Of course the minute I decide to do something nice for myself the economy tanks and I'm thrown into a spiral of guilt and (figurative)self-flagellation. Why did I buy a new couch and a new rug? Why did I let James pay for front row seats to Kathy Griffin's show in DC? Or for a ridiculous room at the Mandarin Oriental?
Cuz I'm effing fabulous, yo. Duh.
The past few weeks have been fraught with stress. To boot, my home looks like a flop house. Dainty, particular, neat-freak gays we are not - James and I - as our poorly timed redecorating project has our home stinking of turpentine. My efforts to turn our studio into Marie Antoinette's parlor as envisioned by Gianni Versace circa 1990 by way of ABC Carpet & Home are certainly, slowly, killing James and myself. At the moment I am living in a nightmare of gold trim, blue paint, and worn brown leather.
So we took the weekend off from things domestic and bolted down to DC where we set up a bunker at the Mandarin. Yes, sights were seen - but the highlight of the weekend was room service, watching Gossip Girl in the jacuzzi (our bathroom was huge!) and sippin maritas in the hotel bar overlooking the Potomac. I've been to DC so many times in the past three months that I didn't need to go out and explore, I just needed to be away from my apartment, away from New York, and left alone.
And how was Ms. Griffin's show? Amazing. Highlights: Michelle Obama is Blackie-O and Teri Hatcher either has to fess up to an obscene amount of plastic surgery or explain why she woke up looking Korean one day.
Pix from the trip:
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