Hi, I’m a freak. July 18, 2007

I was going to slap up a couple of photos from Vegas (“photos from your nose down,” as Molly put it, referring to my desire to remain anonymous on this here site) and call it a post. However, my new work computer and I have not yet made nice and he (I’ve decided it’s a he – a stubborn, obstinate, hateful he who likes to rob me of internet every so often just to show me WHO IS IN CHARGE ‘ROUND HERE, LITTLE LADY) refuses to acknowledge my camera when I connect via USB.  

So, no photos. 

And, well, writing about Vegas just makes me feel nostalgic for Vegas and leaves me further unmotivated to do anything but sigh about how I wish I was still on vacation.  

I actually asked the following question to M last night: “So, how much do you think croupiers make? Could we eek out a living being croupiers?”  

“We’d probably be better off if you were working a pole on the strip but hey.” 

Not that I really want to move to Vegas. I joke about it but, no. I actually had a meltdown in Vegas about, well, Vegas.

This is so embarrassing to admit but I’m at a loss for what else to write since no one wants to read a “hey, here are a list of my fears about my new job!” post, or a “we haven’t made any progress on the wedding plans because I am a lazy whore” post so whatever.  

We had been in a casino all day. From dark, cold casino to dark, cold casino, only stepping out into the light, hot outdoors momentarily – and then only to get to another dark, cold casino. 

It was my fault. I said to M that I wanted to see every casino on the strip. (“Even Imperial Palace, Clink?” “Yes, M, even Imperial Palace.”) But by 5pm I was sun-starved and disoriented, sitting at the crowded slots while M played blackjack, feeding dollar after dollar into a White Diamond machine, drinking a free glass of white wine, waving cigarette smoke from my face. 

I’ve had anxiety attacks before and I could feel the symptoms coming on. The shortness of breath, the tingles in my limbs, the need to get outside immediately and just exhale. 

I told M – as discreetly as possible – that I would be outside and then I ran for it. No easy task, as casinos are arranged like cornfield mazes, the exit almost as impossible to find as a clock. 

I whipped past throngs of heavyset Midwesterners and their tantrum-throwing spawn, past the bachelorette party, and the bachelor party, and the group of confused seniors milling about the exit. 

I burst into the dry desert heat and found myself a patch of shade. M followed moments after, his hand on my shoulder, his face full of concern.  Seeing him, I knew I was safe and could submit to my emotions and let it all out. 

Oh, and I did. 

“I just…this is so UNNATURAL, M. Like, this whole place! What are we doing in a casino at 5pm? With all the fucking cigarette smoke and the washed up cocktail waitresses and that asshole from Texas who placed don’t come bets and cheered every time the rest of us lost! I just feel so…weird! And…and…UNNATURAL.” 

I paused to catch my breath. Then I kicked a fake rock outside the casino and said, “see! Everything is. Just. So. Fake!” 

I don’t know what spurred it. I don’t know why I couldn’t have just been an adult about it and told M I was going to go sit by a pool for a little while, to get my bearings. The unfortunate thing (one of many) about anxiety attacks is that you don’t have much control over them. The only control I had was over my body and that control I used to get myself out of the situation before I crumpled into a ball on the floor of the casino. 

M took me to a restaurant. Got me a bottle of water and something to eat and said that we’d never have to set foot in another casino for the rest of the trip. 

“But…but…I want to play craps at the Hard Rock tonight!” I stammered. 

He pat me on the head. “Aww, that’s my good little gambling addict.”  

The rest of our trip went off without a hitch. And I mean that – not a single hitch. We won money when we gambled, we saw our first Cirque du Soleil show, we had food that surpassed my snotty New Yorker expectations, we made some friends at the craps table – croupiers and bachelor party attendees alike, we had sex in the Heavenly Bed and the Heavenly Bath, we landed safely when we came back to New York. 

The actual flight was another story. I was alternately fine and then crying; quietly reading a book and then sobbing aloud. Turbulence, combined with the fact that the flight attendants were freaking out about a passenger who had locked himself in a bathroom did not make for the easiest ride. All I kept thinking was “he’s going to bust out of that bathroom with a bomb strapped to his chest and DUDE it is ALL OVER.” (Turns out the man just had stomach problems from the beef-and-swiss sandwich served onboard. “Stomach problems, folks!” he announced when he exited the bathroom. Also, he bowed.)  

So, all in all, yay Vegas. Yay craps. Yay my awesome fiancé for taking the reigns and making the trip memorable. 

And a big boo to being back and at work and at a stressful new job.

Yeah, I know a thing or two about jealousy issues. May 2, 2007

To the women who have found my blog by googling the following: 
 
“jealous of his ex”  
 
“GORGEOUS EX GIRLFRIEND HIS”  
 
“my boyfriend’s chunky blonde ex girlfriend jealous”  
 
You, my friends, have come to the right place. No, I’m not any of the ex-girlfriends in question. At least, I don’t believe I am. Except maybe that middle one. I could be her. I kid! I kid! 
 
What we’re dealing with are some jealousy issues here. And, while I may be merely the Queen of All Slot Machines, I am the Czar of All Jealousy Issues. 
 
Well, I may have been recently demoted seeing as I have learned to control and deal with mine (without the help of a mental health professional! All by myself! Am awesome), but still. I know a thing or two about jealousy. I may have even googled something similar back in the day in order to find words - anyone’s words, really - that I could either a) learn from or b) sympathize with.  
 
Most searches came up short, which is why I’m devoting a post to you, Ladies Who Are Now Where I Very Recently Was. Which is to say: jealous, and freaking out about that jealousy enough to comb the internet for information.  
 
Those people who do not harbor an inner green-eyed monster will spew very helpful advice on the subject, such as: “he’s with you, that’s all you have to know” or “if you don’t stop acting this way, he’s going to leave you” or “wow, you’re a psycho.” They don’t understand what it’s like to appear to be a perfectly normal human being on the surface and yet be forced to confront and manage paralyzing jealousy each and every day.  
 
Your jealousy issues most likely stem from insecurities within yourself: not feeling good enough, pretty enough, thin enough, funny enough, smart enough. And, therefore, you assume his ex-girlfriend (or that co-worker he hangs out with, or his best friend’s sister he’s close with) is prettier and thinner and funnier and smarter and fuck it, you should just give up shouldn’t you? Because you’ll never live up. Because he’ll eventually realize he wants to be with her and her tiny thighs and perfect hair and you’re just headed for heartbreak and what the fuck is the point? 
 
Sound familiar? Don’t lie. Yes it does. Otherwise you wouldn’t be googling “GORGEOUS EX GIRLFRIEND HIS.”  
 
Now, there is an exception to this: there is a chance that the insecurity is coming from an external factor. Such as, oh, your boyfriend. If he makes you feel insecure or compares you unfavorably to his ex or if he even still has pictures of his chunky blonde ex-girlfriend lying around the apartment and not shoved in a shoe box, long forgotten, in the back of his closet, then maybe you should rethink dating someone who doesn’t make you feel awesome. I don’t have much experience with that, but it doesn’t sound like much fun. 
 
My experience, clearly, has been within myself. Fighting my own demons. Me versus my evil brain. A brain so evil it manages to create the most unrealistic scenarios and convince me that they are real (he’s sneaking out of my room at night to sleep with my roommate! I know it!). It’s not an easy battle to undertake, but it’s necessary for you and your relationship. Because as obnoxious as people who have never had to deal with jealousy can be, they do have a point: your boyfriend will probably get sick of it, eventually, and end things.  
 
So, you found a photo of his ex. Or you know his ex. Or perhaps you stumbled across her blog, like I did. And now you have an image in your head - an image that is probably very far removed from reality, but still - and you are competing against that image and always assuming that you come up short. 
 
I don’t know anyone who has ever stumbled across their boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend’s photo and breathed a sigh of relief after seeing that she was 20 pounds overweight and covered in acne and wearing clothes she apparently acquired while dumpster-diving. Do you know why your boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend isn’t hideous? Probably because he dates attractive women. JUST LIKE YOU, DUH. Take it as a compliment. She’s not prettier than you, she’s just in your league. And that’s a pretty hot league to be in, if you do say so yourself. You should, like, high five her or something!  
 
And then you should leave it at that. Don’t return to her blog (HA! If only it were so easy). Don’t whip out the picture from his drawer when he’s in the shower and analyze her. It’s not worth it. In fact, ignorance is bliss. You don’t want to know about the sex they had. Or the trajectory of her career. Or where she was from. Because no matter what, you will take that information and store it inside and live with it and mull it over so hard and so long that you end up distorting it to the point that, in your mind, she is the Queen of the World and you? Well you just suck.  
 
I used to crave information about his past. I’ll admit to having done some light snooping in his room. I’ll admit to having done some heavy snooping on the internet. And not one piece of information I discovered ever made me feel better about myself. If anything, I was digging myself deeper and deeper into a self-pity hole and I was dragging my relationship right along with it.  
 
There are some things you should know about your boyfriend’s past: has he gotten checked for STDs? What’s his family like? Has he ever killed a small dog using a pellet gun? All vital information as to his character or values or upbringing. Knowing that he used to call his ex-girlfriend “sexy pookiebear” and that their favorite position was reverse cowgirl is not need-to-know information. So don’t know it. Don’t ask, don’t snoop. It’s really not worth it. 
 
Someone very wise (I’m not sure who, exactly, but trust me, they were smart) once said, “Once you know something, it is impossible to un-know.” (Note: does not apply to keys because, yeah, you once knew where you put them but clearly, as you’re frantically tearing apart your apartment and you’re already ten minutes late for work, you have undoubtedly un-knowed where you put them.)  
 
I’m not saying that you should ignore relationship red flags. If you truly think his ex is still an issue due to his words or his actions, then by all means, re-assess your relationship. The “ignorance is bliss” mandate really only applies to those of you out there who are like me in that you are searching for the relationship’s downfall because it’s too good to be true. Other shoe, dropping. Etc. Since you can’t find anything wrong with your man or the way he treats you, you go to the past and, as a result, cripple yourself with insecurity to the point that you can barely function anymore in the relationship. I’ve been there. I got through it. So will you. 
 
The first step is to stop googling “his ex girlfriend hottest thing in the entire world so fucking jealous.” Stop thinking about her. Stop worrying about her. Stop analyzing her. It’s exhausting and a waste of time and you, pretty girl, have a relationship to enjoy! Go enjoy it! Trust me, once you stop making being jealous of his ex-girlfriend a top priority, the jealousy issues will soon be non-jealousy issues and you’ll be all, ex what? Former girlfriend who? AND LO, IT WILL BE GLORIOUS.

Issues. April 19, 2007

I will never be able to eat whatever I want.  
 
It’s a fact, just like it’s a fact that I have brown hair and green eyes. Or that I am right handed. Or that I was born in New Jersey. 
 
It’s a fact I have finally accepted, after having resisted it for a very long time. 
 
All that resistance played itself out with some major yo-yo dieting: I’d practically starve myself in order to whittle down to a smaller size. Once my goal was reached, I’d reward myself by eating whatever I wanted, the nights of going to sleep hungry and the lunches made up entirely of coffee long since forgotten. Eating whatever I wanted soon meant I could no longer fit into my ideal size, which led to more starving myself in order to get back down. 
 
Fucking. Exhausting. 
 
It took me approximately 12 years to come to terms with my body. To come to terms with the fact that in order to maintain a size six, I must accept that I am not entitled to dessert every night and I must stay active. Sounds simple enough, but I want the best of both worlds. I want to be a size six (okay, four) and still be able to wash down some pizza with a chocolate milkshake. In turns out that, unfortunately for me, the two are very mutually exclusive.  
 
And, while I certainly love pizza and chocolate milkshakes and everything else that is bad for me, I love being thin even more.  
 
It frustrates me that my body’s natural tendency isn’t toward a smaller size. I’ve been a size two and a size four a few times in my life and while I was miserable and hungry and irritable, I have never been more confident. I’d waltz into a dressing room with a size six and feel a rush at asking a staff member to please fetch me a smaller size. Everything fit right. Everything felt right. My body felt right. 
 
Except it didn’t. Because I wasn’t nurturing my body, I was starving it. I was subsisting on a little bit of nothing with a heaping side of nothing. A few bites of an apple. Some slices of turkey. Lots and lots of coffee, because coffee makes hunger magically disappear.  
 
I was at war with myself: the part of me that loved being tall and stick thin versus the part of me that loved to, you know, EAT IN ORDER TO SURVIVE. It didn’t take too long until survival won out, until I was back hovering between a six and an eight, as I always am.  
 
I met M when I was a four. He likes me better as a six. He’s never outright said, “I like you better when you have more curves” but he has hinted. And he’s right - at almost 5’8”, I don’t look particularly healthy when I’m too thin. A six is right for me, which is why my body naturally gravitates toward that number. 
 
Ugh, number. My life–in respect to what I eat and what I wear–is all about numbers. It’s amazing how one number (8! A snowman! A fat snowman!) has the power to ruin my day. I know that an 8 is not fat. I know I should not grumble because there are people out there fighting for their lives against 300/400/500 pound bodies that threaten to kill them. I mean, duh. An 8 is not the end of the world. And yet to me, someone with what I like to call “an eating disorder, sort of” it matters. My size 8 jeans are my “fat jeans” and when I’m wearing them (and I don’t have my period), I feel guilty about every single thing that I put in my mouth.  
 
If I had a few wishes, one (after, you know, world peace and health benefits) would be to be able to eat whatever I want without gaining an ounce. I love food. I love restaurants. I love eating. I love watching cooking shows. I love all of it. But the love is tainted by my dysfunctional relationship with food. I can allow myself to enjoy food in the moment but if I eat something “bad” then I will inevitably punish myself for it later, which–obviously–takes a lot of the joy out of eating the food in the first place. 
 
I’m happy to finally have clawed my way–fighting tooth and nail–to a better, happier, healthier place. My newfound love of all things gym! And exercise! has made such a difference. I can allow myself a bit more leeway with what I eat because my body feels so good. And, in a stunning turn of events, since my body feels so good, I only want to feed it nutritional things. Okay, not only, but the other day I found myself reaching for an apple in lieu of a plate of warm chocolate chip cookies. As in, THE COOKIES WERE RIGHT THERE AND THEY WERE WARM AND THEY LOOKED DELICIOUS AND I CHOSE A DAMN APPLE.  
 
It’s an ongoing process, but I’m proud of myself at the moment. I’m proud of the realization that I don’t have to be a size four; a size six is acceptable. I’m also proud that I’ve accepted the fact that I will never be someone who can eat like a trucker without the negative, fat-ass side effects. Acceptance means I will no longer get caught in that vicious cycle of dieting and gaining ever again. Acceptance means I will strive, instead, to maintain. Consistency and moderation (I hate the word moderation! And yet, it makes so much sense!) are key. 
 
I’ve never been all that good at dieting, as my range of jeans (size 2 all the way up to size 10) proves. I’m sick of the numbers. Just as I’m ready to commit to one man for the rest of my life, I’m also ready to commit to one number. And the (healthier) lifestyle that will allow me to be loyal to that number. 
 
So, six, you lucky bastard you. I’m finally ready to be exclusive.
 

Tagged February 19, 2007

I was thrilled to be tagged by the luscious (no seriously, check her out) Meta as this is not only Monday but a HOLIDAY Monday and I’m still in a little bit of denial about the fact that right now I’m at work and not in bed, snuggling up next to a certain dark, handsome, rugged man.

Being tagged = good because being tagged = Clink doesn’t have to come up with an idea all on her own and therefore being tagged = you don’t have to read some more drivel about me freaking out about growing up. Yay!

I’ve actually done this before, the “Six Weird Things About Me.” (Except last time, it was five.) However, seeing as I am a very strange person, another six ain’t no thing. In fact, I could probably do this every day for the next five years and still not run out of weird things about me.

Anyway:

1. I can’t wear tights or stockings. Not won’t. Not don’t want to. CAN NOT. There’s something about the feeling against my skin and the slight sag at the crotch and the icky control top that makes me shudder (including right this moment) whenever I think about it. It dates back to when I was younger, before my parents decided that they’d much rather play tennis or go to brunch on Sundays, when they forced us to go to church. There was nothing worse than sitting in Sunday School, holding in a primal scream because OMIGOD TIGHTS ARE SOME MEDIEVAL FORM OF TORTURE AND AM I REALLY EXPECTED TO LEARN ABOUT THAT BURNING BUSH UNDER THESE CIRCUMSTANCES? I have a horrible memory, but one thing I do vividly recall from my childhood is racing back to my father’s car with his keys, ahead of my entire family, so that I could jump into the backseat, rip off the tights, curl them into a ball and breathe a huge sigh of relief. To this day, I will go bare legged in sub zero temperatures and risk frostbite and subsequent amputation rather than put on stockings or tights.

2. I watch a plethora of shows that I am way too old to be so invested in (see: Hills, The and Fever, Maui) but the ones I am most embarrassed about are DeGrassi and Insant Star on The N. I only recently revealed my obsession to M and he thought it a bit odd that I am so obsessed with the goings on of Canadian teenagers but seriously people? There’s some great television being made up north (in addition to some amazing snack cakes – I still dream about May Wests, which no one outside of Montreal has ever heard of but OMIGOD IF YOU LIVE IN MONTREAL AND CAN GET THEM, EMAIL ME FOR THE LOVE OF GOD).

3. I sometimes have dreams that include other bloggers, including ones I’ve never met and some who I have no idea what they look like.

4. I am psychotically superstitious when it comes to my alma mater’s basketball team (note to them: You are playing tonight and, for the sake of my sanity, you MUST WIN because the loss on Saturday? It hurt my heart and even though everyone is saying you’re in the tournament already, I am not so certain so let’s get another check in the win column, ok?). If I’m watching a game and they’re winning, I won’t move a muscle and I CERTAINLY will not change the channel during a commercial. If they’re losing, I will shift positions, put on different clothes, change channels, turn the TV off and on and possibly even switch rooms because CLEARLY I am in control of the ebb and flow of the game. Also, I watch the game on mute because otherwise I tend to yell at the announcers, in response to their idiotic or biased commentary, more than is considered socially acceptable.

5. We all know that I’m afraid to fly. That’s nothing new. However, I have a ritual whenever I board a plane: I kiss my hand and then touch the outside of the plane before stepping inside. Once I’m situated, I put on M’s noise-canceling headphones, hold the Pink Dog, do my cross and then, in my head, I talk to my dead grandfather and dead uncle up until take off. During take off, I count 30 seconds because my sister once told me that the first 30 seconds after take off are the most dangerous. After that, I’m able to calm down for a bit until, of course, we hit some turbulence and I inevitably start to cry and declare impending doom.

6. Speaking of flying, whenever a family member or close friend is flying, I track their flight online for the entire duration. I’m essentially on the edge of my seat until the computer tells me: landed, taxiing to gate.

I, uh, probably shouldn’t do any more of these things because reading over the above seems to just reiterate my secret fear that I am TOTALLY FUCKING INSANE.

Happy Monday, y’all.

Impossible to un-know. February 5, 2007

Clearly, it was the 11th Commandment, axed at the last minute due to space constraints:

THOU SHALL NOT SNOOP, LEST YE THEN KNOW SOMETHING THAT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO UN-KNOW.

I was on his computer Saturday afternoon, innocently looking up the operating hours for the New York Historical Society. M was in the other room, watching college basketball.

That’s when it washed over me – the sense of mischief and longing to know that had me all of a sudden clicking on the desktop folder that contains all of his sub-folders and files for the book.

You see, a while back he had mentioned he was thinking of dedicating the book to his parents. It makes sense; they have played a very important role in his life (starting with, you know, HIS CONCEPTION). He hinted, by asking for the proper spellings of my grandparents’ last names, that he was going to be including my family in the acknowledgements.

That’s all well and good but I, being, well, ME, was dying to know where exactly I fit in. (Things You Should Know About Clink #46,938: I am very impatient and, almost uncontrollably, curious.)

I clicked on the “Acknowledgements” file and scanned the words for my name. His editor…his family…his friends…his agent…his co-workers…my family.

No me.

I read it about five times and still could not find my name.

What Was Going Through My Brain At The Time: He’s going to break up with me! HE’S GOING TO BREAK UP WITH ME and therefore he doesn’t want my name to be forever embedded in his book. (However, even though he is going to BREAK UP WITH ME, he seems to be okay with thanking my family for all that they have done for him. WHAT THE HELL. WAH.)

That’s when (ding! ding! ding!) I decided to click on the “Dedication” document.

And that’s when I saw this:

To my mother and father, the cornerstones of my life.
And to [Clink], who inspires it.

And that’s when I cried. And cried. And announced that I wanted to shower immediately so that he wouldn’t see the tears and become suspicious about what on the New York Historical Society website made me so upset. And that’s when I stood in his shower, just stood – didn’t soap up or lather or condition – and wished that, somehow, I could turn back time (wished I could FIND a waaaaaaay) and un-know. Un-know until the moment he wanted me to know. Which, presumably, would be a moment spent with him, opening the book for the first time.

I’m an asshole, I know this. I ruined something for myself by being a complete, utter, impatient jackass.

However, I’m taking this to my grave (you know, after I announce it to the world on the Internet). No one (except, you know, YOU) will know that I know. I will still cry when I see it for the “first” time, he’ll still get a genuine reaction. And la la la, we’ll live happily ever after.

Though, if I’m being honest, even as I chide myself for letting my curiosity get the best of me, I’m still warm and tingly all over (and also, prone to tearing up whenever I think about it) because come on, that is a pretty fucking amazing dedication and I have a pretty fucking amazing boyfriend.

Restless. January 30, 2007

I need a change. Hair, clothes, something.

I’ve been toying with the idea of blonde, mainly because I want to be surprised when I look in the mirror. But, as with many things in my life, my impulses are rarely fully examined and – if my stylist had an open spot last week – I would’ve rashly thrust myself into a world where the upkeep would’ve cost me a few hundred dollars every few weeks.

Right now, under my dainty, classic cashmere sweater, I’m wearing a hot pink push-up bra. It’s no change of hair color, but it’s my little secret (until, of course, I share it with M this evening). I went in for underwear (confession: mainly because I don’t feel like doing laundry) and walked out with something with lace and beading and a ‘pow’ factor, something that decorates – window dressing, for my chest.

Hey, whatever gets you through, right?

The new job is just around the corner and that’s going to be just about as much change as I can handle, I know. Welcome change. Until then, however, I’m feeling restless.

Part of it has to do with my relationship (You: seriously, what doesn’t? Me: Shut it.) We’ve bypassed the honeymoon stage. There wasn’t a defining moment when we looked at each other and said “huh, so this is comfortable coupledom?” We’ve just sort of slowly edged our way to this place, this place where I no longer get butterflies moments before I meet him in the lobby. This place where I’m no longer censoring things that I say in order to present the best (if not entirely authentic) me. This place where I can trip in front of him on the sidewalk, like the glorious klutz that I am, and not immediately turn red, embarrassed for exposing my spastic side.

So it’s nice, and a lot less exhausting than trying to be amazing! and fun! and sunshine-y! all the time. But at the same time, I miss the magic. I miss the nervous energy. I miss (I can’t believe I’m writing this) not knowing where everything was going.

There’s still a lot to be excited about – hello! An apartment! Together! Clink, you are so annoying, why can’t you be excited about that! – but I’m still dealing with the side effects of our relationship’s transition. Most relationships I’ve been in have never got to this point, so this is new. I’m navigating uncharted territory for myself and am, maybe, just a little bit, mourning the loss of feeling like everything was new and amazing and sparkly and omigod, I’m going to like, TWIRL IN THE STREETS because LOVE! Isn’t it GRAND?

There’s still love, of course. It’s just comfortable, broken-in love. Like my comfortable brown hair.

Which may no longer be brown if my stylist can fit me in this week.

Ramblings. January 25, 2007

Things are looking up, for the first time in a while. To the point that I’m like, “oh, so THIS is what it feels like to smile for real. Huh. It’s nice.”

It’s amazing what a little weight off the shoulders can do for the ol’ disposition.

Plus, I’m ordering pizza for dinner tonight. That helps.

I got a call this morning, from the HR department of [very prestigious new place that will soon be giving me paychecks even though I would so totally work for them for free], confirming some things about my paperwork. Specifically, whether or not I have a middle name (I do, it’s Marissa). It set my mind at ease because, of course, Little Miss Overactive Imagination over here has been conjuring up a plethora of worst case scenarios. The worst: that I give notice at my current job and then the new job offer is rescinded, leaving me homeless and possibly pleading for my old job back (“I was just kidding guys! About that whole resigning thing! Har har! Not leaving! All a joke!”).

So, yeah. Even if I have to put in 12 hours today and spend a large chunk of my weekend working, I’m doing it with a smile. A knowing smile. Because there’s a light at the end of the tunnel and I’m speeding towards it.

Also, I’m just basking in the glow emanating from M’s professional successes. Not only did he just get into one of his top law schools today (though, no full ride – didn’t they get the memo?), but…ok. Well. I have a little secret. You see, M wrote a book and it is being published by a major publisher and it is coming out within the next six months and I am GLOWING WITH PRIDE LIKE HE IS MY NEWBORN BABY EXCEPT MAYBE EVEN MORE. As much as I’d love to plug it on this blog and encourage you all to pre-order it on Amazon, I can’t. Anonymity and all, you understand. But the book is amazing and, more importantly, he is amazing. I’ll tell you why.

Today’s example of Why M Is Amazing: He is currently knee-deep in writing the acknowledgements for the book. I got a frantic phone call from him this afternoon, asking for the proper spelling of my grandparents’ names. Because, amazing, Saint-worthy, awesome boyfriend that he is, he’s including my grandparents. In the acknowledgements for his book. Despite the fact that he is apparently 70 words over at the moment. “They’re so supportive of me, Clink.” I know it’s not such a big deal but my heart just feels like it’s going to burst right here all over my keyboard. And why yes, I already cried a little in a bathroom stall, how did you know?

Moving on (and completely unrelated, seeing as I could probably write five thousand words on how amazing he is and I’d better just cut myself off right here, for your sake), there are a few shows that I watch that I think you should be watching too, mainly so that we can chat about them over martinis like “OMIGOD, can you believe that she said THAT?” “I KNOW! Another martini, Clink?” “Like you have to ask, [your name here]!”

I am kind of obsessed with: The (White) Rapper Show on VH1 (I know! I KNOW! But my boyfriend loves MC Serch and we started watching it mainly to make fun of it and now we are FULLY INVESTED, OMIGOD HOW EMBARASSING), Maui Fever (I started watching this in between bouts of vomit when I was sick and now I’m addicted, mainly because I spend the entire half hour trying to determine why all the guys think Chaunte is so hot when clearly Anna is the cutie) and Real Housewives of Orange County (I kind of want to be Jo, in my next life).

And that’s it. Mainly because my pizza is here and it’s time for me to eat two slices and then contemplate a third even though I am unbelievably full. Such is my life.

(Apologies to you all, as these are the ramblings of a woman who no longer has any interest in doing any work. Clearly.)

The Un-Me. January 18, 2007

I snapped last night. About (oh, hey, how’s this for a shocker) something stupid.

I apologized and asked, rhetorically, what the hell was wrong with me. To my surprise, I got an answer.

“You just came off of two twelve hour days. You hate your job. And it’s starting to change your personality.”

He went there. And, the truth is, he’s right.

I’m not the same person he met.

I was: lighthearted, quick to laugh, optimistic and full of life, with a packed social calendar and a sense of self-confidence.

I am: five to ten pounds heavier, bitter, confused and borderline unsociable, with dwindling self-confidence and a penchant for picking fights just to pick them. Just to release some of the anger.

It hasn’t been a smooth ride lately, and he called me out on it. It’s not all my fault, and he knows that too. He mentioned how he was looking at a picture of the two of us in London –beaming, despite the freezing cold and pouring rain– and it made him nostalgic for when life wasn’t so…heavy.

Because it is. Heavy. And I don’t know how to break the cycle. I wake up each morning and vow to make the best. But by 10:30 at night, the smallest perceived slight or miscommunication is enough to have me alternately yelling and crying.

Fuck someone he meets in law school. If anything is going to push him away, it’s going to be this. Me. The Un-Me who has crept in and slowly set up shop, with her anger and her anxiety and her short fuse. I don’t know how to get rid of her – trust me, I’ve tried. I get glimpses of my old self. But the minute I catch myself in a moment and think, “this is good,” I start remembering the not-so-good. The moment is gone and the weight of the world is placed, once again, on my shoulders.

I want to be light. Not just on the scale, but inside. There’s a heaviness there and all the wine, kisses and positive affirmations in the world won’t get rid of it. I want to feel, inside, like I can take on the world. Like there’s so much to look forward to. Like I used to feel.

It’s time to evict Un-Me. I just don’t know how.

Nerdy lesbian goblins. January 17, 2007

The Boy continually finds new ways to blow me away.

Case in point: Yesterday, he was not only accepted at two of his top choice law schools but was also granted full tuition to both. My boyfriend, the hot commodity.

Needless to say, there was a lot of “squee”-ing on my part. Because, FULL TUITION. FREE RIDE. NO DEBT. AWESOMENESS OF MAN I AM DATING.

I was also, around 1am when I couldn’t fall asleep and found myself watching Girls Next Door episodes that I had already seen (uh, multiple times, I am so worthless), hit with the realization that he’s doing this. The law school thing. It is for real.

It’s not that I didn’t think it would actually happen. I knew it would, because the Boy is smart and focused and determined and the type of guy who doesn’t just talk but goes out and gets it done (see why I love him so much? I love him so much). But my mind, it works in mysterious ways. Everything in the future tends to take on a dream-like, blurry quality until I’m actually forced to deal with it. Law school was one of those things.

And now I’m forced to deal with it. Not in a bad, confrontational, put up your dukes, Law School, I am taking you on sort of way. More like, oh, hey, this is going to mean lots of change and maybe I should start preparing myself for that.

I’m worried most about my Trust and Neediness Issues. Because there they are, simmering under the surface, and they do not. like. change. Especially when the change involves lots of late nights, new people (including those of the female variety) and less Clink time for the Boy. I already inwardly cringe when he mentions “admitted student meet-ups.” Which, not really a good sign. I’m still at the point where I can ignore my crazy mind deciding that the Boy is going to meet the woman he will eventually leave me for at one of these meet-ups. I just need to continue to talk myself down from the ledge because the Crazy, it has been kept at bay, but not without quite a bit of effort on my part.

I hate – hate! – that the Crazy can put a damper, however slight, on such good news. Because did I mention the one place offering full tuition? And the other place also offering full tuition? GOOD NEWS. Stay happy, Clink. And envision all of his female classmates as goblins. Nerdy goblins. Nerdy lesbian goblins. Yes.

That time of the month. January 16, 2007

There are a few things that run through a girl’s mind when she misses her period, especially if she is on birth control and actually PAYS (cough 75 dollars a month with no insurance cough) to not get pregnant.

The first is, of course, I AM MOTHERFUCKING PREGNANT.

Which is where I’m at right now. The whole (men, avert your eyes) huh, I think I felt something, better go to the bathroom and check…(minutes later)…DAMN IT! SERIOUSLY! NOTHING OF COLOR? AT ALL? routine is currently my life.

I usually drag this stage out for a few days, bouncing between denial (well, I did work out once last month and I have been under a lot of stress, maybe it’s that) and full-on freaking the fuck out (how the hell am I supposed to afford this apartment and a baby? How the hell am I going to not drink for 9 months? How the hell am I going to tell my grandparents that I’m a good for nothin’ floozie who deserves to be shipped off to the Midwest, given a pair of overalls and a pick-up truck and taught to speak with a twang because PREGNANT? BEFORE MARRIAGE? THAT DOES NOT HAPPEN IN OUR FAMILY).

It’s not fun, this stage. When every waking moment is consumed by whether or not you need a tampon, one’s sanity tends to fall by the wayside (in addition to one’s Internet etiquette, clearly).

In my mind, I always set up a “plan” for the following:

How to tell the Boy: 1. Get Boy to take up drinking after years of…not drinking. 2. Get Boy very drunk. 3. Slip it casually in the middle of a sentence. For example, “So I think the reason Jack had to kill Curtis was because if he just shot him in the knee – oh, by the way, I’m pregnant – Curtis’ muscles might’ve twitched and he still could’ve pulled the trigger.”

How to tell my parents: 1. Don’t tell my parents; bite tongue when mom pats my tummy and comments that I “really should cut out the carbs, Clink.”

How to afford a baby: 1. Erase anything fun – clothes, drinking, movies, my newfound but very beloved gambling habit – from my budget. 2. Decide that I’d like to continue to gamble and drink and hey, the Boy does make more than me…

And, last but certainly the most fun of all, naming the baby: 1. Make a list of cute names for boys. 2. Make a list of cute names for girls. 3. Write names in both script and print to test how it will look when I either sign my holiday cards (script) or sign the kid up for little league (print).

Oh, you weren’t aware that I am totally, mind-bogglingly insane? Huh. Well, now you know.

I’m sure this is just a blip. I’m sure I’ll be writing some sort of UPDATE: I GOT MY PERIOD, PRAISE THE LORD, WHERE’S THE WINE? at the bottom of this post within the next few days. But right now, being in it and feeling all alone (and also, being unable to decide between Ava and Ella, for a girl) really, really sucks. So does the possibility that I’ve been spending $75 a month on useless birth control instead of, I don’t know, GAMBLING (slots! Yaaaay slots!).

UPDATE: Yeah, yeah, you all knew it was coming. Everything is a-ok (aside from, of course, the cramps and the bloating and the CRAMPS OMIGOD).