I am a chatty person. I think that if you don't know me, this is at least clear in my excessive run-on sentences and extensive parentheticals. (Sometimes I am very long- winded in an attempt to be humorous/type til I am blue in the face. I am just giving an example here to be slightly ironic. My butt is asleep on the bus to New York. )
This next date was someone who actually, SHOCKINGLY, talked more than I did. Which is a feat.
What I wore: Stuart Weitzman platform clogs that I almost break an ankle in every time I wear them but they look cute and therefore the idea of impending foot doom is negligible, torn white jeans, that I actually poked holes in myself (it's called Funemployment for a reason!), a white and blue silk top (great consignment find, the front half is blue, the back half is white, or vice versa, really the best $8 i've ever spent), Helmut Lang vest with cut-outs on the back that sort of make me feel like Lady Gaga, sans possible male genitalia.
Where we went: The Source. I have to say, more than other entries I want to write about the food because it was awesome. Nice work, Wolfgang. Way to keep it classy. The lamb lettuce cups almost made me forget that my hair was curling due to 102% humidity in DC. Be sure to get that, as well as the tuna tartare.
This date was with someone I had talked to enough before meeting that I figured I could make it through dinner without having to field an emergency Irish Goodbye ("So sorry I have to go, my friend is having a crisis, she may or may not have strained her cornea due to a three hour spree on ShopBop, do you mind if I take the lettuce cups in a Kitty Bag?")
I had never been to The Source, but had heard great things. I was admiring all the monuments while wobbling across the street on my way. I could see the Capitol, i could see the Washington Monument. And the tourists next to me THOUGHT they could see the White House! ("Is that the White House?" Me: "No honey, that's the Capitol." I wish I could say these tourists weren't American. But they were. Le sigh.) I also loved that the Source was attached to the Newseum, a great location to bring an aspiring word-vomiter such as myself.
The dinner was fantastic. I also liked that my date had been there a lot and knew all the wait-staff. He was sort of a big-shot. I can be such a control freak it was nice to let someone else call the shots (shots! shots! shots!) It was clear he was smart, but more than that he was a go-getter.
I spent half the dinner hoping he didn't notice the lettuce wrap that seemed to have jumped off my plate right onto my almost-entirely-white ensemble and adhered itself to my right boob.
We both mostly just talked a lot. To each other, at each other, to the BSC couple seated next to us (Brother Sister Couple, seriously they looked so much alike, it made me feel uncomfortable) to the waiter, to ourselves. There was a lot of talking. After our date I presented Mr. Big Shot with a Vuvuzela, so that he was able to make noise at all times. Maybe if you rewind and look very closely in the World Cup Final you can spot a boy with a Vuvuzela, carefully humming, "try the whole Sea Bass."
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