Houston, we have a leg-warmer problem.

Someone alert hospice care, I’ve lost my dignity.

I knew things were getting bad when I mistook my reflection for Jane Fonda before leaving the apartment last night.  I thought, ‘no matter Ry, this is part of the character.  Part of the girl named Rachel you’ve decided to portray to anyone who approaches you tonight’.

This, evidently, is my idea of a good time.

Rachel, the aspiring actress/waitress who couldn’t wait to ‘understand’ British culture.  Rachel of the no IQ.  Rachel, the blonde girl with a propensity for hair twirling, loud giggling, and repeatedly asking: “wait, what does that mean?”.  Rachel, traveling Europe with her oldest and longest friend.

Loyally at my side, Man_Shopper too had chosen a persona.

Kayti the Starbucks barista.  Kayti with the chip on her shoulder.  Kayti the indy girl full of Ani references and eye-rolling.  Kayti, Miss too-cool-for-school.  Kayti from Boston, traveling with her oldest friend-despite said friend’s irritating qualities.

She looked like a rock chick.

Dark, mysterious, sexy.

I looked like an 80s escort.

Pasty, curvy, moronic.

Seriously, I even had leg warmers.

Rachel's accessory of choice.

Granted, I had voluntarily clad myself in 80’s attire for the evening, so it’s not like there’s anyone else to blame here.

Blasting Pump up the Jam (full with video-courtesy of youtube), she and I took our time getting ready.  Hair, make-up, and jewellery choices were all discussed at length.

When we got it perfect, it was time to go.

Bellies full of sandwiches, make-up piled on faces, Kayti and I headed off to Camden town with a mission.

I desperately wanted to make a man wake up the following morning and say to himself:

“Dear holy God, I think that was the dumbest girl on the planet.  Cardboard brains.  How in the name of Manchester United was I able to stand the conversation?”

I vowed not to break character.  No sarcasm would pass through my thick lipstick.  No sir.

Man_Shopper wanted to research how differently men would react to her if she were someone else.  She has a dating blog, so this was a prime opportunity to play a different part.

I didn’t have a cool excuse.  I just love to play.

So off we went.

It never once occurred to me that no one would approach us.  My narcissim is too great for such a thought to enter my brain.

But yet…

Sadly….

That is what happened.

Operation Hot Sister was an EPIC FAILURE BECAUSE NO MAN APPROACHED US, LOOKED AT US, OR DID SO MUCH AS NOD IN OUR DIRECTION.  ALL-CAPS USE TO EMPHASIZE THE HUMILIATION OF REALIZING ONE HAS LOST ONES MOJO.

Gone.

Finito.

No characters.  No conversation.  No free drinks.  No eye-flirting.  No. Anything.

Just the two of us idiots, tequila shots, and late-night sandwiches.

The longest conversation we had with any man was at Subway when we ordered foot-longs to devour our sorrows.

So that’s it.

Ladies and gentlemen, we no longer turn heads.

I’m sure there’s an argument for karma somewhere in all of this nonsense.  Just as soon as my ego recovers, it’ll warrant further investigation.

One things for certain though.  Tomorrow, I’m gonna wear the sexy tight pants I bought today to make myself feel better.

Zilla down bloggers, Zilla down.

If you want her version of the events, click here please.

Tequila, a bad-boy, leather, and my brief stunt as a muse

Trouble always finds me when I’m trying to drink tequila in peace.

I was 22, I decided I hated men, and I went out with my roommate to celebrate the recent discovery.

Sitting at the Irish pub down the street from our apartment, I ordered a round of shots for her and I, and the two of us began discussing why boys were stupid.  I can’t remember the details, but I’m sure it was an inspiring conversation.

Nibbling on a lime slice, I happened to look down the bar.

That’s where I spotted him.

Notebook, guitar case at feet, scotch on the rocks, dark hair, blue eyes, and tattoos.

Normally this would have done me in instantly.  But considering the festivities, I instead ordered another round of tequila and my roommate and I watched him from afar (ten feet down the bar).

Five minutes later my blood was happily flowing to the tune of a mariachi band.

So when Sexy McNogood beckoned me with his finger, I strolled down the bar to say hi.  At least that’s what I meant to say.  But what came out was:

“Hey, I’m out celebrating my hatred of all men.”

To which he responded:

“Interesting, I’m just out looking for a one night stand.”

Tilting my head at him curiously, I muttered: “ok then, I think we’re done here” before returning to the roommate.

Twenty minutes later, he asked for my phone number.

Two days later, he called.

We went on three dates.  On the eve of the third we were doing some hard-core smooching and yea ok-a little over-the clothing heavy petting was beginning.

I still had my jacket on though, to give you an indication of how far things had NOT progressed.

But for reasons still unclear to me now, he took this as an opportunity to utter the phrase:

“I’ve got something I want to show you.”

Standing up, he walked to his closet, opened the door, and asked me to come inside.

Peering into the former master bedroom closet, I saw various toys, whips, leather attire, masks, and some sort of swinging contraption in the corner.

For the record men, this is not the appropriate way to introduce this particular form of extracurricular activites to a potential mate.

As my Romeo soon discovered.

Speechless, I stared at him for some seconds before casually attempting to exit his house.  Muttering something about leaving the iron on in my apartment, I hopped down the stairs, yelled out something about not bothering to call me again, and left the house o’leather.

A month later I was back in the same bar with my roommate.  This time we were celebrating her hatred of men.

It was open mic night.

Out of nowhere tattooed leather man slimed onstage.

Staring directly at me, he began strumming his guitar while singing:

“You were out to hate all men, and I was just looking for a one night stand”

The song lasted about three minutes.

Thankfully it ended in time for my roommate and I to have one last round of tequila.

P.J., a twin bed, and too much Parisian drinking…

My best-friend P.J. and I once woke up in a Parisian twin bed with a boy neither of us was interested in smashed between us.

Before your minds start wandering towards threesomes, let me just preface by saying that the major concern upon awakening had nothing to do with who had potentially made out with whom.

We had an entirely different battle on our hands.

She and I awoke before the boy, who remained passed out during the next twenty minutes as in fits of hysterical laughter we attempted to piece together the evening before-and properly identify the culprit of the ‘bed-wetting’ scene in which we had found ourselves.

That’s right, my jeans from the night before were wet, the boy appeared soaked, and P.J. was suddenly wearing her p.j. pants-which she had most definitely NOT fallen asleep in.

That’s correct dear readers-P.J. had wet the bed, well-primarily the boy, and myself before drunkenly stuffing her pants in a hamper and then throwing on p.j. pants and crawling back onto the TINY mattress.

So it was we found ourselves in a fit of hysterics as the sun woke up and we attempted to prepare ourselves for morning classes.  I remember laughing so hard that I fell over while trying to change pants.  P.J. couldn’t breath from fit of hysterics as we managed to devise a plan to ‘cover-up’ the unfortunate-urine situation.

So it was that I poured a bottle of Sprite over the boy, and we left him there as we scampered off to class-hoping he would assume that he was covered in only the sugary-sweet beverage, and not-the unfortunate bodily fluid in which he was currently snoozing.

This was ten years ago-and I have to say-to this day I love P.J. so much, were she to do it again-I’d laugh just as hard and come up with some way to fool the boy.

Though it could be more challenging considering that the adorable man she sleeps next to now is about to be her husband-and would likely know something was amiss.

hung.over.

Yesterday a watermelon was my best friend.  You see, I am currently living out day two of the worst hangover I’ve ever had.  How it has managed to linger this long is beyond me, except to say-I must be getting old.  In fact, if how I feel is any indication, I should never be allowed to drink again.  Someone get me a walker and a senior citizen discount, my big-night out days have come to a close.

To be fair, I blame the gorgeous redhead who was my date this Monday.  We haven’t seen each other in a year, so of course had much to discuss (men, law-school, my documentary, men again, future plans-you know the drill).  Somehow champagne, dinner, and copious amounts of wine near the Eiffel Tower led to beer, hard liquor, and cocktails in the Marais.

Hence, the hangover.

Still, chatting with Miss Foxy brought back memories of bartending together.  In particular, the night that a middle-aged couple sat in the corner of our bar as we served and politely chatted with them.  After about three beers, the husband in this situation turned to his wife and asked if she would prefer the blonde or the redhead in a threesome.  They evidently were under the impression that we couldn’t hear them, and went on to discuss the pros and cons of either choice in explicit detail as we pretended not to notice.

Turns out the woman preferred blondes, while her husband was anxious to try out a ginger.  I remember that we egged them on, and at one point I poured shots for the four of us while proclaiming,

‘we’re going to do it all together’ -of course, I meant the shot, but was just dying to tease this couple.  The point was not missed on either of them, and as she took her shot, my vixen friend muttered to me:

‘Ryan, you are going to hell’.

So it is that karma has hit me.  I toyed with the middle-aged couple by teasing them for tips.  I was shameless.  If this hangover is any indication, I do shameless pretty damn well.

So if any of you have the perfect hangover cure, please, don’t hesitate to pass it on….

gangster tour

My brother and I once got a midnight tour of Old San Juan from a Puerto Rican gangster.  He took a liking to us in a hole-in-the-wall bar off the beaten tourist track.  We probably should have noticed his status in the community by the way that the locals reacted to him as he sauntered into the dirty place and hung up his fedora.  However, in our typical sibling tradition-one of us had fallen for the bartender so we were well into shameless flirting and receiving free cocktails.  Hence-we were the two whitest, tipsiest patrons of the establishment.  I blame my bro; for it was he who had fallen for the woman who kept refilling our drinks after his red-headed brain told him ridiculous tipping was a fantastic idea.  But I digress, back to the gangster.

He walked in and a seat opened next to us as the previous tenant instantly vacated the stool in order to please our future tour guide.  My brother, well into his mode of mingling with locals, instantly patted him on the back and asked him how he was doing.  It was clear this guy was not used to such blatant idiocy flaunted in his face.  However, something about our moronic grins and chatty nature appealed to him, and soon the man was ordering rounds of shots and asking us about our travels.

Let’s call him Slick, shall we?  He was donning a fantastically tailored suit, full with suspenders, a cigar, and of course-the fedora.  So for the purpose of my story, lets agree that Slick is an appropriate title.

It just so happened that our parents had sent us out that evening in search of good tips for a traditional local restaurant for my fathers birthday.  They wanted something genuine, not too touristy, and of course-delicious.  When I mentioned this to Slick, his eyes instantly lit up.  Three shots of tequila were ordered, and Slick moved between my brother and I, arms over both of us, cigar dangling-and said:

‘why it just so happens I own the oldest restaurant in town’

Several cocktails and a headache later, my brother and I returned to the hotel.  We had been promised full-treatment for the whole family the next evening, and Slick went above and beyond in delivering his word.

The hostess was awaiting us at eight the next evening, with a special room prepared.  My parents were treated amazingly, with little stories about each of the dishes and the history of the restaurant.  After dinner, kid-ginger and I were invited out to drinks back at the same bar from the previous evening.  Two hours later, we returned to the now closed restaurant where my brother was given full reigns of the bar, and I watched in amazement as Slick pulled out a book that looked like it belonged on a pirate ship.  Inside it were the autographs of hundreds of celebrities, some of them old-glamour Hollywood who had frequented the establishment.

Slick handed us each a pen, had us sign it (which we both found insane as clearly we are all-but celebrity material), and then announced that if we wanted to see the real Old San Juan, he was the best tour-guide in town.

So it was that we walked until the sun came up through the cobblestone streets.  Slick pointed out various sites, and even got us into the front lawn a government residency after a small word with the police guards in front of it.  There were amazing gardens inside, and he insisted we wander through them.  Everywhere he took us, people moved aside for Slick.  We received drinks, stories, and a tremendous amount of laughter before the night was through.  Naturally, we applauded ourselves as we stumbled back to the hotel on the joys of mingling with the locals when traveling.

It was one of the greatest travel nights I’ve ever had.  Just goes to show what a smile, a bit of ignorance, and a gangster can get you in Puerto Rico.

Post-shot face

When I was a bartender, my friend Casey and I came up with an entertaining game to pass the time.  It began with our fascination in watching the look on Frenchmen’s faces directly after taking a shot of alcohol.  Well, I suppose it’s not fair to say just Frenchmen.  We were watching all of them-English, Irish, American, French, Italian (Casey, I know you remember the Italian), Slavic, you name it-we watched it.

We were both tending bar and had rows of alcohol at our disposal.  So naturally, we played around with different shot varieties and got ourselves into random mischief, usually at the expense of one of our male patrons.  It was during a rather slow evening when we poured out shots of whiskey and watched two of our regulars take them.  Immediately their faces were forged into combinations of pleasure and disgust.  The squinted eyes, the wrinkled nose, the long exhale. The beating of a fist on the bar, a grunt from one-it was all very primate-esque.

It only took seconds after our laughter subsided to come up with the game.

You see, we had discovered the parallels of the post-shot face, and the o-face.  That’s right boys, we were watching your faces each time we happily delivered free shots to see what would happen to your eyes, mouths, noses, and all other animated features during sex.

The next time you’re bored at a bar, I highly suggest you try it out.  Only, don’t tell anyone what you’re up to, just sit back and enjoy the show.  Works on both sexes.  Doesn’t bode well for those who dry-heave, cough, burp, or get teary-eyed.