Sunday, April 23, 2006

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.

Thursday, April 20, 2006

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.

Sunday, April 16, 2006

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 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?

Tuesday, April 11, 2006


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.)
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