Registered. August 8, 2007

I resisted registering for a while. Something about it just seemed so inorganic – choosing things to have other people buy for you. I mean, ten year old Clink would’ve been all about it, but twenty-five year old Clink was a bit hesitant.  
 
Besides, I’m Greek and therefore ethnic: it’s all about money in an envelope. 
 
But then people, mostly non-Greek people, started asking. “We want to get you an engagement gift, where are you registered?”  
 
So, Monday night, M and I curled up in bed with his new MacBook (codename: Albino Baby) and got to work. 
 
Rather, I got to work and M watched ESPN and periodically commented, when asked, about whether he liked the cake stand with or without the glass dome (“What kind of cake are we talking about?” “OmiGOD, nevermind.”) 
 
After hours (literally, hours) spent on www.potterybarn.com and www.bedbathandbeyond.com, I was spent. And also, excited. Because I had cobbled together (with some help from the fiance) what our future is going to look like: the Emma collection of dishes in our cabinets, a silver KitchenAid stand mixer on our countertop, high thread count sheets on which our children will be conceived (that was one way to get M to participate in the bedding discussion: “We will be having sex on these so I’d like your input, please.”)  
 
Plus, being an amateur baker (currently an abstinent baker as HELLO MY THIGHS ARE NOT GETTING ANY SKINNER AND IT IS LESS THAN A YEAR UNTIL MY WEDDING), I got to pick out various bakeware to pad my collection (I may or may not ever make mini-quiche or mini-tarts but DAMN it I want the mini-quiche/tart pans, just in case).  
 
But therein lays the problem. When you’re picking out things that will ultimately go on someone else’s tab, it’s easy to choose something you don’t really want or need. Like the ice cream/sorbet maker I initially added to the registry because really, Clink? You’re actually going to mix ingredients and wait for them to freeze instead of walking your ass down to the bodega to get a carton of Ben and Jerry’s Phish food? REALLY?  
 
(I took the ice cream maker off.) 
 
Also, I’m nervous about picking things out and still liking them in a year. I am notoriously indecisive (I am a Libra, after all) and I’m afraid that once the gifts start rolling in I’m going to look at the plates/bowls/wine glasses and wrinkle my nose and ask M to remove them from my sight because what the hell was I thinking? 
 
But, for now, I’m feeling confident in my choices. I’m feeling confident in having chosen a wide array of stuff to segue M and I into being a married couple, complete with matching table settings and serving trays and enough pots that we may actually be inspired to cook every once in a while.  
 
It’s weird. But a good weird. A we’re-getting-married good weird.

BrideFriends July 30, 2007

It probably wasn’t the best idea for me to watch Father of the Bride on Saturday morning considering I was a day away from my period and therefore highly emotional and therefore I sobbed throughout the whole thing. 
 
Like, start to finish. Like, not even an exaggeration. Like, hi, could we get some crazy pills over here? Thanks.  
 
*** 
 
Last night, M and I went out for Mexican (diet? I do not know this diet of which you speak) with two other couples, both engaged.  
 
The sound from the female end of the table can only be described as squawking. Get three brides to be (October ’07, July ’08, September ’08) together in the same place and they will not stop talking for the duration of the meal, only stopping to shovel bites of food when another bride is discussing the roughest part of her wedding planning thus far: the color scheme (“wait, you can have three colors? My world just changed.”)  
 
The truth is, there couldn’t be three more different brides planning three more different weddings. The first child in me feels compelled to make a list: 
 
Bride A: Early thirties, lives at home, from a very wealthy and well-connected family. Is planning what can only be described as a Platinum Wedding. Seriously, people. There’s no way to put this into words except to say that their engagement party was akin to most people’s weddings, with a cocktail hour, a sit-down dinner, a band, a Viennese hour and 200 people. The wedding will be close to 400 people and will feature, amongst other things, an 11-piece orchestra and breakfast served at 1am. BREAKFAST. As in, they are feeding us at the cocktail hour, feeding us at the dinner, feeding us at the Viennese hour and then FEEDING US BREAKFAST. The rock on the bride’s finger is only slightly smaller than your average baseball and they are taking a three-week honeymoon across the world, a “gift” from the bride’s parents (because the “gift” of the wedding and the “gift” of buying them a home clearly wasn’t enough). I’m not bitter or jealous, as it’s not anything I would want for myself (do you even know 400 people? I do not know 400 people). I’m just in awe that something like this is occurring outside of the movies. 
 
Bride B: Me! You know all about my wedding, clearly. But, to put it into context, here are some quick stats: 175 people, held at an elegant, modern loft in Manhattan; very simple and clean – from the centerpieces to the bridesmaids’ dresses; a city wedding through and through for which stunning views, a New York feel and great food and drinks are of the highest priority.  
 
Bride C: Late twenties, very independent, never really thought she’d get married. Refuses to adhere to tradition (might have a pink dress!), wants something very simple and casual. Is currently planning a garden party on an estate in Massachusetts and wants to keep things as low-key as possible. Could not stress enough just how non-opulent she wants it to be; is considering serving barbeque.  
 
See? Different. And yet, when you’re getting married, it doesn’t matter how different your visions are. You are bound because you are women and you are planning a wedding and that is enough to make you fast friends. I know each of these women through M, one is the future wife of his friend from college and the other bride is his friend. I’ve met them both on multiple occasions and have always enjoyed their company.  
 
However, last night was something different. We crossed the line from “friendly” to “friends.” BrideFriends.These are people who actually listen and care when I discuss whether or not pink and brown bridesmaid dresses will clash with black tuxes. These are people I actually take seriously as we debate the merits of a platinum band versus white gold. These are people who can relate when I talk about my seven bridesmaids and how I’m considering adding an eighth.  
 
One of them even admitted to weeping over Father of the Bride, which is proof that being around these new BrideFriends makes me feel less crazy. No easy feat, clearly.

365 days. July 25, 2007

There is a pile of wedding magazines in a basket at the foot of your bed. You’ve torn pages from each one, compiled inspiration into a folder that you told your fiancé was “priceless, so please place that Diet Coke at least fifty feet away from it.” 
 
There is a ring on your finger. You still catch yourself staring at it at random moments throughout the day. You’re not normally so superficial, but you love that ring. It’s perfect. You coo at it when no one is around.  
 
There is a date and a church and the most perfect reception site in the history of reception sites and that is a fact. You and your fiancé picked each one. You will be starting your marriage on that date, in those places.  
 
And yet, it doesn’t feel real. 
 
How could it possibly be real? Isn’t this some sort of cruel joke by that infamous prankster, The Universe? 
 
In a year, you will be getting married.  
 
“Come in a little closer,” you say, “I have a little secret.” You never thought it – all of it – was really going to happen to you.  
 
You thought you’d end up alone. (Pity that you be the only person in the universe to have that fear.) 
 
You’d waded through the Outright Mr. Wrongs and the Mr. “Ehhh”s and the Mr. Wrongs Who You Thought Were Mr. Rights But Turned Out To Be, Yeah, Mr. Wrongs. You’d had your fill, thank you very much.  
 
Enter M, who taught you the definition of “life altering.” Who bit by bit, day by day, gave you more and more hope that maybe you wouldn’t end up alone at 48, in an apartment full of cats (nevermind that you are, in fact, allergic to cats), with a great career and a great collection of wine and absolutely no one to share it with except for your Smug Married friends. 
 
He gave you hope that you could fall - and stay - in love. You truly didn’t think that was really possible. You can’t emphasize that enough.  
 
M was different. Not in a tangible way. He just was. You could feel it. If you believed in auras, you would’ve felt his come in like a cool, refreshing breeze after years of hot and sticky. 
 
With M, you realized you could have love without condition. You could love someone just as much as they love you. You could stare off into the future and see nothing but sunshine and rainbows and fairies sprinkling dust over the two of you as you twirl in fields of gold.  
 
Or something.  
 
One year from today, you will be Mrs. M. 365 days from now, you will be awake, with butterflies in your stomach, drinking a mimosa and alternately crying and laughing and then crying again. You won’t believe your luck. You will ask the universe that if this is, in fact, a three year dream, please don’t wake you up for another 100 years, just to be safe.  
 
You already feel married today, in 2007, one year prior. The wedding is just a grand (“and expensive,” your father would add, with a smile) way of celebrating the fact that you found each other.
 
The fact that you found someone who made you believe.

The Reception Site. July 23, 2007

I’ve never had such a visceral reaction to a place, except for maybe London or Greece. But even then, it was London and Greece collectively, not a specific location therein. 

They said that this was how I’d feel when I tried on the wedding dress. They said that I’d just know that it was right and that the knowing would bring me to tears.  

Except, it wasn’t the wedding dress. At least, not yet. It was the reception site. 

We went back on Sunday, brought my mom’s best friend who has a sharp eye for design. I cried again. A fellow future bride handed me a tissue and said, “I thought I loved this place but hell, it brought you to tears.” “Twice!” my mom chimed in. 

“I just love it here.” I had to stop myself from twirling around on the middle of the dance floor.  

It was everything I envisioned when I envisioned a place to throw the damn awesomest party of my life: loft-like and modern with a fabulous view. I can’t wait to shape it into something that’s mine and M’s. Something ours, against that stunning backdrop. 

Oh, you want to see for yourself?

Operation: Buff Bride July 23, 2007

I wasn’t going to post today but fuck those french fries. They no longer deserve to sit there at the top of the blog and tempt me, all “look at me in all my fried delicious glory, I would taste so awesome in your mouth.” Which, they would. But they wouldn’t look so awesome on my ass, which is the whole point. 

Today officially begins Operation: Buff Bride. There’s no more fooling around. No more “I want Mr. Softee!” or “yeah, I’ll order Mexican food with you, Roommate” or “can I have the chicken parm, please?” There’s no more eating like I’m a 90 pound refugee who has been living on berries and twigs for the better part of a year and needs to put on weight – stat.  

I will now forget that Chipotle exists one block from my new office (mostly by chanting to myself while rocking back and forth “Chipotle does not exist. Chipotle does not exist.”) I will now forget how delicious things that are fried or covered in frosting taste. I will now forget that there are unhealthy options out there. In Clink’s world, only vegetables and fruits and lean proteins exist. Oh, and 90-calorie Special K bars because hi, they’re awesome, and only 90 calories. 

It hit me yesterday, while sitting in church. (No, the white light of God did not come down, strike me and call me a fat ass in the middle of the service. Though, that would probably whip me into shape – hey God, are you there? It’s me Clink.)  

It’s the church where I will get married. One year and two days from today, I will walk down that aisle in a white (hi, unforgiving!) dress and I will marry Mr. Awesome and it will be glorious. It will, however, be even more glorious if I am svelte and confident. 

The church is perfect – tucked away on a quiet Manhattan street, with a beautiful garden and a down-to-earth priest who agreed to do the ceremony in English because he wants M and I to “understand what you’re getting into.”  

My mom and my grandmother and my second mother (my mom’s best friend) came into the city yesterday so that we could attend a service, get a feel for the church, meet the priest and – mainly – make sure it was air-conditioned.  

I’m not a church-goer. I have a complicated relationship with religion, especially a religion that dictates that I am not allowed to cross my legs because it is offensive to God. However, I felt warm the minute I walked in. The people, the church itself, the location – it all felt right. Felt like the perfect place to begin a marriage. I can’t wait to bring M there. 

I also can’t wait to watch the weight just fall off (because that’s how it will happen, right? All quick and easy-like?). My sister, who has always been slim, has gotten down to a size that doesn’t really exist because doesn’t zero essentially mean air? Nothing? Anyway, she looks great. And she feels great. She’s working out all the time and eating smaller portions and essentially doing what they tell you to do in lieu of the quick-fixes because hey! The quick-fixes and crash diets don’t work!  

I want to look and feel great – especially on my wedding day. I don’t want to be covering up or hiding or posing a certain way so my arms look thinner. I want to feel comfortable from every angle. I want my only physical concern to be my hair and my make-up and whether or not I break out in hives like I did before my senior prom.  

So, Operation: Buff Bride. It’s, almost, a year before the big day which means there’s plenty of time for me to do it right. I don’t have to starve myself like I did before Vegas. I’m going to see if there’s some truth to this “eat right and exercise” thing.

And, fear not, I’m sure I’ll be posting photos (from the nose down!) of my progress. Bet you can’t wait to see my guns, eh? Because, oh, THERE WILL BE GUNS! (But lovely, feminine guns!)

Update: Y’all, there is another page on the blog, where I will be documenting everything I put in my mouth from now until the wedding. Seriously. I need to be accountable to someone and who better than my awesome readers? Feel free to start your own. This could be Operation: Hot Bloggers or something like that. Besides, I need the damn support. Lord knows my willpower is about as strong as a piece of Scotch tape.

Bridesmaids. July 9, 2007

I’ve been a bridesmaid once and I can’t say that it was all sunshine and bliss and unicorn dust. 
 
I was 22, fresh out of college, and had just started my very first job. The one that paid me so little that, after covering the exorbitant rent of my first Manhattan apartment, there were mere pennies left. The one I have to thank for being so darn skinny at the time because, quite frankly, I couldn’t afford to eat.  
 
Now how was a girl who could barely afford to eat supposed to buy a ridiculously expensive Vera Wang gown, a gown so low cut she actually apologized to God before walking into the church for the wedding? Let alone afford the shoes and all the gifts (bridal shower, bachelorette party, actual wedding) and the hair and the make-up and the nails. (Some day, my Visa will be magically paid off. No, really, it’s going to happen. I’ll just keep making the minimum payments and, uh, praying.) 
 
I learned the hard way that being a bridesmaid involves a whole lot more than the (very free) “support and love on my big day.” It’s an investment - both financially and emotionally. It’s also a pain in the ass. I, for one, tied countless - countless! - ribbons on programs without the aid of any wine because the bride thought that wine would make us sloppy. I politely informed her that wine would keep us from throwing her out the 18^th floor window but she thought I was kidding. 
 
Deciding on the bridesmaids was one of the hardest decisions of my life. You think I’m joking.  
 
I felt like the bachelor, when he’s in that room before the rose ceremony, and he’s looking at the photos of all the women competing for his love (and their 15 minutes), pondering each and every one. 
 
Except I was just kind of laying on my bed in my jammies one night, staring up at the frames on the wall filled with black and white photos of my friends. Also, no roses. 
 
Essentially, what it came down to was one simple question: Who do I want in the limo with me in the moments before I get out and walk down the aisle and take one of the biggest steps a human being can possibly take? Who is going to make me laugh? Who is going to tell me I have something in my teeth? Who is going to want to cry but will stop herself because she knows that crying will make me cry and subsequently ruin my make up?  
 
Do I want the friend that I adore and see often who is a lot of fun to drink with but is less reliable when it comes to things such as, oh, showing up on time or even at all? Probably not. 
 
Do I want the friend that I don’t see very often but who has been there for me at some major moments in my life and who I can call at 4am for a late-night weepy conversation without a hint of hesitation? Why, yes. 
 
So, the asking has been done. And the girls have been chosen. And they all seem deliriously excited at the prospect. For now. I’m sure the resentment will come - it’s almost inevitable - but I hope to keep that resentment to a minimum. They’re not my personal slaves for the duration of the wedding planning - they’re my friends.  
 
And besides, it’s supposed to be fun. As one of them responded - after I told her I was a bit nervous about asking her for fear that it’s a huge commitment and expectation of someone, “Of course. First of all, I love you. Second of all, who ever complained about the opportunity to get all prettied up and be the center of attention and possibly hook up with a groomsman. Wait - are the groomsmen hot? I get first dibs. Shit, I have to diet.” 
 
And that’s why she’s one of the people I want in the limo with me.

Wedding dresses! (Also, a lame and incoherent post.) July 5, 2007

Hi, I’m confused. 
 
Why am I back at work? Why did I have to set an alarm this morning? Why am I not lounging around in bed with M? Why is M on a plane to Texas for work for forever and ever and ever (or, four days)? Why are my PLANS TO CONTROL THE UNIVERSE AND DO THINGS SUCH AS TURN THE THURSDAY AFTER A HOLIDAY INTO A SATURDAY NOT WORKING? Ahem. 
 
How was your 4^th? Was it kind of dreary and blah with the clouds and the grey-ness and the “well, the weather is kind of appropriate as it is Britain-esque and we are celebrating our succession from them and…wait, no, that doesn’t make any sense at all.”  
 
So yeah. We missed the fireworks. Because we were too busy drinking margaritas and eating guacamole by the spoonful (chips are just an unnecessary middleman). Proof that we are idiots: The packed restaurant cleared out around 9pm. We looked at each other - and the friends we were dining with - and kind of shrugged. I think I actually said, “oh good, now we can talk to each other without screaming.” Had we not been a) drunk or b) IDIOTS, we would’ve realized that everyone was clearing out to head over to the East River to watch the damn fireworks and we should’ve paid our bill and, you know, joined them. I was, however, wearing red (belt), white (tee-shirt) and blue (jeans) so hey, that has to count for something, eh? 
 
Anyway. Work is kind of weird right now mainly because Tuesday was kind of weird. A major project fell through due to the incompetence of a higher-up and two of my most favoritest colleagues handed in their resignations, effective immediately. I’m all “that’s noble, y’all, but I need the damn paycheck” so here I am, without the two people I ate lunch with, got drinks after work with, nipped out for super-secret workday manicures with. And I’m bummed. And feeling DESERTED BY EVERYONE. My colleagues, my FIANCE (*shakes fist in general direction of Texas*).  
 
So, in lieu of doing any real work (if you’re going to make me be here, I am going to silently protest being here by not doing anything related to what you pay me to do, suckas; also, I’m hungover), I will post some wedding dresses that I am currently obsessed with and am considering trying on when I lose ninety pounds and am roughly the weight of a Chihuahua:

Vegas Virgin. June 28, 2007

After much hemming, hawing and “are we really going to VEGAS in JULY?” it’s booked. Done. Non-refundable. We’re going.  
 
(Cue nightly panic attacks about how the plane? The plane is going down. And we? We are going to die. Before we even get married. Well, isn’t that nice. Or, in Alanis’ world, ironic.) 
 
I’m excited, being a Vegas Virgin and all. Excited and also maybe a little worried that it won’t live up to the fantasyland image I’ve cobbled together from the teevee and my fiance’s enthusiastic descriptions and the Oceans movies, which make Vegas look like it is literally dipped in gold and then meticulously shined by a hardworking giant in an Elvis costume until nearly blinding. Then again, this is Vegas we are talking about. It will probably surpass any preconceived notions I have. Explaining Vegas to a Vegas Virgin is probably a lot like trying to explain the internet to an ant.
 
The only bummer is that Molly and I will be two ships planes passing in the night - she’s essentially handing Vegas off to me, as she heads back to the east coast and I head out west at the same time. Now I’ll have missed an opportunity to deduce whether she is, in fact, imaginary or not.  
 
When I think of Vegas, I think of strippers and other surgically enhanced specimens who prance around in hot shorts and bikini tops and little else. I think of Trishelle. I think of beautiful people with little else to do than tan and work out and then tan some more, sitting by the pool, sipping vodka and Diet Coke or something similarly devoid of calories.  
 
That image is intimidating. That image is enough to put me on a strict diet of vegetables and fruit and - save for the sushi I had for lunch yesterday - little else. A tip: Don’t watch Top Chef when all you’ve had for dinner is a tiny salad with balsamic vinegar. It will make you want to cry. I’m not starving myself, people, fear not. I’m just doing that “healthy” thing that is all the rage. I’m also on a mission to go to the gym every day between now and July 14. Seriously. I want to be able to slink into a lounge chair beside a pool and think to myself, “I went to the gym every day for almost three weeks. I rock. I feel good about myself. Yes, even compared to that blonde over there whose body seems to have been constructed out of flesh-toned marble.”  
 
Really, I’m not going to let the body image woes get to me. That’s not what this trip is about. This trip is about a) celebrating our engagement, b) hotel sex, c) continuing my reign as Queen of Slots and d) much needed relaxation for the current Duke and Duchess of Stressed (I carry a lot of titles, didn’t you know?) 
 
I’m stoked beyond belief. And also in need of some Xanax. But mostly? Stoked. 
 
Now, a few questions (though, really, the lovely Leah has already answered many, and the lovely Molly will probably supplement the rest with text/email updates): 
 

-What should we do? Other than, you know, gamble and sit on our asses and get drunk.

-What does one wear in Vegas?

-Seriously, how hot are the girls there? Very hot?

-How many of you think that the first post after I return from Vegas is going to be titled ‘We eloped’?

Seven Facts. June 13, 2007

I’ve been tagged by the lovely Bev (ten diamonds! TEN! I apparently got gypped) to reveal 7 facts about myself. However, since I am recently engaged and therefore all I can talk about is being recently engaged, I’m going to do 7 wedding-related facts. And yes, I apologize in advance.
 
 1. I kind of want to wear my blue Converse Chucks under my wedding gown. They’re my favorite things to put on my feet and I’ll never complain about them hurting or pinching or burning and also, they would most certainly cover my “something blue.” (Also, ‘something old’ as I’ve had them since my sophomore year in college.)
 
 

2. I envision getting married in a loft setting with floor-to-ceiling windows and a spectacular view of Manhattan. I’m thinking tall vases filled with dogwood branches that reach almost to the ceiling and are decorated with hanging votives. I want it to feel like walking into a garden (note: the chicest, most elegant garden in the known universe) floating in the middle of Manhattan.

 

3. I wish people would stop asking me if we have set a date yet. We’ve been engaged for five days and we’d like to enjoy it for just a bit longer before we bog ourselves down with “logistics” and “budgets” and all the other stuff that ends up shoving the romance of it all to the curb.

 

4. I don’t want to spend a lot on a dress. I know, I know - this from the girl that spends over $200 on a pair of jeans and more than that on a pair of shoes. But I can wear both jeans and shoes (and tops, and bags, and accessories) more than once. I probably won’t be slipping into my wedding gown for a night on the town or a breezy afternoon of shopping anytime after the nuptials. So, I want to keep it relatively inexpensive. Except, you know, I keep dog-earing the Monique Lhuillier ads in all of the bridal magazines so there’s a very good chance that while I’m all “oh me, I’m simple, nothin’ fancy” now, it will be a very different story when I start to actually try on dresses.

 

5. Speaking of, I refuse to try on dresses until I get back down to a size four. Which means lunch now consists of some fruit and some coffee and dinner is a salad and the gym is my new home away from home. It also means I am cranky and craving melted cheese on a plate (yes, you read that right). However, once I get over the hump and my body gets over the fact that I’m no longer feeding it rich, delicious foods consisting mostly of pasta, then all will be well. And I’ll fit into the sample sizes.

 

6. I think M and I want our first dance to be to “Kingdome Come” by Coldplay. It was at that concert, two summers ago in Philadelphia, that I realized that I loved him. A few days later, in bed, in the dark, we verbalized it. I want my dance with my father to be to “My Girl.” Coincidentally, “My Girl” played during my walk to work this morning, which meant that the minute I arrived at the office, I ran into a bathroom stall to wipe the tears before I could present myself to my co-workers. Hi, I’m Clink and I’m a total sap.

 

7. It all still doesn’t feel real. In the best way.

So now I’m supposed to tag seven people (coincidentally enough, I’m also supposed to pick seven bridesmaids and I’m having a hard time with that as well). I’m Little Miss Indecisive (Libra stereotype alert!) these days, so I’m putting out an open invitation. If you feel you have seven things about yourself to share with readers then, by all means, go for it. I, for one, love reading interesting facts about other people.

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.