Tex and the City

K.I.T.?

2011-04-14T12:38:00.001-07:00

On the off-chance that you've kept me in your reader, I thought I'd stop by to mention that I'm contemplating a new project. If you feel so inclined, drop me a line and I'll be sure to keep you informed should anything materialize. And - if you don't mind keeping this 'lil 'ol page on your radar - I just may have some updates from time-to-time.

(K)eep (I)n (T)ouch.

NYC apartment hunting blows ...

2010-09-02T11:20:00.000-07:00

(I never promised I'd refrain from telling you things you already know.)

Seriously, this is taking up ALL of my spare time. And heightening my anger management-issues ...

From the Desk of the Mayor

2010-08-19T11:41:00.000-07:00

In the midst of my whining about all the boys I like who don't seem to reciprocate the feeling, I forgot about the one that ~~got away~~ I kicked to the curb:

Yes, ladies, this is the Mayor in all his Hangover-lovin' glory. I know, I can't believe I "dated" this fool for a month either.

I was perfectly content with the way that our relationship had petered out - the whole thing reminds me of a defective sparkler that lights for a few seconds, making you think that maybe - just maybe - it will catch fire and turn out to be awesome. Until it abruptly sputters and dies. Another dud. Ah well, moving on. Let's light the next one.

And so I did (move on, that is) and had seen nary a Facebook post from the Mayor - speaking of, I should probably "hide" him (my favorite course of FB action when it comes to ex-bf's). Until: 2 albums (of approximately 130 pictures each) showed up in my Facebook newsfeed, documenting his recent excursion to Sin City. In which he wore his ugly Zach Galifianakis-baby-shirt on several occasions.

I tried not to click on them, I really did. I don't know what it is - Rachey, does this qualify as CGS? Or just further proof that I have no will power or self control?

Either way, it was a big mistake, as I found myself perusing 200 + pictures of the Mayor posing next to 200 + pairs of boobs - in varying degrees of attractiveness. For your viewing pleasure, please see below for my extremely accurate recreation of what just about every single one of these pictures looks like:

I must say, the girl "pictured" above is probably 5 times more attractive than any of the sluts the Mayor found in Vegas. The Situation would be appalled by the number of grenades that grace these albums. And the Mayor will probably be appalled when he finds out he got an STD just from motor-boating one of these bitches.

All in all, I'd say the thing that bothers me most doesn't really have anything to do with the Mayor. I'm more afraid about the fact that I actually hung out with this guy (EVER), and how it must reflect extremely poorly upon my judgement.

Was I depressed or bored or something? Needing validation? Or, did I honestly just not realize what a colossal douche this guy really is? Maybe he did a good job of hiding it for a month?

I can't remember - I think I've blocked it out as one of those traumatic experiences.

In any case, Facebook strikes again. It's definitely put the kibosh on "what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas." Otherwise, I could have gone on blissfully unaware.

Damn you, social media.

Irony is an asshole.

2010-08-17T10:38:00.000-07:00

Two things.

Numero Uno:
I still have a crush on TR. I think the people in charge of the softball league are secretly conspiring against me, as they continually schedule our teams on the same night week after week.

Last night, I practiced a bit of masochism and talked to him longer than I have during his previous few appearances. He even pulled out his signature "grab her attention from across the bar by enthusiastically calling her name and waving like an idiot" move.

What? It's endearing.

Ah well, though I'm a bit down in the dumps about the whole thing, I'm proud of myself for being mature enough to put rejection aside and hang out with him. Wait, scratch that, we all know I'm playing the game, and trying to be the "winner" in this situation. You know, show'em the 'ol "look at what you're missing!" bit. Ugh, how did I get here?

Numero Dos:
My fictional TR despises the Cowboys and the actual Tony Romo. And that, friends, tickles me to no end.

More dating neuroses, ftw

2010-08-16T13:30:00.000-07:00

I've felt uninspired as of late. You know exactly what I'm talking about.

That feeling of lethargy, of circuitous actions. Stuck running loops around the same track.

The problem, I figure, is that I haven't defined the version of "different" that I'm seemingly searching. What is it that I'd rather be running towards?

The whole mess is anathema at this point. And it permeates all facets of my life - job, health, living sitch, dating - it all evokes this feeling of blah.

Especially the dating.

Do you ever feel like you choose the same person over and over again? Not only do I feel like it, I think I just proved it this past week.

We could call him Tony Romo V2.0. Or, just 2.0 for short.

Let's review the facts:

Met at co-ed "beer-league" extracurricular - check twice.

Is a pseudo-celeb of said respective league - check twice.

Has winning, jovial personality and quick sense of humor - check twice.

Has penchant for not returning calls/texts - check twice.

The defining difference between TR and 2.0, as far as I can tell, is an intense Mets fetish (former) vs. an intense Yankees fetish (latter).

A step in the right direction if you ask my friend Carst, who has diagnosed me with Mets-disease. Every boy that I've dated since I moved to the city (save one, and 2.0 - who doesn't count at this point) has been pro Mets, something Carst sees as a major character flaw, being a Yankee fan and all.

Anyway, as I'm the common denominator no matter the scenario - or athletic affiliation - I think it's time I abandon this particular path and choose another.

For instance, maybe I should join a poetry club or something, since beer-league begets boys that haven't mentally moved out of the fraternity house yet. Although poetry club might land me a hipster, which could be equally, if not more, frightening.

Or, maybe I'll become a nun like my Aunt always teasingly suggested while I was growing up. It'd probably beat being a spinster cat lady. A fate that is looking more and more realistic as I climb further and further in age ...

But perhaps that's just my Texas showing. I am only 25 after all ...

Wonderland.

2010-08-06T13:54:00.000-07:00

Although I'm a transplant from Texas, I do have one close family member up here in Yankee territory. My great uncle - UG - grew up in Chicago and relocated to New York City after graduating with his law degree at an early age.

Everything about him amazes me - his lifestyle, the decorous way in which he conducts himself, his hobbies and interests, the places he's been and the things he's accomplished - to me, his life has been, and continues to be, the stuff of novels.

He even has the penultimate "meet-cute" story, and was with his significant other until an unexpected bout with cancer crept up on them. Because our family had a complicated relationship with UG throughout most of my childhood, regrettably, we weren't close with him until I moved to New York almost three years ago. Consequently, I never got to meet UG's S.O. - something that profoundly saddens me.

Making up for lost time has proven a bit uncomfortable at times, but we've managed to resurrect a solid foundation from the broken pieces of our family tree. UG currently lives upstate near the New York/ Connecticut/ Massachusetts border in a 200 year old farmhouse, which he refurbished himself. I visit him once every few months or so, which doesn't sound often enough I suppose.

Jumping on Metro North, watching the buildings grow smaller and farther apart until they dissipate into hillside and trees, is like a slow-motion version of falling down the rabbit hole.

And when the journey comes to an end, I too, emerge in a forest - a forest of antique Chippendale, sterling silver, and fine bone china. No need to paint the roses red, as they already are. There's even a Cheshire cat (or two) to be found.

During my last visit, I was roused at 3 AM by booming thunderclaps, I sat up and watched as a fantastic rural light show played across the window-panes, ushering in droplets of rain in droves. The rain pitter-pattered against the house, staccato, the sound conjuring images of toy soldiers marching in formation across the creaky wooden floorboards.

Sitting in the garden the next morning, we watched the sun reach down and kiss sparkling blossoms and blades of grass. Listened to bullfrogs harrumph loudly before abandoning the tops of lily pads for cool depths of pond. Spied turtles stoically poised atop partly submerged roots.

Later that afternoon, we headed to Innisfree, where I decided that my camera and I could spend many happy hours on end.

Trudging back to the train to leave a world of quiet green peace, gourmet dinners, and fleeting glimpses into UG's fabulous formative years is always a melancholy affair. While it's hard to leave the City behind some weekends, I'm always glad that I have,as UG just may be the most adorable man on the face of the planet.

I often find myself awed and amazed that I'm related to this man.

This is my version of Wonderland.

Futurama vs. South Park (OR: The EyePhone vs. Kip Drordy)

2010-07-14T11:59:00.000-07:00

I posted this over on 20SB, but wanted to share it here, too since I think (OK, hope - but what do I know) that some of you might appreciate it. And be slightly amused (or just reinforce that I'm not entirely crazy and that you know what the eff I'm talking about).

Because of yesterday's post on the frightening similarities between owning an iPhone and crack addiction, and how Apple users are pretty much brainwashed for life once they convert (or, at least I was ...), I got to thinking about a recent episode of the new season of Futurama (which warrants a whole new tangent that I'll spare you) featuring the Mom Corporation and its EyePhone 2.0 and her evil plan to control users via a viral "twit-worm."

And because my poor brain works like one of those Plinko boards on The Price is Right, the thoughts kind of bounce around willy-nilly from here-to-there with no clear logical path.

The first bounce left me giggling over the South Park episode that similarly rips upon another fave social media tool - good ol' FB - and the way in which the characters readily discard reality in favor of living a life on the interwebs. (Stan, poke your Grandma.)

Both episodes are absolutely hysterical to me - probably because I'm the very sort the creators of both shows set out to mock - the heavy internet user, ever reliant on Twitter, the iPhone and Facebook, just to name a few.

So, I continue pondering, and the Plinko-chip-thoughts bounce around in a few other directions, ending up where they may, namely on the following two quandaries that I think I need your help answering:

Which episode do you think is funnier?

If Bender, Frey and their army of Twitcher followers faced off against Stan and his 845,000 Facebook friends in a dark alley, who would win?

I'm listening.

The addiction that's more expensive than crack.

2010-07-13T14:53:00.000-07:00

Yep, I'm talking about the iPhone.

I used to have a Tiny-Phone - or so my friend Smaddy christened it.

Exhibit A: Tiny-Phone.

I also had a BlackBerry bequeathed to me by my office - data only. But I still thought it was pretty sweet (ahem, please see Exhibit A for insight into this reasoning).

But as more and more of my friends brandished iPhones about town, my envy level rose as quickly as ... a teenage boy's libido? Yep, let's go with it - I had a hard-on for the iPhone.

Fast forward to Christmas 2009 - Momma J took pity upon her poor, un-cool, Tiny-Phone carrying children and purchased iPhones as the big present of the season. Complete with ~~Spoiled Child~~ Family Plan.

Huzza! Finally able to count myself among the "cool-kid" ranks, the thing became practically welded to my hand. And I ditched my BlackBerry faster than it would probably take the aforementioned hypothetical teenage boy to prematurely ejaculate if faced with the object of his libido-inducing desire.

But I didn't realize that I'd crossed into full-blown addiction territory until my precious iPhone was stolen out from under me.

At our skeeball bar, no less. My personal Cheers. The bar that hosted hundreds of people for the Brewskeeball National Championship, where iPhones sat charging by bathroom sinks, given nary a second glance, left well enough alone.

I held it together until my visit to the Apple store - more specifically, until my designated "Genius" informed me that I'd have to fork over approximately $500 for the right to replace what had been tragically taken from me, by no fault of my own. (Unless you count leaving an iPhone unattended for 5 minutes a fault of my own. Oh, point taken ... moving on).

Seriously - the iPad had just come out at this time, and was selling for $400. Yet I'd have to pay more than that to purchase an outdated version of a phone that I had already owned for five months?

I trudged home, sans new iPhone. I felt like I was leaving an intervention, told that I'd need to go cold turkey, give up my addiction and be sentenced to rehab.

I called Momma J the next morning from my office, looking for some sympathy. Sympathy that she really wasn't interested in giving - she'd sworn seconds after we unwrapped the iPhones on Christmas morning that they would be the only ones she'd purchase for us.

"If you lose it, that's IT."

And so it was. UNTIL ...

The bacon-loving co-worker from posts past (affectionately known to us as Apwam - don't ask) mentioned that he had an extra one.

What? Who has an extra iPhone just lying around? That they're willing to donate to poor, first-world-problem-afflicted 20-somethings?

Apwam, that's who.

Momma J overnighted that sucker from Austin to NYC and I was back to my Internet-absorbed, iPhone loving ways in no time.

I've managed to hold onto this one so far, and will probably give in and upgrade to the iPhone 4 once I'm eligible (stupid AT&T and its restrictive ways).

Because I - like all of those suckers that waited in the heat for hours on end the day the new model came out - have become an Apple addict.

It's unexplainable ... And I don't care - as most aptly demonstrated by my (and Smaddy and Carstee's) new favorite viral video. I just have to have it.

An iPhone 4 shopper walks into a store:

So here's to the addiction that's more expensive than crack. Maybe someday they will sell them in Walgreens - here's hoping.

Scoutmob; PMA; Grooveshark

2010-07-09T13:06:00.000-07:00

Things that impress and inspire, excite a desire.

Website Edition.

1. Scoutmob:

Here's the deal. I'm super into mailing lists. Coupons. What to do this weekend. Events, shows, concerts, restaurants, festivals - I want to know about it all.

Scoutmob takes these quintessential roundup-type e-mails a step further by offering daily deals. Fo' FREE. And I'm not talking, 'get a free soda when you buy an entree' type deals. I'm talking, 'let's practically give this shit away to get these people in here' kind of deals.

I'm not talking, 'let's only offer this badass deal for one hour during the most inconvenient time of the day.' I'm talking, 'let's offer this bad ass deal for THREE MONTHS so that subscribers can actually use it.'

Today's daily deal? 50% off Hill Country BBQ. Hell yes, y'all. Sign. Me. Up. Ribs, brisket, beer can chicken, chili-mac, Kreuz sausage, corn pudding, bourbon sweet potato mash, shoestring green bean casserole. OK, I digress. And am now drooling.

Not only is the food detrimentally delicious for waistlines everywhere, this place also happens to be a little slice of Texas heaven smack-dab in the middle of the Flatiron district.

Come football season, you can find me here every Saturday with my fellow Texas transplants swilling Lonestar beer, dressed in burnt orange from head-to-toe, cheering for the Longhorns, screaming "give 'em hell, make'em eat shit, "OU sucks," and a number of other chants that make no sense to you unless you went to the greatest University in the world. (Yeah, we're pretty obnoxious. Kind of like Yankee fans or Red Sox fans. But better. And more awesome.)

Back to Scoutmob, not only is it amazing for subscribers, local businesses are totally getting down with this shit. It provides a way for businesses to track response rates, reach customers on the go through a mobile iPhone app, and taps into social media networks by prompting users to share deals with friends via Twitter and Facebook. Hello free word of mouth and new customer base.

Way to go Scoutmob creators/marketing strategists. You win. I wish I was as smart as you, and I salute you.

2. Pretty Much Amazing (PMA):

Speaking of amazing and my affinity for sites that point me in the direction of anything new or up-and-coming; let's talk about PMA.

Brought to us by a group of self-proclaimed "music geeks," PMA breaks down the latest and greatest in alternative and independent music (oft described as an indie-electro guide to the current music scene).

Another interesting tidbit - all of the clips, links and soundbites posted are legal and free; something to admire in an age of piracy and legal battles over rights and distribution policies.

The PMA-gurus recently posted a list of the best songs of 2010, which is updated quarterly. I highly suggest you peruse. Snagging the number one spot is LCD Soundsystem with "All I Want" and "I Can Change," both off of their newest album, "This is Happening."

While I can get down with both selections, there are other songs on the album that steal my vote for best song ("Drunk Girls" and "One Touch" to name two ♥).

Other songs on the list worth mention in my book include:

48: “Who Makes Your Money” - Spoon (An Austin band, so not surprising I'm sure, but also just an interesting sound)
42: “Factory” - Band of Horses (Beautifully lazy)
35: “Opposite of Adults” - Chiddy Bang (A cooler/realer version of current faves like Asher Roth, IMO)
27: “Bang Pop” - Free Energy (Old school rock'n roll; lava lamps, bell bottoms and joints)
24: “Lifted” - Lemonade (Like Chester French meats badass electro beats)
21: “Little Lion Man” - Mumford & Sons (Love the gravelly sound that penetrates to the core, begetting emotion)
13: “Superfast Jellyfish” Gorillaz (Whimsical, catchy, seemingly nonsensical but delve deeper for meaning)

3. Grooveshark:

By now you know I'm all about free. And music. It keeps me company all day in the fluorescent hell that is an office with no windows. Sure, I like Pandora and Slacker. But I pay for neither so must endure annoyingly grating commercials.

I had a brief love affair with Imeem, but then they sold out and joined forces with MySpace, which happens to be the only website we can't access at my office. I'm pretty sure you could stream porn here without anyone noticing. But MySpace? Banned.

Enter Grooveshark - a site that houses approx 7-million songs, accessible fo'free for as many plays as your little heart desires. I thought this was something that everyone knew about, but have mentioned it to several friends lately (who are generally up on their shit) that were surprised to hear about it. So, if you fall into this category, you're welcome.

Now go listen to PMA's top 50 songs of the quarter and search for your faves on Grooveshark.

Drop it Like its Hot

2010-07-06T14:56:00.000-07:00

As I write this, 102 degrees of heat stealthily radiate from the asphalt below my window, waiting to slap me in the face the moment I venture out of doors.

Yes, the heat is on. No, I'm not in Texas. But because I'm from there, I seem to be one of approximately 5 people on the island of Manhattan not overtly concerned with the current state of weather-related affairs.

My co-worker P-Dub came by my office this afternoon with the express purposes of showing off his pit-stains and lamenting the sad droop in his previously-coiffed 'do post lunch run.

And the New York Times has shown up on my Twitter feed approximately 5 times in the last 3 hours requesting pictures of what "hot" looks like (if I were them, I probably would have been more specific - there are some real pervs out there that might misconstrue the ask ...).

Though, according to Gawker, all of the hullabaloo is fueled by a slow news day following a four day weekend as opposed to the fiery furnace that is Manhattan itself.

Perhaps the fact that we Texans have air-conditioned vehicles to transport us from our centrally-air-conditioned homes to our next centrally-air-conditioned destination of choice is the reason that we're able to scoff high-and-mightily at all those who deign to complain about triple digit temps.

The one thing I will agree upon, however, is that waiting for a subway in this shit is horrific.

Therefore, fellow New Yorkers, do as I do and become a bus-convert. Waiting above ground beats the hell out of feeling like a pair of sweaty balls constricted by cotton gym shorts during track practice (I mean, not that I know exactly how that would feel, other than gross) while you stand miserably squished shoulder-to-sweaty-shoulder with strangers on the subway platform praying for the next train to come.

Though I'm not impressed with the heat-related whining, I'm always up for a good cold-weather-carping sesh. (See Snowpocalypse 2010). I'll take hot-hot-heat over fucking-freezing any day.

Just more of my Texas showing I suppose ...

Currently Coveting: Edition Numero Uno

2010-07-02T11:00:00.000-07:00

Things that impress and inspire, excite a desire.

So, as I promised (myself), here's the first edition of things I'm currently obsessed with.

Heather Moore Jewelry:

This was a Guilt Groupe/Momma J find. If I could afford the $500 - $2,000 price point, I would totally rock one or more of these charms.

Robicelli's Cupcakes:
I'm clearly so obsessed, that I follow them on Twitter.

The freakin cutest local cupcake shop, based out of Brooklyn. Matt and Allison Robicelli bake bad-ass cupcakes with local ingredients in small batches, then deliver them to storefronts throughout Brooklyn and Manhattan. Pictured above: "The Duckwalk"- Vanilla cake with blueberry port-mascarpone buttercream, homemade blueberry port jam, and fresh blueberries. The blueberry port jam in the center was my favorite part. Trekking around the LES in 95 degree weather to find it was my least. (But totally worth it.)

Other flavors I'm hoping to try (if I ever manage to get to the right spot at the right time):

“The Bluth” (which, let's face it, I would probably try just for the name alone. I mean, can I hang out with these people? I think we should be friends ...) - chocolate banana cake studded with chocolate chips and walnuts, with chocolate buttercream, ganache and roasted walnuts

“The Yvonne” - 2003 Late harvest reisling cake and buttercream topped with blueberry-thai basil compote (What? I wish I could tell you that I've come up with something half as interesting in the kitchen as blueberry-thai basil compote on top of a cupcake)

“The Maltz”(why, hello bacon, fancy meeting you here) - chocolate bourbon cake and buttercream with candied bacon

“Bea Arthur” (again with the toungue and cheek - ♥) - Black coffee infused chocolate cake with cheesecake buttercream and espresso ganache

“The Red, White and Blue” (4th of July special - yum) - vanilla cake filled with wildberry jam, mascarpone buttercream and fresh berries

And since we mentioned bacon already ... :

Bakon Vodka - "a clean refreshing potato vodka with delicious savory bacon flavor"

Anecdotally, Momma J wanted to order this for her co-worker's birthday, as he's obsessed with the current all-things-bacon-craze (see BBCC). Since they don't sell it in the great state of Texas, I ventured over to Astor Wines & Spirits to purchase some for her. Once securely wrapped in approximately 5 lbs. of bubble wrap, I shipped it to Austin (illegally, of course) for their bacony-consumption.

Next up, buy some for myself and host a bloody mary brunch party, complete with a bar of bloody mary mixin's and copious amounts of bacon. If I'm really gonna go for it, maybe I'll try and candy my own bacon as a garnish. Updates to come, if this actually happens ...

And there you have it folks - 3 things that I'm currently coveting. Aside from leaving this flourescently-lit office for some sunshine and long weekend's worth of 4th of July celebration, that is. Hope you all have a great extended weekend!

Jumpin on the 20sb Blog Carnival* Bandwagon: Friends and Money

2010-06-30T14:27:00.000-07:00

How do your friends and others affect your choices regarding money?

Given the fact that I diagnosed my wallet with bulimia shortly before I received an e-mail from the 20sb folks announcing the next Carnival topic, I feel it's only fitting that I weigh (heh) in.

To answer the question straight off the bat - my friends may as well take sole responsibility for the poor health of my bank account. Well, my friends and New York City.

Between $10 deli sandwiches, $7-$10 domestic beers (and I'm not even talkin' the handcrafted, artisanal sort - tangentially, I'm dying to try this SixPoint Dr. Klankenstein brew), $20 brunches, $12 movie tickets, and lord knows whatever other astronomical prices I pay for consumer items, the 'ol wallet is a little ragged.

"Budget! Personal restraint! Savings!" you may say. Ha. Impossible. I've tried. No really, I have. May I present, for your consideration, Exhibit A:

The LP (heterosexual Life Partner):

Hello Loves - I was just glancing over the weather report, and discovered that this very Friday we are going to be treated to one of those marvelously idyllic 85 degree and sunny days in NYC. As such, I do believe we are required to celebrate. And of course, as it’s Friday we are mandated to consume copious amounts of alcohol. Therefore, I propose a drinking celebration at one of this great city’s many outdoor watering holes. Frying Pan… maybe, Berry Park… perhaps, Blockheads… always a crowd pleaser. So let me know if you are willing to take up the charge. Will dream go on to live in infamy or will it die embarrassed and withering in the corner.

Me:

I just blew a ton ‘o cash on plane tickets home. I think I might attempt the impossible this weekend – STAYING IN! Dah dah duuuuhn …. Any who, keep me posted on your imbibing plans just in case. xo

LP:

1. A trip back to Texas = Super exciting

2. Boo for spending lots of money

3. This is not an acceptable excuse to avoid fun for a weekend

a. Do you understand that it is going to be 85 and sunny?

i. Are you going to sit in your apt and cry by yourself all night while watching reruns of the Bachelor?

b. Have I taught you nothing

i. Pre-gaming is basically free

ii. Buy a huge pitcher at the bar and drink all night for like $15

c. Did you read my email

i. It was amazing

ii. I sound like an 18th century lord

4. You do not have a choice.

a. You must attend as referenced in my email.

That is all.

Me:

Dear 18th Century Lord, Where art thou imbibing this splendid summer’s eve?

Regards, Wench #6 (per the order of initial correspondence)

You see - impossible, I say!

Good 'ol Charles Schwab spotted the severity of my financial illness from a mile away. This handy dandy financial fitness check-in tool has proclaimed me unfit to be a responsible 20-something adult (which is funny because I also proclaimed myself responsible in the same post that I discussed the horrid state of my finances).

A 24 I tell you! Not. Good. Ah well, perhaps Chuck can help me sort this out. And if not, at least he has painstakingly focused my attention upon the woeful state of my finances.

Thanks friends. And New York.

*Disclaimer: This post is part of the 20SB Blog Carnival: Friends & Money, sponsored by Charles Schwab. Prizes may be awarded to selected posts. The information and opinions expressed in this post do not reflect the views or opinions of Charles Schwab. Details on the event, eligibility, and a complete list of participating bloggers can be found here.

I can make (terrible) boyfriends in my sleep*

2010-06-29T11:32:00.000-07:00

*No, literally. You'd think, then, that I could at least make a decent one in a waking-state of being, but whatevs ...

The other weekend, determined to make something out of my Sunday now that we're on brewskeeball hiatus until August, I wandered over to the Strand [the (more awesome) equivalent of Half-Price books for any Austinites reading] and then to Union Square to spend some QT with my purchases, one being:

From some of the brightest, dirtiest, most demented but funny minds in America, "You're a Horrible Person, But I Like You" is a compendium of advice from the producers, writers, and actors of The Office, Saturday Night Live, It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, Knocked Up, Flight of the Conchords, The Daily Show, Arrested Development, Reno 911!, and The Hangover along with other people who should really never give advice.

While it's funny, I was expecting a bit more ... substance. One can only read so many disjointed one-liners in a row before going cross-eyed and/or losing interest.

I did both, stretched out on the grass in the middle of the square, and ~~promptly fell asleep~~ made the conscious decision that I would rest my eyes for a little-minute.

When I came to, there was a guy awkwardly positioned within my proximity. I realize that this is New York City, and that personal space is something we compromise by voluntarily living here (and voluntarily dozing off in the middle of a park ...). But there's definitely an unspoken etiquette governing public space consumption. For instance, a few "rules" that people should follow, but often don't:

Walk down the right side of the sidewalk as opposed to the left. Mirroring traffic protocol while walking. It makes life easier for us all - just do it. And most people do, minus the crazies and the tourists gawking upward at the pretty buildings.
Side note - while walking and texting isn't as dangerous as driving and texting; I think the former should be illegal, too.
Don't lean your back against the entire subway pole. Seriously. There are 5 other people smushed around that pole on the L to Brooklyn who would prefer to remain standing as the train careens its way down the long stretch between 14th and Bedford (or vice versa). Don't be an ass - just a hand will do (TWSS).
Similarly, your groceries/gym bag/gigantic man-purse don't need their own seat on the bus or the subway. Put them on your lap or at your feet like a normal person so I can sit my tired ass down.
And - the reason for this post - now that Summer is here, and we're all seeking a little piece of grass to call our own for 20 minutes while we escape the heat radiating from the concrete, please be considerate of those already lounging when you choose your perfect spot. This means:

Not mere inches directly behind/in front of/right next to someone.
And for the love of all things sacred, if you're going to sit in the "next-to-someone" vicinity, leave a little buffer and maybe try to incorporate a bit of "behind-them" or "in-front-of-them" action as opposed to "parallel-and-might-as-well-be-laying-directly-next-to-them-if-not-on-top-of-them" action.

Back to my lazy day in USQ, imagine my surprise when I opened my eyes to find that I had an admirer who chose the "parallel" position I've just described.

Maybe this is just coincidence, I think to myself.

Wrong.

Clearly (because this is how my life works), he decided to strike up a conversation. Before I could maneuver a hasty exit, he interjected a) that he's from Finland and in town for a month visiting his brother and 2. would I like to go show him around some of the clurrrbs sometime?

Ugh. No.

But maybe I should have stuck around long enough to introduce him to P.C. Richard - they would make a very interesting, incredibly awesome, awkward-duo of inappropriateness.

Listicles

2010-06-28T16:34:00.000-07:00

I'm a lists kind of girl. Which is funny, because I'm not the most organized person you'll ever meet. Which is even funnier because I may also qualify as one of the most responsible people you'll ever meet.

That is to say, when it comes to duties and obligations involving others, I'm responsible. (e.g. clean communal kitchen: check. clean room: fail)

The point is, I have lists floating around eeeverywhere. On random scraps of paper in my desk drawers at work, stashed in various drawers/notebookes/nooks and crannies around my room at home. Sometimes I'm able to keep tabs on the same list for a while before it disappears and another begins in its stead. Sometimes being the operative word.

One such example is my and the LP's restaurant/bar/going out list. Simply known as THE LIST. You know how it is - you can never remember that one place you wanted to go whenever people are actually asking you where you want to go ... which is where the trusty iPhone comes in:

I give you, THE LIST.

Items are added to the list as we pass by them on the street, or read about them online, in a magazine or in the paper.

While this works well for the most part, I've recently realized that there are a number of other gems I stumble across on a regular basis while wandering the Internets that are promptly forgotten (after they're recorded on a random piece of paper, of course).

Sure, most of these get forwarded to Momma J (i.e. the time I told her about the rock martinis at Il Matto -she was so intrigued, that she decided to use rocks from her garden to emulate these cocktails [since I told her I refuse to steal rocks from Il Matto to bring to Texas]. The Momma J specialty edition will be called "TX Tea with a Hint of BDW Pee." Get excited.)

Other "gems" I'd like to make a better effort to remember/share generally include but are not limited to:

recipes I'd like to try (if I had a fatter wallet* and a larger kitchen)
books I'd like to read (if I had more time)
blogs I'd like to visit regularly (when and if I can remember them)
songs I'd like to download (if only I had working wireless at home)
clothes/shoes/accessories/miscellaneous Gilt Groupe items I'd like to buy*
shows I'd like see* (musical, comedy, Broadway or otherwise)
events I'd like to go to (if I had the time and if I could convince others to tag along)
etc.

*as you'll see, the 'fatter wallet' clause factors in quite often where the plausibility of my lists is involved

So ... here's my proposition to ~~you, blog~~ err, myself. Once a week, I'll take a moment to roundup all of the things that I'm currently coveting. And I'll share them. Maybe in a list. Maybe not.

But, one day when my wallet beats its bought with anorexia (or I guess it's closer to bulimia - whatever goes in, just comes straight back out - but I digress) I'll have all of these things in one spot instead of scattered throughout oblivion.

As Smaddy says, let's do this.

(Come check back on Fridays if you're interested in the latest things I (usually) want but can't have ... Maybe we can commiserate!)

Insulting my injury (I typed this with one hand)

2010-06-25T13:26:00.000-07:00

Yes, that is in fact, a finger. My horribly swollen, disfigured, heinously ugly, sausage-shaped right pointer finger. I'm fairly certain that this is not supposed to happen in co-ed beer league softball.

But it did.

Upon viewing this picture, one of my former teammates from the good 'ol glory days of my ~~professional~~ middle school/high school sports career noted that she'd never seen me with an injury this ugly. Ever. Through broken noses, broken ankles, monster bruises, raspberries from the hardwood, oozy scrapes and scabs from the times that sliders were forgotten beneath gym shorts before running the bases.

And then, she congratulated me on a job well done.

Because every "athlete" knows that success is measured by badass battle wounds.

Not evidenced photographically, however, is the fact that - a mere three to four hours later - my insides felt exactly like that finger looks.

You see, I have stubbornly refused to give up on Tony Romo for reasons unbeknownst to anyone. It's just crazy girl logic - sociologists could devote their entire lives to unravelling the mysteries of crazy girl logic and get abso-fucking-lutely nowhere.

So, being the Crazy Girl Syndrome (CGS) afflicted lady that I am, I ~~subtly~~ confronted Tony Romo about our seemingly abundant amount of chemistry during softball-related functions, and lack thereof outside of the softball-league-universe. In the nicest, least crazy way I possibly could, mind you.

And, in the words of Cher Horowitz, was brutally rebuffed.

And, in the spirit of CGS, cried my way home for 60 blocks in the back of a cab.

While battle wounds may be badass in the world of competitive sports, the inverse is true when it comes to the dating game.

In sports, the uglier the better. The more pain, the more euphoria in recounting the details of the wound. People eat that shit up. And you're branded a rockstar.

In love, the uglier the details, the less likely you'll receive any title befitting awesomeness - wounds equate failure and not success. And all you'll have are insides as broken as that finger pictured above.

But the good news is, the finger is slowly becoming less puffy and swollen, and so are the insides.

Which is helpful, because while there are other (better) Tony Romos out there, these are the only insides I've got.

When no news is bad news.

2010-06-07T07:21:00.000-07:00

Whoever says “no news is good news” is obviously just an obnoxious, overly cheerful, asshole of an optimist that needs to quit calling the glass half-full instead of half-empty before I grab that glass from their (most likely) well-manicured hands in order to dump it directly upon their head.

Optimism can suck it – I’ve been loyal to it for years with nothing to show for it – kind of like how I imagine Mets fans must feel.

Yes, I’m talking about the “situation,” and no, not the one from the Jersey Shore.

To expound, there once was a boy that hit it off with a girl. Seemingly. Things changed (e.g. no news from the boy), girl moved on. Later down the line, boy (half-heartedly?) tried to re-connect with girl. Seemingly. Things changed.

Repeat cycle.

Too vague? How about this: the allegorical Tony Romo of posts-past has been put on the disabled list.

I mean, this is all hypothetical of course ... Right.

Anyway, I’m going to go ahead and contradict everything I just wrote because, apparently, the saying can sometimes be true.

Like for instance, when you get a text message from that guy that sold you an AC unit at PC Richard who wants to be your new boyfriend - this one qualifies as an instance where no news would have been good news:

I know. You don’t have to say it. You totally envy my dating life. It's cool - you can have it.

Celebrity couple nicknames and my Jessica Simpson tendencies.

2010-05-27T13:51:00.000-07:00

One of the rooms recently [mysteriously] started receiving OK Magazine in the mail – naturally I’ve added this to my list of her other mag subscriptions that I steal and consume on a monthly basis.

While I’m guilty of an US Weekly obsession, I’ve never really gotten down with OK. I realize to the lay-person they may appear exactly the same. However, I can somehow justify US whereas OK is just too over-the-top. Come on ladies, I know you agree.

I know, I don’t get it either.

Anyway – the point – ever since I read OK’s last “RPatz and KStew” update, I’ve been obsessed with giving our coupled friends ridiculous “celebrity” nicknames. I won’t reveal them here [just to protect the innocent] but instead will tell you that one sounds vaguely like a dinosaur specie and the other like a porn name.

In short – awesome.

So this got me to thinking … I fear that I will never be eligible to receive a celebrity couple nickname and will instead be of the single-friend contingent for eternity, forced to settle for coining hilariously inappropriate monikers for everyone else instead.

Seriously, I can make "boyfriends" with the best of them. Just yesterday, I went to buy a new AC unit for my window and was asked for my number within about 5 minutes – after telling my hilarious who-could-possibly-be-dumb-enough-to-drop-their-AC-unit-out-the-window-onto-the-sidewalks-of-NYC?: this-girl story.

Unfortunately for him (and me) I really have no interest in hanging out with a guy that sells AC units for a living [ahem, or sanitation workers]. And the boys that I am interested in hanging out with seldom seem to return my admiration.

In short, a case of Jessica-Simpson-Syndrome.

Seriously, she could probably get any ol’ normal guy she wanted (in this analogy sanitation workers and appliance salesman are to me what normal boys are to famous pop stars).

But instead, she goes for the Tony Romos and John Mayers of the world and is rebuffed every time.

Seriously. The only explanation I can come up with, is that we both suffer from occasional lapses into full-on CGS territory – a term my friend Rachey invented to describe Crazy Girl Syndrome:

The condition where outwardly great females - beautiful, smart, funny, seemingly confident - turn into neurotic, psycho bitches who shamelessly obsess and go after typically unworthy guys far longer than they should.

Yep. It happens to the best of us. And approximately a year ago, I had a bit of a Tony Romo sitch on my hands, and decided that I no longer wanted to be that girl - prompting me to let it go and conduct the FB Master Cleanse.

Too bad the anonymous gentleman in that post has made a return. Along with my CGS.

Here's to hoping that I can hide it, break the Jessica Simpson cycle, and re-kindle my "relationship" with the infamous cleanse-inducer ...

Updates to follow I'm sure.

I love my friends.

2010-05-21T13:21:00.000-07:00

Facebook and its many functionalities.

2010-05-11T14:53:00.000-07:00

I recently wrote something for In It To Gym It on Facebook as a weight loss tool:

In addition to aiding and abetting my stalking habits, I’m realizing another, more useful – if not equally disturbing – Facebook functionality. Yep, Facebook as a weight-loss tool.

Who needs Weight Watchers when you have “Social-Network-Comprised-of-People-You-May-or-May-Not-Even-Know-or-Like Watchers”? I realize it’s important that I do this for myself in order for it to work, but knowing that the one guy that I have a really big crush on, or Momma J, or my marathon-running tri-athlete of an ex-boyfriend may one day stumble across a picture of me resembling Violet Beauregarde in the blueberry pie stage of her three-course dinner via gum makes me cringe with embarrassment.

To read the rest, visit IITGI . . .

The onset of OMG-It's-Almost-Summer happy hours, beer-league softball, and fucking ridiculous hours at work are to blame for my latest "come to Jesus" talk between myself and my reflection.

Hopefully for your sake (well, and mine) I figure out the equivalent of the Oompa Loompa's juicing procedure, or you're gonna have to hear about this shit on the blog waaaay too often.

Well, pending my ability to get my blogging-act together, I suppose ...

That is all. For now.

Emulation at its finest.

2010-04-26T16:33:00.000-07:00

You know how pets are supposed to take on attributes of their owners? Kind of like in 101 Dalmatians when all the dogs physically resemble and act like their people?

[Update ... Was watching "I Love You Man" this weekend and totally forgot about this little gem:
"Hey, check out those two. I call them bowsers. It's my nickname for people who look just like their dog."]

And those old adages about pictures and actions and words? Like, if pictures really do speak a thousand words, and actions speak even louder than those words ...

What does this mean??

I guess it means that I'm committing the whole family - the BDW could make history as the first canine member of Alcoholics Anonymous. We'll be famous.

Remember the Alamo.

2010-04-21T21:22:00.000-07:00

(New York, meet the Alamo)

F.M. (Professional) L. I have been so stressed out these past few weeks. Besides living in my cubicle, I've done little other than obsess over the progress I'm making (or not making) as I attempt to climb the corporate ladder.

I’ve always been, for lack of a better term, an overachiever. Well, the laziest version of an overachiever that could feasibly exist.

And I suppose you could even argue that I only think I’m lazy because I’m rarely satisfied with my best efforts. (Although my friend Sunday begs to differ, since it knows what percentage of the day I sometimes spend in bed …)

I think I described my younger self pretty succinctly over at IITGI - one of those obnoxious, goody-goody AP kids that never drank or went to parties, who hung out at Barnes & Noble after school and drove to the coffee shop on Saturday nights instead of to the kegger.

Rewind even further to the dreaded middle-school years and I was one of those kinda-shy, kinda-quiet, nerdy Pre-AP kids that hung out at the mall after their parents dropped them and their friends off at the movies for the night.

I was like, one step away from being the female version of Kevin’s dorky friend Paul in The Wonder Years. Well, minus the Jew part I guess. And the glasses.

I never enjoyed attention much at school and was content to sit quietly at the back of the class, diligently completing assignments as long as I was left well enough alone.

I remember once – this must have been maybe 7th grade or so (who am I kidding, I remember exactly – it was 7th grade …) – in Texas History our teacher asked us to write a song about the Alamo and then stand up in front of the class the next day and sing it aloud.

I would have done just about anything – short of being pantsed in the middle of the quad – to avoid standing in front of my classmates, singing some stupid song about the Alamo to the tune of Gilligan’s Island (because somehow it was decided that singing about the Alamo to the tune of old TV sitcom songs was the coolest route to take with this heinous assignment).

I would have taken toilet paper stuck on my shoe or tucked into my underwear, trailing out from under my skirt; tripping in the middle of the cafeteria while carrying a tray full of food; a huge, oily zit in the middle of my forehead.

In retrospect, the end result was probably worse than if I had just gotten the fuck up out of my seat and sang the stupid song. The teacher – wise to the sensitivities of being an awkward 7th grader – thought he would be clever and threaten anyone who didn’t want to sing in front of the class with an F on the assignment.

As far as I was concerned, this was the best news I’d ever heard. I told him I’d take the F. He refused, insisted I was being silly and told me to just sing the song already.

He pushed me so hard to stand up in front of my peers and sing that I actually started crying in the middle of the classroom.

Epic.

He eventually let me off the hook, but I’m sure the image of a 13-year-old girl crying in the middle of Texas History probably held more staying power in the minds of the class than a 13 year-old girl with a crappy singing voice.

Point being – I am terrified that I’ll always be that scared-shitless 13-year-old girl crying in front of everyone.

I’ve learned to get the eff over myself and deal with my anxiety over the years, but I still get extremely nervous in high-stress situations.

For instance, today, I found myself sitting in a client meeting as the most junior person in the room, surrounded by three CEOs of hugely successful companies (one of them mine); my boss and two other co-workers; a famously-connected, old school New York City socialite; and five or six other consultants from various industries in attendance to “provide counsel.”

No, I didn’t cry – and if you even entertained the idea, then you’re on my shit list.

But, as I sat there introducing myself to this table full of wildly influential people, I could barely keep my hands from shaking as I clenched my notebook and pen for dear life.

I’m working on it, OK?

Someday, I'll nail it. I’ll be the girl that everyone goes to for advice, for big-picture strategic ideas, for guidance and feedback and input and wisdom.

Until then, I’m caught somewhere between the wide-eyed middle-schooler bawling her eyes out in Texas History, and the wide-eyed junior staffer trying not to lose her shit at the important meeting.

Lucky for you, someday when I'm an influential-power-bitch (once I figure out what the hell I'm doing, what great things I'm supposed to accomplish and how the hell I'm supposed to accomplish them) you’ll be able to say you knew me way back when.

But if you EVER tell anyone that I cried in the middle of Texas History because I didn’t want to sing about the Alamo, you’ll be dead to me.

(Kidding!)

(Kind of …)

Holy Hiatus

2010-04-13T21:27:00.000-07:00

It’s a good thing I can’t just up and shelve everything in life. I’m pretty sure that “I’m not really feeling it right now” would not be a valid excuse for taking a break from, oh… say… work for a week.

Sorry blog.

But that’s kind of what I’d like to do. Take a break from everything for a week. A mental health week. They have those, right?

And I mean from everything, including myself. As soon as the neurotic, obsessive, anxiety-ridden part of my brain escapes from the little corner to which it’s been previously banished, the happy, rationale part tucks itself away, hidden in the shadows.

Sometimes it’s hard to coax the sane thoughts back out and wrangle the unhealthy ones into submission. But most times, I’m able to figure it out.

I’ll feel like a needle skipping across a record player, stuck listening to the same annoying three-second snippet over and over and over on repeat.

Until reality comes along and nudges me back into the groove – the crazy subsides and I realize it was just that – crazy.

It doesn’t take much – a sunny City day, a phone call from Smaddy, an impromptu skeeball practice, a trip to the park for some Frisbee and Orange Man sighting, a “voicemail” from BDW (yes, Momma J left me a VM of the BDW barking at me – no judging [either of us]), Rice to Riches with the LP, a book and a bench in Union Square, Evie’s abbreves [abbreviations] and LP’s use of the words “hooker bear” and “douche bomb,” a view of the Statue of Liberty from Panda’s roof.

And Mom – don’t let this go to your head [Ed. Note: she’s totally going to] – if all else fails, you usually know just what to say to put it all into perspective.

It’s amazing that I let myself forget all of these little things that equal bliss; instead allowing money, taxes, budgets, deadlines, obligations, small mistakes, other’s judgments, self-doubt, insecurities etc. occupy my thoughts and time.

I think I’m learning, though. I think I’m getting the hang of it.

And if not, the one thing that I have learned about myself over the years – that I absolutely know for certain – is that I’ll figure it out eventually. I may not get there the easy way, but I will get there.

And I’ll try not to make you wait too long for me to catch up – promise.

I feel like a giddy schoolgirl.

2010-03-31T12:51:00.000-07:00

So lately, I've turned into a big-fat-blog-nerd (see below mention of IITGI), and a few weeks ago FINALLY e-mailed Cheryl over at StarbucksBreak to see if I could guest-blog for Dating Wednesdays.

Awesome lady that she is, she assented!

Which means that you must go check out today's Dating Wednesday - while you're there, be sure to browse Cheryl's blog cause she's fucking hilarious.

Spring in Texas - Misery in NYC

2010-03-29T13:26:00.000-07:00

You know it's springtime in Texas when people start parking their cars precariously on the side of the highway to take pictures in the bluebonnets. (Insert "you might be a redneck" joke here).

This was something Momma J subjected Lil'Bro and I to every year on the way to Grandmother's house for Easter.

Now that we've flown the coop, the annual-bluebonnet-photo-shoot has turned into a BDW solo session. Looks like he's finally learned to stop eating the flowers and just laze in them instead.

I have sunshine-envy. Let's compare the picturesque scenes above with the following, shall we?

WTF Mother Nature? I'm over 50 and raining. At least you plan to get your shit together this weekend.

In It To Gym It (IITGI).

2010-03-29T10:40:00.000-07:00

I've never been a big chronicle-your-weight-loss-online kind of person. Actually, I just realized that this blog is really the first time I've ever kind of openly talked about my ups-and-downs in this department.

Well, save a few close friends - and usually just the ones that are going through the same thing I am.

Momma J talked me into doing Weight Watchers online once while I was in college. I hated it and never really signed into the account. It was supposed to be this big support group of people at your disposal, but I just found it mildly annoying and un-motivating.

Then, the other day, I stumbled across this fabulous blog collective started by the wonderful Ms. LiLu called In It To Gym It. It's the first time that I've been super into any kind of "support group" on this or any topic, really. I think it's because the group is comprised of a lot of 20sb-ers, or just people whose blogs I've stumbled across prior to their joining IITGI.

Whereas the whole Weight Watchers online thing was way less personal to me, and mostly comprised of bored housewives going through varying stages of mid-life crises.

Anyway, if at all interested, I suggest you check it out! There's already been an outpouring of posts by members - if you're interested in further thoughts from yours truly, you just may see a post or two from me over there every now and again as well.

Yay IITGI!

Is there nothing sacred? Have we lost our moral center? It just makes me want to pee on someone.

2010-03-26T15:52:00.000-07:00

-Tracy Jordan

Not only am IAAB, IAA Materialistic B.
(IAAB = I Am A Bitch, for those not in the know.)

So … I owe you all an update. After airing my grievances regarding the Mayor, I decided I was done. And I would ~~hope he never called or texted again so I wouldn’t have to~~ tell him so.

And then, he texted me again.

With an offer almost on par with yachts and T Pain, no less – tickets to Tracy Morgan stand-up. For tonight. Talk about losing my moral center … (Maybe minus the wanting to pee on someone part. I mean, I do enjoy awkward, but that may be where I draw the line. Maybe.)

You know when you’re just absolutely torn and you get that deer-in-headlights, confused-squirrel-trying-to-decide-which-way-to-run-to-avoid-the-oncoming-car kind of feeling? Like when they put a big plate of cupcakes out at the office for snack time (Yes, we’re like kindergartners. We get snack time. I’d prefer nap time, but whatev.) and you know you shouldn’t eat one because you just vowed to love and honor Crunch but you’ve had a really shitty day (or you're hungover) and you just really kind of want one? And then you eat two? (Just me?)

That’s how I felt when faced with my Hang Out With The Mayor One More Time To Use Him For Tracy Morgan Tickets vs. Tell Him You’re Just Not That Into Him dilemma. And of course, I polled my friends again, because that’s what I do. Am I indecisive? I can’t decide …

LP’s vote?

(The “bowel issues” comment references LP’s theory behind the reason the Mayor abruptly aborted our last date … Also, LP – you clearly need to keep up with the freakin’ blog. Especially since you're in like, every other post. Geez.)

See also the below e-mail from LP:

Are you going to be around tonight? I’m trying to preplan my escape from the date with [redacted], and Lord knows I’m gonna need a drink after that. It should be done by like 11ish (I told him I have a bday party). Let me know.

P.S. Are you going with that guy to see Tracy Morgan???

P.P.S How amazing is it that we are both dating boys that we don’t like so we can do fun stuff for free.

Pearls. Of. Wisdom.

Now’s the time for you to guess how I chose to handle this situation.

What’s that? You guessed that I told him I would go? Yes, you know me all too well.

Clearly, Carstees talked me into texting him and accepting the offer. I think the logic went something like: “It’s Tracy Mother Fuckin’ Morgan. DO IT!” Very persuasive, Carstees. Oh yeah, and those three vodka sodas probably had something to do with it, too.

So after I sealed my fate last night, he texted me this morning to tell me the tickets are sold out. And now I’m just waiting for him to propose his shitty alternative plans to the best stand-up show ever. And clearly I can’t say I’m busy. I mean, he may not be the most intelligent guy I’ve ever gone on a date with, but if I cancel now I think that might just tip him off to the fact that I was only going to hang out with him because TMorg was in the mix.

Oh Karma, you’re such a bitch. You may now all chuckle at my self-induced misfortune. That is all.

LOST: A love affair.

2010-03-25T12:35:00.000-07:00

If you’re an avid fan of Lost blogs, you probably won’t be blown away by the following commentary. I don’t propose to have all – or any – of the answers, I just feel the need to weigh in on one of my fave shows of all time, given it's the last season and all ... *tear.

You see, Lost and I share a special history. I was one of the late adaptors, not having discovered the show until season 2. Some people argue that this is the best way to watch Lost – catching up on an entire season’s worth of episodes consecutively.

I’ll tell you this much, it sure does ease the suspense. And alleviate the panic-induced stress that stems from missing an episode during its original air time. (Oh my god, DVR, please work … Rooms, don’t accidentally hit cancel or delete … Please lord, don’t stop recording half way through a Sawyer scene …) Or I guess you could just Hulu it, but whatever.

Back to the history of my love affair with Lost – I previously mentioned that my Heterosexual Life Partner (LP) and I met studying abroad in Barcelona. We had a fourth roommate in our apartment that quickly became the anti-life-partner. Let’s call her Kitty. If I never see Kitty again in my life, I won’t be disappointed.

I hate to stereotype, but for the sake of brevity, I’m gonna. Being the little ‘ol Southern girl that I am, I had never been introduced to the term “Jappy” before I met Kitty. This urban dictionary definition eerily captures her completely. Although she and I clearly did NOT get along, I didn’t mind using her for her extensive collection of TV shows on iTunes.

Starved for any English-language media we could get our hands on, LP and I staged Lost screenings on the weekends while recovering from our all-night Barca benders. We were quickly sucked in, and subsequently bonded over the drama, the mystery, and the likes of shirtless Matthew Fox/Josh Holloway.

Four seasons later, we’re still obsessed. And can’t wait for the “answers” to be revealed. I missed Tuesday’s episode, and finally sat down to watch it last night, texting LP through its duration (things like: “Tenerife!!!!” because we travelled there while on study abroad – it was extremely intellectual commentary).

She’d already seen it, and proclaimed it “THE BEST EPISODE OF LOST SINCE THE HATCH!!!!!!!!” (There may have been even more exclamation points than that …) so I was pretty excited and expecting epic.

Which it was … But I’m getting nervous that I’m going to feel extremely let down come the end. I mean, I’d heard “the island as hell/purgatory” type theory before, and decided that it was too neat. There’s been a lot of crazy shit that’s gone down, and storylines so complex they make your head hurt. I want a complex answer, dammit. I want dark and messy, not tidy and easy.

Maybe I’m speaking prematurely, and good ‘ol JJ still has more awesome in store for us. But if everything is easily explained, I’m not sure I’ll ever get over it.

Anyway, I digress, and leave you with a few thoughts and musings from the latest episode.

Thoughts on the entire, Richard-centric first half of the episode: this shit is depressing.
Also, the bible verse he was reading before talking to the priest probably had some significance that's totally beyond me ...
I’m assuming that Richard’s ship is the same ship we’ve seen all throughout (and also trying to recall if we already know this to be true …) If so, poignant that this is where he went to finally try and die – I’m a fan of full circles.
I was totally tricked by the Man in Black’s song-and-dance, and kind of wanted to believe that he was the good guy and that Jacob is in fact the devil.
I also think it’s interesting that Dogan told Sawyer the same thing about the MIB (take this dagger, stab him as soon as you see him, don’t let him talk to you or it’s too late) that the MIB said to Richard about Jacob. (Complicated/confusing sentence, much?)
So if Jacob’s not the devil, is the Man in Black the devil? Or just evil-incarnate? What did he originally look like before Jacob “took” his humanity or body or whatever? How and why did that even happen in the first place?
The conversation with Jacob and Richard regarding right vs. wrong needs closer examination. Clearly, Jacob chooses to steer people with sordid pasts to the island. To offer them a chance for redemption? And Richard fit that bill, as he so desperately coveted forgiveness for a crime he didn’t mean to commit. I wonder why then, he can’t become Jacob’s replacement. Is he no longer a candidate because he tried to harm Jacob? Or because he’s aware of what’s going on, so can’t unknowingly choose the side of good over the side of evil?
What’s the significance of the white rock Jacob gives to the Man in Black?
Who out of our survivors do you think would be most aptly suited to replace Jacob? I actually think Locke was probably the best – he certainly wanted it the most. But I guess he was too weak in the end? I would say not Sawyer as he’s in cahoots with the MIB. Maybe Hurley?
The MIB smashing the bottle of wine = foreshadowing his escape ...?

Now that I’ve jotted these down, I’m going to go peruse the internets for other ideas/feedback/theories.

P.S. Which Lost blogs do y’all read religiously? Favorite theories for the meaning of it all? (I liked Approaching Lost because it’s organized and easy to follow, but it looks like there haven’t been any new posts in a while... Lame.)

Weekend Roundup in Pics.

2010-03-22T13:19:00.000-07:00

(Or, why I love New York City.)

Irish Car Bombs with the British Boys at Riviera.

Mad and I remembered that we hate these after we drank them.

Prescious tried to frogger out into the middle of oncoming traffic, but wasn't able to rescue the RayBans before they were smushed by a taxi.

(And yes, his friends really call him Prescious. And no, I don't know why.)

Carst and I try and meet up on Friday night. It doesn't work out.

You know how, when a bar closes and you get "locked-in" and the bartenders serve you all the free drinks you can stomach?

Saturday night with Evie was like that.

Only with cupcakes.

I think the Midnight Knitter escaped from Jersey!

Now, can it please remain 60-70 degrees and Sunny for the remainder of March?

Then I can go to Central Park with LD and try and find the Golden God (pictured below). Thank you.

The Golden God. AKA, Orange Man. AKA, LD's next boyfriend.

; )

The Mayor Saga Continues …

2010-03-21T18:33:00.000-07:00

(Or, when YOU'RE just not that into HIM.)

Shortly after I published this post pondering the Mayor situation (which you may want to read if that sentence didn’t make sense to you), I got a text from him asking what I was doing for St. Pat’s. Since my last name sounds a bit Irish and all.

Sadly – or not, depending on your feelings towards the Mayor – I had to be at work at 7:30AM the next day so we didn’t end up hanging out. Promises of meeting up during the weekend were exchanged.

I pretty much forgot about it, until I received the following text yesterday afternoon:

What are you up to tonight and tomorrow all day?

Tomorrow all day? That sounds pretty serious. I polled all of my friends for guesses as to what the all day mystery activity could be. Given the Mayor’s spending habits, and seeming connections to every kind of character you could imagine, a maiden yacht voyage was the most popular guess.

I went to bed with visions of T Pain and nautical-themed pashmina afghans dancing in my head.

The Mayor rolled in from Queens at about 3:30 this afternoon to pick me up. No wait, I believe “I’ll scoop you” were the exact words he used when letting me know that I could expect to be picked up.

Sadly, there would be no yachts in my future. He actually didn’t have anything planned, just wanted to hang out. Which is fine. I’ve been wanting to check out the High Line, so suggested it. He agreed and we made our way over.

This weekend’s Spring tease has been amazing, and a walk on the High Line was perfect. Everyone’s excitement at leaving the house sans jacket, knees barred for the first time in months was palpable. I freaking love this time of the year in New York – the misery of winter erases Spring from my memory every year, making its arrival a deliciously unexpected surprise.

After we walked, we decided food was in order. You would think choosing a place to eat in New York would be simple. There are so many options. You name it, you can have it – everything at your fingertips for the taking. It’s fucking overwhelming. And the Mayor is picky. Clearly, I made him choose the place.

The first was not to his liking, so we moved on to plan B. Which apparently no longer exists, as we couldn’t find it once we arrived at the address we’d looked up. No problem, there was a seemingly popular bistro around the corner that was serving up happy hour specials.

I happily plunked myself down at a booth, a less-enthusiastic Mayor trailing behind. You see, he’s got the irritable-New-Yorker shtick down pat. I honestly believe he thinks it’s funny and/or charming to act contrary and abrasive, and the air of confidence will bowl you over as soon as you step within a mile radius if you’re not ready for it. I don’t think he was satisfied with the forced change in plans.

A meal and a semi-argument with the waitress over a misguided beer order on my part later, and the Mayor decided it was time for ice cream. We headed over to St. Marks and got some Pink Berry then strolled around the block perusing the wares. The Mayor looks pretty awesome in a fedora, but not as good as me.

I’d had a good time up to this point, but was starting to get exhausted by all the ribbing that, apparently, comes standard on any outing with the Mayor. While I was racking my brain for a suitable next activity, he declared that we should probably call it a day, since we both have to work tomorrow.

It was 7:30.

I acquiesced, he drove me to my apartment building, I made a half-hearted suggestion that he come up and retrieve the CD he’d let me borrow a few weeks ago, he said he’d grab it later. We sat there awkwardly for another 10 seconds or so. I said, “Well, thanks – I guess I’ll see you later,” got out and that was that.

Until he texted 5 minutes later, apologizing for leaving because he “started to not feel well.” Because clearly, he couldn’t have just told me that while we were uncomfortably staring at each other minutes before.

Oh love life in NYC. You are incredible.

I relayed all of this to Evie who commented that while the Mayor’s ability to nurture a budding relationship is there, he does the bare minimum required to keep it alive. A bit of water here and there, but only enough to keep it going. She’s good, that one.

So in closing, I think I’m kind of over the Mayor. Now I have to figure out how to gracefully extricate myself from this situation (um, suggestions welcome in the comments …)

Well, until he calls me and invites me onto that yacht with T Pain. Then he can have another shot.

A note from BDW.

2010-03-18T12:59:00.000-07:00

As the biggest fan of this blog (she calls me when the frequency of posts is not to her liking), Momma J has clearly already read the story about BDW and Crazy Daze.

She hereby submits the following rebuttal regarding my suggestion that she and BDW check out hipster puppies:

BDW doesn’t wear clothes so it’s not really something we follow…We like doggy daycare and dog parks and grand champions. And the occasional party hat. Not silly little dogs wearing clothes and sun-glasses.

Actually, this kind of strikes me as something that might make it onto hipster puppies ... what do ya think?

Pooches and Smooches

2010-03-18T10:58:00.000-07:00

Kisses from the BDW (Best Dog in the World):

I realize he’s appeared more frequently as of late, and quite frankly it’s because I miss the ever-lovin-poo out of him. My continued requests that Momma J “bark him” while we’re on the phone are probably starting to annoy her. (Methods to “bark” BDW include ringing the doorbell and/or hiding his toys in the sofa cushions so he can’t find them. He goes nuts.)

And if he stays away from Momma J’s new lemon tree – which she has aptly named “Mr. Lemonhead” (No really, she named it) – than he might just still be alive by the time I make it home to Texas for a visit.

Since my pining for BDW is starting to reach epic, addict-worthy proportions, I thought dogsitting a friend’s puppy might take some of the edge off. (I think these are the kinds of statements that land recovering substance abusers in rehab … but what do I know.)

A few weeks ago, LD offered up her doggy Diasy – or as I like to call her Crazy Daze – while she went gallivanting off to Aspen for a skiing sesh with L Squared, leaving us in one of several recent “epic Snowpocalypse 2010” episodes in favor of spas and slopes. Good call LD, good call.

Crazy Daze and I started off our marathon slumber party frolicking in the snow and staging hipster puppy photo-shoots with Evie. Everything was wonderful.

Daisy will have you know that she had a Vespa way before it was considered either cool or environmentally responsible

Until I realized – I am NOT cut out to be a dog owner in NYC.

LD, you are a better lady than I.

Sure, it’s cute to watch your little furball burrow in the snow because she loves it so much. But not so cute when you take her inside and she proceeds to prance across your white couch with her soggy-snow-paws.

And I mean, it’s pretty awesome to actually be visible to the millions of New Yorkers streaming past you on the sidewalk because of your doggy accessory instead of getting steamrolled as they pretend not to notice you when it’s just you against them.

Untiiiil you’re late for work in the morning because everyone keeps stopping you to pet your dog because she’s just so cute and fluffy and spunky and energetic and oh-my-gosh where did you get her little vest, how old is she?

Another thing that’s not so cute is scraping poo off of cement. Grass? Dirt? What’s that?

For me, dog owning is all about having a backyard 4 steps away as opposed to a glorified parking lot 4 flights of stairs away.

That way, when you wake up to dog vomit on the foot of your bed (that you’ve been sleeping in all night) you can simply open the back door and let the dog out to continue being sick while you disinfect your poor comforter.

As opposed to the city alternative – hoping she’ll be able to hold it 5 more minutes while you take care of the mess, only to be sadly disappointed that you didn’t just let the vomit soak into your comforter a little bit longer while you took her outside because now you’re cleaning up diarrhea off of the living room floor.

As far as I am concerned: The suburban dog is in. The urban dog is out. (Man, I loved “Go Dog Go.”)

And as far as Momma J is concerned, this constitutes one of the best life lessons I have learned in my two plus years of city living, as I no longer wish to get a puppy.

Besides, I wouldn’t want to make the Best Dog in the World jealous.

Every rose has its thorn.

2010-03-17T11:14:00.000-07:00

No, I’m not fixing to write about a stripper that wronged me … (random aside, New Yorkers love it when I say “fixing to” …) So maybe not the most fitting title I guess, but I do have a point.

And I do oddly love Brett Michaels. I actually watched an episode of the new Celebrity Apprentice just because he’s on it this season. I mean, I would prefer another season of Rock of Love, but I guess that shit’s old after three go-rounds.

Anyway, back to the point – bear with me here. Remember the naughty Valentine escapades? Well, I actually ended up giving a couple away, and one of the guys asked for my number.

I’m attempting to enter this whole “let’s be open-minded” phase of life, so when he actually called me – CALLED ME, not texted me at 2AM on a Saturday night with, “Yo wassup” – and asked me out on a dinner date, I forced myself to say yes. I mean at the very least, it would be good practice for future first dates, right?

And let me back track and say that there’s nothing particularly wrong with him. As a matter of fact, he’s been nothing but extremely nice throughout the course of our … whatever this is we’re doing. He’s just not really my ideal type. For instance, Evie calls him the Mayor of Queens since he’s from there, and has an accent to rival any one of the characters on Jersey Shore.

To give you a brief synopsis, evidenced by the fact that he invited me to go to an awesome concert with him the weekend after (and despite the fact that he fed me sake bombs all night) the first date went well. I was probably not as together as I should have been, but I guess he didn’t mind (sorry, Momma J … I broke the obligatory ‘never drink too much on a first date’ rule).

So we went to Muse at Madison Square Garden, and it was fun, too. But I guess it’s hard to have a bad time at a concert … It’s not like you actually have to talk to each other, you just sit there and enjoy the music.

Muse at MSG

For our next dating adventure, he took me to 230 Fifth – yes please. Roof decks are an aphrodisiac for New York women – it doesn’t matter who you’re with as long as it’s nice out and you can stare at the skyline and enjoy a comfortable breeze while he buys you drinks. He’s already started with positive points for the evening, so it’s hard to crash and burn from there.

I guess the Mayor wasn't aware that he had already racked up so many points, as he informed me (while I was staring at the Empire State building) that he had bought me a yellow rose (because of the song Yellow Rose of Texas) but that he hadn’t given it to me when he picked me up because he didn’t want me to think he was too corny.

[Side Note: There is a chain of strip clubs in Austin called The Yellow Rose. I had to try really really hard not to divulge this little tidbit of Austin information. Cause you might have to be from there to think it’s funny … ]

So, things were going swimmingly … until the Mayor of Queens invited me and my girlfriends to the Cluuuurrb last Friday night. I tried, but I am just not really an ‘up-in-da-club’ kinda gal. It was awkward. And I generally find awkward funny (making people feel awkward may or may not be listed as a hobby on my Facebook page).

And now I’m kind of over it. Which is generally how these things go for me. I meet someone, get super excited about it, and then it just …. fizzles out.

I enjoy the rose until I look closely and find the thorns (especially when it's a yellow one). Oh Brett Michaels, you’re so wise.

I still have my Yellow Rose of Texas, but the Mayor and I haven’t talked since the weekend. I don’t know – maybe he’s waiting for me to text him? But honestly, I could go either way with it.

What do you think? Should I just let it go, or should I initiate another meeting with the Mayor?

I’ve yet to decide …

Committed (Or: A Sloth Makes Peace with the Gym)

2010-03-15T21:11:00.000-07:00

It would come as no great shock if my beloved Crunch came to me with divorce papers, begging and pleading to break all ties. Since the day that I vowed to renew our love and commitment, I've been terribly neglectful.

A neglect so all-encompassing that I too am starting to fall into the sort of depression that I imagine Crunch must be feeling after a month of this treatment. I have continually disregarded with wanton abandon its innocent reminders that I visit. I mean, clearly it only wants to provide love and support, right?

But for serious.

Last week I drank Tuesday through Saturday. I mean D-R-A-N-K. There was no time for Crunch. Subsequently, I'm gifting all of my friends the 12 step program and buying myself a book on avoiding the pitfalls of peer pressure. I'm sure the friends won't forget me if I deign to stay in one night. Hell, they may not even miss me.

The result of this epic binge (besides the added neglect of this blog ...) was me prostrate in bed all day Sunday ignoring any and all potential human contact.

Well, and a renewed vow to rekindle my relationship with the only one that loves me unconditionally. (OK, besides Momma J. And maybe Lil'Bro. And definitely the Best Dog in the World.)

Gratuitous picture of BDW

Yes, Crunch, I'm talking to you. You will always be The One.

When I walked in today, the girl behind the counter asked me how I was doing as she swiped my card. Pretty standard stuff. I guess my face betrayed my dread at having missed an entire week.

After I mumbled, "Fine, thanks," her face crumpled as if I'd just made her drown her own puppy.

"Excuse me?" she said, simultaneously looking like she was going to cry and eat me. (Or maybe puke and vomit, which is LP's favorite description of sheer disbelief or desolation - depends on the situation.)

I repeated with a smile (that she probably knew to be the fake sort that it was), "I said fine, thanks."

"Ooooh," she said. "I thought you said 'fine, I hate this'!"

Woops. I mean, I sort of do, but only when I walk in. When I leave, I feel great. Hell, ebullient. As I do right now following tonight's blissful (~~if not sweaty and unnatractive~~ - wait strike that, it sounds too dirty, and for once I didn't mean it!) hour-plus bonding session.

So Crunch, here's to second chances and renewed commitment. I'll try my best to be a dependable, reliable partner. And please, just remember, I will always love you no matter what.

Random but true.

2010-03-04T12:16:00.000-08:00

So I was recently "introduced" to a fellow 20-something blogger who lives in Austin and is a middle school teacher (shudder - no offense! ... ). First off, her blog is all kinds of entertaining - check it out here: Tales from the Serengeti.

Secondly, I have never had any desire to be a teacher, probably because I realize that I would be terrible at it (unlike la Beast, who seems like an awesome one).

But the number one reason that I would never ever in a million years want to become a teacher just hit me.

In case I ever decide to peek down this career path, I will just remind myself that I could never EVER EVER EVER go to work with a hangover. Clearly, anything that interferes with impromptu, mid-week boozing is out of the question for me (and most of my friends).

Guess that’s why we don't hang out with any teachers?

Ahem, my friend Skeeazy E just corrected me - apparently, we DO hang out with Teachers.

Forget Mondays ...

2010-03-01T20:28:00.000-08:00

... I have a case of the first-half-of-the-months.

Oh New York City rent. You slay me.

I think it's time we take a break.

2010-03-01T13:56:00.000-08:00

I can’t help but resent your continued appearance as I slowly peel the pages of my calendar towards spring. The first few times I saw you this past winter, I’ll admit I found you beautiful – but dangerous. And no, I’m not sorry for reducing you to such a cliché combination.

Add to that your unpredictable tendencies – no one knows exactly when you’ll show, or how long you’ll stay – and you can surely see why I think it's time we take a break.

You – you’re such an enabler, enticing me to avoid going out, to stay on the couch eating cookies while watching that Bravo TV marathon. Forcing me to don layers of puffy clothing that hide the cookie-related evidence when I do decide that enough is enough, I have to get out of this apartment.

And when I do finally venture out, despite your best efforts at keeping me in, you resort to physical reminders that the couch was a much better option. Let me tell you, I felt that bruised tailbone you gave me for at least a week. You’re almost as bad for my ass as those cookies (almost).

You stubbornly hang around, so slow to retreat. You already resemble one of those exes that leaves traces behind post-breakup – little puddles serving as a reminder of what a pain in the ass you started to be a few months into our ‘relationship’.

Yes, it was fun while it lasted, but I think it’s time you hit the road, snow and ice. I know, I know … I had decided I was ready to welcome you back into my life after enduring about four months with summer. But I’m notoriously indecisive, so you should have seen it coming.

Sure, you can try me again in seven or eight months. But until then, I think it best you not come around for a while.

Don’t take it personally.

Stuff White People Like

2010-02-25T15:31:00.000-08:00

I'm pretty sure I've previously mentioned how much I love my skeeball family. If you're tired of hearing about it, take a moment to get over it, then please continue reading.

A new skeeason (season) is hovering 'round the bend, which means we need to start practicing. Rookie tried to call the first practice today but the snowicane quashed that plan. Instead of a definitive date for practice, I came away from this particular e-mail exchange with something much more valuable.

See for yourself:

Rook: Hey Skeenormous... THUNDERBALLS!!! is going over to FCB (Ed. Note: Full Circle Bar) for some practice tomorrow night (Thu) at 7. u guys wanna join??? (Ed. Note: Skeenormous Balls & Thunderballs!!! = team names)

Skeeazy E: Guys it is supposed to be a fuckin shit storm of snow and freezing rain. I propose we reschedule for friday or saturday or pre-broty sunday. (Ed Note: BROTY = Best Roller of the Year competition)

C-Funk: won't be able to join you guys sunday - going curling during the day

Rook: The second part of that statement requires further explanation (Ed. Note: said explanation involved jokes about ascots and Connecticut but has been removed for brevity) ...that is WASPily awesome. I'm always down for a good ole' fashioned super white activity.

... on a related topic, ever notice there's like one black guy at skeeball?

C-Funk: and for all of you who have met him, he's Carlton Banks black. barely even counts.

Skeedonist: I love white people.

C-Funk: http://www.stuffwhitepeoplelike.com/

And that's when I read one of the most hilarious websites of all time - if you haven't seen it, I highly recommend you check it out.

Anyway, approximately 48 e-mails and a perusal of the website later, I came up with the following little gem (which I wrote with no one particular in mind - just all of us really):

Stuff White People Like: Skeeball Edition

Skeeball is a sport involving little movement, lots of drinking, and wooden balls – which provide endless fodder for witty (and sometimes not so witty) sexual innuendo. Since most white people have lazy, alcoholic tendencies, and love a good “that’s what she said joke,” it’s no wonder they love to play skeeball.

White people also enjoy puns because puns make them feel more intelligent. Skeeball provides white people the opportunity to employ puns with great frequen-skee, therefore further cementing the game as white people’s sport of choice.

White people also enjoy any excuse to derive clever, catchy nicknames for one another. Nicknames that correlate with inside jokes make white people even giddier, as they strengthen bonds between teammates and provide a subtle way to exclude other white people.

Nicknames also enhance the appearance of the white person’s skeeball apparel. A personalized t-shirt is a must-have when it comes to a white person’s skeeball persona, something that all players must work hard to cultivate if they wish to be taken seriously (ahem, skeeriously).

The national home of the white person’s skeeball league is in a bar in a trendy neighborhood in Brooklyn because that's where all the cool white kids hang out. The bar serves locally brewed beers and cleverly named cocktails (see above reference to white people and puns) as this makes white people feel justified in spending large sums of money on binge drinking.

In turn, the alcohol helps all of the white boys and girls dance better to Weezer songs while they wait for their turn to show off their skeeball prowess. Contrary to what one might think, skeeball does contain a certain level of skill – if it didn’t, white people wouldn’t play it because then anyone would be able to play and be good at it. If anyone were able to play, then white people wouldn’t be able to brag about how much better they are at the game than their friends, which happens to be another one of their favorite pastimes.

While all of these reasons contribute to skeeball’s level of popularity among white people, the number one reason white people like the game so much is that they suck at most other sports. Whitey from Brooklyn takes his skeeball career very seriously as he probably won’t ever have another opportunity to be featured on the face of a trading card, or in a video on ESPN.com.

Roommates: Love'm or Hate'm

2010-02-19T11:10:00.000-08:00

My living situation has vastly improved since the days of the Crazies. It feels like a million years ago that I was living in an apartment with a “family friend” from Austin. A past life ago that I had to vacate my bedroom every time my roommate (referred to sporadically in this blog as the Daughter) announced that her parents (the Mister and Missus) were coming for a visit.

I’d forgotten how unbearable things had become. I used to stand outside the door to our apartment, holding my breath, listening for telltale sounds of life within, one hand frozen just above the lock, clutching my key, hoping I wouldn’t hear anything.

But of course, the Daughter was always there. She really had nowhere else to go. In retrospect, I find this sad. At the time, I just found it annoying.

You know in Pirates of the Caribbean, how Bootstrap Bill decomposes into the side of the ship and becomes a part of the wall?

I used to tell people that it wouldn’t surprise me if the same thing happened to the Daughter. I could just picture her fused with the cushions, an extension of our couch.

She went through a phase after she lost her job where she lived permanently on the couch in the dark, watching CSI. Of course, all of my friends knew about this habit of hers because I complained about it incessantly (sorry, y’all …) Anyway, I got to wondering once…

ME: I got home yesterday evening and guess what the Daughter was doing... What's that? Did you say, "watching CSI?" How did you know?? She stayed home all day yesterday because she's "sick." When I went to bed - she was watching CSI. When I woke up this morning to get ready for work - she was watching CSI. SERIOUSLY!!! Do you think it's humanly possible to watch every CSI episode ever made? I mean, there has to be an end at some point, right??

LB: Common misconception. There is actually a never-ending supply of CSI thanks to a spin-off for every major metropolitan area, every type of crime, victim, ethnicity, weather-condition, time period, weapon- the list goes on. I would think that much CSI would really start messing with your head. She is probably going to start getting really paranoid and weird- oh wait.

Clearly my friends loved the Daughter as much as I did. But – back to the point – I am proud to say (without sarcasm this time) that my friends actually DO love my post-Daughter era roommates (affectionately referred to as “the rooms”).

And, of course, so do I.

We actually enjoy hanging out with each other. I pause outside the front door and hope for an apartment full of people instead of an empty one.

This morning, one of the rooms and I ran into each other while getting ready for work. We’re all on pretty different schedules, so this rarely happens. And as she walked out the door, after we exchanged “have a good day!,” I remembered how I used to hide in my room while getting ready for work, emerging only after the Daughter had left for the day.

My one year anniversary with the rooms is coming up in March – obviously, we’re planning a date. And looking forward to another year of awesome.

So in closing, I'd just like to say: Love you girls!

Celebrity Funeral: Matthew McConaughey

2010-02-18T14:04:00.000-08:00

What would it be like if Matthew McConaughey’s gloriously chiseled, sweaty abdominals ceased to glisten under those bright rays of sunshine? What would people say if he was no longer around to “just keep livin’?” Would they miss his sexy Southern drawl?

We found out last night during Celebrity Funeral: Matthew McConaughey at the Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre.

Eugoogolizers included:

•Camilla Alves (via Skype – she’s busy these days folks, and didn’t mind telling us all about her new show Shear Genius “which airs on Bravo WED @ 10/9C” instead of actually eugoogolizing Matt)

• Charles Dickens (you know him – he gave Matt his permission to adapt his semi-famous play A Christmas Carol into the now largely-famous movie Ghosts of Girlfriends Past)

• Padma Lakshmi (who apologizes for the fight she got into with Camilla during the funeral – but still maintains that she and Matt would have made a far better movie-star/Bravo-TV-host-couple)

Of course, one of my favorite speakers of the night was Matt’s shirt. Yes, his shirt:

Clearly Shirt had some repressed anger to express – all those times Matt discarded him in favor of a trip to the beach or a run with his best bros Lance Armstrong and Jake Gyllenhaal. You can imagine how badly Shirt needs some serious therapy.

But I must say, the number one eugoogaly of the night goes to ….

Maya Angelou.

As played by a white man.

I was confused at first too, but then when I heard Maya speak of the racy relationship she had with Matt, I understood. I would attempt to paraphrase the poem she read for him – entitled “Can you find the buried treasure?” – but I wouldn’t do it any justice. And it’s entirely way too vulgar – unless you don’t find the thought of Maya Angelou’s lady parts offensive.

All in all, the whole thing was pretty enjoyable – from the slideshows of Matt’s abs to the bongo full of his “ashes” that they placed up at the podium, there were lots of laughs to be had.

My biggest complaint was the length – entirely too short. And I think my expectations were pretty high, since the last time I was at the Upright Citizens Brigade Amy Sedaris was a guest in the show.

Imagine Strangers with Candy live before your eyes. Yes please.

In any case, I’ve now resolved to up my current average number of trips to UCB per year (ahem... that would be 1) – and am now accepting applicants for UCB-going companions.

The makings of a great V-Day are…

2010-02-16T11:28:00.000-08:00

No expectations. And lots of great friends.

I honestly can’t remember what I did last year for Valentine’s Day. Which I’ll file under “success” as no memories are better than the drama-full/depressing/woe-is me kind of V-Days that many ladies speak of.

I’ve been guilty of wallowing in a bit of V-day related self-pity in the past – during the tender young years of my elementary school days no less. Momma J likes to tell a story about the time she read an entry in my diary about Valentine’s Day (thanks Mom…). Apparently, it went something like, “Dear Diary, Today was the worst EVER. No one gave me any flowers and my dog ate my chocolates.”

This year, I didn’t need flowers or chocolates – I had the Brewskeeball National Championship (BBNC), girlfriends, alcohol and arts and crafts.

I kick-started the 14th with Mad, her two roommates and Carstees at Ulysses for brunch. Mad is probably one of the only people that could get me to venture to the Financial District for brunch at 12:45 on a Sunday morning. It was definitely worth it – buffet style ham, turkey, pancakes, sausage, bacon, eggs benedict, oysters. etc., etc. Yum.

There were lots of couples and several families there celebrating V-Day. I’m sure they all appreciated our inappropriate topics of conversation and overzealous use of the F word. Also, Mad accidentally backhanded some lady’s face as she walked by the line of us perched at the bar. Success.

Mad and Carstees are also the only people whom I’d go to The Patriot with (ever, let alone on V-Day). They’re also the only ones that have ever invited me – hmmm. Correlation? If you’ve never been, picture the shadiest dive bar you have ever been to, then multiply times 3. Add in a crazy looking bearded guy who brings his toy dinosaurs to the bar every Sunday and orders them rounds of shots, and then you will have The Patriot.

Next stop: Full Circle Bar to watch our friend Rookie Monster roll in the Brewskee-Ball National Championship (BBNC). If you’ve read previous entries, you know by now that I belong to a skeeball league and that we’re kind of fanatical (OK, extremely fanatical). Watching Rook roll as one of the top 64 players in the nation was pretty awesome.

The bar was packed and the energy hit you like a tidal wave as soon as you stepped in the door. Being part of something that’s beginning to get so much attention and acclaim is exhilarating. For instance, one of our top rollers, Ocean, was just featured in a clip on ESPN. See below for “How to Hurl a Hundo” as well as additional picks from the BBNC this weekend.

metromix : BBNC pics

Last on my V-Day agenda was arts and crafts with part of my girl-entourage homance. The act of making the cards was actually more fun than handing them out to strangers.

Now that V-Day is over, we can all set our sights on St. Patty’s Day. Get ready for Hoboken everyone!

Ice Ice Baby

2010-02-10T13:22:00.000-08:00

Snowmaggedon/Snowpocalypse 2010. You'd think people have never seen snow before...

Enjoy the pics, as well as some of my favorite links:

Weatherman in Baltimore

Metaphorically Speaking...

And then there's this:

"This blizzard is coming in hard..."

I left early for work this morning so I could try and document (no snow day for me...):

Caption this image:

2010-02-08T19:25:00.000-08:00

Part of our office is currently under construction. Which means that we all have to enter on the top floor, walk through our design department, then descend to our respective floors from there. Ugh.

Which I suppose is the reason they posted this ... er... helpful - ? - sign to guide us towards design. I'm not quite sure what it's supposed to mean - decapitation is pretty much the only thing that comes to mind:

(first few letters redacted above ...)

So I'm soliciting captions - here and elsewhere (where people might actually read and respond... ). Go a-HEAD, give me your best shot.

UPDATE: A sampling of the entries, for your entertainment:

When we're on a deadline we never lose our head...oh, wait a minute!

Looks like someone's got a case of the Mondays.

Design: They'll blow your mind away.

We don't have bathrooms, we just kill you...with our designs.

I hear she gives good head.

Blog Rant: Why We Blog

2010-02-08T09:35:00.000-08:00

I’ve recently had conversations with several people regarding the banality/triviality/superficiality of many blogs residing on the “Internets.”

And I suppose mine may fall into this category.

But …

I try to be accessible, to be witty and entertaining in my ramblings. I try to post things frequently enough to hold any sort of interest I’m lucky enough to capture.

I realize that these are stories mostly about me, and that you probably don’t care if I ever talk to that one guy that I really liked ever again, or that I think brunch is one of the greatest inventions on the planet and that New York City is the preeminent place for it.

Maybe you don’t think that the exploits of my best friend and I (a.k.a. Heterosexual Life Partner - LP) are quite as hilarious as we do. I mean, we find the fact that we continually get ourselves into some pretty preposterous situations endlessly entertaining.

Come on – how many of YOU have met the winner of Israel’s American-Idol-equivalent while eating bacon-wrapped hotdogs at 2 AM, only to call bullshit (we really thought those were fake accents …) then later learn that he’s telling the truth after looking up the web address on the bottom of the business card he gave you? (Yes, business card! I also received an e-mail address instead of a phone number the other day as well – another tale for another time).

Of course, I would be thrilled if you did find this interesting. Hell, some of my favorite blogs are exactly this – random snapshots of other people’s lives that I find endlessly fascinating. (See: Stephanie Klein’s Greek Tragedy; Jennsylvania; Suburban Turmoil).

It’s like an escape into someone else’s reality. An excuse to encourage the voyeur inside yourself. A chance to temporarily banish boredom or the remnants of a bad day.

So I guess that’s what I’m offering. A chance for strangers (but realistically, I’m sure, mostly just a handful of friends) to hear about life in the City, to – hopefully – get a kick out of the crazy situations I frequently land myself in.

Belatedly, I realize that I should have chosen another name for this blog in order for the following argument to hold validity. But I still stand by it – I just like puns and thought “Tex and the City” would be cute.

I’m no Carrie Bradshaw, and – even though girls my age that blog tend to be involuntarily slapped with this label – I’m not trying to be one. Seriously.

Just trying to create an outlet for all of these words swirling about in my head that demand they be formed into proper thoughts; into sentences that march across a page.

Big Yellow Taxi

2010-02-04T15:08:00.000-08:00

I remember the first time I hailed a cab in New York City. I felt extremely self-conscious – was I doing it right? Was I supposed to hold my arm up high, or out and down? Could everyone streaming past me on the sidewalk tell that I had no clue what I was doing?

I realize now how silly that was – short of throwing yourself in front of a cab to stop it, no one cares how you do it. Just stick your arm out and pray that your driver is semi-normal, because – lemme tell ya – I’ve been stuck with my fair share of the crazy ones.

Once, while heading downtown with Skeazy E and K-Mother-Effin-S after work, a cab of the crazy persuasion found us. The driver careened recklessly through intersections and turns, paying no heed to our not-so-subtle back seat hollers and commentary.

I remember looking over at K, proclaiming that we’d stumbled upon a death cab. Which prompted Skeazy E to remark, “That must make us cuties, then.” Always word-smithing and punning, that one…

I’ve found since then that most cabs fit into one of two extremes: warp speed or agonizingly slow.

Some zip and zigzag through traffic dangerously like angry yellow jackets, while others amble along like affable bumble bees, drunk on pollen.

Most, however, seem to magically avoid accidents. I’ve decided there’s a higher probability for accidents on the highways of Texas than anywhere in Manhattan. Maybe because there’s less space here. Maybe because we’re able to drive at faster speeds there. Probably because one of them has scores of teenage drivers and the other doesn’t.

But, the other day, I witnessed my first full-fledged, taxi-related accident – and it wasn’t even the taxi’s fault.

I was standing on the corner, across the street from the office, waiting for the traffic light to change. Impatiently of course. It was snowing and I was cold.

Something made me pause for a beat after the white hand illuminated the cross walk. Or maybe I always do this but am now hyper-aware of it.

That’s when a huge white construction van barreled into the back of the innocent little cab stopped at the light in front of him.

I’m pretty sure I – and several other people – screamed. I definitely remember that my heart was racing. One onlooker ran over to the cab and opened the door. The driver spilled out onto the icy asphalt, writhing in pain, clutching his head. There were no passengers in the back.

The driver seemed pretty out of it, I’m sure shifting to park was the farthest thought from his mind. Which would explain the renewed screaming as the cab – left to its own devices – started slowly rolling towards a stationary bus full of people, stranded mid-intersection. Several men – transformed from ordinary suits to heroic bystanders – ran to either side of the moving car, restraining it by its side view mirrors.

At this point, a large crowd had gathered. An ambulance had been called. I felt compelled to stay and run at the same time.

In the end, I shuffled slowly into our office building, jaw still dropped. And it hit me, that no one I know ever wears a seatbelt while riding in the back of a cab.

Time to start.

Return of the BBCC

2010-01-27T12:25:00.000-08:00

A few days ago, I revealed Momma J's tendency to send me random gifts at the office (a proclivity of hers that I happen to love... and always encourage).

Today, I shall reveal (sorry mom... ) her tendency to share TMI. Of course, I guess this makes me guilty of TMI-infringement also, but oh well here goes.

Momma J: Ok, so yesterday we enjoyed our Bourbon Bacon Caramel Corn. That afternoon I had such horrific gas I had to step outside several times.

This morning one of my co-workers told me he had to leave early yesterday because he was about to explode from a burrito he’d eaten at lunch. I asked him if he was sure it was the burrito, since I too was having a terrible problem - I was beginning to suspect the BBCC.

You can help us get the “bottom” of this…. Did you notice any gas after eating your BBCC?

Me: Not that I recall. And I'm pretty sure I would recall.

Also, you know that this very may well end up on the BLOG now.

Mwaaahahahaha.

Dinner Party 1C Style.

2010-01-26T19:36:00.000-08:00

Tonight is calzones and Gossip Girl Season 1 (or XOXO as one of the Rooms calls it) at Apt. 1C.

While the calzones are long gone, the XOXO is just about to start. First, I wanted to take a moment to memorialize our delicious, hard work. Betcha can't guess which calzones belong to the girls, and which to the boys.

(And yes, the boys are as excited for the Gossip Girl portion of the evening as we are. Err... maybe that's just all the beer and Old Crow talking...)

Score one more for Jersey Shore...

2010-01-20T19:32:00.000-08:00

Thank you Jersey Shore for giving me - in addition to hours of mindless entertainment - the guidette nickname generator, the urge to giggle every time someone says the word "situation," a reason to throw one of the most hilariously tacky theme parties of all time, an overall boost in self-esteem, AND ...

the perfect pop-culture comparison for our IT Guy at work.

There have been many times that I've tried explaining the situation (ha) that is ITG. But it wasn't until last week's two-hour J Shore special that I realized ITG IS The Situation. It was quite an epiphany, let me tell you.

I'm not saying that I've never resorted to the word "guido" whilst explaining the glory that is ITG. It's just not seemed descriptive enough until now. Now, everyone gets it.

Yes, ITG looks and talks remarkably like The Situation. His body may more closely resemble The Situation's sister, Melissa (minus the boobs...), but lack of muscle hasn't stopped him from going after the ladies just as hard as The Situation and his situation.

My top 5 fave things about ITG include:
1. He goes to Miami for "Spring Break" ... and is in his 30's
2. He spends weekends in "AC" scoping out house music (and most likely "fist bumpin' like a champ")
3. He's so tan, LD thought he might be half black (he's not)
4. He's always in "prime creep mode" ... even at work
5. He wears D&G jeans that look a 'lil somethin' like this ... even at work:

PS, ladies - he's single (shocker). Let me know if you want me to hook you up.

The Enabler

2010-01-19T10:29:00.000-08:00

Recently, I went on an Amazon book-buying spree. I'm pretty positive that the guys in the mailroom have gotten tired of delivering packages to my desk. I have not tired of receiving them, however.

Now that all of the holidays are over, and effing Valentine's Day is the only thing we have to "look forward to" as we serve out the rest of our winter sentence, I need something that elicits a little excitement in life.

And if packages that I have ordered for myself - that I already know the contents of - elicit said excitement, imagine what the arrival of an unknown, slightly-larger-than-book-size package did for my day.

After receiving my third glare of the morning from Mailroom Man as he dropped it off, I remembered that Momma J had mentioned the purchase of an impulse-presie, which she'd sent to my office.

I wasn't sure what the appropriate reaction should be as I recovered this gem of a present from the depths of the box:

Hilarity and heartburn are, naturally, where I've netted out with this one.

Upon calling to thank her, she ended the conversation with: Have you gotten that pool membership yet? I saw those new pictures posted on your FaceBook page and I think you should really start thinking about ways to get enough exercise with that knee of yours.

Because Bacon Bourbon Caramel Corn really says, "I'm concerned for your health and the ratio of your diet-to-exercise level."

And that is the story of my life - I've gotten this from 3 generations of women on my mom's side of the family since I was old enough to understand the word "diet". (Probably like, 1st grade or so. Ya know, the norm...)

Just wait, unborn daughter that I may or may not someday have - I will probably do this to you, too.

Passion Pit is the Shit.

2010-01-14T12:17:00.000-08:00

IMO.

-Terminal 5; January 8, 2010

You come beating like moth's wings

Spastic and violently

Whipping me into a storm

Shaking me down to the core

But you run away from me

And you've left me shimmering

Like diamond wedding rings

Spinning dizzily down on the floor

(I love this because it speaks to me of most every relationship I've had ... )

Power Box

2010-01-13T12:52:00.000-08:00

Even though my first bromance-making endeavor was technically a failure, BrewSkee-Ball has totally come through for me.

-Team moniker-

Not only have I added a few bros to my roster, I've picked up a few new girlfriends as well.

When the guys introduced me to their teammate Mad, I fell instantly in love with her (as people are apt to do). Luckily, the feeling was mutual – hence the birth of the homance, as coined by one of my all-time fave bros, Skeazy E.

We’re well into our second skeeson (a.k.a. season) of [insert appropriate pre-fix]-mance, and things couldn’t be better. Returning to Full Circle after the holidays – the “national home of BrewSkee-Ball” – was more exciting than returning to my actual family during the holidays (sorry, Mom).

Side-note: Ironically, there's also an off-shoot league in Austin. I’ve checked out some of the pictures (and though I’m admittedly biased) have concluded that my NYC fam looks way more fun. No offense, Austin.

Anyway, Mad and I were talking resolutions after the holidays, and I told her about my goal to, err… make some goals.

Which is when she mentioned the Power Box, a concept that one of her friends has apparently successfully employed. Supposedly, the box will work for anything – goals, resolutions, hopes, dreams, wishes – however you’d like to frame it.

Mad’s friend, for instance, really wanted to be in a committed relationship. So she spent time thinking about all of the qualities she’d like to find in a significant other. She then spent time choosing the type of paper and the type of box that she wanted to use to record and store her thoughts.

She wrote the traits down on her paper, folded them neatly and put them in her box. She put the box underneath her bed. A few months later, she met someone with 90% of the characteristics she had identified and stored in the box.

Crazy.

I don’t know – you may be one of those people that think these types of things are a crock ‘a shit. I used to be, until The Family Psychic.

But I think you have to believe in it for it to work. Because ultimately, what it makes you do is believe in yourself.

It forces you to put thought into the things that you want to accomplish. The act of writing them down and putting them out there commits you. It’s like keeping a food journal.

And if you put them out there, you’re more likely to accomplish those goals than if you’d just left them swimming around in your subconscious.

Mad went out and bought her box – she said the one she chose was on sale because it was kind of broken. But that she had to have it, because she thinks she’s kind of broken as well. I was impressed with how much thought she put into it and am susbequently sucked in.

I’m going to make a Power Box.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

Drunk Brunch

2010-01-11T20:26:00.000-08:00

For me, brunch is a verb unique to NYC. I can't actually recall a time in Austin when I called up my lady friends and said, "Let's brunch."

Which is actually quite a shame, as brunching is one of my favorite weekend activities. Without it, my weekends would - surprisingly - be less productive.

Brunch is dragging my hung-over (read: still drunk) ass out of bed when all I really want to do is sleep in 'til 3. Brunch is catching up with friends. And, brunch is just plain delicious.

Even though we have our go-to places (ahem... Cafe Orlin), we've decided to make more of an effort to branch out lately. I feel like the possibilities are endless - we could choose a different restaurant every weekend until the end of time with no overlap.

And this past Saturday (after marathon nights of drinking on Thursday and Friday) a gaggle of us girls met for noon-time brunch at Primehouse.

I believe I've mentioned the drastic lengths Momma J once took to ensure that my New York family enjoy a bit of BBQ during my first trip up here - a testament to the fact that we Texans take our meat seriously.

So needless to say, I was excited for some steak & eggs action at Primehouse, and couldn't pass on the Surf and Turf Hash when I spied it on the menu: braised short rib, shrimp, poached eggs and pommerey mustard hollandaise sauce atop a pile of hashbrowns.

Sounded like a good choice to me.

Wrong.

There was only one itty-bitty, puny, baby-sized piece of short rib hidden in the entire dish. As there were 10 of us sprawled out in the middle of the restaurant -and 6 of us threw down cards - I (graciously, IMO) waited until we had paid and were leaving the restaurant to play disgruntled diner.

My friend L-Squared volunteered her moral support while I went to confront the waiter.

Me: I don't mean to be obnoxious, but I just wanted to let you know that I ordered the Surf and Turf Hash, and there wasn't really any turf with my surf.

Waiter: Huh?

Me: There was only one itty-bitty, baby piece of turf in my "Surf" AND "Turf" Hash.

Waiter: Uh... [lengthy and confused pause]... which one is the turf?

Really? Really waiter at a renowned STEAKHOUSE? You don't know the difference in definition between SURF and TURF?

Me: Uh... the beef? You know, like land vs. sea...?

Waiter: Oh. Right. Thanks for letting me know - I mean, it's not my fault, but I guess I could... like, tell the chefs or something so I don't get this same complaint again later.

Really? Really waiter at an "upscale" restaurant? You think I thought you were back there in the kitchen neglecting my steak addiction? And you're not going to offer to comp anything - that is, if I ever even decide to bestow my patronage upon you again in the future? Not even a free cocktail on the house?

Nope, apparently not.
It pains me to say this, but Primehouse: Fail.

In the end though, even if the location lets us down from time to time, the actual act of brunching never will. Cocktails + Friends will always = Success.

Ladies: can't wait 'til next weekend!

The only crimson tide we fear...

2010-01-07T15:01:00.000-08:00

As any good college football fan knows, tonight is the BCS National Championship game between Texas and Alabama.

Of course, I prepared accordingly this morning by donning all of the office-appropriate burnt orange attire I could find. A 'lil sneak preview for you:

Yes, that is a very large, bedazzled, burnt orange longhorn pinned to my jacket. And I may also be wearing a burnt orange scarf, bracelet, and earrings as well. And yes, everyone in New York City has been starring at me all day:

In other news, I leave you with the best propaganda I have seen on FaceBook all day - courtesy of El Arroyo (mmmm... queso....):

Update: Obviously the outcome of this game was not what we Longhorns had hoped. But, I must say that our baby-Freshman QB, Garrett Gilbert, deserves a ton of praise, even though many of my fellow fans don't seem willing to bestow it upon him. He did a pretty damn fine job considering the amount of playing time he's had throughout the season, and the amount of PRESSURE absolutely crushing him during that game.

And, I'd also like to note, that I was extremely weirded out by the number of fans talking about Garrett as if they're old buddies. I'd never really noticed the tendency that we fans have to do this... and the extent to which we do it... until now, as I know Garrett as a surrogate little brother of sorts.

His family is super close with my best friend from highschool's family, and we used to babysit him, his brother, and the other neighborhood boys circa their Power-Ranger-whitie-tightie years. I'm so proud of the awesome young man that Garrett's become, and can't wait to watch his continued success throughout the next few years. (Although I will have a hard time reconciling this new, "famous" Garrett with whightie-tightie Garrett... )

I also wanted to take a moment to note that I'm channeling all of my post-playoff energy into basketball season - Sexy Dexy and the rest of the boys are lookin' good, and I can't wait for March Madness.

Hook'em.

The crappiest "dating" tool known to man.

2010-01-07T13:43:00.000-08:00

I’ve previously mentioned my hang-ups with “boyfriends” and Facebook statuses, but Facebook messages are clearly the more obnoxious and intrusive alternative to the (most often, if at all) subliminal messages ensconced within an innocent status update.

An update is meant for everyone, so I blame myself if I misconstrue meanings, or take personal affront. Messages addressed directly to me, on the other hand, are obviously easier to criticize and dissect.

Case in point: Jewish Boyfriend No. 1 (why the Jewish boys seem to like me, I’m not quite sure… ). JBN1 and I met one eventful Happy Hour through our mutual friend CB (whom I’ve mentioned before). I was late (per usual) and JBN1 was clearly flirting with one of CB’s co-workers when I arrived. We’ll call her Slutvana.

Aside from the fact that she sucks anyway, Slutvana just so happens to be from Oklahoma – and it’s my civic duty as a good Texan to discredit and harangue anyone unfortunate enough to be a Sooner. We commenced the standard TX/OU banter, and I quickly cemented myself as the more witty of the two of us. JBN1 quickly tossed her aside and set his sights on me.

Happy Hour turned into more hours, and we all moved on to JBN1’s place, then on to the bar. After an unsuccessful make out attempt, we went our separate ways and I didn’t hear from him again save the obligatory friend request on FB. Until …. :

As background, I – along with 10 other people – publicly endorsed his dumb status about milk steak and jellybeans (if you don’t watch Always Sunny then A) FOR SHAME and B) you have no idea what I’m talking about).

Which brings us back to my original argument that status updates aren’t meant to MEAN anything – they just are. Clearly JBN1 read more into the fact that I “liked” his status than he should have. And CLEARLY, I had to forward the resulting FB message to LP immediately.

Me: This was in my in-box yesterday …. [msg from JBN1 attached]

LP: Wait this is the NFL guy, right??? [Ed. Note: We’ll get to that guy later…] I mean he didn’t even take the time to proof read the note which makes me feel like he wasn’t trying too hard. That said, maybe he was just too nervous to reread it. Either way, I say make him sweat it out for a while. But, it’s kind of awkward to wait for a couple of weeks to see him again. Like are you gonna Gchat until Thanksgiving? What do you think? Does this guy have potential?

Me: LOL – NOOOOOOOO. This is CB’s friend JBN1!! From like, a YEAR ago when we had that 90’s dance party at that awesome bar that I’ve never been able to find ever again [Ed. Note: I am STILL looking for this bar… I think it’s in the West Vill? Maybe?]. And we went to their apartment in Stuy Town before that – memories??

LP: OMG!!!!!!!!! That’s hysterical. Wow…. I don’t even know how to respond to this.

P.S. OMG… WTF, LOL. What the crap.

P.P.S. What was his status that you commented on?

P.P.P.S. What made him wait “a couple of weeks” to contact you after you commented on his status? Like the year you spent with out talking to each other wasn’t long enough?

P.P.P.P.S. Can I tell CB, or is this better left between us?

Gotta love her – all appropriate responses, IMO.

Anyway, I was nice, I responded… And – SHOCKER – didn’t hear back for another few weeks. Also of note, I received the message shortly after posting a status about Mitzvah tanks. Freaking Jews…

Upon hearing this, LP admonished me to watch out, that he was likely going to try and convert me and that I should prepare myself by eating copious amounts of pork.

When I revealed that the message was an invite to hang out on NYE, LP pointed out that perhaps he just wanted to make sure he saw me once in 2009.

Anyway, the moral of the story is one we all already know but seemingly forget. Facebook is the crappiest “dating” tool known to man. That is all.

Reflecting and Resolving

2010-01-02T18:10:00.000-08:00

Happy 2010! Hope everyone had fun celebrating, and that you've all sufficiently recovered from your resulting hangovers.

This year's festivities definitely topped last year's (which wasn't a tall order). I was a bit too enthusiastic with the champagne last year, and also fell prey to a few of Rachey's poison drinks so didn't actually end up leaving my apartment.

This year, I paced myself better at the beginning of the evening, but things went downhill when LD confiscated a bottle of champagne for the two of us to share at midnight. So far, none of the pictures that have surfaced have been scandalous, and I'm hoping that trend continues...

As for resolutions moving forward, I've not dwelt on the matter too much. I do know, though, that I'd like to sit down and map out a few goals for myself in an effort to accomplish something new this year. Of late, I've begun to suspect that I am actually kind of lazy...

And I don't want to be lazy, complacent. Sometimes I'm able to fool myself into thinking I'm not. That I'm on some path to bigger and better things. I'll have euphoric New York weekends, distracted by the energy, the rarities, oddities, and curiosities I'm sometimes lucky enough to stumble upon.

But then, the feeling creeps its way in. It usually happens at night when I'm impatiently waiting for dreams. I'll start to make them up before I totally slip into sleep, and then can't stop thinking about all of the things I need and want to accomplish.

It's like, when we were kids and we'd try to make it from one end of the swimming pool to the other, completely under water.

We started out confident, propelling ourselves with our feet from the wall at the shallow end, speeding towards the deep end like rockets. But once we crossed from shallow to deep, we'd start to loose momentum, run out of breathe, and will ourselves to hold on a little longer so that we could make it to the other side.

That's what the feeling is like. My chest constricts as if I'm under the weight of the water. My body fills with tension and my head feels heavy and full. I think that if I just keep going, I'll find a way to make it to the other side so that I can kick to the top and break through the surface.

If only I could figure out what it is that I'm aching so badly to do. I think I could hold my breath long enough, I could kick a little harder, stretch my arm and fingertips as far as possible to reach my goal so that I could breathe easy again.

I'm scared that I won't figure it out, that I won't find a way to release this pressure inside of me. I've crossed from shallow to deep, but I don't really know where I'm aiming to go from here.

I made it to New York, but I need to decide what I want to do now that I'm here. So that's my resolution for myself in 2010. To set a few goals that I can accomplish, insead of just floating along, holding my breath and waiting for something to happen.

Christmas Chef-tacular

2009-12-30T12:30:00.000-08:00

One of my first food memories is baking glitter cookies with my great grandmother in her kitchen. My cousins and I used to stage sleepovers at her house and baking inevitably worked its way into our agenda.

Grandmother Lang would measure out the dry ingredients for the cookies and let us pour them into the mixing bowl. We'd fight over who got to crack the eggs. She usually ended up fishing stray pieces of shell out of the batter regardless of which sous-chef won egg honors.

She had a kitchen table that folded away into the wall like a Murphy bed. The leg hung down just within reach of our little hands - we used to hit it against the wall like a door-knocker, re-creating the scene in the Wizard of Oz where Dorothy arrives in the Emerald City while we waited for the cookies to come out of the oven.

Once the door to the Emerald Palace had turned back into a kitchen table, we'd spread Grandmother Lang's assortment of sprinkles across its surface while (I'm sure) she braced herself for the mess that would soon ensue.

Twenty-something years later Grandmother Lang is gone, but her recipes are still with us. We made her rolls for Thanksgiving dinner and one of my aunts brought glitter cookies for Christmas (even though we tease her for being the worst cook in the family - someday, I will describe "cake balls" and everyone will understand why).

My grandmother (Grandmother Lang's daughter) is also a great cook. The trait was passed down to Momma J and one of her brothers, and in turn, on to me and Lil'Bro.

This year for Christmas, Grandmother bought everyone a cookbook. This is nothing new - someone inevitably gets a cookbook every year- it was just the first time cookbooks were the featured present. I give her points for trying, but I think Grandmother might be loosing it just a bit...

The first few selections were perfectly typical. Lil'Bro got Bobby Flay's Bold American Food (one of his faves, along with Tyler Florence). He's already planning to make barbecued ribs with peanut-chipotle sauce for NewYears:

My uncle got Hubert Keller's Burger Bar. He's lucky he kept a watchful eye on it, otherwise it may have ended up in someone else's pile:

Then I unwrapped... The Official Southern Ladies' Guide to Being a "Perfect Mother":

A few gems for your entertainment:

You know you're a Southern Mother if:
You took the initiative to help pick your daughter's husband, silver pattern, honeymoon destination, and even the flowers in the table decorations - at her birth.

You keep a discrete stash of sedatives for use during important events if needed.
Your Granny's idea of "going green" is with creme de menthe.

At some point in her life, every Southern female experiences the shock and awe of recognition: I have turned into. . .her. I AM MY MOTHER.
[so true. it's already happened to me.]

I mean, I get the joke - I live in New York, she wanted me to have a Southern cookbook. But... really? Forget Hubert and Bobby - clearly, I was gifted the winner.

Until Momma J opened her cookbook:

Morbid? But funeral food is also a big Southern thing, I guess...

Surprisingly, the biggest hit was a cookbook devoted entirely to bread, which Momma J had bought with the intention of giving to someone as a gift, but couldn't part with:

My uncle entertained us all by reading excerpts aloud, our favorite being Jim Lahey on the beginnings of his bread-baking career:

I baked bread for the first time to impress a girl. I was in college... Bread's sculptural quality attracted me. I don't think anybody else I knew then, crazy as they were, would imagine that thrusting a loaf at his girlfriend was the most romantic idea in the world.

The juxtaposition of "thrust" and "loaf" was enough to reduce us to inappropriate comments and laughter for a good half hour. (I love my family...)

Whether this fine selection of cookbooks was given in earnest or meant in humor, I can't say. All I know is, they definitely made for another successful family Christmas.

You know you've never left highschool* when...

2009-12-30T08:01:00.000-08:00

(*specific to my lovely alma mater)

...your FaceBook fan pages consist of the following:

Index:

1. The lake we grew up on
2. The short-lived, crappy burger restaraunt started by some kid we graduated with (located approximately 300 yards from our highschool campus)
3. The amatuer band made up entirely of guys we went to highschool with (also of note, they are all related)
4/5. Italian restaurants run by your highschool buddy's dad (approximately 1 mile from our highschool campus)

In other hometown rants, please see the following:

Oh Amy, I sure did.

Trip in Pix: ATX

2009-12-29T15:11:00.000-08:00

Happiness is...

Beer and Cupcakes.

Texans Know Best:

Around town: Capitol + 360 Bridge

Around town: Lake Austin and Mozart's

A few of my favorite things: Xmas trees on the side of the Hwy

Best dog in the world turns 3:

From total domination to loss: Why I never play board games with Lil'Bro

Over the river and through the woods: Real tree at Gmother's

Hope your holiday was as great as mine!

Annual Xmas Blizzard: '09 Edition

2009-12-20T21:07:00.000-08:00

Last year, several of my friends fell victim to the huge snow storm that hit around Christmas-time while I was lucky enough to make it out.

This year, however, joke's on me - I spent the weekend snowed in with the rest of New York City.

After a tacky sweater party and a night on the town with the HLP and EV on Friday night, I was actually quite proud that I woke up on time, showered, "put my face on" (as my Southern grandma would say) and got to the airport in one piece.

The line to check in was a monstrosity, and of course, I had to check my bag since I'd opted to drag the largest of my suitcases back to Texas in anticipation of cramming a bunch of Christmas gifts in there for the return trip.

As I got closer to the front of the line, I noticed that a bunch of the flights were cancelled. My outlook was not so good as I stepped up to the ticket counter.

When the Southwest employee told me my flight was just delayed as opposed to cancelled, I got so excited that I apparently made a great impression on him, and he instantly fell in love.

I'm not kidding, he told me he hoped I'd "come back and see him real soon." Weird. But whatever.

I made it through security and to my gate, but realized I was probably going to miss my connecting flight. While waiting in line to try and sort it out, I struck up a conversation with this guy from West Point. We started chatting because he was wearing a Texas ballcap - which was weird since he proceeded to say some not-so-nice things about Austin.

Obviously, I pointed out the irony of this, and told him he probably didn't deserve to be wearing that hat. IAAB, as me and Rach would say (I am a bitch).

He was also an inch shorter than me and dipping. Cleary a winner - almost as good as my new Southwest Airlines ticket counter boyfriend.

Anyway, I was definitely going to miss my connection and there were no other flights going to Austin. They suggested I take the first flight (to Chicago Midway), stay the night, and then take the first flight to Austin the next morning.

Oh, and did they mention, they weren't going to pay for my hotel.

The next option was to fly out tomorrow (Monday) morning. As much as I wanted to stay in some random hotel near the airport in Chicago on my own dime, I went ahead and re-booked.

Next step: find the big-ass suitcase I had just checked. They told me to go wait by baggage claim and that they would have someone bring it out.

I waited. And waited. And waited. There were no Southwest employees behind the downstairs counter, so I finally went back upstairs to visit my SWA boyfriend.

Clearly, he was overjoyed to see me. Clearly, the girl he was talking to at the time was not as A) I skipped the entire line and B) the guy stopped talking to her in midsentence to help me find my bag.

Fast forward 3 hours later, and he was finally able to find out that they put my bag on the plane to Chicago. FML.

At that point, I was beyond being upset and instead had reached the place where everything goes so wrong that it ends up being hilarious. I took a cab BACK to my apartment (yes, $60.00 wasted) and, as I was walking in the door, got a call from my SWA boyfriend telling me that he had in fact found my bag at LGA and that he would hold it for me if I wanted to come back and get it.

FML x TWO.

I had him send it on to Austin, where it will (hopefully) be waiting for me. While I'm kind of pissed that I missed two days of scheduled vacay in Austin, I have to admit that the first real snow that piles up in the City is pretty magical. It only stays this pristine for a short time before turining into dirty, runny, brown sludge. I'll enjoy it while I can:

Always love for Always Sunny

2009-12-16T15:22:00.000-08:00

Hulu + Always Sunny = Instant cure for boredom.

Dennis: No. Women aren’t allowed to try out for football.

Dee: That’s ridiculous. They should at least be able to try out.

Dennis: Well, there are plenty of other sports that women can try out for. Like, uh, cooking and…

Mac: Complaining to your friends about your boyfriends.

Dennis: Yeah. Playing… Playing at ballet.

Mac: Cleaning. Displaying cars at auto shows in tiny bikinis.

Dennis: Yeah. When you get older, you can play bridge together. I don’t know…

We think we're as funny as Dennis and Sweet Dee... Sometimes.

Me: Drew reminds me exactly of Mac.

Lil' Bro: Charlie (friend from HS) reminds me of Charlie.

Me: Oh, and you remind me of Frank.

Lil' Bro: Oh yeah, well you remind me of Artemis.

Me: I love you, too.

Marathon Weekend: Part II

2009-12-16T12:50:00.000-08:00

The weekend that LP had her boy meltdown (what seems like a million years ago as opposed to mere months), we discovered one of our favorite brunch spots in the East Village. Our love affair with Café Orlin was instantaneous and so strong that we went back the next day.

Of course food couldn’t solve the shit she was going through, but 5 variations of the most sublime eggs benedict ever invented definitely stifled some of the depression.

I’ve since been back for dinner with the LP, and for dessert with one of the most awkward dates of all time. Although the dinner company was obviously superior to the dessert company, both visits were still amazing as far as the culinary experience.

We finally went back last Saturday during Part II of The Marathon Weekend. Over brioche French toast and more eggs benedict, we discussed the Ozzie situation and discovered that I had a text from a long-lost boyfriend of my own.

I met “Garth” (as in Algar of Wayne’s World) on Halloween, and was pretty proud of myself for my ability to make a boyfriend while rocking my heinous plastic, ankle-to-thigh, post-surgery leg brace and crutches. Sympathy vote maybe?

Anyway, my friend EV was dressed as Liza that night, complete with silky cropped wig. After examining pictures from Halloween night I concluded A) that I probably shouldn’t have been as proud of my boyfriend-making skills as I thought I should be; and B) that Garth and Liza should never have a love child. Those glasses and Liza’s hair just don’t go together…

I had exchanged numbers with Garth that night. We’ve since texted a few times but not hung out as he doesn’t live in Manhattan (score another point for Garth… ) So I wasn’t surprised when I received this gem at 3:30AM:

How’s my favorite bed in the city?

We should probably set Garth and his lips up with Ozzie and his bed and call it a day.

Anyway, after our Orlin fix, we decided to go track down friends that were at Santacon. By that time it was around 1PM so we figured they’d be drunk enough not to care that we weren’t dressed up at all.

Several detours later ($35 spent at the Young Designers Market, a random key-chain purch in a cutesy Village drugstore, finding the Free Store in a random/awesome market, a tour of Babeland, and a snack at Rice to Riches) we decided to have dinner at Lombardi’s, just for the helluvit.

Where we met Kenneth from 30 Rock’s doppelganger and were outraged by the no credit card/$3.00 ATM fee situation that no one mentioned during our 45 minute wait. But generally happy with the pizza.

Afterwards we went in search of Bank of America to avoid further ATM gouging, and somehow ended up in Little Italy eating cannolis and stumbling upon a parade of Mitzvah Mobiles (campers with Hanukah propaganda and 5 foot tall menorahs roped to the roof) before deciding to meet our friend CB at Cheap Shots, which turned into Doc Holliday's which turned into the Horseshoe.

Still we had not hung out with a single Santa – only stalked them from afar. Until we met up with EV, but more on this later.

This was actually the first time EV and the LP had met – they got along famously until LP semi-Irish-exited for Long Island.

I suppose I could have just told you Marathon: Day II was a combination of The Hangover and Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle and let you make your own conclusions, but what's the fun in that?

If only we had met NPH - preferably dressed as Santa - it would have been pretty complete.

"I'm so fat, I want to eat my muffin top"

2009-12-15T14:05:00.000-08:00

I love this saying, stolen from the always funny KH. It's not only funny but sadly true as well... Getting over this knee surgery has taken much longer than I thought and I've subsequently lost all motivation to eat healthy and count calories. That coupled with the advent of the holiday season means I'm in serious trouble.

For instance, I had eggnog and holiday cookies for breakfast this morning - thoughtfully provided by my office during our annual White Elephant gift exchange. (Also of note, they call it "Yankee Swap" in the North, apparently...)

The leftover cookies are currently displayed at one of the most high-traffic spots in our corridor right next to the printers and supply closet. I couldn't help but notice that all of the Santas, candy canes and mistletoe are gone while the blue dreidels and star of Davids basically stand alone next to the leftover eggnog. (Which then made me think of lumpy, curdled eggnog... gross.)

I've concluded one of three things:

1. Our entire group has a strong aversion to the color blue.
2. We're all religious bigots.
3. We're all a bunch of fat kids who immediately went for Santa's jolly, rotund face and the giant candy canes because they covered more surface area than the tiny stars and dreidels.

The fact that we have a menorah in the waiting room and that we handout an official guide to foraging for free food in each new intern's welcome packet clearly leads to number 3 as the obvious conclusion.

Guess this just means that I will be renewing my vows to love and honor Crunch come New Year's Day.

Marathon Weekend: Part I

2009-12-14T19:24:00.000-08:00

Rooms: We're going for drinks, want to come?
Me: I just drank my face off for three days straight, otherwise would love to go with.
Rooms: You don't look hungover at all! You actually look pretty energized.
Me: I mean, I'm apparently becoming a legitimate alcoholic.
Rooms' BF: No, just a true New Yorker.

Love them.

I am also impressed that I'm in decent shape right now - this past weekend was Barney style legen-wait for it-dary. LP went through a pretty rough boy sitch a few months back, then some family drama, then there was my surgery... so our Friday night sleepover tradition has been derailed for quite some time now. Until I somehow talked her into coming to a work happy (seven) hour(s) we had on Friday.

And apparently now we're back, full force to the max. I think I mentioned our proclivity to make boyfriends and, speaking of Barney, just wanted to point out that we're pretty awesome wing women. Something about the two of us together just works - I think our personalities balance each other out, and we'd never fight over a guy EVER. She definitely has a type, while I tend to be more all over the place. But I can honestly say I've never really been into any of the guys she's picked. And probably vice versa.

Well, minus our mega-hott RA in Spain who (to quote LP) is "an Adonis of a man" and genuinely one of the nicest guys ever. But he was off limits for both of us, so doesn't count.

So when I turned around on Friday night and saw her talking to an extremely tall black man with dreads (pretty much the antithesis of the Italian/preppy/Catholic boys she usually eats alive), I decided I'd better check on her.

Which is when she enthusiastically introduced me to her new boyfriend Ozzie "Smith." Ozzie is a pretty good lookin dude, and has an abs situation to rival The Situation's. Ozzie is also a no-nonsense kind of dude, and was pretty appalled when one of my co-workers walked up to him and casually struck up a serious conversation about dinosaurs.

Ozzie: This is ridickalous - whys you talkin bout dinosaurs man? It's 4 in the mornin and you all up in here talkin bout the T-Rex? Dinosaurs is dead man, don't go tellin me bout no Triceratops.

Er .. maybe you had to be there. Or hear LP tell the story. In any case, she gave Ozzie Smith her number and he's pretty much in love. She had a text waiting for her when she woke up the next morning:

917-XXX-XXXX: Hey gurl, when can I get those lips?

Clearly we should have posted this on Texts From Last Night.

What do you say to that? We tried extremely hard, but never came up with the perfect response.

If I had to guess, we probably won't be seeing Ozzie Smith again any time soon. But if you hear two girls laughing hysterically about dinosaurs in the middle of a bar in the near future, you'll know you've found us.

I always wanted to say this... fa-shizzle.

2009-12-10T08:06:00.000-08:00

Several friends have sent me links to various articles on Tiger's trashy texts this morning, and every commercial break on TV last night was like, “Coming up next on your LOCAL NEWS, Tiger’s racy SEXTS!”

I’m sorry, local news? This is pertinent to my life? Entertaining yes, but worthy of 10 lead-ins before the 10 o’clock news? TMZ and FOX are like, practically the same thing these days.

P.S. How awesome would it be if Chapelle's Show was still on the air? This would make one bad-ass skit, fa-shizzle.

Eggnog-ural Snow of the Season

2009-12-09T19:48:00.000-08:00

It "snowed" last week in Austin - people bought provisions, just in case. School closed at 2PM, just in case. The snowflakes fell for about 20 minutes, and stuck to nothing. Not exactly a winter wonderland... and definitely typical of Texas.

We used to wake up before the sun every Christmas morning, hoping for snow so we could make angels and build Frosties. Nature delivered once or twice, but we could never get enough of the snow.

To this day, snow makes me giddy. So imagine my excitement when I saw the first flakes of the season last night in NYC:

Even though you can barely tell, I promise it's snow. And snow means Eggnog, mistletoe, peppermint schnaps with your coacoa. Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer and Santa Baby. Gingerbread and candy canes. Papa Noel, pine needles, poinsettas, holly wreathes. Snowball fights in Central park, ice skating in Bryant Park and the tree at 30 Rock.

Get excited. Angels and Frosty here I come.

Gossip Girl: You just got vetoed.

2009-12-08T15:09:00.000-08:00

Monday's are semi-bearable, thanks to the promise of post-work Gossip Girl (or XOXO as one of the rooms calls it). While I love our XOXO Monday night ritual (even one of the rooms' BFs regularly gets in on the action) it's sometimes hard to catch everything that goes on underneath the running commentary from the peanut gallery.

It doesn't help that one of the rooms is a law student who loves to point out the improbability of every single tiny little detail of every show. And let's face it - there are a lot of them.

Which brings me to the reason that Tuesday is way better than Monday: Daily Intel's Gossip Girl re-cap, which scores the fake vs. real every episode, indexing the probability that this shit could actually happen.

Favorite excerpts from today's edition:

"The outfits of the Constance mean girls whose names we refuse to remember were puzzling this episode. Each of their school uniforms was accessorized monochromatically: One was wearing all purple, one was in blue, and one was in green. We're too old to understand, but we think this must have something to do with which sex acts they're willing to perform. So Plus 5 for that."

"D: '[Paul Hoffman is] a handsome guy, he's a sophomore, he and Vanessa have a lot in common.'

N: 'He's a douche.' Plus 3."

"Serena walks out of the country house with her baggage and no car in sight, just planning to 'find a cab' in the middle of bumfuck Nassau County. God, she's amazing. Plus 5."

Additional insights from OneC (our apt.):

"Instructing your driver to 'take you to Nassau County' is the equivalent of saying, 'take me to Long Island.' OK, now what??"

"Me and the rooms: 'That girl (Eric's sidekick) totally won her role on GG in a contest.'

Reply from rooms' BF: 'No way, she's totally legit! Didn't you see Spanglish?;"

"If Willa had been involved in that threesome instead of Hilary Duff, we could have re-named Dan Vanilla."

I can't wait for next week Tuesday...

"You can't squat with wobbly shoes and a cookie in your mouth"

2009-12-08T09:50:00.000-08:00

“You know what else is bullshit, besides juice cleanses? The idea that wearing some ugly Reeboks with a curvy sole will give you an Ass of Steel.” - Gawker

Sorry Reebok Easy Tones - I agree with the haters.

IMO, the only way to shrink/tone any body part is Biggest Loser style – hardcore cardio/weights combo. As someone whose weight fluctuates as regularly as the seasons, I should know.

Also, as someone who has been lacking the ability to properly hit the gym since, oooh… JULY, I’ll go ahead and tell you that if there were magic shoes, cookies, pills, liquids, or any variation thereof I would have found it, marketed it, and amassed a small fortune by now.

And speaking of the Biggest Loser, I haven’t been quite as fanatical this season (I have work-out envy – watching other people get their shit together when you’re physically incapable of doing so is a huge de-motivator), but I am super excited for tonight’s finale. Team Amanda!

"I'm actually in to capes and lasers"

2009-12-07T21:29:00.000-08:00

-Rach

Even though I live in the City, part of me will always be a hippy. When things get super stressful, I dream of mountains and Colorado and I turn on Rift or Lawn Boy.

When Phish announced tour dates last Summer, several Lil' Bro phone conversations were dedicated to our obsession with obtaining tickets.

He was going to fly to New York (well, actually, he originally planned to Road Trip - if you know my brother, you are laughing right now) so we could go see Phish at Jones Beach.

Until we saw the prices - $1,000 a piece for seats in the last row in the upper right hand corner of the amphitheatre? Right.

Which brought us to plan b: Me + Bro + Canoe = . . .

["If you could only see what I see when I walk on the stage. I see the faces, I see joy, and if that's escapism for 3 hours, then fine. There are enough bad messages in our culture that people are being bombarded with, constantly. You're not good enough, you don't look right, you don't have enough money.' And to be able to look at a large group of people looking back at you, who don't look like they have a care in the world for 15 seconds, and not only that but joy, actual joy etched onto their faces for that bit of time....its such an honor."]

-Trey

I mean, it could work, right??

In the end, I went with the more practical (yet boring) plan c. When Rachey told me one of her friends had an extra ticket to a show at MSG last week, I totally stalked him until he sold it to me. I met up with him, another friend, and ... HIS DAD who had bought the tickets, sat with us, and jammed out through the entire concert. Amazing. Did I mention these were seats on the floor? For $50.00?

Obviously, I called Lil' Bro during intermission, just to rub it in. We love each other like that.

I also called Momma J, who couldn't believe a sane adult was willingly in attendance. She's of the opinion that every song sounds the same, and can't stand the "jam." "So how many songs did they play? One?"

Snark.

She talked to Lil' Bro the next day and mentioned that friends and I were also going to see Ghostland Observatory, thinking he would be impressed with my week in concerts.

His reply: "That's like having a really shitty dessert following the most amazing meal of your life."

Hater.

Ghostland was a-m-a-z-i-n-g per usual. How can you not love Aaron Behrens? And lasers?? I know I do.

Silver Bells

2009-12-07T15:26:00.000-08:00

It's Christmas time in the City...

And that makes me:

Basketball, Broadway and Bromance

2009-12-03T14:25:00.000-08:00

You've seen the t-shirts at the gym. The ones in different neon colors that are often a few sizes too big for the girls lined up on the elliptical machines. Zog Sports, huh? Must be some young-professional Christian thing... (When you're in Texas, these kinds of guesses are actually legitimate, and would probably be correct).

Intramural sports for those of us who still wish we were in college? Sign me up.

First attempt: wiffle ball with the rooms. This didn't work out so well, mainly because the games were held in some weird, paved lot on the Upper West Side. We live in the East Village... getting Manhattanites to cross over to the other side of the island is like getting your Grandma to switch detergent brands. Most likely aint gonna happen (unless the word free is involved - which works in both cases).

Next, after the failed wiffle ball season: basketball. Basketball and I have been in love since my Youth Association days. Sadly, I wasn't good enough to play college ball (you know, being a short white girl and all...) but loved pickup games and IM at Gregory. I also played twice a week in a women's leauge in Austin after I graduated.

So putting down my 80 bucks for co-ed Zog basketball only seemed logical. I find myself in short supply of good guy friends in the city, which is kind of irksome (not to mention boring...) for a girl who basically grew up as one of the guys. Thinking this would be a good excuse to bro out, I showed up to my first team gathering and met... the married Broadway theatre actors.

After initial disapointment in my failure to make any new bromances, I realized that this was way cooler and exactly the reason that I love living in New York City. I am constantly inspired and motivated by the people that I meet.

During our season, one of the guys was hoping to land a role in the revival of Ragtime on Broadway .

Turns out he did and it's getting rave reviews. I'm hoping to go see him this month.

And in the meantime, you can find me on Sundays at my next co-ed, potential bromance-making endeavor: BrewSkeeBall.

Side note: SkeeBall is also great for homances. More on this later...

I've said it before, I'll say it again.

2009-12-01T19:42:00.000-08:00

Everything's bigger in Texas and Thanksgiving is no exception. Although one of these years I'd like to stay in NYC and actually go to the parade instead of watching it from the couch in Texas.

Lil' Bro was in charge of several Thanksgiving dishes this year - he's quite the cook. I would say his future wife is a lucky lady, but I'm not sure his culinary skills will make up for all of the other crap she'll inevitably have to put up with.

Cooking with him is always fun - last time I was home he made watermelon-injected pork tenderloin with jalapeno watermelon salsa one night and New York strip steak with cilantro butter and buttermilk cheddar biscuits the next.

We come from a long line of cooks, and holidays are spent predominantly in the kitchen, picking at things as we make them, marathon eating our way through breakfast, lunch and leftovers for dinner.

And Grandmother has a special thing she makes for each of us. I am buttermilk pie, my mom is hanky pankies for breakfast (sausage and cheese baked onto cocktail ryes) and my uncle is cheesecake.

The year that my uncle and his family stayed in Arizona for Thanksgiving, Grandmother attempted to FedEx a cheesecake to his house. He said it took a minute to figure out what the football-shaped lump inside the package on his doorstep was supposed to have been. God love her for trying...

This year's Thanksgiving was no different. The gang was all there, hanky pankies and all. Momma J, Lil' Bro and I made the majority of the gorge-fest. Here's what we had:

Oven-roasted turkey

Smoked turkey

Herbed oyster stuffing

Sausage terrine stuffing

Brown gravy from homemade turkey stock

Whipped yukon potatoes with scallion

Great-grandmother's butter rolls

Steamed asparagus and green beans

Maple sweet potato mash

Gruyere mac 'n cheese

And my favorite thing of the entire dinner - prime rib with horseradish sauce

What about dessert you ask? We had some helpers in this category, but here's the laundry list:

Coconut cake

Buttermilk pie

Chess pie

Chocolate chip cookies

Homemade pumpkin ice cream

Clearly we should be professional eaters. And drinkers. That handle of bourbon we cracked open on Wednesday night barely lived to see another.

I think I'll fast 'til Christmas - don't think we won't be doing it all over again. Just substitute ham for turkey...

IMO*: Unacceptable

2009-11-22T21:00:00.000-08:00

(*in my opinion)

I've recently seen people sporting these around the city. WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Is the concrete-terrain too rugged for you? Planning to take a dip in the East River or the Hudson and need some water proof shoes?

Speaking of rivers, I would be just as distressed if I saw these while tubing in San Marcos - at least in that case there would be a logical reason for these monstrosities.

No ... Just no.

N.S.F... EVER.

2009-11-21T11:26:00.000-08:00

Apparently one of the rooms (roommates) and I had an extra good time last night, judging by the mysterious stain on the shower curtain. I feel like the action leading to the evidence is one you should generally be able to remember. But none of us do - or just aren't copping to it.

Either way, I find myself wondering if we should be more responsible at this stage in life. Sometimes I feel like my 20's have just been an extension of my college boozing days. Well, more or less compressed into weekends and the occasional Thursday night. I mean, I do have a job after all...

And in case you didn't know, my wonderful alma mater has earned the title "#1 Party School" on several occasions. Transfer that kind of training into a place where bars line every block and stay open until 4am (LP calls this Disneyland for grown-ups) and what can you expect?

Anyway, the rooms and I threw the offending shower curtain into the washing machine and forgot about it. No harm done.

Which was certainly unlike my last experience with unexplained "messes" in the bathroom - the one that traumatized me for life. I'll give you the short and to-the-point version that I shared with friends and Momma J the next day:

"Apparently, The Daughter and/or one of her family members believes that it is appropriate to use the toilet brush as a plunger, thereafter replacing it (and other ... large... things…) in the holder."

I blame The Mister. It's just the kind of disgusting thing he would do.

Cheap Apt : New York :: Skyscraper : Texas

2009-11-19T20:48:00.000-08:00

Like I said before, this whole blog thing started because I wanted to – no HAD to – share my ridiculous stories of the New York fam that took me in (so to speak). The Crazies rented an astronomically-priced apartment for the Daughter in the East Village. They offered to charge me a fraction of the rent as long as I was willing to give up my room every “6 weeks or so” when they decided to fly up from Texas to visit.

6 weeks my ass. It was actually more like every 3 weeks or so that I found myself displaced onto the couch. At first I didn’t mind, as I hadn’t yet experienced the full extent of the crazy. After a while, I got tired of finding The Mister’s smelly shirts hanging in my closet, and politely going along with The Missus and her attempts to make me help her analyze The Daughter and her downward spiral.

But there were perks, so I stayed put. Expensive dinners, a few shopping trips, and LOW RENT were among the reasons I stuck it out. Along with the endless fodder produced by their visits, which I used to entertain my friends.

Forgive me for sounding shallow, but we’re not talking low rent in some crap apartment. That would be low rent in a duplex apartment with, a huge living room/kitchen/half-bath downstairs, and 2 huge bedrooms/full bath upstairs. For just the two of us. Well, and the Mister and Missus when they came to visit. If you live in New York, you understand what this means. Amazing.

(The courtyard in the middle of my old apt complex)

What can I say, real estate is a precious commodity in this city. It was worth disinfecting my room every 3 weeks or so. Well, most of the time.

And, let’s face it, I probably wouldn’t have cleaned it that often otherwise …

Ditching the crutches.

2009-11-16T21:12:00.000-08:00

Crutch: A device used for assistance or support.

A few days ago, three weeks post-surgery, I got rid of the crutches. Three weeks of hobbling around the city was rough, although, I was impressed with how sympathetic people were. City life sometimes seems so desensitizing. There are so many of us crammed into such little space. So many stimulants that cause us to cultivate indifference.

But the crutches made people notice. They helped me hail cabs. They gave up their seats on the bus. They griped at others who didn't. They offered to carry my groceries. They offered to make coffee runs. Sometimes-indifferent friends became concerned-supportive ones.

So in a way, they did provide assistance, support. In another, they were almost debilitating. Part of me has hardened into the consummate role of jaded New Yorker - I can and will be independent and do it all myself. This is hard for a person on crutches. You can't do it all yourself.

Which is when I realized, that sometimes I don't want to do it all myself. Sometimes I start looking for that other person to provide stability, support.

And then the New Yorker tells me to move back to Texas if that's what I really want. Because people don't move to New York to settle down.

The Master Cleanse.

2009-11-13T13:07:00.000-08:00

No, not that master cleanse. I’m talking about the Facebook Master Cleanse. About a week or so ago, I conducted an FB purge, cutting ties with any one-time hookups or fair weather friends whom I have no interest in keeping ~~tabs on~~ in touch with.

Feeling proud of myself, I eventually took it one step further and began to “hide” any people whose updates solicited instantaneous eye-rolls or feelings of irritation.

Most of my New York “boyfriends” (along with our mutual friends) made this list, save one. Reasoning escapes me at this point, because I’m pretty sure that 6 or 7 failed attempts to hang out qualify him for the TOP of the “I don’t want any reminders of you” list.

But apparently, some part of me was still curious, maybeeven holding out hope that we’d eventually hang out, despite the LP’s numerous reminders that he seems like (and acted like) a complete douchebag.

The offending update that finally relegated him to hidden status?

Seemingly inoffensive, yes. But further confirmation of the fact that he and I are pretty much the same person (minus the alleged douchebaggery) – same interests, same taste in movies/music/tv shows, blah, blah, etc.

[ And I have to add, that I absolutely loved that song before they put it in an effing car commercial ... ]

Anyway, suffice it to say, our level of banter was pretty awesome – I’m sure we both fancied ourselves super witty and amusing.

Then, nothing. Per usual.

Dating in the City is hard – I have a friend who writes a blog solely on this topic (Guide to Menhattan – check it out!). So you would think having things in common with someone from the onset would help, right?

Apparently wrong.

One more status update from him proclaiming one of my faves his faves just might put me over the edge:

I need no further reminders of my failed dating attempts in NYC.

'I want to wake up in a city that never sleeps'

2009-11-11T09:41:00.000-08:00

The Fall before I moved to New York, the City and I had our first official date. As with most first dates, I was indescribably nervous. What if the City and I didn’t get along? What if we didn’t mesh well after all?

I mean, I'd done my research online – the equivalent of Facebook stalking any new prospect (I do it, you do it, we all do it. Even if you won’t admit to it). From my experience, sometimes this is helpful. Other times, my preconceived and sometimes entirely contrived notions end up being dead wrong.

Obviously the next step in these situations is to ask your mutual friends to weigh-in, to get their insight on whether or not they think this might work out, or if it’s best not to even try. In this case, the only way to know for sure, they said, is to meet and find out.

So I booked a ticket to go stay with my Heterosexual Life Partner (LP) at her parent’s house in Long Island for a long weekend.

Before I go any further, I have to officially introduce the LP. We met in the Spring of 2006 in another fabulous city, Barcelona. After 8 hours crossing the pond (plus a 4 hour layover in the London airport) I walked nervously into my new home of the next 3 months to find the LP. Phew.

Obviously, it was love at first sight. We spent the next 3 months pretending to speak fluent Spanish and breaking hearts all over Barca. Then she went back to GW and I went home to Texas with promises of reunion in the near future.

After spending my entire life in Texas – growing up there and going to college in that same city – my time in Barca helped me realize that I needed a change. The fact that the LP moved home to Long Island after we both graduated had a lot to do with my decision to stop wishing I could move to New York and actually do it instead.

Before scheduling my first date, I went through the typical wardrobe crisis. Obviously, I wanted to make a good first impression. I spent $100 on a new interview outfit and another $200 on a new coat (we don’t really own those in Texas) which I never really even wore.

Of course, Momma J air-mailed LP’s family about 15 lbs. of Salt Lick BBQ – naturally – as a “thank you” for letting me stay with them for the weekend. Texans do everything big, in case you hadn’t heard. It arrived on the LP’s doorstep shortly after I did. Apparently, that was more than enough to win me an honorary spot in the family as far as LP’s dad was concerned. Good start.

Friday morning, I dressed for my job interview and LP dropped me off at the train station, subway directions in hand. Luckily, the office was right next to a stop on the 4 5 6, so my chances of getting irretrievably lost were minimal.

Reflecting back, I don’t remember much about that interview. I was pretty overwhelmed by the fancy office in SoHo and the movie-worthy view they had of downtown Manhattan. I can say, however, that it must not have gone so well as they never got back to me. I don’t blame them – I didn’t want to be a media buyer, I just wanted a reason to move to the sparkly city.

With that out of the way, I headed back to the subway to meet LP for some tourist action.

We hit the Museum of Natural History, had a leisurely stroll through Central Park, and a stop at Dylan’s to see the rainbow walls of candy before having a pre-dinner frozen hot chocolate at Serendipity. We had dinner in Time Square (I told you – tourist action …) at Carmine’s with the pre-theatre crowd before heading back to Long Island.

We spent the rest of our time terrorizing the island, making ridiculous boyfriends – me and the HLP’s favorite past time. It was Barca in the States and I was in love; first date success!

As much as I loved my steady relationship with Texas, I decided that it was time for us to go on a break.

Dear New York Mag ...

2009-11-10T07:26:00.000-08:00

I love you, but ... really?!?

I'll comply with "the sweater is striped," as long as it's not this particularly heinous one.

Psychic? Or just plain psycho ...

2009-11-09T20:21:00.000-08:00

My move to New York City was predicted by a psychic. I had never spoken with a psychic before. Technically, I still haven't consulted one, although this particular psychic maintained a recurring guest role in my day-to-day life for quite a while.

While I'm not sure that I believe in psychic abilities, I can say without a doubt, that I believe most things happen for a reason, and that others are just meant to be. I always envisioned moving to the East coast post-graduation, and knew that I would eventually make it happen. The "how" escaped me for a while, but I persisted.

Interviewing for jobs across the country wasn't easy. I wasn't being taken seriously and I'm sure that the nervous, frenetic energy I harbored crept into my voice during the interviews that I did manage to secure. I stuck with it, and eventually found a job, immediately quiting the internships I had taken in an attempt to keep busy and productive during my job-quest.

Even though I had been out of school for 9 months, I finally felt like the next phase of my life was about to begin.

And once the realization sunk in that "moving to the East coast" actually meant moving, I started to panic about the housing situation. Sure, interviewing for jobs was hard, but finding an apartment would be impossible …

Cue mysterious phone call from a family friend, informing us that another mutual friend was roommate-hunting for her daughter. Not only was it perfect timing, but (as I may have mentioned) seemingly preordained as well. After contacting the mutual friend to inquire about the room, Momma J – was told the story of the psychic prediction.

After having problems filling their empty room, the family consulted a psychic. “Not to worry. A girl with long brown hair, that your daughter already knows, will move into the apartment within three months."

Because, naturally, who wouldn't consult their psychic when having problems finding a suitable roommate for their daughter?

And as predicted, here I am living in the City. New York and I shared the first year of our relationship intertwined with one of the most amazingly eccentric, astoundingly bizarre, "old money" New York families. While I lived with the Daughter, Momma J was back in Texas with the matriarch of the family, fondly (as far as I can tell) referred to by her husband as "the Missus."

The original purpose of this blog was to serve as a chronicle of my life with the crazy Daughter. Of course the Mister and Missus played a big part in that story as well. While I’ve since moved on from my relationship with the family, the crazy has pretty much remained a constant in my relationship with New York – how could it not?

Even though I’ve moved out of that first apartment – and on from the idea of keeping a blog about it – I still find myself bolting out of bed in the middle of the night to scribble notes about stories I want to write down and develop further. After months of this, I’ve decided to push aside my laziness and actually act on my impulse to write it all down. After all, I’ve always enjoyed writing as a form of catharsis, having kept journals on and off for as long as I can remember.

So welcome to my first foray into blogging (unless you count that emo-teen-angst Xanga blog I had in high school …) Hopefully the ramblings of one Southern girl turned City (one among many others, I know) will entertain – at least a little.