Aloha from the island of misfit, hungover girls. It’s noon-thirty, the light is blinding me, and I’m having trouble typing with my potentially broken thumb. Happy 4th of July!
Our afternoon began innocently enough: Hunter and I, dressed like we robbed an American flag store, boarded the metro in Reston to head over to Hunter’s friend Anne’s apartment. The metro was like an America-themed frat party for babies. Everyone sported red, white, and blue, and the children were using metro poles to attempt some sort of exotic dance. Their daddies looked proud. I tried to throw some $1 bills at one girl who was getting particularly into her routine, but Hunter insisted that the money would be better spent on a hotdog. Valid point.
After taking an Uber to Anne’s (thanks for the ride Yonas!) we were absolutely starving. For some reason I expected this to be just another college party, where your only hope for food is a bag of stale chips and the chance that someone will drunk-order a pizza (foreshadowing). When we walked into a 4th of July celebration straight out of a Martha Stewart catalog, my jaw dropped. Anne had a spread of fruit, vegetables, GUACAMOLE, pulled chicken and pork, cupcakes, pie, and – most importantly – dranks. I had brought cookies because I’m that girl, so I set those up and then poured a glass of this wicked good sangria. And then another one. I was starting to wonder how I was drunk on two glasses of watered down wine when Anne’s friend Chris mentioned how much rum he had put in the punch. Ahhhhhh. At this point, I made a pact with Hunter that neither of us would judge the other for getting too drunk. We pinky swore, then went back for glass number 3.
People came and went, and our squad – me, Hunter, Anne, Anne’s boyfriend Jack, and our friend Ruthie – decided to head out to a rooftop party in Columbia Heights at around 6. Jack had been invited by some of his college friends. Jack went to Yale. I was on high alert for potential husbands.
Love Lesson #1: Asking a man (or several men) “Did you go to Yale too?” and then walking away when he says no is arguably a poor flirting technique. Especially when you’re carrying around a full bottle of wine and occasionally taking swigs. But who puts a bottle of wine in a cooler with the beer if they don’t want you to drink it?
Love Lesson #2: While most men do appreciate witty banter, there is a fine line separating this from arguing. Thus, it is best not to walk up to a very attractive man (who DID go to Yale, by the way) who is wearing a Louisville shirt and tell him how much you hate his shirt, and Louisville, and the entire state of Kentucky. He might be offended and not want to marry you.
Love Lesson #3: God damn it, Jesse, put down the empty bottle of wine.
After the fireworks show ended and I offended a few more people, someone gathered our crew and ordered an Uber to take us to a very sketchy house in Northeast DC, aka THE GHETTO. Here we were served mojitos and funfetti cake, but I was otherwise occupied with a box of Samoas that I had snatched from the Columbia Heights party (you can’t take me anywhere). Ruthie was fed up with not having pizza, so she ordered Domino’s (YAS).
Close your eyes and imagine with me. You know that feeling when you’re waiting for a boring lecture to end on a Friday afternoon, and you know that waiting for you at your apartment is cold beer and all your friends? Every second seems to take an eternity. Now, keeping your eyes closed, take that idea of time and make it even slower. This is what I call “waiting for pizza” time. It took FOREVER to get there, so I occupied myself by Tinder messaging every guy I’d ever matched with and asking them to hang out (updates to come). I’m not sure if any of them went to Yale, but obviously my standards had dropped by this point in the night.
Once we had demolished the pizza (4 minutes later), Hunter, Ruthie and I decided we were fed up with the party. With my phone at 1% battery, I ordered an Uber. Then my phone died. So there we stood, in the slums of DC, waiting for a car that we didn’t know, driven by a man we didn’t know, without a way to know when he got there.
Somehow Jeeves (probably not his name) found us, mostly by screaming my name until someone snapped out of their pizza coma and noticed. We took a $27 ride back to Anne’s place, where Hunter and I both potentially broke our thumbs in the process of setting up the pullout couch. We sent Ruthie to find bedding for us, and she returned with what looked like an ornamental sheet and felt like sandpaper. Perfect. Paired with a supremely comfortable blanket (the size of a pocket square) that I wanted to curl up and live in, I was set for the night. I tried to spoon Hunter but he reminded me that he was gay so I just snuggled the bowl of leftover guac. The guac told me that he went to Harvard, though, so it was A-OK.
The morning taught me three valuable things.
1) There are services in DC that will deliver you bagels in your times of great need, like when you’re in a wheelchair and haven’t eaten in days, or when you’re bloated from beer and pizza and movement is difficult.
2) They won’t deliver them to Anne’s apartment complex and you will irrationally hate her because you need a bagel.
3) Sheets aren’t supposed to feel like sandpaper. If they do, you might be using a shower curtain.
We managed to drag our pathetic asses to a nearby Bruegger’s, where we gorged ourselves on bagel sandwiches that were nowhere near as good as Bodo’s and sent me on a wave of Charlottesville nostalgia. There was a man making weird noises and wearing a zebra shirt so we left feeling a little better about ourselves. We declared these bagels a triumphant end to a successful 4th of July. You’re cool, America.