I'm not what you would call a great flyer. The idea of voluntarily climbing into a cramped steel capsule with a hundred or so other people and launching thirty-thousand feet in the air goes against human nature. But nothing gets in the way of friendship, least of all a two-hour flight. TSA security at Mitchell was a breeze; then again, being a young, Anglo-Saxon female, I don't exactly fit the mold for terrorist profiling. The screener did ask me to take off my sweater, which I found a bit unnecessary, but whether my sweater appeared to be a threat to national security or he just wanted a better look at my cleavage, I'm also not one to make a scene at TSA.
Once the bone rattling takeoff is over, I'm usually too mesmerized by the scenic view of earth to be nervous or nauseous. I simply stare as thousands of quilted farm fields melt away and there's nothing left but miles of whipped cream clouds. A club soda and a quick read through Vanity Fair and the ground reappeared to reveal our nation's capital. It's been ten years since I was in DC and last time around I was too young to drink legally so I was all prepped to see an entirely different side of this place from the platform of a bachelorette party. The landing strip at Reagan National Airport starts just past the edge of the Potomac. Just as I was bracing for a water landing and frantically clutching my seat cushion, we landed on solid ground. As the plane touched down, I said to myself, "bring on the booze, politics and strippers!"
After spending the afternoon with my bachelorette best friend, trekking down Capitol Hill to the Obamas' house and then back up again, and picking up the rest of the party at the airport, we were ready for some refreshments. A good friend and former DC resident told me a must stop was the Brickskellar in Dupont Circle.
To get there the four of us hopped on the Metro. That was an experience. The Metro worked like the tide coming in. Two people would hop off and a huge wave would get on. I'm all about public transportation but I don't love the idea of feeling a stranger's breath on my neck or the possibility of someone rifling through my purse while my arms are trapped at my sides. We headed down into the basement known as Brickskellar. The beer menu there looks like a table of contents for War and Peace it's so long. Each of us picked something different and passed our drinks so everyone could get a taste of expensive, foreign, high alcohol content brews. It reminded me a lot of the nooks and crannies you find at the Memorial Union in Madison - nice and cozy. But we couldn't stay long.
At last, we headed to dinner and off to a birthday party chock full of law students, assistants to political big wigs and frosting-laden cupcakes from a place called Red Velvet. Finally we made it back to the Bachelorette's row house atop Capitol Hill where we slept off our drinks and sweets.
In the morning we headed to the Eastern Market, which is an amazing outdoor/indoor market where local vendors sell everything from jewelry to produce. I highly recommend a stop there if you have plans to visit DC. Some lunch and we were home again to doll up before the big night.
After a few hours of champagne, gifts, games and by far the best pudding filled penis cake I've ever had, we arrived via cab at Alero, a spicy, trendy Mexican restaurant on U Street. Margaritas, penis straws and a pack of girls already half in the bag, oh my! The food was very good; the decor was dark and sultry.
I hadn't really noticed a rude attitude in DC until we went to a bar called Marvin, with a chic, young crowd, very little seating and a bar full of bartenders not necessarily that interested in helping you. As I was waiting in line to get a drink, a girl got up from her stool but did not leave a hat, coat, purse or reserved sign to say she'd be right back. I didn't want her seat. I just wanted a drink and, with that proximity to the bar, I figured I'd be long gone if she did indeed return. Well, it took FOREVER to get a drink and the girl came back to sit so I moved down as much as I could. She was not impressed and said in a voice that sounded like teeth on a chalkboard, 'Um, maybe you could move!' while thrusting her elbow into my ribcage.
Being the sweet, Midwestern gal that I am, I thought, ‘if she had even attempted to ask me nicely, I'd have happily scooted further, but now, I feel it is not only my right but my patriotic duty to piss this chick off for the next ten minutes.' So my drink finally made its way to me and I turned to the back of Bitchy's head and yelled, 'There, now your big fat ass can sit down.' I turned on a dime and stomped away hoping she would leave it at that because she was indeed in an entirely different weight class and would likely have pummeled me.
I get that EVERYONE in DC is perpetually busy and in a hurry, but the need to be blatantly rude to someone is beyond me. Can you imagine being a tourist from another country and having that happen? Wherever you are, Bitchy, I hope I made you feel a little bit bad for acting the way you did.
From there we met up with some more friends and headed to Town -- the largest gay bar I have ever seen. We walked in just in time for an amazing drag show, during which one of the members of our party was brought out to dance and somehow ended up locking lips with the Beyonce look alike. There is nothing like seeing a svelte man look better in a dress than you do to make you reconsider your dinner choices.
Apparently at Town, all the bathrooms are unisex no matter what the sign on the door says. A little surprising, but only for a moment. The combo of textured tights and a pair of the highest heels I own were going to leave me crippled by the end of the night so I not so discreetly took off both before deciding I could dance on stage just as well as these gorgeous gay men whom I swear must have all been personal trainers.
Long story short, a very rough Sunday later, during which we should have been out walking around Georgetown's campus and enjoying the 75 degree weather, we spent in coma's enjoying water, crackers and a law and order marathon. However, we managed to muster enough enthusiasm to have a cookout and stay up until 1:30 in the morning talking like middle school girls at a sleepover.
And just like that, my trip to our nation's capital was over and it was time to fly home. A series of airline customer service issues left me on a flight six hours after my original flight had long left the runway. But that's a story for another day.
Out of sheer boredom from making small talk with me or some rare form of airplane narcolepsy, my seat neighbor literally passed out cold the minute we began taxiing the runway and did not move again until we landed at Mitchell. So I passed the time with my new-found friend, Chelsea Handler, who, by the way, is now on my list of must meet celebs. Her book, ‘Are You There, Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea' nearly had me laughing out loud on the plane.
All in all, it was one hell of a weekend. I do regret not seeing Georgetown, the place my friend has spent her days, nights and weekends for four years. I definitely regret drinking as much as I did Saturday and feeling the way I did Sunday, but hey, I'll recover. Actually I have to. I'll be headed to Miami in two weeks to do it all again. Get ready, Sunshine State!
No, the OnMilwaukee.com sex columnist's real name is not Sarah Foster. (Foster is the model/actress that played an ex-lover of Vincent Chase in the first season of "Entourage.") In reality, our sex columnist is a Wisconsin native with a degree in journalism and a knack for getting people to talk to her.
Sarah never considered herself an "above average" listener. Others, however, seem to think differently. Perhaps she has a sympathetic tone or expression that compels people to share their lives and secrets with her despite how little they know her. Everyone from the girl that does her hair to people in line at the grocery store routinely spill the details of their lives and relationships to Sarah, unprompted but typically not unwanted. It’s strange to her that people would do this, but she doesn’t mind. Sarah likes that she can give advice even if it is to complete strangers.
So why the pseudonym? Simple. People tell Sarah these things because for some reason they trust her. They believe she cares and therefore will keep their secrets in a locked vault the same way a best friend or therapist would. Sarah won't name names, but that vault is now unlocked.
