The Virgin doesn't need doctors

#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 cleans up well

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Virgin walks a mile in her shoes

#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

#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 leaves a lasting mark

#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.