Things I Learned This Weekend

Yeah, yeah, I know it's almost the next weekend. Better late and short than never and ever.

It is possible to drink sangria and not lose your mind.
We had happy hour on Friday at my most favorite HH place with sangria! Sangria has featured quite heavily in previous things I've learned, but I do believe this is the first time it's been featured for not making me do something stupid. I had my three glasses--that were severely lacking in the fruit department--lots and lots of food, and then was on my sober way.

Don't go to Target when you're sad.
So last week I was sad. I don't know why. In "Breakfast at Tiffany's" parlance I had the mean reds. It happens and you just have to deal. When I get like that I have to do things to make me happy. One of those is Target. Of course, since I spend too much money at Target on a good day, this probably wasn't the wisest decision. But just being out and around pretty things did make it better.

You can never have too many sets of sheets.
How many sets of sheets do you have? I just bought my sixth and I don't see a problem with it. My mom, however, thinks I'm crazy. But I say that there is nothing in life that can't be fixed with a good set of sheets and some chocolate. Just not at the same time. Aren't they pretty?

Decorating for spring is a great mood lifter.
Bright colors were another solution to getting me out of my funk. Some plastic eggs, some glitter eggs, a vase, and some felt flowers plus some stuff I already had certainly helped brighten things up a bit.

Trampoline jumping is just the best.
On Saturday B and K and I went to a trampoline park! I'm still excited just typing that. I first heard of these some time last year and have been dying to go to one. I found one in Northern Virginia not far from where Brandie and her husband just bought a house. So on a rainy and bleak Saturday two late 20-somethings and an early 30-something got their trampoline on! And it was exhilarating and exhausting and electrifying and exhausting. I'd definitely do it again, but not for a whole hour, probably just a solid 15 minutes.

Good and true Mexican food does exist in Northern Virginia.
We're super picky about our Mexican food but we found a good one on a random street across from a car dealership. Thanks, Brandie's GPS! We stuffed ourselves silly whilst sitting at a beautiful calla lily table. It doesn't get much better than that.

A little kid singing "Let it Go" on the metro is way preferable to a little kid screaming her guts out on the metro.
The metro trip out to see Brandie isn't short. It's not quite an hour, which really isn't terrible when you have a book and music and a good friend. However, when you add a screaming, screeching, howling child to the mix, it feels interminable. We had such a raucous child on the ride down I thought she was being murdered. (She wasn't; I checked.) Then on the ride home we got an adorable girl who was so excited to be riding the metro that her and her Dad sang a little "Let it Go." It was almost worth the devil child from earlier.

Blast from the past

Last week wore me down so that by Friday I felt like a zombie. But instead of going straight home from work, since napping would be inevitable, I went to Target for a little comfort shopping. One day I'd like to write about my comfort shopping habit, the different levels of it, and what mood necessitates what purchases. But not right now.

Pajama bottoms are one of my comfort items, though, and thus the cute polka dot shorts seen below. And while I generally just sleep in a Carolina T-shirt, when I stumbled across the shirt, it just had to be mine.

A triptych of a majorette. Or, more simply, a baton twirler. Why did this speak to me? Because for six years, from the ages of 5 to 11, I was a baton twirler.

Circa kindergarten, 1990

I had a lesson every week, parades maybe twice a month in the fall and winter, and a recital in the spring. There were cute costumes with lots of sequins that required shiny tights and a little makeup. For $2 we could get colored tape wound around our baton and for a few dollars more we bought little rubber end caps. Each week after practice we'd get fun pencils and scented stickers.

My sister did it for a few months at the beginning and my mom walked many a parade with me. (She was most definitely not a stage mother, but there were plenty of others that were. Plenty of others.) It was fun to dress up and I even enjoyed the performing.

Circa first grade, 1991

(Incidentally, this was taken shortly after I asked to have all my hair cut off, making this the first rash hair decision of my life. I don't know what emotional event occurred that caused me to do so. Someone stole my pencil box?)

Now, if you think I'm shy now, and you didn't know me as a child, imagine the shyness magnified times 100. But I don't remember any major meltdowns, and my childhood best friend was there all the way. It was just a fine time.

My one regret from this time was never mastering the throw it up, turn, and catch move. (No idea the actual name.) I managed it ONCE, my entire last year of twirling. At the awards ceremony at the end-of-year-recital, each girl did a little twirling on stage as a biographical snippet and list of skills was read. The goal was always to get so good that when you were called, you could do the throw it up, turn, and catch without worrying if you were going to drop it off the stage or throw it in the audience. This was never to be for me. I did, however, win the sportsmanship award out of the 100 other girls my last year. So, take that, bitches who can turn and catch!

Circa third grade, 1993

(Pretty sure I'm wearing more makeup here than I do now.)

Throughout high school I'd see the names of girls I'd twirled with from other schools in the paper, getting awards and such. Or I'd pass girls in the halls at my school that I twirled with but were no longer close to. It's odd now because I know plenty of girls who did ballet or dance or played sports, but I've never met another twirler.

It really was a good time. It was also before I was clumsy so for a short time I got to have a little rhythm and grace. Maybe if I had of stuck with it I would never have found my inner klutz. But that's doubtful. I'd likely have just been concussed or concussed someone else with the baton.

London Calling, Literally

There have been some changes at my work in the past month, one of which is that we now get paid twice a month instead of just once. In other words, I guess I'm like the 99% of the rest of the world and their bi-monthly pay schedule. Boring. The thing is, I complained about it often the past two years. Like when it got down to the end of the month and I had to choose between eating, and not eating. But now, of course, I actually miss getting just the one lump sum at the beginning. The grass is always greener...

So Friday was payday which in my world, no matter how hard I try to fight it, always means shopping! Though I did fight it Friday, at least. I was ready to head to Target after work for some true necessities -- seriously, like laundry detergent and face wash -- but then I got sidetracked by happy hour which got a bit too happy. And as much fun as it might be to shop at Target tipsy, I headed home instead. Which was probably a good idea since when I went Saturday they had something like this:


A foot-tall London phone booth replica. Had I gone Friday after two glasses of wine, you know I would be the proud owner of one. I still might be the proud owner, actually, because I think it's quite cute. Except what I'm really holding out for is the real thing, a la How I Met Your Mother.


They say landlines are dead, and I don't have one now, but if I had this, well actually, I still wouldn't have a landline. But I would just sit inside with my cell phone and be happy. Because London phone booths make me very happy.

Requisite tourist shot. London 2005.

Open Letter of the Week

Dear Columbia Heights Target,

I stood in your snack bar line for 10 minutes on Saturday so I could buy a drink and a pretzel. Everytime I stand in your line you never have what I want to order by the time I get to the register. This time, however, you had a case full of soft pretzels, so I thought I was safe.

HOWEVER, when I finally made it to the register, I was told you didn't have any. "What about those?" I politely asked, pointing to the large, glass holding cell full of deliciously twisted goodness, all the while suppressing my rage and desire to throttle everyone in my path. "Those aren't for sale," was the mind-boggling reply.

Not for sale? A dozen perfectly-fine looking food items on display for all to see, and they aren't for sale? Please, please explain the "logic" of this to me. Or, if that's too much to ask, please consider putting up a sign -- it can be handwritten in eyeliner for all I care -- that says:
Even though these tasty morsels appear to be edible -- looking at you girl who forgot to eat before she left home and is now feeling faint -- they are not in fact for sale.

A little too wordy for you? How about:
Don't eat me
Haha not for you
Can't have

Or simply:
NOT FOR SALE!!!

Anything will do, really, just to prevent me and other people from getting their hopes up and wasting their time.

I love you, Target, I do. And even though people keep getting shot outside of this particular one, I love the location and convenience. But stand between a girl and her pretzel, and it's on.

Sincerely,
Hungry in DC

The problem with sales

Thanks to deals at Target this week, I purchased, among other things, two bottles of wine and two bottles of pain reliever. I’m surprised someone didn’t come up and offer me the number for a suicide hotline.

I also bought a pen with whales on it and a four-pack of toothbrushes, if you are curious.