Thursday, July 27, 2006

Screw you, Juan Wigurski

I finally realized the other day: I am a huge corporate geek. I love getting dressed for work, raiding the supply closet, affixing Post-it brand post-it notes to my computer monitor, and beginning emails with "Re:"

I love my cup for my editing pens, making copies in triplicate, being on deadline. I love drinking coffee and turning in my timesheet.

Yes, life is good.

But I need help understanding a coworker of mine -- a middle aged guy with a ponytail and a weirdly soft voice. I can only imagine what is under this man's bed. My boss is an awesome woman who is always getting other people to give me cool things to do (in this alternate world, "cool" means "hyphenating"). One day Creepykins stops by as I'm editing and asks me to go clean out the office fridge. I decided then and there that my autobiography would be called "Screw You ---------" (For Google's sake I'll just say it rhymes with Juan Wigurski). My twist would be that I'd at no point make a mention of who Juan Wigurski is. He would simply represent all the creepy people in my life who ask me to clean out the office fridge of life.

Anywho, Juan strolls by my desk the other day on his cellphone, and I grab a pen immediately, because I know it's gonna be gold.

This is what he said, word for word:

"She's 18, 19, really cute. She's like crying, sobbing...." at this point, just to spite me, the bastard walks away, only to emerge about 20 seconds later "...all of a sudden, she punches herself in the face and is immediately replaced by another one, and it starts all over again."

What does it mean? What's the middle of that story? Is this a porn thing I don't know about? There is money* involved for someone who can help me figure all this out.

* a Susan B. Anthony dollar

Sunday, July 23, 2006

To sum up, I was carrying dog crap

Know how sometimes you have to take the dog out in the middle of the night so you put on shoes with your jammies and head off into the anonymous darkness? Not so much when you're living in midtown.

Now that I'm with Boy Who Wishes To Not Be Blogged About (BWWTNBBA) I share custody of a dog - DWWTNBBA. He's a very sweet and outgoing mutt who is happiest when in playing his favorite games: Bone, Rope or squeaky Football.

DWWTNBBA is on a very New York dinner schedule, between 8 and 10 p.m., just like us. He goes out for his last walk after 10 but before The Daily Show. He barrels down the stairs and leans against the door until we open it. From then on, it's his self-imposed duty to protect us from pigeons, horse-drawn carriages and the odd woman yelling at nobody while she adjusts her wig and spits. Actually, I'm glad he's on guard for the last one.

So I went out for the all-important final walk last week in BWWTNBBA's boxers, an oversize white T shirt and flip flops. Yes, I was looking fly. We stroll around the block and he does his business on the back 9. From then on - yay curb laws! - I get to stroll around the city with a bag of dog crap until we come to the garbage can.

We're almost home when I see actual paparazzi next to our apartment. Oh. Dear. God. This takes the naked dream to new levels.

Believe it or not, they weren't there for me. Out of a car steps a woman in a gold sparkly number. Joan Rivers. Joan Rivers! JOAN RIVERS! The woman who made a career of eviscerating professionally beautiful people on the red carpet. Good thing I was wearing my best penguin boxers. Who am I wearing? Gap men's department.

She ignored the photographers' yelling "Looking good, Joan!" and focused on DWWTNBBA, who, it should be known, is a bit of a ham for attention.

"What a fabulous dog!" she cooed as DWWTNBBA wagged his tail in a full circle like a propeller. I hid the bag of crap behind my back. She didn't mock me, but I guess sometimes you just want to leave work at the office.

Then she was ushered into the restaurant next door and I have my go-to story when I'm on Conan someday.