Songs in the Key of Old Woman

I haven't posted in days, mostly because I have been so Long Duck Dong tired and couldn't raise my head above the keyboard. There are weeks when I feel like I have caught again that malaise that hit me in college (only eating Froot Loops and Ramen noodles + exercise limited to walking to the vending machine adds up to wanting to stay under your pink XL twin JC Penney comforter for the week).

I went to my first DC Blogger happy hour (thanks to a wonderful planner) on Wednesday night. There are a few choice obs from the event that I made a mental note to share with you prior to/during consumption of much too much house Chardonnay:

1) DC Bloggers are hot. Not like normal, Bell-curve hot, but hot like "Lost" hot. If all of these bloggers were to be stranded on Roosevelt Island, unable ever to make it back to the mainland of Virginia, the world would not want for beautiful, talented, boozing writers.

2) Despite what people try to tell you, the green stuff in mojitos isn't really kelp. Stupid spinach.

3) I'm embarrassed as to how many of these DC talents never made it on my blogroll. There are so many excellent sites out there, more than I can keep up with. I have a good bit of a hreffing to do when I feel I'm awake again.

4) Thank God Heather B. showed up. The look of horror on her face convinced me a) that it probably wasn't cool to take off with the band's tambourine, b) that my dance moves aren't as smooth as I pictured them to be, and c) that we might want to catch a cab home before a fellow cutie blogger snapped incriminating pics to post to the Internets. Moral: Always trust a woman in pastel cashmere.

I went to see my boyfriend play the Verizon/MCI/FDS Woman/Cheez Its Center on Thursday night. Having a twenty-something trophy wife has apparently done wonders for my man, as he shook it well past my bedtime.

I am pleased to report that although I thought I could hear my bones creaking this week, I was not the oldest woman in the crowd as evidenced by the following:

1) The man next to me shielded his eyes painfully every time the stage lights hit on the crowd,

2) I saw two different women - within a three-minute time span - drinking their Bud Lights through a straw,

2a) Most everyone in my immediate vicinity brought a crossword, copy of Redbook or glucose monitor to keep themselves busy until Billy took the stage, and, proudly,

3) I didn't call my kids in the middle of New York State of Mind to tell them loudly about how mommy drank an entire daquiri and would be taking the train home.

I have spent the past two days pampering myself and taking care of those things that never get done. I'm pretty sure the world is out having fun while I do laundry and watch 22 Tivo-ed episodes of CSI. The freau (the term I will heretofore use to refer to the beau, given our limbo friend/more status) is in Vegas for his brother's bachelor party. The mere thought of having to share a room with five drunk men and boozing while playing nickel slots until 4 am makes my head hurt.

Maybe the Blanche in me will want to get back to such things after these Doan's pills kick in.