Real Life Jim and Pam

Bloggers are nothing if not trendy. How else do you think I found out about things like Erin Condren planners (of which I still own none) and mint nail polish (of which I own and never wear)? Or that the sock bun is the best thing to happen to my hair since the bump-it. Brent’s a big fan of the sock bun, just a huge, huge fan. I think he digs it even more since it’s a crusty old sock of his that’s up in my hair. 

Speaking of Brent, nearly every blog I read has a tab to click about “Our Story,” and before I was all who cares, but now that I’m reading blogs on the reg and getting invested in you folks, I’ve come to realize that I care. I know, I know, I’m not always a cold-hearted snake. 

Brigi see Brigi do, so w/out further ado…the story of B squared:

We met the old-fashioned way, at the place where dreams really do come true. I’m not talking about Disneyworld or Fenway Park; I’m talking about the office. It was a small staffing agency in Boston. The thing about staffing agencies is that they pretty much suck. But the good thing is they’re well aware of this fact and do lots of things to keep their employees happy. Beers in the office, company happy hours, and early dismissal Fridays were totally normal. And since everyone there was pretty much 25 or under, it was a pretty fun scene.

I was the receptionist and Brent was a recruiter (commence awww’s now). I hadn’t worked there very long before I had a little crush on the guy. Shirt sleeves rolled up the forearm really do it for me. And his butt looks great in dress pants (and pretty much anything). Oh, I mean, he was a real team-player and very respectful of his female colleagues.

One Friday we were all getting out early to get drinks to say farewell and thank you to the summer interns. I know I can’t get absolutely hammered b/c my sister is moving the bulk of her stuff down from Vermont and I have to help her move a mattress and boxspring up three flights of stairs. So obviously I have to get absolutely hammered to make that suck less. 

There I was, day-drinking on a patio on a gorgeous summer day. And the company was picking up the tab. So yes, yes I did need a pitcher of sangria to start me off. The afternoon wears on and people eventually taper off. I notice Brent is still there so I move to his table to start up a convo (and get in on some motz sticks). The owners are leaving and this place is way too fancy for us, so a group of us head to a nearby bar for $1.25 drafts and cheap shots.

After a few rounds of Washington Apples and Surfers on Acid, I reluctantly have to go. I’m begrudging my sister as I settle my tab until I realize that Brent has come over and says that he’s heading out too, can he walk me to the train?* Guys, there were higher forces at work here, I kid you not. Brent and I both lived on the blue line. If you know anything about Boston, you know that nobody lives on the blue line, especially not yo-pro’s like ourselves. The only time you’re ever on the blue line is to go to the airport or Revere Beach. Yet we both lived on it. Higher forces, I tell ya.

So we’re approaching my stop and I’ve got my liquor courage built up and I drunkenly coyly ask Brent if he wants to come over. He declines and I can’t imagine why; I’ve described such a fun night for us of trekking bedding and bookshelves up three dimly-lit flights of New England architecture at its finest (read: narrow as shit). So I stumble home, basking in the glow only an early-stage crush can provide. I turn on our street to find Beth and most of her stuff piled onto the sidewalk and she's nearly having a breakdown b/c she’s been here for over an hour (I may have lost track of time) and her key isn’t working and her phone is going bananas and she hasn’t been able to reach me. 

I pull out my phone, w/ something nagging at me. I calm Beth down and fill her in on my night, which is obviously more important than getting her stuff up to our apartment. Halfway through lugging a giant boxspring up the stairs, I realize that Brent didn’t ask me for my number.

We get all her stuff upstairs and I check my phone to see if maybe I took his number? I see two missed calls from a number I don’t recognize. Score. I text a quick “Brent?” to confirm that it’s him and get to work straightening my room, convinced he’s going to see the error of his ways and come back, especially now that we’ve got the car unloaded. When I get a response, it’s not exactly what I was expecting. Some automated message about how landlines can’t receive text messages. Huh. 

I tell Beth how weird it that is and what does she do? Bursts my bubble by saying that was her, calling from the payphone down the street when her phone wasn’t working. God, is this girl just out to ruin me tonight, or what? 

Monday at work is awkward for about two seconds until Brent comes over to my desk and we talk like we normally do. Fortunately for me, the company is rewarding us w/ a booze cruise in a few days, and this time I don’t have to get home and help move anyone in. Another chance for me to get drunk, put myself out there and go home alone. It took me two rejections before I just invited myself in on Brent’s plans for the beach one weekend. And it took three dates for him to kiss me (what can I say, I’ve got a real thing for the shy guys). 

I think we’ve got a real good thing going; I think Brent thinks so, too. A toast to us.

Oh, no she didn't.

Why yes, yes I did; I went w/ the watermelon ale.  

*Pretty sure that wasn’t what he said, but whatever, I can make him a gentleman if I want