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 Yet I'd have to pay more than that to purchase an outdated version of a phone that I had already owned for five months?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.

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!)

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.

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.

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.

Weekend Roundup in Pics.

(Or, why I love New York City.)

Irish Car Bombs with the British Boys at Riviera.

Mad and I remembered that we hate these after we drank them.

Prescious tried to frogger out into the middle of oncoming traffic, but wasn't able to rescue the RayBans before they were smushed by a taxi.

(And yes, his friends really call him Prescious. And no, I don't know why.)

Carst and I try and meet up on Friday night. It doesn't work out.

You know how, when a bar closes and you get "locked-in" and the bartenders serve you all the free drinks you can stomach?

Saturday night with Evie was like that.

Only with cupcakes.

I think the Midnight Knitter escaped from Jersey!

Now, can it please remain 60-70 degrees and Sunny for the remainder of March?

Then I can go to Central Park with LD and try and find the Golden God (pictured below). Thank you.

The Golden God. AKA, Orange Man. AKA, LD's next boyfriend.

; )

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 …

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.

Celebrity Funeral: Matthew McConaughey

What would it be like if Matthew McConaughey’s gloriously chiseled, sweaty abdominals ceased to glisten under those bright rays of sunshine? What would people say if he was no longer around to “just keep livin’?” Would they miss his sexy Southern drawl?

We found out last night during Celebrity Funeral: Matthew McConaughey at the Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre.

Eugoogolizers included:

•Camilla Alves (via Skype – she’s busy these days folks, and didn’t mind telling us all about her new show Shear Genius “which airs on Bravo WED @ 10/9C” instead of actually eugoogolizing Matt)

• Charles Dickens (you know him – he gave Matt his permission to adapt his semi-famous play A Christmas Carol into the now largely-famous movie Ghosts of Girlfriends Past)

• Padma Lakshmi (who apologizes for the fight she got into with Camilla during the funeral – but still maintains that she and Matt would have made a far better movie-star/Bravo-TV-host-couple)

Of course, one of my favorite speakers of the night was Matt’s shirt. Yes, his shirt:

Clearly Shirt had some repressed anger to express – all those times Matt discarded him in favor of a trip to the beach or a run with his best bros Lance Armstrong and Jake Gyllenhaal. You can imagine how badly Shirt needs some serious therapy.

But I must say, the number one eugoogaly of the night goes to ….

Maya Angelou.

As played by a white man.

I was confused at first too, but then when I heard Maya speak of the racy relationship she had with Matt, I understood. I would attempt to paraphrase the poem she read for him – entitled “Can you find the buried treasure?” – but I wouldn’t do it any justice. And it’s entirely way too vulgar – unless you don’t find the thought of Maya Angelou’s lady parts offensive.

All in all, the whole thing was pretty enjoyable – from the slideshows of Matt’s abs to the bongo full of his “ashes” that they placed up at the podium, there were lots of laughs to be had.

My biggest complaint was the length – entirely too short. And I think my expectations were pretty high, since the last time I was at the Upright Citizens Brigade Amy Sedaris was a guest in the show.

Imagine Strangers with Candy live before your eyes. Yes please.

In any case, I’ve now resolved to up my current average number of trips to UCB per year (ahem... that would be 1) – and am now accepting applicants for UCB-going companions.

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!

Marathon Weekend: Part II

The weekend that LP had her boy meltdown (what seems like a million years ago as opposed to mere months), we discovered one of our favorite brunch spots in the East Village. Our love affair with Café Orlin was instantaneous and so strong that we went back the next day.

Of course food couldn’t solve the shit she was going through, but 5 variations of the most sublime eggs benedict ever invented definitely stifled some of the depression.

I’ve since been back for dinner with the LP, and for dessert with one of the most awkward dates of all time. Although the dinner company was obviously superior to the dessert company, both visits were still amazing as far as the culinary experience.

We finally went back last Saturday during Part II of The Marathon Weekend. Over brioche French toast and more eggs benedict, we discussed the Ozzie situation and discovered that I had a text from a long-lost boyfriend of my own.

I met “Garth” (as in Algar of Wayne’s World) on Halloween, and was pretty proud of myself for my ability to make a boyfriend while rocking my heinous plastic, ankle-to-thigh, post-surgery leg brace and crutches. Sympathy vote maybe?

Anyway, my friend EV was dressed as Liza that night, complete with silky cropped wig. After examining pictures from Halloween night I concluded A) that I probably shouldn’t have been as proud of my boyfriend-making skills as I thought I should be; and B) that Garth and Liza should never have a love child. Those glasses and Liza’s hair just don’t go together…

I had exchanged numbers with Garth that night. We’ve since texted a few times but not hung out as he doesn’t live in Manhattan (score another point for Garth… ) So I wasn’t surprised when I received this gem at 3:30AM:

How’s my favorite bed in the city?

We should probably set Garth and his lips up with Ozzie and his bed and call it a day.

Anyway, after our Orlin fix, we decided to go track down friends that were at Santacon. By that time it was around 1PM so we figured they’d be drunk enough not to care that we weren’t dressed up at all.

Several detours later ($35 spent at the Young Designers Market, a random key-chain purch in a cutesy Village drugstore, finding the Free Store in a random/awesome market, a tour of Babeland, and a snack at Rice to Riches) we decided to have dinner at Lombardi’s, just for the helluvit.

Where we met Kenneth from 30 Rock’s doppelganger and were outraged by the no credit card/$3.00 ATM fee situation that no one mentioned during our 45 minute wait. But generally happy with the pizza.

Afterwards we went in search of Bank of America to avoid further ATM gouging, and somehow ended up in Little Italy eating cannolis and stumbling upon a parade of Mitzvah Mobiles (campers with Hanukah propaganda and 5 foot tall menorahs roped to the roof) before deciding to meet our friend CB at Cheap Shots, which turned into Doc Holliday's which turned into the Horseshoe.

Still we had not hung out with a single Santa – only stalked them from afar. Until we met up with EV, but more on this later.

This was actually the first time EV and the LP had met – they got along famously until LP semi-Irish-exited for Long Island.

I suppose I could have just told you Marathon: Day II was a combination of The Hangover and Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle and let you make your own conclusions, but what's the fun in that?

If only we had met NPH - preferably dressed as Santa - it would have been pretty complete.

Marathon Weekend: Part I

Rooms: We're going for drinks, want to come?
Me: I just drank my face off for three days straight, otherwise would love to go with.
Rooms: You don't look hungover at all! You actually look pretty energized.
Me: I mean, I'm apparently becoming a legitimate alcoholic.
Rooms' BF: No, just a true New Yorker.

Love them.

I am also impressed that I'm in decent shape right now - this past weekend was Barney style legen-wait for it-dary. LP went through a pretty rough boy sitch a few months back, then some family drama, then there was my surgery... so our Friday night sleepover tradition has been derailed for quite some time now. Until I somehow talked her into coming to a work happy (seven) hour(s) we had on Friday.

And apparently now we're back, full force to the max. I think I mentioned our proclivity to make boyfriends and, speaking of Barney, just wanted to point out that we're pretty awesome wing women. Something about the two of us together just works - I think our personalities balance each other out, and we'd never fight over a guy EVER. She definitely has a type, while I tend to be more all over the place. But I can honestly say I've never really been into any of the guys she's picked. And probably vice versa.

Well, minus our mega-hott RA in Spain who (to quote LP) is "an Adonis of a man" and genuinely one of the nicest guys ever. But he was off limits for both of us, so doesn't count.

So when I turned around on Friday night and saw her talking to an extremely tall black man with dreads (pretty much the antithesis of the Italian/preppy/Catholic boys she usually eats alive), I decided I'd better check on her.

Which is when she enthusiastically introduced me to her new boyfriend Ozzie "Smith." Ozzie is a pretty good lookin dude, and has an abs situation to rival The Situation's. Ozzie is also a no-nonsense kind of dude, and was pretty appalled when one of my co-workers walked up to him and casually struck up a serious conversation about dinosaurs.

Ozzie: This is ridickalous - whys you talkin bout dinosaurs man? It's 4 in the mornin and you all up in here talkin bout the T-Rex? Dinosaurs is dead man, don't go tellin me bout no Triceratops.

Er .. maybe you had to be there. Or hear LP tell the story. In any case, she gave Ozzie Smith her number and he's pretty much in love. She had a text waiting for her when she woke up the next morning:

917-XXX-XXXX: Hey gurl, when can I get those lips?

Clearly we should have posted this on Texts From Last Night.

What do you say to that? We tried extremely hard, but never came up with the perfect response.

If I had to guess, we probably won't be seeing Ozzie Smith again any time soon. But if you hear two girls laughing hysterically about dinosaurs in the middle of a bar in the near future, you'll know you've found us.

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...

'I want to wake up in a city that never sleeps'

The Fall before I moved to New York, the City and I had our first official date. As with most first dates, I was indescribably nervous. What if the City and I didn’t get along? What if we didn’t mesh well after all?

I mean, I'd done my research online – the equivalent of Facebook stalking any new prospect (I do it, you do it, we all do it. Even if you won’t admit to it). From my experience, sometimes this is helpful. Other times, my preconceived and sometimes entirely contrived notions end up being dead wrong.

Obviously the next step in these situations is to ask your mutual friends to weigh-in, to get their insight on whether or not they think this might work out, or if it’s best not to even try. In this case, the only way to know for sure, they said, is to meet and find out.

So I booked a ticket to go stay with my Heterosexual Life Partner (LP) at her parent’s house in Long Island for a long weekend.

Before I go any further, I have to officially introduce the LP. We met in the Spring of 2006 in another fabulous city, Barcelona. After 8 hours crossing the pond (plus a 4 hour layover in the London airport) I walked nervously into my new home of the next 3 months to find the LP. Phew.

Obviously, it was love at first sight. We spent the next 3 months pretending to speak fluent Spanish and breaking hearts all over Barca. Then she went back to GW and I went home to Texas with promises of reunion in the near future.

After spending my entire life in Texas – growing up there and going to college in that same city – my time in Barca helped me realize that I needed a change. The fact that the LP moved home to Long Island after we both graduated had a lot to do with my decision to stop wishing I could move to New York and actually do it instead.

Before scheduling my first date, I went through the typical wardrobe crisis. Obviously, I wanted to make a good first impression. I spent $100 on a new interview outfit and another $200 on a new coat (we don’t really own those in Texas) which I never really even wore.

Of course, Momma J air-mailed LP’s family about 15 lbs. of Salt Lick BBQ – naturally – as a “thank you” for letting me stay with them for the weekend. Texans do everything big, in case you hadn’t heard. It arrived on the LP’s doorstep shortly after I did. Apparently, that was more than enough to win me an honorary spot in the family as far as LP’s dad was concerned. Good start.

Friday morning, I dressed for my job interview and LP dropped me off at the train station, subway directions in hand. Luckily, the office was right next to a stop on the 4 5 6, so my chances of getting irretrievably lost were minimal.

Reflecting back, I don’t remember much about that interview. I was pretty overwhelmed by the fancy office in SoHo and the movie-worthy view they had of downtown Manhattan. I can say, however, that it must not have gone so well as they never got back to me. I don’t blame them – I didn’t want to be a media buyer, I just wanted a reason to move to the sparkly city.

With that out of the way, I headed back to the subway to meet LP for some tourist action.

We hit the Museum of Natural History, had a leisurely stroll through Central Park, and a stop at Dylan’s to see the rainbow walls of candy before having a pre-dinner frozen hot chocolate at Serendipity. We had dinner in Time Square (I told you – tourist action …) at Carmine’s with the pre-theatre crowd before heading back to Long Island.

We spent the rest of our time terrorizing the island, making ridiculous boyfriends – me and the HLP’s favorite past time. It was Barca in the States and I was in love; first date success!

As much as I loved my steady relationship with Texas, I decided that it was time for us to go on a break.