Things you will never hear me say. September 27, 2007

Just a few moments ago, one of my assistants – in response to an inquiry about what she’s doing for lunch – said “I had a big dinner last night and I’m still full.”
 
 And that got me thinking about other things you will never, ever hear me say:
 
“I don’t really feel like Mexican tonight.”
 
“Eh, it’s okay that the DVR didn’t tape The Hills. I’m not that into it anyway.”
 
“My shoes don’t match my outfit but I’m okay with that.”
 
“Can I have these jeans in a size two? The size four is way too loose.”
 
“I’m most comfortable wearing a thong bikini.”
 
“You’re going to Starbucks? Nah, nothing for me, thanks.”
 
“It’s too cold in here. I can’t sleep.”
 
“I’m taking a break from TV and internet for a few days.”
 
“I wish we lived somewhere where it was winter all year round.”
 
“Oh, I’ll just whip something up with the things we already have in the fridge.”
 
“Yay! The gym!”
 
“I cut my hair really short, do you like it?”
 
“I totally forgot to eat today.”
 
“Baby, can we watch Bill O’Reilly tonight?”
 
“Ugh, How I Met Your Mother is not funny.”
 
“I’m okay with having thrown out all of my good jeans. Didn’t really bother me.”
 
“Thanks for the offer but I don’t really think I want to leave my job and write a book.”
 
“I’m like a camel, I never have to pee.”
 
“I can’t wait for this wedding to be over.”
 
So, what is something I will never hear you say?

All over the place. September 26, 2007

Fuck. I’m turning 26.
 
Next week, actually. Less than a week from today, if we’re getting technical. I almost don’t want to share the exact date because if it isn’t acknowledged on my blog then it won’t actually happen, right? Isn’t that how the universe works nowadays?
 
I don’t know. Does 26 sound old to you? 26 sounds old to me. 26 conjures up images of a suburban home and a healthy diet and a flourishing garden and maybe even a bun in the oven. Ok, maybe not a bun in the oven. Maybe not even suburbia. Maybe just a solid career and health insurance. But still.
 
As M reminded me last night, because he is awesome, because he always knows the right thing to say and the right tone to use, 26 is the year I’m going to be married. And that - no matter how old it sounds, no matter how it edges me closer to late twenties - means that 26 is special.
 
Plus, isn’t it cheaper for me to rent a car now? Yes?
 
I don’t have any big plans for my birthday, just a bunch of dinners with various groups of friends and a special dinner (Dylan Prime, why are you so perfect?) with M. And that’s how I like it.
 
Anyone who has asked me what I want for my birthday has gotten the same response: “A gift card to Bloomingdales so that I can rebuild my damn denim wardrobe.”
 
Why am I such a downer? I will stop being a downer now. I don’t think anyone under the age of forty has a right to complain about getting old. It comes across as obnoxious even though - in my case - it’s genuine.
 
One of the great thing about having a birthday is that it becomes a blanket justification. Spent $500 during an impromptu shopping spree this past weekend, like I did? Birthday! Drinking, uh, a little too much wine lately? Birthday! Don’t feel like doing laundry, instead beg your fiance to do it for you? Whip out that birthday card, girl.
 
***
 
Switching gears for a moment, I am currently knee deep in the book Something Borrowed, a BBC selection. I saw the pink and the diamond engagement ring on the cover and thought “oooh, perfect!” Just the book I needed to balance out Nathan Englander’s first novel, which I just finished, and Samburg’s book on Lincoln, which is up next. I love me some good chick lit every once in a while.
 
Except, um, the book is about (spoiler alert!) a girl who sleeps with her best friend (of 20 years!)’s fiance. And then shows no remorse about it. And starts to have feelings for him and him for her and OMIGOD, HI, WORST NIGHTMARE.
 
I stay away from Stephen King because I don’t like to be scared but this book is the one keeping me up at night.
 
I know it’s fiction. Duh. I know I trust M. Duh. But I also know that I have a very overactive imagination, an imagination that - if given the freedom - will drift to some very dark places, an imagination that I have to keep under control.
 
I’m just finding it so hard to root for the protagonist, even if the author is trying very hard to convince the reader that we should (I mean, the best friend works in PR and is pretty and outspoken and has lived a charmed life and therefore she surely deserves to be cheated on. By her fiance and her maid of honor).
 
I don’t think I’m technically supposed to be writing about the book as I am not the blogger who will ultimately be reviewing it but I’m oh so very curious to find out what other people who have read the book thought. Am I in the minority because I happen to be engaged at this very moment?
 
***
 
Back to being old. I got up to get a glass of water last night and my joints cracked.
 
“OMIGOD. I am so old. Seriously.”
 
M looked up at me from behind his Macbook with a raised eyebrow and a look that said “really? You want to go head to head on this one, shorty?”
 
And I shut my mouth. Because no matter how old I get, M will always be nine years older. And I will always take comfort in that fact.
 
***
 
Yay! I was tagged! Maybe the following can redeem this lackluster post (thanks, Libby!):
 
Four jobs I have had in my life (This is cut and pasted from the last time I did this as listing any other jobs would be all too revealing):
(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 (These are a very select few as I’m not really one of those people who can watch movies over and over and over. I don’t know why):
(1) The 25th Hour; (2) My Best Friend’s Wedding (I don’t own a copy of the movie but if I catch it on TV, I will always watch it until the end); (3) Blue Crush (ditto); (4) The usual suspects: Newsies, Clueless, Mean Girls, Sliding Doors.
 
Four TV shows I like to watch (Four?! I only get four?! It’s like choosing four favorite children; not possible. So I’ve chosen four shows that you might not expect):
(1) Meet the Press; (2) Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations; (3) The Price is Right; (4) Regis and Kelly (I start my days with those two.)
 
Four places I have vacationed:
(1) Europe (Greece, Ireland, England, Holland, Spain, Portugal, Italy, France, Belgium); (2) California (I heart you very much California. Why can’t you be closer?); (3) Long Beach Island, NJ (my parents used to have a house there before they were all “eh, let’s just go to Greece every summer”); (4) Maine (one of my favorite non-Greece family vacations of all time)
 
Four of my favorite dishes:
(1) The seared tuna with tomato and onion salad and parmesan crisp at Landmarc; (2) The four-cheese gnocchi (with bites of M’s lasagna) at Bianca; (3) Any of the rolls at Sushi Twist; (4) The margherita pizza from Angelo’s; (5) (I couldn’t stop at just four! I love food!) The guacamole at Dos Caminos. Oh and (6) The mac and cheese at Eatery. I’m done! I swear!
 
Four websites I visit daily:
(1) My blog roll (and then some – Sweet Juniper, Amalah, Dooce); (2) Gmail. I leave it up all day; (3) Jezebel (because they’re funny bitches and also, they watch all the same TV shows that I do; (4) My wedding website.
 
Four places I would rather be:
(1) In bed, next to my delicious sleeping M; (2) The house in Greece, eating a Greek salad (with fresh tomatoes and cucumbers from the garden) on my balcony; (3) Shopping for new jeans; (4) At a bakery. Because I’m PMS-ing and could really use something decadent.
 
Four bloggers I am tagging:
I’m a Libra! I’m bad at decisions! If you need something to blog about, by all means, consider yourself tagged.

Dear Molly, September 24, 2007

I’m writing this on Monday afternoon, even though – by penalty of death – I am not allowed to post it until Monday evening, at the earliest.

I just got off the phone with Molly. Yes that Molly. It was our very first phone call (her voice is adorable) but the significance of that was greatly overshadowed by the fact that it was the phone call. The omigod-find-a-quiet-corner-in-the-office-and-SQUEE phone call.

Because – as I’m assuming you already know – girlfriend has officially joined the bride-to-be club. And, judging from the excitement bubbling up inside of me to the point that I’m shaking a little bit as I write this, I couldn’t be happier.

So, a letter to the bride-to-be, courtesy of a slightly more seasoned bride-to-be:

Dear Molly,

First of all, I told you it would happen soon. In fact, very recently you emailed me about trying on my ring when we finally meet up and I said “well, hopefully by the time we meet, we’ll be able to swap rings.” And lo, it will be so.

In fact, BossMike and I were emailing about you getting engaged just an hour or so before you called us to tell us the awesome news. We’re clearly psychic. Or something.

I’m so glad that you weren’t expecting it, that you thought it was just going to be “date day” and not “getting engaged day” because a proposal is possibly the best surprise in the universe, short of finding out that chocolate chip cookies are calorie-free.

Enjoy these next few weeks. Bask in that recently engaged glow. As much as it will kill you – you, with the overstuffed wedding binder because you are just so adorable and also, clearly, ahead of the game – show some restraint when it comes to the planning. That’s what a friend of mine told me and she was absolutely right. The rest of your engagement period will be about the planning. This first part is only about pure, unadulterated adoration for each other and the pure, unadulterated adoration that your friends and family (including me, and the rest of the blog world) have for you.

Take extra long walks with your future husband (GAH! SQUEE!) and Kodiak and discuss the wedding. Flip through some wedding magazines (Hi Martha Stewart? It’s Clink. I worship you. Please welcome Molly to the club). Send me thousand word emails about how it feels to be engaged. (There’s no better audience for a recently engaged girl than a recently engaged girl.)

Also, be prepared for your blog fodder to go from “voluminous” to “extremely, extremely abundant.” And that’s okay. I thought that blogging about my wedding plans would bore most readers to tears but it seems to be something everyone can relate to, engaged or not. Plus it’s so good to put stuff out there and get feedback from this awesome community of awesome people who clearly adore you and are going to read every wedding-related word (myself included).

Plus, hi, free advice. In fact, I was just going to blog about whether or not chocolate brown bridesmaids’ dresses would clash with black tuxes (readers?).

I can’t really put into words how thrilled I am for you. I’ve heard that you’re not supposed to say ‘congratulations’ to the bride because it’s akin to saying “well done, you’ve snagged yourself a man.” But you know what? You have snagged yourself a man. And he’s gorgeous and he treats you like gold and you are so in love with each other and you have that something that makes a couple a great couple and CONGRATULATIONS ON THAT.

I’ve told you many times that I wanted us to be able to plan our weddings together. You’re one of the people that I regularly bounce ideas off of and now I’m ecstatic that I can bounce ‘em right back at you (quite like the game of tennis, minus the sweat).

I look forward to reading and hearing about your wedding planning journey. I know that you will handle it with the humor, poise and enthusiasm that has come to define you as a person.

I heart you very much,

Clink

Bridesmaid-friendly Bride. September 23, 2007

Confession: The first section I flip to in the Sunday Times is the weddings section.

M wonders why I bother, as I clearly must be a little masochistic to read about - and ultimately compare myself to - the Ivy League-educated brides and well-heeled grooms and the elaborate celebrations of marriages that will never know the meaning of the second half of “for richer or for poorer.”

My response is something along the lines of “yeah, yeah, I know…but omigod, baby, I have to tell you about this couple.”

I’ve become wedding drunk recently, which is a pleasant surprise. Between moving, and starting a new job and M starting law school, the wedding momentum had slowed and I had a slight fear that it would never pick up again. That I would become an apathetic bride, taking the opinions of others and making them my own just because it was easier, in general feeling a bit “meh” about the whole ordeal.

Ha. Silly me.

We went to Hooters for lunch today and, as M watched the Patriots on one of the non-plasma screens in the corner, every once in a while mumbling about the loss of his beloved DirecTV and thus the NFL Sunday Ticket due to the move, I pulled out my wedding notebook and started making lists: rehearsal dinner lists, to-do lists, shot lists for the photographer.

That got me to about halftime. And then I started to sketch bridesmaids dresses.

Ah, bridesmaids dresses. Before I got engaged, those two words would elicit a shudder from yours truly as I envisioned my own $400 Vera Wang bridesmaid gown rotting in the back of my closet, never to be worn again.

I’m serious. I cannot envision another time in my life when I will have an occasion to wear a floor-length, light pink gown in unflattering satin (Hi, I’m Satin and I’m going to showcase ALL THE BUMPS YOU MIGHT HAVE and I’ll maybe even showcase some new ones, you know, just for fun, MUAHAHAHA).

So, I am well-versed in the plight of the bridesmaid. I know what it’s like to be at the mercy of a bride with a vision and I’ve decided to make it as easy as possible on my girls. I want them to have a dress they can wear again - a night out, a cocktail party, something - and I want it to flatter their individual bodies. They’re all thin, they’re all gorgeous but the body types - ranging from reed thin to svelte curves - are varied.

That Vera Wang gown? The one I spent $400 on (sorry, I just need to state it again because $400? REALLY?)? It didn’t fit me well. You see, I have a chest. And a chest + low cut gown + too low cut for a strapless bra = necessary “pasties” and necessary “pasties” = fear of popping out at any moment and inadvertently stealing the bride’s thunder (unsurprisingly, M loved me in that dress so maybe some day it will be worn again, as very fucking expensive lingerie).

I was uncomfortable the whole evening in that dress, and therefore I didn’t have a blast. I had a decent time, when I wasn’t pulling and adjusting, but my mind was always on my chest instead of, you know, the wedding.

Therefore I’ve decided to find a line of gowns that come in the same color and fabric but different styles: halter, strapless, etc. In fact, I made an appointment in October for a few of the girls who live in the city to try on some dresses so that we can get the ball rolling. I don’t want them to look like an army of well-dressed handmaidens; I want them to look like individuals. Individuals in dresses that flatter their respective body types, something I wish my friend - when she was a bride - had taken into consideration.

I will probably turn into a minor bridezilla about a few other things but bridesmaids dresses isn’t going to be one of them. Besides, if my girls aren’t worried about how they look in their dresses, there will be more time for adoring me and isn’t that what the whole day is about! (I kid, I kid.)

So, I think I’ve got a healthy approach to the dresses but, if you’ve been a bridesmaid and you’ve got something to share with this bride - either something positive and sweet that you suggest I incorporate or a horror story - do share. I’ll file everything away into an “Unofficial Guide to Being a Bridesmaid-Friendly Bride.”

Doozy. I just like that word, doozy. Doozy. September 20, 2007

Oh crap, y’all. I am tired. Also, tired. Maybe even tired.

We’re only three days into this week but already it has been a doozy.

Do you want to know how crazed I am? I will tell you how crazed I am. In fact, I have the perfect example:

I worked a 14 hour day, a 14 hour day spent mostly on my feet, operating a camera and searching deep into my soul for reservoirs of sunshine and light because when you interview talent, you have to give them energy to feed off of and good lord did those fuckers suck me dry.

Needless to say I was exhausted when I got home. Exhausted and not even hungry for the pico de gallo I made yesterday or the cupcake I got at work and OMIGOD, A FIRST. Exhausted and and not hungry and DENIM-LESS, lest we all forget. In other words, a mess.

I collapsed on the couch to watch the premieres of America’s Next Top Model (shut up) and Gossip Girl (shutupshutupshutup).

About an hour later, M came home from the library. He opened the door and I heard him say my name very tentatively.

“I’m in here!” I called from the living room.

He entered, a bewildered look on his face, holding my keys. My keys, which I left in the front door.

Hi, I’m Clink and I live in New York City and I LEFT MY DAMN KEYS IN THE DAMN DOOR. (M thought that something happened to me when he saw my keys and he later pointed out five gray hairs that he believes sprouted at that exact moment.)

So, I’ve lost it. All for real and official-like.

And now it’s almost midnight and it’s time to read a few articles in the new Sports Illustrated and half-watch an episode of Family Guy that I have seen a zillion times and then pass out but I just wanted to say hi because sometimes I feel like my blog is my child and when I don’t post, it’s akin to it not have eaten all day and WHAT KIND OF MOTHER AM I, I WOULD STARVE MY OWN CHILD?

Being work busy is so not interesting, I know, and I apologize. Being wedding busy is so much better and I’m wedding busy too! I mean, we found a photographer. And she is all about the photojournalism which, HEART, because there is nothing more vomit-inducing for this future bride than a plethora of posed photos. So there’s that at least, the promise of candid, spontaneous pictures to capture a day I am paying a shitload of money for but probably will not remember much of.

It’s almost the weekend right? RIGHT? I seem to have forgotten what day it is but I can sense the weekend coming soon. Hallelujah, y’all.

Fantastically shitty. September 18, 2007

Work yesterday was hard, hard and also hard.
 
I have never talked so much in my entire life. I have never smiled so much in my entire life. I have never been so stressed in my entire life. I have never inhaled a package of Nutter Butters for lunch so fast in my entire life.
 
I got out of the subway at 9pm with my twenty-five pound bag in one arm and the custom signs my assistants accidentally left behind because sometimes they are NOT VERY DETAIL-ORIENTED in the other and I actually contemplated climbing into the fountain at Columbus Circle and drowning myself.
 
But then I thought of the pile of chocolate chip cookies sitting on the counter and I thought to myself, “wait a second, maybe life is worth living.” (Yesterday was an all-cookie, all-the-time day which is disgusting. I am disgusting.)
 
Yesterday morning started fantastically shitty, actually. After I got out of the shower, I searched my closet for my favorite pair of Seven jeans, my very first ones, the pair that made me realize that an ass isn’t just an ass when it’s in Sevens.
 
I couldn’t find them in the pile of jeans on the shelf in my closet. I searched a few more places and slowly, like death via poison that moves like molasses through the body, I started to realize that I couldn’t find the Abercrombie jeans that I have prized since high school (that still, miraculously, fit), the Citizen jeans that I wear when I’m feeling skinny, the Joe’s jeans that I wear when I’m feeling fat, the True Religions that I heart so very much…
 
Oh fuck. Oh fuck.
 
I searched the entire apartment and could not find any of them. I even looked in the bathroom, convinced that maybe - in a fit of moving induced insanity - I misplaced AN ENTIRE PILE OF JEANS IN THE CABINET UNDER THE SINK.
 
But no. Do you want to know what I think happened to the ENTIRE PILE OF JEANS?
 
I will tell you.
 
In what I thought was an act of brilliancy, I stuffed many of my clothes into black garbage bags since I was only moving one floor down and there was no need to pack everything all nice and neat.
 
The problem? When you’re moving, you have a lot of trash. And where do you put that trash? Oh, I don’t know, maybe into some BLACK GARBAGE BAGS, perhaps.
 
We threw out a lot of black garbage bags when we first moved in. There was something deeply cathartic about sending those black garbage bags down the garbage chute. With each and every one, the place felt less like a cluttered shitstorm and more like our place.
 
Except, now, I’ve realized…we accidentally incinerated (or whatever they do to the garbage; I’ve never asked) close to $1,000 worth of denim. Maybe more. I can’t bring myself to think about each and every pair that is gone. Well, no, actually I can’t remember each and every pair that is gone, which leads me to believe that maybe this was a sign from God.
 
A sign that maybe one shouldn’t have more jeans than one can remember and maybe one shouldn’t buy expensive fucking denim because it is just as easy to throw out as cheaper denim.
 
Hey God: lesson learned, ok? But please, don’t touch the shoes. For the love of…well, you…I am begging.
 
It was one of those days, yesterday was. It sucked. Please take a moment of silence for all of my long lost denim. Rest in peace, dear wallet-busting, ass-shapers. Rest in peace.

Sunday: A photo essay September 16, 2007

I’m writing this on Sunday, because I won’t be in the office tomorrow, because I’ll be out doing something all important-like for my job and please take a moment to say a little prayer that I don’t royally fuck it up and expose myself for the fraud that I am. (Does anyone else feel like a fraud at their jobs? I keep waiting for them to expose me, because I can’t clearly be deserving of the money they are paying me and the title they have bestowed upon me…can I?)

No, they’re not from the Hooters next door because Hooters has many things but good wings is, sadly, not one of them. That Hooters has good wings is a tragic popular misconception:

 

 

 

“Oh, I’ll just have one.” One or, you know, seventy bajillion. Also: Coke Zero is the nectar of the gods, and that bowl came from Ikea, and I heart it with the heat of a thousand suns:

 

 

 

At least there were wings to bring me joy because the Giants certainly didn’t bring me any after getting crushed by the damn Packers:

 

 

Oh! And the living/dining area is starting to come together. You’ll notice that there are no more boxes in this picture, only M’s couches that I am learning to live with and M himself, reading the paper in his beloved lazyboy. Yukka plant Huey makes a cameo in the corner:

 

 

 

 

Yes, we still need a table. Yes, I am very picky. Yes, I arranged the chairs around a fake table. Yes, I am crazy.

 

 

 

I got the urge to bake. (Not shown: the other two trays.) The apartment still smells like chocolate chip cookies. My mouth is happy even if my thighs and my ass are all “fuck this bitch with her fucking cookies.”

 

 

 

 

Oh and my toe! Remember? From the other night? When the god damn toilet paper holder fell on it? It’s healing quite nicely:

Things I can’t imagine my life without. And other stuff. Because it’s Friday. September 14, 2007

Hi there Friday. Welcome. I’ve missed you. In fact, I’ve been thinking about you all week.
 
We have no plans this weekend. I just checked my planner to make certain because I have a habit of sometimes thinking my schedule is free and clear and then, oops, um, shit, we have a wedding to attend. Five states away.
 
But no weddings this weekend. No anything, except for the Interpol concert tonight. Excuse me while I do a little dance at my desk because think of the possibilities: the cleaning, the gym going, the cooking an elaborate and healthy meal while wearing an apron and heels.
 
Or, um, the lounging around in my underwear until five in the afternoon while watching an America’s Next Top Model marathon. That too.
 
Last night, M and I went out for a kick ass dinner that cost about half of our rent but good lordy sometimes it’s nice to have perfectly cooked steak and expensive wine and your napkin folded for you the minute you get up from the table to go to the bathroom. I almost had a heart attack when the bill came (entrees started – STARTED – at $45), but M paid for the entire thing because he rocks. And also, I haven’t gotten paid at my new job yet.
 
Afterwards I watched Big Brother. Rather, I watched most of Big Brother on fast forward because I couldn’t bear to listen to the gloating and I won’t tell you whose gloating it was just in case you haven’t watched it but let’s just say that they suck. Especially her, with the whining and the waifness and the WHINING.
 
Somehow – through my anger and yes I get very angry at television and yes I should probably see someone about it – I remarked to M that the DVR is probably the one thing I would grab in a fire, for that is how much I love it so and we don’t have any pets so it’s not like I’d have to worry about saving a living thing’s life or anything.
 
I seriously cannot live without my DVR. I can’t imagine a world without DVR. I can’t imagine a world with commercials or being tied to a schedule. DVR has changed my life.
 
It got me thinking about just what else I can’t imagine life without and so – since it’s Friday and the creative part of my brain has a big Gone Fishin’ sign up – I’ve compiled a list. The list only includes material things because, um, it pretty much goes without saying that I can’t live without M or my family or my friends.
 
-Curling iron: I know, it sounds ridiculous, but my curling iron has changed my life. Okay, okay it’s changed my hair but if you’ve ever had a bad hair day you know just how much your hair can affect your life. My hair is not the kind of hair that dries perfectly straight or perfectly wavy or perfectly curly right out of the shower. It needs to be prompted in a direction and the direction I am most fond of is soft waves. The curling iron helps me achieve that look on a daily basis and if it weren’t so covered in product, I would kiss it.
 
-Fine point Sharpies: Yes, I have a favorite type of pen. And no, I will not write with anything else. My handwriting has always been good but there’s something about my handwriting via a Sharpie that makes me so very happy.
 
-MAC Refined Golden bronzer: I haven’t been to the beach this summer. Please reread that last sentence again if paralyzed by shock. My toes? They have not felt sand. Or the ocean. Or a melted popsicle I accidentally stepped in on the boardwalk. This makes me sad. It also makes me pale. So it’s – dun dun da da – Mac to the rescue, as usual. Just a touch of refined golden on my cheeks and the tip of my nose and my forehead and yes, my chin makes me look like a normal human being with a slightly faded tan as opposed to a pale hermit who hasn’t left her apartment in decades because the government!Is out to get me! I know it! I should put another bolt on the door.
 
-My navy blue hoodie: Putting it on is like getting a warm hug from an old friend. No matter how much my weight fluxuates, it always fits perfectly. No matter what I’m doing during the day on a weekend, it’s perfect to throw on. I heart it and will probably wear it until I’m 102 and it has so many holes that it looks like swiss cheese and M will think I’m insane but he probably thinks that anyway.
 
-Chef’s knife: I watch a lot of cooking/chef shows. I also recently read Anthony Bourdain’s book and he said that the only knife one really needs is a chef’s knife. And since I equate Anthony Bourdain fairly closely with God Himself, I do as I’m told lest I incur the wrath of the tall, skinny, silver-haired bad boy of chef-dom. I use the knife for everything – seriously everything. Even when a less sharp, less large knife will do. It also serves double-duty as a security blanket when M’s away. I can sleep with it on my nightstand and in the event of an intruder, it will jump to life and defend my honor and then dispose of the body. Because it is magic.
 
-Newsies: It’s a VHS, perhaps the only one that has survived multiple moves. That’s because I just can’t part with it. Whenever I’m feeling sad or sick or just slightly bored with everything on TV, I pop in Newsies because Newsies makes me happy and I know every word and when I was younger I even made believe that I was a newsie and my name was Kit and all the other newsies were in love with me. It broke my heart recently to read that Christian Bale was kind of embarrassed about the fact that he was a part of the movie. Christian Bale is now on My List.
 
See? It doesn’t take much to make me happy. Some beauty tools, a comfortable sweatshirt, something sharp and a musical about singing newsboys.
 
I’d love to know what you can’t imagine your life without. Please share. There’s no judging here (hello, I just admitted that I watch Newsies. A lot.)

Evil Minion. September 13, 2007

I have two assistants.
 
One of them reminds me of me when I was her age (you know, all of three years ago): She’s articulate, bright, eager to learn, slightly tentative, friendly and helpful. When I think of her in my head, she has a little halo and a pair of white wings and she is saying “Hi, Clink, how may I help you?”
 
The other one? Oh, the other one. Let’s just say that when I think of her, I think of a pitchfork and devil horns and a voice that makes me want to stab myself in the eye and she’s saying “I’m hear to make your life miserable, sucka.”
 
Ok, so maybe I’m being a wee bit dramatic but, truthfully, our personalities just don’t mesh. She’s one of those abrasive, know-it-all, entitled types that I have never taken well to.
 
She tries to circumvent me and go directly to my boss. She ignores some of the things I tell her to do or says “I don’t think that’s right, I’m going to check with [Clink’s boss].” She name drops her parents’ country club at an alarming rate. She wears short, short shorts to work along with a tank top and a flowy shirt that ends below the shorts and therefore makes her look like she arrived in lingerie. She has a horrible demeanor on the phone; I cringe at the way she talks to people. She makes stupid mistakes because she thinks she knows everything and therefore doesn’t double-check or run things by me. She makes personal phone calls more than she makes business phone calls. She says things in a faux British accent that makes me want to be all, ok listen, you’re not British or Madonna or Gwyneth Paltrow so stop.
 
Also, she doesn’t eat. And if you’ve ever been around someone who just doesn’t eat, you’ll know what I mean: every bite you put into your mouth makes you feel like a cow (to borrow from Molly, moo).
 
Tangent: Is not eating what all the kids are doing these days? I don’t mean full-on anorexic; I just mean…I don’t know…are they devoid of the urges us older folk get during the work day? Urges for say cake or Doritos or CAKE? Or do they just have willpower of steel? Because, really, both of my assistants eat practically nothing and come to think of it my sister doesn’t eat much at all either and OMIGOD, ARE THEY TEACHING NON-EATING IN COLLEGE THESE DAYS? /tangent
 
Just recently Devil Assistant asked me how to do something and I told her how to do it because, lo, I am the boss for a reason. End of discussion right? Wrong. She went behind my back and called my boss – who is traveling, who does not need to be bothered, who HIRED ME SO THAT SHE WOULDN’T BE BOTHERED – and asked her how to do it. And this will shock absolutely no one but my boss told Devil Assistant to do it exactly the way that I originally told her to do it. And yet still, as she was doing it, she kept saying “I think I should do this a different way.” Because clearly she knows better than both my boss and me.
 
I pretty much have to deal with her because it’s only been a little over a week and my boss hired her. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to roll my eyes and maybe even sigh loudly when she so much as breathes because OMIGOD, I CANNOT DEAL.
 
That also doesn’t mean that I’m not going to mention something to my boss when my boss gets back in town. Isn’t that what boss people do? Discuss their minions? Because, OH DOES THIS MINION NEED TO BE DISCUSSED.

Six years. September 11, 2007

I cried on the treadmill again this morning, but this time it was not over a music video.
 
The hovering clouds are apt; it’s the most depressing day of the year, especially around these parts.
 
While walking back from the gym this morning I saw a group of policemen and firefighters, one of them holding a flag, crossing through Columbus Circle. All of us at the corner, even though we had a walk signal, stopped in our tracks. I wanted to salute. Or say “thank you.” Instead I just gave a small smile and lowered my head slightly and proceeded.
 
In the office this morning we played the “where were you game,” because that’s what ties us. We each bring our own sorrow, our own tale to the tragic potluck. Sharing makes it easier.
 
Me? I was in college, a junior. I woke up before my roommates and went into the living room. I sat down with a bowl of cereal – Special K, skim milk, why do I remember that detail? – and turned on the television. The first plane had just hit. It was the beginning, back when everyone thought it was an accident.
 
I called my dad at his office, just to talk to someone. I was a fearful flyer even then and anything remotely related to an air disaster sent me into an emotional frenzy.
 
Then the second plane.
 
Then the world changed.
 
I wasn’t in New York when it happened. Like all of us, I knew people who were. Knew people who knew people who died. One of those names this morning that I listened to while eating breakfast, while brushing my teeth, while getting dressed. I only made it to the D’s before I had to leave for work.
 
New York is New York today. People go about their business, nothing seems all too different. A bit more somber, yes. Just a bit.
 
Many blocks south, however, I’m sure things are a lot different: the gathering of people at Ground Zero, people who lost. Not people who knew people; people who are the people that people knew.
 
Six years seems like a lifetime. I can’t even remember when terror wasn’t a part of our daily lives. When every time I went through the Lincoln Tunnel or over the George Washington Bridge or down into the subway it didn’t cross my mind: are they going to blow this up next?
 
My children, your children – they will never have known life before 9/11. It’s hard to comprehend.
 
I don’t want to get lost in the depression, so I’m going to stop there.
 
It comes down to the fact that I’m proud to be a part of this city. Today more than usual.
 
Feel free to share your “where I was” story. On the surface it’s selfish, I know, because none of us were actually in the buildings so who cares where we were? But it’s cathartic. It binds us. And in the face of all of this, being brought together is the silver lining on a dark, dark cloud.