Am I a creep?

The other day I took a piece of cake to go from a birthday party. I had every intent of eating it later that night after dinner, but I hadn't even made it a few blocks away from the party when I decided I wanted it right then and there. I fumbled around then pulled out a fork from my center console. After sensing some judgement coming from shotgun, I asked, "Doesn't everyone stash away an emergency fork?"

Apparently the answer is no, and according to my passenger, I am a weirdo.  I started to think of all the other things I regularly do that warrant stares from strangers or at least cause my friends to raise an eyebrow.  The more I thought about, the more I realized that I may or may not be a total creep.

On that note, I was wondering does anyone else...

Make ugly faces at yourself in the mirror just to see how disgusting you can be?

Run up the basement stairs on all fours because you know whatever is down there is about an inch away from grabbing your ankle and dragging you back to hell with it?

Find food in your cleavage from God knows when and eat it anyway?

"Dougie" while in the shower?

Have more conversations with your pet than actual people?

Eat one of everything in the house because string cheese, four Cheetos, a handful of M&Ms, two strawberries, a few bites of cold pizza, and a Pop Tart are a perfectly acceptable dinner?

Chug a ton of water then push your stomach out as far as it will go and walk around with your hands behind your back like you are pregnant just to see what you would look like simultaneously scaring your boyfriend and yourself shitless?

Pull up next to the person who cut you off, roll down the window and clap/congratulate them on beating you to a red light? (I am totally going to get murdered one day for sure.)

Randomly talk in weird accents when calling Comcast or someone you have never met?

Constantly moon your best friend because they never tire of seeing your giant pale ass at random?

live in a musical where any situation or mundane task can be turned into a song?

Press all the buttons on the controller at the same time as hard and fast as possible rather than take two seconds to actually learn what the three of them do?

Uh yeah, me neither.

Bitches at my gym.

Those of you who know me in real life are aware that I recently joined a gym.  I truly hate working out, but it was either that or invest in some elastic waist pants since mine were leaving such deep indentations, one may think I was trying to start some new body modification trend.

I bought some yoga pants and a new pair of Nike shoes and thought I was ready to take on the world...or at least the elliptical for 20 minutes until the paramedics were called.

I was always under the impression that the gym was a place to which you give a portion of your paycheck to use its services. Anyone who has ever bought a piece of exercise equipment knows that after a few months, it will become a coat rack, therefore you must join a gym so you constantly feel bad paying for something you don't use. However, everything else I thought I knew about going to the gym was way off.

For starters, I was unaware that if you are female and wish to be a part of any exercise based establishment, you must own a pair of Lululemon yoga pants regardless if you have never done yoga or even know what the word yoga means. While I thought I was one step ahead of the game by not working out in nacho stained pajamas, instead my Old Navy ones had me feeling like I was carrying a Prado handbag at a Prada fashion show.

In addition to my fashion faux pas, I missed the memo stating I must have pageant hair and a full face of make-up just in case the paparazzi are waiting outside. Keep in mind you must also be a beautiful shade of bronze in the middle of the winter. After a few visits, I'm starting to think people may be unimpressed with my legs being so white they are actually clear. No folks she is not Albino, just naturally that pale. Ooooh, Ahhhhh!

It is also widely known that no female under any circumstance should sweat. You are allowed to look only slightly flushed, but if one bead runs down your forehead you might as well be Mariah Carey after making "Glitter." God forbid you look like shit while you are simultaneously sweating your ass off/dying. Apparently, breathing like Darth Vader in lamaze class is also frowned upon.

In order to be part of a gym you must also blast either really bad techno music or old Britney Spears so everyone around you can hear 1998 through your headphones. I guess no one is going to believe you are serious about your work out if you are listening to actual music.

I have also gathered that it is far better to sit on/stand next to any given piece of equipment rather than use it. Why would you actually want to lift weights when you can just hang out by them and play on your phone? It must be widely known that looking at a treadmill burns just as many calories as running on one.

*Also note that you must check in on Foursquare or post a picture to Instagram because everyone knows your "work out" didn't really count unless everyone knows about it.

Holidays in your 20s verse holidays in your 30s.

Today is Halloween and also the first year I didn't dress up.  I strategically scheduled a mini vacation last weekend to avoid having to create a costume that is both original and just the right amount of slutty for my age. I mean, I am not 21 anymore, but I am still a woman who needs to let her inner skank out at least one night a year before it blows up on a girl's trip to Cabo...

Going the funny route is also a viable option, but I am far too tired to even attempt to think of anything clever let alone try to make it myself.  I thought about how I used to get so excited for Halloween and how I would spend weeks (if not months perfecting my costume).  The past few years I have recycled the only costume I own that someone managed to not get trashed, with the exception of this year, in which I did even less. 

I couldn't even manage to put on a pair of dollar store cat ears.

I really used to look forward to all major holidays as well, but as I have gotten older, things have changed dramatically. Mostly, I no longer need an excuse to eat or drink...

Let's start with February which harbors Valentine's Day, a day where you get showered with gifts from your loved one for merely existing. Remember being in your 20s and looking forward to all the hearts filled with chocolate and sparkly pieces of jewelry?  Being in your 30s and realizing all that chocolate will make your ass fat and that crappy necklace from the mall kiosk is not in fact a diamond ring is somehow not as fun. 

St. Patrick's Day used to be an all day drinking extravaganza beginning earlier than you currently leave for work. You even spent hours at the party store picking out the perfect amount of flare. Now-a-days  drinking a Guinness on your couch in your underwear trumps going to a crowded bar (filled with children) which reeks of vomit.  Even if your college buddies manage to drag you out, you will pull a Houdini and be asleep by the time they get kicked out of their very first bar.

Easter was once a fun day filled with baking cupcakes and decorating eggs with your roommates before going home to visit the family you so desperately missed. As you have got older, Easter means your siblings' screaming children and searching the yard for rotting chucks of egg said children left behind. If you are extra lucky, your mom will repeatedly ask you why you don't have any of your own.

The Fourth of July was always fun involving BBQs and lighting shit on fire, but since "The great firework fiasco of 2006," no one wants to come in contact with anything other than sparklers. Getting older means learning that it's all fun and games until someone loses a finger.

Thanksgiving was once two holidays: the actual food fest, and the night before.  Over the past few years you have come to realize that getting hammered on Black Wednesday only interferes with your full schedule of eating, napping, and repeating the next day.  I for one can't compromise my stomach for the eating Olympics.

Let's be honest, Christmas was once the greatest day of your life.  All you had to do was show up to get showered with presents from relatives you forgot existed while your mom made you endless amounts of cookies and hot cocoa.  Fast forward to today where your Christmas list is a mile long, and all you want to do is spend all your cash on wine to survive all the family functions you are obligated to attend. 

Finally, there is New Year's.  Remember buying the tickets, ordering a limo, and finding the perfect dress?  A night with endless possibilities...which you have come to realize is just another effing night only on this particular one you get to spend three times as much to be annoyed and hung over. Also, don't forget to make your umpteen resolution you will literally break the following day.

Stop hitting yourself. Stop hitting yourself.

Today I went to a one-year-old's birthday party.  There was no alcohol.  I sat amongst a sea of new mothers Oohing and Awing over poofy pink dresses and princess crowns. I listened to numerous conversations about breastfeeding and Diaper Genies.  Did I mention there was no alcohol?

As I sat silently watching the chaos unfold all around me, a relative asked me if I wanted to hold her newborn. I quickly replied, "No thanks, I'm good," but judging by the look on her face, you would have thought I announced my devotion to Satan. Several other people also seemed horrified by my response. I guess telling a room full of new mothers that you aren't really interested in the one thing that consumes their entire life doesn't get you picked first in gym class.

I didn't see the big deal. If she was already over holding her own baby why I was supposed to be ecstatic about her passing it off on me? What was so horrible about not wanting to hold what had been spitting up on everyone for the last hour? I'm sorry, but I just didn't see the appeal of ruining my new sweater, and I definitely didn't think it was fair that I was being treated like a red headed step child for feeling this way.

The entire roomful of women seemed befuddled by the fact that, I didn't have baby fever. Maybe I was sick that day in health class when they explained since if you possess a vagina you must have an insatiable desire to reproduce. I wonder how the women would have felt if I told them my ovaries shriveled up and died the very moment their child threw a shit fit of Veruca Salt proportions over having to wear pants. 

I'm not saying I hate children or that I may never warm up to the idea of having kids. After all, if my thoughts or opinions never changed I would still think Silverchair was the greatest band of all time. However, I can definitely confirm that at this point in my life I prefer having clean clothes and nice things.  I like to stay up late, sleep in, and nap. I enjoy taking long showers and using the bathroom without an audience. Plus, most nights I am too tired to cook myself dinner so unless a newborn wants to eat cold Chinese take out directly out of the box because I'm too lazy to empty the dishwasher, I just don't see a current situation working out.

I know I am not the only person who feels this way. I have lots of friends who have actively chosen to not have kids who are constantly being hounded about their decision. People need to remember that it is not easy, and it is not for everyone. Even my friends who have willingly dedicated themselves to parenthood still need to keep their liquor cabinets fully stocked. 

Next time you are about to give your childless friends a speech on the joys of motherhood, remember the same way you don't care for cats, some people don't care for children. Both are selfish assholes who will ruin everything you love. If you own either, you will adore them and find everything they do adorable regardless, but try to understand not everyone wants to test that theory.

If you can't even keep a plant alive, don't feel one ounce of remorse about deciding not to have children. If kids simply aren't your thing, don't have them because you feel obligated. Every person who will not be getting robbed or murdered in 18 years will thank you.

You are an asshole.

If you are a "DJ" who has never touched an actual record, you are an asshole.

If you wear Skechers, you are an asshole, and you are "shaping up"to be alone for the rest of your life.

If you have ever 100% successfully made anything on Pinterest, you are an asshole, and why can't just one of my projects, receipts, hair styles, ANYTHING look like the picture?!

How to not die alone.

Recently I was having a conversation with a 30 year old male friend of mine about why he was still single. He was distraught that he simply couldn't find a nice girl and settle down. By all means, he should have a girlfriend. He is thoughtful, funny, intelligent, and good looking. 

I found it hard to imagine it would be difficult for him to meet a woman, until he described to me what he is looking for exactly. Pull up a chair because this could take awhile... 

Ideally he wants to meet a 23 year old (or younger), Mila Kunis look alike who is short (5'4" or smaller), weighs around 115 lbs, and is a non-smoking, vegan, yoga instructor. She has to be a "bit of a train wreck" meaning she has to have some sort of past issue he can help her through, but not baggage so severe he can't fix her. She also needs to have several tattoos, look hot both with and without make up, never age, and have a wardrobe consisting of mostly lace and knee high socks. She must make him laugh, not mind that he has a young son, have zero pre-existing medial conditions, and think that diamonds are stupid/not want one. She must also swallow and have beer flavored nipples.

I may have added in that last part, but I figured if you are training to go to the Olympics, you might as well go for the gold...

Let's pretend this celebrity look-a-like spinner type actually does exist physically (and by some miracle is single)...she still needs to fit the rest of his mental requirements and not like bacon (!!!!). In his mind, this was not too much to ask. Why should he "settle for anything less" than he was looking for?  

"But what about meeting a '7' who becomes a '10' in your eyes once you get to know them?" I begged, I pleaded.  He simply told me that was not how his brain operates, and he needs to find the whole package right off the bat.

It was that moment I realized my dear friend was going to die alone...and to be honest he probably deserves it. Shit, I will personally buy him a plethora of cats.

Sure, when we were all younger, my friends and I all made big plans to marry handsome, athletic, intelligent, hilarious, doctors with eyes as blue as the sky and the bodies of Greek Gods.  Nowadays, most of my friends should aim to find a guy without a drinking problem who owns a car...or a motorcycle. A bike. A bus pass? 

If you are a fully grown woman who is still expecting to meet Dr. McDreamy, then you might as well start covering your fridge in Kathy comics because the only men you are going to be intimate with are Ben and Jerry. Guys, if you don't want to end up with one really strong arm living in an apartment furnished with red leather couches, you need to lower your standards. 

Everyone you will meet has some kind of issue. If you can find someone whose imperfections or level of crazy coincides with your own, then you have hit the jack pot.  Basically, aim to find a person who loves your rendition of "Born this way" in the shower every morning and call it a day. 

Stop going for only "10s" because beauty fades, and eventually we will all look like shit. Usually the more attractive you are, the harder you will fall anyway. Just think of some of those people from your past who now look like they ate their former selves. I know personally, if I had married for looks, I would now be staring at a balding, overweight, used car salesman who once had abs that just wouldn't quit. 

Give it up. The idea of "perfect" does not exist. It will never exist.  Even the idea of perfection fades.  After all, I bet even Mila Kunis farts in her sleep.

Fuck exercise.

Every now and then I will notice something we all inevitably deny until the last minute possible...my pants are getting tighter. You can only blame the dryer (for shrinking them) for so long before you have to face the facts...the vodka/cheeseburger/cupcake diet is not working in the way you had hoped.

It's time to eat a bit better and work out occasionally because let's be honest...it's not that you want to try hard enough to lose any significant amount of weight but more so you don't have to buy pants with a larger number than before.

I have been so busy lately with work (and my new found Breaking Bad addiction) that I just don't have the energy to hit the gym for hours every night. Although, even if I was a Real Housewife of Trophyville who didn't have to work, I would still hate exercising.  I will however force myself to do it, usually crying the entire way through, but I would pretty much prefer to be doing anything else.

I am so exhausted and dreading any physical activity, I started to ponder all the things that currently sound more appealing than working out.

Instead of hitting the gym I would rather...

Eat.

Drink.

Sleep.

Die...but only if I get to be reincarnated as a Victoria's Secret Model.

Lose my wallet and make a Saturday of visiting the Bank, DMV, and Social Security Office...maybe Bed, Bath, and Beyond. I don't know. I don't know if I'll have enough time.

Go shoe/dress shopping...for your Chihuahua, Shit Zu, or any other "dog" you carry in a purse.

Start a Monopoly tournament and end up three days later with a meth addiction on Baltic Avenue.

Spend the day with my ex-boyfriend and his new girlfriend engagement ring shopping.

Step on all of the Legos.

Visit the eye doctor, dentist, and gyno simultaneously.

Be referred to as the "Ugly Kardashian."

Attend your daughter's ballet recital, son's little league game, and both of their gluten/alcohol free birthday parties.

I would also rather watch your birthing video. No seriously, bring on the placenta, and I'll bring the buttery, delicious popcorn (just as long as we aren't burning it off after).

Stay tuned.

Hello friends, randoms, and stalkers. Sorry I have been missing but sometimes life gets in the way (and by life I mean I started watching Breaking Bad). I will be back to writing about sex, booze, and all the other ridiculous shit you love soon. See you next week suckers or this weekend if you're going to Riot Fest. Woooooo!

The Name Game

This past weekend was Labor Day so a bunch of us got together to eat our body weight in burgers and get white girl wasted. Later in the evening a friend and I were sharing stories and laughing about one of her ex boyfriends we refer to as "Buffalo Bill" because he was into really weird shit in the bedroom.  He had a bit of a sex dungeon in his apartment, and you couldn't help but wonder if he was going to bang you, kill you, and wear your skin afterword.

Unfortunately for him, he has now earned a nickname so solid, he might as well go to the DMV and have it legally changed.  He may have been born a "Joe," but he will die a "Bill," and there is nothing he can do to change it.  The poor bastard could cure cancer, and we would still joke about him having a Dexter kill room in the basement.

Men, consider this a cautionary tale...if you do weird shit in bed, we will tell our friends (and possibly strangers at a party) about it, and you will most likely go down in history with one of the following titles...

One of my best friends slept with a guy who tried to choke her out during sex. He nearly killed her and is now referenced as "The Boston Strangler."

In my mid 20s I dated a guy who said the filthiest shit in bed. When I met him he seemed so innocent, but over the next few months he got progressively dirtier earning him the nickname "Bob Saget." This deemed to be even more perfect when we discovered his best friend was Greek and rode a motorcycle.

A few years back a friend of mine was attempting to sleep with a hot mechanic. I say "attempting" since on more than one occasion he had too much to drink and couldn't get it/keep it up. Due to his love of Jameson and his collection of coveralls he will always be known as"Whiskey Dickies."

I had an ex boyfriend who asked if I would pee on him and/or he could pee on me. I was horrified, and he will forever be referred to "Coldplay," (since it was all Yellow...).

A friend from college was dating a dentist who she complained was very lazy in the sack so we would call him "Dr. Do-little." She married him, we still call him that, and she still wishes she kept her mouth shut.

Currently my friend is seeing a guy (who we are all positive) is gay…even though he doesn't want to admit it yet.  They haven’t slept together (shocker ), but he does give her lots of Eskimo kisses. We secretly refer to him as R. Kelly since he is clearly trapped in the closet.

I had a guy I briefly dated ask me to grow a full bush for him.  It didn't last long because we don't live in a 70s porno, so he only remains a memory. RIP "Disco Stu."

Embarrassment 101

Recently I was having a conversation with a friend of mine regarding embarrassing things we have done in our lifetime. While she seemed humiliated about some of her past experiences, I on the other hand, was hardly phased.  If you know me, you know how ridiculous of a person I can be so very little makes me turn red in the face. If you don't know me, there are many entries in my blog to prove to my point.

I've had numerous people ask me how I am not completely mortified by sharing some of the stories from my past, but I believe most embarrassing situations will prove to be humorous if enough time passes. If you are telling yourselves, "One day we will look back at this and laugh..." why not make that day today?

In order to help my shy readers, I thought I would share some scenarios (where one may want to crawl into a hole and die) to help you look on the bright side. This way the next time a horrifying situation presents itself, you will be  less embarrassed and more amused...

Let's say a hot guy at the checkout line sees you buying tampons...

Well at least he knows you aren't pregnant right?!

You accidentally texted a scandalous picture of yourself to your boss...

Hey, maybe now you'll get that raise you have been hoping for!

If you trip and happen to fall...

Pretend to break a limb so people will feel sorry for you and give you presents. If by chance you actually do end up injuring yourself, maybe at least the emergency room doctor will be hot.

You got hammered and preformed a one woman show on the dance floor...

Maybe your YouTube video will get 20 million hits, and you'll get to be on Tosh.0.

Next time you pronounce a word incorrectly and someone calls you out on it...

Simply point out to that asshole, that you were using the French enunciation, and they simply are not articulate enough to understand.

The next time you spit while talking...

immediately start beat boxing, and get everyone at the table to join in.

While visiting your significant other's parents, they hear you having sex...

Randomly moan while doing mundane tasks for the rest of your stay. This will convince them it wasn't you getting off that they heard last night because you make the same noises doing the dishes. 

If you ask an overweight woman, "When are you due?" but she hastily says she is not pregnant...

Give her a rude look and say, "Um, excuse me, I wasn't done speaking...When are you due for jury duty? I am going to get called in any day now I feel it."

And although this probably only happens to me and Kim Kardashian...

Next time you split your jeans...

just dance! (Too much booty in the pants.)

I am an asshole.

When you write a mostly sarcastic, occasionally humorous blog, you have to expect to offend some people from time to time. Everything is hilarious until it may or may not pertain to you. It's like laughing at a Mexican joke, a Jewish joke, an Asian Joke, but then getting upset when someone pokes fun at your heritage. If you are going to read my blog, you need be an equal opportunity offender.

While I don't tell racist jokes, I have no problem making fun of you for wearing yoga pants all day when it's apparent your idea of yoga is stretching after a nap. I will definitely tease you for making out with that girl who may or may not have had a penis, but I would never tell everyone about the time you got diarrhea at Barnes and Noble. I have morals, geez.

If you know me in real life, you know I am silly, sarcastic, and outspoken. Some people may think I say whatever comes to my mind but au contraire. There are so many things I would like to say to people, but I'd rather not get punched so I think them instead.  Lucky for me, my blogs are my thoughts on paper.

Here are just a few things of the things I wish I could say to people without getting murdered...

"Just because it comes in your size, does not mean you need to wear it."

"You're a lot more interesting when you're I'm drunk. Keep telling me about your sinus infection while I mainline this fireball whiskey."

"Yes, your child is adorable. He's eating cake. Adorable. Oh look, he is sleeping. Adorable. Aww he's breathing, adorable. Would you like to see 75 pictures of  my cat now?  No?"

"Of course I want to check out your band "Skinny Jeans, Tattoos, and Beanies." I bet you guys sound way different than everyone else."

"You went to the gym today?  You burned 750 calories?  What do you know, that is exactly the amount I ate via Cheetos on my couch."

"Oh you're engaged!? Tell me every single detail of this thing you speak of called a "wedding" since no one has ever had one of those before."

"Woo hoo another DJ event invite to some random bar I am surprised is still in business. I will certainly be RSVPing to get there at 8 pm to avoid the $5 cover."

"Your current wardrobe is completely ironic and hip and doesn't at all make you look like a escaped mental patient."

"No I don't know "who you are," but judging by the seriousness of your voice, you must be really important. Tell me again who you know and where you work."

You are an asshole.

If you make me have a two hour text conversation rather than a three minute phone call, you are an asshole.

If you put on a full face of make up to go to the gym, it's time to re-evaluate your life because you are an asshole.

Also, if you have ever taken a picture on Instagram and put #nomakeup when we all know you really look like the crypt keeper without it, you are #anasshole.

If you brag about not owning a TV, but watch all your favorite shows via Netflix, you are totally an asshole.

This is why I drink.

Christmas displays/items being put out in September August.

We have not even hit Labor Day, and you are already inducing a holiday panic I like to reserve for two days before Christmas. Don't remind me it is about to be cold/I am going to be broke while I am still enjoying sundresses and drinks with tiny umbrellas. You hear me Costco?  Put that damn Christmas wrap away, and make room for more samples.

Bad hair days.

I use the same shampoos, same conditioners, same technique (lather, rinse, who ever repeats?), yet randomly you strike without warning...usually on the days I need you to cooperate the most.  Keep it up, and I'll stop buying Redkin or Matrix and start buying that two in one shit from the dollar store to have more money for vodka.

Bikers in Chicago.

I fully support riding your bike to save the environment or even on gas, but when you shoot out of nowhere (and I mean out of fucking nowhere) then feel the need to slam on the hood of my car even after I have already seen you and stopped ten feet away, be prepared to hear more f bombs than Chris Rock's stand up.  If you want me to share the road with you, then you should abide by the same rules.  Two words: stop signs...(OK two more) you asshole.

The Pinch Hitter.

Hello friends.  Pull up a chair, because it is your favorite time of the month: story time! Today's adventure goes back to my first trip to San Diego. I was in my early 20s when my friend's sister moved there and suggested we come visit. I had never been to southern California, and I was recently single so I figured why not?

I had decided on the plane ride over that California was a magical land filled with incredibly hot surfer boys who all wanted my special breed of Midwestern sarcasm. I was a short, curvy, brunette with real boobs who, to California boys, would be like finding an onion ring in your bag of french fries...rare, unusual, yet still delicious, mmmmm crunchy, deep fried goodness. Wait, what was I talking about? Oh right onion rings, yum.

The more I thought about it, the more I convinced myself that the best way to get over my recent ex was to get under someone else. I was 23 years old, and I had never had one of those "one night stands" everyone kept talking about. I thought, "Fuck it." I was on vacation so if I regretted my decision, at least I would never have to see him again.

When we arrived at her apartment on the beach, I noticed a backpack and some men's clothing/shoes on the couch near the door. I immediately asked, "Oh shit, did you get a boyfriend already? You've only been here a few weeks right?" She laughed it off, explaining that since she lives on the beach, several of her guys friends toss their belongings in her apartment while they surf.

As she was finishing her sentence, a tall, tan, half naked man came walking through her door. She introduced him to us, as I remembered my plan from earlier and thought, "He will do just fine." I told her to invite him out to the bar later so my liquid courage could ensure I would stick it to my ex by letting someone stick it to me.

That'll show him.

We headed out and the drinks were flowing, but my surfer boy was nowhere to be found. I scanned the bar, and realized there was actually a cute boy at the other end.  How long had he been there, and why wasn't he attached to my face?

I walked down and started a conversation. Shots were poured and witty banter exchanged as the lights came on. I  had forgotten bars close at 2 AM in California so there was no time for a sloppy, drunken, public display of affection.  I suggested we go to the beach to make out because although I was about to be a dirty skanky slutty pants, I wanted it to be romantic. If I could help it, I was going to have "The Notebook" of one night stands.

We were rolling around on the beach while my phone kept ringing.  I finally decided to answer as a brief moment of clarity reminded me that I didn't tell my friends I was leaving, and depending on how drunk they were, they may or may not be concerned with my disappearance.

I opened my phone (who remembers flip phones!? Fuck I'm old) when a voice yelled, "Where are you!?" I told her I was on the beach getting my groove back (that reference is for you Ashlee, my Stella loving friend) and not to worry. She simply replied with, "Stay put. We are coming to get you." I hung up, thinking, "Yeah okay. Good luck finding me on this giant beach...and wait. Who is 'we'?"

A few minutes to hours later, I am not really sure cause hammered knows no time restraints, I saw my friend, her sister, and someone else I couldn't make out heading my way. I heard my name being called by a man's voice so I got up and walked towards him.

Upon arrival I immediately heard, "What are you doing?"

"Um making out. What are YOU doing."

"Seriously who is that guy? Stop it. You need to send him on his way because you are mine."

Wait what?  Who did this guy think he was storming over here telling me to ditch my future walk of shame because I belonged to him. I didn't even know him. What a cocky son of a... hot piece of ass. He was even cuter than I remembered. Shit. Maybe he was right. Was I his? For tonight at least I would be...

I ran back to my boy on the beach and told him there was an emergency at the house I had to go attend to right away. I am not even sure what excuse I used, but I am certain it involved either a horse or a monkey and a leaky toilet. Or was it a fire? The details are still a bit fuzzy.  Either way, he was pretty much stranded since his friends left, and it's damn near impossible to catch a cab in any beach town in San Diego.

I returned to the apartment to finish what I had hoped to start in the first place. We ended up sleeping together that night, the next night, and pretty much every single night for the rest of my trip.  I returned home with a sense of satisfaction, like I had completed a rite of passage I missed out on during college.

A few days later I received a Myspace (oh yeah) request from the boy. We kept in close contact for weeks, until we decided we really missed each other. I hadn't told any of my friends about my California conquest, so imagine their faces when I introduced them to my boyfriend who was also living with me, who had not existed the day before. I went from having a one night stand to having a live in boyfriend for several years. (Fun fact: he is actually the same guy I accidently made a porno with.)

I always imagined girls telling their friends about me like some slutty girl's urban legend..."My friend's sister's coworker's neighbor once slept with a guy the first night they met, and they are still together so there is still hope for you. I know you two hooked up in night club bathroom in Vegas, but he will call!"

Plus to this day we still joke that while I suck at one night stands, I am THAT good in bed, boys move across the country for me.