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: