#3 Walk of Shame

So, I'm having trouble writing something as juicy as the last entry, but you have to understand that the hooker pickup was one of the sluttiest things I've ever done. I mean, my only other semi-scandalous hookups were either at the movies, in seedy motels or at the office. Well, actually I've only had one hookup at each of those places, but I had to brag about them because each was pretty fun, though not exclusively because of the locale *wink, wink, nudge, nudge*

Since I'm already resigned to the fact that this post will be admittedly more innocuous, I may as well go ahead and tell you about a hook up from last weekend, which was fun but didn't involve Mercedes sex or naked eye contact with old ladies.

First, a quick run down of the weekend (just because I promised to be your guide through the City).

Friday night in the Castro. Dinner at Brandy Ho's Hunan Food, couple bottles of wine for the table and mediocre food. Night of drinking at The Mint, Pilsner and The Cafe.

Saturday night - black tie client charity food and wine pairing event at Fort Mason with Ms. E (1/4 of the Fab4). A bunch of rich drunk Marin bitches and their financiers/husbands dropping thousands of dollars on bottles of wine and resort packages to Telluride. At least it was all for a good cause - funding research to find a cure for ALS. Needed a break from the pungent smell of money, so met up with Ms. A and Ms. M (the other half of the Fab4) for a drink at Doc's Clock. Left after one drink for a pre-scheduled Saturday night hookup (lame, I know, but when you're both super busy, you have to schedule sexy time in advance, being a grown up sucks).

Sunday started with the infamous "walk of shame" home from the Financial Analyst's house. Then, a pleasant afternoon of shopping downtown with Ms. A.

OK, with the logistics out of the way, I want to discuss this sordid thing we call the "walk of shame." I've always had a pretty clear concept of what it is, and believe me, I've taken a few in my day (per the 3:00 a.m. stumble out of someone's apartment just barely sobering up and realizing you're still only half clothed and guess what? you're stuck in the outskirts of the f-ing Marina trying to hail the non-existent taxis). But, can it really be called the walk of shame every time you leave someone's house the next morning? Seriously, I want to hear from you guys. Now, what if he was hot, you were hot, everything about it was hot. I mean, not to toot my own horn, but TOOT TOOT. Let me just say I was on my 'A' game, people. But enough about that.

I proposed this query to Ms. P, my coworker, and she oh so wisely provided the following insight: the walk of shame can be classified in either of two ways. Number 1 (which was my initial concept of this thing we disparage so vehemently) you were so f-ing plastered the night before that you woke up with the taste of booze still on your breath, and you looked beside you in horror to find some random-ass dude sporting a mullet and a "Your Name" tattoo on his ass. You quietly retrieve what you think you wore the night before and try to find your way home amid the silent (but soul-searing) judgment of the Sunday morning church-goers. This shame is derived from the bad decision you made after that fifth Absolut Mandarin and tonic.

Number 2 has nothing to do with the actual hookup, however hot or not. This shame is solely rooted in vanity. In the second scenario you are ashamed of the hot mess you've become as a result of not performing your nightly ritual. You dress in the same clothes you wore out the night before (which so clearly are not clothes created to see the light of day) only to find the splatter stains from that sushi dinner you heaved up in the restroom of the club. Your hair product has transformed your perfect coiffure into a tangled rat's nest, and for you ladies it's even more painfully obvious that you did not make it home last night. Makeup smeared all over and caked on ala Joan Crawford Mommie Dearest. What's worse is you have to sling your Manolos over your shoulders and take that walk of shame barefoot on the City streets (eww, gross).

Whether you are an advocate of Number 1 or Number 2, Clinton or Obama, David Cook or David Archuleta, OMFG! Post your thoughts.

Talk later,
Yours Truly