I was the only roommate who had gone out that night, and there was evidence that I didn’t come home alone.

There had been a 4 AM pizza purchase, the only remnant being the box. Maybe a crumb or two. And my purse sitting next to the mess.

On weekends, the diet gets thrown aside and I accept that I am weak. I’m what is described in Mean Girls as one of the “girls who eat their feelings.” Unfortunately, with college, the feeling that got a significant amount of play was “tipsy”, and with said buzz came a slew of delicious calories I’d only remember halfway into the next day.

The biggest regret of the drinking was (almost always) what I’d eaten. I try to justify the binge eating by saying it’s a far better alternative to, say, waking up next to a random.

When I’m coming home from the bar, it’s as though any self control I’ve ever had is on vacation and any restaurant open after last call is a free-for-all. You come home, and you have just enough energy to stay up for a bit, long enough for a slice or an order of nachos. You wake up realizing that you’ve blown through your budget of saved calories and your skinny jeans are going to stay in their drawer a little longer than expected.

So to prevent post-bar disasters, here are a few tricks that can help keep you in check: Read More »

I have an inexplicable love for frat boys. You’d think that after college, I’d have learned my lesson and vow to never again attempt dating one. But no. Ooooh no.
It was Cinco de Mayo, right after college graduation. Four margaritas and a free t-shirt later, I saw him, stumbling toward the bar in basketball shorts, a t-shirt, J. Crew flip flops, and—

“Nice sombrero, hombre!”

Yes. A sombrero. To those who aren’t familiar, the frat boy always comes with an accessory: obnoxious headgear or aviators. My friend, who was keeping pace with my drinking at about half my size, decided to toss a line to the slightly dirtball, overly confident drunk guy. He turned, grabbed a basket of tortilla chips from another table, and slid into our booth.

“How do you ladies feel about flipcup?”

Swoon!

Hombre, as he came to be known, was a Long Islander with a hah-rrible accent whose buddy was hosting a flipcup tournament. I left the bar after putting my number in his phone, expecting never to hear from him again. Turns out Hombre had an affinity for drunk text messaging at prime booty-call hour. Which is how we ended up on our first date three days later. Read More »