Tag Archives: single life

Viva Los Angeles

After spending a delightful week in Los Angeles, it would be remiss of me not to include a mini recap of what I was up to.

By now, it’s a well-known fact that I’ve decided to hightail it over to the West Coast come September. This crazy little idea took form over three years ago when my lovely mentor kept proclaiming how “tired” Miami was. She was right. Employment opportunities are scarce. Romantic possibilities even more so. Yes, this is my home. I will love it long time. But, considering I’ve never lived elsewhere, I’m feeling some type of way about the 305 by now. Then, after spending three weeks hiking Machu Picchu and tearing up Peru and Colombia with two L.A. natives last summer (who had nothing but amazing things to say about their hometown), I was inching closer and closer to this big move. And, while I don’t know why it took me this long to realize that I needed a change of scenery, I guess better late than never. Right?

So, off I went last week. I stayed with the aforementioned mentor and her amazing family. I got to meet friends of friends that so graciously showed me around and decided to have lunch/dinner with me so I wouldn’t be a friendless loser. I was invited to my first UCB sketch comedy show, cementing my decision to start taking sketch writing/improv classes there this fall. I had food that would make angels weep from its glory. I had SUPER (you can take the girl out of Miami, but you can’t take Miami out of the girl) pleasant Lyft drivers (one time for my main man Kyle). The kitsch and glamour of Hollywood is where I wanted to take permanent residence. AND….. I found a kickball league. Which I know sounds absolutely ridiculous. Pero like, it’s important to me?

Suffice it to say, it was a productive trip. One that made me feel sure (or as sure as I would ever be), that I wasn’t making a decision of the life ruining variety. Sure that the food and opportunities and people of L.A. were totally right for me. Oh, and the weather. After all, a girl can never have too many good hair days.

Let’s Play the Text Game

Most days, I consider myself a confident lady. Other days, I’m more of what I like to call “an absolute wreck of a human.” Sometimes, on very rare occasions, I can be both at the exact same time. And that rare moment actually caught me by surprise yesterday.

It started when one of my favorite gal pals was agonizing over whether she should text a guy first. They had a great weekend together, he had mentioned having dinner the following week and now she wanted to follow up. But he hadn’t texted in a few days and she was afraid that he had either lost interest or would “scare him off.” They’re silly thoughts, but ones that all of us tend to have. So, of course, my advice to her was to text the goober. I told her to be bold and go after what she wanted. After a few more excuses on her part (the possibility of rejection is SCARY, okay!), she relented and texted him later that night. And wouldn’t you know, he had been thinking about her, too. Their dinner has been formally scheduled.

While I was GChatting her off the ledge of #foreveralone, I was having my very own crisis. The problem was pretty much the same. Do I text the guy first? However, the terms were completely different. Dude and I hadn’t spoken in five months. Things had gotten awkward between us. And I kept questioning if this was really the right time to tear down that Berlin Wall. So, with the helpful nudging of a different favorite gal pal, I went for it. It should be said that I got ridiculously worked up about this. I immediately regretted that I couldn’t blame my decision on alcohol. I couldn’t bear to look at my phone in the case that the response (or lack thereof) would be less than desirable. I went as far as starting a video chat with my aforementioned friend so she could look at my phone screen and tell me whether I should be freaking out or not. Seriously, I was behaving like someone who needed their meds adjusted.

You see, confident while advising friends. Absolute wreck advising myself. But as I stand smack in the middle of sane and psychotic, I always manage to learn something. In this particular instance it was that the millennial “text game” is pretty damn stupid. You want to talk to someone? Just fucking do it. Don’t agonize about what they’re thinking. Don’t act disinterested to protect yourself. If they don’t respond or don’t reciprocate your feelings, you’ll find a way to move on. Don’t let the “do I text them first?” question plague you.

Dicknotized: 12 Steps to Getting Over Your Addiction to “the D”

We all suffer from an addiction to SOMETHING. Alcohol, money, Katy Perry music videos, drugs, exercise, throwing shade, power, etc. But my personal affliction and those of many other gals is an addiction to “the D.” Akin to “putting the pussy on a pedestal,” our thirst for male companionship is oh-so real. So, I’ve adapted the popular 12 steps of addiction for all those aDICKted ladies.

1. Admit you are powerless over “the D.” Your thirst has become unmanageable, embarrassing and a detriment to living a shame-free life.

2. Come to believe that a “Power” greater than yourself (usually Oprah) can restore you to sanity and steer you to the land of eternal hydration.

3. Make a decision to turn your will and life over to the care of “God.” Or, you know, whatever deity you so choose. Again, the gospel of Oprah is here for you.

4. Make a searching and fearless moral inventory. Otherwise known as going through your memory bank and thinking of all the times you shame spiraled after a sexual encounter gone bad.

5. Admit to yourself and to others (usually your poor friends that can’t find you at the bar because you went off chasing some random) the nature of your wrongs.

6. Be ready to remove this defect of character. Maybe don’t respond to that 2 a.m. DTF text message. Don’t pound Fireball shots when you’re emotionally fragile. Don’t go chasing waterfalls.

7. Humbly ask “Her” to remove your shortcomings. If Oprah attempted to fix Lindsay Lohan’s hot mess of a life, she can surely do the same for you, right?

8. Make a list of all persons you have harmed and become willing to amend them all. This includes all the friends you ditched to bang one out with your slam piece, all the dudes you never texted back and your gynecologist, who really shouldn’t have such a consistent patient.

9. Make direct amends to such people wherever possible. There is never a bad place to apologize for your parched behavior. Make like Nike and JUST DO IT.

10. Continue to take personal inventory and admit when you’re wrong. We all slip up. I mean, you might go back to your ex-hookup that knew how to put in work. Or you’ll mercilessly tease that guy friend you randomly slept with for not putting in enough. Just admit your wrongdoing(s).

11. Seek through prayer and meditation to improve your conscious contact with “God.” Should prayer, meditation or marathoning The Oprah Winfrey Show not prove effective in curbing your addiction, masturbation might also work.

12. Carry this message to others that suffer from this affliction. Preach it loud. Preach it proud.

My Favorite Miami Bars & Lounges (That Cause Me to Make Poor Life Choices)

LourD at BroJs.

Brother Jimmy’s

My very essence has become so synonymous with this place that it’s kind of sad, really. I’ve had some highs. Like slaying at impromptu flip cup games, killing it in karaoke, becoming besties with some of the employees and watching the bouncer body slam someone that got out of line. But there’s been lows, too. Like witnessing some epic douchebaggery, having my feet practically bleed on Cinco de Drinko due to a very poor shoe game, random acts of crying and unpleasant bathroom visits. But, through it all, this will forever remain a mainstay. Bad experiences be damned.

Blackbird Ordinary

My dubious behavior at Blackbird has been well documented, so it should come as no surprise that it’s included in this list. A friend once dubbed it “black hole,” because that’s what your life feels like after a night of drinking there. Of course, I immediately co-signed that sentiment. Basically, nothing good ever happens to me at Blackbird after 2 a.m. I’ve attacked people with my mouth, participated in numerous dance-offs, had one too many #realtalks in the women’s bathroom and fallen for some OH SO STUPID pick-up techniques. But I’ll still continue ending many an evening there. Sorry that I’m not sorry.

Fado

This one is really just due to the close proximity to Blackbird and Brother Jimmy’s. It’s almost as if by osmosis that I’m compelled to act a fool. Almost every single time that I saunter into Fado I transform into the Hispanic version of Lil’ Jon and start demanding shots. It should be stated that shots aren’t simply my downfall, they are my LIFE RUINER. Multiple rounds of Fireball should never be trusted, much less accepted. Also, I don’t appreciate the fact that I have to safely descend a full flight of stairs in order to get to my next destination. Especially since I look like a newborn baby elephant when trying to achieve that feat. Seriously, a bar on a second floor? NO. ME. GUSTA.

Purdy Lounge

Dirty Purdy, how I love dropping it low within your musty walls. If my vagina isn’t touching the floor at all times, it hasn’t been a successful evening at this particularly ratchet establishment. Once upon a time, I would straight up act like The Terminator up in this piece. Set my sights on a target and simply attack. I’d like to think that I’ve grown wiser and classier with age, but it’s probably just because everyone that now comes here is a fetus, and cradle robbing has never really been my style.

Radio Lounge

The first time I ever set foot inside Radio Lounge, I made a beeline for the pool table. No, not to play, but to dance on top of it. I had a good run before they escorted me off. Plus, someone made it drizzle some dolla dolla bills on me. From that moment on, it became a tradition of sorts to have me dancing on top of that thing. Cue the first few notes of any 2 Chainz song and there I went. But, Radio Lounge has suffered some changes. The last time I went it was filled with a crowd that made me sad to be alive. Instead of a DJ, I got someone playing music from their computer (which is kinda what DJs are anyhow, but whatever). And that beautiful elevated surface that I used to call my very own was now covered and certainly off limits. It’s so hard to say goodbye to yesterday.

A Single Shade of Gray

The wise Charlamagne Tha God once said, “if you smash a girl three times, you’re in a relationship.” To me, truer words had never been spoken. Obviously, not a relationship in the traditional sense, but SOME sort of union. Whether you want to define it as “hanging out,” “talking,” “hooking up” or whatever other term millennials throw around to describe what or who they’re doing, you’re bound by the rule of three. Personally, I don’t immediately catch the feels, but I think three encounters is a good measure of whether I want to pursue something with you. And if you’re willing to make me not once, twice, but three times a lady, then I’m gathering this little thing we’ve got going on is something you want to continue, too.

But, the tough pill to swallow is that not everyone thinks like me and ol’ Charlamagne. Because what the man children and douchebaguettes of my generation love to do is place romantic potentials in “the gray area.” A place much worse than the friend zone, the gray area rids these people of all fault and blame when they decide to act a fool (no matter how many times you’ve been together). It’s where they place you when they hook up with someone else and then claim, “but I told you I didn’t want a relationship.” It’s how they get away with leaving the bar with another girl in tow and then saying, “it’s not like I’m your boyfriend.” It’s their excuse to rid themselves of resposibility one minute and act like you owe THEM something the next. Seriously, who needs 50, when we already have this little miserable shade of gray?

And people that do this are really the fucking worst. They keep you hanging on a string and then hide behind “being honest” to not look like the bad guy in the situation. Don’t get me wrong, everyone is free to do whatever makes them the happiest of pandas, but cut the cord if you truly don’t want to be with someone. Don’t keep them around because you’re bored or waiting for something better to come along. Don’t let their vagina get attached. Don’t hurt their feelings when they’ve done nothing to deserve it. And for the love of God, get them the fuck out of the gray area and into black or white territory before they “Gone Girl” the hell out of you.

There’s Something About Cameron

We all need role models. Someone to guide us. To provide invaluable wisdom. To teach us right from wrong. Usually this person is found in the form of a friend or family member. But, I can’t help but mold myself after celebrities. It’s awful, I know, but I really HAVE learned some great things over the years. Like always wear underwear. Never shave your head and wield an umbrella as a weapon. Don’t date John Mayer. And so on.

So when it comes to my single life, I really consider Cameron Diaz my bitch. She rose from the ashes of her relationship to A-Rod. Weathered the storm of a fauxmance with Diddy. Kept on after losing hot tottie Justin Timberlake to queen of the basics, Jessica Biel. And never once did I think, “look at poor, single, lonely, desperate Cameron Diaz.” Because she EMBRACED her single status. She had zero fucks left to give about the men she left in her wake. She refused to be portrayed as thirsty for love, a role that Jennifer Aniston has perfected.

Now, at 42, she marries Benji Madden after seven months of dating. No pomp. No circumstance. Just a fitting ending for a badass like her. She had her fun, she set the terms and she finally settled down. It wasn’t a sprint to the aisle because of her age or because of societal pressures. With that body, that bangin’ personality and that talent, she could’ve been wifed up AGES ago. Whether she’s married for the rest of time or gets divorced next month, she’ll always be a single lady icon for the ages. An inspiration to us all.

Love or Something Like It

An old friend recently asked me for my thoughts on love and romance for a documentary he’s filming about the concept of joy. He explains the premise a lot better than I can, so… I won’t even bother. But, what a terrifying question to be asked at the tail end of what was a mess of a year for me romantically. I pretty much spent the latter half of it heartbroken. Let me amend that last statement. Not necessarily heartbroken, but whatever you call unironically listening to A LOT of Taylor Swift. As an aside, the words “Blank Space is my life,” are ones I don’t intend on ever repeating.

Basically, I’ve always been the girl that loves to hate love. I gravitate towards it, yet I reject it. I oftentimes find it vomit inducing, but count The Notebook as one of my favorite movies. I don’t think I’ll ever find it again, but I inadvertently keep searching for it anyhow. I just can’t make up my mind. And I’ve never been able to. I don’t think my feelings will evolve when I’m a little bit older, a little bit wiser and a little bit less jaded.

Simply put, my thoughts on love, much like love itself, make absolutely no sense. Ask me about my personal life and I’m a cynic through and through. I’ll never find the right guy. I’m gonna end up alone. I might as well start the cat collection now. Yet, when it comes to the lives of others, I’m a hopeless romantic. I’ve molded myself into an expert on the subject, spouting advice to female friends as if this whole “love” thing comes naturally to me. But in reality, I’ve only dated two guys in my 27 years. One was an 8-year relationship that encapsulated most of my 20s and the other can best be described as a 7-night stand. The most that each of these experiences had in common was that both guys worked at Publix. So when trying to form thoughts on love and romance, the most I can come up with is that it should not be looked for in the aisles of a grocery store.

Single and Not Quite So Ready to Mingle

Ugh, I’m tired. No, not like I haven’t gotten enough sleep tired. Or I just went too HAM on that workout tired. But tired of the constant questioning of my relationship status. Personally, I’m fine with it. And not in the way women usually mean it, like when they say “I’M FINE,” and you know you fucked up. But I’m genuinely fine with my lot in life. I’m single. It’s okay. Really, it is. I’ll find a way to move forward without a guy by my side. I PROMISE. But, the tedious stigma of being a single girl in your late 20s is really starting to get to me. Because shouldn’t I have it figured out by now? Am I so irrevocably broken that I can’t, for lack of a better phrase, land a man? The short and the long of it is… well… no. So, allow me to cry you a river for a moment.

There’s no magic formula to this dating thing. One friend tells me, “go out on more dates,” so I do. But those end more awkwardly than they begin. Another tells me “you need to get out more.” So, again… I do. And that’s just wholly unfulfilling and no quality prospects ever seem to emerge. Yet another tells me, “it’ll happen when you stop looking.” So, I tried that too. And that one seemed to have worked for a while. I stopped trying, I kept my thirst in check, and I thought “FINALLY, it’s happened to me!” But, that didn’t work out either. So for months I thought, what the fuck am I doing wrong? Is it me? Is my very essence a turn-off? Do I look like an absolute hobgoblin? It was slowly getting to the point where the next guy with a not-so-bad criminal record and a decent tan would be the one to sweep me off my feet. Or, at the very least, sweep me off my pity pedestal. I really didn’t mean to act so hopeless. I didn’t. And praise all my Santos that at least my Cuban mom wasn’t on that “when are you giving me grandkids?” tip. Now THAT would have sent me straight to the convent life.

So what magic realization did I come to after months of I’M DYING ALONE conversations? It’s that my approach was all types of butt ugly wrong. I started and ended every day putting my entire worth and value in finding another human being to call my very own. I put aside the great friends I have, the family that cares, the career that is just getting started, the ass that doesn’t quit and the most bangin’ of personalities. I was focusing on the one negative when there were a milli positives.

And with that I say, I’m done. At least for now. At least with finding anything of substance in Miami. And no, this isn’t going to devolve into a rant of HOW NO GOOD MEN EXIST IN MIAMI. Because, that’s simply not true. I’m not bitter nor have I given up on finding a forever mate. It just shouldn’t be a priority right now. Right now I need to focus on doing me… not you.