Evil Minion. September 13, 2007

I have two assistants.
 
One of them reminds me of me when I was her age (you know, all of three years ago): She’s articulate, bright, eager to learn, slightly tentative, friendly and helpful. When I think of her in my head, she has a little halo and a pair of white wings and she is saying “Hi, Clink, how may I help you?”
 
The other one? Oh, the other one. Let’s just say that when I think of her, I think of a pitchfork and devil horns and a voice that makes me want to stab myself in the eye and she’s saying “I’m hear to make your life miserable, sucka.”
 
Ok, so maybe I’m being a wee bit dramatic but, truthfully, our personalities just don’t mesh. She’s one of those abrasive, know-it-all, entitled types that I have never taken well to.
 
She tries to circumvent me and go directly to my boss. She ignores some of the things I tell her to do or says “I don’t think that’s right, I’m going to check with [Clink’s boss].” She name drops her parents’ country club at an alarming rate. She wears short, short shorts to work along with a tank top and a flowy shirt that ends below the shorts and therefore makes her look like she arrived in lingerie. She has a horrible demeanor on the phone; I cringe at the way she talks to people. She makes stupid mistakes because she thinks she knows everything and therefore doesn’t double-check or run things by me. She makes personal phone calls more than she makes business phone calls. She says things in a faux British accent that makes me want to be all, ok listen, you’re not British or Madonna or Gwyneth Paltrow so stop.
 
Also, she doesn’t eat. And if you’ve ever been around someone who just doesn’t eat, you’ll know what I mean: every bite you put into your mouth makes you feel like a cow (to borrow from Molly, moo).
 
Tangent: Is not eating what all the kids are doing these days? I don’t mean full-on anorexic; I just mean…I don’t know…are they devoid of the urges us older folk get during the work day? Urges for say cake or Doritos or CAKE? Or do they just have willpower of steel? Because, really, both of my assistants eat practically nothing and come to think of it my sister doesn’t eat much at all either and OMIGOD, ARE THEY TEACHING NON-EATING IN COLLEGE THESE DAYS? /tangent
 
Just recently Devil Assistant asked me how to do something and I told her how to do it because, lo, I am the boss for a reason. End of discussion right? Wrong. She went behind my back and called my boss – who is traveling, who does not need to be bothered, who HIRED ME SO THAT SHE WOULDN’T BE BOTHERED – and asked her how to do it. And this will shock absolutely no one but my boss told Devil Assistant to do it exactly the way that I originally told her to do it. And yet still, as she was doing it, she kept saying “I think I should do this a different way.” Because clearly she knows better than both my boss and me.
 
I pretty much have to deal with her because it’s only been a little over a week and my boss hired her. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to roll my eyes and maybe even sigh loudly when she so much as breathes because OMIGOD, I CANNOT DEAL.
 
That also doesn’t mean that I’m not going to mention something to my boss when my boss gets back in town. Isn’t that what boss people do? Discuss their minions? Because, OH DOES THIS MINION NEED TO BE DISCUSSED.

TGIF. September 7, 2007

It’s Friday. FRI-DAY. (Don’t you think that Friday should be FRYday and we should all be required to eat French fries? That, my friends, is a world I would like to live in.)
 
It’s so sunny and beautiful in New York, the type of weather that makes you want to kiss the shiny buildings and splash around in the Hudson and pat yourself on the back for choosing to live here.
 
Today’s the first day that I am the boss as my boss is out of town and guess what, bosses get asked a lot of questions. I’ve had to pause about five times while writing this to answer questions and it should make me feel powerful and important but really I just want to say “um, I’m writing a blog post here, can it wait? Like five minutes? Until after I’ve had my coffee? At the very least?”
 
Sigh. This boss thing ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.
 
This weekend M and I are driving up to New Hampshire (do you know that one of my major weaknesses is geography? Well it is. I didn’t know West Virginia was a state until I was in college. COLLEGE. I thought it was, um, just the western part of Virginia. Feel free to throw things like stones or tomatoes at me). I don’t really know where New Hampshire is, is my point, but I’m excited to go there. Even if the forecast calls for ninety degree weather AND intermittent thunder storms.
 
M’s friends from college live up there – in a huge house, the mortgage for which is less than we pay in rent – and they’re throwing a barbeque for the three couples in the group who have recently gotten engaged. I’m excited. Anywhere that allows me to play the bride card with reckless abandon is somewhere I want to be.
 
Speaking of that bride card, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about the details of the wedding. The little things that will make it stand out. Lately, my focus has been on favors.
 
Now, I’ve received enough crappy frames and clusters of Jordan almonds to know that I want something different. I don’t want people to feel gypped. I want them to leave with a small token of our appreciation for not only celebrating with us, but for navigating New York City and paying New York City hotel and parking prices to do so. And also, for giving us gobs of money.
 
Initially I thought of a candy buffet, inspired by Martha Stewart (when you’re planning a wedding, she is your goddess no matter how you felt about her before the wedding or how you’ll feel about her after). Guests would receive (adorable! Personalized!) boxes which they could fill with a variety of candy.
 
But M and I are less candy people than we are cookie people. We’ll be all “meh” at the idea of a Snickers but present us with a few dozen chocolate chip cookies right out of the oven and you will barely have any left once we get through with them.
 
So now I’m thinking, cookie buffet. And now I’m also thinking, put my family to work. The women I’m related to are fabulous bakers and each of them has a specialty. I want to present each of their specialties on a gorgeous platter with a frame that says Aunt Tia’s Famous Blackbottoms or Yiayia (that’s grandma, in Greek) Sofia’s Incomparable Greek Sugar Cookies. It just feels more personal, more special. I may even have to make some of my delicious homemade Oreos.
 
I don’t know. How boring is that? I just wrote about FAVORS. Omigod. I tried for a while to ixnay the eddingway stuff but, yeah, it creeps back every now and again and I am powerless against it. (*Pulls out Future Bride card, waves it around, shrugs*)
 
If any of you have received any inspired favors – or have been to a wedding with a great detail, such as a basket of flip flops on the dance floor so that women can abandon their heels and shake their thangs comfortably – I would, of course, love to hear about it.
 
So I can steal all the ideas and pass them off as my own, MWAHAHAHA.

Please note: I am very busy. Hence the bullshit below. September 6, 2007

The status of all the major things in my life, in list form and yes, I apologize for this bullshit entry and yes, I think you should leave a comment urging M to GET ON VERIZON so that they SET UP OUR INTERNET so that I can BLOG FROM HOME and not have to PUT UP BULLSHIT POSTS: 

Apartment: Sigh. I heart. I just wish M would be a bit less methodical about his unpacking because damn it the boxes! THE BOXES. The boxes of bullshit. If there are two things we have learned about each other throughout this experience it’s that I never throw away clothes or shoes or bags and M never throws away receipts or pay stubs or ANYTHING ELSE MADE OF PAPER.  But at least my five/ten/fifteen year old shoes, clothes and bags are PUT AWAY AND NOT SITTING IN THE MIDDLE OF THE LIVING ROOM. On the upside, shredding is fun!  

Relationship: It’s weird how this move has affected us. For about a week, up until yesterday I’d say, we were much less affectionate than usual. Probably because we were too damn tired to do anything except wave goodnight to each other and turn off the light at the end of the day, but still. It scared me.  I began to overreact (me? No! NEVER.) I began to worry that we would become like roommates. It’s gotten progressively better, we’re starting to settle in to both our place and our old selves. Has anyone else experienced that while navigating the shitstorm that is moving in together? Please say yes. It will make my delicate little feelings happier.   

Operation Buff Bride: You have no idea what I ate last night. I went to dinner with a foodie/wine snob friend of mine and I left the restaurant with my bank account one hundred dollars lighter. We started with goat cheese profiteroles and delicious crusty bread. We split two entrees – rock shrimp risotto (hi, Heaven, I’m Clink. Nice to meet you) and seared tuna with a parmesan crisp disc-like thingy that was clearly created by God himself. We finished the night with a dessert smorgasboard – one of everything on their dessert menu in a smaller size than normal. There was: blueberry crumble, a Nutella-filled éclair, crème broulee, chocolate mousse, tiramisu mousse, a lemon bar and a fudgy chocolate square. Oh, and we finished two bottles of wine. I asked the waiter if he would be kind enough to roll me out of the restaurant; he thought I was kidding. Clearly, I am not exactly on track. Also, $100? EACH? ON ONE DINNER? (*Looks at bank account, sobs*) 

Job: Love, love and also love. My boss is seriously a shorter, blonder version of me. We’ve been going out to lunch and discussing our men, our weddings, the fact that we both want to lose weight before dress shopping. The job itself is a dream. I wish I could say more but I’ll leave you with this tidbit: the job makes me hungry. Like all the time.  

Blog: Neglected, clearly.

Letters. August 23, 2007

Dear The Sun, 

Hi! It’s me! I miss you! Where have you been?  

What’s that? On the west coast?  

Ok, fine, whatever, yeah there are prettier people out there but you know what? They are sun whores. They get you all the time. All we’re asking is for a brief respite from this five-day, all cloudy, all the time, could-be-November-out-there bullshit.  

Did you by chance get us confused with London?  

Come back soon. LYLAS. 

Xo,  

Clink  

*** 

Dear Interns, 

You’re lazy. Not incompetent, but lazy. I just don’t understand the entitlement of your generation.  

Yes, we work in TV. Yes, we work for a pretty cool company. Yes, it’s fairly relaxed around here. Yes, I am not that much older than you. 

That, however, does not mean you can brush me off with a “yeah, one second” as you update your Facebook page when I ask you to help me out with something.  

And yeah, I took it to the big boss. And, yeah, I was thrilled when he called you in and told you that if I ask you to do something, you should act as if GOD HIMSELF asked you to do something. And, yeah, I’m only here for another week but I’m enjoying the fact that you no longer walk around like you are the princes and princesses of this place. 

I was an intern once too. And you know what? I worked my ass off. And I did it all with a smile. That’s why I am where I am right now. You should probably take note. 

-Clink 

*** 

Dear Family, 

Welcome back from Greece! I missed you. I am jealous of your tans. I am sorry that the sun has taken a brief hiatus from this area. I can’t wait to see you this weekend.

Love,

Clink

*** 

Dear Future Husband, 

You made last night so special: the reservations at our favorite place, the stop at Cold Stone afterwards, how you said that you are so proud of me and you get so happy when someone else (as in, my future boss) realizes how much I rock.  

I love you more than you could possibly imagine. Think of how much you think I love you and then multiply that by eleventy thousand million trillion and then you’ll be somewhere in the ballpark. 

Thinking about you still gives me butterflies. 

Yours, 

Clinky 

*** 

Dear Reality Television, 

You rock. For reals. Even when you break my heart, like you did last night, when Tre got kicked off of Top Chef and I kind of wanted to cry. Ok fine, maybe I did cry but Tre! So poised, so professional, so likable. He had one bad night and he gets sent packing but Howie, Mr. I Couldn’t Get My Frog Legs Plated In The First Episode, gets to stick around? 

But Fashionista Diaries, last night? So good. And The Hills, even if I’m starting to suspect that it is, indeed, fully scripted? So good. And Big Brother? SO GOOD.  

I’m starting to think we have a bit of a unhealthy relationship but I’m clearly not going anywhere anytime soon. Fall TV is right around the corner. 

Kisses,

Clink 

*** 

Dear Readers, 

I am so sorry for this crappy excuse for a post. I’m all out of ideas and who really wants to hear me squee about my job, or bitch about how my mom thinks my registry isn’t well-rounded enough, or complain about how I have no motivation to go to the gym? No one, that’s who.

Feel free to suggest post topics. Otherwise, there might be more of this (*nods upwards*) to come.  

Also, you look really skinny today, have you lost weight? 

Best, 

Your Clink

The drowned rat might just get the job. August 21, 2007

I just came back from an interview.  
 
I was soaking wet when I got there, I am still soaking wet now that I’m back at the desk of my current job. 
 
It’s apparently November in New York. It’s cold and wet and have I mentioned COLD and WET because I just can’t seem to emphasize just how cold and god damn wet it is. 
 
Nothing like showing up for an interview for a job you want more than, oh, ANY OTHER JOB looking like a drowned rat. Yup, nothing inspires confidence quite like that. 
 
So everyone who knows and loves me and therefore has to put up with my neuroses (hi M, hi Dad, hi Roommate, hi Molly) knows that I’ve been freaking out about this interview for a few days. As in, last night I was curled in the fetal position unable to speak, that’s how nervous I was about doing well on this interview. I didn’t even eat dinner! Me! No dinner! When I don’t eat, you know it’s bad. 
 
But all that freaking out was (hopefully) for nothing, because the interview rocked. I kind of want my hopefully-soon-to-be-new-boss to be my best friend. Once we got all the boring stuff (past experience, what the job entails, etc) out of the way, we ended up talking about our engagement rings and our weddings and how we’re both on diets and how we both used to be 20 pounds skinnier before we took jobs that made us eat too much to deal with the stress. She even gave me a hug at the end of the interview.  
 
Seriously, if this whole her-giving-me-a-job thing doesn’t work out, I may just call her to get some drinks.  
 
But I think it’s going to work out. I hate putting that out there because that gives the universe license to fuck around and say “think again, Clink! SUCKA!” or something but I got a good feeling. Could have something to do with the fact that she said she really liked me and wanted to hire me. However, she does have a few more interviews and I’m afraid that one of those people might blow her away even more than I did.  
 
And then I will cry and drink lots of wine and then cry some more because FUCK I want this job. If you knew what the job was, you would know why. Dammit, sometimes I feel like throwing anonymity to the wind and just telling you guys because, seriously, hi, DREAM JOB FOR CLINK.

Breadwinner. August 14, 2007

Now that M has officially started law school, I have the pressure of being the primary breadwinner. As in, when M and I move in together in September, I will be the only person earning anything. (M disagrees: “I’ll have you know that I’ll be earning a degree.”) 
 
I work freelance. Freelance is, by design, unstable. It’s for those types of people who want to work hard for months at a time and then take off for six weeks to go to Thailand because they can, because they’re freelance. They like not being “owned.” They like always having a new challenge. I’m sure most of them smoke pot (how else could they be so calm about not knowing where their next paycheck is going to come from?). They’re what one would describe as “easy breezy,” if one were prone to saying things such as “easy breezy.” 
 
I am not a good freelance candidate, for reasons that should be obvious to anyone who reads this blog on a regular basis (neurotic! Type A! Wracked with anxiety at all times!) And yet, here I am. Freelance. And yes, I have been known to throw up while in the throes of worrying where my next paycheck is going to come from. (Anyone have some good pot?)
 
Now that I’m getting married and now that I am, essentially, a sugar mama to my fiancé, I want something stable. I want something with benefits. I want a 5pm clocking out time and no reason to think about anything work-related until 9am the next day. I want to stop having panic attacks when one project ends and I still haven’t found the next one.
 
And now my safety net is gone. Gone to law school.
 
I joke about being a sugar mama, of course. M actually has more in his bank account than I’ve probably earned over the course of the four years I’ve been in the workforce. He can live and pay for law school for two years without borrowing any money. (Cough overachiever cough.)
 
But still, all that money is going out and none of it will be coming back in until he sells his soul for six figures upon graduation. In light of that, we have decided to start acting like cheapos adults.  
 
We went food shopping Sunday evening because we’ve decided that part of being an adult is kicking our five-ok-fine-six-ok-fine-SEVEN-night-a-week take-out habit. Responsible people bring smushed sandwiches to work. They don’t order an egg and cheese on a roll; they eat a sensible, high-fiber bowl of cereal at home. They actually use the pots and pans that they own to cook dinner (as opposed to ours, which are stored in the oven because the cabinets? The cabinets are reserved for wine).  
 
So, yes, food shopping and bagged lunches. We should have that down payment for a house in no time.
 
Though that $700 we spent at Ikea over the weekend (only my fiancé could somehow find – and buy – chairs at Ikea that are $100 each; the whole point of Ikea is buying a chair for $24.99 and hoping that all the parts are in the box and that it doesn’t fall apart when you sit on it. There is no such thing as luxury Ikea; we got duped) probably wasn’t the most responsible thing in the world. 
 
However, our new Yucca plant, Huey, is very thankful to have a happy home. What, you’ve never gone to Ikea with sole intentions of getting some bedside tables and maybe a lamp or two and have returned with a potted plant, a bag of frozen Swedish meatballs and these:  

  

Really? Just me?

Case of the Mondays. August 6, 2007

Oh, I don’t know. This weekend was awesome and I miss it already.  
 
Especially because today is so Monday, you know? Grey, with a chance of thunderstorms. Ants crawling out of the coffee creamer (I do not like coffee to taste like coffee) just as I was about to pour some in. An extra heaping of pressure at work because one of my colleagues thinks that part of her job is to read every one of Perez Hilton’s posts instead of, you know, DOING WHAT SHE IS PAID TO DO. 
 
Sigh. Cranky Clink.  
 
Also, my morning didn’t get off to a great start. I called the family in Greece because today is my mom’s birthday and my dad still pays my cell phone bill (I think he forgot that he pays it; score) and I therefore thought nothing of spending twenty minutes of expensive long-distance minutes. 
 
My sister got on the phone, eventually, to tell me she’s “bored” (I feel compelled to remind you that she is IN GREECE) and also, to ask me how the diet and exercising is going. 
 
“Clink, have you been dieting? Have you been going to the gym? We’re going wedding dress shopping when I get back and you need to be SKINNY.” 
 
This, from the size zero. I almost burst into tears. I know when you’re that small that a size six is akin to legs the size of tree-trunks (you know, like in Hollywood, where Kate Winslet is considered “curvy”), but still.  
 
And since when do I have to answer to my little sister? 
 
I know she was doing it because she knows me and she knows that I need a kick in the ass and it actually worked, as I bypassed H&H Bagels on the way to work and am instead sipping on an iced coffee with skim milk and splenda. But still. Grr. 
 
Anyway, other than that, the weekend was great. As I mentioned. Saturday I went to the gym for the first time in a very long time and found myself not wanting to leave. Saturday evening M and I went to a party on the Lower East Side, where it felt like college and I drank like a freshman. Sunday I spent the day baking in the sun at Yankee Stadium, chatting with my dad and the rest of the season ticket regulars that he has befriended. Last night, M and I cuddled in bed and ate Italian (bad Clink, bad!) and felt better about ourselves after another episode of Rock of Love. 
 
So, yeah. Monday. And my boss has come over twice while writing this post to ask me for any updates. Twice. In the span of, oh, less than ten minutes. 
 
Which means it is probably my cue to get to work.

Wedding dresses! (Also, a lame and incoherent post.) July 5, 2007

Hi, I’m confused. 
 
Why am I back at work? Why did I have to set an alarm this morning? Why am I not lounging around in bed with M? Why is M on a plane to Texas for work for forever and ever and ever (or, four days)? Why are my PLANS TO CONTROL THE UNIVERSE AND DO THINGS SUCH AS TURN THE THURSDAY AFTER A HOLIDAY INTO A SATURDAY NOT WORKING? Ahem. 
 
How was your 4^th? Was it kind of dreary and blah with the clouds and the grey-ness and the “well, the weather is kind of appropriate as it is Britain-esque and we are celebrating our succession from them and…wait, no, that doesn’t make any sense at all.”  
 
So yeah. We missed the fireworks. Because we were too busy drinking margaritas and eating guacamole by the spoonful (chips are just an unnecessary middleman). Proof that we are idiots: The packed restaurant cleared out around 9pm. We looked at each other - and the friends we were dining with - and kind of shrugged. I think I actually said, “oh good, now we can talk to each other without screaming.” Had we not been a) drunk or b) IDIOTS, we would’ve realized that everyone was clearing out to head over to the East River to watch the damn fireworks and we should’ve paid our bill and, you know, joined them. I was, however, wearing red (belt), white (tee-shirt) and blue (jeans) so hey, that has to count for something, eh? 
 
Anyway. Work is kind of weird right now mainly because Tuesday was kind of weird. A major project fell through due to the incompetence of a higher-up and two of my most favoritest colleagues handed in their resignations, effective immediately. I’m all “that’s noble, y’all, but I need the damn paycheck” so here I am, without the two people I ate lunch with, got drinks after work with, nipped out for super-secret workday manicures with. And I’m bummed. And feeling DESERTED BY EVERYONE. My colleagues, my FIANCE (*shakes fist in general direction of Texas*).  
 
So, in lieu of doing any real work (if you’re going to make me be here, I am going to silently protest being here by not doing anything related to what you pay me to do, suckas; also, I’m hungover), I will post some wedding dresses that I am currently obsessed with and am considering trying on when I lose ninety pounds and am roughly the weight of a Chihuahua:

Vegas, baby. June 20, 2007

I had an interview a few hours ago, when it was raining. 
 
Now the sun is out and taunting me, all “Look at me! Shining away! Rubbing it in your face that I wasn’t around earlier, when you had to make your way downtown in the rain! While wearing a white skirt! TO AN INTERVIEW! Sucka!” 
 
A white skirt that now, as of a few moments ago, is dotted with droplets of VitaminWater (dragonfruit, which is pink - hot pink, because OF COURSE). 
 
Note to self: no more white skirts because, really, who are you kidding you spaz. 
 
The interview went well. In fact, I wasn’t nervous at all until I met the interviewer and he was tall and British and handsome with perfectly mussed hair and Converse and for a moment I was all, “this thing? On my left hand? The thing that is currently blinding you as we have a conversation? Oh it’s just costume jewelry. You know, to keep the men away at the bar. Now, tell me more about…” 
 
Oh shut up. Like you’ve never flirted to get a job. (Wait, you haven’t? Really? Just me? Is the hair toss and flirty laugh too much? What about absentmindedly caressing my cleavage while answering a question?) (Note: I’ve never done any of the previous except maybe a mildly flirty laugh; I am six for six in post-college job interviews.)  Alright. No one wants to read about my damn interview, I get it.  
 
How about bachelor parties? Want to read about them?  
 
I’m not going to give you my thoughts on them. Mainly because my thoughts consist of “eww dirty gross one last night of freedom bullshit fuck off marriage does not come with a damn pair of shackles you retarded frat boys get over it.” Ahem. 
 
I am going to ask your thoughts on joint bachelor/ette parties. M and I both want to have ours in Vegas. Because, why not. When we both realized this, we kind of looked at each other across the table and were like, “why don’t we just do it at the same time?” Because, truth be told, we’d rather be there together, with all of our friends, than be there separately, missing each other (dependent much? Shut up.)  
 
Is that lame? (Answer from M’s friends, I’m sure: A resounding YES!) I’m thinking we don’t have to do everything together, as in - he can have dinner with the boys and us girls can have dinner elsewhere and then, sometime during the night, we can all meet up and get drunk and I can make out with my fiancé instead of sitting in a corner with a damn veil on my head, drinking a Cosmopolitan out of a penis straw, watching my single friends make out with random men while I dream about making out with my fiancé who is all the way back east in our apartment in New York City.  
 
It’s so far in the future and I really should be more productive with my time for there are color schemes to be picked out and venues to be looked at and blah blah blah, all I can think about is “oooh where would we stay?” and “oooh, which of our friends will end up hooking up?”  
 
Because I may be engaged, but I’m still 25 years old. And while I’m ready to be married, of course, planning the bachelor/ette (Jack & Jill?) party is a lot more appealing and a lot less stressful than planning a wedding. Trust me on that one.

INTERVIEW-RELATED UPDATE: Guess who just got an offer? For an awesome job? Making a ton more money? Aww, that’s right…seven for seven, baby.

Case of the Mondays. June 19, 2007

Yesterday afternoon, I stood in a bathroom stall at work and called M and cried. 
 
It wasn’t a cute “sniffle sniffle” cry either. It was the ugly cry - when the snot and the tears run together and your face is red and your eyes are puffy and you think it’s the end of the goddamn world and not even a glimpse of your ring can make you feel better (that’s when you know it’s bad.)  
 
It was just that kind of day.  
 
Any woman planning a wedding is already at a heightened state of stress and sensitivity. If you yell at her, for not asking you before ‘borrowing’ an intern, an intern she HAD NO FUCKING IDEA ‘BELONGED’ TO YOU LIKE A FUCKING COW IN A FUCKING HERD OF CATTLE, then, well, she will cry in the bathroom to her fiancé. Because she has already had enough, what with being locked out of her computer for four hours due to a glitch in the company system that registered her last day as Friday, June 15. And with trying to print out approximately 100 film stills with two broken photo printers. And with having eaten five pieces of cut-up pineapple for lunch because she was too stressed and busy to leave and get something substantial. And with her rage at the total ineptitude of her boss, and everyone else at the company for that matter.  
 
Things are better now. Things were better last night, actually, when M met me outside of my office building and gave me a bear hug and took me out for sushi and wine and wedding magazine shopping. Martha Stewart’s Weddings truly has healing power, you didn’t know?  
 
That’s all I want to do these days, dive into the world of glossy magazines and pretty planners and books with beautiful pictures. I feel safe there, surrounded by ideas and my fiancé and a vision of what ours will be like. 
 
I do not feel safe out here, in the real world, where someone who is pissed at you for getting assigned to a kick-ass project will then berate you for BORROWING AN INTERN in order to get out her aggression.  
 
I know. I need to grow a thicker skin. Wah, wah, Clink got yelled at and it reduced her to a puddle on the bathroom floor.  
 
I’m just so happy right now. There’s a glow that surrounds everything having to do with love! And the wedding! And how much I love the guy that put a ring on my finger! So when something threatens that glow, takes it away, makes me feel bad or embarrassed or hurt, well, then there I am. Crying in a bathroom stall. Wishing that somehow someone would pay me to plan my wedding.