shorty what you drank

This week I had my one-year review at work, the anticipation of which took a few years off my life, but in the end, went better than expected. So much so that I, in fact, was promoted and given a raise ($5 roughly, but still). To celebrate, I put on my summery-est summer dress, rounded the troops, and headed to the basement of St Ex to listen to Motown and drink 40s of Old English until I couldn’t remember where I worked anymore. Woke up in a hedge in Rock Creek Park the next day and got fired. Kidding.

In related sure-fucked-myself-up-there news, my right foot really hurts. I don’t know what I did to it, but it feels like I might have a stress fracture? Bruised bone? Angina? Not a clue. A friend of mine got four free tickets to the Nats game Wed, and I had high hopes of sitting in the upper balcony, wearing my furs, smoking, drinking beer from plastic bottles, and bitching about how Guliani won’t get off my tip. Instead, I spent the night huddled behind the opposing team’s dugout, stealing peanuts from the guys next to us who kept leaving to get more nachos, and whining about my throbbing foot. I have no idea who won (or who they even played for that matter). I left at the 7th inning to hobble home and down half a bottle of Ibuprofen. Its not like I play sports or exercise (bah!), so how did this happen to me? Good thing I have a cushy desk job where I can convalesce while I work (aka=read Perez Hilton).

Anyway, dinner at Coppi’s last night took my mind off my infirmity for a while. This is the perfect date restaurant. We shared a bottle of organic Chianti (don’t remember which, it had a rooster on the neck) that was like heaven and had me on my ass before we’d finished the little plate of tomato-rubbed foccacia they give you. I ordered the Insalata di Spinachi Novelli with roasted red peppers instead of bacon, and we shared the Margherita pizza with fresh basil. Between the wood-burned smell of fresh bread and the Italian wine, the old-timey bicycle décor and the always flattering candle lighting, if you don’t want to have sex with your dinner partner after a meal at Coppi’s, there’s seriously something wrong with you.

Tune in next week when I get my foot checked out and I check into rehab. Happy Friday.