacos.