Multiple Personalities. April 30, 2007

This weekend, I tapped into multiple aspects of my personality. 
 
Friday, my (mostly dormant) inner party girl was lured out by the arrival of an old friend from LA. We met downtown, at 12:30am, and the first order of business was securing a Red Bull and vodka for me (heavy on the Red Bull) as I usually end my nights at 12:30am, as opposed to begin them. Once I had some artificial energy running through my veins, however, I was game. Game mostly for drinking, that is, until M (boyfriend slash chauffeur slash HERO) came and picked my drunk ass up (at 4am) and drove my drunk ass home and tucked my drunk ass into bed, as all the while I slurred a chorus of “I luuuuuuuuurve you.” And also maybe tried to undress myself while we drove up the West Side Highway (what! My shirt was tight!). See why party girl doesn’t get to come out too often?   
 
Saturday and Sunday was all Domestic Goddess (and also, Indiscriminate Spender). I spent $100 at Bed Bath & Beyond (solely on kitchen gadgets like a garlic press and a lemon zester and a bundt cake pan because maybe one of these days I will get the urge to make a bundt cake so THEREFORE I MUST HAVE A BUNDT CAKE PAN! JUST IN CASE!), $100 at Whole Foods (oh, Whole Foods, what is this power you have over me that convinces me that spending $30 on three packages of berries is a good idea?) and another $50 on ingredients for lasagna (this lasagna, actually) because, unfortunately, Whole Foods does not stock Jimmy Dean’s hot breakfast sausage (it’s okay Whole Foods, nobody is perfect).  
 
Sunday evening, I made the lasagna for M. I started the lasagna at 4pm and I served the lasagna at 7pm and in between I was a raving, sauce-covered lunatic. A lunatic who had to call her mother approximately eleventy zillion times in order to get the answers to questions such as “what does simmer mean?” and “how many ounces make up a pound?” (I’m not proud.)  
 
The good news is that M practically proposed marriage right there in my dining room (slash living room; what’s up New York City living). A few hours later, as we were in a cab headed downtown, he shook his head and smiled and said, dreamily, “that lasagna.” I think he’s going to have it for breakfast today. And also lunch. If the lasagna were not an inanimate food product, I would surely be jealous of this new mistress of his.  
 
The cab took us down to the Tribeca Film Festival where we attended the premiere of James Franco’s film. My inner film snob slash starfucker loved the fact that we got to walk down a red carpet and witness a flurry of press angling for Mr. Franco’s attention and see a movie in a theater filled with “industry people” and “beautiful people.” The film itself (eh, eh and eh) was not the point. The point is, we heeded Robert DeNiro’s call to support downtown in the aftermath of September 11^th and, in the process, reminded ourselves that there is life outside of my apartment (really, my bed) and that sometimes that life can be pretty cool.  
 
And now I’m at work. And it’s almost noon. And I have been silently protesting doing any work because shouldn’t the government mandate, like, 3-day weekends for the promotion of mental health and sanity? Who’s with me? My multiple personalities could use a day to rest.

All over the damn place. April 26, 2007

Someone please take away my credit card.
 
In the past 24 hours, I have purchased three dresses. These three dresses, in fact:

   
 

 
My spring wardrobe is still packed away: half in the back of the spare closet in my apartment and the other half at my parents’ home in New Jersey. The immediate unavailability of my warm weather clothes translates in my brain to: I don’t have any warm weather clothes! Must stock up! (I am amazing at deluding myself, really.) 
 
Combined with a light week at work and a recent deposit into my account and, well, you have the three dresses above. And a pair of jeans. And a pair of shoes. Ok, TWO pairs of shoes. Hey, my doorman calls me the Queen of Packages; I’m just trying to live up to my title. (Tangent: Is it totally crazy that when I purchased each dress, I thought to myself: “maybe I’ll get engaged in this dress!” Silly, as I will probably get engaged while wearing stained sweatpants, my “New Jersey: Only the strong survive” tee-shirt and flip-flops. Also, a chipped manicure because that is JUST MY LUCK. Still, a great excuse to continue to buy cute dresses if I do say so myself.)  
 
When I haven’t been shopping online at work (glimpse.com is a new obsession; you’re welcome/I’m sorry), I’ve been on the New York Magazine website reading about other people’s sex lives. 
 
Yeah, you read that right. Just in time for spring fever, New York has put out a “Sex and Love” issue, heavy on the sex. Included are detailed sex diaries of various New Yorkers and the voyeur in me is all “awesome!” and also maybe “wow, these people are way freakier than I am. I mean WAY.”
 
I feel vanilla in comparison, but in a good way. I don’t need a polyamorous relationship (complete with “Polly” parties, to meet other poylamorous folk) or to be handcuffed and spanked (hi, googlers of “handcuffed & spanked”…this is not what you’re looking for, move along). M and I are happy and consistent and enthusiastic and not at all bored. Still, it fascinates me (maybe more than it should) to get a peek into what a typical week (in terms of sex) is like for people I share a city with. Does it fascinate anyone else? No? I’m the lone freak here? Damn it.  
 
Moving on, just yesterday a former colleague returned to the office with her new baby in tow. And I could not let go of that thing. Seriously. She was in a post-feeding coma and so she just laid her tiny, good-smelling baby head on my shoulder and wrapped her tiny baby hands around my pinky and I swear I could feel my ovaries start to hum. As if they were, like, REVVING UP.  “I want one of those,” I told everyone: co-workers, friends, M (who smiled and said, “let’s think of the very expensive diamond I’m about to buy as our baby. At least for a few more years.”)  
 
I read enough mommy (and daddy: www.sweet-juniper.com) blogs to know that it’s not all unicorns and rainbows. I know there is a lot of poop. More poop than I’m probably comfortable with. Also, endless screaming and late-night feedings and post-partum depression and Cheerios in your hair and all that shit but that’s why they make them so damn cute while they’re SNUGGLING ON YOUR SHOULDER AND GRIPPING YOUR PINKY AS IF YOU ARE THE MOST IMPORTANT THING IN THE WORLD TO THEM.  
 
Sigh. I need some coffee. And some lessons on how to write a coherent post. Clearly.  

A to Zed. (I told you I was an Anglophile.) April 25, 2007

Just when you think you have ABSOLUTELY nothing to write about, other than decidedly not-interesting-to-anyone-but-you things like your online shopping addiction and the fact that Asia (ASIA! BLECH!) is now the Next Doll, along comes lovely Molly who tags you and thus saves your blog readers from tedious fodder. (All together now: THANK YOU MOLLY!)
 
A - Available or Single?  I am available–for drinks! Or shoe shopping! Or if you want to pay me six figures to write a book! Unfortunately, I am not available for dating. That’s been taken care of.
 
B - Best Friend? Why, M of course.
 
C - Cake or Pie?  This is like asking me which of my (currently unborn) children I like better! Impossible to answer! I like both equally and enthusiastically. (Note: does cobbler count as pie? If not, then the answer to this question may, in fact, be “other: cobbler”)
 
D - Drink of Choice? In the morning, a tall skim caramel macchiato. During the day, Poland Spring or SmartWater (I’m a water snob too, Molly!). In the evenings? Some syrah or sauvignon blanc. Perhaps sangria - white or red. A Sam Adams maybe? OK FINE ANYTHING WITH ALCOHOL WILL DO.  
 
E - Essential Item(s)?  This is going to sound so very, very bizarre but I feel lost if I do not have the following items in my purse: my birth control pills (because what if I’m kidnapped and therefore unexpectedly spend the night chained to a chair in an abandoned warehouse! I’ll still need to take a pill at 8pm!) and an ultra fine point Sharpie marker. There is no bizarre rationalization for the latter.
 
F - Favorite Color?  I love all the “baby” colors: baby blue, baby pink, baby yellow… (“Hi, Dr. Freud? It’s Clink. I want to run something by you…”)
 
G - Gummi Bears or Worms?  Both! In plentiful supply! But if I had to choose, it might just be the worms.
 
H - Hometown? Adorable Town, New Jersey.  
 

I -  Indulgence?  Online shopping. Edy’s Grand Light slow-churned vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup and rainbow sprinkles. Weekly manicures, bi-weekly pedicures. Any of the many hair/skin/make-up products I walk out of Duane Reade with, even though I only went in for toilet paper.
 
J - January or February? February. Because on the 14^th day, I get a gift and M is a GREAT gift giver.
 
K - Kids?  Yes please! M and I are currently discussing (read: WARRING) about names. A question, readers: Do you think it’s okay to name your child Lucas (with a C) and call him Luke (with a K?) Because the OCD “everything has to be PERFECT AND SYMMETRICAL AND PERFECT” in me says no, no, no. M thinks “yes, of course it’s fine, stop being crazy.”
 
L - Life is incomplete without… Love and friendship. (Aww, that’s sweet Molly. I’ll leave your answer up there, even though my first instinct was bluefly.com.)
 
M - Marriage Date I’m thinking late summer or early fall of 2008. It has to be 2008, because I have a thing about odd numbers. Fear not, I’ve already warned M. And yes, he wants to marry me anyway.
 
N - Number of Siblings Two. A gorgeous 21 year old sister who is about to graduate college and go to law school and essentially be the child my parents always wished I would be, but I had to go and get all “creative” and “I want a job in TV” on them. Also, a handsome 14 year old brother who is sarcastic and tall and a kick ass snowboarder and makes all the ladies swoon. I still treat him like he’s five.
 
O - Oranges or Apples?  I’m very picky about apples - they need to be either golden delicious or
Fiji. I’m much more easily satisfied by oranges.

P - Phobias/Fears Hi, have we met? FLYING. OF COURSE.
 
Q - Favorite Quote “We won’t crash. I promise.” - Every pilot/flight attendant I have ever spoken to on any flight I have ever taken. Usually in response to me bawling my eyes out and revealing my deep-seeded fear of flying. The words always reassure me, but only to the point where I can function enough not to get kicked off the plane.
 
R - Reasons to Smile?  Oh, I don’t know, the fact that my BOYFRIEND HAS AN APPOINTMENT NEXT WEEK TO LOOK AT DIAMONDS could have me smiling just a bit.
 
S - Season? As temperamental as it can be, I truly enjoy spring. And early fall.
 
T - Tag Three You, you and….YOU! 

U - Unknown Fact About Me I was hospitalized for asthma over 10 times when I was younger. My parents used to call me Wheezy.
 

V - Vegetarian or Oppressor of Animals?  I didn’t eat meat - red or poultry - for nine years. Then I studied abroad in
London, during the height of the Mad Cow Disease scare, and decided I was a carnivore again. Go figure.
 

W - Worst habits? Not budgeting, ever (which leads to: not saving any money! Ever!), leaving shoes all over the apartment (which leads to: tripping over them! In the middle of the night!)

X - X-rays or Ultrasounds?  To me, having an ultrasound = having a baby, so yeah, in a few years time I’ll take one of those.
 
Y - Your Favorite Foods I could eat something of the Mexican variety every day for the rest of my life and not get sick of it.

Z - Zodiac Libra! (Very, very Libra)

Stuck in the middle. April 24, 2007

I hate being in the middle of anything - the middle of a row of seats on a plane, the middle of two large people on the subway, the middle of the work day or a work out. I especially hate being in the middle of a situation, which is exactly where I find myself squirming uncomfortably at the moment. 
 
I have a cousin, Luke. Except it feels weird to label him as only a cousin, because he is so much more. He’s the older brother that I really didn’t want when I was growing up but whom I now cherish. And Luke, Luke is gorgeous. He always has been. He’s half Greek and half Italian, so the smolder factor is very high. In middle school, a group of, uh, “fast” girls befriended me not because they wanted me to teach them lessons on how to be naïve and preppy and well-behaved but because they wanted access to Luke. True story. They all signed my 8^th grade yearbook a similar version of: “Dear Clink, Good times. Oh, and your cousin Luke is sooooo hot! (Smiley face.) Please don’t show him this, I would be SO EMBARASSED if he knew how I felt about him! (Smiley face, smiley face, winking smiley face, smiley face.) Love, Slutty Friend Your Parents Disapprove Of.”  
 
Even my real friends have copped, at one point or another, to being quite enamored with Sir Luke of Luscious Locks and Dark Eyes. To me he’s just Luke, you know, my obnoxious relative who used to pretend to want to play Barbie with me and then would want all the Barbies to be single-mom strippers working their way through college but WHATEVER, I will allow that he’s handsome and charismatic. (Even when pulling my earring so hard that he ripped a hole in my ear and I had to get it re-pierced. The ripped hole is still there.) 
 
When my current roommate met Luke, she too fell under his spell. She’d giggle about how cute she thought he was and how she wished he’d hang out more, but I never really paid attention to it because Roommate has the annoying habit of falling in love with every semi-attractive man who crosses her path. I thought it would pass. 
 
Recently, Luke, myself, Roommate and M all went out, with a few mutual friends. Luke flirted with Roommate because, well, that’s what Luke does. He flirts with girls. Not intentionally. He just doesn’t know any other way to communicate with members of the opposite sex to whom he is not related. 
 
Roommate came home gushing about Luke. Like, wouldn’t shut up. Like, started to make me feel a bit uncomfortable. 
 
Roommate: “All my friends think he likes me!” 
 
Self: “Really? But your friends weren’t there the other night. How would they know?” 
 
Roommate: “Well, they were just like, ‘EVERYBODY likes you Roommate!’ so they assume Luke does too.” 
 
Self: “Oh. Ha.” 
 
Roommate: “He’s so hot, Clink. And so smart! Omigod, I love him. But not, you know, really love but like crush-love.”  
 
Self: “Right. Ok, goodnight!” (Closes bedroom door to watch bad reality television in peace)  
 
Roommate has been trying to pry information about Luke’s dating situation out of me for quite a while. I’ve always played the “um, I’m not really sure” card before quickly changing the subject. The truth is: Luke is a dater. After years and years of consecutive monogamous relationships, he is reverting back to college and dating anything cute in a skirt who can construct a simple sentence. He’s been dating a few girls, one of whom he is very interested in. But I felt uncomfortable relaying that information to Roommate because…well, I really don’t know why. Perhaps because I am a wuss. Also, I don’t want to hurt Roommate’s feelings or make her think that I don’t feel she’s good enough for my cousin. I’m afraid she might think I’m sabotaging her efforts before they even begin (ok, maybe I am. Sort of.) 
 
Today Roommate emailed me first thing in the morning: 
 
“I hope you don’t mind, but I emailed Luke! Just to, you know, make conversation and stuff. I hope that it doesn’t make you uncomfy or anything!” 
 
How did Roommate get Luke’s email address, you might be asking. Ok, YOU might not be asking but that’s certainly what I was asking.  
 
“Oh, I got it off his business card that you have in your room.”  
 
Awesome. She searched through my stuff to get it (the business card is kept in a catch-all basket I keep in a corner of my room, and it certainly must’ve taken some combing to find the card because that basket is a veritable black hole of SHIT). (Note: She knew I had his business card because he gave it to me in front of her, and she saw me put it in the basket.)  
 
I emailed her back and conveyed, as gently as I could, that a) next time she should just ask me for the card, because I keep some personal stuff in that basket and b) I didn’t want her to get her hopes up too high, as I am aware that Luke is dating a few girls and is not looking for anything serious. 
 
No word from her yet. 
 
The truth is, I’m being a bit selfish in this situation. I don’t want them to date because the odds of them dating and then getting engaged and then getting married and then living blissfully ever after are VERY SLIM. So at some point, if they start to date, they are probably going to break up. And before that, one of them is probably going to piss the other one off and I don’t want to hear it. I just don’t. I love Luke like a brother and I must uphold a friendly relationship with Roommate so as to maintain a decent living situation and therefore I do not want to be middleman if Roommate’s pursuit of Luke ends in victory. 
 
At the same time, I don’t want to butt in. And, other than giving Roommate a head’s up about Luke’s situation, I won’t. I will let things play out the way they play out. The odds are that Luke will probably write a friendly email back but not pursue Roommate any further. However, if I am wrong and they all of a sudden realize they are destined to be together, I will make it very clear to both of them that I am staying out of it, 100%. Go-between just doesn’t suit me.
 

What would you do in the situation? Am I making a mountain out of a molehill (me? NO! NEVER!).

Stuff. (Yeah, the “blog post title” part of my brain ain’t functioning today.) April 23, 2007

Weekend recaps are boring, especially when one’s weekend consisted mostly of shopping and lounging around in the sunshine along with millions of other sun-starved Manhattan residents. 
 
I will suggest, however, that you see Hot Fuzz. As an Anglophile, I tend to see all things British as amazingly quirky and endearing and better than anything we have on this side of the Atlantic (Crunchie bars, for example). However, this particular film will appeal to anyone–Anglophile or not–who enjoys cracking the hell up. Guaranteed, or I’ll refund the cost of your ticket. (No, no I won’t. But I’ll laugh at you for emailing me about refunding the cost of your ticket and then I’ll tell my friends about the one person who didn’t think Hot Fuzz was funny and we’ll snort condescendingly and comment about how you must not “get it” and how you should probably go see Norbit again.)  
 
I just noticed that it’s almost 4:30pm. (Or later, by the time I post this slash by the time you read this.) I’ve barely done any work today. My mind is all confused: beautiful weather + sunshine = being at the office? Does. Not. Compute. The thing is, I’ve spent a large chunk of the day (minus time spent buying sundresses online and that hour I was at Harry’s Burritos eating an avocado salad) reading a blog from start to finish. Sometimes, something catches your eye and you just dive right into the archives and when you emerge, hours later, you’ve experienced a range of emotions without even having left your desk. In this case, my emotions ran in a circle from shock to anger to frustration to heartache to sadness to shock to anger to frustration, etc etc etc.  
 
It’s not a happy read, but it sure is a riveting one: http://chew.typepad.com/jenute/  
 
I’m drawn to adoption-centric blogs, mainly because I think there is a chance that I will adopt in the future. There is a chance that I will be infertile and will have no choice. There is a chance that I will be perfectly capable of having healthy babies but will still want to give an orphaned child a loving home. I like to inundate myself with information about anything that I can vaguely sense will make an appearance in my future. A therapist would probably tell me it is all related to my Control Issues (see also: doesn’t like to fly because cannot control the plane). I like to call it “being prepared.” 
 
I don’t think a paragraph written by afternoon-slump me about the above blog could really do it justice but here is a quick summary: Jen, the author and an adoptive mother of one adorable girl, and her husband tried to adopt a second child from China. Their experience was disastrous, and that is putting it mildly. Don’t expect to be uplifted, but do expect to be shocked and angry and frustrated and heartbroken and sad and in awe of Jen’s bravery for telling her story, even though it will probably kill her chances for adopting another child from China. 
 
I don’t want to leave on such a down note so, uh, hey do you know that The Pussycat Dolls Present: The Search for the Next Doll finale (goooooooooo Chelsea!) is this week? Isn’t that like super-duper exciting? Don’t you think that Asia is kind of scary and that Melissa R. doesn’t really have a personality and that formerly-overweight-now-total-hottie Chelsea should win? Except isn’t winning, when we’re talking about a slot in the Pussycat Dolls line-up, really kind of like losing? Yeah, I thought so too.

Good Day Sunshine April 20, 2007

Yesterday, a friend of mine called me from the beach in Santa Monica. 
 
“I could get used to California. How’s New York?” 
 
“There’s no sun in New York anymore. We’re London, but with better restaurants and less endearing accents. Also, no Top Shop.” 
 
Today I sent her a text message: 
 
“Spotted, approximately 8:01am in Manhattan: sun. Developing…” 
 
Sun sun sun sun sun sun sun sun sun sun sun, etc. 
 
It’s been gloom and doom here for an ETERNITY. New Yorkers have been surlier than usual, if that’s even possible. Just the other day, while walking home from the gym, I saw a grown man exit his BMW, walk over to the taxi that had stopped short in front of him and spit on the (thankfully, closed) driver’s side window. A screaming match ensued. 
 
“Stupid weather,” I muttered to myself. 
 
But not today! Today the sun is back and the forecast (on noaa.gov; if at all interested, please ask me to expand on my conspiracy theory about weather.com) for the weekend is, oh, SUNNY AND WARM AND OMIGOD I AM JUST GOING TO ROLL AROUND IN CENTRAL PARK AND PERHAPS DRINK WINE BUT MOSTLY JUST ROLL. 
 
Along with the sun comes a brighter forecast for my career and thus that financial future I was so worried about a few posts back. You see, the other day I marched into my boss’ office and sat down and smiled and said, “I really like it here. If there’s an open position once [project I am working on] is over, I would love to be considered for it.”  
 
Note: I am not the type of person who goes marching into offices, especially those that belong to bosses. But I had had some champagne at an earlier going away party for a colleague and, combined with a cute outfit I fashioned mostly out of cast-offs in my closet, I was feeling confident. 
 
Do you know what my boss did? He smiled and said, “It’s so good to hear that. I’ve already spoken to [his boss] about how you are a real asset to the team and we’d love to keep you on.” 
 
No, nothing is set in stone but there is the very good possibility that I won’t have to pack up my things come June. Hallelujah for that. 
 
And because the universe always likes to make things just a wee bit interesting for me, I got a call just a few hours later from a well known (especially to an anglophile like me) company that is interested in speaking with me about a position. I was referred! Just like that! Without even knowing it! If that’s not the easiest way to job hunt then I don’t know what is.  
 
It’s Friday and even though today is the day that my grandmother departs for Greece–because enough with this America bullshit, she has a beautiful house and a beautiful ocean and a beautiful dog and beautiful lemon and orange groves to get back to–it is a good day. Mainly because I am just a few hours away from a blissfully unscheduled weekend. Seriously, I have absolutely nothing planned except for maybe a manicure, and some time at the gym, and dinner with my boyfriend and ROLLING AROUND IN CENTRAL PARK IN THE SUN. 
 
Which, note to sun: Welcome back. We like you a whole lot in these parts and while our women may not be as blonde and tan as in California, I think we deserve a little attention too. Departing for weeks at a time? A bit inexcusable. Please stay. Until, like, December.
 

Issues. April 19, 2007

I will never be able to eat whatever I want.  
 
It’s a fact, just like it’s a fact that I have brown hair and green eyes. Or that I am right handed. Or that I was born in New Jersey. 
 
It’s a fact I have finally accepted, after having resisted it for a very long time. 
 
All that resistance played itself out with some major yo-yo dieting: I’d practically starve myself in order to whittle down to a smaller size. Once my goal was reached, I’d reward myself by eating whatever I wanted, the nights of going to sleep hungry and the lunches made up entirely of coffee long since forgotten. Eating whatever I wanted soon meant I could no longer fit into my ideal size, which led to more starving myself in order to get back down. 
 
Fucking. Exhausting. 
 
It took me approximately 12 years to come to terms with my body. To come to terms with the fact that in order to maintain a size six, I must accept that I am not entitled to dessert every night and I must stay active. Sounds simple enough, but I want the best of both worlds. I want to be a size six (okay, four) and still be able to wash down some pizza with a chocolate milkshake. In turns out that, unfortunately for me, the two are very mutually exclusive.  
 
And, while I certainly love pizza and chocolate milkshakes and everything else that is bad for me, I love being thin even more.  
 
It frustrates me that my body’s natural tendency isn’t toward a smaller size. I’ve been a size two and a size four a few times in my life and while I was miserable and hungry and irritable, I have never been more confident. I’d waltz into a dressing room with a size six and feel a rush at asking a staff member to please fetch me a smaller size. Everything fit right. Everything felt right. My body felt right. 
 
Except it didn’t. Because I wasn’t nurturing my body, I was starving it. I was subsisting on a little bit of nothing with a heaping side of nothing. A few bites of an apple. Some slices of turkey. Lots and lots of coffee, because coffee makes hunger magically disappear.  
 
I was at war with myself: the part of me that loved being tall and stick thin versus the part of me that loved to, you know, EAT IN ORDER TO SURVIVE. It didn’t take too long until survival won out, until I was back hovering between a six and an eight, as I always am.  
 
I met M when I was a four. He likes me better as a six. He’s never outright said, “I like you better when you have more curves” but he has hinted. And he’s right - at almost 5’8”, I don’t look particularly healthy when I’m too thin. A six is right for me, which is why my body naturally gravitates toward that number. 
 
Ugh, number. My life–in respect to what I eat and what I wear–is all about numbers. It’s amazing how one number (8! A snowman! A fat snowman!) has the power to ruin my day. I know that an 8 is not fat. I know I should not grumble because there are people out there fighting for their lives against 300/400/500 pound bodies that threaten to kill them. I mean, duh. An 8 is not the end of the world. And yet to me, someone with what I like to call “an eating disorder, sort of” it matters. My size 8 jeans are my “fat jeans” and when I’m wearing them (and I don’t have my period), I feel guilty about every single thing that I put in my mouth.  
 
If I had a few wishes, one (after, you know, world peace and health benefits) would be to be able to eat whatever I want without gaining an ounce. I love food. I love restaurants. I love eating. I love watching cooking shows. I love all of it. But the love is tainted by my dysfunctional relationship with food. I can allow myself to enjoy food in the moment but if I eat something “bad” then I will inevitably punish myself for it later, which–obviously–takes a lot of the joy out of eating the food in the first place. 
 
I’m happy to finally have clawed my way–fighting tooth and nail–to a better, happier, healthier place. My newfound love of all things gym! And exercise! has made such a difference. I can allow myself a bit more leeway with what I eat because my body feels so good. And, in a stunning turn of events, since my body feels so good, I only want to feed it nutritional things. Okay, not only, but the other day I found myself reaching for an apple in lieu of a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies. As in, THE COOKIES WERE RIGHT THERE AND THEY WERE WARM AND THEY LOOKED DELICIOUS AND I CHOSE A DAMN APPLE.  
 
It’s an ongoing process, but I’m proud of myself at the moment. I’m proud of the realization that I don’t have to be a size four; a size six is acceptable. I’m also proud that I’ve accepted the fact that I will never be someone who can eat like a trucker without the negative, fat-ass side effects. Acceptance means I will no longer get caught in that vicious cycle of dieting and gaining ever again. Acceptance means I will strive, instead, to maintain. Consistency and moderation (I hate the word moderation! And yet, it makes so much sense!) are key. 
 
I’ve never been all that good at dieting, as my range of jeans (size 2 all the way up to size 10) proves. I’m sick of the numbers. Just as I’m ready to commit to one man for the rest of my life, I’m also ready to commit to one number. And the (healthier) lifestyle that will allow me to be loyal to that number. 
 
So, six, you lucky bastard you. I’m finally ready to be exclusive.
 

All better. April 18, 2007

I arrived home last night tired (a long day at work, two hours at the gym) and grumpy (the weather, the fact that I owe $1200 in taxes this year).  
 
And then I looked over at my nightstand:
 
 
 
It turns out my boyfriend is awesome. Not that I didn’t know that already, but it was yet another reminder. Pink tulips! Pink tulips placed sometime between when he woke up and when he had to leave for work, a very small window indeed. 
 
Did you know that pink tulips have the power to make sore muscles feel better and a ridiculous sum owed to the government seem not so bad? True story.
 

There should, officially, be no question as to why I’m marrying this guy.
 
(Please ignore the birth control. If I don’t keep it right next to me, I will inevitably forget to take it and do you really want me to be all procreating at the moment? I think not.)

Ring Shopping. April 17, 2007

I wore gold ballet flats, my favorite jeans, a white button-down shirt, a green cardigan, my Tiffany “bean” earrings and a strand of pearls. My hair was in neat waves and my nails, manicured. 
 
Early yesterday morning, M said I looked “professionally hot.” Which I liked, because it makes it sound as if I am hot for a living, as if hot is my profession. (“What do you do, dear?” “Oh me? I’m hot. Professionally.”) 
 
I spent an inordinate amount of time in front of the mirror wondering if my outfit was appropriate to wear while ring shopping. The first thing I put on was a wrap dress, but my exposed legs in addition to the rain would’ve made for a very grumpy Clink. A turtleneck was too prim, a v-neck sweater too racy. I finally settled on the professionally hot outfit, which I hope spoke volumes about how ready I am to be engaged. 
 
Would you mind a tangent before we get to all things rings? No? Okay good, because ever since a friend of mine said I was “so young! I can’t believe you’re going to get engaged so young, Clink,” I’ve kind of been insecure about it. Granted, this friend is 33 and unmarried and a tad bitter about it, as she lives with her boyfriend of 10 years, a boyfriend who breaks out in hives at anything even remotely related to lifelong commitment. So, I really should consider the source. But, because it’s me we’re talking about here, of course I have taken what she said and have projected it to the rest of the universe, as if everyone is looking at me and shaking their heads and thinking “too young, too young.”  I know that 25 is a bit on the early side to get engaged and not everyone might be ready for it but not everyone has met their M and not everyone feels in their heart, like I do, that things are moving along at the perfect pace. /Tangent. 
 
Moving on, we ended up at Tiffany as I was running a bit late from work and Harry Winston and Cartier and Bulgari and DeBeers and every other jeweler were already closed. I didn’t mind ending up at Tiffany, as it is the store I know the best (M was a tad amused when we walked through the doors and I proclaimed, “Engagement rings on the second floor, let’s go.”) 
 
I wanted to try on four rings: a round solitaire, a round cut with a square-cut channel set band, (Male Readers: Am I losing you? Sorry. The next post will be all about sex or sports or something. Promise.), a round cut with a bead-set band and the Legacy ring.  
 
I tried on the solitaire first. And I looked down at the 2.5 carats and up at M and back down at the 2.5 carats and up at M and he just kind of nodded and then I just kind of nodded and then we kind of wasted the nice salesgirl’s time trying on the rest of the rings because, yeah, we had already found it. 

The solitaire! I was shocked. But it just felt right. A woman trying on engagement rings next to us even looked over, dropped her jaw and said, “honey, you’ve found your ring!” She was right. Much to my surprise (channel set band! How did I not realize before that you made my very long, thin fingers look so chunky!), I had.  
 
We tried on the solitaire with an eternity wedding band and I seriously did not want to take either of them off. “Can you see yourself wearing those for the rest of your life?” M asked. I nodded because I was too choked up (and blinded! By the sparkles!) to answer.  
 
What did not feel so right? OH, THE PRICE. That’s right, my pretty pretty practically flawless 2.5 carat diamond ring with a platinum band was priced at $46,800. Let me write that out for you: FORTY-SIX THOUSAND EIGHT HUNDRED DOLLARS. In some parts of the country, you can buy a house for that amount.  
 
I know M’s budget and, while ridiculously generous, even that caps out at about $20,000 (I will not let him spend that much, but 20 grand is his self-imposed limit).  
 
Sooooo, yeah. We probably won’t be getting the diamond at Tiffany. And I doubt solitaires will be drastically discounted at Harry Winston or Cartier. What M plans on doing is finding the diamond (colorless! Flawless! No fluorescence! Blah blah, as long as it sparkles) and then taking it to my parents’ private jeweler to set it in as close to a Tiffany setting as possible. 
 
I’m fine with that. Mostly, I’m fine with him NOT spending $46,800. Because M actually started to consider it (“baby, it looked amazing and if you really want it…”) but he was being ridiculous. Because, come on. The mark up at Tiffany is astronomical. You’re really paying for the little blue box.  
 
For the rest of the evening–all through dinner, all through ‘24’–I had Phantom Ring Syndrome. I’d look down at my hand and sort of sigh and then M would smile and say “soon” and then we’d kiss and it was all kind of disgustingly cute slash obnoxious. But really, I didn’t think it was possible to actually miss something that I never had in the first place. Alas, I do.  
 
So, that was ring shopping. All in all, a delicious experience. I highly recommend it, whether you’re close to getting married or not. All women should be able to try on sparkly thing after sparkly thing. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you about Phantom Ring Syndrome. 

 
(Note: I’m so torn up about what happened at Virginia Tech. I didn’t know anybody but I, like the rest of the country, am in mourning. I read the list of the “confirmed dead” out of respect this morning and said a little prayer for each one. I just remember college being one of the most secure times of my life-I felt so safe, especially on campus, especially in a classroom. Virginia Tech students have been robbed of that feeling, to the point that some of their lives were taken. So tragic. So much more important than rings.)

Longest Weekend Recap Ever. April 16, 2007

I loved this past weekend. I loved every single second of this past weekend to the point that, while walking to work in the rain this morning (rain! Always with the rain, New York! It’s getting old), a genuine smile replaced the scowl usually reserved for such weather.  
 
On Friday I left work at 4pm. Everyone else was leaving work at 4pm and I was just kind of sitting at my desk, checking un-updated blogs, and I thought to myself “I should leave at 4pm. No one will notice.” So I did. And no one did. 
 
I went to the gym, where I self-motivated all the way to an hour of cardio and an hour of weight training. TWO HOURS. IN THE GYM. WITH NO ONE TO MOTIVATE ME BUT MYSELF. Sure, my legs were jello and my arms were having a hard time even just holding my iPod by the end, but it sure felt good.  
 
I then walked the 15 blocks from the gym to the bakery, where I picked up the cookies for M’s party. And, OMIGOD THE COOKIES. I wish I could post pictures because words just don’t do them justice. They were better than I ever could’ve expected and I practically skipped the 10 blocks back to my apartment.  
 
Friday night I met up with some friends at Mary’s Fish Camp (Note to New Yorkers: If you haven’t already been, go! For the love of god and all things delicious and seafood-y!). I ate a lobster roll accompanied by a small mountain of Old Bay-seasoned fries, thus undoing my two hours of gym time but it was all so very, very worth it (I repeat: go!).  
 
We made the (in hindsight, poor) decision to move on to a bar in the Village. The type of bar without a name on the awning or the door. You either know what it is, or you don’t. You can imagine what kind of people frequent this bar. Oh you can’t? Well, let me think of a good example. Ok: the type of people (well, men) who will tell you you’re gorgeous and buy you a drink you didn’t ask for and then compliment your shoes and then get offended – OFFENDED! – when you finally get a word in edgewise to tell them that you have a boyfriend. I believe the word “bitch” was used. That was my cue to go home and curl up with said boyfriend, who has never used the word bitch in front of me, ever.  
 
Saturday morning there was sun! And relatively warm weather! And I hopped out of bed and walked to the gym and again kicked my own ass with some intense bike riding and intense weight lifting. I don’t know where all this motivation slash energy is coming from, or this newfound devotion to the gym, but I am going with it. And I am finally feeling like I am getting my $90 a month worth. Which has never, ever, happened before. 
 
My roommate and I decided to get manicures and pedicures at the overpriced but immaculate salon down the street. As I type this, I am stopping periodically to stare at my pale pink covered nails, thinking of how good they will look when accompanied by a sparkly, if temporary, diamond ring. We’re going tonight, hopefully, and I’m thrilled to have gotten a manicure because I don’t think they let you into Harry Winston or Cartier without first inspecting your nails. 
 
I then watched about 4,323 different home improvement/real estate shows that are all kind of the same (Design to Sell! Sell This House! Flip This House! Buy Me!) and yet I nonetheless DVR ALL OF THEM.  
 
Finally, it was time to take M to his surprise party. I was practically giddy from excitement as we drove downtown, prompting raised eyebrows from my boyfriend. 
 
“We’re just stopping for a drink right? And then going to dinner?” 
 
“Yes, yes, of course. I’m just, I don’t know, excited to see my old work friends.” 
 
I told him it was a birthday party for a former colleague. We’d just have to slip in, have a drink, and slip out. I had initially played it off as a commitment I was not too thrilled about, hence the questioning looks I received when I showed some enthusiasm. 
 
We walked in and they were all there – thirteen of his closest friends, mostly from college, many from four or five hours away. The look on M’s face was priceless and I was very grateful to the thoughtful friend who took a picture the moment he stepped into the private room. 
 
It’s boring to write things like “it was wonderful,” but it was. We ate dinner, we drank, I passed out the cookies for dessert but no one wanted to ruin them by eating them, so we then ordered blueberry cobbler and banana bread pudding. It was great. I felt great, especially when looking over at M and seeing him thoroughly enjoying himself, throwing his head back in laughter, catching up with the friends he loves but barely gets to see. It filled me in a way that doesn’t really lend itself to words.  
 
We even had sex in a bathroom. (Yeah, I admitted it. Yeah, I’m glad this blog is still anonymous. Yeah, I’m sure you probably think that it’s disgusting but I was drunk and it was fun and I don’t regret a second of it. Neither does M, I’m sure.)  
 
As we were drifting off to sleep around 4am that evening (morning), M wrapped his arms around me and kissed the back of my neck and said, “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” And I teared up, just a little.  
 
Sunday brought the rain and a great excuse not to leave the apartment all day. I felt slightly guilty ordering food, as the drenched deliveryman did not look too thrilled, but a good tip and even better burritos made it all worth it. We watched TV – baseball and The Office and Intervention (why do we subject ourselves to that? WHY!) and then My Big Fat Greek Wedding, which M has never seen. He cracked up and was thrilled when he understood a Greek word or tradition.  
 
M fell asleep before me, as he had only gotten a few hours of sleep the night before. I stayed up to read (The Ministry of Special Cases, Nathan Englander, amazing) and watch The Girls Next Door (also amazing). As I was getting ready to go to sleep, I looked at him resting next to me and I started to cry. The moment was so powerful that I almost wanted to wake him up so that he could share it with me. I was overcome with the realization – one I’ve had many times before, but never so dramatically – that I love him so very much. That our life together is something I am looking forward to so very much. That I must’ve done something very good in a former life to be so lucky as to end up with someone like him.  
 
I went to sleep on a tear stained pillow. Happy tears. It was such a great fucking weekend that the only reason I’m not clinically depressed that it’s over is because we are probably going ring shopping tonight.