When you’re 19, you have a new crush basically every five minutes. Like bumblebees, we flit from this flower to that without a second thought, tasting from all over and allowing our libidos and ADD attention spans to rule everything we do – up to and including the new person we fall for every other week.

At that age, you can barely blink without being drawn to someone new, because at this point in life your standards for what makes someone attractive are so low. “Let’s see… great butt, has all teeth? Check, check. Sweet, it’s make out time!”

As we get older wiser and have our fair share of failed relationships (ahem, learning experiences), we ultimately come to know more about our personal values, must-haves and deal breakers, and consequently it becomes less and less frequent that you meet someone you LIKE like. As in, “check the ‘Yes’ box” kind of “like”:

It becomes increasingly harder to find, thanks to the inevitable laundry list of character requirements we develop through the years of dating All The Wrong People. “Must be 5’9″ exactly for maximum spooning enjoyment; must be able to recognize any and all Arrested Development quotes in everyday conversation; must not only abide but encourage my penchant for brightly colored skinny jeans, my undying love for all memes involving cats or Ryan Gosling, and my desire to one day own a mini pig.”

But by the same token, it becomes that much more precious when you DO find someone who gives you those same excruciatingly intense butterflies you got back when you were 19 and dumb as hell.

Someone who excites you. Someone who surprises you. Someone who makes you want to do and try things you’ve never done before, and learn every. last. THING there is to know about them. Someone who you truly enjoy spending time with – a lot of time, actually – to the point where the rest of the world suddenly seems a bit, well, lackluster when they’re not around.

Nearly ten years later, it’s so rare that I’d almost forgotten what it felt like.

Almost…

{Title credit, and generally adorable video here.}

Mama said share.

Day three in my new city. I continue to be completely enamored with it; the buildings and shops and homes are all so adorable. There’s no way to properly describe how pretty San Francisco is; you just have to see it. Streets of beautiful walk up houses are peppered with indie coffee shops, store windows full of fun displays, and endless restaurants and bars that wouldn’t dream of becoming a franchise.

The whole damn city is just so unbelievably original. There’s nothing ticky-tacky about it – everywhere I look is a business, store or cafe I’ve never heard of before.

My roommates – two 30 year old straight men – keep a kitchen stocked with only fresh and healthy ingredients. They make guacamole daily. The apartment is tastefully decorated in an adult, manly way. These efforts may be designed to win over the ladies, but regardless of intentions, it’s impressive.

The job has wowed me in every way so far. I’m only a couple days in, but by all appearances, Adobe is everything an enormous public company could and should be. My team and manager are incredible – I have found my people, y’all.

Walking around downtown is such a pleasant experience – just like the outer neighborhoods, it’s all so unique. Yes, the major stores are there, but the architecture and city squares are done in such a lovely way that there’s very little feeling of corporate Americana infiltrating this charming little mecca.

There’s trolleys and parks and dogs everywhere and ALL THE AMAZING FOOD. People are smart and friendly, and everyone’s just so happy to be here. Thanks to how plugged in everyone is, I already have a built-in network of acquaintances just waiting to be turned into my west coast BFFs.

Although our 12 hour flight was an entirely miserable ordeal, Girl Cat flopped down on the fireplace mantle the moment we got home, happy as a clam. We’ve had hours of snuggle time in the past couple days, gorging on wine and wet food respectively, and finally watching season one of Downton Abbey to boot (SO GOOD).

And, in true Rachael form, I have brunch plans on both Saturday and Sunday this weekend. #allthebacon

I am living out of a suitcase until my belongings catch up with me next week, but that’s my biggest hardship. I miss DC like crazy of course… but I know I’m supposed to be here right now.

My new adventure is off and running, and it’s a damn good start at that.

Mama said share.

In a few minutes, I’ll be on a one-way flight to California.

It’s so bittersweet leaving DC, but the past couple weeks have been some of the best of my life. The friends I have here… let’s just say thank goodness for the interwebs, because this won’t be the last you all hear from me.

May you all remember me mid-karaoke song, with a whiskey in one hand, and a shit-eating grin on my face.

xo

Mama said share.

2012 is nearly a third over.

Isn’t that just crazy pants Magee?! And they’ve been four of the most insane months of my entire life to boot.

When I moved out of my apartment (and life) with Ben, and into my new place last December, I had absolutely no idea where I’d be right now, or what would be on the horizon. I assumed a lot of change was coming, but I never could have imagined all of this.

Last weekend, I flew out to San Francisco to meet my new team at Adobe (who I am already madly in love with), and find a place to live (success!) We also found an awesome new roomie to take over my apartment here, in the best house in DC , and stumbling distance from the best bar to boot.

A friend hooked me up with an incredible moving company who’s schlepping my few belongings (bed, clothes, TV… yup, that’s it) across the country for a more than fair price, and their customer service warrants about eleventy stars on Yelp.

I have an appointment with a wonderful vet referral on Monday to make sure Girl Cat and I get to California safely, when we fly cross-country on Southwest next Saturday.

[FYI, these are NOT paid links. Just honest thanks for their help and general being-awesome-ness.]

And tomorrow, I pack (read: throw away/donate 90% of what I own).

But tonight, friends, tonight… WE CELEBRATE.

We celebrate what’s been the best five years of my life, in what will always be one of my favorite places on earth, full of countless people I love, respect, and have thoroughly enjoyed the pleasure of drinking with for half a decade.

I know that the fact that it’s this hard to leave is a good thing – if it doesn’t hurt, then it didn’t mean anything, you know?

And just in case anyone doubts how much I truly love this city (and how hard I plan to rep you all on the west coast…)

That's right, friends. It's real, and it's spectacular.

If you’re local, come on out tonight and have one last whiskey with me (thank you Jack Rose for hosting!) Details here.

And every last one of you… I expect to see you in San Francisco.

Mama said share.

So, I suppose this is somewhat overdue. But for those of you not following me on Twitter or Facebook…

In two and a half weeks. With nothing but my bed, my clothes, and my cat.

(Sidebar: flying across the country with Girl Cat should be interesting.)

I’m completely terrified, and twice as excited. I’ve wanted a change of scenery for a while, and I was looking at NYC and Chicago as well. Last week, in a freak of nature, incredible job offers came through in all. three. cities (like, jaw-dropping, super dreamy incredible offers, y’all).

I drove my friends batshit for a couple days trying to decide what to do, but finally decided:

I’m going for the biggest adventure.

Now is the time. I’m in my twenties, single, with nothing and no one in the world depending on me, except for one feline who’s along for this crazy ride.

So San Francisco it is, friends. I’m beyond excited about the job and the team I’ll be working with out there (the Community Engagement team at Adobe – you may have heard of them?) I actually already know and adore my manager Lauren from years of being Twitter buds and last year’s Bloggers in Sin City.

The interwebs truly are a magical thing, y’all.

So yes, I’m California bound. West side, and all that jazz. I’ll miss DC dearly, but I’ll visit often – I’ll always be an East Coaster (and Masshole) at heart, after all.

For those of you in the area, the obligatory Enormous Going Away Bash will be Friday the 13th (ha) on the roof of Jack Rose. As much as I’d love to get a last drink with everyone individually, it’s just not physically possible, so I hope to see you all there.

And with that…

PS: My basement apartment in the best house/neighborhood in town is available as of April 21st! (Details on Craigslist here.) It’s a huge one bedroom apartment at 3rd and U (gorgeous classic rowhouse, exposed brick/hardwood floors etc etc), about two blocks from Boundary Stone (aka DC’s best new bar). It’s an 8 minute walk from Shaw metro and 15 minute walk to the U Steet strip. $1050 a month, utilities split four ways with the three best roomies in the world who live upstairs (we share the kitchen and watch TV in the living room together). That said, there is a private bathroom, cable hookup and kitchen (no stove) downstairs in the apartment. I *may* have painted two of the walls turquoise, but you can decorate as you wish – though frankly, the turquoise looks pretty bad ass.

You’d cover my lease through May 31, then have the option to sign a new 6 month lease with the roomies (they’re all staying on). Let me know if you or someone you know is interested!

Mama said share.

When I moved to the Bloomingdale neighborhood in December, I fell in love. Quickly, and deeply. I’ve actually been having what might be called “a torrid affair” over the past few months; we see each other almost every night, and I think it’s definitely getting to the point where I’d call it serious.

Hi, my name is Rachael, and I’m in love with a whiskey bar.

Boundary Stone Public House isn’t just the closest bar within stumbling distance. (Although, hey, easy access never hurts, amiright?)

No, friends. This place is a magical haven for those in the neighborhood. It’s our very own Cheers; warm, welcoming, cozy to the point of never wanting to leave. The bartenders are talented, wonderful people you actually want to talk to. Their servers are fantastic, everyone knows their whiskey, and all the staff – from the owners to the kitchen – can be found at the bar after their shift. (And as someone who spent a decade in the industry, THAT’S the mark of a truly great place – when their own people want to drink there.)

Drinks and service and atmosphere; check, check check. (And bonus: a free jukebox!) These are all very important things to have in a local watering hole, to be sure. But what about food?

In short, the Stone’s food is stellar. The daily arancini never disappoints. The fish and chips is offensively good. The burger smothered in BACON JAM is – wait, didn’t you just hear me say it’s smothered in bacon jam?!

But their crowning achievement, for me, is the wings. Their honey hot wings will make you weep, they’re so good. The sauce… I dream about it, is all I’m saying.

And they’re up against a corporate behemoth in the Washingtonian battle for DC’s best wings.

I want them to WIN, guys. I want this for them, bad. They’re the greatest little bar in the world, and they just opened in September. It may seem trivial, but this would be huge for them. Put them on the map, so to speak.

So if you have the time, lend a click. Just ONE, and vote for them over this Korean BonChon place.

VOTE!!!

Go on… do it for the little guy. Who just so happens to be the best damn whiskey bar in DC.

Mama said share.

Today’s post is password protected, because it’s the kind of stuff you only tell a best girlfriend when you’re a bottle of wine or three deep. If you’d like the password, shoot me an email or DM, but please don’t feel bad if I don’t respond – it’s no reflection on you or our relationship; it’s just not for all eyes.

Mama said share.

Mama said share.

Confession time:  I hate bucket lists.

And 30 before 30 lists, and vision boards, and any other kind of seemingly trite goal-setting vehicle.

It’s not that they aren’t worthy aspirations for one’s life. And hey, if I didn’t set deadlines, I’d never get anything done. But there’s just something about hearing someone list off a bunch of clichés like “visit six continents” and “learn two new languages” that makes me involuntarily roll my eyes and dry heave a bit.

You know what my goal is? What my vision board looks like?

Like this:

It even has buckets! (See what I did there?)

Would all the ridiculous, generic things on those lists really make you happy? Would running a marathon, just to be able to say you did, really bring you joy? A bit of pride, perhaps – (and I know there are those of you who actually do get off on running long distances, though I’ll never claim to understand you) – but setting goals like that seem more about making you feel good about trying to be a better person, than about actually enjoying life.

I hereby propose that instead of trying to climb a mountain, or read 50 books a year, or teach yourself Swahili – why not make a list for the things that actually make your life more fun? The things that actually make you happy?

I’ll go first. Here are some of my most pressing goals for the foreseeable future:

1.  Attend the Puppy Bowl. With backstage passes.

2.  Be the Bea Arthur of my own Golden Girls house one day. (Preferably with a side of Blanche.)

3.  Discover, devour and anoint the Official Most Wonderful-est Cheeseburger in all the land.

4.  Visit Cat Island in Japan.

5.  Accidentally (or by way of stalking) meet and strike up a conversation with Adam Scott, who then lets me ruffle his hair.

6.  Make a ridiculously funny person genuinely laugh, like Louis CK or Tina Fey.

7.  Have a nickname (a real one, not the fake one I tried to give myself in college. And NO, I will not tell you that story.)

8.  Continue to karaoke my heart out til the day I die.

9.  Inspire a missed connection on Craigslist.

10. Own a mini pig named Tobias. (This is my #1 goal for 2012, and yes, I’m already on a waiting list.)

Is this shallow of me? Perhaps.

I may never go skydiving, or do a triathlon, or write my memoirs.

But I will spend every minute of every day I possibly can striving to be happy, no matter what shape or form that takes. And I don’t feel bad about that. Not for one second.

Mama said share.

Other than the boredom and potential loneliness, there was another reason I was afraid of living alone. It may sound a little crazy, but hey, it’s me, so that should come as no surprise.

Each day that goes by, I feel like I develop a new weird quirk or habit that I’ll eventually have to break when I live with someone again. (Sidebar: I really didn’t realize just how much time live-aloners spend naked. WEIRD naked, too, a la the “good naked/bad naked” Seinfeld, if you know what I’m sayin.)

Basically, I’ve been worried that I’ll become so set in these odd little habits that I won’t know how to live “normally” with someone again. That I’ll forget what’s not acceptable, like having string cheese and Yellow Tail for dinner, or having in-depth conversations with my cat, or cleaning the bathroom in my skivvies. (OK, that one’s a lie – there are no skivvies involved.)

And I’ve started to LOVE all these things. A DVR to myself, full of Golden Girls, Real Housewives and Say Yes to the Dress? Heaven. Shamelessly eating frozen pizza for dinner three nights in a row? Yes please. Sleeping starfish in the middle of my king size bed? No apologies.

But what happens when I try to fold someone into my life again? What if they put the toilet paper on the wrong way, or hate my shower singing at the top of my lungs, or impose a strict no-nude dance parties rule? Will I balk at the loss of autonomy in my own home, and opt instead to stay free (and single)?

And… honestly… would that really be so bad if I did?

Mama said share.