A Saturday Night at ~Da Club~

Well, readers. Its 5:30 on a Saturday and I am sitting at home, alone, in the dark (when did it start getting so dark SO EARLY?). "What? This cannot be! You are so cool and popular!" you must be saying to yourself. And, while you are right, its turned out to be quite a lackluster weekend. My family left a lot earlier than anticipated (and without seeing my new couch, how rude!) and all my friends are actually spending time with their families instead of entertaining me. The jerks.

So, i did what any other person does on a Saturday with nothing to do. I put on approximately 987987 layers of clothing (because it was 44 degrees here today and I am a baby), went to Trader Joes, got groceries and $3 bottles of wine. Read until it got dark, watched T.V. until the clock hit 5:01 and then opened a bottle of said wine and drank half of it in a few sips. Adulthood -- its awesome.

And really, I hate to disappoint all my club rat readers, but I actually like being alone in my apartment. Entertaining myself is surprisingly easy. And I manage to very easily fill an entire day with: reading, eating, googling things I've been meaning to google all week, drinking alone and watching t.v. In fact, when I dont get an alone day at least once a week, I get really cranky and agitated and it throws me off. Its one of the many things I inherited from my dad: we are both loners and both curmudgeons when that loner-ness is compromised for long stretches of time.

And, generally speaking, staying in my apartment is usually cheaper than going out with friends or even by myself (as I have been known to do). Now might be a good time , however, to mention that I am in this man vs. nature vs. modern technology battle with my heat. Meaning, I am determined to go as long as I can without turning on the heat in my apartment. Last month, my electricity bill was $13.80 and I have literally told everyone I ever met that number, including my door man who said "damn, baby. good job!". Thank you, sir. Thank you.

Of course, as proud of myself as I am, it has to be said that it really hasnt been that cold since I started this battle (~50 degrees on average). And, while i am winning the ultimate battle so far, its only going to get worse from here. And, I don't know if its the cement walls or what, but my apartment has no natural heating going on whatsoever. In fact, I feel it might be a little colder in here than it is outside.

BUT, being a creature of fierce determination with a lot of clothes, I am a fan of layering. So today, while I was reading, I just kept putting more and more clothes on until I felt warm. I live alone, who cares what I look like?

So, today, I am reading in bed and after a while it gets dark and instead of putting on a light like a normal person, I decide to just move over to the T.V. and call it a night. I am warm and cozy, wrapped up in a Loyola blanket and drinking some wine, and talking to the T.V. (a new habit I've developed since living alone. Also, I hum and dance to theme songs and repeat phrases that I find particularly hilarious. This doesnt stop when other people are in the room, just ask Tia).

After a while, I decide I need some wings (for obvious reasons). I conveniently place my order on CampusFood.com (when this blog blows up, people will have to pay for those mentions). A mere 20 minutes later (seriously, I will take coupons if CampusFood's PR person is reading this), there is a knock on my door. I get up to answer it, open the door and am immediately greeted with this face:



Confused and a litle offended, I take my food and close the door.

"What a JERK!!! Can't a girl stay home on a Saturday night and order food for herself without getting the ultimate face of judgement?!?!?! WTF?"

And, just as I am getting really heated, I catch a glimpse of myself in the full length mirror and realize why I had been judged so hard:


Complete with the bottle of wine and blanket draped over my shoulder.

Touche, delivery man, touche.

Holly Hobby

When you have a job where you talk/think/write about malfunctioning triple X regions all day (hello, incontinence. Nice to see you again, prostate cancer. Make yourself comfortable, breast cancer), it is of paramount importance to have a hobby. The reason being, that when you are in social situations, particularly with people you’ve never met, you may find yourself going on for ten or more minutes about well…why people experience bladder weakness. And while I happen to love my job and think our clients and my work are incredibly interesting, I’ve come to realize that others may not feel similarly. In fact, “uncomfortable” may be a better word to describe a dinner date where I went on for nearly the whole dinner about the controversy over prostate cancer screening and why he “really should get screened when he gets to be that age”.

That’s 100% true. If he still talked to me, he could vouch.

So, to get through those long dinners with friends and family and even longer dates with losers, it is pretty important to have something else to talk about. For most people, these other things are hobbies. Ah yes, hobbies. My friend, the knitter, who made me a scarf for Christmas one year and goes to craft shows to find interesting thread. My other friend the soccer player, who still plays fiercely and competitively on various intramural teams. The hunter who took me on a date to Lindys. The artist. The philanthropist. The musician. The culinary expert. The horseback rider. The people who fill their lives and their conversations with passions and interests.

I’ve always had a problem with hobbies. I mean, not in theory. In theory, they sound great! Devoting yourself to something other than working, sitting in front of your T.V. and drinking (only on the weekends, of course). A chance to meet people with similar interests, depending on the hobby. Or create something beautiful. Or better yet- delicious. My problem is, nothing has ever really stuck.

The main problem is my lack of hand-eye coordination. As made evident if you’ve ever been around me for more than three seconds, I am kind of clumsy. I fall a lot, I often miss my mouth when trying to insert food and beverage, I clip my arm against the wall when walking through doors. This narrows down my options quite a bit- no sports really (aside from Yoga, which is fun, but expensive) and anything terribly artistic is pretty much out too. I don’t have the delicate and deliberate hands of an artist. Mine would better be described as the rough and heavy hands of…a bear cub (give me a break, I haven’t blogged in a while and it’s hard to think of metaphors sometimes).

It started when I was a kid and hasn’t really gotten much better since then. I wanted to be a girl scout- until they made me clean dishes on a camping trip. I wanted to play roller hockey- until I went to the first practice and I was the only girl. I wanted to play the clarinet- until after the band trip. I wanted to be a ballerina- until I got stage fright. I wanted to sing- until I realized I couldn’t. Just recently, I signed up to build houses with a Jewish youth group but didn’t go because I didn’t have the proper footwear. It’s become cyclical- anytime I want to try something new I say “oh wait…you already tried that and didn’t like it” and then turn on the Office.

For a while I got really into crafting. It started with those wooden things you buy at Michael’s craft store and paint to your liking. Then it advanced to making screen print t-shirts. And then, I started “sculpting” with clay that you could bake in your oven. I could only make bears and turtles, but god damn if I didn’t make a lot of them. But then one day, I just looked around and realized everything I made was completely ugly and I was a talentless loser. So I stopped crafting and it left a bitter taste in my mouth, mostly because it is one of the only things that Midwestern women wearing Kitten sweaters can do better than me.

All I know is, I like to read nonfiction fiction books. I like to bike. I like to write blogs that no one reads. I like to dance to music in my apartment in my underwear. I like to find the places with the best eggs Benedict in the city. Ilike to read the news and then talk about it with people who don’t really care. I like to watch entire seasons of a show I like in one sitting on a Sunday afternoon. And you know what, I’m okay with that.

But, in the interest of having something to write (and talk) about, I’ve decided to recommit myself to hobbies! What hobbies? I have NO idea. I’m thinking about photography again maybe, which I really enjoyed until I broke my camera. But maybe historical reenactment? Or beadwork? Yoga and Pilates? Arts and crafts? Cooking? Animal rescue? I am open to suggestions.

This is all a really long way of saying that, if you get a clay bear or turtle from me for the holidays, please don’t be surprised.

Because It Has to Be Told

When people hear I went to school in New Orleans, the words “mardi gras” usually follow not too far behind. And I can understand why – boobs and beer and parades and debauchery must seem exciting to most people. And, while I value Mardi Gras as a significant part of New Orleans culture, it was never really my scene. My BFFL A-Payne always LOVED Mardi Gras in a way that I never did- making sure not to miss a SINGLE PARADE and going so far as to know the names, the celebrities and the good parade spots. I went along for the ride, as long as there was beer involved, which is not a Mardi Gras exclusive policy, but a good one none-the-less.

My favorite Mardi Gras story, however, happened not at a parade. It happened on the way to one. The sheer thought of it makes me laugh out loud and want to cuddle with Anna and then take a shower. And now, I am immortalizing it.

The Mardi Gras of 2006 was the first after Katrina and also, in my opinion, the best we have ever had. The energy in New Orleans was electric and hopeful and we were all so happy to be back with our friends and school.

On the Thursday before Fat Tuesday, five of us (Anna, Tia, Emilia and Cameron) piled into my car and headed down Freret Street to find a good parking spot on the parade route. Anna, my trusted confidant, was at the wheel (likely because I was already drunk or working on it). As we got closer to the parade route traffic picked up and we crawled through the streets- looking for a place to park.

We drive around for a while in unbearable traffic until finally, Anna sees it- the perfect spot. As she maneuvers the car to best park, impatient drivers behind her start to honk. Frustrated and vindicated, she spins the wheel around, pumps her fist in the air and yells to no one in particular “honk now, bitches!” and drives my car triumphantly into the spot. We all get out, get our Mardi Gras accoutrement, and walk to the parade route to enjoy it. We catch a lot of beads and cups and at one point, a man reaches down from a float, pulls Anna up onto it and she rides the rest of the parade on the top float like the Princess of New Orleans, waving to her minions below.

Well, that’s the way it would have happened. Except, instead of a parking spot, Anna parked my car in a suspiciously dark and smooth pile of sand dug into the ground. And well, if you have never driven your car into a sandbox, you might not know that it looks something like this:




(In Anna’s defense- although that is CLEARLY sand in that picture, it was getting dark and totally looked like a spot. I may or may not have had beer goggles on, but that’s beside the point.)

So, there we are. All five of us in my car. Involuntarily leaning forward into a sand pit. Wondering WTF happened and trying to strategize.

“What did we just drive the car into?”
“….Sand….? ….Dirt…..?”
“Should we get out?”
“…I guess…”

Having assessed the situation, we did what we thought the logical thing to do would be. Anna stayed behind the wheel and turned the car back on and the rest of us came around the front to push it out. Since the back was conveniently still out on the pavement, blocking traffic, we logically assumed that it would be relatively easy to push the car back up onto the pavement. Kind of hilarious, but not a big deal and would make a great story when we saw all of our friends later.

For those of you who HAVE driven your car into a sandbox before (or have a 5th grade understanding of physics), you are shaking your head at me in bemused disapproval. You are letting out a haughty laugh at our amateur mistake. “Fools!” you are saying. And you are right.

For those of you who haven’t, let me impart a life lesson onto you. For tires to effectively move a vehicle or bike or gyro cart, they need to have traction. And, interestingly, since sand does not provide that traction what happens when you push the gas and the tires spin is akin to spinning tires into a huge puddle of water- sand flies everywhere. And, since sand is flying out from under your tire, what its effectively doing is digging a hole. Making your car go even deeper into the sand.

Having seen after only a few tries (we were hopeful! Don’t judge us!) that this was NOT going to work, we came up with a new plan- call Tripple A. And so I did. Which was infuriating for more than one reason, but the most being that since it was Mardi Gras, after I spent 20 minutes on the phone going through the hideously tedious prerequisites of even getting them to call a towing company, they gave me a time estimate of 12 hours before they would get there.

“Should we just go to the parade and come back in the morning?” Anna asked, hopefully.

Most people who read this blog have seen me in a crisis situation. I don’t know if it is adrenaline or my redheaded temper, but something FIERCE comes out in me in the face of adverse situations and long waits. I was not waiting for 12 hours by my car. I WAIT FOR NO ONE. And I sure as HELL was not going to leave my car half way in a sand ditch, half sticking out into traffic in a bad part of New Orleans. I am no mechanic, but I was pretty certain that someone with some more know-how than me could get that puppy out in a second and sell it for parts or just cut off the back half so people could get through. I wasn’t going to risk either one.

So I do what any logical person would do- I get on my hands and knees in Katrina dirt and start digging. Cameron leaves to go find a wooden plank and a chain somewhere (it’s a bad part of New Orleans, which made that a surprisingly un-difficult task). Tia is digging with me. Emilia sits in the car and directs strategy (texts). Anna takes pictures:




The plan was disastrous, at best. Again, a lesson in physics- when you dig sand out of a hole, more sand just comes in and takes its place. And well, this plan didn’t really help with the whole “traction” issue. Because there was no way to get under the tire far enough to make the wooden plank effective. And, while I can’t prove anything, I am pretty sure something in that dirt is festering inside me to this day.

Just for good measure:


(Notice the T.J. Quills cup that was fashioned into a shovel. I just happened to have a few of those bad boys in my backseat. What a happy coincidence!)

Eventually, some guy comes by in a huge pick-up truck and tows us out. We go home and shower and head out for a night of drinking. Tripple A calls me to confirm a pickup time the next day at 2 p.m. (!) and I politely tell them to please go fuck themselves. But it remains one of my best New Orleans memories to this day.

Like a Sculpture, But Longer

Okay, so I am the worst blogger ever. I admit it. It’s true. Call the e-cops and take me to e-prison, for I have forsaken you.

But, while contemplating my delinquency, it occurred to me why: my life is boring.

Bear with me for a second here. When I started this blog, I was at a very tumultuous point in my life. Post-grad existential crisis, living at home, working as a 22 year old intern for $10 an hour- it provided endless comic relief. Not to mention, moving to the second most eccentric city in the nation (NYC) closely followed by having spent 4 years in the most eccentric city on the continent (NOLA), well, it provided a lot of material.

I lived in a closet! In Alphabet City! With a bright blue wall! In a five story walk up! Hilarious! It’s like the pauper version of Friends.

And well, I’d hate to admit it, but my life is pretty boring now. I live in an almost-real sized apartment, with enough room to walk around without clipping corners and shifting furniture. I have a steady 9- (mostly) 6 job that keeps me busy and happy for 40 (50?) hours a week. I have friends who I enjoy quiet evenings on the town with- a few beers at the bar and brunch in the morning. I run errands on Sundays and walk around when the weather is nice. I have more cleaning products under my sink than snack foods in my pantry. I bought a real couch that I sit on quite frequently. It just goes round and round.

And, while I am really enjoying D.C., I have to admit it is the perfect setting for a quiet and happy and boring life- there are things to do of course and a lot going on, but nothing that smacks you in the face with its ridiculous. I’ve never come home to find my street closed off for a Dominican Easter Parade featuring a Jesus impersonator bearing a large wooden cross or arrived home to my apartment building to find my key doesn’t work because management changed the locks overnight without informing anyone, and for the most part, I am okay with that.

But oddly enough- those are the same reasons I miss NYC. The ridiculous and absurdity of it all. The never knowing what is going to happen.

This weekend, I was talking to a friend, who has never been to NYC, about why it is so great. He was skeptical.
“What’s so great about NYC? What does it have that we don’t?”
“Museums! And restaurants! And bars! And shows! And a subway that goes EVERYWHERE!”
“We have all that here” , he rightfully replied.

And it’s true, D.C. does, for the most part have everything I want and need. Instead of a bodega on my corner, I have a CVS. Everything I want is, for the most part, within walking distance. I have found my brunch place (Jack’s), my dive bar (the Big Hunt), my dance bar (Madam’s Organ), my favorite museum (the Corcoran). I don’t want for anything, except for something that the tourism board can’t direct me to- I miss the weird. Weird is missing from D.C. and perhaps, because I have lived among the eccentric for so long, I miss it in a way that I can’t describe. D.C. is decidedly normal: work suits and pearls, polo shirts and fitting in, normal hobbies and boring clothes and jobs that save the world. Everyone fits into the mold here and it adds to the boring-ness. No one is spicing it up. No one is taking a chance on being the biggest weirdo on the block.

Well, most of the time.

Yesterday, it was unseasonably beautiful out for a day in early November. Hovering around the high 60’s and low 70’s, it was the perfect day for the last bike ride of the season. I hopped on my bike and decided to leave my phone/iPod at home- determined to be alone with my thoughts. And, for whatever reason, that conversation about NYC, more than anything else, was really sticking with me. What was my problem? Had I been brainwashed into the romance of NYC? Was it really ever as great as I thought? Why did I have such an allegiance to a city that did nothing but work against me?

As I was contemplating, I subconsciously headed up toward my favorite place in the city: Columbia Heights, which has a distinctively urban feel to it and draws me toward it more than any other part of this city. Old buildings, divey-dive bars, beautiful old and quirky houses- something about it just feels like home. As I biked through the residential streets, I noticed some big structure in the backyard of one house. Curious, I biked around the block a few times, trying to see what it was. It would be about the size of a shed when it was finished, but for right not it was mostly just a wire frame…of what? A head? I couldn’t tell.

At one point, I had stopped in front of the house and was blatantly staring into this backyard trying to figure out what the eff it was and a young-ish (early 30’s?) man came bounding out of the house. Startled, I turned my handlebars around and put my feet on the peddles, ready to bike away in embarrassment.

“Are you staring at my sculpture?!”, yelled a man from his porch.
“Uh well…yeah. I was just trying to figure out what it was” I yelled back, face turning red.
“I’ll show you, want to see it?”

I did want to see it. And although I have been adequately taught my stranger danger lessons and watched enough true crime shows to know how it could have turned out, I put my kickstand down and followed him into the backyard (sorry, Mom).

“I started it about two weeks ago as a form of protest- I couldn’t think of another way to adequately express my feelings about it ”

And there, in the backyard, I could see what this sculpture was. A HUGE soon-to-be paper-mache sculpture of two men kissing.

“Oh cool. Are you making this for any particular reason? Like…a parade? Or something?”

“No” he said decidedly. “Just because. My girlfriend is actually coming over to help me finish up in a bit”

I thanked him for showing me and got back on my bike- my heart swelling with a familiar feeling of admiration and judgment. This man, a straight man nonetheless, was building a paper-mache tribute to gay marriage in his backyard. It was so D.C.- so overly political and yet, so NYC in its unapologetic weirdness. And it was then that I realized that there are fucking weird people everywhere and that D.C. weirdos were almost better- smarter- in their weirdness.

And it was at that moment that I missed my blog.

The paper mache sculpture of two men kissing made me realize that even though I have a boring life, theres plenty of weird shit going on in the world. Weird shit I like. Weird shit I don’t like. Weird shit I have an opinion on. So, why not blog about that? It doesn’t ALL have to be about me (although I am fascinating). It can be about politics, feminism, health care reform, balloon boys and girls. There is so much material in the world, why deprive my tens of readers of my opinion about them?

So I am back baby. And, as a personal pledge to myself, I promise to blog at least once a week. There’s a lot of weirdness going on in the world and I want to be a part of it.

You’re welcome.

P.S.- Had I been the blogger I aspire to be, I would have taken a picture with my phone to accompany this post. I am still growing and learning, so forgive me. I’m not even really sure what street it was on –or honestly, if I was still in Columbia Heights when I saw it- but if we get another nice day this weekend, maybe I’ll go back and look for it for you, my loyal reader (Tia)

Long Overdue

Does anyone still read this anymore?

Well, I do. So for the sake of myself- here is a long winded blog entry about the last crazy three weeks of my life. You are welcome.

So it didnt really hit me that I was moving until...uhh I was moving. Even though my dad and brother came to clear out my apt a week before my last day in NY (which they were both REALLY thrilled about, let me tell you. especially my brother- never seen him happier), and I lived off an an air mattress, out of a suitcase and worked 12 hour days to finish everything up, everything still felt normal. That week was fun- spending time with NYC friends, walking around the LES just because I could, riding the subway because I knew I would miss that most of all- but it was still normal. My last day in the city was a beautiful, sunny and vibrant Saturday and I had to work an event for work before packing up my suitcase and air mattress and heading back to Jersey for the week. And although I was a little sad, I was mostly thinking that I hoped I got home before the sun went away and I could lay in my backyard with a beer and some magazines and enjoy the day.

(Seriously- I am a city mouse all the way, but I miss a good backyard on a sunny day)

The week in Jersey was stressful, because then it was actually time to think about moving 259 miles away. My coping mechanism to deal with such a HUGE CHANGE and not die of a panic attack was simple: finish one thing at a time and don't even think about the big picture. so, up until my last day of work I was thinking about only work. and then when i was home in Jersey there was everything else left to do- am i going to hire movers? where is my new place again? how do I move in? who will be helping me? how much is a uhaul? how am i going to pay for all of this? why cant someone just do this FOR ME?

but everything more or less figured itself out. I only cried once- although it was an embarassing and sobbing breakdown because the owner of my building was "mean to me" when I called to schedule a move in time. I picked up my uhaul on a Friday morning and my dad helped me load up the truck, i said goodbye to my dog for 10 whole minutes and drove myself down to Tia's in a truck that had more square footage than my entire apt in NYC.

move in day was surprisingly uneventful. although the "service elevator" we had to use was barely big enough to fit my little full size bed and we had to dismantle some furntture to get it up here. and to even get to the service elevator you had to go through this weird underground maze through the basement of the building. and there was a cleaning guy standing there leering at us as we were moving in who I am certifiably terrified of (and am also pretty sure is watching me right now on some sort of hidden camera, like a 20/20 special or something). but considering Tia and I moved everything in by ourselves- I was pretty impressed with how we did. I still have bruises- but the kind you are proud of- not the kind you get after falling out of your shoes after one too many beers.

So that was it. I was moved in and was officially a DC-ist. And the transition really wasnt as rough as I expected. I had already been working with the DC office for a few weeks so when I was officially there it didnt really feel like a dreaded "first day"- although I had a lot of work to catch up on. I really enjoy the people I work with- such strong DC personalities- although transitioning and trying to figure out exactly what they want as opposed to what NY wants is a little cumbersome. But I am getting there. I already have ten times the responsibilities I did in NY and I love it- I appreciate that they trust me so much already (although I am woman enough to admit that I am terrified of screwing up and almost went back to the office at least three times this weekend over silly things. the proving yourself stage is always the most difficult).

And surprisingly- although I felt like I would be alone almost all of the time- i am managaing to keep busy. My family is so close to me which I love and I have already seen them at least once a week since I've been here (in fact- immediately after I finish this post I will have to jump in the shower and metro myself out to White Flint to see my grandparents). I got to see my cousin before he moved to San Diego and my other two wonderful cousins are both here for the summer, before they continue on with their amazing lives in the fall. We had a cousin's night out last Friday which was a little rowdy followed by a perfect Father's day BBQ at my aunts on sunday, which wasnt rowdy but was delightful and made me realize that I am not really as far away from everything that feels comfortable as I thought.

In non family related activities, I have been keeping busy with friends- old friends from my Gtown days, close friends from Loyola and even a few from way-back-when. Its surprising how many people have ended up here (or at least stopped by on their way to ending up somewhere else).

DC is a lot more fun than I remember, although still a lot stuffier than I would prefer. I miss NYC- the rhythm of the city, the subway that really does go everywhere, the unique individuals who would be freaks and weirdos anywhere else, the good bar specials, cheap taxi rides, street festivals for no reason and the gyro guy on 17th and Broadway. Mostly I miss the feeling of knowing that I live in the best city in the world and feeling bad for all those suckers (read: me) who don't get to be a part of it.

But I am starting to appreciate DC- the fact that I have an apartment in a nice area that is big enough walk around in (with a COUCH and a tv and a walk in closet and a kitchen and air conditioning and an ELEVATOR- sweet jesus I love that elevator), how clean everything is, how smart and politically conscious everyone is, free museums, laying out by monument on a sunny day, the few good dive bars and the humidity that I am slightly embarassed to admit that I love (sorry, hair).

So basically- I am adjusting and for the most part, everything is going well. I promise to get back to writing more interesting things soon.

Its Official

Real post coming soon, when I am not spending the spare 5 seconds I have to myself after work every night getting ready to move 259 miles away. I'm exhausted.


But excited!

Prune Juice

I’ve been trying to think of a really quality blog post and thought I would have TONS of inspirational material, seeing as my life as of late has been absolutely INSANE. But, as it turns out, its been so insane that its hard to pick just one stupid little miniscule thing to blog about (aka- EmergenC) and instead all of the thoughts in my brain are trying to rush out at once and I am mentally constipated.

How’s that for an image to get you through the night?

So- friends, readers, lovers- this will not be my best blog post. I apologize. If you want to turn on “The Office” instead I’ll understand. We won’t be friends anymore (maybe still lovers) but I’ll understand nonetheless.

BUT- there is a cliffhanger at the end of the post!!! If that keeps you going!! Except its not a fun “whats going to happen on Grey’s Anatomy?” cliffhanger. It’s a “WTF IS GOING TO HAPPEN FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE!?!?!?!” cliffhanger. If my life were a TV show- it would be awesome. This would be the series finale. I would be driving in a car, soulful music would be playing, I would be staring at the road straight ahead- contemplative, beautiful, majestic.***

But first- some cutaways and plot lines that no one but me cares about.

I went to D.C. (uhhh…six weeks ago…). Stayed with Tia in her lovely apartment, got to see PIPPI (my ultimate lover), went out in Old Towne and met two interesting guys and had a marvelous time. The next night I went on a girls night out with my mom and aunt, which was so fun and made me feel weird and grown up- but in a good way. The next night was my grandparents 80th birthday celebration, which was quiet and small and fun. We ate reallllly good French food and had three desserts. My grandma bought me a casserole dish for my new place. It was the perfect DC/Maryland weekend.

The next weekend (five weeks ago- whoo! I am a bad blogger) I went to New Orleans. Which was also tons of fun. It was amazing to see everyone again and see the campus and the city. I still loved it and I still miss it every single day. Good trip- French Quarter fest, social and sunburns at the fly. Everything I wanted it to be.

Girls weekend last weekend for Melissas birthday, so Aimee, Mel and Shayna all stayed at my apt. We went to a male “dance show”. I got so drunk I somehow stumbled home by myself and the night between 9 pm- and 3:45 am pizza party remains a mystery. A good one though. I hope?

I have been loving my apartment and roommate. As for my roommate- shes awesome. We did brunch and baked cookies yesterday. For a small apartment, we still manage to give each other our space. The apartment is still great- no major problems, still in the best location in the city. On Saturday there was a random parade down A for no apparent reason. Its awesome.

Work has been busy. Really busy. I stay late probably one night a week, but I don’t mind as I have been given bigger and more interesting projects as of late.

Oh- did I mention I might be moving to D.C.? Like, soon?

I don’t really want to get into the messy details, but I was sort of offered a promotion within my company. But the job? Would be in our D.C. office. So if I take it, I would move there. Soon. Real soon.

This is the part where the constipation kicks in. Because I have so much to say about it. And so little comes out (haha ew). And well- I am going down there to meet with them on Wednesday. So- stay tuned?




***Look- I know its not AS exciting as Grey’s, but I hope as my friend you are happy that I don’t have brain cancer or didn’t get hit by a bus or pregnant or married.