Tag Archives: drinking

How to Use a Safe Word

If your Designated Driver is also sometimes referred to as The Handler, you need a situational safe word.  You may also be interested if:

  • You or another person in your party of party-goers does not respond to “Stop it. Seriously stop. Stop. Stop. STOP.”
  • Your wingman or wingwoman is too friendly to people you can tell will be trouble.
  • You have an ongoing relationship with someone who likes to tease you so much that you can’t be sure if Wednesday got removed from the calendar or maybe you just ate too many brownies.

I’m not talking 50 Shades of Gray, safe words here (surprisingly, the amateur soft-porn pretending-to-be kinky writer E. L James does sprinkle in the use of standard s-words ‘yellow’ and ‘red’). No, a situational safe word is a previously agreed-upon term that, once uttered, establishes I’m done here and I’m serious. No more party for you.

There's no real safe word generator as far as I can tell, but using this tool on the "somewhat Uncommon" setting is fairly effective and sometimes hilarious.

There’s no real safe word generator as far as I can tell, but using this tool on the “Somewhat Uncommon” setting is fairly comical.  Get started with your own situational safe word today! Or just use White House.

Ours is “White House.” Used in a sentence: “You were a monster last night. First you got bear arm, then I had to White House you.”

We obtained the term from two very good friends with very colorful hair. At least one of these women gets punchy when she’s had too many martinis and I witnessed the two words calm her like a tranquilizer dart. Yep, I was definitely going to steal that strategy.

For example, two boys offer to buy us bottle service. Katelyn is thinking, “ooh, free alcohol!” I’m thinking that these kinds of things are never free. We hold a retainer, discuss the pros and cons, but finally, I have to do it. White House. We walk away and I don’t have to spend the night fending off make-out attempts while guiltily sipping from a vodka cranberry.

That is merely a concise illustration and is 100% unrealistic because I would never turn down free alcohol and I’m a champ at turning down make-out attempts.

Sour cream for days.

This is what happens when you tell your friends that all you want is sour cream.

Last week I woke up, said “sour cream” and giggled. Hazy memories teased me and I spent about 15 minutes trying to figure out if I had only dreamt of clutching a soft stuffed-animal to my chest before passing out drunk.

Katelyn and I reviewed the night. Did we get mexican food? Of course we did, that is when Drunk-Sami started shouting SOUR CREAM. “But I don’t remember posting it on my facebook wall.” No, Katelyn did that as I slept. Right, so I palmed carne asada fries (with SOUR CREAM) into my face, then we went home and I dozed off?

Not quite.

Apparently I felt it hilarious and necessary to flail wildly after my friends strapped me into the passenger seat. “You threw that old big gulp against the window and got water everywhere. I had to White House you for the second time.” The…second…time?

That's kind of a cool word -- Cacao

Yep, I got the Cacao safe word from Portlandia. Click & scroll to watch episode clip.

The first time went largely ignored when she White Housed me for trying to smoke a cigarette. She had to ninja chop it out of my hands. Why did I neglect the sacred words? We figure it’s because she forgot to first use the “joke” safe word: Cacao. The joke safe word is intended to provide its target with the opportunity to cease offenses peaceably without escalating to code White House. It’s also great for tickle fights. We also realized, after analyzing the SOUR CREAM night, that Cacao is essential to the efficacy of White House. Just as yellow always precedes red, you kind of need to give Drunkee McGee a chance to slow down.

We got home without further incident. I don’t even think I shouted “woooh, party!” out the windows at pedestrians like I usually do. I took off all my clothes at the foot of the bed (which is unusual as I usually sleep in at least a t-shirt). I went to the bathroom, then lied in bed. Then I got out of bed and curled up on the floor. I started to whimper.

“Here, take this,” Katelyn said. “Fluffy bear got me through a lot of hard times, too.”

fuzzy-bear-hanging-out-with-alcohol

A Maddening Manic Monday

Hey gang. Time for some real talk.

About 40 seconds after I pushed my last post public, the sweat and nausea of shame descended on me like a Jim Beam hangover.  Normally I have guts of steel with these kinds of things because I’m awesome so this was a weird and unpleasant experience for me.

I'm Awesome - Spose

“Every show I do is poorly promoted
And if you like this it’s cause my little sister wrote it.” Click for music video.

I felt like my last post was way too cute. I’m adorable enough as I am without needing to ‘write safe.’ On a related note, I’m re-thinking my ban on curse words — vote below.  Anyway, I’ve re-focused and this blog will center around my personal experiences rather than a slew of topical rants.  Occasionally, though, I will need to gripe about general San Diego tropes.  Who had ‘fun’ driving last Friday??

My aim is to collage together my exploits with more editorial content in an effort to distill a “VIBE” of San Diego subculture.  Anyone not familiar with Tavi Gevinson’s work and her vibes needs to check this out. There’s nothing quite like living here, which is why they’ve dubbed us the Whale’s Vagina.

–

Anyway, enough with the meta, I want to talk about an encounter that is still stuck in my mind.

Manic Monday at the Brass Rail is my church. Even though (as the designated driver) I’m limited to one or two stiff, $2 drinks, it is one of my favorite nights.

But sometimes I really wish I could be wasted on Mondays.

12 dollars to look fabulous.

I get all my awesome 80s clothes at the thrift shop just like Macklemore.

In Hilcrest we have two types of “tourists.”
1. Out-of-towners who may not be used to the San Diego flavor of gay and
2. Gawkers who visit any LGBT club like it’s a zoo.
These are not to be confused with the heteregulars (I just made that up!) who frequently join the party because they live nearby, like the area, like the drink specials, and/or have friends/family in the community.

Mondays tend to be quite a mixed night.  We’ve got sexy sorority-types who show up way too early and entertain themselves with group photos. And make out with me when I’m looking particularly non-threatening and feminine. There are friendly gay boys who might spill a cocktail on you but won’t hesitate to say hello. Glittery accessories weigh down slight and strong wrists alike, sequins sparkle in the red light of the smoking patio, and the variety of drinkers spill together on the hard ground like the contents of a toxic stomach.

I am grateful for the straight visitors, both tourists and not, because their money helps support the venues that I love.  Even the “explorers” tend to amuse me with their antics in a “Kids say the darndest things” kind of way.

This tale of fury is about one of the regulars, not a tourist. Sometimes the sense of belonging and community will get to their head and a straight guy or gal will act they’ve earned The Gay Seal of Approval™ and/or Badge of Honorary Membership. Some of my closest friends are guilty of this at times…whoops.

I may just print this out and make a button...One such self-stamped mutual “friend” has been openly pushing my buttons since the day I met him.  I’ll call him Chuck, as in chucklehead, because I’m mean like that.  And the word chucklehead makes me giggle.

I say openly because he told me that “pushing” my “buttons” is exactly what he intends to do. Also, he’s actually doing me a huge favor because he’s teaching me to be more understanding and tolerant of male attention.  It’s not his fault I’m so amazing and he’s attracted to me.  He can’t help himself.  He’s Italian and it’s “just the way they are.”  I wish I could better convey sarcasm in text because I am typing so jaggedly that my nail-beds hurt a little….

My snake eats the cutest size of mice right now. It's kind of depressing.

My snake eats the cutest size of mice right now. It’s kind of depressing.

I told him that the mouse being electrocuted doesn’t realize it’s for the greater good. Probably came to mind because my date that night experiments on rats for a living. Oh yiss, sexy neuroscientist lady…

Now before my beloved guy friends start to wonder if they risk offending me with their compliments or affection, let me stop you.  I make it clear when someone is gettin’ in my bubbles and disturbin’ my comforts.  Which is why, immediately after Chuck crossed the line between drunken false-familiarity into disturbing amounts of sexually-charged attention, I told him to back down.  My first approach was subtle; I told him I’m not very affectionate and shrugged out of his arms. I used to try to be diplomatic because his best friend is super sweet and I like listening to her talk.

After several encounters and a mixture of polite, frank, and even harsh rebuffs with no progress, I no longer had patience for his continued harassment.  Just a couple of weeks ago I had told him that I don’t like it when he puts his arm around me.  He hangs heavy around my neck which is uncomfortable no matter who does it.  First thing he did when he saw me: drape on me like a wet towel.  His lips a hair from my ear, he told me that I’m beautiful.

My friend Xanadu said I look like a gay ghostbuster :D

Wish I’d been wearing my “gay ghostbuster” uniform instead of the tights and dress in this story.

Trapped in a bar stool between smokers, a railing, and his body, I felt like a cornered animal.  Even as I chewed him out for what must have been at least 20 minutes, he stood alternatively with his face so close to mine I could feel his breath or with his crotch against my leg. Through my thin tights I could verify that he at least had the decency to not have a boner.  Eeeeeugh.  “You don’t come to my bar and rub your balls on my knee and act like you have the right to pretend you’re helping me,” I said to him.  My friend Richard gave another one of his “Mhmmm’s” and a sassy head shake.

Finally Chuck tired of my rapid rebuttals to his hippie-dippy rationale for harassing me the way he does.  For the first time ever, he was the one to walk away from our troubled interaction.  VICTORY.

Now, I realize that he was quite drunk and probably didn’t learn anything from me.  I hope if nothing else he recalls a sense of negative emotion and hesitates to force his “love” on me next we meet.  Love without respect just gets squicky and I am too in touch with my personal limits to let someone willfully make me feel uncomfortable.

I really don’t know what the protocol should be for dealing with persistent arduous attention.  I’m a sexy beast; I get a lot of advances.  I’ve tried diplomacy, I’ve tried deadpan rejection.  Nothing seems to work better than a pre-emptive bitchface (learn the techniques here), but I hate doing the bitchface. There’s no one-size-fits all approach and I’m forced to scrape up patience and empathy all night until I’m exhausted.  It’d help if people just took me at my word.  I’m pretty good at saying what I mean.

By the way, I don’t mind writing about this publicly.  Yeah, he might read it.  There’s nothing I’ve said here that I haven’t tried to say to his face.  I told him all I want is peace. I guess that’s true, but I’ll settle for the glow I get from being righteously angry at chuckleheads.