Cold Spaghetti

Not really. Just thought it summed up the weekend.

We’re back. Some lessons:

— Flying without children is a treat, no matter what happens. You can sleep, read, use the bathroom, and actually have that bag of pretzels and cranberry juice from the attendant. These are true luxuries, even when they happen in coach.
— Shots pushed into your hand from someone who maybe a boss of your spouse is a very different type of peer pressure. Especially when you’re the one in the room giving out Mardi Gras beads.
— I have become the one who can handle cold. Paul complained of impending frostbite in the 20-degree weather on Sunday (granted, that hard wind was bitter, and I was dragging him all over monuments on exposed hillsides) while I surrendered winter gear to ease his pain. Make no mistake: the cold still hurts, but I didn’t find it particularly bad — and my ears were as exposed as Paul’s and I was wearing less layers and a lighter jacket. Still, I was shocked when (I-love-hockey) Paul admitted, “there is no way we can ever move to back Michigan.” Either he drank so much the night before that his thinned blood couldn’t take the cold, or my cross-campus marathons over iced paths and brutal winds hardened me more than I thought. It was a surprise: as long as the sun is shining, 20 degrees and freezing winds are no huge deal to me.
— We really do love DC. We mean that as DC, the area across the Potomac, where one is taxed without representation. There is no great desire to live there, although we admit that living in the District would not destroy us. Paul is perhaps less interested in the idea as me (and by interested, we mean “not 100% against the idea as something to do if we had to” and by had to, we mean “otherwise would suffer ignoble destruction”) — mostly this is because he is certain that the likelihood of the city being hit by a Really Big Bomb in our lifetime is at the same level of risk of New Orleans’ flooding once again. We’ve done one of the two and would like to stay with experience.

The point of the trip was for Paul and I to attend his company’s post-holiday (“no, we always planned it to be a post-holiday”) party. Thank goodness for the post-holiday idea, which is a brilliant one. Bummer was that it coincided with Krewe du Vieux and blasted those plans. But it was too hard to not take the opportunity: professionally, socially, politically.

The party was at Clarendon Grill, set in a flashy area of Northern Virginia located near Metro stops and built up with all the accouterments of the urban yuppy: huge Pottery Barn, Crate & Barrel, Whole Foods, Container Store, and even an Apple Store… all glowing new and shiny with ‘clean lines’ and ‘simple design.’ It’s a fun area; young and hip, single and swinging. The hotel was perched on a hillside 2-blocks from Courthouse Metro and offered easy access to all the area’s offerings.

The party was fun, mostly because of some really cool and interesting co-workers. The rest of the fun was due to the incredible band, Gonzo’s Nose, a local cover band… a really, really, reeeally good cover band. You can’t have a bad time when them on the stage, nor can you avoid the dance floor all night (although Paul gave a valiant attempt, he eventually gave in over “Jessie’s Girl” and once broken in, became a permanent fixture to the pit). We brought throws in the requisite Endymion bag… beads of all types, a light-up crawfish, a few spears and tomahawks, Frisbees, some stuffed toys. Just a little NOLA spirit going out in party shwag.