The Virgin eats her weight in cheese

#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 feasts like a super model

#37 Never Have I Ever: Counted calories

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My will is weak.

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 wines and dines... herself?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Virgin is shaken, not stirred

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1 part vanilla vodka

1 part amaretto

1 part skim milk

1 packet of Swiss Miss instant hot chocolate (what can I say? I'm all class)

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

The Virgin fails at being animal-friendly

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Virgin rolls VIP

#24 Never Have I Ever: Been VIP

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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


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

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

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

The Virgin says no to meat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Virgin writes Hemingway style

#15 Never Have I Ever: Written a song

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Virgin puts some hair on her chest

#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 acts her age while boozin'

#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 bats for the other team

#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

#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.