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.
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