And I swear to god he wasn’t kidding. June 30, 2005

Approximately 9:34 this morning:

Boss: Clink, come here.

Fuck fuck whatdidido fuck fuck I’msogettingfired fuck fuck.

Boss: It’s a holiday weekend, this weekend.

You are so totally going to ask me to go out on a shoot, aren’t you. YOU ARE INTENT ON RUINING MY LIFE.

Boss: So, if you want to get out of here a little early tomorrow…

Holy mother of god. No he didn’t. Hell? Just froze over.

Boss: Yeah, it’s totally cool if you jet at 5 or 5:30.

Aaaaaaand the universe is not going to implode after all.

Note: I did start to laugh at the “5 or 5:30″ because, CLEARLY, I thought he was kidding. He just kind of raised his eyebrows and looked confused. So I muttered “Um, thanks” and scurried out of the office and into the bathroom where I laughed for a good two minutes.

I LAUGH TO KEEP FROM CRYING, PEOPLE.

Heyyyyy youuuuu guuuuuys June 29, 2005

I was craving The Goonies. There is no other way to describe it other than a full-on, all-consuming craving. I now know what it feels like for pregnant women when they omigod must have key lime pie and grilled asparagus yes at the same time RIGHT THIS MINUTE.

That’s how I felt about wanting to see it. I’m sure there are some psychological implications regarding the movie and my childhood and subconsciously needing to cling to something that reminds me of a time when life was consistent and solid and relatives weren’t dying and parents weren’t flying to Greece last-minute to go to hospitals and rapists weren’t on the loose, etc.

But really? I just have a major crush on Data and the Boy had never seen the movie.

That’s right, he had never seen Goonies. Grounds for a break up right there, no?

Tower Records was all out (”What movie are you looking for? Is it a new release? How do you spell it?” My god, the Boy isn’t the only one. There’s a whole slew of people out there who HAVE NEVER SEEN THE MOVIE).

We walked, in the rain, to the Virgin Megastore. He told me that I “do wet well.” It didn’t sound sleazy, coming from him.

We were soaked when we reached the store, shivering in the air conditioning, hunting through the bins of DVD’s because of course the movie was not on the shelf. Of course it was part of the sale. Of course the sale DVD’s were in no particular order.

After thirty minutes, we gave up. Braved the rain again. He kissed me under the Loew’s theater marquee. Held me tighter than he ever has and, in response to our discussion about the rapist and my broken window, told me he couldn’t sleep the night before, thinking about it and me. “I worry about you all the time, Clink.”

I think being worried about is one of the greatest compliments in the world.

We passed a Blockbuster on the way back to his car. We exchanged raised eyebrows, walked in. In under five minutes, we had a copy of the movie in our hands and I was giggling like a five year old because omigod MOUTH and “Goonies never say die!” and Sloth and Chunk sharing a Baby Ruth.

It was unspoken, but I think he was aware that he was expected to love the movie. And he did. Which is good because, as I told him, now I will allow him to stick around a little longer.

Masshole: The Jakob Story June 28, 2005

I avoided writing about Jakob yesterday because the mere mention of his name makes me throw up in my mouth a little (but I was clearly ok with writing about the Spiderman Rapist. That should give you some idea of where Jakob stands with me).

Anyway, Nickie - who isn’t stupid and therefore knows that I’m not going to be president of Jake’s fan club any time soon - tried to smooth things over when I arrived by saying, “Jakob is so excited to see you! He was telling all of his friends that my hottie friend from New York was coming up.”

Nice try, Jakob. Throwing the “hottie” comment in there. But, alas, no cigar sucka - I’m onto you.

Friday night and all day Saturday were blissfully J-free. Just me and Nic, being me and Nic. Shopping, laying out, eating Mexican food, drinking red wine, almost falling down an escalator at Copley Plaza (we are nothing if not the biggest spazzes in the world).

Saturday evening Jakob and his frat brothers were in the middle of a bar crawl. We joined in at the tail end because the only thing better than sober Jakob is I’ve - been - drinking - for - seven - hours - straight Jakob! Yay!

He was cordial at first. The smile was forced, but he bought me a Magner’s and seriously? That’s one way to my heart. Cider.

But then he got drunker. And the drunker he got, the less he censored himself. Some choice comments?

[To me]: So who is this dude you’re dating and how did you dupe him into committing to you? What? I’m kid-ding.

[To Nickie]: Why’d you wear the jeans that give you no ass? I don’t want the fellas to think my girlfriend has no ass.

[To me]: You’re such a sharp dressah, Clink. Looks like you scored yourself a sugar daddy with this new boy. Heh. All New York women are goldiggahs.

[To the entire bar]: WE GOT A YANKEES FAN HERE, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. A YANKEES FAN. (The entire bar proceeded to boo me.)

[To Nickie]: What’d you eat today?

[To me]: You dance like a strippah.

I wanted to throw down, I really did. But, full disclosure? I’m so all talk. Plus, I’m a Libra. Us Libras avoid confrontation like the plague. However, I let him know in no uncertain terms that I thought he was an asshole (I believe my words were “I think you’re an asshole”), but he was too drunk to reason with.

Plus, it’s not him I’m concerned about. It’s Nic. And she and I had a nice little discussion at brunch Sunday morning (err, afternoon). At first she defended him. Then she started to see my (rational, well thought-out, if I do say so myself) points.

I don’t know if it made a difference, but I think I said “the fact that he was drunk is no excuse” about fifty times.

Because alcohol is a little bit of a weak excuse when YOU’RE DEALING WITH A 28 YEAR OLD.

She gave me all the abused wife cliche excuses: “you don’t know what he’s like when it’s just the two of us” “he cares about me” “he doesn’t mean what he says.”

Like my mom says, water finds its own level and I’m sure this will all work out for the best. I’ve done my part. Voiced my opinion. Gave her boyfriend the finger (after the stripper comment).

Now it’s pretty much out of my hands.

Things That Do Not Sit Well With Me, Part One June 27, 2005

The Boy ran into my best friend MJ at a party on Friday night. I was on a bus to Boston at the time, so they were introduced by a mutual friend. Obviously the Boy knows lots about MJ and MJ knows lots about the Boy.

MJ was stoked to finally meet him, seeing as she and I do a lot of talking about him and she’s unfortunately been out of town for much of the three months that he and I have been dating.

She tried to engage him in conversation but said that he talked to her for, oh, about a minute before avoiding her “like the PLAGUE, Clink” for the rest of the night.

MJ does have a flair for the dramatic, but I believe her.

Ok. Am I overreacting? Because sometimes I, too, have a flair for the dramatic. But this is pit-of-stomach bothering me right now because, hello, she’s my best friend and hello, wouldn’t he want to get in good with her?

I mean, the least he could’ve done was engage in some friendly ribbing about me and my quirks, like all best friends and boyfriends do when they meet for the first time.

I don’t know. You tell me. Should I let it slide?

(Note: Jakob update tomorrow, y’all. Promise. I needed a day to recuperate.)

My center is all off. June 27, 2005

Could be the fact that I’m living like a goddamn gypsy these days.

Also? Traveling on buses throws me completely out of whack.

Especially when it takes five hours to get back from Boston (despite there being no traffic) (causing me to MISS THE YANKEE GAME) and I’ve forgotten my iPod headphones and yawn, Vogue is so fucking boring and why does the guy sitting next to me insist on wanting to know my life story? God, feigning sleep just to get him to stop asking me questions is really annoying because I’m not tired at all and damn it I have to pee, why the hell did I down two iced teas right before boarding?

Wait, what was I talking about? Oh right. My “center.” And it being ALL FUCKING OFF.

I refuse to sleep at my apartment.

You see, I’m not scared of many things. Really just heights and flying. Other than that, bring it on.

Unless, of course, we’re talking about the “Spiderman Rapist” who climbs five-story fire escapes and enters apartments through windows and smothers victims with a pillow before sexually assaulting them and taking their money. A BLOCK AWAY FROM MY BUILDING.

Then? Don’t bring it on. He? Should stay far, far away.

The window to our fire escape doesn’t lock. We may as well put up a sign: “Welcome, Spidey. 23-year-old female victim sleeping in the bedroom down the hall. Oh, and her air conditioning is on full blast so she won’t hear you coming until it’s already too late. Six foot three, muscular male roommate is filming a movie in Arizona, so no worries there. Nope, she doesn’t have any mace or a bat - just some really expensive shoes that she won’t even use to kill a spider, let alone harm you with. You can leave a thank-you note with the landlord downstairs for failure to secure the windows.”

So now I’m going to be traipsing around Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens and good ol’ Jersey until Sir Landlord of Incompetentville decides he doesn’t want me to get raped, robbed and possibly killed and goes ahead and fixes the window.

Sucks.

Thank god for the Boy and Dos Caminos guacamole tonight, or I would surely lose my mind.

The Red Sox aren’t the only thing I dislike about Boston. June 24, 2005

I’m going to see a friend in Boston this weekend. A friend I love dearly.

Her boyfriend will also be there. I don’t love him so dearly. Or, at all.

The phrase “you could do better” was INVENTED FOR THIS PARTICULAR SITUATION. Nickie? Is beautiful. Like, every - head - in - the - bar - turns beautiful. Plus she’s smart. Plus she’s a funny, sarcastic bitch. In essence, she’s fucking rocks my world with her all around awesomeness.

Jakob? Yeah, not so much.

I had known him for all of two hours when I noticed him giving me a strange look at the bar, about a year ago.

Clink: “Something wrong?”
Jakob: “I was just wondering…”
Clink: “‘Sup?”
Jakob: “Are you really this nice or is it just a front? Because it seems like a front.”
Clink: “Wow. You’re an asshole.”

Needless to say, we got off on the wrong foot.

Over the course of their relationship he has: lied to her, cheated on her, broken up with her, begged for her forgiveness, mooched off of her and taken advantage of the fact that she is one of the earth’s most generous human beings.

There’s “having a thing for bad boys” and then there’s “Nickie, you’re fucking insane, dump him.”

One of the issues that has bothered me the most - aside from, of course, the above - is the way he comments on her body. For the record? She’s smokin’. Size six at most with curves in all the right places and a perfect ass GOD DAMN HER. Jakob has, apparently, only dated girls who capped out at around one hundred pounds, however, and likes to make obnoxious (to say the least) remarks (”Do you really need to eat that second slice?” “Someone needs to hit the treadmill.” “Those pants make your ass look sloppy.”) that cause Nic to call me sobbing.

So, it’s on this weekend. No one treats a friend of mine like that and LIVES TO TELL ABOUT IT. Or, um, something. Bottom line? He’s going to get the full wrath of Clink, complete with Death Stare and fuck you commentary.

Plus I’m introducing Nickie to one of my (gahhhhhhhh I’m going to use the word) boyfriend’s friends who lives up there in hopes that she meets him and is all “oh hey wow MEN CAN BE NORMAL AND NICE AND AWESOME.”

Then maybe - just maybe - she’ll permit me to do bodily harm to our pal Jakob. At the end of which, I plan to walk away, stop, turn around and hiss, “Oh yeah. She never wants to speak to you again. And we all know that you cry when you come. Sucka.”

Wah, wah, wah. June 23, 2005

I have a raging headache.

Plus I’m starving.

Plus there was no time for Starbucks this morning (hence the RAGING HEADACHE and the STARVING and the OMIGOD I JUST WANT TO GO TO SLEEP).

Spent the entire morning sifting through raw footage. For the record, “The Comeback” makes raw footage look funny and sad and entertaining and hey! who needs editing? It’s none of the above.

Just want to be here:

That would be my island. Ok, ok - technically it’s called “Kefalonia” (or Cephalonia, they can never make up their minds, those Greeks) but one day it will be ALL MINE (just give me a few years to make a couple billion and I’m gonna own that shit, Onassis-style).

Isn’t it yummy? Don’t you just want to be sitting there right now, drinking a frozen whatever and reading a smutty novel while your Adonis lover cavorts in the turquoise waves?

Me too. Excuse me while I run to the bathroom to cry.

You Know You’re Getting Old When June 22, 2005

You change the channel from MTV to Discovery because seven half-naked strangers getting drunk and hooking up in a hot tub? Yawn.

This is truly the end of an era.

I gave the Real World Austin a shot. And by shot, I mean twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of my life I will never get back. Twenty minutes of my life that I could’ve spent watching the Yankees decide that they were actually going to start playing baseball for a change by scoring 13 runs in the bottom of the eighth.

But, no. Instead I was shaking my head and mentally chastising the Bunim/Murray casting department for once again choosing seven people who look good on camera but do not seem to have a discernible brain cell between them. The types of twentysomethings that make old folks shake their heads and fear for the state of the world because THESE RETARDS ARE THE FUTURE?

The stereotypes are, again, back in full force - rendering this cast nearly indecipherable from past seasons:

Hot chick with a huge rack who won’t shut up about how much she loves sex while prancing around in tiny shorts? Check.

Drunk, mostly incoherent frat boy who “throws down” at bars with alarming frequency? Check. And, um check. This season there are two. Because, apparently, one just wasn’t enough.

Spicy brunette Latina (because, you know, brunette Latinas are always spicy!) who “speaks her mind.” (See also: house bitch)? Check.

Short-haired “alternative” chick who is too cool for everything, usually a virgin, wildly insecure and has a habit of rolling her eyes to express her disgust for anything pertaining to her housemates? Check.

Token minority? Check.

The one who won’t get much screen time - and, subsequently, will never be invited to participate on a RW/RR Challenge - because she’s not that hot or interesting? Check.

I understand that no season is going to be as organic as the first. I also understand that at 23, watching people get drunk and hook up on TV isn’t as exciting as it was when I was 15. In fact, I’m not entirely sure whether the show truly has been dumbed down to appeal to the lowest common denominator or if I’ve just outgrown it.

Either way, give me Super Structures any day.

Don’t Feed the Models. June 21, 2005

My boss is always going to these ridiculously high profile shindigs at places like “B8″ (because when you’re a regular there, apparently the “Bungalow” is unnecessary) and Marquee and Soho House (though I politely remind him that Soho House is so over. Then he politely reminds me that someone who has never been somewhere cannot proclaim that place “over.”)

I should’ve said no to the modeling agency party last night. I was looking forward (no, really) to the gym (no, REALLY!). But my boss mentioned networking and schmoozing and…something else…wait…oh yeah.

FREE BOOZE.

It doesn’t take much, people.

So I went. And I network and schmoozed and double fisted. And laughed, oh did I laugh.

Because as much as being surrounded by six foot tall, one hundred pound amazons can make a girl want to skip lunch and dinner for the next year and a half, once those amazons start dancing? Suddenly, they’re not so much amazons as they are “skinny white chicks who can’t dance FOR SHIT.”

Picture gyrating praying mantis’ and you’ll get the idea.

I started to feel sorry for them, actually. These fifteen year old, corn-fed midwestern girls, straight off the bus from Omaha, wearing clothing that easily blurs the line between “model” and “child prostitute” because they have yet to master the laid back wife-beater and jeans uniform of their more seasoned colleagues.

It’s amazing how lack of rhythm can level the playing field though, no? I went home not wanting to stick my fingers down my throat but instead silently praising my ethnic, Mediterranean genes for giving me hips and the ability to move them properly.

Why I’m Cranky This Morning. June 20, 2005

We are totally incompatible sleepers. This will lead to our downfall. Mark my words.

I? Don’t make the bed, ever. I like the outside, because it offers swift access to the alarm clock and, therefore, the snooze button. I like to be surrounded by approximately 523 pillows, at least two of which must end up under my head. I sleep on my stomach, usually with one arm above my head and the other underneath the pillows. I like high thread counts. It’s one of the only things I splurge on (hahaha I’m such a liar). I’m not a morning person. I DREAD the morning. My ideal job hours would be noon to 8 - allowing me to wake up at 11am, which is the most perfect wake up time ever. I like the bedroom cold. I’ve even been known to put the air conditioner on in the dead of winter.

He? Makes the bed, every day. (My philosophy is of the “you’re just going to get back in in a few hours, anyway” variety. He thinks my philosophy is absurd.) He likes the outside, too (quelle problem). He inevitably throws 520 of my pillows onto the floor with a force that some might say suggests pure unadulterated hatred. He likes to sleep on his back. Preferably with my head against his chest and his arms around me. The. entire. night. If I - subconsciously - try to creep to the other side of the bed, he inevitably reaches for me and reels me back in. Which was sweet, in the beginning. Now? Not to get all dramatic but omigod, sometimes I wake up and I feel like I’m suffocating. He’s got a thing for satin sheets. It’s one of the quirks we’re willing to overlook. For now. He’s very “up and at ‘em” in the morning. Without coffee. I repeat, WITHOUT COFFEE, HE DOESN’T DRINK COFFEE AND YET HE WAKES UP SMILING AND READY TO TAKE ON THE DAY. He likes fresh breezes and open windows (and eww, the bugs and smells that accompany them).

I’m pretty sure the above qualify as “irreconcilable differences,” no?

He’s lucky he’s cute. That’s all I have to say.