Tag Archives: drinking

Buy My Ebook and Use it to Get Drunk

Or, you know, reading it is an option too.

BUT YOU KNOW WHAT’S MORE FUN THAN READING?

Drinking, duh.

If anyone had told me a year ago that I would have a Thought Catalog Original ebook I would have been like, “Seriously, quit fucking with my emotions you asshole. Life is hard enough.” If anyone had told me when I was 18 that I would have an ebook about online dating, I would have been like, “ONE DAY I’M NOT FAT AND I GET TO DATE???” So really, surprises all around.

YOU GUYS I HAVE AN EBOOK. HOW DID I NOT TELL YOU THIS WAS HAPPENING?? I TELL YOU EVERYTHING!! Well, really it’s because I had convinced myself that at some point Thought Catalog was gonna be like, “oh nm, forget it, we don’t want to do this,” and you know my whole knock-on-wood thing.

I told them it was ok that the cover photo wasn’t brunette, because I’ve always wanted to be blonde anyway.

A month ago yesterday, TC contacted me and asked about turning my online dating project into an ebook. I explained to the editor that there was a little more to the story than what was posted on my blog, because during that time I was getting back together with the person who inspired the whole thing. They asked me to include that story, edited the whole thing (brilliantly) to make me sound more literate, and now it’s on the internet forever and for-always so that my grandmother can read about how I broke up with someone after he sent me a dick pic. Sorry, grandma!

Oh yeah, you want the drinking game part. Here it goes:

Every time I mention a form of transportation: Take a sip

Every time I think about something deep while en route: Take a shot

Every time I mention Austin: Take a shot

You see the words, “Spicy Special”?: Take a fucking shot. It’s the best sandwich ever, and if you’ve never had it you need to come visit me so I can personally buy you one.

Every time I mention my job: Finish your drink, because, seriously, if you’d had the job I had last year you’d be drunk too.

Whenever I mention my guinea pigs: Shots! Shots! Shots! Shotsshotsshots! (so that’s like, 2 shots. Of limoncello, because I’m not a sadist or anything). Yes, this is becoming a more involved drinking game than you’d planned. You can also just take shots of whatever shit you have hanging out in your fridge. Beer and siracha anyone?

When you get to the part about the first time I had a kiss forced upon me and the subsequent times too: WATERFALL. YOU WILL NEED IT.

Ok, dear reader, you’re drunk. Hope you liked my ebook. Write an awesome drunk review on Amazon (give me 5 stars, duh) and send it to your friends. If you don’t already have enough reasons to promote me, I have bed bugs (next week I return to blogging in a weeklong series about bed bugs), so seriously. HELP THE ITCHY.

Peace, love and sorry grandma,

Tiffany

PS – For anyone who is new and has happened upon my Online Dating Project section, I’ve removed a lot of the posts but kept a few teasers. I recommend the ebook! It’s cheap, and I once watched Austin read it in less than an hour and laugh his ass off the whole time.

PPS – To get a little sentimental, the best part of this whole thing to me is that as a (sorta former) songwriter, I’ve written songs about practically every crush and ex love ever, but have never written a song about my current boyfriend. When I started reworking these posts into an ebook, I called up my boyfriend and was like, “well, everyone else got songs, but I guess you get an internet book?” Ok. Cuteness done, I’ll go cut myself or something to counterbalance.

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WTF is a Beer Ball?

Every so often I’ll remember this story and have a good chuckle. I had no ideas for today’s post, so I will share:

In January, 2007 (or as I like to call it, Junior year of college, round 1) I transferred schools from That Baptist One to The Music One up in Boston, MA. In an attempt to keep their daughter safe by educating me on the less safe areas of town, my parents accidentally scared me shitless about Boston. At this point in my life, I’d lived in Atlanta, London, São Paulo and Pittsburg, so the idea that I was in any more danger by moving to Boston was absurd. That being said, I never got over it and I’ve never been more constantly terrified in my life than when I lived in Boston.

The best part about this is that my first apartment was here:

In case you don’t know Boston, I annotated the map for you. It’s really all you need to know about this area.

But I felt like I lived here:

Boston was fucking terrifying.

And because I was on a college campus, we’d get these crime report emails every few days. They were always like such-and-such had her Marc Jacobs bag grabbed from her while walking down a dark street. I wasn’t exactly like being on “The Wire.”

So anyway, about three weeks into my life in Boston, a few of my friends came to town for the weekend. They had friends out in Allston, a neighborhood of Boston that’s basically a bunch of rundown apartments and houses that college kids rent out. And some Asian food places, because there’s nothing anyone living on a budget loves more than Asian food. It’s the best.

Allston is ALSO not super dangerous, but when we took a cab out there I was FLIPPING out. My brain was like, “Where the fuck are we? Why are there houses? The sky looks darker here. It’s definitely darker. The T isn’t underground… That only happens in the ghetto, right? Are we on the Orange line? My mom said that’s the bad one? Fuck, I can’t tell if it’s orange! ARE YOU THE ORANGE LINE, TRAINNNN???”

We got to the old house that this group of boys lived in and within two seconds of my meeting them they were all like,

“YOU’RE 21?!?!?!?!?!?!”

Oh, the joys of college. Turning 21 before pretty much everyone else made me the Designated Alcohol Purchaser for about three months of my life until everyone else caught up. And because there is always someone who came before you, there is no way that you can deny the request to purchase alcohol because you need to honor the good that was done by those who came before you. The drunken forefathers. The ones with summer birthdays. You had to pay it forward in drunkenness.

If his use of ‘progeny’ is incorrect, it’s because Benji was drunk… Duh.

So these boys requested that I purchase them a beer ball. Having never gone to real college, I had no idea what the fuck a beer ball was, but it sounded kind of cute and I was like, that’s fine as long as you drive me through this ghetto that you live in. So off we went to the liquor store three blocks down the road in one of the boys’ cars. My two girlfriends sat in the backseat and when we were one block away the dude driving was like, “Yo. You should probably get out here. There’s some law about not being able to have liquor in a car with people who are under 21.” Because I was terrified, I was like, “Aw, hell naw, if I’m getting you drunk you are not getting me murdered, drop me off at the curb.”

They drop me off, and I enter the FORTRESS that was the giant Allston liquor store. Massachusetts has the most fucked liquor laws of any state I’ve ever lived in. I think it has something to do with Red Sox fans getting shitfaced and destroying the city, or bar fights, or whatever, but it is literally easier to buy any illegal drug than it is to purchase alcohol. I’m not talking about if you’re underage either… At all. I never felt confident in the fact that I was going to indeed receive alcohol even when I was 23. Even when I had my passport.

I think that this was the moment I first learned this harsh reality, because as it turns out a beer ball is basically a mini keg. I’m standing in the aisle of the giant liquor store and the clerk comes up to me with a huge box on one of those rolly cart things that I can NEVER remember the name of and Google isn’t being helpful right now. My immediate thought was, “How the fuck am I even supposed to carry this out to the car?” THEN the clerk is like, “Excuse me miss, we’re gonna need you to fill out these papers.” Because in the state of Massachusetts, you have to register yourself when you purchase anything keg-like. I am freaking out, but also thinking of my drunk forefathers and so I persevere.

Rolly cart clerk takes me out to the sidewalk and as my friends pull up he informs me that indeed I am not allowed to get in the car because they’re under 21. I look at the driver, who is wide-eyed when he sees me next to the giant beer ball. I look at the clerk, who is similarly wide-eyed but kind of smirking at my unfortunate situation. I shrug my shoulders and pick up the beer ball. I figure, if I’m walking through the ghetto at least I can swing it at people.

But because Allston was not the ghetto, as I walked down the street, hunched over and wrestling with the beer ball box, tons of college bros were yelling, “BEER BALL!!!!!!!!!!!” at me.

And that’s the story of how I learned that Allston was not the ghetto. I was still freaked the fuck out every time I went there or anywhere I go, anytime I’m in Boston.

Peace, love and beer balls, 

BWCE

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Post-Valentine’s Day Recovery tips

It’s over! No more cupids or roses for a year! Still, I have a sneaking suspicion that some of you are still suffering today from Vday-related ailments. Here’s a list of recovery tips for every situation I can imagine you getting yourself into last night:

You sat on the couch drinking (listening to the playlist I made for you, of course)
Congrats! You probably don’t have that bad of a hangover from getting to bed at a reasonable hour. If you’re feeling a little iffy, those sweethearts in your office will totally serve as replacement Tums. Celebrate the end of the romantic holiday season with a glass of champagne. You deserve it.

You went out drinking with your friends.
I do not envy you, friend. Last night started innocently enough; a glass of wine over a nice dinner with some friends, then you figured what the hell? It’s Valentines Day, lets get a bottle! Before you know it it’s 3 am and you’re ripping shots of – oh god you can’t even think the word shots without wanting to die in the bathroom at your office. Can anyone else hear the computers buzzing? It’s like earth-shatteringly loud, right?

Ok, probably a lot. I never update Flash and I’m sorry.

I have five words for you: breakfast sandwich and a Rockstar.

Wait 30 mins for them to digest while you think about throwing up on the coworker who sits across from you and you will be golden. You’ll be totally ready to repeat last night.

You had a crazy Valentine’s Day one night stand.
Those exist in real life, right? They’re all over the movies and TV and I really want to believe there are people awesome enough to do this, but to date I’ve only ever heard on V-day sex scandal.

If you’re reading this proudly (or shamefully) because you are this years one night stand unicorn, you win at life. Call in sick to work – who cares what they think? Walk of shame your hot mess of a self over to Soho and buy yourself something sexy. You officially won Valentine’s Day 2013. Damn, you’re cool.

Your romantic date turned into a teary, bitter fight with your significant other.
The evening started out so nicely, but before you knew it the pressure of a holiday invented for you and your significant other to prove to one another that your love is the Best Love caused you to crack. A romantic Italian dinner turned into you sobbing while stuffing hunks of bread in your mouth so as to shoo away the accordion players with your utter disgustingness.

Now you’re sitting at work, poofy-eyed, having to swallow back tears when your coworkers ask you how your fairy tale evening with Mr. Perfect went. Why didn’t you decide to skip Valentine’s all together instead of subjecting yourselves to the torture of flower arrangements and overpriced Pre Fixe?

So, last night sucked. Sometimes the worst times come when we’ve built up our expectations so high that we have nowhere to go but down.

Facts: Your boyfriend didn’t propose; that Pesto wasn’t fresh; and at the end of the night your cab driver took the worst route home ever. Valentine’s Day may have sucked, but now it’s over and all of those giant, unclaimed heart boxes full of chocolate are on sale for at least 50% off! Go get yourself some and feel better.

You skipped Valentine’s Day altogether?

You didn’t wallow, drink or cry? Yesterday was just another day and you’re sitting there at your desk watching the fallout around you?

Good for you! Rub it in everyone else’s faces by eating a fruit salad for breakfast and telling all the hungover people about your favorite types of tequila… Get really detailed with it. If there were more people like you, we could forget this whole day ever existed in the first place.

All, the week is over so I will return to my usual Tuesday/Thursday posting schedule. Thank you so much for reading, sharing and commenting!

Peace, love and I’m still listening to “Wide Awake”,
BWCE

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No, that doesn’t mean you’re a lesbian

“My mom is a flight attendant so she always brings me their extra liquor bottles. Here, take a shot.”

One of the better things that happened as a result of my ending up at Shorter College was that I  got to study abroad basically for free. I spent the Spring semester of my sophomore year in London with a bunch of kids from non-Southern Baptist colleges. You know, normal college kids.

I’d gotten drunk only three times in my life, but the day I arrived in London I made the snap decision that I was going to begin drinking. I like to think that I packed all of the life lessons of Freshman year into those four months and that when I came back to the US, I returned a woman transformed by real life. As alcohol is the best social lubricant, beginning to drink also meant the beginning of my hanging out with people I wouldn’t otherwise hang out with. Over the course of my stay in London, I worked my way through a cast of characters that in retrospect were fit for a Van Wilder movie.

It started out with like-minded peers – the kids who liked indie rock as much as me. Then I met the stoner circle, who’d ask me to play guitar for them while they’d pass a bowl around their dorm room. It seemed the more I was down to drink, the more I liked EVERYONE, and so I moved my way through each group until I got to a group of wild and crazy party girls.

I don’t even know how I ended up in their dorm room, because I had a terrible cold and was on antibiotics, but there I sat, drinking cheap wine and taking a double shot of grey goose from a plastic bottle stolen from an airplane. My mom told me over the phone that alcohol would reduce the affects of my medication, but I’m pretty sure she didn’t warn me that drinking on antibiotics would DESTROY ME. I had no idea what was about to happen.

Our study abroad group had just discovered that the drinks at gay bars were significantly less expensive, so we were almost exclusively hanging out at G-A-Y, London’s giant (and probably terrible) gay bar that boasted a floor for lesbians and a floor for gay men. Before I knew it, we were in line and one of the wild girls was like, “You know what would be great? If we went to the lesbian part of the bar and tried to see if we could get free drinks.” My response was something along the lines of, “Dude, totally! I’ll definitely kiss a girl for a free drink!”

Baby Tiffany was not just drunk – she was fuuuucked up. Here’s a rundown of my sexual experiences at this point in my life: I a virgin, and I’d made out with like four people.  Until moving to London, I’d only kissed my high school boyfriend, who I was still completely obsessed with two years after the end of our three month relationship. Once I got to London, I made out with my RA a few times and I think one time I slept in his dorm room. His interest level in me was about as high as your standard college boy (that’s an optimistic description) and I was completely infatuated with him because, well, I was a stage five virgin clinger. When I think of all the Fall Out Boy lyrics I posted on my Facebook profile back then I’m just… So glad there was no such thing as a minifeed.

After the end to my almost entirely imagined love affair with the RA, I made out with two other boys in London. I felt like a sassy bitch and the cocktail of alcohol and antibiotics made me ready to take on the next feat of college craziness – lesbianism. Someone should have told me I wasn’t ready for this idiotic rite of passage. That’s some Junior year shit. Alas, none of my new friends understood the depths of my naivete, so down the stairs to the lesbian bar I went. The wild girl ordered an entire pitcher of something blue and the two of us downed the entire thing while we talked about boys. I listened, wide-eyed, as the wild girl told me about her open relationship. She was so cool.

“So… What type of girl do you like?” She asked me, turning around on her bar stool and examining the hardly crowded lesbian bar.

“I… don’t know?” I honestly had no idea what type of girl I would like, if I liked girls. I knew the type of girl I wanted to be, so I decided maybe I’d like girls like that, but Kiera Knightley was nowhere to be found. I ended up talking to a girl with two-toned hair and thick black eyeliner. She also happened to be the DD for her friends. I stood no chance, but luckily(?) for me the night got spotty after that.

I woke up the next morning to the usual post-drinking memories rushing back into my brain. The one difference was that this time the memories were not so usual. Did I really start talking to the ugliest lesbian at the bar? Did we dance? Did we then go to that terrible American sports bar afterwards and did the bouncer almost not let me in except the lesbian convinced him that I was fine and promised I would not drink anymore? Did I really stay in the booth while everyone else danced and did I throw up underneath said booth because I convinced myself that everyone was doing it? Did I then leave and walk ALL the way home because I didn’t want to wait for the bus? Did I throw up in the public restroom of our dorm building? Did I bump into the RA? Did the below conversation really happen?

“Hiiiiiiiii”
“Hey Tiffany…. You’re wasted.”
“No! Itswhatevah, I’m whatevasoberrrrr. YOU GOT NEW MOUTH WASH.”
“You remembered what type of mouthwash I have?”
“Yeahhhhh… Youuuuu hatttteedddd it. It wasgrosssss.”

Did that really happen? Yes, yes all of it did happen. 

I was miraculously ok with the throwing up in the bar, the walking home through London by myself in the middle of the night, and even the admitting to the object of my affection that I creepily remembered his feelings of regret surrounding a purchase of off-brand mouthwash. I wasn’t, however, prepared for the, “WTF is wrong with me,” feeling that accompanies any sort of deviance. Someone told me I gave the ugly lesbian my phone number and this simple fact spiraled me into two days of questioning my sexuality. I didn’t even kiss this girl, but I was so confused.

“If I got her phone number, does that mean I’m gay??”

God I was a fucking idiot when I was 20.

Photos from a similar night that also went terribly wrong. That’s a story for another time…

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Twentynothings

“Let’s be honest, we’re still going to be getting this drunk in our 30s.”
“Fair… But eventually we’ll have kids and settle down.”
“Nah, we’ll just be drunk around the kids.”

New York is often hailed as the epicenter of arrested development – the perfect little petri dish for nurturing one’s bad choices and self-obsession. It’s so true, and it’s exactly why so many people sigh and say, “Oh, New York… What a great place to be young.” It’s exactly why so many of the married and child-rearing move outside the city to places like Ohio, or Jersey City.

When I first moved here, one of my friends referred to the city as The Adult Playground. I didn’t exactly know what to expect from that description, but I liked the phrase so much that I’d bounce up and down yelling, “Adult playgrounddddddddd!” every time we walked down the street doing something New York-y.

My first night out as a New York resident, I ventured down to Alphabet City. I’d never been to the East Side, but I’d heard Alphabet City in so many of my friends’ cool new York stories.

“They have a bar that’s camping-themed! You can get s’mores there!!”

I love s’mores. 

As I walked up the subway stairs to the fabled city, I had high hopes that here I’d find The Adult Playground. I assumed that Avenue A was a grown-up-fucking-Candyland; the streets would be lined with sex, they’d lead me through the magical forest of illegal substances down to the river of sample sales and never-ending happy hours.

I ended up in a 200 square foot AC-less basement apartment. I drank grape juice mixed with some old vodka out of a cup that had definitely not been washed since its previous use and got hit on by a guy whose hard sell was that he could fix my guitar for free. When I got home I threw up on my American apparel dress.

And this, ladies and gentleman, is exactly what it’s like to live in The Adult Playground. Sure, you might have a job, and a life, and a bunch of other things you use to justify that you’re different than you were in college, but you know you’re just one happy hour invite away from waking up at 4 AM in your bed, next to the wrapper or something you assume you ate, but you’re not sure what it was, and a bunch of missed calls from your coworkers and/or friends. Even the most responsible New Yorkers I know have stories like this… It’s not us, it’s New York! We promise.

As you may know from Facebook, I’ve requested the help of all of you in providing me with solid examples of life in the playground. I don’t feel that simply explaining what it’s like is enough, so here are items I’ve pulled from your emails, gchats, AIM, texts, conversations, etc, etc, etc. Don’t worry, I’ve changed identifying details – thank you all so much for helping me out!

Here’s what it’s like to be a 20nothing in New York City. If you’d like to turn this into a drinking game, take a shot every time you see the word ‘drunk’:

1: did you have a good night?
2: yeah i did
worked out a tiny bit, but not much
then we made dinner and ate pot lollipops which was fun
1: do those really really work?
2: ehhh
we ate two and i felt a little relaxed
and like, body high-ish
we also had had some wine
but i didn’t feel drunk
so I think it worked?
…..
I was a bouncer at a series of parties that had a reputation for getting VERY out of hand. Fifty percent of the time the cops shut the party down before 1am. One night in particular we used a Venue called “Castle V”. It was owned by a 50-year-old who called himself Vox Illuminati. Vox may have had a few screws loose. We were setting up before the party when the FNDY and NYPD, who’d gotten wind of the party, came by to give us a friendly warning that if the party happened it would be shut down. This friendly conversation ended in Vox screaming “You’re going to tell ME WHAT TO DO?!?!?! I WILL END YOU!!!!!” while the terrified looking FDNY fire inspector quickly ran out the door.
…..
1: so
a couple thing
s
that you’ll find funny
i’m still drunk
just walked into work late ‘ from my doctors appt’
…..
I assumed he was as unserious about the plans we made as I was, but I forgot he probably wasn’t drunk on a Tuesday.”
…..
Email, attempting to attend a party: Last week they sent me home when my cold became too conspicuous.  Maybe I can be conspicuously drunk and they’ll send me home for that too.

…..
We talked for a few minutes, and I gathered that she was quite wealthy, just from the way she rambled on about her dad and his jet, yacht, etc. I must have really hit it off with her, because I was invited out for a night on the town with her and her friends. “I don’t have any nice clothes…” was the best excuse I could muster. Her reply? “Fuck that, we run this city.” And with that, we set off.
We made it back to her suite on 5th Avenue at about 6:30 in the morning. I slept for about 45 minutes, and then woke up to her, out-of-her-mind and yelling that it was time for me to go to work. She said my ride would be ready in about ten minutes. It was a helicopter. No shit. I hate helicopters. I puked. I got back to my hotel, showered, changed clothes, and went to my meeting.
…..
1: how was your weekend boo?
I was laughing thinking about fri
so fun!
2: seriously!
until all the sudden i was too drunk and Manuele, who I’ve never spoken to before and I don’t think he speaks English, was trying to convince me to come home with him
and i was like NO. what?! NO
1: SHUT your mouth
2: so Susie pushed me in a cab and i went home and got sick
1: OMG
are you alright?
2: yeah, luckily when i’m too drunk my reaction is to leave immediately…
it’s the one smart thing i do
……
My friend was throwing a “Dance Party at the End of the World” event, in which he’d crafted a dance mix, interspersed with Orson Welles’ radio broadcast of The War of the Worlds. We were to dress in our 1920’s finest, and the drink menu was strickly gin martinis. I have an unfortunate (impressive?) ability to appear only slightly intoxicated when I am in fact bordering on black out drunk. I don’t slur my words, but had anyone known how far gone I was, they would’ve been watching me. I joined my friend outside to have a cigarette, and before I knew it I was agreeing to share a cab with her back uptown. Without my bag. Without my keys. Without my phone… Dressed in only a black velvet gown and duster.
…..
1: How was the night?
2: Oh you know… drunk emailed my boss…. drunk emailed that guy I was dating earlier in the summer.
1: Ohhhhhh, and?
2: It wasn’t bad though. I was just drunk-eating something he likes, so it reminded me of him.
1: Justifiable.
…..
Needless to say, the cops did come to shut the party down at about 11 PM. Instead of opening the doors for the cops when they came knocking, Vox made the bouncers lock and barricade the only entrance to the building. A 30 minute stand-off ensued while Vox stood behind the door, screaming obscenities at the cops. This was ended by an FDNY latter truck lifting 2 FDNY fire fighters, and 6 cops in the bucket onto the roof. When Vox saw this he jumped out one of the windows, onto the neighboring roof, and then ran across to a tree, where he hid from the police for 2 hours.
…..
I got into my building because the outside door never locked properly, but it turned out my roommate was visiting his family in NJ. I spent the night (which dropped down to 12 degrees) shivering, drunk, crying, kicking the door, and dozing in our stairwell. And that’s why I don’t drink gin martinis.
…..
The road may not be paved with adderall, and gingerbread houses would result in terrifying rat infestations, but we do live in the closest thing to an adult playground I can imagine. It’s pretty fantastic.
Peace, love and Candyland, 
BWCE
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Two terms we coined last night

1. ADDj (noun): When the DJ is so drunk he changes every song after the first verse, and switches between genres with reckless abandon.

“Why have we heard the first verse of The Whistle Song remixed into Sweet Home Alabama five times in the past hour?”
“Blame the ADDj. He’s behind the bar using two iPod Nanos to control his set list and making out with some girl who keeps coming up to the bar and taking shots.” 

2. Elbrow (verb): The act of repeatedly elbowing the person behind you in a crowded bar, but not noticing because you’re too busy fist-pumping with your bros.

“Ok, I think it’s time to leave Penny Farthing. I keep getting elbrowed and it sounds like the ADDj is about to transition from this Jay-Z song into Sweet Caroline. We should probably run.” 

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Brooklyn Bowl

“Are you actually British?”

Ever since two of my friends pretended to be British for an entire night as a ploy to get free drinks from guys, I don’t trust that people I meet are actually British.

“Yes… We are actually British.”

I’d stepped outside Brooklyn Bowl to try to buy a cigarette from someone. For some reason, once in Brooklyn I decided that I should ask if I could purchase a cigarette, rather than ask if I could bum one. I don’t know if that’s an indication of how I feel about Brooklyn or a result of the fact that for once I had money in my wallet. Either way, the British guys I met outside the venue would not let me purchase a cigarette, but gave me one for free… God bless them.

First I met Alistair Robinson (his real name, no joke!), who commented on the fact that we both have a lot of hair.

“WE COULD START A WIG COMPANY!!!” We yelled this in unison… Insta-friends. Really anytime someone wants to start a company that’s sure to fail with me, we become insta-friends. Then his friend Dan took over the conversation while Alistair went to find the ‘toilet.’ We had the usual conversation you have with British people about how Americans call it the ‘restroom’, haha, isn’t that funny, you don’t rest in there, what about the water closet? Oh you mean the WC? Cultural differences. OMG so fun!! 

Dan and I talked about how I mispronounced his name (“It’s Dahhhhn”), how he wasn’t from London (it turns out that not all British people are from London!) and then he started saying something about Americans and nationalism and I remembered that Chris was ordering food inside. At some point Dan accidentally head-butted me and I told him it’s ok, in America that’s like a handshake. I then promised him that I’d bring him a chicken wing even though I was uncertain as to whether or not Chris had ordered chicken wings (it’s like 3 to 1 odds in any drinking/dining scenario).

When I got inside Chris had not ordered chicken wings, but Dan came by and I have him a nacho. He head-butted me and then told me he loved me. Seriously, insta-friends with both of the British dudes.

Ok, here’s the part where I rate the venue.

If you haven’t been reading so long that you remember how it works, here’s how it works:

  • I go to a bar/club/venue.
  • I take pictures that are usually blurry because I’m a bad photographer/ have only an iphone/ am usually embarrassingly drunk.
  • I rate the club on a scale created entirely by me, using my criteria for going out. Keep in mind that I have the preferences of a 65 year old antisocial man, that my favorite bar is housed in a building that once caught on fire and no one evacuated, and that I usually write these lists in a state of still-drunk hangover while yelling that I could really use a mimosa right now.
  • Sometimes the list is disjointed because I lose focus searching seamless web to see if they deliver mimosas.
  • Based on my entirely made up scale, I calculate the score, most of the time incorrectly (re:hangover), and then completely disregard said score and give the place a rating of Best or Worst Club Ever based on my overall opinion.

Brooklyn Bowl:

In Brooklyn: -500 points

Cool stamp: +5 Points. Please disregard other stamps, the one we’re focusing on is the bowling pin stamp, even though the heart stamp is also quite cute.

Bouncer who didn’t take too long to inspect my passport: +20 Points. It’s a fucking passport people. Who gets a fake ID that’s a passport?

Mexican/Tribal-looking bowling pins: +30 points, and also some clapping and bouncing.

Potential for meeting new friends: +50 points. Seriously, those British dudes were awesome.

Number of Black Eyed Peas songs played (0): +27 points. The Black Eyed Peas are the worst. Every time “I Got A Feeling” plays, a puppy is euthanized.

Bad band that we had fun making fun of played: +52. I love every time the a band tries to be Kings of Leon post Brian Eno. There are only so many ways to rewrite old U2 songs, guys.

Bands that were good played:  +43. There were also good bands, probably because of CMJ.

I don’t know the name of the band but if they were on Pandora I wouldn’t skip their song.

Not having to bowl: +76. I didn’t have to bowl, which is awesome because I suck at and hate bowling.

Wishing I could have watched other people bowl: -32. I do wish I could have watched other people bowl while eating my nachos or listening to music. I guess you can’t have it all (without risking getting hit in the head with a bowling ball).

Not getting hit in the head with a bowling ball: +100. Well done, Brooklyn Bowl. I am like a magnet when it comes to injuries. The fact that I didn’t end up in the emergency room while drinking near heavy objects is a true testament of your risk-management team’s planning skills. I applaud you.

This thing: 

+8 points

One time I saw a fight between a Hasidic Jew and a bro from Jersey at Brooklyn Bowl: +78 points. It happened the last time I was there, but is definitely worth mentioning. Both got kicked out. It was totally the bro’s fault. It was totally awesome.

Having enough people in our group to take a cab (rather than the L) back: +700 points.

Final rating for Brooklyn Bowl: Best Club Ever

Brooklyn Bowl, come for the music (or bowling), stay for the food and friends and/or fights you might see between Hasidic Jews and bros, leave when you have enough people to split a cab ride back to Manhattan.

Drunk pirouettes by Chris and Mark. No idea why they did that…

Peace, love and happy Saturday,

BWCE

PS – If you’d like tips on how to use a fake British accent to get drinks from dudes, please comment. I will tell you everything.

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Wedding

Me: “We went down to the beach with a personal of Evan Williams and diet coke.”

Boyfriend: “There was not very much coke in that. That was mostly whiskey.
You had like five shots of whiskey. You went from telling me not to go into the ocean because it was choppy and dangerous to running into the ocean… With all your clothing on.”

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Let’s start a movement

I love when my friends get office jobs, because it means the frequency with which we communicate increases exponentially due to my favorite thing ever – GChat. Oh gchat, I love you so much I don’t think I can count the ways. If someone had told me that the only thing I liked about high school (AIM) was going to make a glorious reappearance during my young adult years, I would have put down whatever bag of candy I was stuffing into my face and jumped for joy.

Look at that little window. Look at how perfect it is!

So last week Nina started a new job, bringing her back into magical gchat land. The thing I particularly love about gchats is how you have these strange, fragmented dialogues about things that would otherwise only exist as thoughts in your own head. Eg. See above – Hibben is explaining to me that whole Lance Armstrong thing because I was too busy to read the news. Rather than spending 15 minutes reading the article, I got to learn all about ‘doping’ while I ate my lunch.

One of my favorite gchat conversations is the OMG GUESS WHO YOU SORT OF KNOW THAT JUST GOT ENGAGED, WHY IS EVERYONE GETTING MARRIED, ARE WE REALLY THAT OLD, NO, NO WE’RE NOT EVERYONE ELSE IS RUINING YOUTH FOR US, IS THERE A WAY FOR US TO PUBLICLY SHAME THEM? NO, WE’RE TECHNICALLY OLD ENOUGH THAT IT’S ACCEPTABLE AND ALSO I STILL KIND OF WANT TO BE INVITED TO THE WEDDING BECAUSE SARAH IS GOING TO BE THERE AND I HAVEN’T SEEN HER IN LIKE THREE YEARS, OH REALLY YOU HAVEN’T SHE LOST LIKE 10 POUNDS AND LOOKS GREAT conversation.

Nina and I were having one of those conversations the other day and somehow it came up that, while we’re entirely upset by the number of engagements on Facebook, we’re always thrilled when a gay couple gets engaged. It’s probably that whole ‘oh this is so beautiful, they’re exercising their newly granted rights, progress!!’ thing, but who knows. Either way, Nina brought up the amazing point that we should start an anti-straight marriage movement.

I’ve never started a movement before, but it seems like the type of thing I’d like to mention to my friend’s parents when I’m at home over the holidays.

“Tiffany, how’s New York?” 

“Oh, well you know, aside from living in the greatest city in the world AND having a fabulous social life, I’ve just been so busy with this movement that I started. It’s really tough to juggle so many things, but that’s the price you pay to give back… you know?” 

Sigh… It’d be so great… Ok, back to the movement. I’m thinking we need our message to be clear because Republicans, evangelicals, etc are under the impression that Liberals have managed to organize themselves into a war on marriage. They’re a group trying to destroy marriage. Nina and I don’t want to be that group… we’re the war against [straight] marriage. We need to make sure that the sanctity of marriage stays intact so that we can reserve it for the gays.

Because they deserve it, duh. And because of that one BuzzFeed article that’s not about Corgis but still made me cry.

I don’t know why I think it’s just their little legs that get my every time

So we came up with a motto that would separate us from any group that is (intentionally or not) warring on anything else. I wanted to call it Occupy Singledom but apparently that sounds like a knock-off of some other movement I’ve never heard of. Then I suggested we use social media and put a hashtag in front of OccupySingledom but noooo they’ve already thought of that one too. Damnit. Who are these geniuses? 

I guess we’ll just have to call it “Marriage is gay.” That will probably confuse a lot of Conservatives anyway.

Why do you want to wage a war on straight people getting married, you might ask? Well mainly because it makes us feel weird to know we could be married and popping out babies right now, but also because of the following statistic:

At least 90% of adults will get married at some point during the course of their lifetime. 

Think about if marriage were a disease. With a statistic like that, we’d all be totally doomed. And I’m starting to think it might be an illness. Think about all those marriage jokes our elders make, “The old ball and chain,” “Oh I’m in the doghouse tonight.” Sure, they’re smiling with their mouths, but look into their eyes. They’re screaming, they’re warning us.

And also think about what it does to single people. 

I’d like to consider myself less wedding-brained than most females, but I’ve still devoted countless day dreaming hours to planning my  wedding. Hundreds of millions of women are just roaming the planet, chasing the dragon of their dream wedding and if you mention to them for even a second that no, no you might not get to ride in on a pony, they will cut you.

Even if you’re not brainwashed to believe the your whole life is leading up to this one commitment and you’ll never be complete human without it (egs. men, feminists, people not raised in the south maybe), the idea that everyone around you is settling into an entirely different phase of life is universally terrifying. Ask the creator of the All My Friends Are Getting Married, I’m Just Getting Drunk Facebook group.

Maybe joining that group wasn’t the best idea

So here’s what I propose: No one gets married until at least 60. 

Because by then Facebook’s stock will have reached zero and we can quit feeling insecure about just everything ever.

Except for you, gays. You should get married today.

Seriously. GET MARRIED TODAY.

Is anyone else in? We apparently already have some followers – look at this chart on marriage rates for 20 somethings over the past few decades!

Now all we have to do is keep staying single, getting too drunk to meet people we actually connect with and spending the majority of our time watching made for Netflix movies while we pound boxes of takeout into our faces.

Easiest. Movement. Ever.

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Note to self: Don’t tell Online Dates about this blog

We were sitting across from one another at Big Bar in the East Village when I realized his interest  in me had turned to hatred.

“So… I guess I should just leave?”
“Yes.”
“Ok…. bye?”

I was a mess last night, which could have been predicted given my whole pre-date routine of ‘I’m drinking and having an emotional breakdown after hot yoga by myself in my apartment,’ but sometimes I don’t realize before it happens that my being a mess isn’t like, Zooey Deschanel adorable (Fuck you, Zooey! Why are you so cute that fucking COTTON wants you to represent it?!?). I was texting Nina tipsily my whole cab ride down about how much I was not in the date zone, how I’d be home in two hours, how Rutherford seemed super dumb. Yes, Rutherford… I make up names for all these guys and I’ve decided to just have fun with it because I’m running out of Johns and Kevins and because he really did have a weird name, even though it wasn’t Rutherford.

I realized pretty quickly upon meeting him that a lot of his stupidity was due to his being a recent Seattle-NYC transplant. People new to New York are like babies! I’m sure we wouldn’t like each other sober – he talked about himself a lot and asked me the worst questions… but then we started drinking. I really enjoy this part of my dating life; getting drunk with a total stranger is what I’d imagine a bartender experiences every night. Because we’ve only just met and we don’t know each other’s last names or social circles, the conversation gets more honest more quickly. I underestimated Rutherford until he admitted to me that he’d been on an online date RIGHT before meeting up with me. I high-fived him, because let’s be honest, anyone feels cool doing that. I went on two dates in one day last summer and I felt SO COOL and kind of evil but also in a cool way.

After that confession, most sentences started with “Since we’re being honest….” even though we weren’t telling each other anything that really needed the preface.

We smoked cigarettes outside and had idiotic conversations –

“Since we’re being honest…. I was fat in high school!”
“I was too! How fat?”
“175 pounds.”
“That is kind of fat – I got skinny around age 13.”
“Oh….you were much cooler than I was….”
“Yeah, I was kind of cool in high school. When did you lose your virginity?”
“I was almost 21. You?”
“Since we’re being honest… I was almost 17.”

I high-fived him here.

I didn’t think he liked me, because I didn’t like him, but when we got up to leave the restaurant he said something about there not being anything here (gesturing between the two of us) and I was like OMG I KNOW, RIGHT? I’M GLAD WE CAN BE HONEST.

And then he said, “I was joking? Wait.. you were joking right? Come have another drink with me?”

“Oh.. yeah. I was totally joking.” Some how that worked and we stumbled over to Big Bar.

I think it’s all the interviewing I’ve been doing that made me want to tell him at least one real thing about me. I’ve been answering all these questions about why I want to leave my job and where I see myself in 10 years and I’ve been lying through my teeth. I hate lying, and so before I knew it, the truth about why I go on online dates was tumbling out of my mouth at a terrifying speed.

“Since we’re being honest…”

I tried to backpedal after that, but there was no saving the conversation. I got up and saw myself out. I thought about feeling bad, but then I got into my cab and the super old Latino driver offered me a cigarette. He told me about how much he hated his job and how all he wanted to do in life is get drunk and watch tv. We bonded. I came home and threw up on my pillow… it’s been a weird week.

This morning I’m faced with a gross pillow and blurry thoughts of my conversation with Rutherford. Is telling someone, “This thing you think is a date isn’t really a date” any worse than when guys use online dating just to hook up with girls? I don’t think it is, but maybe I’m an asshole.

I’m going to comfort myself by thinking that Rutherford now has a story to tell his Seattle friends about crazy New York people. I had to wait until my fifth online date to have anything crazy happen so, YOU’RE WELCOME, Rutherford.

The great part of online dating is that when you fuck up royally as I did last night, you get to walk away with a feeling of lightness. I’ll likely never see Rutherford again, as long as I don’t eat at the restaurant where he’s a chef.

And since we’re being honest… I can’t afford that restaurant anyway.

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