If Uli had won, none of this would have happened!

I hate Times Square. I hate everything about it. I hate the lights; I hate the noise; I hate the street vendors; I hate the crowds; and I hate the tourists.

I know, I know...the hating tourists thing? It's just so damn unoriginal. But hear me out. Does it make me angry that tourists walk in packs of 12, or even in horizontal lines of 4, occupying the whole sidewalk and traveling at snail pace? Yes. Do I grow frustrated when they stop dead in their tracks to take pictures during rush hour when I am practically running towards my freedom from the office and have to catapult myself out of the way to bypass running them over? Yes. But the number one reason I hate tourists is because they're such fucking ASSHOLES. They have this preconceived idea that NYers are "hard" and "tough" and in a desperate effort to blend in, become rude and mean and awful...but I suppose a lot of them are just like that anyway.

Wednesday night while commuting home from watching Project Runway at a friends apt., I discovered I was on an express train that wouldn't be stopping again until 72nd Street. So despite living a meager 10 blocks away, you can imagine how thrilled I was when I realized I would have to get off at the highly dreaded and avoided 42nd Street stop.

Times Square: tourist central: my nightmare.

So anyway...I'm walking up 8th Ave, trying to get out of tourist hell, when a juvenile delinquent CLUBS ME IN THE THIGH WITH A LEAD PIPE

....okay so maybe it wasn't a juvenile delinquent a much as some pre-teen bitch strung out on MTV...and maybe she didn't so much club me, as she did walk by me super close. And looking back at her as I rolled around on the ground in pain, it was hard to distinguish what her weapon of choice was.

What I do know, is that: it was strapped to her back in the fashion one would wear a tennis racquet (or drafting tube), it was concealed in a non-tennis racquet case (possibly dripping with my blood), and that the cantaloupe sized bruise on my thigh says IT WAS A FUCKING LEAD PIPE.

God, now I know what Nancy Kerrigan felt like. Lucky for me, the winter Olympics aren't until 2010...though I may never recover.

I've developed a composite sketch of the criminal in hopes of a speedy arrest. Please help.

Bobby Trendy don't have shit on me.

I am an interior designer (studying/interning/9 months away from being, anyway). I don't do residential. I'm specializing in hospitality (which means restaurants, hotels, casinos, spas, and resorts for the uninformed).

Upon revealing my profession of choice, I am likely to hear a bevy of comments along the lines of "ohhhh you'll have to design my house!!!"

Cue: eyeroll.

Gee, how original...except for the fact that every person I have ever met has thought themselves as clever. Lets just say that A) You actually have a real interest in spending the time and effort to have your house redesigned (which you probably don't) and B) You can at some point in your life afford to hire an interior designer to do it for you (which you probably can't), I have many a talented friend specializing in residential that I would be happy to hook you up with...assuming you aren't the client from hell (which you probably are) and that said friend won't resent me for life (which they undoubtedly would).

Don't insult me by calling me a decorator. That's like calling a doctor a nurse (nothing against nurses, my grandma was a nurse, my mom is a nurse, I love nurses, the world needs more nurses!). Now I am in no way, shape, or form trying to claim that my knowledge, education, or integrity is close to being on par with that of a Doctor's. The good lord knows that I would flunk out of med. school within the first week. But bare with me, for the sake of comparison.

1. Doctors perform surgery, I perform architectural space planning.
2. Doctors have a firm understanding of the biology of the human body, I have a firm understanding of codes and construction systems.
3. Doctors write prescriptions, I write specifications.

I am not a decorator...and it's not only a difference in education and investment, it's a matter of certification and qualification. I (and when I say "I", I totally mean my parents) didn't drop 160Gs to be on trading spaces or acquire the "skills" equivalent of a few hours at an evening trade school.


And now for the ever popular,
in conclusion:

1. If you jokingly ask me to design your house, I may secretly (or publicly) hate on you.
2. I am not a doctor
3. I like nurses.
4. I am selling my soul in tuition to Drexel.
5. I. don't. decorate.

Celebrity look a-likes

Over the weekend I ventured down to a little place I (and the rest of the world) like to call Waterford, Ohio for a good old fashioned family reunion. Bordering West Virginia, Waterford, Ohio is about as midwestern country as you can get. Needless to say, there wasn't a whole heck of a lot to do out there, and the weekend primarily consisted of sitting around, talking and EATING.

At some point over the course of the weekend, my cousin boldly decided to enter uncharted waters by proclaiming a "remarkable resemblance" between my dad, and the late Mister Rogers.

Now, I won't go as far as to say that this look a-like is uncanny...and I as a TV watching kid, I certainly never thought it was my father carrying on conversations with the likes of Henrietta or King Friday, but never the less, it is there. What's more, this isn't the first time Neil T. has been compared to our televised neighborhood friend. Several individuals have brought this notion to my dad's attention, from a coworker (who has now taken to actually calling him "Mister Rogers"), to a family friend, to a car full of girls at a stop light who thought he actually was MR, reincarnated.


Personally, I am more struck by this likeness. My friend Ty Bradley (pictured in the cowboy hat) is a dead ringer for actor Bradley Cooper (you may know him as the asshole boyfriend in Wedding Crashers). Hell, they even share part of a name.

In Wedding Crashers, Cooper's grooming was much more clean cut, making the resemblance even more striking. I swear, I almost had a seizure in the theater when I first saw it.

Surely Michael Jackson felt this way too.

I am now 21. An adult by any standard...and although seen as an adult for the past 3 years in the eyes of the government, my statute of limitations has officially expired, rendering my status absolute.

Where was I when all this happened? When did it all of the sudden become acceptable for me to date a man 10 years my senior? When was I catapulted into this grey area, somewhere in between wanting to be a child and wanting to have a child?

And exactly at what point did someone decree 21, the legal drinking age, too old to drink to excess?

I am now a career woman...or at least a career woman in training. And with this bout of "real life experience" under my belt, I am now being launched back into the realm of keg parties and classes. Where is the justice?

Regardless, it is time to face the facts: the time has come. And now I face one ultimate decision on adulthood: I can embrace it, run from it, or blog about it.

And so it begins.

I am here to officially claim my title as "creepy internet stalker girl".It all started when I purchased a concert ticket, and later found out that I would be out of town for the event. Like many internet savvy individuals of my generation, I did the most logical thing, and posted it on Craigslist. One particular individual (we'll call him "Ed") responded to my ad, and we made arrangements for him to pick it up at my place of work.

Fast forward to yesterday afternoon, when Ed meets me on the street outside of my office. Right off the bat, i notice that he is attractive. We chat a little, he asks me some questions about myself, and is being a generally nice person. We eventually part ways, him with his ticket and me with my $20 in tow.

Fast forward to last night when I decided it would be a brilliant idea to use the email address he had responded to my ad with, and send him a little message...a little message essentially saying that I wanted to have his babies (this is paraphrased of course).

Fast forward to this evening when I still have not heard back from him, and sprouting from my moment of weakness, would like to now officially accept my well deserved award.