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The Chess Player

17 Mar

You know sometimes on a Friday all you want to do is crawl in bed. As you’re settling in for the afternoon thinking about what you’ll do for dinner one of your friends calls and convinces you to go out for a drink.  So you grumble under your breath while you get dressed and do your make up and say yourself, “I’m going to stay out for max two drinks, and I’ll be in my flannel jammies by 8:30.”  You drive downtown because uber is stupid expensive due to peak hours and think that driving will make it easier for you to sneak out early.  And oh look, a princess parking spot in front of the bar!

You’re winning already.

You head upstairs, see your friends and think it’s a good idea to start with a gin and tonic (extra limes) because your friends have been drinking beer since noon and you kinda feel like you should catch up even though you’re going to stay out for max two drinks.  More people start arriving and it turns out they work for your old company and so you start making all of the connections and someone asks you why your drink is empty and you order some water because you’re pacing yourself because you’ll have to drive home later.  And then it’s time to order an orange crush and you are talking to your friend’s boyfriend and he asks what you’re drinking and when you tell him he tells you you’re “crushin it” and you can’t help but lolz.

That’s when he introduces you to the tall drink of water who just moved to the area a few months ago.  He’s 33.  He’s smart.  He’s interesting.  You casually sip your drink while you flirt with him for awhile.  You’re introduced to other people who end up standing between the two of you so you move on and glance over every once in awhile and he keeps looking at you.

You’re finishing your drink and it’s time to go home.  Some of your friends are getting ready to leave for another bar and you’re going to go ahead and go and then the tall drink of water asks, “are you coming?” as he’s being dragged out the door.  Game time decision here.  That’s when you say to your other friends, “let’s go for one drink.”

So you find yourself walking 10 blocks to the next bar and when you get there he’s saved you a seat and asks you if he can buy you a drink.  Meanwhile you’re thinking, “what the fuck is happening and why the hell not?”  Because when was the last time you went out to a bar, met someone who was cute and charming who wanted to buy you a drink and who you wanted to flirt with?  You sit down and order the drink and he sits next to you.  When two more seats become available he holds the seats and your friends try to cock block you and you say, “no, no, you sit here and I’ll move down,” so you can sit next to him.

You sit your ass down on that barstool and you order another drink.  You find yourself talking about travel, and work, and family, and regrets, and basketball, and moving to a new city, and all sorts of stuff while he gazes at you with his blue eyes.  You start talking about chess and find out he’s one of those guys who can read all the moves in advance and you ask him if he can do that in life and he tells you, “usually.”  You wonder if he already knows how this is going to play out and if he’s calculating what moves he’ll make to get the outcome he wants.  You ask yourself, “I wonder if he knows how old I am?”  Obviously you look for an opportunity to drop it into the conversation and when you do he doesn’t blink an eye, he just goes with it.

Your other friends decide they’re going to leave, so only the two of you are left.

The Chess Player keeps gazing at you and he grabs your hands, and he gives you this look, and you ask, “what’s that look?” He responds, “I’m thinking about kissing you,” as he tugs your hands towards him and you lean forward.  That’s when you start making out at the bar.  In the middle of March Madness.  Surrounded by people cheering on UMBC.  It’s just the two of you.  Suddenly it’s 10:30.  You’ve been at the bar over three hours.  Where did the time go?

“Do you want to go somewhere else?” he asks.  You find yourself saying, “yes”.  He picks up the tab and you walk the 10 blocks back to your car to drive to his place.  You’re thinking, “am I really going home with this guy?  Yes, yes I am.”  When was the last time you went home with someone you met at a bar?  Was it college?  Shortly after, at least 10 years ago.  A lifetime ago.  Sure, you had an exceptional romp the night before – thanks to Tinder – but this is the type of chemistry real life has produced.

Why not just go with it?

You’re at his place.  It’s pretty swanky.  Incredible view of the city.  Then you’re on the couch and your top is on the floor, quickly followed by just about everything else and he says, “we can always go in there,” gesturing to his bedroom.  You hop off his lap and lead him into his room and crawl into his bed.  There you proceed to lose every last stitch of clothing and remain for the next couple of hours.

When it’s done, he wraps his arms around you and you lay there and talk about work and whatever and nothing and he says, “you’re hot, you know that.  Right?”  You say, “thank you.” and think to yourself, “maybe I’m kinda decent looking if I’ve made out with four guys in eight days and ended up in various states of undress with each of them.”  You ask him if he had played this out and calculated the moves it would take to get to his bedroom.  He says, “yes.”  He tells you he’d read the signals.  There were only two options, yes or no, and the signals all pointed to yes.

He says, “you can stay.”  You get up and get dressed, he asks for your number.  You walk out.  He texts you before you get to the car.

You think to yourself, “I’m a fucking sex panther.”

Reset the counter.

Happy Hour Specials

17 May

You know what’s awesome?  Happy Hour.  You know what’s even better than that?  When you go out for margaritas, and the bartender remembers you and decides to give you Happy Hour prices even though it’s an hour past end time.  You know what’s even better than that?  When the bartender is hot.

Life is good, my friends.

Back in April a few of my bitches came up from Baltimore to hang out for the weekend.  Since we’re so old and can’t handle staying up past 11, we figured we needed to start drinking early.  I suggested a bar crawl in my neighborhood.  I live in a super adorable town just outside of Philadelphia.  Everything you could possibly want is within walking distance – there are about 10 bars within stumbling distance – perfect for an afternoon bar crawl.

Stop number 4 ended up being our last stop of the night.  Not because we were pussies, but because they had just rolled out their new summer drink menu, the bartenders were fun, and two of them were mighty nice to look at.  It turned into one of those nights when the bartenders would just bring over random drinks because they thought we were awesome. By the end of the night it was like we were all best friends forever.

We bonded.

They lit our drinks on fire.

We laughed.

We got drunk.

The next day I vomited.  But that’s not part of the story.

Last night was the first time I’ve been back since then.  Sure enough, one of the dreamy bartenders was there and remembered us.  It was romantic.  We should have made out.  He flirted shamelessly.

But here’s the thing with bartenders. I can never tell if a bartender is flirting with me because he wants me to give him a better tip, or because he wants me to touch his tip.  Can’t read them.  My girlfriend insisted that he was totally into it, but you’ll have to excuse me for being skeptical. Clearly there’s only one way to find: go back for more margaritas and investigate.  So who’s ready for Happy Hour?

Did I mention he was hot?  Did I also mention he wants to move to London with me?

Oh.  Did I forget to mention I was moving in the fall…?

The Truth About Getting Older

28 Apr

Let’s take a moment to talk some truths on what it’s really like to get older.  Not talking here about how wrinkles suddenly begin appearing on your forehead, or your neck.  The neck wrinkles are what really throw me.  I have a girlfriend who is six years younger than I am but she’s got the neck of a 70 year-old.  How does that happen?  At 39, I’m proud to have the neck of a 32 year old.  But do dudes really notice that?  Don’t think I’ve ever heard a dude say, “She was hot, but her neck wrinkles were a total turnoff.”

But I digress.

Let’s talk about the important stuff: how fucking terrible hangovers are when you’re older.

It’s cute when I hear my young friends say shit about how they were hungover.  How they had a tinge of a headache, took an hour nap, and then felt so much better.  I remember those days – about 20 years ago.  A hangover in college was nothing – it literally felt like I was about to get a bit of a headache.  All it took was a glass of water, a 15 minute nap, and I was golden.  Fast forward two decades and it almost feels like I need to call 911, have a full blood transfusion, a new liver, and a lobotomy to feel better.  Fucking worst.

The really stupid part is that they’re so easily avoidable, I mean, how hard is it to just say no to that one last drink?  That delicious drink that is heaven in a glass?  My limit is four – I know it is – and yet there are times when I think to myself that as long as I drink another glass of water that I’ll be fine.  Then 3 hours later I’m laying in my bed having a panic attack because I know the hangover is going to get me.  A legitimate panic attack – not awesome.

For those of you who are still young, here are all the awesome things you have to look forward to:

  • Headaches: headaches that feel like your brain will explode out of your forehead causing your eyes to pop out, and then your brain to ooze out of your eye sockets.
  • Dry mouth: the Mojave dessert will reside in your mouth.  No amount of lip smacking, tongue tapping, or water will be able to quench the dryness that settles in your mouth.  You could take a match and strike it on the roof of your mouth.
  • Queasiness and vomiting: you will want to vomit the world.  Your stomach will rumble, and you probably won’t be able to hold down the water that would actually help you get rid of the hangover.  There will even come a moment in the middle of the night where you might think, “I should probably just make myself get sick and I’ll feel better.”  Then while you’re vomiting last night’s half digested pepperoni pizza you come to the realization that no, vomiting is going to make you feel better.  Only God striking you dead on the bathroom floor will make you feel better.
  • [And now the part that no one ever wants to talk about] Stomach cramps and the big D: get ready for (I’m struggling to actually write the word because I hate talking about it so much that I’m just procrastinating and trying to avoid it but I feel like I need to tell you how it really is so I’m talking myself into it and trying to avoid it all at the same time so I just am trying to figure out how to just write it and it’s making me nervous and grossed out at the same time but here we go so get ready…) explosive diarrhea.  It’s going to happen.  You, my friend, are going to get to a moment when you say to yourself, “I am rotting from the inside.”  It’s going to happen, and you might cry while it happens because it’s so incredibly disgusting, and you should cry.  Because you did that to yourself.  You did that – you made your body do that and it’s your fault.

Typical recovery time can be anywhere from 24 to 48 hours.  No joke.  And I’ll tell you what?  They morning you wake up after having fought off the hangover is like being totally reborn.  You could conquer the world you feel so fucking amazing.  And three days later when you’re at Happy Hour and you’re still apprehensive about whether or not you should have one more drink, I hope you remember when you were sobbing on the toilet because your insides were coming out your backside.

And that, young friends, is what you have to look forward to.

The cost of adulthood

27 Feb

As a college student getting drunk was a breeze.  All it took was a combination of hard liquor and watered down shitty beer, or watered down shitty alcohol.  My fave combos consisted of:

  • 1 mind eraser, and a pitcher of Coors Light
  • 1 shot of Goldschlager, and 4 Long Island Iced Teas

Total cost?  Approximately $10-15 per drunken night.  Hangovers?  Nope, none at all.  Ah, the good old days when my body could handle the booze.  I’d wake up the next day and was perfectly fine.

The cost of a drunken stupor now is far more expensive – in more ways than one.  You couldn’t pay me to drink Coors Light now, and a mind eraser with a Long Island Iced Tea would probably be enough to cause a blackout.  Instead I find myself enjoying fancy cocktails that look like art in a glass and cost $10-15 per drink.  My max is usually around 4, BUT a few weekends ago my bill came out to $156.  I have no fucking clue how that happened – that’s what happens when you blackout, you don’t remember shit.

Last night my friend from college came into town.  On his way to meet me for dinner he alluded to a night of drunken debauchery for which we would both pay in the morning.  Fearing the hangover at an 8:30 meeting I was smart enough to pace myself and enjoyed only four glasses of wine with plenty of water.  He enjoyed his vodka tonic, five glasses of red wine, and beer.

At about 11 this morning he sent me a text saying that he was so hungover he thought he had died and was suffering in hell.

I love when other people are hungover and I’m not.

I’d Rather Have Bieber Fever than The Cocktail Flu

10 Feb

Just kill me.  Seriously, just put me out of my fucking misery and kill me.

I am paying for all the fun last night.  Epic fun.  There were drinks, there were more drinks, there were deviled eggs, there was a cute 23 year old whom I totally should have gone home with.  Only then I started thinking that I could totally be his mom and if I had been on MTV’s 16 and Pregnant that one of my kids could have grown up with him – which means I would have been molesting my kid’s friend.  That totally kills the vibe.  Then there was more drinking.  I have vague memories of being at dinner.  Here’s an example of how wasted I was.  I ordered a hamburger, and then when the brought it out I was so surprised and confused that they had brought me a hamburger when I didn’t order one.  Oh, nice.

Then my drunk ass took the 12:49 train from the city.  Yeah, I was the drunk bitch who passed the fuck out on the train. Thankfully, I didn’t miss my stop.

Somehow I managed to stumble home, threw my coat on the floor and stomped up the stairs. Only to find that I had stripped the bed of all the sheets.  A normal drunk person would have just said, “fuck it” and passed out without the sheets.  No, but NO, my drunk ass decided to make the bed at 2 in the morning.

Fast forward to 7:00 this morning when the hangover hit.  So I decided to pretend it wasn’t happening – if I just closed my eyes and talked myself out of it it would go away, right?  Yeah, that shit doesn’t work on hangovers.  2:00 PM was the magic hour when I finally got my ass up out of bed.  It’s 6.5 hours later and I’m ready to go back to bed for the night.

Now the only thing that remains is the desire to die.

She’s a total bitch!

10 Jan



Totally reminds of of this: “Tequila” is Mexican for “You Will Want to Die”.

I only wish that I had ended up making out with a shoe instead of on the verge of vomiting to death the next day.

My resolution is to be less of a drunk fat ass

2 Jan

Ah, New Year’s.  That time of year where we all decide we’re going to do two things:

  1. Lose weight
  2. Save money.

Then three weeks into the New Year we all throw our arms up in the air and yell “Fuck it!” while we order the $26 mac n cheese and another round of drinks for all our friends.  Then we go home, put on some stretchy pants, and cry into the nearest bowl of ice cream questioning why we’re still single and whether or not we should just surround ourselves with cats and why can’t we afford a new car instead of driving the same sedan we’ve had for the last six years.  It totally happens to you, right?  RIGHT??

Or not…

Like you I too have made those same decisions.  The first one stemming from an episode on Christmas Eve.  At 4:00 AM when I went to bed I had a minor panic attack when I got stuck in my cute little jacket.  It had nothing to do with a zipper getting stuck-that would have been okay.  No, no, this was far worse.  The sleeves got caught on the fat of my arms and I couldn’t take it off.  There was a moment when I was trapped in my own jacket with both of my arms behind my back.  I was on my way down the stairs, ready to ask someone to butter up my arms so I could get the jacket off, when I finally wriggled free.  It was not a pretty sight.

And the money?  For the last few years I’ve been using to track my spending.  Last year I spent almost $9,000 on food (see resolution number 1), that’s a $3000 from the year before.  Worse still is that approximately 1/3rd of that went towards alcohol.  That’s bad.  That’s a trip somewhere.  I literally drank a week’s vacation to Paris.  That’s disgusting.  No wonder I’m still driving a six year old sedan.  How could I possibly afford a car payment when I’m too busy drinking the money away every month?

Dear friends, I’m committed to meeting these goals.  So committed, in fact, that I spent four hours on New Year’s Day pinning recipes to Pinterest and signing back up for Weight Watchers.  I even bought a new blender so I can make my smoothies in the morning.  Yes, I spent an extra $40 on Amazon when I did that, but I totally needed that new flat iron and the calendar for my cubicle wall.  Those are things I need!

Now if you’ll excuse me I have to go track my points on Weight Watchers.

The morning after

2 Nov

I want to vomit and I want to die. Though not necessarily in that order. Long night of drinking turns into a long day of cocktail flu. Swore up and down I wouldn’t drink that much and wouldn’t stay out too late.

Four cocktails and two beers later I looked at the clock and noticed it was past 1:00 in the morning. Guess I was wrong. Thank god I didn’t order one last round at 1:30. Can only imagine how amazing having my stomach pumped would feel.

But we had such a magical and romantic time. He spent hours talking about his wife, and how if she ever cheated he’d leave her, and how he knew they’d be together forever, and how lucky they both felt to have found one another, and how much he loved their new baby. Really romantic. And then there was that awesome time when we were at the bar and our legs accidentally touched so he totally readjusted himself and moved as far away as possible without actually changing seats. It was great.

I want to vomit.  And die.

And then make out with him.  But not necessarily in that order.