no. 7: solo sam buys a car

... and when I say buy I really mean lease. buying a car is literally the dumbest decision one could make. maybe even dumber than that time I drunkenly decided I was going to pierce my face. actually, that wasn't dumb at all. I take it back. but buying a car really is dumber than jenelle on teen mom. there's your financial reasons of course, but the biggest factor which will forever keep me as a lease girl is the fact that I get bored easily. boyfriends, cars, hairstyles, being a normal member of society -- you name it, I have a short attention span for it. so my trusty car salesman gave me a little ring right before nye to tell me he could get me in to a new car sooner than I expected. and since I'm the most impulsive and impatient person in the history of the world, I immediately decided my current car was the worst thing ever and I needed to get rid of it immediately.

I've leased all three of my past cars with my fathers guidance -- and when I say guidance I really mean he did everything, I just stood there and contemplated between white or black. this time however, dear old dad ditched me to go to the rose bowl (whatever) and as previously insinuated, I have a bit of a veruca salt mentality going on -- 'but I want it noooow!' -- so I said fack it and decided I couldn't wait for him to get home and I'd handle the situation on my own.

first things first, I called my main sales bff and said, 'listen carl, I need you to get me in to a new car immediately and I need it to be for a rock bottom price. no, you listen! I'm not taking no for an answer.' ok that didn't happen at all actually. I was drunk on wine and called him at 2:00 a.m. and left some slurred nonsense voicemail about how my cruze and I are so last year. regardless, dear old carl called me back the next day (bless his soul for actually doing so) and I made an appointment for 30 minutes later. I contemplated for all of five seconds on what a single girl should wear car shopping -- there's such a stigma with car salesman and women, ya know? -- and then decided I didn't give a shit and put on something androgynous (maybe I'd fool him in to thinking I was a boy so he wouldn't give me the run around).

after catching up with carl the salesman and looking at all of the photos from when he was a professional boat racer (?) it was time to get down to business. and business took all of about 30 minutes. the most difficult decision, as it always is, was black or white. I'm almost shocked that carl didn't smash my face in to the high-tech stereo (radio? what's it called these days? I don't think stereo is correct though ...) since I changed my mind no less than five times -- 'black!! wait, no white. well wait. I don't want people thinking I'm discriminatory, let's go black! er, I actually hate black cars. white it is!' so 30 minutes, 76 eye rolls, and 800 signatures later, I was scheduled to take delivery on my brand spankin' 2014 malibu in two days.

after the longest.two.days.ever -- I felt like I was waiting for my scheduled c-section -- I picked up my white ride in a snow storm and kissed carl goodbye for another two years. and the best part of it all was that I did everything entirely on my own. I picked it out, I negotiated the price -- three claps for me -- I was able to lease it myself, and I didn't have to ask my daddy boy for one ounce of help. the whole process kind of made me feel like a real grown-up (I always wondered when that would kick in) and I was so proud of myself for being such an awesome, androgynously dressed, grown-up.

things I learned:
1) professional trick boat racing is a real thing and professional trick boat racers have 'a realllll good time.'
2) don't let the carl's of the world fool you in to paying $500 extra for black paint. who's discriminatory now, chevy?
3) ask your elderly grandparents for their coveted gm discount code way earlier in the car shopping game so that you don't have to push delivery back two full days all the while causing you to have minor anxiety attacks for said two days. speaking of which, I need to look in to that xanax script ...
4) don't leave one of your most favorite black boots in your old car so that it is never to be seen again. I'm still not over the loss.
5) car insurance is expensive. really expensive. I was genuinely shocked when I heard I'd have to organize obtaining insurance before picking up my precious new car. what is this, communist russia?

p.s. I didn't take any pictures of my new car or of carl or of us in the car discussing life and love because I'm not a 16 year old pubescent teen getting their first car. if you so happen to give two shits about what my new car looks like, you can google it.

sober car shopping cheers, y'all!

no. 6: solo sam does lunch in a foreign country

holy crap did you all think I was dead? a month absence is not ok and rest assured I have been punishing myself. that's right, I haven't had a drop of alcohol since my last post. just kidding, I'm a liar and a slacker. in all reality, I blame the holidays and all of the cuddly family time. and then there was the whole getting back in to the swing of things after 16 days off. regardless, one of my many 2014 resolutions is to not get so sucked in to my gossip girl marathons that I don't have time to do anything that requires more than just breathing. 2014 will be the year of me blogging in a timely manner.

so now that we have that all settled, the family traveled abroad (when I say abroad I really mean mexico) to celebrate the birth of our lord and savior (wait what?). we spent seven glorious days on the beach. I consumed more banana daiquiri's than george jung has consumed cocaine in his entire life. I read five books -- I'm a regular scholar -- and got myself a pretty nice little tan. a stranger even came up to me and asked which native american tribe I originated from (that is actually entirely false. I told you I was a liar.) so fast forward to day three, I mean four, I mean three -- is there even such a thing as days of the week while on vacation? I just don't think so -- no one would go eat lunch with me. when I say no one, I mean my own flesh and blood. apparently everyone was too comfortable in their horizontal position to eat lunch with me. after informing them that they were worthless to me (isn't that what family vacation is all about, hurling insults at your family members?) I decided to go dine alone. in a different country. no one was even all that concerned about the possibility of me being kidnapped and sold in to riviera mayan sex slavery. in their defense though, you could see the restaurant -- I mean hut where they served food -- from their loungers.

I spent the next five minutes attempting to put on my super complicated seamless coverup and walked my daiquiri buzzed butt up to the hut (one car, two car, red car, blue car). first challenge: trying to tell the non-english speaking hostess your room number. second challenge: trying to convince said hostess (without creating an american scene) that yes, I was indeed dining alone. you guys, she literally stared at me like I ordered a virgin margarita on a tequila boat cruise. maybe she thought I was volunteering myself for sex slavery. not sure. she seats me at the two-top table nearest the exit -- easier for criminals to grab me, I'm sure -- and of course I'm facing two studly men because that's my life. what more does a man want than to watch a short girl in a weird science experiment looking beach coverup wipe guacamole off her face? I popped my shades on and pretended like I wasn't staring directly at them. juan comes over and tries in his best english to take my order -- I tell you, those mexicans are such cute little nugs and I love them all for trying so hard to speak english, especially since my vocabulary doesn't extend past 'gracias' -- I proceed to order a cheese quesadilla. they said no. what? wasn't I in mexico? the land of the quesadilla. let me tell you, I did not have one facking quesadilla the entire seven days. not a one. and when I did ask, they just shook their head no. I don't know if I'll ever recover. I did, however, discover the fish taco so it wasn't a total loss.

all in all, the dining experience was a grand 45ish minutes and I didn't hate it. I mean there's not really much to hate when you're sitting in 85 degrees looking out over hot men, er I mean the ocean. while I do consider it to be a brave activity -- if you asked me a year ago if I would have done it I would have punched you in the face (probably nothing that aggressive actually, maybe just would have called you a four letter word) -- I can't help but feel that maybe I cheated a bit. I don't think judging or even paying attention to other people while on vacation is a thing. at least for other people it's not, my family is a totally different story. not that this little solo adventure is about being judged by any means, but that is my crippling fear which is what lead to me starting this whole shebang. I was nervous about going to lunch alone (it seems very official and serious) but it really wasn't all that bad. I liked the alone time and I liked being able to quietly take in the view. I do think I will do lunch round two, american edition, though.

things I learned:
1) the guacamole in riviera maya tastes like a whiskey hangover feels. not my favorite.
2) it is possible for a woman to literally cough up a lung and still be alive enough to eat her fatkids.com nachos. I saw it happen.
3) banana daiquiri's are better in the morning when fresh bananas are still a thing. you're welcome for the tip.
4) europeans love mexico and europeans love to wear speedos. europeans also love to let their children run around like a bunch of feral cats.
5) mexicans don't really sweat. I was sweating like honey boo boo's mom in a sauna and they were all cool as a cucumber. one of life's many great mysteries.

banana daiquiri cheers, all y'all!

I wasn't able to take any photos of my quesadilla-less lunch due to the fact that my phone had zero wifi the entire week. I was so upset with that little piece of shit that I threw it in the bottom of my bag and didn't pull it back out until I was safely back in my homeland. i.e. the exact minute that bird touched down in detroit.

no. 5: solo sam goes bowling

dear sweet jesus on the cross I went bowling. apparently I was feeling a little white trash and a lot athletic – both of which I pride myself on not being. I'm about as athletic as stevie wonder is a pro at those dumb letter charts at the eye doctor. this was interesting to say the least. being that this was activity five (I've now switched it from weeks to activities seeing as I'm finding myself sometimes wanting to do more than one a week and other times finding that I don't have time to even do one – fear not, the goal remains the same: 365 days of slightly awkward soloness and no less than 52 extremely awkward activities. anyways, I digress.) I wasn't even the slightest bit nervous this time around. no pep talk. no ass kicking. nothing. dare I say I was even a little excited about it? as I pulled in the parking lot all I could think of was my girlfriend telling me the story of when her date took her to a bowling alley and proceeded to accost her in his mini van before they went in. kills me every time! boys are so dumb.

I strolled in dressed in all black (apparently I was trying to look thin and mysterious for all of the hot bowlers that frequent the rochester meth lab turned bowling alley) to find the o.p.c hosting their ladies christmas party or some shit. where does one even find 35 other geriatric friends to bowl with and why am I constantly surrounded by the o.p.c? so I ask the suspect bowling alley runner man, "can I bowl?" to which he responds, "... um, yes?" whatever sir with your tude! he then proceeds to ask, "bowling alone?" oh shit. I panicked. I did the only logical thing I could think of. "yep! just me. got a big tournament tomorrow I need to practice for." um what? did I seriously just say that? I'm not sure who was dumber, me for saying it or him for believing it and asking a million questions about it. um no sir not sure where the tournament is held. it's a work function, for charity -- I'm sure I'm going to hell or some place equally as bad (like walmart on a friday night) for saying that. I think it's in birmingham (I don't even think birmingham has a bowling alley within 100 miles of it). who knows, maybe the fact that I brought my own bowling shoes really sold him on the idea that I was indeed a serious bowler. (don't judge. I stole them in a drunken stupor back in my college days. it was a dare. we were insane back then.)

the most curious man alive parks me in lane 22, the lane directly in front of his counter. I'm sure he just wanted to see how amazing I was since I lead on that I'm a tournament player. that, or he noticed that you could totally see my leopard bra through my shirt and wanted to stare for the next three games. not really sure why I keep leaving the house without realizing you can see my unmentionables through my top. amateur hour over here. I go get my vodka water (I don't have a drinking problem as I'm sure most of you are starting to speculate. at least I don't think so ... or choose to believe so.) and pick out the ball that's the lightest, seeing as I have zero strength in any part of my body. I ended up dating the left gutter for about 90% of my three games and bowled a consecutive 60, 65, and 57. I blame the lowest score during the last game on the fact that I literally ripped my nail in half during the seventh frame. bowling is facking dangerous and I'm never doing it again if it's going to ruin my manicure. I almost had to call my nail guy (american name: mitch) and a) bitch him out for the fact that shellac does not in fact make your nails like cement, and b) to have him come to my house for emergency surgery. the one and only reason I did not do either is because I didn't have his number. woe is me.

all in all though it was actually pretty fun. would I do it again alone? probably not. I think it's just one of those things that's more fun with others (and it's way more fun when the loser has to buy unlimited rounds of drinks instead of me just going home and eating an entire bag of goldfish in celebration/defeat). I'm ok with that though. I knew getting in to this that there would be some things that I would just love to do alone and that I would do alone time and time again, and then there would be others that would be fun once but probably wouldn't happen again.

things I learned:
1) the bowling alley 'bartender' makes a weaker drink than the 16 year old kid at the movie theatre, and I literally didn't think that was even possible. it's been three weeks and I'm still not over the excuse for a double vodka water that jeremy made me during the 'catching fire' premiere. fack him.
2) bowling shoes gave me worse blisters than the time I wore 5 inch heels on valentine's day and fell asses over applecart's down the main dining room stairs at coach insignia. yes, I had on a dress. no, my ebf did not help me up. dumbass.
3) I would rather lick thirty prisoners butts than ever have to pee in a bowling alley bathroom again. I'm getting a hepatitis shot tomorrow.
4) sometimes bowling alley employees offer up advice that stops you in your tracks. mr. inquisitive said, "don't rush it. just take your time." I knew he was talking about bowling but it just fit so well with what I'm doing that I couldn't help but smile. that statement can forever be attributed to so much more than bowling.

weakest vodka water cheers, y'all!

what even is this? I think this machine was literally used to fight in the vietnam war.

just wanted you all to revel in my 'vodka' water.

professionals wear leggings and their own bowling shoes, right?

so many things I want to say about these racks of balls, but I'll keep it classy since my mom wants me to start acting like a lady. you're welcome, mother.

no. 4: solo sam does happy hour

I live for happy hour. it's kind of like my spirit animal. there is nothing that I love more than drinking directly after work at some seemingly posh bar with my buds (maybe except cheese fries, my louis tote, making fun of awkward people, harry potter ... ). I knew happy hour was on my early list of solo activities and it was the one thing (so far) that really intimidated me. so being my special little self I of course made up nine different reasons not to go -- "omg I'm feeling like my apartment might be on fire from that match I dropped last week, I better go and check." after having a straight up god awful day at work I told myself, "hey asshat, you're going to happy hour tonight since you clearly need no less than five drinks and that's final." not one for change, I played it normally and walked out of work thinking of excuses why I couldn't go. rational sam (she's tall, thin, and super tan) told anxiety ridden sam (she's short, three notches past out of shape, and paler than a dead man), "if the bar doesn't look packed and you can find a spot out front, your ass is going. no excuses." and being that I work in birmingham (concrete jungle where dreams of marrying rich and being destined to have a stick up your ass are made of) I'm surrounded by great restaurants and bars. I always knew where I was going to go (they have half off drinks on tuesdays and that is literally like hitting the jackpot for this lush, seeing as how I'm college student poor from all of the happy hours I go to) and I knew that the place is always packed and parking in birmingham is the equivalent of conversing with people I hate -- a pain in my ass. much to rational sam's delight, bar empty. spot directly out front. fack.

I pulled up my big girl panties and rolled in to that bar like I owned it. I sat on the side of the bar that faces the restaurant so that I could survey the scene -- I'm so mysterious. not one to pass up cheap alcohol, I had two glasses of malbec and attempted to not portray a washed up john hamm looking human being a la 'mad men.' I was surrounded by all men. beautiful looking men. men who were in to each other. well shit there goes that. the bartender did attempt to strike up a convo (I think -- lord knows I can't really tell anymore) but I was too busy being the most awkward person ever and still feeling sorry for myself after my shitastic day to even realize what was happening. and there goes that. I happy hour'ed for an hour, sans phone (painful, but part of the deal), to the tune of $9 and couldn't wait to get my ass out of there. I'm sorry but happy hours are made for friends and shit talking, not silent boozing and constant wonder of how many people think I'm just a big creepy weirdo. if I'm going to be forced to watch espn and drink overpriced (perceived value you guys) wine it better be with a sexual looking man who will at least let me talk about myself during commercials.

moral of the story here: happy hour sans girlfriends is just plain boring. I don't think it's my thing. I'm kind of disappointed that it's not though, I really wanted it to be. when this ol' gals having a banner day I think I may do solo happy hour take two. and I'll go somewhere where I won't be judged for my target jacket -- and fack all of birmingham because that merona jacket is damn cute and I looked fabulous.

things I learned:

1) apparently shaving stripes in your eyebrows is considered attractive.

2) I can't parallel park for shit.

3) old men would rather strike up a convo with a fellow man than a young girl. I thought I could at least count on the geriatric to say something creepy. guess not.

4) I don't trust bartenders who measure their wine pours. I mean have a little compassion and pour me an extra large glass, garçon.

half off wine cheers, y'all!

the scene of the crime. I was hoping that little contraption would open up and rain vodka down on me. I also was hoping that those rays were in fact god coming to save me from this misery.

my thoughts exactly.

no. 3: solo sam decorates

well deck the facking halls people, it's officially the christmas season. yes, I know I've been m.i.a for the past two weeks. yes, I know this makes me a loser. no, it will not happen again -- at least as of right now. and I promise to double up on my soloness (did I just make up a new word) this week to make up for it. I'm the ultimate stephen glansberg (look it up). I blame it on the fact that I've been an overly social panda (I hate butterflys, they're powdery and come from a worm -- I'm not buyin what they're sellin) and just didn't have time to fit in alone time. that, or I'm lazy and spent the majority of the past two weeks hungover and incapable of doing anything besides watch an ungodly amount of hours of will & grace. p.s where can I find my own jack?

anywho, I decked my halls this past sunday all by my lonesome. seeing as this is officially my first place (I'm not counting college since mike paid for that shit) I knew I needed to make it as facking merry as possible. I also knew I didn't want to have to sacrifice my first child to pay for said merry-ness, so I did what any red-blooded american girl (aw I miss those creepy/amazing dolls) would do -- I went to target. I got my tinsel, random signs that said 'ho' (I couldn't resist the slutiness of it all), mini trees, lights, and $4 wine.

let me also disclaim this, this was an unexpected solo adventure seeing as I was supposed to have help (cough roommate decorating ditcher cough). I popped in 'christmas vacation' (obviously), lit my pine scented candle, stuck a straw in my wine and got to work. I kind of felt like will ferrel in 'elf' -- more attractive though, of course -- as I was busy hammering (don't ask) and assembling. an hour and a bra change later (who knew turning 1000 square feet in to a scene straight out of the north pole induced sports-like sweat?) my work was complete and looked so damn cute I could barely deal. and not surprising, I almost shed a tear. more because of the fact that I love the holidays, straight up swimfan obsessed with them, so I was so happy to have some christmas cheer surrounding me. literally does the holidays make anyone else cry? don't even think about turning on 'step in to christmas' by queen elton unless you want a 5'2 out of shape girl in a heap at your feet. overall though, it was great and I actually really loved going it alone. I didn't have to share my cheap wine with anyone and I had no one judging me as I recited every single one of clark's lines.

things I learned:
1) if you hit your elbow on the corner of your $10 ikea shelf whilst holding a hammer your entire arm will in fact go numb ... for an unusually long time ... causing you to panic and plan out the rest of your life as a one-armed person because it surely will have to be amputated. 'ohmygod I'll never find anyone to marry me!'
2) if you are about to fly off the top of the couch while hanging lights just grab on to the cheap blinds and scale down them like a cat until you land safely on the floor.
3) every time I've ever said wine is wine, $4 or $40, I was wrong. $4 wine is shit. what the hell is cranberry fall harvest wine supposed to even taste like anyways?
4) don't hold a match upright immediately after lighting it as it will rapidly burn the rest of said match and spread to your undersized hand quicker than you can say, "holy fack I'm on fire!' also, don't throw said firey match on the carpet -- my bad. I did get it down after half a pack though. rest assured.

shitty harvest pumpkin christmas wine cheers, y'all!

side note, I tried my damnedest to take pictures of my handy work but they all turned out looking like helen keller took them. I really think the beauty just can't be captured with a dumb iphone, it's too epic. and plus, I couldn't make my hair look ungreasy anyways, even with filters. so I'll chalk that up as a loss, but maybe if I'm feeling ambitious I'll take photos with my real camera and post them. we'll just play that one by ear. instead, I leave you with this.

no. 2: solo sam does the coffee shop

this week I did the whole coffee shop breakfast thing. if you're like some people, I won't mention names (mom and dad), and think this isn't a big deal, well you're wrong and you need to just relax. it's huge for me. really anything that I do alone is huge for me -- thus this lovely little blog. it's all about breaking out of my shell and becoming my most confident self. I don't really like doing anything alone. coffee, dinner, the gyno -- you name it, I don't like it sans partner. I landed myself at a local coffee shop on a perfect sunday afternoon -- if you don't think torrential rain and 50 mph winds is perfect weather I don't want to know you.

I went to yoga (because I'm all peaceful and intellectual and shit) and decided that afterwards I would go have breakfast at a coffee shop on main in downtown. and let me just make it known that this was a completely spontaneous trip after my girlfriend cancelled brunch (I still hate you -- not really, but kinda). I wanted to go out to breakfast after yoga and sweet jesus I was going to do it no matter what. granted it was just oatmeal, but whatever. so I got my oatmeal and hot tea and settled in by the fireplace. I brought my book (some facked up literature called "tumbledown" -- don't read it unless you're on death row and have nothing else to do or something) and relaxed for the next two hours. 

as a huge believer in signs I knew I was where I was supposed to be once I heard the beatles, old school john mayer, and frank sinatra all in a row. and once again, I felt so happy that I could just burst in to tears. I just really don't think there's anything better than torrential downpour, soft lighting, hot tea, and a book. and dear god you mix those elements together and you have pure ecstasy. it was so peaceful and I enjoyed myself so much that I didn't even mind the creepy man with the toupee staring at me (sir, buy a goddamn comb and do something about that situation). 

I've also decided that my next solo activity needs to be me hauling ass to the doctors to get a xanax script -- I can't deal with holding back happy tears much longer. I need to pull it the fack together. 

things I learned:

1) I still hate oatmeal, even if I eat it in a very klassy establishment while I'm feeling all sorts of confident and powerful.

2) apparently girls who appear to attend church for a living do in fact rebel. I'm looking at you man with the dirtiest dreads I've ever seen, I know you probably kidnapped her.

3) people actually wear super bowl leather jackets. um what?

4) I know I said vodka makes the world go round, but I really think it's the beatles. mix the two together and you're dead.

oh, and I actually took pictures this time around -- I'm really coming in to my own, y'all! and I didn't say they were good ... 

$8 wine cheers all around!

the scene of the crime. 

just wanted to show you all this barf I ate for breakfast. why is oatmeal considered a meal? someone help with this.

proof that people (women at that) wear super bowl leather jackets. 1) like who even manufactures these things? 2) lady, be thankful I didn't tackle you and throw you in my trunk to take you shopping. 3) I've never heard anyone bitch at their child as much as you did. I blame the jacket. 4) I tried to make my cup the focal point since a man with a sitar was sitting behind me and undoubtedly judging me. 

no. 1: solo sam does the movies

I'm an impatient girl so I jumped right in to my first week. I had the day off before I start my new job on monday so I figured why not take advantage and do my first solo single gal activity. this weeks edition had me at the movies.

I'm a movie fan. anyone who knows me knows I love the talkies. I love renting movies. I love watching flicks on t.v. and I especially love going to the movies. yet, I've never had the courage to go it alone. I forced myself out of bed at 12:30 -- it was my day off, no judging y'all! -- and attempted to pull myself together for the 1:20 show (does anyone call it a show anymore?).

I gave myself a little pep talk beforehand and kicked my own ass out of the car. after waiting in line for what felt like four years -- I forgot that 1:20 in the afternoon at the movies looks like the bingo hall at the o.p.c. -- I finally got to say, "one ticket for last vegas, please." I grabbed my large popcorn -- hey! it was low-cal, I got light butter -- and double vodka water -- I kind of felt like a Beverly Hills housewife catching a buzz at 1:30 in the afternoon -- and walked in right as the movie was starting. yes it was dark, so maybe I kind of cheated a bit (unintentionally) on having people actually notice that I was in fact alone. I'm sure they could make out my leather clad silhouette, however.

I hunkered down in my end seat (just in case shit went down with the o.p.c and I had to flee quickly) and immediately felt an overwhelming sense of calm and excitement. I was the only one under the age of 65 and the only one laughing at the old people jokes -- I'm guessing that's only because the jokes hit a little too close to home for the rest of the peanut gallery. twenty minutes in and the movie is set in las vegas. at the aria hotel. the hotel I stayed at when I went on my first and last vacation with my 'ex' boyfriend. by the way, I hate the term 'ex-boyfriend' -- it's so dumb. can we call it something else? maybe ebf?

so there I was, surrounded by geriatrics, with a sense of overwhelming emotion and memories. I could immediately smell the hotel (tangerine and vanilla). I could immediately remember the room. the casino. the meals. it hit me like a ton of bricks. I knew it was some sort of sign though. I started this little journey after getting out of a long, serious relationship a handful of months prior. I randomly picked this movie because it fit in with my time schedule and here I was, my first alone activity and the memory of my ebf was in my face. nevertheless, it was a great movie. I laughed, I cried, I ... what's the third thing?

in the end, I felt happy. overwhelmingly happy. so happy that I felt like I could just start sobbing at any moment. I was proud of myself for actually following up on such a scary thing. I was proud of myself for looking back on those memories thrown in my face fondly and not sadly. and I was proud of myself for actually really enjoying every minute. I'll be back for you, movies.

things I learned:
1) I can't watch a michael douglass movie without thinking of him getting hpv from 'cunnilingus.' barf.
2) mary steenburgen has had a few too many pumps of the ol' botox.
3) old people can in fact have b.o. and terrible b.o. at that. I felt like I was in sixth grade gym and immediately wanted to douse the old broad next to me in lovespell.
4) you should not attempt to document your first alone outting in a dark theatre via iPhone. the flash will go off and all geriatrics will stare.
5) double vodka anything makes the world go round.

martini cheers all around!