To really work at my new job, you need to screw a coworker.
Okay, not really. But let's be honest - it's not uncommon. So when I first found out about it, I decided I was going to avoid the awkward situations my coworkers found themselves in and just keep my lady bits to myself. Or share with those I didn't work with.
Obviously in the three months since I started the job, I have not only started sleeping with a coworker, but have (happily) ended up in a relationship with him. Because that's what you're supposed to accomplish when you get a new job - duh.
Obviously I now feel more secure at the company.
He started talking to me on my second day, via iChat. I hadn't the faintest idea who he was when he first sent me a message, but after having lunch with him I realized he was the one with the impeccable bone structure.
I found out he was dating someone who he never mentioned. I found out he had been dating a French girl (different from aforementioned girl, but who he also never mentioned) and was planning on visiting her this summer.
I found out he wanted to go to graduate school in France starting in January. I also found out that he loved wine, had the same types of lucid dreams I've always had, that he has a spot of brown in one of his otherwise very green eyes and that I felt weird if I didn't talk to him for more than an hour.
You know, weird on a friend level, since he was dating someone.
Our first weeks of friendship were filled with awkward moments. Like that time he texted me to say his 'lust' was growing (meant list, he says), or that time he told the girl he was dating (on the phone in front of me) that he didn't hi things between them were going to work out because he was going to be oh-so-busy studying for the GMAT and wouldn't have time to spend with her.
She yelled at him so we went to get margaritas. He walked me home, came upstairs and kissed me.
It's led to the happiest and most confusing relationship thus far.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
A whole new round of crazy men. And yet another proposal.
I really should expect it by now. I'm just a magnet for crazy people. Maybe I should just get a cat and stop going out. But then I'd have nothing to write about here. Plus, I don't like cats.
Friday night:
I was pumped. Jess was visiting, and I was bringing her to my go-to dive bar, Max Fish. Josh Hartnett, hipsters, psychics — I'm telling you, this place has it all.
We met these guys. For purposes of this blog post, their names were Justin and Matt. They were too short to date, but they were entertaining so we moved bars and went to Spitzers with them.
Everyone was ordering drinks when a crazy came out of no where.
Crazy [takes scarf off, ties it around head]: You're cute. I want to go jihad on your ass.
Me: [no response, looked at Jess for assistance]
Crazy: Do you think I look like a terrorist?
Me [still looking at Jess for assistance]: No.
Matt [to the rescue]: Hi. You should come get a drink.
Crazy [leaving, still wearing head scarf]: You're beautiful. I'll see you around.
Then, the proposal man walked in. He looked at me, but didn't really say anything to me.
Proposal man [drunkenly, to friend, while staring at me]: Dude. Why is she talking to the shortest guys in here?
The shortest guys in there took offense and suggested we relocate. On our way to open seats by the window, proposal man tried to tap me on the shoulder, but missed.
Proposal man [almost falling off bar stool]: I want to marry you.
Me: I have to go.
We sat down and had a normal conversation with J&M, while this random guy was lurking behind us, not talking to anyone. J&M left after M offered to take me to the planetarium and I declined.
Lurker came up to us and tried to talk. He was drunk to the point where I couldn't figure out what he was saying. I almost felt bad.
Friday night:
I was pumped. Jess was visiting, and I was bringing her to my go-to dive bar, Max Fish. Josh Hartnett, hipsters, psychics — I'm telling you, this place has it all.
We met these guys. For purposes of this blog post, their names were Justin and Matt. They were too short to date, but they were entertaining so we moved bars and went to Spitzers with them.
Everyone was ordering drinks when a crazy came out of no where.
Crazy [takes scarf off, ties it around head]: You're cute. I want to go jihad on your ass.
Me: [no response, looked at Jess for assistance]
Crazy: Do you think I look like a terrorist?
Me [still looking at Jess for assistance]: No.
Matt [to the rescue]: Hi. You should come get a drink.
Crazy [leaving, still wearing head scarf]: You're beautiful. I'll see you around.
Then, the proposal man walked in. He looked at me, but didn't really say anything to me.
Proposal man [drunkenly, to friend, while staring at me]: Dude. Why is she talking to the shortest guys in here?
The shortest guys in there took offense and suggested we relocate. On our way to open seats by the window, proposal man tried to tap me on the shoulder, but missed.
Proposal man [almost falling off bar stool]: I want to marry you.
Me: I have to go.
We sat down and had a normal conversation with J&M, while this random guy was lurking behind us, not talking to anyone. J&M left after M offered to take me to the planetarium and I declined.
Lurker came up to us and tried to talk. He was drunk to the point where I couldn't figure out what he was saying. I almost felt bad.
Monday, March 28, 2011
That time I was dumped before I was in a relationship.
I went on a date with a new guy, he was great. When I starting talking about my fascination with outer space, instead of saying, "wow, you're really weird" he said, "can I talk you to the planetarium next weekend?"
So basically, he was perfect.
He texted me the day of our planetarium date to ask if I would call him so we could "talk for a sec." Um sure, guy I like but don't really know that well...what could we possibly have to talk about? I'm supposed to see you in an hour and a half.
We had to talk about that fact that I was not going to see him in an hour and a half.
Guy: I'm really sorry, but I'm too busy with work. I feel like an asshole and I'm sick of feeling like an asshole for doing this to you for a month [reference is about previously broken plans that made him feel like an asshole], and I really like you but I just don't have time to date someone right now.
Me [in my head]: It sounds like you're breaking up with me. Are we dating? Wait, you can't be breaking up with me ... we aren't dating. Why do I feel like you're breaking up with me?
Me [out loud]: Okay.
Guy: I'm really sorry, I'm just too busy. But I mean, you can call me in a couple of weeks if you want.
Me [in my head]: Yes. As you are the busy one, it makes perfect sense that I would continue to call you in hopes that there may be a break in your schedule. That makes much more sense than you calling me if and when you become less busy.
Me [out loud]: I'm not going to call you.
I'm always the one who gets dumped, but this has got to be some kind of record. I was dumped before a relationship even began. Our relationship was negative days long before it ended.
The worst part is that I was actually upset about it. I couldn't even eat my bagel and I wanted to cry. And that is why I don't cuddle with people. Cuddling makes you unreasonably attached. I'm reverting back to my ice queen ways.
So basically, he was perfect.
He texted me the day of our planetarium date to ask if I would call him so we could "talk for a sec." Um sure, guy I like but don't really know that well...what could we possibly have to talk about? I'm supposed to see you in an hour and a half.
We had to talk about that fact that I was not going to see him in an hour and a half.
Guy: I'm really sorry, but I'm too busy with work. I feel like an asshole and I'm sick of feeling like an asshole for doing this to you for a month [reference is about previously broken plans that made him feel like an asshole], and I really like you but I just don't have time to date someone right now.
Me [in my head]: It sounds like you're breaking up with me. Are we dating? Wait, you can't be breaking up with me ... we aren't dating. Why do I feel like you're breaking up with me?
Me [out loud]: Okay.
Guy: I'm really sorry, I'm just too busy. But I mean, you can call me in a couple of weeks if you want.
Me [in my head]: Yes. As you are the busy one, it makes perfect sense that I would continue to call you in hopes that there may be a break in your schedule. That makes much more sense than you calling me if and when you become less busy.
Me [out loud]: I'm not going to call you.
I'm always the one who gets dumped, but this has got to be some kind of record. I was dumped before a relationship even began. Our relationship was negative days long before it ended.
The worst part is that I was actually upset about it. I couldn't even eat my bagel and I wanted to cry. And that is why I don't cuddle with people. Cuddling makes you unreasonably attached. I'm reverting back to my ice queen ways.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Sometimes, I'm dumb.
Why is it that when a guy doesn't call me, I think about him more?
This is New York City. Manhattan isn't exactly suffering from a dearth of single men. You'd think I would just go off and find someone else, and then start thinking about him. And that when it didn't work out, I'd just repeat the process.
I do. It's easy to meet people here. All you have to do is make eye contact and BAM — you've made a new friend. Most of the time he'll buy you a drink. He'll always ask for your number.
I haven't spoken to the guy in question in two months. He's cocky, self involved, vain and flaky. Unfortunately, he's also tall, gorgeous, funny, smart and good in bed … really good in bed.
At first he was nearly perfect. He was the guy who made an effort to meet my friends, picked me up when he said he would, liked primarily red wine but not Merlot because it's disgusting, watched Jeopardy but not Wheel of Fortune, worshiped The New York Times to the point of subscription, had a wickedly sarcastic sense of humor, a journalistically cynical view of the world and an Ivy League education.
Attentive, sweet, charming — we had so much in common.
And then he turned into an idiot. Or maybe he was an idiot the whole time and I just didn't notice because of his perfectly white teeth and perfect chest hair to chest proportions.
He became increasingly difficult to see, broke plans and tried to make them at 2 a.m. He'd apologize for his behavior and then promise to put in more effort. And then he'd fail, miserably.
Given the utter lack of communication and the fact that I haven't seen him since the last time he rolled out of my bed and kissed me goodbye in January, you'd think I would have stopped thinking about him by now.
Except I can't. I don't know if it's the absence of an explanation or what, but thoughts of Josh invade my mind on a daily basis. I say invade because I don't want them there. I don't need to date people who are difficult to date, I tell myself.
Then I go stalk him on Facebook.
Since I refused to add him as a Facebook friend when I was sleeping with him, I have to stalk his limited profile. It's a bit late to add him now and see the entirety of the Facebook profile. Especially since it will just increase the amount of time I spend wondering if he's sleeping with every girl who likes his status.
This is New York City. Manhattan isn't exactly suffering from a dearth of single men. You'd think I would just go off and find someone else, and then start thinking about him. And that when it didn't work out, I'd just repeat the process.
I do. It's easy to meet people here. All you have to do is make eye contact and BAM — you've made a new friend. Most of the time he'll buy you a drink. He'll always ask for your number.
I haven't spoken to the guy in question in two months. He's cocky, self involved, vain and flaky. Unfortunately, he's also tall, gorgeous, funny, smart and good in bed … really good in bed.
At first he was nearly perfect. He was the guy who made an effort to meet my friends, picked me up when he said he would, liked primarily red wine but not Merlot because it's disgusting, watched Jeopardy but not Wheel of Fortune, worshiped The New York Times to the point of subscription, had a wickedly sarcastic sense of humor, a journalistically cynical view of the world and an Ivy League education.
Attentive, sweet, charming — we had so much in common.
And then he turned into an idiot. Or maybe he was an idiot the whole time and I just didn't notice because of his perfectly white teeth and perfect chest hair to chest proportions.
He became increasingly difficult to see, broke plans and tried to make them at 2 a.m. He'd apologize for his behavior and then promise to put in more effort. And then he'd fail, miserably.
Given the utter lack of communication and the fact that I haven't seen him since the last time he rolled out of my bed and kissed me goodbye in January, you'd think I would have stopped thinking about him by now.
Except I can't. I don't know if it's the absence of an explanation or what, but thoughts of Josh invade my mind on a daily basis. I say invade because I don't want them there. I don't need to date people who are difficult to date, I tell myself.
Then I go stalk him on Facebook.
Since I refused to add him as a Facebook friend when I was sleeping with him, I have to stalk his limited profile. It's a bit late to add him now and see the entirety of the Facebook profile. Especially since it will just increase the amount of time I spend wondering if he's sleeping with every girl who likes his status.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
That time I dyed my hair orange.
I am not a natural blonde.
I was when I was little, which is how I justify my current hair color, but let's be honest. My hair is brown. Boring, boring brown.
I started highlighting it a little over a year ago, so by last week, it was looking very blonde. Well, very blonde with very bad (and brown) roots.
Given that I am still unemployed and do not have the extra money to spend money on NYC salon highlights, I figured my mom and I would be able to highlight the roots so that I wouldn't have to pay for them. She was coming to stay with me anyway, she was willing to do some free labor in exchange for an air mattress on my floor.
We went to Duane Reade, bought the color and went to town. Well, I sat. Mom went to town. We really thought it would work too - the roots appeared much lighter when I looked in the mirror before I got in the shower to wash the dye out.
It didn't work. I got out of the shower, looked at myself in the mirror and called out for my mother like a 4-year old child with the flu.
Here's what happened:
The picture doesn't even do the color justice. Think Garfield, Syracuse or traffic cone orange.
I wanted to cry. But I have a hard time crying at real life situations, I'm more of a movie, commercial, when-other-people-cry-and-I-don't-know-how-to-react crier. So instead, involuntarily, I started to hyperventilate.
I tried to Google what to do when you've accidentally dyed your hair orange. The answer in most cases was go to a salon.
Well, awesome. This process wasn't going to save me any money at all, and now I had to physically get to a salon with bright orange roots.
Flora, my new colorist looked at my hair and said it was "full of discrepancies." Thank you Flora. When I sat in the chair and she got a closer look, she told me some people are capable of dying their hair at home, like her. But that I was not one of those people. My hair, in Flora's words, was a "mess."
She re-highlighted parts of it so that the root situation would blend more easily. Then she began the toning process.
Some guy came and sat next to me in the sink. He said my hair looked good. Either he was blind or didn't think it was acceptable to have a conversation that started and ended with "hi." Either way, I told him the story of my orange roots. He wished me luck on his way out.
Flora had to tone my hair twice before I stopped looking like Garfield.
It's still a little orange. But at least I can go outside now.
I was when I was little, which is how I justify my current hair color, but let's be honest. My hair is brown. Boring, boring brown.
I started highlighting it a little over a year ago, so by last week, it was looking very blonde. Well, very blonde with very bad (and brown) roots.
Given that I am still unemployed and do not have the extra money to spend money on NYC salon highlights, I figured my mom and I would be able to highlight the roots so that I wouldn't have to pay for them. She was coming to stay with me anyway, she was willing to do some free labor in exchange for an air mattress on my floor.
We went to Duane Reade, bought the color and went to town. Well, I sat. Mom went to town. We really thought it would work too - the roots appeared much lighter when I looked in the mirror before I got in the shower to wash the dye out.
It didn't work. I got out of the shower, looked at myself in the mirror and called out for my mother like a 4-year old child with the flu.
Here's what happened:
The picture doesn't even do the color justice. Think Garfield, Syracuse or traffic cone orange.
I wanted to cry. But I have a hard time crying at real life situations, I'm more of a movie, commercial, when-other-people-cry-and-I-don't-know-how-to-react crier. So instead, involuntarily, I started to hyperventilate.
I tried to Google what to do when you've accidentally dyed your hair orange. The answer in most cases was go to a salon.
Well, awesome. This process wasn't going to save me any money at all, and now I had to physically get to a salon with bright orange roots.
Flora, my new colorist looked at my hair and said it was "full of discrepancies." Thank you Flora. When I sat in the chair and she got a closer look, she told me some people are capable of dying their hair at home, like her. But that I was not one of those people. My hair, in Flora's words, was a "mess."
She re-highlighted parts of it so that the root situation would blend more easily. Then she began the toning process.
Some guy came and sat next to me in the sink. He said my hair looked good. Either he was blind or didn't think it was acceptable to have a conversation that started and ended with "hi." Either way, I told him the story of my orange roots. He wished me luck on his way out.
Flora had to tone my hair twice before I stopped looking like Garfield.
It's still a little orange. But at least I can go outside now.
Monday, February 7, 2011
A note.
A guy in a plaid shirt tapped me on the shoulder and handed me a napkin at Brass Monkey. It was folded in half with a pen in the middle.
Plaid guy: It's from the guys at the end of the bar.
Me: Uhhhh
Plaid guy: Don't worry, it's just a note. There's not a dead animal folded in there or anything.
Me: Oh...well, that's good.
He left. I opened the napkin. It read, "You look bored. Come over here and party, we have girl scout." There was a "yes" box and a "no" box. The no box was crossed out to indicate that it was not an option.
Before I really had time to think about what "we have girl scout" could mean, they sent me a girl scout cookie. Unfortunately, it had coconut in it, and I'm allergic. I sent back a note that said, "I'm allergic," and a friend ate the cookie.
They never came over to talk to me. And I wasn't bored, I was watching the super bowl.
Plaid guy: It's from the guys at the end of the bar.
Me: Uhhhh
Plaid guy: Don't worry, it's just a note. There's not a dead animal folded in there or anything.
Me: Oh...well, that's good.
He left. I opened the napkin. It read, "You look bored. Come over here and party, we have girl scout." There was a "yes" box and a "no" box. The no box was crossed out to indicate that it was not an option.
Before I really had time to think about what "we have girl scout" could mean, they sent me a girl scout cookie. Unfortunately, it had coconut in it, and I'm allergic. I sent back a note that said, "I'm allergic," and a friend ate the cookie.
They never came over to talk to me. And I wasn't bored, I was watching the super bowl.
If you thought the last round of guys were crazy..
A guy got on the 5 train and starting quoting the bible, and yelling that "Jesus loves you," etc. I assumed he was crazy.
He kept walking back and forth in the train car, and then hovered by my friend Sam and me. We were getting off at the next stop, so I wasn't too worried when he started directing the preaching my way.
The train stopped, I started walking out to the platform.
Crazy: Do you love Jesus?
Me: No.
Then he followed us out onto the platform, which we were walking across to catch the 6 train.
Crazy: Can I sit with you on the train?
Me: No.
Crazy: Why not? I just want to be your friend.
Me: No.
Crazy: Just let me take you out sometime.
Me: No.
Crazy: What are you doing for the super bowl?
Me: Watching it.
Crazy: Want to watch it with me?
Me: No.
Crazy: Why not?
Me: I have plans.
Crazy: Can I come?
Me: No.
Crazy: Well can I get your number so I can take you out?
Me: No.
Crazy: What about Facebook? Can I Facebook you?
Me: No.
Crazy: I think you're my soul mate.
Me: Well I'm not.
Crazy: I love your eyes. You're really beautiful. Do you think I'm cute?
Me: No.
Crazy: So you think I'm ugly?
Me: Yes.
Crazy: Why?
Me: You're annoying.
Crazy: But that has nothing to do with my face. Do you think I have an ugly face?
Me: Go away.
Crazy: Oh. I get it. You don't like black men.
Contrary to the belief of every black man that I haven't wanted to talk to, I actually do like black men. I do not, however, like crazy men.
At this point, a very normal looking couple boarded the train. The crazy continued to ask me why I didn't want to talk to him, why I wasn't paying attention to him, etc.
Then he got up and started quoting things from the bible. Before he got off the train he looked at me and said, "I want to mack on you in the name of Jesus."
The man from the normal couple looked at me, and asked if the crazy man had really just said that. Yes, normal man. He really just said that.
He kept walking back and forth in the train car, and then hovered by my friend Sam and me. We were getting off at the next stop, so I wasn't too worried when he started directing the preaching my way.
The train stopped, I started walking out to the platform.
Crazy: Do you love Jesus?
Me: No.
Then he followed us out onto the platform, which we were walking across to catch the 6 train.
Crazy: Can I sit with you on the train?
Me: No.
Crazy: Why not? I just want to be your friend.
Me: No.
Crazy: Just let me take you out sometime.
Me: No.
Crazy: What are you doing for the super bowl?
Me: Watching it.
Crazy: Want to watch it with me?
Me: No.
Crazy: Why not?
Me: I have plans.
Crazy: Can I come?
Me: No.
Crazy: Well can I get your number so I can take you out?
Me: No.
Crazy: What about Facebook? Can I Facebook you?
Me: No.
Crazy: I think you're my soul mate.
Me: Well I'm not.
Crazy: I love your eyes. You're really beautiful. Do you think I'm cute?
Me: No.
Crazy: So you think I'm ugly?
Me: Yes.
Crazy: Why?
Me: You're annoying.
Crazy: But that has nothing to do with my face. Do you think I have an ugly face?
Me: Go away.
Crazy: Oh. I get it. You don't like black men.
Contrary to the belief of every black man that I haven't wanted to talk to, I actually do like black men. I do not, however, like crazy men.
At this point, a very normal looking couple boarded the train. The crazy continued to ask me why I didn't want to talk to him, why I wasn't paying attention to him, etc.
Then he got up and started quoting things from the bible. Before he got off the train he looked at me and said, "I want to mack on you in the name of Jesus."
The man from the normal couple looked at me, and asked if the crazy man had really just said that. Yes, normal man. He really just said that.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Interview #2
I woke up from a ridiculous dream at 8 a.m., fully convinced that I had not e-mailed the magazine editors back to tell them that I would be in at 3 to take the writing and editing test.
In the dream, it was my birthday. My building concierge called me and told me that I had a package from American Express downstairs, they had sent me a pink cupcake. So, I went downstairs to claim my cupcake. Only when I got there, I already had a cupcake in my hand. It was on a stick. But besides the stick, it was the same cupcake AmEx had sent me in the mail to try to bribe me into paying annual fees. After evaluating the cupcake situation (two of the same, but one on a stick), I decided that I did not want the AmEx bribe cupcake, and tried to give it to the concierge. He didn't want it, so I tried to give it to the doorman. He didn't want it either, so I tried to give it to the super, and then to the maintenance guy. No one wanted my cupcake.
Then I woke up full of anxiety about the e-mail I may or may not have sent. I rushed to throw on sweatpants, a Roger Williams University sweatshirt, threw my hair into a ponytail and went downstairs to the business center to see if I had sent this e-mail. (I don't have the Internet in my apartment). Given the hour, I assumed no one would be in the business center. I was wrong.
Apparently, 8 a.m. is the time when gorgeous men in suits are in the business center. Crap. I really know how to make a first impression. In addition to showing up in my pajamas, with my hair in a ponytail (not even a cute, bangs-out ponytail- it was the kind you run a triathlon with) and unbrushed teeth, I kept having sneezing attacks and diverting the gorgeous male attention from their early morning work, to me. Ugh.
I looked at my sent e-mails and find that I did indeed RSVP to my second interview, but I didn't want to seem weird to the men in suits and get up and leave two minutes after I arrived, so I stayed in the business center and read the NY Times online. They left, and since I still didn't want to seem weird for leaving right after them, I stayed for ten more minutes. Then I left.
I decided to go back to bed and take a nap before getting reading for Interview, Part Deux. I feel asleep watching Kathy Lee and Hoda on the Today Show. Then I had another dream.
This time, I was an NBC Page, and I was helping out on the set of the Today Show. I was standing off camera, just doing my Page thing, and then I fainted. The producer came over to see if I was okay, and then asked if I thought I could stay for the rest of the day because they still needed people to help. I said yes. Then I fainted again, and Hoda (during a commercial break) said something to me about all of the fainting. The producer came back over to confirm that I wasn't going home.
I woke up, got ready for my interview, and left.
I had to take a press release, make a story out of it and give it a headline. Then I had to fact check something. It was uneventful.
In the dream, it was my birthday. My building concierge called me and told me that I had a package from American Express downstairs, they had sent me a pink cupcake. So, I went downstairs to claim my cupcake. Only when I got there, I already had a cupcake in my hand. It was on a stick. But besides the stick, it was the same cupcake AmEx had sent me in the mail to try to bribe me into paying annual fees. After evaluating the cupcake situation (two of the same, but one on a stick), I decided that I did not want the AmEx bribe cupcake, and tried to give it to the concierge. He didn't want it, so I tried to give it to the doorman. He didn't want it either, so I tried to give it to the super, and then to the maintenance guy. No one wanted my cupcake.
Then I woke up full of anxiety about the e-mail I may or may not have sent. I rushed to throw on sweatpants, a Roger Williams University sweatshirt, threw my hair into a ponytail and went downstairs to the business center to see if I had sent this e-mail. (I don't have the Internet in my apartment). Given the hour, I assumed no one would be in the business center. I was wrong.
Apparently, 8 a.m. is the time when gorgeous men in suits are in the business center. Crap. I really know how to make a first impression. In addition to showing up in my pajamas, with my hair in a ponytail (not even a cute, bangs-out ponytail- it was the kind you run a triathlon with) and unbrushed teeth, I kept having sneezing attacks and diverting the gorgeous male attention from their early morning work, to me. Ugh.
I looked at my sent e-mails and find that I did indeed RSVP to my second interview, but I didn't want to seem weird to the men in suits and get up and leave two minutes after I arrived, so I stayed in the business center and read the NY Times online. They left, and since I still didn't want to seem weird for leaving right after them, I stayed for ten more minutes. Then I left.
I decided to go back to bed and take a nap before getting reading for Interview, Part Deux. I feel asleep watching Kathy Lee and Hoda on the Today Show. Then I had another dream.
This time, I was an NBC Page, and I was helping out on the set of the Today Show. I was standing off camera, just doing my Page thing, and then I fainted. The producer came over to see if I was okay, and then asked if I thought I could stay for the rest of the day because they still needed people to help. I said yes. Then I fainted again, and Hoda (during a commercial break) said something to me about all of the fainting. The producer came back over to confirm that I wasn't going home.
I woke up, got ready for my interview, and left.
I had to take a press release, make a story out of it and give it a headline. Then I had to fact check something. It was uneventful.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Interview #1
Today was my first big-girl job interview.
I'd had to interview before, but since the positions weren't in New York City, the interviews weren't nearly as intimidating as this one.
I got dressed, made sure I didn't have anything in my teeth, and headed to the R train. When I started walking I felt something poking my foot in my shoe. Not a big deal, I thought, it's probably just a small pebble or something.
I sat down on the disgusting subway bench in my freshly ironed interview clothes, and took off my shoe.
OH man. Blood. Everywhere. All over my foot, all over my shoe. Hm. How did this happen?
Let's flash back to the day earlier when I had forcefully opened my refrigerator (I was hungry, don't judge) and my butter dish had fallen out and shattered everywhere. Apparently, a small shard of the glass ended up in my interview shoe. And then in my foot.
So I'm sitting, shoeless, on this bench, digging around in my bloody foot to try to get this shard of glass out, and the cut just keeps getting bigger and deeper. Finally I'm able to pin this thing between my nails and get it out. But by that time, this tiny little cut had become a real gusher. Do I have any napkins? Nope. Tissues? Nope. So I had to put my shoe on. I could feel the blood pooling in the bottom of it. I'm fully convinced that these things don't happen to normal people.
I make it to my interview, bloody foot and all. I felt like Curt Schilling, minus the sock.
So...
The job pays $28,000 a year.
Assuming I get it (which I'm only hypothetically doing, since they were interviewing tons of candidates) I would have to give up the following things to exist on that kind of salary:
1) Manhattan. I'd have to move to Brooklyn or Queens. Could I do it? Maybe, I've never actually been to Queens, but I don't own anything plaid so I'd stick out in Brooklyn.
2) Food. On a meager salary like the one listed above, I would not only have to give up dining out (not a huge problem, I cook most of the time anyways), but I would have to give up eating in general. Fresh fruits and veggies? Psh- not anymore.
3) My smart phone. This one really kills me. It might kill me more than moving out of Manhattan. Because what will I do with myself if I'm wondering something and can't instantly google the answer? Or if I get lost and I can get directions sent to my phone? How would I function? Anyone want to start a family plan with me?
4) Drinking. Well, not really. I'd just have to wear more low-cut shirts when I go out, and then I wouldn't have to pay for it. But I really prefer cardigans and tee shirts to sparkly, low-cut tops.
Is it worth it?
I think so.
The place seems great- it's a trade magazine run by nice women who are looking for people to join their editorial team, transcribe interviews, do the bitch work, etc. And would I mind doing it? Not at all- in fact, I'd be glad to. Because I'd suck it up and transcribe for hours to be in an environment where I'm happy. And because sometimes, you just have to suck it up and transcribe anyways.
I'll find out if I've landed a second interview by Friday. Let's hope so, because this is the most promising, if most fiscally challenging, lead so far.
I'd had to interview before, but since the positions weren't in New York City, the interviews weren't nearly as intimidating as this one.
I got dressed, made sure I didn't have anything in my teeth, and headed to the R train. When I started walking I felt something poking my foot in my shoe. Not a big deal, I thought, it's probably just a small pebble or something.
I sat down on the disgusting subway bench in my freshly ironed interview clothes, and took off my shoe.
OH man. Blood. Everywhere. All over my foot, all over my shoe. Hm. How did this happen?
Let's flash back to the day earlier when I had forcefully opened my refrigerator (I was hungry, don't judge) and my butter dish had fallen out and shattered everywhere. Apparently, a small shard of the glass ended up in my interview shoe. And then in my foot.
So I'm sitting, shoeless, on this bench, digging around in my bloody foot to try to get this shard of glass out, and the cut just keeps getting bigger and deeper. Finally I'm able to pin this thing between my nails and get it out. But by that time, this tiny little cut had become a real gusher. Do I have any napkins? Nope. Tissues? Nope. So I had to put my shoe on. I could feel the blood pooling in the bottom of it. I'm fully convinced that these things don't happen to normal people.
I make it to my interview, bloody foot and all. I felt like Curt Schilling, minus the sock.
So...
The job pays $28,000 a year.
Assuming I get it (which I'm only hypothetically doing, since they were interviewing tons of candidates) I would have to give up the following things to exist on that kind of salary:
1) Manhattan. I'd have to move to Brooklyn or Queens. Could I do it? Maybe, I've never actually been to Queens, but I don't own anything plaid so I'd stick out in Brooklyn.
2) Food. On a meager salary like the one listed above, I would not only have to give up dining out (not a huge problem, I cook most of the time anyways), but I would have to give up eating in general. Fresh fruits and veggies? Psh- not anymore.
3) My smart phone. This one really kills me. It might kill me more than moving out of Manhattan. Because what will I do with myself if I'm wondering something and can't instantly google the answer? Or if I get lost and I can get directions sent to my phone? How would I function? Anyone want to start a family plan with me?
4) Drinking. Well, not really. I'd just have to wear more low-cut shirts when I go out, and then I wouldn't have to pay for it. But I really prefer cardigans and tee shirts to sparkly, low-cut tops.
Is it worth it?
I think so.
The place seems great- it's a trade magazine run by nice women who are looking for people to join their editorial team, transcribe interviews, do the bitch work, etc. And would I mind doing it? Not at all- in fact, I'd be glad to. Because I'd suck it up and transcribe for hours to be in an environment where I'm happy. And because sometimes, you just have to suck it up and transcribe anyways.
I'll find out if I've landed a second interview by Friday. Let's hope so, because this is the most promising, if most fiscally challenging, lead so far.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
That time I got fired.
I got fired.
O told me to never refer to the situation in those terms (using the word "fired"), but I was.
I was just sitting in my office, reading the real estate news like I did every morning, and O's dad (L) came in and said that since O was leaving the company, and he was supposed to train me and wouldn't be around, that I should start looking for another job. That I hadn't done anything wrong, but without this training I probably wasn't able to contribute to the company.
Awesome.
Hey L, remember that time I gave up a really competitive graduate school program to move to New York City and work for you?
Or that time I designed logos for your properties so that you wouldn't have to pay graphic designers a couple thousand dollars to do it?
Or that time I got your building in the NY Post with a phone call?
Or that time I memorized the market research for all of your comparable buildings on the Upper East Side so that you wouldn't have to know what you were talking about?
Or that time I looked up every single floor plan for units in those comparable buildings so that we could compare them to our intended floor plans?
Or that time I put up with your broker sexually harassing me at work, almost apologizing, and then saying that I could put him in his place by spanking him, because he likes things like that?
Etc.
But of course L, you don't know any of those things because you never bothered to figure out what I did. Or you know, my last name.
He said I could keep the apartment until the end of the month, and that I would be paid through the end of the month. I could leave whenever, I didn't need to come in to finish my projects- I didn't even need to stay for the rest of the day.
I told Jamee first. She was the first friend I made here, I tell her everything. And being Jamee, she was the best about it, because that's just how she is. If I needed another job (which I did), she'd do whatever she could to help me find one. If I needed another apartment (which I also did), we'd find one. She even let me use her laptop the next few days while mine was being fixed to start my job hunt.
Mark interrupted.
After putting on his nice personality, our lawyer (previously referred to as "the other Mark") came into my office and told me that he wasn't going to watch me pack up because he didn't think I'd steal anything confidential (so sweet of him), that he had no idea that was going to happen (meaning me being fired, which was most likely a lie), and that I could use him as a reference when I was looking for a new job (because as I reporter, I definitely need a good lawyer as a reference. Maybe?). He said he'd have to send me something to sign and needed my e-mail address.
I almost cried, but since I'm stubborn it only got to that point where my chin started shaking (more of a muscle wobble, really) because I trying so hard not to cry. It's a good look for me.
Hm. But what to do with my $5,000 computer, fully outfitted with Adobe CS5 and Final Cut Pro? Did O pay for it, or did the company? I left it in the office, as I wasn't sure. I did take the Apple gift card I bought it with though, assuming that I would see O later and give it back to him. If it was in fact the company's, he could deal with it.
I called Alicyn to tell her. She came downstairs and shut the door to my office.
I packed up my stuff, organized the files they needed, and called O. Naturally, he didn't answer. I e-mailed him to say that his dad had fired me and that I wasn't sure what to do with the Apple gift card. Because I'd just lost my job, was about to lose my housing, and was worried about gift card ownership.
The worst was when I told Joy. She's crazy, has strange mood swings and told me that my outfits were "interesting." But she also taught me how to use the copy machine, put more paper in the printer and looked in my throat when I was sick. And however crazy she was, I was going to miss her Macy's-coupon-collecting, general-stuff-hoarding, white-purse-cleaning, overly-mothering self. I was going to miss her a lot. Because when you move somewhere where you don't have a family, or friends, or anyone, that one person who cares about you enough to look at your disgusting, spotted case of strep throat and then yell at you to go to the doctor means a lot. They mean a lot more than the person who pays for everything.
So I told her. She got up and hugged me. I burst into tears and knew I'd have to leave soon.
I got lunch with O a few days later. He said he was working on getting the company to pay me for more than a month, and that I now had six months in the apartment. He said that this entire thing was his fault. He said that I should go on vacation while I had the time off, that I should try new things while I figured out what I wanted to do with my life.
I've known what I wanted to do with my life since I wrote my first not-so-hard-hitting news story on sanitary conditions in my high school's bathrooms when I was 15. I don't know how to be anything other than a journalist. I had three jobs while I was a full-time college student- I am not okay with taking vacations while unemployed. Normal people aren't. But O's not normal, he's rich, and so he doesn't understand.
I have an interview Wednesday for a job that barely pays, but that I might actually like.
O told me to never refer to the situation in those terms (using the word "fired"), but I was.
I was just sitting in my office, reading the real estate news like I did every morning, and O's dad (L) came in and said that since O was leaving the company, and he was supposed to train me and wouldn't be around, that I should start looking for another job. That I hadn't done anything wrong, but without this training I probably wasn't able to contribute to the company.
Awesome.
Hey L, remember that time I gave up a really competitive graduate school program to move to New York City and work for you?
Or that time I designed logos for your properties so that you wouldn't have to pay graphic designers a couple thousand dollars to do it?
Or that time I got your building in the NY Post with a phone call?
Or that time I memorized the market research for all of your comparable buildings on the Upper East Side so that you wouldn't have to know what you were talking about?
Or that time I looked up every single floor plan for units in those comparable buildings so that we could compare them to our intended floor plans?
Or that time I put up with your broker sexually harassing me at work, almost apologizing, and then saying that I could put him in his place by spanking him, because he likes things like that?
Etc.
But of course L, you don't know any of those things because you never bothered to figure out what I did. Or you know, my last name.
He said I could keep the apartment until the end of the month, and that I would be paid through the end of the month. I could leave whenever, I didn't need to come in to finish my projects- I didn't even need to stay for the rest of the day.
I told Jamee first. She was the first friend I made here, I tell her everything. And being Jamee, she was the best about it, because that's just how she is. If I needed another job (which I did), she'd do whatever she could to help me find one. If I needed another apartment (which I also did), we'd find one. She even let me use her laptop the next few days while mine was being fixed to start my job hunt.
Mark interrupted.
After putting on his nice personality, our lawyer (previously referred to as "the other Mark") came into my office and told me that he wasn't going to watch me pack up because he didn't think I'd steal anything confidential (so sweet of him), that he had no idea that was going to happen (meaning me being fired, which was most likely a lie), and that I could use him as a reference when I was looking for a new job (because as I reporter, I definitely need a good lawyer as a reference. Maybe?). He said he'd have to send me something to sign and needed my e-mail address.
I almost cried, but since I'm stubborn it only got to that point where my chin started shaking (more of a muscle wobble, really) because I trying so hard not to cry. It's a good look for me.
Hm. But what to do with my $5,000 computer, fully outfitted with Adobe CS5 and Final Cut Pro? Did O pay for it, or did the company? I left it in the office, as I wasn't sure. I did take the Apple gift card I bought it with though, assuming that I would see O later and give it back to him. If it was in fact the company's, he could deal with it.
I called Alicyn to tell her. She came downstairs and shut the door to my office.
I packed up my stuff, organized the files they needed, and called O. Naturally, he didn't answer. I e-mailed him to say that his dad had fired me and that I wasn't sure what to do with the Apple gift card. Because I'd just lost my job, was about to lose my housing, and was worried about gift card ownership.
The worst was when I told Joy. She's crazy, has strange mood swings and told me that my outfits were "interesting." But she also taught me how to use the copy machine, put more paper in the printer and looked in my throat when I was sick. And however crazy she was, I was going to miss her Macy's-coupon-collecting, general-stuff-hoarding, white-purse-cleaning, overly-mothering self. I was going to miss her a lot. Because when you move somewhere where you don't have a family, or friends, or anyone, that one person who cares about you enough to look at your disgusting, spotted case of strep throat and then yell at you to go to the doctor means a lot. They mean a lot more than the person who pays for everything.
So I told her. She got up and hugged me. I burst into tears and knew I'd have to leave soon.
I got lunch with O a few days later. He said he was working on getting the company to pay me for more than a month, and that I now had six months in the apartment. He said that this entire thing was his fault. He said that I should go on vacation while I had the time off, that I should try new things while I figured out what I wanted to do with my life.
I've known what I wanted to do with my life since I wrote my first not-so-hard-hitting news story on sanitary conditions in my high school's bathrooms when I was 15. I don't know how to be anything other than a journalist. I had three jobs while I was a full-time college student- I am not okay with taking vacations while unemployed. Normal people aren't. But O's not normal, he's rich, and so he doesn't understand.
I have an interview Wednesday for a job that barely pays, but that I might actually like.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
The People I've Met in Bars and On Escalators
H
We’ll call this one “H.”
I met him at a bar in Brooklyn, where he was easily the tallest, best looking, non-hipster option around. I guessed he was about 28. I forgave him for wearing sweatpants to a bar on a Friday, and gave him my number. He texted me a few days later. We decided to meet up for drinks. Very standard procedure.
I had two work parties to attend before our date, so when my boss’s driver dropped me off at A Voce, I wasn’t exactly sober. H walked in, looking as gorgeous as ever. He even put on real pants and paid for the wine, so I assumed the date would go well.
Then he started talking.
“So, I know you’re 22…and I just want to tell you now that I’m probably a lot older than you think I am,” he said.
Okay…what does a lot older than I think you are mean? You’re 30? You’re 35? Is this how all dates in this city start?
“I was married before, for six years to a Spanish woman, but we’ve been divorced for a few years now,” H continued.
Awesome. A divorcee. Just what I was hoping to find at a drunken karaoke party.
“We didn’t have any kids or anything, and now I speak Spanish.”
There’s always an upside, I guess.
“Anyways, I just wanted to let you know that right away,” he said.
Well…that’s good? But please shut up, all of this sharing is freaking me out. Plus, how old are you that you had time to be married for six years? And if you’re that old, why the hell are you out with me?
Our conversation steered back towards normal subjects for a little while- work (he works for Focus Features), school (he graduated from college at some point in the ‘90s) and ‘80s music (he was alive and listening before it was vintage).
These awkward, age-revealing conversation topics made me uneasy, so I led the conversation to something I know well: Football.
I’m a huge Patriots fan. So I told him. Then, the following conversation took place:
“Cool. So if you like Boston sports teams, I know this one bar in the city that is full of Boston fans, we should go sometime…”
“Yeah? That sounds awesome. Everyone around here is a Giants fan, I can’t handle it.”
“Or, we could get tickets and go up to New England for a weekend soon to see a game!”
No. Sorry. We can’t. Why? Because I don’t know you. Planning to go watch sports at a bar in the city we both live in is about as committed as I’m willing to get on a first date. We’re not going away for a weekend. Absolutely not.
Me: “Or that. Wow, it’s 10:45.”
H: “Do you want another glass of wine?”
Me: “No, I’ve got to go. I have work really early in the morning.”
H: “Really? I thought you said you had a 9 to 5 office job.”
Me: “Oh…well I have to go in early tomorrow to get work done.”
H: “Oh that sucks, how early?”
Me: “Oh you know…like 7. So, yeah, I have to go.”
H: “Okay, I’ll walk with you to the subway.”
Me: “Actually I’m taking a cab. My boss and his driver dropped me off, and he said rather than take the subway home at night I should just take a taxi and expense it to the company.”
H: “Oh, okay. I’ll get you a cab then.”
Me: “No worries, I’ve got it.”
I hailed a cab, he gave me a kiss on the cheek and I went home. Though I don’t think I ever remembered to expense that ride to the company…
After a few ignored text messages, he got the hint. I guess that’s the good thing about dating an older man.
The Pilot
“Wow, I’ve never seen a stud that big in a girl’s face.”
That was his line. He used it on my friend and then turned to me.
“Hi, I’m [the pilot].”
“Hi.”
As I was drunk, I don’t remember every detail of our conversation, so here are the highlights:
He told me that a friend who was texted me (it was 2 a.m.), had a thing for me. I told him, no, that friend has a girlfriend.
He told me that he’s a pilot for Cathay Pacific and lives in Hong Kong on a boat named after his mother. Then handed me a sparkling (no, I’m not kidding) business card to prove it.
He bought me a drink at the bar and handed it to me.
Pilot: “So…I think we should get married.”
Me: “No. We shouldn’t.”
Pilot: “Well. Do you think we could spend New Year’s Eve together then? I want you to be the one I kiss at midnight.”
Me: “No, I have plans already.”
Pilot: “Well, just so you know, one day we’ll get married. I can tell.”
Me: “No, we won’t.”
My friend tried to rescue me. For some reason, I insisted on continuing my conversation with this pilot about how I was not going to marry him. His friend, also a pilot, was holding my jacket for me and kept telling me I was “so cute.” Their third friend, again a pilot, was yelling at pilot #2 to shut up, as he thought he was ruining pilot #1’s chances.
So naturally, I got into a cab with them and headed in the opposite direction of my apartment.
Pilot: “We’re going to get married, just you wait.”
Me: “No, we’re not.”
Pilot: “We’re getting married.”
Me: “You didn’t buy me a ring, you can’t propose.”
Looking back, this was a terrible thing to say. The pilot took a ring off his finger and put on it mine, and then announced that we were married. I threatened that the ring didn’t fit so I was going to lose it and handed it back to him.
After we finally got out of the cab I told him I was going home, he couldn’t come, and got into a taxi.
The Guy on the Escalator
I had just gotten off the subway at the wrong stop and was planning on exiting Penn Station and taking a cab to my booty call on 53rd St.
The guy in front of me on the escalator turned around and asked me what was wrong.
Me: “Nothing at all.”
Him: “Oh. Your arms are crossed. What are you doing tonight.”
Me: “I’m on my way to a friends.”
Him: “Just going out now?”
Me: “No, I was just out with one friend, and now I’m going to see another.”
Him: “Oh. Like a party! Can I come?”
Me: “No.”
At this point we are off the escalator, walking towards the exit.
Him: “Well, can I get your number then so we can party later?”
Me: “No.”
We’ll call this one “H.”
I met him at a bar in Brooklyn, where he was easily the tallest, best looking, non-hipster option around. I guessed he was about 28. I forgave him for wearing sweatpants to a bar on a Friday, and gave him my number. He texted me a few days later. We decided to meet up for drinks. Very standard procedure.
I had two work parties to attend before our date, so when my boss’s driver dropped me off at A Voce, I wasn’t exactly sober. H walked in, looking as gorgeous as ever. He even put on real pants and paid for the wine, so I assumed the date would go well.
Then he started talking.
“So, I know you’re 22…and I just want to tell you now that I’m probably a lot older than you think I am,” he said.
Okay…what does a lot older than I think you are mean? You’re 30? You’re 35? Is this how all dates in this city start?
“I was married before, for six years to a Spanish woman, but we’ve been divorced for a few years now,” H continued.
Awesome. A divorcee. Just what I was hoping to find at a drunken karaoke party.
“We didn’t have any kids or anything, and now I speak Spanish.”
There’s always an upside, I guess.
“Anyways, I just wanted to let you know that right away,” he said.
Well…that’s good? But please shut up, all of this sharing is freaking me out. Plus, how old are you that you had time to be married for six years? And if you’re that old, why the hell are you out with me?
Our conversation steered back towards normal subjects for a little while- work (he works for Focus Features), school (he graduated from college at some point in the ‘90s) and ‘80s music (he was alive and listening before it was vintage).
These awkward, age-revealing conversation topics made me uneasy, so I led the conversation to something I know well: Football.
I’m a huge Patriots fan. So I told him. Then, the following conversation took place:
“Cool. So if you like Boston sports teams, I know this one bar in the city that is full of Boston fans, we should go sometime…”
“Yeah? That sounds awesome. Everyone around here is a Giants fan, I can’t handle it.”
“Or, we could get tickets and go up to New England for a weekend soon to see a game!”
No. Sorry. We can’t. Why? Because I don’t know you. Planning to go watch sports at a bar in the city we both live in is about as committed as I’m willing to get on a first date. We’re not going away for a weekend. Absolutely not.
Me: “Or that. Wow, it’s 10:45.”
H: “Do you want another glass of wine?”
Me: “No, I’ve got to go. I have work really early in the morning.”
H: “Really? I thought you said you had a 9 to 5 office job.”
Me: “Oh…well I have to go in early tomorrow to get work done.”
H: “Oh that sucks, how early?”
Me: “Oh you know…like 7. So, yeah, I have to go.”
H: “Okay, I’ll walk with you to the subway.”
Me: “Actually I’m taking a cab. My boss and his driver dropped me off, and he said rather than take the subway home at night I should just take a taxi and expense it to the company.”
H: “Oh, okay. I’ll get you a cab then.”
Me: “No worries, I’ve got it.”
I hailed a cab, he gave me a kiss on the cheek and I went home. Though I don’t think I ever remembered to expense that ride to the company…
After a few ignored text messages, he got the hint. I guess that’s the good thing about dating an older man.
The Pilot
“Wow, I’ve never seen a stud that big in a girl’s face.”
That was his line. He used it on my friend and then turned to me.
“Hi, I’m [the pilot].”
“Hi.”
As I was drunk, I don’t remember every detail of our conversation, so here are the highlights:
He told me that a friend who was texted me (it was 2 a.m.), had a thing for me. I told him, no, that friend has a girlfriend.
He told me that he’s a pilot for Cathay Pacific and lives in Hong Kong on a boat named after his mother. Then handed me a sparkling (no, I’m not kidding) business card to prove it.
He bought me a drink at the bar and handed it to me.
Pilot: “So…I think we should get married.”
Me: “No. We shouldn’t.”
Pilot: “Well. Do you think we could spend New Year’s Eve together then? I want you to be the one I kiss at midnight.”
Me: “No, I have plans already.”
Pilot: “Well, just so you know, one day we’ll get married. I can tell.”
Me: “No, we won’t.”
My friend tried to rescue me. For some reason, I insisted on continuing my conversation with this pilot about how I was not going to marry him. His friend, also a pilot, was holding my jacket for me and kept telling me I was “so cute.” Their third friend, again a pilot, was yelling at pilot #2 to shut up, as he thought he was ruining pilot #1’s chances.
So naturally, I got into a cab with them and headed in the opposite direction of my apartment.
Pilot: “We’re going to get married, just you wait.”
Me: “No, we’re not.”
Pilot: “We’re getting married.”
Me: “You didn’t buy me a ring, you can’t propose.”
Looking back, this was a terrible thing to say. The pilot took a ring off his finger and put on it mine, and then announced that we were married. I threatened that the ring didn’t fit so I was going to lose it and handed it back to him.
After we finally got out of the cab I told him I was going home, he couldn’t come, and got into a taxi.
The Guy on the Escalator
I had just gotten off the subway at the wrong stop and was planning on exiting Penn Station and taking a cab to my booty call on 53rd St.
The guy in front of me on the escalator turned around and asked me what was wrong.
Me: “Nothing at all.”
Him: “Oh. Your arms are crossed. What are you doing tonight.”
Me: “I’m on my way to a friends.”
Him: “Just going out now?”
Me: “No, I was just out with one friend, and now I’m going to see another.”
Him: “Oh. Like a party! Can I come?”
Me: “No.”
At this point we are off the escalator, walking towards the exit.
Him: “Well, can I get your number then so we can party later?”
Me: “No.”
NYC- Week One.
I had been in New York City for four days.
And on that magical fourth day, I finally managed to walk the right way exiting the subway station to get to work. Since the nearest subway station is approximately one block away, you’d think it wouldn’t be that difficult.
But mind you, for the directionally challenged, a category I include myself in, that’s a big accomplishment.
I grew up mostly in the suburbs, which I hated, with a three-year stint in Tokyo, which I loved. Given my time in Tokyo, you would think I could use the subway without screwing it up.
I always said that when I grew up, I wanted to live in Manhattan. Though I don’t exactly feel grown up, as my apartment is mostly unfurnished my kitchen only contains yogurt, avocados and Annie’s macaroni and cheese, I did make it here.
After a request for my writing style, I moved to New York City to do public relations for a real estate development company.
Yes, I know.
As a journalist I shouldn’t have been seduced by the nice apartment, beautiful office, decent salary and Manolo Blahnik store less than a block away. But it’s too late for that now. Especially since I saw the Manolo store before I accepted this trial position.
Do I know anything about PR? No, not really.
Do I know anything about real estate or development? Nope.
But last Monday, after being assured that I would be taught about PR and about real estate, I arrived here anyways.
I parked my minivan illegally and hopped out of the car with Liz, my best friend from home, to wander up and down West Street, looking for my boss so he would let me into my first big-girl apartment building.
To-the-point and brief, he showed me the apartment (a studio with high ceilings, two windows and two closets), the gym, the “business center,” which appeared to be a room with a fax machine, and the real entrance, which confusingly enough, is on Washington Street, not West Street.
The U-Haul arrived and O (my new boss) invited several building employees to help unload it. And by help, I mean unload everything for me.
Thank goodness, because it was about 95 degrees out and unbearably humid. I sweat through my unfashionable tourist clothes just watching them move all of my crap.
Good first impression on building employees: Check.
The rest of the day was spent returning the U-Haul to the West 23rd Street location, a process so horrific I’m working to scratch it from my memory as I type, putting together my bed and unpacking my shoes with my mom’s boyfriend, my aunt and Liz.
We decided to try to get to Whole Foods and Bed, Bath & Beyond to try to get some toilet paper and other things.
I had seen the stores on the way back from returning the U-Haul, and they looked pretty close, like they were about three or so blocks away if we just walked down West Street.
Only you can’t just walk down West Street because of all the construction. So we had to walk down part of West Street, walk through an overpass onto the wrong side of the road and through the World Financial Center, walk out of the World Financial Center and through another overpass, walk around one block and then down another to Whole Foods.
My aunt, who is 57 and not in the best shape, was not happy.
I got toilet paper, but we never made it to Bed, Bath & Beyond because my aunt was tired and we couldn’t find the entrance.
We made it back to the apartment without using the overpasses.
They left, I cried. Because really, I don’t know anyone in this city.
But since crying is largely unproductive, and my apartment doesn’t have the Internet unless I steal it from a neighbor, I decided to try to venture to Bed, Bath & Beyond again to see if they had the cable to connect my television to the wall so it would work.
Because there was no way I could just sit there and not have working television or Internet. I don’t even remember the days before the Internet.
I got lost, but I made it there and back, and connected my TV. I only get about ten channels, which is fine because one of them plays a lot of Seinfeld reruns.
Day One:
I had a plan. But whenever I have a plan, something always goes wrong. Getting to my first day of work was no exception.
You see, I planned to arrive at the wrong address. Because somehow in my stressed-out, lonely, new to New York City mind, I decided that I worked at 13 West 34th Street.
So after walking around the same six blocks for an hour and not finding the building I had been to only one time before, for my interview, I came up with a new plan.
I was going to put the address into Bing on my BlackBerry and it would use the GPS component in my phone to give me step-by-step walking directions.
Only that doesn’t work when you’re walking to the wrong place because you put in the wrong address.
Convinced that something had gone wrong with Bing, I Googled the company to get the number to call them and tell them I was going to be late, as I was lost.
Low and behold, on the company website, there was an address. I was no where near it.
Awesome. I had just been hanging out, walking in circles 20 blocks away, and now I was officially late for my first day.
But hey, at least I knew where to go from there.
It never occurred to me to just take a cab.
So in the 90-degree heat, I walked 20 blocks to arrive at work, sweaty, embarrassed and amazed by my own stupidity.
Good first impression on coworkers: Check.
Jamee, who works here too, was nice enough to give me an office tour. First stop, my office. I put my bag down in there and quickly noticed a few things.
The first of which was a flat screen television hooked up to DirecTV. I still haven’t figured out why it’s in here.
Then, I see my computer. A Dell. My thought? “Oh, [expletive].”
Because I don’t know how to use a PC. I haven’t needed to in years.
In college, I used Macs for writing articles (which I recognize I can do on a PC), editing video, altering sound, digitizing and editing images, and doing things that PC’s are generally no good for.
Other weird things I found in my office: Degree men’s deodorant, pants that look like the men’s version of mom jeans and a suitcase.
Jamee continues to give me the office tour. I meet some people (David, Joy and Mark), hear the names of people who work in between here and the New Jersey office, see that the toilet seat is up in the bathroom and get a tour of the kitchen.
Which, I may add, is very well stocked with necessities like coffee and tea. But also unfortunately houses cases of environmentally unfriendly bottled water, which after a few days I’m now in the habit of drinking.
In my last office, all we had was a coffee pot and a vending machine.
I’m pretty sure all I did after my tour was read. I read all day. About every property Skyline owns. And then I read some more.
And then I wrote a little bit. Two whole press releases.
Now that I had finally gotten to the “work” part of my day, I had no clue what I was doing, something that seems to be a common theme throughout my time in the city.
I wrote a few sentences about each lease, but despite a bit of direction from Orin, still had no idea what I was doing.
The day ended.
After my disastrous attempt to get to work that morning, Jamee took pity on me and helped me get home.
Which I did, successfully.
I did my yoga, made organic macaroni and cheese, complained to my long distance boyfriend about how lonely I am, and went to bed very early because I was paranoid about oversleeping and being late again.
Day Two:
I got off the subway a stop too early on my way to work so I had to walk a little bit extra. Given the forty or so blocks I had walked the day before, day two’s walk was nothing.
I got to the office and I read all day.
To give my eyes a break from re-reading Curbed and The Real Deal, I re-read the press releases that were already finished.
Then, I read Real Estate Weekly.
Also, the computers weren’t really working. No one’s e-mail was set up correctly. This caused mass amounts of stress in the office, which I opted to stay out of as I didn’t have a work e-mail address for things to be deleted from and couldn’t gauge how angry people were.
I took the right subway home and didn’t get lost.
Day Three:
I woke up to an e-mail from O saying that there was a meeting at 9:30 I needed to attend. Most people probably don’t get excited about meetings. But I did.
At meetings, there is no reading. Not that I don’t like reading, but websites only update every so often.
This meeting meant that for at least one hour, I wouldn’t have to look at Curbed, The Real Deal or Real Estate Weekly.
The day had already improved, and I hadn’t even gotten out of bed yet.
Another plus: My attempt to steal the Internet from someone had worked. After days of withdrawal, I could check Facebook on a computer again.
And when I checked Facebook, I noticed that my best friend from Tokyo changed her current city to New York, New York. So I texted her.
Turns out, she works at West 54th and 6th Ave, a half block away from me.
I still haven’t seen her yet, but knowing that there is someone in this city who I know was a huge relief.
I got to work and was referred to as “Carmen Sandiego” by a man I hadn’t seen before. I just assumed that he was the other Mark, who I hadn’t yet met in my two days of employment.
I hadn’t finished my coffee and had no clue what this guy was talking about. Was he being funny? Are you really funny if someone has to wonder if you’re trying to be?
Did he think my name was Carmen? Does he normally make snide comments to people before introducing himself? Had I met him before and just forgotten?
I finished my coffee and went upstairs to try to go to the meeting. O said no one was there yet and I didn’t have to come upstairs until he called me.
Oops.
I’m just saying, that wasn’t included in the e-mail or morning greeting, and after the 34th street fiasco on day one, I was a little paranoid about being late.
At the beginning of the meeting I discovered that the Carmen Sandiego remark man was indeed the other Mark, who happens to be the attorney.
Then there was a lot of lease agreement talk, which included paint, light bulbs and storage. It seemed pretty straightforward.
After the meeting O told me to research the company who is signing the lease, their current location and NYIT.
I was thrilled. The most journalistic task yet! Research. Something I know how to do.
Then I discovered something else about this computer.
It’s slow.
To cope, I’ve come to think of it as having it’s own personality.
This computer is extremely laid back. It’s just taking its sweet time to open programs and web pages, at a pace that it thinks is appropriate.
It’s nice enough, you know-- personality wise, no virus messages have popped up (not that I would know what to do if they had), and it eventually does whatever I ask it to do, but it does take an awfully long time to do it.
I read for the rest of the day, that is, until the other Mark came in and announced that it was Thursday, so at 3:30 we were having cupcakes.
I thought he was kidding. But sure enough, at 3:30, we all gathered and ate cupcakes.
The other Mark made fun of Joy’s boyfriend’s shoes, which he referred to as “ass-tighteners” and worried about there not being a man in the office the next day, because one of the messengers could be crazy and attack Jamee.
After all, this is a man’s office. We make coffee with bottled water to make David happy, the toilet seat is always up, even when there are no men here, and they swear like they think they’re sailors when something isn’t working right.
Then the Carmen Sandiego thing came up again.
Turns out, it was a joke. Because where in the world was I on my first day?
Oh. I get it now. Funny if you’re old enough to remember the show.
I left work on Friday and headed to Grand Central Station. Or at least that’s where I thought I was going.
I’m not sure where exactly I walked, but I must have been pretty close because when I finally gave up and took a cab, the total came to $2.90. So much for finding my way around this city…
I spent the holiday weekend between Connecticut, Massachusetts and Rhode Island since I was told no one stays in the city for the 4th of July.
I saw my friends and family from home, which was nice given that I still don’t have any here.
Monday marked my one-week anniversary with the city of New York.
My long distance boyfriend broke up with me while I was on a train back from Connecticut. And I couldn’t figure out how to put up the curtains in my apartment.
I still haven’t eaten any famous, delicious New York City food, I still haven’t figured out where I’m going, I still haven’t made any friends and I’m still trying to figure out what my job is at work.
But if I think about the little accomplishments, like walking the right way off the of the subway to work, successfully hailing a cab, sort of understanding how Microsoft Outlook works, or finally unpacking all of my clothes, I guess that I’m slowly adjusting to this whole New-York-City thing.
Keyword: Slowly. After all, I’m still always lost.
And on that magical fourth day, I finally managed to walk the right way exiting the subway station to get to work. Since the nearest subway station is approximately one block away, you’d think it wouldn’t be that difficult.
But mind you, for the directionally challenged, a category I include myself in, that’s a big accomplishment.
I grew up mostly in the suburbs, which I hated, with a three-year stint in Tokyo, which I loved. Given my time in Tokyo, you would think I could use the subway without screwing it up.
I always said that when I grew up, I wanted to live in Manhattan. Though I don’t exactly feel grown up, as my apartment is mostly unfurnished my kitchen only contains yogurt, avocados and Annie’s macaroni and cheese, I did make it here.
After a request for my writing style, I moved to New York City to do public relations for a real estate development company.
Yes, I know.
As a journalist I shouldn’t have been seduced by the nice apartment, beautiful office, decent salary and Manolo Blahnik store less than a block away. But it’s too late for that now. Especially since I saw the Manolo store before I accepted this trial position.
Do I know anything about PR? No, not really.
Do I know anything about real estate or development? Nope.
But last Monday, after being assured that I would be taught about PR and about real estate, I arrived here anyways.
I parked my minivan illegally and hopped out of the car with Liz, my best friend from home, to wander up and down West Street, looking for my boss so he would let me into my first big-girl apartment building.
To-the-point and brief, he showed me the apartment (a studio with high ceilings, two windows and two closets), the gym, the “business center,” which appeared to be a room with a fax machine, and the real entrance, which confusingly enough, is on Washington Street, not West Street.
The U-Haul arrived and O (my new boss) invited several building employees to help unload it. And by help, I mean unload everything for me.
Thank goodness, because it was about 95 degrees out and unbearably humid. I sweat through my unfashionable tourist clothes just watching them move all of my crap.
Good first impression on building employees: Check.
The rest of the day was spent returning the U-Haul to the West 23rd Street location, a process so horrific I’m working to scratch it from my memory as I type, putting together my bed and unpacking my shoes with my mom’s boyfriend, my aunt and Liz.
We decided to try to get to Whole Foods and Bed, Bath & Beyond to try to get some toilet paper and other things.
I had seen the stores on the way back from returning the U-Haul, and they looked pretty close, like they were about three or so blocks away if we just walked down West Street.
Only you can’t just walk down West Street because of all the construction. So we had to walk down part of West Street, walk through an overpass onto the wrong side of the road and through the World Financial Center, walk out of the World Financial Center and through another overpass, walk around one block and then down another to Whole Foods.
My aunt, who is 57 and not in the best shape, was not happy.
I got toilet paper, but we never made it to Bed, Bath & Beyond because my aunt was tired and we couldn’t find the entrance.
We made it back to the apartment without using the overpasses.
They left, I cried. Because really, I don’t know anyone in this city.
But since crying is largely unproductive, and my apartment doesn’t have the Internet unless I steal it from a neighbor, I decided to try to venture to Bed, Bath & Beyond again to see if they had the cable to connect my television to the wall so it would work.
Because there was no way I could just sit there and not have working television or Internet. I don’t even remember the days before the Internet.
I got lost, but I made it there and back, and connected my TV. I only get about ten channels, which is fine because one of them plays a lot of Seinfeld reruns.
Day One:
I had a plan. But whenever I have a plan, something always goes wrong. Getting to my first day of work was no exception.
You see, I planned to arrive at the wrong address. Because somehow in my stressed-out, lonely, new to New York City mind, I decided that I worked at 13 West 34th Street.
So after walking around the same six blocks for an hour and not finding the building I had been to only one time before, for my interview, I came up with a new plan.
I was going to put the address into Bing on my BlackBerry and it would use the GPS component in my phone to give me step-by-step walking directions.
Only that doesn’t work when you’re walking to the wrong place because you put in the wrong address.
Convinced that something had gone wrong with Bing, I Googled the company to get the number to call them and tell them I was going to be late, as I was lost.
Low and behold, on the company website, there was an address. I was no where near it.
Awesome. I had just been hanging out, walking in circles 20 blocks away, and now I was officially late for my first day.
But hey, at least I knew where to go from there.
It never occurred to me to just take a cab.
So in the 90-degree heat, I walked 20 blocks to arrive at work, sweaty, embarrassed and amazed by my own stupidity.
Good first impression on coworkers: Check.
Jamee, who works here too, was nice enough to give me an office tour. First stop, my office. I put my bag down in there and quickly noticed a few things.
The first of which was a flat screen television hooked up to DirecTV. I still haven’t figured out why it’s in here.
Then, I see my computer. A Dell. My thought? “Oh, [expletive].”
Because I don’t know how to use a PC. I haven’t needed to in years.
In college, I used Macs for writing articles (which I recognize I can do on a PC), editing video, altering sound, digitizing and editing images, and doing things that PC’s are generally no good for.
Other weird things I found in my office: Degree men’s deodorant, pants that look like the men’s version of mom jeans and a suitcase.
Jamee continues to give me the office tour. I meet some people (David, Joy and Mark), hear the names of people who work in between here and the New Jersey office, see that the toilet seat is up in the bathroom and get a tour of the kitchen.
Which, I may add, is very well stocked with necessities like coffee and tea. But also unfortunately houses cases of environmentally unfriendly bottled water, which after a few days I’m now in the habit of drinking.
In my last office, all we had was a coffee pot and a vending machine.
I’m pretty sure all I did after my tour was read. I read all day. About every property Skyline owns. And then I read some more.
And then I wrote a little bit. Two whole press releases.
Now that I had finally gotten to the “work” part of my day, I had no clue what I was doing, something that seems to be a common theme throughout my time in the city.
I wrote a few sentences about each lease, but despite a bit of direction from Orin, still had no idea what I was doing.
The day ended.
After my disastrous attempt to get to work that morning, Jamee took pity on me and helped me get home.
Which I did, successfully.
I did my yoga, made organic macaroni and cheese, complained to my long distance boyfriend about how lonely I am, and went to bed very early because I was paranoid about oversleeping and being late again.
Day Two:
I got off the subway a stop too early on my way to work so I had to walk a little bit extra. Given the forty or so blocks I had walked the day before, day two’s walk was nothing.
I got to the office and I read all day.
To give my eyes a break from re-reading Curbed and The Real Deal, I re-read the press releases that were already finished.
Then, I read Real Estate Weekly.
Also, the computers weren’t really working. No one’s e-mail was set up correctly. This caused mass amounts of stress in the office, which I opted to stay out of as I didn’t have a work e-mail address for things to be deleted from and couldn’t gauge how angry people were.
I took the right subway home and didn’t get lost.
Day Three:
I woke up to an e-mail from O saying that there was a meeting at 9:30 I needed to attend. Most people probably don’t get excited about meetings. But I did.
At meetings, there is no reading. Not that I don’t like reading, but websites only update every so often.
This meeting meant that for at least one hour, I wouldn’t have to look at Curbed, The Real Deal or Real Estate Weekly.
The day had already improved, and I hadn’t even gotten out of bed yet.
Another plus: My attempt to steal the Internet from someone had worked. After days of withdrawal, I could check Facebook on a computer again.
And when I checked Facebook, I noticed that my best friend from Tokyo changed her current city to New York, New York. So I texted her.
Turns out, she works at West 54th and 6th Ave, a half block away from me.
I still haven’t seen her yet, but knowing that there is someone in this city who I know was a huge relief.
I got to work and was referred to as “Carmen Sandiego” by a man I hadn’t seen before. I just assumed that he was the other Mark, who I hadn’t yet met in my two days of employment.
I hadn’t finished my coffee and had no clue what this guy was talking about. Was he being funny? Are you really funny if someone has to wonder if you’re trying to be?
Did he think my name was Carmen? Does he normally make snide comments to people before introducing himself? Had I met him before and just forgotten?
I finished my coffee and went upstairs to try to go to the meeting. O said no one was there yet and I didn’t have to come upstairs until he called me.
Oops.
I’m just saying, that wasn’t included in the e-mail or morning greeting, and after the 34th street fiasco on day one, I was a little paranoid about being late.
At the beginning of the meeting I discovered that the Carmen Sandiego remark man was indeed the other Mark, who happens to be the attorney.
Then there was a lot of lease agreement talk, which included paint, light bulbs and storage. It seemed pretty straightforward.
After the meeting O told me to research the company who is signing the lease, their current location and NYIT.
I was thrilled. The most journalistic task yet! Research. Something I know how to do.
Then I discovered something else about this computer.
It’s slow.
To cope, I’ve come to think of it as having it’s own personality.
This computer is extremely laid back. It’s just taking its sweet time to open programs and web pages, at a pace that it thinks is appropriate.
It’s nice enough, you know-- personality wise, no virus messages have popped up (not that I would know what to do if they had), and it eventually does whatever I ask it to do, but it does take an awfully long time to do it.
I read for the rest of the day, that is, until the other Mark came in and announced that it was Thursday, so at 3:30 we were having cupcakes.
I thought he was kidding. But sure enough, at 3:30, we all gathered and ate cupcakes.
The other Mark made fun of Joy’s boyfriend’s shoes, which he referred to as “ass-tighteners” and worried about there not being a man in the office the next day, because one of the messengers could be crazy and attack Jamee.
After all, this is a man’s office. We make coffee with bottled water to make David happy, the toilet seat is always up, even when there are no men here, and they swear like they think they’re sailors when something isn’t working right.
Then the Carmen Sandiego thing came up again.
Turns out, it was a joke. Because where in the world was I on my first day?
Oh. I get it now. Funny if you’re old enough to remember the show.
I left work on Friday and headed to Grand Central Station. Or at least that’s where I thought I was going.
I’m not sure where exactly I walked, but I must have been pretty close because when I finally gave up and took a cab, the total came to $2.90. So much for finding my way around this city…
I spent the holiday weekend between Connecticut, Massachusetts and Rhode Island since I was told no one stays in the city for the 4th of July.
I saw my friends and family from home, which was nice given that I still don’t have any here.
Monday marked my one-week anniversary with the city of New York.
My long distance boyfriend broke up with me while I was on a train back from Connecticut. And I couldn’t figure out how to put up the curtains in my apartment.
I still haven’t eaten any famous, delicious New York City food, I still haven’t figured out where I’m going, I still haven’t made any friends and I’m still trying to figure out what my job is at work.
But if I think about the little accomplishments, like walking the right way off the of the subway to work, successfully hailing a cab, sort of understanding how Microsoft Outlook works, or finally unpacking all of my clothes, I guess that I’m slowly adjusting to this whole New-York-City thing.
Keyword: Slowly. After all, I’m still always lost.
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