Part Deux. October 8, 2007

So, um, Internets? If I ever win the lottery, guess what I’m going to do? (I mean, other than buy every single dress in both this post and yesterday’s post because I’ll be so rich that I won’t have to bother myself with silly things like ”decisions” and “finances.”) I’m going to employ all of you! To do nothing but dress me! Via this website! And it’ll be awesome.
 
Moving on, here are the standings of the dresses at the moment because I am a DORK and also, a Master Time Waster. Seriously, you should bow down to my procrastinating skillz:
 
Dress #1: 13 votes
 
Dress #2: 1 vote
 
Dress #3: 4 votes
 
Dress #4: 9 votes (I CANNOT AFFORD THIS DRESS. Can I just throw that out there? Cannot. I bought myself four pairs of shoes this weekend before I laid eyes on this dress and now I am full of regret and woe. But I do have really cute shoes.)
 
Dress #5: 8 votes
 
Dress #6: 3 votes
 
I don’t know if this is what my mother called “pushing it,” like when she agreed to get us ice cream and then we asked if we could also go to Toys ‘R Us to get a Barbie or a video game and she was all “now you’re pushing it.”
 
If it is, indeed, pushing it, I apologize. But! But! I have to add a this dress to the mix because I stumbled on another website and now I’m all AHHHH, but the Internets haven’t seen THIS dress and what if THIS dress changes everything and there’s a unanimous decision and everyone’s like “oh that one, definitely, yes, do it.”
 
So, in the interest of full disclosure (does that apply here? Whatever, it sounds smart), here is the dress I found this morning that I heart with the heat of the ten thousand tanning lightbulbs I will be standing under in order to look perfect for this damn wedding:
 

 
Is it too light colored for an October wedding? Is it too WHITE to wear to ANY wedding? Do you think it will make me look pregnant? Should I just go try on #1 and #5 and see what looks best and call it a day? (And also, maybe stand and drool over #4 for a few moments. Sigh. #4, WHY DO YOU TORTURE ME?)

Damn you, Hooters. October 4, 2007

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

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

26. Officially. October 1, 2007

I’m a few hours in. So far, so good.
 
The awesomeness of my pre-birthday weekend can best be summed up in just a few photos:
 

The “one of each” dessert sampler at Landmarc.
 

The aftermath.
 

Manicures, in fall colors.
 
Not pictured:
 

-A dinner with M which consisted primarily of fresh guacamole.

-Capping that dinner off with a waffle cone medium-sized ice cream from Cold Stone (cake batter, bananas, peanut butter, chocolate chips; I have been to Heaven and it is indeed lovely y’all)

-Rock of Love finale. Yes, I cried. Shut up.

-A shopping spree in SoHo that resulted in two of the most awesome necklaces ever.

-A lazy Sunday morning with the Times, some sports and my boy.

-Saw Cameron Diaz. I don’t know why that makes the list but it does.

-The Giants won.

-Every time I got up to go to the bathroom after midnight last night, M sang Happy Birthday (while half-asleep) to me upon my return to the bed. Adorable.
 
And that was all before my official birthday. Yeah, I have a feeling 26 isn’t going to be so bad after all.

Things you will never hear me say. September 27, 2007

Just a few moments ago, one of my assistants – in response to an inquiry about what she’s doing for lunch – said “I had a big dinner last night and I’m still full.”
 
 And that got me thinking about other things you will never, ever hear me say:
 
“I don’t really feel like Mexican tonight.”
 
“Eh, it’s okay that the DVR didn’t tape The Hills. I’m not that into it anyway.”
 
“My shoes don’t match my outfit but I’m okay with that.”
 
“Can I have these jeans in a size two? The size four is way too loose.”
 
“I’m most comfortable wearing a thong bikini.”
 
“You’re going to Starbucks? Nah, nothing for me, thanks.”
 
“It’s too cold in here. I can’t sleep.”
 
“I’m taking a break from TV and internet for a few days.”
 
“I wish we lived somewhere where it was winter all year round.”
 
“Oh, I’ll just whip something up with the things we already have in the fridge.”
 
“Yay! The gym!”
 
“I cut my hair really short, do you like it?”
 
“I totally forgot to eat today.”
 
“Baby, can we watch Bill O’Reilly tonight?”
 
“Ugh, How I Met Your Mother is not funny.”
 
“I’m okay with having thrown out all of my good jeans. Didn’t really bother me.”
 
“Thanks for the offer but I don’t really think I want to leave my job and write a book.”
 
“I’m like a camel, I never have to pee.”
 
“I can’t wait for this wedding to be over.”
 
So, what is something I will never hear you say?

All over the place. September 26, 2007

Fuck. I’m turning 26.
 
Next week, actually. Less than a week from today, if we’re getting technical. I almost don’t want to share the exact date because if it isn’t acknowledged on my blog then it won’t actually happen, right? Isn’t that how the universe works nowadays?
 
I don’t know. Does 26 sound old to you? 26 sounds old to me. 26 conjures up images of a suburban home and a healthy diet and a flourishing garden and maybe even a bun in the oven. Ok, maybe not a bun in the oven. Maybe not even suburbia. Maybe just a solid career and health insurance. But still.
 
As M reminded me last night, because he is awesome, because he always knows the right thing to say and the right tone to use, 26 is the year I’m going to be married. And that - no matter how old it sounds, no matter how it edges me closer to late twenties - means that 26 is special.
 
Plus, isn’t it cheaper for me to rent a car now? Yes?
 
I don’t have any big plans for my birthday, just a bunch of dinners with various groups of friends and a special dinner (Dylan Prime, why are you so perfect?) with M. And that’s how I like it.
 
Anyone who has asked me what I want for my birthday has gotten the same response: “A gift card to Bloomingdales so that I can rebuild my damn denim wardrobe.”
 
Why am I such a downer? I will stop being a downer now. I don’t think anyone under the age of forty has a right to complain about getting old. It comes across as obnoxious even though - in my case - it’s genuine.
 
One of the great thing about having a birthday is that it becomes a blanket justification. Spent $500 during an impromptu shopping spree this past weekend, like I did? Birthday! Drinking, uh, a little too much wine lately? Birthday! Don’t feel like doing laundry, instead beg your fiance to do it for you? Whip out that birthday card, girl.
 
***
 
Switching gears for a moment, I am currently knee deep in the book Something Borrowed, a BBC selection. I saw the pink and the diamond engagement ring on the cover and thought “oooh, perfect!” Just the book I needed to balance out Nathan Englander’s first novel, which I just finished, and Samburg’s book on Lincoln, which is up next. I love me some good chick lit every once in a while.
 
Except, um, the book is about (spoiler alert!) a girl who sleeps with her best friend (of 20 years!)’s fiance. And then shows no remorse about it. And starts to have feelings for him and him for her and OMIGOD, HI, WORST NIGHTMARE.
 
I stay away from Stephen King because I don’t like to be scared but this book is the one keeping me up at night.
 
I know it’s fiction. Duh. I know I trust M. Duh. But I also know that I have a very overactive imagination, an imagination that - if given the freedom - will drift to some very dark places, an imagination that I have to keep under control.
 
I’m just finding it so hard to root for the protagonist, even if the author is trying very hard to convince the reader that we should (I mean, the best friend works in PR and is pretty and outspoken and has lived a charmed life and therefore she surely deserves to be cheated on. By her fiance and her maid of honor).
 
I don’t think I’m technically supposed to be writing about the book as I am not the blogger who will ultimately be reviewing it but I’m oh so very curious to find out what other people who have read the book thought. Am I in the minority because I happen to be engaged at this very moment?
 
***
 
Back to being old. I got up to get a glass of water last night and my joints cracked.
 
“OMIGOD. I am so old. Seriously.”
 
M looked up at me from behind his Macbook with a raised eyebrow and a look that said “really? You want to go head to head on this one, shorty?”
 
And I shut my mouth. Because no matter how old I get, M will always be nine years older. And I will always take comfort in that fact.
 
***
 
Yay! I was tagged! Maybe the following can redeem this lackluster post (thanks, Libby!):
 
Four jobs I have had in my life (This is cut and pasted from the last time I did this as listing any other jobs would be all too revealing):
(1) Executive assistant to the creator and executive producer of a major children’s television show (my first and, to date, most favorite job); (2) Casting producer for a major network reality show (“Hi, are you crazy? Great, I’m going to book you on the show”); (3) Sales associate at Victoria’s Secret (sigh, those were heady days of a corporate discount, my parents’ limitless credit card and a newfound enthusiasm for lacy undergarments); and (4) babysitter (“So, do you know where Mommy keeps the chocolate?)
 
Four movies I can watch over and over (These are a very select few as I’m not really one of those people who can watch movies over and over and over. I don’t know why):
(1) The 25th Hour; (2) My Best Friend’s Wedding (I don’t own a copy of the movie but if I catch it on TV, I will always watch it until the end); (3) Blue Crush (ditto); (4) The usual suspects: Newsies, Clueless, Mean Girls, Sliding Doors.
 
Four TV shows I like to watch (Four?! I only get four?! It’s like choosing four favorite children; not possible. So I’ve chosen four shows that you might not expect):
(1) Meet the Press; (2) Anthony Bourdain’s No Reservations; (3) The Price is Right; (4) Regis and Kelly (I start my days with those two.)
 
Four places I have vacationed:
(1) Europe (Greece, Ireland, England, Holland, Spain, Portugal, Italy, France, Belgium); (2) California (I heart you very much California. Why can’t you be closer?); (3) Long Beach Island, NJ (my parents used to have a house there before they were all “eh, let’s just go to Greece every summer”); (4) Maine (one of my favorite non-Greece family vacations of all time)
 
Four of my favorite dishes:
(1) The seared tuna with tomato and onion salad and parmesan crisp at Landmarc; (2) The four-cheese gnocchi (with bites of M’s lasagna) at Bianca; (3) Any of the rolls at Sushi Twist; (4) The margherita pizza from Angelo’s; (5) (I couldn’t stop at just four! I love food!) The guacamole at Dos Caminos. Oh and (6) The mac and cheese at Eatery. I’m done! I swear!
 
Four websites I visit daily:
(1) My blog roll (and then some – Sweet Juniper, Amalah, Dooce); (2) Gmail. I leave it up all day; (3) Jezebel (because they’re funny bitches and also, they watch all the same TV shows that I do; (4) My wedding website.
 
Four places I would rather be:
(1) In bed, next to my delicious sleeping M; (2) The house in Greece, eating a Greek salad (with fresh tomatoes and cucumbers from the garden) on my balcony; (3) Shopping for new jeans; (4) At a bakery. Because I’m PMS-ing and could really use something decadent.
 
Four bloggers I am tagging:
I’m a Libra! I’m bad at decisions! If you need something to blog about, by all means, consider yourself tagged.

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.

Love & Hate. August 3, 2007

Love: Friday. After work, I get to hop into M’s car and zoom crawl through the Lincoln Tunnel and meet my dad for dinner and a movie (The Bourne Ultimatum; I was outnumbered. Consolation: Matt Damon is attractive). 
 
Hate: My dad has been all alone in my parents’ house, with my mother, sister and brother currently in Greece for over a month. I picture him by himself in that big house and it makes me sad. Also, I feel compelled to make sure he is eating. 
 
Love: My future bridesmaid’s boyfriend splurged on a two hundred dollar bottle of wine at the French bistro last night and it was absolutely worth every one of his pennies. 
 
Hate: That I felt out of place as the only – literally, ONLY – one not working in finance. These people spent a good half an hour discussing Alan Greenspan. I spent that half an hour drinking the expensive wine. No wonder I go so damn drunk. 
 
Hate: I got so damn drunk that I picked a fight with M for no good reason.  
 
Love: He loves me anyway. That he knows how to make me laugh and talk me out of The Crazy until I’m his fun, lovable, sane fiancée again.  
 
Hate: I was so hungover this morning that only an egg and cheese on a bagel would do. 
 
Love: That damn egg and cheese on a bagel made me feel so much fucking better. 
 
Love: There might be work opportunities beyond what I initially expected here at the new job.  
 
Hate: There is so much pressure on me. I know it’s because they think I’m good, but still.  
 
Love: My boss is out, which means the pressure is lessened today. 
 
Hate: Monday is going to suck.  
 
Love: M is going to officially be a law student come August 13^th.  
 
Hate: I’m really going to get my neediness under control. He’s going to have to study, the books are going to be his mistress. 
 
Hate: I’m probably going to have to start going to the damn gym again, to give myself something to do. 
 
Love: But I’ll also probably sign up for a class! Maybe an editing class, to make myself more marketable.  
 
Love: That my family is all together in the Motherland. 
 
Hate: I’m not there. I miss them. I pick up the phone to call my mom or my sister about five times a day before realizing that they are in another country and that country is seven hours ahead and, duh, they are clearly sleeping. 
 
Love: The Simpsons movie. It was great, people. 
 
Love: Have I mentioned that it’s Friday?

Speaking of babies… August 2, 2007

I have been collecting baby names since I was eleven and my mother was pregnant with my brother and I was obsessed with naming him. I pored over baby name books, wrote down the names I liked, said them aloud with our last name, mentally envisioned actually calling my future baby brother by the name. Much in the way I now pitch ideas and talent to my bosses, I pitched names to my parents, making a case based on sound, meaning, originality and societal context (some names immediately bring to mind a nerd, or a jock, etc.)
 
My parents ultimately chose the name I suggested, over their previously favored Evan and my then seven-year-old sister’s suggestion of Mitchroll (yes, Mitch-roll.) I’m kind of kicking myself, because now I can’t name my son Jeremy, and damn I love that name.
 
Ever since then, I have been compiling a list of my own and, luckily, M indulges me in playing the baby name game. In fact – though he’d never admit it – I think he really enjoys it.
 
We’ve fought over names before, usually names that he likes that I can’t fathom calling a son or daughter. However, we do have a running list of names that we are seriously considering, names that may actually be transferred to an actual human being that, like, comes out of me and into our lives.
 
And, since I’m bored and don’t feel like doing work and don’t really have much else to say, I will present that list here with the disclaimer that if we are ever real-life friends, you cannot steal the damn names. (Or, you can, but I’ll secretly always think “bitch stole that from me.”)

Boys:
 
Lukas/Luke: Pretty much a given, the product of his favorite movie being Cool Hand Luke and my days as a 90210 junkie. The name, in both forms, goes well with M’s last name and to me it conjures up an image of the cool guy in the class, the strong and silent one who is pretty much oblivious – as he plays lacrosse, or soccer – that the girls standing on the sideline are fawning over him. And yes, I want my son to be the hot guy in school. Shut up.
 
Evan: My mom’s favorite name, until I pitched Jeremy so well. I don’t really know why I talked her out of it, as I adore the name. Maybe I had the foresight to hoard it for myself? I was a sheisty adolescent.
 
Braden: One of my favorite names, but I have yet to convince M that it’s not some “celebrity baby bullshit name” but something we could actually call our child. Think of the possibilities! We can call him Bray. Or Brady (I actually tried to work the “just like your favorite teams’ quarterback’s last name!” angle; didn’t work.) Braden actually goes the most beautifully with M’s last name, which is an awesome last name, and omigod I wish I could tell you what it is, just to prove my point, but GRR ANONYMITY. 
 
Bennett: I like Ben, but I don’t like Benjamin. I do, however, like Bennett. I love first names that could be last names. M’s take? “It sounds like old money.” To which I replied, “…and, your point?”
 
Hudson: There is not an ice cube’s chance in hell that M will let me name our son after the damn river that separates Manhattan from New Jersey, but I think it’s cute. And symbolic. And a hot guy name.
 
Jack/Jake: I never liked Jack until a certain Bauer came around and SHUT UP HE IS REAL AND PROBABLY SAVING US ALL FROM DYING A GRISLY DEATH RIGHT AT THIS MOMENT. Jake, I’ve always liked. I don’t know which one I like better. Also, nicknames are a problem with one-syllable names and I am big on the nicknames. 
 
Marty: M’s favorite name for a boy. Not a chance in hell.
 
 Girls:
 
Ella/Elle: We will probably go with this. And, if the psychic who read my palm in 8^th grade is right, I will only have one girl and therefore only one chance to name her. Her full name will probably be Elizabeth, in honor of my mom, but she’ll go by Ella or Elle. I just love that the name(s) are so feminine and girly. And watch, she’ll be a total tomboy, because the universe likes to fuck around.
 
Annabelle/Mirabelle: I love, love, LOVE love these names, to the point that I can’t decide between them. There’s just something so girlie about them. I’m seriously considering giving my daughter one of the names, calling her Elle/Ella/Ellie/Mira and then honoring my mom with the middle name of Elizabeth.
 
Emma: I love the name Emma. M loves it too. I’ve never actually met an Emma, so the name is pretty pure for me. I think that’s part of the appeal. 
 
Olivia: Oh how I love this name. I don’t know why, but I do. 
 
Audrey/Audra: I love Ms. Hepburn and everything associated with her – specifically sophistication, beauty, and awesome-ass hats. 
 
Rory: Maybe I’ve watched too many episodes of Gilmore Girls in my life, but I think the name is absolutely adorable.
 
Samantha/Sam: I had the Samantha American Girls doll when I was younger and I always vowed that I’d name my daughter after her. (Yes, after a doll/the star of a fictional book about Victorian-era America.) I’m less enthralled with the name today, but I still like the idea of an adorable girl having a boy’s name. I’m drawn to Frankie in the same way, even if I don’t like any of the names it is derived from. 
 
Julia: M really likes this name, and it has grown on me after I worked with an utterly gorgeous and lovely Julia. It’s classic and I love the idea of calling her Jules. 
 
Lily: Unfortunately, one of my best friends has a dog named Lily so the name is now associated with an adorable Westie and not my future daughter, but it’s still a contender because it is so darn cute. (But maybe not so cute when older? I have an inner conflict about that.)  
 
I’m kind of obsessed with names and I love hearing names that other people like. So, go ahead, spill. I promise I won’t steal ‘em.

Was this really hard for everyone else? Because it was for me. July 31, 2007

Thank god for Molly and being tagged, mainly because, well, I HAVE NOTHING ELSE TO WRITE ABOUT (Writer’s Block: the birth of many a meme).  

I mean, really, the only other thing going on in my life at the moment is the fact that M’s front license plate got stolen and I am ANGRY about it, especially because he keeps getting tickets for a missing license plate when HEY COPS, IT WAS STOLEN BECAUSE IT IS A LICENSE PLATE SPECIAL TO PEOPLE IN HIS LINE OF WORK, A LICENSE PLATE THAT ALLOWS HIM TO PARK PRETTY MUCH WHEREVER HE WANTS WHICH, AND I DON’T KNOW IF YOU’VE NOTICED THIS, IS VERY VALUABLE IN MANHATTAN. SO MAYBE IF YOU WERE DOING YOUR JOBS INSTEAD OF WRITING DAMN LITTLE ORANGE TICKETS, YOU WOULD’VE CAUGHT THE BASTARDS RIPPING OFF HIS LICENSE PLATE EXCEPT YOU DIDN’T BECAUSE YOU SUCK AND WRITING TICKETS IS THE ONLY THING YOU ARE GOOD AT. 

Ahem.  Moving on. 

A list of Ten Things I Like About Me. Which is hard because, while I am brilliant – brilliant! – at picking myself apart, I am not so good at patting my own head and lovingly whispering in my own ear about just how awesome I am. You’d think, after all this time living with Roommate, that I would be pretty damn good at stroking my own ego, but no. So. Here goes. 

1. I have great nails. I’m not kidding. Almost every woman who has ever given me a manicure has commented on my nails. The nailbeds are nicely shaped, the nails themselves are strong, and there aren’t any ridges or white spots. Even my cuticles behave. Now that the main focus of my left hand is my ring, it’s nice to have a decent stage on which to display it, and that includes my nails.  

2. I am thoughtful. I’m the friend that will send you the perfect card for your birthday, one that somehow incorporates an inside joke, after hours spent scouring the selection at CVS or Duane Reade. I am the friend that will mail you a care package after your break-up, complete with homemade chocolate chip cookies, some booze, some expensive bath products and an ex-boyfriend voodoo doll. I remember birthdays and anniversaries and who had what job interview on what day. Hell, I’ve been known to send gourmet caramel apples to one’s office…just because. My sister was the envy of her roommates throughout college as she was always on the receiving end of a package from me, because I know that college students are broke and everyone is entitled to new clothes or make-up or delicious food once in a while. 

3. I’m not cheap. I have many friends who are. Friends who make six figure bonuses on top of their six figure salaries and will still compute, down to the penny, exactly what they owe for a meal. I am not that type of person and it comes directly from my parents, as they are the most generous people I know. They’ve been known to sit down at a restaurant, spot friends sitting across the room, and then ask the waiter to put the friends’ meal on their (my parents’) tab. I may not be that generous (but I also don’t have a Platinum AmEx), but I definitely don’t count my pennies and I will definitely throw in a few bucks if we come up short for the bill and I will pay for your manicure if you don’t have cash and then tell you to forget about it. And I’ll mean it.  

4. I’m helpful. New Yorkers get a bad rap, mainly because tourists come here, take one look at our “don’t fuck with me while I’m walking down the street” faces and report back home that everyone in New York City is mean and scary and by golly, Laura Dee, we are never leaving Alabama again! Except, most New Yorkers I know are very helpful, myself included. Even if I’m running late to work and I just spilled coffee on my white skirt and I have a meeting that I am under prepared for, I will still stop and help tourists who want to know where “the Times Square is?” (Most of the time I just say, “Look up. You’re here! Yay! Have fun!”) It’s part of working and living in Midtown. There are tourists everywhere, and Manhattan (especially the subway system) is not easy to navigate. While I do feel I should get some sort of “honorary tour guide” stipend from the city for how often I tell people what subway line to take to get to where they’re going, I truly don’t mind helping tourists. Or anyone for that matter.  

5. I’m very proactive. For example: I have a lot of anxiety, more than most people. I barely slept in my old apartment when I was alone because every sound – no matter how normal, how small – convinced me that someone was breaking in through the living room window after climbing the fire escape. I can’t tell you how many late nights turned early mornings I spent huddled under the covers in fear, watching Nickelodeon because it was the only channel that probably wasn’t going to have any commercials for scary movies, the lights on, drenched in sweat, fighting off sleep. I recently spent a sleepless Saturday night alone in my apartment and on Sunday I decided to do something about it. I went to Barnes and Noble and purchased “The Gift of Fear” by Gavin de Becker. Amongst other things, the book teaches how to distinguish real, actual, you-are-in-danger FEAR from needless worry and anxiety. And, while it hasn’t taken away all of my fears, it has certainly lessened them. I’m good at that – taking action. If there’s something that’s bothering me or affecting my life, I will take steps to either lessen the effect or get rid of it entirely. That also spills over into being very proactive at work, which has certainly earned me accolades. 

6. I have a great body shape. It took me a long time to like myself. There were many years, mostly in high school, when I longed to be short and petite and all-around tiny. Guess what, I’m not. But when I’m slim and feeling good and working out, I have to admit that my body shape is kind of kick ass: I’m fairly tall, with an ample chest that tapers down to a small waist which then curves out again at the hips. Not the worst thing in the world. And, while my flat-chested or tiny friends can certainly wear things that I can only dream of, I tend to fill out clothes well and bathing suits even better. I’m always on a quest to lose some weight or feel better about myself but, when it comes down to it, I was blessed with a pretty awesome shape. The problem is, of course, keeping that shape in shape. 

7. I’m a baker. And a good one at that. I only started baking recently and, while my waistline hasn’t exactly benefited, my friends and family certainly have. I have a knack for following a recipe and am developing an knack for knowing when to hold back on some of the sugar or when a touch of cinnamon would be the perfect complement to a cookie. I love baking. I would bake even if I didn’t get to eat the finished product, so I’m thrilled that I turned out to be a pretty natural baker. A natural cook on the other hand? Um, yeah. No.  

8. I have a great fashion sense. Well, I was named Most Fashionable Girl in middle school but that was mostly because my mom also has a great fashion sense and always dressed me straight out of an Esprit catalog. However, over time, I’ve developed my own style and I must say that I am proud of my wardrobe, even if I occasionally have a war with it in the morning. Whenever a friend is going on a date or a job interview, she always asks to borrow something or if I can come over and put an outfit together for her. In fact my roommate took five of my dresses to Canada with her for a wedding this past weekend. Clearly I wish I was this talented at something like, oh, nuclear physics but still. There are worse things in the world than to be good at dressing yourself (or others).  

9. I’m super clean and neat. Windex and a roll of paper towels = my best friends. I just feel calm when things are clean and neat so I work to keep them that way (or, in the case of M’s apartment when we first started dating, get them that way). I don’t mind cleaning up after other people, so roommates of mine have always adored this little anal part of my personality. My desk at work is fairly spotless and people, if you ever come over and drop one of my freshly made cookies on the floor, don’t hesitate about picking it up and popping it in your mouth. My floors are so clean, they sparkle. You think I’m kidding. 

10. If I love you, you are one lucky individual. I don’t love with the equivalent of a limp handshake. I love strongly and with authority. Much like Molly, my closest friends and especially my family are people I would do anything for. Seriously, anything. M says that I have the biggest heart of anyone he’s ever met and while he has to say that because he’s my fiancé, I’m glad that the people I love know that I love them and know that I’d do anything for them. Especially my little brother. I once told him, when he was afraid to go on a trip, that I’d fly over there and get him and bring him back if he needed me to. You know I love you if I will VOLUNTARILY FLY SOMEWHERE for you.
 

And just in case you think that this is a little too “way to really pat yourself on the back there, Clink” just note that this took me forever, whereas a list of 10 things I don’t like about myself would’ve taken me under five minutes.

Also, I tag you. Yes, you. 

Confessions. July 6, 2007

Last night I had a Diet Coke for dinner. I wanted to go to bed and wake up feeling empty. I couldn’t remember the last time I had felt anything other than full so I figured one night wouldn’t kill me. And hey, what do you know, I’m still alive.   
 
I’m not that close with my best friend from high school anymore. However - as much as I played it off - it still ripped me apart when I heard that she drunkenly voiced to a mutual friend that she didn’t want to be in my wedding party because “being a bridesmaid is too much work.” 
 
I don’t think favors are necessary at weddings. I’ve never, ever received a favor I liked.  
 
As close as I am with my sister, there’s still a low-simmering rivalry. Case in point: My parents bought her a brand new Infiniti because she would “need it for law school.” Because, yes, every law student needs a brand-new, high-end car. Clearly.  
 
I truly believe that M and I are going to die on the plane either to or from Vegas. And it will be so tragic, and people will say “at least they had each other.” However, if there’s anger in the afterlife, I am going to be pretty pissed that I never got to get married or have children. 
 
The first dress in the post below is my favorite. I love lace. In fact, I met M while wearing a lace shirt. M, however, thinks that lace dresses “look like they smell like mothballs.” He prefers the cupcake princess fairy dresses that I despise.  
 
I hope I don’t disappoint him when I’m walking down the aisle. 
 
Sometimes I wish that he and I had absolutely no ties so that we could just pick up and move to the west coast and live quietly by the sea. I’m not afraid of earthquakes.  
 
I dreamt about two of my ex-boyfriends last night. And I woke up smiling.  
 
I’m slightly obsessed with our wedding website.  
 
I’m really nervous about how our relationship is going to change once he enters law school in the fall. I’m going to wage war against The Crazy in order to keep her at bay but we all know she is a cunning, manipulative bitch.  
 
I went out on Tuesday night with a bunch of girlfriends. It was the first time I had gone bar-hopping with just the girls since I got engaged. I learned that a big rock on your left hand ring finger is like kryptonite to men.  
 
Anything you want to confess?