Tag Archives: Dallas

I Survived Dry January


And by survived dry January I mean I survived my friends enduring the sober journey. But they had it easy by not drinking — I’M THE SURVIVOR THAT HAD TO DEAL WITH THEM THE WHOLE TIME. I’M THE REAL UNITED STATES TROOPS.

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The Bachelor Episode 2: I am not crazy

Episode 2

Good morning, I hope you were all prepared for the opening scene of Ben in blue boxers.

First date card

Jackie, LB, Lauren H., Becca, Amber, Mandi, Jojo, Jubilee, Jennifer, Lace.

These girls are *MIND-BLOWN* when their names get called, like they didn’t realize being on The Bachelor meant going on dates.

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This is going to make you uncomfortable



But not as uncomfortable as I am right now sitting down in my most comfortable clothes. Why am I uncomfortable? Let’s start with my Tuesday afternoon decision making process.

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I got an endoscopy today


Am I an obese middle aged sedentary male? Do I eat candy and spicy food nonstop? My esophagus seems to think so. My esophagus hates me.

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Weekends with the Parents

Sometimes your weekends revolve around brunch and sometimes they revolve around your parents’ plane ticket times. My parents have visited twice in the past month (new babies in the family will do things like that), and needless to day it’s been all but dull.


iPhones are hard. IOS updates, hard. But downloading apps IS LITERALLY THE EASIEST THING THAT APPLE OFFERS US CIVILIANS. For whatever reason, the baby boomer generation struggles with the downloading of the apps, but no matter, for they birthed two girls very capable of this activity. Once the app was downloaded, all my sister and I had to do was explain to our parents what Über does and why it’s going to be beneficial to all of us this weekend.

Questions my mom had about “You-ber” (I gave up trying to teach them how to pronounce it):

  • What if I need to go somewhere, what do I do?
  • So the you-ber takes me there?
  • What if I need to just go back and forth during the day?
  • So you’re saying the You-Ber will just take me where I punch in on the text machine? (Baby boomers may oft use “text machine” when referring to the “iPhone”)

The first time my mom used Über by herself, it was totally fine. The second time = ALL HELL HAD BROKEN LOOSE. Our conversation was something to the following via text:

“AUGUSTA. Uber does NOT work!!!!!!!!!!! Blasted all!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! It keeps asking me to fill out a survey!!!!!!!! It won’t let me get a new car!!!! I don’t want to fill out a survey1!!!!!”

“Mom just choose 4 stars!”

“It won’t let me, It’s making me survey!!!!!!!!”

Über is hard. God didn’t put my parents on this earth to ride Übers around Dallas.


White people love their dogs, this is a common American theme we’re all aware of, and The Neals are no different.

OR ARE THEY????????????????????????????????

Here’s some context: My mom has a dog-addiction. We’ve acquired the reputation around our small town that if anyone doesn’t want their dog anymore, the Neals will take it. This has happened a lot. I can never keep track, but I think my parents currently care-take 7 dogs. Let the record show that I only genuinely like one of them, Doug the Pug Neal.

It's fine i'm fine blog

This is Doug Neal and he’s the dopest pug alive

So that leaves about 6 other miniature creatures running around my house who I either A) can’t even identify or B) don’t like or touch. The latest addition to my parents’ zoo is kind of hard to explain. It’s a white little maltese. This dog came from a family member who was unable to keep it any longer, around last Christmas.

Did I mention my parents are God-awful at naming animals? God freaking awful.

My mom took it upon herself to name the new maltese Baby Jesus.





They call the dog “B.J.” for short. EFFING B.J.

I can’t even  y’all I *actually* can’t even. My mom thinks this name is totally fine for a dog given on Christmas. Okay. Okay. Okay. I’m not a cool high schooler anymore so I guess things like this don’t taint my cool-factor anymore. Sigh.

Names of dogs past and present in the Neal family, in no particular order:

  • Doug
  • Baby Jesus
  • Charles Lindbergh- This is a miniature greyhound, whom I hate. He’s an ugly, worthless dog. I call him rehab, because he looks like an anorexic alcoholic. I’ve called him this since high school and when I’m home I pretend I like him by speaking to him in a high pitched tone, but I avoid touching him if I can. My whole family calls him Rehab now. Rehab Neal.
  • Rojo- This was a small, red poodle, who died some years ago. I used to dress him in doll clothes when I was little. I never really liked him, but he was whatever. RIP, lil red.
  • Pixie- This was a small, black female dog my mom found half dead then rescued back to health, because she is a saint. For whatever reason, we named it that of a stripper. She is also dead. My mom really loved Pixie, and for that reason, it makes me sad she’s dead, but you know, I’m also still really messed up over Khloe and Lamar’s break up, so you have to pick your battles and hardships.
  • Winston- He was a blind schnauzer. I didn’t like him either. He died.
  • Daisy- She was the only other dog my parents have owned that I liked. She was a black pug, and she didn’t give a SH!T about anything. R.I.P., QUEEN DAISY.
  • Patriot- WAIT JUST KIDDING, my parents owned a small red heeler mutt, whom I really really liked. Patriot was a female dog my dad found, but we all thought the dog was a male for about a month. My dad never accepted this, and referred to Patriot (named after my dad’s job, Patriot Oil Drilling) as a “he” until she died. I called her Poochy because it’s kind of similar to Patriot, and I’m weird. I would take her to sonic and feed her ice cream. We had to put her down because I guess she killed Pixie or something, which actually only makes me like her more, but whatever. I get sad talking about her so I’m stopping.
  • Tiger Tom- This dog belonged to my grandparents until they died. Tiger is a small, white, male. I want to like Tiger because my Granny did, and I loved Granny, but I really struggle liking this dog. It was hit by a car and still lived. This dog just like, won’t go away.
  • Trixie- Another stirpper name dog. I can’t remember if she came with that name or if my parents did that. Trixie is another small white dog who won’t die.

I consulted my sister and these are all the dogs that we can remember. My sister actually named a quite few that I don’t remember at all (RIP Wilbur and Annie I guess????).


My mom loves to pretend we’re The Kardashians, and takes my sister and I shopping when she’s in town. Yesterday, we were at Milk & Honey, a local boutique targeted towards female millenials trying to find life in uptown, Dallas. My sister needed something to wear to her baby shower, or “Sip N See.” The sales associate brought out a hippie child dress and I had to tell her it was “too boho” for my sister, who is into classic styles, not trendy things (she later bought a fur vest but that’s besides the point). My mom then asked, “What would you name my style, Gus?!?!?????” I said mom, there is no word for your style.

She then said something really spot on, which happens sometimes. She said, “I think my style is like ‘electric New Mexican.'” I said YES. You are THE electric New Mexican.

Meanwhile, my dad is also in M&H with us, and finds a women’s hat, similar to the picture below.

“Augusta, can men wear this too?” says my father, wearing the hat.


I’ve been lucky enough to have been in my current position at work for about a year and a half now. My parents visited the offices for the first time recently. I was a little worried about bringing them in because downtown Dallas can be over-stimulating if you’re born and raised from Carlsbad. I mean, there are CORNER OFFICES and IPHONE SIXES IN OUR PRESENCE.

When I went to pick up my parents in the lobby of my work building, my mom was wearing Dr. Dre Beats headphones.


I was like, “Haha, mom, let’s maybe not wear those. Let’s put them in your purse.” She was like, “But they’re so cool???”

She put them in her purse sitll plugged into her iPhone, which was also plugged into her iPhone charger, because, “I NEED THEM PLUGGED TOGETHER, I LOSE THEM,” as I’ve been told.

As I was giving them a “tour” and walking by the editorial department of D Magazine, my dad literally called out to people while they were working, and said, “Need story ideas???? OIL AND GAS!!! DRILLING!!!”

me trying to go with the flow in this moment


“I knew we were in trouble when they brought out rolled enchiladas. Tortilla are made flat for a reason. Enchiladas should be flat.” -My dad about the top-rated cuisine at Mesero.

Dallas Mexican restaurants apparently pride themselves on gourmet portions, and quite frankly, it pisses the Neal parental unit off. In NM, you get real Mexican food in large portions, and EVERYTHING comes with a side of rice and beans. When you sit down, you’re given a few LARGE bowls of chips that are refilled constantly.

Not in Dallas. Not last night.

Mesero served chips in mason jar-sized silver canisters, and when my parents asked for more chips, they would bring out another silver canister of chips, taking away the other one away, even though it still had chips in it, to my parents’ horror.

the Neals trying to tolerate smaller portions at Mexican food dining in Dallas


This morning, we braved the traffic on 75, and I took my parents to my favorite church ever, Watermark. I was a little worried about this, because my parents treat church services the same a going to the movies. They’re paying attention, but if they have a question/comment, they say it out loud full volume like they’re the only ones in the room.

Also, Watermark is just an overwhelming environment when you’re used to small-town church life. You’re literally surrounded by thousands of strangers, and you kind of feel like you’re at a rock concert, where you don’t know any of the words. It’s fine. Then Todd started preaching. I could see his message was really sinking in with my parents and it was super exciting for me that they got to experience something I do weekly.

Overall, it’s been really fun having my crazy parents in Dallas. Today they gave me money to go get a manicure before they left. I used the money to buy groceries. Adulthood is sad.

“Giving birth does not make one a mother…. Anymore than going to church makes one a Christian.” -My mom, who actually says pretty wise things for someone who named a dog B.J.

Images/gifs credits: blog.chegg.comhttp://www.nastygal.com/http://blog.chron.com/tubular/files/2014/10/teresa-table-flip.gif


Filed under humor, lifestyle

Anecdotes of a white girl’s birthday

They say every day is a holiday. Sites like this will confirm that notion. What most people don’t realize, is that every day, somewhere in the world, is a white girl’s birthday. Every single day, dare I add “literally” to that statement.

As a white girl, I’m forced to attend a lot of events to celebrate said occasions. It’s despicable. I’ve decided to capture real-life, anecdotes, and life lessons events that happen when  you celebrate a white girl’s birthday. Prepare yourself.

The different types of “late” that white girls run.

Oh, you thought there was only one type of running late? You’re so glad you have me. Allow me to list the types of late that it is actually possible to be on any given night with a white girl.

  1. The standard “just running 30 minutes behind” late. A common kind of white girl. Always tell this girl the party is 30 minutes earlier than it actually is.
  2. The “I’m sorry I was at XX” late. This white girl is barely fitting you in her busy schedule. This might be her 3rd stop of the night, and it’s not her last. There will be other places she has to go before the world ends at 2 A.M. Plan on said person showing up HOURS late and having to text you 5 times while she’s on her way there to make sure you haven’t bar-hopped.
  3. The “Where are we going again?” late. There’s nothing like someone who doesn’t read texts or Facebook events.
  5. The “You guys started early!” late. Some people have a hard time drinking between the hours of 6-9 P.M. Because that blurs the lines between day drinking and night drinking, and those gray hour areas are why God invented Happy Hour. If your party starts between 6 – 9, most people won’t know what to do with their hands, and won’t show up until 11 P.M.

You’ll meet other girls at the bar who are also celebrating a birthday.


One of them will be wearing a matching sash and crown.

Taking pictures doesn’t require a masters but it should.

HOW many white guys does it take to get a non-blurry, decently centered photo, worthy for a white girl’s instagram? I’LL TELL YOU. A FREAKING MILLION.  Nothing causes a bigger scene than asking a stranger to take 17 photos, all on different iPhones, all different poses. Bless everyone involved and may he who labors bear the fruits of his work.



The HAPPY NEW YEARS!/Kim Kardashian circa 2006 girls.

Spotted: 8 long sleeve sequin mini dresses in skyscraper heels. Don’t get me wrong — I’m ALL about the power of a #GNO outfit that makes you feel fabulous and fierce. But it IS possible to be fab and fierce without cross dressing.


You will scream at the top of your lungs when a new friend arrives, like you haven’t seen them, or breathed, in  years.

The surrounding 20-30 people will hate you but you love attention of all kinds, you Basic you.

white girls seeing each other at a bar

Everyone will have obnoxious spirit for their alma matter.

Blessed is he who begins a successful RAIDER POWER chant in public. That happens often, but those WOOP Aggie people are also infamous for disgusting things like this.

Someone will be drinking a skinny margarita.

(spoiler alert: it was me last time). Is this a Mexican food restaurant? Is there a mariachi band around? No? THAT WON’T STOP A WHITE GIRL FROM ORDERING A “SKINNY MARG,” I TELL YOU THE TRUTH. Even if it’s the LEAST south of the border bar in Dallas, this is Texas, and almost everywhere serves freaking margaritas.

I really didn’t learn how to drink to match the environment until after college. Which is weird because basically everyone in my family is an alcoholic, so I don’t know how that life lesson hit me so late. I vividly remember sitting in Triple J’s, in Lubbock circa senior year of college, and ordering a vodka cranberry. AKA the undergrad white girl drink of choice. I look back at that and think “Okay then.”


You’ll meet actual Benjamin Button.


So you’re at the bar. Where you’ve been for what seems like seventeen years. And you meet a guy about your age, who looks pretty cute, even in his flat bill hat. wait, am i into flat bill hats? you ask yourself.

After talking to said guy for a bit, he inevitably tells you his age, and he is 33. EDITORS NOTE: THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH BEING 33.

But your mind is blown because he doesn’t look a day over a young-looking 24, so you’re convinced this man is aging backwards, and in a few years he’ll be in his 40’s but look like a teenager. Also, only GOD knows what’s under that flat bill.

You’ll meet a stranger who you have mutual friends with and your brain will explode.

This is real life. Dallas is a small, small, small little tiny place, full of people who all know someone who knows someone who dated their college roommate on Tinder recently.

“Pretend you’re my boyfriend!”

Ahh yes, there comes a time in the night when a white girl gets hit on (GASP!!!!) by “a creeper” and has to pretend to be grossed out, and  needs another white male within the friend-group to “be my boyfriend pls!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

This tactic is uncannily flirty, however said fake boyfriend is usually gay.

People will tell you their names but you’ll name them yourself.

Also known as people I’ve met recently:

  • Beard #1
  • Beard #2
  • Beard #3
  • Beard #4 (yes I met 4 bearded men in one night recently, it was exhausting)
  • Kendra Scott girl
  • Lesbian motor-cycler
  • Really wants to wash her hands girl
  • Don’t block her view of the TV lady
  • Man with baby
  • Guy from Not Somewhere In Texas
  • Spiked hair
  • He has a girlfriend guy

good luck and happy birthday to all the white girls today is ur day good luck sky’s limit

images via: seventeen.com, remembermefanfiction.blogspot.compandawhale.comwww.flickr.com

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How To Become a Texas Resident. No, but really.

Becoming a Texas resident is simple. Just follow these tried-and-true steps from someone with firsthand experience.

Step one: Vehicle registration and inspection.
Gather your relevant paperwork and Google maps your way to the nearest sketchy auto shop that will rip you off by doing something Texans call “inspecting your vehicle.” Your car will ALMOST be able to pass this test. But as it turns out, you won’t. You definitely won’t. Why? You’re a gangster. You ride dirty on the streets in your less than 25% window light transmission tint.

Non-Texas residents rolling around Dallas without having their windows inspected.

Step two: Pay four thousand million dollars de-tint and re-tint your windows.
You will have to take off work for this. Then spend a Saturday afternoon there. Because de-tinting means re-tinting and it takes too long to do it all in one trip. Also, this will be a hundred thousand dollars out of your weekly Mint spending allowance. Not that you follow it anyway.

Step three: Go back to get inspected and not have Texas insurance
OH YEAH LOL you didn’t know you were supposed to have Texas auto-insurance??? Lolz like duhh who DOESN’T know that???? WHO doesn’t KNOW that???????? Now you can call God knows who to get your New Mexico insured vehicle transferred to some Texas policy. This is exciting because it gives your parents another opportunity to ween your financial needs off of their payroll. ENJOY ADULTHOOD!! AUTO INSURANCE IS $65-100 PER MONTH!!!

Step four: Get auto insurance in Texas and print out a crap ton of papers to prove it to everyone throughout the following steps

Step five: go BACK to the FREAKING auto place 
The staff of this establishment OFFICIALLY HATES YOU. But at least your inspection is complete and you finally have all the necessary paperwork needed to follow the next steps.

Step six: Lose the necessary paperwork needed to follow the next steps.
The kind woman on 500 Elm street breaks the news to you. You’re missing the “out of state” inspection paper. Okay. Ok. O. K. ok. k.

Step seven: Go. Back. To. The. Inspection. Shop.
They claim they gave it to you. YET WHY DON’T YOU HAVE IT. That’s okay because the auto shop inspection car place and vehicle registration office are both downtown. After retrieving the correct paper from the auto shop, you go back to the registration office.

Step eight: Check your glove box and find the paper you needed all along.
It’s fine.

Step nine: WTF is a lienholder???????
I graduated a four year college and managed to scrape by without being properly taught the definition (or existence) of the word “LIENHOLDER.”

You will be asked this by the kind woman at the registration office.
You’re so close to getting your vehicle registered, you. can. almost. taste. it.

You call your mom. You call your dad. No answer. No answer. The lady is looking at you with sympathy. Oh, poor spoiled newly grad white girl. Lienholder, lienholder, if you know if you’re a lienholder, good for you, if you know if I’m one, THAT MAKES ONE OF US.

Step ten: The registration lady decides it’s not that big of a deal and tells you to get in line.
Pay another unexpectedly high amount for two Texas metal plates.

Walk out of the office feeling elation. Tweet that you’re almost done with the New Mexican turns Texan process.

You’re not a New Mexican, not yet a Texan.

Step twelve: Put them in your car and never actually get to putting them ON your car

Step thirteen: Ask off work to go to the DMV
Now here comes the exciting stuff!!! Getting the ID!! It’s finally happening IT’S HAPPENING!!!

Step fourteen: Enter the wrong location in Google maps
How did that happen? No really. How. Did. That. Happen.

Step fifteen: Parallel park and use all your quarters to pay for an hour and a half of parking
Quarters lost a little of their luster after leaving the dorms freshmen year and not having to pay for laundry BUT STILL. $1.50 DOWN THE DRAIN.

Step sixteen: Realize it’s the wrong address.

Step seventeen: Put the right address into your Google maps.

Step eighteen: Sign in online to the DMV
I’m so on the ball! You tell yourself. Score!

Step nineteen: Get UNCANNILY lost driving to the right location.

Step twenty: Lose your spot in line at the DMV.

Step twenty-one: Find yourself in an exit only lane to Houston.

Step twenty-two: Curse to Siri out loud alone in the car and finally arrive to said destination 48 minutes later
Whatever. You made it. You’re alive. You’re free. World peace.

Step twenty-three: Go through the ID process three times
Congratulations! A colonial woman has time-machined her way into 2013 and landed in your local Department of Motor Vehicle office. She will be assisting you with your final steps to becoming a Texas resident today. She has never used electricity, but she will DEFINITELY be entering your data into the computer program today.

Okay, I’m a patient person. I am. Or at least I hate confrontation, don’t have a backbone, can’t stand up for myself, especially to strangers, and often times that’s just as good as patience. My personality is so laid back and care free, I practically invite people like this to screw up, just because they know I won’t say anything.

But what KILLS ME is the picture that is my future ID. Now, I’m a girl, so I’m obligated to be a little vain when it comes to the face that will have to be inside my wallet every day for the rest of my young life.

The first time my picture was taken, it was as if the Texas resident angels looked down upon me and shed their goodness and light.

What my first photo for my Texas ID looked like.

I did the awkward machine signature, did the thumbprint thing, ya da ya da. The woman prints out the ID with my first name as my last name. It’s fine. Process round two.

The second time I took my photo, it wasn’t as great, but whatever.

My second picture taken for my Texas ID. Not my best, kind of quirky, but whatever.

Whatever. whatever. Signed the machine, thumbprints, colonial woman enters the data, lalala okay. okay.

NAMES. STILL. WRONG. Three-four seemingly colonial women are now crowded around the computer technologies in efforts to order the names right.


The third picture taken for my Texas ID. This is only a fraction of an exaggeration.

After the lady shows you your picture, you shudder, but you don’t have the heart to make her take your picture AGAIN. You deal with it internally.

Step twenty-four: Become a Texas Resident

You’re finally a TX resident. Bask.

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