The Virgin enters the Cone Zone

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, cool!"

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

I am no longer allowed to talk to celebrities.

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 is a sweet talker

#31 Never Have I Ever: Talked my way in

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh." I grimace at my girls.

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

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

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

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

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

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 blocks a cock

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 makes a move

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daily Virgin: Hi. What's your name?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 meets a MANTHER

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

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

But what about older men who date younger women? They’re so much more prevalent! Sugar daddy implies that he’s rich and silver fox is more common with the gay community. What about men who are middle class heterosexuals. Well, imagine my utter elation when I discovered the term manther:

The male version of a cougar; an older man who preys on younger women.

Would Blackjacket fit the criteria of a manter? According to the mathematical formula (x/2)+7=y where x represents your age, y yields the youngest age you can date that will be socially acceptable. I applied this formula to Blackjacket’s age and realized that I was a half year too young for his limit. By that right, our date was -- gasp! -- socially unacceptable. On a scale of Lolita to Woody Allen, I’d say we hit the Brangelina mark.

A bonafied manther!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Virgin gets yo numba

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A respectable age."

Oh. Damn it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

After scanning the page for a few moments, he silently and deliberately pointed to my screen:

• Ask for a guy's number

I nervously scoffed. He didn't laugh. I snorted back the rest of my Screwdriver. "Alright. So what's your number?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Virgin can see the future

#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

#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 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 hangs ten

# 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'

#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

#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.