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.
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