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

Foreplay:
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

Foreplay:
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.

Saturday, March 13, 2010

The Virgin says no to meat

#21 Never Have I Ever: Gone vegetarian for at least a week.

Foreplay: My diet is generally healthy. I never go grocery shopping while hungry lest I want to come home with four Toblerone bars and a pound of brie. I exclusively buy chicken or fish and only gorge on four-legged creatures outside my kitchen. I work through a pound of spinach a week, creatively injecting it into almost every meal (spinach brownies, anyone?). But the nutritional benefits of animal flesh obviously pale in comparison to fruits and vegetables.

Although I love cooking yellow curry chicken and lemon-pepper salmon and occasionally wolfing down carne asada quesadillas post bar crawls, I know I could be eating healthier. I pushed aside my hesitation about surviving on salads and I turned in my meat cleaver in exchange for pruning sheers for a week.

The Down and Dirty: I'm thoroughly convinced that vegetarianism is just another way of saying "I'm going to relentlessly stuff my face with carbs until I shit yeast" because that's exactly what I did.

Grocery shopping was by far the hardest part of vegetarianism. I didn't realize how expensive fresh fruits and vegetables were until I started piling up my shopping cart with them. How is it that soy chicken costs so much more than real chicken? It couldn't have even pecked my eye out at any point!

At first I didn't even miss meat. I was happy chowing down on margherita pizza, vegetarian chili, garlic-roasted veggie pasta, and other animal-friendly foods. It didn't really hit me until 3 days in. I arrived during lunch time for my teaching job at the high school and having been in such a rush that morning, I had only eaten a few spoonfuls of my Multigrain Cheerios. The aroma of mushy spaghetti noodles slathered with greasy bolognese sauce was so mouthwatering. Never in my life had I ever wanted substandard cafeteria food so much. A fellow teacher insisted we snag a free plate and I made no motion to tell her about my special diet. Thank goodness for my vegetarianism and my arteries, they ran out by the time we walked over.

That night I went to The Spot, a cozy shack of a vegetarian restaurant, and ordered an overwhelming plate of their tempeh enchiladas. Although tempeh has the texture of a potato, my meat craving was immediately satiated -- those were some of the best enchiladas I've ever had. Just the familiar flavor of enchilada sauce and cheese quelled my hankering for animal flesh.

It was smooth sailing from there on out. A funny result of shopping and cooking vegetarian is that I made myself eat healthier. I figured if I'm going to be eating tons of veggies, I might as well invest in some whole grain pasta and brown rice while I'm at it. I added as many vegetables as I could to every possible dish in a race to beat their impending expiration date.

The Afterglow: I've never thought so much about food before. Usually when I come home from work I'll defrost some chicken or salmon, pop brown rice into my rice cooker, and sauté some spinach. But this time I had to sit down and think about what veggies were going to go bad first, and what would fill me up.

Unfortunately, I don't feel any healthier or more energized that I did when I was an omnivore. Perhaps because I was already a relatively conscious eater who loved vegetables. I definitely need to calm it down with the carbohydrates -- fasho.

I don't miss meat too much. There were even times I even forgot I was a vegetarian until someone offered me a meat-laced bite to try. And ya know, I didn't have a single salad all week!

Vegetarianism -- no big deal. Next step: veganism. Goodbye, delicious cheese! Hello, bland tofu!

Friday, March 12, 2010

The Virgin meets a MANTHER

#20 Never Have I Ever: Gone a date with an [much] older man

Foreplay: Our society is so obsessed with gender roles and taboos in dating that the English language has 3 different terms for older women who pursue younger men. A puma is a late 20s to mid 30s woman. Cougar is from mid 30s to 40s. Arctic fox is for any woman past menopause.

But what about older men who date younger women? They’re so much more prevalent! Sugar daddy implies that he’s rich and silver fox is more common with the gay community. What about men who are middle class heterosexuals. Well, imagine my utter elation when I discovered the term manther:
The male version of a cougar; an older man who preys on younger women.
Would Blackjacket fit the criteria of a manter? According to the mathematical formula (x/2)+7=y where x represents your age, y yields the youngest age you can date that will be socially acceptable. I applied this formula to Blackjacket’s age and realized that I was a half year too young for his limit. By that right, our date was -- gasp! -- socially unacceptable. On a scale of Lolita to Woody Allen, I’d say we hit the Brangelina mark.

A bonafied manther!

The Down and Dirty: Alright, so I’ll be completely honest. Although I just knew Blackjacket was good looking, I didn’t quite remember certain aspects of him like, oh say, his face.

I made sure to arrive at the restaurant early and helped myself to a glass of red wine at the bar. I texted to let him know I was here and then busted out a book to occupy my attention -- ‘cause then he would have to get my attention when he arrives. And success! He spots me -- and he’s definitely not a troll! Double success!

Dinner conversation ambled along awkwardly as most do on first dates. He grew up in the South (which may explain his etiquette) but lived in New York for a stint. He pursued theater which is the most useless degree ever (his words, not mine). He’s currently a writer, actor, and stand-up comedian.

“Then why aren’t I laughing right now?” would’ve been my reply had I not been sober and in check of my verbal diarrhea.

Although the conversation ebbed and flowed without much trouble, I can’t say that there was anything special to it. I felt like I carried most of the discussion -- asking questions, commenting on current media, poorly attempting jokes during the occasional lulls. I don’t know if he was nervous and closed off or just one big unfunny snorefest . I didn’t feel like myself either; I was some excessively perky alter ego who spoke in a tinkling voice -- just to compensate for his lack of zeal.

While waiting in line at the improv theater, I reached into my purse in search of a mint but came out with the Magic Date Ball. At his amused curiosity, I explained how I let the toy become my own personal Rasputin for a day. He laughed but in that oh-my-god-you’re-actually-serious sort of way. Judgment aplenty!

The show was entertaining. We laughed accordingly. I may have snorted at one point. Usually after, I head straight to Birds with my companion(s) in tow for a nightcap but I recalled his sobriety the night we met and his lack of alcohol during dinner. It’d be a lost cause and wasted boozin’.

Just shy of 3 hours into our date, we decided to call it a night and he asked to walk me home. Maybe he got more comfortable or maybe it was because time was running out, but our conversation took an upbeat turn as we sauntered down the street. I argued that The Knife’s live version of “Heartbeats” was better than Jose Gonzalez’s cover. He made fun of my love of The Smiths and Depeche Mode.

When we reached my apartment complex, we talked for a while more as I stood on the steps. Finally, he announced the standard, “I had a great time. We should do it again,” tag line. I struggled to keep my eyes from rolling but politely agreed.

And then he reached in for a hug. Or what I thought was a hug. Until his face was like RIGHT THERE but it was already too late -- my face was aiming for the welcoming crook of his neck and he ended up planting a kiss on my cheek. In my embarrassed haste, I pulled back from his shoulder and brushed my lips against his stubble like a sloppy Italian mother.

It was a mess. I’ve never kissed on a first date before and didn’t expect to this time judging from the lukewarm interaction. We parted ways after saying goodbye, he to his car parked a mile away and me scampering to my door all the while stifling a groan.

The Afterglow: Okay, it wasn’t outright awful but I was probably expecting too much -- like, when you say you’re a comedian, I expect to laugh. Yeah, definitely set the bars too high there, buddy.

I'm left feeling somewhat unfulfilled after the date. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't bad -- it just wasn't anything special either. I didn't come away thinking he was a great conversationalist or appreciating his humor. I didn't even get a blog-worthy make out session out of it! He's 31 -- there should be NO room for error when you have a decade of practice on me!

There really isn’t much of a difference between going out with a 31 year old than a 21 year old as far as I can tell. I mean, your average 21 year old would probably know what Yelp is and wouldn’t proclaim that they’re past prime for Coachella. Who knows if age factored into his unnecessary stoicism. I’ve met some rather depressing 20-somethings in my life.

Every now and then I would wonder, “What kind of 31 year old is okay dating a 22 year old?” But then again -- age is just a number (until it can get your ass put in the slammer).

Who knows if he was serious about going out again. To be quite honest, I wouldn’t be too upset if I never heard from him after this. Sure, he was total eye candy but my brain is pretty pissed off at the lack of stimulation right now. If he wants to see me again, he’s more than welcomed to contact me.

Otherwise, I’ll release him back to the wild and hunt me down another manther.

P.S. Manther is now officially injected into my everyday vocabulary. I may have to start non sequitur discussions just to throw out that word.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

The Virgin is a smooth operator

#19 Never Have I Ever: Asked a guy out on a date

Foreplay: If you haven't gotten the memo already, I'm a coward. A chicken, a scaredy cat, a dastardly recreant -- you name it and I'll meekly nod and peep, "Can I have more, sir?"

I'm so terrified of rejection and criticism that I'd rather not try at all. I tremble just thinking about being in the spotlight or in front of an audience. I have such severe secondhand embarrassment that I've walked out of the room while watching Friends on multiple occasions.

The Down and Dirty: I fretted all day just thinking about texting Blackjacket. Eventually I consulted a tribal council of 3 male coworkers on the perfect message. But first, they had to reassure me that yes, he was interested; and yes, I should make a move; and yes, you might as well call me Jacque Lacan by the way was over analyzing the situation.

So before leaving the office to go grocery shopping, I sent one sentence referencing our prior Oscar conversation. Less than 10 minutes later he sent a cheerful reply and question.

Now, I probably shouldn't have even been reading my texts while driving in the first place so I thought it better to reply when I parked. But with it being Hollywood and all, I didn't get to the grocery store that was 2 miles down the street until 20 minutes later. I sent a riposte. Nothing. Oh no... self doubt started to set in.

It'd been 45 minutes since my last text and I decided it was now or never. I sent a message asking him to a show at the Upright Citizens Brigade. And waited. FOR 14 HOURS. Do you know what kind of aneurysm that gives a girl?!

I kept checking my phone for some sort of response -- whether it was high-five inducing or a flat out rejection. One hour passed. Then two. Four... It was now almost 1:00am and I highly doubted I'd get anything. Sigh.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't totally bummed out. Perhaps this was just karma coming to bite me in the ass for all the times I've ignored text messages from blitzed encounters from the night before and labeled them in my phone as "So-and-so - IGNORE" or "What'shisface - DO NOT ANSWER".

The next day I went about my morning before work as usual, determined to push this ego-wrecking experience behind me, when suddenly -- beep-beep -- a text! Apparently his phone had died the night before while out but yes, he'd love to catch a show! My deflated ego had huffed and puffed and grew to Grinch-heart proportions; I asked if he'd like to grab dinner beforehand. Of course! He'd call me later tonight.

Um. Come again? ...Call...?! What ever happened to the comfortable safety net of text messaging we had going on?! What about that?!

But you know... maybe it's because he's from an older generation or because he's a gentleman, but I was actually alarmingly charmed that he'd rather call to set up our date rather than text. Absolutely pee-a-little-in-my-pants petrified, but charmed nonetheless.

That night he called as he said he would. The conversation went as well as any awkward date arrangement could go. But uh... perhaps my memory is lacking but I guess I didn't realize how much... rustic... he sounded before.

The Afterglow: I would love to say that I'm so super confident now that I have it in mind to march into a room in crusty sweatpants and demand a drink from the most eligible bachelor there. But unfortunately (or fortunately considering that scenario), my self-esteem is still humbly low for the most part.

While settling on a restaurant, I felt the need to blurt out that I was vegetarian this week -- for my blog. He paused and then chuckled. I continued to ramble about being vegan the week after -- also for my blog. He laughed less enthusiastically. I'm seriously praying that he thinks I'm cute and quirky rather than full-fledged bat-shit insane because dude, that's a really thin line.

I'm still a coward but now I'm a coward with a date! So hah!

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

The Virgin grows a ball

#18 Never Have I Ever: Let a Magic 8 Ball make my decisions

Foreplay:
I wasn't expecting to do this particular D.V. task today but it was apparent when I found myself badgering Whiskey Sour about Blackjacket.

I had texted Blackjacket a noncommittal message the day after thanking him for helping me cross something off my list, not expecting a response. But less than 5 minutes later he answered: Of course! We'll have to work on some other things on that list. Dude, he used an exclamation point! Just like this one! My god, just look at it!

I responded with something aggressively witty. He dorkily LOLed. The conversation eventually died off soon after he suggested we get together another time to discuss the Oscars. But OMG!

I told myself I'd hold out until Wednesday to contact him again but I've never been one for patience. And if I was going to concede, I might as well go all in and ask him out, right? I incessantly pestered Whiskey Sour all morning. Is it too soon to text him today? What time should I do it? What's a good date idea? Oh god, am I putting too much thought behind this? Will he think I'm crazy?!

"Alright," Whiskey Sour sighed, "Now I understand why guys do the asking. Girls are way too analytical."

The Down and Dirty: In my time of need, I turned to the Magic 8 Ball. Alright, so it isn't an official Magic 8 Ball if you want to get technical about it.

I'm sort of embarrassed to use it, not because I'm letting a toy make my decisions, but because it's a Magic Date Ball. I'm not even fucking kidding. It's pink with "Date Ball" swirled across the top and comes equipped with valley-girl accented answers. It'll do only because I found it at work and am not willing to shell out money for this experiment.


As I gave it a hearty shake, I asked the appropriately named Date Ball, "Should I ask Blackjacket out today?"

It coyly responded with: I'm cool with that!

Yes, with heart and all. Oh Jesus. It was like asking for words of wisdom from a Hooter's waitress. Maybe trusting a pink ball filled with glitter wasn't the best idea after all.

But then my coworker asked what I was doing shaking the ball so violently. I explained and he said I shouldn't base my life off of an inanimate object. I reminded him that he was the one who inspired this D.V. task.

"Why did I do that?" he asked while giving the ball a good rattle.

"That wasn't a yes or no question."

"I know. I just wanted to show you how -- Whoa!" I peered into the dark abyss of answers: No question!

"Dude! It knew that wasn't a question! This Magic 8 Ball is omnipotent!"

For the rest of the day I got it to perkily answer a medley of questions such as: Is 6:24 a good time to text Blackjacket [sidebar: I'm neurotic with numbers, ok!]? (♥ It's lookin' good!) Should I eat these chips? (Sounds good to me! ♥) Should I go for a run after work? (Yeah, right!)

Man, this ball is good.


The Afterglow: This was actually a really fun experiment. It helped take a load of my mind and showed me that I tend to over-analyze most situations -- or just that I feel more confident making decisions when I can blame something/someone else. But I'll go with the more mature answer in this case.

Sunday, March 7, 2010

The Virgin gets yo numba

#17 Never Have I Ever: Asked for a guy's number

Foreplay:
Alright, so I'll be honest here. Part of the reason I started this blog was so that I could grow a pair when going out and meeting people. I was in a fantastic relationship for almost 3 years and when we amicably split, I simply forgot how to be single. And by "forgot how to be single" I really mean that I lack any sort of social grace when it comes to engaging with attractive strangers. What, Jesus jokes aren't appropriate?

I was self-deprecatingly ranting to Whiskey Sour on one occasion like I so often do: Why can't I be more confident when I go out? I'd like to be able to walk up to a guy and strike up a conversation. But what if he doesn't think I'm attractive or interesting? How about if I get rejected?! I was practically hyperventilating by this point.

But Whiskey Sour put things in a very blunt perspective as he so often does: Look, if a girl hits on a guy at a bar and she's cute, then that's great. If he doesn't find her attractive, then she's still a cool girl. Either way, he'll think she's awesome for having the balls to do that. 'Cause c'mon -- how often are we hit on?

That makes sense. But then a lot of things sound reasonable before they're put to the test... like girdles and lobotomies.

The Down and Dirty: It's a rain-soaked Saturday night in Hollywood but Kamikaze, Gemini, Daywalker, and I decide to brave the weather for a preposterous version of a girls' night out at my favorite neighborhood bar, The Woods. A table of four ladies seems like an impenetrable fortress of ego bruising so we were determined to take matters into our own hands.

A pair strolled through the door that caught my attention as they took their seats at the bar. My eyes passed right by the young Seth Rogan look alike and landed on his companion in a stylish black jacket. Now, I wouldn't say I have a type -- more like characteristics I favor over others. Tall, brunette, clean cut, a devastatingly defined jaw line... guh -- don't know what his type was but I was favoring it hardcore.

Daywalker relentlessly insisted that I march up to Blackjacket and charm his pants off but he was far too cute to even be talking to me and I wasn't on my game that night. Was this guy out of my league? Yes. Was I going to let that stop me? ...possibly. It wasn't like me to go up and -- hey, uh... where did Daywalker go?

I scanned the bar to find her chatting up Blackjacket. Oh god. A cold prickly sensation washed over me. What is she doing?! Don't tell me she's talking to him on my behalf! Oh god, he's coming over. I pretended to be intensely interested in whatever Kamikaze had to say as I downed the rest of my glass.

"Hi," I peered up with my best please-don't-think-I'm-some-hideous-nervous-wreck half-smile as Blackjacket and friend stood at our table, "I'm Blackjacket."

We all introduced ourselves before Blackjacket slid into the seat next to me and struck up a conversation. I was impressed by his cognizant rejection of religion. He knew his Oscar trivia and favored Katherine Bigelow. AND when I quipped that I loved the song that was playing he responded with, "Oh yeah, 'Crown of Love'. Arcade Fire's great." Um. Swoooooon.

But dudes -- when I said that I wasn't on game that night, I wasn't kidding. He mentioned that he was here for his friend's 31st birthday. I said that was a... respectable age and then asked how old he was.

"A respectable age."

Oh. Damn it.

My embarrassment finally subsided as the alcohol rushed through my veins like adrenaline, making me uh, bolder than usual. I made him list his favorite bands under a time limit. I interrogated him about Portuguese sex talk after learning he had lived in Brazil. I might have even ranted too... passionately about my bout with the psychic. I had finished an entire drink during the course of our initial conversation when I noticed that he not touched his at all. "So what are you having tonight?"

"Oh, I'm the DD. I'm not drinking."

Wait. So he's been stone cold sober this whole time that I've practically been making an ass of myself? Fueled by what was left of my liquid courage and my desperation to save face, I tried bullying him into getting a drink and even offered to buy him one. No dice. Ouch, my poor ego.

Blackjacket excused himself to answer a call and I went to grab another drink but when I returned to the table, he was talking to a friend at the bar. Bummer. I sighed and resigned myself to the fact that the intoxicated girl who asked how to correctly say, "I'm coming" in Portuguese probably wasn't his type. By the way, I just cringed hardcore while typing that sentence. 'scuse me while I go die a little in the corner.

Just as Gemini handed me another drink, I heard a familiar voice ask, "So what's that you're drinking now?"

Blackjacket had sauntered back and we resumed talking as if we had never stopped. Conversation was in full swing when I pulled the biggest blogging taboo ever: I told him the premise of my blog and showed him my D.V. task list on my Droid. As we strolled through my list I innocently asked, "Hmm... so what can you help me cross off tonight?"

After scanning the page for a few moments, he silently and deliberately pointed to my screen:
  • Ask for a guy's number
I nervously scoffed. He didn't laugh. I snorted back the rest of my Screwdriver. "Alright. So what's your number?"

The Afterglow: Holy shit, I did it! I asked for a guy's number! And not just any guy but a devastatingly cute guy.

I'm still petrified of rejection and am currently trying to convince myself that he wouldn't have given me his number if he wasn't interested. But this is what this blog is partly about: to not fear failure or rejection and to take action. If I text him and he doesn't respond, it's okay. He was nice enough to hang out with me for a good portion of the night and helped me cross something off my list. And if he does... I'm probably going to burst with giddiness.

The night ended up being a complete success for our intrepid group. Daywalker, the only one of us with a significant other, managed to attract a steady stream of admirers despite announcing her relationship status. A friendly fellow offered to buy Gemini a drink but she asked him if she could buy him one; his mind was totally blown.

Kamikaze, my favorite partner in crime, eyed a spectacular specimen but two girls engaged him before she could get a chance to make a move. She stewed in regret until she saw the girls walking away. She immediately sashayed over to him, "Hey, do you come here often?"

They immediately hit it off. Kamikaze admitted five minutes later, "Actually, I just wanted an excuse to talk to you." He laughed and told her he had been hoping she would come over.

I've got to hand it to Whiskey Sour. Ladies, take risks! I'm not saying to go get a girdle or lobotomy rather than to not fear rejection. After all, I'm sure men love to be hit on by women with curves and a brain.

Saturday, March 6, 2010

The Virgin will make you her bitch

#16 Never Have I Ever: Been propositioned

Foreplay: First of all, I'd like to make it clear that I have NEVER wanted to be propositioned. Sure, I've joked about it a plethora of times, you know: College tuition is costing a freakin' fortune. Well, time to turn some tricks. Maybe even be a mail order bride (this statement was usually followed by the response of "Uh... we're already in America, dude").

But going with my set parameters, this was just a spontaneous experience I just couldn't not include.

The Down and Dirty: We're gathered at Speed Racer's abode in celebration of Hezekiah's brief visit to L.A. I don't know half the party but the free flowing booze quickly fixed that. A group of Speed Racer's hometown friends were in attendance and they seemed like generally awesome guys. One fed me drinks for most of the night. Another got low with me during a Flo Rida song. There was even a guy who looked exactly like Chris Martin from Coldplay. After a homoerotic dance party, an epic game of King's Cup, and taking shots of Deep Throat sans hands, the 10 or so of us settled down for a movie in Speed Racer's home theater.

During the movie I originally sat next to the makeshift bartender but when he went to grab a drink his seat was quickly swooped by another attendee who I will refer to as Skeezy Motherfucker from here on out -- you'll understand that moniker very soon. Now, Skeezy Motherfucker and I had been distantly cordial all night; he was a dry humor type and I was drawn to his more comical counterparts. So I thought it was odd but not out of bounds for drunk behavior when he started leaning over his seat to show me innocuous text messages he was going to send to his girlfriend during the movie.

That is until he slowly and deliberately typed out a text and glanced at me a few times before leaning over to let me read the screen. Meet me outside

Do you know the saying "to wear your heart of your sleeve"? Well, I wear my emotions on my face. And I'm pretty sure my face conveyed a convincing feeling of ?!

He gave me a pointed look with his bleary eyes and nudged my arm suggestively. All I could do was frantically shake my head and excuse myself to bathroom to collect my thoughts. Who the hell does this guy think he is? Who the hell does he think I am?! Okay, I thought, maybe he's drunker than I thought or maybe this is just a joke.

I washed my hands, flicked off the light, and exited the bathroom. But something didn't feel right. While my eyes were adjusting in the pitch dark hallway, I felt like someone's presence. "Hey," came a deep voice 6 inches to my left.

GAH!! I wanted to tell him that I wasn't interested or to get away from me or to insult his style of seduction but nothing I could say could have stopped the onslaught of what-the-fuckery that was about to spew from his mouth.

"Can I kiss your feet?"

Um. Excuse me? But there was no hesitation in his question.

"You're very beautiful and I just want to kiss your feet."

WHAT. As I stood there dumbstruck by his request, he grabbed my hand and pulled me into the nearest room. At this point, I was ready to scream bloody murder and deliver a swift kick to his manly region but he sat down on the floor and gestured at a nearby seat. I gingerly perched on the edge of the bed, prepared to bolt if necessary.

"Can I please kiss your feet? And could you be mean to me while I do it?" Before I could stammer out an answer or even quirk a judgmental eyebrow, he reached for my foot and placed a chaste kiss on it. GAAAAAHHHHH!!

I recoiled in pure shock and all but ran back to the home theater. I began chugging water in an effort to sober up and get the fuck out of there. This was probably one of the handful of times I've ever regretted my last drink.

Skeezy Motherfucker slinked back to the room. Oh, maybe he's embarrassed and we can pretend that never happened. But no. Dude kept looking at me -- not sly, sideways glances but bonafide lean-over-his-seat-and-into-mine-full-on-stare-for-30-seconds-at-a-time looking. I wondered if it would be a party foul to scream, "Dude, get the fuck away from me!" in the middle of the movie.

He then poked my arm and leaned over to whisper, "Can I pay you to beat me?"

This emoticon best describes my face at the time: o_O

At that point his girlfriend called and after quietly chatting for a minute, he passed it off to my dance partner who happened to be her flatmate. As soon as the phone left his hand, he was back at my side, whispering dirty nonsense in my ear. Skeezy Motherfucker was growing increasingly desperate. Name your price. I just really want you to beat me. Seriously, I'll pay you.

Finally, Speed Racer turned around at all the whispering. I mouthed SAVE ME and he quirked an eyebrow but quickly gestured for me to follow him. He locked us in his bedroom and only then did I let out a strangled scream of horror.

The Afterglow: I cried sanctuary in Speed Racer's bedroom for a good 15 minutes, ranting about my potential career as a dominatrix, before feeling safe enough to venture back outside. We discovered Skeezy Motherfucker passed out on a couch, snoring like a storm was coming. Having sobered up, I hightailed it out of there while I still had a chance.

Part of me wishes I would've handled it differently but I honestly wonder what else could I have said.

Yes, I want to kick you in the balls but I'm afraid you'll like it.

Thursday, March 4, 2010

The Virgin writes Hemingway style

#15 Never Have I Ever: Written a song

Foreplay: I can write poetic prose. I can write piquant blog posts (I hope...). I can even write coherent text messages to my mom while 6 drinks deep into my weekend.

But you know what I can't do? Write a song that doesn't involve shouting bastardized rap into my phone to the phrase of, "Get yo' drunk jacket on!" Not that I've ever done that or anything...

I don't know how musicians do it. Do lyrics come first? Or does the melody? Does the guitarist simply wiggle his nose and a completed CD magically pops out of his ass? Well, does it?! How am I supposed to know?!

The Down and Dirty: Last week Hermosa emailed me a short guitar track and asked me to "apply those word skills of [mine]".

Oh man, I thought, how flattering is this! So I did what any lauded lady does. I left it practically untouched in my inbox for a week.

You guys, I don't think you understand my lack of creativity yet excess of performance anxiety. I don't know know what rhyme scheme I'm supposed to run with. Wait! Is it even supposed to rhyme?! This country-twanged folk song is super cute. I'd hate to mar it by adding lyrics about the social constructs of the word "slut" or urinating in alleyways or any of the other stuff I often write about.

So I took the Ernest Hemingway approach to writing: Drunk and indiscriminately. As I nursed my Fat Tire, I texted Whiskey Sour to whine about how pathetic I felt drinking alone while lacking inspiration. He rang me up for some pillow talk (on his end in Virginia), told me to go listen to "2 Atoms in a Molecule" by Noah and the Whale, and gave me 3 different writing topics. After we said our respective sleepy and buzzed farewells, I lit a candle, put on some Bright Eyes, and made intoxicated but determined love to my laptop.

Below are snippets strung together during my inebriated writing rampage based off each theme supplied by Whiskey Sour.

The morning after:
From my knees I kissed the seat, and spewed love from my lips

A crush (this topic spiraled into an aggravated rant on my part that involved the quote, "Fuck crushes; I'd rather just do it." What can I say? I'm one classy broad):
I don't need a friend, I need a warm body tonight

My first trip on uh... certain substances:
I only pray to God
Just to say that I was sorry
Just to prove I was right all along

The Afterglow: Definitely not of e.e. cummings grandeur but better than what I started with. Maybe I just needed a proper verbal ass-kick from Whiskey Sour and a stiff drink to loosen me up. To be honest, I'm still pretty buzzed. And it's not even midnight! This is either really awesome or really, really, really sad...

I'm going to go crack open another cold one before I'm forced to answer that question or text my mom back.

I think F. Scott Fitzgerald said it best: "First you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes you." Cheers to that, old literary dude.