“You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends.” -Didion March 30, 2007

There probably won’t be much ring browsing this weekend, but for good reason. 
 
M’s very best friend’s father died suddenly yesterday. Early 60’s, stroke. 
 
People will say, “At least he didn’t suffer.” 
 
His family will think, “We didn’t get a chance to say goodbye.” 
 
Last night, I left the keys downstairs for M; he slipped into my bed at quarter to one. After a long day of work and television interviews, it was only in the wee small hours of the morning that he was able to grieve for his friend.  
 
I stroked his hair and, half-asleep, fumbled for the right words. There are no right words when someone is plucked from life so abruptly.  
 
When death touches your life but does not devastate it, it tends to make you introspective. You take it and internalize it and personalize it and suddenly it becomes “what if this happened to me? This could happen to me.” I noticed that M held me tighter than usual. 
 
I’m not sure if it helps or hurts that we’re going to see “The Year of Magical Thinking” tonight. Joan Didion’s book, and subsequent play, is all about grieving for a loved one. It’s about death and the suffocating tentacle of grief that it wraps around you, forcing you against your will to cope, to live. 
 
There’s a part in the book where Didion describes not wanting to get rid of her dead husband’s shoes because when he comes back, he’ll need them. She was in denial – denial she was aware of, but denial nonetheless. She thought that if she just did the right things, her husband would reappear and her life would resume its pleasant course.  
 
That passage really stuck with me. Mainly because that’s how I handle grief. Cold, hard denial sustains me for a while until the emotional dam breaks. 
 
I didn’t know M’s best friend’s father. But I do know what it’s like to lose someone. So this weekend, instead of ring shopping, I will stand beside my boyfriend as he stands beside his best friend. Grief is a lonely, isolated place to the point that it’s hard to believe that the world keeps turning while you feel like you are drowning and screaming and no one can hear you.  
 
You think: How can that woman walk home with those grocery bags when my loved one has died? How can that dog sniff that curb when my loved one has died? How can I continue to receive spam emails when my loved one has died? 
 
Every so often, when you get a moment’s reprieve from the suffocating pain, it’s nice to peek behind you and see people who love you and will continue to love you when the agony subsides. They help the agony subside a bit, a tiny bit. That’s why we’ll be in Massachusetts this weekend. We’re the people that will help with the agony, if even only an iota.
 

My subconscious, the whore March 30, 2007

Last night, I dreamt that I had sex with my ex-boyfriend. 
 
Two nights ago, I dreamt that Slade from The Real Housewives of Orange County pulled me into an empty bedroom at a party and seduced me. (Did I just admit that in public? I just admitted that in public. Just for the record, I have never thought about Slade sexually. In fact, I have never thought about Slade AT ALL.) (Other than to wonder why he stuck with Jo for so damn long.)  
 
I woke up very confused. A tiny bit titillated (what? Shut up) but mostly very confused. There is no good reason I should be having sex dreams about men other than my very gorgeous boyfriend.  
 
I’ve concluded that my subconscious, rebel bitch that she is, is having a few commitment issues. All this talk of “rings” and “omigod RINGS” and “omigod ring shopping omigod with my future omigod fiancée slash omigod husband” has her a wee bit nervous. To my subconscious, ring = lifelong commitment = never sleeping with anyone else ever again (what can I say, she’s a total whore). Whereas to me, ring = lifelong commitment = being with the guy I love love love for the rest of my life.  
 
A friend of mine is at the very beginning stages of a relationship. It goes something like this: 
 
“Clink, omigod, he’s AMAZING.” 
 
“He said he’d call in a few days. So yeah, we’ll set something up then. I cannot wait.” 
 
“He hasn’t called and it’s already Friday. I thought for sure he’d want to do something this weekend. I’m getting a little concerned.” 
 
“OMIGOD WHY HASN’T HE CALLED! WAH! IT’S BECAUSE I’M FAT! AND BLONDE! AND FROM
NEW HAMPSHIRE! THAT’S IT! I’M NEVER EATING AGAIN! AND I’M DYING MY HAIR! AND CHANGING MY PLACE OF BIRTH ON MY BIRTH CERTIFICATE!”  
 
“He called! We’re hanging out tomorrow! OMIGOD, he’s amazing.” 
 
Wash, rinse, repeat. 
 
Whenever I get nostalgic for the beginning of my relationship with M, I read my journals or my archives. It’s less a sense of “oh, I wish we could go back to that” and more “wow, look how far we’ve come.” 
 
While in retrospect the ride – he loves me? He loves me not. He loves me! – was fun, and necessary, I’d rather be where we are now. And I certainly don’t miss the pre-M days, when life was a blur of uncomfortable heels and uncomfortable dates. It’s nice not to have any regrets (I had casual sex! And it sucked! And now I’ll never be 40 years old and married with 3 kids and wondering about what it would be like to have casual sex! Because I already know that it sucks!). I was on the track that was right for me and now I’m at a place that is right for me. 
 
My slut subconscious, however, is another story. Listen, girl. I’m happy. And while the sex dreams are kind of nice, I’m really sick of waking up blushing and feeling like I’m keeping a secret from M. Cut it out and get on board the monogamy train. Because if I’m only going to have sex with one person for the rest of my life, M ain’t such a bad choice. Agreed?  

Another post about shiny things. March 29, 2007

Are you sick of me talking about rings yet? What’s that? Yes? Oh. Well in that case, let’s discuss something else.  
 
Um… 
 
So, yeah. 
 
How bout that weather? 
 
Right.

So… 
 
OK FINE I HAVE NOTHING ELSE OF WHICH TO SPEAK. WRITE. TYPE. WHATEVER. 
 
Yesterday, my boyfriend wrote me a very short, very sweet email about his day. Fairly generic when it comes to boyfriend emails. Then he threw in this line, at the bottom, all casual-like, as if reading it WOULDN’T CAUSE MY HEART TO STOP BEATING FOR LONGER THAN MEDICAL PROFESSIONALS WOULD ADVISE: “How about some ring-browsing on Saturday. What do you think?” 
 
What do I think? WHAT DO I THINK? I think holy omigod is what I think. Going ring shopping with a friend is one thing. Going ring shopping with the person who is ultimately going to give you that ring, on a bended knee, while he proclaims his undying love and devotion to the amazingness that is you…well, that’s quite another. 
 
Also, it’ll give me the opportunity to try on this ring:
 
 
 
I keep going back to it, ever since a friend emailed me the link. She was all “it’s so you!” and I was all “pfffft, I’ve already found my ring, lady” and then, after some time, I was like “why do I keep clicking on the link and staring longingly into the diamond abyss that is this ring.”  
 
So yeah. Might be good to try it on and see if maybe I’ve had a wee change of heart.  
 
I’m slightly nervous. I don’t know why. Ring shopping with M is big. It’s something I’ll remember forever. It’s the first step on the road to FOREVER AND EVER, AMEN and I don’t even know what I’m going to wear. What does one wear ring-shopping?  
 
Also, I’m opening up the floor to which ring you like better. Ultimately I’ll decide for myself – of course – but hey, give me your opinion. (Do not, however, give me your damn opinion on what a superficial bitch I am because two posts about rings! In the same week! WHORE!) Do you like the one above? Or the one from this post? 
 
On that note, I’m off to do something other than think about rings because even I have hit my limit.

Hello there. March 28, 2007

You found me!
 
These are the new digs. You see, I was bored at work and decided that a great way to pass the time would be to move my entire blog! From Blogger to WordPress! I could’ve just decided to go to Starbucks or something but you know me, I always have to make things difficult.
 
I’m still working out the kinks and all but that’s part of the whole grand master ”Clink needs something to do FOR THE LOVE OF GOD” plan. It’ll keep me occupied.
 
Remember to update your bookmarks or your blogrolls or your favorites or whatever it is that people do in these situations.
 

Warning: This is such a lame post. March 27, 2007

Hi there, Beautiful Weather. Pull up a chair and stay a while, won’t you?
 
I walked outside for lunch and didn’t want to walk back into the office. In fact, I had to bribe myself.
 
Responsible Clink: I’ll buy you a tall, skim, iced caramel macchiato if you go back to the office! Doesn’t that sound good? You love iced caramel macchiatos.
 
Irresponsible Clink: OKAY FINE. Fiiiiine. But I’m not staying past five.
 
Responsible Clink: Fair enough.It’s been a great week so far and the arrival of spring, however temporary, just makes me want to write long, run-on sentences punctuated with more exclamation points than any human should rightfully employ.
 
Last night, we saw Snow Patrol at The Garden. I love bands with skinny boys who have accents and sing about things like forgetting the world and getting saved from darkness and taking your first steps as a child of 25. I also love seeing such bands while holding the hand of my delicious boyfriend, knowing that I get to go home with a boy who squeezes me tighter when a particular lyric resonates.
 
The boys of Snow Patrol were very enthused about playing in New York. They proclaimed it the best city in the world (though, I’m sure when they play in Topeka they say the same thing) and kept going on and on about New Yorkers and how awesome we are. And while we are awesome and New York is the best city in the world, there was still a cockroach crawling on the wall next to me during the encore and I was totally freaked out to the point that I had to sit on M’s lap. And that is New York in a nutshell: it rocks, but there are still fucking cockroaches everywhere.
 
Tonight I’m meeting a friend for dinner. Lobster rolls. My gym bag was packed and carted to work this morning, but at work it shall remain because this weather does not scream: “spend your few hours of freedom locked in a sweaty gym!” No, this weather screams: “to hell with your diet! Drink wine and eat to your heart’s content!”
 
Thursday I am hosting a get together for my former co-workers, which means there will some more to hell with the dieting as I will be baking cookies for the occasion. And on Friday, M and I will be watching Vanessa Redgrave perform in Joan Didion’s “The Year of Magical Thinking.” I’ve already stocked up on some Kleenex. (What’s that? You haven’t read the book? Well hop to it, slacker. It’s brilliant! Just, you know, heed my warning about needing tissues. Many tissues.)
 
How boring is this post? Omigod, so boring. You’ll have to forgive me, but my mind is elsewhere. Specifically, fantasizing about being outside right now, trying to undue some of the damage from a long, grey, cold winter. I hope it’s just as lovely wherever you are.
 

Getting started. March 27, 2007

I looked at engagement rings Sunday afternoon.
 
(Notice how I typed that all calm, cool and collected-like? As If I was typing “I ate strawberries today at lunch.” It’s called a front, because in my head it’s more like: HOLY SHIT I LOOKED AT ENGAGEMENT RINGS SUNDAY AFTERNOON AND NOW I KNOW MY RING SIZE AND WHAT KIND OF RING I WANT AND I WILL PROBABLY BE ENGAGED IN THE NEXT FEW MONTHS OMG OMG OMG, etc.)
 
It started on Saturday evening. I put on my lowest cut shirt and my tightest jeans and accompanied the boy to Dylan Prime. I was in the mood for steak and red wine and creamed spinach and dim lighting and the cobblestone streets of TriBeCa. And also, cheese fondue because the cheese fondue at Dylan Prime is like five thousand liquidated orgasms into which you can dip bread, apples, fried onions and bacon (in my perfect world, those would be the four food groups, though I might swap gummy bears for apples).
 
Sometime between the filet mignon and the dessert menus, M asked me my ring size. Casually, as if he was asking about the next day’s weather forecast.
 
I choked a bit on my sip of Chianti. He laughed.
 
“I’m sorry baby, I didn’t mean to catch you off guard. It’s just…I think that we should get the process started.”
 
I was drunk at that point, which meant that I took his face in between my hands and showered him with kisses to the point of embarrassment.
 
And then I admitted that, uh, actually I don’t know my ring size. Or, really, the type of engagement ring I want.
 
“Well, maybe we should get on that.”
 
And get on that I did. By dragging my best friend to the Upper East Side the very next day. First, we stopped at the nail salon to get pale pink Essie painted onto our fingernails. Then we slipped into a tiny, upscale jewelry store where I found out not only my ring size (a six! Just like my regular size! But is six considered fat in the finger world? I have nothing to compare it to) but also the type of engagement ring I would like to come in that size, should M still want to marry me if it turns out my fingers are, in fact, considered fat.
 
Just like I “just know” that I want to marry M, I also “just knew” the moment the jeweler slipped on a two-karat, round brilliant cut diamond set in a platinum band with channel settings on either side. (Note: I have no idea if that’s the correct way to describe the ring but just go with it okay? I’m a rookie.)
 
The closest thing I could find on the internet was this:
 

Gasp! I know! It’s stunning and it makes my not-yet-engaged little heart go pitter patter.
 
It’s not all about the ring, I know. It never will be about the ring. The ring is just icing on a very solid, very lovely, downright delectable relationship cake. But since M brought it up and since M encouraged me to get on it and since M and I have decided that we’re getting the process started…I think I’m allowed to squee a bit about the ring, okay? Even if I only wore it temporarily and then the mean jeweler made me give it back and assured me that, no, unfortunately he couldn’t let me borrow it. No, not even “just for the day.” Hell, not even just for an hour! Trust me, I tried!
 
This all feels very surreal. And, at the same time, it all feels very right.
 

It’s a 3 Diet Coke kinda morning. March 23, 2007

I was woken up three times last night, between midnight and 9am.
 
The first was by a symphony of sirens at around 3am. I bolted upright in bed as fire trucks and police cars raced down Broadway. My first thought, whenever there seems to be more sirens than required for your average fire or police chase (due to the location of my apartment building – near Columbus Circle – I am well schooled in all things siren), is they got us again. They being, of course, terrorists. I both chide myself for buying into the well-executed culture of fear the government has cultivated and quell my concerns by turning on the television just to check.
 
The second time I was unceremoniously woken up was at 6am, when M’s Treo started doing its little vibrating dance on my nightstand. I passed him the phone and he – half asleep – was forced to perk up quite quickly when he realized it was an interview with a morning radio show that he had totally forgotten about. They kept him on for the better part of a half an hour, discussing the book. He’s got the interviews down to a science at this point – he’s articulate and funny and knows just the right amount of times to plug the name of the book so that people listening (though really, who is functional enough to do something as demanding as listening at 6am?) run out and buy it.
 
I was lulled back to sleep by the lovely sound of his morning voice, only to be woken up again at 8am. With M’s finger underneath my nose.
 
Self: “Uh, baby?”
 
M: “Oh good, you’re alive.”
 
Self: “What?”
 
M: “I had a dream that you stopped breathing so when I woke up, I wanted to check to make sure.”
 
Self: “That is actually kind of sweet, baby.”
 
M: [Pause] “So, uh, since you’re up, want to have sex?”
 
He’s lucky he’s cute.
 

What You Have. March 22, 2007

Holy fucking god, it’s so fucking good to have him back.
 
(I apologize, but profanities are so fucking necessary when trying to communicate just how good.)
 
They say you never know what you have ‘til it’s gone. I say you never know what you have until it’s back, walking towards you in a near-empty LaGuardia terminal and you’re able to collapse into it and take in the scent you’ve missed and the arms you’ve missed and the slight scruff you’ve missed and the everything else that you’ve missed.
 
That’s when you really know what you have.

Having a life. March 21, 2007

Last night, I took a class at the gym. It’s called Total Body Conditioning and it appealed to me because hey, I would like my total body to be in great condition.
 
The class was led by a fitness instructor who goes by the name True Dog. Or TruDog. Or Trewdawg. At first I was slightly nervous, as he seemed like one of those instructors that will call you out for dropping your core during pushups or for not lifting your shoulders off the mat enough during abs (not that I would ever do either, but, you know, I’m sure there’s people who do).
 
Fortunately, while there was something vaguely Boot Camp-y (and just campy in general) about him, he managed to thoroughly kick our asses and yet not be mean, which is exactly what I look for in fitness instructors. My achey butt, thighs, arms, abs, hamstrings and face muscles (don’t ask) are proof that if you follow the word of True (Tru, Trew), you will be rewarded.
 
After the class, my roommate and a friend from college and I headed into the subterranean Whole Foods at the Time Warner Center. Something about Whole Foods makes me want to eat healthy (sushi, fruit) and I always miraculously bypass the make-your-own-burrito and Indian food stations, not to mention all the delectable baked goods. Perhaps I feel as though one of the line directors will pass judgment if I am waiting to pay for six chocolate chip cookies and the Two-Bite Pecan Pie things that I will eat every day when I’m 75 years old and no longer care about how my ass looks in a bathing suit, so help me god.
 
We parked ourselves in the seating area. As I tucked into my brown rice cooked shrimp California roll (an adventurous sushi eater I am not), I heard my name being called from the nearby check-out line.
 
At first I ignored it. Which, if you knew my real first name (which some of you do), you would know is retarded because there really aren’t that many [redacted]’s roaming the streets. It’s not like Jennifer or Stephanie or Lindsay.
 
Eventually my roommate remarked that there were some people trying to get my attention. I looked up to find a cluster of my former co-workers, from Former Evil Job Which Shall Not Be Named.
 
They were on a break to grab dinner, which they were about to bring back up to their cubicles and eat at their desks and then continue working until 10pm or later because they are slaves, just as I recently was.
 
They were shocked – shocked! – to find that I had been out of work since 6pm and had already been to the gym. It was the same look I used to give people when I found out they worked normal hours and could do something after work other than flop into bed, spend five minutes with Jon Stewart and fall asleep.
 
Yes, I wanted to tell them, I have a life now. And lo, it is glorious!
 
Instead I made a lot of self-deprecating remarks and told them I missed them and invited them over to my apartment for drinks anytime they get out of work before 10pm.
 
Later on, my roommate and I walked home, plopped ourselves on the couch and watched The Search for the Next Pussycat Doll. And, as I rooted for former-fattie-now-total-hottie Chelsea and compared Anastacia to a lion, I realized that having a life feels so freakin’ good. And having done something good for my body (the gym) and my friendships (dinner) made watching crappy reality TV afterwards a bit more digestible. A stark contrast to when I worked, worked, worked and watched TV and fell asleep and felt like a total failure at life.
 
So, things are looking up. Or are already up. Or will be fully up when I pick up my sexy boyfriend from LaGuardia tonight at 10pm because the sunshine! It has melted the snow! And I will be able to get out of the parking space without posing a threat to all men, women, children and animals in the vicinity.
 
Life is good. Especially having one.

Arrivals & Departures March 20, 2007

There are a lot of things dysfunctional about my family (hello, none of us will drink water in anything other than bottled form), but airports is not one of them.
 
Whenever one of us is leaving – whether to Greece for the summer or a quick jaunt on the shuttle to DC for a business trip – it quickly becomes a family affair. So much so that there are usually five people in the car, leaving not so much room for the luggage. The non-travelers park the car, wait for the traveler to check in and then everyone hems and haws about what to eat (because, you know, the options are just that tempting – Super Wok? Or Chili’s Express?), before eventually deciding on McDonald’s. When it is time for the traveler to head to the gate, everyone walks him or her there and doesn’t leave until the traveler has turned around to wave four or five times and is generally concluded to be completely, one hundred percent out of sight.
 
Arrivals are a bit more tame, if you consider a sign bearing your name and a bouquet of flowers (“guys, I was just in Boston for a long weekend”) tame.
 
In sum, my family forms a mini-entourage at airports. We all pull together, because what says family more than “You get in at 1am? And want Mexican food ready and waiting in the car? And you need me to drive you all the way into the city? On a Tuesday night? I’ll be there.”
 
My boyfriend has had the exact opposite experience in his life. When he’d arrive home from college, from a vacation or for a visit, he’d be alone. No one to greet him, muss his hair and tell him how great he looked. He and his luggage would have to ride mass transit alone, both to and from the airport. From the station, he’d have to take a taxi to his parents’ home.
 
I don’t mean to be critical of his parents. They’ve done a wonderful job raising the man I plan to marry. It’s just that seeing someone off or greeting them at arrivals just isn’t something that has ever been a tradition in their family. It’s something that has always bothered M. He sees it as his parents being selfish.
 
I’m quickly becoming his family now, and I want my family’s tradition of being there to welcome a loved one back to endure. Which is why I told M that I won’t be able to make it to the airport to pick him up at 10pm on Wednesday night. “I’ll be working late, baby. I’m so sorry. Meet you at your place?”
 
Except, of course I’ll be there. Maybe even with a sign. I want him to know what it’s like to have someone waiting, to be able to get into a car and not a cab, to have someone to muss his hair and tell him he looks great, even though he’s a bastard for getting so tan and therefore making me look so pale.
 
The only obstacle between me and the airport is digging out his car, which has been parked in front of my building since before the ice storm. Tomorrow after work, I will be armed with a shovel and a pout, hoping that some sturdy passerby (or my doorman) takes pity on the girl barely making a dent in the ice/snow and offers to lend her a hand.
 
But even if I have to do it myself, it’ll be worth it because clearly he’s worth it.