The Scarlett Letters - Nights Out

Just Walked Away

scarlett@thescarlettletters.com (Scarlett) — Tue, 10 Aug 2010 09:47:00 -0500

I was prepared for the encounter on Friday.

I met w/ my therapist to discuss strategies to avoid an inadvertent slip and fall down the crazy staircase. I had my makeup professionally applied at MAC for some intense smokey eye/glowy skin action. I gathered a posse and I DO mean a posse of fabulously beautiful women that I knew I can count on for ANYTHING, to accompany me and serve as emotional linebackers. Donned a casual yet uber sexy dress, borrowed from Goldie giving me curves worthy of a Christina Hendricks Esquire photo shoot.

I compiled a survival kit of prescription strength uppers, a bottle of Prosecco, and pout enhancing lip gloss in my purple patent leather clutch, and away I went: ready to face the monster in my closet and prove its non existence. Assuage fears and see the ex for the first time since he left me with a tear stained face, shivering in the middle of a Philadelphia train station platform over two years ago.

And he didn’t show. The fucker didn’t even have the decency to show up long enough for me to torture him with aloofness coated in sexy and casual indifference dripping fabulousness.

Perhaps he simply was too much of a coward to face me. Perhaps he simply found a more enticing offer for the evening.

Ironically though, while I was worried about this man walking back into my reality and giving myself a near ulcer over what this unsuccessful, unmotivated Peter Pan might think of my outfit, my waste line, my boobs, my hair, my smile, my eyes, my words - I saw three amazing bands, including my favorite, Atomic Shotgun - experienced the Red & the Black, a bar to which I had never been, and managed to make some new friends who found yours truly to be rather charming.

Life truly happens when you’re making other plans. I’ll try to remember that when I’m spending time and emotional currency worrying about something and someone that truly means nothing and adds no value whatsoever to my world.

With that, I finally walked away.

Frankly,

HOGMANAY

scarlett@thescarlettletters.com (Scarlett) — Wed, 09 Dec 2009 15:28:22 -0600

Hogmanay

No – its not some itchy, tropical sexually transmitted disease.

Wikipedia defines “Hogmanay” (pronounced IPA: [?h??m??ne?] as: the Scottish word for the last day of the year and is synonymous with the celebration of the New Year in the “Scottish manner.” It is, however, normally only the start of a celebration which lasts through the night until the morning of New Year’s Day or, in some cases, 2 January.

In other words – it is the term for the longest, drunkest, craziest, most fun New Years Eve party on the planet….AND I’m GOING TO BE THERE!!!!

[Scarlett does a little dance]

Not to mention that I’ll be surrounded by cute men with accents – swoon! Could there be a better way to ring in the New Year??? I think not!

And so I have decided to drag my Celtic heritage laden ass to Scotland. The land of Braveheart, kilts, Scotch, Sean Connery, Mary Queen of Scots, Gerard Butler!

Jersey and I will be leaving DCA the afternoon of December 29, arriving in Edinburgh on December 30^th (via Detroit, via Amsterdam, not the most direct route, I’ll grant you but…). We'll arrive just in time for the “Night Afore” festival, which is essentially a New Year’s Eve EVE celebration!

Will, of course post more info soon – just thought I’d share! If anyone else feels like freezing their arses off on the Royal Mile the night of December 31^st, please join the fun!

Frankly, I cannot WAIT!

Superstar

scarlett@thescarlettletters.com (Scarlett) — Thu, 19 Mar 2009 09:05:00 -0500

Tuesday was tres fabulous, fyi.

There’s nothing like being a redheaded irish girl on St. Patty’s Day – by the end of the day, I felt like a damn celebrity. Of course it could have been the euphoric effects of the green jell-o shooters, whiskey shots and tons of beer….but I like to think it was because I was receiving an incredible amount of male attention and beaucoup des free drinks. It was a healthy dose of some much needed ego boosting.

Crazy Bitch also got a hearty helping of adoration – go girl!

Canadian is coming to town tomorrow – did I mention that? For a work conference. For nine days. So it looks as though my rather arid physical streak could be at an end.

In other news I exchanged drunken txt messages with Tex – which was promising. My potential FWB (aka Rugby) guy is getting dangerously close to being kicked to the curb and I have a date with a NEW GUY on Friday. Also managed to score the oh so elusive second date with the PRIEST. Ok – he’s not a priest – he’s a preacher – a cleric – a man of god (but priest sounds better).

Get this ok, we all remember Army? Yes? No? Anyways, ok so for the sake of illustration lets just say that Army’s name is “Joe”. He’s a major in the army. He’s in Afghanistan. The Priest’s name is also “Joe”. He’s a major in the army. He’s going to Afghanistan in 2 months. OY!

Well, with any luck he can bring me…closer to God before he leaves.

Hell. Straight to. In a Prada purse. Ya – that’s where I’m headed.

Recap: Shamrock Fest 2008 - The Good, The Bad and the Painful

scarlett@thescarlettletters.com (Scarlett) — Tue, 18 Mar 2008 09:28:00 -0500

So now that the drunken marathon of days and nights of drinking in the name of St. Paddy has come to an end and even though my hangover is creeping up on me, I owe you a report.

Shamrock fest– where to begin?

Well, the indications of a promising day came not when my first Irish coffee was consumed, or upon stepping onto the blue line to see the other emerald clad celebrators. It was when I heard my name called out through the rushing crowd to disover Red and her new beau behind me! What a wonderful surprise! I hadn't seen this woman since a blogger happy hour in 2006! (You look great, btw!)

For the 1% of the DC drinking population that WERE’T at Shamrock Fest, let me sum it up for you. First of all, the weather was AMAZING! As my wifebeater tan lines can attest, my shoulders now carry newly minted freckles from being on black asphault all afternoong with the sun reflecting up and down. It was wonderful – the first real taste of spring, and I can’t think of a better way I could have spent it.

After several trips to the beer carts to refill our mugs, we ventured out into the crowd and experienced the always amazing Synthian, followed by the rousing cover songs sung by Below Sixth all dressed in matching Boston Celtics Jerseys. Soon after, Red and I had the amazing opportunity to interview the band, Carbon Leaf. (Interview to follow).

And while we were by no means the only scarlet haired gals roaming about RFK grounds on Saturday, we each received more than our fair share of redhead admiration - which ALWAYS makes for a good time. And the day went thusly, dancing, drinking, running into random friends. That is until, the sun went down.

Upon sunset, I found myself in the front of the stage of Burnt Sienna, an amazing cover band, that was inspiring some pretty ‘amazing’ behavior from the crowd. Please realize that by this time I had gained and lost my buzz several times over, eaten some alarmingly greasy food, danced in the sun stood in many many lines and lost track of Red!

Drunken guys are pretty ridiculous in general – showing their apparent intoxication and would be virility. In college, stupid drunken frat boys would set things on fire (this incindiary adventure was usually spearheaded by the Russian). At Shamrock Fest, the boys surfed over crowds, slammed against each other mosh pit style and grabebd girls' asses as they walk by (an ill advised move when one is holding hands with a big tough army man - as the man who tried to manhandle my tusch soon discovered). I expect such angsty fraternal stupidity as I lived with a prime specimine last year. But drunken girls.

Stupid, bitchy girls – was more than I could handle after a day of beer in the sun. Not only stomping – literally stomping on my feet (which would have been bad enough in tennis shoes, but was especially unpleasant Trailer Trash Tammy chose to dress herself like the prom queen in 4 inch stillettos to come to an outdoor festival); the pushing – oh the pushing; the vommiting (not ON me but near enough to make it unpleasant); and last but not least the Drunken falling down on top of semi-sober people, pushing the crowd in all directions.

I've come to the conculusion that I am either WAY too old or was way to sober for this kind of environment.

At this point I limped over to the main stage not because I was especially jazzed about Great Big Sea (who proved to be more than amazing - truly), but because a little bird told me that Russell – be still my heart – arms the size of tree trunks – bad boy all the way – aussie accented - hourse riding- band playin'- do me up against the wall - someone hand me a fresh set of batteries – Crowe was to play with the band.

And so I waited, again, up front, in the crowd though pleasantly surprised to find that that I had left planet 'drunken bitch' and returned back to earth for this was the crowd of ‘normal’ people who weren’t proned to puke, stomp, push, or engage in other such asshole-ish behavior all over you. It was a lovely group of people.

And so even when it started raining, I stood there. My feet hurt, my sunburned shoulders hurt, my head hurt, my hair hurt, but I stood there. In the rain. With no beer. And the band played and played. And I got sober-er and sober-er.

Finally, he came out and he played a song by Johnny Cash I could hear his voice echo accross the emptying, litterd lot as I walked towards the exit. I admit it. I had given up. Somewhere along the line, about 5 whole minutes before he came on – I couldn’t take it anymore. Because truly, if I had stayed to hear that man who defines all things sexy, the nice, sober, unasshole-ish people around me would have been picking my ass up off the soggy, dirty ground. I had just enough energy to let Army Guy guide me back to the metro and then up the stairs to my apartment, complaining all the way - because I was DONE.

So I am only sorry Russell, you didn’t come for me when I was younger, more intoxicated, and able to withstand an entire day’s partying and dancing and drunk people. I haven’t outgrown you, my darling it just turns out that there are limits to my love.

Frankly,

Shake Your Shamrocks!

scarlett@thescarlettletters.com (Scarlett) — Thu, 13 Mar 2008 16:08:00 -0500

It’s that time of year again – deep sigh. Silly Grin.

Beer, beads, green, music – arguably the most wonderful time of year – St. Patty’s Day! The day celebrated with beer…and whiskey…lots of beer (and whiskey). It’s almost more happiness than this irish redhead can bear!

I will refer you to last year’s informational post: The Non-Mick Guide to St. Patty’s Day; for ins, outs and advice. Truly, this is timeless wisdom - live it. learn it.

My SPD attire just arrived – So excited! Whatcha think??

I hope all the DC area bloggers will be out in full force to cover ShamRock Fest 2008!

I seriously haven’t been this excited about an outdoor activity since my first night game as a varsity football cheerleader! And while, as ya’ll know this isn’t exactly a pop culture or music blog, it’s a ‘write whatever I feel like writing but mostly bitching about relationships’ blog, I have been given the opportunity to speak with some of the MANY FABULOUS bands slated to grace the stages at ShamRock Fest* this year, so that’ll be coming up! So get your tickets and don’t forget to buy the wayward redhead a beer!

Lá ’le Pádraig!

*Portion of all proceeds will benefit STOP CHILD ABUSE NOW - definitely a worthy cause to drink for!

V Day Voo Doo

scarlett@thescarlettletters.com (Scarlett) — Fri, 15 Feb 2008 11:13:51 -0600

It hasn’t quite hit me yet. I haven’t accepted the truth. I’m going to hide in my office and maybe it won’t find me. If I just keep drinking coffee and eat my greasy breakfast sandwich, the hangover won’t come. And the aspirin I took last night before bed, and this morning is definitely going to counteract the side effects of the combination of 4 glasses of wine, 5 glasses of champagne, and two redheaded slut shots. Ya. De-nile…not just a river in Egypt.

So now you have some vague concept of how I spent my Valentine’s Day – at least the last few hours of it. However, those hours of were necessitated by the events of the day which included a hit and run accident, a porn store outing and appearing half naked on the Channel 4 evening news – I shit you not. There was also an incident involving a gypsy, a Voo Doo Doll and a lack of needles – but that’s a story for another day.

So if you’re wondering why I missed the opportunity yesterday, to rant, rave, critique, sneer, wax philosophical and cynical about the meanings and insincerity of ‘love’, ‘relationships’ ‘dating’ verbally assult little cherubic angles and stomp little candy hearts with endearing sayings until they are nothing more than literary dust under my metaphoric Pretty Woman boots – that’s why. The subject matter is frankly, a newly reborn single girl’s wet sarcastic dream!

However, I will make the following observation (it’s profound, and shocking – so wait for it!)….MEN ARE IDIOTS. Seriously. Can I tell you how many men I talked to last night who bitched about Valentine’s Day and how ‘they don’t need some special day to show they care’, the ‘meaningless consumer driven holiday’ and the ‘evils of hallmark’? Well let me fill you in on a little secret men - gather round. Don’t be shy. (Canadian, why don’t you come over here and sit by me, just to make sure you catch everything I’m saying, ‘wink’). You’re always whining and moaning about how to ‘make a woman happy’? Trying to figure out ‘what women want’? It’s simple - I have even included pictures so you can understand the big words:

It’s truly that simple. So instead of bitching and moaning and whining like little girls, grow a pair, man up and ultimately, get laid. No one looses in this situation! And everyone shows up for work on Friday with a smile, feeling sexually satisfied, less angsty and trying to avoid their hangovers (Well, at least the last bit applies to me!). Speaking of avoiding, I do see my headache starting to peer at me from around the corner, so I’m going to go hide in the conference room.

A very happy, if somewhat belated, Valentine’s Day to you all.

Frankly,

The Non Mick - St. Patty's Day Survival Guide

scarlett@thescarlettletters.com (Scarlett) — Mon, 12 Mar 2007 10:34:00 -0500

Since Paddy's is fast approaching boys and girls and my Favorite Irish Boy in Detroit has been gracious enough to provide this annual helpful guide for all of you non-Irish kids.

I am sure that all of my fellow Micks will confirm the usefulness of this material. However, I must warn you - the following contains language of a non-politically correct nature. Read at your own risk.

Slainte,

Dear prospective Laddies and Lassies,

It's almost here again. The happiest fuckin' day of the entire fuckin' year, St. Patrick's Day! The one day of the year when the 2% of us in the world's population that actually are Irish gets the other 98% of ya completely shit-faced.

However, while we appreciate that those of you who are not Irish wish to join us in celebrating the day St. Patrick drove the serpents out of Ireland using only the power of God, a gallon of Jameson and weapons-grade irradiated cobalt, the way most people observe St. Patrick's Day is offensive and disrespectful.

There's nothing more pathetic than some fat Polack swilling seven Buds mixed with carcinogenic green dye drunkenly arguing that INXS is authentic Irish music just before barfing into a plate of corned beef and cabbage.

Let's face it: most people are ill-equipped and in no condition to handle the "all-day drunk" that is St. Patrick's Day. However, if you follow this simple blueprint, you can enjoy St. Patrick's Day with little fear that anyone will think you're not from the 'Auld Sod', even if your name is Ahmed Al Jihad.

Leg 1: 7 A.M. to 9 A.M.

Rise and shine early. Take a long, hot shower, and liberally use aftershave, perfume, cologne, deodorant and powders afterwards, because by 3 p.m., you will be excreting raw alcohol and other noxious toxins, and without proper preparations, you will smell like a three-day dead cat wrapped in a fraternity carpet.

The bars usually open, (and you should be there), by 9 at the latest, so be diligent, and use this time to wisely in preparation for the day.

_____________________________

Side Note #1: Collect the following supplies and put them in a place where you will easily be able to find it in an impaired condition. I recommend the bathroom floor, between the toilet and the baseboard heater vent, since, let's face it, that's probably where you'll end up at the end of the night anyways.

One (1) Quart Spring Water
One (1) Large Bottle Aspirin (800 mg)
Five (5) Pairs Depends Brand Undergarments
One (1) Bottle Percocet
One (1) Gram Morphine Sulphate
One (1) oz. Human Adrenaline Extract
One (1) Pre-Charged Defibrillator
Four (4) Cardiac Needles
One (1) Trauma Surgeon

______________________________

Side Note #2: It's also very important to remember that the final impression you leave on Paddy's is the most important of the day. Visualize your desired result, and the action that must be taken in order to achieve said result. That way, as you are being dragged from the bar later, you will remember to begin screaming at the top of your lungs that you want to take your drink with you.

______________________________

Back to the schedule...

Brew one (1) strong pot of coffee--the stronger the better.

Add nine (9) fluid ounces Jameson Irish Whiskey.

Drink the whole damn thing.

It cannot be stated enough that you must continue to drink coffee liberally throughout the entire day. Us Micks are not as dumb as we look -- there is a damn good reason that we invented 'Irish Coffee'. Unless you ingest ridiculous volumes of artificial stimulants throughout the course of St. Patrick's Day, I can say without hesitation, without hyperbole, and with absolute certainty that you will die.

Arrange to be picked up to be taken to the bar no later than 8:45 A.M. I cannot stress enough that you should not drink and drive. There is no reason to chance losing your license or killing someone in a drunken state when you have plenty of idiot friends willing to take that risk on your behalf.

Leg #2: 9 A.M. to 11 A.M.

Arrive at the bar right when it opens.

Make sure this is an Irish bar if at all possible. An Irish bar in Boston is the best alternative, since 'Boston' in Gaelic means 'West Kilarney'. However, almost every city in America has bars called 'The Blarney Stone', 'McSomethings', or 'The Dirty Fucking Mick'. Just try to ignore the fact that the bar is probably owned by Koreans.

Secure a barstool and do not leave it under any circumstances. The bar is liable to be packed by noon at the latest, and real Irish people do not wait in line for drinks, no matter the consequences.

While I do recommend the use of an adult undergarment to mask unpleasant smells, it really doesn't matter. By noon, you'll be sopping wet with spilled beer anyway, and your mild urine smell will be completely overpowered by the toxic stench of vomit.

I recommend starting out with a few more Irish Coffees to spike the stimulant level, however, you should not order an 'Irish Coffee', as you will be given a fruity little glass mug topped with whipped cream and a fucking cherry -- and either me, or some guy named Seamus will call you a yuppie fucking poseur while putting a cigarette out on your neck.

Ask for coffee with Jameson or Bushmills and ask the bartender to leave the whipped cream can--and not for the coffee. Nothing will add spice to your day like the occasional whippet.

Leg #3: 11 A.M. to 2 P.M.

It's lunchtime!

You may not be hungry, but it's important to eat something, because like the man said in Blazing Saddles: "Man drink like that, without eating, he is going to die."

If you want to maintain your buzz and not get that dreaded, hideous, bloated feeling that could slow down your drinking, there are really only two options as I see it: popcorn or Pop Tarts. Both have the carbohydrates you'll need to give you energy, both will soak up excess bile in your stomach, and most importantly of all, both have names that are hard to slur.

______________________________
Side Note #3: If you start slurring your words too early, you'll hear the most frightening phrase in the English language besides "I'm pregnant", and that is: "You're cut off".

______________________________

By now, you should have already switched off of coffee drinks to beer. You have only one option here: Guinness Stout. You may be tempted to order green beer, but remember: beer doesn't always turn green just because of food coloring.

If that doesn't sway you, remember the fact that I (or Seamus, etc.) will call you a yuppie fucking poseur (again) while putting a cigarette out on your neck (again).
Leg #4: 2 P.M. to 7 P.M.

By now, the bar is definitely crowded as people take long lunches and bail out of work early to tie one on.

If you're doing your job correctly however, the bar should look two (2) or three (3-3-3) times as crowded as it really is.

By now, you may be in conversation with some real fucking Irish people. And, since the person you came with has most likely already been taken away by ambulance, some conversational points to remember when talking to the Irish are:

"Football" really means "Soccer," and you should be more passionate about it than even for your own wife or husband....and...

* The English are all piss-arsed, pig-fucking bastards who should be lined up and kicked into the liffey.

If you remember those two points, as well at least three (3) derogatory names for Tony Blair (and of course, Margaret Thatcher), you can talk to the Irish for hours.

You should continue to drink Guinness throughout this leg, although, keep in mind that if your heartbeat has become irregular, you may want to have another Irish Coffee.

The Home Stretch: 7 P.M. til 'You-Inevitably-Black-the-Fuck-Out'

Your goal, of course, is to be the last person to leave the bar at closing time.

______________________________

Side Note #4: Nowhere in the above sentence do I say anything about remembering that or anything else.

______________________________

Of course, this will be impossible, since a blood alcohol content of .50 equals death, and you should be pushing at least a .35 or .40 by now.

The only way for a true Irishman to leave a bar before closing time (with his honor still in tact) is to be hauled away by the police.

If you absolutely must leave before closing time, do the only thing that any respectable Irishmen would do in that situation: Throw a punch.

It doesn't matter who you hit, or even why; (no one's made any sense since 3 o'clock this afternoon, anyway).

Keep in mind that with this strategy, you will be beaten mercilessly, since your fine motor skills, (having been gone since late in Leg #2), are roughly the equivalent of a shoe -- but it doesn't really matter since that one minor disadvantage is definitely outweighed by the significant advantage that you can't really feel anything anyways.

Depending on your community, the police should arrive within fifteen (15) minutes to scrape you off the floor and clap you in irons.

Once again, the final impression you leave is the most important: as you are being dragged from the bar, make sure you begin screaming at the top of your lungs that you want to take your drink with you. You will be a legend, and by now the friend who took you to the bar should have had his or her stomach pumped, and will be able to bail you out.

By following these simple guidelines, your St. Patrick's Day experience will be one that you would never forget -- if it weren't for the fact that it is physically, and biologically, an impossibility for you to remember any of it.

Slainte chugat,

Scarlett's Favorite Irish Boy

Dancing, Assult and a Jumbo Slice

scarlett@thescarlettletters.com (Scarlett) — Mon, 18 Dec 2006 08:21:00 -0600

Well to make a very loooong night’s story short – Saturday evening I went out with VT, her brother and Argyle (so called because of the argyle sweater he was sporting – it was actually kind of cute…but just too easy to make fun of and me being, well, me …I did!) to Adams Morgan.

I had met argle and VT’s brother (VTB) on Halloween. They came over to my apartment for a pregaming party I was throwing for Barbie #1 as she was moving the next day. Because Barbie #1 has been my best friend my first year as a DC resident – I went all out: bought bottles of Champaign, cooked. Ok, I didn’t technically ‘cook’ – I chopped up vegetables, mixed up some low fat dip, put some salsa in a bowl and cut up cheese. Anytime the food preparatory process is more complicated than open, microwave and eat - I consider it cooking.

And so I opened the door in my oh so cute costume – took a deep breath and assumed the role of hostess with the mostest J I served, refilled, shuffled and smiled and since I did not end up going out with the bigger party – I hope I did my part to give Barbie a proper sendoff (this IS relavent information...keep reading). Apparently it made quite an impression on these young gentlemen (you'd think they'd never seen cubed cheese before) and they though I was the most charming, calm, sedated and accomidating gal they'd ever met. (snicker).

So imagine VTB and Argyle’s surprise when they saw me out in true Saturday Scarlett form – buying rounds of Jell-O shots, going drink for drink with the boys, cracking jokes, making the bitchiest of observations and dancing like Fergie’s London Bridge was a comin’ down.

Half way through the evening, they expressed their surprise – their very pleasant surprise that I was not, in fact Martha-F*cking-Stewart which VT and I thought was the most hilarious thing we’d ever heard (and I’ll bet it will give many of you a chuckle as well).

Anyhoo… we started out the evening at the ever popular Reef, followed by the afore mentioned Jell-O shots at Millie & Al’s, a trip to the ever div-y and fabulous Dan’s Café and ending the evening at Nola's.

I was a Nola’s virgin at the start of the evening, now I feel like ….well….like I’ve been around the twist and back.

As I walked in…a cute guy started staring and smiling – being a bottle of wine, 2 jellow shooters and lord knows how many miller lites in, I smiled back and a few minutes later he came over and full on GRABBED MY CHEST. I’m sorry, is there a culture in which people say hello in this fashion? I was so shocked, my involuntary, knee-jerk reaction was, in fact just that: an involuntary knee-jerk reaction.

I kneed him ('where it counts') so hard that…well…he doubled over and I thought he was going to cry. Did I mention that my therapist says I have anger management issues? Well, I walked away without apologizing and felt…very un-sorry. And kind of good.

The evening perked up when the cutest guy I had seen in a very long time walked into the bar. He wasn’t good looking ala Brad Pitt or Clive Owen…but more along the lines of adorable ala Chris O’Donnell and looked just like Michael Ball (for those who are theatrically non in-the-know, please see the attached picture). The cute, teddy bear type you just want to curl up with forever. *Sigh*

He smiled. I smiled. He came over – there was no uninvited gropage, and he said, “I’m sorry, but you are so cute”

(blush…big, Scarlett smile)

“Thanks, I was just thinking the same thing about you”

Friendly banter,blah blah blah, I live here, I live there, I do this, I do that

And then he kissed me – soft, sweet…weak in the knees kind of kiss.

“What was that for?”

“Just felt right”

“Yes it did”

Blah blah blah – and he asked for my number. And I gave it to him and kissed him good bye.

I doubt he’ll call. Boys never call. Right? It's been 24 hours already and I suppose if he were going to call...he would have by now.

Ugh – this is why the giving out of numbers is never good – because they never call and you wonder why and then you’re disappointed, and it all culminates in one big therapy bill and a year's supply of anti-depressents. No. No. Much better to just cut and run.

So to recap: There was drinking, shattered images of domestic goddess status, physical assult, romance and a jumbo slice. Frankly, it was just the recipe for a wonderful Saturday evening.

Ode To Hey Pretty (or What a Weekend Part Deux)

scarlett@thescarlettletters.com (Scarlett) — Tue, 17 Oct 2006 14:54:00 -0500

As mentioned in part one of Scarlett's weekend Saga – Friday night I attended (after much cajoling*) the DC blogger happy hour. Where there was much drinking, laughing and later on dancing. After we migrated away from the Big Hunt, Hey Pretty, Velvet and I made our way to an establishement a few doors down that we were told was more ‘low key’ and so visions of tables and pitchers of beer danced in our heads. Velvet exchanged her cookies for our cover at the door (why does that sound dirty?), and we made our way into, well…i'm pretty sure pitchers of beer weren't on the menu. Shots of Whiskey, however, were.

So after my first shot of Whiskey ever(her idea, not mine), HP and I tried to keep up with the dancing queens (i.e. KassyK and Circle V). I’m afraid we lost Velvet sometime between Vogue and Jessie’s Girl but we said farewell to all my new favorite people shortly after.

After that the details of the evening start to get a bit hazy.

I remember being in an Irish bar in Chinatown, flirting with the singer so that he’d play the songs we wanted him to. I remember getting hit on by a guy who was in town for the green convention. He was a snowboarding, vegetarian, tree hugging, northface fleece-clad, only used recycled paper type of guy (who happened to look like eric bana). But I had to tell him, sorry buddy, I’m more of the steak eating, leather wearing, more preservatives, bring on the pesticides kind of woman….so I don’t think this is going to work.

By the end of the night, HP and I were closing down a bar in Capitol Hill, everyone else had called it a night and we were still gabbin away. Guys hovered, bought us drinks, lit our cigaretts but we just said ‘thanks’ and kept right on talking. Isn’t it nice when the company you’re with is more riveting and worth while than any guy trying to pick you up and so you’re so much less receptive to it?

The verdict? HP is smart, pretty, brutally honest, and wildly funny all wrapped up into a compact little package with an attitude to match.

Hello cliché….I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Frankly,

*I-66’s word

What A Weekend (Part One)

scarlett@thescarlettletters.com (Scarlett) — Sun, 15 Oct 2006 20:20:00 -0500

Friday night was my first official DC Blogger happy hour. I know there are going to be many ‘recaps’ posted but here are some of my fuzzy memories.

First of all – I must say that I was nervous for a number of reasons. I felt like the math geek being invited to a party with all of the cheerleaders and jocks. Would they like me? Would they be nice? Would they be mean? Cliquey? Or conversely, would THEY turn out be not quite as fabulous as their ramblings, musings, rantings,, and sagas would lead me to believe?

So after much heming and hawing I decided to go because:

#1. 66’s cajoling** efforts needed to be rewarded as did the fact that I could no longer exchange witty electronic banter on a daily basis with him without having met in person!

#2. I have adored Hey Pretty ever since her ode to the container store and she promised to hover with me in a smoky, dry humored haze in the event that the cliques were out in full force

#3. Velvet promised to go with me and basically hold my hand while I put down my laptop and stepped into the real world.

Long story short, can I can’t remember having a better time with a better group of people.

I JUST LOVED EVERYONE SO MUCH!!*

66 was just as sweet, friendly and polite as I had expected. Perhaps more so even.

WonL is just a firecracker of friendly fun, running around, talking to everyone, taking pictures, etc. TOOO cute.

Hey Pretty….HP and I definitely held to our plan of quick, sarcastic, smokey hazed, devilishly honest conversation. And our evening didn’t nearly stop after we said goodbye to our fellow bloggers (a subject for another post).

Velvet was her usual, sweet self and she even BAKED COOKIES! To a domestically challenged urbanite such as myself, this is truly impressive (I don’t care if you DID just take them out of the package and put them on the cookie sheet…you don’t use your oven for storage and obviously know how to turn it on! Which is more than I can say.)

Circle V is even more gorgeous in person than her beautiful pictures and so nice.

View from Dupont is a little bundle of energy – and we have even planned a debaucherous fieldtrip so definitely stay tuned for that one!

Ashburnite was hilarious and was apparently given blogging orders from a mutual friend to look out for me as I would be nervous J

Good at Drinking Bad at Life was also charming and is, in fact…good at drinking

There is no way to describe Brunch Bird as anything other than completely elegant and lovely.

And then there were the Reds…my fiery haired sisters of the blogging world.

Red is just beautiful inside and out and with more crazy stories of dating than I do! Seriously…when are we going to hear about serial killer???

And KassyK….I must say I’ve never considered myself a groupie, hell, Matt Daemon bought me a beer and I kept my cool…but I must admit, I was so very very excited to meet this woman. She is perhaps the sweetest, coolest girl I have ever met. She’s the cheerleader, the and prom queen and the girl next door. She’s the girl from summer camp that you just want to hang out with all the time and life seems so much better just because she’s there. So yes, pin the groupie medal here and I will start the KassyK fan club tomorrow.

So thank you, thank you, DC bloggers for SUCH a welcoming, wonderful, amazing evening (even though I was hungover well into Saturday).

*What did you think this was? False advertising?

**His phrase not mine