Lost it. January 31, 2007

Omigod, omigod, omigod.

So the other day? When I told my bosses that I would remain at this job until next Wednesday? Was I delusional or something? Perhaps drunk? Because this? This is kind of sort of VERY PAINFUL AND I AM SERIOUSLY CONSIDERING POKING MY OWN EYES OUT WITH A PEN BECAUSE GOING TO THE HOSPITAL WOULD AT LEAST GIVE ME SOMETHING TO DO.

There’s nothing worse than mentally checking out of a place but physically being unable to do so. I’m sitting here, feeling like I’m going to explode and every minute seems like an eternity and WHY HAS IT BEEN 4PM FOR FIVE HOURS NOW. Also, DEAR INTERNET, I HAVE OFFICIALLY REACHED THE END OF YOU. PLEASE DO SOMETHING ABOUT THAT. LOVE, CLINK.

I’m eyeing my book (The Emperor’s Children, Claire Messud, highly recommended), which is peeking out of my purse and I actually just contemplated going to the bathroom, sitting in a stall and READING IT.

Hi, I’m Clink and I’ve lost it.

I’ve written emails to everyone I know. And, unfortunately for me, everyone I know is of the employed variety which, note to self, find some friends who have nothing to do all day but entertain you.

If you have a blog, I’ve probably refreshed it about five times (why are you too cool to update? WHY?), read some of your archives (aww, you so funny and smart and witty – why don’t you write something new that is equally funny and smart and witty?) and then clicked on every single one of your links in hopes of finding something new and funny and smart and witty and, most important of all, PREVIOUSLY UNREAD BY ME.

I think that if they decide at the pearly gates that I’m not worthy, they’re going to banish me to my own personal hell: stuck for all of eternity at a computer with NOTHING TO DO and NOTHING NEW TO READ and NO PIZZA.

Except, right now, the pizza thing isn’t a problem. So I’m going to run to the pizza place and take advantage of that. What? I need to do something to cancel out all the exercising I’ve been doing.

Lost it. January 31, 2007

Omigod, omigod, omigod.

So the other day? When I told my bosses that I would remain at this job until next Wednesday? Was I delusional or something? Perhaps drunk? Because this? This is kind of sort of VERY PAINFUL AND I AM SERIOUSLY CONSIDERING POKING MY OWN EYES OUT WITH A PEN BECAUSE GOING TO THE HOSPITAL WOULD AT LEAST GIVE ME SOMETHING TO DO.

There’s nothing worse than mentally checking out of a place but physically being unable to do so. I’m sitting here, feeling like I’m going to explode and every minute seems like an eternity and WHY HAS IT BEEN 4PM FOR FIVE HOURS NOW. Also, DEAR INTERNET, I HAVE OFFICIALLY REACHED THE END OF YOU. PLEASE DO SOMETHING ABOUT THAT. LOVE, CLINK.

I’m eyeing my book (The Emperor’s Children, Claire Messud, highly recommended), which is peeking out of my purse and I actually just contemplated going to the bathroom, sitting in a stall and READING IT.

Hi, I’m Clink and I’ve lost it.

I’ve written emails to everyone I know. And, unfortunately for me, everyone I know is of the employed variety which, note to self, find some friends who have nothing to do all day but entertain you.

If you have a blog, I’ve probably refreshed it about five times (why are you too cool to update? WHY?), read some of your archives (aww, you so funny and smart and witty – why don’t you write something new that is equally funny and smart and witty?) and then clicked on every single one of your links in hopes of finding something new and funny and smart and witty and, most important of all, PREVIOUSLY UNREAD BY ME.

I think that if they decide at the pearly gates that I’m not worthy, they’re going to banish me to my own personal hell: stuck for all of eternity at a computer with NOTHING TO DO and NOTHING NEW TO READ and NO PIZZA.

Except, right now, the pizza thing isn’t a problem. So I’m going to run to the pizza place and take advantage of that. What? I need to do something to cancel out all the exercising I’ve been doing.

Exercise/Exorcise. January 31, 2007

Not only did I go to the gym last night for two hours, but I walked the two miles to work this morning (and I have the frostbite to show for it).

I was drowning in my own stress and the only way I could breathe again was to move my muscles and blast Eminem, to drown out the voices.

You know, the ones that tell me that I’m not going to be able to hack it at my new job. The ones that whisper that M is cheating on me. The ones that suggest that the doctors missed something and my grandmother is going to die. The ones that continuously ask, WHY AREN’T YOU HAPPY, YOU STUPID GIRL? WHAT IS IT GOING TO TAKE?

It feels good, the dull ache in my muscles. Serves as a reminder that I can take control of my own thoughts and exorcise them by pumping iron or pounding away at the treadmill, outpacing my own demons. I’m slowly turning into that girl, the one who works out what’s in her head with an increased heart rate and shortness of breath. It’s a nice alternative to wallowing in self-pity (and Oreos).

There’s something to these endorphin things, that’s for sure. Or maybe it’s just the fact that now that I’ve officially given notice, I feel remarkably lighter. It went well – fortunate for me, unfortunate for the blog as drama is so much more interesting. Everyone is enthusiastic and supportive. Funny, how that happens. The minute you say you are leaving, your bosses and colleagues turn into the people you wish they had been all along.

I’m scared, of course - hence all the working out. If I’m left all alone with my thoughts, they have enough power to convince me that I will fail before I even begin, that I’ve made the wrong decision. I’ve found that endorphins counteract those thoughts. I am, apparently, my very own science experiment.

I’m ready. Ready to not work 12 hour days. Ready to not devote large chunks of my weekends to busy work. Ready for a new challenge. Ready to make new contacts. Ready to prove to myself that I am capable. Ready to use all the negativity that my body produces as fuel for exercise.

Ready.

I want. January 30, 2007

It’s like this: I want a beach, white sand, water that looks photoshopped. I want to get there without having to fly. I want myself, and only myself, and I want M’s feelings not to be hurt by that. I want a white bikini, and a tan so it wears well. I want to read full chapters, digest them in between naps in the sun. I want more than the few pages it takes to get from Columbus Circle to Penn Station. I want cold water, in a glass, crushed ice. I want a spiral bound notebook and fine point Sharpie. I don’t want the black to bleed onto the next page. I want inspiration, a burst of writing, followed by slow and steady editing. I want to walk down to the water without worrying about who is staring at my bum and what they think about it. I want natural highlights, both in my hair and on my cheekbones. No hair dye, no bronzer. I want an endless supply of magazines – US Weekly, People, Glamour, Cosmo – the stuff I roll my eyes at but delve into when someone else has purchased them. I want a few hours to spend at the gym. I don’t want to have to choose between cardio and strength training. I want strawberries – some fresh, some dipped in chocolate, all with a side of whipped cream. I want a cell phone that can still receive text messages, but absolutely no phone calls. I want a sleep undisturbed by honking horns, car alarms, rubbish trucks, early morning construction. I want to have a late-afternoon conversation over lemonade with another woman, a stranger who won’t judge. I want a 24-hour network featuring brand new episodes of all that is shiny and trashy: The Hills, Laguna Beach, Maui Fever, America’s Next Top Model. I want an early evening shower, reading while laying on clean sheets in my towel, my hair air-drying into natural waves. I want a car with an iPod hook-up, winding island roads and nowhere to be. I want fresh flowers on a table and cold water in a carafe. I want a 70 degree evening, a hoodie, a balcony, and silence. I want a wave-runner and no chance of getting hurt. I want perfectly polished fingernails (light pink, Essie’s Adore-a-ball) and toenails (red, fire engine red). I want an outdoor shower. I want an internet hook-up, but no desire to use it. I want Oreos with no calories. Also, cupcakes. I want flip-flops that don’t lose traction and a bathing suit cover-up that looks effortlessly chic. I want a headband and large sunglasses and the toe ring I wore when I was 14. I want all of my old journals – stacked in chronological order. I want all of my old short stories, and professors notes on those short stories, loaded onto the same laptop. I want my digital camera, so that when I come back and I’m myself again, I can upload the pictures and title the set “How Clink Got Her Groove Back.”

I want. January 30, 2007

It’s like this: I want a beach, white sand, water that looks photoshopped. I want to get there without having to fly. I want myself, and only myself, and I want M’s feelings not to be hurt by that. I want a white bikini, and a tan so it wears well. I want to read full chapters, digest them in between naps in the sun. I want more than the few pages it takes to get from Columbus Circle to Penn Station. I want cold water, in a glass, crushed ice. I want a spiral bound notebook and fine point Sharpie. I don’t want the black to bleed onto the next page. I want inspiration, a burst of writing, followed by slow and steady editing. I want to walk down to the water without worrying about who is staring at my bum and what they think about it. I want natural highlights, both in my hair and on my cheekbones. No hair dye, no bronzer. I want an endless supply of magazines – US Weekly, People, Glamour, Cosmo – the stuff I roll my eyes at but delve into when someone else has purchased them. I want a few hours to spend at the gym. I don’t want to have to choose between cardio and strength training. I want strawberries – some fresh, some dipped in chocolate, all with a side of whipped cream. I want a cell phone that can still receive text messages, but absolutely no phone calls. I want a sleep undisturbed by honking horns, car alarms, rubbish trucks, early morning construction. I want to have a late-afternoon conversation over lemonade with another woman, a stranger who won’t judge. I want a 24-hour network featuring brand new episodes of all that is shiny and trashy: The Hills, Laguna Beach, Maui Fever, America’s Next Top Model. I want an early evening shower, reading while laying on clean sheets in my towel, my hair air-drying into natural waves. I want a car with an iPod hook-up, winding island roads and nowhere to be. I want fresh flowers on a table and cold water in a carafe. I want a 70 degree evening, a hoodie, a balcony, and silence. I want a wave-runner and no chance of getting hurt. I want perfectly polished fingernails (light pink, Essie’s Adore-a-ball) and toenails (red, fire engine red). I want an outdoor shower. I want an internet hook-up, but no desire to use it. I want Oreos with no calories. Also, cupcakes. I want flip-flops that don’t lose traction and a bathing suit cover-up that looks effortlessly chic. I want a headband and large sunglasses and the toe ring I wore when I was 14. I want all of my old journals – stacked in chronological order. I want all of my old short stories, and professors notes on those short stories, loaded onto the same laptop. I want my digital camera, so that when I come back and I’m myself again, I can upload the pictures and title the set “How Clink Got Her Groove Back.”

Restless. January 30, 2007

I need a change. Hair, clothes, something.

I’ve been toying with the idea of blonde, mainly because I want to be surprised when I look in the mirror. But, as with many things in my life, my impulses are rarely fully examined and – if my stylist had an open spot last week – I would’ve rashly thrust myself into a world where the upkeep would’ve cost me a few hundred dollars every few weeks.

Right now, under my dainty, classic cashmere sweater, I’m wearing a hot pink push-up bra. It’s no change of hair color, but it’s my little secret (until, of course, I share it with M this evening). I went in for underwear (confession: mainly because I don’t feel like doing laundry) and walked out with something with lace and beading and a ‘pow’ factor, something that decorates – window dressing, for my chest.

Hey, whatever gets you through, right?

The new job is just around the corner and that’s going to be just about as much change as I can handle, I know. Welcome change. Until then, however, I’m feeling restless.

Part of it has to do with my relationship (You: seriously, what doesn’t? Me: Shut it.) We’ve bypassed the honeymoon stage. There wasn’t a defining moment when we looked at each other and said “huh, so this is comfortable coupledom?” We’ve just sort of slowly edged our way to this place, this place where I no longer get butterflies moments before I meet him in the lobby. This place where I’m no longer censoring things that I say in order to present the best (if not entirely authentic) me. This place where I can trip in front of him on the sidewalk, like the glorious klutz that I am, and not immediately turn red, embarrassed for exposing my spastic side.

So it’s nice, and a lot less exhausting than trying to be amazing! and fun! and sunshine-y! all the time. But at the same time, I miss the magic. I miss the nervous energy. I miss (I can’t believe I’m writing this) not knowing where everything was going.

There’s still a lot to be excited about – hello! An apartment! Together! Clink, you are so annoying, why can’t you be excited about that! – but I’m still dealing with the side effects of our relationship’s transition. Most relationships I’ve been in have never got to this point, so this is new. I’m navigating uncharted territory for myself and am, maybe, just a little bit, mourning the loss of feeling like everything was new and amazing and sparkly and omigod, I’m going to like, TWIRL IN THE STREETS because LOVE! Isn’t it GRAND?

There’s still love, of course. It’s just comfortable, broken-in love. Like my comfortable brown hair.

Which may no longer be brown if my stylist can fit me in this week.

Immersed. January 29, 2007

There are still a lot of questions marks regarding Yiayia’s situation. They’ve crossed gallstone off the list, which is unfortunate, as we were all rooting for gallstone (The image in my head: everyone in my family wearing baseball hats with large, green Gs embroidered on them, waving “G” banners at my grandmother’s bedside). A gallstone would’ve been easily identifiable and correctable and then we could’ve crossed off everything else on the list, including cancer, which is the one I want to cross off most of all – with a big, fat, black Sharpie marker.

In situations like this, I tend to numb my emotions – and trust me, they need numbing as otherwise I would be unable to function – by throwing myself into something that will occupy my mind, something that will sweep out the negative thoughts to make room for newly acquired knowledge.

Usually, I throw myself into work. However, as I am currently what M calls a “short-timer” at this gig and am no longer interested in anything remotely related to it, I have decided to immerse myself in New York real estate.

It began on Friday when M and I – in a moment of spontaneity spurred by my 5pm release, still blissfully unaware that we would spend the entire weekend in a hospital – visited a newly renovated building that M has been interested in checking out. You see, when one writes a book and gets a very large advance for that book, one finds oneself with a large sum of money that is perfectly suited to a down payment on an apartment.

Me? Oh I’m just along for the ride and the “ohh! We can put that gorgeous book shelf of mine along this wall!” decorating advice.

The building was absolutely beautiful – fully renovated with sleek name brand appliances and a balcony off the living room, yet nestled in the heart of Greenwich Village, which upped the “quaint” ante considerably. The best of both. However, the minute I saw the model (someone of that height and that build with those lips and those aviators and that luggage could be nothing else) prance through the lobby doors on the arm of her shorter, stouter but most likely more financially secure boyfriend, I knew it wasn’t for us. A subsequent tour of the available apartments confirmed my hunch. It was…pristine. It was…that hotel that you splurge for while on vacation. It was…characterless. It was…not home.

And now, now begins the search for “home.” Which is unbelievably exciting because, as much as I love my current apartment, home is where M is and to have our stuff coexisting, side by side, in the same drawers, in the same medicine cabinet, in the same refrigerator, just seems like the natural next step come August, when our leases simultaneously expire.

All morning I have been poring over listings and, in doing so, I have been forced to confront the fact that I am, apparently, one of those “luxury building” people. Someone who checks the “doorman” box during a search and drools over rooftop pools and stainless steel appliances and pretty lobbies stocked with fresh flowers.

I want to like the cozy pre-war walk-ups on shady, tree-lined streets, I really do. But I just can’t stop myself from clicking on the shiny new buildings, with the terraces and the amenities and the elevators and the square footage and the 360 degree virtual tours.

Truth be told, I am currently investigating the very tip of a very large, very complicated iceberg. Only time will tell where we end up come late summer 2007 and, at the moment, I’m just thankful for a distraction that has absolutely nothing to do with elevated liver enzymes.

Yiayia January 29, 2007

If there was any question that I am an emotional eater, please witness the following:

What I Ate (All From Major Chains, Coincidentally) On Saturday, The Day My Grandmother – And Favorite Person In The World – Was Admitted To The Hospital:

-Muffin (Starbucks)
-Grande Caramel Macchiato, with whole milk (Starbucks)
-2 cheeseburgers (McDonald’s)
-Fries (McDonald’s)
-Coke, of the non-diet variety (McDonald’s)
-Pretzel bites (Auntie Anne’s)
-Skillet Queso (Chili’s)
-Quesadilla Explosion Salad (Chili’s – and don’t be fooled by the word ‘salad,’ there was nothing healthy about it)
-Ice cream (Cold Stone Creamery)

I ate (and ate and ate) because the alternative was sitting in a hospital room, holding my grandmother’s hand, reassuring her that everything would be okay, while casting nervous glances at the doctors as they discussed, in hushed tones, what could possibly be wrong with her. I was trying to fill some sort of void through savory and sweet. My rational mind knows that that’s not possible but the Irrational Me of this past weekend didn’t quite give a fuck.

What I’ve learned: A healthy person’s liver enzymes round out somewhere around 20 or 30. Cause for concern usually starts around 80 or 100. My grandmother’s liver enzymes are somewhere around 1200. “Off the charts,” is the phrase the nurse used. (What I’ve also learned: You have to pay $8 a day to get phone and TV service in your hospital room. However, they will conveniently add it on to your home phone bill once you are discharged.)

It could be anything from a gallstone to a tumor. We’re still waiting. There are tests to be done.

Saturday and Sunday, in retrospect, seem like a blur. A blur of sterile walls and beeping machines and painful blood tests and anxious phone calls. I fell asleep at 10pm last night, emotionally spent, as M stroked my hair and told me everything was going to be fine.

I know she’s going to be fine. The doctors keep telling us that she looks “amazing” for someone her age (85). They are all in love with her, which is not surprising. They keep asking if they can take her home. They stroke her back and say, “she’s so cute!” and “I just love her!” and it’s weird, hearing that come from these serious people in white coats holding clipboards but then again, it’s not, because everyone who has ever met her has fallen in love with her.

Including, of course, M, who sat next to her and held her hand and talked to her about everything and nothing and made sure she was comfortable and straightened her blankets and found a show on Animal Planet that she wanted to watch and melted my heart in the process.

I’m at work now, but the anxiousness remains. Want proof? For breakfast, I ate gummy Lobsters that a co-worker brought back from Maine.

However, the extra ten (twenty? One hundred?) pounds I’ll be carrying around by the end of this will not matter so much, as long as she’s around – for tomorrow, for my wedding, for my grandkids. Fingers crossed.

Today in Hell Is Apparently Freezing Over (Both Li… January 26, 2007

Today in Hell Is Apparently Freezing Over (Both Literally and Figuratively): They are letting us out at 5pm.

(I’m still not entirely convinced that it’s not a cruel, cruel joke.)

Some perspective: I’ve been working here over a year and have never gotten out before 7pm, not even before a holiday weekend.

Have a great weekend, y’all.

Knowledge. January 26, 2007

When I was 17, and alone with my friends in the city for the first time, and dreaming of living in a SoHo loft, and shocked that the little Italian restaurant we went to for lunch had a per person minimum, and pissed that my parents wouldn’t let me go to NYU because they wanted me to have a “campus experience,” we stumbled upon a psychic.

She dressed like a normal person and her apartment was beautifully decorated and there wasn’t a crystal ball in sight. This all lent her a certain credibility – there were no smoke and mirrors. She was just (*shrug*) a normal person, who happened to have both intuition and great shoes.

She held my hand and she told me that I’d be a writer. That money would come and money would go but it would never be a problem. That I’d have three children – two sons and a daughter - and a strong marriage.

Eight years later, I still remember every word. Eight years later, I still believe her.

I’ve already started collecting knowledge for my daughter. Not “these were the major battles of the Civil War” knowledge. She will have to go to her father for that. But real, actual life knowledge. About men, about clothes, about following your dreams. And I’ll either sit her down and give it to her in one full serving or start dispensing it slowly as she grows and matures, letting each truth sink and settle. Or perhaps I’ll just cop out and point her to this blog and she’ll cringe and roll her eyes but will secretly read every word. Except the ones that describe Mommy and Daddy having sex.

I want her to know that if a man doesn’t call, it’s not because he lost her number. It’s not because he dropped his phone in a puddle. It’s not because he’s too nervous, too afraid of rejection. He didn’t call. That’s all she has to know. And no, she should not call him.

I want her to know that clothes do not make the woman, but the right ones can certainly make the woman feel better about herself. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

I want her to know that at the first sign of a urinary tract infection, she should immediately start drinking water, to flush it out.

I want her to know that the choices she makes in high school and college will affect her future and, while it’s not fair to make 17 year olds decide their fate and while she’s not ultimately bound to anything, she shouldn’t take it as lightly as I did because otherwise she will end up working in TV and writing on the side, instead of writing for a living and watching TV for fun.

I want her to know that Arrested Development was one of the best shows on TV and she should watch every episode so that she can experience the brilliance. Also, My So-Called Life and the British version of The Office.

I want her to know she shouldn’t fight her hair’s natural instincts. Her hair will always win and the ultimate outcome of the battle will never be pretty.

I want her to know that it is absolutely, undoubtedly required that she study abroad for a semester.

I want her to know it’s okay to get a small boost of confidence when someone cat calls her on the street.

I want her to know that, while it’s cool to be the girl who hangs out with all the guys, it’s also important to be the girl who has strong female friendships.

Those are just off the top of my head. In my fantasy world, where I have lots of free time, I would keep a journal for her. Notes to her, in a pretty journal, filled with observations and life experiences and wit in place of sap because I want her to like me and think, “wow, mom was funny and cool once.”

Though, of course, not everything will be included because I am still going to want to get a call and hear “MA! I’m freaking out. How do I cook that dish that you always make, with the pasta and the tomatoes and the feta?” Just like my mom heard, a few nights ago.