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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

But for serious. 

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

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

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

  

Gratuitous picture of BDW

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Random but true.

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.

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.