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.

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.

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.

The Mayor Saga Continues …

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

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

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

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

What are you up to tonight and tomorrow all day?

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was 7:30.

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

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

Oh love life in NYC. You are incredible.

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

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

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

Every rose has its thorn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Muse at MSG

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’ve yet to decide …

Score one more for Jersey Shore...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The crappiest "dating" tool known to man.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

P.S. OMG… WTF, LOL. What the crap.

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

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

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

Gotta love her – all appropriate responses, IMO.

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

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

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

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

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

(*specific to my lovely alma mater)

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

Index:

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

In other hometown rants, please see the following:

 

Oh Amy, I sure did.

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

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

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

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

IMO*: Unacceptable

(*in my opinion)

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

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

No ... Just no.

Dear New York Mag ...

I love you, but ... really?!?

I'll comply with "the sweater is striped," as long as it's not this particularly heinous one.