I’d like to preface this post with a few shorts words. First of all, apologies for taking so long to get it up. The DC trip was almost a month ago, but between work and Mexico and boys, it has been quite a month. Secondly, my camera battery died the second day of my trip to DC so this blog is lacking somewhat in the illustration department (thank you Janine for the ones provided). It won’t happen again. I promise. Thirdly, this post is very long and I am pretty sure insufferably boring. That being said, the story needed to be told and my ability to do any serious editing at midnight on this Sunday night is escaping me. I am hoping to get back into posting regular and compelling posts. That being said, away we go.

The Sunday morning of any weekend you are out of town is depressing. While the drive up is filled with an excitement that can rise through your belly and stay stapled to your face for days, the drive back is long, late, and nothing awaits you at the other end but some good TV on HBO and whatever miserable job that requires your presence in the early hours of Monday morning. As the hours roll by each and every Sunday I fall into a state of despair, fighting to make the weekend last as long as it can. This usually results in me staying up drinking wine until one or two in the morning, making Monday morning that much worse, but at least I’m not letting them steal any more of my time. I don’t mind being hungover and unproductive on their watch. This Sunday morning was no different and Janine and I awakened early to get started drinking and complete the one mission we had failed to accomplish: the queue. Right now you are probably wondering what is this queue you speak of, and what exactly does the queue mission entail? Well, the queue is a concept that has been around a while, and one which Janine articulated quite well on urbandictionary.com. Click here to read the official definition (#2). Basically, as a single girl it is imperative that you have at least a few different boys lined up at all times, much like your Netflix queue. Maybe you keep one movie for a month and watch it over and over again, maybe you just want to indulge in a romantic comedy for a one night, maybe you’re only watching the movie for a few hours of entertainment even though you know you won’t like it, and maybe, as Janine says, some of the movies never even make it into your “mailbox.” Regardless, it is always a good idea to have several different potentials lined up for whatever mood may strike you. Our mission that weekend was to restock both of our queues, as they had been slowly dwindling. I did add Highway Jacob on my way up on Friday, and had been entertaining a drummer from Nashville for the last week or so, but you can never have too many, and Janine’s queue was looking dismal at best. Seeing as how Friday night we were too drunk to function, and Saturday Janine slept through our queue opportunity, Sunday was our last shot.

We left the house early heading into the already impenetrable heat and made the long, but pleasant walk to Red Rocks, our favorite bottomless mimosa brunch spot.

Mmm...breakfast pizza

Mmm...breakfast pizza


Coffee - a necessity

Coffee - a necessity

On four hours of sleep and barely recovered from the pool party, much less from the hours of rooftop hipster drinking, I, once again, struggled through the first few mimosas. I had felt strangely quiet all weekend, observing the world around me, somehow detached from everything. In this state, the conversation between us lulled and lifted in the easy rhythms of friendship and before we knew it we had finished brunch and were debating what we should do until it was time to go meet my mom at four and get on the long road back to Charlotte. The decision sat between going to see some photography exhibit or going to celebrate the fifth anniversary of Wonderland, one of Janine’s favorite local bars. As we were walking home we just so happened to pass by that very bar. You can guess what we chose to do.

We sat down in Wonderland and ordered two 007s, a special the bar was offering for its birthday celebration. It is basically a pint of Grey Goose Mandarin, and a splash of orange juice and soda. Absolutely delicious, and they were only five bucks a pop.

007 and J9's silly putty giraffe

007 and J9's silly putty giraffe


Silly Putty Sex

Silly Putty Sex


j9 and cockblockin' bobby

j9 and cockblockin' bobby


We sat at the bar drinking these delicious cocktails and playing with the silly putty Janine always carries around in her purse for such occasions. It makes a great icebreaker. We did meet a very cute music teacher named John (who somehow escaped before we got him into Janine’s queue) but got cockblocked by a lovely gay man whose name I think was Bobby, but honestly I have no idea. We flirted well, as Janine and I tend to do, but after our hours of denying the progression of the minute hand and knowing I would likely be making a seven hour drive drunk, I sadly had to go. Against Janine’s protests for me to stay another day, or just move into her sunroom, we made our way back into the hundred degree heat, away from the icy cold beverages, and towards Janine’s place. We chatted as we walked, recounting stories of the weekend, expressing regret at our failed queue mission, and complaining about the heat when we arrived at the corner of Newton and Otis. I stopped. Staring at the empty space where my car had been just the night before, words stuck in my throat like horse pills. “Janine? Where is my car?” Diligently checking the No Parking signs to be sure it hadn’t been towed we called the number just to be sure. Nothing. As I stood there confused and internally frenetic, Janine calmly suggested we go inside and call the police. I would not be going anywhere that Sunday afternoon.

About thirty minutes later a very young, very blonde, very clean cut police officer knocked on the door: Officer Brian. He rolled through the standard questions with a glint in his voice suggesting my drunk ass had simply forgotten where it was parked. Sure Janine and I were taking shots right in front of him, and sure we had just come from a bar, but that doesn’t make me an idiot! OK, well maybe I do idiotic things relatively frequently, OKOK, I do them all the time, but this was NOT one of them! As we went over the details, license plate, VIN number, Janine poured a round of shots of the Croatian rubbing alcohol known as šljivovica. Despite Janine’s numerous protests, Officer Brian declined politely and suggested we scan the neighborhood in his cruiser. The three of us got into his car and slowly made our way through the streets of Columbia Heights. After pointing out a heroin den that they hadn’t yet been able to bust and a few cars he expected had been stolen, we returned to Janine’s empty handed. Overwhelmed by the amount of shit that had been accumulating in my life, I called my mom, told her I would be unable to meet her and Janine and I headed back to the bar in the late afternoon. As cool as Officer Brian appeared to be, he refused to give us a lift. Lame.

Regaling the bartender and the few straggling patrons with tales of my lost car and our weekend, Janine and I settled in for a long day of consumption. I honestly wish I could provide you with more detail of the afternoon and evening following the thievery of my vehicle, however, for obvious reasons, I cannot. Though it would have been completely possible for me to catch a flight back to Charlotte that day and be back for work on Monday morning, I executively decided that getting my car stolen was as good a reason as any to miss work, and settled on flying out the next day. Or so I thought. As such, Janine and I got completely obliterated at Wonderland that night. We later discovered that her narcolepsy had led to her passing out on the bar and I was texting both Highway Jacob and Nashville Drummer simulataneously while the bar sprayed champagne sticky over the faces in the crowd in celebration of their fifth birthday. I am also relatively positive I was dancing like a maniac (the best kind of dancing). From what I remember, it was a great night.

Motorboating Janine's cross-dressing friend Brian on his last day of work

Motorboating Janine's cross-dressing friend Brian on his last day of work


At who knows what time Janine and I stumbled back to her place and passed out. At some unholy hour, Janine started to get ready for work. The reality of what had happened was sinking in like a sunburn and I groggily pulled myself from the bed. Iva had agreed to drive me out to BWI for the flight which I had yet to book and I was glad to get to see her one last time before her grand departure to the West Coast. I hopped on to Kayak.com, searched for one-way flights and was relieved to see it was only eighty-five bucks. Iva and I stopped to get a smoothie, and spoke of the way life changes as we sped down 95 North towards the airport. As we approached the departure zone the same feeling I had felt on Sunday, getting ready to make the seven hour drive back, began to seep into me slowly like booze, except in a bad way. I gave Iva a hug and headed into the terminal.

As I swiped my card into the ever-so-convenient kiosk nothing came up. I tried once more. Still nothing. Slightly frustrated I turned to the stern-looking blonde woman that looked as though she had been born a bigger cunt than the one she came out of, and asked for assistance. She obnoxiously typed (yes, you can type obnoxiously and you know what I am talking about) into her terminal and still nothing came up. I pulled the confirmation number from my blackberry and with an annoyed, smug, and tight little smile on her face told me that my ticket had been booked for two weeks from today. “What? Fuck. Seriously? Is there anything you can do?” I pleaded. “I am so so so sorry, my car was stolen and I am supposed to be at work and I bought the ticket as I ran out the door on my way here, please, is there any way you can help me? Any other flight today you can put me on?” The woman looked at me disapprovingly and informed me that the 1:55 PM flight today (the one I believed for which I had purchased a ticket) had only first class seats available. I did not even bother asking the price. She proceeded to inform me that the next flight would be about $600 and tomorrow about $350. Fuck me. Like I have $350. My fucking car just got stolen, and it’s not like I had full coverage on that bitch, I mean it was g-o-n-e gone. When I asked the woman at the counter one more time if there was any way she could squeeze me onto a flight today and waive the charge she replied cooler than a knife and without an apology, “No.” Amtrak it is.

Laughing to stop from crying I called Iva and asked her to come back to BWI to pick me up. I shook my head in disbelief at my own absurd stupidity, slumped down onto my suitcase, and smoked a much-needed cigarette. It was Monday afternoon at about noon and already having missed one day of work only two weeks after missing two due to the debacle that was my Chicago trip, I needed to get back immediately. I called Amtrak and frustratingly navigated my way through the familiar sterility of their voice command program. From my frequent travels to DC I already knew there were only two trains out to Charlotte each day, the last one leaving around seven. What do you know? It was sold out. Of COURSE it was fucking sold out. The train actually having one seat that I might get back to Charlotte and manage somehow to not lose my job would be much too easy. Well, it is what it is. I reluctantly emailed my boss explaining what a fucking idiot I am, and found a bit of joy in the fact that I got to spend one more day with my closest friends. If I was going to be stuck in a city missing work, this was a damn fine place in which to do it.

Two of the guys who had thrown the party the night before, Jesse and Cole, were in a band called Exactly. Having never heard their music before, they invited Iva and Barbara out to dinner that night with the idea that if they listened to their album for the first time on a full stomach, it was less likely they would be disappointed. Keep in mind that this is a band that wears tighty whities and covers themselves in fake blood at their shows. Or so I have heard. Based on that we weren’t quite sure what to expect. Trapped in DC for one more night I was lucky enough to be included in this little experiment. We headed into the city and met the boys at their house in Columbia Heights, smoking a cigarette on the front stoop in the night air, thick and mosquito-filled as a Louisiana swamp. After a few minutes the five of us piled into Jesse’s car and headed downtown for a delicious dinner at Marvin’s, known for its famous fried chicken and waffles. Covered in syrup and served with a side of collard greens, I savored every bite of the unexpectedly complimentary dish. After the delectable dinner, for which the boys chivalrously paid, we headed back to their house and prepared to listen to the now much-hyped band. They played two songs. The first, a studio cut, sounded a lot like the synth pop band Phoenix, and the second, completely different, very raw, somewhat dark, but also intriguing. I am not exactly I have words to describe nor a similar band to which to compare that second track, but I will say that their plan worked. On a few beers and a full stomach the positive reviews were unanimous.

On the Rooftop

On the Rooftop


We headed up to the same rooftop from the night before with the two very cute boys, drank their famous city punch, and rambled happily through conversation until dawn began its first roll and stretch against the midnight sky. Around four-thirty in the morning I said goodbye to my new friends, bid a final farewell to my dear ones and headed back to Janine’s to sleep before my third attempt at getting home. The following morning, after two frazzled hours in Union Station and ten interminable hours on the crowded train slicing its way through the Virginian and Carolinian countryside, I finally made it home. Ridiculous.

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