Tonight was the party for our 2010 Fashion Awards. I’ve wanted to do a best dressed list since I came to Washington Life mag in 2008, and while I only got to highlight 35 people, it was still one of my favorite Washington Life projects. We celebrated those who don’t dress like color blind hill staffers at the gorgeous Textile Museum and I got to run around with an enormous grin plastered to my face. While I babbled about why we did the list, and what an honor it was to have folks in our city who don’t consider Ann Taylor high fashion, my interns Carley, Ali, and Ansley worked the door under Kelly Fisher’s watchful eye.
We had some practice at the office before the actual event, being sure to pick out people on the list we weren’t fond of and mock asking them to step to the side while we dealt with some VIPs. Clearly we have all been to snotty bars far too often because we had the routine down pat. “What did you say your last name was? We just don’t have you on the list. Please step to the side while I check in these guests.” It’s so fun to be a keeper of a list. Oh the power!
Of course the four of them were sweet as pie muscling the check in, but I know not one party crasher made it through. No one at Washington Life wants a Salahi scandal on their hands!
A gem in Kalorama is how I described the Textile Museum. Mostly because I tend to have verbal vomit when giving speeches, but also because the place is a gem.
At 6:30 this morning I woke up with a start wearing full makeup and half my pajamas. A sudden panic came over me. One, I was so hungover I thought I might perish. Two, I didn’t remember if I had finished my blog post. In the three months that Stacey and I have been writing Naked Thanks, I have written after midnight mass, after coming home on new year’s eve, and yes, slightly intoxicated. But never had I tried to finish a post so inebriated that I barely knew my own name.
I rushed to my computer and saw that I had published gobbledegook. Random sentences not even put together in a paragraph about one of my best friends. Plus, I had scanned five pages from my camp journal. No one wants to read five pages about me making out with Dean Herger behind cabin 11. I deleted all but one journal page, made the entry as good as I could with whiskey shots still coursing through my veins and passed out for three more hours.
Now how on earth did I find myself in this irresponsible state? Two open bars and trance music.
The day started so well. I slept 1o hours, I went to the gym, and gussied myself up for the Washington opera’s mid-winter ball, a very very civilized affair. And I had the composure to match. Two drinks and not one shimmy. But then came a young donors event in Adams Morgan and my common sense decided to stay at the opera.
I drank like it was my very first college party. I drank my interns under the table. I then went to Steak and Egg diner and ate enough calories to double my body weight in one evening (This actually might have happened because this morning I broke a chair when I sat in it.) Craig announced that he should hold my arm because I might fall on the ice and then he proceeded to fall on his butt. We were a disaster. But I’ve learned my lesson. I’m no Jack Kerouac. Liquor and blogging are a painful combination.
This is pretty much what I looked like at 2 am while scarfing melted cheese and lard.
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