hey pretty

I Am The Best Cook In the Whole Wide World

My roommates often mock my culinary creations. According to them, my twice-weekly preparations of whole grains, beans, and veggies with some sort of sauce look like piles of inedible mush. I can't say I disagree. The food I cook to sustain myself almost always falls into the category of "healthy" and "low in fat" but isn't the prettiest stuff to look at. Because I don't need it to be. I'm not preparing it as part of a state dinner. I'm making it to fill my stomach and give me energy. It tastes okay, so appearance isn't a real concern.

It's not that I don't know how to make elegant meals that are as pleasing to the eye as they are to the palate.

I grew up in the kitchen. Both of my parents are wonderful cooks and dedicated foodies and I inherited from them a strong appreciation for fine dining as well as a knack for creating the occasional culinary masterpiece. When I feel like it. Most evenings I'm convinced that I'm too tired or drained or whatever from my day to spend any time in the kitchen.

Last night 47 came over for our last evening together for the next week. He has childcare duty so I won't be seeing him for a few days. In light of that, I wanted to do something special. So I cooked dinner. Note that I didn't demand that he take me out. I willingly offered to make him a fantastic meal. It had been a while since I attempted anything fancy. In fact, I think my last outstanding culinary endeavor took place in July when I made him grilled tuna and veggies.

Since it was Monday and I had endured a very stereotypically trying day at the office, I opted for pasta. But not just any old pasta. Linguini with onion confit, basil, toasted walnuts and gorgonzola cheese. It took about an hour to prepare start to finish. Onions take a while to confit, and there was some adding of wine to a pan and some deglazing action, as well as chopping lots of herbs and other flavors. And I hate chopping things, I really do.

A half-an-hour into the process, our kitchen filled with the scent of caramelizing onions and garlic. My roommates stopped in one-by-one, sniffing the air inquisitively and peering into my various pans. The end product? Pure pasta bliss. 47 remarked several times that the dish was completely delicious, and he wasn't "just saying that." It really was amazing. Good enough to become a signature dish, if a signature dish can be lifted from a cookbook, which this was. Moreover, the cooking process was pretty enjoyable, despite all the chopping. The glass of white wine I had while I cooked certainly helped of course, but the cooking itself was strangely calming. Not nearly as stressful as others before it. The eating part was good too, but the best of all was the satisfaction that came from creating something spectacular and the joy it gave another person to consume it.

It would have been even better had I had a quiet apartment to eat it in, without the conversations of four other people to be forced to overhear as I attempted conversation with 47, but that's an entirely different issue. Said 47: Aren't you getting to the age where you should be living alone? Gawd, don't remind me. I can haz new job pleeaze? Such as?

The Princess and the Pea

This morning my shoulders ache and my neck is stiff, I can't get comfortable in my desk chair, and there's a small lumpy knot under my left shoulder blade. I am cranky and spacey, I feel like I slept for 5 minutes last night. I've been dedicating myself to regular yoga classes and three mile walks several times a week all in an effort to postpone the inevitable.

I need to buy a new mattress.

How long my mattress has been contributing to my chronic back maladies is unknown. But I do know that since sleeping in 47's expensive posture correcting mattress off-and-on since July, my own bed now seems woefully inadequate. This morning it's even become a source of relationship tension between him and I as he insists that I invest in a new mattress *now* and I am resisting because I hate the idea of spending money on something so expensive, and I don't feel comfortable taking him up on his offer to chip in for part of it.

Why I'd be happy to accept jewelry or expensive dinners from him and not furniture is a that paradox I too am dwelling over. Furniture seems so large, official, long-term. I am not afraid of commitment by any means, especially not commitment to him. But I am unused to having a boyfriend, especially one who buys me anything more lavish than a burrito at Chipotle. I know it's unfair that the string of losers, commitment-phobes and chronically underemployed 20-somethings I have dated in past should create a chink in the current state of affairs. It just seems wrong for a man to buy a woman he's only been dating for 2 months a fraction of a piece of furniture. While I happily accept his cast-off stereo equipment, look forward to whatever artwork he's thinking about digging out of storage to give me for the walls of my sitting room, and delighted when I learned he spent his Saturday night bidding on vintage costume jewelry for me on EBay, I cannot accept his offer to pay for part of a new mattress.

But on the other hand, I don't really want to spend money on a new mattress.

I get by okay on my current salary, but what I have left over after the essentials and then the frivolities I have grown accustomed to such as beers with the gals every now and then, I want to be able to spend on things that are truly beautiful that will bring me great joy for years to come. I have become very careful with my money over the past several months. Rather than buying loads of things I don't really need that fade and fall apart after a year's use or wear, I am squirreling my paltry excess funds away. I am saving for beautiful furniture for my hypothetical next apartment, well-made stylish clothing, or even a much needed vacation. And while I am aware of the fact that sleeping well is probably the best luxury of all, I cannot get over the mental block I have over dipping into said savings to buy something as utilitarian as a damn mattress.

Meanwhile, my sub par sleep has made me a bit emotional, and I am feeling extremely frustrated with the whole affair. Debating the notion of a new mattress while sleep deprived is both deliciously ironic and slightly sad at the same time. I'm sure I sound completely crazy to boot.

In the comments section tell me what sort of gifts you draw the line at, if you think I'm nuts to turn down his offer, where to find the most comfortable mattress for less, or what the best gift you ever received from a significant other was (engagement rings not withstanding).

From the Department of Sticks and Stones

47's ex is on to us. Her reaction? That he is dating a "slut."

My reaction? "That bitch."

In the grand tradition of having thought of the thing I should have said several days too late, this reaction was later amended to "Well, it takes one to know one."

To borrow a tired line from the noted philosopher Carrie Bradshaw, I couldn't help but wonder....

What I got to wondering was why women always jump right to the jugular when emotionally provoked and choose to insult one another by launching critiques of one another's sexualities.

Why not point out my notorious mercurialness, or the fact that I often neglect my manicures and walk around for days with chipped dark purple nail polish, that I have bad taste in shoes or that at times I like my cigarettes and whiskey a little too much? Why not criticize the fact that I'm difficult to get to know, that I am often suspicious of strangers, that I'm lazy and that I dwell too frequently on my problems without actually taking action to fix them?

No, instead she chose to wax poetic on my perceived number of sexual partners.

Sluttiness is a construct long held in the eye of the beholder. It's been pointed out ad naseum that men are praised for their conquests whereas women are put down for theirs. That society often sends a subliminal message to men telling them to go out and get some, but that women, while being expected to be hairless in all the right places, sweet smelling and sexy at all times, can not acceptably revel in their ability to snag multiple hookup parters. That we should look like we can get some whenever we want, but that actually doing so is socially unacceptable. Even when we're safe about the whole thing, we're still discouraged from acting on our sexual impulses. And that wracking up the notches is the worst thing we can possibly do for our reputations. That somehow, its acceptable to use our pasts as weapons against us in the present.

I really didn't know what to tell him, and since she's lost credibility in his mind it didn't really matter anyway. Her opinion wasn't going to detract from his interest in me. I rolled my eyes and shrugged. "I can't help it can I, if I'm pretty and smart and boys want to kiss me, now can I?"

The Best Thing I've Written At Work In Weeks Was Entirely UnBillable

I am a writer. That is, apart from blogging, I am paid by a company to write. Mostly in the form of promotional messages, but sometimes as boringly analytical market research documents. I've been feeling entirely irritated with my job recently because even the promotional messages have been seeming tired and redundant. The same core messages churned out over and over again. It's difficult to make the same topic sound sexy over and over again.

So when it occurred to me that the candy dish outside of my boss's office hadn't been refilled in several months I decided to take action. My good deed of the day was to pick up a bag of candy at the 7-11 when I was there buying butts and a Diet Red Bull. I don't even like candy. It was mainly a good will gesture to my fellow residents of cube land to apologize for being such a grump these past few weeks (I've had plenty of reason to be surly and anxious, but they don't know that, and for now that must remain my little secret).

In light of the candy jar being refilled I decided to pen a little message letting them know what was up. The following is what I sent them.

The newer dwellers among you of the 5th Floor West Wing may be unaware of this tradition, but to those of us who have been around a while, the dulcet tones of the candy mug being refilled with sugary treats are a sweet and fond memory of a bygone era. Until now. I am happy to report that the mug, which has sat empty for quite some time, has just been restored to its former glory. 5th Floor West Wingers can now get their sugar on, starting...NOW!

May it serve as an inspiration for all of you as you count down the hours to the weekend, and churn out those last bits of brilliance.

Your destiny awaits.

If only I always had inspiration to write this well all the time. I wonder what sort of job would entail getting to write this edgily and sexily.

Plenty of Brotherly Love To Go Around

Oh man, do I love Philadelphia. Prior to this weekend, I would have ranked Philly somewhere around Baltimore in terms of cities I liked. That is, just fine, but perhaps a too gritty and industrial for me to honestly and fully adore. But that perception of course, was due more to ignorance than anything else. I was simply unaware of all the city had to offer. Here's a brief blow-by-blow of our weekend.

We left DC around noon on Saturday, thinking we'd get into Philly at 2:30 at the very latest and have plenty of time to check in to our hotel and explore the city. What we didn't anticipate was the traffic we'd encounter at 95 and the fact that we'd sit in a near-standstill cluster-f*ck for 3 hours due to the fact that they had reduced a small section of the highway down to one lane. Not that sitting in traffic with 47 was so terrible. We had plenty to talk about in terms of stories from our pasts to amuse one another with. Problem is, we hadn't thought to pack any snacks and hadn't eaten much by way of breakfast due to the huge cheese stakes we thought we'd be eating around 4:00 pm. As our stomachs rumbled and my blood sugar started to crash, we quickly brainstormed eating options.

My companion decided that the best possible reward for sitting in traffic for 3 hours would be an upscale avant guard meal of Japanese food, so 47 suggested that I call Morimoto to scope out the reservation scene. After obtaining the number of the restaurant from information I was presented with two choices: reservation at the sushi bar at 5:30 or reservation at the sushi bar at 10:30. We opted for the former and crossed our fingers that we'd get there on time. In spite of missing our exit, we managed to get to Morimoto at exactly 5:35.

Walking into Morimoto is like finding yourself on another planet. I can't be certain what the intended decorating scheme of the establishment was, but to me it looked like the inside of a gigantic sea shell with lots of white decorative details and natural wood. The sushi bar was made from apple green colored glass and provided an excellent view of the chef's station. This was especially enjoyable for 47, as he's chatty by nature and really likes to talk to sushi chefs. Since he's more of an expert on the foods of exotic cultures I let him take care of the ordering. In his typical go-big-or-go-home fashion, he decided we should go for the multi-course tasting menu wherein they brought us out course-upon-course of the most interesting, innovative and mind-bending foods I'd seen in quite a long time. The wait staff was consistently friendly and helpful, and they even printed out directions for us to various cheese steak places should we have a hankering for a snack later in the night. So friendly and outgoing were they that I thought I had been mistakenly identified as a celebrity. As wonderful as the service, food and decor were, the best aspect of the situation was the quality of adventure that it took on. To think that an hour before we had been stuck in traffic and growing crankier by the minute, whereas as we were then dining on Fatty Toro and Kobe beef made me feel like the luckiest woman in the world. On occasion, 47 would lightly rub my back as we ate, lulling me into a deeply satisfying feeling of calm and protectedness. The meal was rounded out by two flutes of complimentary champagne garnished with balls of melon sorbet that melted into the liquid, giving it the smoothness of a fizzy, alcoholic smoothie.

After finding our hotel, located in the Rittenhouse square area, we took a walk around the neighborhood in search of a pub where we could observe local night life and knock back a couple of beverages. Upon finding the square itself we weren't sure how to proceed. It looked somewhat dark and we didn't know if it would be safe to explore. Was Rittenhouse square a popular after-dark hangout, or would entering into it constitute a rookie error of disastrous proportions? Feeling brave, and noting that the group ahead of us entering the square was pushing a baby carriage, we decided we'd be fine. Walking through it, we were impressed with its beauty and the diversity of folks hanging out enjoying the crisp evening air. We wished DC had something similar, as the National Mall isn't nearly as green or pretty. As beautiful as the square was, we quickly identified one small issue with the area--very few fun bars.

Feeling limited in options, we settled for a Irish-looking pub that although loud, had two available seats at the bar. While at first we were unimpressed, the establishment grew on us after a couple of drinks. We each made friends outside during our various cigarette runs, and although our fellow patrons bumped into us as if oblivious to the concept of personal space, we were generally pleased with the company we found there. In general, I liked the Northerness of the people we met at the pub. I also appreciated the fact that most of the women there had taken a laid-back approach to their dress and I didn't feel like a schlump because I wasn't wearing stilettos or a trendy outfit. I also noticed that the men I encountered were extremely friendly and not nearly as egotistical or standoffish as those that I sometimes come across in DC. In all, it was a good scene.

As midnight rolled around 47 became increasingly obsessed with the concept of a cheese steak late-night-snack. Although not particularly hungry, I agreed to play along. Per the suggestions of multiple people we decided on Pats, which was located far enough away that we required a cab to take us there. Arriving at Pat's we found what looked like a prohibitively long line, but after standing there for 5 minutes we noted it was moving very quickly and that at least a hundred people had formed in line behind us in the meantime. We made friends with some locals standing behind us, and they were quite helpful in telling us what to order and even what lingo to use when doing so. I ordered a cheese steak without(onions) with provolone cheese. For the sake of authenticity, 47 decided to go for a cheese steak with (onions) with Cheez Whiz. We wolfed them down within a matter of minutes, and 47 began to debate the merits of having another. With a stomach unaccustomed to large volumes of heavy meat and grease, all I really wanted to do was go back to the hotel and lie down. Luckily, the line was long and we were cold, so my companion agreed to go forgo a second sandwich in favor of a drink at the hotel bar.

Did you know that hotel bars don't care if you order a drink and take it back up to your room? At least that's what 47 claimed, and nobody tried to stop us when we did so. After finishing off a snifter of Cognac and playing with the controls on our Sleep Number bed for a while (really fun, although the inflate mechanism on that thing was loud!) we drifted off to sleep.

I had to be back in DC by 3:00 pm for new roommate stuff so the rest of our time in Philly was limited. We had brunch at a Dim Sum place in Chinatown where we ordered enough food to feed a million starving Ethiopian babies. Between that and the cheese steak still lingering in my stomach from the night before, I could barley walk by the time we left. We hopped into 47's Land Cruiser and navigated our way back to DC. I arrived back in DC 45 minute late for the second round of new roommate interviews, but found my roommates expertly holding down the fort, and waiting with a spread of wine and beer to soothe my travel-worn nerves.

It's been said that traveling is a great litmus test for the strength of any relationship. Although we hit a couple snags in our plans, the overall mood of the trip was that of adventure, romance and the thrill of the unknown. Much like our relationship as it actually is. By in large, I felt enormously lucky and well cared for every moment of our journey. Just simply blessed. By the individual I was with, the experiences that crossed my path and the reminder that enriching experiences are always waiting to be discovered if you're willing to look for and open yourself up to them.

Open House, Or Excuse Me While I Go Pour Myself Another Shot

Yup, indeed it be that time again. Mr. Third Floor is moving to Brooklyn to shack up in sin with the girlfriend and so we must once again turn our attention to the little matter of finding his replacement. I have lost count of the number of open houses I have endured over the past three years. Oh wait...it's...hold on...six...no, five....Yeah, this is my fifth. Wow. Hopefully the next one will be for me moving out (more on this later). Usually when we have open houses we clean for three days straight, everyone worries about how stuff looks and we hope like hell to impress the potential roommates. Only this time? Nobody really seems to care. Mr. Third Floor can't even be bothered to come home from his family's house in New Jersey to clean stuff, we haven't mopped the kitchen floor and half of us can't even remember what time the event starts.

Which I suppose is alright and even makes a certain amount of sense if you think about it. Why should we bother selling the house as some oasis of cleanliness and neatness when it's never really like that? Don't get me wrong, we don't live in a sty or anything, but this house is old and it's been a group house for a million years and there gets to be a point when cleaning grows futile because some things simply don't get any cleaner that they currently are. At least this way, potential roommates will see the space as it actually is, rather than how it is when we're trying to impress strangers.

I did make the effort of corralling my makeup products into one space rather than spreading them all over the bathroom as they normally are (I rationalize this by telling Mr. Third Floor's female pals that they are welcome to use whatever they'd like to freshen up. My Nars is their Nars, after all). I even scrubbed the tub a little and cleaned the floor. And I made sure to take down the hand washed laundry that I had drying over the curtain rod. As part of our effort to make the house look as it does on regular basis, I think it would be especially good if I were to leave some of my nice frilly lingerie hanging up there as well, but that might not go over so well. Would it scare them away to see pink and black lace thongs everywhere or would they want to live across the hall from me even more? I could also walk around in my bathrobe as I do quite often and mutter stuff about hating my job while I pour myself a glass of wine. But perhaps that advertising is a bit *too* truthful. Anyway. I'm not particularly worried. It's an open house for a room in a nice neighborhood near a metro with cool roommates that rents for under 600 a month. The damn thing sells itself.

But back to the prospect of *me* moving out. When I first moved in there was this really bossy set-in-her-ways hippie chick in the house who had been there for a million years and who I didn't get along with at all. I mean, sometimes we were fine, but I hated the way she bossed people around and was completely inflexible when it came to compromise so sometimes I'd argue with her just to prove a point. She eventually moved out when she realized one day that she was in her early thirties and still living with four other people. Sometimes I fear becoming her. I know I have a ways to go in the inflexibility department. But I can be set in my ways when it comes to how stuff should get done. But I'm working on that. Whenever I realize that something is a rule simply because it's "always been that way" I realize I'm the only person who cares and I'm perfectly capable of tossing it out the window. She could never do that.

So recently I've been fantasizing about what my own apartment would look like. Since I have come to the conclusion that my own apartment would look like a one bedroom, I am even more convinced that I can't afford one just yet. According to recent calculations, I could probably swing a studio but anything over 1000 a month is going to be a huge lifestyle adjustment. And my work is really stingy about salary and raises so I can't expect to be making big bucks any time soon (unless one of you wants to buy some of my turtle pictures). So a one bedroom seems unfeasible at the present time, especially because I REFUSE to live in the suburbs. Sorry, they're not for me.

Perhaps it's because I am a design nerd and actually like to do things like redecorate and move furniture around for fun, but thinking about my dream apartment has become something of a hobby. I like to scan furniture catalogs and hypothize about which West Elm coffee table I would get for my second-hand overstuffed velvet sofas and ottomans. And I like to ponder color choices for the walls, especially now that green has become such a ubiquitous color and is therefore no longer a desirable option for me. These days I'm leaning towards white with a little yellow in it. It's a color that I like to call "bisque" even if it's probably more commonly known as something else. But there is a lovely mossy green in one page of the current anthropologie catalog that I am swooning over pretty heavily these days. That's the thing about Anthro. I think the majority of their clothes are flimsy and overpriced but the catalog is a great source of design cues.

I was all about to wrap this entry up due to the fact that I just re-read it was like, WTF? Why would anyone care about any of this? But instead I think I'll just keep going. Feel free to skip to the end if you get bored. I don't care and it's not like I'll know if you do.

I read this morning on Jezebel that a Ramona Quimby book is going to be made into a movie. Folks were bemoaning the glamorization of beloved childhood memories, and I do sympathize. But on the other hand, if the promotional campaign for the movie made it clear that it was an adaptation from a book and tied it all in with a campaign to promote child literacy, it could be really valuable and cutting edge. Not that they'd think to do that, but I certainly believe it's worth investigating. As long as Dakota Fanning isn't cast, I'll be happy. I think La Fanning is a bit too old to be Ramona anyway.

***
I was going to post this earlier but got sidetracked so I'll add more. I was investigating the Master's in Library Science program at Catholic earlier and it turns out that they don't require a GRE. Yet another sign that I should think about this more seriously. Also, browsing through the course catalog I didn't see a single class I wouldn't take. 

And finally, let's all give a big ups to my friend M who have birth to a 7 pound 3 ounce baby girl last week! I'm not normally one for babies, but I've known M since college back when we used to roll to hippie parties together. Congrats, M. I'm super proud.

In the comments section tell me who you think should play Ramona Quimby, what a great librarian I would make, what you'd name your baby girl if you had one, or what your secret nerdy hobby is.

Cheese Steak, Cream Cheese and the Liberty Bell

It doth be official. 47 is rescuing me from the ennui that is life in DC and taking me away for a weekend in Philadelphia, or Filthidelphia as he has taken to calling it, even though he's never been there. To be honest, I haven't gone in quite some time. Growing up, my best friends from summer camp lived in the suburbs of Philly and I'd go and visit them a few times a year, but my experience of the area at that point was limited mainly to cozy homes in upscale suburbs, not happening urban locales. In college I stayed with a friend near South Street, which I remember to be something like Haight Street meets Adams Morgan. Growing up, I of course new that the Fresh Prince hailed from West Philadelphia, but that seems somewhat moot at this point. And there was that one time I took a train to Philly on a whim to visit a boy I had met online for an impromptu date, but that ended up taking place in the remote suburbs.

All of this rambling is to say: what should I do in Philly this weekend, kids? Where are the cool neighborhoods? Where is the good shopping? Where can 47 buy me a fabulously expensive dinner? Where can I go to meet Sweet Dee, Dennis, Mac and Charlie? Is the museum worth hitting up? Where can I find the best cheese steak? Gimme the goods, kids. In return I'll snap some shots of the City of Brotherly Love for you to ooh and ahh over.

Photos By HP

The other day at the blogger happy hour Arjewtino asked me why I decided to switch to Typepad as my new publishing platform and not say, Wordpress like everyone else. I can't remember what I said. Something about liking the formatting of Typepad. Such as. 

Now I have a better answer. The photo albums. Typepad has a delightful function where it organizes your photos for you and displays them in neat little albums. Maybe Wordpress has this too, but I've only played around with Typepads's version and I find it very easy to use and configure. Much more so than Flickr, which seems to hate either my photos or me because it will never let me upload anything, which really sucks when trying to do things like enter artwork into things like the DCist photo show.

Anyway. If you let your eyes wander to the left hand side of the screen, you will find a handy link my new Photo Albums. Consider it the cousin of Hey Pretty's oft neglected sister site, Red Photography. My best work isn't up there, but I hope for it to be soon. In the meantime, hang back and entertain yourself with pictures of the pandas and fishies.

What If Watching Football Was What It Took To Conceive?

Having found myself recently in my first monogamous relationship in quite some time, I am oddly obsessed with contraception and conceiving. As a woman of childbearing years who has no interest in having kids anytime soon, but who regularly engages in the very activity invented to give you children, it's an important subject to me these days. For many people, getting knocked up is pretty easy. Not all women choose to go on hormonal birth control for various reasons (like it makes us fat and crazy) and barrier methods aren't 100% reliable. Sponges and diaphragms slide out of place, condoms break and slip off. Because I am in no way interested in having children now, or perhaps ever, I am really beginning to resent the fact that sex is what makes you pregnant. And don't even get me started on the issue of pregnancy scares...

I really consider it a cruel trick on the part of Mother Nature that sex was designed to be so much fun that it would encourage us to propagate our respective species. Couldn't nature have found something I was less interested in to serve as the process through which living things reproduce? As I see it, there are plenty of activities out there that I have zero or little interest in participating in, many of which would be fine processes to designate as "the thing that gets you pregnant."

1.) Watching sports. I have little desire to do this most of the time and would be perfectly happy if I never had to watch a sporting event again in the future. In fact, if I had the built in excuse that I didn't want to because I wasn't ready to be a mom, that would be even better.

2.) Eating brussel sprouts. Thanks but no thanks, I simply don't care for these suckers. If later in life, I decided I did want kids, I could probably stomach a few brussel sprouts, but in general I could avoid them on a daily basis and be good to go.

3.) Going to church. This is something I never do nor do I have any desire to do. But since religious folks are so oddly obsesses with premarital sex, I think it would be hilarious if attended services was actually the thing that knocked you up. I mean, hey, what *would* Jesus do?

In the comments section tell me what activity you would most like to substitute for sex as the thing that gets you pregnant.

On The Town, HP Style

Common logic dictates that when hitting the town, it's customary to bring along a posse of friends for company. But when you have several unrelated social events in one night, sometimes it's nice to hit them all up solo. It saves you the headache of having to chorale people when skipping from one event to another, or babysitting anyone who may not be familiar with the social context you're introducing them to.

Friday was one such night in the life of HP. I had planned to go home from work, shower, primp and hit up the blogger happy hour. But at 4:30 a coworker stopped by my desk informing me that it was a colleague's last day and that we'd be hitting the Quarry House for an impromptu goodbye happy hour. I wasn't even aware that she was leaving, yet I have always liked her and would have felt sad to miss a celebration in her honor. For various reasons too involved to get into, I've been distancing myself from the social scene at work these days. But returning to the fray I felt instantly popular. People wanted to catch up and wondered why I hadn't been around as often recently. Being missed by people you didn't even think would notice your absence is a lovely sort of thing, and it set the tone for the rest of the weekend.

To be honest, I've been feeling all sorts of lonely recently. Although I have plenty of friends and a lovely boyfriend, I rather miss the experience of having a close group of friends who are reliably around for impromptu socializing. These days, activities are more scattered and I often feel like I plan the majority of them. It's gotten me down and as a result I've been withdrawing quite a bit. I guess it's slightly counter-intuitive to become less social when you're lonely but that's how I roll. I guess it's better than being around people and complaining that you're lacking for compelling company.

Also complicating the mix is that 47's ex is back in town and now childcare arrangements are a enormous aspect of our relationship dynamic. I can't simply hop over to his house for dinner last minute like I used to. He can't just pick up and take me out for a night on the town whenever it suits our fancy. And sometimes when he wants to, I already have other plans, which then makes us both a little sad. I dislike the idea of planning my time around somebody else's schedule, especially when it's in the context of dating somebody going through a divorce. But in this extraordinary circumstance all rules are being thrown out the window and I must learn to adapt.

But back to Friday. After the work thing I metroed into the city and discovered that I didn't really feel like dealing with going home to primp and that I'd have to hit the happy hour as I was. I can't remember what I was wearing but I think it was slightly presentable. The minute I walked into the Mad Hatter I knew that my decision to attend the happy hour was a good one. I was greeted by the smiles of two of our hostesses, and minutes later was even reprimanded by another for not saying hello to him immediately. I passed a couple of hours knocking back alternating diet cokes and Miller Lights (I'm such a lightweight, I know), smoking outside, and making pleasant conversation with my fellow DC Bloggers. When around 11 the crowd became too much for me to bear (crowds and HP don't get along with one another) I cabbed it to Adams Morgan to hit a kickball midseason after party. This is my first time not playing in several years. I quit for a variety of reasons, the chief ones being that I was tired of having my Sunday's monopolized by a child's game and the second being that I had a rotten time my last season. Every game I showed up at I was ignored by my fellow teammates and made to feel totally unwanted. Not a particularly enjoyable social environment. I erased it from my schedule and haven't looked back.

But knowing that they're be a few people out who I hadn't seen in a while, I thought it might be nice to see some of the friendlier kickballers and in this respect I was not at all disappointed. Upon entering the bar a long-lost friend picked me up, spun me around and made sure our mutual acquaintances knew I was there. I knocked back a beer and caught up before once again growing overwhelmed with the crowd and the noise. It was time to go home.

Only apparently it wasn't. Walking past Adams Mill, I heard somebody shouting my name. I looked up from scanning the controls on my iPod to find a woman from work waving me over. She was seated next to a boy she met at a party at my house back in July and the sight of them together made me grin. They were still hanging out. I chatted with them for a while, and she told me about a party down the street where I might be able to find an old coworker visiting from LA. I decided to go check it out. Sadly, I was unable to find her and after smoking a cigarette outside her old apartment and waiting for her to call me back I noted that it was past midnight and I was getting to the point of being too tired and drunk to escort myself home safely. I hadn't had a ton to drink, but I had been at it since 5:00 pm without any sustenance.

I packed it in and called it a night.

I don't tell you all this to brag about my fascinating evening. It's not like I was partying with ambassadors or anything. What I found remarkable about the experience was that I enjoyed all of it on my own terms. I didn't succumb to knocking back an obscene amount of hard liquor in the form of ill advised shots. I interacted with nice people and left each occasion when I wanted to, meaning that at no point did I grow grumpy, annoyed or become a downer to be around. Going out alone and hitting several disparate events was a good call on my part.

The rest of the weekend consisted of errands (scored a pair of Gucci mules for 55 dollars); finally meeting up with the friend I missed on Friday; a party at a coworkers house; watching movies; knitting and countless telephone conversations with 47.

All in all, a not-bad time.