Two corners in a circular room

Moe is one of my best friends. Three years apart to the day, we met when we were both employees of the same organization. To be exact, I was the administrative intern (read: jr. office bitch) and she was the Office Manager (read: sr. office bitch). In other words, she was my boss. She’ll probably be quick to regale you with stories about what a lousy intern I was. She’ll tell you that I hated filing, and spent much too much time blogging and Photoshopping* members of the Republican administration (and sometimes our bosses) into compromising, albeit amusing, positions.

It was my first “real” job, and the epitome of what a summer internship in Washington, DC should be. It was a sexy and silly blend of office politics and real politics, flirting and copious drinking. My memories of it are a blur of margaritas, late-night Metro rides, and men in navy blue blazers. I learned quite a bit that summer. I learned how to handle insurance claims, talk to senile Floridian donors, and score the coveted private back room at Capitol Grille. I learned how to mail merge, how to research and track Federal legislation, and that when a customer service rep reads you a confirmation code, he does not literally want you to write “Alpha, Bravo, Charlie,” on the envelope. I also learned that I hate administration, and that I will never, ever again take a job where I’m required to use Excel spreadsheets on a daily basis.

What I remember most, however, was the friendship I developed with Moe. The two lone girls in an organization dripping with Republican testosterone, ours was an easy and near-instant bond. We discovered our shared quirky humor one afternoon when our boss shut down the office so that we could all attend the premiere of Star Wars Episode II: Attack of the Clones (I should clarify that it was nerdy Republican testosterone). As we stood outside the Uptown waiting to get in, I glanced at a robin’s egg blue sign hanging above the store next door. “Moe, Moe!” I called to her while excited pulling at her arm. She followed my eyes to the sign and immediately burst out laughing.

Our boss rolled his eyes upon hearing our laughter (a familiar sound in the office). “What is so funny?” We didn’t even bother explain why we were laughing. We both understood that we were standing in front of the world’s most absurdly named establishment.

We were smart girls in ill-suited jobs. We were artists that stuck out from the Capitol Hill powersuit crowd. Moe is also a writer and a blogger, and it is her most recent post that provoked this bit of reminiscing. In it she recounts her awkward, youthful nerdiness. She writes:

"I had a specific outfit that I wore whenever we were going to the library. It involved a red, plaid, pleated skirt; penny loafers, a blazer, and a pair of my sister's old glasses that she used to read with. I didn't require corrective lenses at the time, but I desperately wanted them. They completed "the look" (I'm almost certain Alejandra will have a comment about this)."

She’s right. I do have a comment. An anecdote really:

Moe will probably note that in addition to my refusal to file things, I also liberally violated the accepted superior/subordinate relationship. Our bond was so close that I was never too shy to note when something she did didn’t quite meet my standards. “Moe,” I’d say to her as I walked into the office and saw her dressed in baggy jeans, platform flip-flops, and a t-shirt that said “Joe Mama” across the front. “You’re dressed like a 12-year-old boy! What the hell kind of a work outfit is that? I never want to see that shirt again.”

There were some days, however, when she would wear very cute suits to work. On these days, she would also wear a pair of very attractive black-rimmed glasses. They were impossibly cute, and when paired with the pencil in the hair bun, she looked like quite the stereotypical sexy secretary. All the men in the office agreed, and regularly complimented her on her choice of eyewear. One day, I wandered the four feet between my desk and hers and saw her sexy glasses on the desk. I picked them up, tried them on, and gasped.

"THESE ARE FAKE!!! YOU WEAR FAKE GLASSES!" I shouted at the top of my lungs, much to her chagrin. She scrambled to explain, but by then, all the men had come out of their offices and had learned the awful truth.

I still don’t think she ever forgave me for that one…

Check out The Garden State of Euphoria for more stories about the lovely Moe.


*activities for which I am actually handsomely paid to do today...