I Thought I Might Meet My Soulmate This Weekend

Proof of our athletic endeavor.

Spoiler alert: I did not.

I went on an alumni-organized ski trip on Saturday, just a quick little day trip ski jaunt, no big deal. [Actually it's something I've never taken advantage of living in New York, but I've always wanted to. Good ol' January New Year's Resolution bucket list helped make it a reality, woo hoo.]

My Texas friend Molly came with me, and when we booked the trip, we both had high hopes of meeting our FHs. I mean, how convenient would that be? Oh you're associated with The Greatest School Ever and you like to ski? My family will love you.

Sadly it wasn't meant to be. How do I say this...no one peaked my interest. The closest I came to meeting anyone was a guy who is interning in New York this semester, currently a junior at UT, who after telling us a story about how he ended up totally naked in an NYU dorm and had to fashion himself pants out of trash bags, asked if I wanted to marry him if I were still single at 30.

Um no. I think I'm busy that day.

But it felt good to get out of the city and into some nature, and more importantly, to remind myself how to ski. Even though I started when I was a wee four-year-old munchkin, it's been almost five years since my last trip. Needed some practice before I head to Colorado in a few weeks to ski with S.

Where I will definitely meet my soulmate. [Insert eye-roll here.]

Guy Hot vs. Girl Hot: Not Ending Anytime Soon

The problems caused by the differences between Guy Hot vs. Girl Hot, something I wrote about when I first started the blog, have started to plague my life.

Okay maybe that's a bit dramatic. But it's just not my fault. I can't help it. I like some ugly shiz. I mean, you might think it's cute, but boy oh boy do boys not agree.

(Not totally true. Some guys understand and/or appreciate fashion. But that does not mean they think you look hot. So keep that in mind.)

It all started a few weeks ago. First I got this black blazer with gold sequin trim from Anthro. It was on sale; I was in the mood to spend money; and I was feeling under the weather therefore not totally thinking straight. Recipe for disaster. Even The BFF referred to it as "a little Gay Circus Ringleader," but that didn't deter me.


I love looking at other people's fashion blogs like Cupcakes & Cashmere and
Sugarlaws. But the effort it would take me for me to A) walk to the closet and try on these clothes,
B) convince The BFF to seriously take pictures of me wearing these "outfits,"
and, C) Not look like I went to the gym and have been to too lazy to shower,
would be too much to handle. Be thankful you've been spared from Amateur Hour.

Next up on the same shopping trip was a stop by Zara where I picked up this fur paneled sweater thingy. Having worn it a few times I've come to the realization that it's probably the least flattering thing ever, but so comfortable. I just can't give it up. This sweater > most guys I've met lately.

Oy. Two man repellent purchases in one day. Pretty much the opposite of my new dating resurgence goal. (Non-terrorist version of resurgency, obv.)

But before I could shut off the tap to my unnecessary clothes habit, I treated myself to a lunch time retail therapy session. Working in Mid-Town has its perks, and I hit the sales at the new Urban that was just opened under my office building. (43rd & 5th - FYI - by far the nicest Urban I've been to in the city.) 

While I was innocently browsing, I fell in love with a long, petal pink tulle skirt. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn't say no. It's whimsical and delicate. (Two things I am am not, therefore I am still curious why I thought I could pull it off.)

I wore it to brunch at ABC Kitchen last weekend. I figured if there was anywhere I'd feel like slightly less than a 100% Total Jackass for wearing it, that would be a good place. IMO, I totally pulled it off. Perhaps I am more delicate and whimsical than I thought, no? (The answer is no. I just got lucky.)

Which has given me new found inspiration to take advantage of living in a city of fashion, full of freaks way weirder than me. I'll do what I want and wear what I want. So guys can suck it.

PS: The queen of Girl Hot blogging - The Man Repeller - had a nice little write up in the Times last month. Thanks for the trend spotting, Paper of Record.

PPS: Even after wearing all these outfits I've still managed to get a date scheduled for tonight. Woo hoo go me.

FH Island

Once upon a time I met a guy named Dave.

He was charming, dimpled, and looked quite a bit like Simon Baker circa Devil Wear's Prada.

Drool.

The night we met was his 32nd birthday, and all that was left of his party's guests were three of his close friends, all of whom were spoken for. They pulled me into their circle, chatted me up about Austin, and used their best collective wingman skills to find the birthday boy a quality girl of his own.

Bingo.

He was everything I'd been looking for. Smart and driven, but came off down-to-earth and laid back. Charming and funny. He owned the most beautiful distressed leather couch from my favorite store ABC Carpet & Home, and he lived on the most beautiful street in the West Village I've ever seen. His dad studied dog genetics or something and therefore was always raising litters of puppies. Yeah, puppies! 

Jackpot.

And the icing on the cake? He seemingly was not totally opposed to settling down.

Sigh.

During the few months we hung out, he took me on one of the best dates of my life. An amazing meal at Cafe Cluny, and an introduction to Trombone Shorty at the Highline Ballroom. I'd met my awesomely awkward dancing match.

Swoon.

He traveled a lot for work and spent his weekends golfing, but when schedules permitted, we had a great time. Finding the time, though, was the problem. But it didn't matter. Because, like you might have guessed, I was smitten. I thought he was The One.

And then, he died...

...Is what I tell myself.

Just kidding. I'm not that crazy. Instead, I tell myself he took a trip to FH Island, where hopes and dreams of future love go to die.

Because the truth - the fact that he pulled the ultimate Houdini act and disappeared without a trace - hurts too much. I mean, I'm freakin' self-aware and if he Just Wasn't That Into Met I'd like to think I'd realize it, but even after years of examination, none of the facts line up! He'd introduced me to his friends, told me he wasn't dating anyone else, and cooked dinner with me in his apartment.

I mean, who does that with a girl before fading into the dark abyss? A MONSTER WHO TOTALLY TRICKED ME INTO BELIEVING HE WAS MY SOULMATE, that's who. (Okay perhaps yours truly might have read a little too much into it. I mean, you know, I am the Girl Who Cried Soulmate.)

But he was the first. The original FH. You always remember your first. Damn him.

Anyway, when The BFF met her Harvard Cougar Bait, I knew how she felt. I could see the glimmer of future Christmas card images in her eye. But it too wasn't meant to be. And so he sailed away, to FH Island.

Row row row your boat, gently off to sea, merrily merrily merrily merrily, our life together that I totally prematurely manifested in my imagination was but a dream.

Except unlike Dave, whose path I've never crossed again, The BFF and I caught a glimpse of her FH Ghost this past weekend.

Why would they stay in NYC if they could be here? 
I mean, have you been outside? The weather is terrible.

What, I thought you booked a one-way ticket out of my life forever?

(Although when your FFH - former future husband, place keep up - has an identical twin, you can "assume" that you've spotted his brother. Except when they both turn up in the same place, in which case, oh hello reality.)

The purpose of FH Island is so you aren't haunted by the memory of what could have been. But I guess the island is overflowing and they're staying put in Manhattan.

Ugh.

There is no decency left in the dating world.

The Bleak Mid Winter Complaint Forum

Up until now I've done a pretty stellar job of keeping my winter griping to relatively low levels. Up until now is the key part of that sentence.

That has stopped. I'm going to whine. This weather is miserable. We've been under freezing for almost a week.

Today is the coldest day in years.

"Frigid." "Bone chilling cold." "Deadly Arctic blast." All things that really make you want to hop out of bed in the morning.

And it's not just the miserable weather. Now that the last of the holiday cheer has been removed, the whole city is becoming blanketed in pink and red hearts. Spare me.

There's really no light at the end of the tunnel (I mean, for the next month or so), prompting me to proclaim this as "the worst time of the year."

Happy Monday to you too.

Thank God For Girlfriends

That's the title of one of my mom's Facebook albums. Classic Caren.

Anyway, it's true having great friends is a gift. And in the past few months, I've had the opportunity to see almost all of my closest friends both in Austin and NYC. And I'm freakin' ecstatic about it.

It sometimes always seems like we're all spinning around like individual tornadoes, and by the time you slow down enough to comprehend what's going on outside your little bubble, you realize months have gone by without catching up. Whatever happened with you and so and so? You moved?! Wait, what's your name again? 

But I'm making a conscious effort to change this habit. Another New Year's resolution if you will. Except for way more fun than those that require dietary restrictions.

It started last week with a girls' dinner at a great (and cheap) pizza place that has free wine on Wednesday nights. This week I went again with different friends. And I want it to continue!

Not only is it delicious (did I mention that already?), it's also a great way to break up the week. It's like having a "date" without actually having to go on a date! (Although, according to The BFF I need to make that a bigger priority because I "don't even have any prospects.)

So anyway, friends are important. You should make an effort to keep them around. If so, then you can sing them this amazing song (and the greatest theme song ever):

Thank you for being a friend.
...Travel down the road and back again.
Your heart is true, you're a pal and a confidant.
...And if you threw a party,
invited everyone you knew.
You would see the biggest gift would be from me and the card attached would say,
thank you for being a friend.

Love.that.show.

Two Guys From High School Walk Into a Bar

It has come to my attention that a lot of my stories start out this way, and people think I'm about to tell a joke, but instead I tell a mildly humorous anecdote. (That's just a warning to go into this with low expectations.)

So the other evening I went to a bar with some friends to watch the Jets/Patriots game, but really it was more like spending a few hours in a human vice grip. Having to wedge your body through a million Jets fans - while holding your puffy winter coat, approximately the size/difficulty to control of a toddler on the verge of childhood obesity - is no easy feat, let me tell you. Luckily, though, the boys were cute and the Bud Light was a flowin'.

Anyway, after the game was over, I said my goodbyes because unlike everyone else there, I had to go to work the next day. Don't even get me started.

On my way out, though, I ran into two guys from high school, who to be honest, I was fairly surprised recognized me. They offered me another drink to stay and catch up, and I obliged. Blah blah, what are you up to, blah blah blah. One of them had just moved to the city, the other was visiting. Apparently most of their friends from back in the day are total slackers, which reminded me how happy I am that I didn't peak in high school...

The funniest part, though, was what they had to say about The BFF. (She specifically told me not to blog about this, but she's been in the annoying habit of giving my number to random guys instead of her own, and then one of them texted me yesterday so HA I don't care. Retribution! Plus, she can't even leave an angry comment on this post because apparently there is something weird going on with my comments. Double Ha. Otherwise known as ha ha.)

Where was I? Oh right, I asked if they remembered her, and one of the guys said they had English together. "She was the smartest person in the class."

Then the other guy chimed in, "Yeah she was always a good reader." "Totally. She was such a good reader."

And there you have it. The BFF's high school legacy: Literacy.

Which, of course, is one of the traits I like most about her too.

Hahahahahahahhaha.

The Story of Our First Week In New York Pretty Much Sums Up Our Lives

 Ed. Note: Continuing the trend of stories that involve me puking, here's a classic gem. After you finish reading it, you'll probably be really impressed and/or embarrassed you know me.

To celebrate our one-week anniversary as New York residents, The BFF and I took our hostess Nicki and her roommate out to dinner at a restaurant very special to us: Red Lobster.

I cannot exactly explain how or why The BFF and I have become obsessed with Red Lobster. Our fascination with the mid-level seafood chain originally stemmed from our mutual love of sea creatures. Eventually after exchanging crustacean paraphernalia for years, we somehow stumbled upon a magnificently nautical themed restaurant that was going to be Our Place.

Since I had spoken incessantly about the endless wonders and appetizing cuisine of RL while we were together in Europe, Nicki, who had never been, excitedly agreed to the dinner suggestion, and we headed to Times Square for an evening of fine dining. 

Always a bad idea.



As we fought our way through the throngs of tourists that make up one of my least favorite parts of the city, we could see the glowing outline of a ten-foot-long lobster hanging in the distance. The anticipation was insurmountable.

After getting seated at an upstairs table in the classiest Red Lobster in America, we decided to celebrate with Lobsteritas, the largest margarita I've ever seen, and coming from Texas, that says something. Served in a martini glass approximately the size of my (large) head, these drinks are no small undertaking – 980 calories to be exact. The combination of liquor, sugar and sharing the RL experience with close friends was intoxicating.

We proceeded to order food, and RL virgin Nicki decided to brave what I refer to as the Trifecta of Fried, a bold eating move that included fried shrimp, popcorn shrimp and French fries. I ordered my own coronary-clogging meal, and along with the legendary, mouth-watering cheddar bay garlic biscuits, gluttony was being taken to new levels by everyone at the table.

Before I knew it, a food coma had set in and I was down for the count. However, riled up by gallon of sugary booze, I flirted my way to a to-go cup for my margarita. Waste not want not, or something!

Unfortunately, our waiter gave me a clear plastic cup with a lobster on it, making my beverage highly suspicious. In hindsight, I should have just cut my losses when I did, but I wasn’t ready to give up so easily. What can I say, sometimes I have to learn lessons the hard way.

As we maneuvered our way through Times Square back to the subway station, a police officer confronted me about my drink, asking, “Is that beer?” Typically suffering from a crippling fear of authority, I was quite proud when I replied, “Uh no, officer, it is obviously a smoothie.” Wow, I was already such a badass New Yorker.

We proceeded to the downtown F train with me still gripping my roadie. While on the train, Nicki became vocal about her overwhelming physical discomfort. It was clear we had all consumed far more than our bodies were capable of handling, and some of us were in worse shape than others. That was when my nausea kicked in. While the others chatted, Nicki and I alternated between waves of sickness and hysteria. Were we going to make it back to her apartment? Were we going to vomit on the subway? Choices, choices.

Well, luckily we made it off the train, and using every last bit of self-discipline, we ran up the station stairs. As Nicki sprinted the block left back to her apartment, I realized my time was up.

And so, at the corner of West 3rd street and 6th Avenue, I threw up all over a tree. A minute after, a cop car drove by, and all I could think about was how embarrassing it would have been to explain to the NYPD that I had eaten my body’s weight in fried seafood, had consumed mass quantities of tequila nectar, charmed the waiter to give me to-go cup for my leftover booze, and now I was paying for my sins.

That infamous act, known as “The Time Rachel Vomited on a Tree,” would be recounted tirelessly and forever mark our one-week anniversary with the city.

That tree is still one of The BFF's favorite landmarks. Red Lobster is not. I mean, we have grown up a little in the past three years.

Three Year Anniversary

As you can guess, that picture was taken approximately 100000 million years ago because that's how long it's been since The BFF was blonde and I was (spray) tan. Aw, those were the days. But really it was only three.

Oh how time flies. It's amazing to think how much has changed since then. I mean, not really the bank account, thanks New York, but life is good.

As predicted, we were broke and homeless for a little while (although not totally homeless thanks to our wonderful friends Nicki and Dana), but we survived.

Last year's anniversary post was on the precipice of momentous change. We moved into a new apartment (away from psychoville) and a few months later I got a new job.

Another year, new friends, new gossip, new drama, new hopes. Lessons learned. I know what I don't want, but still trying to figure out what I do want. I'm not too worried about it though. It'll fall into place, I'm confident of that. Sooner rather than later is preferable, but whatever.

Who knows where things will go from here, but whenever I think back on this stage in my life, I will know that it was totally awesome. As my grandma Dolo tells me whenever I complain about something, "From the looks of your blog, it seems you're having plenty of fun." What can I say, she's a perceptive lady.

All in all, I love my life, I love New York, I love The BFF.

Last year I posted the video for Empire State of Mind. This is a little less "These streets will make you feel brand-new," but it's still inspiring:

NYC - Mindrelic Timelapse from Mindrelic on Vimeo.

I heart NY.

For the Love of Snow

A few nights ago it started to snow while I was walking home from the office (an attempt to stick to my goal for at least a week). Tiny little specks, nothing much.

By the time I left the gym later on, they had turned into fat flakes, the fluffy wisps of snow cotton that float from the sky at their own wayward pace. Totally surrounding you like you're inside of a snow globe. Practically magical (especially for this southern girl).

I spent the rest of the night in my apartment, occasionally peaking out my window. Although winter is my least favorite season, I'll admit that sometimes it can be beautiful. And even though my neighborhood is not particularly scenic, the snow looked down right picturesque.

Pristine and crisp yet welcoming and comforting. For a brief minute, it's perfect.

And then soon after, it all began to change, just like every time it snows in the city.

Because the world interferes. People wake up, cars drive, shovels clear, and the trucks come in and haul the banks and drifts away like garbage.

What remains is immediately tainted by life, speckled with dirt and Lord knows what else. And little by little, it disappears, with the leftovers dissolving into icy, brown slush.

From royal icing to a coke slushi. Enjoyment downgrade on all accounts.

(Especially if you stick your foot in one of those fool-you-puddles, you know, where it totally looks like nothing and them boom you have hypothermia and a ruined day. Damn you curb moats, damn you.)

But eventually you get over it and move on, but by that point it's pretty much disappeared any way. You've forgotten about the joys and the headache of the experience, having switched focus to the current forecast.

Um, it has just dawned on me that the snow is a metaphor for my dating experience in the city.

Follow me on this one... My relationship track record:

OMG this is totally awesome and beautiful! It feels so surreal; I can't believe this is happening. I've never been happier. Oh wait why are you acting weird. What, sorry I'm busy maybe next week. And why is it you felt the need to tell me about someone else? I am miserable and annoyed. How did it all fall apart even though it started out great? Fine, whatever. Totally DTM. Duh, I've moved on. Wait what was his name again? Yes, yes I could be available to go out with your single guy friends.

Am I right?

Perhaps I should take this discovery and evaluate my approach to both winter survival and dating...

P dot S: While on my company's off-site last week I got to witness the most beautiful snow billow out of the sky for hours (thanks to my view out of a conference room window at an all-day internal strategic planning meeting). We stayed at a castle - technically a former summer home built just like one - and it was amazing. (Especially our celebratory dinner at Blue Hill at Stone Barn. Passed h'orderves and a ridiculous four-course meal? Yes please and thank you.) The accomodations were stellar, and the grounds could not have been more beautiful blanketed in white. And although I was a tiny bit worried we wouldn't be able to drive back in the city on Friday night, I couldn't help but falling in love with the snow. For real.

And I'm going to take that as a sign that maybe cold weather hasn't totally frozen off my ability to be in a relationship after all either. Woo hoo.

Call Me Rocky

Weight class - think boxing. Fighters are matched with their competitors based on their weight. And, let's be honest, that's kind of how dating in New York is too.

We've learned from glorious ol' Millionaire Matchmaker that if you're a five you're not getting a 10. (Or in the case of last week's episode with Crazy McSomeoneInterveneWithHerMakeUp, if you're a three, no way in hell you're getting a ten. Even with money.)

Anyway, like with most of my posts, this lesson is also gleaned from my own dating rejection experience. Let's get the vain part out of the way first.

Two years ago I managed to become incredibly healthy and lose like 15 pounds. Amazing, right? I felt good. I looked good. And I dated the quality of men who I would have previously felt were out of my league (this is the shallow part and therefore I'm not saying that they were good people necessarily, but boy were they dreamy.)

Then things changed, e.g. I moved out of the inner-circle of hell; I got a new job; and I had a steady boyfriend. Little by little it's crept back on. Weight-loss re-gain failure.

At first I ignored it, but now I realize I need a self-intervention if I want to be back in the Champion's ring. I'm like Rocky. I think. I don't know. To be honest, I don't think I've ever actually seen any of those movies, except for snippets on TV or that scene where he runs up those steps in the sweats. But either way, Eye of the Tiger? My new jam.

Side note, I actually saw those steps when I visited Ashley in Philadelphia, but from very far away. The idea of walking all the way there seemed like too much effort. Hmm, perhaps in hindsight I can more clearly see where life's choices might have aided my quest in gaining the weight back. (Especially considering I'm almost positive that we went home to eat an entire container of dip and a bag of chips.)

I digress. The point is, I really want to get back to where I know I can be. I honestly felt the best I ever have. I was athletic, like maybe if you were squinting you'd think I had a six-pack (think Britney, not Madonna), I felt taller, lighter.

And now, instead, I have some pants that don't fit. Along with half of my work clothes. Ugh. They've got the "Snug Slutty" look. Not exactly business casual.

So the first step is incorporating this mantra into my life:

Think Before You Eat

It might sound simple, but you have no idea how hard this is for me to grasp. You see, I have a problem with food (i.e. I'm obsessed). Any and all (except olives!), wherever, whenever. Celebration and self-bribery. In sickness and in health. Can't stop, won't stop.

{Skinny Rachel circa 2009.}

It's so bad that I've directed two of my coworkers who sit closest to the kitchen to monitor my snacking. (One ran to my desk today when he heard "crinkling of wrappers." For the record it was a self-sanctioned low-fat 90 cal Chewy granola bar.)

But "Think Before You Eat" will (hopefully) help me maintain stricter portions, avoid mindless grazing, and make healthy decisions so I can become a better, healthier version of myself.

And it's not just eating. I'm also trying to get back in the habit of walking more instead of relying on the bus or subway. (I know, way to choose the worst month ever to start this.) But I used to walk 30 minutes home almost every day and it felt good to be outside. It literally cleared my head, and I think I need more of that.

Beyond that, I also want to maintain my gym commitment (one thing I excel at, woohoo) and stick to a twice-a-week Pilates routine. I really think it does wonders.

Okay I realize you could probably give a crap about this little pledge, but I need some accountability. So deal with it.

(And I have always recognized that It Takes a Village. Hopefully The Internet pulls its weight.)

To 2011: The Year of Something

I dating detoxed during December. It was nice. But now it's a new year, and I'm finally motivated to get back in the game. Which, in thirty degree weather, is saying a lot.

The truth is, though, it's finally sunk in how much I miss having a boyfriend. The weather is definitely playing a factor since I spent the past two winters relationship upped, and the wedding made me nostalgic for love.

This feeling went up another notch on Saturday when I went to brunch with Elle and a few other girls at Perry Street (Jean-Georges restaurant with a fantastic $26 price fixe lunch), including one who had just gotten back from a holiday trip with her boyfriend. Her devoted, handsome, generous, nice, awesome, etc. orthopedic surgeon boyfriend. There has been ring shopping and apartment hunting.

In many instances, it's possible to get insanely jealous and/or rageful because why can't it be you!?

But that was not the case. Instead I was ecstatic to hear all about an actual, real life example of a guy pursuing a girl, sweeping her off her feet, and wanting to settle down. In New York!

So it was backed by this inspiration that I went out with The BFF to see what sort of dating roster shopping we could do. We had a few plans up in the air, but figured we might as well get out of the apartment to get a head start on making an effort. Because we've come to the conclusion that we don't exactly meet guys while sitting around in our bathrobes watching the Food Network. Unfortunately.

After our plan of the Bowery Hotel fell through based on zero eligible prospects, we went to a few more places before settling on an Irish bar showing the end of the Jets game. Because, duh, wildcard playoff games are usually full of men.

Outside were two guys, one of whom we assumed had to be the bouncer. Of course neither actually were. We learned this after volunteering our IDs to them. Awkward. Yes, I am 25 and from Texas. Glad we're all on the same page now.

After an hour or so inside, wherein during this time The BFF and I invented a new holiday called Shotsgiving, we made our way toward the exit where we ran into the "bouncer" and his cute friend.

They invited us to head to Double Crown down the block. Score. And we ended up spending the rest of the night hanging out with them. All because The BFF and I are idiots who show our IDs to anyone at the entrance of a building.

So while I hope the first perfect on paper FH candidate of 2011 gives me a call, it doesn't even matter that he probably won't be The One. Because at least it was something.

Another Wedding Story

You might have read my last post about my brother’s wedding and thought, “Wow, that Rachel has really grown up. She responsibility fulfilled all of her assigned duties. What a great sister of the groom.”

Well, I should be honest, that’s only partially true.

In Typical Awkward Rachel Behavior, things got a little weird. I figure I might as well own up to it considering half (or all) of my family already knows the story anyway. (And one cousin commented on Facebook about it… You know who you are!)

Anyway, ye ol’ devil alcohol played a role. Shocking. In my defense, though, it wasn’t the quantity consumed, it was my body saying, “You’re tacky and I hate you.”

So even though I had drank (way) more during my trip – high school reunions and celebrity sightings! – my body had been biding its time to really make me suffer.

It started at the most awkward instance possible: While riding the bus home from the reception. Oh, and the icing on the (wedding) cake? I realized I was going to be sick while talking to the best man, my brother’s best friend since they were two, who was in the middle of telling me how he’d always had a crush on me growing up.

Way to show him the error of his impressionable youth, Rachel.

Of course in hindsight, this sickening outcome isn’t that shocking. There was a point during the reception where I was literally laying on the ground during Shout. You ain’t never seen nobody get any softer now. (Also it has dawned on me that the combination of my dominating dancing and bouquet catching is going to make for a legendary wedding video, one that will most definitely be used to blackmail me one day.)

I thought of all this while I was on my death bed the entire next morning (death bed = floor of the bathroom), unable to even hold down water. Missing the family gathering at the hotel, mind you. Apparently my absence was explained with...the truth. Fantastic.

You see, I suffer from a little condition I have diagnosed as Next Day Vomitosis, a severely horrible case of hangover. Only one other person I know suffers as bad as me. When I lived with this friend in college, let’s just say Friday mornings were not pretty.

Those are drunk eyes.
In hindsight maybe this
outcome wasn't so
shocking...

But this condition comes and goes. Fortunately it hasn’t happened in six months. (Unfortunately that time was also around my family. Oy.)

Luckily my sweet parents took pity on me. Although considering the fact my brother referred to me as an Old Maid on the way to the reception (I of course corrected him with my preferred terminology of Spinster), I guess I did deserve some compassion. In the form of suit-case packing.

So weak. So fragile. So hot mess-y.

But even this puketastic memory doesn’t tarnish that of the wedding. I still stand by my previous sentiment: It was perfect.

P dot S: “Puke free since ’93.” HIMYM is genius.

A New Year To Remember

I'll be honest, I do not care for New Year's. It never turns out to be as fun as you hoped it would be, and then January 1 rolls around and you're hungover and mildly depressed because now that diet really has to start. For real. 

Me, the best man Max, my brother Eric, and one highly
annoyed cocker spaniel. "Poor me, I'm wearing a hat."
Get over it, Jesse, you look good. 



But that wasn't the case this year. (Actually, that's not totally true. The hangover and the diet thing still apply). I spent the new year surrounded by extended family and close friends in Austin for my brother's wedding. And it was far more fun than I could have imagined.

It started New Year's Eve morning at a fantastic "rehearsal brunch" at Chez Zee. Then later that night everyone (we're talking almost 50 relatives and practically-relatives) came to our house for a low key beef stew and cornbread feast. One of the highlights was everyone looking at (read: laughing hysterically at) my parents' wedding album from 28 years earlier (to the day). From the number of family members shown to be passed out on couches during the reception, it seemed to have been a pretty rockin' party.

The next day - 1.1.11. - it was time for the main event. And, after months of worrying about (but not really doing anything to prepare for them), I had finally checked off my list of duties.

First I knocked out the slideshow. Considering Charlie and Emily have dated for eight years and are both extremely good looking, finding pictures was no challenge. Condensing them into something shorter than a multi-part mini-series was the tricky part.

I was most proud of the alternating baby pictures at the beginning. Sweet little Emily. Charlie eating dirt. Sweet little Emily. Charlie going out through the doggy door. Sweet little Emily. Charlie climbing on top of boat house like a wild man. At least he turned out quasi-normal.

Some family members joked that this speech
was the most they'd ever heard Charlie talk.
At least it was a great toast.

Next I had to tackle my duty of wedding day makeup for the bride. No, I do not know how I landed that gig, and yes, I was really worried about it. My biggest concern wasn’t that she wouldn’t look pretty – she’s what you call a natural beauty - it was that she would turn out looking like ol’ Ghost Face Killa Rachel (which apparently is due to my Bare Minerals usage!) in all the pictures. Don't worry, though, she looked stunning.  I did not ruin the wedding.

I also did her maid of honor Traci’s makeup and my mom’s too. I think I have a gift. My mom doesn't think I should quit my day job though. I'll keep you posted.

In addition to that, I had been asked to read something at the wedding, my choice. Pressure, pressure. I chose the poem "Blessing of the Hands," which I thought I could handle pretty well. Until I decided to practice it in front of some of my younger cousins on New Year's Eve. After I finished, nine-year-old Jordan gave me some notes. “Umm, that line about how you talk about their future children is a little presumptuous.” What can I say, she’s always been precocious.

Then she proceeded to show me how a real entertainer would present it…by beat box rapping the whole thing, and modifying the line.

A few of the cousins, including my
wedding reading under study.

“Boom, ch, boom boom ch. ...These are the hands that will hold your children…if you choose to have them.”

I died. During the actual reading at the wedding, those who had already heard the story could tell I was holding in giggles when I read that part out loud. Other people thought I was choking back tears. If they only knew.

Last but not least, even after 10 days of non-stop holiday eating, I still fit into my bridesmaid dress. Which would have been incredibly embarrassing had that not been the case considering the two six month pregnant bridesmaids managed to too!

After the ceremony – which took place at Riverbend’s Smith Family Chapel aka where Nick and Jessica got married – we took a charter bus to The Salt Lick Pavilion.

The room was stunning. Totally perfect. Emily and her mom did an amazing job, and one of my college BFFs Keaton helped set it all up while we were at the church. (If any of you Austinites need and/or know of anyone looking for a great wedding/party coordinator/planner, Keaton’s your girl. Email me for her info.)

The rest of the night was amazing.

Victory.

Especially the part when I put my middle school basketball rebounding skills to use to dominate the bouquet catching. Like a champion. But not to be upstaged by me, my brother Eric caught the garter. With a diving grab. Show off.

We’ll see who makes it down the aisle first. (As my mother reminded me in a Facebook caption, "She doesn't even have a boyfriend.") The winning prize is a performance of Thriller by my dad’s side of the family. I’m serious. My Aunt Barb showed me the moves she already knows (sadly they didn’t learn the whole thing before this wedding). We will be holding her to it.

All in all it was such a fun time! Except I'm still exhausted. Don't mind me while I go lie down in solitude for the next month to recuperate. (Couldn't hurt the diet.)

A few more of my favorite snap shots:

 



I Can't Help It If Celebs Flock To Me

If you've read this blog for awhile, you'll know there are a few things I truly enjoy:

• Spending time with my best friends.  
• Eating delicious food.
• Socializing in the same circles as celebrities.

While I've been in Austin, I've managed to do all three.

On Tuesday night some of my closest college friends congregated in Austin to celebrate Meredith's move to Austin. We spent the first hour or so judging her for not having a single piece of furniture in her apartment. Omg Meredith, I'm totally joking! Stop having a heart attack.

From there we decided to eat dinner at Bess' Bistro, Sandra Bullock's restaurant on Sixth Street. The food is good, the ambiance is nice, but never did we think Miss Sandy B would be there in the flesh.

But oh was she ever. That woman is stunning.

Also, there were $20 bottles of wine. Not really part of the story, but just in case you're in Austin looking for a good deal...

Anyway, a little while later we heard some more commotion.

Drew Barrymore was there too.

Now, this is exciting on any level. But for me, this was way exciting.

You see, all the way back in October when I was here for ACL, my mom mentioned a celebrity had bought a house in our neighborhood. Uh huh sure. I mean, how do I say this nicely, our street is a little, uh, eclectic.

 

But in weird, uncharacteristic rarity, she refused to tell me who! How dare she dangle that piece of gossip in front of me without exposing the goods??

 

Well, when I got home for Christmas, she finally let me in on it: Ol' Lashblaster Barrymore. Little Miss Never Been Kissed. Julia Gulia.

 

So when I saw she was at Bess, of course I wanted to be neighborly and say hi.

 

Except she was there with a friend. A famous friend. Miss Scarlett Johansson.

 

Now, again, exciting at any time. But mind you this is a mere week or so after the announcement of her split from one of the Sexiest Men Alive. 

 

Let's take a minute to talk about Ry Ren. Swoon. Drool. His attractiveness transcends visual beauty. Let's be honest, a blind person would know how hot he is! It is incredibly difficult to fathom ending a relationship with someone so handsome without spawning a few children first. Sigh.

 

At this point I was clearly unable to control my excitement and was Tweeting/texting up a storm. Celebrities + booze = the kryptonite to my technological self-control. I have a problem. It's not my fault.

 

I'm also a stalker so when we saw ScarJo make a play for the bathroom I totally took advantage of the fact I'd been downing liquids all night. (See above regarding awesome wine deal.)

 

My friend and I darted in behind her; I almost knocked her over with the heavy bathroom door. Whoops.

 

Just so you know, the girl is tiny. Wispy would be a good way to describe her. Creepy would be a good way to describe me.

 

I tried to pee as fast as humanly possible so we could be washing our hands at the same time because then we would probably become best friends, laughing over that time I almost demolished her with the door. Then I'd be too busy to write this blog post because I'd be with my new besties bonding over Austin's awesomeness.

 

But that wasn't the case so here I am. Great.

 

Eventually we cut ourselves off from celebrity stalking and cheap wine, and as we walked by their table near the exit, I had a twinge of "Just go say hi!" motivation. Except I realized Sandra was crouched down next to their table chatting.

 

I figured it would be rude to knock her over. (Pantomime of me kicking Sandra over.) She's been through enough this year.

 

P dot S: If you're in Austin looking for good food, the lamb scaloppini (lamb medallions topped with crab meat and fried spinach) was amazing. And the macaroni, but I mean, duh, of course it would be delicious. It's macaroni.

My wonderful friends at Bess.