You're a Big Girl, Hold ItSaturday, July 31, 2004
How It's Going
Don't be disappointed. There's so little to report. Nothing new on the boss might be flirting with me front. He did call me into a conference room for a one-on-one talk, but it ended up being routine. And yesterday he overheard me talking about the boyfriend to another coworker, who likes to discuss our boyfriends as common ground. ("How long have you been going out?" the coworker cooed. "Two and a half years," I answered without thinking. Our cubicles -- mine, the coworker's, another coworker's and the boss's -- form a square. In other words, we face each other.)
("You're upset he knows about me, aren't you?" the boyfriend said last night when -- in trying to reassure him -- I told him that he is no longer a secret. Not that he ever was, really. I have pictures of the two of us on my desk.)
I can't help it if I like the idea that someone might be flirting with me -- and I can't even say for sure that he is. But it makes going to work so much more dramatic.
Nothing new on any front. Except I'm joining a creative writing group I found on Craig's List. One way to be proactive.
Don't be disappointed. There's so little to report. Nothing new on the boss might be flirting with me front. He did call me into a conference room for a one-on-one talk, but it ended up being routine. And yesterday he overheard me talking about the boyfriend to another coworker, who likes to discuss our boyfriends as common ground. ("How long have you been going out?" the coworker cooed. "Two and a half years," I answered without thinking. Our cubicles -- mine, the coworker's, another coworker's and the boss's -- form a square. In other words, we face each other.)
("You're upset he knows about me, aren't you?" the boyfriend said last night when -- in trying to reassure him -- I told him that he is no longer a secret. Not that he ever was, really. I have pictures of the two of us on my desk.)
I can't help it if I like the idea that someone might be flirting with me -- and I can't even say for sure that he is. But it makes going to work so much more dramatic.
Nothing new on any front. Except I'm joining a creative writing group I found on Craig's List. One way to be proactive.
Friday, July 23, 2004
It's Not Easy Being Green
Tonight I ran into someone I knew from college. Actually, he's a year younger, so he just graduated. And when I think about that -- just graduated. Everything I've done since one year ago. He doesn't know what's waiting for him.
In the past year, I graduated from college, moved back in with my parents and at first nothing had really changed except I had to go to work everyday and bought coffee from the Indian guy at Dunkin' Donuts and the horses smelled and then -- boom -- moved out, got my own place, furnished the entire studio (on my credit card), killed some roaches, admired the shower curtain, thought -- wow I did all this -- and then -- boom -- had a cancer scare, took myself to a doctor, then a specialist, had my blood drawn for the first time in 12 years, but luckily that's all it was, a scare, and everything would be OK, more or less, because I developed a nasty case of insomnia -- treated that too, sort of (if you don't count the Tynelol Simply Sleep dependence) but must have gotten a little braver because I had my very first cavity filled (two, actually) and then -- a low point -- in the same week, bounced a check, got threatened by a collection agency (don't ask, it was all a mistake, the agency anyway) and then -- boom -- scored my second job and made the biggest decision of my life, took it, hired a moving company, then another one, followed my dreams and made it to NEW YORK CITY (also on my credit card -- and my parents' goodwill -- $4,700 later) but here I am, across state lines, with a New York State drivers license and a studio in NEW YORK CITY, writing for a magazine, a professional writer, doing high-profile interviews in City Hall -- and --
And.
I wish that boy luck.
Tonight I ran into someone I knew from college. Actually, he's a year younger, so he just graduated. And when I think about that -- just graduated. Everything I've done since one year ago. He doesn't know what's waiting for him.
In the past year, I graduated from college, moved back in with my parents and at first nothing had really changed except I had to go to work everyday and bought coffee from the Indian guy at Dunkin' Donuts and the horses smelled and then -- boom -- moved out, got my own place, furnished the entire studio (on my credit card), killed some roaches, admired the shower curtain, thought -- wow I did all this -- and then -- boom -- had a cancer scare, took myself to a doctor, then a specialist, had my blood drawn for the first time in 12 years, but luckily that's all it was, a scare, and everything would be OK, more or less, because I developed a nasty case of insomnia -- treated that too, sort of (if you don't count the Tynelol Simply Sleep dependence) but must have gotten a little braver because I had my very first cavity filled (two, actually) and then -- a low point -- in the same week, bounced a check, got threatened by a collection agency (don't ask, it was all a mistake, the agency anyway) and then -- boom -- scored my second job and made the biggest decision of my life, took it, hired a moving company, then another one, followed my dreams and made it to NEW YORK CITY (also on my credit card -- and my parents' goodwill -- $4,700 later) but here I am, across state lines, with a New York State drivers license and a studio in NEW YORK CITY, writing for a magazine, a professional writer, doing high-profile interviews in City Hall -- and --
And.
I wish that boy luck.
Thursday, July 22, 2004
Spare Me the Trouble
My boss tells me that a mistake I made is "punishable by death." "Bad," he says. "Bad reporter." If I don't write well, he says another time, I will banished to Philadelphia.
"Why does he hate me?" I ask the boyfriend one night.
"Um, I think he's flirting with you," the boyfriend answers.
And inwardly I giggle. Because I knew that already. It reminds me of being 18 at my first internship and how an editor used to e-mail his fetishes between proofing copy. The first -- and only -- time anyone ever told me I look good in a short, black skirt with a slit up one side.
And then there was the red-headed editor, 12 years my senior. He kissed me on the mouth, and I barely knew what he was doing until it was over.
This new one could get me into a lot of trouble, I can already tell.
Getting into the elevator this afternoon, I considered whether I was falling for him. No, I decided. Definitely not. But I was falling for the idea of him falling for me.
And that is not good. In fact, it's bad. Bad reporter.
A lot of trouble.
My boss tells me that a mistake I made is "punishable by death." "Bad," he says. "Bad reporter." If I don't write well, he says another time, I will banished to Philadelphia.
"Why does he hate me?" I ask the boyfriend one night.
"Um, I think he's flirting with you," the boyfriend answers.
And inwardly I giggle. Because I knew that already. It reminds me of being 18 at my first internship and how an editor used to e-mail his fetishes between proofing copy. The first -- and only -- time anyone ever told me I look good in a short, black skirt with a slit up one side.
And then there was the red-headed editor, 12 years my senior. He kissed me on the mouth, and I barely knew what he was doing until it was over.
This new one could get me into a lot of trouble, I can already tell.
Getting into the elevator this afternoon, I considered whether I was falling for him. No, I decided. Definitely not. But I was falling for the idea of him falling for me.
And that is not good. In fact, it's bad. Bad reporter.
A lot of trouble.
Sunday, July 18, 2004
Squeaky Clean
After 10 weeks of living in New York, I finally gave my apartment a well-deserved scrubbing. I never told anyone, but when I first moved here, I immediately wanted to go back. I know, I know. But I wanted to go back to where everything was unpacked and clean and settled and familiar. Where I had been comfortable, if not completely happy.
But now I think I'm more or less OK with things. Unpacked and settled and familiarized. And all I needed to do to make it official was to get clean.
And so, today in Key Food, I bought a refill for my Grab-It mop. And I scrubbed the old tenant away.
After 10 weeks of living in New York, I finally gave my apartment a well-deserved scrubbing. I never told anyone, but when I first moved here, I immediately wanted to go back. I know, I know. But I wanted to go back to where everything was unpacked and clean and settled and familiar. Where I had been comfortable, if not completely happy.
But now I think I'm more or less OK with things. Unpacked and settled and familiarized. And all I needed to do to make it official was to get clean.
And so, today in Key Food, I bought a refill for my Grab-It mop. And I scrubbed the old tenant away.
On Peanut Butter and Paperbacks
I'm tired of being Debt-Free by 30. It's only July 18, and I've spent all my discretionary income (my "spending money," if you will) already. That means peanut butter and crackers for the next 13 days.
Am I 30 yet?
On another note, my dad asked me today whether I was still writing. "You mean stories?" I asked.
"Yeah, you know, novels."
We might as well have been talking about menstruation, it was that awkward.
"You're so talented," he said. My dad.
Maybe I'll start again.
I'm tired of being Debt-Free by 30. It's only July 18, and I've spent all my discretionary income (my "spending money," if you will) already. That means peanut butter and crackers for the next 13 days.
Am I 30 yet?
On another note, my dad asked me today whether I was still writing. "You mean stories?" I asked.
"Yeah, you know, novels."
We might as well have been talking about menstruation, it was that awkward.
"You're so talented," he said. My dad.
Maybe I'll start again.
Friday, July 16, 2004
Why I Don't Write
My new theory is that bloggers play at being journalists. They
have their daytime computer consulting jobs, or whatever they do, and
then they come home and pretend they make news.
Maybe that's why I've been MIA this past week. Too tired to be me.
My new theory is that bloggers play at being journalists. They
have their daytime computer consulting jobs, or whatever they do, and
then they come home and pretend they make news.
Maybe that's why I've been MIA this past week. Too tired to be me.
Saturday, July 10, 2004
Ahem, Ahem
Sometimes I hope for laryngitis. Today's confession: I believe my voice is holding back my career. I can't help it if I sound 16 on the phone -- or that I look 16. And yet as a journalist, as soon as I show up to cover an event or interview a source, these sources immediately turn paternalistic.
They don't believe I can do my job. They try to slip one past me: asking to see the article before it runs, for instance (a big journalistic no-no.) After a phone interview, one source e-mailed a commentary on my questions. (As in: "I don't think Question 3 is very relevant to your audience; I think they'd rather read about the stuff I will add in this message.")
If I looked and sounded older, perhaps they'd take me more seriously. Then they'd give more weight to my title than my stature. After all, the company considered older applicants for the position (it's not entry-level) -- and I was selected for it. And, as far as I know, they're not disappointed with their choice.
This is not to imply that I know more than someone who has those extra years of experience in the workforce. But, if I sounded older, looked older, I could fake it a little better. Sources wouldn't automatically meet me and think: "I better keep an eye on this one; she must be only a few years out of college." Rather they'd let me do my job first, and if they eventually found out, they'd think: "I can't believe she's only a few years past college!"
There's nothing to do to change the way I sound. But I can hope for a nasty sore throat, can't I?
Sometimes I hope for laryngitis. Today's confession: I believe my voice is holding back my career. I can't help it if I sound 16 on the phone -- or that I look 16. And yet as a journalist, as soon as I show up to cover an event or interview a source, these sources immediately turn paternalistic.
They don't believe I can do my job. They try to slip one past me: asking to see the article before it runs, for instance (a big journalistic no-no.) After a phone interview, one source e-mailed a commentary on my questions. (As in: "I don't think Question 3 is very relevant to your audience; I think they'd rather read about the stuff I will add in this message.")
If I looked and sounded older, perhaps they'd take me more seriously. Then they'd give more weight to my title than my stature. After all, the company considered older applicants for the position (it's not entry-level) -- and I was selected for it. And, as far as I know, they're not disappointed with their choice.
This is not to imply that I know more than someone who has those extra years of experience in the workforce. But, if I sounded older, looked older, I could fake it a little better. Sources wouldn't automatically meet me and think: "I better keep an eye on this one; she must be only a few years out of college." Rather they'd let me do my job first, and if they eventually found out, they'd think: "I can't believe she's only a few years past college!"
There's nothing to do to change the way I sound. But I can hope for a nasty sore throat, can't I?
Wednesday, July 07, 2004
Week 1: Breaking the Taboo
I've made baby steps during my first Debt-Free By 30 week. I negotiated a lower rate on one of my credit cards and upheld my pledge to (non-judgmentally) watch where my money goes. And I'm in good company; The Wall Street Journal recently started a series following eight twentysomethings and their money management sagas. Some of the stories intimidate me (I don't have $35,000 in savings, nor would I need to read a how to article on hiring a financial advisor to manage it for me), but some are actually pretty good (like how to save money on bars and clubs).
Since I write for a business magazine, I constantly read other business magazines. So I can't help it if I'm a little obsessed with personal finance columns. And what is of greater importance to a Big Girl than managing the sad state of your entry-level affairs?
I've made baby steps during my first Debt-Free By 30 week. I negotiated a lower rate on one of my credit cards and upheld my pledge to (non-judgmentally) watch where my money goes. And I'm in good company; The Wall Street Journal recently started a series following eight twentysomethings and their money management sagas. Some of the stories intimidate me (I don't have $35,000 in savings, nor would I need to read a how to article on hiring a financial advisor to manage it for me), but some are actually pretty good (like how to save money on bars and clubs).
Since I write for a business magazine, I constantly read other business magazines. So I can't help it if I'm a little obsessed with personal finance columns. And what is of greater importance to a Big Girl than managing the sad state of your entry-level affairs?
Saturday, July 03, 2004
Spirituality for the Next Generation
I've been converted. I'm reading the twenty-something bible: Debt-Free by 30, and I have found meaning in life. That meaning is to conquer my bad spending habits. I will watch what I spend. I will stop throwing away money on unnecessary purchases. I will stop living like a miser. I will prioritize between the things that I absolutely cannot live without (food and wine) and things that I will miss less (designer jeans). I will take control of my credit cards.
The authors, they understand. They understand what it's like to expect a Dynasty lifestyle on a Roseanne salary. (And these analogies! What did I tell you: Aren't they great!)
I mean, I thought I had problems. But after reading the introduction, I realized that if an editorial assistant with a $12,000 Visa bill can take control of his money woes -- well then, like hell I can't!
So, armed with Schadenfreude, I embark on my quest for debt-free bliss.
I've been converted. I'm reading the twenty-something bible: Debt-Free by 30, and I have found meaning in life. That meaning is to conquer my bad spending habits. I will watch what I spend. I will stop throwing away money on unnecessary purchases. I will stop living like a miser. I will prioritize between the things that I absolutely cannot live without (food and wine) and things that I will miss less (designer jeans). I will take control of my credit cards.
The authors, they understand. They understand what it's like to expect a Dynasty lifestyle on a Roseanne salary. (And these analogies! What did I tell you: Aren't they great!)
I mean, I thought I had problems. But after reading the introduction, I realized that if an editorial assistant with a $12,000 Visa bill can take control of his money woes -- well then, like hell I can't!
So, armed with Schadenfreude, I embark on my quest for debt-free bliss.
New York, Again
I've severed ties with my old life. I handed in my South Jersey driver's license and took back my claim to New York residency. The boyfriend doesn't quite understand it. Why not just hang on to the old license until it expires?
Well, I answered, you don't understand because you're not a real New Yorker.
But the truth of the matter is, I could totally deal with being from, say, California. Illinois. Washington. Massachusetts. But New Jersey?
I refuse.
Incidentally, in New York State, you receive a temporary license before they send you the real thing in 2-3 weeks. The temporary license is a piece of paper. So really, I'm stateless. Unsettled.
I've severed ties with my old life. I handed in my South Jersey driver's license and took back my claim to New York residency. The boyfriend doesn't quite understand it. Why not just hang on to the old license until it expires?
Well, I answered, you don't understand because you're not a real New Yorker.
But the truth of the matter is, I could totally deal with being from, say, California. Illinois. Washington. Massachusetts. But New Jersey?
I refuse.
Incidentally, in New York State, you receive a temporary license before they send you the real thing in 2-3 weeks. The temporary license is a piece of paper. So really, I'm stateless. Unsettled.
Tough Luck
I'm such a 22 year-old. Midway between trying to get from Chelsea to Grand Central Station -- running late for a business lunch, sweaty, and unaware that, at 28th St, the Lexington Ave. line actually stops on Park Avenue South -- I realized something. Business people don't take the subway to business lunches. They take cabs. Then I looked in my wallet and realized I only had $8 on me.
I tell ya, it's tough out there in the working world.
I'm such a 22 year-old. Midway between trying to get from Chelsea to Grand Central Station -- running late for a business lunch, sweaty, and unaware that, at 28th St, the Lexington Ave. line actually stops on Park Avenue South -- I realized something. Business people don't take the subway to business lunches. They take cabs. Then I looked in my wallet and realized I only had $8 on me.
I tell ya, it's tough out there in the working world.
Thursday, July 01, 2004
Boca!
If anyone knows where I can get a barbecued veggie burger in New York City -- because I really have a crazy for mesquite -- please let me know. Thanks.
If anyone knows where I can get a barbecued veggie burger in New York City -- because I really have a crazy for mesquite -- please let me know. Thanks.
