I had a chat with myself recently, in the shower. I told myself that it was okay to not post every day, to not post every detail. Okay to maybe not want feedback. Okay to feel less inclined to read other blogs and leave comments. Okay to think that maybe I’ve outgrown Clink, just a bit. And - somewhere between the shampoo and the shaving - I realized that it was okay to take a step back.

And so I have.

I’ve still been writing - I started a public blog and I’m also writing for a website that is paying me real, actual dollars. To, like, type words. On a screen. In my own voice.

I know. I’m shocked too.

I just don’t feel the need to dissect my life anymore. Not because it’s perfect (see: starting a fight with M while driving back from the Hamptons because his phone was off; it wasn’t even about his phone being off, it was about me needing attention because he’s been so fucking busy lately and hi, I’m High Maintenance, nice to meet you), but because it’s…full.

A friend of a friend recently told me - after about four drinks - that she thinks I have everything.

I told her that, of course, I don’t.

But I do think I have enough.

And at least for right now, having enough means that I don’t need the blog nearly as often. That’s actually a nice feeling, to be honest. The blog was a bit of a crutch for so long, but now I feel like I’m fully healed. Like I can stand on my own.

Of course - because I am the universe’s most favoritest plaything - this could all go to shit tomorrow and I’ll be back to needing a place to exhale, to release some thoughts, to get some feedback.

In the meantime, let’s consider this a little hiatus.

But, before I go, thank you to the thousands of you who have been supportive and withheld judgment, who have read and commented or read and not commented, who have made me feel less crazy, who have made me feel more loved. The universe may like to fuck with me, but not even the universe could deny me some kick ass freaders.

Dear People Who Think My Life is Perfect/I Only Write About the Good Stuff:

Ha.

Hahahaha.

Go back and read a little. This place is chock full of shit about my life that I haven’t even told some of my closest friends. There’s good, there’s bad, and there’s ugly.

There just happens to be a lot of good at the moment. I’ve worked hard to get to this place, this place where the Crazy doesn’t consume me and I’m okay with my body and I have a job that pays my bills and then some and I’m planning a wedding that is going to be one fucking awesome party.

If I want to write about all that good, I think I’ve earned it.

Just don’t think you’re getting everything. That’s just…foolish.

Love,

Bitchy McBloggerson

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Dear Wedding Planning:

Sometimes you really fucking suck.

I’m sorry. I know that you are window dressed in icing and tulle and all things romance but underneath, you are a minefield.

And occasionally, shit - like, say, who is paying for the rehearsal dinner and whether or not they think the place we chose is too expensive and fuck it, I swear to god, I will whore myself out in the Bronx and pay for it myself if it means I don’t have to deal with a whole lot of passive-aggressiveness - blows up.

Luckily, you’re worth it.

Excuse me, I have to go tip-toe around some more issues now.

Yours in jacked up prices and family tension,

The Bride

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Dear New Job,

Four projects. FOUR FUCKING PROJECTS.

I know. I know I asked for this. I asked to come back “home” but I didn’t realize that “home” had gone and gotten all kinds of huge and important since I left.

I’m working consistently from 9am until well into Daily Show time. And the thing I am most pissed about? You are infringing on my work outs.

Huh. I never thought I’d say that.

Love,

Grateful, but overwhelmed in NY

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Dear Miami,

12 girls. 3 days, 2 nights. Loews Hotel. My bachelorette.

Consider this your official warning.

Love,

Clink

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Dear Comments,

You are off indefinitely.

I don’t know. It’s just what I’m feeling lately.

Love,

The Proprietress

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.

…half of your suitcase is filled with shoes.

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

One of the most amazing parts of this line of work is that I get glimpses into the lives of people that I would mostly likely never come across otherwise.

Like, say, a psychic/witch/medium soccer mom. You know, for example.

In a last stab at saving my reputation at this place before I pack up my things and trek back to my comfort zone, having seen a distant land and found it entirely uninhabitable, I have thrown myself into a certain project and this certain project has turned up the individual mentioned above.

My friend turned coworker about to be turned just friend again and I met her for coffee yesterday and, in the middle of a Starbucks, she offered to give us a reading. My friend was much more hesitant, all “gah, I don’t know if I want to know anything about my future!”

And of course I was all “gah, TELL ME EVERYTHING.”

Because, as you well know, I am a narcissistic bitch.

And by the end of the reading I was actually shaking, and not because of the caffeine.

She started by saying something to the effect of “sweetheart, your relationship is near-perfect. It is strong and he loves you and please stop trying to mess it up. You’re only hurting yourself. You’re bringing all of this on yourself…for no reason. Just believe in it.”

I wanted to respond with, “oh, you mean stop doing things such as turning something as simple as a missed call into him cheating on me? Oh, okay.”

She just…knew. She just knew that, at times, I can start building a destructive wall that closes me in and keeps him out. And I need to stop doing it. Pronto.

We moved on to wedding stuff. She said she felt a low-level conflict between me and my mother that happening recently or was currently happening. Which, fine, she could tell by the rock on my left hand that I was getting married and who doesn’t have some sort of low-level conflict with their mother during wedding planning?

And then she said - I shit you not - “the brown is a good idea, you will be happy with it, and your mother has accepted your decision. In fact, she respects you for standing your ground because, in a way, it reminds her of herself.”

My friend looked at me with wide eyes because just recently I had told her about the fight I had with my mother about brown being a “FREAKING FINE COLOR FOR SUMMER, MOM” and how I hated that this disagreement between us was bothering me so much.

Also, she’s right about my mom. My mom is a Leo and she is stubborn and strong-willed and never quite understands why I can never make decisions or why I let the opinions of others influence me. She always says I am my father’s daughter but, in standing my ground against quite a few people telling me they weren’t crazy about my choice, I think she was ultimately happy to see that a piece of her made it into my DNA.

The psychic wrapped up the reading by grabbing my hand and telling me to take care of myself. “I mean it.” She said she kept hearing fast clicking noises and that the pace of my life is gaining momentum and that I need to take care of myself before I can take care of others, otherwise I’m headed for an emotional breakdown (me? Perfectly stable and in control of her emotions me? Naw. Couldn’t be.)

“Kind of like when, on an airplane, they tell adults to put the oxygen masks on themselves first before assisting the children.”

And then, because she went and brought up an AIRPLANE and how could I not, I mean, I’m going to both Vegas and Miami in the span of three weeks in May…I asked her if I was going to die in a plane crash.

Most of you will be happy to hear that the answer is no. That is not how I am going out.

I think I am a bit too willing to believe in this stuff and I know that when I tell M about it he’s going to be all “those people are all sheisters, it’s essentially one big magic trick.”

To which I will reply something along the lines of “I am the yin to your yang, darling. Our energies balance each other, thus making us a perfect match” or something else that will further piss him off. Because he’s cute when he’s annoyed.

-Not everyone likes pink and brown for a wedding (see: my mother, my sister, my aunts, my mom’s best friend).

-It feels good to stand by a decision you believe in.

-Sometimes what you need is a good freaking cry on your boy’s shoulder, right after Biggest Loser and right before some kick ass sex.

-In Defense of Food is an awesome book. You all should pick it up and then we can all be plant-eating healthy people together.

-I thought about giving up the blog but realized that my father has never backed down in the face of negativity, and neither should I. And he has gone through a lot worse.

-I do not like the sound of President McCain. Sorry, M.

-You can love someone in spite of their political views.

-If you don’t like a blog, don’t read it. Simple concept, actually. I do it all the time.

-Nasty emails from strangers WILL eventually make you laugh, instead of making you shake with anger. Really. Even the “I hope your family dies, you narcissistic bitch” ones.

-My friends would totally help me hide the body.

-The Greeks live longer because they eat greens, fish and olive oil. Thanks, Anthony Bourdain.

-Tea really isn’t that bad. I think I was just scarred from working in London and having approximately 3,567 tea breaks a day.

-Posting some fiction, anonymously, on a site created by some brilliant minds is so fucking refreshing. I plan to do it often.

-Live and let live is a brilliant phrase. Try applying it today! You’ll feel so much better without all the negativity. I promise.

Come to any realizations lately?

There will be no more references to the post below. Part of me feels like I made a mistake even putting it on the blog. But another part of me is all it’s my blog, I can post whatever the hell I want, I can abstain from posting whatever the hell I want, I don’t owe anybody anything.

I especially don’t owe a damn thing to someone who wrote nasty things about me and that includes a link to her blog.

Quite frankly, she doesn’t deserve the traffic.

So, um, moving on.

I drove out to New Jersey on Saturday to be a productive bride.

Tangent: M should really take away my keys to his car. While in the parking lot at Starbucks, I accidentally hit a barrier and now M’s front license plate is mangled. While backing out of a parking spot at the bridal salon, I hit the pole of a stop sign. I apparently have reverted back to driving like I did when I was seventeen and would try and make secret deals with the town mechanic to fix my car and not tell my dad.

Anyway, the bridesmaids dresses have been chosen. At one point, there were fifteen of us in a dressing room, debating the merits of a champagne sash versus a sand sash to go with a chocolate brown dress and everyone was kind of looking at me to make a decision and if I haven’t told you already, decisions are not my strong point.

So I did what any responsible, mature bride would do: I kicked everyone except for my mother out of the room and I started to tear up.

My mother, being my mother, rolled her eyes and said something along the lines of “Clinky, just pick a damn color.”

And I did. Chocolate brown dress with a champagne sash it is. (The reverse of what is in this photo, though my sister will be wearing this exact combination since she’s the maid of honor.)

I also had a consultation with my florist, during which a very bizarre exchange occurred.

I was speaking with the assistant at the shop, giving her the relevant information (date of the wedding, how many people in the bridal party, etc). She told me about her own wedding, which was a small backyard affair.

“Sometimes I think that’s the way to go,” I admitted.

“Yeah, well, with your last name you can’t really do that. I mean, the wedding is kind of a glamorous business meeting for your dad, you know? A chance for him to show off.”

I was pretty taken aback. One of my bridesmaids was with me and she piped up. “Actually, I don’t think that’s it at all, thanks.”

I wanted to tell Little Miss Florist Shop Assistant that, while my parents are paying for some of the wedding, M and I are taking on a lot of the expenses on our own (including the fucking flowers). That she clearly doesn’t know my father if that’s what she thinks of him. That she really shouldn’t judge people that she only thinks she knows (cough, cough, COUGH).

Ahem.

As Molly, Peter and M have all said - people are going to judge no matter what. Their perceptions may be off, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I just have to let it roll off my back; paying attention to it just feeds the beast.

It’s a good life lesson for me, actually. I can’t spend my life fighting back against the snarky bloggers and Florist Assistants of the world. They don’t matter. However, being who I am - no matter what - does.

Title courtesy of Peter.

I don’t like every blog that I come across.

(Shock, awe, I know.)

And I don’t expect everyone to like my blog either.

(More shock, more awe, etc.)

But I also don’t ever feel the need to publicly tear another blogger down for being who they are.

Blogging at its best can be a really great community of kick ass people supporting one another.

Blogging at its worst can be me, sitting at my desk, reading the comments of a post wherein a blogger got engaged and her readers begged her not to become me.

And then the blogger herself said they had permission to kick her ass if she did.

It hurts, slightly. But I’m a politician’s daughter and I’m also Greek - I’m tough. I can take it. I stand by both my blog and my writing.

And I can also remind myself that you know what? It feels pretty fucking good to be me.

Even on my worst, disordered eating, Crazy-filled, stressed-the-fuck-out day.

So please, fellow blogger who probably wouldn’t hate me in real life, don’t become me. I have a feeling there’s only room for one of me in this world anyway.

Update: Someone just alerted me that she previously wrote an entire post about me (and, also, my commenters). Aww. Honey. I’m not that interesting, really. Move along.

Words of wisdom that rang especially true after what I read about myself. From a Julia Allison reader. I adore Julia, and she’s someone who knows a thing or two about being judged unfairly:

“ And thank you too, for staunchly standing by the idea that cynicism and sarcasm are not synonyms for intelligence. New York needs a rebellion against the pseudo-hipster passing-as-culture movement, and methinks you’re the one to lead it.”

It happens every year around this time. I should be surprised that I am surprised.

Everything - from the sky to, you know, life - starts to take on a grey pallor.

There is much to be excited about: Eli Manning finding himself at just the right moment, visiting Molly in three weeks, nearly-done Save the Dates, receiving mock-ups of invitations very soon, the realization that it is possible to re-fall in love with your fiance, as insane as that sounds.

But, really, all I want to do each and every day is put on my sweatshirt and the sweatpants M hates so much (splattered with bleach, ripped, unflattering, more comfortable than anything I own) and curl up in bed and drink hot chocolate and not have to talk to anyone.

I don’t know what has gotten into me. Things that were once shiny (even you, blogging) are now dull. Unappetizing. Unattractive (to borrow from Sandra Day O’Connor because, why not).

I blame the bone-chilling cold. The kind that makes me shudder when I even think about leaving the office to get lunch. So, I skip it. Or I forage around in a drawer for some cashews, an orange. Anything to stop the hunger.

Oh yeah. About that.

I’ve taken on “healthy” as my new word of choice when it comes to eating (I know! I’m such a pioneer!). I’m trying hard to eat 1200 calories a day and abide by this rule: “eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants” (credit: In Defense of Food). Some days it seems like an insurmountable number, impossible to attain. Other days, it is a drop in the bucket and I feel I could eat 1200 calories before noon.

I’m working out. I’m drinking water (and peeing. Often. So often that it is getting embarrassing because I work in an open-plan office and, yup, the tall girl with the long hair is going again). I’m doing what “they” say to do so that I don’t, you know, either die or binge my way through life.

It’s working. Kind of. I have headaches, which is annoying, and the bitch that lives in the back of my mind is still hanging out, stilettos on, slim legs and arms crossed, look of disdain, all “you are fucking eating too much. Stop it. Stop it now.” I’m learning to drown her out, mostly with some Kanye or Eminem as I commit to a treadmill for forty minutes or more. I picture the endorphins I get from exercising lobbing spit balls at her and it spurs me on.

Oh. And (raining, pouring, etc.), I recently found out that the Almighty New Job with Old Boss that I was supposed to start in two weeks has been put on hold. Except, um, I already quit my current job.

Sometimes this industry makes me want to throw things. Things like daggers, straight at the chests of a few suits in Los Angeles, whose whims we are at the disposal of.

In a word: blah.

I’ll get over it. But right now, I’d really like the sun to come out and play. I’d really like to have a job in a few weeks. I’d really like to have an epiphany about food and eating and be cured. I’d really like Heath Ledger not to be dead (wtf?). And I’d really like my new shoes to arrive so that I can coordinate a “meet Molly” outfit around them.

I am not, nor have I ever been, a competitive person.

In fact, competition is one of those things that makes me kind of feel like vomiting, right up there with seeing a dead rat stuck to a glue trap on a New York City sidewalk and the thought of M cheating on me.

You see, I’ve was nominated for three Twentysomething Blogger Awards: Best Big Blog, Most Interesting and Most Encouraging.

Of course, in true Clink fashion, I had to make a big dramatic deal (mostly to Peter and Molly) about how I hate competition and I especially hate competition when it comes to blogging, which should be a safe space to be yourself without being a popularity contest.

I love blogging now, when I have a readership that never fails to amaze me and I loved it then, when I got exactly zero comments and five hits a day, mostly by accident. I would do it no matter what. While I’m thrilled that I was nominated for something I’m so passionate about, the thought of there being a “winner” and “losers” makes me break out in hives.

Truthfully, writing is subjective. I learned that in college when one of my professors thought I would be the Next Big Thing and another one didn’t understand why my short stories didn’t have a beginning, middle and satisfying conclusion. Blogging is especially subjective in that you could respect someone’s writing but not be particularly interested in the content or vice versa.

So, I chose to withdraw from the competition.

I know, I know, dramatic. But that doesn’t mean I don’t support the awards - I do, just for other people. Trust me, I’m not sitting here with a “NO AWARDS! DOWN WITH AWARDS!” poster attached to a stick, occasionally getting off my ass to do a few laps around my bedroom (that would mean, um, actually having to leave my bed on this glorious day off and yeah, no.) I just know what’s right for me and I know what’s not and I made a decision based on that.

Not that, you know, any of you were wondering but I felt the need to get it off my chest.

There. That’s better.

And now I’m going to go enjoy my day off (first time I’ve ever had this day off since I started working in 2003) and:

-seduce M, who is currently sleeping peacefully next to me

-work out

-read more coverage of the GIANTS and HOW THEY ARE GOING TO THE SUPER BOWL

-try not to think about the fact that my fiance is a Pats fan

-eat brunch and see a movie and shop with my girlfriends

-finish The Nine (highly recommended book about the Supreme Court for Supreme Dorks like me)

-do a little dance every once in a while because I still can’t get over the fact that I’m not at work today