This post is inspired by a JenAndMen reader, who I’ll call Michelle, who wrote me the following message:
I’m going through a divorce and all my friends are married with kids. Can I just go to a bar by myself? Is that Lame Sauce or A-OK? Love your blog!
This is a really great topic to debate about: Is it okay to go to a bar alone? I’m going to say “No” — and not just because of the lameness factor. I have compiled a list because (a) it’s easy to read and (b) it’s really fun for me to both compile lists and use the word “compile” on a daily basis.
1. Bars are filled with horny, possibly crazy people…who now have access to alcohol. I honestly just don’t think it’s safe for a chick to go to a bar all by her lonesome. I mean, if the night goes really well, and you end up meeting a guy, who’s going to be able to tell the sketch artist what he looked like if you should suddenly go missing when he walks you to your car?
2. Who’s gonna distract the ugly friends? It’s also good to a have a wing-woman with you — someone to keep the gross friend or friends busy while you mack it to the guy you like. Guys think having a wingman is where it’s at. They haven’t met me as a wing-woman, yet.
So I recently went to a bar with my friend Maria. As we were standing there talking, I saw a cute guy (who I’ll call Marcus) walking toward us.
Oh God, I thought. Now I’m gonna have to hear this one talk and then send him on his way.
Maria was acting differently toward him then she usually acts. After a few seconds of hearing them speak, I realized that they knew each other. Figuring he must be a good guy, I immediately began to lose my “bitch face” and smile a little more. (It turned out that Marcus was a good friend of the guy she just started seeing.)
After he asked what we were drinking and ordered two more for us (yay!), I grabbed his shoulders and angled his body in my direction. “Memorize my face. Do you know me? Because you look really familiar,” I said.
“You do look familiar to me…But I don’t think we’ve ever met before,” he said, laughing at my request to “memorize my face.”
A few weeks ago, my alcohol consumption, combined with a need to have a good night, severely hindered my judgement. No, I didn’t hook up with an ex. Worse, I asked one for a favor.
My friend Christine and I were out at McFadden’s feeling especially old and grumpy among the I’m-18-and-used-my-older-sibling’s-ID crowd. I, against my better judgement, text messaged, Pete, the asshole who dissed my hair color and ruined my Christmas.
I asked him where he took me on our date, because I wanted to go to that area. He told me that he was actually heading over there, and that “it’d be nice to see [me]” if I wasn’t with a guy and decided to stop by. An hour later, Christine and I were across town away from the children, but now freezing our asses off on the longest line Continue reading →
I recently went to a local bar to grab a drink with a few of my friends. While waiting for the bartender to make my Malibu Bay Breeze, the man next to me started talking to me (about my hair, of course). I humored him for a few minutes, listening to what profession he’s in and how old he is (in his forties). That’s when things got interesting.
“So, listen, I have a lot of money and I’m bored with my life. Don’t get me wrong, I love my beautiful kids and my wife, but I’m looking for someone on the side.”
I sat there, jaw dropped, staring at this guy, waiting for him to say, “Just kidding.”
He didn’t. Instead, he continued to make his case.
The night I met the guy that I’ve referred to as Billy, I couldn’t keep my alcohol down. Not because I was vomiting — but because I was retarded. First, as we were dancing, I received a text message. I had been holding my Malibu Bay Breeze and my iPhone in one hand. When I saw my screen light up, I turned my wrist to get a better view of the message. In doing so, a little thing called gravity kicked in and half of my drink spilled out of my cup and onto the floor. Or what I thought was the floor.
No. I spilled half my drink on this guy’s foot. FML. We both looked down and back up at each other slowly. Me, with my jaw dropped.
“I am so sorry,” I said, and ran over to the bar to get a napkin for him.
I’ve always had a really big problem with dating younger guys. I’ve only done it a few times, and I was never happy about it. Similar to my attraction to guys who are tall and strong, I guess I just have this idea that a guy is supposed to be older than me. This post is about how that idea goes out the window when that younger guy looks like a model and has an awesome personality.
Once, on a vacation, I met a guy (who I’ll call Billy) that was 3 years younger than me. I walked into a club, which had about 10 people in it at the time and there he was, standing there staring at me with his “serial killer stare” as I later referred to it, haha. After playing Peek-A-Boo for a little while, I decided that I was going to pick him up. (And, the funny part was: I used those exact words in my head without knowing his age yet.)
I always find my drinking nights to be a slippery slope. I’m a complete light weight, so after one Malibu Bay Breeze (the only drink I can taste without gagging) I’m tipsy. After two, I get that glazed over, out-of-it stare, which goes perfectly with my way-too-big smile.
When my best friend Kerry wants to take a picture, she’ll sometimes look at me and say, “Oh no, you’re smiling too big. You’re drunk before the pictures?!”
When I’m around potential future husbands in bars, I am always aware that the difference of one drink could make me go from fun and silly to that girl being carried out. And, trust me, you never want to be thatContinue reading →