They're driving me to drink and I'm not even in a relationship with them!!!

Sometimes I don't like my other job.

Most days it's cool. The people I work with understand why they're there, and they get the objective done...

...and then some days, I have to deal with some people that make me want to sin my soul. But I am a professional, so I have perfected the art of baring my teeth but make it look like I'm smiling sweetly and serenely. Nothing drives them more crazy than when I do that.

I think it's the sense of entitlement. Many of the disgusticating (it's a word my mother uses) ones are the ones who think that just because they have skills, the world needs to fall at their feet and do their bidding. I, on the other hand, am not impressed by their skills, nor their stature. I have moved in circles involving politicians, the rich, the young and elite, the people who make things happen and really help run this world. The people who buy and sell such persons of perceived entitlement. So I'm not impressed. I don't go around boasting about this, however, partially because my interaction with these people are purely business. But I'm still not impressed.

Also, it's not an enshrined and protected right to be on facebook. Yes, I like Facebook too, but there is no law, right, policy, international document that protects users from being denied Facebook. You're not supposed to be on Facebook anyway at this office. So when I kindly, and softly ask you to come off of Facebook, having a temper tantrum at me about why you need to be on facebook is only making your case worse, because on top of breaking your contract with the department (for being on facebook), you're displaying "ungentlemanly/unladylike conduct" and possibly threatening an employee. Take it from me, it just doesn't do you any favours to behave like that.

As well, basic manners are still quite fashionable right now. Let's start with simple things: Responding properly when I greet you with: "Hello."; "Good night"; or any of the variations of those two phrases. Then, after we graduate from that module, we'll work on the use of speech responsibility portion: just because you have a mouth and a vocabulary does not mean whatever you say and however you say it is acceptable and will be tolerated; no matter what your mother, girlfriend, main outside girlfriend, and other groupies will say. It's not funny, especially since, if you had tried that on me 3 years ago, not only would I have made charcoal of your ass, but I would do it with words you probably do not know and will never understand.

I matured alot in the past 3 years. My quiet demeanour is not the indication of a doormat. It would be unwise to think so, just as it's unwise to assume that I'm smiling.

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A Few of My Favourite Things: (drinksmixer.com)

1/2 oz amaretto almond liqueur
1 oz Bailey's Irish Cream
1 oz Kahlua cofee liqueur
1/2 oz vanilla liqueur
1/2 oz butterscotch schnapps
1 oz vodka
7 1/2 oz milk

Shake ingredients in a cocktail shaker with ice. Strain into a highball glass and serve.

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May you have a good night!

The Bartender

It's just one of those nights you drink out of the bottle, no cocktails spoken here.

I took Friday night off and found my way to another bar not too far from home. I've been there before, it's pretty decent, and the view is amazing.

In this city, it's hard to find a reason to dress up to go out. Friday night was even harder. I was feeling really comfortable. I could have looked cute, but I decided it was too much effort to be uber cute. A sweater, some fitted jeans, and some boots and I was comfortable and swanky. I ran a comb through my hair, ran some gel through my hair to enhance the curls and I was ready to go.

I started with wine, but it didn't feel like a wine night. I downgraded to Smirnoff Ice, and it got better fast. I was sitting at the bar, looking at the *social networking* going on, hedging bets against who was actually going to get punanny that night, who may get punanny if they worked their charm right, and who didn't have a chance of even getting touched by fire in hell, far less for any punanny. Yes, with a Smirnoff in hand, I am easily amused.

All of a sudden, I recognise someone. Cool, I have a cover while I mind other people's business, especially since it's more platonic than romantic right now. So we're sitting upstairs, observing the people of the night, when he introduces me to his crew for the night, one of whom I already know. Okay, I know I wasn't planning on man-trapping (sorry Gatita, I know I told you otherwise but my heart wasn't in it without you and Russo), but I think Chef-Dude is cute, and I always get extra helpings :D. Chef-Dude is flirting. I'm flirting back. Original friend is cool about it, he's investing in another drink. Chef-Dude is offering to buy me a drink. Okay, I'm among friends, cool... except the bar upstairs does not have bottled drinks. So we have to go downstairs. I grab his hand and take him downstairs.

We're flirting, we're laughing, and then I happen to glance at his hands because we were talking about the significance of him drinking Heineken and he reaches for his bottle at the same time and I realise there is a band on his left hand, ring finger.

I couldn't help myself. I literally asked: "What is that?"

"Oh this? I felt like having a little bling on tonight."

I had been a little friendly with Smirnoff but not that friendly. Ring finger, left hand is not "a little bling"!

I must have had the "are you serious" look on my face, because he followed up with, "But I am engaged."

I bared my teeth. It looks alot like I'm smiling, but those who know me knows there is a difference. Chef-Dude thought I was smiling at him. I didn't care to tell him the difference.

I took him back up stairs, Smirnoff refilled, and deposited him in the care of his drunk friend, who, to my amusement, proceeded him in a rousing game of "Let's chase the drunk guy around the bar for half an hour in an attempt to get him home". Meanwhile, original friend played for about 5 minutes, then settled in for another drink with me to watch his friends chase each other around the bar.

Original friend walked me home. We chilled on the countertop of my kitchen in the dark for about 15 minutes before he left. Somehow that was the part of the night that hit the spot. That and the Smirnoff.

"Baby, let me feel like a man."

This is not a full post - yet.

I got this as a text message response to something I said: "Baby, let me feel like a man."

WTH? What does this mean? Why is it you're not feeling like a man? Do I have to pump your...*ego* up? Do I do it manually or is there some sort of machine/online web generator that does this for you?

Ding ding ding!!! Warning sign!!!

The conversation, to this point:

I'm so horny.

See, that's a problem for both of us, because I'm friendly drunk, you're horny, I'm in NM and you're in Cali.

(insert subject line here)

I will probably make some man a very poor trophy wife because I can't make regular guys "feel like a man". Whatever that means.

Maybe I should send him an invoice for such services, based on the current market rate for the top 7% of these services (might as well aim for the best, right?), plus incidentals, traveling and accommodation, no-show fee and any other fees associated with such services. And of course, request 50% downpayment.

Or maybe I should lose his number and move on... he may have been hot, but not that hot. Plus I don't have the time to raise anyone right now, whether it be my man or my children.

Baby Love, take a shot of tequila, grow a pair, let them ripe, and then call me back. Maybe then you'll be ready.

Chapter 6: The Man With the Golden Eyes

Wow, That title sounds like a bad James Bond movie.

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I should not be surprised there is a drink called Golden Eye. It sounds interesting. I should have my resident bartender work on this one for me.

Courtesy of DrinkMixer.com

1 oz Bailey's® Irish cream
1 oz Goldschlager® cinnamon schnapps
nut

Pour goldschlager schnapps into a glass, add a nut, then layer the baileys irish cream on top.

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I know, I should be studying academics, not investigating possible leads on men-friends, but I, too, get lonely. Plus, I keep having this curiousity about why certain girls always get guys. I’m not being intentionally mean, but I have my shallow points and that sticks in my craw.

I digress.

I had decided to scale back my active pursuit of men to by about 90-95 percent for various reasons, some of which involved what felt like maturity. So that day, when I ended up at that student organization board meeting, man-trapping was not even on my agenda. I was in a t-shirt, a denim skirt, and covered in war paint and paraphernalia related to a sporting event I had attended. I had not changed because I was planning to attend a soccer match for my school right after and would probably end up looking the same way, just with different colours.

Unfortunately I was distracting some of the other board members, including this one guy who had the most beautiful golden eyes. Soon we were flirting across the meeting. I know, how very unprofessional, but if a guy can excite me without touching me, I’m in heavy lust.

I forgot to get Golden Eyes’ number when I left the room. But I figured it wouldn’t be hard, since he and I work for the same organization.

About three days later, I sent him an email. No response.

About a week after our initial meeting I was in a student lounge, looking like a hot mess, once again. I think I had 2 hours sleep, and was at the point that once I was functioning, I would keep moving. I was on the phone with another friend when someone says, “Hi.”

I was so sleepy I did not recognize the person, but as I am not rude, I said hi back. On his second time passing by me, I pulled him aside and asked him if we had met. Ooops. Yeah, it was Golden Eyes. I shook it off and begged forgiveness on the account I was exhausted, but still he should check his email for the email (about a coffee date, but I didn’t say) and get back to me.

Three hours later: I was packing up in my second to last class when someone calls my name. It was Golden Eyes. I’m surprised. That was fast.

Golden Eyes told me he read my email, but this was a bad time for him, he just broke up with his girlfriend but he wants to remain friends, etc.

I’m not going to lie. I’ve matured enough that I’m recognizing the bullshit from the time it starts to drop out of his mouth. Fine, I have my own bullshit. I told him I understand, it’s okay, and I made him laugh, while I’m thinking, you cowardly little bitch.

There have been other instances that I could have clearly called him out on, re: not being friends since we have not one, but two classes together. I can’t rely on him to call me back on time with respect to assignments, especially when I clearly specify in the voicemail that I’m calling to get data on (insert class here) for (insert date here). Friends my ass.

Chapter 5: The Medic

"Never allow someone to be your priority while allowing yourself to be their option."
- Nina Potts-Jefferies

It was a Saturday morning, six o'clock in the morning, and the sunrise was filtering through the coconuts, paint the interior of Mommy's car in warm red and orange hues. I had managed not to fall asleep on this ride and was fortunate to be up, listening to a particular radio station when this quote was said.

I stared at the ocean, dark and glinting with specks of morning sun and my mind ran on Medic, and why it took me so long to realise that I was never his priority, just an option.

I need to stop chasing man-ho's. Full stop. Especially if they don't fit my shallow physical tastes. Thus, all future objects of distractions must be at least 6'0'' and taller because I like them cute and tall.

Yeah, Medic was about 5'6'' (definitely shorter than me at 5'10'' barefooted, and worse, i like my heels atleast 3 inches high). But I disregarded this because I used to have this shame for being shallow about guys and their height, especially since I'm tall for a woman. Height is a physical feature that is almost impossible to change without painful surgery. Medic was sexy, even though he was short. Plus, he had a masculine powerful something in his aura and I like power. So we talked and made plans.

Unfortunately, once a man-ho, always a man-ho...

I'm an only child. Only children are notorious for not sharing because, usually, we don't have to share. I'm not completely spoilt, and I don't think I'm unreasonable. I understand that I spend 8 months in a different country to him, and that he's quite attractive, and has many female friends; just as I am quite attractive and have many male friends. I would be out of place to insist that he broke off all contact with non-family member females to be with me. However, if WE are trying to start a relationship, then I don't expect that you invited me meet you at a club when not only are you going with another girl (who is NOT a family member but a potential), but you are picking her up from home AND I need to find my own way there.

The other part that hurt: The medic worked 2 week shifts: so every other two weeks he would be on shore, and have the time to do what he wish. So it would be reasonable to assume, since we're making plans, that he would make the effort to come see me atleast twice a week, maybe more. I saw him neither frequently, nor regularly, nor sporadically, nor enough times to be considered once a week in the 10 weeks I have been here. Maybe he did not have enough time, what with his partying, and liming, and driving, and going to the beach, to visit, or so his facebook status and photos say.

Oh well. I'm a big girl, and I'm leaving in a little more than a week. Plus, if this semester goes as planned (and I get that traffic stopping dress I was drooling over and a matching pair of hardwear for my feet to wear in Las Vegas in November), I won't even remember him as I'm sipping overpriced cocktails that some friendly sexy tall gentleman caller purchased for me while at Pure/Tao/The Palms.

But, full details to be given at Zinc to the rest of the C-I-T's, probably over the dark smooth strength of a Guinness. A Guinness has never failed me yet.

Chapter 4: Skirting the Issue

I’m not gonna lie. I have favourite pieces of clothing. They vary with time and space. This summer, in Trinidad, I was in love with my green wool plaid skirt.

Now, before you start generating schoolgirl fantasies, this was the grown up version: It was knee-length with only one pleat at the front, flat pockets and buttons to the front. Very haute coture.

So last week, I’m sitting at my desk, doing my work, when up comes another employee, always fashionable himself, and leans over me.

“You see that skirt you’re wearing? That’s my favourite skirt to see you in.”

I wanted to rip the skirt off and burn it immediately. I made the deliberate point to turn around and face him, look him up and down, and reply,
“It’s my favourite skirt too. I’d lend it to you, but I don’t think you have the legs for it.”

He smiled. “I said, that’s my favourite-”
I cut him off, smiling saccharinely sweet, but my eyes cold. “I heard what you said, but I assure you, the skirt won’t work for you. Is there anything else?”

He backed off.

I know what happened, and if I brought that to HR, that would have been a serious issue that could cost him his job. At that time, I had 10 more working days in the office, and really wanted to finish without incident. Plus, as much as that was creepy, there was an incident about the week before when I was having a “reaction” of some sort to something I either ate or was exposed to in the warehouse, he drove me to the nearest pharmacy and bought medication while I quietly spazzed out on the counter.

But that does not give him the right to sleaze passes at me.

Chapter 3: Footie Goes to University!!!!

I always get upset at negative people, because I find your life can’t be that bad that everything is always bad. Even in your worst times, some days are better than others.

Today was a good day. There will be no tales of the evils done by men driving me to drink. Today (or rather tomorrow) we drink to celebrate the fact that my friend Footie got his student visa successfully sorted out today. He was really worried, but come next week Monday or Tuesday, depending on if he gets his flight changed, he will be touching down in New Mexico for the first time.

I need to find a decent happy hour near work/en route to home. This deserves a celebatory drink! Cheers!

Mango Mojito Recipe

I have a couple favourite drinks. When the moods strikes me, I'll find the recipes and post them here.

I prefer Sprite to club soda though...

Recipe is taken from DrinkSwap.com
(http://www.drinkswap.com/drinks/detail.asp?recipe_id=10494)

Mango Mojito Cocktail Recipe

This drink is a variation of
Mojito Drink Recipe

Ingredients
1 1/2 oz Mango Rum
1 wedge Lime
4 pieces (Leaves) Mint
3 oz Club Soda
Directions Muddle the mint leaves and lime wedge in the bottom of an old-fashioned glass. Add Cruzan mango rum and club soda as above or adjusted to taste. Add ice cubes, and serve.
Serve in a Highball Glass

Chapter 2: Welcome to The Islands

It must be that when one is lonely and homesick, one will grasp at anything that remotely reminds one of home. I think that was the real reason I hooked up with the Islands.

He wasn’t the sexiest thing since slice bread, but he was cute enough. Plus, we seemed to understand each other, and had a mutual appreciation for liming. He needed a drinking buddy. I needed a drinking buddy between happy hour (5 pm) and 9-ish when my working friends would finally show up at the bar. I chose a bad weekend… Labour Day Weekend, 2008, where Gatita Fiera was busy with family stuff and Russo was out of town. I should have known better, right?

So we met up at Zinc. I should have followed my gut instinct (especially since Jah doh lead me wrong) and left when he didn’t show up at 5 o’clock as planned. Fortunately, the Friday night bartenders and I get along well, and it was happy hour, where drinks were $3 per glass. About 7 o clock, he showed up, and we commenced a night of heavy drinking. Rum, vodka, scotch, tequila shots on the hour; all of the above was consumed. We made lots of new friends that night: the two kids from the Caribbean with the beautiful accents.

So The Islands, our 5 new best friends and I stumbled from Zinc to Imbibe, this cool lounge and cigar bar a little way up the street. The drinking continued. I believe that in total, The Islands racked up a total of $200 in alcohol that night on his tab, which he chose to pay for both of us, on his own, and was able to pay without having to wash dishes. Good job! However, he was clearly the more intoxicated of the two of us. I insisted that he slept it off at my place, rather than have him fend for himself and try and find his way home. I told him I was thinking of his safety…

… and how good he would feel in my bed. Yes, I was a little horny and was itching to see how good he could do the work, especially since I had seen it in his eyes while we were by the rooftop bar and could feel it in the way he was touching me. He did not argue and we stumbled our way back to my place.

We did, however, stop once. We walked through the drive through window at Taco Bell. At 2:15 in the morning, it seemed like the most reasonable thing to do, especially since we were starving and the restaurant was closed except for the drive through. After lots of talking and pleading, we managed to convince the manager to serve us, without being in a car, although he insisted that if we did this again, he would not serve us. Truly, it didn’t dawn on us to ask the people behind us to sit in their car and order the food from there, or even ask them to order the food for us. Drunken logic, I suppose.

We got back to my room, inhaled the food, and then lay on my bed where I fall asleep. Somewhere in the middle of my sleep, he reached over the bed, pulled me on top of him, and proceeded to first, undress me, and then touch and kiss me all over. I so wanted more, but we had drunk too much and waited too long (because anyone who knows me knows once I fall asleep, game over! I'm done). So I wasn't the most active participant, but I used some fail-safe techniques that made him feel special and relaxed him enough to make him fall asleep.

The next morning we talk. I find out that since meeting me that April, he had been attracted to me, and he wanted us to be in a relationship, but he had no free time to devote to a relationship, with school and work. (LIES!!! All LIES!!!) I told him I could understand that, because my courses were taking up a lot of my time, and I, too, was working. So we made a mutual agreement that when either of us could be in a relationship, it would be with each other.

Fast forward a couple of weeks. I’m cruising Facebook and I see in my friends’ feed that The Islands was in a relationship… and it was not with me! I immediately inquired about this young lady, only to realize I did not know her. I stared at the computer screen for almost a half hour, trying to figure out if this was a joke. I saw him last week and he told me that my feelings were not a one-sided affair, but life was still too full to add a relationship, but he was still feeling me. Yeah right! He was still feeling me up, because I do recall his hands cupping my ass when he hugged me goodbye that day. Worse, who the hell was helping him set up the social club at school? Who was the public face of that venture? Who did people associate with him on the club? Who had drafted documents for this venture and had all the files on her hard drive? ME! ME! Not his current girlfriend! Me!

Well, when I had paused my anger long enough to think straight, I realized that the healthiest thing to do would be to purge him from my system, starting by highlighting all those files on my computer (especially the ones that were still works in progress and were the only copies) and calmly pressing the “delete” key. I further purged my system by repeating this process in the recycle bin. Was I sure I wanted to permanently delete these files? Yes, I had never been so sure about anything in my life.

The official story behind the missing documents was that my hard drive crashed. Oh no!

The Islands found me a week later. He needed some help putting things together. I told him before I helped him, I wanted answers. Then I asked him three questions.

1. Was it true that he had a girlfriend?
2. Why wasn’t it me?
3. Why, if I was as special to him and he kept telling me I was, did I have to find out on facebook?

His answers: 1. Yes. 2. The timing wasn’t right, plus she was always there in his office, volunteering, and things happened. 3. He didn’t know. (COWARD!)

He did tell me he was sorry for hurting me. Somehow, based on recent events, I did not believe him.

I informed him that I could only help on one of the items he needed help with. Soon after that, I became unavailable for anything involving him or the club except general membership meetings. Yet, people still ask me about the running of the organization, and all I can do is smile sweetly as I reply that I do not know.

I did meet his girlfriend. She seems nice. I don’t harbor any ill will towards her. I think, however, he’s an old dog.

As for the club? Unless a major revitalization effort occurs, it will probably die a quick death.

I see him from time to time in school related activities. I smile, say quick hellos to him and his girlfriend (I still think she is a nice person), and go enjoy my day.

Chapter 1: Guyana said that “Life…Life is full of choices…”

Usually it’s a bad sign when guys have a profound bullshit line. That means they’re hoping your brain is small and easily confounded by profound-sounding words, so that you take the deep message and completely miss the fact that they’re about to blindside you with a huge load of bullshit. Panty-men love to use profound lines, I’ve learned. In this lesson, I was hit with the following lines. They sound really profound, don’t they?

“Life… life is full of choices. I mean, you could get what you want out of life, if you make the right choice. So, when it comes to us, what is your choice?”

-Guyana, January 2009

I met Guyana while drinking. I admit, I was looking cute in man-trapping clothes (as my cousin says). I had on a red corset and a pencil skirt. It was the night of the last day of my internship, and all the interns were partying together. For reasons I would not go into here, it had been a rough internship, not in terms of the workload, but the final month had been tough. (RIP. Bless.)

As for that night, it was the 30th of July; we were out having fun, and on a group mission to out-drink the bar, because free drinks were on the menu.

Personally, I was well on my way to doing my part to “buss” the bar, but I had a craving for tequila (family trait), and had to venture to the paying part of the bar. I was standing up in the corner, feeling suave and friendly, and had just lustily asked the bartender for a shot of Patron when I sensed the person walking by me do a double take.

“Oh my God, you’re beautiful.” He said.

As my mother had taught me good manners I said, “Thank you.”

“You have to save a dance for me.” He said, taking my hand in his.

“Of course.” I replied, fully committal to anything that would make this conversation end faster because my tequila shot had just been placed in front of me.

He didn’t see that. He just saw me flash a brilliant smile before he walked away.

By the time I had drained the shot of golden liquid down my throat, I had forgotten the whole conversation. My craving fulfilled, I wandered back to the main dance where my friends and the free drinks waited.

Somewhere later in the night, and a couple more drinks later, someone took my hand as I was passing through the crowd. I stopped, turned around and focused vaguely on the guy who distracted me from my love affair with Patron earlier.

“Hey beautiful, I’m ready for my dance now.” He said, drawing me closer.

I danced with him. I had nothing better to do at the time, and I was drunk enough to think I could dance in time. He led me to a wall, and we began to dance with each other.

I’d like to say that if I wasn’t drunk at this point, this night may have probably gone differently. However, as the blood was coursing through my alcohol stream, I was at a serious disadvantage. He was an expert, grinding of his body against mine, the way he smelled, the way he was holding me, I was in lust.

I managed to retain some vital information: his name, and he was the VIP manager of the club. Hey, more free drinks for me, especially tequila from the cash bar! I was definitely keeping him around for the night.

So I kept him around, played his game, smiled demurely, batted my eyelashes. I was agreeably non-committal in my responses while I flipped my hair, touched his arm, and laughed way too much. My final act that night was akin to Cinderella: when the clock struck 4 am, I slipped through his fingers and went home to my cool, uncomplicated bed.

I saw him once before I left that summer, 2 days before I got on the first leg of my trip back to school. He had mentioned something about friends who could upgrade my ticket to 1^st class. I was very interested, provided the price was right. You know the price I’m talking about… it’s never in monetary terms. Funny enough, he still thought I was a nice girl (not too sure what defines a nice girl) and decided to supposedly do it out of the goodness of his heart. Later, I would find out he expected me to be grateful to him, as if it was only first class seats were going to Ft. Lauderdale, and as for the rest of the plane, everyone had to get their on his or her own merit. I didn’t find this out until Christmas, though.

Fortunately, as an only child, I am not manipulated by guilt that easily.

I did get my flight upgraded and enjoyed the benefits that first class can bring. I prepaid for that one by meeting up with him in Port of Spain. We both had mutual business in the city that day. As we’re walking, he related stories of woe: people owed him money; his exes don’t let him see his two kids; trouble at work etc. I kept thinking to myself, is his life really that bad that there is nothing positive in his life? I forgot to mention that compounding on his troubles was the fact that the future love of his life (a.k.a. me) was leaving him for four months to go away… yes, I was going away…to school…in an arrangement that was predetermined long before I met him. However, I stayed around because the promise of that upgrade was enticing, and I was a “poor starving college student” and a nice girl. Yet, as much as he seemed like a nice guy, I did get on the plane and went back to school, without guilt.

We talked during the four months I was away at school. Not regularly, but enough to keep me in his mind. In the meanwhile, I frequented other nightclubs while under the influence of alcohol. Nothing permanent, just to keep me busy when I had free time.

Upon my return to Trinidad, I found out Guyana had a girlfriend. Excellent! Now I would be free not only to pursue other delectable gentlemen specimens, but I could go with these gentlemen to his club and still maintain my perks. I looked forward to going to the club, and even had my gentleman friend chosen in my mind.

However, at the last minute, my new object of distraction cancelled. That was okay, I could still find other people to go with: La Petite Mouse and Bubbles, with G and A tagging along later. So now, I was with my ladies, and I was informed that the dress code was “a piece ah dress”.

Guyana saw me in the “piece ah dress”. I smiled as I walked by. His head followed me, even though he was with clients.

I had warned La Petite Mouse and Bubbles to make sure I did not disappear with anyone during the night, because, truth be told, I was hoping for something more from the new object of distraction, something to elevate his status, and a drunken distraction with some random person (or Guyana) would not help. Confident in their abilities to lead me from evil, I helped myself to a couple rum and pineapple juice mixers. Suddenly, Guyana appeared.

“Why didn’t you come looking for me?” he whispered into my ear.

“I sent you a text message, but when you didn’t reply, I assumed you were busy with work.” I whispered back back.

“I think you look very sexy in your dress.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll check you in a little while, okay?”

“Okay.”

I didn’t see him for the rest of the night. I was okay with that.

A couple days later, he tracked me down by phone. He was upset that he had only seen me once that night, and wanted me to come back that Wednesday, by myself, so that we could spend quality time together.

That wasn’t going to happen. Aside from the fact that my main distraction was in town, and I couldn’t go out Wednesday because I was going to to visit my grandmother, a trip that usually lasted 12-plus hours, including travel time, and never really got started before 11 am. There was also the fact that he had a girlfriend, a fact I called him out on.

“So, I take it wifey is going to be okay with you being more than friendly with another woman while she’s at home? Or is she going to be there too?”

“She wouldn’t know.”

“So you want to have me and her? Sweetheart, what makes you think that I want to be the outside woman in your relationship?”

…and it was then that he went into the now infamous speech about life and choices! It was so much bullshit, I could not keep a straight face when telling it the first few times. In hindsight, he must have really thought I was stupid and young to take his words as gospel. Here he thought that he was so smooth, so sexy, and so eloquent that I would fall for his lame-assed profound statement.

“Life… life is full of choices. I mean, you could get what you want out of life, if you make the right choice. So, when it comes to us, what is your choice?” was the deep line he chose.

I was stunned. I gave a few second of pause, as if I was actually pondering the thought. Then I dropped his profound words right back on him.

“Well, you see, life… life is full of choices. I mean, you could get what you want out of life if you make the right choice. My choice of whether to be the other woman or not, is no. Goodbye.”

I hung up. I have never heard from him again.

Reasons to Stop Drinking: Key People and Definitions

Every story should have some background information. This is the background information to my story. You will hear me refer to “Cougars-in-Training” and the “Anti-Pantyman League” to name a few of the characters in my story. Maybe you already know what these terms mean, maybe you already don’t. However, as a good writer, I should assume you do not and, therefore, define such terms atleast once.

This is not a textbook, although my friend B says otherwise. So I will not give a strict list of terms and definitions as if you’re supposed to memorise them. Instead, I choose to start my story here and then define as necessary.

Ladies and Gentlemen, my humble beginnings. As I am a poor starving college student and cannot possible afford the libel suits, names have been changed to protect me from the guilty.

I’ve noticed that when I retell my stories to my friends, most of them start with, “Well, I was heavily drinking that night when…”. In my sober moments, along with promising to never drink again (hangover), I mumble something about learning from past experiences. The irony: the idea for writing this document came up while at a bar.

I was sitting in my favourite campus bar, Zinc, with the other Cougars-In-Training (C-I-Ts for short), relating the tale of yet another male misadventure. I am still not sure if it was the Pearfect Pear Martinis or the Mango Mojitos or the Chocolate Cherry Martinis or the B-52s that we had gone through that Friday night, but Russo throws into the conversation, “Oh my God, you should write a book.”

“Me? Write a book?”

“Yeah, why not? It would be funny as hell.” Fiera said, sipping her chocolate cherry martini.

“If I write a book, it would be a how to manual about what not to do.” I mused.

“I don’t care what it is. You have to write it.” Russo said.

“I’ll think about it.” I responded, and returned to my drink.

That was about 12 months ago. Yes, I know, I procrastinate heavily. It’s because of a little thing called an Engineering degree. Apparently the way they breed engineers is not through selective mating or any genetics. Nope. What they do is they let all the fresh, eager candidates into the program, then proceed to kill them with 4 – 5 years of hard work. Those of us who survive, they award us a BSc. Engineering degree. The rest don’t even get a post-humus award. Most of the survivors cope with alcohol. It helps numb the pain.

I digress. So in the year or so that occurred between then and now, I have had many interesting times trading stories with my friends all over the world, and the common thread is that these stories all involve the consumption of alcohol in some way, and result in the female asking, “What the fuck?” afterwards. We females, we have learned to cope via a sort of group therapy. In Maryland, my friend Crixie has formed the “Anti –Pantyman League” (APL). In New Mexico, we have the Cougars in Training. Yes, they are all affiliated.

1. What is a pantyman?

Ladies, have you ever dealt with a guy, and at the end of the “relationship” (or whatever the hell happened between you and him), you found yourself asking, “What the fuck just happened?” or “What the fuck is wrong with him?”. You’ve probably had an experience with a Pantyman. Key indicators include your balls are bigger than his, probably because he has none, and he doesn’t have the courage to be honest with you up front. I’m not talking about him not telling you all his business on the first meeting. I’m talking about him only telling the truth when you’ve cornered him, his back is up against the wall, with no escape except certain death or telling you the truth. (And, the only reason he decided to talk is that talking was the less painful of the two choices. If he could dream up a quick and immediate death, you would be silently or loudly cursing him at his funeral.) That is a panty-man. We (C-I-Ts and the Anti-Pantyman Leaguers) have determined that this is because the panties that they are wearing aren’t comfortable, giving them significant wedgies, or the butt-strip of the thong is chaffing, and they refuse to take them off. Side effects of this practice also inhibit the growth of man parts.

In New Mexico, we’ve decided that the only way to prevent this behavioral trait is to get them when they’re young. Clearly, for legal purposes, they should be over 18 to avoid jail time. However, if we keep hitting the 18 year olds, they keep getting younger every year… and that would make us Cougars-In-Training. Heh heh heh.

Therapy is held in Zinc Wine Bistro, Albuquerque, New Mexico. Meetings are held when necessary, and moderated by the fine bartenders at that establishment. No membership fees are required, but you are responsible for paying your own bar tab.