I’ve had a string of weekends of the sort that I used to take for granted in DC – flitting from one date with friends to another, wandering the city in flip-flops, slowly draining a bottle of wine over dinner.
Of course, in some ways it’s even better than DC. For starters, the kicked bottle of wine was purchased at a liquor store around the corner for $10 (nothing satisfies the frugal alcoholic in me like a good BYO), and the person sitting across the table was my boyfriend, who now lives with me, instead of 3.5 hours away. How cool is that?
We started off the weekend with drinks with some med school kids at a bar that seemed like it had been transplanted from Brooklyn, except for the ever-present pints of Yuengling. I was happy and warm enough to skip my way home and tipsy enough to justify eating nachos at 2 a.m.
The next morning, we meandered down to Rittenhouse, which was legit dappled with sun (see photo), though also blasted by wind, which didn’t work out so well for the kid with the eyes that were recently shot with lasers (and hence must be protected by obnoxious aviators. Doctor’s orders.)
We later had the good fortune to get off the wait list for a table at Matyson, which I firmly believe is the best BYO in Philly. I could tell you all about the tuna tartare and coconut creme pie, but I’d say the most important aspect of the meal was the fact that it was paid for by the $92 I found on the sidewalk on Thursday. Karma, bitches!
And then, the next morning, we went out for brunch with Dave’s parents and little brother for mother’s day. It was pretty much like every other mother’s day I’ve ever had, with the card and the bouquet of roses and the over-priced egg dishes, just minus my mom.
I was actually originally planning on writing all about the holiday meal here, instead of boring you to death with the details of my totally normal weekend. (Even though, duh, that’s the brilliance of it – I had a totally normal weekend! Devoid of tears and destroyed cakes!)
But for better or worse, the ‘wow, it’s so weird being with someone else’s mom on mother’s day!’ thing never really happened. It honestly didn’t feel unnatural or awkward at all, except for the part where Dave’s mom casually mentioned they had gotten the bar mitzvah photos back, and, hmmm, she hadn’t realized that I had taken it upon myself to join in the game of Coke and Pepsi. (And with such, um, vigor. The vigor that comes from being wasted.)
I didn’t know whether to feel mortified and regretful, or just plain grateful that my embarrassing moment of the day didn’t have anything to do with the fact that it was the second Sunday in May.