And it feels good goin’ down.

What if I told you there was an even more refreshing alternative? A drink that has the power to heal you and nourish your body. No, it’s not beer – that whole “hair of the dog that bit ya” theory is whack. It’s better than beer.

Though it may taste a bit like it.

It’s….cow urine.

Yes, it’s true. Look out Coke and Pepsi, Gau Jal, or cow water, is coming. The drink, which is made mostly of cow pee pee mixed with herbal supplements, is being touted as a healthy alternative to soft drinks. While it doesn’t sound very appealing (or hygienic), Gau Jal’s creator, Om Prakash, promises that ” it won’t smell like urine and will be tasty too.”

Now, I’ve never tried the stuff, but I have smelled it and I doubt I’ll be giving up my Diet Coke addiction for cans of pee anytime soon, but who knows? It could be the next great mixer. I mean, Red Bull takes like booty, but it’s damn good with a shot of Jaeger. Maybe all the cow pee really needs is a little Grey Goose.

A Golden Shower on the rocks? Sounds good to me.

First of all Ali, if you are serious about becoming your sister, I have some advice:

Lindsay would not have taken that shiz! One false move and that’s a Grey Groose martini down the front of your Betsey Johnson.

Ali asks Dina if she can be home-schooled, but Dina’s only advice is that she’d love to see Ali on stage…at graduation. Dina goes to other members of the LoClan for help. Nana (yes!) suggests that Ali needs to stand up to these mean girls. Michael Lohan Jr. (I didn’t know he existed?) adds that every girl has to cope with a few megabitches throughout life, but it’s just part of growing up.

Dina ignores both of them and continues to baby Ali and give her special attention, like in dance class. Dina found IMPACT online and thinks it’s great. Ali thinks IMPACT is “STUPID”. I can’t tell if this is just a typical weird mom idea, or an attempt to showcase Ali’s multi-cultural appreciation. And then Dina gets down while Ali watches embarrassedly. I love her more and more every episode.

Anyways, Ali is being targeted because she is a) very pretty and b) the daughter of Dina Lohan…and the sister of Lindsay, I guess. These reasons are fodder for any 14-year-old girls who are jealousy prone (um, all of them.) Alexis adds that Ali is already ten times better than these girls.

Ali decides to be the bigger person and ignore their petty viciousness. Having friends isn’t Ali’s priority. Her family is her best friend. Well, yeah mine would be too if my little brother was that badass and my mom was that fabulously cougar-like.

Everyone finally comes to the conclusion that Ali is awesome. She’s special–even called “gifted” by her vocal coach, Eileen (a hand-me-down from Lindsay). And when she sings Eileen’s touching poetry about her deceased daughter, Ali does sound halfway decent.

To test Ali’s newfound confidence, Dina arranges an interview with Access Hollywood. She informs Ali that some of the reporter’s questions won’t be easy to answer and drills her with practice questions. Cody adorably attempts help by asking a “hard” question–who her fave brother is.

When Access Hollywood‘s interviewer comes, Dina beams proudly as Ali handles herself gracefully throughout the interview (minus the nervous ticks and speed talking.) The whole family is warm and fuzzy after Ali has learned this important life lesson and Dina has nailed another publicity opportunity. She really is the original Mom-ager.

Next week: Ali wants a dog– but what she gets is a cat fight. Dina/Ali Smackdown!

The prodigal Lohan comes home with girlfriend in tow, drama ensues. Sadly it isn’t Lindsay with Samantha…

[photo of little Lo from www.flixster.com]

Let’s see…]

DAY ONE

9:15 a.m.: Walking to the gym in sweatpants, a dirty wifebeater, no makeup. Get catcalled by at least fifteen people. Oh, ethnic neighborhood, you’re so charming.

12:03 p.m.: Walking home from the gym in the same gear as before, only now drenched in sweat, get catcalled by about fifteen more people. I finally tell one of them to f*ck off. It feels good. His response? “Someone needs to get laid!” I hate dudes.

11:23 p.m.: At my place of business which is, in fact, a strip club, where I am, in fact, a stripper. A scruffy but jovial old man solicits me for a trip to the VIP room, which I gladly agree to (Guaranteed $160 for a half hour? Hell yes!), but first warn him that I’m not one of those girls that do “special favors” in said room. He says that’s fine and wanders off to get more cash from the ATM.

11:43 p.m.: After about ten minutes, the old man pulls out his dick and asks me to give him a blowjob. I tell him no way in hell; I already said that’s not how I do. He tells me it’s fine, because he has a condom. I tell him he can get the f*ck out.

11:50 p.m.: After five minutes of arguing and an extra fifty bucks for being an asshole, we finish the dance and the guy behaves himself. Before we exit the room he kisses me on the cheek and tells me I’m a lovely girl.

11:04 a.m.: While on the treadmill at the gym, a guy who’s always there at the same time as me stops and hands me a cute little bouquet of flowers and tells me to have a good day. The gesture is adorable, but the dude doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell.

3:15 p.m.: My former boss (Greek, gay) sends me a text message asking me if, as per previous discussions, I’ll still marry him so he can get U.S. citizenship. I say sure. I know a lot of people who have done this and ended up falling in love with each other, but he’s gay so…f*ck it, right? He says he’ll call me later in the week.

11:35 p.m.: At a private table at a sh*tty club with my roommate and her friend, being fed Grey Goose by a promoter. Some douchnugget sits next to me and asks me if I’m a model, I inform him that I’m actually a stripper. His eyes light up and he proceeds launch off on a compare and contrast session between my job and being an investment banker, which is what he does. I stare at him for a while and then decide I’m too drunk for this and announce I’m leaving. He asks if I’ll be at the club next weekend. I say no.

DAY THREE

9:04 a.m.: Wake up to a text message from a number I don’t recognize asking me if I’m going to be working tonight. I respond yes; they say they’ll see me there. I decide I really have to stop giving out my number to people at work when they ask for it.

1:13 p.m.: Spend an hour facebook stalking ex-boyfriends/lovers/crushes. Feel very nostalgic.

2:21 p.m.: Make a craigslist personals ad.

10:45 p.m.: Work. No one makes any mention of texting me, but a dude does get a VIP room with me. He instructs me to stand/sit in various positions while he gives me a massage and we talk about his kid’s soccer team for half an hour. At the end, he gives me a forty-dollar tip. People are so weird.

DAY FOUR

3:26 a.m.: Last client of the night is a quiet Asian kid who gets a VIP room with me. He asks if he can kiss me. I say not on the lips. He spends the half hour laying on top of me periodically trying to kiss me on the lips, though I continue to flirtly but firmly (as is the stripper way) push him away. As we leave the room, he apologizes and slips me a fifty.

4:34 a.m.: Check my e-mail, eight people have responded to my ad. They run the gamut from mundane (5’5” Jewish film student) to hilariously unacceptable (Norwegian bodybuilder wearing a Speedo in his photo). Seriously, dudes are f*cking nuts.

11:43 a.m.: Wake up and check my e-mail again, have received a message from an acceptable (by comparison, at least) black jazz musician. I write to him and think about how hilarious it would be to bring my black musician boyfriend with me to my tiny backwoods hometown. I decide I’m getting ahead of myself.

9:01 p.m.: Watch many many episodes of The Office. Masturbate a little. Jim is so hot.

DAY FIVE

11:35 a.m.: Spend the day at an artist’s studio I volunteer at, end up talking to a girl there about doing the Master Cleanse. According to her, in addition to making you feel amazing and allowing you to think clearer than you ever have before, in the weeks following your sex drive is totally off the charts. I decide it’s on.

6:32 p.m.: While at Barnes and Noble looking for the Master Cleanse book, a dude that looks kind of like a younger version of PC from the Mac commercials tells me I’m really cute and asks me for my e-mail address. I give it to him, though I’m hard pressed to say why.

7:55 p.m.: The musician has written me back and there are multiple Jesus references strewn about the e-mail. He will not be visiting my hometown with me.

11:27 p.m.: After exiting a cab, a guy stopped at a stoplight yells, “Hey, mami!” I ignore him, but then a girl in the car says, “Excuse me, miss?” Curious, I look at them. Three Hispanic kids, probably my age, boy driving, girl in the passenger seat, another boy in back. The girl says, “Wanna hang with us?” I decline because I am on my way to meet some friends at the bar, and also because I cannot possibly comprehend why I would take them up on this offer. The light turns green and they drive away, but I am intrigued by the exchange. Where could that situation have possibly gone?

DAY SIX

9:03 a.m.: More craigslist responses. They’re all horrible. Of course they are! Who the fuck looks for love on craigslist?! Social mutants, that’s who!

9:10 p.m.: At work, I’m sitting alone drinking a gin and tonic when a boy sidles up to me. He’s Argentinean and kind of cute. We chat, he gives me the usual speech about how a nice all-American girl like myself doesn’t belong in a place like this, and then he asks me for a lap dance. I dance for five songs, and the whole time he asks me if I like it, if it turns me on. I laugh and say, no, it’s kind of like filing or data-entry as far as I’m concerned. When we’re done I ask for the $100 he owes me and he tries to haggle with me. I finally say I’ll take $80 just because I don’t feel like fighting. He pays me, then asks me for my number. Seriously.

DAY SEVEN

3:12 a.m.: I decide I need to make more money, so I sit down next to a younger-looking guy sitting by himself. We start chatting, and it turns out he’s around my age, Irish, a bartender, and kind of fly. We drink beers until last call, and he looks at me and asks me what next. I say we should have some beers at his apartment, which is in the neighborhood. He tells me to go change and he’ll meet me outside.

4:15 a.m.: We’re walking to his apartment and I wonder what the hell has gotten in to me. Sure, this guy is cute enough and good company, but definitely not anyone I would expect myself to go home with, and yet, here I am. I force my second thoughts to the back of my head.

4:40 a.m.: We crack some Coronas, get halfway though them, and then proceed to have sex. Amazing sex. Hours and hours of amazing sex in positions I’ve never even considered before, and it is definitely not my first time at the rodeo. My mind is blown.

11:03 a.m.: Wake up, have more sex. Even though I’m now sober, it is still mind-blowing. We finish up and I say I should bounce, he tells me to write down my number. He lets me out of his building and I start walking, thinking the world has never looked so beautiful.

11:43 a.m.: I arrive home and announce to my roommate that I’m in love. She asks what his name is. I realize I have no idea.

12:00p.m.: Spend the rest of the day in a fantastic mood literally prancing around my apartment. God I love sex.

Total: Many lap dances, one possible foursome opportunity, one masturbation session, one surprise old man penis, multiple rounds of out-of-this-world sex with one nameless Irishman.

For the next two weeks while battling with my insurance company about their obligation to pay for a new one, I was completely phoneless. And surprisingly, I found that while not being able to call my roommate or receive text messages from my BFF was disheartening, the most annoying thing about not having a phone was that I never knew what f*cking time it was. During my time of mandatory cell abstinence, I commented on this fact to my mother. Her response was thought-provoking.

“Why don’t you get a watch?”

A watch? The last time I had a watch, I was in sixth grade. It was a gift from my parents for my twelfth birthday and on the face was an image of Elmo whose arms ticked away the minutes. At the time, I thought it was the sh*t and all my ladyfriends agreed, but when the leather straps crumbled the following summer I was pretty well over it and I’ve never felt the need to get a new one, Elmo-themed or otherwise.

Which leads me to ask the question, are watches obsolete? In this age when everyone has a phone that they have on their person more or less at all times, is there really a need for watches? The only people I can think of who do have watches are people like my mom and grandma who grew up in the Dark Ages before Verizon existed, and even they have the option of telling time with their phones. It would seem that their insistence on wearing watches stems from a deep-seated habit of looking at their wrist when someone asks the time as opposed to rooting in their pockets.

So what purpose, then, do watches serve? Are they merely nostalgic relics of a simpler time? Or are they still relevant in some way? While ruminating on this topic, I noticed a very interesting trend; in every high-fashion magazine I read, at least 1/5 of the advertisements I saw were for watches. And not Elmo watches either – we’re talking gold and tiger’s eye Gucci, platinum and Swarovski crystal Patek Philippe, white leather and diamond Fendi, all costing thousands of dollars.

Which led me to construct this theory – watches have become the ultimate status symbol. Think about it: watches are essentially frivolous, somewhat rare, and even the least fashion-savvy individuals recognize that a watch is an accessory that commands respect. People who wear watches are people who have places to be and things to do. People who wear watches are people who own furniture and never have to ask their parents to help out with the rent. People who wear watches subtly but proudly sport them on their wrist as a testament to their status as Grown-Ups.

At the age of 22, I will fully admit that I have not reached the Watch Wearing stage of life. But at least I now have something to aspire to.

My third day of not drinking proved to be yet another day filled with self realization. I did more things that I haven’t done in a long time…and I have to tell you: I’m really proud of myself.

I spent all day in the recording studio laying down tracks for my new solo project. Guitars, keys, bass, vocals…everything. Although it’s kind of taboo for singers to drink in the studio…I can’t remember the last time that I recorded vocals without drinking beforehand.

Considering I had a pretty endless amount of money to spend on the recording and whatever expenses I incurred throughout my recording day; it was hard to not abuse the budget by buying alcohol. It was even harder because of this:

There had been a party in the studio where I recorded the night before. Someone left an unopened bottle of Grey Goose there. And there was cranberry juice already in the house. There were assorted six packs of beer left over. And bottles of wine everywhere. On any given NORMAL day for me, I would have been in Heaven. And you know what else? I would be in the studio again recording today to wrap up everything I didn’t finish yesterday. YET, because I was sober, I got every single track done.

I stayed admirably focused throughout the day and when I was brought a “Cranberry and Sprite” to drink…I only fantasized that there was some of that Grey Goose in it for…less than five seconds.

When the night finally wrapped up, I CHOSE to take a cab home. I used my brain and logically decided to spend the money….opposed to my typical: “Hey! I’m drunk! I’m not taking the train!” idiotic reasoning. When I got home, YES, I did want to unwind with a beer. But I kept my promise to myself and just watched Family Guy instead.

Today is Easter. Religious holidays are always grounds for drinking for me…so, seeing how today unravels should prove to be interesting.

I’m sorry but it does, and so does Jack and Coke, Rum and Coke and all of those other awful college drinks that I can taste in my mouth when I simply speak their name. My point is: I’M SICK OF THE NASTINESS. I’m ready to spend an extra buck or two to feel fancy instead of feeling like I’m drinking to get drunk. I’m all about my drinks tasting like dessert rather than gasoline…plus a little sophistication is always a good thing.

What happened to creativity?! Here are some fun recipes that you can ask for at the bar or share with your girlfriends over gossip and Chinese food.

Melontini

3 cups honeydew melon cut in cubes, plus melon balls, for garnish

3 cups lemon soda, cold

1 cup club soda, cold

1/2 cup melon liqueur

8 ounces vodka, chilled

In a blender puree the honeydew melon. Pour into ice cube trays and freeze, about 3 hours. In a pitcher combine lemon soda, club soda, and melon liqueur. Drop a frozen melon cube into a martini glass and top with 2 tablespoons (1-ounce) vodka per drink. Garnish with skewered melon balls.

Courtesy of: Ingrid Hoffman

Orange Cremzecal

4 small scoops vanilla ice cream, about 2/3 cup

1 ounce mezcal

6 ounces orange soda, chilled

Drop the ice cream scoop into a chilled soda glass. Pour the mescal over the ice cream, and then the orange soda. Serve.

Courtesy of: The FoodNetwork

Hummingbird

INGREDIENTS

1 fluid ounce rum cream liqueur

1 fluid ounce coffee flavored liqueur

1 fluid ounce milk

1/2 fluid ounce strawberry flavored syrup

1/2 banana

1 cup crushed ice

DIRECTIONS

In a blender, combine rum cream liqueur, coffee liqueur, milk and strawberry syrup. Add the banana and crushed ice. Blend until smooth. Pour into glasses and serve.

Courtesy of: All Recipes

Gooserade

INGREDIENTS

Grey Goose- generous pouring

Gatorade Berry Rain

STIR

And garnish with…gummy bears.

Courtesy of: ME