Fatty, Fatty, Two By Four...

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

Inked (Midwest vs. NYC)

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday

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

New Yorkers Are Sluts

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

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

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

Reasons Why I Once Took Anti-Anxiety Medication

Things that make me kind of uncomfortable:

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

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

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