Thursday, December 29, 2005

Opened Eyes

I'm currently reading A Million Little Pieces by James Frey...about a Crack Addict in Recovery. Love the following excerpt:

Fear is only fear. I know that nothing can hurt me more than I have already hurt myself. I know there is no pain that I cannot endure. I know that if I hold on I will be fine. I know I am strong.

If you look back at all the shit you've been through, and all the shit that gets you worked up right now, at this very moment, it's really nothing you can't conquer. I lost my mom at 16 and ran away from home on more than one occasion. I moved across the country alone with nothing more than $2,000. And here I am pissing and moaning because I'm in a slump. Well I've been through worse, so this is a cakewalk. We've all been through worse.

Slumpity Slump Slump Slump

Oooh dear. I feel like I've gained 11.3 pounds since arriving in Missouri. All of the jeans I brought with me are so tight all of a sudden! It's no surprise as I've been living off of chocolate, peanut butter, waffles and gourmet dinners at mediocre restaurants. And I'm in a slump. I'm a frumpy girl in a shitty slump. I've even renewed my membership. This is so embarrassing. Good thing I'm not still an avid beer drinker, or I'd have gained 22.6 pounds. Ugh. Boo. Sigh. I hate and every stupid boy who "winks" at me. Keep your "wink" and stick it up your "ass." Ha. That makes me smile.

Saturday, December 24, 2005

Kansas City Nights

Top 10 Reasons Why Last Night Was Worth Making a Top 10 List About:

1. Had dinner at Ruby Tuesday with an ex-BFF-turned-friend-again. During dinner, a 5-year-old in the booth behind me tapped me on the shoulder. He then stuck a chewed chicken finger in my glass of water. His parents just sat there. That's Generation Z. Yikes.
2. Got free Diet Cokes because I was the "Designated Driver." Or so I told them.
3. Got a massage from a bald guy wearing a blazer.
4. My personal fave: Met a guy named Regina. Visual: Regina was African-American and wore dirty jeans, combat boots and a white sweater that showed his toned midriff. He wore mascara and sporadically applied a shimmery pink shade of Wet 'n' Wild lipstick when he thought no one was looking. Regina continually kept fixing my hair and would jump in our photos and strike a pose when anyone whipped out a camera. Then he asked me for five bucks, so he could get some food.
5. A big guy kept having his friend take our me and the big guy together. I started to get nervous that the tasteful pics would wind up on the 'net, until he lost his Sidekick. No problem there.
6. Met a pseudo-rock star named Buddy. He had long hair and Jared Leto eyes.
7. Had the best meal I've eaten at Denny's...ever. And yes I had both dinner and breakfast within a six-hour period.
8. Statistically, my hometown of Independence, MO, is the Meth Capital of the World. It's also the town where Harry S. Truman was born and where the Mormons think Jesus will come back when he returns. (Btw. Happy early birthday, Jesus.) Well I found out that some people I went to high school with actually do do meth. Ew. So sad.
9. How is New York? I hate it when people ask me that question. Perhaps it's the best thing acquaintances can think to ask me. It's nice and perceptive, considering I forget where nearly everyone except my immediate friends and family live and work because my memory is equivalent to that of an 80-year-old's. But I still hate it. So to answer your question: New York is fine. It will always be fine unless we get a repeat of 9/11, God forbid. So it's still there, still an island, the buildings are still there, still blocking out the sunlight. I still can't understand what more than half of the people are saying and the homeless are still break dancing for money. That my friend, is how New York is.
10. Got to spend time with my rarely seen lovelies Jessi, Joey and Gwen.

BTW: Have you ever rejected someone's friendship on Friendster? So bad. I just received a friend request from a random guy I've never talked to. Generally, I'll be anyone's friend until you prove that you're a jerk, but on Friendster, I prefer to actually know/like my friends. So when I received a request from Barry, I said NO, I do not want to be Barry's friend. I get a response: "SUCCESS. You have rejected a friend request from Barry." How bad does that sound? It's like saying, "You have successfully reached BITCH status."

Monday, December 19, 2005

Home Sweet Home

Dec. 17, 4 a.m. Arrived at the airport, sans any cute cabbie. Lug 10 tons of luggage to the check-in line, only to find that the attendants aren't due in until 5 a.m. My flight is at 6. I make eyes with a cute boy, then lie on the ground to get some sleep, as I stayed up all night with my drunk roommates. There's a happy couple in the front of the line who keep kissing and laughing and there's no FUCKING reason to be so fucking happy at 4 in the morning. FUCK.

5:45 a.m. Board the aircraft and give some whiny little boy my window seat. I like the window seat b/c it's more comfy to sleep next to. I guess I felt like being saintly.

9 a.m. Chill in Atlanta, work on RFL stuff.

11 a.m. Board the aircraft, sit next to another happy fucking couple.

1:30 p.m. Arrive in KC to my pop taking my photo after a sleepless night. It just wouldn't be quite right if the man didn't have his camera in my face. I love him for it.

2 p.m. Find out some kid took MY blue duffel bag and left his. My bag was three times the size of his, what are the odds? Fuck.

Dec. 18, 3 p.m. Aftering having worn the same pair of panties for 36 hours, I finally get my clothes back. AND a free round-trip ticket anywhere the airline goes. Nice! Happy couples and all, I guess things do happen for a reason.

Why is it that the person you're closest with in the whole world is the one you fight with the most?

Wednesday, December 14, 2005

My First Re-Gift of the Season

Today I received a massive blue box from Tiffany & Co. tied in a white bow. This could only mean one thing: It's gift-giving season from the PR lovelies I work with. After opening the glittery "Holiday Cheer" card from a certain cosmetics company, I waited for a few seconds in anticipation. I never get any signature Tiffany & Co. blue boxes, let alone a massive one that takes up one third of my cubicle. Then I dive right in. After sifting through mounds of bubble wrap, my hands grasp what could only be crystal champagne flutes. Two of them. One for me and one for my...?

1. I don't drink. Alcohol. Ever. Trust me. It's better this way.
2. I don't have a cute boyfriend to toast in the new year with.
3. I don't have a fancy apartment, let alone a china cabinet, in which to display the lovely flutes.

This simply calls for an occasion none other than re-gifting. Who's the lucky married couple going to be?

Monday, December 12, 2005

The Best Rejection of All Time

Long story short, I had what I thought was a date with a boy on Saturday night. Only on Saturday morning, I woke up to this from said boy, sent at 1:58 a.m.:

About tomorrow evening- why don't you just come over my place and we'll get naked no strings attached? if not that's cool we can just be friends, see a movie.(sic)

Perhaps in college I could be found sans any strings. But after carefully assessing what I want out of a relationship in this current phase of my life, I think it's safe to say that if you make out with me and then say how you had a great time and want to see me again, I'm going to come with a string or two.

Wednesday, December 7, 2005

Holiday Cheer

If I get one more elf ass forward, I'm gonna scream. I get this every December, and after getting "Elfed" five times this year, the joke's a little old. Why not "Jake" me? I wouldn't mind getting "Jake-ed" a bit. A little Jakey G. ass wouldn't be so bad.

Tuesday, December 6, 2005

I Love You Enough To Buy You Things For Christmas

Argh! Holiday shopping. I used to love it. Walking around Independence Center back in my hometown of...Independence, MO. The lights, the sales, the big obnoxious tree, the sales. The only shopping season that sucked was the one when I worked at Old Navy, trying to earn extra money for my lavish, high school lifestyle. I would stand at the entrance near Sears in my navy blue T-shirt and jeans with uber-important headset and hand out blue mesh shopping bags with a pseudo-smile, while simultaneously listening to Santa-meets-disco holiday tunes. Ick.

Since I've become a grown-up, my to-buy-for list has dramatically increased, and even though I have a "career," I feel my income has been flushed down the poo-poo hole. In HS, I had my 'rents, grandma, my three closest friends and the one time I had a holiday honey, him, too. I had a part-time job, and the only thing I really had to pay for was I had lots o' money! In college, I had an exorbitant amount of extra change from student loans to pay my cheap Missouri rent and a part-time job to support my weekly habit of quarter draws and martini madness. My pledge daughter also happened to be a close friend, so that there killed two birds with one stone. I bought everyone else beer and spent a few bucks on my dad and g-ma.

But alas, The Real World. Now there's corporate secret santas, boss, dad, dad's girlfriend, dad's girlfriend's parents, grandma, friends from work, friends from college, friends from home, friends in New York, friends from various organizations... good thing I didn't join a book club. And I'll definitely have to kick the weekly habit of buying shoes in order to appease my laundry list of loved ones. Ooh. Epiphany! Perhaps I'm just lucky that I have a laundry list of loved ones. Unlike my monthly rent, they're worth a paycheck or two. Warm, fuzzy feeling. :)

Monday, November 28, 2005

The Latest Generation

You know how you have, say, younger nieces, nephews, cousins or even brothers and sisters who, when they're growing up, think you're just the cat's meow; the hottest thing since microwaveable mac 'n' cheese. You relish the time when their warpable minds will do every little thing you say 'cause it's cool, and it came out of your mouth.

You know there'll come a time when they realize you're nothing more than a fuddy-dud adult who doesn't quite get it. But when that time comes, you're still not prepared for it. I experienced that this weekend with my cousin Cara.

She's 15 and hasn't read the tween mag I work for since she was about 12. She's suddenly hit the teenage angst bit full force, and handles it more glamorously than I ever could. Where I was once "cool," she's gone beyond—listening to bands that Billboard would never touch, knowing a real vintage deal when she sees it, educating herself about politics and the ways of the world, and more importantly, perfecting the smokey eye and the messy bun that took me years to get.

And she has a boyfriend. They love each other. It's really cute. He hopes to be a slightly hairier version of Donald Trump. Yikes. What are they? Generation Y? Regardless, Gen. Y has come a long way, and it's scary. 'Cause Gen. X is gettin' old. Fast.

Thursday, November 24, 2005

A Tale of Tina's Travels

Thanksgiving with the fam for five days.

4:30 a.m. Car picks me up to take me to Newark Airport. Feel a slight deja vu, as I realize I just saw Garden State two days before. Am absolutely shocked that my cabby is not only hot, but he speaks non-broken English. As we talk about the joys of Hoboken, I spend the majority of the cab ride debating on slipping him my new business card (sans any mention of a non-existent promotion, but complete with cell number for easy...slippage.) When it comes time to dole out $40 I instinctively reach for the business card, then recoil. I just couldn't face the fear of rejection! As he grabs my bag out of the trunk, I spot a ring on what may be his middle finger. Subconsciously, I tell myself it was a wedding ring, so I wasn't really missing out on a potential date, right? Geez, I seem desperate. Really, I'm totally not! What wrong with making new friends? Anyway...

Flight to Atlanta: Sat next to a sophomore in college studying costume design. God, I'm getting old.

Flight to Memphis: When I'm waiting to board my flight, I always scope out the single cuties, and mentally pray that they'll be seated next to moi. Does anyone else do that? One cutie with a Texan twang sits in 29A. I'm 29C! I mentally yelp with glee as I take my seat. A scruffy blue-eyed guy and I make eyes as he walks closer. He sits in 29B! Oh, my luck! I do my best to put on the charm...then the two boys discuss the joys of contracting as a profession throughout the flight...and I sit, in my Big Bird yellow sweater and listen to The Sad Song of the Moment. Damn.

But ya know? Who am I kidding?! As if I'm going to meet the love of my life in an Atlanta airport. When I live in Jersey. Where's Zach Braff when ya need him? Oh yeah. Fucking Mandy Moore.

Wednesday, November 9, 2005

Please Don't Hate Me Because I'm Honest

POLITICS. Ugh. It's everywhere these days. No, I did not vote yesterday. Although I live in Hoboken, I do not feel strong ties to the state of New Jersey, nor its elected govorner. I think the last one was gay...hmm. I'm all for diversity in the government. Anyway, I feel closer to New York, yet I still have a Missouri driver's license. So I didn't vote. Horrible, I know.

I've only voted twice, once for Al Gore and once for John Kerry. I've just never been one to follow politics; I'll watch the debate when it blocks out all the other basic cable channels. And I'll always vote for the Donkey, unless the Donkey is a complete and absolute Ass. Anyway, I feel like I should be more educated about politics, but the topic couldn't bore me any less. BR1 likes Elephants and BR2 likes Donkeys, like I do. The two of them could talk politics all day while I sit there...and play my video game. Ugh. I don't even want to PRETEND I'm interested. Sure, I'm passionate about my views on stem-cell research and abortion rights. But a guy dressed up as Karl Rove at a recent Halloween party...well, I just didn't get the joke.

All this talk about war...sure, I want to see Jarhead, but my motives are different than most—Jake Gyllenhaal bares his naked bottom in THREE scenes. My point is, am I un-American because I don't know who Karl Rove is? Because I didn't vote for my govorner? I care about the state of the nation, I just don't know what state it's in half the time. I guess I kind of enjoy being in my bubble...unless I get to see a naked butt.

Thursday, November 3, 2005

Wednesday Night Anger

I've suddenly realized that many of my friends have become half a couple. More and more, my girlfriends are getting googly-eyed and happy...all the time. I wanna be in the couples club, so I can be constantly happy, too. "What? You say my apartment has roaches? That's OK. I have a boyfriend." Or "What's that you say? I'm $127 over-drawn in checking? It's fine! Really, I'll be fine. Why, you ask? Because I have a boyfriend!"

Everything's fine when you're in love, or lust, or crush...whatev! But last night at the gym I was listening to "Break Stuff" by old Limp Bizkit, and I suddenly felt better. There's just something about angry boy music that makes me feel like I'm one tough bitch. There I the treadmill mentally singing the words, "If my day keeps going this way I just might break your F-ing face tonight, give me somethin' to break! Just give me somethin' to break! How 'bout your F-ing face?" And I'm discreetly punching the air Rocky-style, jog, punch, jog, punch. The other gym members were probably a little scared, but really, I'm fine. Because I DON'T have a boyfriend and can do weird things like impersonate Rocky. If I were in a relationship, I'd probably be too busy doin' it than to do weird things like that. God forbid that I not have the time to do weird things...

Tuesday, November 1, 2005

Mental Sex Change?

10 reasons why living with BR1 and BR2 is turning me into a boy:

1. I play video games. A lot. BR2 says that playing VGs help him relieve stress. Lately, I've been rushing home from work to either play Leisure Suit Larry, where you earn points by picking up chicks, or Super Mario 3. Right now, I'm stuck on World 8 and all I wanna do is save the Princess from Bowser's evil clutch!

2. I'm not afraid to fart. Not only that, but I don't mind if it's loud. (Mine are usually quiet, and they smell like roses.) BR2 likes to lift up his leg and let one rip.

3. I talk about sex. And I don't get embarrassed like I used to. Now, whenever I hear the word "penetration" I giggle like a 12-year-old boy.

4. I'm no longer that clean. BR1 left his spaghetti on the stove for four days. I was too stubborn to throw it away, so it sat there. All weekend.

5. I let everyone know when it's time for me to poop. OK, I've always done that. The word "poop" makes me laugh. BR2 and I discuss the joys of the activity at least every other day.

6. I laugh in the face of love. A BFF of mine recently became someone's girlfriend. It's fun to make fun of couples.

7. I watch Family Guy. Granted, I only watch it when they're watching it. But nevertheless, I watch it, and I laugh. I secretly enjoy it. But I will never ever watch Rome. know? I just can't think of any more reasons. I swore there were a lot, but truth be told, I'm still a girl. I'm sensitive, and I watch Laguna Beach and The OC. I'm moody, I like cuddling, and I like peanut butter with chocolate. Oh well.

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

Talking Relationships with the Roommates

Family Guy and Arrested Development weren't on last night, so it was a prime opportunity for my roommates and I to engage in an intimate discussion about dating and the appeal of dirty talk. The latter made me slightly squeamish, as we all know I blush at the mere mention of the S word, but I still love talking about it incessantly.

BR2 insists that honesty is the best policy when it comes to dating, and that if you want to be with someone, you should tell that person. That goes against He's Just Not That Into You and everything I've ever been taught. The honest approach (if taken too soon) just leaves the guy running scared and me with the word "psycho" stamped on my forehead.

BR1 reminds BR2 that he's never lived with girls before and doesn't he know that girls like to "talk about relationship problems over and over, rather than come to a solution"? I say that while that's true, I want a solution, as I continue to talk about a nonexistent problem between me and my crush. "Is it possible that he still likes me?" I ask. "Of course it's possible, because nothing's really happened to make him think otherwise," BR2 responds, as he lifts up his leg, and lets out a loud fart. "That's what I think about that conversation," he says.

Wednesday, October 5, 2005

I'm Not Referring to a Celery Stalk

I love the inner dialogue that's contstantly churning in my head. I actually said, "Hmm, I think I'll Google my crush," just now, in my mind. How on EARTH did we function back in the day when there was no Google, Friendster or My Space? Lately, I've had friends of mine actually contact other friends of mine they wanted to talk friends of friends can get to know other friends. I never thought the day would come when Friendster would live up to its mission. I love Friendster. I love stalking. I love that Friendster now lets you see who's stalking you. I found out that BR2 is stalking me. How interesting...I think I'll Google my crush.

Monday, September 5, 2005

One of My More Self-Deprecating Entries

This new living situation is going to take some adjustment. You can't really count on boys to provide adequate outfit approval or love handle reassurance. But, I must say, Boy Roommates #1 and #2 are doing shockingly well.

Scenario #1
Me: I got new shoes today!
BR #1: Yeah? Are those them? They look very '40s. Nice.
Me: Yeah, I guess they do. They're $80 shoes and I got them for $20!
BR #2: Great deal!
They actually feined interest in my shoes! That's so sweet.

Scenario #2
I know I broke a cardinal rule by asking this question, but I was PMSing and I was desperate. Thank God BR #1 gave the correct answer.
Me: Hey.
BR #1: Hey, what's up?
Me: Um, so yeah I know I should never ask you this question. But say you saw me walking down the street and you didn't know me. Would you think I was chubby or just average?
BR #1: Um...
Me: I mean, I know I'm not skinny, nor do I want to be skinny. But would you say average or chubby?
For starters, what the hell was I thinking?! As if ANYONE would ever say, "Well, sure Tina. You're a little chubby." I know I sound so self-absorbed right now, but all girls go through this, right? If not, you're lying! I'm just dumb enough to need the reassurance...from my brand new BRs! Ugh. Anyway...
BR #1: You're average. I mean, you have a cute face, so I wouldn't be like, "Ugh!"
Me: OK, thanks. And I promise I'll never ask you that question again for as long as I live.
BR #1: No problem. Where'd that come from?
Me: Um, just one of those days!
And I bolt. Then I got to my room, mentally repeated the "cute face" line, and figured that meant that everything underneath my neck is chubby.

Tina! Will you ever learn to just stick a sock in it?! Ugh. Ew. I'm such a loser sometimes.

Tuesday, August 30, 2005

Aging Anxiety

It just occurred to me—I am 24 mother-f'in years old. OMG. I am a bonified grown-up. No more of this, "Wooo! I'm 21 and can finally go by 'Tina' instead of 'Monique' in front of the bouncer!" No more, "Wooo! I'm 22, and college freshmen look at me as an experienced older woman!" or "Wooo! I'm 23, and I get to work in an office and boss around interns!" Now it's "Woo. My friends are starting to get married and buy houses. I'm starting to get pissed 'cause I haven't gotten promoted in two years or...ever. Two a.m. is a late night for me, and I've run out of anti-wrinkle eye cream. I'm expected to know how to cook and...bake things." Hell, the one thing I have going for me is that my melons are small. Therefore, they will always be perky.

Thursday, August 18, 2005

The Single Life

I overheard (OK, eavesdropped on) a conversation yesterday between two guys discussing statistics. Apparently, the ratio of women to men in Hoboken, NJ, is 8 to 2. That means every guy in town can have as many as four girlfriends, and he will not be called "stingy." He's just taking his fair share, right? Well, I'm not that generous!

In today's Post: Manhattan tops U.S. for singles. Of all the households in New York, 48% are hoarding singletons! Yes! I didn't think I was crazy. When I left Kansas City two years ago (two years and a week ago, to be exact), didn't I say it would be easy to find a BF in NYC? Didn't I? Based off of that info! But have I been involved in a single relationship since my arrival? Have I? No. NO.

I have no solution for this. Nada. All I can do is wash my laundry tonight at the Garden Street Laundromat and pray that Mr. Right's plaid boxers gets mixed in with my bras and panties. He'll spot his man-like undies swirling around amid my sexy knickers (because I've decided to wear my sexy underthingies whenever I want—there are no "special" occasions anymore, no potential soireé where my black lace panties may be seen), and we'll bond over...underthingies. And then we'll go to my apartment and watch O.C. re-runs while rolling around in our freshly laundered laundry.

If only my love life matched my imagination...

Wednesday, August 10, 2005

Looks Can Be Deceiving

Do you ever have days where you look in the mirror and think, Gee, I'm just not as cute as I thought I was. Like, all these years, you thought you were an attractive person...most of the time. Then suddenly, it occurs to you that you may have been living a lie. A borderline cocky, conceited lie. In actuality, you're this grotesque person with dark under-eye circles, forehead wrinkles, yellow teeth, freckles and thin, vein-y cheeks. Uh, ew! No wonder you don't have a BF! Maybe you should have accepted that slightly nerdy boy's offer to buy you a drink. Because honey, slightly nerdy's as good as it's gonna get.

Melodramatic much? Perhaps. I'm trying to sell some furniture, see. I have a $30 rickety old desk, and I received an e-mail from Whitney this morning. She wanted to come by tonight. So at 9 p.m., Whitney calls. Only, Whitney is a he with a twangy, Texan accent. Not only that, but an adorable Whitney shows up on my doorstep. "Hah," he drawls. He steps into my room, takes one look at my desk and says, "That's smaller than I wanted. See yah," right before he turns on his heel and nearly runs out of my apartment. He couldn't leave fast enough! Weird, I think. Until I glance in the mirror and spot my sweat-tastic face. Ew! No wonder. I'm just not as cute as I thought I was.

Editor's note: I'm not fishing. If I get one, "But you are cute," I'm gonna have Whitney hunt you down. It's just how I feel. This week.

Sunday, August 7, 2005

"Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly." —Anonymous

Wednesday, August 3, 2005

The Deletion Factor

First of all, let's hope the need to Delete someone from your life is a rare occurrence. But occasionally, reminders of that vicious ex-BFF or The Ex can just be too painful to bear. Thus, The Deletion Factor comes into play. Sometimes it's the only way one can move on, but unfortunately, in Today's world, Deletion is harder than ever.

Before Deleting, there's some prep work that must be done. After crying over the fact that this person sucks, you must decide whether she/he is worth remaining in your life. If you're smart, the answer's probably NO. After all, what kind of a you-worthy person causes that much pain and grief? Take a couple of days before Deletion to accept the impending Delete Day. If you must, torture yourself by listening to saved voicemails, re-reading text messages and googling him/her. Because once he/she is Deleted, there's no going back.

Sure, obviously Delete his/her cell number, so as not to call/text said jerk in the midst of a panic attack/rage. But to ensure complete Deletion, consider all outlets beyond The Cell. Delete text messages from him/her and messages sent to him/her. Delete saved voice messages. Most likely the saved messages are sweet, which can lead you to believe this person doesn't suck, and before you know it, you'll be begging for him/her back. NO WAY.

All e-mail accounts. Delete messages from Outbox and Inbox in your personal e-mail account. With work e-mail accounts, it gets tricky. There's your Inbox, your Outbox, Sent box, Deleted Items box, Address book, etc. Delete them. All.

That's not all, my friends. In Today's world where there's the occasional five minutes you're caught in your cube with nothing to do, you've likely spent time surfing the 'Net, creating useless profiles on various networking sites. Friendster. Um, he/she is not your friend. Delete his/her profile. My Space. He/she needs to get out of Your Space. Immediately. Delete. OKcupid,,, etc. Do you have a blog? Delete any comments he/she might have made. This person is not worthy to comment on your life, nor your superb writing skills.

Any gifts, hand-written notes, photos? Rip up and toss out. The extremes of burning mementos is outdated. Too hazardous.

Aprés D-Day
Celebrate! Toast! Cheer! He/she is out of your life, and you can swiftly move on. Hopefully to someone who will not succumb to The Deletion Factor.

Tuesday, July 26, 2005

Wax On, Wax Off

Disclaimer: Not a chick? Then you may not care to read this entry.

So I walked into my favorite nail salon on Friday in need of a wax. Not an eyebrow wax. The Wax. I haven't gotten The Wax since last summer. Don't get me wrong, I'm no Bush Girl. I trim Delores. (I don't have a name for my "down there" region. That's just want my friend Jill and I used to say when discussing hygiene.)

Anyway, so I was going to get The Wax. Let me give you the play-by-play 'cause it was v. interesting.

Wax Lady: You want p*ssy wax or bikini wax?
Me: Huh?
Wax Lady: P*ssy wax or bikini wax?
She said the "P" word! OMG...
Me: Bikini, please.
Wax Lady: I try something else you like.
Me: No, I'd just like a bikini wax please.
Wax Lady: You like. Just lie down.
Me: I'm scared.
Wax Lady: Don't be scared. Rriiippp!
Me: Ow!
Rriiippp! Rip! Riipp!
Wax Lady: All done!
I glance down, as I feverishly slide on my panties and skirt. There's what looks like a hairy race track on my crotch. Whatev. What's done is done.
Me: Thanks! Can I please get my eyebrows waxed? Not too thin!
Wax Lady: Sure!
Riip! Rip! There's something about an eyebrow wax I like. Maybe it's the masochist side of me just longing to be noticed. But "down there"? I do not enjoy that. It hurts like a mo-fo.
Wax Lady: All done! $15, please!
I give her a $20.
Me: Can I please have $1 back?
She gives me back a $5.
Me: But that was my tip! Don't you want it? I don't need the $1. You can keep the $5.
Wax Lady: It's OK! Good for business!
Me: No! Take it! I want to tip you.
Wax Lady: No tip! Here, take nail polish.
She shoves a box of assorted polishes at me.
Me: I don't need nail polish! I just want to tip you!
Wax Lady: No tip. Take polish! Gift! There. Pretty color. See you next time!
Me: Um, well, thank you! I'll be back!

What a weird experience. The racing strip is slowly growing on me...haha, literally!

Friday, July 22, 2005

BFF For Life?

Having friends in your 20s is no easy feat. You were only friends with those you were friends with in high school because, basically, if you wanted a social life, you didn't have much of a choice. Then if you went the traditional route, you went to college. You tried for maybe a year to keep in touch with your HS buddies, but it just got too tough, so eventually, you stopped trying. With the exception of a small handful perhaps.

Once at college, maybe you're thrown into a 9x12 dorm room with a girl you're forced to get along with, a girl with whom you'd normally never socialize. You get to know the girls and guys on the floor (if you're lucky, you've landed on a co-ed floor), and you soon realize that everyone's just not going to like you. You can try to make as many friends as you want, but they have to chose you, too.

Perhaps you join a sorority and gain 150 friends. You move into the Greek house with the white columns, only this time, it dawns on you that some people may not like you, but you may not like everyone else either. You learn that alcohol is beneficial in forming friendships. You may be chillin' with that Gamma Gamma Gamma chick over a keg of Natty Light. It dawns on you that you both love the same shade of lip gloss and that you've both recently shacked up with that Beta Beta Beta hottie. Voila. Instant best friends!

Then you graduate from college, and you're painfully aware that you'll most likely never be all together again. You may reunite at the occasional wedding, but it won't be the same. You're off to move to some city because you got that dream job (if you're lucky), with no idea how you'll have a life outside of work, because essentially, you don't know a soul. Slowly you build up your social circle for the third time, and everyone's flitting around, searching for Mr. Right, trying to keep in touch with old friends, trying to make new friends, and you just don't know who'll be your friends for life.

You make friends with coworkers, who then move on and get better jobs, and slowly you lose touch. Meantime, you're still struggling to hang on to that handful of HS and college friends who live across the country. You chat on the phone every other month. Sometimes it's awkward, and sometimes you can pick up right where you left off. Perhaps those are the friendships for life.

Truthfully? I still don't know who my bridesmaids will be. I think about it from time to time, and it always changes. I haven't had what you call "a BFF" in four years, so I have what I call "several BFFs." Some join the circle, some drift away, but someone is always there. But there's just no guarantee who'll be there forever.

Tuesday, July 19, 2005

If A Writer Has No Words, She Has Nothing!

I've been suffering from severe writer's block lately. I've been wanting to write a song...nada. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I only know three chords and don't really know how to write music. I tried singing a song to the tune of an angry villanelle I wrote three years ago, but the verse, "Another thing, your mouth did taste quite bland, Your frame was no DaVinci work of art, Distinguish beauty so we understand," just didn't quite work. My journal's not appealing, which I can chalk up to the fact that I'm simply a self-seeking gal who likes her words to be read. Why grow flowers if not to be seen? How Shakespearean of me.

Saturday, July 16, 2005

I've Secretly Spoken For All of Womankind

Glamour's take on body language:
If he plays air guitar, it actually means: "I wouldn't mind turning these fast fingers on you. Maybe I can make my move before you sober up and realize I'm just an overgrown frat boy."

It's about time I sobered up. No more faux rock stars for moi.

Thursday, July 7, 2005

At the ripe, old age of 26...

Realistic things that I hope happen within the next three years:
1. I plan to take more guitar lessons, followed by a miniscule amount of voice lessons.
2. I will write and produce a rockin' song on Chloé and sing it in front of a small, intimate, not-too-mean audience. (The Butterfly Homicide LP is indeed a possibility.)
3. I will start my novel titled Three Months (That's How Long Infatuation Lasts). It will be a fiction chick-lit book, loosely based on all of you. ;)
4. I will become involved in a grown-up relationship. With a boy. But I suppose that won't happen until I get the guts to start calling "boys" "men." And I don't see that happening anytime soon.
5. I plan to write a lengthy piece for Glamour. On what, TBD.
6. I will start my domestic-like recipe box. It's empty and is swiftly collecting dust.
7. You knew this was coming. But you know, I don't give two jars of peanut butter if I never lose 10 pounds. But I do plan to exercise REGULARLY and eat the sugar-free ice cream.
8. I'd better pay off that Visa. Credit cards are so addictive. And to think, I only wanted the free pair of sunglasses.
9. I will plan and take a vacation to a tropical-esque spot. Even if it's only Virginia Beach.
10. I will refrain from talking smack about my phenomenal poker skills and will learn how to bluff.

PS I'm so pissed that Lindsay Lohan named her new dumb dog Chloé. Fat bitch (not the dog).

Tuesday, June 28, 2005


Ugh. I've had horrid Live Journal block lately. Don't get me wrong—I've had plenty to write about. But I recently read an article about how a few bloggers got fired for what they'd posted about their jobs. My paranoia took hold, and I searched every journal entry in Still Wanna Know... and erased all of those that might even remotely get me fired.

And there have been certain people and things in and around my life that I've wanted to write about, but even I'm not that honest. Perhaps I need to start keeping a personal journal. I'm kind of getting tired of being this open book; so honest about my feelings and complexes. Maybe it's why I'm so sensitive...I leave myself open for it. Whatev. Anyway, here's what I have been pondering as of late:

I have exactly 40 pairs of shoes. Girls, count your shoes. How many pairs do you own? Be honest and leave a comment. I want to compare. Forty sounds like a lot, but something tells me that compared with the average female, it's not. Keep in mind, this includes my four pairs of Old Navy flip-flops, in a variety of colors. So don't leave a single pair out.

Sprinkles are only a garnish. I've been addicted to Tasti D-lite lately. Like, it's bad. At least every other day I'm eating it. Apparently they have 200 flavors. I always get a small cup of the goodness with chocolate sprinkles. I was introducing a new friend to the drug recently, and he'd never heard of Tasti. Are you kidding me? When I whispered that it's fat-free with only 40 calories a serving, he claimed it tasted like Carvel frozen frosting, and then challenged that the sprinkles probably contain a few calories. Hel-lo! Sprinkles are merely a garnish or a spice—like salt and pepper added to green beans. And everyone knows that spices don't really have calories. And you better not challenge me on this one. Let me wear my rose-colored glasses when it comes to sprinkles, OK?

What ever happened to Fiona Apple? Courtney and I were listening to her on the way to work this morning. I remember that I used to have her CD, but all of my CDs got stolen at a party back in 1998, along with Fiona's Tidal (think "Shadowboxer" and "Sleep To Dream.") What's happened to her since? Hopefully she's been stuffing her face.

Wednesday, June 8, 2005

Who Judges the Crazy Ones?

Do you ever wonder if you're just plain crazy? Like loony-bin-strapped-to-the-bed-and-fed-soup-through-a-straw crazy? Like I wonder how Esther in The Bell Jar went crazy. She seemed so normal at first. She was just hangin' out one summer in piss-hot New York. She should've been ecstatic 'cause she was working that summer at the hottest magazine around. Then a few chapters later, she swallows some pills and buries herself in the wall of her cellar. By the end of the book, she's in the loony bin and can't fathom how she got there.

How does someone do that to themselves? How does someone go off the deep end like that? I'm currently reading a memoir about a guy who, at 13, was forced to live with his mom's nutty shrink. This guy spent his teen years living in some squalor with a woman who ate dog food and a man who was convinced that God was speaking to him through his poop. And he didn't go crazy. Interesting.

On a cheerier note, I walked into my favorite coffee shop yesterday, and what did I stumble upon? Why, about five rock stars, of course! Just sittin' around next to their acoustic guitars. I thought I'd walked into heaven. Turns out it's open mic night—every Tuesday! Eye candy, oh boy! But let me tell you, this girl took the "stage," and she was AWESOME. She wrote her own stuff; it was fantastic. I can't wait until I can play. I only know four chords and a finger exercise on my baby. But I glued some nice rhinestones on her, so at least she's stylish.

Thursday, April 14, 2005

It's Spreading Across the Nation!

Thousands of twenty-something single women are finding themselves bogged down with: Subconsciously Single By Choice Syndrome.

I was speaking with my buddy Robin, and this strange-but-not-so-strange phenomenon suddenly occurred to me. I think I'm on to something.

Those of us ladies who are single, who relentlessly complain about it, who are smart, ambitious, attractive, who can't seem to find a decent guy...but is it all so accurate? Are we finding decent guys? Perhaps we are. Let's say we like a guy, in fact, are crazy for a guy, and the minute that guy shows interest in us, we scurry like pigeons after a bum with bread. We freak. We find any little thing wrong with the seemingly once-perfect guy so as not to like him that much. The question we should be asking ourselves is: Are we single gals subconsciously making ourselves single?

Thursday, March 31, 2005

Wanted: Hot Guy Offering Guitar Lessons

I have three things I'd like to talk about:

1. The Ex Files
So The Ex was in town a month ago. Come to find out, he asked my friend E for her phone number, claiming, "Yeah, we should all hang out sometime." Of course she assumed I would be included, she barely knew who the hell he was. Three weeks later (not three days, as in the "Three Day Rule," but three weeks), he calls her. He says, "I'm The Ex. We met a few weeks ago?" She's like, "The Ex? Where'd we meet?" He's all, "A bar. I was with another guy." She's like, "What bar?" He's all, "I don't know. I'm tall. Um, The Ex, Tina's friend." Three years later he mentions me. So then she remembers him and is like, "Oh? How's Tina? I haven't talked to her in a while." He hasn't talked to me in a while either. Not in three weeks. He's all, "I don't know. Do you wanna come visit out here in LI? Stay a weekend?" Huh?? What's with picking up my friends behind my back? Acting like she's not going to piece together that I'm Your Ex. If you want to hook up with my friends, I probably wouldn't care, because I'm so over you and your big ugly weiner. But don't intentionally do it behind my back. And if you're going to do that, at least be smooth and call her when she'll remember your dumb face. Some boys are stupid.

2. The Orange Crush
There's someone out there who I think is cute. He sent me a sweet text message yesterday, and of course, I immediately responded, thinking he might respond. Nope. I hate being the last person to send a text—it gives the other party all the control. Please send me a text message. So I can not text you back and have my control again, thank you.

3. Future Rockstar
So...(drum roll, please)...I'm going to buy a guitar! Maybe a pink acoustic one, but how freakin' AWESOME would that be? More awesome than a chocolate-covered butterfly, I'll tell you that. Kidding, I would never eat a butterfly, I do not support b-fly homicide. Ooh..what a cool album title..."Butterfly Homicide." Release date TBA. Anyway, back to my guitar. I figure I can get a decent one for $100. And check into some cheap lessons around here, but this is not talk. I'm totally doing this in the next two weeks. I'll be one of those cool guitar-music chicks. It's all just v. exciting!

Monday, March 28, 2005

Twentysomething Adolescence

Sometimes...I just feel like I'm going through puberty all over again. Or adolescence. Maybe not puberty, I have that particular 5-day-a-month timeframe down pat.

But adolescence. I hated it. I couldn't decide between blonde, brown or red hair, so I tried them all. I didn't know if I was a bodysuit-and-cords preppy or a dad's-flannel-and-baggy-jeans grungy, so I did both. I fell into a Nirvana phase after Kurt's death, but I still loved TLC. Some days I knew all about life's deepest secrets. Other days I was an unpopular shy girl with braces and big glasses who didn't have a clue.

That was Junior High. And Ewic. Then High School came and went. Popularity came and went. Same with part-time jobs and college. And moving across the country.

Now here I am. I've decided on brown hair, and I've come to realize that it's OK to have an ecclectic taste in music. I still can't decide if I want to be a working-girl professional with power pantsuits or if I want to go to work looking like a rockstar. I'm not sure if everyone else can see that I feel like a kid living in an adult's world. I'm still an insecure girl who bites her lip and can never grow her nails because they're always chewed to the quick. A girl who's still baffled by the opposite sex, when all she wants is someone to hold her hand and walk her to her hypothetical locker.

I'd never want to relive adolescence. I hated it.

Sunday, March 27, 2005

The 10th Anniversary of My First Kiss

Easter, 1995. I was 13 and in the 8th grade at James Bridger Junior High School.

His name was Eric, and he was a freshman at Fort Osage High School. The only thing was, he had a horrendous speech impediment and pronounced his name "Ewic." We met at Praise Tabernacle Church when he was visiting with some religious friends. It was love at first sight when he boarded the PTC van and said "Hi, I'm Ewic." We proceeded to talk on the phone a lot and occasionally sit next to each other in church. After about 3 weeks, I invited Eric over for Easter dinner with my 'rents.

My mom was in the kitchen making dinner, and Eric and I were hanging out in my room with the door open, because that was the rule. Eric and I were playing Mario Paint on my Super Nintendo when he suddenly went in for the kiss. His lips met mine. My eyes were wide open, and then I remembered I was supposed to close them, so I did, as I fumbled my tongue, not quite knowing what to do with it. I opened my eyes again, forgetting I had to keep them closed. The next few kisses of my life went like this. Eyes open. Closed. Open. Closed. Open. Then we stopped kissing and resumed our game of Mario Paint. Didn't say a word about the kiss. It obviously wasn't his first kiss, but oh, it was mine.

The next time Eric came to visit, his hand went up my shirt. When it touched my uber-padded bra, I flinched. I remember him touching my boob, wondering why is he touching my boob? This isn't fun for me. It's so tiny, surely he's not getting pleasure out of this. He must think I like it, but I don't. And here I am, trying to close my eyes, work my tongue magic and get his hand off my chest. A horrible situation for an 8th grader to deal with.

A few more weeks into our relationship, Eric and I were talking on the phone. He begged me to sing Janet Jackson's "Again" to him. Apparently he loved singers. I was a horrible singer, but I tried my best to get my vocal chords to match the notes. He was in high school, and I wanted to impress him. And kiss some more. He lied and said I wasn't a bad singer. Our next phone conversation went something like this:

Me: What's wrong?
Eric: I don't think I can see you anymore.
Me: Why?
Eric: I just love you too much. I don't want you to get hurt.
Me (in tears): OK. Bye.

I hang up the phone, actually thinking Eric is a nice guy because he really loves me. I mean, he loves me too much to go on. How sweet is that? I was 13. My first introduction to male bullshit. (No offense guys, but some of you can be full of shit, as am I at times.) A few years later I was happy to run into Eric and learn that he never got his speech impediment fixed.

Wednesday, March 23, 2005

Sack Time: Dominance vs. Submission

Disclaimer: This entry contains slight sexual content, a rarity in Still Wanna Know..., mind you.

My friend M and I were just chatting, and we may very well have stumbled upon an earth-shattering theory. Are shy guys known to be domineering in the sack, therefore, super-outgoing guys are submissive? We think the answer to this question could be True. Now let me clarify, I'm not Ms. Expert. But I'm certainly Ms. Enough Experience To Know. M and I have determined that we certainly have our preferences when it comes to fooling around or to doing the deed. We're not whips-and-chains aggressive, but we know what we want and are not afraid to say so. But this phenomenon is rather interesting:

I once dated a guy—MB. He was incredibly outgoing, a real goofball. Great guy. But once any level of intimacy arose, I was the aggressor. I had to be. But in MB's case, I think he was being respectful. That's OK.

M once dated a guy—K. K was crazy-shy. Borderline socially awkward, until you got to know him, of course. Great guy, too. But this guy was the total opposite in the sack. Domineering, forcful, you name it. Great stuff. What gives?

Shy Guy = Dominant Partner
Outgoing Guy = Submissive Partner

I want feedback! Do you agree? Disagree? Think we're full of shit and wasting valuable sack time analyzing? Post comments.

Thursday, March 17, 2005

Why Try This At Home? It Won't Work.

So yesterday a coworker told me about a trick that tells you when you'll get married. You fill up a glass 1/2 way with water. Then take a chain, put a ring on it, and put it in the glass so the ring sinks. Then pull out the ring, leaving it directly above the water. The ring then starts to swing on the chain, and the number of times the ring dings on the glass is the age you'll be when you get married. After so many dings, the ring suddenly stops swinging. Make sense? Apparently she gets the same number everytime—31.

One of my top 3 fears is that I'll never fall in love. So I snag a whiskey glass, fill it 1/2 way with water and stick my class ring on a silver chain. I sink it, pull it out, and it never dings. I blow on it. It dings 5 times. I lose the class ring and snag a cheap silver ring. No ding. I put ice in the glass and try again. No ding. Either I'm retarded or I'm just never getting married. Perhaps I'm both retarded and destined to die alone. The bouquet I caught at last weekend's wedding was just a ploy to keep me hanging on to the hope that Mr. Tina S. is out there. Well I have news for you Miss Bouquet Tease. The ring didn't ding. So I just ate 1/2 a box of Thin Mints. Thank you, Girl Scouts.

Thursday, March 10, 2005

Still Flying Solo

So I was being a total Drama Queen a few days ago, get over it. That's just me, so whatEV! I'm excited to fly home tonight. I just love airports. Along with my coffee shop fantasy, I have a fantasy about getting the good luck of snagging a seat next to a hot single guy with good taste in music. And we have a 3-hour flight with little-to-no turbulence to discuss why Jack Johnson is the best musician ever. And we play some video games on my portable Nintendo and oh! He just happens to live in Hoboken, too! Well, the prospect of it all is just v. exciting! That's why I never mark a seat preference on my e-ticket, even though I adore window seats. I want to leave it up to fate.

Monday, March 7, 2005

Where's Peter Pan when I need him? we have to grow up and act professional? Why can't we just choose when to grow up? Why can't I just wear black nail polish to work if I want, what makes me too old to like pop punk? In the white collar world, why should I be asked to lose my personality? It's like...people just graduated from college, and now you have to be an adult. It's not weird that I have like, 30-year-old friends. No one asked me if this was OK! It's not OK!

Why did I deem it necessary to miss every Spring Break so I could work and save money? Why did I spend the summers slaving away in greasy, mediocre restaurants, instead of travelling abroad? I've never been to Venice. I had this stupid dream that things would be different in New York. Well they're different, but uh, better? No. Do I have anything to show for it? Mm, yeah but Ms.Honesty isn't that honest. Believe me, it's not like it's good or anything. And I don't give a crap if this makes no sense to any of you, or if it sounds like a fat pity party. I. Don't. Care. I only HATE writing in my personal journal b/c I hate writing. Like literal writing.

Do you ever just feel lower than low and then click through your phone, but you find that you have no one to call? See, usually when it comes to my problems, I'm a talker. Everyone knows about 'em. Ms. Honesty, right here. Well what do you do when you really find you have no one to call? At least no one you want to call. And the only book you have to read sucks, your eyes hurt from crying, and you can't eat ice cream because your tummy hurts. That poem you've started now sounds like crap because you find you're really not a poet, and you never really were. You find that the cover lines on the new Glamour are not appealing - "Help For Every Woman's Hair!" You don't feel like organizing your recipe box or crocheting a new scarf. You've lost 20 games of Snood and 17 games of Solitaire. You want to put off sleeping because you've been having scary dreams lately, and it's tiring. So what do you do? I guess just play 3 more games of Snood, 2 of Solitaire. Read a crappy chapter in the crappy book. And then go to sleep, and pray you don't dream. Just black empty sleep. For 8 hours. Only to wake up tomorrow and realize it was just a bad day. That's all.

Ms. Honesty. Right here.

F-You Forrest Gump. You and Your Box of Chocolates.

Life is kind of like an Armageddon game of Snood. You know you're going to die. Or drown. You know you're in over your head. Especially when you're about to hit brick wall, and you have a blue guy to shoot, but no pair of blue guys to shoot at. You know you're going to die. But you still keep trying.

Thursday, March 3, 2005

Tina's Turning Point

Hmm, perhaps I'm at some sort of...turning point? I'm not sure. I'm 23, and I feel more self-assured than ever. I'm in love with my job, and for that, I feel immensely lucky. I work all day, rarely taking much of a lunch break, and I'm happy doing it. I'm fine with being single, and I've accepted my love handles...and my forehead wrinkles. I've grown attached to the chip on my tooth from junior year's tongue ring, and I don't mind the fact that I'm going to a BFF's wedding next weekend, sans a hot date. I don't give a pooh that the only rock star I ever dated dumped me after three weeks. (But I'm secretly happy that his band never made it.) I could care less that hot guys at bars hit on my practically-engaged roommate instead of moi. I have more good hair days than not, and my credit card debt has significantly decreased. I'm still a bad cook, and I like to sleep on weekends, but that's fine. I'm just ok with myself which is...weird. Maybe it's just a phase? What the F?

I mean, I am irritated that The Ex called four times last week, and he didn't call at all this week. I'm pissed that he didn't try to make out with me Friday night and pissed that he did Saturday night. Still no pleasing me there. So I'm flaky? That's ok. This is my turning point.

Thursday, February 3, 2005

On the Subject of Getting Old...

Grr! So about 8 months ago I noticed that I have a small wrinkle between my eyebrows. (The downfall of being unable to hide my emotions, i.e. furrowed brows.) Every now and then when no one's looking, I'll sit with my eyebrows raised, therefore widening the space between my brows, hoping to flatten the wrinkle.

Last week I noticed that I have six more wrinkles on my forehead! Three above my left brow, and three above my right. If I lower my eyebrows, stretching out my forehead, thereby flattening the wrinkles, the one between my brows deepens. I'm stuck! I'm stuck with wrinkles! At 23! No matter which way I smoosh my face, the wrinkles worsen. I hate getting old, but I refuse to succumb to Botox. I use night cream, wrinkle smoother and four different kinds of moisturizer. I'm a beauty editor for pete's sake! I get the best of the best! But I still have wrinkles. Boo.

Monday, January 31, 2005

A Story About Four Boys In Jersey

Friday night, The Bar At Tenth And Willow.

11:35 p.m.
Me (to bartendar): Can I get a Red Bull?
Boy w/ spikey hair: You have really shiny hair.
Me: Thanks!
Boy: What do you use on it?
Me: This intensive conditioner stuff, I don't know. And some shine enhancer stuff.
Boy: It's just that a lot of girls have this big hair.
Me: I guess. (Awkward silence. Get Red Bull.) Well, I gotta get my friends.
Boy: Later.

1:45 a.m.
Boy w/ green sweater: You look really sober.
Me: I am.
Boy: That's cool. You have good karma.
Me: Thanks. (He then proceeds to rub my shoulders and those belonging to all of my friends, including guys.)

2:50 a.m. Outside TBATAW.
I spot Courtney talking to two guys.
Me: Don't talk to her! She has a boyfriend! She's married!
Boy #1: Hey, you're cute. Wow, you're really cute.
Me: Wow, thanks!
Boy: I saw you inside. Hey, I have a beach house in Belmore. (He's already making plans for us! Why do boys make plans like that? Then they just stomp all over your really cute heart. I'm a drama queen, sue me.)
Me: That's cool. I'm Tina.
Boy: I'm Joe Renaldi. (Or something like that.)
Me: Is that Italian?
Boy: Yep. Hey, can I get your number? I might call you in two days instead of three! (Referring to the Three-Day Rule. Bold move, I like it!)

It is now two and a half days later. I don't really care. I had my fill of Jersey Italians last year. What was that kid's name? Sam? On our third date, he made up some excuse as to why he couldn't take the train back to Jersey, and the sweet kid that I am, I said he could come to my Brooklyn apartment. He never called again when I said I didn't want to do "that" with him.

Saturday, January 8, 2005

Gee Whiz. It's Dandy Being Sweet, Ain't It?

Hot Boy I've been eyeing around town for two months talked to me today. We got pizza at Benny Tudino's (Home of America's Biggest Slice). He ate two big-ass slices and bought my slice.

HB: So what do you do?
Me: I work for a teen magazine. I'm a writer.
HB: Oh, my girlfriend's a writer. She works for The Queens Ledger-Times.
Me (Fuuuuck.): Oh, that's nice. So, how'd you meet her? I find it so hard to meet people here!
HB: Blah blah blah. Blah blah. But you're so, uh, sweet. You'll be fine, believe me. You're a sweet girl.

Fuck you. Fuck you and double fuck you. Story of my God-forsaken LIFE!

Monday, January 3, 2005


Boo. The holidays are over. I guess I'm sort of glad. After all, the holidays left me with a 5-pound weight gain and a $600 credit card bill. Ha. I'm exaggerating as usual. The night I walked in my apt. after a two-week haitus, my roommate's scale put me at a whopping 147 lbs. Whaaah! But the next day, I was back down to 141.5. Yeah. Still 10 lbs. more than I'd like, but whatev. I can see this going off on another Tina, weight and food entry, so I'll stop right there.

On a good note, I spent $240 today! But I got soo much stuff! Two pairs of jeans, a pair of red heels, seven shirts, a skirt, two pairs of PJ pants, two hot bras and two pairs of panties. Woooh! I know you don't give two shits about all that, but if I have any single, non-married readers left, perhaps you can relate: That fab feeling of having loads of brand-new clothes lasted all of two hours. Why? No dates, no boys. No crushes at work. No crushes. Period. No one to care if I look sexy or not. Boo.

But I did go back to the Hot Boy Grocery today. And yet again, loads of hotties for me to oogle. I did. In the deli line. For starters, Hot Boy #1 was holding everything up. He just had to get 1/2 lb. Alpine Lace Swiss, 1/4 lb. Land O'Lakes Sharp Cheddar, 1 lb. Master Choice Honey Ham and 1 lb. Boar's Head Mesquite Turkey. Daaamn. That took 15 minutes! During that time, I was racking my brain with something witty to say to him. Something like, "Hey! You're holding up the line, buddy!" (Insert sweet smile.) Or, "You gonna eat all that meat by yourself?" (Flirty laugh.) But of course, I just stood there staring at my meat of choice behind the glass: Master Choice Honey Maple Turkey. Boy #2 says to Boy #3: "Do we have to get a number or is this the line?" Boy # 3 shakes his head. Why didn't Boy #2 ask me that? Lord knows when I have a question and no friends are around, I scope out the hottest-looking specimen out there. Anything to spark up a convo, b/c Lord knows I'm terrible.
Online Marketing