Gus Gus. Fucking Gus Gus. September 28, 2005

It was a hell of a day, yesterday was.

Didn’t get out of work until 9. Train took forever. Fucking MTA. Fucking slow people in front of me on the sidewalk. Fucking bills in my mailbox, only bills.

I was all set for a straight to bed, don’t pass go, don’t bother brushing your teeth sort of night.

And then? Just as I was shutting my bedroom door? What do I see, darting into the bathroom?

Fucking mouse.

First one I’ve seen in my 2+ years in New York. To the point that, after hearing all of my friends’ mouse stories, I began to think that they (my friends…though I guess it could go for the mice too) were well, you know, dirty. A mouse? In my pristine apartment? Never.

Yeah. Way to prove me wrong, Universe.

I’m a total girl when it comes to rodents. I’m sorry. I am. I saw the little brown body, took about a minute to regain consciousness after slipping into a state of shock, and then began to cry. And scream. And cry some more. And call the men in my life (father, boyfriend, cousin, friend) because THE MEN IN MY LIFE ARE SUPPOSED TO TAKE CARE OF THE GROSS THINGS IN MY APARTMENT.

They all laughed at me. Well, except for my father. He started to sing the theme to the Mickey Mouse Club. And then he laughed.

I? Packed a bag and headed downtown to my friend’s mouseless apartment because HELL NO. I contemplated staying in my apartment for about 2.5 seconds. I even considered showering while wearing my rain boots. But the thought of getting up to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night with Gus Gus (yeah, that’s right, I named him after the chubby one in Cinderella in hopes of making him more “cute” than “OMIFUCKINGOD EWW” but it didn’t work) running around made me break out in hives. So I peaced out.

Today after work my cousin (the Boy is SO FREAKIN LUCKY he’s out of town for the next month) and I are going to set up mouse traps. (”Humane mouse traps,” he said. “I want that fucker TO SUFFER,” I replied.) Or rather, my cousin is going to set up mouse traps while I stand on top of my bed and hyperventilate because OMIGOD JARRETT, I THINK I JUST SAW IT.

Then I’m going to go sleep at my parents house. Because, again, HELL NO.

Gus Gus? Your days are numbered, buddy.

The point? My exes all suck. September 26, 2005

My friend thinks it’s because I’m just more comfortable with disappointment.

To which I replied, “Well, who the hell is comfortable with being deliriously happy? Who are those people and where can I get some of whatever they’re on?”

The thing is, I keep on waiting for the Boy to drop the ball.

Because the ball always drops. If there’s one thing I’m sure of in life, it’s that the ball. always. drops.

And he’s got the perfect opportunity to drop it coming up, as my birthday is soon. (Ugh, too soon.)

I’ve decided to flee New York for my birthday weekend in hopes that 24 won’t be able to find me as I hide out in Boston, getting sloshed with old friends and silently cheering on the Yankees. Silently, so as not to get my ass kicked by Red Sox fans.

The Boy is coming up too.

Every other boyfriend I’ve ever had has done something to disappoint me on my birthday. I won’t bother with the laundry list because I’m really not in the mood to relive the horror. But I just want you to know that there’s a solid basis for my fears that something is going to go horribly wrong on Saturday. And that I’m going to wake up on Sunday with a pit in my stomach and a bad taste in my mouth and 500 missed calls from friends calling to see if I’m okay and to tell me that he’s a bastard.

Disappointment I know. Disappointment I can handle.

To the point that I’m almost hoping the Boy fucks up. Because then I can be all, oh hey, this is familiar! Right about now I should be fighting back tears and making my way to a bathroom stall where I will allow myself to cry for exactly two minutes before putting on a brave face and going back out there to face my friends.

Just for the record, all signs point to the fact that the Boy is going to be nothing short of wonderful. Because, in essence, he is nothing short of wonderful.

Unfortunately, the ghosts of birthdays past are quite fucking persistent, especially as we creep ever closer to October 1st.

Lucky for me, they serve lots of booze in Boston. Even if it’s only until 2am.

For the most part September 22, 2005

Sometime around 3am I knew it wasn’t going to happen. That I should just stop forcing myself.

And then I went into the bathroom, so as not to wake him up, and cried.

I tend to work myself into quite a state when I’m staring at the clock and the hours are just rolling by and holy shit, I have to be at work in 3 hours. My body is exhausted - aches from exhaustion, my head too heavy to lift from the pillow for a sip of water. And yet my mind seems to have missed the whole “sleep is important” memo. It races, a constant loop of things I’m currently worrying about, things I worried about in the past and things I think I’m going to worry about in the future.

And then I cry. And shake. Because I don’t know what else to do.

Hence why I was sitting on the cold tile in the bathroom last night (rather, early this morning) in nothing but shorts and a bra, against the wall, rocking back and forth.

I willed him to wake up and find me. And kneel down next to me and wrap his arms around me and tell me that everything is going to be okay, is okay already.

But he didn’t. I’m too good at sobbing silently.

I crept back into bed around 4:30am. Maybe closer to 5. He reached for me, pulled me close. I was terrified that he would feel - or taste - the tears and that the whole “well-adjusted” wall would finally come crumbling down and he’d know the truth - that I’m crazy. Well, crazy sometimes. His crazy sometimes girlfriend, sobbing in the wee hours of the morning because she can’t sleep and doesn’t have a prescription for Ambien and tends to keep things locked away so she doesn’t have to deal with them, only for them to come flooding out just as the sun is coming up.

But he just mumbled something about nothing and brushed his lips against my forehead. I discreetly wiped the tears and watched him sleep. Primarily because he’s so damn lovely when he sleeps, but also to keep from staring at the clock. Mostly to keep from staring at the clock.

This morning, and exactly 1.5 hours of sleep later, it was back to “well-adjusted.”

For the most part.

Meet the Parents September 20, 2005

For six months my parents have been asking me, “so when do we get to meet him?”

For six months I have been telling them “soon.”

I finally made good on my word this past Saturday.

It took six months for a reason. It was less about the Boy being ready and more about me wanting to be sure.

You see, my family is great. There’s no getting around it. They’re warm and sarcastic and open and boisterous. Just, lovely. They also get attached, very attached. And people get attached, very attached, to them. I’ve always been quite careful with the boys I bring around because when the relationship inevitably doesn’t pan out, it’s like I force my family through the pain of a break up as well.

One ex actually said “I think I’m going to miss being with your family the most.”

Hence the six months. My parents were beginning to get a little “um, does the Boy actually exist, Clink?” At which point I decided it was time.

My family was going down to visit my sister for parent’s weekend and I saw the perfect opportunity for the Boy and I to spend some time with them. Especially being that the university happens to also be my alma mater (and my father’s…yeah, it’s all about the legacy) and the Boy had never been and the perfect excuse to ditch out if things got awkward would be “hey I’m going to go show the Boy my freshman year dorm! See ya later!” Or something.

Truth be told there was no reason to ditch out at any point. My family totally dug the Boy and the Boy totally dug my parents.

I was worried most about my dad. As wonderful as he is, he tends to get a little icy when he’s around someone who he suspects is having sex with one of his daughters.

However, he and the Boy hit it off. To the point that no one else could get a word in edgewise at dinner, what with all the talk of the ‘64 World Series and how my dad got started in politics and the Boy’s time out in the midwest.

So, no need for the xanax. Um, until next weekend. When I meet the Boy’s parents.

Putting Out September 16, 2005

If my female friends in long term relationships are any indication, my boyfriend is the luckiest bastard on the planet.

Them: You have sex HOW OFTEN?

Me: Um. Three or four times.

Them: A WEEK?

Me: (Cough) A day. (Cough)

Them: *blink*

Me: But we only see each other three or four times a week…Um, guys?

Them: *blink*

Me: So, uhhh….who’s up for another round of drinks?

They claim it’s because the Boy and I are still in the honeymoon phase of our relationship. Six months is nothing, they say. You can’t keep your hands off each other at that point. But it fades, they say. Just wait, Clink.

I say they’re just frigid bitches who quite obviously are not having good sex. But, uh, I obviously don’t say that to their faces.

On average they have sex twice a month. Sometimes more, but that’s only if their boyfriends a) beg for it or b) take them to a really, really, really nice dinner in lieu of begging for it or c) get them really, really, really drunk so that they’re half-asleep and all “sure honey, whatever, I’m just going to lay here, do your thing.”

I was shocked. I understand that the natural progression of relationships inevitably leads to more subdued passion. But really, TWICE A MONTH? I think my parents have sex more than that.

So, y’all. Am I the exception? Or are they? And why in god’s name did I just make reference to how often my parents have sex?

Loving Pat Kiernan. And some other things. September 15, 2005

I have been bleeding for approximately two weeks now. Funny that, as I’m not supposed to get my period for another two weeks. And when I say bleeding, I mean bleeding. Spotting is for wimps.

(Too much information? Sorry.)

I called my doctor and decidedly did not get the response I was hoping for:

“Hmm, that is interesting, being that you’ve been on birth control for quite a while now. It could be a number of things. But first, take a pregnancy test and call me back.”

I haven’t taken the pregnancy test yet because it wasn’t all that fun the first time around.

So, la la la, let’s just hope the bleeding stops sometime soon.

On an unrelated note, I am not a morning person. Just…not. However, Pat Kiernan continues to make my mornings bearable. In fact, he’s the only person who can get me to smile before 11am. Like today, during “In the Papers.” The Post, unsurprisingly, had a huge photo of Elle Macpherson in a bikini. It accompanied an itsy bitsy article about her being an “ageless wonder.” To which Pat responded, “Isn’t that her job? To look as good as she did 20 years ago?” And I fell just a little more in love with him.

On another unrelated note, the Boy is meeting my parents for the first time this weekend. Looks like I’ll be spending Saturday in a Xanax-induced stupor, y’all. How did people get through meet-the-parents situations before Xanax?

The job is just about the only thing that sucks right now. September 12, 2005

The bar was far.

120 blocks north far.

“How the hell is this still considered Manhattan?” far.

206th street, to be exact.

I was wearing a hot outfit. A hot, expensive outfit. A hot, expensive outfit I certainly cannot afford, being that my current roommate has not paid me rent for August or September and you know what, Current Roommate? If I could afford that place on my own, don’t you think I would, oh, LIVE THERE ON MY OWN?

But back to the hot, expensive outfit. I figured a few hundred bucks of added credit card debt was a small price to pay for self esteem. Why the much needed boost of confidence?

Well, I was meeting The Friends. For the first time. You see, most of the Boy’s nearest & dearest (from college) live out of town. So while I feel like I’ve known these people just as long as he has (12 years), I have never actually met them.

Until Saturday night.

The verdict, in hindsight? It all went way too fucking well, to the point that I’m not entirely convinced I didn’t dream up the entire evening.

To say I hit it off with his friends would be an understatement. To say they gave me incredible, much needed insight into the Boy and our relationship would also be an understatement.

My favorite part of the evening was when a slightly tipsy female friend of the Boy’s came up to us with a wide, sly smile.

“I’m just totally going to rat the Boy out.”

Me (thinking): Uh oh.

The Boy (out loud): Uh oh.

“Noooo it’s nothing bad. It’ s just, Clink - I haven’t seen him this happy in a very, very long time. Actually, I don’t think I’ve seen him this happy EVER.”

I wanted to hug her. In fact, I think I did. The Boy just smiled and nodded slightly in my direction.

A close second for favorite moment of the evening?

A more than slightly tipsy male friend, not realizing that I was back from the bathroom and standing directly behind him, saying to the Boy, “Dude. She’s hot. But she’s not just hot, she’s cool. Hang on to this one.”

And the Boy, seeing me smirking while standing behind his more than slightly tipsy male friend, responding, “Don’t worry. I plan to.”

I think I fell in love with him all over again.

It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. September 9, 2005

Wasn’t I the one who always said, “I’ll never work a 9-5.” And, “I never want to wake up and dread going to work.” And also, “I’ll leave any job the minute it starts to suck the life out of me.”

Well, well, well.

Working a 9-5? Check.

Waking up and dreading going to work? Check.

Job sucking the life right out of me via large chunks of my soul? Check.

I know I’m young. But, as I stare down the barrel of 24 (less than a month people, LESS THAN A MONTH), there’s really only a few years left before “oh you’re a baby, you have lots of time to figure things out” turns into “damn girl, get your shit together.”

It partially has to do with the Boy (You: of course it does, Clink. What doesn’t have to do with the Boy these days? Me: Settle down). His job? Is great. Like, GREAT. And he loves going to it every day. That doesn’t mean his boss doesn’t suck (he does). That doesn’t mean he doesn’t sometimes get frustrated and doubt his choices (he does). That doesn’t mean he doesn’t complain about the long hours and continuous pressure (he does).

But at the end of the day things are quite different for the two of us:

Him (brimming with enthusiasm): “So this happened and then this happened and (laughs enthusiastically) Clink, then THIS happened….”

Me (downing a shot of vodka): “My day? I don’t want to talk about it.”

It could be worse. If it weren’t for my wallet-debilitating shopping obsession, I’d surely be making ends meet. And some of the people I work with are pretty great. And yeah, the job sounds amazing on paper.

But, that’s just not enough. I’m officially Not Happy.

I’m also officially Not Making A Difference In Anyone’s Life Ever (a selfish after effect of Hurricane Katrina and it having put a lot in fucking perspective).

I’m just…frustrated. In-between. Confused.

And, unfortunately, the answers aren’t at the bottom of a Grey Goose bottle. Believe me, I’ve checked.

Illin’ September 6, 2005

Sick.

Really sick.

Fever. Chills. Congestion. Cough. NOSE THAT WILL NOT STOP RUNNING FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.

And yet I have to be here, at work, today (big meeting). And I have to go see Coldplay tonight at MSG (expensive tickets). And I have to fucking suck it all up, along with some ginger ale, Saltines and Dayquil because such is life at the moment.

A shitty cap to a really wonderful weekend. I mean, truly wonderful.

He told me he loved me. In bed, in the dark. He said, “It’s hard for me to tell people how I feel about them. But I think you should know that I love you.”

There was the beach and a car ride with the windows down and a rowboat in Central Park and putting together a hibachi grill and chicken soup at 1am and him rubbing my back until I fell asleep.

When he told me - a week or so ago - that he could see himself ending up with me, I thought “wow, that’s nice.” I didn’t think “wow, I feel the same way.”

But, after this weekend?

Wow, I feel the same way.

It’s starting to feel like college again. September 1, 2005

Responsibility? What responsibility? Life is one big par-tay! Let’s get another round of $1 Bud Light Drafts! Woohoo!

Except, I’m drinking Sam Adams Summer Ale these days. And it costs significantly more than $1, even on “Ladies Nite.” And I can’t just roll over the next morning, hit snooze for an hour before eventually turning the goddamn thing off because it WON’T SHUT UP and go back to sleep until noon. There’s no one to sign me into work if I decide to skip out. (Unfortunately. I should get on that.)

Anyway, I guess what I mean is I’ve been going out a lot. To bars where they have beer pong tables and the Yankees game is always on and everybody knows my name and they’re always glad I came. (Ladies and Gentleman, welcome the Upper East Side!)

Turns out, I have friends who love me. Who hate to see me so sad. Who want to do everything in their power to assist me in numbing the pain with some good ol’ booze because it doesn’t have the same stigma as, say, sucking down Valium.

I know, I know, I know. This isn’t how I should be handling everything. It’s self-destructive behavior. Drinking isn’t going to get me anywhere.

But, please. Since college I’ve turned into a veritable lightweight - four measly beers and all of a sudden I’m dancing on the barstool to “Living on a Prayer” and blowing kisses to the flat screen TV while Tino Martinez bats because “I loooooooove Tino.”

Alcohol and the Yankees and my friends and finding out that I still have what it takes at beer pong is much, much cheaper than therapy.

I feel better already. (Um, except for the hangover headache. OH GOD the hangover headache.)