On staying out of jail: D.C. photo journal.

[The sun sets over Maryland.]

I called my parents at 8:45 am from D.C. this past Saturday to check in. This is what good daughters do; they place regular phone calls home to verify safety and well-being. I was standing on a low brick wall across from an Irish pub in Arlington, VA, hundreds of runners in various shades of green milling around below me as I stuck a finger in one ear and pressed my phone up to the other.

“I’m at a race,” I shouted, “there’s a leprechaun on a scooter bike, I’m having a Guinness for breakfast. How are you guys?”

In the background, I heard my mom: “Washington? She’s not calling from jail again, is she?”

Excellent question. Considering one of the last phone calls I placed to them from the district was while handcuffed to a tile wall next a lovely prostitute who was coaching me, “Girl, you gots to breathe. Just breathe.”

I love D.C. I love it more when I’m not handcuffed to various stationary objects, like the tree that time outside of Chadwick’s. Bicycle cops are like ninjas!

[Breakfast of champions, while my friend was an actual champion, running 4 miles. Go, Cline, go!]

This weekend was like a dose of sunshine and booze and fine female companionship that soothed my soul; Hollins girls are like big hugs, take note. Friday, I sat across from one of my dearest friends of all time, ate and drank my fill, and caught up on things we don’t cover hourly on G-chat. Saturday, I hopped up with the sun to cheer her on as she bolted around Arlington.

[How it all began.]

Beginning at 3PM on Saturday, we partook in an epic bar crawl through downtown, hitting up no less than 8 venues. I’m freaking serious—8 bars. There may have been more. There also may have been a panda bear. There was definitely a taxi cab that knew a few dance moves.

How I love thee:

We moved on. A lot. Behold, the lovely Carrington, organizer, whistle-blower, shaker of tail feather:

[Know why I love Virginia so much? I met this young man and out of the clear blue sky, he knew my brother. And my godbrother, David. I mean, worlds don’t get smaller than they do when you are a Hoo.]

There is life beyond bar crawls, you know. But only just barely. I took this from the car the next day while wearing a lovely shade of green on my face:

And all good things must come to an end. My good thing ended with me curled in a ball on the carpet of the USAirways terminal in DCA, a Quarter Pounder with cheese cooling its heels on my thighs.

Don’t weep for me, though; I stayed clear of Johnny Law, and that’s more than I can say for my prior visits to this magical city. While there’s nothing like being threatened with resisting arrest because you got a little kicky on the Plexi-glass with your Prada heels, this visit takes the cake.

In conclusion, a couple of text messages between husband and wife, as we spent our weekends apart, hearts growing fonder in the absence:

R: I got you a present.

C: Another cat light switch cover?

R: Nope. You are actually going to like this.

C: Hint?

R: It’s for your collection!

C: A vinyl record!!!! I got you a present too: I caught an Obama fart in a jar.

-Carey

p.s. Apologies for the excess of “I’m sipping” photos. They seem to be really fun to take while partaking, but stupid to look at after.