The Company Bitch

2007-09-20T10:24:00.000-04:00

I had a blind-date/meeting with an editor last night. We had planned to have a drink and discuss the possibility of me doing a non-fiction book. This had sounded fairly basic at the time mostly because I neglected to take into account how nervous I would be about losing my blog anonymity virginity.

In actuality, things began to go wrong a full 24 hours in advance. At my company's good-bye party I almost cried when I hugged my boss, did tequila shots (who does tequila shots?!), literally held the hair back for another colleague who was vomiting into a trash can, and eventually left my good-bye party without saying good-bye, instead just kind of drunkenly ambling out the door and into a cab.

I woke up the day of the meeting with a massive hangover and a puffy face, completely terrified about introducing myself as CB. I needed to do my internet alter ego justice. How was I supposed to be witty when I could barely move off the couch?

Possibly still drunk, I decided with absolute certainty that getting a haircut would solve everything. (Weirdly, this is a decision I have made before. I am like one of those women who get drastic haircuts when going through a break-up but unfortunately, I need only minor set-backs to induce me to chop off all my hair. Inevitably, I wind up looking terrible and repeating an inner chant of "Long hair is good. Remember this.")

So at 6pm yesterday, I—hungover, puffy, with bad hair that was making me more nervous than I already had been—met the lovely editor.

I tried to hide it all—my nerves (and hangover) with a drink, my hair with a clip—but finally I leaned forward and said “I have to ask—you’re the first person I’ve ever met that only knows me through my blog. Am I anything like what you expected?”

She squirmed a little. “Umm…I don’t know….I hadn’t really expected anything in my mind, really…but…”

I nodded encouragingly.

“Well, you know,” she continued “I guess my friends were like ‘Do you think she’ll be as hot as she says she is’?”

“But I never even describe myself!” I protested. This was bad. I hadn’t even put on mascara.

“Well, there’s just something about the way you write that makes people think you’re going to be really gorgeous.”

Then there was a pause--possibly the most awkward pause I have ever experienced.

“I mean, I don’t know, you’re very nice looking…” she offered, giggling a little.

Oh boy.

All in all, the editor was very sweet and encouraging and it seemed like we might have had alot of fun together had I not been so nervous and strange. But I am never meeting anyone that knows me only through my blog again. I really can’t take the pressure.

2007-09-18T13:25:00.000-04:00

I woke up this morning feeling slightly nauseous. After forcing myself to shower, I lay on the bed in my towel, rubbing my wet hair everywhere. This is a signal for Re-Boyfriend to either a) notice I am looking sad and ask me what’s wrong or b) tell me to stop rubbing my wet hair everywhere. Usually one of these tactics will get me up and moving and if not exactly ready to face the day, at least clothed.

This morning Re-Boyfriend tried both (heavily sighing “CB, you’re getting my sweater wet,” then, when all I did was to move my body one eighth of an inch to the left, sitting next to me and tentatively touching my tangled hair, “Hey…what’s up?”) and I felt no more motivated to move than before.

It wasn’t until I’d made it all the way to the office that I realized the cause of my morning ennui—it’s my last day at my job and I’m sad.

God knows why. In my exit interview the suited HR women kept asking what parts of my job I had enjoyed. They kept asking because I kept evading the question, wanting to be polite, until finally I was forced to answer, “Um, I don’t actually enjoy my job. Like, at all.”

And now I’m sad? PULL IT TOGETHER CB.

What Have You Learned From Your Time As An Assistant?

2007-09-12T16:43:00.000-04:00

In the course of the polite conversation everyone wants to have when they find out you’re leaving your job, one of my co-workers just asked what I've learned from my time as an assistant.

After I only half-jokingly reminded him that I am/was an ASSOCIATE, I was left with nothing to say. Had I learned anything from my time as an assistant/associate?

My co-worker laughed at the intense, confused expression on my face as I struggled to come up with something. He offered, “When I was an assistant I learned that hand cream prevents paper cuts.”

“Yeah…” I thought for a bit more. “I’ve got nothing.”

He seemed amused but the incident actually disturbed me in a small way.

In college I learned tons of practical, useful things such as: how to straighten my hair, sleeping with just a comforter and no sheet is really the way to go, mixing Kool Aid powder with straight vodka before putting it a bowl and calling it punch will make people vomit at a party. And the list goes on.

I haven't been able to come up with anything practical that I've learned by working as an assistant. Aside from that a lot people are fucktards, which I don't think really counts. You?

Meeting The Wife

2007-09-10T10:02:00.000-04:00

Oh dear Lord. The Wife was unbearably awesome. She actually made fun of me for not drinking enough. Meanwhile, my alleged friend sat there, mostly immobile, picking at his bok choy throughout dinner.

Midway through the meal, when The Wife went to the bathroom, I announced “I really like her.” Re-boyfriend and S. vigorously nodded in agreement while my friend sort of laughed at the table. This is when I realized I was angry at him.

My alleged friend had been hiding from me for two years and the dinner was making it very difficult to pretend everything had been The Wife’s fault. Maybe insecure, controlling wives drink martinis and tell you about the time they passed out in front of their mother-in-law’s house but it seemed unlikely. So I leaned over to my alleged friend and whispered in my best I-really-mean-it voice, “I like her more than you.” Then I avoided him for the rest of the night which was difficult, since I was sitting next to him, but somehow possible.

Hopefully I hurt his feelings but I am guessing he thought I was joking.

2007-09-06T16:49:00.000-04:00

My male (completely platonic) best friend from high school recently had the nerve to find a serious girlfriend, disappear completely, and subsequently marry said girlfriend. I have seen him exactly once since he met this woman and that was at the wedding. For the two years prior to the Big Day, all I got was the occasional trying-to-stay-in-touch e-mail.

Obviously I had to assume that this wife character was a horrible, evil bitch who not only forbade my friend to see me but was really, really fat.

However, The Wife has apparently achieved some sense of wedded security because I'm going out to dinner with my friend, Re-Boyfriend and The Wife tomorrow.

Now that eating overpriced Pad Thai with The Wife is imminent, I am forced to confront a series of uncomfortable facts:

a. The Wife is not actually fat.
b. Unless she dieted for the wedding and now has put it all back on!
c. But no matter what she looks like my friend is in love with her, and they are married, which means she is the most important person in his life. I need to respect that. But it's hard to respect it when The Wife hates me.
d. The Wife hates me because she thinks I’ll be a girl-bitch and say snide things and try to compete with her which I’m totally going to do.

So...The Wife is actually right to hate me. See? Uncomfortable.

Even worse was when S. tried to fuck with my head by saying “How do you know it’s her fault he never sees you?”

But I can't think like that, I can only be angry at one dinner companion at a time. So I invited S. to come along (great for being bitchy to females when needed) and bought a new dress (security blanket). Just as I spent the college years worrying what men thought of me, I am apparently going to spend the post-college years obsessing over women.

Update: Dinner is tonight. I have already called S. to discuss whether it would be best to get to the restaurant first or last (first), if meeting S. for a drink beforehand would be wise or stupid (stupid), and whether it would be permissible to completely ignore The Wife and talk only to my friend and S., thus leaving Re-Boyfriend to rediscover his single days by trying to charm a woman over cocktails with small talk (unfortunately, no).

I'm so happy S. is coming. Somehow I don't think I would have been able to discuss these topics quite so spiritedly (or at such length) with Re-Boyfriend.

Practicing My Positive Thinking

2007-08-28T15:41:00.000-04:00

I’ve had three interviews for a job and heard from someone that knows someone that “things look good”.

There was no mention of these interviews before because, as I confessed to S. last night, “I was scared my blog people would think I was pathetic if I didn’t get another job.” (Which, upon reflection, is kind of a pathetic sentiment in and of itself.)

But at this point I have so convinced myself that the job is mine, I not only feel comfortable sharing this information with you, I also feel quite comfortable spending all of the extra money that would come with said job.

CB’s Logical Mind: Don’t buy wellies. Just because it’s raining today doesn’t mean you really need to spend $100 on a pair of wellies.

CB’s Mind that Wants Wellies: But I almost have a new job! That means I can almost afford lots of things!

CB’s Logical Mind: Almost CB, almost. You don’t actually have the job or even know if you’re going to get it.

CB’s Mind that Wants Wellies: I can’t believe you just did that. Everyone knows you have to picture positive outcomes and really BELIEVE in them. Now if I don’t get the job it will be ALL your FAULT.

CB’s Logical Mind: You can't be serious.

CB’s Mind that Wants Wellies: I’M GETTING THE WELLIES!

On the one hand, the wellies really are very cute. On the other hand, even if I do get the job, I will have accrued debt equal or greater to my subsequent raise. And if I don’t get the job, I may look stunning this fall but I’ll also be feeling frail due to my diet of grilled cheese. Honestly, it’s all very sad.

Update: For those who expressed concern, my wellies are plain red. They are also apparently somewhat attractive to the opposite sex which I was not at all expecting. Also, (in news of equal importance), I got the job!

Signed, Troubled with Tampons

2007-08-23T10:20:00.000-04:00

This morning I discovered that I had gotten my period. I asked one of my more sympathetic female co-workers if she had a tampon—she did! And it was a tiny little thing I was easily able to slip into my pocket-score! (I have no idea why it always seems so embarrassing to be holding a tampon—I have my period approximately 25% of the time. But it is.) Then I made it to the bathroom without receiving any strange glances from colleagues wondering who the half-running girl was. Safe!

Or so I assumed.

As I discovered in the single stall bathroom on the 7th floor, they are now making tampons that I have no idea how to use. I was sincerely at a loss as to how to remove the actual tampon from the cute, green, tiny applicator. And so, after several minutes of fumbling (the details of which I will spare you) I had to return to my desk, defeated.

Obviously I cannot now ask my co-worker for another tampon (though I briefly considered telling her I dropped the original in the toilet) or ask anyone in earshot of her desk. So I am sitting here, writing this, and plotting an under the radar escape to CVS.

Fucking newfangled tampons.

Curtains

2007-08-21T10:57:00.000-04:00

Re-Boyfriend and I never fight anymore. The most critical things we say to one another are “You’re such a little piggy,” (him to me, before kissing me on the nose and dusting crackers off my shirt) or “You’re such a narcoleptic,” (me to him before kicking him in the shins and trying to move him to the other side of the couch).

That is why decorating our apartment is so, so hard. You can try to smile while you say “Your painting fucking blows. The only place you can hang it is the closet,” but it still comes across as less than affectionate.

So, as two people who are not really good at confrontation and critique, Re-Boyfriend and I have to rely on the arts of beating around the bush, lying, nitpicking and (ick) compromise.

Example: I’ll say I like a bookcase. Re-Boyfriend will agree, but then point out the shoddy craftsmanship and shake the fixture around a bit alarming the salespeople. Then he'll sorrowfully say, “You know, I really like it, but I just don’t think it’s well made.” I will accept this as gentlemanly code for “No, bitch, no.”

However things do not go nearly as smoothly when the situation is reversed.

For instance, I came home Sunday to discover that Re-Boyfriend had made curtains. He had sewn them out of our sheets. They were (surprisingly) beautifully sewn, but let me repeat again that they were curtains made out of our sheets.

“So do you like them?”

“Sure, Scarlett.” He didn’t get my Gone With the Wind reference.

“Really?”

“Well…” I considered. “They’re beautiful curtains…but don’t you think they would look better somewhere else…?”

“Are you sure you’re not just saying that because they’re a little dark? I mean they make the room look dark when they’re closed, but hold on…” Re-Boyfriend ran to the windows and pinned back the curtain-sheets. “Doesn’t that look better?”

It did look better but I still had dark green sheets hanging from my living room windows.

“Errrr…Don’t you think they would look pretty in the bedroom?” They would actually look nice in the bedroom, I reflected. I could work with that. I could be a compromiser.

“They can’t go in the bedroom, I cut them to match the length of these windows.”

Well, then. Obviously all that was left for me to do was pout. So I flounced over to the couch and pouted.

Then I pouted some more.

After a few minutes I sighed.

Finally I noticed that Re-Boyfriend seemed annoyed as well.

Perhaps he could tell I hadn’t been very enthusiastic about the curtains.

“You know,” Re-Boyfriend said suddenly, “It’s really frustrating when you say all these different things, and I can’t tell what you mean. If you don’t like it, say you don’t like it.”

“Okay,” I said, a bit chagrined. Perhaps I was being the difficult one here.

“Hey, let’s just get some stuff to put on the walls,” Re-Boyfriend said more kindly. “The whole place is going to look different with stuff on the walls.”

“Okay,” I repeated, allowing myself to be mollified. Maybe I was being ridiculous. Maybe he really had thought that the bookcase wasn't sturdy (and that the mirror was badly made, and the painting was too big). Besides, I supposed the curtains could look kind of cool once there were things on the walls.

I settled in next to Re-Boyfriend to do some therapeutic online shopping.

He pointed out a painting online.

“No,” I said, trying out the new, blunt me.

He pointed out another one.

“No.”

He sighed and seemed a bit exasperated.

He pointed out another one.

“Oooo…” I said, “I kind of like that one.”

“You know, all I’m doing is trying to pick out something you like. Don't you like anything?”

“Ummmm…” Now I felt pressured. But it really was nice. I liked it. It would be pretty. The only thing was: “Do you think it’s too not-relaxing?”

“Oh my God!” he snapped, opening Google and typing “Relaxing Images.”

“What the fuck? I can’t make one comment?”

“Just say if you like it!”

“I DID’T KNOW YET I WAS JUST LOOKING AT IT ASSHOLE.”

And that was the end of our therapeutic online shopping experience.

We are going to live in an apartment with bare walls, a minimal amount of furniture and no mirrors forever. I can feel it.

Health Lessons from Re-Boyfriend

2007-08-14T10:19:00.000-04:00

“So I think I have an ulcer,” Re-Boyfriend announced as we walked down 6th avenue.

“Why?” I asked, only half-listening. I had heard Re-Boyfriend’s theories of health before, one of the highlights being that smoking gets rid of phlegm.

“Well...I’ve been really tired, and I’ve had stomach aches. Plus today when I went to the bathroom there was a little blood.”

“Excuse me?”

“And you know," he continued, "Ulcers run in my family." He paused to light a cigarette. "And my job is pretty stressful which is probably making the whole thing worse.”

“Blood?!"

“Plus I smoke. Smoking’s never really good for anything.” He looked down at the cigarette in his hand mournfully.

As Re-Boyfriend bit his lip and flicked his cigarette repeatedly, he suddenly seemed like a scared little boy (albeit one that smoked). I wrapped my arm around him and kissed his cheek.

“Why don’t you cut down on the drinking and smoking? Then if you get better you’ll know it was just an ulcer. And I'm sure it's just an ulcer," I said reassuringly.

“Actually I was thinking I would drink and smoke more. Then if things got worse I'll know it's just an ulcer.”

I laughed. Re-Boyfriend didn’t. I withdrew my arm.

He drank a bottle of wine last night so I am guessing he’s not kidding.

My Twenties Are One Big Comparathon

2007-08-13T16:08:00.000-04:00

There are certain people that, by their very existence, make me feel like a freak.

For example, Re-Boyfriend has a friend who pets (there is no other word) his fiance constantly, pausing only to gaze adoringly at the top of her head. The two of them don't really speak to each other, and they definitely don’t stop touching. This usually leaves me standing a foot or two away from Re-Boyfriend, feeling awkward and confused—should I at least want to hold his hand? Why don’t I ever even think about holding his hand (unless I see another couple holding hands)? Does anyone else think the two of them look weird? Maybe I'm weird?

And so on.

Now, because it does not happen often enough in real life, I have found a blog that makes me vaguely insecure, confused and incredulous: Clinkny.wordpress.com

There were some maddening entries about gyms and big boobs. There was the casual mention that Clink has gotten every job she’s ever interviewed for. There were the pictures of the enormous engagement ring on an adult hand with manicured nails.

But the Big Moment, wherein I realized just how different my life was from the life of this half-stranger, came today, during a post detailing how Clink finally told her fiance about the existence of her blog. Not only was her fiance kind and supportive about the whole thing, he claimed he was just happy she was writing and didn’t want to know the name of the website so she could maintain her privacy.

You know what my boyfriend said when he finally read my blog?

“Goddamnit, it really was ivory!”

He did tell me he was proud of me, which was sweet, but he also told a few of his co-workers about my anonymous blog. When I yelled, he said “But I was just so proud of you,” which completely altered the sweetness of that sentiment.

Then I didn't speak to him for awhile. I thought this was more or less what everyone with a secret blog went through.

It's not so much that I want Clink's life. It's more that I can't believe the person my grandmother secretly wishes I was actually exists.

I may need to step away from the blog.

Update: No one needs to pick sides...that was entirely not the point. Obviously I read Clink.

Excuse Me, I'm Having a Bitter Friday

2007-08-10T12:22:00.000-04:00

Dear Co-Worker Who Is Irritating the Crap Out of Me Today,

Today I heard someone comment on your "really good relationship" with the president of our company.

Frankly, I’ve never seen you even speak to the president but I have heard you say, about five hundred times, that you have a "really good relationship" with him. While that always made me think you were delusional, apparently that has been making other people think you have a really good relationship with the president. Who knew it was that easy?

So it would seem that I’ve been wrong about you all along. You’ve been semi-brilliantly toying with the minds of others, knowing how easily they are led astray from logic just by telling them “Hey, this is a fact!”

Congratulations on fooling everyone! But please don't talk to me.

Love,
CB

2007-08-08T09:56:00.000-04:00

I arrived at the subway station this morning only to be informed by an exasperated policeman that the subways weren't running due to the rain.

Riiiight. I thought. Rain. That's probably code for terrorist activity.

But back at my apartment I discovered all of the local news outlets were telling the same lie--which probably meant it was true. Rain had virtually shut down the entire subway system of New York City. Rain.

So now I am sitting in my pajamas and trying really hard to relax. But I keep calling my co-workers to make sure that they're "relaxing" too, not going to work and making me look bad.

Update: I am at work. When your co-worker, who takes the same subway as you, calls to tell you it's running (as though you would be happy to hear this news) it's time to disentangle from Re-Boyfriend and run a brush through your hair. I am NOT pleased.

Well, We Got In This Time

2007-08-05T14:40:00.000-04:00

We went back to the club. We had to prove it wasn’t too cool for us.

“One drink and then we go,” I told S. as we crossed the street. “I don’t want to hang out here all night, all the men look like they wax their eyebrows.”

“One drink,” S. agreed, adjusting her cleavage for the eighth time. S. had run into the age old dilemma while getting ready: How much boob is too much boob? Trying to combine the best of both worlds, she was wearing an extremely low cut dress with a small tank top underneath.

We got into the club with an ease that can only be described as anticlimactic and two drinks later (like we ever actually have one drink) our egos were appeased. We were ready to meet up with our friends at a less pretentious bar.

Making the requisite stop at the bathroom, we found it to be one of those single stall types and went in together. (S. and I were roommates in college and if you tell me you’ve never peed with any of your college friends then I think you’re either lying or my mother.) We were all set to leave, when we discovered we literally could not.

S. pulled, S. pushed, S. jiggled the handle but the door remained closed. She even smacked the wood a few times in an attempt to open the door through brute force, but it remained firm as I stood in the corner, helping no one by giggling uncontrollably.

“CB, what are we going to do?” she demanded.

Suddenly there were agitated voices outside the bathroom. I looked at S.

“I can’t handle this right now,” I announced, turning to the mirror. “I’m going to put on eye shadow.”

“I’m going to take off this tank top,” S. said, either following my lead of ignoring the problem at hand or thinking that more of her cleavage could solve the situation as it has solved so many situations before.

It was only when S.’s tank top was half-off that the door flew open, revealing a concerned looking busboy and a small crowd of anxious, would-be bathroom goers.

S. quickly pulled up her straps.

“Uhhh…we heard the door move, we thought you might have needed...help?” The busboy looked embarrassed to have caught us in a passionate, door shaking, girl-on-girl bathroom tryst.

S. looked like she might try to explain, an event that could only make things worse (“No, see I was trying to get out, but couldn’t, and then I took off my shirt! Get it?”) so I gave her a shove, brightly said “Thanks!” and darted past the smirking on-lookers.

And then, with people still looking after us curiously, a sudden gust of air blew S.’s skirt up. She screamed, clutched her ass and ran outside while I strolled, faux-casually, after her.

“So now we can never go back,” I explained to Re-Boyfriend.

He smiled.

“Why not? I bet they’d love to have you back.”

Crazy. In Love.

2007-08-01T10:24:00.000-04:00

I have been told that other people do not think about the possibility of their relationship ending every single day. Then again, I have been told I seem like a really chill girlfriend, so who the hell knows what to believe.

In any case, a fact would be that at least three times a week, I think that Re-Boyfriend and I are going to break up.

Example:

Today one of those crap morning shows discussed the “science of love” and declared “But couples can still say they’re in love with each other years later even though their initial feelings may change from the scientific definition of love.” Re-Boyfriend called from the bedroom, “Like us!” Then he laughed while I stood in the kitchen CERTAIN OUR RELATIONSHIP WAS OVER.

Naturally, I then didn’t want to have sex with him. DOOM.

Then, when we walked to the subway, Re-Boyfriend was quiet, probably because he was thinking about how he didn't love me anymore. MORE DOOM.

I then spent the entire subway ride to work telling myself that single life can be fun, and though there would be the minor problem of living together to sort out, in general breaking up with Re-Boyfriend really wouldn’t be that bad.

Then I realized I was insane. This is a realization I have come to before, most notably when I got annoyed with Re-Boyfriend for telling me I was beautiful because what if he couldn't love me once I was old?

It's really exhausting to love Re-Boyfriend and be happy while at the same time trying to convince myself it would be totally fine if he were gone.

My Present

2007-07-30T07:44:00.000-04:00

Re-Boyfriend calls it "Mini-CB." And it just occurred to me that he thought he was being really funny when he told me that he bought me "something small."

2007-07-26T21:18:00.000-04:00

So Re-Boyfriend left about a week ago for work. I didn't say anything because who wanted to talk about missing him? Not me. I was too busy falling into a spiral of reality television and toaster waffles while slowly transforming my apartment into one gigantic closet by leaving clothes in unlikely places.

This helped me realize something important. I had believed myself to be growing up and maturing this past year, but really I had just been reigning in my bad habits so as not to completely scare off Re-Boyfriend.

Anyway, Re-Boyfriend gets back Sunday. Thoughts:

1. I'm excited
2. PRESENTS

These thoughts are not unrelated.

We both know that the present-giving in my relationship has turned into a most random/least useful competition. At least, I know it. I think Re-Boyfriend might believe that each gift he gives me is the one item that will break the pattern. Then I see it and start laughing. (I would feel mean about this, but if you haven't read my archives just search "boyfriend" and "present"--you will understand.)

I cannot WAIT to see what the present is. At this point I would feel let down if he got me anything normal.

I Didn't Get Into A Club and I'm Not Afraid to Admit It Anonymously

2007-07-24T16:47:00.000-04:00

Saturday night S., a few of our friends and I were blatantly rejected from a club. We were told we weren’t “on the list” which is code for "You don’t look rich/powerful/beautiful enough to come in here." It made me miss Brooklyn.

Most of us had laughed it off by the time we crossed the street and entered another bar. “It’s all your fault you know,” I shouted over the music at S. as we tried to get the attention of the bartender again. “It’s because you’re so ugly.” Then I collapsed into giggles and started hiccuping a little.

But S. didn’t laugh. Instead she informed me that since we always get in everywhere we had to think about what had been unusual about the night.

I frowned seriously, trying to hear her, or at least pretend that I could, over the annoying Fergie song playing.

The Mitigating Factors According to S.

1. S. and I were with other girls
2. The other girls were sort of standing to the side of the line looking pissed off and saying that the bouncer was stupid
3. S. and I had not been expecting to go out and so maybe looked a little less than our best

There was nothing to do but agree with her, order another vodka tonic and watch our friend make out with a bald man. All in all, it was a good night and I'm sure the bald man would agree.

Then the next morning I got a phone call.

“Hello?” I answered from my bed. I stuck my head under the covers to block out the 10am sunlight and noticed I was still wearing shoes.

“We’re going back there,” S. told me.

“To where…? That bar? Why, does Amy really like the bald guy?”

“We are going back there tonight and we are going to get in.”

"Oh, that place...But it’s Sunday."

“CB, we are going.” S. was trying to use her I-Will-Not-Be-Reasoned-With voice which generally scares me into doing her bidding, but I was hung over, wearing shoes in bed and unable to be swayed.

“Well, I’m not. I'm staying in Brooklyn and ordering Chinese food.”

“Fine, maybe not tonight,” S. allowed. “But that club is awesome. We’ll just have to go some other time this week.” Then she hung up.

Apparently, the point of going out is to relax and have fun, unless you're in Manhattan, in which case the whole thing is a process as fraught as applying to college.

Update: We're going there again tomorrow night. S. tried to act casual but since we usually prefer parties or dive bars, there was no chance I wouldn't be suspicious of her suggestion that we go out to a "real" club for the second time in six days.

2007-07-19T17:31:00.000-04:00

A steam pipe burst in midtown Manhattan yesterday and asbestos was released into the air via mud and debris that erupted out of the ground.

If you live in New York, you obviously already know this. If you are my mother, you not only know this but have called eighteen times to educate me on how to minimize asbestos contact.

Apparently, I am to discard not only of The Dress I was wearing but all other things The Dress may have touched before CAREFULLY showering with both soap AND water. Then I am to throw out/clean everything that came into contact with the pre-clean me.

I have tried explaining that:
a) I generally shower with soap AND water anyway
b) I had no mud or debris on my clothes
c) I never saw said mud or debris
d) I like The Dress
e) Me and The Dress sat on the couch and watched reality television, then sat on the bed for a bit, so really, at this point my entire apartment is contaminated

Faced with this logic, my mother was supposed to give up her Freak Out CB campaign. Instead, my mother decided I should get a new couch, new sheets and a new comforter but benevolently conceded that I may stay in my apartment.

I understand that the whole thing was a little scary. I understand that we were in New York on 9/11 and so we’re all a bit edgy. But, you know, all the points listed above.

I’m keeping my couch. And I’m going out tonight. But because my mother is very good at pushing my buttons, I’m going to stay in Friday night to wash everything in my apartment. And, for at least two weeks, I’ll feel uncomfortable every time I sit on the couch or lie in my bed.

That is compromise.

Update: My mother's nefarious ways have worked. I've become convinced that the comforter on my bed is an asbestos-harboring, cancer-causing evil entity and that by sleeping with it I become contaminated. Then when I get out of bed I re-contaminate the entire apartment.

Not only is this all completely illogical, I smoked two cigarettes last night, so where is this obsession with removing carcinogens from my life coming from? Nonetheless the comforter is going to the dry cleaner tonight. Hopefully then my insanity will calm down.

Mom, I love you, but perhaps you should consider my susceptible nature before the next phone call.

People Love to Play On My Domestication Anxieties

2007-07-17T22:55:00.001-04:00

It started before we were even in the building.

“Ha,” my recently engaged friend said, pointing to Re-Boyfriend's and my last names, taped above our mailbox door. “Didn’t you guys forget the hyphen?”

Being blonde, it took me a second to get it.

“Oh my God.”

“Is that what you guys are going to do? Are you going to hyphenate?” she teased.

"Oh my God.”

“I just assumed we’d both keep our names,” Re-Boyfriend said, shrugging.

“Wow, she's going to let you keep your name?” my so-called friend asked Re-Boyfriend.

“Hey, CB, can I keep my name?”

I ran up the 4 flights of stairs (which was, sadly, no easy feat) to get to our apartment and avoid further conversation. Then I refused to talk to anyone for the next three minutes. Because I am very, very mature.

Perhaps when I'm feeling more introspective (read: bored at my job) I can try to do some self-therapy and figure out how much and why all this marriage and "bambinos" stuff is getting to me.

Rejected Opportunity

2007-07-13T14:01:00.001-04:00

My friend’s company is trying to consolidate their office space and free up a large enough area to rent out for some extra cash. To that end, they are encouraging people to work from home part-time. Workers can set up “desk-shares” with one person using an area Monday-Wednesday and another using it Thursday and Friday.

That is a totally awesome opportunity for said friend.

If she elected to work at home part-time, the company would buy her “home office equipment” which would include a printer, a new computer and whatever else she could convince them that she needed. Then, at the end of the year, through some tax thing that I don’t understand, she would get back HALF the money she had spent on rent.

That would be like a 25% salary increase for me. A 25% salary increase for working in my pajamas with My Super Sweet Sixteen playing in the background.

However my stupid, stupid friend does not want to do this.

Stupid Friend: I don’t know, what would I do all day?

CB: What you do now! But with breaks to go get ice cream, or go to the gym, or just take a walk…

Stupid Friend: Yeah, I don’t know..I don’t really like any of those things. I don't really like leaving the couch...I think I would wind up sitting in my apartment watching soaps and ordering too much Chinese food.

CB: But the money!

Stupid Friend: Yeah, I don’t know...I would miss the people.

CB: But you would still see them at least twice a week! Just go out for happy hour with them more often and get really drunk! Oh. My. God. I just realized—do you know how much extra sleep you could get if you didn’t have to commute anywhere?! And if you were hungover you could work from bed. And you wouldn’t have to put on all that makeup to look presentable and wonder if you smell weird—

Stupid Friend: Yeah, I’m not doing it.

I want her job. I would take proper advantage of this.

One More Post About the Wedding Weekend (Alternate Title: Men Are Crazy)

2007-07-09T17:16:00.000-04:00

I leaned over during the rehearsal dinner and whispered in Re-Boyfriend’s ear, “Do you think she’s going to have kids soon? That’s so weird because she’s so young. But I guess if you get married, you want kids. Why else do you get married? The whole thing is so weird.”

Re-Boyfriend looked slightly upset, turned to me and whispered back “That’s not why people get married, CB. They get married because they get their first place together, or just whatever...I don’t know, it doesn’t mean they want to have kids in the next five seconds. And it’s not weird at all.”

I couldn’t believe my boyfriend was defending the institution of marriage at a young age. When I looked at him, he actually appeared to be pouting.

"Um...no, you’re right," I said quickly, trying to make amends. "I mean living together is a big step. I guess it’s not weird to get married soon after that—"

“ARE YOU TRYING TO PRESSURE ME?”

I just stared at Re-Boyfriend. He looked like he was hyperventilating.

“Clearly, you’ve gone insane,” I told him. A person that could come up with a non-sequiter like that could not be reasoned with. “I’m not talking to you.”

Then I went to the bar and drank until I wasn’t pissed off.

2007-07-09T11:51:00.000-04:00

My boss just pulled me into the scary conference room (reserved for interviewing, firing, reviewing, etc.) and asked if I had been interviewing Friday instead of attending my "possibly fabricated" wedding.

"No..." I told him. "I was a bridesmaid, remember?"

"A bridesmaid, huh?" he asked, getting a Caught you! look in his eye. "If you were a bridesmaid I want to see pictures. I want photographic evidence!"

"Okay."

His intuition is astounding. This is just about the only time I have taken off work for a reason other than interviewing.

My Favorite Parts of the Wedding

2007-07-09T10:24:00.000-04:00

As I exited the church in the bridal procession, S. and her date (our friend from college) inappropriately applauded from the pews. “Good job!” “Whoooo!” “Don’t fall!”

A fellow bridesmaid informed me that since I was “the closest to getting married” everyone had decided I would be the one to catch the bouquet. I snorted wine out of my nose and then made sure to hide around the corner of the building during the bouquet toss, smoking cigarettes with S.

Re-Boyfriend, drunk at the reception, had a do-as-I-do dance off with the bride's six year old cousin. The six year old won, but not before Re-Boyfriend tried to do the worm.

The next morning, another bridesmaid innocently asked why S. and I had been taking pictures of each other in the field by the wedding reception hall, prompting S. and I to look at each other in mortified memory of our drunk asses. “Take a picture of me in nature!” “Nature is soooo beautiful.” “I love trees!” "This is why our friend wants to live out here. New York has no nature."

And, throughout it all, seeing my friend pull off her wedding day looking every bit a beautiful, traditional bride while freaking everyone out with her decidedly laid back approach. (Photographer: And do you want to do another photo over there? Bride: Um, sure. Whatever. Photographer: Well, it's really about what you want. Bride: Well let's do it if you think it will look good. Photographer: Do you have any idea what kind of photos you want? Bride: I'm not going to be very helpful. Do you want to talk to my mom or something?)

Being a Bridesmaid

2007-07-04T08:57:00.000-04:00

What is more humiliating than spending thousands of dollars on crap you don’t want or enjoy and then parading around in an unflattering dress and hairstyle for a friend you no longer stay in touch with?

Buying “chicken cutlet” inserts for your bra.

I was hoping to balance out my dress’s multi-layered ability to make me look like I have gigantic hips by adding some gigantic boobs. It didn’t really work. (But Re-Boyfriend appeared to get an erection when I tried on the chicken cutlets which is either pretty cool or insulting.)

So this weekend I will be (ostensibly) standing before God in fake, pushed up cleavage as I "bear witness" (or something) with S. to our friend's confusing union with a man who lives in what he calls "God's Country" and I call "bumblefuck".

Maybe it will not be that bad.

So fat!

2007-06-28T09:42:00.000-04:00

It’s not that I don’t like to laugh at fat people. In fact, if someone said something funny about someone else being fat, I would probably laugh. But the fact of being fat alone isn’t funny. I don’t walk down the street, noticing all the chubby people and chuckling to myself. Aside from being mean, it would make no sense.

But I must be missing something because this morning my entire department is in hysterics over one person’s detailed story about seeing a fat person. “I saw a really fat person today. No, seriously, let me tell you how fat they were.”

At first I played along, but then I had to leave the area. It’s actually really difficult to fake-laugh for long periods of time.

2007-06-26T09:44:00.000-04:00

It is disheartening when you finally show up to an interview and are politely informed by the receptionist that the interviewer has been taken to the hospital for undisclosed reasons.

A Conversation With My Mother

2007-06-21T13:10:00.000-04:00

CB: I’m just confused. I keep sending out my resume and getting all these interviews but then I realize I don’t really want the jobs I’m applying for. They’re just higher-paying, more boring versions of the one I have now. So then I cancel the interviews and feel bad about myself. And then I think about how I don’t even know what kind of job I actually want and I feel worse. And then I think about how I don’t know what I'm doing with my life and then I just get really upset.

CB’s Mom: Oh sweetie....Don’t worry! You’re going to do great things.

CB (hopefully): Yeah?

CB’s Mom: Sure...you’re going to have lots of little bambinos...and take care of them…and watch them grow up...

CB is silent.

CB’s Mom: Right?

CB: I can’t talk to you about this anymore.

Bambinos?

Besides the totally depressing, non-sequitur nature of my mother's comment, I am:

1. Not engaged
2. Not married
3. Not Italian

The whole scenario reminded me of when I drove back from college with my father, who, sensing the opportunity afforded by having his young daughter trapped for a few hours, began to question me about what I intended to do with my very expensive liberal arts degree.

When I began to look really, really sad, my father swiftly changed tactics and began to enumerate the various career paths I had open for me.

“You can be anything! You could be a teacher...or even a banker...or...um...”

And then I started bawling.

2007-06-20T16:23:00.000-04:00

Careerbuilder has a cute little article about things that can wreck your career. Let’s examine some of their no-no's while I am sitting here, bored, instead of Advancing Myself:

Not Being a Team Player
No one feels comfortable around a prima donna. Show you're a team player by making your boss look like a star and demonstrating that you've got the greater good of the organization at heart.

This only works with female bosses. Helping my boss look like a star makes him resent me because then he realizes that I know he’s an idiot. What actually seems to soften my boss: Failing in a cute and non-serious way. In my experience, all men bosses love to occasionally comfort their underlings.

Missing Deadlines
If the deadline is Wednesday, first thing Thursday won't cut it. When making commitments, it's best to under-promise and over-deliver. Then, pull an all-nighter if you have to. It's that important.

Unless you are making six figures and/or in charge of something huge, I really believe you shouldn't pull an all-nighter, ever. It will make you look ridiculous and your co-workers will mock you for being uptight and taking yourself, along with your job, too seriously.

Conducting Personal Business on Company Time
The company e-mail and phone systems are for company business. Keep personal phone calls brief and few -- and never take a call that will require a box of tissues to get through. Also, never type anything in an e-mail that you don't want read by your boss; many systems save deleted messages to a master file.

Personally, I like to write e-mails detailing how I am going to quit and/or the many ways in which my co-workers are pissing me off. Then when my boss raises an eyebrow at me, I try to figure out if it’s a meaningless twitch or if he is trying to communicate that he knows. This adds some interest to my day.

Isolating Yourself
Don't isolate yourself. Those who network effectively have an inside track on resources and information and can more quickly cut through organizational politics. Research shows effective networkers tend to serve on more successful teams, get better performance reviews, receive more promotions and be more highly compensated.

When I was sixteen and upset with the world, everyone told me that things got better. Apparently, they were lying. Offices are exactly like high schools but with longer hours and less cute boys to stare at.

Having No Goals
Failure doesn't lie in not reaching your goal, but in not having a goal to reach. Set objectives and plan your daily activities around achieving them. Manage your priorities and focus on those tasks that support your goals.

I refuse. This just sounds like a way to do the tasks you are assigned while convincing yourself it was all your idea. I’m not doing this report because John asked me to, I’m doing it because it is an objective.

Neglecting Your Image
Fair or not, appearance counts. So don't come to work poorly groomed or in inappropriate attire. Be honest, use proper grammar and avoid slang and expletives. You want to project an image of competence, character and commitment.

I can’t even conceive of an office where this would hold true. I find that the more I use the word “fuck” the more friends and allies I get. Also, today I am showing (push-up bra created) cleavage and everyone is being really nice.

MSN's career advice writers would probably fire me this instant.

I Am Still Having Issues With Brooklyn

2007-06-18T10:32:00.000-04:00

As soon as I saw one of my Team Manhattan friends crossing Fifth avenue in a little sundress and a Louis Vuitton bag, I knew things would go poorly.

“It took me fucking forever to get here. The 4/5 trains weren’t running.”

"Awww, I'm sorry." And really, I could empathize. The first time I went to a friend's apartment in Brooklyn, I was told to take the M train, then transfer across the platform and take the subway three more stops. I wound up taking the M train for half an hour, then "transferring across the platform" to the M train going back to Manhattan. That was fun.

"It's so ridiculous trying to get to Brooklyn on the weekend. I honestly think I was in a tunnel of the subway that hadn't been used since the seventies--wait you live on the fourth floor?" My friend balked at the entrance way to my building, looking at the stairs as though she was unsure of what they were.

"Yeah, come on."

Three flights of stairs later, we had arrived.

“Wow, your apartment is so…nice,” Team Manhattan said suspiciously, seemingly alarmed that such a normal looking place could exist in a walk-up.

“Thanks.”

“So," she said, plopping down on my couch exhausted from all the stairs, "Are you ever going to come to the city now that you live here?”

It was time to take control of the situation.

“First of all, Brooklyn is ‘the city’ too. Second of all, I still work in Manhattan.” I rolled my eyes to let her know these things should have been very obvious.

She seemed unimpressed.

“Plus, you know it takes me less time to get to work from here than from my old apartment,” I added defensively.

“I meant more like, aren’t you going to need a car now that you live in Brooklyn?”

“Are you serious?”

"Isn't everything really far?"

It just went downhill from there.

Poll

2007-06-13T17:44:00.001-04:00

What do you do when you jam the copy machine?

I used to try to fix it, but now that I know I never can, I walk away immediately before someone sees me. If someone catches me while I'm walking away I'll inform them that "someone" has broken the copy machine. Then I'll sigh and look pouty and pissed off, conveying the notion that this "someone" has alot of nerve.

2007-06-13T17:13:00.000-04:00

As you may or may not have noticed, lately I’ve found it difficult to post on this blog.

Other things I have found difficult:

1. Getting out of bed
2. Eating vegetables
3. Buying clothes/looking at clothes/wearing clothes
4. Meeting friends for such daunting things as “drinks” and “dinner” in Manhattan

Things I have found easy:

1. Lying in bed
2. Eating ice cream
3. Wearing underwear and a t-shirt for 24 hours straight
4. Wandering aimlessly about my new neighborhood in Brooklyn with Re-Boyfriend in tow

My uncharacteristic lethargy (read: perfectly characteristic lethargy that has been alarmingly magnified) could just be due to my incredibly stressful month at work during which I ALSO HAD TO MOVE.

(The move honestly wasn’t that stressful but I like using it as an excuse for things. People are so sympathetic!)

Or the reason for my behavior could be something far more sinister, such as living in Park Slope, a place where you regularly see men wearing Nirvana t-shirts while pushing strollers and shopping organic. Everyone is just so damn relaxed and hippified.

Either way, I am really really trying to snap out of it. I’m forcing myself to go to a far too expensive sushi restaurant in Manhattan tonight with a friend that regularly sends me messages from her Blackberry about which size Louis Vuitton bag would suit her best.

I think that’s a pretty good Brooklyn antidote.

The Real Estate Commitment

2007-05-29T16:07:00.000-04:00

Even though I am already living with my boyfriend and have been living with him for months, actually co-signing a lease and buying furniture with him is a little scary.

Co-signing a lease means that if I ever get really mad at Re-Boyfriend and want to kick him out, I technically cannot.

Co-signing a lease means that if we break-up and I change all the locks, I then have to stop feeling smug long enough to somehow make sure Re-Boyfriend does not sue or involve the police.

Then there's all the furniture purchasing that co-signing a lease will eventually lead to. Furniture purchasing will make us both more dependent on the relationship, like puppy co-owners but worse. Puppies, though cute and alive, do not generally cost a thousand dollars or more. Which means that joint furniture buying is actually more of a commitment than getting a puppy, and everyone knows that getting a puppy with your significant other is a Very Big Step.

Having considered all this, I was slightly nervous when Re-Boyfriend and I were sitting in our new landlord’s office, watching as the lease was drawn up. But I assured myself I was being silly and instead of leaving, or yelling “AHHHH” I just sort of crossed my legs and twitched a little bit.

Our landlord seemed to be testing me as he pushed the lease across the desk and said, “I wrote ‘jointly and singly’, so if something happens with you two—I’m not saying something will happen, just that it might, you never know—then one of you can go, and one of you can stay and get a new roommate. It’s fine as long as the rent comes.”

If something happens?

I laughed and glanced sideways at Re-Boyfriend, who was also laughing. I tried to give the impression that it was sooooo hysterical that anyone thought anything could ever happen to us.

Then the landlord handed me a pen, indicating where to sign. I froze, suddenly convinced that once I signed the lease, Re-Boyfriend would run out of the office laughing, leaving me with an exorbitant rent to pay for the next year.

I looked at Re-Boyfriend suspiciously.

“Give me the pen,” Re-Boyfriend said in his patented blend of tolerance, exasperation, impatience and amusement.

I carefully watched as he signed the lease before doing the same.

Then the landlord looked at me in this infuriatingly knowing manner and repeated “I wrote jointly and singly so there’s nothing to worry about if something happens.”

I just glared at him before thanking him for his time.

I am buying FURNITURE with that fucker, aka Re-Boyfriend. I want no insinuations that we are not going to live full, happy, rewarding and long lives. Together, with our furniture, in our new apartment, with both our names on the lease.

2007-05-23T14:25:00.000-04:00

S. once casually mentioned that she thought she was suffering from Stockholm Syndrome because she was beginning to have feelings of attachment and loyalty to her boss.

I laughed but later became curious--was she really experiencing something akin to Stockholm Syndrome? More importantly, could I be suffering as well?

I did some research. (Read: typed the phrase "Stockholm Syndrome" into Google, misspelled it, and typed it again).

Let’s review the typical circumstances and characteristics of Stockholm Syndrome as found on Counsellingresource.com.

Perceived Threat to One’s Physical/Psychological Survival
My boss tells me, on a fairly regular basis, that I'm going to be fired. This definitely fucks with my head a little bit even though he is "joking."

The “Small Kindness” Perception
My bonus was so small as to not even begin to pay off my holiday credit card charges, but I said “Thank you,” and told my boss “I know you really had to fight for this.” And I MEANT IT. Even more disturbing: He may actually have really had to fight for it. Also, once my boss said “CB, you’re doing a really good job,” and I was so pleased that I almost liked my job for a week.

Isolation from Perspectives Other Than Those of the Captor
Like employees everywhere, I am technically not allowed to read the internet (haha) and am discouraged from calling or e-mailing those outside the company unless it is strictly work-related.

A Daily Preoccupation With “Trouble”: To survive, “trouble” is to be avoided at all costs.
I have recopied a hundred sets of a document because there was a smudge on one corner of one page.
I have gotten as far as the elevator in my office building, then turned around and gone back to Starbucks because I have forgotten sugar packets.
I have very seriously considered baking cupcakes out of a fear of going to work on Monday after calling in sick on Friday. Re-Boyfriend had to physically remove the wooden spoon from my hand.

Interesting.

Fortunately, I am safe since I still have no real loyalty to my boss.

Park Slope, Brooklyn

2007-05-21T10:57:00.001-04:00

Re-Boyfriend and I have decided to move to Park Slope, Brooklyn. The apartments are bigger and that was about the extent of our decision-making.

This may sound poorly thought out but I have spent almost every night for the past six months sitting next to my boyfriend on the only available surface in my apartment—the couch. This means I eat on the couch, drink on the couch, check my e-mail on the couch, read on the couch—all with my butt touching the side of my boyfriend’s butt.

We've both begun to hate the couch, and by extension, the apartment and all apartments its size. So Re-Boyfriend and I are moving to Park Slope with its bigger apartments.

I am fairly secure in this decision but there is still the bit of anxiety that comes with leaving Manhattan, even if it is only for another section of New York City.

Saturday night at dinner with S., I found out just how deep this anxiety ran when she oh-so-casually slipped “suburban” into her description of Park Slope.

“I’m so jealous! I love Park Slope, it’s so pretty and suburban. You’re going to love it. I remember when I lived there for a year, it was seriously my favorite neighborhood that I’ve lived in.”

What I Hear:
Suburban. Park Slope is suburban. Park Slope is a suburb where people go to have babies and die.

Then, just to further fuck with my head, S. said something about domestic bliss, or being domesticated, or Re-Boyfriend being domesticated—who the hell knows? I was still hung-up on the word “suburban” when I heard “domestic” and began to fantasize about springing across the table and killing her.

Sunday morning I woke up at 5am with an anxiety attack, and searched the internet for articles about the fun, young side of Park Slope to make myself feel better. Obviously I did not find too many.

The Truth Comes Out

2007-05-18T15:21:00.000-04:00

“So are you going to apply for that job?” Re-Boyfriend asked.

“I don’t know,” I shrugged. “I don’t really want to.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

“No, really, why not? It seemed like it would pay pretty well.”

“I’d have to wear a skirt suit every day.”

“So?”

“Well, the only reason I want more money is to buy better clothes. So wearing a skirt suit sort of defeats the whole point.”

It was one of those comments that you think you’re saying as a joke, then you hear it, think about it, and get kind of ashamed of how close to the truth it really is.

John? He Never Worked Here.

2007-05-16T10:53:00.001-04:00

When someone decides to leave our company there’s usually never any mention of the person's departure. One day you get an out of office message stating that John Smith no longer works at the company and you realize he still owes you five dollars.

If an announcement is made, it's done only a day or two before the person’s departure date, with a cryptic e-mail sendoff that never mentions what, precisely, the person is leaving to do. The Company doesn’t want us to get any ideas.

Today things have taken one more step towards total insanity. We are planning someone’s good-bye party two days after the person’s last day of work presumably to avoid the risk of infecting Cubeland with news of his leaving.

2007-05-15T13:01:00.001-04:00

After two bottles of wine last night, I decided that going to the gym sounded like a good idea.

I don’t think I had enough cognitive power to actually have a reason for this decision. I was just following some strange instinct, lacing up my Nike Airs and walking over to the gym on Third Ave., stopping to have a cigarette and seeing absolutely no irony in it.

Once on the treadmill I felt a little unstable, but mostly fantastic. I began to feel as though I was cleansing myself of all those alcoholic toxins. I was an Athletic Person who cared about her body. I was a Picture of Fitness.

In the throes of my deluded health-fantasy, I pulled off my t-shirt, threw it to the ground and kept jogging in only my sports bra.

Obviously, this was the moment in which I should have taken a figurative step back and realized that I was far too drunk to be using any sort of exercise equipment. But at the moment, all I could think was Goddamn I am HOT. And man, I can run FAST.

This bliss couldn't last long. Soon enough I lost my footing, and began fumbling for the red emergency STOP button. The button was either broken or my hand-eye coordination was woefully impaired. Either way, the treadmill kept going. I managed to stay on through a series of strange movements that were too mad and desperate to be called running.

It was clearly time to abandon ship and jump onto one of the sides of the treadmill. Unfortunately, this move resulted in me falling off the treadmill in a complex series of motions that included banging into the sidebars and kneeling on the running surface.

I sprang up from the floor where I had fallen, my fight or flight response kicking in, and ran (at approximately the same pace I had been running on the treadmill) out of the gym.

Today I have a headache and a large purple bruise on one arm as well as the both pleasing and annoying knowledge that I cannot go back to the gym for at least a month, possibly ever.

Engagement Rings: Part 2

2007-05-10T15:27:00.000-04:00

Re-Boyfriend tried to start a drunken conversation with me about engagement rings over dinner last night.

“So I read your post, and I’ve been thinking about it,” he said. “I think an amber engagement ring would be really cool.”

“Amber?”

“Yeah. With a prehistoric fossil thing in it.”

Pause. Realization dawned.

“You mean like a fly? You want to get me an engagement ring with a FLY in it?”

“A fossil.”

“Like the kind you can get at the Museum of Natural History?”

“Well, mine would be more expensive—”

“No.”

No no no no no.

Overheard in New York: Office Edition

2007-05-08T13:34:00.000-04:00

Update: Post deleted in a fit of paranoia.

Engagement Rings

2007-05-02T12:38:00.000-04:00

There’s no time to prepare. One friend gets engaged and the next thing you know you’re surrounded by people reading The Knot and discussing whether flowers can be "sexy."

Thankfully, S. is still unengaged and decidedly appalled at the recent speed with which our friends have mated for life.

S. and I went out to dinner last night, split a bottle of wine and began viciously comparing the engagement rings of our friends. It was a welcome change from forcing yourself to ooo and ahhh and listen in rapt attention as someone debates the finer points of cutlery.

“____’s engagement ring is so…” S. trailed off, unwilling to deliver the first blow.

“Ugly?” I asked gleefully.

“So ugly!”

“_____’s is okay.”

“No way! That diamond is big but it’s cloudy. Totally tacky and cheap,” S. said authoritatively.

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Oh yeah. And I’m sure she’s noticed. And I bet she’s pissed.”

After dissecting several rings, deciding they were all ugly, and repeatedly declaring Not Anytime Soon, S. and I began talking about what we wanted our engagement rings to look like. Or, more accurately, we tried to talk about it.

“Um…” I said. “Er…”

“Yes?” S. prompted.

“I don’t know, I don’t really know anything about diamonds.”

“Well, I do,” S. said. She hesitated then added, “But I’m not sure if I like them.”

We pondered this new development.

“Maybe we could get rings with other stones in them?” I suggested.

“Maybe,” S. said doubtfully.

“You know, I don’t even wear jewelry, like, ever. Maybe I don’t want a ring at all.”

“Please,” S. rolled her eyes. “You have to have a really nice ring.”

“Maybe when I get engaged I want a ridiculously expensive purse or something. Or a trip to Hawaii,” I said defiantly. "Or maybe I don't want to get married at all. I could just live in sin with a baby."

“You get a ring so people like us don’t talk about you behind your back,” S. explained, a bit exasperated.

“Oh.”

It was then that I realized that fear of what other people would say (ie. family, co-workers, the world) is actually the sole factor behind my desire to ever have a wedding, let alone a ring. It was a moment of self-realization that wasn't very helpful, since I cannot imagine overcoming this.

My Pubes, Or Lack Thereof

2007-04-30T10:56:00.000-04:00

In an effort to promote team unity and/or express its contempt for my job and all those similar to it, The Company recently moved several of my co-workers into a large shared work area (aka an old conference room). At first this was only inconvenient, since it is hard to talk to S. about the latest celebrity gossip news when your boss is uncomfortably close by, screaming “Fuck” into his phone.

However, after a few days, a weird chemical reaction took place. Instead of fleeing from each other at the first available opportunity (the logical thing to do) we began going to lunch together, drinking together and generally forming an “Us Against Them” mentality, which was nothing new for me except my “us” previously included only myself.

Besides cultivating a strange co-dependence, the quarantine effect also led to an abandonment of all professionalism. Now it is not unheard of to have a Monday morning smile greeted with “What happened? Did you get laid this weekend?” or to have one’s lunch selection of potato chips critiqued due to one’s expanding waistline.

It was all very funny until the day my boss and two co-workers tried to guess whether or not my pubic hair was blonde, decided it was not, then debated whether or not I actually had any pubic hair, eventually decided that I did, and then told me that I should get rid of it.

“CB, come on, this isn’t the seventies! Get with it!”

“Oh my God,” I told them, at a loss for how else to respond. “I am totally calling HR.”

Silence.

“You know,” my boss intoned, “You shouldn’t let anyone hear you say that. That's really bad.”

“Haha.”

“No, seriously. Actually," he continued, “If anyone else heard you, you could probably get fired.”

“Seriously?” CB, this isn't the seventies?!

“Yeah, it promotes a hostile work environment.”

Not that I was actually planning on approaching HR, but if a half-joking suggestion of doing so can get you fired, why do we pay people to work in that department?

Status of Things As Compared to Last Month

2007-04-26T10:27:00.000-04:00

Job: Same
Boyfriend: Same
Apartment: Same
Alcoholic tendencies: Increased

Now we’re all caught up.

2007-04-26T10:07:00.000-04:00

I was a little ashamed about using Technorati--who does that? It's even worse than obsessively Googling your ex-boyfriend, which I totally never do--but then I wouldn't have known my comments were turned off.

Thank you Grant Miller.

2007-04-23T14:38:00.000-04:00

Sorry about the hiatus.

This site had become a little more stressful, a little less fun and I had become a little less bored at work and a little more paranoid. The (only) great thing about writing for free is that you don’t really ever have to do it. So I stopped.

Then people stopped e-mailing such heart-warming things as "I hope your boyfriend cheats on you" and "Your clearely vary stupid."

People stopped leaving comments about how CLEARLY I was a pretentious bitch because I wrote about being tall MORE THAN ONCE. OH MY GOD.

I actually felt happier. Apparently I am more sensitive than I would like to admit.

But now I am back. Apparently I am also stupider than I would like to admit.

Hi again.

And again, sorry. I missed (most of) you.

God, that's lame.

2007-03-06T15:39:00.000-05:00

I’ve been feeling old lately. Not old like I'm on death’s door, but old like I’m supposed to be aware of the consequences of my actions instead of flirting with random men at bars and accidentally lighting my hair on fire in a drunken attempt to have a cigarette. (NOT THAT THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED.)

There’s the whole 25 thing. There’s the whole trying to get on a real career path thing. There’s the whole being in a Serious Relationship thing.

And then there’s the male best friend from high school getting married in a few weeks thing. I try to rationalize my total and complete abject fear at the prospect of attending his wedding but all I can come up with is seriously? You’re old enough to have a wedding I must attend? Is everyone else there going to be all mature? Am I supposed to be all mature?

So, in a bit of a state, I began watching St. Elmo’s Fire last night. I thought their relatable twenty-something life crises would soothe me, plus I have a generalized crush on all the boy characters except for Emilio Estevez.

Instead I wound up feeling kind of bad about myself, mostly due to Demi Moore’s breakdown wherein she sobs “I just really thought I’d be somebody by the age of twenty-three. You know? I just really thought I’d be somebody.” Sitting there in my pajamas it occurred to me that at twenty-five, not only was I not somebody, I was two years behind the self-imposed timeline of an almost literal crack-whore. I couldn’t handle the truth so I called Re-Boyfriend and asked him to get a bottle of wine on the way home.

Second Interview

2007-03-05T15:28:00.000-05:00

I inadvertently went to the second interview wearing a blue sweater that was the exact same color as the blue wall. And by exact same color I mean that I looked like a disembodied blonde head floating in the sky.

I know this because the first person who met with me said “You look like a disembodied blonde head floating in the sky.”

I half-turned and noticed my shoulder merged almost seamlessly with the wall. “Huh. Freaky,” I said because I am very witty.

The man stared at me in wonder for approximately ten seconds before continuing with the interview.

We’ll see but I can’t imagine this was a good thing.

2007-02-28T10:51:00.000-05:00

I just got a call for a second interview. During the highly awkward conversation with my maybe-future boss, he told me that I was the strongest candidate he had met.

I was slightly taken aback since I have been anything but enthusiastic during this process. Don’t all companies want over-eager team players?

Apparently not. Apparently, much like dating, some people want you to be a disinterested bitch.

What I Have Learned About Applying for Jobs

When a company calls, do not call them back for two days.

When scheduling an interview be sure to choose both the date and the time, forcing other people to accommodate you.

Reschedule at least once.

Show up ten minutes late.

Do not print your resume on “resume paper”.

Do not write a “Thank you” e-mail after meeting with the prospective employer.

Even if I do not get the job, I’ve learned a lot.

2007-02-23T14:39:00.000-05:00

Last night I went to dinner with the entire family and wound up in the corner (no escape!) wedged between my father and my mother.

Making conversation during the main course, I told my mother about the Wednesday interview, concluding “I don’t really know if I want it…”

Her response was to purse her lips, stare at her salmon and say, somewhat hesitatingly, “But CB, it's better to get paid alot of money to work in a job you don't like than to get paid a little money to work in a job you don't like.”

Touché Mama.

About five minutes later, it was my father’s turn to hear the story of the interview. Having learned from my mother, I concluded “But it would be a lot more money than I have now, so if they gave it to me, I'd take it.”

His response was to look at me quizically and intone “No job is worth selling your soul.”

And that was a pretty good point too.

This story can illustrate one of three things:

I was raised by two very different people, thus making me into the well-balanced woman you see before you

I was raised by two very different people, thus making me into the slightly schizophrenic woman you see before you

My parents are actually very similar in that they must contradict everything I say. (I mean, seriously, if I had told my mother I'd be taking the job it's quite possible she would have said "Remember what matters. Love. And joy. Not money.")

The Interview

2007-02-22T11:28:00.000-05:00

It is quite disconcerting to be in an interview, selling it hard and suddenly have your mind begin to chant, You are a douche with no sense of humor. You are a douche with no sense of humor. Even more disconcerting is when you don’t know if the chant refers to the interviewer or yourself.

On the one hand, you’re definitely acting like a douche with no sense of humor but on the other hand, you’re pretty sure it’s an act while the man on the other side of the table is most likely a real douche. Especially since your douche act is going over so well with him.

We'll see. I think I could be okay with being a douche with no sense of humor, especially for twice the amount of money I am making now.

Interview Tomorrow

2007-02-20T14:25:00.000-05:00

When applying for jobs, I write things that directly address the “Requirements” section in the job posting. Besides altering my resume to include all the needed skills, at some point in my cover letter I’ll say “I’m familiar with Powerpoint,” or “I’m proficient in PhotoShop and other imaging tools,” or “I’m familiar with a full range of marketing metric software, including, but not limited to, blah blah blah.”

What this translates to is: I have no idea what you're talking about. If you give me the job I'll learn what you're talking about before my start date. Now RESCUE ME, damnit.

Then I panic when I’m called in for an interview, because Oh my God, they're totally going to know.

I look really good in my new suit though. Hopefully the general air of importance that the suit implies, along with a firm handshake and eye contact (which I am so good at!), will get me a new job tomorrow before the conversation gets all technical.

Just Fucking Go To the Bathroom

2007-02-17T07:56:00.000-05:00

They have replaced Perky with a woman with a strong sense of team spirit. Usually this is limited to such endearing tasks as laughing, joking, and literally hanging out by the water cooler. This is okay. This is fun.

Unfortunately, Team Spirit also has a finely honed sense of co-dependency and likes to do such things as tell people exactly when she is going to the bathroom. As in, “Okay everybody. I’m going to the bathroom. Anyone need anything? Be back in five!”

Presumably, I need to know when TS is in the bathroom so that if I peer in her cube and see My Teammate! She is not there! I do not panic, but rather think to myself While I am upset that a member of My Team is not immediately accessible, I can take comfort in the fact that she is only peeing and will most likely return in five to fifteen minutes.

I refuse, REFUSE, to participate in this new bullshit because:
a) I use the bathroom all the time, sometimes just for a change of scenery so to actually state out loud how many times a day I’m going would be alarming.
b) My company may own many things of "mine", including my weekends, my soul, and my ergonomically correct chair but I refuse to let them even think they own my digestive processes.
c) When I was nine I stopped having to ask to use the bathroom. I will not regress.

However other members of the Team have not been as strong—or perhaps this kind of unity is what they were striving for all along—and now I am bombarded with enthusiastic declarations of urination throughout the day.

Go Team!

Valentine's Day

2007-02-15T10:02:00.000-05:00

Last night I received my Valentine’s gift of black thermal long underwear. It came in two tins—one for the pants and one for the long sleeve shirt. Both items were emblazoned with the logo “Hot Chillys.”

They matched Re-Boyfriend’s thermals perfectly, items that he wears throughout winter so that he can swagger around in a suit, seemingly impervious to the cold. (This makes for some interesting morning get-ups, such as the time he went to get a glass of water wearing black leggings and a button down and I realized he was dressed exactly like Lindsay Lohan.)

As I unfurled the bottoms, Re-Boyfriend’s eyes widened.

“Yours have a stirrup foot? I want those! That’s so awesome.”

You seriously cannot make this up.

“Now we can be warm together,” he told me.

“And run around like ninjas in the morning,” I answered, deadpan.

“Exactly.” He beamed.

To be fair, he also got me a very cute hat and it has been totally freezing in New York of late. Flowers wilt but thermals last forever. But I’m still going to lie if anyone at work asks me what I got for Valentine’s Day.

2007-02-08T16:13:00.000-05:00

Today I realized my hatred of my job had reached new heights when I started believing it wasn’t important to photocopy every page of a document.

Things That Have Gone Wrong Today

2007-02-05T11:24:00.000-05:00

1. A homeless man called me a “nigger” on the subway and spit in my direction. Besides being offensive, it was a little confusing since I am an almost-natural blonde.

2. I tried to empty my three-hole puncher into the garbage can, but missed. Now my cubicle floor is covered in tiny circles of white paper. This doesn’t bother me in and of itself, but I’m starting to get looks from other people.

3. Despite my repeated (read: constant) checking of my e-mail (which we all know makes people get back to you faster) nobody has written to me about the five million jobs I applied to this weekend. And I know it is before noon on a Monday but dear God, how many more spreadsheets do I have to STARE AT before I can LEAVE THIS PLACE.

Prognosis for the Week: Not Good

Wine

2007-02-01T11:04:00.000-05:00

Last night, after Re-Boyfriend passed out on the couch, I decided I wanted a glass of wine. I got the bottle of Pinot Noir that had been residing on top of the refrigerator and screwed in the wine opener. As I pressed on the sides of the contraption, I found myself successfully removing the corkscrew from the bottle, but with no cork attached to the end of it--which was really the point of the whole operation.

I tried again, and the corkscrew again emerged without the cork. After five repetitions of this little exercise, the cork was beginning to look a little bedraggled, full of holes and crumbling, but it remained in place.

I decided to switch strategies. I began to use the edge of the corkscrew as a sort of shovel, flinging bits of cork around the kitchen as I dug into the top of the bottle. After ten minutes of intense shoveling, on what was perhaps an overzealous scoop, the corkscrew snapped in two.

Refusing to be deterred by this setback when so close to my goal, I tossed the two halves of the corkscrew into the garbage and grabbed a knife.

In retrospect, this is where things began to go horribly wrong.

I jammed the knife into the cork and managed to remove a quite sizeable chunk (thank you Williams Sonoma!) before cutting my finger. I sharply brought the finger to my mouth, knocking over the wine glass that had been waiting patiently on the counter. As the glass fell to the linoleum, shattering into thousands of little sharp pieces, it occurred to me that I wasn’t wearing any shoes.

Having no choice but to walk barefoot through the valley of glass, I tried to tip-toe dance around the visible shards. This strategy worked for less than thirty seconds when, 6 inches from the freedom of the carpeted living room, I cut myself again.

I sat on the rug to examine my foot and contemplate my next move in this chess game with the wine bottle.

Not wanting to bleed all over the carpet as I searched for a pair of my shoes, I grabbed Re-Boyfriends wool socks and brown shoes that were conveniently nearby. Thus attired, I grabbed the dust buster and walked confidently (but a little stumblingly) back to the kitchen. After picking up the larger pieces of glass (and managing not to cut myself on them!), I began vacuuming the area. I almost felt like the situation was under control but then, in a move I should have anticipated, the dust buster broke.

At this point, I really needed a glass of wine. I gave the bottle an experimental shake to see if the liquid could make its way through the infuriatingly still-in-place cork. It could. And a lot of it wound up on the floor, since my shake wound up being more “vigorous” than “experimental.” Deciding to deal with things later, I filled up a glass and took a big, semi-triumphant sip, ignoring the floating bits of cork that stuck to my tongue.

And, of course, that was when Re-Boyfriend woke up, finding me in pajama shorts with men’s shoes and wool socks, sucking at my bleeding finger, surrounded by broken glass and small puddles of wine.

“My foot is cut too,” I told him.

2007-01-26T16:12:00.000-05:00

Sometimes Re-Boyfriend and I hug each other and (I don’t even know who started this) one of us will say “I don’t know what I’m going to do with all this love!” This is either sweet or nauseating, depending on your vantage point, but it is also, at least for me, true. I love him so much that the love is like a physical entity and I literally don’t know what to do with it.

I am beginning to think this is what people mean when they say things like “I’m overflowing with joy,” or “I’m bursting with love.” I’m not big enough for all this. One day my love is going to emerge forcefully from my stomach and parade around my desk. Until then I’m going to feel unsettled and scared.

This is not to say that Re-Boyfriend is never passive-aggressive. And he is also a snorer, and a person who freakishly wants to do laundry with me.

But I love him way too much and it is making me very uncomfortable.

A Passive-Aggressive Rant

2007-01-26T13:23:00.000-05:00

I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning and was subsequently bombarded with flying PAs. And if there is anything I hate more than zucchini, it is Passive-Aggressiveness, especially when it is coming in my direction.

PA Scenario 1:

“I’m not going to say anything about it, but you know you were a little drunk last night.”

“You just said something about it.”

“No I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I said I wasn’t going to say anything about it, you’re the one who’s talking about it.”

“You can’t DO that. It’s like saying, ‘Wow, you’re really ugly, but I’m not going to say anything about it. Wait, why are you mad? I didn’t call you ugly.’”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“I hate you.”

“Why are you being so sensitive?”

PA Scenario 2:

“Your hair looks so nice blow dried.”

“Are you trying to tell me to blow dry my hair?”

“No, I was just saying it looks nice blow dried.”

“Does it look bad now?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“So you just happened to tell me now, when my hair is sopping wet, that it looks nice when it’s blow dried.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“But if you wanted to blow dry your hair now, you know it might look bett—”

“Fine! I’ll blow dry my hair!”

“Why are you getting angry?”

PA Scenario 3:

“I'm sorry Re-Boyfriend got so drunk."

“Why are you apologizing? He’s always like that, isn’t he?”

“Um...No.”

Friends, family, co-workers and boyfriends all win, all the time, because apparently I slept through the class on how to fight like a pussy. The next time someone says “I’m not saying anything but…,” I’m going to say “I’m not saying anything but you’re a passive-aggressive dickwad. What? I’m not saying anything.”

Laundry

2007-01-23T14:38:00.000-05:00

Since Re-Boyfriend moved in, I have tried to be flexible about various domestic issues—my refrigerator now actually holds food, and I have found new homes for the pots, pans and toaster that previously resided in the oven. However one has to draw the line somewhere and I choose mixing my whites with Re-Boyfriend’s undershirts as my domestic limit.

Post-cohabitation, the first time that I started packing up clothes to go to the laundromat, Re-Boyfriend said cheerfully “I think I’ll come too.” Thinking it might be fun to have some company on the trip, I waited, perched on the bed, as Re-Boyfriend ran around gathering clothes.

“Do you think this is a white or a color?” Re-Boyfriend held up a muted tan shirt.

“I have no idea.”

“Well, let me see your colors.”

“My colors?”

“Yeah, so I can see if this will get ruined if I put it in with your colors.”

“Wait, you want to do laundry together together?”

Re-Boyfriend stopped his (slightly frantic) gathering of clothes and slowly approached me.

“CB, it makes sense to do our laundry together,” Re-Boyfriend told me, using his infinite patience voice.

“But I don’t even separate my laundry,” I said, still a bit confused. He wanted to co-mingle our underwear and fold socks side by side? Why?

“You just throw it all in together?” Re-Boyfriend seemed torn between being impressed and alarmed.

“Yup.”

“Seriously?”

“Yup.”

He thought for a moment, eyeing his muted tan shirt protectively.

“Well, I’ll separate your laundry for you.”

It was then that I had to take a firm stance on the laundry issue, letting Re-Boyfriend know that even though we were sharing an apartment, sharing a bed, sharing groceries and sharing pretty much everything, I was not prepared to share my washer and dryer time with his clothes.

After repeating “You’re being so ridiculous” several times, Re-Boyfriend accepted my neurotic stubbornness but not without some obvious resentment.

Later that night the issue of the hamper presented itself. If I didn’t want to do my laundry with Re-Boyfriend, did I really want my dirty clothes hanging out with his, necessitating a separation on laundry day, a process which was sure to cause the same argument all over again? Of course not.

And so I decided to keep my dirty clothes on the floor on my side of the bed. (I have what could kindly be described as a “sliver” of space between the bed and the wall.) Since I was the one with the issues, it made sense that Re-Boyfriend should be able to use the hamper. Then when I stopped being ridiculous, I could join him in his hamper-using maturity.

However, due to a reasoning I am not quite sure of, Re-Boyfriend began to keep his clothes on the floor. Since he is not in possession of a sliver of space between his side of the bed and the wall, his clothes are strewn about the doorway, the bureau, the windowsill, the desk.

When I tentatively broached the subject—“Er, I’m not using the hamper, you know,”—I received the terse reply “Neither am I.”

When, a few days later, I asked about the escalating piles of clothes, Re-Boyfriend said, somewhat sarcastically “I wouldn’t want our clothes to touch each other.”

Then he laughed and told me he was just kidding. But his clothes are still on the floor. And so are mine. And so our bedroom is littered with clothes while the hamper stands empty.

All in all, it’s going much better than expected.

2007-01-22T16:30:00.000-05:00

I think the best part of my job is that I occasionally get to work with numbers. Trying to answer such questions as “How much money did we make off X last year?” or “What was the financial benefit of trying Y last month?” can be more creative than one might think.

While I am sure accountants and other financially-oriented people have an idea of the numbers in question, I am also quite sure that no one knows the actual amount of anything. Then I come along, take one of the accountant’s ideas, put it in a spreadsheet, add and subtract a whole lot of other ideas, until, in the end, it is no longer an idea of a real number but a complete fabrication.

Once I give that fabrication to senior executives, it becomes a gospel number, one that can never be questioned. And this gospel number is used to generate a whole lot of other idea numbers.

“Hank, the numbers you gave CB are wrong. If we made [$gospel number] from x, we couldn’t have made less than [$idea number] from y.”

“Good thinking Sally, I better rerun those numbers.”

I am sure that in the beginning numbers were off by a dollar or two, as they are apt to be when one is dealing with a large operation. But over the years, things have gotten completely out of hand, and now I’m not sure how anyone knows if we are even making money at all.

Sometimes I see important people discussing numbers that I have given them and I laugh.

Sympathy for Money

2007-01-18T10:38:00.000-05:00

You know, it is one thing when my company wants to pay me crap money to do nothing all day. It is quite another when they want to pay me crap money to run around like a monkey performing meaningless tasks that have the due date of precisely one second from when they are given to me.

It is all becoming eerily reminiscent of my old job, a place where the pay was worse and my image was that of an overworked office Mother Theresa. Superiors would routinely refer to me as “a blessing.” Unfortunately, instead of giving my blessed hard-working ass a raise, higher-ups would walk by my desk, give me pitying looks and either tell me to “Go home” or comment “God. On a Friday night?” with a bit of an eye roll. Sometimes they would become aggressive, repeating their command to go home until I was forced into the unlikely position of insisting that I didn’t want to go home, that I was happy right where I was. The truthful translation of that would have been "Stop giving me work if you want me to leave, fucktards."

In one instance, my boss actually waited for me to pack up my belongings, then watched as I shuffled off to the elevator, presumably to ensure that I wouldn’t make a beeline back to my desk. As I glanced back in incredulity, I saw that he looked very pleased, as though he had done his good assistant deed for the year. He was still pissed when his project was a few hours late the next day.

Now people are beginning to give me sympathetic looks in the hallway. I know where this leads.

Update: I just reread my resume. If I had never met me, I would think I was important. Christ, if I ever get to leave the office, I'm going to buy a new interview suit.

My Reproductive Knowledge

2007-01-11T09:25:00.000-05:00

Obviously I know babies do not grow in one’s stomach, and that eggs do not start popping out 12 hours after a missed pill. I mean, seriously.

However, some of you do not seem to know that Vitamin C is totally fine for people on the pill. (Okay, fine, I actually didn’t know that either, but I Googled it.)

And, my period came this morning. I was relieved, but also a bit disappointed because I had been planning on live-blogging its arrival today. (“10:35am Another bathroom trip. 10:40am When I wiped I saw what appeared to be spots of dark blood but may only have been errant poo. 10:50am Another bathroom trip.”)

2007-01-10T16:25:00.000-05:00

Once in awhile I decide I’m pregnant. Usually there is a reason, albeit a really crappy one.

Three months ago I thought I was pregnant because I was two hours off schedule taking the pill. A few months before that I thought I was pregnant because I was badly hungover, vomited in the morning and decided that I had thrown up my pill and started producing eggs. Today I think I am pregnant because my period is one day late.

Since he is the father of my imaginary unborn children, I generally tell Re-Boyfriend the good news.

“I’m pregnant,” I’ll announce, hoping for either an eye-roll (“Oh, come on”) or a concerned hug (“CB, you know you’re not really pregnant”).

Instead, what I unfailingly get from Re-Boyfriend is total abject terror.

This morning

CB: I’m pregnant.

Re-Boyfriend: Oh my God.

CB: My period is sixteen hours late.

Re-Boyfriend: Oh my God! Your period was supposed to come sixteen hours ago? Oh my God.

I grudgingly took his intended role and explained that everyone is late from time to time and that this had happened before and that really, it was highly unlikely that I was pregnant.

Then it was Re-Boyfriend’s turn to agree that science was on my non-baby-making side and that everything would be just fine.

“Okay. Okay.” Re-Boyfriend bit his lip and generally failed to appear comforting. “But if you get your period today, will you text me at work? Or call me? Oh my God.”

"Fine."

"Are you sure? Promise me you'll call."

I’m never telling him I’m pregnant again.

But on the upside, worrying about growing a new life in my stomach has made me almost forget that my boss is fucking his ex-assistant. I didn’t even smile when I inadvertently referred to him and Perky as having had “worked very closely together.”

Okay, I’m lying, I actually laughed when I said it and watched closely for a reaction. Unfortunately, it’s hard to distinguish my boss’ ordinary look of suspicion and consternation from one specifically induced by a fear of being found out as an assistant-fucker.

NOTE: To all those who inquired, I'd rather not be more specific about the evidence of my boss's fuck life with Perky but rest assured it is both very clear and not that interesting. (There's no Monica dress or anything that you're missing out on.)

2006-12-21T22:08:00.000-05:00

Sorry for the lack of posting. At first I was busy, then I was sick. Now I’m traveling for the holidays and I probably won’t be back until January 9th.

Happy holidays and thanks to all of you who continue to read about the ridiculous minutia of my life. I really appreciate my readers, commenters and e-mailers, especially those of you that have been here for awhile.

(I am drunk and feeling the holiday spirit.)

Dear Gawker,

2006-12-12T17:00:00.000-05:00

I used to love and worship you. You were the only blog I linked to and even calling you a blog seemed somewhat insulting because you were so much more than that. You were a Website. You were Cool. You were, most importantly, Funny.

Now my feelings for you are much like my feelings for Britney Spears. Hopeful, yet despairing. Supportive, yet angry. I know you are going through a difficult time what with the change of editorship (Jessica Coen, I would never have had to write you a letter) and the new business model that requires you to repost an item from a Nick Denton blog once every five seconds until I get really confused and forget which blog I’m reading.

So in the spirit of optimism and looking-forwardism, I would like to share what I think has gone wrong.

Wrongdoing 1: The new earnest/judgmental tone.

Exhibit A: www.gawker.com/news/blackberry/its-too-bad-blackberries-dont-make-you-sterile-retroactively-220924.php

The question to ask here is, do I give a shit if little Lucy no longer gets to play Candyland with someone related to her because her multi-millionaire mommy is on the new Blackberry Pearl?

The answer is no, no I do not.

The answer is also, I wasn’t aware I was reading UrbanBaby.

Wrongdoing 2: The reuse of jokes

Exhibit A: www.gawker.com/news/ben-kunkel/kunkelfruit-now-more-than-just-derogatory-nickname-for-indecision-author-221261

See that last line? Where they make that joke about trying to determine the level of Benjamin Kunkel’s hotness? Can we all agree that the whole trying to determine the hotness level of a celebrity—OH MY GOD WE ARE SO CONFUSED, HOW HOT ARE THEY—was mildly amusing with Marisha Pessl since two pictures did show her to look totally different, but is now really super fucking over?

I am no genius, but I think I can determine the relative attractiveness of another person. And all this joking about how maybe I can’t, is like saying “Ha ha. Maybe that sky, it isn’t so blue after all…maybe it is cerulean. HAHA.” No.

Wrongdoing 3: Park Slope Mommy.

I know they took this feature away but seriously. Park Slope Mommy.

Wrongdoing 4: Assuming that everyone is fascinated with book publishing. (I am sure the fact that the new editorship used to work in book publishing is not at all contributing to this bias.)

Exhibit A: The entire Ask an Editor feature. Types of publicists? Types of authors? Hahahahahaha. I am thrilled to the core even though I could have written every single one of these items just by using common sense and a few expletives and absolutely no insider knowledge. Hahahahahahahaha.

Exhibit B: www.gawker.com/news/books/literary-contest-winners-to-get-published-screwed-219869.php (See also Wrongdoing 1.)

Wrongdoing 5: Revealing the fact that Gawker editors are not actually cooler than anyone else. (Admittedly, this might be good for my mental health since it is probably not the best idea to idolize people you know solely through snarky internet posts. Except for you Jessica Coen! I saw you once on TV. I love you! COME BACK.)

Exhibit A: The To Do feature.

Perhaps Gridskipper warned, “You can encroach on my territory, have a To Do feature, and not link to me, but you must not write about anything that I would ever, ever write about because I am King of To Do and you cannot appear to be cooler than my To Do-iness,” and Gawker said “No problem, I’ll write about things that suck. You don’t write about things that suck, do you?”

This suckiness came to a head with the recommendation that people go to Auction House on the Upper East Side. But only if they live on the Upper East Side. And, like, not really because it's cool but because it's the least uncool thing around. So if you want to be cool stay Downtown. And if you want to be cool Uptown, just give up and go Downtown. But if you’re super lazy, Auction House might be tolerable if you feel you must stay Uptown.

Okay. Gawker? You know what you just did with that half-assed recommendation? You just ensured that every douchebag making the Upper East Side douchey will now go to Auction House at least once, since you told them it wasn’t douchey. Thanks. Now I’ll have to hide in my apartment chugging vodka while feverishly peering through my keyhole out of an irrational fear that my apartment will be the new locale taken over. And, as you admitted, Auction House isn’t even a bar you really want to actually recommend, it's more a respite for those (such as myself) who are forced to be on the Upper East Side. SO WHY IS IT IN THE TO DO SECTION AND WHY ARE YOU RUINING MY LIFE?

And so Gawker, I still love you, but in the way I would love my family no matter what not in the way that I actually think they’re good at anything. I hope you get better. I’ve been reading The New York Times lately and they don’t even try to be funny—sometimes it hurts my head.

Sincerely,
CB

P.S. Pssst…guy that writes the Unethicist thingys….I think you’re super neat. Ignore this letter!

Update to the Editors: I'm sorry for not being more supportive while you were finding your footing. Apparently you are both lovely and snarky--and also slow to adjust to your new job.

2006-12-07T13:41:00.000-05:00

It was with great fear and dread that I came into the office today.

Last night, due to the pressures of an approaching twenty-fifth birthday (25!) and impending domestic bliss (Domestic Bliss!), I got quite drunk with co-workers.

Office Slacker was there to absorb most of my verbal diarrhea, a fact for which I am ridiculously thankful.

Sample Conversation

Me: I think John is creepy.

Office Slacker: Oh, definitely. And I think [insert important name here] is worthless.

Me: Really? Let's talk about who else we think is horrible.

Office Slacker: We can make a drinking game out of it!

One can imagine that the conversation might have taken a quite different turn had I unleashed my mouth on someone with more team spirit.

When Re-Boyfriend showed up, he looked rather horrified at my state and suggested we might leave soon. But one cannot leave the party early when there is an open bar tab, and one has been recently accused of being shy. I mingled and yelled and bummed cigarettes with abandon until, in a freakish time warp, I woke up at 5am in my own bed groaning with a headache.

I put on a great deal of make-up this morning, asked Re-Boyfriend 10,000 times if I had done anything really bad (“Because I need to know. You can’t be nice to me about this, I have to be prepared,”) and slunk into work feeling like a criminal.

“Hey!” one of my cubemates greeted me. I looked at her, already blushing. “Did you hear about Office Slacker?”

And so I came to learn that, after I left the party, Office Slacker had made an undeniable ass out of himself, asking my boss, and several other higher-ups, if they wanted to go to the massage parlor down the street and get hand jobs. While this may or may not have been an attempt at a joke, one thing is clear: I cannot be That Girl because Office Slacker already took the title of That Guy (probably while he vomited).

And I am never drinking in the presence of colleagues again unless Office Slacker is there as well.

The Self-fulfilling Prophecy

2006-12-04T11:48:00.000-05:00

I will admit that it takes me a bit of time to be comfortable around people. I have to figure them out, decide what I can and cannot say around them, if they like me and what I can get away with. Then I become loud, talkative, a bit ridiculously in love with my own witticisms, and generally run around like a banshee making random statements that I expect others to be interested in (“I really think my new drink is rum and diet coke”).

Unfortunately, this evolution has been derailed in the workplace and now I am viewed as “shy” and “reserved”.

If I had to pinpoint when I began acting “shy” and “reserved” it would be last year’s review when my boss told me it was clear that I was “shy” and “reserved.” Then he segued into the discussion portion of the meeting by saying “You don’t have to be intimidated by me. What do you have to say?” Immediately I was intimidated, not by him, but by the prospect of proving myself to be not-intimidated, fun and lively in ten words or less.

The situation grew worse when I first attended a work event outside of the office. As clients began to enter the room, my boss whispered to me “Now is not the time to be shy.” Immediately I felt self-conscious, as though someone was judging my interactions with people, mainly because somebody was.

Then there were the inevitable comparisons to Perky who was unanimously viewed as out-going. This was mostly because every time someone used the word “quiet” Perky would shriek “Not like me right?” I tried to copy this technique but found I had too much untamable sarcasm to properly pull it off.

And so I became the quiet one to Perky's loud one.

Today my boss pulled me aside so we could discuss both my workload and chance of promotion now that Perky has taken her perky ass elsewhere. “I know you’re shy and a bit…reserved…” he told me. I stared at him. I felt like he was name-calling.

Then he kept talking, and said many things that I cannot relate because I involuntarily stopped listening. Though I can read forever without losing focus, I can only listen to bullshit for about a minute or so before my eyes glaze over and I begin thinking of how I will recount the experience in my blog.

“So don’t feel like you can’t talk to me,” my boss said, wrapping things up with a smile. “I need you to be more communicative, even if you are…shy.”

The thing is, I'm not sure what my boss expects me to be more communicative about. My job is embarassingly easy. I suppose I could feign confusion once in awhile so that he could feel helpful. Mentally reviewing conversations I have witnessed between my boss and Perky has not helped since all I can recall is my boss talking ad naseum and Perky nodding vigorously.

I am slightly suspicious that when he says “shy” my boss actually means “retarded” and/or “boring”. This is fair I suppose since when I say “I don't think you're arrogant” I mean “Yes I do.” So we're all liars here. But after a boss that worshipped my every cough and whisper, it is bizarre to have this relationship.

On the upside, all this shy and reserved business probably means my boss has not heard me on the phone with S. discussing the pictures of Brittney Spears’ vagina.

Update: I have taken a poll of several people in my office, and the consensus is that I am not shy. The consensus is also that being called "shy" cannot be construed as a positive thing. I ordinarily would not tell my boss all this, but am considering doing so in an effort to appear not-shy.

I have to stop thinking about this.

Update: I said "You know, boss, I really don't think I'm shy." He said "What the hell are you talking about?" Ugh.

2006-11-28T11:17:00.000-05:00

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

2006-11-22T10:17:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-11-20T16:27:00.000-05:00

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

2006-11-16T14:44:00.000-05:00

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

2006-11-14T12:24:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-11-10T13:50:00.000-05:00

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

2006-11-09T08:40:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-11-02T17:49:00.000-05:00

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.

Why Myspace Stalking Is the Best Stalking

2006-10-31T15:05:00.000-05:00

Re-Boyfriend’s Evil Ex-girlfriend is not moving here.

Or, at least she is not moving here in late October/early November as previously announced by Re-Boyfriend.

I have found this out, not through Re-Boyfriend, but through Myspace, an institution I will never mock again.

Background Information: I occasionally check Evil Ex-Girlfriend's Myspace profile. I know. But at least I admit it—to myself, to you and to Re-Boyfriend. (Actually I think Re-Boyfriend is secretly flattered by my occasionally psychotic behavior but he could just be acting that way so as not to push me over the edge).

My suspicions about the moving situation began when a comment appeared on EEG’s profile. The comment read, “I’m so happy you’re coming to see me!”

A quick peek at the commenter’s page told me that the place Evil Ex-Girlfriend was visiting was New York.

Curious. Why, I wondered, would someone ostensibly moving here, visit here?

Naturally I checked EEG’s profile, and the New York visitee’s profile quite frequently (some might say obsessively) over the next few days.

Under my watchful eyes, EEG posted a comment on her friend’s page, telling her that she would be in New York the first week of November. Coincidentally, this was when Re-Boyfriend would be away on business.

I couldn’t quite let myself believe it at first. Maybe his trip would be canceled, maybe her trip would be canceled—I mean, who actually gets that lucky? And who has a boyfriend so stupid that not only would he misinterpret someone coming for a visit as coming to live, he would also neglect to realize that he would be gone for the entire length of the visit?

Apparently the answers to those questions are “Me”, and again, “Me.”

Which raises the point—does Re-Boyfriend now know EEG is not moving here? It is possible he knows but has neglected to tell me since the mentioning of her name prompted the following conversation:

CB: Can you not say her name?

Re-B: Huh?

CB: I’m jealous. Okay? I’m jealous and I don’t want to hear her name.

Re-B: But you have no reason to be. I mean, being jealous of her is kind of ridiculous.

CB: Look, I get one person to be jealous of. You get jealous every time someone asks me for a cigarette, I am totally allowed to be jealous of someone you actually dated.

Re-B (mumbling): I wasn’t jealous of that guy. I was just…..worried.

CB: Ha. Right. (Pause). Seriously, don’t say her name.

Or does Re-Boyfriend, due to his aversion to Myspace and his limited interaction with her, still think she is moving here? In which case, I suppose I should tell him so he doesn’t find out by checking my blog.

And in other news, I have become a total fatty since Re-B has been gone. Phase Defattify was supposed to go into effect Saturday, but I got very drunk and stayed out until 6am with S., which is not conducive to weight loss. Neither is the Chipotle near me.

Company Gifts

2006-10-24T14:06:00.000-04:00

It is a well-known principle of business that rather than giving an employee a small--but in the long run costly and unappreciated--raise, it is better to give the employee a one-time gift. A $50 American Express gift card, a box of Godiva chocolates, a gift certificate for a massage… Employees will feel appreciated and employers will save money. It’s a win-win situation. Or a win and thinking you’ve won situation, which is fine with me, even if I am on the thinking side.

Bastardizing this concept so that it benefits absolutely nobody is my company. A $25 gift certificate to The Gap and a bouquet of wilted lilies will only anger your employees and lead them to refer to your “gifts” in a disparaging manner. Instead of quelling the masses it has actually stirred their discontent since no one wants to think their silence can be bought with such paltry means.

I cannot participate in a People’s Revolution though because I want to keep the gift certificate and buy socks.

Maybe This Is the Yasmin Too?

2006-10-23T14:50:00.000-04:00

I have gotten quite good at Re-Boyfriend leaving. I do not cry when he leaves, or even, truth be told, generally miss him much when he’s gone. I know he’s coming back, I know he loves me, why not celebrate temporary singledom by refusing to clean my apartment/shave/moisturize etc.?

Right.

The first sign that something was amiss was the fanatical checking of my e-mail. Today I refreshed my hotmail page approximately once every fifteen minutes. (This figure is approximate only because I had to break for lunch). Even if Re-Boyfriend’s e-mails were consistently full of scintillating tales, I would still think my behavior a bit strange. Since Re-Boyfriend’s e-mails usually only contain random factoids (“Today I am staying in a hotel with red sheets”) and long discussions of odd subject matter (“I am reading _______ which has a good conversational tone, but is a bit long. I think it is well written but, of course, blah blah blah”), then my eagerness to receive one is just bizarre. It is not like me to wait with bated breath for the next installment in the suspenseful two-part series named “I Wonder Whether I Should Order Room Service Or Go Out To Dinner.”

In a similarly alarming turn of events, I have found myself periodically checking my cell phone to see if Re-Boyfriend has called. This from the girl who received the following e-mail from Re-Boyfriend on his last business trip:

I bought you a present. I’m calling you in an hour. You don’t get the present unless you answer the phone.

In my defense, I wasn’t avoiding speaking to him per se, I was avoiding the inevitably awkward phone conversations that left me feeling depressed and confused. Now I am actually SEEKING THAT FEELING OUT.

For some reason this time I really miss him. I actually miss him a whole lot and he just left—I’ve still got almost three weeks to go. This blows.

I Wouldn't Love You If You Were Fat

2006-10-22T18:46:00.000-04:00

Re-Boyfriend is gone for three weeks. Having learned from previous trips, I am not even going to attempt to believe that I will go to the gym everyday, quit smoking, and generally engage in healthy living. Instead I am going to embrace my inner sloth for two weeks, eat everything in sight, and generally celebrate the fact that no one will be seeing me naked. (It was hard to find the silver lining there, but I did it). Then, a week before Re-Boyfriend returns, I will begin eating normally again.

I am, apparently, so committed to the gaining weight portion of this plan that last night as I drunkenly stumbled home I stopped to buy a tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream. Then I ate the entire thing, most likely while sitting on my couch. (The location of my eating was surmised by the place where the empty carton was discovered this morning. Since I do not actually remember eating it, it is entirely possible that I was careening through the streets of Manhattan digging at the vat of ice cream with a plastic spoon. But I prefer to believe that did not happen.)

I really hope I left myself enough time to lose all the weight I will inevitably gain. Boys always stutter and stammer their way out of the question “Would you still love me if I got really fat?” Except for one of my friends, whose boyfriend responded “Well, I would have to talk to you about it because gaining weight when you’re in a relationship is really selfish.” There's a modicum of truth in that, but it is just not a comforting answer.

It's the Yasmin

2006-10-10T12:24:00.000-04:00

Last night I decided to make meatballs. Not being much of a cook, the endeavor seemed wonderfully adventuresome and light-hearted. I imagined myself playfully rolling up the chopped meat while chugging wine from the bottle and calling gaily to Re-Boyfriend “I think I may have burned them.”

Re-Boyfriend had not been privy to these bizarre fantasies and so when he called to let me know he was leaving work, he said cheerfully “I’m thinking pizza. Want to come to my apartment and order pizza? How does that sound?”

“But I’m making meatballs,” I said in a whisper, my dreams crumbling before my eyes.

“Really?” he asked in a skeptical voice. “Did you already buy the ingredients?”

Some part of me knew this was a fair question since I am prone to announcing intentions of cooking then almost immediately losing interest and ordering Chinese food. Still, I didn’t like his tone.

“I bought the ingredients.” I had not bought the ingredients.

“What did you buy?”

“Eggs, meat, garlic, bread crumbs, parmesan cheese…” I was reading from the recipe on my computer screen.

“No milk?”

“My recipe doesn’t use milk.”

“But you need milk.”

“Oh my God, I’ll call you when I’m done making the meatballs.”

I hung up the phone, and instead of going to the supermarket or trying to make meatballs from the raspberries, English muffins and corn chips I actually had bought, I began to cry. Hysterically. Sobbing I sort of paced my apartment, kicking at things and wailing. It was a real, honest-to-god tantrum and I couldn’t stop. I didn’t even feel emotionally involved with my hysterics, just curious and even proud—“Maybe I am having a real nervous breakdown!” This only made the entire scenario that much more frightening.

When I finally calmed down, I paused to reflect upon what could have caused such sorrow. Maybe I was really craving iron or protein and needed to eat red meat—which would explain the whole uncharacteristic urge to cook meatballs.

After an extensive search online, I concluded that the culprits were my birth control pills, which apparently have the capacity to drive one slowly insane. Even though I hate that commercial where the hot chick at the bar explains the benefits and side-effects of the low hormone Yaz, (as though people really sit around and say things like “Side-effects may include nausea…” while sipping Cosmos), I may have to look into it.

As proof that something needs to be done, I began crying again during this morning’s subway ride. It’s like when I was in middle-school, first got PMS and actually cried during the episode of Boy Meets World where Corey serenades Topanga with Christmas carols to prove his love. Except ALL THE TIME.

Also, apparently my birth control lowers one’s sex drive, which is sort of exciting. I already like sex, so maybe I will become a totally insatiable dynamo sex kitten in a few months.

2006-10-05T14:07:00.000-04:00

www.always.com/clean/

I don’t even know where to begin. First there are the commercials that suggest having one’s period is an incapacitating, near life-threatening condition, and now there is a product suggesting it is dirty?

I have asked other women (read: myself and S.) and we have unanimously agreed that it is unclear why toilet paper is not enough.

When I picture the marketing meeting that came up with this, I picture one lone woman in the room, too self-conscious to speak up and say something like “What the fuck are you talking about?”

And if there were a lot of women in the room, I really don’t know what’s wrong with them and their vaginas.

If anyone can explain this, I would be very grateful.

Emergency Backpacks

2006-10-04T11:17:00.000-04:00

The majority of large corporations in New York City received “emergency backpacks” after September 11th. My company was one of those, a fact which I did not discover until yesterday, when I finally received mine. Apparently co-workers had been carefully guarding their bags in desk drawers and cubby holes, not bothering to mention their existence to the no-longer-so-new girl, because who cares if she has food and water in the event of a national tragedy?

A shame-faced woman from HR handed me my child-sized back-pack. Though everyone else had probably gone through the initial period of giddiness with their new toy a long time ago, I still could not contain mine, pulling items out of the backpack yelling “Look! Dehydrated food!” and “String! Why string?!”

The HR woman, witnessing my enthusiasm, tartly reminded me that all items were to be used only in case of an emergency.

“No, I know,” I quickly reassured her. “Like a terrorist attack.”

“Or anything,” she clarified. “Like, if the building collapses and you’re stuck under rubble, you could have bottled water.” As if, when trapped under rubble I would think, I better save that water in my emergency backpack for a terrorist attack.

But then a thought occurred to me.

“What if I’m trapped under rubble and I can’t reach my emergency backpack?”

The HR woman was silent.

“Obviously, we should be wearing the backpacks at all times,” I said as seriously as I could before giggling.

“You know, I hadn’t thought of that.” The HR woman gave a thoughtful smile and returned to wherever the HR people come from.

Now there is a call for a company wide meeting this afternoon. I am irrationally frightened that they are going to announce a new rule that people must wear their emergency backpacks throughout the work day and it will be all my fault.

My Mother Gets Over Albinos Very Easily

2006-10-03T10:37:00.000-04:00

“One time, when I was younger, I was set up on a blind double date. I showed up and the man my friend had set me up with was an albino.”

I eyed my mother warily, wondering where, precisely, this was going.

“But you know, whatever, I was cool. I went to the movies with him and my friends, and you know, it was fine. Then, after the movie, everyone wanted to go get a drink. So I said ‘Okay’. But my date wanted to go home.”

My mom paused for a reaction.

“My date wanted to go home rather than spend more time with me. He wasn't attracted to me. I was a little hurt you know?”

At this point I expected a lecture on how we are all the same underneath, and one should not assume that albinos are necessarily attracted to everyone with normal skin pigmentation. Even my normally pigmented mother, who, it has to be said, was very cute in the sixties. (Not that she is not cute now, but it is a different thing).

I nodded sympathetically, wanting to convey that I too, was tolerant of albinos. Not that I had ever really thought about it but it seemed like a good principle to have.

“And I’ll tell you something,” my mom said leaning forward. “I’ve forgotten all about him. But you know what?”

“What?”

“He is still an albino.” She looked at me triumphantly.

“You have no idea how funny that is, on like, ten million levels,” I told her.

I considered that perhaps it had been a good thing that Re-Boyfriend had basically only had time to say “Hi” and perform the classic firm-but-not-too-firm-you-can-trust-me-with-your-daughter handshake, before trotting off to a work engagement.

“So your father wants to meet Re-Boyfriend too. He didn’t come tonight because he thought it might be a little much to meet us both at once.”

He is wise.

Meet the Parents

2006-09-25T14:34:00.000-04:00

Mom: So why don’t I meet Re-Boyfriend this Wednesday?

CB: Okay…like, for dinner?

Mom: We should have drinks first so I can see if I like him enough to take him to dinner.

CB: But what should I tell him? I mean, I should probably tell him beforehand if it’s drinks or dinner.

Mom (impatiently): Well, just tell him that if I don’t like him he’ll go home after a drink, but if I do we’ll all have dinner.

CB (patiently): Mom, I can’t say that.

Mom: Why not?

CB stares pointedly.

Mom: I suppose I can see how it might be a little awkward.

CB: So just drinks either way then.

Mom: Right. And if I like him we can all go to dinner.

CB stares pointedly again.

Mom: What?

Wednesday night is going to be so ridiculous.

Update: Obviously I am aware that Re-Boyfriend reads this. And obviously he knows my parents will judge him. That does not eliminate the awkward element of sending him home after a glass of wine like a loser on a game show.

(Not so) Deep Down, I Am A Money-Grubbing Whore

2006-09-25T11:12:00.000-04:00

I am strongly considering becoming an assistant. Like a real, fetch-the-coffee assistant.

The problem with my current job is that I am in a "promotable position" a dubious claim supported only by my title change to "Associate". This promotion (which was the most bullshit, meaningless promotion ever, getting me neither money nor respect) was meant to demonstrate the upward trajectory of my career (HAHAHAHAHAHAHA).

Because of all the opportunity and promise here, I get paid crap. Meanwhile, genuine fetch-the-coffee assistants are getting paid twice as much as me. Literally. Sometimes more than that. Literally.

At this point, the only reason to remain on my career path is that it might be somewhat embarrassing if I took a job that not only wasted my top ten college education but didn't require that I have an education at all. I'm not sure I care about that though. Sitting through the movie just because you paid for the ticket is ridiculous.

MySpaceBarIsBroken

2006-09-22T17:03:00.000-04:00

And the week will finally be over in six minutes. As a fitting end to this bastard string of five days my space bar has semi-broken, forcing me to SLAM DOWN WITH GREAT FORCE to achieve the previously-taken-for-granted-space-between-words.

My thumb is sore. I'm going to go drink away the pain with S.

2006-09-20T10:17:00.000-04:00

You know what’s fun? When halfway through a job interview you realize that not only are you incredibly under-qualified, you actually really don’t want the job. In fact, you would rather be pretending to work at your desk than sitting in a strange office, fielding such open-ended questions as "Tell me about yourself," from a woman who looks like a frog with a bald spot.

You contemplate getting up with no explanation and running down the hall (she’ll never catch you) or asking for a bathroom break and then sneaking off to the elevators (you’ll never see her again). Then you realize you don’t have the balls for something like that.

You begin your more appropriate plan to insinuate that the interview is a huge waste of time.

“You know, do you actually think I would be any good at this job? I don’t have a lot of experience and I don’t want to waste anyone’s time.” You throw in a yawn for good measure.

Unfortunately, a secret sheet of job requirements exists, on which “Blonde” and “Has scuffed shoes” ranks higher than “Enthusiastic” and “Hard-worker.” This is the only explanation for why the woman continues to chat with you for an hour and a half.

You go back to an office that wants to know why your dentist appointment went so long. Even though all you want to do is eat a bag of M&Ms, you have to pretend you are unable to eat due to the aftereffects of novocaine and some time-consuming procedure.

This week is an absolute failure.

Small Talk

2006-09-18T11:59:00.000-04:00

This weekend I will be attending two events with co-workers and clients that I do not particularly know or like. I am dreading this a full five days in advance because a large amount of small talk will be involved.

Not only do I dislike small talk, it actually makes me nervous. I am not the wallflower type but sober conversation for the sake of sober conversation, with people I would never encounter in day-to-day life, confuses me.

And so, being somewhat neurotic, last night I began compiling a conversational cheat sheet of inoffensive topics/questions/stories.

Weather. Variations on the theme It’s So Hard To Dress For This Time Of Year. Segue into the inaccuracies of the weather channel.

Cooking. “Do you like to cook?” If yes, prod for recipes, if no, exchange cooking disaster stories.

Commuting/Air travel. “Did you have trouble getting here?” “When are they going to build the 2nd Ave. subway?” “Air travel is very unreliable.” “Did you have to throw out your mascara?”

Movies. “You saw _______? I was thinking of seeing it. How was it?” Repeat as necessary.

Books. “I’m reading _______. It’s really interesting. It’s about ___________.” Repeat as necessary.

Babies. “Do you have pictures? I love babies. Ohhhhhh…he is adorable.” Maintain rapt attention while listening to the story of Baby’s First Poop and The Other Day Baby Said “Gargle”.

Shoes. “I love your shoes. Where did you get them?” Segue into my inability to wear heels due to height, segue into my boyfriend being the same height as me, segue into how comfortable flats are. Women only.

Advice. “What do you know about _____?” Maintain wide-eyed expression while listening to long, garbling, most likely incorrect explanation of basic phenomenon. Men only.

Then when the uncomfortable silence comes, which it always does, I must remember to maintain a pleasant expression and, at the end of the night, express what a wonderful time I have had.

What is scary is that some people really do enjoy these types of things.

All's Fair and Funny

2006-09-15T10:39:00.000-04:00

S. was introduced to her co-worker’s crush at a party during Fashion Week. The three of them partied into the wee hours of the morning, and eventually decided to go back to the boy's hotel room.

Unfortunately for the co-worker, somewhere along the way S. had developed a crush on the boy as well.

By the time they wound up at the boy's hotel room, it was clear that the co-worker was on the losing end of the boy-battle but she still wasn’t going to back down without a fight. She flopped down on the hotel room bed, turned on the TV and settled in, thinking that if she could not hook up with the boy, at least S. wouldn’t be able to either.

“Oh my God, I don’t feel good,” S. said suddenly. “I have to go home right now.” She leaned against the wall and looked faint. The co-worker, somewhat alarmed, gathered her things and walked to the door, prepared to walk S. home and/or take care of her. But as soon as the co-worker stepped into the hall, S. slammed the door behind her and locked it.

“Finally,” S. said.

“So she’s been really nasty to me this week,” S. told me with a confused look. “I don’t understand what her problem is.”

I started giggling while S. asked “What? What is it?”

Finally catching on she said “Well, it’s not like he liked her anyway. Come on.”

I am so happy she is my friend.

Career Opportunity: Whore

2006-09-13T09:45:00.000-04:00

This showed up in my inbox this morning, with the subject line "Indecent Proposal". (Seriously! I know.)

Hi,

Ummm, any interest in a friends with benefits relationship? I can give you 250 per session, and we'd meet 3 times a month. I'm 32. If interested we can discuss further. Hope you're not offended. I'm private and discreet.

I can completely understand how someone might think I would be amenable to that sort of thing, especially after this post. But how does he know what I look like? And why would he think my rate was $250 when I have SPECIFICALLY referred to Jessica Cutler’s $400 price tag? Is it because he refers to the situation as “friends with benefits” as opposed to “hiring a hooker”? There’s no discount for that.

2006-09-12T17:09:00.000-04:00

It has to be Miss New York! It has to be!

http://www.variety.com/article/VR1117949885?cs=1&s=h&p=0

This is why I have cable.

I Will Be a Corporate Whore Forever. Learn It. Live It.

2006-09-12T11:30:00.000-04:00

This blog has led people to approach me about various business endeavors, a fact which has become steadily less exciting.

The first time a literary agent e-mailed me, I threw my hands in the air, yelled repeatedly “I am the champion,” grabbed a bottle of vodka from the top of Re-Boyfriend's refrigerator and took a triumphant swig.

Later I discovered that the agent was only interested in meeting with me if I had a fully formed novel to show her. Apparently, I should have been keeping one stashed under my bed, just in case. Unfortunately for me, I had been too busy getting drunk and bitching about my job to write The Great American Novel, or even, as would be more likely, a crappy piece of chick-lit.

The next time a literary agent e-mailed me I was prepared. “I do not have a book at this time, but I am in the process of writing one. I’ll be sure to e-mail you when I have something for you to look at.” I gave myself a time frame of a month. That was April. Do you know how many words are in a novel? A lot.

Then television/film people started e-mailing me, asking if we could “chat”.

Excerpt from a “chat”:

“I’m thinking you have a really great voice. I mean, it just speaks to so many people.”

“Thanks.” Pause. “So, you would want me to write a script?”

“I think your blog could translate really well to the small or big screen.”

“So you want me to write a script.”

“I have a lot of connections out here and I think I could help you.”

“So you want to be my agent.”

“I’m not an agent, but I could find you one.”

When I would finally ask, very directly, what exactly they did want from me, the person would reiterate that they only wanted to help. Then they would tell me to seriously think about whether or not I wanted to get involved in “The Industry”. When I Googled their names and found nothing related to The Industry, I had to believe that 1) I was their very first project or 2) They were attempting to take advantage of me in some way that I can’t even understand because I know nothing about The Industry. Then I would stop returning their calls.

Though useless in and of themselves, I viewed these incidents as positive indicators of things yet to come. I would finish (read: start) my book, and/or figure out what the hell those producer people wanted. I started to view my office job as temporary, something that would eventually be replaced by an at-home/coffee shop/going out job, one that mostly involved me toting around my Apple laptop and drinking.

Then came another call from producer people. And these people actually made sense. They possessed the ability to speak clearly, and they used it to tell me both what I needed to do and what they were going to do. Plus, when I Googled them, actual television/film projects showed up under their names, a basic criterion for trustworthiness that, before them, had never been filled.

Obviously I was going to be Carrie Bradshaw very, very soon but with less shoes because I’m not a shoe girl and no Aidan because I never really liked Aidan, and a much smaller apartment. And hopefully not very much like Carrie at all except for the whole writing and having fun thing, because she kind of annoyed me and Miranda was my favorite anyway.

Bringing me out of my Sex and the City reverie were the words of one of the producers: “And of course, the really great thing is that you can keep your job now and do this, it’s not like you’d have to leave it.”

I almost laughed at the way she said this, as if keeping my job were a positive thing. But then her comment sank in and I finally realized that no one was offering me anything that would amount to a new job. Even if I did have the next crappy chick-lit book, or became involved in The Industry, it would only be a way to make a few bucks on the side. While this is not anything that I would say no to, it is also not exactly living the dream. I hung up thinking I had better reinvent the dream, or replace it with a more realistic one, like being an instant millionaire from internet stock trades.

So now I’m going to drop in to my boss’ office, just to see how his meeting went yesterday. I have to start sucking up since it appears I will be here much longer than anticipated.

P.S. My new apartment is fucking gorgeous.

Domestic Life

2006-09-05T11:42:00.000-04:00

This weekend I got marvelously, dramatically sick. While this is not fun under the best of circumstances, it is considerably less fun when you are temporarily staying with your boyfriend and trying to appear sexy while nauseous. Since the roommate was gone for the weekend, I feverishly decided to put on my pink Barbie doll-esque underwear and lie on the sofa, sneezing and shivering. It did not occur to me that this was less sexy than it was bizarre.

By Sunday I had abandoned all attempts to look even mildly attractive and had made a fort of tissues and Vitamin C drops on the sofa. I lay there in Re-Boyfriend’s blue plaid pajama bottoms and white cotton undershirt, as Re-Boyfriend occasionally patted my thigh and made "helpful" suggestions.

“Hey baby, why don’t you go wash your face?” he said, sensing that showering would be too much to ask. “That’ll make you feel better.”

I thought the logic behind the healing powers of facial cleanliness to be dubious at best, but the next time my bladder forced me into the bathroom, I dutifully opened my face wash and went through the necessary motions before returning to the fetal position in front of the television.

About fifteen minutes later Re-Boyfriend prodded me with his foot.

“Hey, seriously, why don’t you wash your face?”

I looked up at him resentfully.

“I did wash my face,” I told him. “This is just what I look like right now.”

Plan A having failed, Re-Boyfriend moved on.

“Well, I’m going to go downstairs and get myself some breakfast, and bring you back all sorts of stuff that will make you feel better,” he told me. "I promise. Doesn't that sound good?" It did. His somewhat condescending/cooing tone was oddly comforting in my delirious state, though I suspected he was not so much trying to take care of me as attempting to make me feel better for his own selfish reasons, ie. having a fun little friend to go to Central Park with.

"Do you want anything in particular?" Re-Boyfriend asked.

“Ooooo...Fruit Punch Gatorade.”

He returned ten minutes later holding out a package of Benadryl.

“But I don’t have allergies,” I told him, confused and wondering where the hell my Gatorade was.

“Yes you do," he answered matter-of-factly. "Come on, you know you’re not really sick.”

Was he serious? I had no response besides the death glare.

“CB, just take it. Just take one.” Pause. “Just take half of one, it'll make you feel better.”

“Benadryl makes me sleep for days,” I informed him from my prone position on the couch. “And I do not have allergies. I am sick. I really hope you catch whatever I have so I can sit by smugly while you vomit and tell you that you have allergies and --”

“I got you Gatorade too,” he interrupted, holding the bottle out like a desperate peace offering.

Somewhat mollified, I thanked him before retiring to his bedroom, where I spent the rest of Labor Day weekend staring wistfully out the window and trying to convince myself to eat. I was periodically interrupted by Re-Boyfriend opening the door to kiss my forehead and ask if I thought going to dinner/a bar/the park would make me feel better. Each time my orgy of self-pity and sweaty sleep was interrupted, I responded with less kindness (“No, no…I think I have to stay here. Thank you though.”) and a growing snappishness that even the forehead kiss could not completely stave off, (“I. Am. Sick. I am NOT going to be fucking FUN. Just go somewhere WITHOUT ME.”)

I had hoped this weekend would feature me in my underwear cavorting about with a wine bottle in hand, cooking pasta and having sex on the sofa. Instead I seem to have unintentionally painted a more accurate picture of domestic life, with little sex or speaking. Perhaps it is for the best. If we ever live together in a more permanent fashion, we can only be pleasantly surprised.

From Homeless to Squatter, Progress Is Made

2006-08-31T14:50:00.000-04:00

Last night I moved five boxes and two bags, aka all my belongings in the world. Being rather wary of encroaching on Re-Boyfriend’s roommate's space, all my belongings in the world now sit in the hallway.

“CB,” Re-Boyfriend asked tentatively, “Don’t you think we should try to fit them in the apartment? You know, so they’ll be safe?”

“If someone is actually going to come all the way up here and carry one of those boxes down four flights of stairs, then I will say ‘You deserve it.’ I mean, I can’t even lift one,” I said with false bravado.

While true that I could not lift a box, I would probably cry were one to disappear, seeing as that would constitute approximately 1/6 of everything I own. Still, I preferred to leave my things in the hall to limit my usage of apartment space. Re-Boyfriend’s roommate had not exactly asked for me to stop by with all of my stuff for a week, take up shower time and not pay rent.

I had a plan to minimize my interference with the roommate’s daily life. I would shower at odd hours, speak in low tones and take out my trash nightly. To preserve the illusion that I was visiting, rather than crashing, I planned to keep as many of my things in the hall as possible. I organized my belongings into the nonessentials (books and clothes kept in the boxes in the hallway), essentials (clothing for the next week and a laptop which would be kept in the apt.), and nonessential but often needed items (shower products, toothbrush, etc. to be kept in an easily accessible bag in the hallway). Through these ingenious divisions, I ensured that at no time were there more of my items in the apartment than strictly necessary.

This morning the plan went into action. I woke up and tiptoed into the hall for my face wash. I tiptoed back into the apartment.

I realized I had left my toothbrush outside. I tiptoed into the hall. I tiptoed back into the apartment.

“Forget something?” Re-Boyfriend asked, emerging from his bedroom, smiling at me as though I were an adorable, if wayward, six-year old.

“No,” I told him haughtily. “This is part of my elaborate plan. The hallway is like my dressing room.”

Then I decided I wanted my moisturizer. I went into the hall. I went back into the apartment.

Oops. A towel.

I went into the hall. I went back into the apartment.

Oh! A hair-dryer for later.

I went into the hall. I went back into the apartment to find the roommate had emerged from sleep in order to scratch his back in the middle of living room.

“What’s going on?” he asked, looking at me oddly.

“CB, this is seriously annoying. Just take the bag inside,” Re-Boyfriend told me.

“What are you doing?” the roommate asked, understandably confused. "I thought I heard you leave, like, five times already."

I was pretty sure I saw Re-Boyfriend smirk a little.

I said nothing and went into the bathroom with as much quiet dignity as I could reasonably muster.

Less than twelve hours and my plan has already failed. Seven days to go.

Homeless

2006-08-28T11:22:00.000-04:00

I can’t move into my new apartment until September 7th. There are two problems with this:

1. I need a place to stay 8/31-9/7.
2. My crap needs a place to stay 8/31-9/7.

Re-Boyfriend was, at first, delightfully comforting. He wooed me with talk of his fathers’ truck, his hallway space and his bed. He used the word “we” a lot, making me feel as though I had a partner in this mess. There was, as he definitively told me Friday night, no problem.

This optimistic mood remained until yesterday afternoon, when Re-Boyfriend came to my apartment to help me pack. The harsh reality of battling with dust bunnies most likely made him rethink his knight in shining armor complex, especially as his fair maiden filled a large box with clothes before realizing it had not been taped on the bottom.

Making matters worse, I don’t think Re-Boyfriend quite understood that when someone does not own furniture, plates or kitchen accessories, it does not necessarily mean that they don’t own lot of crap.

After we both endured sneezing fits due to the vortex of dirt and dust in my apartment, we left to get a much needed glass of wine. At the corner of my block, Re-Boyfriend casually addressed the sidewalk and said “Sooooo…figure out what you’re going to do with your crap yet?” I took that to mean I was no longer allowed to park anything but my own sweet ass in his apartment from 8/31-9/7.

“I am confident that I will figure something out,” I said confidently. “Don’t worry about it.”

Right.

Update: S. told me I was being retarded and that Re-Boyfriend just wanted to know if my crap was going to be in his hallway or not. I like this theory, aside from the me being retarded part.

Update Part 2: Upon my asking, Re-Boyfriend said, rather exasperatedly, "I told you that you can keep your stuff in my apartment. And I don't think you need to hire movers. We'll talk about it tonight." I went ahead and hired movers, just so everything would be settled.

Knowing precisely when you will be forced to live out of a suitcase because the rest of your worldly possessions are taped up in Home Depot boxes is not exactly settled, but it is as close as I am going to get until September 7th.

Potato Chips

2006-08-25T16:50:00.000-04:00

You know what is actually incredibly challenging and rewarding, as far as workday activities go? Trying to eat a bag of potato chips in complete silence while on an international phone-in conference call.

My strategy:

Place chip on tongue.
Allow saliva to absorb salt.
Slowly roll around mouth until all crunch has been lost.
Swallow.
Pause to gauge whether you have inadvertently made a noise and interrupted the conversation.
Place another chip on tongue.

The chips are now gone and so I have resorted to chronicling the experience on my blog in an attempt to ward off sleep.

This conference call, like most things that require only the ability to hold an object to your ear in complete silence, is less than thrilling.

A Conundrum

2006-08-24T11:19:00.000-04:00

The person I am ostensibly subletting an apartment from is too busy to tell me when I can move in but is not too busy to send me an e-mail telling me he is too busy.

I am in a bit of a rush since my lease is up August 31st. This Saturday marks the day that my roommate will leave me with a noticeable lack of TV, internet, dishes and cushiony sitting spots. Her keys will be given over to the super, who will subsequently roam in and out of the apartment, painting the living room and trying to catch me naked. While these are not technically slum conditions, they are close enough.

Yelling that I want my damn keys and a move-in date would be inadvisable, since the person subletting the apartment is Re-Boyfriend’s friend. Yelling would also be impossible since the friend is out of the country and accessible, (in the loosest possible meaning of the word), only by e-mail.

My stomach hurts.

Good-bye Interns

2006-08-21T10:20:00.000-04:00

The office interns are leaving and I am going to miss them, not only for their proven stapling abilities and new found copying skills. I actually like them, a fact that I have tried to hide to varying degrees of success.

Friday afternoon found me at a “Good-bye Interns” lunch at a local restaurant. I knew I should participate in the big people conversation, where topics included the weather and the likelihood of our company buying new computers, but the 16-19 year-old crowd drew me in.

“I really want to start reading Dave Sedaris,” I overheard someone casually mention as I pretended to listen sympathetically as an older man outlined the details of his diet. I knew I should continue nodding rhythmically in his direction but my head involuntarily whipped around to the Sedaris-loving high-schooler.

“I have all of his books,” I told her.

“Yeah? I really want to read Augusten Burroughs too.”

“Oh my God, I have all his books too!”

“And I have to finish reading The Crimson Petal and the White.”

“I loved that book! Did you know Michael Faber is writing a sequel?”

“Seriously?”

As I nodded, it dawned on me that I had the same taste in reading material as a high-schooler. It was a humbling moment.

After spending lunch with my back to the adult side of the table, I left the restaurant amidst a gaggle of teenagers trying to explain to me how easy it is to hack into someone else’s e-mail. (Creepily, they all seemed to know how to do this, leading me to briefly wonder if any of them cared enough about me to hack into my e-mail).

Back in the office, I was approached by two of the thirty-plus crowd.

“CB, you’re like the pied piper,” one teasingly told me.

“It’s very sweet of you to take care of the interns,” said another.

“You would make a great mom,” said the first.

I laughed uncomfortably, realizing there was something wrong with a twenty-four year-old woman who, instead of playing mom and trying to mold sixteen-year-olds into upright citizens, encourages them to teach her about illegal activities.

And so I will miss the interns, but I’m grateful that they are leaving sooner rather than later. It was probably only a matter of time before my newfound maternal image was revealed as a sham. Then I would just be weird.

Re-Boyfriend's Penis

2006-08-18T09:49:00.000-04:00

Re-Boyfriend informed me that the original version of my Tuesday post was “harsh.” I happened to agree, which was incredibly unfortunate, because it meant that I was wrong and that I might start to feel guilty, which is never fun.

I apologized. Re-Boyfriend said “It’s fine. But now you know not to do that.” I assume that means I am not supposed to write about his penis anymore. (I hope that didn’t count.) After the two sentence make-up, we had great sex. (I think that’s okay.) With his penis. (Oops.)

And thank you so much for all the nice things that were said about my unintentionally alarming post below. I didn’t intend to cause a stir--I'm not really going anywhere. If I ever do abandon this blog in favor of an entirely anonymous one, a concept that assumes I am capable of getting over my narcissistic desire to be read, I will e-mail all those who asked. (Re-Boyfriend if you are one of those who asked, I will find out and kill you).

Does anyone else have these problems or am I especially neurotic?

2006-08-16T10:48:00.000-04:00

It is hard to vent into cyberspace and feel good about it when (in an excessively stupid and naïve moment), you told certain people about your blog.

People that know about my blog because I have told them:
My boyfriend, my best friend, my mother.

People that know about my blog because the people I have told have told them:
A select few of my boyfriend’s co-workers and a friend that S. has “Oops! CB, I’m sorry!” told. (In S.’s defense, one is probably less than the amount I would have oops-told if the situation were reversed).

People that know I have a blog but not the exact address because the people I have told have told them but not told them everything:
Every one of my boyfriend’s co-workers with whom he is friendly, my boyfriend’s roommate, my boyfriend’s roommate’s friends, almost every one of my friends, my father.

That is a lot of people not to offend.

Plus, due to a lack of interest in getting fired from my job, I periodically enter strange phases wherein I imagine myself to be a spy or a whistle-blower or some sort of mole-like agent. I obsessively change the hair colors of co-workers and the dates of certain incidents in my posts, thinking myself very sly. I formulate defenses for myself, should I ever be called into my boss’ office and asked about The Company Bitch. “It’s my friend’s.” “It’s fictional.” “What’s a blog?”

Then, after a prolonged period of such low-grade paranoia, my perspective begins to get a bit warped. Soon enough I imagine that everyone is reading this blog. I become absolutely convinced that the slightest slip will reveal my identity to everyone I know. I actually had the following conversation with S.:

“I think I have to take down that post about our engaged friend.”

“Errrr...I don’t think she reads your blog.”

“But it was kind of mean, don’t you think?”

“CB, seriously, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t read your blog.”

“But what if she does? She’ll know it’s her.”

“Please shut up.”

And then I had the following conversation with Re-Boyfriend:

“Why isn’t the internet working?”

“I know you’re about to delete another post. You can't delete them all.”

“So why isn’t the internet working?”

“I turned it off. I think you should calm down first.”

I sat, staring, tapping my foot impatiently.

“CB, calm down.”

“I am calm.”

“What’s that?” Re-Boyfriend pointed to the shaking foot.

“I’m just waiting for you to turn the internet back on.”

All told, it is a lot of stress and worry for a hobby that started as a way to relieve stress and worry. I don’t even know what I’m more afraid of, alienating the friends and family that already know or having more friends and family find out.

I feel like I should either get over it or just start another totally anonymous blog, but I don’t know which.

Dear Re-Boyfriend,

2006-08-15T12:09:00.000-04:00

*POST REMOVED DUE TO CROSSING THE LINE*