A Single Chick's Apartment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ornamental pillows. Check. Two of them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm hopeless.

When did I become the Old person in the room?

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

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

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

Sophie: 3, Me: 0

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

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

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.