Bottomless

I quickened my pace as the sun started to set over Washington Square in North Beach. I was twenty minutes late for the party, which seemed appropriate for it was an engagement party, and I was the girl farthest away from being engaged. In fact, being "late" had become my most prized accessory. I clipped my aversion to having kids into the brown curl that fell against my forehead, and tinted my lips with a shade of apprehension regarding the sanctity of marriage. I wore my lateness with pride for I couldn't figure out why our accessories had to change with age. Yet as I stepped into the candlelit banquet room, the soft ding of glass chilling my ears, I realized I was missing the one item that united us. The common denominator. Fortunately, the missing item was placed in my hand before I reached the newly engaged couple, and was respectfully filled with soft red wine. French, I think. For the next three hours, we danced around the room, pretending to know when the music stopped. Where and when to get off. With a bottomless glass cupped in my hand, I wrapped uncertainty around my bare shoulders, and walked out the front door. Late for my next party.

NUTS

The two-lane highway leading up to the chalet was empty. I glanced curiously in the rearview mirror, but the winding road failed to tell me where we were headed. While I had been living in Melbourne, Australia for nearly two years, I was still hopelessly disoriented. Not wanting to ruin the surprise, I decided the empty tree-lined highway was a promising start to our romantic getaway. After all, it was my first weekend away with my new Australian boyfriend, the spitting image of Colin Firth only slightly shrunken in the wash. Reassured, I sat back in the passenger seat and pictured kangaroos jumping out of the bush until--something else jumped out at me.

“We’re here,” Greg announced, clearly not seeing the two gigantic nuts hanging overhead.

Not wanting to seem completely childish, I sat up and calmly read the sign that was surrounded by two flesh-colored chestnuts. “Double Nut Chalets,” I plainly stated because I couldn’t laugh. Not unless Greg laughed first. Because this was our first weekend away. Because he was kindly carrying my overstuffed suitcase into the hotel. Because this was his surprise. Two gigantic nuts hanging over our hotel.

Suddenly, my stifled laugh relaxed into a smile as his curly hair disappeared into the lobby. Staring up at the sign, I decided nuts were the perfect start to the weekend.

Hot Mess

Nothing says I’m not ready to have kids like staring into a microwaved diaper. While ten maternal woman shoved their noses into a series of Huggies, trying to work out which timeless chocolate bar had been nuked for the baby shower, I decided it was the perfect time for a bathroom break. Unfortunately, the sniffing and sorting took longer than the ten minutes I was able to kill in the bathroom reading National Geographic. No longer able to avoid taking a whiff of candied poo, I stuck my nose near the edge of Huggies Snug and Dry, but was quickly distracted by thoughts of lost youth. Picking out candy bars at the local 7-Eleven had been a great childhood pastime. But now, we were melting sweets into diapers in a quiet attempt to prepare for the next chapter in life. And yet, as I clinched the low score on the diaper game at my friend's baby shower, I was reminded that candy bars aren’t the only things you can freeze. At least until you’re ready.

Knock on Wood

I'm back from Mexico, and nothing says "vacation is over" like a slice of bad dating. Enjoy!

Donde Esta la Biblioteca?

In a few short hours, I'll be in the airport bar en route to Puerto Vallarta for some much needed rest and relaxation (oh yeah, and a lot of fruity cocktails). So, I'll have plenty of stories and cocktails for you when I return. But if you're interested in checking out where we're staying, take a look:

http://www.verana.com/

The Power of One (aka OFL)

I recently discovered the one true reason why you should never train for a marathon. Unfortunately, I discovered this at six o’clock in the morning after a night of margaritas at Marix Tex Mex Café. And while there are several reasons why you should never run 26.2 miles--like having to train for nine months with a group of silky short extremists--not to mention the 6AM start on Saturday mornings regardless of how much you’ve had to drink the night before--this reason stuck out above the rest.

It was just after six o’clock in the morning when we started out on our training run. Ten minutes later the realization hit me--only it wasn’t a sudden realization. It was more like a slow creeping wad of cotton rolling up the sweat on my inner thigh. Yanking my cotton shorts down at Mile 1, I realized I was sinking my own battleship. Not only was I trying to keep up with my considerably taller and more athletic friend, I was attempting an eight-mile run with a group a marathon-heads who were stuck on a natural high. Needless to say, I didn’t fit it.

As we rounded the corner, I could feel my irritation mounting because my cotton shorts were now so far up my leg--but just my right leg--that they clung to my underwear. But before I could properly adjust the problem, I froze to a complete stop because it hit me: I had one fat leg. The OFL, enough said.

So, is it wrong to name my next drink the OFL?

You decide.

From Russia with Love

I don’t speak Czech, eat pork, or drink Becherovka. But I do speak spa. And that’s exactly why I headed to Karlovy Vary, a quaint spa city situated in Bohemia, the western part of the Czech Republic. Making my way to Lazne III, I decided it didn’t matter that I couldn’t understand a word anyone was saying because all I needed to do was find “Spa III” and relax.

Twenty minutes later, an elderly woman carrying a stack of white towels shoved one into my chest, and waited for me to undress. With predictable American modesty, I positioned the towel over my private parts as I stripped down, and then waited for my next command. Finally, the spa assistant grabbed my arm, and pulled me in front of a wide wooden door, which I presumed was the sauna. A second later, she opened the door and shoved me in.

The wooden room was dark and hot, so I felt confident that I had guessed right. Slowly, I moved toward the wooden tiers in front of me as my eyes started to adjust. Unfortunately, they adjusted on a naked old man lying on Tier #1.

“Shit,” I squeaked, clutching the towel around my chest as I realized that I had just entered a co-ed spa. Taking a deep breath of hot unisex air, I quickly reminded myself that I was in a new country for new experiences. And this certainly qualified. So, I decided to stay, and open my mind (if not my eyes) to enjoy the life of an elderly Czech person.

Slowly, the heat started to quiet my mind, and I decided that I was proud of myself for staying. For being somewhat “European.” Well, if you ignored the fact that I was still wrapped in a white towel. Without warning, the door to the sauna swung open, and another guest was shoved in. Only this time it was a gorgeous Russian man. Correction: a gorgeous NAKED Russian man.

With a beautiful “hello,” he smirked at the towel covering my body. “Aren’t you hot?” he asked with a soft Russian accent that made me sweat even harder.

“No, I’m American,” I said sounding like a complete idiot. While it had only been two days since I had spoken English to anyone, it appeared I had lost all conversational skills.

Twenty minutes later, my naked Russian man asked me to take a plunge in the cold pool. In my mind, I said yes. I dropped my towel, stood up, and took the plunge with him. In reality, I sat on the second tier of the sauna, and watched my naked Russian man head for the pool, and then disappear. Fortunately, the old man left with him, and for ten hot minutes I got to enjoy spa life without my towel (and only a tiny bit of regret).

Suggested Number of Drinks:


(Translation: three shots of Becherovka)

A Cabin, Crush, and the Fart that Tore Us Apart

I developed my first crush in the 7th grade. His was name was Ryan Wright, and he was the blonde blue-eyed star of the basketball team. More specifically, he was my best friend’s older brother (by a year). And while I was one of a hundred girls with the same crush, Katie picked me to spend the weekend with her and her family in Tahoe.

It was snowing outside when we decided to watch Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. My palms started to sweat as I took a seat next to Ryan on the couch. Delirious, I sunk back into the pillows hoping our legs would touch. They didn’t. I watched his hands, wanting them to reach for mine. They didn’t. Instead, they reached for a bag of Cheetos.

Slowly, the heat from the fire started to pull me under. I closed my eyes and let my mind wander to a field of flowers where we’d have our first kiss. I could almost feel the breeze when a loud rip pulled me back to reality. Sitting upright on the couch, I looked around to find everyone staring back at me. Suddenly, my crush started to giggle. They all started to giggle until Katie softly explained, “You woke yourself up.”

“Up?" I said in a state of panic. "What did you mean up?”

She clarified, “With your fart.”

Slowly, the words floated into the air and stuck. I blinked hard, wanting nothing more than to crawl into the sofa bed and die. The fire blazing in front of me, I broke into a cold sweat. It was official: I had just farted all over my crush. How do you recover from that?

The next morning I realized you don’t. While no one mentioned my broken wind again, it was always there, tumbling through the air. Stuck!

A Short Trip to Hell

So, I just received an invitation to a party. My neighbor's party. And while it's not the same neighbor that I've described below, it reminded me of this night, two years ago...

If it started to rain before I entered my neighbor’s house I didn’t notice. My mind wrapped itself like a piece of cotton candy around the red glow of the lava lamp. It was almost five feet tall, hypnotic, and hit me right at the nose. I watched as the thick menstrual light rolled over a Nickelback poster reminding me I was too old to be here. But that didn’t matter. Not anymore it didn’t.

Before all of this, last week, I declared (to no one in particular) 2006 my year of living dangerously. I needed to! Three months, fifteen pounds and three cases of Chardonnay into my first major break-up, I had become the dullest person I knew.

With a hard snore face down in the crack of my couch, I couldn’t figure out if I was dreaming or dead. I rose, determined to revive my glory days, and looked out the window. Three fat men were smoking cigars on a balcony next to a plastic snowman. The freakishly short one puffed in my direction because he knew that this was the closest I had gotten to a party in three months.

I needed a change. No, I needed a declaration! In twelve weeks, the only action I had received was a fat man blowing smoke rings up my window. Standing alone in my cotton briefs, I knew I had to get the rebound hook-up over with in order to move on- and up!

I pulled a green flyer out of the trashcan for my neighbor’s “Get Weeded” party and thought about Jake. Or was it Blake? I wasn’t sure. 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. That, and my rebound hook-up would be much easier with my hot, young neighbor who rode a ten-speed bike. Jake?

I stood in the entryway for fifteen minutes before anyone noticed me. The red lava rolled over my face highlighting the fact that I was too sober to be at a party where I knew no one until I heard a familiar voice say, “Up here.”

I turned around to find my neighbor, bare-chested, at the top of the stairs. Without warning, my head spun like a drunken teenager on Spring Break. Could it be this easy? Standing half-naked in front of me was a twenty-four year old who met all the rebound requirements: He was younger than my ex-boyfriend, better looking, flirtatious, single and in no danger of becoming my boyfriend. It was perfect!

I followed my potential rebound down the hallway. Sweat gathered on my upper lip as he explained the heater was stuck at ninety-one. The good news: His room was the coolest spot in this hell-house. Blake (as I came to learn) flipped the black light on in his room and took a bong hit. Randomly arranged stars started to glow overhead, and I decided pot smoking should be part of my declaration as it dulled the fact that I was trying to hook-up with my unemployed neighbor who had his own galaxy.

After my first (and only) bong hit, I decided to take my declaration to the next level. I grabbed the back of his neck where his collar would’ve been and caught him off guard with a kiss. Smirking, he pulled back and- in a voice that sounded like a baby hosting a game show- uttered something about his “naughty neighbor.” Before I could react to my hideous new nickname, he pulled my shirt off and flipped me onto my back, making me forget about game-show-baby. I giggled. I couldn’t help it. I was now a man’s length away from my ex-boyfriend, and it felt great.

I would’ve giggled again but a feminine squeal sucked all of the joy out of me. I shot up in Blake’s futon, and peered over the edge. What the hell was that? Through the black light I could just barely make out a freckled body wriggling on the floor. No, two! The squeal came again, and then a guy’s bare ass flipped in my direction so I could see he was sucking on his girlfriend’s left breast.

Whether it was from the heat, the pot, or the stranger’s hairy ass, the room started to spin. Frantically, I felt around in the dark for my bra and underwear. Blake laughed at the galaxy just long enough for me to recover my clothes without having to speak to him. Leaving the trio behind, I ran through the party and out into the rain toward my apartment.

Ten blurry minutes later, I stood, sopping wet, in front of the plastic snowman. I stared out my window for another ten minutes before I turned on the shower and started to undress. My lips curled in a forced smile as I reminded myself that no matter how inglorious the night was I still managed to open a new chapter in dating. It was only up from here! It had to be. Slowly, I turned, half-naked, toward the mirror. My eyes rolled over my red bra, and then stopped, abruptly, on my polka dot thong. Only, the thong on my newly single ass wasn’t mine!

Stepping into the shower I started to laugh because it hit me: The only thing I had to lose by putting myself out there again was a pair of underwear. What I stood to gain was everything else.


Suggested Number of Drinks:

Smooth Moves

There’s nothing like a weekend of binge drinking to give life to bad ideas. Unfortunately, this particular bad idea followed me all the way to Monday where I decided it was time for the Master Cleanse.

Lemon juice. Maple syrup. Cayenne pepper. Water. That’s all you get for five days! Unless of course you include the laxative tea.

Eight hours into my worst idea ever, I’m strolling through Whole Foods market looking for my medicinal treat. I quickly shove the tiny brown box into my basket, which I don’t actually need because I can eat anything! But before I can reach the checkout counter, a voice stops me-a male voice.

Slowly, I turn around as Danny, the cute skater boy I used to hook-up with in college, pulls me in for a hug. I try to smile but my face turns red-hot. Danny says something but I’m not listening. Mostly because he’s talking into my basket. I look down. Staring at me in bold letters is SMOOTH MOVES laxative tea.

Our eyes lock. His lips curl into a smile. Enough said.

Heading for the register, I'm now certain of one thing: detoxification is soooo not me!

Sunday Bloody Sunday

It’s 7:15am and the sound of clanking beer bottles rattles me awake. Living at the base of Runyan Canyon, I had become used to the sound of homeless people rummaging around in our bins. What I hadn’t become used to was the fact that they did this at 7 in the bloody morning. SUNDAY MORNING.

As a single woman living in La La Land, Sundays seemed to have this natural layer of malaise built in. They had become a day of annoying reflection. Of waking up wondering why I ordered that last dirty martini. Or gave my number to a lopsided Australian with an odd attachment to his cats. Or more importantly why I cared more today than any other day that I didn’t want to call him back.

Was it because the weekend was almost over? Or because the only thing I had in my refrigerator was a ripe tomato and a tub of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter. Or maybe it was simply because it was seven in the bloody morning!

And so I decided to make the most of my day (translation: happy hour at The Lobster in Santa Monica). Because the best way to cure the Sunday Blues is a glass of rose overlooking the water. A gathering of friends on the balcony. And a splash of the unexpected, which on this particular Sunday involved a nicely proportioned Englishman who bought me a cocktail and reminded me why I love single Sundays. Because you never know where your day will end up!

Top Ten Reasons YOU Drink More When You're Single

Here's what you had to say:

10. Beer goggles are essential
9. So everyone is witty, pretty & sexy
8. Because I'm married with kids
7. Who needs a reason when it tastes so good?
6. Sober singles make Baby Jesus cry
5. Because I hate my roommate and being drunk helps me manage
4. Pick-up lines are more charming after a few drinks
3. Because I'm not single anymore
2. It's always Happy Hour somewhere in the world!
1. I drink more when I'm single because... it quiets the hurt... I can bring it to the gym in my water bottle... It makes staying in alone feel more sophisticated... I see my friends more often... it keeps me off the streets and in the gutter where I belong.

So, what's your worst dating/drinking combo?

Mine revolved around a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20, a skate park, and puking in front of Denny's Restaurant. What is it with Denny’s & me? Luckily, I was only 21 at the time, but I'm pretty sure I was old enough to know that Mango Lime MD shouldn't go down like fruit punch.

The Single Slice

Walking around in New York City, I’m reminded that not all great things come in pairs. In fact, there is nothing better than stopping into a pizza joint to grab a slice of cheese pizza en route to the next bar. There’s a freedom to it--to the walking around slice. Because you don’t always want that second piece, or even the whole pie. Sometimes one is all you need.

What else is better on the single side?

Moons Over My Hammy

Nothing ruins an appetite like running into your ex-boyfriend at Denny’s restaurant. And not just any ex-boyfriend. The ex-boyfriend.

Pulling into the parking lot, I noticed a line outside of Denny’s. Craving “Moons Over My Hammy” I asked Eric, the twenty-three year old I was dating, to drive closer so I could see how long the wait was. And while I expected a line (after all, we were at a three-day music festival in Palm Desert), I didn’t expect to see my most significant ex-boyfriend queuing up for breakfast.

According to my ex, there was a thirty minute wait.

So, I swiftly abandoned my craving for ham and eggs as we drove to Pizza Hut for breakfast. But I held it together. For like five seconds. And then ran to the bathroom and cried into the brown paper towels until my pizza was ready. After all, there was no denying it: I had fallen into the hot desert of ex-hell.

Needless to say, the rest of the day passed in a blur under the beer tent of Coachella. The blur of knowing that somewhere in this converted polo field was my ex-boyfriend. Somewhere he was listening to the same trendy band as I was. Maybe even drinking the same shitty beer. But as the temperature hit 106 degrees, I realized why cocktails should always be served in hell.

If you were trapped in the desert with your ex, what would you drink?

My Personal Space

I work from home. Hate to drive. And live near a cliff. It seems to me that I should be safe from running into ex-boyfriends, ex-dates, and the bartender I never called back. Unfortunately, you no longer have to leave your house to experience the ex-factor. You simply have to sign up for MySpace, Facebook, or Friendster, and wait for Cyber Space to set you on a collision course.

The first “poke” I received online was from the rolling skating lawyer I dated who giggled when he drank. Unfortunately, this was followed by the Blind Bastard, and then the brainy librarian who cheated on me in college. And while I no longer knew anything about them--thank God--they suddenly knew the statistics of my dating life.

Was I married? No. Kids? Nope. In a relationship? Not so much.

And so I did what any smart single slightly buzzed woman would do in my situation, I deleted myself from every social site that I belonged to, quickly reducing the ex-factor. But luckily for me, 101 Reasons to Drink is a lot harder to find. Well, I hope so!

What’s your worst run-in with an ex?

Top Ten Reasons I Drink More When I’m Single:

10. The Bachelor is better with friends and alcohol
9. Men lie about their age, height and personal hygiene
8. Peter Pan is alive and well, and multiplying in Los Angeles
7. This extra ten pounds is going nowhere, so why not enjoy myself
6. Sports bars are a good place to meet men, but Irish bars are better
5. Angelina Jolie lives in Los Angeles
4. Champagne is my “plus one” at weddings
3. Blind dates are better blind drunk
2. According to doctors, I should freeze my eggs
1. Because I can

What are your reasons?

What's So Great About the Great Unknown?

Lazy Spaniard

Ingredients:
1 oz Bacardi Limon
1 oz Cointreau
1 oz Pineapple Juice
Juice from ½ Lemon
Speared Maraschino Cherry and Pineapple Chunk, for garnish

Directions:
Fill a lowball glass with ice. Pour the Bacardi Limon, Cointreau, pineapple juice, and lemon juice in the glass. Stir. Garnish with a speared maraschino cherry and a pineapple chunk.



Never trust a friend who tells you, “I have the perfect guy for you,” especially when it’s followed by, “He’s a divorced workaholic who squeals when he drives onto the freeway.” That is, unless you’re determined enough to expand your dating pool and get over your lingering ex-boyfriend that you accept a blind date with a thirty-six year old artist from Madrid.

Heading toward the Cuban restaurant for my first blind date, I felt a new sense of empowerment. I was openly putting myself out there by letting a perfect stranger know that I was wildly available and potentially interested. Thirty seconds later, Salima called to remind me that I was at the mercy of her judgment. “I’m actually not sure you’ll like him. But have fun anyway,” she said a bit too late.

Alberto was already waiting outside when I arrived. My eyes narrowed as I tried to figure out if he looked like his Cast & Crew photo. He did. Well, he looked like “that guys” older and less attractive brother with his jet black hair thinning in the crown area. Either way, I had found my date. Following him to an outside patio table, I caught a shimmer of light off of his eyebrow. In fact, the light was so revealing that I saw his eyebrow sweat slide off of his lashes, and onto the menu as we sat down.

“So you’re from Madrid?” I asked focusing on something dry. “It must be hot.”

Alberto simply said, “Yes” and ordered a pressed pulled-pork sandwich and a bottle of wine. I shifted in my seat, and asked another short time-filling question. He simply replied, “Yes.” Ten silent minutes later, the wine arrived to kick up the conversation. Unfortunately, I wasn’t sure in which direction for his lazy eye rolled around the patio, and then landed on my chest.

Quickly devouring my salad, I wondered why there was a question to Salima’s statement. Obviously, three weeks together in Costa Rica left the impression that I liked anyone with a Spanish accent. While it certainly helped, it was by no means a dealmaker. Alberto took a bite of his pig sandwich, and then filled me in on his miserable schedule as a storyboard artist creatively pushing someone else’s vision. And the someone else in this case happened to be his “megalomaniacal” boss.

‘Terrific,” I said changing the subject. “Do you get back to Madrid often?” I asked prying his lazy eye off my chest.

“I haven’t been home in fifteen years,” he said in a bitter accent that stranded my happy thoughts on the island of Ibiza. While I wanted to take control of my dating life, expand my options, and open my mind to letting a relationship grow in a slow and mature fashion, I didn’t want to wind up on a tiny Balearic island in the Mediterranean Sea with an overheating Spaniard. Finishing my drink, I prayed the heavens would open up and cool off this sweaty man.

Thirty rainless minutes later, his lazy eye settled the bill, and then slowly walked me to my car. Unsure what to do, I held my hand up in a high-five, and thanked him for dinner. Turning away, he simply said, “Gracias,” with a sweetness that I had yet to experience. As he disappeared, I realized that no one is good at blind dates. Not me, nor his lazy eye.

Suggested Number of Drinks: