The 40-year-old Virgin

For those who are not familiar with the Inland Empire in CA I can sum it up as a place to stop for gas and buy stale candy bars on your way to Vegas. It often smells like cattle and rubber tires, and has nothing substantial to offer but farmland and chain restaurants. And so begins the story of how I met my very own 40-year-old virgin.
My friend Jen worked in pharmaceutical sales, and wanted to set me up with a doctor. That is how I came to meet Jimmy. Or maybe his name was Pete. He had a very apple pie American name but was second generation Indian with a thick accent.
Our first date was at The Cheesecake Factory. He told stories, but was one of those who looked all over the place instead of at you while he was talking. I figured that this was probably going to be a first and last date. In retrospect, that would have been bliss.
He asked me to walk around the courtyard after dinner, and he ended up holding my hand. The gesture itself was very sweet, but it was awkward considering I had just met him 45 minutes earlier.
He called for a second date, a Sunday Funday date. I met him at PF Changs where he was waiting with a bouquet of roses. After a few wine flights, I was in a great mood. He, however, was in the mood to ask weird probing questions like 'if there was a crystal ball on the table, what would your future say?'
"Um...that I would like another wine flight? Let's try South Africa this time!"
After another relatively awkward date, we decided to play pool. As we pulled up to Dave & Buster's, he suggested that we drive to his apartment which, in his words, was "not to far."
Not too far my ass. It was like a road trip, but without the fun banter or Slim Jims. I had to call him once to stop at a gas station so that I could pee.
When we got to his apartment building (Really? And you're a doctor?), we parked and walked up to his second floor digs. I walked in and I sh*t you not, from the wiiiiiiinnnnnndddddddddooooowwwwwwsssssss to the waaaaallllllllssssssssss this guy had action figures everywhere.
"Ohmigod! You're the 40 year-old-virgin," I blurted.
"No! No, I'm not!" He exclaimed. "I'm not a virgin. But these are worth a lot more in their original packaging."
That was basically the end of the date, and I'm not trying to be rude, but you know that you would have left then too.

The Dating Game

Since the holidays are the worst time to be single, I decided to try my hand at online dating. My friend Gina helped me create my profile and answer some really bizarre questions (When you see a child in front of you, do you a) smile, b) don't smile, or c) smile if no one's looking-is my soulmate really based on smiling at children, and isn't it relatively creepy if he answers "c?" Congratulations, Sapphire, you just married a Chester!). The best part was after we put together my profile, and started scanning through the potential dates. Here were some of my favorites:
1) I have severe halitosis, and hope that I won't offend you (there was a question about how often you brush your teeth. I answered twice a day, so I'm pretty sure that he was ruled out as compatible for me).
2) I am from France and am looking for a girl with a $150K dowry (hello, 17th Century. Is a suitable answer, I come with $40 in my checking account and 2 goats?)
3) If the buffet is out of macaroni and cheese, I'm outta there.
4) I can't live without my razor. In fact, if you have a home hair remover laser, I would be willing to buy it off you to laser off my neck hair.
So, for those of you who are happily married, congratulations. You can see what's left for the rest of us!

We'll Pick You Up

I worked for Enterprise Rent-A-Car as my "first job out of college." Enterprise is the job where it is almost mandatory to rent cars, drink with bodyshop managers and insurance agents, and then make out with them, or each other. That last line gets a little blurry. I remember "bleeding green" so much that I fought for that 100% customer satisfaction score like I was working 80 hours a week and getting paid $200K (which was $174K more than I was making). But when you're fresh out of college, and you get hired by Enterprise, they may as well advertise that they will pay you in happy hours. I was so passionate about my "career," and cried so many tears after being passed up but being told to just "keep doing what you're doing, and you'll be promoted, champ," that I now look back from my current job and realized...I wasn't bleeding green. I was just severely hungover for six years and eight months.
I remember sending my Assistant Manager, we'll call him Hasim for liability reasons, to collect money from our renters who owed on their rental car. Enterprise allows cash renters, which is the equivalent of getting a royal flush in Poker. You never know how the hand is truly going to end up, but you're willing to risk it all for the grand reward. I would hand Hasim a list a couple of times a week, and he would always tell me that he was "working on the list." Finally, I asked for a complete rundown of what was going on with my cash report. At the first name, Nikki Adams, he cringed, and then said, "I didn't get the money, but I did get a blowjob."
At least he was honest.
I stared at Hasim. "Really?"
"Yes. Who else is on the list?"
"Maribel Cervantes."
"Her too."
"Her too, what?"
"We're going out on Friday."
"Dammit, Hasim, were you able to collect any money?"
"No."
And so was a typical day at Enterprise.

The Mansion

As in, the Playboy Mansion. And who doesn't want to go? I had the opportunity to go to a jazz concern at the Mansion in 2005, and could invite one guest so I brought my friend Jen. Just in case I ever run for office, I will recant the PG-13 version.
We get to the Mansion, and after indulging in the open bar, take a tour of the grounds with a drunk guest named Matt. Jen and I take full advantage, posing in front of the wishing well, in the game room, in front of the Mansion. As the free champagnes, yes that was plural...way plural...kick in, I notice that Timmy from the Real World/Road Rules Challenges is at the bar. I corner him, and the poor guy doesn't have a chance. I ask him tons of outdated questions like 'what happened to you and Susie?' (they broke up years ago), 'is everyone really that mean?' (no, most of us are friends), and 'what are you doing now?' (sports broadcasting). During this time, drunk Matt showed my friend Jen the grotto. They returned as I was finishing my interrogation of MTV Timmy, so I then followed Matt to the grotto. To this day, I am not sure what about the grotto mesmerized me more: that I had seen it on TV, the fact that it was such a cool hangout spot, or the fact that I could get pregnant merely by swimming around in its murky waters. So, without a second thought, I stripped down and jumped in. Which seems normal. Unless, of course, you are at a black tie event where no one else is swimming. I'm not sure to this day how many pictures were taken of me, but at one point my friend Jen came in (followed by Timmy), and I popped out of the water (where I was doing laps for whatever reason). "Jen! Hey Girl!" She leaned over and whispered, "I was at the bar, and I heard that there was a girl in here skinny dipping. I had no idea that it was you. Maybe you should get out?"
And as if on cue, a security guard came in and kicked everyone out. You can take the girl out of the grotto, but you can't take the grotto out of the girl.

Out of Africa

My mom lived in Johannesburg, South Africa, for 4 years, and I'm not sure that compassion was ever her strongest suit. Her and her husband Jim joined a country club based solely on the fact that the Africans who drove out in golf carts to retrieve balls on the still active driving range got to wear helmets "unlike other country clubs that aren't that humane." My mom would say this while teeing off and watching an African man dodge golf balls as he scooped up as many as he could put in his pail and drive back to the awaiting golfers. So I wasn't overly surprised at her reaction when we went to Sun City, Africa, and my brother and I went tandem parasailing and had an "incident." You start off running on the ground and then the boat/sail combo would pull you into the air where you would parasail for about five minutes. While waiting for our turn, my brother and I watched this event transpire no less than twenty times. It was people of all ages parasailing: middle aged couples, children, grandparents and infants, all with no problems. Then, it was our turn. My brother and I suited up, and two African men took each side of the sail and started running with us. I had been kidding my brother, who was behind me, that he would not be running fast enough. He warned me not to run too fast and drag him down with him. We started jogging along, and the African men were yelling stuff at us in Africans, which is a form of Dutch. I couldn't understand what they were saying, and frankly I couldn't be bothered...I was about to be in the air parasailing! In hindsight I am assuming that they were telling us to run faster because all of a sudden the rope from the boat yanked us forward. I fell flat on my face, and bounced on the ground and in the water like a skipping stone, my brother sitting squarely on my back. The best part of the whole incident was that my mother was taping it and all you hear her say as we finally ascend into the air was "Oh my God, her dental work." I had just gotten my braces removed, and apparently my mother was much more concerned about the $2K she may have just lost to the orthodontist than the $20K she could be receiving at the African Emergency Room. Needless to say, we were both fine, despite a bruised ego. My brother sent our tape out to blooper shows all over the world, and we have been on Real TV, America's Funniest Home Videos and Fox Sports 'You've Gotta See This!' My friends have seen it so much, that if they do catch it in a rerun they ask if I've received my SAG card yet.

The Hangover

The only reason the title of this blog is The Hangover is because of a trip I took to Vegas last January, and all of the hilarity (?) that ensued. The following is actual events, and can be verified by the person or persons there that weekend.
My friend Daniel flew me and my friend Priscilla out to Vegas for the weekend with his frequent flyer miles. Priscilla could not fly out until the next morning (Saturday), and she was going to be flying out of Orange County. I was flying out Friday night from Orlando. Flying makes me nervous, and when I am out of Xanax, I rely on drinking my dinner to get me through the flight. It was a 4-5 hour flight to Vegas, and when I landed, I was supposed to take a taxi to where my friend Daniel and his nephews were staying. I called him as I landed, and he said that there was a room booked at The Tropicana under Patricia Cervantes. I took a cab to the hotel and stumbled up to the front desk.
"No," the front desk clerk said, shaking her head, "there is no Cervantes here."
I called my friend Daniel who then scrolled through his Blackberry, and said "I made a mistake. It's at the Blah Blah Resort on Tropicana. We are almost there."
So I stumbled back outside to an awaiting cab and made my way to his sister's timeshare. It was a Friday night so there was some traffic on the strip, and it took about 20 minutes to get to the front desk of the Blah Blah Resort. I again asked the front desk clerk if she had a key for Patricia Cervantes.
"Cervantes? Yes," he said in a thick Spanish accent, handing me a room key and map. I made my way up the stairs, heavy duffelbag in hand, and opened the door. There were men's clothes laid out across the beds, and Popeyes Chicken and Coca Cola sitting on the kitchen table. They must have already went out, or are down in the pool, I thought. I threw my duffel bag on the couch, and started unpacking my things. I turned on the TV, and was so exhausted and hungry I wrestled with taking a nap or eating, and decided ultimately on both. I put some chicken and a bisquit in the microwave, and sat on the couch, turning on the TV and looking for either E! or MTV when there was a knock on the door.
I opened it up, and saw 11 Mexicans, of all ages, staring back at me front the doorstep. They walked in and surrounded me. The one that spoke English spoke up.
"What are you doing in our room?" he asked.
"I'm here with Daniel. This is Patricia Cervantes' room."
"Cervantes si," he said.
"Cervantes," I replied.
"Cervantes."
"Yes, Cervantes."
I could see the relatives heads swiveling back and forth like me and Spanglish over here were in a Wimbledon tennis match.
"You are with Patricia? There is no Patricia aqui," he finally said.
"No?" I started laughing. The front desk gave me the wrong key. I started to repack my bags as they watched on. As I turned to leave the microwave beeped that my food was ready. It was the elephant in the room, and I hurried out before they could figure out if I were from immigration or not.
And that was the first night...

Date Decorum

Naturally big knockers are a blessing and a curse, but at the end of the day, it is the cross that I must bear. When I was 15, my boobs grew literally overnight from prepubescent A cups to full on C cups. I used to cry when boys made comments, not realizing how much money I would save and how many VIP rooms these puppies would get me into later in life. The worst parts about having big boobs are: I always have trouble finding flattering shirts to wear that don't make me look like I'm Monique on top and an Olsen on the bottom. The gays feel that since they don't like icky girls, they have free access to fondle and grope me as often as possible. I have been felt up more by a gay man at Paradise during happy hour then I ever have after 4 years of college spring breaks. And sometimes when I'm eating, they fall into my food. I will look down after a delicious meal and see sour cream on the underside of my new Burberry sweater. This is especially sexy on a first date. You couple that with my devout alcoholism, and it is a rarity for a second date. (True story but once on a date, when we were nearing the end of a wine bottle, my date excused himself for the bathroom. Since his wine glass had more in it, I wiped the lipstick off the rim of mine, and switched it with his). And once while making Thanksgiving dinner for my family (they drink as much as I do so whomever is most sober cooks), I was leaning over to the back burner to stir some green beans and burnt my boob on the pan on the front burner. Holy third degree burns it hurt! Yet, every time I think about reducing them, I think about all of the good times we had, and I refrain. Maybe when I'm sixty and they're knocking against my knees I'll do it, but for now, I'll stay Monique on the top, and an Olsen on the bottom.