Communication Is Not Always Key

No Comprende
Ingredients:
1 oz Tequila
1 oz Vanilla Stoli
1 oz Banana Liqueur
1 oz Ginger Ale
Banana and Maraschino Cherry, for garnish

Directions:
Fill a lowball glass with ice. Combine the tequila, Stoli Vanilla, banana liqueur, and ginger ale in a cocktail shaker, and shake. Strain into the glass. Garnish with a maraschino cherry and a banana wedge.


My greatest mentor once told me there’s nothing better in life than travel sex, preferably in a non-English speaking country. Taking a sleeping pill on my way to Costa Rica, I decided it might be time to experience this first hand. After all, what good was having a mentor if you never took her advice.

Landing in San Jose, I took in the smell of rich coffee and hot pavement, and felt more alive than I had in years. With my past left behind and my future on hold, I could simply exist in the moment as my mother had always done. Completely disoriented, I stepped into the littered city street, elated that I had no idea where I was going. With no agenda, I wandered through the crowded markets, taking it all in, particularly the tan blue-eyed men selling empanadas. Wanting to make the most of every moment, I ordered two beef empanadas, and flashed my most available smile. Romance was definitely in the air!

Three weeks later, I was drying up on a deserted beach in Panama after ten straight days of flooding. Still pale and un-romanced, I decided a sunburn might brighten the mood. Smearing my pale skin with coconut oil, I gleefully offered my body to the sun god as my girlfriend Salima read The Alchemist under an umbrella. While her naturally tan skin led Panamanians to believe she was a local, she was Indian and didn’t speak a word of Spanish. To their disappointment, she’d simply smile and point to the sunburned white girl for any basic questions. Luckily, my second-degree burn turned into a tanned peel whilst we trekked back to Costa Rica for our return flight.

Arriving in the small town of Santa Ana, I decided to soak in as much “pura vida” as possible on our last night. I had traveled enough to know that the moment I boarded the plane, my past, present and future would slide back onto the grid. Once I crossed the border, I’d be back on the clock. And while there had been nothing particularly “romantic” about the trip, there had also been nothing predictable, and for that I celebrated with a free shot of tequila from the local bartender.

“Es tu cumpleanos?” I asked the perfectly tanned bartender in my remedial Spanish confirming that it was his twenty-first birthday. I turned to my friend to translate the obvious. “It’s his twenty-first birthday,” I repeated licking the salt off my hand. “I love birthdays!” I squealed as I downed the shot.

Three rounds later, I was swimming in enough pura vida that I believed the tan blue-eyed twenty-one year old bartender had a crush on me. At least that’s what Salima thought. As he lined another round of drinks on the bar, I realized the advantage to small town romances. This young Costa Rican who had the refined good looks of a Calvin Klein model had absolutely zero awareness of it. Feeling lucky, I smiled in his direction, and then turned to my friend to shake the tequila off. “We are so going dancing tonight.”

That night, we squeezed into a local deli turned nightclub where Roberto, my Spanish-speaking bartender, quickly pulled me onto the dance floor. Without warning, I started to sweat through my long-sleeve t-shirt that was fittingly, white. Dancing next to a row of deli meat, Roberto moved my hips to the music, and then pulled my long-sleeve shirt over my head. I looked around, uncomfortable in my black camisole, until he pressed his hand into my lower back with such authority that my hips gave way. Grinding to the music, the room started to fade until all I could hear was Shakira’s rhythmic moaning in a moment I was sure would pass for travel sex.

The next day, Roberto took me to a local ice cream parlor where we shared a perfectly uncomplicated strawberry ice cream cone. Communicating through looks and smiles. Through nods and touches. Through everything that made me feel like staying in this small town, at least for another week. When I finally stepped into the cab, I didn’t feel sad or lonely. It was impossible to. Roberto slid into the seat next to me, insistent on taking me to the airport. Driving through the city, I realized that the boy who had just turned twenty-one knew the value of going all the way.

As I made my way to the gate, I turned back to savor the last few moments with my crush. Roberto called out to me in a tender voice that I’ll never forget, and said the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. Only I couldn’t understand a single word he said.

Suggested Number of Drinks:

In case you forgot who Corey Hart is...

Or missed the eighties:

Everyone Loves Corey Hart

Blind Bastard
Ingredients:
1 Espresso Shot (Chilled)
2 oz Vodka
4 oz Pineapple Juice
Grand Marnier
Slice of Orange and Mint Leave, for garnish

Directions:
Put three ice cubes in a lowball glass. Combine the espresso, vodka, and pineapple juice in a cocktail shaker with ice, and shake. Strain mixture into the glass. Finish with a float of Grand Marnier. Garnish with a slice of orange and mint leave.


There’s nothing like a crowded bar full of Hollywood executives to make Minnesota look like heaven on Earth. At least that’s how I pictured it as I queued up outside of Nacional just to get a drink. I was halfway to Saint Paul when Melissa showed up with Houston, the up-and-coming screenwriter she was dying for me to meet. I shook his hand, trying to avoid my reflection in his sunglasses, and thought about Corey Hart.

I could practically hear the one-hit-wonder in my head as we shuffled into the nightclub as if it were get-in-free day at Disneyland. Melissa sat us next to the fireplace with a view of the bar, and started to talk shop. My mind wandered through the room of aspiring Reality TV stars, and into the fire where I dreamed of shoveling snow in Minnesota.

“I haven’t slept in two days,” Houston said talking through his dark sunglasses. “I think I mixed in too much Ritalin with my Rum and Cokes,” he explained pulling the waitress in for another drink.

“Do you have A.D.D.?” I asked suddenly feeling bad about my indifference to the masked writer. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might actually be blind with A.D.D., and not an arrogant rip-off of Mr. Hart.

“No, I have a psychiatrist for a dad,” he said in a flat tone that put an end to my sympathetic questioning. “It’s the only way I can focus on my writing,” he said straightening his sunglasses. “When I’m drunk.”

Needing to mingle, Melissa led us through the crowded bar, introducing us to a handful of development assistants who pretended to know our names. Desperate for an escape, I pushed my way through the dance floor. I was five-paces in when I felt a sharp tug on my jacket.

Turning around, I realized a jacket wasn’t necessary in 90-degree bar-heat, but let Houston stop me in the warmest spot on the dance floor. He delivered a few short squats before I realized he wanted to dance. Hesitantly, I started to sway in front of him. Unsure if he was actually looking at me, I leaned in and yelled, “What are we doing?”

“You shouldn’t get involved with me,” he said with a crocked smile. “I’m a nightmare when it comes to women.”

“I’m pretty sure we’re not dating,” I said leaning away from the man I’d never be able to identify in a line-up. “But thanks for that,” I said spotting Melissa chatting her way up to the balcony.

“We’re not,” he said (probably) staring at me through his sunglasses. “But we will be,” he explained with an abrupt kiss.

Several shocked paces later, I stood at the base of the stairs with the unsteady feeling of cutting class. Grabbing my hand, Houston led me to the corner of the balcony with the intimacy of a male escort, and then kissed my ear. I pulled away, feeling an odd rush of heat around the inner lobe, and let him know I wasn’t comfortable with PDA. “You think anyone is looking?” he said whispering the obvious.

An hour later, we decided to go to The Bar for a quiet, civilized conversation about sex on the first date. Melissa and Houston debated their stance as I slipped into the bathroom. Staring into the mirror that cut me off at the nose, I wondered what he looked like without glasses. More importantly, I wondered why I cared. He was a self-professed womanizer for Christ’s sake.

Heading back to our table with zero clarity, I watched Houston slide around the booth and whisper in Melissa’s ear. I paused; Melissa laughed; and Houston called me over to explain that in the five minutes I had been gone, he decided that he liked both of us. Clearly, this was a new strain of A.D.D.

The next day, Houston called my friend to ask her for my phone number. It was true: he personified everything I disliked about Los Angeles, and yet I was still entertaining it and him. For one insane moment, I was actually excited. Packing for vacation, I wondered what his psychiatrist father would have to say about that. Luckily, I left the country before I could find out.

Suggested Number of Drinks:

Older is Not Always Wiser.

Burning Man

Ingredients:
1 oz Vodka
I oz Cran-Rasperry Juice
1 oz Mango Juice
Orange Wheel & Pomegranate Seeds, for garnish

Directions:
Combine the vodka, cran-raspberry juice, and mango juice in a cocktail shaker filled with ice, and shake. Strain into a martini glass. Drop in a pinch of pomegranate seeds, and then float the orange wheel in the center. Top the orange wheel with another pinch of pomegranate seeds.


The art of making resolutions comes around twice a year. The first is obvious: New Year’s Day where you vow to drink less, exercise more and read the New York Times on Sundays. The second round hits during Wedding Season where you vow to drink less, exercise more and swap out the bitter drunk girl for one who is pleasantly buzzed and open-minded.

Walking to the podium to give my Maid of Honor speech at my sister’s wedding, I felt my resolution hit me in the back. I whipped around without spilling my champagne to find Tony, the thirty-nine year old Italian groomsman, staring back at me. “No matter what you say up there it’s going to be great,” he said with a reassuring smile that took the nervous flush out of my cheeks.

I took a deep breath. “Thank you,” I said barely noticing that he was bald, and walked up to the microphone.

Three glasses of champagne later, I couldn’t figure out why I had never noticed Tony before. My mother had been encouraging me to date older men since college for they knew what they wanted. Only I wanted young and unavailable. Dancing to Hall & Oats with Tony the groomsman, I decided to open my mind and become a wedding cliché with a kiss.

Flying back to Los Angeles, I rewarded my responsible decision with a mini-bottle of red wine. Opening a bag of salty peanuts, I wondered if it mattered that my responsible choice was ten years older than me? Of course not. Did it matter that he lived in San Francisco? I don’t think so. Was it a bad sign that he didn’t actually ask for my number? Washing down the peanuts with my mini-wine, I decided the answer was clearly no.

A month later, I was responsibly riding on the back of Tony’s motorcycle through the rainy streets of San Francisco. Holding onto his leather jacket, I couldn’t help but feel I had stepped into a deleted scene from Grease. Only I was Rizzo, not Sandy. As we pulled into the garage of his Victorian walk-up, I decided my mother was right. Older was definitely the way to go.

“You still have roommates?” I asked standing in the entryway to his Pac Heights apartment. My eyes moved from the bicycles hanging on the wall, to a colorful row of helmets, to his sailing gear, and over to his music collection. It was the most spectacular gathering of toys I had seen in years.

“Yeah, two of them,” he said pointing to the back rooms. I stepped back, trying to figure out if we were alone, and bumped into the colorful basket of a bicycle. “That’s my Burning Man bike,” he said referencing the weeklong hippy festival in the Nevada desert. “I’ve gone every year since it started.”

I shook my head, trying to picture my perfectly responsible thirty-nine year old running around the desert, presumably naked. Luckily, he started to fill in the blanks before my visualization went any further. “Last year I rode around in a chariot,” he said with a boyish grin. “I dressed up as Zeus,” he explained handing me a drink. “In a fur vest,” he said completing the picture.

“Fur?” I said moving away from his roommate’s door. “Wasn’t that hot?” I asked clearly missing the bit about the chariot.

Tony quickly assured me that it was faux fur, not that I had asked. For the next twenty minutes, he explained the “Burning Man” appeal was the fact that you could be anyone you wanted to out in the desert. Searching his impressive music collection, I wondered why he couldn’t just be himself?

Heading home after an exhausting toy-filled weekend, I realized my thirty-nine year old Greek God knew exactly what he wanted, which was to ride off into the desert (this year on a giant frog) in order to set the man on fire. In my drunken resolve to make the responsible choice, I ended up choosing the one guy who was still young and unavailable.

Picking up the New York Times, I wondered if there was something to stepping outside of yourself to examine the choices you’ve made. Something more to wearing a fur-vest in the desert. But mostly, I wondered why Zeus had traded in his chariot for a giant frog.

Suggested Number of Drinks:

Who Says You Can't Meet a Man at a Bar?

Drunk Shakespeare

Ingredients:
2 oz Irish Whiskey
½ oz Amaretto
Splash of Cream
2 Maraschino Cherries, for garnish

Directions:
Fill a lowball glass with ice. Combine the Irish whiskey, Amaretto, and splash of cream in the glass. Stir. Garnish with 2 maraschino cherries.


Walking into an Irish bar at ten o’clock in the morning I knew my mother was going to drink me under the table. Eleven years of mother-daughter drinking had set the precedent. What I didn’t know heading into Tom Bergin’s, still drunk from the night before, was that the main objective of my mother’s trip to Los Angeles wasn’t to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day as formerly believed. It was to find me a man!

Inside the dimly lit bar, my mother ordered two Irish Car Bombs and sat us next to the bartender. She always sat next to the bartender because it gave her the geographic advantage of meeting everyone in a ten-stool radius. Unfortunately, the “everyone” in this situation consisted of an eighty-year-old man already deep into the barrel, and a bald Leprechaun.

“Maybe you should try wearing dresses,” my mother said as if the pantsuit was responsible for the gaping hole in my dating life. “You’ve got nice legs,” she said leaning in to suggest a private conversation. “And a great ass,” she yelled as the music stopped.

My eyes burned into the bottom of my drink as I tried to work out just whom she wanted to inform about my ass. I swiveled around on my barstool. The car bomb flipped in my stomach as three bloated middle-aged men walked through the door. My mother smiled in their direction until they felt obligated to sit next to us. They ordered three pints of green beer. I ordered a shot.

Before long, the bar was heaving with enough day-drinkers that my mother tumbled away from the middle-aged men she deemed “fixer uppers,” and into a drunken sea of green. For the next forty-five minutes, she worked the room like the patron saint, and then returned triumphant!

His name was Dan and, according to my mother, was twenty-nine, single and questionably employed. He wore thick-rimmed glasses (more James Dean than Urkel), and had a smile just crooked enough to add character to his Bold and the Beautiful good looks. My quick math suggested he was a 7 out of 10, the highest rating all day (fine, all year).
Now above the line of desperation [5 and under], I decided it was time to celebrate. I stood, straightening my shirt to hide the fat-tire that had formed around my single waist, and ordered another TUD (totally unnecessary drink).

Slowly, the crowd started to melt away until all I could see was an old-fashioned boy from Kansas City and his amazingly white teeth. I swung like a hyperactive kid off his every word until I started to get seasick. I steadied myself on the bar but he never stopped talking. Three stools down, my mother lifted her glass in our direction. She was hopeful; I was fading; and Dan was apparently very thirsty. He downed his Scotch on the rocks, and then planted a kiss on my cheek.

This was all the encouragement my mother needed to start planning our wedding. She slid back down the bar, grabbed her future son-in-law by the hands, and invited him back to my apartment for corn beef and cabbage. My eyes shot open. I fumbled, trying to explain he couldn’t leave his friends, only to learn he didn’t have any. He was here alone.

Stepping into the sunset, the noise from the bar softened. The world slowed down. Everything slowed down aside from Kansas City, who twirled in our direction reciting a botched monologue from Shakespeare’s Macbeth. Off our bewildered looks, he explained he was a thespian.

I shook my head, “You didn’t mention you were an actor.” Dan threw his hands up in dramatic fashion and made an invisible feather over his head as if it were sticking out of a hat. Thespian, he corrected.

My mother whistled for a cab, as I looked sideways at the man she wanted me to marry. Dan bounced over to us with child-like energy, and quickly dipped below the line of desperation. He opened the backdoor to the cab, and whispered, “I like you, Linda.” My mother stopped. I looked up. Who the hell was Linda?

Fifteen minutes later, Dan spun around my apartment as if doing so would erase the Scotch from his mind. My aunt and two cousins arrived for dinner, wondering who the strange man was in my living room. Before they could ask, Dan started to laugh, as if to some private joke, and then threw a Kaiser roll across the room. Calmly, my mother placed her hand on my shoulder and whispered, “At least we know what we don’t want.”

Suggested Number of Drinks:

If You Closed the Door, Keep It Shut.

Repeat Offender

Ingredients:
1 oz Tequila
3 oz 7-Up
Juice from 1 Lime
Repeat with a Float of Tequila
Lime Slice, for garnish

Directions:
Fill a lowball glass with ice. Combine the tequila, 7-Up, and juice from 1 lime in the glass. Stir. Repeat with a float of tequila. Garnish with a slice of lime.


Break-ups are the perfect excuse for bad behavior. It’s that special window where spray tans, lemon fasts, and OPBs (on purpose black-outs) are all perfectly acceptable. Unfortunately, I was four weeks into my break-up, and had yet to enjoy the perks of being dumped.

Lazily draped over my vinyl couch, I looked out the window for a change of scenery. Three fat men were smoking cigars on the balcony next to a plastic snowman. The freakishly short one puffed in my direction because he knew this was the closest I had gotten to a party in weeks. Closing the curtains, I decided it was time to get out there and make some bad decisions.

Two hours later, I sat in the passenger seat of a Jetta en route to the Troubadour with my ex-boyfriend (or whatever you call that guy you date for two months). I stepped out of the car, three blocks from the venue, and wondered whether our spontaneous outing was a date, a group event, or simply a spare ticket to Interpol for that lucky gal who had passed out on her couch. Watching Alex roll a joint, I decided I had no idea. The only thing I was certain of at this point was my newly single ass had grown with such enthusiasm that I no longer fit into my underwear. It felt good to be out.

Alex passed the joint, explaining that we had ten minutes to walk to the venue, get high, and pick up our tickets before the band came on. “I’m not good at smoking pot,” I said as if I was about to endanger a team sport.

“I know,” he said with a mischievous grin that let me know we were on a date. While we had only dated for two months, we had spent the last two years trying to recapture that one stoned moment when we thought our relationship might work out. Unfortunately, our perfect moment was cut short by a leaky roof that turned out to be his chest sweat dripping onto my face.

Stepping into the Troubadour, Alex led us to the back bar. Unable to feel my teeth, I turned to the bartender and ordered a cold beer. My cottonmouth had kicked in with such severity that the only thing I could utter was, “Bud.”

Without warning, thirty-seven of Alex’s closest friends started to close in around us. I clung to the bar, hoping no one would talk to me, and realized no one wanted to. I was the “ex” who wasn’t around long enough to be an ex-girlfriend. I was just an ex, and yet here I was again.

Midway between my first and last sip of beer, Alex asked me to come home with him. Staring into his blue eyes, and his sweet smile, I wanted to. Only I knew that we were no more in sync tonight than any other night. He knew it too. We had one bright stony moment together, but that’s all we were meant to have. At least that’s what I told him to avoid the bit about his chest hair leaking onto my face. After all, I had made enough bad decisions for one night.

Suggested Number of Drinks:

When He Tells You Who He Is, Listen.

Dirty Wanderer

Ingredients:
1 oz Whiskey
1 oz Pineapple Juice
3 oz Ginger Ale
For Martini Rim: ¼ Cup Simple Syrup and Brown Sugar on separate plates

Directions:
Wet the rim of the martini glass with simple syrup, and dip into the brown sugar several times to give it a “dirty” rim. Set aside.

Combine the whiskey, pineapple juice, and ginger ale in a cocktail shaker filled with ice, and shake. Strain into rimmed martini glass.


The world is full of sound advice that you happily ignore. It’s the beauty of being young, or in my case, younger than the couple sitting next to us at Macaroni Grill. But if I knew then that the advice I’d happily ignore on this particular morning would push my dating life onto a downward slope, I would’ve listened more closely.

“I love a good buzz in the morning,” my mother said ordering a crisp bottle of Chardonnay for breakfast. She smiled at the waiter as he filled her glass, and then turned her attention on me. I stared back, absentmindedly, hoping my vacant gaze would deter what was coming next.

“You really shouldn’t date a man who can’t remember your name,” my mother said getting her nose deep into the buttery Chardonnay. “Nothing good can come of it,” she said remarking on the pear notes tingling the back of her throat. “Unless you’re just in it for the sex.”

Unfortunately, the sex was nothing spectacular the day Joe returned from his outdoor adventure trip. In fact, the man I affectionately referred to as Beck, appeared less rugged than when he set out. In the two-weeks he had been gone, his boyish frame had thinned a bit, and his dimples were even more pronounced. The only thing that appeared the same was the tuft of back-hair peaking out of his shirt.

I studied his face for the playfulness that had first attracted me. Nothing. I listened for his impersonation of a French Chef selling used cars in Mexico. Silence. I waited for all of the things that had made me forget about our third date.

The Good Luck Bar was darker than most, which made it a perfect spot for our “transitional” third date. We both knew that if the date went well, we’d most likely transition from date to dating. If the date went poorly, the low lighting made for an easy escape. Already deep into our second dirty martini, Joe and I swung, dangerously, between the two.

In an oddly conceived French-Mexican accent, Joe ordered another round of drinks. He bobbed his head back and forth, pretending to sway to a Spanish guitar that would’ve been romantic had it existed. I laughed through the bottom of my drink as he bobbled toward me. In fact, I laughed so hard that I almost didn’t hear him affectionately call me, “Julie.”

Julie was his ex-girlfriend.

I stepped back, perching myself securely on my dirty martini, and asked him to, “Come again?” Joe stared back at a slanted angle that made him look like a lava lamp in this light, and let the mistake settle. A silent beat passed between us before his dimples started to apologize.

It wasn’t that he had actually forgotten my name, he explained. He was simply a lost soul. A wanderer. At twenty-six, he wanted to explore the jungles of Africa; travel through Europe tracing his family heritage; and then head to the Midwest to write a novel, preferably on a ranch where he could hunt and gather. He covered the next fifteen years of his wandering life, but failed to explain the bit where he called me by his ex-girlfriend’s name.

I quickly hit the eject button on our transitional date. Before I could locate the exit, Joe grabbed the stem of my dirty martini. He explained that he was lost, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t interested in me. Standing in the dark bar, wrapped in the warm glow of a heavy buzz, somehow it all made sense. I had to stay.

The next morning, I realized we had made the transition over several make-up rounds of martinis. I was now successfully dating a hairy, non-committal, passport-wielding nomad who may flee the country at any moment. Wrapping my arms around him, I wondered why the only place he could grow hair was on his back.

Seven months later, we sat on my vinyl couch with our knees touching at an odd angle. In a perfectly flat American accent, he explained that the nomad in him, resurrected on his trip into the wild, couldn’t commit to the relationship. In fact, he told me everything that I heard on our third date, but I still wasn’t listening. The only thing I could hear was my mother’s voice bubbling over a crisp glass of Chardonnay, “You should never date a man who can’t remember your name.”

Standing alone in my room, I was no longer shocked or upset. If anything, I was proud. I had ignored every bit of logical advice given to me in the last seven months, and had taken a chance. Under the red glow of the bar, even if for a brief drunken moment, I had followed my heart.

As I drifted off to sleep, it became clear to me that I was opening a brave new chapter in life. A chapter full of infinite possibilities. Only before that journey could begin, I had to Hoover his back hair off of my sheets.

Suggested Number of Drinks:

101 [The Beginning]

Staring into an empty glass, I have to admit the dating arena has changed. In fact, I could detect a slight shift in gravity the moment I landed in Los Angeles. Newly single and starting a job as an Executive Assistant to a film producer, I assumed the shift to be a positive one. After all, I was twenty-six, single, and living in a new city. The world was clearly my oyster!

Two years later, I realized the problem with oysters is they’re messy, off-putting, seasonal, expensive, and tend to leave a bad taste in your mouth. The gravitational pull had shoved my dating life over the edge. I was now downing a line of Oyster Shooters, hoping that with enough horseradish and pepper, I’d make it through the night without gagging. With an ever-shrinking dating pool, I had opened a new chapter in life called: Downhill Dating.

On the heels of this realization, I started recording my 101 Reasons to Drink. It was true, the dating arena had changed. The only problem: the drinks were still the same. In order to survive the descent, I had to become the mixologist to my dating life. Taking a hard swig of my “Lazy Spaniard,” I’m comforted knowing that the best thing to come out of a bad date was the inspiration for a new drink.

From three years of downhill dating comes a new series of cocktails, and the stories that inspired them in 101 Reasons to Drink. After all, every embarrassing, frustrating, deflating, exhilarating moment a girl can face en route to finding the one deserves its own drink.

Bottoms up!

DRINKING KEY (from bad to worse):

Are you sure there's alcohol in this?

If no one sees it, it didn't happen.

I'd rather eat my shoelace.

I hear Budapest is a nice place to relocate.

Mind Eraser please!