Days of Auld Lang Syne

On the last day of 2009, I reflect and reminisce over the adventures I had over this last year. Let's sum up the highlights, why don't we?

- I dated some real winners, including the biggest fail in the history of well, history, a dirty manwhore who told me on our first date that I'm too arrogant and confident, the genius who couldn't recognize dinosaur bones and had never been to a museum before, and the creme de la creme, an idiotic bandanna-sporting douchebag.

- My girlfriends provided me with endless hours of hilarity and multiple nights of hijinx; one of the best included crashing a bachelor party, a lot of tequila, and then scamming some guys into a beer-pong tournament on their roof.

- I played Spin the Bottle for the first time in over a decade and discovered why I should stay away from Murray Hill.

- My family decided that I am officially a spinster.

- I found out that unlimited champagne served by a midget in a pirate suit leads to an absolutely horrendous hangover and a sprained foot.

- I started punching guys in the nuts. Good for mankind, bad for douchebags. And sometimes, bad for me.

- I relived the glory days of college, complete with tailgating, sketchy fraternity parties, and even more importantly, sketchy fraternity guy late-night booty calls.

All in all, if I had to sum up the year in a phrase, it would be "banana pancakes," the code words I came up with to let my friends know when I'm in trouble (i.e. if I slipped "banana pancakes" into a phrase like "I have a hankering for some delicious banana pancakes for breakfast," they would interpret it as an SOS and get me the hell outta there). There were a great deal of "banana pancakes" moments in 2009.

So I'd like to thank my girls for a year filled with more laughter and memories than I know what to do with. In all seriousness, I'm not sure I would've survived the disaster we will come to know as 2009 without my besties by my side. R, S, A, this one's for you:



Happy 2010 everyone!!!!!

Vanilla Overdose

What kind of night starts out at a classy cocktail party and ends with a Lady Gaga dance party at a dive bar?

Only the best kind, obviously.

So a few weeks ago I was invited to a magazine party sponsored by Stoli and R and I put on our finest black cocktail dresses and went to sip on awesome (free) vodka cocktails.

Mid-way through the party, we made friends with a group of very nice, very sweet, very white-bread boys who were all from the Mid-west and went to Harvard. We have appropriately termed them "The Vanillas."

One of them was so dapper and put-together that we are convinced he is none other than Freddie Fackelmayer's doppelganger. Seriously. Down to the jawline that looks like it was chiseled out of marble and the orange fake tan and the douchebaggy personality.

I'm actually afraid that someday they will find themselves in a room together and the universe might implode from the sheer force of their combined douchiness. It's a weapon to be taken seriously, people. (Case and point: have you SEEN Jersey Shore on MTV?)

His Vanilla friends, however, turned out to be nice guys, which isn't surprising since they are young (24) and born and bred in Arkansas and Ohio or some other state in Middle America where it is instilled in them to be gentlemen and hold doors open for girls. So when the open bar shut down at midnight, I agreed to tag along with them to another bar.

The Vanillas subsequently got into a fight about whose ancestors came over on the Mayflower and whether Vanilla Two's grandparents were the indentured servants of Vanilla One's family in Ohio. That was about when I started planning an escape strategy, worried I had wandered into another minefield of intensely boring guys.

(But seriously, could you imagine a whiter conversation? I mean other than an argument over where to buy the perfect pocket square and which club to use on the par-4 ninth hole.)

That was when my favorite song of the moment, Lady Gaga's Bad Romance started playing on the jukebox. Apparently Vanilla One is such a fan of the song that he put in $20 and set the song to play on repeat, much to the dismay of everyone else in the bar.



I, however, was in heaven and since I wasn't going to bail on a jukebox playing Lady Gaga nonstop, I suggested a game of "Never Have I Ever" to loosen up the Vanilla boys and that is when they disclosed something truly shocking.

Vanilla One: Never have I ever had casual sex.

Me: Well how do you define casual sex?

Vanilla One: I've never had sex with anyone I'm not in a committed relationship with.

Me (Thinking I misheard him; after all the Lady Gaga was blasting pretty loudly): Excuse me what now?

Vanilla One: I only sleep with girls if we're in a serious relationship. I've never had sex with anyone that I just met.

Vanilla Two: Yeah, I'm the same way.

Me (Flabergasted): I'm sorry. I just don't understand. You don't sleep with girls unless you're in a monogamous long-term relationship? When did you lose your virginity.

Vanilla One: Not until I was 22.

Me: What?! That was only two years ago.

Vanilla Two: Well, sex is so much better if you're in a relationship and you really know and love each other, so I agree with him.

Me: Well obviously you just haven't had really good casual sex yet. Sometimes it's better if there are absolutely no feelings involved and it's just raw and physical.

Vanilla One: That's quite possible, but I don't plan on finding out.

Me (More confused than ever): OK then. Good talk. See you out there.

As if this wasn't baffling enough, a week later R and I met Vanilla Two for drinks at a party downtown. Somehow his ex-girlfriend came up and we asked him why they broke up.

Vanilla Two: She was just kind of boring, you know?

R: No, I don't know. Was she too vanilla for you?

Vanilla Two: Well we were together for four months and she just wasn't very interesting.

Me: Like what? In bed? Was she not exciting?

Vanilla Two: Excuse me?

R: You know, were things boring in the bedroom?

Me: Yeah, did she not spice things up enough? No handcuffs? No lingerie? No fetish closet?

And at this point, poor Vanilla Two was so shocked and taken aback by the dirty-mouthed New York girls that he toppled backwards off his stool and fell on his back, followed by the stool.

It made such a commotion that the entire bar turned to see what had happened and the guy at the table next to us had to ask R if she was OK because he thought she was having a seizure, but found out she was just laughing so hard that she couldn't breathe.

Vanilla Two (After getting up and sitting back down on his stool and regaining his composure): Good lord, I can't believe you girls are asking me about my sex life. I don't talk about things like that! I never kiss and tell. It's disrespectful. I would never do that!

Now on one hand, I think his behavior is entirely commendable although surprising. I don't know too many (meaning any) guys in Manhattan who refrain from having sex with girls they don't know and then discussing it afterwards. This is a legitimately nice, wholesome boy with morals and values and whatnot.

On the other hand, this is exactly the kind of behavior that takes away from any sort of sexual mystique whatsoever and why I could never be attracted to someone that innocent. I mean, I don't want to date manwhores, but at the same time I don't remember signing on to hang out with Kenneth Parcell from 30 Rock.



Clearly this is the type of guy that finds The Brady Bunch too raunchy because Mike and Carol didn't sleep in separate beds. So there is no way in hell that he could handle my lifestyle. I think one dinner conversation with my girlfriends would send him to the hospital with a massive coronary.

And the last thing I want nor need is the death of a Vanilla weighing on my conscience.

Ho Ho Ho!

Dear Santa Claus,

Although I am sure that I have done some things this year that would automatically qualify me for the "Naughty List," I would like to take this opportunity to point out the good deeds that should be factored into your in-depth evaluation:

1) I taught several assholes that they shouldn't make inappropriate and/or racist comments to strangers by hitting them in the nuts. Now, I know initially this may be mistaken for violent and unstable behavior, but really if you consider my motivations behind the ball-slapping, you will see that I am just a do-gooder trying to ensure that these douchebags don't offend anyone else in the future, and ideally render them infertile so they don't pass on their racist views to future generations.

2) If you don't count the guys who held back tears while icing their balls after I launched my stealthy attack on their gonads, I only made one guy (that I know of) cry. And I managed to avoid killing anyone, which is no small feat when you consider the fact that I spent a good amount of time in Murray Hill.

3) I single-handedly did my part to boost the economy out of a recession by repeatedly going into debt with my shopping problem and traveling around the US to exotic locations such as Puerto Rico, Miami, Chicago, Martha's Vineyard, Newport, and Pittsburgh. You haven't really lived until you've driven across the middle of Pennsylvania through miles and miles of farm-land and stopped at a Sheetz outside of Altoona. In fact this was the first year in about a decade that I didn't use my passport because I was only traveling within the good ole' USA.

4) Out of the goodness of my heart, I set up a guy friend on a non-consensual man date. This was clearly an altruistic act since I didn't even stick around at the bar to see how Operation: Bromance turned out. And even though I got a lot of amusement out of the whole thing and the parties involved weren't quite as enthused, I still think I am owed a thank you card or some sort of gift basket.

5) Over Thanksgiving, Little Sister E and I had a craving for cake in the middle of the night and decided to make some from scratch. Since we couldn't find the brownie pan, we were forced to use the bread loaf pan and subsequently made a delicious snack concoction that looked like pound cake, but had the consistency and taste of yellow butter cake; thus introducing into the world to what we have termed "Cake Loaf." If that's not a contribution to society, I don't know what is.

In conclusion, I think I did a pretty good job this year of behaving myself and doing unto others and all that other bullshit. And as a reward, all I would really like to find in my stocking tomorrow morning is that clutch I've been eyeing from Bottega Veneta. And some sort of hand-eye coordination so I stop injuring myself regularly. And a bottle of Peppermint Schnapps because you know how I love free booze. And Chris Pine or Corey Monteith. (If they don't fit over the fireplace, feel free to just send them up to my bedroom.) And a puppy. And someone to take care of the afore-mentioned puppy because I question my capabilities to handle that much responsibility.

Actually you can forget all that other stuff if you could just throw me a bone and relocate some cute, intelligent, not-crazy, single guys to Manhattan. And make me 22 again. You have that kind of power, right?

So Mr. Claus, enjoy the slice of Cake Loaf that we have left out for you and sorry about the 2% milk, but my parents decided whole milk was too fattening. And you're welcome for the kalhua that I may or may not have slipped in. I figure no one can be that jolly on the most stressful workday of the year without copious amounts of booze. Don't worry; it'll be our little secret.



Merry Christmas!

Until Next Year,

Official Nice List Applicant,

S

Meeeeee-ow!

So I constantly make jokes about how I am on the path to becoming a cat lady and will soon be knitting sweaters for my dozen cats in my apartment if this spinsterhood goes on for much longer.

But what I didn't realize earlier is that my guy friend T is actually not so secretly a wannabe cat lady!

One day, out of nowhere, girlfriend S and I were joking around about how we're going to be cat ladies and the following conversation ensued:

S: Ew, no, I hate cats.

T: What do you mean you hate cats? Do you also hate awesome? Do you hate freedom? Do you hate America?

S: Um, no I just hate cats.

T: What, you need a pet that's going to jump all over you and pretend to love you just because you're there? So when you walk in the door it'll wet itself? No way, I want a pet that I will have for ten years and then MAYBE in year eleven it'll let me touch its elbow. You have to WORK for a cat's affection; they make you EARN it.

S: Look, I'm not saying I like dogs either, but cats are evil.

T: So hypothetically let's say I buy you a pet kitten, an adorable little thing, for your birthday. What would you do?

S: I would drown it in my sink.

Me: Whoa that's slightly extreme. You wouldn't just give it away to like a child or something? You would have to kill it?

S: Yes that's how much I hate cats.

T: Wow. Just wow.

(In S's defense, cats can be pretty scary...)

S: The real question is if you know that I hate cats, why would you give me a kitten for my birthday? You would be the one responsible for its death!

T: Well I didn't know you would kill it. I didn't think anyone hated cats that much. How could you hate cats? They're such clean animals. I want to get in a bathtub with a cat and have it clean me.

S: Gross! What is wrong with you?!

Me: That is a disgusting image that I will now never be able to get out of my head.

T: Too much? Did I take it too far? I take it back...

So after that, it obviously became a running joke between all our friends that T loves cats and S hates them with a passion. We even started recruiting teams: Team T wants to adopt a litter of cats and bathe with them and Team S is not a fan of the proposition.

About a month ago, driving past a convention center in my hometown, we spotted a giant sign that said there was a "CAT SHOW" occurring, and immediately sent a picture of the sign to T. He got very excited and sent out e-mails asking if we all wanted to get dinner after the cat show, since we were obviously all going. And one by one we all made up excuses we couldn't make it (just kidding, I was out of town, but I wasn't going to go anyway...)

I did, however, have many questions about the whole cat show thing.

Was a cat show like a dog show where they were paraded around by breed? Was that even possible since I can't imagine a cat obeying the orders to walk around in a circle on a leash and have its privates examined without viciously scratching the judge's face? Were there prizes? Did the cats dress up in costumes and do a runway walk? Did you have to bring your own cat or could you attend cat-less? Did the human beings dress up as cats?

It looked as though I would never get the answers to these burning questions and would have to go through my remaining days wondering about the cat show when bestie R sent me a photo of a creepy old man holding a cat dressed up in a leather biker outfit, complete with sunglasses and hat.

It turns out one of R's "friends" owns a cat furniture business (yes, a business that manufactures and sells high-end cat furniture, such as beds and sofas that cost hundreds of dollars) and sponsored a booth at the cat show. He had also been recruiting for people to help out at the show.

So not only did T miss out on a chance to attend the cat show and spend a day with his beloved felines, he would've been paid to do so. And if that's not the American Dream, I don't know what is. Wasn't this country founded on the hope that someday its citizens would be able to do what they love AND get paid for it, even when it's something totally disturbing like hanging out with cats in creepy costumes?

Needless to say, T is still a little bitter about the whole situation, missing out on the cat fiesta and whatnot. I'm not sure if he's going to get over it anytime soon.

I'm thinking that a cat sofa might be just the thing to appease him though, and now I know where I can get a discount on some cat furniture.

In addition to the awesome Christmas present I already picked out for him, "Kitten Mittons" from Paddy's Pub, home of the original "Kitten Mittons." What more could a cat-lover want?! I mean, other than a pet cat...



Sorry T, maybe next year we'll get you an actual kitten. And I promise to keep S away from it, so there aren't any cat demises on my conscience.

A Story of Closure

Two years ago, on this exact day in 2007, I started writing a blog. (Happy anniversary to me!) The impetus behind it was that I had gone through a terrible, painful, earth-shattering breakup after a relationship of three years and was for the first time in my adult life learning now to be single and to date and I wanted to share my adventures with my friends and the rest of the world.

The relationship was, for the most part, bad. He was immature and obnoxious and a total mama's boy whose mother still did his laundry and asked him if his bowel movements were regular. But, as I learned the hard way, you don't get to choose who you fall in love with, so I just ignored the warnings from my friends and family for years that I was out of his league in every possible way and he would never be able to make me happy.

After he moved out of our apartment, leaving me with a slew of memories I wanted no part of, I moved onto my couch and cried for a month before I was ready to enter the outside world again. It pretty much resembled a Bridget Jones movie, minus the charming Brits.

And every small step was a giant victory, the first time I gave out my phone number, the first kiss, the first date, the first time I got caught dating a coworker, the first time I dumped a guy over instant messenger and posted the conversation online...

So in a way, this entire blog was a reaction to my painful breakup, my way of coping through the crazy guys in NY and the bad dates and the day I finally went to sell the ring he had knelt down and put on my finger. I suppose, then, that I have him to thank for this.

(Oh, and my friends and family were right all along; six months after we broke up, I found out through mutual friends that he had been cheating on me, and was now dating the girl he had cheated on me with. I wish her the best. Seriously. It's going to take a very resilient woman to put up with his bullshit. And his overbearing mom.)

Now, why am I giving this dry, rambling history?

Because a few Tuesdays ago, at a ChamPAIN Tuesday repeat, to be precise, I ran into this guy who I haven't seen since he broke up with me and moved out of our apartment over two years ago.

Now, being a writer, I had written this scene out a dozen ways, all of which obviously ended with me looking fabulous on the arm of Bradley Cooper or Chris Pine, while the Douchebag Ex whimpered and stumbled away in agony.

In reality, though, this is how the scene played out:

Douchebag Ex: Hi, I thought it was you.

Me: Yep, it's me, how are you doing? I heard you were laid off, did you get a new job?

Douchebag Ex: Yeah, yeah I have a new job, working for a French bank doing the same thing. I like it I guess. You? I know you left your last job...

Me: Yeah, I quit my job last year. I just really wasn't happy and I wanted to write. So I'm doing that now. Working on novels and my blog and freelancing for magazines and whatnot...it's really great work.

Douchebag Ex: That's nice. Are you still living in the same apartment?

Me: No, I moved, where are you living now?

Douchebag Ex: I live down here. I moved in with my girlfriend. What about you? Any dudes in your life?

Me: Many dudes.

Awkward Pause.

Douchebag Ex: It's weird to run into you like this. I actually thought of contacting you the other day.

Me (Hostile): Why would you do that?

Douchebag Ex (Taken Aback): Um...I saw this picture of you on Facebook - you were in a Halloween costume dressed as a sailor or something and you looked great so I was going to friend you.

Me (More Hostile): Yeah, please don't do that.

Douchebag Ex (More Taken Aback): Oooook...well do you want to get together sometime? Do you have the same phone number?

Me (Blatant Lie): Nope, I changed my number

Douchebag Ex: Can I have it?

Me: No.

Douchebag Ex: Well...mine is the same, do you still have mine?

Me: No I deleted that a long time ago, and I've been much happier that way.

Douchebag Ex: So I guess you really don't want to talk or let me explain anything my side of the story to you at all?

Me: Nope, I don't want you in my life. I think you're toxic and you clearly didn't care about me. I think you proved that with your actions, so the last thing I want is to have anything to do with you.

Another Awkward Pause

Douchebag Ex: Well you look really great, you haven't changed at all, I remember those jeans...but since this is what you want it I guess I'll go this way...until the next time we run into each other.

Me: Bye.

And I got to watch him walk away from me yet another time.

But this one was different; it was on my terms and it was because I had done my best to make him feel about thisbig, hopefully succeeding in that endeavor. And because I had laid out my ground rules and set incredibly clear boundaries, he left knowing in no uncertain terms to stay away.

After all, he lied to me, he cheated on me, and he broke my heart; so really I don't know why it ever occurred to him that he might be allowed back in my life in any capacity whatsoever. This is just further evidence that he is a complete moron.

So this time, I felt no regret watching him walk away. I felt proud and relieved and sad (the little sad is natural, I think), but the rest of it was good. I felt surprisingly very few violent urges as well; who would've seen that one coming?!

I think in the end, the lesson I can walk away from this is that closure will find you, one way or another, whether you want it or not. Whether it's pretty or ugly, you will get thrown together with someone you have issues with until they are resolved. And even though this meeting was two years in the making, it was a relief to finally see him and to let him know that I am doing fantastic in every way without him.

College Days Are Here Again!

A few weeks ago, bestie R and I decided to visit her alma mater for their biggest football game of the year and take part in some good old-fashioned tailgating and college-style partying.

The only flaw in this otherwise perfect plan was we had forgotten that we are both now five years out of college and therefore much, much older than the kids still attending. Like ancient.

On our first night in town, we went to get dinner with friends in town and the drunk guy at the table next to us offered me some free wine. Not one to turn down free booze, I accepted, and struck up a conversation with him. I obviously asked him if he was even of legal age when he told me he was a junior in college and asked me what year I was.

I then informed him I had already graduated from college. In 2004. To which he looked shocked and one of his female dinner companions visibly rolled her eyes. I exclaimed to R, "I think that bitch just rolled her eyes at me when she overheard how old I am!" Only two hours in and we already felt old and almost got into a fight...

After dinner, R and I headed to, that's right, a fraternity party. We had to sign in and show ID at the door and the older security guard who was working actually burst out laughing when he saw that we were well over 21. Later, just to mess with me, when he saw me holding a beer, he asked me for my ID again and then laughed at my bewilderment.

The party, of course, was packed to the brim with drunk underclassmen chanting their greek letters and freshman girls. The only refreshment available at the bar was Natty Lite, which I have not had the pleasure of being in the presence of for quite some time. (Well, after we sweet-talked one of the underclassmen, he offered us shots of Banker's Vodka, which is equally low on my alcohol barometer. We politely declined.)

But the highlight of this party was that there were familiar faces present. First we ran into Murray Hill, the same classy fellow who talked R and I into a rousing game of Spin the Bottle over the summer. He was (surprise, surprise) thoroughly involved in hitting on every freshman girl in sight, with no shame whatsoever.

A little later, when R and I decided we couldn't stomach any more Natty Lite and needed to head to a real bar to get some real booze, we ran into Zygote, the same 23 and a half year old who broke my foot on ChamPAIN Tuesday.

Well it turns out Zygote has a girlfriend, who he has been with for the past two years, meaning yes, he cheated on her the night he broke my foot. Therefore, he was none too excited to see me. After he did a double take to confirm I was indeed, the very same girl he had tossed off his bed, the little shit had the gall to INTRODUCE HIMSELF TO ME. As in he stuck out his hand, told me his name, and shook my hand. All while looking over his shoulder, worried, to make sure his girlfriend wasn't suspecting anything not kosher.

R and I took off, feeling old and full of laughter, and decided to call it a night since we had to wake up absurdly early the next day to tailgate. At 2AM, both R and my phone started ringing over and over again. I finally picked up to put an end to it, and on the other end was Murray Hill:

Murray Hill: Hey, where are you girls? Let's hang out.

Me: We are SLEEPING.

Murray Hill: Why would you come down to college only to sleep like old women? Come out and party with us?

Me: Who's us?

Murray Hill: I'm with my friend, you'd like him.

(Aside to his friend): Yeah I'm on the phone with two hot girls. Which one do you want, the Asian one or the other one?

Friend: Yes.

Murray Hill: Cool, cause I'll take either of them.

Me: You are disgusting. Stop calling. Good night.

The next morning R and I woke up to the following texts:

"Come over, I have booze and coke."

"Are you at the Comfort Sweets? We'll come over."

"Don't tell her, but I want to bang you."

And yes, he typed in "sweets" as in candy, not "suites" as in a room one may be staying in for the night.

When we ran into Murray Hill a few hours later at the tailgate, he wasn't even remotely embarrassed about what had elapsed over the course of the previous night; instead he didn't hesitate to brag to his friends about it. And luckily for me, Zygote was present, this time without his girlfriend.

R and I started screaming at Murray Hill about his sketchy behavior and R turned to Zygote and said, "Have you met my friend? She couldn't walk for a month after she hooked up with you."

Obviously, her choice of wording was not fantastic because Murray Hill turned to Zygote, impressed, and commended him on his conquest, all while I protested he was misunderstanding R's words.

A few hours later after the game, R and I decided to take a nap to rest up for the night when Murray Hill started texting R again that he wanted to meet up. This time, R and I decided to have a little fun with him. I called him and told him we wanted to hang out, both of us, so to meet us at the Comfort Suites in room 410 (we were staying on the opposite end of town).

The idiot boy actually ran over there and five minutes later called to say, "I'm knocking on the door, why aren't you guys answering?" to which we replied, "Just knock harder. We can't hear you!" before dissolving onto the floor laughing. About ten minutes later he finally gave up and texted us that what we had done to him was "not cool." Well, kid, that's what you get when you interrupt my sleep to attempt to pimp me out to your friends.

Our last night out, we were intent on keeping up with the college kids and stayed out all night before we finally called it quits and passed out. The highlights included:

1) Sake bombs.

2) More frat parties, including one at the football fraternity where the quarterback was getting a belated pep talk about what a great job he had done on the field earlier that day and started charging through the house, narrowly missing killing me and R (he was twice our size, combined).

3) Bar-hopping through town and hanging out with some very creepy local townies.

4) Me punching an asshole in the nuts and then yelling at him that I hadn't even hit anything substantial since he had "nothing down there."

5) A dance party under blacklight at someone's deserted house.

6) A snack and sandwich run in the middle of the night.

R and I didn't get up until 2PM the next day, but found ourselves surprisingly not hungover, due to the pacing of our shots throughout the night and the 4AM snacking.

All in all, we relived the glory of our college years and kept up with the college kids, but with the sophistication of city girls who have been drinking for much longer. And we managed to get through the weekend with minimal confrontation and awkward situations, one awesome prank on a deserving patsy, and the ability to brag that we can still hang with the twenty year-olds.

And that's nothing to sneeze at. Especially at my age.