NYC apartment hunting blows ...

(I never promised I'd refrain from telling you things you already know.)

Seriously, this is taking up ALL of my spare time. And heightening my anger management-issues ...

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 ...

Wonderland.

Although I'm a transplant from Texas, I do have one close family member up here in Yankee territory. My great uncle - UG - grew up in Chicago and relocated to New York City after graduating with his law degree at an early age.

Everything about him amazes me - his lifestyle, the decorous way in which he conducts himself, his hobbies and interests, the places he's been and the things he's accomplished - to me, his life has been, and continues to be, the stuff of novels.

He even has the penultimate "meet-cute" story, and was with his significant other until an unexpected bout with cancer crept up on them. Because our family had a complicated relationship with UG throughout most of my childhood, regrettably, we weren't close with him until I moved to New York almost three years ago. Consequently, I never got to meet UG's S.O. - something that profoundly saddens me.

Making up for lost time has proven a bit uncomfortable at times, but we've managed to resurrect a solid foundation from the broken pieces of our family tree. UG currently lives upstate near the New York/ Connecticut/ Massachusetts border in a 200 year old farmhouse, which he refurbished himself. I visit him once every few months or so, which doesn't sound often enough I suppose.

Jumping on Metro North, watching the buildings grow smaller and farther apart until they dissipate into hillside and trees, is like a slow-motion version of falling down the rabbit hole.

And when the journey comes to an end, I too, emerge in a forest - a forest of antique Chippendale, sterling silver, and fine bone china. No need to paint the roses red, as they already are. There's even a Cheshire cat (or two) to be found.

During my last visit, I was roused at 3 AM by booming thunderclaps, I sat up and watched as a fantastic rural light show played across the window-panes, ushering in droplets of rain in droves. The rain pitter-pattered against the house, staccato, the sound conjuring images of toy soldiers marching in formation across the creaky wooden floorboards.

Sitting in the garden the next morning, we watched the sun reach down and kiss sparkling blossoms and blades of grass. Listened to bullfrogs harrumph loudly before abandoning the tops of lily pads for cool depths of pond. Spied turtles stoically poised atop partly submerged roots.

Later that afternoon, we headed to Innisfree, where I decided that my camera and I could spend many happy hours on end.

Trudging back to the train to leave a world of quiet green peace, gourmet dinners, and fleeting glimpses into UG's fabulous formative years is always a melancholy affair. While it's hard to leave the City behind some weekends, I'm always glad that I have,as UG just may be the most adorable man on the face of the planet.

I often find myself awed and amazed that I'm related to this man.

This is my version of Wonderland.

Scoutmob; PMA; Grooveshark

Things that impress and inspire, excite a desire.

Website Edition.  

1. Scoutmob:

Here's the deal. I'm super into mailing lists. Coupons. What to do this weekend. Events, shows, concerts, restaurants, festivals - I want to know about it all.

Scoutmob takes these quintessential roundup-type e-mails a step further by offering daily deals. Fo' FREE. And I'm not talking, 'get a free soda when you buy an entree' type deals. I'm talking, 'let's practically give this shit away to get these people in here' kind of deals.

I'm not talking, 'let's only offer this badass deal for one hour during the most inconvenient time of the day.' I'm talking, 'let's offer this bad ass deal for THREE MONTHS so that subscribers can actually use it.' 

 

Today's daily deal? 50% off Hill Country BBQ. Hell yes, y'all. Sign. Me. Up. Ribs, brisket, beer can chicken, chili-mac, Kreuz sausage, corn pudding, bourbon sweet potato mash, shoestring green bean casserole. OK, I digress. And am now drooling.

Not only is the food detrimentally delicious for waistlines everywhere, this place also happens to be a little slice of Texas heaven smack-dab in the middle of the Flatiron district.

Come football season, you can find me here every Saturday with my fellow Texas transplants swilling Lonestar beer, dressed in burnt orange from head-to-toe, cheering for the Longhorns, screaming "give 'em hell, make'em eat shit, "OU sucks," and a number of other chants that make no sense to you unless you went to the greatest University in the world. (Yeah, we're pretty obnoxious. Kind of like Yankee fans or Red Sox fans. But better. And more awesome.)  

Back to Scoutmob, not only is it amazing for subscribers, local businesses are totally getting down with this shit. It provides a way for businesses to track response rates, reach customers on the go through a mobile iPhone app, and taps into social media networks by prompting users to share deals with friends via Twitter and Facebook. Hello free word of mouth and new customer base.

Way to go Scoutmob creators/marketing strategists. You win. I wish I was as smart as you, and I salute you.

2. Pretty Much Amazing (PMA):

Speaking of amazing and my affinity for sites that point me in the direction of anything new or up-and-coming; let's talk about PMA.

Brought to us by a group of self-proclaimed "music geeks," PMA breaks down the latest and greatest in alternative and independent music (oft described as an indie-electro guide to the current music scene).

Another interesting tidbit - all of the clips, links and soundbites posted are legal and free; something to admire in an age of piracy and legal battles over rights and distribution policies. 

The PMA-gurus recently posted a list of the best songs of 2010, which is updated quarterly. I highly suggest you peruse. Snagging the number one spot is LCD Soundsystem with "All I Want" and "I Can Change," both off of their newest album, "This is Happening."

While I can get down with both selections, there are other songs on the album that steal my vote for best song ("Drunk Girls" and "One Touch" to name two ♥).

Other songs on the list worth mention in my book include:

• 
  
  48: “Who Makes Your Money” - Spoon (An Austin band, so not surprising I'm sure, but also just an interesting sound)
• 
  
  42: “Factory” - Band of Horses (Beautifully lazy)
• 
  
  35: “Opposite of Adults” - Chiddy Bang (A cooler/realer version of current faves like Asher Roth, IMO)
• 
  
  27: “Bang Pop” - Free Energy (Old school rock'n roll; lava lamps, bell bottoms and joints)
• 
  
  24: “Lifted” - Lemonade (Like Chester French meats badass electro beats)
• 
  
  21: “Little Lion Man” - Mumford & Sons (Love the gravelly sound that penetrates to the core, begetting emotion)
• 
  
  13: “Superfast Jellyfish” Gorillaz (Whimsical, catchy, seemingly nonsensical but delve deeper for meaning)

3. Grooveshark:

By now you know I'm all about free. And music. It keeps me company all day in the fluorescent hell that is an office with no windows. Sure, I like Pandora and Slacker. But I pay for neither so must endure annoyingly grating commercials.

I had a brief love affair with Imeem, but then they sold out and joined forces with MySpace, which happens to be the only website we can't access at my office. I'm pretty sure you could stream porn here without anyone noticing. But MySpace? Banned.

Enter Grooveshark - a site that houses approx 7-million songs, accessible fo'free for as many plays as your little heart desires. I thought this was something that everyone knew about, but have mentioned it to several friends lately (who are generally up on their shit) that were surprised to hear about it. So, if you fall into this category, you're welcome.

Now go listen to PMA's top 50 songs of the quarter and search for your faves on Grooveshark.

Drop it Like its Hot

As I write this, 102 degrees of heat stealthily radiate from the asphalt below my window, waiting to slap me in the face the moment I venture out of doors.

Yes, the heat is on. No, I'm not in Texas. But because I'm from there, I seem to be one of approximately 5 people on the island of Manhattan not overtly concerned with the current state of weather-related affairs.

My co-worker P-Dub came by my office this afternoon with the express purposes of showing off his pit-stains and lamenting the sad droop in his previously-coiffed 'do post lunch run.

And the New York Times has shown up on my Twitter feed approximately 5 times in the last 3 hours requesting pictures of what "hot" looks like (if I were them, I probably would have been more specific - there are some real pervs out there that might misconstrue the ask ...).

Though, according to Gawker, all of the hullabaloo is fueled by a slow news day following a four day weekend as opposed to the fiery furnace that is Manhattan itself.

Perhaps the fact that we Texans have air-conditioned vehicles to transport us from our centrally-air-conditioned homes to our next centrally-air-conditioned destination of choice is the reason that we're able to scoff high-and-mightily at all those who deign to complain about triple digit temps.

The one thing I will agree upon, however, is that waiting for a subway in this shit is horrific.

Therefore, fellow New Yorkers, do as I do and become a bus-convert. Waiting above ground beats the hell out of feeling like a pair of sweaty balls constricted by cotton gym shorts during track practice (I mean, not that I know exactly how that would feel, other than gross) while you stand miserably squished shoulder-to-sweaty-shoulder with strangers on the subway platform praying for the next train to come.

Though I'm not impressed with the heat-related whining, I'm always up for a good cold-weather-carping sesh. (See Snowpocalypse 2010). I'll take hot-hot-heat over fucking-freezing any day.

Just more of my Texas showing I suppose ...

Currently Coveting: Edition Numero Uno

Things that impress and inspire, excite a desire.

So, as I promised (myself), here's the first edition of things I'm currently obsessed with.

Heather Moore Jewelry:

This was a Guilt Groupe/Momma J find. If I could afford the $500 - $2,000 price point, I would totally rock one or more of these charms.

Robicelli's Cupcakes:
I'm clearly so obsessed, that I follow them on Twitter.

The freakin cutest local cupcake shop, based out of Brooklyn. Matt and Allison Robicelli bake bad-ass cupcakes with local ingredients in small batches, then deliver them to storefronts throughout Brooklyn and Manhattan. Pictured above: "The Duckwalk"- Vanilla cake with blueberry port-mascarpone buttercream, homemade blueberry port jam, and fresh blueberries. The blueberry port jam in the center was my favorite part. Trekking around the LES in 95 degree weather to find it was my least. (But totally worth it.)

Other flavors I'm hoping to try (if I ever manage to get to the right spot at the right time):

“The Bluth” (which, let's face it, I would probably try just for the name alone. I mean, can I hang out with these people? I think we should be friends ...) - chocolate banana cake studded with chocolate chips and walnuts, with chocolate buttercream, ganache and roasted walnuts

“The Yvonne” - 2003 Late harvest reisling cake and buttercream topped with blueberry-thai basil compote (What? I wish I could tell you that I've come up with something half as interesting in the kitchen as blueberry-thai basil compote on top of a cupcake)

“The Maltz”(why, hello bacon, fancy meeting you here) - chocolate bourbon cake and buttercream with candied bacon

“Bea Arthur” (again with the toungue and cheek - ♥) - Black coffee infused chocolate cake with cheesecake buttercream and espresso ganache

“The Red, White and Blue” (4th of July special - yum) -  vanilla cake filled with wildberry jam, mascarpone buttercream and fresh berries

And since we mentioned bacon already ... :

Bakon Vodka - "a clean refreshing potato vodka with delicious savory bacon flavor"

Anecdotally, Momma J wanted to order this for her co-worker's birthday, as he's obsessed with the current all-things-bacon-craze (see BBCC). Since they don't sell it in the great state of Texas, I ventured over to Astor Wines & Spirits to purchase some for her. Once securely wrapped in approximately 5 lbs. of bubble wrap, I shipped it to Austin (illegally, of course) for their bacony-consumption.

Next up, buy some for myself and host a bloody mary brunch party, complete with a bar of bloody mary mixin's and copious amounts of bacon. If I'm really gonna go for it, maybe I'll try and candy my own bacon as a garnish. Updates to come, if this actually happens ...

And there you have it folks - 3 things that I'm currently coveting. Aside from leaving this flourescently-lit office for some sunshine and long weekend's worth of 4th of July celebration, that is. Hope you all have a great extended weekend!

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!)

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.

Remember the Alamo.

(New York, meet the Alamo)

F.M. (Professional) L. I have been so stressed out these past few weeks. Besides living in my cubicle, I've done little other than obsess over the progress I'm making (or not making) as I attempt to climb the corporate ladder.

I’ve always been, for lack of a better term, an overachiever. Well, the laziest version of an overachiever that could feasibly exist.

And I suppose you could even argue that I only think I’m lazy because I’m rarely satisfied with my best efforts. (Although my friend Sunday begs to differ, since it knows what percentage of the day I sometimes spend in bed …)

I think I described my younger self pretty succinctly over at IITGI - one of those obnoxious, goody-goody AP kids that never drank or went to parties, who hung out at Barnes & Noble after school and drove to the coffee shop on Saturday nights instead of to the kegger.

Rewind even further to the dreaded middle-school years and I was one of those kinda-shy, kinda-quiet, nerdy Pre-AP kids that hung out at the mall after their parents dropped them and their friends off at the movies for the night.

I was like, one step away from being the female version of Kevin’s dorky friend Paul in The Wonder Years. Well, minus the Jew part I guess. And the glasses.

I never enjoyed attention much at school and was content to sit quietly at the back of the class, diligently completing assignments as long as I was left well enough alone.

I remember once – this must have been maybe 7th grade or so (who am I kidding, I remember exactly – it was 7th grade …) – in Texas History our teacher asked us to write a song about the Alamo and then stand up in front of the class the next day and sing it aloud.

I would have done just about anything – short of being pantsed in the middle of the quad – to avoid standing in front of my classmates, singing some stupid song about the Alamo to the tune of Gilligan’s Island (because somehow it was decided that singing about the Alamo to the tune of old TV sitcom songs was the coolest route to take with this heinous assignment).

I would have taken toilet paper stuck on my shoe or tucked into my underwear, trailing out from under my skirt; tripping in the middle of the cafeteria while carrying a tray full of food; a huge, oily zit in the middle of my forehead.

In retrospect, the end result was probably worse than if I had just gotten the fuck up out of my seat and sang the stupid song. The teacher – wise to the sensitivities of being an awkward 7th grader – thought he would be clever and threaten anyone who didn’t want to sing in front of the class with an F on the assignment.

As far as I was concerned, this was the best news I’d ever heard. I told him I’d take the F. He refused, insisted I was being silly and told me to just sing the song already.

He pushed me so hard to stand up in front of my peers and sing that I actually started crying in the middle of the classroom.

Epic.

He eventually let me off the hook, but I’m sure the image of a 13-year-old girl crying in the middle of Texas History probably held more staying power in the minds of the class than a 13 year-old girl with a crappy singing voice.

Point being – I am terrified that I’ll always be that scared-shitless 13-year-old girl crying in front of everyone.

I’ve learned to get the eff over myself and deal with my anxiety over the years, but I still get extremely nervous in high-stress situations.

For instance, today, I found myself sitting in a client meeting as the most junior person in the room, surrounded by three CEOs of hugely successful companies (one of them mine); my boss and two other co-workers; a famously-connected, old school New York City socialite; and five or six other consultants from various industries in attendance to “provide counsel.”

No, I didn’t cry – and if you even entertained the idea, then you’re on my shit list.

But, as I sat there introducing myself to this table full of wildly influential people, I could barely keep my hands from shaking as I clenched my notebook and pen for dear life.

I’m working on it, OK?

Someday, I'll nail it. I’ll be the girl that everyone goes to for advice, for big-picture strategic ideas, for guidance and feedback and input and wisdom.

Until then, I’m caught somewhere between the wide-eyed middle-schooler bawling her eyes out in Texas History, and the wide-eyed junior staffer trying not to lose her shit at the important meeting.

Lucky for you, someday when I'm an influential-power-bitch (once I figure out what the hell I'm doing, what great things I'm supposed to accomplish and how the hell I'm supposed to accomplish them) you’ll be able to say you knew me way back when.

But if you EVER tell anyone that I cried in the middle of Texas History because I didn’t want to sing about the Alamo, you’ll be dead to me.

(Kidding!)

(Kind of …)

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.

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.

Spring in Texas - Misery in NYC

You know it's springtime in Texas when people start parking their cars precariously on the side of the highway to take pictures in the bluebonnets. (Insert "you might be a redneck" joke here).

This was something Momma J subjected Lil'Bro and I to every year on the way to Grandmother's house for Easter.

Now that we've flown the coop, the annual-bluebonnet-photo-shoot has turned into a BDW solo session. Looks like he's finally learned to stop eating the flowers and just laze in them instead.

I have sunshine-envy. Let's compare the picturesque scenes above with the following, shall we?

WTF Mother Nature? I'm over 50 and raining. At least you plan to get your shit together this weekend.

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.

Pooches and Smooches

Kisses from the BDW (Best Dog in the World):

I realize he’s appeared more frequently as of late, and quite frankly it’s because I miss the ever-lovin-poo out of him. My continued requests that Momma J “bark him” while we’re on the phone are probably starting to annoy her. (Methods to “bark” BDW include ringing the doorbell and/or hiding his toys in the sofa cushions so he can’t find them. He goes nuts.)

And if he stays away from Momma J’s new lemon tree – which she has aptly named “Mr. Lemonhead” (No really, she named it) – than he might just still be alive by the time I make it home to Texas for a visit.

Since my pining for BDW is starting to reach epic, addict-worthy proportions, I thought dogsitting a friend’s puppy might take some of the edge off. (I think these are the kinds of statements that land recovering substance abusers in rehab … but what do I know.)

A few weeks ago, LD offered up her doggy Diasy – or as I like to call her Crazy Daze – while she went gallivanting off to Aspen for a skiing sesh with L Squared, leaving us in one of several recent “epic Snowpocalypse 2010” episodes in favor of spas and slopes. Good call LD, good call.

Crazy Daze and I started off our marathon slumber party frolicking in the snow and staging hipster puppy photo-shoots with Evie. Everything was wonderful.

Daisy will have you know that she had a Vespa way before it was considered either cool or environmentally responsible

Until I realized – I am NOT cut out to be a dog owner in NYC.

LD, you are a better lady than I.

Sure, it’s cute to watch your little furball burrow in the snow because she loves it so much. But not so cute when you take her inside and she proceeds to prance across your white couch with her soggy-snow-paws.

And I mean, it’s pretty awesome to actually be visible to the millions of New Yorkers streaming past you on the sidewalk because of your doggy accessory instead of getting steamrolled as they pretend not to notice you when it’s just you against them.

Untiiiil you’re late for work in the morning because everyone keeps stopping you to pet your dog because she’s just so cute and fluffy and spunky and energetic and oh-my-gosh where did you get her little vest, how old is she?

Another thing that’s not so cute is scraping poo off of cement. Grass? Dirt? What’s that?

For me, dog owning is all about having a backyard 4 steps away as opposed to a glorified parking lot 4 flights of stairs away.

That way, when you wake up to dog vomit on the foot of your bed (that you’ve been sleeping in all night) you can simply open the back door and let the dog out to continue being sick while you disinfect your poor comforter.

As opposed to the city alternative – hoping she’ll be able to hold it 5 more minutes while you take care of the mess, only to be sadly disappointed that you didn’t just let the vomit soak into your comforter a little bit longer while you took her outside because now you’re cleaning up diarrhea off of the living room floor.

As far as I am concerned: The suburban dog is in. The urban dog is out. (Man, I loved “Go Dog Go.”)

And as far as Momma J is concerned, this constitutes one of the best life lessons I have learned in my two plus years of city living, as I no longer wish to get a puppy.

Besides, I wouldn’t want to make the Best Dog in the World jealous.

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 …

Forget Mondays ...

... I have a case of the first-half-of-the-months.

Oh New York City rent. You slay me.

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.