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.
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.
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.
I can’t help but resent your continued appearance as I slowly peel the pages of my calendar towards spring. The first few times I saw you this past winter, I’ll admit I found you beautiful – but dangerous. And no, I’m not sorry for reducing you to such a cliché combination.
Add to that your unpredictable tendencies – no one knows exactly when you’ll show, or how long you’ll stay – and you can surely see why I think it's time we take a break.
You – you’re such an enabler, enticing me to avoid going out, to stay on the couch eating cookies while watching that Bravo TV marathon. Forcing me to don layers of puffy clothing that hide the cookie-related evidence when I do decide that enough is enough, I have to get out of this apartment.
And when I do finally venture out, despite your best efforts at keeping me in, you resort to physical reminders that the couch was a much better option. Let me tell you, I felt that bruised tailbone you gave me for at least a week. You’re almost as bad for my ass as those cookies (almost).
You stubbornly hang around, so slow to retreat. You already resemble one of those exes that leaves traces behind post-breakup – little puddles serving as a reminder of what a pain in the ass you started to be a few months into our ‘relationship’.
Yes, it was fun while it lasted, but I think it’s time you hit the road, snow and ice. I know, I know … I had decided I was ready to welcome you back into my life after enduring about four months with summer. But I’m notoriously indecisive, so you should have seen it coming.
Sure, you can try me again in seven or eight months. But until then, I think it best you not come around for a while.
Last year, several of my friends fell victim to the huge snow storm that hit around Christmas-time while I was lucky enough to make it out.
This year, however, joke's on me - I spent the weekend snowed in with the rest of New York City.
After a tacky sweater party and a night on the town with the HLP and EV on Friday night, I was actually quite proud that I woke up on time, showered, "put my face on" (as my Southern grandma would say) and got to the airport in one piece.
The line to check in was a monstrosity, and of course, I had to check my bag since I'd opted to drag the largest of my suitcases back to Texas in anticipation of cramming a bunch of Christmas gifts in there for the return trip.
As I got closer to the front of the line, I noticed that a bunch of the flights were cancelled. My outlook was not so good as I stepped up to the ticket counter.
When the Southwest employee told me my flight was just delayed as opposed to cancelled, I got so excited that I apparently made a great impression on him, and he instantly fell in love.
I'm not kidding, he told me he hoped I'd "come back and see him real soon." Weird. But whatever.
I made it through security and to my gate, but realized I was probably going to miss my connecting flight. While waiting in line to try and sort it out, I struck up a conversation with this guy from West Point. We started chatting because he was wearing a Texas ballcap - which was weird since he proceeded to say some not-so-nice things about Austin.
Obviously, I pointed out the irony of this, and told him he probably didn't deserve to be wearing that hat. IAAB, as me and Rach would say (I am a bitch).
He was also an inch shorter than me and dipping. Cleary a winner - almost as good as my new Southwest Airlines ticket counter boyfriend.
Anyway, I was definitely going to miss my connection and there were no other flights going to Austin. They suggested I take the first flight (to Chicago Midway), stay the night, and then take the first flight to Austin the next morning.
Oh, and did they mention, they weren't going to pay for my hotel.
The next option was to fly out tomorrow (Monday) morning. As much as I wanted to stay in some random hotel near the airport in Chicago on my own dime, I went ahead and re-booked.
Next step: find the big-ass suitcase I had just checked. They told me to go wait by baggage claim and that they would have someone bring it out.
I waited. And waited. And waited. There were no Southwest employees behind the downstairs counter, so I finally went back upstairs to visit my SWA boyfriend.
Clearly, he was overjoyed to see me. Clearly, the girl he was talking to at the time was not as A) I skipped the entire line and B) the guy stopped talking to her in midsentence to help me find my bag.
Fast forward 3 hours later, and he was finally able to find out that they put my bag on the plane to Chicago. FML.
At that point, I was beyond being upset and instead had reached the place where everything goes so wrong that it ends up being hilarious. I took a cab BACK to my apartment (yes, $60.00 wasted) and, as I was walking in the door, got a call from my SWA boyfriend telling me that he had in fact found my bag at LGA and that he would hold it for me if I wanted to come back and get it.
FML x TWO.
I had him send it on to Austin, where it will (hopefully) be waiting for me. While I'm kind of pissed that I missed two days of scheduled vacay in Austin, I have to admit that the first real snow that piles up in the City is pretty magical. It only stays this pristine for a short time before turining into dirty, runny, brown sludge. I'll enjoy it while I can:
It "snowed" last week in Austin - people bought provisions, just in case. School closed at 2PM, just in case. The snowflakes fell for about 20 minutes, and stuck to nothing. Not exactly a winter wonderland... and definitely typical of Texas.
We used to wake up before the sun every Christmas morning, hoping for snow so we could make angels and build Frosties. Nature delivered once or twice, but we could never get enough of the snow.
To this day, snow makes me giddy. So imagine my excitement when I saw the first flakes of the season last night in NYC:
Even though you can barely tell, I promise it's snow. And snow means Eggnog, mistletoe, peppermint schnaps with your coacoa. Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer and Santa Baby. Gingerbread and candy canes. Papa Noel, pine needles, poinsettas, holly wreathes. Snowball fights in Central park, ice skating in Bryant Park and the tree at 30 Rock.
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