So, I quit my job today. November 30, 2005

Not really. Well, yes really. But I gave two months notice. Because that’s just how loyal an employee I am.

Okay that’s a lie. It has nothing to do with loyalty, who would be loyal to a boss who tried to unwrap one’s wrap shirt at happy hour, I ask you?I really gave two months notice because I want two months worth of stability before I….

I have no idea how to finish that sentence. Move on to another job within the industry? Go back to school (by the way, who are those people who can live and function in Manhattan while going to school full time? Seriously.)? Become the young, hip English teacher who gets all the jaded high school students to fall in love with literature because she’s just so darn passionate about it?

I’m feeling quite 24 today in the “I have no idea what I want to do and can’t something perfect just fall out of the sky and into my lap?” capacity. It’s not that I don’t want to work for something, it’s just that I don’t know what I want to work for.

It’s a good idea for me to get out of here though. I don’t often write about work because oh, hey, people get fired for that these days. But this place can be quite toxic. And I’m ready for a breath of fresh air.

This is where the Boy being 33 becomes a problem. He can’t relate. He’s established and happy and knows exactly what he sees for himself in the future and has a plan to get there. It’s easy for him, he doesn’t understand why it’s not so easy for me. Also, in his industry there’s a clear path to the top. In the entertainment industry, not so much. I could go one of 50,000 directions from where I am right now. And I’m not sure if I even want to go in one.

Speaking of the Boy, I haven’t told him. And isn’t this whole quitting-my-job-deciding-what-I-want-to-do-in-life conundrum a brilliant diversionary tactic? For myself, I mean. Who can think about High School Ex’s tongue when I don’t even know where my February paycheck is going to come from?

My high school ex-boyfriend kissed me on Friday night. November 28, 2005

God it feels so good to get that out for the first time.

Disclaimer: It wasn’t my fault. Unless you count the outfit I was wearing, the manner in which I conducted myself. But that’s like saying the girl sexually harassed by her boss was “asking for it.”

I remember standing over a cup of absinthe at 3am, melting sugar through a slotted spoon, noting, hey I do remember something from my time in Amsterdam. There was harmless flirting, something about my chest, something about him staring. There was his arm around my waist, which gave me only slight pause. That arm has been around my waist plenty of times. The next thing I knew, his tongue was down my throat. I let it linger there for perhaps a moment longer than I should’ve. I haven’t had that tongue down my throat since high school.

I pushed him off. He pulled me in tighter. I pushed him off again, announced “I love my boyfriend” and left the room, letting the lighter and the slotted spoon fall to the floor.

Now I feel dirty, can’t stop feeling dirty. I took three showers yesterday before I left to meet the Boy. So cliche, I know, but standing beneath the scalding hot water, rubbing my skin red and raw with a loofah was the only way I could feel okay enough to face him. Clean enough. I really meant “clean” instead of “okay.”

Looking him in the eye proved to be a problem. Also, speaking. I was unusually quiet all night. And this morning. “Contemplative,” he said. “Fucking confused,” I thought.

I’m beating myself up partially because I think I should feel worse. Where are the sobs? Where’s the mind-blowing guilt? Where’s the 3am confession in bed, in the dark, when I’m not entirely sure he’s still awake?

He doesn’t know. I don’t think I’ll ever tell him. I don’t know if that’s right or wrong. I’ll leave that up to you to decide.

There’s a black mark on our relationship now. That’s all I keep thinking. I was a bit obsessive compulsive when I was younger, I threw away anything that wasn’t perfect: the Barbie with the pen mark across her face, a story I had written in less-than-perfect handwriting, a mug with a crack.

But if there’s one thing I’m 110% certain of, it’s that I don’t want to throw this away. That, if anything, having a familiar-yet-foreign tongue down my throat solidified the fact that I do love my boyfriend. A lot.

I just wish I knew how many showers I have to take before I feel better.

If you’re looking for a cohesive post, move along. November 22, 2005

Hey New York - rain is only cute when London does it. Let’s get back to crisp but sunny, shall we? Thanks.

It’s college basketball season. As big of a Yankees fan as I am, as big of a Giants fan as I am… nothing compares the anticipation of a final four run for my boys, currently ranked #5 in the country. Being in Madison Square Garden last night, my thoughts (initially) were less “wow I’m here to see U2″ and more “fuck I can’t wait to be here for the Big East tournament in March.”

U2 made me a believer last night. I get it now, I really do. Seeing them perform “Bloody Sunday” will go down as one of my top five concert moments of all time, I’m calling it now.

My grandmother doesn’t think he’s tall enough for me. This has affected me way more than it should. My grandmother is kind, generous, adorable…and really shallow. I know this. I’ve known this since we were sitting on the beach when I was 8 years old and she told me not to eat the entire ice cream sandwich so as to maintain my figure. I’ve never eaten an entire anything since. I shouldn’t be bothered by the fact that she thinks I should be with a bonafide six foot five Adonis. But I am.

I’ve noticed I’ve started to wear flats a whole lot more. And I feel a lot less sexy in flats.

There’s a lot of “general knowledge” stuff I don’t know. Important stuff. Like, oh, TAKING ANTIBIOTICS RENDERS BIRTH CONTROL PILLS INEFFECTIVE. So, la la la, there I was last month, on antibiotics yet not using back-up protection. Now I’m a few days late.

The joke the Boy made the other night about me not wanting to work anymore and how I should just let him “accidentally” knock me up so that I can mooch off of him for the rest of my life? Suddenly not so funny.

Every year, an impromptu reunion on Thanksgiving Eve at a bar on the main drag where beers are a two bucks and cover bands play “Laid” at 2am. Every year I complain. Every year I go. Every year I get shitfaced and have the time of my life.

Last year someone I graduated with died in a car accident. Last year I spent half of Thanksgiving on the phone with my friends, discussing who was driving the car, who got arrested, who was in critical condition in the hospital, when the funeral was. Last year I was so sad I couldn’t even eat.

This year, the Boy and the Extended Family will meet for the first time. This year, I’m going to need a Xanax. This year, we’ve decided we’re going to have sex in the third floor bathroom that no one ever uses because we’re going to need something to look forward to amidst all the stress.

I think we’re only half kidding. Well, I know I am.

Such whiny bitches, all of ‘em. November 21, 2005

Everyone’s voice is annoying me today. Seriously. Everyone. The bad news? It’s only Monday. Usually my skin doesn’t start crawling until Wednesday. The good news? It’s only a two-day week for yours truly. But omigod, would everyone just shut the fuck up already? It’s too early for talking.

I’m all on edge today. Hopefully Bono & co. will take care of that tonight at MSG. Oh, who am I kidding, I don’t even really like U2. I’m only going for the Boy. He’s lucky he’s cute.

I think? I’m just done with this job. With this industry. The only reason I get myself up and out of bed in the morning is the promise of that tall, skim caramel macchiato. The only time I smile during the day is in Starbucks, when the sweet kid behind the counter sees me come in and calls out my order so that by the time I pay it is ready and waiting (sometimes? I don’t even have to pay…shh). It’s all downhill after that, folks.

Most of the women in my family are teachers, my mother included. I never, ever thought I’d want to be a teacher. I guess I always wanted to be distinctive. And creative. And glamorous. And also, independently wealthy.

But lately, it’s all I can think about. Partially because I’ve been spending a lot of time volunteering with kids and have realized that I could totally get used to it. It’s so fucking rewarding. And also? Summers off. SUMMERS OFF.

“Oh what’s that Friend? You’re at the office? In July? Aww, my sympathies. I’m actually packing to go to the house in Greece for the next month and a half. Yes you make five times my salary but hello, GREECE FOR A MONTH AND A HALF.”

The psychic said it was going to happen. She also said (forgive me, you’ve heard all this before, but it makes me feel better to remind myself that some woman with 10 cats who smokes three packs a day told me that my destiny is already mapped out) it wasn’t my “final career destination” which also gives me hope because I don’t really think I want to be a teacher for the rest of my life. And if she said it? Well it HAS to be true. She’s been on Oprah, people.

Shut up. Other than the macchiato, it’s the only thing getting me through the day.

Boyfriend of the Year. Officially. November 18, 2005

We’re going to London. For New Year’s.

That girl you see in the pink coat with the brown scarf and the long light brown hair twirling around on the sidewalk in Chelsea, smiling like she doesn’t have a care in the world, like she definitely doesn’t give a shit that it’s OFFICIALLY WINTER (OMIGOD THE COLD)? That would be me. Because, ahem - London. For New Year’s. LONDON.

The Boy and I had been kicking the idea around. And by kicking the idea around, I mean I said “I miss London” exactly once. In passing. A month ago.

Cut to yesterday and I suddenly have a travel itinerary in my inbox. The subject line read “Merry Christmas.” Two tickets on Virgin Atlantic. A hotel booked for four nights in Knightsbridge, because he did some research and wanted to get something close to my old hood, South Ken. A very excited Boy who has never been to London. A very excited Clink who is ridiculously beside herself to be going back to her favorite city in the world (hey New York, get a Wagamama and then we’ll talk).

The thing is, I know he’s doing this for me. He’s a beach person. He likes to be someplace warm during the winter, in a bathing suit, reading a book on some dead white guy who founded this country, having sex in the sand. And that makes it all the more special - that he put me before himself. It just makes me feel all warm and fuzzy and wanting to so totally smush his adorable face.

And also, grateful. Because sex in the sand is always better in theory.

Now I totally want some Cap’n. November 16, 2005

Stumbled home the other night. Walked in the front door like I always do. Dropped my bag in the hallway like I always do. Kicked off my shoes right into my closet like I always do. And there he was, on my bed, reading the paper. Looking perfectly in place, perfectly part of the scenery.

We did the whole “exchange apartment keys” thing recently which, really, not so big of a deal. It was less “me giving you these keys is symbolic of me giving you the keys to my heart” and more “yeah, we’re both totally lazy and would rather not have to get up to open the door for each other.”

But coming home at midnight, all tired (work) and annoyed (public transportation) and drunk (vodka tonics, splash of cran) to him? In his boxers? Reading the sports section? Well, I don’t think I stopped smiling for the rest of the night.

I’ve never been able to see myself living with someone before him. Partially because, well, I love him a whole lot. And partially because both of us have the most insane schedules of two human beings ever, so I don’t think it would descend to the “omigod, give me SPACE” stage. Plus, he’s a Cheerios kind of guy and I’m more “Cap’n Crunch or anything with an insane amount of sugar because, HA, look ma - I can eat cereals with sugar now because I am an ADULT.” So there’s no worrying about whether or not there will be enough left for a bowl which, obviously, was a big concern of mine.

I just renewed my lease. His isn’t up for another ten months. We’re not even close to making a decision of that magnitude at the present time. But, I’m just sayin’…

Speaking of the Boy, it was his birthday yesterday. I did everything I could to make it special because, hello, one only turns 33 once. And also, he was kinda sorta always neglected on his birthday as a child and yes, I’m ambitious and arrogant enough to think I can turn years of bad birthday memories around in a day. So there were cupcakes in bed at midnight and a note on his pillow when I crept out early to go to work and emails (mostly of the “do you feel older YET?” variety) and an extravagant dinner at an extravagant steakhouse and a card that I believe was the perfect blend of sappy and sarcastic and, yes, the U2 tickets.

Those went over really well. He said, “I’ve only been waiting fifteen years to see them live.” Which leads me to believe that I did good. Which is great, because he definitely deserves good.

I got nothin’ today. November 11, 2005

Yesterday felt so much like Friday, to the point that I went out and drank my ass off without thinking of today’s repercussions, and now I’m sitting at my desk kind of staring blankly off into space, trying to motivate myself to walk to the watercooler because hydration should really be of utmost importance right now and NO, BOSS, I WILL NOT DO THAT ONE LITTLE THING FOR YOU BECAUSE FUCK YOU IT SHOULD BE SATURDAY.

The Boy comes home tonight. He’ll be tan. I’ll be jealous. We’ll have The Boy-just-came-home-sex which, in my experience, is the best kind there is. So, there’s that to look forward to. Another reason I should get myself hydrated right quick.

I’m vaguely aware of the fact that I’m hungry. Yeah, no. Suddenly I’m really aware. And fantasizing about Chipotle. Because, whatever, I can totally work off an 1000 calorie burrito tonight. I’ll just get on top.

Sorry. I promise, this isn’t another “all I can think about is sex” post, promise.

I can think about other things. Like my brand-new video iPod. Which currently has exactly zero videos on it. But it sure is pretty and skinny and shiny and all day I sit at my desk batting my eyelashes at it, making sure it’s still there, still working. This must be what it’s like for new mothers. I’m so going to be that mother who sticks her finger under her kid’s nose to make sure he or she is still breathing.

Chipotle really is only like ten feet away. I’m going to now redirect my watercooler-motivation efforts to delicious Mexican food. Something tells me it’s going to be a lot easier.

Things That Have Me Decidedly Not Happy At the Moment: November 9, 2005

• The fact that my grandmother, who was supposed to fly in from Greece today, is still stuck at the airport on our island because the lazy fucking bastards at Olympic Airlines have decided to strike. Which they do, like, all the time. Case in point: last summer when our flight from Athens to Kefalonia was delayed and subsequently wouldn’t arrive on the island until a little after 11pm. The workers at the Kefalonia airport decided that a little after 11pm was a little too late for them to still be working so they decided to go on strike and therefore shut down the airport. Greeks are lazy bastards sometimes. I can say that, see, ’cause I’m Greek.
• The fact that I felt like such a Snoberella earlier this morning in Starbucks when this really sweet girl asked me where I got my coat because it was “soooo cute.” I told her that I purchased it at a private label sample sale and, no, the coat was not available anywhere. Not even Barney’s. It was the truth but for some reason I thought that she might think that I was lying just because I didn’t want someone else on this island to have the same coat as me and really I just should’ve said “Banana Republic from quite a few seasons ago” and then I wouldn’t have felt like such a beyotch.
• The fact that the only affordable coffee tables in all the land are only at Ikea. And there is no Ikea accessible without a car. And the only person I know with a car is currently getting back massages with Brian Cashman in Palm Springs. (Ok, not really. Well, maybe. Actually, most likely.)
• Speaking of Brian Cashman, the fact that TINO IS NO LONGER A YANKEE. It hurts. A lot more than it should, come to think of it. Can’t they throw the fans a bone? What’s another 3 million dollars to fucking George Steinbrenner & Co?
• The fact that every time I feel like I have to pee I think I’m getting another urinary tract infection. That shit did a number on my psyche.
• The fact that the new intern is painfully (no seriously) fucking hot but oh so dumb, thus perpetuating my suspicion that insane beauty + insane brains just doesn’t exist.
• The fact that it’s still a couple days before His Holy Hotness returns from the left coast. Sleeping alone? No fun. And, don’t get me wrong - I LOVE HIM - but waking up to Pat Kiernan every morning just doesn’t compare really.

Things That Have Me Decidedly Happy At The Moment:

• Well, this caramel macchiato is pretty damn freakin good.

We haven’t exactly found our rhythm as a couple. T… November 7, 2005

We haven’t exactly found our rhythm as a couple. Time apart, a string of days together, some more time apart, another string of days together. That’s become our normal but really, it’s anything but.

This time he’s in Palm Springs for a week. Rough life, I told him this morning (that is, if you consider the ungodly hour of 4:30am ‘morning’).

He was in the shower at 4am, at which point I dragged my naked ass out of bed and wrote him a note - something along the lines of blah blah blah i blah blah blah love blah blah blah you - and tucked it into his suitcase. I like the idea of him unpacking his shirts, of the envelope with the “hey…” on the front in my handwriting falling to the floor, of his smile when he realizes I’ve pulled one over on him. A small one, but still. He says, apart from the tits and ass and everything surrounding them, that my thoughtfulness is his favorite thing about me. I’m just trying to live up to the hype.

We had a rocky weekend, which was entirely not our fault. On Friday I got an email from this Dude. That’s what we’ll call him because that’s what he is with his shaggy hair and “whatever man” demeanor and all that superficial bullshit that really masks an insecure child with a constant, desperate need for attention.

So, I got an email from Dude. “Heard you’re with the Boy. Strikes me as odd. I’ll never understand women. You’ll give him a chance but you said we’d never work out? You two could be quite possibly the most improbable couple since Michael Jackson and Lisa Marie.”

I thought first, god his pop culture references suck.

I thought second, what a fucking asshole.

I took his bait because I am nothing if not a tad feisty and thus began an email exchange that ended with him detailing, at great length, why he thinks the Boy and I will never work out, complete with downright nastiness in reference to the Boy.

Sidenote: For the record, he and the Boy used to be colleagues. He also used to be interested in me, before I had even met the Boy. I shot him down. Hence the bitterness.

I forwarded the entire exchange to the Boy who, in his typical mature approach, took a very nonchalant view of the whole thing. “He’s just jealous of what we have, Clink.”

Nonchalant, that is, until later that night, in my bed, when I asked what was on his mind.

He stared up at my ceiling and, in a drop-dead-serious tone that has been decidedly absent for our entire eight months, went off on how he’s sick of people destroying his shit, trying to take what’s his, what he’s worked hard for.

“My car just got broken into. Someone stole my laptop last week. Now Dude is trying to torpedo our relationship. Clink, I’m at my breaking point.”

I know I love him because all I wanted to do was transfer all of that hurt and anger onto myself, to relieve him of it. The only thing I could do, unfortunately, was kiss him. And hug him. And kiss him some more.

Palm Springs will be good for him. He’s always enjoyed his brief affairs with the West Coast. I just can’t wait until midnight on Friday night when I get him back, for good. Or, rather, get him back until spring training. Which should give us just enough time to find our rhythm before life has a chance to disrupt it all over again.

Credit Card Debt 101 November 4, 2005

When I love someone, I go all out. This could be a repercussion of my upbringing - my grandparents are very much of the “the more we spend, the more we love you, OBVIOUSLY” school of thought and somehow that gene got passed along to me. I always feel the need to do something grandiose and expensive in order to prove just how much someone means to me. It’s a curse. (Unless, of course, you happen to be someone who means a lot to me in which case, you’re welcome.)

Hence the $470 I just dropped on U2 tickets. I don’t even like U2. That much. And the seats? Aren’t even that great.

I’m trying not to think about it. La la la American Express I will pay you back eventually la la la.

The tickets were, believe it or not, the easy part. I have been unofficially put in charge of the Boy’s birthday get together. That time, once a year, when the Boy’s nearest and dearest gather at a local watering hole to get obliterated in the Boy’s honor, while he watches, laughs and drinks Diet Coke.

The local watering hole is what has me all stressed out. I mean, there’s always Magician. But EVERYONE has their birthday party at Magician and I want to be original.

So, long, boring story short: today will be spent scouring Citysearch. Massive amount of work piling up on my desk be damned.

Any suggestions from the New Yorkers in the crowd?