4.29.2008

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)

4.17.2008

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!

4.09.2008

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:

4.02.2008

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!