UTI, Round 2 November 30, 2006

My pee looks like orange Gatorade, which can only mean one thing: I’m taking Uristat.

I’m taking Uristat, which can only mean one thing: I have another UTI.

This is possibly the least fun thing in the world. A UTI means constantly feeling like you could pee gallons – GALLONS! – yet when you actually go, nothing comes out. And when it does, it burns. It also means no sex and I’m a tad concerned that that’s the thing that bothers me the most. Give me a burning sensation and constant pain and pressure but FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DON’T TAKE AWAY SEX.

The good news is, my Fairy Godmother (a co-worker with an unfulfilled prescription for the same exact antibiotic I was prescribed when I last got a UTI, in the good ol’ days when I actually had health insurance) has bestowed upon me six lovely pills that should take care of everything shortly. Until then, I’ll continue to suffer and also giggle in the bathroom because, yes, I still find neon urine absolutely hilarious.

On a completely unrelated note, I had a crazy dream last night. I know, I KNOW – how lame is it to blog about dreams? But this one is crazy. At least, to me it is. And I’m the sick and constantly peeing one here, so indulge me.

So, last night I dreamt that I was having a wonderfully fabulous affair with Jack Nicholson. (Note: I have never, not even when he was in an acceptable age range, found Jack Nicholson attractive.) We went to a wedding, possibly in Italy, where I was wearing an amazing, low-cut steel grey dress and amazing steel grey ribbon heels to match and it was all very amazing. We returned to Jack’s villa after the nuptials, where I stripped and got into bed. Jack left the room for a moment (no doubt to scarf down some Viagra) and I found not one, not five but TEN earrings from other women. And I didn’t even care (clearly, in my dreams/sick fantasies, I have no trust issues whatsoever). I was just annoyed that the studs kept poking me in the back.

So, Jack returned and we started to make out. And then Jack Nicholson morphed into Danny DeVito. And I actually said to him, “But! What! About! Rhea!” And then I woke up.

So, yeah. That was my crazy dream. I’m blaming the Uristat, a recent viewing of As Good As It Gets and Gawker, for posting the DeVito-drunk-on-The-View footage yesterday.

Oh! And since this is clearly not a coherent post already so I may as well just go for it, the Boy is the best. I should put that out there. For posterity. Or something.

Last night, not only did he wait, in his car, outside my office for fifty minutes so that I would have a ride home when I got out at 10pm, he presented me with a bouquet of tulips, for taking care of him when he was sick. When we returned home to my apartment, I noticed that he had cleaned my former disaster-area bedroom, down to folding my clothes and making the bed. Sure, I probably got this UTI from having sex with him but, clearly, he’s so totally worth it. (See how I totally tied in the Boy’s awesomeness to my UTI right there? Yay for a semblance of coherence!)

Lost it. November 29, 2006

Hi, I’m crazy.

Seriously. I’ve lost it. All for sure and official-like.

I’m smack in the middle of a twelve hour work day and when I have a twelve hour work day I am usually less productive than when I have a normal ten hour work day because I feel like there is so much time to kill and I certainly can’t spend all that time doing actual work (fight the system! They can force me to be here but they can’t force me to produce! Viva la quasi-revolucion!).

When I have all this time, I tend to let my mind wander and today it wandered toward my as-of-yet-imaginary engagement party and also, the names of my also-as-of-yet-imaginary children.

(Remember when I warned you about the crazy up there in the first line of this post? You just realized I wasn’t kidding, didn’t you. Like, at all. Just wait, it gets worse.)

You see, an evite to a friend’s engagement party got me thinking. Mostly about how I will not be sending an evite to my own engagement party (the invitation will most likely be pink and brown and most importantly, not virtual) and also about the list. I began to ruminate on who I would invite and, since I am type A and also a first born, I decided to make an actual, physical list.

Just to clarify: I MADE AN ACTUAL, PHYSICAL LIST FOR MY ENGAGEMENT PARTY EVEN THOUGH I, ME, CLINK OF THIS BLOG, AM NOT EVEN CLOSE TO BEING ENGAGED YET.

(Told you it would get worse.)

(I’m about to take it to another level.)

Satisfied with my list (150 people isn’t too much for an engagement party, right? Right?), I went on to do some actual work which was good because, hey, that’s what they pay me for so I may as well throw them a bone.

Then, of course, I got distracted. And I started thinking about baby names (naturally). And which baby names would flow with the Boy’s (awesome) last name. And which baby names would flow when used with one of our parents’ names as the middle name. And then, because I am type A and also a first born, I decided to make a list.

Then I scrunched my nose up at the list because the list is full of currently popular names and if there’s one thing I love about my own name, it is that it is unique. In classes full of Jennifer’s and Stephanie’s and even more Jennifer’s, I stood out. There was no distinguishing between Clink S. and Clink J. I was just Clink. There was only one.

Unfortunately, the names that I like (Ella, Ava, Emma, Braden, Luke, Riley, Dylan) are all experiencing a burst of popularity and maybe I should name my kid Jennifer because by that time the name will be considered quaint and old-fashioned.

Yes. I am not engaged, not married and certainly not pregnant and I am already worrying about whether there will be five other Ella’s in my daughter’s kindergarten class.

Hey, at least I can admit that I have lost it.

You work 40 hours in 3 days and then tell me whether or not you’d still be sane.

New Fixation. November 28, 2006

Today is a slow day. Mainly because I don’t have anything to fixate on like, say, a boyfriend who over the course of a holiday weekend morphed into Stomach Flu Man, complete with moaning, groaning and quality time spent with the bowl of porcelain and the tiles in his bathroom.

No, Stomach Flu Man has recently been defeated with an intense treatment of Saltine Crackers, Immodium A-D, Lemon-Lime Gatorade (I learned a very important lesson recently: Not everyone likes the red kind. My world is now upside down) and Girlfriend TLC (INT BEDROOM. NIGHT. Clink flips through channels, a bit perturbed that there is not a Laguna Beach Marathon on. Calls to boyfriend, who is in bathroom, “How’s it goin?” Doesn’t hear a response, shrugs, continues to flip through channels).

The Boy is better now, which is lovely for him but not so lovely for me because I STILL have not caught the virus and now it is most likely GONE FOREVER and Dear Santa, For Christmas I would like a stomach flu that causes me to lose ten pounds. Love, Clink.

(Has she really written two straight posts about a fucking stomach flu that she doesn’t even HAVE (*shakes fists angrily at sky*)? Why yes, yes she has. )

I’ve decided to fixate on a holiday party instead. Holiday parties involve baking and alcohol and various melty, indulgent dishes, many of which include cheese and you know what? If I’m not going to get a stomach flu, I may as well pack on the pounds so that I can become the super-fat one and the Boy can be the super-skinny one and then we can earn the nicknames Timon and Pumbaa and be that couple and perhaps even get towels embroidered with T&P and it will all be very hilarious.

I’ve never thrown a cocktail party. My experience with cocktail parties has been strictly limited to either a) showing up with a 35 dollar bottle of wine at a friend’s house because even though I am fine with Yellow Tail, I like to pretend I know a thing or two about wine and therefore, if it is expensive it must be good and I must bring it for the hostess and be the Amazing Stellar Wine Giving Guest or b) half-heartedly cleaning the bathtub (which had ALREADY BEEN CLEANED BY THE CLEANING LADY TWO DAYS PRIOR) when I was a teenager while my mother, in between racing from room to room preparing, chastised my effort and scrubbing strategy. To which I’d reply, “What kind of psychos are you friends with that you’re worried about them pulling back the shower curtain to CHECK HOW CLEAN OUR BATH TUB IS, I ASK YOU.”

So this little holiday party of mine, which I’ve already decided will include cranberry martinis and foccacia bread and perhaps some Greek dish because I am so cool and ethnic and various assorted sweet things so that I can lick the batters of various assorted sweet things before baking them…well, it should be interesting.

Hopefully I will have something else to fixate on (a Tacori engagement ring? A surprise book deal? My actual job?) before the plans in my head (Ella Fitzgerald! Fake snow! Ice cubes with mint and raspberry frozen into the middle! A rented chocolate fountain with fruit and marshmallow skewers!) actually get set into motion. That would be for the best, I think.

Overindulgence. Or, Why Do I NEVER Get Stomach Flus? November 27, 2006

I ate my weight in pumpkin pie this weekend. I just thought I should put that out there. The Boy and I arrived in New Jersey Wednesday evening (after a knock-down, drag-out, nasty fight that started in the Lincoln Tunnel and didn’t end until 40 minutes later, when I made him pull into an empty shopping center parking lot a few minutes away from my parents house so that we could talk, like rational human beings as opposed to yell, like banshees). (But enough about that, I’m over it, we’re fine.) (Really.) (Really!)

The minute we walked through the door at around 11:30pm, we were served mounds of food and a choice of five (five!) homemade pies (my mother recently got two new Thermador ovens and my father has threatened to un-install and return them if she doesn’t use them. Hence). That, my friends, was the beginning of the end of my waistline.

Of course, who’s the one who comes down with a stomach flu on Saturday morning? Surely not me, the one who could use a few days of not being able to eat anything in order to whittle back down to a socially acceptable size. Of course not. I was relegated to the role of nurse/therapist/person who assures sick person that they’re not going to die, as the Boy – who never gains weight, despite a steady diet of McDonald’s hamburgers and chocolate chip cookies, suffered. He couldn’t have been too sick, though. He still managed to give me nasty looks when, as he was running to the bathroom to throw up YET AGAIN, I muttered “God, you’re so lucky.”

So, it was delightful. The holiday, the whole weekend. And now I’m going through mini-vacation withdrawal. And now I’m trying to eat healthy, small portions. And now my body hates me, especially since I took it to the gym at 7:30 this morning instead of feeding it platefuls of high-fat, high-calorie food, to which it has become accustomed.

The Boy is going to see the doctor today. Last night he called me from “my deathbed, Clink, these are the ramblings of a dying man” to tell me that he had managed to eat 2 whole crackers all day. To which I responded, mouth full of chocolate-dipped shortbread cookies from a two-pound tin my roommate’s parents left us, “stop bragging.”

Honest. November 22, 2006

For lack of a more creative description, my relationship is a rollercoaster at the moment.

There are various factors contributing to the constant ups and downs lately: my job (by the time I leave work today, I will have put in almost a 40 hour week in just 3 days), his job, my mild seasonal depression, the major side project he’s finishing up, PMS, the fact that he’s studying for the LSAT.

I’m all emotion right now; he’s all get-down-to-business.

I am trying to be Understanding and Supportive and Pleasant and Forgiving and all those wonderful things that the Perfect Girlfriend would be at a time like this because the Perfect Girlfriend would realize that this is temporary and that some sacrifices have to be made. I, however, fall quite short of Perfect Girlfriend status in that I can be a selfish, spoiled brat.

Case in point: the Boy told me last night, on the phone, that he was planning on driving back to Queens from New Jersey (where we will be celebrating Thanksgiving) tomorrow evening, after dinner, so that he can study. My initial reaction was not very Perfect Girlfriend like. In fact, I may or may not have blurted out “you can’t be serious, jesus, what’s the big deal? It’s one night!”

Yup, that’s me. Always saying the right thing at the right time.

He thinks I don’t understand; I don’t think it’s necessary for him to drive an hour and a half late at night on a holiday when he can study for the test at my parents’ place before and after we go to my aunt’s, therefore fulfilling his self-imposed 3-hours-a-day quota. He can then drive back into Queens on Friday morning, allowing us to have a few more sacred hours together, seeing as it will probably be the only time we have together all weekend.

If I’m being honest, I am so fucking sick of this fucking test. It has become central to our relationship at the moment – fitting it in, working around it, sacrificing for it. It’s important, yes. It’s his future, yes. I want him to succeed, yes. But I’m a selfish bitch and I finally have four goddamn days off and, in a perfect world, I’d get to spend part of that time with him. The fact that he’s not letting on that he’s disappointed or frustrated or upset that he has to hit the books instead of laying around, watching television and eating leftovers with me contributes to me being even more selfish, and a bit hurt. I’m not used to not being his first priority. There. I said it. Name-call as you will, but it’s the truth.

He promises that this will all be over December 2, after he takes the test. I’m looking forward to that day, in a circle-the-date-in-red sort of way, but I can’t help but think that, if he attends law school, this is exactly what the next 3 years of my life are going to be like. And it is a distinct possibility that I won’t be able to handle that.

I found his ex-girlfriend’s blog. November 21, 2006

It wasn’t entirely accidental. It wasn’t entirely intentional either. Let’s just leave it at that.

The blog is less “here is my heart and my soul and my head; enjoy, Internet Strangers” (ahem) and more “here are pictures of myself, my husband and my daughter; enjoy, Family and Friends.”

I’ve often wondered about her. Okay, full disclosure: I’ve often wondered what she looks like.

My initial reaction, upon seeing a photo of her, was that she is the complete opposite of me: short, petite, blonde, dark lipstick, chunky wedge heels. Maybe his taste has changed since high school; maybe he’s just happier over here on the tall, curvy, brunette, light lip gloss, sleek stilettos side.

She’s the only one of his exes that we openly talk about, mainly because she is as “safe” as an ex-girlfriend can be – they dated in high school, she’s now married with a child, they live hundreds of miles away. Him referencing her doesn’t drudge up my (admittedly very sensitive) insecurities. I know that they’re still friendly, that they still exchange emails and birthday cards, and I’m okay with it.

Well, I’m kind of okay with it. You see, on my 24th birthday, which I celebrated in Boston, she and her husband were going to come to the bar to meet us (happy birthday to Clink, eh). She backed out last minute, citing a cold. I later found out from the Boy that she told him she wasn’t ready to meet me. She was pregnant at the time and felt fat and unattractive and wasn’t ready to be compared to her successor, “least of all a gorgeous 24 year old” (her words).

That bothered me. How healthy is it that, 17 years and her marriage later, she’s still not ready to meet another girlfriend of his? I understand that there’s something about first love that is inherently possessive and sensitive. You’re always going to want to see that person the way you saw them when you dated and included in that is the fact that then they were yours and yours alone. However, most of us get over that with time and, uh, other relationships. The fact that she hasn’t yet is a red flag. The fact that she confides in the Boy during rough spots in her marriage and tells him things that she admittedly doesn’t tell her own family is another.

I’ve chosen to take the non-psychotic road on this one (you: shock, awe). And trust me, it’s fairly easy for me to cross that line and become a psycho, raving, jealous, insecure lunatic, especially when petite blonde ex-girlfriends are concerned. No surprise there.

However, I see it as, yeah, she was his first, so what. I’m going to be his last, his everything. Take that, shorty.

Yes, this is a "weekend recap" post. November 20, 2006

I’m drinking tea, the herbal kind, sweetened with honey-in-a-bear-shaped-container, both of which I bought during a whirlwind of impulse shopping at Target with my boyfriend’s mother. I somehow managed to drop $150 on nonsense such as herbal tea (I hate tea!), a paper towel holder to replace the perfectly fine, non-broken, absolutely functional paper towel holder I already have and fake berry branches in a fake vase with FAKE WATER.

Ah, the suburbs.

We had a good weekend. Other than coming to the unfortunate realization that cigarette smoke from the Boy’s mother who smokes like a chimney + Clink’s sensitive allergies = an asthma attack scare in the middle of the night.

Lots of time was spent with his parents, which meant that lots of time was spent deflecting questions such as “when are you two going to make it official?” and “won’t it be nice to have more grandchildren?”

We managed to sneak away for a few hours to the Boy’s alma mater. The Boy’s “let me show you around” turned into an all-out eating tour during which we (each) consumed two slices of pizza, a “Goldenboy” sandwich (which should come with a “warning, this product may clog multiple arteries” disclaimer), frozen yogurt and a plate of cheese fries. That’s right. EACH.

Which is why today I am drinking tea in an effort to stave off hunger in an effort to eat very little in an effort to perhaps balance out yesterday’s CalorieFest 2006.

Overall, despite the fact that I am still dealing with a runny nose and an itchy throat and shortness of breath, it was just what we needed. An escape from a city that has come to represent all things stressful to us at this moment in time. Also, I always fall in love with him all over again when I see him through the eyes of the people that gave birth to him.

And that alone was worth the extra five pounds now residing on my hips.

All I’m sayin’. November 17, 2006

It was a small disappointment, one that didn’t exactly warrant a reaction that included shutting down while on the phone and tossing and turning all night, that’s for sure.

And yet, that’s how my body and mind reacted.

I arrived home at 10:15pm last night and immediately climbed into bed - do not pass go, do not even bother to brush teeth. Earlier in the day he had mentioned he was going to leave Queens at around 10:30pm or 11pm, because he really wanted to see me, even at that late hour, even if it meant I was going to be half asleep when he arrived.

He called around 10:45pm. He was still at his apartment. He said that he was getting ready to leave, but his tone indicated otherwise.

“You know, it’s not a big deal if you don’t come into the city tonight.” I gave him an out. I could tell he was fishing for it.

“But I want to see you.”

“I know, I want to see you too. But it’s late now and by the time you get here, we’ll both just want to go to sleep.”

“Yeah, well, your logic makes sense.”

That right there. That sentence. Hinting that I had talked him out of coming when, truly, I knew from the minute he said “hello” that he had no plans to get into his car and drive over the 59th Street Bridge to see me. I know him well enough to know that.

I called him out on it. And then I shut down. Because, yeah, I was looking forward to sleeping next to him after a grueling day, as planned. I was looking forward to something sweet to chase the sour of 12 hours of work.

I found out later in the conversation that part of the reason he didn’t want to come into the city is because the location he has to work from today is closer from Queens than Manhattan. He previously thought he was working in New Jersey, which is easier to get to from my place, which is why he was initially so keen on spending the night with me, I concluded.

I felt a bit used, a bit sweet-talked. Like I was only good enough to see if my apartment was convenient. When a change of plans made it clear that it wasn’t, well, then suddenly it wasn’t so important to spend the night with me.

He could’ve made it work, if he wanted to. He could’ve studied earlier and been done by 10 and been in the city by the time I got home from work. He could’ve sucked it up and left a half an hour early to get to work. Instead, the lackluster “yeah, I haven’t left yet” call at 10:45pm served as an indication that he had no desire at all to head to my place.

I know, in the grand scheme of this 16 month relationship, this is not a big deal. But still, I was a little hurt. I was bothered. I was annoyed with him. I am a little hurt. I am bothered. I am annoyed with him.

I recently went out of my way for him on his birthday – racing around town, picking up expensive gifts, whipping up cupcakes, making reservations, doing everything to show him that he’s a really special part of my life and I want him to be happy. I consistently go out of my way to spend time with him in Queens, tacking on an extra 40 minutes to my commute, because I want him to know that seeing him and spending time with him, no matter the location, is a priority.

It would’ve been nice if he had done the same by keeping his word is all I’m sayin’.

One week from today. November 16, 2006

What’s that? You are, like, totally dying to hear a laundry list of complaints from me about things I need to do? But don’t have time for? Well, look at that, it’s your lucky day!

Here goes: I need a haircut. I need a manicure. I need to catch up on the various television programs that are currently clogging my DVR (damn you, Gilmore Girls and how much you suck and how I can’t stop watching nonetheless, damn you to hell). I need to clean my apartment. I need to buy new bras. I need to buy new jeans. I need to get the heels fixed on my favorite pair of black boots. I need to get the zipper fixed on my favorite pair of brown boots. I need to pick up my dry cleaning. I need to go food shopping. I need to sleep more than a few hours each night. I need to go to the gym.

I know, I know, woe is me. But, well, yeah, WOE IS ME.

There’s no time. For anything. Not when you’re working 70 hour weeks and all you can think about at the end of each day is BED and nothing but BED and perhaps some red wine but then BED, immediately.

Initially I had big plans for this weekend, plans that included laundry and a few classes at the gym and lots of lounging around in my BED, moving only to reach for the remote or some more Fritos.

However, I seemed to have blocked out the fact that, um, yeah, the Boy and I clearly made plans to go visit his parents, since we won’t be seeing them at Thanksgiving.

I’m excited to see the Boy’s parents. I am. Really. But I’m also a little, I don’t know, not so excited to see the Boy’s parents. It’s less about them and more about me trying to defend my mental health every spare moment I get – traveling and putting on my Perfect Girlfriend smile for two days and sleeping in an unfamiliar bed isn’t exactly conducive to that. But it would break his heart, understandably, if suddenly I was all “so, uh, yeah, do you mind if I just stay here this weekend and do a whole lot of NOTHING and enjoy it?”

I guess it boils down to the fact that I couldn’t be looking forward to Thanksgiving more. Not the lead-up to Thanksgiving, of course, when I will essentially be working a 40 hour week in three days. But actual day-of, off to my aunt’s with the Boy and the rest of my loud, opinionated, warm Greek family Thanksgiving.

I just want to sit on a couch, anticipating pumpkin pie even though I’m not exactly certain there’s room for it, watching football and being surrounded by people who do not expect anything from me, are not giving me unrealistic deadlines, are not sucking every ounce of life and spirit and enthusiasm out of me on a daily basis. I think that, alone, will do wonders for my mental health. Especially the pumpkin pie.

Mommyblogs November 15, 2006

Confession: I read Mommyblogs.

More specific confession: I read Mommyblogs with vigor.

I blame it on Amalah. I started reading her when she was just a married girl with a penchant for writing hilarious run-on sentences and purchasing expensive shoes (and so much more, lord, she is so one of my Favorite Bloggers Ever). And then she got pregnant. And then she had the Most Adorable Son In All The Land. And then I was hooked. Hooked on the whole “welcome to the mind of a new parent, trying to figure it all the fuck out, sit down, stay awhile” thing.

I sought out various other Mommyblogs and ended up with a steady roster that I check in with daily, including but not limited to: Whoorl, The Wait & the Wonder, All & Sundry, Not That You Asked. I didn’t even start reading Dooce (I know, gasp!) until she had Leta.

And y’all? I’m terrified. Sure, they write about the good. They right about loving someone so much more than you thought yourself capable of and finding joy in your child’s bowel movements. And all of that gooey goodness excites lil ol’ me, sitting over here, vaguely imagining a future that involves little feet, pitter pattering. You know, eventually.

But the great thing about Mommyblogs, the thing that makes them a more reliable and candid source than, say, baby books or new parents who are always “sure we’re tired, but wonderfully tired, isn’t little Madison/Jaden just perfect?” is that they’re real. “This sucks so bad sometimes” real. “I yelled at my screaming one year old son to SHUT UP” real. “I question my parenting skills ALL THE TIME” real. “I drank three martinis during a playdate” real. “I haven’t showered in two days and leave the house in sweatpants” real. “I hate breastfeeding” real.

Motherhood ain’t all it’s cracked up to be, clearly. And while I enjoy the inside peek at what it’s really like – no, what it’s really like (you know, like the definition of thrush which sounds like it should be the name of a new X-treme water slide at Six Flags, but no) – it terrifies me. I’m terrified that I’m going to be a bad mother. I’m terrified that it’s going to be too much for me to handle. I’m terrified that my future child is going to die. I’m terrified that I’m not going to like being a mom. I’m terrified that my body won’t be the same afterwards. I’m terrified that I’ll lose my sex drive. I’m terrified of post-partum depression. I’m terrified that my baby will have liver disease. I’m terrified that my baby will do nothing but scream for the first few months and will, in turn, do nothing but cry and/or curl up on the floor in a fetal position.

Being terrified right now isn’t so worrisome seeing as I have no plans to get pregnant any time soon, as evidenced by the pills I take religiously each and every day for 3 weeks out of every month. However, I just hope that the terror eventually, gradually gives way to a sense of adventure. To a sense of it being the right next step. To a sense of being prepared - emotionally, physically - for it. To a mental preparedness to give up wine and sushi for nine months.

Fortunately, as I said, I’m not yet even remotely close to being even remotely close to thinking about having a baby (got that, MOM? LET IT GO.) However, I will still sit at this computer and giggle to myself over Amy’s latest Gymboree misadventure, silently pray and pull for Annika and gush over pictures of Asher, all the while explaining to co-workers that “well, no, I don’t actually know these people who have these children – but it feels like I know them!” I will also continue to read, saucer-eyed, the not-so-sunshine-and-sausages stuff. The stuff that plants itself deep in the recesses of my brain because there’s just no way of un-learning it, the stuff that makes me cringe and hurt, the stuff that makes me scared that’ll I’ll ever be as strong as you need to be to take that next step. The stuff I will inevitably hunt through archives to reference for when I myself am a parent and need a reminder that someone else has gone through this and survived to write about it, HALLELUJAH! Praise the Internets!

Praise Mommyblogs.