Adaptable. May 30, 2007

In yesterday’s post I mentioned something about putting a personal moratorium on all wedding speak, for it may be bad luck and I do not want to taunt the Wedding Gods lest it rain on my special day. Or worse. 
 
However…well, yeah, like duh, you knew that wasn’t going to last. Plus, the blog doesn’t count. (My moratorium, my rules.)  
 
You see, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about bridesmaids.
  
My female friendships have shifted now that I’m in a serious relationship. It’s something all woman vow they’ll never let happen (BFF 4 EVA; SISTAS FOR LIFE) but are powerless against, really. I still see my friends, I still laugh with my friends, I still cry with my friends, I still am there for my friends, I still lean on my friends. However, my friends are no longer my sole support system. They are no longer the first phone call. M is, just as he should be. 
 
It’s not as though I traded in my friends for a newer, shinier, now with more testosterone Just As Good As Female Friends, But Can Have Sex With!™ version. Things just…changed. During the course of nursing and growing a relationship, M and I created a natural bubble around ourselves, in a way. And while there’s certainly a door and access is absolutely granted to those who knew us before we were an Us, there’s still a small film keeping us separate. It’s no longer an emotional free-for-all with my friends. Now there is a slight barrier between my world and theirs. Unintentionally, but still.  
 
That being said, it’s hard to take a look at my friends and determine who I want standing at the altar with me - in A-line, tea-length dresses with strappy sandals and elegant, simple bouquets. Because while I used to have a few Best Friends and some Very Close Friends, they now all kind of blur together into People I Love But Maybe Don’t See Or Talk To Daily, Would It Be Weird Now To Ask Them To Be My Bridesmaids?  
 
It’s something I’ve certainly had to deal with emotionally, and not easily. I’ve always been the girl who loved hanging out with the boys but whose heart belonged to the girls. From early childhood in the sandbox through my early 20’s in the bar, I’ve had a network of strong female friendships. Now that the spotlight burns instead on my relationship and my friendships have subsequently been relegated to back-up dancer status, I have had to come to terms with the fact that the me that once was is no longer the me that sits here, in love, about to get engaged, about to plan a wedding.  
 
The fact that most of my closest friends are now spread all across the country (Los Angeles, Boston, Los Angeles again) does not help.  
 
There’s a small part of me that just wants my sister to be my maid of honor and leave it at that. No drama (and, oh, I’ve been a bridesmaid and I have witnessed the drama and LO IT IS NOT PRETTY). I’ve even considered bucking tradition (ha! In a Greek Orthodox church!) and having my sister, my closest (male) cousin and my younger brother stand there with me, as there are not three other people in the world whom I would want as emotional support in close proximity to me on that day. 
 
Of course, then I won’t get the bridal party photos I’ve always dreamed about. And my bridal suite at the reception site won’t be buzzing with my beautiful friends in their beautiful dresses drinking beautiful champagne and comparing notes on the beautiful groomsmen.  
 
That’s how I’ve always pictured it. But, just as I’ve had to adjust from a single woman whose friends were her top priority to a woman in a serious relationship whose boyfriend slash future husband (we hope! After all this damn wedding talk!) is her top priority, I’m sure I can adjust to a wedding reality that is different from my inner vision. I’m adaptable like that. I think. I hope.

Ridiculously (no, seriously) long post. May 29, 2007

I’ve been pouting all day, mourning the supersized weekend and how unceremoniously it has melted back into the routine, the yawn-inducing.  
 
There were some hiccups (M’s very first migraine among them) but mostly it was the kind of weekend that, if reduced to montage form, would look like something out of a movie instead of real life. The only thing that could’ve made it better was if M got down on one knee in the shade of Central Park, shoving our half-eaten sandwiches and bottles of Poland Spring and the zillion and one magazines I bought aside, and asked me to be his. 
 
Except then I would’ve had to kill him because he knows that I don’t want it to happen in a public place where surrounding people then politely clap and jockey for position to get a glimpse of the ring, subsequently casting judgment on us and our relationship and our financial status based on the size and design. 
 
So, really, it was perfect as it was.  
 
On Friday I got gloriously drunk after work with a few of my co-workers and a few of their friends. So drunk, in fact, that I stumbled into my apartment clutching two bags full of McDonalds fare, which I promptly abandoned on the living room floor - without even eating so much as one fry - for the comfort of passing out in my bed until M came home from work. Have you ever woken up - hungover and parched and sick to your stomach - to the stench of McDonalds emanating throughout your apartment? Tip: it does not help with the hungover and sick-to-stomach-ness. Trust.  
 
Saturday quickly became an unplanned (but welcome nonetheless) pampering day, as I spent the majority of it getting a manicure and pedicure and retreating to the air-conditioned oasis of the Time Warner Center for a little (okay, a lot) of shopping. Have you been to Esprit lately? Neither had I. And, unless you have gobs money in your pocket to burn on very cute summer clothes, I suggest you don’t.  I came home with three overflowing red bags, prompting an eyebrow raise from my roommate who said what I’m sure everyone on the street was thinking: “Esprit? Really? Like the place where my mom used to buy all my clothes when I was ten?” Once I pulled out my dazzling array of (overpriced, REALLY overpriced but oh so cute) dresses, skirts and tops, she was no longer so skeptical. 
 
Saturday evening, M and I ventured to my old neighborhood, the Upper East Side, for some pasta at one of our old haunts. We decided to walk the forty blocks back to my apartment in hopes of silencing, just a bit, our groaning, overstuffed stomachs. Somewhere along the way, we passed a Pinkberry. And I was all, “I know I’m stuffed but I’ve been dying to try” and he was all “Clink, we have just eaten enough to feed a small but intrepid army” and I was all “it’s yogurt! Whatever! Always room for yogurt!” 
 
Pinkberry exceeded my expectations. I tend to look at Los Angeles exports with a skeptical eye (see: Couture, Juicy) but one spoonful of the original with strawberries and carob chips and I was smitten.  
 
Pinkberry was a great idea until we reached the 60’s on the east side and I started to feel a rumble in my tummy. A rumble that can only mean one thing: bathroom. Immediately. (Hi, sorry, I didn’t warn you that we were about to get so intimate but, yeah, we are.) I could barely speak as we slowly made our way down Lexington, as I was too busy clutching my tummy and waving my fist at the stomach gods for saddling myself and many of my family members with evil, vengeful stomachs.  
 
M, knight in shining armor that he is, flagged a taxi and politely asked the driver to take the fastest, least congested route back to my apartment. I’m sure that, initially, the driver was all “yeah, whatever dude, don’t you know that now I get paid more to sit in slow traffic?” However, a few seconds of groaning from the lady in the halter dress in the backseat was probably enough to sense that I was in labor and needed to get back to my apartment for a home birth.  
 
That’s what it felt like - labor. In between my moans I somehow managed to announce to M that we are “SO ADOPTING, OMIGOD.”  
 
“But I want my kids to be half Greek,” he protested, smiling.
  
“THEN WE WILL ADOPT FROM GREECE FOR THE FUCKING LOVE OF GOD.”  
 
The lesson learned? Chicken parm + a heaping side of pasta + lots of baked rigatoni stolen off of M’s plate + Pinkberry = not the brightest idea. Also, Clink has an evil stomach that should not be taunted with any combination of the above. Hi, salads! All week! 
 
I was too nauseous to meet up with friends later that evening, so M and I curled up in bed and somehow found our way to a Lifetime Original Movie (somehow = I put it on and refused to let M change the channel). Have you seen The Party Never Stops: Diary of a Binge Drinker? Well I have. And it was pure Lifetime brilliance. I loved - loved! - how the ‘rock bottom’ (SPOILER ALERT) was that, while backing a car out of a driveway after drinking, the main character hit a fire hydrant. And that - that! - was enough to scare her straight. Sigh. Lifetime, you kill me. 
 
Sunday was Migraine Day. I baked some more homemade Oreos as M shut himself up in my bedroom, shades drawn, pillows over his head, and moaned. It broke my heart to see him in such pain, and as it was his Very First Migraine, neither of us really knew what to do. So I dropped him off at his apartment - armed with some medication and Gatorade - and kissed his face before venturing to my parents’ house in New Jersey for a barbeque. 
 
The absence of M meant everyone could freely ask about my thoughts on the wedding and color schemes! Guest list! Venue! I managed to skirt most questions by stuffing my face full of grilled steak, widening my eyes and shrugging. As much as I want to talk about the upcoming engagement and nuptials, I’ve decided to put a personal moratorium on all such speak until there’s a ring on my finger. The superstitious part of me (the part that won’t move an inch if my college basketball team is winning but will all but turn my clothes inside out if they need to rally) thinks it’s bad luck.  
 
My mom (confined to the couch with a broken foot; my dad has taken to calling her “Peg Leg Pete”) and I spent the evening watching Little Children. Which was lovely and creepy and made me want to draw the shades a little tighter before I retired for the night because who knows what dangers lurk in suburbia. 
 
I drove back into the city early yesterday morning so as to beat all the traffic headed this way from the Hamptons and the Shore and the airports. M was feeling much better, so the two of us decided to head to Central Park and roll around on a blanket and read the paper and generally bask in the great weather and the being in love.
 
There was one point, I was reading Sunday’s Styles section (natch) while laying on my back and M was sitting up reading Sports (again, natch) and I put the paper down and stroked his back a little and he turned and leaned down and kissed me and I looked up at him, framed by the sunlight sifting through the trees and was all sigh, love. In that moment, there was nothing but him and me and what was between us. It was awesome.
 
After we had had our fill of flicking bugs off of each other and moaning about our aching backs, we spent some time in Borders before heading home to cook some angel hair pasta with shrimp and feta, which is the easiest thing in the world to cook but shhh don’t tell M because he thinks I’m an absolute goddess every time I make it. 
 
On a whim we walked up to the movie theater to see what was playing and decided on Waitress, which, okay, just see it. But sneak a few slices of pie into the theater with you. Trust me on that one. 
 
And here I am at work, staring at the list of things to do that I made on Friday. Friday, when all I could think about was leaving work early and going for drinks with my co-workers and kicking off a 3-day weekend. Friday, when I was pretty unconcerned with how intimidating and ambitious the list would be on Tuesday, especially on the heels of a few days of non-work bliss.  
 
I think of Friday now and the edges of the day are blurred, like in a dream. Friday held so much promise and the weekend made good on that promise and now it’s the weekday, and I have nothing to look forward to but this weekend, which will feel like a gyp because it is only two days. 
 
At least it’s Tuesday. At least this is a four-day week. At least there’s that, eh?

Copping out. May 25, 2007

Stolen from the Internets because it is almost 2pm on a Friday before a three-day weekend and I plan on leaving at 3pm to start drinking and really, at this point, I think I should focus on the task at hand for the next hour. (The task being online shopping because as much as this great weather makes me want to LICKNEW YORK, I do need some clothes of the short- and no-sleeves variety in order to not boil to death. Or something.)
 
See y’all on TUESDAY. (That makes me so happy to type. So, so, so happy.)
 
Four jobs I have held:
 
(1) Executive assistant to the creator and executive producer of a major children’s television show (my first and, to date, most favorite job); (2) Casting producer for a major network reality show (“Hi, are you crazy? Great, I’m going to book you on the show”); (3) Sales associate at Victoria’s Secret (sigh, those were heady days of a corporate discount, my parents’ limitless credit card and a newfound enthusiasm for lacy undergarments); and (4) babysitter (“So, do you know where Mommy keeps the chocolate?”)
 
Four movies I can watch over and over:
 
(1) Sliding Doors; (2) Newsies (shut up); (3) Clueless (they called me Cher in high school; the fact that I actually used “as if!” and “what-EVER” as serious forms of communication could’ve had something to do with it. Plus, long blonde hair) and (4) Layer Cake (not so much that I want to watch it over and over, more that my boyfriend watches it over and over and I am usually with him when he does and therefore have proven that I can watch it over and over, albeit somewhat reluctantly).
 
Four places I have lived:
 
(1) New York; (2) Pennsylvania; (3) New Jersey; and (4) London.
 
Four categories of TV programming I enjoy:
 
(1) Reality (ANTM, Pussycat Dolls, Project Runway, Top Chef, Real Housewives of Orange County, Work Out, The Hills, the list goes on and on and on and on (and on)); (2) Action/Adventure/Drama (Heroes, 24); (3) Cooking shows (Ina, Nigella, Giada); and (4) Did I mention reality shows? Maybe I should one more time.
 
Four places I have been on holiday:
 
(1) Greece; (2) Brussels (accidentally); (3) Amsterdam; and (4) Wisconsin.
 
Four of my favorite dishes:
 
(1) The four-cheese gnocchi at Bianca; (2) pizza; (3) cheeseburgers, made by my mom and grilled by my dad; and (4) anything that involves something warm (brownies, pie, cobbler) coupled with vanilla ice cream. 
 
Four websites I visit daily:
 
(1) Gmail; (2) New York Times; (3) Gawker; and (4) My kick-ass (and growing!) blogroll.
 
Four places I would rather be right now:
 
(1) At my family’s house in Greece, reading on the veranda; (2) next to my boyfriend, in bed; (3) eating any of the above favorite dishes; (4) in Target (duh).

And here’s the follow-up post. May 24, 2007

Now that I know, it is - quite obviously - impossible to un-know.  
 
Clearly no one meant any harm. Not my mom. Not M. Not my father. Not the Vicodin (ok, maybe the Vicodin).  
 
Throughout this process, save for some ring browsing (necessary, as I did not know how to answer the question “what kind of ring do you want?”), I’ve been putting my fingers in my ears and saying “LA LA LA LA” in hopes of protecting the element of surprise that is so dear (at least, to me) in this particular situation.  
 
I take solace in the fact that I still don’t know when, where, how. And last night, I made M promise that I wouldn’t find out until it was actually happening.  
 
“Don’t worry,” he said, “I won’t tell your mom.”  
 
I woke up this morning in an allergy-induced fog. Sometime in the shower, after the shampoo and before the conditioner, it all hit me. Like a seven year old who wakes up on December 25^th and, after blinking a few times, realizes that it’s not just any other morning. And just as that seven year old races downstairs to bask in video games and a skateboard from Santa, I raced (post-conditioner, post-soap, post-shaving of the legs as it is skirt season) into my bedroom, where my boyfriend was wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, and kissed him all over his face, basking in the glow of pre-engagement.   
 
Because now that I know, why not enjoy it a little bit? It’s no use pouting about how now it won’t be as much of a surprise. It never really was much of a surprise as I knew it was going to happen sometime before the end of August as August is when I will forever leave Roommateland and enter into LivingWithTheOneILoveVille. Also, I had a pretty good idea it would happen before the sticky weather sets in because M knows me well enough to know that I don’t want to get engaged in sticky, hot, humid weather (mainly because my hair + hot, sticky, humid weather = DO NOT TAKE A PICTURE, I DON’T CARE IF WE JUST GOT ENGAGED AND WANT TO CAPTURE THE DAMN MOMENT).  
 
Anyway, where was I? Oh right. Enjoying it. All throughout the day I’ve had little spasms of glee that start in the center of my torso and crawl throughout the rest of my body like dancing spiders on a mission (it’s the most accurate, if not the most romantic, description; shut up). The thing about me is, I’m great at compartmentalizing. So any disappointment that still remains has been banished to the furthest corner of my mind, locked in a windowless cell without even a tray of stale bread or a cup of brown water (take THAT, Disappointment!).  
 
It will still probably be some time before you get the close-up shot of the ring along with some sort of ridiculous all-caps headline in which I announce that it is official. (Although, I have a theory: M thinks that I think that now that I know he’s going to wait a while for the enthusiasm to die down. Taking that into consideration, he will probably ask sooner rather than later in order to extract the most shock value out of the situation, because I certainly won’t be expecting him to do it so soon on the heels of this recent revelation.) 
 
Anyway, between now and then, I’m just going to bask in the glow of my own little private Christmas, the sense of peace and jolt of excitement that comes with knowing that someone very special loves you and wants to make you theirs, forever and ever amen.

Can’t make it up. May 23, 2007

So about a half an hour ago I was sitting at my desk, minding my own business, doing some work, tending to my f(*#$& allergies, perhaps reading a blog or two (or eleventy thousand) when I got a phone call from my boyfriend. 
 
Boyfriend: Your mom broke her foot, you should call her. She’s leaving the hospital now. 
 
Self: (Thinking: how in the hell does my boyfriend have all of this information) Um, how in the hell do you have all of that information? 
 
Boyfriend: I can’t tell you. 
 
Self: Oh yeah? Really? It’s classified information requiring level five access, Jack Bauer?  
 
Boyfriend: Exactly. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go save the planet from yet another evil minority group intent on blowing us all to smithereens as revenge for that one guy of theirs I tortured a decade ago. Bauer out. 
 
Self: (Confused) 
 
A few moments later, my father called. 
 
Father: Your mother broke her foot. She was wearing her Jessica Simpson shoes. Enough said. 
 
Self: Yeah, I heard actually. 
 
Father: Oh, you spoke with her? 
 
Self: No, I spoke to M. How did M know— 
 
Father: Ohhhkay. Well, gotta go practice some law. Call mom! Love you! Bye! 
 
Self: (Thinking: Huh. Interesting. ) 
 
I called my mother to see how she was doing.
 
Mother: Oh me? I’m fine. I’m fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine.  
 
Self: Really? No pain? 
 
Mother: Nope. Not at all. 
 
Self: Mom, you fractured a bone in your foot. How can there possibly be no pain? 
 
Mother: Oh they have me on this stuff…hold on…what’s it called…oh yeah, Vicodin. They have me on Vicodin.  
 
Self: Oh, well that makes sen— 
 
Mother: Oh! OH! And CONGRATULATIONS! We’re so excited! 
 
Aaaaaand thanks to Vicodin combined with my mother’s big mouth, I now know that M knew about my mother’s foot because M called my father earlier today because M has apparently bought a diamond and wants to go with my parents to get it set at their private jeweler and he apparently asked for their blessing and they’re just so happy and excited and life is all sunshine and sausages. 
 
Mother: Wait, you’re not going to tell M that I told you, right? I don’t want him to think his future mother-in-law can’t keep a secret.  
 
Unreal. Still processing the fact that this all actually happening and I now know about something that I really didn’t want to know about. More tomorrow.

Domestic Goddess. Now with hand mixer! May 23, 2007

Last night, I used a hand mixer for the first time. 
 
(You’ll be happy to know that, defying all expectations, I still have all of my appendages.) 
 
You see, I saw photos and a recipe for homemade Oreos here. My first thought was to lick my monitor. My second thought was, “huh, I wonder if I could make those.”  And then I went back to thinking about licking my monitor. 
 
I’m a novice in the kitchen (hence the never having used a hand mixer before yesterday). However, while I don’t come equipped with an ability to measure things by eye and the latest kitchen gadgetry, I do have a willingness to learn. A Domestic Goddess Ambition, if you will. If I am ever to convince M that I would make a stellar stay-at-home wife slash mom, something tells me I should probably learn how to cook first. My argument of “I can stay home! And, uh, order dinner and have it waiting by the time you walk through the door!” probably won’t get me very far. 
 
So, right, homemade Oreos. After work I walked to Bed, Bath and Beyond and took the escalator down into the depths of heaven (I live in Manhattan - Manhattan! - and yet my favorite place in all of the city is a chain home goods store; that is, until they finally BUILD A TARGET).  
 

I spent a half an hour trying to decide which hand mixer to buy (Obnoxious Girly Me: Who cares if the pink one is almost one hundred dollars. IT IS PINK. YOU MUST HAVE A PINK HANDMIXER. Practical Me: Dude, I wouldn’t even take me seriously if I had a pink handmixer).  
 
I ended up not only with a handmixer but another baking sheet and a sifter and some more mixing bowls and many other things that all ended up being very expensive and very heavy to carry the ten blocks home. 
 
After a stop at the grocery store for all of the ingredients (except for salt; I already had the salt), I got to work. 

 
Within only a very short period of time, my kitchen looked like this:

 

And this:

A close up (please ignore the mozzarella cheese; I was planning on snacking on it but never got around to it): 

Ok, so the pictures don’t really illustrate just how COVERED IN POWDER AND OTHER THINGS everything was. I even had streaks of powder in my hair. Awesome. 
 
I also didn’t realize just how long it takes while mixing for the ingredients to go from crumbly-kinda-damp texture to something in the general vicinity of dough. I was just about to give up (STUPID BROKEN HANDMIXER WHAT THE FUCK) when all of a sudden everything started to come together in a mass, just like the recipe said! Hurrah! Am not total failure in the kitchen!  
 
Or, er, the living room as I had to hijack some of the table space: 

Somehow SOME WAY, I ended up with these: 

And, subsequently, plenty of these… 

…ended up in my mouth.  (Also, M’s mouth. And my roommate’s mouth. And the mouths of the friends I had over for drinks.) 
 
I got into bed at the end of the day to relax for a bit. Needless to say, I was all kinds of shocked and awed when I noticed that my very white skirt managed to remain white:

 

I think that meets one of the major qualifications for Domestic Goddess, don’t you?

Built to last. May 21, 2007

It’s hard to discuss my relationship with my sister without giving 21 years of backstory.  
 
In sum, I know her better than anyone else. For better, or worse. 
 
We’re complete opposites, both physically and emotionally. Sometime after I went to college (and, not coincidentally I’m sure, the same time we stopped sharing a bathroom), we forged a pretty tight bond. We don’t speak every day and we certainly don’t agree on everything but we’re close. There for each other. Supportive.  
 
Which, of course, is why she can hurt me more than anyone else can. 
 
My sister has a history of hitting below the belt. She is analytical and whip-smart and knows exactly what buttons to push and how exactly to push them in order to maximize effectiveness. If she’s angry, if she’s hurt, if she’s vulnerable, she aims for the jugular. And, while she’s certainly going to be a great litigation lawyer some day, being in her line of fire can make even the strongest man or woman cower in a corner and beg for mercy. 
 
The fact that she’s model-gorgeous just adds to the effect. 
 
She was in a snippy mood all this past weekend. I understood, to a degree. Emotions, coupled with the difficult task of coordinating 20 relatives in town for the event, were running high.  
 
However, we were all having a great time at dinner on Saturday night until a few of my aunts brought up my impending engagement. They asked me when I thought it would happen and what type of ring I wanted. I answered them enthusiastically (the best way to get me to smile these days is to bring up any of the following words: “engagement,” “ring,” “wedding.”)  
 
My sister, in front of the entire table, rolled her eyes and commented that the engagement was all I could talk about (not true! I can also speak extensively about shoes and my new favorite restaurant.)Then, in her most biting tone, she said “I mean, you’re not even engaged yet. And who knows if you will be. I mean, who knows how long you and M will last?” (Apropos of nothing, mind you, as she loves M and knows that we are a strong couple.)  
 
Everyone was momentarily shocked before my father made a witty comment and all was soon forgotten by everyone but me. To be honest, it’s not the most horrible thing she’s ever said to me. However, it hurt right down to my core. This is my sister, this is my future maid of honor, this is someone who is supposed to be excited about me getting engaged just as I am excited beyond words for her to start the post-college chapter of her life. The fact that she was so venomous and dismissive had me fighting back tears.  
 
She hasn’t apologized, and she won’t. She’s stubborn and prideful and is used to everyone just forgiving her and moving on so as to keep the peace in the family. As much as I am adamant about standing my ground at the moment, I know that there will come a time when I will cave and forgive, if not forget.  
 
But right now, it’s still hurtful. My parents have assured me that it comes from a place of jealousy and that she didn’t really mean it and that she’s still young. All true, but not enough to make me shrug and say “you’re right, silly me, I shouldn’t be so upset.” At least not yet. 
 
I hate to paint a negative picture of her because in many ways, she’s so amazing. She’s smart and witty and sophisticated and gorgeous and many other positive adjectives. She just also happens to be a bitch sometimes.  
 
The truth is, I can’t wait until M and I do get engaged and then married and then pregnant and then and then and then…Because I hope that one day, when she and I are in our eighties and I’m still happily married to M, I will be lucid enough to remember and then turn to her and say, “what was that about M and I not lasting?”   

Wherein I take television very seriously. May 18, 2007

This post is directed to all those who watch The Office and saw the finale last night. (To all others: seriously?! You don’t watch The Office?! I don’t know if we can be friends. No, not even Imaginary Internet friends.) 
 
For a very long time, I was pro-Pam. Because Pam and Jim were clearly meant for each other and even though Roy and a wedding and distance and an awkward kiss stood in the way, the unapologetic romantic in me still held high hopes for their reunion. 
 
Enter Karen. I didn’t like her from the start mostly because Karen is the name of M’s ex-girlfriend and no, I am not above grouping everyone who possesses a particular name into the “suck” category for that reason alone.  
 
She was exotic looking. She was funny. She wore cute clothes. How the hell was Pam - with her half-curly, half-straight hair and her dowdy wardrobe supposed to compare? I hated Karen for being a threat to all cute, fun girls everywhere.  
 
Except last night, as all things Pam-Jim-Karen-Love-Triangle came to a head, M said something that kind of tilted my universe (shut up; I get very invested in television) and made me see things from a new perspective: 
 
After (SPOILER ALERT! SPOILER ALERT!) Jim drove back to the Scranton office and asked Pam on a date, M kind of shook his head (shut up; he gets very invested in television too) and said, “He’s leaving a great relationship with Karen for a maybe relationship with Pam. What sense does that make?” 
 
And in that moment, I realized I had identified with the wrong girl all along. I am Karen - the girl in a great relationship with a great guy. Karen wasn’t the threat, Pam was. Pam is the mystical “we’re just friends, no really” creature that lives in my head and stirs up The Crazy if I allow myself to obsess (which, hi, I don’t anymore. For serious).  
 
And, last night, that bitch won.  
 
The truth is, the writers made Karen very likable (despite her name; quite a feat). She and Jim did have a great relationship. They had chemistry and compatibility. I wanted to slap my forehead for being such an idiot and not rooting for them all along. 
 
Now I’m all, “Pam?! With the ill-fitting button down shirts and the grandma cardigans?! REALLY, JIM?!”  
 
(Again, a little too invested in television.) 
 
It just resonated with me, what M said and the subsequent realization that, yes, people do do that. They throw away great relationships because the “what if” is just so much more intriguing and exciting than the “lovely, but comfortable.” (I think it goes without saying that I grabbed M’s face between my hands and kissed him and very sweetly made him promise not to ever leave me for a maybe relationship. I let The Crazy have her way every so often, so long as it’s relatively harmless.) 
 
Moving on (because did I really just write an entire entry about a fictional love triangle and how it applies to my life?), there was a part in last night’s episode when Jim and Karen were doing the New York Trip Montage thing and Jim said “and then we ate at the Spotted Pig” and M and I looked at each other and burst out laughing because that’s exactly where we hung out with him (the real life version of him; just as adorable, ladies) last year. It was kind of cool. Ok, fine, maybe only to us.  Whatever. 
 
Also (unrelated! Sorry! I’m all over the place!), y’all, M is really testing the strength of my will not to cave into curiosity. Case in point: he was in the shower last night and I was at his desk, working on his computer and right there, as in, a few inches to my right was some sort of Diamond Certification SomethingOrOther. And part of me was all, “HOLY OMIGOD.” And then another (the evil, evil part) was all “if I snuck a peek…no one would know…except for me…and the Internets, of course…” Luckily I was able to tear myself away from the Sheet That May Or May Not Have Contained Important Information About What I Will Be Wearing On My Left Hand Hopefully Very Soon. I even surprised myself.  
 
And for that, I’m totally going to let myself have a burger and fries for lunch (I don’t expect you to understand my logic, just know that it makes sense in my head).

Hamburger Helper. And other things. May 17, 2007

Things on my mind: 
 
-My sister graduates from college this weekend. In fact, she graduates from the same college I went to and the same college my father went to (what? We’re big on the legacy advantage). It’s always emotional for me, going back there. Even though I didn’t enjoy college nearly as much as I thought I would (I drank a lot! And I hooked up a lot! And I dressed like a slut a lot! And yet somehow it was still unfulfilling!) time has created a sense of nostalgia, and somehow memories of me doing a keg stand or stumbling home from another dorm at 8am in last night’s party clothes have morphed from “holy god, I DID that? Seriously?” to “aww, those were the days.”  
 
-Speaking of mixed emotions, I cannot believe my little sister is graduating college. I feel old and proud and protective and worried and excited all at once. She’s taking a year off before law school and she’ll most likely be working at my dad’s firm and for her graduation, I’m going to give her a huge chunk of money to buy new clothes because hoodies with tiny whales on them and ripped jeans and the tiniest tank tops and tee shirts I have ever seen are just not going to cut it in the ‘real world.’ It’ll be like my own version of A Makeover Story. Except she’s not going to listen to anything I say (“no more Abercrombie! I’m serious! Their skirts do not even completely cover the ass!”). 
 
-On a wholly unrelated note, but on my mind nonetheless, my new boss on this new project I’m working on is driving me crazy. I was a double major in college and one of those majors was English and my mother is an English teacher and my father has impeccable grammar and GRAMMATICALLY CORRECT WRITING WAS AND CONTINUES TO BE IMPORTANT IN THE CLINK HOUSEHOLD. While I’m not saying I get everything right all the time, I tend not to confuse (note: UNLIKE YOU, NEW BOSS) “roll” (as in, dinner) with “role” (as in, a part in a film) or “they’re” with “their” or “it’s” with “its” or I could go on and on and on and on and on. I can deal with it when it’s just an email to me, but when he emails, say, the World’s Most Famous Director or Quirky and Popular Actor, then I cringe for him. And for the both of us. And for the English language in general. Can anyone come up with a gentle yet forceful way of saying: “For the LOVE OF GOD GOOD SIR, PLEASE FORWARD ME YOUR EMAILS BEFORE YOU SEND THEM SO THAT I CAN CORRECT THEM”?  
 
-We’re eating Hamburger Helper tonight. Backstory: We were in the grocery store the other day, discussing indulgences we rarely allow ourselves to have. M pretty much allows himself to have anything he wants (other than non-diet Coke) because, well, if you had his metabolism you wouldn’t worry much about gaining weight either. I, of course, started spouting a list of things I love but never let myself eat (Chipwiches, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Taco
Bell…). We just happened to be in the Hamburger Helper aisle (or whatever aisle it is that you would find HH), and I pointed at a box and said “…also, that.” So M picked up the box and put it in our cart and said, “let’s eat it sometime this week.” Like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like, oh yeah, we can TOTALLY be the type of people who just eat Hamburger Helper like it’s a grilled chicken salad. I, needless to say, have been thinking about Hamburger Helper all day. Unfortunately, a spinning class stands between me and the beefy, cheesy goodness. But you can bet your ass I’ll be envisioning sweet, delicious, calorie-filled dinner as I climb or sprint or jump the saddle or whatever the hell else the tyrant instructor is going to make us do.

Will you still need me, will you still feed me… May 16, 2007

So yesterday, on my way home from the gym, I walked behind a very cute, very old couple. I ignored my New Yorker instinct to pass them and instead hovered slightly behind them, because I love old couples. Especially when they are so cute. (I tend to imagine myself and M as a very cute, very old couple. I’ll be the adorable, sunshine-y one and he’ll be the crotchety sarcastic one and it will be just like a sitcom, except without the laugh track and the annoying neighbor.)  
 
We passed a newsstand where the latest issue of [Cosmo, Glamour, Marie Claire, they’re all the damn same] was prominently on display. 
 
Old Couple Wife: (observing) Seven thing men want in bed? 
 
Old Couple Husband: Hmm. (Begins to list, in all seriousness) Well, a pillow, sheets, a nice comforter, a glass of water, a good book, a lamp…That’s six… 
 
His wife just kind of nodded her head in agreement and my heart almost burst from the cuteness. I smiled all the way home and, when I saw M later than night, I kissed him and said “I cannot WAIT until we’re ninety.”