Gushy McGusherson February 11, 2008

I felt like I was going to vomit as the train pulled into the station, but it wasn’t from the two mini-bottles of wine I had along the way.

Typical first date nerves, where you’re simultaneously worried about your hair, your breath and whether or not you’ll have anything articulate to say.

Meeting Molly was the light at the end of a very long, stressful tunnel: hardly any time with M all week (thus feeling disconnected), a brutal and relentless new job that requires of me more hours than there are in the day (thus feeling stressed and overwhelmed), wedding planning in high gear (enough said).

I was ready to leave it all behind and meet the person who had helped me get through it.

I tend to work myself up over absolutely nothing and this was another one of those times: there was no reason for the nerves. The minute I saw (a very blonde! very pretty! very tiny!) Molly, the minute we created a scene at the train station, the minute I hopped in the monstrous SUV, I knew that there had been no reason to worry.

It was like seeing and old friend, exciting and comforting at the same time.

I would love to recount minute by lovely minute but I’ll spare you every last detail (you’re welcome; I have a feeling the internets don’t find this nearly as interesting as Molly and I do) and just give you the highlights:

-Molly’s town looks like a movie set and her house looks like a dollhouse and her dog and I are in love. We even peed and showered together. Perhaps next time I will be able to actually look Kodiak in the eye while I am sitting on the toilet. Baby steps.

-Michael is tall and handsome and absolutely awesome. I mean, duh. They are clearly so in love with each other. He actually reminds me a lot of M: two rational, quiet, steady men marrying two energetic, gabby, spunky girls.

-If you keep putting bubbly berry and pound cake martinis in front of me, I will keep drinking them. If I keep drinking them, I will claim not to feel their effects. If I claim not to feel their effects, I am clearly in denial/delusional/a liar. See: the next morning.

-Also, if you keep putting bubbly berry and pound cake martinis in front of me, I may break the glasses. BY CLINKING THEM TOGETHER.

-Molly and I are both college educated and, by all accounts, bright girls. So why the hell did it take us an entire day to figure out why Molly’s finger was bleeding at the bar? Because, um, clearly it was the above (as opposed to her zipper.)

-BossMike is the kind of guy that you want to sit and talk to for hours. I’ve met him exactly twice now, but I feel like I’ve known him forever. He’s whip smart and quick to laugh and totally a 25 year old girl, but in the best way. (No really, BossMike! It’s a compliment! Even if I’m no longer officially your Blog Crush.)

-Lunch was delicious but entirely too short. It was capped off by dessert courtesy of PB&Razz and Dear PB&Razz, My future wedding dress does not thank you for the chocolate yummies, but my mouth sure does. Holyomigod, thank you. Love, Clink (& Molly & BossMike & whomever at Molly’s house gets to eat the rest of them).

-It was nice to talk blog with people who get it, as my only other option is discussing things with M, who clearly does not. Considering my increasingly “meh” attitude towards blogging, talking with BossMike and Molly helped remind me why I started doing it and why I continue to do it.  They are what matters; all the rest of it does not.

-Molly’s reception venue is unbelievably stunning. It’s so her and I know it’s going to come together perfectly. I cannot wait until October.

-There were no “we just met so we should be on our best behavior” formalities. By Saturday afternoon, we were both spread out on Molly’s soft-as-butter leather couch, watching bad reality television and sustaining a running commentary on everything from True Life to Air Guitar Nation.

-I knew she was my soul mate when she suggested pizza and more bad television (Sleeping With the Enemy. Julia Roberts + creepy guy who does not blink + overacting = gold) in lieu of getting dolled up and hitting the town.

-I packed entirely too much. To the point that I had to recruit buff men on the train to help me lift and lower my suitcase from the overhead racks. But I think my shoes passed muster with the Shoeru herself (her closet = droolworthy).

-Driving with Molly was my favorite part, because it gave us a chance to talk without distraction. Every conversation was further proof that we just get each other. It was amazing to see our online relationship (I shudder at that phrase, but hey) translate so seamlessly into real life.

I adore her, just like I knew I would. She’s one of the best things to come from this whole blogging experiment. In fact, I miss her already and I wish she lived only three blocks away, instead of three hours. I’m already mentally planning many future trips to Rhode Island, stretching all the way to when we have kids. They can play in the sand and we can lay on the beach and discuss Rock of Love 25 while soaking in some rays.

I can’t wait.

You know you’re going to visit Molly when… February 8, 2008

…half of your suitcase is filled with shoes.

Dear Rhode Island, You will never be the same. Sorry bout that. Love, Clink.

I quit my job last night. January 17, 2008

That should be its own category, shouldn’t it. “I peaced out of yet another job.” I swear it’s the nature of this business and not just because I am easily distrac—ooh, wait, what’s that? Something shiny!

I thought I was going to vomit as the day drew to a close, knowing that I’d have to hop in a cab with the friend I work with who brought me on, go out to dinner and at some point tell her “it’s not working out. It’s not you, it’s me.”

Because freelancing isn’t all that different from dating. Clearly.

I thought it would happen after a few glasses of wine. I thought I’d get liquored up and also get her liquored up (see! JUST LIKE DATING!) and the words would just tumble out and since we were both liquored up we would just laugh about it and deal with the repercussions the next day, along with hangovers.

Except, there’s something you should know about me. I am the world’s most impatient person. I hate waiting for anything, which is why I will probably never leave New York.

As soon as we got in the cab for the short ride from SoHo to the Village, she turned to me and said “so, how are you liking everything?”

And, because I could not even wait until we were, you know, on stable ground and perhaps seated in the damn restaurant, I told her everything.

How it’s not really for me. It’s not my passion. How I think it’s a lose/lose situation if I stay - I won’t be happy and thus I certainly won’t be producing my best work for the company. It was all the truth. I wasn’t as articulate as I would’ve liked to be but that serves me right, seeing as I couldn’t even wait to down a glass of wine in order to loosen up.

Because she is, perhaps, one of the sweetest, most caring individuals on the planet Earth, my friend totally understood (what was I so afraid of? Why am I so good at building anxiety to the point that it renders me near-paralyzed with fear?). She said she could sense that I wasn’t really in my element (another thing you should know about me: I wear my emotions all over my face) and that she would never put a job before our friendship.

Dear Weight: Smell ya later. Luv, Shoulders.

So I’m free! In two weeks! In the time it takes me to get through half of my menstrual cycle (shutpicouldnotcomeupwithanythingbetter), I will be back working with my old boss and former assistant again. I will have a splashy new title and an even higher pay rate. I will be working out of a luxury apartment, mostly on a couch where I was promised we would “cook and watch Oprah” during the day and I will again have the opportunity to see more of this country on someone else’s dime.

The one thing I will not have? Health insurance. But hey, I like to mess with my parents as much as the next kid.

Exposed. But it’s okay. January 6, 2008

I feel exposed. Which is normal, seeing as I revealed a side of myself that I had really only hinted at previously.

I feel a bit embarrassed, too, but that’s okay. That comes with the territory of admitting that you are far from perfect; that you sometimes fail at something that is so…primal.

On Friday I was sitting at work thinking about how I should post something but I couldn’t stop thinking about food long enough to come up with anything. Instead of writing, I went onto a recipe website and stared at a photo of mac and cheese and literally - literally, people - had to wipe a bit of drool from the corner of my mouth.

And then it hit me (I’ve never been incredibly quick on the uptake) that, um, I should probably write about not eating and all that comes with it: the emptiness that can feel almost like a high, the panic attacks I have in the middle of the night because I’m afraid I’m going to die, the lies, the 300 calorie days, the breath.

And so I did. And so you commented and emailed. And so you said amazing things that made me feel warm and bubbly and most of all safe because I have the best freaders (friends + readers) ever.

I drew strength from every comment and email - every word of support, every “I have been there too” or “I am right there now.” Essentially, I drew from you the strength I did not have.

Because, you know what? Sometimes we project our ideal selves on blogs because that’s the easiest thing to do. Being a better version of yourself is easy on on a blog; you can depict the bits and parts of your life that are awesome and leave out the shit.

Except that I knew that leaving out the shit, in this case, would just make the shit worse. Not writing about the shit would allow it to linger inside, taunting me. The shit tends to do that. And if you let the shit do that, it will build and build and build until you no longer have any control of it and your hair is falling out and you’re too weak to get out of bed and life has lost all of its sheen.

I’m better now. Not well, but better. Not eating as I should be, but better (as in, I’ve had a salad today. Yes, just a salad but it’s better than nothing and I ate almost the whole thing). It takes time to talk myself down from the ledge, to pull myself from from the wreckage of disordered eating, to sit down and have a talk with myself about what’s really going on and how what’s really going on is not related to the size of my thighs.

As for telling M - it is rational for me to tell him and rational for you all to want me to tell him. But I’m not rational when I’m in it - when I’m secretly writing down every calorie I eat, down to the piece of gum, when I am drinking water until I feel like vomiting just so I can attempt to feel full, when I know I should stop but also know that another week or two will allow me to drop some more weight - I can’t think clearly. I’ll tell him, when I’m ready. In fact, we had a roundabout conversation about it just last night and that’s about as close as I can get right now. I don’t know how to explain it and thank god for those of you who have said “we know why you’re not telling him” because you’ve been where I am and you know what it is that I just can’t articulate right now. I can’t articulate it to anyone, except semi-anonymously on the internet.

After a particularly ugly bout with this earlier in my life, where disordered eating and I went a few nasty rounds (where was my blog then, dammit!), I now know what I need to get everything under control when it starts to slip from my hands but before it is completely out of reach. It took a long, long time to get here but the fight was worth it, as you can imagine.

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. Thank you for, as I emailed cdp or Peter or maybe both, making me feel less like I was floating in the middle of the ocean in the dark and more like I was in a crowded room, with outstretched arms and warm smiles.

What you’ve given me, I will never forget.

Note: For any of you who have struggled or are struggling with disordered eating, reading www.goodwithcheese.wordpress.com will make you feel even less alone. If you’re anything like me, you’ll find yourself nodding, crying and trying not to think “she exercises so much; maybe I should do the same to lose more weight” because it’s not about picking up tips, Clink, it’s about not being the only one to go through it and, hopefully, to get out of it also.

In happier news: Woo! KLC! I can’t even deal. Go congratulate her, even if you’re really not supposed to “congratulate” a bride. It’s supposed to be “best wishes” or whatever but hey, I’m pretty sure either will do.

Guest blogging. January 3, 2008

Today, I’m hanging out over at Molly’s place.

She’s currently in Las Vegas. It’s okay to be jealous, I am too. (But not too jealous - I hear it’s only 50 degrees out there. The Vegas that resides in my head is always 90 degrees and sunny. At least, it better be for my bachelorette party.)

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?

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.

So sweet. November 16, 2007

I know, I know. I haven’t really been around lately and that’s partially because I’m busy but also because there’s something on my mind that I don’t have the guts to publish just yet.

But this totally made my day (the last paragraph of the post).

And if you’re not reading Sideways Rain well, then, you’re dead to me I just handed you your new favorite blog.

The One With All the Internet Lurve November 9, 2007

Hi! I’m La, and I run a little site called The Rad Fanny, and today I’m the final blogger sitting in for the lovely Miss Clink as she rounds out her business trip in Boston.When Clink asked me to guest post for her, my immediate reaction that was of pure terror, because Clink? Has been my number one favorite blogger since she started writing, and the thought of filling in for her is more than mildly intimidating. Not to mention the group of tremendously gifted writers I’d have to follow this week, being in the final slot. But I totally heart her, and I’ve followed her from the very beginning, from her very first post, and I’ve always had a sort of blog crush on her. And while I’m flattered beyond words that she chose me? Yah, I’m still mostly petrified. You can imagine the thoughts that ran through my head; First it was “No way, I can’t do this, nuh uh, it’s Clink, for crying out loud!” and then I thought, “Bring it.” I can totally do this, right?  Right. So here I am. And let me state for the record that I think Clink is so pretty and charming and funny and smart and brilliant and wonderful and makes me smile every single frickin day, and there is no one better to email with all day complaining about how sick we are, and no, there isn’t a contest for the best and most flattering guest blog post, why would you even ask that?

I’ve been trying to decide what to write about all week, because for me? Writing is never really a process. I sit down, I start typing, and I go with whatever comes out. But I wanted to write something special and of substance for my time here, and I guess when I think about Clink and blogging and all you wonderful gals (and guys, sorry) and how it brought us all together? It makes me want to write about blogs and the wonderful friendships they create. That’s right, I’m totally sapping out for the final guest blogger post. Deal. It’s something I’ve written about before on my own blog, many, many times, and it’s something I have a lot of experience with.

Because while we all know about the lovefest between Molly and Clink? I have my very own internet BFF. And she is divine. We began our relationship three years ago, and I have to tell you that I don’t know where I would be without her. In the beginning, it was just comments on each other’s blogs every now and then, and then it quickly blossomed into 8,452 text messages a day, MySpace messages, some questionable cell phone pictures of interesting things and/or body parts followed by “is this normal?”, packages of goodies and birthday presents and wedding presents and house warming presents and little cards just to say hello that we’ve sent to each other (because we know each other’s real, whole names! And addresses! And phone numbers! And life stories!), and emailing and chatting every single day, and she really is probably the closest person in the world to me. And the secrets she knows about me? That no one knows? Not even Andy? Could be very, very incriminating. I’m just saying.

She has seen me through every up and down I’ve had in my life in the past three years, and it’s my hope that I’ve done the same for her. And while we totally have each other’s back and are emotional rocks for each other, we also spend most days talking about poop and how much we want to go home and hate working and would rather be eating on the couch in our pajamas. And today, it was emailing her the first draft of this post saying, “Do you think this is any good?”, which is the seventh grade equivalent of, “Do you think they all will like me? Do you? Do you?” And as always, she knows exactly the right things to say to me. She knows my fears, my dreams, my strengths and my weaknesses, and we always joke about how we would totally get married if we could. And speaking of weddings? She is absolutely coming to mine. Because I couldn’t get married without her there.

It’s all about camaraderie. And it’s all because of this little blogging community we’ve created - one without bias, one with complete abandonment of our guards, one of complete comfort and belonging - that I was able to “meet” her. And able to “meet” all of you. And I love every single one of you. And I think it’s wonderful that blogging has allowed us all to become so close, even if it’s “just” on the screen. Because I think it’s almost better than real life. Because there is no judgment. It’s just unconditional internet love. And I love it. And I love Clink, and I thank her for letting me spend a little time with all of you today.

Ok, so now it’s time for you to come home, Clink. Because we miss you. Kthanksbai.

The Luckiest Guy in the World November 8, 2007

I’m Mike from I Got Nothin. You might know me as the guy who defended M’s right to keep the Patriots garbage can. You certainly know Molly. And you may or may not know me as Molly’s boss. At least for a little while longer.What you probably don’t know me as is Renee’s husband. And, well, hey, anything wedding/engagement related is pretty popular in these parts, so I’ll do my best to keep that going until Clink returns.

So, here is how I became the luckiest guy in the world:

Renee and I knew each other five years before we started going out just prior to our senior year of college. We lived in the same area and met while working the same summer job. I went to school in New York, she in Vermont. We graduated and got jobs in each location. Hello long distance relationship.

I knew Renee was the one before we started going out. I’m not sure why. I just knew. So the engagement was just when, not if. And when became about a year after we graduated college. I had purchased the ring before and had even asked her dad for her hand. I can’t help it. I’m as traditional as they come.

We made plans to be home in Connecticut for a summer pops concert in the local park. That was on Saturday night. On Friday, I had said that I wanted to go to the beach and just hang out. She was fine with that. More importantly, it was no surprise. We loved going to this beach and just walking along, especially at night. That was the best time to go.

So, we meet at my parents’ and head down to the beach - in my Chevy Chevette. I know. I know, but it was four wheels and an engine.

We get to the beach and we are walking along on a gorgeous clear night. Just talking. Holding hands. Feeling good. And, well, a little nervous. We would normally walk to the end of the beach, but knowing what was to come, I sort of stopped us short just to admire the dark ocean.

Then I reached into my pocket, pulled out the ring and completely surprised her with my proposal. After a bunch of hugs and kisses, I was like, “So is that a yes?!” It was.

As we were walking back from the beach, Renee was all excited. She wanted to tell her parents. And she really wanted to talk to her sister, who lived in Florida. By this point, we were coming off the beach and there’s a yacht club nearby. Outside the yacht club was a limo. I was like, let’s go ask the limo driver to use the phone. I’m sure there is one and he wouldn’t care.

Not realizing I just fed her a line, she started toward the white stretch limo. And as she got closer, the driver simply said, Congratulations. Yup, I arranged the limo. I had another couple go to my parents, ride the limo down and then take my car back to my parents’ house.

So inside the limo was champagne, a rose and a card. She was beside herself. We enjoyed champagne while taking a nice ride around the beach area. I can’t wait to tell my parents, she said. Little did she know…that when we arrived back at my parents’ house, her parents were there waiting. I had arranged for them to come over so they could be there, along with my parents, and we could all celebrate the engagement together.

We’ve been married 13 years. Pretty cool, eh? That’s how I became the luckiest guy in the world. And still am.