The weekend began with a post-work trek on Friday to Tyson’s Corner for Thai food and shopping with two very fun gals. Dinner was tasty enough, but I have yet to find a Thai restaurant that has really impressed me. We were all in search of the perfect top to wear to the party the next day. As with all my shopping trips, I struggled to find exactly what I wanted. Something fun, not just black, flattering and, of course, boobytastic.
At 8:45 in Express, I finally found the shirt. It was all black, but it’s cleavage-enhancing properties made up for its lack of color.
Saturday. I was basically lazy throughout the afternoon, and started getting ready for the kickball party at 6ish. I wanted to be at the party early, at 7, which meant I had to leave my house by 6:15 (10 minute or so walk to Metro, wait for red line train, 20 minute ride to Farragut). I like to give myself an hour to get ready for parties. So I should’ve started that at 5:15.
6:05 – Heat up curling iron and hot rollers. Realize that plans to get to party at 7 are not possible. Begin playing fun music playlist.
6:10 – Hair is in rollers. Apply green goopy facial mask. Loosely holding rollers are falling into green goopy mask, casugin green goop to stick to hair. Realize that I really should’ve done goopy mask before I started doing hair.
6:25 – Mask is washed off and most of the dried up chunks are picked out of strands of loose hair. Try on second black bra since first one just didn’t perk the boobs up enough. Second bra disappoints me. Third bra works well, except it’s not plain black. Tiny bright flowers decorate the bra, but I’ll just hope that it all stays covered up enough.
6:27 – Maybe I should just not wear this shirt. Try on second black top in front of full-length mirror. Behind me is a wide-open closet with the door directly behind me, blocking half of the hallway. I spin on my heels to go to the kitchen and smack my head, and the rest of me, into the wooden door. If I were in a sit-com, the laugh track would’ve been played right then.
7:19 – New black shirt with perfect bra is being worn. Toss aside gray skirt for jeans. Hair is finally in place after using flat iron, two different-sized curling irons and hot rollers (I just couldn’t decide how I wanted it). Make up is applied. I decide on a cute pair of black open-toed shoes that aren’t comfortable to walk in. I throw on my flip flops and carry the shoes in my hand. (Sidenote on the black shoes: I got them in college, so yeah, they’re a little old. I also didn’t really look at them when I pulled them from the closet.) No time to paint toenails, so I throw a bottle of polish into my purse, opting to paint them on the metro.
7:23 – Stop at Potbelly’s on the way to Metro station to get a sandwich since I really hadn’t eaten anything, and I knew that I’d want to line my stomach. There’s a family with three kids in front of me. The line is really long. The kids, probably no older than 7, are really slowing things down. They pull out cans of Sprite Zero (formerly known as Diet Sprite) from the cooler. Mom tells them she doesn’t like them drinking pop (or soda as you may call it), yet she lets them have it anyway. They then each take a bag of chips. Mom says there is too much salt, they shouldn’t eat those, yet again, she lets them keep the bags. Is this a new style of parenting?
Finally, it’s my turn to order my sandwich, turkey on white with provolone cheese. While waiting, I open my can of Diet Coke (grown ups can drink whatever they want). After all the kids, Mom and Dad (who has two sandwiches for himself) add their toppings, I move up, stand tip toe to see over the counter.
The next sandwich off the belt is ham and cheese. I wait as the person behind me moves ahead to claim her ham sandwich.
I see two more sandwiches come through, both with wheat and not turkey. The Sandwich Accessorizer asks what I had. She yells the order to the one who clearly just somehow forgot to place my turkey in the toaster even though that was her only responsibility at the time.
“No, stop. I don’t have time for this.” There were at least seven other sandwiches behind me. I’m hungry, so I’m cranky anyway. Now, I’m annoyed because I’m going to be late for the party and not have a Potbelly sandwich I had been craving all day — or at least for 10 minutes.
I would’ve just walked out, but I already drank 3/4 my can of Diet Coke, so I go to the counter and pay for it. A manager is standing there and he asks what’s wrong. I quickly explain, asking how could they just forget my sandwich?
“I’m really sorry, miss. You don’t owe us anything. Here take this cookie — it’s my favorite. I hope you’ll try us again on another day.”
I take the cookie and pop, and I walk out. I do like their oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. I eat it on the way to the Metro station. Don’t worry Mr. Potbelly Manager. I will be back. I like the sandwiches too much to not return. Unlike some other restaurants in Silver Spring (Tastee Diner), I know my bad experience at Potbelly was an exception to the norm.
The train arrives as I step off the escalator. Usually, this is good, especially when running late. But tonight, I wanted the chance to paint my toes on the platform. Of course, that wasn’t happening.
I take a seat and tug at the polish cap. OF COURSE! It’s stuck. I pull out my key and begin to saw away at the cap/brush. As specks of black plastic dust my coat, I am thinking how this can only cause a bad thing. I will either break my house key (that’d be bad since Wooha was away for the weekend), or I will shatter the glass in my hand, causing some red shade of Opi to spill everywhere, including the black shirt I so meticulously picked out.
At about Union Station, I finally get the key under the cap and SNAP. The neck of the glass bottle breaks off. Finally, I can get to the polish. But I won’t be able to keep it sealed up. I paint my toes anyway (Of course red is all my toes and flip flops). At Farragut North, my stop, I toss the polish into the garbage can. Somewhere on the Internet, someone is blogging about how they couldn’t believe some girl was painting her nails on the train, that they were sickened by the smell and how rude. Sigh. I know. I’m sorry. But paintless toe nails are a serious crime in some circles.
Of course I take the wrong exit out of the station and I have to walk the longest possible way to the bar.
8:23 – I get to the bar, I take off my flip flop, put on right black shoe. All is well. I’m looking good, and I’m ready to party all night long. Put on left shoe.
Stop. Wait. Something is wrong.
Take off shoe and look. OF COURSE!
A peg or something from the heel is breaking through the sole. There’s a stump at the heel. I’m going to have to wear yucky cheapo CVS flip flops all night! Luckily, since they were high heels, most of my foot’s weight rested closer to the toes. So I kept on the shoes, even though the heel kept wobbling. I was just waiting for it to break away from me after a few beers and a few minutes on the dance floor.
Luckily again, nothing broke, and I managed to wear the cute shoes all night. Other than being sworn at by the bartender and harassed by the bouncer, the shoe incident was the last mishap of the night. I had fun at the party, a great way to celebrate the end of my six season as a kickball player.
Getting home after the bar closed at 2:30 was actually much less eventful. Of course, I fell asleep on the train, and of course, I decided I could make chicken parmesan when I got home. Because I can’t make it sober, but I’m Julia Child when I’m hungry and tipsy.
