It�s now just after 8:30am, and I�ve been at work for almost a half hour now. It�s nice to be awake and functioning this early. Sometimes, in the biz of the teevee, there isn�t much pressure to be in your chair before 9:30 or 10:00, but this feels comforting, in an odd way. It feels regular. Traditional. Structured. Reminds me of the old days, when I was up at 6 and had an entry posted by 7:30. I can deal with 8:30am for now.

I suppose it helps that it�s only temporary. Once my story gig on my new show starts in June, I�ll be waltzing in to work at 11am every day, classic excuses at the ready, such as �building power failure/alarm didn�t go off,� and �unscheduled airport pickup/dropoff,� or, my all time fave: a very unhappy, scowling face, accompanied by the simple phrase, delivered in the most acidic of tones: �my fucking roommate.�

No one ever asks what that�s all about.

A few nights ago, as I was leaving the office, I realized how non-traditional my job was. On my way out the door, I waved to the receptionist and said �Goodnight, Ms. Coen!� I normally just say �Hey, see ya, Dawn,� throw my ass against the door, and tumble out into the early evening parking lot lights with a cigarette dangling from my lips.

When I was a kid, endless early afternoon episodes of �My Three Sons� and �Dagwood & Blondie� comic strips made me think that, by this time, I�d be walking around in a suit (and hat) with a briefcase, calling girls Ms., and working in an office, because, well�that�s where adults worked. But it was fun! All your friends were there, and you spent all day joking around with them! �That�s an office!� I thought. Collating, three hole punching, and FedEx runs were not in the vocabulary. You and Dick van Dyke stood around in a classy looking room with an oddly placed ottoman, and if a song broke out: awesome.

My romanticized idea of an office was blown away at the age of twenty-one. It was my very first temp gig, and I was working in an accountant�s office for eight bucks an hour. I had misfiled some files, and was being yelled at by a tightly wound fifty year old Korean lady, who said �You are making a horrible mess!� The only thing that saved my soul in that moment was a nearby white haired old man, who overheard, and laughed at us in exactly this way: �Hoo hoo hoo hoooooooo!�

Yesterday, the accountant for this office and I were laying on the floor playing with a dog named Ginger for a good few minutes.

I love my office.