twice as adventurous, half as editorial

There are like six new entries over there, and there will be more, so go!

out to lunch

I'm eating lunch. Peanut butter & jelly sandwich and potato chips. The Boss just came to the doorway, stood there silently, and wrote something down while I awkwardly tried to acknowledge her presence and also turn completely away because I had just stuffed a hunk of peanut butter into my mouth. Then she gave me this look which was halfway between a smile and giving up on life, left something on Officemate's desk, and walked away. I...don't know what that was about.

all in a day's work

Phone: (rings)
Me: "Hello?"
Boss: "Oh, hi!"

I just want to interject here and say that every single time the Boss calls you and you pick up the phone, she says, "Oh, hi!" with an undercurrent of, "You answered! WTF!"

Me: "Hi."
Boss: "It's the Boss."
Me: "Yes."
Boss: "Could you come to my office? I'd like to speak with you about something."
Me: (wondering what I've done) "Sure."
Boss: "Okay."
Me: "Okay."
Boss: "Okay."
Me: "Bye."

I go down to the Boss's office.

Me: "Hey! What's up?"
Boss: (hands me a photo)
Me: "...yes?"
Boss: "The Big Boss wants another photo of Jennifer Garner. Bring this one down to her and see if it's okay?"

Seriously? Guess how many doors down the Boss's office is from the Big Boss's office. Guess. That's right. Two.

Me: (walks in on the Big Boss having a conversation on speakerphone, because my life is a rip-off of '30 Rock')
Big Boss: "Oh, hi!"
Me: "The Boss wanted me to get your okay on a new photo of Jennifer Garner?"
Big Boss: (takes photo from my hand and compares it to the old photo in the layout, which is EXACTLY THE SAME PHOTO)
Me: "Um..."
Big Boss: "Yeah, this one is much better."
Me: "I...don't... Really?"
Big Boss: "Yep."

I bring the photo back to the Boss, and tell her it's been okayed.

Boss: "Great! Can you take it down to the art department?"

Sure, why not?

Art Department: "This is exactly the same photo."
Me: "No way, really?"
Art Department: "Yes."

Back to the Boss. This is all happening on two different floors, by the way. I sure do love stairs!

Me: "It turns out this is exactly the same photo."
Boss: "Really?"
Me: "Yes."
Boss: "Ha ha ha! Okay, go tell the Big Boss."

Oh, WTF!? You have a phone, lady! Use it!

Me: (walks in on the Big Boss having a conversation on speakerphone AGAIN, because my life is still a rip-off of '30 Rock')
Big Boss: "Hi."
Me: "So, this is exactly the same photo."
Big Boss: "No! Really?"
Me: "Yes."
Big Boss: (picks up photocopied draft featuring the old photo, and compares it to the new photo)
Me: "Yeah."
Big Boss: "They're not the same. Are they?"
Me: "Yeah, they are."
Big Boss: "No! Really? This one looks so much messier."
Me: "Maybe it's just the way it's photocopied."

It is totally not the way it's photocopied.

Big Boss: "All right, well, keep this one then."

Back to the Boss!

Me: "She says keep this one."
Boss: "Great. Can you go down and tell the art department?"

Oh, sure!

Art Department: (is out to lunch)
Me: "Sigh."

take this job and shove it

Breaking news: Gay people fuck sheep (via Gawker).

Yesterday morning, there was a free Post guy on the same corner as a free Daily News guy, and they totally got into a fight. Tabloid wars! Daily News won, but only because the Post was too busy fucking a sheep.

Okay, so, I'm writing a makeover story. Relevant facts: I have written before-and-after captions before. Also, I have written features (both celeb and non) for the past six issues we've produced, I've been actively pitching stories, and for the past ten days or so I've been doing a lot of the stuff that has to get done (mailing and invoices and file updates, oh my) on top of the thankless editorial (editing syndicated articles and doing product pages). Okay? So. I'm writing this makeover story. It was sitting on my desk with a post-it from the Boss, spelling out what was needed like I was a five-year-old. ("Make it fun and exciting!") I started it on Tuesday, and finished it on Tuesday.

On Wednesday, the Boss calls me into her office all, "Can I talk to you for a minute?" We're having this very serious talk because...she wants me to rewrite the makeover story. She says it needs more sounds too abrupt, like I rushed. Which I did. Because, by the way, this assignment was piggybacked on a packet of two other assignments, which I found lying on my keyboard Tuesday morning, and had to squeeze in on top of the things I've been trying to get done since, like, last year, but haven't been able to because people keep throwing assignments on my keyboard. So, okay. An hour later, she brings in a makeover story from a past issue for me to look at. No problem. I worked on it, added a little more "excitement," and gave it back to her Wednesday afternoon.

Thursday, nothing on the makeover story, so I think I'm done, right? (And coincidentally, Officemate and I spent some time complaining about how we hate when we think we're done with a story, and then like three days later it comes back for yet another rewrite, which is ridicuous because it's like 300 words in the first place. How many rewrites can 300 words need? At that point, it's like, “Boss, just write it yourself.” Because if a 300-word piece needs that many rewrites, either the writer is incompetent, or what you want is for the writer to write what is in your head anyway.)

This morning, the Boss comes into my office, pulls a chair up next to my desk, and said the makeover story still needs work. And proceeds to go over it, caption by caption, and basically re-write it in front of me. Which, again, just write it yourself. So I'm just like, "Mmhmm, right, yes, good," and make a mental note that "excitement" is code for "cliches and exclamation points." And then the Boss goes, "I mean, it's good, but I need to see that you can write for our other magazines..." Me, in my head: What? I've been writing for our other magazines. I've been writing for all of our magazines. The Boss kind of hints around about how it seems like my writing is not terribly enthusiastic or creative lately, which is true, because (a) I get paid crap, (b) I have no hope of advancement and (c) any time I do come up with something creative, it gets rewritten into the same bland crap we always produce, so why bother? (Case in point: the Boss is currently in love with Lucky. She asks Officemate and I to write like Lucky, which she describes as "snappy, one-line captions." Perfect. I know Lucky. Lucky haunts my dreams. So I hand in a piece of snappy, one-line captions in perfect Lucky voice. By the time the Boss is done with it, it’s soupy, three-line, non-cohesive captions written toward middle-aged Midwesterners. Another case in point: the Boss wants a Lucky-style editors’ picks page, and we’re all really excited about that. Cool! That’s new! That’s creative! We can write in our own voices! We can talk about why we like these people! We’ll sign our names and talk a little about ourselves! I can’t wait! So we all go pick out our “hair icons” and hand them in. My personal picks: Keira Knightley and Natalie Portman, because I have relatively short hair and I’m into that becoming a trend. And the Boss and the Big Boss are like, “Yeah, but some of these people are in the magazine already. How about you do Marcia Cross instead?” Okay, fine. So I do a snappy, one-line, first-person, Lucky-style caption about…Marcia Cross. Meanwhile, Officemate and the other co-workers are doing the same about…other random celebrities. We’re all like, “Well, this is significantly less fun, but at least it’s still different.” Until we read the Boss-edited version, which is a collection of soupy, three-line, non-cohesive captions with no names attached. Whatever. More cases in point: the time my celeb style quiz was edited down to yet another “questions you should ask yourself before cutting your hair” item, the time Officemate’s cool fashion piece was turned into a another “some celebrities wore some hairstyles” spread, and every title ever, because the Big Boss is under the impression that our readers cannot utilize context clues and thus a layout full of redheads must be entitled “This Article is About Red Hair!!!” or something similar and preferably even more wordy.)

So yeah. Anyway. The Boss hints around that my writing is not terribly creative or enthusiastic lately, and she’s like, “I don’t know if you’ve just…well, look, if I had it my way, we would hire you, but I can't have someone here to just do products and..." Excuse me? Someone to just do products? Look, lady, my memory goes back farther than ten days, so let me point out the myriad of articles—and really good articles, mind you, which prompted the Big Boss to stop by my office and tell me how good they were—I’ve written for you, which were not product pages. What the fuck is that about? Oh, and while we’re at it, she wants me to come up with a different title, too. You know, something with more words in it.

who says what we do is not important?

In every issue Hairstyles of the Rich & Famous, etc. you'll find something like this: Blah blah blah product! Be one of the first 50/25/whatever readers (lies) to respond, and receive a free sample of blah blah blah product!

The responses are my responsibility. This doesn't suck as much as you think. First of all, it's a good way to get through an entire day of workng without actually working--all I do is open envelopes, type up address labels for the winners, and listen to music. Second of all, that "first fifty readers" thing is a lie--it's more like, "the fifty readers whose envelopes appeal to Nia, based on criteria including but not limited to: the presence of stickers (especially sparkly stickers); the presence of tiny cartoon renderings of your problem hair; the absence of Jesus and/or Jesus-related stamps; the presence of airmail or international post logos (what up, Canada?); cool monikers (what up, people with the last name Garland?); names I do not recognize, thus ensuring that you are not a serial contest-enterer (seriously, Breda, how much free stuff do you need?); intriguing postcards; a return address on the envelope so I don't have to actually open it; and the inclusion of adorable and/or unintentionally funny handwritten letters." Also, if you are obviously trying to win twice by sending two responses from two different addresses, I am going to be like "bitch, please," but if you are really smart about it and send one from a fake name? Your deviousness will be rewarded. Up to three times. Also, if you just send duplicate responses and don't bother to hide it, I love you, but they won't let me send stuff to you twice.

Anyway, most of the times the letters are like, "please send me free stuff even if I'm not one of the first fifty," which earns you a free ticket to my trash can. (Unless your letter ends with, "P.S. - I love your magazine. P.P.S. - I don't have such an attitude. I happen to be a very nice person.") But today we got a letter from a 22-year-old in Iraq who wants to win conditioner because the desert is rough on long hair, but she's not cutting it off, because when her unit is all armored up, it's the only thing that separates it from the guys. I love her. She's 22! That is not old enough to be fighting in a war! I am barely even old enough to do my laundry.

:DONUTS

Further proof that Krispy Kreme is fucking inferior: they have this one doughnut that sits there all round and plump and glazed, so when you go downstairs to wish this guy you've never met a happy birthday because you've heard he has doughnuts, it beckons to you with seemingly jelly-filled innocence, and your mouth starts watering at the thought of sweet, sweet raspberry. And then you get back upstairs with it, and you take a bite, and it's full of this weird sub-Twinkie pastry cream, and you're like, "KRISPY KREEEEEEEEME!"

things to do before I die

1. Wear a garter belt.

2. Be on a rooftop at sunset.

3. Write in wet cement.

4. Drink champagne in Central Park.

5. Kara DioGuardi.

6. Sit in a giant champagne glass.

There will be more.

overheard in farmingdale

(two women sit down in a small-town diner, an hour and a half from New York City)

Woman 1: "She feels he's too philosophical. You know, he reads these things, and he thinks they're right, and he doesn't understand how they don't work."
Woman 2: (sympathetic noises)
W1: "She's afraid that if she sends him off to one of these New York City schools, where there are all these liberals, you know...he might fall in with these groups. He's very sensitive, he's very impressionable."
W2: "Oh, no."
W1: "But I said to her, you know, 'He's eighteen years old. You've done all you can with him. You've raised him right, you know, church-going, God-fearing. Now you have to let him spread his wings.'"
W2: "Does she have a husband?"
W1: "Yes."
W2: "And what does he think about this?"
W1: "He understands where she's coming from. You know, he's a high-powered attorney... She's just worried about sending him off."
W2: "Do these schools have mentors?"
W1: "I don't know. But you know, I told her, they live on Long Island, and they have an apartment in the city, so, you know, I said, 'It's not like you're sending him to Colorado. You'll be right there.'"

Yes, but when he's alone in the voting booth, who's going to stop him from voting Democrat?

thanks, daily news!

It's a thin line between gossip columnist and femslasher:

DOUBLE YOUR PLEASURE, DOUBLE YOUR FUN: Here's a bonus item from the Lowdown spy who watched Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen - who've been traipsing around Paris and London this week - rack up a $38 bill on tabloids, LifeSavers and beef jerky at a JFK newsstand the other day. After holding up the line to search her purse for money, Mary-Kate fished out a $100 bill. Says the spy: "Ashley thanked her for paying, and Mary-Kate goes, 'Now you totally have to massage me during the flight.' Then they walked out of the Hudson News and up the escalator toward the United lounge. Ashley had both arms wrapped around MK's neck as they walked as one. There would have been less contact if they were running a three-legged race together."