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.
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.
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.
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.
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.)
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.
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?
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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