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.

Happy holidays, lovelies. December 21, 2007

So, I’ll probably be posting over the next week or so because, well, I have time off between Christmas and the new year and there are only so many episodes of Gilmore Girls I can watch on DVD before I get depressed that Stars Hollow is not real.

But I want to take this opportunity to wish you all the happiest of holidays, whatever you might be celebrating.

You all have been so much more than just readers over the past year - you’ve been my therapists, my cheerleaders and my friends. My life is enhanced by both this blog and the blogging community.

And if we knew each other in real life, I’d totally make you some spiked eggnog and Greek melt-in-your-mouth cookies because you rock.

I’m really looking forward to the end of today, to the start of 12 days of freedom (like the 12 days of Christmas, only better).

I’m especially looking forward to:

-My little sister coming into the city tomorrow to celebrate her rockstar LSAT score by getting drunk with me. Because isn’t that how lawyers usually celebrate things? By drinking? Might as well start her early.

-Actually having a conversation with M. (Also, sex.)

-Just being in my parents house - the huge kitchen with dual ovens so I can bake to my little heart’s content, the gorgeous Christmas tree painstakingly decorated by my father, the holiday music piped into every room, my Yiayia (Greek for grandma) and her adorableness (also, her cooking), poring over wedding magazines with my mom and aunts, watching college basketball with my dad and brother, sleeping in my childhood bed and smiling to myself thinking of M, sleeping just two floors below.

-Christmas itself and my loud Greek family whom I wouldn’t trade for the world. Also, food. Because hi, I haven’t told you but I am currently on a diet and Christmas is my one day to indulge and WHO THE HELL STARTS A DIET DURING THE HOLIDAYS?

-Seeing my friends from high school. Getting drunk with my friends from high school.

-Sitting on my couch. A lot.

Again, happy holidays y’all. May your days be merry and bright.

I leave you with a Christmas photo from many years ago (I know, I know, anonymous blog and whatnot but whatever. It’s Christmas. I’m feeling particularly giving):

I’m the blonde. My sister refused to smile for the camera (my little brother? Not even born). My parents sent the Christmas card out like this because they thought it was hilarious.

You know what I find hilarious? The matching outfits. Seriously, parents?

I am flawed, but I am cleaning up so well. October 25, 2007

I have a confession: M and I aren’t perfect.
 
Perfect for each other, yes.
 
Perfect? Absolutely not. 
 
I’ve stopped writing about the difficult times. Mainly because they’re few and far between but also because…Well, I don’t know how to finish that sentence. Because I’m afraid of being judged? Because I’m afraid to share more now that I’m less anonymous? Because now that we’re getting married, I’m afraid that every tiny argument can be seen as a chink in the armor of us? 
 
It was Sunday, the day before my birthday. I woke up with a mood as grey as the sky. Something about twenty-six really got under my skin. I had one day left as a twenty-five year old and I was apparently going to spend it snapping at M and sulking and in general being a not-so-pleasant person to be around. 
 
M, bless him, tried his best. He tried to make me laugh. Failing that, he tried to get me to talk. Failing that, he got a bit frustrated. He’s human. And I had been pushing his buttons all day, dragging him down into my black hole of a bad mood. Misery does love company, yes, but even more than that, misery loves a good fight.
 
I won’t go into the details – that’s between the two of us  – but it escalated. Escalated to the point that I did something I’ve never done: I grabbed my stuff and bolted out of our apartment, letting the door slam behind me, not bothering to lock it.
 
In New York, you can be alone both nowhere and everywhere.
 
I cried once in London, while walking down the high street. It was homesickness, if I remember correctly. Three people stopped me to ask me if I was okay. By the time I got back to my flat, I was smiling. London cared, London took care of me. 
 
New York could give a shit. 
 
I walked to the fountain at Columbus Circle, one of the most underrated spots in the city - especially at night - and took a seat between a disoriented bum and a beautiful teenager sketching evening gowns.
 
I was iPod-less and phone-less and money-less and crying, wiping the snot onto the sleeve of my red hoodie, sitting knees to chest. Suddenly embarrassed, suddenly very sorry, suddenly feeling very stupid and yet still too full of pride to go back. I chided myself for letting my emotions get the best of me, for not being rational, for being such a bitch. A foul-tempered bitch.
 
I fight like my mother and my sister. We’re feisty, we’re Greek, we go for the jugular. If we’re angry - no matter if it’s justified - we’ll tell you everything you don’t want to hear about yourself. We’ll spot your weakness and go in for the kill. This is an attribute that is going to make my sister a stellar divorce attorney in just a few years. However, it’s not something I’m proud of and I definitely wasn’t proud that day, sitting in front of the fountain, mulling over the things I had said.
 
I saw Cameron Diaz first, walking with an actor I recognized from Alias (IMDB says: Bradley Cooper). I welcomed the distraction that came with passing judgment (skinny but not too, a bit of a flat ass, skin looked fine, overall very pretty).
 
Then I noticed a familiar face crossing the street towards the fountain – the stubble, the mess of brown hair, the black jacket with the collar, the one I love. The ice in my veins – ice I had worked so hard all day at keeping in place – melted.
 
He came and found me.
 
He sat down next to me. We just let each other be for a short while, sitting in complete silence, facing forward. The water drowned out the rest of the city, which is the reason the fountain is my favorite place to think. You can’t do anything but.
 
I could be remembering it wrong, but we reached for each other’s hand at almost the same time.
 
Somehow, some way we got from there to a perfect pre-birthday dinner. A perfect after-dinner. A perfect after-after-dinner. A perfect actual birthday. We built back up again after a not-so-pretty crumble.
 
It’s why I’m marrying him.
 
Because we’ll fight - hopefully not often, but it’ll happen. In fact, I’m wary of couples that don’t ever fight, not even just a bit. There are times when the connection, or the communication, they’re just not going to be perfect. There are times when things aren’t going to be easy.
 
But we’ll always find a way back to each other, M and I. And that’s what makes me believe in us, with ever fiber of my being.
 

Thursday is the new Friday. August 30, 2007

Today is my Friday for tomorrow, tomorrow we move.
 
The Great Move-In Experiment of 2007 is underway, also known as FINALLY! (as has been the subject line of our emails for weeks now).
 
I haven’t really been obsessing (You: Liar! Me: No really!) as much as I have been anticipating. It’s like Christmas and also Easter and also my birthday and also the fourth of July and, literally, Labor Day weekend all rolled into one. I’m like a little kid, pacing and fidgeting and tapping my feet and OMIGOD, WOULD IT JUST HAPPEN ALREADY?
 
A little kid who, um, hasn’t packed a single thing. Not one. Single. Thing.
 
Ok, that’s not entirely true. I did take my extensive collection of headbands (I’m a headband girl; don’t judge) and stuff them all into an old make-up case so that I no longer, at 8:42am, when I should be halfway to work already, have to search through drawers and throw things around and grunt and berate myself for being so careless with my things because WHERE THE HELL IS THAT POLKA DOT HEADBAND (I’m a polka dot headband girl; again, don’t judge).
 
The hardest part of the weekend will be staying on track with Operation Buff Bride. I’m dedicated to eating healthier and less, all for the sake of photographs and my self-esteem on the Big Day. I do not want to be focused on the fact that I wish my arms were slimmer come July 25, 2008. I want to be focused solely on the fact that it is July 25, 2008 and I am GETTING MARRIED. Hence, I must take care of the arm (and all-over) slimming beforehand. Like, now.
 
Last night, there was a party for our office building. It screamed New York: a hundred or so hipsters people from various television and film companies gathered in a courtyard smaller than most suburban backyards, networking and hitting on and being hit on and reconnecting about that project they worked on long ago, and omigod, wasn’t that the worst? There was music and appetizers and, most importantly, free booze.
 
Normally, at these things, I am uncontrollable. Someone is always fetching me another glass of wine, I am always picking appetizers off of the trays making the rounds, sometimes two at a time, paying no attention to what I’m putting in my mouth because it’s a party! And it’s free! And my willpower is about as strong as (to shout out my heritage) a sheet of phyllo dough.
 
But not last night. Last night I plucked exactly three bite-sized appetizers off of trays and had exactly one glass of wine. And when I got home I didn’t feel disgusting and disgusted. Funny how that happens. Funny how I woke up this morning not hating myself. I like not hating myself.
 
So, yes, the long weekend, which I hope you all enjoy immensely.
 
Come Tuesday, there will most likely be pictures of our (!!!!) apartment (including one of the infamous Patriots garbagecan, natch). Either that or pictures of M lunging at the camera because CLINK, would you put that thing down already and, like, start unpacking because, like, this is ridiculous and I’ve had to do, like, everything.
 
Also come Tuesday will be the new job. The first time I will be “the boss.” I’m already practicing the many different ways one can say “bow down to me, the Almighty, you lowly assistant.” You’d be surprised.

Would! You! Be! Mad?: M Edition August 27, 2007

It’s time for another round of Would! You! Be! Mad?! Except this time, it’s a limited-edition M version. As in, some things went down at the bachelor party he attended this past weekend (no, not those kinds of things; there were no strippers) and he was suitably appalled, as was I. However, we can’t tell if we’re overreacting or not. I told him I’d ask the Wise Internets, as the Internets – and my readers especially – are very, very smart.  
 
(By the way, hi, tangent: Whenever I talk about the blog now, M sings to me “secret blogggggggg-er” to the tune of that song “secret lovvvvvers.” You know the one. T-Mobile commercial. It cracks me up, without fail.)  
 
So, M is the co-best man for his close friend, who we will call Adam, who is getting married in September. He organized, as per Adam’s suggestions, a weekend for the boys in Atlantic City: steak dinners, gambling, more gambling, yet even more gambling… 
 
All was going fine on Saturday. They had played a few rounds of golf, hung out on the beach, won money at craps, and were getting ready to go to dinner at the most expensive restaurant in the most expensive casino in Atlantic City (it rhymes with Schmorgata.)  
 
M and Adam shared a room for the weekend – all the boys had chipped in to pay for Adam’s half, just like they were going to pay for his dinner, just like they had been buying him drinks left and right.  
 
But no, Adam felt the boys weren’t doing enough. So, as M shaved, Adam suggested that M pull aside the rest of the boys and get them to pony up $30 a person (as there were 12 people altogether, that would’ve been a tidy sum of $360) so that Adam could “gamble for free.” He went on to tell M that he didn’t feel the guys were “doing much” and since they “hadn’t gotten him a gift” (um, SINCE WHEN DO MEN GET GIFTS OTHER THAN FREE LAP DANCES FOR THEIR BACHELOR PARTIES?), he felt that asking everyone to pony up money was a reasonable request. 
 
M was very taken aback, especially because Adam is very soft-spoken and kind and not at all materialistic. 
 
“It screams of something Marley told him to do,” M told me later, Marley being Adam’s bride-to-be. Marley is very materialistic – she’s the Platinum Bride I’ve referred to in previous posts.  
 
So M awkwardly asked all the guys to throw down $30 each so that Adam could gamble for free, despite the fact that they all paid to get down to AC and paid for their own hotel rooms – and Adam’s – in AC and the fact that they were paying for all of Adam’s meals and drinks. Clearly, that wasn’t enough. 
 
“It was awkward. And the thing is,” M said, “I saw him play one game of poker for the rest of the weekend. Seriously, one game. Other than that he was just drinking or hanging around the other guys who were gambling, but not laying any money down himself.”  
 
If that wasn’t fishy enough, here is the final twist: 
 
Before they departed for home, Adam told M he was just going to slip into the Coach store. He emerged with a gift for Marley. 
 
So, yeah. M and his friends threw down their hard earned cashed so that Adam could essentially play one game of poker and buy a new purse for Marley. At least, that’s how we see it.  
 
I’m supremely disturbed. It’s not the fact that it was $30 because, really, $30 isn’t going to break anyone’s bank. It’s the fact that he asked for it, the fact that he felt it was owed to him, the fact that Adam felt that his friends weren’t “doing enough” for him (the pleasure of their company, clearly, was not even a consideration) that makes him a grade-A prick in my book.

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

Seriously, the Patriots garbage can is ugly. Trust me. August 16, 2007

M and I practically live together. In fact, he refers to his apartment as “that expensive closet out in Queens” and usually spends only one or two nights a month there.  
 
So, officially moving in together come September really shouldn’t be a big deal. Except, it kind of is - but not for the reasons you might expect. 
 
Emotionally, I know we can handle it. It won’t be that big of a departure for us. The physical act of moving in together (as in two people, two sets of furniture, one apartment), however, is proving to be a bit more daunting.  
 
M is, as you may have deduced by now, a boy. Please note I left the word metrosexual – or whatever the kids are calling it these days – out of that description. He’s a boy who has collected boy-ish furniture (mostly through a series of “hey, I’m getting rid of this, you want it M?” or “hmm, that book shelf by the side of the road looks like it’s in good shape”) and now he wants to move that rag tag collection of mismatched-ness into our sparkly new apartment. 
 
To which I say: here are the directions to Goodwill, honey. Give them everything. Including those issues of Sports Illustrated that date back to before I was born.  
 
I didn’t think it would be this hard to mesh our stuff, but this is New York. It’s not like we can just throw his oversized Patriots garbage can in the basement of our spacious suburban home and forget about it. If he wants to keep that Patriots garbage can (which he does, he says it would be sacrilege to throw out or donate), there’s no place to hide it. (Except for under the sink, which is probably where it will end up unless I can convince the movers to accidentally lose it on the way from Queens to Manhattan.)  
 
Another disagreement we’ve been having lately: which bed to keep? There is only one bedroom (again, New York) and there’s no place to store an extra queen-sized mattress and no, M, we are not going to just “leave it in the living room” as a “place for people to, you know, hang out.” I want to keep my bed as it is newer and does not gap in the middle. He wants to keep his cough ten year old cough bed because, well, it’s his and he likes it.  
 
We did buy a bunch of furniture at Ikea, mostly at my urging, so that we could have matching bedside tables and sit at the dining table on chairs that are not of the folding variety. 
 
However, the rest of it is proving to be a disagreement at every turn. Granted, it’s mostly playful, but there are serious undertones. We both like what we have and we both do not understand why the other is being so stubborn.  
 
Don’t even get me started on DirecTV versus my beloved Time Warner Cable. Though, he may win that argument as the alternative to getting DirecTV (which comes with the NFL package so he can watch those beloved Patriots while flicking wings into the Patriots garbage can) is going next door to Hooters to catch the games. Rock, hard place. Goodbye Style Network, it’s been real.  
 
So, I ask all of you who are living with significant others or have lived with significant other or anyone who has an opinion on the matter, really: was it this hard? Are M and I being unreasonable? Should I just submit to the fact that half of my furniture will look like cast-offs from a fraternity house? And who the hell wants to keep an aged, sagging bed over an almost brand new, very expensive one?! WHO?!

Breadwinner. August 14, 2007

Now that M has officially started law school, I have the pressure of being the primary breadwinner. As in, when M and I move in together in September, I will be the only person earning anything. (M disagrees: “I’ll have you know that I’ll be earning a degree.”) 
 
I work freelance. Freelance is, by design, unstable. It’s for those types of people who want to work hard for months at a time and then take off for six weeks to go to Thailand because they can, because they’re freelance. They like not being “owned.” They like always having a new challenge. I’m sure most of them smoke pot (how else could they be so calm about not knowing where their next paycheck is going to come from?). They’re what one would describe as “easy breezy,” if one were prone to saying things such as “easy breezy.” 
 
I am not a good freelance candidate, for reasons that should be obvious to anyone who reads this blog on a regular basis (neurotic! Type A! Wracked with anxiety at all times!) And yet, here I am. Freelance. And yes, I have been known to throw up while in the throes of worrying where my next paycheck is going to come from. (Anyone have some good pot?)
 
Now that I’m getting married and now that I am, essentially, a sugar mama to my fiancé, I want something stable. I want something with benefits. I want a 5pm clocking out time and no reason to think about anything work-related until 9am the next day. I want to stop having panic attacks when one project ends and I still haven’t found the next one.
 
And now my safety net is gone. Gone to law school.
 
I joke about being a sugar mama, of course. M actually has more in his bank account than I’ve probably earned over the course of the four years I’ve been in the workforce. He can live and pay for law school for two years without borrowing any money. (Cough overachiever cough.)
 
But still, all that money is going out and none of it will be coming back in until he sells his soul for six figures upon graduation. In light of that, we have decided to start acting like cheapos adults.  
 
We went food shopping Sunday evening because we’ve decided that part of being an adult is kicking our five-ok-fine-six-ok-fine-SEVEN-night-a-week take-out habit. Responsible people bring smushed sandwiches to work. They don’t order an egg and cheese on a roll; they eat a sensible, high-fiber bowl of cereal at home. They actually use the pots and pans that they own to cook dinner (as opposed to ours, which are stored in the oven because the cabinets? The cabinets are reserved for wine).  
 
So, yes, food shopping and bagged lunches. We should have that down payment for a house in no time.
 
Though that $700 we spent at Ikea over the weekend (only my fiancé could somehow find – and buy – chairs at Ikea that are $100 each; the whole point of Ikea is buying a chair for $24.99 and hoping that all the parts are in the box and that it doesn’t fall apart when you sit on it. There is no such thing as luxury Ikea; we got duped) probably wasn’t the most responsible thing in the world. 
 
However, our new Yucca plant, Huey, is very thankful to have a happy home. What, you’ve never gone to Ikea with sole intentions of getting some bedside tables and maybe a lamp or two and have returned with a potted plant, a bag of frozen Swedish meatballs and these:  

  

Really? Just me?

So, M knows. August 13, 2007

About the blog.  
 
Last night, after Rock of Love (and, ok, fine I’ll admit it, after the damn Scott Baio show that I don’t even know if I like but has earned a spot on the DVR series pass list anyway), I told him. 
 
Something came over me, a sense of calm (how dramatic am? Omigod, I am so dramatic, but it’s the truth), and I just knew that I could tell him and that it would be okay. 
 
So I did. And it was. 
 
The first words out of his mouth were, “I’m so freaking happy you’re still writing.” He then disclosed that he knew I kept a journal early on in our relationship but that I seemed to have stopped doing so. He was worried that writing was something that he took away from me the bigger a part of my life he became, the more time-consuming our relationship was.  
 
I told him about how many hits a day I get and how I have a band of readers that I love and how, um, I didn’t exactly meet Molly on The Knot but instead through her blog.
 
I told him how I write about him, and us, but how I have taken extra precautions to protect both his privacy and my own.  
 
I asked if he wanted to read the blog, if he wanted the URL, if he wanted to know the title and what I go by. He left it up to me.  
 
And, truth be told, I wouldn’t be one hundred percent comfortable, or honest, if I knew he was reading every day. I would begin to censor myself – something I promised myself I would never do.  
 
So I told him that I would send him some posts that I felt were representative of the blog. He, of course, understood because a) he’s awesome and b) he’s awesome and have I mentioned that c) he’s awesome? He said, “I wouldn’t ever ask to read your journals, so I would never ask to read your blog. Everyone needs something that’s purely their own.”  
 
He was a little taken aback, I think, once he thought it over and realized that I have had a “secret” for two years. He held my face in his hands and looked me in the eye and said, “you know you can tell me anything, right? Anything.” 
 
In response, I told him that, yes, I trust him implicitly, I trust him with my life, but the blog started before he and I were even official and then it just kind of…stayed a secret. I didn’t mean to hurt him and he knows that.  
 
“Is there anything you want to say? On the blog? To my readers?” 
 
“Yes: Hi Axxxx’s readers. I’m M. I’m sure you’re enjoying her writing, as she’s a rock star. I’m so glad she’s writing, as writers need to write and she is certainly a writer even if she does something else for a living. Oh, and please buy her first book when it comes out.”  
 
Sigh. I love him. And I love the feeling of freedom that comes with having told him the only secret, really, I’ve ever kept from him.

The Engagement Story. June 12, 2007

Every single morning for the past four days, I have woken up and felt the ring and, for a moment, I’ve laid in bed confused. Then it washes over me in alternating waves of tingles and warmth. 
 
I’m fucking engaged. 
 
“Omigod, how does it feel?” they ask, as if I’m pregnant. 
 
“Surreal,” is my go-to answer, mostly because it’s true. Having an oddly dreamlike quality. Yeah, that’s about right. 
 
Some moments I forget. In fact, it happened this morning, on the subway. I looked down at my iPod to change the song and caught a glimpse of my ring and got a jolt. A reminder jolt. A “this is your reality now” jolt. And I smiled to myself, which made the people seated across from me wonder what I was up to. 
 
I’m up to being engaged. 
 
It happened on Friday, June 8. I love Fridays an I love even numbers and I love June - the month, the word - so, really, it was the perfect day. 
 
The week preceding it? Not so perfect. It was hellish, last week was. I was busier than I’ve ever been. I skipped lunch three days in a row. I subsisted solely on coffee and sheer will to make it to Friday afternoon. By the end of the week, I was exhausted. Exhausted and all too ready to leave behind a cluttered desk and a cluttered mind. 
 
I went to the salon to have my dead ends chopped off. To be styled. To sip white wine and flip through magazines. I thought - sitting there, having my hair washed and my head rubbed - that that was as good as the weekend would get; little did I know. 
 
M met me outside of the salon with a bouquet of flowers. I didn’t think much of it because M is the type of guy to know I’ve had a hard week and surprise me with flowers (see why I love him?).  
 
We went to dinner at one of our favorite restaurants and topped the meal off with one of our favorite desserts - an ice cream sandwich sundae the size of our heads, perhaps slightly larger. It took the edge off, more so than the three sangrias that preceded it.  
 
We were planning on heading up to Connecticut that evening, as M had a book signing the next morning and we figured that a night in a hotel (hotel sex! Room service! A bathroom that we don’t have to clean!) would do us good.
 
As we got into his car, in Manhattan, M informed me that we had to make a pit stop at his apartment, in Queens, so that he could pack. 
 
I may or may not have rolled my eyes and sighed loudly and asked, in a not very tolerant tone, “OMIGOD, WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN DOING ALL DAY? WHY DIDN’T YOU PACK EARLIER?”  
 
I did not know, at the time, that he had spent the day with my family. He went with my mother to the family jeweler to get the ring set, after which he popped by my dad’s office to show it off to my dad, my brother, my sister (and all of my dad’s squee-ing colleagues).  
 
Had I known that at the time, there would’ve been a lot less eye rolling and sighing. 
 
We went up to his apartment and, curse of the runty-pea-sized bladder, I immediately went into the bathroom. 
 
When I came out, M was sitting on the couch in the living room. “Um, why aren’t you pack–“ And then I just knew. Something in his eyes. It just hit me. “Are you about to propose to me?” 
 
He smiled, ignoring my question, and asked me to sit down next to him. He then launched into a speech that I’m sure was very delightful and flattering and emotional, but TO HELL IF I REMEMBER WHAT HE SAID. 
 
I? I was in shock. Not fake, omigod, hands-to-face, wide eyes shock, accompanied by tears. It was genuine, omigod, I can’t move, or react, or do anything shock. I apparently did manage to get out a “yes” because a beautiful, round-brilliant solitaire in a white gold setting somehow ended up on my ring finger.  
 
He later told me there were plans, big plans. Complicated plans, involving plane tickets and a surprise getaway to a romantic locale. Except, in true M fashion, he couldn’t wait. He got the ring and, on the drive home from New Jersey, he decided he wanted to do it. Spontaneously. To catch me by surprise. “I couldn’t wait, Clink. I had the ring and I just…couldn’t wait. To be engaged. To you. Plus, I knew it would totally surprise you and you wanted to be surprised.”  
 
Mission? Accomplished. 
 
I eventually came to, though the emotion preceded the realization. (I still don’t think the realization has fully settled in, to this day.) I called my family, all of whom were on high alert and ecstatic at the news.  
 
M packed and we got in his car at around 11pm, to head to Connecticut. We were armed with champagne and chocolate chip cookies and a bridal magazine he had so thoughtfully picked up. We were also armed with adrenaline, bucketfuls of adrenaline.  
 
Car rides are not normally romantic, not outside of a lazy drive through the country in a convertible with a head scarf and sunglasses circa 1950, but this one was. It was a misty, foggy night, which added to everything feeling blurred and dreamlike. We blasted music and sang along and lowered music and talked and kissed when the road was clear and it was safe for M to takes his eyes off of it. We held hands. We (okay, mostly I) stared at the ring. We finally - finally! - freely discussed wedding plans without feeling like we were jumping the gun.  
 
The two of us, in his car, in love, engaged. 
 
We’re still going to take the trip he was planning. The engagement trip. “You would’ve known,” he said. He’s right. Had he whisked me away on a few hours’ notice, I would’ve been anticipating a proposal at every moment. Tonight at dinner? Today on the beach? When I come out of the shower? 
 
I didn’t anticipate this one at all. And it floored me. And damn near knocked me unconscious from the weight of the surprise. And, it was perfect. Perfect for us. Like our relationship, the proposal was no-frills and spontaneous and full of pure, unadulterated love and adoration for each other.  
 
And now I’m a bride-to-be. And he’s a groom-to-be. And we’ve stepped into this adventure - first the wedding planning, then the marriage, then all the rest - together. There’s no one else I’d rather have by my side, come hell or high water or venue costs bordering on obscene.  
 
Somehow, someway, against stacked odds, we managed to find each other. And now, well now there’s no letting go.