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 ...

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.

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.

Stuff White People Like

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.

The makings of a great V-Day are…

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!

Power Box

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.

Basketball, Broadway and Bromance

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...