Merrrrryyyy Christmas

Hope all of you have a wonderful "holiday" season, the disgusting political correctness on which I refuse to comment for lack of time. Jackie really does have a life, so for the next week or so you may not hear so much as a peep while I'm busy furiously taking notes at all of the Rogers Healy-esque NY Eve parties around town. I have high hopes for the shameful stories that are soon to follow... so check back in early '08 to see if your embarrassing moments made the cut.

This hood-rat is out. Peace... and joy to you this Christmas season.

Tuesday.

I know by what % my chances of losing my job increase with a night like this... but my question is what the hell do all of you other people do for a living? Or has our generation just become that good at working while hung over? If so, I'm proud. Damn proud.

Bouncer of the Month

Floorman, actually. Bouncer and floorman are two different things, in case you were wondering. I wasn’t wondering. But was politely informed of the difference this weekend – and floorman is to bouncer as Steel is to Sushi on McKinney. But for the purpose of this coveted award, majority title around town rules.

Meet Bobby. Mr. December. Our beloved floorman of the month. Bobby is good at what he does. Bobby is typically stationed at the back of our favorite local spot guarding the VIP basement entry and exit. Bobby also dabbles in kicking douchebags out after 2am as they begin to fall all over the place and give me bruises while fighting over A) Whose shirt is tighter or B) Which fugly will be accompanying each home.

Bobby knows all and sees all. Bobby has cat-like reflexes and the ability to see intricate details from many yards away. Bobby is also very good at convincing the ladies that no one important is downstairs. His wink is quite deadly.

Bobby looks fabulous in a suit, and probably better without. Bobby can escort two $30,000 millionaires out the door at the same time with just one arm. Bobby, simply put, has every skill one might ever want in a bouncer or floorman of the month.

The only thing in all of Dallas Bobby doesn’t have that he should… is my number.

Rock on, Bobby. Rock on.

A Season of Giving.

Acquaintances, friends and frenemies, I write you this note because I know you are concerned. “Where is Jackie?” you query. And to my faithful 2.75 readers, I have to apologize. Well, qualifiedly apologize. I only offer qualified apologies, typically. Those are my favorite.

Regardless, I apologize, but it’s not my fault I’m sick. The musty air that has finally drifted its way up from that heinous and fashionless city called Houston is here. They send their smog our way just to ensure that the abrupt mixture of hot and cold air ruins my daily sexy voice I have worked on for so many years, and turns me into Lucille Ball Circa-1978. Not to mention makes coordinating my Tory Burch shoes with my Gucci handbag a much greater challenge than usual. I mean, Harrison Driver with my Boston bag? Maggie pump with my hobo? (the purse, not the man) It’s all blurring together, and I simply cannot let this obviously deranged mind leave the house, let alone respond to my Dear Jackie O letters this week.

Really, though, as I snuggle up here in my Dian Austin Couture bed linens and email my parents the links to the main 67 items I am asking for this Christmas, I have had some time to think about this holiday season and all it means. This line of thought began while I was driving by the Azure the other day, and as I gazed through the glass windows at their 14-foot tall tree, currently placed awkwardly next to a statue of a dude on a horse, I decided I should make a change this holiday season.

Even just yesterday, as I walked past the hobo (the man, not the purse) in front of Walgreen’s, I actually smiled at him as I lied and said I had no cash on me. Or when I walked into Neiman’s at Northpark to go pick out which purse I’ll be judiciously selecting for the spring season, I generously put a dollar in the Salvation Army tin. And the Angel Tree? I even stopped and read a few of the tags... so I could really feel so sorry for those kids.

As you may have noticed by my example, it’s the season of giving. Everyone in Dallas should join in. Indulge in that spirit of generosity. Toss an extra dollar to the valet guy… give someone your bar spot at the Loon… maybe even refrain from giggling at your friends when they tell you joining Junior League just isn't for them. It’s all about others this season – so do your part.

Now, which one of you is going to bring me my Pear & Gorgonzola salad and soup, with a glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade and a chocolate chip cookie from Bread Winners? Hmm? My concierge will await your arrival. And don't you dare embarrass me with a North Dallasy-sized tip. I can see it now... A flabbergasted concierge and a shattered reputation. Merry-Freaking-Christmas to me.

Dear Jackie O, (Week 4)

A weekly installment answering your most pressing questions.

Dear Jackie O,
I really don’t think it’s going to be a prob. U are stressin’ over nuthin, & weekends in LA mid-season are no big thang. Take a ride on the chill out bus, babe.

Madly in Love,
Valley Ranch Romeo

Dear #9,
I don’t want to have to answer your letters every week, Romo. Seriously. We have had this conversation already, and you know where I stand. One question, though: Why do you look like more of a creepy stalker in all of these pics than an escort? HINT: If a girl starts to walk so fast you can’t keep up – stop trying.

And get back to Valley Ranch. Last time I checked, January is 25 days away. Click Clack, Tony. But I don’t hear ya coming. And according to those pictures, neither does Jess.

All my love,
Jackie O

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Dear Jackie O,
Did you see the announcement? Sales & profits are spiking this quarter! Make sure you grab your 100th Anniversary Exclusive Blahniks ASAP – they are going fast.

Skirtin’ Around Town,
Kar-Kar

Dear Neiman Marcus CEO Karen Katz,
I’m pretty busy this week… I mean, I have, well... ya know, something else to do other than spend $1000 on, errr, shoes, only to celebrate the “glorious century of luxury” I cannot afford. But never fear, your work here in our beloved Dallas economy is done, along with millions of baby boomers’ retirement funds. Oh, and Micky P, your faithful M/W/F hobo @ Jackson & Commerce, wanted to know when his 100th anniversary butterfly tag comes in. In all fairness, he has been a more consistent staple over the years than your increasing profits. Plus, he even bought his very own Blahniks to match.

All my love,
Jackie O

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Dear Jackie O,
I’ve heard you have some connections out this way… can you get me out of here????

Ready for early release,
Shackled Sutherland

Dear Keifer, aka Jack Bauer, aka My Beloved Superhero & Hopeful Next President of these United States,
I’ll help you, on a few conditions:
1) President Palmer (David) gets brought back to life and is named Master of the Universe, Esq.
2) His crazy wife does not come back with him.
3) You explain to me when you use the restroom. I mean, I’ve never even heard you mention having to pee. I know you sweat a lot, but seriously. During commercial break? Diapers, perhaps? It keeps me up at night. I worry, Jack. I worry.

All my love,
Jackie O

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Dear Jackie O,
I saw you running on Katy Trail on Sunday. Obviously not too scared, now are we? Hmm?

Still Tootin’ Around in Turtle Creek,
Deputy Doo-Dog

Dear Deputy Chief Golbeck,
Okay, seriously. You know I know your handwriting by now, right? A few douchebags short of a full VIP line, are we?

But yes, I did go for a run. And I think my Chuck Norris facts did the trick… that and the 900 other people on the trail in broad daylight. The issue this time arose when I took the lazy short cut home behind the AAC parking garage. Not a good idea… that and the whole act of going running in general. Jake’s milkshake, anyone?

All my love,
Jackie O

Corpse-Carriers to the Guardhouse

Once again, it is Sunday… or at least the wee hours of Monday. And as I lay here, contemplating the weekend and all of its hilarity, all of its debauchery and all of the shame and robust lies most of us have lived and left scattered all over town these past two days, the one story from which I can’t seem to stop attributing synonymity after witnessing this weekend, I have included below. Not much funny to be found in gas chambers or brainwashed societies, but hey, even Jackie has to be on the “for serious” tip every once in awhile… hence the title of today’s entry.

It was the announcement that would come over the loudspeaker, ever so often, breaking up the dance-enticing house music at Auschwitz to let the Sonderkommando, the special detail of the camp, know it was that time again… time to shepherd the condemned prisoners into their gas chambers, and drag their bodies back out again.

People typically volunteered for this position – it was a noble thing, the Sonderkommando, and the house music – good music – that surrounded it, most certainly had something to do with this group’s notoriety. Most men clamored to be a part of this elite group – even fought, really, for a shot at this different life. Once a member, your dwellings were more impressive, foods richer, drink more potent, and clothing more luxurious. That was the story, anyways. On the surface, they didn’t have to give up much to move up within the Auschwitz social class structure. And the items they plundered from those they were killing did all the more to increase their quality of life.

Yet as quickly as they joined, they were subsequently gassed themselves, with the first duty of their successors being to dispose of their remains. This cycle continued for a time, and to most historians was quite a phenomenon. But one thing was for sure. Whatever lie these men chose to believe was potent, real and powerful, and while it was the lie that held the possibility of life for a few short hours or days longer, it was also the lie that subsequently led to each of these men's deaths - as they, themselves, led their acquaintences, friends and even family to their own.

And whether your Sonderkommando leads you to hugging your favorite porcelain god, a trip to Park & 75 to purchase Plan B where Thelma knows you by name & suggests you buy two to save a trip (but out of pride you never do, and next weekend always wish you had), or simply an awkward trip to Potbelly during the Sunday post-church rush in your clothes from the night before, I guess the lie we have all chosen to believe is truly no different from the ones these men did… that the announcement that repeatedly reverberates within each of our lives is one that is good, one worth blindly following. And that same announcement we hear and see every day is the one that has turned us all into dancing puppets who live a life that consistently floods the bank accounts of our local Hitlers – and much to their pleasure, no matter what choices we make or what happens to us in the future, there is most certainly another Sonderkommando waiting in the wings to take our place, usher us to our deaths, and dispose of our remains.

And now that I have officially depressed you all at the beginning of your week – go knock ‘em dead – and make some $$$. I heard table service is increasing by $50/bottle at our local favorite hotspot. So, get to crackin’ – we have some corpses to carry next weekend.

Dear Jackie O, (Week 3)

A weekly installment answering your most pressing questions.

Dear Jackie O,
Did you hear? We are changing our business model. And did you see my new plan? It’s going to be awwweeeesommmme.

Sippin’ on a Slurpee,
Jimbo

Dear Blockbuster CEO Jim Keyes,
Wow. Shocker. Does it involve dancing midgets and ninjas? Hope so. Oh, and just curious, but can I charge YOU late fees on overdue dividends and measurable success? If so, that will be... $4,523,321.34, but if you come through before December 15, 2007, there will only be a one-time restocking fee of $1.25.

All my love,
Jackie O


Dear Jackie O,
Why haven’t you responded to any of my letters yet? You know who I am, right?

Autographedly Yours,
#9

Dear Tony Romo,
I’m reserving all comments on said “letters” until I see what happens in January. I’m already having nightmares about Jessica texting you right before the game winning or losing play asking you what inning it is. Make my January a good one this time, #9.

Click Clack, Tony. Click Clack.

All my love,
Jackie O


Dear Jackie O,
Can you please post a link for the hottest Dallas holiday gift this season? The girls would appreciate it!

Vibin’ in Valley Ranch,
Dancing Diva

Dear Linda Septien,
I would, but then I’d have to subsequently punch myself in the face. Twice. And to be honest, Jessica Jones @ DMagazine did a much better job summing up my feelings on the topic than I ever could.

All my love,
Jackie O


Dear Jackie O,
There’s no need to worry, Jackie. I know you like to run on Katy Trail. It’s safe, I promise.

Signed,
Tootin’ Around in Turtle Creek

Dear Deputy Chief Golbeck,
Ahem. I thought your quote was cute… “But this is still pretty unusual up there on Katy Trail.” I’m going to have to say that this, this, and years of local rumors about other attacks that have happened would say otherwise.

But to any potential Jackie O mugger on Katy Trail, I think you should know these four Chuck Norris facts were really about yours truly. Commence trembling:

Jackie O does not style her hair, it lays perfectly in place out of sheer terror. Jackie O is the reason why Waldo is hiding. Jackie O sleeps with a pillow under her gun. And Jackie O’s roundhouse kick is so powerful, it can be seen from outer space by the naked eye. Yeah. So… there. (Pssst… Katy Trail Muggers: My iPod is really really old, almost broken, really - the battery is barely long enough for a 30 minute run. And I don’t carry cash on me when I jog. And I have the loudest scream ever. And I smell really bad when I run – seriously – like getting within 5 feet is not a good idea… I mean, I can give you my cell # and run to the ATM later if you need anything. Please don’t hurt me.)

All my love (and any other item of value I can scrounge up),
Jackie O

If Heaven Were a Club...

If heaven were a club, it would definitely be the hottest spot in Dallas – in a very breezy, room-temperature, non-flames kind of way. Its name would be one trendy word, like TEMPLE or RISEN, and the line to get in would always be out the door. Getting your name on the list would be one of the bigger chores in town, and name-dropping would typically get you nowhere. It might even get those already inside kicked out for having a friend standing out there on the curb.

Valet would never be full, and you would never have to pay an extra $20 to get your car parked up front to ensure it wouldn’t get towed. No one would $2 self-park across the street out of shame for the pre-2004 car they were driving. In fact, once you valeted, you would never have to worry about seeing your car again.

The owner, well, that’s obvious. But I’m convinced He would still strut around with the same inconspicuously fabulous confidence that Matthew Giese does today… skinny suit and all. I feel like God would be a fashion-forward kind of dude… and just to throw you off, would never be caught dead, or risen, in a white suit.

If heaven were a club, the list would be long, almost a real book of sorts, and there would be no such thing as one-in/one-out. Guys lurking outside of the women’s bathroom door would drool over those ladies whose crowns held the most jewels and who had just partaken of holy water in their favorite bathroom stall together. The trendiest accessory for men would no longer be the rosary laid upon a hairy chest… no sir, it would simply be a long rope tied to an ankle. An understated accessory, but one that signified they had most certainly been to VIP on earth, and made it out alive.

If heaven were a club, DJ Luce would spin nightly as a guest. Allowing his entourage in with him was a small price to pay for his musical talents, not to mention his weekly guest perfomance. Every Sunday, as the lights would dim, Mephistopheles ID would perform one of his hottest new tracks, which would always be a crowd pleaser. But despite tighter security, a few clubbers would disappear into thin air every time without fail. A small price to pay, I guess, for doubling club occupancy. Enticing the right clientele for this exclusive club would be a biatch, and Mephi ID was a sure thing.

The most expensive clouds would typically be right next to the owner’s office, and the bill that came at the end of the night was always paid in full. Only your reputation walking in the door could determine what cloud you were seated on, and oddly enough – everyone was just happy to be on a cloud to begin with.

If heaven were a club, it would be eerily similar to those we frequent on a nightly basis in Dallas today, and one detail would most certainly be the same. Whether in heaven or on earth, on a busy night, I would still be sneaking in through the back door.

Dear Jackie O, (Week 2)

A weekly installment answering your most pressing questions.

Dear Jackie O,
Did you hear about my potential new job offer? Nowhere to go but up? Sounds like a job from heaven.

Super excited in SanFran,
BBFFL

Dear Mike Singletary,
Run. Run as fast as you can. In the opposite direction. Quickly. At light speed, if possible. The only way in hell, ironically, you should take this job is if the package includes Jesus himself as the assistant coach – and I’m guessing Jesus in coach’s shorts surrounded by flames would really F with the Baptist credo. Like I said, RUN.

All my love,
Jackie O

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Dear Jackie O,

What is with all of these Dallas girls eyeing me and trying to hang all over me at my table at the club? They were blocking my reflection of myself in the disco ball. Ugh, so annoying. Although, I'm sure they can't help but stare.

Missing my Mirror,
Guido Gotti

Dear Moron with hair Circa 1993,
I would have to assume that any single straight male dumb enough to:
1) Pay $400/bottle of vodka that is $25 down the street
2) Physically push a girl out of his way before actually seeing her face
3) Believe that table service buys you anything other than regret and possibly a stout dose of herpes

Would also be dumb enough to think that said 'Dallas girls' had their eyes on anything other than the prize*

*Free Grey Goose.

All my love (not to mention my next drink in your face),
Jackie O

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Dear Jackie O,
Hurry up!!

Friggin’ Out Here,
Bathroom Biatch

Dear Impatient Coke-Fiend,
I am peeing. Not snorting. Peeing. I am fast for a girl. I even timed myself once. 13 seconds. That includes wiping. Zipping. And buttoning. So please, next time you are in line in a bathroom and the thought crosses your mind to bang on someone’s bathroom door because the powder is starting to fall of your key… Don’t. It’s not becoming. And neither is a bloody nose – but hey, baby steps.

All my love,
Jackie O

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Dear Jackie O,
I think your blog is stupid and so are you.

Yours truly,
Your Un-Biggest Fan

Dear IP Address #65.107.XX.XX,

Your page view habits would speak otherwise. Nothin' wrong with a little rubbernecking. Don't be so hard on yourself.

All my love,
Jackie O.

Our Day of Rest/Regret

Welcome to Sunday. El dia de pena. The day most in Dallas spend wondering how they got home, at which bar(s) they left a credit card and which flashbacks will make them cringe today. The day you realize now twenty Sundays have passed without a few minutes at church… the day you wonder why your undergarments are missing… the day you casually glance to your left as your eyes come into focus, hoping desperately that once they do, there isn’t a person in your line of sight.

This weekend, I made it out unscathed. I could attribute it to being more responsible, drinking wine instead of vodka or maybe even to covering a little more of my body than what a typical night out in Dallas calls for. Doubtful, though. The correct answer might simply be I never made it to the Loon.

Ahh, the Loon. Where every SMU alum, SMU current and SMU underage go to partake, gawk, fondle, connect and leave. The one bar I have found where I can get hip-checked across the room for the perky 22 year-old standing next to me. The bar so crowded a gentleman could escort a lady out the door, only to realize she isn’t his “type” after it’s too late. Tragic. The place where I once had a friend introduce me to someone, so naturally I threw out the “Hi, I’m Jackie.” There are hundreds of token responses I could have expected at that point, but the one I got was most certainly my favorite. As my hand was outstretched to shake his, he adamantly turned to his friend and loudly proclaimed, “No, no, dude, I meant the hot blonde over there.”

That moment is one in which it all came together for me… when I realized what I was up against. Idiots, to be sure. But really, as I lowered my hand, vainly perplexed about whether or not he had actually gotten a good look at me, I realized returning to this hallowed of places would subsequently make me the idiot.

I walked away confused, but also as I passed the blonde he had his eye on – I let her know she had an admirer… told her he wanted to buy her a drink. She smiled and waved as the first of many drinks began to accumulate on what was sure to be an expensive, drunk-sex-inducing tab. I continued on, out the door, looking back only to flash a knowing smile at the idiot. The sparkle in my eyes reflected my awareness that as he stumbled across that same threshold with her later that night, into the harsh fluorescent lights of the parking lot, and subsequently back to his apartment, his el dia de pena would come clearly into focus soon enough – and up close, pretty it most certainly would not be.

God bless the Loon.

Humpday Happenings - An ode to the lean-in.

I can’t be clever all of the time – so on Wednesday nights, I'll leave the funny to you.

7:27pm – Idle Rich. Three embarrassing first dates, two vodka tonics and a one-stop-shop for the 30+ crowd.

Oh, the lean-in. Never normal, usually awkward, and always funny to watch. Similar to a first date. This time, we got both. Jackpot. She looked a little like a terrified deer in headlights who wasn’t going anywhere because Match.com had guaranteed the car coming at her at 70 MPH was her 100% compatible mate. So, she stayed. And so, he kept leaning. And she kept retreating. It was all I could do to not stay longer to watch her fall off the back of that bench. I would have to assume as soon as we left, she did, cursing Match.com and the backless seating at Idle Rich the whole way home. I know I did.

8:45pm – Mi Co West Village. This one speaks for itself.

It’s like the cracked-out version of Mexico City, accented with a disco ball, neon lights and techno music from 2002, exploding together to create the real-life result of puking up a mambo taxi. Or seven. But I always go back, and always have a good time. Upon entry, a friend and I sat in one of the ironically white couches that seem to scream “the jig is up” like a hooker in a white wedding dress.

Then the stares came. Not because I resemble someone famous, or because I was so audaciously carrying a white purse in November. No, much worse. As I glanced at the beanie-wearing table of guys to my left, one was giving my ruggedly handsome (you’re welcome) platonic friend and me the death stare. Then I realized – I probably knew him. Did he stumble home with me one late summer night post-Loon? Or maybe we had even been on a real date last spring… I couldn’t be sure. All I was sure of is that this town is way too small and I have really got to start… wait, that’s it. I remember. He lives in my building, and a friend set us up. Then I painfully recalled how the girl at Idle Rich felt - but, let’s be honest, if all I had to pay for a 22-ounce bone-in rib eye and five martinis was the lean-in and an awkward stare at a bar… SOLD. I’m free this Friday… just sayin.

By the way, to the guy at the bar with the hoop earring – I love you. You, and my post-third mambo cigarette, made my night.

12:15am – Home at last… passing out… and ready to go again tomorrow.

Dear Jackie O,

A weekly installment answering your most pressing questions.

Dear Jackie O,
Did you hear about the Trinity Vote? And that nearly flawless anti-establishment, fight-the-power campaign that almost won? And that charming and well-spoken female leader who almost carried the Yes, but No – No, Yes, Yes, Yes, No - vote through?

Yours truly,
Down-in-the-dumps in Dallas

Dear Angela Hunt,
We get it. You “lost.” Time to get back to work. And I’m guessing what you really lost was your spot at the lunch table. Pooping where you sleep is never a good idea.

All my love,
Jackie O

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Dear Jackie O,
Know where I can find a nice Asian “lady”?

Sincerely,
Unsatisfied in Uptown

Dear Mike Modano,
Not off the top of my head, but it seemed like you were doing just fine last time I saw you at Primos. Willa must travel a lot.

All my love,
Jackie O.

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Dear Jackie O,
Pony Up!

Cheers,
Hopped up on Hillcrest

Dear SMU Marketing Director,
If I need walk myself over to campus and smack someone around I will. All I can hope is that this slogan, and all of the T-shirts that came with it, are safely tucked away in a small village in Africa somewhere by 2010.

All my love,
Jackie O.

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Dear Jackie O,
Will you marry me?

<3,
Dunking in Deutchland

Dear Dirk,
Absolutely - and it’s about time you asked.

ALL my love,
Jackie O.

Dirty Pirate Hooker

No, it’s not the name of the newest bar in Uptown (although I would definitely go there if it was), or a new drink at Trader Vic’s, or even what you heard the mainstay hobo @ Oak Lawn & 35 mumble at you as you rolled up your window. No, no. This, my friends, was my Halloween costume, in all its glory.

There is no humor or wit left in pontificating the slutty nature of Halloween costumes these days. That is a given. Seeing a twenty-something female in Dallas with a turtleneck on under that blousy-bee costume – now that would be worth a mention.

Well, this Halloween I was a late entry. “Luckily” a friend of mine had recently acquired a few choice selections – a slutty Indian, a slutty sailor and a dirty pirate hooker. I think I speak for everyone when I say my choice was obvious. Unfortunately for me, one-armed stripper, tampon and Hitler were already taken.

So off we went, to the token warm-spot that teetered back and forth between “Please someone punch me in the face… NOW” & “I love this place!” on a regular basis. Everything was the same. Except it was Wednesday. And we all looked like morons. So… yeah. The same. After throwing back enough drinks to easily create a new testimony for MADD, slutty Indian #3 drove us to our next stop.

As I approached the entry of the infamous Dallas locale, I internally was ashamed for knowing which of the three entrances I had the best shot of getting in at, which bouncer liked me enough to let my friends in as well, and which dark corner I left my self-respect in the last time I was let through that velvet rope.

I began to look around at all of the other lost souls, just like me, the aspiring Dallas elite by way of bottomless table service and access to every VIP room in town, all longing for something different, something more… and then it hit me like a ton of bricks.

I forgot my pushup bra.

Smile Like You Mean It.

Welcome to So Dallas. The blog that has been needed for so long in a city that has been fabulously faking it for even longer. And I say fabulous with every good intention. Let it be known - I love this city with all my heart. From every shameful evening that starts with a $9 mambo taxi to the steps of First Presbyterian Church where the homeless sleep at night. From the back room bar at Dunston's to the stripper poles at Suite. From the Trinity Vote that no one cared about to an off-night appearance by the Dunking Deutchman at the Loon, for which tens of thousands would show up. I love this city. Born and raised. Raised and educated. Educated and employed. And employed to retired I will probably experience.

But the one thing throughout this process that keeps me up at night is the innocent ignorance with which we all casually purchase our half million dollar condos, sip on our drinks whose price could educate a child in Zimbabwe for a year, and clamor to get into clubs where the Young Hollywood of Dallas go to find someone to screw, a new drug of choice or simply a place a classy hooker can call home. This is what keeps me up at night. Not because I detest it so much, or because I send my money off to Zimbabwe instead of continuing to sip on that fabulous pineapple-infused martini at Nobu. Not at all. It's because I am a part of it. I'm there. Every night. Entrenched. Drowning. And loving it.

Who knows where I will be in a few years. Hopefully somewhere else. Somewhere in a more progressive direction. But for now - here I am - living in this fabulously flawed city. Living in an era this city hasn't seen before - yet an era no one is writing about. So now, I feel the need. And now, here I am. To document the unspoken life that you and I are both living. The life in which we are drowning. The life which we would never choose to leave. In our twenties, making what our parents made in their forties and spending it as responsibly as our three year-old nieces would today. Smile like you mean it, kids. It won't last forever.

Once again, welcome to So Dallas. And just like that never ending circle of small talk, name-dropping and reapplication of lip gloss that is indicative of every night out in our city, so is the likelihood that you will most assuredly visit this blog again.

We are all way too vain not to.