Fatty, Fatty, Two By Four...

It just hit me. I haven't changed a bit. I was perusing my own blog archives (I know, I'm a dork. I get a kick out of how moronic I am, OK?) Anyway, I came across this. I pulled that "chubby or average" line less than a month ago on my friend Andy when we were at the beach! "If I was walking down the street, and you didn't know who I was, would you think I was kind of fat and chubby or just average?" WTF?! Who asks questions like that? Not only to their friends, but to their guy friends?! I always end the question with an over-explanation of, "I'm OK being average! Really! I know I'm not skinny, or even thin so much. I just want to make sure I'm not, like, really fat. Because sometimes, I don't know. We all tend to have a distorted body image  of  ourselves. So, well, it's not like you would even tell me if I was fat. You're my friend; that would be awful. So, I don't know why I asked, sorry..." By that point the poor guy is looking at me as if I have four heads, mumbles that I'm not fat and quickly changes the subject. Then I indiscreetly change the subject back to my epidermal thickness. He pretends he doesn't hear me. After a handful of unsuccessful attempts at satisfactory reassurance, I take the hint and shut up. Seriously. Is that shit even normal?

Inked (Midwest vs. NYC)

I'll be the first to admit it: I'm a bit of a closet hoodlum. I got a cute little butterfly tattooed on my stomach at 16. I got my tongue pierced at 18, then took it out two weeks later. I got my tongue pierced again at 19 and left it in for two years. I liked the fact that it shocked people. Sweet little Tina is borderline dangerous? No way. Way. I got a pink star tattooed on my foot at 24. And now, at 26, all within the past month, I've gotten my nose pierced and now—more ink. After this experience, I assure you, I am done. Finito. No more.

You see, it's like this: I'd wanted a small tattoo on my left wrist for awhile now—ever since I found out that Lindsay Lohan had the word "breathe" tattooed in faint white on her wrist, basically a personal reminder to keep going, no matter how hectic life could get. Lindsay is not my role model by any means, but I began to think of what word I would want to get. Nothing stuck. So on my recent trip home, I debated getting a tattoo anyway. They're half the price in the Midwest, as compared to New York. My friend CC back home wanted one, too. So we went to some place in the tiny town of Belton, MO, where her friend's brother worked. He was busy, so he had his co-tattoo artist, Mike, do the job. The place was nice and clean. Mike was cute. It worked for me. I suddenly got the genius idea to get outlines of two stars. Purple and teal. Mike thought it would look cool. I figured it matched the shirt I was wearing that day. He made the stencil. I asked if it could be smaller. Mike said no. I didn't believe him but didn't press the issue. I should have, considering that this was a PERMANENT decision! But I was in a "let's get this shit over with" kind of mood...

The Jersey Shore (what you won't see on MTV)

Aside from my love for Chinatown street vendors and the cheap-but-high-quality manicures, there's only one thing that keeps me loyal to the East Coast: The Jersey Shore. And it's not the fist-pumping, mesh-shirt-wearing guidos in Belmar, mind you. Quite simply? The beach. Coming from Missouri where all you have is a grassy knoll near Blue Springs Lake, this excites me. Which brings me to... last weekend. 

Friday 
I pack up and head down with my friends Andy (above, right) and Steve (above, left) to Andy's shore house in Manasquan. We arrive only to immediately drop off our stuff and go out. Fun times. But nothing really worth blogging about. Ew. The fact that I just used "blog" as a verb officially makes me a tech-y Internet loser.

Saturday

Awake moderately early and walk to the beach. The local deli we stopped at for breakfast explains the summer-shore-house phenomenon perfectly. Along with bagels, coffee and assorted breakfast sandwiches, this deli had a few necessities for sale behind the checkout counter: Ping-pong balls labeled "Beer pong balls," tampons, a few decks of playing cards and an opened box of 40 condoms, which led me to believe they were selling the salami slings individually. Nothing else. No sunscreen for forgetful beach goers. Just balls, tampons, cards and condoms. But my bagel was delish. The beach was nice, too. I love that you can find seashells, something that lake beaches just can't duplicate, no matter how great the men make it. Anyway, after the beach, we got ready to head out to the one major club in Manasquan. Which leads me to The Story of Man Whore...

New Yorkers Are Sluts

It's true. The average American woman has had roughly six sexual partners. But the average female New Yorker? Twenty. 2-0. I'm not kidding. Why the large discrepancy? It could be any number of things:

• The Bible Belt. Perhaps they're waiting until marriage to do the deed.
• Marriage. When it comes to America, New York may as well be another country. Whereas most folks marry in their 20s, NYCers tend to tie the knot (if at all) in their 30s. More single time=more sexy time with more people.
• Stress. Though wonderful, New York is a stressful place to live. With 1.7 million people living within 23 square miles, it's a giant cement melting pot of conflicting, high-strung personalities. They alleviate that stress by going to the gym and getting it on.
• The volume of potential partners. You can hook up with someone in New York, and chances are, you will never see that person again. But you hook up with someone in rural America, and it's bound to be a poorly kept secret.

As for me? I'm not telling. I'm probably more your average American woman than New Yorker. But then again, I likely won't marry until I'm in my 30s.

Reasons Why I Once Took Anti-Anxiety Medication

Things that make me kind of uncomfortable:

• His&Her MySpace pages. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little. For starters, you can bet that these are always implemented by The Wife. And secondly, what if I don't feel like talking to You&Your Husband? After all, I'm your friend. But it's like, you suddenly put on a white dress and lose all sense of individuality. Don't get me wrong, being in love is awesome. I will even likely take my future husband's last name. But that whole "We" bit really does have its limits. I highly doubt that Your Husband and His Friends adore your butterfly MySpace layout.

• Elevators. Especially at work—the three elevators in my 10-floor building are insanely slow. Take yesterday, for instance: I found myself waiting for the elevator with my company's CEO. I'm really not sure if he knows my name. So I awkwardly kept checking the clock every two seconds and pretended to dig in my purse for some nonexistent necessity until my salvation arrived. But because the elevators are so slow, they usually stop at every single floor going down because...everyone on every floor is waiting. So I awkwardly look at the flashing green number above, as if I don't know which floor is coming next. But let's be honest. I do. I can count backwards from 10. And being in an elevator is like being in a library. You're not supposed to talk, and if you do, people try their hardest not to look annoyed, which actually makes their annoyance that much more obvious.

• People wearing sunglasses on the PATH. Or subway. This makes me extremely anxious. It's not sunny underground. Maybe they do it to avoid eye contact with that legless beggar in the wheelchair you see from time to time, I'm really not sure. But if they're sitting directly across from me, it always makes me feel as if they're staring at me. I don't like being stared down on the train, and if I see someone staring at me, I stare right back until they get really really uncomfortable.

A Hot, Steaming Cup of...

Imagine my surprise when I saw that someone was finally tearing down Hoboken's own Fabco Shoes — New Jersey's disastrous equivalent to a Payless Outlet store. My mind drifted... What could they possibly be putting in its place? Perhaps an Urban Outfitters or another much-needed dive bar? Delight soon turned to disdain when I noticed the "Coming Soon" sign: Starbucks. The third Starbucks in my tiny one-square-mile town of Hoboken. Everyone and their mom has an opinion on the coffee franchise. Here's mine:

Manhattan alone has 200 stores within its 23-square-mile vicinity. That's eight Starbucks per mile. If I were to stand where I work on the corner of 23rd Street & 6th Avenue, there would be not one, but two Starbucks in my line of sight. Ridiculous, right? But I have yet to boycott the establishment. SBs is good for two things: The Skinny Vanilla Latte and their fine offering of Holiday Lattes, served the last three months of every year.

But the one thing that I (and thousands of others, no less) can't get past is their actual "coffee." Their ass-tasting black tar coffee is bitter, disgusting and tastes like the charred bits one might find at the bottom of a barbecue grill. The SB higher-ups knew this, which is why they recently introduced their "smoothest coffee ever," the Pike Place Roast. Where Pike Place is, I have no idea. I just know they chose to promote it back in March by handing out free PPR coupons on every Manhattan street corner. So I tried it, only because it was free. Verdict? The PPR may as well be a 10-year-old can of PBR it was so gut-wrenching. 

How does SB even stay in business, let alone build a new franchise every 2.5 seconds? Oh, right. The Pumpkin Spice Latte.

A Single Chick's Apartment

I just came across an article that lists bachelorette "singlefiers"—or, rather, items one might find in a single chick's pad. My sheer curiosity transpired into mortification as I skimmed through the list. I'll put it this way — I had to scrape my jaw off the desk: 

Piles of magazines everywhere, comprised of tons of pretentious ones that are clearly untouched and then severely thumbed-through Vogues and Luckys. Oh, God. My New Yorkers remain in pristine condition, while my copies of Glamour and Cosmo are nearly ripped to shreds. This is 100 percent accurate.

Overflowing shoe rack and nothing in the fridge. My shoe rack is actually broken, there are so many shoes. Last time I counted, there were 40 pairs. That was a year ago. My fridge isn't exactly empty. There's some ketchup. And the essentials such as butter, expired milk and a Brita.

Scented candles. Check. Including a jumbo-size Warm Vanilla Sugar one from B&BW.

Slovenly heaps of little-used makeups in the bathroom. Not in the bathroom. On my dresser. I have one MAC shadow that I use religiously, and the others collect dust. I don't know why I insist on keeping eye shadow in every color of the rainbow, when I only wear the green one on St. Patrick's Day.

Stuffed animals on the bed. Not on the bed. On the couch. Three of them: 25th Anniversary Care Bear, Mr. Brown and a purple duck that quacks when you squeeze him.

Cat hair on the furniture. I brush Sophie three times a week, and she still sheds.

Cat smell. OK. That is something I am obsessive about. I refuse to have that Smell in my apartment. The other day, my neighbor even mentioned that my apartment no longer has the Cat Smell.

Cabinets full of mugs bearing the legend "I Love Shopping" or whatnot. None of those. Whew.

Anything pink. Hel-lo! I'm a CHICK!

Ornamental pillows. Check. Two of them.

Unedited bookshelves, esp. if they include He's Just Not That Into You. OMG. I'm caught. I have that book and Why Men Love Bitches. Thank goodness I ditched Dating For Dummies last year...now that would be embarrassing. But for the record, DFD was a joke left on my desk by a coworker three years ago. Yeah, so I brought it home... BUT I NEVER OPENED IT! Seriously.

Nair. OK, no. I've never used Nair. But my razors are pink... 

Anything lite or diet around. Cases of Diet Coke. Not cases. Just one case. And my tator tots in the freezer are NOT lite thankyouverymuch.

Inspirational or thinspirational things on the fridge. Is it bad that I instantly knew what this writer meant by "thinspirational"? It could be the wacky motivational poster I made of my stunning ex-college roommate. Or the "Get-Out-of-Exercising Excuses That Don't Work" article I have taped to the fridge. 

Framed posters. I don't have any framed posters, but why on earth is that a sin? How many dudes do you know with framed Motley Crue or Rolling Stones posters? On the other hand, I do have some framed photos I took from a vintage Vogue-inspired calendar...

Handbag tree. But it's not really a tree. It's more of a pile in the bottom of my closet. Next to the shoes.

I'm hopeless.

When did I become the Old person in the room?

The day has arrived. Last night, I actually reached a point where, for a split second, I contemplated LYING about my age. I've had this affinity for punk rock since the 9th grade (and I'm not talking the cool acceptable kind for those my age, like The Ramones, but more along the lines of Blink-182 and Fall Out Boy.) Anyway, last night, I went to a Taking Back Sunday show in Long Island. I. Was. Psyched. They were playing a secret show at a small venue in preparation for their sold-out gig with My Chemical Romance at MSG later this week. There's nothing like seeing one of your favorites in an intimate setting. So after two hours of driving, I arrive with my friend Maddie only to find that we are surrounded by 15 year olds. I was cool with it at first. I got a wristband that proved I was of legal drinking age and began eye-balling anyone else wearing a wristband. Score! I start chatting up a guy named Scott and make a joke about probably being the oldest people there. He asks how old I am, I say 26. He does a double take, doesn't believe me. I don't know if it's because I'm at a TBS show or because I'm lacking the sultry older-woman voice. So I show him my Missouri driver's license, and he whips out his. Born in 1985. "I'm almost 23!" he blurts out. Nice.  I spot three other wristband-wearing males. Maddie and I bum cigs (I'm a social smoker), they demand we introduce ourselves. Again, I make a joke about not being 16. These guys? All 24. I spot a KC Royals hat in the distance. I get excited and go up to ask the guy if he's from Kansas City...until I get a good look at his face. Not a day over 15. At this point, TBS hit the stage, and I lost myself in the crowd of moshing, jumping, crazy, screaming kids. And I knew every word.

Don't get me wrong, I know I'm not Old old. Just Adult old. Lump-Me-With-The-Parents old. They say that adolescence now extends into your twenties. But somewhere, I've crossed that inevitable line where even the twenty-something adolescence excuse  no longer applies. For crying out loud, I use expensive anti-aging cream on my forehead to "ease the appearance of fine lines." I remember moving to Brooklyn at 22 and meeting my new roommate. She was 25. "My God, you're so young! You don't even know. You just wait. Just wait until you're my age." All the while I'm like, WTF is she talking about? We're three years apart. Well it turns out that those are three CRUCIAL years. The post-college, get-a-job, quit-your-binge-drinking-and-get-a-real-life years. 

Why did it take me so long to figure this out? Maybe it's because I spent four years working at a teen magazine and watching the Disney Channel and MTV for "research" purposes. Or because I dated a guy three crucial years younger than me. Or because it finally hit me that many of my friends from high school and college are getting married, buying houses and having children. And I'm not ready for any of those things. Are you ever ready? Or do you just dive in and pray that the cold water of the unknown doesn't sting so bad?