I never really understood the purpose of blogs, at least not in respect to people vomiting their lives all over the internet for everyone and their mother to read.  Not that my mother even knows how to turn a computer on, properly, never mind procuring and frequenting an inbox.  She is more than happy with the wonder of the cellphone.  The woman can text message!  She has figured that much out, but I think it has more to do with the fact that she can text unlimited rather than let me eat up her minutes with complaining and expressing my desire to eat like I did when I was a child.  (Which is, in other words, well; not doritos for lunch and coffee when everything else fails.)

I’m rambling.  My point!  My point is that I’m having some difficulty getting my head around blogging, even with the guise of anonymity.  PA (after calling me a prude 60 times after I mentioned this to her) suggested that I make it a story rather than just emotional blabber vomit about the mundane details of my life (and even the not so mundane ones).  So.  On that note, please, have a story:

The Boy is a gift giver, and I guess I have accepted this despite my previous assertion that we are nothing more than platonic friends having sex with one another.  His penchant for presents doesn’t change the truth, the same way the truth doesn’t deter The Boy from occasionally surprising me with flowers, my favourite candy (cherry twizzlers, ladies and gentlemen), or sushi when it’s four in the afternoon and he can somehow sense that I’m still at work and haven’t eaten lunch yet.  I… tend to shrug most of it off.  I express thanks, of course, but I never really encourage it, and I like to remind him every now and again of exactly what I’m wanting out of this arrangement.

His response is usually something to the effect of: “Well, I know, L.  But we’re friends with benefits.  I still care about you and want to do things that make you happy, not because I want you to marry me and become my own personal baby factory, but because you’re my friend.”  That is usually followed by a lecture about the dangers of malnutrition, and the ever emphatic, ”No, L, for the last time, caffeine is not a food group.”

Yesterday, when I left work, he was standing outside of the building waiting for me, a surprise in tow.

He says, “Evening, pudding pop,” to which my (usual) reply is, “Same to you, cupcake.”  He tells me he’s taking me to the deli around the corner, that he won’t hear my arguments against it (as he’s just as poor as PA and I are), and that he has something he wants to give me.  I feel unsettled during this exchange, and even more so when he loops his arm with mine and leads (practically drags, I’ll admit) me in the direction of said deli.

After we’re in and ordered and waiting for our food, he pulls a neatly wrapped box the size of a cellphone out of his hoodie pocket and sets it on the table in front of me.

“I got a raise,” he tells me, and he’s lit up like a Christmas tree.  I manage a rather weak smile and just stare at the box without replying.  I’m afraid of what’s in it.  “What?” he asks.  “You don’t like surprises?”

I give him a look I hope reminds him of every discussion about platonic sex we’ve ever had.  His grin dissipates slightly.

He sighs.  “Listen,” he says, a sort of warning tone in his voice that unnerves me more than anything else.  “I know the drill, okay?  We’re not a couple.  We have established this, and I am not pushing for the Great Bloody Commitment here, L.  Just open the damn present.”

So I do.  I take off the ribbon, peel off the tape and wrapping paper so as not to tear it (because everything can be saved for later, even if I can’t really afford to buy people presents).  The box itself it black and plain.  I open the lid.  Inside, there’s a gift card for $100 worth of groceries.

I almost pee myself I start laughing so hard.  The Boy, after a moment, joins in.

I was, as you might have gathered, quite wary.  I was almost expecting a necklace, or some earrings; something that would push The Boy and I into whole new territories of awkward.  Instead, he gives me something practical.  Something that shows he cares about my well-being without having a stigma, or expectations attached.  I went to the store tonight and loaded up with vegetables and eggs and bread and cheese and microwave dinners.  I’m sitting here now with my belly full of ham and cheese omelet, half a pack of twizzlers, and a can of coke.  And there’s still $43.27 left on my present for next time.

So there you have it, folks.  A glimpse into I guess my brain and my life as it is: Unconventional, ‘awkward’ and weird, perhaps, but at least I have someone who cares about me enough to make me face the supermarket like a grown-up.

I’d just like to mention that getting fabulously tipsy with the group of people that kick-started your career is, without a doubt, the fucking BEST way to end an UNNECESSARILY stressful week at your real job.

God, I love those guys (and their gritty gossip about clueless interns).

Yes, I know you’ve missed me terribly. I’ve been away with some indistinguishable tonsil disease/head cold. Basically, I’ve been partially delusional, partially bitchy, and totally out of my mind with hormones. Do you know how many tips an infectious cage dancer makes a night? I’ll give you a hint.

You can count the singles on two hands.

(Insert poorly composed pun about the men I’ve laid…here.)

I was going to wax philosophic about how men don’t typically like when the hired aesthetic help sneezes onto the glass against which her nipples are supposed to be pressed and leaves behind a trail of snot and sickness that does anything but turn them on. But let me digress. Because as I sit here tolling away at my day job, a legal-sized page of mundane tasks that, if we still had interns, unpaid college students would be taking care of, it’s slowly occurred to me that everyone in my business — female or not — is a complete bitch.

I mean it. I work with either bitter, loveless single women or gay men and every time I answer the phone it’s “Put Apple on the phone.”

Well goddamn. Good morning to you too! Why don’t you try pulling the tampon out of your ass first and then speak to me. Thank you very much.

I’ve been yelled at three times today about things for which my boss is responsible. But being the underpaid, underprivileged, unappreciated assistant/lackey that I am, I take all the flack. We have this one Diva of a client (aka, absolute BITCH) who is impossible to schedule for meetings because, God forbid, she miss a hair appointment/photo op/opportunity to schmooze with the people far more important than her who are never quite sure who she is except some overpaid woman with an unfortunate facial structure. She came in for a meeting about fifteen minutes ago (probably one reason why everyone is on edge this afternoon), and everyone in the office, including our almost-midget muffin gopher, is coming to me to complain. The notebooks aren’t ready, the copy isn’t edited, the BOTTLED WATER ISN’T EVIAN, oh HORROR OF HORRORS!

I made sure to prance past the conference room as she was greeting everyone an give her a giant stare-down. Yes, this is my office, I said with my squint. No, you are not more important than me. Yes, your baby-blue sweatsuit combo is seven years outdated and makes you look like a cheap anorexic tranny.

This, on top of the literal bucketfuls of paperwork I have sitting next to this computer would have driven me absolutely mad were it not for a sticky note I found sitting on my desk.

Who sent this, I have no idea, but I’m cannot wait to find out. (Almost as much as I can’t wait to slap said Diva in the face with one of her over-publicized, over-televised, poorly-written novels.

Hello all! I hope everyone had a fabulous and relaxing Labor Day holiday. Moi? I have returned from Wine Country with an emptied wallet and a novel-length collection of stories to share.

Old business first, I suppose. I, ah, took the night job. More on that cash cow later, though. (And furthermore, CB is just jealous that at least I’ll get bills stuffed into my bra rather than into an empty coffee can. Love ya L!)

New business…?

Over the weekend, Over-Socialized and Bemusedly-Insecure Roommate #2 made the very horrifying yet unfortunately all-too-frequently-occurring discovery that her boyfriend of seven years had been canoodling with another woman. To add insult to injury, the other woman was strikingly hideous, 27, mother of a 10 year old boy, and also still living with her parents. It goes without saying that Over-Socialized Roommate JR didn’t take it too well (ie: bussed to his place two hours away in the pouring rain at four in the morning sporting smeared mascara and bad hair, slapped him twice across the face, and ended the relationship).

While thankfully I wasn’t around for any of this drama, it got me thinking about my own relationships with men. This weekend, in a haze of stress and work and sexual frustration, I trained down to meet up with what I consider my surrogate brother for a healthy 96-hour long drinking binge. Three years ago, we absolutely hated one another, but through a series of captive events – [ie, living together without air conditioning during one of the bloody hottest summers of our lives, being stuck in a car on a very long transcontinental drive, winding up very drunk and very horny in a bed with him and his girlfriend…] – we found a common bond. Somehow through those torturous and seemingly endless hours of watching Will He William bumble around in his manties (Yes, that’s right: Man Panties.), a tight friendship evolved. By the end of that summer, he was holding my hair back as a vomited from taking too much knock-off Levitra (don’t judge).

Which brings me to this past weekend.

It was just the three of us: Will He William, his socially inept roommate, and myself. We began the weekend with a hefty amount of drinking at the local bar of a college none of us attended in a city none of us was familiar with. Will He William, despite his girlfriend, had set me on a mission to find the cutest girls in the bar. [This is normal. I am one of the guys. Always one of the guys.] When his lines like, “Hey, where do all the pretty girls like you go?” managed to fail miserably despite his charming features and rippling biceps, the three of us staggered back to the hotel where we proceeded to fight over sleeping arrangements and eventually pass out mid-water-fight.

Saturday was not much different, except Will He William and I got more comfortable one another and resumed our awkward step-sibling like behavior (noogie-ing, slapping, teasing). But, as always, when extremely intoxicated and wearing a very adorable, very inexpensive knockoff of something much more fabulous, friendly teasing between Will He William and me often turns into something a bit more risqué.

I’d said something like, “William’s fucking probably feels more like tickling. Have you seen the size of his dick?”

And socially inept roommate questioned, “How would you know?”

To which I replied that of course everyone knew how small it was; William likes to wander around the house 1) in manties 2) in a shrunken towel 3) naked.

In response, William slammed down his glass, gave me the hungry grunt and said, “Goddamnit woman, don’t make me turn you over my knee.”

Which he promptly did. At every possible moment.
Sunday, William and I went halves on five bottles of wine at several vineyards around the area. Sexual frustration somewhat inopportune, our ass-spanking/face-slapping escapades calmed down to a simpler, sweeter, more appropriate show of platonic affection. Fabulously buzzed since literally 2 in the afternoon until we passed out twelve hours later, Will He William and I took up residency on our hotel couch to watch testosterone-filled movies. He’d been leaning against me all weekend, typical since our little encounter in his girlfriend’s bed the year before, but there was no flirtatious intentions [despite the fact that he had once again stripped down to the manties – but this was nothing out of the ordinary.] We were simply comfortable.

Another bottle in, he began to wax philosophic, a side of him that really no one ever gets to see.

William took my hand. “Woman,” he said somewhat jokingly, “You know there are only maybe a dozen people in this world I give a damn about?”

This I gathered; William tends to be a love-them-and-leave-them kind of guy.

“Obviously you’re one of those,” He begins to seem drunker, but this doesn’t matter. “It doesn’t matter how successful you are in your job or who you marry or how much money you end up shitting away. It’s the relationships, the inter-personal relationships that matter, PA.”

And then he leaned against my shoulder, and we watched the rest of the movie in silence.

Eventually he fell asleep like that – leaning on me, my arm wrapped around his shoulder, him snoring. And that, I swear to God, was the best feeling I’d had in a long time. It’s the kind of bliss that can only come from extreme sexual tension and the mutual understanding that nothing else can ever be done about it, the kind that comes out of a seemingly impossible friendship.

Now I’m back and the buzz of four days worth of drinking has finally worn off and I’m once again faced with the reality that my rent check is due yesterday and the closest I can get to sex is groping the top half of an ass-slapping, manty-wearing ex-roommate who will never see me as more than one of the guys.

PA, whom you’ve already met, has most unfortunately made my first impression for me. It goes a little something like this (and do correct me if I’m wrong, you future Lady of the Night, you): Lazy, unfeminine, prudish and weird.

I find these rather… limiting. They don’t paint a picture of interest, that’s for sure, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to be dragged into this anonymous-blog bullshit without making certain, important facts about my person very, very clear. Specifically, I am NOT a prude.

The fact that I don’t want greasy, sticky-fingered, disease-ridden alcoholics stuffing dollars in my underpants does NOT make me some anal-retentive, psuedo-virgin. I might not make donuts copy-editing articles about the best ways to grow Morning Glory’s, but I’ve not yet reached the low-point in life where smooshing my boobies together and shaking my booty is the only way to make ends meet. I have standards! Respect for my boobies! A distaste for the rotting smell of all of those desperate, 50-year-old penises!

That said, allow me to properly introduce myself: For the sake of the blogesphere, I am CG (which oh-so-cleverly stands for Coffee Gopher, a task I am frequently assigned at my place of employment. PA is the Personal Assistant to the Wicked Witch of the West). We chose to be anonymous because… well let’s face it, if we publicized our lives under our real names, and Certain, Soon to be Noted people found out, we’d be up the creek. I dislike my job, sure, but not enough to encourage them to fire me.

I am also 23, as underpaid as PA, and I am stuck at my aforementioned craptacular job because it’s freakin’ impossible to find anything else to do in this city with a degree in creative writing. Ultimately the goal was to become a Bestseller and all that, but so far, no luck. Just fail, fail, fail, and getting by with the essentials: Tea, toothpaste, and the internet.

No, I am not fashionable. I don’t really care to be. I look neat and practical when I go out (I DO wear bras outside of the apartment, PA!), I wear flat shoes because they’re comfortable, and I don’t like it when subway steam blows up skirts, so I stick to trousers. I shop at Old Navy, usually, AND THERE’S NOTHING WRONG WITH THAT, OKAY? I can feel the judging eyes of PA, and Roommate #2, both of whom stroke their knock off Prada-whatevers every night before they inject straight martini into themselves and pass out. I’m tired of being referred to as ‘Anne Hathaway pre-Chanel’, and of both of you flipping open your phones and pretending to call Meryl Streep to see if she can ’smarten me up’.

Anyway. As far as the ’sex’ thing goes, I completely refuse the idea of a steady-boyfriend, as my last relationship with that was rather… Titanic-like. It’s why we don’t talk to S anymore, and why PA decked The Ex right in the nose and broke it. I ran into him on the Subway two weeks ago, and it now has a wonderfully ugly, permanent crook to it. Rather satisfying, indeed. But that whole we’re-so-in-love mantra (better yet, obsession!) is not something I a) am eager to experience again, or b) need in the slightest. Sex I can separate from the hand-holding and the anniversaries and the daydreaming about being Mrs. Asswipe and having a bazillion babies. Subconciously that was my goal about four years ago, I think; being there by this point in my life, or at least getting started, with a house, picket-fence, a Labrador, two cars, a baby…

But reality settled in, and here we bloody well are.

At any rate, there is The Boy, whom I have been sleeping with since last Christmas Eve. It is very much a Friends with Benefits situation, one he and I are both quite comfortable with, and neither of us have any need to warp it into some sycophantic excuse for loooooooooooooove. It isn’t that. It will not be that. All that’s important is that he has the abs of my great-grandmother’s washboard, and a insatiable sexual appetite equal to my own.

So suck on that, PA. Maybe I should loan him to you sometime!

I am an underpaid, 23 year old female public relations assistant in a bustling metropolis. There are certain staples I require to be satisfied in life, and so far I have none of them. I share the lowest rent apartment in a deceivingly impressive neighborhood (one often associated with wearers of labels such as Valentino and Yves St. Laurent). I live with four other girls and one mouse. I have no gay friends, and I consider shopping for a dress at H&M a splurge (tragically, as of late, purchasing that $25 frock has actually released more endorphins than sex, which I haven’t had any of since I moved here either).

I’ve been living in the city for a little over a year, but it wasn’t until recently, about the same time the sex stopped happening and the shopping gave me tingles in the nether regions, that I realized my bank account was rapidly diminishing. It isn’t like I’ve been buying anything exciting – cigarettes, newspapers, frozen peas, toilet paper – but the negative balance is there all the same. Fuck, you know, I could own some extravagant house in a mediocre Midwestern town for what I drop in rent each month.

Regrettably, my mother is right. I’m hemorrhaging money.

As several of you reading this know, I came from humble beginnings. Scabbed knees, mosquito bites, Keds and whatnot. Somewhere between sucking my thumb and sucking other appendages, I got the sense that I was entitled to extravagance. I was at a book launch for this self-made socialite, schmoozing with women whose perfume cost more than my annual salary when this photographer approached me. He was short, brown hair, brown eyes, misshapen nose (read: absolutely as far from my type as my type can be), but four drinks in I was suddenly enthralled by everything he was saying.

“I live by Home Depot,” he laughed, juggling his massive camera back and forth.

I didn’t know they had Home Depots anywhere near the city, let alone 66th Street. I told him this, and he, characteristically laughed. “Yeah, girls wouldn’t. They’re not big into building.”

I’m not a liar by any stretch of the imagination, but when some guy dares to roll out a perma-stick gender label on me, I have to step in and intervene. “What are you talking about?” I ask coyly, making sure to thrust my breasts out as tastefully as possible (a PR trick my lavishly successful and nightmarish boss always taught me). “I spent practically every weekend whittling away at this headboard I’m building for my bed.”

…Yeah. I totally went there.

And the bullshit just kept coming. By the end of the conversation, I not only established a false love for craftsmanship, but I also expressed an unfaltering passion for ice hockey and beer. But that was only on the weekends. During the week, I reassured him, I blew a small portion of my pay on sunglasses and broaches from Chanel, and when I wasn’t sipping martinis with the CEO of the hottest shower-curtain designer on the east coast, I was taking culinary classes at the institute downtown.

Now that I look back, I wouldn’t have called me the next day either.

So you see, my problems tend to go hand-in-hand. I wasn’t getting laid because I wasn’t making enough money to attract the men I’d bear my box to, so I started lying about it, which in turn made me seem like more of an ass, which in turn made me start spending the money so at least I wouldn’t be a complete schmaltz when I spit game, and now Chase bank is calling me every day between 7 AM and 10PM reminding me that my overdraft protection is going to be eliminated if I continue to abuse the privilege.

I tried waiting tables for a while, but half of the time the tips were terrible and I came home smelling like wasabi and soy sauce. If my excess of lies weren’t turning the men away, the scent that was quickly seeping into my veins surely was. My stint in the glamorous restaurant business ended in a matter of weeks, and the paltry sums I earned in tips did little to ameliorate that black eye on my credit card statement.

In response, I’ve made the very adult decision to do something about it. Since my daylight hours – all of them and then some – are consumed with answering phones, plastering my desk with multi-colored sticky notes, and reassuring my boss, we’ll call her Apple, that the tulip skirt/ankle-boot combo doesn’t make her look like a twiggy marshmallow, my options have been slightly limited.

Thus the reason for blogosphere anonymity.

A few days ago, I was scrolling through Craigslist looking for seemingly appealing and easy part time jobs, when I thought it might be funny to click on the “adult gigs” link at the bottom of the page. This was purely jocular, I assure you. But when countless ads popped up offering over $200 an hour just to stand in a glass box and push scantily clad parts of myself in men’s general direction, God, it impossible not to investigate.

Roommate #1 and Misplaced Childhood Friend walked in on me searching and, in her typical judgmental manner stood behind me and blurted “You can’t be serious.”

Well of course when challenged like that, I felt like I had to own up to it.

“Oh, I’m serious.” I swiveled in my chair to face her.

This is a great time to introduce reluctant fellow roomie and blogger CB. The thing about CB that makes her so fabulously grand is that she’s a little more than sexually conservative – she’s retentive, restricted, frustrated, and generally in denial (Sorry, it’s true L). I’m in no place to judge, obviously having not been laid in far too long, but if she took a comb to her hair and maybe wore a bra for once, she might get a little action and chill the fuck out.

Chewing on the end of her fingernails (a classic tell-tale sign of sexual repression), she scoffed, “There are better ways to make money.”

I’d love to know what those ways are. Right now, the more days that go by chaste, the more money gets spent on cheap imitation designer adornments.

And I don’t know, maybe it’ll be a rush, you know? Something to replace that tingle I get when I swipe my debit card through the magnetic reader. Here’s to new experiences, I guess