Was this really hard for everyone else? Because it was for me. July 31, 2007

Thank god for Molly and being tagged, mainly because, well, I HAVE NOTHING ELSE TO WRITE ABOUT (Writer’s Block: the birth of many a meme).  

I mean, really, the only other thing going on in my life at the moment is the fact that M’s front license plate got stolen and I am ANGRY about it, especially because he keeps getting tickets for a missing license plate when HEY COPS, IT WAS STOLEN BECAUSE IT IS A LICENSE PLATE SPECIAL TO PEOPLE IN HIS LINE OF WORK, A LICENSE PLATE THAT ALLOWS HIM TO PARK PRETTY MUCH WHEREVER HE WANTS WHICH, AND I DON’T KNOW IF YOU’VE NOTICED THIS, IS VERY VALUABLE IN MANHATTAN. SO MAYBE IF YOU WERE DOING YOUR JOBS INSTEAD OF WRITING DAMN LITTLE ORANGE TICKETS, YOU WOULD’VE CAUGHT THE BASTARDS RIPPING OFF HIS LICENSE PLATE EXCEPT YOU DIDN’T BECAUSE YOU SUCK AND WRITING TICKETS IS THE ONLY THING YOU ARE GOOD AT. 

Ahem.  Moving on. 

A list of Ten Things I Like About Me. Which is hard because, while I am brilliant – brilliant! – at picking myself apart, I am not so good at patting my own head and lovingly whispering in my own ear about just how awesome I am. You’d think, after all this time living with Roommate, that I would be pretty damn good at stroking my own ego, but no. So. Here goes. 

1. I have great nails. I’m not kidding. Almost every woman who has ever given me a manicure has commented on my nails. The nailbeds are nicely shaped, the nails themselves are strong, and there aren’t any ridges or white spots. Even my cuticles behave. Now that the main focus of my left hand is my ring, it’s nice to have a decent stage on which to display it, and that includes my nails.  

2. I am thoughtful. I’m the friend that will send you the perfect card for your birthday, one that somehow incorporates an inside joke, after hours spent scouring the selection at CVS or Duane Reade. I am the friend that will mail you a care package after your break-up, complete with homemade chocolate chip cookies, some booze, some expensive bath products and an ex-boyfriend voodoo doll. I remember birthdays and anniversaries and who had what job interview on what day. Hell, I’ve been known to send gourmet caramel apples to one’s office…just because. My sister was the envy of her roommates throughout college as she was always on the receiving end of a package from me, because I know that college students are broke and everyone is entitled to new clothes or make-up or delicious food once in a while. 

3. I’m not cheap. I have many friends who are. Friends who make six figure bonuses on top of their six figure salaries and will still compute, down to the penny, exactly what they owe for a meal. I am not that type of person and it comes directly from my parents, as they are the most generous people I know. They’ve been known to sit down at a restaurant, spot friends sitting across the room, and then ask the waiter to put the friends’ meal on their (my parents’) tab. I may not be that generous (but I also don’t have a Platinum AmEx), but I definitely don’t count my pennies and I will definitely throw in a few bucks if we come up short for the bill and I will pay for your manicure if you don’t have cash and then tell you to forget about it. And I’ll mean it.  

4. I’m helpful. New Yorkers get a bad rap, mainly because tourists come here, take one look at our “don’t fuck with me while I’m walking down the street” faces and report back home that everyone in New York City is mean and scary and by golly, Laura Dee, we are never leaving Alabama again! Except, most New Yorkers I know are very helpful, myself included. Even if I’m running late to work and I just spilled coffee on my white skirt and I have a meeting that I am under prepared for, I will still stop and help tourists who want to know where “the Times Square is?” (Most of the time I just say, “Look up. You’re here! Yay! Have fun!”) It’s part of working and living in Midtown. There are tourists everywhere, and Manhattan (especially the subway system) is not easy to navigate. While I do feel I should get some sort of “honorary tour guide” stipend from the city for how often I tell people what subway line to take to get to where they’re going, I truly don’t mind helping tourists. Or anyone for that matter.  

5. I’m very proactive. For example: I have a lot of anxiety, more than most people. I barely slept in my old apartment when I was alone because every sound – no matter how normal, how small – convinced me that someone was breaking in through the living room window after climbing the fire escape. I can’t tell you how many late nights turned early mornings I spent huddled under the covers in fear, watching Nickelodeon because it was the only channel that probably wasn’t going to have any commercials for scary movies, the lights on, drenched in sweat, fighting off sleep. I recently spent a sleepless Saturday night alone in my apartment and on Sunday I decided to do something about it. I went to Barnes and Noble and purchased “The Gift of Fear” by Gavin de Becker. Amongst other things, the book teaches how to distinguish real, actual, you-are-in-danger FEAR from needless worry and anxiety. And, while it hasn’t taken away all of my fears, it has certainly lessened them. I’m good at that – taking action. If there’s something that’s bothering me or affecting my life, I will take steps to either lessen the effect or get rid of it entirely. That also spills over into being very proactive at work, which has certainly earned me accolades. 

6. I have a great body shape. It took me a long time to like myself. There were many years, mostly in high school, when I longed to be short and petite and all-around tiny. Guess what, I’m not. But when I’m slim and feeling good and working out, I have to admit that my body shape is kind of kick ass: I’m fairly tall, with an ample chest that tapers down to a small waist which then curves out again at the hips. Not the worst thing in the world. And, while my flat-chested or tiny friends can certainly wear things that I can only dream of, I tend to fill out clothes well and bathing suits even better. I’m always on a quest to lose some weight or feel better about myself but, when it comes down to it, I was blessed with a pretty awesome shape. The problem is, of course, keeping that shape in shape. 

7. I’m a baker. And a good one at that. I only started baking recently and, while my waistline hasn’t exactly benefited, my friends and family certainly have. I have a knack for following a recipe and am developing an knack for knowing when to hold back on some of the sugar or when a touch of cinnamon would be the perfect complement to a cookie. I love baking. I would bake even if I didn’t get to eat the finished product, so I’m thrilled that I turned out to be a pretty natural baker. A natural cook on the other hand? Um, yeah. No.  

8. I have a great fashion sense. Well, I was named Most Fashionable Girl in middle school but that was mostly because my mom also has a great fashion sense and always dressed me straight out of an Esprit catalog. However, over time, I’ve developed my own style and I must say that I am proud of my wardrobe, even if I occasionally have a war with it in the morning. Whenever a friend is going on a date or a job interview, she always asks to borrow something or if I can come over and put an outfit together for her. In fact my roommate took five of my dresses to Canada with her for a wedding this past weekend. Clearly I wish I was this talented at something like, oh, nuclear physics but still. There are worse things in the world than to be good at dressing yourself (or others).  

9. I’m super clean and neat. Windex and a roll of paper towels = my best friends. I just feel calm when things are clean and neat so I work to keep them that way (or, in the case of M’s apartment when we first started dating, get them that way). I don’t mind cleaning up after other people, so roommates of mine have always adored this little anal part of my personality. My desk at work is fairly spotless and people, if you ever come over and drop one of my freshly made cookies on the floor, don’t hesitate about picking it up and popping it in your mouth. My floors are so clean, they sparkle. You think I’m kidding. 

10. If I love you, you are one lucky individual. I don’t love with the equivalent of a limp handshake. I love strongly and with authority. Much like Molly, my closest friends and especially my family are people I would do anything for. Seriously, anything. M says that I have the biggest heart of anyone he’s ever met and while he has to say that because he’s my fiancé, I’m glad that the people I love know that I love them and know that I’d do anything for them. Especially my little brother. I once told him, when he was afraid to go on a trip, that I’d fly over there and get him and bring him back if he needed me to. You know I love you if I will VOLUNTARILY FLY SOMEWHERE for you.
 

And just in case you think that this is a little too “way to really pat yourself on the back there, Clink” just note that this took me forever, whereas a list of 10 things I don’t like about myself would’ve taken me under five minutes.

Also, I tag you. Yes, you. 

BrideFriends July 30, 2007

It probably wasn’t the best idea for me to watch Father of the Bride on Saturday morning considering I was a day away from my period and therefore highly emotional and therefore I sobbed throughout the whole thing. 
 
Like, start to finish. Like, not even an exaggeration. Like, hi, could we get some crazy pills over here? Thanks.  
 
*** 
 
Last night, M and I went out for Mexican (diet? I do not know this diet of which you speak) with two other couples, both engaged.  
 
The sound from the female end of the table can only be described as squawking. Get three brides to be (October ’07, July ’08, September ’0 together in the same place and they will not stop talking for the duration of the meal, only stopping to shovel bites of food when another bride is discussing the roughest part of her wedding planning thus far: the color scheme (“wait, you can have three colors? My world just changed.”)  
 
The truth is, there couldn’t be three more different brides planning three more different weddings. The first child in me feels compelled to make a list: 
 
Bride A: Early thirties, lives at home, from a very wealthy and well-connected family. Is planning what can only be described as a Platinum Wedding. Seriously, people. There’s no way to put this into words except to say that their engagement party was akin to most people’s weddings, with a cocktail hour, a sit-down dinner, a band, a Viennese hour and 200 people. The wedding will be close to 400 people and will feature, amongst other things, an 11-piece orchestra and breakfast served at 1am. BREAKFAST. As in, they are feeding us at the cocktail hour, feeding us at the dinner, feeding us at the Viennese hour and then FEEDING US BREAKFAST. The rock on the bride’s finger is only slightly smaller than your average baseball and they are taking a three-week honeymoon across the world, a “gift” from the bride’s parents (because the “gift” of the wedding and the “gift” of buying them a home clearly wasn’t enough). I’m not bitter or jealous, as it’s not anything I would want for myself (do you even know 400 people? I do not know 400 people). I’m just in awe that something like this is occurring outside of the movies. 
 
Bride B: Me! You know all about my wedding, clearly. But, to put it into context, here are some quick stats: 175 people, held at an elegant, modern loft in Manhattan; very simple and clean – from the centerpieces to the bridesmaids’ dresses; a city wedding through and through for which stunning views, a New York feel and great food and drinks are of the highest priority.  
 
Bride C: Late twenties, very independent, never really thought she’d get married. Refuses to adhere to tradition (might have a pink dress!), wants something very simple and casual. Is currently planning a garden party on an estate in Massachusetts and wants to keep things as low-key as possible. Could not stress enough just how non-opulent she wants it to be; is considering serving barbeque.  
 
See? Different. And yet, when you’re getting married, it doesn’t matter how different your visions are. You are bound because you are women and you are planning a wedding and that is enough to make you fast friends. I know each of these women through M, one is the future wife of his friend from college and the other bride is his friend. I’ve met them both on multiple occasions and have always enjoyed their company.  
 
However, last night was something different. We crossed the line from “friendly” to “friends.” BrideFriends.These are people who actually listen and care when I discuss whether or not pink and brown bridesmaid dresses will clash with black tuxes. These are people I actually take seriously as we debate the merits of a platinum band versus white gold. These are people who can relate when I talk about my seven bridesmaids and how I’m considering adding an eighth.  
 
One of them even admitted to weeping over Father of the Bride, which is proof that being around these new BrideFriends makes me feel less crazy. No easy feat, clearly.

Snippets. July 27, 2007

-My entire family is in Greece right now. Well, my entire family with the exception of my workaholic father, who refuses to even take a lunch break, let alone a vacation. (He doesn’t count.) Jealous isn’t really the way to describe how I feel. Nostalgic? Wistful, maybe? Prone to thinking that if I sit at my desk and squeeze my eyes shut and think real hard, I can be magically transported there? 
 
There being here:

      

   

-Last night, after my friends had gone home and I licked the last of the hummus off my fingers and took a final sip of what was my fourth glass of wine, M and I headed down six floors in my building to check out the apartment that may (cross your fingers! And any other crossable limbs, please) be ours come September. It’s a smidge smaller than my apartment now, but more than enough space for the two of us. It was late, and quiet – especially for our part of Manhattan – and we just sort of stood in the middle of the living room after touring the rest of the apartment. M pulled me in for a hug and kissed the top of my head and said, “we’re going to have a lot of great memories in this place.” And I? Well, duh people. I cried. (Slash mentally tried to figure out if there’s a chance M’s beloved recliner won’t be able to fit so that we can “donate” it to someone who needs the eyesore piece of furniture more than we do.) 
 
-This is going to sound so, oh, “it’s 1950 and I’m just a delicate flower and I need a man to protect me because my golly, whatever would I do alone?” but a small (tiny! Miniscule!) part of the reason I’m thrilled to be moving in with M is that I will have a man in my apartment night after night. The truth is, M and I spend six out of seven nights a week together. But that one night that he stays in Queens, I am a ball of nerves and stress and fear, especially if my roommate is away or with her boyfriend and I am all alone. I am scared of sleeping alone. I wake up at all hours of the night thinking that I hear someone breaking in in. I’ll huddle in bed, holding my breath, my fingers on the 9 and 1 on my phone. Granted, I live in a doorman building and our doormen are awesome. They know who lives there and who does not and if you do not, you are not permitted inside without first calling up to an apartment. However, no security system is infallible and there’s always that small chance. And, really, sleepless nights do a number on me, even if they’re far and few between.  
 
-Hi I’m Clink and I don’t have any plans for this weekend and I couldn’t be happier. I don’t have any obligations. I don’t have anywhere to be other than, maybe, the hair salon. And the nail place. And possibly Barnes and Noble, if it rains.  Maybe I’ll cook (hmm, enchiladas?) Maybe I’ll sit on my ass and catch up with Big Brother 8 and the various other mind-numbing reality television clogging my DVR. Maybe I’ll just stare out the window fantasizing about my impending nuptials. Anything is possible, people. 
 
-This was the neverending week (this is the week that never ends! It just goes on and on my friend… oops, did I accidentally get the song stuck in your head? My bad. *snicker*) and now it is almost over and that makes Clink a very happy girl.

File Under: Sometimes, I really love New York. July 26, 2007

Last night, I walked 3.6 miles downtown to meet a friend for dinner. 
 
Quick tangent: Can you believe the lengths I will go to avoid actually working out? I wanted to work off some calories from yesterday but I did NOT want to set foot in the gym. So instead I walked 3.6 miles in flip flops and a dress. The sores on my feet are still oozing. 
 
Anyway. I was walking past the Fuse Network, across from Penn Station, when I noticed a small crowd of people surrounding a man in a cowboy hat.
  
Being, well, a New Yorker, I immediately thought it was the Naked Cowboy. Until I got closer and realized, oh hey, it’s only my FAVORITE REALITY STAR EVER (and also, former rock star or something.) 
 
He of the botox and eyeliner and ever-present bandana to conceal what we can only assume is a receding hairline.  
 
Ladies and gentleman, I present to you…Bret Fucking Michaels:

   

 
I marched right up to him and introduced myself. 
 
Clink: “Hey, I’m Clink and I love your show.”  
 
Bret Fucking Michaels: “Aww, thanks baby, thanks baby.” 
 
As I took a few camera phone pictures of him, I said, “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Bret.” (Y’all should get that reference, because you do watch the show right? HOW CAN YOU NOT WATCH THIS SHOW? It is God’s gift to us, people. Do not refuse it.) 
 
He cracked up. A woman next to me made a slurping sound and pronounced Bret “delicious,” which was my cue to leave and call M who was, in all sincerity, totally jealous.  
 
Sigh. Sometimes I really love New York.

365 days. July 25, 2007

There is a pile of wedding magazines in a basket at the foot of your bed. You’ve torn pages from each one, compiled inspiration into a folder that you told your fiancé was “priceless, so please place that Diet Coke at least fifty feet away from it.” 
 
There is a ring on your finger. You still catch yourself staring at it at random moments throughout the day. You’re not normally so superficial, but you love that ring. It’s perfect. You coo at it when no one is around.  
 
There is a date and a church and the most perfect reception site in the history of reception sites and that is a fact. You and your fiancé picked each one. You will be starting your marriage on that date, in those places.  
 
And yet, it doesn’t feel real. 
 
How could it possibly be real? Isn’t this some sort of cruel joke by that infamous prankster, The Universe? 
 
In a year, you will be getting married.  
 
“Come in a little closer,” you say, “I have a little secret.” You never thought it – all of it – was really going to happen to you.  
 
You thought you’d end up alone. (Pity that you be the only person in the universe to have that fear.) 
 
You’d waded through the Outright Mr. Wrongs and the Mr. “Ehhh”s and the Mr. Wrongs Who You Thought Were Mr. Rights But Turned Out To Be, Yeah, Mr. Wrongs. You’d had your fill, thank you very much.  
 
Enter M, who taught you the definition of “life altering.” Who bit by bit, day by day, gave you more and more hope that maybe you wouldn’t end up alone at 48, in an apartment full of cats (nevermind that you are, in fact, allergic to cats), with a great career and a great collection of wine and absolutely no one to share it with except for your Smug Married friends. 
 
He gave you hope that you could fall - and stay - in love. You truly didn’t think that was really possible. You can’t emphasize that enough.  
 
M was different. Not in a tangible way. He just was. You could feel it. If you believed in auras, you would’ve felt his come in like a cool, refreshing breeze after years of hot and sticky. 
 
With M, you realized you could have love without condition. You could love someone just as much as they love you. You could stare off into the future and see nothing but sunshine and rainbows and fairies sprinkling dust over the two of you as you twirl in fields of gold.  
 
Or something.  
 
One year from today, you will be Mrs. M. 365 days from now, you will be awake, with butterflies in your stomach, drinking a mimosa and alternately crying and laughing and then crying again. You won’t believe your luck. You will ask the universe that if this is, in fact, a three year dream, please don’t wake you up for another 100 years, just to be safe.  
 
You already feel married today, in 2007, one year prior. The wedding is just a grand (“and expensive,” your father would add, with a smile) way of celebrating the fact that you found each other.
 
The fact that you found someone who made you believe.

The Reception Site. July 23, 2007

I’ve never had such a visceral reaction to a place, except for maybe London or Greece. But even then, it was London and Greece collectively, not a specific location therein. 

They said that this was how I’d feel when I tried on the wedding dress. They said that I’d just know that it was right and that the knowing would bring me to tears.  

Except, it wasn’t the wedding dress. At least, not yet. It was the reception site. 

We went back on Sunday, brought my mom’s best friend who has a sharp eye for design. I cried again. A fellow future bride handed me a tissue and said, “I thought I loved this place but hell, it brought you to tears.” “Twice!” my mom chimed in. 

“I just love it here.” I had to stop myself from twirling around on the middle of the dance floor.  

It was everything I envisioned when I envisioned a place to throw the damn awesomest party of my life: loft-like and modern with a fabulous view. I can’t wait to shape it into something that’s mine and M’s. Something ours, against that stunning backdrop. 

Oh, you want to see for yourself?

Operation: Buff Bride July 23, 2007

I wasn’t going to post today but fuck those french fries. They no longer deserve to sit there at the top of the blog and tempt me, all “look at me in all my fried delicious glory, I would taste so awesome in your mouth.” Which, they would. But they wouldn’t look so awesome on my ass, which is the whole point. 

Today officially begins Operation: Buff Bride. There’s no more fooling around. No more “I want Mr. Softee!” or “yeah, I’ll order Mexican food with you, Roommate” or “can I have the chicken parm, please?” There’s no more eating like I’m a 90 pound refugee who has been living on berries and twigs for the better part of a year and needs to put on weight – stat.  

I will now forget that Chipotle exists one block from my new office (mostly by chanting to myself while rocking back and forth “Chipotle does not exist. Chipotle does not exist.”) I will now forget how delicious things that are fried or covered in frosting taste. I will now forget that there are unhealthy options out there. In Clink’s world, only vegetables and fruits and lean proteins exist. Oh, and 90-calorie Special K bars because hi, they’re awesome, and only 90 calories. 

It hit me yesterday, while sitting in church. (No, the white light of God did not come down, strike me and call me a fat ass in the middle of the service. Though, that would probably whip me into shape – hey God, are you there? It’s me Clink.)  

It’s the church where I will get married. One year and two days from today, I will walk down that aisle in a white (hi, unforgiving!) dress and I will marry Mr. Awesome and it will be glorious. It will, however, be even more glorious if I am svelte and confident. 

The church is perfect – tucked away on a quiet Manhattan street, with a beautiful garden and a down-to-earth priest who agreed to do the ceremony in English because he wants M and I to “understand what you’re getting into.”  

My mom and my grandmother and my second mother (my mom’s best friend) came into the city yesterday so that we could attend a service, get a feel for the church, meet the priest and – mainly – make sure it was air-conditioned.  

I’m not a church-goer. I have a complicated relationship with religion, especially a religion that dictates that I am not allowed to cross my legs because it is offensive to God. However, I felt warm the minute I walked in. The people, the church itself, the location – it all felt right. Felt like the perfect place to begin a marriage. I can’t wait to bring M there. 

I also can’t wait to watch the weight just fall off (because that’s how it will happen, right? All quick and easy-like?). My sister, who has always been slim, has gotten down to a size that doesn’t really exist because doesn’t zero essentially mean air? Nothing? Anyway, she looks great. And she feels great. She’s working out all the time and eating smaller portions and essentially doing what they tell you to do in lieu of the quick-fixes because hey! The quick-fixes and crash diets don’t work!  

I want to look and feel great – especially on my wedding day. I don’t want to be covering up or hiding or posing a certain way so my arms look thinner. I want to feel comfortable from every angle. I want my only physical concern to be my hair and my make-up and whether or not I break out in hives like I did before my senior prom.  

So, Operation: Buff Bride. It’s, almost, a year before the big day which means there’s plenty of time for me to do it right. I don’t have to starve myself like I did before Vegas. I’m going to see if there’s some truth to this “eat right and exercise” thing.

And, fear not, I’m sure I’ll be posting photos (from the nose down!) of my progress. Bet you can’t wait to see my guns, eh? Because, oh, THERE WILL BE GUNS! (But lovely, feminine guns!)

Update: Y’all, there is another page on the blog, where I will be documenting everything I put in my mouth from now until the wedding. Seriously. I need to be accountable to someone and who better than my awesome readers? Feel free to start your own. This could be Operation: Hot Bloggers or something like that. Besides, I need the damn support. Lord knows my willpower is about as strong as a piece of Scotch tape.

Snippets from Vegas. July 20, 2007

This was my pre-flight meal. Plus about five more glasses of wine.

This is a blog post about blogging. Just thought you should know. July 20, 2007

I lied to my fiancé. 

I don’t normally lie to him. Sure, sometimes I withhold a tiny tiny bit of the truth (M, with raised eyebrow: “Three pairs of shoes, Clink?” Clink, avoiding eye contact: “All on sale, M!”). But I never flat-out lie. 

That is, until the texts from Molly started pouring in. Texts from Vegas, informing me on the best place to get a yard-tall frozen drink or how there really weren’t any hot women at the pool or how the piano bar at New York, New York rocked.  

I asked her to send me texts. To cross that line between “possibly imaginary internet friend” to “real life friend who I can actually call because look – there’s her number and her name! Right there in my phone!” 

“Who’s texting you, baby?” M asked, almost offhandedly. Because he’s not the jealous type; not the slightest hint of insecurity or mistrust in his voice. Just genuine interest. I hate how he can do that and I can not.  

“Oh. My friend Molly. I, um, met her on the internet.” That provoked a furrowed brow.

“On the…internet?” he asked, pronouncing “internet” as if it were “whorehouse” or “a Young Republican convention.” As in, the last place I would possibly find a friend.

“Um. On The Knot (lie). She’s, um, a fellow bride (also a lie, but probably not for long). We bonded on The Knot messageboards (lie! The Knot messageboards make me kind of queasy, to be honest). She’s in Vegas and she’s giving us tips! Hey, have you heard about the piano bar at New York, New York?”  

He bought it. Didn’t ask another question about it. Apparently I am the type of Psycho Bride who could easily fall into a friendship on The Knot? And is that really so different from falling into a friendship in the Blogosphere? 

It’s weird, this blog world. It’s weird that I partially look forward to the work day because it gives me time to catch up with some of my favorite people – favorite writers. I can find out if the HO has returned to tempt Kwarter’s boyfriend (as if), or what progress Daily Editor has made on her wedding plans, or how the house is coming together for Leah and Simon, or if Strange Bird’s vacation photos have been posted yet, or how Crystall is handling her current emotional rollercoaster (like a pro, as always)…The list goes on and on. 

I belong to a community at work. I belong to a community of my family. I belong to a community of my friends. I belong to a literal community in my neighborhood. I belong to a community of alumni. A community of Greeks. A community of future brides. A community of New York Cares volunteers. 

And also – somehow, somewhere along the way – I fell into a blogging community. And it’s one of the most supportive communities I have ever had my hand in. 

And also – somehow, somewhere along the way – I fell into friendships. Friendships with people I have never met. People I would probably rather invite to my wedding than that chick I went to college with who I haven’t really spoken to since 2004. People whose lives – even the daily minutiae thereof – I am entranced by. People who may or may not be my long-lost (Greek?) sisters (here’s looking at you, Molly). 

In a way, I feel like a fraud. Here I am, an online personality, someone who has relationships with the people on her sidebar. And yet no one in my real life knows about it. Not even my future husband, my best friend, the guy I can give detailed descriptions of my bowel movements to who will not bat an eye at said descriptions.  

Maybe someday. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not in the foreseeable future. For right now, this space – and all its attached relationships – are solely mine. I need it. It is my therapy. Real life infringement would cause everything to crumble. No, actually, real life infringement would do the exact opposite. It would force walls to erect around me. And I’d go back to writing in a journal, stowed beneath my bed.  

And, I don’t know about you, but my journal doesn’t offer me feedback in the form of comments or regular readers or people I adore and can share emails and (gasp!) phone numbers with. 

And, hopefully some day, drinks too. 

Yesterday. July 19, 2007

It felt like 9/11 yesterday.  

I left work at around six and received a frantic phone call from my mother, who had just returned from tennis and turned on the TV and OMIGOD CLINK THERE IS SMOKE EVERYWHERE AND SOMETHING EXPLODED AND PLEASE WHY CAN’T YOU JUST MOVE BACK HOME PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE? 

And I was all “stop overreacting, Ma.” Because everyone on the streets seemed pretty calm to me. No one was running towards the New Jersey border or diving into the Hudson and it all seemed fairly commonplace.  

Except, when I tried to call my fiancé, my call wouldn’t go through. At first I started to curse out “Cingular! AT&T! Whoever the hell you are!” But then the man next to me while waiting at the corner was also cursing out Verizon and we both kind of looked at each other.  

“Feels like 9/11, eh? Not being able to make a damn call?” he said to me. 

“Yeah,” a girl standing behind us chimed in. “Did you hear what happened in Midtown?”  

And then suddenly, like I had just pressed seek and found a clear channel on the radio dial, I started to hear everyone talking about it. 

“I heard it was a transformer.” 

“Like, from the movie?” 

“No, you idiot.” 

“I don’t know – they’re saying it’s not terrorism but I think that’s just so everyone doesn’t freak out. It’s kind of suspicious that it happened right around Grand Central.” 

“I heard it was the subway. They finally fucking blew up the subway.” 

During my walk home, I caught snippets here and snippets there until – by the time I made it to my apartment building – I was convinced that it was officially the End of Days and maybe I should just order one of everything off the menu at the McDonald’s on 8^th Avenue because, really, who cares anymore? It’s over. Might as well go out in a blast of greasy deliciousness. 

I turned on NY1 and saw the images and – despite the reassurances from the news anchor – thought it looked pretty damn fucking terrifying.  

The scene was eerily reminiscent of September 11^th: billowing smoke and people running for their lives and mass confusion and chaos and debris everywhere.  

Clearly, we know now there was “nothing sinister” involved – unless you consider Con Ed’s suckiness “sinister” (I do) or the fact that there may be fucking asbestos everywhere “sinister” (again, I do). 

To quote Gawker, “we kind of always knew we’d die at the hands of Con Ed rather than Al-Queda.” Ha. And also, exactly.   

It’s scary, being a New Yorker. Each and every day we head out into the city and ignore the fact that we live with a bulls-eye stretching across our city limits.  

When something like what happened yesterday happens – even if it was “only” a steam pipe that burst – we all kind of crumble into the emotional balls of stress and neuroses that we really are. It gives us license to cave and talk to each other about just how scared we really are. About how we still carry the scars of 9/11, even if that tragedy was hijacked by the current administration and spun into a war with no apparent end. About how we live on edge while pretending not to live on edge but really, good lord, living on edge.

About how, yes, we’re terrified but, truly, we wouldn’t want to live anywhere else – even if the streets randomly blow up or fundamentalist bastards fly planes into our buildings. Even then.