I'm hip... err, hippy?

Last week, I basked in the sun and it was glorious. Not only do I claim a perfect tan, but I entered the world of blog awards. And what a wonderful world it is! The most recent honor bestowed on yours truly - A Blog With Heart Award (awwww, see column to right) - came from the ever talented Georgina of Dad's Second Whatever. Not only does this name crack me up but so do her posts. After you've sopped up enough of my drollery here, pop on over for a laugh c/o Georgina.

Now to a most disturbing matter at hand...

What started with a dress progressed to a pair of jeans and then yet another. The dress was snug on my hips, yet fit everywhere else. Like my favorite wool sweater that my mom shrunk a few weeks before (why my mom did my laundry at my age is another issue), the dress had become a mini version of itself… but in the hips area only.

Out of a suitcase stacked high with summer clothes came the jeans that confirmed my fear. I’d last laid eyes on them nine months ago, when I’d packed everything I owned and flew back home from living abroad. And for nine months, there they lay in wait, harboring their nasty little secret.

Or large secret, actually.

Apparently, I’ve put on a few. As the jeans pointed out when I struggled to button them. A bit of muffin topped their waistline, begging the question of had the dress really shrunk or had I expanded?

I’ve been told I wear thirty well. Age catches up to all of us, but people often guess me at 24 or 25 (hence, it's a game I like to play). I know my time is coming but am enjoying being behind the bell curve in this regard. However, like the curve of that bell, so grows the curve of my hips.

And on this issue, my jury is out – do I mind?

Hips are hot, right? J. Lo rocks them out and men like an hourglass figure, so do my new found hips warrant the freak out simmering below the surface?

Any apprehension I feel is surely to do with the fact I’ve never had hips. A booty and bit o’ belly have always resided near my waistline, but where hips would lie have been a pair of indents. I've not been boyish or rail-thin, just weirdly hipless, in a subtle way. So to find those dents are doming out is surprising, but not entirely unwelcome.

I also know a titch of fear comes from wondering if my hippier hips signal what’s to come – and that’s something I can’t deal with. There are limits to even my self-acceptance. But what to do? I’m unemployed and spend plenty of time working out, so to increase that would require superhuman powers I’m not privy to. Decreasing my diet would be… tragic. It’s non-negotiable. I eat well and I like it. But really, I cook healthily, rarely eat out and praise the gods of Cooking Light. I don’t think there’s room to compromise here.

So really, my only option is to come to terms with the new and older me. This is easier done when I don’t have the too-tight jeans or the anatomically impossible “shrunken” dress in front of me.

So, my jury is still out though I’m leaning towards acceptance. Where do you stand? In the early stages of aging, do we fight the good fight or learn to like what’s in the mirror no matter what?

I have a crush

To complete a week of soldier loving and cowboy dreaming, I’ll leave you with my current state involving yet another category of men:

I have a crush.

It’s true, I’m crushing hard right now. I guess, in a way, I always have been. I have an unyielding, completely biased, irrational and yet totally sensible love for gay men. All of them. I have yet to meet one I don’t love, so it may be one of those rare, unconditional and all encompassing loves that was heaven sent.

And while we’re on the topic of heaven and the big guy who calls it home, I’ll say that there is no room here for homo-haters. Not homophobes – because who is really afraid of gays? They’re hardly scary unless you know your roots need to be done or your shoes don’t match your purse. I mean homo-haters, just calling a spade a spade.

If you can’t open your mind to the choices others make in their hearts (and bedrooms), then you won’t like anything I’ve got to say. I’m new to the blogging world and realize there’s a price for shunning a portion of the readers I’m lucky to get, but it’s a price I’m happy to pay. If you like to hate on others (for any reason) go on and get out - shoo!!

But to all you other lovely readers who only care about what’s going on in your own bedroom, let’s get back to the topic at hand.

I’m about to make LOADS of generalizations, so brace yourself. If generalizations are the signature of bigots, then I’d like to offer myself up as a reverse-bigot, as every generalization I make is flattering… and true.

Hot Piece of Sass’s Official List of Gayzations

1. All gay men are funny.

I don’t really need to explain this, do I? We all know it’s true. But since I don’t ever make anything up (double dog swear), I’d like to provide an example.

For those who watch Kathy Griffin’s Life on the D-List, please recall the episode where Kathy visits Paula Dean’s house in Savannah. There we met Brandon Branch, Paula’s divine gay assistant. Wherever Brandon went, the camera followed the gentle tinkle of ice cubes in his G&T because the cameraman knew only funny things would ensue… and they did.

Brandon revealed that Paula frequently whips him with a switch of ornamental grass grown in her garden and that the condition where someone obsessively pulls their own eyelashes out is called (insert slur) “somethingwithatrickinit”.

But gay men don’t have to be drunk to be funny. I predict one day soon, geneticists will identify that the gene for humor is attached to the same chromosome as the gene for gayness, and that when both genes are expressed, gay comedy follows.

2. All gay men are emotionally sensitive.

Not in the sappy-cry-over-lame-movies way. These are men we’re talking about and sensitivity does not rule out masculinity OR rule in femininity. Gay men care about what others are going through. Or at least they tend to care about what I’m going through. They listen to my troubles, sympathize with my feelings and offer rational solutions alongside a witty comment or two.

During a recent pity party I hosted to celebrate my unemployment, a friend sent the following post to my Facebook wall while he stood in the middle of a sweaty gay bar*:

My friend just got fired from dollar drink night and is crying on the street. He MAY have it a little worse than you right now.

*Please note that I realize “sweaty” and “gay bar” are redundant. No need to point out my obvious error.

3. All gay men notice what you’re wearing.

This is a primary reason I love them. When the effort was spent to look damn good, gay men will offer the nod of recognition you’re looking for. Girls will do this too, but plenty will hold back the compliment for various reasons (jealousy, ambivolence or because they’re taking mental notes on how to copy your look).

I imagine gay men have Terminator-like vision when it comes to fashion and appearance. They take you in systematically, viewing every detail through computerized, night-visiony goggles:

Target identified: skinny bitch

Assessment: Patent heels, belted dress, bangle plus earrings – computing – match successful

Action: no action needed, skinny bitch is looking fine

When we are awarded their approval, every woman glows just a little. We all seek the gay stamp of approval to some degree. But it’s not flattery gay men are offering in these compliments – it’s fact. They notice the details, so when the details add up to an A+, they’ll tell you.

Likewise, when the details don’t add up at all (assessment: lipstick on teeth, frizzy hair, and excessively hideous scarf) the Terminator in them is gonna notice (action: help the skinny bitch out!) and then tell you how to do it better.

(psst - they may be nice about it, but trust me, they’re judging you)

4. Gay men don’t hold back.

Again, too obvious. Don’t need to go further… but I will. Or, more so, I’ll add to my own observation. Gay men will say everything on their minds at any time, with the exception of situations that turn catty – then they say everything on their mind in a hushed whisper.

And if you’re close enough to catch the tirade, it’s usually a gem. Holding back isn’t very gay.

5. 99.9% of gay men are gorgeous.

No words needed, for reals.

6. 99.9% of gay men are successful.

Ever notice that? I don’t think it’s just the circle I run in, because even the gays who are bike messengers seems to eat out in spiffy restaurants and wear expensive sneakers. I wonder if this has something to do with the determination one must have to face adversity (foreign concept for my white girl self) and how that translates to all aspects of life. Or maybe there’s a cultural motivation, because gay society can be viciously critical. Whatever the reason, most gay men I know are doing it well – dressing well, traveling well, and living well.

7. Gay men are super fun to vacation with.

They love exotic locations, aren’t afraid to spend a buck and love laying out and shopping as much as you do. Their gaydar can locate a drag show no matter what country you’re in (the Vatican included) and they alert you to every man worth checking out in a five-mile radius. You may not get lucky on your vacay, but you’ll have more fun than with your boyfriend.

8. Gay men love me.

Umm… what can I say? So far it’s true and is directly proportional to my love for them. Surely there’s one out there somewhere who won’t like me but I’m operating under a perfect batting average. Wait – sports lingo really has no place here. Let’s start over. If I had a pair of shoes for every gay man I’ve ever met who adored me (as I adore them), my shoe closet would be precisely as fabulous as it is now. Proof positive!

9. Gay and Broadway are synonymous.

… which makes me want to call it Broadgay from now on. Gay mens’ love of jazz hands, show tunes and bedazzled head dresses is so extensive and wide-spread it probably shares the gay/humor chromosome, too. Some things are too ingrained to NOT be genetically linked.

10. All gay men like to talk about sex.

(Background music: Salt n’ Pepa Let’s Talk About Sex)

Maybe everyone likes to talk about sex, but gay men want the details. And here’s the one – count it, one and only – gayzation I’ll break today. All gay men are NOT promiscuous hobags. Sure, most are, but all are not. I’m friends with a few who are more prudish than me. Yes, people, be shocked by that, please.

In the same way that everyone has their own unique personality, we all have our own unique approach to sex. Some are all in, others hold back, and then there are about a million marks (on bedposts and elsewhere) in between.

But even the most sexually reserved gays want to talk about sex. And again, they don’t hold back.* Details are required, measurements a must, and mental pictures painted with precision.

Was his tattoo tribal or gaelic? (cause it matters)

Was his soldier wearing a hat?

Are we talking pinky-finger-tiny or cocktail-weiner-tiny?

If a martini were placed on his ass, would we have vodka-soaked bed sheets or a rock hard ass as a coaster?

*see gayzation numero quarto

I love lists but I also love round numbers, so while I could go on and on, I’ll cap it at ten. Truth is, if I went on you’d begin to see the real me. The me that adores gay men to the extent it borders on serial-killers-who-collect-menageries-of-people-they’re-obsessed-with. If it didn’t make me a crazy bitch, I’d probably have a menagerie of my own. They’d be incredibly well-dressed, make witty comments at all hours and send the gentle jingle of G&T’s throughout the house. Come to think about it, all I have to do is get rich and famous and call my collectibles “personal assistants”. Brilliant concept, Paula Dean!

Scrappy Sass

Apparently, I'm blogtastic!

I've been given another blog award - yay! - by La Belle Mere, a truly scrappy woman if I've ever seen one. The Honest Scrap award, which can be seen in the right hand column comes with a few stipulations: 1) share ten things about yourself and 2) pass along the award to ten deserving bloggers with honest scrap.

I'm nothing if not a follower of rules - okay, that's crap but I subscribe to anything asking me to talk about me - so carry on, shall we?

To learn ten tidbits about me. proceed to: Honest Scrap: 10 Things About Little Ol' Me

Then check out these fab blogs who I adore. Being only a couple months into the world o' blogs, I'm still working on building a list of blogs I follow regularly. And then half of those are already sporting this very award! So I came up with nine, a few of which have probably already been awarded this before, but as I don't see it on their blogs currently they're getting one from me!

Moms Fighting Fat - Truly honest and hilarious, this one on leaky pee killed me!

Taunt - Honest? Check. Scrappy? Check check! She's a favorite of mine, please don't miss the post on porn for the blind.

Make Mine a Mojito - I adore this blog as much as I adore mojitos, and we share a fondness for ultrathin Sharpies.

Lulaville - One look at this blog and you'll think "honest scrap" so read on and you'll laugh like I do.

Confessions of a Pagan Soccer Mom - A great blog and Mrs. B is such a doll, answering all my questions about her witchy ways. Color me fascinated!

Travel Sights With Lilly - Incredible insights on travel spots I dream of, from a woman with the cojones to live in Saudi Arabia.

You. Me. No Adult Supervision - For all the things I'm too chicken to say, I go to Sally who puts it all out there for us to ponder... and laugh ourselves onto the floor.

I Pick Pretty - And indeed she does... plus she loves ponies, too. I noticed a friend wearing a truly remarkable dress recently and, a week later, find it here! This girl is gooood.

Please go visit these wonderful blogs and thanks for stopping by here. And to those I awarded (I hardly feel official enough to use that word) please spread the scrappy love. I'll be stopping by with hopes of reading your 10 things soon!

Kisses,

Me

I ♥ GI Joe

Soldiers are sexy.

It needed to be said, so I said it.

There’s just something about them… is it the camo? For shiz. The sacrificing of self for our safety? Oh yeah, big time. The short hair, muscled forearms and their very own “trigger finger”? Yum yum.

"Trigger finger" just sent me into a tizzy.

As if those two words aren’t enough, let’s consider their additional skill sets. They are manly men who are highly trained in operating heavy machinery – tanks, helicopters and (steady yourself) fighter planes. Strategizing through life or death situations, not just around the office water cooler, sets our service men above the rest. And being able to survive in extreme conditions - oh daddy! Soldiers even make bug eating sexy.

Then there’s how they move. Oh yeah, the wall-creeping, crouched jog thing while toting a heavy gun and strapped with ammo – higgity hot. Scaling walls, climbing ropes and dropping from planes into hostile territory – hubba hubba. And belly crawling under barbed wire surely instills some agility in horizontal motion, if you know what I mean. It’s a theory I’m willing to test.

When I watch movies about soldiers or see them in the news, I get worked into a proper state. Strewn somewhere between a bit turned on and a teary-eyed sap, I become an emotional wreck. Reports on rising death counts or our beloved bravest being held captive by evil Taliban mama-boys pulls on my heartstrings and, before I know it, I’m sniveling over a box of tissues. And I’m not a crier. Sappy movies, mean words and personal rejection barely elicit a sniffle. But show me a wounded soldier or a (can barely type it) flag-covered casket and I lose it. Instant hot mess.

Watching and waiting for news of Pvt. Bowe Bergdahl who is being held captive in Afghanistan by those Taliban turkeys is really pissing me off. I fear for him and his family. I worry that the price he is paying for the freedom of others is too high for us all to accept.

And I think he’s pretty damn cute, too.

During the Gulf War, my 80+ grandma said, “It’s just a damn shame. Have you seen those boys being sent over there? There are some real lookers!” I have to say, my grandma was point on.

Did anyone see Kathy Griffin visit wounded soldiers on her show, My Life on the D List? Kathy lost it. Even the most smart ass girl on TV stopped full in her tracks when she recognized what freedom cost those who protect it. Then, in the midst of all that tragedy, these guys started cracking jokes! What’s sexier than a guy who chooses to laugh in spite of his circumstances? And what men (aside from gay men) ever give Kathy Griffin a run for her money? I mean, who knew the armed forces recruited comedians?

Okay, sappy part over. We’ve established there’s a place for our country’s finest in my heart. And there’s probably also one in my bed. I don’t mean I’m Ho Harbor and all sailors are welcome to dock their ship in my port. I’m a virtuous woman, or can’t you tell? I’m just sayin’, when a man in camo begins to smile my way, my panties disappear. Either they fly off or vaporize or drop instantly. I can’t be sure. I’m too busy eyeing up his trigger finger.

When it comes to soldiers, I’m like a rock band’s groupie or a bull rider’s buckle bunny. I’m all starry eyed hero-worship and irrational thinking. So kill me, I’m a patriot, a sucker for soldiers.

To all you soldiers out there, shoot me an email… kidding people! (but then maybe I’m not)

And to all the wives of soldiers out there, your honeys are safe from me and I applaud you for landing such a stud!

(Please know that I realize women are in the armed forces and are equally cool and fab… and they can kick my butt for sure. But I’m talking sexy here and, for me, that means rock hard, camo-wearing GI Joes. Sorry, soldier sisters.)

Friendly Thievery

What, you say? Me? Little ol’ me? No no, there must be some mistake. Surely you mean the other piece of sass – the fresh one or the nice one or the Beyonce-caliber-booty one?

Yours truly has been bestowed an award (see column to right) by a classy dame I totally admire – La Belle Mere. By admire I mean utterly adore and can’t wait to call to teatime next time I pop across the Atlantic to visit the Queen (and Harry, naturally). Where as I pride myself on covering the single, American sassy side of things, La Belle Mere’s got the married, French realm of sass well in place. Her lucky husband probably counts his blessings daily (hopefully by buying her presents).

The new friends I’ve made in this crazy world of blogging prove a longstanding theory of mine: I have the best friends of all, ever.

My non-virtual ones (i.e. the ones I can see and touch and convince to buy lattes for me) can’t be topped – they’re the best of the best, fabulous in every way, and funny funny funny. Don’t try to say “oh no, mine are better!” because, sorry, they’re not. If you met my friends, you’d want to be their friends, too. I still wonder how I got into the cool club and managed to convince these glorious fools I’m their equal (hopefully, they’ll skip this post and not find me out).

The new friends I’m making via blog-bonding are turning out to be equally fabulous. And perhaps the best part of blog buds is you can prescreen them and know all their nitty gritty before deciding if you really want to know them. Ah, if only in real life…

On the topic of friendship – a topic that reigns supreme in my life - I’ve been acquiring friends through a new avenue recently – thievery.

My living situation is limbo, at best. While I sort out the details of what zip code to call my own, I’ve flittered about the country trying this one and that one on for fit. After all, I’m a girl who knows how to sleep shop around. Stopping off in various friends’ hoods, I’ve met their friends and promptly shoplifted the ones I loved.

Like computer-based comrades, stolen friends are pre-screened – nary a dud to be had! This method has allowed me to count several superbly sassy New Yorkers in the ranks, one glorious gay man from Chicago who I have yet to actually meet (Warning: the earth may quake on August 9^th when our pernicious paths finally cross) and a beyond spunky pilot’s wife who arrived in my life after years of tall tales from mutual friends. There are many others, but you get the drift. Friends share, so share your friends – with me!

One middleman (i.e. lifelong friend and provider of said sassy New Yorkers) recently called me out on my pilfering ways. Have no fear, she wasn’t about to cart me off to the pokey. It came about over the phone when I declared, “Well, Phillip said that…” and she interrupted to say “but you’ve never even met Phillip!”

Caught red-handed…

Now do what friends do and meet my new lovely friend: La Belle Mere

(psst, you can steal her, too!)

Shape up, Fitness mags

My family is semi-addicted to fitness magazines. My sister subscribes to several and routinely alerts me to promising pool workouts for the pool and lunges one can do in an office setting. She scurries around the parks of Baltimore putting walking workouts to the test, using benches for tricep push-ups, trees for leg presses and sleeping hobos for step-ups.

My mom doesn’t do any of this aside from the subscribing part, which she does quite well. The most regular routine she implements is dog earring pages of workouts to do later. She does, however, scan the pages for tidbits that will make life more tolerable. When I had a headache recently, she asked if it was radiating from the neck or the temples, because a recent health magazine said that chewing almonds could alleviate one of these - she couldn’t remember which.

I’d have rolled my eyes if my head hadn’t hurt so badly. Instead, I ate a few almonds with my ibuprofen.

While I read the fitness mags that lay about their houses, I don’t ever buy them myself. This is especially dangerous to admit as one of my dearest friends works and writes for one of the very mags I’m herein slandering. I read her stuff religiously… in the checkout line.

The crux of my criticism comes from the covers. Say that ten times fast. But really, any motivation I have to eat better or work out harder is squashed just by looking at the covers.

The headlines stir up a wave of doubt. “Flatten Your Belly FAST” tops one recent copy, which leaves me wanting a definition of “fast.” I’ve been trying to flatten this belly for thirty years so can I really believe that by doing the tear-out twenty-minute exercise my belly will be “busted” away in four short weeks?

I’m so sure.

Another cover recently announced “Banish Cellulite For Good” which elicits a fingernails-on-chalk-board caliber scream from the depths of my flabby belly. When cellulite is the consequence of linearly arranged collagen, can the cure to our lack of cross-linking come from the pages of a magazine? I mean, isn’t the only cure to cellulite to reduce one’s body fat percentage to that of an anorexic Greyhound? Or simply to never accumulate fat at all – ever?

(noto bene: apparently, there’s a small (we’re talking tinier than tiny) percentage of men who get cellulite, too. maybe this will make all cellulite-bearing women feel better about it, in a small (we’re talking tinier than tiny) way. then again, maybe not.)

And then we have the lovely ladies who grace the covers. Even without the airbrushing and retouching, we know these chicks are fabulously fit. So why the touch ups?

The fitness magazines create an unattainable ideal in their cover images, showcasing these superwomen as society’s physical goal. If these nearly perfect women were left as is – nary an airbrush allowed – I’d find these magazines more appealing. But when nearly perfect has to be tweaked to perfectly perfect, the hypocrisy of it sends me running (but not in an athletic way).

If you really want to inspire me to do better - and hence buy your magazine to find out how - give me a realistic goal. Show me a woman who is the real deal – a runner with a bum knee in a sweaty Neoprene brace who still manages to get the job done or a girl who swims 3000 meters a few days a week and knows she’s fit despite eternally remaining size 12. If those women are doing it, I can, too. Because really, perfection is just plain defeating.

Hi Honey, it's nice to meet you

At the root of all romantic matters, girls are girls. Striving to hide the qualities we detest in our own sex is all well and good, but it’s kinda like wearing a jersey knit dress sans Spanx. Some things can’t be hidden, no matter how much you suck it in.

We’ve all tried to be the perfect girl in a budding relationship. Efforts are made to not call too often, not expect too much too soon and not appear insecure about… anything. Easy, breezy, beautiful, we’re all cover girls – covering all our insecurities with an air of casual confidence.

And for a while, we succeed.

But life has a knack for challenging even the coolest of cucumbers. A friend recently made a decent go of appearing perfect for about five months. Impressive effort! Even in the face of a covetous ex-girlfriend who openly wanted to steal her boyfriend back, my friend’s laidback attitude and unfaltering smiles left her boyfriend thinking he had finally found the perfect girl.

And perfect she is - flaws and all.

But, like all women, she wasn’t really okay with his ex circling their relationship like a vulture waiting to steal the prize. She wasn’t really okay with him planning a vacation to Canada – a vacay she couldn’t get off work for - with a couple and a girl other than herself. And while she wasn’t really okay with the foursome dynamic of these travel companions, she was beyond not okay when she discovered the added girl “friend” was the ex-girlfriend!!

Superhuman confidence and trust is required for any woman to be okay with this sitch. Which begs the question does this guy have cognitive function? Could he really have believed any woman to be this secure in herself? Or was he just seeing what he wanted to see?

The two weeks he was out of town left my friend nauseous from nerves and tossing and turning instead of sleeping peaceful Z’s. The act was finally up. Miss Perfect was kicked to the curb by Insecure Sally, whose latest obsession was calculating the time between text messages. (Sally’s assessment: far too long)

Seeking reassurance, she called me. I’m a happy shoulder to cry on, a lover of listening to the woes of my friends and an avid advisor in all things tricky in life. Do I take my own advice? Of course not (where’s the fun in that?!) but the advice is usually semi-sound nonetheless. And maybe a bit sassy, too - imagine that.

After getting the recap, full of worries that he cheated and her declaration that the relationship must be over and she just didn’t know it yet, my assessment ran something as follows:

“The cart is officially before the horse. Let’s back up a minute because we don’t know he cheated or that the relationship must end. In fact, we’ll never know if he cheated. Sorry, but I can’t tell you that he was faithful. I have no idea if he was or not, and I don’t think you ever will either. We can only hope he was, and after you talk to him about it – because you have to talk about this – your gut will tell you what happened.”

The prospect of talking to him about her weeks of worry meant the gig was up. Female insecurities were lining up wanting their say in the matter. This far in the game, shutting those bitches up was near impossible. He was going to see my friend as she really is, insecurities and all.

About time, right?

Why we build ourselves up to impossibly perfect is beyond me. I do it too, so no judgment here, but rarely do I so willingly set myself up for failure in life. And when we consider what an indiscriminating audience we perform this act for, I gotta ask, what do we get in return? The company of a man who doesn’t really know us? A man who stands by your side, so long as you’re perfect at all times?

Aren’t we doing ourselves a disservice by delaying an honest introduction? Imagine that after five months of thinking you know your significant other, they offer their hand and introduce themselves.

But I digress. My friend was at a loss for the convo she knew was in her near future. She wanted a script, naturally – cause who doesn’t? And she wanted the script to keep her appearing as close to perfect as possible.

If I could’ve written her a script, it’d have been Oscar-worthy. Plenty of opportunity for poignant pauses and wistful looks of disappointment. Numerous phrases so righteous they could’ve been followed by the Law & Order duhn-dun!

The facts are, my good people, this is an open and shut case. No man is that oblivious. Vacationing with an ex who continues to chase your tail is too much for any girlfriend to endure. And it’s a situation no man would fair well, either.

While no official script was written, I suggested she explain in simple terms how the situation would be if roles were reversed. For flair, she could add something about how successful relationships stem from trust, in that both people agree to trust each other AND give each other reasons to be trusted. It’s a two way street she’s hoping they can take together.

Surely, he’ll drop to his knees and kiss her feet with apologies and promises of renewed commitment. After she rolls her eyes at his pathetic apology, maybe she’ll extend her hand and say, “Hi, it’s nice to meet you. This is the real me.”

Intoxicated Insights

Drunken advice is, by nature, not to be taken. Sadly, only drunk people seek it so it’s a lose-lose situation. Recently a victim of taking such advice, the harsh light of the following morning brought me shudders of shame along side a pounding headache.

Past liquored insights have ranged from “you’re totally okay to drive” to “you should definitely text him right now.” This night’s well-intentioned wisdom involved a cute bartender and my digits scrawled on a tiny scrap of paper.

I have nothing against bartenders – my sister even married one. I’m sure they are wonderful people. But, aside from my brother-in-law, I’ve never seen them as digit-worthy. It’s a stigma we can largely blame on Cocktail and other movies portraying bartenders as good-looking Herpes dispensers. One can only assume such a steady stream of liquor-loosened ladies would tempt even the most moral man. So, am I wrong to think most bartenders get luckier than leprechauns?

Aside from the luck of the Irish (bars, that is), bartenders are lacking in what girls want most – genuine intentions. When it’s their job to look delicious, exude charm and be attentive, can one really think a bartender’s smiles are meant solely for her? An income largely based on tips deems this unlikely.

A flirtatious bartender surely smiles the same smile to you as any other woman. An equal opportunity act like this is understandable in terms of generating income, but no sensible girl wants attention from the bartender who is serving it up to everyone else. Not wanting to be just another woman to any man, my expectations of the men serving me drinks stays at an honest pour.

This particular night, my expectations changed.

After our pint glasses had seen far too many refills, my friend urged me to give him my phone number. Harmless enough, right? After all, the dark-eyed bartender had been flirting with me all night. Hadn’t he kept my glass of water full whereas hers ran dry repeatedly? Hadn’t he chatted me up every time she dawdled to the dance floor? Some things are so transparent even a drunken haze can’t obscure them.

Or maybe not.

Here are two versions of what followed next:

As seen from my eyes: I sauntered around the corner of the bar where he was on the phone calling us the cab we requested. Casually, I leaned against the wall and coyly twirled a lock of my hair. As he talked with the cab company, I smiled at him my best I’m-so-shy-I-never-do-this-sort-of-thing smile. He asked my name, then smiled and jokingly asked if I was related to the former president. I suavely asked if he’d like to buy me a drink sometime, to which his smiled widened and he said he’d love to. Throughout all this smiling, he handed me a piece of paper and pen, asking for my number. Shortly after, my friend and I sexily strutted out of the bar.

As seen from his eyes: “The cab company put me on hold again. I don’t have time for this. I still got the bar to clean if only these drunken losers would go home already. What’s this girl doing staring at me? Does she have something stuck in her hair? Why is she pulling at it like that? I should’ve cut her off an hour ago - the wall is the only thing holding her up. Thank God she's taking a taxi home. She thinks I’m asking her name because I want to know it, but really the cabby just asked for it. Oh, here it goes again. These drunk women always think I want their numbers. Maybe she’ll tip me more if I take it. Wow, did she just trip on her way to the door?!”

Such realizations the morning after would be funny if laughing didn’t hurt a hungover head so badly. Drunken self-perception is quite comical, as we feel prettier, wittier and more coordinated than perhaps we really are. Cause really, drunk is rarely pretty or witty, and we all know it’s a far cry from coordinated.

I know this won’t be the last time I wake to an aching head full of regrets. My drunken alter ego has a tendency to give and take intoxicated insights. She walks the fine line between a good time and an utter embarrassment. She also drops the f-bomb far too often and forgets to close out her tab. These are things I don’t expect to change. But at least for the near future, I suspect I won’t be handing out my number to any bartenders.

Honest Scrap - 10 things about little ol' me

1. I love coffee and wine equally and could never give either up. Beer is a close second, tea (only on cold days) a 3rd.

2. Bread products of all forms consume my life.

3. Directly related to numbers 2&3, I work out solely to support my consumption of these things.

4. If I don't travel to every continent at least a few times in this life, I'll consider myself a failure.

5. Pedicure + mimosa = heaven

6. I'm pretty sure a bikini waxer once felt me up.

7. I have a strong, unyielding, completely biased love for gay men.

8. If I were a superhero, my power would be ordering Starbucks drinks at lightening speed.

9. Growing up, I was obsessed with wearing white gloves and am thinking it may be time to bring that back.

10. A really good day in my book always involves afternoon drinking.