walk of shame?

The holiday dinner party was wonderful last night!

I ran a quick two miles before I had to go get ready. I didn’t have time to dry my hair, oops! I took the metro to VA and z called to tell me his car was locked in a garage and he couldn’t pick me up, so I had to take the bus. I got nervous that my green beans and shallots wouldn’t have enough time to cook, but everything worked out perfectly!

There was so much amazing food! We had spinach artichoke dip, homemade meatballs (I hear they were tasty), cheese/cognac fondue with bread cubes, roasted green beans with shallots, homemade coconut cake, and an endless flow of red wine! The G’s are amazing hosts and we always have such a good time over there. I have to say, the cake was my favorite part. It was beautiful and delicious! We opened last year’s predictions (mine came true!) and figured out who was the first to puke in 2009…unfortunately, I took that honor. Thank you very much, St. Patrick’s day! We ended up hanging out until after 1am and didn’t get to bed until after 1:30! We had to get up early (not super painful because z made coffee) because I needed to walk to the bus stop, take the bus, and then catch the metro back to my place to get ready for work…It ended up taking a little longer than I had anticipated, so when I got home, I ripped out my contacts, grabbed my lunch…and got in my car. I didn’t have time to shower…or change. So I’m wearing my party outfit to work. HAHA! My hair is a mess, my eyes are bloodshot and I probably have coconut cake on my shirt. Is it still considered a walk of shame…if it’s your boyfriend’s whose house you stayed at?

Breakfast was a Larabar from z and two mini treats:

Salad for lunch: Spinach, blackberries, hearts of palm, walnuts, goat cheese and homemade champagne vinaigrette along with some leftover cold green beans :)

 

 Dressing recipe coming soon.

I have an orange for my afternoon snack, and I’ll probably have another treat  to go with it.  :)

 bored, cold and tired in an apartment near Chinatown.

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