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Monday — The Fuckery Begins

Woke up at 3 a.m., the hour reserved for airport zombies and people making questionable life choices. My Uber driver? A stoned middle‑aged woman with tattoo sleeves that deserved their own museum wing and a mouth as filthy as mine. A chaotic queen. A sign of things to come.

Landed at 9:30 a.m., fifteen minutes early — just enough time for the universe to whisper, “Let the fuckery begin.” Bobbie scooped me up, and from the moment I got in her car, we were in full Thelma & Louise mode: two women with no plan, too much energy, and absolutely no supervision.

Reading Terminal Market was our first stop, wandering through the maze like two fugitives looking for snacks instead of escape routes. We hopped on the historic Philly bus tour with the same logic Thelma & Louise used to steal a convertible: because why not? We hopped off wherever the spirit moved us — which is how we ended up at the penitentiary. Of course two middle‑aged rebels would gravitate toward a prison tour. Typical Chey and Bobita behavior.

Franklin Fountain gave me honeycomb ice cream made from rooftop bees, which felt like the kind of treat Thelma and Louise would’ve stopped for if they weren’t so busy outrunning the law.

Checked into the hotel, admired the Revolutionary War cemetery outside our window, texted my daddy, then headed to Marrakesh — a Moroccan restaurant hidden down an alley so suspicious it felt like we were meeting an informant. Bobbie knocked on the door like she was delivering a ransom note. Inside? Jewel tones, gold threads, seven courses, and enough food to kill a lesser woman.

We collapsed into bed at 9 p.m. Thelma & Louise would’ve been disappointed, but listen — middle‑aged rebels need rest.

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Tuesday — Zooing, Screaming, Jersey

We lounged around, no rush, no plan — just two women drifting through the day like we were on the run from responsibility. Considered the aquarium. Considered the zoo. Chose the zoo because it felt like the kind of impulsive detour Thelma & Louise would approve of.

The zoo was zooing. We made a full lap, saw everything, and were about to leave when we noticed people inside the tortoise enclosure. Bobbie yelled “OH MY GOD!” I yelled “OH MY GOD!” A woman approached us with a sly grin — she was the one who flew Plumes, the guy who sings to animals, in for a $500‑per‑person elite event. We told her we send each other his TikToks constantly. She shared his story — how it’s not the music that draws animals to him, it’s him. Magic. Pure magic.

It felt like the kind of bizarre, cinematic moment that would happen right before Thelma & Louise stole another car.

Then: New Jersey.

A drive full of laughs, leg cramps, and the kind of delirious road‑trip energy that makes you feel like you could outrun a police helicopter if necessary.

Checked into our mom‑and‑pop motel, dropped our shit, and headed to the boardwalk. Realized we forgot to eat all day because we’re middle‑aged and have the attention span of gnats. Tried Jersey pizza — finally understood the hype. Florida pizza could never.

We walked the entire boardwalk, scoped out every shop, every food stand, and ended the night sitting on a bench like two old ladies: Bobbie with ice cream, me with fried pickles. Bed by 10:30. Even Thelma & Louise would’ve called it a respectable night.

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Wednesday — NYC, Baby

Blasting music down the Garden State Parkway like two women who absolutely should not be trusted with a vehicle unsupervised.

Dragged our luggage up three flights of stairs to the Airbnb, turned the AC to “Arctic Death,” then walked to the grocery store for snacks, drinks, and breakfast supplies. Hydrated. Then headed to the ferry.

Seeing the NYC skyline in person? Pictures don’t do it justice. Lady Liberty hit me right in the ancestral pride. NYC is everything at once — beauty, grime, breathtaking architecture, hot garbage, people from every corner of the planet. It still holds what the rest of us seem to have forgotten: Come one, come all, come as you are.

We hit Trinity Church, Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, Rockefeller, the 9/11 Memorial, Times Square, Disney Store, Radio City Music Hall, and Ellen’s Stardust Diner. It was a full‑blown Thelma & Louise sightseeing spree, minus the part where they commit crimes.

At 10 p.m., we subway’d to the ferry and headed home, exhausted but still feral.

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Thursday — Flood Watch & Fine Lines

We slept in, knowing we were already in NYC and could mosey to the ferry whenever. Flood watch in effect. Ponchos ready. Every adventure we go on includes rain — it’s tradition.

We dove into the subway to get into Central Park before the advisory‑level rains hit. Visited the Imagine mosaic, where a young girl who spoke no English sang “Imagine” beautifully. A moment.

Then the Friends Experience — silly photos, big laughs, and I bought a Crap Bag (AKA Princess Consuela Bananahammock) because obviously it’s stupid, iconic, and exactly the kind of merch for me.

Next: the largest tattoo studio I’ve ever seen. Walked in with no plan, walked out with a fine‑line piece that is undeniably me. The artist was immaculate.

Storms rolled in, so we hit Target for essentials, then subway’d to the ferry. By the time we arrived, it was a complete whiteout — could only see a few feet ahead. News later showed subway flooding. We escaped just in time.

Spent the evening in pajamas, eating pizza, watching current events, and embracing our middle‑aged need for recovery before Friday’s big finale.

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Friday — BRUNO DAY

The air felt different. Electric. Dramatic. Like the universe was preheating itself for the chaos we were about to unleash.

First stop: American Dream Mall for the Hello Kitty x Bruno Mars pop‑up. We asked for directions approximately 47 times. Every single person pointed us confidently toward a different wrong location. It felt like a Thelma‑and‑Louise side quest designed by someone who hates joy.

When we finally found it, the line wrapped around the entire event center like a python guarding its prey. No chance in hell.

So we bailed and headed toward the stadium — but first, the shoe ritual.

Swapped my Hokas for my red‑heart limited edition Nike Air Force 1s because it’s The Romantic Tour. You show up prepared to be emotionally destroyed.

MetLife Stadium? Underwhelming. Big. Loud. Functional. Nothing special.

But then the lights dropped.

DJ Pee‑wee opened — chaotic, fun, bouncing around like he had no bones.

Then RAYE — ethereal, magnetic, velvet lightning. She’s absolutely getting added to my playlist.

And then Bruno stepped out.

The stadium shifted.

It felt like someone plugged the ground into a power outlet.

He didn’t perform — he detonated.

Every song was a hit. Every note a flex. Every smile a weapon. And then he hit us with “Let’s Get It On” by Marvin Gaye, completely unannounced, like he was personally trying to send the entire crowd into cardiac arrest.

Then Anderson .Paak slid in smooth as butter. Their voices together? Silky, soulful, stupidly good.

Pyrotechnics: explosive.

Lights: blinding in the sexy concert way.

Confetti: a blizzard of joy.

Fire: hot enough to singe eyebrows from the nosebleeds.

It wasn’t a concert — it was a full‑body experience. A sensory assault. A religious awakening with better outfits.

We left with two songs remaining to avoid the infamous MetLife traffic disaster. Thelma & Louise would’ve peeled out in a convertible. We settled for a responsible exit strategy.

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Saturday — Sleepwalking Bagels & Airport Chaos

Bobbie was so exhausted she sleepwalked downstairs, grabbed a bagel, and took it back to bed. Woke up with half a pumpernickel bagel and crumbs everywhere. No memory of the event. Peak Thelma‑and‑Louise exhaustion.

At the airport, the priority line didn’t feel very priority — slow as hell — but it gave me time to breathe through my travel anxiety. Terminal B is one of the best I’ve ever been in: compact gates, tons of food options, charging stations everywhere.

But quiet? Absolutely not. I was surrounded by loud families letting their kids run wild, leaving messes everywhere. Maybe I’m old school, but my kids would’ve been SAT. And flying to Orlando means theme‑park families — some bragging about staying at the Grand Floridian. Say less. I know exactly what that means. The shock on their face though when the grand Floridian family was sat next to me in first class was worth it though. I’m certain they didn’t expect that since I don’t flash luxury brands and dress like a 90s tomboy at 49 years old.

We landed early but got stuck on the plane for 45 minutes due to lightning. Once off, I barely made my Uber window. Got home, and Freyja lost her absolute goddamned mind. Lexi? Completely unenthused, which made me laugh.

I immediately discovered the AC wasn’t working. Thanks heatwaves. So until that gets fixed I’m not sure I will recover from the trip physically. At least it didn’t end with us driving off a cliff.