That being said, I have a few favorite drinks that do really well in cold weather.

Peppermint Hot Chocolate:

This ain’t your grandma’s hot cocoa. (Or maybe it is…) I like to add a few drops (or shots) of Peppermint Schnapps to hot chocolate for an immediate warm-up. Make the cocoa with milk if you like it creamier.

Cinnamon Vanilla Cream:

One day my love of Starbucks and alcohol collided, and this drink was born. I just poured some Cinnamon Schnapps into my Vanilla Crème, and – voilà – an innocuous looking brew. Yes, I did keep it all in the Starbucks container. You can make your own Vanilla crème by warming up milk, adding a drop or two of vanilla extract, sugar to taste, and topping it off with whipped cream.

Hot (Spiked) Apple Cider:

First, you need to find some alcoholic apple cider. It’s probably somewhere between the beer and wine sections. Two bottles is a good amount to start with. On the stove, get it simmering with two cinnamon sticks, a tablespoon of cloves, a little bit of sugar and some nutmeg. What really makes it piping hot though, is the addition of either rum or apple brandy. Be generous, ladies – the apple cider has lost most of its alcoholic content in the heating process.

Hot Spiced Wine:

Hot spiced wine is like Sangria, only warm. With cinnamon and cloves. You start by boiling about a ½ cup of sugar in a ½ cup of water (for a 2 bottle recipe). Once the sugar is dissolved into the water, add the wine and spices. When you feel that the mixture has sufficiently blended, turn off the heat and add orange and lemon slices and either rum or brandy to taste. Vodka works too, and you can get creative with the fruit you choose to put in. It is best if you make it an hour or so before you serve it.

For a more sophisticated cocktail try the Blushing Reindeer, or any one of these being made at the hippest New York bars. Personally, if I’m the one making the drinks, I shouldn’t have to work to get drunk. I leave the creative mixology to the bartenders.

Any of your own favorite recipes that you want to share?

[Always drink responsibly. Photo courtesy of countryliving.com]

I wouldn’t put myself on player status, because that’s not what it’s about. No one actually gets ahead by playing games. Games are childish. People do actually get ahead by meeting new people, and being able to go for what they want.

Like that guy. The incredibly sexy one across the room. Dark hair falling in his very green eyes. And a crowd around him that’s ten chicks deep.

The Strategy? Don’t pay him too much attention.

It works every time; if he really is that hot, he knows it. And if he didn’t know it, the girls throwing themselves at him will have been a good wakeup call. So why not switch The Game up on him? You’re cute. You’re fun. And you are the one chick he can’t just wrap around his finger. Or at least you’re pretending like you are.

I’m not talking about your middle school cold-shoulder tactics. The point is simply not to let this guy know that inside you’re going googly-eyed. Usually, one firm, flirty look is all you need. Then continue with your evening. Laugh with your girlfriends. Look stupid on the dance floor. Do whatever it is that you would normally do if dreamboat weren’t standing over there in the corner.

About halfway through the night, you might want to give dreamboat a reminder that you’re still there and pointedly walk past him, and then maybe go order a drink by yourself, so that he doesn’t have to awkwardly say something to you in front of all your drooling girlfriends.

If you get introduced to him (or even if you don’t), turn on the inner charm full blast. Look at him straight in the eyes. I mean, really in the eyes. And smile in a warm and inviting, but not overly seductive way. Sounds technical, I know. You can practice in the mirror.

If you get to the point (or muster up the courage) where you decide you want to say something to him, it’s best to think of something conversational to start with. Small talk. Chit chat. Compliment his shirt, or his shoes (in a manly way), or talk about the party you’re at: “How did you hear about this place?” Or you could just do it the old fashioned way and introduce yourself.

The real trick is just to be yourself; it’s not anything new. Smile, look approachable, relax. Have fun with your friends. That old saying, “Nothing is sexier than confidence,” got its proverbial status for a reason. Put on your cutest clothes – not that super-low neckline that makes you worry about your boobs popping out all night – but those jeans that hug your booty just right, those earrings that accent your cheekbones. Play up those things that you love about yourself. Remind yourself that you are beautiful and amazing before you go out the door. And then later on, if you can’t bring yourself to actually say anything to him, at least you will be holding the gaze of every man in the room.

In my experience, the cliché moves like leaving your phone number on a napkin, or slipping it into his pocket on the way out the door don’t actually work, and usually leave you feeling like an embarrassed, giddy schoolgirl. Not to mention that I can never go back to the restaurant again if that cute waiter doesn’t call.

Now, this is not a guaranteed guide, so don’t sue me if it doesn’t work. But I’ve seen a fair amount of success (if you know what I’m sayin’), and my findings have been corroborated by my fellow girls, as well as my guy friends.

We can always use more advice. What has worked for you?

[Photo courtesy of coolspotters.com]

I am never going back.

First, I’ll explain the downside, and if you can make it past that, then it’s possible an older man might be just what you’re looking for.

If you’re looking for a fling, this is NOT the type of relationship for you, unless otherwise explicitly stated.  (And then you’re saying to yourself, “What?! You’re 35 and you’re NOT trying to settle down?”)

Older men are also more likely to come with baggage — like ex-wives and/or children.

Also, I always have this lingering fear that they will somehow find me, or the things I do, or like, or say, to be utterly childish.  I always have this suspicion lurking in the back of my mind that they’re saying to themselves, “Oh how naïve and cute she is.”

On the other hand, I love the fact that they know how to order at a restaurant — and that they even have a restaurant in mind that they’d like to try.  For that matter, I like the fact that they know what they like and what they don’t like and aren’t still running around experimenting with whatever comes their way.

I like the fact that an older man can take a common sense approach to things, an approach that balances my own headstrong impulsiveness.   I like to listen to their stories of growing up in an era very different from my own.  I like that they know how to actually listen to my stories.  I like reminding them of what it’s like to be young and carefree, and helping them to lighten up a little bit.

Some more positives:

1.    They have JOBS.

2.    They are much more eager to please (in bed)

3.    More emotional and relational maturity

4.    They know more about the world, i.e. can have intelligent conversations on a variety of subjects.

Are you a convert yet?

By the way, I am not looking for a father figure.  I have one already, thank you very much, and we are very close.  I am looking for a real man, that’s all.  Someone who isn’t going to play games, and who has moved (hopefully) beyond the immature jealousies and strutting around of younger men.  I like someone who really knows how to hold a woman, and who knows how to relate to her like the individual that she is.

Maybe I just had bad luck. Maybe I just picked the wrong guys my own age.  And as much as it goes against my need for the new and exciting, I like the stability and safety of someone who doesn’t need to have his ego pumped, who has his own life, and wants to be with me just because he enjoys spending the time.  There is nothing more amazing than the connection of two brains on the same level.  You should try it sometime.

Got any stories of your own?  Do you think older men are hot, or are you just getting yourself into hot water?

[Photo courtesy of abc.net]

My tongue ruminated on memories of peanut sauce and bean sprouts, quickly tasting each dish with which it was presented and re-shelving the phantom platter for a later craving. When my eyes came to rest on the Spicy Green Curry, I knew my mouth had found what it wanted.

Something in me was telling me that this was the dish I should order, despite the warning label under the menu description advertising this as a “very spicy dish.” Or maybe precisely because of that label.

As I barreled my way through that burning sensation that was my breakfast, I wondered why on Earth I was doing this to myself. There was so much spice that I could barely taste anything else. There were hints of coconut milk here, and eggplant there, but mostly my mouth was a wasteland of curry on fire.

That got me thinking about my whole relationship with spicy food. I can’t say that I really like how it tastes. So why do I love eating it?

As a child, if I thought I saw even one speck of pepper in a dish, I wouldn’t eat it. I hated hot food. It burned. It hurt. I had good common sense. Except there was always this nagging part of me that said, “You are Jamaican. You are supposed to like spicy food.”

Nowadays, telling me that an item is superspicy is like dangling catnip in front of a cat. I have gulped chunks of wasabi, gobbled whole jalapeno peppers, and guzzled teaspoons of hot sauce on request. I make a great show of being unaffected by the fact that my head is imploding.

I think it goes along with some unrequited need for a rite of passage. I put it right up there with my extra piercings, substance experimentation, and tattoos. There is something about spicy food that says, “I am no longer a child,” even if it doesn’t quite say, “I am an adult.” I am subjecting myself to the pain simply to prove that I can do it.

Don’t we all have our little tests of self-mutilation? Like stalking around on stilettos for the entire day, or going through cramps with no Midol, or running the entire five miles even though the last six months have been spent lazily on the couch?

However much I have to suffer, it doesn’t look like I’m going to stop eating spicy foods anytime soon. The other day I ate half a block of cheese full of jabanero peppers. Yum.

If you’re feeling adventurous (or slightly masochistic), here’s a recipe for some Jerk Chicken that will scorch your tastebuds.

[photo from img.timeinc.net]

Need a reason to drink? Need some motivation? Too young to get into the bars?

These three games are sure-fire ways to get drunk and have fun without ever having to leave the house/dorm. Or simply as a little fun before the main event. Whatever. They are fun. Play them.

Beer Pong: This is the ultimate drinking game. If you don’t like beer, replace it with cider or Smirnoff or Bacardi (not straight up, please…you may die) or anything else tasty. Side note: In my recent travels abroad, I discovered that we Americans take this game very, very seriously. Do not attempt to cheat during a beer pong game. You will be seriously heckled and possibly thrown out. Unless everyone’s too drunk to notice (which is entirely possible).

Flip Cup: The first time I played this, I didn’t realize that the entire team had to flip their cups over. I thought the contest was over after the first pair. And everyone was just looking, and looking, and looking at me…

Kings: I couldn’t find a satisfactory link to rules, so here they are as I play it. (Which is the best way.):

First, place a large cup or beer mug in the center of the table. Then shuffle the cards and spread them in a circle around the cup. Each player will take turns picking a card from anywhere in the circle and following the corresponding rule.

Ace: God. The person who drew the card makes up a rule. The harder it is to follow, the better. For example, the prohibition of all pronouns (no “he”, “she”, “it”, “I”, or “you”).

Two: You. The person who drew the card picks someone else to drink. This is a one-time thing.

Three: Me. The person who drew the card drinks.

Four: Whores. Sorry ladies, I didn’t pick the wording. All of the women at the table take a drink.

Five: Waterfall. The person who drew the card starts drinking and determines the direction in

which the waterfall goes. He or she is also the person who may stop drinking first. Every consecutive person must continue drinking until the person in front of them has stopped.

Six: Dicks. Yes men, go ahead and wave them around. Take a drink.

Seven: Heaven. The last person to point to the sky has to knock one back.

Eight: Pick a mate. The person who drew the card picks someone who will drink at the same time as them for the rest of the game.

Nine: Bust a rhyme. The person who drew starts with a word and every person after must say a rhyming word, with no repetitions and no hesitations. If your brain freezes, you’re stuck drinking.

Ten: Categories. The person who drew picks a category and starts naming an item from that category. Everyone else continues in that category with no repetitions or hesitations, and you guessed it, the first person to crack drinks. Example: Fruit- kiwi, apple, watermelon, etc.

Jack: Thumbmaster. The person who drew becomes the Thumbmaster until the next Jack is drawn, at which point the new person is the Thumbmaster. This means that whenever he or she puts their thumb on the table, everyone else must put their thumb on the table and the last person to notice takes a swig of their drink. The object is to do it as surreptitiously as possible.

Queens: Questionmaster. This person becomes the Questionmaster until the next Queen is drawn. He or she will attempt to trick people into having to drink by asking them questions, to which the reply should only be another question, otherwise you’re tippin’ back your glass.

Kings: For the first three Kings drawn, the person who picked the card pours as much of their drink as they want into the central cup. The person who draws the last King must drink the entire contents of the cup. You do not want to get stuck drinking the cup in the middle. Especially if everyone at the table has different drinks. You end up with some kind of vodka-beer-Jager combo to swallow….and keep down.

More Drinkin’ Fun: If you’re feeling just a little bit racy, Never Have I Ever and My Penis, My Vagina can take you for a walk on the wild side. And, because I am verging on alcoholism, I like to drink on the weekdays during Family Guy. And then get seasick on the way home.

Here are links so that you can play and drink to your heart’s content:

Your guide to any drinking game you ever imagined, and some you haven’t.

For those nights when you also feel like getting drunk while watching TV.

Sunday night at 3 a.m. again. The lines on the page have long since run together. I have written the same sentence three times. My roommate is blaring the television set that is constantly tuned to E!. I have seen all of the True Hollywood stories. Twice.

“Bailey*, can I have an Adderall?”

“Sure. You know where to find them.”

I rummaged around in the clutter of her desk drawer, and my fingertips having connected with the plastic of a prescription bottle, I tipped a tiny capsule into my palm.

Ah, yes, here was my chemical savior. Focus city, here I come.

This amphetamine derivative was going to help me get through my stack of reading and get that assignment down on paper.

I lay back down on my bed and set my alarm for 4 a.m. With Adderall in my system I would be able to get back up in just an hour and get back to work. And I did.

I sailed through those chapters and set the skeleton of my paper down in print. Doing real writing or reading that I actually needed to understand wasn’t really a good idea when I was on Adderall. Somehow it seemed to suppress my ability for thinking deep thoughts.

Bailey had a prescription, which she didn’t really need, clinically. What she really had was a very understanding family doctor who, with a knowing wink, scribbled away on his tiny pad when she came in with the complaint, “I can’t concentrate.”

Because the pills weren’t being used on a daily basis, there were often some spare ones lying around that got given away or sold to “friends in need”.

I was usually one of those friends.

I had never heard of Adderall, Concerta, or any of the other prescription drugs used in the treatment of ADD before college. When I got to school and found out what the effects were I wanted to know where I could sign up.

Studying was never my forte. I had always managed to ace my tests and whip out my papers based on my class attendance and spectacular ability to bullsh*t. When I got to college, I discovered that however wonderful my skills may be, it is nigh-on impossible to BS a 15-page paper, even if it is philosophy. I was floundering, and here was my quick-fix. Because who wants to do things the hard way?

So Adderall became my study buddy and I owe many successful all-nighters to those tiny capsules. What’s more, with all of this extra energy and focus, I stopped munching on Cheetos and Doritos while studying and I lost a pants size (which I have since gained back).

Now, addictive tendencies run in my family, so I had to be careful. Adderall has the same chemical components as speed (so watch out if you’re going to be getting drug tested), and its dispensing is tightly regulated. Only one month’s supply at a time may be prescribed and a visit to the doctor is required in order to renew the prescription. Meaning: there can be habit-forming side effects and this is something to be monitored.

But, I never once had the least shadow of a negative side effect. No crashes, no moodiness, no nothing. Just complete focus and an increase to my G.P.A. Obviously, I would do it again if it were available to me. I’ve even considered going to the psychiatrist myself and getting a prescription.

It’s not necessary, though; if you know the right people (and I do), you can usually just score on campus.

“Heyyyyyy!!!! Ohmygosh we haven’t talked in ages!!!! How have you been? You look like you’re doing great. WE should totally get together sometime!”

We all have those friends on Facebook. People that we knew ten years ago and don’t talk to anymore. Except for on Facebook.

I have plenty of friends like that. And I even friend requested some of them.

Of course, those friend requests were mostly because they were the people that made my middle school years hell, and I like to stalk them and silently gloat over how much cooler my life is than theirs.

But some of them were sparked by a genuine desire to see how they were doing and what kind of people they had turned into.

So how does this whole reconnecting thing work, especially on the internet, and especially if one of the two parties may not be exactly thrilled at the idea of sitting across from their grade school buddy whom they haven’t seen since 1999? Something about the cyberdistance makes the idea of rekindling a friendship seem more approachable over Facebook (or Myspace, as the case may be). If your old classmate doesn’t feel like answering you, it’s a lot easier to not take it personally when all you’ve done is send a digital message instead of digging out an old phone number and calling out of the blue.

And isn’t Facebook made expressly for social networking? What is reconnecting if not maintaining your network?

On the flipside, some people don’t agree with the use of Facebook as a connecting tool for long-lost contacts. If you don’t, don’t respond. Or respond in such a way that it leaves no room for them to really pursue. Like, “I’ve got a really full plate right now. I’ll let you know as soon as things slow up.” Then, you never send a message again, presumably because your schedule is just as jam-packed as ever.

If you think it’s annoying when people randomly fill up your inbox or clutter your wall, then use what your mama gave you (your fingers) and click “Delete”. Simple as that.

I, for one, am all for the “Let’s do lunch sometime. ” Then again, that’s not everyone’s thing, I understand.

[olde time facebook photo from www.hoosieraneum.com]

In that same frame of mind, I’ve been looking at my so-called grown-up friends to see how their lives are different from my own, searching for things that would tell me when I’ve become one of them, or if maybe -gasp- I’m already there. Here is what I came up with.

5 Signs that you are now entering Adultsville:

1. Bills. Gone are the days of blissful ignorance as to how the lights stayed on at home or the hot water kept running. Now those infuriating little statements just keep slipping through the mail slot. Phone bill, gas bill, waterworks, eating away at your paycheck- your new pair of shoes! It was a lot more fun when you had an allowance.

2. Your parents are asking you to drive them places. You thought it was your ticket to freedom when you got your license, huh? Wink, wink. Mom and Dad were just waiting for the day when they wouldn’t have to take you anywhere and you could start chauffeuring them around. Now it’s, “Honey, can you take me to the doctor’s on Monday?” and, “Oh, could you stop by the grocery store after work and pick some things up for me?” Don’t forget doing someone else’s errands: “Your sister’s done with soccer practice at 6.” Some kind of freedom.

3. All-weekend benders are history. As are weekday parties. The day has finally come when you realize that Tuesday and Wednesday nights just have to be for sleeping. And that in your older and wiser state, hangovers now take two days of recovery instead of the normal one-day junk food-eating, sweatpants-wearing, movie-watching spree that used to be all you required. Oh where did our beer (or Smirnoff Ice) chugging days go?

4. Better sex. This may be one of the few perks of being an adult. Maybe your libido isn’t what it was when you were 19 (although for some of us, it’s even better ) but you know more about your body now. You know what you want, and you aren’t afraid to say it. Who wouldn’t be satisfied with that?

5. And last, but by all means worth the most: You are making the choices now. The big Life-Changing Decisions. With no Mommy or Daddy to dust you off and tell you “I told you so” when it doesn’t work out. The consequences for your actions fall squarely on your own shoulders. Most of the time, we’d like to think that we have enough experience and common sense by this point to make reasonably good judgments. Most of the time, we completely miss the mark.

The sign of your newly earned adulthood is your next move- to get up and keep forging ahead, even if you have to wade in the muck of your mistakes. Only little kids get to go back to bed and let someone else sort it out.

Being an adult is not all pink and posies. And you still have the option of staying a kid forever- the path that some people, much to the chagrin of the rest of us, decide to follow. (Cough, Cough, dear, sweet “significant others” going out with their buddies on poker night when their mothers are coming the next day and the house is still a mess.)

On the other hand, there’s a real liberty and sense of accomplishment that comes from knowing you are the one who gets to reap the benefits of all your responsibility and hard work.

…Hmm, yeah. Not feeling that just yet. I guess I’m not quite there. I’ll see ya on the other side. Until then, I’ll be over here on my futon, nursing my hangover with a beer.

At one time Big Bags were strictly for use by mommies, to carry Bandaids and nail clippers and tissues and lip balm and the million-and-one other things that kids may require on a daily basis.

Now my own Big Bag is stocked with Bandaids and nail clippers and tissues and lip balm, and I definitely have zero children in tow. The bottom is littered with old receipts, seven pens and gum wrappers. My Metrocards are slipping between the pages of my three notepads and my laptop is a constant companion. There’s even a hardcover copy of The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen somewhere in there. My iPod headphones are tangled up in my cell phone charger. Every credit card I’ve ever owned is jammed into my wallet that contains no cash. Three lipsticks are rolling around stuck inside of the lining.

Sound familiar?

The Big Bag bug has bit women nationwide. I think it started with the infamous “hobo”, but I can’t be sure. The trend has certainly evolved. Yesterday, I found myself looking interestedly at a purse that was really nothing more than a demoted suitcase. Toting around an extra pair of shoes, or two, comes in handy sometimes.

There’s something innately comforting in knowing that you’ll always have what you need, even if you are carrying a perpetual 20-pound load on your shoulder.

Today however, I realized that I might want to think about carrying something a little more crowd-friendly. Having a duffel bag under your arm is not exactly practical when you are trying to maneuver through the rush-hour swarm of people on the 5 o’clock train, or standing in the crush of the beautiful people outside the hottest club.

I started to become annoyed with my bag’s oversized-ness, and the continual “excuse me’s” necessary to avoid knocking an innocent bystander off his unsuspecting feet. So I dug out one of the small shoulderbags I had used back in the 90s. As I sat trying to figure out how to fit both the hand lotion and the hand sanitizer without breaking the zipper, I recognized the futility of the effort and gave up, stuffing the new tiny bag, hand sanitizer and all, into the well-worn recesses of the old one.

Apparently, they have not found the cure for Big Bag syndrome. I will gladly keep on suffering. Are you infected?

[Photo courtesy of People.com]

This is not a weekend.

This is a Wednesday night.

It seems the time has come to prune some extraneous leaves on the branches of my social tree. My phonebook now includes some names to which I cannot even match the slightest hint of a face.

I have now reached the stage where I can answer the question, “So what are you up to tonight?” with, “Oh nothing,” and invariably end up somewhere loud at three in the morning stumbling into a dirty bathroom and incessantly repeating the line that never fails to impress: “I have work in the morning! I can’t believe that I am out doing this!”

Someone always calls at the last minute with something just a little too exciting for me to pass up and stay responsibly home on the couch. It’s rarely the same person two nights in a row.

I don’t even have time for myself anymore. My yoga DVD’s are gathering dust in front of the TV. My library books are a week overdue because I refuse to return then until I’ve finished reading them, but I just can’t seem to find a corner in my schedule to curl up with one. I’m too busy tossing clothes out of my closet getting ready to go to someone else’s birthday party.

My little black book is more like a little black binder by now.

The dishes are piling up in the sink. The clothes are piling up on the floor. My list of things to do is piling up in my mind.

It’s not that I don’t love to go out. I do. It’s not that I don’t love seeing these people. I do. The problem is that there are just too many people to see and so little time in which to see them. I don’t even think this is healthy anymore.

At which point do we just have too many friends? Acquaintances? What are we even calling them these days? You’d think with all the little booklets by Hallmark we’d know what a friend is by now.

And how to decide which “friends” to hang out with and which ones to let go of? Is it even moral to choose between people like that?

The upshot of all this is that if I ever need anything, I’ll be able to make more than one phone call.