Ruby Slippers NYC

My Life In Photos

2010-11-15T23:54:00.005-05:00

Katherine Kwei — Spring 2011 Preview

2010-11-14T21:42:00.004-05:00

As written for iheartheels.com
Though Katherine Kwei merely debuted her unique line of luxury handbags little over four years ago, her Spring/Summer 2011 Collection lends itself to years of quality and impeccable design. During the press preview earlier this month, the designer hosted event attendees at her spacious Soho apartment and office, where she walked us through each intricate piece in the line.

In typical Katherine Kwei form (and much to my delight), her signature "Eternity" knot, a traditional Chinese weave, rings true throughout the new collection, appearing on wallets, totes, satchels and hobo bags. Yet the line remains perfectly on trend with vibrant psychedelic-inspired colors (think teal, burnt orange and sunflower), animal prints and unexpected metallic accents, a detail which was beautifully woven into the body of the sling bag. The sling bag — which was gifted to editors and event attendees — is most certainly an item that I will be sure to incorporate regularly into my Spring 2011 wardrobe, especially seeing as A-list fans of the line include the ever-fashionable Sienna Miller and Gossip Girl star Blake Lively. With most made of the softest lambskin and/or calfskin, the supple pieces are a worthy splurge, with the smaller bags retailing for an average of $500.

The Paranormal In Gettysburg, PA

2010-11-07T16:13:00.029-05:00

At the risk of sounding batsh*t crazy, I experienced definite, without a doubt, paranormal activity last night. If we’ve met, you know that I doubt anything, everything and its mother. I also cannot tell a lie. To save my life.

Backstory: I have a friend, Phil, who likes ghosts. A lot. Ghosts, ghost hunts, ghost stories, Ghost Adventures… probably even people in sheets screaming, “BOO!” He also has his own EMF detector. I’m not judging; I love the guy. And I love adventures and scary stuff. I never really took it seriously, though I always secretly wanted to. I wanted to believe. Phil has dragged us all over the Northeast on various paranormal excursions. The accomplices often vary — though usually it’s me, his wife Lindsey and our friend Andy, give or take a few others. There was the time when we traipsed through the Pine Barrens of New Jersey, on a hunt for the Jersey Devil, where our tour guide taunted the mythical demon with phrases like, “YO MOMMA WEARS COMBAT BOOTS!” Another time, we went to Gettysburg where we spent four hours in a field, in the middle of the night, with a psychic medium named Miss Emily (photo), where we asked the spirits questions such as, “Do you like macaroni & cheese?”

This has all been fun. No more, no less. No real evidence; just a bunch of maybes followed by a few what ifs. Not to sound like an over-dramatic ghost nerd, but that was until last night. What follows after the jump is a true, non-exaggerated account of what happened.

The Experience: A month ago, we made reservations to attend the Paranormal Night investigation at the famed (and haunted) Farnsworth House Inn, a working bed & breakfast with nine bedrooms. We knew there was one “ghost” there named Jeremy. In the 1800s, Jeremy was trampled by a horse outside the inn. He was brought into the house, specifically into what is called the Sarah Black Room, where he died in the adjoining bathroom. He was 8 years old. Supposedly he is a happy ghost who likes to move his toys around the house. So we get a few trinkets (or “trigger objects,” as Phil says) from the dollar store. I pick up a small bag of plastic cowboys and Indians, all in green, red, blue and yellow.

We arrive, pay our $50 fee for the six-hour investigation and wait in the dining room with about 30 other people for our instructions. We’re not expecting much. I place a plastic Indian on the windowsill, thinking, If it falls over. It’s a ghost. About 20 minutes later, I notice that it has fallen over. Could have been a draft. Nothing concrete. We go with a small group up to the attic, where the attic door repeatedly opens by itself. Probably a loose hinge. Then we’re given free reign to roam the house, so Phil, Lindsey, Andy and I go straight to the Sarah Black Room.

It’s a beautiful room, with a canopy bed, and there are little toys strewn about. A pinwheel on the chair. A few army green plastic soldiers on the table. A ball on the floor. Armed with Phil’s EMF detector, we make our way into the spacious bathroom where Jeremy died. There is a small vanity table, a sink, a toilet and a clawfoot tub. One in each hand, I place two yellow plastic cowboys on the vanity table. No one is really watching me, we’re all chatting; Phil fiddles with the EMF detector. Maybe a minute passes. I suddenly notice there is only one yellow cowboy on the small table. I say aloud, “I swear I put two cowboys there.” “Are you sure?” Phil asks. “I mean, I think so…” It’s like when you misplace your keys, and you momentarily question your sanity. “Maybe I didn’t…” I look under the table, see nothing, shrug it off. We turn off the lights. We’re standing in a circle in the dark bathroom, EMF detector on, but silent. I ask, “If anyone is here, give us a sign.” Clear as day, we hear a clink against porcelain behind us, in the direction of the tub. I turn on the lights. We’re excited. “Did you hear that?” “Did you hear it?” “If that plastic toy is over there, I swear to God…” I state. Andy gets on the floor, looks under the tub. Sure enough… he unearths a small yellow plastic cowboy. I scream. I’m shaking. A few people hear my yelp, come running in. I say what happened. One of the hotel workers is not surprised. “That’s Jeremy!” she says. They leave. I place the yellow cowboy back on the table beside the other one.

Lindsey and Phil leave to go explore another room down the hall. Andy and I are left hovering in the doorway of the Sarah Black Room, alone. A minute passes. Maybe two. Andy goes in the bathroom again, where it happened. He calls my name. I walk in. There, on the small vanity table, in between the two yellow plastic cowboys, is a green plastic soldier holding a Confederate flag. “You put that there!” I accuse. Boys always play jokes. “No, I didn’t!” he says. Andy, who is often skeptical, looks legitimately spooked. “You swear on my MOM?” I ask. He does. He’s not kidding. No one else had been in there, and we never left the bedroom. I take a photo.

We walk out. Look for Phil and Lindsey. We all go back into bathroom of the Sarah Black Room. One of the yellow cowboys is gone again. The four of us go into the Eisenhower Room down the hall where we attempt to communicate with… whatever else might be in the house. The lights are off. We ask questions via the EMF detector. Is anyone here? Beep beep beep. Is it Jeremy? Beep beep. Are you alone? Silence. Is someone here with you? Beep beep. Do you like us? Beep beep. Do you dislike us? Silence. Do you want us to leave? Silence. Are you happy in this house? Beep beep beep. We leave the Eisenhower Room, and when we come back to it maybe 15 minutes later, the yellow plastic cowboy is lying on the bed.

A few other things happen throughout the night. And during each one of them, I forced someone to hold my hand, for fear that I would be sucked into some black abyss. Too many horror flicks. Still, these other things could go into the maybe category. But what I saw in the bathroom of the Sarah Black Room, what I experienced, cannot be rebutted. At this point, I will believe in anything.

Ann Taylor — Spring 2011 Preview

2010-10-30T18:56:00.000-04:00

As written for iheartheels.com
"Pleasantly surprised" describes how I felt when I popped into the Gramercy Park Hotel to preview Ann Taylor's Spring 2011 collection earlier this month. I envisioned simple shift dresses, solid blocks of color and career separates, well suited for the hopeful Park Avenue fashionista. But what I got was a slew of classic pieces, each with a unique, eye-catching update. Bold prints on classic-cut shirts and dresses — think floral and leopard — along with rich textures like lace, metallic and fringe, prevail for spring. Styles like a polished seersucker blazer paired with dark denim shorts and a nautical-inspired sweater/shorts combo accessorized with boxy bracelets and a jeweled belt both caught my eye, and they perfectly defined Ann's motto for spring, "...the new casual as a polished way of dressing down." A beautiful burnished medallion necklace gifted to preview attendees was honestly the icing on the Spring 2011 cake. Well done, Ann!

Photos courtesy of nitrolicious.com

NY Fashion Week 2010: L.A.M.B.

2010-10-05T17:45:00.001-04:00

As written for iheartheels.com

Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week ended on a high note with Gwen Stefani's debut of the Spring 2011 collection for L.A.M.B. As an upbeat remix of Santogold and M.I.A. began to blare through the speakers, the Theater at Lincoln Center felt more like a high-energy party than your average runway show. Gwen's lively designs merely appended the festivities, with a colorful mix of plaid, geometric and African-inspired prints. In her signature style, midriff-baring tops were abundant, along with baggy pants, tailored jackets, draping and cinched waists. Like her ready-to-wear, her accessories were delightfully over the top, with layers of bangles, cross-body bags, platform wedges and the occasional fedora.

Gwen's husband, Gavin Rossdale, bobbed his head from the front row, often taking iPhone photos, with a giddy Kingston on his lap. Other front-row attendees included Mel B., Omarion, Russell Simmons, Debbie Harry and Christian Siriano. The show concluded on a sweet note when Gwen appeared during the finale and none other than little Kingston, blond curls bouncing, rushed to join her down the runway, leaving the rest of us smiling, no doubt.

Photos courtesy of nymag.com and Getty Images

NY Fashion Week 2010: Naeem Khan

2010-10-01T16:42:00.000-04:00

As written for iheartheels.com
Naeem Khan's runway show during Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week elicited a slew of much-deserved OOHs and AHHs from the crowd with his bohemian-inspired pieces, many of which had me wishing that Spring 2011 weren't all of six months away. Big-haired models clad in multicolored maxi dresses, chiffon gowns and floral-print skirts glided down the runway to Latin tunes by La Lupe and Eddie Palmieri. Thanks to the intricate beading, by-hand embroidery and aptly placed sequins on Khan's lust-worthy silhouettes, it's no wonder that the designer boasts such A-list fans like Beyoncé, Taylor Swift, Alicia Keys and Carrie Underwood... and received a standing ovation.

Photos courtesy of Getty Images

NY Fashion Week 2010: Mackage

2010-09-30T18:53:00.008-04:00

As written for iheartheels.com
Walking into the Mackage presentation in The Box at Lincoln Center during Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week was like walking into a surreal display of smoke and mirrors. Literally. The models posed in groups of four on small platforms swathed in electric black light and dry ice as the rest of us gawked at the raw, ethereal scene as if peering at a hungry caged animal. The gaunt, wet appearance of the models, the up-close-and-personal aspect of the entire arrangement and the sultry new-wave sounds of Kate Bush wafting through the speakers all added to the hypnotic high-fashion experience.

Despite wanting to break a cheeseburger out of my bag for the seemingly thinner-than-your-average models (and growing increasingly self-conscious over the size of my hips), I was enchanted. By all of it. Typically known for their outerwear and leather goods (often worn by Britney Spears, Blake Lively and Hilary Duff), the Montreal-based line raised the bar for Spring 2011 with tailored jackets, high-waist skirts, shift dresses and slim-fit pants, all with edge-defining details like studs, grommets, zippers and skinny wrap belts. The diverse palette ranged from your classic black and white to soft neutrals (camel, taupe and olive) to candy-colored spring hues (melon, peach and canary yellow). Due to the slow-moving nature of the presentation, I was able to visualize the intricate details and see how each piece was constructed and layered to form a most beautiful outfit. I almost liked it better than a runway show. Almost.

Photos by Tina Smithers

NY Fashion Week 2010: Toni Francesc

2010-09-29T17:32:00.009-04:00

As written for iheartheels.com
After the spectacular Alice + Olivia party, I headed over to Toni Francesc's "Urban Forest" Spring/Summer 2011 runway show. As I waited for the show to begin from my perch in the second row behind recording artist Jeannie Ortega and actor Eric West, I spotted Kelly Cutrone (Francesc is a People's Revolution client) directing her minions, hard at work. Then the lights dimmed, and out glided model after model, sporting vivid hues of chartreuse, mango and steel blue in an array of free-flowing fabrics. Inspired by natural landscapes and elements, Francesc brought eco-friendly materials and embellishments into his enchanting collection with chunky wooden heels and accessories, as well as beautifully sculptured pieces that made the line a true stand-out during Fashion Week.

Photos courtesy of Getty Images; Video by Tina Smithers

Chic Shoes You Don't Have To "Spring" For

2010-09-23T13:47:00.004-04:00

As written for iheartheels.com
Shortly before Fashion Week, I represented I Heart Heels at a store opening for Manhattan's first Spring Shoes boutique, a slightly less expensive division of Aldo Shoes. While the prices range anywhere from $39 to $99, the quality and craftsmanship is definitely there. As an advocate of spending a bit more for classic items and less for trendier pieces, I found Spring Shoes to be extremely on trend, with a wide range of footwear — patent pumps, lace-up oxfords, studded ankle boots and yes, even some ruby slippers! (Some of my favorites above; I am so getting the oxfords for fall.) The brand also boasts an offering of accessories including handbags, clutches, jewelry and legwear.

NY Fashion Week 2010: Alice + Olivia

2010-09-17T18:48:00.006-04:00

As written for iheartheels.com
Always a Fashion Week favorite, Alice + Olivia's Spring 2011 presentation was by far the most stunning spectacle of the week-long event, in my little opinion. Decor was sparse in the spacious warehouse-like venue of NYC's Cedar Lake, but the energy knew no bounds. Only the essentials were present — row upon row of brightly colored mixed drinks, a glittering platform filled with paparazzi near the red carpet (assembled for only the most influential of arrivals — Nicky Hilton, Denise Richards, Mad Men's Elizabeth Moss, among others) and a DJ booth where one of my personal favorites was spinning tunes, Gabe Saporta of Cobra Starship.

Oh. And one minor detail. Toward the back of the venue was a stage that resembled some sort of retro-style burlesque parlor. I fell in love with what I saw. Model after model wearing quirky-glam confections of sparkles, lace, ruffles and feathers, mixed with the brightest of colors and boldest of prints. Picture last year's bohemian-hippie obsession on crack with a sprinkle of ultra-feminine details. Carrie Bradshaw but way cooler. Handkerchief hems, high waists and big, oversized accessories. Oh. My.

The models resembled the cool girls from the 1970s (Milla Jovovich, Dazed & Confused, thankyouverymuch), but with a whisper of innocence clouding their strong presence. Soft hair and coral-colored pouts, courtesy of Ric Pipino for Revolution In Cut and MAC Cosmetics, respectively. At the end of the night, in her usual fashion, A+O designer Stacey Bendet left me wanting more.

Photos by Tina Smithers

NY Fashion Week 2010: Perry Ellis

2010-09-13T23:44:00.014-04:00

As written for fashion blog iheartheels.com
Despite a sudden torrential downpour (which caused me to add yet another shitty $5 street umbrella to my growing collection) and a new Upper West Side location, the fifth day of Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week was abuzz with excitement, free drinks, outrageous outfits and long lines. I was thrilled when Julie asked me to cover a few of the Spring 2011 shows for iheartheels.com, as I had a blast at the tents last February. The energy (and people-watching!) that you experience at Fashion Week is indescribable... not to mention the clothes.

Menswear line Perry Ellis did not disappoint earlier tonight with a series of classic, preppy pieces predominantly consisting of some combination of tailored trousers, linen shorts, v-neck sweaters, polo shirts and the occasional cardigan or blazer. Under the design direction of John Crocco, the new S/S 2011 collection exudes a sort of timeless appeal as one might expect, but the styles remain refreshingly on trend with bright pops of coral, rose, lime and teal, along with a sprinkling of aptly placed prints — think plaid, argyle, gingham and stripes.

The male models were easy on the eyes, as well, not to mention a few of the front-row guests. A-list attendees included actor Chris Riggi (you might know him as Rufus and Lily's love child from Season 3 of Gossip Girl) and Detroit Pistons player Ben Gordon.

Photos courtesy of Getty Images; Video by Tina Smithers

If I Didn't Have To Pay NYC Rent...

2010-08-31T12:42:00.009-04:00

As written for fashion blog iheartheels.com
I would be adorned in jewels all the time. Recently stopped by the Yasmin & Jazmin press preview, and I must say... this jewelry is to die for! Stunning. Gorgeous. The items are a little pricey ($250-$900), but they're well worth the investment if you want a statement piece of jewelry that will last until eternity. I fell head-over-iheartheels in love with the Black Onyx Square Pendant, as well as the Citrine Circle Ring. The line has a huge celebrity cult following, boasting fans such as Lindsay Lohan (Tethered Cuff, above), Nicole Scherzinger (Stone Tip Cuff, above) and Lo Bosworth from The Hills (Black Drop Earrings, above). Ex-couple Audrina Patridge and Ryan Cabrera were also spotted sporting matching Unisex Tag Necklaces from the line... you know, back when they were trying to be an item.

My Dad Questions My Sexuality

2010-08-23T18:38:00.004-04:00

I am at work. It occurs to me that I haven't spoken to my dad in 2.5 days. So I call him during my lunch hour. We discuss menial things like the weather, our weekends, work... I mention a friend's wedding that I am attending this weekend in Seattle. Our conversation unexpectedly takes a queer turn (literally):

Me: Yeah, so I'm going to a wedding in Seattle this weekend.
Dad: You are?! As in Washington? How much was that plane ticket?!
I love how at 29 years old, my dad still asks me about my finances. In my usual fashion, I knock off about 30% of the actual cost.
Me: About $400. It'll be a bit expensive, but I'm excited. I've never been to Seattle.
Dad: That's great, I want you to experience new things.
Me: Yeah, I'm sharing a room with two of my guy friends.
Dad: Tina, are you gay?
Me: ...
Dad: Oh, f--k, I'm sorry. But you have all these guy friends. And you go camping. But you don't have a boyfriend.
Me: ...um... (wondering how I can address this in close quarters with coworkers nearby)
Dad: Tina, if you are gay, it's really OK. I don't mind!
Me: Dad, I'm not. (whispering) I like boys. I'm not attracted to girls!
Dad: I don't mean to be offensive!
Me: I know you don't, and I love you. But, um... I'm honestly a little hurt that you asked me that... are you being serious?
Dad: Well! It's crossed my mind... but I guess you are more hetero than homo.
Me: ...
Dad: I'm sorry, really, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked.
Me: It's OK, it's kind of funny... I mean, I do want to have a husband, and a child...
Dad: When?
Me: ...um...
Dad: So you're not gay?
Me: No, I'm not.

Holiday 2010 Fashion Preview

2010-08-17T12:47:00.011-04:00

As written for fashion blog iheartheels.com
Is it that time already?! The only thing about working in fashion, or in publishing, or I guess working in any industry other than burger-slinging at McDonald's (be jealous — I was once the Mickey D's Employee of the Month, complete with engraved plaque), is the fact that you can rarely live in the moment. You're always looking ahead at least three months.

I recently attended the Holiday 2010 Preview for Gap, Banana Republic and Old Navy, which brought back memories of working at Old Navy during the holiday season of 1998. I was a greeter/bag passer-outer, and the only thing I recall is that the cheesy '70s-inspired holiday tunes got old real fast. The painful recollection quickly dissipated when I laid eyes on the season's upcoming styles, set to hit stores this October.

Banana Republic doesn't disappoint, with chunky jeweled accessories and plenty of sparkle on everything from sequined clutches to peep-toe pumps, perfect for that holiday party. In terms of ready-to-wear, the slightly pricier Gap, Inc. brand was all about the cardigan — cable-knit, oversized, boyfriend, fur-trimmed, you name it — all available in muted, season-appropriate hues.

Old Navy on the other hand, was what you might expect: cheery, bright and trend-focused. Outerwear in every color of the rainbow, bold sweaters and must-have prints like stripes, plaid and argyle made a strong appearance.

Gap remained ever-classy in a minimalistic display, predominantly adorned with basic pieces sprinkled in with a few trendier items. Opposites also attracted in a major way with hardcore biker jackets paired with feminine dresses and ankle booties.

Day 3: A New York Ass-Kicking

2010-08-06T17:15:00.014-04:00

Significantly easier. This is likely for two reasons. 1. COB was not there, so I was not as ~~scared~~ nervous. 2. The DI had us sample various obstacles, thus, I spent a few minutes waiting for other recruits to finish so I could take my turn. After some laps and stretches, we were split into two groups, namely, those in fatigues (the old-timers) and those in black pants (the Groupies, aka me). My platoon was taken into the middle of the pit o' hell, where the DI selected a girl (NOT ME!) to crawl up onto this semi-uphill net made of rope. Said girl hopped up onto this net of sorts and began to ~~flap around like a dying fish~~ crawl through this rope, while six of us watched. When she got to the top, the DI instructed her to flip head first onto the ground via a somersault, landing on her feet. She looked at him like he was crazy. I looked at him like he was crazy. She did it, though he essentially had to manually flip her body and lift her down. I got in the back of the line.

The DI moved on to the next device while one girl at a time crawled through the rope-net. Up next? A rope swing near a log and a pit of water, that resembled an oversize tupperware container. The object? Swing over the log, taking care not to fall in the water. Hoping he wouldn't notice that I did not crawl through the rope-net, I got on the rope swing. I didn't get very far. I tried again, and got on the other side of the log! Hallelujah! "I did it!!" I squealed! "No, you didn't," DI said. "The rope was between your legs; it should have been to the side of you." I picture Tarzan. "Oh." I walk back to the rope-net and try that. I start crawling. I flail around in the middle of the net. I feel like a giant bass. When I get to the top, I wait for DI to assist me with my somersault. "Tuck your head, bend your legs," he instructs. I am frozen. Somehow I do a flip of sorts and he lifts me down. Later, I find that this rope-net gave me rope burns and bruises on my arms (above). No pain, no ~~weight loss~~ gain, I guess.

Now we move on to a giant wall with a rope attached to one side, some pegs on the other side. As DI demonstrates, I am scrapping my jaw off the rubbery pit. He scrambles up the rope/wall all GI Joe-like, only to peg his way down the other side. I recall thinking to myself, "If I can go up and over that wall before my two weeks end, this will all be worth it." He motions to a recruit. After a couple of tries, she makes it to the top. I am scared for her; I can't hold back. "Oh! Be careful!" I shout. Another girl looks at me and laughs, "You're such a mom," she says. I do not know what to say to this. The girl on the wall makes it down in one piece. DI suddenly looks at me. He wants me to go up the wall. Uhm... I make a run for it, grab the rope and try to scramble up the wall all Spiderman-like, only to slide back down. He teaches me how to use the rope to get up to the top. I do this. I am scared. I am now holding on for dear life to the top of this wall, legs dangling, trying to scurry my legs up to meet my hands and get on the other side. I am frightened of falling off the damn wall altogether. I hear a recruit shout my name, "C'mon Tina, you can do it!" Somehow I pull myself on top, now belly-side down. Where is the f**king peg on the other side? DI instructs me. Scared. I place my foot on the peg. Still scared. Another peg. Now I am low enough that if I were to fall, I would not break a limb. I make it down! On my feet! I feel good. I am Power. No. Wait. I am SHE-RA, PRINCESS OF POWER!

Day 2: A New York Ass-Kicking

2010-08-05T18:44:00.005-04:00

Suffice to say that Day Two was worse than Day One. I wasn't planning to write a blog series on my two-week stint at Pure Power Boot Camp. But the absurd situation I've put myself in, combined with my incessant laziness, kind of makes for laughable material. *face palm*

I arranged to arrive to class at 8pm on the dot, body in pain from the first class — the lady at the desk said I could skip my push-ups, as class was starting. (Success!) I ran my laps and met up with my platoonmates for partner stretches. I did not mention these in yesterday's post. Partner stretches consist of sitting in two lines, pushing our partner's back/legs/arms/what-have-you so you get a ~~painful~~ nice stretch. The recruit nearest me (aka my partner) was a guy; I could tell he was a frequent boot-camper. You can easily differentiate the old-timers (clad in faded camo fatigues) from the Groupon newbies (black pants). I held his legs down during the butterfly stretch and did my best to keep my hands as far away from his, um..., as I could. *awkward* After the stretches, my Drill Instructor (a different guy from Day One), whispered something in my stretch partner's ear, who then ran to the front of the line. I guess I was slowing him down. Now I was the weird girl at the end of the line with no one across from me. Our DI silently walked down the middle. He turned to face me. "What's your last name?" "Smithers?"

Side Note: I was scared because Commanding Officer Brenner (aka the ~~hot ab chick~~ PPBC owner) sent me a "new recruit" email saying I could email her with any love/questions/etc., and my coworker suggested that I email her a link to my blog. So I did. She did not respond. So when the DI asked my name, I assumed that I was in big trouble. /end note

"WHAT?" "Smithers? Smithers." "Smeeters, are you confused?" "No! No." "OK, Smeeters. Good." (ShitIoffendedCOBwithmyblognowI'mscared.) Jumping jacks. I do about 50 and then take a break, continuing to count and wave my arms. The DI spots me. He laughs. I relax. I laugh. COB takes the old-timers. The DI takes the people like me. Only they're not really like me, turns out I'm Still That Girl. More hurdles. I straddle. (But I spotted another Straddler!) Over the huge walls. Only this time we have to go up the side without a ledge. So it's like... a flat wall that we have to crawl over like f-cking Spiderman. DI sees me struggling. He gives me a boost. Now I am belly down on the top of this wall with my arms and legs dangling over the sides. I kind of fall off and somehow land on my feet. I may not be Spiderman, but I am a cat!

Now we are instructed to pick up a rubber tire. I get my tire. We're told to do 50 of these tire lifts over our heads. My tire is heavy. DI says I can trade with another guy who's tire is lighter. I want to prove that I am badass, and I say no, I can handle my tire. After three lifts, I regret it. He says I can switch. I still can't really get past 10. My legs are shaking. I am seeing spots. He tells me to go get a bar and lift that instead. I run by myself to get the bar, while my platoonmates all have tires. This is embarrassing.

Now we do dips. I can't do these either. I feel like I am going to die. Did I mention that I haven't worked out consistently, oh, EVER? My body is in shock. I meekly ask if I can get water. He lets me. We do sit-ups. I am told to get an 8-pound barbell and to do 60. I do a shitload. I lose count. "SMEETERS! What number are you on?" "I don't know. But I have been doing them!" "No. Start over, Smeeters. You can do 20." I start counting from 5. He laughs. He is going easy on me. I appreciate it. But I am also ashamed.

Class is almost over. We get in a circle to say our kindergarten-classroom Words. It is my turn. I debate which Word to say. Strength? Honor? I try Power again. "POWER...?" "Are you sure about that, SMEETERS?" "Yes! POWER! POWER! POWER!"

On the way out of class, I meet two fellow boot-campers in the elevator. "I'm so embarrassed," I say. "It's OK! Is this your first day?" "Second." "Honestly, your second day is worse than the first. I don't know what it is, but it's brutal." They both agreed. "Really?! So you felt nauseous and faint and death-like?" "YES," the girl said. "It gets better!" Gosh. They're so nice. I will not quit this. I can finish! I am a cat!

A New York Ass-Kicking

2010-08-04T14:13:00.008-04:00

It's no secret. I have commitment issues. I am easily distracted. I have been known to join multiple gyms, go for a month and then lie to get out of the contract. (I once "moved in with my grandma who lives in southern Missouri" and even had my cellphone bill sent there for two months so I had change-of-residency "proof.") So when I saw this Groupon for 75% off six classes at Pure Power Boot Camp, I figured what the hell. I was sold when I saw that it's located two blocks away from my work. I enlisted for two weeks of classes in early August (um, now).

The day of my first class (um, yesterday), I looked at the website in detail. Torture devices stared back at me — things like Barbed Wire Crawl and Belly Robbers scoffed in my face. I was getting nervous. I calmed my nerves with an iced coffee and a small cookie the afternoon before class. It's my birthday week. I can have a cookie. I arrived to class 15 minutes early (gasp! have we met?) as instructed in my "platoon uniform" of black pants and sneakers. Upon arrival, I filled out a waiver for new "recruits" stating that sprains and fractured bones are possible and that I will be added to some sort of "KILL BOARD" if I fail to arrive in uniform. Then they tossed an oversize army T-shirt at me and ordered that I do five push-ups. Done. Sort of. I changed into my shirt and joined my "platoon." We were surrounded by ropes and hurdles and torture chambers of all kinds stuck in a pit of what seemed to be an odd combination of loose rubber and styrofoam. The outskirts of the pit was swathed in camouflage and feel-good Words like POWER, INTEGRITY, STRENGTH and TRUST. It reminded me of those motivational posters in kindergarten classrooms. I liked it.

Suddenly, it occurred to me that my shirt was on backward — my dog-tag graphic was in front. Everyone else's was in back. Peeked in collar, sure enough, there was the XL tag starring back at me. Quickly switched shirt around and got in line for jumping jacks. Everyone just automatically knew to start counting. I was confused. For every number they shouted, they did three or four jacks. They also seemed to be counting backward. I mouthed various numbers and waved my arms around.

Time for some laps. Now I like to start out with a nice, light jog. Many of my fellow recruits/platoonmates/soldiers were sprinting past me. Overachievers, I thought to myself. We then split up into two groups. Commanding Officer Brenner (aka the hot chick with the abs) took the overachievers. A drill instructor guy (I will call him DI) took people like me. We immediately had to go over these wooden hurdles that went up to my belly button. Those in front of me were sticking their left leg up and pulling themselves over all professional-like. I straddled it. Left leg up, straddle, right leg over, slide off. The DI showed me out to do it. I was scared and thought I was going to trip over the hurdle, falling on my face in the pit. I straddled it again. I straddled them all. I was That Girl. The Straddle Girl Who Slowed Down The Whole Platoon. Then we went to a wall of sorts that was much taller than me. We had to climb over it and jump down. I got up to the top, looked down and freaked. DI claimed it's not that far and to jump down. So I did. I landed on my feet! I did three more.

Then we had to do these box step-up things and squats. I went to grab my water. "PUT THAT WATER DOWN!" DI shouted. Jaw dropped, I did what I was told. He wanted us to count while doing the steps. I don't think anyone knew whether to start backward or forward. So we didn't speak. "You can't count, so then GET AWAY FROM ME!" he snarled. "Go run three laps." So we did. I was scared. A nice girl introduced herself while jogging, asked if it was my first day. "Yes. Is it almost over?" "You've got 20 more minutes. Don't worry about it, you paid for it, do what you can." I liked her. At this point, I was feeling faint. I must've looked pale. Vomit was rising in my throat. I seriously thought I was going to collapse. We were given a 10-second water break.

Then we did some 200 sit-ups of sorts while being ordered to scream things like "I AM A SEXY BITCH!" The minute my DI turned his back, I rested. Yes. I am a dirty cheater. At the end, our platoon sat in a circle, and we were ordered to shout Words. DI told me to say POWER. "Power?" I said in question form.

When I walked out, legs shaking, I felt like I'd accomplished something great, aside from swallowing my puke. I realized that I had a huge sweat spot that looked as if I had peed myself. For a split second, I questioned whether or not I really peed myself. I did not. Whew. I go back tonight. Five more classes. I can do this.

Nobody Hacks MY Dad

2010-07-02T00:03:00.004-04:00

My dad's Yahoo email account got hacked. I know this, because he sent me a link about a Canadian drugstore. I happen to know his password. Knowing that it could take him five hours to figure out how to change it, I went ahead and fixed it. Then I immediately called him.

Me: Dad. Your email account got hacked.
Dad: What?! How do you know?
Me: Because you sent me a link to a Canadian drugstore.
Dad: What?! This is terrible!!! This happened before, I think. That... mailer...
Me: Yes, MAILER-DAEMON. You didn't change your password?
Dad: Yes! Mailer demon! I didn't know what happened. I feel so bad.
Me: It's OK. Don't worry, it happens to lots of people.
Dad: Even you?
Me: Well... no. I have Gmail. But I changed your password. It's X.
Dad: So I need this password to get on the Internet? What about my Favorites? Where I pay my bills?
Me: Dad, this is just for your Yahoo email address. Everything else is the same.
Dad: Even my Favorites?!
Me: Yes, even your Favorites. But your inbox is filled with spam. You should really get a new email address.
Dad: How do I do that?!
Me: I'll set you up with a Gmail account. It's better. More secure.
Dad: Well, I want to come up with the name.
Me: You don't want to just use your regular name?
Dad: Like... mike@gmail.com?
Me: Um, no. Like your full name.
Dad: Isn't that bad?! I don't want my name out there!!
Me: It's OK. It'll be OK. I can switch over your contacts, too.
Dad: Like, my address book? Will you give them my new email address??
Me: Yea, sure.
Dad: But what about the hacker's? I don't want him to have my new email!!!
Me: It's OK, dad. He won't. But um, you should really take a basic computer class.
Dad: Like, on the Internet? Or where I get in my truck and drive?
Me: Um...
Dad: This is the start of you wiping my ass, isn't it?

If You Only Visit One Store In New York...

2010-06-15T23:31:00.012-04:00

As written for fashion blog iheartheels.com
It was March of 2002. I was living on a college girl's budget and had come to New York for the first time ever. My much more fashion-savvy friends immediately started raving about this elusive H&M and demanded to go. I didn't understand. Until I saw for myself. I was smitten. Fabulous clothes! Shoes! Accessories! More clothes! I could spend $100 and walk out with five outfits. To this day, I don't know what it stands for (Hugs&Mustaches? Hearts&Milkshakes?), but I remain ever loyal. So of course when my friend Julie at iheartheels.com asked me to cover H&M's Fashion Against Aids event last month, I jumped at the chance. Side note: I interviewed at Seventeen during that first H&M-filled visit to New York. The following summer, Julie and I ended up interning together at the iconic teen magazine. We discovered we were sorority sisters *cue secret handshake*, and a friendship was instantly born. Moving on...

New York's Fifth Avenue H&M store was packed to the gills with fashion lovers and shoppers at the May 19 event, which boasted a 20% discount on everything (squeal!), appetizers, drinks, live music, you name it. Basically, I shopped. A lot. And I also admired their new Fashion Against Aids collection — 25% of every single sale made from this collection will be donated to various HIV/AIDS prevention projects. That's a hell of a lot of money... especially seeing as the collection is gorgeous and is bound to sell out. Some of my favorite pieces from the FAA collection:

I fell head-over-heels in love with that angelic white ruffled maxi dress after seeing it on one of the models. When I tried it on, it didn't look quite right on me, and I almost cried. (Sadly when I left Kansas for NYC over six years ago, my hips came along for the ride.) Luckily, I was able to find a few pieces worthy of my Beyoncé-sized booty. $200 worth to be exact. Sigh. It's not really spending frivolously when it goes to a good cause, right? xx

That Girl (You Know The One)

2010-06-04T16:33:00.016-04:00

So my coworker/friend Nicole is, for me, That Girl. You know the one — she's charismatic and always looks immaculate, even while pregnant and wearing 4-inch heels. When getting dressed in the morning, sometimes I think to myself, what would Nicole pair with this? Would she opt for the beaded necklace? Would she belt this cardigan? This is usually followed by me saying fuckit, picking up the same Get Up Kids hoodie off the floor and bouncing off to work in my Converse. Said Nicole has also bled into my eating habits. Afterall, it was her who first told me about that damn Blueprint Cleanse. She is the one who said that berries are better for you than bananas, thus forcing me to buy a bag of frozen berries that I inevitably threw out because they tasted like tart, tangy mush.

For fear of sounding creepy, let the record state that I am easily influenced in general, doesn't matter who you are. Whether I'm taking business advice from Jami, boy advice from Jessi, permission to eat croutons for dinner from Meagan or love-handle reassurance from Crista. While the aforementioned ladies make up some of my best friends, Nicole will forever be That Girl for me. The one who makes wearing heels look effortless, who has the willpower to only eat half an office brownie (not five), who at first glance appears to be the epitome of one of those all-together New York "fashionistas" — the intimidating kind — that I used to see in magazines and on TV while growing up in Kansas City. Yet one might be surprised to find that her humor (she was the one who loudly pointed out the peculiar-shaped sweet potato in the office minifridge) and inner beauty very much outshine her chunky cuff bracelets that I covet on a daily basis.

For instance, her 365 Heartbeats Project has me looking at life just a little bit differently. She spent the better part of an evening photographing me in the rain on a deserted New York street (see above) for this project. As awkward as this was for me... with N's help, I was able to laugh at myself. And ironically, it was a quick shot taken the next morning (at left) that she ended up posting — I like to think that it captures a part of my soul that is very genuine. That je-ne-sais-quoi that is inside of me and what my dad refers to when he tells me to "stay golden."

My point is this: Oh. I don't really have one. I told her that I would post about her cute new weekly fashion blog on AOL's Lemondrop.com (read it — so you, too, can be That Girl... or at least look like one) which got me to thinking, Is there anything that this chick can't do? ♥

Giveaway: Sex, City & Ruby Slippers

2010-05-18T17:15:00.079-04:00

Woo hoo! I've been given a pair of Sex and the City Hotspots Tour tickets (an $84 value) for a giveaway on this here blog. Perhaps it's because of all the yapping I do about SATC. But before I tell you how to win 'em, I'd like to make you NYCers aware of this little ditty:

*start PR pitch*

Sex and the City Midnight Madness Package
Take the day off work, fork over $179 and enjoy all things SATC on Wednesday, May 26, 2010. This amazing package is well worth the ticket price and includes:

The Sex and the City Hotspots Bus Tour
An Italian buffet dinner at NYC's Fresco by Scotto
A ticket to a midnight screening of Sex and the City 2
VIP admission to Marquee nightclub after the film (which, coincidentally, is where I stumbled upon Beyoncé and Jay-Z back in 2004)
Special appearance by Willie Garson (aka Stanford Blatch!)

Click here for more info and to purchase tickets.

*end PR pitch*

Alright, as I was saying, I have a pair of tickets to give away for the Sex and the City Hotspots Bus Tour, which features over 40 real-life locations used in the show. Now I could attempt to give you a SATC tour myself, but I can barely pronounce Manolo Blahnik. So let's do this, shall we?

Contest Rules: This contest is open to EVERYONE. The tour tickets never expire, so if you don't live in NYC, you can simply use them during your next trip to visit me. OK, ready? To enter to win, you must be officially following my blog (you can follow using your Google, Twitter, Yahoo or AIM account). You won't get spammed, and you won't even get an alert when I post a new blog. It is there solely to make me feel like the popular girl in English class. The winner will be selected at random (by closing my eyes and pointing at the computer screen) from my list of loyal followers on Thursday, May 28.

Because I'm nosy, what would YOU like to see happen in Sex and the City 2? Want to see Steve grow a pair and put Miranda in her place? Sigh. Me, too.

UPDATE: Congrats to Sharon, who won the SATC Hotspots Bus Tour tickets! Sharon, please email me your mailing address. Thanks to all of you for following my blog!

The Trials of Living 2,000 Miles Away From Home

2010-05-13T16:03:00.008-04:00

If you know me at all, you'll know that not only do my dad and I have an interestingly tumultuous relationship, but he is also the love of my life (in a non-creepy way). The minute my mom passed away back in 1998, I immediately jumped into "parent mode" and have spent every waking moment since putting my pop in his place, lovingly bossing him around. I don't know why I do this. I often wish that I didn't, as it would save us a lot of bickering. But truth be told... deep down, I don't think he'd have it any other way. After all, if I don't take care of his goofy ass, who will?

Me (calling dad): Hi, I tried calling you yesterday.
Dad: Oh, I was at the hospital.
Me: Why?!
Dad: I just fell in the basement and broke my foot... but I'm OK!
Me: What?? When did this happen?!
Dad: Day before yesterday. But I thought it was fine until I took a shower yesterday and saw that my toes were going in two different directions.
Me: Oh, dad... you're an older person, you need to get these things checked out right away. Are you OK? Do you have crutches?
Dad: I'm OK, I just have a big giant shoe I have to wear.
Me: Well... why didn't you tell me right away??
Dad: Because I knew you would get upset and worry!
Me: This is why I worry. Because you don't tell me things. I would've told you right away!
Dad: You're right, and I would want you to. I'm sorry. But hey, I never lie to you!
Me: So, what, am I supposed to know which questions to ask you every day — "How's your foot? How's your wrist? How's your head? Do you have cancer?"
Dad: Is this going on Facebook?
Me: Yes.

My dad then proceeds to spend the next five minutes urging me to say a swear word. "C'mon, Tina, just say 'fuck.'" No, Dad. I'm at work. "C'mon... you're so cute when you cuss." Goodbye, Dad. ♥

Photo of Dad and I, circa 1981.

NYC Cleanse: Post Cleanse + Verdict

2010-04-15T17:32:00.014-04:00

Wake up today refreshed and psyched that I don't have anymore juice sitting in my fridge. Am 5 lbs. lighter since Monday! After five days with no coffee, my first stop is my personal Cheers, where the baristas all know my name and how I take my joe. I know the stars are aligned when I see that the flavor of the day is my absolute favorite — Caramel Nut Fudge! I then throw them for a loop when I request skim instead of my usual full-fat milk. Practically skip to work, pausing to pick up some fruit for breakfast. Upon arriving to work, I don't feel like eating. Shocking, I know. I finally start noshing on my fruit at around 10am, and it takes me a good hour to eat it.

At around 2pm, I head to Energy Kitchen for a salad. Apparently they're giving away sandwiches from 12-2pm today because it's tax day. Um, OK. The guy at the door won't let me in because he needs to cut off the "free food" line. I snap, "I don't want your free food. I just want to buy a damn salad." I'm pretty pissed. 1. Your business is open. There are better ways to run things. Like cutting off the free food line, not the entire store front. 2. I haven't eaten in three days. If you don't get out of my way, I won't hesitate to go all Hannibal Lecter on you and eat your ass. He proceeds to have an employee escort me to the salad bar. After nibbling on my salad, I begin to feel a bit nauseous. Maybe it's mental, but I'm turned off by food at the moment. This is a first.

*rant* Since living in New York, I've found that my patience has worn thin, and I feel extremely entitled when it comes to customer service. I blow up at cabbies who don't know their way around Manhattan and at waiters who don't know their ear from their elbow. I can understand if you're new, but if you're not new, and you were hired to do a particular job, and you work at an ice cream shop and don't know how to say "flavor" in English, we're going to have a problem. *end rant*

Off to La Casa Day Spa for my um, first-ever colonic. I don't think I will go into too much detail after all, but if you're that curious about my poo-poo endeavors, ~~you need help~~ feel free to message me privately! It was pretty much what I expected — my um, "stuff" came out in a tube. Then I sat on a toilet for 30 minutes. 'Nough said.

VERDICT

Total Pounds Lost: 6 lbs.

Overall, Jami (who lost a whopping 10 pounds!) and I are both extremely glad we did it — I feel lighter and healthier. I don't even want the chocolate in the conference room. Well... not really. Not only do I get full faster (thus, eating less), but I think twice about what I put in my body. Granted, talk to me in a month to see where I am. But I do hope this "health kick" sticks and rather than eating four cupcakes a week, I only treat myself to one. Would I do this again? Perhaps. Would I recommend this to a friend? Yes. But I do think there are less expensive options out there. I mean, it's just juice. Psst... if you decide to try the Blueprint Cleanse, use this 15% off discount code. You're welcome. Maybe next time I'll try Salma Hayek's Cooler Cleanse, though they do make you drink a juice that's identical to ~~my personal hell~~ the beet juice. Erm, nevermind. Thanks to my friend James, I will be playing Whack-A-Beet on a daily basis, instead.

Note: If you like what you've read, please follow this blog. Thank you!

NYC Cleanse: Day 3

2010-04-14T10:06:00.061-04:00

It's my last day, yaya! Confession: I am really proud of myself. Yesterday, fellow cleanser Jami asked if I've cheated. I happily said no, I have not cheated, and no, I am not lying. BPC says you can have snacks like cucumber and celery if you really need to eat — but it's been only juice and water for me. And I honestly haven't been too hungry. By the time my stomach starts to growl, it's time for another awesome juice, which does the trick. Also looks like I've lost a total of 4 lbs. Final weigh-in coming after tomorrow's colonic. And yes, you're going to hear all about it.

Juice 1: Green Lemon
8:30am See? Even Sophie Sassypants wants nothing to do with the ~~liquified leaves~~ Green Juice, and she's been known to eat pretty much anything.

Juice 2: P.A.M.
11am Oh, Pamela, how I am going to miss you. Your pineapple-minty goodness has been my saving grace. You are the one BPC juice I would happily purchase for $1.79 from my local convenience store. But alas, you are only available in $200 increments surrounded by your less redeeming friends, Green Apple and C.A.B. Perhaps we will meet again after a few donuts and slices of pizza. ♥

Juice 3: Green Apple
2pm And you were just starting to get bearable! Adios, GJ.

Juice 4: Spicy Lemonade
3:30pm Meh. I have very little love for you. *Desperately wanting an iced coffee right about now.*

Just got this email from a coworker:

From: Coworker
To: Everyone
Date: Wednesday, April 10, 2010, 5:25pm
Subject: Chocolates in the Conference Room
Hi all,
I brought chocolate back from Hawaii for everyone. Please help yourself and enjoy.

I was halfway to the conference room when I remembered where I was and what I was doing. FML.

Juice #5: C.A.B.
6:30pm Let the record state that if you like beets, you would probably like C.A.B. But as a result of a traumatic experience, my distaste for beets goes into a full-on hatred. Case in point: Out to dinner recently with my friend Rachel. Her entree comes with beets. I proceed to make faces throughout the meal due to the smell alone. Looking back, it was a bit rude on my part. Sorry, Rach. Anyway, good riddance.

Proceed to spend next hour talking Jami off the ledge. She wants to *gasp* eat dinner tonight! I tell her that it's like sex — so much better when you wait. Our "doctor's appointments" are tomorrow, and BPC says to ease back into eating "solids," so I'm planning on mixed fruit for breakfast, and a cheeseless green salad with olive oil for lunch. I have been thinking about Friday's food intake all week. I had originally decided on an onion bagel with full-fat scallion cream cheese for breakfast, followed by a celebratory Chipotle lunch with Jami. Then I remembered — my eating habits must change. If I'm going to have a damn bagel for breakfast, I better be prepared to have a salad for lunch. And vice versa. Chipotle and Fiber One it is. It occurs to Jami to mix vodka with her remaining juices.

Juice #6: Cashew Nut Milk
8:30pm I drink this with pleasure. Me: 18. BPC: 0. I did it!!!

Day 3: Done. (But my journey does not end here, my friends...)

NYC Cleanse: Day 2

2010-04-13T10:50:00.113-04:00

Went to bed last night with anxiety about the next day's juices and severe headache — I blame lack of caffeine. Wake up this morning cranky. Probably because I know I'm not getting coffee or food of any kind. I'm not hungry, I just LOVE FOOD! Cheesy pasta goodness? Get in my belly. Determined to plow through, I drink my hot lemony water and go about my business. My um, bathroom habits are fairly normal, btw. (I know you were dying to ask.) Oh! But I seemed to have lost 2 lbs. Score.

Juice 1: Green Lemon
8:30am Plug nose and go for it. Surprisingly easier than yesterday. Side note: Maybe it's mental, but I find it useful to hold my nose during Juices #1, #3, and #5, because if I can't smell it, it's not really there... right?

Juice 2: P.A.M.
10:30am Have decided that this juice is my favorite. It's refreshing and thirst-quenching... like a healthy Gatorade of sorts. I sip on this for an hour, savoring it, and trying not to think about what's to come.

Juice 3: Green Apple
1pm Halfway there! I let my boss sample the ~~grass-in-a-bottle~~ Green Juice, and she seems to enjoy it. Then again, she is a phenomenal cook and enjoys various types of veggies that are generally foreign to me — most of which I wouldn't touch with a 10-foot pole. Done and done. Me: 3. Green Juice: 0. But I run out of giant Starbucks straws. Must replenish stash for Juice #5. *shudders*

Juice 4: Spicy Lemonade
2:30pm No biggie. I drink this while ~~stealing straws~~ running errands.

Juice 5: C.A.B.
5pm Have been dreading this moment all day. Wishing I were Dwight Schrute right about now. He has a beet farm. You can't have a beet farm and not love beets. Coworker Naomi is intrigued by my plight, so I offer her a sip. (Less for me!) She mentions that it tastes like pickles. Plug nose. Dive in. And then there was one. Looking forward to tonight's "milkshake."

Juice 6: Cashew Nut Milk
8:30pm Still doesn't taste like ice cream, but I kind of like it. Kind of. Tonight I noticed that my body feels lighter, overall — likely a result of not being weighed down by cheeseburgers and donuts. This must be how vegans feel. I have no plans to convert, but I am hoping that this feeling will help me think twice about cleaning my entire plate of penne a la vodka.

Day 2: Done!

NYC Cleanse: Day 1

2010-04-12T18:33:00.038-04:00

Yes. That is my weight at the right. Don't judge. Supposedly it's average for my height. On the higher end of average, but I digress. And kindly disregard my orange feet, courtesy of last week's Mystic Tan. This is my journey to cleanliness, and I am not holding back. Moving on... BPC says to start the day with warm water and lemon — apparently this gets your intestines moving. Fine. I paid $200, and I'm going to do it right. Pour glass of warm water and immediately squirt lemon juice in my eye. Ouch. Am not off to a good start.

Juice 1: Green Lemon (romaine, celery, cucumber, green apple, spinach, kale, parsley, lemon)
8:20am I have not heard good things about this Green Juice, so I take drastic measures in the form of stealing some of those big straws from Starbucks for faster, um, sucking. Toothbrush is prepped with toothpaste. I am ready. I start gulping. Not so bad. I pause to catch my breath. Oh, God. I am overwhelmed by healthy bursts of flavor. Kale. Parsley. Spinach. Determined to get my money's worth, I finish in one slurp. I burp celery. This $20 bottle of juice cannot come back up. Gulp water, brush teeth, I am done. I am rock star.

I pass my coffee shop on the way to work — it is calling my name. I say I am sorry, but I cannot come in today, even if the flavor of the day is Caramel Nut Fudge. I see a man eating McDonald's hash browns on the train. I stare longingly, mouth agape. I realize I resemble one of the New York crazies and go about my business. Side note: Jami says she loves the Green Juice. FML.

Juice 2: P.A.M. (pineapple, apple, mint)
9:45am Tasty. This one I like.

Juice 3: Green Apple (romaine, celery, cucumber, kale, parsley, green apple, spinach, lemon)
12:30pm You, again. I love how they change the name of the juice to entice me, when truthfully, it's the same ol' shit I drank this morning. Awesome. Jami says to focus on the green apple, so I do. It helps for all of two gulps. Then the spinach rears its ugly head. But I finish.

Juice 4: Spicy Lemonade (filtered water, lemon, agave nectar, cayenne)
2:30pm Not bad. It's like lemonade... with a kick. Trying not to think about Juice #5. Post Juice #4, I sit through a brutally long meeting. For the first time today, my stomach growls.

Juice 5: C.A.B. (carrot, apple, beet, ginger, lemon)
6pm *nervous* Can't. Handle. Beets. Traumatic childhood experience: 9 years old, babysitter's house. PB&J and beets for lunch. I try the beets and immediately gag. Babysitter won't let me leave the table until beets are gone. The other kids ate their beets and are bouncing on the trampoline outside. I sit there until 5pm when my mom arrives. I am forever scarred.

Fill plastic cup with ice, prep Starbucks straw. Mmmm, Starbucks... Focus, Tina! The colder the juice is, the less I will taste the beets. And ginger. I forgot about the ginger. Hate the stuff. Pour juice, start gulping. I barely taste it! Until I pause to take a breath. Then the lingering taste of beets mixed with ginger manifests in my throat. Memories of my 9-year-old self waft through my mind. A coworker walks in to find me staring forlornly at my cup o' beets. I laugh and try to explain why I'm staring into a cup of thick red juice. Mention the cleanse and impending colonic. (Seriously?! Do I have no filter? Do not discuss colonics with work colleagues I rarely interact with!) She raises her eyebrows and leaves. I finish my juice. I burp a beet and shudder. I leave work for my Monday night dance class and continue to silently burp beets mixed with ginger all throughout class. Gross is an understatement.

Juice 6: Cashew Nut Milk (filtered water, raw cashews, agave nectar, vanilla bean, cinnamon)
9pm After class, I longingly walk by all my favorite fast food joints — Five Guys (burgers), Chipotle (burritos), Grimaldi's (pizza). I heard a rumor that Juice #6 tastes like a milkshake, and it's my saving grace. I get home, pop it open and take a sip, expecting to savor its ice creamy goodness. WTF?! This is not a milkshake. It's... it's nothing more than a nut-flavored milky substance with a hint of cinnamon. So much for great expectations. I drink it anyway. Ha. Nut-flavored milky substance... oh, shutyourpiehole, you thought it, too.

Day 1: Done.

The New York Cleanse

2010-04-11T01:18:00.010-04:00

Donuts, bagels, coffee, macaroni & cheese, pizza, pasta, diet coke, brownies. The occasional vegetable. My eating habits need an overhaul. My body needs an overhaul. When my sweet work colleague Nicole first recommended the Blueprint Cleanse, I scoffed. $200 for three days worth of juice?! No, thanks. That was last winter. It is now Jersey Shore season, and I intend to flaunt my semi-bikini-bod with confidence. Truthfully, I just need a kick start to a slightly healthier lifestyle. At 28 years old, the time has come for veggies and anti-wrinkle cream. Armed with my cleanser-in-crime Jami and Nicole's encouragement, I schedule myself for the three-day Renovation Cleanse — this is for the person who thinks french fries are a vegetable, aka me. And just to ensure that my insides are fully clean, I've scheduled a post-cleanse colonic. Sorry, being my friend naturally comes with TMI.

PRE-CLEANSE

BPC suggests preparing a few days before by phasing out sugar, coffee, meat and dairy. So on Saturday, I quit my morning coffee (and we all know how important this is to me). BPC doesn't mention carbs, so I have a bagel for breakfast. (OK, and a smear of cream cheese...) Then I have some mixed fruit — something I never do. For dinner, I make stir-fry veggies, without rice. (OK, I tried to make rice, but I burned it. So by default... no rice.) I am on a mission to rid my kitchen-slash-living-room of any and all temptation. I toss my cheese. And eggs. Then, I spot a bag of jellybeans. Well, I have to get rid of them, right? So I decide to hide them... in my belly. Dammit. BPC also doesn't mention popcorn, so I eat some of that. And I discover some chocolate chips in the cupboard — I already f---ed up with the jellybeans, so I go ahead and eat those, too.

On Sunday, I vow to start over. In the morning, I accidentally eat half a frosted donut. Whoops. Then I have some mixed fruit, points for me. This is followed by an avocado and a tomato. Then Meagan comes over to watch a movie. She has a Coke Zero. I haven't had caffeine for two days. If I don't have a Coke Zero, I'm going to rip someone's face off. So I drink it. It. Feels. Great. Then I devour the rest of my popcorn. Needless to say, Jami did better with her BPC prep. All that remains is 18 bottles of juice in my fridge... to be continued.

Surfing In New York?

2010-04-08T22:31:00.013-04:00

As written for fashion blog iheartheels.com
When you're a New York fashionista, anything goes — even when it's California-style surf wear. I had the privilege of attending the Cynthia Rowley for Roxy launch party last week at Barney's CO-OP, on behalf of friend and fashion blogger Julie at I Heart Heels. Rowley's spring 2010 line for the popular surf brand fuses California chic with New York couture in the form of everything from wetsuits and swimwear to pencil skirts and ballet flats. The stylish Soho soirée was crawling with magazine editors and fashion's elite, including designer Cynthia Rowley in the flesh. Rowley arrived at the bash in style, wearing a few of her own designs — her Kaleidoscope Tank ($56, roxy.com) and her Threadbare Sequined Tank ($325, cynthiarowley.com).

Photos courtesy of PMc

Google Goes All Kansas On Us

2010-04-01T11:46:00.003-04:00

Google thinks they're being funny with their April Fool's Joke. I don't.

Update, 8/12/10: Google, you have redeemed yourself.

NYC Beauty Ritual: Eyelash Extensions

2010-03-24T23:00:00.011-04:00

As written for pop culture site Crushable.com
Confession: I am beyond obsessed with whatever it is that makes Hollywood’s movers and shakers look, well, nothing like the rest of us. I’m addicted to Life & Style and Allure — if Heidi Montag’s had it nipped and Madonna’s had it tucked, I probably read it first. Rachel Bilson swears by $1,300 jars of La Mer? Why, I love Rachel. Rachel has great skin. Off I go to the nearest Bergdorf and Bloomie’s to feign interest in making a massive purchase, scoring a few samples in the process.

So it should come as no shocker that my most recent fascination came in the form of eyelash extensions. Paris Hilton, Molly Sims, Ashley Tisdale and Danielle Jonas (yes, the eldest JoBro’s wifey) all swear by ’em. So when I randomly won a Twitter contest hosted by @WEtv (don’t hate — I dig their Golden Girls re-runs) for a free Xtreme Lashes application, I. Was. Psyched. I never win anything, let alone a fancy schmancy $300 procedure! Luckily, I live in NYC and immediately requested Xtreme lash stylist to the stars, Cheri Wroblewski of Lash Boutique. If I’m going to spend two hours having someone poke and prod at my eyelids, I want the best.

As requested, I arrived at Cheri’s adorable midtown lash studio at 9am on a Thursday, sans eye makeup. Professional and sweet as ever, Cheri took one look at me, stated that I have gorgeous “cat eyes” (hey, I’ll take it) and said she had the perfect lash look in mind. Apparently, the “looks” can range anywhere from natural to dramatic to OMG-my-lashes-touch-my-forehead. I lay down amidst a cluster of itty-bitty jars of synthetic lashes, and Cheri placed a pair of soothing anti-wrinkle pads underneath my eyes. I closed my eyelids and instantly relaxed. Self-proclaimed ambidextrous, she quickly worked with both hands and two teeny pairs of tweezers — isolating one of my lashes with one hand and placing a single lash extension on the base with the other, using a hi-tech medical adhesive. It was literally an eyelash extension. I was in awe. Throughout the next hour, I barely felt a thing. Sure, there was the occasional tug, but nothing crazy. No irritation whatsoever. When she was finished, I sat up, looked in a mirror and squealed like your little sister at a Justin Bieber concert. I’m not exaggerating when I say that my face was completely transformed, and I wasn’t even wearing makeup (obviously a daily ritual for me, see first ’graph). Cheri the Miracle Worker had meticulously applied nearly 200 individual eyelashes in just over an hour! I thanked her, left a generous tip and skipped five blocks to work, batting my lashes at anyone who dared glance my way.

By now you must have a billion questions. How long do they last? Where can I get these hair-like little bits of Heaven? Can I still wear mascara? I did my research, and Xtreme Lashes seem to be the best (just make sure you use a trained stylist or they can end up looking wonky). They can last anywhere from two to three months and cost an average of $300. Yes, you can apply mascara to the tips of your lash extensions, but truthfully? You won’t need it.

The final verdict? Hell yes, these babies are worth every penny. Would I spend the $150 it costs to maintain them via monthly “refills”? Probably not. But I do recommend them for special occasions — prom, your wedding, your nephew’s bar mitzvah… that Match.com date, happy hour… On second thought, maybe I’ll just stock up on Ramen and PB&J in exchange for eyelashes. I’m kind of in love.

NY Fashion Week 2010: Monique Lhuillier

2010-02-19T10:27:00.008-05:00

As written for fashion blog iheartheels.com
Having outfitted nearly everyone who’s anyone from Bilson to Barrymore, Monique Lhuillier continues to dazzle with red carpet-worthy couture. Her Fall 2010 collection combined the tough, militant flair of the ancient Chinese warrior with a contrasting hint of soft, feminine elegance. As one would expect, the line was largely composed of striking evening gowns — touches of tulle and chiffon embellished with embroidery and aptly placed hardware. I literally gasped when I laid eyes on this gorgeous number:

With hair wrapped in buns, minimal eye makeup and ruby red lips, the runway models took on a stoic, fierce presence — fitting amongst the strong silhouettes and high necklines. Shades of crimson, gold and navy were also dominant amid the party dresses and dragon-print jacquards.

Accessorized with chunky cocktail rings and textured lace tights, the latest Monique Lhuillier collection was a massive hit; just ask actresses Melissa George and Sophia Bush, who were in attendance. “[Monique’s] clothes are so beautiful,” Sophia says to celebrity gossip blogger Just Jared. “They’re such a throwback to really classic, tailored, feminine design. She can really do anything. It’s just so elegant.”

Photos courtesy of NYmag.com; Video by Tina Smithers

NY Fashion Week 2010: Lia Sophia

2010-02-19T10:26:00.004-05:00

As written for fashion blog iheartheels.com

The latest installment of Lia Sophia’s Red Carpet Collection launched late last month, and I’ve been dying to check it out. Luckily, I had an hour to kill in between shows, so I stopped into the nearby Alice + Olivia boutique where the Lia Sophia gifting suite was set up. Aptly called the Lanaya Collection, their newest line of luxe, high-end jewelry is inspired by the natural beauty and exotic elements of Thailand. Celebrity followers of the collection include Paris Hilton, Stephanie Pratt and Tinsley Mortimer. Comprised of matte metals and multitudes of chains, unconventionally paired with geometric jewels and colored pearls, these chunky pieces are major standouts. I couldn’t resist picking up this ultra-long Fringe Chain Necklace ($700, liasophia.com), complete with violet pearls! It was love at first sight.

I also picked up this stunning Studded Pyramid Stretch Bracelet ($400, liasophia.com) for J. The coolest thing about these cuff bracelets? The edges have ridges, so you can stack a couple of them for the ultimate statement accessory.

Hope you love it, Jules! The bottom line? This collection commands attention, so it is advisable to keep the rest of your look fairly simple. I can definitely see rocking these bold baubles with a deep-v tee and destroyed jeans for a chic, casual look. Or for something a little dressier, pair a piece or two with a sleek, monochromatic dress.

Photos courtesy of liasophia.com/Tina Smithers

NY Fashion Week 2010: Ecco Domani

2010-02-17T23:32:00.010-05:00

As written for fashion blog iheartheels.com
The Ecco Domani Fashion Foundation is known for bringing emerging fashion designers to the forefront, having helped launch the careers of wildly successful designers Zac Posen and Alexander Wang. This year, the EDFF donated monetary grants to seven up-and-coming driving forces in fashion: The Blonds, Prova, Prabal Gurung, Siki Im, Altuzarra, Salvor and Organic. Specializing in everything from women’s ready-to-wear to accessories to menswear, Monday night’s show was hosted by fashion guru Robert Verdi, who gave us a first look at the next big names in the industry. Major style standouts included eco-friendly tweed jackets by Organic, printed silk scarves by Prova (Michelle Obama is a fan!) and a python corset by The Blonds, reminiscent of something one might find in Lady Gaga’s closet. Front row attendees included actresses AnnaLynne McCord, Kelly Rutherford, Molly Sims, Kate Walsh, Adrienne Bailon and socialite Tinsley Mortimer.

Photos courtesy of coutorture.com/Tina Smithers

My First Time Skiing

2010-01-27T18:36:00.010-05:00

Last weekend, I braved the 3,600-foot mountain that is Mt. Snow, VT, and went skiing for the first time in my life. For starters, I had a helluva time deciding whether to board or ski. The majority of my friends board. And my snowboarding ex spent a good year ramming into my brain the fact that a skier is nothing more than a "two-plank fruit-booter." I did not know what that meant, but he said it with such disdain that I resolved never to boot fruit. Ever. But when J recently invited me on a winter-wonderland getaway, I was faced with two options: To ski or to ride? Skiing looked doable. Riding looked like a combination of skateboarding, surfing and breaking my neck. But it wasn't the falling that scared me. It's just that I know me, and I knew that if I tried to place both feet on one stationary board, I would get insanely frustrated with my inability to stay off my ass. And seeing that I vividly recall eating pavement in 10th grade thanks to a skateboard, along with the fact that I'm about as coordinated as Screech Powers... well, my choice was clear.

We arrive at Amazing Planet! late Friday night. Gotta love a farm that contains an exclamation point in the name. The next day, I slip into a pair of hand-me-down ski pants, a purple coat borrowed from J and a pair of too-big ski gloves courtesy of S. Mismatched gear and all, I. Look. Awesome. While my experienced boarding friends scatter, I schlep to the ski school alone, where I wait in line behind a bunch of 5-year-olds. After 10 minutes, a woman kindly points me in the direction of the "adult school." Oh. There I meet my instructor Joe, who spends the first 20 minutes instructing my group on where to place our lift tickets. Note that my group consists of five people: a guy about my age who wouldn't stop talking about how great of a skier his girlfriend is, a 13-year-old girl, an older man missing a few teeth, and an excessively made-up blonde woman straight out of the Housewives of New Jersey.

Here, I am given a pair of ski boots covered in duct tape. Literally. The boot buckles look as if they could chop off a finger and they're so heavy, it's like walking in quicksand. Um, ski boot or torture device? Anyway, the boots seem to be putting an exorbitant amount of pressure on my calves. I don't know if this is normal, so I inquire. Joe inspects my leg and says that because women typically have larger calves, they need to invest in custom boots. Er, excuse me? Birthing hips? Check. Slight love handles? Check. Arm flab the size of a small Christmas ham? Check. But I do NOT have fat calves!

Joe then ushers us into the supply room. We get our planks and our poles. The poles are divided by height. After trying the 5'6" pole, Joe insists that I need the 5'10" pole. As soon as he walks away, I switch 'em. We spend the next hour shuffling around on our skis. I have not yet hit ass to snow and am feeling smug. Then we go down a mini hill. I am having trouble turning. Joe approaches me. "Because of the way their bodies are made, many women are bow-legged. I think you have the same problem as Sonia." I protest that I do not think I am bow-legged, nor do I know Sonia. He stands firm. "You need custom boots."

After the lesson, I bid Joe farewell. The 13-year-old girl and I decide to give it a go and hop into the beginners' lift to brave the bunny slope. I assume this is the bunny slope because it is highlighted on the map in pink. Not blue, green, red or black. Pink for two-plank fruit-booters like myself. The girl and I pretty much roll off the lift and tumble down the slope. I spend the rest of the afternoon ~~falling on my ass~~ practicing. I fall a lot. I slide, roll, tumble and get tangled in my skis. I frequently collide with other skiers. I look longingly at the snowboarders, feeling embarrassed of my footwear and of my lackluster skill. My second to last run, I get on the lift with a 5-year-old boy, also learning to ski.

Me: Hi! I'm Tina.
Boy (shrinking into his hood with a grin): I'm Davey.
Me: Nice to meet you, Davey. Is this your first time skiing?
Davey (whispers): Yea.
Me: Me, too! It's kind of hard, right?
Davey: Yea, but you got to PWACTICE.
Me (duh): Oh, yea, of course! Definitely! All it takes is some practice!

Davey skis off the lift like a pro. I fall. Again. And then give Davey a high-five. The best part? I skied down the slope those last two runs, and I did not fall. Not once! I felt the wind in my face, the snow wooshing beneath my skis, and I loved it. Someday, I will be one of the ~~cool kids~~ snowboarders. But for now, I can honestly say that I enjoy being a two-plank fruit-booter.

* Many thanks to J for organizing the trip! Note that the woman above is NOT me.

Random Texts From Meagan

2010-01-26T19:53:00.004-05:00

My New York friend Meagan is the Queen of Random Texts. We might go a week without speaking, and I'll be watching Law & Order one night, when lo and behold, my Blackberry begins to buzz, only to reveal one of these gems.

Dec. 12, 8:23pm
How much garlic bread is too much for one person to consume? :-)

Dec. 14, 7:37pm
Why is food so good? Heehee

Dec. 30, 11:20pm
Would it be wrong if I had Stove Top for a snack?

Jan. 1, 2:57pm
OMG. Bad things happening to my stomach.

Jan. 7, 10:35pm
My computer is being a bitch.

Jan. 25, 10:15pm
Can you just be in charge of making sure I shower tomorrow? It's been two days. :-)

Jan. 26, 4:59pm
The guy in front of me at Blockbuster just called it "Blockbusters." Um, this isn't like, Ghost Busters. Then he goes, "Are you hiring? I work for a competitor — Game Stop. Is that OK?" Dude, it's not freakin' Goldman Sachs. I'm pretty sure you didn't sign a non-compete agreement.

The New York Dentist

2010-01-17T22:15:00.009-05:00

My dentist is a condescending arse who wears way too much purple and has a peculiar fetish for mouth guards. He is convinced I need a root canal, yet the man has no proof. He refuses to set my appointments prior to 1pm because I was 10 minutes late one morning roughly four years ago. I'm always scared to go into his office. He's a one-man show with no receptionist and no assistant. This is weird. I could easily disappear into the abyss of his purple-swathed office, never to return and no one would be the wiser.

Case in point: On Saturday, I stroll in at 12:55pm for two fillings. He sharply demands that I sit down and straps a lavender slobber catchall around my neck. And so the drilling, poking, prodding (torture, essentially) ensues sandwiched between caustic commands to "Sit still," and "Don't move your head," followed by my personal favorite, "Good girl." (Oh, gee! Can I have a dog biscuit, too? No? OK, I'll settle for another wad of cotton while I choke on my saliva.) Meanwhile, I can't help but think that I'd kill for an inspirational ceiling poster or something to serve as a distraction. When it's all said and done, he hands me a travel toothpaste to add to my growing collection of tiny tubes of Colgate. Sad to say I never get a toothbrush. The dentists in the Midwest would hook me up (toothbrush, floss, the whole nine yards). But not this guy. I then bolt before he can give me his usual laundry list of reasons as to why I should spend $500 on a night guard. Thanks, but no thanks.

Dating in New York

2010-01-11T23:20:00.010-05:00

10:52pm, text message exchange with a friend.

Me: So, how was your date?
Friend: Fine. It was just fine. He's super nice. And cute. And brought us a bottle of red for the waiter to make sangria 'cause I said I like sangria. I just don't want him to take my dress off.
Me: That's OK, honey. He doesn't have to.
Friend: Yeah, I don't think I'm going to go out with him again.

Laundry list of amazing qualities. Perfection on paper. But we repeatedly find ourselves saying, "Ehh. I'd rather sit at home with my dog eating Greek yogurt while watching another episode of The Bachelor." I wish I had an answer. I do. But I can't help but think — it's no wonder that Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda were single well into their 30s. Then again, Carrie was neurotic, Samantha was a slut, Charlotte a prude and Miranda, well... poor Miranda.

NYC (otherwise known as Cougar Town)

2010-01-09T19:11:00.014-05:00

It was a typical girls' night out with J and M: Cheese, chocolate and wine at The Melting Pot. Then J suggested heading to a nearby sports bar to catch the Florida football game. So we took it down a notch and headed to a spot that is notorious for hosting a crowd of barely-out-of-college yuppies and Jersey Shore meatheads. The upside? Affordable beer on tap and enough widescreen TVs to fill Giants stadium. Upon our arrival, a squat thirtysomething chats us up. I will call him Homeboy. Homeboy has been sitting on the same barstool for roughly six hours and is clearly incoherent. We indulge him while he regales us with tales of his dog (complete with photos!), that he affectionately refers to as "bitch."

Meanwhile, a group of five frat guys come in. Note that three of them are at least 6'5". I can't stop staring, for two reasons. 1. ~~Tall~~ Really Tall Guys generally don't travel in packs. 2. I was growing annoyed with Homeboy and was pretending to watch the game. The RTGs were blocking my view. RTG #1 sees me bobbing and weaving around his torso. We start chatting. I don't remember what we discussed, as he then began to high-five every female that walked past. I think he enjoyed watching the girls jump to slap his hand. Homeboy is now awkwardly standing up, as RTG #1 introduces himself. I think the RTGs think he is our friend. RTG #2 starts chatting to M and I. J is still politely feigning interest in whatever Homeboy is babbling about...

RTG #2: Hey, what's up?
Me: Hey. Are you guys from around here?
RTG #2: No. I'm from Syracuse. A few of my buddies and I came down to visit RTG #2 over New Year's. He just got a job in the city.
Me: Oh, cool! Did you recently get out of college?
RTG #2: Yeah, you?
Me: No. I'm 28.
RTG #2: 48?
Me, a little louder: No, 28.
RTG #2: 38?
Me, practically yelling: NO. 28!
RTG #2: Oh, well that's a normal age.
Me: Er... yeah. Pretty normal.
RTG #2: Well I'm 23, but some of my friends over there are 25.
Me: Cool.
RTG #2: Once you get out of school, age doesn't really matter.
Me: Yeah.

We continue discussing random stuff. I then turn to J and M; we discuss heading home. The game is essentially over, as Florida is winning by about 40 points. We decide to leave, as Homeboy is starting to harass J. I tap RTG #2 on the shoulder.

Me: Hey, we're heading out, good luck with everything!
RTG #2: You, too! Hey, well, at least you're a hot 28-year-old!
Me: Oh, ha, thanks.

I wasn't sure whether to be annoyed, flattered or feel lucky that "at least I look hot for 28." His so-called compliment did come with a slight hint of pity. Outside, I tell M and J what RTG #2 said.

J: Did you tell him to fuck off?

Subway Car Confessions

2009-11-11T16:47:00.036-05:00

Reason #147 why there is no place like New York. After a fruitless afternoon of shopping, I found myself on a crowded subway car, homeward bound. Standing all straphanger-like, I was minding my own business while pretending to be enthralled by an above Budweiser advertisement, when I suddenly heard a raspy voice whisper, "Daayum. You have got the perfect body." I glanced down to see an attractive black girl licking her lips, staring at me. My jaw dropped, and I pointed to myself, mouthing, "Me?" I will never forget the 10 minutes that ensued for as long a I live:

Girl: Mmhmmm. You got some cuuurves. (As she traced an invisible hourglass with her well manicured hands.) Mmhmm. You got a perfect body, girl.

It hadn't yet registered that this woman might have been hitting on me. Naive New Yorker that I am, I assumed she was simply very outgoing, friendly and appreciative of other women. Bear in mind that I had just tried on a pair of too-tight, too-low jeans and was not feeling very fond of the junk in my trunk, muffin top and all. So her compliments were more than welcome. I felt my face flush crimson, as I fumbled over my words.

Me: Wow. Stop! Thank you! That's very sweet of you to say. You honestly just made my day.
Girl: Ooh yeah, you like them meat and potatoes, girl. Your booty, mmhmm, I just wanna lay you down... you got a boyfriend?

It then occurred to me that she likes girls. Tugging on my sweater, I began to feel slightly uncomfortable, what with the way she was looking me up and down. It was as if I'd somehow walked onto the train, forgetting to wear pants.

Me: No, no boyfriend.
Girl: You got a girlfriend?
Me: No.
Girl: You want a girlfriend?
Me: No, thanks. I prefer boys.
Girl: Alright, that's cool. So where you from?
Me: Kansas City.
Girl: I knew it! I knew she ain't from around here. They don't grow 'em like that here. (Gesturing to a tall, slightly nerdy guy behind me.) See?? He be peepin' at you, girl! She from Kansas! Meat and potatoes! She be thick, mmhmm. I just wanna stick a chicken wing up her... look at her, she blushin'! I guess they don't have lesbians in Kansas!

At this point, people were starting to stare. The tall guy behind me seemed delighted to be dragged into this unexpected conversation. Slightly offended at the term thick and rather confused-slash-appalled about the chicken wing, I went into defense mode.

Me: Yes, we do... one of my best friends back home likes girls. But I don't like that you called me thick.
Girl: Don't worry, you ain't fat, you perfect. I'mma take you to dinner. (Gesturing to a larger woman a foot away.) Now that one, she fat. But you, you're not fat.
Me: Shhh!!! Don't say that! She'll hear you...
Girl: She don't care. She know she big.
Me: But... but you'll hurt her feelings...
Girl: Eh, it's alright. See, I'm a renegade. Always causing drama. My fiancé is mad at me 'cause I got a girlfriend on the side. He don't like that. But I'm a renegade. So it's cool. I'm just honest.

Ignoring the fact that the attention of the entire car was on us, I found myself intrigued...

Me: Yeah, I respect that. By the way, you have great hair.
Girl: Oh, this? Thanks, I just bought it yesterday! $150 a pack.
Me: Oooh, um... how many packs are in your head?
Girl: Three. I sewed 'em in myself. It's curly now, but I can straighten it, do whatever.

At this point, we were nearing my stop. It was time to say good-bye.

Girl: I'll see you later. I won't forget you, Kansas.
Me: Oh, I won't forget you either...

Only in New York, kids. Only in New York.

The Art of Importing Coffee

2009-06-22T15:41:00.006-04:00

True Story: While walking to work, I notice a cute cop blocking the entrance to the Hoboken PATH station. We lock eyes; I blush. Gesturing to my large iced coffee*, he says, "You can't take that in there, miss." My jaw drops when I realize that no, Cute Cop is not flirting with me. The man is serious. "Are you serious?" I ask, panic rising in my voice. "You can't be serious. It's Monday. This is my morning coffee." His curt reply: "Yes. You have to toss it out."

It is then that I notice four other cops standing around, regulating coffee imports into New York. There are also about 10 pissed-off commuters sucking down their coffees. I make puppy dog eyes at the officer (I've gotten out of speeding tickets this way, surely he will make an exception for me and my beloved beverage?) He snarls, "Don't look so sad. I've been up since 3:30am..." I block him out, ~~sip~~ suck down my coffee and seriously consider sprinting across the street to the unguarded, unused PATH station entrance, coffee in hand. I debate running home, switching outfits and returning with coffee securely hidden in handbag, foiling their plan...

After about 10 minutes plotting an escape route, I realize that I am even later to work than normal. I toss my half empty coffee into the trash with all the other half-empty Starbucks and Dunkin Donuts cups. I snarl back, "Thanks for ruining my Monday," and take my seat on the train. It is now that I notice three people on the train with coffee. I long to shout, " HOW DID YOU GET YOUR COFFEE ON THE TRAIN?" But I don't, for fear of looking crazy. Heart racing (coffee withdrawal?), I am furious and am honestly thisclose to tears. I feel frustrated and hopeless, as if I've been stripped of my rights as an American citizen.

Oh, and the kicker? For the past year, these same cops have been periodically snooping in various carry-on bags, due to heightened PATH security. I'm not hoarding explosives in my knock-off Balenciaga, but that's cool. I get it. But you are crossing the line when you target morning coffee-drinkers. I'm not a toddler. I'm not gonna spill it all over your precious PATH train. And I am NOT giving you my hard-earned tax dollars so you can tell me otherwise.

* My coffee routine is The Highlight of my weekday. Hoboken's Empire Coffee is my personal Cheers. The lovable baristas know my name and how I take my coffee. (Maybe because I bake them cookies, but whatever.) Their coffee is also recession-friendly and happens to be the best-tasting damn coffee I've ever had.

** Yes, I am fully aware of the regulations that state "No eating and drinking on the PATH trains." But seriously? This has been a rule since 1962 and NO ONE'S ENFORCED IT! Until now.

My Day at the Office Wellness Fair

2009-04-21T18:32:00.002-04:00

So there was a 'Wellness Fair' here at my office today from 12-2pm. People from my gym next door came over and I was told they'd have Personal Nutrition and Fitness Assessments. Their Nutritionist is this older lady who gives off the 'Mean Old Lady' vibe. Anyway, so I went to her table to look at some nutrition fliers. Our conversation:

MOL: Let me know if you have any questions about anything.
Me (trying to initiate a conversation/seek help): Well, my biggest problem is that I eat too much late at night...
MOL: Oh, so is the problem acid reflux?
Me: No. It's weight gain. I eat before bed and gain weight.
MOL (openly grimacing): OK.

And then she just walked away. WTF? Thanks for the help. She could have been like, 'Don't eat past 8pm,' or 'Eat an afternoon snack.' Something helpful? Anything? On my way out of the Wellness Fair, the gym's Personal Training Manager stopped me:

PTM: I haven't seen you at the gym lately!
Me (shocked he's calling me out/feeling really guilty and fat): Oh! Well I had my wisdom teeth taken out last week. (It was the week before last.)
PTM: Oh! That's a good excuse then, no worries. I don't want anyone working out on pain meds.
Me (I quit taking the pain meds regularly over a week ago): Haha.
PTM: Let me know if you have any extra pain meds, haha!
Me: I don't.

Disclaimer: I am very grateful that my office housed a Wellness Fair. I just don't think my gym's Nutritionist is very friendly.

The New York Haircut

2009-01-30T22:56:00.048-05:00

In a town where a decent haircut can cost you upwards of $70, it was inevitable. Cleverly called D.d.U. Model Project* (aka Dumble & Dumble University*), they make it their mission to lure you in with fancy paper cups of water and a hip meatpacking-district location. That, along with the trendy marketing, the rave reviews from acquaintances and the fact that it was free — OK, maybe just the fact that it was free — and I was hooked. They assessed my hair type, told me I was suitable for a haircut (praise Jesus!), and booked me for a Long Layers Razor Cut. Just one thing. Everyone who knows me, knows that I can't make a decision to save my life. A week before my appointment, I decided I wanted a change and switched to a Razor Bob Cut. I was under the impression that the cut would be funky and cool, not Hillary Clinton. My mistake. Have you ever heard of a cool bob? Am moron. Nonetheless, I assumed they would work with me, my hair type and my lifestyle (I have a creative job and don't wear pantsuits to work).

I was doomed from the moment I sat down. There I am, with about 19 other girls sitting in little barber stools. The ~~student~~s stylists shuffle in and make small talk with their ~~victims~~ clients. I'm alone. Palms are starting to sweat. Am feeling like the odd man out in 6th grade gym class. Finally, a petite woman wearing a giant rhinestone belt buckle walks over and introduces herself as Jody*. I have a thing for firm handshakes; hers was weak. Strike one...

Before you call me heartless, bear in mind that these "students" aren't new to the art of hair, as my particular stylist had been cutting hair for three years. They were just there to learn the Dumble & Dumble technique. They all have real jobs. At actual salons. Jody kind of mumbles, "So you want a bob?" I reply, "Well, yes, that's what I'm hear for, but I don't want it to be insanely short. Above the shoulders is fine, but I want something choppy, kind of funky. No librarian look, please." She tells me that a bob is one length, and that is my only option. I protest, "But the examples I saw..." She grabs an Educator (aka "a professional"), who confirms that yes, a bob is one length. Hmm... I ask Educator #2, explaining that it's my first time there and don't really know what to expect. But I'd love something with a little texture. She replies, "Of course, we can do an Overcut, which will give you some texture." Perfect. I don't know WTF that is, but texture is good. Texture is cool. Texture is not librarian. I relax.

Jody rinses my hair and wraps a haircutting cloak around me. But she puts it on backwards, like a cape. I look like fucking Superman. I bite my tongue. She starts spritzing my hair with what I like to call "Poison." I say "Poison" because I got more of it in my mouth and ears than on my hair. She's combing, spritzing, combing, spritzing. I ask, "Isn't this [cloak] supposed to go the other way?" She tells me the snaps get in her way. It's fine, she says. She starts snipping the hairs by my neck, a little too close for comfort. I bite my tongue. The hair gets all over my $25 hoodie. Her bejeweled belt repeatedly snags the cloak, choking me every 10 seconds. I look in the mirror, cringing. Can't turn back now. I notice that everyone else's cloaks are on correctly, and I'm the only Superman in the room. Sprays more Poison. I gag. Twice. And I'm about four feet off the ground, because for some reason, my chair doesn't have a leg rest like everyone else's. So my gams are just dangling there. Superman or not, I begin to think my hair won't be that bad.

Educator #2 comes over. I ask a couple of questions, mostly about this Overcut I'm about to get. She kind of ignores me. They start to cut my bangs. I hold up my hand, "Wait! I just have a question..." I rattle something off, after all, it's my hair, I would like to know what is being done with it and no one seems to feel the need to fill me in. The Educator then sneers at me, "Are you sure you want to be a Model Client again?" My jaw drops. I could no longer bite my tongue. "Um, I never said I wanted to come back. But apparently I'm just supposed to keep my mouth shut. Excuuuuuse me. It was just a question." She snips, "Well, we need people who are a little more relaxed than you are. If you want a salon experience, then you can go upstairs and pay $125." Point taken. Resume tongue biting. The stylist hurriedly finishes the chopjob, I graciously thank her and then burst into tears. Some broad who must have majored in Customer Service pulls me aside to talk about what happened. I told her exactly what I thought. Though Jody was perfectly sweet, Educator #2 was a rude bitch. Before you get your panties in a bunch, know that I also owned up to my insane expectations. That it's not about me and what I want (it's so the stylist can learn new techniques), that it was free, etc. But I still thought I would be taken into consideration at least a little (like the fact that I'm not married to a senator).

So to make a long story even longer, I left with what I now refer to as a Reverse Mullet. Insanely short underneath and longer on top. There was no rhyme or reason to it. I sobbed four avenue blocks to the PATH, stopped at Urban Outfitters to get a hat and dragged my sorry ass back to Hoboken. Then I popped into the first salon I saw and got it fixed. I feel better. A little. At least I don't look like this. (Photo, left: Bad haircut. Photo, right: Bad haircut, post being "fixed."

Note to self: Don't get a drastically different cut from a ~~stranger~~ stylist I'm uncomfortable with. Never go back to Dumble & Dumble. It may work for some, but I am not guinea pig material.

*Names have been changed to protect the idiots.

Fatty, Fatty, Two By Four...

2008-08-13T11:31:00.010-04:00

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)

2008-07-11T17:34:00.015-04:00

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...

So I'm sitting in the plush leather chair, looking away from the puncture job he's doing on my tiny wrist and grimacing as CC attempts to distract me from the pain. When all I can think is, "So this must be how it feels to slit your wrists. I will most certainly select an alternate method of suicide if it ever comes down to that." (Kidding...) I occasionally look over, and he's working on the purple star, every once in awhile wiping something away (ink? blood? whatever it is, it's purple). What seemed like a simple tattoo, is starting to take forever. He goes over both stars twice in the end. So it's, like, twice the pain. Throughout the process, we're asking him about his job, his career choice. He confesses that he's 20 years old. He looked my age... or so I thought. This is starting to become a pattern. Am I getting older and just not realizing that the guys I liked six years ago don't quite look like that anymore? After two hours, he's done. CC's only takes about 30 minutes. We go home, fairly satisfied with our rather permanent artwork. I go to bed.

I wake up on Sunday, the day I am to fly back to New York, and look at my wrist. My God, I think. What have I done to myself? I'm going to look at this every minute of every day. It's right there. In my face. I freak out for just a few minutes. I google "day after tattoo removal" and come across this. It involves sandpaper, peroxide and rubbing your skin raw for a month. I'm not taking measures that drastic. I decide to leave it. Well... what other choice do I have? I figure I'll get used to it. Now? Some days I love it. Some days I despise it. My coworkers can't miss it, as the star stares them in the face as I place various paperwork on their desks. No one's mentioned it. Either they do a good job of hiding the fact that they might be legally blind, or they're just too polite to say anything. Everyone knows that if you like something, you say you do, but if you don't, you politely ignore it. Then again, at my job, and in this city, it's not out of the ordinary to mutilate your body. It's rather common.

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

2008-06-12T12:10:00.029-04:00

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...

Saturday Night (aka, The Story of Man Whore)

We arrive to The Club and start jamming out to one of Jersey's many famed cover bands. Andy, Steve and I are trying our best to appear cool next to the swarm of popped-collar-polo-wearing males and tiny-dress-clad females. But unfortunately, Andy and Steve forgot their collared shirts with the alligator insignia, and I forgot my really tight, really short open-back dress. So we stood out like a sore thumb. But sometimes... standing out can be a good thing, because then you might have the pleasure of meeting Man Whore.

MW approaches me.

MW: Um, looks like I forgot my polo shirt. Can you believe these people? They all look the same.

Score! I think. This guy's cool and actually realizes how ridiculous these people are. Andy and Steve are slowly walking away so as not to ruin my game. God bless my wingmen.

Me: I know, right? I was cursing myself earlier because I forgot my tiny spandex dress.

We carry on for a bit and go our separate ways. I find Andy and Steve and the night progresses... An hour later, I spot Man Whore again. He's grinning at me. I giggle because that's what I do. MW grabs my hand.

MW: Let's get out of here. There's a cool bar next door.

What the hell? Andy and Steve will understand and probably encourage it. So we start walking...

MW takes me around the block to the back entrance of The Cool Bar, so we don't have to shell out another $10 cover. We pass some chicks eating pizza, and MW rudely says, "They're eating pizza because they couldn't get laid." What do you say to that?! Does this douche expect me to... do what girls who don't eat pizza do? I don't think so. That's when I spot It. He's wearing a lone blue rubber bracelet on his left wrist with the words "Man Whore" written in white. I quickly second guess my decision to leave my friends for Man Whore.

Me: OK, I think I'm going to go back and meet my friends now.

MW: Aw, well, can I come with you?

Me: I guess.

We go back, I find my friends. They're ready to jet. I am, too.

Me: Well, it was nice to meet you.

MW: Maybe our paths will cross again this summer?

Me: Perhaps. Bye!

Aaand, there you have it. Call me a tease if you'd like. But I have a feeling that with all of those spandex-clad chicks around, Man Whore felt right at home and did just fine that night. Us on the other hand? We got some pizza.

New Yorkers Are Sluts

2008-05-30T10:37:00.004-04:00

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

2008-05-29T16:37:00.008-04:00

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...

2008-05-27T16:35:00.009-04:00

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

2008-05-20T17:17:00.009-04:00

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?

2008-05-06T10:23:00.006-04:00

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?

Sophie: 3, Me: 0

2007-10-09T17:24:00.007-04:00

We all know that Sophie Sassypants hates my boyfriend and hides whenever he comes near. What you didn't know is that she peed on him two weeks ago. And it's getting worse by the day. For instance...

Sunday morning, 11am

I wake up. Dan looks half dead and doesn't seem to be in a cuddling state of mind, so I go on a mission to find my cat. I check her usual hiding places and drag her out from under my bed. I rest her on my chest, with Daniel snoring beside me. She shivers and hides her face in my armpit, obviously annoyed to be within 20 feet of her worst nightmare, my boyfriend. He rolls over, and she runs to the other side of my apartment, all 300 square feet of it. I give up and leave to get coffee.

I come back to find Dan awake. "What's that smell?" he inquires. I lay down, so we're nose to nose, and I smell it, too. "It's poop," I conclude. Dan gets defensive. "I didn't poop! I didn't even fart, it wasn't me!" I crack up, obviously I didn't think Daniel shat his boxer briefs. I peek under the bed and drag Sophie out by her front paws. I've never seen a cat look so pissed in my life. "She's dripping!" Dan all but screams. "On your new bedspread!" Eww! I put her down and looked under the bed again. There is a huge puddle of piss and two neat piles of poop. I start shouting orders to Dan ("I need napkins, a towel, a trash bag!") and run my piss-soaked kitten to my bathroom. I wipe and comfort her, only to leave her cowering by her litter box — she knows HE is still around. It's all I can do not to vomit while mopping/cleaning the crappy plastic tile under my bed, pun intended.

Dan leaves, and I ponder Sophie's horrendous actions. This cat's not fucking around, she wants Dan out. I posted my dilemma on a cat-lover's message board, and get all sorts of opinions: "She's jealous." "Maybe she hates men." (Not true, she's fine with my dad and guy friends.) "She hates the way Dan smells." "Maybe you should trust your cat's instincts and dump your boyfriend."

Insane. So I've come to the conclusion to all but medicate Sophie. I made her a safe, private spot with a blanket and toys under my couch. I will have Dan leave out a cat treat every time he comes over, so maybe she'll start to associate "treats" with "Tina's boyfriend." I will make sure Dan and the cat do not make eye contact, as in my research I've found that cats see eye contact as a threat. And I will not pressure Sophie to love Daniel, as that causes stress on all parties involved. Finally, I pray my plan works.

Ferris, Bridget and NKOTB

2007-08-09T17:29:00.001-04:00

Yesterday was supposed to be simple:
11am Check in at the Ritz Carlton for Bee Movie press interviews
11:20am Roundtable interview with Matthew Broderick
Noon Roundtable interview with Renee Zellweger
12:20pm Roundtable interview with Jerry Seinfeld
3:30pm Photo shoot with a band I'll just call New Kids On The Block
6:30pm Call it a day and head home

OK, let's just start out by saying that I nearly pissed my pants when I was asked to interview Ferris Bueller, Bridget Jones and Elaine's boy toy. Biggest. Stars. I've. Ever. Met.

After a hilarious encounter with The Simpsons Movie, I plan my outfit for my pretend day with Hollywood and Dan and I hit the hay. We awake at 5am to the pounding rain. Dan leaves at 7am, I fall back asleep. I awake at 8:30am to the sun shining. I get ready, do some last-minute research, kiss Sophie and head out. It is a beautiful day, I make pennies, but I have the best job in the world. I take the bus to the city, where I then attempt to hop on a subway to take me uptown to the Ritz. Eh. Everything is backed up. The R line is running where the B line should be, and I need the D train. This probably makes no sense, but basically, New York transit is a mess. I make it to the "hospitality suite" at 11:10am, where I'm offered a cup of lukewarm coffee. How hospitable. I'm ushered to a room with about four "teen press" reporters. Everyone's gossiping about how the subway system is backed up because of the flooding. Flooding? What flooding?! It rains for three hours and New York practically shuts down. A couple of more reporters trickle in. Around 11:45am Matthew Broderick walks in, sits down and spats, "OK, what is it?" A few reporters spout questions, then I open my mouth.
Me: So like, when I see a bee, I freak out. After making this movie, do you have more compassion for bees?
Ferris: Well, I never try to kill bees, never have. Just the other day we had a bee in the house, and I trapped it in a glass and let it go.
Where was SJP when the death wish with wings was buzzing around?
Me: Nice. Thank you.

Ferris leaves after about 20 minutes of bee talk, and Renee walks in dressed in designer jeans, a black sweater (it's 98 degrees outside!) and a chic new haircut I've never seen before. As much as I love her, her head is...a bit larger than her body. But I won't call her a bobble head. Questions fly. She is animated, adorable, sweet, gracious, quite possibly one of my top three stars to interview.

Moving on. The Jerry interview is pushed back until 3pm. It is 12:30. I must start heading down to SoHo for the shoot if NY transit is as crappy as everyone says. I hop on the 1 line. It was supposed to take me to Canal Street, about 2 blocks from my shoot, but the conductor insists on stopping at 14th St., and the train goes no further. I walk out of the 100-degree station into the 98-degree weather and attempt to hail a cab. No go. EVERYONE is trying to hail a cab. The subways are down, everyone has somewhere important to go. I walk up and down Sixth Ave. My feet are nearly bleeding, my bag is weighing me down. I'm sweating hand grenades. After 45 minutes, I approach a non-available cab at a stoplight and ask the man in the backseat if we can share. He says yes. Score!

The traffic is unbearable, I can walk faster than this. I get out at Houston and start walking. I feel faint. I haven't ingested more than a cup of lukewarm coffee all day, so I stop at a small cafe to scarf something down and look over my notes before the photo shoot. I order a salad. They bring me a small plate of leaves and oil. Literally, JUST leaves and oil. It is 3pm, I must go. I thank the waitress for the weeds and give her $12.

I get to the photo shoot (I'm still hungry, tired, and hot, mind you), and what do I see? New Kids On The Block and their 15-person entourage. When did they become 'N Sync? Agh. Despite the fact that the caterers brought Diet Pepsi, when NKOTB only drinks Diet Coke, the shoot goes fairly smoothly. Then NKOTB's manager pulls me aside. He is not happy.
(There are more details to this, but to be on the safe side, we'll keep those hush-hush.)
Guy: We saw the last issue. We're not happy with the photo you chose to put on the cover.
Me: I apologize. My editor really liked that photo. It won't happen again. We don't want to jeopardize our relationship with you.
Guy: Well, that's the way to do it. This had better not happen again. You have an upset artist and an angry staff.
Me: I'm sorry. We've been supporting you guys for years. I'll make sure this doesn't happen again.
Guy: We'll be watching.

At this point, tears are streaming down my face. I try to pull myself together, but when I'm upset, there's no holding back the waterworks. I'm 26. Unprofessional. Humiliated. I hope I don't get canned. I can't believe I'm crying in front of NKOTB's entourage. Somebody, please dig a hole in the floor that's roughly 5'6" deep so I can...sob in privacy.

Somehow, I make it through the photo shoot. Sometimes I don't think I'm quite cut out for all of this entertainment BS, diva demands, ass-kissing and whatnot. I'm from Missouri for pete's sakes! So I get home, rip off my tear-soaked clothes and zone out to Seinfeld. And the kicker? I didn't even get to meet Jerry.

Sophie: 1, Me: 0

2007-07-13T12:37:00.000-04:00

My cat, Sophie Sassypants, despises my boyfriend, Danny. It's becoming quite an issue. When Sophie and Dan first met, it wasn't quite love at first sight, but both parties were amicable. Somewhere along the line, she began to treat Dan as if he puked on her favorite catnip mouse—she avoided him at all times. I could be on my bed watching Animal Planet with Soph, she would be purring away, and Dan will walk in and she'll immediately take cover under my bed. Then Dan'll turn to me with a look of dejection and ask, "Why doesn't she like me?" I'll try to lure her out with her fur-on-a-stick toy, and she might ease out...but the minute Dan so much as looks at her, she runs for her life. We tried everything. I would walk up to Danny with Soph in my arms. "Dan, give her a kiss." He obliged. "Dan, give her this catnip." She took one sniff and went across the room. "Dan, give her a cat treat." I tried to get him to feed her that disgusting wet cat food. That, he refused.

It even got to the point where she somehow made about five holes in my mattress box frame so she could crawl in it—usually at night when we're both sleeping. And she'd make it a point to run around on Dan's side of the bed until he'd wake up, annoyed. On Tuesday, we reached a breaking point. We came home after dinner, Soph ran up to me, until she spotted my boyfriend. She gave him a look of death and ran under the bed. Dan got mad. "That's it! I'm taping up her hiding spot! She needs to get used to me and learn to hang out with us! And I need to get some sleep." I agreed, and threw him some duct tape. I watched in awe as Dan destroyed my room, my blankets and pillows strewn on the floor, one mattress against the wall, box frame against another. Sophie hid underneath the claw-foot bathtub. He proceeded to tape up my box frame, like his life depended on it. He went threw full rolls of duct tape, masking tape and packing tape. Layer after layer of tape because according to Danny, "Those paws will get through anything. This'll keep her out." He raved about how much he "loves little handy projects" and how he "wants to help me out around the house more." He's so sweet. I thanked him, and we put my room back together. That night, Sophie slept underneath (not in) my bed.

Now I think Dan has given up on trying to win love and affection from my cat. Last night, he wouldn't touch her. "She doesn't deserve my love," he told me. "But I just want her to see in you what I see!" I begged. So we went to sleep with a small, furry 5-pound elephant in the room. Sophie wins.

Minor Annoyances

2007-03-27T15:58:00.003-04:00

When you go to a bar and order a mocktail of cranberry and seltzer with lime, trying to be a semi-sober, smooth grown-up, when they give it to you in a giant glass with an equally large bendy straw. When you're on a date.

Word Verification on web sites. They have "WjsuVxT" written in neon red on a pink striped background, and you're expected to type it?!

Stupid MySpace bulletins. Like the one where people say, "Everyone on MySpace is fake. If you're a non-fake real friend, you'll re-post this." I'm fake. I have highlights. So what?! And also bulletins by Tom Impersonators. It took me a couple of months, but by being stealth, I figured out that people can easily immitate Tom, and I no longer buy it.

People who put their kids up to their dirty work. I was walking through the park on Sunday, when this sweet little girl handed me a pamphlet. About Jesus. I looked up and there were her parents, watching. They knew I couldn't ignore this young girl, like I usually do when randoms hand out paperwork. They tricked me. That's mean!

When Sophie Sassypants confuses "bedtime" with "playtime." She's in her own kitty world most of the time, but the minute head hits pillow, it's all over. One-by-one, she drags her toys on the bed. I throw. She fetches. I throw far, hoping she won't have the strength to carry the catnip mouse 20 feet with her chompers. I'm wrong. So I eventually hide the toys in my nightstand drawer so I can sleep. Maybe I'm mean?

Don't Be Mean To Mother Nature!!!

2007-03-13T15:14:00.000-04:00

Today started just like any other day in my third-floor apartment. Z100 The Morning Zoo blares out of my crappy speakers with a 7:20am phone tap. Sophie Sassypants, who has been laying on the pillow next to me, bites my arm. I hit Snooze. About five times until 8:15am. I sit up, Sophie cocks her head at me. I stretch to open the blinds by my bed, so Sophie can watch the birds outside — her favorite thing to do. Then I see it. Or...lack of it. There once was a massive tree right outside my bedroom window. It was there yesterday. It's gone this morning. I run to look out another window. No tree. I swear to you, I think for five seconds that I'm dreaming. Am I in the wrong apartment? My building is basically in the backyard of another building, and all I can see is the dirty piss-stained building in front of me. No beautiful tree with a half dozen birds in it's branches on any given day.

I left the house every morning for my 10-hour workday knowing that Sophie would be content. She'd be sitting on my bed watching the birds when I got home. And I almost cried this morning because her happiness was taken away. I know it's just a tree. It's just a kitten. But now I know why my pop wants me to be so happy. Because it makes him happy. Now that my kitten's most favorite thing was taken away, it makes me a little sad.

Pictures Can Deceive

2007-02-02T12:55:00.000-05:00

Do I take myself too seriously? Don't answer that. But seriously, can someone please pluck myself..out of myself for a moment? I wish there was a way to switch bodies, minds, on occasion. Just get out of my life and into someone else's. And it's not like my life is BAD. It's just fine. But it's me. Always thinking, analyzing, wondering, hoping, wishing, expecting...about everything. After I got my pink Geo Tracker in 2001, and things still didn't get better...that's when I realized that material things can't bring happiness.

Why is it that I'm 25, and I'm still wondering if I'm normal? Maybe because I wonder about it so much...it means I'm not? I'm not an adolescent, but I still get that feeling you get when walking into the school cafeteria on the first day of high school, unsure as to who's in your lunch shift because maybe you have two friends and you fear you'll be sitting alone. So there's a rock in your stomach. Some ball of dread that things aren't right, that you're missing something. Something that other people who are living just like you are really get. And you're not being clued in. Your head's off. Your actions are off and your life is off. And if you're a girl, it's not that time of the month which has you really confused. You go from one week a month to four weeks a month with feelings of sadness and fear. Even though this has only been happening for one month, your life still feels like that annoying Zoloft commercial. I find speaking in second person a comfort.

A Second Person Account of PHD, Hypothetically Speaking

2007-01-10T12:58:00.000-05:00

PHD. Post-Holiday Depression. That's what I'm calling it. September strikes like a new school year, filled with foliage and fall clothes. October brings a much-anticipated chance to be someone else for a night and November, well...who doesn't like stuffing your face? December comes with financial stress for about a week until you work out a solution on how and who to buy for. The fam drives you batty until the magic of Dec. 25 bestows itself upon you and you're suddenly grateful for your little life and those in it. The Merry Christmas text messages pour in and you know you're loved. New Years brings hopeful expectations and a hangover and then, BAM! It's all over. Maybe there's something to the fact that most people start out the year by feeling like crap. So you're hungover (hypothetically, of course), maybe you trek to the drugstore for some aspirin. But what do you see? A depressing mess of 50%-off holiday decorations and an aisle full of red and pink. Valentine's Day chocolates, hearts and teddy bears. Teddy bears that you probably won't receive if you're single. So now you're hungover, dateless and have no where to store the new holiday décor you just had to buy because hey, it was on sale.

So you walk back home, stepping over evergreen trees that have been tossed out like day-old KFC. But you think, hey, at least it's not snowing. Everyone likes snow in December, but in January? Hell no. Especially if you live in New York, because January and February is when the real winter starts, and that's not snow. It's dirty gray slush that (hypothetically) ruins your Manolo Blahniks. You reorganize your apartment, trying to find crannies to store your new holiday swag and useless Christmas décor for next year, when it suddenly hits you. All those things you'd planned to do in 2006? None of it happened. You're at your same old job, five pounds heavier. Perhaps you tried to (hypothetically) get a plant last year like the movie 28 Days suggests. And you deprived the pot of purple geraniums of water, so they died. Then you got a kitty, and she died, too. But there's always 2007 to start over. So yeah. I won't lie. I've been depressed for two weeks over all facets of life, hanging onto life by a pink thread. Is that normal?

Little Death

2006-12-11T22:58:00.002-05:00

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

2006-11-17T12:27:00.000-05:00

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

2006-11-15T01:17:00.001-05:00

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.

2006-11-08T21:46:00.000-05:00

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?

2006-11-08T18:35:00.000-05:00

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

2006-08-06T15:04:00.000-04:00

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

2006-07-25T17:38:00.001-04:00

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

2006-07-23T23:15:00.001-04:00

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

2006-06-09T12:04:00.000-04:00

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?

2006-06-01T21:46:00.000-04:00

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 tonightI 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

2006-04-23T14:08:00.001-04:00

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?

2006-04-20T21:46:00.000-04:00

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 floorunder 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?

2006-04-16T22:09:00.000-04:00

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

2006-04-11T20:29:00.000-04:00

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 collegedrowning 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)

2006-03-14T21:15:00.002-05:00

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

2006-03-08T22:26:00.000-05:00

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...forcancer 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 theremore 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

2006-02-22T23:07:00.000-05:00

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

2006-02-13T17:25:00.000-05:00

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

2006-02-01T23:29:00.000-05:00

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

2006-01-29T22:55:00.000-05:00

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

2006-01-16T14:55:00.000-05:00

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

2006-01-13T22:39:00.000-05:00

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.)

2006-01-12T22:56:00.000-05:00

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

2006-01-03T22:58:00.000-05:00

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

The NYE Hunt

2006-01-01T12:00:00.000-05:00

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 obviousthey'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.

Opened Eyes

2005-12-29T22:27:00.000-05:00

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

2005-12-29T20:24:00.000-05:00

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 Match.com 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 Match.com and every stupid boy who "winks" at me. Keep your "wink" and stick it up your "ass." Ha. That makes me smile.

Kansas City Nights

2005-12-24T14:36:00.000-05:00

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 picture...like 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."

Home Sweet Home

2005-12-19T12:56:00.000-05:00

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?

My First Re-Gift of the Season

2005-12-14T20:42:00.000-05:00

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?

The Best Rejection of All Time

2005-12-12T23:54:00.000-05:00

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.

Holiday Cheer

2005-12-07T11:50:00.000-05:00

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.

I Love You Enough To Buy You Things For Christmas

2005-12-06T23:20:00.000-05:00

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 gas...so 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. :)

The Latest Generation

2005-11-28T18:04:00.000-05:00

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 beyondlistening 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.

A Tale of Tina's Travels

2005-11-24T13:57:00.000-05:00

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.

Please Don't Hate Me Because I'm Honest

2005-11-09T14:12:00.000-05:00

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 mostJake 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.

Wednesday Night Anger

2005-11-03T11:29:00.000-05:00

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 am...at 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...

Mental Sex Change?

2005-11-01T13:33:00.000-05:00

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.

Umm...you 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.

Talking Relationships with the Roommates

2005-10-11T11:56:00.000-04:00

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.

I'm Not Referring to a Celery Stalk

2005-10-05T18:04:00.000-04:00

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 to...so 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.

One of My More Self-Deprecating Entries

2005-09-05T21:59:00.000-04:00

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.

Aging Anxiety

2005-08-30T22:01:00.000-04:00

It just occurred to meI 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.

The Single Life

2005-08-18T16:48:00.000-04:00

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 wantthere 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...