I called my parents at 8:45 am from D.C. this past Saturday to check in. This is what good daughters do; they place regular phone calls home to verify safety and well-being. I was standing on a low brick wall across from an Irish pub in Arlington, VA, hundreds of runners in various shades of green milling around below me as I stuck a finger in one ear and pressed my phone up to the other.
“I’m at a race,” I shouted, “there’s a leprechaun on a scooter bike, I’m having a Guinness for breakfast. How are you guys?”
In the background, I heard my mom: “Washington? She’s not calling from jail again, is she?”
Excellent question. Considering one of the last phone calls I placed to them from the district was while handcuffed to a tile wall next a lovely prostitute who was coaching me, “Girl, you gots to breathe. Just breathe.”
I love D.C. I love it more when I’m not handcuffed to various stationary objects, like the tree that time outside of Chadwick’s. Bicycle cops are like ninjas!
This weekend was like a dose of sunshine and booze and fine female companionship that soothed my soul; Hollins girls are like big hugs, take note. Friday, I sat across from one of my dearest friends of all time, ate and drank my fill, and caught up on things we don’t cover hourly on G-chat. Saturday, I hopped up with the sun to cheer her on as she bolted around Arlington.
Beginning at 3PM on Saturday, we partook in an epic bar crawl through downtown, hitting up no less than 8 venues. I’m freaking serious—8 bars. There may have been more. There also may have been a panda bear. There was definitely a taxi cab that knew a few dance moves.
How I love thee:
We moved on. A lot. Behold, the lovely Carrington, organizer, whistle-blower, shaker of tail feather:
[Know why I love Virginia so much? I met this young man and out of the clear blue sky, he knew my brother. And my godbrother, David. I mean, worlds don’t get smaller than they do when you are a Hoo.]
There is life beyond bar crawls, you know. But only just barely. I took this from the car the next day while wearing a lovely shade of green on my face:
And all good things must come to an end. My good thing ended with me curled in a ball on the carpet of the USAirways terminal in DCA, a Quarter Pounder with cheese cooling its heels on my thighs.
Don’t weep for me, though; I stayed clear of Johnny Law, and that’s more than I can say for my prior visits to this magical city. While there’s nothing like being threatened with resisting arrest because you got a little kicky on the Plexi-glass with your Prada heels, this visit takes the cake.
In conclusion, a couple of text messages between husband and wife, as we spent our weekends apart, hearts growing fonder in the absence:
R: I got you a present.
C: Another cat light switch cover?
R: Nope. You are actually going to like this.
R: It’s for your collection!
C: A vinyl record!!!! I got you a present too: I caught an Obama fart in a jar.
p.s. Apologies for the excess of “I’m sipping” photos. They seem to be really fun to take while partaking, but stupid to look at after.