Banging It

Remember when I had a momentary bout of insanity last year and cut my own bangs and it was a complete disaster and I had to rush to my hairdresser for damage control?

Remember when I said I'd never get bangs again and asked you guys to slap me if I ever so much as mentioned the word?

Not only did I chop off my bangs this time, but I hacked at a few strands of hair and ended up looking like a patient at your friendly neighborhood insane assylum. Needless to say, my hairdresser was not impressed.

I keep waiting for someone to slap me but it hasn't happened yet...

Not So Smart[Phone]: Part II

Making the dumb mistake of texting someone you're dating with details about another person you're seeing is utter child's play in comparison to the shenanigans my phone pulled on me the weekend before I left for Puerto Rico.

It was Saturday night and I'd walked a 5k at the asshole of dawn after a night of drinking, exhaustion consuming the very essence of my being and spirit. I'd promised my friend Janet to host a little dinner & drinks outing in honor of her belated birthday, so I knew that even if I had to crawl through the streets of downtown Miami, I'd be out and about one way or the other. I sent out a mass text to our little party of eight letting them know the plans:

Since the group was so small and I wanted Janet to feel extra special, I texted my friends Chris and Luis (who happen to live in the Brickell area) to join us if they had plans for going out that night. After hitting SEND, I took a nap and let the stars fall where they may in the already darkening sky. By midnight, we'd had our fair share of gigantic burgers and Janet blew out one candle which the waitress kindly placed strategically inside a creme brulee dish.

Somewhere in my mind it seemed right to wear brand new shoes out to a night of walking all over Brickell. Soon after I'd learn the error of my ways.

Unrelated sidenote: Brickell is a posh area in Miami near South Beach, where high rises abound and a slew of restaurants and bars and nightclubs and snobs are a dime a dozen and oh-my-God-do-I-love-it!

There I stood at half past midnight, hardly able to walk when I reached a table outside the Irish Pub. No sooner had a laid my head down on it and fallen into zombie mode that some strange man sent me a shot of tequila.

(Strange man = Creepy looking fucker with rapist glasses.)

At any rate, the night wore on and I drank like a turtle after too many marijuana brownies when my friends had had enough and we stumbled on out of there. It was four in the morning when I decided to look at my phone and realized I had a text message from Luis.

Him at 1:30 a.m.: Where's the party at?

Me at 4:03 a.m.: Hey, bubba. Sorry I missed your text. Hadn't looked at my phone all night. It's way late now, so I guess we'll hang out some other time.

Him: Where are you guys going?

Me: Home, duh. It's four in the morning. Where else can we go?

Him: My place?

Me: I'm with Lola and her husband plus a few other people. Is that ok?

Him: Fine by me. Come on over.

And so Luis sent me his address and we took our ambulatory fiesta on the road.

On the way there we lost Rapist Glasses and my girlfriend, who was just a bit tipsy and decided going home with a complete stranger was a good idea. Before they left I took down his information and a picture of his license. Rapist Glasses glared at me with an ugly scowl playing on his lips. I smiled back and mentally sent him to go fuck, which is exactly what he did with my friend two minutes later.

After a torturous fifteen minutes of walking and many phone calls back and forth, we were still lost and nowhere near Luis' place. I picked up the phone and called him, too tired to try and decipher intricate Brickell directions, I handed the phone over to Lola once he answered.

Lola: Dude! Where the hell is this place?

Him: Right past N.E. 1st avenue. Around Tobacco Road, kind of.

Lola: Did you move?

Him: Uh... Yeah, a few months ago.

Lola: Okay. So run these directions by me again?

When she hangs up the phone, she turns to me with a raised eyebrow and says, "Luis asked me to tell you he's missed you and is very excited to see you. He sounds weird. Possibly drunk."

I shrugged off her comment with a laugh and endured the rest of the walk up to my friend's highrise in silence. We've exhausted all our energies by the time we reach the elevator and hit 17 to make our way to 1721. Everyone can't stop talking about the drinks they're about to devour as I knock, when the door opens and there he stands:

So apparently... When you buy a new phone and they sync your old and new numbers together, the old ones come to the top and the new go to the orifices of hell. While I thought I was texting my lovely and sarcastic friend Luis, I was in fact, texting a man I had a fling with a while back and lost touch with all along (who coincidentally also lives in Brickell).

I simply have no words.

Not So Smart[Phone]

I could sit here and tell you how I've slept an equivalent of ten hours since Wednesday night and feel as tired as a sloth on sleeping pills of the most potent variety. Or how every single night I said I wouldn't go out drinking I ended up doing just the opposite.

How I actually made it to a 5k walk for breast cancer and crawled my way to the finish line without dying, emerging victorious in spite of my killer hangover and desire to make love to my bed. How I sang karaoke for the very first time and finally figured out there's nothing to be scared of, as the likelihood of anyone paying attention to you in their drunken stupor is low. How I fell asleep on top of a small table at a bar and some guy across the room sent me a tequila shot to "revive my spirits." How I mumbled a Thank you then went back to sleep, only to find my friend went home with him an hour later.

I could... I could... I certainly could...

But I won't. For today is the day where I'll talk about my latest nemesis: my phone. This trusty device is clearly beginning to obliterate the small remnants of sanity I like to cling to on weekdays, and I'm fairly certain it's all a plot to bring about my demise (not a chance).

Previously, I mentioned how much I adore my Blackberry and what a poor excuse for a human being I crumble into if I ever missplace or forget it. Last month, my lovely baby died on me and when I went back to replace it, the attendant said it'd cost $300.00.

My mobile company offered me a "new and super cool smart phone" for a hundred bucks. They called it, "The Sidekick." If you're anything like me, you're leery of new mobile devices. What I mean is, once I've committed to a brand (Tampax for tampons and Betty Crocker for instant mashed potatoes) I find change terrifying. With that said, spending that much money on a phone seemed ridiculous and I embraced the future. Having a sidekick couldn't be that bad, could it?

So I got the phone. I fucked with the buttons. I read the manual and felt like an imbecile. I gave it another try and things fell into place. Two weeks came and went and I soon began to learn my way around uncharted territory. The "sidekick" was a faster ninja version of my old buddy, with better moves and cooler punches. I bought it a nice outfit. It fit perfectly.

Times were happy and I decided change was a beautiful thing. So what if I couldn't figure out how to text message my friends?! Baby steps, mon cheri.

-------

There's a big elephant in the room as it relates to writing a non-anonymous blog centering solely on my life:

If I write about someone of the opposite sex, they immediately think I'm in love with them or batshit crazy. I think that it's time to clear the air.

I am the master chess player in this game and the gentlemen in question are just pawns on my board. And I know this is going to come back to bite me in the ass later (guaranteed), but come on, guys... It's not that serious. At the end of the day it's just a blog, not the front page of The New York Times.

Last Wednesday, I went on a date with a delicious specimen of a boy I've been eyeing for a few months. His work has him at a hotel a bit of a drive from Miami. He asks if I'd like to drive up for dinner and a movie. I initially hesitate but then figure it'll be a good time so I brave the drive and head on up. I get lost and arrive two hours later in a panic. We have a sweet time. His face betrays his thoughts when I speak. There's a likelihood he thinks I'm weird but that's a chance one must take when unskilled at the art of mincing words. He's sarcastic, but not in an obnoxious manner. His blue eyes widen when he has something important to say. He's honest about most things and I mentally add brownie points to his virtual platter for it.

Once the movie is over it's almost two in the morning. I'm scared to drive for an hour and get lost again, so he offers for me to stay in his hotel (there's an extra bed so it's not creepy or anything). Much to my surprise Kellan is a true gentleman, and after a drink and some conversation on the balcony we both fall asleep in our respective beds. Chalk it up to the board of nice dates and at six a.m. I abscond into darkness and head on home while he sleeps.

Fast forward to Friday night.

Kellan is out of town and I'm booked to capacity on the social front. I go to my friend's place for a slumber party since we're all doing the cancer walk together when I receive a text from a guy I've coined as Mr. Good Kisser. He's an intelligent sort of guy. Knows about art and history. Quick on the draw. Sometimes intriguing and others incredibly sexy. The nature of our relationship is casual... In essence, not easily disposable.

I lay on Jenni's couch with a drink in hand, texting furiously with Olivia who's in Sweden for work and bored in her hotel room, when I receive the following from Mr. Good Kisser:

Him: Hey, want to meet us up for drinks?

Me: I'm walking a 5k tomorrow. No going out for me.

Him: Just one drink.

Me: There is never in the history of evers, just one drink between you and I.

Him: Your point being?

Me: I'm not even in Miami. Thanks for the invite and have fun tonight.

I go back to texting Olivia, when the inevitable question pops up.

Olivia: You never told me how your date went with Kellan. Spill it!

Me: Ahhhh. He was adorable. But a shitty kisser. Meh.

Of course I didn't mean that, but I was bored and wanted to see what she'd say. When she doesn't reply five minutes later I become annoyed and then! Who do you think received that last message?

I quickly go into full effect damage control.

Me: Oh my God. Not for you. I meant to send that to Olivia.

No reply.

Me: I'm sorry. I feel like such a shit.

No reply.

Me: And on that note... I will wish you a very good weekend and a Happy New Year. Um, maybe we can do drinks before I leave to Puerto Rico?

Yeah... No reply.

The next morning I woke up at four for the walk to a text from him that simply read, "You're a ridiculous, hilarious mess. I'll see you Wednesday night."

"He really likes you," Lola gushes over dinner when I tell her the story.

"He really likes what's in your pants," says Ryan. The guy to his right nods vigorously and laughs.

My cynical half is inclined to believe the latter. The other is secretly saving for a new phone.

Easy, Breezy, Beautiful: Annah's World.

Few things amuse me more than taking self-pictures in public bathrooms while doing number 1 (bathrooms are boring and I'm easily entertained so be quiet):

Other things that tickle my brain pickle:

1) Finally finding my leather pants from Saturday night's 80's party.

2) My best friend calling me from 2000 miles away to obtain "advice" about her man problems. I am single. I keep telling everyone I'm not fit for imparting such wisdom but no one will listen.

4) Virtual stalkers. Come on. It's not called stalking if I know about it, 'kay? Quit it, silly.

3) Spending all my vacation money this past weekend on booze and prostitutes. Booze = Vodka. Prostitutes = Clip-On Earrings (God, I love those things!).

5) Karaoke nights with Miguel at a bar called Titanic. Why is it called that? Is it sinking? Where's Leonardo?

6) Miguel's killer rendition of "Blister In The Sun."

8) Not knowing said song was about masturbation.

7) The numbers in this post being completely out of order and no one noticing until now.

4) Guy at Titanic, with a pick-up line he said has worked for him in the past:

5) The fact I don't have dimples.

6) The fact I wondered if he was talking about dimples on my ass.

7) The fact dimples anywhere other than your face are not attractive.

8) The fact I ran to the gym the day after (but not to work out my ass or anything).

10) Chicken nuggets. Does anyone know what they're really made of? Negative. Do we still eat them by the dozens? You bet your sweet dimpled ass, we do.

9) Cankles. I don't know why people find these so repulsive. Seriously. I love me some fat ankles, people. Sexy as hell. Call me!

Such Is Life

I had seriously resolved to not blog unless I had something substantially important to say but I can't stay away for too long while my internet works. Yesterday, while virtually stalking myself, I came across the key words people searched to find me. And I know you guys must be so fed up of seeing these but hot damn, they are so spot on.

Everything makes perfect sense, except the last one. I mean, what the hell, guys? I'm not Mexican. I'm Cuban. And I've never peed on a car (that I can remember, anyway).

Yesterday I was getting ready for an 80's party that Mr. Good Kisser invited me to and painting my nails in a startling shade of hot pink at Penelope's house, when I asked her for the name of the polish.

"You're a pisa work," she says, in her best Italian accent.

I looked up in confusion. "Huh?"

"That's the name of the polish," she smiled and took a shot of honey rum. "Perfect, wouldn't you say?"

My outfit for the 80's party consisted of the following.

This morning when I woke, this is what I found:

I am still trying to figure out how I took my pants off without the leg warmers. Or where my pants are.

What a pisa work.

Deal Breaker

Have you ever seen that episode of 30 Rock when Liz Lemon (Tina Fey's character) goes on a talk show and starts yapping about the things men do that are worthy of a break-up?

In said episode, Liz has no qualms about naming these "unacceptable acts" which she calls:

The women in the audience are clapping in excitement, the men want to strangle her in her sleep. The thing about deal breakers is this: We all have them. Some of them pretty ridiculous. Others no brainers. And there's no way you won't make an enemy or two if you disclose your deal breakers publicly.

Lucky for you, I only have virtual enemies (and those don't really count because it's secretly a love/hate thing).

-----

I met him at a club about a year and a half ago. Nice enough guy named Alexis. So maybe he wasn't as tall as I'd wish and had receding hairlines that reached his lower back. I'm thirty pounds overweight by Miami standards and have a big nose so shit evens out.

For our first date we had dinner at a place of my choosing (per his request). Of course I picked a nice restaurant because what do I look like to you, stupid? I sent him a text stating, "Hey, Alexis. Place is in South Beach. My friends said great things. It's kind of fancy, so no sneakers!"

Five minutes later, he replies:

And yes, I knew the thought he was trying to evoke was the following:

But in my mind, it was:

Please, for the love of the Grammar Gods everywhere, speak properly. I know it's a text and certain words are admissible as far as society's concerned, but other things will close the muffin shop faster than you can say, "There really nice people." <---- Hint. There's something wrong with this sentence.

My list (including the above) is rather short, but concise and unforgiving, like myself. Here they are in no particular order:

1) Men who don't open doors for me (or any other women, regardless of how old or pretty they are). I realize this isn't the 1800's anymore and certain "gentlemanly" customs are extinct by default, but come on... I am a woman and you are a man. Do not walk through the door and let it slam on the face I spent beautifying for your viewing pleasure, you idiot.

2) Cheap guys.

It's granted that all cheapos will argue that women make as much money as men these days and therefore don't need to be pampered or spoiled. To that I say, men are just as capable as women so therefore I will not cook, clean, do your laundry, fluff your pillows and/or spray the entire house so it can smell delicious when your dumb ass walks through the door and wants a kiss and dinner on the table. A woman's worth has no price. If your parents didn't teach you that, then here I am revisiting a valuable life lesson just for you.

For those boys that are quick to jump on the bandwagon and yell, "gold digger!" Every smart girl is aware that's just a term men invented so they wouldn't have to pay. Shut up.

And ladies, stop with this "going Dutch" I'll-pay-for-my-half bullshit. I have Dutch friends who live in Dutchland (also known as The Netherlands) and they only do that with girls they don't like. You're only cheating yourselves, dolls.

3) Men who are better groomed than me and my poodle put together, especially in the eyebrow department.

4) Piggy backing on my last deal breaker, men who wear colored contacts. There are certain things men cannot get away with without surrendering their man card.

Colored contacts on me:

Colored contacts on a man:

Just don't. You've been warned.

5) Men with no respect for their mother.

6) Men who question my love of animals. Do you or do you not want to get laid? Shut up and inhale my dog's breath with a smile, if you know what's good for you.

7) Men who view sex as a marathon and me as the vehicle that will get them to the finish line. I am not a drum, you are not the Energizer bunny. My face is distorted into a scowl and the only noises coming from me are the sounds of silence. Isn't that a sign something's wrong, buddy?

8) Guys with really long nose hairs. Blegh, does this gross me out.

Back hair? No problem. Bountiful bushes growing out of your ears? Fine. But nose hair?! I couldn't think of anything more vomit inducing or distracting than that. Invest in a trimmer, gentlemen. And work on your ears while you're at it, if need be.

9) Finally... No sense of humor. Lots of girls say that what they really want is "someone to make them laugh." Guys hear this and call bullshit, but it's the truth, boys. We didn't say, "someone to make me laugh that is cheap, ugly, and checks out the waitress while I pull out my own chair." It is assumed that the guy who makes you laugh will have the qualities you already find endearing and attractive in the opposite sex. But in simple terms, laughter (and a whole lot of sex) is what glues couples together.

I once dated a guy who used to say he was "laughing on the inside" at most things I offered. Um... I'm not trying to toot my own horn or anything, but I'm a pretty funny girl. Plus I'm cute, which proliferates my funny factor to at least a million in under a minute.

Laugh, asshole.

-------

Think this sounds harsh? My deal breakers are tame compared to those of some men I've come across. For instance, I once had a friend tell me he didn't call a girl back because her hair smelled like coconuts. Coconuts?! The tropical fruit with the juicy insides? He had to be kidding... But he wasn't.

Here lies the future of mating, guys... Men who hate coconuts and have eyebrows that look better than my own.

It's bleak, I tell you. I mean. Have you seen my eyebrows? They're fucking fabulous.

Animal Porn To The Rescue! (Also Known As, My Internet's Back Up).

The thing about writing a blog based mostly on humor and personal life experiences is sometimes nothing interesting happens and you're left with a black hole of garbage as you await for magic to hit your brain surfaces once again. It's possible you didn't notice, but I haven't written anything in over ten days (last post doesn't count).

My internet died as a result of some wiring issue last week, unfortunately zapping all my inspiration and making me more depressed than any human being should be over their blog being down (I seriously have no life). So when you feel uninspired -truly uninspired- it's kind of hard to get out of that funk. And I didn't want to submit you to a bullshit post just for the sake of getting hits and upping my internet rankings so instead I chose silence.

Well there's a funny thing about silence: it sparks odd behavior from those used to you constantly opening your mouth when not invited to do so.

Then things happen over the course of ten days when you're not living your life through a demon machine we call computer:

You cook (canned tuna counts). You watch too many movies.

You get a parking ticket.

You go to Key West. You accidentally walk into someone else's suite thinking it's your own only to realize your mistake after finding dirty underwear in the bathroom floor minutes later.

Your mom says you curse too much. You feel mildly guilty. You hardly sleep at night. You clean. A lot. You discover Lil' Wayne in the trash heap behind your house. You take a picture against his will.

You develop new methods of being useless. You complain to your friends about lack in mojo. You have the following conversation with one of them.

Ryan: What the bitch, yo! I'm dying at work and you haven't updated your blog in like, seven days.

Me: I know... (sigh). Totally uninspired.

Ryan: Well get inspired. Do a line of coke or something. This is Miami, after all.

Me: I don't do drugs. I oddly have nothing to say.

Ryan: What about that time you ran through your parents' garage door with your car?

Me: Boring.

Ryan: Or the time you went to Amsterdam by yourself and met some guy from match.com there.

Me: Boring. And it wasn't match.com, it was virtualtourist.com, buddy.

Ryan: Same shit. Write about animal porn.

Me: Animal porn?

Ryan: Yeah, man. Shit's crazy. Animal porn is the new gay porn. Just put some sort of disclaimer because PETA will come after your ass, and them peeps are vicious.

Me: There's something inherently wrong with you. Really. Gotta go.

Ryan: Me too. It's weekend time and there's no money to do anything interesting. At least there's liquor in them there hills. And by hills, I mean my house.

The weekend comes and goes. Your internet works again. People wonder where you are. A male reader wants to know how to break it to his girlfriend that he doesn't like anal sex. You wonder how you ended up here. You write back anyway.

After all, you feel your mother would be proud. And at least you didn't curse (that much).

mierda (shit, in spanish).

internet broken. comcast doesn't care. haven't given up. just a roadblock. it's saturday. drinkie drink time. huggeroonies.

X,
Annah

Update: Internet still broken. Someone emailed me these pics from the weekend so I'm posting in order to make this  a little less sucky. Happy Monday, kids.