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.

A tip: December 18, 2007

Always go with your gut.

Seriously.

Do not ignore the little voice in the back of your head, frantically urging you not to the take the new, big money job. Frantically encouraging you to stay right where you are, happy at a job for the first time in a very long while.

That voice? Is almost always right.

Because if you ignore your gut, you will spend the evening before starting your new job sobbing into your fiance’s sweatshirt, almost inconsolable, to the point that he is very concerned (and does not accept “I’m PMS-ing” as an excuse).

The next day, you will arrive at your job and you will try to give it a chance. You will attempt to fit in by bouncing ideas off of the group of alpha girls that sit in the corner and by sharing a late afternoon cookie break with your new boss, even though you are on a diet.

But something will feel…not right.

Omigod, you will think, stop being ridiculous. It’s only the first day.

But you know. You just do. In fact, you knew before you even started. Hence all that sobbing you did.

You’ll go to the company’s karaoke holiday party after your first day and will even get up and sing at the encouragement of a few members of your new team, because nothing says “you made the right choice in hiring me” like a rendition of “Oops I Did It Again.” You will end up drunk, in your bed, eating cold pasta and telling your fiance that you made a grave mistake. No, not about the karaoke - about taking the job.

The second day won’t really be any better. You’ll realize that despite the splashy title and the fat paycheck that this isn’t really the direction you wanted to go in and, truly, you knew it all along. You just chose to ignore yourself.

And then - because there’s that whole thing about raining and pouring and whatnot - you will receive a voicemail from your old boss. She will excitedly tell you about a new project she just signed on to and how she knows it puts you in an awkward position but she wants to offer you the position first, before she speaks to anyone else about it. It starts in February (you think: just enough time to claim that I gave this job a try!) and she’ll be able to offer the same salary that you are currently earning (you think: seriously, universe? Is this some sort of sick joke?) and an even splashier title (you think: ok, where’s Ashton Kutcher).

Before you know it, you have one foot out the door after having only just stepped in.

Really, this whole thing could’ve been avoided had you just listened to yourself. Had you just trusted that your instincts would lead you in the right direction.

And now you’re going to have to go through the uncomfortable process of quitting (which, ok fine, it’s TV and people come and go all the time but still! You are not a quitter!) a month into your new job and you see that bridge over there? It’s burning.

So, please, next time? Listen. to. the voice. Stop being so damn stubborn.

Fuck. (Also, a meme!) November 28, 2007

Yeah, below is all I got.

I mean, not really. I just spent 45 minutes on the phone with my father asking for advice about what to do because, lo, Company that Wants to Poach Me just upped their offer to a ridiculous sum of money.

Seriously, ridiculous.

Fuck. I hate this. I am a Libra and I cannot make decisions. How many times do I have to say it? Excuse me while I go sit down in a corner and rock back and forth.

8 Things Meme (tagged by Pantalones)

8 Things I’m Passionate About:

-Love

-Politics

-College basketball

-Writing

-Being healthy (it’s, um, a recent passion)

-Books

-List-making

-Food

8 Things To Do Before I Die

-Have children

-Write that book of connected short stories that lives inside my head

-Grow old with M, hopefully

-Find a way to reward my parents for being fucking awesome

-Own my own business

-Overcome my fear of flying

-Visit Africa, and not just so I can go on a damn safari

-Be at peace with my body

8 Things I Often Say

-”Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaby, will you get me [water, a tissue, the remote, etc.]?”

-”I’m craving Mexican.”

-”I love you more than anything, Smush.”

-”SERIOUSLY?” (Usually while yelling at the TV. More specifically, The Hills.)

-“Aww, thanks, but I can’t be bribed. Sorry.” (At work.)

-”It’s way too fucking early to work out.”

-”I’ll have a tall, skim caramel macchiato, please.”

-”She/he/that’s crazytown.”

8 Books I Read Recently

-Water For Elephants (loved)

-Lolita (again; I tend to pick it up when there’s nothing else to read.)

-Team of Rivals (I am a total Abraham Lincoln whore.)

-Batman: The Dark Night Returns (Yeah, so, confession: I like graphic novels.)

-Real Simple Magazine (that counts right? Right?)

-Birds of America (Lorrie Moore is a goddess.)

-M’s book (Ok, I totally finished it forever ago, but every now and then I pick up the book just to see the dedication to me.)

-Eat, Pray, Love

8 Songs That Hold Meaning

-”Green Eyes” by Coldplay (Our first dance song.)

-”Brighter Than Sunshine” by Aqualung (The song that will forever and always make me feel warm and fuzzy while thinking of M.)

-”White America” by Eminem (The perfect work-out song.  Nothing motivates me like anger toward the government.)

-”When the Lights Go Out” by the Black Keys (Reminds me of college and my ex-boyfriend. Specifically, the strip tease - my first - I did for my ex-boyfriend to this song. It’s the perfect strip tease song. You know, if you’re in the market.)

-”Crash” by Dave Matthews (High school, summer nights, sips from flasks snuck into the Meadowlands. Bliss.)

-”Chocolate” by Snow Patrol (One of my favorite songs of all time.)

-”All I Want Is You” by U2. (Anything by U2, really.)

-”My Girl” by The Temptations (I will dance with my father at my wedding to this song, just as we used to dance to it when I was little. Really, anything from The Big Chill Soundtrack/motown/The Beatles reminds me of my youth, and perfect Sunday mornings with bagels, the paper, my family and music on the stereo.)

8 Qualities I Look For In a Friend

-Sense of humor that parallels mine. I mean, duh.

-A strong sense of loyalty.

-Ability to go to a restaurant and not fucking freak out over every calorie. (My “omigod, I can’t share guac with you, avocados are full of fat!” friend quota is filled, thankyouverymuch.)

-Open personality. I’m a very open person and I don’t do well with people who are closed off. I don’t have the time nor the inclination to break down wall after wall.

-Love of television. If you tell me that you don’t ever watch TV or (gasp) don’t even own a TV, we’re probably not going to be friends.

-Will tell me the truth. From whether or not my ass looks good in those pocket-less Theory pants to whether I need to cut M some slack instead of getting whiny and needy about feeling neglected while he studies for finals, I respect people who can tell it like it is.

-Feistiness. I don’t do well with passive or neutral people who don’t get fired up, don’t get excited, don’t get rip-roaring mad. I tend to be friends with people who live in extremes, like I do.

-Love of my baked goods. No, seriously. If you are my friend, I will bake for you a lot, mainly because I love you but also because I love to bake but I don’t want it in the house.

If you need something to write about, by all means consider yourself tagged.

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.

Truth. November 18, 2007

I haven’t cheated on M.

Or committed a felony (though, really, if I were to commit a felony it would probably be shoplifting because momma would love a pair of Christian Louboutins).

Or anything else you might be thinking.

I know the timing was a bit suspicious - I had just posted about seeing my ex-boyfriend (verdict: he looks better than ever, his waif of a new girlfriend shot daggers - nay, samurai swords at me all night, it was a wee bit uncomfortable for a while, sangria made it all better) and then I went all cryptic with “I don’t have the guts to publish something” and I apologize for that.

M and I are fine, even if I did find myself - for about 1/300th of a second - thinking about how the Ex has great lips and it was nice to kiss those for five years, in spite of everything.

No, it’s something else: I’ve been thinking about quitting the blog.

There. I said it. I feel better now.

Also, I’m not going to. I should put that out there right away because I don’t want this post to come off as some transparent ploy to run up the comments. That’s not what this is; I just want to be honest. (Hence, I have turned the comments off.)

So, yeah, not going to quit, but definitely thought about it. Have been thinking about it for a while, actually.

I mean, yes, about once a month I’ll get a nasty email or a “wow, you’re so materialistic/crazy/annoying” comment and the sting of the judgment will prompt a “I don’t want to do this anymore” reaction, if only for a moment.

Lately, it’s been different. Lately, it’s been a nagging feeling. Lately, my finger has hovered over the “delete this blog” button.

I’m just feeling…uninspired lately. And full of self-doubt. And worried that M feels a bit closed off from this “blog world” that I retreat to with my laptop. Also, anxious that I won’t be able to sustain posts now that my career trajectory has been clicked to overdrive.

I started to have a meltdown and then I began to convince myself that I could walk away. That I should walk away. That I could still read blogs and comment and feel part of the community without actually being part of the community.

My logic, often enough, leaves a lot to be desired.

The truth is, I would miss it so much.

I would miss you so much.

Also, I would probably have to get a therapist and therapists are expensive.

I don’t know why I’m even writing this post. I probably should’ve just started posting again, blamed my brief absence on being busy and let it be.

But - and this is what it all comes down to, really - I can’t clear my head unless I empty my thoughts. The whole time I was debating whether or not to delete the blog because I’ve outgrown it and I’m busy and maybe it’s not so necessary anymore, I kept wanting to write a post about it because I knew that writing a post - getting it out of my head and into the world - would’ve helped.

Don’t think the irony is lost on me.

It’s just overwhelming sometimes to think that there’s two plus years of my history here. That anyone, anywhere can just click on a month and year and know how I got engaged or what my apartment looks like. I’ve never been a private person but, as the landscape changes, as the blog grows, it makes me want to put up a wall and stay safe inside.

Except, I really wouldn’t be the person I am today without this blog. I would still probably suffer from unhealthy jealousy. I would still feel like the only person who feels a certain way, without the comments and emails reassuring me that others ‘get it’. I would almost certainly not be writing with any sort of consistency.

Oh god. I’m rambling. I’m even boring myself and for that I apologize. It does feel good to get it out there, though, to admit that I have my doubts about myself and my writing and what the hell I’m doing sending my innermost thoughts out into the universe to be read by almost no one I’ve met in real life.

I have my doubts, yes, and I almost let them get the best of me. But I talked myself out of being a coward and I’m still here. Hopefully for a long time.

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:

A few things. November 7, 2007

1. My guest posters rock. Seriously. As in, maybe I should just let them take over? I could be like their pimp. Or something.

2. You probably should really just ignore me right now because I’m not exactly coherent. I always used to think that people who traveled for business were lucky, like it was one big hotel hopping party. I was wrong. I know that now. The days are long and it feels like there’s no reprieve - I am actually working longer, harder hours and, um, I never thought I’d say this but I MISS THE DAMN OFFICE.

3. Also, I miss my bed. And M. And M in my bed. I actually had a dream about sex last night. Apparently my subconscious is pretty pissed about the lack of any action lately.

4. Boston is so cute. I rarely leave the hotel but when I do, I marvel at just how damn adorable it is. I must sound like a condescending New Yorker with all the “aww”s but it’s genuine. Hi Boston, I have a crush on you. Do you like me back? Check yes or no. From, Clink.

5. Boston is fucking cold, though.

6. I think I’m pregnant. No, seriously. My assistant actually bought me a pregnancy test (mainly so I would shut up about complaining that I’m pregnant and just find out, once and for all). I’m just. so. nauseous. I’m not a nauseous person, normally. It takes a lot to make me nauseous. I think it is a baby that is making me nauseous.

7. The silver lining is that I’m totally using it as an excuse to eat whatever I want. “For two!”

8. Omigod, you guys! I was awesome on the flight. I can’t even begin to tell you. I feel like I’ve really made progress! I didn’t cry during take off and I only grabbed my assistant’s hand once and I WAS NOT EVEN MEDICATED. Or drunk.

9. Except, um, at the airport I bought this book called “Ask the Pilot” because on the cover the New York Times said that people with a fear of flying should read it and I was all “that’s me!” Except I started reading it before going to bed to calm me down and found that an entire fucking chapter of the book is devoted to the top ten worst air disasters in history. Thanks, asshole pilot author. I’m going to be a basket case on the flight home.
10. I feel so fucking out of it. I miss your blogs! I feel like I don’t know what’s going on in your lives and I hate it. I can’t wait to catch up over the weekend. Hopefully my Google Reader won’t explode by then. Don’t do anything fun without me, okay?

11. My assistant asked me if I have a blog. I repeat: MY ASSISTANT ASKED ME IF I HAVE A BLOG. I’m not sure if it’s because she saw something on my computer screen or if she was just asking in general the way people sometimes do. I said “what’s a blog?” Good cover Clink. GOOD COVER.

Tired Clink out.

xo.

Write first, think later. October 28, 2007

It’s Sunday night and I’m trying to tune out the World Series, especially because I have to go to Boston next week for business and Boston - for a Yankee fan - will be unbearable if and when the Red Sox clinch.

(Tangent: there is, however, a restaurant called Clink (!) in Boston, so, really, Boston and I, we’ll be okay.)

Thursday’s post felt good. You know, I initially wrote it a few days after it actually happened but it languished in my drafts folder for almost a month before I was ballsy enough to post it.

That sounds dramatic. It’s just a post, right?

It used to be, back when I wrote first, thought second.

I don’t know when that changed.

I went through my archives this weekend, mainly to do some cleaning up (five people used to read this blog, two of whom I eventually met in real life and thus I was much more liberal with certain details). I ended up both creating a Favorites tab and being a little bit shocked at my honesty (hi, I’m Clink and I used to have pregnancy scares slash not eat slash ONCE GOT MY PERIOD ALL OVER M’S BOXERS and wow, um, he still wants to marry me?).

I miss that. It’s not that I haven’t been honest lately - I’ve just censored myself a bit. The “bad” or the “not so pretty” has gone unwritten or unposted. I’ve made up the difference with wedding posts (another tab, created this weekend, brought to you by Spare Time and Lots of It) and “what dress should I buy?” posts, when, really, I was dying to get some things off my chest.

Things like, um, the world doesn’t rain a constant parade of sunshine and fairy dust on you when you get engaged. Life is still hard, relationships are still hard, living together is HARD, balance is perhaps hardest of all.

I’m not as insane as I used to be, I don’t think. Mainly because of this blog, because of this outlet, because of the support that has come via Such Great Heights. So why did I stop? When I’m feeling insane, why wouldn’t I write about it? It’s pretty obvious that writing about it? Helps.

I used to not care about being judged. I mean, the harsh comments and the harsh emails hurt then and they hurt now (and it kills me to type that because knowledge of that creates even more power in the hands of the anonymous) but I know I’m going to rub some people the wrong way and I have to be okay with that. The like me! Like me! Like me! aspect of my personality has never been my favorite trait and it really needs to just shut the hell up. I mean, I don’t necessarily like every person behind every blog that I read and there’s no Blog Constitution out there saying that I have to. The same goes for people who read my blog - they don’t have to like me. Hell, for all I know, the 98% of you who don’t comment might just come here to make yourselves feel better because whew, at least I’m not as crazy as her.

So more honesty, is the point of this long-winded exercise in distraction (Dear Colorado, Please score. Love, Clink). Less self-censorship. Less fearing what anyone thinks. Less diluting myself into someone whose life revolves around pretty dresses and her pretty wedding. There’s that part of me, sure, but there’s also the part of me that crawled into bed at 6pm on Friday night, pulled the covers over my head and sobbed for two hours, for no reason and every reason at all.

I’m that girl too.

Medium. August 9, 2007

(This post is prompted by one written by Holly. You do read Holly, don’t you? She is one of my many blogcrushes.)
 
I’ve always been fascinated with death and ghosts and anything falling under the umbrella (…ella,…ella) of “paranormal.” However, I’m also a total wuss. I won’t watch scary movies or read books about ghosts and I’ll most likely stick my fingers in my ears if you start to tell me a scary story and say “la, la, la” until you stop. So, really, my fascination has always been from a distance.
 
Until the day it directly affected my family, that is.
 
My mom’s father died when she was thirteen. He was driving home on the New York Thruway when he was hit by another car and, as he was not wearing his seatbelt, was hurled through the windshield and onto the asphalt.
 
Over the course of her life, my mom clearly never thought she’d get the chance to speak with her father again. I mean, duh. He died. End of story, right?
 
Wrong.
 
One of my mom’s colleagues told her about a “medium” in the area. Someone who could communicate with the dead.
 
I know what you’re picturing and let me just smash the stereotype: the medium lives in one of the wealthiest towns in the country, dresses in J.Crew and is no different, mostly, from your typical soccer mom. She just also happens to be able to communicate with the dead.  
 
She’s impossible to get an appointment with because word has gotten around that she’s good. She’s also very, very expensive. My mom had to wait a whole year to meet with her and the entire time she was skeptical. She would laugh about it and make it clear that she wasn’t expecting much. 
 
If you knew my mom, you would know that seeing a medium is so out of character for her that I thought it was a joke the first few times she mentioned it.  
 
The only thing the medium knew about my mom when they met was her first name. As soon as she was in my mom’s presence, however, the medium immediately knew who my mom was there to see, as my grandfather was waiting to speak with her. Well, actually, the medium said that a whole bunch of our loud, opinionated, dead Greek relatives were all angling to talk to her but she had to politely ask them to quiet down.  
 
The meeting went well, to the point that, when she left, my mom had little doubt that she had actually been speaking to her father.
 
He said things like, “don’t worry, my head is ok.” (He cracked his head on the asphalt when he was flung from the car.) 
 
He told her that he’s so proud of how she has raised myself, my sister and my brother. (The medium did not know how many children – if any – my mother had.) 
 
He told her to tell my grandmother that when she’s in pain at night (she has sciatica, something that developed after he was dead) that he lays down next to her until she goes to sleep. 
 
He told her that she’s not just imagining it when she thinks she smells the scent of smoke from his pipe.  
 
He even said, “I told you I’d be here,” in response to my mother’s thought – on the drive to the medium – that he wouldn’t even show up and that the whole thing would be a sham.   
 
But the creepiest part came at the end.  
 
A bit of backstory before we continue: a few weeks before my mom went to the medium she took a watch of my grandfather’s to be restored, the one he was wearing when he died. She didn’t tell anyone about it as she was hoping to present it to my oldest cousin as a surprise.  
 
However, my grandfather knew. In fact, the last thing he communicated to my mother – through the medium – was “I’m so proud of what you’re doing with the watch. It means a lot to me.” 
 
My mom says she damn near fell off the chair. 
 
When my mom came home, she wasn’t shaken. In fact the woman who never stops moving and doing and thinking was actually wrapped in a sense of calm.  
 
Until that day, I’d never been a big believer in the afterlife, or ghosts or anything supernatural. But ever since, I’ve also felt a sense of calm when I think about my grandfather. Like, I know that he’s watching. I think about him a lot when I fly. Flying, for me, is so closely linked with death. Whenever I get on an airplane, I prepare myself to die. However – and M can attest to this – I’ve been much better ever since my mom’s meeting with the medium. Mainly because I know that something else is out there, watching out for me.
 
What about y’all? Any experience with the paranormal? A firm non-believer or someone who also feels something is “out there”? Am I the only crazy one and, yes, I realize that this post firmly puts me in the category of ‘unhinged.’

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.