The beloved red sofa, a time-sucking vortex that turns “just one” episode of Felicity into a 3-hour nap and suddenly you’re awake at 8pm all confused and disoriented and crap! I was supposed to be in the fucking West Village for dinner a half an hour ago!
The flat-screen TV, which came as a package deal with the Roommate. Basically means she can do whatever she wants and I will never kick her out because you haven’t lived until you’ve watched (Giants) football in hi-def on a flatscreen.
The view from my room, overlooking…other buildings. Which is kind of awesome actually because I am secretly (er, not so secretly anymore) a voyeur and the view allows me to see directly into other high-rise apartments. Also, picture frames that routinely blow over if it gets too windy, resulting in half of them being chipped. Whatever. They’re now “distressed.”
My very cluttered bureau alongside my overflowing hamper. If there’s two things that you should know about me, it’s that I’m a sucker for beauty products and that I have a magically self-replenishing hamper. No matter how often I do laundry, it is always full. Note: The Dep gel does not belong to me. I didn’t even know that Dep gel survived the 90’s until the Boy came over with it and plopped it down on my bureau. He has yet to use it. I always threaten to throw it out but never do because who knows when I’ll need really crunchy curls?
My nightstand. Standard, as I prefer to keep the sex toys and flavored condoms out of sight. Highly recommend the Didion book. And also, Poland Spring.
My bed. See also: Favorite Place in the Entire World. I am a steadfast non-bed-maker, of the “what’s the point?” school of thought. If you look close enough, you can see my delicious new bag, courtesy of the Boy.
A peek inside. Because I had to take pictures for my 84 year old grandmother in Greece who kind of threatened me about getting her some. October 12, 2006
Love/Hate October 12, 2006
I am an undeniable, official-like, capital-K Klutz. (If you need a reference, see any man or woman who has ever coached me in any sport ever.)
Exhibit A:
This morning I was walking to the subway in a pair of heels (with the most perfect delicate ribbon trim) (that I am kind of sort of very in love with) (and were recently featured in the Sunday Styles Section, for what it’s worth) (which is, really, not worth that much) on a very unstable sidewalk.
Clink + wearing heels + unstable sidewalk + distracted by iPod + late for work + weighed down by tons of bags containing food for lunch and clothes for the next day because STUPID BOYFRIEND LIVES IN STUPID QUEENS = recipe for disaster.
I tripped. I flew, spectacularly, across the sidewalk, managing to somehow lose not one but BOTH shoes in the process. I landed on my knees and my elbows, which are currently skinned, possibly down to the bone, and ACHING, OMIGOD DO THEY ACHE.
So there I was: bags strewn in every which direction, food and Tupperware containers spilling out of them, and barefoot, frantically attempting to locate the beloved heels.
The sidewalk was crowded. Morning-rush crowded with both commuters shuffling to the subway and construction workers on a break. The same construction workers who whistle at me every single day but could not be bothered to help me up or aid in gathering my things. Guess I’m not so hot when I’m SPRAWLED ACROSS THE SIDEWALK IN AN UNFLATTERING POSITION, EH BASTARDS?
None of the commuters stopped, either. No one asked if I was okay. No one even seemed to notice.
And that, my friends, is why I both love (nothing to see here! Keep moving! Don’t want this to be more embarrassing than it already is!) and hate (what the fuck, you fucking selfish assholes, you’re stepping over my shoes and my box of Lean Cuisine and yet NO ONE can be bothered to help a girl out?) this city.
And, for the record, I will now be doing all commuting in my Pumas.
Phew October 11, 2006
I composed a speech while in a bathroom stall at work, right before the end of the day yesterday. Apparently, I get my best ideas while I pee.
We went to our favorite restaurant in Manhattan, where the owner knows to seat us in the back corner and the waitress brings out a Diet Coke and a glass of chianti as soon as we sit down.
Over lasagna (him) and four-cheese gnocci (me) (sayonara, diet), I told him the situation.
He was wonderfully mature about it, which is good, seeing as he’s almost 34 and that is six years away from 40 and if he’s not mature by the time he’s six years away from 40, when will he ever be mature?
He’s not comfortable with Ex spending the night. “If I were in town, Clink, or if it were a bunch of people…” I, of course, understood, seeing as I would have gone on a psycho lunatic rant that would have most likely ended up in bloodshed if the situation were reverse.
He is, in all his infinite maturity, perfectly fine with me hanging out with Ex for a bit on Saturday for a trip to a museum and perhaps some lunch. He realizes that the Ex and I have remained friends. He also realizes, as I leaned across our half-empty plates to shower his face in kisses, that I only have eyes for him.
“Are you sure you’re comfortable with that?”
“Baby, I’m comfortable with whatever you’re comfortable with. I trust you.”
I just told Ex that he’s going to have to find another place to stay. And that weight? Off my shoulders? Feels so damn good.
Oops. October 10, 2006
So, I accidentally invited my ex-boyfriend (who has, against all odds, remained a friend) to stay with me this weekend, under the impression that a group of friends from college would also be staying over and that my boyfriend would be in town.
Group of friends bailed, boyfriend is away for the weekend.
Status: fucked.
I’ve already explained to Ex that maybe him staying might not be the best idea, under these newfound circumstances.
Ex’s response was something along the lines of “Just tell the Boy, I’m sure he won’t care. What’s the big deal?”
Hah. Right. Perhaps in an alternative universe. And also, NOTHING IS A BIG DEAL TO YOU EVER AND THAT IS WHY WE BROKE UP AND WILL REMAIN BROKEN UP, JESUS CHRIST, I WILL DIE OF SHOCK AND AWE IF YOU JUST ONCE CHARACTERIZE SOMETHING AS A REAL, ACTUAL, OFFICIAL ‘BIG DEAL.’ (But, surprisingly, you’re fairly delightful as a friend. Huh. Fancy that.)
The Boy, who I am meeting for dinner this evening, is unaware of this situation and will remain unaware until around my third glass of wine. In my head, the conversation will then go something like this:
Clink: So, uh, I got myself into a little situation but I’m hoping you’ll understand so that we can work out a solution you’re comfortable with together, as a team. [Explains situation.]
The Boy: Teehee! Simple mistake! Totally understandable! No worries here! I trust you! Tell him I say hi! And that it’s not at all problematic that this is the guy from which all your trust issues stem and now I have to bear the brunt of that shit because he apparently sucks at monogamy! I love you so much!
Actual conversation (most likely involving many, many more expletives) will be posted tomorrow. That is, if he doesn’t rip off my head and drop kick it across the restaurant because sometimes I just suck SO MUCH.
I may still eat some cheeseburgers. October 10, 2006
Is it bad that I’m a little disappointed he’s not going away for two weeks, as previously planned?
Because I am. Ever so slightly, but still.
Thrilled, on the one hand, because now I won’t have to painstakingly count down the days, hours, minutes until he comes home. I won’t have to lie in bed at night on the phone, misinterpreting his tiredness for aloofness and going to sleep feeling disconnected. I won’t mope around feeling sorry for myself, eating a steady diet of cheeseburgers because “wah, my boyfriend is away” and buying new shoes because, again, “wah.”
However, a small part of me was looking forward to missing him and, perhaps even more, to him missing me.
Last year, the majority of October was excruciating. Half of my time was spent pining for him – his smell, his touch, his laugh, his hilarious commentary, his bad jokes, his support after a bad day at work, his body next to mine in bed – and the other half was spent assuming he was fucking someone else.
The pay off, however, was in our interaction when he got back. He all but threw me on the bed (and the kitchen counter, and the living room couch…). I’d catch him staring at me – just staring – as if taking me all in, making up for all that time spent not seeing me. We couldn’t get enough of each other, proof positive that there’s a lot of truth to the whole “absence makes the heart grow fonder” and “you need air to stoke a fire” (did I make that second one up?)
Gearing up for Unbearable Distance, Round Deux, I had to mentally prepare myself for goodbye. In doing so, I searched and searched for the silver lining and came up with the fact that his extended departure meant lots of time to spend with my girlfriends, no subway rides to and from the dreaded Queens, a healthier diet due to the fact that he would no longer be around to suggest “hey, want some cheesy bites pizza from Pizza Hut?” at 10pm and, of course, the fact that my boyfriend would miss me terribly and I would miss him terribly and it would re-ignite our already hot relationship, taking it to unforeseen and unimagined levels.
And now, all that mental preparation was for naught. He’s around; life continues as normal. Don’t get me wrong, I am stoked beyond belief not to have to experience the pain of missing someone so much that each hour without them feels like a torturous eternity. And space is inherent in our relationship, due to the conflicting hours we work, so needing some air isn’t the issue.
It’s more the disappointing climax to an intense build-up, I guess. I finally got my mind to a place where I was able to anticipate and accept and perhaps even look forward to our time apart and then one phone call from his boss changed everything.
However, when he turned to me in bed last night, twirling strands of my hair in his hands and said, apropos of absolutely nothing, “I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” I realized that – for this guy – I would take a subway to and from the ends of the earth if it meant not ever being apart for him, even for a few weeks.
Stupid Yankees (which has nothing to do with the post but needed to be said). October 9, 2006
It was the only place in the area showing the Patriots game, seeing as the Giants were also playing at 1pm and this is New York, after all.
We even tried Planet Hollywood. Seriously.
I was silent as we walked up Broadway. My insecurities bubbled up in my chest, catching in my throat, making me mute. The Boy just held my hand, wondered aloud how there could be a 45-minute wait at ESPN Zone because who the hell goes to ESPN Zone?
I wished I was wearing something other than a hoodie, jeans, my Chucks. I felt young and plain, my hair up in a ponytail, my lips gloss-less.
Inside, no one looked plain. It’s pretty impossible to look plain while wearing orange shorts that – outside the doors of the restaurant – could pass for underwear and a low-cut, form-fitting football “jersey” that – again, outside the doors of the restaurant – would fit a small child.
I am not the type of girl who grabs her boyfriend by the hand and says “Let’s go to Hooters!” and plants herself on a stool, happily devouring wings and smiling at the waitresses, perhaps even pointing out which ones are “total hotties, don’t you think, Honey?” I’m just not that secure. Or that good at overcompensating for my insecurities.
The good news is, the Boy is not a Hooters type of guy. He thinks it’s sorta dirty and that the women are sorta skanky and that the wings sorta suck. “But they have the Sunday ticket, baby.”
Since it was me who didn’t want to go to Queens, where the Patriots game could be seen in the comfort of his apartment, via his beloved Direct TV package, I felt obligated to find him a place that was playing the game. It was his first day off in two weeks and all he wanted was “some food, some football and my girl.”
Most of the girls, much to my surprise seeing as this is New York and New York is Land of Beautiful Women No Matter Where You Turn, were very “eh.” Not even “kinda cute” or “do-able, under the right circumstances” but down right unattractive.
That made me feel better, as we scanned the room, looking for the TV closest to the one playing Patriots v. Dolphins.
Our waitress, as my luck would have it, was the cutest girl in the place. A petite brunette with a baseball cap on sideways and bright blue eyes, she spoke in a sweet Southern drawl and was overly attentive (for what it’s worth, it was some of the best service I’ve ever had in a New York restaurant).
However, I was happy to note that my chest was about double the size of her nonexistent one. (Tangent: Isn’t it a requirement that Hooters waitresses have ample chests? Or is that just a stereotype and it’s really just about whether you have a cute ass and a skill for deflecting aggressive flattery from drunkards?)
I retreated into myself. I ordered a glass of water, stared blankly up at the Giants game as the Boy became wrapped up in the Pats, and didn’t say a word. The Boy stroked my hand and tried to make eye contact but I was too involved in acting above this cheesy, trashy place and the cheesy, trashy men we were surrounded by to react.
Slowly, however, things began to turn. The Giants started to win and I started to cheer and I took a bite of the Boy’s chicken sandwich and, hey, it wasn’t so bad and the waitress was smiling at both of us – equally – and just doing her job and, actually, doing it well and finally I just reached across the table and grabbed the Boy and kissed him hard and said, “I’m sorry,” which broke the ice.
Would I go back? Um, no. The food wasn’t that good and the fact that a roach ran across the table just as the Boy was finishing his meal pretty much confirmed my thoughts that it isn’t the cleanest place in Manhattan.
Did I enjoy it? Again, no. I have always thought that the whole concept is, oh, a tad demeaning and exploitative. Granted, most of the men there were too caught up in the games to notice the scantily clad women refilling their pint glasses, but a handful of them were truly disgusting as they leered at the waitresses and made mildly disturbing, sexual comments. However, there were a shitload of screens simultaneously playing every football game on in the country and it’s hard not to enjoy – even mildly – a wonderland like that.
Do I now have a great idea for a potential Halloween costume? Why, yes. Yes I do. And I have a feeling I’ll fill out that Hooters jersey better than half the girls in there. Perhaps I’ll be perpetuating the stereotype, if only for a night, but it’s a hell of a lot more comfortable than the pirate costume I was considering.
Anonymous. October 5, 2006
I don’t know what I’d do if the Boy found out about this here little creative outlet of mine.
I mean, I know what I’d immediately do. I’d kind of shrug my shoulders and give him my cutest “who me?” smile and then maybe propose having some sex, to take his mind off the fact that I’ve been broadcasting almost every facet of our relationship into the universe, to complete strangers, since April of 2005 without his consent or knowledge.
Inevitably, however, the conversation would likely turn back to the fact that I have a secret, anonymous blog because there’s only so much sex you can have at one time (trust me).
And at that point…yeah, I don’t know what I’d do.
In a way, this blog has helped me maintain (regain?) my sanity and by extension, my relationship. If I begin to go off the deep end regarding, say, oh, trust issues (hypothetically, of course) I can write about it and publish it and take a step back and either a) realize how stupid and immature I am being, jesus Clink or b) have my commenters tell me how stupid and immature I am being, jesus Clink (or, you know, have them offer some really great support, which also tends to happen – a lot). So, really, the Boy should be thankful for the blog and the commenters. It’s free therapy. Either that or he should run for the hills because wow, baby, I didn’t realize you were a like, a TOTAL, PSYCHO FREAK WITH A MILLION NEUROSES WHO LETS INTERNET STRANGERS READ AND COMMENT ON HER LIFE – I AM OUTTA HERE, SEE YA!
It feels like I’m keeping a secret from him, especially when he asks if I’m doing any writing lately because “you know, you really should keep up with it baby, you’re good” and I kind of shrug and say “kind of” and change the subject instead of the truth, which is “almost every day, and it’s read by a few hundred people almost every day and they all know exactly what you did last week to piss me off.”
I’ve contemplated giving it all up, deleting the posts, moving on, going back to keeping my thoughts in a private journal hidden underneath my mattress. Mainly so that I no longer feel so guilty about keeping something so personal and intimate so separate from him and us. But usually it’s just a passing thought. I’ve also thought about starting a non-anonymous blog, where I’d be free to open up my thoughts to my friends and my family and my boyfriend.
Except, then a sample post would look something like this:
“So I bought some shoes today (on sale, Mom! I’m saving money! I swear!). And I’m really excited for dinner and drinks with you tonight, Audrey! (Don’t worry, Boy, I’ll behave myself and won’t get too drunk!) (Just kidding, Dad! I don’t even drink at all! Ever!) And, uh, work is crazy! As ever! And one of these days I’m going to get health insurance, I promise! So Grandpa, stop worrying. Whew. Yeah. Alright. So…How ‘bout them Yankees?”
I have a feeling that wouldn’t be all that interesting to, oh, ANYONE.
So, anonymous it is and anonymous it will remain. It’s a good thing the Boy has little time or patience for anything blog-related, as he is quite busy and important and all “the internet is of little use to me, other than to report scores in real time.” Or something. My heart always skips a beat a little when I check my stats and see that the blog has been visited by someone in his neighborhood. I’m always slightly concerned that I’m going to let something slip seeing as I have a tendency to let things slip. I’m always a little worried that this guilt will consume me and I’ll end up screaming out the URL in the middle of the night.
Those of you who are anonymous, do you find it hard to keep it that way? And those of you who aren’t anonymous, do you find that you censor yourself? And those of you who don’t blog at all and stumbled upon this site accidentally and are all “SHUT UP ALREADY, DUMB GIRL,” is this whole blog thing kinda sorta ridiculous and unbelievably self-involved?
So, uh, how about them Yankees?
The Publicist. October 4, 2006
She was interrupted three times during dinner.
The first call was from an up-and-coming actor from a major network show. The second, an up-and-coming actress from another major network show. The third, the editor of a major magazine inquiring about lunch to discuss a possible cover for a major actor from a major network show.
I picked at the plate of salad between us and sipped the wine that she had ordered without consulting me. I checked my phone to see if there was anyone from my office just dying to get a hold of me so that I could gracefully and competently diffuse the latest disaster. No missed calls.
She lives in West Hollywood, by herself, in a spacious bungalow apartment. She has thick, naturally wavy brown hair that curls in all the right places without the use of any styling tools. She works in a ‘sexy’ job where she recently got a ‘sexy’ promotion to the tune of $93,000 and her very own assistant.
I always feel like an awkward 15 year old in her presence: hair that I thought looked sexy and tousled when I left the apartment but really just looks unruly, an outfit that is too-perfectly coordinated and accessorized, a job that is not nearly as interesting or glamorous or well-paid.
I spent most of dinner feeling a bit pathetic, as if I would never live up to my Glamazon Friend who breezed into New York for the week to do “press” and just happened to catch the taping of Saturday Night Live which led to not only attending the after-party, but the after-after party.
We decided to pick up dessert on the run, digging into freezer cases at a corner bodega and pulling out various, normally forbidden, Haagen-Dazs products. We walked through the West Village as we ate, peeking into windows and lusting after quaint, ivy-covered buildings.
We settled on a stoop that didn’t belong to us and wiped the chocolate from the corners of our mouths. She leaned her head against my shoulder and sighed. “I’m all alone Clink.”
“That’s not true,” I began but she cut me off.
“No, I am. At the end of the day, who do I go home to? At the end of the day, my ‘friends’ are really just my clients and I am on their payroll. It’s a job. So I’ve slept with a few celebrities, all of whom never called me again. At the end of the day, it’s just me and my big salary and my shitty hours and my no personal life. What’s the point?”
I still felt frumpy in comparison. I still felt underpaid and under-accomplished next to someone who has had so much success at such a young age. My hair still felt less “glossy curls” and more “blech, I need a haircut.” But at the end of the day, I have friends who spend time with me because they want to, not because they pay me to oversee their reputations. No one calls me in the middle of dinner because they need to be comforted about their latest professional decision. I also have someone to come home to. I have the Boy. And all that is worth a lot more than $93,000 a year.
Non-suspicious Lush October 3, 2006
My new philosophy regarding my trust issues and the Boy is simple: I choose to trust him.
The timing of this new outlook is slightly problematic, however, seeing as I will have exactly no time to ease into it before being put to the test. Come this weekend, the Boy will be traveling for work until the end of October.
Last October, I didn’t handle it so well. Outwardly I was fine; inwardly I was a raving lunatic specializing in irrationality and paranoia: I listened for female voices in the background when he told me he was eating dinner alone at a restaurant bar, convinced he was lying. I stayed up half the night wondering if he was sleeping by himself in his hotel room or if he had brought a local skank home to entertain him. I had the nagging feeling that he would fall in love with someone else while on the road and return home to break the bad news.
I don’t so much want to go through all that again. It, uh, really wasn’t that much fun.
So, trust. Trust. Trust. TRUST. The minute my mind starts to wander, I’m going to pull myself out before I get lost in dark thoughts. I’m going to take what he says at face value and not automatically assume that he’s hiding something. I’m going to believe in what we have and know that he would never do anything to fuck it up, GOD HELP HIM IF HE DOES.
I’ve already invested in a few bottles of wine so as to aid in my transformation into a breezy, carefree, trusting girlfriend. He may return home around Halloween to a bonafide lush but, hey, at least I’ll be a non-suspicious lush.
Snippets October 2, 2006
I turned 25 during the Boy’s friend’s engagement party. Sometime during “Shout” (or maybe “Crazy in Love”; the DJ was a bit all over the place) the Boy pulled me off the dance floor and out to a dock overlooking a body of water, the name of which still escapes me. It was a few minutes until midnight.
He put his jacket over my bare shoulders and pulled me in and said “happy birthday, beautiful.”
It was just another moment in a series of perfect moments this weekend. There are certainly worse ways to usher in the next year of your life.
Snippets:
-After dinner with my girlfriends on Friday night, we all decided to traipse over to a hoity-toity rooftop bar for a few drinks. However, once we got there and were in the process of digging out drivers licenses from tiny purses, we all unanimously agreed that the pub across the street? The one blaring Bon Jovi? With the empty tables and Sportscenter on the screens? That was much more our speed. So we teetered over in our expensive dresses and designer shoes, perched atop wobbly stools, elbows resting on the scuffed bar, and charmed the bartender into giving us free nachos.
-The Boy showed up at my door Saturday evening, to pick me up for the party. He stood in the foyer for five whole minutes as I raced between my bedroom and the bathroom, fixing my hair (“Sorry! Just one sec!”), looking for my other shoe, glossing my lips (“Seriously, I’m almost done!), spritzing perfume on my cleavage and the back of my neck. Finally I looked up long enough to notice him smiling at me, a bouquet of perfect, pink tulips in his hand (“But it’s not my birthday yet!” “So what.”)
-We were a few minutes early to the engagement party, so we sat in his car, pushed the seats all the way back and listened to the radio. We discussed the newly engaged couple and how they seem so right for each other, so happy. He grabbed my hand and kissed my wrist and said, “I just…I can’t wait until this is us.” He read my mind.
-Brunch with my parents at one of the city’s busiest (and best) spots where, miraculously, we were seated immediately, despite it being peak hour on a Sunday. I would usually refuse to order a $7 glass of orange juice based on principle alone, but it was my birthday and I was feeling particularly indulgent. My dad toasted to my birthday, saying “Clink, we adore you. You bring so much joy into our lives. You are just so much fun.” He then looked at my mother and said, “We did good.” I, of course, cried.
-Afterwards, laying in bed, the sun streaming through the half-open blinds on a day that the weatherman had predicted “lots and lots of rain for Sunday, folks” and not wanting to be anywhere else. Seriously.
-The new bag, from the Boy. It’s exactly the one I would pick for myself should I ever find myself in a position to purchase a $500+ purse. From a major label but with only the smallest of logos. Brown, pebbled leather. Exquisite hardware. Just enough space inside to carry my life from place to place without it looking like a diaper bag. He knows me so well. And also, has amazing taste.
-Dinner last night at our favorite, cozy Italian eatery in my old neighborhood, where they gave us the table in the far corner and brought out a special appetizer because they were happy to see us. Sure, we will be doing super fancy this evening, and I’m sure it will be delicious, but going back to our roots last night was the perfect end to a day I had been dreading for weeks.
I don’t feel older. I don’t look older. I’m fine. Welcome, 25.
