Thinking. You know, about…stuff. August 20, 2007

Much of my Sunday was spent in my pajamas, in my bed, messing around on M’s laptop. 
 
Some of the resulting evidence (please excuse the wet, tangled hair; I was post-the only shower I took all weekend):

       
 
The weekend was non-eventful. I did get out of my pajamas a few times – to go shopping in SoHo, to eat lobster rolls in Nolita, to see (and laugh very hard at) Superbad, to inhale Mexican on the Upper East Side, to spend $54.98 at Duane Reade when I only went in for paper towels.  
 
But mostly, it was me and the laptop and M beside me, with his books.  
 
Mostly, it was me staring at a blank screen, waiting for divine inspiration to come and possess my hands and type the sort of short story that brings prizes and accolades and financial independence in the form of feature film rights.  
 
I haven’t been writing. Other than, you know, this thing that I do here. I haven’t been writing fiction, I haven’t been writing the short stories that prompted one of my professors – himself a published author – to tell me mine was the best undergraduate writing he’d seen in years and years of teaching. I haven’t been writing and, as a result, and I know this is going to sound odd, and I don’t really care – my soul feels cluttered. 
 
I have all of these half-ideas and characters and storylines running through my head and they have no home. To paraphrase that song that was very popular as a result of Grey’s Anatomy, if I get them on paper they can stop threatening the life they belong to. So I should do that, get them on paper. Or up on screen. Or anywhere but my head, where the ideas just tend taunt me, upset about the fact that they are just that – ideas.  
 
I’m curious as to how many of you bloggers also write fiction. I know that they don’t go hand in hand, but I also know that in many cases, they do. I know that blogging, for many, myself included, is a form of exercising the muscle. If you write every day, the bicep of your craft is going to be toned, is going to look stunning in a halter. (I think of the writing muscle as a bicep; I have no explanation). Some of you (hi, Pete! How are things in Canada today?) incorporate fiction into your blogs, which I so admire. I’m more terrified of presenting my fiction than I am of laying my neuroses bare to be judged.  
 
So, tell me. Do you blog just to blog? Do you blog to keep the bicep fit, or get it into shape? Do you blog in lieu of fiction writing? Or do you (cough overachiever cough) manage to do both?

Update to a previous post: Oh, and Mike - Molly’s boss and one of my true BlogFriends - has put up his own take on the Great Patriots Garbage Can Debate of ‘07: http://mikesgotnothin.blogspot.com/ It helped me to understand why the damn garbage can is so important to M. I think I’m going to, reluctantly, let him keep it. But I’m going to make sure it is stored out of view, UNDERNEATH the desk. See? Compromise.

Yesterday. July 19, 2007

It felt like 9/11 yesterday.  

I left work at around six and received a frantic phone call from my mother, who had just returned from tennis and turned on the TV and OMIGOD CLINK THERE IS SMOKE EVERYWHERE AND SOMETHING EXPLODED AND PLEASE WHY CAN’T YOU JUST MOVE BACK HOME PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE? 

And I was all “stop overreacting, Ma.” Because everyone on the streets seemed pretty calm to me. No one was running towards the New Jersey border or diving into the Hudson and it all seemed fairly commonplace.  

Except, when I tried to call my fiancé, my call wouldn’t go through. At first I started to curse out “Cingular! AT&T! Whoever the hell you are!” But then the man next to me while waiting at the corner was also cursing out Verizon and we both kind of looked at each other.  

“Feels like 9/11, eh? Not being able to make a damn call?” he said to me. 

“Yeah,” a girl standing behind us chimed in. “Did you hear what happened in Midtown?”  

And then suddenly, like I had just pressed seek and found a clear channel on the radio dial, I started to hear everyone talking about it. 

“I heard it was a transformer.” 

“Like, from the movie?” 

“No, you idiot.” 

“I don’t know – they’re saying it’s not terrorism but I think that’s just so everyone doesn’t freak out. It’s kind of suspicious that it happened right around Grand Central.” 

“I heard it was the subway. They finally fucking blew up the subway.” 

During my walk home, I caught snippets here and snippets there until – by the time I made it to my apartment building – I was convinced that it was officially the End of Days and maybe I should just order one of everything off the menu at the McDonald’s on 8^th Avenue because, really, who cares anymore? It’s over. Might as well go out in a blast of greasy deliciousness. 

I turned on NY1 and saw the images and – despite the reassurances from the news anchor – thought it looked pretty damn fucking terrifying.  

The scene was eerily reminiscent of September 11^th: billowing smoke and people running for their lives and mass confusion and chaos and debris everywhere.  

Clearly, we know now there was “nothing sinister” involved – unless you consider Con Ed’s suckiness “sinister” (I do) or the fact that there may be fucking asbestos everywhere “sinister” (again, I do). 

To quote Gawker, “we kind of always knew we’d die at the hands of Con Ed rather than Al-Queda.” Ha. And also, exactly.   

It’s scary, being a New Yorker. Each and every day we head out into the city and ignore the fact that we live with a bulls-eye stretching across our city limits.  

When something like what happened yesterday happens – even if it was “only” a steam pipe that burst – we all kind of crumble into the emotional balls of stress and neuroses that we really are. It gives us license to cave and talk to each other about just how scared we really are. About how we still carry the scars of 9/11, even if that tragedy was hijacked by the current administration and spun into a war with no apparent end. About how we live on edge while pretending not to live on edge but really, good lord, living on edge.

About how, yes, we’re terrified but, truly, we wouldn’t want to live anywhere else – even if the streets randomly blow up or fundamentalist bastards fly planes into our buildings. Even then.

Holding Pattern. July 3, 2007

I’m in a holding pattern at the moment.  
 
I’m waiting for tomorrow: Brunch at our favorite spot, lounging in the park with each other and a pile of wedding magazines, a rooftop barbeque to watch the fireworks. 
 
I’m waiting for Friday: A barbeque at my parents’ home. Some suburbia - and some family - will do me good. 
 
I’m waiting for Saturday: Driving down to my beloved Philadelphia for a weekend with two of my future bridesmaids. (PS - any cute ideas on how to ask them, short of blurting it out while drunk as I did when I asked my first bridesmaid?) 
 
I’m waiting for next Thursday: Departing for Vegas, having packed my sluttiest dresses and tiniest bathing suits and tallest heels because if not in Vegas, then where? 
 
I’m waiting for the sixteenth: Starting a new job. Should be old hat by now but there are butterflies. Yes, already. 
 
I’m waiting for next July: Because, quite frankly, all this planning has made me ludicrously anxious and excited about the wedding. 
 
Sigh. The wedding. Or, The Wedding, as it deserves to be capitalized because it is a Thing of Magnitude - lowercase does not do enough justice. 
 
It has become The Thing We Talk About - between M and I and also amongst our families and friends. I’ll refrain from bringing it up - not wanting to be That Girl Who Can Only Talk About Her Wedding - only to be bombarded with questions and suggestions and opinions and “please do not wear a strapless poufy gown. You’ll look like every other bride. Also, a cupcake.” 
 
Last night I had a dream that I tried on dresses. And - seeing as it was a DREAM and therefore NOT REALITY - every dress I tried on fit perfectly. From the sexy A-Line halter to, yes, the cupcake fairy princess happily ever after poufy dresses. I woke up smiling. 
 
Way to set me up for disappointment, Subconscious, for when I actually do try on dresses and none of them look right and I’ll be standing there all “but they looked so great in my dream!” and then everyone will kind of give each other the “she’s officially lost it” looks and someone will hand me champagne and ask if I’m getting enough sleep.
 
Which, hello, I totally am. Because it’s while sleeping I look fucking amazing in every dress.  
 
Have I lost it already? Possible. Also - a massive hangover (hi, four glasses of wine last night on a stomach containing nothing more than a granola bar eaten at 10am) combined with a massive dose of allergy medicine (really? With the allergies? Still?) does make for a bit of a fuzzy Clink.  
 
Luckily tonight seems to be just the antidote: dinner and drinks al fresco with friends for Roommate’s birthday, and then a quick nap before a 2am (yes, you read that right) Revolutionary War tour of Manhattan - did I mention it starts at 2am? - because my fiancé is insane. Also, cute. So he can get away with it. 
 
Plus I’m wearing a red and white polka dot dress (Fiance: You look like Minnie Mouse. In a good way) and that just makes everything - even a damn Tuesday morning holding pattern - better. Eh?

Not dead, I promise. June 27, 2007

Oh my poor little neglected blog. There, there. It’s okay, mama’s back.
 
Unfortunately, the blog has become the tattered, dusty toy abandoned in the corner of the playroom until a “let’s round up everything we’re donating to GoodWill” sweep.  
 
The wedding? The wedding is new! And pretty! And oooooh, shiny! Who’s a pretty wedding? Who? Are you a pretty wedding? Yes you are!  
 
Needless to say, I’ve been playing with the wedding a bit more these days. 
 
We have a date. And a reception venue. And while the date has a few more odd numbers than I would like, the venue is perfect. Most perfect of all perfect venues in the history of perfection. True story.  
 
M, my mother and I looked at a few places this past Saturday. When we left each one to go on to the next, we tried to convince ourselves that we liked the previous place. Because, on paper, we should have. They were beautiful reception sites, all of them. But, beautiful for someone else.  
 
I was feeling a bit hopeless until we walked into the venue.  
 
They were setting up for a wedding and, as the sales manager was running a few minutes late, we took it upon ourselves to take a brief unguided tour. And, about a minute in, I started to get teary. And goosebump-y. And very vocal about the fact that “this is it! This is the place. Baby, this is the place! Mom, this is the place!” 
 
As we sat down with the sales manager later on, she said to contact her if we were interested in booking. To which my mom said, “Could we have the booking conversation now? My daughter cried when she walked in. I think it’s safe to say we won’t be looking anywhere else.” 
 
And…we won’t be. Done deal. I have a goddamn wedding date. As in, holy shit, this is not some awesome dream I have yet to wake up from. This is for real.  
 
(That is, if I can manage to MAKE IT TO THE DAMN WEDDING DAY with all this DAMN HEAT that has been unceremoniously SPRUNG UPON US and makes everyone look like they just ran a marathon when, really, they just nipped out across the street to grab an iced coffee. HATE.)

It happened. June 11, 2007

(Details to come…)

10 Things You Don’t Know About Women June 1, 2007

My boyfriend has free subscriptions to almost any magazine that can be labeled “Male Interest” aside from, like, Playboy and Nascar Lovers and Men 4 Men. 
 
They’re all free and unsolicited and sent to him by the publications because he is a Big Shot.  
 
In the beginning of our relationship, when I was trying my hardest to prove that I am a girl who likes sports as opposed to a girl who likes sports because guys like sports, I used to lounge around in my skivvies and skim Sports Illustrated or ESPN Magazine because I thought that would expedite the process of going from “Girl M is Dating” to “M’s Girlfriend.” I was all, “who me? Oh I’m just hanging out over here in that underwear you love so much, reading about Barry Bonds.” (Note: it worked.)  
 
Now that I’ve proved I can accurately define a balk and can name college basketball players from before I was born, I tend to gravitate towards GQ or Details or Complex (com-PLEX or COM-plex? The world may never know). My favorite is probably Esquire. For the articles, I swear! (The articles of delicious men, articles that just happen to be accompanied by shirtless photos of delicious men but WHATEVER. Details, details.) 
 
In every issue of Esquire they have a “10 Things You Don’t Know About Women” page, wherein a scantily clad upper-B-list celebrity gives readers insight into the fickle mind of women. 
 
Tangent: Do we really want those *nods head slightly in the general direction of
Hollywood* women speaking for all of us? I mean, they don’t eat anything ever and they do coke in bathrooms and they sleep with aging directors for parts. Not exactly the most accurate sample of the female population but, I digress. 
 
The current issue features Minnie Driver, who spouts ridiculousisms such as (and I paraphrase), “if you’re going to say something about your ex on our first date, say something nice about her.” Really Minnie? REALLY? Because are you so secure with yourself and your curly hair and your kinda-big head that you wouldn’t automatically wonder if, since he’s saying nice things about a woman he used to date, he wouldn’t still like to, oh, BE WITH THAT WOMAN?  
 
Anyway. The whole point (there is a point! I promise! Ok, there’s a sorta-point!) is that I thought we should come up with our own. 
 
I’ll go first. 10 Things Clink Thinks You Don’t Know About Women: 
 

1.    We dress for other women most of the time. You may not understand why we’re wearing a floaty babydoll shirt that lends itself to “is it or isn’t it maternity?” scrutiny, paired with leggings and wedge heels that burn our soles by the end of the night, but other women do. And feeling stylish in the eyes of other women because we have mastered a trend (or five) makes us feel awesome.
 
2.   We probably won’t shave our legs the first few times we go out with you. It’s insurance against going home with you. Four glasses of wine and a bucketful of your charm may weaken our willpower, but knowing that our gams aren’t smooth as silk is the strongest chastity belt in the world. (Granny-panties and lack of a bikini wax are also time-honored substitutions.)
 
3.   We don’t talk about sex with our girlfriends nearly as much as you probably think we do. We mostly talk about shoes and Project Runway. Sorry.
 
4.   Speaking of our girlfriends, a small part of us will always wonder which one you’d sleep with. We don’t ever want to know the real answer.
 
5.   We secretly worry that natural childbirth will make us, uh, stretched out. You know where.
 
6.   To paraphrase lyrics from a song I heard once, we’d like to see your eyes open up real wide the minute that you see us. Especially if we’re wearing an expensive, sexy dress and just got a $100 blow-out and spent $150 on new make-up. The widening of the eyes (as opposed to, say, “Cool, you ready to go?” with nary a smile) makes it all worthwhile.
 
7.   We’ve already picked out baby names. We will secretly see if our favorite names mesh well with your last name.
 
8.   Tell us if you like our hair when we let it dry naturally. We’re looking for any excuse to put down the straighteners and curling irons. Plus, it’ll probably get you laid.
 
9.   Don’t ever tell us you “forgot to eat.” We obsess about every single thing we put in our mouths; people who “forget to eat” are therefore immediately suspicious.
 
10.  If we were lesbians, we’d probably like to sleep with Jackie Warner from Work Out. Sorry if that kills any of your my-girlfriend-with-another-woman fantasies.  
 
 So now it’s your turn! I clearly don’t have the authority to speak for all women everywhere so, in the interest of sisterhood (or brotherhood! We don’t discriminate here at Such Great Heights), I’d like all of you to contribute. It can be one, it can be a whole other list of ten.  
 
 Soon, men will have no more questions about women. (Ha! Just kidding men! The fact that we’re shrouded in mystery is one of the best things we have going for us. Sorry.)

Hamburger Helper. And other things. May 17, 2007

Things on my mind: 
 
-My sister graduates from college this weekend. In fact, she graduates from the same college I went to and the same college my father went to (what? We’re big on the legacy advantage). It’s always emotional for me, going back there. Even though I didn’t enjoy college nearly as much as I thought I would (I drank a lot! And I hooked up a lot! And I dressed like a slut a lot! And yet somehow it was still unfulfilling!) time has created a sense of nostalgia, and somehow memories of me doing a keg stand or stumbling home from another dorm at 8am in last night’s party clothes have morphed from “holy god, I DID that? Seriously?” to “aww, those were the days.”  
 
-Speaking of mixed emotions, I cannot believe my little sister is graduating college. I feel old and proud and protective and worried and excited all at once. She’s taking a year off before law school and she’ll most likely be working at my dad’s firm and for her graduation, I’m going to give her a huge chunk of money to buy new clothes because hoodies with tiny whales on them and ripped jeans and the tiniest tank tops and tee shirts I have ever seen are just not going to cut it in the ‘real world.’ It’ll be like my own version of A Makeover Story. Except she’s not going to listen to anything I say (“no more Abercrombie! I’m serious! Their skirts do not even completely cover the ass!”). 
 
-On a wholly unrelated note, but on my mind nonetheless, my new boss on this new project I’m working on is driving me crazy. I was a double major in college and one of those majors was English and my mother is an English teacher and my father has impeccable grammar and GRAMMATICALLY CORRECT WRITING WAS AND CONTINUES TO BE IMPORTANT IN THE CLINK HOUSEHOLD. While I’m not saying I get everything right all the time, I tend not to confuse (note: UNLIKE YOU, NEW BOSS) “roll” (as in, dinner) with “role” (as in, a part in a film) or “they’re” with “their” or “it’s” with “its” or I could go on and on and on and on and on. I can deal with it when it’s just an email to me, but when he emails, say, the World’s Most Famous Director or Quirky and Popular Actor, then I cringe for him. And for the both of us. And for the English language in general. Can anyone come up with a gentle yet forceful way of saying: “For the LOVE OF GOD GOOD SIR, PLEASE FORWARD ME YOUR EMAILS BEFORE YOU SEND THEM SO THAT I CAN CORRECT THEM”?  
 
-We’re eating Hamburger Helper tonight. Backstory: We were in the grocery store the other day, discussing indulgences we rarely allow ourselves to have. M pretty much allows himself to have anything he wants (other than non-diet Coke) because, well, if you had his metabolism you wouldn’t worry much about gaining weight either. I, of course, started spouting a list of things I love but never let myself eat (Chipwiches, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Taco
Bell…). We just happened to be in the Hamburger Helper aisle (or whatever aisle it is that you would find HH), and I pointed at a box and said “…also, that.” So M picked up the box and put it in our cart and said, “let’s eat it sometime this week.” Like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like, oh yeah, we can TOTALLY be the type of people who just eat Hamburger Helper like it’s a grilled chicken salad. I, needless to say, have been thinking about Hamburger Helper all day. Unfortunately, a spinning class stands between me and the beefy, cheesy goodness. But you can bet your ass I’ll be envisioning sweet, delicious, calorie-filled dinner as I climb or sprint or jump the saddle or whatever the hell else the tyrant instructor is going to make us do.

When. May 11, 2007

September has always felt right for a wedding. The advantages are clear: warm weather, but not so warm that a small army of sweat beads accumulate as you walk from the limousine into the church; it sits on the very verge of fall, when fall is enthusiastically welcomed and not cursed for bitter winds and a shift in wardrobe; fall colors, meaning a chocolate brown table cloth is not out of the question; the fact that, no matter how old you get, September will always be associated with a fresh start and new school clothes. All of which provides more than enough proof that September is the most perfect month on the calendar.  
 
Unless we wait until he graduates in 2010, we can’t get married in September, or anytime in the fall. Well, not necessarily can’t, but the lack of an immediate honeymoon following the wedding and the fact that he would probably be forced to spend our wedding night poring over International Law books is enough for us to cross September off of our list. 
 
It has to be the summer. In which case, only early summer is acceptable. Before everything gets sticky and miserable. Before the haze sets in and refuses to lift. Before the city starts to smell of a land fill. Before just a brief walk around the block sends you running into a Duane Reade for “something I forgot” when, really, it’s just for the blast of air conditioning.  
 
I don’t know how I feel about May. May is a gamble. Right now we’re having great weather, but I wouldn’t put it past May to have the temperature drop back down to fifty degrees, to curse us with thunderstorms that last a week. I don’t trust May.  
 
April is entirely too early, July is entirely too summer. So it has to be June. June for me, June for approximately one hundred fifty-two thousand other city brides. June is what everyone else does. June isn’t unique, it’s the status quo. June is the month that all guests dread, because they have four different wedding registries to hunt through and purchase from. Having four weddings in the same month isn’t cause for celebration (love! Ain’t it grand?), it’s cause for resentment (love! Ain’t it fucking expensive?).
  
I shouldn’t complain. Really, I would marry M while standing on the arctic tundra in nothing but a bikini and a pair of Uggs if that’s what it took. I’m just being the spoiled brat that I devolve into on occasion. However, I do think that if we’re spending lots of money on a party, it should be the exact party we want. If that means chocolate brown table cloths in June, then so be it. If it means making June as September-like as possible (I’ve already got a call in to God for the weather to be slightly cool and breezy), then so be it.   
 
Besides, I can always look forward to planning for a September baby.

Taunting the Universe May 9, 2007

Last night, I took a spinning class for the first time. 
 
Subsequently, this morning, I could barely get out of bed. 
 
In addition to every other part of my body, my crotch is sore. I can deal with my quads being sore. Even my arms (though, really, I didn’t do much with my arms other than grip the handlebars for dear life for fear that my legs would give out and I would tumble onto the very intense girl on the next bike over—so really, arms, quit your griping). But my crotch? Really? Could this be any more painful? 
 
Also, could I be any more crude?  
 
Can anyone out there confirm that this is a typical after-effect of spinning? No? Really? It’s just me? I’m just a Spinning Failure and doomed to spend the rest of my existence slaving away on a treadmill?  
 
Moving on… 
 
Right. Yeah. Hi. Nothing to move on to. Unless you want a detailed description of all the times I cried during last night’s Work Out finale.  
 
Life has dealt me a pretty good hand lately, what with the sunshine-y weather and the new project I’m working on that has me oh so busy and the adorable wedges I got on sale yesterday and the cheap wine I drank with a friend in from out of town at Landmarc in the Time Warner Center Monday night. Yup, other than my aching crotch (and back, and ass, and hamstrings), all is right in the World O’Clink. 
 
(That’s right, Universe. I’m taunting you. I know you’re now going to dump so much shit on my life that it will take years to dig myself out. I know how you work. And I’m ready for it, so bring it.)  
 
I wish this could be longer (You: No really, Clink, it’s long enough seeing as you don’t actually SAY ANYTHING), but I have to hop into a meeting. Because I am busy. (Ha, I accidentally wrote “busty” and then laughed because, really, I’m busy AND busty.) I don’t like this being busy. I mean, I like it because it’s like “wow, six o’clock? Really? How did that happen? Also, woo hoo!” But it leaves me less time to do the things I really want my company to pay me to sit around and do: read your blog and shop online. 
 
Sigh.

Good Day Sunshine April 20, 2007

Yesterday, a friend of mine called me from the beach in Santa Monica. 
 
“I could get used to California. How’s New York?” 
 
“There’s no sun in New York anymore. We’re London, but with better restaurants and less endearing accents. Also, no Top Shop.” 
 
Today I sent her a text message: 
 
“Spotted, approximately 8:01am in Manhattan: sun. Developing…” 
 
Sun sun sun sun sun sun sun sun sun sun sun, etc. 
 
It’s been gloom and doom here for an ETERNITY. New Yorkers have been surlier than usual, if that’s even possible. Just the other day, while walking home from the gym, I saw a grown man exit his BMW, walk over to the taxi that had stopped short in front of him and spit on the (thankfully, closed) driver’s side window. A screaming match ensued. 
 
“Stupid weather,” I muttered to myself. 
 
But not today! Today the sun is back and the forecast (on noaa.gov; if at all interested, please ask me to expand on my conspiracy theory about weather.com) for the weekend is, oh, SUNNY AND WARM AND OMIGOD I AM JUST GOING TO ROLL AROUND IN CENTRAL PARK AND PERHAPS DRINK WINE BUT MOSTLY JUST ROLL. 
 
Along with the sun comes a brighter forecast for my career and thus that financial future I was so worried about a few posts back. You see, the other day I marched into my boss’ office and sat down and smiled and said, “I really like it here. If there’s an open position once [project I am working on] is over, I would love to be considered for it.”  
 
Note: I am not the type of person who goes marching into offices, especially those that belong to bosses. But I had had some champagne at an earlier going away party for a colleague and, combined with a cute outfit I fashioned mostly out of cast-offs in my closet, I was feeling confident. 
 
Do you know what my boss did? He smiled and said, “It’s so good to hear that. I’ve already spoken to [his boss] about how you are a real asset to the team and we’d love to keep you on.” 
 
No, nothing is set in stone but there is the very good possibility that I won’t have to pack up my things come June. Hallelujah for that. 
 
And because the universe always likes to make things just a wee bit interesting for me, I got a call just a few hours later from a well known (especially to an anglophile like me) company that is interested in speaking with me about a position. I was referred! Just like that! Without even knowing it! If that’s not the easiest way to job hunt then I don’t know what is.  
 
It’s Friday and even though today is the day that my grandmother departs for Greece–because enough with this America bullshit, she has a beautiful house and a beautiful ocean and a beautiful dog and beautiful lemon and orange groves to get back to–it is a good day. Mainly because I am just a few hours away from a blissfully unscheduled weekend. Seriously, I have absolutely nothing planned except for maybe a manicure, and some time at the gym, and dinner with my boyfriend and ROLLING AROUND IN CENTRAL PARK IN THE SUN. 
 
Which, note to sun: Welcome back. We like you a whole lot in these parts and while our women may not be as blonde and tan as in California, I think we deserve a little attention too. Departing for weeks at a time? A bit inexcusable. Please stay. Until, like, December.