The Daily Virgin

The Virgin enters the Cone Zone

2010-05-10T10:58:00.000-07:00

#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.

The Virgin pwns newbs

2010-05-05T20:33:00.000-07:00

#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.

The Virgin eats her weight in cheese

2010-04-26T10:48:00.000-07:00

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

Foreplay: 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:

I want an Asian baby from Korea or Japan
Vietnam, it doesn't matter
Just put it in my hand
But no one will let me play with their Asian baby

[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.

The Virgin pumps it up

2010-04-21T09:51:00.000-07:00

#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:

Joined a gym for the first time in my life
Used a personal trainer for the first time ever (and got my fat ass thoroughly handed to me)
Gone to the gym at least 5 times a week
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.

The Virgin feasts like a super model

2010-04-13T09:58:00.000-07:00

#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.

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

2010-04-10T18:09:00.000-07:00

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

Foreplay: 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.

The Virgin goes looking for trouble

2010-04-05T13:37:00.000-07:00

#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.

The Virgin pinches a pretty penny

2010-04-03T07:32:00.000-07:00

#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!

The Virgin doesn't need doctors

2010-04-01T17:36:00.000-07:00

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

Foreplay: 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.

The Virgin gets telephonetic

2010-03-30T08:52:00.000-07:00

#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.

The Virgin is a sweet talker

2010-03-28T14:59:00.001-07:00

#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.

The Virgin cleans up well

2010-03-27T01:50:00.001-07:00

#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.

The Virgin blocks a cock

2010-03-26T20:38:00.000-07:00

#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.

The Virgin wines and dines... herself?

2010-03-25T23:18:00.001-07:00

#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.

The Virgin is shaken, not stirred

2010-03-23T12:04:00.000-07:00

#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!

The Virgin makes a move

2010-03-21T03:26:00.000-07:00

#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.

The Virgin fails at being animal-friendly

2010-03-20T12:09:00.000-07:00

#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.

The Virgin rolls VIP

2010-03-19T03:34:00.000-07:00

#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.

The Virgin comes this close to cyber sex

2010-03-17T16:16:00.000-07:00

#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.

The Virgin is movin' on up

2010-03-15T11:27:00.000-07:00

#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:

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.
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).
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.

The Virgin says no to meat

2010-03-13T23:59:00.000-08:00

#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!

The Virgin meets a MANTHER

2010-03-12T09:59:00.000-08:00

#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.

The Virgin is a smooth operator

2010-03-10T00:30:00.000-08:00

#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!

The Virgin grows a ball

2010-03-09T10:44:00.000-08:00

#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.

The Virgin gets yo numba

2010-03-07T12:09:00.000-08:00

#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.

The Virgin will make you her bitch

2010-03-06T11:23:00.000-08:00

#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.

The Virgin writes Hemingway style

2010-03-04T21:07:00.000-08:00

#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.

The Virgin can see the future

2010-03-03T22:46:00.000-08:00

#14 Never Have I Ever: Had a palm reading and tarot card reading

Foreplay: Generally, I'd rather not waste money on entertainment akin to setting a pile of cash on fire.

Fortune telling is all mumbo-jumbo for the most part. I can get better advice by... oh, say a Magic 8 Ball or plucking petals off a daisy than shelling out hard earned cash to a professional con artist who believes she can talk to dead people. I've observed friends perform cold readings before and it astounds me how many people lap this psychic stuff up.

I'm not going preach from my pedestal though -- astrology, magic, and psychics used to intrigue me. A much more naive version of myself visited a psychic a few years ago on one of those whoo!-crazy-summer-with-college-friends-yeeeaaaah! nights. After the "energy reading" a little voice in the back of my head kept chirping That was so amazing! She knew that you had a boyfriend! And that you're a confused college student! Wooooow!!

That voice was swiftly squished by a science textbook (my roommate's at the time; not that I would actually have a science textbook in my possession -- pfft).

The Down and Dirty: Hermosa and I headed to what his iPhone deemed as the "Best Psychic in L.A.". Because true clairvoyants are located right off Sunset Blvd in Hollywood. In a tacky hovel of a home office. Obviously.

As soon as we stepped in we were immediately accosted by a mother-daughter team. Hermosa was totally gung-ho about the psychic reading but I was much more apprehensive. Even though they offered a palm & tarot card reading package for $20, I thought of taking that bill and using it towards... oh, I don't know... 10 boxes of Easy Mac and a pack of temporary tattoos. You know, something actually worthwhile.

The daughter piped up, "I already see a lot of big things coming towards you very soon. You should do the reading so I can tell you more about them." If her pupils had suddenly dilated with dollar signs, she wouldn't have been more obvious.

But Hermosa hounded me into it and the mother relegated us to her two daughters, both in their early to mid 20s. We were led into their eerily clean living room where Hermosa was seated on the bleach-white sofa and I was taken to the glass dining table.

I seasoned her deck of tarot cards before she laid them out one by one in specific formations. My tarot card reading reeked of shit as she pulled it out of her ass. Oh, I've been working hard towards my career? Gee, don't know any other 20-something year old doing that. Sometimes I'm physically tired because of negative energy? You don't say.

The palm reading was even worse. She first opened by pointing between Hermosa and I and stating omnipotently, "I sense a connection between you two. Are you dating or friends?" What other options are there for two people who you saw walk in together no more than 15 minutes ago?!

And it just went downhill from there. She told me that I was closer to my dad than my mom; my mom is super affectionate while my dad responds to "I love you" with a nod in my general direction. Apparently, I'm worried about my younger sibling despite being the baby of the family. Oh, and then this lovely gem happened:

Back Alley Psychic: Someone who hurt you in the past is going to contact you soon if not already.
Daily Virgin: I've only ever had two boyfriends. One is now my best guy friend and I've hung out with the other on multiple occasions since amicably splitting.
BAP: Well, maybe a friend who you wanted something more with?
DV: Look, if I wanted something more with any of them, I would've gotten something more.
BAP: Perhaps a coworker? Are you sure?
DV: Please. Just... no.

At one point, she asked to change positions because the shadows cast on my palms were giving her an unclear reading. I would've given myself a facepalm had she not been holding my hands.

The Afterglow: Total waste of [Hermosa's] money. It was great dinner fodder for afterward but I could have gotten a more accurate reading from Panda Express' fortune cookies.

Hermosa had been so enthusiastic about his first tarot card reading that he asked his psychic about the significance of each card. Every. Single. One. Of them. As a result, she only dealt half of the deck and stashed away the rest. Subsequently, their readings ended far earlier than mine. So what did they do during this waiting period? The early-20-something year old psychic decided to go grab her infant and force Hermosa to play with it. For 20 minutes. WHAT.

I knew psychics were convincing scam artists but I didn't realize they were so skilled as to make Hermosa pay to be a babysitter. That little voice is in awe once again. Now, where the hell is a periodic table or flu pamphlet or something...

The Virgin is ridin' dirty

2010-03-02T12:46:00.000-08:00

#13 Never Have I Ever: Ridden a mechanical bull

Foreplay: I don't think anything sticks out like a sore cowboy thumb in fabulously flamboyant West Hollywood more than Saddle Ranch Chop House. If Hell has an afterlife tailored to me, this is probably it.

It's a gimmicky magnet for every goateed tourist wearing Ed Hardy and local parties of women either christening a newly 21 year old or mourning for a future bride. They present Adios Motherfuckers in milk jugs, serve beach ball sized helpings of cotton candy, and have a resident mechanical bull to flaunt machismo and/or mammaries. Need I paint a more detailed picture?

The Down and Dirty: Watching tables of bros demolishing beer towers and listening to late 90s alt rock wasn't exactly how I expected to spend my Monday night but here I was, parked on a wooden bench and munching on corn bread. I had a mission: To mount that mechanical bull and ride it for all it's worth (its worth turned out to be $4 per ride).

All was quiet on the Western front until 10pm and then it turned into National Lampoon. Busty boozer after busty boozer mounted the machine only to grind with the motions for a few seconds before the operator compelled the bull to vibrate wildly. The rider would squawk as her bosom shook like seismisms and futilely place a hand over in false modesty. The operator would take this opportunity to toss her lumbering form onto the mats below.

I quickly noticed that women who lacked disclosed cleavage would be spared from the humiliating vibrations but were bucked off quicker than their exposed companions. I looked down at my own outfit: gray jeans, black tank top, slim-fit tuxedo jacket. Aw hell. There's nothing that screams I have A-cups! more than men's wear for women.

I nursed a couple of Blue Moons to treat my performance anxiety before finally stepping up to the gate. I kicked off my shoes and mounted the machine. The operator wasn't as skeezy as I thought and advised me to grip with my thighs before letting 'er go.

Clutching with my left hand and balancing with my right, I rode that sucker like Annie freakin' Oakley. At that point I was thankful for the miracle pelvis-relaxer that is alcohol. The operator refrained from any unnecessary vibrations but cranked up the level once I managed to stay put for more than 10 seconds. An iPhone video of my spin documented that I lasted 32 seconds before finally sliding off.

The Afterglow: I WANT TO DO IT AGAIN!! Yes, my thighs were sore and I ended up with my legs in the air, but MAN that was the most fun I could have with my pants on in that sort of situation.

My next mission: To stay on the bull for the entire ride. I guess Hell isn't so bad after all -- at least they serve beer.

Giddy up, cowboy!

The Virgin walks a mile in her shoes

2010-03-01T19:23:00.000-08:00

#12 Never Have I Ever: Spent a whole day in high heels

Foreplay: Although I can understand a crippling shoe addiction, I can't exactly say that I fancy footwear superfluously. Except for that time I ran through 10 different shoe stores on Melrose to hunt down an outrageous pair of Jeffrey Campbell flats that look like pencils. And once I remedied a brain-frying finals week by rewarding myself with metallic silver oxfords which I deemed my "Michael Jackson shoes". And I should probably mention that my fierce purple oil Via Spiga peep toe pumps are currently the most expensive piece in my wardrobe.

Alright, so I'm fairly infatuated with shoes but nowhere near Carrie Bradshaw status. I could never imagine blowing a whole paycheck on things that are meant for the ground nor could I ever subject myself to cosmetic foot surgery -- unfortunately, I'm much too familiar with my budget and my pain threshold. How can anyone live in those?!

However, I always ogle statuesque women sashaying down the street, equipped with sky high stilettos, looking like they own the whole sidewalk. I own a good number of pumps, why aren't I wearing them? Why can't I look as kick-ass on a daily basis? Gee, wonder if those shoes are comfortable?

The Down and Dirty: In our haste to a birthday celebration in Long Beach, Kamikaze and I managed to pack a handle of Bacardi and a fifth of Grey Goose but not a change of shoes (we all have different priorities, okay!?). I wore my brand new Naturalizer pumps for a good 28 hours this weekend. I'll let my foot notes tell the story:

1 hour - So far, so good. We just got to the club but the DJ sucks and Kamikaze told him so. We refuse to dance in protest of his bad taste. I'm convinced a couple Long Island Ice Teas will cheer us up.

3 hours - A Long Island Ice Tea, a Screwdriver, a pineapple vodka, and a vodka Red Bull later and we're putting our hands up to "Single Ladies". Feet are frolicking away.

6 hours - Stumbling back to the car while stuffing my face with a green burrito. I'm not wearing a jacket. Everything is numb except for my very happy taste buds. I take this as a good sign.

14 hours - I wake up at my parents' house in Long Beach to perfectly poised feet and no signs of a hangover. I call it a successful night.

18 hours - Kamikaze and I go shopping. Every outfit I try on looks freakin' fabulous with my heels. I'm convinced that every dressing room should come equipped with a pair of stilettos. I guarantee sales would double by the end of the week.

21 hours - Toes are pinching, balls are balding, and bunions are budding. My shoes have turned against me.

24 hours - I meet with Hitchcock to work on his film. First on the agenda: painfully extricating my poor feet from my traitor footwear for the duration of the meeting.

28 hours - As I limp towards my car, I concede that I will never speak ill of flip flops again.

The Afterglow: Here is the conclusion I've reached based on my notes and the slow return of sensations to my feet:

Pro: My natural pony legs look absolutely spectacular. My body almost looks proportional.
Con: My cowboy gait. And I guess the grimace on my face sort of detracts from the whole looking hot thing I had going on.

Old woman who lived in her shoes -- my ass. Bitch probably died in them.

The Virgin pulls a small scale Braveheart

2010-02-27T08:50:00.000-08:00

#11 Never Have I Ever: Cursed out a government official

Foreplay: I've never been arrested before and I'm not about to. But that doesn't mean I don't get riled up about our government's actions and rant loudly to anyone within earshot during the times that I do.

I become so agitated that I'm practically vibrating with rage and every other word that spews from my lips is "goddamn" or "fuckin'". Sometimes wild hand gestures are involved that resemble hand-to-hand combat techniques. And on rare occasions I'll end my rant with a resounding rallying cry of, "Freedoooooooom!"

However, I'm only preaching to the choir.

The Down and Dirty: The sign on my block states that there's no parking from 8am-10am on Tuesday but I know for a fact that the street sweeper doesn't come until at least 9am. So last Tuesday I hopped out to my car at 8:10am for work only to discover a blasted $60 parking ticket neatly tucked under my windshield wiper. Judging by the still grimy asphalt and the quiet atmosphere, the street sweeper hadn't made its rounds yet and wasn't about to any time soon.

"Are you motherfucking serious?!" I balked in the middle of the street. I'd have thrown something if only the object in my hand wasn't my laptop bag. All day I stewed under my dark cloud at work, contemplating revenge against Parking Enforcer Salangron. That little weasel was probably waiting until the clock struck 8:00 to scatter parking tickets on cars like shitty confetti onto a parade. A parking enforcement lot is down the street from my office and I'd be lying if I said the sickly satisfying images of slashed tires and scraped paint didn't linger on my mind.

However, I am neither criminal or gutsy enough to pull off that sort of vandalism and convince myself that I can get away with it. But I am vindictive in a please-don't-arrest-me-but-I-hope-you-have-a-really-awful-day sort of way:

I contemplated writing something pointed like There are better ways to recover California's deficit or even something downright spiteful like I hope you feel the fiery sting of a thousand pubic lice but figured a picture (and some stabbing indents) says a thousand words.

The Aferglow: Alright, so I'm not exactly "cursing out" a government official rather than perturbing the office clerk that processes parking ticket payments. And this isn't that big of a deal compared to all the current political ongoings (even though it totally ruined my week). But this is probably be the closest I get to it without being charged with disorderly or threatening conduct or simply yelling, "You assholes!" as I drive by the lot.

Even though this is as passive-aggressive as it gets next to spitting into the envelope or sending it off with a few spider carcasses (not that any of those immature tactics crossed my mind or anything...), it's mildly comforting and somewhat amusing.

But that still doesn't mean I'm still not fuckin' pissed off about that goddamn parking ticket. Freedooooooooom!

The Virgin apparently does not look like a troll

2010-02-26T11:08:00.000-08:00

#10 Never Have I Ever: Joined an online dating site

Foreplay: I'm convinced online dating is suited for: weirdos, pedos, perverts, hermits, freaks, losers, emotional train wrecks, and the occasional attention whore with self-esteem issues.

Sure, there are perfectly decent people out there in cyberland (just like there are perfectly decent people in prison) who simply don't have time to date in the real world but c'mon! Like I commented to my brother on the practice of matchmaking in China: If you can't find a mate in a country with 1.3 billion people, you've got problems, man.

I had met my last two serious boyfriends spontaneously and severely -- the sort of encounter where you just knew that you were meant to know this person in one way or another. In addition, I have great anecdotes to share about the respective original exchanges: I pushed one former flame in front of an oncoming bus but pulled him back to safety in the nick of time; I accidentally grabbed the other's man parts within hours of our initial handshake when he was still a minor at 17 (don't call Chris Hansen just yet; he became legal 5 days later and I was exactly one year older).

I wouldn't trade those memories for all the Warcraft experience points in the whole world wide web. Although I would never label myself a romantic, I'm a firm believer that chemistry is important and if you don't feel butterflies the first time 'round they're not going to come out of left field.

Laden with stories like that, I simply don't do online dating.

The Down and Dirty: So then why the hell did I decide to join an online dating site?! The short answer: Because I'm a glutton for pain.

The long answer: Because I read an article last month about a popular online dating website that had expelled members for holiday weight gain. BeautifulPeople.com is an exclusive community where members of the opposite gender vote whether or not candidates are "beautiful" enough to join the site based on their photos.

The masochist in me was practically writhing for a proper thrashing. I just couldn't not do it. It's like trying to drunkenly break into a zoo -- you know you're in for a world of pain but damn it'd be a blast if you could just make it past the tigers!

I established a profile and uploaded a nice albeit boring photo of myself. Yes, my lips curl skyward but Tyra would chastise me for not smiling with my eyes. I chalk it up to my lack of photogenicness (...that's not a word, is it?). Personally, I prefer quirky pictures of myself, ya know the ones where I'm making faces next to a bust of Bill Cosby or posing romantically with a Harlan's ground sloth.

Then I waited for the 48 grueling rating hours. It was absolutely torturous. Keeping my mind occupied wasn't working as I must have checked on my ratings every few hours. I'm a total coward when it comes to rejection but my crippling case of train wreck syndrome kept me coming back for more. I tried not to take it personally but dayum -- the internet is some serious butthurt business.

But lo and behold...

BeautifulPeople Network is pleased to inform you that the majority of members on BeautifulPeople.com found your application very attractive and granted you membership. Welcome to the BeautifulPeople community!

Well, great! I've been deemed not ugly enough by random dudes from all over the world that joined a site catered to narcissists who feed off approval from the opposite sex. Greeeaaaat.... After all the hoopla I might as well peruse the joint, right? I browsed the profiles on the site as one would poke around a dark, exclusive night club.

Hmm... didn't know receding hairlines were so common. Are ab shots a prerequisite? Wow, those are some bad nose jobs. Oh, well that's an interesting -- DEAR GOD! I guess they don't take their domain name that seriously after all...

The Afterglow: The concept of BeautifulPeople is one big circle jerk. A kinda-sorta-ish pretty one, but a circle jerk nonetheless. So far it's much less offensive than other dating sites but then again I have nothing of which to base it. Most of the comments are about how "nice" or "cute" another member's picture is. Their info sections are rarely referenced in emoticon-charged comments. And some random dude -- who I'm almost positive misspelled his own name -- just "kissed" me. I'll be damned if I know what that's supposed to entail.

This simply cannot be the future of dating. Feeling a warm, tingly sensation in your nether regions when you click on a profile picture does not equate to chemistry. An online profile is an overwrought, hyper-real representation. What good is a false sense of superficial utopia?

Why not log off, go out, and find something real? Yeah, it may be demanding but that's what life and love are -- hard. Life isn't effortless and if it is, then you're not living it.

Also, do you really want to one day relay a budding relationship in terms of, "Oh, it's a funny story! We both rated each other 9.5! Can you believe it? It was totally meant to be!"?

Me neither.

The Virgin twitters, tweets, twats

2010-02-25T19:20:00.000-08:00

# 9 Never Have I Ever: Tweeted a celebrity ~~and received a response~~

Foreplay: While I think technology has overstepped its boundaries (no, I don't care if your dog's new haircut makes him look like an old lesbian; yes, I'd like those precious seconds of my life back), Twitter is awfully resourceful when you're trying to stalk a celebrity's whereabouts.

And while I don't get particularly star struck -- although I did quietly spazz out when I met the editor of Star Wars Episode IV at work -- I hold a special place in my heart for a select few.

I follow a limited amount of so-called celebrities on Twitter -- 5 tops. I mostly lurk in the shadows of the world wide web and read their tweets like a sketchy, voiceless voyeur. But every so often when I come across responses to fans, an ugly part of me jerks with slight jealously. I'm not envious of the personalized message, but of the fan's guts to actually interact with one of their idols.

The Down and Dirty: After mulling over my literal handful of celebrity twitters, I decided to go with Alex Kapranos, lead singer and guitarist of Franz Ferdinand. He seems down to Earth, friendly, and truth be told, my 17 year old heart still goes atwitter whenever I hear a Franz song.

I carefully type @alkapranos in my Twitter box. And then stop. Herein is where the problem lies: I have nothing to say. I'm not so witty as to attract the attention of a celeb by way of my sharp tongue (or fingers in this case) and charm their cyberpants off like a pro online predator.

But after some time, I decide to go with: "I once accidentally insulted some dude at a Franz show. Two months later I found out it was Zac Efron..."

Side story: Friends and I went to see Franz Ferdinand perform as a musical guest on Jimmy Kimmel Live when I was 18. Zac Efron happened to be a guest as well. High School Musical had just premiered on the Disney Channel and seriously no one knew who this kid was. After thoroughly rocking out, we try to meet the band in the alley behind the El Capitan Theater. We had been waiting for a good 45 minutes when this pretty boy came out to sign autographs for his meager amount of fans.

I was at one end of the barricade and he was making his way down the line when I leaned back to a friend and joked, "Who the hell is this kid? Can we just tell him to send Franz out?"

When I turned back around, I came face to face with Zac Efron himself. His expression can be best described by this emoticon: :-/
while I looked more like: :S

And then -- AND THEN -- I greeted him with a, "Heeeeeyyyyyy" not unlike the Fonz. Ugh...

Anyway, I waited for a reply. And waited. It's been a day and I've yet to hear anything back. But then again, he hasn't tweeted (twat?) during the time I tagged him in my message. I wasn't really expecting a reply, but I can't help but to be somewhat bummed out by it.

The Afterglow: Trying to talk to a celebrity via the internet won't kill me. My self esteem is just as healthy and humbly low as it was before I squawked without receiving a comeback. Oh well, back to slinking around the shady crevices of online social networking for me.

However, I do wish I would've given Zachary Quinto the Vulcan salute outside a gay bar when I had the chance a couple weeks ago.

The Virgin puts some hair on her chest

2010-02-23T02:42:00.000-08:00

#8 Never Have I Ever: Ordered a "manly" drink

Foreplay: Most people would never guess that I had ever willingly abstained from alcohol. I'll be honest here, it took a while for booze to weasel its way into my heart (shocking, I know).

It wasn't until a wine tasting during my junior year of college that got me addicted to the stuff. Wine eventually led to my current clemency towards beer. But until that point, I was left with hard liquor to tend to my social lubricating needs. When you're in college, you can't exactly afford top shelf brands. And let me tell you, you do not -- under any circumstances -- drink Gran Legacy without a mixer. EVER.

So I guess you could say I became (and still am) a connoisseur of so-called "girly" drinks. It's a label to which I take offense since "girly" implies a weak, fruity cocktail (FYI: Newcastle's alcohol content is 4.7%; Smirnoff Ice's is 5%). I'll have you know: despite being acclimated to "girly" hootch, I can drink many phallus-festooned friends under the table. Not gonna lie though -- my favorite cocktail is a Key Lime Martini rimmed with a graham cracker crust and garnished with a maraschino cherry. Dear lord...

Anyway, maybe I've watched too many film noirs but the conventions and social implications of "manly" drinks have been a constant on my mind lately. Something along the lines of a Manhattan or a Gimlet. I always wondered if those actually tasted like anything other than aromatic ethanol.

The Down and Dirty: Hitchcock and I arrived early (or should I say on time; all you other bastards were late) at the Black Boar for some celebratory libations in honor of Spiderman's birthday. What with it being Monday and having the obligation of a job the next day, I was originally resigned to a glass of red wine for the evening -- an efficient way to get a buzz and a healthier heart! What more could I ask for?

At the bar, Hitchcock ordered an Old Fashion in tribute to Mad Men. I realized I hadn't done my DV task for the day and time was a-tickin'. After staring longingly at the amber bottles lining the bar, I knew what I had to do.

I thought about ordering a Martini (shaken, not stirred) but remembered that I sampled one in college... and immediately chased it with a Kamikaze. Perhaps a Sidecar? But that seemed like it had the potential to taste light and sweet from the lemon juice and triple sec. That's it -- screw mixers! I want pure, unadulterated alcohol.

Whiskey on the rocks I bellowed to the bar wench -- er, bartender; I got ahead of myself there. Hitchcock suggested I go for Johnny Walker black label.

I swirled the tumbler for a moment before taking a swig. The initial flavor was warm and smokey. The whiskey held a deep, fiery core with a dulcet mellow finish. Not unlike dunking a piece of burnt toast into watered-down molasses.

The Afterglow: That was tasty. However, I noticed my whiskey prevented anything more than a good buzz because of the nature of its consumption. "Girly" drinks taste so damn innocuous that I'm usually siphoning them directly to my stomach. In fact, most "girly" cocktails are much more potent than your average "manly" fare. If I'm looking to get properly shibliterated, I reach past the pint of beer for the Vodka Sunrise. But whiskey is a complex flavor that needs time to rest on the tongue. Unless, of course, you want to get crunk.

Just because a concoction tastes like it can strip paint off a submarine does not make it manly -- it makes it a shitty drink. I indignantly reject the idea that "manly" drinks will put hair on your chest or help you develop a pair of testicles brimming with testosterone-rich sperm or otherwise toughen you up. Because, son, I will wipe the floor with you -- Mojito poised in hand.

The Virgin hangs ten

2010-02-22T21:18:00.000-08:00

# 7 Never Have I Ever: Tried surfing

Foreplay: Discounting the lack of blond hair and scarcity of “like” in my speech, I fail at being the stereotypical beach bunny.

I curse the sun; I wear SPF80 sunblock religiously. The ocean freaks me out; who knows what's hiding in there -- it's not like you can actually see the bottom. I mean, have you seen Shark Week?! To put it simply, the beach and I just don't get along what with it wanting to kill me; last summer I took up boogie boarding only to have 3 lifeguards swim to my rescue from a gnarly rip tide as the weekend crowd looked on.

But I've always wanted to surf. It just looks so friggin' cool -- beach gods be damned!

The Down and Dirty: I pestered Hermosa enough that he agreed to take me surfing on one of the worst surfing days possible. As we drove into RAT Beach, the wind was pounding, the waters were choppy, and not a soul was on the shore. Hermosa and I soldiered on but if donning my wetsuit was any indication of things to come, I was going to be in a world of pain. That thing was trying to simultaneously choke me and give me camel toe.

It was time to get my feet wet -- literally. Initially, I was owning it. I expertly mounted the surfboard like Tera Patrick. I could paddle like a spry Golden Retriever. I even caught a small wave into shore boogie board style.

But somewhere along the lines, the beach gods noticed I was having fun and decided to put an end to it. This was brought to light when a rough wave suddenly wrenched me towards an unwelcoming mass of seaweeds at a less than leisure speed. Deciding it was better to jump ship than get a face full of slimy plant life, I lurched off the surfboard and promptly ate it on the rocky shore. Not having swallowed enough salt water through my nostrils, another wave decided to offer me a few more gulps.

I later drowned my sorrows in Sauvignon blanc and chocolate chip cookie dough cheesecake in between snotting sea salt into my napkin.

The Afterglow: You would think that I'd be deterred from ever stepping foot onto the beach again, but I am so pumped to kick some Poseidon tail! I want to surf f'real next time. None of this lame boogie boarding on a surfboard business -- no. I want to paddle out, catch a wicked wave, and flip off the ocean as I ride it in like the freakin' king of Siam on an elephant!

Alright, so that may be a little advantageous. I just don't want to swallow any more salt water. Is that too much to ask?

The Virgin acts her age while boozin'

2010-02-20T11:23:00.000-08:00

#6 Never Have I Ever: Consumed anything that was older than me.

Foreplay: I have no qualms with booze or things that are older than I am. Which is why I had no problem strapping on a pair of pumps, slapping on some red lipstick, and braving the dreary nighttime rain to meet a group of older friends for some old fashion boozin' in Downtown Los Angeles on a Friday night.

The Down and Dirty: After a failed attempt at The Edison (who knew people still wanted to get crunk in the rain? Right on!), friends and I made a hop, skip, and jump over to The Varnish. To get there, you have to first walk through Cole's, a rustic little restaurant. A dark door at the back of the establishment, guarded by a demure gentleman and a haughty hostess, opens up to an anachronistic, seated bar operating similarly to a Prohibition era speakeasy. Now, this esoteric attitude would be awesome if Cole's didn't already have a bar at the front of the restaurant...

But anyway, after our "15 minute" wait (aka 45 minutes) our party was led to a dim booth to commence our boozin'. Even though I was content with my Hot Buttered Rum, I couldn't help but be utterly intrigued by my tablemate's 23 year old shot of rum if only for the fact that it was older than me. I guess it didn't help that I was at least 4 years younger than everyone else at the table.

After a plethora of jokes about the rum's and my conception (har har, boozin' --> sexin'; got it), I took a modest sniff. The rum was warm and smooth going down but left a spicy bite on my lips. I'm not a shot kind of girl but the 1920s atmosphere definitely called for a classy thimble of aged liquor - neat. It was perfect for the speakeasy setting. I could practically taste the soap residue from the wannabe bathtub rum.

The Afterglow: After Varnish, I had a few more drinks along our Downtown bar hop, danced on stage at an Irish pub, and then woke up 4 hours later for work. Which is when I wrote most of this entry having successfully staved off a hangover. As much as booze acts like your BFF4lyf, in the end hydration is your friend, kids.

I'm still not a shot pounder; definitely a cocktail sipper even in a speakeasy. If I'm going out to a swanky bar that employs a bonafide mixologist rather than your neighborhood bartender, I'm getting the most complicated bang for my buck, damn it.

But still... how awesome is it to drink alcohol that was produced the same time your parents were conceiving you?!

P.S. I literally just read this article about how the U.S. government poisoned alcohol during Prohibition resulting in approximately 10,000 deaths. WTF, man?!

The Virgin leaves a lasting mark

2010-02-19T20:57:00.000-08:00

#5 Never Have I Ever: Written in wet cement.

Foreplay: I'm a good girl. Sure, I curse like a fuckin' sailor and I have a bad habit of pushing people's buttons, but generally I'm an upstanding citizen -- even the type of girl some poor sucker can bring home to mom.

But as I meandered home from the gym this afternoon and spotted a wet patch of cement on the sidewalk, I was drawn like a delinquent moth to the flame.

The Down and Dirty: Initially, I thought nothing of it and continued on my merry way. Apparently, there had been some minor construction on my street that morning. The 3x4 block was surrounded by dissuasive orange cones and cautionary yellow tape so the good girl in me advised to pay no mind. But as I kept walking, the wet cement continued to invade my thoughts. It was like a little devil was squealing into my ear: But wait! How often do you stumble over newly established sidewalk? When are you ever going to get a chance like this again? Duuuude, c'mon!!

By this time I was back home. I hemmed and hawed for a good hour before finally convincing myself that it was now or never. I grabbed my camera and my keys and made my way down the street. Now, my street is an offbeat path of a much busier drag in Hollywood. While there isn't a constant flux of cars in my specific neighborhood, traffic is literally a stone's throw away. Plus, cops use it as a DUI bust on weekends.

Being the oh so inconspicuous criminal that I am, I slinked around the scant construction site for a few minutes waiting for traffic to die down. When I realized that rush hour was quickly approaching, I squatted next to the cones and started clicking away on my camera in hopes that passing drivers would just think I was an artsy-fartsy chick who was appreciating the beauty of the John Deere excavator.

I had planned to write something full of hippie adulation like ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE but upon closer inspection the wet cement was far from set and badly formed. It looked like gray frosting rather than future sidewalk. In my nervous haste, I also forgot to bring a writing utensil so I chose the least important key on my lanyard for the task (Yeah, I keep my keys on a lanyard. What of it? Thought so...).

After glancing over my shoulder for the millionth time and building up a severe nervous sweat on my brow, I hastily scratched a heart into the cement. Oh, hmm... that wasn't very heart-like at all. Looks more like an unbalanced liver. Perhaps if I retraced that side... oh, no. No, now it looks like it has cirrhosis.

I panicked at the sudden crescendo of approaching cars and scrambled posthaste back to my apartment, leaving the sad little liver behind for eternity.

The Afterglow: Dude, that was SO STRESSFUL! And it wasn't even pretty or inspiring! Never again. During my panicked scurry back to my apartment, I smeared tons of wet cement all over my keychain. My rape whistle is now half sealed with cement. I don't want to think about what karma is trying to tell me with that one, but damn. Lesson learned.

The Virgin sings the blues

2010-02-18T11:41:00.000-08:00

#4 Never Have I Ever: Recorded a song.

Foreplay: I hate hate hate being showered with attention if only for the fact that criticism and rejection scares the ever loving shit out of me. However, I do love to sing but rarely by myself or in public -- and never without liquid courage. I always grab a partner and a Screwdriver when hitting up some karaoke. While I don't believe ignorance is bliss, in this case it's freakin' euphoria. Oh, did I hit a flat note? I'm sorry, I can't hear over the rhythmic glug-glug of this fine bottle of Charles Shaw chardonnay.

I'd like to think I have a pleasant albeit low voice but middle school and high school choir is as far as my technical singing abilities go. Needless to say I was surprised, flattered, and anxious as all hell when Hermosa asked me to sing a duet with him.

The Down and Dirty: Hermosa invited me over to record a cheerful little diddly he wrote about self-righteous pilgrims. I really couldn't turn down an offer like that.

As I watched as Hermosa set up the equipment in his makeshift studio (a Macbook, Pro Tools, and a bad ass microphone in his bedroom) my feet began icing over. Now, I was totally game on my drive over. I had some time to study the lyrics, get the the rhythm down pat, and exercise my voice. But as I stared into the condenser mic my mind went blank, my trembling limbs couldn't keep a non-River-dance tempo, and my voice was going to either squeak or growl uncontrollably at any given minute.

I needed liquid courage. STAT. So we each had a glass of wine. And then another. And then a couple beers on top of that. I think one of us suggested that we start recording before our slur starts speeching. What?

We hit record and went through the song a few times before I got a chance to hear any of the tracks. I already knew I was off but I had no idea what to expect. What the hell was that? Was that me? Seriously?! I've been told I have a low, smokey voice but have I always sounded so... drag queeny?

We tried to forge ahead but the damage was done. I was like Punxsutawney Phil who saw his shadow and fled back down the hole to drown in self-deprecation and an unholy amount of discount Ferrero Rocher chocolates. I wasn't quite willing to give up until I had something decent to show for my efforts but this pilgrim business was working as well for me as it did with Pocahontas.

Hermosa suggested we switch to a more mellow, almost bluesy number he had written. Well, hot damn! Maybe the song fit my range better, or perhaps it was my fervent frustration, or it could've been because I was finally sobering up -- but I didn't sound too shabby this time 'round. I wouldn't go about posting it on YouTube, but I wouldn't mind playing it ever so quietly alone in my room when I know that my flatmate is gone for the weekend so that I can scream into my pillow when my vomit-inducing chagrin finally spills over.

The Afterglow: The sound of my own voice still provokes a full body shudder of mammoth proportions but it also baits my inner perfectionist to create a piece to be proud of. Recording is actually heaps of fun if you don't take it too seriously. I'd love to have another go at it; perhaps sans alcohol. Ha, who am I kidding?! Pass the pinot noir, please!

The Virgin breaks a sweat... and her leg (almost)

2010-02-16T22:59:00.000-08:00

#3 Never Have I Ever: Participated in an exercise class

Foreplay: Most people I talk to are somehow surprised when I tell them about my complete and utter lack of bodily kinesthetic. I've had long time friends outright laugh at my moves against nature when attempting to teach me basic choreography -- the kind of laugh that makes a person double over, wheeze for precious air, and never let me live it down (I'm lookin' at you, Loverboy). I still confuse my left and right ("I write with my RIGHT hand, therefore I'm left with my LEFT hand." Clever mantra, I know.) My mother used to stick neon green Post-It notes to the corners of her glass dining table so I wouldn't run into them. I've choked on my own saliva more times in the last month than I care to announce.

Basically, I'm a total klutz. So I was pretty damn confounded to find myself shakin' what my momma gave me in an exercise class.

The Down and Dirty: I woke up early this morning with the purpose of working off the five triple chocolate chip cookies and two helpings of pasta from the night before (it's that kind of week, ok?). As I walked down to my neighborhood 24 Hour Fitness, I debated whether to endure my usual four mile treadmill run or indulge in some Murakami on the elliptical. But as I flashed my guest pass at the obscenely perky employee behind the desk, he asked if I was here for Zumba.

"Uh... who?"

Zumba was starting in ten minutes. It was the brand spankin' new fitness program they just implemented.

Zumba? That sounded like a martial arts type class like capoeira or tae bo. It was still unforgivably early enough for me to feel like indiscriminately kicking ass and taking names. Did I need any special gear for it? No. Did I need to have prior experience? No. Before I could ask if there was any risk of bodily injury he chirped, "Just have fun, girl!" And snapped his fingers not unlike a sassy Tim Gunn. I didn't need to be snapped at twice.

I was all pumped for some Xena warrior princess battle cries as I hi-ya and hadukened my way out of my grumpy morning haze. That is, until my eyes noticed a description of Zumba posted outside the room. It wasn't so much an ass-kicking session as it was an exercise class. And not just any exercise class, but Zumba... "a fusion of Latin and international music that creates a dynamic, exciting, and effective fitness system." They forgot to include the addendum "when you're not attacking yourself and others around you."

Remember when I mentioned that I still have difficulty distinguishing my left from my right? At one point, it was like a bad sitcom unfolding right before my horrified eyes. The rest of the class deftly spins to the right as per the instructor's lead, and me? I hurl my body towards the left and end up nose to sweaty nose with a flustered, plump blond.

This was after being blinded by the unnecessarily large disco ball (is there a correct size for a disco ball in a gym?) as the instructor ordered me to "pump [my] pelvis" while galloping in place. To say that I looked like a lame pony in heat would be an insult to equestrians. So not only was there a dance component to humiliate me, there were seizure-inducing strobe lights as well. It felt like the most embarrassing rave of my life.

The Afterglow: Zumba is a hardier cardio workout than I had chalked it to be. I suppose rapid pelvis-thrusting, maniac butt-popping, and relentlessly flailing your extremities works up quite a sweat. But my pounding heartbeat, red face, and quivering muscles can easily be attributed to the mortification that occurred every time I caught sight of my offbeat body thrashing in one of the class' mirrored walls.

BRB, chasing after my dignity.

The Virgin bats for the other team

2010-02-15T23:17:00.000-08:00

#2 Never Have I Ever: Eaten anything resembling a vagina

Foreplay: Don't get me wrong; I'm all for vaginas. I'm a self-declared feminist and will make you pay if you treat it like an F-word. I once nervously stuttered through an audition for the Vagina Monologues in college. My latest Facebook status reads: Lunar New Year, Valentine's Day, my period started. It's a very red day. I own a goddamn shirt emblazoned with "Vagina: It's What's For Dinner" smack dab on the front. Yet I can't say that I'm all that enthusiastic when it comes to going to town on yonic foods.

First of all, I've never been a huge fan of seafood (undeniably the most vaginal cuisine). I only just began to be civil to lobster and crab within the last two years. Shrimp and I have always been on good terms but now I'm acquainted to it outside of its tempura attire. Salmon is the only fish I will eat outside of sushi and that just happened in 2010. Secondly, I'm very sensitive to the texture of foods. Hummus was a cold, gritty nightmare for my mouth for the longest time; soft, mushy, overly juicy (shudder) peaches, plums, and pears are not allowed to pass through my lips. Lastly, these particular fish of the shell variety are not the uh... prettiest things. They look the same cooked as they do raw. They come in shells; what exactly are they trying to hiding in there? And clams look like they have eyes. Dear god...

But after shoving something phallic down my throat in the last entry, I decided to bat for the other team.

The Down and Dirty: For a belated Lunar New Year dinner, my parents set up a hot pot meal for the family. Seafood is usually the main fixin' but I was able to get away with stuffing my face with soy sauce chicken, soup-seared beef, and boiled spinach as a kid. But ever since discovering the miracle cooking agent also known as garlic after years and years of repugnant aversion towards the bulb, I'm more than willing to put my taste buds to the test with new foods.

As I assessed the spread in front of me, I ignored the savory plate of thinly sliced beef, the smell of freshly boiled chicken, the steam of delicate cubes of tofu. Instead forged ahead towards the daunting platter of raw mussels, oysters, and clams like a determined yet bewildered teenage boy towards third base. I plucked one of each and plopped them into the boiling pot of soup. At this point, I realized I didn't know what I was waiting for. I wasn't kidding when I said that they look exactly the same cooked as they do raw -- a gross mess of flapping flesh. Dad finally took pity on me after a few minutes and fished them out for me.

The mussel landed closest to my chopsticks. It was a vivid mustard yellow color and the size of an oblong gumball. Deciding that staring would further intimidate me (as it would to most young fellows when face to face with their own yonic endeavors), I held my breath and dove in quickly (as most young fellows should). It was... chewy. And soft. And chewy. I don't think I was even done swallowing when I blindly popped the oyster in my mouth. This was also soft. And chewy. I may appear to lack a thesaurus but honestly, there is no other way to describe devouring these fleshy bits while holding my breath and squeezing my eyes shut in silent horror and prayer.

I had to finally inhale -- or should I say gasp -- when I came upon the clam. This fucker was looking at me. Now, further research tells me that they're actually siphons but I dare anyone to tell me that pair of prongs don't look like eyes of omnipotent fury as if the clam is goading you, "Yeah, I know you're gonna eat me. You go ahead and fuckin' try." I apologetically turned it around, sucked the little bugger into my mouth, gave a few overtly aggressive chomps, and knocked back my bowl of soup. I came up flushed and panting.

"What are you doing?" my mother implored after witnessing my table mannerisms.

You don't want to know.

The Afterglow: Alright, it wasn't so bad but I didn't go back for seconds. And I definitely would not order anything from the mollusca phylum when eating out. I'm just not cut out for ensconced seafood with questionable consistency.

While I'm not put off by yonic foods, phallic ones are just easier to choke down. Next time I should probably stick to chocolate vaginas. Now, I'd be down for that.

The Virgin is tempted by the snake

2010-02-14T22:59:00.000-08:00

#1 Never Have I Ever: Eaten an animal with less than two legs

It should only be fitting that I pop my Daily Virgin blog cherry with a hot, thick sausage.

Foreplay: By no means do I have an aversion to meat. Chicken, cows, pigs, and the occasional duck are frequent visitors to my digestive track. I even enjoy less-enthused body parts like cow tripe and chicken feet.

But nothing I do can rival my father's adventurous appetite. The man watched a bat vs. snake throw down in a restaurant in Vietnam and then ATE THEM BOTH. I'm not talking about a peppered fillet served with garlic-sauteed Chanterelle mushrooms. No. The animal handler/cook chopped the heads off of each creature in the middle of the restaurant, drained their warm bloods into respective chilled beer mugs, served their plump hearts on a cocktail dish, and then fired up the grill for some bat and snake barbeque. My third grade self will never be able to unsee my mom's enthusiastic tourist pictures of their unique dining experience.

This minor childhood trauma induced by my father thus inspired me to test my taste buds with rattlesnake. How Freudian of me.

The Down and Dirty: Daywalker, Gemini, and I made our way to downtown L.A.'s arts district to uncover Wurstküche. The loosely Central Europe eatery is best described as a small warehouse turned hipster-influenced gastropub furnished with barn ware. Think: German yokel. The dimly lit room is occupied by three long communal picnic tables and benches, flanked by small tables on the outskirts, and finished with a beer bar on one side. There is a separate, bright room in the back to order food. A delightful fedora-festooned man shuffled us into the surprisingly long line for it being 10:30 PM.

I had already Yelped Wurstküche and had my mouth set for the rattlesnake and rabbit sausage with Belgian fries and a cool pint of Old Rasputin. However, I hadn't anticipated the lack of seating. I felt like a desperate vulture waiting to swoop on an opening at any of the trough-like tables. Annoyingly, our food arrived before my bird of prey instinct could kick in. But once we finally snagged a section of bench, I was not disappointed.

Served in a generic hot dog bun, the rattlesnake and rabbit sausage was zestfully juicy and mildly spicy. I ordered it with yellow bell peppers and grilled jalapenos which added the perfect combination of sweetness and heat. A conservative squirt of ketchup gave a much appreciated tangy kick. The Belgian fries were thick and not as crispy as I had hoped but they were decent when accompanied by any of the four dipping sauces we ordered.

My glass of Old Rasputin was the only letdown. First of all, it had a head that simply would not die. A lack of beer-pouring ability at a German gastropub? Blasphemy I say! Secondly, it was much too dark for my liking. The bitter taste bud receptors on the back of my tongue protested thoroughly until I chased it away with a bite of rattlesnake, a fry drenched in buttermilk ranch, or a swipe of Gemini's framboise. Shouldn't I be washing my meal down with a beer rather than the other way around?

The Afterglow: All in all I'm glad I tried rattlesnake. It was delightfully delicious and it inspires me to be more adventurous with my meals. Doesn't mean I'll be running with the buffaloes to grab a bite, but if someone offers me kangaroo or ostrich I won't grimace... too much. After all, I am my father's daughter.

I've got to hand it to Wurstküche. You've got one solid snake.