101 REASONS TO DRINK

Bottomless

2008-09-09T13:37:00.001-07:00

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

2008-08-28T15:53:00.001-07:00

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

2008-08-20T14:01:00.000-07:00

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

2008-07-22T15:16:00.000-07:00

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

Donde Esta la Biblioteca?

2008-05-22T16:09:00.000-07:00

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)

2008-05-09T18:30:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-29T13:18:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-17T16:51:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-09T12:27:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-02T19:00:00.001-07:00

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

2008-03-25T09:26:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-20T14:36:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-17T07:24:00.000-07:00

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

2008-03-11T17:13:00.001-07:00

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

2008-03-08T13:28:00.000-08:00

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:

2008-03-04T19:54:00.000-08:00

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?

2008-01-03T13:59:00.000-08:00

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:

Communication Is Not Always Key

2007-11-19T16:18:00.000-08:00

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...

2007-11-04T10:07:00.000-08:00

Or missed the eighties:

Everyone Loves Corey Hart

2007-11-01T12:24:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-10-09T21:12:00.000-07:00

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?

2007-10-02T10:19:00.000-07:00

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.

2007-09-25T11:29:00.001-07:00

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.

2007-09-19T11:48:00.000-07:00

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]

2007-09-14T11:06:00.000-07:00

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!