Tonight… December 31, 2007

…there are polished nails, fire engine red, to match the lips.

…there’s an outfit, sexy, hanging on the back of the closet, for no other reason than I like to admire it from afar.

…there are heels, too - new. Because no one should ring in the new year in last year’s shoes.

…there is the Jon and Kate Plus 8 marathon I’m watching right now; it both enhances and lessens my babylust.

…there was Perspepolis earlier this afternoon; I recommend. Highly. First the books, then the movie, as it should be.

…there is a reservation. “Guacamole” was my only request. From January to July, there will be very little guacamole; time to stock up before the diet begins.

…there is red wine sitting on the counter and white whine chilling in the fridge, because I couldn’t decide.

…there were smiles in the liquor store, anticipation. Champagne quickly selling out.

…there was the Greek woman in the shoe repair shop where I picked up my boots, newly heeled. She wished me a happy new year in Greek and it brought tears to my eyes for no particular reason.

…there are barricades outside of my apartment, and policemen on every corner.

…there is Time Square, just down the road. Busy now, unimaginably busy in just a short while.

…there are hats and sparkly 2008 glasses being sold for eight dollars, because New Yorkers know nothing if not how to make a buck.

…there is the roof of our apartment building, and the view that makes us forget the rent. The view of the entire city - electric, pulsing - greeting the new year with a roar.

…there will be M and me, greeting the new year with a kiss and a smile.

There is nothing better.

Happy New Year.

Back. November 10, 2007

Not pregnant.

Sorry for the unintentional cliffhanger. I took the test Friday morning, right before leaving for Logan Airport. By then, the nausea had subsided and I was thinking less about how trash-tastic a maternity wedding gown would be and more about what a dramatic bitch I am.

My assistant and I stood over the sink in the marble bathroom and waited for the line. Or lines. I applied make-up; she hopped from foot to foot, all “omigod, omigod, omigod.”

She’s 23 and has never taken a pregnancy test; it was cute.

“What IF, Clink! I mean, it will be the most adorable baby EVER but still.”

Whenever I have a pregnancy scare, my mind goes immediately to my lack of health insurance. And then to our lack of a two-bedroom apartment. And then to M’s lack of, I don’t know, a PAYCHECK.

We’re not ready.

Except, um, emotionally? I kind of am. Whenever I see a baby (especially those Spears-Federline kids because come here, Sean. Come here Jayden. Clinky will take care of you and you will really like New York City and there will unfortunately be no platinum teething rings anymore but, um, I make really good cookies!), my ovaries start doing a little dance. It’s kind of like a tribal dance, complete with steel drums. A get noticed dance. A WE’RE HERE! WE’RE OVARIES! START FUCKING PAYING ATTENTION! dance.

The result is a lot of squee-ing on my end. Like at the airport when I cooed so much over a baby seated near us at the gate that the mother actually let me hold the child and why haven’t they bottled baby head scent yet? Someone should really get on that.

Anyway. I’m back. Back again. (Clinky’s back, tell a friend…where the hell is Eminem these days? My work outs miss him.)

I’m not back for long, however. I go away again next week where it will be busybusybusy again and I will be wahwahwah again and such is my life at the moment.

Absence does make the heart grow fonder. By Friday, after a long work week spent sleeping apart from my love (and in the same bed as my assistant…she gets scared in hotel rooms by herself and asked if she could sleep with me), my heart was pretty damn fond of M.

During hideous turbulence on the flight home, I put my forehead against the seat in front of me, tears running down my cheeks, and asked the Universe to please let this not be it because I refused to die and then miss M for all of eternity. I don’t care how great this Heaven place is supposed to be - it can be full of calorie-less Chipwich ice cream sandwiches and it will still suck without him.

I mean, seriously. I arrived home to not only our new dining table (finally. FI. NA. LLY) but our new console table as well, festively adorned by M. Yes, the same M with the Patriots garbage can did THIS:

Of course, I added a few touches but still - it was mostly him. I almost died of shock. And then I had sex with him immediately because you know what? The boy deserved to get laid. (Cue another pregnancy scare in about a month! Woo!).

Also, here is our new dining table. Just because:

I am flawed, but I am cleaning up so well. October 25, 2007

I have a confession: M and I aren’t perfect.
 
Perfect for each other, yes.
 
Perfect? Absolutely not. 
 
I’ve stopped writing about the difficult times. Mainly because they’re few and far between but also because…Well, I don’t know how to finish that sentence. Because I’m afraid of being judged? Because I’m afraid to share more now that I’m less anonymous? Because now that we’re getting married, I’m afraid that every tiny argument can be seen as a chink in the armor of us? 
 
It was Sunday, the day before my birthday. I woke up with a mood as grey as the sky. Something about twenty-six really got under my skin. I had one day left as a twenty-five year old and I was apparently going to spend it snapping at M and sulking and in general being a not-so-pleasant person to be around. 
 
M, bless him, tried his best. He tried to make me laugh. Failing that, he tried to get me to talk. Failing that, he got a bit frustrated. He’s human. And I had been pushing his buttons all day, dragging him down into my black hole of a bad mood. Misery does love company, yes, but even more than that, misery loves a good fight.
 
I won’t go into the details – that’s between the two of us  – but it escalated. Escalated to the point that I did something I’ve never done: I grabbed my stuff and bolted out of our apartment, letting the door slam behind me, not bothering to lock it.
 
In New York, you can be alone both nowhere and everywhere.
 
I cried once in London, while walking down the high street. It was homesickness, if I remember correctly. Three people stopped me to ask me if I was okay. By the time I got back to my flat, I was smiling. London cared, London took care of me. 
 
New York could give a shit. 
 
I walked to the fountain at Columbus Circle, one of the most underrated spots in the city - especially at night - and took a seat between a disoriented bum and a beautiful teenager sketching evening gowns.
 
I was iPod-less and phone-less and money-less and crying, wiping the snot onto the sleeve of my red hoodie, sitting knees to chest. Suddenly embarrassed, suddenly very sorry, suddenly feeling very stupid and yet still too full of pride to go back. I chided myself for letting my emotions get the best of me, for not being rational, for being such a bitch. A foul-tempered bitch.
 
I fight like my mother and my sister. We’re feisty, we’re Greek, we go for the jugular. If we’re angry - no matter if it’s justified - we’ll tell you everything you don’t want to hear about yourself. We’ll spot your weakness and go in for the kill. This is an attribute that is going to make my sister a stellar divorce attorney in just a few years. However, it’s not something I’m proud of and I definitely wasn’t proud that day, sitting in front of the fountain, mulling over the things I had said.
 
I saw Cameron Diaz first, walking with an actor I recognized from Alias (IMDB says: Bradley Cooper). I welcomed the distraction that came with passing judgment (skinny but not too, a bit of a flat ass, skin looked fine, overall very pretty).
 
Then I noticed a familiar face crossing the street towards the fountain – the stubble, the mess of brown hair, the black jacket with the collar, the one I love. The ice in my veins – ice I had worked so hard all day at keeping in place – melted.
 
He came and found me.
 
He sat down next to me. We just let each other be for a short while, sitting in complete silence, facing forward. The water drowned out the rest of the city, which is the reason the fountain is my favorite place to think. You can’t do anything but.
 
I could be remembering it wrong, but we reached for each other’s hand at almost the same time.
 
Somehow, some way we got from there to a perfect pre-birthday dinner. A perfect after-dinner. A perfect after-after-dinner. A perfect actual birthday. We built back up again after a not-so-pretty crumble.
 
It’s why I’m marrying him.
 
Because we’ll fight - hopefully not often, but it’ll happen. In fact, I’m wary of couples that don’t ever fight, not even just a bit. There are times when the connection, or the communication, they’re just not going to be perfect. There are times when things aren’t going to be easy.
 
But we’ll always find a way back to each other, M and I. And that’s what makes me believe in us, with ever fiber of my being.
 

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.

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.

Last First Kiss. July 10, 2007

Men are traditionally supposed to be the ones with the issues about settling down. 
 
Not that I’m having issues. There are no issues. I’m diving headfirst into death do us part, without a moment’s hesitation, without any thought to how cold or deep the water might be. There is no second-guessing because on every level - head, heart and wherever the hell instinct resides - I know that this is right. 
 
There are, however, fleeting thoughts. They arrive apropos of nothing and leave just as quickly and unceremoniously as they came. 
 
Thoughts about how I’ll never go on another first date. Or have another first kiss. Or meet someone and hope that he calls. Those firsts are now lasts.  
 
Don’t judge me. Yeah, you. I know you’re about to. “Well, if she wants more first kisses then she shouldn’t be getting married, stupid whore.”  
 
I’m not saying I want more first kisses. I’m just saying it’s an odd feeling when you realize that you’ve had your last first kiss. Not good, not bad, not ominous or disappointing. Just…odd.
 
I went home on Friday night and ended up going out with a few of my friends from high school, including my high school ex-boyfriend. If you had asked me five years ago, I would’ve told you that I thought I’d end up with him. You know, as soon as he got his act together. As soon as he moved into a place of his own. As soon as he realized that I was the one that got away. 
 
It never happened - him getting his act together. And, while I was patiently waiting, dating but not committing, certain that every conversation or hook-up with him would lead to a confession that he wanted to be with me - I met M. And my world was turned upside down. And my hopes about High School Ex were exposed for the unrealistic daydreams of a single girl that they ultimately were. 
 
However, it was weird - standing there with High School Ex - knowing that we’d never have another hook-up or late night conversation about the state of our fragile and vague union. It seems like a weird thing to even notice, I know, but - aside from the past two years that I’ve been with M - those hook-ups and conversations were fairly consistent. Those hook-ups and conversations were what I hoped would constitute the foundation of a relationship one day.  
 
To think of all that effort I put in to making things work with High School Ex - deposits in a relationship bank account that was - and never will be - cashed. It’s funny how meeting one person can shatter all of your future plans, spin you around and send you off in a direction you never knew existed.   
 
I’m probably not articulating this as best as I possibly could. Some of you might misunderstand and take it the wrong way. I’m not a good enough writer to accurately describe how it feels to be deliriously in love and happy and sure but, at the same time, slightly taken aback when you realize the magnitude of the direction in which you are heading. When you realize that who you were is no longer who you are. When you are hammering the final nail in the coffin of the single and dating version of yourself, the person who couldn’t possibly imagine a future so bright she has to wear shades. The person who was certain it would all work out differently.
 
Just know that, as I send that version of myself six feet under and cover her with mounds of dirt, I’m smiling.
 
And I’m also thinking: may this really be it. May M and I turn out to be as sustainable as I know we are. May Single and Dating Clink never have to be dug up and dusted off. May I never again be wishing and hoping and waiting for someone who has lukewarm feelings - at best - for me. May M and I be as happy as we are now, always.  
 
Magic 8 ball, care to chime in? 
 
All signs point to “it is decidedly so.” 
 
Awesome.

The Engagement Story. June 12, 2007

Every single morning for the past four days, I have woken up and felt the ring and, for a moment, I’ve laid in bed confused. Then it washes over me in alternating waves of tingles and warmth. 
 
I’m fucking engaged. 
 
“Omigod, how does it feel?” they ask, as if I’m pregnant. 
 
“Surreal,” is my go-to answer, mostly because it’s true. Having an oddly dreamlike quality. Yeah, that’s about right. 
 
Some moments I forget. In fact, it happened this morning, on the subway. I looked down at my iPod to change the song and caught a glimpse of my ring and got a jolt. A reminder jolt. A “this is your reality now” jolt. And I smiled to myself, which made the people seated across from me wonder what I was up to. 
 
I’m up to being engaged. 
 
It happened on Friday, June 8. I love Fridays an I love even numbers and I love June - the month, the word - so, really, it was the perfect day. 
 
The week preceding it? Not so perfect. It was hellish, last week was. I was busier than I’ve ever been. I skipped lunch three days in a row. I subsisted solely on coffee and sheer will to make it to Friday afternoon. By the end of the week, I was exhausted. Exhausted and all too ready to leave behind a cluttered desk and a cluttered mind. 
 
I went to the salon to have my dead ends chopped off. To be styled. To sip white wine and flip through magazines. I thought - sitting there, having my hair washed and my head rubbed - that that was as good as the weekend would get; little did I know. 
 
M met me outside of the salon with a bouquet of flowers. I didn’t think much of it because M is the type of guy to know I’ve had a hard week and surprise me with flowers (see why I love him?).  
 
We went to dinner at one of our favorite restaurants and topped the meal off with one of our favorite desserts - an ice cream sandwich sundae the size of our heads, perhaps slightly larger. It took the edge off, more so than the three sangrias that preceded it.  
 
We were planning on heading up to Connecticut that evening, as M had a book signing the next morning and we figured that a night in a hotel (hotel sex! Room service! A bathroom that we don’t have to clean!) would do us good.
 
As we got into his car, in Manhattan, M informed me that we had to make a pit stop at his apartment, in Queens, so that he could pack. 
 
I may or may not have rolled my eyes and sighed loudly and asked, in a not very tolerant tone, “OMIGOD, WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN DOING ALL DAY? WHY DIDN’T YOU PACK EARLIER?”  
 
I did not know, at the time, that he had spent the day with my family. He went with my mother to the family jeweler to get the ring set, after which he popped by my dad’s office to show it off to my dad, my brother, my sister (and all of my dad’s squee-ing colleagues).  
 
Had I known that at the time, there would’ve been a lot less eye rolling and sighing. 
 
We went up to his apartment and, curse of the runty-pea-sized bladder, I immediately went into the bathroom. 
 
When I came out, M was sitting on the couch in the living room. “Um, why aren’t you pack–“ And then I just knew. Something in his eyes. It just hit me. “Are you about to propose to me?” 
 
He smiled, ignoring my question, and asked me to sit down next to him. He then launched into a speech that I’m sure was very delightful and flattering and emotional, but TO HELL IF I REMEMBER WHAT HE SAID. 
 
I? I was in shock. Not fake, omigod, hands-to-face, wide eyes shock, accompanied by tears. It was genuine, omigod, I can’t move, or react, or do anything shock. I apparently did manage to get out a “yes” because a beautiful, round-brilliant solitaire in a white gold setting somehow ended up on my ring finger.  
 
He later told me there were plans, big plans. Complicated plans, involving plane tickets and a surprise getaway to a romantic locale. Except, in true M fashion, he couldn’t wait. He got the ring and, on the drive home from New Jersey, he decided he wanted to do it. Spontaneously. To catch me by surprise. “I couldn’t wait, Clink. I had the ring and I just…couldn’t wait. To be engaged. To you. Plus, I knew it would totally surprise you and you wanted to be surprised.”  
 
Mission? Accomplished. 
 
I eventually came to, though the emotion preceded the realization. (I still don’t think the realization has fully settled in, to this day.) I called my family, all of whom were on high alert and ecstatic at the news.  
 
M packed and we got in his car at around 11pm, to head to Connecticut. We were armed with champagne and chocolate chip cookies and a bridal magazine he had so thoughtfully picked up. We were also armed with adrenaline, bucketfuls of adrenaline.  
 
Car rides are not normally romantic, not outside of a lazy drive through the country in a convertible with a head scarf and sunglasses circa 1950, but this one was. It was a misty, foggy night, which added to everything feeling blurred and dreamlike. We blasted music and sang along and lowered music and talked and kissed when the road was clear and it was safe for M to takes his eyes off of it. We held hands. We (okay, mostly I) stared at the ring. We finally - finally! - freely discussed wedding plans without feeling like we were jumping the gun.  
 
The two of us, in his car, in love, engaged. 
 
We’re still going to take the trip he was planning. The engagement trip. “You would’ve known,” he said. He’s right. Had he whisked me away on a few hours’ notice, I would’ve been anticipating a proposal at every moment. Tonight at dinner? Today on the beach? When I come out of the shower? 
 
I didn’t anticipate this one at all. And it floored me. And damn near knocked me unconscious from the weight of the surprise. And, it was perfect. Perfect for us. Like our relationship, the proposal was no-frills and spontaneous and full of pure, unadulterated love and adoration for each other.  
 
And now I’m a bride-to-be. And he’s a groom-to-be. And we’ve stepped into this adventure - first the wedding planning, then the marriage, then all the rest - together. There’s no one else I’d rather have by my side, come hell or high water or venue costs bordering on obscene.  
 
Somehow, someway, against stacked odds, we managed to find each other. And now, well now there’s no letting go.

No dying. June 6, 2007

This is just pointing out the obvious, but I’m the irrational one in the relationship. I’m the one who, late, in bed, after Stewart and Colbert and some fooling around, will blurt out “you can’t die!” followed by some tears and some sniffles, apropos of absolutely nothing except maybe the onset of my period.  
 
I’m emotional. M is a solid consoler. It works. 
 
He came home last night around 1am. I woke up to his arms wrapped around me, him watching me sleep.  
 
“Hi there,” I said, willing myself to wake up and enjoy a few minutes with my boy. 
 
He put his hands on my face. “I love you. I just think you should know that,” he said with such seriousness that it startled me.  
 
Of course - me being Ms. Gloom and Doom - I got suspicious. “Why? I mean, I know that you love me, of course I know that you love me (I recently found out that you bought a diamond, you fool - Ed. Note), but why, what’s wrong?” 
 
M launched into a story about how he got to talking with a colleague of his. The conversation turned to plans for the weekend and the colleague mentioned that he has a charity tennis tournament to attend. In fact, it’s his charity’s tennis tournament.  
 
“You started a charity tennis tournament?” M asked. “Good man.” 
 
“Well, my wife died twelve years ago. I started a charity in her name.” 
 
It hit M so hard, that conversation.  
 
“Clink.” He was lying on his back; I was curled up alongside him, my face buried in his neck. “It’s just - this guy had plans, you know? Plans with his wife. Who ever thinks that the person you’re going to marry is going to die?” 
 
Then, borrowing from me and one of my many emotional outbursts, he said, calmly, “You can’t die. OK? No dying.” 
 
I promised that I would do my best.  
 
It’s hard, this love thing. The fear of it all being taken away is the price paid for allowing yourself to fall. For me, for a while, I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. I let trust issues overwhelm and overtake and I was sure that it would all be taken away not by death but by someone else - someone thinner, prettier, more successful.  
 
Now, not so much. Now it’s more about God, the Universe, Whatever reaching down and ruffling a smoothly laid out life, a life with concrete plans. A life that does not work if one element - the most important element - is missing. 
 
I’m still feeling the aftereffects, I guess, of the funeral. M is certainly still feeling the aftereffects of his conversation. This will pass, I’m sure, and we’ll go on floating through life, believing that it won’t happen to us because what other way is there to live? As much as the Culture of Fear is alive and kickin’ (“these are people who want to kill your families,” to paraphrase our president), I won’t buy into it for longer than a few chunks at a time. Enough time to reflect and thank God, the Universe, Whatever for what I have. But not long enough to stop me from living.

Ridiculously (no, seriously) long post. May 29, 2007

I’ve been pouting all day, mourning the supersized weekend and how unceremoniously it has melted back into the routine, the yawn-inducing.  
 
There were some hiccups (M’s very first migraine among them) but mostly it was the kind of weekend that, if reduced to montage form, would look like something out of a movie instead of real life. The only thing that could’ve made it better was if M got down on one knee in the shade of Central Park, shoving our half-eaten sandwiches and bottles of Poland Spring and the zillion and one magazines I bought aside, and asked me to be his. 
 
Except then I would’ve had to kill him because he knows that I don’t want it to happen in a public place where surrounding people then politely clap and jockey for position to get a glimpse of the ring, subsequently casting judgment on us and our relationship and our financial status based on the size and design. 
 
So, really, it was perfect as it was.  
 
On Friday I got gloriously drunk after work with a few of my co-workers and a few of their friends. So drunk, in fact, that I stumbled into my apartment clutching two bags full of McDonalds fare, which I promptly abandoned on the living room floor - without even eating so much as one fry - for the comfort of passing out in my bed until M came home from work. Have you ever woken up - hungover and parched and sick to your stomach - to the stench of McDonalds emanating throughout your apartment? Tip: it does not help with the hungover and sick-to-stomach-ness. Trust.  
 
Saturday quickly became an unplanned (but welcome nonetheless) pampering day, as I spent the majority of it getting a manicure and pedicure and retreating to the air-conditioned oasis of the Time Warner Center for a little (okay, a lot) of shopping. Have you been to Esprit lately? Neither had I. And, unless you have gobs money in your pocket to burn on very cute summer clothes, I suggest you don’t.  I came home with three overflowing red bags, prompting an eyebrow raise from my roommate who said what I’m sure everyone on the street was thinking: “Esprit? Really? Like the place where my mom used to buy all my clothes when I was ten?” Once I pulled out my dazzling array of (overpriced, REALLY overpriced but oh so cute) dresses, skirts and tops, she was no longer so skeptical. 
 
Saturday evening, M and I ventured to my old neighborhood, the Upper East Side, for some pasta at one of our old haunts. We decided to walk the forty blocks back to my apartment in hopes of silencing, just a bit, our groaning, overstuffed stomachs. Somewhere along the way, we passed a Pinkberry. And I was all, “I know I’m stuffed but I’ve been dying to try” and he was all “Clink, we have just eaten enough to feed a small but intrepid army” and I was all “it’s yogurt! Whatever! Always room for yogurt!” 
 
Pinkberry exceeded my expectations. I tend to look at Los Angeles exports with a skeptical eye (see: Couture, Juicy) but one spoonful of the original with strawberries and carob chips and I was smitten.  
 
Pinkberry was a great idea until we reached the 60’s on the east side and I started to feel a rumble in my tummy. A rumble that can only mean one thing: bathroom. Immediately. (Hi, sorry, I didn’t warn you that we were about to get so intimate but, yeah, we are.) I could barely speak as we slowly made our way down Lexington, as I was too busy clutching my tummy and waving my fist at the stomach gods for saddling myself and many of my family members with evil, vengeful stomachs.  
 
M, knight in shining armor that he is, flagged a taxi and politely asked the driver to take the fastest, least congested route back to my apartment. I’m sure that, initially, the driver was all “yeah, whatever dude, don’t you know that now I get paid more to sit in slow traffic?” However, a few seconds of groaning from the lady in the halter dress in the backseat was probably enough to sense that I was in labor and needed to get back to my apartment for a home birth.  
 
That’s what it felt like - labor. In between my moans I somehow managed to announce to M that we are “SO ADOPTING, OMIGOD.”  
 
“But I want my kids to be half Greek,” he protested, smiling.
  
“THEN WE WILL ADOPT FROM GREECE FOR THE FUCKING LOVE OF GOD.”  
 
The lesson learned? Chicken parm + a heaping side of pasta + lots of baked rigatoni stolen off of M’s plate + Pinkberry = not the brightest idea. Also, Clink has an evil stomach that should not be taunted with any combination of the above. Hi, salads! All week! 
 
I was too nauseous to meet up with friends later that evening, so M and I curled up in bed and somehow found our way to a Lifetime Original Movie (somehow = I put it on and refused to let M change the channel). Have you seen The Party Never Stops: Diary of a Binge Drinker? Well I have. And it was pure Lifetime brilliance. I loved - loved! - how the ‘rock bottom’ (SPOILER ALERT) was that, while backing a car out of a driveway after drinking, the main character hit a fire hydrant. And that - that! - was enough to scare her straight. Sigh. Lifetime, you kill me. 
 
Sunday was Migraine Day. I baked some more homemade Oreos as M shut himself up in my bedroom, shades drawn, pillows over his head, and moaned. It broke my heart to see him in such pain, and as it was his Very First Migraine, neither of us really knew what to do. So I dropped him off at his apartment - armed with some medication and Gatorade - and kissed his face before venturing to my parents’ house in New Jersey for a barbeque. 
 
The absence of M meant everyone could freely ask about my thoughts on the wedding and color schemes! Guest list! Venue! I managed to skirt most questions by stuffing my face full of grilled steak, widening my eyes and shrugging. As much as I want to talk about the upcoming engagement and nuptials, I’ve decided to put a personal moratorium on all such speak until there’s a ring on my finger. The superstitious part of me (the part that won’t move an inch if my college basketball team is winning but will all but turn my clothes inside out if they need to rally) thinks it’s bad luck.  
 
My mom (confined to the couch with a broken foot; my dad has taken to calling her “Peg Leg Pete”) and I spent the evening watching Little Children. Which was lovely and creepy and made me want to draw the shades a little tighter before I retired for the night because who knows what dangers lurk in suburbia. 
 
I drove back into the city early yesterday morning so as to beat all the traffic headed this way from the Hamptons and the Shore and the airports. M was feeling much better, so the two of us decided to head to Central Park and roll around on a blanket and read the paper and generally bask in the great weather and the being in love.
 
There was one point, I was reading Sunday’s Styles section (natch) while laying on my back and M was sitting up reading Sports (again, natch) and I put the paper down and stroked his back a little and he turned and leaned down and kissed me and I looked up at him, framed by the sunlight sifting through the trees and was all sigh, love. In that moment, there was nothing but him and me and what was between us. It was awesome.
 
After we had had our fill of flicking bugs off of each other and moaning about our aching backs, we spent some time in Borders before heading home to cook some angel hair pasta with shrimp and feta, which is the easiest thing in the world to cook but shhh don’t tell M because he thinks I’m an absolute goddess every time I make it. 
 
On a whim we walked up to the movie theater to see what was playing and decided on Waitress, which, okay, just see it. But sneak a few slices of pie into the theater with you. Trust me on that one. 
 
And here I am at work, staring at the list of things to do that I made on Friday. Friday, when all I could think about was leaving work early and going for drinks with my co-workers and kicking off a 3-day weekend. Friday, when I was pretty unconcerned with how intimidating and ambitious the list would be on Tuesday, especially on the heels of a few days of non-work bliss.  
 
I think of Friday now and the edges of the day are blurred, like in a dream. Friday held so much promise and the weekend made good on that promise and now it’s the weekday, and I have nothing to look forward to but this weekend, which will feel like a gyp because it is only two days. 
 
At least it’s Tuesday. At least this is a four-day week. At least there’s that, eh?

And here’s the follow-up post. May 24, 2007

Now that I know, it is - quite obviously - impossible to un-know.  
 
Clearly no one meant any harm. Not my mom. Not M. Not my father. Not the Vicodin (ok, maybe the Vicodin).  
 
Throughout this process, save for some ring browsing (necessary, as I did not know how to answer the question “what kind of ring do you want?”), I’ve been putting my fingers in my ears and saying “LA LA LA LA” in hopes of protecting the element of surprise that is so dear (at least, to me) in this particular situation.  
 
I take solace in the fact that I still don’t know when, where, how. And last night, I made M promise that I wouldn’t find out until it was actually happening.  
 
“Don’t worry,” he said, “I won’t tell your mom.”  
 
I woke up this morning in an allergy-induced fog. Sometime in the shower, after the shampoo and before the conditioner, it all hit me. Like a seven year old who wakes up on December 25^th and, after blinking a few times, realizes that it’s not just any other morning. And just as that seven year old races downstairs to bask in video games and a skateboard from Santa, I raced (post-conditioner, post-soap, post-shaving of the legs as it is skirt season) into my bedroom, where my boyfriend was wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, and kissed him all over his face, basking in the glow of pre-engagement.   
 
Because now that I know, why not enjoy it a little bit? It’s no use pouting about how now it won’t be as much of a surprise. It never really was much of a surprise as I knew it was going to happen sometime before the end of August as August is when I will forever leave Roommateland and enter into LivingWithTheOneILoveVille. Also, I had a pretty good idea it would happen before the sticky weather sets in because M knows me well enough to know that I don’t want to get engaged in sticky, hot, humid weather (mainly because my hair + hot, sticky, humid weather = DO NOT TAKE A PICTURE, I DON’T CARE IF WE JUST GOT ENGAGED AND WANT TO CAPTURE THE DAMN MOMENT).  
 
Anyway, where was I? Oh right. Enjoying it. All throughout the day I’ve had little spasms of glee that start in the center of my torso and crawl throughout the rest of my body like dancing spiders on a mission (it’s the most accurate, if not the most romantic, description; shut up). The thing about me is, I’m great at compartmentalizing. So any disappointment that still remains has been banished to the furthest corner of my mind, locked in a windowless cell without even a tray of stale bread or a cup of brown water (take THAT, Disappointment!).  
 
It will still probably be some time before you get the close-up shot of the ring along with some sort of ridiculous all-caps headline in which I announce that it is official. (Although, I have a theory: M thinks that I think that now that I know he’s going to wait a while for the enthusiasm to die down. Taking that into consideration, he will probably ask sooner rather than later in order to extract the most shock value out of the situation, because I certainly won’t be expecting him to do it so soon on the heels of this recent revelation.) 
 
Anyway, between now and then, I’m just going to bask in the glow of my own little private Christmas, the sense of peace and jolt of excitement that comes with knowing that someone very special loves you and wants to make you theirs, forever and ever amen.