In Food Money Sex, we ask anonymous Washingtonians to diary the food they ate, the money they spent, and the sex they had over the course of their weekends. Then we put it on the internet. Want to share your weekend? Email Mimi Montgomery at email@example.com. This week:
Does: Nonprofit project management and Georgetown grad student, 24
Relationship status: In a committed relationship (about nine months)
By 11 AM, I’ve had a yogurt parfait and half a cup of coffee with the last of my beans and my body begins to beg for more caffeine. I walk over to Tryst for a Dirty Chai with almond milk for an afternoon pick-me-up to prepare for the night ahead. I return home to a cauliflower chicken stir fry to tide me over until the evening. My boyfriend comes over around 5:30 PM and we head over for happy hour at Agora before my graduate program holiday party in Federal Triangle. The party invitation suggests eating before, since they will have only “light hors d’oeuvres,” so we take their advice to heart—and then some. We order two spreads with pita, the htipiti and labneh, in addition to grilled shrimp and flatbread, which we wash down with a glass of house red wine each. After taking full advantage of the open bar at the event—and mocking the sea of schmoozing suits—we leave to have a nightcap at a bar on our shared iCloud note of food and drink destinations to visit together, the Eastern. After one of my boyfriend’s (alleged) favorite tequila cocktails, and a mediocre one for me, we return home. Craving pasta, I begin a typical drunk cooking endeavor, going for a dressed-up comfort food. I boil some rigatoni and make a vodka sauce topped with gruyere I have left over from Thanksgiving. Booze-ed and carb-ed up, we head to bed.
We sleep in and roll out of bed around 8:30 AM, a stunningly late morning (for us). I blame the alcohol and pasta. Boyfriend leaves for a day of exam studying. I’m still suffering from my badly scheduled coffee bean resupply, so I grab a coffee from the coffee shop down the street for a pre-gym caffeine boost. I head to my gym for a weight training group fitness class and then to Trader Joe’s to pick up ingredients for a dessert I’m taking to a holiday party later that night (and a few extra items I don’t need). I lounge around the rest of the day, snacking on some of the peanut butter-stuffed, chocolate-covered dates I’m bringing. I have some leftover vegetables and chicken before checking the time to see if I can catch the bus, minimizing exposure to the elements (not a winter person) and my expenses. When I go out, I usually leave enough time to use some form of public transit for my first trip, then splurge on a Lyft for when I’m tired (and/or horny) and ready to get home.
My post-spin class breakfast consists of peanut butter and banana toast to tide me over before a day of eating out. I make plans to have lunch with friends at Chercher, an Ethiopian restaurant in Shaw. On my walk over, they mention they are grabbing La Colombe prior to lunch, so I meet them there. LC doesn’t have their canned peppermint draft latte, much to my dismay, so I pick up a vanilla draft instead. We walk over to lunch, where I eat my body weight in injera. From there, I walk back to meet my boyfriend at my apartment. He drives us over to Georgetown and as we walk along the waterfront, he suggests we spontaneously decide to ice skate (is our Type A showing yet?). Afterwards, we head to the Ritz-Carlton, where, as both the only people under 40 and not in cocktail attire, we sit in the lobby and snack on free smores and the house nut mix, while ordering a $10 holiday cocktail as part of their 25 Days of Christmas feature. An overly sweet orange crush vodka drink is placed before us, which we both pretend to enjoy, understanding that the Ritz is likely losing money by having us even sit in their lobby. Nonetheless, we make every attempt to maximize our semi-spontaneous, cringe-worthy holiday date. By now, it’s around 6:30 PM and we’re ready for dinner. We try to dedicate one night per weekend to cooking at home, and tonight is the night. Before leaving Georgetown, we take advantage of our proximity to Baked & Wired to grab a treat for after dinner. I insist on getting the peppermint patty cupcake, while my boyfriend requests the dulce de leche. At home, I prepare an eggplant, tomato, and chickpea casserole from the New York Times cooking section, for which I have all of the ingredients at home from my Trader Joe’s excursion the day before.
Tryst latte ($7.27), snacks and drinks at Agora ($24.35), Uber to the holiday party ($8.86 with 10-percent-off promo), and cocktail at the Eastern ($16.75)
Coffee ($2.69), Trader Joe’s ($30.17), bus to holiday party ($2), Uber to boyfriend’s apartment ($7.18 with 10-percent-off promo), Lyft from boyfriend’s apartment to home ($10.72)
Chercher ($13.64), La Colombe ($3), ice skating ($32), holiday cocktail (boyfriend picked up the tab since I got ice-skating), Baked & Wired cupcakes ($10.25)
Carefully crafting an outfit for my program’s holiday party, I settle on a strapless emerald green jumpsuit, which my boyfriend has complimented the one other instance I’ve worn it with him. After wine at Agora, wine and champagne at the holiday party, and the final cocktail at the Eastern, plus an easy-to-remove, one-piece outfit, we return to my place where we have an ongoing sex feud to fulfill. I’ll explain: my neighbor’s bedroom and my bedroom share a wall, therefore I often hear the chorus of moans from her and her gentleman friend during intercourse (FWIW, this man’s long and loud moans are somewhat a cause for concern). Given our frustration with my neighbor’s sex orchestra, my boyfriend and I (drunk and thinking this is the moment we get them back) attempt dramatic, performative sex noises to return the favor. The drinks we had earlier catch up to us, and we finish without finishing. Hope she enjoyed the concert.
As my DC party shop talk turns into conversations about the non-robotic qualities of the guests, I start to think that socializing isn’t that bad after all. The party is halfway to my boyfriend’s house, so I send a feeler text to see if “he’s up.” He is! I take a quick Uber to his apartment, but the weight of my day catches up to me once I enter his apartment. I promptly slouch on the couch and mope about professional DC socializing, among other things. I leave on a somewhat sour note and take a Lyft home, dry as a bone.
After resolving the outstanding tension from the night before and sharing the dinner I assembled, we turned on Billy on the Street to entertain us before our cupcakes (our classic pre-sex primer). One episode down, we move from the living room to the bedroom. I start getting frustrated with how long I am taking to finish, so we pull out my toy for some assistance. Following the teasing the last two nights, one of alcohol’s volition and the other of my own, I am happy to report that this evening ended with a successful bang, which we rewarded ourselves for with cupcakes after.