The Van Gogh Epiphany

It recently came to my attention that I may be in love with my friend's brother. I find myself staying at home more, drinking a fraction of what I used to, and indulging in very Martha-esque homemaker activities like baking cookies and folding things. I want to be this Nice Girl, but part of me is afraid that if I down double shots of Van Gogh Espresso, one of my favourite pastimes, the Nice Girl will be out the window and I will no longer be able to obtain the newly appointed man of my dreams. I am even saving my freshly-virginized body for him in case he decides to reciprocate my love for him. I think I have really embraced this whole Nice Girl 2.0 thing, but, at times, it does prove to be difficult and I become possessed by my not-so Nice Girl.

Generally, a night out for me consists of Stoli sodas, texting hot guys I want to sleep with, (including those who have magically morphed into the "hot" category after said Stoli sodas), and some kind of bar, lounge, club, or restaurant where I will ultimately use the process of elimination to hit on the most fuckable waiter, bartender, DJ, doorman, dishwasher,  or janitor in the room. I wish I was one of those girls who could enjoy a single glass of 1982 Argentinian Malbec while rejuvenating in a hot bubble bath. Instead I'm the kind of girl who feels that having a single drink is a waste of calories, so I generally opt to drink so much alcohol that you wouldn't be able to pay me to properly pronounce "calories." So for the past few weeks it's been easier to just avoid the nectar of the Gods and stay out of trouble. I was bound to finally explode...tis' the fucking season. But last night wasn't my usual Sheen-style whooping. Instead, I had an epiphany.


After three glasses of wine and Van Goghs in the double digits, it occurred to me that I'm crazy. For the past two months every reason I had to believe that the man of my dreams was interested in me was based 100% on estrogen-charged assumptions. You know what I mean...us girls like to twist around everything you men say to cater to our undying egos that need to constantly believe that you're ultimately in love with us. Yes, all the "signs" are there, but has he actually said anything to justify my looking at wedding dresses and preparing floral arrangements? Fuck no. Here I am saving myself for a man who has yet to show any clear signs that he wants to see me naked. It's interesting that such a rational epiphany came after a bottle of vodka...I must be some kind of fucking genius when I'm functioning on 0 ccs of the shit.

So here I am it's a fresh day and a fresh mindset. Well actually I'm really hungover and feel like shit, but the mindset is still intact. Bravo. My vagina is back open for business.

Ghosts from Neighbours Past

No, I am not on my deathbed. No, I have not been so wasted for the past 4 weeks that I haven't been able to type. The weirdest thing has happened...for the past month, I've been acting like a grown-up. Well, I'm assuming I am, I've never actually done this before. I go to the gym every day, I bake cookies, I build gingerbread houses, I change my apartment decor to match the season, and I keep my legs closed, you know...like a lady. In fact, it has recently come to my attention that I may be in love with my friend's brother, and I now find myself saving my virgin body for him in case it ever pans out. Can I call myself a virgin if I haven't had sex for a month? I think so. Is it possible that four weeks of being a Nice Girl have changed me forever? I also think so...

Since The Nice Girl Project 2.0 is going so swimmingly, I'm going to have to share with you something that happened to me about 3 years ago...not only is it an amazing story, but I have no new ones to share on account of my new-found Angelicism.

My apartment building is about 20 feet away from the next building in my complex. When I first moved in, I had noticed that my "neighbour" in the next building liked to sun tan regularly on his patio. He had a nice body and he was on his balcony frequently, so I definitely noticed him. A couple of months after I moved in, my sister and I were celebrating my birthday with champagne on my balcony, and my shirtless neighbour came outside to his. To be honest the details are fuzzy, but somehow we started hollering across balconies and somehow managed to have a flirtatious discussion at 1000 decibels, that I'm sure we shared with the rest of the complex. Meh. Anyhoo, at one point, he asked for my number and we stopped the madness. We chatted that night for about 20 minutes then I went and got hammered, as I do, for my birthday.

Over the next couple of weeks balcony neighbour Joe and I continued to chat on the phone, and finally after several conversations and a huge bottle of Zimbabwe's finest wine, I invited him over. About 5 minutes later, he knocked on my door. I opened it. HO-LY FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.

As soon as I opened the door I realized I knew Joe. I knew Joe really well. I knew Joe really, REALLY well, for one night in 2005. That's right...I had already fucked neighbour Joe. We stared at each other and both of our jaws hit the fresh, snap-together-laminate flooring. He came in, and we continued to drink until we lost all perception of how slutty we both are. We never hooked up again and remain friends to this day, how could you not, it's way too funny...and I've been wearing glasses for nearsightedness ever since.

Those Who Masturbate in Glass Houses Shouldn't Throw Stones

Remember the DJ from a couple of months back? He sent me scandalous videos of himself which I used to have a sexual relationship with myself while I was out of town on business. Yes, that one. Well, we have actually remained friends ever since. It's kind of strange actually...we started the relationship with mutual masturbation, and to this day I've hung out with him several times, but have never even kissed the guy. So I assumed we were just friends and I was happy with that, particularly because I have pairs of socks older than him, and I'm more interested in finding a boyfriend than another fuck buddy. (Well, when I'm sober anyways.)

While I was away recently, the DJ texted me almost daily. By the end of my three-week trip, he was acting more and more like he liked me, you know...more than a friend. Just to confirm my intuition, he said that when I got back he wanted to come to my place and make me dinner. That's lovely. I said yes to that, but I knew I'd have to make sure he knows that this seriously can't go anywhere. I figured I'd tell him right after we had sex for dessert. Perfect.

So a couple of days after I got home he said he was super hungry and actually had to quickly talk to me about something, and asked me if I wanted to grab a bite. It seemed pretty casual so I agreed and we met near my place. He had a beer...I had 5 vodkas...he ate...I ate...finally, after my 6th vodka, he starts talking seriously. Okay, I'm listening. I knew what he was going to say anyways. He was going to find out if I had a problem with the age difference because he was starting to like me. The truth is, I didn't really know. I hadn't been thinking of him that way, so I would have to just go with the flow and see what happened. So he starts..."I just want you to know, that I will never date you." I'm actually surprised my eyeballs remained in their sockets since I don't think I have ever opened them so wide in my entire life as a result of severe shock and dismay. Was this fucking idiot for realsies? Where do I begin? During the rest of the one-sided conversation where he continued to drone on about all the reasons why he didn't like me, I actually remained relatively quiet, not due to my strength and self-control, but instead due to my loss of brain function in response to such a ludicrous turn of events. According to DJ I started acting "quiet" and he took me home

Like any normal human who has just been pre-dumped by a fetus that she didn't like in the first place, I went out and got wasted. I then called an old friend (a.k.a. the one-socked, best friend of my upstairs neighbour that I have fucked the shit out of on numerous occasions), and banged him into the wee hours. The next morning I had completely forgotten about the entire DJ event, so thank goodness he texted me to remind me...I woke up to a text from the DJ saying "I've deleted everything that has anything to do with you, contact info, pics, etc. and I'd appreciate it if you can do the same." I don't think I've ever laughed so hard at a text in my life. At the same time, I was hurt that after months of being friends, I was clearly so disposable...ouch. For sure, stand by Mr. Mixed-signal-hot-cold-DJ-fucking-freakazoid, while I get right on your request to delete you from my life. I wrote back "Consider yourself deleted...well, 99% of you anyways. Guys trying to be famous DJs shouldn't piss off girls that have videos of them jerking off." He attempted damage control for the next 30 minutes solid, but sadly this damaged bitch could not be controlled. I ended the madness with my final text "stop texting me and delete my number you stupid shitbag." That worked.

Copies of the video are available for FREE to anyone who requests it, and to those of you who don't request it, chances are, you 'll be getting it anyways.

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.

The Pilot, the Chef, and the Silicone

You're probably wondering why I've been so quiet. The reason for my month of silence can be summed up in 5 words: Lia Magic Wand G-spot Vibrator. This 6.5-inch piece of silicone has changed my life. I kid you not, last Saturday I didn't get out of bed until after 5pm, and when I did it was only to replenish electrolytes so I could make it through my next session which started at 9pm. This pink rod of ecstasy has been my best friend and lover for the past month, until last night.

I've become better friends with the 23 year-old DJ over the past month. Apres the BlackBerry sex, we never ended up hooking up for real, instead we kinda became friends. Problem is, I was sitting at my office yesterday minding my own beeswax and he e-mailed me. The e-mail itself was a harmless, dumb-ass picture of Borat. Although it was clear that this guy didn't understand women in the slightest, that wasn't the problem. The problem was, when I saw his name pop up in my Outlook, my stomach flipped. Fuck. I realized I'm obviously starting to like this guy. Jesus Christ. After 30 seconds of daydreaming about how this ridiculous age gap worked out for Demi and Ashton and would surely be the same for us, it was imperative that I stop the mere stomach flip from escalating into another full-fledged, five alarm cougar attack. I immediately grabbed my phone and scrolled through to find a number of contestants suitable to distract me long enough to get over my DJ crush. After a few minutes I had it down to two finalists that I had let fall into the wings over the past few weeks...lucky them.

One of my two finalists lives in Switzerland ...he's a pilot and has a huge crush on me - harmless, but distracting - good. The other is a vertically-challenged hottie I met a couple of months ago at a wine tasting. He's an executive chef at the restaurant that was hosting the event, and he's cute as a button...and he's 29, which is "mature" in Nice Girl years. My Swiss pilot entertained me for the last 2 hours I was supposedly "working." I somehow even managed to convince him to try and quit smoking. (See? I am capable of good things). When my Swissie had to go to sleep, I started texting the chef. He was very responsive and we chatted all evening, and after 2 (10) glasses of wine, he asked me to hang out. I summoned him over to my place and we drank copious amounts of wine and made sweet love to each other until 3am. Then we woke up at 7am and did it again. Nice. I'm not gonna lie, after he left this morning I quickly re-acquainted myself with Lia, just in case she felt left out after last night's real-cock antics. We both felt much better. Five minutes after the chef left, something strange happened. He started texting me again.

All day today he has been having an ongoing conversation with me and keeps referring to our next "date." Huh. I have so many questions. Was last night a date? Does this guy actually like me? Is everything my mother said about putting out on the first date a lie? Was all this Nice Girl crap a complete waste of time? Do I even like this guy? Is it mean to ask your fiancee to stand on a milk crate while you exchange vows?

I hope to have the answers to at least some of these questions very soon. Stay tuned.