All In the (Blogging) Family November 7, 2007

April 12, 2007
Hi Clink,
Just thought I’d drop you a line, being that you are the inspiration for my blogging and I linked you on my page. (You know, nothing like just throwing it out there in the VERY FIRST LINE OF CORRESPONDENCE, because that’s not creepy at ALL. Oh no. And that shrine I have to you? Yeah, nevermind that. It’s nothing. Really.) Thought I’d just “introduce” myself  ( No shit, sherlock.) Truth be told, it was reading “Such Great Heights” that made me think about writing a blog of my own. I know that I’m no where near being a great writer (uh, hi Barbie if you were, then you would PROBABLY realize that “nowhere” is in fact, one word. Way to go. Barbie the Journalist.), but I just wanted to say thank you for the inspiration, and if you get a chance, I’d love for you to have a read. (Because really, you’re like a blogging celebrity to me, and hi, I sound oh so desperate here that hopefully you’ll take pity, and pick me! choose me! love me!!! ….Okaaaaay Meredith….) Maybe you’ll like it enough to include in your blogroll. Maybe not, and thats ok too. (Not really. If you hate it, you’re totally going to crush my blogging dreams and I am going to wither and die and give up all hope of becoming a writer. Because YOU didn’t like my writing. Take that, inspiration! How’s that for guilt?! Huh?! Huh?!!!!)
Best of luck to you figuring out the freelancing situation, and don’t worry about the cookies- they’ll mean a lot to M. And really, thats all that matters. (Of course I’m going to reference today’s post, because YOU ARE MY INSPIRATION DAMMIT!!! IT’S NOT LIKE I HAVEN’T MADE THAT CLEAR ALREADY, NO?!!!! So please write me back!!!! I’m so your biggggest fannnnn!!!!)

Always,
bloggingbarbie
www.wordpress.bloggingbarbie.com
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Hi Barbie,
Thank you so much for taking the time to introduce yourself. It pretty much made my (very rainy, very cold, very un-spring-like) day to hear that I inspired someone to start blogging. You may not be thanking me so much when you post something and the Internet Trolls come out of the woodwork to bash you (I’ve been there many times), but for now let’s just bask in the glow of your new blog, shall we? Your blog which, by the way, I’ve added to my blogroll.
Again, thanks for reading and taking the time to email. I look forward to reading more of your blog!
-Clink
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Yes, that was our first “interaction.”
Looking back, it’s a miracle she responded as kindly as she did. But you know what? That’s just her. And yeah, she’s pretty great like that. I realize that now you’ve read my internal rantings of what a *cough* toolshed *cough* I was when I first reached out to her, I probably should back up a bit, and introduce myself to y’all.
Hi, I’m Blogging Barbie. If you already know me, I’m totally driving you around in my bloggingworld pink Audi with diamond encrusted headlights. And if you aren’t already readers (which hello, you should be, because Clink picked me! Chose me! Loved me! to write a guest post and I swear I’m not a toolshed anymore), you really should be, and just totally read already. But I digress. Where was I. Oh, that’s right. Clinky. Teehee.
So, aside from sending her a frighteningly creepy email (now that I re-read it months later), it still amazes me that she responded. Now that I “know” her even better, I can truly say that she is everything as a person I thought she’d be, way back when I was first introduced to the word of “personal blogging.” You see, I view Clink in the way I’m sure a lot of you do. She’s my blogging big sister. Sure, Miss Molls and her share those internet BFF necklaces, and I got to know Miss Molls and her blog through Clink. (And yes, I felt super cool then when Miss Molls blogrolled me, because dude, I was recognized by my big sister’s cool friend, thanks for asking, But Molly? Clink? I’m so not over the fact that you couldn’t like, spring for the triple BFF necklace, because I AM HER LITTLE SISTER DON’T YOU KNOW AND I NEED TO BE INCLUDED IN EVERYTHING. Ahem.)  But Clink? She was the first to share with me relationship advice. Fashion advice. Career advice. Blogging advice. She’s been everything you could hope for in a blogging big sister. And for that, I’m thankful.
The blogging world can be a scary place, with us all, nonchalantly throwing our feelings out there and posting on the INTRANET things such as: “OMFG we totally drunkenly stole a sign last night,” or “I’m sorry, I know this is gross, but I’m having serious stomach issues with x,y and z symptoms…” Or, my personal favorite: “WTF? Why is my significant other being such an ass?! God. Why why doesn’t he KNOW and UNDERSTAND why I will break out into tears for no apparent reason, at all?! “

We rehash all the gory details (and TMI) that at times, our real life friends don’t even know.

So yeah, blogging can be scary. The potential judgment, internet trolls, and simply opening up and putting such intensely personal thoughts on paper (ok, HTML, or whatever, not Computer Genius Barbie here, folks) for anyone who may stumble upon your site to read. Perhaps that’s why we seek comfort where we can in our anonymity…but are too passionate about writing and communicating with others to cloak ourselves completely.

Clink has brought us the “Would! You! Be! Mad!” game. She’s also given name to what so many of us reference as “the crazy.” She’s also recently gone back to incorporating her old ranting posts that are so shockingly sincere and full of emotion, we’re right there with her. Only this time around, it’s a wiser Clink. One that has matured with time and growth of her career, relationship with M, personal blogging and her friendships. She’s still the same old Clink, but wiser. Funnier. And if it’s possible, even more heartfelt. She’s everything a big sister should be; not afraid to check in when she feels as if something is “not right,” will eagerly discuss relationship issues and be there to give you the career advice you need as well as genuine reassurance that things will work out. She’s been through it, and it has made her all the wiser, all the better, woman she is today. And yes, lessons learned from watching the “Rock of Love” are totally included in that statement. It’s all about balance, Internets.

So hurry back, Clinky. I miss my blogging big sister.

Actually, I think I can speak for the entire blogging community when I say, we all miss you.

(And I’m sure your readers are sick of hearing rantings from your annoying little sibling. I mean, gosh. Who does she think she is? Pssshhhawwwww.)

Of hurricanes, cup cakes… and love. November 6, 2007

Hiya, Clinkers and Clinkees.

I’m Peter.

When our delightful hostess first asked me to guest post, I replied, “I’ll do it for… FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS.”

She said, “No.”

I said, “I’ll do it for… TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS.”

She said, “No.”

I said, “I’ll do it for… THE GLORY AND HONOUR.”

She said, “Are you still talking?”

Long story short (fat chance of that with me) here I am. Finally. Every time I sat down to write this during the past three days, the power has gone out. For nine hours on Sunday!! Thank you, Hurricane Noel. Jerk. (And what kind of name is that? Isn’t Noel the name of the pussyish dude that kept losing out to Ben in trying to capture Felicity’s heart?)

And let me tell you that nine hours is a long assed time for me to sit in silence, alone with my own thoughts. Some of you have read them!

When the lights eventually came on, and I started thinking about what I could write here, I realized that this audience was made up almost entirely of wonderful (and in some cases, single) women. So, hiiiiiiii there. You are all looking lovely today.

Especially YOU. Come chat after this post?

Where was I?

Oh yes, I was feeling like I’d be the least unappealing male guard at a women’s prison.

Or more fittingly, and less insultingly, the bartender at a giant bachelorette party?

Now, if you’ve read my blog before… Thanks! You seem very smart. And if you haven’t… You disgust me.

On my blog, you never know what you are going to get. Depending on my mood, you could find pop culture references from 1995, sissified poetry, short fiction involving Muppet spousal abuse or sex with The Golden Girls, or thousands of words of me gushing about my ADORABLE niece.

It’s a crapshoot, people.

But, considering the audience here, I figured that I should show more of my soft side. Try to make a connection with you all. Share a bit of myself.

And then I thought…

Naaaaaaaaaw.

That would make too much sense.

I decided to let my freak flag fly.

BUT, then I realized that this is Clink’s blog, not mine. I should really try to fit in with the theme. Instead of the flag flying, I’ll just wear my freak t-shirt. With a long sleeve T underneath and jeans. (See? Clink writes about fashion… stuff.)

I’ve decided to write about weddings.

More specifically, I’ve decided to write about what a wedding would be like if I planned it.

First things first… my groomsmen. And quite a rogue’s gallery this will be:

- Dude #1 has a bit of a history of urinating whenever and wherever the mood strikes. Drop-off slot in a video store door. Middle of the street in front of a cop. Etc.

- Dude #2 will show up 15 minutes late, then hang out in the staging area shirtless, with his pants open, slippers on and strumming a guitar until the mood strikes to get ready.

- Dude #3 will swear constantly in two languages and drink vodka out of something the size of a bucket.

- Dude #4, at some point during the weekend, will strip naked, tuck “himself” between his legs and rock his best “Buffalo Bill” from SILENCE OF THE LAMBS. It… It is going to happen.

During the reception, we are going to have a street hockey game in the parking lot. Don’t worry though, it won’t be shirts vs. skins. I am going to have jerseys made with “Groom’s Side” and “Bride’s Side.” Class, right? Though since we are mixing Canadians with booze and hockey, there will be some brawling. Blood will wipe right off a bride’s dress, eh?

The cake… Gotta be made up of cupcakes. They are like LITTLE TINY CAKES. Come on! Deal breaker!!!

I assume we’ll write our own vows. I hope that chica isn’t put off by me referring to her as a “stand-up broad.” Or “chica,” for that matter.

As for the music, I feel like I can compromise here. A DJ and a band…

As long as it is a Poison tribute band. Preferably called “Arsenic.” Though I can be a little flexible. I just want to hear some “Every Rose Has Its Thorn.”

However, if I hear a single note of “Mony Mony,” somebody is getting cut.

I also want to hear both Jack Wagner’s “All I Need” and Michael Damian’s “Rock On.” As well as any other song released by a 1980s soap opera star. Deal breaker!!! (And I’ll yell “Deal breaker!!” repeatedly apparently.)

And I am probably going to have to marry a woman with blue or green eyes so that I lessen the risk of hearing “Brown Eyed Girl.”

We’ll be registered at KFC. What can I say? I loves me some popcorn chicken.

The honeymoon will, of course, be spent at the Basketball Hall of Fame in Springfield, Mass.

As for the wedding night, well, “bondage” has so many undeserved negative connotations…

I genuinely hope that this story — lousy with inaccuracies though it may be — doesn’t keep me from having a wedding some day. Though I’d be okay with it getting me out of ever having to give input on the planning of one.

What’s that?

Oh, fiiiiiiiiiiiiine. Yes, that WAS all a bunch of big talk. I’d probably be all sorts of excited to help plan a real wedding. Shhhhhhhh. Can’t even let me act all manly for a minute?

Thanks for letting me come here to play with you all today.

We miss you, Clink!

Rock on.

One step above the tacky BF necklaces… November 5, 2007

As you know, Clink is away on business and has left her blog in the capable hands of some of her blog friends. All of us were honored when she asked us, but I consider myself the most honored since not only did she ask me to write, she gave me the “keys” to her blog. Let this be a warning to all you future guest bloggers. I can control what you say! Mwahaha.

Alright, enough creepy blogger. As most of you know, I’m Molly from These Little Moments. Clink and I started reading each other’s blogs last year, and before we knew it we became full on Internet Best Friends Forever. Or IBFF as we like to call it. If I was into girls, I would totally want to date her. Clink and I have more in common than many people I know in real life. We email all day, every day. Usually starting with a complaint that it’s not Friday yet and venturing off into everything from relationships, to TV to blogging to food. We talk about food a lot, often planning which restaurants we’re going to visit when we finally meet.

Oh yeah, that. We haven’t actually met yet. We’ve talked about meeting in excess, but up until now our schedules just haven’t allowed it. BUT, we’re pushing for early December, so hopefully we’ll be able to give you an OMG I FINALLY MET CLINK/MOLLY!!!! post sometime in the near future.

Her M and my Michael already know about us. Both of them thought it was a little weird that we met each other online, but as time as gone on I think they’re pretty used to it. Especially after she and I spent our entire Vegas vacations texting each other.

But while our men know about us, our friends really don’t. Some of mine do since I don’t write anonymously, but NONE of hers. This came up as we were discussing her bachelorette party. If I go, how would she explain who I was? Women would see right through the “we met on The Knot!” bullshit.

We obviously can’t tell the truth. If we spill who I really am, she’ll lose her cover all together and that would mean the end of Clink as we know her. Of course that’s the last thing we want to happen.

So, I’m leaving it up to you guys. Come up with our story. How did we meet? How did we become so close? Clink and I will judge the best story and if plausible, we’ll actually use it on her friends. And maybe you’ll get a prize. I don’t know what yet, but perhaps it will be in the form of homemade cookies. Because Clink makes really good cookies. (Like how I just volunteered her to bake? As her IBFF I have that power.)

Can’t wait to see what you come up with!

Hungover. Please send greasy food. October 31, 2007

Oh fuck. I am so hungover that I’m actually, genuinely amazed by my ability to type sentences right now that do not look like this: lskdjf alkjdfi iw lkwje papoi.

It’s pure coincidence that after yesterday’s post, I went out and acted like my 22 year old self. No really. I swear. COINCIDENCE.

Why do I crave McDonald’s when I’m hung over? I mean, I know why, my body is all: GIVE ME GREASE, WOMAN! But why specifically McDonald’s? I don’t even like McDonald’s. I’d much rather have Wendy’s if forced to consume fast food. But no. Apparently my inner alcoholic? Big McDonald’s fan.

Anyway. Last night started out innocently enough: dinner and drinks at a Mexican restaurant with a few friends. There were frozen margaritas, there was a bowl of chips that was never empty, there were even more margaritas. Too many to count, in fact.

And then before I knew it, we were on the Lower East Side, dancing.

For you non-New Yorkers: the LES is full of hipsters. You know, asymmetrical haircuts, aversion to showers, an 80’s sensibility when it comes to attire. It’s the type of place where it’s hard to tell who is in Halloween costumes and who is not. I mean, there were women very closely emulating Amy Winehouse (down to the beehive!) but I don’t think they were dressed up.

So there I was, dancing, minding my own business, when I proceeded to get picked up by a rather cute, non-hipster guy.

This is notable for one reason: I have not gotten picked up since I got engaged. In June. The ring? The ring is like kryptonite to men. I mean, men love a challenge but they don’t so much love an engaged challenge.

Really, being left alone is fine, but I’m not going to lie, it was nice to get some validation that I didn’t turn into an ugly troll once the ring got placed on my finger. Score!

I arrived home loud, drunk and binging on candy corn at 2am. M was a bit quiet (after asking me the obligatory “are you going to puke?” because, yes, I am a puker and I’m not proud).

I asked (and asked, and asked - god I’m annoying when I’m drunk) what was wrong with him. He finally caved and said, “I just missed you. That’s all.”

And there was this look on his face that just damn near broke my damn heart.

I mean, it felt really fucking good to dance (not on a table, but hey) and drink without thinking (though today I am doing a lot of thinking about what an IDIOT I was to drink so much) but coming home to him, to someone who missed me? So amazing.

It’s as if the universe read my post from yesterday and was all “that fucking idiot doesn’t know how good she has it. Let’s show her what she thinks she’s ‘missing.’” And ok, fine, UNIVERSE YOU WIN.

Now please excuse me as I crawl under my desk in the fetal position, where I will remain until 7pm.

Monday. Bleh. September 10, 2007

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.

Would! You! Be! Mad?: M Edition August 27, 2007

It’s time for another round of Would! You! Be! Mad?! Except this time, it’s a limited-edition M version. As in, some things went down at the bachelor party he attended this past weekend (no, not those kinds of things; there were no strippers) and he was suitably appalled, as was I. However, we can’t tell if we’re overreacting or not. I told him I’d ask the Wise Internets, as the Internets – and my readers especially – are very, very smart.  
 
(By the way, hi, tangent: Whenever I talk about the blog now, M sings to me “secret blogggggggg-er” to the tune of that song “secret lovvvvvers.” You know the one. T-Mobile commercial. It cracks me up, without fail.)  
 
So, M is the co-best man for his close friend, who we will call Adam, who is getting married in September. He organized, as per Adam’s suggestions, a weekend for the boys in Atlantic City: steak dinners, gambling, more gambling, yet even more gambling… 
 
All was going fine on Saturday. They had played a few rounds of golf, hung out on the beach, won money at craps, and were getting ready to go to dinner at the most expensive restaurant in the most expensive casino in Atlantic City (it rhymes with Schmorgata.)  
 
M and Adam shared a room for the weekend – all the boys had chipped in to pay for Adam’s half, just like they were going to pay for his dinner, just like they had been buying him drinks left and right.  
 
But no, Adam felt the boys weren’t doing enough. So, as M shaved, Adam suggested that M pull aside the rest of the boys and get them to pony up $30 a person (as there were 12 people altogether, that would’ve been a tidy sum of $360) so that Adam could “gamble for free.” He went on to tell M that he didn’t feel the guys were “doing much” and since they “hadn’t gotten him a gift” (um, SINCE WHEN DO MEN GET GIFTS OTHER THAN FREE LAP DANCES FOR THEIR BACHELOR PARTIES?), he felt that asking everyone to pony up money was a reasonable request. 
 
M was very taken aback, especially because Adam is very soft-spoken and kind and not at all materialistic. 
 
“It screams of something Marley told him to do,” M told me later, Marley being Adam’s bride-to-be. Marley is very materialistic – she’s the Platinum Bride I’ve referred to in previous posts.  
 
So M awkwardly asked all the guys to throw down $30 each so that Adam could gamble for free, despite the fact that they all paid to get down to AC and paid for their own hotel rooms – and Adam’s – in AC and the fact that they were paying for all of Adam’s meals and drinks. Clearly, that wasn’t enough. 
 
“It was awkward. And the thing is,” M said, “I saw him play one game of poker for the rest of the weekend. Seriously, one game. Other than that he was just drinking or hanging around the other guys who were gambling, but not laying any money down himself.”  
 
If that wasn’t fishy enough, here is the final twist: 
 
Before they departed for home, Adam told M he was just going to slip into the Coach store. He emerged with a gift for Marley. 
 
So, yeah. M and his friends threw down their hard earned cashed so that Adam could essentially play one game of poker and buy a new purse for Marley. At least, that’s how we see it.  
 
I’m supremely disturbed. It’s not the fact that it was $30 because, really, $30 isn’t going to break anyone’s bank. It’s the fact that he asked for it, the fact that he felt it was owed to him, the fact that Adam felt that his friends weren’t “doing enough” for him (the pleasure of their company, clearly, was not even a consideration) that makes him a grade-A prick in my book.

There’s something about Molly. August 7, 2007

I liked Molly before she was “Molly-my-friend,” back when she was “Molly-that-girl-on-the-Interweb.”
 
I don’t know how it began, but I’m sure it had to do with comments. The Interweb is the only place where a friendship can begin to take shape without an actual conversation, without even an IM conversation, without an email exchange, without two people ever having heard each other’s voices.
 
Just two people telling each other “hey, I get it” via a little button at the end of a post.
 
You see, when I think about y’all, I think of you in terms of your blogs. That is to say, in my head you are your banners. You are your fonts and your color scheme. You are your handles. You are your blog titles.  
 
However, over time, Molly has become so much more than the just photo of multi-colored shoes. She has become a friend. Molly knows what I really look like and that is huge for me, Little Miss Anonymity. She knows M’s first and last name and she knows my first and last name and she knows what my friends look like and she knows where I work and she knows that my sister told me to lose weight before I even posted it on the blog.  
 
She’s crossed the invisible line I drew for myself when I started this blog business. I was intent on keeping everyone out, intent on keeping my readers at an arm’s length because I didn’t want anything or anyone to compromise my anonymity. 
 
(Way to throw an Empire State Building-sized wrench in those plans, Molly.)
 
Soon (after we’ve both lost 20 pounds and declare ourselves presentable for each other), we’ll know each other in person. Like, real life. Like, omigod, I made a friend over the INTERNET, please don’t tell anyone.
 
And, if I like Molly as much as I think I will (seriously, hi, we’re the same person), I will probably have to tell M about the blog.
 
I know, I KNOW.
 
But, you see, I’m not a good liar. It takes too much work and I’m lazy. Besides, I think having met someone on The Knot messageboards is a lot creepier than meeting someone via your blog. Or at least, it is to me.
 
I’ve given it a lot of thought. And if Molly and I hit it off and get drunk and hug each other and say “Omigod, I like you just as much as I thought I would!” and become real friends…well, then it might be time for me to come clean. (Especially if she’s going to be invited to the wedding.)
 
Of course, this all hinges on whether or not Molly and I hit it off in person. Great emails do not translate into an instant connection; just ask anyone who has ever tried online dating.
 
The thing is, it’s not something I’m really nervous about. I already feel like we’re friends. I already know that I’ll like her.
 
The thing about blogs is that a lot of the person behind the blog comes through in the writing. Not only the writing, but the comments, the choice of post topics, etc. My blog is a fair representation of me (although I do think I come off a bit more neurotic/crazy than I am in real life; Molly, you shall be the judge of that) and I feel Molly’s blog is a fair representation of her. And it’s clear that our blog selves adore each other, so there really isn’t a good reason that our real selves won’t.
 
In the meantime, I will continue to plan my “Meet Molly” outfit. I will continue to wait for the “OMIGOD, I AM ENGAGED HOLY SHIT” phone call. I will continue to tell her things about my life and thoughts and fears that I have, stuff I don’t tell some people I’ve known for fifteen years. 
 
In the meantime, I will continue to adore her. 
 
Also (hi, were you expecting anything other than a tangent?): After seeing tons of photos from BlogHer, it made me yearn to meet my own little blogging crew. The people whose lives I read about, who I get excited for or empathize with. Maybe one day we can stage our own little “let’s meet up and get drunk at Clink’s apartment and plan on going somewhere else but really we won’t because we’ll be too drunk and having too much fun.”
 
Maybe one day. At this point, though, it’s baby steps for this AnonyMiss. (I have no idea where that came from. Just go with it/ignore it.)
 

Oh, and Tangent #2: My better blogging half and I decided to do this as a joint effort. You can read her take on it over at www.theselittlemoments.wordpress.com And if you’re a newcomer to her blog, root around in her archives. You can thank me later.

Hi! I’m not fucking pregnant! August 1, 2007

Last night, I convinced myself that I was pregnant.
 
The problem with your body adhering to the strictest of timetables is that when it deviates – because of stress, because of exercise (ha. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.), because it just wants you to know WHO IS IN CHARGE AROUND HERE, BEYOTCH – you automatically assume that it is deviating because of the worst case scenario.
 
Every time I went to the bathroom yesterday (male readers, look away), I was disappointed that I didn’t find any spotting. I even think I said, out loud, “oh, COME ON!” To whom, I am not sure. God? The Period Gods? Mother Nature? My vagina?
 
I, of course, informed M that he might be a daddy and M, of course, handled it with humor.
 
As we lay in bed, his arms wrapped around my waist as he spooned me, he started to discuss booking the honeymoon sometime soon.
 
“And you know what, Clink? The best part is, we can take little –“ he pat my tummy “-Lukas or Ella with us.”
 
Probably not the right thing to say to a woman who had spent the better part of her workday googling “bridal gowns maternity.”
 
As I said to Molly earlier, he’s lucky he’s cute.
 
***
 
The thing is, I have a friend who is currently considering getting pregnant.
 
She wrote me an email the other day, mostly about her job and her new boyfriend. At the end – thrown in as if it were as casual as describing what pair of jeans she was considering buying – she mentioned that she might be a surrogate mom to older friends of hers who are not able to conceive.
 
Now, truth be told, this is not the first time she mentioned it. I can’t remember if I wrote a post about it last time, but it didn’t seem serious then. It was more along the lines of “can you believe what they asked me to consider?! HA! Like I could give up wine for nine months.”
 
Now, she seemed serious. We exchanged a few emails about it (she is currently in the Dominican Republic, so picking up the phone and screaming “Seriously? SERIOUSLY?” was not an option) and it turns out that they’re offering her a lot of money. Enough money that, should she invest it wisely, she may never have to work again.
 
“All for carrying a baby. I mean, it’ll be good practice, right?”
 
This is someone smart. This is someone who went to an Ivy League school. This is someone who has experienced success unheard of for someone her age in a field that is notoriously hard to break into.
 
And yet, there she is. Contemplating going through months and months of shots and then months and months of pregnancy and then, maybe, if she’s one of the unlucky ones, months and months of post-partum and months and months of getting her body into it’s perfect shape and, perhaps, months and months of regret.
 
A large part of her is doing it because she wants to help them. She wants these people, who are so desperate for a child, to be able to have a child of their own.
 
But still.
 
“But what if you can’t have a baby after this? What if that was your one shot, so to speak? How would you feel about that?” I asked her outright, as she’s always been more of a sister, as we already ripped down any walls between us way back when we we lived together.
 
“Then, so be it.” She played it off, not wanting to fully think things through, as always. I know her too well.
 
I’ll support her. Of course I’ll support her. I’ll buy her cute maternity clothes and I’ll rub her feet if they’re hurt and swollen and I’ll most certainly be happy to indulge in any food cravings she has.
 
But still.
 
I talked it over with M and told him that even if I was in a different position, even if I was single, even if I needed the money badly, I don’t think I’d be able to do it. I’m way too emotional. I get way too attached.
 
But I’m curious, actually. It’s a good question to ask yourself. Would you do it? If so, under what circumstances? What would your price be?
 

Bubble of Us June 21, 2007

The Publicist and I live vicariously through each other.  
 
She tries on my ring, inquires about wedding plans. I try on her fancy shoes, inquire about that actor she made out with last week. 
 
Our respective lives fascinate each other.  
 
There was a time, in London, in 2002, when our paths were parallel. We recognized something familiar in each other those first few days in South Kensington and our friendship evolved fast, a whirlwind of short skirts and expensive drinks bought by strangers and secrets told in backseats of black cabs at 4am and late-night Indian take-out on my bed as we drunk-dialed our friends back in “the States.”   
 
That experience bonded us for life, even if our paths now have split.  
 
She lives for work. “Balls to the wall, Clink, like how I used to be about partying.” She’s at the top of her game at a very young age but all that success comes with consequences. Namely, not having an existence apart from work. “Sometimes, I just sleep on my couch in the office. It’s just easier.”  
 
I envy her life, I do. In a way. I envy the glamour and excitement. I envy the fact that she goes to great parties (“I need a dress for the Emmys…”), has her own assistant, makes out with actors - like the most recent one, who insisted on sucking on her elbows. She always has great stories to tell, stories that we used to swap together, stories that really only come from her end nowadays. 
 
She envies my life. She envies the guy I’ve found, whom she adores, and the inherent stability that comes with finding someone perfect for you. She envies the fact that I have a great job but I can leave that great job, with a clear conscience, every day at 6pm. She envies that I get to plan for a wedding, while her binders full of dresses and floral arrangements ripped out of magazines remain hidden under her bed. She envies that I have time to go to the gym, or get pitchers of sangria with friends after work.  
 
Neither of us envy in a green-eyed monster, bitter sort of way. It’s more of, as I said, a fascination. Tell me, tell me, tell me is what we’re always saying to each other and when we’re told we shake our heads and smile and say “only you.”  
 
I spontaneously asked her to be my bridesmaid last night. We were perched at a bar, five or six drinks into the tab. We had just assessed Helena Christensen’s rear as it bypassed us (“she needs a sandwich”) and Josh Hartnett’s straw hat as he sat across the room (“he’s gotta be balding, all those hats…”). We were laughing and take photos of each other and each other’s cleavage, to compare. We’re both D’s but “different D’s” and she told her client, a famous television actor, when he joined us earlier. (I’ll admit it, I snuck into the bathroom to call my fiancé to tell him that Famous Television Actor, star of our favorite show, congratulated us on our engagement and the size of the rock.) 
 
Where was I? Oh right. So there we were, in the Bubble of Us that was created in 2002 and is impossible to penetrate when we’re together.  
 
“So, this wedding…black tie? What should I wear? How about that dress I wore to the SAG Awards?” 
 
I just smiled to myself. Because, duh, she’d be wearing what the rest of my bridesmaids would be wearing. She just didn’t know it yet. 
 
“What’s that smile for?” Busted. 
 
“Oh, nothing.” Except, I couldn’t keep it to myself. I couldn’t wait to make it formal and special and accompanied by a gift basket including a hand-written note about how much she means to me and piles of her favorite cookies. I blurted out the question. And then we both cried. 
 
“OF COURSE. Omigod. Of course.”  
 
We so rarely get to see each other, she is so rarely on this coast. Doing it in person - even as impromptu as it was - gave us the opportunity to see the other’s face.  
 
We left the bar just before closing and hopped into a cab, opting to sit close together in the middle of the backseat, the sides of our heads pressed together. 
 
“I love you, Clinky.” 
 
“I love you too, Publicist.”  
 
She once said, to a man who approached me at a bar a few years ago, “She’s lovely. And smart. And the most genuine person you’ll ever meet. And you’d be lucky to be a part of that.”  
 
And all I can say, as I reminded her of that story last night, is “ditto.” And also, I’m so fucking happy she’ll be the one to calm me down before I walk down the aisle (just as she calms me down in ways no one else can while flying) in a white dress towards the man who is so lucky - and happy - to be “part of that.”  
 
So, my first bridesmaid. Asked, accepted. One down, six more to go.

Adaptable. May 30, 2007

In yesterday’s post I mentioned something about putting a personal moratorium on all wedding speak, for it may be bad luck and I do not want to taunt the Wedding Gods lest it rain on my special day. Or worse. 
 
However…well, yeah, like duh, you knew that wasn’t going to last. Plus, the blog doesn’t count. (My moratorium, my rules.)  
 
You see, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about bridesmaids.
  
My female friendships have shifted now that I’m in a serious relationship. It’s something all woman vow they’ll never let happen (BFF 4 EVA; SISTAS FOR LIFE) but are powerless against, really. I still see my friends, I still laugh with my friends, I still cry with my friends, I still am there for my friends, I still lean on my friends. However, my friends are no longer my sole support system. They are no longer the first phone call. M is, just as he should be. 
 
It’s not as though I traded in my friends for a newer, shinier, now with more testosterone Just As Good As Female Friends, But Can Have Sex With!™ version. Things just…changed. During the course of nursing and growing a relationship, M and I created a natural bubble around ourselves, in a way. And while there’s certainly a door and access is absolutely granted to those who knew us before we were an Us, there’s still a small film keeping us separate. It’s no longer an emotional free-for-all with my friends. Now there is a slight barrier between my world and theirs. Unintentionally, but still.  
 
That being said, it’s hard to take a look at my friends and determine who I want standing at the altar with me - in A-line, tea-length dresses with strappy sandals and elegant, simple bouquets. Because while I used to have a few Best Friends and some Very Close Friends, they now all kind of blur together into People I Love But Maybe Don’t See Or Talk To Daily, Would It Be Weird Now To Ask Them To Be My Bridesmaids?  
 
It’s something I’ve certainly had to deal with emotionally, and not easily. I’ve always been the girl who loved hanging out with the boys but whose heart belonged to the girls. From early childhood in the sandbox through my early 20’s in the bar, I’ve had a network of strong female friendships. Now that the spotlight burns instead on my relationship and my friendships have subsequently been relegated to back-up dancer status, I have had to come to terms with the fact that the me that once was is no longer the me that sits here, in love, about to get engaged, about to plan a wedding.  
 
The fact that most of my closest friends are now spread all across the country (Los Angeles, Boston, Los Angeles again) does not help.  
 
There’s a small part of me that just wants my sister to be my maid of honor and leave it at that. No drama (and, oh, I’ve been a bridesmaid and I have witnessed the drama and LO IT IS NOT PRETTY). I’ve even considered bucking tradition (ha! In a Greek Orthodox church!) and having my sister, my closest (male) cousin and my younger brother stand there with me, as there are not three other people in the world whom I would want as emotional support in close proximity to me on that day. 
 
Of course, then I won’t get the bridal party photos I’ve always dreamed about. And my bridal suite at the reception site won’t be buzzing with my beautiful friends in their beautiful dresses drinking beautiful champagne and comparing notes on the beautiful groomsmen.  
 
That’s how I’ve always pictured it. But, just as I’ve had to adjust from a single woman whose friends were her top priority to a woman in a serious relationship whose boyfriend slash future husband (we hope! After all this damn wedding talk!) is her top priority, I’m sure I can adjust to a wedding reality that is different from my inner vision. I’m adaptable like that. I think. I hope.