This morning, I did two very uncharacteristic things:
1. I woke up at 7:30am to go to the gym. One of the amazing things about working in television is that most jobs don’t start until 10am, which means – usually – sleep, glorious sleep. Unless, of course, you’re a future bride and you are sick of saying “um…soon” in response to when people ask you when you’re going to go dress shopping. The truthful answer is: “when I drop ten pounds.” Except, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but ten pounds aren’t in the habit of just falling off one’s body because God is clearly evil. Or wants us to work for it. Or something. So, I woke up to a grey day and I contemplated hitting snooze and then I gave myself a little pep talk in my head, kissed my fiancé, and put on work out clothes. And it wasn’t as horrific as I thought it was going to be.
2. I cried. At a music video. While at the gym. You see, I flip-flopped between MTV and VH1 while on the elliptical because do you know that they play videos in the morning? Well they do. And it’s awesome. Reminds me of my youth. The video for Akon’s song came on and he was all apologizing and taking blame and OMIGOD, THE SONG IS NOT EVEN SAD and yet there I was. Bawling. On the elliptical. I think the guy next to me noticed, so I made a grand gesture of wiping the SWEAT off my face all, woo, this thing is hard, and did you know you could SWEAT FROM YOUR EYES? Well, you can.
So, yeah.
This weekend was awesome, except for Friday night. Friday night I went out for sushi with a few of my girlfriends to celebrate my new job and another friend’s new job and, really, the fact that it was Friday.
Towards the end of the meal, I went into the bathroom to pee. I pulled some toilet paper off of a toilet paper holder that was supposed to be bolted to the wall, except it wasn’t. Apparently the bolts were loose or missing because a huge fucking heavy steel toilet paper holder fell off the wall and onto my foot. I took photos of the damage – a huge, deep gash that was pouring blood and making me queasy – because I am a lawyer’s daughter and I knew that’s what my dad would’ve wanted me to do, before even wiping up the blood or calling for help.
I am not posting those photos here because seriously you would throw up and then you would blame me and then I would feel bad and then you would never read my blog again and then I’d be sad and no.
Once I got over being startled from the pain and the blood (there is a lot of blood in your toes, apparently. True story) I approached our waiter who just kind of shrugged and I never really get the urge to hit someone but damn, I had that urge. He barely spoke English, which didn’t help, so I was all gesturing towards my bloody toe and he was all “get this crazy white bitch away from me” and really, it wasn’t all that fruitful. I asked to see a manager but the waiter just kind of shrugged again and there really wasn’t anyone else in the restaurant except for the sushi chefs, who were kind of laughing and I was all “arghhh!” and decided to leave.
My friends were avoiding looking at my toe as they hailed me a cab and stuffed napkins in my bag to stop the bleeding. I don’t blame them.
At home, M showed me the meaning of true love by cleaning my wound (as I screamed) and applying Neosporin (again, screaming) and wrapping it in gauze (SCREAMING). It throbbed throughout the night, to the point that I was tossing and turning and declaring that I would never eat sushi again EVER because clearly I should punish the rest of Japan for some carelessness on the part of one restaurant. Right.
Luckily the toe is no longer throbbing. It looks hideous but it no longer feels like it needs to be amputated and “omigod, M, will you still love me when I don’t have a big toe on my right foot? WILL YOU?” “No. Probably not.”
We ended up going to New Hampshire the next day and I actually spent the entire car ride with a map on my lap so that I could maybe stop being such an idiot and learn some geography.
New England is beautiful – the leaves are already starting to turn up there and there aren’t even billboards on most of the highways and it all feels kind of fake, like out of Gilmore Girls, but in a good way.
I got spectacularly drunk at M’s friends’ party but that was okay because I think I was the least drunk out of everyone there except for M who was all “god, you people are annoying when you’re drunk.”
The highlight of the evening was when I came up from the basement (where we were playing beer pong and where I proved that I still rule at that game) to pee and M was in the kitchen talking to his friend from college and he didn’t realize I was up there and he was talking about how awesome I am and how I understand him and how he can’t believe he found someone like me. And then his friend was all “she’s such a catch, dude, I’m so happy for you.” And then I was seriously fighting back tears and OMIGOD WHAT IS IT WITH ME AND THE CRYING LATELY, I’M NOT EVEN ON MY PERIOD.
We woke up at 8am on Sunday morning (should be illegal) so that we could make it back to New York in time to see the Patriots and M was as giddy as a schoolgirl as we trekked down 395 all “opening day! Opening day!” and I was all “stab you in the eye if you don’t stop talking and let me sleep! Stab you in the eye if you don’t stop talking and let me sleep!”
The Giants lost so bleh to that. And Britney was kind of horrifying so bleh to that too.
And bleh to it being Monday.
Monday. Bleh. September 10, 2007
TGIF. September 7, 2007
It’s Friday. FRI-DAY. (Don’t you think that Friday should be FRYday and we should all be required to eat French fries? That, my friends, is a world I would like to live in.)
It’s so sunny and beautiful in New York, the type of weather that makes you want to kiss the shiny buildings and splash around in the Hudson and pat yourself on the back for choosing to live here.
Today’s the first day that I am the boss as my boss is out of town and guess what, bosses get asked a lot of questions. I’ve had to pause about five times while writing this to answer questions and it should make me feel powerful and important but really I just want to say “um, I’m writing a blog post here, can it wait? Like five minutes? Until after I’ve had my coffee? At the very least?”
Sigh. This boss thing ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.
This weekend M and I are driving up to New Hampshire (do you know that one of my major weaknesses is geography? Well it is. I didn’t know West Virginia was a state until I was in college. COLLEGE. I thought it was, um, just the western part of Virginia. Feel free to throw things like stones or tomatoes at me). I don’t really know where New Hampshire is, is my point, but I’m excited to go there. Even if the forecast calls for ninety degree weather AND intermittent thunder storms.
M’s friends from college live up there – in a huge house, the mortgage for which is less than we pay in rent – and they’re throwing a barbeque for the three couples in the group who have recently gotten engaged. I’m excited. Anywhere that allows me to play the bride card with reckless abandon is somewhere I want to be.
Speaking of that bride card, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about the details of the wedding. The little things that will make it stand out. Lately, my focus has been on favors.
Now, I’ve received enough crappy frames and clusters of Jordan almonds to know that I want something different. I don’t want people to feel gypped. I want them to leave with a small token of our appreciation for not only celebrating with us, but for navigating New York City and paying New York City hotel and parking prices to do so. And also, for giving us gobs of money.
Initially I thought of a candy buffet, inspired by Martha Stewart (when you’re planning a wedding, she is your goddess no matter how you felt about her before the wedding or how you’ll feel about her after). Guests would receive (adorable! Personalized!) boxes which they could fill with a variety of candy.
But M and I are less candy people than we are cookie people. We’ll be all “meh” at the idea of a Snickers but present us with a few dozen chocolate chip cookies right out of the oven and you will barely have any left once we get through with them.
So now I’m thinking, cookie buffet. And now I’m also thinking, put my family to work. The women I’m related to are fabulous bakers and each of them has a specialty. I want to present each of their specialties on a gorgeous platter with a frame that says Aunt Tia’s Famous Blackbottoms or Yiayia (that’s grandma, in Greek) Sofia’s Incomparable Greek Sugar Cookies. It just feels more personal, more special. I may even have to make some of my delicious homemade Oreos.
I don’t know. How boring is that? I just wrote about FAVORS. Omigod. I tried for a while to ixnay the eddingway stuff but, yeah, it creeps back every now and again and I am powerless against it. (*Pulls out Future Bride card, waves it around, shrugs*)
If any of you have received any inspired favors – or have been to a wedding with a great detail, such as a basket of flip flops on the dance floor so that women can abandon their heels and shake their thangs comfortably – I would, of course, love to hear about it.
So I can steal all the ideas and pass them off as my own, MWAHAHAHA.
Please note: I am very busy. Hence the bullshit below. September 6, 2007
The status of all the major things in my life, in list form and yes, I apologize for this bullshit entry and yes, I think you should leave a comment urging M to GET ON VERIZON so that they SET UP OUR INTERNET so that I can BLOG FROM HOME and not have to PUT UP BULLSHIT POSTS:
Apartment: Sigh. I heart. I just wish M would be a bit less methodical about his unpacking because damn it the boxes! THE BOXES. The boxes of bullshit. If there are two things we have learned about each other throughout this experience it’s that I never throw away clothes or shoes or bags and M never throws away receipts or pay stubs or ANYTHING ELSE MADE OF PAPER. But at least my five/ten/fifteen year old shoes, clothes and bags are PUT AWAY AND NOT SITTING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE LIVING ROOM. On the upside, shredding is fun!
Relationship: It’s weird how this move has affected us. For about a week, up until yesterday I’d say, we were much less affectionate than usual. Probably because we were too damn tired to do anything except wave goodnight to each other and turn off the light at the end of the day, but still. It scared me. I began to overreact (me? No! NEVER.) I began to worry that we would become like roommates. It’s gotten progressively better, we’re starting to settle in to both our place and our old selves. Has anyone else experienced that while navigating the shitstorm that is moving in together? Please say yes. It will make my delicate little feelings happier.
Operation Buff Bride: You have no idea what I ate last night. I went to dinner with a foodie/wine snob friend of mine and I left the restaurant with my bank account one hundred dollars lighter. We started with goat cheese profiteroles and delicious crusty bread. We split two entrees – rock shrimp risotto (hi, Heaven, I’m Clink. Nice to meet you) and seared tuna with a parmesan crisp disc-like thingy that was clearly created by God himself. We finished the night with a dessert smorgasboard – one of everything on their dessert menu in a smaller size than normal. There was: blueberry crumble, a Nutella-filled éclair, crème broulee, chocolate mousse, tiramisu mousse, a lemon bar and a fudgy chocolate square. Oh, and we finished two bottles of wine. I asked the waiter if he would be kind enough to roll me out of the restaurant; he thought I was kidding. Clearly, I am not exactly on track. Also, $100? EACH? ON ONE DINNER? (*Looks at bank account, sobs*)
Job: Love, love and also love. My boss is seriously a shorter, blonder version of me. We’ve been going out to lunch and discussing our men, our weddings, the fact that we both want to lose weight before dress shopping. The job itself is a dream. I wish I could say more but I’ll leave you with this tidbit: the job makes me hungry. Like all the time.
Blog: Neglected, clearly.
Half of this post was written while I was smashed. September 5, 2007
Sunday, 1:35am. Drunk.
It’s 1:35am and I’m drunk and I’m watching Big Brother After Dark on Showtime and because I’m drunk I’m not hesitant to admit that because really? Big Brother After Dark? (And no, there are no orgies, even though the words “after dark” seem to imply orgies. At least, they do to me. But no, only the late-night conversations of bored hamsters and did you know that they call the Big Brother cast hamsters? Well they do. I think it’s funny.)
Moving on – since I’m clearly the only person in the universe who watches Big Brother and CBS should be sending me a thank-you card any day now – let’s talk about the move.
Ladies and gentlemen, I have seen hell. AND HELL IS FULL OF BOXES.
Seriously, I spend my time at home between the bedroom (cute), the bathroom (cute) and the kitchen (cute) because the living room? The living room is full of boxes. BOXES OF DOOM. The Living Room of Doom (ha, see how I did that? How that rhymed? Room/doom? I am apparently a mighty poet after four Magners and a shot with my best friend from college who is a HE and, no, we’ve never done it and yes, I think it’s possible for women and men to be friends and just friends.)
What was I saying? Oh right. Living room. Doom. It should come as no surprise that the Patriots garbage can resides there (the “garbage can of victory” as M calls it as the Patriots beat the Giants in a PRE-SEASON GAME and I feel the need to capitalize PRE-SEASON GAME to further emphasize the point that PRE-SEASON GAMES are essentially worthless. I’m just sayin’.)
You see, we took the apartment “as is.” Which means no cleaning by professionals, no fresh coat of paint by the super. Just M and me and $62.08 worth of cleaning supplies.
Since the former tenant (the “hair whore” as I have taken to calling her because the hair? It is everywhere. The “whore” part is just an educated guess) moved out on Friday, August 31st and M had to also move out of his old place on Friday, August 31st, so we had to move in on Friday, August 31st and there was subsequently no time for sprucing up. And the place? It needed to be spruced, people. Spruced UP.
I mean, you haven’t truly felt disgust unless you’ve scraped other people’s caked-on food off of the tray in the microwave. WITH YOUR FINGERNAILS.
But I just love this place, even if my fingers still smell like Soft Scrub. It’s ours. OURS!
OH! Oh! Except it was almost just mine, because M almost got killed.
Ok, ok, he almost got mugged. But still. Same thing.
Monday,3pm. Sober.
The above was, clearly, written while I was drunkity drunk drunk and I’m kind of proud of the lack of typos and somewhat coherent-ness, not gonna lie. Just so you know, after typing “same thing”, I crawled into bed with M to hug him tight because he almost got killed/mugged and then I pretty much passed out.
Continuing, I have always had a bad feeling about M’s (former!) neighborhood. I felt the quietness was deceptive and that something bad could happen at any moment. I’m not being prejudiced towards Queens, I’m just saying. I never felt comfortable there. I was always a little on guard. Well, it turns out that I had reason to be.
As M unloaded boxes from his apartment and carried them to his car, he was approached by a few drunk thugs. They called him choice names, spit in his general direction and threatened him. They pushed him a bit, knocking a box of silverware out of his hands. They rubbed their money in his face, claiming they didn’t need any of his.
Needless to say, when he told me what happened, I almost puked.
But we’re not – LA LA LA – thinking about the fact that he could’ve gotten hurt or worse because he didn’t and now we have no reason to go back there, ever.
So, it has been an adventure. A very expensive, very taxing, very box-filled, muscle-aching adventure.
I’m not going to lie, between M and I we’ve had about twenty-three breakdowns. In fact, just the other night M attempted to hook up the living room TV (is it sick that we have two TVs and 2 DVRs in an apartment with only a bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and living room? I sort of think it’s sick but it’s also unavoidable) and it WASN’T WORKING, just like our phone isn’t working, just like our internet isn’t working, just like four Diet Coke cans exploded in our fridge. The poor thing stood up, kicked a couple of (empty) boxes and then announced “NOTHING IN MY LIFE WORKS. Except for you.”
Dramatic, yes. But also sweet. And that’s the whole point. We can sustain a TV-, internet-, phone-less existence as long as we have each other. And we do have each other. Each other and boxes. Lots of boxes.
Wednesday, 10:30am. Sober.
I took pictures for you all! But my work computer won’t recognize my damn camera! DAMN IT. There is even a photo of M HOLDING the Patriots garbage can. Grr. GRR.
If any of you are computer-savvy um, please help. Because me turning the camera on and off and then on again and then off again in a futile attempt to get the computer to NOTICE THE DAMN CAMERA DAMN YOU isn’t working.
Oh, and the new job rocks. I am busier than EVER and loving it, even if it means less blog-reading during the day (I’ll catch up at night! When, um, we have internet!) and more doing what I am paid to do.
Oh! I got it to work! Pictures!
First of all, the Patriots garbage can (puke, vomit, blehhhh):
And now, M holding his beloved Patriots Garbage Can of Victory:
Half of our bedroom:
And the other half:
More to come.
Labor Day Weekend. Literally. September 1, 2007
The next time I mention the word moving or any words associated with the word moving, I would like each and every one of you to come through the internet and kick me. Hard.
Kthanxbye.
