Vino, Veuve, and Italian Babies

Due to recent actions while traveling abroad, it has come to my attention that I want a boyfriend. I’m wondering how one goes from being this ridiculous gong-show of a girl to becoming someone’s girlfriend. Let’s back up here a little and see how this all unfolded…

My first night in Italy I went for dinner. I had so much free vino rosso brought to me, I literally don’t remember leaving the restaurant. I do however remember finding my way to the hotel bar. I also remember that they served Veuve by the glass, nice…however that didn’t really matter in the end since I drank a whole bottle anyways. Oops. Come midnight, the bartender gave me the grim news that the bar was closing. For a normal person this may pose a problem, but I’m sure you can imagine that I obviously found something incredibly entertaining to do with myself in this small, rustic town.

I asked the bartender where the nearest spots bar was. It was 18 steps around the corner. Fuck, it’s like Jesus is just asking for me to be an idiot. It was open, so it passed the most important test. The second most important feature of sports bars is the wide array of men that flock to them in order to watch sports. Unfortunately, Luigi’s Sports Bar was scattered with local men that were a little rough around the edges. Have no fear, I’d just continue to get wasted and entertain myself, besides,  I felt as though I was still sober enough to beat them away if entirely necessary. I was thrilled that the bartender could speak English. This was the first encounter in nearly a week where I could have a conversation without the use of my flailing arms and facial gestures. Bonus. The details of the next three hours there are a little sketchy…I remember vodka, and I remember at one point getting behind the bar to show the bartender how to “make a real shot.” (I actually only remembered that last part after I saw the picture of Facebook.) Come 3am, the bartender’s friend came in to say a quick hello. Now by no means was this someone I would have been interested in in real, sober life, but using the process of elimination, this was the hottest guy in the bar...or at least within a 2-foot radius, which was my maximum visual range at the time.

I grabbed the friend and told him to stay and have a drink. He said no he had to go, so I begged. It worked. I think it mostly worked because he could barely speak English and he didn’t know what the fuck he was agreeing to. Regardless of the reason, he sat, so I got him wasted and proceeded to lead him to my hotel around 4:30am. On the way I told him “I want to have sex with you, and I want you to give me a  baby.” His response to this? “Okay.” Okay? This country is hilarious! Okay? Not even a pause? Could you imagine what a man would say if I said that to him at home? Fuck , I love Italy. So we go to my hotel room and have insane drunk sex. I have flashes of memory about the whole event…I remember popping a bottle of champagne from the mini bar as if I’m Charlie Sheen at a bachelor party. I remember my Mickey Mouse t-shirt flying across the room and my bra quickly following. I remember confirming that he was going to give me a baby. He was still on board, perfetto. We had a lovely romp and I sent him on his way. After I recovered from my champagne coma the next day, I un-slung my bra from the balcony railing, pulled the champagne foil out of my tangled hair, and realized that I am probably not 100% ready to have a child. Luckily for me my blood alcohol content is consistently so high, it’s unlikely that I am able to create life within my body. However, from all this I have learned that I am ready for a boyfriend. So here we go again.

The Nice Girl Project will commence immediately. I hope my new boyfriend doesn’t mind that I may or may not be having Guisseppe’s baby. Minor detail.

"No, he didn't pee on me this time."

The only time I have ever lived with a boyfriend was when I was in my early 20s. He and I were madly in love, however thinking back I’m not sure if I was actually in love with him, or if I was just drunk for 8 months straight. In fact soon after we broke up, a dear friend of mine bet me that I couldn’t stop drinking for a month. Like any normal human about to enter such a ridiculous wager, I asked “Can I do drugs?” We agreed, yes, I could do drugs. Check. I won the bet. Earning $5.00 never felt so sweet. Anyhoo, back to the boyfriend…

My time with my live-in boyfriend was also the only time I’ve ever been unemployed in my adult life. He was a bartender and I was a stay-at-home deadbeat. For the love of humanity, there are a few men I need to stay away from: bartenders, drug dealers, and sex addicts. It’s not because they’re bad people, it’s because if I had any of those items at my personal disposal 24/7, I’d never get anything done. I’m not so much into drugs anymore, but I even in my ripe age I don’t think I could pass up a life of free-flowing Stoli and endless sex romps. It’s best to just keep my distance and pay for these services 5-7 times a week like a normal person.

The fact that my boyfriend was an alcoholic himself made my antics seem relatively acceptable. I mean, I was wasted all the time, but at least I didn’t…I dunno…say, pee the bed. That’s right. Sadly, I can’t say the same for my boyfriend. In fact, this happened more than once. We would both be out drinking together, we’d come home, have sex, and pass out. Good times. The only downfall was that we had different views on how dry a bed should be. As all my relationships do, this came to an end after 8 months due to an unrelated matter, not pertaining to our differing views on acceptable locations to urinate in the house. I never did keep in touch with him. I heard he was still bartending at a local bar. Actually, he told me that himself as he left my bed last Friday morning after four hours of sex. Oops. 

And no, he didn’t pee on me this time.

Nothing Gets Between Me and My Calvins...Except Paul

Last night I went to the club with my girls. It was a regular night, drinks, dancing, dry-humping 21 year-olds, you know, the usual. Towards the end of the night I noticed a rather tall, handsome bouncer that looked maybe 30, and I thought I'd try and strike up a conversation and see if I could take a night off from my silicone boyfriend and find myself a real man. We had a good conversation or two, he seemed into me, so I gave him my card. Thanks to my favourite pastime, slamming shots of vodka, 20 minutes later I forgot his name. So I asked my girlfriend, (she's a bartender at the club, and half the reason I'm an alcoholic), and she said, "Oh, the tall guy? That's Tall Paul." Check. I had between 2 and 10 more drinks, the details are a little fuzzy, and I sent myself home like Nice Girl. Just so you understand where I'm going with this, you should know that by 1am, I had zero recollection of this entire event, or how I got home for that matter.

So I'm minding my hangover beeswax this morning and I get a text from a number I don't know. It was a text saying that someone was impressed with my job title. Okay, so I know it's a guy I gave my card to, but that really doesn't narrow it down since I give those out like they're Pez in the 70s. So I reply with "Unless this is Sage or Armin van Buuren, lose my number." (Sage is a random guy I made out with 2 weeks ago who also has my card, and Armin van Buuren is, well, Armin van Buuren). I have no clue what possessed me to be so rude. Anyhoo, he continues the conversation with things like "You still don't know who this is, do you?", and I was really in no mood for playing games. I responded with "No, and I don't chit chat with strangers, so tell me who you are or beat it." He finally says "The bouncer from last night!" OOOOOHHHH, right, got it. The cute, tall bouncer from last night, Tall Paul. I immediately responded, "Paul!! I'm super sorry, thought you were someone else," to which he replied..."Paul??? This is Calvin." Huh. Calvin. Alrighty, well there's a thinker. I hopped in the shower and hoped I might be able to recollect who the fuck Calvin was by the time I scrubbed of my club stamps.

So 10 minutes later the shower is done and I still can not figure out who the fuck Calvin is, but luckily, I have another text from the alleged "Calvin." It said "I'm the tall bouncer from last night, but Paul and I do look the same, don't worry." Huh. Okay, so one of a few things is going on here:

1. I was flirting with both Paul and Calvin, and thought they were the same person.
2. I was flirting with Paul all night, and gave my card to Calvin on the way out, thinking he was Paul.
3. I was flirting with Calvin the whole time, but when I asked my girlfriend who the "cute tall bouncer" was, she thought I meant Paul.

I think number one is the funniest and, let's face it, the most likely scenario, given what an idiot I am. So here we are. And miraculously this Calvin/Paul person still wants to go out with me. Huh. To top it all off I'm going back to the same club tonight for a completely unrelated reason, so I'll likely run into them/those/it. Watching this all unfold should be rather amusing for the club patrons. Fucking vodka. Fuck.