The Accidental Bitch

Why do New Yorkers RUN when they get off the train?

2010-01-11T21:56:00.002-05:00

I always heard that New York City ran at a different pace than most.

I fought it in high school and in college, when I didn't live there.

I always heard: "People from the Northeast work faster than most." I hated that thought. "I am just as productive as those f-ing New Yorkers," I thought. And I probably was.*

But I've lived in New York for a few years now. And it's not that New Yorkers are faster, or better - it's that they have to try harder. They have to take the dirty-ass subway in the morning - with people who look like they'd rather be looking at a corpse than you - and show up with a smile on their faces. They have to avert their eyes (to avoid looking like a creepy onlooker); they have to seem occupied. They have to gamble that they'll be on time, based on the whims of the unruly train service.

So, I appreciate New Yorkers. And there may be many reasons for their strange behaviors, but the fact remains: New Yorkers at rush hour sprint when they get off the train.

*I was probably more productive than when I was living in New York.

When I grow up, I want to do something. Anything.

2008-10-29T00:15:00.000-04:00

The doors of the subway car open and I give up the pole's stability, shouldering my heavy messenger bag.

I cut around someone to ensure I am still following the man I sized up during the subway ride. He walks quickly, and I wonder if he is actually supposed to be somewhere or if he always thinks he is in a rush. I wear the latter hat quite a bit.

He takes the staircase I never take, and I slow for a moment before continuing on my usual path, past someone who is either confused or homeless, up the stairs, trying to avoid bumping into the people next to me.

"Follow through
Make your dreams come true
Don't give up the fight
You will be alright"

The drums patter into me me as Muse's Matt Bellamy tells me,

"Don't be afraid
What your mind conceives
You should make a stand
Stand up for what you believe"

I glance at the stuffy boutiques as I walk up Lexington and wonder if standing up would change any minds here.

I would write on the cardboard boxes in my apartment, instead of recycling them, and tape them to the store fronts. "McCain is a douche" - too much? Okay... "Vote Obama" wouldn't work either. I peer into a fully lit shop with its grate down.

How about... "Turn off your lights when you close!"

I'd do it every night, like a secret op, at 2am. I'd wear a black burglar beanie. People would rubberneck on their way to work in the morning. "What does that say?" When they saw more every day, they would start to look forward to it. They'd drift off to sleep thinking, "I wonder what the Cardboard Message will be tomorrow." It would end up in the New York Times. Or the Daily News. Whatever. It'd end up somewhere.

Or the neighborhood security people would tear it down, or stop me, or arrest me.

And whose mind would I change? Anyone's?

My close friend, summer roommate, soulmate, etc. invited me to a Teach-In on the economic crisis at my Alma Mater. Top sentence-starters included:
"If the Fed..."
"Policymakers can either..."
"News outlets need to..."

These ivory tower professors were clearly frustrated about the economic situation, the way the bailout is being handled, and the lack of news coverage for workers' rights. They wanted things to change. I wanted things to change.

But when I asked them "What can we do right now?" in the Q & A, they crushed my spirits.

Not knowing I graduated last year, the first answered: "When you graduate, you can pursue something in journalism."
Another professor answered: "Vote"

Thanks for keeping the power in the hands of the elite, but what do I do if I don't want to be a journalist? And what if both political parties have crappy proposals? Why can't everyone have an impact?

My sophomore year economics professor answered: "Organize."

Another addiction for me

2008-09-18T04:56:00.000-04:00

I used to have a reason to stay up until dawn: a deadline, a late wrap on the film set, weekend partying. I would see the tinge of blue diluting the dark blanket of sky and I would stare. Fascinated. The sun was about to come up and I couldn't stop it.

On the train home from a shoot, I took constant pictures of the sky. They all looked the same, but I couldn't help it.

Working against the clock to finish papers in college, that tinge gave me a buzz. It was a challenge, a tangible signal that I was running out of time. It was terrifying and enticing.

Now, I have no reason. I have to go to work (as I call it; "internship" is embarrassing) at the same time, I get home around the same time, and I don't technically have any take-home things to do. No; of my own volition, I stay up until 3:30 or later, even when I was exhausted hours before. Even though I could barely stay awake at work. I stay up, I watch The West Wing or Mad Men or a movie.

Apparently I take joy simply in knowing that I should be, but am not, sleeping.

Moving to New York

2008-09-17T01:59:00.000-04:00

Since quitting the awful job, I have:

- Moved into an apartment in Manhattan
- Gone to Ikea three times
- Started an internship at a film production company where names like Natalie Portman and Sam Rockwell are thrown around like darts
- Lost my debit card
- Lost my cell phone
- Had several arguments with my new roommate

My roommate is a friend from school whose ideas about life, it turns out, are very different from mine. Small differences in lifestyle make it surprisingly difficult to do things together. I like going out, she likes staying in; she likes cutesy-silly decor, I like cutesy-classic; she often misinterprets me, I often dislike what she says.

I guess I'm in for a big learning experience. And I thought losing my phone would be hard.

The impending relief of quitting

2008-08-14T23:49:00.000-04:00

Last week, I quit a job for the first time.

It was a wrenching experience - I'm not really the quitting type. I'm the type who sticks with something, even if I hate it, just for the line on the resume and to prove that I'm dependable.

Or perhaps it's because I don't want to be in that conversation. The I'm Quitting conversation. I don't want to bring it up, to offer excuses or explanations, wonder if my boss will hold it against me. I'm a bit of a coward.

This job even had an end date, in only five weeks. In five weeks, I could be free and have a clear conscience. I could avoid the conversation, the bitter ex-boss, and find another job. I could uphold my personal pride, and make the project better.

But I couldn't wait five weeks. I wimped out and quit over email, but I did it. And, amazingly, I don't even get to relax because I have to find an apartment in the next 3 days or so. When I'm done with that I think I will be able to get over whatever has scattered my brain.

No more avoiding

2008-07-17T11:19:00.001-04:00

I definitely avoid telling people what's new with the boyfriend. Not just on the blog; people I know. It took me over two weeks to tell my mom that we got back together, and even then I only told her because he's my date at my cousin's wedding. I wondered, why do I hesitate? Am I uncertain about the relationship? Embarrassed?

Maybe.

Or maybe it's because I get such awful responses. People roll their eyes, laugh, or groan. "Again?" They say. It's like they forget I have feelings.

When I told my mother, during a late-night call, the phone went silent. I braced myself.

Finally: "I don't know what to say."

"Okay..."

My mother went on and on: I always go back and forth with the relationship, this is difficult for her, blah blah blah.

Instead of reacting to her statements, I calmly replied: "You seem upset, Mom. Why are you so upset?"

"I'm just trying to protect you."

I had to point out that for all her judgments, she never asked me how I felt about it. She didn't even ask me why we got back together or how. She simply disapproved.

I am not a fool. I don't know if this relationship will last, and it still has problems. But it was my decision to get back together. I should not have to apologize to anybody about that.

The last time we broke up (in May), it was for several reasons. He refused to move to New York, and I couldn't commit to living in Los Angeles. Beyond that, there were several communication problems that I was unwilling to fix. Most importantly, we didn't talk about anything substantial. I kept envisioning us, finally living in the same place, having nothing to talk about. We'd go see a movie and have a five minute conversation afterward: "What'd you think?" "I liked it, you?" "It was ok." The clink of silverware would fill the air.

I was satisfied with my choice to split up. A few weeks later, I broke the silence to check in. He told me he wanted to get back together, to which I angrily listed every problem I had with our relationship. Every problem, down to his roommate's "Get me a beer" poster hanging on his living room wall.

He didn't fix everything that's wrong. Again, I'm not a fool. I even bet that poster is still up. But he told me a few things about himself. He told me about coming out of a depression caused by losing his best friends, being lonely, and feeling purposeless. He told me he was willing to move to New York. He responded to my concerns and acknowledged that it would take a lot of work to make things better.

I'm used to hearing promises like this. I was skeptical and angry at myself for getting back together. Sure, he sounded more mature. But that might not make any difference. It would turn out exactly how it had before: we would be close for a little while, but nothing would change. We would have short, vapid conversations and he would continue to close himself off.

To my surprise, we've had several non-vapid conversations. The first was about politics. I've always hated talking to him about politics, because he's pretty conservative. (In our first private conversation, way back in high school, he asked me how I thought the world came into existence. After my bewildered response (Big Bang), he told me he believed Genesis.) I was shocked, then, to hear him say "us" in reference to the Democrats.

Yesterday, I left a meeting with a director in Park Slope. Walking to the subway, I checked my Blackberry and found an email from him. He told me that he was proud of all the work I've been doing and felt lucky to get time to talk to me in spite of my schedule. He then caught me off guard, saying:

"I feel like I haven't always known what I was doing with our relationship, like how to act. I knew how to make you feel good about yourself, I knew how to compliment you, and how to be sweet, etc. But that kind of stuff (though I have always been sincere) seems kind of shallow, and until recently I don't feel like I was fully intuitive toward your feelings."

He ended the email with a bit of a confession. During the wedding, we are going to be separated most of the time because I'm a bridesmaid. In the past we've had arguments about him not coming to family events, and he finally admitted that he felt awkward around my family. In the email, he told me he was intimidated by how well I got along with his family, and said that in the past he would have found an excuse to avoid coming to the wedding. But he wasn't doing that anymore.

I was touched by his honesty. Talking about his feelings? Deciding to do the uncomfortable thing and sit on his own with my family for hours?

Obviously I haven't told him about my mom's reaction. I'm hoping she behaves herself.

Love letter **

2008-07-10T01:34:00.000-04:00

Dear Blog,

I miss you. I just realized I miss you. The past few weeks I've been thinking about you a lot. This may sound weird considering how long it's been since I called or wrote, but...

I love you.

Yeah, the big L word.*

I figured out that I love you when I realized how guilty I feel for neglecting you. And I wouldn't feel guilty if I didn't love you and feel a bond with you, right?

I started feeling guilty right away, and don't think I ever stopped. It wasn't always conscious, this guilt; more of a constant, growing weight.

I felt guilty because I was mad at myself for allowing myself to stop doing something I really love to do, which is to write you.

Writing in you is one of the only things I do that I truly enjoy. The only thing I'm not asking myself to do for someone else, like a teacher or a boss. It's pretty much you and TV. And I haven't had much time for either of those things lately.

Of course, TV is still in my professional field so it's not entirely for me. **

But I thought of you, and I even wrote down ideas for you. My train rides into the city are full of scribbling notes for you. The seeds of ideas I want to write in here. So, I am dedicated. And now realize the mistake I made by denying myself of you.

*No, not "Lesbian." I feel like the show The L Word is taking over the meaning of that phrase now. At least for me. Sort of like how "You've got mail" now means AOL... Corporate America is definitely taking over

**My professional field is really weird. Watching any form of moving picture these days (film, television, short films, documentary, and now Internet footage) is like homework. It's important to always be taking notes (mental or written) while watching because this industry is so competitive.

It's competitive because there are a very limited number of jobs, at least ones that pay, and tons of applicants. How do I know this? Because even entry-level jobs don't respond to me. I've had eight internships, in nearly every format of film and television (reality, narrative, large studios, small independent/art), in nearly every discipline (marketing, development, production). I've written, I've directed, I've edited.

There is little opportunity to write or direct whatever you want, if you want to make a living as a writer or director of film/video. By the time you've come up with the money for the paints and brushes needed to create the film, you'll either be a full-time waitress or an entertainment person being told what to write/direct. Or, more likely, an entertainment person who doesn't write/direct. Really, that person doesn't have very much time to do much of anything for fun. Anyway, feature films tend to take longer to make than your yearly two week vacation.

So, the only way I can be a writer or director is to work for Horriblewood or make friends with some rich, rich people.

Finding a cookie-cutter (home)

2008-03-30T23:36:00.001-04:00

The past two weeks, I've been visiting my dad on spring break. My dad lives in Chapel Hill, which is a University town. There are a lot of smart people around, a lot of college kids, and a lot of expensive real estate.

Until recently, that last one didn't matter too much. But my dad's consulting business, vulnerable to the whims of the market, has been suffering for the past two years. Worse, most of his business contacts are retiring or getting laid off.

I feel bad for him. He's been applying to jobs for a year now and nothing has worked out. No one wants to hire someone who's going to retire in a couple years. And in this economy, nobody wants to hire anybody period. He's used up all his savings, declared bankruptcy , and is preparing to hear the big ol' F-word: "foreclosure."

Luckily, he's got my stepmom, and she's got a job. It doesn't pay a hell of a lot, but she can buy groceries and gas, and her credit is good.

This Saturday, they thought it would be "fun" to go looking at housing developments they're thinking of moving to. The more affordable ones. Unfortunately, that means moving out of Chapel Hill and into what my stepmom refers to as "hick." We spent four hours driving around the smallest little towns and then turning into housing developments that looked exactly the same. All the homes looked the same, with a tiny backyard and no sidewalks, the earth so freshly scraped that you could still see its reddish coloring under what would soon be well-manicured imported lawns.

I asked them why they wanted me to come, why they want my input. They keep telling me that my opinion is important. But from what I've seen it won't make a difference. They'll just be moving from a more expensive cookie-cutter house to a cheaper cookie-cutter house built next to another cookie-cutter development surrounding a town that will soon get a Wal-Mart. I want to tell them this, but they're so passionate debating the minutiae (Dad doesn't like the criss-cross windows, my stepmom on the lookout for landscaping details); I can see they really care.

And who am I to talk, anyway? After all, I'm about to start looking for somewhere cheap to live in New York City.

Don't work for "the man" (even if you like his shows)

2008-03-24T23:37:00.000-04:00

With graduation approaching, I've been spending more time than ever searching for a job. I'm pretty savvy at finding jobsites and listings, and have found several summer jobs and internships this way. Looking for a "real" job, though, seems more scary.

I want to find the perfect job. I feel this incredible pressure for this job to be the "right" one, as though it will define me for the rest of my life. It's all right if it's entry level, but it has to be on some kind of path that fits with where I "want to end up" (which, by the way, I don't even know).

I struggle with this all the time. Do I want to be a writer? A director? Producer? Am I drawn to those positions because they represent creative control? It must be the ambitious capitalist in me that wants to reach to the top.

"Do you want to do high art or low art?" My dad asked me tonight, after I had vaguely explained the difference (think art films vs. broadcast TV).

"Well..." I faltered. "I want to have an impact on peoples' lives." A lot of 'high art', I imagine, doesn't get noticed or isn't understandable except to art or film history academics. Impact, in the sense of affecting people outside the elite art world, could be minimal. The trade-off: programs that aren't controversial enough to turn viewers off. Definitely not my style. But still...

"If more people are watching, I can impact more people in the world, right?" (So, sneak something controversial in without people noticing)

"Well, is that really what you want to be spending your time on?"

I pursed my lips. The idea of dedicating my life to something like Project Runway leaves me feeling empty. Sure, people enjoy the show; I was definitely hooked at one point. But I don't know if I want to spend hours upon hours making something about fashion and cat fights.

So, if I follow my dad's advice and work on things because I actually like them and not because I want to brainwash the world*... I feel better about myself, but a little less certain about a steady income.

*Kidding... maybe

Procrastinating on one thing by getting down to work on another

2008-03-23T22:49:00.001-04:00

Tonight I was reading a website about time management as a way of procrastinating.

I think that might be the equivalent of what hundreds of addiction memoirs refer to as rock bottom. (I'm being tongue-in-cheek here, but I actually am addicted to procrastinating, so I guess that wasn't too funny.)

Anyway, all pieces of advice on procrastination, no matter how sweet, had an underlying message: "Just freaking do it already!"

"FINE" I said. "But first I will write a blog entry." After all, I've definitely been procrastinating on that.

I recently had several tests done because I've apparently stumped the medical community (two communities, actually, since I'm visiting my dad at the moment). What three doctors had assumed were thyroid problems have been dismissed by a top* endocrinologist as essentially "not my problem, lady." Though my thyroid is 2-3 times normal size and has increased bloodflow, and my blood is full of thyroid antibodies, the doc (who, after waiting for bloodwork to be faxed in, probably wanted me off his back so he could see other patients) told me there's nothing wrong. Seems a little counter-intuitive to me, since earlier in the appointment he had told me that thyroid antibodies are an indication of Graves disease. But hey, he's the one with the degree. When I asked him about my symptoms, specificially the not being able to breathe, he sort of shrugged and said to see a lung specialist.

After admitting I might be going crazy and picking up a book called "Learn to Relax", I began to feel like I was making everything up. On one of the first pages, almost all of my symptoms were listed as results of stress: muscle pain, fatigue, decreased appetite, loss of concentration and memory... Ticking off my symptoms, I smiled as I remembered this last one:

A week before, a friend complained that a mutual acquaintance had called her at 8am (an ungodly hour for a college student).

"She called me too!" I said. "I was already awake for my doctor's appointment, but still... she didn't know that."

"What did she want?" My friend asked.

I couldn't remember what the call had been about. I must have looked like a nutcase sitting there, trying to recall a conversation that had happened only three hours before.

So maybe my symptoms are from stress. That's certainly better than Graves disease, although I've never heard of stress-induced thyroid antibodies. Now I feel a little sheepish about the fact that my "heart palpitations" are bringing me in for an echocardiogram on Wednesday. What if I imagined all of it? I wonder if "Faker" is inscribed on my heart. Sure, it'd be embarrassing, but at least I'd have my answer.

*Source: my stepmom

Medical system, you leave me breathless. Literally

2008-02-22T13:35:00.000-05:00

Wednesday was the big day. I woke up at 7am to finish my first paper for a literature professor who is legendary on campus for being critical of essays.

At 10:30, I was forced to abandon my essay so I could present an outline of my work for anthropology class. Shortly after arriving, I noticed that I could not stop yawning. True, I had only gotten five hours of sleep the night before. Still, the continual yawning was rather embarrassing. After a while, my embarrassment shifted to concern: I was yawning about once a minute. Having already drank three cups of coffee and taken Adderall, this seemed a bit excessive.

Now examining the yawns more critically, I pinpointed the reason for their constant return. Each time, I only got about 3/4 through before stopping. Concerned, I now tried yawning all the way through, but to no avail. I tried taking several deep breaths. Each one got cut off near the end, at which point a new yawn attacked.

Being unable to breathe as I pleased was rather disconcerting. I was also tempted to announce the problem before a presentation in my second class, but realized that I only wanted to tell people this so they would forgive me if the presentation was sub-par. Instead, I gave my presentation and then yawned my way through the rest of the class.

Worried that the problem would get worse or was caused by something like pneumonia, I went to my school's health center the next day. The only problem the nurse found was an enlarged thyroid gland. Apparently it was large enough to be partially obstructing my airway.

Since I'm not in pain, my thyroid isn't getting larger, and my blood is still adequately oxygenated, all the nurse did was draw blood and make an appointment for an ultrasound of my thyroid... next Tuesday.

Now I get to enjoy all the benefits of shallow breathing* and the appetizing prospect of hypothyroidism for around a week while I wait for results.

*These include but are not limited to: reduced guilt about not going to the gym, fear of walking, continued yawning, frustration, and simultaneous feelings of helplessness and uselessness.

Not a normal reaction to commercials

2008-02-17T15:49:00.000-05:00

Here I am, sitting like a bum at my desk and clicking the link to watch yet another episode of Arrested Development. This particular episode is brought to me by Pedigree. I mute the 30 second commercials as I wait for the next segment to begin playing and go about my business. But then an adorable puppy shows up on the screen and I just have to un-mute it to find out what's going on.

I watch the following, almost cried, and then was unable to enjoy the rest of the show.

That's not normal, is it? Or is audience tears what they're going for?

How to get an internship at a television network

2008-02-12T23:07:00.000-05:00

Before the internship interview I had today, I:

- Had to air-dry the white dress shirt I wore because the dryer broke down and I was out of quarters
- Forgot to air-dry the tank top that goes under it; wore only a bra underneath
- Waited too long to get ready because I was watching Dexter
- Didn't put on any eye make-up because I couldn't find it and was in a hurry because of Dexter (it was in plain sight in my medicine cabinet, of course)
- Left my cell phone behind so I couldn't check the time or call ahead in case I ran late
- Didn't take Adderall
- Didn't research the position AT ALL

The first thing I did in the interview was complain about standing in the cold waiting for transportation. How charming.

I also:
- Brought one resume for two interviewers and made a dumb joke about them fighting over the one copy
- Interrupted the interviewers more than once
- Changed a question they asked so I could answer in whatever way I wished. And yes, I notified them that I was changing the question.
- Admitted that I have almost no knowledge of/interest in the product made by the department
- When asked which television shows I like, listed only one that is produced by the network. Pointed this fact out and apologized for it, but failed to offer more shows.
- Used an analogy of being a puzzle piece as well as the puzzle solver (what the hell...)

Needless to say, they called me roughly four hours later to offer me the position.

Good to know...

2007-12-31T16:55:00.000-05:00

When looking for a book in your parents' bedroom, something you'd rather not come across:

A box of Cialis.

All the airport is a stage

2007-12-22T19:19:00.000-05:00

I love airports.

In almost any other location, we can look at people and make an educated guess about who they are. In the town near my school, people instantly know that I am a college student. In a business context, people are rightfully assume that I am entry level.

In an airport, though, all you really know is 1) This person is probably not poor, and 2) They are going somewhere.

When I fly, I'm almost always alone. This means that, for a period of several hours, I will be literally stuck in a place where nobody can figure out who I am except through what I wear.

Usually there are a considerable number of businesspeople who are running to their next meeting. Though I have less business travel to do than a newborn, I like to dress like an aspiring CEO. When in this role, I tend to do some "work" on the ancient palm pilot that I never use. I get might get a Venti of something at Starbucks, make sure I get lipstick all over it, and check my watch a lot.

One time I sat down near my gate, called a friend of mine, and I conducted the entire phone call in French.

Now that I've perfected the businessperson role, I need to start playing some other personas when I fly.

Ehhh?

Don't look at me

2007-12-18T22:24:00.000-05:00

On the streets of New York City, eye contact is a dangerous thing. It is dangerous because people think it is an invitation to engage. When I make eye contact with a homeless person, they get to ask me for money. When I meet the glance of a construction worker, he gets to name me “Mami” and ask how I’m doing. When I look at a table of cheap purses and scarves as I walk by, the man selling them gets to ask me to stop for a minute.

It seems that everyone wants my money or my body. Everyone else pretends I’m not there.

To live in New York is to feel constantly harassed when you go outside.

I’m not used to being harassed. I don’t know how to describe what it feels like to not be harassed, but imagine not really knowing what rain is and then suddenly every time you go outside, it’s raining. You can’t avoid that. It’s just there.

Recently, I tried to stop thinking of myself as a victim. After all, I don’t have to avoid eye contact. What if I’m the one harassing men who pass me on the sidewalk? Then it’s my game. That would be such a relief.

My first experiment was to stop breaking eye contact with people. This did not provide the results I had hoped for. Maintaining eye contact only revealed what men did after my eyes were usually glued to the pavement: they stared at the rest of my body. The fact that I was watching them do it did not change this. In fact, maintaining eye contact often only made things worse, since men like it when you look at them. After all, eye contact is an invitation. I felt powerless.

I concluded that sometimes ignoring things is the best way to make them disappear. If I don’t watch long enough, I can pretend that the man in the elevator only looked at my face. This can work in any area of life, I’ve found. If I pretend that I can’t hear the cell phone vibrating in someone’s purse during a meeting, then it didn’t really ring. And it most certainly wasn’t my cell phone.

So I returned to averting my eyes. Still, it’s hard to actually not notice someone staring at me for an entire elevator ride. And to then pretend that they’re not watching my ass while I walk out.*

I thought I could deal with the harassment, but it’s starting to suffocate me.

Just as bad is the ignoring. The people who don’t harass you simply pretend that you do not exist. Today I felt like screaming. I was walking to the train station on the person-wide trail carved out of the ice on the sidewalk. If someone came from the opposite direction, it was obvious that one of us would need to step aside, onto the ice, in order for the other person to pass. No matter, though. Every single person who passed me just kept going, staring straight ahead. Nobody stopped, nobody acknowledged my presence by stepping up on the ice, or, I don’t know, maybe looking at me. I was the one who stepped on the ice. Every single time.

I might be ready to be that “FUCK YOU” person. Because, seriously, fuck them.

*Is the whole “Ladies first” thing just a ploy to look at our asses?

Notes, lists, and my Diet Coke story

2007-12-17T15:16:00.000-05:00

Reminder: Putting alcohol in water bottle may seem like a good idea at the time, but will make water smell like alcohol in the future. Get a flask already.

Things I keep trying to quit ingesting:
- Corn syrup
- Hydrogenated oil
- Diet coke
- Coffee
- Pasta/bread/other processed grain
- Fried food
- Meat

So far no luck.

I first tried to quit drinking Diet Coke when I was a sophomore in college. I'm not sure what made me want to quit more: knowing that it's really bad for you, or knowing that I was addicted.

The realization that I couldn't go a day without a Diet Coke was sort of funny, but sort of tragic. If it had been a line of cocaine instead of a bottle of soda, it would be much easier to motivate myself to quit. But soda is such an acceptable beverage, there is no stigma to carrying around a soda. When I told people I wanted to quit drinking it, people laughed. It was as though I had just told them I was trying to quit eating olives.

I was able to stop drinking Diet Coke for a good month or two. It was pretty damn hard. I remember I had a Diet Coke that I had left in the communal fridge, for emergencies (yes, I have Diet Coke cravings). I once ran to the fridge and rummaged around, panicking when I realized that some bitch in my house had drank my emergency Diet Coke.

When I came back home for summer break, L gave me a shirt emblazoned with "Diet Coca-Cola." She said that she bought it because she when she saw it in the store, she thought of me. This was a sort of tragic moment. Like when all of a sudden you realize that people think of you every single time they see the color purple because you are obsessed with it.*

I have unsuccessfully tried quitting Diet Coke several times since. I know it's not as bad as being addicted to heroin, but before I tried to quit Diet Coke, I hadn't known that I was susceptible to addiction at all.

* That happened with a friend of mine from high school

Notes on an ADD scandal

2007-12-15T13:40:00.000-05:00

When I emailed my mom about seeing the psychologist to get tested for ADD, she responded: "I am beginning to think we all have ADD." She then cited having too much to do as the problem. I don't know exactly what she really thinks about this issue, but I do know that she refused to put my ADD brother on medication even though he almost failed out of high school. Needless to say, I simply can't wait to spend time with my mother during the holidays.

I saw the psychologist on Thursday, and he said that based on the test I took, it is "highly probable" that I have ADD. Since it's not as though you can draw blood and test it to find your answer, that appears to be as official as it gets. I'm sure my mom will love hearing that.

To get to the psychologist's office, a mile from the train station, I waded through two feet of snow on a busy highway with no sidewalk while a sheet of icy sleet slapped against my flimsy umbrella. The psychologist called me intrepid when I got to his office, which I guess is appropriate, although I was thinking more along the lines of "poor" or "dumbass" or "don't know the number for the local cab service." As I was leaving I silently pleaded for him to drive me to the train. No such luck. I started back, and just as I began to think "It's not THAT bad walking in the dark during a snowstorm with no gloves, kiddo!", an SUV pulled up beside me.

"Do you need a ride?" I heard.

I turned to face the car and quickly scanned the interior: a woman driving two little girls seated in the back. Since it didn't resemble the opening scene of a horror movie, I gratefully accepted the offer.

I've never accepted a ride from a stranger before, and wasn't quite sure about the etiquette. Obviously I thanked them, but then what? Do you let the driver run the conversation? Do you attempt to provide entertainment as payment for their kindness?

"Headed home?" I asked, when nobody spoke up.

"No, we're just going for a drive," Replied the mother.

Who the fuck just drives around for fun in the middle of an ice storm? I thought. This seemed a little bit more like that horror movie.

"How fun!" I said, also thinking about how environmentally irresponsible pleasure-driving is. Here was a woman wasting gas by driving for FUN in an SUV. Basically, my enemy.

Funny how I'll bite my tongue as long as someone's helping me out... I guess I understand Republicans now.

Lost in thoughts.... about thoughts... wait. What?

2007-12-13T00:21:00.000-05:00

I'm getting tested for ADD.

My dad was diagnosed a few years ago. He researched it, talked to professionals about it, and started taking Adderall. In high school, he took my brother to get tested. My brother was also diagnosed, and after taking Adderall his grades went from D's to B's.

I've always done well at school, but mostly because I know how to bullshit. I never actually read most of the books that are assigned to me, even though I am taking classes that interest me. I have other symptoms as well: I tune people out in conversation (even when I am interested), I start projects but don't finish them, I can't read more than two sentences to a page at a time without getting distracted.

It's gotten to the point where I feel like I have no idea what the hell I am doing, every day. And I hate it. No matter how many lists I write, I can neither complete things on the list nor find it. The more this happens, the worse I feel about myself. Why can't I read a book?

The thing that really scares me, though, is having to figure out what the problem is if I don't have ADD.

A Loudmouth moment

2007-12-10T21:33:00.000-05:00

There's this girl in my film class (let's go with the name Loudmouth) who is so horrendously irritating that I actually cringe every time I am near her. She's one of the people who tell you the most mind numbing stories you're likely to hear in your entire lifetime. Clipping my toenails is more entertaining than listening to her speak.

She loves to point out things that are better left alone. In class today, she giggled and announced: "You're blushing!" to someone who had just shown their film and was waiting for our critique. How kind.

Last week, she started an argument with our professor in front of the entire class. Maybe it seemed like a good idea to her, but the prof certainly didn't seem to think so.

Tonight I went out to dinner with two of my friends from class (if greasy fast-food really counts as dinner). I put my hands on each of their shoulders and said: "Raise your hands if you think Loudmouth has Tourette's!"

Neither of them rose their hands.

Needless to say, I felt pretty stupid. Still, me being a bitch does not change the fact that I daydream about duct taping Loudmouth's lips together.

No more entertainment

2007-12-09T22:21:00.000-05:00

For some reason, I always thought that I had to entertain people with my blog posts. I wasn't allowed to be boring. Something that's boring isn't post-able.

Well fuck that.

Caring so much about entertaining everybody who reads what I write is exhausting. I think instead I will write whatever I want.

I'll start with a few things I never would have shared before.

- Yesterday I danced topless with my friends. It was fun.
- I really like pot. I started smoking it by myself this year.
- I hate the US. I don't know what country I like better, but I plan to look into that.
- Pop culture makes me angry. A lot of it is degrading to women, which I can't stand, which brings me to my next point:
- I am a feminist.

That's all the honesty I think I can squeeze out of myself for now.

Embarrassing aspirations

2007-11-10T14:22:00.002-05:00

I want to be a filmmaker.

You know how we make fun of the waiters who tell you they're aspiring actors? "They're never going to make it," "If they need to wait tables, they must not be very good." All those things we say about people we don't even know. I feel like that actor. I'm not a waitress, but I'm definitely not paying any bills with my student films. And, knowing that people say these cruel things about people who haven't "made it," I feel like I have to hide behind something more respectable than "aspiring filmmaker."

When I read "The Tools of Screenwriting" on the train, I make sure the cover is facing down. When I tell people that I want to be a filmmaker, I feel like adding on "but I know that's probably not realistic."

I don't know why it matters to me that other people think I am reasonable, that I understand that filmmaking will not be a walk in the park. I don't know why I should feel embarrassed. It's not embarrassing. I want to be a filmmaker.

Mmm Mmm Good

2007-11-03T03:52:00.001-04:00

You know what's become a good drunk food for me? Soup.

I thought it was because it's really, really easy to make. You open the can, pour it into a bowl, microwave.

While I was making my soup tonight, though, I realized it's not just due to the ease. While I was eating, I looked down into my bowl, then quickly averted my gaze and thought: it's better if I don't know what it looks like.

And it's easier to not look if I'm drunk.

Anyone else? Would you rather know, or not know?

On music

2007-10-28T15:19:00.001-04:00

In fifth grade, my school system finally introduced us to a music program. You could choose a stringed instrument in fifth grade, or a band instrument in sixth. I wanted to be in the band because my older brother played trumpet, but I started violin anyway. In the middle of fifth grade, my family moved to Belgium.

I went to a private international school while I was there, since I couldn't speak the language and would likely be held back at least two years in the Belgian school system. Also, the government was paying for the school. Nice.

On my first day, I had no idea what was going on. People dragged me around everywhere, and at one point it was "music period."

"What do you play?" They asked.

"Violin," I told them. Before I could qualify that with my desire to be a flutist, they took me to the orchestra room.

For the next three years, I was a violinist. At first, I was like many a player: I didn't practice at home, and didn't really care much about class. One day, though, something seemed to lock into place. I started practicing at home, I played to get my emotions out, and I joined the after school ensemble.

Our orchestra group went to The Netherlands to play in a student competition with a bunch of other schools. At the end of the day, the judges' top choices for each instrument played. I remember watching the violinist play her amazing solo. My friends were whispering to each other about where to eat lunch, but I was transfixed. The violin she was holding was almost immaterial; it seemed as though it was just being used as a tool to express what she was trying to say. I was stunned.

One day back at school, the orchestra teacher brought in a jazz piece. I had never encountered jazz music before, and I was new to the concept of solos. The teacher had me go first, and I got a little lost in the experiment. I started really getting into it, and eventually the teacher had to stop everyone to remind me that the solo only goes on for a certain number of measures. I was jolted, as if out of a trance, and immediately embarrassed. But we didn't get right back to playing.

"TAB," said the teacher, with a look of bewilderment. "What did you just do?"

Everyone was looking at me.

"What? Did I do it wrong?" I asked, my cheeks getting hot.

"No. That was amazing."

That year, I became first violinist and won the prize for Most Valuable Player.

When we moved back to the US, I was put in the back of the second violinist section, in an orchestra group four times bigger than I had previously played. After long enough, I became convinced that the conductor didn't know my name. I remember being shocked when she mentioned my name in class in reference to a composition assignment. My mom stopped paying for a private tutor. Two years later, I quit orchestra to take theatre. I have barely touched my violin in the five years since then.

I think I am going to start playing again.

Covered walkways: Some guidelines

2007-10-27T11:38:00.000-04:00

Where I'm from (the suburbs), people get pretty excited when there is construction. "What's going on here?" They ask. Or, "Is it going to be a GAP?" In New York City, construction is not a novelty. I discovered this when I started going to my new internship in The Village. When I left the building for lunch or a bitch errand, I noticed that every block or two there was scaffolding and makeshift sidewalks, made out of plank wood and about two people wide. "I guess this area is doing a lot of renovations," I thought.

My bitch errands soon took me to various other Manhattan locations, where I noticed there was also plenty of scaffolding and ogling construction men. These walkways were everywhere, and I really liked them. Every time I walked into one, I imagined it was leading me somewhere other than the next block. You can't see where each tunnel is going to take you, with its walls and sharp turns. And the best part was the temptation to slip into the often open doors, the construction site. I could hide out and eavesdrop on the contractors arguing over salary and deadlines.

So it really bothers me when other pedestrians ruin my walkway experience. In response, and in keeping with my rabidly passive aggressive tradition, I have come up with some rules of etiquette that I think ought to be posted at each of these walkways.

New York is a busy city. When coming around a corner, it is often the case that someone else will be travelling in the opposite direction (!). Do not glare at them just because they happened to be in what you thought was your way. Remember: your presence is just as unwelcome to them as theirs is to you.

If you are walking next to somebody (and thus taking up the entirety of the walkway) on your merry stroll, remember that other people actually do exist and might also need room. Again, try not to glare at them: their walking in the opposite direction is not meant as a personal attack.*

When it is raining, I understand that there is a dilemma: do you close your umbrella for a single block or do you keep it open? This, I cannot help you with. But if you decide to close it, remember that most people generally do not enjoy being showered with your umbrella water while you are doing so. If you opt to leave it open, do not be so surprised when you see that someone walking the opposite direction has also left their umbrella open. Do not be so entitled as to think that you needn't make an effort to avoid hitting them in the face.**

Remember, people don't like you as much as you think they do. Also, your mom lied: you can't really be anything you want when you grow up. I, for example, wanted to be Native American.*** Now do you see why I'm so bitter?

*Except when it's me. I knew you were coming, and I hate you.
** I did a poll. People don't like this.
*** This is actually true. Pre colonialism, of course. Eventually I moved on to some thing more realistic. Japanese.

Like freelancing, only you probably won't get paid

2007-10-19T00:53:00.000-04:00

My school's art program administrative assistant sent an email to all the visual arts students. In it, a student film competition is described.

http://www.heroeshappenhere.com/competition.aspx

As with most student film competitions that are widely marketed, there is not only a winner but a cash prize. This particular competition, though it is sponsored by Microsoft (headquartered in Redmond, WA), will hold its awards ceremony in Los Angeles (headquarters of Hollywood and a majority of the American film industry).

Beyond this fact, there is absolutely nothing "cinematic" about this competition. The task is essentially to create a short film (under 4 minutes) depicting the potential of new Microsoft programs to improve our environmental crisis. Instead of hiring a quality production company and assigning some of the program's creative directors to consult with the company on the project (no doubt resulting in a higher-quality film), Microsoft would like to use the resources of struggling artists or technologically savvy individuals who have never slapped a film together before. In return, all they have to do is host an awards ceremony and pay small sums to only the most favored participants - a fraction of the amount they most likely would have spent on an actual advertising concept bought from a marketing company.

The modern version of slave labor, or a magnanimous act drawing attention to environmentalism, future filmmakers of the country, and... the TV show Heroes?

I'm going to do it if I have time. After all, the grand prize is $25 grand.

Patriotism

2007-10-09T03:17:00.000-04:00

So, I feel like this could mean a few different things. And if this is how we're going to continue to portray patriotism, then I am probably going to be upset about it.

Or, if the photographer/people who selected this photograph were making a joke, I doubt many people who saw this got it.

Who do you want to be when you grow up?

2007-09-23T12:51:00.000-04:00

As I sat in my friend's room talking about legendary philosophers and literary geniuses, I began to feel overwhelmed.

"I want to do things like them," I announced with despair. "I don't want to just make crap like so many people do. I want to make things that matter, that people will look back on and remember and show to their children."

Maybe it sounded naive, but that's why I said it despairingly. Because how many geniuses (not that I am one) go unnoticed? How many people get a movie made or a book published because they're friends with the velvet purse strings?

And what guarantee do I have that the work I can make will be anywhere comparable to those I admire?

None.

It is crushing. And now I have to write a screenplay.

When a pen is the best part of your day, you should be worried

2007-09-19T15:42:00.000-04:00

I pulled a pen out of my purse as I walked to work at the college library, and took a moment to bask in the joy this specific pen had brought me.

Working at my customer service job over the summer, there had been a supply room with all the pens, pencils, and notepads our shrinking hearts could desire. As a result, everyone wrote their disheartening notes with the same crappy pens on the same crappy notepads.

One day at work my boss asked me to make a phone call to Comcast, pay the bill with the company credit card, and write down a confirmation number. Since the IT guy was fixing my computer, I sat down at an empty desk. Recently abandoned by a new employee who abruptly quit after two weeks, there wasn't much in the way of office supplies. When it came time to write down the confirmation number, I glanced around, scrambled around, stuttered a little, and finally found a pen lying in a drawer. As I wrote, I realized how nice this pen felt. It was one of those heavy ones, with a nice rubbery pad for your fingers, a weighted head, and a metal clicker.

After my phone call, I decided to take the pen with me, since nobody sat at the desk any longer. From then on, I wrote solely with this pen. Soon I noticed that not only did the pen feel nice, but my handwriting actually looked better!

Finishing this warm thought as I arrived at the library, I made the decision to never take another job where my introduction to a pen would be the most satisfying thing I did.

Remember those Airheads (candy) jokes? I miss those

2007-09-13T01:15:00.000-04:00

It's a shame when smart people do stupid things. Today, I have a list.

One:

This is the first week of classes, and today was the first day of my anthropology class. I woke up at 10am to be ready by 11:05am. I checked my email, showered, checked my email again, straightened my hair, got some coffee and sat down for a few minutes with some friends I ran into. I checked the time on my cell phone; it was 10:58 and my class was probably 3 minutes away. But in case the professor was one of those who thought that 11:05 meant 11:00, I thought I might as well show up a little early.

As I arrived, I saw through the glass double doors that the room was full already. Is a class getting out late? I wondered, looking to see who was inside. I recognized the professor as the one teaching this class, though, and several students I knew were also in the class. It was 11:01, but why did everyone at the table have their names printed on those cute little triangles in front of them if they had just arrived? I opened the door, alarmed.

"Oh, hi TAB!" The professor had interrupted himself to greet me. He looked down at his watch. "Did you go to a different building?"

Still confused, I slowly stepped farther into the room. "Um... no. I thought class started at eleven."

The professor proceeded to tell me that everyone had been there since 9am, and class was actually ending. I must have looked bewildered, because a moment later he laughed and informed me that class started at 10:30 instead of 11am. I sighed and sat down.

Two:

Ex Roommate asked me if I wanted to go to various places on campus with her in order to apply for jobs. Our new library boss had hired too many workers, leaving us with half the hours we had expected. My hours had luckily been restored when a friend of ours quit, but Ex Roommate still needed more hours. I decided to go with her anyway, in case I somehow magically decided I had time for more work this year.

After applying to the first place, Ex Roommate told me she needed to go to a class. I offered to pick up the remaining applications for her, and she seemed interested. To this end, I went to the College Events office, asking if there were any open positions. Vetoing sign maker, poster colorer, and event babysitter, I told the helpful gentleman there that I would be interested in an office position. He gave me a form asking for contact information and told me to write my availability on a sheet of paper for him.

Deciding not to apply for this one, I wrote Ex Roommate's name and number, then realized I didn't know her schedule. Not wanting helpful office guy to know that it wasn't actually me applying, I stepped into the hallway to call Ex Roommate. After getting her hours, I returned the forms and was preparing to leave when helpful guy offered his hand and told me his name. I started to reply with my name, but abruptly stopped as I realized he had just looked down at the name on the form, which was not mine. By the time I caught myself, it was too late to lie about the name. I took his hand, shook it firmly with a smile, and darted away.

Three:

My first assignment for my filmmaking class was, believe it or not, to make a short film. The tricky part in this case - more than the usual getting actors, cameras, lights, a set, a script - was that you are not allowed to edit. So you can pretty much only do one take, unless you are somehow able to rewind to the exact position you messed up and tape over it.

Having rehearsed our third segment (from Action to Cut in this specific shot), I said "Ready?"

The actors confirmed that they were ready.

I clicked Record, it made the nice loud beep that indicates it is indeed recording. At this point, I freaked out. I thought: "I know it made a beep, but did they hear it? Even if they heard it, does that mean they know it means go? I didn't say action! But don't they know what the beep means? What should I do?"

I said "Action". Yes. I said "Action" after I pushed record, on a film you are NOT allowed to do multiple takes on.

Four:

How many stupid things does one have to do before it goes from a smart person doing stupid things to just a stupid person?

Welcome back to CrazySchool

2007-09-09T20:42:00.001-04:00

One of the more charming aspects of going to a small liberal arts school is the rather large number of students with poor social skills.

I met one such person during my freshman year of college. One night as I entered a dorm hall, she walked over and introduced herself. No stranger to introductions, I followed suit. I noticed that we were having a conversation different from most when my new acquaintance of about five minutes poked my stomach and began asking me about my work-out habits. "How often do you go to the gym?"

"Um... about three times a week?" I responded.

"Wow, I can never get myself to go." She proceeded to explain the age-old dilemma of wanting to exercise but being unmotivated and discouraged by the long (10 minute) walk to the gym. This was not a rare topic per say, but asking me to flex my arms so she could feel my bicep was a bit odd.

Later that night, I was telling a friend about the strange conversation I had. "Wait, who was this?"

"Girl," I said.

They laughed. "Oh man, that was CrazyGirl!" Apparently people decided to add this prefix to her name, both so they could feel superior and to distinguish who they were talking about.

By sophomore year, everybody I knew had heard of CrazyGirl. She was popular in that way nobody wants to be; everybody knew her name and loved to talk about her, but nobody wanted to invite her to hang out.

I felt bad for her. Bad enough that I wouldn't run away at the sight of her walking toward me or make excuses to leave immediately when she started talking to me. In this way, she came to sit down at a table with myself and some friends last week. She stayed for long enough that we all ran out of things to talk about with her, so after a few moments of silence, she would bring up a new topic. A few moments later, the conversation would falter and we would plunge back into silence.

Breaking the silence again, CrazyGirl asked my friend The Worrier: "Did you know that fat peoples' legs rub together when they walk?"

My head, facing the opposite direction, snapped over so I could stare at CrazyGirl. Had I really heard her correctly? "Yes" The Worrier replied.

The table fell silent for a few more moments. "I wonder if it hurts. Do you think it's uncomfortable?"

I finally took my chance to ignore CrazyGirl while my friend continued to discuss large thighs with her. A few moments later, we left her to contemplate this philosophical question on her own.

Starting the school year under your spell

2007-09-02T01:01:00.001-04:00

Tomorrow I fly out of Washington, back to school...

Looking at the orientation week events, I noticed that our "first themed dance" of the year is the Black Magic Dance... Because, according to them, "Magic isn't only for Harry and his friends!"

What does one wear to something like this?

Have I told you lately you were a cripple? No? Hm, weird.

2007-08-27T18:39:00.001-04:00

After all of the problems I've had with my hip (several injuries, surgery, massage therapy, chiropractic care), I was talking with my mom today and she said "Oh... that reminds me. When you were born, your hips were abnormal so we had to put an extra diaper somewhere to widen your hips."

She went on to compare me to a child in a third world country (i.e. "Without that extra diaper, you would look like a poor kid").

Battling my urge to scream at her, I simply said "You never told me that."

With mild interest, as though we just found out we both like popcorn: "Yeah I can't believe I never told you that." Like it's just some trivia that might be useful to know a few years into my hip and back problems.

For that matter, the grand prize goes to my dad, who never mentioned it at all.

Proving men wrong: Priceless

2007-08-23T16:59:00.001-04:00

I'm going on my first vacation with The ex-Ex this weekend! We're going to go camping in a cute Bavarian village.

When coming up with ideas for activities, I looked at the town's website to see what kind of tourist-y things there are to do there.

We both wanted to go to the brewery to try different beers. I'm not sure how much it would cost to go there, but probably a few beers' worth.

Other than that, I found mini golf ($10 each), a coffee shop concert (free), and a Nutcracker factory ($1 admission).

He wants to go river rafting ($80 each).

So what's this he says about me having expensive taste?

Because two wrongs apparently DO make a right...

2007-08-22T11:41:00.001-04:00

Dear Every Single Person In My Workplace,

Thank you SO much for not informing me that you could quite obviously see my bra under my shirt. You know how I love flouncing around like a drunken prostitute at work! Thank you for helping me celebrate my individuality.

Sheerly,

The Accidental Buffoon

Because love and fear go hand in paw

2007-08-20T14:20:00.001-04:00

Where have I been?

I went to North Carolina to visit my dad, then I flew back and drove 5 hours to eastern Washington to visit L for her birthday weekend. Now I'm back at the office.

During my trip, I got to visit the dog, Liam. He is what some might call the "apple of my eye" – he is adorable, playful, and has the most curious pair of eyes I've ever seen (all of these, of course, are qualities I look for in an apple). Liam is about a year old now, and still acts like a puppy most of the time: he enjoys a good squeak ball and has yet to learn that I am not to be chewed on.

Since my dad is such a smart (over-analytical) man, we generally talk about Liam in terms of dog psychology (or, as I like to call it, dogcology). For example, when he jumps up on the couch and stands over us, that is a sign of dominance. Licking our feet would be a sign of submission. We try to encourage the latter, but Liam doesn't always take the hint.

One night when I visited in March, we were laughing about how cute he is when I suddenly said: "You know, if he was any other animal, we wouldn't think it was so cute that he was trying to bite us. 'Oh, that's just the tiger, don't worry about it!'" We all had a good chuckle as we gave birth to the idea that Liam was actually a wild predator plotting to kill us and take over the house.

During my visit last week, we continued the joke. I asked my dad why we don't like having wild dogs or cats around, and he replied that wild dogs are a threat because they can get rabies and kill or injure humans. "So… they're basically a natural predator?"

"I guess you could say that."

"And we like to keep them in our homes, just for fun." I entertained the thought of a rodent sterilizing and training an eagle to keep in its home. "They're just waiting for the right time to strike." We laughed and imagined all of the possible schemes in Liam's head.

Things got a little more serious the next day when we watched as Liam and the older dog, Lily, were "playing." Ever since he arrived, Liam periodically attacks Lily in an attempt to establish that he is the dominant dog. When she gets tired of this, Lily shows him who's boss by throwing him to the floor. We stop them about half the time, when we don't like the noise or get annoyed on Lily's behalf. This time, however, my dad and I tacitly agreed to watch the entire sequence unfold: two 70 pound husky mixes, teeth bared, wild-eyed, biting each others' flesh and tossing each other around.

Later that day, I commented to my dad: "Liam could kill us if he wanted to. It would be pretty easy, too."

"I know, he could," My dad responded with a smile.

I thought, with the logic behind my strange joke, about people who are afraid of dogs. Maybe they have a reason. "Well… let's just make sure Liam keeps very clear on who is feeding him." That night, I opted not to encourage Liam to sleep in my bed.

The nerve of some people!

2007-08-06T11:21:00.001-04:00

As I was parking to go into the organic grocery store in my neighborhood, a black Hummer drove past me. "They better not be going to an organic grocery store in that car," I thought while I glared at their tail lights.

Sure enough, they parked near the store.

"What a douche bag," I thought as I got out of my car.

I entered the store and saw the organic espresso stand, then looked down at my iced grande raspberry latte from Starbucks. My virtual tail flew between my legs as I realized my faux-pas.

And then I remembered that while everyone could see the suddenly enormous Starbucks logo on my cup, nobody in the store except for me knew that there was someone inside who had pulled up in a Hummer.

Phhttt phhttt

2007-08-01T22:23:00.001-04:00

Dear Boss,

Yes that farting sound every time I walk by your cube is me. It is coming from my SHOES. You can't wear socks with flats. Stop looking at me funny.

Fo Sho

2007-07-31T12:12:00.001-04:00

I think I need to stop talking like a "gangsta" at work.

... F'realz, yo.

A hole in one

2007-07-27T12:35:00.001-04:00

On Tuesday, boss was out all day. When he came back, Receptionist said "You know what? I dont think he was out sick or anything. I think he went golfing. He looks tan."

Later in the day, I heard Creative Insult Guy at Boss' desk saying "So you did all 18 holes, or just 9?"

This morning, Boss sent an email saying he would be out of the office until noon. "Boss," I whined, "Are you going golfing AGAIN?!"

Creative Insult Guy passed by my desk and whispered "He's going to a funeral..."

And that's when I discovered that there is no way to recover from jokes made unknowingly about funerals. (Ones made knowingly are totally fine, though)

Hey, did you get a hair cut? Your hair looks... well, gone

2007-07-27T01:27:00.001-04:00

Wearing a headband and putting my hair up in a clip does NOT make it look like I cut most of it off, Chill Boss.

Unfortunately, it DOES mean that i didn't shower this morning...

Because it's NEVER too much information

2007-07-25T22:57:00.001-04:00

Dear Creative Insult Guy,

Thank you for giving me such stunning detail on why you are leaving the office early today. I will be sure to let whoever calls for you know that you can't come to the phone because of your explosive case of diarrhea.

Sincerely,

TAB

PS. The hand gestures you used to illustrate just how bad it is really made my day.

Fine, I admit it: I love when you hit me

2007-07-21T15:55:00.001-04:00

The wench came up behind me at work while I was IM-ing with creative insult guy (about how stupid she is, of course) and hit me on the arm. You know the kind of hit, where you sort of just loosen your wrist and whack the person with the tips of your fingers? And you know the spot on your arm, where it hurts to be hit that way? Yeah.

"Dude, don't hit me!" I said to her, swiveling in my chair.

"It's not like that hurt," She responded while I protectively rubbed my now permanently crippled arm.

How exactly do you respond to that? "By the way, I'm serious"? I had forgotten to bring my pain sensor equipment to work, so I didn't have any actual proof. But neither did she.

"How do you KNOW it didn't hurt?"

"It couldn't have hurt. Don't be a baby."

I messaged creative insult guy.

He responded: "Punch her in the face."

Please read instructions before using

2007-07-18T21:07:00.001-04:00

L and I were in my mom's Lexus (the fancy kind with the navigation system, not those old crappy Lexus' that don't have those annoying halogen headlights), driving to the grocery store to get some anti-itch cream for L's mysterious rash (which turned out to be an allergic reaction to the sun).

I turned on the stereo to see if I could find any music playing on the radio, and was greeted by harp music playing an interlude behind a man's voice.

"What the hell?" We looked at the navigation display panel. There was a CD playing.

"What IS this?" L asked.

I looked at her incredulously. "You think I know?" I ejected the disc and L pulled it out.

"It says 'Due to the relaxing nature of this CD, please do not play while driving'."

For future reference...

2007-07-11T15:09:00.001-04:00

Good Idea: Becoming friends with everyone in the office so that nobody fires you even when they run out of work for you to do.

Bad Idea: Window shopping while you are driving during rush hour.

Questionable Idea: Starting to drink coffee again because you are bored, then drinking progressively more when boredom doesn't end.

Unhelpful Idea: Searching through Craigslist to try to decide what you want to do with the rest. of. your. life.

Hear no evil, See no evil, Snort no evil

2007-07-10T00:12:00.000-04:00

My cousin's wedding was on Sunday, and of course - the classy girl that I am - I got wasted and failed to plan a good night's rest.

I woke up at 4:30 in order to get to work by 8am today because the wedding was so far away. The car ride there was immensely uncomfortable, as was changing from my PJ's in a bakery near work so that nobody at work would see me arriving in my night gear.

When IT guy was working on my computer, I came downstairs and loitered near Flamboyant Guy's desk.

"Man, I feel like I'm going to throw up" I complained, feeling light-headed and weak.

"Why, what'd you do last night?" He asked.

I did the "drink alcohol" gesture, while he did the "snort cocaine" gesture.

"What?! No!" I laughed. "Cocaine doesn't make you nauseous."

I paused and we looked at each other for a moment. "Oops... I mean... Cocaine doesn't make you nauseous, does it?"

I'm hardcore

2007-07-07T15:34:00.000-04:00

Oh and I drank rum from a shovel in a bucket last night.

A break in the clouds

2007-07-07T15:04:00.000-04:00

I had to cover for Receptionist at work Thursday and Friday. Not only did this mean I was doing my job and answering phones, it meant I couldn't ignore The Wench because she was covering my breaks. At one point, she told me she missed me upstairs. I wasn't quite sure how to answer, since I couldn't tell if she was serious or not.

When I returned from my afternoon break on Friday, she sat around for a while until the phone started ringing. She asked me how long I would be staying and then told me "I'm going to put my two weeks in."

I was shocked. How could she leave? Annoying people never go away. "Really? Why?" I feigned concern.

"I'm going back to Alaska soon anyway, and this job is boring."

I couldn't argue with the boring part, and I didn't want to argue with anything else she was saying... "When are you going to tell them?"

"Either today or Monday. Probably Monday."

On Monday I'm going to ask if they need to replace her so I can try to get The ex-Ex a better job than being a food court worker (his current prospect...)

Oops...

2007-07-02T18:18:00.001-04:00

The ex-Ex and I went bowling after work last week with Receptionist and her fiance. We all got some beers, and soon after starting the game began making up little bets each round.

Receptionist's fiance started with "If you get a strike, we'll get married this summer."

It was mostly betting between the couples, and between The ex-Ex and I, it was mostly betting on rounds of drinks. Then The ex-Ex got a strike and I had to buy us a round of drinks. When it was my turn to go, i turned to him. "Okay, so if I get a strike, what do I get?"

"The next round," He replied.

"I just got a round, we can't do that again until it's time for another."

"Okay... I'll pay for the iPod case you want." With his discount at Best Buy, he had told me earlier that this would only cost about four bucks.

"What?! No way! That's so cheap," I whined.

"Well, what do you want then?"

I racked my brain for an expensive gift. All I could think of was a big fat ring, so I mimed slipping a ring onto my finger. Half-way through I realized that I was slipping the imaginary ring onto my left ring finger.

I laughed with embarrassment and mumbled "Just kidding!" over my shoulder as I looked for the bowling ball.

At least he's neutered?

2007-06-27T19:44:00.001-04:00

I'm staying at L's house this summer. She's staying at her childhood home with her mom and 12 year old brother. Having known them all for 7 years, I'm pretty comfortable with her family. I try not to let it bother me that they never cook actual meals, that her brother still throws two temper tantrums a day, and that the house is generally a mess.

L's parents got divorced a little over a year ago, and to console her younger brother, L's mom bought a dog. I don't remember the breed, but he's about ten pounds and has a penchant for barking and jumping uncontrollably when people enter the room. In completely predictable fashion, Dog was trained to sit but not to treat the house with respect, so he must be supervised at all times. His "area" is the kitchen, which is blocked off with doggy gates that Dog can easily scale when he wants to.

L and her family left for a week-long vacation early yesterday morning, and I am now responsible for the house, Dog, and L's new kitten. The night before they left, I got the animal care instructions for Dog: Feed at 6:30am/pm, give him wet and dry food, 1/4 pill of medicine and a dab of pumpkin puree (what the hell...) then take him to the laundry room 10 minutes later so he can poop on his strange little rockery (aka doggy litterbox?).

Any excitement over FINALLY having an empty house with The ex-Ex was dashed when I got my period the morning they left. When I got home from work that night, I decided to take Dog along on my walk. Seven minutes in, Dog lay down and refused to keep walking with me. At first I was concerned; did he think I was taking him away from his home, never to return? Was he scared because his owners weren't home?

After a couple minutes of comforting an unresponsive dog, I stopped caring. I dragged him along with me until he started walking again. When we got back, it was time for dinner... for both Dog and Kitty. I took Dog's food out of the fridge and heated it up to room temperature, then set it down. Dog did not eat. I prepared Kitty's food, then brought it upstairs to his dining room (the bathroom). I called for Kitty, but he didn't come over so I went back downstairs looking for him. He was eating Dog's food.

I brought Kitty back upstairs and as soon as I turned around, I found Dog in the hallway. He had jumped his doggy wall to join us. I ran downstairs and begged him to follow me, then stood with him in the kitchen trying to get him to eat. He would not. Thinking his food was old, I changed it out and gave him new food. He again refused to eat. I tried to feed him his pumpkin medicine, but he avoided the pill. Finally, I forced him to swallow a pill and took him back to the laundry room.

When I returned from The ex-Ex's later that night, I got ready for bed and put Dog in his crate so he could sleep near me, as L's mom had suggested. Then I curled up with Kitty. As soon as I turned the light out, Dog started howling. He whined and barked for a good ten minutes before I decided maybe it would be best for him to sleep somewhere that would allow him to go to the bathroom if he needed to. I moved him to the laundry room and set his crate there, then tried to go to sleep again... But Dog kept whining and barking, and - bonus!! - scratching the door. The laundry room is right next to my room, so it was a little hard to ignore. I waited thirty minutes, then pulled Kitty into one arm, my purse and comforter in the other, and went upstairs to L's room to sleep.

I woke up to find that I had bled on L's snow-white mattress cover. Fuck.

I got up, fed Kitty, then let Dog out to eat. Luckily, he started eating. I ran upstairs with a towel to try to clean the blood off L's bed. As I finished, Dog came sprinting up the stairs barking. I lured him back downstairs, and as soon as I locked his doggy gate with the intention of escorting him to the potty, I noticed some nice fresh poops on the living room carpet.

In the closet

2007-06-20T20:41:00.000-04:00

"It's 4:20," Creative Insult Guy said with a snicker.

I laughed.

Creative Insult Guy drew in a sharp breath. "TAB! How do you know what that is?"

I laughed again. "Um... I was just laughing because YOU know what it is."

"What does 420 mean?" The wench asked.

"Seriously?" I told her what it meant.

"People who smoke pot are LOOOSERS," she said.

I wanted to question her assumption or tell her she was wrong somehow, but sensed that that might be a bad idea. Instead, I ignored her remark and concentrated on her question: "Where does that meaning come from?"

"Why don't you look it up?" I asked. She refused.

I tried telling Cliche girl on IM about how stupid the wench was, but after I finished my story with the "pot smokers are LOOOSERS" comment, all she said was "They totally are." I then discreetly argued with her about whether that was a judgmental thing to say.

And then I got afraid of being found out to be a pot smoker. I feel like a closet smoker. I had to hide my smoking when I first applied, and now I have to listen to people judge pot smoking in the workplace without challenging them too openly. It's like I'm a gay person working in the army. No one can know.

Food and insults mean people care

2007-06-18T20:59:00.000-04:00

So... I didn't get the internship. I found out today. As soon as I found out, I felt like I had to call people and tell them, because I had promised so many people, in the spirit of hope, that I would tell them as soon as I knew. But making a ton of bad news calls makes it feel like I'm dwelling on it, rubbing it in deeper.

I texted The ex-Ex first, and he texted back that he was sorry. I asked him to cheer me up when I got off work tonight, and he offered to take me out to a nice Italian restaurant that I'd never gone to.

So, free dinner.

Then I texted L and told her, and she told me we would make brownies tonight.

So, baking and sympathy.

Then I told S and she reminded me that "everyone in LA has the herp anyway".

I like my friends. :)

The cool club committee

2007-06-15T01:47:00.000-04:00

So Receptionist and I struck up a little friendship shortly after I started my summer job. She had to train me to use the phones so that I could cover the front desk during her breaks, and while I sat with her we chatted. We even got to stories about creepy guys. I, of course, am skeptical of any friendship so easily sprung.

But she invited me out to lunch and then to drinks and dinner last Friday after work, and she hasn't let me down yet. She even gets my jokes AND thinks that they're funny.

Reminder: we're not dating. This is my screening process for friends. I guess I'm a tough cookie to crack?

After it was clear that we were getting along pretty well, we started talking about who in the office it would be fun to go get drinks with. As we put our suggestions forth, we laughed and said we were making a "cool club" for the office.

Today, Receptionist returned from her afternoon break telling me "I decided to give Cliche girl another chance, so I invited her out to drinks with us sometime."

Score!

Then later we were talking about who else to invite. "Well, I asked Easy-going guy but he hasn't responded yet," She told me.

Later on she suggested inviting High Strung Gal.

"She kinda scares me," I said.

"Okay, yeah I was going out on a limb there."

Later on, Easy-going guy told me that he was honored to be considered part of the cool crowd. So now it's official: I'm cool. Mission accomplished.

Smokin' finals

2007-06-12T21:40:00.000-04:00

Does it sound judge-y to say "Well, I'm not going to judge you, but..."

The ex-Ex told me he was going to smoke pot before taking one of his finals. I thought that was a little... wrong. Even if the final won't do anything to affect his grade, like he says.

But wrong often passes for "funny" in the best comedies. Fucking an apple pie? Wrong, but funny. Taking a test stoned?

... Hmm...

A bad day for junk mail

2007-06-11T21:09:00.000-04:00

A couple weeks ago, I was still waiting to hear back about the internship I applied for in March. I got an email from one of the representatives two Tuesdays ago saying the decision would take a little while longer. When I asked her for more detail she told me they were waiting to secure the internship host and would then send interview tapes to them, giving 5 days to make a decision. With my amazing math skills, I guessed I would find out by Friday, June 8th.

Apparently my "amazing" math skills were a bit flawed, as I did not find out on Friday. I considered emailing the courteous admin again, but opted not to bother people who hold my future in their manicured clutches. So I'm waiting... Winners get phone calls, and losers get emails. Apparently today the universe decided to screw with me, since it obviously knows I care and leave my gmail browser open at work.

When I arrived at work, the page loaded with Gmail - Inbox (1) on the top of the browser. I waited for the page to load, imagining that this particular Los Angeles office must open before 8am. Instead, it was an East Coast department store advertising some Father's day gifts. Superb. "Fuck father's day," I thought as I archived the sucker.

I noticed another Inbox (1) a little after 9am. Aha! They were definitely open by now, with fresh knowledge from my internship host. Of course, an email was definitely not a good thing, since I actually want the internship, but any information is better than none at this point. Instead, though, it was a reply from the financial aid director at my school.

The rest of the day went like this, one at a time...

9:47am - Mom

10:43am - Ticketmaster (who the fuck is Michael Bubble?)

11:40am - Mom (leave me alone already)

12:09pm - Victoria's Secret (a shoe sale? I bought my summer shoes at Fred Meyer, leave me alone!)

12:20pm - Mom

12:48pm - Mom... (at this point I stopped replying to her)

2:14pm - Newsletter from old-old internship that I keep forgetting to unsubscribe to

I took a late lunch, and when I came back my coworker, Creative Insult Guy, said "Hey TAB, your phone's been going crazy. We were having a dance party and everything."

I rushed over to my phone, apologizing for leaving it on at work. The screen said I had a voicemail, so I checked who the call was from, hoping for the 818 or 310 Los Angeles area code. Instead it was my cousin.

I angrily clicked on the Inbox link, hoping it would get the hint and refresh with an email. Nothing. (surprise!)

I headed home, and when I reached for the phone to switch it from vibrate mode, saw I had another voicemail. "Maybe they're open til 6 there?" I thought.

No. It was L, asking me to play Wii with her.

Fucking Wii.

Haters

2007-06-07T20:54:00.000-04:00

I don't know how I do it, but I attract a lot of haters.

At the new job, there's a girl who is also an admin of sorts. She started a couple weeks before I did. I was hired to help everyone, and she does a few things that are boring as well. I figured out how to do more things than she did because I'm doing "everything," and I think she's a bit upset about it.

The first sign I had that she was a wench was when we were both in the kitchen. She made a comment and I made a weird-sounding laugh that she repeated. Thinking we had some sort of giggle rapport, I made it back to her. Instead of going along with the giggles, she just said "Yeah... kind of a loser, I'm not gonna lie" and then went upstairs.

Hater #2? When I went out to lunch with Receptionist this week, she told me that the girl who sits a cube away from me is kind of a bitch. I call her Cliche girl, since all she does is talk about "my man" and shopping and tanning. Apparently on my first day, she told Receptionist that she didn't think she was going to like me very much. Of course I find this out after it's too late to be bitchy to her. She seems nice now, but... I guess the key word here is "seems."

Back to Hater #1. Yesterday, the wench was bored as hell. Chillboss didn't give her anything to do, and instead of appreciating the fact that she was being paid to do nothing, she complained to me constantly. I tried to entertain her with a recap of a Planet Earth episode, but she ended up crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow as I chattered on about trees and deserts. I forced myself to stop after I made a "Land Before Time" analogy that went over particularly poorly.

Later in the day, Chillboss asked me to work on something in our system. I got started, then covered for Receptionist while she went on break. When I came back I heard the wench, obviously frustrated, making a joke to Chillboss about being my assistant (because he refuses to let her cover Receptionist's breaks anymore). I smiled and said nothing, getting back to work. I had to ask Chillboss a question at one point, and after he answered it he let me know that the wench was now working on the same list I was. Not wanting to run into each other, I started working on something different. Five minutes later, the wench turned around to face me.

"Hey, did you send this email to someone?"

"Who was it?" I asked.

"Kevin Wu."

"Oh, yeah... Chillboss had me working on that list and I didn't know that you had started. I stopped as soon as I found out though..."

Right afterwards, she called out another name to me and glared. "Yeah, sorry!" When her glare did not subside, I added: "I didn't know! I stopped right away... it'll be okay."

"You can't do everything, you know," the wench said in the I-sound-like-I'm-joking-but-I-actually-want-to-punch-you tone.

"Actually, I was hired to help everybody. So I am supposed to do a little of everything," I replied, ignoring her tone but not hiding my smile.

As she swiveled back to her computer, I heard her mutter something under her breath, ending with "you little brat."

As I left to cover Receptionist's break today, I told the wench "I'll be back in fifteen minutes."

"I'll miss you!" She chirped, smiling.

What? Coming from her, this seemed like quite the development. "Aww, how sweet" I replied. As I walked down the hall, I heard her say "Dork"

Side-seat kitten raising

2007-06-04T18:37:00.000-04:00

My dad got a puppy shortly after he got engaged to his new wife last summer. The puppy's name is Liam, and he is the most adorable piece of work ever. He's a black lab/husky mix, with the cutest little brown highlights on his eyebrows, paws, and tail. He was born with an abnormal, almost useless front leg that we had to amputate when he was a few months old because it got infected. Before I met Liam, I was a proud cat person. But the more I spent time with him and my dad, the more I learned about dogs. My dad would explain to me the way he trained the dog, and how it was related to the dog’s understanding of the universe. “Liam doesn’t bite me anymore because he knows I’m the alpha dog.” And so on.

Learning to tailor my actions to Liam’s way of thinking made me love him even more. I felt like we understood each other. Who knew that taking care of a pet could be more rewarding than petting some soft fur?

Dogs seem pretty straightforward. They want your attention, and you want them to want it (usually). But some cats can be assholes. I know I want to get a cat in the future, so that makes me nervous. I want to know: What makes some cats so friendly, laid-back and playful while other cats are cold and moody?

“Oh it’s definitely the way you treat them when they’re kittens,” L’s friend Neuroscience Guy said over dinner one night. “I think the cats who get played with too much when they’re babies are indifferent when they grow up, because they’re used to attention. If you ignore them a little, they appreciate you more.”

I thought about this for a second as we all debated the matter. “Maybe you should hold off a few days before getting a kitten,” I suggested to L. “Read a few things about raising them so you know more about what you’re doing.”

“That’s ridiculous,” L said passionately. “I’ve lived around cats my whole life; I don’t need to read anything about them. All I need to do is litter train them and give them lots of love.”

Her response seemed a tad naïve to me. “Okay, maybe you don’t need to read up on them. But why wouldn’t you want to know everything you could about your cat?”

L dismissed the matter and we moved on. I chided myself for judging L’s way of raising her pets and decided not to give more unnecessary “advice.” But, of course, my "decisions" are rarely set in anything, let alone stone (See: The ex-Ex). When she got the kitten, she bought all of its toys and litter box in the same trip, and then had to clean its temporary home, the bathroom, when she got home with the cat in its carrier.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” She admitted.

“Yeah, those are all things you should have done beforehand if you were planning on getting a kitten today,” I said with a tight-lipped “I told you so” expression on my face. And then remembered: no more side-seat kitten raising.

Later that night I went downtown with L, Attention Whore, BandGeek, and Art Girl. We hadn’t decided what to do, but it was a Friday night and we had the unmatchable power of a VW station wagon at our fingertips. On our way into the city, L’s cell phone rang. When she got off the phone, she told us that her mom had called because the kitty was knocking things over on her bathroom countertop. L seemed surprised.

“Uh, yeah. It’s a kitten. What did you think would happen?” I asked.

“Well, he was being really good when I was in the room. I probably should have cleaned off the counters…”

“Yeah… I thought this might happen.”

“What?! Why didn’t you say anything?”

And then I felt guilty for not being bossy... or was that just being helpful? Hmmm…

An uncomfortable family dinner

2007-05-30T02:11:00.000-04:00

My stepdad reviewed his credit card slip as my mom and I chatted, ending a pleasant dinner out.

"Well, what did you think of the service?" He asked us.

I was torn between pretending not to hear and demanding why the hell he was asking us. I ended up just staring at him.

"What?" My mom asked.

My stepdad repeated his question.

"I thought it was great," I offered in a voice tinged with anger. My parents always criticize the wait staff, no matter where we go. They once bitched in the car after a dinner at a four star restaurant because somebody cleared the dessert plate before a strawberry had been gnawed to the stem.

My mom, surprisingly, backed me up. Stepdad, however, looked unconvinced; he needed elaboration. "She didn't come over and bother us too much," I reasoned, wondering if he thought she had been too absent. (He also hates it when waiters are too overbearing. Go figure.)

"Yeah and she was really accommodating about TAB's substitutions," Mom reminded him.

He didn't look satisfied, but he did look away. I sneaked a peek as he tipped her nearly 20% and then raised an eyebrow at my mom, who shrugged. Why do people need everyone else's advice about tipping when they're the ones paying? Does it make them feel better to tip poorly just because other people at the table agree with you?

I remember once when my parents came to the restaurant I worked at and tipped me less than 15%. Since then, I have never raised a word against a waiter in their presence.

The new job, limbo

2007-05-29T01:06:00.000-04:00

After the drug test, I had a tension-filled week at work.

On Tuesday, I was training with a bunch of different people. Chillboss approached with some papers in his hands, and I looked up nervously. Come to my cube, he's going to say. And then he's going to ask me why I wasted their time. Crap.

"Here's some info for you, your email address and login and password and all that." He handed me the papers.

"Awesome, thanks!" I said shakily.

On Wednesday, HR guy came upstairs and wandered toward my desk. I looked up and smiled a little, screaming inside. Don't look at him, keep your eyes on your computer... Because... uh, not looking up means he won't come over here and fire me? Right...

HR guy sauntered past and talked to someone in the office past mine. I felt bad for not actually saying hello to the man who was probably not plotting my demise.

On Thursday, I figured it was my last day to worry. I was optimistic, having made it past two whole days without a dreadful meeting in HR lady's office. Or worse, an on-the-spot firing at my desk in front of everyone. I pushed those fears to the back of my mind and presented my direct deposit form to HR lady with a flourish.

Later that afternoon, she came upstairs and I felt a little queasy as she approached. She looks friendly but I still wonder how deep her smiles really go. She came over, I tried to type extra-fast and look concentrated before she pulled me away from my work.

"Here's your employee handbook," She said with her usual heart-chilling smile.

"Oh, great! Thanks so much," I chattered like a cokehead, then laughed uncomfortably. "See you."

On Friday, I felt pretty much safe. But then, I thought I remembered hearing somewhere that Fridays are the most favored days for management to fire people. Around noon, however, I found out that HR lady (who would probably have done the firing) was out for the day.

It seems that success is mine! For the mere price of some frown lines, a few gray hairs, and a $38 cleansing drink. Whew.

The new job

2007-05-25T21:06:00.000-04:00

I am a planner. I like to know exactly what food I have in the cabinet at any given time. I like knowing where my dress socks are and exactly which order I should hang the shirts in my closet.

I am also a worrier. I worry that people won't like me, or that I won't get somewhere on time. Perhaps I am a worrier because I am a planner (I worry about plans going wrong?).

Either way, this combination makes me very uneasy every year come March when I have two months of school left before a summer break that hasn't been filled. Where will I live? Where will I work? What will I do? Who will I see?

I begin obsessively watching craigslist in early spring to find out if I can snag an early summer job or internship. This year I applied to any job in New York, Seattle, Los Angeles, or North Carolina that lasted all summer and kept my fingers crossed. By late March, I had a job lined up in the Seattle area.

They called me again to change my job description to something even better than it had originally been. The Thursday before I started, I called my supervisor to confirm my first day and ask a couple questions.

"Okay, so you can come in on Friday, sign your offer letter, take your test, and then start work on Monday."

I stopped pacing. "What's the test?" I asked. I had to take a personality test when I applied; maybe she was talking about that?

"Your drug test," she replied cheerfully.

"Oh, right... how long does that take? I'm going to be driving from a ways away and want to make sure I get there in time."

"Well, if you want, you can just do all that on Monday and start training with ChillBoss when you're done."

"Yeah, that sounds better," I said cheerfully. We hung up and I stormed into The ex-Ex's bedroom, where he was napping. I opened my Internet browser and began frantically searching for ways to pass a drug test. The ex-Ex woke up after a couple minutes and I told him the news agitatedly.

"Well, when was the last time you smoked?" He asked me.

"Monday," I said in despair.

"Oh... yeah, you're fucked."

"Thanks," I replied, then kept searching online for an answer.

After some discussion, The ex-Ex decided I might not be fucked after all. "I passed a test after a week before, you might be fine."

Over the weekend, I:

- Drank a shitton of water
- Took Niacin pills
- Drank cranberry juice
- Didn't wear deodorant (y'know... to sweat it out)
- Exercised
- Bought a $38 drink from a head shop that supposedly cleans THC out of your system

On Monday, I came in and signed my offer letter, then a consent form for the drug test. This is ridiculous, I thought. I'm not only unsure I'll pass, but I'm agreeing to let them take it? After I signed, HR guy said "So do you want to go ahead and take it now?"

I didn't understand what he meant. "Now, as opposed to...?" I couldn't tell what his facial expression meant, but I was pretty sure he wasn't offering to give me another week before taking the test. "I'll just do it now."

I already had to pee, but I couldn't decide if it would be suspicious to pee right before taking my test, which I desperately wanted to do because I had heard that the first two pees after waking up are the most impure. But, the wimp that I am, I drove to the clinic, sat there and waited.

I returned from the drug test, feeling like I was betraying every person I smiled to. Fooling them all into thinking I belonged there. Well, I knew I'd get at least a day's work there. The next three days were all I had to worry about.

Sorry for wearing blue, officer

2007-05-22T23:23:00.000-04:00

As I drove home from my brand-new job today, I heard a story on NPR.

The city council in Sunnyside, Washington passed an ordinance based on California legislation that makes it illegal to be a gang member. The law allows police to stop and question anybody they suspect to be part of a gang.

Officials thus discourage people from wearing "gang clothes" or making "gang gestures" and warn that based on such signals, they are entitled to stop and question you.

I don't know what the gang colors are in Sunnyside, but in the past I've heard any number of signals about gangs. Like wearing a red bandana. Or a blue shirt.

Thank goodness the police can now stop me for making a secret handshake in public! I mean, if I was in a gang last Thursday, I'd like to find out about it. I keep forgetting which one it was, too.

Competing for Approval, part 5 and done!

2007-05-20T05:12:00.000-04:00

I didn't think I would ever get tired of not writing real posts, but I did. So this Part 5 is going to be hella long (the rest of the story/paper) and then we'll get back to our original programming (cruel commentary on other peoples' lives as well as my own). Lovely.

"Look What I Can Do!" - Competing for Approval part 5
(Read parts 1, 2, 3, and 4)

I wondered why my personal satisfaction wasn’t enough to please me. I kept reminding myself that I was putting a lot into this internship: taking an hour and a half long commute (each way) to come to an unpaid internship where I entered data and made copies of DVDs. I stayed later than most people in the office, did more than my share of the work, and I had specifically refused to reduce my workload at school by taking an independent study. I knew I was working hard. But I never knew if [Supervisor] noticed. If he wanted more from me he never let on, and I was exhausted from trying to figure out what else I could offer.

I couldn’t tell how much of the competition between [Willa] and I was fabricated: was she consciously trying to undermine me, or was it possible that her attitude was actually genuine and I was competing with a ghost? The rivalry seemed real enough, yet though her emails always felt a little off to me, they never actually contained hostile words. Still, undermining coworkers can be done in deliberate yet indirect ways, such as through failing to transmit important information. [Willa] could always defend herself by calling her behavior inadvertent, and nobody could prove otherwise. There was no way I could know her intentions.

I felt marginalized again when [Willa] arrived at the office on a Thursday, her day off. “What’s going on?” I asked, shocked to see her.

“I’m here for the Women’s panel for the [Company] conference,” she explained. I hadn’t heard of it. [Willa] poked her head out of the dub room door and saw [Supervisor]’s empty desk. “Do you know where [Supervisor] is?”

“No. Is he going, too?” I asked, hoping I had effectively hidden the edge behind my voice.

“Yeah, we’re going together.” She showed me the email with the panel description.

“Cool.” I felt rejected. It sounded as though this had been [Willa]’s idea, and had she been going alone I wouldn’t have cared all that much. But she had planned to go with [Supervisor], on a day they both knew I would be in the office. Even if [Willa] disliked me, which she had never blatantly let on, [Supervisor] could have invited me.

“Let me see if I can register,” I said, hoping I sounded cheerful.

[Willa] came closer and leaned over the back of my chair at the computer monitor. “I don’t know if they’ll still let you in.”

“It says to just click here…” I clicked the hyperlink and was thanked for my reservation via Internet Explorer.

We went to the conference together, and I stayed alone for a few minutes afterward to grab a cookie from the snack table. [Willa] was in the office when I returned to gather my things.

“So, have you applied to any jobs?” I asked, curious to hear what her post-grad plans were.

“Yeah.”

“What kinds of places?”

“Oh, you know. Tons.” [Willa] appeared to be focused on checking her email. I hadn’t been that curious, but I still felt a little shut down. I waited for [Willa] to get off the computer so I could email her a file before I left, and we eventually started talking about our last days. “[Supervisor] told me that your last day was the third,” [Willa] said as she gathered her belongings.

“Really? Maybe I’ll ask him about that; I was planning on staying until the tenth, but I really could use a break.” A couple minutes later, [Willa] mentioned the summer interns. “When do they start?” I asked.

“Sometime in mid-June, I think.”

“That’s weird. I’d probably start whenever [Supervisor] asked me to.”

[Willa] turned around to face me, in the hall outside the dub room. “Why?” She sounded defensive. “It’s supposed to follow your school schedule.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know, I guess I’d just start whenever they wanted me. I don’t really care when my school schedule is; I’d just try to be available when they needed me.”

[Willa] crossed her arms and said, condescendingly, “You know, that’s kind of hypocritical of you.”

I was a little confused by her use of a word that I found to be rather rude. “Why do you say that?” I asked, resisting the urge to say something inappropriate in return.

“You just said you were going to ask to leave early, but then you said you would come early if you were a summer intern.”

“That doesn’t make me hypocritical.”

[Willa] started to walk away. “I’m just saying, I’ve had like a million internships, and my way has always worked for me.”

I didn’t appreciate her bringing up past experience as some sort of wand of authority. “Okay, well I’ve had five internships, and my way has worked for me, too. I don’t think it matters, I was just saying what I would do.” I followed her at a distance, noticing that a couple of the assistants were watching us from their cubicles. As she rounded the corner to leave, I stayed in place.

“Are you staying here?” She asked, looking reluctant to wait any longer.

“Yeah, just to put my things together; you can go.” I wanted to avoid taking the elevator with her.

I struggled for the next few days to make sense of what had happened. Was this event a confirmation of my beliefs that [Willa] disliked me? If she disliked me, was it necessarily because she was competing with me or undermining me at work? Or had I been unwelcoming after miscalculating her intentions and pressured her to become competitive? If I had a more positive evaluation of myself and my abilities, perhaps I wouldn’t feel the need for [Supervisor]’s approval or interpret my interactions with [Willa] as antagonistic.

Yet there were structural factors in the internship that encouraged competition rather than collaboration. Finding out that I had been [Supervisor]’s first choice before I started made me feel as though the position was more rightfully mine than [Willa]’s; what would have happened if my schedule had been different? She would have been replaced by someone with a more flexible schedule. Starting us weeks apart gave [Willa] the advantage of learning her tasks, meeting [Supervisor], and establishing the dub room before I arrived, which immediately made me feel as though [Willa] was thought of as the primary intern.

Poor communication was another result of the internship’s structure: since [Willa] and I worked on opposite schedules, we were very rarely able to interact in person. Our relationship was mediated almost entirely by phone and written word. Furthermore, we had no shared experiences; we were unable to joke about what [Supervisor] said in the development meeting, or go to lunch together. Such disconnection made it much easier to view [Willa] as an enemy or an agent fulfilling a role, and made miscommunications more frequent as we were unable to clarify opinions that may have been misinterpreted.

Competition could also have been enhanced because we were expected to perform the same tasks; if the pitch log was my sole responsibility, I never would have resented [Willa] for neglecting the stack of pitches. Had our responsibilities been divided differently, we may have been encouraged to measure success in terms of self improvement, rather than our ability to one-up each other. Focusing on our achievement rather than our desire to see coworkers fail would likely increase productivity; though competition may foster excellence in some environments, I found that it increased my desire to spend time manipulating people into giving me the approval I wanted. [Willa] successfully gained approval while being minimally productive. I became more invested in appearing to be a serious, hard-working intern than I was with learning about television development. Also, since [Willa] and I were competing with each other, it was unlikely that we would be able to collaborate effectively or develop a supportive, trusting relationship.

I rarely considered the ways in which class, gender, race, sexual orientation, or class ranking affected the interactions between [Willa] and me. [Willa] may have felt pressured to compete with me because she was a senior and viewed the internship as a potential means to obtain a job at [Network] (she did apply for one, and was not selected). Perhaps her family or peers, past experiences with sports or work have encouraged her to compete with her peers. In the future, I hope to avoid work environments where structural factors are likely to encourage competition. I would seek out settings which encourage personal achievement, collaboration, and positive relationships with coworkers. I would personally like to reduce my dependency on approval from superiors as a basis for satisfaction and emotional well-being.
* * *

Competing for Approval, part 4

2007-05-14T15:09:00.000-04:00

In case you think this post is "slacking off," I'll have you know that replacing everyone's names in this story is almost more work than writing a real post. But not quite.

"Look What I Can Do!" - Competing for Approval part 4
(Read parts 1, 2, and 3)

* * *

Another Thursday in late February, [Claire] ran into the dub room and stage-whispered, "Did you see the competitive coverage report?" At a lot of TV networks, someone in the office puts out a report of different shows that played during the week, mostly "notable" programming like season premieres, specials, etc. so that people can stay current without actually watching all those shows. Everyone at [Network] can submit a review for the report, and everybody who submits gets in.

I opened the report and [Claire] directed me to [Willa]’s review of E!’s Grammy coverage:

“I have to point out that in the middle of the show there was a shot of Jo and Slade taking pictures in front of the step and repeat, which for any of the Orange County fan there will be no guessing for what will happen to the couple this season. Usually The red carpet show with E! this season have been fairly boring but something was in the air...or their drink pre-show because Sunday night Ryan Seacrest and his fellow hosts were not going to hold back with any gossip and fashion opinions. It was nice that the show was live too because it added to the some what unorganized events on the red carpet, typical for the red carpet and entertaining for the people at home. All in all it was a great start to the beginning.”

I was actually stunned. I couldn’t tell what she was trying to say, or if there were any actual opinions about the content of the show. [Claire] and I read the rest of the reviews [Willa] had written (about six) and giggled. Had she not been the enemy, I would have felt bad for her. Instead, I was relieved. This was all the evidence I needed to prove that I was smarter (so, hopefully, better) than [Willa].

For a while, the tension I had felt dissipated. My frustration that I seemed to log most of the pitches was stale; I had gotten used to it. Everything [Willa] did that bothered me was a minor irritation. In April, she asked me to work on a project that had been specifically given to her: we had to call contestants from a show to get their contact information. I had just finished a huge pile of pitches, so I tried to help her with a few of the contestants. “Just write the information down next to their names and I’ll put it into the spreadsheet,” she wrote on a post-it. I looked at the sheet. There was no way all the contact information could fit on the paper next to their names. Why didn’t she just send me the stupid spreadsheet, or save it on a shared folder so we could both access it? I thought angrily. Did she just want to have more control over the project than me? To feel like I was reporting to her? Or did she think she was actually doing me a favor? I made a new spreadsheet and added the information. If you’re going to ask someone a favor, don’t make them do twice as much work.

A couple days later, I talked to [Claire] again. “What does [Supervisor] say about [Willa] and me?” I asked.

“Ooooooh, it’s so weird,” She said with amusement. “He’s really impressed with [Willa]. He thinks she’s great. He’s always saying “That [Willa], she’s a real go-getter.” He loves that she’s always making spreadsheets and all that.”

I was astonished. “He seriously thinks she’s that great?”

“I guess so.”

“Well, what does he say about me?”

“He doesn’t say much about you. I know he thinks you’re great too. I think he’s just surprised by [Willa], because he had already expected you to do well but he wasn’t sure about [Willa].”

Maybe contributing to those competitive coverage reports had actually impressed him? But admiring her for the spreadsheet was ridiculous, especially when she had to get my help to do the project. And when I do all of the work we’re supposed to be doing. Still, I tried to think: Did I do anything above and beyond? I usually stayed at the office until after seven o’clock, when we were only instructed to stay until six. I asked to sit in on pitches, and I asked for those DVDs: initiative. When I reorganized [Number 2]’s DVD collection, I labeled the 1/8 inch spine of every DVD (over a hundred of them) by printing the titles on labels and cutting them into tiny strips. I logged most of the pass pitches and did most of the tasks [Supervisor] asked of us without much contribution from [Willa].

What did [Willa] do all day that I was always the one logging pass pitches? Was she overwhelmed when people handed her DVDs to dub? Did label-making take more than five minutes for her? Did she simply look busier than I did? Most significantly, though: Did [Supervisor] notice that I did more of our duties than [Willa]? He must not, if he was so impressed with her. How could I find out what he thought of me without asking him? It didn’t seem as though he had mentioned anything to [Claire], who was my only source of information.

Now I felt like I was competing again; this time with a little more bitterness. My golden opportunity to prove myself the better intern came in the form of a list. [Supervisor] gave [Willa] and I a printed excel spreadsheet filled with pitch information. “We’re supposed to check that it’s in the log, add the information if it’s not. Initial next to the ones you do so we’ll know where we left off,” [Willa] explained.

It was a long list, and it took me about a week to complete (most of the information was not in the log). In that time, [Willa] finished two pages and I finished fourteen. She stopped after the first day. The moment I finished the list, I delivered it to [Supervisor]’s desk. He was away, so I wrote a note that said “Completed” on it. If he looked at the initials, he would be able to see that I had done virtually all of the work. As I set the list down, I realized that I actually felt angry. I wanted to know why nobody had once told me with sincerity that they thought I was doing well. Not a comparison with [Willa]; a progress report for me. I was most angry because I recognized that I was actively trying to undermine [Willa]. I felt guilty, but mostly upset with [Supervisor] for failing to encourage me and make me feel valued. If I had been getting positive feedback from him, I didn’t think I would feel the need to throw my initials onto his desk. I wasn’t surprised when he didn’t mention the completed packet.
* * *

Competing for Approval, part 3

2007-05-08T22:40:00.000-04:00

The week is so long. I am almost free. And so tired. So... tired...

"Look What I Can Do!" - Competing for Approval part 3
(Catch up: read parts 1 and 2)

* * *

When [Supervisor] returned, the phone calls from [Willa] stopped. We emailed each other, but things seemed to calm down. I focused on my work: there was a stack of pitches about two feet high that had been accumulating since December, and it was nagging me. I spent a nine-hour day logging as many pitches as I could into the database, and noticed that the To Do pile was right where I had left off when I returned two days later. I finished them and awaited a cry of surprise or approval from [Supervisor], but none came. Eighteen hours of tedious work and he doesn’t say a word? I supposed I couldn’t fault him for expecting me to do my job, though.

Every day I arrived at the office, I would open my email to find a note from [Willa]. The majority of them sounded like demands, because I couldn’t tell what she was doing all day. “I just thought I’d let you know, [Supervisor] said he’s getting a little nervous about the pile of pitches. I didn’t get a chance to get to them, but I thought you should know.” I looked at the basket; there were about five (thirty minutes of work).

One Thursday in early February, [Claire] joined me in the dub room to watch an episode of one of our new series. As we watched, we talked about our lives, Grey’s Anatomy, office gossip. I told [Claire] that I felt like [Willa] would impress [Supervisor] more because she was constantly trying to delegate to me.

“No way,” [Claire] consoled me with a smirk. “She’s not that great. And I know for a fact that [Supervisor] likes you better.”

“Really? How?”

“Because he told me when he picked his interns, ‘I picked two interns. One of them is fabulous, she’s awesome. The other one, I’m not so sure about.’”

I was horrified. “How do you know he wasn’t talking about [Willa]? He totally was. Shit.”

“No, he was talking about you! He didn’t say your name, but he told me the good one was getting surgery.” Whew! “And remember how you had him send you those DVDs?”

When I first got the internship, I had asked [Supervisor] if he could send me some seasons of [Network]’s shows so that I could familiarize myself with the network. I truly wanted to watch them, but knew I was taking a gamble: I could come off as either enthusiastic or demanding.

"Well he loved that!"

"Really?!"

"Totally. He told me about it; he said it was great how excited you were to learn about [Network]. He told everyone in the office that you had asked for them."

After this conversation, I felt like I had a friend on my side of the battle wills I had created. I liked confiding in [Claire], but I had to wonder what went on when she and [Willa] worked together on Wednesdays. Was [Claire] just as gossipy? Did she tell [Willa] that I complain about her? She wouldn’t do that! I insisted. Still, how could I know? Maybe I should be more careful what I told [Claire], I thought. I felt like I could trust her, but I still didn’t trust [Willa]. Still, I was relieved to have a friend I could share my feelings with.

[Claire]’s revelation made me feel a little better, but I still felt as though I had to prove to [Supervisor] that I was better than [Willa]. Only when [Supervisor] praised me (and complained about [Willa]) I would feel secure.

Yet it never happened. Occasional compliments were shrouded by humor: when I filed away a stack of pitches I had just logged, [Supervisor] said in a silly voice “You’re so fast, [TAB]! It’s like magic!” More often, however, he said nothing. Instead, he preferred to give me strange, quizzical looks – complete with a raised eyebrow – when I asked him questions that he apparently deemed too silly for a polite response.

The first time he asked me to print a label for a VHS, I brought it back for quality assurance. [Supervisor] pursed his lips and cocked his head to the side. “Hmm, something is off here.”

“I wasn’t sure about the font size,” I explained sheepishly, trailing off.

[Supervisor] looked at me from his chair. “Well, did you use the template?” He asked, evoking a preschool teacher whose patience has worn thin.

“Yes, I used the template… it just didn’t look like it would fit, so I tried -”

[Supervisor] shot out of his chair, seemingly irritated. He showed me how to use the template and then left. Later that day, I asked somebody else when I needed to find out where we kept the staples. I can’t believe I’m afraid to ask him where staples are, I thought, frustrated. I’m not afraid; I just don’t want to deal with him right now, I reasoned.

I explained my dilemma as my roommate’s dad drove us to campus after work that day. “You can’t let people like him get to you,” he said. “You have no control over his responses. Try to think about yourself: you’re there to learn, so just do whatever you can to get the most out of your internship. You don’t need him to like you.”

I nodded, but I was still troubled. Maybe I could ignore [Supervisor]’s strange facial expressions, but I still needed his praise. Why does it matter? Why can’t you just accept that you do your best and forget what he thinks? I wondered, troubled. Perhaps it was because at an unpaid internship, approval and appreciation were my only forms of compensation.
* * *

Competing for Approval, part 2

2007-05-07T19:21:00.000-04:00

It's still finals week. So here's a quick quiz for you.

One of the following is false. Can you guess which?

A. Ate an entire bag of mini carrots in 30 minutes
B. Slept a total of 6 hours in 3 days
C. Accidentally fell asleep at my desk on top of my laptop
D. Skipped the 2 hour Grey's Anatomy special to write a paper
E. Researched and wrote a 20 page paper in under 13 hours

Now, back to my story...

"Look What I Can Do!" - Competing for Approval part 2
(Catch up: read part 1)

* * *
On Tuesday, I got my bearings. I sat at [Supervisor]'s computer, set up meetings for [Head Honcho] and [Number 2], answered the phone. It was pretty straightforward.

The next morning, I was awakened by a phone call from [Willa].

“What is with this DVD on the desk?” She asked. DVD? I vaguely remembered a disc in a case that had been sitting on [Supervisor]'s desk when I arrived on Tuesday.

“I don’t know… it was there when I came in yesterday; I didn’t know it was anything out of the ordinary.” This wouldn’t have happened, of course, if I had sat at [Supervisor]’s desk on Monday. I refrained from mentioning this.

[Willa] asked me more questions, all in a very concerned – frantic, maybe? – tone of voice, before getting off the phone. I didn’t feel like I had done anything wrong, and her questions were pretty reasonable, but they felt almost like accusations. I kept imagining the way our call sounded to the people who might have been listening: The new intern had left a mess for [Willa] to clean up. Did [Willa] sigh and roll her eyes, share a moment of frustration with someone when she got off the phone? I hoped not.

The next day, I arrived at [Supervisor]'s desk to find a page-long typed note from [Willa]. She had printed it off and left it right in front of his computer. As I read it, every mini paragraph (there were nine) brought me a wave of resentment: She wrote that I was doing something wrong to the [Website] computer, confusing the program? Why couldn’t she have just said “It turns out the program doesn’t accept symbols in the clip title”? Was her appeal for me to CC her on meeting requests a veiled complaint? I certainly hadn’t complained at having to search through deleted emails the day before. Why couldn’t she have written “I think we should start cc-ing each other on meeting requests” instead of “Can you cc: me”?

There was really nothing that awful about the content of the note, I realized after I had calmed down. What bothered me was that she had left it out for anyone to read. Reading it while thinking about how public she had made it, it had seemed like a list of demands or grievances. Was her word choice intentional? Was she just trying to be helpful? It was impossible to tell from the words on the page.

In the afternoon, [Willa] called to “check in.” She may have been making an effort to open communication between us, but I didn’t consider that. Instead, I felt as though she was monitoring me unnecessarily. Why is she calling me on her day off? I wondered. Does she think I’m incompetent? I felt like [Willa] was being condescending; she may have been working at [Network] longer than I had, but we had the same title. I shouldn’t have to report to her. I was resourceful; if I ran into a problem, I could easily ask another assistant to help me, or re-read the part of her note that read “Feel free to call me with a question if you need to.”

After going through a slew of questions, [Willa] asked me if I had heard from [Supervisor]. “It’s weird, he didn’t call me at all yesterday. He doesn’t pick up when I call him and he hasn’t listened to any of the messages I left him.”

How many could you have left in one day? I wondered. “Yeah, it’s almost like he’s on vacation or something!” I laughed.

“Oh, well, actually he is,” [Willa] replied in a helpful voice.

There was a pause. I frowned. Really? How could that not have been a joke? “I know,” I finally answered.

“Oh.” She sounded annoyed. “Well it’s hard to tell when you’re being sarcastic.”

We got off the phone, and I felt even more irritated. I knew that sarcasm wasn’t always the best social lubricant, but that joke had seemed pretty straightforward. Still, I hadn’t enjoyed that interaction, so I decided I would try to keep my jokes to myself with [Willa]. Just business.

The problem with relationships that are “just business” is that they prevent people from becoming comfortable with each other. Had [Willa] and I chatted more the first day we met, we might have felt more at-ease with each other. Since we worked on alternate days, we almost never got the chance to interact in person, when small talk and the benefit of visual cues (facial expressions, gestures) might help us better understand each other.

Instead of getting to know [Willa] and think of her as an ally, she increasingly became an enemy to me. Since I barely ever saw her in the flesh, it was easy to think of her in an impersonal way. In fact, it was a struggle not to think of her as my competition: all I knew about her was that she called me far too much, sent me excessively long emails telling me what to do, and didn’t understand my sense of humor. We had the same responsibilities, the same office space, boss, and similar career goals. And here I was, learning her system for the pitch log and being harassed by phone calls on my days off.

One day I arrived to find that she had printed a label of my name and stuck it on my folder. She had decorated my property? What could that possibly mean? It felt like a violation of my personal space; some symbol of ownership over me. “My folder has a printed label with my name on it, and so should yours,” I could hear her saying to herself. What if I didn’t want the label?
* * *

Please help me understand...

2007-05-07T02:44:00.000-04:00

When you've dated a few people, you end up with a small collection of songs that will forever remind you of an ex. For a while, those songs may make you upset or maybe regretful or nostalgic.

But is it weird that, after 4 years, I'm still annoyed that an ex boyfriend ruined a song that I love? Especially since I don't have bad feelings toward him now?

Party in my stomach

2007-05-05T11:14:00.000-04:00

I just drank down a whole bunch of pills.

Multivitamin, painkillers, antibiotic (still...), allergy meds, caffeine, adderall, glucosamine supplement (for my hip)...

I wonder if my body ever gets confused when I do this.

College student - part 1

2007-05-04T14:25:00.000-04:00

When I write in my blog, I like to pretend that I'm not a college student. "Good writers aren't this young and inexperienced," I think to myself. So I like to pretend I'm not young and inexperienced, because I don't like to think I'm not a good writer. I try to write thought-provoking posts that are hopefully humorous. Or maybe more often humorous posts that are hopefully thought-provoking. But I usually stay away from posts that are purely academic. I hate those blogs. I read for entertainment, not learning! (As if learning can't be entertaining, too. How sad.)

But, I'm going to come out and say it: I'm a college student.

See? I knew you'd still love me.

So, it's finals week. At my school, finals week means anything from actual finals (1) to screenplays (1) to oral exams (1) to 20-page papers (1). And no, "oral exams" does not mean giving oral sex for a grade. Though we all know what grade I'd get.* ;-)

So, technically I'll be posting about my life, since my life is paper-writing. I'm going to post the memoir I wrote about my internship. I'll do it in segments so you can take naps in between reading.

* An incomplete - I've never given any of you head!

"Look What I Can Do!" - Competing for Approval - part 1

Getting the internship itself was a competitive process. Each year, several thousand hopeful students email their resumes to [Company]. On [Company]’s website, there are 74 intern positions listed in the New York area. There is only one East Coast internship in entertainment development.

During my interview, [Supervisor] told me that I was their eighth and final candidate. I left after a quick tour of the office in a rush of nervous energy. There were going to be two development interns, so I had 1/4 chance of getting the internship. “We really like the fact that you’ve already worked at [Company],” [Supervisor] had said. That had to be a good sign.

When I got the phone call offering me the internship, I asked [Supervisor] about my schedule. “Let us know what days you can come in; we’ll select the second intern based on your availability.” Apparently, I was their first choice. I was ecstatic.

On my first day at the office, [Supervisor] gave me a tour. My “office” was the dub room, which housed two computers, three TV monitors, two DVD burners (or dub machines), and other equipment that transferred DVDs to VHS, VHS to VHS, and so on. [Supervisor]’s desk was just outside the door of the dub room, in a group of four workstations with green partitions on three sides. At these cubicle-like groupings sat the assistants; lining the walls around them were actual offices occupied by [Network] executives. Down a hallway and in a corner office was [Supervisor]’s boss, [Head Honcho]. The vice-president of development, [Head Honcho]’s space came complete with a couch, two armchairs, and a tiny wire frame table that looked purely ornamental. The office next to hers was occupied by [Number 2], whose Director title made him one rung down the executive ladder. [Supervisor] reported to both [Number 2] and [Head Honcho].

Back in the dub room, [Supervisor] talked me through my regular duties: I would be maintaining the DVD library, which consisted of five large binders filled with episodes of all of [Network]’s current series; I would be uploading video files to a website called [Website], where people could watch clips from the comfort of the Internet; I would be dubbing DVDs as requested; and I would be entering information from pass pitches into the computer. Pass pitches were proposals for new shows submitted to [Network]’s development department that had been turned down, and the database I used was called the pitch log.

“I’ll show you how to do [Website] today,” [Supervisor] explained, “But I’ll let [Willa] explain the pitch log to you on Monday; she has a system.”

I was disappointed to find out that I had started working a whole three weeks after the other development intern started. She already had a system? I felt a little behind. I’ll catch up, I shrugged. Still, it stung a bit: [Willa] already had seniority.

The instant [Supervisor] left the dub room, busy preparing for his two week vacation, a young woman entered.

“Hi, I’m [Claire],” She said right away, offering her hand. I shook it. “Would you mind helping me with an errand?”

We left the building on a mission to Staples. On the way there and back, [Claire] mapped out the office for me in a way that seemed comically similar to Cady’s orientation to high school in Mean Girls, where her newfound friends explain which tables the cool kids occupied in the cafeteria.

[Claire] was a fellow intern, but worked for [Tim], who was the executive assistant to the network president. She had been [Supervisor]’s intern last summer, so she knew exactly what I would be doing and who I was working with. Even if it was a bit of a stereotypical welcome, it was great luck that I was getting along with someone so well on my first day.

On Monday morning I arrived at the office and had to call [Willa] from the elevator bank to let me in, as I still hadn’t received my ID badge. I watched through the glass doors as a shorter, slightly overweight, pimply Chinese-American girl greeted me.

“Hi, you must be [TAB]. I’m [Willa].” She sounded perky and kind.

[Willa] and I walked to [Supervisor]’s desk, and she guided me through a checklist that had been printed: “While [Supervisor] It Out,” it was titled. However, I soon became less annoyed by the typo than [Willa]’s guidance: she was reading me duties that [Supervisor] had explained the week before. I tried to tell her that I had already gone over the responsibilities with [Supervisor], but she continued anyway, “Just in case”.

After a few polite questions (“What college do you go to?” “What year are you?”), [Willa] and I stood speechless at [Supervisor]’s desk. What now?

“Where do you want to sit?” [Willa] asked.

[Supervisor]’s desk was the obvious choice: it was out in the open, had a better version of Windows, a flat-screen monitor, and the great responsibility of filling his shoes. Don’t be bossy, I chided myself. “I don’t really mind, either way,” I countered in an agreeable voice. “Where do you want to sit?”

“I’ll sit at [Supervisor]’s desk today,” [Willa] replied cheerfully, as though she were doing me a favor.

Well, you didn’t say anything, I grumbled to myself as I carried my coat and purse into the dub room. It would have made sense to sit there, so that I could be more prepared to fill in for [Supervisor] alone the next day. Too late now. Next time don’t be polite.
* * *

Stay tuned for... backstabbing, catfights. Possible nudity.

My favorite subway musician

2007-05-01T12:46:00.000-04:00

I never give change (or bills, either) to people playing music or otherwise panhandling in the subway. "I can't afford to," I insist to myself. It always seems to make much more sense to spend $3.80 on a Chai latte from Starbucks, the cup half filled with ice. See how that works? Makes much more sense.

I even have a favorite subway musician. This guy used to play all the time in the passageway when I transferred from the 7 to the BDFV. He had a guitar and he sang, and the music was actually good. I didn't recognize any of the songs, but I really liked his voice and his style.

I actually thought about him a couple weeks ago, when I passed by the flutist who only plays "My Heart Will Go On" from Titanic. "Where is the awesome guitarist guy?" I wondered. "I haven't seen him in a while. I hope he's okay."

Then, last week, he was there. I couldn't keep the smile off my face: my favorite subway musician was still around! And yet, I didn't give him any money.

All the gossip

2007-04-29T15:36:00.000-04:00

I keep thinking that I'm going to write a long, detailed post about what happened. But I don't really want to, and I keep dreading writing about it. I usually enjoy writing detailed, thoughtful posts that are much more than reports. But I'm stressed out because it's the last few weeks of school, and I also don't really enjoy dwelling on what is going on.

So...

After a couple conversations in which The ex-Ex gave me ultimatums (decide right now whether you want to be with me), I was fairly sure that we were going to break up.

I spent a night with The Filmmaker, and we ended up making out as well as sharing a few kisses... elsewhere.

The next day, I felt horrible. I sent an email to The ex-Ex, basically telling him all of the things that had led me to believe our relationship couldn't work. The email was not sweet or evasive. I was firm.

He surprisingly wrote an incredibly long reply in which he told me he wanted the same things and that he thought we could work it out.

I felt even more upset about what happened with The Filmmaker, and told The ex-Ex what happened. The ex-Ex was understandably upset, and yelled at me for a good hour on the phone.

The next morning, I had an email from The ex-Ex telling me that he understood what had happened and might have acted similarly if he had been me.

The ex-Ex and I started talking more on the phone or email, and I made plans to come back for the summer. I reserved a flight to his town at school, for the night before his birthday.

I didn't see The Filmmaker for about a week. He was sick and I was avoiding him or busy. We didn't talk about what happened. I was embarrassed. The Filmmaker's best friend, The Dork, confronted me about what happened and revealed that he still (after 2 years) has feelings for me. The Dork tried to trick me into giving him a detailed explanation of what happened with The Filmmaker. I refused.

The Filmmaker started talking to me online again. I made sure to curb any flirtation from my end. He came to the library when I was working this week and I sat down with him after my shift ended so we could study together. We ended up talking most of the time, catching up mostly. He asked me what had happened with The ex-Ex; I told him. I was surprised at how much less embarrassed I was than I had been before. The Filmmaker didn't seem too disappointed, and said that what happened doesn't change our relationship that much. I was glad.

I was called on Thursday with news that I am a finalist for an internship that I want. The opportunity is incredible and the competition is fierce. I have to submit a taped interview and won't find out for a month whether I get the internship, which is in Los Angeles. The ex-Ex was upset when I told him, and told me that he hoped I would take our relationship into consideration when making a decision. I was angry - but not surprised - that he was being so unsupportive. He apologized later that night and told me that he would support whatever decision I made.

I still only talk to The ex-Ex in ten or twenty minute snippets, either because of his schedule or mine. I always let him call me, because I never know when he will be free and because I am rarely free. We talked last weekend for two hours on the phone and it was great, but since then it has been mostly emails or short phone calls. I am too tired to do anything else or to break up, and I can't tell what I want to do or how I will be able to figure it out.

I increasingly think that I am in love with The Filmmaker, even though I know I can't have a relationship with him.

Disgusting

2007-04-27T00:32:00.000-04:00

Sorry, I lied. I said my post today would be about the gossip of the men. It is not.

I WILL, however, post about that tomorrow. Unless I'm lying right now, in which case I won't. Either way, it will come out very soon.

But fortunately, I will complain about the fact that the nurse at health services gave me antibiotics for my allergies that killed just the right amount of bacteria in my special place to give me a yeast infection.

Love it. Love. It.

Not one of "those"

2007-04-25T23:47:00.000-04:00

I realized today: I'm not one of those people who just sits around and hangs out. I was thinking about it, about people I know (or mostly people I don't know...) who just sit around and hang out a lot. They just do nothing much during their free time. I'm not one of those. I'm the one who has to take the hardest workload possible at college, and then take an unrequired and time-consuming internship that doesn't pay. For my future, sure, but that just brings me back to my point: I'm not just hanging out on my time outside class.

"But when I graduate next year," I thought, "I'll have a bunch of time to just relax, outside of regular work hours."

There are two problems with this, I realized. First, it's never as relaxing as it sounds, when you factor in the commute and the grocery shopping and the bill paying and the cooking and cleaning. Second, I won't have a regular job, probably. I'll probably have a 60 or 70 hour/week job, and I'll always be working toward something better. Maybe it's just who I am.

Or maybe next year I should just say "whatever" to all that and do nothing that isn't absolutely required of me by my school.

Tomorrow there will be a real post, with a lot of juicy story... about certain people I have been avoiding blogging about. Until then.....

Bewildered in the morning

2007-04-22T12:06:00.000-04:00

I woke up. The chirping birds betrayed the dim light of the bedroom. It was 10:30. The light was seeping in through the cracks of the window shade. I had company coming at eleven, and I had set an alarm for 10am... Did my alarm go off? I looked at my phone; the alarm icon was gone. I must have turned it off. Strange, I couldn't remember waking up.

I shifted in bed, stretching. As I pulled the comforter away, I found that I wasn't wearing any pants. What? I always wear PJ pants to bed.

There they were, right next to me in bed. So... I had taken off my PJ pants in my sleep? What exactly does that mean?

Laundry day

2007-04-18T21:35:00.000-04:00

I'm the kind of girl who waits.

To do laundry, at least.

I wait until my last piece of acceptable underwear is gone. Then, I'm left with the undesirable pile (yes, I have a pile. It is folded). Then, as soon as it isn't raining/too late at night/there is anything better to do, I force myself to go.

This time, I broke into my undesirable pile two weeks ago. Every night that I was free to do laundry, I found an excellent excuse to avoid it. There was the homework. The pot. The rain. The schedule.

Then yesterday, I used my very last pair of socks. Not even my undesirable socks were left (those ones I just throw in with the regular pile. But there is still a pile). I searched through the drawer. And yes, I had only one pair of underwear left. "Tomorrow is the day," I sighed. Then smiled: at least I didn't have to do it then!

Today, I left my friend NiceGuy's room after a riotous episode of The Office to do my homework. "Maybe I'll bring it over?" I wondered out loud.

"Yeah, definitely" He offered.

Oh wait. Laundry. "Nevermind," I whined, then explained. Oh well. I got home and separated all of my dirty clothes (every piece of clothing that I've worn in the past month) into two piles. Whites and darks. The darks pile... was... out of hand. Out of laundry bag, even.

"I guess I'll just have to do two loads of darks," I grumbled, making the familiar promise to myself that I would do laundry before it got this out of hand next time. I gathered the laundry bag, the detergent, the change (no pockets on laundry day!), and the overflowing clothes. Then I searched for my key.

I left, walked the 50 feet or so to the laundry room in my proud laundry day clothing: gray PJ pants, a black slip, a bra, and a knit sweater. Hott. As I approached the laundry room door, I saw orange tape in an X over the door, Katrina dead-body style. "Oh crap," I said, turning the door knob. I turned in horror to see all 4 washers and dryers with "Out of Order" signs taped on top of them.

So... commando time?

Inside: a place that should be flower-free

2007-04-17T23:03:00.000-04:00

About a week ago, I had a serious problem. I woke up with a throat that felt half-closed, with liquid draining down the back of my throat. My mouth felt numb, and I was sort of dizzy.

But I quickly dismissed the idea of a cold, remembering that this had happened the last two years around spring time. So I found some antihistamines, cursed my allergies, and succumbed to the side effects of the medication instead: dull-witted sleepiness. Basically, there is no way of getting around the wrath of my allergies.

Luckily, the rain came to New York and soaked up all the pollen or whatever was causing my entire face to feel like a swamp. Unfortunately, I wasted my health on booze and boys, and today at the office I again felt a familiar numbing of the throat.

"That's strange," I thought. "It's still wet and miserable outside; why would my allergies be coming back?"

And then I got off the elevator at the end of the day to find out that some retarded asshole who obviously has no allergies decided to put up an orchid show in the lobby of our building. How considerate. With any luck, it will be there until I leave in May.

Such a smooth criminal

2007-04-16T20:54:00.000-04:00

On my way out of the building coming from my internship today, the fire alarm sounded. I looked back to see an entire hallway of fire alarms blinking and sounding off, then continued hastily out of the building.

For some reason, I felt somehow responsible. And then crafty when nobody pulled me aside, catching me in the act of setting the fire alarm off.

They'll never catch me!

So, this is interesting...

2007-04-13T16:05:00.000-04:00

The indecision over The Filmmaker and The ex-Ex has not been resolved yet.

In the meantime, another problem has presented itself to me which will be easier to discuss.

I like to think of myself as a feminist. It's not that I think there are no gender differences. I think being a feminist partly means being a critical thinker; looking at gender as something that shouldn't dictate one's destiny. I'm a woman (whatever that means), but I don't think that all women are the same. I don't think all women are weak or strong. I don't think that all women have a "natural" mothering instinct, and I don't think that none of them do. I try to question phrases with the words manly, womanly, feminine, masculine...

I am irritated at the studies revealing the ways women defer to men. That women, in conversation with men, use words like "This is interesting" or "I have a story to tell you" instead of just launching in. Whereas men don't point out the value of their words because that value is automatic when the speaker is male.

When men speak, they tend to break up their sentences with their natural breathing patterns. When women speak, they lengthen their breaths in order to push more words out of their mouths, unsettling their natural breathing patterns. Why? Are they afraid someone will interrupt them? Are they making sure they convey enough information in one breath to confirm that their stories are valuable enough to hold someone's attention?

Women in power who freak out and yell at their employees are deemed emotional, bitchy. Their words are dismissed and they are taken less seriously. Men in power who freak out and yell are forces to be reckoned with. They may not be highly regarded, but their right to be "the boss" is not as likely to be questioned.

There are statistics about pay inequality and workplace discrimination. Those trouble me as well. But when the inequalities come down to such subtle social interactions, it's even more insidious. Why is it acceptable for men to watch women, survey them, examine their bodies without feeling uncomfortable? Why is it unacceptable for women to hold eye contact with men when they are not flirting?

I recently tried to look people in the eyes as I strode past them on the streets of Manhattan. I tried to walk with my shoulders back and head up, eyes forward. To convey confidence, ownership of my surroundings. Arrogance, even. It feels nice.

Yet, even though I am aware of these inequalities, disdain them and protest them, I continue to wear bras and shop for feminine, "attractive" clothing. It makes me feel good. I say "Sorry" when people bump into me. I ask a server if "it would be possible" to get a glass of water. I thank people profusely and often.

And today, I stepped off a path to make room for two men who were walking in the opposite direction.

A pinch of adorable

2007-04-11T10:04:00.000-04:00

I invited The Filmmaker over for an incredibly late (midnight) impromptu dinner last night. He said "I'm hungry" and I realized that I should probably eat something before bed, so invited him over. Out of the kindness of my own heart. Also because I didn't want to do any more work.

Instead of putting on real clothes, I went for the sexy PJ look (so, my PJs).

We sat and talked while the pasta boiled. He was possibly getting a job post-graduation and I was excited for him. Also for myself: he could get to know all the key players and introduce me before I graduate next year.

A couple days before I had talked to him online.

"What was your plan?" I asked him.

"What do you mean?"

"Your plan. After you told me you were interested in some kind of romantic involvement, was your plan to just have sex with me for a month until you graduate?"

"Sort of."

At first, I felt kind of hurt. He just wanted to use me, then. How could he just want to screw me and abandon me? I put myself in his shoes. If I was interested in him but leaving the area in a month, a fling was pretty much the best we could do. So it was either that, or he was planning to find someone easy to have sex with. Of course I had to ask him.

"If you weren't leaving in a month, would you want more than a fling?"

"Yes."

So the guy I've been interested in for two years finally wants me. Would want to date me. And now I had invited him into my house to share a meal. Great plan.

Things were going swimmingly until I couldn't think of anything to say. We had finished eating and it was getting really late. I didn't want him to leave yet, but it was bound to happen soon and if we didn't keep talking, probably within a minute or two. But my mind was blank. I just looked at him, sitting across from me looking right back at me. And then he finally spoke.

"This would be so much easier if we were dating."

Uh oh. "What would?"

"Well, if we were together we would just go upstairs and go to bed together until we fell asleep. But this way, I have to go back to my room and lay in bed awake and wait until I fall asleep by myself."

Oh. I had thought he was going to start talking about sex and how much he wanted to do me, or something eloquent like. But no, he wanted to go upstairs and fall asleep together.

I know he's not perfect. But I can't help comparing him to The ex-Ex and wondering if I like him more. Even if The Filmmaker would only be for a month, liking anybody more than The ex-Ex doesn't seem like a good sign.

Early morning catastrophe

2007-04-09T20:10:00.000-04:00

This morning, I woke up extra early to get ready for my internship because I had a special task. Last Thursday, Kansas boy asked me if I could fill in for him on his day off. Kansas boy is the executive assistant to the president of the TV channel I work for. You can't come late to work to screen calls for the president of the channel.

Kansas boy had asked me to come by 9:30am, a whole half hour before my usual call time. But since I wanted time to settle in and get some coffee and water before I would be chained to his desk, I decided to aim for 9am. Coming from my school, this meant waking up at 7am. And, of course, I went to bed at 2am. Is there any other way to live?

With me, you can tell there is something very important happening on a given day when I wake up within five minutes of my alarm's first ring. Today, I was up within five minutes. I went to the shower, turned the water on and waited for the temperature to change. It didn't. I kept thrusting my right arm into the water, long enough for my arm to get used to the cold water and fool my body into thinking the water was actually getting warmer. So I tested with my other hand, and my suspicions were correct: no hot water. I cursed at the shower, then made some judgment calls. I held my hair up with one hand while I soaped with the other hand in the freezing cold water. My shower lasted less than five minutes.

Then I had to get dressed. I had run out of the underwear that I usually wear (laundry day is impending), so I picked the most comfortable thong I own. I dressed, did my make up, and was ready to brush my teeth and head out the door (right on time) when I got my period. The underwear was unsalvageable. I ran to the bathroom and get a tampon, changed into ANOTHER thong, and called a cab to get to the train station. I make the train I was aiming for, using the last of my cash for the taxi.

On the train, my recent gift of allergies started bothering me and I realized I had forgotten to bring a napkin or tissue to blow my nose into. I tried to covertly squeeze the snot onto my fingers and wipe it off on my coat (classy, I know). When I got to Grand Central, I grabbed a napkin from the Starbucks to relieve me of my misery and then went to the Rite Aid for some antihistamines. When I arrived, there were about 15 people waiting to pay. "Fuck it" I thought, contemplating a 180 back toward the subway. But I knew there was no way I could get through the day without some meds so I waited in line to pay.

Task completed, I walked to the subway, where none of the ticket machines were taking credit cards. How convenient! Right after I had spent all of my cash. I went to the info desk, which was inundated with people, and told the woman there that I had no cash, waving a debit card at her instead. She kindly opened the door for me and let me through without paying (score!).

I arrived at the office at 9:20 and introduced myself to the PRESIDENT of the channel! And then I sat down in Kansas boy's seat and hoped that nobody would call.

The Noisy Ghost

2007-04-07T17:52:00.000-04:00

I am what I will call half friendly. What this means is that I will be friendly, but only under some circumstances:

- When other people are being friendly to me, I usually reciprocate. Unless they murdered my dog or slept with me without my consent or I think they're talking to someone else, there is really no reason to ignore someone who is saying hello.

- If I don't know someone, but know I have something in common with them, I will usually talk to them. For instance, if I recognize somebody from a class of mine, I often smile, say hi, and sometimes even go so far as to say "How are you?" But that one's only if they're lucky.

- When I randomy feel like it, I will be friendly to people I don't know. Strangely enough, this often happens when I am drunk. Hm.

- If someone is avoiding eye contact with me, I often don't talk to them. They're clearly not interested in acknowledging my presence, so I will leave them alone.

I work in the library at my school, so I end up seeing pretty much anyone who needs a book on Saturdays and Mondays. Sometimes people are friendly, sometimes not, and usually I could care less because I tend to make silly comments in the hopes that I can entertain myself.

When my bipolar, passive aggressive ex-roommate who called me The Devil checked out a book, it was nice to watch her avert her eyes and imagine that I had the power to hold her library books just beyond her grasp.

There is one girl who I'll take the liberty of calling The Noisy Ghost, who is so pale I wonder if she shields her face with an umbrella when she goes outside, or only lets the moonlight bathe her. She also talks about three times as louder than necessary and wears her millions of keys on her belt so that when she walks around they jangle. If she walks too much, I can hear the keys begging me to scream at her.

The Noisy Ghost works at the library. She is also friends with a girl who lives in my house, who I call The Grinch because she is always yelling at us to be quiet and my friends downstairs report that an unbearable stench emanates from her bedroom. Though it surprised me that The Grinch had a social life at all, I was not too shocked by the pairing of The Grinch and The Noisy Ghost. Well, needless to say, The Noisy Ghost has come over a few times and we have also seen each other working at the library. When I pass her on campus (only at night, of course) I usually try a "Hello."

This week, The Noisy Ghost sent out an email to all the library student staff asking if somebody could cover her Friday shift. I, excited to make $16, told her I would do it. So I was surprised when I saw her clanging her way into the library and milling around in the DVD section. Why was I working for her if she was free? If I had begged coworkers to cover my shift on a Friday, I would steer clear of the library. Personally, though, I was still ecstatic enough about the $16 to mind. She could be out taking a nap for all I cared; I wanted my $16!

But when she came to the desk and asked me to get a DVD for her, without writing down its number and without saying Please, I was a little put off.

"Sure," I responded, and retreived the DVD angrily.

There was no recognition in her eyes. There was no "Thanks for covering for me!" Also missing? A "Hello." I smiled at her while I scanned the DVD and told her when it was due. It was obviously a "Hi, I know you" smile.

And from her: Nothing.

Fucking bitch.

I was tricked into ordering that martini, I tell you

2007-04-06T16:40:00.000-04:00

This week, I went out to din-din with a couple friends of mine. One of them, Snarkfest, was visiting from out of town, so it was a special occasion. I had just come from my internship, and Biggest Wimp Ever had as well. We met at the restaurant and studied our menus. I knew there would be no drinking that night, because Snarkfest never drinks and Biggest Wimp Ever is underage and afraid to try her luck ordering drinks. Having recently decided to stop spending money on horribly overpriced alcohol I can't afford, I was fine with this.

When the waitress came, she asked if we wanted cocktails. When we told her no, she said "Oh, then I guess I won't give you the spiel."

Spiel? What could this be? Oooh, what if it was reasonably priced drinks! Or... free drinks! I had to find out. "No, go ahead," I told her with a smile.

She informed us that they were out of half of their drinks and pointed to the ones that were safe to order. I was disappointed. My imaginary free drink mocked me.

"Ooooh, you should get a margarita so I can have some!" Biggest Wimp Ever squealed. Then her face fell. "Oh, I forgot you don't like margaritas."

"Hmm, well..." I felt I should do something. "What if I got the pomegranate martini and you had some of it?" Biggest Wimp Ever nodded enthusiastically.

After I ordered, I realized my mistake. There was no way Biggest Wimp Ever, who is also Biggest Cheapskate Ever, would pay for half of the drink. I had planned to actually share the drink with her, as well as the cost. That way, I wouldn't be the only one drinking at the table. But if she wasn't going to pay, why should I give her more than a sip of my $12 martini?

My two choices:
1. I'm a greedy alcoholic who doesn't mind paying for the drink because I'm a little tipsy, or
2. I'm a generous alcoholic who looks good but hates Biggest Wimp Ever for weeks because she stole my expensive alcohol

What would you do?

Because I love digging graves. Especially my own.

2007-04-04T21:33:00.000-04:00

So The ex-Ex and I have had a kind of rocky relationship since we've been long distance. To summarize: In our freshman year of college, we had an open relationship for a few months. At the end of that summer, I broke up with him for four months and we didn't talk very much. This October, he asked for an open relationship, we broke up, got back together, broke up, and got back together again.

Neither of us has dated anyone else during these "off" times. He's come close, and so have I. The guy I came close to dating during the open relationship, The Filmmaker, ended up being interested in another girl. After I broke up with The ex-Ex sophomore year, The Filmmaker and I had a couple of drunken make outs/feel-ups, but he then made it clear that he wasn't interested in a relationship with me.

I tried to hang out with him as friends, but he was so unresponsive that I ended up actually feeling bad about myself. So I quit him. I quit calling and pasting that smile on my face when I saw him. I quit him so I could quit feeling boring, unattractive, and needy. I started hating him, because I hated what he had done to me. But I knew that if he suddenly changed his mind, I would jump at the chance to be with him. And every time I was suckered into talking to him, I was reminded just how much I liked him.

I started hanging out with him again this year when his best friend (who is also a friend of mine) returned from abroad. The Filmmaker and I only saw each other once a month or so, but it was no longer a negative experience. At a party one night a few weeks ago, I ran into him and we were both actually excited to see each other after a hiatus of a month or so. When he disappeared from the party, I called him to see where he had gone and we agreed that we should hang out sometime.

Then we talked online and he basically informed me that he wasn't sure if I was worth his time and energy, and that I should make all the effort to be friends with him. I told him he was full of shit and swore him off, resolving not to initiate anything with him.

A couple weeks ago, he ran into me when I was working at the library and we talked for an hour or so before he left to go do work. When he got on Gmail, he messaged me saying he had enjoyed talking to me. You know, as if he was shocked that I could carry an interesting conversation. When I got off work, he invited me over to smoke pot. I went over and we hung out for a while before I came home and went to bed. He invited me over once more last week, and chatted with me on Gmail when we were both online.

This Monday, he asked me if I wanted to have a beer with him when I got off work, so I came over to his place and hung out with him and his roommates. When he told me that he wanted to read my screenplay, we went to his room to look it up. Unfortunately, though, the file wouldn't load on his computer.

"We can go to my room if you still want to read it," I said. "I mean it's only three houses down."

"Yeah, let's do that," he said. We walked over and I handed him the computer. Halfway through reading, he looked up at me sitting in my chair and asked if I wanted to read the parts out loud with him.

"Why?"

"Well, I don't want you to just sit there bored," he said. How considerate.

I joined him on the bed and we read the screenplay out loud. He insisted on playing the voice of the main female character, and we cracked up laughing several times. When we were done reading, I showed him the short film I made last year, and then the video of my surgery.

After that, I had run out of activities. I sat back on my bed and he moved to sit next to me. I was a bit nervous because throughout the night, his arm kept brushing against mine and he kept moving to sit near me. So after talking for a few more minutes, I told him (truthfully) that I should go to bed. At this point it was about 3am and I had to wake up at 8.

He sat up, getting ready to get off the bed, then stopped and looked over at me thoughtfully. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"Are there any romantic interests for you here?" He asked.

I laughed a little, thinking of all the two guys I had ever liked at this school and how diseased the other guys here must be. "No!"

"Oh..."

"Why?" I asked.

"Well, I think you're really attractive and nice and interesting, so I was just asking."

Oh. Apparently he had been asking if I had any romantic interest in him; not the other men at this school. I had a flashback of my cruel laugh and realized that he must have thought I was scoffing at the idea of being with him. Considering how much I had liked him over the course of the past two years, I had to clarify.

"Oh, no! I thought you were talking about other guys on this campus. I mean... I have always liked you a lot. This is just horrible timing, since me and The ex-Ex got back together over spring break."

"Ohhh, you and The ex-Ex got back together?"

I gave a regretful smile. "Yeah..." This sucked so hard.

"Is that for sure?"

Ah, such a good question. With The ex-Ex's incredible indecisiveness the past six months, it was still hard for me to tell. But officially... "Yeah, it's for sure."

"Ah..." He nodded. "Okay."

"I wish you had told me this three weeks ago!"

"Yeah, well..."

"Yeah."

He then changed the subject and we chatted for a few more minutes before he left. I quickly got ready for bed (it was 3:30 by this point) and decided to check my email before going to sleep. The Filmmaker was online. I messaged him to tell him that I hoped he would still want to hang out as friends, since I like him so much and really enjoy spending time with him. He agreed.

I then continued to stress how unfortunate his timing was and how much I regretted this missed opportunity. We then started flirting, and he tried to convince me to go over to his room. I, frustrated, informed him that I would not cheat on The ex-Ex. But continued to flirt. Which made me wonder: why I was so interested in The Filmmaker after all he had put me through? Was my interest in The Filmmaker an indication that I wasn't really happy being back together with The ex-Ex?

I finally ended the conversation when I realized how incredibly awful I was acting and how guilty I felt for using my doubts about my relationship with The ex-Ex as an excuse to flirt with another guy. Waking up the next morning, I felt almost as bad as I would have if I had actually gone over to The Filmmaker's room. And then felt even worse when The ex-Ex sent me a cute text.

A joke for the ladies

2007-04-01T20:24:00.000-04:00

Have you ever heard the joke that goes like this?

Guy: "Hey, I bet you $2 that I can make your boobs shake without touching them."

Girl: "Really?" Girl considers. "Okay! Let's make it $5!"

Guy: "No, I only have $2." Guy pulls $2 out of his wallet, gives to friend who is watching. "Ready?"

Girl: "Okay..." She holds extra still and looks down.

Guy grabs girls boobs and shakes them.

Girl: "What the hell?!"

Guy: "Here's your $2. You win."

I found out alllll about that funny joke on Saturday night.

I got pounded!

2007-03-31T11:14:00.000-04:00

At the elevator bank where I work, you have to scan an ID card to get in. The elevators are also monitored by one or two security people, who make sure that nobody sneaks in without the permission of the company (to blow us to smithereens, no doubt).

As part of my new "be friendly to everyone" resolution, I say hello to the security guard every day. (And that's about as far as I got with the resolution... oh well) As I scan my card, I ask the security guy "How are you today?"

The first time, he told me "So far, so good" which struck me as funny because it was pretty early in the day. But it seemed like a good perspective to have, especially compared to the alternatives ("Everything sucks already" or "What's the point of living when all there is in life is pain?")

The second time I asked, he told me "So far, so good." Wait a minute, I thought. He told me that last time! It all felt so cheap: I imagined him using that line on everyone who walked through his elevator bank. I wasn't special.

But I finally graduated to "special." Yes, after weeks of asking him not "How are you?" but "So far so good?", he gave me The Pound:

I, of course, played it off with style by giggling and saying "Really? I'm so honored!" I decided at that moment that this meant I had "made it" in the corporate world. A promotion and some pay can't be too far off.

A night out I'd talk about if I could

2007-03-28T22:52:00.000-04:00

On Saturday night, the second to last day of my family's trip to New York, we went out to the aforementioned dinner and came back a bit loaded. At least, I did. The night began at about 6pm in the hotel bar where we all downed two martinis (of the French persuasion - delicious, if you've never had one). At the steakhouse, I switched to appletinis. After two of those, there was the bottle of wine to take care of.

When we got back to the hotel, I was... jolly. And jolly TAB is rambunctious and fun, but most of all she is interested in drinking more. I ducked into the bathroom for a quick pee and when I came out, filled with glee, the older generation was all sprawled out over the beds.

"Aww, and I'm so not tired!" I whined. It was only eleven on a Saturday night and I was in Manhattan. Come on.

"You want to go out?" My cousin asked me.

"Yes!" I realized that I had never been to a club even though I turned 21 in January. Pitiful!

Unfortunately, my cousin is from Boston so she's not familiar with New York clubs. And since I clearly hadn't been to any, I was no expert either. She started texting her friends to ask for recommendations while I racked my empty mind. And then it occurred to me: I know a bartender!

It then also occurred to me that he hadn't called me yet, so I didn't have his number. But I remembered that when I left the bar on Thursday he said he would be working all weekend, so I found the slip of paper where I had written the place's number and dialed. After a confusing recording, I pressed an extension number and hoped for the best.

"Good evening, how can I help you?" My greeter asked.

"Hi... is Zach Braff there, by chance?"

"Zach? Yeah, hold on."

"Hello, this is Zach." I cringed as I realized how ridiculous I was being, then sucked it up and asked him for the name of a good club. Somehow he didn't know any, so he had to ask his bartender friends for me. (What New York bartender doesn't know of any clubs? Hmm...) He then remarked that he should call me soon, to which I said "You better." Smooth.

I wrote down two names and returned triumphantly to my cousin, who also had two suggestions from her friends. This not being enough, we decided to ask the concierge in the lobby for guidance. He suggested a bar, and we got in a cab and went to the first place her friend had told her about (so, my phone call to Zach Braff was not necessary at all).

Four hours later, we were at the hotel with two guys who were ordering porn on the TV, you guessed it: at my request. I went into the bathroom to check on my cousin, who was sitting next to the bathtub. When she started puking into the tub, I prepared a glass of water for her. I walked out of the bathroom, glad to see that our guests had left, and heard a crash. I returned to see my cousin draped over the side of the tub, which was now full of puke and shards of glass.

Needless to say, we both went to bed very shortly.

My aunt woke us up in the morning. I groaned and checked out the strange bruise on my hip. What the hell was that from? And why in the world did my foot hurt so bad? Upon inspection, I found a two inch puffy bruise on my ankle from... um...? Yeah, no idea.

"What's on your bed?" Auntie asked my cousin.

"What do you mean?" She asked.

"There's something wet on the bed."

"Oh... huh... my pants are wet, too. Haha I guess I peed myself."

I giggled. "Hah, you wet the bed!!!"

"Well, at least I wasn't on the floor last night," She countered playfully.

"What are you talking about?"

"You don't remember? The bouncer brought you over to us and said 'She was on the floor.' I thought they were going to kick us out."

I did not remember that. Luckily, that made it less embarrassing.

"Do you remember throwing up in the bathtub?" I asked.

"Yeah... do you remember throwing up at the bar?"

"No!" Ahhh great. I had a vision of myself puking on multiple people and getting shouted at. "Did I at least make it to the toilet?"

"Oh yeah. I held your hair back for you and everything."

Sweet. My 25-year old cousin wet the bed. I ended up on the floor of a bar and was the new owner of several mysterious bruises. A job well done, I think.

The story of Zach Braff

2007-03-27T21:43:00.000-04:00

When my friend L came to visit me last year, she was on her spring break. She stayed for two or three days and I planned the entire trip weeks in advance. I took her to a jazz club because I knew that, as a jazz musician, she would appreciate it. I took her to the Shakespeare garden in Central Park because she is head over heels in love with Shakespeare. I made reservations at a hotel that was not too expensive, not too far away from the middle of things...

You get the picture, I hope.

Well, the first night we were there I had reservations for a comedy show. I'd been to the place once before, but this time I had a couple drinks before trying to find it and I lost us (L, S, and myself) on the subway. We missed the show we had booked, so we got on the wait list for the next performance. While we waited, I saucily ordered my drink of the night. Which happened to be a "Screaming Orgasm." Yeah.

I'm sure I flirted with the bartender both to make sure he would serve us alcohol and because he looked like Zach Braff. I had a couple drinks before the next show started and Zach Braff kindly made sure we were at the top of the wait list. During the show, we had to order two items. I, of course, ordered two more drinks instead of realizing that talking back to comedians is not behavior that merits more alcohol.

After the show, we went back up to the bar to hang out with Zach Braff. On the way to the bar, we passed the comedians' table and I, feeling charitable and friendly, told one of them that I had enjoyed his jokes. It felt like when I went to high school plays and told the super cool theatre kids how much I loved their performance - except even cooler because these weren't high school theatre kids. I walked away from the table feeling a bit of a rush. I'm not usually that friendly (it took me six drinks to get to that point).

As I made my way back to the bar (about 5 feet or so), the comedian jumped up and followed me. "What's your name?" He asked. Whoa, I thought. How cool! I'm talking to the friendly comedian!

Well, that novelty wore off much more quickly than he did. When he asked me what my MySpace was (seriously, he did), I told him my embarrassingly generic name and left it at that. When he bought me a drink, I attempted to even the score by buying him one in return. He was way too eager to talk to me, especially considering that he was 36 and I was a 20-year-old with a boyfriend. L, S and I stayed at the bar until the late night show was over, because L and S had been chatting with some other performers who actually seemed normal. However, our plans to hang out after the show were thwarted when it was discovered that we couldn't get into any clubs because we "lost" our IDs.

I went to a creepy bar with the comedian instead. Creepy mostly because he was there, and whoever came with us left me alone with him, which apparently encouraged him enough to put his arm around me. To divert the attention from myself, I said: "See that girl over there? I dare you to go hit on her."

"No, that's okay."

"Why don't you want to hit on her?" I whined.

"Because I'd rather hit on you." Classy.

"But it's just a dare. What, are you afraid?"

"No, I just don't want to," he said, wrapping his arm tighter around my waist.

"Well if you don't, then I will." I broke free from his grasp and hit on a random NYU girl to get away from the comedian.

And then my knight in shining armor, Zach Braff, stole me and my friends away from the comedian and took us to his friend's club. For some reason, I thought it would be a superb idea to order another Screaming Orgasm when we got there. I flirted with Zach Braff, thanked him for saving me from the comedian, and then stumbled down the stairs to the bathroom. When I was done peeing, it was time to go. Zach Braff ran down to the corner to hail us a cab, and as soon as he turned away I threw up onto the curb and my shoes. I was done by the time he returned with the cab, which he paid for and sent us on our way like the gentleman he is.

Well, that was last year. Almost exactly, I'd guess.

This year... I did not plan out Attention Whore's trip. She said the misguided words, "Let's play it by ear," which doesn't work for me because I just end up making up plans in my mind anyway. But because she didn't tell me what she wanted to do and I don't hang out in the city very often, I mentally made plans to go to the exact same places.

Her first day, she wanted to see ground zero and Times Square. Having never been to ground zero, I got lost twice on the way and we ended up in Queens at one point. So... that was embarrassing. Attention Whore pretended that she didn't care, but I knew that she was silently judging me.

After about five minutes of talking, we were pretty much caught up. She's the kind of friend who doesn't have anything to talk about unless she has a story to tell you. And all of her stories are about frat boys. So, after telling her eight times "Stop sleeping with him," I gave up and started agreeing with everything she said, which is irritating because I almost always think she is wrong.

After hearing about every frat guy that wants to get in her pants (seemingly all of them), I steered us to the same comedy club. We sat down at the bar and waited for service. At this point, I realized it might not be a great plan to come to a bar where the comedian might reappear and recognize me. Then again, if Zach Braff was there... I took a look. The bartender had returned to his post but was bent over picking something up. When he stood up straight, I saw that it was indeed him!

"What can I get for you?" He asked politely.

And then I freaked out. I already have trouble deciding on drink orders, and now my former knight in shining armor was here. Did he remember me? How could he; it was a year ago and he probably gets drunken messes in his bar all the time. I could just pretend I didn't know him. But I would still have to order... "Can we get menus, please?"

He brought us menus and I sneaked a few peeks at him while he was making drinks. Yep, definitely him. And definitely still busy looking like Zach Braff. And then I remembered how embarrassed I should probably be. Screaming Orgasm girl? Oh god no. I hoped he didn't remember. I took a stab at conversation with Attention Whore so I could stop replaying my drunken night in my head. This worked until Zach Braff cocked his head to the side and said, "Is your name Accidental?"

Whoa. "Um, yes?" So he remembered.

"Accidental Bitch?"

Okay, how did he remember my full name? Crazy. "How do you remember me?" I asked incredulously.

"What can I say, it was a memorable night."

We chatted and he took a break to sit with me at the bar so we could talk more. I gleefully took the opportunity to ignore Attention Whore. I found out that in my drunkenness, I had given him my email address or something of the kind, which conveniently has my name in it. Hence the remembering. But still... that's pretty damn impressive.

When it was time for the comedy show to start, we left promising to return afterwards. He tried to comp our drinks, but having learned my lesson, I paid anyway.

When we came back, Attention Whore and I ordered another round of drinks. Unfortunately, though, Attention Whore told me that she wanted to leave soon (probably because Zach Braff wasn't giving her enough attention. What a whore). When I informed him that we were closing our tab, he expressed his disappointment and then said "I know you have a boyfriend, but could I get your number so we can hang out sometime?" Then said something about witty texts and a movie.

He ducked away for a second to put a glass away, so I had a moment to let my mind race. He knows I have a boyfriend? Ooooh, he must have looked me up on MySpace. How convenient that I never change my relationship status. And that I don't have to tell him that I have a boyfriend. Wait, so why does he want my number?

"Just give the guy your number," Attention Whore said in that cute, chiding, 'Don't be a meanie-head' voice. Zach Braff was back and I still needed to answer.

"Okay, sure."

I wrote down my name and number, paid for drinks that he again tried to buy, and walked away thinking "Why does this happen right after I get back together with The exEx?"

Since I've been gone, pt 1

2007-03-26T23:17:00.000-04:00

I need to get out of my school and move into the real world.

The ratio of men to women at my school is about 25 to 75. Of those men, about 25% are gay. I'm not one to think I'm worthless just because 500 guys aren't trying to date rape me, but it's really quite sad how I've gotten used to the lack of interest here. During my five days showing Attention Whore and then my family around New York, I got more male attention than I have in all of my three years at college. And it was nice. Even when men who could have been my grandfather were checking me out it was nice. I think I'd have to be naked to get those kind of looks at school.

My aunts and cousin and I went out to dinner, and the man at the bar who I asked about the NCAA tournament sent a round of drinks to our table when we sat down. That's all it takes? A basketball question? I think I was starting to believe I was actually invisible. Or that the whole male sex drive thing was a myth.

Has anyone seen the film "Tube Tales"? It's a series of shorts about the subway, I think they're all set in London. And this one is of this woman who is basically teasing an older man on the subway because she wants to. She's sweating, so she blows on her chest and leans over, and pulls her skirt up to show off her legs... and, well, it works.

At the hotel bar I was thinking about toying with some of these men (not the grandpa aged men, but maybe somewhere in the daddy range). Not that I was going to pull my skirt up or blow on my boobs. But, you know... a little eye contact and some lip biting can go a long way. And then I had to wonder: how would the man see it? Would he know it was me teasing him? Or would he think "Yeah baby, I've still got it! She wants me."

or "What loser whore can't get a guy her own age?"

To clarify

2007-03-23T10:33:00.000-04:00

Sorry for the confusion, anyone that was confused (everyone, it sounds like).

I am only taking a break until Sunday or Monday because I'll be staying in the city and not near a computer. And this post is a covert operation performed far (down the hall) from the prying eyes of Attention Whore.

I already have stories. They are good AND embarrassing (we can't lose, here)

I am keeping THIS blog. 1) It's prettier than my old blog. 2) It's annoying to talk about the ex-Ex ALL the time. I like this one better.

Anyway I had to clarify because the song kept running through my head: "Don't be cruel to a heart that's true."

Oh and if you want to stalk me, this is where I'll be:

The end has come

2007-03-21T09:02:00.000-04:00

There comes a time in every blogger's life when they actually have a life. Some deal with this in different ways, either by posting less or officially quitting their blogs. Some bloggers end up quitting their blogs for fear that other people will find out about them, and some take desperate measures to keep their blog a secret.

Well, it has come to that time, my friends.

Lucky for you, I only have a life from Wednesday through Sunday, so I'll be back. And since I'm showing around Attention Whore AND half of my mom's family, I'm sure I'll have some life-changing stories when I return.

In the meantime, I should probably mention that The Ex and I got back together. Discuss.

Why commercials are better than any of Tom Cruise's movies

2007-03-19T19:49:00.000-04:00

I love visiting my dad in North Carolina, but there are a few problems I encounter here. One is that the shower has bad water pressure and always needs Draino. Another (and one more relevant to this blog entry) is that I'm not a morning person. My dad wakes up at 5:30, and I'm not about to do that on my spring break. The trade off is that he goes to bed at around 9 or 10, leaving me hours to sit around with nothing to do. (I have no friends)

After getting kicked out of his room when my new stepmom needed to go to bed (no hard feelings, I promise), I joined my brother on the living room couch. It had been a particularly boring day, filled with NCAA tournament games and some not-so-intense thumb twiddling. I came out just as a game was ending, and watched in horror as another one began.

"I'm not going to watch this game," my brother mercifully informed me.

Nice! My heart crouched down in preparation to leap for joy, and then I realized that nothing was on TV (it was Saturday night). "What's on though?" I whined.

My brother flipped through a few channels and found that Mission Impossible 2 was just about to begin. "There ya go," he said, walking off to go to bed.

I hadn't seen Mission Impossible 2, but I realized very quickly that it was going to be a horrible movie. And I was right. It's really stupendously bad. I don't even know how to describe how bad it is. Every time something dramatic happened, some guy pulled a fucking mask off his face. It was pretty disappointing.

I didn't change the channel though. Of course not! I not only hoped in vain for the movie to get better, but wanted to have nothing to do with channel surfing on a Saturday night (with nothing on, it could get pretty frustrating). So I tried my best to weather the storm and finish the movie, which became more and more painful to do when the commercial breaks kept interrupting.

And then, BAM. I saw my friend on a fucking Quiznos commercial. "Whoa, really?" I said. I rewinded the Tivo and looked again in astonishment. "Fratboy? Is that you?" It really was. He had moved down to Los Angeles this fall, so he easily could have been auditioning for commercials.

And to top it off, I love Quiznos. And Fratboy's performance was way better than that of Tom Cruise. You know, now that I think of it... Fratboy never appealed to me, but he's slowly becoming more fuckable. Maybe it's the fame. And with the fame garnered by a TV commercial, maybe I'll find him unfuckable again in about a week or so.

Slutty sister story

2007-03-17T19:03:00.000-04:00

Okay, so... I have a new step-sister (since September). She's really nice, she has a little bit of a
southern accent, seems pretty cool and laid back. When I came to visit my dad for spring break, I got to spend a little time with her. One night, she got text messages from six different guys, all of them asking her to cuddle with them. Every time she got a new text, she told me that another guy was trying to get her to come over. "What's with this cuddling?" I wondered. She insisted she had no idea, so I just warned her to be careful because the guys actually probably wanted to have sex with her.

A couple nights later, we had a "party" (as in, she invited her friends over while I stayed sober, went on a beer run, and tried to keep the noise down). Near the end of the night, I was talking to her two best friends in the kitchen with my brother when she stumbled in.

"Has anybody seen my cell phone charger?" She asked, tossing papers around to see if it was underneath.

"Nope, I don't know where it is. Why do you need it?"

"I ran out of batteries while I was in the middle of a call with this hot guy and I need to call him back."

"I think he'll get over it," I joked.

"Is it pre-med guy?" One of her friends asked.

"No."

"Is it Steve?"

"No, it's Carl."

Her friend looked confused. "Who's Carl?"

"Can you just tell me where my cell phone charger is?"

I tried to help. "Hun, I don't think it's going to matter that much if you call him back tomorrow or something. Don't worry about it."

"Well I have to have it with me for the morning because pre-med guy is going to call me at 7am."

"7am? Who calls people at 7am?"

"Pre-med guy."

"Why are you letting him call you that early in the morning? You're not even dating."

After a few minutes, I realized that she seriously thought she had to get her phone or face a public hanging. She ran outside in her PJs to look for her cell phone charger in the car. As soon as she left the room, I shared a moment of incredulous laughter with her friends, then turned to one of them and asked "Wow, is she a really big whore or something?"

As soon as I said it, I felt horrible. I have a tendency to say things like that as a joke and get in trouble for it. I was about to retract my statement and apologize when one of her friends said "Yeah, pretty much."

I was confused. "Wait, really?" Was she going along with my joke or...?

"Yeah, well, I guess you could call her that. I mean, she doesn't sleep with everyone she sees, but she's gone kind of crazy since she broke up with her ex."

I looked at my brother. "This is our new step-sister."

Slutty sister surprise!

2007-03-15T14:42:00.000-04:00

OMG I just found out last night that my new step-sister is seriously a slut.

Details... coming soon.

Cuddling: the new fucking?

2007-03-12T19:05:00.000-04:00

Hey y'all. That's right: "y'all". I'm in North Carolina now. And apparently I'm such a chameleon that I need to start speaking like a southerner.

I'm visiting my dad for my spring break, and what this means is that 1) I get to see the PUPPY! and 2) I get to see other people. My dad recently married a woman who has two kids of her own, so I have a sister who's a year younger than me and a brother two years younger. My step-sister and I were hanging out last night after the parents went to bed, and she started telling me about all these guys who were texting her out of the blue saying they want to cuddle.

Cuddle? "Is that code for something?" I asked.

"I don't think so," she replied, shrugging.

"Do you tell these people that you love to cuddle or something?" Why would a bunch of guys have the end goal of cuddling with her?

"No, I have no idea where they're getting this from!"

By the end of the night, six different guys had expressed a specific interest in cuddling with my step-sister. (I, of course, received zero calls) Seriously though. They meant "screw" or "fool around", right? Or is this a southern thing?

There is no going back

2007-03-09T19:15:00.000-05:00

I recently bought a tube of mascara. This is significant because I hadn't worn mascara in a long time - about 3 years or so. So I bought the mascara and started wearing it to my internship, because I felt like the proper thing to do was to show up in professional attire. And that included mascara. It's what the pretty girls wear, and I'll be damned before I give anyone a reason to think I'm not pretty!

So I started wearing it to work, but then when I came back from the city I would go to my campus job wearing it.

And now I feel like I have to keep wearing it, so people won't figure out that my eyelashes aren't naturally dark and sexy. Makeup is evil.

I guess it evens out in the end

2007-03-07T09:55:00.000-05:00

On my way to the bathroom yesterday, there were two men wheeling a cart towards the doors that lead to the elevator bank. It was a big cart. They are heavy doors.

"Can I help you with that?" I asked, since I could see that one man would have to hold open two whole heavy glass doors all by himself while the other pushed the cart through. Not even Superman would be able to manage that task alone.

"That would be great," one of them replied. I'm sure he smiled too, but I preferred not to look him in the eye because I had had my fill of visual rape for the day (guy on the train? would NOT STOP looking at me. Guy on the elevator? Constantly checking me out, then HAD to tell me that I look like Angelina Jolie as I escaped from the elevator. Seriously? I don't even know you, dude. And you're like... old).

So I opened the door and held it, then slipped back in the hallway for the bathroom. "God I'm so nice!" I thought. Here I was, with a quite urgent need to pee, and I had just opened the door for these people I didn't even know. I know, it sounds really ridiculous to call that "so nice," but it would have been "so easy" to just walk past them.

A few steps from the doorway, there was a lone glove lying on the floor. "That's probably one of the worker guys' gloves! I should grab it and run back to ask them if it's one of theirs! Hurry, before they get into the elevator!" I couldn't help picturing how heroic that would be (in the lame, office way).

But instead, I just walked past it. "Whatever, it's not my problem." I continued down the hall, but there was a pang of guilt. To the pang, I said: "I really have to pee, and they're probably on the elevator already. And my leg is still hurting, so it wouldn't be wise to run out there, and if I didn't run, I probably wouldn't make it in time. Except I totally could. Well, it's too late now!"

But, of course, it didn't end there.

"That poor man is probably going to be looking for his glove, and I could be the only person who knows where it is! What is wrong with me? I can open a door but I can't pick up a fucking glove? Oh crap. I'm going to feel guilty about this now. I'm going to feel way more guilty than I should though, because now I'm going to picture a man who has lost his glove and cries over it when he gets home or something ridiculous like that. I really shouldn't be that hard on myself... I mean, how do I even know it was his glove? ... Okay, it probably was. But... dammit, I'm such a bitch."

Accidentally, though. I swear.

Working for free is called slave labor

2007-03-06T00:33:00.000-05:00

I'm sorry, filmmaking industry, but I'm tired of working FOR FREE.

I've been spending my time and resources on you for three fucking years. And, even after three years of experience as an intern, all I can do is more interning because I'm still in school. I have news for you: I'm better than the people you're paying right now. I'm more passionate and inspired and creative. I'm more hard-working. And fucking A, I'm funnier.

So don't give me any of this Craigslist bullshit, with your "This is an unpaid internship" and "College Credit Available." Do you think I'm not going to graduate without your help? Your college credit won't help me pay the rent in New York. Way to treat workers fairly, Fox. Way to pull out a metrocard for me while you giggle at your mountain of personal profits, Comedy Central. And how much do you think it warms my heart to read that no, you won't offer me minimum wage, but lunch is on you? Here's a clue: chilly as that cold shoulder you just gave me.

Remember when you were six years old and your parents told you to lie down and watch TV when you were sick? And, as they slid a bowl of soup in front of you they chant "You can be whatever you want when you grow up."

They forgot to mention this part.

The end of creepy guy

2007-03-03T12:05:00.000-05:00

Being harrassed is not fun, and the creepy guy was really starting to piss me off. After almost a week of ignoring him, he was still bothering me. I confided in the Heterophobe: "I want to send him a text or something just telling him to fuck off, but I don't want to contact him ever again."

He responded that "He'll probably just think you're flirting with him." I laughed. "No, seriously. He'll think it's some kind of game."

So I ignored creepy guy, hoping that the third unreturned call would be enough to give this guy some clarity. But wishful thinking rarely works, and this was no exception. Last night, while drinking with my roommates, I heard my phone chime with a text. I was hoping it was The Ex, but instead it was the creepy guy.

"Hey... give me a call... i found a roommie, but i wanted to talk to you about the film."

I had a small outburst of frustration that attracted the interest of my friends. "What's wrong?"

"Creepy guy just texted me! Why won't he go the fuck away?!"

I then got my friend, Nice Guy, to text him for me. After a minute or two of deliberation over word choice, we came up with "Please stop trying to contact me."

Creepy guy wrote back: "Ouch. So i was a creep. But i'm not. Promise. At least let me explain how i could be such a jerk..."

My friends all drunkenly booed him, and Nice Guy wrote back "No."

Creepy guy then wrote me such a long text that it took two messages. "Lol. I deserve that, but don't blow off the job just cause i have absolutely no class. I felt comfortable w/you. Look. I'll have my website up in the next few days and you can decide then whether you'll let me make it up to you... c'mon. The website is [url]"

Hopefully he'll stop contacting me now. 'Cause this thing is getting way old.

Creepy guy is... well, creepy

2007-03-02T18:37:00.000-05:00

Update on the creepy guy (backstory here and here):

Since Sunday night, he has called me and left messages three times. The first two times were later at night, around 11:30, and in his messages he said "Oh, I guess it's kind of late." He then refers to this filmmaking thing we discussed before I could tell he was creepy, as if that's why he's calling, and orders me to call him back.

The fact that I'm not answering his calls or returning them is apparently unimportant. I got a call today from a restricted number, and immediately thought it was him so I didn't answer. Sure enough, his message was "Hey TAB, I want to talk to you about the film thing, so give me a call back."

So, he purposely blocked his number in the hopes that I would accidentally answer a call from him?

So. Creepy.

A cavernous vagina

2007-03-01T22:13:00.000-05:00

I was talking to my friend, Bitching Broad, about a guy she recently met. "He's really nice, he's cute, and I think we would be great together even though I don't know him that well," She confided.

"Nice! You should flirt with him more." I couldn't wait for her to get some action on the off-chance that it would make her more happy. Or at least distract her from bitching to me about every detail of her life.

"Well, I don't know. I mean, he's Irish," she said with a meaningful look.

This did not make sense to me. From her tone, I could tell that she had something against the Irish. But I had always assumed Irish was good, what with the gorgeous accents and all. "So?"

"Well... you know what they say about Irish men, right?"

I was very confused now. "They like beer? And you're not okay with it?"

"No. You haven't heard this, seriously? I heard that Irish men have small penises."

I laughed. "Really? Because they don't." In my sex psychology class, we learned all about penis size and how race is not a reliable indication of penis size because those generalizations are stereotypes based on socioeconomic hierarchies. I explained this to her, and then reminded her that a small dick wouldn't be the end of the world. Especially since she hadn't even asked him out yet.

"Well, I just can't date a guy with a small dick. It has to be big."

What was this? Bitching Broad, who constantly complains about her lack of game, refuses to date a guy with even an average sized penis? I started yelling at her, but she clarified with a story: apparently her ex-boyfriend, who devirginized her, told her that she couldn't orgasm from her G-spot because her vagina is too big.

"What does he mean, too big?" I asked angrily.

"I don't know. He said it was cavernous."

I internally laughed at this word choice, but had trouble imagining how a vagina could be so vast as to preclude sensation. I had no choice - both as her friend and as a woman in a state of disbelief - but to reject his criticism. "That's not possible."

"Really? Are you sure?"

Since I couldn't picture how this cavernous vagina deal would work, I told her I was sure. And then wondered... is that possible?

Hunters and gatherers

2007-03-01T01:39:00.000-05:00

In my sex psychology class, we were talking about evolutionary psychology and theories of male and female mate selection.

"Evolutionarily, males are more hunting oriented, while women are more gathering oriented."

Yeah, I get it. In hunter-gatherer society predating Western civilization, men were the hunters. Woman gathered.

But let's take that theory to the bar. When at a bar, I suppose the theory is that a woman sits around waiting for the man to drop by and "hunt" her (hit on, offer a drink, or otherwise harrass). But I wouldn't say that I really gather the men. I might take a survey of the selection, yes. But isn't that in itself hunting? I mean, you're narrowing down your prey. And don't men do the same? Or do they spot the weakest one and pounce?

Guys, what do you do at the bars? How does it compare to hunting?

Ladies... would you say you "gather"?