Recently I have become obsessed with See Jane Work, a website devoted to office style and decoration and since I write a blog called “Working Girl”, I think my obsession with office knick knacks is warranted. And up until about two weeks ago, I couldn’t get away with expensing notebooks like this when my office already purchases us $3.00 ones from Staples which we can just take snatch out of the supply closet. 

Last year, the magazine for which I work celebrated a huge milestone in magazine publishing, selling 2,000 advertising pages in one year. Since magazines close advertising and editing about three months in advance, we realized our accomplishment in October and celebrated accordingly. Two words: Tequila and Margaritas.

The entire office had a delicioso Mexican meal at a popular New York City restaurant. A pomegranate margarita was put into my hands as I walked into our private room and as quickly as I finished it, a fresh glass was given to me. Before I could dig into the tortilla chips and guacamole at my table, we did a round of tequila shots (and I love good tequila). Several margarita’s later, I was d-r-u-n-k, drunk! No big deal though, our ad director (who happened to attend the same college as WG2 and I, which means she can drink) was getting sloppy.

Lunch cleared, co-workers with family and trains to catch headed home. I, along with a few other assistants, the ad director and associate publisher, headed to the bar. Two Corona’s later, I told the associate publisher that he owed me $200. Yes, I was that drunk.

Why did I think that he owed me $200, you ask? Well, let me tell you…

I’ve mentioned before that I interned for a summer at my current workplace. That summer, as an incentive for the team to work hard, said associate publisher told everyone that if they sold a certain amount of advertising pages, the entire team would receive a $200 gift card to any advertiser in the magazine. I believe his exact words were “everyone! salespeople, interns, marketing, everyone!” As an intern, who wasn’t getting paid, I was pretty excited to receive a gift card to pretty much any place I wanted.

A few weeks later, the art intern and I were asked to put together plagues that were made for everyone’s desk that said their name and the advertiser they chose for their gift card. I can’t wait to put mine on my desk, I thought. Then, it dawned on me, no one ever asked me what advertiser I wanted a gift card from. We put together all the plaques and placed them on everyone’s desk. I didn’t get one and I was bummed. I thought I got over it. But apparently, I was holding a bit of a grudge.

“Associate Publisher,” I said. “You know that you owe me $200, right”

“Uh, no.” He was definitely not as drunk as me. I filled him in and he joked, “Oh, OK, I’ll work on that.”

I still have my job, so it seems that I wasn’t completely out of line, but now I know better than to drink and tell important people they owe me money.

Oh, and you’re probably wondering…I didn’t get the $200.

Let me start this post by first stating that I am the unfortunate lover of horrific chick lit – really anything that has a pink cover and a title that gives an air that the main character might be a single Working Girl in a big city and I’m sold. Every once in a while, however, I settle into a memoir about a real, live Working Girl – someone who has been there there, done that, walked a mile in the real deal four-inch heels and lived to tell the tale. 

The letters NSFW are sprinkled all over my favorite celebrity gossip blogs, but it wasn’t until yesterday that I found out what these letters stand for. I googled NSFW to find out the meaning. “Obvi,” I thought when I read the hits on google. I gchatted Working Girl Two to see if she knew the meaning since I felt pretty stupid not knowing it myself. She didn’t know it so I felt better. With great pride of my new knowledge, I explained to WG2 that NSFW stood for ‘Not Safe For Work’. But you probably already knew that.

While Pink is the New Blog and Dlisted censor Britney’s Britney and all other nakedness that our favorite celebrities provide us with, I strongly believe that NSFW, now that I know what it means, should be used much more often. I’ll share two experiences with you that could have been prevented in which nakedness covered my work computer if someone had just quickly typed in NSFW so I knew not to click while at work.

A friend from college sent me and a few other friends a link to some pictures he wanted us to check out. Now, this friend is an avid photographer, so no red flag waved as I clicked the link I didn’t recognize as I was eager to view his photos. While the page loaded, I turned around to grab a file from the cabinet behind my desk. I turned back. Omigod! And there she was, High School Musical‘s Vanessa Hudgens in all her not-so-Disney glory. My cheeks turned red as I turned around to see if anyone noticed Vanessa’s ta-tas sprawled across my computer. No one did. Thank God. I could have avoided this almost embarrassing experience (not to mention potential moment to get fired) if my friend had typed NSFW. Although, at the time, I had no clue what it meant so typing the acronym out probably would have been more effective.

My second Not Safe For Work experience is thanks to a man named Bret and a woman named Heather. They were meant to be, but didn’t realize it and that is why Rock of Love failed and Rock of Love 2 is now airing on VH1. And why, after watching the first episode of Rock of Love 2, I was on a mission to find out if one of the girls fighting for Bret’s love was a former contestant on Beauty and the Geek (I know, I watch way too much TV). IMDB was no help; I had to figure out this contestant’s last name on my own. After searching and searching, I found it. I googled her name, clicked a few links, nothing. Clicked some more, nada. Changed the spelling of her name, clicked another click. And I got something, but not what was I was looking for. I got boobs, huge uncensored boobs. Awesome. I turned around, is this really happening again, to see if anyone noticed. I was safe. Again, thank God!

On workdays, my body begins to crave the sweet, syrupy cola from the fountain machine in the cafeteria or carbonated and cold in the form of its signature can right as the clock reads 12:00 pm.

It’s about that same time that the caffeine from my morning coffee wears off and I realize my to-do list is nearly two pages long. I don’t think I’ll get through the rest of the day. I think about lunch, how nice it will be to have an hour-long break, which helps but only a little. Then, I think about my Diet Coke and all its deliciousness. With each sip I take at lunch my head starts to clear and my eyes awaken and I know I’ll make it through the long working afternoon.

Go on, grab a DC. You know you want to.

We’re taking the day off and catching up on TiVo. 

This morning, I began to miss the good old days – where Valentine’s day meant sugar and valentines from every single one of your classmates (it was mandated in our school so that people like Needy Nelly and Stinky Stanley didn’t get snubbed). I miss grade school because the same formula always resulted in a pink and red, candy-hazed day that left me floating on air. The day before the big “V”, your whole class would go to town on an old cardboard box (preferably a Doc Marten box to look cool) and make a mailbox full of hearts, which would the next day be filled the brim with Barbies, Disney characters, and Power Rangers wishing you a “Happy Valentine’s Day!”. After receiving all your valentines, you’d huddle together with your girlfriends, trying to figure out if that squiggle next to latest crush Brian F.’s name meant that he had a crush on you or if the kid who smelled like fish thought were “the one” because he sent you a Mickey Mouse valentine instead of a Goofy one. Then, you’d consume lots and lots and lots of sugar in the form of “room mom” homemade cupcakes, lollipops shaped like hearts and Hershey kisses.

After witnessing my first ever workplace Valentine’s Day, I’ve decided that grade school V Day’s are a lot like work. Because like grade school, the workplace is awkward and there are boundaries to which you can express your love (or you’ll be slapped with a lawsuit). For example, I have received from my co-workers the following items: a hand-me-down jewelry box, a tube of Dermalogica Treatment Foundation, a piece of chocolate, two candy hearts asking me to marry them, and a card with a dog on the front. Like grade school, I analyzed over the “Marry Me?” hearts. Does he want to marry me? Or is he kidding? I mean, I’m pretty sure he’s already married. Remind me to ask around the office.

And just like grade school some of my presents were odd like the hand-me-down jewelry box and the foundation, but I chalk that up to me pressuring my best office friend (who I must add is pushing fifty and gay) to get me flowers and this is what he stole from his roommate before he got to work. Thanks, really means a lot (said with dripping sarcasm).

I did not receive flowers today because I am one of those dreaded singles who flock to the bars tonight trying to find another single to take home with them to fill the empty void in their life (can you tell I hate this holiday yet?). However, the girls who did receive flowers today flaunted them like no tomorrow. The receptionist got two bouquets (ok, so maybe one was from her dad, but hey, I have a dad too!), and the girl in the cubicle next to me got a vase of tulips, a girl in edit got roses, and a girl two rows over from mine got a teddy bear, a box of chocolates and a vase of wildflowers. Obviously, the girl two rows over took the prize for the most presents. But just like grade school when the girl with the most candy hearts packets took home the “Most Liked Girl in Our Class” prize, this girl took the home the coveted title of “Most Loved by Her Boyfriend”. Touching. I don’t know about you, but I much prefer my hand-me-down jewelry box to two dozen, long stem roses.

My boss turned around and said the phrase I hate the most yet hear her voice utter to me several times a day, “Working Girl One, can you do me a faaavuh?”

“Yes, Boss,” I replied with a smile but not without a quick roll of the eyes before swiveling around on my chair to face her. I never ask what the favor is because I have no choice and because she’s never really asking me for a favor – this is just her way of telling me what she needs me to do.

She handed me a piece of paper with what could only be described as chicken scratch scribbled upon it. On it was a client’s name and the address of a kosher deli on the Upper East Side. My boss asked me to have two quarts of chicken soup delivered to her client’s home because she was home sick and missing a meeting. Of course, I have all the time in the world to do this. It’s not like I have to mail out 50 plus copies of our March issue with personalized letters, prepare for one of my new bosses to start tomorrow, and check Pink is the New Blog or anything.

I also had to track down the client’s home address in order to accomplish this task because while my boss claims to be good friends with this lady, she doesn’t have any of her information. Of course not, that would be too easy. The client is a well-known senior vice president at a well-known media agency in Manhattan, so finding her address wasn’t going to be as simple as looking on whitepages.com. I e-mailed the administrative assistant at the client’s office. She ignored my e-mail (beotch). I asked my boss if she was positive that she didn’t have her client’s home address. She confirmed that she did not.

Finally, I went to whitepages.com. But, I was convinced she wouldn’t be listed.

When I called the deli they most likely thought I was a creepy girlfriend sending my sick boyfriend chicken soup. Not only was I ordering chicken soup as a “gift” for someone, I also wanted a note sent with it – of the “hope you feel better!” variety. I completed the favor, all while rolling my eyes, thinking about how much of a suck-up my boss was being to this client and how ridiculous it is that she continually asks me to do these tasks.

Sure enough, a half hour later when the chicken soup was delivered, my boss received an e-mail from her client graciously thanking and applauding my boss for knowing exactly what she needed to get better. Upon hearing this, I turned away from my boss and rolled my eyes. However not before replying in my most cheery worker bee voice, “Oh good! That was such a great idea!”