TGIF & TGYouAren'tThesePeople

The BFF is obsessed with Awkward Family Photos. At night, I can hear her giggling as she scrolls through the website on her iphone before she falls asleep. Then she runs into my room and makes me look at something hilarious. Then I tell her, "No, seriously, I'm going to sleep right now." And then she runs back in and says, "Only one more, I promise."

This one had her in hysterics the other night:

A turtleneck Situation is still a situation (Awkward Family Photos) 

Oh awkward photos in matching outfits. Not going to lie, my family has a ton of them. Sadly none to share with y'all today, but as a Friday treat, here are some real gems of the awakard engagement/weddings and pet photography variety to make you feel better about your own life of loneliness. Just me?

"An apple a day will keep my new creepy husband away "(20 Most Awkward Wedding/Engagement Photos)

It's going to be super unoriginal when I do this now (20 Most Awkward Wedding/Engagement Photos)

When I'm home visiting, sometimes I play "Baby Jesus" with our dog Jesse where I wrap him up in a blanket. He gives me a similar look. What does that say about me? (Awkward pet photos)

What photographer would ever let these people do this?! And where do I sign up. Joking. (Awkward pet photos.)

This however, I am not joking about. I kind of love it. Is that wrong? Awkward pet photos.

May your weekend be full of love and awkwardness.

What I Want for My Bday

I grew up in a family that puts top-notch energy into celebrating birthdays. It's awesome. But the older I get - and the farther away I wake up from mom-decorated rooms full of birthday banners and flowers - the more I have to force myself to temper my birthday expectations. It is hard. I am a Birthday Monster.

To get the celebration started early in her physical absence, my mom sent gorgeous roses to my office yesterday. Yay. I'd take a picture, but my camera phone is jacked. Ugh white-girl problems.

They came with a card that said "August belongs to you, stretch it out!"

Enabler.

When she called to ask for my work address, she also inquired about what I wanted for my birthday. I suggested a puppy. She suggested cash. I accepted her counter offer.

In a lot of ways, getting cash is like getting a puppy. I can be equally irresponsible with both. I can use both to gain attention for myself. I can snuggle with them both on the couch. Oh wait.

But ca$h isn't the only thing on my list. What I really want is a Birthday Crush. This time last year I was juggling a full roster of guys, all with potential. As it turned out, it was a common potential for disappointment.

But at least they were entertaining. The ForeignJO was the most beautiful man who will ever ask for my number. He met me out on my Birthday Eve. The next night, after a great birthday dinner with friends, the FH 2.0 came and met me too.

Where am I now? No man's land. Literally. There are no men.

My idea of summer romance has been chained down by realism and indifference. No one in this time zone has caught my fancy enough for me to make an effort.

I want to change, I really do. Not liking someone is so boring. I want to have a cute, romantic song come on shuffle and get butterflies, not want to vomit. I want to be excited about something.  I want to give a damn about someone.

I don't necessarily even need a boyfriend. I could settle for a Boyfriend Experience (not in a gigolo way, in a male version of DYFU's girlfriend experience explanation).

Perhaps, though, I'll get that soon. I have a post-birthday trip planned that has potential. More on that later.

In the mean time, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. (Officially on Sunday but since I always do what my mom tells me, I'm stretching it out.)

(And if you think I'm being obnoxious, then you have no idea how bad it can get in real life. Just ask The BFF.)

You Know You'd Watch This Show

So here are the facts:

Fact #1: Even though our world connectivity continues to expand exponentially by the millisecond, we seem to be losing the ability to create relationships with those we're most compatible with or who we're most attracted to. There's just too many people in the bandwidth. Yes, we can replace the physical introductions with online dating, but I'm still holding out hope to meet The One through a fairy tale story in the same vein as my parents (e.g. good ol' fashioned in-person stalking.)

Fact #2: We're obsessed with other people's lives. Especially as it relates to the aforementioned relationship developments.

Fact #3: The Bachelor/Bachelorette shows are popular. People love that shiz. There are countless websites dedicated to recaps, including this funny one, and articles dissecting their relevance.

Fact #4: Those shows suck. Everyone is either a fameball, a closeted gay, a lush, or all three. Plus the fact that people from opposite sides of the country from two different worlds are paired together is a recipe for disaster. Even if they make a good couple, they're kept apart for months while the show airs. Distance, in this case, does not make the heart grow fonder.

Fact #5: Competition has a time and a place. If I were on the Bachelor, obv I'd try to fall in love with the guy just to beat the other girls even though if he was a total dbag. Plus seeing your Future Husband flirting in front of your face with a hoard of skanks doesn't really help the CGS.

Now that we're all on the same page, I have a 100% self-serving idea for a new dating show.

Here is the premise:

Every day on my commute, I pass by approximately 20 cute, wedding-ring-less guys I would totally go on a date with. Unfortunately, within a blink of the eye, these potential Future Husbands are out of my life forever. Why, cruel world, why?

I've already complained about the social awkwardness that would arise from me trying to break the ice on my own. I need an intermediary. (Someone who is no not my wanna-be wingwoman mom, The Friendliest Woman on Earth, who is always trying to get me to hit on randoms.)

If there was a dating show in a big city - cough cough New York - that sent out producers to scout well-trafficked areas - cough cough Grand Central Station at rush hour - where the girl could spot guys on the camera footage she wanted the producer to stop, who would then be the one looking like an awkward jackass.

When you meet a stranger, what do you need to know right off the bat? Here are a few of the majors:

• Are you in a relationship?
• Do you have kids?
• Are you yourself a kid? (Gotta keep an eye out for those summer interns who happen to be impressively good looking!)
• Do you live conveniently within the radius the contestant is willing to travel?

From there the show would follow dates with the top three candidates. And, no, I'm not talking about the super skeezy/cheezy late-night dating show dates like Blind Date or 5th Wheel (if you've ever seen these shows, it makes you root for humanity to go extinct.) Or the crazy elaborate, castle-based fairy princess set-up a la Bachelorette.

Normal dates with normal people who might actually end up together. It's so normal it might be refreshing.

And why would I be a good contestant? I'm capable of being charming and witty (I mean, if they serve us wine.) But if it's a total trainwreck, then you could watch it instead of having to read about it on The Internet. (Too bad the Mafia date wasn't on camera. It was classic.)

Even if no real TV network is interested, I can always make The BFF go out and record nd interview a bunch of hotties with her new iphone camera. Sadly, that's not the creepiest thing we've ever done.

For Some Reason I Love This (Prob Cause I Was Always On Team Pacey)

To be honest, I don't really understand Comic Con, but apparently everyone I follow on Twitter was there this weekend. Anyway, Gawker had this on its site today:

Actor Joshua Jackson (Pacey in Dawson's Creek) hosted his own convention outside Comic Con in San Diego yesterday. Pacey Con 2010 included Jackson reading Dawson's Creek fan fiction, autograph signing and, presumably, making out.

Middle School Rachel is sad she missed out. Also, once I saw Josh Jackson and Diane Kruger walking around in Tribeca and totally awkwardly stalked them for a block. Sigh.

Are You Sure You Like Women?

No one can accuse me of never taking risks. On Friday night I left my apartment in white pants and no umbrella fifteen minutes after a tornado warning.

I went out with the PTP (pretty Texas people) crowd where we ended up downstairs of Bowery Electric dancing like it was our jobs. I felt good. During my first trip to the bar, a guy bought me a drink. Score. Then they played one of my all-time favorites - Whitney Houston's "I want to dance with somebody." I.love.that.song. When I needed another drink, another guy approached me. Pop-u-lar.

We chatted for a few minutes before he introduced me to his co-worker, Guy Who Bought Drink #1. Ha.

Guy #2 joined the PTP crowd to dance. And dance he did. It was like he was my Dancing with the Stars instructor and I was Kate Gosselin trying to keep up.

I have never been dipped, spinned and picked up so much in my life. It got to the point where I was mildly worried he might rip off his clothes to showcase a full-body dancer's unitard or something.

After I snuck out before everyone else (the pizza place on my block doesn't stay open as late as the bars, IAAFA), he sent me this text: "Soooooo fun to have danced with you! - Andrew from tribeca!

Then the next day: "You're a fun dance partner."

That's all I was to him - a good dance. I feel like he used me for my body. But not in the way most guys would think to. You see, while he seemed perfectly nice, I got a certain vibe from him.

And it's not the first time. My gaydar is turned way up. It's gotta be thanks to the ambiguity of the manscaping, metro movement. Mani/pedis, eyebrows, and Jack Spade bags; it's a whole other world from Texas. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

This is where my newest theory comes into play: "Gay until proven straight." If within the first encounter I can't be certain if a guy is playing on my team, it's time to move on. Maybe twinkle toes is totally hetero, but I don't care enough to find out.

Duh Movies Ruin Relationship Expectations

This article in the NY Daily News reports on a study from Down Under.

"It seems our love of rom-coms is turning us into a nation of "happy-ever-after addicts." Yet the warm and fuzzy feeling they provide can adversely influence our view of real relationships," said Australian relationship counselor, Gabrielle Morrissey. 

A poll of 1,000 Australians found one in four were now expected to know what their partner was thinking while one in five respondents said it made their partners expect gifts and flowers 'just because'.

This is not exclusive to Australia. I've totes been brainwashed into thinking sweet romantic gestures should be a part of everyday life.

I mean, hello, there are (cheap) fresh-cut flowers on every block [see picture in new masthead.] Why have I never been the recipient of any?

Hint hint cough cough.

However, I have a feeling Americans - specifically New Yorkers - are more jaded than the Aussies. We realize the key to successful relationships is the continual lowering of expectations.

Joking. Sort of.

Match Dot Mom Has Met Her Match

Apparently my mom isn't the only one trying to play Yenta these days. Last week, I read about this mom who has set up an online dating site where parents can set up their adult kids. Since I hadn't blogged about it yet, I've had multiple people bring it to my attention. I love that people recognize that this is my life.

Unfortunately my mom has been off the grid for the last week and a half. She and my dad are in Alaska working on the Sarah 2012 campaign. HAHA. Joking. They're on a cruise.

Maybe when she gets back she'll be too distracted by having to review 2 weeks worth of Facebook postings (those pictures/comments/updates aren't going to Like themselves), so she won't hear about this. Otherwise yours truly could be its newest member.

Happy Birthday, Blog

A year ago today I published my first post. The fact that the Guide to Menhattan is still alive and regularly updated proves my capacity for responsibility. Cough cough am I ready for a dog? Gosh, JOKING, MOM.

Now that it's a regular part of my life, it's been a little weird being single again. A friend asked me if I would tell guys I date about it. Yes and no.

Yes because I'm lazy and if someone wants to get to know me, it's a pretty easy way. If you don't like the blog, then chances are you prob won't like me. And no, because up until now, it really hasn't been an issue. I'm still hibernating in the 'Dating Seems Like a Lot of Work' phase. Not telling a guy would require having someone not to tell.

For the most part, though, the guys I have hung out with already knew about the blog. And all ask the same thing: "When are you going to blog about me?"

Maybe that says something about the male company I keep? Smiley face emoticon.

So have I gotten any smarter in the past year? Figured out my life anymore? Nah. But it's been fun.

Here are some of my top personal faves (in no particular order):

• FJOs
• Crazy Girl Syndrome (CGS)
• The World's Biggest Douche Bag (WBDB)
• Textual Analysis
• The 3.5 Date Rule
• My Best Friend Chuck Bass
• IAAB
• Girl Hot vs Guy Hot
• Psycho Roommate Diet
• Every Girl Ever

Anyway, thanks for reading. Thanks for spreading the word. Thanks for leaving comments.

Cheers!
Rach
(or Rach Face if you knew me in college)

When Forever Is Not Forever (21)

Living in New York provides no "normal" concept of age. I realized this during the weekend when I made a stop by Foreves 21. Yes, I still shop there. Judge if you must. Then stop reading because we might not have anything in common. Unless you like puppies, in which case, we do. Okay, either way, keep reading. Wow, needy much?

So of course the one thing I wanted - a dress I stupidly didn't buy when I was in there a few weeks ago - was gone. As I aimlessly wandered through the (shockingly) empty store, a vivid flashback smacked me in my memory. Twenty-two, senior year of college. I had wondered then if it meant an end to my Forever days since I'd surpassed the number in the name.

Clearly I managed to get past that.

Sifting through the racks trying to determine what I Could Pull Off vs. Oh, Gurl, Puhlease Don't Even Think About It, I tried to calibrate my feelings about the fact I still shopped at a place where I'm clearly no longer the target demographic.

What if - gasp - I've outgrown my favorite source for cheap-ish outfits? (Although of course everything I'm drawn to is the most expensive thing in the store! I am morally against spending $40 on a dress there, btw.)

What if I look ridiculous in that short skirt?

What if people think I am old?

And then you know what happened? The guy checking me out - at the register not with his eyes - called me "Ma'am" approximately 100 times in the course of five minutes.

Fantastic.

Also, FYI, if you happen to visit the website, you'll notice they have some great back to school items. Gahhhhhh.

P dot S: Happy Birthday, Elle!! Your positive attitude about 26 is obv inspiration for me to stop my whining. Maybe.

Thank You, Gym Boyfriend

One lesson my mom instilled in me was the importance of sending thank you notes. I'm not alone. Leah Dieterich's mom made her too and now she has a great blog - THXTHXTHX - where she writes them daily.

Her exercise in gratitude has inspired me to be more thankful for the small stuff, including:

Unfortunately, my Future Husband prob didn't notice me as my gym is also the Epicenter of Young, Attractive Females, including a high concentration of pretty southern interns.

Can't win 'em all, I guess. But you can be thankful.

The Best Pick-Up Line Ever

This weekend was a reunion for me, The BFF and S, our other friend since sixth grade. While we were out at a local bar on her first night in town, S shared with us one of her guy friend's patented pick-up lines:

"You must be a Samantha."

HAHAHA. Hi-larious.

Everyone's a Comedian

Last night I went to a comedy show and met Judah Friedlander. He's on 30 Rock in case you don't care. If you are keeping tracking, he is the third cast member I have met. Luckily I kept my shiz together and didn't make things too awkward. I informed him he was the only quasi-famous person I follow on Twitter who I've ever met in real life. Obviously he was super excited to learn this fun fact. I was more excited that not even one awkward giggle escaped my mouth during this interaction. I think all this is really good practice in case I ever meet Tina Fey and must act like a competent human being. (It would all go out the window in .5 seconds, obv.)

The entire line-up was pretty hilarious. And since The BFF and I are sassy and two drink minimums at 11pm don't really downplay that, afterward we made friends with the show's host. Actually, we technically met him before the show when I accused him and another comedian of being line cutters. There are few things I'm morally opposed to enough in our society to interject about, but included on that short list are people who cut in front of me.

Luckily the guys weren't too offended.

Plus The BFF made sure to upstage me later when, during the show, she heckled someone else in the audience who had been chosen to provide her opinion on the host's observation about cage fighting or something. For starters, this girl was super annoying. And also a very self-impressed But Her Face. So she might have deserved it.

I'm not exactly sure what prompted The BFF to scream out, "Shut up, Lohan" but it was probably one of the funniest instances of The BFF's verbal smackdown on strangers I've witnessed in our almost 15 year friendship.

What can I say, IAAB and so is she.

If This Is What Being An Adult Is, Thanks But No Thanks

Guess what I did today? Had a sonogram. No, mom, I am NOT preggers. It was for my heart. Because apparently now that the big 2-5 is rapidly approaching, my body thinks it's totes fine to fall apart. Awesome. Hooray adulthood. Hooray (hopefully) unnecessary medical tests. Hooray awkwardly crying to your boss as part of a mini-breakdown in which you are convinced you might be dying, but in fact you are not.

It all started on Monday when I took my salad to eat it outside at Bryant Park. Unfortunately my former Russian compadre (a summer associate of a company we share office space with) was not with me. He's been deported back to Russia as part of that spy ring. Joking! He's off traveling/working for the rest of the summer before he returns to B-school. So I was alone, which made it worse.

Anyway, I remember feeling a little dizzy, sitting down at a table, taking a sip of Diet Coke and having the worst chest pain of my life. The next thing I know, I'm on the gravel surrounded by strangers. Awesome. Sporting a scraped knee like I'm five and a bump on the head, I'm lucky I didn't black out while walking or something. I mean, what if I'd fallen on my face. Not that I'm vain or anything.

If you know me, then you'll know I'm the laziest hypochondriac of all time. Like, for instance, any time I have stomach pain, I'm always convinced I might have appendicitis. Mostly because I've known multiple people (including my friend Jersey) who have had close calls. Thank goodness they're all okay. However, even though I worry about this, do I ever do anything about it? Nah. Figure it'll run it's course. (Slash I know it's prob that I just really have to pee.)

So the fact that after having this dizzy/fainting scare, I actually went to a doctor is insanely grown-up and mature of me, I think. Legit tests, specialists. Next week I have to go back and get my ECHO/Holter monitor tests results. It's all very glamorous, obv, just like doctors on TV. Let's go ahead and pretend my doctor was somewhere in between McDreamy and McSteamy (spoiler alert: he wasn't.) Look at me, taking advantage of the health care I pay a ton of money for. Wahoo. Can't wait to deal with insurance!

The point of this post, though, besides maybe invoking some sympathy points, is to brag that I think that maybe I'm capable of being a real life adult. Maybe. Not that I want to be. Because let's be honest, we all are just 14 year olds deep down inside. Fourteen year olds who don't have to deal with this crap and are more concerned with hoping Hottie McCrushalot asks them to homecoming. (Spoiler alert: he didnt.)

P dot S: Spoiler alert: I cannot stop saying/writing/saying to myself in my head "spoiler alert." I'll prob have to see another doctor about this condition. Ugh it never ends.

Voicemails: The Worst Things Ever

Having heard from multiple credible soures that Community was worth watching, I found myself glued to a marathon that was on last week.

After seeing like six episodes in a row, I can tell you: It's worth watching. Also, my weird love for Joel McHale has been bumped up to a "I'd totally hit that sober" level.

Anyway, the reason I liked Community is because I like shows that are funny because they're true (e.g. Liz Lemon and her Night Cheese. In my defense I have never worn a snuggie.)

My favorite clip from the marathon was this:



Leaving a voicemail is the biggest pressure ever. But luckily - in our grand culture of 2010 - we no longer have to! Texts > voicemails. Embrace it.

P dot S: The BFF has a short list of dealbreakers (that is a lie, it's incredibly long), but one of her top concerns is being left voicemails. So much so that she once met a guy she who got her number, and as he was walking away, she SCREAMED: "NO VOICEMAILS." Shockingly, he didn't call after seeing this side of her.

At least the girl knows what she (doesn't) want in life.

Anti-Gravity Yoga: I Can't Believe I've Never Blogged About This!

As part of my (failed) attempt to make 2009 The Year of Doing New Things, I started taking this crazy gym class with my (former) work slash workout BFF Ashley. At one point we both got so into it that I'm shocked we didn't quit our day jobs. Perhaps a second calling?

The class - "Wings: Anti-Gravity Yoga" - is part yoga, part pilates, and part recess. Basically it involves using a silk sheet suspended from the ceiling to stretch, strengthen, and practice your sweet Cirque de Soleil moves. It's not easy by any means, but if someone as uncoordinated and spatially challenged as me can successfully do it then anyone can. Even Sherri Shepherd.

Anyway, due to my new schedule, I haven't gone in months. But thanks to my low key weekend in the city, I woke up Sunday morning energized and willing to trek uptown.

Oh how I'd missed it.

When my parents came to visit last summer, I even made them try it out. Luckily I come from a family full of bad asses, and they were to hang (get it!) with the crowd of regulars.

Check out my sweet skillz:

 

If anyone is coming to NYC (or lives here) and wants to try it out, I have some Crunch guest passes you can use. Email me: rachelupshaw@gmail.com.

[Note: Neither Crunch nor Anti-Gravity have compensated me for this post. Unfortunately.]

It's Never Too Early to Get Ready for Football Season

Um 50% off my next meal at Hill Country BBQ? Sign me up.

Thanks to Tex and the City, I snagged this sweet deal to put me in the mood for fall. BIG XII football here we come. Again.

The new site she turned me onto, Scoutmob offers legit coupons and deals.

See for yourself how they're better than the others. (Plus their website is pretty.)

True story, I did a very similar dance when I signed up too.

See ya, Sacagawea

Living in New York during your post-college years is definitely an adventure. Explorative. Lewis and Clarke style. And you meet people along your journey (and, randomly for me, a large amount of those I've met happen to be from Texas. What are the odds?).

So in my two and a half years here, making new friends has been balanced with seeing others move away. There's a constant flux of people transitioning from one phase of their lives to another.

This past weekend was the last night out for one of the girls from the Fourth of July AC trip. She's going back to Tejas to attend B-school. What a smarty. She had stellar wingman capabilities. She will be missed.

Anyway, while going through my Facebook pictures to determine if my face has gotten any skinnier since college when it was apparently vying for a spot in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, I stumbled upon a picture of a group that is now missing a fun component.

(I became worried about this while researching old pics when I was blonde to determine if this huge major super important life change should really go into effect. My findings suggest my face has slightly reduced in circumference. Still mulling over the highlights.)

Anyway, this was such a classic night.

First, we ran into these totally random guys on the street. They'd just come back from Medieval Times, an establishment I've never been to because I was disinvited from a certain person's birthday party.

Then at the next bar we went to, four out of five of us met cute guys. It is a scientifically proven fact that the larger the group of girls going out, the more difficult it is to meet men. When you're walking in with a full court lady press, I assume it's kind of intimidating. (Yes that is the justification I'm using to describe how I managed to go out on Friday and not meet one guy.)

That night, though, was different. The guy I met was cute. Real cute. Totally fell into last summer's perfect demographic. (A category that had a 100% screw me over rate. Awesome.)

And then he kissed me. First off, his stubble felt like sandpaper against my face. I am not joking, I had to put a special skin irritation lotion the next day it hurt so bad.

The real problem, though, was that his tongue was like an escaped lizard. And my mouth, apparently, was where this lizard wanted to hide. If this analogy is making you incredibly uncomfortable, then good, now we're on the same page.

I shared a cab uptown with the guy, fighting off that damn lizard every block.

I did not return his text the following day. Just couldn't handle it. It, meaning the komodo dragon.

Another friend met a guy that night too. She couldn't remember his name after. Which was awkward since he would text her to see what she was up to on the weekends. He was saved in her phone as Anon.

Short for anonymous.

Like I said, classic.

We'll miss you, MB!

What Lebron's Decision Teaches Us

New York is mourning a loss of awesomeness this weekend. Well, I guess technically potential awesomeness.

The BFF and I are no exceptions. We both have a case of Bron Bron fever. Now that he's made his decision, though, we're looking into curing it. I heard the prescription might be more cowbell.

Anyway, it came down to three choices for King James: Cleveland, New York and Miami. If he stayed with the status quo Cavs, it would have been about as exciting as Megan Fox getting back together with Brian Austin Green.

But Lebron was ready to move on. He had done all he could in Cleveland. He's ready for World Domination. But he knew he couldn't do it alone. Sports is all about teamwork. (Most cliché thing I've ever written.)

Going to the Knicks would have provided some support, but Lebron had his eyes set on Miami and playing with Chris Bosh and D-Wade. Who could turn that down?  Especially if they're offering $110 million and no state income tax. (Plus I hear there is a high quota of fun, attractive people in South Beach. Not like Lebron would care about that, obv, because it's all about the game.)

Bron Bron's decision proves, though, that combining your talents with others' can reap more success than what you could do on your own. I think that sometimes our generation's innate selfishness (possibly due to the competitive schooling we were raised with) might cause us to think more in terms of 'me' instead of 'we.'

I'm sorry, I can't seem to turn off the tap on this geyser of cliché insight today. Kind of like the oil spill. Too soon?

But if you find a team as strong as what Lebron has found in Miami - whether it manifests through power couple status, best-friendship, or partnership - then you too can join the list of those waiting for their chance at World Domination.

The BFF and I will see you there.

Hair Therapy

So lately I've been a little antsy. Maybe it has something to do with turning a year older. Maybe it's now that I'm settled into my new job and apartment, I can finally evaluate my life happiness. Not that I'm unhappy necessarily - because I was honestly miserable last year in psychoface prison (except that I was skinnier) - but I just am not sure about my current life path. Who knows, maybe it will be the direction I end up taking, but for now I'm not totally set on it.

Anyway, since it's the middle of July, which is totally a shallow introspective insight month IMO, I think I just need a speedbump. Nothing major, just enough to shake me up. And I've figured out what I'm going to do.

Y'all, I'm thinking about getting highlights.

I know, right, kind of a big commitment? I mean, last year Dolo even sent money for me to get them done.

Instead I was all, "Oh wow, that would mean I had to find someone. That's not easy in the city since all the good ones are probably out of my league. And then, let's say I do find someone and it's a good experience, then you have to keep seeing them all the time. And you have to pay to see them! It's just too much."

[Except, sometimes you find a keeper in which case you have a new friend. I recently stumbled on an article I wrote for a college journalism class about that. It got me an A. If you're bored at work, judge for yourself. ]

My newest entre into highlights follows a fairly typical pattern. In the past, my hair has been my go-to source for quick life altering changes. I've been a blonde and a brunette, a lot of stuff in between, and currently some people think I have red hair. False.

I also once went from long hair like I have now to one of those short bobs that seem like a good idea but aren't. The BFF was not a fan. And for two seconds recently I was thinking about bangs but realized that was way too much. I might as well just get a dog if I want that kind of responsibility.

So even though a few blonde streaks may not seem like a lot, I still think that inching my way toward a life changing commitment is a testament to how far I've grown as a person in the past year.

Or something. Like maybe I'm just worried that blondes might be having more fun.

(Yes this could be due to hanging out with no less than 10 blonde Texas girls in the past few weeks. Exactly like college. Woo.)

Celebrating the Fourth of July Like Real Americans

In order to be as patriotic as possible while celebrating our freedom this Fourth, five Texas girls headed to the most American place on the Eastern Seaboad:

Atlantic City.

You're right, that does sound like a recipe for disaster. Luckily we kept it in check (for the most part). Here's what I learned:

• If you want to feel good about yourself, go to AC. IAAB, but we were surrounded by nothing but obese people. Oh, regular America, it felt good to be back.
• I love the slots. That jingling noise they make is music to my ears. And oh the themes. Lobster Mania! Lone Wolf! How can you choose just one?! Much like wanting the story of how you met your future husband to be awesome, you want the story about what slot machine made you rich to be too. "I made my fortune off a Russian Princess." Next time.
• Getting kicked out of a VIP section of da club is totally worth it if it means the diminutively-statured (not quite legal midget) creepo stops trying to make out with your neck. And stops calling you a red head. Bitch, my hair is brown.
• I am old! The BFF and I both have dancing injuries. Apparently when you're approaching the quarter century mark (August!) and breakin' it down in 4" stilettos, you turn into a cripple the next day. My sweet dance skillz are a gift, though, and since I'm a giver, I wouldn't want to rob the world of that. Can't stop, won't stop.
• If you flirt with the waiter, you can get a boat of cocktail sauce. Wooo.
• Speaking of wooo, AC totally brings out the Woo Girl in me (How I Met Your Mother reference). Not a shocker. Here's proof thanks to The BFF's new iPhone video cam. Spoiler Alert: Long Islands and patriotism make an awesome, not awkward combination.
• Perez Hilton was not as friendly and/or awesome as College Rachel would have hoped. Like learning Santa Claus isn't real or something. Oh well, at least we got something to draw on.

Happy birthday, America. Thanks for the memories, AC.

In Honor of Our Independence

[Note: I Googled "eagle wearing an American flag" for an image because I thought that would be the epitome of patriotism to go with this post. This came up instead. Wouldn't this be the best tattoo?)

Okay, now on to my Fourth of July gift to you all. Obviously someone from America had to come up with this.

Instructions: (have sound on)

1. go to google

2. type in "2204355"

3. press the "im feeling lucky" button

4. BAHAHAHAHA
 
Thanks, Brooks. Makes me miss Kennedy's. Hopefully we don't fall off the wagon.

What You Do On the Fourth of July When You're Approaching 80

The BFF, three other Texas girls and I head to Atlantic City early tomorrow so I stayed in tonight in preparation. Also because every time I leave my apartment I spend an inordinate amount of money. Last night I spent $18 on a vodka soda. Add that to the list. It was a "I am at this super exclusive club waiting for some random guy to invite me to drink for free" starter drink. I hate those.

Anyway, tonight I decided to take the opportunity to catch up with my grandma Dolo. If you don't know, Dolo is short for Dolores (her vanity plates say Dolo). She is awesome. She is a cinematic snob.

After I told her about my trip to AC, she shared her plans for the Fourth:

"I'm going to church with my friend. Then we're staying after for a Sunday School party where they're making hot dogs and what not, you know, to be festive. From there we're going to see a movie."

Me: "What movie?"

"Get Him to the Greek."

Me: "Um?"

"Yeah, my friend is always such a prude about movies but she was the one who suggested we see it. It's rated R for language, drugs and sex. I told her she wasn't allowed to say anything bad after."

What other grandmas go from waspy church parties to Russell Brand?

I come from a people of diverse interests.

(I'm sad she doesn't live here since I don't really have a standard movie-going friend. Any takers? If Dolo reports back good things, I want to see Greek. I loved Aldous Snow.)

P dot S: Other hilariously non-grandma movies I've seen with Dolo (or she owns): Bad Santa, The Ugly Truth, Wedding Crashers, Taladega Nights, Zoolander, Any Given Sunday

She rules.

Every Girl Every Needs to CTFO (Chill The F Out)

Every girl ever is having a great summer. For starters, the sun is shining (as opposed to last year's monsoon season). The calendar is full of awesomeness (including Atlantic City for the Fourth). And the level of male attention is solid with room for growth. (Except in areas such as organized crime and creepos on the street. Those markets are saturated.)

Every girl ever has survived the Dating Recession and is enjoying her momentary bubble of success. (Too bad the Dow doesn't follow the same trends.)

Unfortunately, despite the exterior of awesomeness, every girl ever knows that she is a hop, skip, and a jump away from her own self-inflicted downfall.

How is this possible, you may wonder? Every girl ever has it all. She's cool. She's breezy. She's building an All-Star roster of datable talent.

It's because every girl ever can be her own enemy. It's almost like she has her own little Goldman Sachs inside of her, hedging its bets and rooting for her to fail. "Yes, follow your CGS tendencies and definitely text him back even though he hasn't responded in four days. And, while you're at it, please buy some toxic assets. Great doing business with you."

And do you know why every girl ever follows this horrible advice? Every girl ever wants a man. And she's banking that this one will be The One.

In addition to being concerned with When it will happen, every girl ever is also obsessed with Who it will be.

This infatuation causes every girl ever to vet each potential candidate against the same general standard Future Husband Criteria, which includes but is not limited to:

• Where is he from?
• Where did he go to college?
• What does he do?
• Where does he live? Does he have roommates?
• How will my first name sound with his last name?
• How would our monogram look?
• How adorable would our children be?
• Any additional awesome, super brag-worthy credentials.

You're right, every girl ever is a total nut job. Keep in mind this isn't just a list to use for the guys every girl ever is actually dating. Nope, even Random Guy Who I Met at Bar XYZ on Some Night gets put into the system. (If you're a guy, you should totally be creeped out, but every girl ever figured you should know.)

Every girl ever likes plans. She likes goals. She likes taglines. "So and So from Noteworthy College lives alone in an amazing apartment on Way Better Than Most People Street and has a job Doing Successful Things. Our children would look like baby Polo models."

Duh, based on that, you are totes getting married! Congratulations!

This conclusion is slightly exaggerated due to another secret every girl ever feels compelled to share. Every girl ever has a hidden habit of perusing wedding blogs. You know, for the articles. Pretty much on par with the shadiness of the FTC guys who looked at porn instead of busting Bernie Madoff. We all have our downfalls. We are not proud.

Unfortunately, for some weird reason, it has come to every girl ever's attention that apparently not every guy ever wants to add her initial to his monogram.

"Why the F not?" Every girl ever is a catch.

Yes, in a perfect world, every girl ever would find her Prince Charming and that would be that. But that's not how it works. Every girl ever continues to find the mirage of Prince Charming, the hologram version that disappears after a few sightings. The one that crashes the market and causes catastrophic damage. Damn him.

Every girl every must be diligent, not get discouraged, and - above all - not let CGS get the better of her.

If he isn't dying for you to be a part of his perfect pedigree future, then that's his own problem.

Every girl ever can't let it get her down. It is summer after all.