Hi, I’m a freak. July 18, 2007

I was going to slap up a couple of photos from Vegas (“photos from your nose down,” as Molly put it, referring to my desire to remain anonymous on this here site) and call it a post. However, my new work computer and I have not yet made nice and he (I’ve decided it’s a he – a stubborn, obstinate, hateful he who likes to rob me of internet every so often just to show me WHO IS IN CHARGE ‘ROUND HERE, LITTLE LADY) refuses to acknowledge my camera when I connect via USB.  

So, no photos. 

And, well, writing about Vegas just makes me feel nostalgic for Vegas and leaves me further unmotivated to do anything but sigh about how I wish I was still on vacation.  

I actually asked the following question to M last night: “So, how much do you think croupiers make? Could we eek out a living being croupiers?”  

“We’d probably be better off if you were working a pole on the strip but hey.” 

Not that I really want to move to Vegas. I joke about it but, no. I actually had a meltdown in Vegas about, well, Vegas.

This is so embarrassing to admit but I’m at a loss for what else to write since no one wants to read a “hey, here are a list of my fears about my new job!” post, or a “we haven’t made any progress on the wedding plans because I am a lazy whore” post so whatever.  

We had been in a casino all day. From dark, cold casino to dark, cold casino, only stepping out into the light, hot outdoors momentarily – and then only to get to another dark, cold casino. 

It was my fault. I said to M that I wanted to see every casino on the strip. (“Even Imperial Palace, Clink?” “Yes, M, even Imperial Palace.”) But by 5pm I was sun-starved and disoriented, sitting at the crowded slots while M played blackjack, feeding dollar after dollar into a White Diamond machine, drinking a free glass of white wine, waving cigarette smoke from my face. 

I’ve had anxiety attacks before and I could feel the symptoms coming on. The shortness of breath, the tingles in my limbs, the need to get outside immediately and just exhale. 

I told M – as discreetly as possible – that I would be outside and then I ran for it. No easy task, as casinos are arranged like cornfield mazes, the exit almost as impossible to find as a clock. 

I whipped past throngs of heavyset Midwesterners and their tantrum-throwing spawn, past the bachelorette party, and the bachelor party, and the group of confused seniors milling about the exit. 

I burst into the dry desert heat and found myself a patch of shade. M followed moments after, his hand on my shoulder, his face full of concern.  Seeing him, I knew I was safe and could submit to my emotions and let it all out. 

Oh, and I did. 

“I just…this is so UNNATURAL, M. Like, this whole place! What are we doing in a casino at 5pm? With all the fucking cigarette smoke and the washed up cocktail waitresses and that asshole from Texas who placed don’t come bets and cheered every time the rest of us lost! I just feel so…weird! And…and…UNNATURAL.” 

I paused to catch my breath. Then I kicked a fake rock outside the casino and said, “see! Everything is. Just. So. Fake!” 

I don’t know what spurred it. I don’t know why I couldn’t have just been an adult about it and told M I was going to go sit by a pool for a little while, to get my bearings. The unfortunate thing (one of many) about anxiety attacks is that you don’t have much control over them. The only control I had was over my body and that control I used to get myself out of the situation before I crumpled into a ball on the floor of the casino. 

M took me to a restaurant. Got me a bottle of water and something to eat and said that we’d never have to set foot in another casino for the rest of the trip. 

“But…but…I want to play craps at the Hard Rock tonight!” I stammered. 

He pat me on the head. “Aww, that’s my good little gambling addict.”  

The rest of our trip went off without a hitch. And I mean that – not a single hitch. We won money when we gambled, we saw our first Cirque du Soleil show, we had food that surpassed my snotty New Yorker expectations, we made some friends at the craps table – croupiers and bachelor party attendees alike, we had sex in the Heavenly Bed and the Heavenly Bath, we landed safely when we came back to New York. 

The actual flight was another story. I was alternately fine and then crying; quietly reading a book and then sobbing aloud. Turbulence, combined with the fact that the flight attendants were freaking out about a passenger who had locked himself in a bathroom did not make for the easiest ride. All I kept thinking was “he’s going to bust out of that bathroom with a bomb strapped to his chest and DUDE it is ALL OVER.” (Turns out the man just had stomach problems from the beef-and-swiss sandwich served onboard. “Stomach problems, folks!” he announced when he exited the bathroom. Also, he bowed.)  

So, all in all, yay Vegas. Yay craps. Yay my awesome fiancé for taking the reigns and making the trip memorable. 

And a big boo to being back and at work and at a stressful new job.

Back. July 16, 2007

Is there anything worse than the first day at a new job? 

Yes. And that’s the first day at a new job AFTER a whirlwind four day vacation in a city where night flows seamlessly into morning and suddenly it is 6am and you’re still at the craps table and the cocktail waitress wants to know if you’d like a mimosa and you have a 10am flight and you should probably be packing except you’re kind of on a damn roll. Let’s go hard six!  

Hi, I’m tired. Also, addicted to craps. Like, I have dreamt about craps the last three nights. Like, I’m kind of pissed off that I can’t just leave work and go play some craps. Like, my grandfather’s gambling addiction gene just kicked in, after a dormant 25 years. There’s nothing better than craps. (Slot Machines: “Hey Clink! Remember me? You used to LOVE me! You used to worship at the temple of ME! I’m so much shinier than that damn felt table! I have so much more spunk than a pair of dice! WHY OH WHY CLINK! Come baaaaaack.”) 

So. Vegas. Armed with little more than my sluttiest dresses and great tips from my girl and a willingness to pull money out of an ATM on almost an hourly basis, I took on Sin City and came out exhausted, sunburn and did I mention exhausted? But also on top and oddly rejuvenated and even more in love with my fiancé.  

I’ll hopefully get into details tomorrow as I am currently overwhelmed and tired and emotionally exhausted from all the DAMN TURBULENCE yesterday and the number it did on my psyche. 

Also, I’m the new girl. And I feel like I should make some sort of effort on my first day.  

(PS, I missed y’all.)

Last night, I dreamt of mushroom pizza. Seriously. July 11, 2007

Vegas, tomorrow. 
 
The two greatest words ever put together in the long and storied history of the English language. Except for maybe “pizza, now” or “marry me?”  
 
It’s time. The moment I start to get agitated with New York is the exactly the moment I must cheat with another city. Get away for a few days, relax, come back tanned and a bit sedated by the sun and the drinks. It’s inevitable that, on the car ride in from the airport, as we descend upon the Lincoln Tunnel and catch our first glimpse of the skyline, I will fall back in love with New York. I will realize why I am rooted here. I will caress New York’s head and kiss up and down its arm and say, “I’m back, baby. I could never leave you for good. I love you too much. Plus, the pizza everywhere else sucks.”  
 
(Hi, I’m Clink and I have pizza on the brain the way adolescent boys can only think about sex. Scratch that, the way all boys can only think about sex. It’s just, in the past few days all I’ve ingested are two salads, a package of pita crisps, some dried fruit/nuts and coffee. I’m hungry. Treasure Island buffet - as per Miss Molly’s recommendation - watch out. Seriously.)  
 
(Speaking of sex - oh, and hi, I’m Clink the Tangent Queen - ladies, I have discovered a little secret. If you come out of the shower wearing nothing but a small, satin robe, your man won’t be able to keep his hands off you. For serious. I highly recommend.)  
 
Before coming into work today, I stopped by my new job to meet some of the team and get up to speed before I start on Monday. There’s a part of me that is sick - so sick! - of starting new jobs. I know it’s all part of being freelance and that this is, essentially, what I chose for myself. But getting over that first “I’m new here and I don’t even know where you guys keep the staples let alone what the hell I should be doing” hump is never fun. 
 
However, the new place’s atmosphere is one I can get on board with. Example: everyone was hungover as hell from drinking last night after work. When I walked in, they were all stuffing their faces with greasy breakfast food. I thought to myself, “oh yeah, I’ll fit in here no problem.” Also, they throw things at each other, which is my personal favorite way of getting someone’s attention.  
 
Anyway - I’m off! Off to Vegas! Tomorrow! Which means, for those of you a wee bit slow on the uptake, I won’t be posting Thursday or Friday. And I’ll try my darndest on Monday when I start the new job. In the meantime, my archives are over there to the right. Whenever I’m bored, I like to click on this date last year and in 2005 to see what kind of headcase I was than and if I have, in fact, made any improvement in that department. Feel free to give me your own take on it.  
 
Oh! And if you happen to be in Newark Airport tomorrow - hey, maybe you like to hang out at airports, maybe that’s your thing or something, I don’t judge, man - and you see a tall brunette getting toasted at the airport bar, come up and say hi! And maybe buy me a drink. Because, uh, I’m going to need all the drinks I can get. 
 
Also, if I die in a fiery plane crash, I’m counting on one of you to contact WordPress and shut this puppy down. I do not want a part of my legacy to be “wrote about the details of her life - including her Secret Craziness - to various strangers on the dang Internets.” 
 
Ciao, y’all.

Last First Kiss. July 10, 2007

Men are traditionally supposed to be the ones with the issues about settling down. 
 
Not that I’m having issues. There are no issues. I’m diving headfirst into death do us part, without a moment’s hesitation, without any thought to how cold or deep the water might be. There is no second-guessing because on every level - head, heart and wherever the hell instinct resides - I know that this is right. 
 
There are, however, fleeting thoughts. They arrive apropos of nothing and leave just as quickly and unceremoniously as they came. 
 
Thoughts about how I’ll never go on another first date. Or have another first kiss. Or meet someone and hope that he calls. Those firsts are now lasts.  
 
Don’t judge me. Yeah, you. I know you’re about to. “Well, if she wants more first kisses then she shouldn’t be getting married, stupid whore.”  
 
I’m not saying I want more first kisses. I’m just saying it’s an odd feeling when you realize that you’ve had your last first kiss. Not good, not bad, not ominous or disappointing. Just…odd.
 
I went home on Friday night and ended up going out with a few of my friends from high school, including my high school ex-boyfriend. If you had asked me five years ago, I would’ve told you that I thought I’d end up with him. You know, as soon as he got his act together. As soon as he moved into a place of his own. As soon as he realized that I was the one that got away. 
 
It never happened - him getting his act together. And, while I was patiently waiting, dating but not committing, certain that every conversation or hook-up with him would lead to a confession that he wanted to be with me - I met M. And my world was turned upside down. And my hopes about High School Ex were exposed for the unrealistic daydreams of a single girl that they ultimately were. 
 
However, it was weird - standing there with High School Ex - knowing that we’d never have another hook-up or late night conversation about the state of our fragile and vague union. It seems like a weird thing to even notice, I know, but - aside from the past two years that I’ve been with M - those hook-ups and conversations were fairly consistent. Those hook-ups and conversations were what I hoped would constitute the foundation of a relationship one day.  
 
To think of all that effort I put in to making things work with High School Ex - deposits in a relationship bank account that was - and never will be - cashed. It’s funny how meeting one person can shatter all of your future plans, spin you around and send you off in a direction you never knew existed.   
 
I’m probably not articulating this as best as I possibly could. Some of you might misunderstand and take it the wrong way. I’m not a good enough writer to accurately describe how it feels to be deliriously in love and happy and sure but, at the same time, slightly taken aback when you realize the magnitude of the direction in which you are heading. When you realize that who you were is no longer who you are. When you are hammering the final nail in the coffin of the single and dating version of yourself, the person who couldn’t possibly imagine a future so bright she has to wear shades. The person who was certain it would all work out differently.
 
Just know that, as I send that version of myself six feet under and cover her with mounds of dirt, I’m smiling.
 
And I’m also thinking: may this really be it. May M and I turn out to be as sustainable as I know we are. May Single and Dating Clink never have to be dug up and dusted off. May I never again be wishing and hoping and waiting for someone who has lukewarm feelings - at best - for me. May M and I be as happy as we are now, always.  
 
Magic 8 ball, care to chime in? 
 
All signs point to “it is decidedly so.” 
 
Awesome.

Bridesmaids. July 9, 2007

I’ve been a bridesmaid once and I can’t say that it was all sunshine and bliss and unicorn dust. 
 
I was 22, fresh out of college, and had just started my very first job. The one that paid me so little that, after covering the exorbitant rent of my first Manhattan apartment, there were mere pennies left. The one I have to thank for being so darn skinny at the time because, quite frankly, I couldn’t afford to eat.  
 
Now how was a girl who could barely afford to eat supposed to buy a ridiculously expensive Vera Wang gown, a gown so low cut she actually apologized to God before walking into the church for the wedding? Let alone afford the shoes and all the gifts (bridal shower, bachelorette party, actual wedding) and the hair and the make-up and the nails. (Some day, my Visa will be magically paid off. No, really, it’s going to happen. I’ll just keep making the minimum payments and, uh, praying.) 
 
I learned the hard way that being a bridesmaid involves a whole lot more than the (very free) “support and love on my big day.” It’s an investment - both financially and emotionally. It’s also a pain in the ass. I, for one, tied countless - countless! - ribbons on programs without the aid of any wine because the bride thought that wine would make us sloppy. I politely informed her that wine would keep us from throwing her out the 18^th floor window but she thought I was kidding. 
 
Deciding on the bridesmaids was one of the hardest decisions of my life. You think I’m joking.  
 
I felt like the bachelor, when he’s in that room before the rose ceremony, and he’s looking at the photos of all the women competing for his love (and their 15 minutes), pondering each and every one. 
 
Except I was just kind of laying on my bed in my jammies one night, staring up at the frames on the wall filled with black and white photos of my friends. Also, no roses. 
 
Essentially, what it came down to was one simple question: Who do I want in the limo with me in the moments before I get out and walk down the aisle and take one of the biggest steps a human being can possibly take? Who is going to make me laugh? Who is going to tell me I have something in my teeth? Who is going to want to cry but will stop herself because she knows that crying will make me cry and subsequently ruin my make up?  
 
Do I want the friend that I adore and see often who is a lot of fun to drink with but is less reliable when it comes to things such as, oh, showing up on time or even at all? Probably not. 
 
Do I want the friend that I don’t see very often but who has been there for me at some major moments in my life and who I can call at 4am for a late-night weepy conversation without a hint of hesitation? Why, yes. 
 
So, the asking has been done. And the girls have been chosen. And they all seem deliriously excited at the prospect. For now. I’m sure the resentment will come - it’s almost inevitable - but I hope to keep that resentment to a minimum. They’re not my personal slaves for the duration of the wedding planning - they’re my friends.  
 
And besides, it’s supposed to be fun. As one of them responded - after I told her I was a bit nervous about asking her for fear that it’s a huge commitment and expectation of someone, “Of course. First of all, I love you. Second of all, who ever complained about the opportunity to get all prettied up and be the center of attention and possibly hook up with a groomsman. Wait - are the groomsmen hot? I get first dibs. Shit, I have to diet.” 
 
And that’s why she’s one of the people I want in the limo with me.

Confessions. July 6, 2007

Last night I had a Diet Coke for dinner. I wanted to go to bed and wake up feeling empty. I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt anything other than full so I figured one night wouldn’t kill me. And hey, what do you know, I’m still alive.   
 
I’m not that close with my best friend from high school anymore. However - as much as I played it off - it still ripped me apart when I heard that she drunkenly voiced to a mutual friend that she didn’t want to be in my wedding party because “being a bridesmaid is too much work.” 
 
I don’t think favors are necessary at weddings. I’ve never, ever received a favor I liked.  
 
As close as I am with my sister, there’s still a low-simmering rivalry. Case in point: My parents bought her a brand new Infiniti because she would “need it for law school.” Because, yes, every law student needs a brand-new, high-end car. Clearly.  
 
I truly believe that M and I are going to die on the plane either to or from Vegas. And it will be so tragic, and people will say “at least they had each other.” However, if there’s anger in the afterlife, I am going to be pretty pissed that I never got to get married or have children. 
 
The first dress in the post below is my favorite. I love lace. In fact, I met M while wearing a lace shirt. M, however, thinks that lace dresses “look like they smell like mothballs.” He prefers the cupcake princess fairy dresses that I despise.  
 
I hope I don’t disappoint him when I’m walking down the aisle. 
 
Sometimes I wish that he and I had absolutely no ties so that we could just pick up and move to the west coast and live quietly by the sea. I’m not afraid of earthquakes.  
 
I dreamt about two of my ex-boyfriends last night. And I woke up smiling.  
 
I’m slightly obsessed with our wedding website.  
 
I’m really nervous about how our relationship is going to change once he enters law school in the fall. I’m going to wage war against The Crazy in order to keep her at bay but we all know she is a cunning, manipulative bitch.  
 
I went out on Tuesday night with a bunch of girlfriends. It was the first time I had gone bar-hopping with just the girls since I got engaged. I learned that a big rock on your left hand ring finger is like kryptonite to men.  
 
Anything you want to confess?

Wedding dresses! (Also, a lame and incoherent post.) July 5, 2007

Hi, I’m confused. 
 
Why am I back at work? Why did I have to set an alarm this morning? Why am I not lounging around in bed with M? Why is M on a plane to Texas for work for forever and ever and ever (or, four days)? Why are my PLANS TO CONTROL THE UNIVERSE AND DO THINGS SUCH AS TURN THE THURSDAY AFTER A HOLIDAY INTO A SATURDAY NOT WORKING? Ahem. 
 
How was your 4^th? Was it kind of dreary and blah with the clouds and the grey-ness and the “well, the weather is kind of appropriate as it is Britain-esque and we are celebrating our succession from them and…wait, no, that doesn’t make any sense at all.”  
 
So yeah. We missed the fireworks. Because we were too busy drinking margaritas and eating guacamole by the spoonful (chips are just an unnecessary middleman). Proof that we are idiots: The packed restaurant cleared out around 9pm. We looked at each other - and the friends we were dining with - and kind of shrugged. I think I actually said, “oh good, now we can talk to each other without screaming.” Had we not been a) drunk or b) IDIOTS, we would’ve realized that everyone was clearing out to head over to the East River to watch the damn fireworks and we should’ve paid our bill and, you know, joined them. I was, however, wearing red (belt), white (tee-shirt) and blue (jeans) so hey, that has to count for something, eh? 
 
Anyway. Work is kind of weird right now mainly because Tuesday was kind of weird. A major project fell through due to the incompetence of a higher-up and two of my most favoritest colleagues handed in their resignations, effective immediately. I’m all “that’s noble, y’all, but I need the damn paycheck” so here I am, without the two people I ate lunch with, got drinks after work with, nipped out for super-secret workday manicures with. And I’m bummed. And feeling DESERTED BY EVERYONE. My colleagues, my FIANCE (*shakes fist in general direction of Texas*).  
 
So, in lieu of doing any real work (if you’re going to make me be here, I am going to silently protest being here by not doing anything related to what you pay me to do, suckas; also, I’m hungover), I will post some wedding dresses that I am currently obsessed with and am considering trying on when I lose ninety pounds and am roughly the weight of a Chihuahua:

Holding Pattern. July 3, 2007

I’m in a holding pattern at the moment.  
 
I’m waiting for tomorrow: Brunch at our favorite spot, lounging in the park with each other and a pile of wedding magazines, a rooftop barbeque to watch the fireworks. 
 
I’m waiting for Friday: A barbeque at my parents’ home. Some suburbia - and some family - will do me good. 
 
I’m waiting for Saturday: Driving down to my beloved Philadelphia for a weekend with two of my future bridesmaids. (PS - any cute ideas on how to ask them, short of blurting it out while drunk as I did when I asked my first bridesmaid?) 
 
I’m waiting for next Thursday: Departing for Vegas, having packed my sluttiest dresses and tiniest bathing suits and tallest heels because if not in Vegas, then where? 
 
I’m waiting for the sixteenth: Starting a new job. Should be old hat by now but there are butterflies. Yes, already. 
 
I’m waiting for next July: Because, quite frankly, all this planning has made me ludicrously anxious and excited about the wedding. 
 
Sigh. The wedding. Or, The Wedding, as it deserves to be capitalized because it is a Thing of Magnitude - lowercase does not do enough justice. 
 
It has become The Thing We Talk About - between M and I and also amongst our families and friends. I’ll refrain from bringing it up - not wanting to be That Girl Who Can Only Talk About Her Wedding - only to be bombarded with questions and suggestions and opinions and “please do not wear a strapless poufy gown. You’ll look like every other bride. Also, a cupcake.” 
 
Last night I had a dream that I tried on dresses. And - seeing as it was a DREAM and therefore NOT REALITY - every dress I tried on fit perfectly. From the sexy A-Line halter to, yes, the cupcake fairy princess happily ever after poufy dresses. I woke up smiling. 
 
Way to set me up for disappointment, Subconscious, for when I actually do try on dresses and none of them look right and I’ll be standing there all “but they looked so great in my dream!” and then everyone will kind of give each other the “she’s officially lost it” looks and someone will hand me champagne and ask if I’m getting enough sleep.
 
Which, hello, I totally am. Because it’s while sleeping I look fucking amazing in every dress.  
 
Have I lost it already? Possible. Also - a massive hangover (hi, four glasses of wine last night on a stomach containing nothing more than a granola bar eaten at 10am) combined with a massive dose of allergy medicine (really? With the allergies? Still?) does make for a bit of a fuzzy Clink.  
 
Luckily tonight seems to be just the antidote: dinner and drinks al fresco with friends for Roommate’s birthday, and then a quick nap before a 2am (yes, you read that right) Revolutionary War tour of Manhattan - did I mention it starts at 2am? - because my fiancé is insane. Also, cute. So he can get away with it. 
 
Plus I’m wearing a red and white polka dot dress (Fiance: You look like Minnie Mouse. In a good way) and that just makes everything - even a damn Tuesday morning holding pattern - better. Eh?