"Detox Weekend" Recap

You will note the use of the quotation marks up there. All week, my roommate and I discussed what a great weekend we were going to have - come home from work on Friday, have one glass of wine, watch a movie, get a good night's sleep. Spend some time at the gym on Saturday and Sunday, run some errands, see Spamalot at the National Theatre. Essentially, have a restful and relaxing weekend, involving little-to-no drinking and definitely no hangovers to impair us from achieving our goals.

I'm sure you can see where this is headed.

It all started with an email from our friend K-Dizzle on Friday afternoon. Did we want to go listen to jazz in the sculpture garden? Well, the weather was nice and it would be a shame to miss out on such a lovely evening, so sure. We'll be there. We met K-Dizzle and her partner in crime, K-Shizzle, at the sculpture garden. Of course, upon discovery of the beer, wine and sangria stand, I should have known the evening was on a quick descent into debauchery, but I wanted to maintain my innocent ideals for at least a little while.

Well, 3 carafs of sangria, multiple cell phone pictures of a "box" sculpture, Roommate chatting up several innocent tourists and offering her Capitol Tour Guide services (well, those of her interns), quizzes about US Senators, girly confessions made only after consuming 3 carafs of sangria and the accosting of many people's small children, we decided it best to take our antics elsewhere, under the guise of "getting dinner." Which, technically, we did if you count us sharing the 4 olives in K-Shizzle's and my Grey Goose martinis. I think there may have been a cheese plate in there somewhere, but this has yet to be confirmed.

11:00pm found this lively (read: wasted) group of young ladies in the last place we expected to be on Friday night: Adams Morgan. For those who live in DC, you all know what I mean when I say Adams Morgan is the black hole of drunk 20-somethings. You never really know where you'll end up, who you'll find, or how you'll get home. Basically, the only likely outcome of traveling to Adams Morgan under the influence of alcoholic beverages is that you'll drink too many strong drinks, end up in bars you didn't plan on going to, dance like an idiot to too many Madonna/Beyonce/Journey songs, encounter a plethora of interns and spend way more money than Bank of America would like. With the exception of the interns, we managed to achieve all of these outcomes.

We'd always heard of Zucchabar, but had never been, so when the cab driver dropped us off right in front of it (and not Havana Village, which was our initial destination), we decided it was fate. Or our feet hurt too much to walk down the block. And it helped that when we entered, the bar was empty and we quickly discovered what this meant: getting our orders filled in a timely manner, free shots, and a bartender who bankrolled our music selections on the circa 1987 jukebox (you all know the kind: you have to flip the pages to look at old, worn-out CD covers and then punch in a number, vs. using the touch screen and the option to "make mine first." How people existed before the Internets is beyond me). We had free reign on the dance floor, we had our choice of plush zebra-striped couches, we had a table, and we had VIP treatment. Needless to say, this spells trouble.

Approximately an hour and a half later, we were four VERY drunk young ladies who desperately needed to go home. The following may or may not have happened on the way back to our homes on Capitol Hill and in Virginia:

- Someone may or may not have thrown up on Rock Creek Parkway. Pulling over on the parkway is a very dangerous feat in and of itself, but getting out the car? It may have never been done before.

- I may have lied to the cab driver and said that the person who may or may not have been throwing up on the side of the parkway had food poisoning. This was definitely followed with the cab driver becoming a cheerleader and chanting "Just let it out! Just let it out!" and offering us his collection of paper napkins from every fast food restaurant in the city.

- Someone may have actually taken the metro home.

- That same someone may have passed out on the metro and missed their stop, finding themselves at the very end of the Orange Line and then having to wait 20 minutes for another train.

- Someone may have drunk dialed every one in her phone book, except the west coast friends, b/c "It was too early for them to be out and think this is funny."

- Someone may have tried to smoosh a giant bug in their front doorway by smashing their flip flop against the wall repeatedly, despite complete lack of hand-eye coordination and a sleeping neighbor. The giant bug is still on the loose.

The majority of Saturday was spent playing the Very Still Game (which one plays when one cannot move for fear of vomiting), moving only to make the long trek from the bed to the couch, complaining, wondering what happened, and checking and then re-checking the bank accounts to make sure that we did, in fact, spend that much money on Detox Night. There were no gym trips. There were no errands, at least on Saturday. And while Spamalot was very funny, it would have been a lot better if we weren't passing out from exhaustion and dehydration. All in all, I would say that we had a successful evening.


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