Alice in Jesusland Part II

Eager to shake loose the looming specter of my own eternal damnation (i.e., another verse of "Holy, Holy, Holy") I fled to the safety of Chinatown with my girls as soon as the gospel choir concluded. Although, even the exodus was a debacle because despite the choir leader announcing that the program had concluded and everyone should help themselves to the tasty snacks in the rear of the room, they had forgotten one thing. So as K and I led the charge to the door, there was suddenly shouting into the microphone: "Wait! Wait! We haven't blessed the food!" Everyone in the room froze and turned around to see the two of us—who were honestly more interested in getting out of the room than anything else—frozen like heathen catburglars, stillettos mid-air like a couple of well-shod Road Runners, right next to a platter of wings and cheese cubes.

Thus followed a tour of the grape- and grain-based delights that our planet has to offer. First stop, Chinatown's La Tasca, the Spanish tapas restaurant. For those of you reading from out of town, that's kind of how our Chinatown rolls, I can't really explain it. Two delicious pitchers of sangria shared among the table washed down delightful treats like smoked salmon on queso de fresca. (Astute friend A's observation: "You're the only one I know who comes to a tapas restaurant and ends up ordering Jewish food.") Next up, Fado. I ordered a G&T that tasted like turpentine and promptly abandoned it for Guinness. This should immediately set off warning bells: I do not drink Guinness because I do not like Guinness. I'm a Harp girl. But for some reason I decided this was a good idea. Then we inherited a round of hard ciders from the guy whom I'd pointed and laughed at near the back bar when seeing he had six of them lined up in front of him. Sheepishly, he said that some other dude had walked up and ordered the drinks, paid for them, and walked out of the bar, indicating that they were for him. So that meant they were for us. Next we went to RFD, which I insisted on referring to as FDR. It was dead, so we lingered only long enough for a lemondrop, which I hear was a popular poison that night. This takes us to the Dupont Circle portion of the evening. (Incidentally, can you hear that? It's the sound of my mother just positively bursting with pride at what a little lady she raised.) So we go to The Front Page to meet up with some other people, but only for a second. The remaining three of us scampered over to Gazuza for mojitos and an eye-watering dose of hookah smoke. The evening concluded with an emergency 2:45 visit to the Big Hunt. And who should be standing at the end of the bar but Good at Drinking, Bad at Life and his boys. There is nothing sweeter than bounding up to a blogger like a puppy and having them not only remember meeting me, but insisting on a round of shots. At least I think that's what happened. In all fairness he might have said "Please step away from me miss, I know karate." And it might not have been GaD. It might have been one of the Bush twins.

Oh, and yet again, the Almighty had the last laugh. I made it to bed at 4 a.m. In my dayplanner for later that morning? A 10 a.m. birthday party with a dozen 2-year-olds.