I'm so bi-coastal, call me a metrosexual.

Wait-- can girls BE metrosexual? Anyway, took a weekender trip to DC. Ho-leee HANNAH was it fun. I got together with some very dear girlfriends from a previous life and DAMN if they all didn't look fantastic and yet basically the same. Seven years, and you'd think one of them would have grown a conjoined twin or something-- but no go. They all looked fabulous and were twice as much fun.

The group of us met when we worked for a facist dictatorship in Washington DC, an econometrics firm where we were belittled, befuddled, and became braindead. The firm is still there and thrives like some third world regime... and like prisoners of war, we bonded; each of us eventually making our own daring escapes.

The event was a celebration of the 40th anniversary of the birth of our dear friend Viola. When invites went out, some of us politely declined, and showed up on her doorstep anyway, ready to eat her out of house and amazingly-palatial-estate-like home.

It was a fantastic party, complete with disco balls, tiaras and a DJ spinning classics like Michael Jackson's PYT and of course, Abba's Dancing Queen. Even better, there were a bunch of thirty-cum-forty-something women, who survived many of the horrors of their twenties and lived to tell about it... through the art of drunken interpretive dance in said basement.