Tag Archives: drunk

Ms. Drunk at a Club… in Brazil

I know how you all love it when I get drunk at a club.  So this time, I’ve a special treat for you!

I got drunk at a club again…

But this time, the club was in Brazil.  On an island in Angra dos Reis.  On a beach.

I know, it’s a tough life wearing nothing bikinis all day, drinking passionfruit caipirinhas on the water, and writing off lifting coolers full of beer as the only activity that remotely resembles “work”.

But caipirinhas and champagne were likely behind much of the malarkey that transpired during my stay in Brazil.

And that clubbing night, there was some obligatory cachaça, certainly, but there was also a shitfuckton of vodka involved.  Oh lord.

What follows is the chain of events leading up to my arrival at the night club… (the times are approximate, as I am recounting all this after being in quite a state of intoxication)

9 p.m. – The group decides to go clubbing but, on my part, I decide that I was too tuckered to go out and that I should conserve my energy for New Year’s Eve festivities the following evening.

10 p.m. – Even though I’ve no intention to go out with my people, I still pour myself a *stiff* cachaça drink.  Naturally.  As a night cap.

11 p.m. – I pour myself another, possibly stiffer, drink while people make travel arrangements to get to and from the club.

12 a.m. – Third drink.  The ladies are primping.

1 a.m. – Fourth drink.  I decide that going clubbing is now a good decision.  The ladies are still primping.  The gentlemen are still in swim trunks.

1:05 a.m. – Slutty dress is on and some eyeliner is applied.

1:10 a.m. – The gentlemen have swapped swim trunks out for trousers.

1:15 a.m. – Shots.  (Not my idea.  But it was a brilliant one all the same.)

1:30 a.m. – Three sober(ish)  people drive the group to the a neighboring town’s boat docks.

2:00 a.m. – While a designated haggler is tasked to negotiate carriage fees with the boat drivers, the rest of us stand around and drink more vodka. (No open container laws here!)

2:30 a.m. – I discover that getting into and out of a rocking boat whilst wearing sky high heels and a slutty dress, it’s a skill that I’d never needed until that moment.  And considering how drunk I was, it’s a wonder I didn’t just fall into the ocean.  Brazilian women, I tell you, they are warriors.

Here’s the thing, kids.  I am too old to go clubbing.  I really am.  The average age of the revelers that night was 19.  Maximum.  At some point I tripped over a boy and girl sucking each other’s faces off, and when they came up for air, it occurred to me that even if you added up their ages, there was a decent probability that the resulting number would only barely exceed my own age.

But as we all watched the sun rise over the water from our beach club paradise, none of that mattered.

23 mosquito bites later, it was worth it.

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Ms. New Year’s Eve… in Brazil

I spent New Year’s Eve in Angra with friends and neighbors, and I can safely say that it was the best New Year’s Eve bash to which I’ve had the privilege of being invited.

Instead of dropping a truckload of money on a big (crappy) party at a nightclub, we opted to go in with our neighbors at the shared “club” here.

This, my friends, is the way to go.  We all chipped in with homemade food, a DJ was hired, and some protective awning was put up in the event of tropical rain.  We ladies put ourselves to work in the kitchen, while the lads were given a big box of decorations and were charged with decorating the club.  (Surprisingly, this turned out NOT to be a mistake.  I can’t believe it still, since they attempted to use drapes as tablecloths at first, but they made the place look stunning.  I suspect that they may have lassoed one of the female neighbors into supervising the effort.)

I will say this: In this country, they sure know how to party.

They.

Throw.

DOWN.

Everyone dressed in white, convivial atmosphere, lots of food, and a seemingly endless supply of champagne…

Discoveries

  1. It doesn’t matter what color underwear you wear under white; fear of its visibility becomes moot when you jump in the pool.  Or when somebody throws you in.
  2. Regardless of the party, Brazilians will start a conga line.  Count on it.
  3. Barnacles are sharp.  Don’t touch them.

NYE highlights : Man-shopper goes wild

  1. At some juncture, I took off my dress.  I’m not sure when or why exactly I made this decision, but I suppose it doesn’t really matter now, does it?  The point remains, I took off my dress.
  2. I fell off the dock into the ocean.  No, really.  I literally took a long walk off a short pier.
  3. After enough champagne, I’m sure I thought that I was the best dancer in the world, and I’m sure that this was not a pretty sight.  I’m sorry, everyone.
  4. At the end of the night, I passed out, on my back, dressed only in lacy knickers, on top of my covers.  I suppose I should mention that I was sharing the room with three men, who also told me later that I was snoring like a wild beast.
  5. One of my roommates purportedly brought home a girl, next to whom I apparently slept all night, but I was so zonked out that I had absolutely no idea.  She probably didn’t appreciate my snoring.  Or my nakedness, for that matter.

New Year’s Resolution #1: Drink less.

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Ms. Man-shopper in Boozetown

Part of being an adult is having adult problems and solving them with adult solutions.  In other words, I am here to write about…

… alcohol.

I posit that alcohol is a key component to any man-shopping operation.

I cite the following reasons:

Doing away with inhibitions and sound decision-making is essential to coping with an interlocutor who is unattractive, boring, or generally repulsive in some way.  In the long run, it’s better to be civil, but sobriety makes this very difficult.

  • Sober Man-shopper : Bugger off before I rip your face off and use it as a cape.
  • Drunky Man-shopper : Oh heeeeeeeeey, fancy seeing you here.  How’s it going?  Having a good time?  You like my dress, aw shucks, oh how nice of you to say!

It’s nice to have something to do with your hands.  It’s the difference between descending into irredeemable dorkitude and actually passing for a normal human being who may even appear to have some semblance of man-shopping mojo.

  • Sober Man-shopper : < arms flailing about uncontrollably, sometimes hitting people in the face >
  • Drunky Man-shopper : < clutching glass, sipping demurely, and sometimes peeking over it and pretending to bat eyelashes >

Sometimes we would all like a way to pretend like something never happened.

  • Sober Man-shopper : Oh god.  That guy last night at McDonald’s.  He looked like a troll that was hit by a truck and then backed over by a cement roller.  He smelled like a petting zoo.  I’m not entirely sure he was even simian.  And HE TOUCHED MY ARM.  GET IT OFF GET IT OFF GET IT OFF.
  • Drunky Man-shopper : I don’t remember anything after paying for my chicken nuggets.

Man-shopping is a risky business, and we all know how easy it is to get burned.  And it’s disturbing how easy it is to not just get burned, but to get effing incinerated.  So if you’re anything like me, we don’t like to deal with our shit in a productive kind of way.  Alcohol to the rescue!

  • Sober Man-shopper : Sob. Sob. Sob.  Uncontrollable weeping.  I hate myself, and I would like to die now please.  My heart is exploding.  But I luuuuuuuurve him.  I am a fat cow, no wonder he discarded me like day-old bread.
  • Drunky Man-shopper : I am a goddess, and it’s his loss, dammit.  Leaping lobsters, I look phenomenal in this new lingerie, and he’s NEVER GONNA SEE IT.  Dance it out, girl.  Dance it out to Britney in your bedroom….  < static… >

Alcohol = courage.

  • Sober Man-shopper : < Silent and cowering in the corner of the room >
  • Drunky Man-shopper : Helloooo, sir, you are very handsome.  May I touch your biceps?

Sometimes competition over a coveted male can get a little heated.  Alcohol can sometimes save you heaps of money that would otherwise have been spent on legal representation after getting charged with assault.

  • Sober Man-shopper : That bitch just said WHAT?!  I WILL DESTROY HER.  HE IS MINE.
  • Drunky Man-shopper : Aw, she didn’t mean it.  She’s just jealous of my awesome shoes.  Who is this guy again?  Ooo, is that guacamole I see?  I LOVE PUPPIES!

Alcohol = mad skills.  We all need skills to have an edge over the competition, right?

  • Sober Man-shopper : I can’t dance to save my life.  I also can’t speak any language but English and a smattering of Pig Latin.
  • Drunky Man-shopper : I AM A BALLROOM CHAMPION.  I AM FLUENT IN CROATIAN AND FINNISH.  RAWR, BITCHES!

All that aside, however, as I try to pick my face up off the floor from yesterday’s hangover, perhaps you all should ignore everything that I have to say.

Happy man-shopping.  Don’t forget to hydrate.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

This post has been brought to you by The Insomnia Club.  This edition was to take its inspiration from the image above.  Check out what my compatriots have to say on Natalie Dee’s little drawing!

Condoms: Who Likes ‘Em Anyway? - Skye Blue of Met Another Frog

Insomnia Club Strikes Again: Get Your Own Box - Nikki at Women Are From Mars

Sharing is Caring: The Insomnia Club Strikes Again – Simone at Sex, Lies and Dating in the City

We also had an additional topic this month…

Banana Pancakes & Pretend It’s The Weekend ~ Charlotte at My Pixie Blog


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Mr. Seventy-Two Thousand

I know, I know, “douche” is technically a french word.  I’ll not delve into the origins of the word, nor will I contest its anglophone “urban” connotation.  Long-time readers have surely read about my brushes with parisian douche-toolery, but I hope you didn’t expect my accounts of douchetards would cease now that I’m no longer an expat living amidst Paris’ unique form of douchery.

Au contraire.

Let’s face it.  Douchery is an international phenomenon that is hardly limited by national borders, by urban-rural divides, or by class lines.  Part of the anthropological analysis of any city’s dating scene must therefore include some treatment of The Douche Problem.

Before coming to D.C., I’d heard tales of high levels of douchery in the city, most likely due to the fact that it is, after all, the national capital and, therefore, contains high concentrations of people who live, work, breathe and bleed politics.  I can’t say that this surprised me at all, but I was still in that euphoric honeymoon phase of my relationship with America, and I was reluctant to come to terms with anything that could possibly shake my faith that my interactions with the opposite sex here must, by default, be better than my experiences in Paris.

But, my first night out in D.C., I came face to face with what I now call the D.C. Doucheoisie (shout-out to my buddy, Andrew Stillman, for coining this term).

At the time, my girlfriend and I were out and about in a part of town whose nightlife demographic was well-known for being… young.  Undergraduate and recent-grad age.

< Confession for the sake of context : I am NOT that age.  Not by a long shot. >

While we matronly damsels were awaiting our shining carriage to whisk us homeward, one young lad of such age approached me and stated very matter-of-factly:

“I like your jacket.”

I was not wearing a jacket.

It was the height of summer, and the city was the approximate temperature of some of the deeper bowels of hell.

He then proceeded to ask me to accompany him to his place for drinks and, apparently “a good time”.

There really was no transition between his comment on my non-existent jacket and his transparent proposition.

While I admired his ballsiness, I was very keen on going home to bed (it was far past my bedtime), so I gave him a very simple response:

“No, thank you.  I’m too old for you.”

But he was not to be deterred.

Mr. Seventy-Two Thousand : “No, you’re not!  How old are you?  What, 25 or something?  Listen, I am 23 years old, and I earn $72 000 per year!”

Man-shopper’s brain : “Oh merciful christ, I can’t believe this is happening.”

Man-shopper’s mouth : “Oh, honey, that’s not the issue here.”

Mr. Seventy-Two Thousand : “Well, what else could it possibly be?”

I was gobsmacked.

I walked away at this point, but instead of “Oh, honey, that’s not the issue here,” this is what my response SHOULD have been:

” How much of that seventy-two thousand

are you willing to part with tonight? “

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Ms. Drunk at a Club… Again

WordPress statistics tell me that ya’ll like it when I get drunk.  Who am I to argue with public opinion?  So, because I love you all so much, I am (not) proud to present another episode starring Ms. Drunk.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I’m a friendly kind of gal, and I’m always willing to meet new people and help out fellow expats in Paris.  So it wasn’t out of character for me to agree to go on a girl-date with someone whom I’d never met.

I proposed coffee or quiet drinks, but she insisted on going to some club party.  In retrospect, this should have been a red flag, but I gave her the benefit of the doubt and agreed to meet her in front of the club.

After I had waited about a half hour in the cold for this girl, I realized that I didn’t have her mobile number.  I’d received no word from her about her e.t.a., so I decided to look for her in the club.  It was early and not yet crowded, so it would have been easy to find people.

Upon obtaining entry, I was instructed to pick out a bracelet from a basket.  I picked a lovely green one and, after faling to find my girl-date inside, headed to the bar to wait.  The barman asked me if I had come alone, and when I responded affirmatively, he gave me a withering look of pity and returned with a beverage that can only be described as Death By Drink.

I’m not sure how long I sat there at the bar.  All I know is that people were staring at me.  Not in the holy-cow-look-at-that-foxy-lady kind of way.  More like the check-out-that-sad-sap kind of way.

I eventually figured out the problem:

It was a traffic light party.

And my green bracelet was broadcasting my singledom to the world.

AND I was at the bar by myself.

Being unsociable.

And pathetic.

So not only had I been stood up by my girl-date, but even the lads in the joint didn’t want to approach my green light; I was that pathetic-looking.

At this point, thanks to my pity-cocktail from hell, I was D to the RUNK and  decided to abandon ship.   I downed the rest of the Death By Drink and teetered off to use the ladies’ room on my way out.

Now, I must remind you all that the ladies’ room in any boozy establishment is like a magical place.  This is something that transcends national borders, and even in Paris, a city of parisian bitcherinas, all ill will is set aside when tipsy girls find themselves shoulder-to-shoulder in front of a vanity.

This is where I met Véronique, a lovely redhead from southern Paris.

The chain of events from here on out is very very hazy, as Death By Drink had pretty much taken over my brain by then.  But I can tell you this: during that time that we spent together in front of the vanity, Véronique and I became BEST FRIENDS.

In that short timespan, we swapped life stories, we laughed, we shit-talked our exes, adjusted each other’s bra straps, and told each other how hot we were.

Then Véronique came up with a brilliant idea.  Her Drunk Brain said, “Since we are so hot, we should take pictures of how hot we are!  That’ll show ‘em, all those stupid idiots who don’t appreciate us!”

MY Drunk Brain said: “MUST.  TAKE.  PICTURES.”

And oh good god, did we take pictures.  We took all kinds of pictures.  Some of them were hot.  Some of them were somewhat sloppy.  And some of them were downright scandalous.

No, I will not elaborate.

But I will say this, when I flopped down on my bed that night, I remember thinking that despite being stood up on a girl-date, my drunky photoshoot reminded me that not all encounters with Parisians must be horrible after all.  For now, at least, my faith has been renewed in parisian women.

Véronique, you rock.

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Ms. Lap Sitter

It’s that time of year again.  The Christmas season.  Time to go sit on some pervy Santa’s lap and ask him for random stuff.

Like the rest of the masses, I figured that I should take the time to put in my order with Papa Christmas.

Papa Christmas.  Is it just me, or does that sound dirty?

Ah, who the hell cares?  I’m already sitting on his lap at this point.  No turning back now.

So, Santa, let me get all nestled in here.  Why is it so comfy?  This is more than a little disturbing.

Anyway, listen up, Père Noël.  Here is what I want — nay, NEED — this Christmas:

  • MATCHING UNDERWEAR SETS.  As racy and frilly as they come.  Why?  A girl’s got to be able to compete on this lacy Parisian scene.  Besides, Santa, I know that you enjoy picking out lingerie, you pervy cad, you.  (Ms. Victoria’s Secret Angel)
  • MORE PANTS.  I tend to lose them when I drink.  And not in a good way.  (Ms. One Night Stand)
  • And last, but not least, please send me JUSTIN LONG for Christmas.  Please wrap him up in a snuggly sweater.  No need to tie him up with ribbon.  I’ve got plenty of ribbon and accoutrements at my place.

Please deliver all gifts to the family compound in California, and I will arrange for transport back to Paris.  My stocking is the one with the obese snowman on.  Do NOT, under any circumstances, give Justin Long to either of my sisters.  As God is my witness, I will hunt you down and beat you with a stocking full of fruitcake-shaped rocks.

That is all.

Joyeux Noël.

Wait, why am I still on your lap?

 

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Ms. Rock Chick in London

Last night, Ryan the Wandering Menace and I completed Operation Hot Sister.  This is our code name for an experiment that we devised in order to test the theory that dressing sluttaciously and exuding off-the-charts stupidity yields greater man-shopping success.  It was also an opportunity for some introspection, as Operation Hot Sister required us to play a character who is our opposite in every way.

This is the profile that we created for me:

Name : Kayti

Style : Rocker glam

Intelligence : Minimal

Personality : No sense of humor, plagued with pretentious angst

Profession : Barista (and bitter about it)

Man-shopping goal : Charm at least one gentleman into giving her his number

So I decked myself out all in black, including the mini-est mini-skirt on the market, I eye-lined the shit out of my eyes so that I looked like a raccoon, and I piled on as much jewelry and hardware as I could (including a belt buckle that was a rhinestoned skull with a bandana).  For a comical visual, you can check out Ryan’s depiction of me here.

As for sounding unintelligent, this is a skill that I was born with, as I am a native Californian.

In a similar vein, Ryan’s character was a bimbo/aspiring actress named Rachel who, on a good day, has the IQ of mud.  She rocked a skin-tight leopard print number, leg-warmers and a pompadour (see photo to the left).  For her full account of Operation Hot Sister, complete with kickass illustrations, check out her blog post here.

Our preparation for Operation Hot Sister consisted of six easy steps:

  1. Buy bottle of sparkling wine from cute French man at Nicolas, who seemed somewhat appalled by our lack of knowledge about champagne.
  2. Buy pastrami sandwich from Pret for dinner.
  3. Buy turkey and stuffing sandwich from Pret as a back-up sandwich, just in case.  One always needs a back-up sandwich when one intends to imbibe alcohol.
  4. Once home, put on Katy Perry’s “California Girls” to help us get into character.
  5. While primping, consume wine and primary sandwich.
  6. Place back-up sandwich in refrigerator.  Congratulate ourselves and feel smug about our foresight.

After picking up some last minute essentials (i.e. ridged salt and vinegar chips), we hopped on a bus to Camden Town and commenced Operation Hot Sister in earnest.  We wandered into the first pub/bar that we saw…

A photo of all the guys NOT checking us out. This is what things looked like from our point of view... only the backs of men's heads.

… and promptly left after realizing that the male patrons of this particular establishment were between the ages of 18 and 20, sported hair that was longer than ours, and looked like they only tore themselves away from playing World of Warcraft in their mothers’ basements once a week.

In the next bar that we entered, the male clientele was age-appropriate and did not cut their hair to look like Legolas from Lord of the Rings.  This seemed like a much more promising venue, so we decided that this would be our base of operations for the evening.

However, despite the fact that we looked smokin’ hot, nobody even glanced in our direction.

NOT EVEN ONCE.

Not even THIS guy would look in our direction.

I mean, COME ON, Ryan was wearing leopard print, for god’s sake.  Somebody should have at least glanced in our direction.  The genetically-challenged girl with the 80s side ponytail got more male attention than this scantily clad blonde-Asian sandwich of hotness.

We never got a chance to unveil our characters and test our theories.

Honestly, at this point, my goal of getting a guy’s number was no longer on the table.  At this point, we would have settled for getting one glance in our direction.

I am not exaggerating.  The most attention that we received was from an elderly gentleman who tried to force us to dance.  But he was drunk enough to be legally blind, so that doesn’t really count.

It occurred to us that something horrific had occurred and that overnight we had become repulsive to the opposite sex.

This revelation was difficult — nay, IMPOSSIBLE — to stomach.

So what did we do?

"No mojo? What the hell, Man-shopper??"

We drank.

And judging from the pictures that I found on my phone the morning after, we must have drunk a copious amount.

After an undetermined number of shots and hours of watching our self-esteem crumble like dust between our fingers, we decided that the only way to salvage the situation was to leave and buy foot-long sandwiches from Subway.  (In our drunken haze, we probably forgot that we had back-up sandwiches waiting for us at home.)

And finally, in the wee hours of the night/morning, at the Camden Town Subway, Ryan and I finally received the male glances that we had been craving all night.

Except that it was from Subway employees.  And instead of desirous glances, we received some wow-you-broads-are-gluttonous-pigs looks.

And then a fellow Subway customer loudly and vehemently criticized our choice of sauce.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

So to sum up, here is what I have learned from Operation Hot Sister:

  • I am repulsive.
  • I should probably never drink tequila again.
  • Chili sauce is not popular at Subway.

In short, Operation Hot Sister was an unmitigated disaster.

Except for the sandwiches.

The sandwiches were delightful.

ESPECIALLY the chili sauce.

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Ms. Drunk at a Club

Regular readers may recall previous posts about manifestations of a disease that I like to call Brain vs. Mouth.  This post is about its sister disease, which is essentially a three-way bitch-fight between Drunk Brain, Sober Brain and Mouth.

Before I continue, let me reiterate that all three parties employ a particular brand of logic that is perfectly sound in and of itself.  It’s just that each brand of logic is incomprehensible to the other parties and to most rational human beings.

  1. Drunk Brain is… well… Drunk Brain is just drunk.
  2. Sober Brain is the closest that I can get to conventional wisdom.
  3. Mouth just does whatever the hell it wants.  Picture all possible actions — ranging from the reasonable to the bat-shit mad — on a big spinning wheel.  Mouth spins the wheel and does whatever the hand lands on.

So, keeping these facts in mind, let me take you back to a crisp fall November night, where this story begins with a couple bottles of wine and a bag of pretzels…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was Friday night, and it was meant to be a classic girls’ night out.  My last man-shopping bender resulted in the loss of my pants, but that wasn’t on the agenda this time.  All we wanted to do was have some wine together, get a little silly and dance it out to crappy French music somewhere that didn’t charge us an entry fee.

My companions for the evening were two lovely ladies, hereafter known as Ms. Hair and Ms. Holland, the former having consistently fantastic hair and the latter being the embodiment of all things awesome about being Dutch.

Ms. Hair was the star of the evening and managed to have a sizable following of eager young bucks who waited on her hand and foot and who provided us, her swashbuckling companions, with constant refills of Grey Goose.

I was perfectly fine with this arrangement, as the vodka was seeping into my brain.

It was after an undetermined number of these free drinks that I encountered a young man who looked like a French Shia Laboeuf.  This was also about the time that Drunk Brain joined the party.

My conversation with Shia LaBoeuf went something like this (I must warn you, this is a rough reconstruction, as I was pretty much drunk off my face at this point):

Shia : Hi, what’s your name?

Drunk Brain : HAHAHAHAHAHA He looks like Shia Laboeuf!  Shia Laboeuf sounds like Shia LaBUTT.  HAHAHAHAHA.

Sober Brain : Shut up, Drunk Brain.  Let the girl work.  This guy isn’t a total train wreck, and she deserves to have some fun tonight.

Man-shopper’s Mouth : My name is Helene.  And your name is Shia.

Shia : What?

Drunk Brain : TEEHEEHEHEHE Man-shopper is sooooo smooth.

Sober Brain : Oh god.  I can’t watch.

Man-shopper’s Mouth : I’m American!

Shia : No you’re not, you’re Asian.

Drunk Brain : Touché!

Sober Brain : Next!  Next!  For the love of god, Man-shopper, NEXT!  You’ve met moss that is smarter than this guy…

Man-shopper’s Mouth : Why, yes I am.  What do you think of Asians, sir?

Shia : I love Asians.  They are so… Asian.

Drunk Brain : Hmmm… I’m not sure, but why do I get this feeling that Shia is a little thick?  Oooo wait a minute, what do we have here?  Bouncy seat cushions!  Bouncy bouncy bouncy bouncy bounce bounce, I’m Tigger!

Sober Brain : < absent >

Man-shopper’s Mouth : ME TOO!  I LOVE ASIANS!

Shia : I know right!  Asians are so beautiful.  So exotic.

Drunk Brain : Okay, I’m drunk, but I’m not stupid.  I’m definitely getting a vibe of douche-toolery here, but how do we make him shut his stupid mouth??  Sober Brain, help a sister out here!

Sober Brain : < absent >

Man-shopper’s Mouth : Ummmmmm….

Shia : Blah blah blah blah Asian blah blah blah love blah blah blah you are beautiful blah blah blah what’s your number blah

Drunk Brain : I’ve got a brilliant idea!  He can’t say anything stupid if he can’t talk!  Just make out with him to shut him up!  Come on, Mouth, you and I both know that I have the best ideas.

Sober Brain : What the hell?  I step out for a coffee break and shit hits the fan…  Stop!  Wait!  WHAT IS HAPPENING?!

Man-shopper’s Mouth : < censored >

Drunk Brain : Hmmm… Sober Brain, were you saying something?  Oh, maybe you’re right, kissing this guy is not the greatest idea.  Poor guy.  He has no idea that he’s not getting a phone number out of this.

Sober Brain : Thank god, you’re listening.  Now, Mouth, repeat after me: “I’ve changed my mind.  I’m drunk, and I’m actually not interested.  Please leave me alone.  Also, my boyfriend is in the military and he will wipe the floor with you.”

Man-shopper’s Mouth : Oh, my roommate wants to go home.  Right now.  We communicate telepathically.  Bye!

Shia : WTF?

Drunk Brain : Nicely done, Mouth.  You are a genius.  He TOTALLY bought that.  You and I make such a great team.

Sober Brain : I don’t know why I even bother.

Of course, after implementing that brilliant exit strategy, I proceeded to stay at the club, wander around and dance indiscriminately to every horrible song that the DJ put on.  At some point, I’m pretty sure that I broke out my running man moves.  Maybe a little robot action.  I really don’t know.  It was kind of a shitshow.

At some point, I ran into Shia again.

And I vaguely remember saying, “NEXT!” and running away.

The next morning, after a 5am sandwich, a liter of orange juice, about three buckets of ibuprofen, and one of the most epic hangovers of my life, I vowed never to drink again…

… It was a vow that I broke shortly thereafter.

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Ms. One Night Stand

Fellow blogger, Ryan, has recently taken to bribing me to go out and get laid.  She started by promising me champagne and home-baked sweets.

I was intrigued, but not very motivated.  Sweets don’t really move me, and champagne tends to give me the hiccups.

But then she promised to show me her interpretive dance skills.

SOLD.

So last Friday night, on my quest to make Ryan showcase her infamous finger-snapping, thumb-pointing dance moves (<–), I managed to:

  • lure some young man to my apartment,
  • lose my pants,
  • and earn fifteen euros.

Man, I WISH the Guillermos had looked like this...

The night started out harmlessly enough.  My flatmates and I met up with some friends at our regular pub.  For reasons as yet unclear, I had a bit too much to drink.  We met these guys, and somehow, I thought that all three of them were named Guillermo.  I was probably too off my face to bother with their real names.

After approximately five minutes of conversation, I pounced on one of them.

LITERALLY.

Classy, I know.  I’m not sure WHICH Guillermo it was, but I didn’t really care at the time.  I was thinking: “You’re my ticket to Ryan’s dance-a-thon!”

One thing led to another, and the Guillermos came home with us.

But then, most likely due to the fact that my blood had been replaced with alcohol, I became very, very stupid.

The true love of my life.

My decision-making process here was VERY hazy, but the end result was that I bolted out of the sitting room, ran off to bed, snuggled with my hot water bottle, drooled on it a bit, and then passed out.

Obviously, by then, I had completely forgotten about Ryan’s bribe.

When I awoke the next morning, I was disorientated, hungover, un-sexed (damn!), and very confused about the current state of affairs in my bed…

I was still fully clothed from the waist up (shirt, sweater AND scarf).

My pants!

But I wasn’t wearing any pants.

As I glanced around my room, I realized that my pants were nowhere to be found.  In fact, I checked every room in the apartment.

No pants.

“Oh well,” I thought.  “Who needs pants anyway?  My underwear is bitchin’.”

So I wandered woozily back into the sitting room, where my Guillermo had left his phone number on the table.  As I peered at it through one eye (I can only open one at a time when I’m hungover, apparently), I realized that he had signed it “N.”

I thought, “Wow, I didn’t know that Guillermo starts with an N.”

Yeah… I was probably still a little drunk.

Then, during my morning-after wallet-check, I found fifteen euros.

For the record, it was fifteen euros more than should have been in there.

Considering my inebriation of the night before, I didn’t — couldn’t — think about where it came from or what I did to earn it.  So I just mumbled, “Cool,” and shuffled back to bed.

So what have I learned from my one-night non-stand?

  • I should not drink white wine.  Nothing good comes of it.
  • Even at my drunkest, I am unable to follow through with a one-night stand.  So I will stick to other, tamer methods of courtship.
  • I love my hot water bottle more than sex.
  • I will never let Ryan bribe me ever again.
  • I need more pants.
  • Guillermo does not, in fact, start with the letter N.
  • Guillermo, in fact, is not named Guillermo.

In any case, since I will forever associate non-Guillermo with such a disastrous night, we really have no future together.  So I must say:

NEXT!

n.b.  Special prize will go to the first person to correctly guess where I ended up finding my pants.

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Ms. Drunk Date

So I was chatting with a friend before my date, and she posed the following question: what would happen if I showed up drunk to the date?

Since these dates are part of a greater social experiment, this seemed like an absolutely brilliant idea.

One problem: I had less than one hour before my date.  But it was for the sake of science, so my friend brought out all her beer, I pounded them despite my empty stomach, and then I teetered out the door.

So with Project Drunky well underway, I arrived at the brasserie, only to discover that my date was…

…a munchkin.

Not only was he pint-sized, but he could not stop talking.  And since I couldn’t get a word in edgewise, I had nothing else to do but drink.

And LORD, did I drink.

It wasn’t entirely my fault.  I would turn away for just a second, and a full pint would magically appear in the place of my empty glass.  The munchkin was trying to ply me with alcohol!

And yet he continued to yammer on… and on… and ON.  About everything.  About nothing.  God, he just would not shut up.  During our date, I drank more beer per hour than I ever have since freshman year.

Finally, after two hours, he took a long sip of his drink, and I took advantage of this pause to tell him that I had to leave.  So I wobbled out of the brasserie and tried my best to stay upright as I crossed the road.  But just as I reached the middle of a major intersection, I came to a shocking — albeit delayed — realization:

At some point during my drunken haze of a date, I had agreed to go on a SECOND date.  A second date with a munchkin-motormouth!  I distinctly remember stopping in the middle of traffic and using most of my remaining brain cells to process the following thought:

“Fuck.”

I then used my remaining brain cells to attempt to drunk-dial everyone in my inbox — while still standing in the intersection.

So let’s recap what happens when I drunk-date:

  1. I agreed to go on a second date with someone who doesn’t stand a chance in hell of getting even to first base with me.
  2. I nearly caused several car accidents on Boulevard Raspail.
  3. I drunk-dialed my boss.

Therefore, I must conclude, with absolute scientific certainty, that drunk-dating is NEVER a good idea.

Hopefully Ms. Drunk Date will never resurface again…

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