Monday, November 29, 2004

I'm an ALG*

I could really benefit from a punching bag. I am so hot right now. And not hot as in what Anne's BF's bro called me last weekend...which is so flattering b/c all I get is cute. And I don't mean that in an ungrateful way, cute is nice and sweet. But sometimes I just want to be hot and sexy — something I will never be.

I am hot as in pissed. I'm angry that I adore dunking donuts in my coffee. I'm angry that coffee could be calorie free, but I refuse to drink it without loads of creamer and sugar. I'm angry that I can't think of a better synonym for "loads," and I'm too lazy to grab my Thesaurus.

I'm angry that after 4 weeks on a specialized work-out plan, complete with free personal trainer and gym membership, I'm at exactly the same spot as I began, only my love handles are more obnoxious due to my fading tan. I'm angry that tonight I went to the gym and rode a bike (I hate riding bikes) and couldn't figure out how to work my heart monitor with matching heart-rate watch. On top of that, I'm angry that I wore satin panties to the gym. They stuck to my ass, which is soo yucky feeling. Don't wear satin panties when you sweat.

I'm angry that I'm getting an abundance of wrinkles on my forehead at 23. I'm mad that one boob is bigger than the other. And I'm angry that I have to get so goddamn personal on, but my therapy appointment isn't until Thursday. I love you guys.

*=Angry Little Girl

Thursday, November 25, 2004

Fuckity McFuck the Pie

It's Thanksgiving. I could write a list of everything I'm thankful for. But that would be gay. And I haven't been feeling all that thankful lately. Whatev. I'm only human.

But I can tell you this: This morning, Curtis woke me up at 8:20 a.m. to help him make a couple of pumpkin pies. Grrr. I adore my sleep! So I told him to get a can of pumpkin, some cinnamon, brown sugar and pie crust. I had everything else for Gramma Kasper's pie recipe. (Thanks Anne!) So Curt comes back with TWO cans of pumpkin, organic cinnamon, and two funky-ass looking brown wheat pie crusts. Ew. I guess we're making two pies. I send him back for the sugar. He comes back with organic. I think that was the only store open at 8 a.m. on T-Day. He suggests mixing EVERYTHING together instead of making two separate batches. Makes sense.

So we mix it all together and spread some butter on the crust to make it prettier. After pouring pie mix all over the kitchen counter, we stick the pies in the oven. After 15 mintues, I check on the babies and to my horror, the crust is black and there's chunks of yellow egg floating around in the pies. FUCK. Fuck. Fuck.

Then of course Courtney wakes up. FUCK. I'm always trying to prove to her that I can cook, but I continue to burn things, ruin appliances and make her bedroom smell like ass. And there's two burnt pies with yellow chunks floating around and pie mix dripped all over the counter, floor and oven.

T-Day Lesson: Don't make two pies at once. Don't use organic shit. Don't spread butter all over shit to make it "pretty." Don't let Tina cook. Or Curtis.

Tuesday, November 16, 2004

Hot Guy Day

Today was Hot Guy Day at the Hoboken grocery. I think everyone knew but me. But let me back track a bit.

This morning, 7 a.m.
I wake up and as I get out of bed to hit Snooze like I always do, I notice that my right eyeball feels a bit funny. Forgetting Snooze, I approach my full-length skinny mirror. (I know, I'm lucky. I don't know how or why, but it's The Skinny Mirror. Ask Court.) As I peer at my reflection, I notice that my eye is the size of a small golfball feels like shit. It is half closed, and my left eye is beautiful. So you can imagine what a freak I must look like. And I can't even imagine what this must look like in a non-skinny mirror. Fuck.

So I go knock on Courtney's door. "I know. You're not going to work." Huh! As if I always call in sick. So she assures me that I'm not a bad person for calling in, and after phoning my two bosses—assuring them that I'd do some work from home—I call Dr. O. Wait. This is taking too long. On to the point of Hot Guy Day.

So after a long day of taking my prescribed eye drops, applying a warm compress to my eye (which is nothing more than a microwaved wet rag) and emailing and IMing my friends to brag that I'm at home, Court picks me up to go to the grocery store. The local A&P. We never go b/c it's kinda ghetto. But after tonight, oh, I will be back.

This evening, 7 p.m.
Clad in my hot pink PJ pants, a dirty yellow Mizzou sweatshirt, glasses and NO makeup (I didn't even curl my lashes and apply gloss—hey, you never know where you'll meet that special someone), we enter the A&P. Gaaah! I'm surrounded by hotties. And it doesn't help that Court's wearing her cute fuschia stilettos. Boys won't admit it, but they love hot shoes. Um, I doubt my 8th grade Adidas shower shoes got a second glance. But fuck. So golfball-sized eye in tow, I'm trying to avoid these hotties and hide behind the boxes of rigatoni and Snackwell's in my cart. Then my dad calls to bicker with me about pumpkin pie crust. So here I am, yelling in Aisle 5, hotties are walking by trying not to look at my Freak Eyeball, and I'm trying to convince my dad that it's OK that I use graham cracker crust and that "It's the 2000s, I can do what I want." They really need to coin a word for this new century.

Needless to say, it was Hot Guy Day, and no one told me. That's it. No fairy tale ending. I didn't find a husband. But I bought the crust I wanted to get. And some low-fat cookies. Ha. Who needs a Ghetto Grocery Store Guy anyway.

Sunday, November 7, 2004

The Story of Marinara Boy

The city is never lacking in crazy people. Last night after a fabulous night at Down The Hatch:
Michelle and I, 9th St. PATH station.
Drunk Guy: Wanna have some fun ladies?
Michelle: No thanks!
Drunk Guy: Aww, c'mon! I need someone to put me to bed!
Me: Nah. I'm putting my friend to bed. But you can buy us pizza!
Drunk Guy: You like mar-i-nara sauce? We can have fun with mar-i-nara!
Me (with big, sarcastic mouth): Why? You wanna rub it all over our bodies?
Ew! What was I thinking?!
Drunk Guy: Mar-i-nara sauce! Tom-a-toooe.
Me: You know, you'd be so cute, if only you weren't so drunk.
Michelle: Yeah, it makes you really unattractive.
Drunk Guy: You like me?
Me: Nah. I like marinara sauce.

Tuesday, November 2, 2004

Call Me Votey McVoterson

I meant to get up at 7 a.m. to beat the voters to the voting booth. I really wanted to sport my "I Voted" sticker around the office. I got up at 8 a.m. instead. Turns out the lines here in Hoboken were atrocious this morning, and they weren't giving out any stickers. Bastards. My roommate thought it was ridiculous that I wanted a sticker. Maybe they only give those out in Missouri. Anyway, I was starting to get irritated with all the people screaming at me to vote. Ram it down my throat, why don't you? I'm voting, OK? Geeeez. So at 7 p.m. mind you, I voted. Those damn things are so confusing, I thought I was supposed to push "Cast Your Vote" after every green "X" I marked. Turns out you're supposed to press "Cast Your Vote" at the very end. No wonder my dad always tells me to read directions first. What do they say—patience is a virtue? I guess I don't have any virtues. At least I voted for KERRY-EDWARDS first. That's all we're really concerned about anyway. So now as I sit here playing Solitaire with Snood intervals, it's becoming quite clear that this IDIOT might win the election. Uh-oh.

Saturday, October 30, 2004

The Stupidest Pick-Up Line Ever

So we're at this pub at First and Willow. Some cover band called "The Motherless Goats" (don't ask) is playing all my faves (No Doubt and Blink!), and I'm totally rockin' out. I happen to be wearing my black flats with the silver buckles, and Courtney's sporting her magenta heels. Both pairs of shoes just happen to have pointed toes. A scruffy, middle-aged man approaches me, mid rock-out.

Weirdo: Excuse me, do you both shop at the same shoe store?
Me: Huh?!
Weirdo: You and your friend, do you guys shop at the same shoe store?
I glance down at my shoes, and then look at Courtney's.
Me: No. Mine are black!
Weirdo walks away.

OK, what the F?! What was that? Curtis and Jon both say not to approach guys—let them approach you. Well, if they're going to say retarded shit like that, what's the point? I'll get an early start on what my life'll be like for the next 40 years and buy 12 cats and 47 plants.

Sunday, October 24, 2004

The Homeless Are All Liars!

So I'm in the Penn Station Starbucks after an exhausting day of traipsing throughout Long Island picking apples* and going in debt outlet shopping**. I order a tall pumpkin spice latte with skim, and a package of two shortbread cookies (because I've been good all week).

I'm at the counter putting the cardboard warmer-thing around my cup when a scruffy man approaches me.

Man: Do you have a dollar so I can get something to eat?
Me: Ooh, no, I'm sorry. I have no cash, and I actually had to use my debit card.
Man: What about 50 cents?
It's almost Christmas, and I'm feeling happy from all the smog-free fresh air I'd gotten. So I dig through my change pouch.
Me: Darn! I only have three pennies.
He walks away. Then, I get a bright idea. I take one cookie out of the package.
Me: Hey! I have this extra cookie, and I don't really want it. You can have it!
He looks at the cookie, then at me.
Man: Well, I don't want it either.
Me: Huh! Well you said you were hungry! Liar! That's so rude.
He ignores me and walks away. A cute stranger provides his two cents.
Cute Stranger: Oh well. He just wanted money so he could buy alcohol.
Me: Huh! Well that's rude. I'm never giving money to the homeless again.

I'm one to give people the benefit of the doubt. He's homeless. Something probably went wrong, and it's tough to get back on his feet. Well not anymore! All I have to say about that is "Whatev. Beggars can't be choosers."

* Michelle and I didn't really pick apples. We rode in the wagon around the orchard, ate a couple of cider donuts, and bought some apples. Picking is too strenuous.

** I found some hot red cordoury pants!! Oh I've wanted red pants for years. And they were on sale! I suppose it was an outlet mall. And they were $15, normally $42. Bonus points for me!

Friday, October 15, 2004

The Fat Files

I apologize male readers, but only my female following can truly appreciate what I have to say on this October day, October 15.

It's been awhile since I've complained about my "diet" struggles. Something all twenty-something women face. All of you. Don't deny it. Whether you're not eating all day so you can get extra wasted at night, eating nothing but chicken broth so you can fit in that bridesmaid dress, vowing to do an hour of cardio a day, saying you'll go to the gym on Monday, whatev—we ALL go through it. And you can say I have nothing to worry about like some of you say, but I can't help the nagging feeling that strangers call me Fatty McFatterson behind my back. It's just too bad that we all have these body hang-ups, but we do. No matter how many "Men Love Your Curves" stories I read in Glamour, I'll always have my issues. Let me tell you about my little "struggle."

The beginning: My body issues blew up junior year of high school. Kelly Peterson and I were sitting in the J-lab working on the school newspaper. I asked her if she had a "pooch." She said yeah and proceeded to show me. I think she was just sticking her tummy out. Either way, I realized that she had a flat stomach and I did not. So on Thanksgiving Night, 1997, I started doing stomach crunches. 200 a night, every night. That spring, my dance team and I went swimming together. Gwyn McPherson pointed at my abs and said "Hey! You have a two-pack!" I looked down and I did! Not a six-pack, but I had two little ab-like things above my belly button. The beginning of flat abs? No. I still had my pooch. It just had muscle beneath it.

Fast-forward a couple years: I'd go to the gym. Go running. Whatever I felt like. But I drank. A lot. Either way, I gained the Freshman 15. Or 10. I've tried the Special K diet. One meal, and two bowls of cereal a day only lasted about 6 days. Atkins. I tried that in college. Considering I didn't have a stove, I lived off of cottage cheese and deli turkey for 3 days. South Beach. I started on a Monday, and lasted until Friday when I accidently drank a lot of beer.

Now: I have the habit of going in work-out spurts. I'll jog five times a week for a month. Then I'll quit. For about two months, I've been trying to do that again. Everyday, I set my alarm for 7:16 a.m., and I hit Snooze until 8:22. So last night, I strategically moved my alarm clock/radio out of arm's reach. So how'd that work out this morning? I literally got out of bed six times to hit Snooze. But it was a pain in the butt. I think it'll eventually work. Probably by next Thursday I'll be jogging around the streets of Hoboken. The only thing that kept me inside this morning was that it looked like it would rain.

At my therapist's urging, I've been keeping a Food Journal for three days. I have a goal of 1,500 cal./day.
Wednesday: OJ, Eng. muffin w/ PB, 2 grapes, alphabet soup, string cheese, oatmeal, oyster crackers, Eng. muffin w/ PB and banana. 1,615 calories.
Thursday: Eng. muffin w/ PB, (boss took us to lunch) mozzarella/tomato salad, French bread, Penne w/ Vodka sauce, cappuccino, fruit. 2,000 calories. Fuck.
Friday: (This is today. It's 12:30 p.m.) Choc. chip oatmeal, choc. donut (from Photo Dept.), chocolate-mint ice cream cake (from Digital Studio—they always force food upon me up there). 850 calories. Double fuck. No one else can hear it, but chocolate always taunts me in a threatening, mocking manner. I'd rather stick it in my mouth than get my ass beat by a chocolate donut. You'd do the same thing.

I have come to realize that if I keep this up, I am in no way close to losing 10 pounds. My goal is 10 pounds by Dec. 15. That's when I go home. I think I'll go buy some willpower. And some staples for my stomach.

PS I'm so excited! So I heard from friend of a friend that there's this miracle birth control out there—it's called Yasmin. Apparently, this friend of a friend who wasn't so well-endowed before now has D-size boobs and has lost five pounds. I called my gyno to inquire about this miracle pill, who said "Birth control is birth control, but Yasmin does decrease water retention." That would be the five pounds. But hallelujah! She called my pharmacist, and I am now well on my way to a pair of B-size boobs! It's about time. Sigh. Oh and FYI, THANK YOU SO MUCH for your support with that little surgery! I can't tell you how much you guys mean to me (meaning, my friends, not strangers who happen to read this). My doctor called yesterday, and it was some..growth change or something. Either way, it's benign, and I probably won't get cancer until I'm 45. :)

Wednesday, October 6, 2004

My Big Day of Fun

So I had my first surgery. No big deal. Basically, I had to get this small lump-thing removed from my right boobie. But that's not what I want to tell you about. I want to tell you about one of the funnest experiences of my life. And you know what? At the end, I remember being sorry it was over. No wonder they say drugs are addictive...

On the surgery table. All I could think about and/or look at was the hot, dark-haired doctor. Despite the mask and blue scrubs, I knew he was hot.
Me: Wow, this is so weird! Ugh, I can't
Assistant: Yeah
Me: What's this in my nose?
Hot Doctor: It's for oxygen.
Me: Cool. My nose itches.
Me: Wow. My nose really itches. Hey, I can kind of feel that.
Old Doctor: Let's give her more of the local...
A 1/2 hour must go by. I don't really remember what I was babbling about.
Me: My nose itches. Did you take it out yet?
Doctor: Yes.
Me: Well, can I see it? I want to see it.
Doctor: I showed it to you.
Me: No you didn't! I want to see it.
Doctor: Yes I did. You were asleep.
Me: No I wasn't! My eyes were open the whole time.
Old Doctor: You saw it.
Me: Well, can I ask you a question?
Doctor: No.
Me: Can I ask a question? What are you doing? Are you using stitches?
Hot Doctor: Yes.
Me: Well, did you take it out? Can I see it?
Doctor: I showed it to you.
Me: No you didn't! My nose itches. This is kinda fun. Are you stitching me up?
Assistant: Yes.
Me: I'm sorry. I'm being so annoying. I just wanted to see what it looked like!
Doctor: We don't have it anymore. It went to the lab.
Me: Well, I just wanted to see it! Am I OK?
Doctor: I'm 98% sure you're fine.
Me: When will I find out?
Doctor: In about a week.
Me: Well, thanks! My nose itches.
I get up. I get in the fun wheelchair. The assistant takes me up to the Graham Cracker and Apple Juice Room.

So I'm sitting in the big blue chair..dozing or something. I get four cups of apple juice and six crackers. A hot boy walks in and I decide I'd like to talk to him. He's on Anesthesia, too.
Nurse: Just walk slowly.
Boy: OK. This is weird.
Nurse: Just try to think about something else.
Boy: Yeah, like women.

The nurses laugh. I fantasize about going over there and giving that hot boy a lap dance. And we'd eat crackers and drink juice and eventually get married. Ha! And I can say... "Thank you for coming to the wedding. We met in the Graham Cracker and Apple Juice Room." But instead I sit and work on crocheting my winter scarf. Sweet Curtis comes and brings me flowers, and I buy him Italian dinner. And he my incessant chatter. Oh, and my fab roomie Courtney gave me pretty roses, too. I'm lucky to have lovely friends!

Now I'm tired, and my band-aid is...scary-looking. And I'm pissed because I have to wear my bra day and night for five days. Women! You know bras are fucking uncomfortable...especially in bed. Unlike SATC's Samantha, we don't wake up in our bras in the morning. F that.

Thursday, September 30, 2004

Friends. And I Don't Mean the Exinct Ross Gellar.

From today's The Idiot Girls' Action-Adventure Club desk calendar:
Relationships Suck
I don't understand the Speech and how men learned about it. Was it part of boys' eighth grade PE class, did the gym teacher make them say it to one another over and over in the showers?
"Okay, now how does it go?"
"It goes, 'You're a cool girl, and I like hanging out with you, but I'm not ready to make a—um, that big word—commitment to one person, and I think we need to be...we need to be...'"
"Man, this is the most important part! The 'F' word, man! The 'F' word!"
"Oh, yeah! You tell the chick you want to be Friends! But you don't mean it, do you?"
"No. A chick won't let you nail her if she knows she's not even a Friend."

From Tina's "desk calendar" in her head:
10 Ways To Make Friend Speeches Way Cooler:
1. Give the recipient a cookie afterward.
2. If it's coming out of my mouth and not going in my ears.
3. If the giver is a guy, he should say "Don't cry, sweetheart! I've set you up on a date with Jake Gyllenhaal this Friday."
4. Don't text your Friend Speech or do it on AOL IM. Well, unless it's after a crappy blind date, because I did that once. And it's OK to e-mail the Friend Speech, because I've done that, too. Basically, if I do it, then it's OK.
5. If the giver is a girl, she should make the guy cheesy potatoes afterward.
6. Give the recipient a gift certificate to Bloomingdale's. Hel-lo! Retail therapy, anyone?
7. A Blockbuster GC would be cool, too. Romantic comedies. Sigh. Wait, the recipient might get angry. A punching bag is better.
8. Give the recipient eight SoCo and Lime shots first. Wait. They might get angry. Place a punching bag in a nearby location, give them the shots, and then run for your life.
9. If you're the giver, have sympathy sex before you do the deed. (Only you'll know it's sympathetic.) And if you're a guy, for God's sakes, let the girl go first for once, OK?
10. And did I say to give the recipient a cookie? Make it chocolate peanut butter, too.

Wednesday, September 29, 2004

Webster, You Defeat Your Own Purpose!

Why is it that when I look up a word in Webster, he uses long words to describe the long word I'm looking for, thereby forcing me to find five more words to get one definition? It's very vexing.

Tuesday, September 28, 2004

Philadelphia, 2004 (Wouldn't 1979 sound so much cooler? The '00s suck.)

Philadelphia brings to mind Cheese Steaks, Bruce Springsteen and Tom Hanks. I experienced it for the first time last weekend. But instead of Cheese Steaks, Bruce and Tom, it was Lorenzo's, Crystal Light and Couples. Single chick hell. Except for the pizza and vodka-infused 0-calorie juice. Me, my friend Curtis, and his pal TD attended a dinner party. It was us and four twenty-something couples who lived together. (Not together as in eight people, but as in couples.) V. interesting, mind you.

Couple #1 (The Hosts): She makes a mean four-layer dip. He smokes a mean bowl of weed. She's unhappy. He smokes weed. They've been together for five years, lived together for three. I've known Her for all of an hour, and She's asking me for my advice on how to get out of the relationship/shared apartment. Honey, let me first get in one. Then I'll let you know my plan of escape. Either way, She's too good for Him. She was my favorite Female at the party.

Couple #2: The only forty-something couple at the party. They were new in town—from California. Picture your second-grade teacher... smoking weed. This was Her. They seemed a bit uncomfortable.

Couple #3: She was a cute blonde who teaches elementary school. He was a skinny kid. They both looked about 19. I didn't really get to know Them. I was too mystified by Couple #4.

Couple #4: She wore pearls. He liked chicken wings. She was the biggest idiot I've ever met or seen on TV. Worse than Anna Nicole Smith, Phoebe Buffet from Friends, my friend Tara from H.S. and me at my ditziest...all put together. He didn't seem to notice. I don't recall Her name, but She brought an annoying poodle named Baby Abby Tequila. All She talked about was Her future line of maternity clothes. (You know, the kind where the belly shows—apparently that's in right now. It kinda makes me want to get preggers. Psych!) Oh, and some tailgate we all had to go to. At this point, I'd had too much vodka-infused 0-calorie punch, and I don't remember the rest of Her idiosyncrasies. Our conclusion: This Chick rocks in bed.

Thursday, September 23, 2004

One Week

Things I've learned this week:
- Drinking shots of Alize at 2 a.m. is not a very good idea.
- If I sleep with the window open during a "weather change," I'll catch a cold.
- If I put this stuff called "primer" on before I apply mascara, it makes my eyelashes look really long, which really excites me because mascara is my favorite.
- I kind of want to invest in a high-flying kite.
- Black sparkly polish just doesn't look pretty on my nails, even though it looks cute on Hilary Duff. I just can't pull off the Goth Look.
- That He's Just Not Into Me. And the book is sold out.
- There are some friends in this world you can go a year without talking to, and then suddenly pick up where you left off and it's completely cool.
- There's at least one person from high school who thinks you're completely beautiful—and you probably never had a clue.
- I was really missing out on the fun of downloading music illegally.
- If I put too much oil in my feta cheese pasta, it makes my stomach hurt the next day. Gross. I hope I won't be a horrible cook forever.
- The Used sings that awesome song I like.."The Taste Of Ink."
- Your parents'll get pissed if you don't call for five days. They worry more than they let on.
- SATC reruns will never get old. Sigh.
- The October issue of JANE really sucks.
- Britney Spears is a complete idiot. Wait, I learned that nine months ago.
- It costs $105 to be able to serve alcohol in Hoboken, and no one will hire me two days a week.
- No one in Hoboken wants me to watch their kids, either.
- Maybe it's time to go brunette for the winter...?
- A lot of guys don't tell their girlfriends the entire they want out of the relationship but continue to visit everyday. What's up..MIKE?
- Target will take back anything, no questions asked.
- Just because it's cheesecake, doesn't mean it's going to be good.
- There are more Bush supporters than I thought. Boo.
- That I really am registered to vote in Hoboken. Just to make sure. Yay.
- The greatest birthday planner ever needed someone to plan HER birthday, and no one did—she spent hers at the zoo alone. :( I love you, Jessi! And had I been in Nelly's hometown, we would have done shots until we were playing strip poker at Denny's.
- Gray eyeshadow looks prettier than black eyeliner.
- My semi-new brown sandals really hurt my feet. Maybe I should return them to Target.

That's a lot to learn in one week. I think I wasted $40,000.

Sunday, September 19, 2004

Hi, my name is Tina. And I am a Trend Whore.

Although I think of my style as borderline unique, I am a Trend Whore. I admit it! Don't get me wrong, I'm not trendy for the sake of being trendy. I only fall slave to trends if I like the one at hand. Or if they grow on me.

Take the case of the Pointy Boots: Junior year of college, my roommate Nicole was addicted to the Victoria's Secret Catalog. I'd browse through it on occasion, like during the marvelous Semi-Annual Sale. Anyway, she was really into these black, pointy-toed stiletto boots in the VSC. They were like, $100. So her sweet boyfriend eventually bought them for her, and she'd wear them around the house all the time—even in her PJs. I hated them. I thought she looked like a witch in them, and I told her so. She said I was jealous. I wasn't.
Well, last fall—my first fall in New York—I was suddenly jealous. Of those PBs. As I went on job interview after job interview in my round-toed clunkers, I felt like a completely unsophisticated idiot. The boots I once loathed, I wanted. A whole two years later. So last November, I bought a pair. I lived in them until May, the start of sandal-season.

Last week, I was browsing through the October issue of Glamour. The shoe du jour? Round-toed flats, pumps, boots, etc. And anything tweed. Of course, my round-toed clunkers are most likely resting on a homeless person's feet. Glenda the bag lady is trendy, and she doesn't even know it.

My point is this: Ever since that SJP/Lenny Gap commercial aired, girls across the country have been raiding Granny's jewelry box. Brooches. I mean, when I saw that cluster of brooches on SJP's abdomen, I thought "Sheer genius!" Really. And I proudly admit that just an hour ago, I spent $27 on two beautiful pins, and I am v. excited. One is a rhinestone "T," and the other is a gorgeous rhinstone..colorful thing. For the past hour, I have been fantasizing about how fabulous the brooches will look pinned on all my different blazers, cardigans and jackets. Sigh. I love being a girl. And a Trend Whore.

P.S. Instead of prescribing meds to the severely depressed, they should prescribe accessories shopping on a pretty day.

Thursday, September 16, 2004

I Miss Fugitive Barbie

So I was just e-mailing some dedicated readers that they've been selected to be a member of our Birthday Club. Something I noticed? Not one of their e-mails contained a first and a last name like those belonging to all of my grown-up friends. How sad. But you know what? If I got a resume from a potential intern who wanted me to e-mail them at, I'd laugh my head off. I guess that's a sign of being a grown-up.

I miss the days when e-mail addresses were cool, like or Hmm...what was mine? I think it was probably or something. Now it's just crappy tina underscore smithers. I hate underscores.

How to Make the Worst Cocktail Ever

I've been slacking on the journal like a booze-addicted college freshman in fuck-me boots with an 8 a.m. Algebra class. Wait, that was me four years ago. Except for the fuck-me boots. And I got a 2.0 that semester.

I've had so much to write about lately, but my computer at home has been down and work has been a bitch. Damn..I now have strawberry jelly on my keyboard. Except for Z and Q..well now they've covered in jam, too. Crap.

Consider this:
- Never mix tequila, vodka and cranberry juice. It's gross. Well, it was an accident. I was chilling with The Gorgeous People again, and the vodka supply was running low. I had half a vodka and cranberry, when a new bottle arrived. Before the GPs could snag it, I refilled my glass. Dude, it was clear. But it was tequila. Gross.

- Sometimes I wish my boss and 95% of the world's male population would all fall into a lava-filled crevice in the earth's crust. But only sometimes. But that bitch in elementary school who asked me if my mom picked out my clothes? Yeah, she can fall down there. And she can wear my pink Mr. Rogers sweater with the matching socks.

- On Sunday, I hung out at CP. Everyone was at CP. I'd gone to meet Curtis, and Michelle, Anne, Eliza and Jenny were all there. Separately. So we joined forces. The most bizarre thing? There were beer vendors around. I had no clue old men strolled up and down Sheep's Meadow selling Heineken and "green" out of garbage bags. We got approached five times. And we'd forgotten to bring our "Looking for Beer and Weed" cardboard sign. Hey, it was Sunday.

- If you're me, and you say something cool and profound, no one cares. But if you're P. Diddy and you say something cool and profound, it's the coolest and most profound thing you've ever heard. I covered the first annual Music Upfront yesterday. Diddy gave the closing remarks and didn't say a damn thing that I hadn't been listening to all day. But everyone cheered like he was MLK, Jr. Give me a break.

Monday, September 6, 2004

Only in the Northeast Corner of America...

I was dancing at Marquee, when lo and behold, Beyonce and Jay-Z were a few feet away. I think I overstepped my bounds when I tried to get a better peek at B—one of their eight bouncers pushed me back. Oops. No more getting kicked out of clubs for me.

Last night (during my determined search for hummus), I stumbled upon a drunk homeless epileptic having a fierce seizure in the middle of a sidewalk.

A bomb a New Jersey McDonald's. Cops were everywhere. Really, those unattended suitcases'll really get ya.

$12 gin and tonics, bars made of glass, models who Justin Timberlake couldn't do justice...and I lost my driver's license and my debit card. Oh well. I don't drive anyway.

Sunday, September 5, 2004

Emotionally Unavailable

What the hell is it with emotionally unavailable men? I must be a fucking idiot. Not to be cocky, but I really think I could make the best girlfriend, if someone would just give me a chance. I'm super supportive, I care about his interests (I fucking know the Yankees lineup by heart), I'm independent, I offer to pay, I clean up well, I'm willing to learn how to cook, I don't smell, I can bong two beers, I have a firm handshake, I'm not shabby between the sheets, etc. SO WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME? Two short-term boyfriends in five years has got to tell me something, but I don't know what. My dad always says I'm the kind of girl boys want to marry, but no one wants to fucking get married! Hell, I don't want to get married until I'm at least 27. So I'm supposed to twiddle my goddamn thumbs until a dude decides he wants to settle down?! Meantime, I can't f-ing handle being surrounded by couples. It sucks. And I'm tired of wondering what it's like. I'm tired of trying to figure men out. Perhaps I should relax and not try to figure it out, but I just can't accept being alone forev. I'm having another pity party, and you're all invited. BYOCF (Bring Your Own Comfort Food) I'm stuffing my face with hummus. And it sucks.

Tuesday, August 24, 2004

I'm That Girl

I've just realized...I am that girl. No, not THAT girl, or even that girl. I am The Girl who makes others do my dirty work for me because I don't want to get in trouble. For instance, I saw Neil eating a bagel. I didn't bring any lunch and all I have is yucky canned soup in my desk. I decided that I wanted a bagel, too. Immediately.

Me: "Neil! Where'd you get that bagel?"
Neil: "In production."
Me (In my best pouty face.): "I want one!"
Neil: "Go get one."
Me: "I don't know anyone in production."
Neil: "You know John. Call him to bring you one."
I dial ext. 304. No answer.
Me: "He's not there."
Neil: "Just go get one."
Me: "Will you get one for me? I'm shy. I don't know the production people."
Neil: "I just got one! No. Maybe later."

I still don't have my bagel. And I'm not going to go get it because I fear getting dirty looks from the production people. I don't want to anger people. You're thinking, it's just a damn bagel. It is, but I am just That Girl.

1987. My neighbor's house. I was sitting in my neighbor's house with my first-ever boyfriend. BJ was four, and I was six. The older woman. We ate some M&M's. I wanted more. Immediately.

Me: "BJ! Go ask your mom if we can have a few more M&M's."
BJ: "OK."
A few minutes pass, and BJ's mom walks out.
BJ's mom: "Tina! Did you ask BJ to ask me for more candy?"
Me (In my best pouty face.): "No, I didn't."
BJ's mom: "Yes, you did! I heard you! If you want something, you have to ask me yourself."

She's right. But I never asked for the M&M's, and I went home crying. I am That Girl, and I will probably always be That Girl. JSYK, I stand up for what I want when it's important. I can move to New York with $2,000 and no job. I can drive to DC and march with a million feminists on the White House lawn. I can even yell when people on the subway do me wrong. But when it comes to bagels and M&M's, I'm a big mush-ball.

Thursday, August 19, 2004

Dear John

Dear John,
I saw you in concert last night, and I thought you were suberb. Your guitar-orgasm faces were exceptional. It was also really exciting when all 100,000 people starting screaming along with "Why, Georgia." That song has gotten me through many a tough time. Obviously, everyone goes through a quarter-life crisis (Hell, I bought the book), and everyone has their Georgias. I just think you should know that you are an extremely talented writer, and I'm not selling out when I say that. You write what we're all thinking quite beautifully, JSYK. "Stupid Mouth"? Sheer genius. Social casualties are the story of my life, and I, too, am often a Miss Captain Backfire. Fathers and mothers should be good to their daughters, because the daughters become lovers and eventually mothers. I do not think you should attempt that Jimi Hendrix rendition again though. And it's really not necessary to include "Your Body is a Wonderland" in your playlist, because I never really liked that song. But overall, I enjoyed your concert and will most likely continue to give you my money.
xo, Tina

PS Because I'm so tired from watching your concert, this morning I spilled water all over my thesaurus, in addition to breaking my second favorite coffee mug that's from Hawaii. Please send me $15.00 to cover those casualties. Thank you.

Sunday, August 15, 2004

Tomato TomAto

Sundays suck. And it's raining. Few things blow more than a rainy Sunday. And someone always calls and wakes me up. Never fails. This morning it was my dad at 10:30. He's happy now that his neighbor is talking to him. Because my dad tends to have a big, blunt mouth, he said something to piss The Neighbor The Neighbor didn't speak to my dad all summer. But this morning The Neighbor came over and gave my dad 15 tomatoes. So apparently things are okay. People are so funny. Especially people who are old enough to have neighbors who grow tomatoes. I hope someday I have a neighbor who grows pineapple and watermelon. That would be awesome!

Sunday, August 8, 2004

Birthday Debauchery

Birthdays are great. I got the day off Friday and lived out my Central Park fantasy. Except there was no wine. No cheese. And it wasn't a gondola, it was an old rowboat. But v. exciting, nonetheless.

The evening out proved to be successful. If 5 gin and tonics and 7 shots of SoCo and lime are accurate measurements of success. But dude, if you are stupid enough to buy me birthday shots, it does not ensure that I'm yours for the evening, nor does it ensure I'll go home with you. So get off my ass. Patrick didn't get the hint. So I escaped to the dance floor downstairs—Britney saves the day! When Patrick found that I was no where in sight, he took the opportunity hook up with my friend Jenny. I got my shots, and he got to make out. Yay. The night suddenly took a downward spiral when I proceeded to call The Boy 15 times (literally), leave messy voicemails and text messages and then yell at his roommate. Why can't I just be smooth? Fuck me. The next thing I know, I'm waiting for an hour for the New Jersey PATH train and babbling about my night to a boy in a pink argyle sweater.

I wake up at 2 p.m. with the vision of McDonald's french fries swimming in my brain. Confusing, I think, as I know I didn't stop at the 24-hour McDonald's a block from my apartment. There are no wrappers in my trash can. I figure it must be a hungover craving, and I traipse to Micky D's for greasy satisfaction. I call Anne later, who kindly informs me that she took me to the PATH station. On the way, we stopped at McDonald's and I stuffed my face with fries. So I was thinking I had the willpower not to eat while drunk. No such luck. Damn.

Last night's O.A.R. concert was lovely. A nice reminder that I'm in my mid-twenties. We tailgated before the show, and while sitting on the lawn, about 20 youngish looking boys walked by. My friend Liz and I thought it would be fun to talk to them. What boy doesn't like a Mrs. Robinson-type who can buy them beer? They were all anywhere from 16 to 19 years old. I gave them each drinks of my 24 oz. $10 concert-bought brew in exchange for a dollar. And I bought them a few beers and made some tips. I came out $8 ahead. Yay. Good birthday weekend. And now it's Sunday. Boo.

Thursday, August 5, 2004

Wrinkles Suck

It's my birthday! Yay. I'm 23, and it's definitely the mid-twenties. And not because stupid Jessica Simpson said so on her 23rd birthday. It's true, and it bums me out. I haven't been to Thursday night quarter draws at Harpo's for a year. I haven't had Pokey Sticks at 3 a.m. for a year. I haven't belted out dirty sorority songs for a year. And it sucks. Only a little.

Note to self: Don't write about Dave.

Friday, July 23, 2004

SATC, New Jersey Style

Geeez. Where do I start?! So I'll just provide an update on Tina's Little Life, sans the witty banter b/c I've worked my ass off this week for the 9-year-olds.

1. Met a guy. Seriously. My life is the epitome of SATC. Except I can't afford Manolo Blahniks, I'm not that skinny, and my hair's not that 'fro-ey. His name is Dave, and he's New York lova #7. Ooh...7's a lucky number. Maybe that means something! I tend to be v. superstitious, and I believe horoscopes, even though I make them up. But this reminds me..a good entry would be one that focuses on all my New York lovas. Maybe I'll save that for my lunch break today. If you're lucky. ;) Anyway, Dave's great. There's something about this guy that's different than the other six New York lovas. He's a musician. (Yay! Although, he's not exactly starving, but that's good. And he plays classical bass, not Blink-182 bass, but it's cool.) He's currently a paralegal, he went to Brown (Ivy League! I'm outta my league here...), and he loves sports. What's more is that his ex-girlfriend was on that reality TV show, Dream Job, where students compete for an internship on ESPN's SportsCenter. And she took third place, the only female to get that far. I only hope that he likes his girls girlie and not sporty because...I definitely didn't know that baseball teams play the same team three times in a row. Apparently that's common knowledge? Did you guys know that? But whatever. I'm totally willing to learn about sports, I just can't carry on a conversation regarding A-Rod, unless it's involving his cute-factor. But I love watching games, and betting on them. (I'm a gambling fool. Just between us: I place my bets on team colors, mascots, and locale. I usually win.) OK, I've really got to get to work. I'll save other updates for later! xo!

Wednesday, July 14, 2004

Questions in Love

Been awhile, but I'm back! Jessi visited last weekend, and we had a blast! Some nutty things happened that'll have to stay in The Vault...but you know? It so made me jones for my buds back home. Shout out: I miss you guys!

But why oh why is everyone getting engaged?! Old roommates, high school buds, coworkers, everyone! Even Chad Michael Murray recently got his beautiful perfect One Tree Hill costar. And I have no clue in the world what or who I want. Tell me this: Are we (as in single chicks) supposed to have a laundry list of admirable qualities we want in a partner, or will we someday meet the love of our life and just know..that this is The One? Is there even a One?

Monday, June 21, 2004

I Hated Rules in 2nd Grade, and I Hate Them Now.

What the hell are The Rules? If you want to call someone, you should be able to, right? But people have to play these stupid games. And what's really sad is that I stay interested longer if he plays hard to get. Ugh..well, it's working! How can I make him love mee? Not call him?!

Sunday, June 20, 2004


Ugh...drinking...Jager Bombs.. strip poker. Denny's and flat tires. Ugh...

Friday, June 18, 2004

Home for the Weekend

Why I love the Midwest:
1. Nice people.
2. Trees and grass.
3. Friends and family.
4. Indoor malls and Wal-Marts.
5. Free food sample day at Sam's Club.

Why I hate the Midwest:
1. Ghetto bars like America's Pub.
2. Poor selection of shoes and handbags.
3. The predictability of every day.
4. Can't haggle for prices on shoes and handbags.
5. I have to be nice because everyone else is.

Saturday, June 12, 2004

Beer vs. Jogging

So I'm jogging in my ghetto-fabulous Brooklyn 'hood this afternoon about 1:38 p.m. when suddenly, the sky lights up! There, in bold cloud-shrouded letters are the words "Heineken Heineken Heine.." Yes, one of those jet-writer things. So I'm jogging. And my thought process goes a little like this: "It's hot, I'm sweaty. Damn, I'd like a beer. I wonder if all of New York is standing still, faces upturned toward the sky, thinking exactly what I'm thinking right now...Damn, I need a beer. Fuck this jog. I'm gonna go get me a beer." And I traipse back to my corner bar and grab me a Heini. That's some damn good advertising.

Yay, I'm going on a sushi date tonight. That sounds so cool..sushi. I recently discovered the trendy delicacy. :)

Tuesday, June 8, 2004


Why do boys suuuck? And why well, why just do boys suck? And I'm drunk. I don't give a flying f-u-c-k. I went to some stupid MTV party, which sounds mighty cool. Well, okay, it was..ha! But of course The Intern came—don't get me wrong, she's cool. But yeah, she's also 5'10" with long dark hair and skinnier than a girl half my size. And of course she got hit on by rock stars—my rock stars! Ugh, if any of you know me at all, it's that my dream is to date a rock star. But I looked like a fat farm girl tonight. Blah blah blah. And t hen I drunk dialed The Ex. Why am I so dumb? Boo hoo. Well, Andy Dick said hi to me. I guess that's a consolation. But he's fugly! Wah. Ack. Sorry, so this is dumb. I'm dumb. Lots of people in the world would be happy here. I shouldn't complain. Bu tthat just goes to show that no matter how peachy life my seem, or how pinker the grass is on the other side of the never is! People are just dumb. And all our lives suck. 'Nough said. Good night.

Friday, June 4, 2004

Lessons in Love: Hampton-style

Memorial Day weekend was fuuun. So I went to stay with Pat—The Ex—in Long Island. Anne and I got our asses burned at the beach on Saturday, and then we soothed our aching blisters over cocktails that night. Anne really hit if off with Pat's middle-aged uncle, and he proceeded to get her blitzed to the point that she could hardly stand. Needless to say, our night o' fun concluded at 12—poor Anne—and I made the possible mistake of sleeping in the same bed as The Ex. He proceeded to jump my bones, at which point I pretended to doze off. Didn't last long, because he uttered those words I've longed to hear—just not from The Ex. "I love you." Eek!

I awoke to the birds chirping and The Ex...tickling my feet. "Get up, get up!" Sometimes, boys are like little kids. Dude, let me sleep. I'm not a morning person. It reminds me why I don't mind being single sometimes. Maybe I will purchase 47 plants and 9 obnxious cats and live alone for the rest of my life.

But Sunday proved to be uberfun! Pat and I drive to his cousin's house at 11 a.m. There, on the front lawn, is 12 dudes in combat boots and crude shirts (Klitty Litter: Freshens her box!) drinking the New York equivalent of Natty Light. So 13 dudes and I cram into a rented van and head to the Hamptons. Boy-oh-boy did I miss out on all the sorority spring breaks! We went to this oceanside beach club that looked eerily similar to the MTV club in the Hamptons...after six $4 cans of Bud Light, I dedice it's time for a romp on the beach. I threw sand in Pat's hair, and he screamed like a girl. It was fun.

Then we crammed back in the van at about 3 p.m. and head to a tent called The Boardy sounds shady, but apparently it's the place to be because while standing in line to enter this prestigious establishment, Pat thinks it's a good time to check his voicemail. We immediately hear a booming voice, "Get out! No cell phones allowed!" And do you know what this asshole's reasoning was? He didn't want people to call their friends and tell them to come to The Boardy Barn. It would get overcrowded. Gimme a break! Who runs a business like that?! So we got kicked out. Could I possibly get kicked out of any more New York bars? I wonder...

So Pat and I are half-drunk wandering around the Hamptons. His uncle rescued us, and then we went to dinner. Pat took this alone-time to explain his reasoning for saying "I love you." Apparently he just cares about me, after all, I'm not only his Ex, but an uberclose friend, too. Well Pat, if that's what "I love you" means, then ditto.

Thursday, May 27, 2004

Hi. My Name is Tina, and I'm a Googler.

My fave hobby du jour? Googling. I google my friends, my worst enemies, weirdos, crushes, everybody. You'd be surprised. Everyone I google, shows up somewhere. Whether it's that spelling bee you won in the second grade or a 5K you ran and came in 46th place—it's there, and the world knows about it. So does Smithers.

I even Google myself. And the worst part? The VERY first item that pops up is a personal question I thought I'd posted anonymously. Considering I don't exactly have an older female to talk to except ultra-conservative Grandma, and my friends didn't know shit, I decided to ask an OBGYN about a personal concern. (There are sites for that, you know. There are sites for everything. How did we even get by when all we had was Encyclopedia Britannica?) Because you'd most likely Google me after reading this, here was my "concern":

From: Tina S. (
Feb. 2, 2002
I have been taking Alesse-28 for the past 5 months to regulate my periods. In the past month I have become sexually active for the first time. I take my pills like I am supposed to every morning, but I frequently notice "spotting," where I bleed in between my mentsrual cycle. My roommate says this is common with this brand of birth control. This is annoying. Is this true? What can I do to reduce it? I only want my period once a month. Not any more!

Fuck me. Now the whole world knows when I lost my little cherry. When I found this out about a year ago, I contacted the site and requested that they take my name off. They never did. Next time, I'll stick to real doctors.

But about my Googling addiction, do you guys ever do this? Am I a psycho people-stalker? Leave your comments, please!

PS There's also another Tina S.! She runs marathons in Las Vegas and is a janitor for a Christian church. Cool.

Sunday, May 23, 2004

A Whole New World

So I think I might move to the trendy town of Hoboken, NJ. For you non-New Yorkers, it's a beautiful, college-esque tiny town right on the river (with coblestone streets!) outside the city. It's only one-square mile, so I don't need a car. After looking at over-priced shit holes on the Upper West Side yesterday, I think this'll be a good decision. No smelly trash on the sidewalks. No toothless people begging for quarters. No rude Asians who work at bodegas selling over-priced, wilting daisies. No man in purple velvet tuxedo begging for my lukewarm, have drunk bottle of water and then demanding that I be his new BFF. (Got that one today... weird.) But if I miss it, NY's only a short subway ride away. Now onto bigger and better things—beer-drinking frat boys. A whole town full.

Friday, May 21, 2004

Living in the Ghetto Can Be a Good Thing

Living in the slums of Brooklyn totally has its advantages. I was taking out the trash last night, when my front door slammed shut behind me. My old ghetto house consists of three apartments, but everyone was out for the night. No keys, no phone, no jacket. It was just me, Sam the homeless cat, and the beginnings of a rain shower. There was no way to get in the windows on the ground level. I went around the side of the house, stood on a bucket and tried to pry open the window there. When the window damn near chopped off my fingers, I realized it wasn't a good idea.

So I headed down to the bar on the corner. I yelled over the blaring country music, "You gotta a phone book?" The bartender who was missing two front teeth said, "Yeah." I explained my predicament, and a Puero Rican man wearing lots of gold bling offered to try to break in. "I grew up in Brooklyn," he said. "I know how to do it."

So we wandered down to 409 Marlborough Road, and he broke his credit card in my door. (It's a dead bolt darling, 'fraid a credit card just ain't strong enough.) So he pulls a screwdriver out of his pocket and attempts to pry off part of the door that's blocking the latch. It works! And then he's cool enough to nail the strip back on—no one ever has to know. All I have to say is that I'm glad I'm moving to the slums of Manhattan.

Wednesday, May 19, 2004

Thoughts on Therapy

Today's a slow day. So I have a therapist. She's really cool. It's like having a friend who listens to you, who tells you you're not crazy and who gives you a tissue if you cry—only for $125 an hour. Funny, that's what all my friends already do. But she does help me see things in a new light, so my sanity's worth it. Three things to work on this week:

1. Be a minimalist. It means that when I do interviews, talk to friends, and express my innermost thoughts to boys I dig, I should say less. I tend to ramble, and that's no surprise. Apparently, this makes me look as if I have little confidence, b/c I'm constantly making up for something stupid I just said, in turn, making it a bigger deal than it really was. Damn, she's good.

2. Say "Thank you." When someone says my skirt is uber-cute, it's better that I say "thank you," and not "Yeah right, it makes me look fat."

3. Limit my alcoholic intake. This makes my love handles large. It makes me stupid. It makes me get kicked out of New York nightclubs and wonder why ghetto boys call me at 5 a.m. Yeah, she's got a point.

Sunday, May 16, 2004

Cell Phone Revelations

I love how your cell phone can reveal all about a drunken night, especially if you tend to forget minor details like weird boys in train stations. So last night I went to d.b.a. with Courtney for Eliza's b-day. I def forgot my ID, so I had to traipse back to Brooklyn, therefore, taking two hours out of my night. So I drank a Dasani bottle full of boxed wine on the trip back, so as not to lag behind my peers in all their drunken glory.

Text Messages:
From Courtney, 11:06 p.m. HO. I WANT BEER PONG!
From Courtney, 11:41 p.m. UR FUNNY! PONG!

Recent Calls:
11:26 p.m. Michelle to me.
Midnight. Curtis to me.
12:44 a.m. Me to Neil.
3:19 a.m. Me to Curtis. No answer.
3:52 a.m. Me to Joe Cell. No answer.
5:17 a.m. 347-615-XXXX to me. Missed call.

5:17 a.m. "Yo Tina, this is Ky from the train station. You were pretty hammered. Anyway, I was wondering if you'd want to get some bloody marys at a bar on Sunday—if you're not too hungover. It'll be fresh. Call me. Peace out."

Ha. So needless to say, Courtney and I went to The Big Easy around 1 a.m., where I proceeded to kick some ass at a game of beer pong. A big bearded man bought me an Irish car bomb, which is about where things get fuzzy. It was at this point where I launched into my drunk dialing frenzy and then met Ky, apparently. Why can't I just say no when a stupid ghetto boy asks for my digits? Life would be much easier. Because he definitely called me again an hour ago from a different phone number (Trying to trick me! Jerk.) and told me about a really fresh party in the city this Friday. No thanks, Ky. You're just not fresh enough for my flavor.

Monday, May 10, 2004

Stanley Strikes Out

Funny story: So last weekend I'm at this upper-Eastside nightclub with my girls. We're taking shots, attempting to dance to whatever horrid music they were playing, when I spot the DJ booth in the corner, unattended. My "Slave 4 U" Britney request had gone ignored, and Prince is not my thing. So I climb up the ladder to the booth, put on the headphones and attempt to decipher the buttons and switches. In my head I'm thinking, now how can I switch the music from whatever shit they're playing to Britney Spears without anyone noticing? It seemed perfectly logical at the time. I press an important-looking red button and BAM! The music stops, and everyone pauses mid-dance move and stares up at the DJ booth. Face flushed and jaw dropped, I frantically throw off the headphones and scurry down the ladder. Too late. Two bouncers grabbed me by each arm and escorted me out as I cried, "But I just wanted to hear Britney Spearssss!" They weren't having it. And so I got kicked out of a New York nightclub. In the words of Shaggy: It wasn't me. It was Stanley.

Life's Simplest Things Can Grant Total Inspiration

So my co-worker has one of those cool tear-off-the-day desk calendars, and today's message is this:

Otis Campbell in the House
My friend Jamie quite drinking a year ago to avoid all of the extremely embarrassing things she had done in public when her alter personality, Otis Campbell, took over. One time she was dancing at a bar, got too close to the stage, and fell into the drum set, completely destroying it. Another time, she went to a party at her Danish then-boyfriends parents' house and yelled to the other Danish guests, "Shmorgedy borgedy norgedy! This is America, people, so speak English!"

Ha! Unfortunately, that could easily be a Tina moment. Perhaps I should give my alcohol-induced alter ego a name, so as not to take full responsibility for my retarded-while-inebriated actions. I think I'll name him Stanley. (Of course my inner drunkie is a boy—boys are stupider than girls.) That way, if I'm acting silly, stupid or slutty, I can just blame it on Stanley. What, someone ate the last of your chocolate cake? Oh, that was just Stanley. He's sorry.

Tuesday, April 27, 2004

Hey George, Get Out of My Bush!

I went to that March For Women's Lives pro-choice rally in DC last weekend. It was amazing. There were more than a million women (some hippie-types...and men!) there fighting for women's rights. The biggest protest in the history of the world!

Tuesday, April 20, 2004

Between Brooklyn, New Jersey and a Hard Place

I wish I had a time machine... No, not a time machine, something that'll like, zap me in another part of New York without me having to wait 20 minutes for my bus on the grassy knoll by the curb. Without having to get crabby with the fat black man who drives the bus for being late. Without having to sit in traffic in the bus on the GW Bridge. No surpassing the homeless man who plays the sax in the tunnel, not to mention me feeling guilty for not giving him a quarter. (Where's my quarter?! Get a job!) No being afraid for my life in the 175th St. Harlem subway station b/c it's rumored to be the station where the most people get pushed onto the tracks in front of moving trains. (I really don't fear for my life, but I've heard that rumor.) No sitting on the A Train then transferring at crotchety Times Square to the Q Train only to hear that annoying man who sells batteries (AA or AAA real Duracell batteries $2, AA or AAA real...)

You know what I'd like to be doing right this very minute? I'd like to be on the treadmill at Bally's. Rarely do I look forward to working out, but right now that's what I'd like to be doing and I'm stuck at work, about to leave for that grassy knoll. To go on my two-hour commute. I hate my commute.

Sunday, April 18, 2004

Here's to You, Mrs. Robinson!

Had a glorious time last night with pals at the B-Bar! But I must admit, the transition from winter's clunky boots to last summer's open-toed heels took its toll on my footsies--ouch! I ought to wear them around the house for practice before going out until 5 a.m.

I wasn't planning on staying out uber-late. A friend was suffering from boy drama though and wanted to make out with a random, so LIGHT BULB! We went to stupid Bar None--the ultimate stupid college boy-clad diveish bar w/ dance floor where if you're lookin' to make out, it's the place to be. Every time I go there, I always vow I'll never go back. See? I told you I have no self-control. Unfortunately, she didn't make out b/c our prospects were sour. But I DID meet a nice young man. It was funny—I was slightly drunk at this hour of 3 a.m. He was on his cell, and I was just staring at him. He saw me staring, and where I'd normally look away (the flirtress that I am), this time I didn't. And we just stared at each other for about 2 minutes. I think I was trying to seduce him with with my eyes, but I probably just looked drunk and stupid. Found out his name's Joe, and he's in college. Here's to you, Mrs. Robinson!

I love being 22. It's such an age of self-discovery. My wise 25-year-old roommate laughs when I rant about my dramatic excursions with my G-friends. Apparently, life is quite different when you're 25. I want to go to Atlantic City and pull a J.Lo's mom. Any takers?

Monday, April 12, 2004

Reflections on Miss Spears' Beer Belly

I'm working out--doing those 200 crunches from Glamour that guarantee results in six weeks (bye-bye beer bellaaah)--and Brit's "Lucky" comes on. Goes a little like this:

"She's so lucky, she's a star
But she cry, cry, cries in her lonely heart, thinking
If there's nothing missing in my life
Then why do these tears come at night"

And I'm like, she's a real person! Sometimes I forget that these people aren't just the objects that make my story. They cry, too! But then I came to my senses--most of us don't have 55-hour marriages, ruin a perfectly great relationship with Justin Timberlake and flaunt Kabbalah paraphernalia around like it's the best thing since peanut butter. I've done some dumbass things in my life, but I have SOME self-control.

Oh, but I don't have self-control when it comes to SBD. Day #8: It's over. Fuck eggs and fuck lettuce. I just had a PBJ, and it felt great! After losing 4 pounds, I'm a liberated woman. I came to the realization that this diet is for the obese, and that I am not. Tina Diet Day #1: I vow to work out and eat healthy like fat America should be doing.
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