It’s like she was reading my mind or something. February 1, 2008

One of the most amazing parts of this line of work is that I get glimpses into the lives of people that I would mostly likely never come across otherwise.

Like, say, a psychic/witch/medium soccer mom. You know, for example.

In a last stab at saving my reputation at this place before I pack up my things and trek back to my comfort zone, having seen a distant land and found it entirely uninhabitable, I have thrown myself into a certain project and this certain project has turned up the individual mentioned above.

My friend turned coworker about to be turned just friend again and I met her for coffee yesterday and, in the middle of a Starbucks, she offered to give us a reading. My friend was much more hesitant, all “gah, I don’t know if I want to know anything about my future!”

And of course I was all “gah, TELL ME EVERYTHING.”

Because, as you well know, I am a narcissistic bitch.

And by the end of the reading I was actually shaking, and not because of the caffeine.

She started by saying something to the effect of “sweetheart, your relationship is near-perfect. It is strong and he loves you and please stop trying to mess it up. You’re only hurting yourself. You’re bringing all of this on yourself…for no reason. Just believe in it.”

I wanted to respond with, “oh, you mean stop doing things such as turning something as simple as a missed call into him cheating on me? Oh, okay.”

She just…knew. She just knew that, at times, I can start building a destructive wall that closes me in and keeps him out. And I need to stop doing it. Pronto.

We moved on to wedding stuff. She said she felt a low-level conflict between me and my mother that happening recently or was currently happening. Which, fine, she could tell by the rock on my left hand that I was getting married and who doesn’t have some sort of low-level conflict with their mother during wedding planning?

And then she said - I shit you not - “the brown is a good idea, you will be happy with it, and your mother has accepted your decision. In fact, she respects you for standing your ground because, in a way, it reminds her of herself.”

My friend looked at me with wide eyes because just recently I had told her about the fight I had with my mother about brown being a “FREAKING FINE COLOR FOR SUMMER, MOM” and how I hated that this disagreement between us was bothering me so much.

Also, she’s right about my mom. My mom is a Leo and she is stubborn and strong-willed and never quite understands why I can never make decisions or why I let the opinions of others influence me. She always says I am my father’s daughter but, in standing my ground against quite a few people telling me they weren’t crazy about my choice, I think she was ultimately happy to see that a piece of her made it into my DNA.

The psychic wrapped up the reading by grabbing my hand and telling me to take care of myself. “I mean it.” She said she kept hearing fast clicking noises and that the pace of my life is gaining momentum and that I need to take care of myself before I can take care of others, otherwise I’m headed for an emotional breakdown (me? Perfectly stable and in control of her emotions me? Naw. Couldn’t be.)

“Kind of like when, on an airplane, they tell adults to put the oxygen masks on themselves first before assisting the children.”

And then, because she went and brought up an AIRPLANE and how could I not, I mean, I’m going to both Vegas and Miami in the span of three weeks in May…I asked her if I was going to die in a plane crash.

Most of you will be happy to hear that the answer is no. That is not how I am going out.

I think I am a bit too willing to believe in this stuff and I know that when I tell M about it he’s going to be all “those people are all sheisters, it’s essentially one big magic trick.”

To which I will reply something along the lines of “I am the yin to your yang, darling. Our energies balance each other, thus making us a perfect match” or something else that will further piss him off. Because he’s cute when he’s annoyed.

Competition. Specifically, how I feel about it. January 21, 2008

I am not, nor have I ever been, a competitive person.

In fact, competition is one of those things that makes me kind of feel like vomiting, right up there with seeing a dead rat stuck to a glue trap on a New York City sidewalk and the thought of M cheating on me.

You see, I’ve was nominated for three Twentysomething Blogger Awards: Best Big Blog, Most Interesting and Most Encouraging.

Of course, in true Clink fashion, I had to make a big dramatic deal (mostly to Peter and Molly) about how I hate competition and I especially hate competition when it comes to blogging, which should be a safe space to be yourself without being a popularity contest.

I love blogging now, when I have a readership that never fails to amaze me and I loved it then, when I got exactly zero comments and five hits a day, mostly by accident. I would do it no matter what. While I’m thrilled that I was nominated for something I’m so passionate about, the thought of there being a “winner” and “losers” makes me break out in hives.

Truthfully, writing is subjective. I learned that in college when one of my professors thought I would be the Next Big Thing and another one didn’t understand why my short stories didn’t have a beginning, middle and satisfying conclusion. Blogging is especially subjective in that you could respect someone’s writing but not be particularly interested in the content or vice versa.

So, I chose to withdraw from the competition.

I know, I know, dramatic. But that doesn’t mean I don’t support the awards - I do, just for other people. Trust me, I’m not sitting here with a “NO AWARDS! DOWN WITH AWARDS!” poster attached to a stick, occasionally getting off my ass to do a few laps around my bedroom (that would mean, um, actually having to leave my bed on this glorious day off and yeah, no.) I just know what’s right for me and I know what’s not and I made a decision based on that.

Not that, you know, any of you were wondering but I felt the need to get it off my chest.

There. That’s better.

And now I’m going to go enjoy my day off (first time I’ve ever had this day off since I started working in 2003) and:

-seduce M, who is currently sleeping peacefully next to me

-work out

-read more coverage of the GIANTS and HOW THEY ARE GOING TO THE SUPER BOWL

-try not to think about the fact that my fiance is a Pats fan

-eat brunch and see a movie and shop with my girlfriends

-finish The Nine (highly recommended book about the Supreme Court for Supreme Dorks like me)

-do a little dance every once in a while because I still can’t get over the fact that I’m not at work today

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.

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.

I took it. November 29, 2007

I made a very financially motivated phone call and accepted the position last night.

I’ve lost sleep over this, guys. And not in the “yeah, I thought about it a little before I went to bed” kind of way. It was more “fuck I’ve been tossing and turning and also tossing and also turning and it’s 6am and I HAVE NOT SLEPT.”

Rarely - if ever - do I make decisions motivated by money. I’m a very passionate, intuitive person so I usually let my gut and my heart lead the way.

This time, I chose with my head.

Which is fine.

Really, it’s about time my head got a chance.

There are no hard feelings with my current boss - the most wonderful human being I’ve ever worked for. I was honest with her from the very beginning and she acknowledged that as of right now, there’s no way she can pay me what they’re offering. It just isn’t possible.

However, she did say that if I take the job and experience some growth and hone my skills even further, I’ll be even more valuable when she hires me back in the future.

Hires me back being the key words there, because I seriously cannot imagine not working with this woman again. I’ve had more than my fair share of shitty bosses and it’s about time karma dealt me a good hand.

I hate that I’m giving it up, but I’m thrilled that our relationship is solid enough that it will withstand my going elsewhere.

It’s not as if the new place is going to be so shitty that I’m going to be stabbing my eyeballs with a Bic pen. It seems like a perfectly decent place to work, with perfectly decent people and, um, yeah, that perfectly decent paycheck.

It’ll be nice to have some extra money to put towards the wedding, to treat M to a vacation, to buy a new couch, to be able to save (using the fabulous tips that were suggested in a recent post).

I feel okay about this. Of course, ever the worrier, I’m a bit terrified that I made the wrong decision.

But, truthfully, if it gets so bad that not even the paycheck can lessen the pain, I know where my current boss lives and I’m not above parking myself on her doorstep and refusing to move until she takes me back.

Leaving on a jet plane. November 1, 2007

A jet plane that will probably crash.

Seriously, why do I have to fly to Boston? I could walk to Boston if given enough time.

Barring that, I would much rather take the Acela Express. But, according to my boss, this “flying” thing is a much more efficient way of traveling and GOOD LORD I AM GOING TO DIE IT HAS BEEN NICE KNOWING YOU ALL THANKS FOR BEING AWESOME.

Alternate reason I might die: those hangover symptoms that I was bitching about on Wednesday? Well, it turns out that they were actually flu symptoms: fever, sore throat, achy body, runny nose, WANTING TO JUST DIE. Sucks. Am so sick. In fact, I come to you right now from my BED where I have been since 6pm and despite having taken NyQuil, I am still not asleep yet and I am not happy about that. Fuck you evil thing that is doing this to my body just in time for the weekend. Fuck you.

Anyway. I’m gone all of next week. Like seriously out of commission (or dead). “Business trip” during which: a) I will probably find out more about my assistant than I ever wanted to know, b) I won’t be able to sleep because M’s not going to be next to me and c) I will try my best to act like a responsible adult because omigod, I am the boss in the situation. Scary.

I’m going to try to pop in every once in a while but that will probably only be to whine. And as interesting as I find my whining, I’m fairly certain y’all would like something of substance to read while I’m away so guess what! There will be guest posters! For the first time EVER on Such Great Heights. (*Wipes tear, thinks about how her little blog is all growed up.)

The guest posters have been hand-picked by me because, well, because I like them. Very scientific, I know.

Anyway - enjoy them! Because if I die in a fiery plane crash over Connecticut (I’m bad with geography, Connecticut is between New York and Boston, right?), I’m counting on them to keep this thing going.

No pressure, guys.

Damn you, Hooters. October 4, 2007

I don’t know if I’ve told you because, you know, I’m not very vocal about these things (snicker, snort) but I’ve been working a lot lately.
 
To be specific, I’ve worked 40 hours in the past three days.
 
Can I give a little shout out to Starbucks? Because Starbucks has held my hand the entire time, guiding me through on a wing and an espresso. Starbucks, I think I’ve officially forgiven you for that time I figured out that an iced lemon loaf slice has something like 1,500 calories (also, crack). You and I? We made it through. The end is in sight and I couldn’t have done it without you. Props, Starbucks. Props, indeed.
 
The only thing (other than, you know, a shitload of coffee) getting me through yesterday’s 12 hour workday, which came on the heels of a 16 hour workday, was the knowledge that I’d be going to Hooters. Yeah, yeah, wings, boobs, friends, whatever. In my mind, Hooters = grilled cheese sandwiches. And grilled cheese sandwiches = reason for living. (Seriously, hi, have you tried their grilled cheese sandwich? And have you ever thought of maybe dipping it in the hot sauce they keep on the tables? You can thank me later. Cash is preferred but baked goods will do.)
 
So a few of my old co-workers and I showed up at Hooters with huge smiles and huge appetites and huge “we’re hotter than any of the girls in here anyway, whatEVAH” attitudes.
 
Tangent: Have I told you my theory about New York City Hooters? I can’t recall, so I will just repeat it. Essentially, if you’re a beautiful, well-endowed (by nature or doctor, I don’t judge) woman in Manhattan looking to make a living off of your looks alone, you are a stripper at an elite club. Or an actress/model. Or at the very least, a waitress at a high class establishment. The beautiful cream rises to the top here, just like any other city, except the top far exceeds Hooters, leaving the Hooters waitresses in Manhattan to be relatively average looking(’relative’ being the operative word here.) However, in Smalltown, USA, Hooters may be the only place for beautiful women to make decent money off their good looks so the waitresses there are probably more beautiful than the ones in Hooters NYC. Omigod, does that theory even make sense? Don’t throw stones at me. It makes sense in my head, but my head is a very jumbled mess at the moment.
 
So what was I saying? Oh, right. Grilled cheese. So we rolled up to Hooters all “yay!” and then we walked in the door and WHADDYA KNOW. It was Calendar Girl Night. And there were exactly no women (other than said calendar girls) in sight. Also, it didn’t appear that they were serving very much food because WHO NEEDS FOOD WHEN THERE ARE CALENDAR GIRLS? Also, it was crowded. And we felt like shit about ourselves because the freaking calendar girls? They are freaking hot.
 
And what do women do when they feel like shit about themselves? Why, they eat pizza. And drink lots of wine. And maybe get a chocolate souffle with nutella and vanilla ice cream for dessert.
 
So even though there was no grilled cheese (*shakes fist at Hooters), it was the perfect way to cap off a hellish three days.
 
And then I got to crawl into bed with M and choose from a vast array of DVR deliciousness (Gossip Girl? Fashionista Diaries? ANTM? Top Chef? Biggest Loser?) I went with the Top Chef finale and I won’t spoil it here for anyone who hasn’t seen it but I was actually very pleased with the outcome.
 
Even if the episode didn’t feature my crush, Anthony Bourdain. Shut up, there’s something about him. Something I LURV.
 
Ok, I need some more coffee. And I probably need to stop writing (You: Um, yeah.)Also, I need Friday. Friday needs to get here immediately.

Update, courtesy of Julybug: Gawker was apparently at Hooter’s last night.
 

15 hours and counting… October 2, 2007

I’m still at work.

I’m posting this just for the record.

And also? In case my future, stay-at-home-mom self gets any wild ideas about how much fun it would be to go back to work, what a relief it would be to get away from the kids, how rewarding it would be to earn a paycheck again, etc.

Dear Future Self: Please note the time of this post. Don’t do it. Love, Past Self.

I’m starting to get a little delirious, I’m not going to lie. There is no end in sight. Send all the survival necessities, please. You know: wine, chocolate, a gun.

Kthnxbai.

Update: Just for the record (again) I had to be in at 9am. HEAR THAT FUTURE SELF?

Also, I updated my blogroll but I’m also kind of spaced out (WONDER WHY, FUTURE SELF!) and if I left you off accidentally or you would just like to be linked up in this mutha, then please email me at clinkny@gmail.com or leave a comment. Feel free to also reassure me that I won’t be this tired forever because holy lord it certainly feels like I will (again, FUTURE SELF, take notice). 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fantastically shitty. September 18, 2007

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