My Drinking Class has a Painting Problem

I'm not one to drink a lot unless I'm in Vegas, it's a holiday, I'm on an awkward date, I'm at a family reunion, I'm wearing a taco costume, or someone else is buying. But when I see or hear of an activity that involves boozing when typically not allowed, I'm a huge supporter. Just as a hypothetical (and amazing business idea), Binge Drinking Church Confessions. Now this sinner hasn't been dragged to confession since I was maybe 10, and I certainly don't intend to ever again in my life, but if I heard of a church that was offering Jaegerbombs to it's clients standing in line for confession, I'd be there in seconds, if not just for the sake of experiencing the hot mess of a party sure to be happening up in the congregation. So when I received a special offer to attend a BYOB Intro to Painting class from this lady, I did a double-take to make sure I read that correctly, and then promptly signed my artistically-challenged mug up.

A few days later, I stuffed a couple Hornsby's in my bag and headed into K-town--Koreatown, for those unfamiliar with the area. What I believe really set the tone for this whole experience is that I first noticed the art studio was located in a building right next door to a Korean all-you-can-eat named "Gangnam Style." So relevant. And as a total aside, someone please tell me I'm not the only one who originally thought the chorus of the song was "Open Condom Style," the unsafe sex anthem of our youth's generation. I digress and head up the elevator to the 14th floor where I anticipate shit getting real.

I don't know about y'all, but when I think BYOB-anything, I think of taking something normal, removing any pretention, uptightness, or morals, and then maxxing the party factor (totally convinced that if there were BYOB H&R Blocks, nobody would put off doing taxes until the last days of mid-April). So forgive me if the fantasy in my head about this art class involved hot soccer players doing keg stands against the LA skyline, while in the foreground scruffy shirtless guys in berets and paint-stained goatees held brushes at an easel in one hand and glasses of lambrusco in the other--it's my fantasy, dammit. The reality I walked into was more like a small, quiet group of menopausal women, all of which were either unaware of, or opted out of the BYOB part of the experience. Maybe this was partly due to it being a school night and there would have been a different crowd for the Friday night class, and had I recruited a few of my rowdy friends to come with me, the vibe would have been far different. Never fear, I busted out my cider and got down to bidness.

First I learned about mixing acrylics and how certain colors, when combined, cancel themselves out to black by making a color chart.

Then, with the expert guidance of the instructor, I put it all to good use and created my still life masterpiece:

This was all done during a two-hour class. I will say, at the risk of sounding like a total asshole, that I generally hate to learn. I hate taking classes, and even when it's something that I think I'll enjoy like a dance class, I'm checking the clock every 5 minutes, agonizing over how long it will be until I can go home, wrap myself in a Slanket, and settle in for a Bad Girls Club marathon. In this instance, there wasn't a clock, and my cell phone was across the room, so I was pleasantly surprised when right around the time I was thinking that I must be halfway into the class and maybe I can peace out in time to watch a sloppy drunk Janae pop off at Valentina, the instructor announced we only had 5 minutes left of class. Sure enough, two hours had gone by like nothing. So, time flies when you're drinking and painting. 

Next time, I'll try my luck at the Friday night class.

What is love? (Baby don't hurt me, don't hurt me, no more)

Behold! A one-women Valentine's celebration with strong thematics of home-baked love and spousal abuse...

This year Valentine's Day was different for me than the norm because it was the first time in many years that I was single. Put your violins away, I was actually really looking forward to the experience. So much emphasis of this holiday is placed on having that special romantic someone, but I wanted to be able to celebrate loving myself and others I care about! So I started it off by giving myself the perfect Valentine's pedi, whilst mindlessly singing Kelly Clarkson's "What Doesn't Kill you Makes you Stronger," until I realized that song would probably subconsciously damper my Valentine juju.  So I started singing "All you Need is Love" and promptly stubbed my toe and chipped the paint job.

Then I got started on my big plans in the kitchen. Originally, I thought I'd make these homemade peanut butter cups and give them to my friends. But they were amazing and I'm not even gonna make it seem like I didn't eat all twelve of them myself within 48 hours, long before the 14th even arrived. So... sorry, friends deserving of homemade peanut butter cups, you lost out and I didn't. But what I did wait to do was make cupcakes. And to honor the hipster buried not-so-deep within me, I made them vegan and gluten-free. They were a hit with my various friends with dietary restrictions, and then I made sure I left a cutely packaged box of them on my next door neighbor's doorstep. My neighbor is awesome in that he has let me steal borrow his internet for the past two and a half years, and has literally saved me over $1000 bones, so I figured the least I could do was throw him this bone. And I'm pretty sure he was either thoroughly touched and/or creeped out by it.

 Then I allowed myself some quality me-time. I'm normally not one to read romance novels--coughfiftyshadesofgrey-- but when Nicholas Sparks' new novel "Safe Haven" arrived on my doorstep the day prior to V-day, I knew how I would spend my afternoon. And evening. And night while I should have been sleeping. And I didn't stop until the next morning when it was finished.  I started reading it thinking, much like his other novel "The Notebook," it would be the perfect love story for a day like Valentine's day. What it turned out being was a book about a young woman fleeing from a physically abusive marriage she was trapped in for years, and the aftermath of what it's like to try to hide from someone looking to hunt you down and kill you. And like most trainwrecks, I had to keep looking until I found out who lived and who died. So, Happy Valentine's Day to me.

I'm a one-time book reader, except for certain faves like my personal Bible "The Devil Wears Prada," so my copy of Safe Haven immediately began making a cameo here. And I will say that I thought the last couple chapters of the book were. JUST. AWFUL. Feel free to bid, despite my rave review. 

If anything, this book did allow me to reflect on some things I normally don't think about, like how lucky I am to still be able to use my original birth identity despite having one or two fucktard mentally unstable ex-boyfriends on my rap sheet. That the only black eyes I've ever received were given to me by myself from my own ridonkulous physical shenanigans, or simply drawn on with makeup for the many spun-out ho's I've played for the camera. Or the fact that I carry a can of pepper spray with me everywhere, but the only time it's ever gotten any use was from the one time I accidentally sprayed myself in the face. So yes, I did feel the love this Valentine's Day. Because I realized my friends, family, and home have always been my Safe Haven.

YES to Superbowl Sunday, NO to selling my goods.

I’m not going to remember this past Sunday as Superbowl Sunday 2013. I was driving to a friend’s house to snarf some homemade guac and perhaps watch a little football when I received this text from a colleague while driving west on the 10:

Tell me if this works for u or not.. But I found a guy for u. That will help u financially. He is not looking for nothing serious just sex once in a while. But will help you with whatever you meed.

My apologies to the football/high-budget commercial/Destiny’s Child fanatics out there: February 3^rd, 2013 will now be known as the day I was propositioned to become a prostitute. A lady of the night. A strumpet. As I read and reread this text while trying to avoid rear-ending the car in front of me (yeah, I’m guilty—what.), many thoughts swirled through my head: First, I had the exciting realization that I had just experienced the elusive fragment/double-negative/spell check text trifecta. Secondly, yes I’m jobless and broke and desperate but seriously?! Third of all…exactly how much money are we talking about here? I didn’t respond for many hours because it took me that long to figure out what is the proper response to a text like that:

           “lol”?

This really wasn’t what I had in mind when I made the resolution to try new opportunities I wouldn’t consider under normal circumstances. But my current circumstances are not normal: I rang in the New Year by getting laid off from my job. I will say that I’m fascinated by stories of women like this earning thousands an hour and often wondered how does one become a pricey call-girl in the first place (like do most have to start at $25 handy-J’s and work their way up)?

This could be my ticket in!

What does it say about me that I was tempted to text back “How much?” rather than “No way in hell!”? I feel like a whore for thinking that way, oh, the irony. But I am a believer that we all have a price. At some point, for a certain amount of money, we would all sell ourselves.

“Would you eat this habanero for $1?”

No, but I’d do it for $20.

“Would you shave your head for $500?”

No, but I’d do it for $5,000.

“Would you give Larry King a Rusty Trombone for $1,000?”

No, but for $10,000 and a Fendi baguette you can call me the Sexual Glenn Miller.

Unless you’re one of these sisters, you’ll financially draw the line somewhere in terms of having sex with a stranger. Whether it’s for $100,000, for $500, or for an eight-ball and lift to the Circle K, there is an amount that we’ll agree to sell our bodies and dignity. And here I was, faced with the reality of naming my price. I could really demand anything. So I texted him back:

Hmm, doesn’t sound like it’ll work for me...But thanks for keeping me in mind. 

And much like a used rubber, I flushed the reality of my future as a wealthy escort down the toilet. I didn't think it would do the fantasy in my head justice.

My Inbloguration

That’s right. I just made a cyber pun. It’s not my first and it won’t be my last.

But this will be the last time I let another year go by while not living up to my maximum Jackass potential. Unless you've been living in one of these for the past decade, you're already familiar with the MTV grossout bromance show. So let’s take Steve-O as an example: If you’ve ever spent more than 5 minutes in a room with Steve-O, as I have had the odd fortune of doing, the first tidbit he’ll bring to the table is that he is a premature ejaculator. And that is a straight-up fact. Sure, go ahead and think I banged Steve-O--only he, my friend Heidi and myself know the truth. The second thing you’ll learn about Steve-O is that his comfort zone is when he’s doing anything outside his comfort zone: Drinking a mug of his BFF’s funneled sweat, locking himself inside a porta-potty and then launching said outhouse in the air via bungees to create the "Poo Cocktail Supreme" and butt-chugging a beer enema are all on his list of accomplishments. 

I wanna be like those guys. Only maybe I won’t shove a tube up my friend’s ass. But here and now I dare myself to step outside my comfort zone, try new things I normally wouldn’t and embrace challenges thrown at me.

How am I doing so far? The start of 2013 dealt me two significant life-changers: 1) I got laid off from my job, and 2) I got bangs. I’ve embraced the unemployment, yet the bangs just suck. I may never accept them. But I quickly realized that through joblessness comes boredom, which turns into desperation, which can then lead to inspiration. So for however long Uncle Sam’s paycheck lasts me, and hopefully much longer, I'll be recording my adventures in boredom and taking my trademark insecurities and pessimism and giving them a swift boot to the fanny. You are welcome to challenge me! I will genuinely consider all dares, reasonable or unreasonable.

My first challenge for the next week, despite being single and living in the most romantically handicapped city ever, will be to celebrate the heart-shaped pants off of Valentine's Day. Stay tuned for my findings--It’s time to get off my jackass and go out on a limb.