Too Many Options

New York, the most expensive city in the country, has one redeeming deal – cheap mani/pedis. And I have found the greatest place to get them – it’s clean, friendly, convenient, efficient. Also one of the precious nail ladies is dating the mailman. Seriously. They met because the salon is on his mail route. Yes, so Legally Blonde.

Anyway, they also have an amazing selection of colors – every Essie shade you could want. Except, it is almost too great of a selection. This summer, one of the “on” occasions with my on-off obsession with getting weekly manicures, was the testing ground to find the perfect polish. While every now and then I would rock a Punch Pink or Flirty Fuchsia - or sometimes switch to a lighter hue when something more subdued was needed - coral has been my staple – the MPD for nail polish.

But as much as I love getting my nails done, I’ve begun to dread the, “Go pick a color,” directive that meets me as I walk in the door. My coral conundrum this summer would have my mind racing as I’d go back and forth between Boat House, One of a Kind, Enuff is Enuff, Escapades and Tangerine. All good choices (and no they’re not the same!) – but is there a best?

What if I get something that’s not as good as last week? What if it’s not what I really want? What if I’m wasting my time trying out a new shade? Should I just stick with one so I stop worrying?

Yeah, I get these are very first-world problems.

Anyway, the summer has ended but my nagging indecisiveness has not abated. And the constant second-guessing about whether I’ve made the right choice or if I should keep looking has infiltrated into dating.

Cute guy, good job, nice apartment. Just like the guy I met last week and the guy the week before him. Too many damn candidates all neck and neck for the finish line; rarely has there been a clear winner.

Like with the overwhelming number of polish options, the practically invisible distinction between guys I meet within MPD has made it difficult to decipher what I want and who I should go after - I blame the city for making it hard to tell them apart. How can I figure out which ones are just looking for a good time, which ones are flakey, or which one could potentially be The One? It’s about as hard as judging a bottle of nail polish to determine which won’t chip in a day or two, and which will stay perfect all week. Except, you know, I would prefer a relationship to last a little longer than seven days.

You wonder whether to make an effort with Guy A or blow him off hoping something will happen with Guy B. Or do you blow them both off because, hell, Guy C, D, E or F could be around the corner and be even better? How do you choose between a bevy of eligible bachelors, none of whom you actually really know that much about besides what you get at face value?

When it comes to the nail polish deciding vote, the shade with the cleverest name is usually the winner – prob not the best judge for dating…

As of late I haven’t found myself in the situation where I’m forced to choose between settling down with someone or continuing my search for something better, but I know that when that time comes, my new-found crippling indecisiveness will be an issue.

Maybe, though, the key is to not allow yourself an overwhelmingly infinite number of options. Maybe you say Enuff is Enuff and just choose the one you think is right. And stop second-guessing your decisions, Rachel…I mean, you, the reader…

Lovely Weather

The New York weather this weekend was perfection. After sizzling in Austin during the first half of my trip home followed by soaking torrential downpours the second half, I could not have been more excited to have my first weekend back include beautiful blue skies and perfect sunny 70 degree temperatures.

It was perfect weather for running errands and checking off a list full of to-do items. Ah productivity.

It was perfect weather for sitting in the park eating lunch creepily watching other people with their adorable dogs. Ahh puppies.

It was perfect weather for a terribly awkward two-block walk of shame in the UES (upper east side) to catch a cab while wearing the previous night’s short dress and knee-high brown suede boots complete with disheveled makeout hair and hungover, smeared makeup. Ahhhhhhh buckets-of-PBR-and-a-tequila-shot-I-did-not-need-induced-poor-decisions.

But still, the weather was lovely.

Roster Update: The Native New Yorker

My main points of reference for city kids are my older, Brooklyn-raised cousins, who always seemed so foreign and mature, and Gossip Girl. And also those weird, scary skateboarding hooligans in Union Square. I hate them (and when they almost run you over on your way to Whole Foods – assholes).

I’ll be honest, that combined mental image has always been a little bit of a deterrent when it comes to dating guys born and raised in the city. They’re a different animal. Not different as in bad or total dealbreaker necessarily, just a little harder to relate to. And so it’s no surprise that I’ve managed to go over a year and a half without dating a city kid. Sure I’ve met a few, but no one I was ever really into.

Like the guy who pursued me after we were almost plowed down in an intersection together by a red-light-running cabbie. I will be honest, he wasn’t that cute (he was no Trey MacDougal) – and five seconds after he introduced himself he had already volunteered how much paid for his apartment. It was muy aggressive.

Anyway, a few weeks ago I went to a rooftop party thrown by some friends in town. With my FGBF (French gay boyfriend… I miss you!) as my wingman, I managed to meet no guys. And then the minute he left, a 6’4’’, dark haired, green-eyed native New Yorker arrived fashionably late.

He took an interest in me (total self-esteem boost), and after talking for awhile, we made out. Because that’s what I do.

The next day, due to my little faith in the opposite sex (specifically MPD), I immediately texted our mutual friend to find out how big of a player he is known to be. She responded, “I don’t think he is?” Hmm, interesting concept, I didn’t know that existed in this city. Clearly no lack of cynicism these days…

Adding to his reasonably good reputation, since meeting - we’ve hung out again; he’s CALLED me on the phone (is he my mom or grandma?); and he’s texted/FB messaged me while I was gone for a week. From a quick textual analysis, he is doing fairly well: good caliber of banter, willing to flirt via SMS, surprisingly accurate breakdown of my personality - “90% sass, 6% healthy dose of self-confidence, 4% awkwardness.”

He is tall. He has pretty eyes. He is hot. But more than that - or the fact that he’s successful and 30 - he’s sweet, funny and possibly a little awkward himself.

An additional interesting fact about The Native: he owns a cat. Like a big, black, fluffy one with a scrunched face. In his feline defense, the cat seems more legitimate (both in size and intelligence/personality) than most of the guinea pig-sized dogs I almost step on walking home.

And no, Mom, I do not know how he feels about moving to Austin.

Friend-of-a-Friend (FofF)

I’ve always been a fan of the mutual friend connection (mutual acquaintance will do). Just that initial, baseline screening process can be helpful. Sort of like the referral or reference letter required for job/apartment applications. At least one person in the world will vouch that he’s not a total sociopath.

Yeah, things could eventually become awkward if you were to date long-term and break up, but I’ve come to learn that a drunken makeout or two all the way up to a few dates doesn’t really do much harm.

And I should know. I’ve worked my way through (that is not meant to sound so slutty) approximately a dozen FoFs since moving here. Every eligible bachelor - from the coworker’s boyfriend’s roommate to the roommate’s boyfriend’s coworker – has been met, assessed, and, for whatever of the million reasons, dismissed as potential boyfriend material. My supply dried up. Or so I thought.

Then, in response to last week’s post about Time Out New York’s list of 52 eligible bachelors, my work BFF Ash commented that #42 was in fact her bf’s frat brother (in addition to pointing out that Yorkville is on the UES – wahoo - I live right by the 6).

So I will be willing to get over my ageism seeing as how he told Ashley via FB chat at work the other day that he would be interested in grabbing drinks. She had been interrogating (read: making fun of him) about the responses he received (lots o’ crazies/phonies, 2 normals) when she mentioned my potential interest. And from the looks of the pictures she selectively chose to copy and paste from FB into an email, he looks pretty smokin’, more so than that TONY pic - (And don’t judge, you know you do it too – FB pictures provide a fantastic vetting service).

So we will see. But no matter what, I’m glad there are still a few FoFs left in the city. Especially those who, at some point in the past six months or so, looked pretty good shirtless.

I Had About a Million Dates in Austin

As in the dried fruit.

Approximately 48 oz. to be exact. Oh, Costco, how I miss your giant, family-sized, economically considerate offerings! Anyway, inspired by one of the best tapas I've ever had - from Pipa - I suggested to my mom that we attempt to make a few bacon-wrapped, almond-stuffed dates for a ladies party she was throwing. Luncheoning & shopping, yeah it was a tough life to adjust to for a week... Anyway, the dates turned out to be perrrfect.

The "recipe"

Ingredients:

- A bunch of pitted dates, however many you are willing to allow your fat ass to eat in one sitting because, let's be honest, they won't last long once they're covered in bacon

- Bacon

- Almonds

Directions:

- Stuff almonds in dates
- Wrap each date with enough bacon to cover so it won't fall off
- Insert toothpick to help it stay together (and to make easy to eat)
- Bake at 300 degrees or so for about 30 minutes (cook on foil covering a baking sheet for easy clean up)

Voila.

Bon appétit!!


In other news, I'm thinking about being Julia Child for Halloween (slutty version, obv), if for no other reason than to continue using that hilarious Meryl Streep voice.

Note: See, Mom, I'm capable of writing about other things besides "sex"!

My Summer was Better Than Yours

The time has come for the return of the most amazing fictional cougar bait of all time. Chuck Bass. He is charming, smarmy and rich. He is arrogant, pompous and hot. He is the perfect villain you can’t help but love. I am clearly obsessed.

Allegedly, though, Gossip Girl might not actually be real life. And Ed Westwick isn’t actually Chuck Bass.

Allegedly.

I know it might be hard to believe, but sometimes I live in my own little world. And this is one of those times. So when I’ve seen Chuck Bass (Ed) twice this summer, instead of acting with a modicum of cool, collected indifference that would be my typical response to most celebrity sightings, I’ve turned into what I assume is the equivalent of a tween Jonas Brothers fan.

Awk-ward.

The first interaction occurred during one of the most random nights of my life. My friend Lauren was in town and, after dinner, I decided I just really needed to get a giant Tasty D waffle cone before heading to a bar to meet her friend. Totally necessary after a giant Italian dinner... Anyway, I suggested we walk around the park while I finished my treat, and we noticed a few barricades and a couple of paparazzi loitering outside the Gramercy Park Hotel.

So since Lauren is known for her gregarious nature (in addition to her super sweet dance moves, her amazing acting skills, and her fantastic taste in sunglasses), the two of us proceeded to talk up a few paparazzi. You must learn to take advantage of life lesson opportunities when they arise - like learning the inter-workings of the biz. Or that if a fat Puerto Rican paparazzo wants to get your digits he probably doesn’t want to be your platonic friend.


Anyway, rapid fire questions steadily shot out of our mouths for almost an hour.

- “Who is the biggest bitch you’ve ever photographed?” – Jennifer Aniston

- “Do you have any problem taking pictures of people’s kids? Do you have any sort of moral compass?” – No, No

- “What do you think of Spencer Pratt?” – He would let you have sex with Heidi if you got them on the cover of a magazine

During our interrogation session we also learned that the cast of GG (in addition to a bunch of CW shows I don’t really know/care about) were at a network event inside.

OMFG.

So clearly we could not leave. Also another important life lesson we learned the hard way - watching not-really-quite-famous people awkwardly walk out in front of paparazzi only for no one to know if they’re important enough to be photographed = beyond painful. Train wreck painful.

But it was worth it. Because I had this amazing encounter:

Me: OMG ED WESTWICK!!!! CAN I GET A PICTURE????
Ed: [blank stare] - [awkward (or scared) smile]
Ed: [running to waiting town car with VANESSA (probably headed to Brooklyn to do some sort of protesting!!)]
Lauren: OMG I didn’t know you were capable of reaching that decibel. That could not have been more awkward.

It didn’t matter. I had made eye contact with Chuck Bass.

The second encounter took place at Tenjune. Chuck...I mean Ed… left the VIP area to make a request at the DJ booth. My friend in town, who ridiculously doesn’t watch GG!?!?, pointed him out to me. He was wearing a green plaid suit and a white fedora. So Chuck.

As I creepily stared him down, he passed me on the way back to his table. And do you know what I did? I grazed his back.

What did you do this summer? I made eye contact AND touched Chuck Bass.

It's the little things in life.

Keep Austin Weird

My week-long trip home has been great, lots of time with friends, the fam and JESSSSSEEEEE, our very rugged cocker spaniel. Yes I consumed an entire chocolate cake and an inhumane amount of Salt Lick BBQ, but that was to be expected.

Then things got weird. Never in a million years would I have guessed what randomness was in store, specifically the time the only guy to ever really break my heart (high school crush) confessed he had in fact always liked me. And that he was so stupid and so sorry for everything he had done to hurt me, e.g. the time he surprised me with a personalized cake on my 17th birthday only to start dating some idiot girl the next day. Also weird was when he mentioned that his dad randomly talks about how I'm the girl he would choose to set him up with in an arranged marriage.


WTF. "Once again, something that could have been brought to my attention YESTERDAY! ..." ... or in this case approximately 8 years ago.

Now headed off to a friend's wedding. I feel so old. But also like I'm a freshman in high school all over again? Because life wasn't confusing enough before. Fantastic.