playing straight.

I will, on occasion, enjoy the atmosphere of a straight bar or club to appease those heteros I allow to be my friends. I will not, however, do this with the same sober gusto I am able to approach the gay scene with. So when the plan arose to hit up Clery's for an (ironically gay) friend's birthday, I ravaged my fridge in search of ingredients for a pre-outing beverage. I settled on tequila and iced tea. Which, as it turns out, is the most delicious concoction derived from desperation ever made. Tequila is also a great kick starter for a night of pretending to be straight. Which is exactly what I do in order to get free drinks at straight bars.

I know, that makes me sound like a little bit of an asshole. Those poor poor boys. Wasting their money and effort on a girl who will never, ever sleep with them. (Maybe I will. Youdonknowme.) (I won't.) But I feel strangely compelled to take advantage of this "people buying drinks for me" thing when I have the chance, since this is a phenomenon that does not exist in the gay world. Seriously, when was the last time you were at a gay bar and some chick came up and bought you a drink because she was either enjoying a conversation with you, or wanted to enjoy a conversation with you? Never. I don't know if lesbians are too cheap, too insecure, or just flat out confused about who the hell is supposed to buy a drink for who in the absence of a set of balls, but a beverage is rarely offered. Maybe we think we don't even need to liquor our targets up to get them home with us (My god, are we that easy? Someone say no. Someone?). I personally try to buy a drink for someone I'm enjoying talking to every now and then just to attempt to break this mold and make some semblance of an effort (60% of the time, it works every time).

But I digress...
On to Clery's.

Upon arrival we went to the bar to buy a round of shots for our group, which Amanda and our other friend were going to throw $20 each in for.
          AMANDA (to friend): I'll pay for most of this round, you can keep the change.
          BARTENDER (misunderstanding):  Thanks a lot!
          AMANDA:  Oh...Um...Uh........Ok.
The change was about $10, which is the best tip ever for what he made.

Bad Decision: Audibly using the phrase "keep the change" within earshot of a bartender.
Better Bad Decision: Biting your tongue when your wallet tells you to correct the misunderstanding.

This immediately paid off, when we went to order more drinks and post some friendly conversation with the bartender, he told us how nice we were and offered to buy our whole group a round of shots.
First free drink of the night. Bam.
And although he asked us to stay in the upstairs with him (did he really think one round of shots was going to keep us? Where's the next round buddy?), we moved onward to the downstairs dancing level of the bar.
Now Clery's contains some sort of endless line time warp. You wait in a line to get in, and then once you're in...you wait in another line to get to the downstairs floor to dance. I haven't seen this level of strange line organization anywhere else, and I'm not so sure I understand it. But this is what happened when I was forced to participate in it:

You've been waiting in this line for 40 minutes and you're thirsty?

Here, I'll share.

The last time I was downstairs at Clery's, a "blinged out" gentleman gave me a small round gift of some herbs wrapped in plastic. While in my head I thought, "How nice. A tiny plant.", out loud I held it in the air, waved it around, and yelled over the music "WHAT IS THIS?". To which he looked around sketchily, told me with frustration to put it in my pocket, and ran away. Sorry buddy, that's what you get for trying to be a baller to a clueless white girl. And apparently being a clueless white girl is how you score free....tiny plant.

This time I headed straight to the back bar to refill, where I waited literally 20 minutes to be served. It was busy, and I am adamantly against being one of those people who waves money at bartenders, or raises their hand, or yells at them. That would be beyond annoying if you were them. I just stand and look at them until I make eye contact, and then smile. This works well when it's not so busy that they have lost eyesight from vodka fumes.

While I was waiting, the guy next to me asked if I would like for him to buy my drink. Heck yes I want you to buy my drink. That's $7 more dollars I can spend on another drink later. So when we finally got served he paid for my beverage and I had an obligatory 15 minute conversation with him. A straight girl I used to know would accept drinks from anyone and then when they tried to talk to her/hit on her after the drink was purchased she would tell them, "You bought a drink, not a conversation" and walk away.

So badass. I wish I had the bitch-factor to pull that off.

But I already feel guilty enough for being gay and him not knowing it. My misrepresentation keeps me there talking in an effort to pay off my drink gift with words, smiles, and eyelash flutterings. I can't help it. And I've seen other gay friends of mine fall into the same drink for conversation exchange as well. Homo guilt. It's a bitch.

Life Lesson: If you're a dude and you buy a gay girl a drink, you ARE buying a conversation. If you're a chick and you buy a gay girl a drink, she's probably still going to sleep with that girl next to you who looks like Justin Beiber.

It's a jungle out there.

-LSLP, Ash.

police just want to be friends.

As you may have picked up in previous posts, I have a love-hate relationship with the police. I am attracted to the uniform (c'mon, who isn't?), I am attracted to the beautiful blue lights on the cruisers (like a fly to a bug zapper), I get let off of tickets in some of the most outrageous circumstances, and I have a good friend who is a cop. These are the "love" aspects.

Objects in mirror may be less scary than they appear.

Then there is the "hate". The chasing, the mocking, the mass speeding tickets, the refusal to let me win in court, the loss of license 3 separate times, and the recent intensity of the desire to pull me over.

This is where I would like to focus in. On the recent influx of pull-overs I have been experiencing. I don't understand. I've been driving the exact same way for the past 3 years since I lost my license the last time and have successfully avoided being pulled over. ...until now. Recently my life has gotten a little messier, partying has increased 80% or so, and it's like THEY KNOW. It's as if they are sitting there on the side of the road watching cars go by and when they see mine they are all, "Yup, that's the one. That girl could use a reality check." Even though I am driving calmly along (OK fine, sometimes driving calmly along).

Cops also seem to think I am dangerous/sketchy/hott enough to whip their cars around in the middle of the road to chase after me bank robbery style. Do they know how much that makes me think I am in a movie? Or how much that increases the odds of me taking off full speed while Prodigy plays as the soundtrack to my life? If you push me even a little bit, I WILL think I am in Fast and the Furious. You've been warned.

So for the second time in a short time period, this is how I got pulled over. (For the first 5-0 flip around see here.) My friend Elle and I were on our way to see my roommate's band play in the middle of nowhere, and we were making a stop off to have a drink with some friends before going to the bar. We didn't want to be those assholes who never bring anything, so we grabbed a half-drunk bottle of vodka from the fridge and hit the road. This may also be classified as an "open container" in certain legal circles (aka, the law). So when the cop flipped around in the middle of the road, hit those blues, and started coming for us I freaked out like a 19 year old coming home from a house party and yelled, "HIDE THE BOOZE. PUT THE VODKA IN THE GLOVE COMPARTMENT." To be clear, we were not drinking the vodka; we had not had a single drop yet. We were just concerned that the presence of an unsealed bottle of vodka in my cup holder may raise some questions.

Bad Decision: Carrying around open bottles of booze as if they are Starbuck's lattes.
Better Bad Decision: Stashing the open bottles in your glove compartment when you get pulled over.

.....wait, no. That's still a bad decision. That's where you keep the registration, you mess of a human.

When he asked for the registration there was a noticeable pause as the realization of our mistake hit both Elle and I. I casually leaned on the steering wheel and asked Elle to please get my registration for me. Elle earned some major points that night. She was able to find it and remove it from the glove compartment without ever exposing the vodka bottle. The ensuing terror/amusement went like this:
        
         OFFICER: How come you were going so fast?
          ME: Oh you know how us girls are. We were just caught up in a conversation and lost track of speed. How fast was I going?
          OFFICER: 59 in a 40.
          I stared expectantly at him hoping he would quote Anchorman and tell me he wasn't even mad, it was amazing. He didn't. So I covered for him.
          ME: That's impressive!
          ................
          ME:  No?
          OFFICER:  Where are you ladies headed?
          ELLE:  To see our friend's band play.
          OFFICER:  What's the name of the band?
          Awkward glance between Elle and I.
          ME & ELLE: ....Special Ed.

He looked at us like we were slightly insane. Just a couple girls, driving at the speed of light, into the middle of nowhere, chatting like bored housewives, to see "Special Ed." Well, to be fair, we might be.

He came back in less than 2 minutes, and the first words out of his mouth were, "MAN, you have a shitty driving record!" To which I replied that I was going to warn him but didn't get a chance, and Elle appropriately burst into hysterical laughter. We take speeding very seriously. Miraculously he didn't give me a ticket, saying that his daughter had just called to say goodnight and that we were lucky. I'm not sure if his daughter actually did call, or if he was just so amused by us that he needed an excuse to let our 19mph-over asses go.
Regardless, we finally made it to the bar to see the band play and a night that could have gone downhill very quickly ended up like this instead:

I rock the bar, that rocks the townies.

You rock the bar, that rocks the townies!

I also got pulled over on my bike a few days later for cutting cars, and again no ticket. I'm becoming convinced that these police officers are just lonely and looking for a pal. I'll be your friend, Mr. Officer, but do we have to go about it this way?

Life Lesson: Your registration should be kept in the center console. The glove compartment is better used for locking away contraband.

As it should be.

-LSLP, Ash.

3 weeks

That's the answer.
The question was, "How many weeks do I have to wait before it is socially acceptable to return?" Which is what I asked myself in the last blog I wrote about NYC. So yes, I went back this past weekend to visit Mess and Julia again. Now if you're thinking, "who goes to NYC twice in one month just to drink?" I would tell you that, first of all, this was technically April and a different month, and secondly Irina has been going to DC every weekend, so at least I am showing some semblance of self control when compared to her (Sorry Irina, totally threw you under the bus there. You liked it.).

I decided to try a different method of getting into New York this time, which required me to sit on a train for 2 hours. I love anything with a motor...if I'm driving it. If not, I basically have to focus all my energy on trying not to vomit for 95% of the ride. Motion is not my friend. To compensate for this I took a Dramamine pill, thinking that it would help me feel semi-normal for the train ride and allow me to step onto solid ground, at the top of my game, ready to party.
Except for one minor detail. Alcohol is not motion-sickness-pills friend.

Go ahead. Drink me. You're brain will be totally more sharp after.

On the back of the box in tiny little lettering it says:
          "avoid alcoholic beverages"
and:
          "alcohol may increase drowsiness"

What it should have said was, "WHEN MIXED WITH ALCOHOL, CATALYZES TO BECOME ROHYPNOL." Because that was the effect.
Two martini's were poured into my mouth immediately upon exiting the train station (we literally went to the closest bar possible), which left me feeling a five martini drunk-level. The rest of the night is a haze due to the Dramamine-vodka induced walking coma in which I maneuvered it within, but I do remember asking every bar employee I met, "What's your name?" and getting the response, "What's YOUR name?" every time. Which leads me to believe I may have appeared fairly sketchy and probably looked as drugged as I felt. I also might have danced with a large, African bouncer while he rapped the Notorious B.I.G. to me. Normal.
What I don't remember, is an entire bar that we went to. One whole bar. Gone.
Oh, I also remember taking a power nap at one point...while sitting up, in the middle of a conversation, in the middle of a bar.
Please, like you haven't ever had that urge.
 -------
 The next morning we participated in a giant pillow fight. There's not much more to say about this other than, I PARTICIPATED IN A GIANT PILLOW FIGHT.

This is the worst slumber party, ever!

This is a lot more exhausting than you'd expect, and the logic that aggressive people are not the type to go to a feelgood pillow fight is definitely flawed. People hit hard. My head definitely hurt. There were a bunch of crazies climbing light posts who were then (pillow) beaten with fluff until they slid down again, as well as some very feathery chicken (pillow) fights. One hardcore guy was even dressed as a (pillow) gladiator and took down opponents one by one as he (pillow) battle cried in between.

Bad Decision: Getting into a fight with 300 New Yorkers.

Better Bad Decision: Adding pillows to the mix.

After a pillow fight when your 10, you need a glass of milk, a cookie, and a sleeping bag. After a pillow fight when your 26, you need a drink. So we began getting drinks around 4pm and didn't stop until 4am (totally healthy). At some point around midnight we got dinner. New York City has no concept of normal timing. At any given moment of the day, you would think it was 2pm with the number of people and cars meandering about. I'm going to go ahead and assume no one has jobs.

That night we went to a hookah bar (I regularly type this as "hooka" bar, which is a very different kind of bar. So if you begin thinking I spent my evening searching for a special lady friend, rest assured, I was only smoking flavored tobacco).

We came for the smooth middle-eastern tobacco and refreshing cocktails.

We received a free sex show.

Immediately after walking into the bar, we noticed a particularly drunk chick gyrating to (against?) the music, while her "boyfriend" sat and watched her. Excellent, they've decided to utilize this bar as their own private strip club. Oh, we are going to sit directly across from them? Sounds fab. Oh wait, no, sounds horrifying.

If the girl had been good looking, it might have been alright. Alas, she was not, and things escalated quickly. Soon she was acctually giving him a lap dance, and shortly after that it became crystal clear that she was not wearing underwear and a skirt had been a pre-meditated choice for convience. We bonded with the table next to us over our mixed horror/amusment at the fact that across from us this girl was getting off, and I swear to you, at one point the "boyfriend" looked right at our group, smiled, and gave us the head nod.

My god, someone go windex that chair.

After a conversation with our waitress, it was discovered that the wild two were swingers and their "friends" were most likely prey. When their group left, the owner of the bar bought our table a round of shots. We can only imagine it was a reward for behaving like respectable humans in a public bar.

The saving grace here was that I did not experience "the-hookah-hook-up", as I will forever think of it, on my first night in my motion-pill haze of half reality. That might have been just too much.

Life Lesson: Read the warning labels.

 

That shit's legit.

-LSLP, Ash.