Gushy McGusherson February 11, 2008

I felt like I was going to vomit as the train pulled into the station, but it wasn’t from the two mini-bottles of wine I had along the way.

Typical first date nerves, where you’re simultaneously worried about your hair, your breath and whether or not you’ll have anything articulate to say.

Meeting Molly was the light at the end of a very long, stressful tunnel: hardly any time with M all week (thus feeling disconnected), a brutal and relentless new job that requires of me more hours than there are in the day (thus feeling stressed and overwhelmed), wedding planning in high gear (enough said).

I was ready to leave it all behind and meet the person who had helped me get through it.

I tend to work myself up over absolutely nothing and this was another one of those times: there was no reason for the nerves. The minute I saw (a very blonde! very pretty! very tiny!) Molly, the minute we created a scene at the train station, the minute I hopped in the monstrous SUV, I knew that there had been no reason to worry.

It was like seeing and old friend, exciting and comforting at the same time.

I would love to recount minute by lovely minute but I’ll spare you every last detail (you’re welcome; I have a feeling the internets don’t find this nearly as interesting as Molly and I do) and just give you the highlights:

-Molly’s town looks like a movie set and her house looks like a dollhouse and her dog and I are in love. We even peed and showered together. Perhaps next time I will be able to actually look Kodiak in the eye while I am sitting on the toilet. Baby steps.

-Michael is tall and handsome and absolutely awesome. I mean, duh. They are clearly so in love with each other. He actually reminds me a lot of M: two rational, quiet, steady men marrying two energetic, gabby, spunky girls.

-If you keep putting bubbly berry and pound cake martinis in front of me, I will keep drinking them. If I keep drinking them, I will claim not to feel their effects. If I claim not to feel their effects, I am clearly in denial/delusional/a liar. See: the next morning.

-Also, if you keep putting bubbly berry and pound cake martinis in front of me, I may break the glasses. BY CLINKING THEM TOGETHER.

-Molly and I are both college educated and, by all accounts, bright girls. So why the hell did it take us an entire day to figure out why Molly’s finger was bleeding at the bar? Because, um, clearly it was the above (as opposed to her zipper.)

-BossMike is the kind of guy that you want to sit and talk to for hours. I’ve met him exactly twice now, but I feel like I’ve known him forever. He’s whip smart and quick to laugh and totally a 25 year old girl, but in the best way. (No really, BossMike! It’s a compliment! Even if I’m no longer officially your Blog Crush.)

-Lunch was delicious but entirely too short. It was capped off by dessert courtesy of PB&Razz and Dear PB&Razz, My future wedding dress does not thank you for the chocolate yummies, but my mouth sure does. Holyomigod, thank you. Love, Clink (& Molly & BossMike & whomever at Molly’s house gets to eat the rest of them).

-It was nice to talk blog with people who get it, as my only other option is discussing things with M, who clearly does not. Considering my increasingly “meh” attitude towards blogging, talking with BossMike and Molly helped remind me why I started doing it and why I continue to do it.  They are what matters; all the rest of it does not.

-Molly’s reception venue is unbelievably stunning. It’s so her and I know it’s going to come together perfectly. I cannot wait until October.

-There were no “we just met so we should be on our best behavior” formalities. By Saturday afternoon, we were both spread out on Molly’s soft-as-butter leather couch, watching bad reality television and sustaining a running commentary on everything from True Life to Air Guitar Nation.

-I knew she was my soul mate when she suggested pizza and more bad television (Sleeping With the Enemy. Julia Roberts + creepy guy who does not blink + overacting = gold) in lieu of getting dolled up and hitting the town.

-I packed entirely too much. To the point that I had to recruit buff men on the train to help me lift and lower my suitcase from the overhead racks. But I think my shoes passed muster with the Shoeru herself (her closet = droolworthy).

-Driving with Molly was my favorite part, because it gave us a chance to talk without distraction. Every conversation was further proof that we just get each other. It was amazing to see our online relationship (I shudder at that phrase, but hey) translate so seamlessly into real life.

I adore her, just like I knew I would. She’s one of the best things to come from this whole blogging experiment. In fact, I miss her already and I wish she lived only three blocks away, instead of three hours. I’m already mentally planning many future trips to Rhode Island, stretching all the way to when we have kids. They can play in the sand and we can lay on the beach and discuss Rock of Love 25 while soaking in some rays.

I can’t wait.

You know you’re going to visit Molly when… February 8, 2008

…half of your suitcase is filled with shoes.

Dear Rhode Island, You will never be the same. Sorry bout that. Love, Clink.

Back. November 10, 2007

Not pregnant.

Sorry for the unintentional cliffhanger. I took the test Friday morning, right before leaving for Logan Airport. By then, the nausea had subsided and I was thinking less about how trash-tastic a maternity wedding gown would be and more about what a dramatic bitch I am.

My assistant and I stood over the sink in the marble bathroom and waited for the line. Or lines. I applied make-up; she hopped from foot to foot, all “omigod, omigod, omigod.”

She’s 23 and has never taken a pregnancy test; it was cute.

“What IF, Clink! I mean, it will be the most adorable baby EVER but still.”

Whenever I have a pregnancy scare, my mind goes immediately to my lack of health insurance. And then to our lack of a two-bedroom apartment. And then to M’s lack of, I don’t know, a PAYCHECK.

We’re not ready.

Except, um, emotionally? I kind of am. Whenever I see a baby (especially those Spears-Federline kids because come here, Sean. Come here Jayden. Clinky will take care of you and you will really like New York City and there will unfortunately be no platinum teething rings anymore but, um, I make really good cookies!), my ovaries start doing a little dance. It’s kind of like a tribal dance, complete with steel drums. A get noticed dance. A WE’RE HERE! WE’RE OVARIES! START FUCKING PAYING ATTENTION! dance.

The result is a lot of squee-ing on my end. Like at the airport when I cooed so much over a baby seated near us at the gate that the mother actually let me hold the child and why haven’t they bottled baby head scent yet? Someone should really get on that.

Anyway. I’m back. Back again. (Clinky’s back, tell a friend…where the hell is Eminem these days? My work outs miss him.)

I’m not back for long, however. I go away again next week where it will be busybusybusy again and I will be wahwahwah again and such is my life at the moment.

Absence does make the heart grow fonder. By Friday, after a long work week spent sleeping apart from my love (and in the same bed as my assistant…she gets scared in hotel rooms by herself and asked if she could sleep with me), my heart was pretty damn fond of M.

During hideous turbulence on the flight home, I put my forehead against the seat in front of me, tears running down my cheeks, and asked the Universe to please let this not be it because I refused to die and then miss M for all of eternity. I don’t care how great this Heaven place is supposed to be - it can be full of calorie-less Chipwich ice cream sandwiches and it will still suck without him.

I mean, seriously. I arrived home to not only our new dining table (finally. FI. NA. LLY) but our new console table as well, festively adorned by M. Yes, the same M with the Patriots garbage can did THIS:

Of course, I added a few touches but still - it was mostly him. I almost died of shock. And then I had sex with him immediately because you know what? The boy deserved to get laid. (Cue another pregnancy scare in about a month! Woo!).

Also, here is our new dining table. Just because:

A few things. November 7, 2007

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

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

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

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

5. Boston is fucking cold, though.

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

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

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

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

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

Tired Clink out.

xo.

Leaving on a jet plane. November 1, 2007

A jet plane that will probably crash.

Seriously, why do I have to fly to Boston? I could walk to Boston if given enough time.

Barring that, I would much rather take the Acela Express. But, according to my boss, this “flying” thing is a much more efficient way of traveling and GOOD LORD I AM GOING TO DIE IT HAS BEEN NICE KNOWING YOU ALL THANKS FOR BEING AWESOME.

Alternate reason I might die: those hangover symptoms that I was bitching about on Wednesday? Well, it turns out that they were actually flu symptoms: fever, sore throat, achy body, runny nose, WANTING TO JUST DIE. Sucks. Am so sick. In fact, I come to you right now from my BED where I have been since 6pm and despite having taken NyQuil, I am still not asleep yet and I am not happy about that. Fuck you evil thing that is doing this to my body just in time for the weekend. Fuck you.

Anyway. I’m gone all of next week. Like seriously out of commission (or dead). “Business trip” during which: a) I will probably find out more about my assistant than I ever wanted to know, b) I won’t be able to sleep because M’s not going to be next to me and c) I will try my best to act like a responsible adult because omigod, I am the boss in the situation. Scary.

I’m going to try to pop in every once in a while but that will probably only be to whine. And as interesting as I find my whining, I’m fairly certain y’all would like something of substance to read while I’m away so guess what! There will be guest posters! For the first time EVER on Such Great Heights. (*Wipes tear, thinks about how her little blog is all growed up.)

The guest posters have been hand-picked by me because, well, because I like them. Very scientific, I know.

Anyway - enjoy them! Because if I die in a fiery plane crash over Connecticut (I’m bad with geography, Connecticut is between New York and Boston, right?), I’m counting on them to keep this thing going.

No pressure, guys.

V.I.B. August 17, 2007

I went to a bridal expo last night. 
 
I did not seek out the bridal expo. As with all things that one should be wary of in life, the bridal expo aggressively sought me out via emails from some “future bride” list that I apparently stumbled onto (The Knot, I blame you) and phone calls from one of M’s friends – a fellow bride – who heard a rumor about “free drinks” and “lots of swag” and thus convinced me to attend.  
 
I could sum up the experience by saying this: we walked in at 6:37pm and walked out at 7:28pm and were sitting in a bar, two rounds each in front of us, by 7:36pm. I exaggerate not.
 
The minute I was handed my V.I.B. sticker (that’s Very Important Bride, duh), I knew I should’ve turned around and walked out. However – as I am very, very good at ignoring my gut instincts (it’s an art, really) – I did not. And before I knew it, BrideFriend and I were quickly escorted from the peaceful lobby of the hotel into a ballroom that… 
 
Well, there’s no good way to explain it. The best picture I can paint is this: you know when you’re walking through a department store to get to the rest of the mall? And inevitably you have to walk through the cosmetics section, because the cosmetics section is usually the part that connects the department store to the rest of the mall? And suddenly you go into ninja mode as you are forced to dodge aging women who took their make-up cues from a pastel clown as they try and spritz you with “this season’s hottest scent”?
 
Yeah, it’s kind of like that. Times five hundred. Except, instead of perfume, you are bombarded with pamphlets (tuxedos! Limos! Cake! Zoom tooth whitening system?) and it’s kind of like a casino in that it is designed to keep you in at all costs. And there is NO BAR, as we found out after a few laps around the perimeter. We even eventually asked one of the women running the expo about, you know, whether there was any place to get a glass of wine or eleventy thousand and she looked at us as if we had just asked if we could eat her arm, as we hadn’t had lunch and were kind of hungry…that’s how horrified. 
 
There were brides everywhere: fat brides, skinny brides, young brides, old brides. And all of them were pushing and pulling and basically acting the way you expect people to act during a riot or a Barney’s warehouse sale.  
 
“This is, like, our Bridal Class of ’08,” BrideFriend said to me, wide-eyed, as we got jostled near the Fortunoff booth. 
 
“I weep for the future.”  
 
Ultimately, we did what any self-respecting anti-brides with slight claustrophobia would do: we quickly hit up all the tables that were handing out free gifts (I now have enough Redken hair products to keep an entire southern sorority coiffed for two semesters) and then we got some cake (delicious! Though when is cake not delicious, I ask you? Or am I just very liberal with how I feel about cake?) and then we stood awkwardly against a wall while waiting for the bridal fashion show – the “highlight” of the evening - to begin. 
 
“So. Um. Yeah, this fashion show should be, um, interesting and, um, I’ve never really been that into David’s Bridal but, um, I hear they have good bargains and…” 
 
“Do you want to leave?” 
 
“I thought you’d never ask.” 
 
We ran out of the ballroom like we were being chased, which we probably were, because those tuxedo guys were aggressive. We made a beeline for the first bar, even though we happened to be in Times Square, threw our 547 (approximate) bags in a booth and begged the server to bring us drinks (and fried food, natch) as fast as he possibly could.
 
I was overstimulated for the rest of the night, unable to focus on even The Fashionista Diaries or Big Brother (that’s when you know its bad). I know that this all sounds dramatic – I mean, it was a glorified trade show for brides, no one should have left feeling like they’d just been through a warzone – but for someone who values her personal space and her unbruised skin and the fact that no means no (I’m looking at you, tuxedo guys), it was kind of a traumatic experience. 
 
However, as I emailed to BrideFriend this morning, we may never be the same, but at least we got some free cake out of it.  

Snippets from Vegas. July 20, 2007

This was my pre-flight meal. Plus about five more glasses of wine.

Hi, I’m a freak. July 18, 2007

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

So, no photos. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, and I did. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back. July 16, 2007

Is there anything worse than the first day at a new job? 

Yes. And that’s the first day at a new job AFTER a whirlwind four day vacation in a city where night flows seamlessly into morning and suddenly it is 6am and you’re still at the craps table and the cocktail waitress wants to know if you’d like a mimosa and you have a 10am flight and you should probably be packing except you’re kind of on a damn roll. Let’s go hard six!  

Hi, I’m tired. Also, addicted to craps. Like, I have dreamt about craps the last three nights. Like, I’m kind of pissed off that I can’t just leave work and go play some craps. Like, my grandfather’s gambling addiction gene just kicked in, after a dormant 25 years. There’s nothing better than craps. (Slot Machines: “Hey Clink! Remember me? You used to LOVE me! You used to worship at the temple of ME! I’m so much shinier than that damn felt table! I have so much more spunk than a pair of dice! WHY OH WHY CLINK! Come baaaaaack.”) 

So. Vegas. Armed with little more than my sluttiest dresses and great tips from my girl and a willingness to pull money out of an ATM on almost an hourly basis, I took on Sin City and came out exhausted, sunburn and did I mention exhausted? But also on top and oddly rejuvenated and even more in love with my fiancé.  

I’ll hopefully get into details tomorrow as I am currently overwhelmed and tired and emotionally exhausted from all the DAMN TURBULENCE yesterday and the number it did on my psyche. 

Also, I’m the new girl. And I feel like I should make some sort of effort on my first day.  

(PS, I missed y’all.)

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.