Sex, Football and Blue-Cheese Covered Potato Chips October 31, 2005

If the universe decided to go all Groundhog Day on my ass, yesterday would be the day I’d want to re-live over and over and over again.

Woke up at 11, which was really 12, all tangled up with the Boy. Remained in bed while he ran out to Starbucks (for coffee) and Dunkin Donuts (for donuts) (yes I’m that loyal to Starbucks) (yes he’s that awesome).

Lounged around in his apartment in my underwear (have I told you I hate clothes? I hate clothes) while we pored over the Real Estate section because Mr. Bigtime is planning on buying an apartment and Mr. Bigtime’s girlfriend loves real estate sections.

Watched football in my underwear. Or, rather, watched Big Blue kick some Redskins ass all in the name of Well Mara. Had sex during halftime. Watched Big Blue continue to kick some Redskins ass all in the name of Well Mara.

By the time the game was over we were starved and craving comfort food (specifically: warm, crispy potato chips doused with warm blue cheese). Which meant, of course, Bubby’s. Even though there are always a million screaming toddlers. Even though the restaurant is almost always out of whatever I want. Even though we were in Queens and had to trek all the way down to TriBeCa.

The food was certainly worth it, but the eye candy was the icing on the cake. Now, many people may not consider David Cross eye candy. I, however, do because OMIGOD I LOVE HIM SO MUCH AND HE IS A COMIC GENIUS AND HOLY CRAP HE IS SITTING LESS THAN FIVE FEET AWAY FROM US OMIGOD WHAT IS HE EATING OH CRAP HE JUST SAW ME FLIPPING OUT HOW UNCOOL AM I?

Luckily the Boy didn’t mind that I stared at David all during dinner. Because I so totally couldn’t help it. And for the record, David got ribs. And pecan pie for dessert. With ice cream. That he shared with some hipster chick.

We headed back to my apartment after dinner, both of us deep in food comas, stripped down to our undies (natch) and watched Bruschi’s return and an amazing Patriots comeback.

Unfortunately, the Boy now has cameraphone evidence of me wearing a Patriots hat which I only wore because he put it on my head and told me I looked so ridiculously hot in it and come here, Clink, I want to take you right now, leave the hat on. If my father sees those photos (ahem, pre-getting it on photos, you perv) I will SO TOTALLY BE CUT OUT OF THE WILL.

But, other than that? Most perfect Sunday ever.

That Good October 28, 2005

“Want to meet outside Elaine’s?”

“Um, no. I want you to come up first so that we can suck face in privacy for a few minutes.”

And so began the night. It was perfect. I’ll spare you the details as they would just consist of me gushing a whole lot and who the hell wants to read more of that? (You’re welcome.)

I made up a doctor’s appointment this morning so that we could sleep in a bit. I could get used to the whole waking up at ten, actually getting a seat on the subway, no line at Starbucks, non 9-5 lifestyle for sure.

I could also get used to walking into work to find a bouquet of flowers sitting on my desk.

From him, of course. Because he’s just that good. And because in another month I’m moving on up to a new gig within the company and what better way to say congratulations than with tulips?

The men in the office: “What did he do?” “Uh oh, who’s in the doghouse?”

The women in the office: “Squeal!” “Squeal!” “Squeal!”

Me: Smitten. Just…totally smitten.

Arghhhh October 27, 2005

Oh my GOD you guys, why does time move so slow when you’re looking forward to something at the end of the day?

To borrow from Max, it has been 2pm for five hours now.

No amount of positive thinking is getting me through this afternoon any faster. To HELL with the positive thinking, I say.

I feel like myself eighteen years ago at age six, pacing around my bedroom on Christmas Eve, waiting for Santa to come because what HELL, Santa, I’m waiting and this is getting kind of ridiculous and did you go to Regina’s house first because whatEVER, I was so much better behaved than her this year and the new Barbie mansion WITH working elevator better be in that bag of yours, otherwise you’d best turn Rudolph & Co around and head right back to the factory to pick that shit up.

I’ve always been, uh, somewhat impatient.

I just can’t wait to see him. Which is making me feel Pathetic. Capital P. But also? Making me feel very very very much in love. Very. So, this is what everyone talks about in all those songs and poems and books and shit. I get it now.

My Big Fat Greek Family October 26, 2005

He’s coming home with me for Thanksgiving, marking the absolute first time that I have been in love and secure enough to expose a boyfriend to my family.

My (extended) family? Is the stuff of sitcoms. In fact, they’re funnier than most sitcoms on TV today (I’m looking at you, According to Jim).

They’re also a total whirlwind. From the minute one walks through the door at a family gathering, one is subjected to an onslaught of questions, compliments, sarcastic comments and embarassing anecdotes about that time when you were five and were dancing in the middle of the dance floor at your cousin’s christening, lifting your skirt to show everyone your Strawberry Shortcake underpants and I’m tellin’ you Clink, we totally thought you were destined to become a stripper, you were just that comfortable flashing people.

They’re crazy. In the best way. But I’m afraid they may be a little much for the Boy, who usually spends holidays with exactly four people - his parents, his sister and his sister’s husband. The Boy, who has no idea what to do with the fact that forty people in attendance at a holiday is considered “small.” The Boy, who thinks surely I jest when I tell him that the family in My Big Fat Greek Wedding has nothing on mine.

The family is, of course, frothing at the mouth to meet him, this Boy who I am quite obviously smitten with, who they don’t think exists because, Clink, really, it’s been eight months? Are you embarassed of him? Are you embarassed of us?

Not embarassed. Just…hesitant. When I asked my mom how she thought it would go, this quiet, adorable Boy of mine being thrown to the wolves on Thanksgiving, she just laughed and said, “if he’s still with you on November 25, then you have a keeper.”

Self-Help Saturday October 24, 2005

I spent most of this past weekend alone.

Seriously. I don’t think I spoke to one person all day Saturday, except for the dude at Barnes & Noble who asked me to watch his stuff and then proceeded to leave for over an hour and omigod I had to pee so bad but what if I peed and someone came and stole his notebook and half-eaten cookie omigod THEN WHAT?

In retrospect, it was definitely “Self-Help Saturday.”

Because “Drink Yourself Precariously Close to Death Friday” didn’t work out so well.

I’ve just been low lately. And negative. And unlike myself. And I decided to finally do something about it because the “woe is me” thing was getting old and I look much better when I smile.

First stop was the aforementioned Barnes & Noble. It took me ten minutes of scouting out the “self-help” section to make sure no one I knew was around before I ventured into the aisle. A friend of mine had recommended a book, said it changed her life. I trusted her, because she’s a cynical, jaded bitch just like me, so I knew it had to be good in order for her to proclaim it as life-altering.

By far the most embarassing book I’ve ever taken off the shelf. Ever.

I mean, hearts and rainbows? Seriously?

I almost put it back.

Instead I broke the cardinal, unspoken rule of Reading Books in Barnes and Noble that One Has No Intent to Purchase: I broke the spine so that it would lay flat against the table and therefore no one could see the cover. I know, I suck.

I started out skeptical. By the end, I was a believer. Positive thinking! Of course! I HAVE THE POWER. I can turn all those negative thoughts into positive ones and as a result make my life infinitely better!

I certainly walked out of B&N with a brighter outlook than when I walked in. Then I went and saw “North Country” and I walked out of the theater crying. Unable to stop crying. I didn’t want to go home (mice) or meet up with a friend (tears) so I just walked around the Upper East Side in the rain with my hood up and my converse drenched, all straight out of a movie-like. Eventually, I started to employ some of the methods they spoke about in the book.

It took a good 20 blocks, but by the time I was in the 60’s, I was feeling better. Genuinely feeling better. By the time I got back into my neighborhood, I was actually smiling at small children in strollers.

It was then that I checked my phone. I had been upset, having only received a few hurried emails and exactly no phone calls from the Boy since he left early Thursday morning. And there was that missed call I was hoping would be there.

As I made my way back to my apartment, I suddenly got it. At the risk of sounding all new-agey and brainwashed, it was all part of the universe’s plan: the Boy wasn’t going to call until I worked through whatever shit I had to work through.

I think I actually looked up at the sky and said, “I get it.”

Then I dialed the Boy.

He stopped me, mid-sentence, to say: “It’s so good to hear your voice, baby. You sound like yourself again. I can’t even put into words how happy that makes me.”

Yeah, me too.

Feeling Fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine October 19, 2005

I’m all doped up on painkillers.

It’s a beautiful thing.

Vicoprofen, it’s called. Or um, something to that effect. I’m entirely too lazy to check the label right now. I’m assuming it’s a hybrid of vicodin and ibuprofen and to that I say, well done People Who Create Painkillers. Well done.

I’ve been having the pain for a while now. Rather, I’ve been ignoring the pain for a while now. I’m just one of those people who only goes to see the doctor (especially dentists) when OMIGOD THE PAIN IS BLINDING AND I CAN SEE NOTHING BUT WHITE WHEN I LOOK AT MY COMPUTER SCREEN AND WILL ANYONE NOTICE IF I JUST CRAWL UNDER THIS HERE DESK AND ROCK BACK AND FORTH IN THE FETAL POSITION?

Yeah, that was me yesterday. So around 4pm I went to the dentist for an emergency visit. The denist, who looked a bit like Alan Alda, which for some reason made me trust him implicitly, told me he would have to do an emergency tooth extraction. Then he stuck very large needles into my gums and about a half an hour later I was without a certain problematical tooth. And was ARMED TO THE TEETH (heh, literally) WITH PAINKILLERS.

La la la. Painkilllllllllllllllers.

I am? Feeling NO PAIN my friends.

I do have to have oral surgery in the near future. Something about an impacted wisdom tooth. Which, you know, kind of scares me because HELLO, SURGERY. But really? All they have to do is keep the Vico-whatever coming and I’m sure everything will be fine.

Just fiiiiiiiiiine.

I love this shit. October 17, 2005

This morning at 9am I was about 60 blocks north of work, sitting at a kitchen table with one of the most famous psychics in the world.

Not a bad way to start the work week, eh?

Usually a session with this woman costs $300 an hour. But for me it was free. Because I’m just that charming. And, um, because she knows someone I work with very well.

I’ve only been to two other psychics in my life and both have been so dead on it’s frightening.

This woman blew the other two out of the water.

People, she even knew about the fact that I’ve been ignoring a jury duty summons (believe it or not, I love jury duty but I just served last summer - aren’t you SHOCKED that there’s a glitch in our efficient government’s system and they have no record of me having spent two days on a jury for a civil case?). She knew about the gyno scare last summer and said that everything was going to be alright. She assured me that I’m not going to go out in a plane crash. Or act of terrorism.

I was most concerned about my job and that must’ve come across rather forcefully because the minute I stepped through her door she said “you’re contemplating becoming a teacher.”

Which I totally am.

She said that I would teach for a while (high school English, I am SO there) but that it wouldn’t ultimately be my career. What would be you ask? Why, fiction writing! (Yay.) But it’s not going to happen for the next five to seven years. (Boo.)

She knew about the Boy. She got really good vibes from the Boy. She said to stop worrying about that girl in his life who he took to the concert and who I have questions about because, really, dear, he’s NOT CHEATING ON YOU nor is he going to and you have the upper hand in this relationship and you don’t even realize it.

The wildcard, she called me.

She said she’s 85% percent certain that the Boy is the one. However, she does see someone new popping into my life in the next year or so and I may have to make a hard decision. Either way, whoever I’m with at the end of 2006 is the one I’m going to marry and have two kids with (possibly three, but definitely two).

It could all be a crock of shit, I’m aware. But the stuff she knew…there was nothing vague about it. Which leads me to believe (hope?) that maybe she’s right.

Only time will tell.

Possibly the most important thing she said to me, though? That she has been living in her beautiful Upper East Side duplex for thirteen years and had never once seen a mouse before last month. She has now caught six and counting. Apparently it’s an uptown epidemic.

At least I’m not the only one.

24 has absolutely sucked so far. October 13, 2005

I must have some really, really bad karma. Ever since my 24th birthday, my life has been one big slippery downhill slope.

Last night was the last straw.

I scrambled through Port Authority to catch a bus to my parents’ house because, as you know, mice.

Standing room only. I had missed getting a seat by one person.

2 hours in heavy traffic in heels with an iPod that refused to work (fuck you apple icon and folder with exclamation point, fuck you).

Broke a heel on my one-year-old, very expensive, TOO EXPENSIVE TO HAVE A HEEL BROKEN boots while walking to my Dad’s car from the bus stop.

Had to go out in torrential rain to buy new boots. Am looking at new boots now. What the hell was I thinking?

Got home, tried to fix the fucking iPod (DON’T tell me there are no songs in YOU. I PUT songs in you). Essentially, what I gathered from the Mac messageboards is that the folder with the exclamation point is code for DEAD iPOD, SUCKA. $250 to fix, since I’m out of warranty and who the hell buys those exteneded warranties?

I ended up throwing it across the room and felt better. Mildly.

And suddenly I was crying on top of the stairs and being comforted by my father for 20 minutes until I could start breathing again because OMIGOD THE MICE AND THE iPOD AND THE BOY AND CHICAGO AND MY BROKEN HEEL AND STANDING AND THIS MOTHERFUCKING RAIN AND A SUPER WHO WON’T CALL ME BACK AND A BOSS WHO “PLAYFULLY” TRIED TO UNWRAP MY WRAP SHIRT AT A BAR AND MADE COMMENTS ABOUT MY CHEST AND I HAVEN’T SENT OUT THANK YOU CARDS YET AND MY NAILPOLISH IS CHIPPED AND I HAVE NO TIME FOR A MANICURE AND WHY CAN’T I JUST FUCKING GO BACK TO ELEMENTARY SCHOOL AND MAKE SOME CRAPPY ART WITH RIGATONI AND FINGER PAINTS.

I swear you guys, I’m not normally such a headcase. You’re just going to have to trust me on this one. I have no idea why it constantly feels like my world is closing in on me when, really, I’m truly genuinely happy - for once - with myself, with my boyfriend, with where my career is headed, with my friendships, with my family.

Oh and Mother Nature? Not making it ANY EASIER. Sitting around drenched and shivering all day long is NOT HELPING.

UPDATE: Oh, it gets worse. A friend of mine called me at work and said, “Dude, I just tried your cell phone and got the whole ‘no longer a working number’ thing.”

Thinking he was an idiot, I tried it myself. Got the same thing. Tried an outgoing call, got “Your service has been interrupted. In order to have your service restored you must pay your bill in full.”

Fortunately (or not, in this case) I don’t pay my cell phone bill. For some reason, it’s something my father’s office has just always taken care of (he owns his own law firm, so a lot of our expenses go through there).

Not this time apparently.

Maybe they finally caught on.

I need a drink.

Update October 12, 2005

Ok, so he gave me a little something to hold onto via email today:

“My mom was gushing about you today. She said you’re the best thing to ever happen to me. And, as you know, my mom is always right.”

Yeah, swoon.

But then: “This dude from [high profile publication] is selling me hard on [high profile gig in Chicago]. I’m giving it some thought - tell you more later.”

And suddenly, no more swoon.

The Disconnect October 11, 2005

I’m feeling the disconnect. It begins the minute he leaves, this time at six in the morning with a kiss on my forehead, a stroke of my bare back and an “I love you.”

The impending separation weighs heavily in the room.

We don’t adjust well to long distance. I’ve decided it’s because so much of our relationship is in the physical, the way we touch each other, the eye contact, the knowing looks, the hand squeezes under tables.

It’s forced over the phone. There are silences - silences! There are never silences with us. It was one of the first things I commented to my friends about, way back when. “It just…flows.” They knew from the way I said it, from the tone of my voice, that I was gone. Done. His.

Now, silences. Slightly awkward, hesitant silences. It’s like we’re dating in reverse.

When he was home for those blissful 48 hours, we laughed about it. “We’re so pathetic. Apart for a week and we both fall apart.”

It’s no longer funny. We were no good at a week, how the hell are we going to get through a month?

It would be different if he were giving me something to hold onto over the phone, in an email. But that’s not his style. Despite his profession, words aren’t his thing. Unfortunately, when there’s a time zone (or more) between you, words are all you’ve got.

I feel so lame for even putting this on paper. There are people starving and dying in a war and trying to rebuild their lives after a natural disaster and I’m all “wah wah wah, I miss my boyfriend.”

I’ll stop now.