Yesterday we ventured into the Land of the Affluent White Washingtonian to visit with friends, eat food, and watch a parade, it being Fourth of July and all.
The parade is a neighborhood tradition. It features great clots of kids on decorated bikes:
Funny cars (Joe wants one of these very badly. As do I.):
Girls in crowns:
And people on horses:
And every politician in DC, from the Mayor on down.
Our friends were going to host the cookout, but their other friends thought it might be better to have it at their house, and so we shouldered our watermelon and trundled across the street to mingle, eat, drink, and watch the kiddies soak each other with squirt guns.
I hung out in the kitchen, mostly listening because I really only knew my one friend, when it occurred to me that everyone in the kitchen was female. Not only that, they were all involved in some type of culinary prep work.
I looked outside. Sure enough, all the guys were sitting around the table, drinking margaritas and telling big lies.
Did I want to hang out in the kitchen and work, or sit on my ass outside and drink margaritas with several rather good looking men?
I did help clean up, though.