Traveling the two hours into the glossy metropolis that is Washington, D.C. is always slightly strange to me. To understand why, you must first understand that in my veins flows the blood not of an ultra-sleek, city-wise sweetheart, but of gas station cupcake-eating white trash.
I ask for "go-cups" for my Diet Coke at the end of meals at every restaurant I attend (because the menu says "all you can drink," not "all you can drink here," and I intend on getting my money's worth) out of habit and enjoy 7-11 Slurpees in a variety of flavors.
I like the "baby's daddy" episodes of Jerry Springer (as they tend to be the most exciting).
I balk at paying full price for anything and, upon meeting someone from Long Island my first year, revealed my low-rent history by informing her, "The difference between you and me is that you party in the Hamptons and I party at the Hampton Inn."
Indeed, as I first reported a year ago following my first visit to D.C., I am far from comfortable in the nation's capital.
But despite my white trash roots, I am a creature of comforts. Thus when a friend of mine, a suave socialite who attended high school in Georgetown, invited me to accompany her to D.C. for a night of hockey and luxury, I could not miss it. There were front-row Capitals tickets involved and, as I usually get tickets in the "obstructed view" section at sporting events, I couldn't pass up this opportunity. I knew that whatever happened on this trip to Washington, it would beat the last one, which featured making the trip on a Greyhound bus (still questioning whether I am really white trash?) and getting so intimidated during my internship interview that I forgot how old I was. Whatever. Forgetting your age when you have been 20 for nine months is totally legit.
It did not take Suave Socialite, myself, and our third companion, another bona fide city girl, long to get into the "vay-cay" mentality. For Suave Socialite and City Girl, this meant getting amped about ordering fine champagne up to our hotel suite pre-hockey game. For me, this meant getting amped about ordering the two-sandwich combo at Arby's before we even got past Best Buy. Hey, a girl's got to eat.
Our trio arrived in Washington just in time to pound the aforementioned champagne, dress in what we thought was appropriate attire, and get stuck in rush hour traffic on the way to the game. The minutes lost in the traffic jam meant we had to descend the stairs with everyone else already seated.
This would not have been so bad if the clothing we had picked had been hockey game-appropriate. It was not. We were three scantily clad girls ready for a night on the town awash in a sea of jerseys and oversized sweatshirts. This prompted one curious individual to look at her companion and ask, "Are they hookers?" My parents would be so proud.
I would like to say that the game passed without incident, but it did not. Apparently, people who sit in the front row directly behind the players bench generally do not bang on the partition and scream obscenities at the players and coach the way Suave Socialite (or maybe Shrill Socialite at this point?) was doing. I have to say, it frightened me somewhat when she chose to scream, "STOP SUCKING! Take your skirts off and start playing!" at the team's enforcer (think a grown-up Fulton Reed from the Mighty Ducks movies) with a mere half-centimeter of Plexi-glass separating us from his wrath. Just because I watch Springer does not mean I know how to brawl.
After the game, Suave Socialite convinced City Girl and I to pull a heist-like operation in an attempt to gain access to the Capitals players. I have had very few positive experiences with heists and was unsure I wanted to be near the players without my Plexi-glass divider, considering the heckling Suave Socialite had laid on them earlier.
But it was decided that City Girl and Suave Socialite should try to get to the players by saying they had boyfriends on the team.
There were two problems with this plan, however. These problems went by the names of Jeanine and Roberta, two taser-wielding security guards who did not seem to think that our "boyfriends" would have "forgotten" to leave us passes to E-Level (a.k.a. the hockey player promise land). I believe the words, "Exit the premises immediately" were thrown at us by Jeanine. In my frame of reference, that means, "Get the hell out of here before I beat you with my club."
I watch enough "COPS" to know that was our cue to leave, but City Girl still attempted to make her case by screaming, "God, my boyfriend is such a bastard. He's done this before. I'm going to have to bitch him out," to which Roberta nodded heartily. There is not a doubt in my mind that Roberta's boyfriend is completely whipped.
We never did get to meet the players, but, on the upside, we also did not spend the night in the D.C. jail with actual hookers. This most recent trip to the capital affirmed my suspicion that the city will never really be my element. I will always get a little nervous and lost in crowds, I will never be chic enough to pull off wearing black satin to a hockey game and I will always act like a little kid in nice restaurants, exclaiming things like, "Why would we EVER leave here? I want to LIVE in this booth!"
Washington was and always is amazing, but I will always feel most at home with an Arby's melt in one hand and a go-cup in the other -- dressed in an outfit that would never get me confused as a hooker.
Erin's column runs bi-weekly on Mondays. She can be reached at gaetz@cavalierdaily.com.
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