Greased-up high rollers like to gamble their dollars at the Vegas blackjack tables amid an array of showgirls scantily clad in sequins. Others prefer to hobnob in sundresses and gigantic hats while placing their bets on an infinite supply of mint juleps, a little man and a horse with a quacky name like "Run Dusty Run."
But my encounter with lady luck, on the other hand, took place around 2 a.m. at a dark, foreboding site I had never ventured to before. After a bit too much holiday family togetherness, my rash actions were surely justified. Driven to the brink, I threw on my PJs and made a last-minute, irrational dash for plane tickets in the money-squelching land of priceline.com.
Before turning to priceline.com for help, I'd witnessed others being driven to the edge after wallowing in a sea of leftover honey-baked hams and chocolate Yule logs. In my den, a cry for help came from one anonymous 30-year-old guy who did his rendition of Britney Spears' "Oh Baby, Baby," on our karaoke machine, a new Christmas toy. And though I confess to being quite the karaoke rock star - belting out Madonna's "Like a Prayer" - I held faith that I could make a shady deal online and find a way out of town.
One of my friends received an American Express card from her mother under the condition that it should be used in dire emergencies, which also seemed to include a long stop at Coupe's after she bombed her economics exam last semester. I've been known to make charges as minute as those great orange tic-tacs, but was now ready to put more on the line as I proclaimed personal credit a marvelous invention. With new "Popastic 80s" and "Party Tyme Hot Hits" karaoke CDs pervading our household, I called my own state of emergency and proceeded to place my bid on a flight from Connecticut to a friend's house in Charlotte, N.C. I'd only be able to keep up my Cyndi Lauper impersonations for so long.
Some may place the blame of my disastrous experience with priceline.com on the leftover eggnog that must have continued to ferment in the fridge. Personally, I firmly stand on the ground that the Web site's small print is entirely illegible. Either way, after a few quick clicks of the mouse, I ended up with an overpriced Northwest Airlines flight from Connecticut to North Carolina by way of a three-hour layover in the Detroit, the Motor City. Horrified and baffled that my intended quick jaunt had turned into a detour to the Great Lakes, I muttered obscenities and even smacked the monitor a few times to let it know who was boss.
My knowledge of the Great Lake states is limited to the fact that it was the setting of the great early '90s flick "Wayne's World." (Refresher: The classic tale features two long-haired head-bangers looking for love.) However, doubting that Detroit was a mecca of excitement where travelers perfected their "schwing" and "party on Wayne, party on Garth," vernacular, I began a heated e-mail battle with a customer service representative. And though I pulled out some impressive legal jargon that would have given Ally McBeal goose bumps in her mini-suit, my efforts to cancel my absurd flight were fruitless.
Disgusted, I wanted to cut my losses, remain in thrilling Connecticut and find a way to earn back my money. I could spend New Year's surrounded by all my favorite little buddies that I baby-sit for, and together we'd enjoy watching the wind attempt to rustle Dick Clark's immovable hair. At midnight, the youngest kid would ask why I was so glum, so I'd suck back a boxed apple juice, bite the head off a stale Santa sugar cookie, and tell him the cold, hard truth. A girl my age is just not used to staying up this late.
Yet, the mundane days at home and the bitter thought of losing my money to priceline.com enticed me to take the randomly routed flight through the great state of Michigan en route to Charlotte.
I had planned to drown my three-hour layover sorrow in a big mug of hot chocolate, yet both trips were quite adventurous. Apparently, my perky blonde ponytail and fleece vest red-flagged me as a "sketchball," and I was strip-searched three out of the four times I attempted to board a plane. I'm sure the guards enjoyed feeling up my sludgy tennis shoes as they quizzically eyed the "Moose Munch" - a delectable house gift for my friend's mother.
After my rage against priceline.com, I swore I'd come clean and never gamble on Internet travel deals again. However, while in Charlotte, my friend informed me about a magical game played with e-saver plane tickets. I call it: "Friends, pack your bags because we're leaving tomorrow." When insanely low fares to tropical locales are constantly advertised online, there's no excuse to let spontaneity kill the winter doldrums. Yet, with my luck I'd probably end up with a ticket to Park City after having packed a heap of bathing suits.
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