Check the Sports Bars

The result of writing a blog capturing your dating wisdom, adventures, and rants is that everyone and your mother thinks of you when they read an article wondering Where Have All The Good Men Gone?

Rachel, it's not just you. It's a problem for everyone.

Well this weekend was proof that it is in fact a problem.

The BFF and I went out on Friday night with the goal to have fun, and perhaps, find me a new Person of Interest.

"Where should we go?"
"I don't know somewhere that isn't lame. And that doesn't suck."
"Where do all the hot 30-year-olds hang out?"
"Well if we knew the answer to that, then maybe I wouldn't be single."
"I want to go somewhere fun. Let's try somewhere new."
 "What about that place I emailed you about""
"No, the only people who will be there are loser girls who read UrbanDaddy emails."

A quick "Let's make the best of this dirty hair because we're too lazy to shower" makeover later, The BFF agreed to go to The Mulberry Project, a pop-up-esque bar in Little Italy. Damn The BFF's spot-on intuition is all I have to say. We walked down the stairs into the dimly lit haunt to be faced with my ultimate Friday night nightmare: IT WAS ALL WOMEN. MOST YOUNGER THAN US.

Do you know that scene in Ace Ventura: When Nature Calls when Jim Carrey is at that estate and goes into the room with all the mounted animals? And his eyes dart around surveying the room? "Why this is a lovely room of death you have here." No, just me?

Okay anyway, that was sort of our reaction. It was like a terrible episode of Sex and the City. Literally - three guys in the entire place, all taken and/or gay.

This is when you wish scientists had gotten around to inventing a teleporter. We decided to stay for a cocktail since that's what its known for but as soon as we were done, we jumped ship.

Since Brinkley's was only a few blocks away, we decided we could go in there to warm up and plan our next phase of our Damnit We're Having Fun Tonight plan.

Only instead we were bombarded with gaggle of Little J wannabees (aren't you so glad they kicked Taylor Momsen off that show?) outside of the bar. Seriously why does the universe hate us?! Seriously, where are the men?

As luck would have it, after all of our "trendy" spots failed us, we found them. At a sports bar - Firefly - on Spring. Hmm, a sports bar. What a novel idea. Nothing but guys. Cute Stanford boys to be exact.

And the night was salvaged. Maybe there is hope after all.

The Banes of Our Society

I grew up thinking that cigarettes were bad. They were a bad habit and they were bad for your health. Why would people ever choose to do that? Gross. Which, while making me unnecessarily judgmental in my formative years, did do me a favor because to this day I've never smoked a cigarette.

I know. Kind of surprising. And at this point in my life, it's something I'm proud of. I mean, I have plenty of other bad habits and I do plenty of unhealthy things (things that you might think make me a bad person), but smoking cigarettes isn't one of them.

And I'm clinging to it.

There was another thing I'd never done - up until last week, that is - that I also held on to dearly.

I'd never worn Uggs.

Warning: Mixing the two ain't pretty.

I know. Kind of surprising. Much like cigarettes, it was something I'd gone long enough without that I'd hoped to always avoid it.

I mean, if you think about it, they're kind of similar. Granted Uggs haven't been proven to cause 1200 deaths per day, but much like cigarettes, society frowns upon them, guys think less of you, and it hurts your overall image.

Let's face it, they're both tacky.

But then I opened my big fat mouth to The BFF about this revelation. And do you know what that biatch did? SHE PEER PRESSURED ME. SHE LITERALLY FORCED THEM ON MY FEET. AGAINST MY WILL.

And you know what, I liked it. I liked the way it made me feel.

It only takes just one time. Ugh ...or should I say Ugg?

Table Rasa

When we moved in over a year ago, I went through a very crafty phase. Then I ran out of projects and that was that. But in the past few months, I've wanted to get back in the game. I needed an inspiration.

During the holidays, I saw these calendar prints and fell in love.

 They reminded me of retro picture books I used to read at my grandparents' house. Twelve cheap dollar store frames and a bottle of spray paint later, I put this wall together.

Then I decided to tackle the project that needed my attention. I bought a used Ikea coffee table last year, and covered it with a world map. I loved that thing, and but unfortunately the wear and tear of our lives has taken its toll. Global warming, if you will (e.g. late night fried chicken residue, shudder).  It was gross.

I had a U.S. map from when I bought the other one and some left over spray paint.

Voila:

I give it a few months days before destruction hits.

The Most Mature Weekend You Can Have That Includes Sake Bombs

Friday night I stayed in to do my taxes and quarel with my domestic partner. I also went through all of my clothes, including those hidden in suitcases, underneath my bed, and fallen off the hanger in the back of the closet.

Saturday morning I woke up relatively early to collect all of my clothes to donate and my laundry to take to the drop off service underneath my building (that spells my name "Richal" and "Rachelle", but it doesnt matter I love them anyway). After a stop there, I lugged the six bags of donation items to a thrift store next to my gym. Just in time for a Pilates class. Not even 11 am, look at me go.

After that I ducked into The Strand, by far fave bookstore in the city, where I picked up a cookbook for our friend Dana's bday (she's a wifey and her husband assured me it was the gift that'd keep on giving) and one for me because why not. Mark Bittman's Kitchen Express was written for me. Over 400 short paragraph recipes broken down by season, to be cooked in a half-hour, with ingredients you should most likely have on hand? Most importantly, very limited fuss over specifics. I think my excitement over this book solidifies my maturedness.

Also my excitement over this oven mitt:

The rest of Saturday was spent primping and preening for a great birthday celebration, which began at an all you eat, all you can sake bomb dinner. Such a fun night.

Although Sunday included a few more crosses off the to-do list, the cold I could feel coming on hit strong.

Making Peace in the Middle East (Village)

After last weekend's travels and a fun week of catching up with friends, I was more than happy to stay in on Friday night. A Pilates class and a low key evening with The BFF seemed like the perfect way to start the long weekend.

Until I said something that set her off, she retaliated, I screamed, she screamed, we all screamed for ice cream the other person to go to hell.

The fight centered around guys - shocking - particularly The BFF's distaste in everyone I meet (in hindsight her rebuttal of "Did you really expect me to support LA Jim and Plan G??? Let's look at how well that turned out!!!" seems reasonable).

From there the rage took on a life of its own based on the fact that we know exactly how to push each other's buttons. Had you witnessed this little incident, what you would have seen was both of us jamming all of the buttons at once. Like that little kid dressed like the devil in the elevator in Serendipity. Are you familiar with that John Cusack rom com? One of my favorites. John Corbett (aka Aidan) playing the Kenny G role is amaze.

Anyway, it was not pretty, and for the first time since The BFF slapped me in the middle school bathroom, I was fairly certain things might get physical.

Luckily, though, we went to own rooms to cool off, a timeout if you will.

And then I receive the following textual peace offering:

Hilarious. And possibly my dream.

Her husband Jeffrey is such a lucky man.

And then everything returned to normal. We were over it.

Which got me thinking. If The BFF and I can overcome our differences of opinion and work things out despite stubborn holds on our own beliefs, I assume similar tactics might be helpful in the Middle East where every day I read about how a new country is flippin' their shiz. Might I suggest sending one of these Valentine's. (If you know, they've already won that whole battle for Internet freedom.) I mean, it can't make things worse, right Hilary?

To This Morning's Future Husband: I'm Over It

Here's a real shocker: my daily commute is spent sizing up hot guys. Okay, maybe that doesn't really come as no shock to you. I would give you the excuse that at 8 am I'm pretty one-track minded, but no, it's anytime I'm outside of the office. I mean, really where else am I going to get my daily dose of eye candy (sigh, for two months last summer I had it sitting right next to me).

Unfortunately I haven't really had a lot to work with lately (slash is every eligible guy I see married? Pretty sure yes).

But there was this one guy. A taller, cuter version of The BFF's Harvard Boy Toy. (Although considering there's only one of him, I will say they're a tie.)

Every few days for the past month I've seen Preppy McPerfect. Swoon. Perhaps one day we'd finally speak, fall in love, pick out wedding china, etc.

The dream was alive!

Until this week. When I got in the same subway car as him and his friend, King of the Douches. Picture a WASPY-er version of Scott Disick. Directly out of that damn Hilfiger Family commercial, except of course not wearing Hilfiger.

"Oh man, we went skiing in Vermont this weekend. The caretaker of the house said he'd never seen the property disrespected so bad in the 30 years he's been there."

"What are you doing this weekend? Oh a wedding, what chick are you taking? The girl who texted you like a thousand times that night? Guess that means she's good at something."

And on and on it went. I'm clearly I am not allowed to judge douchey, drunken behavior like I've never been a part of it, but c'mon. The subway is not Tucker Max Story Hour.

He might have fit my Shallow Requirements, but that is definitely not what I'm looking for.

Unless of course he wants me to be his next wedding date. Because at least we'd have some beautiful pics for Facebook.

(The BFF and I both agree that the subway really - especially when it's crowded during commutes - is never a place for conversation. No one wants to hear your damn stories. Well, except mine, obvs.)

Don't Go Brecken' My Heart

Since I’ve moved to New York, I’ve only been on a handful of trips that don’t involve Texas or weddings. Don’t get me wrong, I love those too, but sometimes you just need a true vacation, an escape from the real world.

And that’s just what my weekend in Colorado was. Finally a chance to ski with S and to get away from it all.

Hmm, really Rachel? Is that why you booked the trip to Denver?

Ugh, okay fine, loyal reader, I'll own up to it, for your sake: It might have involved a guy.

Yes, two to four months is the typical gestation period for Dumb Guy Decisions That Involve Air Travel [see story of LA Jim for additional confirmation] so yes, this trip originally had an ulterior motive. Granted in my defense, though, I knew that no matter what happened, I would finally get the ski trip with S I’d always talked about.

If, for some reason, you've not been hanging on my every idiotic dating word, let me get you up to speed: I am a moron. Blame my affinity for love stories and blindness to reality (aka when a guy with a girl friend tells you that he "loves" you and wants you to move to Denver, you should probskies consider he's a jackass who is in fact full of shit).

Sigh, we all knew it was going to end poorly, didn't we? (Internet Blacklisting Poorly if we're keeping track, which is for the best because, according to S, there are some lameo relationship pics all over the place. Considering I'm a Facebook Masochist, a "digital cutter" if you will, getting blocked was for my own good.)

Anyway, he's DTM, moving on.

After flying in early Friday and getting to see a day in S' life with a stop by her office - which btw is way cooler than most - we headed to Breckenridge with one of her best guy friends Luke, who seriously could not have been a more perfect travel buddy. So easy going and laid back, but also funny and entertaining, what more could you ask for? Oh plus he packed a cooler for us! And let me eat gas station roadtrip snacks in his new truck! I mean, really, what a guy.

From there, S and I then had the two most wonderful ski days ever. Conditions were perfect: Sunny blue skies, warm enough to be enjoyable, but not incredibly crowded. Having both grown up skiing, we were at the same level and enjoyed the same stuff. Mostly blues that we could zip down, a few blacks for good measure, and even a mogul run to prove that we could do anything. (It was not pretty but I survived.)

Best of all, though, was the sweet Pigtail Discount I got at the rental place. Pigtails are apparently the ultimate cute girl hairstyle (not something you can get away with all the time, but skiing and Halloween fo sho), and they work wonders. Those bad boys helped me woo the pack of adorable cougar bait ski bums into giving me my gear gratis. Although I should technically refer to it as Pulling A Meredith, the queen of using her feminine wiles to see what kind of a discount she can get. It’s a gift. That ’96 Explorer did not sell itself.

Sidenote: I totally wanted to get a pic for the blog so you could see my adorable new friends: Matt from Vermont, Brendan, Andy, and Cameron (I love nametags! Calling guys by name whom you are trying to Discount Seduce is key, FYI. ). Sadly, though, my mom wasn’t there to orchestrate the awkward moment, which it is totally her specialty.

Anyway, our time in Breck was amazing - seriously it could not have been better - and then it was topped off by the strangest night EVER. Because the world is small and the universe knows I need things to blog about!

A long time ago, I wrote about how the guy I dated junior year of high school dumped me and I got back at him by going to prom with his best friend (and accidentally looking identical to his date/gf). I've stayed friends with The Prom Date, although it’s been forever since we’ve caught up. (Although apparently thanks to our other friend’s wife (Hi!), he’s been catching up on The Guide, hooray.) 

So while we were out at a bar in Breck on Saturday night, I looked across the room and saw a guy who looked identical to The Prom Date. Was it him? Was it not him? Oh wait, he’s with His Friend Who I Dated. Confirmation accepted.

Two words: So weird.

I don’t think I’ve seen The Guy Who Dumped Me For Someone Who Looked Like Me since high school. The Prom Date, on the other hand, I’ve spent lots of quality time with. No, not that kind.

But that could all change in seven years when he agreed that if we’re both single we could get married. A much better option than the last guy I met on a ski trip. (Or Plan G for that matter.)

Either way, it was a perfect weekend.

Oh, and don't forget to mark your calendars for 2018: Arranged marriage of the century!

Valentine's Day, the Way It's Meant to be Celebrated

I have a love/hate relationship with Valentine’s Day. I love the crap out of themes and decorations, enjoy being cutesy and lovey, and appreciate any semblance of holiday celebration in the dead of winter. I mean really, Valentine's Day puts February on the map, and I'm cool with that.

But let us not forget that it's the Second Biggest Letdown Day of the year! (Beat out by New Year's, duh.)

If Valentine’s Day had nothing to do with guys, it would be the best holiday ever! If your Valentine’s Day happiness was judged by the cards from your grandma and surprise boxes of goodies from you mom, then I would dominate this holiday!

But unfortunately that’s not how it’s marketed. From the 100000 emails I’ve received in anticipation of this Magic Day of Love, I was given the impression that in order to have a truly great Vday, I must have a lovah. And not only do I need to have Mister Right in my life, we then must coordinate a day of perfection wherein he makes me feel totally special, beautiful, incredible, etc. while also allowing me to proving my womanhood or something.

Let’s cut the crap and realize that unless you have a doting gay boyfriend, chances are you will experience a less than perfect evening due to your inflated expectation levels. Or perhaps the tables are turned and maybe you’re a biatch who gets naush over the romance if he does make the effort. (Cough cough The BFF cough cough.)

Okay, okay I’ll stop hating on your vday, and really this was just a long set up to tell you that my February 14th was perfect.

I spent the weekend skiing in Colorado with one of my BFF's S (more on that later). We got back to Denver Sunday night, and after a relaxing Monday morning at her apartment, she and I shared a lovely lunch of leisure at Houston’s.

For some reason that's my go-to place with Dolo and always reminds me of her and my mom. Good food plus they refill your drink like 100 times. Four Diet Cokes, don’t mind if I do, I’m on vacation. Chocolate brownie a la mode? Don’t mind if I do, it’s Valentine’s day and I’m with my best friend.

From there we took a stop by one of S’ favorite Denver boutiques where we both got the same adorable floral print silk top. Hey, I can dream spring is right around the corner, right?

Oh, and icing on my Valentine’s cake? WE GOT TO PLAY WITH A CHOWCHOW/SHAR PEI PUPPY. I die. Literally I did.

Puppies, brownies, cute tops, and BFFs? Can’t ask for anything more.

[Okay, you can, it’s called more ski days. I’m so jealous of S’ life in Denver. She has great friends, almost a law degree, a job lined up, and skiing ever weekend. She’s the happiest I’ve seen her. Get it gurl.]

Thanks for being my Valentine.

You Have to Be This Tall to Ride This Ride

Last week I had THE most Sex and the City dinner of my life. It was hilarious and fun, therapeutic and eye-opening. The phrase "I was so upset about a guy that I drank a bottle of wine, smoked two cigarettes, and ate my weight in goat cheese" was uttered - so something Charlotte would have confessed.

Of the four other girls there, one was newly relationshipped; one has the most promising boyfriends I've heard of in a long time; one is recently out of a five year long-term commitment; and one plays the field while also having a long-distance college BF on the hook. And then there was me, the one who is, for the most part, totally dating indifferent. (Read: Dating Depressed.)

After two hours of play-by-play stories and dating dissection, it dawned on me that no matter what our current situation is, we're all dating snobs. (And snobs in general...)

Qualities we hold in high esteem differ between us, some of my dealbreakers are no sweat to someone else, but we all have something we're looking for and each one of us has the things we can't get over.

In the past I've gone out with guys just for the hell of it, to occupy my time while I wait for The One. But maybe I've reached the point where I need to be more discerning. I want what I want, and if you don't have x, y and z qualities, it's just not worth it to see where it goes. I know where it's going: no where.

Do you care what those dealbreakers are? No, okay here they are anyway:

• Must be a Real Person, who has preferably lived in the city longer than me (but not so long that they're irreversibly damaged or forever Peter Pan serial bachelors)
• Makes more money than me (Yes IAAB, but I make a barely sustainable amount - and live frugally - I can't afford to play sugar mama and don't want to be made to feel guilty about my expensive taste in dinner. Sorry.) 
• Taller than me when I'm in heels
• Will fit into my life beyond right now (my family is quirky - not everyone can handle the awesomeness)
• Lives in the approved dating radius I have mentally constructed (preferably West Village because it's pretty; East Village because it's convenient to my apartment; Union Square because that's where my gym is; Upper West Side because it's not too far from work; okay fine, I'll include L train to Brooklyn so I seem slightly more "diverse" in my areas)

Oh plus he has to be able to make me laugh, hold intelligent (and open-minded) conversations about politics and current events, love to eat, enjoy hilarious TV shows, and have good genes so someday we can have adorable children together.

Is this too much to ask for??

Don' answer that.

Some Things are Better Left Unknown

As girls, we like to feel to good about ourselves. Especially around the guys we like. That's why we go to all the effing trouble we do. Don't even get me started on the time, effort, money, etc. that keep us in tip-top dating shape.

But one thing we can't always control is body image. (I think we can all agree that is the worst phrase ever and I will try super hard never to use it again, I'm sorry.)

And a lot of it has to do with self-perception compared to guys we're dating. I'm by no means a tiny person, and this is a factor I have to keep in mind when I meet guys. How will I feel about us together? Is he too skinny? Is he tall enough? Will I feel like that giant Marshmallow Man from Ghostbusters?

Fat Day Rachel 

So the other day one of my friends told me a story, probably one of top five best stories I've heard in forever. Normally I'd attribute such humor appropriately, but she shall remain nameless because I have a feeling she'd not be too happy if I did. (Although she does refer to me as "The Girl who likes to eat at Kennedy's Fried Chicken" ...so yeah.)

Anyway, she's dating a guy, who while taller than her, is not what you'd consider to be a big guy. She's been watching her carbs and maintaining her figure so she doesn't feel like a heffer. (One benefit of dating a thin guy is that it keeps you thin too!)

But the other day when she realized that multiple pairs of his pants had congregated in her room, she couldn't help but think Hmm I wonder if we're the same size.

Nope.

"I COULD NOT FIT INTO HIS PANTS!!!!!!!!!!! I could get the jeans on, but couldn't button them. And there was no way the cords were ever going to happen."

Hahahahahahaha.

Universal fear, mutual hell, and hilarious visual.

Girl, make sure to stay away from the Kennedy's, it will not do you any favors.

Sorry You're New

I never moved growing up; my family has lived in the same house for the last 23 years. Then I went all of 30 minutes away from home to go to the Greatest School Ever. Not until I uprooted my life with The BFF and headed north was I ever the new girl.

Then I came here where I didn't have a sweet clue about anything.

Luckily I met a few amazing people, learned some hard lessons, and gradually became "a New Yorker." (That will probably offend people who have certain exclusive regulations about that title but they can go to hell. I've lived here for three years and get the city.)

And when it comes to girls I know or meet who've just moved here, I LOVE helping them get acclimated. I was there, I know the pain/joy/trauma/excitement of it all.


Me and my new boyfriend. He's new.



Guys, on the other hand, I can't deal with. I have a zero tolerance policy for dating newbies.

Kind of harsh, don't you think? Nope. They're not Real People.

Just the other day I was reminded of this lesson. "He's not a real person? What does that mean?" my mom asked when I gave her feedback about my date. (You know you work in consulting when you just automatically use words like feedback in every day life, vom.)

Well, for starters, he's been sleeping on friends' couches for a month...

And he has no stuff of his own, no dishes, no belongings that make you a dateable adult.

But the most important factor is that he doesn't have his bearings. He has minimal intelligence about how things work here, and no clue how dating works. He's too eager. He's too green. He's just too new.

I'm a firm believer that you need six months under your belt until you think you know what you're doing. Another six months before you actually do.

Dating here is a varsity sport. He's a freshman.

I haven't had much luck finding babysitting gigs in the city. I'm not about to start now. It's just not worth my time.

My name is Rachel and I'm a Dating Snob.

The Importance of Being Breezy

Dating in New York - Double Black Diamond terrain (skiing on the mind) - is not for beginners. After three years I've learned a lot, and one strategy that I've found most successful is The Being Breezy Method of Communication.

Are you familiar with the term "breezy?" It means you're laid back, go with the flow (but not indifferent). It means you Keep The Crazy In. It means you might get the upper hand. Woo hoo.

Before I go on and on about Being Breezy, I figured I should do a little Urban Dictionary'ing to make sure it didn't mean anything else too. Of course it does!

Not what I was going for. Is there nothing innocent left in the world? So, in the future just so we're all on the same page, I'm referring to the second definition, below:

In my terminology at least, Being Breezy is inspired by this scene of FRIENDS:

MONICA: Yes. Well I got his machine and I left a message. But it's okay, it's okay, it's okay, because you know it was like a casual, breezy message. It was breezy! Oh God, what if it wasn't breezy?

PHOEBE: Well, how could it not be breezy, no, 'cause, you're, you're in such a breezy place.

MONICA: Here, I got it. I'll will play my message for you guys, and you can tell me if it's breezy enough.
...
MONICA: (on machine) "Hi, it's Monica. I'm just checking in 'cause I got this message from you and I didn't know if it was old or new or what. So, I'm just checkin'. So let me know, or don't, whatever. I'm breezy."

JOEY: Hey, you can't say you're breezy, that, that totally negates the breezy.

And I'm not the only one who conjurs up this memory when they hear the word. Just the other day my friend Laurel told me a story about how she texted a guy on a Friday afternoon about seeing a movie. The purpose of her text was to sound breezy. "It's snowing and it's Friday, want to see a movie?" Did you feel that breeze? Nice.

While it ain't easy bein' breezy, the alternative is not pretty. We've all acted a little impatient, perhaps a tad dramatic, when it comes to guys. (Otherwise known as the first year I lived in the city and was a certifiable dating psychopath.) But we've grown out of that phase.

We've learned that Being Breezy > CGS.

Seriously. Just ask me about The Russian.

P dot S: If this season of the Bachelor will teach us anything (it most likely won't, and please stop judging me for watching it), it's that having uncontrollable CGS will not take you to the end, Chantel O.

(Except in the case of Michelle, but that's just a case study of the accuracy of the How I Met Your Mother's genius Hot vs. Crazy scale).