Progress. January 15, 2008

In a lot of ways, The Crazy is like an eating disorder.

You can learn to “deal” with The Crazy but, just like an eating disorder, you’ll never fully be cured. It will always be there, its dormancy luring you into a false sense of security.

And just when you think you have it beat, it strikes without warning, reminding you who exactly is in control.

The way I deal with The Crazy is a lot better now (talking myself through it, utilizing rational thought) than it used to be (crying myself to sleep, not eating, questioning everything about myself and my relationship). But that doesn’t mean it still doesn’t bother me, that it still doesn’t pop up out of nowhere in the middle of me trying to maintain a normal, loving relationship.

The thing I guess I never really knew about law school is that there is a lot of wining and dining. Major firms want applicants. Major firms have money. Major firms will use that money to attract applicants.

It’s just weird to have M come home from an event at Very High End Sushi Restaurant and innocently discuss how he spoke with a girl who works as an associate at a firm and she told him blah blah blah and oh, I’m sorry M, I’m having trouble following this conversation because I’m too busy picturing this particular girl as a) looking like Angelina Jolie, only prettier and b) LOOKING LIKE ANGELINA JOLIE, ONLY PRETTIER.

I tend to have to remind myself to breathe. And think rational thoughts.

I guess it’s just that I don’t know these women who are entering in his life at a rapid rate (along with men, of course, but The Crazy is rather impartial to men).

It’s not for lack of trying on M’s part, to be honest. He met a girl who is also engaged and she apparently constantly stops him on campus to remind him that she wants the four of us to go out to dinner. He mentioned it to me and I wish I could say that I was all for it (because, again with the being honest, any excuse to talk about weddings is good enough for me) but there’s a teensy part of me that’s like “ugh, whatever, why does she have to stalk you on campus?”

The girl is engaged. She probably just wants an excuse to talk wedding as well but in my sick, twisted mind I can so pervert her innocent gesture until it comes out looking like she wants my fiance and this is her way of going about it.

That’s really what it’s about for me at this point - reigning in The Crazy. Not letting my mind lurk in those dark, irrational places. Not allowing myself to immediately think the worst, to immediately assume that every woman has an ulterior motive or agenda.

It’s about, really, giving my gender a little credit. And giving M a little damn credit too.

Law school has been a test, though. Just as I knew it would be.

Tomorrow M starts an internship and while most of me is nothing but excited for him because it’s a pretty big deal, there’s another part of me that wonders about the women he’s going to be working alongside.

And I hate that. I hate that I can screw up something so exciting with one little nasty thought.

I’ve thought and written privately a lot about this particular aspect of my personality. It’s the one I’m least proud of, to be honest, even worse than my love of procrastination and laziness (I will not pee until the last. possible. second. before my bladder bursts because OH THE ENERGY EXPENDITURE to get to the bathroom, and what if I miss a good email from Molly and Peter?).

I’ve worked it out in my head and it all comes down to this: it’s not about not trusting M, it’s not about thinking all women are man-stealing sluts. It’s about the fear of having this - this relationship, however imperfect it is at times - taken away. Pulled out from under me.

I will probably never succeed at never wondering what a particular girl he works with looks like or if he has a connection with someone else. But hey, I’m not sobbing on the floor in a ball. I’m not picking a fight with him because I’m insecure. I’m not even berating myself for not measuring up to some vision in my head.

I’m just here. Typing a post. Acknowledging a fault about myself but not letting it control me.

And that, my friends, is progress.

Indie Bloggers December 13, 2007

I’m published over on Indie Bloggers today.

I submitted a post from Such Great Heights (some of my older readers may be familiar with it) mainly because I am a wuss. I wanted to test the waters with something non-fiction, something that had already gotten past the “is this crap or not?” test for the blog.

But soon, I’m going to start submitting fiction. Fiction that I’m way too bite-my-nails-until-they’re-stubs nervous about to post on this here site.

And I encourage you all to do the same. Not just fiction, but anything that you’re proud of - that post that made you want to kiss the damn screen. Maybe something that you’re a bit nervous to post on your personal blog. A certain piece that has been languishing in your drafts folder - you know it’s good but something is keeping you from publishing it.

Take a risk. Trust me, if I can do it (I mean, I never even let M read my writing and even submitting to IB took much encouragement from my #1 fan Molly), you can too.

I can’t wait to see your stuff over there.

Confession. November 19, 2007

I bought Spanx. Kind of by accident.

I was in the Bloomingdale’s hosiery section, having wandered away from M, who was in the process of choosing a winter coat in the men’s section. I can’t really shop with M as we take an opposite approach to spending money: I am impulsive, I go with my gut, I am able to make a decision on the spot (despite my usual Libra indecisiveness); M is a researcher, a comparer, a “let me think this over” shopper and hi, I have no patience for that.

So, the hosiery section. I was browsing the tights as I am currently on a bit of a tights kick (note that I said tights and not stockings because stockings are evil, the end).

I noticed a girl in the Spanx section. She was not what I would consider a traditional Spanx shopper (as in, isn’t Spanx for older women and not, like, taut twentysomething blondes with perky asses?) but there she was, stocking up.

She noticed me noticing her and the Spanx, gave me a confident smile and said “I’m obsessed.”

“Oh really? I mean, I’ve heard of them. I’ve just never…”

“Omigod. Here. This.” She handed me something called Higher Power. “It whittles your waist, your ass, your thighs…I mean, I don’t know where it all goes, but hey. I can fit into pants two sizes smaller when I wear it.”

And that’s pretty much all I needed to hear because did she just say two sizes smaller? As in, I could be a size two without stapling my mouth shut and spending eight hours on the elliptical? Sign me up.

I made the purchase quickly because, let’s be honest, even if a pretty, blonde, twenty-three year old stranger admits to wearing Spanx, it’s still kind of embarrassing.

I have yet to try them on. They’re still in the packaging, hidden in the bottom of my “work out clothes” drawer. I am still not convinced, though they may be dug out for wedding dress shopping because, well, you know.

I really should just get my ass to the gym. I should stop eating chicken parm for lunch (but! But! It made me feel better about being at work on a Sunday, after having been at work on a Saturday!). I should hunt down my former healthy habits, wherever they may be hiding, and force myself to get reacquainted.

In a way, I feel like I’ve let M down a bit. I know that sounds crazy.

When he met me, I was about fifteen pounds lighter than I am now. I was a bit of a stick, I’ll admit it, but I was a hot stick. The gym was my home away from home and I had trained myself to not even crave unhealthy foods, that’s how rarely I ate them.

And then it all went downhill as it does when you’re in love and happy and eating like a guy.

I don’t look overwhelmingly different, but someone who sees me naked everyday would definitely be able to notice a difference, as opposed to someone who only sees me clothed. I’m a bit soft where I used to be muscular, a bit filled out where I used to be svelte.

I know M loves me for me. He always tells me that I’m sexy, that I’m hot, so this is definitely the insecurity talking. But he fell in love with a skinny girl and now he’s marrying a not-as-skinny girl and I wonder if he’s disappointed. Like I faked him out.

I’m overreacting (today’s special: a SHOCKER!), I know. I guess I’m just disappointed in myself that I even bought Spanx, that I am so lazy that I would rather put on a body shaper than work out my young, lithe 26-year-old body and make it look the way I want it to look.

Maybe those $34.00 Spanx should just go unworn.

Clink, get your ass to the gym. Enough with the shortcuts.

Out-Brided. August 22, 2007

I thought I was doing pretty well. If Bride-to-Be were a class, I’d surely be earning at least a B+, if not an A. I mean, it’s eleven months from our wedding and already M and I have secured the church, the reception site, the registry, the bridal party and the band. Not bad, right? I mean, I should probably start thinking more seriously about dresses and we do have to get all that stuff to the church that we’ve been too lazy to compile and my diet has been more like a non-diet and damn it I had an egg and cheese sandwich for breakfast today, but hey. All in all, I’m proud of us. Or, at least I was.  
 
Then I talked to M’s friend from college, Emma, who is getting married a month after us. 
 
Emma not only has everything that we have but she also has her dress, and her invitations, and her bridesmaids dresses and her florist and an appointment for her first hair trial in just a few weeks. 
 
But that’s not even the most disturbing part. I mean, some people are overachievers and I’m okay with not being one. (Besides, the overachievers never had dates in high school.) 
 
The most disturbing part is that, in order to get in shape for her wedding (please note: this woman is a size two, on a fat day), Emma wakes up at four thirty in the morning to go to the gym. That’s 4:30. A.M. 
 
It’s okay, I’ll wait for a few moments while you pick yourself up off the floor, no worries. 
 
You back? Ok good. 
 
Because FOUR THIRTY IN THE MORNING? FOUR FUCKING THIRTY? IS SHE KIDDING WITH THAT? I WAKE UP FOUR HOURS AFTER FOUR THIRTY IN THE DAMN MORNING AND I THINK THAT’S TOO EARLY TO DO ANYTHING, LET ALONE GO TO THE GYM. 
 
In a way, I admire her dedication. She (despite being a size two, did I mention that?) wants to look good on her wedding day, so she’s making sure that she does.  
 
On the other hand, FOUR THIRTY? IN THE DAMN MORNING? (I’m a little afraid that all of you will respond to this post with “yeah, uh, duh Clink, we all go to the gym at four thirty in the morning, we’re part of an army of people slipping into gym clothes at four thirty in the morning, you hadn’t heard, you fat ass you?”)  
 
I’m kind of inspired. I’ve never been a competitive person but hearing that kind of got my juices flowing. She’s out-briding me at the moment, but it’s still early, and that doesn’t mean I can’t pull a come-from-behind victory. Ok, I know this isn’t a head-to-head challenge for who can be the hotter bride and have the better wedding, but anything that motivates me to get turn off The Hills, put down the remote and go to the gym, is welcomed.
 
Except, I plan to be going at six-thirty in the evening because REALLY? FOUR FUCKING THIRTY?

Oh, and a job-related non-update: I haven’t heard yet and I feel so sick, down to the very core of my stomach, about that. I am literally staring at my phone, urging it to ring out of SHEER WILL. One of my references emailed to tell me that she gave maybe-future-boss a stellar recommendation, so that’s all I have to go on right now but GOOD FUCKING LORD this is so painful. I need some wine.

Wherein I take television very seriously. May 18, 2007

This post is directed to all those who watch The Office and saw the finale last night. (To all others: seriously?! You don’t watch The Office?! I don’t know if we can be friends. No, not even Imaginary Internet friends.) 
 
For a very long time, I was pro-Pam. Because Pam and Jim were clearly meant for each other and even though Roy and a wedding and distance and an awkward kiss stood in the way, the unapologetic romantic in me still held high hopes for their reunion. 
 
Enter Karen. I didn’t like her from the start mostly because Karen is the name of M’s ex-girlfriend and no, I am not above grouping everyone who possesses a particular name into the “suck” category for that reason alone.  
 
She was exotic looking. She was funny. She wore cute clothes. How the hell was Pam - with her half-curly, half-straight hair and her dowdy wardrobe supposed to compare? I hated Karen for being a threat to all cute, fun girls everywhere.  
 
Except last night, as all things Pam-Jim-Karen-Love-Triangle came to a head, M said something that kind of tilted my universe (shut up; I get very invested in television) and made me see things from a new perspective: 
 
After (SPOILER ALERT! SPOILER ALERT!) Jim drove back to the Scranton office and asked Pam on a date, M kind of shook his head (shut up; he gets very invested in television too) and said, “He’s leaving a great relationship with Karen for a maybe relationship with Pam. What sense does that make?” 
 
And in that moment, I realized I had identified with the wrong girl all along. I am Karen - the girl in a great relationship with a great guy. Karen wasn’t the threat, Pam was. Pam is the mystical “we’re just friends, no really” creature that lives in my head and stirs up The Crazy if I allow myself to obsess (which, hi, I don’t anymore. For serious).  
 
And, last night, that bitch won.  
 
The truth is, the writers made Karen very likable (despite her name; quite a feat). She and Jim did have a great relationship. They had chemistry and compatibility. I wanted to slap my forehead for being such an idiot and not rooting for them all along. 
 
Now I’m all, “Pam?! With the ill-fitting button down shirts and the grandma cardigans?! REALLY, JIM?!”  
 
(Again, a little too invested in television.) 
 
It just resonated with me, what M said and the subsequent realization that, yes, people do do that. They throw away great relationships because the “what if” is just so much more intriguing and exciting than the “lovely, but comfortable.” (I think it goes without saying that I grabbed M’s face between my hands and kissed him and very sweetly made him promise not to ever leave me for a maybe relationship. I let The Crazy have her way every so often, so long as it’s relatively harmless.) 
 
Moving on (because did I really just write an entire entry about a fictional love triangle and how it applies to my life?), there was a part in last night’s episode when Jim and Karen were doing the New York Trip Montage thing and Jim said “and then we ate at the Spotted Pig” and M and I looked at each other and burst out laughing because that’s exactly where we hung out with him (the real life version of him; just as adorable, ladies) last year. It was kind of cool. Ok, fine, maybe only to us.  Whatever. 
 
Also (unrelated! Sorry! I’m all over the place!), y’all, M is really testing the strength of my will not to cave into curiosity. Case in point: he was in the shower last night and I was at his desk, working on his computer and right there, as in, a few inches to my right was some sort of Diamond Certification SomethingOrOther. And part of me was all, “HOLY OMIGOD.” And then another (the evil, evil part) was all “if I snuck a peek…no one would know…except for me…and the Internets, of course…” Luckily I was able to tear myself away from the Sheet That May Or May Not Have Contained Important Information About What I Will Be Wearing On My Left Hand Hopefully Very Soon. I even surprised myself.  
 
And for that, I’m totally going to let myself have a burger and fries for lunch (I don’t expect you to understand my logic, just know that it makes sense in my head).

Yes, this is a post about hair color. March 2, 2007

I’m toying with blonde.It’s because I want attention, I know this. Brunettes may be taken more seriously, but a blonde will turn heads on the street and I’m just in the kind of rut where I want to turn some heads.

I used to be blonde. Very blonde. It was my thing in high school; they called me Cher. Clueless, not Sonny Bono’s former other half. I played the role well: charmingly ditzy, bubbly, fun. I loved to shop and work out. Except, I didn’t. I tend to get claustrophobic in stores and I’d much rather be watching television than pounding away on a treadmill. But back then, it was how everyone saw me: a caricature of my real self, mixed in with long standing blonde stereotypes. I was a prominent politician’s daughter; I was expected to act accordingly. I felt that I would be letting them down if I didn’t fit their mold, if I didn’t giggle at the right time and spend my Fridays at the mall and screech when the boys did something gross. The fact that I got straight A’s and was the editor in chief of the school newspaper was of little importance.

In hindsight, I was playing a role. Perhaps not entirely, as it wasn’t too far off from whom I really was. Playing it up, is perhaps a better way of stating it. But still, things were light. Both my hair color and in my life. And I liked that.

I guess in the midst of some serious growing up, I’m looking to get back to that. And I, perhaps stupidly, think a hair color will take me there.

M doesn’t like me blonde. We met when I was in my “dirty blonde” phase and even though I remind him that he was clearly attracted to me when my hair was lighter – as he approached me – he still maintains that he likes me better the way I am now. When I make him watch The Hills with me, he comments on the roots of the blondes on the show and wonders aloud why they’d go to all that trouble.

I, of course, know why. A few hundred dollars every six weeks is a small price to pay for being the immediate center of attention.

I’ll probably ultimately go in the opposite direction. I’ll feed into my dark side, commit more to brunette. As much as I’ve been looking at old photos of me as a blonde and playing with the idea of calling my hair stylist, I know I won’t. Because ultimately, while I’d probably get a few more free drinks while out at a bar, it would still just be a futile attempt to get back to a simpler time when I was – and I’ll admit it – a much simpler person. A temporary escape to a place I don’t really want to go back to. I like things now. They’re just more complicated.

Plus, if I went blonde, I’d be stuck with the immense cost of upkeep and I think putting that money towards, I don’t know, a WEDDING might be a much better investment.

Fingers Crossed. December 8, 2006

Friday isn’t really Friday when there’s work on Saturday. So while I’m excited for the weekend, I’m not excited. And that italic is really all the difference.

I’m also tired (not just tired), and that leads to overthinking and overanalyzing and overworrying and overeverything.

I’ve sense a slight shift between the Boy and me. Something that cannot be detected by the naked eye but, when put under a very tight microscope (like my overanalytical brain), reveals a distortion.

We’re us but we’re not us. It’s impossible to describe and, even if I attempted to put it into a string of coherent paragraphs, I would most likely come across as oversensitive at best and nonsensical at worst.

So I’m just putting it out there. If he breaks up with me tomorrow, next week, next month I can point to this post and say “see! Guys! I fucking predicted it! I knew something was wrong and even though I didn’t specify what was wrong, I knew something was wrong. See, I was right! And now I’m heartbroken. Please pass the Kleenex. And the tub of Ben and Jerry’s.”

Hopefully it won’t come to that. Hopefully it’s just me. The problem with me is that I can’t trust my gut instincts. They are unreliable because my gut instincts pass through my brain and my brain distorts everything, even gut instincts, transforming them into Worst Case Scenarios and therefore what I feel is actually the worst thing I could possibly imagine being passed off as a gut instinct.

Whew. Sorry. That probably only makes sense in my (very, very unreliable) head.

Hopefully things will seem familiar once I start my weekend, at 6pm tomorrow evening. For a day and some change maybe I will again feel like my bubbly, giddy, fun-loving self and if I feel like myself, maybe my relationship will feel like my relationship.

Fingers crossed.

I found his ex-girlfriend’s blog. November 21, 2006

It wasn’t entirely accidental. It wasn’t entirely intentional either. Let’s just leave it at that.

The blog is less “here is my heart and my soul and my head; enjoy, Internet Strangers” (ahem) and more “here are pictures of myself, my husband and my daughter; enjoy, Family and Friends.”

I’ve often wondered about her. Okay, full disclosure: I’ve often wondered what she looks like.

My initial reaction, upon seeing a photo of her, was that she is the complete opposite of me: short, petite, blonde, dark lipstick, chunky wedge heels. Maybe his taste has changed since high school; maybe he’s just happier over here on the tall, curvy, brunette, light lip gloss, sleek stilettos side.

She’s the only one of his exes that we openly talk about, mainly because she is as “safe” as an ex-girlfriend can be – they dated in high school, she’s now married with a child, they live hundreds of miles away. Him referencing her doesn’t drudge up my (admittedly very sensitive) insecurities. I know that they’re still friendly, that they still exchange emails and birthday cards, and I’m okay with it.

Well, I’m kind of okay with it. You see, on my 24th birthday, which I celebrated in Boston, she and her husband were going to come to the bar to meet us (happy birthday to Clink, eh). She backed out last minute, citing a cold. I later found out from the Boy that she told him she wasn’t ready to meet me. She was pregnant at the time and felt fat and unattractive and wasn’t ready to be compared to her successor, “least of all a gorgeous 24 year old” (her words).

That bothered me. How healthy is it that, 17 years and her marriage later, she’s still not ready to meet another girlfriend of his? I understand that there’s something about first love that is inherently possessive and sensitive. You’re always going to want to see that person the way you saw them when you dated and included in that is the fact that then they were yours and yours alone. However, most of us get over that with time and, uh, other relationships. The fact that she hasn’t yet is a red flag. The fact that she confides in the Boy during rough spots in her marriage and tells him things that she admittedly doesn’t tell her own family is another.

I’ve chosen to take the non-psychotic road on this one (you: shock, awe). And trust me, it’s fairly easy for me to cross that line and become a psycho, raving, jealous, insecure lunatic, especially when petite blonde ex-girlfriends are concerned. No surprise there.

However, I see it as, yeah, she was his first, so what. I’m going to be his last, his everything. Take that, shorty.

Such a whore. October 24, 2006

Living with someone whose behavior plays to your very own longstanding insecurities is not ideal. You know, just in case you were wondering or something.

My roommate just returned from London, where her ex-boyfriend is living temporarily, where she did her best to ruin his current relationship, where she attempted to regain his attention so that she could again revel in having him yearn for her, where she could be around someone who is a professional at feeding her starving ego.

I, in case you were wondering, do not approve of her behavior.

She hooked up with him. It’s not the fact that it happened that shocks me, as I know it is rarely the fault of the ‘other woman’ when a man cheats. It’s more her astounding lack of guilt about the situation that doesn’t sit well. It’s the fact that she’s capable of, essentially, ruining a relationship and not feeling the slightest bit bad about it. It’s that she may, in fact, just be a bad person.

She even included the following line in an email to me this morning: “I’m such a little homewrecker, hahaha.”

It’s not as if she suddenly realized that she was in love with her ex and planned a trans-Atlantic trip in order to declare her realization face to face. It was more the fact that she doesn’t have anyone else in her life and therefore wants his attention again, to validate that she is, in fact, desirable to men – current girlfriend be damned.

Women like her make me scared of other women and what they are capable of.

My trust issues, of course, start to stir when I hear stories like this. I’m having a hard time indulging her when she talks about the trip and her ex and the sex. Truth be told, I’m having a hard time not ripping out her hair when she talks about the trip and her ex and the sex. Mainly because I know that his innocent girlfriend was – and still remains – blissfully unaware. I’m a girlfriend too and there’s definitely a sense of unity that comes with being part of a relationship. It makes you respect other people’s relationships and hate on obnoxious, self-centered whores. Like the one I live with.

Update: She won’t stop writing me emails about it. I won’t stop ignoring them. Another gem: “I know I have that power over him. Like, with the drop of a hat, he’ll always fall for me that way. It’s kinda cocky, but I know it.”

I’ve pretty much kept my mouth shut (hey Anonymous, I never said I was going to confront her about her choices), and will continue to. But the fact that from about 5pm until about 8pm tonight she will be alone in the apartment with my boyfriend, uh, doesn’t sit well.

Stupid Yankees (which has nothing to do with the post but needed to be said). October 9, 2006

It was the only place in the area showing the Patriots game, seeing as the Giants were also playing at 1pm and this is New York, after all.

We even tried Planet Hollywood. Seriously.

I was silent as we walked up Broadway. My insecurities bubbled up in my chest, catching in my throat, making me mute. The Boy just held my hand, wondered aloud how there could be a 45-minute wait at ESPN Zone because who the hell goes to ESPN Zone?

I wished I was wearing something other than a hoodie, jeans, my Chucks. I felt young and plain, my hair up in a ponytail, my lips gloss-less.

Inside, no one looked plain. It’s pretty impossible to look plain while wearing orange shorts that – outside the doors of the restaurant – could pass for underwear and a low-cut, form-fitting football “jersey” that – again, outside the doors of the restaurant – would fit a small child.

I am not the type of girl who grabs her boyfriend by the hand and says “Let’s go to Hooters!” and plants herself on a stool, happily devouring wings and smiling at the waitresses, perhaps even pointing out which ones are “total hotties, don’t you think, Honey?” I’m just not that secure. Or that good at overcompensating for my insecurities.

The good news is, the Boy is not a Hooters type of guy. He thinks it’s sorta dirty and that the women are sorta skanky and that the wings sorta suck. “But they have the Sunday ticket, baby.”

Since it was me who didn’t want to go to Queens, where the Patriots game could be seen in the comfort of his apartment, via his beloved Direct TV package, I felt obligated to find him a place that was playing the game. It was his first day off in two weeks and all he wanted was “some food, some football and my girl.”

Most of the girls, much to my surprise seeing as this is New York and New York is Land of Beautiful Women No Matter Where You Turn, were very “eh.” Not even “kinda cute” or “do-able, under the right circumstances” but down right unattractive.

That made me feel better, as we scanned the room, looking for the TV closest to the one playing Patriots v. Dolphins.

Our waitress, as my luck would have it, was the cutest girl in the place. A petite brunette with a baseball cap on sideways and bright blue eyes, she spoke in a sweet Southern drawl and was overly attentive (for what it’s worth, it was some of the best service I’ve ever had in a New York restaurant).

However, I was happy to note that my chest was about double the size of her nonexistent one. (Tangent: Isn’t it a requirement that Hooters waitresses have ample chests? Or is that just a stereotype and it’s really just about whether you have a cute ass and a skill for deflecting aggressive flattery from drunkards?)

I retreated into myself. I ordered a glass of water, stared blankly up at the Giants game as the Boy became wrapped up in the Pats, and didn’t say a word. The Boy stroked my hand and tried to make eye contact but I was too involved in acting above this cheesy, trashy place and the cheesy, trashy men we were surrounded by to react.

Slowly, however, things began to turn. The Giants started to win and I started to cheer and I took a bite of the Boy’s chicken sandwich and, hey, it wasn’t so bad and the waitress was smiling at both of us – equally – and just doing her job and, actually, doing it well and finally I just reached across the table and grabbed the Boy and kissed him hard and said, “I’m sorry,” which broke the ice.

Would I go back? Um, no. The food wasn’t that good and the fact that a roach ran across the table just as the Boy was finishing his meal pretty much confirmed my thoughts that it isn’t the cleanest place in Manhattan.

Did I enjoy it? Again, no. I have always thought that the whole concept is, oh, a tad demeaning and exploitative. Granted, most of the men there were too caught up in the games to notice the scantily clad women refilling their pint glasses, but a handful of them were truly disgusting as they leered at the waitresses and made mildly disturbing, sexual comments. However, there were a shitload of screens simultaneously playing every football game on in the country and it’s hard not to enjoy – even mildly – a wonderland like that.

Do I now have a great idea for a potential Halloween costume? Why, yes. Yes I do. And I have a feeling I’ll fill out that Hooters jersey better than half the girls in there. Perhaps I’ll be perpetuating the stereotype, if only for a night, but it’s a hell of a lot more comfortable than the pirate costume I was considering.