Strokes and Blows to My Ego

My Semester in Washington was over.

My parents came to pack me up and bring me home.  And so continued my selfish habit of choosing expensive restaurants during visits.

While Peter had invited us to a holiday party hosted by his parents, I made ressies at the Capital Grille, which of course was contingent on the restaurant not recognizing me when I walked in the door.

I invited Reporter to dinner, but Bill & Ken made alternate plans that evening.  The House of Representatives gathered for the first time in 130 years to debate the impeachment of a President.  Reporter called several hours before he was supposed to meet my parents.  The magazine was sending him to cover deliberations.  Hopefully, it would wind down quickly, and he could join us for dessert.  He hung up the phone.

Well, damn.

History reveals Reporter endured speeches from over two hundred members of Congress throughout thirteen hours.  I wouldn’t be lucky enough for a good-bye booty call.


Putty came into my room seconds after I hung up with Reporter.  He was returning a whole lot of 80s CDs I didn’t remember lending him.

Well hell, he’ll do.

In hindsight, what was Putty thinking?  Meeting the parents of a one night stand knowing that her first choice date might show up?  Regardless, just the allure of free steak and he showed up wearing a coat and tie looking his regular handsome self.  Rock on.

I have to admit, it was a hell of an ego boost to tell my parents that my date wasn’t joining us because he was needed to cover a historical event.  He was just that important, and by association so was I.  It didn’t hurt that Putty had to hear this again too.  Putting a handsome man in a lower pecking order was just fuel to my fire.

“Oh, Mom and Dad, this is Putty.  He’ll be joining us instead.”

Any debauchery at the Fox News party was forgotten, and instead of being bounced we were seated in a leather booth without incident. I guess without surprise, Putty got along famously with my family.

All of a sudden, Putty’s charm rubbed some of the shine off Reporter.   Maybe he wasn’t so great after all.  Certainly, Reporter wasn’t above condescension.  Once I showed up to our date wearing a camel hair blazer, and he asked me if I knew what fabric I was wearing.  What kind of question is that?  Dude, I know my camel hair versus cashmere.  What did he think?  That we had a Henry Higgins/Eliza Doolittle situation going on here?

That night my Mom and I fought our way through the crowded bar to the bathrooms.  When we finally maneuvered through, my Mom told me I had turned a few heads.  It was precisely the validation of the “new D.C. me” I wanted.  I was confident and on the rise, and even strangers could feel my powerful presence.  I would go on to achieve, inspire, lead, succeed, transform, and win at all things!

Me!  Me! Me!

Or they turned because they thought I was Monica.

Damn, that blows.

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