Second Choice Girl December 15, 2007

Do you know the girl on The Bachelor who you think is going to get the last rose all the way up until she, well, doesn’t? I am that girl.

On paper it all makes sense: Private New England Boarding School, Expensive Liberal Arts University, Respected Wealthy Family, Attractive Physical Attributes and anything else worthy of obnoxious mid-sentence capitals. Yes, I have it all, or as I like to parahrase, the brains/the dough/the bod. What’s the problem? (My mother wants to know) Why am I un-married and jobless at twenty-four? It doesn’t make sense, right?

Wrong. It makes total sense. I am a second choice girl. I am the girl that always gets foiled by the under-dog. I am Galinda in Wicked, Amber in Hairspray, Rizo in Grease (I just needed a brunette!). In short, I am that girl–the girl on The Bchelor who should’ve gotten the guy but didn’t for reasons that trascend paper.

Am I mad about this? Does this knowledge upset and infuriate me in ways that span the depth and breadth of logic? Not so much. Being the second choice girl–the one who is always pit against just one other candidate for the job (the one with more experience and less need for a salary)–it kind of has its perks. For one thing, everyone loves a loser.

Think about it–once Jordin Sparks wins American Idol will you buy her CD? No way! She’s a winner! She already won! But when Kelly Pickler or that rock dude Chris comes out with an album aren’t you a little curious? People like to see other people fail and try again. It’s the most human, relatable characteristic that mankind posseses. Being a second choice is like being an everyman. Every man has at one point or another, been that second choice. They’ve lost the job to someone more qualified, they’ve lost the guy to someone who didn’t have sex on the first date. It happens to everyone just like it happens to me.

So to get back to my point, I don’t pity myself for being a second choice girl. If anything it makes me more human. It makes me a grittier, more complex female and at the very least, it gives me something to bitch about knowing full-well that if I got it, I’d probably just f*ck it up.

Besides, if I was who it says I am on paper, I’d probably still be a virgin. (And how would that be any fun for you?)

Re-Inveting Amanda June 29, 2006

Daniel says I need to re-invent myself. I should stop obsessing over small things that I have no control over, and stop being so dramatic all the time. He says, not me. He’s right, I’m wrong, as usual.

Kyle’s a jerk, I don’t even want to be friends really. The magazine is what matters to me, but otherwise, I really don’t care what he does or who he fucks. He wants to fuck a girl I work with. She’s a sweetie and has a live-in boyfriend, but that doesn’t deter him. He has a live-in fiance asfterall. What a pig.

Tomorrow, Adrian is taking me for an HIV test before work. This way I can stop my nightmares and move on with life. The Park Avenue guy came by work today and asked me out for next friday night. I said yes, but I plan on cancelling next week. He doesn’t want anything serious with me, and I’m sick of being filler until he finds a girl he wants to marry.

Despite all evidence to the contrary, I am still a first choice girl.

Bo’s a sweetheart, but he’s not in a plce to date me right now. Our schedules conflict so we can never go on dates, and he’s going to Spain in two months to film a movie until early next year. Such is the problem with dating actors…they leave before things have a chance to really develop. Besides, I’m still not totally convinced that he’s straight.

In other news, I plan on being a recluse for the remainder of summer. There are books I want to read, and countless museums and shows I must attend. Plus–my magazine is out in September, and I need to prepare mentally.

I think I’m going to subscribe to the Village Voice. It’s the closest I can get myself to reading real news.

Sick May 23, 2006

I’ve done it now. I’ve really fucking done it. He has a fiance–i met her–she’s a nice girl. He is my boss until Friday and more importantly, my friend. How could I have been so stupid, how could I have fucked him?

I mean, Oh my goodness, what am I doing? I am so fucked up. He is so fucked up. We are both fucked.

All the time I say that I’m a first choice girl, I’m a girl that deserves more. What the hell do I deserve for doing something like this? I feel sick to my stomach.

Weekend Bliss May 16, 2006

There were so many parts about this weekend that I loved. There’s that night when Daniel and I bought a bum a hot dog and in return he gave me a love poem, which I read aloud on the streets of the west village at 3AM. Then there’s the time we danced in an empty bar until the lights came up and they started playing ‘closing time’. And the happy meals that followed at sunrise…oh friday night…

oh yea…and how about the afternoon we spent at MOMA getting lost in phallic symbology and art that causes headaches? And the evening at Butter that made everyone inolved feel a little sick? And who could forget chuck norris? and R Kelly? LOL.

and what about Puno? I love Puno. I love Puno because Daniel loves Puno and also because its impossible not to love her. In fact, Daniel went back to LA today and his beloved is staying with me until Thursday!

When he left this morning, Puno said to me: that boy really loves you! I’ve never seen him treat a girl like he treats you. I was thinking the same thing about her. What lucky girls we are to love this boy who loves us so well. What a lucky boy he is to have such girls swooning over him in the wee hours of the morning.

To make matters even more interesting, Nate called at midnight on Friday night to chat. I was in a cab headed to a party downtown and he was sitting home, thinking about me. Oh nate…you are so over in my mind.

And the actor texted me on sunday…he likes me…he really likes me….lol!

Getting Serious March 18, 2006

Look at these exquisite, thin, angel-shaped eyebrows! Look at them! The precision. Each little hair, trimmed and pruned into perfection. What art!

For ten painful, tear-jerking minutes I leaned my head back, my neck as steady as a dingy in a monsoon, ow-ing and ooh-ing myself into stability, while a patient Indian lady guided a double-bladed string in and around the tiny baby hairs on my face, while chatting leisurely with another indian lady in hindi. (Hindi, gujrati, some area dialect that I couldn’t comprehend).

(The string was tied up in her teeth, so it was really a miracle that she was able to speak at all. but i digress…)

My thumb and index finger pushed accusingly down upon my tense eyeball, while my other thumb pulled my skin from the opposite side, taught. In an attempt to soothe my wimpering, I began shaking my left leg like a dog about to urinate on the carpet. My face stung fiercely in immaculate rows, and I didn’t need to look in the mirror to tell you my face was red. It was pain on a micro-managed level. Pain concentrated into the size of a pore. Damn my hairy heritage! Damn the mexicans and their bushy eyebrows, damn the middle east and their light, baby hairs on my upper lip! Damn me for trying to cut my fringe, creating a mess of sideburns running the length of my ear. Damn-Damn-DAMN!!!

As I wiped the tears and sweat from my dampened cheeks, I paid my $23 and teretsed down the wooden stairs. Out on the busy street, I stopped momentarily to regain my composure. A thought dawned on me: I will never feel bad about letting a man pay again, and if he wants, I’ll gladly trade this tortureous, threading business in for the check!

Blindly I walked downtown to Barnes&Noble. My sanctuary. I floated up and down every aisle for an hour, reading the first two lines of each book that caught my attention. At the end, I realized I’d read every interesting book on the second floor. Wow. I need another hobby.

Walking out the door, a title caught my eye: Get serious About Getting Married in the next 365 days! At first I picked it up just to make sure I’d read it right, and then I shuffled off to the side, just to make sure I was doing it right on my own. As you know, I am hoping to have a baby in five years, and my mother strongly suggests I find a husband first. Blah. Fine, I give in.

Daniel once suggested I look for men in bookstores. that’s what I was doing today. However, picking up the marriage book and running off to read it in the sports magazine section may have killed my chances. Hmmm.

As I’d guessed, the book didn’t tell me anything I wasn’t already doing. I’m treating getting married the same way I’d treat finding a job. Right now I’m getting my resume settled: house/job/financial security. Extra-curriculars: cooking,sewing, reading, museums, current events. I’m only looking at potential husbands who can offer me stability and intellectual compatibility. I’m weeding out my essentials from my non-essentials and focusing on finding a man who is good enough for me. Check check check. Extra-extra’s: I’m spending my first pay check on Victoria’s Secret lace underwear and excruciatingly perfect, hair removal procedures.

Excuse me now, I have to go whiten my teeth.

I’m a Hustler March 17, 2006

I’m a hustler. All day I went store to store, block to block, getting numbers and making appointments. Hustling for that commission, my money for the ranch I want in New Mexico. My outfit was killer: Black fitted pants, with fushia pinstripes and a matching fushia button down, layered with a fitted black cardiagan. Black suede boots. Full lips and lined eyes, cushioned by bouncey brown curls. You should’ve seen me, I was on point with the matching Coach Purse.

This is the outfit to attract the men in suits. It didn’t. Those men wore ipods and walked by after a quick once over and a meager smile. Punks. The men who stopped to talk were mostly black, 20-something, American men at footlocker and nieghbouring sneaker stores.

My mouth said: “when can you come in for an appointment, 4PM or 5PM?”, but my eyes said, “don’t you want to see me again, possibly in less clothing, tonight?” Like I said, I’m a hustler. I booked one appoitment for today, six for tomorrow and one for monday. A real hustler.

A thought crossed my mind: here I am, twenty-two, pretty, with a million dollar education under my size four belt, and I’m flirting with footlocker employees to make my paycheck. Do you know I graduated with honors from my New England boarding school? In 12th grade I took a graduate level test on ‘Our Mutual Friend’, by Charles Dickens, and scored a 70%, while the rest of my class scored 10%’s? Yes, that’s right, I’m a bright girl. Do you know I’ve travelled all around Italy, England and Pairs, and driven across the united states of america? I understand Spanish on a near fluent level and I’ve seen some of the greatest works of art this world has ever produced. But at the end of the day, my ability to sell liquid sex to overworked footwear salesmen is what keeps me alive.

But like I said, I’m a hustler, so when I look at my appointment book and see six appointments for tomorrow, I’m thrilled because I’m a hustler that hustles well.

Hobo in the Hallway March 10, 2006

So I’m sitting here re-designing my myspace page for the second night in a row (oh my life is sad), and my roommate Pri is heading out to meet friends at Union Bar. Ten seconds after she leaves, the doorbell rings. Now, it took me a while to get across the room due to the club strength (squat-tastic) class and the follow-up ab class I took yesturday, and by the time I opened it, pri almost threw me back into our dining table. She was literally freaking out.

“OMG, Amanda there’s this old guy IN the hallway smoking weed and he tried to talk to me.”

Funny that she brought this up because earlier on a friend of mine was asking where she could get some weed in the city and I didn’t know. I thought: great, maybe I can ask him. Pri was not on my same page. hmmm…

“Amanda he’s freaking me out! OMG! I was standing by the elevator and he kept coming closer and closer to me, trying to talk to me and then I turned around and ran back and I must’ve called your name because he was like: her name’s amanda?”

All of a sudden a nightmare I had about Nate the other night rushed to the forefront of my memory.

“Pri, was he blonde? Did he have a gun?”

“No! He had a joint and he was getting up in my face!”

Clearly Pri was terrified. I looked at her in the dark blue jeans and black tie top, earings dangling and make-up on. She was not expecting to get accosted by a potential hobo tonight–especially within the confines of our luxury apartment building.

I picked up the phone for the doorman, reported the abuser, and we stood in the kitchen, backs to the wall, hoping he didn’t try to shoot through our front door. Jeez….if I’d had it my way I’d have been asleep half an hour ago. NY is crazy man…

and I still don’t know who to ask about getting my friend some weed.

Thursday Night Fun w/ Underwear March 10, 2006

There’s a rather pressing issue that needs to be addressed here: My underwear is atrocious. It’s bleached, discolored, faded and full of holes. Frankly I’m appauled. As I type this, my blue faux-lace Miami panties — purchsed as a last minute buy during a suit shopping trip in Dadeland Mall with my Mother and my Grandfather’s Platinum card — is RIPPING down my left hip bone! Ripping as we speak!!!!

Sadly I find this thrilling. Adventuresome, if you will. How long can I wear them before they literally fall off my body? It’s even more exciting now that I’m on my dot and refuse to wear a tampon if I’m not getting laid. (Toxic shock man — there’s always a risk!). Every hour that goes by with them clinging to my bucksome hip, I say: Look at that Nordstrom, feel the quality!

I get paid in three weeks and I’m going to Vicky’s FIRST THING to get some new underwear, don’t worry. And I’ll also have money to go out on Thursday nights instead of staying home and tempting some indentured servant’s, child’s craftmanship.

Talk Too Loud March 5, 2006

This city is too loud for me to think. Always the screaming and yelling. Always the ‘have another drink’ followed by the slap on the ass. The honking cars and the flashing lights, the girls in their clevage bearing halters, presenting their breasts on the alter that is rich schmucks in suits. It’s all too loud for me tonight. Probably because I’m not drinking and I showed up in a sweater to a swanker-than-swank night club. Pink and fuzzy turtleneck — since I was sober I had the good sense to feel embarassed and the better sense to leave early.

People always tell me I talk too loud. It’s because I’m a New Yorker and the volume starts at loud then esculates. It’s all such bullshit. In the middle of the day I’ll walk up to any stranger on the street and start a conversation, funny and out going as ever, but when its night-time in a club, I stand to the side, awkward and mistrusting. I assume atomatically that if you’re not gay and you’re talking to me, you have a 65% chance of being a serial killer/rapist/pedaphile/financial analyst. None of which I accept as dating options.

I want to be quiet for a while. I don’t want to speak or be spoken to. I don’t want a reason to put on gloves or a scarf. Remember those CKone ads from high school: Just Be…? that’s what I want. To be… and be it alone.

That Ache… March 3, 2006

Do you know that achey feeling you get when you’re apart from your significant other for too long? It’s physical. You ache. Feels like you’re getting the flu kind of, or like you had a particularly straining work out. I think it’s from your heart beating too fast for your body to keep up, counting the minutes until you’re together again. Anxiety mixed with anticipation and a deep-seeded, impatient need. An addictive need.

Laura was with me today in my apartment, visiting from DC. We got an email from our other best friend (and past roommate) who’s in the peace core, Lindsay. She was aching for her boyfriend…ehem, excuse me, fiance. (long story, not what it seems, another time).

Laura said: I remember what that felt like, a physical prison. A conflict between my own life goals and not wanting to be away too long from my ex. It was horrible. I never want to ache for anyone ever again. I never want to love a boyfriend that much.

I agreed. When things ended with Nate I felt sick for months. Same thing for James, and after my significant college boyfriend started dating my college roommate sophomore year, I was on a steady diet of four advil a day for who-knows-how-long. Aching for someone is never a good thing, especially when things end, life goes on, and the ache stays the same.

As young women and fairy-tale-fed girls, maybe we hold on to our relationships even when we know things are bad, because we can’t stand the sustained, unrequited ache that comes with a break-up. Nobody likes to hurt. Nobody likes to have a broken heart. It does in fact hold us prisoner under the pretense of ‘I can make this work’ and ‘I don’t want to start over with someone else’. We give, we love, we ache. We miss him. We don’t want to give just anyone that kind of power once we’ve experienced the loss. It’s not worth the aching the second time around.

But I think the ache is worth enduring if it means happiness. I wouldn’t be with a guy who couldn’t make me feel his absense and wait impatiently for the next chance to feel elated again. To smile and blush and flirt. I don’t want a guy that doesn’t physically have an affect on me. I want to feel the burn and the craving, but it may actually kill me to be disappointed again.

Linds is happily aching in Morocco. It gives me hope that one day it won’t be in vain anymore.