Tonight… December 31, 2007

…there are polished nails, fire engine red, to match the lips.

…there’s an outfit, sexy, hanging on the back of the closet, for no other reason than I like to admire it from afar.

…there are heels, too - new. Because no one should ring in the new year in last year’s shoes.

…there is the Jon and Kate Plus 8 marathon I’m watching right now; it both enhances and lessens my babylust.

…there was Perspepolis earlier this afternoon; I recommend. Highly. First the books, then the movie, as it should be.

…there is a reservation. “Guacamole” was my only request. From January to July, there will be very little guacamole; time to stock up before the diet begins.

…there is red wine sitting on the counter and white whine chilling in the fridge, because I couldn’t decide.

…there were smiles in the liquor store, anticipation. Champagne quickly selling out.

…there was the Greek woman in the shoe repair shop where I picked up my boots, newly heeled. She wished me a happy new year in Greek and it brought tears to my eyes for no particular reason.

…there are barricades outside of my apartment, and policemen on every corner.

…there is Time Square, just down the road. Busy now, unimaginably busy in just a short while.

…there are hats and sparkly 2008 glasses being sold for eight dollars, because New Yorkers know nothing if not how to make a buck.

…there is the roof of our apartment building, and the view that makes us forget the rent. The view of the entire city - electric, pulsing - greeting the new year with a roar.

…there will be M and me, greeting the new year with a kiss and a smile.

There is nothing better.

Happy New Year.

Spoiled brat. December 28, 2007

I just kicked M out of our bedroom.

We  just spent seven very long, very traffic-filled hours in the car together on the way home from Boston after having spent almost every waking hour since last Friday together and while I love him - lots - I finally reached my breaking point.

He began to talk to me as I started to write and I totally snapped. Something along the lines of “I can’t do this with you right there over my shoulder. I think I need some alone time.”

Never, in the history of our relationship, have I told him I needed alone time. Never, in the history of our relationship, have I ever felt such a desperate need for alone time.

There’s a first for everything.

He’s in the living room right now, reading. And I feel just awful. And yet, I haven’t put down the laptop to go in there and make amends because the truth is, I need this. I need to just be in a quiet room with my thoughts. The holidays - and family members, and obligations, and driving all over the damn eastern seaboard - don’t leave much room for thoughts.

Don’t get me wrong, this past week has been quite lovely, though not perfect.

You see, sometimes, I can be incredibly self-absorbed.

Not so much in a “oh I’m sorry, I didn’t hear what you were saying because I was too busy staring at my reflection in the window of the dry cleaners” sort of way. I guess it’s more like, if I’m happy, I assume everyone else is happy too. If I think something is a good idea, I tend to assume that everyone else assumes it’s a good idea too. I live in a little Clink bubble and that’s all well and good, until I stop taking others into consideration.

The holidays, they are a touchy subject for M and I. It comes down to this: I am a spoiled brat and I love my family and I can’t imagine not being around them for the holidays. Not just my immediate family - they don’t live that far and I see them often - but my large, loud, extended family. Holidays are a great excuse for all of us to get together in the same place at the same time and eat spanikopita until we feel like vomiting and drink whatever alcoholic concoction my aunts have thought up until we feel like vomiting even more.

M isn’t as close with his family. His sister doesn’t bother to come home from the midwest, where she lives with her husband and son, so it’s just M’s parents and his uncle having a quiet, all-American dinner (pork chops, applesauce, and other non-ethnic things) and then making small talk while sitting in the formal living room, sipping tea or coffee. Which is very nice, of course, but I’m used to a raucaus holiday with lots of people and lots of food and lots of yelling and lots of different conversations all going on at once.

Our families are very different and the ways in which they celebrate can be considered almost direct opposites and you know what? If I’m being honest? I like my family’s way better.

But, this is a relationship. And there should be compromise, I know that. I’m just…not ready yet. In fact, I told M that since this was our last Christmas before being married, that I felt okay with us spending it apart. He refused because, again, if I’m being honest? I think he likes my family’s way better, too.

That didn’t keep him from being a bit quiet on Christmas, however. He kept saying he was fine until I cornered him in the basement, where my aunt sent us to fetch more vodka, and nearly begged him to tell me what was wrong.

He shrugged and said “I just miss my parents. That’s all.”

And it damn near broke my heart because there I was, fully enjoying a Christmas with my family, laughing with my family, telling stories with my family and because I was having such a good time, I just assumed M was too.

He was, of course. Part of him was, but part of him was feeling lonely for his parents, up in a suburb of Boston, having their quiet Christmas without either of their children.

We went up to Boston for a few days following Christmas but obviously, when the actual holiday is over and people are back at work and everything at the stores is drastically marked down, it loses some of its magic.

So next year, we will have to compromise. I made that decision on the spot when he told me he was missing them because I love him and I don’t want him to feel any pain - especially not because of me.

There will most likely be Christmas Eve and Christmas morning with one family and then a four-t0-seven hour drive to spend Christmas afternoon and evening with the other. Since I still can’t bear the thought of missing an entire holiday with my family, that’s just what we’ll have to do. It’s not perfect, but neither are we, you know?

I mean, I certainly am not perfect. And before the guilt of kicking him out of his own bedroom eats me alive, I’m going to go curl up next to him on the living room couch and apologize and also try to articulate how I feel right now.

And then I’ll change the topic to how excited I am to be going to the Giants v. Patriots game tomorrow (where I will possibly meet Mike!)  because talking about football always puts boys in a good mood.

I hope you had lovely holidays full of magic.

And compromise.

Happy holidays, lovelies. December 21, 2007

So, I’ll probably be posting over the next week or so because, well, I have time off between Christmas and the new year and there are only so many episodes of Gilmore Girls I can watch on DVD before I get depressed that Stars Hollow is not real.

But I want to take this opportunity to wish you all the happiest of holidays, whatever you might be celebrating.

You all have been so much more than just readers over the past year - you’ve been my therapists, my cheerleaders and my friends. My life is enhanced by both this blog and the blogging community.

And if we knew each other in real life, I’d totally make you some spiked eggnog and Greek melt-in-your-mouth cookies because you rock.

I’m really looking forward to the end of today, to the start of 12 days of freedom (like the 12 days of Christmas, only better).

I’m especially looking forward to:

-My little sister coming into the city tomorrow to celebrate her rockstar LSAT score by getting drunk with me. Because isn’t that how lawyers usually celebrate things? By drinking? Might as well start her early.

-Actually having a conversation with M. (Also, sex.)

-Just being in my parents house - the huge kitchen with dual ovens so I can bake to my little heart’s content, the gorgeous Christmas tree painstakingly decorated by my father, the holiday music piped into every room, my Yiayia (Greek for grandma) and her adorableness (also, her cooking), poring over wedding magazines with my mom and aunts, watching college basketball with my dad and brother, sleeping in my childhood bed and smiling to myself thinking of M, sleeping just two floors below.

-Christmas itself and my loud Greek family whom I wouldn’t trade for the world. Also, food. Because hi, I haven’t told you but I am currently on a diet and Christmas is my one day to indulge and WHO THE HELL STARTS A DIET DURING THE HOLIDAYS?

-Seeing my friends from high school. Getting drunk with my friends from high school.

-Sitting on my couch. A lot.

Again, happy holidays y’all. May your days be merry and bright.

I leave you with a Christmas photo from many years ago (I know, I know, anonymous blog and whatnot but whatever. It’s Christmas. I’m feeling particularly giving):

I’m the blonde. My sister refused to smile for the camera (my little brother? Not even born). My parents sent the Christmas card out like this because they thought it was hilarious.

You know what I find hilarious? The matching outfits. Seriously, parents?

A tip: December 18, 2007

Always go with your gut.

Seriously.

Do not ignore the little voice in the back of your head, frantically urging you not to the take the new, big money job. Frantically encouraging you to stay right where you are, happy at a job for the first time in a very long while.

That voice? Is almost always right.

Because if you ignore your gut, you will spend the evening before starting your new job sobbing into your fiance’s sweatshirt, almost inconsolable, to the point that he is very concerned (and does not accept “I’m PMS-ing” as an excuse).

The next day, you will arrive at your job and you will try to give it a chance. You will attempt to fit in by bouncing ideas off of the group of alpha girls that sit in the corner and by sharing a late afternoon cookie break with your new boss, even though you are on a diet.

But something will feel…not right.

Omigod, you will think, stop being ridiculous. It’s only the first day.

But you know. You just do. In fact, you knew before you even started. Hence all that sobbing you did.

You’ll go to the company’s karaoke holiday party after your first day and will even get up and sing at the encouragement of a few members of your new team, because nothing says “you made the right choice in hiring me” like a rendition of “Oops I Did It Again.” You will end up drunk, in your bed, eating cold pasta and telling your fiance that you made a grave mistake. No, not about the karaoke - about taking the job.

The second day won’t really be any better. You’ll realize that despite the splashy title and the fat paycheck that this isn’t really the direction you wanted to go in and, truly, you knew it all along. You just chose to ignore yourself.

And then - because there’s that whole thing about raining and pouring and whatnot - you will receive a voicemail from your old boss. She will excitedly tell you about a new project she just signed on to and how she knows it puts you in an awkward position but she wants to offer you the position first, before she speaks to anyone else about it. It starts in February (you think: just enough time to claim that I gave this job a try!) and she’ll be able to offer the same salary that you are currently earning (you think: seriously, universe? Is this some sort of sick joke?) and an even splashier title (you think: ok, where’s Ashton Kutcher).

Before you know it, you have one foot out the door after having only just stepped in.

Really, this whole thing could’ve been avoided had you just listened to yourself. Had you just trusted that your instincts would lead you in the right direction.

And now you’re going to have to go through the uncomfortable process of quitting (which, ok fine, it’s TV and people come and go all the time but still! You are not a quitter!) a month into your new job and you see that bridge over there? It’s burning.

So, please, next time? Listen. to. the voice. Stop being so damn stubborn.

Last night. December 16, 2007

It’s almost 3am. We’re in the booth in the back of a pub that reminds me of London; they even have Magner’s on tap.

An ice storm rages outside. Already I have received a few texts from M: he misses me, he wants me to be careful, he is going to bed but asks that I wake him when I get home.

I feel bad, but only for a moment. I have been going to bed without him almost every evening for two weeks; he will survive just one night.

We are a few shots and quite a few drinks in. The men in the bar - having witnessed our rebuff of a few brave souls who attempted to crash the party - know to leave us alone. We are in that zone when you’re drunk, but not too. Just enough to be honest and yet still articulate.

“I think I love him.” She’s tall and blonde and stunning and sleeping with her boss. Her married boss. Her married boss with five kids, 23 years older.

It’s hard for me not to side immediately with the wife. To cringe at the thought of him pulling out the “I have to work late, honey” card, spending a raucous evening with my friend and then crawling into bed with the Mrs. After a shower, because women can always smell other women. Perhaps he even kisses her forehead, tells her that he loves her, lets her initiate sex. I bet he asks about the kids, and makes plans for the weekend, and acts as if everything is normal because he’s learned to compartmentalize so, in his mind, it is normal.

And she’s none the wiser. She has no idea that he has demonized her to my friend so that my friend feels less guilty about sleeping with a married man. Isn’t that how it always goes?

“She’s awful. He wants to divorce her. He hasn’t been happy for a while,” says the tall blonde.

I want to say: “of course he tells you she’s awful! All men tell the mistress that the wife is awful! Would you continue to sleep with him if he said that she was the most amazing woman he has ever met? Making you think she’s awful is the spoonful of sugar that helps the guilt go down!”

I don’t say anything at all. I take another sip of cider instead.

The other one, the pretty brunette, plays with the straw in her Skinny Bitch (vodka and diet) and bemoans her recent quasi-break up.

“I thought he moved back from Paris for me,” she admits. It’s clear now that he didn’t. He was an ex. She had gone to visit. Feelings were reignited. They discussed getting back together. He made the announcement he was coming back.

And, a mere week after setting foot on American soil, he told her she wasn’t the one.

“I know he loves me,” she says and we all know it’s true. We all know that their different religions and backgrounds have always loomed in the background, threatening to disrupt. Until, one week in, they did.

I feel slightly superior, in my drunkeness. Because M and I are of different religions and backgrounds and we’ve had tough talks about it - heated talks, even - and yet we realized that being together is worth it. It was never really a question.

I suddenly experience the need to throw my own angst into the ring. I don’t want to be the Smug Engaged, judging the Singletons from my happy, fairytale corner of the world.

“I’ve been having dreams about my ex-boyfriend. Almost every night for the past few weeks.”

It’s not sleeping with a boss or nursing a broken heart but, hey, it’s something. In fact, it’s something that has been on my mind for a while. I’m sick of waking up and feeling confused and guilty.

“I hear that’s normal,” says the blonde. “A friend of mine who got married had a dream about an ex the night before her wedding.“

A guy who looks like he’s about nineteen years old sidles up next to the brunette, says that he noticed her drink was getting low and could he buy her another?

And just like that, the spell is broken. We realize we’re drunk and there’s an ice storm and sitting around a table in the back booth of a bar that reminds me of London is no longer appealing. It’s certainly not getting us anywhere, except drunker.

“No thanks,” the blonde answers for the brunette. “We’re actually heading out.”

And so we do, arm in arm, baby steps across the sidewalk to hail a cab, our heels threatening to give out any second on the ice.

In the backseat of the cab, watching the east side fly by, I think to myself if my largest problem is the fact that I’m having dreams about my ex, I’m in pretty damn good shape.

Once home, I crawl into bed with M, inhale his scent for a moment before gently kissing him on the cheek and telling him the obvious - that I’m home.

He rolls over and throws an arm around my waist, nuzzling my neck. “I love you,” he murmurs.

And yeah, it is confirmed. Pretty damn good shape.

Dear Clink of 1999: December 13, 2007

(A joint post with Molly and Peter. We are dorks. Clearly.)

I come to you from the not-so-distant futu-

Wait, are you wearing thigh-high socks? And a plaid skirt? And chunky Mary Janes?

Clink, step away from the Clueless VHS.

I know that your nickname in high school is Cher and all but really, you don’t have to take it so damn literally.

Moving on. So hi. It’s Future You. I’m in 2007 and we have better hair now (we finally figured out how to tame the waves) (shut up, waves are in now) (maybe you should step away from your straightening iron, too) and we have a kick ass job and we have something sparkly on our fin - nevermind. I’m not going to ruin that for you.

So, you’re probably ditching school right now. A straight-A student with a rebellious streak, how tragic. You probably drove to IHOP with Kirstin in your Ford Explorer while listening to, I don’t know, the Gin Blossoms? DMB? THE BACKSTREET BOYS? And right now you’re probably stuffing your face full of pancakes and an omelette and hash browns and toast and bacon and god, you’re such a bitch.

No, really, you are. Because I’m going to have to work all of that off in 2007 when our metabolism finally slows down and HATE.

You think you’re fat though, don’t you? In the immortal words of Jennifer Love Hewitt, “a size two is not fat!” (Remember, I come from the future. JLH is no longer that kind-of annoying girl who always wears a jean jacket and lusts after Bailey on PoF. She’s now a B-list celebrity who does Hanes commercials and recently got photographed in a bikini looking like a normal human being.)

So, do me a favor? Will you frame that size 2 pair of Abercrombie jeans because, no matter how hard I try, I don’t think I’ll ever see ‘2′ on the label of a pair of jeans again and excuse me while I go weep for the perfect body you currently inhabit but don’t appreciate.

Ok, ok, I’ll get down to it. GOD we are SO impatient. Here are some things to keep in mind:

-Don’t be such a bitch to that band dork who keeps asking you out. He will ultimately go on to become a pretty hot musician living in Brooklyn and the two of you will have some of the best. sex. ever. No, really. Stop making vomit noises.

-The girl that you think is your “omg, bff FOREVER” is not who you thinks she is. She will let you down when you need her the most. She’s a jealous, negative, spiteful bitch so stop talking about how she’s going to be your co-maid of honor with your sister - she’s not.

-The cops are getting kind of sick of finding you at parties they are in the midst of breaking up and driving you home because of who your father is. It’s not cute. There’s no need for a 17 year old to be partying. Go watch Newsies for the millionth time and behave yourself.

-You’re going to cheat on High School Boyfriend. I know that is unfathomable to you right now because you are in love - or something close to it - but you will do it. And it will be a mistake. And you will break your first heart. And you will end up sobbing on the floor of your dorm room for 12 hours straight.

-The good news is, he will forgive you. And you two are still friends in 2007.

-Going to London will initially be really scary, especially after 9/11 (you will find out what that is…soon), but it will ultimately be the best experience of your life and you’ll meet some of your closest friends. You’ll also get drunk and hook up with men with accents and spend all of your money at Karen Millen and travel Europe and it will all ultimately make you who you are today.

-Take more writing classes in college. They will be your favorite and you will find a professor that believes in you.

-Don’t, um, lose touch with that professor after you graduate. You’ll really regret it.

-Give it up with College Boyfriend, Clink. I don’t mean literally (too late!) but listen to your gut. You know he’s never going to come around. The on-off-on-off is going to suck. Big time. But you two will also remain friends and one day in 2007 you’ll meet his new girlfriend and you’ll see the way he looks at you and you’ll know that he wishes he had gotten his shit together way back when. And now he’s stuck with a boring waif. Sucka.

-Your first job out of college will suck. Your boss will sexually harass you and you’ll hate the work and the hours and you’ll question everything but - bonus! - you’ll lose a lot of weight because you basically can’t afford to eat. Also, you’ll start a blog.

-Dating will be fun, for a while. And then you’ll start to lose hope and wonder if you’ll ever truly connect with anyone in this city. Baby, you will. And you’ll know it when you do. And he’ll be the best thing in the entire universe and HI I AM CRYING WHILE I TYPE THIS TO YOU. Just trust me on this one.

-Buy some stock in Google. Please.

I don’t want to give it all away, but I just want you to know that you’re going to be alright. I know you worry all the time - you worry about what you’re going to do with your life, you worry about making your parents proud, you worry about someone close to you dying, you worry about finding someone you want to spend the rest of your life with…

You’ll never stop being a worrier (especially while flying - oh crap! You’re not afraid of flying yet, are you. Um, start stocking up on Xanax) but you’ll be fine. I promise.

Life from 2007-almost-2008 is pretty damn good. (Ok, can I just tell you this one thing? YOU FOUND YOUR WEDDING DRESS AND IT IS GORGEOUS. Squee!)

Buck up, little one. It’s going to be one hell of a ride.

Ok, I’m outtie. (Isn’t that what the kids were saying in 1999?)

Love,

You, circa 2007

Indie Bloggers December 13, 2007

I’m published over on Indie Bloggers today.

I submitted a post from Such Great Heights (some of my older readers may be familiar with it) mainly because I am a wuss. I wanted to test the waters with something non-fiction, something that had already gotten past the “is this crap or not?” test for the blog.

But soon, I’m going to start submitting fiction. Fiction that I’m way too bite-my-nails-until-they’re-stubs nervous about to post on this here site.

And I encourage you all to do the same. Not just fiction, but anything that you’re proud of - that post that made you want to kiss the damn screen. Maybe something that you’re a bit nervous to post on your personal blog. A certain piece that has been languishing in your drafts folder - you know it’s good but something is keeping you from publishing it.

Take a risk. Trust me, if I can do it (I mean, I never even let M read my writing and even submitting to IB took much encouragement from my #1 fan Molly), you can too.

I can’t wait to see your stuff over there.

Things That Piss Me Off, Part One December 11, 2007

I was going to post about holiday cheer and the like (specifically: how my fiance found, bought and dragged home the largest tree in Manhattan; if you have about 500 extra ornaments laying around feel free to send them my way) but then I read an article that made me want to vomit.

I don’t normally like to get political here. I get way too heated (I’m a politician’s daughter; I was born heated) and at the same time I don’t like to offend (I was also born a Libra) and in general I’m so disillusioned with the whole thing, both parties, both ends of the spectrum that I should probably just put on some heavy eyeliner, lace up some Doc Martens and listen to thrash metal in my dark bedroom (is that what the broody kids listen to these days? Thrash metal?)

But every once in a while something gets me riled up and today that something is the following: a gang rape cover-up by the US and Halliburton.

In sum: Jamie Leigh Jones was an administrative assistant working for a Halliburton subsidiary in Iraq. One night she was drugged and gang-raped - by her fellow employees - so violently that it ruptured a breast implant, tore her pectoral muscles and left her covered in blood, bruised and battered, both physically and, of course, emotionally. She immediately went to a State Department hospital, but the rape kit which proved that she had been raped both vaginally and anally mysteriously “disappeared” when it was handed over to security guards. Then Jones herself was handed over to security guards - locked in a shipping container for 24 hours without food, water, medical care or contact with the outside world. She was told to “get over it” or “return to the US with no guarantee of a job.”

Thankfully, a sympathetic guard eventually gave Jamie a cell phone, which she used to call her father.

There is no criminal investigation, nor will there ever be. Her attackers will never serve time behind bars, due to “a little lawless oasis called the Green Zone.” Essentially, according to legal experts, there is a huge loophole that leaves American contractors in Iraq out of the reach of American law.

Awesome.

I mean, essentially this girl’s (and she is a girl at 22 years old) only chance at justice comes in the form of a civil suit, something that is being contested by her former employer who claims that her employment contract requires arbitration (must less effective - the jackasses at Halliburton have won 80% of their suits that have gone to arbitration, which is essentially a third party decision - no judge or jury or formal transcripts; also - what the fuck? Wasn’t her employment contract, uh, breached when she was, oh, GANG RAPED? And LOCKED IN A SHIPPING CONTAINER? And it was COVERED UP FOR TWO YEARS?)

I mean. There are no words. There are no words for what happened and there are no words for how this makes me so angry I shake as I type this.

How does a company like this operate so far outside the law? This a company that we as Americans, however indirectly, pay for. The American people pay taxes to the government, the government pays Halliburton, Halliburton pays their employees and their employees can fucking gang-rape a girl and get away with it?

Boys will be boys, eh? Isn’t that the mentality?

And boys will certainly be boys when they know they can get away with anything - gang rape, killing innocent civilians - all without repercussions.

Excuse me while I go rock back and forth in a corner.

Sometimes I’m so naive, living in my little world with my little job and my little relationship and my little wedding and my little friends…and then reality smacks me upside the head and reminds me that there are evil people doing evil things and getting away with them.

I know this isn’t the type of post you’ve come to expect from Such Great Heights but I couldn’t possibly write any more about wedding planning or that huge ass Christmas tree when this was lingering in my thoughts all day.

Jamie Leigh Jones has set up a foundation for women in similar situations. I guess that’s - pathetically - the least we can hope for. That other women who go through this can get the proper emotional and physical care that they need.

The most we can hope for is that it never, ever happens again.  Except it will. And the US will continue to do the equivalent of a sympathetic shrug, a “nothing we can do about it folks, sorry.”

So, I found my dress. December 9, 2007

I don’t know what I was so afraid of.

I was literally shaking as we parked my mother’s car (far, far away from every other car in the lot; I spent half of my childhood walking across parking lots because my mother has a fear of rogue shopping carts or flighty drivers denting her vehicle) and headed towards our first appointment.

I could give you about a million reasons why, none of which are particularly logical.

Mostly, though, I guess I was just fearful that I wouldn’t find something that spoke to me. Something that made my mother, my sister, my grandmother and I all cry. Something that made me feel like a bride. Something that made me look like a bride. Something that was worthy of this step I’m going to take in July, the hugeness of which tends to get lost in the details sometimes.

I chose to go dress shopping in New Jersey because people are nicer there. I love you New York, but you are sometimes full of snots. Especially in your bridal salons. (Hey “TrueNYer”: Commence rant about how I am so not a real citizen of this city because I dared to get my gown in another state. A state without sales tax on clothing.)

The good people of New Jersey proved me right - the women at the bridal salon were warm and welcoming. They were open to my ideas but also offered suggestions based on my body type and the overall style of my wedding. They made me feel comfortable. Comfortable enough to, oh, prance around in nothing but my boy shorts, which may have been a bit too comfortable but hey. Apparently I’m comfortable almost naked in a room that is half full of strangers.

The first two dresses were…okay. Seriously, just okay. In the way that a slightly worn cable-knit sweater and jeans and your boots and those earrings you always wear are just okay to wear on a Wednesday when you’re not doing anything after work. You know?

And then my mother - of course, because her style is second to none and she knows me better than anyone - pulled a dress off the rack and said “try this.”

And, lo. Every single one of us cried, including the salesgirl, who either got caught up in the moment or will clearly go above and beyond for a commission.

The dress is gorgeous. Elegant, sophisticated and, um, it gives me a waist the size of Victoria Beckham’s. I’m not sure how and I’m not sure if I want to find out how but let’s just pretend it’s magic and move on.

I want to post a picture. I want to post a picture so bad and if I were reading this post on someone else’s blog and I got this far and the bitch started talking about how she didn’t want to post a picture because it would not do her dress justice I’d probably want to smack her. At the very least.

It’s just that THE INTERNET DOES NOT DO MY DRESS JUSTICE. Sure, it looks pretty on the designer’s website but it does not look exquisite and I don’t want you to be all “wow, that Clink has no taste.”

I tried on a bunch of dresses after The One - just to make sure, you know - but I couldn’t stop staring at my dress on its hanger as I tried on others. Kind of like when you’re at a bar with a nice enough, cute enough guy but every time Mr. Nice and Cute goes to the bathroom or turns away, you make eyes at the gorgeous guy in the corner and you both know that you’d rather be with him.

People, I even tried on a Monique Lhuillier. I have worshipped at the Temple of Lhuillier for a very long time and, don’t get me wrong, the dress was beyond beautiful.

And yet…still not as beautiful as mine.

So, we have a dress. A dress that is so worthy.

And now, of course, I want that dress to be taken in when it arrives in a few months, so let the dieting begin.

Um, I guess sharing that pint of dulce de leche with M on the couch while listening to Christmas music in our newly holiday-ized apartment wasn’t exactly the best start, but hey. We had something to celebrate.

I found a dress.

Update: Ok, so if I post a picture, you all have to promise me that you’ll remember that the dress looks about a thousand times more stunning in person/on my body. Also, ignore the hideous veil and jewelry but feel free to envision my arms just as toned as the model’s. Deal? Deal.

I love the lace. I love the fact that it’s not too much lace. I love the sweetheart neckline (so do my boobs). I love that I can add little organza cap sleeves if I want. I love the back (mine has a bow right at the ass, so cute.) I love everything about it - especially how it makes me look and feel.

Law school finals, grr. December 5, 2007

I fucking hate law school finals.

And, um, I’m not even taking them.

But they’ve stolen my fiance and he’s all in their clutches and I’m all pout, neglected and he’s all ‘doing it for us’ and I’m all ‘hey, I hear that bankers work pretty decent hours.’

This is our first foray into the tumultuous Land of Law School Finals, so I think I can be forgiven for being a total brat.

Look, I get it, they’re muy importante. Not like undergrad, when your grade was pretty much determined by how well you could bullshit an essay and how much you raised your hand just to hear yourself talk. Also, perhaps how hot the professor thought you were because, let’s face it, undergraduate professors were sometimes slimy.

In law school, the finals are, like, 90% of your grade. And grades are, like, 90% of how you get a big firm job upon graduation. And that means M is 90% busy (and 10% sleeping). Which makes me 90% missing my boy (and 10% wanting a glass of wine, as always).

I just feel so disconnected. He does too. I mean, when we actually see each other for the 2.5 minutes a day our paths cross, we talk about how disconnected we feel.

And then he goes off to study some more and I watch another episode of The Real Housewives of Orange County before going to sleep. (The Real Housewives are totally freakin’ entertaining but they are clearly not an adequate substitute for quality time with M.) (Or, um, sex with M.)

I’m hoping that, come December 19th, all will magically go back to normal and we can be all “sunshine! Rainbows! Unicorns!” once again, instead of two independent balls of stress that occasionally knock into each other.

That’s right, I’m stressed too. I mean, my workdays lately start at 7:45am and don’t end until 7:45pm and even then, I still get work-related emails and phone calls well into the evening.

The fact that I’m so busy is good - it takes my mind off of the fact that my relationship has essentially been put on hold. And when I’m not working I’m hanging out with one friend or another at one bar or restaurant or another (which is, you know, perfect for my Holy Shit Less Than a Year Left Bride Diet and how do my friends stay so skinny and eat so much? Does not compute.)

But still.

M is my sounding board. Being with him at the end of the day - leaning against his chest, taking comfort in the consistent rise and fall, listening to him give me advice or call me a rock star (which I totally am and this job - the one I am leaving soon - is so awesome and I WISH I COULD TALK ABOUT IT but even if I wasn’t anonymous, I signed a non-disclosure agreement) and alternately giving him advice or calling him a rock star (which he totally is - the boy has a sick number of interviews lined up already for a summer internship) is what grounds me. Centers me. Makes me feel like all is right in the world.

Take that away and all you have is a very frazzled Clink and a very frazzled M and a very frazzled relationship. Which, do not want.

December 19 - and the blissful work and law school-free days that follow, cannot. come. soon enough.