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:

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: