Something Told Me Giving My Mom A House Key Was A Bad Idea.

Have I professed my love to you for bearing with me as I tackled too much work in Tallahassee this past week and posted nothing?

This weekend was that of the glorious kind. Movies. An art exhibit. Mexican food. The Flamenco Festival with my friend Eduardo.

It was a sweet little weekend with none of the mischief. Hence, why the weekend before it must be discussed.

-------

On Thursday something got into my brain and I naturally shared with Ryan...

The next day I found myself here:

They made me pick the hair (virgin black for me), measured my head, and told me to be back in four hours. Upon my return I was handed a plastic bag with the locks inside. Locks, which my hairdresser proceeded to sew onto my head in less than an hour before I went to see Rob Delaney (comedian extraordinaire which you so have to follow on Twitter if you aren't already).

My black girlfriends say weave is the elephant in the room no one wants to talk about. You know it's there... You just don't mention it. "I love a good weave, girl," says one of them while running her fingers through my hair on Friday night. "You just gotta learn how to scratch it if it ever itches," she continues, patting her head inconspicuously.

(Have I ever mentioned how much I love black people?)

Saturday night we went to Kork with a K, a wine bar in a scary part of town with the best cheese and cabernet I've tried in light years.

Ryan, who's as cultured in wine as he is in weave, projectile vomitted around midnight on the first floor of the aforementioned establishment.

I sweetly asked the bartender if he had some paper towels for me to wipe the spew off the floor, knowing he'd never allow for such a thing. He promptly handed me a brand new roll and watched me clean my friend's digested wine and cheese on hands and knees in black dress and heels.

(Asshole.)

Everyone and their grandmas was wasted by the time we left at five o'clock in the morning. Britt drove Ryan home and left me carless at my place with my buddy Michael, whom I had to practically carry into bed (not an easy task I assure you). There's something about drunk people and wanting to take off their clothes because in the morning, Michael was shirtless and snoring, while I laid beside him in a bra, underwear, and tee.

"Wake up," I nudged his ribs with force.

"Whyyyyy? It's like, ten in the morning," he grunted.

(It was two.)

He finally got up half hour later and asked what I wanted to do with my existence that Sunday. I said I didn't care as long as we had some bloody mary's first. We proceeded to schlep it on over to my kitchen, where I sat by my bar as he made us the spiciest bloody mary's I've ever had. We sipped our drinks and tried to piece the night together, giggling uncontrollably at certain parts we actually recalled. Nothing weird about sitting at my bar half naked on a Sunday while killing a hangover with more liquor.

I'm still laughing at some joke when I hear the jingling of keys at my door. I didn't have enough time to realize my roommate was out of town and the only other person with keys to my place was of course, my mother.

I turned ten shades of red in the five seconds it took to register what was happening, the ability to speak completely deserting me.

"Hi, ma'am," said Michael while he extended a hand to my mom without skipping a beat, "I'm Annah's friend Michael."

My mom shook his hand as she eyed me suspiciously and introduced herself. "Nice to meet you, Michael."

She then mumbled something about coming by to bring me food, handing me a plate and bolting out the door with a forced smile. We decided telling my mom Michael was gay was a stellar idea and so I did that night (lies are a necessary evil in this life, guys).

Mortification is an understatement but...

Alcohol > Mortification.

Politics Are Fun!

I'm in my state's capital this week freezing my ass for work purposes and not exactly loving it thank-you-very-much.

(It kind of sounds like I'm prostituting myself on the streets of Tallahassee to politicians dirty old men but that's not really what I meant, guys).

I miss my dogs. And my bed. And my mommy too.

There's this dilemma I'm faced with on the weeks where I know for a fact I won't blog and it's a) Not write anything at all and pretend nothing's happened, b) Write a shit post letting you know that although I didn't die from alcohol poisoning and you've nothing to worry about, I can't really publish anything worth reading, or c) Post an embarassing picture of myself passed out from the weekend and hope you forget about my inability to be constant.

The choice is clear.

Love me still.

My Week In A Nutshell.

Me: Shaved all over with a small slickback situation on top, please.

Groomer: Okay, I know that hair style. Sixty seven dollars and pay at front register.

Four hours later:

God help me.

Why Is This Happening To Me?!

Remember when I said I loved Miami? Remember?!?! I take it all back.

Look what I got in the mail today!

That, my friends, is a ticket. Or as they call it these days: "a violation." It didn't require a cop. No, sir, it did not. All it required was a camera installed on top of a light at an intersection. A light which they claim was red when I went through it. Like if red and yellow were all that different to each other on the color scale.

Seriously, Miami? Cameras at intersections? What's next? No texting and driving? The Interpol coming to America? Expecting me to stop at these?

Um. No. I'll be taking my sweet ass to court and I bet your camera isn't going to show up so there's always that to my advantage (pictures and videos be damned). Now... Who wants to buy drinks and cry a little with me?

Sex With Socks On

I think I mentioned in passing that the company I work for had their Christmas party in New York this December and much to my surprise, I was invited. From all the ludicrous things that took place that weekend which I’ve yet to tell you about (I suck at keeping posts –and life – in chronological order), rushing through customs on the way there was possibly the most embarrassing.

I’d been out until the wee hours drinking with friends and arguing about politics to then land in Ethan’s bed and wake at eight in a foggy haze when I realized my flight was to depart at ten. I hardly remember rushing out of the house and high-tailing it to my place. Nor going up the stairs and changing into something more suitable for work and brushing my teeth. What I do remember -asides from feeling like spewing in Ethan's car when he took me to the airport- is taking off my boots in the customs line to find this:

*** Sidenote: It’s been brought to my attention more than once that I'm horrible at matching socks and this denotes a lack of structure. To that I reply: Socks are just fabric the cover my stinky feet and have nothing to do with structure, so shut up.

So there I was, a breathing ball of vodka fire going through the metal detector as the agent eyed my feet suspiciously and tried to hold back his disgusted confusion. I offered an It was a long night and picked up my suitcase in shame, quickly zipping up my boots and running away to Starbucks without so much as a glance back.

New York was balls to the wall postal. I made my flight. I sat next to an eight year old. She wouldn't speak to me. But made this for me in her fancy tablet:

I checked in at two. I ate a hot dog from a street vendor. He watched me scarf it down in three bites. He smiled and asked if I liked them big. I laughed and said yes. We walked the city. And saw the Christmas tree. I bought a toy for an underpriviledged child. I ate pastrami at Carnegie Deli. I did not like it. I wore a beautiful dress. Had a martini with a stranger who told me I reminded him of his wife. He was eighty. I attended my Christmas party. En Vogue performed live. If you don't know who they are, you're probably too young. I met up with Olivia at one in the morning. We partied 'til three. Then felt like singing. Karaoke bar it was. Locked ourselves in a room with our friend Kwa and sang until five thirty. Ran to the airport at six and made it to my flight by seven.

This time, I wasn't wearing socks.

Ethan and I crossed the friendship boundaries and finally slept together on a cold December night. As mentioned before, it was worth every complication that came with it (and God knows there were plenty), even if something really strange happened that night. While almost breaking the walls in shoving and pushing each other, we land on his bed in a race to find the golden ticket. We're kissing so hard I think my bottom lip falls off when suddenly, he pulls away abruptly and asks me a question.

"Alright. Socks on, or off?"

I open my eyes and push the hair out of my eyes. "Come again?"

"Socks on? Or off?" He repeats.

Me: What in the world are you talking about?

Ethan: Well... Haven't you ever noticed how taking off any article of clothing can be sexy?

Me: Uh-huh...

Ethan: Of course you have. The more clothes that come off the sooner things are going to happen, right?

Me: .... I'm not following.

Ethan: Except, haven't you realized you can't ever take your socks off without looking doofy?

Ethan: No. No. I'm serious. How, exactly, do you take off your socks without looking like a fool and simultaneously turning the person off?

Me: I have no idea, Ethan, the thought's never crossed my mind. Socks and sex are just not words that go in the same sentence. Is this really happening?!

Ethan: (sighs). Alright, so socks on or off?

Me: Off.

He slips them off while still on top of me, throwing each one across the room violently. He looks at me quizzically and laughs, "I told you that'd be awkward. Still want me?"

"Of course I do. What is wrong with you?"

Bringing down his face, he kisses me softly and finds his way inside without taking his hands off my face, "I don't think we have enough time to answer that question, Annah."

Then the only language spoken was that of the silent and best kind.

After twenty-four hours of no sleep I arrive back home to perfect weather and my bed. I sleep from noon 'til eight when my alarm jars me back to reality, telling me it's time to get ready for a friend's 30th birthday. I dress in a haze made possible by Red Bull and vodka, dress and boots and socks and a headband for my hair thrown together like a school lunch on a Monday. I think there was cake... And some beer... Chocolate icing on my dress and a cool breeze in my hair as we toast to thirty more years for my friend Sadick.

After the usual intoxication that happens when lifelong friends get together to celebrate, Ethan carries the birthday boy to his car and drives us home.

I'm thinking only of my bed when we finally arrive at my place. He is as well, just differently. Everything has come off a few moments later before we make love again. "Let's keep our socks on tonight," I joke, unzipping my boots off slowly in the most seductive manner I could muster.

"Are you sure about that?" He asks, a smug expression on his face as he glances at my feet. I look down to find this combination taking place.

"Well that's weird. Um, I was in a rush when I left the house..." I stammer. "Still want me?"

He holds still for a moment, looking down at me in silence. "Of course I do. What is wrong with you?"

Well... I don't think we have time to answer that question, Ethan.

Or do we?

The Greatest Player Alive

This is Michael Jordan.

He is also presumed to be the greatest basketball player of all time.

-------

This is Britt Caroline.

She is also presumed to be the greatest romantic of all time.

-------

This is a story of when Britt Caroline and Michael Jordan collided for a few minutes in South Beach (not like that, you friggin' pervs).

...Because just when I think I need to get out of town and move somewhere brand spanking new, Miami reels me back in and totally redeems itself with promises of the unexpected.

-------

One of the greatest things about living in the Magic City asides from the endless rain (my favorite), is the probability of running into famous people at random. This was certainly the case last Thursday, when I was sweating grease by the buckets at the gym and my friend Veronique called to see what I was doing. Apparently there was a club at the Fontainebleau Hotel throwing a special party and she knew some people that knew some people that knew some people who could get us in.

"I don't really feel like going anywhere, Vee," I whined.

Three hours later, there I was.

As opposed to regular clubs where mere mortals wait in line to dance and pay for overpriced drinks, ArKadia offers free champagne for ladies until one, something we economically challenged adults did not take for granted.

Five champagnes and one $22 martini later, Britt had crossed over to the other side.

As we're dancing and sipping our free champi, the DJ suddenly yells "Give it up for Michael Jordan who's in the house tonight!" into the mic. Some people cheered and others clapped unenthusiastically, but Britt's eyes opened wider than moons during lunar eclipse night.

"Michael fucking Jordan! Oh-my-God-oh-my-God-oh-my-God. WHERE?!"

It only took her about two minutes to locate him and before we could even utter a reply, she was halfway there. I watched in slow motion as Britt approached Mr. Jordan, who was standing by a pool table stick in hand. She crossed the personal space boundary sooner than I could say Score! and to my surprise, no one stopped her. I saw Mikey Poo (I can call him that now that I've seen him in the flesh) bend down to Britt's face as she whispered something seductively. He seemed to hesitate and then laugh, gingerly grabbing her waist soon after and kissing her cheek. Britt turned around and almost floated away, bumping hard into a pole before a security guard caught her.

"No one saw that," she says once she approached us, breathless. "I cannot believe I get to speak to one of my idols and say something like that! Lord help me."

I raise an eyebrow as we all inch closer to hear better. "What exactly did you say to him?"

"Well I neared him rather quickly and had intended to tell him what a huge fan I was," she started. "But then I guess the proximity and his smell made me dizzy and I just sorta said the first that came to mind."

"Which was?" I ask, scared of the answer already.

She laughs hysterically and takes a swig off my champagne.

"Well... I waited for him to get closer to me and I say, 'So Michael, are you wearing your Hanes tonight?'"

Me: What the hell did he say to that?

Britt: He said, 'Excuse me?'

Me: Uh-huh...

Britt: And I'm like, 'You heard me. Are you wearing your Hanes?' Then he laughed and looked at me sort of funny and said, 'Yes. As a matter of fact I am.' Then laughed some more and gave me a kiss on the cheek. So I just turned around and tried to walk away all sexy-like but ran into that fucking pole instead. (She pauses for a second then giggles). I will never forget this, you guys. I swear it.

I have a feeling... That Britt isn't the only one not forgetting.

Everything's Not Lost

A few weeks back I mentioned how my neighbors were living without electricity and I wanted to do something for them but had difficulty deciphering the best approach. After a talk with my friend Ethan, I took to the blog world to write about my dilemma and received plenty of feedback, including this one from a reader that made me laugh in spite of my genuine concern.

Three days later, I was delighted to find my neighbor’s porch light on and their place no longer in the dark.

(Partly because it sucks living without air conditioning in Miami.)

(Mostly because I didn’t want to shell out grocery money to pay for someone else’s electric bill.)

Today, I received an email from Ethan with the subject line: I had to share this with you.

In its body, the following message was included.

This was a house from a case I worked on recently. Want to know what they were sharing?

So maybe it isn’t the best example of loving thy neighbor, but in a time where I’ve been exposed to much that’s left me devoid of sympathy, it’s nice to see there’s still some good left in others.

And there is, guys...

Even in me.

It's Not All Fun & Games, I Assure You...

If I was a celebrity (or at least a reality star of some sort) I'd be checking into rehab every Monday for "exhaustion" as a result of my weekends and irresponsible behavior but alas, I am not.

Because the cumulative amount of sleep had within a regular weekend is usually less than ten hours, Mondays are spent vacillating between being productive at work and picking up the pieces while restoring order in this thing I call life. Yesterday my mom came over to walk my dogs while I was at work and sent me a text message: Left you a note on top of the stove. Please read.

I also got a simultaneous text from my roommate stating she'd bought donuts and hidden them in the microwave so I wouldn't be tempted (seeing I'm trying to diet and all).

When I arrive home, I find the famous note.

Here's its literal translation:

• You're going to go to Europe looking beautiful if you keep eating donuts!
• Did you throw away that feather duster I bought you?
• Are you ever going to unclog your bathroom sink?
• Also, you know you're supposed to clean those.
• You didn't give the dogs their meds. Now Bruno and Kingstone (<--- spelled wrong) are still sick.
• Could you please pick up your room?
• THANKS!
• Oh! Clean your balcony. And it's one can of food a day for the dogs. Not one and a half!

This is what I have to deal with every week, guys. A swift kick-to-the-face reminder that life isn't a party and there are higher ups to report to, even if you no longer live with them.

So maybe it isn't Monday and I'm not a celebrity, but after taking care of that list and hitting the gym tonight I'm checking myself into a little rehab I like to call bed.

Thank you. And goodnight.

Monday Blues

It’s never been more evident that the more I confine life to a specific set of plans, the more it derails itself into a crash course way off its manic path.

Sometimes when I speak of weekends it seems life’s a party and my existence is comprised of a flurry of nightclubs and Irish car bombs (yum). I promise I am a productive and fruitful human being during certain times of my weekend. And that my existence doesn’t fully revolve around having a good time.

There are moments where I stop to read books and go to the gym and give myself a venue for reflecting by spending time in my favorite place of the apartment (the kitchen).

The other times. There’s this:

The weekend really started off on Thursday through a hilarious series of events that led Ethan to fight with my neighbor and urinate on his car at two o'clock in the morning.

But I'll leave that set of facts for another day (or maybe not).

Friday night was kicked off by a hockey game with my friends Miguel and Katie.

And even though there's this running joke that I'm terrible luck for home teams on games, the Panthers won.

Olivia surprised me by flying in from New York that night and after the game we headed to Spazio Nero, a club where drinks are way too expensive and the music isn't all that pleasant.

After we hit up Burgers & Beers for my two favorite things in the world, greasy burgers and Irish car bombs.

In retrospect I didn't do myself any favors with the dieting this weekend, but I enjoyed stuffing my face immensely anyway. After way too many spicy corndogs and a nap on top of Ryan, I mustered the energy to keep the party going and we ended up at Purdy (as we usually do).

We danced. We drank. We sucked on free lollipops. It was fucking grand. We then went through a deserted alley and got lost trying to find our car but made it out alive with a few pictures to prove it:

Got home at the reasonable hour of five and hit the sheets around six only to wake four hours later to the sound of loud pounding on my door. On the other side stood my three best friends.

The day was spent in a sea of vodka tonics and gossip and at the expense of sounding corny as hell, there's nothing better than having those women near me when I need them the most (hugging and weeping included).

That Saturday night I went to dinner with Ethan and had the pleasure of meeting his family which in turn made me realize where he's acquired his wicked sense of humor from. We then changed and headed to Wood Tavern, a hipster little bar in the design district where we possibly had one too many shots and argued over things two people riding the "friends with benefits" wave shouldn't argue about at all.

After that we ended up at Purdy again (surprise!) and tons of madness ensued yet the funniest thing was an exchange I had with a stranger while leaving and trying to walk to my car. My friends were ahead of me and into their own conversation, when I go around this guy who's standing in my way and he stops me.

Him: Hey.

Me: Hey, homie.

Him: Where you goin'?

Me: To my car.

Him: What are you doing now, though?

Me: What do you mean? Going to my car. Don't you see me walking?

Him: Do you want to get drinks at my place?

Me: (laughing hysterically). Have you seen this beautiful dress that I'm wearing? Does any of it say hooker to you?

Him: No. But you're beautiful. I'm hot. Why not?

Me: Dude, does this *ever* work for you?

Him: I'd say 9 times out of 10.

Me: That's awesome. Good luck on the other nine.

I walked to my car and as I'm reaching around to call a friend, this douchecanoe has apparently had a change of heart and is right behind me.

Him: Hey... Look, I'm sorry.

Me: My God. Who *are* you? Why are you still talking to me?

Him: I'm Jared.

Me: Okay Jared. Please go away. I'm not in the mood to talk right now.

Him: Come on... I came here to apologize.

Me: My boyfriend is going to kick your ass if he sees you here. I'm waiting on him right now.

Him: There is no boyfriend, you liar. If there was he'd be here right now.

Me: (Damn him). Maybe you're right. Or maybe you'll be getting a surprise ass kicking pretty soon. Want to take that chance?

Him: Okay, fine. I'll leave...

Me: Goodbye.

And that was the end of Saturday night/Sunday morning. I came home with the sun at seven after falling asleep for a little bit in a deserted parking lot.

Sunday's Superbowl was enjoyed with friends at a Dominican restaurant and I ate the hell out of some my favorite: mofongo with pork and sausage (so good).

My Britt bear was beyond elated that her Giants won (that and she bet a lot of money on the game so literally double the reason to be happy).

Once it was all over the restaurant turned up the music and the best dancers were definitely these children, who broke my heart ten times over with their cuteness and dancing skills.

I can't think of a better way to end a perfect weekend except one, yet sometimes things don't turn out the way you want them to and there's nothing to be done except move forward...

Very well then. Watch me go.

I'm Kind Of Embarrassed By All This.

-------

I think I’ve mentioned on more than one occasion my deep-rooted aversion to strangers. By this I don’t mean friends. I’m okay with new people invading my personal space and telling me things I most likely don’t want to hear.

What I’m leery of. I mean really scared of... Are strange men.

What are their intentions? Do they come from a good family? Do they like dogs? Why are they drinking wine from a straw? Do they have herpes or stuffed animals on their beds? These are all valid questions that plague me on those initial first dates so it’s only right that for the most part, I’ve been a “relationship girl” until the demise of my engagement two years ago. Not ever has it been more apparent to me that opening up to people is hard to do. Or that Vin was a really great guy any girl without a few missing screws like myself would be lucky to have. Or that there are so many douchecanoes in Miami that possibly the best outlet for a single girl verging thirty is lesbianity.

(I just totally had to look that up to ensure it was a real word, guys).

Keeping the aforementioned in mind, it’s safe to say I don’t "hook-up." I don’t accept drinks unless they’re from friends and even those may have roofies in them. I don’t ride in cars with boys I’ve known for less than two months. I don’t take dudes I've just met home (except that one time, Jesus, don’t you people forget anything?!). And I most certainly never, ever, make out with strangers in dark corners of night time establishments.

***The following happened a few months back and was told to me over lunch by someone who actually remembers it. If you've been following for a while then this may not surprise you but just in case, love me still.

-------

My long distance relationship with John had officially been over for months and I'd forgotten what kissing someone felt like, still that night I just wanted peace, a few martinis, and some sushi with girlfriends and Katie’s sweet muffin of a mom. That night I wasn’t looking for trouble or a funny story to tell over breakfast. That night I lusted deeply for my bed and pillows straight after dinner.

Dear God.

That night…

Following the consumption of sushi and martinis, Katie went back to her boyfriend and Muffin Mom went home to sleep. Yours truly headed over to a bar called Cinco which was full of old farts and people who looked like steak that’s been cooked too long, including a man of about ninety who screamed insults at me when I declined a drink he purchased me.

After Cinco we took the party train to a joint called The Bar, where we spotted a booth with a view to the dance floor and made fun of people while downing Irish car bombs and beers on draft.

Soon after things became hazy but we managed to make it to Club 50 in another part of town. I felt the eminent need to relieve myself of all the beer I’d recently consumed and excused myself for the bathroom. After a ten minute line I attempted to make my way back to my friends when someone grabbed my hand. Tipsy Annah would’ve immediately yanked it away and scowled at the person touching her. Drunk Annah cocked her head to one side and said:

To which he simply replied: Robert.

An hour later Robert and I were still dirty dancing in the dark when my friends found me to say we were leaving to a spot in South Beach. In no position to argue, I shrugged my shoulders and allowed myself to be led towards the door. Of course, not before pouncing on Robert like a teenage girl at her first dance and kissing him for a whole of thirty seconds.

DJ proclaims herself the designated driver and we make our way to Automatic Slims. As she drove slowly down a crowded street, I spotted three cute guys headed in the direction towards us.

“Slow it down there, Deej,” I told my friend, who shot me a puzzled look but did as she was told.

Ninja like, I stuck my head out of the driver’s side of the car and called out to one of the guys. “Hey you! Cute guy with the hair. Come over here!”

Hair seemed to find a strange girl hollering at him in the middle of the night from a moving vehicle normal, so he approached our car with a smile and said hello. I in turn replied: “You’re exotic looking, Hair Guy. What’s your name?”

Him: Juanas.

Me: Juan?

Him: No, Juanas.

Me: Juanes? Like the singer? I like that guy a lot.

Him. JUANAS! Like. J-U-A-N-A-S.

Me: What kind of a fuck name is that?

Him: It’s Portuguese. (Bewildered look on his face).

Me: Oooooh Portugueeeese. I like Portuguese. Good kissers, I hear. Come closer.

Juanas and I kissed for about three minutes through the driver window, which of course meant poor DJ was sitting about two inches from our faces as we made out while the world waited. When I finally pulled away, I looked at Juanas and said, “You are a good kisser," bidding my farewells and allowing DJ to continue the drive. No more than half a mile had been covered when I spotted another group of guys.

“Stop the car!” I tell DJ.

“Are you serious?” She says, half laughing.

But by this point I was already calling out to them. This group of boys didn’t have any exotic hair or strange names, just good ol’ American boys so obviously not from Miami (Charles, Johnny, and Kyle). I took a liking to Kyle and skipped over introductions and other nonsense. No time to waste when there's kissing to be done, apparently. And kissed I did until DJ got tired of Charles trying to drool on top of her while Kimmie made out with Johnny in the back, pulling away without preamble.

When we finally arrive at Automatics I had to urinate so badly I hid behind a bush and took care of the situation. Once I returned to the car Kimmie informs me the night has ended as it was already past five and the place was closed. I shrugged my shoulders violently, focusing my gaze on two guys a block away. I immediately looked at DJ imploringly and waited.

“Oh no, you’re not,” she says while waving a finger in my face.

“Come on… Don’t be a party pooper, DJ boo boo,” I pleaded. “I just want to have some fun fun.”

“First of all, stop talking like a drunk five year old,” she sighs and rolls up my window while pressing something on her side panel I can only presume to be the child lock. “Secondly, I just know you don’t want to make out with those guys, so let’s get this show on the road and put some food in your system.”

“Oh come on… Come ooooon,” I continued.

“Absolutely not,” she shrieks while suppressing her laughter.

"Please, DJ boo boo?"

It was then that she conceded and drove me closer to the two boys huddled in the corner. Of course as we neared them it became apparent why I would, in fact, not be making out with either of them that night.

Let's never speak of this again, shall we?