Generally speaking the Christmas/New Year’s season proves quite fruitful for bedroom festivities. I speak from personal experience, as my prime recyclable consistently finagles himself into my happy holidays. I speak from legit comprehensive research as scientific type graphs have shown significant birth rate trending 9 months after company holiday parties. All good stuff.

Given that I had prime recyclable on the following week’s agenda I wasn’t thinking much of it when my friend Jake decided to pop into NYC with his sisters. Jake voted yes on my being in town, I voted maybe on cutting my Boston trip short. In the end, Jake got his way as Jake is 6’2-ish and Australian. The accent = my favorite card outside of military. 

I met up with Jake & co. at a legit watering hole in midtown (or as legit as a venue can be, when located in midtown). Once pale ale grew old and I finished downing an ample sized meal I felt more than competent to switch the party over to vodka. Unforch for me, pacing = not a skill and a buzz = imminent.

We next revved (re: teetered) over to a bar that rocks out 80’s style…love. Pat Benatar and Journey truly do rock my world. Also noteworthy: at this point in the evening it always seems a good idea to take shots with more vodka, and so it went.

On the heel of “I don’t want to lose your love tonight” the bar shut down for the night. As Jake’s sisters tried to get him to leave he just shook his head no, that he was coming with me. I was well wasted but I do believe I said he should accompany his sisters home. Another shake of the head. Drunkie + drunkie = bed a good 90% of the time. We agreed to meet up with them at noon for brunch.

And home we went on a cab ride we share a mutual lack of recollection of. Back at home I kind of remember disrobing but only because my major dig at winter is the necessity for uncomfortable boots & tights and they simply had to go. I vaguely remember us both being in bed and making out. I sorta, kinda remember him asking if I had condoms and I definitely remember getting pissed off about it and walking out. He followed suit to apologize for something he didn’t know what he was apologizing for and back to the bedroom we went where I promptly passed out as he uttered affirmations on my excellence.

The next morning we accidentally slept until 12:30 proving brunch a no go. At this point sex seemed like a pretty great idea, and we went to it until I remembered my father was stopping by at 2.

After, Jake and I went to brunch at the Sunburnt Cow (an Aussie brunch shit show – could it be any more approp?) We proceeded to get wasted face until about 5 PM. A record time for brunch. Post mimosa nation Jake started kissing me on the street. This seemed acceptable as it does get darker earlier this time of year. In a just-can’t-wait fashion we popped into my old apartment to “grab my mail.” More makeage out. Back outside Jake asked what I wanted to do until we had to meet his sisters for dinner. He suggested a bar I like. “Sure.” Or we could go back to your place. “Sure.” So went round two, once again oversleeping and getting ready in a frenzy to meet up with the sisters that could only have deemed me tartlet by this point.

We met up with the fam at which point Jake pulls me aside and asks “are your pants on inside out?” Alas, my Lululemons were sporting a visible tag. Luckily they are reversible. Quick pull of the evidence and the sibs remained in the dark about my inability to put on clothing (pretty sure they were on to me, re: keeping on my clothing). Several bottles of wine and a spaghetti and meatball number later I was well wasted once again.

We proceeded on to an Irish pub where I proceeded to take my level of wasted to an unprecedented level of wasted. At this point in the evening it seemed like a good idea to provide Jake an over the pants hand job under the table. It’s not that I’m completely classless, but wine + carbs = all about providing a helping hand.

Upon return from one of my numerous bathroom jaunts Jake informed me his sisters gave him the go ahead to spend his last NYC night at my place. “You asked permission?” “Ya.” “Hot.” Hence our third consecutive post meal, back to my place, hook up sesh.

I think my favorite part of all of this was four months ago circa the “effing-hell-I-cracked-my-head-open-era” Jake was all “I guess no more kinky sex for you.” And I was all “Dude, I can’t afford a headboard injury.” Headboard phobia be gone!

• Name: As Irish as they make them. First & last.
• Googlable: Highly. We are talking legit Google Image search.
• Age: 26
• Height: 6”+
• Occupation: Athlete
• Alcoholic Units Consumed: Many
• Non Alcoholic Units Consumed: 1
• Time Expended: 18 hours
• Scale on which my hotel believed me a trollop (1-10): 9.5
• Overall Assessment: I can swing a 3 year visa independently, but then we really have to get it together & have many blue-eyed babies that say quaint little things like “Eirinn go Brach.”

In the spirit of my quarter life crisis I decided to hop across the pond for QT party time. Namely to check out grad schools in London, with a weekend layover in Dublin. Oi mate.

My sister – a shorter, blonder trainwreck version of myself – came with.  We took the red eye in, had a chat with the concierge, napped it up a good five hours, duty free downage and out on the town. Our goals were pretty clear: complete & total obliteration via whisky, baileys and beer.

Two bars in and 3-7 drinks down began my rendezvous with Gaelic Football Player (or, to feed my love for acronyms – GFP). He was a tall, blue-eyed, curly-haired pro athlete and better than anything the tourist bureau could have whipped up for Intro to Ireland 101.

After I finished ripping on him for what I deemed to be “too tight jeans” and he finished expressing admiration for my class (pearls, burberry & a pre-slurrage state, oh my!) we had a pretty serious dance party. I’d say we reached an unprecedented level of breaking it down. GFP summed it up best with how we “busted many, many moves.” Totes helps that Temple Bar is big on Billy Joel.

After closing down Temple, GFP suggested we go to an after-hours club where he introduced me to all his footie player friends. Amazing. Anytime a drunk Irish boy would attempt to hit on me GFP would put his arm around me and say I was his GF. Legit protective. I’m not even all too positive that the last American guy I dated wouldn’t try to push me in front of a moving vehicle if given the opportunity. Let the comparisons begin!

The club closed at 4. Ireland. Doesn’t . Do. Diners. Shock, horror. GFP suggested we go back to his place to play with his (foot) balls & have coffee. “Just coffee?” “Just coffee.” My mind clearly wasn’t on the purity of Irish intentions as I was so distracted by the absence of grilled cheese in my future.

True to GFP’s words, back at the hearth I played with his balls. He pulled a couple out of the trunk of his car and we went to town bustin’ both moves & balls. Then, coffee it was. I was too mesmerized by the fact it was instant coffee to zone in on the fact we were actually having a 5 AM cuppa. Weird. We then sat, coffee in hand and had a chat around the coffee table. Weirder. We talked for about two hours. Weirdest. I defi got the dirt on how his athletic career was stilted by an affair with a teacher. And then, “ok, let’s go to bed!” Not so weird.

GFP was all “do you mind if the bed is on the floor?” Did I mind? Of course I didn’t mind! A mattress straight to the floor was actually the perfect solution to my newfound post-splitting-my-head-open “headboard phobia.” I’ve had a couple of incidents to label said phobia perfectly rational. Mattress to floor sounded pretty sweet to me. Hooking up, however – not so much. 7 AM plus serious jetlag plus serious inebriation = a handjob & ball play the best I could do before promptly passing out on said mattress on said floor. So much for the potency of instant coffee.

Despite a couple of attempts every 2-3 hours to wake me out of my slumber I remained completely and totally passed out. I really do hope no one ever wastes a roofie on me. Legit unnecess. Due to a lack of natural light infiltration we accidentally slept until 2 PM. In the words of my friend post-incident, “2 PM? Why didn’t you just stick around for more coffee & a dinner date.” As, initial reaction: “my sister will KILL me.”

GFP drove me back to my hotel that I didn’t know the street of. He provided a lovely scenic tour of Dublin along the way. Due to my complete and total lack of direction/sense of navigation he volunteered to go up and down every side street in the quest for the MIA boutique hotel. A couple of times GFP would go, “watch this, I’m bustin’ a move!” – to correlate with sharp, perilous corner turns. That boy. All sorts of upset he’d never again hear from the Yank that busts moves, I scored some digits at the end of my tour.

FYI – I look pretty awesome when walking in from all nighters. And by awesome I mean eye makeup nowhere near the vicinity of my eyes & a follicular disaster. Hence not so perfect timing in running into my new BFF the concierge at 2ish PM looking like disaster central from rolling about on a mattress on a floor with a well built Irishman. It wasn’t even a legit walk of shame. If I’m going to have judgment passed I damn well best come back with jizz upon my garments.

“I was just touring the city!” “Your sister said you were sleeping!” Foiled. Ubs. Foiled. Small boutique hotels + me on a bender = not recommended.   

Kat: Want to go to the meatpacking thing at the Seaport?
Me: Wouldn’t a meatpacking thing be in the meatpacking district?
Kat: No, no the meat market, want to come with me?
Me: But I thought you were a vegetarian?
Kat: What? So do you want to come?
Me: I didn’t know they had a meat market at the seaport? Why wouldn’t they have a seafood market?

This went on for a bit until Kat thought to clarify the Z100 MEET market. Not a booth in the seaport where you select beef for dinner. Who knew?

Depending on your lifestyle choice there will allegedly be a selection of both meat and seafood today. Of course this is contingent on your having a predisposed liking to  twenty-one year olds & guidos.

Follow up from suitor below. He actually did prove Googlable. I think once I get my bangs restyled in two weeks this could be a go. I’m wild for condiment talk.

From: SUITOR
To: DATING DEVIANT
Date received: September 16, 2008
Subject:

I guess Google aptitude is also a safe distance from the frontal lobe? Anyway, I wouldn’t worry about the late-night monte cristo habit; I’ve read that swiss cheese and mayonnaise help the body heal faster. Although this was a long time ago, so I don’t remember whether they need to be eaten, or applied topically.

However many banks fail by the time your sabbatical ends, I’m pretty sure there will still be bars open. Feel free to get back in touch then.

Correspondence below:

From: SUITOR
To: DATING DEVIANT
Date received: September 14, 2008
Subject:

Wow. I’m always sorry to hear about head trauma, but it’s almost inspiring how little it seems to have affected your verbal abilities. (Almost.) And if your helmet does have space for the GPS unit, I guess that’s a silver lining.

Would your stitches keep you from getting a drink sometime this week?

-[SUITOR NAME]

From: DATING DEVIANT
To: SUITOR
Date sent: September 14, 2008
Subject:

[SUITOR NAME] is helpful, but not quite helpful enough in terms of Google.

Stitches are so last week. You know you can’t leave them in, in excess
of five days to attain aesthetic success? I learn something new every
day. Lucky for you, me and anyone else I ensnare in email chain fun,
my damage was in my frontal lobe whereas my ability to verbalize in
grades of awesome is located somewhere closer to the left.

I am still on my dating sabatical for another week or two. This is
down from my initial assessment of 6 months to one year, but I can be
dramatic. Not so much due to my impressive head injury or even apathy,
so much as I am not allowed to gym it for a few weeks still, yet
despite (or perhaps in spite of this) I still managed to find myself
sitting in the diner at 4:30 AM this morning ordering the Monte
Cristo. On fried challah bread. With fries. With a side of mayonnaise.
Oh and I totally ate the whole thing.

Perhaps drinks in a couple weeks. It may just be worth your while. If
you are a true head injury contender you’ll be pumped to hear I scored
pre-stitch photos off the doctor a few days ago. They come everywhere.
I’m about two steps from upgrading the discharge papers I have them
enclosed in to a plastic case with a calligraphy label.

From: SUITOR
To: DATING DEVIANT
Date received: September 10, 2008
Subject:

Hi. I was at the beginning of a vacation when your wink came through. (I don’t recommend browsing through this site on a phone via a slow South American connection… the “reply back” button is very close to the “seek restraining order” button and it’s a little too easy to make a mistake. I solved this by giving up until I got back to the U.S.) Since it’s been a while, I’m just sending a quick hello to see if you’re still on the site.

So you always choose the wrong direction and have an I-win complex? That could lead to some unexpectedly long road trips.

From: DATING DEVIANT
To: SUITOR
Date sent: September 10, 2008
Subject:

Hey there,

I am taking a break from match, as I took a digger on third ave last week and got 60+ stitches of awesome on my forehead (I wanted an exact number for the story, alas the doctor lost count).

I am considering wearing a helmet when leaving the house from now on, and am looking into the possibilities of installing a GPS system within it. That should solve the direction sitch. As for my I-win complex, I am testing out the full-blown drama of my stitches story at the bar this weekend in a trial run, but I so bet that no one can top my glorious tale (in case it is not implied, I am not much interested in winning anything of relevancy, such as an Olympic gold medal, but I get super pumped along the lines of things like telling the best bar story and consuming my beer the quickest). Also probably noteworthy, I took my tumble sober.

Weds I started to feel better so ventured outwards. Made it maybe a block got dizzy completely passed out and took a digger on third ave head first (and allegedly followed up with a seizure-like stint of fantasticness). To which I had all these good samaritans trying to help me sit up and tell them the date (I was off a day) and how many fingers were they holding up (couldn’t swing that one) and my age (I aced it!) and what really stands out is one person asking me if I wanted water but did I mind if it was sparkling water (I didn’t mind). I was totally bleeding all over the place from my face (someone offered a napkin and did I mind they only had one – I didn’t mind).

So I had a fire truck, an ambulance and I think even police. It would be an attention seekers dream scenario. And I tried to tell them I could go home, that it was just around the corner and they were like seriously you want to refuse medical treatment? And I was like no, no maybe not seriously. Then I asked someone to get the name of the primary samaritan in charge of the opp so I could write him a thank you card because the poor guy looked ready to cry and he was really nice dude to hold up a random bloody chic on the sidewalk (never let anyone talk smack about New Yorkers).

In the ambulance I realized I didn’t have my phone on me and couldn’t call anyone and only knew my mom’s number off the top of my head. But I didn’t want them to call her. But they said if I died in the hospital I’d be a Jane Doe so I had to give them a number (EMTs = tough love). So after we went back and forth on this for awhile I heard them say I’d need a plastic surgeon and I didn’t want a random going at it so I had to call my mom and had to ask for my sister whom I told I had sprained an ankle in the park so she wouldn’t freak out and could she give me my father’s number. Entire production. Who doesn’t heart divorce nation?

And this entire time I had been wearing my sunglasses and the EMT went to take them off my head at which point I realized they were physically stuck to my head. And I was all no, no and they were all yes, yes. Hence removing my sunglasses to discover a four inch wide, deep gash down to the bone (go big or go home!)

Upon my arrival to the ER I got an EKG and a Catscan and all of that good stuff and they didn’t want to discharge me because I was basically a hot mess of everything being banged up (seriously – for someone who has never been hospitalized in her life – I went all out). No one would provide me a mirror (or painkillers or water for that matter, but I have my priorities). I was positioned by the door and kept receiving looks of horror from people (I kind of felt like offering a kid a dollar to track me down a mirror).

Eventually my father arrived and bailed me out to get me to a plastic surgeon. The eager resident looked kind of bummed but I can only assume he can work his technique on an orange or banana or something along those lines. 60+ stitches of awesome later I have the most legit story of my life. I don’t even need to date what with the stuff I get myself into.

Oh and while in the emergency room I think from the looks I was getting I thought I was dying so I had my father 411 my boss so he could call me out dead for a bit (in a state of shock my thoughts are call out of work) and I think I was still in shock when I was talking to my boss because one of my work friend’s texted that there are rumors about my negative state at the office, so I presume they’ll be kind of disappointed when I return looking normal & not missing part of my head. Before then I have to get the photos from the doc as visuals progress a story from great to unprecedented and I bet the photo with the open gash is awesome.

So anyhow the perk to all this is I get a daily fruit dish and my friends arrive bearing cupcakes and gummibears. I may need to fall on my head more often.

Age: 28 (taking another stab at a youngin’)

Height: 6’0

Alcohol units consumed: Copious.

Time expended: 30 hours over the course of two days. Right?

I think this date is officially my last dip into the match.com pond, ending that experiment. It only took 12 dates to get it right, however it only took me 30 hours to screw it up. Alas, I am back to singledom sans the quest to date each and every viable NYC male in under an hour. Over it.

a. Wasted

b. at 3:45 AM

c. Bearing cheese fries (with condiments!)

…then it’s like wack job plus. 

Hence my Saturday evening a few weeks ago.  Not surprisingly my “mind if we wait on sex?” bit resulted in an absence of date four. Gotta love the virtual dating scene. It’s not my fault the dude doesn’t meet my 30 lb minimum weight discrepancy. I’d hate to break him, hence the hesitation.

The next logical step after a beer binge drink up (resulting in a 48 hour hangover) is to progress to hard liquor.  Namely, my BFF tequila.  On the rocks.  With salt.  

For such an occurrence to come to fruition, I selected El Rio as the follow up date locale with Jack the original.  Midtown is my least favorite sector on the grid, alas nothing says let’s get sloshed and black out like Tex-Mex style boozin’.  Plus it’s my charitable contribution to train others to drink at my level and even I have difficulty not blacking out on Rio margs. (Note: I have pretty solid grounds to write off margaritas as tax deductible).

As an added bonus, I was just rolling in from another bar so I already had that requisite lining of vodka in my system necessary to meet up with a semi-stranger that has seen me topless.

Since Jack has never been to El Rio, I got us right down to business with the margs.  True to form, five minutes in I was working the desperate last sip straw slurp as he was nursing the top third of his drink.  There was some schnitzel déjà vu, as when the waiter approached I opted to go round two and “really focus on my beverage” while Jack opted for food upon my assurance I would want whatever he ordered more than I could ever like anything I ordered.

As I was ready for my third drink and Jack couldn’t quite finish his first he was all, “you are business.” When it comes to drinking, I am in fact business.  As Jack attempted to catch up on drinking, I attempted to eat off Jack’s plate without spilling (rice is tricky and two margs hinder aim and focus).

We attempted to piece together our prior evening of frolics, alas two minds do not work better than one post Zum Schneider beer binge. I remain baffled as to how we got from the bar back to my place. I am even more so clueless as to how we didn’t consume any Milano cookies that evening.

Time expended: 2 hours / Alcohol units consumed: 3 (me) 2 (Jack)

As we closed the bar down at midnight, another watering hole was necessary – across the street we went for a round of beers. Jack is a PDAer. I am not. As he was trying to kiss me in the bar I had to give him the spiel on how bars are for games and drinking not for saliva exchanging.

Time expended: 1 hour / Alcohol units consumed: <1 (me) 1 (Jack). Beer is tricky.

At this point the tequila was starting to get to me. Perhaps in an attempt to solve the PDA problem, we opted to leave the bar and hookup on the corner of what I believe to be 35^th and 3^rd. Nothing says class like my actions while all percentaged up.

It was getting kind of late and I was well bombed so after an hour of this it was time to go home.  Unfortunately I have a distinctive tendency towards belligerence, where I like to irrationally return statements made (e.g. the time my roommate told my drunk self to go to bed as my eyes were red – “NO, YOU ARE RED!”)  Jack wanted to see me into a cab. “NO, I will see YOU into a cab!”

This went on for awhile. Never underestimate the potential for five-year-old behavior in a twenty-something drunk chic.

To acquiesce the situation Jack and I both ended up in a cab so he could drop me off then go his own way. Until it was suggested we have just one more drink and then maybe go have that one drink on the roof top at my place. This worked as the original problem of my apartment being a train wreck hadn’t cleared up yet.  This didn’t work as it had rained and no one wants to disrobe on dampened lawn décor. 

Needless to say we ended up in my bed where I played a little game I like to call mixed signal central. Then I passed out.  Good stuff.  Noteworthy: I still made it into work in the morning. Like a champ! Jack did not. I hope he is using his free time to work on bettering his binge drinking ability. 

Cumulative time expended: 11 hours / Cumulative alcohol units consumed: 4.5 (me) 3.5 (Jack)