Thursday, May 17, 2007

The Smallest Town in the Universe

My theory, as I've said before, is that really, only 400 people live in this town. There's some secret casting agency somewhere that cycles in about 150 or so extras in the background to mix up the scene a bit, but the main cast is 400. That theory is proven every day, but especially yesterday...

Started out by stopping by my fave store, Apres Peau. If you didn't get to stop by the bookstore last night, they still have a few copies of Hugh Newell Jacobsen's book available. And if you see some calligraphy around the store, that's mine! (couldn't afford a calligrapher when I got married eons ago, so I became one). And, on another side note, if Politics and Prose is out of signed copies of Momzillas, there are still a few left at Borders at the Biltmore Fashion Park in Phoenix, and they will ship!

...but I digress. Anyway, headed to lunch with a fabulous editor-just really cool, smart, just dig her. Turns out that we have a lot in common--she is friendly with the greatest stationer of all time, my great friend Nick at R. Nichols, went to high school across the street from the restaurant where I worked all through college and knows all of the kids I used to manage, just lots of funny random things like that. Had a great time.

We lunched at Mio, which opened on Vermont-yesterday was its first day for lunch. The decor: beautiful. The food: meh. Server not so overly well trained, the first three things we asked for were not available, the dessert was, well, kind of gross. It was their first day, so I will cut them a bit of slack on most, but don't know if I'll go back for a while.

Walking out of the restaurant, I bumped into three of my favorite women from the job I left just a few months ago. I was just down the street from my old office, so not entirely a fluke, but still. The people I worked with were phenomenal--smart, hilarious, cool co-workers all, but I don't miss it the job itself, not even a little bit. They said that they were just talking about the fact that they missed having me around--they may have just been saying that to be nice, but it still made me a little happy inside nonetheless.

Next, a flurry of racing around, traffic, picking up my big boy three year old (!) son-seriously, where have THREE YEARS gone?, then off to the Poste party--client was one of the sponsors. Hung out with some more favorite peeps--some hostesses from my Marimekko event last week, some more just way cool editors and their bfs, and the most hilarious publisher of all time, Peter Abrahams. Such a good guy. Such a smartass. The rain didn't keep the crowds away at all--it was a great bunch.

Next, off to the CF party at Ceviche in Silver Spring. The Shues: both just as good looking in person. Was dying to meet Andrew, but knew that I would be all Melrose-Place-blathery, so didn't bother. While chatting with some peeps, a woman joined the conversation. She started talking about data--I'm one of those weirdos who Just. Loves. Data. Number crunching makes me ohsoveryhappy. Strategic analysis? Sends me over the moon.

Anyway, she dropped the fact that she works for a huge company known for their statistical analysis. It was a few cocktails into the evening, but the name still rang familiar. Then it dawned on me: that was my old company (they've changed their name) that I left just last July. She worked on my old events, I think she may even be in my old office. I was at Ceviche in Silver Spring, and my old office was in Chantilly, VA, so that was just the strangest coincidence of the evening.

Party started clearing out, so off I headed, down East-West, back to my little house, soon to be a slightly bigger house once our renovation is done (maybe 2 weeks!). Tucked in my little sweet baby boy, knowing that it was a futile effort--ever since he was born and he was like Houdini getting out of his swaddling, he's hated being confined, hated being told what to do. No idea where he gets that at all (coughcough).

Then off to sleep, on to my next day, my next big adventure. I love my job.

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