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’?

Snippets. May 1, 2007

Hi! I have nothing to write about! Nothing at all. Not even shopping (I know, right?) 
 
But I also happen to be a wee bit bored at work, so pointless drivel wins out. Apologies in advance. 
 
-I have been thinking a lot about eloping. Not seriously thinking, more like fantasizing. Kind of like the way I fantasize about going to Australia even though I know it will never actually happen because I don’t think I can be drunk for 24 hours on a plane and it takes 24 hours on a plane to get there. A friend of mine recently eloped. She and her fiancé-now-husband were engaged for all of seven days before they decided to go to Key West and get married at sunset on the beach. No friends, no family, no obscene price tag. “It was just the two of us,” she said, “and that’s all it needed to be.” I know, deep down, that I want the memories and the photographs and to be surrounded by friends and family as I bind myself to another human being for all of eternity. But I also know, deep down, that one day I would like to stop throwing thousands upon thousands of dollars into the abyss that is renting, and the more money saved for a down payment on an apartment or house, the better. I know this line of thinking is fleeting and that once I actually get engaged I will want to plan a wedding. Because I do want a wedding. I just want it to be free is all. 
 
-Speaking of things that are not at all free (and also, speaking of being drunk on a plane), M and I are in the early stages of planning a jaunt to Las Vegas (never been! Not once! Suggestions?) and California (been many times! Love!). We’ve been talking about going to Vegas and LA together since forever and ever. We’re finally starting to get serious about it, to the point that we may actually buy these plane tickets we’ve been mulling over all morning. One of M’s best friends is in Vegas (a short trip for a bachelor party turned into a permanent residence). Casinos are also in Vegas and casinos happen to have slot machines and I happen to be the Queen of All Slot Machines so that bodes very well for me (though not very well for my bank account). There may not be casinos (as far as I know) in Los Angeles, but I’m just as excited to go there. As much as us New York “industry” folk like to take digs every now and then (read: all the time) at our Los Angeles counterparts, I do really love LA. What’s not to love: sun, surf, sand. The three S’s of happiness, I say. I really need a vacation and while I’m still considering Greece in August, August is very very far away. My mental health is not stable enough to make it the next three months without some sort of reprieve, even if it is only 4 days. At least it will be 4 days in 2 very wonderful places. 
 
-The only foreseeable worry about the potential trip (other than the fact that it involves planes! Evil planes!) is that I need my body to be up to snuff by then. And by “up to snuff” I mean “bikini-ready.” While I’ve been great about working out and okay about eating right (okay, I’ve been downright shitty about eating right. Example, from last night: garlic parmesan chicken, lasagna and apple crisp with vanilla ice cream), I need to take it to the next level in order to feel confident come June. I’m going to have to kick my own ass. But maybe the trip as a dangling carrot is exactly what I need to revamp my workouts and my diet.  
 
-My boyfriend is going to Wisconsin on Thursday, to visit his sister and her husband and their delicious child. We were supposed to go this winter, but that fell through because of (my) work. And I was supposed to be going on this trip with him but again it fell through because of (my) work. We were there at around this time last year and while you won’t see me packing up my things and slapping a “Wisconsin or bust” sticker on the back of an RV, I did really enjoy it. Wisconsin is pretty much the antithesis of New York City and is therefore quite rejuvenating. I mean, there are tons of chain restaurants (Like Butter Burger! Which is exactly that, be still my clogged arteries), and no one looks at you funny if you suggest actually eating at one. (I almost lost a few friendships after I mentioned the T.G.I.Friday’s on 34^th Street as a possible dining destination to a group of my friends.) Also, there is sky. And there are stars. And it’s nice to be reminded that those two things do still exist, somewhere.
 
 -This weekend my mom and I are driving down to my alma mater, which is soon to also be my sister’s alma mater, as she graduates later this month. She “needs help” picking out a dress for the dinner dance. That is code for: she wants my mom to pay for the dress. I’m just along for the ride and the shopping at the mall and the free meal (possibly at a chain restaurant! Cheesecake Factory, perhaps?).  Also, spending some time on campus may remind me of just how skinny I was in college which may remind me of how nice it was to be so skinny which may jumpstart my motivation to be Little Miss Twiggy Arms and Legs by the time we go to Vegas and LA in June. Hey, it’s worth a shot.

Tequila is evil. April 3, 2007

The other night, while out with friends, I had to decline tequila.  
 
Since I was not let off the hook simply by saying “I don’t want tequila,” I had to tell the story about why tequila and I are no longer on speaking terms. It is also the story of the first time I got fantastically drunk. You can see where this is going. 
 
It was Greece, August of 1996. I was about to be a sophomore in high school and I weighed about 10 pounds (and still thought I was fat) and I had just been kissed by a boy for the first time and my parents had finally agreed to let me go to a club in the capital city on the island with my cousins and my summer friends and I was kind of on top of the world (except, of course, I still thought I was fat).  
 
We all piled into the back of someone’s pick-up truck (quick tangent: the island, Kefalonia, is very mountainous and the roads carved into the mountains are very windy. Also, they have not yet heard of “street lamps” or “guard rails”) and drove the 45 minutes or so from our sleepy beach town to the bustling (another tangent: ‘bustling’ on the island means a population of about 5,000) city of Argostoli to go to a club called “Music” or “Heat” or “Life” or something equally ridiculous. 
 
The club was situated outdoors and, since apparently I’m related to exactly everyone on the island, the owners turned out to be long lost cousins of mine who called me, affectionately, “the American” and introduced me to Bay Breezes, “onto the house.” “On the house?” “Yes, onto the house.” “Awesome!” 
 
I was dressed in shorty short shorts and a tiny tank top and heels I had bought in Athens and even though I thought I was too fat to live (AHH! I HATE YOU 15 YEAR OLD CLINK AND YOUR PERFECT BODY THAT YOU DESPISED AT THE TIME!), a group of Australians took a liking to me. 
 
And, seeing as the men in the group were blonde and gorgeous and had those amazing accents that made me just want to, like, lick their faces, I took a liking right back.  
 
There was one in particular – Jack – who would rest his hand in the small of my back and who would catch my eye and smile and omigod, I was like soooooo in love with Jack. Jack was 25 and had been traveling since graduating “university” and Jack thought I was beautiful. Jack did not know I was only 15. 
 
“How about some tequila shots, love?”  
 
I had never had tequila. I had barely tasted any alcohol up to that point. I did not yet know that tequila is the drink of Satan and that it tastes of pure, unadulterated evil. I just knew that I wanted to be near Jack. 
 
He led me over to the bar and ordered four tequila shots, doubles, even though there were only two of us.  
 
He licked the back of his hand and began to pour salt onto the moistened area and I must’ve given him a look like “what the fuck? Is that how you roll in Oz?” because he laughed and said, “Virgin?” 
 
Heh. In more ways than one, Jacky boy. 
 
“Um, yes. Teach me.” 
 
He licked the back of my hand for me (I cringe now, but at the time I think I experienced my first mini-orgasm) and poured salt and then gave me the rules: “Lick, drink, suck.” He pointed to the wedge of lime on the bar. 
 
I repeated the instructions in my head, not wanting to suck before I drank and come off looking like an idiot. 
 
So I licked the salt. And I poured the tequila down my throat. And I went to suck the lime (oh god did I need that lime, oh god did I need ANYTHING to take away the TASTE and the BURNING and the EVILNESS) but it was no longer on the bar. It was in Jack’s mouth. And when I moved towards it, he let it fall from his mouth and he kissed me and then I could taste HIS tequila and I kind of wanted to barf but I thought that maybe that would turn him off. 
 
We did another shot of tequila. And then another. And then the next thing I knew I was dancing on the bar, my tank rolled up to just below my bra, my hands running through my hair, singing along to “Train In Vain,” as the Australians chanted “USA!USA!” It was when I started to flash everyone (flash them my boring little white Gap bra, ooooh, titillating) that my cousins intervened and decided – it being 5am and all – that it was time to go home. 
 
I do not remember how I got from the bar to the pick up truck, or why there was a half-eaten gyro at my feet and tzatziki sauce on my face, but I do remember driving back down the mountain and puking out the side of the truck, only to have the wind kind of spray everything back in.  
 
The next day was OF COURSE a major Greek holiday and OF COURSE we had to drive halfway across the island to go to church and see relatives and OF COURSE I was stuck in the backseat of the car, sandwiched between my sister and my babbling baby brother and OF COURSE I had to ask my parents to stop the car a few times so that I could vomit up the sparse contents of my empty stomach in the blazing hot sun. (My parents did not allow me to go to a club for the rest of the summer; it was fine with me.)  
 
I was convinced I would die. I was convinced tequila was responsible. I was also convinced I’d never see Jack again (I was right). To this day, it was one of the worst experiences of my life and every hangover I’ve ever gotten since has never measured up to the Great Tequila Hangover of ’96.
 
I’ve never had so much as a sip of the stuff since. I have, however, gone on to dance on many bars in my youth and perhaps even flash some people (though Gap bras quickly gave way to Victoria’s Secret which quickly gave way to much more expensive, frilly lingerie). However, neither vodka nor gin nor beer nor wine nor even whiskey has ever been as cruel to me as tequila was. 
 
Because tequila is evil. The end. 
 
(What about you? First time you got drunk? Comparable experience or am I just a lunatic?)
 

Best month ever. March 5, 2007

Work is about to get crazy, which is why this weekend was such a brilliant pre-emptive escape. Scheduled relaxation. No sirens, horns, rubbish trucks at 2am. In fact, it was so silent out in Greenport, Long Island that I actually had a hard time falling asleep. I think that means I’m officially a New Yorker.So guess what? Long Island wine is good! So good that I returned with six bottles of it. It gets Clink’s seal of approval. As does the whole “rent a limo and drink copious amounts of wine at various wineries” thing.

I came into work this morning feeling refreshed. Which, of course, all went to shit the minute I took off my coat. I’m a tad overwhelmed, but mostly excited. I’ll be getting out of the office (FINE it’s only Westchester but it’s not an office! And we’ll be spending a week in Florida at the end of the month!) and making things happen and shaping something that millions of people will eventually see.

I’ll also, simultaneously, be missing M a whole lot as he is preparing to depart very soon for his own work-related jaunt to Florida. It won’t be very long – a few weeks at most - but it’s when my Trust Issues are put to the test. It’s quite easy to pass with flying colors when we’re both in the same city, when I see him every night. But take him out of Manhattan and place him poolside at a swanky hotel in Florida and suddenly I am forced to keep my active imagination (a hot woman! In a white bikini! Sidling up to him!) in check.

Which is why the busy is so good. The busy keeps me occupied. The busy keeps me from refreshing my email every five minutes, wondering why he hasn’t responded in hours (he’s sleeping with someone! Duh!). The busy is an important component to maintaining my mental stability. While I’m nowhere near as bad as I was when we first got together, I’m still a work in progress.

All in all, however, things are good. M and I made a pact at the end of last month to make March the best month ever. And you know what? Between job excitement, our recent getaway, what we have to look forward to and the general lovely state of our relationship? It has been.

Yes, this is a "weekend recap" post. November 20, 2006

I’m drinking tea, the herbal kind, sweetened with honey-in-a-bear-shaped-container, both of which I bought during a whirlwind of impulse shopping at Target with my boyfriend’s mother. I somehow managed to drop $150 on nonsense such as herbal tea (I hate tea!), a paper towel holder to replace the perfectly fine, non-broken, absolutely functional paper towel holder I already have and fake berry branches in a fake vase with FAKE WATER.

Ah, the suburbs.

We had a good weekend. Other than coming to the unfortunate realization that cigarette smoke from the Boy’s mother who smokes like a chimney + Clink’s sensitive allergies = an asthma attack scare in the middle of the night.

Lots of time was spent with his parents, which meant that lots of time was spent deflecting questions such as “when are you two going to make it official?” and “won’t it be nice to have more grandchildren?”

We managed to sneak away for a few hours to the Boy’s alma mater. The Boy’s “let me show you around” turned into an all-out eating tour during which we (each) consumed two slices of pizza, a “Goldenboy” sandwich (which should come with a “warning, this product may clog multiple arteries” disclaimer), frozen yogurt and a plate of cheese fries. That’s right. EACH.

Which is why today I am drinking tea in an effort to stave off hunger in an effort to eat very little in an effort to perhaps balance out yesterday’s CalorieFest 2006.

Overall, despite the fact that I am still dealing with a runny nose and an itchy throat and shortness of breath, it was just what we needed. An escape from a city that has come to represent all things stressful to us at this moment in time. Also, I always fall in love with him all over again when I see him through the eyes of the people that gave birth to him.

And that alone was worth the extra five pounds now residing on my hips.

Cute Boston, Cute Boy, Not So Cute Acela Freakin’ Express August 21, 2006

Well, the 6:15am Acela Express from Boston to New York seemed like a good idea at the time.

Yeah, not so much at approximately 7:25am at which point I had been up since 5am, shivering due to the inhumane, arctic conditions on the train, iPod-less due to the fact that I LEFT MINE IN THE BOY’S CAR, OMIGOD DUMB ASS and seeking nasal refuge in the confines of my tank top because the man seated next to me refused to stop farting in his sleep. $100 (one-way) well spent, obviously. (The Boy is lucky I love him.)

All in all, however, traipsing up to Boston on Friday night was worth it and not only because it afforded me the opportunity to play the role of Gloating Bronx Bombers Fan during the Yankee massacre of the city’s beloved Sox – that was merely a huge, huge plus.

There’s not much to report, though. What does one do in cute Boston? One eats at cute restaurants and meets up with cute friends and shops at cute stores located on cute streets. It’s all very…cute.

My boyfriend is also pretty darn crazy cute. I tend to fall in love with him all over again when I see him with his friends and family (he grew up outside of Boston, going up there is a homecoming of sorts). In a way, I fall in love with who he was – feisty toddler, awkward tween, angsty teenager, confident college student – through various memories and recollections and photos. I look at him in a new light. Rather, a more well-rounded light. He becomes so much more than just mine when I learn about who he was and what he meant to other people before we met, before I was even born.

I even snagged two photos of him in his “awkward” (read: still cute as hell, just poorly dressed, thanks mom) years and they are now prominently displayed on my desk. Every time I look over, I giggle. Which I don’t do much of at work lately so it’s quite a feat. One of these days I’m going to learn to operate the office’s scanner and then you will all be able to experience the deliciousness for yourselves.