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 ...

From the Desk of the Mayor

In the midst of my whining about all the boys I like who don't seem to reciprocate the feeling, I forgot about the one that got away I kicked to the curb:

Yes, ladies, this is the Mayor in all his Hangover-lovin' glory. I know, I can't believe I "dated" this fool for a month either.

I was perfectly content with the way that our relationship had petered out - the whole thing reminds me of a defective sparkler that lights for a few seconds, making you think that maybe - just maybe - it will catch fire and turn out to be awesome. Until it abruptly sputters and dies. Another dud. Ah well, moving on. Let's light the next one.

And so I did (move on, that is) and had seen nary a Facebook post from the Mayor - speaking of, I should probably "hide" him (my favorite course of FB action when it comes to ex-bf's). Until: 2 albums (of approximately 130 pictures each) showed up in my Facebook newsfeed, documenting his recent excursion to Sin City. In which he wore his ugly Zach Galifianakis-baby-shirt on several occasions.

I tried not to click on them, I really did. I don't know what it is - Rachey, does this qualify as CGS? Or just further proof that I have no will power or self control?

Either way, it was a big mistake, as I found myself perusing 200 + pictures of the Mayor posing next to 200 + pairs of boobs - in varying degrees of attractiveness. For your viewing pleasure, please see below for my extremely accurate recreation of what just about every single one of these pictures looks like:

I must say, the girl "pictured" above is probably 5 times more attractive than any of the sluts the Mayor found in Vegas. The Situation would be appalled by the number of grenades that grace these albums. And the Mayor will probably be appalled when he finds out he got an STD just from motor-boating one of these bitches.

All in all, I'd say the thing that bothers me most doesn't really have anything to do with the Mayor. I'm more afraid about the fact that I actually hung out with this guy (EVER), and how it must reflect extremely poorly upon my judgement.

Was I depressed or bored or something? Needing validation? Or, did I honestly just not realize what a colossal douche this guy really is? Maybe he did a good job of hiding it for a month?

I can't remember - I think I've blocked it out as one of those traumatic experiences.

In any case, Facebook strikes again. It's definitely put the kibosh on "what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas." Otherwise, I could have gone on blissfully unaware.

Damn you, social media.

Irony is an asshole.

Two things.

Numero Uno:
I still have a crush on TR. I think the people in charge of the softball league are secretly conspiring against me, as they continually schedule our teams on the same night week after week.

Last night, I practiced a bit of masochism and talked to him longer than I have during his previous few appearances. He even pulled out his signature "grab her attention from across the bar by enthusiastically calling her name and waving like an idiot" move.

What? It's endearing.

Ah well, though I'm a bit down in the dumps about the whole thing, I'm proud of myself for being mature enough to put rejection aside and hang out with him. Wait, scratch that, we all know I'm playing the game, and trying to be the "winner" in this situation. You know, show'em the 'ol "look at what you're missing!" bit. Ugh, how did I get here?

Numero Dos:
My fictional TR despises the Cowboys and the actual Tony Romo. And that, friends, tickles me to no end.

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.

Futurama vs. South Park (OR: The EyePhone vs. Kip Drordy)

I posted this over on 20SB, but wanted to share it here, too since I think (OK, hope - but what do I know) that some of you might appreciate it. And be slightly amused (or just reinforce that I'm not entirely crazy and that you know what the eff I'm talking about).

Because of yesterday's post on the frightening similarities between owning an iPhone and crack addiction, and how Apple users are pretty much brainwashed for life once they convert (or, at least I was ...), I got to thinking about a recent episode of the new season of Futurama (which warrants a whole new tangent that I'll spare you) featuring the Mom Corporation and its EyePhone 2.0 and her evil plan to control users via a viral "twit-worm."

And because my poor brain works like one of those Plinko boards on The Price is Right, the thoughts kind of bounce around willy-nilly from here-to-there with no clear logical path.

The first bounce left me giggling over the South Park episode that similarly rips upon another fave social media tool - good ol' FB - and the way in which the characters readily discard reality in favor of living a life on the interwebs. (Stan, poke your Grandma.)

Both episodes are absolutely hysterical to me - probably because I'm the very sort the creators of both shows set out to mock - the heavy internet user, ever reliant on Twitter, the iPhone and Facebook, just to name a few.

So, I continue pondering, and the Plinko-chip-thoughts bounce around in a few other directions, ending up where they may, namely on the following two quandaries that I think I need your help answering:

1. Which episode do you think is funnier?


2. If Bender, Frey and their army of Twitcher followers faced off against Stan and his 845,000 Facebook friends in a dark alley, who would win?
   

I'm listening.

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.