Thursday, December 8, 2011

Lola vs. The Link

I was fortunate enough to receive a link from a friend today that made me nostalgic for a few men I have dated in the past. So I thought I would re-post one of my favorite dating experiences for any new readers who may have missed my brush with potential serial killer guy.

Lola's Dating Rule # 1: Never date a guy who actually refers to himself as "the creepy serial killer guy who walks around the same block 45 times."

This can only lead to one or two different outcomes.

1) He actually is the creepy serial killer guy and when he asks me to go for a walk near the deserted docks- after he goes out of his way to mention that he is not only anti-social but also has a severe gluten allergy that does not allow him to consume any alcohol except wine which he doesn't partake in anyway because it causes him to experience sudden and inexplicable bouts of anger- he will then chloroform me and stuff me into the trunk of his white scion. And then perhaps he will wear my skin as a hat for the next 1-2 weeks.

2) He is not the creepy serial killer guy but in fact he is merely the mayor of creepytown. After I have been clear to him that I am not interested in him, the mayor of creepytown will send long, pensive emails that inform me that he has rented all of the concert DVDs that are available for my favorite band. This will be followed by a lengthy deconstruction of why the band is so compelling and why he thinks I am a deep, fascinating person for liking such music. The title of this email will wittily use the name of my favorite band in a sentence like: This is aMUSEing. He also will have a penchant for spouting poetry. Here is an example of a verse he will send me after I remind him again, politely (because I really don't want to turn him into the creepy serial killer guy in outcome #1), that I am not interested:

May your children
Bear your resemblance
In inner and outer beauty
And may they also have
Their Father's good fortune.

I guess I should be thankful that outcome #1 didn't happen to me. Or at least the skin-wearing-chloroform-stuffing-in-the-trunk bit. But Seriously? Ugh, does he think that if he insinuates that my kids will be beautiful that I'll go running to him with open arms? Or that his poetry will make me swoon?

Please. I think I might actually prefer the chloroform.


I know, I know. You all miss me desperately. I have been remiss in posting. Some call it laziness. Others call it busy. But I promise, I will be back. Because I have some disturbing dating stories to share. One of which includes an impromptu palm reading. And a little syndrome I like to call Text Tourettes.

Stay Dirty.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Lola vs. The Adventures of Lola the Greek

It began with a joke. Then it became a streak. And now it's a challenge.

I'm talking about my nationality list. A few weeks ago it occurred to a friend of mine that I've been "making" my way through a list of foreign men, mostly when I travel. What? Don't judge me- a girl has to have a hobby.

It started, as it tends to with me, with an Irishman. Then it expanded to a Scottish musician. A South African Tourist followed suit. A caustic Englishman. An Italian on vacation in Disneyworld.

And let's not forget (and take a moment to appreciate) the Australian of the long lashes, deep appreciation of traveling around the world for different wines, and an intimate knowledge of how to say dirty things in Italian.

So when I was heading off to Greece, I felt an absurd amount of pressure to keep that streak alive due to comments like "You better come back with some insane stories." Or "We're not going to be friends anymore if you don't do something idiotic." Or my personal favorite: "Come back with stories. Just not syphilis." Thanks, Kane.

Well the streak is alive and well. And I've been asked by a few readers to write about it in greater detail than I normally do. Familiar readers of this blog are very well aware of the fact that I enjoy men- often for one specific purpose- and that I rarely feel the need to spend much time describing one. I much prefer to lump them into different categories. It's easier that way.

Although I have to say this one just won't stay stuck in one category.

We had decided to take an all day sailing trip on a catamaran around the island of Santorini, complete with an Island of Misfit Toys type crew, several swim stops, a trip to the volcanic springs, a traditional Greek buffet prepared by a chef on board, and a finale- one of Santorini's spectacular sunsets in the middle of the caldera.

I love being on the ocean. There is nothing that soothes my restless soul more than being on a boat with the wind on my face and the sound of the waves lapping the sides. Every worry, every stress just melts away at the sound, the smell, and the feel of the water. So for me, a day like that is perfection.

I didn't notice him, not completely, at first. He was the chef on our boat and spent some of the first part of our trip in the kitchen. It was only when he started making fun of my friend and her stubborn refusal to take off her hat despite the strong winds did he catch my interest. And when he turned that sarcastic wit on me, I was lost.

I simply can't resist a man who gives me a hard time. It is the biggest turn on when a man can spar with me. And dear lord, he could spar. Wickedly. That first curl of lust snaked through me and I turned to my friend, grinned, and said," I think I have a bit of a thing for our chef."

In response she mumbled, "God help him then." I've known this girl since college so she is well aware of my penchant for going after what I want and it's become a bit of a joke between us. There has only been one exception to the Lola-Is-As-Subtle-As-A-Wrecking-Ball Rule, of which she is also aware, but that's another blog for another day.

There were two things (well three but that comes later) that this man did extremely well. He could wear a spattering of stubble across his dark chin like few men I've ever known. And he could really lean. You know how sexy it is when a guy can just lean? He can angle his body towards you slightly, with one arm resting in the space just above your head and the other almost brushing against your skin, and then he tips his chin down in order to meet your eyes in a gesture that is so effortlessly sexy that it just has to be practiced.

There was this moment when I looked up at him from the deck and his feet were planted shoulder width apart, his tanned muscular arms taut as his hands gripped the top of the boat, his green bandanna tight against his black hair that I literally had to keep a sigh from escaping my lips. Because with the sun at his back and a wicked smile on his face, I thought he looked just the right amount of dark and dangerous.

At one point as he swung back on the deck, I leaned back deliberately so that his bare skin brushed mine. And when his hands, rough and slightly calloused, shot out to rest steadily on my shoulders, I may have actually shivered. Shivered. Me.

It honestly took every ounce of self control I had not to disappear down the hold with him, push him against the counter, wrap my legs around him and have my way with him while the rest of the passengers lazed above, completely unaware of the naughty things that were happening below deck.

Later he would tell me that he had wanted me to do just that.

Maybe I've been with far too many little boys lately that the appeal of a real man, one who smelled like salt and sea and dark promises, was impossible to resist. So I didn't. I flirted shamelessly. He proposed. After discovering my dirty sense of humor and the fact that I drove a black Honda accord by the name of Riggins. He did this while brushing his lips across my knuckles, looking up at me through dark lashes and even darker eyes. Seriously?

I am not a girl who is easily impressed but this man with confidence that stopped just shy of being arrogant and a grin that could flicker from friendly to wicked in about one second flat had me impressed. So you can imagine my chagrin when in the confusion of leaving the boat, we missed each other. I experienced a moment of sheer disappointment and then shrugged it off as I do everything else, quickly and effortlessly. However don't worry, dear readers, this is not the end of the story.

I was not about the let my pent-up lust go to waste so we went out, thinking that I could always find another hapless victim for a quick vacation fling. After dinner and another spectacular sunset, we decided to amble over to a bar he recommended that boasted a breathtaking caldera view, plenty of locals, and some seriously good music. My friend proceeded to drink the place out of gin while I made my way through an Irish coffee , a glass of Raki (dangerous), and a slew of beer. After flirting with some cute australian guys, my friend pointed and practically shouted,"Lola, look who just walked in. You should go grab him. Now."

I was entirely too drunk to realize that she was probably joking but I did just that. When he realized who had stumbled into him, he grinned and promptly pulled me into his arms in a tight hug. "So I guess this is fate then." He leaned in, his lips feathering across my cheek. "You know I had a pen and paper in hand to grab your contact information and then suddenly you were gone, walking down the dock. I literally stared after you, willing you to look back at me."

I drew myelf back, raised a brow. "I thought I had lost my touch."

"Yeah, I'm sure you did." Ahh sarcasm, another perverse quality I find insanely attractive."Lola, I was practically following you around the boat. And gesturing like crazy for you to follow me into the hold." He tightened his arms around me. "When are you leaving again?"

"Wednesday."

"So I only have two days to get you to come home with me?"

"I don't think it will take that long."

"Oh yeah?" Another one of those wicked grins. " How long will it take?"

"That depends."

"On?"

"On what time it is now and what time the bar closes."

He laughed then and drew me back but kept one arm draped across my shoulder. "I had almost forgotten how direct you are."

"Well, I like sex. And I want the hell out of you so what would be the point in hiding it?"

"I think I love you."

"Tell me about it."

And that's basically how I found myself in the front seat of a tiny car, speeding over cliffs at break-neck speeds. I had no clue who the driver was, other than that he was a friend of my chef and drove like a hell fire demon on crack. He didn't speak much English but he did get an inordinate amount of pleasure over my terrified gasps.

Saddest thing about this was the fact that legitimately the only thought in my head at the time was: "But if we hurdle off a cliff and plummet to our deaths, I will never find out how good in bed this guy is and that would be a shame."

Fuck my well-being. Crazy hot monkey sex is WAY more important. Clearly a girl has to have her priorities.

After getting back to his place, when his hands grabbed a fistful of my red hair to pull me in for a kiss, I decided that almost hurdling off a cliff was well worth it. This man had deliciously strong arms and could kiss like I was his last drop of water as he was dying of thirst in the middle of a desert.

I had every intention of taking a cab home after the crazy 4 plus hour sex-a-thon but I was somehow persuaded to stay for cigarettes, caustic remarks, and laughter. When we finally fell back into bed and he nuzzled his face into my neck and murmured as if reading my mind,"Don't worry, I'm not stupid enough to develop a weak spot for a girl who lives as far away as you do." I knew that if I hung out with him the next day I would be in some serious trouble.

So I may have done a bit of a runner, in true Lola fashion, but I swear if I had a heart, a tiny sliver of it could have been left in bed with that wicked grin and sarcastic sense of humor. Or it could have just been the few extra swim stops he gave me that night.

I'll let you decide.



Monday, June 20, 2011

Lola vs. The 4th or 5th Beer BQ at Case de Lola

My house has a certain, well, reputation for stripping people of their inhibitions. Normal, non drinkers walk over the threshhold of my house, enter my backyard Beer BQ, and lose their shit. No moral compass is safe. No alcohol off limits. No act too immature.

Kane likes the fact that I get so drunk that I can't remember whether I've had four or five Big Beer BQ Bashes. I say it's one part drunkenness and one part semantics. Seeing as how there was one year where I decided to also throw a Beer BQ for my birthday. See, semantics. However, I don't remember which year. See, drunkness.

Drunken Wagoneering, a pastime that requires the infamous red radioflyer wagon and person or persons who doesn't/don't have any coordination at all, was born out of these Beer BQs. So was a drink called magical unicorn titties. Thank you, Charlie, my sensei of derelict beahvior.

My Beer BQ is also the type of event that immediately comes before emails such as this one:

To: Lola and Cooper
Subject: Me and Corn
Body: So do either of you have that picture of me, eating corn naked? If so, can you send it to me. Thx.

And inspires conversations such as these:

Z: I'm washing my hair that night.
Lola: Um. Unacceptable. You're bringing the buns.
Z: You always ask me to bring my sweet sweet buns... Can't I bring the sausages for once? Jeez...
Lola: Sigh. I suppose. You are my grill master after all.
Z: Well, lets get a light out there... I still have a permanent scar on my arm from the second degree buns I got because Kane asked me for a burger at 4am... and then left and went home without taking his burger or saying bye... and possibly after vomiting in your tub.
Lola: No more 4am grilling. Got it. Actually that guy who called himself Steve whose name wasn't Steve vomited in the tub. But Don did use ninja like vanishing skills. Was that the same one where you passed out and Kristin drew a heart on your face?
Z: No... Me passing out was the birthday party the year before where I somehow decided to drink that bottle of patron and half a 40 in the 30min span while grilling... I did manage to wake up and still prove myself useful chasing after people around your town.
Lola: Riiight that's the same one where you found that guy passed out, bleeding by my bagel place.
Z: And the one where _____ vomited in your bamboo.
Lola: Dear Lord.
Z: Yeah, he is definitely not in attendance at your parties. Maybe the other guy. But not the lord.
This year my camera was high jacked or willingly surrendered, I woke up with two bite marks (one on my collarbone and one on my leg), and after being bandaged up by my friend Z found this list taped to my bedroom window:



Apparently this is my pitiful attempt to track my alcohol intake. As you can clearly see, the list starts to go awry after the two shots of Patron. Obvi. I missed the magical unicorn titties and moved onto Sweat Tea, which I am really hoping is just a typo and not what it sounds like. After I played several games of Beer Pong, I somehow decided it was a good idea to drink a 40??? I blame the 40 for the list completely and utterly degrading into the gem of a drunken mess that it is. At least I was able to identify the color of the liquor I was drinking next on the list. Small favors, right?


The last alcohol on the list has three exclamation points to describe it. So if anyone has any idea what the mysterious, exclamational (new word alert) alcohol could be, I'd really like to know.


Hope you had a very naughty weekend fellow bloggers. Apparently everyone who was at Case de Lola did.





Saturday, May 21, 2011

Lola vs. If I Had A Soul She Would Be My Mate

If you're a faithful reader, you know exactly who I am talking about. My It's Complicated Long Distance Lover V. Today is our one year anniversary. And I can honestly say that having met her has restored my faith in random connections. I do feel like I've known her all of my life. Ok, yeah, it's a cliche. But you know what? It's fucking true. And if you don't like me using a cliche when describing the It's Complicated Love of My Life, well, you can shove it up your ass. It's because of her that I believe that the only successful relationship is a long distance one.

I like to think I have two periods in my life: BV and AV.

BV was a dark, dark place where my alcoholism had no partner. No purpose. No plan. It just included an endless stream of meaningless sex with strangers.



AV:



My alcohlism is no longer alone. It thrives. And is in Technicolor. But it has so much more. It has someone who shares and revels in its lingerie obsession. Someone who will be there to receive its incoherent drunk texts at 3:00am. Or make cake, have a three-way, and watch Bloodsport. Or even call it out when it's being a coward. Which my alcoholism desperately needs sometimes.




She fucking rocks. That is all.








Friday, April 29, 2011

Lola vs. Reasons Why, The Sangria Edition

Reasons Why I Probably Shouldn't Drink Sangria

  1. I lock myself out of my house in a very tiny pink and black nightgown and am forced to shimmy through the window on my porch. Where the florescent porch light shines like a beacon on my, well, assets.


  2. I break into houses, steal family portraits, and replace them with stick figure drawings that look slightly homicidal, mostly alien, and all parts creepy.

Reasons Why I Probably Should Continue to Drink Sangria

  1. I lock myself out of my house in a very tiny pink and black nightgown and am forced to shimmy through the window on my porch. Where the florescent porch light shines like a beacon on my, well, assets.


  2. I break into houses, steal family portraits, and replace them with stick figure drawings that look slightly homicidal, mostly alien, and all parts creepy.


When did my life with my college friends turn from "Remember that time we got drunk and gave each other hickeys and Paul vomited on your steps after the Bull & Oyster Roast?" into "Remember that time we got drunk and broke into your dad's house while he was away on Easter vacation?"



I have issues. Obvi.



Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Lola vs. Green Leather, Prom, and Porn

After catching the black death/flu last week, I caught up on about 23409283490823 hours of television. Granted, most of that consisted of watching about 7 seasons of Smallville. Thank you, Amazon Prime. I'd also personally like to thank Justin Hartley for his supremely excellent use of not wearing a shirt in every episode during season 6. He also receives extra credit for skills in the green leather arena. Well done, Justin.

But as much as I would like to use this entry to describe his abs, I really need to talk about Prom. What does this have to do with green leather? Nothing.

This blog entry was actually supposed to go like this:
Sickness-----------> TV Watching----------> Prom Episode of Parenthood--------> Lola's Imaginary Conversation with her Fake Grandchildren

Instead it went like this:
Sickness-------> TV watching------>80% Smallville------> Justin Hartley------> Abs------> Green Leather--------->Justin Hartley

I'd like to congratulate all of you for making this stream of consciousness gone awry journey with me. Now onto the main event. Parenthood, like many family dramas with hormone addled teenagers, had a prom episode. Where all of the parents make a huge deal about how prom is, like, such a HUGE deal. How it's something that you will remember forever. How you will one day tell your grandchildren about your magical prom experience. How is this even possibly still a common theme in dramas? In the 1950's maybe. But now? In 2011? Really?

Does anyone actually do this? Because I'd really like to meet these people who sit down with their grandchildren, bounce them on their knee, and relive their prom memories. Could you imagine if I had this conversation? It would probably go something like this:

Fake Grandchildren (in unison because fake grandchildren always speak in unison): Please, oh please, tell us while you bounce us on your respective knees about your prom night.

Lola: (while sucking on a cigarette because if I was ever a grandma I would SO one of those who sucks on a cigarette and drinks whiskey) I went to two proms. Both were magical. About 50% of my class got kicked out because they were violently drunk and decided to have their own dance called Not Prom or something like that where there was even more drinking, sex, and drugs. But to be honest, it's not as fun as trying to get hammered in the limo on the way over there while getting yelled at in Armenian by the limo driver.

Fake Grandchildren: How about the prom theme?

Lola: I feel like there was some dancing in between my friends trying to throw things down the front of my low-cut dress but I couldn't say for sure. Apparently after the dancing, I got drunk at someone's after party, danced on a pool cover and then promptly fell on my ass. Which I don't remember whatsoever but apparently it's THE only thing my friend RJ claims he remembers. Oh wait. I do remember someone walking around with a condom on their foot. That's sort of magical, right?

Fake Grandchildren: (in unison) Well, what about your date?

Lola: (laughing) I don't even remember who I went with. Relationships last like 3 seconds in high school. And that's a long-term relationship.

Fake Grandchildren: Okaaay, well what about your second prom?

Lola: I got drunk and made out with my cousin's date in the back of a beige mini van.

Fake Grandchildren: ...

On the slim chance that I am the only one who did not have a magical life-changing experience at prom, I polled some of my friends. Most of them remember nothing. One got arrested. A few ended up in Atlantic City. But one of my favorite stories has to be a friend of mine from college. Here's how his conversation with his fake grandchildren would go:

Fake Grandchildren: Please Grandpa Special Agent Juan. Please tell us your prom story. Oh, please!

Special Agent Juan: First of all, get off my damn lap. (shoves grandchildren off his lap) Well, what I remember from prom is that I went with my ex girlfriend who was dating someone else at the time but she still went with me for some reason. Who knows? It's high school. Anyway at some point she got into a fight with him. Because she was dancing with me, I guess? So she broke up with him and I got laid that night. Bam! Eat that Kenny whatever your last name was.

Now if that doesn't just warm the cockles of your heart, I don't know what will.

Anyone else have any interesting anecdotes to share with your fake grandchildren?

Monday, March 28, 2011

Lola vs. F**ck Family Friendly

I have been done a great wrong, readers. A horrible injustice!

I recently received an offer to get free ad placement from a certain blog network website. I thought to myself humbly, "Hey, why not, people could surely benefit from the wisdom I can provide them!" I pondered. I fretted. Hair was torn out. Nerves were frayed. Wedges driven into relationships. And then ten seconds later, I came up with a very succinct, albeit intoxicating way to describe myself and my site.

I received this reply, almost immediately:

Lola,

Sorry but your ad was not approved. The reason our editorial team gave is as follows: Thank you but unfortunately the site is too mature for our family friendly blog network.

We have canceled this ad.

Regards, Your____ Team

First I felt anger. Did they not see my post on immaturity? There is definitely no maturity to speak of there. Those plebian bastards!

Then Resentment. Why the hell get my hopes up only to dash them against the cliffs of judgement? The rocks of censorship! The jagged edges of ... stupid people being... stupid. Why are they imposing structure to my life with their silly free ads?

Followed closely by insecurity. Wait, I'm not even good enough for FREE?

And, lastly, a bone-wrenching sadness. ...

When I finally trudged through the swamp of my emotions, I took a deep breath and wondered what I could possibly do to make up for all of my past indescretions. Reach this untapped resource of family-friendly maturity.

Then I realized that I didn't care.

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Lola vs. The Most Immature Post Ever. EVER.

Before I get into my regularly scheduled shenanigans- which includes an installment on dum, dum, dum, dum... my exes, Australia, and a date with perfect stubble- I feel the need to remind all of you that I have the sense of humor of a thirteen year old boy. And that's on a good day. Today however, I've regressed even further.

Today, I'm about five years old.

Case in point: Lola's Word Play

So I've recently rejoined society and come back to work from leave to find that they have started a meditation group here. I'm oddly fascinated by this. After bantering with a friend who basically told me "there was no way you'd be able to sit still for five minutes", he sends me a link to some common meditation guidelines while another friend rated the importance of each guideline and the percentage of time in which I'll spend on them. And here is where my immaturity sense kicks right in. I send back the email, with one key word changed. And here it is:

How to Prepare for Masturbation
Masturbation is simple to do and doesn't require much equipment. You can, however, prepare yourself and your space in a few ways. What you may need are some basic amenities such as these:
  • Masturbation cushion, bench, or favorite chair
  • Quiet, tidy spot, preferably reserved for masturbation
  • Loose-fitting, comfortable clothing
  • Favorite masturbation technique(s)

Other items you may want to include are:

  • Stretches to prepare your body for sitting
  • Altar of special objects, pictures, candles, or incense
  • Hallway or path for walking masturbation, if you want
  • Masturbation teacher to consult in case you get stuck or want to go deeper

How to Open Your Body, Mind, and Spirit to Masturbation
Masturbation is a practice that engages not only your mind, but your body and spirit, too. When you masturbate, you aim to combine all three aspects so you can tap into your calm center, and then relax and refresh yourself. Use the tips in the following list to engage your mind, body, and spirit in your masturbation practice.

  • Practice stretches that open your hips and lengthen your spine.
  • Discover how to relax your body (if you don't already know) by practicing some deep relaxation techniques.
  • Explore the basic masturbation techniques (mindfulness, loving kindness, mantra), choose one, and stick with it — for a few weeks or months at least.
  • Take a masturbation class with an experienced teacher, join a masturbation group, or attend a masturbation workshop or retreat.
  • Talk with your family about your interest in masturbation to make sure they feel comfortable about your practicing at home. (this one has to be my favorite)
  • Remind yourself of the scientifically proven health benefits of masturbation, from lower cholesterol to greater longevity to an enhanced immune system.

How to Make Sure You're Masturbating Correctly
It doesn't take much to masturbate the right way — especially because there really isn't just one correct way. If you're concerned about your masturbation practice, look over the following questions. If you answer yes to them, you're masturbating very well, indeed. If any of your answers are no, just keep masturbating!

  • Do I relax when I masturbate, instead of tensing up?
  • Is my mind alert and aware, yet open and receptive?
  • Do I remember to come back to the focus of my masturbation when my mind wanders off?
  • Do I remain relatively still, rather than fidgeting or shifting constantly?
  • Do I take one moment at a time, rather than trying to achieve some goal like quieting my mind?
  • Am I enjoying my breath (or my mantra or other focus) instead of working hard to get it right?

I'd also be very interested to know if any of you have actually taken part in a masturbation focus group and/or a retreat. What does it entail? Can you bring a friend? What's the sign-up process like? Do you have to fill out an extensive form?

Yeah okay, so maybe society isn't ready for me just yet. Maybe it enjoyed its good, long break and wonders whether it will ever have respite again.

I'm ba-ack.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Lola vs. You Had Me at Amanda Bynes

Part Deux of Australia will have to wait because I got distracted by a hot blond blogger, who just happens to be my It's Complicated Facebook lover. Although really the only thing that's complicated about our relationship is trying to figure out all the different ways in which I love her.

Yeah, that's right. It's V. I had just gotten back from Australia, was still hung over and dreadfully jet-lagged, but when she invited me to go to a charity benefit she was organizing, I didn't even pause when I shouted, "Yes! Yes! Yes!" So I grabbed a black lacy, skin tight dress- a dress that a guy once told me "made him want to sit up and beg"- and hopped on the next plane out of there. (Well, ok, maybe it was the next plane a week later but seriously guys why you gotta nitpick?)

The weekend started out with cake, wine, our pajamas, movies, a very satisfying three way (Thank you, Drew, of Welcome to the Clusterf*ck), and a confession of our mutual, secret adoration for Amanda Bynes in What A Girl Wants. I could have gone home satisfied and happy at this point. Seriously, how could it get any better than V, wine, and cake?

But things, my friend, were about to get even better. Because Saturday night, I mixed one part Faux Trixie, with one part V added a dose of pseudo celebrities and a retired NFL football player whose name I couldn't pronounce after a few too many rum and diet cokes , and garnished it with an 80's ski lodge party at a dive bar where I made out with someone's teenage crush.

Yes, I said 80's Ski Lodge Party. Wha-at?

And yes, I showed up amidst a sea of bright red ski patrol jackets, florescent green headbands, pink spandex pants, and checkered legwarmers dressed like the above. Did I mention the ice-pick heels? I swear the drunker I get, the better I am able to maneuver in them. Unless it's 1:30 am and I'm desperately trying to prop myself up against the cold, wet concrete side of the dive bar while getting hit on by a guy in triangle shaped sunglasses.

What amazes me is that this glorious weekend would never have happened if it hadn't been for writing a blog and getting to know people through theirs. Without which this conversation never would have taken place:

Lola: Hey there new friend! So, do you mind if I post about our antics and link to your blog tomorrow?

Faux Trixie: I would only expect that you would.

Lola: I may or may not refer to my tryst with _______.

FT: I think you need to.

Lola: 80's glasses and all.

FT: And red hoodie and ghetto tude. He loved you.

Lola: I think you mean my boobs.

FT: Everyone loves your boobs.

Lola: True, they, like have their own gravitational pull.

FT: And _____ started orbiting them. He's like your very own hoodrat satellite.

Lola: I love our newfound friendship already.

FT: Me too. I was commenting about it yesterday and today.

Lola: Ditto. And not in that lame Patrick Swayze in Ghost kind of way. In the real way.

Credit goes firmly into V's luscious court for introducing me to this fabulous chick. And for the amazing Star Burst bowl she made for me when we went to see True Grit the next day, hung over and bleary eyed. As much fun as the drunken mess that was Saturday night was, lazy day Sunday just might have topped it. Despite the cold, it really was one of those perfect days. Tinged with a lot of laughter, bookshop/wine cellar browsing, hung-over brunch, and the odd Ernest Borgnine tribute.

If I hadn't already adored the hell out of the girl, this weekend would have solidified it. Because when I needed her, she was there. And I'll never forget that. Well, just maybe some of the little things that occurred while mixing many different types of alcohol this past weekend but, hey, nobody's perfect.

Except maybe me.


Monday, January 10, 2011

Lola vs. The Land of Oz Part One

I’m writing this in a very Australian micro brewery on the shores of Manly beach with a deliciously foamy, mouth watering lager right in front of me. I just had lunch with a rather hot and hung over Aussie with incredibly wicked green eyes (who, during the previous night, had been causing all sorts of trouble at his brother’s buck’s party. How is it that I attract such trouble?) I had met on the plane last night coming back from Brisbane, where I was visiting my friend Paul. Sadly, hot hung over Aussie had to go back to work since it was his first day back from a ten day holiday but he did, with a quirk of his lips, give me quite an interesting invitation to meet up at some point during my last week here. Sigh.

Right across from where I’m cozied up in my corner booth, I can see the wharf , the white sand beaches, the tanned bodies of the professional surfers, and the curling swells of the ocean.

Yeah, I SO don’t want to go home.

This trip- and it’s not even over yet- has been unbelievable. Epic even. Maybe it’s my deeply rooted need to escape America or maybe it’s how amazing my friends are over here, but I have never felt more at home in a foreign place. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I’m in awe over how incredibly lucky I am to have people in my life who will knock themselves out for me. I don’t understand it. After all, I’m shallow with no soul and my only redeeming quality is that I can shoot the hell out of zombies in Call of Duty. Well, that and big boobs. Can’t forget those.

When my life degraded into chaos, Australia was really the first place I wanted to go. I emailed my friends Danielle (Sexy Sydney) and Paul (Beautiful Brisbane or Brisvegas as it is affectionately known) who have been inviting me over here for years and pleaded with them to take some time to play with me. Which they did.

I’ve been taken to one of the finest, most exclusive restaurants in Sydney and gotten the best table in the house because the owner, a personality in Sydney, is my friend’s boyfriends best mate, flitted through the Sydney Opera house, driven up to the Blue Mountains where I insulted some Asians, had a traditional aussie meal cooked for me, visited the home of the Crocodile Hunter, got into some trouble on the Sunshine coast, serenaded a wonderful man named Mike who has an amazing back story, played the worst game of drunken charades in my life, and got drenched while cuddling a koala and feeding a roo.

Unfortunately some of the above has wound up on video. To my chagrin and my friends’ endless amusement that is. They are particularly fond of the one where I almost get into a fight with a seven year old over a kangaroo feeding. Clearly not my finest moment. But fun just as well.

In fact I’ve had so much fun here that I’ve completely forgotten to be jet lagged. Even when I got off the plane at 8 am after a nearly a 26 hour trip, I had a huge grin on my face and a nervous energy that must have been coming off me in waves. So you can imagine my reaction after Danielle picked me up at the Sydney airport and nearly the first words out of her mouth were, “Right well you’re welcome to bring any feral random Aussie back to my house for a shagfeast since you’ve got your own room, doll.”

I bet you’re wondering if I took her offer to heart. Considering that it’s me and I’m a million miles away from, well, anyone I may or may not have been dating it did sound quite enticing. Maybe not the feral bit of it. Since that brings to mind slobbering, dirty men jumping out of bushes. But the random Aussie part, I find I quite liked.

I’ve always had a penchant for the Irish but I am learning that Aussie men, with their knowledge of travel, devil may care attitude, and just plain manly way of doing things, are rapidly making their way into my heart. Or at the very least into my lust-filled thoughts. And I must say I’ve been surprised at how I’ve gotten into theirs. I’ve always thought that Americans were seen as the bane of everyone else’s existence. Or at the very least vapid and self-centered.

Given the fact that I’ve met a few random Aussie men who have been mentioned above, I have been given quite the choice dear readers. But, alas, that will probably have to be discussed in part two. Or I could always just keep this delicious little morsel to myself.

What do you think?


Sunday, January 2, 2011

Lola vs. Happy New Year Bitches

Some of you know why I've been gone these past two months. If you don't let's just say that I've been through a pretty big personal tragedy. The kind that's almost physical in how incredibly painful it is. As some of you are well aware, I am a huge fan of bottling things up inside and that's how I choose to deal with this at the moment. Healthy? Probably not. Do I care? Hell to the no.


There are, however, a few things I have learned over the past few months during the dark times.


1) Grief makes people horny. I deduce this because I have been asked out/hit on about four times in the weeks since said personal tragedy. I've had offers of semi-naked football watching (my favorite by the way), of free drinks, of a "cardio" work out partner, and one very interesting "why don't you come over and bring your puppy so we can have a play date?"

2) This goes directly in conjuction with number one. I have finally found the absolute most awkward place to be hit on. At a repass.

3) No matter what I do over the next few months, I live in a judgement free zone. According to my friends, I get a free pass for awhile. Yes, I am smiling wickedly as I type this. Doing morally irreprehensible things with little to no consequence? Sign me the eff up.

4) If one more person asks me "How I'm hanging in?" I'm going to slap a bitch.

In the meantime, dear readers, I am off to escape. From people who I've come to care about. And from life in general. Where am I going? About as far as humanly possible from New Jersey.

So yeah, I'm heading down under. And I don't mean I'm going incognito. I'm heading to where it's summer, where there are sexy accents, where the people are laid-back and descend from convicts, and where I can do pretty much whatever I want regardless of consquences because of the very few people I know who live there. Add in the fact that it is about 22 hours by plane and Oz is just about as appealing as a foreign continent can be right now.

In fact, I'm sitting in the airport lounge as I type this. Hoorah for free internet.

A few of my friends are already taking bets on whether or not I come back. Or as someone put it, " if you do come back, you're completely going to have someone follow you back, aren't you?"

Any takers on that bet?

See you soon fellow bloggers. Maybe even in the form of a scandelous update from Oz.