You're a Big Girl, Hold It

On College Friends and Strawberry Hookahs

So yesterday, just when I was feeling sorry for myself for having to stay home on the Saturday night before Halloween, I get an instant message from someone I knew in college, and we went to two bars and a smoked a strawberry hookah. Sometimes these things just work out.

I've been thinking about this meeting people thing a lot lately. Mostly because the boyfriend seems to be getting sick of me.

But how do you meet people? There's work, of course, but unless you start together with a group of 10 junior analysts -- you're the only new person. And, you know, they're your coworkers. You can't really let yourself go, because in six months they could be the ones determining whether you get a raise.

And, sure, you could try joining things. I tried to join an aerobics class in South Jersey, but most of the other women were old enough to be my mother.

And you saw how my writing group went.

But sometimes you get an IM from someone you knew in college, or go to your high school reunion with your high school boyfriend, or start a conversation with someone you never spoke to before but now he's promoting a new book.

Sometimes it just works out.

My head hurts. But it was so worth it.

The Road to Nowhere

Based on the good advice of no one, I told the recruiter I wasn't interested in hearing about the open position. Dream job or not. I just didn't feel like it. Maybe I'm wrong about this. But I guess you never can tell.

What If is a fact of life.

But the new editor starts Monday. I have to give him a spin before I jump ship, right?

Besides, that gym membership erased almost all the hard work I had been doing chopping away at my credit card debt. I need to stick around for my health insurance reimbursement check. Now that's something to look forward to!

They Want Me

I got a voicemail today from my first recruiter. Now I'm a Big Girl in every sense of the word. Truth is, I don't think I want to leave my current job -- I like it. It's working for me. I got to meet The Donald. And, you know, I get to do other things I enjoy. But on the other hand, I'm intrigued. How did she find me? Why did she pick me? Did she draw my name off the PR Newswire registration list? Or are people talking about me? Does she know about those essays I sold to Gradesaver.com?

You know, the editor-in-chief once said "they" might try to steal me away. Sigh. The Big Time is giving me a headache.

Meeting the Donald

I don't know how other professions measure success, but for journalists, one belt notch is the celebrity interview. And for my first, I went straight to the top: yes, Donald Trump.

I was very professional, I must say.

The coolest part wasn't the five minutes I had alone with him. The coolest part was not being in the mob of women literally trampling each other to get his autograph or a photo. Instead, I was standing with his entourage (three feet to his right), wearing my press badge and smugly knowing my time would come. That was the best part.

And then I shook his hand about 10 times.

He's very friendly. Quite the ham. Brutally blunt. What else would you want to know? His hair was less plastic in person, more wispy.

I'm more than a month shy of my 23rd birthday. Can I do my little wee wee wee I'm so excited dance now?

Old Lady Me

Sometimes you have to celebrate things, even if there's nothing to celebrate. I like to introduce small elements of festivity into each and every weekend. So today -- because I'm still recovering from a cold and the boyfriend is going to a funeral -- was a home improvement day. I cleaned my fan. I actually took the thing apart (using a screwdriver!) and Windexed the blades. It needed it. It's collected dust from three cities. Then I went to Target and bought a popcorn maker, which I've wanted for almost a whole week now. I unpacked my wash & fold, and I have every intention of doing food shopping this evening.

I went to the library.

Sound like a lame Saturday? Well, usually on a night like this one I might open a bottle of wine to interject some celebration. But I have to work tomorrow. So consider hot chocolate with whipped cream and sushi the festivities.

Yes, I'm getting old. But it's cute in the beginning, I think.

Bear cub at the Museum of Natural History

Bears at the Museum of Natural History

Rabbits at the Museum of Natural History

Romance II

"You know, I think you may be right after all," the boyfriend said after a death in his family. "I may have to get married. I don't want to die alone."

I made some sort of self-congratulatory remark.

"Yeah, but how do I know I don't want to die alone with you?" he asked.

Young love.

I'm sick.

Some days are no fun.

Bank of America's corporate headquarters ... and a church ... two familiar sights of the Charlotte skyline

The fountain outside Bank of America's Charlotte headquarters

On one the main corners in Uptown Charlotte

Uptown Charlotte

Future location of the Charlotte Shout festival

Courthouse in Uptown Charlotte

One of Charlotte's many ducks

Nascar Racetrack, Charlotte (no races that weekend, unfortunately)

Nascar racetrack, Charlotte

Nascar racetrack, Charlotte

Nascar racetrack, Charlotte

Nascar racetrack, Charlotte

Nascar racetrack, Charlotte

Truck outside the Nascar museum in Charlotte (the museum was closed when we were there)

Warning cone in Charlotte (but warning what?)

The New Guy

"Are you writing the anal next week?"

"Am I writing the what?"

(I love the new editor, by the way.)

"The anal. Sorry, the news analysis. We call it the anal."

Laughter from the girl sitting behind me.

"I hear you laughing," he says, accusingly.

"That's not me," I protest. Too loud, too defensively. "She was laughing."

"You were smiling."

(I'm smiling because you're cute, and you're standing over my desk speaking to me.)

"You're turning red," he says. In a sing song voice.

The new editor doesn't officially start till November. He's in New York learning the ropes and finding an apartment. Now he has to go home and pack. I hope the next two weeks pass quickly.

Bad Sex

"Write about bad sex," Mr. G would say. The published poet we had for 11th grade creative writing. According to him, high school was nothing more than four years of bad sex. "Even if you're not having sex, you're having bad sex," he said. "And I want you to write about it."

I had plenty of bad sex in high school: plenty, figuratively speaking, and about four or five poorly orchestrated attempts at the literal kind. I was one of Mr. G's best students.

And now I'm going to my high school reunion with my high school boyfriend. True to high school form, I couldn't walk into my five-year reunion by myself. So I made a friend promise we could go together. He promised, and then mentioned that my ex-boyfriend has his ticket.

So that's how it happened. I don't think it'll be weird to go to my high school reunion with my high school boyfriend. After all, he's dating someone else -- and I'm sure I'm prettier than she is.

And I resolve here and now not to have anymore bad high school sex. That would be so childish.

A First

Today I ran into my high school class's token published author in front of my apartment. I was wearing a silly hat. He recognized me, and asked how I was. I mentioned that I knew he was giving a reading of his new book at the Brooklyn Public Library.

"Really," he said. "Where are they promoting that?"

"I picked up a brochure," I said, then realizing how old-lady-ish that sounded. I tried to laugh it off. "I do things like that."

He laughed back. "You do things like that." Then he handed me a glossy 5X7 book promotion card.

I believe this is the first time we've ever spoken.

Tell Me, Tell Me

My own sisters don't find me interesting. I conveniently supplied them with the URL to my website, but they never visit. They must think I'm boring. (Is this because I posted pictures of my fish? Skippy almost died! That wasn't dramatic enough for them?)

I have two younger sisters, 20 and 15, and I always wanted to be the Big Sister to them I never had. But you don't know my Middle Sister. At 12, she joined the cult of orthodox Judaism, and she doesn't believe in holding hands with boys before marriage. Not the kind of Little Sister who would appreciate a copy of my ID to get into bars. Nevermind that she's much less neurotic than I am anyway, and is even the inspiration behind the "Hold It" moniker (check out the second entry, if you don't believe me.)

So last month I tried to play Big Sister with the Littler One. She's a more likely protege (she ransacks my closets! She borrows my clothes! She stole my Madonna CD!)

We were driving to the mall, after she had just returned from a six-week teen tour.

"So ..." I said. "I hear that there's a lot of hooking up at these things."

"Yeah," she said.

Silence.

"Were people hooking up?"

She played with her bracelets. "Some people were there to hook up."

"Were you hooking up?"

Dead silence.

"You can tell me; I won't tell Mom."

Dead silence.

That's when I realized I sounded like Mom. I started babbling about how I was only 22, and still cool, and didn't she know she could tell me anything, and on and on, but she was absolutely silent, and I kept babbling and it was terrible.

I am too old to be a Big Sister. My sister confuses me with our mom. Awful.

Salvation

Do I look like my soul needs to be saved?

For the second time in about a week, a woman sitting near me on the subway offered me a religious pamphlet. This time I was adamant. “No,” I said.

“It’s OK,” she said, long blonde hair flowing over her shoulders like some Shakespearean nymph. “Take it.”

“No.”

“It’s the Scriptures. Don’t you read the Bible?”

“No.”

“All the more reason for you to take it.”

“I’m Jewish,” I said, in a tone I hoped put an end to the matter.

She said something then I didn’t hear. She was speaking softly, and I was staring down the opposite end of the train, wondering how rude it would be to change my seat. The next minute or so was awkward. The woman got off at the next stop.

Old Times, Good Times

Today I found myself in Tribeca, the neighborhood of my old high school. I wasn’t sure what I was doing there, but I decided to walk my old route to where I used to pick up the express bus. I was doing pretty well (“there’s Ralph’s Discount Store, there’s the pizza place, there's the Federal Office Building, a left here, a right here, and there’s the bridge to the World Trade Center –”)

It shocked me. Of course, I had been to the site of the World Trade Center in the past three years, but not for quite awhile. The logical, rational part of me should have known the bridge wouldn’t be there. But I really needed to see it, and it wasn’t there. It shocked me.

Then there were the tourists. I don’t recall ever seeing this many in one area of Manhattan, and all so blatant about it. “Now let’s get a picture of Dad in front of the rubble!” Except there wasn’t even any rubble anymore. I couldn’t imagine what they were photographing. A couple of cranes and a few hastily constructed pedestrian walkways. Even the air smelled normal again.

Disoriented, I tried to find my way back uptown without asking for directions. Just when I was beginning to wonder why I torture myself, I found it. My old bus stop. On a little side street in front of an old church graveyard. True, the street was closed to traffic, but it still made me smile.

In Case You Were Wondering

My fitness goals are:

1) Be sexy
2) Get boyfriend to stop ogling other women
3) Live long and prosper!
4) Learn what kind of exercise is "Urban Funk"
5) Make the best of fourth-floor walk-up

Breaking a Sweat

I like a challenge. This summer, it was Debt-Free by 30. Now it's the Gym.

I've taken fitness classes before (everything from squash to aerobics), but this is my first time joining a capital-G Gym. With real fitness buffs. The women don't bother me so much -- but the men with the biceps as thick as my waist -- I find them a "little" intimidating. But I think I'm going to like the Gym. It's three blocks from my office (look at my commitment! I braved a 40-minute commute -- in each direction, mind you -- to go to the Gym! On a Sunday!) And it's, well, it's a real Gym. Authenticity goes a long way in my book. Best thing: I got $200 off the sticker membership price (see?! Debt Free by 30 and the Gym are not mutually exclusive!) just because ... well, I'm not sure. The guy took pity on me. Or something. But I don't care. I'm paying South Jersey prices at a Manhattan gym. Not bad!

But, wait! There's more! In addition to my yearlong membership, I get two bonus months free, and one consultation with a personal trainer. I will be a Gym-buff in no time.

Now even if all those gimmicks don't entice me -- there's still one more incentive to firm up this bod: the Health Insurance Reimbursement. The Health Insurance Reimbursement -- for my unemployed readers -- it sort of like the student disount. For every 50 times I go to the Gym in a six-month period, Oxford sends me $100. Free money and a firm ass. All in all, a good day.

Romance

OK, so maybe it's unrealistic to expect quality updates about me on a daily basis (my life is just not that interesting!) But I would like to report that the boyfriend and I came to an understanding today.

We had just seen I Heart Huckabees and were feeling somewhat existential. Actually, the more appropriate word would be "fatalistic," but let's not dwell on small details.

"We're stuck together," I said. We were walking through Central Park. I carried a large Disney bag with a stuffed Mickey Mouse in it -- my present from Orlando. I was wearing a large coat (not the $9 large khaki coat that was both clothing and shelter, but a similarly large coat that actually fits and is black.) "Neither one of us likes other people. Neither one of us gets along with other people. But look how well we get along with each other!"

The boyfriend looked good today. His blue shirt matched his eyes. "That doesn't mean I have to like it."

"I don't like it either," I said. "So many men I never got to date. Old men. Politician men. Rich men. Powerful men. British men. Gas station attendant men. So many men."

He didn't look at me. We continued to walk through the park. The park was feeling pretty. The lake was clean and ducks swam around in circles, trying to bite each other. Couples rode around in paddle boats. On the other side of the water, tiny people sat on large rocks, and street musicians entertained them.

He took my hand. "You're special, you know that?"

Later I learned that he still believes in God, while I am decidedly more agnostic. This information -- the part about me -- would kill my parents.

That being said, I joined a gym today.

Mouse Thoughts

My mouse experience has convinced me of the need to get married. What are men for if not for this sort of thing? But I don't know why I bother bringing it up around the boyfriend. He's taken to ignoring me whenever I bring up the issue. Sigh. He's called my bluff long ago.

Relatedly, he's back from Orlando, and I couldn't be happier. He bought me a present! I missed him. Truly. I just think we should share things. Like trapping rodents.

Almost Older

I realized today that there are less than two months before my 23rd birthday. Twenty-three sounds like a good age. Not young, but certainly not old. Solidly adult, but not too adult. I think 23 will suit me. I'm looking forward to it.

I'm half-watching the vice presidential debate as I write this. It's painful watching John Edwards sound so young and almost shrill next to calm, collected Dick Cheney (who I find really unpleasant in a completely irrational way, let alone politically), so I won't write about it. I will write about avoiding writing about it. But I won't write about how my father thinks I've been brainwashed by my boyfriend (the liberal), and my boyfriend thinks I've living under the thumb of my father (the conservative). Can't I have an opinion that's squarely my own? Maybe when I'm finally 23 ...

The Editor: Take 2

The editor's replacement is better than I could have hoped for. There's a lot of potential for this new guy. I don't mean romantic potential, but the potential for us to get along really well, and for work to remain interesting.

Or, there could be fighting. The new guy is a strong personality, not easy-going like the old one. Not fighting with me, exactly, but just a lot of hot-headness. But I'm OK, more or less, with that. He starts, the new guy, November 1. And in case you're wondering how I know him, he's transferring from another bureau. (I work for a multinational conglomerate! I have arrived!)

Speaking of multinationals, I had the opportunity to have lunch in the Rockefeller Center area of Manhattan, and I have to say again that it's my favorite part of the city. It's the media capital of the world, and everyone with the faintest interest in journalism should go. It's like making the Holy Pilgrimage. Even for someone without a shred of spirituality.

Jews on a Mission

I knew I should have lied when the girl on the subway asked if I were Jewish. She had a faint accent, Yiddish maybe, except she was too young for it, about 19. I felt fairly certain she had been born in New York. Maybe the accent was fake.

She handed me a pamphlet. I tried to give it back. "No, it's for you."

"Thank you," I said, standing. Dully.

"Have a nice day!"

The pamphlet was creased. It was called "Geulah," the Redemption. I was reminded of the Hare Krishnas under the World Trade Center. They would walk so close to you and so silently that when they finally said something, you jumped 10 feet. This happened to me frequently when I was in high school, back when the WTC was a frequent hang-out.

Chabad Jews proselytizing to other Jews on the subway. It's a holiday this week, and the Chabad Jews are walking around in pairs, armed with a lulav and etrog, stopping people, asking them if they're Jewish. I'd never seen this before, but then, I've never lived in Brooklyn before.

One of the passages in the pamphlet, I swear it was titled "Mind Control."

Confused

One of the people from my writing group -- actually, the one I thought disliked me most of all (She never smiled! Whenever I said anything she looked at me liked she was spaced out! She just stared!) has invited me to be her friend on Friendster.

I don't understand it. I keep waiting for it to be some kind of sick joke. I just don't get it.

UPDATE: And yet, I approved her Friendster request. After all, with her 56 friends, this opens up a whole new world of stalking possibilities. We even have one friend in common! Who knew! And, besides, who am I anyway to turn down a request from someone who wants to be my friend? Someone wants to be my friend! Look how special I am! A new friend!

All By Myself ... Don't Want to Be ...

Actually, there is a lot that happened.

My editor is leaving this week. Now what's the point of going to work? This is awful. Come next week, I'll be working ... and that's it. I will be working. No one sentencing me to death. No one threatening to banish me to another city.

It's a great opportunity for him. Incredibly impressive, career-wise.

I'm devastated.

I'm Baa-aack

There's no particularly good reason why I haven't been writing. My North Carolina friend says it's because being from South Jersey made me different and being from New York just means I'm like everyone else. South Jersey had an up-side. Who knew?

(I mean, of course it was different. I was the only one there under 35. But the point holds, I guess.)

You didn't miss much. Except that I've been on total mouse patrol. Yes, a mouse. Snuck into my kitchen one night and ate through a baggie of organic Newman-O's I had set aside for my lunch. Nibbled around the chocolate cookie part and left the cream filling. Hilarious.

Except I was Not Amused. I didn't cry, although I did run back home to my parents' house for three nights (this was totally coincidental, of course. Of course I had planned to visit them that weekend.) Every hour or so I checked my temperature to make sure I didn't have the hantavirus. The hantavirus is rare but deadly. I needed to keep checking.

After the Night of the Mouse, I went around the perimeter of my apartment looking for droppings and caulking holes. I scrubbed. I poked around under my bed with a broom someone had so kindly left in the hallway one day and never removed.

So far, so good. But you can never be too cocky, I guess.

Although -- on my home improvement adventure, I decided to go the hole nine yards. I bought window shades (my first window shades!) that don't quite fit my window and which I hope my boyfriend and I can flub. And I changed a shower curtain that desparately needed changing.

And here, even my website is being updated. Maybe the mouse was only a metaphorical mouse designed to get me off my ass, making small but necessary changes in my habits. Maybe.