OMKKG We're Old

While perusing FB last week, I was notified that it was that special time of year again - new pledge classes of adorable little freshman babies have entered into the sorority world. Gah I feel 100.

Seeing the last remaining member of our family dynasty - my younger cousin Kristen's pictures (Hi!) - made me nostalgic. It seems like yesterday that was me. Maybe that's what fossils think when looking at dinosaurs? (For the sake of the analogy, please disregard the fact that fossils don't have eyes. Or that dinosaurs are extinct. Thanks.)

While rush at the University of Texas is interesting (read: stressful, panic-inducing, annoying, sweaty, political), it was an experience I'll never forget. One of a kind.

Then along came the parties, the meetings, the committees, all of the t-shirts you just have to have. It goes by so fast.

awww memories

The less great stuff - drama, the pettiness, the unnecessary bullshit - it fades.

Before "recruitment" - I guess since I was on panhellenic exec committee I should probably use the politically correct term - I wasn't even sure being in a sorority was something I was interested in. Not to make you gag with sentimentality, but every day I'm grateful I did. I made life-long friends who I can't imagine my life without.

Part of the legacy

And to just really layer on the emotion, one of my favorite things about my sorority experience is being part of a three-generation legacy. Sisters in the bond. Or something. Hopefully it continues.

But that's not necessarily what runs through your mind when you're in the middle of it. While you're there, you soak it in. That's your job. I miss that job.

Now I'm craving a luke warm Keystone. Better go dig out a monogrammed coozie to go with it. Ah college.

A Night of Diverse Events

Remember that time I always lied on this blog? Specifically when I said I wouldn't have anymore birthday-related posts? Well gear up for one more.

As part of my gift to The BFF, I got us tickets to a comedy show featuring SNL and Comedy Central writers at Comix, a comedy club in MPD.

It was a funny show. Out of the six comedians who performed, only one was a woman, Jessi Klein, who had a bit of a Tina Fey thing going on aka I want to be her friend. Her routine included a joke about how she was now officially reaching spinster status, but instead of being offended by the moniker, she thinks women should take a lesson from black people and change it to a version that's no longer derogatory. Spinsta. Haaaa.

Another comedian performed part of his set in the downstairs area that we stumbled on during a pre-show bathroom trip. Then later during his actual set, we realized he was using some of the same material. We were both very uncomfortable. Do we have to laugh again? Then it dawned on me, "Oh crap, this is how my friends feel talking to me in person. 'Yeah, I read the blog, thanks for telling me the story again.'"

Awkward. Sorry.

Anyway, due to Comix's proximity to 'da clubs, afterward we headed to Avenue. Celebs go there. At one point Lindsay Lohan was banned from it. It's also referenced on some TV show apparently. You should be impressed.

And even though we aren't 18 and 85 lbs like all the wannabe dELiA's models who were there, we made it inside with minimal annoyance.

Yes, we are ballers.

We talked with a few different guys, including a 40-something Indian man who told me he would pay for me to live in Miami with him for the winter. Had he made this proposition in February, I might have agreed. Wow I am not looking forward to the cold weather. Wow he was creepy.

After suffering through a round of drinks and his attempts to buy my affection, The BFF came to my rescue. She even put on an award worthy "I have to go home, I feel sick" performance. What a friend.

Except when I really needed her later, she let me down.

On our way home she agreed to stop at Kennedy's with me. I know. I have a problem. Someone host the damn intervention already. It's getting out of hand.

While we were in there, we were greeted by an entire flock of neighborhood children. Do you have a fan club of 17 year olds? Because now we do. We even have some Silly Bandz bracelets to prove it.

What a night. From the classiest club to the shadiest late night eating joint. We're really making the most of the New York diversity, aren't we?

Guest Post: The BFF's Solution to Our Biggest Problems, Pt I

[Editor's Note: The BFF and I both have a lot of "theories" and "ideas" about what would make the world a better place. The following is just a taste of her genius. You're welcome.]

If I wasn’t so busy with a full schedule of drinking and being skechy then I would probably be running a campaign to be New York’s next mayor. Yeah, I can see your eyes rolling now, ASS. Check yourself.

I wouldn’t change much about this DAMN AWESOME city, but there’s one thing that has consistently pissed me off…all of the ambulance sounds.

Every 5 seconds I hear that ‘WAHWAH’ crap. I’m sick of it. So I’m going to do something about it.

As your next mayor I would vow to swap out this ‘WAHWAH’ nonsense and go with a more sophisticated alerting sound. YEAH THAT’S RIGHT, I’m talking about the merry music of casino slot machines. Nothing says ‘hey bitch get out the way’ like the sound of sweet coin falling into some old fat lady’s lap.

Dude, if I were racing down Broadway in a wahmbulance I’d be freaking out. On the other hand, if I was in the ca'chingbulance I’d be planning my next weekend in Atlantic City. And we all know that making plans for the future is a sure sign that everything’s gonna be alright.
Happy Friday.
 
In a related story, we both really want to go back to Atlantic City this fall. Any takers?

The Height of Maturity

Last night I rekindled my friendship with my Yearbook Protege. Yes that should sound as dorky and awesome as it was. We ended up at Crocodile Lounge for "dinner" - if you've never been there, you get a fresh baked brick oven pizza free! with a drink, no I don't know how they make money either but it's amazing. It happened to be Trivia Night.

Apparently Trivia Night also conveniently coincided with Hot Guy Night. We both took note of a tall blonde who my dad would totally refer to as a "young strapper" and my mom would call a "hunk." I would just say he was smokin'.

And he talked to us. And he got my number. Because I am on top of my A Game.

One slight problem. He just moved to NYC two weeks ago to attend Columbia Law School. While crossing my fingers, I asked if he had worked in between law school and undergrad. "Oh yeah, this summer."

No. That is not working. That is going through your tween years, you child.

Afterward, I went home and lamented to The BFF that he was the same age as my younger brother. She pointed out that at least he wasn't the age of my youngest brother (20)...Look at her and her positive out look on life! So true. Then I would be an actual cougar, which apparently was never really a trend in the first place?!

She changed the subject to let me know she got a new magazine: STAR "Celebrity assistants tell all." But then after waving it in my face, she refused to read it to me like a good night story, prompting me to tweet that she was the worst person ever. (Happy hour and Twitter rarely mix for the best.)

Today via gchat:

The BFF: im sorry i didn't let you know about the assistants confessions. they were pretty hilarious.

me: I STILL HATE YOU FOR THAT

The BFF: i know....im willing to work through it though bc i want to make this relationship work.
 
me: I appreciate that. I"ll take it into consideration.
 
Anyway, I just wanted to share in case you saw the status update and were worried that there was marital strife in Wifey Land. Don't worry, all is forgiven. Especially now that I've learned the horrible assistant secrets, thanks to the Gawker guide summing up the abuse. I could have it much worse.

Monsoon Season

When it rains, it pours. Hot guys, that is.

It's raining men, hallelujah. It's also raining rain. Less joyful celebration.

Oh Mother Nature, why must you always be such a buzz kill? Couldn't just give me one glorious week of two dates AND sunshine? Thanks. For nothing.

Because of her, I sort of resembled a drowned rat on my date on Sunday (I went to the movies with a person other than The BFF - a guy no less!?) 

Another date last night (by now perhaps you're catching on that this post is just a very poor, faux-attempt to shield my bragging about going on two dates in three days), another opportunity to make a good impression with my "Nothing Will Make This Look Attractive" Humidity Fro.

Guys know it's scientifically impossible to look your hottest when it's the rainy season, right?

I mean, I really did put in effort. I'm sorry. It was the best I could do.

Fingers crossed my new climb back up the Singles Bell Curve toward World Domination will maintain its momentum until the sunny weekend! You better not have been lying to me about the sunshine, weatherman! Gotta look my best!

P dot S: Speaking of weathermen, I have a horrible, horrible, personal confession. I watched Bachelor Pad on Monday. In my defense I only saw 1.5 hours of the 2 hour episode where the most annoying guy ever, The Weather Man, got kicked off. It's just as ridiculous as you'd assume it to be.

I'm judging myself, don't worry.

The Best Day with the Wurst Guys Ever

Just one more birthday-celebration-related post I promise. But really, we all know I suck at blog promises so we'll just have to see, now won't we?

To extend the festivities, The BFF and I decided to take a little wifey date for a boozey brunch thanks to a Gilt Groupe special. The restaurant - B.E.S. - was great and we had the best burgers of our lives. This should not be taken lightly. We are both burger snobs. Truffle oil, brioche buns, delicious aioli. Had they been able to incorporate a little goat cheese (everyone knows how amazing goat cheese is, right?!), I probably would have gotten down on one knee and proposed.

To the burger. Not to The BFF.

Anyway, from there we continued the fun at the Standard Beer Garden in MPD. Since I had never been before, The BFF gave me the play-by-play tour of the time she went and John Mayer hit on her friend.

Yeah she sat and had cocktails with him, and shockingly, he was as toolish as one might assume.

Being a dbag, I soon learned, is pretty status quo for the guys there, but when in Rome... Or in this case, a German-themed snob fest...one should embrace it.

As we navigated through the patio, we chatted with a few groups of guys, but we had our sights set on a trio who were just perfectly fratty enough to warrant our attention. We circled the Tommy Bahama-clad crew like sharks until we were finally armed with enough liquid courage to make a move.

It worked. Gold Star for Rachel. I mean, "So, uh, how are those mojitos?" is obviously the most clever line ever...

It took less than one minute of conversation to learn that the cutest of the group was also The Worst Person Ever. But in a funny way. Because FJO douchery is now just comical, not lust-worthy. Although technically he's no longer an FJO, because according to his friend, he "doesn't really have to work."

Ah, sigh, the life of a trust fund baby. My next life.

While there was definitely no soulmate action going on, the guys proved to be fairly entertaining. Up until the Best Thing Ever happened.

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a former fling. By "fling" I mean he flung my heart against the wall, then picked it up and stepped on it. Rinse and repeat.

It was during my first year in the city - not the shining star of my dating past - and every time I've run into him since, I always think. "How could I have been so stupid!??!"

He spotted me while he was playing ping pong, sauntered over like the swaggering jackass he is, and asked me and The BFF if we wanted to play with him.

We obliged. I was on his team, playing against The BFF, his Least Biggest Fan Ever.

Now, The BFF is not one to hide her emotions. After an afternoon of day drinking and armed with a weapon, this is even less likely.

Not five minutes into the game did the manager have to come over and escort her out the door for being too aggressive. I mean, in her defense they shouldn't put the tables so close to innocent people's chairs! And, sorry, she used to play tennis!

Hilarious. When I recounted this story to Ashley later, she asked "So was she hitting him with her paddle or the ball?"

Thank goodness it didn't cross The BFF's mind to use the former. (I probably would have peed in my pants from laughing so hard.)

Since then he has called me three times. Dude, I can barely call my family on the phone. I responded - via text, obv - that I didn't feel like talking to him. Zing. And I then refused his offer to hang out.

Might have only taken two whole freaking years, but I've finally regained my self-respect and the upper hand in this situation.

[Did you know it's really hard to type while you're using one hand to pat yourself on the back?]

What a glorious end-of-summer smackdown. I could really go for another burger to celebrate.

If You Blog It, They Will Come

Don't we look so classy and grown up?

The BFF, getting so wise in her old age, predicted the future.

After complaining about my lack of fall dating roster candidates, she promised that I would meet someone at her birthday party.

More like three people. Playa playa indeed.

The party itself was a success. The bar - Ten Degrees - had a private backroom that was perfect.

It also had a perfect owner/guardian of the backroom. Soon after we got there, he kicked out a group of (unattractive) guys who snuck past him.

I thanked him for his watchful eye, but also told him that if any attractive guys came back there, to let them stay. You know, to make sure the ratio was in our favor.

Me and The BFF with Wes, the only NYC roommie
we haven't hated. Isn't he precious?

No more than five minutes later, two cute guys wandered in, followed by the owner. I gave him an inconspicuous head nod to signal they were fine.

Great choice. Turns out the guys were super nice, a good addition in their own right, plus they ended up having a few other friends come meet them later.

Enter in Guy #1 and Guy #2. Guy #1 got my digits, texted AND called me later that night. I'm not interested, but it's the thought that counts.

During this phone number exchange, I sassily lamented to Guy #2 that he wasn't as aggressive as his friend. Turns out Guy #2 randomly went to the same high school as two of my friends at the party. Oh this small world in which we live!

Through one of them, he found me on FB the next morning at 8 a.m. From there we exchanged a few witty banter FB messages and texts. We hung out twice this weekend. We're probably getting married next week.

Unless things work out with Guy #3. I thought I had run through all of the quality FoF candidates but nope, one more was hiding!

Speaking of hiding, that's what The BFF did with the last wing from our shameful Kenney's post-party stop. Because "she knew I would eat it if she didn't." Valid reason.

Taking a Hook 'Em picture when only a small fraction of the
group are Longhorns is hilarious and awkward.

[Yeah, I know, it's getting ridiculous. Clearly that contract I wrote had about as much validity and was taken as seriously as a celebrity marriage license. The BFF and I joked about how we should cerimoniously burn it, but then we remembered there's already been one fire on our street this year. If you're so concerned about our late night fried chicken binging you should probably start planning an intervention. I mean, that's what a real friend would do. Or join in sometime. Either way.]

Oh what a night. I just love birthdays.

P dot S: Since no birthday is complete without some sort of hilarious text exchange, I have to share the best text sent in the history of text messaging: 

After The BFF's ex boyfriend sent her a sort of asshole/too cool for school birthday text that began with "hey chica" - I mean really, no guy ever needs to utter (or type) those words - she responded with "I am horrified by your shit."

No, I don't exactly know what that means - and I don't really think she even knew - but it's a pretty fantastic, six-word summation of the truth. 

Me and my Chica. JOKING GOSH.