Gloriana

DISCLAIMER: This post is real heavy on the videos. I went a bit YouTube-happy which may mean they don't show properly on a mobile device or the post will take forever to load. 

As I mentioned in that last post, it's been a very busy week. After shaking my boum boum at La Boum Brunch (I swear I'll never write that again) over the weekend, I ventured out on a Tuesday night (*gasp*) with friends Anna and Rachel to get our country fix in the form of a Gloriana concert at the 9:30 Club.

I have to admit, I only knew about three Gloriana songs at the time I bought my tickets, but I liked those three songs, tickets were cheap, and it had been a long time since I'd been to a concert. It was an impulse buy on a Sunday night last month but, by the time the concert rolled around, I was very excited. 

I binge-listened to Gloriana songs on Spotify all day Tuesday which gave a break to the Beyonce, JT, and Lumineers I had on heavy rotation. If nothing else, I wanted to be able to sway to the right beat and maybe even sing along every other word.

Anna, Rachel and I decided to meet at the 9:30 Club and grab a bite to eat beforehand. I, of course, was late because I have this condition called "Metro Disorientation" which means that, no matter what, I will always emerge from the underground Metro stop and walk the wrong direction. Always. After walking four blocks out of my way, I realized that I hadn't seen a single cowboy hat or pair of boots (aside from my own). Completely normal for this area, but not normal for the night of a country concert.There were no fellas in slightly-too-tight Levis in sight. Those are the tell-tale signs of a country concert.  If you aren't sure whether or not you are at a country concert, here's how you know:

• Boots
• Belt buckles
• Cowboy hats
• Woo girls

For some reason, I find the Woo Girls are plentiful at country concerts, more so than at any other genre (aside from boy bands, natch.) You know the Woo Girls. Either you saw the phenomenon explained on How I Met Your Mother (below) or you've encountered them yourself. We all have. At times, ladies, we've all probably been them. Then we realized how irritating they are and, hopefully, reined it in. 


I'm not sure why I always encounter them at country venues but I think it's because hats and boots are very woo-inducing accessories. You get excited - I get it. I went to my fair share of pop concerts when I was younger (Backstreet Boys, 'N Sync, 98 Degrees....basically if 4-5 guys were on a stage dancing, I saw it) and you've never heard "woooooos" like that before. But, in those cases, the wooos are age-appropriate. I have no problem with squealing teenagers at a concert. My annoyance is when those woo girls grow up and enhance their woos with alcohol, meaning they woo but also bump into you and think it's adorably hilarious. Or worse, they woo throughout the concert in your ear. No good comes from a drunk woo girl. 

La Boum Brunch

This past weekend, my friends and I discovered the secrets to the perfect Bachelorette Party:

• Start the champagne at 11am
• Dance
• Eat 
• Dance
• Dance
• Stop the champagne at 5:30pm
• Two rounds of Dominos delivery (because sometimes the first order just isn't enough)
• Everyone to bed by 11pm

Our lovely bachelorette

But that's all I'm going to say about the Bachelorette party specifically because we all know, "What happens at a Bachelorette Party, stays at a Bachelorette party." If I wrote about everything, I'd have to change names to protect the innocent and then I'd have to keep up with a whole new set of names and it would just all get so very confusing for me. In truth, things didn't get too crazy - no one was arrested, no one got lost, no one was in an alcohol-induced coma and there were no strippers. Well, there was a bizarre burlesque bunny.....but I'll get to that. As I said, we were all in bed by 11pm. In fact, I even made it to church the next morning. 

(God, I know you probably don't give extra credit but, if you do, I would just like to call your attention to that last sentence....the one about going to church after a bachelorette weekend, not the sentence about the burlesque bunny. Ignore the sentence about the burlesque bunny.)

While I won't give you a play-by-play of the entire fun-filled weekend, I would be missing a huge opportunity on this blog - which is supposed to chronicle my DC adventures, after all - if I didn't highlight the 3.5 hour dance party we called brunch. 

This ain't your mama's scrambled-eggs-and-toast brunch. This is stand-on-your-chair-sparklers-in-the-champagne-tambourine-and-booty-shaking brunch. This is La Boum brunch. And it. is. ridiculous.

You show up to L'Enfant Cafe, a seemingly normal French restaurant, at 2pm and wait out front. (Or, if you're us, you show up too early and have to go to the bar next door to pound a pitcher of mimosas and an order of tater tots.) You have to have a reservation but you can't go in until they are ready for you. Meanwhile, people are sitting out on the patio, enjoying their French brunch and judging you, knowing you're about to go inside for La Boum. 

Then, you hear a tambourine. They are ready for you. The host opens the door and, tambourine-in-hand, shows you to your table. There's no turning back. 

At this point, my only thought was, "I have to get my hands on that tambourine. That tambourine will be mine."

We had a party of 10 and were seated at a long table along a front wall. The place isn't very large and seats perhaps 50 or so, including seats at the bar. A nice, cozy, intimate brunch. 

We ordered our food - a house salad and spinach souffle crepe for me - and enjoyed our free seasonal mezze plate and shots of kir. We also ordered three bottles of champagne for the table since this was a celebratory brunch.

After we finished our first course, the owner walked out with a microphone, highlighting the special occasions being celebrated - two bachelorette parties, a birthday, and - as he said - one girl celebrating not being pregnant (um, congrats?). That girl kind of kept to herself - lessons learned, I suppose. 

Then, it got real. 

The Big Dance

I love to dance. Usually by myself around my apartment when I'm supposed to be cleaning. That is, until I see myself in a mirror and realize my "in-my-head" dancing and my "real-life" dancing are severely incongruous. 

I swear I'm doing the same thing Beyonce does, why does it look so different? Am I having a seizure? Oh God, maybe I am. I should sit down. 

I also love dancing at weddings. I love it so much. Mostly because everyone else is either a) too drunk to care that you're a bad dancer b) so blissfully happy that they don't even notice or c) a just as bad - or dare I say, worse- dancer.

I probably look like this kid when I dance. It's awesome when you're 7. Not when you're 27.

This time of year, you know what my favorite place is for dancing? A basketball court. 

Say what? See what I did there? You thought this post was going to be about real dancing when, in fact, it's about metaphorical dancing. NCAA Dancing. The Big Dance. March Madness. 

Yes, my friends, Davidson is dancing. I am PUMPED. 

Sure there are other teams that are bigger, perhaps better, and have more money in their programs. But, let me remind you of a little moment in history known as the NCAA tournament of 2008. Perhaps you remember a gentleman by the name of Stephen Curry and an excellent team of Wildcats that defeated teams analysts said we shouldn't? I know Gonzaga does. And Georgetown does. Then there's Wisconsin. And Kansas certainly does. 

That year, people who had never heard of Davidson before became Wildcat fans, cheering for our guys - rooting for the Cinderella story. (Dancing and  princess references - basketball is awesome.)

Happy Anniversary, DC!

Dear Washington, DC,

Happy Anniversary!

Making the move.

Just one year ago today, I was trekking from apartment to apartment with my mom, searching for a place to live. The day before, we'd packed up my car and I made the one-way drive to you. I remember it was March 15 because it was a Thursday, two days before Saturday, March 17th. I remember that not because March 17th is St. Patrick's Day but because - if I'd still been in my old job - I'd have been working at a taping of The Bachelor - a taping of The Bachelor that included The Muppets. That's not the kind of thing you forget.

Yet, I wasn't there with Kermit and Chris Harrison; I was here with you instead. We were embarking on our own journey of love (ugh, *gag* I almost couldn't type that.).

Me and The Bachelor.
Just kidding. This was actually the beginning of my love affair
with sangria at Alero and the first night in my new 'hood.

Although I miss my family, friends and co-workers in Charlotte, I have to say, you've been pretty good to me, DC. It's been an exciting, confusing, fun and patriotic year, filled with great people, new experiences and the overuse of numerous navigation apps.

Since this blog was established to chronicle my move and experiences in our nation's capital, it seems only appropriate that we reflect back on our year together and commemorate this milestone.

(We should also celebrate that this blog survived a whole year. I have to be honest, I thought this thing would be kaput after three months, six months tops.)

DC, you've provided me with many memorable moments over the last year. Some of my favorites include that time...

What's in a Name? (Certainly NOT Snow)

Well, that was lame. 

I was all ready for a midweek winter wonderland. Being from Charlotte, I don't ever set my hopes too high when it comes to snow. Then again, I've never been promised 3-6" of snow. And then 4-8" of snow. And then 5-10" of snow. 

I've never been told my neighborhood would get "hammered" with the storm or that I would "definitely need a shovel." (Yeah, ok, I was never going to shovel anything.)

I was pumped. I know snow can be dangerous and a pain-in-the-ass as it cancels events and ruins commutes. But, we had enough warning ("IT'S COMING! BIGGEST MARCH STORM IN HISTORY!") that I figured everyone would be safe and we could enjoy the beauty of the snow.  

As I told a co-worker, I mostly just wanted to lay eyes on the snow. I didn't actually need to "interact" with it. (I was looking forward to having a reason to wear my snow boots because they are so cozy but I look ridiculous wearing them when it isn't snowing. Which I have done.)

Warnings...panic... excitement..and then, nothing. At least not for my neighborhood.  

It did snow for the majority of the day but we have nothing to show for it. This morning, they were big, beautiful, fluffy flakes. I ran to the window when I saw them. Then, I looked down at the ground - it was snowing hard, there had to be some accumulation already - and saw nothing but wet ground. Dirty, grassy wet ground. 

8 a.m.

A light dusting.

9 a.m.: 

Big snowflakes.

 "Why is the snow not piling up? They said there would be 5+" so it must be coming, right?" I did what any rational person would do and immediately took to Twitter, looking for evidence that the snow would start sticking. Again, I was given hope by photos and tweets from highly credible sources. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, and I have to put my snow boots back on the shelf in utter defeat. 

Midday:

Still snowing.

6p.m.:

Nothing. 

(BuzzFeed described it best with this sadly accurate run-of-events.)

I don't entirely blame the weather forecasters and meteorologists. They are always the unfortunate scapegoats for jilted snow lovers. Could they have used less exclamation points in their tweets and blog posts? Sure. Could they have not led us on with their intoxicating colorful maps and sexy videos of snow plow preparations? Absolutely. 

But it isn't their fault.

Well, it's a little bit their fault. 

After all, they named the stupid thing. 

The Baptism That Almost Wasn't

Alas, another belated post. That's because - once again - I was sick. Apparently that's what I do now. Like some twisted inadvertent new year's resolution, my body has decided to catch everything going around in 2013. I literally had to add a line item to my budget for "Cough Drops, Good Drugs, and Dr.'s Office Parking." My NC immune system is failing me in some sort of Mid-Atlantic Survival of Fittest game. 

I tried to make the most of my sick time. After all, it's a valid excuse for wearing sweatpants, not showering and laying on the couch. Once my fever broke, I spent all of last weekend watching episodes of Revenge - 20 hours worth to be exact. I'm not even kidding. I always thought I'd hate that show so I never watched it.  I was sort of right - I hate how much I now care about it. 

I also learned new things while I was sick. For example, did you know there are directions for cough drops? I did not. Apparently you are only supposed to have one every two hours. You aren't supposed to pop them like Tic Tacs every time you begin to cough or your throat starts to feel a little scratchy. Oops. I OD'd several times over on those menthol-filled cold candies. 

Now that I've recovered from my menthol stupor, I want to tell you about my whirlwind trip back to NC a couple weekends ago. I headed back to the homeland for my nephew's baptism. I drove down on Friday and drove back on Monday, leaving 48 hours in between to visit with family and - of course - eat almond butter fro yo at Yoforia.