Insecure. October 31, 2006

I’m having a hard time with something. Part of me doesn’t want to put it out there because I don’t want to have to deal with emails and comments of the “ur so insecure, loserrrr!” and “get some self-respect” variety in return. (By the way, thank you for the latter, John Getz of Property Solutions, Inc. I’ll get right on that.)

But whatever, I’m tougher than you think and last night it came to a head and I think I need to admit on paper (screen, whatever) that hello, my name is Clink and sometimes I am wildly insecure (clearly a conclusion you have probably already come to if you’ve read one or more of my posts on this blog). I need to try and work this out for myself and what is it that they say about blogs? Something about free therapy?

Here’s the situation: The Boy is taking an LSAT review course (2nd round’s the charm) at a school four blocks away from where I live. Yesterday he decided that it would be easier to work at my apartment until 6:30pm and then head to class, instead of going all the way out to Queens. Obviously a logical, acceptable solution if it weren’t for one thing: the Roommate.

She gets home around 5pm because she has a fake job with fake hours that unfortunately pays lots of real dollars. So not only were they alone in the apartment for over an hour before the class but also for an hour or so afterwards.

Let’s get something straight. A few things, actually. I know the Boy loves me. I trust the Boy. I believe that he would never let anything happen, even if the Roommate showed up in the living room wearing a French maid costume and did a striptease for him.

I know all of those things and yet I still don’t like the situation. I don’t like it one bit. It gives the Roommate carte blanch to flirt with my boyfriend, as she has done in the past, as she has done with me present, lord knows what she’ll do if I’m not. While I’m sure that everything was innocent (because, like I said, I trust the Boy not to let it become un-innocent), I still can’t get the worst case scenarios out of my head.

I came home a bit earlier than expected last night. I heard laughing and talking as I approached the door. My heart sank. If it were any other friend, I would be thrilled that they were getting a chance to know the Boy. But it’s her and she is shady and manipulative and a supreme flirt and it bothered me. Call me a drama queen, say I’m psychotic, tell me that the Boy should leave my insecure ass. Fine. But I’m human and I can’t help the way I felt, standing in the hallway, disturbed and annoyed.

It took me a while to warm up to the Boy afterwards. I still can’t warm up to the Roommate. However, I know I have to make myself okay with this situation because it’s not going to remain an isolated incident. He’s going to be alone in the apartment with her a lot because of this class. I can’t let the stress of worrying about that dictate my life and strain my relationship.

And yet, I come back to the fact that I still fucking hate being put in this situation and feeling this way. It’s not who I am. And yet, apparently it is. And above all, it is fucking exhausting.

Brilliant. October 28, 2006

Working. On a Saturday. As I am required to. Everyone in my family is out doing what they do best: shopping (mom), playing soccer (brother), being a politician (father). The Boy is lost somewhere east of here, has been for the past hour. I am trying to simultaneously navigate him through New Jersey and also get enough work done so that I don’t have to sit back down at this computer at any other time during the weekend.

Clearly, neither is going so well.

The fog has finally cleared but last night was something out of a nightmare. The two glasses of wine I drank on an empty stomach gave the entire evening a hazy, blurry quality. I woke up this morning wondering if it had in fact happened.

Did I pick a major fight with my boyfriend over politics? Did I actually say that if one of our kids turned out to be Republican, I would love that child less? (Yes. And…yes. But I think I was kidding.)

Did I shut down completely and just expect the Boy to pull me out of it and then shut down even further when he refused to indulge me? (Yes. Yes.)

Did I actually lose his suit pants while grabbing the hangers from the back seat because I was angry and intent on making a point? Did they slip off into the middle of a rainy street with neither of us noticing? Or did they fall off the hanger earlier in the evening when he carried everything out to his car on his way to my place? (It remains to be seen.)

There was drama. Mostly of my doing. I’ve been feeling excluded a bit and wanted some attention. Brilliant plan, Clink. Now the pants of a $2,000 handmade suit may be rolling under a tire somewhere in Midtown West and you have that achey, unsettled feeling because you started a fight that blew up into something much, much bigger. That blew up into both of you questioning the relationship.

Like I said, brilliant!

I’m going to go to the downstairs freezer, where my mom keeps the good ice cream, and attempt to make myself feel better. Then I will force myself to make the rest of this weekend turn out much better than it began.

Speaking of whores… October 27, 2006

My friends have gathered up fishnet stockings and push-up bras and tiny costumes (“um, I’m pretty sure that referees don’t wear mini-skirts” “shut up”) in anticipation of this weekend.

No, I’m not going to rant about how Halloween is actually Dress Like a Dirty Whore Day because, up until last year, I was one of those dirty whores. I was a dirty whore in fishnet tights and a push up bra and a barely-there police officer “uniform,” handcuffing myself to cute boys and writing tickets for being “too hot.” The fines ranged from a shot to a beer to a kiss.

This year, on top of being domesticated, I am also sick. And being sick in my apartment just doesn’t cut it (no one should have to heat up their own soup when they’re sick, they should add that shit to the constitution). So I’m going home to New Jersey to be taken care of by my mom (“My poor baby! What can I get you? DVD’s? Tea? A blanket? I know. I’ll bake an apple pie. And some apple crisp. Apple cake too? No? Too much?”) and my dad (“Your mother’s insane. Here’s $150. You know, for the bills. *Wink.*”)

The Boy is coming with, because he too could use a little suburban downtime. He’s slightly disappointed, however, about the fact that he won’t get to see me prance around in a tiny pair of orange shorts and a Hooters football jersey at a party this weekend, as previously promised. He’s all “you sure you don’t want me to run over and get the outfit for you? Just in case? You know? In case your parents decide to throw an impromptu Halloween party? Or something?”

Little does he know I have already purchased the Hooters girl get-up and, despite being morally opposed to almost everything the restaurant stands for, I will be debuting it on the evening of his birthday in mid-November. What can I say, I aim to please. And also, I surprisingly look pretty good in orange.

Such a whore. October 24, 2006

Living with someone whose behavior plays to your very own longstanding insecurities is not ideal. You know, just in case you were wondering or something.

My roommate just returned from London, where her ex-boyfriend is living temporarily, where she did her best to ruin his current relationship, where she attempted to regain his attention so that she could again revel in having him yearn for her, where she could be around someone who is a professional at feeding her starving ego.

I, in case you were wondering, do not approve of her behavior.

She hooked up with him. It’s not the fact that it happened that shocks me, as I know it is rarely the fault of the ‘other woman’ when a man cheats. It’s more her astounding lack of guilt about the situation that doesn’t sit well. It’s the fact that she’s capable of, essentially, ruining a relationship and not feeling the slightest bit bad about it. It’s that she may, in fact, just be a bad person.

She even included the following line in an email to me this morning: “I’m such a little homewrecker, hahaha.”

It’s not as if she suddenly realized that she was in love with her ex and planned a trans-Atlantic trip in order to declare her realization face to face. It was more the fact that she doesn’t have anyone else in her life and therefore wants his attention again, to validate that she is, in fact, desirable to men – current girlfriend be damned.

Women like her make me scared of other women and what they are capable of.

My trust issues, of course, start to stir when I hear stories like this. I’m having a hard time indulging her when she talks about the trip and her ex and the sex. Truth be told, I’m having a hard time not ripping out her hair when she talks about the trip and her ex and the sex. Mainly because I know that his innocent girlfriend was – and still remains – blissfully unaware. I’m a girlfriend too and there’s definitely a sense of unity that comes with being part of a relationship. It makes you respect other people’s relationships and hate on obnoxious, self-centered whores. Like the one I live with.

Update: She won’t stop writing me emails about it. I won’t stop ignoring them. Another gem: “I know I have that power over him. Like, with the drop of a hat, he’ll always fall for me that way. It’s kinda cocky, but I know it.”

I’ve pretty much kept my mouth shut (hey Anonymous, I never said I was going to confront her about her choices), and will continue to. But the fact that from about 5pm until about 8pm tonight she will be alone in the apartment with my boyfriend, uh, doesn’t sit well.

The Dread. October 23, 2006

I start dreading Sunday sometime around Friday afternoon. Like, “oh hey, awesome, the weekend’s here…but don’t get too used to it, Sunday is looming on the horizon.”

It’s not particularly original, hating Sunday. If you have a job, if Monday means waking up and realizing that another week of work stretches endlessly before you, then chances are you’ve dreaded a Sunday or two or all.

I’m just not so sure everyone cries about it, like me.

The truth is, I had a great Sunday. I laid around in my underwear with the Boy until he forced me to put on some clothes for a Dunkin Donuts run. We followed that up with some disappointingly non-greasy pizza and some football and some more underwear because, really, I cannot be bothered by pants on the weekend.

After a drive into Manhattan and a trip to the grocery store, we ended the day on the couch (a recurring theme, clearly), with him browsing law school brochures while I flipped through a Victoria’s Secret catalogue (a clear indication of who brings the brains and who brings the sexy in our little operation).

Not bad, right? And yet. And yet. The entire day I was a bit…down. Fending off concern from the Boy with forced smiles and “I’m fine! Really! Kiss me! You smell so good! More pizza?”

I broke down around midnight, in bed – too hot, then too cold with the window open, then uncomfortable leaning on his chest, then uncomfortable on my side and then too restless and then too tired and then and then…tears.

I was dreading coming into work today. Dreading starting another week of long hours and an aching jaw and waking up early so that I can fit some gym time and trying to make healthy choices at lunch but succumbing later to a frosting-filled cookie sandwich because food makes me happy and sometimes my job does not.

The Boy understands. He doesn’t always understand the tears, but he’s pretty good at wiping them away. When I’m a mess, I need reassurance about my professional future, sure, which he gives me. But I also need reassurance about our future, reassurance that no matter what happens he will always be my rock.(Sometimes I wish I could force him to sign a contract in blood – someone really needs to get on bringing that back.) It’s crazy how my mind works – job worries that can only quelled with a reminder that my relationship is rock solid. I understand that he can’t read my mind and that if he hears I’m worried about work, he’s going to offer solutions and condolences about work. I don’t think he’s quite clear on the concept that I’m not a normal person with normal thought patters. Probably a good thing.

I went to the gym this morning and, on the walk back, I started to feel better. Much better. About ten minutes before I had to leave for work, I hopped into bed next to him and nuzzled my face in his scruff and felt…stupid. For last night. For getting worked up. For letting anxiousness mixed with dread get the best of me. For ruining a perfect Sunday with Crazy Girlfriend Time.

Because now I’m at work. And I’m fine. And I know I’ll get through this week just fine. It may take a frosting-filled cookie sandwich or two, but hey.

Answers to questions no one asked. October 20, 2006

Stolen from New York Magazine for lack of any creative inspiration whatsoever today.

Name: Clink

Age: 25 (Gah. GAH GAH GAH. What an ugly number.)

Job: Television

Neighborhood: Columbus Circle. Sort of. Ok, on the cusp of Midtown West (eww) and the LowerUpper West Side (lovely). Recovering Upper East Sider.

Who’s your favorite New Yorker, living or dead, real or fictional?
My mom. Born and bred and now living against her will in New Jersey. Also, Tim Gunn.

What’s the best meal you’ve eaten in New York?
Dylan Prime, last November. It was a combination of the atmosphere, the giddiness of falling in love, celebrating the Boy’s birthday, a great steak, some delicious full-bodied red and a fondue appetizer that, yes, still makes me drool when I think about it.

In one sentence, what do you actually do all day in your job?
Talk to crazy people.

Where do you get your coffee?
Starbucks.

What’s the last thing you saw on Broadway?
Evil Dead: The Musical. Does that count as Broadway? Or even Off-Broadway? Off-off?

Do you give money to panhandlers?
I do. Sometimes there’s just no stopping a bleeding heart.

What’s your drink?
Wine. I love being wine-drunk. Lately, red-wine-drunk. I am also a big fan of how a Red Bull and Vodka can take me from “Yawn, I’m tiiiiiiired, I might go home soon” to “Wait, it’s 4am? How the hell did that happen? Where to next?”

How often do you prepare your own meals?
Does throwing some bagged salad in a Tupperware container for lunch count? Microwaving a Lean Cuisine meal? No? Fine. Then I guess the answer is rarely. Every once in a while the Boy and I will get inspired to have a “home cooked meal” which usually means some pasta, in a pot, stirred with sauce.

What’s your favorite medication?
Xanax, for when I fly, is quite nice. NyQuil is great for when I feel like hell and just want to escape being awake (the crazy ass dreams are just a bonus!). Motrin is my lifeline during that time of the month. And I’m currently on a Sudafed Severe Cold kick; it gets me through the day. (I’m slightly disturbed that this question was so easy to answer. Perhaps I should’ve just said “Lots of hugs and chicken soup”?)

What’s hanging above your sofa?
Nothing, at the moment. We haven’t, uh, exactly gotten around to hanging up the mirror that we bought that has been sitting in the hallway for almost two months. All in due time.

How much is too much to spend on a haircut?
When my broke, just-graduated, entry-level-job ass first landed in New York, I paid $145 + $30 tip which, quite obviously, was waaaay too much. That was a Ramen-for-every-meal month, for sure.

When’s bedtime?
I start thinking about bed right after Jon Stewart’s “Moment of Zen” but never get around to it until around 1am.

Brunch: pro or con?
Pro. Very, very pro. Especially now that I live only a block away from Norma’s.

What’s your thread count?
300. Delicious.

What do you hate most about living in New York?
Paying more for rent than my friends in other areas pay for their mortgage. Is there really any other answer to this question?

What’s your brand of jeans?
One? Just one brand? That’s like asking a mother to pick her favorite child. Let’s just say that I’m a sucker for expensive jeans that cost entirely too much but that make me feel sexy so, shut up, they’re worth every penny: Rock & Republic, True Religion, Paige, 7.

When’s the last time you drove a car?
New Jersey, a few weeks ago. I drove around with the windows down and the stereo up and it was nothing short of cathartic.

Who should be the next president?
I’m a big fan of Joe Biden, out of Delaware. I am also all about Barack Obama running for president before he becomes a Washington insider.

Times, Post, or Daily News?
The Times. Mainly on Sundays. The non-newsy sections. I tend to get my news from the Daily Show. Humor helps it go down easier.

Yankees or Mets?
The men in pinstripes, of course. However, I was rooting for the Mets. No really! Last night was tragic. I could hardly breathe the entire bottom of the 9th. Now, I will be rooting for Detroit. Something about them is so likable. Also, if you’re going to lose, you want to lose to the eventual champions.

What makes someone a New Yorker?
Paying an exorbitant amount of money for a very tiny space because, hey, this is New York and New York is worth it. But we still reserve the right to complain incessantly about it.

The Jaw Knows All October 19, 2006

There’s tension in my jaw, which is currently giving me a headache, which is currently preventing me from concentrating on work.

This is new to me. I’ve never really “stored stress” anywhere. But there it is. Right there, in the joint of my jaw, a constant, aching reminder of the things that have been on my mind lately.

I’m self-medicating with Tylenol because, well, not having health insurance is awesome. I’m also concentrating hard on not clenching or grinding because, well, that’s what got me into this situation in the first place.

Last night, the Boy taught me some proven techniques (read: made them up on the spot), including relaxing my entire face and making an “uhhhhhhhhh” sound.

“Do you feel the vibrations?”

“No.”

“You’re not trying hard enough, Clink. Do it with me. UHHHHHHHHHHHHH.”

“Uhhh. It’s not working. Uhhh. It kind of hurts. Uhhh. Can we stop now? Uhhh. It’s 2am.”

I thought working out would take care of anything I’ve been keeping pent up; apparently I am not working out hard enough.

Things that are pent-up:

-I deserve a raise at my job. That much is clear as day. They low-balled me when I started almost a year ago and I feel that I have proven myself to the point that I deserve to make what everyone else who shares my job title is making. Perhaps even more. Because I am Special and Deserving and Good Things Happen To Me.

-I’m making a lot of sacrifices lately, for the Boy. I’ve been sacrificing my time (by taking 40 minute subway rides out to see him), my social life (by not going out with friends in order to take a 40 minute subway ride that will get me to his place at a reasonable hour so that I am not heart poundingly terrified as I walk the dark streets to his building, even though he won’t come home until a few hours later), my health (going to Queens means not going to the gym) (also, him not coming home from work until 1am means sayonara, good night’s sleep). This is all temporary. This is all the result of a very busy time at his job. Still, this is all really annoying.

-There is a “situation” in Greece and by “situation” I mean evil, horrible people trying to sue my 84 year old grandmother for a piece of my uncle’s estate, from everything from the house and the land surrounding it to his WWII-era army jeep which barely runs but which we keep parked on the property anyway because it feels like a little piece of him. The legal system in Greece is atrocious, legal fees are mounting, my grandmother barely eats anymore and fuck you, where were you people when he was sick and dying? You find out the value of his estate and all of a sudden he was a very important person in your life? All of a sudden he would “want you to be taken care of”?

I thought getting the aggression out would take care of itself by working out and writing in a journal and talking it out with the Boy. But, as it turns out, this is all still stressing me out. A lot.

I know because my jaw tells me so.

I hate the phone. October 18, 2006

I always have.

I didn’t even like it in high school, when you’re supposed to, when staying up all night on 3-way with your two bff’s discussing whether super-hottie Jon Mitchell really meant “I like you” when he asked “Can I borrow your pen?” in Western Civ is a rite of passage. Not even then.

I especially hate the phone at 1:30am, when he wakes me up out of a deep sleep. I tell him I don’t mind, because I want to hear his voice, even at that hour. Because I want to find out about his day. Because I want to attempt to connect, despite the miles between us. Because I miss him.

But nothing good ever comes out of it. A half awake girlfriend and a just finished work, stressed out, overtired boyfriend does not equal a fulfilling conversation. There are pauses and lots of “so” followed by the other person’s “sooo.” We recount the minutiae – his conversation with his boss, my dinner with my best friend – and eventually one of us says “I should probably let you get some sleep” (usually him) and the other one feels a bit hurt, a bit hurried off the phone (usually me).

We pepper the conversation with “I miss you” and “I can’t wait to see you” and “baby, this sucks.” And we mean it. Of course we do. We’re both ecstatic that come this evening we won’t have to conduct our relationship over the phone, at least not for a day or two. It will no longer feel so forced, will no longer be so inconvenient.

In honor of our (temporary) reunion, I will be putting all the working out I’ve been doing to good use by donning some lingerie I picked up recently. It is pink and girlie and frilly and perhaps I’ll put my hair in some low pigtails to complete the look. Because another reason to look forward to getting away from the phone and back to the physical is, well, getting back to the physical.

I’ve been to the gym 4 times in the past two days…. October 16, 2006

I’ve been to the gym 4 times in the past two days. For those of you not so good with the maths, that’s twice a day.

Part of it was the “holy crap, my jeans are tight” realization of late but mainly, it was out of boredom and a sense of sadness and self-pity that I just couldn’t shake.

It was one of those weekends. Brilliant and sunny and crisp outside but rain would’ve suited me better. I was in a cold and grey and stormy mood and would’ve liked an excuse to wrap a blanket around myself on the couch and watch old Felicity episodes and eat cookie dough with a spoon and not leave the apartment or shower or change out of my pajamas.

Instead, I went to the gym. A lot. I pounded the treadmill and did twelve reps x 3 on various machines and worked the elliptical on the highest resistance and blasted The Eminem Show because the anger, I could relate.

I was intent on working out whatever aggression (source: unknown) had me hating on the world. Other than some work stress (I am so original!) and missing my boyfriend, who is away for a few days (careful what you wish for), everything is going pretty okay in my life. And yet I found myself wishing they offered boxing classes on the weekends because, damn, I really wanted to punch something.

By the time the Boy called at 1:30am, I was a sobbing, hysterical mess. Serves me right for combining general Sunday malaise with a showing of Discovery Health’s “Impossibly Small: The Kennedie Story.”

Today, my muscles ache. Not just a general day-after dull pain but more of an “ouch ouch ouch I can’t even put my arms in the sleeves of my coat without feeling like I am tearing something” problem. Serves me right for skipping over that whole “stretching” business to get right down to the burn.

I’ll be okay; this too (whatever it is) shall pass. And, I must say, I’m pretty proud of myself for self-medicating with some exercise, as opposed to those bottles of wine on top of the fridge that have been calling my name since Friday.

Now, if only those endorphins would kick in…

Over it. October 13, 2006

The Ex showed up at my office yesterday morning. Unannounced. The front desk rang - I had a visitor. I thought it was a mistake; I never have visitors.

But there he was. In all his 6’2”, well-dressed, successful architect, bastard child of Johnny Knoxville and Jude Law glory.

And yet, for perhaps the first time since I met him my freshman year of college during the dwindling hours of a house party in then-still-unfamiliar Philadelphia, I wasn’t attracted to him. At all. Not even the slightest bit.

In fact, I was annoyed that he was there, in my office. I continue to be annoyed that he’s here, in my city. In my life. Even if only for a weekend.

Don’t get me wrong, we’ve remained friends ever since we decided to no longer be anything more. And he’s been a good casual friend, with no ulterior motives, someone who roots for my relationship’s success and sends random, hilarious emails when he’s bored in the middle of the day.

But in that moment, yesterday morning, when I saw him leaning against the front desk, smiling that smile, the one that used to be able to get him out of anything (including not showing up at my 21st birthday party until 3am, drunk out of his mind and about two seconds away from vomiting on my comforter) … it hit me. I’m not even that interested in maintaining a friendship with this person outside of our group of mutual friends any longer.

He represents my past and seeing him (for the first time since I’ve been with the Boy) in the light of my new relationship brought something into focus that I’ve been wrestling with for a while: it’s time to leave that all behind. He’s great and all but I’ve finally moved on.