Stuff. October 10, 2007

Really? Only Wednesday? Le sigh.
 
I don’t think I told y’all but this past weekend, my parents met M’s parents for the very first time. In retrospect, I kind of wish that it hadn’t gone as swimmingly and delightfully as it did so that at least I would have something to blog about.
 
Other than, you know, how hard it was to find the perfect gold shoes to match Dress #5 (purchased! Decision made! Thank you Internets!) and how Dress # Lots of Controversy About It Being Too White is also purchased and will probably be worn to my rehearsal dinner, if I can wait that long.
 
But yeah, the meeting of the parents was fine. More than fine. I spent way too much time beforehand worrying about it. I even told my parents that they were not allowed to talk about politics (opposite ends of the political spectrum) or baseball (Yankees fans, Red Sox fans, could get messy) with M’s parents.
 
“It’s okay Clink, we’ll just talk about The Hills,” was my father’s response. But even he ultimately followed the rules and everyone genuinely got along. No awkwardness. I know, right? What the fuck? Don’t they know I need at least some drama in my life at all times?
 
Anyway. Here is the final wedding outfit, complete with the accessories I have so far:
 

Why hello there, Dress #5.
 

Gold shoes with 1″ heels, for both comfort and so that I’m not an Amazon woman because at 5′7 and 3/4″, that is of some concern.
 
 

Gold bangle bracelet.

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.

Sunday: A photo essay September 16, 2007

I’m writing this on Sunday, because I won’t be in the office tomorrow, because I’ll be out doing something all important-like for my job and please take a moment to say a little prayer that I don’t royally fuck it up and expose myself for the fraud that I am. (Does anyone else feel like a fraud at their jobs? I keep waiting for them to expose me, because I can’t clearly be deserving of the money they are paying me and the title they have bestowed upon me…can I?)

No, they’re not from the Hooters next door because Hooters has many things but good wings is, sadly, not one of them. That Hooters has good wings is a tragic popular misconception:

 

 

 

“Oh, I’ll just have one.” One or, you know, seventy bajillion. Also: Coke Zero is the nectar of the gods, and that bowl came from Ikea, and I heart it with the heat of a thousand suns:

 

 

 

At least there were wings to bring me joy because the Giants certainly didn’t bring me any after getting crushed by the damn Packers:

 

 

Oh! And the living/dining area is starting to come together. You’ll notice that there are no more boxes in this picture, only M’s couches that I am learning to live with and M himself, reading the paper in his beloved lazyboy. Yukka plant Huey makes a cameo in the corner:

 

 

 

 

Yes, we still need a table. Yes, I am very picky. Yes, I arranged the chairs around a fake table. Yes, I am crazy.

 

 

 

I got the urge to bake. (Not shown: the other two trays.) The apartment still smells like chocolate chip cookies. My mouth is happy even if my thighs and my ass are all “fuck this bitch with her fucking cookies.”

 

 

 

 

Oh and my toe! Remember? From the other night? When the god damn toilet paper holder fell on it? It’s healing quite nicely:

Things I can’t imagine my life without. And other stuff. Because it’s Friday. September 14, 2007

Hi there Friday. Welcome. I’ve missed you. In fact, I’ve been thinking about you all week.
 
We have no plans this weekend. I just checked my planner to make certain because I have a habit of sometimes thinking my schedule is free and clear and then, oops, um, shit, we have a wedding to attend. Five states away.
 
But no weddings this weekend. No anything, except for the Interpol concert tonight. Excuse me while I do a little dance at my desk because think of the possibilities: the cleaning, the gym going, the cooking an elaborate and healthy meal while wearing an apron and heels.
 
Or, um, the lounging around in my underwear until five in the afternoon while watching an America’s Next Top Model marathon. That too.
 
Last night, M and I went out for a kick ass dinner that cost about half of our rent but good lordy sometimes it’s nice to have perfectly cooked steak and expensive wine and your napkin folded for you the minute you get up from the table to go to the bathroom. I almost had a heart attack when the bill came (entrees started – STARTED – at $45), but M paid for the entire thing because he rocks. And also, I haven’t gotten paid at my new job yet.
 
Afterwards I watched Big Brother. Rather, I watched most of Big Brother on fast forward because I couldn’t bear to listen to the gloating and I won’t tell you whose gloating it was just in case you haven’t watched it but let’s just say that they suck. Especially her, with the whining and the waifness and the WHINING.
 
Somehow – through my anger and yes I get very angry at television and yes I should probably see someone about it – I remarked to M that the DVR is probably the one thing I would grab in a fire, for that is how much I love it so and we don’t have any pets so it’s not like I’d have to worry about saving a living thing’s life or anything.
 
I seriously cannot live without my DVR. I can’t imagine a world without DVR. I can’t imagine a world with commercials or being tied to a schedule. DVR has changed my life.
 
It got me thinking about just what else I can’t imagine life without and so – since it’s Friday and the creative part of my brain has a big Gone Fishin’ sign up – I’ve compiled a list. The list only includes material things because, um, it pretty much goes without saying that I can’t live without M or my family or my friends.
 
-Curling iron: I know, it sounds ridiculous, but my curling iron has changed my life. Okay, okay it’s changed my hair but if you’ve ever had a bad hair day you know just how much your hair can affect your life. My hair is not the kind of hair that dries perfectly straight or perfectly wavy or perfectly curly right out of the shower. It needs to be prompted in a direction and the direction I am most fond of is soft waves. The curling iron helps me achieve that look on a daily basis and if it weren’t so covered in product, I would kiss it.
 
-Fine point Sharpies: Yes, I have a favorite type of pen. And no, I will not write with anything else. My handwriting has always been good but there’s something about my handwriting via a Sharpie that makes me so very happy.
 
-MAC Refined Golden bronzer: I haven’t been to the beach this summer. Please reread that last sentence again if paralyzed by shock. My toes? They have not felt sand. Or the ocean. Or a melted popsicle I accidentally stepped in on the boardwalk. This makes me sad. It also makes me pale. So it’s – dun dun da da – Mac to the rescue, as usual. Just a touch of refined golden on my cheeks and the tip of my nose and my forehead and yes, my chin makes me look like a normal human being with a slightly faded tan as opposed to a pale hermit who hasn’t left her apartment in decades because the government!Is out to get me! I know it! I should put another bolt on the door.
 
-My navy blue hoodie: Putting it on is like getting a warm hug from an old friend. No matter how much my weight fluxuates, it always fits perfectly. No matter what I’m doing during the day on a weekend, it’s perfect to throw on. I heart it and will probably wear it until I’m 102 and it has so many holes that it looks like swiss cheese and M will think I’m insane but he probably thinks that anyway.
 
-Chef’s knife: I watch a lot of cooking/chef shows. I also recently read Anthony Bourdain’s book and he said that the only knife one really needs is a chef’s knife. And since I equate Anthony Bourdain fairly closely with God Himself, I do as I’m told lest I incur the wrath of the tall, skinny, silver-haired bad boy of chef-dom. I use the knife for everything – seriously everything. Even when a less sharp, less large knife will do. It also serves double-duty as a security blanket when M’s away. I can sleep with it on my nightstand and in the event of an intruder, it will jump to life and defend my honor and then dispose of the body. Because it is magic.
 
-Newsies: It’s a VHS, perhaps the only one that has survived multiple moves. That’s because I just can’t part with it. Whenever I’m feeling sad or sick or just slightly bored with everything on TV, I pop in Newsies because Newsies makes me happy and I know every word and when I was younger I even made believe that I was a newsie and my name was Kit and all the other newsies were in love with me. It broke my heart recently to read that Christian Bale was kind of embarrassed about the fact that he was a part of the movie. Christian Bale is now on My List.
 
See? It doesn’t take much to make me happy. Some beauty tools, a comfortable sweatshirt, something sharp and a musical about singing newsboys.
 
I’d love to know what you can’t imagine your life without. Please share. There’s no judging here (hello, I just admitted that I watch Newsies. A lot.)

Letters. August 23, 2007

Dear The Sun, 

Hi! It’s me! I miss you! Where have you been?  

What’s that? On the west coast?  

Ok, fine, whatever, yeah there are prettier people out there but you know what? They are sun whores. They get you all the time. All we’re asking is for a brief respite from this five-day, all cloudy, all the time, could-be-November-out-there bullshit.  

Did you by chance get us confused with London?  

Come back soon. LYLAS. 

Xo,  

Clink  

*** 

Dear Interns, 

You’re lazy. Not incompetent, but lazy. I just don’t understand the entitlement of your generation.  

Yes, we work in TV. Yes, we work for a pretty cool company. Yes, it’s fairly relaxed around here. Yes, I am not that much older than you. 

That, however, does not mean you can brush me off with a “yeah, one second” as you update your Facebook page when I ask you to help me out with something.  

And yeah, I took it to the big boss. And, yeah, I was thrilled when he called you in and told you that if I ask you to do something, you should act as if GOD HIMSELF asked you to do something. And, yeah, I’m only here for another week but I’m enjoying the fact that you no longer walk around like you are the princes and princesses of this place. 

I was an intern once too. And you know what? I worked my ass off. And I did it all with a smile. That’s why I am where I am right now. You should probably take note. 

-Clink 

*** 

Dear Family, 

Welcome back from Greece! I missed you. I am jealous of your tans. I am sorry that the sun has taken a brief hiatus from this area. I can’t wait to see you this weekend.

Love,

Clink

*** 

Dear Future Husband, 

You made last night so special: the reservations at our favorite place, the stop at Cold Stone afterwards, how you said that you are so proud of me and you get so happy when someone else (as in, my future boss) realizes how much I rock.  

I love you more than you could possibly imagine. Think of how much you think I love you and then multiply that by eleventy thousand million trillion and then you’ll be somewhere in the ballpark. 

Thinking about you still gives me butterflies. 

Yours, 

Clinky 

*** 

Dear Reality Television, 

You rock. For reals. Even when you break my heart, like you did last night, when Tre got kicked off of Top Chef and I kind of wanted to cry. Ok fine, maybe I did cry but Tre! So poised, so professional, so likable. He had one bad night and he gets sent packing but Howie, Mr. I Couldn’t Get My Frog Legs Plated In The First Episode, gets to stick around? 

But Fashionista Diaries, last night? So good. And The Hills, even if I’m starting to suspect that it is, indeed, fully scripted? So good. And Big Brother? SO GOOD.  

I’m starting to think we have a bit of a unhealthy relationship but I’m clearly not going anywhere anytime soon. Fall TV is right around the corner. 

Kisses,

Clink 

*** 

Dear Readers, 

I am so sorry for this crappy excuse for a post. I’m all out of ideas and who really wants to hear me squee about my job, or bitch about how my mom thinks my registry isn’t well-rounded enough, or complain about how I have no motivation to go to the gym? No one, that’s who.

Feel free to suggest post topics. Otherwise, there might be more of this (*nods upwards*) to come.  

Also, you look really skinny today, have you lost weight? 

Best, 

Your Clink

Snippets. July 27, 2007

-My entire family is in Greece right now. Well, my entire family with the exception of my workaholic father, who refuses to even take a lunch break, let alone a vacation. (He doesn’t count.) Jealous isn’t really the way to describe how I feel. Nostalgic? Wistful, maybe? Prone to thinking that if I sit at my desk and squeeze my eyes shut and think real hard, I can be magically transported there? 
 
There being here:

      

   

-Last night, after my friends had gone home and I licked the last of the hummus off my fingers and took a final sip of what was my fourth glass of wine, M and I headed down six floors in my building to check out the apartment that may (cross your fingers! And any other crossable limbs, please) be ours come September. It’s a smidge smaller than my apartment now, but more than enough space for the two of us. It was late, and quiet – especially for our part of Manhattan – and we just sort of stood in the middle of the living room after touring the rest of the apartment. M pulled me in for a hug and kissed the top of my head and said, “we’re going to have a lot of great memories in this place.” And I? Well, duh people. I cried. (Slash mentally tried to figure out if there’s a chance M’s beloved recliner won’t be able to fit so that we can “donate” it to someone who needs the eyesore piece of furniture more than we do.) 
 
-This is going to sound so, oh, “it’s 1950 and I’m just a delicate flower and I need a man to protect me because my golly, whatever would I do alone?” but a small (tiny! Miniscule!) part of the reason I’m thrilled to be moving in with M is that I will have a man in my apartment night after night. The truth is, M and I spend six out of seven nights a week together. But that one night that he stays in Queens, I am a ball of nerves and stress and fear, especially if my roommate is away or with her boyfriend and I am all alone. I am scared of sleeping alone. I wake up at all hours of the night thinking that I hear someone breaking in in. I’ll huddle in bed, holding my breath, my fingers on the 9 and 1 on my phone. Granted, I live in a doorman building and our doormen are awesome. They know who lives there and who does not and if you do not, you are not permitted inside without first calling up to an apartment. However, no security system is infallible and there’s always that small chance. And, really, sleepless nights do a number on me, even if they’re far and few between.  
 
-Hi I’m Clink and I don’t have any plans for this weekend and I couldn’t be happier. I don’t have any obligations. I don’t have anywhere to be other than, maybe, the hair salon. And the nail place. And possibly Barnes and Noble, if it rains.  Maybe I’ll cook (hmm, enchiladas?) Maybe I’ll sit on my ass and catch up with Big Brother 8 and the various other mind-numbing reality television clogging my DVR. Maybe I’ll just stare out the window fantasizing about my impending nuptials. Anything is possible, people. 
 
-This was the neverending week (this is the week that never ends! It just goes on and on my friend… oops, did I accidentally get the song stuck in your head? My bad. *snicker*) and now it is almost over and that makes Clink a very happy girl.

Last night, I dreamt of mushroom pizza. Seriously. July 11, 2007

Vegas, tomorrow. 
 
The two greatest words ever put together in the long and storied history of the English language. Except for maybe “pizza, now” or “marry me?”  
 
It’s time. The moment I start to get agitated with New York is the exactly the moment I must cheat with another city. Get away for a few days, relax, come back tanned and a bit sedated by the sun and the drinks. It’s inevitable that, on the car ride in from the airport, as we descend upon the Lincoln Tunnel and catch our first glimpse of the skyline, I will fall back in love with New York. I will realize why I am rooted here. I will caress New York’s head and kiss up and down its arm and say, “I’m back, baby. I could never leave you for good. I love you too much. Plus, the pizza everywhere else sucks.”  
 
(Hi, I’m Clink and I have pizza on the brain the way adolescent boys can only think about sex. Scratch that, the way all boys can only think about sex. It’s just, in the past few days all I’ve ingested are two salads, a package of pita crisps, some dried fruit/nuts and coffee. I’m hungry. Treasure Island buffet - as per Miss Molly’s recommendation - watch out. Seriously.)  
 
(Speaking of sex - oh, and hi, I’m Clink the Tangent Queen - ladies, I have discovered a little secret. If you come out of the shower wearing nothing but a small, satin robe, your man won’t be able to keep his hands off you. For serious. I highly recommend.)  
 
Before coming into work today, I stopped by my new job to meet some of the team and get up to speed before I start on Monday. There’s a part of me that is sick - so sick! - of starting new jobs. I know it’s all part of being freelance and that this is, essentially, what I chose for myself. But getting over that first “I’m new here and I don’t even know where you guys keep the staples let alone what the hell I should be doing” hump is never fun. 
 
However, the new place’s atmosphere is one I can get on board with. Example: everyone was hungover as hell from drinking last night after work. When I walked in, they were all stuffing their faces with greasy breakfast food. I thought to myself, “oh yeah, I’ll fit in here no problem.” Also, they throw things at each other, which is my personal favorite way of getting someone’s attention.  
 
Anyway - I’m off! Off to Vegas! Tomorrow! Which means, for those of you a wee bit slow on the uptake, I won’t be posting Thursday or Friday. And I’ll try my darndest on Monday when I start the new job. In the meantime, my archives are over there to the right. Whenever I’m bored, I like to click on this date last year and in 2005 to see what kind of headcase I was than and if I have, in fact, made any improvement in that department. Feel free to give me your own take on it.  
 
Oh! And if you happen to be in Newark Airport tomorrow - hey, maybe you like to hang out at airports, maybe that’s your thing or something, I don’t judge, man - and you see a tall brunette getting toasted at the airport bar, come up and say hi! And maybe buy me a drink. Because, uh, I’m going to need all the drinks I can get. 
 
Also, if I die in a fiery plane crash, I’m counting on one of you to contact WordPress and shut this puppy down. I do not want a part of my legacy to be “wrote about the details of her life - including her Secret Craziness - to various strangers on the dang Internets.” 
 
Ciao, y’all.

10 Things You Don’t Know About Women June 1, 2007

My boyfriend has free subscriptions to almost any magazine that can be labeled “Male Interest” aside from, like, Playboy and Nascar Lovers and Men 4 Men. 
 
They’re all free and unsolicited and sent to him by the publications because he is a Big Shot.  
 
In the beginning of our relationship, when I was trying my hardest to prove that I am a girl who likes sports as opposed to a girl who likes sports because guys like sports, I used to lounge around in my skivvies and skim Sports Illustrated or ESPN Magazine because I thought that would expedite the process of going from “Girl M is Dating” to “M’s Girlfriend.” I was all, “who me? Oh I’m just hanging out over here in that underwear you love so much, reading about Barry Bonds.” (Note: it worked.)  
 
Now that I’ve proved I can accurately define a balk and can name college basketball players from before I was born, I tend to gravitate towards GQ or Details or Complex (com-PLEX or COM-plex? The world may never know). My favorite is probably Esquire. For the articles, I swear! (The articles of delicious men, articles that just happen to be accompanied by shirtless photos of delicious men but WHATEVER. Details, details.) 
 
In every issue of Esquire they have a “10 Things You Don’t Know About Women” page, wherein a scantily clad upper-B-list celebrity gives readers insight into the fickle mind of women. 
 
Tangent: Do we really want those *nods head slightly in the general direction of
Hollywood* women speaking for all of us? I mean, they don’t eat anything ever and they do coke in bathrooms and they sleep with aging directors for parts. Not exactly the most accurate sample of the female population but, I digress. 
 
The current issue features Minnie Driver, who spouts ridiculousisms such as (and I paraphrase), “if you’re going to say something about your ex on our first date, say something nice about her.” Really Minnie? REALLY? Because are you so secure with yourself and your curly hair and your kinda-big head that you wouldn’t automatically wonder if, since he’s saying nice things about a woman he used to date, he wouldn’t still like to, oh, BE WITH THAT WOMAN?  
 
Anyway. The whole point (there is a point! I promise! Ok, there’s a sorta-point!) is that I thought we should come up with our own. 
 
I’ll go first. 10 Things Clink Thinks You Don’t Know About Women: 
 

1.    We dress for other women most of the time. You may not understand why we’re wearing a floaty babydoll shirt that lends itself to “is it or isn’t it maternity?” scrutiny, paired with leggings and wedge heels that burn our soles by the end of the night, but other women do. And feeling stylish in the eyes of other women because we have mastered a trend (or five) makes us feel awesome.
 
2.   We probably won’t shave our legs the first few times we go out with you. It’s insurance against going home with you. Four glasses of wine and a bucketful of your charm may weaken our willpower, but knowing that our gams aren’t smooth as silk is the strongest chastity belt in the world. (Granny-panties and lack of a bikini wax are also time-honored substitutions.)
 
3.   We don’t talk about sex with our girlfriends nearly as much as you probably think we do. We mostly talk about shoes and Project Runway. Sorry.
 
4.   Speaking of our girlfriends, a small part of us will always wonder which one you’d sleep with. We don’t ever want to know the real answer.
 
5.   We secretly worry that natural childbirth will make us, uh, stretched out. You know where.
 
6.   To paraphrase lyrics from a song I heard once, we’d like to see your eyes open up real wide the minute that you see us. Especially if we’re wearing an expensive, sexy dress and just got a $100 blow-out and spent $150 on new make-up. The widening of the eyes (as opposed to, say, “Cool, you ready to go?” with nary a smile) makes it all worthwhile.
 
7.   We’ve already picked out baby names. We will secretly see if our favorite names mesh well with your last name.
 
8.   Tell us if you like our hair when we let it dry naturally. We’re looking for any excuse to put down the straighteners and curling irons. Plus, it’ll probably get you laid.
 
9.   Don’t ever tell us you “forgot to eat.” We obsess about every single thing we put in our mouths; people who “forget to eat” are therefore immediately suspicious.
 
10.  If we were lesbians, we’d probably like to sleep with Jackie Warner from Work Out. Sorry if that kills any of your my-girlfriend-with-another-woman fantasies.  
 
 So now it’s your turn! I clearly don’t have the authority to speak for all women everywhere so, in the interest of sisterhood (or brotherhood! We don’t discriminate here at Such Great Heights), I’d like all of you to contribute. It can be one, it can be a whole other list of ten.  
 
 Soon, men will have no more questions about women. (Ha! Just kidding men! The fact that we’re shrouded in mystery is one of the best things we have going for us. Sorry.)

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

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

Copping out. May 25, 2007

Stolen from the Internets because it is almost 2pm on a Friday before a three-day weekend and I plan on leaving at 3pm to start drinking and really, at this point, I think I should focus on the task at hand for the next hour. (The task being online shopping because as much as this great weather makes me want to LICKNEW YORK, I do need some clothes of the short- and no-sleeves variety in order to not boil to death. Or something.)
 
See y’all on TUESDAY. (That makes me so happy to type. So, so, so happy.)
 
Four jobs I have held:
 
(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:
 
(1) Sliding Doors; (2) Newsies (shut up); (3) Clueless (they called me Cher in high school; the fact that I actually used “as if!” and “what-EVER” as serious forms of communication could’ve had something to do with it. Plus, long blonde hair) and (4) Layer Cake (not so much that I want to watch it over and over, more that my boyfriend watches it over and over and I am usually with him when he does and therefore have proven that I can watch it over and over, albeit somewhat reluctantly).
 
Four places I have lived:
 
(1) New York; (2) Pennsylvania; (3) New Jersey; and (4) London.
 
Four categories of TV programming I enjoy:
 
(1) Reality (ANTM, Pussycat Dolls, Project Runway, Top Chef, Real Housewives of Orange County, Work Out, The Hills, the list goes on and on and on and on (and on)); (2) Action/Adventure/Drama (Heroes, 24); (3) Cooking shows (Ina, Nigella, Giada); and (4) Did I mention reality shows? Maybe I should one more time.
 
Four places I have been on holiday:
 
(1) Greece; (2) Brussels (accidentally); (3) Amsterdam; and (4) Wisconsin.
 
Four of my favorite dishes:
 
(1) The four-cheese gnocchi at Bianca; (2) pizza; (3) cheeseburgers, made by my mom and grilled by my dad; and (4) anything that involves something warm (brownies, pie, cobbler) coupled with vanilla ice cream. 
 
Four websites I visit daily:
 
(1) Gmail; (2) New York Times; (3) Gawker; and (4) My kick-ass (and growing!) blogroll.
 
Four places I would rather be right now:
 
(1) At my family’s house in Greece, reading on the veranda; (2) next to my boyfriend, in bed; (3) eating any of the above favorite dishes; (4) in Target (duh).