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 off..so 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.
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