Little Death

They say a little death makes life more meaningful. I can't agree. It doesn't make me want to live with less regrets. It just leaves a black hole. I know from experience that the hole gets smaller in time. But it's always there. Whether losing a family member, a friend or a pet, it's an aching emptiness that never fully goes away. You may hear a song, get a vision from the past or become flooded with memories, and you choke up. Tears well behind your eyes. It isn't exactly fair.

She was my world for three months. When you're 2,000 miles from a place considered home, trying to make a home out of a place that still feels a bit foreign, and you encounter a ball of love, pure love, it's a devastating blow when it's gone. Every night after work, I ran up two flights of stairs as fast I could, because I hated to hear her crying. I would crack the door, and there she'd be, on my kitchen table, tilting her head up at the doorway. I could always tell she'd just woken up by the way her eyes squinted. She hated to sleep when I was around, as she was afraid she'd miss something. I'd scoop her up, and she'd nuzzle my cheek, complete with a few kisses. I'd get ready for bed, she'd be under my feet. She'd bring her favorite stuffed mouse over to me, and I'd throw it. She'd bring it back, and it would continue like this until I decided it was time for bed. She'd stretch out on the pillow beside me, and we'd watch TV together. She never fell asleep before I did. I only knew this because I'd catch her sleeping, stretched out on her back when I'd wake up in the middle of the night. Until the sun came up and she'd lick me awake. My face, chin, neck. I'd brush her off, but she never gave up, always determined. I'd get up, take a shower. I always knew that when I stepped out of the shower, she'd be laying there. Ready to lick the water off my toes. Then she'd lay and watch me apply my makeup, in awe of what I was doing. Every day for three months. And I miss her so much. She wasn't afraid of anyone or anything. She loved people and she loved life.

And then she was gone, and I didn't see it coming. And I was in denial This isn't happening straight to hysteria Come back to work on Monday, Tina then angry at the animal hospital Couldn't they have done more? then guilt Could I have done more? then ashamed She's just a cat, right?, and then a dull, throbbing ache. And the next day I was OK. Until I found myself rushing up the stairs for no reason. And everyone at work is so sorry. And I'm OK. But then I come home, and I'm alone, and it's hard. That's the way grief is. I know from experience. But I also know from experience that she's just one of two angels who'll always be with me.

On Having a Cat

Do you have a cat? I do. Her name is Chloé. She's four months old. Every morning, she likes to wake up at the crack of dawn. I don't. I hate mornings. So she wakes up, and she runs. She runs back and forth, across my face, over my ass, across my head, taking no care as to what she's stepping on. It hurts when she steps on my boobs.

I'm a beauty editor for a teen magazine, so I have like 30 pots of eyeshadow lined up on my dresser. I like makeup. Every morning when I finally do get up, there are 30 pots of eyeshadow strewn across my 300-square-foot apartment. I pick them back up, line them up on my dresser. I do this every morning. Then I take a shower. Chloé sits on the floor, waiting to lick my toes when I step out of my claw-foot tub. I think it's weird. She likes it.

On this particular morning, I went to my dresser to apply my makeup, like I always do. Chloé just lays there on the dresser, like she always does, with her fake sleepy eyes, waiting for a prime opportunity to make my morning routine a living hell. I grabbed my navy blue loose-powder eyeshadow that I never wear, but on this day, I was wearing a navy blue dress. And Jilian taught me in the 11th grade that it's a good idea to match your makeup to your outfit.

Chloé pretended to be sleeping. I knew better, but I did it anyway. I put the eyeshadow down, lid off, and quickly applied it. BIG mistake. I'm swiping the shadow close to my lash line, like a liner (I learned this in Glamour), when I hear a THUNK. I spot the paw in mid-air. FUCK. All over my white floor rug! Agh. Wet hair, half-done makeup, 4 minutes to catch the bus. I toss a towel over the blue mess, curse the furry asshole, and go to work.

PS On the way to work, a crazy homeless man called me a cracker. I looked back at him to ensure he was talking to me. He was.

Hoping By a Thread

Wanna hear a secret? Sometimes I put a package of M&M's in the fridge, let them freeze a bit, and then pour them in my jar of Jif peanut butter and eat them...by the spoonful. I make sure only to scoop a little bit of PB on the spoon, after all, a little goes a long way. There's my secret. And I just put away my jar of peanut butter. This could only mean two things: I had a bad day, or I had a bad day and got my heart bruised.

Dramatic, I know. And my heart's not even scratched, but my ego, oh, that's another story. So my latest conquest wants to be friends. We don't click. The thing is, I didn't even like him that much. I was simply open to taking a chance. I was told to put myself out there, so I did. Perhaps it's because I'm a touch immature? I do have a voice like a 12-year-old on speed. Maybe my love handles aren't quite...loveable? Could I be too honest and upfront? Fine. I know the answers to these queries. He's not worth it if he doesn't love me for me. I just can't help but wonder...if anything will ever happen for me? I'm like the chick in Never Been Kissed, only, I've made it to fourth base. ...So maybe I'm not like her, scratch that. It's just, well, there's this article in an old issue of New York Magazine that continues to haunt me. It focused on four women, all of whom never fell in love. They never got married. They had fullfilling lives, just no...fourth base. If I knew that when I hit 32, I would fall in love and get married shortly thereafter, I would be completely fine. It's just that terror that I'm destined to be alone. Not to party in my pity, but it's just a fear of mine. I'd like to think it's human nature, but everyone else is too cool to admit it. I guess I never really was one for cool.

Thank You, Anonymous.

So Anonymous found my "goal" blog. July 7, 2005. I'm so mortified. I've done NONE Of these things. I've got to get my arse into gear. Big time.

title: At the Ripe, Old Age of 26... So these were my goals by the time I turned 26, not 27. Nice. I must've thought real highly of myself to think I could even accomplish half of these.
mood: blah My mood isn't as "blah" as it used to be, so I suppose that's good?
music: My Chemical Romance (do they have any other songs?!) They just released a new album, so at least that's changed in two years.
Realistic things that I hope happen within the next three years: Realistic?! I don't think I realized that I was about to turn 24 in a month (August 5), which sort of shaved a year off my timeline.
1. I plan to take more guitar lessons, followed by a miniscule amount of voice lessons. My guitar is STILL dusty. And my singing voice still sucks.
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.) See number 1.
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. ;) I haven't written a book, but I've sought advice from numerous in the field on how to write a book proposal. I bought a 5-inch thick book full of book-publisher listings. I've decided to write my memoir first (on a certain topic...am not that egocentric) and then tackle a fiction novel. Have I started either? No.
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. I now call "boys," "guys," but a grown-up relationship? No, although I'm being invited to more and more weddings.
5. I plan to write a lengthy piece for Glamour. On what, TBD. Freelance work? No. But I babysit more. :(
6. I will start my domestic-like recipe box. It's empty and is swiftly collecting dust. OK, this one I can cross off the list. I included more recipes in my recipe box, but I seemed to have lost them when I moved. But I have a Betty Crocker cookbook that I didn't have before.
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. I eat LESS ice cream, but not sugar-free. I have a gym membership. I go sometimes. Is once a week regularly? No..but I plan to go more, OK?!
8. I'd better pay off that Visa. Credit cards are so addictive. And to think, I only wanted the free pair of sunglasses. Oh fuck. I don't want to talk about this one. It's a bit of a...sore subject right now. Needless to say, I can't cross it off.
9. I will plan and take a vacation to a tropical-esque spot. Even if it's only Virginia Beach. Nada. My plane tickets all go to see family. But it's OK. They're worth it. :)
10. I will refrain from talking smack about my phenomenal poker skills and will learn how to bluff. I actually own a poker set. And I'm not half bad. Cross it off.

PS I'm so pissed that Lindsay Lohan named her new dumb dog Chloé. Fat bitch (not the dog). OK, well, I bought a kitten. And named her Chloé. And I'm less hostile towards ol' Linds.

So I was able to cross off numbers 4 and 10. I'm not quite happy with this outcome, but at least it's a tell-tale sign that time's not slowing down. That, and my forehead wrinkles.

What Do You Get When You Cross a Writer Who's Not Writing?

A sad girl named Tina. I spent the past hour searching through my old LiveJournal for this list I made a couple of years ago that stated everything I wanted to accomplish by the time I turn 27. I doubt I did any of it. Perhaps I just wanted to make myself feel sorry for...myself. After all, I spent the previous hour stalking nobodies on MySpace who seemingly have gone farther in life than I have. Then I had to remind myself that A) I moved to New York, and I'm (barely) making it, but I'm making it nonetheless, which is a good thing. B) I do work for a REAL magazine, albeit for 12-year-olds. C) Life isn't a competition. I'm just a competitive soul living in it.

So due to the urging of my dad, perhaps my only loyal reader, I'm starting this thing up again. I don't like the voyeuristic aspect of MySpace. This "blog" makes me feel a bit more "safe." Although I'm sure some fellow Mizzou comrade could use this against me if I made any enemies. Punishment for being honest. Oh well. That's the competitive nature of life.

PS Not that my life is interesting, but if you happen to come across my little "goals" list while perusing the archives, please let me know which entry that was. I'm curious.

Birthday Obnoxious

What can I say, I'm a Leo. I can be terribly shy and socially awkward, but I secretly looove to be the center of a attention. All week..."IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!" Hell, I even told the guy at the gas station yesterday, and he gave me a free Balance bar. During dinner and dancing, I would not take off my pink butterfly tiara. (Ooh, and at the club, there was an Abercrombie party...with lots of hot male models!)

And now I'm 25, which I actually LIKE. I cried when I turned 20, rejoiced at 21, got wasted at 22 and 23...and here I am. A woman who is just now beginning to grow up (only a little) and who feels immensely loved. To my pop and friends back home, here and all over the country: Thanks for being you. I no longer need to say, "Oh, it's just my dad back home." I have family all over the place. YOU! Lots of love.

Head Vomit

If my mind were my tummy after eating a giant jar of Nutella, I'd be puking right now.

• No one in Union City speaks English. And it pisses me off! "Has the 156 bus come by yet?" Blank stare. "One. Five. Six? Come by?" Blank stare. Points to bus sign. "Nevermind." Points to bus sign. Nods head. "I SAID nevermind!" If you don't speak English, please, don't even try to help me, OK? Because I just get pissed.

• Because my company houses several women's titles and weeklies, there's always bins full of self-help books in our "cafeteria." This week the special is books on Diabetes. But every so often, I approach my desk to find a book on dating. Coworkers leave them on my desk. I've acquired Dating For Dummies and Breakup Girl to the Rescue! to name a few. Since ex-roommate/coworker Courtney got a new job, I thought my "Singleton" stamp on my forehead would start to fade. Nope. Because today I found Dating: A Singles Guide to a Fun, Flirtatious and Possibly Meaningful Social Life sitting by my computer when I got in from lunch.

• I think I have stalker tendencies. Like, when I want to reach a particular friend, I repeatedly call and hang up until they answer. I hate to leave a message unless absolutely necessary. I just get this thought in my head, and I won't rest until I've let it out. Like when I was three hours late to work last week, I called my boss four times until I got her on the phone. Now I'm not only "Single Girl," but I'm "Psycho Single Girl" at work.

• The three-year-old twins I babysit for are soo funny. We played Tea Party on Saturday, and of course they wanted milk for their non-existent "tea." So I went upstairs and fetched a small dixie cup of milk. Then the girls got rowdy, started chucking miniature pink plastic plates everywhere. I ran upstairs to grab some towels and I came downstairs to find Olivia crying on the sofa with milk dripping down her face and hair. Alexa was sitting there, silent. I cleaned O up and said, "Alexa, what do you say to your sister?" "Sorry," she says. Good enough for me. Then later Dad comes home, Alexa runs to him and says "Tina bad!" The girls say that about me at least every other week. I always freak out that the parents are going to think I beat their baby girls or something. I offer to get the girls changed for bed, and Alexa yells, "Tina bad! Stay here and watch Dora. You can't come in our room!" So I watched Dora the Explorer by myself. While Dad did my job. And then when it's time for me to go, Alexa yells, "Bye!" and gives me the biggest kiss and hug ever.

Thursday Morning Commute

Thursday, July 20
I knew it was going to be an early morning because I was meeting my friend Amy at 7am for coffee. I usually wake up at 8am. I have a whole routine. Catch bus #1 at 8:27am, arrive in Union City at 8:58am, grab Dunkin coffee and muffin, catch bus #2 at 9:07am, arrive to work at 9:48am. Little did I know, this morning, my routine would be completely fucked.

6am Alarm goes off. Hit Snooze.
6:05am Amy calls to make sure I'm awake.
6:09am Alarm goes off. Hit Snooze.
6:18am Alarm goes off. Hit Snooze.
6:27am Alarm goes off. Realize it's 6:30am and rush to get ready.
6:45am Walk outside to meet Amy. Realize that mornings are really nice. It's quiet and there are birds that chirp. Secretly wish I was a morning person.
6:50am Meet Amy at Dunkin'.
8am After meeting with Amy, decide to catch an early bus, so as to please boss and get a head-start on morning. I'm a genius.
8:45am Still waiting for bus #1. WTF?!
9am Catch bus #1. Turns out the Lincoln Tunnel going into the city is backed up like a frat-house toilet. Leave message for boss apologizing profusely for the traffic.
9:10am Spot bus #2. Have driver let me off, race between cars to catch bus #2. Bang on door. He shakes his head. It's not an official bus stop, so he can't let me on. Luckily, I spot bus #1 still in traffic, so I race back and beg to be let back on the bus. He reluctanly opens the door, and yells at me for being so irresponsible.
9:45am Get off bus in Union City. Am too pissed to get another Dunkin' coffee. And I don't want to go to work with the shakes from too much joe.
9:55am Still waiting for bus #2. Leave boss another frantic message. Have no idea when I will get to work.
10:30am No sign of bus #2. Contemplate hitchiking. Hop on one of those crazy Mexican vans that charge $1 to go to the GW Bridge.
11am Call boss and say I'm on my way. She insists it's fine, just take my time and get to work safe. Pretty much tell boss that I love her. Worry about crossing the line with boss. Oops.
11:15am Hop in cab at GWB. Give cabbie my work address, knowing the ride will only amount to $5.25. Affordable.
11:20am Cabbie keeps making conversation. I'm pissed and don't want to talk. What was once a productive morning is now ruined. Spot a sign behind cabbie's driver's seat that says, "I have a small dick. I like it up the ass." I assume the cabbie didn't know it was there, so I take it off and hand it to him. Some assholes probably put it there. He seems embarrassed. Secretly beat myself up for not just throwing it away myself, so as not to hurt his feelings.
11:30am Arrive to work in one piece. Cabbie charges $5.25. Give cabbie a $20, ask for $13 back. He only has $10s and $20. WTF?! So I paid $10 for a cab ride. Secretly curse myself for not leaving the little penis note on back of driver's seat.

What a shitty commute.

Garden State

I'm not all that New Jersey...yet. My first impression of the state was Newark. Ew. I vowed never to end up in Jersey, and here I am, a Hoboken resident in my second year. In the words of Fiona Apple, Oh well. I've since gained some Italian friends whom I love dearly, I've taken every damn bridge and tunnel there is, and I get stuck in traffic at least twice a week. And I don't even have a car. I've even seen James Gandolfini from The Sopranos. In real life. Doesn't get much more Jersey than that. But Jersey people are so proud of their heritage. Well, I'm still proud to be from "Kansas" as you Jersey folk like to say.

What is Success?

To laugh often and much, to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children, to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends, to appreciate beauty, to find the best in others, to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch... to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded! —Emerson

I came across this quote tonight—I think it's an amazing thing to strive for. Granted, I don't think I'm respected by a ton of intelligent people, and I'm not a fan of criticism, which is obvious, and I've been known to be judgmental of others, but I would like to leave the world a nicer place...and to someday affect just one life for the better. That would be success. I think we all affect many lives for the better. I can think of 20 people off the top of my head who help me to breathe easier.

So this is sappy, deal. I've been sooo caught up in my own shit lately, it's ridiculous. You know, in my mind, I'm so consumed with the thoughts of others but when the truth is, we're ALL consumed, we're all self-absorbed to some extent. And if you look at it that way, everyone's so busy looking at themselves, the good and the bad, there's very little time to think about you. Or me.

Success to me has always been having a dream, and then going for it. So many people talk about this, that and the other, and they never take action. Anyone can talk. But can anyone DO? I think so, but some are too full of doubt. Moving to New York minus any income may have been crazy at the time, but I was so focused...maybe because I've seen what happens to people who let their dreams die. Once I actually did it, I found myself lost for a couple of years. What next? Well, I've come to realize that true success is liking yourself, really loving who you are, and then just being happy. Will we ever just be HAPPY? Something always gets in the way...but perhaps all we can do is strive for it. Success is a work in progress. At least for me anyway.

Another (Failed?) Attempt at Finding Mr. Right

When it comes to leaving my phone number on little slips of paper for cute boys, you'd think I'd have learned my lesson...after Frenchie. Especially when he didn't ever call. Nope. I'm known for making the same mistakes repeatedly, for instance, just on Friday.

Amy and I went to dinner for some QGT (Quality Girl Time). Our waiter was cute and I was smitten when he actually convinced me to order the $25 steak over the $9 burger and fries. If I'm going to go out to eat, why not go ALL OUT? It's better to actually get a quality meal every once in awhile than to order shit food all the time. Anyway, we flirted, talked about his tattoos, etc. I was convinced he liked Amy, after all, God forbid a guy actually like me. Especially since I arrived in three-day-worn jeans, a T-shirt and sneakers...and Amy was dressed to the nines—as usual. Ame suggested I give him my digits. Why not? So after several balled-up pieces of paper, I settle on this little number:

I have 2 tattoos, too! You seem sweet—call me if you'd like to hang out! -Tina (the blonde) 718-555-3078

Meanwhile, there was an older lady sitting at a table nearby, all alone. Our waiter kept talking to her as if he knew her, which led me to believe that she may work there. For fear the bus boy would toss my sliver of hope in the garbage, I decided to have this woman make my move for me. The convo goes as follows:

Me: Excuse me, do you work here?
Lady: Why yes I do, is everything OK?
Me (in typical Tina fashion, all ramble-like): Well, you see, I was hoping you could give this to our waiter. He was really cute and nice, but I'm too shy to give it too him myself! Would you mind?
Lady: Oh, yes, he'll be so delighted! Is your number on here? He's going to be tickled!
Me: Yes, yes it is. Thank you!
Lady: Actually, I'm his mother! Two beautiful girls giving him attention? He'll love that!
Me: Really?! Oh, that's so funny... um, so yeah... nice to meet you, thanks!

I speed-walk out of the restaurant with Amy on my tail. Yes, I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. Story of my life.

What's Black and White and Read All Over?

This morning, I hopped on the PATH train to go into The City, as I had two fashion-showroom appointments. I was running late, as usual, so I passed up the woman handing out the free AM New York newspapers. Upon arriving to the train platform, I didn't race onto the filled-at-capacity departing train. I waited 1.3 minutes for the next train so I could sit my lazy ass down. And I did. I sat down and sipped my coffee as commuters piled on.

Many of these commuters had newspapers: The free AM New York, the free New York Metro, the 25-cent Post, the 50-cent Times. I started to grow unhappy because I didn't have a paper to read, especially when I noticed the same cover story on all of these papers: A story about a tram that was stuck over the Hudson for 12 hours. Stories of people in despair intrigue me, and I was dying to know what happened in that tram car.

I looked at those near me, seats filled, many standing, as the train pulled off towards The City. Weirdly, I felt panicky that I didn't have a paper. I saw one AM tossed on the floor—under someone's white stiletto, but I was too embarrassed to ask for a dirty paper off the ground. I intently watched those reading AM and the Metro, praying they would quickly finish so I could devour their free paper. After all, who keeps a free paper? No one finished during that 15-minute ride. Such slow readers! I would look from the business-suit guy to the happily-engaged girl with bad highlights——please finish your paper! No one did.

I got off that train at 33rd Street. I was running late, as usual. I raced to the B train that would take me to Rockefeller Center, about six blocks from my destination, when I was stopped in my tracks. There, right in front of me, was a large stack of unattended (free) AM New York newspapers. I took one and went about my day. The Lord works in mysterious ways, my friend.

Back in the Game?

As I scratch my head, trying to think of something clever to say, all that comes to mind is the fact that DATING IS HARD! Ugh. Just got done watching Brokeback, and my chances of being isolated on a mountain in Wyoming with Jake Gyllenhaal are pretty darn slim. So last night in a fit of desperation, I joined Match.com. Again. What am I doing?! One guy reads Bridget Jones books, another is a surgeon who looks like he could pass for a serial killer. The thought of sitting through another date with a guy who wears Airwalks and lives with Mom and Dad makes me cringe. But the thought of actually having a semi-regular sex life makes me kinda happy, too. What's a girl to do?

Crumbled

Sometimes I have the extreme urge to divulge all of my secrets. Like the fact that I have to physically push my iPod earbuds as far into my ears as they will go so to block out all of life's static. Because even with the volume turned all the way up, it still isn't enough. And like the fact that I continuously feed my hangups rather than attempt to alleviate them. And that I find myself relating better to my 15-year-old cousins than to my peers and colleagues. Could I be the first in an epidemic of backwards growth? I guess it has to happen to other people for it to be dubbed an "epidemic." As my therapist so kindly put it this morning, "Tina, you say you used to be better with organization. With time management. What happened?" At what point did I emotionally, mentally, physically begin to fall apart? Was it when I hit 13—suddenly defiant of ordering my school clothes from a JCPenney catalogue and urging my parents to keep a 50-foot distance at all times? Was it when my mom died—forcing myself to go into parent mode, even when I didn't need to? Was it when I left for college—drowning life's shit into a case of Natty Light, even though it tasted like piss? Or perhaps when I moved to New York. Or Hoboken. Or when I began my first job. Or when alcohol no longer functioned as an escape. Maybe I'm too honest. I'll probably delete this entry tomorrow. Damn PMS.

Edit: Can I just say that my friends mean the world to me? You know who you are, and I don't thank you nearly enough. You're like my family, and family is everything. (Don't worry, Dad, you're considered a friend, too.)

Scream (Not the Scary Movie)

I think there's something to the fact that when babies are born, they're screaming bloody murder. Just when they get used to the warm cushion of a woman's belly, BAM! They're struck with the harsh reality that is life, and there's nothing they can do but scream. Sometimes I wish there was a place I could scream, but I choose not to, because it goes against societal rules. If you walk around screaming, you'll get restrained. I can't scream in my apartment; the tenants will hear. I can't scream outside; the neighbors will hear. I can't go to the Hoboken pier and scream; people will hear and will think something's wrong. Maybe something IS wrong, but I don't want anyone else to know that. Isn't life just a lot of screwed-up people walking around, looking like they have it all together? But if I scream, my outsides will match my insides, and I'll look crazy. So sometimes I scream. Inside my head. Then I go on about my day, just another screwed-up person who looks like she has it all together.

My Bush Soapbox

I'm officially mad at the Bush Administration. Previously, I'd just gone by what I'd heard: He's against abortion, against stem cell research, etc. Many things that I'm a little more...for—cancer research and a woman's right to choose. Anyway, I've been reading The New Yorker beyond the funny little black-and-white drawings to brush up on my intelligence re: Current events. I came across an essay titled "Political Science, The Bush Administration's war on the laboratory." I nearly skipped over it, what a boring title. Personally, I prefer The NYer's fiction stories. Anyway, I convinced myself that in order to be a smarter girl, I need to read up on our leader, as big of a nincompoop he is. Listen to what I discovered:

A vaccine has been developed to protect women against HPV, the most common STD out there—more than half of us will become infected at some point. HPV is a primary cause of cervical cancer. Blech. A Bush Admin. crony said, "I object to vaccinating...against a disease that is one hundred percent preventable with proper sexual behavior." OK. What is proper sexual behavior? A condom? It can break. Waiting until marriage? The asshole can cheat. There's no surefire way to prevent HPV unless you just die a virgin. I also found out that since GW became prez, he's spent hundreds of millions of dollars on abstinence programs, and has cut almost that much in aid to groups that support abortion and the use of condoms. What the...? Peeps should know by now that if you tell kids not to do something, a lot of them are going to try it anyway. They're going to do what they want regardless—it's human nature. So let them do it as safely as possible, GW! In addition, federal health officials posted info online that suggested without valid evidence that abortion and breast cancer is somehow related. Liars! The Center for Disease Control also recently removed a summary of studies that showed that there was no increase in sexual activity among teens who had been taught about condoms.

I just don't get it. I know I'll never be able to convince Pro-Life believers the value of a woman's right to choose. That's fine, opposing opinions are fine, and I respect that. You can have your opinion, but not educating teens about safe sex in the hopes they just won't have sex at all? That's ridiculous.

Midnight TextFest With a Pseudo-Stranger

So I'm about to go to bed when I hear the familiar BEEP of my text message alert. It's Buddy. My first thought is that it's the roommate of The Ex Who Says We Never Dated. That Buddy liked to dive for buried treasure, which is another story in itself. Upon checking the number, I found that it's a Missouri area code. Buddy from Missouri? I wrack my brain. Ah ha! Buddy is a hot, Jared Leto-esque guy I met at Kelly's in Westport while home for the holidays...two months ago. We shared some laughs, a burger with friends at Denny's, and we went our separate ways. Why I have his phone number is a mystery. Our Midnight Two-Months-Later TextFest is as follows:

Buddy: I miss you.
Me: Thinking he has the wrong Tina. Wait. R u that guy I met at Kelly's?
Buddy: Yes ma'am.
It's not a mistake.
Me: Haha. Two months later. Um well if you ever want to come to New York it would b a pleasure to see u. I thought u were sweet. And hot.
Buddy: Well I really wanted to be your boy toy. You should send me a pic.
He did NOT just say "boy toy"! Hahahahahaha...
Me: I like toys.

OK, no, so I didn't really say, "I like toys." That would have been cool, right? Instead I said, "Haha am going to bed. email me and I will. " So not clever or witty. So not getting an email.

Lessons in Love: How to Pick Up a Frenchman

Saturday night, Dempsey's in East Village, 10 p.m.
Crista and I are hangin' at the Electronic Jukebox, as always, looking for only the hottest tunes Britney Spears has to offer, when suddenly, I am beckoned from a man at the bar. He's cute. Says something about Britney. We find out his name is Rich and is a French teacher in LI. He's with his friend, who's visiting from France. His friend speaks...only French.
Me: Bonjour!
Frenchie laughs.
Crista: My name is Crista.
Me: No, it's "Je m'appelle Crista."
Frenchie laughs. We chat with Rich. He speaks English. Rich says he "has my next drink." Crista and I retreat to our seats.

Crista: He's so into you!
Me: No, he's not! He likes you!
At our table, Crista teaches me how to flirt, like squeezing a man's bicep when walking by, pretending to lose an earring, etc. I love it. We devise a plan for me to get Rich. (HAHA, get Rich!) I get an idea. On a napkin, I write the following: Je voudrais vous donner ma telé! This means, "I would like to give you my phone number...or telephone, not sure which. On the back, I write my phone number. I walk over to Rich, napkin in hand.

Me: Excuse me, Rich?
Rich: Hi!
I hand over the napkin, French phrase side-up.
Me: I'm wondering, can you please tell me if this is correct?
Rich reads the napkin.
Rich: Yes, it is.
I turn the napkin over. The word vomit ensues.
Me: Well, I want to give you my phone number! I like, never do this, I'm really shy. (I say this while shrugging my shoulders, rolling my eyes to the ceiling, like only I do...at the most inopportune times.) But you seem really nice, and perhaps we can go out sometime?
Rich is in shock that this crazy girl with poor French-speaking skills approached him with incessant babble.
Rich: Sure.
I walk away.

Friends With...Presents

So I just found out today that The Ex has moved in with his new Girlfriend. Not so sure how I feel about that. Wait. Scratch that. I know exactly how I feel. I'm...irked. Granted, he was my Boyfriend in 2001, my Friend With Benefits in 2002, my Friend With Benefits Who Wanted to be More Than Friends in 2003, a Guy I Tried Dating Because He Was My Friend With Benefits Who Wanted to be More Than Friends so I Thought Why Not? in 2004. A week later I decided the "Why Not?" wasn't a good idea upon meeting someone else, so I broke his heart like he did mine way back in 2001...on accident of course. :( Then in 2005 he accepted my apology, and we were Friends With Benefits again. Only throughout the entire four years, I really did just want to be Friends. Without Benefits. Then he got a Girlfriend. And I've missed his Friendship. And...well, perhaps the Benefits. :)

Maybe Money DOES Make People Happy

Sick. It's how I feel. I ate a pound of ColdStone Creamery's Lard-In-A-Cup, and I just thought I'd check on my bank account via the Web. SHIT. I really don't think twice about renting a DVD, stopping for a coffee and a muffin, ordering in ColdStone on Sundays with BR1 and BR2. "Champagne tastes with a beer budget," my dad says. "Fifty pairs of shoes." How can editors at a publishing company that shall remain nameless live off of a $22K/year salary? At a publishing company where you have to look like you make $100K. And I make a decent salary, yet I can't seem to make it? I moved here 2.5 years ago with $3,000, and I'm still asking dad for money? Maybe I should move back to Kansas? All I know is that I have 3 loads of dirty laundry, and for the first time ever, I have to pick and choose what I'm going to wash because I can't afford to do it all.

Blast from the Past

There's nothing like the feeling you get when an ex from high school looks you up on My Space and says, "Man, you still look good." I don't know if he expected me to be fat and wrinkled by 24, but it still made me grin and think, "HA!"

A Million Little Pieces of Shit

Yeah, I'm pretty sick of this James Frey bullshit. Maybe he did lie. The writing was good, and I could relate to some of his feelings, although I do feel a little duped. But those who write memoirs DO embellish a bit, they do tend to exaggerate. Because frankly, life on its own can be slightly uninteresting, a bit drab and colorless. Would you be shocked if I told you that I embellish on my blog?

Then again, I find it damn near impossible for a man to stay 100% clean and refrain from drinking without some sort of 12-step program. Alcohol can be so much fun, and when you enjoy it to the extent that an alcoholic does, I think it would take a little more than willpower to keep you away from the bottle. That's just my two cents. Then again, maybe I'm just glad that Oprah doesn't know who I am.

Good Morning! (Yeah, right.)

I wish I was a Morning Person. Every single morning I rush around and am late for my ride to work. My routine is as follows:

7:30 a.m. Alarm goes off. Today's CD is Franz Ferdinand. I know this clock is 18 minutes fast, so I hit Snooze. After all, I plan to go to the gym this morning and run for exactly 30 minutes.

7:40 a.m. Alarm goes off. It's actually 7:22 a.m. If I hit Snooze, I can still make it the gym and back by 8:20 a.m. I hit Snooze.

7:50 a.m. Alarm goes off. I convince myself I have no time to go to the gym. Darn. I re-set my alarm for 8:30.

8:30 a.m. Alarm goes off. I hit Snooze.

8:40 a.m. Alarm goes off. I hate Franz Ferdinand. I hit Snooze.

8:50 a.m. Alarm goes off. SHIT! I turn my attention to the clock that's above my TV set. This clock is set correctly. It's actually 8:32 a.m. and I have to walk five blocks to meet my ride at 9 a.m.

Correct clock time: 8:32 a.m. Run to the bathroom, strip faster than Paris Hilton about to get taped. Turn on shower, brush teeth, hop in shower.

8:42 a.m. Am in room, hair in towel, robe on. Look at the array of colorful eyeshadows. As I don't yet know what I'm wearing to work, I can't exactly match my shadow with my outfit, as I'd like. I opt for Clinique's Rose Wine, a neutral pink/brown combo. Apply makeup.

8:49 a.m. Frantically find a presentable outfit. Opt for jeans and a cami w/ a blazer or sweater. Toss clothes onto bed.

8:51 a.m. Race to the bathroom and attempt to dry hair. Find that I have no time to dry my hair, so I dry my bangs, add a volumizer to roots and attempt to scrunch ends so it looks wavy in that sexy/sultry kind of way. I look like a wet rat.

8:55 a.m. Realize that I have to iron my fucking jeans. Iron and toss on clothes.

8:57 a.m. Need shoes. Pick a pair of heels, as I've suddenly accumulated more heels than flats in my closet. I don't know when this switch took place, but I frequently find myself hobbling down the street in shoes that pinch.

8:58 a.m. Fuck. I have no time to make a salad. I grab a frozen cheese ravioli and stuff in giganto purse. Race around grabbing random things I need to bring to work. Stuff in purse.

9 a.m. Triple fuck. I hear the church bells ring, and I know I will be late. There's no way I can hobble my way five blocks in three minutes. I attempt it anyway.


Pretty ridiculous, huh? Sometimes I beat my ride to the corner; sometimes she is waiting for me. But every morning is the same. I have been setting my alarm at 7:30 a.m. for the past four months, and I've made it to the gym once before work. Any advice on how to break this habit before it breaks me?

Big News

I got promoted to Associate Editor!!! It IS a good year!

The NYE Hunt

It's 11:43 p.m. on Dec. 31. Always the same, whether at a bar, a party or Times Square. The tension builds as single folk attempt to position themselves for the Big Kiss. Single boys and girls have likely narrowed down their prospects to two or three lucky candidates. It's obvious—they're looking around, ensuring that their prey in fact, do not have a kiss already scheduled. They zoom in like a hawk, strike up their best smile and start a conversation, perhaps about the slobbering drunk retard in the corner. They silently pray that the convo lasts until 11:59 p.m. so any talk can cease to make way for the Big Countdown leading to...the Big Kiss.

In my case, I had selected two candidates last night. I had my eye on one, the other, well, simply a runner-up. I was lucky, as both boys were in my group of friends, although I had just met them that night.

11:43 p.m.
I inconspicuously lean in towards my pal, JoAnna.
Me: Psst! That guy next to you, I'm kissing him at midnight.
Jo: What?! I am! I already talked to Anisa about it!
Anisa is the mutual friend between Hot Boy and Us. Anisa is more Jo's friend, giving her precedence over the Kissing opp.
Me: What?! But I wanted to kiss him! I've been eyeing him for an hour!
Jo: But we haven't been here for an hour!
Me: Well, OK, you can kiss him. Your heart was broken last. I'll kiss the kid next to me. But can I maybe kiss him later for kicks?
Jo: Of course! Thanks Teen!

The Kid next to me starts talking to me around 11:50 p.m. He's familiar with the drill. We chat, ask questions, feigning interest, and before we know it, it's 11:58. The countdown ensues, the Kid slams his yager shot, I grab his face for the Big Kiss. He's obviously shocked, but pleased, and attempts to make the kiss last longer than necessary. I kindly pull away, turn to Cute Boy next to me, as Jo is finished with her kiss, and I kiss HIM. The night quickly comes to a close, but I do know this: 2006 is gonna be a good one.