M and I practically live together. In fact, he refers to his apartment as “that expensive closet out in Queens” and usually spends only one or two nights a month there.
So, officially moving in together come September really shouldn’t be a big deal. Except, it kind of is - but not for the reasons you might expect.
Emotionally, I know we can handle it. It won’t be that big of a departure for us. The physical act of moving in together (as in two people, two sets of furniture, one apartment), however, is proving to be a bit more daunting.
M is, as you may have deduced by now, a boy. Please note I left the word metrosexual – or whatever the kids are calling it these days – out of that description. He’s a boy who has collected boy-ish furniture (mostly through a series of “hey, I’m getting rid of this, you want it M?” or “hmm, that book shelf by the side of the road looks like it’s in good shape”) and now he wants to move that rag tag collection of mismatched-ness into our sparkly new apartment.
To which I say: here are the directions to Goodwill, honey. Give them everything. Including those issues of Sports Illustrated that date back to before I was born.
I didn’t think it would be this hard to mesh our stuff, but this is New York. It’s not like we can just throw his oversized Patriots garbage can in the basement of our spacious suburban home and forget about it. If he wants to keep that Patriots garbage can (which he does, he says it would be sacrilege to throw out or donate), there’s no place to hide it. (Except for under the sink, which is probably where it will end up unless I can convince the movers to accidentally lose it on the way from Queens to Manhattan.)
Another disagreement we’ve been having lately: which bed to keep? There is only one bedroom (again, New York) and there’s no place to store an extra queen-sized mattress and no, M, we are not going to just “leave it in the living room” as a “place for people to, you know, hang out.” I want to keep my bed as it is newer and does not gap in the middle. He wants to keep his cough ten year old cough bed because, well, it’s his and he likes it.
We did buy a bunch of furniture at Ikea, mostly at my urging, so that we could have matching bedside tables and sit at the dining table on chairs that are not of the folding variety.
However, the rest of it is proving to be a disagreement at every turn. Granted, it’s mostly playful, but there are serious undertones. We both like what we have and we both do not understand why the other is being so stubborn.
Don’t even get me started on DirecTV versus my beloved Time Warner Cable. Though, he may win that argument as the alternative to getting DirecTV (which comes with the NFL package so he can watch those beloved Patriots while flicking wings into the Patriots garbage can) is going next door to Hooters to catch the games. Rock, hard place. Goodbye Style Network, it’s been real.
So, I ask all of you who are living with significant others or have lived with significant other or anyone who has an opinion on the matter, really: was it this hard? Are M and I being unreasonable? Should I just submit to the fact that half of my furniture will look like cast-offs from a fraternity house? And who the hell wants to keep an aged, sagging bed over an almost brand new, very expensive one?! WHO?!
Seriously, the Patriots garbage can is ugly. Trust me. August 16, 2007
Role reversal. August 15, 2007
Since the rest of my family is in Greece, where they have been for a month, my dad and I check in with each other every day, just to say hi and bitch about how they’re in Greece and we’re not and that sucks.
6:30pm last night, walk out of work after one of those days that makes you want to put on a hoodie, pull the covers over your head, plug in your iPod and think to yourself, “god, Fiona Apple just gets me”: Call my dad to have him cheer me up. Leave a message with his secretary as he is in a meeting.
8pm, eat a Smart Ones, realize that the tiny portion will not be nearly enough: Get the answering machine at home. Call my dad on his cell phone, leave a message. Try the office, leave a message.
9:30pm, watch Newport Harbor, which is awful even by my very flexible TV standards: Call my dad at home and on his cell.
11pm, in bed with M, tell him I’m concerned that my dad is being tied up and held for ransom as we speak: Call my dad, home and cell. Again, nothing.
Fall asleep.
1:07am, wake up with a start, immediately wonder how the hell I’m going to pay that ransom: Call my dad. He answers.
Me: “DAD! IT’S ME! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? I’VE BEEN TRYING YOU ALL NIGHT! I WAS SO WORRIED!”
Dad: “I was out to dinner in Astoria with some clients. I know, I meant to call but I totally forgot.”
Me: “You can’t do that to me! I was so worried! I was freaking out! (Gently pokes a sleeping M) M knows that I was freaking out!”
Dad: (finds this all very amusing) “I’m 57 years old, Clink. I think I can take care of myself.”
Me: “I don’t care how old you are! I’m still your daughter and I still worry!”
Dad: “Ok, ok, I’ll call next time. I promise.”
Me: “You’d better. God. Did I mention that I was worried? Because I was worried.”
Dad: “I’m fine! Oh…and hey Clink?”
Me: “Yeah?”
Dad: “Don’t tell your mother.”
Breadwinner. August 14, 2007
Now that M has officially started law school, I have the pressure of being the primary breadwinner. As in, when M and I move in together in September, I will be the only person earning anything. (M disagrees: “I’ll have you know that I’ll be earning a degree.”)
I work freelance. Freelance is, by design, unstable. It’s for those types of people who want to work hard for months at a time and then take off for six weeks to go to Thailand because they can, because they’re freelance. They like not being “owned.” They like always having a new challenge. I’m sure most of them smoke pot (how else could they be so calm about not knowing where their next paycheck is going to come from?). They’re what one would describe as “easy breezy,” if one were prone to saying things such as “easy breezy.”
I am not a good freelance candidate, for reasons that should be obvious to anyone who reads this blog on a regular basis (neurotic! Type A! Wracked with anxiety at all times!) And yet, here I am. Freelance. And yes, I have been known to throw up while in the throes of worrying where my next paycheck is going to come from. (Anyone have some good pot?)
Now that I’m getting married and now that I am, essentially, a sugar mama to my fiancé, I want something stable. I want something with benefits. I want a 5pm clocking out time and no reason to think about anything work-related until 9am the next day. I want to stop having panic attacks when one project ends and I still haven’t found the next one.
And now my safety net is gone. Gone to law school.
I joke about being a sugar mama, of course. M actually has more in his bank account than I’ve probably earned over the course of the four years I’ve been in the workforce. He can live and pay for law school for two years without borrowing any money. (Cough overachiever cough.)
But still, all that money is going out and none of it will be coming back in until he sells his soul for six figures upon graduation. In light of that, we have decided to start acting like cheapos adults.
We went food shopping Sunday evening because we’ve decided that part of being an adult is kicking our five-ok-fine-six-ok-fine-SEVEN-night-a-week take-out habit. Responsible people bring smushed sandwiches to work. They don’t order an egg and cheese on a roll; they eat a sensible, high-fiber bowl of cereal at home. They actually use the pots and pans that they own to cook dinner (as opposed to ours, which are stored in the oven because the cabinets? The cabinets are reserved for wine).
So, yes, food shopping and bagged lunches. We should have that down payment for a house in no time.
Though that $700 we spent at Ikea over the weekend (only my fiancé could somehow find – and buy – chairs at Ikea that are $100 each; the whole point of Ikea is buying a chair for $24.99 and hoping that all the parts are in the box and that it doesn’t fall apart when you sit on it. There is no such thing as luxury Ikea; we got duped) probably wasn’t the most responsible thing in the world.
However, our new Yucca plant, Huey, is very thankful to have a happy home. What, you’ve never gone to Ikea with sole intentions of getting some bedside tables and maybe a lamp or two and have returned with a potted plant, a bag of frozen Swedish meatballs and these:
Really? Just me?
So, M knows. August 13, 2007
About the blog.
Last night, after Rock of Love (and, ok, fine I’ll admit it, after the damn Scott Baio show that I don’t even know if I like but has earned a spot on the DVR series pass list anyway), I told him.
Something came over me, a sense of calm (how dramatic am? Omigod, I am so dramatic, but it’s the truth), and I just knew that I could tell him and that it would be okay.
So I did. And it was.
The first words out of his mouth were, “I’m so freaking happy you’re still writing.” He then disclosed that he knew I kept a journal early on in our relationship but that I seemed to have stopped doing so. He was worried that writing was something that he took away from me the bigger a part of my life he became, the more time-consuming our relationship was.
I told him about how many hits a day I get and how I have a band of readers that I love and how, um, I didn’t exactly meet Molly on The Knot but instead through her blog.
I told him how I write about him, and us, but how I have taken extra precautions to protect both his privacy and my own.
I asked if he wanted to read the blog, if he wanted the URL, if he wanted to know the title and what I go by. He left it up to me.
And, truth be told, I wouldn’t be one hundred percent comfortable, or honest, if I knew he was reading every day. I would begin to censor myself – something I promised myself I would never do.
So I told him that I would send him some posts that I felt were representative of the blog. He, of course, understood because a) he’s awesome and b) he’s awesome and have I mentioned that c) he’s awesome? He said, “I wouldn’t ever ask to read your journals, so I would never ask to read your blog. Everyone needs something that’s purely their own.”
He was a little taken aback, I think, once he thought it over and realized that I have had a “secret” for two years. He held my face in his hands and looked me in the eye and said, “you know you can tell me anything, right? Anything.”
In response, I told him that, yes, I trust him implicitly, I trust him with my life, but the blog started before he and I were even official and then it just kind of…stayed a secret. I didn’t mean to hurt him and he knows that.
“Is there anything you want to say? On the blog? To my readers?”
“Yes: Hi Axxxx’s readers. I’m M. I’m sure you’re enjoying her writing, as she’s a rock star. I’m so glad she’s writing, as writers need to write and she is certainly a writer even if she does something else for a living. Oh, and please buy her first book when it comes out.”
Sigh. I love him. And I love the feeling of freedom that comes with having told him the only secret, really, I’ve ever kept from him.
Research, I tell you. RESEARCH! August 10, 2007
If I weren’t in the industry, some might call my relationship with television an addiction. However, since I’m in the industry, I can get away with calling it research.
Here’s what you should be watching, mostly because, hey, you’re missing out but also so that we can discuss. Since I cannot persuade anyone I know to season pass Big Brother 8, for instance, I will try to brainwash the Internets so as to have an army of like-minded TV watchers at my disposal. Muahahaha!
Big Brother 8: A confession: I’ve never watched a season of Big Brother before. Yet now, about midway through the current season, I find myself wondering if all seven previous seasons are available on DVD because holy god, this show is so much better than you think it is. No, really. You may think “it’s too late to start watching” or “I don’t know what’s going on” but that’s the beauty of Big Brother: it’s edited for idiots. There’s seriously a five minute long recap at the start of each episode, and there are three episodes a week, so really there’s no excuse for not being up to speed. And, yes, you read that right – there are THREE episodes a week. Summer programming at its finest. I usually save all of mine for Sunday afternoon so that I can watch them in quick succession and then contemplate what’s going to go down in the house for the next six days. I am way, way, way too attached to this show.
The Fashionista Diaries: At first I was all SoapNet? Really? And, true, it is a very unlikely place to find a docu-soap that would be right at home airing after The Hills. In fact, the Fashionista Diaries is pretty much Whitney and Lauren’s internship, made into a television show, with a few handfuls of bitchiness and cattiness thrown in. It’s seriously great, y’all. Join me, will you, in hating skank-ass Bridget and loving Jane intern Rachel (but what will happen when Jane folds? Stay tuned…) and wondering if Nicole is an actress because a closer real-life Ugly Betty you could not find (seriously! She’s even from Queens!)
Kimora Lee Simmons: Life in the Fab Lane: To be perfectly honest, I never really thought about Kimora Lee Simmons before this show. Like, at all. And if she knew that about me she’d probably storm into my office and slap me around a few times because HOW DARE I NOT THINK OF HER AT LEAST A FEW HOURS A DAY? This lady, she is high on herself. And it is a fucking blast to watch, especially when her assistants cower in fear because bitch is like six feet and SCARY. Also, is it bad that I kind of relate to her semi-eating disorder? The “I can’t eat!” and the “this salad sucks!” What I can’t relate to, however, is having an assistant re-order your salad without the lettuce because you are just picking around the lettuce anyway. Kimora is TV gold, I can’t believe no one gave her a reality show earlier.
Rock of Love: There are no words. If you’re not watching this, you are dead to me. (But seriously, you need to watch this show. I’m sure VH1 will air a marathon this weekend. You can thank me on Monday with chocolate, sent directly to the office.)
Top Chef: My hatred for Padma aside, this is one of the only shows that I watch live because I can’t wait a half an hour to watch the DVR-ed version without commercials. Even this season, when there really isn’t anyone to root for (though Uniball CJ is certainly endearing and I like Brian Malarkey, if only for his last name, though I still haven’t determined whether or not he’s gay.) If anything, you can watch it for the Padma-hating, like my roommate and I do. Her outfits alone are sheer entertainment.
My Boys: If this were any other season but summer, I probably wouldn’t give this show the time of day. It isn’t that funny and the characters aren’t really interesting and dude, it’s not really an authentic account of a female sportswriter. Take the most recent episode, for instance: she turned down a relationship with a new Cubs pitcher because of journalistic integrity. Please excuse me while I double over in laughter because hi, YEAH RIGHT. However, I still watch the show. There’s something about it that’s kind of endearing.
Confessions of a Matchmaker: People in Buffalo are kinda funny. So is this show. Patty, the matchmaker, is a bitch with a heart of gold. Though none of her matchmaking (at least, in the episodes to date) has worked out, it has provided tons of entertainment. I even got M hooked on this one, and he is a very reluctant TV-watcher, especially when it comes to my shitty reality TV.
Medium. August 9, 2007
(This post is prompted by one written by Holly. You do read Holly, don’t you? She is one of my many blogcrushes.)
I’ve always been fascinated with death and ghosts and anything falling under the umbrella (…ella,…ella) of “paranormal.” However, I’m also a total wuss. I won’t watch scary movies or read books about ghosts and I’ll most likely stick my fingers in my ears if you start to tell me a scary story and say “la, la, la” until you stop. So, really, my fascination has always been from a distance.
Until the day it directly affected my family, that is.
My mom’s father died when she was thirteen. He was driving home on the New York Thruway when he was hit by another car and, as he was not wearing his seatbelt, was hurled through the windshield and onto the asphalt.
Over the course of her life, my mom clearly never thought she’d get the chance to speak with her father again. I mean, duh. He died. End of story, right?
Wrong.
One of my mom’s colleagues told her about a “medium” in the area. Someone who could communicate with the dead.
I know what you’re picturing and let me just smash the stereotype: the medium lives in one of the wealthiest towns in the country, dresses in J.Crew and is no different, mostly, from your typical soccer mom. She just also happens to be able to communicate with the dead.
She’s impossible to get an appointment with because word has gotten around that she’s good. She’s also very, very expensive. My mom had to wait a whole year to meet with her and the entire time she was skeptical. She would laugh about it and make it clear that she wasn’t expecting much.
If you knew my mom, you would know that seeing a medium is so out of character for her that I thought it was a joke the first few times she mentioned it.
The only thing the medium knew about my mom when they met was her first name. As soon as she was in my mom’s presence, however, the medium immediately knew who my mom was there to see, as my grandfather was waiting to speak with her. Well, actually, the medium said that a whole bunch of our loud, opinionated, dead Greek relatives were all angling to talk to her but she had to politely ask them to quiet down.
The meeting went well, to the point that, when she left, my mom had little doubt that she had actually been speaking to her father.
He said things like, “don’t worry, my head is ok.” (He cracked his head on the asphalt when he was flung from the car.)
He told her that he’s so proud of how she has raised myself, my sister and my brother. (The medium did not know how many children – if any – my mother had.)
He told her to tell my grandmother that when she’s in pain at night (she has sciatica, something that developed after he was dead) that he lays down next to her until she goes to sleep.
He told her that she’s not just imagining it when she thinks she smells the scent of smoke from his pipe.
He even said, “I told you I’d be here,” in response to my mother’s thought – on the drive to the medium – that he wouldn’t even show up and that the whole thing would be a sham.
But the creepiest part came at the end.
A bit of backstory before we continue: a few weeks before my mom went to the medium she took a watch of my grandfather’s to be restored, the one he was wearing when he died. She didn’t tell anyone about it as she was hoping to present it to my oldest cousin as a surprise.
However, my grandfather knew. In fact, the last thing he communicated to my mother – through the medium – was “I’m so proud of what you’re doing with the watch. It means a lot to me.”
My mom says she damn near fell off the chair.
When my mom came home, she wasn’t shaken. In fact the woman who never stops moving and doing and thinking was actually wrapped in a sense of calm.
Until that day, I’d never been a big believer in the afterlife, or ghosts or anything supernatural. But ever since, I’ve also felt a sense of calm when I think about my grandfather. Like, I know that he’s watching. I think about him a lot when I fly. Flying, for me, is so closely linked with death. Whenever I get on an airplane, I prepare myself to die. However – and M can attest to this – I’ve been much better ever since my mom’s meeting with the medium. Mainly because I know that something else is out there, watching out for me.
What about y’all? Any experience with the paranormal? A firm non-believer or someone who also feels something is “out there”? Am I the only crazy one and, yes, I realize that this post firmly puts me in the category of ‘unhinged.’
Registered. August 8, 2007
I resisted registering for a while. Something about it just seemed so inorganic – choosing things to have other people buy for you. I mean, ten year old Clink would’ve been all about it, but twenty-five year old Clink was a bit hesitant.
Besides, I’m Greek and therefore ethnic: it’s all about money in an envelope.
But then people, mostly non-Greek people, started asking. “We want to get you an engagement gift, where are you registered?”
So, Monday night, M and I curled up in bed with his new MacBook (codename: Albino Baby) and got to work.
Rather, I got to work and M watched ESPN and periodically commented, when asked, about whether he liked the cake stand with or without the glass dome (“What kind of cake are we talking about?” “OmiGOD, nevermind.”)
After hours (literally, hours) spent on www.potterybarn.com and www.bedbathandbeyond.com, I was spent. And also, excited. Because I had cobbled together (with some help from the fiance) what our future is going to look like: the Emma collection of dishes in our cabinets, a silver KitchenAid stand mixer on our countertop, high thread count sheets on which our children will be conceived (that was one way to get M to participate in the bedding discussion: “We will be having sex on these so I’d like your input, please.”)
Plus, being an amateur baker (currently an abstinent baker as HELLO MY THIGHS ARE NOT GETTING ANY SKINNER AND IT IS LESS THAN A YEAR UNTIL MY WEDDING), I got to pick out various bakeware to pad my collection (I may or may not ever make mini-quiche or mini-tarts but DAMN it I want the mini-quiche/tart pans, just in case).
But therein lays the problem. When you’re picking out things that will ultimately go on someone else’s tab, it’s easy to choose something you don’t really want or need. Like the ice cream/sorbet maker I initially added to the registry because really, Clink? You’re actually going to mix ingredients and wait for them to freeze instead of walking your ass down to the bodega to get a carton of Ben and Jerry’s Phish food? REALLY?
(I took the ice cream maker off.)
Also, I’m nervous about picking things out and still liking them in a year. I am notoriously indecisive (I am a Libra, after all) and I’m afraid that once the gifts start rolling in I’m going to look at the plates/bowls/wine glasses and wrinkle my nose and ask M to remove them from my sight because what the hell was I thinking?
But, for now, I’m feeling confident in my choices. I’m feeling confident in having chosen a wide array of stuff to segue M and I into being a married couple, complete with matching table settings and serving trays and enough pots that we may actually be inspired to cook every once in a while.
It’s weird. But a good weird. A we’re-getting-married good weird.
There’s something about Molly. August 7, 2007
I liked Molly before she was “Molly-my-friend,” back when she was “Molly-that-girl-on-the-Interweb.”
I don’t know how it began, but I’m sure it had to do with comments. The Interweb is the only place where a friendship can begin to take shape without an actual conversation, without even an IM conversation, without an email exchange, without two people ever having heard each other’s voices.
Just two people telling each other “hey, I get it” via a little button at the end of a post.
You see, when I think about y’all, I think of you in terms of your blogs. That is to say, in my head you are your banners. You are your fonts and your color scheme. You are your handles. You are your blog titles.
However, over time, Molly has become so much more than the just photo of multi-colored shoes. She has become a friend. Molly knows what I really look like and that is huge for me, Little Miss Anonymity. She knows M’s first and last name and she knows my first and last name and she knows what my friends look like and she knows where I work and she knows that my sister told me to lose weight before I even posted it on the blog.
She’s crossed the invisible line I drew for myself when I started this blog business. I was intent on keeping everyone out, intent on keeping my readers at an arm’s length because I didn’t want anything or anyone to compromise my anonymity.
(Way to throw an Empire State Building-sized wrench in those plans, Molly.)
Soon (after we’ve both lost 20 pounds and declare ourselves presentable for each other), we’ll know each other in person. Like, real life. Like, omigod, I made a friend over the INTERNET, please don’t tell anyone.
And, if I like Molly as much as I think I will (seriously, hi, we’re the same person), I will probably have to tell M about the blog.
I know, I KNOW.
But, you see, I’m not a good liar. It takes too much work and I’m lazy. Besides, I think having met someone on The Knot messageboards is a lot creepier than meeting someone via your blog. Or at least, it is to me.
I’ve given it a lot of thought. And if Molly and I hit it off and get drunk and hug each other and say “Omigod, I like you just as much as I thought I would!” and become real friends…well, then it might be time for me to come clean. (Especially if she’s going to be invited to the wedding.)
Of course, this all hinges on whether or not Molly and I hit it off in person. Great emails do not translate into an instant connection; just ask anyone who has ever tried online dating.
The thing is, it’s not something I’m really nervous about. I already feel like we’re friends. I already know that I’ll like her.
The thing about blogs is that a lot of the person behind the blog comes through in the writing. Not only the writing, but the comments, the choice of post topics, etc. My blog is a fair representation of me (although I do think I come off a bit more neurotic/crazy than I am in real life; Molly, you shall be the judge of that) and I feel Molly’s blog is a fair representation of her. And it’s clear that our blog selves adore each other, so there really isn’t a good reason that our real selves won’t.
In the meantime, I will continue to plan my “Meet Molly” outfit. I will continue to wait for the “OMIGOD, I AM ENGAGED HOLY SHIT” phone call. I will continue to tell her things about my life and thoughts and fears that I have, stuff I don’t tell some people I’ve known for fifteen years.
In the meantime, I will continue to adore her.
Also (hi, were you expecting anything other than a tangent?): After seeing tons of photos from BlogHer, it made me yearn to meet my own little blogging crew. The people whose lives I read about, who I get excited for or empathize with. Maybe one day we can stage our own little “let’s meet up and get drunk at Clink’s apartment and plan on going somewhere else but really we won’t because we’ll be too drunk and having too much fun.”
Maybe one day. At this point, though, it’s baby steps for this AnonyMiss. (I have no idea where that came from. Just go with it/ignore it.)
Oh, and Tangent #2: My better blogging half and I decided to do this as a joint effort. You can read her take on it over at www.theselittlemoments.wordpress.com And if you’re a newcomer to her blog, root around in her archives. You can thank me later.
Case of the Mondays. August 6, 2007
Oh, I don’t know. This weekend was awesome and I miss it already.
Especially because today is so Monday, you know? Grey, with a chance of thunderstorms. Ants crawling out of the coffee creamer (I do not like coffee to taste like coffee) just as I was about to pour some in. An extra heaping of pressure at work because one of my colleagues thinks that part of her job is to read every one of Perez Hilton’s posts instead of, you know, DOING WHAT SHE IS PAID TO DO.
Sigh. Cranky Clink.
Also, my morning didn’t get off to a great start. I called the family in Greece because today is my mom’s birthday and my dad still pays my cell phone bill (I think he forgot that he pays it; score) and I therefore thought nothing of spending twenty minutes of expensive long-distance minutes.
My sister got on the phone, eventually, to tell me she’s “bored” (I feel compelled to remind you that she is IN GREECE) and also, to ask me how the diet and exercising is going.
“Clink, have you been dieting? Have you been going to the gym? We’re going wedding dress shopping when I get back and you need to be SKINNY.”
This, from the size zero. I almost burst into tears. I know when you’re that small that a size six is akin to legs the size of tree-trunks (you know, like in Hollywood, where Kate Winslet is considered “curvy”), but still.
And since when do I have to answer to my little sister?
I know she was doing it because she knows me and she knows that I need a kick in the ass and it actually worked, as I bypassed H&H Bagels on the way to work and am instead sipping on an iced coffee with skim milk and splenda. But still. Grr.
Anyway, other than that, the weekend was great. As I mentioned. Saturday I went to the gym for the first time in a very long time and found myself not wanting to leave. Saturday evening M and I went to a party on the Lower East Side, where it felt like college and I drank like a freshman. Sunday I spent the day baking in the sun at Yankee Stadium, chatting with my dad and the rest of the season ticket regulars that he has befriended. Last night, M and I cuddled in bed and ate Italian (bad Clink, bad!) and felt better about ourselves after another episode of Rock of Love.
So, yeah. Monday. And my boss has come over twice while writing this post to ask me for any updates. Twice. In the span of, oh, less than ten minutes.
Which means it is probably my cue to get to work.
Love & Hate. August 3, 2007
Love: Friday. After work, I get to hop into M’s car and zoom crawl through the Lincoln Tunnel and meet my dad for dinner and a movie (The Bourne Ultimatum; I was outnumbered. Consolation: Matt Damon is attractive).
Hate: My dad has been all alone in my parents’ house, with my mother, sister and brother currently in Greece for over a month. I picture him by himself in that big house and it makes me sad. Also, I feel compelled to make sure he is eating.
Love: My future bridesmaid’s boyfriend splurged on a two hundred dollar bottle of wine at the French bistro last night and it was absolutely worth every one of his pennies.
Hate: That I felt out of place as the only – literally, ONLY – one not working in finance. These people spent a good half an hour discussing Alan Greenspan. I spent that half an hour drinking the expensive wine. No wonder I go so damn drunk.
Hate: I got so damn drunk that I picked a fight with M for no good reason.
Love: He loves me anyway. That he knows how to make me laugh and talk me out of The Crazy until I’m his fun, lovable, sane fiancée again.
Hate: I was so hungover this morning that only an egg and cheese on a bagel would do.
Love: That damn egg and cheese on a bagel made me feel so much fucking better.
Love: There might be work opportunities beyond what I initially expected here at the new job.
Hate: There is so much pressure on me. I know it’s because they think I’m good, but still.
Love: My boss is out, which means the pressure is lessened today.
Hate: Monday is going to suck.
Love: M is going to officially be a law student come August 13th.
Hate: I’m really going to get my neediness under control. He’s going to have to study, the books are going to be his mistress.
Hate: I’m probably going to have to start going to the damn gym again, to give myself something to do.
Love: But I’ll also probably sign up for a class! Maybe an editing class, to make myself more marketable.
Love: That my family is all together in the Motherland.
Hate: I’m not there. I miss them. I pick up the phone to call my mom or my sister about five times a day before realizing that they are in another country and that country is seven hours ahead and, duh, they are clearly sleeping.
Love: The Simpsons movie. It was great, people.
Love: Have I mentioned that it’s Friday?
