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 ...

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.

Insulting my injury (I typed this with one hand)

Yes, that is in fact, a finger. My horribly swollen, disfigured, heinously ugly, sausage-shaped right pointer finger. I'm fairly certain that this is not supposed to happen in co-ed beer league softball.

But it did.

Upon viewing this picture, one of my former teammates from the good 'ol glory days of my professional middle school/high school sports career noted that she'd never seen me with an injury this ugly. Ever. Through broken noses, broken ankles, monster bruises, raspberries from the hardwood, oozy scrapes and scabs from the times that sliders were forgotten beneath gym shorts before running the bases.

And then, she congratulated me on a job well done.

Because every "athlete" knows that success is measured by badass battle wounds.

Not evidenced photographically, however, is the fact that - a mere three to four hours later - my insides felt exactly like that finger looks.

You see, I have stubbornly refused to give up on Tony Romo for reasons unbeknownst to anyone. It's just crazy girl logic - sociologists could devote their entire lives to unravelling the mysteries of crazy girl logic and get abso-fucking-lutely nowhere.

So, being the Crazy Girl Syndrome (CGS) afflicted lady that I am, I subtly confronted Tony Romo about our seemingly abundant amount of chemistry during softball-related functions, and lack thereof outside of the softball-league-universe. In the nicest, least crazy way I possibly could, mind you.

And, in the words of Cher Horowitz, was brutally rebuffed.

And, in the spirit of CGS, cried my way home for 60 blocks in the back of a cab.

While battle wounds may be badass in the world of competitive sports, the inverse is true when it comes to the dating game.

In sports, the uglier the better. The more pain, the more euphoria in recounting the details of the wound. People eat that shit up. And you're branded a rockstar.

In love, the uglier the details, the less likely you'll receive any title befitting awesomeness - wounds equate failure and not success. And all you'll have are insides as broken as that finger pictured above.

But the good news is, the finger is slowly becoming less puffy and swollen, and so are the insides.

Which is helpful, because while there are other (better) Tony Romos out there, these are the only insides I've got.

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.

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 feel like a giddy schoolgirl.

So lately, I've turned into a big-fat-blog-nerd (see below mention of IITGI), and a few weeks ago FINALLY e-mailed Cheryl over at StarbucksBreak to see if I could guest-blog for Dating Wednesdays.

Awesome lady that she is, she assented!

Which means that you must go check out today's Dating Wednesday - while you're there, be sure to browse Cheryl's blog cause she's fucking hilarious.

Is there nothing sacred? Have we lost our moral center? It just makes me want to pee on someone.

-Tracy Jordan

Not only am IAAB, IAA Materialistic B.
(IAAB = I Am A Bitch, for those not in the know.)

So … I owe you all an update. After airing my grievances regarding the Mayor, I decided I was done. And I would hope he never called or texted again so I wouldn’t have to tell him so.

And then, he texted me again.

With an offer almost on par with yachts and T Pain, no less – tickets to Tracy Morgan stand-up. For tonight. Talk about losing my moral center … (Maybe minus the wanting to pee on someone part. I mean, I do enjoy awkward, but that may be where I draw the line. Maybe.)

You know when you’re just absolutely torn and you get that deer-in-headlights, confused-squirrel-trying-to-decide-which-way-to-run-to-avoid-the-oncoming-car kind of feeling? Like when they put a big plate of cupcakes out at the office for snack time (Yes, we’re like kindergartners. We get snack time. I’d prefer nap time, but whatev.) and you know you shouldn’t eat one because you just vowed to love and honor Crunch but you’ve had a really shitty day (or you're hungover) and you just really kind of want one? And then you eat two? (Just me?)

That’s how I felt when faced with my Hang Out With The Mayor One More Time To Use Him For Tracy Morgan Tickets vs. Tell Him You’re Just Not That Into Him dilemma. And of course, I polled my friends again, because that’s what I do. Am I indecisive? I can’t decide …

LP’s vote?

(The “bowel issues” comment references LP’s theory behind the reason the Mayor abruptly aborted our last date … Also, LP – you clearly need to keep up with the freakin’ blog. Especially since you're in like, every other post. Geez.)

See also the below e-mail from LP:

Are you going to be around tonight? I’m trying to preplan my escape from the date with [redacted], and Lord knows I’m gonna need a drink after that. It should be done by like 11ish (I told him I have a bday party). Let me know.

P.S. Are you going with that guy to see Tracy Morgan???

P.P.S How amazing is it that we are both dating boys that we don’t like so we can do fun stuff for free.

Pearls. Of. Wisdom.

Now’s the time for you to guess how I chose to handle this situation.

What’s that? You guessed that I told him I would go? Yes, you know me all too well.

Clearly, Carstees talked me into texting him and accepting the offer. I think the logic went something like: “It’s Tracy Mother Fuckin’ Morgan. DO IT!” Very persuasive, Carstees. Oh yeah, and those three vodka sodas probably had something to do with it, too.

So after I sealed my fate last night, he texted me this morning to tell me the tickets are sold out. And now I’m just waiting for him to propose his shitty alternative plans to the best stand-up show ever. And clearly I can’t say I’m busy. I mean, he may not be the most intelligent guy I’ve ever gone on a date with, but if I cancel now I think that might just tip him off to the fact that I was only going to hang out with him because TMorg was in the mix.

Oh Karma, you’re such a bitch. You may now all chuckle at my self-induced misfortune. That is all.

The Mayor Saga Continues …

(Or, when YOU'RE just not that into HIM.)

Shortly after I published this post pondering the Mayor situation (which you may want to read if that sentence didn’t make sense to you), I got a text from him asking what I was doing for St. Pat’s. Since my last name sounds a bit Irish and all.

Sadly – or not, depending on your feelings towards the Mayor – I had to be at work at 7:30AM the next day so we didn’t end up hanging out. Promises of meeting up during the weekend were exchanged.

I pretty much forgot about it, until I received the following text yesterday afternoon:

What are you up to tonight and tomorrow all day?

Tomorrow all day? That sounds pretty serious. I polled all of my friends for guesses as to what the all day mystery activity could be. Given the Mayor’s spending habits, and seeming connections to every kind of character you could imagine, a maiden yacht voyage was the most popular guess.

I went to bed with visions of T Pain and nautical-themed pashmina afghans dancing in my head.



The Mayor rolled in from Queens at about 3:30 this afternoon to pick me up. No wait, I believe “I’ll scoop you” were the exact words he used when letting me know that I could expect to be picked up.

Sadly, there would be no yachts in my future. He actually didn’t have anything planned, just wanted to hang out. Which is fine. I’ve been wanting to check out the High Line, so suggested it. He agreed and we made our way over.

This weekend’s Spring tease has been amazing, and a walk on the High Line was perfect. Everyone’s excitement at leaving the house sans jacket, knees barred for the first time in months was palpable. I freaking love this time of the year in New York – the misery of winter erases Spring from my memory every year, making its arrival a deliciously unexpected surprise.

After we walked, we decided food was in order. You would think choosing a place to eat in New York would be simple. There are so many options. You name it, you can have it – everything at your fingertips for the taking. It’s fucking overwhelming. And the Mayor is picky. Clearly, I made him choose the place.

The first was not to his liking, so we moved on to plan B. Which apparently no longer exists, as we couldn’t find it once we arrived at the address we’d looked up. No problem, there was a seemingly popular bistro around the corner that was serving up happy hour specials.

I happily plunked myself down at a booth, a less-enthusiastic Mayor trailing behind. You see, he’s got the irritable-New-Yorker shtick down pat. I honestly believe he thinks it’s funny and/or charming to act contrary and abrasive, and the air of confidence will bowl you over as soon as you step within a mile radius if you’re not ready for it. I don’t think he was satisfied with the forced change in plans.

A meal and a semi-argument with the waitress over a misguided beer order on my part later, and the Mayor decided it was time for ice cream. We headed over to St. Marks and got some Pink Berry then strolled around the block perusing the wares. The Mayor looks pretty awesome in a fedora, but not as good as me.

I’d had a good time up to this point, but was starting to get exhausted by all the ribbing that, apparently, comes standard on any outing with the Mayor. While I was racking my brain for a suitable next activity, he declared that we should probably call it a day, since we both have to work tomorrow.

It was 7:30.

I acquiesced, he drove me to my apartment building, I made a half-hearted suggestion that he come up and retrieve the CD he’d let me borrow a few weeks ago, he said he’d grab it later. We sat there awkwardly for another 10 seconds or so. I said, “Well, thanks – I guess I’ll see you later,” got out and that was that.

Until he texted 5 minutes later, apologizing for leaving because he “started to not feel well.” Because clearly, he couldn’t have just told me that while we were uncomfortably staring at each other minutes before.

Oh love life in NYC. You are incredible.

I relayed all of this to Evie who commented that while the Mayor’s ability to nurture a budding relationship is there, he does the bare minimum required to keep it alive. A bit of water here and there, but only enough to keep it going. She’s good, that one.

So in closing, I think I’m kind of over the Mayor. Now I have to figure out how to gracefully extricate myself from this situation (um, suggestions welcome in the comments …)

Well, until he calls me and invites me onto that yacht with T Pain. Then he can have another shot.

Every rose has its thorn.

No, I’m not fixing to write about a stripper that wronged me … (random aside, New Yorkers love it when I say “fixing to” …) So maybe not the most fitting title I guess, but I do have a point.

And I do oddly love Brett Michaels. I actually watched an episode of the new Celebrity Apprentice just because he’s on it this season. I mean, I would prefer another season of Rock of Love, but I guess that shit’s old after three go-rounds.

Anyway, back to the point – bear with me here. Remember the naughty Valentine escapades? Well, I actually ended up giving a couple away, and one of the guys asked for my number.

I’m attempting to enter this whole “let’s be open-minded” phase of life, so when he actually called me – CALLED ME, not texted me at 2AM on a Saturday night with, “Yo wassup” – and asked me out on a dinner date, I forced myself to say yes. I mean at the very least, it would be good practice for future first dates, right?

And let me back track and say that there’s nothing particularly wrong with him. As a matter of fact, he’s been nothing but extremely nice throughout the course of our … whatever this is we’re doing. He’s just not really my ideal type. For instance, Evie calls him the Mayor of Queens since he’s from there, and has an accent to rival any one of the characters on Jersey Shore.

To give you a brief synopsis, evidenced by the fact that he invited me to go to an awesome concert with him the weekend after (and despite the fact that he fed me sake bombs all night) the first date went well. I was probably not as together as I should have been, but I guess he didn’t mind (sorry, Momma J … I broke the obligatory ‘never drink too much on a first date’ rule).

So we went to Muse at Madison Square Garden, and it was fun, too. But I guess it’s hard to have a bad time at a concert … It’s not like you actually have to talk to each other, you just sit there and enjoy the music.

Muse at MSG

For our next dating adventure, he took me to 230 Fifth – yes please. Roof decks are an aphrodisiac for New York women – it doesn’t matter who you’re with as long as it’s nice out and you can stare at the skyline and enjoy a comfortable breeze while he buys you drinks. He’s already started with positive points for the evening, so it’s hard to crash and burn from there.

I guess the Mayor wasn't aware that he had already racked up so many points, as he informed me (while I was staring at the Empire State building) that he had bought me a yellow rose (because of the song Yellow Rose of Texas) but that he hadn’t given it to me when he picked me up because he didn’t want me to think he was too corny.

[Side Note: There is a chain of strip clubs in Austin called The Yellow Rose. I had to try really really hard not to divulge this little tidbit of Austin information. Cause you might have to be from there to think it’s funny … ]

So, things were going swimmingly … until the Mayor of Queens invited me and my girlfriends to the Cluuuurrb last Friday night. I tried, but I am just not really an ‘up-in-da-club’ kinda gal. It was awkward. And I generally find awkward funny (making people feel awkward may or may not be listed as a hobby on my Facebook page).

And now I’m kind of over it. Which is generally how these things go for me. I meet someone, get super excited about it, and then it just …. fizzles out.

I enjoy the rose until I look closely and find the thorns (especially when it's a yellow one). Oh Brett Michaels, you’re so wise.

I still have my Yellow Rose of Texas, but the Mayor and I haven’t talked since the weekend. I don’t know – maybe he’s waiting for me to text him? But honestly, I could go either way with it.

What do you think? Should I just let it go, or should I initiate another meeting with the Mayor?

I’ve yet to decide …

Committed (Or: A Sloth Makes Peace with the Gym)

It would come as no great shock if my beloved Crunch came to me with divorce papers, begging and pleading to break all ties. Since the day that I vowed to renew our love and commitment, I've been terribly neglectful. 

A neglect so all-encompassing that I too am starting to fall into the sort of depression that I imagine Crunch must be feeling after a month of this treatment. I have continually disregarded with wanton abandon its innocent reminders that I visit. I mean, clearly it only wants to provide love and support, right?

But for serious. 

Last week I drank Tuesday through Saturday. I mean D-R-A-N-K. There was no time for Crunch. Subsequently, I'm gifting all of my friends the 12 step program and buying myself a book on avoiding the pitfalls of peer pressure. I'm sure the friends won't forget me if I deign to stay in one night. Hell, they may not even miss me. 

The result of this epic binge (besides the added neglect of this blog ...) was me prostrate in bed all day Sunday ignoring any and all potential human contact. 

Well, and a renewed vow to rekindle my relationship with the only one that loves me unconditionally. (OK, besides Momma J. And maybe Lil'Bro. And definitely the Best Dog in the World.)

  

Gratuitous picture of BDW

Yes, Crunch, I'm talking to you. You will always be The One.

When I walked in today, the girl behind the counter asked me how I was doing as she swiped my card. Pretty standard stuff. I guess my face betrayed my dread at having missed an entire week.

After I mumbled, "Fine, thanks," her face crumpled as if I'd just made her drown her own puppy.

"Excuse me?" she said, simultaneously looking like she was going to cry and eat me. (Or maybe puke and vomit, which is LP's favorite description of sheer disbelief or desolation - depends on the situation.)

I repeated with a smile (that she probably knew to be the fake sort that it was), "I said fine, thanks."

"Ooooh," she said. "I thought you said 'fine, I hate this'!"

Woops. I mean, I sort of do, but only when I walk in. When I leave, I feel great. Hell, ebullient. As I do right now following tonight's blissful (if not sweaty and unnatractive - wait strike that, it sounds too dirty, and for once I didn't mean it!) hour-plus bonding session.

So Crunch, here's to second chances and renewed commitment. I'll try my best to be a dependable, reliable partner. And please, just remember, I will always love you no matter what.

I think it's time we take a break.

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.

Don’t take it personally.

The crappiest "dating" tool known to man.

I’ve previously mentioned my hang-ups with “boyfriends” and Facebook statuses, but Facebook messages are clearly the more obnoxious and intrusive alternative to the (most often, if at all) subliminal messages ensconced within an innocent status update.

An update is meant for everyone, so I blame myself if I misconstrue meanings, or take personal affront. Messages addressed directly to me, on the other hand, are obviously easier to criticize and dissect.

Case in point: Jewish Boyfriend No. 1 (why the Jewish boys seem to like me, I’m not quite sure… ). JBN1 and I met one eventful Happy Hour through our mutual friend CB (whom I’ve mentioned before). I was late (per usual) and JBN1 was clearly flirting with one of CB’s co-workers when I arrived. We’ll call her Slutvana.

Aside from the fact that she sucks anyway, Slutvana just so happens to be from Oklahoma – and it’s my civic duty as a good Texan to discredit and harangue anyone unfortunate enough to be a Sooner. We commenced the standard TX/OU banter, and I quickly cemented myself as the more witty of the two of us. JBN1 quickly tossed her aside and set his sights on me.

Happy Hour turned into more hours, and we all moved on to JBN1’s place, then on to the bar. After an unsuccessful make out attempt, we went our separate ways and I didn’t hear from him again save the obligatory friend request on FB. Until …. :

As background, I – along with 10 other people – publicly endorsed his dumb status about milk steak and jellybeans (if you don’t watch Always Sunny then A) FOR SHAME and B) you have no idea what I’m talking about).

Which brings us back to my original argument that status updates aren’t meant to MEAN anything – they just are. Clearly JBN1 read more into the fact that I “liked” his status than he should have. And CLEARLY, I had to forward the resulting FB message to LP immediately.

Me: This was in my in-box yesterday …. [msg from JBN1 attached]

LP: Wait this is the NFL guy, right??? [Ed. Note: We’ll get to that guy later…] I mean he didn’t even take the time to proof read the note which makes me feel like he wasn’t trying too hard. That said, maybe he was just too nervous to reread it. Either way, I say make him sweat it out for a while. But, it’s kind of awkward to wait for a couple of weeks to see him again. Like are you gonna Gchat until Thanksgiving? What do you think? Does this guy have potential?

Me: LOL – NOOOOOOOO. This is CB’s friend JBN1!! From like, a YEAR ago when we had that 90’s dance party at that awesome bar that I’ve never been able to find ever again [Ed. Note: I am STILL looking for this bar… I think it’s in the West Vill? Maybe?]. And we went to their apartment in Stuy Town before that – memories??

LP: OMG!!!!!!!!! That’s hysterical. Wow…. I don’t even know how to respond to this.

P.S. OMG… WTF, LOL. What the crap.

P.P.S. What was his status that you commented on?

P.P.P.S. What made him wait “a couple of weeks” to contact you after you commented on his status? Like the year you spent with out talking to each other wasn’t long enough?

P.P.P.P.S. Can I tell CB, or is this better left between us?

Gotta love her – all appropriate responses, IMO.

Anyway, I was nice, I responded… And – SHOCKER – didn’t hear back for another few weeks. Also of note, I received the message shortly after posting a status about Mitzvah tanks. Freaking Jews…

Upon hearing this, LP admonished me to watch out, that he was likely going to try and convert me and that I should prepare myself by eating copious amounts of pork.

When I revealed that the message was an invite to hang out on NYE, LP pointed out that perhaps he just wanted to make sure he saw me once in 2009.

Anyway, the moral of the story is one we all already know but seemingly forget. Facebook is the crappiest “dating” tool known to man. That is all.

Ditching the crutches.

Crutch: A device used for assistance or support.

A few days ago, three weeks post-surgery, I got rid of the crutches. Three weeks of hobbling around the city was rough, although, I was impressed with how sympathetic people were. City life sometimes seems so desensitizing. There are so many of us crammed into such little space. So many stimulants that cause us to cultivate indifference.

But the crutches made people notice. They helped me hail cabs. They gave up their seats on the bus. They griped at others who didn't. They offered to carry my groceries. They offered to make coffee runs. Sometimes-indifferent friends became concerned-supportive ones.

So in a way, they did provide assistance, support. In another, they were almost debilitating. Part of me has hardened into the consummate role of jaded New Yorker - I can and will be independent and do it all myself. This is hard for a person on crutches. You can't do it all yourself.

Which is when I realized, that sometimes I don't want to do it all myself. Sometimes I start looking for that other person to provide stability, support.

And then the New Yorker tells me to move back to Texas if that's what I really want. Because people don't move to New York to settle down.

The Master Cleanse.

No, not that master cleanse. I’m talking about the Facebook Master Cleanse. About a week or so ago, I conducted an FB purge, cutting ties with any one-time hookups or fair weather friends whom I have no interest in keeping tabs on in touch with.

Feeling proud of myself, I eventually took it one step further and began to “hide” any people whose updates solicited instantaneous eye-rolls or feelings of irritation.

Most of my New York “boyfriends” (along with our mutual friends) made this list, save one. Reasoning escapes me at this point, because I’m pretty sure that 6 or 7 failed attempts to hang out qualify him for the TOP of the “I don’t want any reminders of you” list.

But apparently, some part of me was still curious, maybeeven holding out hope that we’d eventually hang out, despite the LP’s numerous reminders that he seems like (and acted like) a complete douchebag.

The offending update that finally relegated him to hidden status?

Seemingly inoffensive, yes. But further confirmation of the fact that he and I are pretty much the same person (minus the alleged douchebaggery) – same interests, same taste in movies/music/tv shows, blah, blah, etc.

[ And I have to add, that I absolutely loved that song before they put it in an effing car commercial ... ]

Anyway, suffice it to say, our level of banter was pretty awesome – I’m sure we both fancied ourselves super witty and amusing.

Then, nothing. Per usual.

Dating in the City is hard – I have a friend who writes a blog solely on this topic (Guide to Menhattan – check it out!). So you would think having things in common with someone from the onset would help, right?

Apparently wrong.

One more status update from him proclaiming one of my faves his faves just might put me over the edge:

 I need no further reminders of my failed dating attempts in NYC.