Gab Fest

We schlep home when the bar staff has stacked all the chairs on top of the pub tables around us. Hint, hint.

I am not sure how we got home. No one knew exactly where we were in relation to our hotel and exactly no one was paying attention as we walked. Yakkety, yakkety, yakkety.  Oh, look!  Isn't that our hotel?

Someone remembers the room number. Someone else finds a key. Someone else leads the way to the elevator. Shoes are kicked off. Outfits are flung. PJs are put on (in some cases, backwards.) Soon we are all snoozing.

We wake to find that it is a glorious day. Sun shining in an azure sky with big, puffy, white happy-looking clouds.

A round of teeth brushing, a little moisturizer, athletic clothes for all, and we head for breakfast with little packets of Tylenol to wash down with our OJ. 

We rehash the evening's antics over eggs and coffee and fill in the fuzzy parts for each other. We also decide what to do first on this glorious morning.

We decide on a walk to the White House. Once we are on the Mall we can decide from there where to go and what to do.

What never needs a moment's planning however, is what in the world we will find to talk about.

We go from Du Pont Circle to the Lincoln Memorial (once we got our alcohol damaged collective sense of direction ironed out) and the WWII (where we take photos of my Diary State ladies by the Wisconsin plaque, natch) and the Jefferson Memorial, and then the FDR (where we stop for photos with Eleanor's hands and Franklin's beloved pup), walk by the Washington Monument (covered in scaffolding thanks to earthquake damage) the length of the Mall, up the Capitol steps, past the Newseum (where I offer a 10 minute dissertation on what a wonderful museum it is), say a prayer for my Dad at the Navy Memorial, scope out countless possible locations for tonight's festivities, chat about each of the Smithsonians that we pass, finally make it to the White House where we are alarmed by a variety of troubling political demonstrations, and all the while as we trek for 5 and a half hours, we look for pubs with outdoor seating in the sun so we can get the much craved hair o' the dog beer and still enjoy the beauty of the day.

We find one, and after ordering our first beer from Jose, realize that the bar is actually attached to the backside of our own hotel.  So close, yet so far away. 

We quickly realize that Jose is flying solo as the only waiter working in the early afternoon (it is only about 3 pm) and confined to the dining room where the blue hairs and the families with toddlers will surely be piling into booths soon. We go inside and order the second round, and Kate decides that the arrangement is not going to work. Leaving the table mid-gab is a total buzz kill and doesn't exactly get the beer served on time.

When Jose appears with our second round, Kate has a deal to offer him. If he gives us his cell phone number we'll phone in our orders. It's a win-win. He doesn't have to keep coming out to check on us, and we don't waste precious imbibing and gabbing time walking inside to find him. He thinks we are a bunch of kooks but probably notes that we are kooks with piles of cash and it is in his best interest to comply. I put his cell phone number in my phone and label it "Jose."

A beer later, we test the waters. "Hello, is Jose there?"  Bingo! Beers delivered without anyone having to tighten an ass muscle to get out of a chair.

It is Girls Weekend. The Girls are in control. All is right with the world.