Monday, May 10, 2010

The Virgin enters the Cone Zone

#41 Never Have I Ever: Seen Conan O'Brien live

Foreplay: As mentioned in a previous post, I've been... hmm, how should I put this... I've been completely head-over-heals in love bordering on slightly obsessed for a short phase with Conan O'Brien since I was 13. He has shaped my view and attraction to tall, self-deprecating men who make weird noises during awkward social situations (people who know me in real life and thus know my dating history can attest to this).

"Go see Conan O'Brien live" clocks in at #2 right after "backpack through Europe" on my original hand-written bucket list that I made at 15.

In high school, I'd watch him practically every night after listening to Love Line. And although I couldn't continue my devout viewership in college, I made sure to tune in whenever I had a chance. I even followed him during his move to the Tonight Show. In fact, I was ecstatic that he was in my city now! I was determined to finally go see him live when I could take a day off work.

And so I was heart broken when he left NBC. Although it was a shame that he was gone from TV, I think I was more so upset at the fact that my bucket list would have one less check mark to claim.

That is, of course, until Conan announced his "Legally Prohibited From Being Funny on Television" Tour via Team Coco.

The Down and Dirty: Um. UM!!! Conan is just as funny, if not more so, than I imagined. Without the FCC breathing down his neck, he was able to be as inappropriate and curse-laden as he wanted to be. And let's just say, seeing and Conan say "fuck" was pretty magical.

He brought back Andy Richter, the Masturbating Bear, and Triumph the Insult Comic Dog. But he also had a few guest stars up his sleeve: Seth Green, Aziz Ansari, Sarah Silverman, Jonah Hill, Jack McBrayer. But his biggest guest, by far, was Jim freakin' Carey.

More variety show than stand up comedy, it was so stimulating that even shrooms couldn't have made it funnier. Coco joked, sang, danced, and even flew at one point. More importantly, he stole my 13 year old heart. Sigh...

The Afterglow: I will be framing my poster and ticket very shortly. You think I'm kidding but I'm not.

Bonus: I work in the same space as Seth Green's company and although I see him almost everyday, I've never had the nerve to say anything to him. However, while sitting at my desk the next day still basking in the glory of Coco, Seth Green skips out wearing his Team Coco shirt.

We lock eyes for a moment and he says hello. I return the salutation and then quickly add, "I like your shirt."

He pauses at the door and smiles. "Oh yeah?"

Stay cool, DV. Stay cool. "Yeah, I was there last night."

"Oh, cool!"

And then I blurted out, "Yeah, it was so mind blowing!" Followed by a thumbs up.

I am no longer allowed to talk to celebrities.

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

The Virgin pwns newbs

#40 Never Have I Ever: Called someone out (who I know personally) on Facebook

Foreplay: I loathe the "Suggestions" feature on Facebook. It has never been kind to me. It's alerted former employers, random schoolmates, and, most recently, inquisitive family members to my profile. And with my plethora of morally questionable photos, status updates, and wall postings I am not exactly the profile you want to bring home to mom.

However, this particular case centers around this one bastard who went to high school with me. We weren't friends. I don't think we spoke more than 10 words to each other. But we shared a couple classes during our four years in hormonal Hell.

This dude friended me on Facebook a few months ago. I barely remembered him but Facebook told me that we had 54 friends in common. Well, shit. I guess I have to accept his friend request when it gets into the double-digits.

His profile picture was a self-portrait of him releasing a mouthful of skunky smoke. Classy. He'd post trite, misspelled musings and rants every now and then on his status that would then show up on my News Feed, most of which went ignored.

But just a few months ago, he started throwing out the word "faggot" and taunting the men of the rock/indie/hipster fashion genre. He even went as far as to give himself the middle name "Mendontwearskinnyjeans" on Facebook. Riiiight...

I've been meaning to defriend him this whole time but never really set about it since... well, I never thought about him.

Until today.

The Down and Dirty: Shoveling food into my gaping maw at my desk (read: lunch), I took a few minutes to mill about the Internet at my leisure -- something I hadn't done recently. It was like emerging from a dank cave after a decade and rediscovering sunlight -- so much stimulation that it almost hurt. Oh, it hurt so good!

Until your corneas burn off or something.

While opening Facebook, the bastard's status update was at the top of the list. This, like Camus' sun, was a sign. I'll let the photo below do the rest of the talking.

The Afterglow: Comment. Defriend. Cackle loudly. Done and done.

It was like he was asking for an ass whopping. Or should I say ass "whoopen".

Welcome to the Pwned Shop where the special of the day is a brand spankin' new can of Whoop-Ass. Prepare to be served.

Monday, April 26, 2010

The Virgin eats her weight in cheese

#39 Never Have I Ever: Been to the Grilled Cheese Invitational

I don't know how someone discovered cheese (I assume someone saw the floaty bits in sour milk and thought to themselves, "Hey, that would be pretty tasty on a cracker!") but it is delicious on basically everything. Baked potatoes, tortilla chips, spinach omelet, Mexican rice... man, I can go on listing off the awesomeness of cheese-based foods a la Bubba from Forrest Gump all day long.

But you know what's weird? It wasn't until college that I tasted a grilled cheese sandwich.

I'll let you digest that for a second.

I grew up super sheltered from food and have spent most of my adult life making up for it. It was a spiritual experience the first time I ate macaroni and cheese at Warped Tour when I was 16 (oh god, I can feel the acne and teenage angst resurfacing as I type this). I've never had fondue, cranberry sauce, or casserole. I still don't know what the hell stuffing is nevertheless eaten it.

But man do I love me a simple grilled cheese and tomato sandwich browned to perfection with a side of warm tomato basil soup. Goddamn...

The Down and Dirty: Daywalker, Gemini, and I lined up 30 minutes early for the 1st 8th Annual Grilled Cheese Invitational in downtown Los Angeles. Hundreds of people were already waiting on this absolutely perfect sunny Californian day itching to get their hands greasy and stomachs happy. I donned my obnoxiously bright yellow skinny jeans for the occasion but I later learned that I was not the most ridiculously dressed attendee there (who knew that costume contests were not only applicable but practically required at cheese-themed events?).

Although we didn't get a chance to register as judges for the amateur grilled cheese competition, there was plenty of processed curd to go around for a price. Tons of vendors were selling their own cheesy concoctions including the Grilled Cheese Truck where I snagged a melt-in-your-mouth Southern Mac N Cheese Sammich. Daywalker and Gemini snagged a "Band Camp" sandwich from "5 times fucking grill cheese champions" Hot Knives. Made with aged cheddar and apple butter, it was an interesting twist to apple pie.

After a while the crowds got too intense in the vendor area so we swiped a cup or six of free tomato soup and all the free grilled cheese sandwiches we could carry (sharp cheddar and sourdough, mmm) courtesy of Tillamook, the cheese sponsor of the event, and sat ourselves in the lovely grassy shade.

We finally left after a couple hours when we discovered that yes, there is such a thing as too much of a good thing. We lethargically waddled out of there, hearts pumping laboriously and stomachs calorically content.

The Afterglow: Bread, butter, cheese, victory! -- no substitutions for victory.

We ate our $10 ticket's cost in free samples so I'd say it was worth it. I wish we could've judged the competition -- or at least been spectators. But there were a lot of entertainment otherwise like the cheese-based poetry competition. Or a musical performance by Mike O'Connell.

As we were waddling out of the venue, I suddenly heard a madman sing the following and just knew I couldn't go just yet:

[fast forward to 2:55 to see/hear what the hell I'm talking about]

And with his last strangled, high-pitched scream, we made our exit. It was the perfect cheesy ending to our happily bloated adventure.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

The Virgin pumps it up

#38 Never Have I Ever: Consistently gone to the gym

Foreplay: As you know from my last post, I'm seriously trying to get back in shape. Mostly because:
  • Running up a few flights of stairs leaves me panting like a fat puppy
  • I'm tired of the not-so-subtle jabs by my tactless family; "Oh, look at your cheeks, haha! Have you gained weight? Better put down that margarita, haha!" [Note: Don't ever tell me what to do with my booze. I will tell you when I've had enough.]
  • For the first time in my life, I couldn't fit into something in my wardrobe -- not because I had outgrown it, but because there was simply too much junk in the trunk
I need to come to terms with the fact that my metabolism isn't what it used to be (and the most exercise I get during the weekday is frantic speed walking from the parking lot to my office when I'm late). After years of chowing down with the nutritional recklessness of a teenage boy, my body is finally rebelling.

Body: Of course you realize that this means war.

The Down and Dirty: During the last couple weeks I've:
  1. Joined a gym for the first time in my life
  2. Used a personal trainer for the first time ever (and got my fat ass thoroughly handed to me)
  3. Gone to the gym at least 5 times a week
  4. Spent over an hour during each visit working on cardio and weight training
I am so serious about getting back in shape. Although I've been at a consistent weight for the last few months, it's been uh... redistributed to less desirable areas.

I was so ambitious about exercising that on the first day of my brand spankin' new gym membership I spent a good 2 hours on the treadmill, elliptical, and stationary bike while blazing through my borrowed copy of Water for Elephants. It was awesome -- I was burning hundreds of calories, getting some long overdue pleasure reading done, finally feeling physically and mentally productive... when I pulled a muscle. Badly.

I limped and squeaked in pathetic pain the whole walk home. I couldn't lift my left leg more than 3 inches off the ground. Putting pants on has never been so painful. Erm. Yeah.

I still forged ahead on the fitness front but abandoned the treadmill in favor of the less impacting elliptical. Everyday I dragged my body to the gym after a long day at work and put it through the wringer for at least an hour. I huffed and puffed until I felt the slow drip of sweat making its winding course down my shirt. Sexy, I know.

But what do you know! I started feeling more energized, more upbeat -- I felt better. I sleep better at night and put more effort into getting dressed in the morning. I don't mind going to the gym. In fact, I look forward to the coke-rush of endorphins now. I anticipate the first break of sweat and push myself towards that moment. And um... TMI WARNING but putting my pants on is difficult in a whole different sense now. Um. Yeah. Ahem...

The Afterglow: I'd say this is a resounding success. I don't know if I can actually keep this up though; 2 hours at the gym each day is a lot of time to dedicate. Work is piling on (10+ hour days aren't so bad, right? ...Right?) and I find myself finally sitting down to dinner at 10:30pm, in bed by 1:00am, and then repeating it all after 6 hours of sleep. And I don't even drink coffee.

On top of it all, my injury was two weeks ago and my leg still hurts. I know I should stop putting stress on it, but I can't help it. I'm stubborn and impatient and I want to be healthier NOW! Plus, I'm sure this is another tactic my body is using to prevent me from being active and in shape. Stupid body. I'd kick myself if my leg didn't already hurt so much.

Alright, Body, in the wise words of Homer Simpson: You don't like me and I don't like you, but let's do this and I can get back to killing you with beer.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

The Virgin feasts like a super model

#37 Never Have I Ever: Counted calories

Foreplay: Without getting too deep into my history with body image, self-esteem, and general mindfuck with food, I would say that for the first time in years I'm struggling with my body and weight.

Now that I'm out of school -- away from a large variety of relatively healthy meals, free access to a gym, and long walks back to and from my dorm room -- I've gained a noticeable amount of weight. Even though I eat relatively healthy, a sloth and I shamefully have more in common than I'd like to admit.

During the last month, I've joined a gym and made an effort towards portion control but everything came to a head when I calculated my resting metabolic rate and discovered I was consuming an extra 500 CALORIES A DAY! Dude. That's a hell of a lot of calories! No wonder I'm no longer a secret fatty but a reluctantly honest porker.

The Down and Dirty: I downloaded a calorie counting application on my Android to help me keep track of everything cause lord knows me + math = adlkfdslhgybrnqrbre4.

I programmed my RMI -- age, weight, height, activity level (...sedentary), and goal (lost 1 lb/week). It gave me a 1500 calorie limit per day. Ok. I can deal with that.

With this new calorie counting shenanigan, I was also implementing a new habit of eating small meals every 2-3 hours to keep up my metabolism and curb snacking. I went into work the next day and had a small breakfast of butter & jam on toast with a cup of English breakfast tea. 200 calories. Not bad, not bad.

30 minutes later someone brought in a schmorgesborg of bagels that shot my morning blood sugar to hell. Half a sesame seed bagel with whipped cream cheese couldn't hurt, right? Another 200 calories. Holy crap, it's not even 11am and I've almost fulfilled 1/3 of my daily caloric intake.

I held off on eating anything else for the next 3 hours. I was practically sweating bullets the entire time. I am a hardcore snacker. I'm a sucker to my tastebuds and give into their every whim. Walking back to my room with a couple gummy worms, a banana, and a handful of potato chips isn't weird at all. I was chugging water like no other to convince myself that I wasn't hungry. And it worked!

Later that night, Daywalker asked for my accompaniment to see the L.A Philharmonic at St. Thomas the Apostle. I debated it since I worked a 10 hour day and it would throw off my eating schedule. Fuck it. I've let food take over my life before and I wasn't going to let it happen again.

But you know what can boss me around? Dino's. That dilapidated chicken shack that serves the tastiest garlicky, citrus chicken and fries that $6 can buy. It's crack chicken. No lie. It was practically mandatory that we stop in for a quick bite when we realized Dino's was only a few blocks away from St. Thomas. It took a lot to stop stuffing my face when I was no longer hungry. And if you've ever had Dino's then that, my friends, is called will power.

The Afterglow: Being accountable for everything I ate helped me make healthier eating choices and deter my rapid snacking habit. Did I really want to scarf down that stale sugar cookie? Or did I want to wait 30 minutes to enjoy my chicken and broccoli pasta?

I think this is something I'm going to stick with for a while. Although I don't condone avid calorie counting, it reminds me to stay in a healthy ballpark. I still enjoy "bad" foods, but now I ask myself if it's worth it. Usually, it helps. Usually...

It wasn't until later that night that I broke. 11:00pm and I was in pajamas. I knew I would be asleep within an hour but fuck it -- I wanted some crack chicken. I allotted myself a very small plate of chicken, fries, and rice -- practically guilt free! But when I entered it into my phone I was over by 200 calories for the day.

So after some uh... thought and consideration (read: convincing myself that I cannot live on 1500 alone as I licked my fingers clean of the secret crack sauce) I decided to change my application "goal" to "lose 0.5 lb/week". 1700 calories.

My will is weak.

Saturday, April 10, 2010

The Virgin goes eye to eye with Bill Nye the Science Guy

I'm back! Because of bad decisions, long work hours, and what can only be crappy karma, I was hit with a combination of allergies, a cold, and losing my voice -- the latter through smoke inhalation nonetheless. Needless to say, I did nothing but drink tea and sleep last week. But I'm back with a vengeance with my most memorable DV task so far!

#36 Never Have I Ever: Met Bill Nye the Science Guy

There is no doubt that I am ruled by the right side of my brain. Mathematics and science simply elude me although I admittedly make no attempt to gather them.

However, there's no need for any of that mumbo-jumbo anymore since I learned everything I ever needed to know about science from one my few childhood idols.

Honestly, my list of childhood idols is quite short:
  • Conan O'Brien
  • Adam Corolla
  • Bill Nye the Science Guy
Now, does it makes sense to you why I am the way I am?

The Down and Dirty: A glorious email from my alma mater invited me to come hear Bill Nye the Science Guy speak. There was no question in my mind that I was going to be there bright and early that morning.

Daywalker and her sister saved me a seat in the surprisingly small lecture hall when I arrived 30 minutes before the talk. Although the space wasn't completely full yet, there was no way it was going to be able to house everyone who wanted to see Bill Nye. And I was right. People were sitting in the aisles, crowding around the back, and -- no joke -- climbing over the back hall ledge to peek over the seats. There must have been at least 250 people in there.

The whole room was buzzing in anticipation. I could practically feel the child-like excitement vibrating from every twenty-something year old who had grown up watching the science show.

Finally, Bill Nye ran through the crowded aisles in his pressed suit and bow tie. The dude does not age! It's like he was cryogenically frozen next to Walt Disney, only thawed out to give hilariously enthused speeches in front of starry-eyed students.

Bill Nye's talk, titled " Our Planet Isn't What It Used to Be, So Let's Change the World!", was -- to put it simply -- absofuckinglutely astounding. He was charming, brilliant, and hilarious all the while focusing on astronomy, global warming, and power consumption. There was never a dull moment during his 2-hour presentation and it made my heart sing to see that Bill Nye still possessed the ability to present the most convoluted information in a fun and coherent way. Most of all, he made us feel like kids again -- blindly optimistic that we could actually make a difference.

The Afterglow: After the talk and subsequent Q&A session, a large crowd gathered around the man himself to shake his hands and snap a picture. I was obviously no different.

Daywalker grimaced at the mass of people but I was determined to fight my way up there to get a photo and tell Bill Nye that although he wants us to change the world, he has already done it himself. After staggering around for 10 minutes, I used my newfound assertiveness to force Daywalker and her sister up for a picture before stepping up to the stage myself.

Unfortunately, there was no time to pour my 8-year-old heart out to the man who made me build a make-shift seismograph out of bottle caps and kill a handful of my mother's white roses by tie-dying them. Instead, I gave him a half hug for my picture which he returned and offered a general thank you. I practically skipped out of the lecture hall.

It was an amazing experience to finally meet a figure that so strongly shaped your education and outlook on life. And not just you but probably 1/3 of your peers, too. Although I didn't pursue science in the long run, I still have a love for discovery and global impact.

I think that's why Bill Nye the Science Guy is so beloved by those who grew up watching the kooky bow-tied scientist and his antics: he made us enthusiastic that we could make a difference and change the world. He made me feel like a kid again.

Monday, April 5, 2010

The Virgin goes looking for trouble

#35 Never Have I Ever: Hunted for Easter eggs

Foreplay: I am neither of the following: religious, overly competitive, under the age of 10. So there would really be no reason for me to celebrate Easter.

To be honest, I hate competing. I'm either belligerently cutthroat or apathetically uncombative, neither of which has ever helped me win anything athletic. Basically, I shouldn't participate in a competition that involves anything physical cause it can get ugly.

The Down and Dirty: Hermosa invited me to an Easter egg hunt on Sunday -- "Survivor style," he added.

In the Survivor style hunt, a few less number of eggs than hunters are hidden. Those who don't find one are out. The losers, bitter and vindictive now, then hide a lesser number of eggs in the next round for the survivors. This continues until there is only one winner.

We gathered at a nearby park and 14 of us lined up, taking our marks. The hiders stashed away 12 eggs and at the shout of "Go!" we were all sprinting up the hill in a desperate search. I'm sure it was a sight to see: over a dozen people -- who are clearly adults -- making a mad dash to find Easter eggs.

In the first round, I can't say I was very motivated. I mean, I looked for eggs but I wasn't hunting them. But alas, just as I resigned myself to being out, I stumbled across one. Huzzah!

The sheer glee of not losing completely took over. And this is what I mean when I say I shouldn't compete. Because, dude, it was on now.

During the next few rounds, I was described by Hermosa as being one of the first sprinters out of the group -- this is while wearing my highly inappropriate pointy-toed kitten heels. I hurdled over a couple dogs; I threw myself into arachnid-adorned bushes; at one point I raced with another girl to clamber up a chain-linked fence to grab the last egg teetering at the top.

It was finally down to 7 of us in search of 4 eggs. Suddenly, there was only one egg left out there. I had been burying myself in a mysteriously sticky (ew) bush for 10 minutes, positive that the egg was in there somewhere when another player on the other side of the foliage screamed in victory -- blast! And so ended my mid-game winning streak.

However, the fun was just beginning -- I started hiding the eggs back at the house. A normal person would hide it somewhere like a bush or in the tomato planters. But when you get 3 vindictive girls together who just lost the last round to 4 guys, we get a little creative... like, oh say... in the gated gutter 2 feet below the ground or in a large bag of oysters and ice.

The Afterglow: I think I had more fun hiding the eggs and watching people scrambling to find them like crack-addicted dogs sniffing out their next fix than being a druggie dog myself.

I guess I can compete without throwing elbows or rolling my eyes. But hey, when it involves zombie Jesus eggs, it comes down to the good, the bad, and the ugly.

Saturday, April 3, 2010

The Virgin pinches a pretty penny

#34 Never Have I Ever: Haggled (in North America)

Foreplay: I'm horribly shy when talking to strangers, and even worse when I'm demanding something from them.

However, last year I spent 18 days in China where I skipped around the entire country, never staying in one city for more than 3 days. It was an amazing adventure where I ate tons of food (and will never want hot & sour sauce ever again), learned a few key phrases in Mandarin (bu, bu shi wo nanpengyou, shi wo gege = no, he is not my boyfriend, he is my older brother), and haggled for the first time in my life.

Since I was almost positive that Barnes & Noble wouldn't appreciate my mad bargaining skills, they dropped by the wayside.

The Down and Dirty: The sales team asked that I research and book a limo for their trip to the MI6 Awards in San Francisco 2 days from then. The west coast rep, although a fabulous man with a snotty but cute Schnauzer, is very neurotic and particular with his specific requests. I had to do a fair amount of Yelping and calling around for oh about 4 hours before I managed to find one company who fit the requirements: a white Lincoln stretch limo that can seat 12 and was available in 2 days.

When I called him with this news, the rep enthusiastically said great! -- and can I talk the price down?

Um. What? I spent 4 hours with the phone glued to my ear, calling half of San Francisco, and you want me to ask the dude to knock a few dollars off the only vehicle in the Bay Area that fits your requests? Yes. Yes, he did.

And so back on the phone I went with the limo guy.

Daily Virgin: Hi, I just called about the stretch limo. What did you say the price was again? (because playing dumb totally works?)
Limo Guy: It's $110 each hour. Tax and tip are not included. (he had actually knocked down the price from $135 without my having to ask earlier)
Daily Virgin: OK. Well, see... my company is looking to contract a limo service in San Francisco in the upcoming months since we are starting to get clients there. Is there any discount?
Limo Guy: -silence for a few moments- I can give it to you for $110 out the door.
Daily Virgin: (because I am dumb, not playing anymore) Out the door?
Limo Guy: Yes, $110 tax and tip included in that price.

After further conversation, I was somehow able to talk him into giving me a discount on a 16-seater party bus for $135/hour. And then got a 18-seater party bus for that price as well.

When I called the rep back with the news, there was stunned silence on the other line and then, "Wow. You are amazing." I heard him murmur to his assistant, "Can we get her to come up here and work with us?"

High fiiiiive!

The Afterglow: Apparently after my haggling session, there's now some talk about moving me into the marketing department. I was already going to change positions due to my promotion, but I'm not really sure where I am ending up now.

Maybe I do have a way with words that can do more than criticize bad-dressers and tell inappropriate jokes. Woot!

Thursday, April 1, 2010

The Virgin doesn't need doctors

#33 Never Have I Ever: Mixed alcohol and drugs... on purpose

So you may have noticed the lack of updates recently. That is because I've been battling it out with either a wimpy to moderate cold or a horrible attack of allergies from Hell. I've been a rapidly sneezing, teary-eyed, congested mess of a semi-adult this week.

However, I often don't medicate my problems (unless by "medicate" you mean "drink until everything is really freakin' funny and I forget"). I'd rather let my body do its thang and take care of whatever pesky infection or non life-threatening bacteria has managed to permeate my very, very weak walls.

The Down and Dirty: After having worked an 11 hour day at the office, I was efficiently snotting up a storm while grocery shopping when I received a call from Daywalker. Through her hysterics and tears, I managed to gather that she had just broken up with her boyfriend of 5 years and was begging to come over.

I eyed the $5 bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon in my hands and immediately deposited in my shopping cart. I told her to come straight away. I threw in another bottle for good measure. And then circled back for a package of cookie dough.

It was 9pm by the time Daywalker arrived and I had just finished making my first ever fancy meal of Hamburger Helper (4 cheese lasagna for you curious folks). I then busted open my $5 wine and popped in a dozen ready-bake squares of Snickerdoodle dough into the oven. Nothing but class.

3 glasses and 4 cookies into break up damage control, Daywalker had stopped sobbing but I was still sniffling like a cokehead. I've had a long day, I thought, I could use a few good hours of deep, uninterrupted sleep. And so I chased a Benedryl with my fourth glass of wine.

After ogling the 3/4 empty bottle and convincing myself that I could totally polish it off, I poured a fifth glass and cut myself off. After all, I am a responsible adult.

I finally bid Daywalker adieu and like the responsible adult I am, I went to go wash the dishes. While loopy as all hell. I mean, one moment I'm calmly hugging Daywalker goodbye at my door, the next I'm doubled over the sink, covered up to my elbow in lukewarm suds trying to find that damn spatula. This wasn't even being drunk -- trust me, I am very familiar with being drunk. I felt like I was living in an anti-gravity bounce-house, clumsily sailing from one foot to the other.

At that point, it was best that I put myself to bed before I did any more damage to myself or my glassware.

The Afterglow: That was pretty fun until I was left to my own devices. By midnight I was tucked into bed, all warm and loopy, snuggling with my pillow and serenely mumbling nonsense. I woke up the next day at 11:30am. Oops.

Hey, at least I could breathe out of one nostril now. This whole self-medicating your problems thing is really entertaining if it wasn't so depressing.

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

The Virgin gets telephonetic

#32 Never Have I Ever: Had a psychic reading over the phone

Foreplay: I haven't exactly had the best experience with psychics in the past. I'm a person who believes in logic and science rather than faith and god(s). Yes, intuition exists but so does rationale and general common sense. I've just never been a believer.

That is until Whiskey Sour once mentioned his mother's "intuition" in passing. I had to painfully extract the whole story from him but it turns out that she had predicted some eerily specific and accurate occurrences already. Now, I obviously don't buy into this type of thought but it was coming from Whiskey Sour -- the sort of guy who is as blunt as the end of a swinging baseball bat, who isn't afraid to cut you down to size and will thoroughly mock any situation. So for this guy to put himself in such a compromising position speaks volumes.

Soon enough I had an appointment with Madame Whiskey Sour.

The Down and Dirty: Originally our reading was supposed to be staged over GChat but at the last minute we decided to make it a phone call since it would be easier.

Whiskey Sour called and passed the phone over to his mother. She explained that she would answer my questions and then read me my cards (I'm assuming she meant Tarot). As with most readings, she asked for my full name, meditated (which is quite awkward when you're clueless and on the phone like I was), and then invited my questions.

I started off by asking about my career which, at the moment, is my focus in life. And she surprised me with an answer: Move to New York. Within a year. I've never even stepped foot east of New Orleans and although I've always wanted to go to New York, the idea of packing up my past 20-something years in Southern California and moving there without knowing a soul is daunting to say the least (shit-in-my-pants-while-curled -in-fetal-position-terrifying to say the most).

But, she said, this would lead me to my successful future career. Plus, I'd only be there 3-4 years anyway. Alright, I can deal with that. I have always wanted to get out of Los Angeles for a while.

Then came relationships and love and all that nonsense. I'll save the drama for my mama and just say that there were things I did and didn't want to hear. Some made me tear up a bit and others made me hopeful. One interesting tidbit was that I'd meet my future husband outside of the U.S. This was sort of surprising but dude! Maybe I'll bag me a Brit -- finally!

I asked a few more questions about random things and then she read my cards. At the end, we talked a lot about my moving to New York. I admitted that I was quite apprehensive to do it alone and she said I am a visual person (incredibly true) and simply needed to see myself there. She advised to me go rent "that Sex and the City movie" and visualize the streets and buildings and atmosphere of the city itself "but ignore those stupid girls and their problems". Hah, I love old Southern women who talk to God.

The Afterglow: Apparently, Madame Whiskey talks to God and he answers her. So it isn't necessarily a psychic reading rather than a Catholic conference.

I think I expected a more accurate reading. I mean, nothing was egregiously wrong -- except when I asked about my sporadic headaches and she said it was because I consumed too much caffeine; I don't drink coffee, tea, or soda so um... no? But I couldn't question her authenticity since it was a friend's mom (and you just don't do that to a friend's mom) and she was generous enough to take almost an hour out of her hectic schedule to entertain my stupid curiosity.

Maybe I'm disappointed because I didn't hear the things I wanted to. I'm still doubtful, hopeful, and a little heartbroken.

Whiskey Sour has obviously had many readings done by his mother so he and I exchanged notes, many on potential future relationships.

Whiskey Sour: I'm putting my heart through the blender here for something that may or may not happen.
Daily Virgin: Hey, at least you're not going to marry some foreigner who is probably using you for a green card.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

The Virgin is a sweet talker

#31 Never Have I Ever: Talked my way in

Foreplay: I often wonder if my mother and I would be friends if she were my age because I am by no means my mother's daughter. She's brash, embarrassingly outgoing, and often demanding. She's not afraid to ask for a discount at a department store or tell a waiter that something is wrong with her order.

Me? Well, I spent the first 5 minutes of dinner picking out fried onion garnish off my plate on Friday night. Although I'm not particularly pleased with being patient and letting things run its course, I'm not about to pipe up and make a fuss either.

The Down and Dirty: Over the weekend, a group of friends and I hit up a bar. However, us girls are antsy and this bar doesn't have any semblance of a dance floor. A quick peek out the door reveals a relatively busy club down the street, thumping music and all. Two girlfriends and I say brb to the boys high tail it over.

Now, we didn't plan to go clubbing. Although I'm wearing a dress, it's a floral mini dress that would better fit a Sunday brunch than a Saturday night club. However, I'm the most dressed of the group. One girl is wearing chucks and the other Uggs; both are in jeans and somewhat dressy tank tops. Thus, I'm sacrificed to the club promoter.

As we make our way to the venue, I see a line of girls donned in skin-tight dresses and sky high heels waiting to get into the club. It's almost 11pm at this point and although I feel nervous about trying to talk my way in, I'd much rather do that than stand in line and pay a cover charge.

I march up to an obvious club promoter in a suit at the entrance. "Hi," I chirp, "Is there a cover charge?" I inquire while trying to ignore the long line of dolled up girls watching me.

"Yeah, it's $10," he replies like a robot.

"Oh." I grimace at my girls.

"Wait," he calls before we walk away, "How many people do you have with you?"

I tell him it's just us 3 girls and smile, stepping in front of them to cover their obvious non-club footwear. He smiles back and says he'll take care of us then. In less than a minute, we're strutting through the entrance, past the long line of sparkly dresses.

The Afterglow: We only stayed for 45 minutes before meeting back up with the boys so paying $10 to dance for that long would've been absurd.

I'm not used to demanding what I want from strangers. I'm a freakin' pro with friends and family -- probably overstepping my bounds on occasion -- but for some reason I can't make a fuss with strangers. It's awkward and embarrassing. There are definitely times I will speak up -- like when a waiter moved my party's heat lamp to another table without asking or when some wanker at a bar overcharged me during Happy Hour -- but unless I'm actually put out by it, it's not a big deal to me. I'd rather grumble to myself than be that person causing a raucous.

I'm a bitch, but I'm not rude.

Saturday, March 27, 2010

The Virgin cleans up well

#30 Never Have I Ever: Gone out of my way to dress up nicely for an ordinary day

I love fashion and clothes. Unfortunately, my wardrobe has a price limit (well hello Forever 21 and H&M!). However, my laziness knows no bounds.

Although I have my own personal fashion rules [some of which include: no sweatpants in public; leggings are not an acceptable substitute for pants unless both ass cheeks are completely covered; by pairing a denim jacket with jeans or a jean skirt you are giving me full permission to mock you, etc.], there are days where I will throw on a pair of black jeans and a hoodie and... that's it. No bra, no shirt underneath. When you're an A-cup, you can pull off shit like that. You can also use bandaids as ghetto pasties when you can't wear a bra.

But anyway, my general outfit usually consists of straight-leg pants, a nice blouse, pointy-toed flats, and maybe a cardigan or blazer. My hair is worn down and straight, and my make up is unfussy. All of which takes about 20-30 minutes in my murderous morning haze. I'm put together but I'm definitely not Sartorialist material.

The Down and Dirty: I had a meeting with my boss for my freelance design job in the morning. He's only ever seen me in jeans and quirky t-shirts so I decided to doll it up a bit. I throw on my striped cream shirt, a black knee-length skirt, and red kitten peep-toes. On a whim, I slap on some red lipstick for good measure. I am 20 minutes late for my meeting.

"Where are you going so dressed up?" he asks when I finally arrive. Nowhere, I puff still out of breath from running into the office, just felt like wearing something besides jeans.

All is going well until I notice that my desk is getting higher. No wait. I'm slowly sinking in my seat. What the hell? The luxurious material of my skirt keeps slipping in the leather chair, forcing me to clamber back up every 10 minutes.

But generally, things were great. My ego was thoroughly stroked when I stopped by a mall to make an exchange and felt the linger of eyes. This is freakin' awesome, I thought. Until, of course - of course! - things took a turn for the worse.

Later that night, Hermosa comes to pick me up for a concert at The Echo. However, I'm running behind. Way behind. This was a reoccurring theme throughout the day.

Earlier, I had decided that I needed a "night look" as Cosmo and Glamour often suggest -- something drastic and different but still stylish. So I showered, shaved, and wrestled my way into a vintage floral mini dress and heels. My makeup was painstakingly precise and I was determined to curl my naturally straight hair. After a ton of hairspray, a few burns followed by some carefully chosen expletives, and a 15 minute delay, I was finally out the door juggling my purse, cardigan, keys, and phone while frantically rubbing lotion on my legs as I scampered to Hermosa's awaiting car.

Parking in Echo Park is atrocious. We circled Sunset Blvd and nearby neighborhoods for a good 15 minutes before Hermosa questioned whether or not we should try sneaking into the Walgreen's lot. I don't know, I interjected, You might get a ticket. He decided a $70 ticket wouldn't be the end of the world and we rolled into a space. Despite the not-yet-Spring weather, I left my cardigan in the car since concert venue was only 2 blocks down.

Dressed to the nines and nursing my whiskey while standing next to homeless-looking hipsters and Urban Outfitter rejects clutching PBR made me feel so snazzy. To be honest, whenever I had to walk -- whether to the bathroom or up to the bar (my staple destinations) -- I was struttin' my stuff like it was a catwalk.

The whiskey was wearing off quickly and thus so was my drunk jacket on the walk back to the car. All I wanted to do was hop in the warm car and throw on my soft cardigan. I had had enough of freezing for the sake of fashion by that point.

Um... where's the car? Why is the parking lot completely empty? It was like some hipster version of Dude, Where's My Car? except with more hairspray and whiskey. Fuck.

Hermosa's car had been towed and we had the next hour to get to the tow yard before they closed for the night. We hailed a cab relatively easily (thanks to my short skirt?) and high tailed it there. The taxi took us down a dusty dead-end street with no street lights. Hermosa and I crawled out of the cab apprehensively. As we slowly approached the 15 ft. spiked metal gate, a flood light burst on and a rather large dog came charging at us from the distance.

I did not get dolled up to get mauled by a German Shepherd in goddamn rape alley.

Needless to say, we were in the car and out of there in less than 30 minutes.

The Afterglow: The German Shepherd turned out to be an absolute sweetheart but she was filthy. The sketchy tow yard owner asked if I wanted to wash my hands after our transaction. He unlocked a door in the back of the dingy office and then pointed at a doorway at the end of a unlit hallway. "Okay, she goes down there. You," he addressed Hermosa, "can go out there." He gestured at the garage outside of the office. Oh heeeeell no.

I mean, I appreciated all the compliments and extra attention but I was so frazzled by being late to everything. I don't think I have it in me to keep it up every single day. Dude, it takes a lot of time and effort to look good. Not to mention the pain of using a curling iron. Looks can kill -- or at least really, really hurt.

P.S. I wore the exact same outfit the next night (curled hair and all) and actually caused a saxophonist to stop playing mid song as I walked by. Ego, consider yourself boosted.

Friday, March 26, 2010

The Virgin blocks a cock

#29 Never Have I Ever: Intentionally acted as a cock-block

Foreplay: I am usually the cock-blockee, rather than the cock-blocker. I don't know what about my disposition that screams to men, "Hey! HEY! Over here! Come spew some god awful line about how hot you think I am while trying to hump me! No, that grimace just means hump me harder!"

Somehow, the sketchiest wankers always find me. Even when I took my newly out and proud girl friend to Truck Stop Friday at Here Lounge aka the hottest lesbian club in LA. Some pudgy, balding excuse for a man decided that girl-at-a-lesbian-bar = fair game for Mr. McHappy Hands.

The Down and Dirty: Kamikaze and I have a list of favorite bars to get shibliterated and attempt to charm the crowd with our outspoken antics. Barney's Beanery in Old Town Pasadena is one of these places.

Barney's may not be the best bar, but it's a ray of freakin' sunshine during weekends in Old Town. As you're bypassing spandex dresses scampering to Villa Sorriso or gangs of pinstriped bros loitering in front of Menage, you'll be thankful for the cool glass of Hoegaarden when you enter Barney's (even if the bartender never ever remembers to squeeze a slice of lemon in said Hoegaarden).

The crowd is usually friendly. Perhaps a little too friendly. As Kamikaze and I danced and sang along to drunken karaoke enthusiasts, a short and smarmy pig with thinning hair slid in front of us and planted his leathery hooves on each our shoulders. "Hey, do I know you?"

I stepped out of his reach and glared. Hard. He paid me no mind and concentrated his efforts on Kamikaze, planting his now free hand on her other shoulder. Kamikaze is usually a feisty little thing -- often being the one who tells guys to get lost on friends' behalves -- but this time she simply squirmed and looked uncomfortable.

I quickly stepped in and knocked his hands away from her. "Don't touch her," I warned, practically shooting daggers with my eyes.

"Hey hey hey," the pig protested, throwing up his hands but still standing unbearably close, "I thought I recognized you guys. You look familiar."

My daggers turned into acid-laced shrapnel. "No. We don't. Don't ever touch her again."

He quickly scurried away but not fast enough. That was the first I had ever been so forward with a rejection. However, the night was not going to let me get away so easily.

An hour later at the bar, Kamikaze and I waited for our drinks when another loser in an ugly pinstriped shirt sidled up between us, laying his hairy arms across our shoulders. "Hey ladies, how are we doing tonight?" he wheezed, smelling of cheap cologne and Rogaine.

At that point, I assumed his physical contact permitted me to touch him as well. I grabbed his shirt and gave a his chest a solid push, not hard enough to start an unnecessary fight but sending him stumbling back a step away from us. I then demanded, "Where the hell do you get off touching a girl you don't know?"

His response? "I'm from New York! I guess things are different here in California."

Uh. Yeah, buddy. Us Californians don't particularly like being sexually harassed. It's up there with kicking puppies and non-ironically listing Twilight as your favorite movie.

The Afterglow: Fuck hurting people's feelings. I will be polite and patient if you decide to spit game at me, but I will not tolerate invasion into my personal space. By rubbing my back with your greasy paw, you give me the right to touch you back. With my fist.

When the hell did men become pigs? C'mon, I'm not that old and I still remember when guys tried to hold your hand rather than fondle your ass.

Batting for the other team never looked so good. Consider your cock blocked.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

The Virgin wines and dines... herself?

#28 Never Have I Ever: Eaten alone at a restaurant

One of my favorite things in college were sit down meals in the dining hall. Growing up, my parents were always working late and my brothers were scattered amongst their friends so mealtime came and went individually without anything fancy like china or dinner table conversation. So when I got to college and witnessed people actually sitting at a goddamn wooden table with other humans rather than in front of a TV with The Simpsons, I was completely enamored with this habit.

However, I am not in college anymore and have since resorted to eating my dinner in front of my laptop while catching up to episodes of United States of Tara or Project Runway. Why no, it's not as sad and pathetic as you think, Tim Gunn is a great dinner buddy. Oh, excuse me as I down half a chocolate cake.

The Down and Dirty: Tonight I was hungry and hankering for a hatch burger from Umami Burger so I grabbed my book bag and trekked down the street.

I've never eaten alone before because I feel that when I pay for a meal, I'm not just buying the food but the service and the atmosphere -- most of which, in the latter, is highly influenced by my choice of dining partner(s). Plus, being so obviously alone at such a social place seriously makes me want to flip my skin inside out just so patrons are too distracted to notice that I don't have any friends.

I get to Umami and it's surprisingly packed for 8pm. I put my name down on the list and then hesitantly add a tiny "1" next to it. A bald, burly bartender calls at me from behind the counter, "How many?"

Just me, I say. He pauses to assess me, probably wondering what the hell I did to repel my social circle from joining me for dinner. He offers me a seat at the bar. I didn't plan on sitting at the bar but during such a rush, I'd hate to be that pathetic yet annoying girl claiming a 4-top for herself. I took my place between a couple who was waaaay too into PDA and a pair of sexually questionable yuppies.

After I ordered a Hoegaarden (a repeating occurrence recently), a hatch burger, and cheesy tator tots (there's melted cheese INSIDE the tots, people! If I'm going to be eating alone, I'm going to do it right), I broke out my borrowed copy of Water for Elephants. However, I didn't realize it was the ADD/geriatric version where each chapter is accompanied by a picture and it's printed in size 24 font. As if the only way to convince a person to read was to give them an incentive: Ooh, I'm turning a page! Ooh, I'm turning another page! PICTURE!! So not only was I alone, but now I appeared to be blind and mentally deficient.

My food arrived, smelling like pepper and cheese and naked angels, and I enjoyed it thoroughly while flipping through my book. That is until I came upon a chapter describing a corpse. Doesn't mean I slowed down on showing that burger who's boss. I'm just saying my rare beef took on a whole new appearance.

One of the possibly gay men beside me finally turned and asked what was in my burger but before I could answer, the charismatically acerbic bartender replied and then proceeded to emasculate the men for ordering wine with their barely touched meals.

"Don't tap out now! I mean, look at her -- she already finished her burger and beer," he goaded, gesturing at me. Alright, so add "fatty" onto the lonely-blind-and-ADD list.

Ok, so it wasn't as horrible as I'm making it out to be since it got us talking and joking around. I didn't put my book down, but it felt nice to finally be acknowledged.

The Afterglow: It really wasn't bad at all. I had a decent time and the bartender kept stopping by to crack jokes and make sure I was alright.

I would probably do it again but on a smaller budget. I still believe that I'm paying for more than food and although the bartender was quite entertaining and my book was captivating, neither can replace familiar human interaction.

This is one of the most difficult parts of post grad life though: all your friends are spread out and even though all you want to do is call them to ask if they want to grab a bite to eat right now, it's just not possible without some forethought. I appreciate it when we're able to get together for some soon tofu or doner kebabs though -- however, with becoming an adult comes a job that forces you to plan your meals together and usually on the weekend.

I guess my laptop is my comida comrade these days. Tim Gunn isn't the best replacement for dining partners, but you can't have your cake and eat it, too.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

The Virgin is shaken, not stirred

#27 Never Have I Ever: Had an original cocktail made especially for me

Foreplay: I am a boozer through and through. Truth be told, I've been drinking everyday since Wednesday -- whether it was a Black & Tan at a bar on St. Patrick's Day or sake with sushi at my cousin's 9th birthday party this weekend.

I am not shy when it comes to booze. Through the magical elixir, my palette has traveled from classy Manhattan to beautiful Blue Hawaii[n]. My tongue has swum with Polar Bears and ridden with Cocksucking Cowboys. I've wined, dined, had tequila with lime. I wouldn't say I'm an expert or connoisseur of alcohol -- just a really big fan.

The Down and Dirty: Gemini and I spontaneously stopped by the Black Boar on Monday for a drink... which turned into 2, then 3... and then we eventually found ourselves gorging on taco truck 3 hours later. Case of the Mondays indeed. But I digress.

As soon as we planted ourselves at the bar, a gentleman festooned with a handle bar mustache sidled up in front of us. Despite the ironic facial hair and quintessential flannel button-up, there was a confident and comedic air about him that dispelled any assumption of hipster-dom. In fact, he turned out to be the best bartender I've ever met. He immediately asked what we'd be sampling tonight. Sample? For free? In a L.A. bar? And it's not roofied?! Count me in! He practically served us everything on tap, then bought himself a bottle of nicer beer and gave us a glass while regaling tales of his touring days with The Flaming Lips.

After pumping myself full of $3 pear cider, I badgered Gemini for a D.V. task. She thought for a moment while sipping her Speckled Hen. "Have you ever had a drink made just for you?"

My eyes lit up as I took in the fully stocked bar before us. "Barkeep!"

I demanded an original drink from the bartender -- something that he had never made before. As he twirled his waxed mustache, he whipped up something he called The Pirate -- freshly squeezed lemons and limes, Mount Gay rum, a dash of sugar, and soda water.

"This was something I created when I was homeless and crashing with a friend," he said while planting the glass before me, "I wanted to get fucked up and only had a gallon of this rum so I stole some limes from the neighbor's tree. It was all I could afford. Man, drugs were bad back then. At least something good came out of it," he reminisced. Uh huh...

It was like a mojito sans mint leaves. So incredibly refreshing, I could see myself sipping this in the summer time. Very tasty. And very deadly.... which I only figured out 3 hours later when I had trouble navigating my carne asada quesadilla into my mouth.

The Afterglow: Even though that was one hell of a cocktail that he hadn't made for ages, I was slightly disappointed that it wasn't an original drink. Daily Virgin fail. That's what I get for asking a seasoned bartender who claims a can of Strongbow, a Vicodin, and tons of pot is the best cure for a hangover.

But now I'm determined to find a bartender who will whip something up that will pop both our cherries.

P.S. During a drunken yet classy party in college (I swear it's not an oxymoron), I whipped up the most ghetto chocolate martini ever (alright, maybe it is):

1 part vanilla vodka
1 part amaretto
1 part skim milk
1 packet of Swiss Miss instant hot chocolate (what can I say? I'm all class)

Add ingredients into a cocktail shaker with some ice. Shake until chocolate has dissolved. Serve in a chilled martini glass or a red plastic cup. Enjoy!

Sunday, March 21, 2010

The Virgin makes a move

#26 Never Have I Ever: Approached/hit on a guy

Foreplay: So although I've had some mild success in dating recently, they've all resulted in lukewarm results. I don't necessarily mind jumping through proverbial social hoops because I always find it fun to talk to strangers (save for psychos, perverts, and outright skeezy motherfuckers). But there's just something disheartening when things don't work out and you find yourself wondering about the rate of his receding hairline on a date.

However, as much as it terrifies, I think putting myself out there helps build my confidence -- or at least forces to me ignore my anxiety in place of the adrenaline pounding through my veins.

The Down and Dirty: A bunch of us are celebrating a friend's birthday in Old Town Pasadena. We started off the night dancing at a club but now we've settled in at a kitschy-bordering-on-ghastly-tacky gastropub.

I was laughing with my table when my eyes swept across the bar and met with someone else's. Scruffily cute brunette with some indie rock influence. Oh, hello...

Flanked by two friends, he was making his way through the bar when we made eye contact -- the sort of silent connection that practically vibrates with the electricity pulsing between you two. Wow. He looked away but, fueled by unabashed curiosity and unfounded courage, I maintained my gaze. A second later he glanced back up at me and we engaged in what I could only eloquently describe as "eye fucking" before walking out of sight.

My hand shot out and ripped Kamikaze from her seat. "We're going for a drink. Now."

I snagged a Hoegaarden and we made a lap around the place when Eye Sex and friends came in from the other direction. Kamikaze and I stalled at the end of the bar, pretending to not so obviously be on the prowl. Eye Sex quickly looked over and loitered close by. Every now and then I'd glance over but that familiar heart-pounding, stutter-inducing, train wreck-causing anxiety was slowly seeping in. I was losing my nerve and had to turn away.

Kamikaze offered to take the lead but after Daywalker stole my thunder with Blackjacket, I wanted -- no, needed -- to prove that I had the gusto to make the first move, if only to myself. I wanted to be that girl.

Kamikaze: Okay. You need to make a move soon because he keeps looking over here and I have to awkwardly look away.

I had no idea what to say but I was positive that dawdling would only fluster me more. I convinced myself that my sharp tongue and lightening-speed wits would spring to action in this situation. Kamikaze sashayed past the group. I followed but stopped short next to Eye Sex.

Daily Virgin: Hi. What's your name?

That was the best I could come up with. Ugh...

BUT! It worked! He smiled and we started talking. Kamikaze and Eye Sex's friends all bowed out to leave us to our own devices. And you know what? I haven't had such an easy initial conversation in a loooooong time. Electricity like whoa.

Daily Virgin: I'm sorry, I'm usually not so bold but I thought you looked like an interesting person to talk to.
Eye Sex: Yeah, I noticed you earlier. And just right now my friends were trying to get me to leave but I kept telling them to wait a little bit longer.

He flashed a smile and nodded towards the end of the bar where Kamikaze and I loitered earlier. Um. SCORE. I seriously love it when two people feel the same connection and are sort of unashamed about it in that fuck-high-school-politics kind of way.

Eventually the last call lights were thrown on and Kamikaze ran over to tell me that our party was leaving but Eye Sex made no real move to say goodbye. After stalling for as long as I could, I told him I had to go lest I wanted a drunk, angry mob of friends dragging me out of here. At this, he whipped out his iPhone and I gave him my digits. He leaned in for a hug, saying how it was great to meet me, and I was more than happy to oblige.

The Afterglow: I may or may not have high-fived a friend when I met my party outside (Answer: I did). I was feeling like a freakin' baller from the adrenaline rush of it all.

While we stood on the corner waiting for the pedestrian light, Daywalker fastened herself to my side to grill me on Eye Sex. What's his name? What does he do? Jumping his bones any time soon?

I answered honestly yet offhandedly as I was absorbed in texting but couldn't wipe the smug smirk off my face. After all, there was totally something electric happening. As we swaggered across the street, some dude bumped into my other side.

"Oh, I'm sorry," facetiously chimed a familiar voice.

Oh no. No no no. A slow, agonizing turn of my head revealed Eye Sex nonchalantly sauntering next to me with an amused smile playing on his lips, "Oh hey, funny running into you out here," he jested.

So um, if he doesn't think I'm some sort of weird, gushing, name-demanding gawker of a girl, I'd be pretty content with a text or call from him. I didn't ask for his number so the ball is in his court.

Just when I think I'm mastering the art of seduction, the universe always finds a way to make me figuratively fall flat on my face. Note taken, asshole.

Saturday, March 20, 2010

The Virgin fails at being animal-friendly

#25 Never Have I Ever: Gone vegan for at least a week

Foreplay: After breezing through my week of vegetarianism, I decided to forge ahead and save a few more cows by trying out veganism for a week. I mean, how much harder can it be, right? Right...

The Down and Dirty: Holy shit. I can't eat a single thing. Whereas I forgot about meat while being vegetarian because of all the options, veganism was determined to kill me by starvation or otherwise.

During the first morning of veganism, I decided to cook a batch of Mexican rice for some rice & bean burritos to tide me over until my next grocery run (damn veggies and your short lifespan in my fridge!). But while steaming the rice on my stove top, I completely burned the back of my fingers. As tears welled up in my eyes, I was thoroughly convinced that the universe was telling me to go murder a cow now.

The week didn't get much better. I was too paranoid to enjoy my food in fear that I was committing a vegan crime. And when I finally found meals that I could indulge in, I was all over it like gold diggers on a deathbed millionaire.

It was so peculiar to pay so much attention to what I eat yet basically disregard the nutritional information. It's like meticulously picking furniture only to set the house on fire. I felt like I was eating to not be hungry -- which was a very often occurrence. I didn't realize how much meat and dairy filled me up.

Despite my constant alertness, I couldn't help but to have a few slip ups. During a meal at Pure Luck, a vegetarian restaurant famous for their crazily convincing jackfruit "carnitas", I mistakenly let my guard down; I was halfway through my side Caesar salad before I forgot to ask if the dressing was vegan. During St. Patrick's Day, I was enjoying my second Irish Car Bomb when I realized Bailey's Irish Cream was a component in the concoction.

And then... I went to the StarChefs Gala. Needless to say, I crashed and burned beautifully. I finally broke when I said fuck it and wolfed down the Jamaican jerk pork belly.

...Holy hell. HOLY HELL. Worth it. SO WORTH IT. Fuck you, Babe. I will eat you and your family if you all tasted this good. And to think, I was going to reward myself with an In N Out burger at the end of the week. If I was going to give into meat, I might as well do it with food from top chefs. It's like an addict breaking sobriety by snorting class A coke off of David Bowie's ass.

The Afterglow: Veganism just isn't for me. I hated being so paranoid about food all the time. It didn't make me feel healthier since I was constantly hungry and when I finally did find something to eat I didn't care about nutrition.

It was also more expensive. I had to pay an extra $0.50 to substitute soy milk in my iced chai latte. Fresh produce costs more than it should. And those damn soy chicken nuggets!

Yes, I probably went about veganism the wrong way despite putting some research behind it. I just don't have the time to devote to such a drastic lifestyle. That's why I don't diet. That, and my total lack of will power when you wave an eclair in front of my face.

I don't think I can ever subject myself to such a strict diet again. It almost killed me! I'm sorry, Babe. I'd rather you than me and honestly, you're simply too tasty for me to deny.

Friday, March 19, 2010

The Virgin rolls VIP

#24 Never Have I Ever: Been VIP

Foreplay: I am by no means wealthy or well connected into any industry. The idea of my name being on one of those purported lists baffles me as it has never happened before. For heaven's sake, I was giddy when I got my own parking spot at work -- never mind getting my name on a VIP list.

The Down and Dirty: One night, I got a call from Boston, a friend with family ties to the food industry, asking for my last minute accompaniment to the StarChefs Gala in Santa Monica that week. "I need to schmooze a little for the business but all you need to do is wear a dress," he says.

Alright. Arm candy. I can do that. But with a quick look into my closet, I realized that the fanciest frock I owned was my college graduation dress: a short, white strapless number that I paired with bright yellow heels. It'd have to do. However, I was utterly delighted when Boston picked me up donning a canary tie with his suit. I haven't had a date match with me since high school prom.

The event was held at a hoity-toity hotel in Santa Monica. After valeting the car and checking in, I was beyond impressed by the spread: live music, beautiful food, and free flowing booze.

Boston and I spent the entire night sampling and savoring top chefs' dishes and their paired alcohol. Never have I put something so good in my mouth: Herb roasted veal ribeye with crispy sweetbreads, celery, and sauce peigouine; serrano-wrapped monkfish with eltuce, maitake mushrooms and mustard sabayon; compressed native strawberries, beet, cacao fruit, elderflower, and violets. I don't know what any of those words mean but you don't need literacy when you're orgasming over the food.

Needless to say, we were probably way more intoxicated than acceptable for such a fancy event. They paired the dishes with top notch wines, whiskeys, and beers. Can you really blame us?

And then we took a cab to the VIP afterparty at Umami Burger. Now you can blame us.

We hadn't RSVPed for the afterparty but all it took was for Boston to mention the business name and we were immediately ushered inside. Score! Unlimited Umami burgers and Hoegaarden... I think I found heaven on Earth. Adam Fleischman, founder and chef of Umami Burger, even personally delivered a plate of mini burgers to our table himself. Let me tell you, those were the best burgers I've ever had.

I savored them with a glass of wine. Soon one turned into two. And then I snagged a Hoegaarden. And then... well, I don't quite remember but I woke up 10 hours later with smeared make up and my mouth tasting like ass.

The Afterglow: It was magical in that surreal, swirling, slightly bloated sort of way.

Boston keeps claiming that he owes me for coming to the event since his invitation was so last minute but uh... ARE YOU INSANE?! I got to be arm candy while thoroughly stuffing my face! I can't think of a better job that's not actually gold digging.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

The Virgin comes this close to cyber sex

#23 Never Have I Ever: Cyberchatted

Foreplay: It's a Tuesday night and I'm exhausted from work. My eyes are about to spiral out of their sockets from staring at a computer screen for hours on end. I'm snacking on dry kibbles of Cap'n Crunch as a substitute for dinner. I haven't done my D.V. task for the day yet -- hell, I haven't even peeled off my work attire yet. All I want to do is take a hot shower, catch up with friends via GChat for a couple hours, and then curl up with some Murakami.

"Have you ever read Murakami before?" Gemini asked, "THAT COULD BE YOUR BLOG!"

"Eh, too boring. I could do that to everything: 'never have I ever watched The Mummy before' or 'never have I ever read Family Circle Magazine.' That's the easy way out."

But you know what's not the easy way out? Subjecting yourself to a plethora of penises via webcam.

The Down and Dirty:
Chatroulette is a social site that pairs up random strangers in webcam conversations. Either party may move onto the next stranger at any given time.

I'm both intrigued and intimidated by this concept. You get to watch and interact with someone at random from anywhere in the world -- but so do they. The idea of having your identify exposed to any Harry, Dick, and John makes me feel uncomfortably naked and vulnerable even when I'm staring at their penises.

An enabled webcam isn't necessary to participate but you're pretty much guaranteed to be "nexted" by lacking one. Dude, you get what you give. Also, there's such a weird power dynamic ruling over which one of you pushes the "next" button.

There are tons of off-shoot websites and online collections of chatroulette gems. Celebrities such as Michael Cera and Ashton Kutcher have allegedly been spotted. Needless to say, it's the latest rage these days and so I hopped on the cyber band wagon.

At 1am I logged on, enabled my camera, and waited for my first camera companion. A man with clear blue eyes popped up on the upper left hand corner.

Stranger: hi
Me: hello
Stranger: where are you from?
Me: the States
Me: you?
Stranger: france

At this, he grabbed his off-screen cigarette and took a light drag. I smiled and he returned the sentiment.

Stranger: you are very beautiful
Me: thank you
Stranger: show hot?????
Me: um. what?
Stranger: sorry, my english is not so good
Stranger: show sexy??

Your English is coming across loud and clear there, Pepe Le Pew. Next!

Blond girl in glasses. She nexts me without a bat of an eye.
Penis. In fact, a very small one. Next!
Dude in a visor who gives me a slimy smile and a thumbs up. Vomit. Next!
Two teenage girls in HelloGoodbye t-shirts. Their asymmetrical bangs are getting in the way of their heavily-lined eyes. They next me.
Another penis. From what I can see the guy is wearing a red sweater vest and nothing else. Next!
Disabled camera. Stranger: Tits? Next!

I finally stumbled upon Antonio, a rather dashing 23 year old from Sevilla, Spain who was spending St. Patrick's Day in Boston. He held a pleasant conversation without a single request to take my shirt off! Impressive! ...Oh man, standards have plummeted if that's what it takes to charm a girl online. My eyes felt like they were going to burst so I finally bid adieu. He hurriedly gave me his email address (which I didn't end up saving) and in exchange I sent him the link to my blog. [Antonio, if you're reading this: I hope you got around to partaking in an Irish Car Bomb today.]

The Afterglow: In the 15 minutes I was on chatroulette, I've gathered the following:
  • Girls don't want to talk to other girls
  • Guys are pretty smarmy. Generally, they think cyber chat = cyber sex
  • You have a 25% chance of landing on a penis
  • If you're lucky, you'll find a decent stranger who won't ask to see your genitals and really, that's all you can ask for on chatroulette
Initially, I was really nervous to actually have people SEE me but in all honesty, it's so much more addictive than I could have ever imagined. It's kind of like platonic speed dating... but on crack. And with more quirky costumes and genitals... so yeah, kind of like it's on crack.

Whiskey Sour even offered a chatroulette drinking game: Take a sip for every penis you see. Finish your drink if you see boobs.

Family Circle is definitely for sissies.

Monday, March 15, 2010

The Virgin is movin' on up

#22 Never Have I Ever: Received a promotion

Foreplay: Alright, this is sort of a cheating, masturbatory post but I'm just so infinitely giddy right now -- a complete 180 from where I began. I was pretty damn depressed after college when I found myself jobless and living at home.

I was an overachiever all throughout my academic years. I started working when I was 16 -- landing an amazing paid internship with one of the biggest record companies in America. From there on I continued to intern and work with renowned companies -- a huge film studio, a respected newspaper, a prestigious film academy. However, it never really got me anywhere that I wanted to be.

After college, I floundered for a few months before moving out of my parents' house and going to work for what I thought was a company that aided indie filmmakers. In fact, it turned out to be an elaborate marketing scam. My boss skipping town and paying me in cash prompted me to quit within 3 months with no real Plan B.

While applying for at least 50 jobs a week, I ended up slaving away as a seasonal in retail -- the seventh circle of Hell that I never thought I'd return to after college.

The Down and Dirty: Back in November, I was chaperoning my 16 year old cousin to a JRock concert on the Sunset Strip. I just came from retail work, my feet were killing me, and all I wanted was a stiff drink but I had the whole role model thing going against me. After battling it out in the pit for 3 ear-bleeding songs, I headed up to the balcony for a less sweaty view.

While there, a tall stranger struck up a conversation with me. I mentioned an intense interest in film and made a reference to Skinny Puppy. He worked at a film company and loved industrial music -- the rest is history. Pfft, I wish.

He invited me to come in and work as a PA for his company. I slaved away for 2 days -- I mean real nose-to-the-grind-until-it's-bloody-cartilage. I worked 14 hours straight one day without a meal or break and had to cancel plans with a dear friend who was leaving town. But thereafter, they offered me a part time office bitch position that I jumped for.

I've been in that office bitch position since January and am pretty content. I go out of my way to be nice and take everything in stride. I smile even when I don't feel like it and so much as to say good morning to the festering pile of flesh also known as the IT guy (think Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons, and then stick half a dozen sandpaper enemas up his rectum; he's a real ray of sunshine). I offer my assistance anywhere it's needed and always with graciousness.

But last week the V.P. asked me to step into her office. She's small in stature but enormous in clout. She asked what I wanted to do in my life and after my short story, she offered me a promotion -- and with it a full-time position at the company -- that would move me into a more creative arena. I am no longer going to be the office bitch but in fact will be the artist area bitch! Hells yeah!

The Afterglow: Lessons to take away from this experience:
  1. Unless he has a rape van off to the side and a roofie poised and ready to poison, it's perfectly fine to talk to strangers. Use common sense and street smarts. Don't follow him even if that trail of bite size Snickers looks mighty tempting.
  2. Your 20s are for paying dues. I feel like most people in my generation feel self-entitled to a 9-5 but in this economy, simply being employed is a privilege. Work hard, work often, don't whine (unless they're asking for your first born or something).
  3. Be kind. You have the rest of your career to be a jaded prick. Take this opportunity to stand out amongst your apathetic peers and do the job with a smile. And always ask for more work. Employers freakin' love taking advantage of naive indentured servants!
I'm just so humbled by the opportunities that have been afforded to me. I've only been at this job since January so I'm completely blown away by the fast track I'm on.

No matter how much I hated it, my stint in retail definitely motivated me to work hard because, hey, it could be worse. Sometimes you've got to go through Hell to appreciate what you have.