NYC apartment hunting blows ...

(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

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.

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

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:

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


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


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


4. 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.

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)

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:

1. Which episode do you think is funnier?


2. 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.

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

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

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

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

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*

*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:

1. 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.
2. Side note - while walking and texting isn't as dangerous as driving and texting; I think the former should be illegal, too.
3. 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).
4. 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.
5. 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

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)

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.

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.

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.

Facebook and its many functionalities.

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.

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.

(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

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.

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

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).

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.

-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.