Over the course of the day, as we traipsed hither and yon all over our Nation's Capitol, we realized we had come to DC on a very favorable weekend. Not only was the weather absolutely picture perfect, it was also White House Correspondents' Dinner weekend. All of DC was overrun with shiny black limos and Escalades, all manner of press, Hollywood glitterati, and not-so-Secret Service. Hotels and restaurants were poised for everything and anything (except maybe Jose who seemed a little reluctant when we first made our outrageous suggestion, however successful the arrangement). Service was its smiley, shiny, accommodating best.
After umpteen beers and a mystery bruschetta flatbread pizza, the gals and I walked (some more) around Du Pont Circle to the front of our hotel to begin the ritualistic primping routine.
This is always a favorite part of any Girls Weekend. All the clothes and shoes and jewelry and makeup and hair products come out to play. We share, we compare, we try on outfits for approval. We even try to find ensembles that make us look like we belong together.
No, that isn't to say we try to match. That would just be creepy and weird and Brady Bunch. No, we dress as though we have planned for the same occasion. So instead of me being, for instance, in jeans and a tank top, and Kate being in a skirt and cardi, and Priscilla wearing a ball gown, we dress to the same level of dressiness. Weird as it sounds, we all want to be similarly over dressed, under dressed or perfectly turned out for any establishment or party we go to. It takes some coordinating, and sometimes trading, or tweaking, or even overhauling.
The music is on, the hair driers are blowing, makeup is passing from hand to hand, perfumes and hair products are being admired. All on a good beer buzz.
And when we have decided we have reached the pinnacle of perfection, we head to the first establishment we've decided upon.
In this case, since it is early, we decide to maintain our buzz in the much-touted complimentary happy hour in the hotel fountain lobby.
It is where we get our people watching engines fired up and humming. The attire. The manners. The misguided plastic surgery. The poorly thought out tattoos.The conversational missteps. It is just hilarious.
And when we've tired of the budget Chardonnay and the powder mix margarita punch (whatever that is) we reapply our lipstick and head out to hail a cab. The evening has started. We've got our Girl on.
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