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.

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.

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.

Facebook and its many functionalities.

I recently wrote something for In It To Gym It on Facebook as a weight loss tool:

In addition to aiding and abetting my stalking habits, I’m realizing another, more useful – if not equally disturbing – Facebook functionality. Yep, Facebook as a weight-loss tool.

Who needs Weight Watchers when you have “Social-Network-Comprised-of-People-You-May-or-May-Not-Even-Know-or-Like Watchers”? I realize it’s important that I do this for myself in order for it to work, but knowing that the one guy that I have a really big crush on, or Momma J, or my marathon-running tri-athlete of an ex-boyfriend may one day stumble across a picture of me resembling Violet Beauregarde in the blueberry pie stage of her three-course dinner via gum makes me cringe with embarrassment.

To read the rest, visit IITGI . . .

The onset of OMG-It's-Almost-Summer happy hours, beer-league softball, and fucking ridiculous hours at work are to blame for my latest "come to Jesus" talk between myself and my reflection.

Hopefully for your sake (well, and mine) I figure out the equivalent of the Oompa Loompa's juicing procedure, or you're gonna have to hear about this shit on the blog waaaay too often.

Well, pending my ability to get my blogging-act together, I suppose ... 

That is all. For now.

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.

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.

LOST: A love affair.

If you’re an avid fan of Lost blogs, you probably won’t be blown away by the following commentary. I don’t propose to have all – or any – of the answers, I just feel the need to weigh in on one of my fave shows of all time, given it's the last season and all ... *tear.

You see, Lost and I share a special history. I was one of the late adaptors, not having discovered the show until season 2. Some people argue that this is the best way to watch Lost – catching up on an entire season’s worth of episodes consecutively.

I’ll tell you this much, it sure does ease the suspense. And alleviate the panic-induced stress that stems from missing an episode during its original air time. (Oh my god, DVR, please work … Rooms, don’t accidentally hit cancel or delete … Please lord, don’t stop recording half way through a Sawyer scene …) Or I guess you could just Hulu it, but whatever.

Back to the history of my love affair with Lost – I previously mentioned that my Heterosexual Life Partner (LP) and I met studying abroad in Barcelona. We had a fourth roommate in our apartment that quickly became the anti-life-partner. Let’s call her Kitty. If I never see Kitty again in my life, I won’t be disappointed.

I hate to stereotype, but for the sake of brevity, I’m gonna. Being the little ‘ol Southern girl that I am, I had never been introduced to the term “Jappy” before I met Kitty. This urban dictionary definition eerily captures her completely. Although she and I clearly did NOT get along, I didn’t mind using her for her extensive collection of TV shows on iTunes.

Starved for any English-language media we could get our hands on, LP and I staged Lost screenings on the weekends while recovering from our all-night Barca benders. We were quickly sucked in, and subsequently bonded over the drama, the mystery, and the likes of shirtless Matthew Fox/Josh Holloway.

Four seasons later, we’re still obsessed. And can’t wait for the “answers” to be revealed. I missed Tuesday’s episode, and finally sat down to watch it last night, texting LP through its duration (things like: “Tenerife!!!!” because we travelled there while on study abroad – it was extremely intellectual commentary).

She’d already seen it, and proclaimed it “THE BEST EPISODE OF LOST SINCE THE HATCH!!!!!!!!” (There may have been even more exclamation points than that …) so I was pretty excited and expecting epic.

Which it was … But I’m getting nervous that I’m going to feel extremely let down come the end. I mean, I’d heard “the island as hell/purgatory” type theory before, and decided that it was too neat. There’s been a lot of crazy shit that’s gone down, and storylines so complex they make your head hurt. I want a complex answer, dammit. I want dark and messy, not tidy and easy.

Maybe I’m speaking prematurely, and good ‘ol JJ still has more awesome in store for us. But if everything is easily explained, I’m not sure I’ll ever get over it.

Anyway, I digress, and leave you with a few thoughts and musings from the latest episode.

• Thoughts on the entire, Richard-centric first half of the episode: this shit is depressing.
• Also, the bible verse he was reading before talking to the priest probably had some significance that's totally beyond me ...
• I’m assuming that Richard’s ship is the same ship we’ve seen all throughout (and also trying to recall if we already know this to be true …) If so, poignant that this is where he went to finally try and die – I’m a fan of full circles.
• I was totally tricked by the Man in Black’s song-and-dance, and kind of wanted to believe that he was the good guy and that Jacob is in fact the devil.
• I also think it’s interesting that Dogan told Sawyer the same thing about the MIB (take this dagger, stab him as soon as you see him, don’t let him talk to you or it’s too late) that the MIB said to Richard about Jacob. (Complicated/confusing sentence, much?)
• So if Jacob’s not the devil, is the Man in Black the devil? Or just evil-incarnate? What did he originally look like before Jacob “took” his humanity or body or whatever? How and why did that even happen in the first place?
• The conversation with Jacob and Richard regarding right vs. wrong needs closer examination. Clearly, Jacob chooses to steer people with sordid pasts to the island. To offer them a chance for redemption? And Richard fit that bill, as he so desperately coveted forgiveness for a crime he didn’t mean to commit. I wonder why then, he can’t become Jacob’s replacement. Is he no longer a candidate because he tried to harm Jacob? Or because he’s aware of what’s going on, so can’t unknowingly choose the side of good over the side of evil?
• What’s the significance of the white rock Jacob gives to the Man in Black?
• Who out of our survivors do you think would be most aptly suited to replace Jacob? I actually think Locke was probably the best – he certainly wanted it the most. But I guess he was too weak in the end? I would say not Sawyer as he’s in cahoots with the MIB. Maybe Hurley?
• The MIB smashing the bottle of wine = foreshadowing his escape ...?

Now that I’ve jotted these down, I’m going to go peruse the internets for other ideas/feedback/theories.

P.S. Which Lost blogs do y’all read religiously? Favorite theories for the meaning of it all? (I liked Approaching Lost because it’s organized and easy to follow, but it looks like there haven’t been any new posts in a while... Lame.)

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.

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.

Random but true.

So I was recently "introduced" to a fellow 20-something blogger who lives in Austin and is a middle school teacher (shudder - no offense! ... ). First off, her blog is all kinds of entertaining - check it out here: Tales from the Serengeti.

Secondly, I have never had any desire to be a teacher, probably because I realize that I would be terrible at it (unlike la Beast, who seems like an awesome one).

But the number one reason that I would never ever in a million years want to become a teacher just hit me.

In case I ever decide to peek down this career path, I will just remind myself that I could never EVER EVER EVER go to work with a hangover. Clearly, anything that interferes with impromptu, mid-week boozing is out of the question for me (and most of my friends).

Guess that’s why we don't hang out with any teachers?

Ahem, my friend Skeeazy E just corrected me - apparently, we DO hang out with Teachers.

Forget Mondays ...

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

Oh New York City rent. You slay me.

Blog Rant: Why We Blog

I’ve recently had conversations with several people regarding the banality/triviality/superficiality of many blogs residing on the “Internets.”

And I suppose mine may fall into this category.

But …

I try to be accessible, to be witty and entertaining in my ramblings. I try to post things frequently enough to hold any sort of interest I’m lucky enough to capture.

I realize that these are stories mostly about me, and that you probably don’t care if I ever talk to that one guy that I really liked ever again, or that I think brunch is one of the greatest inventions on the planet and that New York City is the preeminent place for it.

Maybe you don’t think that the exploits of my best friend and I (a.k.a. Heterosexual Life Partner - LP) are quite as hilarious as we do. I mean, we find the fact that we continually get ourselves into some pretty preposterous situations endlessly entertaining.

Come on – how many of YOU have met the winner of Israel’s American-Idol-equivalent while eating bacon-wrapped hotdogs at 2 AM, only to call bullshit (we really thought those were fake accents …) then later learn that he’s telling the truth after looking up the web address on the bottom of the business card he gave you? (Yes, business card! I also received an e-mail address instead of a phone number the other day as well – another tale for another time).

Of course, I would be thrilled if you did find this interesting. Hell, some of my favorite blogs are exactly this – random snapshots of other people’s lives that I find endlessly fascinating. (See: Stephanie Klein’s Greek Tragedy; Jennsylvania; Suburban Turmoil).

It’s like an escape into someone else’s reality. An excuse to encourage the voyeur inside yourself. A chance to temporarily banish boredom or the remnants of a bad day.

So I guess that’s what I’m offering. A chance for strangers (but realistically, I’m sure, mostly just a handful of friends) to hear about life in the City, to – hopefully – get a kick out of the crazy situations I frequently land myself in.

Belatedly, I realize that I should have chosen another name for this blog in order for the following argument to hold validity. But I still stand by it – I just like puns and thought “Tex and the City” would be cute.

I’m no Carrie Bradshaw, and – even though girls my age that blog tend to be involuntarily slapped with this label – I’m not trying to be one. Seriously.

Just trying to create an outlet for all of these words swirling about in my head that demand they be formed into proper thoughts; into sentences that march across a page.

Return of the BBCC

A few days ago, I revealed Momma J's tendency to send me random gifts at the office (a proclivity of hers that I happen to love... and always encourage).

Today, I shall reveal (sorry mom... ) her tendency to share TMI. Of course, I guess this makes me guilty of TMI-infringement also, but oh well here goes.

Momma J: Ok, so yesterday we enjoyed our Bourbon Bacon Caramel Corn. That afternoon I had such horrific gas I had to step outside several times.

This morning one of my co-workers told me he had to leave early yesterday because he was about to explode from a burrito he’d eaten at lunch. I asked him if he was sure it was the burrito, since I too was having a terrible problem - I was beginning to suspect the BBCC.

You can help us get the “bottom” of this…. Did you notice any gas after eating your BBCC?

Me: Not that I recall. And I'm pretty sure I would recall.

Also, you know that this very may well end up on the BLOG now.

Mwaaahahahaha.

Score one more for Jersey Shore...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Enabler

Recently, I went on an Amazon book-buying spree. I'm pretty positive that the guys in the mailroom have gotten tired of delivering packages to my desk. I have not tired of receiving them, however.

Now that all of the holidays are over, and effing Valentine's Day is the only thing we have to "look forward to" as we serve out the rest of our winter sentence, I need something that elicits a little excitement in life.

And if packages that I have ordered for myself - that I already know the contents of - elicit said excitement, imagine what the arrival of an unknown, slightly-larger-than-book-size package did for my day.

After receiving my third glare of the morning from Mailroom Man as he dropped it off, I remembered that Momma J had mentioned the purchase of an impulse-presie, which she'd sent to my office.

I wasn't sure what the appropriate reaction should be as I recovered this gem of a present from the depths of the box:

Hilarity and heartburn are, naturally, where I've netted out with this one.

Upon calling to thank her, she ended the conversation with: Have you gotten that pool membership yet? I saw those new pictures posted on your FaceBook page and I think you should really start thinking about ways to get enough exercise with that knee of yours.

Because Bacon Bourbon Caramel Corn really says, "I'm concerned for your health and the ratio of your diet-to-exercise level."

And that is the story of my life - I've gotten this from 3 generations of women on my mom's side of the family since I was old enough to understand the word "diet". (Probably like, 1st grade or so. Ya know, the norm...)

Just wait, unborn daughter that I may or may not someday have - I will probably do this to you, too.

Reflecting and Resolving

Happy 2010! Hope everyone had fun celebrating, and that you've all sufficiently recovered from your resulting hangovers.

This year's festivities definitely topped last year's (which wasn't a tall order). I was a bit too enthusiastic with the champagne last year, and also fell prey to a few of Rachey's poison drinks so didn't actually end up leaving my apartment.

This year, I paced myself better at the beginning of the evening, but things went downhill when LD confiscated a bottle of champagne for the two of us to share at midnight. So far, none of the pictures that have surfaced have been scandalous, and I'm hoping that trend continues...

As for resolutions moving forward, I've not dwelt on the matter too much. I do know, though, that I'd like to sit down and map out a few goals for myself in an effort to accomplish something new this year. Of late, I've begun to suspect that I am actually kind of lazy...

And I don't want to be lazy, complacent. Sometimes I'm able to fool myself into thinking I'm not. That I'm on some path to bigger and better things. I'll have euphoric New York weekends, distracted by the energy, the rarities, oddities, and curiosities I'm sometimes lucky enough to stumble upon.

But then, the feeling creeps its way in. It usually happens at night when I'm impatiently waiting for dreams. I'll start to make them up before I totally slip into sleep, and then can't stop thinking about all of the things I need and want to accomplish.

It's like, when we were kids and we'd try to make it from one end of the swimming pool to the other, completely under water.

We started out confident, propelling ourselves with our feet from the wall at the shallow end, speeding towards the deep end like rockets. But once we crossed from shallow to deep, we'd start to loose momentum, run out of breathe, and will ourselves to hold on a little longer so that we could make it to the other side.

That's what the feeling is like. My chest constricts as if I'm under the weight of the water. My body fills with tension and my head feels heavy and full. I think that if I just keep going, I'll find a way to make it to the other side so that I can kick to the top and break through the surface.

If only I could figure out what it is that I'm aching so badly to do. I think I could hold my breath long enough, I could kick a little harder, stretch my arm and fingertips as far as possible to reach my goal so that I could breathe easy again.

I'm scared that I won't figure it out, that I won't find a way to release this pressure inside of me. I've crossed from shallow to deep, but I don't really know where I'm aiming to go from here.

I made it to New York, but I need to decide what I want to do now that I'm here. So that's my resolution for myself in 2010. To set a few goals that I can accomplish, insead of just floating along, holding my breath and waiting for something to happen.