Ice Ice Baby February 14, 2007

Today began with treacherous ten block walk during which I almost wiped out approximately 35 times all the while attempting to fend off the ice being pelted from the sky at my only patch of bare skin – my face. Let’s not even mention the wind except to say OMIGOD THE WIND.

God to New York: Happy fucking Valentine’s Day.

To be honest, now that I’m in the warm confines of my NOT AN OFFICE cubicle, I’m quite content that it’s the Day Where I Get to Feel Superior to All of My Single Friends (just kidding, singletons, just kidding).

It’s a day like any other day, really, except for that ominous wind howling outside that makes everything feel, I don’t know, sort of creepy and apocalyptic. The grey sky and slushly streets make for an interesting juxtaposition against all that the holiday stands for – warmth and love and “romance” by way of pinks, reds, roses, chocolate, wine and teddy bears.

(It’s okay, I don’t know what I’m talking about either. I think all the ice may have given me a minor concussion.)

We’re not doing anything major – no elaborate dinner followed up by an elaborate romantic evening lit by candlelight and featuring Clink in a negligee. No, no, no. Just some sushi and some cupcakes that I baked and the exchanging of some small gifts. We’re not Valentine’s Day people, really. It’s Amateur Night for the folks who need a holiday to schedule some time with each other. To schedule some sex. We, let it be known, have no problem scheduling some sex.

Ahem. Moving along, things are starting to pick up here at the new job. I’m starting to feel like oh, hey, yeah maybe I CAN actually do what they hired me to do. And do it well. Which is a nice feeling. Also a nice feeling? This thing called motivation, which I have recently become reacquainted with after its absence from my work life for the past six months. It’s nice to feel challenged (but not too challenged – I mean, hello, why do you think I work in TV?) and – dare I say – satisfied at the end of the day. I can turn off my computer and my lights and think to myself, well done Clink, well done (in a British accent of course because Inner Me is totally a hot, take no shit British bitch).

Anyway – now that I have a real job I actually have things to get done (I know! Amazing!). However, I do like to be entertained throughout the day (some things never change) so, I leave you with this: what are you doing for Valentine’s Day? And do you think my boyfriend is going to like the six part PBS mini-series on the Civil War that I really bought for me under the guise of a Valentine’s Day gift for him? All boys like war, right?

First Day, Part Two February 12, 2007

Is there anything worse than deciding when to leave on your first day?I’ll answer for you: no. No there is not.

It’s 6:20pm. Our hours are, give or take, 10am to 6pm. Except here I am, at my desk, uncertain of whether to leave. M is waiting outside the building, in his car. Luckily, he has the Sunday Times in his backseat.

You see, my Boss Boss has left for the day (without saying goodbye, mind you) but my Boss (one step below Boss Boss, one step above me) is still here and doesn’t seem to be making any picking-up-her-stuff-shutting-down-her-computer moves.

Really, the reason I’m eyeing the clock is mainly because I’m hungry. I still haven’t located the vending machines, so all I’ve had today is a banana, at my desk, because possibly the only thing worse then deciding when to leave on your first day is worrying about getting lunch – when, where, with whom – and then all of a sudden, while you’ve been busy worrying, it’s become 4pm and you’re stuck at your desk with a fucking banana.

First Day. February 12, 2007

I’m overdressed, of course. When will I learn that TV people wear jeans and sneakers and tee-shirts, sometimes even tee-shirts with holes, and that they look at anyone dressed, say, in a conservative skirt with conservative heels and a conservative sweater somewhat suspiciously. I will, naturally, be breaking out the jeans tomorrow so that I no longer look like a Goldman Sachs employee who accidentally wandered into the building.So, the good. Scratch that, the VERY good: I have my very own, has-a-door-and-everything office. It will be ready in two days or less. Right now I’m in a cubicle, directly across from my new office, and at several points in the day I have found myself just sort of staring at it, wistfully, full of anticipation. Like it’s a photo of Justin Timberlake or something (what? You don’t think he’s totally dreamy and hot and OMIGOD? No? Yeah, uh, me neither. I was totally kidding right then).

I’m overwhelmed, of course, and wanting to do both everything and nothing at the same time which leaves me sitting here at my desk, somewhat paralyzed. It’s par for the course, really. Whenever I start something new, I have the simultaneous urge to be both superhuman and accomplish the task in record time and also retreat to the farthest corner of the cube, close my eyes and pretend that it’s all a dream.

Have I mentioned I’m weird? I’m totally weird.

So, that’s my first day update. And it only took me 6 ½ hours to work up the nerve to blog. I’m becoming bold in my old age.

BREAKING NEWS: I just got word that I may not, in fact, get the office. Which has me bummed and pouty, a bit. Inwardly, of course. But still. WAH.

Just killing time, move along. February 10, 2007

I’m sitting in my father’s law office, near the town I grew up, waiting to hop on a 5:25pm bus that will take me back to Manhattan.

I don’t really have anything to say (read: anything you want to hear because how exciting is reading about new job nerves? Answer: not very) but I do have time to kill. Hence.

I’ve been in Philadelphia since Wednesday night. I can feel the weight of the Geno’s (I’ve always been a Pat’s devotee but M was drawn to the neon and it was too cold to argue) cheesesteak on my thighs; I cannot wait to go to the gym. If you live anywhere remotely near Philadelphia, I highly recommend the National Constitution Center. M took me there - kicking, dragging, screaming, “BO-RING” - and could barely get me to leave. I was reunited with my inner history geek and, let me tell you, does it feel so good.

We did other geeky (Independence Hall, where I got a little tingle in my chest when the Ranger pointed to the table where the New Jersey delegation sat) and non-geeky (I walked out of King of Prussia mall a good $400 lighter) things and everything was great but the best part was really sleeping until 10am and waking up in a clean, white, fluffy hotel bed next to a dark, handsome boy who is mine all mine.

We drove back north this morning, early, so that I could meet my family for a college basketball game - my (and my father’s and, soon, my sister’s) alma mater was in town.

And now, a few hours post-win, the ache has set in. Philadelphia is not Manhattan. My hometown is not Manhattan. I need Manhattan. My beloved and I have been apart 3 nights and I’m tingling for a reunion, even if it happens in the Port Authority Bus Terminal. That’s the thing about New York - don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone and all that. Wednesday night, I couldn’t wait to be away from the windy, crowded streets and the hot, stuffed subway and the honking at 3am outside my building. But now, Saturday afternoon, I’ve forgiven New York for all of her misbehavior (though I am going to passive-aggressively make a comment about Philly’s reasonable prices) and I’m ready to welcome her back with open arms.

I’m not going to mention the new job except only to say: HOLY OMIGOD I GET A TIGHTENING IN MY CHEST WHENEVER I THINK ABOUT IT BECAUSE HOLY OMIGOD.

Wish me luck.

So, this is it. February 7, 2007

It doesn’t feel like it. Despite all the paper shredding and organization of files and removal of personal effects, it still feels like I will waltz in tomorrow around 10 or 10:15 OKAY FINE 10:30 with a tall skim caramel macchiato and a pout because really? Another day? As a working woman? Le sigh.

But this is it. Tomorrow, at 10:30am, I will be in a hotel bed, in Philadelphia, poking M’s side and kissing his earlobe and mussing his hair and doing my darndest to frustrate him into waking up so that we can go to brunch in Rittenhouse Square.

And this time next week, at 10:30am, I will be at my new job. And I won’t be reading any of your blogs because I will still be scared into submission by being the new girl, the new girl who does not do anything on her computer except WORK! Because you hired her to WORK! And she doesn’t want you to regret it! So WORK! she will.

There will be no more yellow walls. No more view of uptown, with a light at around 5:15pm that makes even the Port Authority Bus Terminal look startlingly beautiful. There will be no more 12 hour days and free late night dinners with a rotation of burritos, pizza, pasta and burgers. There will subsequently (and hopefully) be no more spreading of Clink’s ass. There will be no more doing something that my heart is no longer in. There will be no more wasting entire days reading other people’s writing and wondering if maybe I should become an editor because then I can get paid to read other people’s writing instead of using it just a distraction. There will be no more wonderful – no, truly, wonderful – co-workers who, at a moment’s notice, I can summon for advice on my relationship, my living situation or what to put in my burrito. There will be no more showing up to work just to collect a paycheck and not because I actually get something – a challenge, satisfaction – out of it.

I’m scared, of course. This is par for the course when I am about to take on something that my rational self knows I can handle but, unfortunately, my irrational self didn’t get the memo.

It’s okay. Because I have a trip to Philadelphia standing between now and the new job. Philadelphia, M explained when he told me he booked the hotel, because it doesn’t require a flight, because we can see my sister, because it has a nice balance of shopping (me) and history (him) and great restaurants (both), because it is one of my favorite cities but I never get to truly experience it like a tourist.

I’m hoping that trading in the hustle and bustle of this city for the slightly more civilized hustle and bustle of another will be the perfect wind-down before I set foot into the new office, 30 blocks north, and attempt to prove my creative worth. Just like I set foot into this place, for the first time, just over a year ago.

I probably won’t be able to post until Monday, and even then only in a stolen moment when I am certain my new bosses won’t be looking over my shoulder. Until then, there is some brilliant writing going on by the people to the right. I read them everyday. So should you.

By the numbers. February 7, 2007

8, number of hours I have left until I leave this office for the last time.

0, number of work-related things I plan on doing between now and then.

10, time that work will start for me on Monday, at my new job.

6, time I will get out at my new job “most days,” according to my new boss.

4, boxes of donuts I brought in for my co-workers today.

$11.98, the cost of four boxes of donuts.

7, number of (mini!) donuts I have eaten myself.

13, number of months I have been at this job.

7, approximate number of months that I truly enjoyed it.

3, number of different bosses I have had during that time.

61, approximate times I have eaten at the Chipotle down the block.

$12, approximate price of a meal at Chipotle.

$732, approximate amount of money I have put into Chipotle this past year.

11, average amount of hours worked per day.

66, average amount of hours worked per week.

0, amount of lunch breaks I have taken at this job.

1, number of vacations I have taken.

13, number of co-workers in the department.

7, number of co-workers I will actually miss.

22, blocks from my apartment to this office.

1, blocks from my apartment to the new office building this company is moving into next week.

20, blocks from my apartment to my new job.

1, very happy Clink who is ready – so ready – to move on.

Supermodel Day February 6, 2007

Early this morning, I did some math in my head: If I showered at the gym, I would be able to sleep a full 20 minutes more than I would if I returned home to shower before going to work.

20 minutes, at 7:15am, was decidedly worth venturing into the heretofore unknown – the women’s locker room – and I promptly reset my alarm for 7:35am.

After a particularly strenuous workout (seeing Katharine McPhee’s perfect legs in a perfect dress on one of the morning shoes does a lot for the ol’ motivation), I walked into the locker room.

I’ve been in gym locker rooms before. I’ve also lived in a dorm. I am no stranger to women undressing in front of each other, drying their hair while naked from the waist up, applying lotion in their birthday suits.

I was not, however, prepared for what I have since dubbed Supermodel Day in the locker room. In every direction there was nothing but a perfectly toned, flawless naked body attached to a naturally beautiful face and a glistening mane of hair. It was as if I accidentally walked into my 14 year old brother’s fantasy.

Except it was real. And I – not so perfectly toned, not so flawless – had to undress in front of these perfect specimens.

Awesome.

I did it – with a lot of Houdini-esque maneuvering and the assistance of not one but two tiny towels, one for the bottom, one for the top. But still, I couldn’t help but feel like a Sears model in a sea of Victoria’s Secret beauties.

By the time I escaped with the last shred of self-esteem I could salvage, I promised myself that 20 minutes of sleep is not – I repeat, NOT – worth an experience that you can’t walk away from saying “eh…it’s all Photoshop and airbrushing.”

However, on the bright side, I now have a newfound enthusiasm for working my ass off at least five times a week. Because, damn, I totally want to be that hot.

Impossible to un-know. February 5, 2007

Clearly, it was the 11th Commandment, axed at the last minute due to space constraints:

THOU SHALL NOT SNOOP, LEST YE THEN KNOW SOMETHING THAT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO UN-KNOW.

I was on his computer Saturday afternoon, innocently looking up the operating hours for the New York Historical Society. M was in the other room, watching college basketball.

That’s when it washed over me – the sense of mischief and longing to know that had me all of a sudden clicking on the desktop folder that contains all of his sub-folders and files for the book.

You see, a while back he had mentioned he was thinking of dedicating the book to his parents. It makes sense; they have played a very important role in his life (starting with, you know, HIS CONCEPTION). He hinted, by asking for the proper spellings of my grandparents’ last names, that he was going to be including my family in the acknowledgements.

That’s all well and good but I, being, well, ME, was dying to know where exactly I fit in. (Things You Should Know About Clink #46,938: I am very impatient and, almost uncontrollably, curious.)

I clicked on the “Acknowledgements” file and scanned the words for my name. His editor…his family…his friends…his agent…his co-workers…my family.

No me.

I read it about five times and still could not find my name.

What Was Going Through My Brain At The Time: He’s going to break up with me! HE’S GOING TO BREAK UP WITH ME and therefore he doesn’t want my name to be forever embedded in his book. (However, even though he is going to BREAK UP WITH ME, he seems to be okay with thanking my family for all that they have done for him. WHAT THE HELL. WAH.)

That’s when (ding! ding! ding!) I decided to click on the “Dedication” document.

And that’s when I saw this:

To my mother and father, the cornerstones of my life.
And to [Clink], who inspires it.

And that’s when I cried. And cried. And announced that I wanted to shower immediately so that he wouldn’t see the tears and become suspicious about what on the New York Historical Society website made me so upset. And that’s when I stood in his shower, just stood – didn’t soap up or lather or condition – and wished that, somehow, I could turn back time (wished I could FIND a waaaaaaay) and un-know. Un-know until the moment he wanted me to know. Which, presumably, would be a moment spent with him, opening the book for the first time.

I’m an asshole, I know this. I ruined something for myself by being a complete, utter, impatient jackass.

However, I’m taking this to my grave (you know, after I announce it to the world on the Internet). No one (except, you know, YOU) will know that I know. I will still cry when I see it for the “first” time, he’ll still get a genuine reaction. And la la la, we’ll live happily ever after.

Though, if I’m being honest, even as I chide myself for letting my curiosity get the best of me, I’m still warm and tingly all over (and also, prone to tearing up whenever I think about it) because come on, that is a pretty fucking amazing dedication and I have a pretty fucking amazing boyfriend.

Things I have been doing today instead of work: February 2, 2007

Creating a Virtual Clink! In London! With Starbucks (which, really, it should be Coffee Republic or Costa but whatever) and a stack of books! And a really cute outfit that I kind of want in real life!The only thing that is wildly unrealistic (aside from, you know, the fact that Virtual Clink is wearing a sleeveless shirt and short skirt in the dead of winter and her head is disproportionate to her body) is that there is NO WAY my hair would look that good in LONDON in FEBRUARY.

LAST. FRIDAY. February 2, 2007

“Rough night, eh?”

That was the guy behind the counter at the deli this morning, in response to my order of “bacon, egg and cheese on a roll…lots of cheese, please.”

He knows that whenever I order The Breakfast of Champions Clogged Arteries, I’m feeling hung over and HUNG OVER and perhaps even hung over.

It’s a good thing I’m changing jobs, as I think he’s on to my drinking problem.

So, yeah, hi I’m Clink and I have a hard time saying no to things like “another bottle of wine?”

I met up with a friend, Emma, last night. She’s the type of friend that I resent up until the moment I see her, and then everything that I was so angry about on the walk to the restaurant just dissipates and I bask in her wonderfulness.

Let me explain: Emma is the type of friend who “refuses to go above 14^th Street, I mean, I just don’t do it, Clink” which means that dinner always takes place conveniently in her neighborhood, meaning a $20 cab ride back to yours, because you live well above 14^th Street. She’s the type of friend who always chooses expensive restaurants with entrees starting above $40, clearly not caring that, while she may earn $700 a day, you do not. She’s the type of friend who then will order the most expensive item on the menu and a starter salad and a dessert, while you pick at your $40 gnocchi, and then she’ll suggest, “why don’t we split the check right down the middle?”

However, for all those faults, she’s truly wonderful and funny and caring and also a complete lush, which makes me feel better about my own increasing propensity to use wine as a social crutch.

So, yes, dinner last night and wine last night and pasta last night and not calling M until 2am, when I arrived home – drunk and DRUNK - last night. It all has me sitting here – as the bacon, egg and lots of cheese make their way through my digestive tract – hating the world and daydreaming about my bed.

The good news? This is my last Friday in this office. MY LAST FRIDAY. THREE MORE DAYS. OH MY GOD.

Do you want to know a secret? I haven’t done a damn thing this past week. And I don’t mean that in a “well, actually, I actually do work kinda hard for a few hours a day but mostly I just surf the web” kind of way. Uh, no. I mean NOT A DAMN THING. The last email sent from my work address was last Friday. I can’t even remember the last work-related phone call I placed.

I’m considering spending 10 hours a day between now and Wednesday writing a novel. I may as well do something productive with my time other than online shopping and MySpace stalking. There’s, apparently, a limit, even for me.