Little Death

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

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

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

On Having a Cat

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

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

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

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

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

Hoping By a Thread

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

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

Thank You, Anonymous.

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

title: At the Ripe, Old Age of 26... So these were my goals by the time I turned 26, not 27. Nice. I must've thought real highly of myself to think I could even accomplish half of these.
mood: blah My mood isn't as "blah" as it used to be, so I suppose that's good?
music: My Chemical Romance (do they have any other songs?!) They just released a new album, so at least that's changed in two years.
Realistic things that I hope happen within the next three years: Realistic?! I don't think I realized that I was about to turn 24 in a month (August 5), which sort of shaved a year off my timeline.
1. I plan to take more guitar lessons, followed by a miniscule amount of voice lessons. My guitar is STILL dusty. And my singing voice still sucks.
2. I will write and produce a rockin' song on Chloé and sing it in front of a small, intimate, not-too-mean audience. (The Butterfly Homicide LP is indeed a possibility.) See number 1.
3. I will start my novel titled Three Months (That's How Long Infatuation Lasts). It will be a fiction chick-lit book, loosely based on all of you. ;) I haven't written a book, but I've sought advice from numerous in the field on how to write a book proposal. I bought a 5-inch thick book full of book-publisher listings. I've decided to write my memoir first (on a certain topic...am not that egocentric) and then tackle a fiction novel. Have I started either? No.
4. I will become involved in a grown-up relationship. With a boy. But I suppose that won't happen until I get the guts to start calling "boys" "men." And I don't see that happening anytime soon. I now call "boys," "guys," but a grown-up relationship? No, although I'm being invited to more and more weddings.
5. I plan to write a lengthy piece for Glamour. On what, TBD. Freelance work? No. But I babysit more. :(
6. I will start my domestic-like recipe box. It's empty and is swiftly collecting dust. OK, this one I can cross off the list. I included more recipes in my recipe box, but I seemed to have lost them when I moved. But I have a Betty Crocker cookbook that I didn't have before.
7. You knew this was coming. But you know, I don't give two jars of peanut butter if I never lose 10 pounds. But I do plan to exercise REGULARLY and eat the sugar-free ice cream. I eat LESS ice cream, but not sugar-free. I have a gym membership. I go sometimes. Is once a week regularly? No..but I plan to go more, OK?!
8. I'd better pay off that Visa. Credit cards are so addictive. And to think, I only wanted the free pair of sunglasses. Oh fuck. I don't want to talk about this one. It's a bit of a...sore subject right now. Needless to say, I can't cross it off.
9. I will plan and take a vacation to a tropical-esque spot. Even if it's only Virginia Beach. Nada. My plane tickets all go to see family. But it's OK. They're worth it. :)
10. I will refrain from talking smack about my phenomenal poker skills and will learn how to bluff. I actually own a poker set. And I'm not half bad. Cross it off.

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

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

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

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

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

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