I recently told Re-Boyfriend that he was welcome to move in to my apartment on January 1st. I made that statement with the best of intentions, both financial and emotional, then found myself slightly freaked out and spending ridiculous amounts of money because hey, soon my rent is halving and how many people in Manhattan can say that?

Due to the impending domestic bliss, I have been a bit guarded with my personal time. Or, as I so Freudianly told Re-Boyfriend, “We’ll be living together soon, so why don’t we spend as much time apart as possible? Um. Er. Not as much as possible but...you know.”

Last night was one of the nights I wanted to revel in my soon-ending single habitation. I wanted to sit with my greasy, unwashed hair, watching bad television and playing Playstation 2 (one of the benefits of having your boyfriend begin to move in) until I went to bed at a ridiculously early hour.

But because Re-Boyfriend is pretty cute, and because he had a big day at work coming up, I told him he could come over. “But I’m going to sleep soon,” I warned him. “And I want to read in bed alone. And I haven’t showered.”

When Re-Boyfriend arrived I kissed his cheek, went to my (our) bedroom and said “I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” closing the door and leaving him in the living room a little confused at my hasty departure. I pulled out my book and snuggled under the covers. I felt that I had discovered the secret to living with Re-Boyfriend—pretending he didn’t exist at various intervals.

Then I looked up and saw the (literally) biggest cockroach I have ever seen on top of the (very tall) window.

I ran out of the room, hopped on the couch and stuck my head in Re-Boyfriend’s lap.

“What? What?”

I looked up at him.

“The biggest cockroach I have ever seen in my entire life is in my room.”

He sort of patted my head before getting up to investigate.

“Fuck. That thing is really big,” he said surprised.

After many attempts (dustbuster, swiffer, dustbuster on chair, swiffer on chair, shoe, bare hands) Re-Boyfriend killed the thing.

I kissed him in the “My hero” fashion.

“Do you want anything? I feel like I should give you something,” I told him.

“Like what?” he asked, washing his hands.

“Apple tea?”

“That’s okay.”

“I don’t really have anything else.” I thought. “Tortilla chips?”

He smiled at me. I was suddenly overrun with guilt and shame for wanting to be away from a guy that was so sweetly killing cockroaches and accepting my read-alone-in-my-room bitchery.

“Hey,” I said. “Isn’t this like a sitcom? Where I want to be by myself, but then there’s a cockroach, and you kill it, and I see the error of my ways and appreciate your presence more?”

“Have you really seen the error of your ways?”

I thought about it.

“Not really actually.”

“I didn’t think so.”

But I think that I should be seeing the error of my ways, which is probably the first step.

My First Internet Crush

Dan from The Daily Dump is back. Most of you probably already know this. If you didn’t know then good for you but know this—Dan never posts about “Go to this bar it’s awesome!” or “Yesterday my cat pooped,” but if he did I bet he could make it funny. Also, he is very cute.

Exhibit A: http://www.blogger.com/profile/8501708

Now he’s started a blog called [Redacted] which I am sure is very intelligent and meta and all that but who the hell cares because if you read the Tuesday, November 21st entry, you will find that Dan is available. The black shirt wearing, scruff rocking diva from Exhibit A is available. And he is coming off a break-up which catapults him into official internet crush territory.

If a man was in a relationship we can infer that the man in question is capable of commitment and, most likely, has a sensitive side. This closely correlates with every woman’s fantasy of a man who frolics with puppies in the park and cooks pasta for dinner. (Whatever, I know that is not just me).

A recent break-up also means that the man is probably in no mood to commit again, is most likely a little bitter, and hopefully has developed a drinking/smoking habit. This, as we all know, is pretty close to every woman’s bad boy fantasy. (Sorry Dr. Phil!)

Not to discount looks and humor—there is nothing sadder than an ugly, stupid man still moping over the last girl who let him touch her boobs—but men who have recently undergone an angst-ridden break-up are the best of both fantasy worlds. Ergo, damaged goods is the new sexy.

And, of course, there is Dan’s updated picture.

Exhibit B: http://beta.blogger.com/profile/11658183647655049121

It’s almost too much.

Winner of CB's Internet Affections: Dan

But only for a few months until the break-up luster wears off.

Instead of owning up to one’s mistakes, one should lock all proof of them in a drawer (yay new desk keys!). I am not sure what, precisely, this accomplishes, but it seems to be a pretty good compromise between destroying the evidence and coming forward with it.

And, if I am ever found out, I will figure out a way to blame Perky. Everybody knows you can “legitimately” blame fuck-ups on the last person to leave for up to two months after their departure.

This makes for a tricky situation when deciding who you can use as a reference, but such is the nature of the business world.

Fear vs. Love

I think Machiavelli’s whole “It is better to be feared than loved” thing needs to be reconsidered.

Let’s say, only as an example, that a shit-hitting-the-fan situation was brewing. And let’s also say that I had inadvertently created the shit that was waiting to hit the fan. Let’s then say that I then felt bad about it.

Just hypothetically.

If I loved my boss I would rationally confess to my wrongdoings, apologize and try to offer ways the situation could be fixed or at least improved.

If I feared my boss I would promptly turn my cubicle into a fortress of secrecy on high-alert (huddling over papers, periodically glancing over my shoulder) and engage in a massive cover-up operation designed to mask who exactly (me) was at fault. Then I would prepare to maintain a straight face during the department wide finger-pointing extravaganza.

Again, just a hypothetical.

I have to go construct my fort.

REALLY BIG UPDATE or THINGS I HAVE BEEN WRITING INSTEAD OF ADDRESSING THE SITUATION AT HAND:

My breezy indifference and snap decision to take the less moral but easier route have developed cracks.

The thing is, I have a relationship with my boss that few people understand, including myself. I alternately talk about him obsessively, forget he exists, cower in fear from him, think of him as my protector, harbor a secret crush on him, get grossed out when he makes borderline inappropriate comments, decide that he hates me and decide that I am one of his favorites. I don’t want to upset this delicate balance by confessing to my stupidity when I can so easily throw away the evidence--but getting caught throwing away the evidence would be exponentially worse than getting caught in the first place.

And on the bright(er) side, there is the very real possibility that I am blowing the magnitude of my mistake out of proportion, since I, though admittedly lazy, rarely fuck things up when actually moved to do them. So maybe I should just confess…?

But then again, Cosmo girls are always getting away with things like putting peanuts in an allergic superior’s salad, thus rendering her incapable of attending an important meeting. Surely my minor mistake can pass unnoticed when such cutthroat tactics are being used all over the business world?

Then again, maybe I shouldn’t apply lessons learned from “You’d Never Believe What These Women Did” to my everyday life.

I am sure the answer to this situation’s risk/benefit analysis will come to me when I am drunk tonight. That always works.

UPDATE: Sorry, I can’t be more specific. Fortress of secrecy and all that.

Now's My Chance

While getting coffee this morning a man from another department asked how I was feeling about Perky’s departure, then added in a sing-songy tone “Now’s your chance, CB!”

Most people have had a similar reaction to the news that Perky (the girl with the same job title as mine) is leaving the company. Co-workers are suddenly treating me as though I am The Boss's assistant and Perky's underling. They keep advising me to take this opportunity to shine, shine, SHINE and show everyone what I'm really made of.

It is all very nice and encouraging but I (like Perky) am an ASSOCIATE, something that is entirely different from ASSISTANT, albeit with the same pay and responsibilities.

In any case, if The Boss needs someone to fetch coffee, Perky goes, not me. I assumed (apparently wrongly) that this would give me a slight edge in the court of public opinion. Instead everyone assumes that I am going to be “promoted” into Perky's position after she leaves. It is like I am being demoted and promoted in one go, then expected to act grateful.

I hate office politics. This is why I want to start a computer-based business out of my home and give the finger to people in suits as they walk by.

It started Monday.

No matter where I was, I could hear people whispering. People gave me pitying looks in the hallway and refused to make eye contact. I distinctly heard Perky say “I just feel bad for her.”

Tuesday I began sending S. frantic e-mails, all of which basically contained the same message: Why does everyone know I am fired except for me?

In an attempt to be proactive, I spent Wednesday on journalismjobs.com, thinking that perhaps I could look at the whole firing thing as an opportunity to obtain a more interesting, better-paying job. Maybe, I tried telling myself, being fired would be good for me—after all, I had no interest in my job, only in the money it provided.

Then yesterday I found out that my lovely ass was not going anywhere. Instead, it was Perky who was leaving, ostensibly voluntarily.

My boss is already being nicer to me, presumably in an effort to transfer his affections from the departing employee to the one who will be, however discontentedly, sticking around. He even bought me chocolate. I ate the chocolate but am not fooled by this blatant bribery. I know I am the unloved stepchild.

UPDATE: Oh Lord. They are considering eliminating Perky's position. That means I will either be doing the work of two people for the price of less than one or the job will be revamped for an MBA with a suit, essentially giving me two bosses.

UPDATE: The boss just told me I was "really doing a good job." The man has no shame.

Apathy

On the subway this morning I suddenly grabbed Re-Boyfriend’s wrist, looked at the time, then slumped back in my seat. “Fuck, I’m going to be late for the meeting.”

I pouted for a moment, then shrugged my shoulders. “Oh well.”

“How late?”

“An 8am breakfast meeting,” I said. It was already 8:15.

“Seriously?”

“Well, it’s not that bad, I mean people are late all the time.”

Re-Boyfriend looked a bit mollified.

“It’s just bad because I have to walk past the meeting room to get to my desk,” I continued.

Re-Boyfriend stared at me.

“What?”

“Just don’t walk in with a bagel and coffee,” Re-Boyfriend said, searching for something that could be salvaged even as we sat on the subway.

“Why not?”

“You can’t walk in with a bagel and coffee.”

“Why not?” I repeated indignantly.

He stared again.

“If I don’t get it first, I’ll just leave later to get coffee and I’ll end up wasting more work day hours.” My logic was irrefutable.

“You don’t see how walking into a meeting forty-five minutes late, carrying breakfast, would send the wrong idea.”

“Well, it’s not technically late late, I mean I’ll be there before nine, and I’m not going to the meeting anymore. I mean, it’ll probably be over and they're really boring anyway.”

“You just don’t care about your job at all anymore, do you.”

"Nope."

I wrote this, while eating my bagel, instead of going to the meeting forty minutes late.

It is like the story the (very dear, sort of departed) Office Slacker once told me by way of explaining why he himself did not attend the vast majority of meetings.

“You know, CB, a very successful friend of mine once said, ‘The point of meetings is to speak and show off, not to listen. If you’re not going to speak, you shouldn’t bother going.’”

Office Slacker had looked at me with such a look of triumph, that I had almost felt bad as I pointed out that the friend was probably suggesting that Office Slacker should make a point of speaking at meetings, not that Office Slacker should stop going to all meetings.

“Huh,” Office Slacker had said, absorbing that new bit of information before happily shrugging his shoulders. “Well, I’m still not going.”

Oops.

My fear of getting pregnant initially outweighed my desire for mental well-being. After all, I reasoned, an unwanted pregnancy would be about ten times as bad for my mental health than any havoc my birth control could wreak.

Right.

This morning I began hysterically crying at work—not even for the proverbial no good reason but for absoltuely no reason at all. Not wanting to advertise my insanity, I ran to the bathroom to hide.

I sniffled in a bathroom stall all the while chanting I will make an appointment with my gyno tomorrow, I will make an appointment with my gyno tomorrow.

After a few minutes I popped out of the stall, ready to be normal again. Unfortunately, my reflection did not agree with this plan.

I am not and have never been a cute crier—my face gets red and blotchy, my eyes become three sizes smaller, and my hair actually seems to absorb grease from the surrounding area. It is a highly unattractive sight, one that clearly signals that I have been crying and makes me appear as though the world is ending, or at least my world, or at least the world that contains showers and good hygiene.

I splashed some water on my face and went back into the corner bathroom stall, prepared to wait my appearance out.

But how long can a person sit in a bathroom stall with no need to actually use the toilet and no reading material? When that person is me, not long.

I emerged from the safety of the bathroom, a fact I almost instantly regretted since the first person I encountered--an older, mommyish character--exclaimed “CB, what’s wrong?” and promptly hugged me.

Naturally, this sent me into hysterics.

“What’s wrong?” The (very senior, very respectable) woman repeated as I hurriedly disengaged myself from the awkward co-worker hug.

“Nothing.” I knew I wouldn’t get away with this, but I had to at least try.

“Did something go wrong here?”

“No,” I said, a bit indignantly. Being the girl who cries at work is bad enough, one doesn't need to be the girl that cries about work too.

“You can tell me,” she said, with a look so sympathetic and sweet that I was suddenly afraid I would tell her the truth. While the truth wasn't terrible, it seemed ill-advised to speak to a woman in a skirt suit about mental troubles presumably caused by birth control.

"CB?" she prodded.

“My dad’s in the hospital,” I blurted out.

Fuck.

Once you say something like that, you can’t take it back. You can’t say “Just kidding, it’s really my birth control, my dad’s not in the hospital, hahahahahahaha.” You have to go with it, and say repeatedly “Thanks for being so nice, but I don’t really want to talk about it, I’m sure he’ll be fine too.”

I am justifying this by telling myself that since my dad actually was in the hospital last year and I told no one, this is more like a belated sympathy gathering than an outright lie. I still feel bad though, not so much for the woman, or any other co-workers who may hear this bit of false news, but for my father, whose formerly quite real illness I am now using to explain away my hopefully-birth- control-related-but-possibly-just-plain-crazy crying jags. It’s just wrong.

So, in conclusion, something must be done before I exploit any other family members. I will make an appointment with my gyno tomorrow.