adventures in editorial

twice as adventurous, half as editorial

2007-02-01T00:11:00.001-05:00

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

out to lunch

2006-12-01T13:39:00.000-05:00

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

2006-11-29T16:05:00.000-05:00

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

2006-10-27T13:21:00.000-04:00

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?

2006-10-17T12:46:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-13T11:44:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-12T22:22:00.000-04:00

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

2006-10-05T12:51:00.000-04:00

(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!

2006-10-03T16:55:00.000-04:00

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."

cover your mouth or I will cover it for you

2006-09-26T13:09:00.000-04:00

This morning on the subway, some dude sneezed on my hand. I took a moment to understand that my hand was now damp with his sneezy saliva, then I looked at him and my eyes said, You did not just do that. And his eyes said, Oh, shit, and then he walked all the way down to the other end of the car.

chicken stew for the soul

2006-09-22T16:33:00.000-04:00

I fucking love lunch. It's right there in the middle of the day, all, "Dude, ditch work. Do something enjoyable. Have me."

squeak squeak

2006-09-07T15:02:00.000-04:00

I know the correct term for what I saw this morning is probably "an Amish dwarf" (or, probably, "an Amish little person"), but I keep wanting to call him "a dwarf Amish." Like a dwarf hamster. Either way, I bet he was really popular with the ladies--his wife only has to spend half as much time making clothing. Score! I wonder if he plows and everything. That must be rough. Maybe they import ponies for him or something.

Blake plays Federer tonight. I am so nervous. I don't even like sports!

It is way too nice to be indoors. Enjoy this video of a baby panda sneezing.

here I come to save the day

2006-09-06T13:34:00.000-04:00

I saw a rat in the subway and I thought it was cute.

Coincidentally, I emerged from the subway to find a giant inflatable creature resembling Mighty Mouse (cape and all) standing in the street, presumably shilling for some sort of exterminator, because he was holding a much less giant inflatable rat in his hand. Now, the Mighty Mouse may actually be a Mighty Cat, because it has pointy ears, but to me it looks like a rodent, and there is something disturbing to me about a rodent exterminating other rodents. Just saying. Maybe pick a better giant inflatable ad. (Also, clean the one you do have, because ew, I think a rat infestation would be healthier than letting Mighty Camouse into my building.)

The Big Boss lost two of my stories (well, packets), and although I've been asking for them back (to write up) for weeks now, she just notified of this last week. Which means I had to re-find photos for the story, get approval, re-pitch the heds and deks, get approval of those, and scramble to find stylists to interview. ("Hello, this is Nia from Hairstyles of the Rich & Famous. I'm working on a short piece about ponytails. Would you be interested in contributing some comments to the story? Great, so let's go ahead and schedule a short interview. How about...oh, five minutes from now? Perfect.") And once that's done (which it's still not), I still have to write the things and gather up product profiles to include. By tomorrow. The Boss is all, "Gosh, we really need those because we're shipping this week. Could you maybe come in Thursday instead of Friday? Is that possible?" Well, theoretically, but if you needed them done so bad, then maybe you should have given them back weeks ago, when I asked, instead of, you know, losing them. Just a thought.

proud owner of two umbrellas

2006-08-29T13:48:00.000-04:00

I woke up this morning and thought, "Mommy, I don't want to go to school."

And then I realized with increasing horror that I'm not in school, and also my mom does not care, and also I have to pay for things so I can't even call out of work. This has happened every morning for the past week. And so far every morning I have dragged my broke ass out of bed, pulled on some pants, and fondly remembered the days when waking up to 7 a.m. autumn rainfall meant I was going sleep through Kusch's class in my warmest sweatshirt and run to the Busch dining hall for grilled cheese and soup. Being broke is a great motivator.

So here I am, in the office, eating lunch. I brought a sandwich and sliced veggies, but it is far too cold to eat an entirely refrigerated lunch, so I went to closest deli (which did not require venturing out from under the scaffolding) and bought carrot & roasted pepper soup. It is delicious and they gave me free oyster crackers. At least being an adult is tasty.

snakes on sensitivity training

2006-08-22T20:32:00.000-04:00

Every day, Madame Tussaud's in Times Square rolls a new wax celebrity out onto the sidewalk. Most of the time, they tie into pop culture--the new Superman, Mel Gibson, etc. Today's celebrity: Samuel L. Jackson, artfully draped with green rubber snakes. Clever, Madame Tussaud. Clever.

At work, we went to sensitivity training today. The whole time, I sat there thinking, "The sensitivity trainer is hot."

overheard in new york

2006-08-18T14:35:00.000-04:00

(two big, burly, long-haired Port Authority maintenence men stand alone in the NJTransit wing, dusting grime off their coveralls)

Burly Guy #1: "You know the Olsens?"
Burly Guy #2: "Yeah?"
Burly Guy #1: "Okay, so Mary-Kate?"
Burly Guy #2: "Yeah?"
Burly Guy #1: "I'm walking down the street...and all of a sudden she is right in front of me."
Burly Guy #2: "Fucking no way!"
Burly Guy #1: "I swear to fucking God."
Burly Guy #2: "I love her."

let's say 'things' again

2006-08-16T12:40:00.000-04:00

I spent part of yesterday morning taping sheets of tissue paper onto color proofs while listening to Eurythmics, which I swear to God is the fastest cure for being bummed ever invented. It's so Zen. I kind of have residual bad mood right now, so I am looking for more things to tape onto other things. Also, it turns out I am actually less prone to hit slow tourists in the face when I am unhappy. Go figure!

Things I want to do in New York: the Hell's Kitchen Flea Market, the Bodies exhibit at South Street Seaport, and possibly Mary Poppins on Broadway. Anybody?

how about one that says "no thanks, I'm just fat"?

2006-08-08T13:03:00.000-04:00

This would certainly make my life easier.

I GOT THE PLATINUM WEIRD PROMO!!! askjdf@*(@HDBXI&@(*E&Y(EY&&*@!11!!1!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!ELEVENTY!

Okay. Stasis. I can't listen to it yet, because there are other people in the office and that would be rude, but I am sure it's totally awesome. Totally. I am excited just looking at it.

(Eight hours later: oh my God, it totally is THAT GOOD. Kara DioGuardi and I need to have sex, like, immediately.)

mr. blogspot

2006-08-04T11:12:00.000-04:00

The addition of "mister" makes any word an acceptable business name. For example: "Mr. Switch" (an electric company), "Mr. Fence" (self-explanatory, one of the main benefits of a Mr. Business), and my favorite, "Mr. Cycle Parts" (this is a real business, I swear to God).

It is still hot out; maybe I should take a trip to Mr. Ice Cream Truck.

sexual harrassment circa 1863

2006-07-21T23:01:00.000-04:00

I am in the Pixie's awesome(ly non-ghetto) apartment! On the train out of the city, a drunken older gentleman sexually harrassed me for a good twenty minutes. He thought my name was "Peg," and he asked me out on a date:

Drunken Older Gentleman: "Peg. Whaddaya say we go out tonight? Getcha some wine, the Olive Garden, and me."
Me: "That's not really my style."
Drunken Older Gentleman: "What's not your style? The wine, the Olive Garden, or the black man?"
Me: "The Olive Garden."

And I meant it, too. But the highlight of my trip was when, in the course of muttering various things about my appearance, the Drunken Older Gentleman remarked, "Look at those ankles. Damn, those are some sexy ankles."

rambling & hysterical

2006-07-19T16:42:00.000-04:00

So, we've been combing the networks for publicity shots from the new fall shows. We usually all share one username/password for each network publicity site, and our WB login/password was in The Boss's name. It wasn't working for any of the underlings, so I got the contact info of a WB PR guy and our email exchange went something like this:

Me: "Our login for thwbpr.com (username: The Boss) doesn't seem to be working. Who might I contact about this? Also, does The CW have a publicity website yet? Thanks!"
WB PR Guy: "you must register at thewbpr.com"
Me: "Will do. Is our existing account still valid, or should I re-register that as well? I would rather not wait the 48-hour review period for a new account, if I don't have to. Also, does The CW have a publicity website yet? Thanks!"
WB PR Guy: "your existing account is still valid. the password has been changed and the boss has been notified."

Fifteen minutes later, I get a phone call from The Boss.

The Boss: "Did you email someone from the WB a while ago?"
Me: "About logins? Yes."
The Boss: "What did you ask him?"
Me: "Just a few questions about logins and The CW."
The Boss: "Oh. Because I just got an email..."
Me: "Yes, they said they had contacted you, I'm sorry about that."
The Boss: "He said you were like...rambling? Or hysterical?"
Me: "What?"

And then I got a lecture on not offending the networks, because "they're our life's blood with those photos."

that smells like pure gasoline

2006-07-18T15:42:00.000-04:00

A while ago, I refuted the popular blogging notion that New York don't know how to treat a lady. This morning, in an attempt to wear as little clothing as possible (it is approximately eighty-five thousand degrees Fahrenheit right now), I put on a knee-length red tank dress. Nothing fancy. A little more cleavage than necessary. Upon arriving at Port Authority, I almost ran into some ghetto guy, whose response was not the expected "sorry, yo," but a cat noise. A double-take, a pause, a once-over, and a cat noise. Kind of a cross between a meow and a roar. He even made little claws with his hands, so I could be very sure that he was, indeed, imitating a cat. I have no idea what this means. He is a sex panther? I am a sex panther? I look like Fancy Feast? I don't even know. So, in conclusion, it seems that some of New York, though capable of using a litter box, indeed don't know how to treat a lady. (Unless that guy had just arrived from Jersey.)

The hallways are full of giant women in bikinis. Just another day at the office.

all the best stuff happens outside my office

2006-07-12T12:55:00.000-04:00

How many maintenence guys does it take to change a light bulb? Four, plus a sports writer, and they're going to argue a lot. Time for lunch!

the devil works at tractenberg & co.

2006-07-12T11:13:00.000-04:00

You know what, people? When I tell you I need an image that is 300 dpi and 1500 pixels long, I need an image that is 300 dpi and 1500 pixels long. Not 72 dpi and 150 pixels long. Not 150 dpi and 238 pixels long. 300 dpi. 1500 pixels. If I don't get an image that is 300 dpi and 1500 pixels long, YOU ARE NOT GOING TO BE IN MY MAGAZINE. THAT IS RIGHT. FEEL MY POWER.

In addition to chasing down 300 dpi, 1500 pixel images, I've also been assigned to (a) track down some colorist to interview about growing out color, (b) bug the people at L'Oreal for less lame product shots, (c) get a photo of Kristian Alfonso from Avon, which is repped by Tractenberg, OF COURSE, so that is never going to happen, and (d) completely re-write the eighteen-year-old intern's piece on The Devil Wears Prada. (Um, can I add femslash to it?) The Boss was like, "Yeah, by the way, if you could just work on this a little. You know, she has a good style, but it's not quite what we needed."

Me: "Okay."
Boss: "She doesn't really talk about the hair at all..."
Me: "Okay."
Boss: "I'll get you the before-and-after shots. And also she never really mentions Meryl Streep or that other one..."
Me: "Emily!"
Boss: "So if you could just do something on the hair, like a paragraph..."
Me: "Okay.
Boss: "Maybe talk about Anne Hathaway."
Me: (looking at the intern's paragraph) "But keep this, right?"
Boss: "Well, no."
Me: "So, re-write the whole thing?"
Boss: "That would work."
Me: "Okay..."

(five minutes later)

Boss: "Oh, here, I got the pictures of Meryl Streep..."
Me: "Okay."
Boss: "And that other one."
Me: "Okay."
Boss: "You know, the bitch."
Me: (petulant) "I love Emily."

Ugh. I am doing at least as much work as everyone else in New York City today. What the hell?

this seating reserved for handicapped passengers and chubby chicks

2006-07-11T21:08:00.000-04:00

Lately, people (well, foreigners and tiny Asians) have been offering me seats on the subway, and as far as I can tell, it's because they think I'm pregnant. (It usually happens when I'm wearing an empire-waist top.)

Now, here's the thing: I had a lot of time to think about this on today's train ride, after some Dutch lady asked if I wanted to sit, and at first I was just wondering why people are like, "Oh, that sucks," when I tell them about total strangers thinking I'm pregnant, because, hey, free subway seat! Who doesn't want a free subway seat?

So, since everything I know, I learned from the movies, I started thinking about movies. In movies, charmingly awkward male stars (usually Hugh Grant) often happen upon a fat woman (usually that one black actress) and assume she is pregnant, and are charmingly awkward when she is, (a) not pregnant, and (b) also really sassy about being not pregnant. (See: Two Weeks' Notice.) But why does the fat woman get so sassy? (I mean, besides the fact that sassy is that actress's thing.) The joke works because the underlying assumption that being called pregnant = being called fat, but if you think about it, that actress is fat. And she should really know that. So what is there to get sassy about?

And then it gets really confusing, because pregnant isn't fat. So the joke doesn't even work, to begin with, and also people on the subway are really stupid, because I am obviously fat, and not pregnant. I am not a normal-sized person with a disproportionately large stomach. I am a fat-sized person with a proportionately large stomach. And it's not even a solid, round, pregnant-looking stomach. It's a muffin top. That should be a clue. Also: the double chin, chubby arms, and complete lack of any visible bones.

Anyway, in conclusion, I'm now kind of offended on behalf of pregnant women, because apparently people assume they (a) are fat, and (b) have lost the ability to remain upright in a moving vehicle.

the Nia & Pixie show: rules of the ghetto

2006-07-04T14:30:00.000-04:00

Pixie: "Son, you don't know shit about my haircuts, my haircuts is off the chain."
Nia: ...?
Pixie: My brother.
Nia: Your brother actually said that?
Pixie: Yes.
Pixie: Word for word.
Nia: Your brother is maybe gay.
Pixie: He's on the phone, explaining why he can't take a shift tonight.
Pixie: LOL.
Pixie: I'm assuming he works with a friend, because I can't imagine ever speaking like that to a boss.
Nia: Calling your boss "son."
Pixie: LOL seriously.
Pixie: Actually, I'll be honest. I do that all the time.
Pixie: It adds a little flava to the work environment.

why I'm fat

2006-07-03T19:53:00.000-04:00

After a long, long day of doing nothing (except eating), we settled down to the backyard barbecue. My dad tried to make room on the grill for yet more meat, then approached the table with a plate of sausages and hot dogs.

Dad: "Okay, we'll have to separate this into food groups. We'll start with the tubular meats."

damn you, cobie smulders!

2006-06-23T12:53:00.000-04:00

That Hearst magazine promoted someone in-house, but the editor wrote me the nicest rejection email (in fact, the only rejection email, because usually they just say they're going to call, and then they don't, like the worst date ever) I've ever received. Also, she loved my awesome bag. (I should post the full story eventually, but the short version: I forgot my beloved bag in her office on the way out, so she babysat it while I weaseled my way back into the building to retrieve it.) Alas! At least she liked me. And it was a really fun interview.

just imagine bob saget narrating this

2006-06-21T15:26:00.000-04:00

Okay, so today I had an interview in the brand-new Hearst building. (Sexy.) And they're still working out some security kinks, so I had to wait at the front desk, and then when I called the editor myself to let her know I was detained, she was like, "I called like five minutes ago and told them to let you up! Where are you? Are you at the desk now? Give your phone to one of the men in suits." I did, and she totally reamed the guy for hassling me, so to make up for it, I got a private escort (dirty!) and an express elevator up to the 36th floor. But before that, I had to hang around the desk, and that was how I had my first sighting of a celebrity in the wild.

So, this girl stepped up between me and the gaggle of models at the other end of the desk (thank you, by the way) and was like, "Hi, um, Cobie Smulders? I'm here for Esquire?" And like, okay, I watch How I Met Your Mother (Doogie! Willow! Saget!), so I recognized her name. I mean, how many Cobie Smulderses are there in the world, right? And she seems like she would be really, really tall, right? Wrong! She is not that much taller than me, and I am practically nonexistent. They hassled her about her ID at the front desk too, which must make you really sad when you're on TV, and she was all nervous and forlorn about being late. Stars: They're Just Like Us! She was wearing the most enviable springtime-yellow wrap dress, but an unfortunate and un-enviable thong that showed right through the back. Stars: Their Panty Lines Are Just Like Us! Also, what looked like green Rocket Dog flats. (This is where my eyes go when I first encounter a girl: face, shoes, ass.) Cobie, you're on TV. You don't need to be wearing Rocket Dog flats. And then they finally let her up, and she didn't get an escort and an express elevator! Stars: We're Just Like Them (Only Better)! I ended up behind her on the escalator and in the revolving door on the way out, too, and although I was all set to hate her, I kind of loved her because (a) she had no entourage, (b) she got outside, looked around, and then totally lit up and waved like a moron to her driver like she was all excited to see him waiting for her, and then (c) she bounced up to him, said "It's kind of a great day out," and suggested they hang out and enjoy the "not too hot, not too cold" weather. So that was fun.

Now, interview aside, I'm fairly optimistic--after all, we all know that when I see famous people, employment follows. But then again, there was that time I thought I saw Wolf Blitzer at the Time/Life interview, and I didn't get that job. But then again (again), I only thought I saw Wolf Blitzer.

And that, kids, is how I met your Aunt Robin.

but does she wear extensions?

2006-06-14T22:58:00.000-04:00

So this morning we have a meeting to get together the features for Hairstyles of the Rich & Famous--which, by the way, we never do. Our editorial methods are completely backwards. But for whatever reason, the Big Boss decided to have a meeting this morning, so at 10:30, I wandered down to her office.

And met the new girl. We'll call her Raige, because it's close to her real name, and it also sounds like what I felt when I realized they hired another part-timer instead of bringing me on full-time.

Anyway, Raige basically sat there while we all pitched some stories. And, dude? I was awesome. Someone once told me that I do my best work when I have hatred in my heart, and it's totally true. I pitched both my stories and my officemate's (she was out today) and got most of them accepted, even though Officemate's were kind of not what Big Boss wanted, and I had to re-work them on the fly. The Boss, meanwhile, did not do so well.

One of my stories, which Big Boss really liked, was about Nicole Richie and how she's growing her hair out instead of just getting extensions like every other celebrity in the world. (You know, real hard-hitting journalism.)

Boss: "No, I think she has extensions."
Me: "Not usually."
Boss: "No, I think she has extensions."
Me: "She wears them to some events, but if you look at most of the pictures in chronological order, you can see her hair growing out."
Boss: "I think she has extensions. Random Stylist said all the celebrities have extensions."
Me & Big Boss: (ignore)

So for the rest of the day, I made up for all the times I do less work than most people by doing more work than most people. And as it was all winding down, the Boss stops by my office, holding my Nicole Richie packet.

Boss: "See, I knew she wore extensions."
Me: "Hm?"
Boss: (holds out a random paparazzi photo she dug up on Wireimage) "See, her hair was short in March and then long in April."

Okay, lady, first of all, I gave you that, yes, she sometimes wears extensions. I gave it to you because that is beside the point.

Me: "Oh. Look at that."
Boss: "Yeah. Sorry." (flipping through the photos) "Oh, this is a nice shot of her. We can use that for the color trends story."
Me: "Yep."

Now, generally, when someone takes a shot from your story, it means your story has been killed. The Boss leaves its carcass on my desk, and I look down and see, scrawled in her handwriting across the hed/dek I have paper-clipped to it: I know she wears extensions. Which, I'm sorry, is TOTALLY PSYCHO. In a scrawling "all work and no play make Jack a dull boy" on the walls kind of way. I mean, all day I'd had this feeling that she was sort of resenting me for doing so well at the meeting, and maybe that's a little self-involved on its own, but also she walked in on my complaining to S about the whole not-getting-hired thing, which included complaining about her--and I did not even try to cover it up. I mean, it honestly was not that awkward--she walked in to say something to S, I stopped in the middle of a sentence and said hey, and then she asked S whatever she wanted to ask. It was obviously awkward for her, but S and I weren't weird about it. I mean, it is stupid that they're not hiring me, even though they're so desperate for help that they're bringing on extra people and begging me to work extra days--and we all know it, so it's not like we shouldn't say it. So maybe that was when she went back to her office, slit open her hand, and started scrawling Nicole Richie extension manifestos in blood on her wall, or maybe it was because of the meeting, I don't know. All I know is, she actually wasted time digging up a photo just to prove me wrong and kill my story. I know she wears extensions.

Meanwhile, the Big Boss is normally oblivious to my presence, but before I left, she stopped by my office to say, "Hey, great job on those stories today."

Yeah. Dig up a photo to prove that wrong.

Tangentially, Raige invited me out for coffee ("...or anything? A break? Fresh air?"), and half of me was like, "Aw, be nice, she's just trying to make friends," and then half of me was like, "NO! INTERLOPER! I HATE HER." That half of me won. And then really, really regretted it when she was all sad-British-orphan about wanting to get to know everyone. So now, at some point, she's supposed to ask me to get coffee again. Damn this human conscience.

because I can spot a tiny picture of Maura from a mile away

2006-06-05T17:09:00.000-04:00

There's a little Some Girl(s) opening graphic on the New York events calendar. Now everybody's gonna know about it. They also have a nice little feature on the workdays of four New Yorkers, during which I discovered that my long-held suspicions are correct: I do, indeed, do less work than everyone else, and also being a casting director would be a lot of fun.

the Nia & Pixie show: that's not funny

2006-06-04T23:14:00.000-04:00

"You've tested positive for H.I.V."
"The what?"
"H.I.V."
"The what?"
"You have H.I.V.!"
"I'm sorry, I don't know what that is, I have the what?"
"(rolls eyes) The hiv, you have the hiv."
"Oh."
"(silence)"
"Thank you for aiding me with that diagnosis."
"That's not funny."

the Nia & Pixie show: Jesus, take the show

2006-05-24T22:22:00.000-04:00

Nia: I only hate Carrie Underwood for singing a song called "Jesus Take the Wheel."
Pixie: ROFL ew.
Nia: One day I'm gonna go for a drive and just be like, "I'm tired. Hey, Jesus, take the wheel."
Nia: And Jesus will lean over from the passenger seat and drive for me while I nap.
Pixie: LOL.
Pixie: Yeah, so, when there was only one set of hands on the wheel, that was because I was driving for you.
Nia: LMAOOO.

the Nia & Pixie show

2006-05-10T14:03:00.000-04:00

Nia: Last night, did you hear when Ryan commented on Paula's dancing and said he should give her a dollar?
Pixie: YES.
Nia: And she got SO PISSED.
Nia: What did Simon do, I forget? I feel like he did something I should have remembered.
Pixie: Oh, he was just like "A little over the line bla bla bla" and he and Ryan had some words.
Pixie: And it ended with Ryan going, "She likes me better."
Nia: LOL they had some words.
Nia: You time-traveled back to 1922.
Pixie: LOL yes I did.

flower power

2006-05-08T13:08:00.000-04:00

I was just reading about the St. Peter's Fisherman Festival in Saint-Raphael, France: "At nightfall in the town a ritual pine (one of the Mediterranean conifers so prone to forest fires) is lit in the port. A fierce flower battle then takes place in the water, with teams of fishermen and friends conniving to get each other as wet as possible while flinging local flora about by the light of the fire."

A fierce flower battle. Where could all those stereotypes about the French come from? If only the Germans had invaded in the springtime, then the French would have had some ammunition.

six degrees of Annie Lennox

2006-05-02T11:04:00.000-04:00

Thanks to a sister publication's cover party, some of my officemates can currently be seen chillin' with Kelis on Wireimage. According to the rules of Six Degrees of Separation, I am two degrees from Kelis, which means I am three degrees from Eurythmics. And that's like practically knowing them.

and I know everything about American Idol

2006-04-29T11:55:00.000-04:00

I forgot to mention: I've broken out of my bubble and entered the blogosphere.

Some of the editors at Teen People do LJ, and the other day I corrected the West Coast editor's American Idol post, and now I'm kind of considering pimping myself to her all, "I'm a professional fact-checker and my rates are low." Would that be sad, or charmingly proactive?

gross. gross. que tu es grossier!

2006-04-26T11:21:00.000-04:00

I get on the W this morning, and I notice the car is full of children. Full. Children on every seat down one side of the car, and a few standing with teacher-y looking adults. They're all preschool-aged, holding pencils and handmade workbooks with a checklist of W stops, in order: 42nd St, 34th St, 28th St, 23rd St, and "14th St - UNION SQUARE!!!" At every stop, they yell it out ("34TH STREEEEEEEEET!"), but not in unison. The teacher-y looking adults (in modest sweaters and conservative but stylish handbags) keep telling them to look for the numbers on the walls. One kid turns around in her seat to look out the window, and I notice that on the back of her shirt is pinned a laminated card: "I am a student at Ethical Culture School," with the school's address and phone number. Which is both cute and disturbing because...well, my dog has the same kind of tag. Has this kid also had her rabies shot?

Most of the passengers on the train seem confused. Obviously, these kids are having a lesson in subway-riding, but is it adorable or annoying? We don't know. I decide on adorable, and harbor fantasies of one of them accidentally getting off at my stop, latching onto me because I am deceptively kind-looking, and accompanying me back to my office, where I will call the phone number on her little tag, and she will eat snacks we've stolen from the office refrigerator and color photocopied magazine pages while we wait for someone to pick her up. Till I get to the office (childless) and look up Ethical Culture School, and find it is a member of the Ivy Preparatory School League. Dammit, I knew that class was too attractively diverse. I knew those kids were too well-dressed. Of course they needed a lesson in subway-riding: their parents sure as hell won't set foot in a tunnel, and if Jeeves the driver is ever sick (fire him, Mommy!), the kids need to know how to get around!

we are so smrt

2006-04-14T21:38:00.000-04:00

Nia: "And I can't even claim you for the fourth of July this year..."
Pixie: "When is the fourth of July?"
Nia: "July."

well, I am a chick magnet, it's true...

2006-04-12T14:46:00.000-04:00

I'm down with the blogs. I know what the kids are reading these days. And for the past week, at least once a day I have seen a blog mention the catcalling/staring/borderline-sexual-harassment that goes on in New York City on a daily basis. Pretty girls, ugly girls, skinny girls, fat girls: they all have entries about the many insulting things men do.

Now, here's the thing. I am in New York City every single day, and I have yet to experience this. "Just for you, that is eighty-five cents," at the newsstand, yes. "Hello, I think you are very pretty," in a stilted foreign accent, yes. "Back that thing up," from the doorman at Stiletto Gentlemen's Club, yes. One time I turned into Pixie and some guy followed me down into the subway begging for my number, but he also told me he just quit pot and his brain was a little fried, so I chalk that up to his judgment being impaired. Anyway, the point is, nobody's ever treated me like a piece of meat walking down Broadway. How is it that I have managed to escape the creepiness that haunts the other women of New York City? Am I just not noticing it? Am I just sticking to nicer neighborhoods? (On the border of Hell's Kitchen? Yeah right.) Do I emit some sort of half-correct "don't bother, she's a lesbian" vibe? Good Lord, am I too ugly to be sexually harassed? I know uglier girls than me must be writing some of these blogs. And how sad is it that I find sexual harassment slightly flattering, because it just does not happen to me enough?

So what gives, bloggers? Why you act like New York don't know how to treat a lady? He be treatin' me just fine.

snow makes whiteness, etc.

2006-04-05T11:27:00.000-04:00

It is movie-snowing in NYC right now. Big fat flakes floating down. The guys in the building across the way are taking pictures, and their movement is the only reason I know the view from my window isn't some TV backdrop loaded with plastic snow.

really?

2006-03-07T22:54:00.000-05:00

I talked to The Boss about the full-time thing, and she talked to The Big Boss, and The Big Boss...doesn't like the way I write heds and deks. That's all. Heds and deks. Everything else, she loves.

Okay.

I'm on, like, hed-and-dek probation now. I don't even know.

see it to believe it

2006-03-06T22:46:00.000-05:00

Fun with other cultures, courtesy of the Seattle Post Intelligencer.

They're selling pre-dirtied Converses now. Because God forbid you, I don't know, take a walk?

because even as a toddler, I was unrealistic

2006-03-03T13:31:00.000-05:00

So, first of all, I work next to something called "Santa's Toyland." This morning, a rotund old man with a knotty wood walking stick and a very long white beard was entering the building. With a very short (some might say elfin) woman. It had to be a joke. Or, like, a Santa audition.

Second of all, Kate & Allie is coming to DVD? Why didn't anybody tell me? As far as I can recall, Kate was the first TV character I ever fell in love with, back when I was like four years old. And it was serious, man. I wanted to go live with her and sleep in her bed every night, and if she had been real, I would have run away to her house and not even missed my parents. So, yeah, I'm excited.

PS - Pixie, do you want to go to Red, White, & Blue while you're off?

the Nia & Pixie show: your next American Idol

2006-03-02T00:35:00.000-05:00

Nia: I love how quickly you were converted to the side of Seacrest.
Pixie: LOL. I love any man who can attack Simon like that.
Pixie: And I never realized it.
Nia: But the weird thing is, I kind of love Simon too.
Pixie: Me too.
Pixie: But in a hate way.
Nia: I kind of do want to watch them have a lot of sex.
Pixie: LMAO yeah.
Nia: LOL I bet when Simon has sex with Paula, it's totally like Meredith and George and she starts crying.
Nia: Except Simon doesn't get upset, he's just like, "Jesus. Again."
Pixie: OMG I actually laughed out loud and couldn't stop.
Pixie: LOL.
Pixie: In fact, I'm still laughing.
Nia: And when Ryan has sex with Paula, he like, won't look at her.
Nia: Because he already knows from Simon what she's like.
Pixie: He definitely turns her around so he can pretend she's Simon.
Nia: Definitely.
Nia: Or makes her wear a picture of Simon on her face.
Pixie: ROFL a Simon mask.
Nia: Not even a mask. Just a picture from Us Weekly.
Nia: Taped to her forehead.
Pixie: LMAOOO
Nia: LOL
Nia: So my parents and I have decided that Wednesday is the night Paula doesn't do drugs.
Pixie: She needs to be lucid to watch the pretty boys.
Nia: Exactly.
Nia: On girls' night, she needs to dull the pain of watching their youthful exuberance, and on elimination night, she needs to dull the pain of losing her underage harem.
Pixie: Yeah.
Pixie: I agree.
Nia: I wonder what it's like to be inside Paula Abdul's head.
Nia: I mean, sad, obviously.
Nia: But besides that.
Pixie: I can't even imagine.
Pixie: What kind of mind can produce the clothing combinations she comes up with?
Nia: Right? It's like that time I tried to imagine being Ashlee Simpson.
Pixie: Oh god.
Nia: I think my brain fell out.
Pixie: My brain totally just fell out at just the mention of that.

all in all, a good week

2006-02-25T07:56:00.000-05:00

Can you believe I'm up this early?

So, on Thursday I go into Green Magazine and there's an envelope sitting on my desk. I open it, and it's a check for three hundred dollars.

Me: "Uhh...?"
Editor: "Oh, yeah. You get paid for that front-of-book piece you did. I forgot to mention that."

Well. Pleasant surprise. And just in case you don't understand how pleasant: that's 300 dollars for a 250-word piece. That's more than a dollar a word. I've never been paid more than a fraction of a cent per word before. I also got a pretty hefty check from Hairstyles this week, because the squeezed three weeks into a pay period. So yay. I'm actually not going to have to take money out of savings for my health insurance this month. Good thing I hoarded all that money when I was in school.

Officemate: "Can you imagine being eighteen and being a billionaire?"
Me: "No."
Officemate: "Can you imagine being eighteen and being a millionaire?"
Me: "No."
Officemate: "Can you imagine being eighteen and having more than a thousand dollars?"
Me: "No. Well, yes, actually."
Officemate: "Oh."

But my, how things have changed. I was being so good about shopping, but then I realized I can take the subway straight from Hairstyles to the Herald Square H&M. (Addiction is a disease, okay? Don't judge me.) And here's the highlight of my week: A while ago, I fell in love with this outfit in Lucky, this drapey brown sweater cinched with a brown leather sash belt. I love it so much I kept that issue, then kept the page through a round of magazine clean-ups, then kept the page again through another round of magazine clean-ups. But this last time, I looked at it and was like, "I'll never find a sweater like that," and gave up and threw the page away. Then on Monday, I went into work and everybody else decided not to show up, so the EIC told me to go home. I went to H&M. And...there was a sweater like that! One! In my size! I also picked up a leather sash belt to go with it, and a deep navy camisole with gold studs, and a crazy long necklace involving plastic discs. The moral of this story is: Never give up , because H&M has everything. Also, in my professional opinion, Forever 21 and Zara both blow, although I kind of want to buy a sweater dress from Zara anyway. In preparation for next fall. This is how sad I am: I spent this week looking at Fashion Week photos and planning my fall wardrobe. (Don't judge!)

Also, if you are a member of the Academy of American Poets and you get their little year-in-review booklet, check the back for my name. I am a winner!

still not an apartment

2006-02-22T22:20:00.000-05:00

Freebie of the day: L'Oreal Technique Nature's Therapy Heat Control mist. (To use with my free straightening iron, of course.)

that's practically the price of an apartment, right?

2006-02-17T21:15:00.000-05:00

Freebies of the day: a pink tourmaline straightening iron with a retail price of $100, plus some Brit Style gunk, and a CD case.

snow makes whiteness where it falls...

2006-02-13T10:01:00.000-05:00

...so I get to call out of work! I'm playing hooky today, because why trudge through the snow, get on a delayed bus, trudge through more snow, and sit in an office to do Google searches on environmentally-friendly summer activities? I can do that at home, in my pajamas.

how come nobody gives away apartments?

2006-02-09T23:07:00.000-05:00

Freebie of the day: one pot of mineral powder foundation. Surprisingly nice coverage, but it's too dark for my winter skin. Alas, I am ghostly.

all is right with my world

2006-02-07T22:27:00.000-05:00

I got on the C train, glanced up at the ads, and: "That's right. Look up to me." He's back! I swear to God, I'm going to marry that liquor bottle.

I forgot to list Monday's freebie: one pot of mineral eye shadow.

Also, anybody familiar with Freelancers Union / Working Today?

(im)perfection

2006-02-03T20:42:00.000-05:00

The Big Boss took today off, and everyone else skipped out early, but I wanted to get paid till 4:30, so I hung around reading back issues and then I took a walk. I ended up in Madison Square Park, stretched out on a park bench, listening to '70s Motown and staring at the skyline. It's a beautiful place to look up.

At a certain point, I found myself thinking: This is my life. It wasn't a particularly emotional thing, just a reflection. Because, first of all, this has always been my life, with the subways and the pretty windows. I just wasn't living it yet. And because, second of all, I very rarely just live my life. I live a lot of daydreams. As a kid, I was so obsessed with books that I became different characters and narrated my life in my head, and now it's just second nature--the narration is gone, but I'm still usually somewhere or someone else in my mind, thinking about this character and this place and this story alongside my actual life. But today, lying on a park bench, it was just my life. And it was just, like...calm. And right. I have a life.

And now, a minor crisis: My hairstylist is retiring. She's getting married in July and she wants to have a baby right away. (Minus ten cool points.) Congratulations to her, but what of my hair???

well, it's almost health insurance

2006-02-01T23:07:00.000-05:00

Freebie of the day: Another bottle of nail polish. Oh, and a full-time job.

The Boss asked me if I'd like to try my hand at "an article article, with a byline and everything," and of course I said yes, because it's not like I already have six assignments due this month. (By the way, anyone know anything about threading?) She started jotting down some information, and asked me if I'm enjoying myself so far, and of course I said yes, because...yes. I've gotten to do more in two weeks than I did in four months at ATM. And she asked, "So, you would be interested in a full-time position?" Me: "Ummm...yes." I told her, though, that I'm still committed to Green Magazine for the next few months, and I don't feel right about backing out of that. And she goes, "We'll wait for you." She says she likes that I'm not jumping the Green Magazine ship, because it means I won't do it to her, either, which is true. We didn't discuss the details, so I'm guessing it's just a full-time freelance position, no benefits, but employment is employment! She also said I'm writing well, which was the part that made me smile out in the hallway. Also, apparently S sees me as "cheerful." Hello, S, have we met? Oh, and Beauty Addict is showing off my first feature in this month's press release. (They do press releases?)

So, in conclusion: yay.

it's not health insurance, but...

2006-01-31T21:46:00.000-05:00

Freebie of the day: 2 bottles of red nail polish.

because they don't pay us enough to actually buy food

2006-01-26T23:07:00.000-05:00

Today's freebies: 3 boxes of organic cookies.

the word of the day is: hetemosexual

2006-01-21T22:36:00.000-05:00

First of all, way to be on top of things, New York. (Not even getting into the multitude of insulting and/or one-sided portrayals there, because three years ago called, and it wants its conversation back. Also, nine years ago called, and it wants its "x amount of years ago called" schtick back, me.)

Second of all, yeah, the Stuyvesant kids totally coined "bi-curious" and "pansexual." Right. Just like the Pixie coined "hetemosexual." Oh wait, she did!

but she doesn't have a goldfish

2006-01-19T22:53:00.000-05:00

One of the women I work with? Is definitely Allison Janney. Seriously, every time the art director talks to me, I'm like, "West Wing?" She sounds exactly the same. She also looks exactly the same, at least from the back and the side, because she has exactly the same body, hairstyle, and wardrobe as CJ Cregg. Except better, because fishnets. And the funny thing is, I don't even really like Allison Janney. But when she's standing around your office, wearing fishnets and getting mad at the printer with you, she's way sexy!

we're definitely peasant stock

2006-01-15T13:33:00.000-05:00

You know, I honestly think I look best after an hour of shoveling snow, when I'm standing around in a down jacket and boots and a hoodie, with no makeup on and my hair slipping out of my ponytail.

I need, like, a really satisfying meal right now.

And then I have to write about Botox. :(

money money money

2006-01-13T12:32:00.000-05:00

First paycheck in the industry!

This is tangible proof that people actually get paid to talk about lipstick. I'm so glad I'm doing something meaningful with my life.

food poisoning is good for your prospects

2006-01-03T21:38:00.000-05:00

First of all, you're looking at the new Green Magazine intern. The interview went something like this: "This is what the job entails. Etc. So, are you interested in green living?" Me: (lying my face off) "Yes."

Second, when I got sick last week, I had to re-schedule an interview with Hairstyles of the Rich & Famous. I finally went in to see them today, and I've been mellow about my interviews lately anyway, but today I was just not...anything. Not prepped, not nervous, not even thinking about the interview before I got there. (I was actually wondering about the source of my live "You Have Placed a Chill in My Heart" MP3.) Part of it was the fact that I'd clicked with the woman over the phone already, and part of it was ambivalence--yeah, Hairstyles pays and there's the prospect of a full-time position, but if I work at Hairstyles on top of Plenty, I won't be able to get a job with health benefits for at least six months, and I will be out three thousand dollars, so I don't know what I want and I'll just let fate decide.

Fate decided very quickly. The woman brought me into her office and explained the job, which is how interviews generally go for me--interview is a real misnomer--so everything seemed typical. And then she asked when I could start. Seriously. I actually took a moment to wonder if anyone else even applied, because who gets offered the job at the interview?

what qualifies as a bra expert?

2005-12-14T01:24:00.000-05:00

Tea article: done.

I wanted to stay awake to finish it, so I drank some coffee. Oh, the irony!

Here's a confession: I write magazine articles for fun. I make up celebrities, or fashion lines, or restaurants, and write little EW Must List style profiles for them when I'm bored. So why do I totally dread getting started on my bra and makeup features? Here's another confession: The tea article is 249 words, and I know what 249 words looks like because I write too many double drabbles. Now, the only assignment I have left is an article on bras.

when it rains, it pours

2005-12-12T18:22:00.000-05:00

This has been the most responsible day of my life.

I was supposed to send out two cover letters and email two contacts this weekend, and late last night I realized that I did exactly none of those things. So this morning I got up early to do both. I sent out my letters, ate a banana, and received a phone call from Editor B in response to my cover letter. Scheduled another interview for tomorrow. Received an email from Editor A in response to my other cover letter, asking about my interest in the magazine. Responded. Received a few emails with quotes and credits from my "expert sources." Responded. Ate a little lunch. Received an email from Editor A, asking whether I could send along my clips and make it to NYC for an interview. Scheduled another interview for tomorrow. Received an email from the president of the Tea Association of the USA, with an updated National Hot Tea Month press release and a Tea USA fact sheet. Responded. Received an email from Editor A telling me how to get to his office. Received more emails from my expert sources. Responded. And that brings me to now: I've done nothing but talk to editors and research articles all day, and I still have to start my tea article, prep for all three of tomorrow's interviews (print out clips, check portfolio, write down subway and street directions, put together an outfit, etc), and respond to my editor from Breathe, who just emailed me about a possible job opportunity. Oh yeah, and the Ed2010 newsletter just arrived, with new job listings. I still haven't emailed those two contacts. I haven't even showered yet! How do I have this much going on?

I think I deserve, like, a cookie. And a job. And some shampoo.

life's important lessons

2005-11-22T19:17:00.000-05:00

Reason #547 Why You Should Wear Flats to Your Interview: You will leave your portfolio in the second-floor ladies' room at Port Authority, and have to sprint back from the subway to recover it.

Corollary to Reason #547 (a.k.a. But Next Time, Choose Flats with Better Traction): You will step into the rain-slick subway stairwell and promptly fall flat on your ass.

The downtown A/C/E platform was closed at 42nd. Is it weird that I immediately had flashbacks to the subway rapist episode of SVU?

freelance: it's practically employment!

2005-11-20T04:44:00.000-05:00

Ed2010 had an ad for a startup beauty webmagazine that was looking for freelancers, so I sent in my resume and they want me to write for them. I just have to pitch some stories, which...I have no idea how to do.

But still! I'll get bylines and money! Now, when I say I'm a "freelance writer," it's not just a euphemism for "unemployed"!

So, yeah. Do any of you know how to pitch? I could use a clue.

RU reading my journal?

2005-11-11T00:26:00.000-05:00

I rocked the career services Q&A. I was asked more questions individually than any other panelist, and my prepared 15 minutes was the most organized, despite some re-shuffling of topics mid-speech. And I was the only panelist to consistently get laughs. (Is it cheating that some of my jokes were scripted?) It was so much more fun than I thought it would be, and I got to share my wisdom with the eager youth of America! Hurrah! Plus, it was totally like being a celebrity. I got a microphone and a bottle of water and mints and a little sign with my name on it!

It's funny, no matter how many times I successfully give a speech, or answer questions, or meet people, I don't think of myself as someone who is particularly good at those things. I'm always a little bit surprised. But maybe I should re-think the whole "go into nursing at 35" thing and go into career counseling or social work instead.

Being on College Ave was so bizarre, though. They were selling Pepsi!

can you get laid off from a job that didn't pay you?

2005-11-04T20:59:00.000-05:00

Breathe went out of business, y'all. My editor left me a voicemail and I was like, "Really? Awesome." And then, "Oh no! No more Vincent D'Onofrio!"

he's way cuter than Helen Gurley Brown

2005-11-01T22:36:00.000-05:00

So yesterday I was on delivery duty, and as I returned from my first run, I saw this Walton Hauling & Warehouse truck near the building, and along the bottom it said "film - television - music" or somesuch. Naturally, I got all excited at the possibility of someone filming something somewhere, and immediately slowed to check out the rest of the truck. On the cab door: "UNI. TELEVISION - PIER 62 CHELSEA." In my head: universal television chelsea piers = CHUNG FUCKING CHUNG! But, no, my luck could not be that good. They must be filming exteriors, or location-scouting, right? Then, in front of the building, a guy hopped out of another truck, carrying about six bottles of ketchup and mustard, and placed them on the two cases of Poland Spring at his feet. Okay, that must be catering. I said hey to the doorman, glanced at the printed "HOLDING" signs taped to the front of the building, and hurried back up to the office. I immediately Googled "chelsea piers 62" to find out which Law & Order is stationed there (Criminal Intent), and begged the editors to send me on another assignment, so I would have an excuse go back outside. They told me to pick up film from the photo studio, and I hustled downstairs and checked out the Walton and catering trucks at the corner again, then turned and and stood on the curb in front of the building, to see if there was anything down the other end of the block. Those "HOLDING" signs on our building had "7th floor" scrawled on them, and the next building over had "TO SET" signs, with similarly scrawly arrows pointing down the block. And then, on the building after that: "CREW: use freight elevator!" Ah, so the set is that way. I started wandering in the direction of the set, and OH LOOK IT'S VINCENT D'ONOFRIO! He came out of my building, walked behind me with a few PAs, and then headed into the building where they were filming and stood around in the stairwell. And, um, he's really cute in person. He was eating a piece of a bagel and kind of giggling with the PAs, and he did that little head tilt and my heart grew three sizes! I actually smiled! For no reason except that HE IS SO CUTE! He just looked like he was having so much fun! And he was so adorable with his little bagel piece, like he had just come from snacktime! I can never hate on Bobby Goren again! So yeah, he was super fucking adorable and I'd do him in a minute, even if I'd have to stand on a stepladder to do it, because also? He's very tall. I understand now why he's always tilting.

Anyway. I finished stalking and went to the photo studio. And naturally, on the way there, I called my mom and Pixie to tell them I was three feet from a bona fide Law & Order star. And on the way back, I stopped and asked our doorman what the "HOLDING" signs meant, and he was like, "Oh, they're filming a movie down there or something..." Me, a little too quickly: "Yeah, Law & Order." Because it's not like I'm obsessed or anything, doorman! No! I do not at all have an unhealthy interest in television and behind-the-scenes trivia! Doorman: "Yeah. And on the seventh floor is where the crew and everyone is camped out." Me, trying desperately to remain calm: "Uhhh...cool. Thanks." And the best part? I went back to the office and nonchalantly asked if anyone knew they were filming a Law & Order down the street, and everyone was like, "Oh, yeah, they do that all the time. The building owner knows the producer or something, so they film here every time they need, like, generic office space." Me, trying desperately to remain calm: "Uhhh...cool." It took all the willpower in the world for me to not go down to the seventh floor and sneak in.

So yeah. They filmed one building over, and they were there from about 10 a.m. and 5 p.m. And Vincent D'Onofrio looks really sharp in a suit and trenchcoat. Just so you know.

in which I am broke

2005-10-20T02:56:00.000-04:00

It's official. I now have half as much money as I had when I started college. The resulting amount is really not bad, especially considering my age, and is the fruit of much labor and scrimping and going without a cell phone and reaping my parents' generosity, but still. I'm a thousand dollars below my personal comfort zone, and basically bleeding money for this internship, so it's official: I need to find a temporary job.

Pixie and I figured out what it will cost me to live on my own, and applied it to the general salary for an editorial assistant. After all expenses, I am left with $375 (hopefully) a month for food, supplies, a cell phone, laundry, a MetroCard, and train tickets. Or a Cynthia Rowley bag. Whichever. And what about shoes? What about chicken vindaloo and tandoori tikkas? What about the Gap for God's sake? They'll go out of business without me!

debra winger wants you to shut it

2005-10-18T17:28:00.000-04:00

The internship could be better, but it could definitely be worse. There are six people on the staff, and we all work in one giant cubicle, which blows, but I love my desk. I face a window overlooking the alley, and every so often I can see the guy in the next building wander back and forth, and if I look to the right, I can see the gorgeous building across the street. There's a big white wall separating my area from the editorial director's, so I'm going to start ripping out pages of Stars - They're Just Like Us! and taping them up. Because the editor-in-chief? Is a total starfucker. "Debra Winger came to yoga class on a Vespa. Oh, yeah, Debra Winger is always in my yoga class." There's a Barnes & Noble one block down, which rules, because I get a lunch break. Not a grab-a-lunch-and-bring-it-back-to-your-d

esk break. A lunch break. And by the way, is the B&N here hiring? I love being in an office again, but I kind of miss working in a bookstore.

I'm learning that it is okay to be sad for the things that are gone.

Did anyone see the mad fire on the Queensboro Bridge? Crazy.

go figure

2005-10-10T16:50:00.000-04:00

Remember my interview with the yoga magazine? No, you don't, because I was so un-enthused that I didn't even bother to mention it. I wrote it off before I even got there, didn't prepare, showed up late, didn't bother with makeup, wrote it off again when I met the rumply and bitter editor, showed zero interest in their subject matter, and gave them a crumply resume. And then I went home and copy-and-pasted my thank-you note to her from another email, and forgot to change the name, so I had to send her back an email like, "Oh, I do know your name, I just got my thank-you notes mixed up."

Interview mistakes: 6. Job offers: 1.

It's an unpaid internship, one or two days a week, with a chance to write for their weekly newsletter, and an even bigger chance to, uh, label Fed-Ex packages and lug expensive items across town. But there's a Barnes & Noble like a block away. That's pretty cool, right? Yeah. So, should I take it? Should I hold out for LIFE? Should I take a nap?

or should I see someone about that?

2005-10-06T22:00:00.000-04:00

Is it normal, the day after walking 30 blocks in eighty-degree weather while dehydrated and and wearing a sweater, to feel as if all my major muscles are ripping in half every time I move?

life (magazine) is good

2005-09-30T20:14:00.000-04:00

I HAVE AN INTERVIEW FOR A FULL-TIME PAID INTERNSHIP AT LIFE MAGAZINE! WOOOOOOOOO!

That is all.

Ooh, what will I wear?

mmm

2005-09-09T18:54:00.000-04:00

It smells like Queens in the summertime.

Would it be completely wrong to lie about receiving college credit for an internship? Because at ATM, all I did was show them an E-credit form and tell them to send the dean a letter, and I could very easily get several more E-credit forms from Rutgers, and then show them to an internship supervisor, and then tell her to give me a letter addressed to the dean rather than send a letter directly to the dean. It wouldn't be hard at all.

And as we all know: if it's easy, it's right.

on the subject of people who suck

2005-06-24T22:32:00.000-04:00

So my mom and I are walking through B&N, and I spot the new Bazaar in the magazine section, and I pick it up all, "Look, it's Ashley! Alone! Where's Mary-Kate?" And then I put the magazine down and go, "Dead."

And there's this little girl standing behind me. And I'm like, "Oh." And you could just feel her mother hating me.

Meanwhile, someone pointed me to something called the Chubby Girl Brigade, which, judging by the tone, is written by a bunch of Midwestern fortysomething fat ladies. They're all making comments like, "I'd be lucky to fit into an 18 without suffocating!" or "Weight resistance--does that mean pushing away the last cinnamon bun, or eating two scoops of ice cream instead of eight?" and "Don't eat after 11 PM? Try telling that to my husband after he's brought me back a box of Dove bars from a late-night supermarket run!" And then they're talking about how the medical profession is full of fat-hating crackpots, and this one woman is talking about how she didn't see an OB/GYN for eight years because she was too ashamed to be weighed, and some other woman is telling women to just say no to the scale at the doctor's office, and it's like, you know what? You women have problems. And you should not be proud. Uh, yes, do try telling your husband no when he brings you back a box of Dove bars. Nobody's forcing you to eat them right then and there. And how many cinnamon buns are you eating that you can refer to "the last" one? And how lame are you that you won't go to a doctor just because you don't want to be told you're fat? And yes, you are fat. You're not chubby. A size 20 is not chubby unless you're like, I don't know, seven feet tall. How about you stop being such finger-pointing hypocrites, and start talking about what you really are--namely, a bunch of fat chicks who eat a lot of junk food, don't care about the consequences, and would like to like themselves for/despite that, but are too busy hiding behind euphemisms and blaming others for their own inability to accept themselves? I hate dishonesty. Whereas most people love it, I know.

oh yeah

2005-05-08T17:21:00.000-04:00

I keep meaning to say something about this.

The other day, I got on a subway car formerly lined with those Courvoisier ads, and the only remaining ad was an overhead "That's right, look up to me." Except it was all ripped in half, part of it dangling down against the doors, looking sad and defeated.

I felt so lost.

goodbye, anonymous teen magazine!

2005-05-07T16:43:00.000-04:00

So, today was my last day at ATM, which means I snuck around taking pictures of everything I possibly could. (The super-awesome bathroom and the watercooler of thievery were, alas, off limits due to high traffic plus the creepiness of taking a camera into a public bathroom.) And now, without further ado: Welcome to Camp Intern! Notice the naked men. Sadly, the infamous Camp Intern garbage bag disappeared on my last day (damn fashion girls), so there are no more pictures of that, but here's the other side, as seen from my chair. Here are my pals, who greet me every morning. They are, counter-clockwise from top: Hello Alligator, Stacy Dog, Finger Puppet, Odd Bird, Tulip, and Headless Girl, my answer to all the naked men. Headless Girl actually has a head, but I haven't seen it since I put her up there. Finger Puppet came home with me, but I left Odd Bird there for the next intern. I also left my post-it collection because (a) the intern before me left hers, and because I'm anal I had to rewrite them all in my own handwriting and preferred format, with a better color scheme to boot, so it's kind of tradition, and (b) it was my favorite part of my desk. I felt so official. Now, to the right of my pals and my post-it collection, you'll find my other pals. Mmm, emaciation. That went so well with my very last tuna sandwich from Pax. But don't think my job is all fun and games. To the left of my pals, you'll find MY EFFIN' FREEBIES, SUCKA! But I have useful stuff too, like a a contact list and my very own shelf.

And don't forget: the last thing I saw before I left.

Also, I stole a scarf, a Gameboy Advance game, a Sims 2 University press kit that I hope will have a demo of the game, and four promo CDs. Including one from Aslyn, whose "Be the Girl" has been stuck in my head since forever. What? They were on the giveaway table. My job was fucking sweet.

NEWS YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE!!!

2005-04-26T09:35:00.000-04:00

Today I received an email from the Gap. Subject: "Bras to match out summer tops." Imagining some sort of cute printed bra/top combo, I opened it right away. "Find out which bras to wear with our new summer tops!" the email cried. "Okay!" I responded eagerly, and clicked the image of a woman in a fluttery blue tank (with smashed-down, wearing-a-too-small-bandeau-bra boobs, which should have been my first clue). Up comes a Gap site with four categories of shirts-and-bras, and the following revelations: If you're wearing a halter, you should consider a strapless bra. Similarly, if you're wearing a spaghetti-strap top, you should consider a strapless bra. Additionally, if you're wearing a low-cut t-shirt, you should consider a push-up bra, but if you're wearing a regularly cut t-shirt, a lightly lined t-shirt bra is probably your best bet. And this is where you have to brace yourself, because what I am about to tell you is absolutely unbelievable. Are you ready? Are you sure?

The most earth-shattering revelation of all: If you are wearing a white t-shirt, you should wear a nude bra!

(screams of horror and awe echo over the landscape)

And then I found myself imagining some poor woman, previously plagued by white-under-white bra shadows, now amidst choirs of angels bearing flesh-toned bras, suddenly relieved thanks to the helpful folks at the Gap and--WTF, no. Any woman old enough to be receiving Gap emails about bras and tanks is old enough to know which bras to wear with which tanks, which makes me wonder why Gap invented this email in the first place, which makes me wonder if there are women who don't know these things, which makes me think there aren't, which makes me wonder why Gap invented this email, and it is a terrible mind-reducing ouroboros of thought.

(screams of horror and awe)

And I wanted to share it with you.

it was just like camping!

2005-04-12T02:13:00.000-04:00

I spent 2.5 hours on a train this morning.

See, first the train stopped moving, and then ten minutes later the conductor came over the loudspeaker to say there were power line problems ahead and we'd be moving in thirty minutes, and then thirty minutes later the conductor came over the loudspeaker and said we'd be moving in thirty minutes, and then thirty minutes later the conducter came over the loudspeaker and said we'd be moving in forty to sixty minutes, and then we'd get to Newark Penn Station, and from there he thought we'd probably continue on to New York. Thought. Probably. Also, there were rescue trains pulling people from the trains ahead before they were towed. Rescue trains. Which came and rescued some of the people off the Amtrak Acela next to us, but not us. No, not us. We sat. We laughed at the conductor's announcement about disgruntled passengers on the trains ahead, who were making the rescue harder than it had to be and causing more delays, and then we laughed when passengers on our own train became disgruntled, and then we bonded over not being rescued. It was totally like being stuck on the AutoTrain, but a thousand times more awesome because we had air conditioning and flush toilets! Speaking of which, I asked the guy in the seat facing me to watch my bag while I looked for a bathroom, and then I chatted with a cute little Asian lady about how we were only a mile outside of Newark and we should pry the side doors open and make a run for it while the conductors weren't looking! And then the conductor came over the loudspeaker like, "The track around us is what's called 'hot track'! We cannot let people out! Because the track is hot! STAY INSIDE THE TRAIN, PEOPLE!" And the Asian lady and I laughed, and were generally jolly, and then she went in the bathroom and I was generally jolly with some black dude instead, and then I went in the bathroom and it's a lot less crack-worthy when the train's not moving, and then I went back to my seat and my bag was safe and sound! Because people are jolly and good! Except the businessman behind me on the bathroom line, who was all huffy and territorial about being third on line. He was grumpy. Lighten up, man. And then I stretched out on my seat and ate a granola bar and read the slightly terrible but not entirely unenjoyable chick-lit I had packed into my bag so I could put it back on the giveaway table at the office, because no way am I giving it a home, and then we moved. We moved! All the way into Newark! Where the conductor unceremoniously dumped us with a "there's another train of Track 3, but God knows when they'll be moving, but hey, take the PATH, losers!" Which I did, because they were cross-honoring NJ Transit tickets anyway, and everyone ahead of me was running frantically to the gate and throwing themselves directly into the pakced car, and I was all, "chill, babies!" and slipped through the gate and strolled three cars down and got an entire car to myself. And the view from the PATH over the water? Lovely. And it took me straight to my subway station. Lovely! And then I had a really good tuna sandwich for lunch and Jess let me go home early, which was kind of bad because it seemed like she didn't really want me to do anything today and I wasn't helping at all, but I guess it's just because we're at a between-issue lull. So I sent out resumes, and then I went to the Time Warner Center and got a Jamba Juice smoothie (good but overrated) and hung out at Borders instead. And I bought a cool outfit from Old Navy. And I got home really late, and had dinner, and it was relatively healthy, and then I was relatively responsible and I put away my clothes while watching the Gilmore Girls reruns I taped last week.

Wow, that was long.

so much to tell you...

2005-03-29T03:04:00.000-05:00

But I'll leave it at this:

The subways are currently overrun with these Courvoisier ads. They're just a black background, with a glowy bottle set to one side and a glowy slogan set to the other, and there are probably four or five versions with four or five slogans in all, but I only ever remember one. Set in the ad space along the top of the car, the bottle proclaims from above your head: "That's right, look up to me."

I am strangely attracted to that bottle.

social skills: not on the list of things I possess

2005-03-21T23:13:00.000-05:00

So today I was wearing this floaty little white babydoll tank with gold all around the edges, with my dark(ish) jeans and my cream blazer, and I had my hair all wavy-tousled in a messy bun, and my eye makeup was all smoky and good, and basically I looked hot, right? I mean, except the tank was a little on the low side and I hadn't adjusted the straps this morning, so I was like flashing people every time I bent over, but whatever. I looked really good standing up. And I'm walking around the office with a stack of magazines to photocopy, and because the regular copy machine is being all weird and has some note about stapling taped to the front, I'm over at the weird ghetto copier near the intern office. And this guy I have never seen before in my life stops dead next to me, and looks me up and down, and is like, "What's your name?" I'm like, "Nia." He's like, "What's your last name?" I'm like, "Heywood-Jones, why?" And by the way, he's hot. Slim but not too skinny, tall enough that I have to look up to talk to him, with gorgeous brown eyes and gorgeous eyelashes, and dark hair, and stubble, and faded jeans and a cool coat and a blue paper coffee cup, you know, just a touch of homeless. He is perfect. Except I am so thrown off by the regular copier and the ghetto copier and the stack of magazines and the perfect that I am not seizing the opportunity to flirt at all. He's telling me how I look just like this girl he went to school with, and her name was Nia too, and he thought maybe I was related, and that's why he wanted to know my last name too, and this girl was from "a New York family," and where did I grow up? And I'm like, "Yeah, just...Jersey." And he's like, "Oh." And I'm like, "Sorry." And then I start fiddling with the copier and just leave him standing there, so he walks off. Why am I so antisocial? But whatever, the day was pretty perfect itself. Later on I was walking back from the train station, carrying my coat because it was breezy and cool and perfect, and I was looking down at the gold at the edges of my shirt, and it was shimmering next to my skin, and everything was touched with blue because the light was lingering after sunset the way it does in the summertime, and the wind blew my my blazer back and the air went against the skin on my shoulder and down my bare back, and all of a sudden I was reminded of that night at Venice Beach and I missed California like crazy. It was so weird, because really it was nothing like California--the blue light was right, and the way there were no streetlights to ruin it, but the wind was more like San Francisco, but I never felt it wrapping around my back like that because I never wore strappy tanks in California, because I totally disliked my breasts and kept them covered at all times, because I was an idiot, but still...it just felt like California for a minute, and I missed it.

Happy spring!

WOOOOOOOOO!

2005-03-08T19:11:00.000-05:00

NO CLASS!

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

PS - My editor just called me "babydoll." Is she hitting on me?

just in case you didn't know my job rules

2005-03-07T13:46:00.000-05:00

My job rules. I had two assignments for the day: (1) collect quotes about pop culture from hip kids in my life, and (2) collect quotes about confidence & inspiration from celebrities in magazines. So I put out a few calls for comments, and settled down with a pile of my editor's magazines to collect celeb quotes while I waited. Basically, I checked out fashion spreads and IMed people all morning.

How exhausting. Time for lunch!

After lunch, I went back to the office and...well, ate. I mean, I was ostensibly typing up the quotes that I had so far, but that took like zero minutes. I ate. And then I went to Borders to pick up some more celeb quotes, and spent an hour and a half chilling in the magazine section and re-doing my eye makeup in their bathroom, and then I got a smoothie, and then I went back to the office and typed up more quotes. I sent the pop culture quotes to my editor at roughly 4:27 and got back the message, "you're awesome!" followed by a long string of exclamation points. I sent the celebrity quotes to my editor at roughly 4:28 and got back the message, "you're the most efficient person ever!" followed by a bunch of stuff about how she really appreciates how I work hard on every project she gives me, even the ones that are annoying or that other people would to a crappy job on, and I don't complain, and I am a shining light of awesome, etc. So I write back like, "No problem. Who would complain about a job that involves reading every magazine in Borders?" I mean, honestly, have there been interns who didn't like doing this stuff? Because maybe they should consider another field. The whole reason I'm going into magazines is because I love magazines. So I was amazed for a few minutes, and then I took one of giveaway books and learned about numerology. Apparently I'm a Life Path 4 and I enjoy my alone time.

OH MY GOD MY GRADUATION IS FIVE HOURS LONG.

Sorry, was looking something up. That's unbelievable. Anyway, yeah, my job rules and everybody loves me. It's a good life. Also, I slept really late and left my building at eight, and then I went back upstairs and changed my shoes, and left my building again at 8:05, and caught the 8:25 train, and I still got to work 20 minutes early. And I cannot begin to describe the profound sense of peace I get from walking into an empty office and settling down at my desk by myself. I guess that numerology book was right.

seriously, it's not that early

2005-02-08T12:08:00.000-05:00

So yesterday was nice. My editor was out, and since we're the only two people in the department, nobody cared what I was up to. The internship coordinator came by around eleven like, "Oh yeah, your editor's out sick, she left a message saying I should tell you that you can get to work on some of the long-term projects she gave you, and if you want to go home early that's fine." And I could have gotten up and left right then and there, but instead I spent the day calling movie studio publicity departments (DAMN YOU, LIONS GATE FILMS!!!!) and I didn't even go out to lunch. I got soup at Pax and brought it back to my desk. How sad is that? I could have skipped a whole day of work, and instead not only did I stay at work, but I ate lunch at work. But whatever, it's a nice job. And I did leave forty-five minutes early to scope out the rest of the Time Warner Center. Reasons why the Time Warner Center rules: (1) excellent architecture, (2) giant Borders, and (3) a Dean & Deluca within said Borders.

Why isn't anybody awake?

I slept through my alarm clock this morning and woke up at 8:30. What time was I supposed to be at work? 8:30. That's a feeling I never want to re-live. Then I ran out without breakfast or brushing my teeth, so now I'm starving and thirsty and gross and tired.

ahahahahahahahahaha...

2005-02-05T03:50:00.000-05:00

Today's assignment: go to the Time Warner Center ("a glorified mall," says my editor) and read magazines at Borders.

NO I AM NOT KIDDING.

I had a little over two hours before I had to be back for lunch with my editor, another editor, and that editor's intern. I spend a good hour flipping through magazines at a leisurely pace and copying down quotes when the salesgirls weren't looking. Then I spent about a half hour reading whatever looked interesting. Then I kind of stared into the Calvin Klein underwear store across the way, lingered near J. Crew, wandered back to the office, typed and formatted the quotes in an email to my editor, sent it, went to the bathroom, and waited around a few minutes till it was time for lunch.

At lunch, my editor is like, "By the way, did you get all that done at Borders this morning?" Me: "Yeah, most of it. A couple of the quotes are off the Internet." Editor: "How did you do that so fast?" Me: "Uhh..." Editor: "Do you have a staff I don't know about?" Me: "Oh, yeah, there is that." Editor: (to the other editor) "I swear to God, I think my intern has an intern." So, yet again, I ask: who the hell were the other interns?

I mean, I know I can be fast. I read fast. I type fast. I research fast. But come on. She told me to find more quotes from males and non-white females. So I went to Borders, picked out magazines featuring males and non-white females that might interest our readers, opened directly to those articles, skimmed them, copied down any useful quotes, flipped through the surrounding pages to make sure I hadn't missed anything, and I was done. What were the other interns doing? Reading every page of every magazine? Searching Home & Garden or Vogue Bambini or Fortune for surprise Beyonce interviews? It's not exactly complex work.

This job is going to make me so lazy. I had such an excess of time to do my post-lunch assignment that I actually spent more time reading the March issue--and decorating a brown paper shopping bag that we're using as a makeshift wastebasket at the editorial intern cubicle because we think the fashion girls stole ours--than I actually did on the assignment. Because I finished it in like fifteen minutes, but if I sent it back I'd get a reply like, "OMG ARE YOU ON SPEED???" so I figured I could chill for a while.

And then I became one of those people who falls asleep on the train.

what luck!

2005-02-04T00:47:00.000-05:00

The intern meeting was all of fifteen minutes long (plus Snickers), so afterward I checked out the new jackets at the Herald Square Gap, waded through the sales at both H&Ms, and braved the crowds at Old Navy. And you know what I learned? It's tax-free week! Hell yeah!

yeah, new jersey

2005-01-28T10:46:00.000-05:00

Due to a downed wire, NJ Transit trains are experiencing delays EXCEEDING ONE HOUR. The spokesman has asked people to please not even get on the trains--get on a bus, or go home. And since there aren't any NY buses through town, I'm home. Sigh. I'm hoping they clear this up in a few hours and I can still go in. Cross your fingers.

working girl

2005-01-19T21:51:00.000-05:00

Okay, so first NJ Transit is running on a 40-minute delay. The track switches are frozen. Which means we have to run at half-speed and get off the track every time an Amtrak train wants to pass by. The thing is, this isn't the coldest day on record, so I'm wondering (a) has this ever happened before, and (b) why haven't they found a way to deal with it?

But whatever. I get to the 57th & 7th early anyway. I trot down the block, pick up some calcium-fortified orange juice (breakfast of champions) at Pick-A-Bagel, take a few minutes to sip, then head into the Hearst building. I check in with the desk guy, I hit the elevator call button, and I wait.

This woman in a big fur coat sidles up to me. She looks me over--half charmed, half condescending. So I look her over in return--half curious, half casual. And it turns out she's old. And her coat is too big. And her hair is too big. And she's wearing too much makeup, and too much jewelry, and lady, OMG, stop looking at me! So I just nod at her and then look at the elevator. And another woman sidles up to the both of us and says, "Hello, Ms. Brown."

No.

No that is not.

Yeah, it's Helen Gurley Brown: famous former editor-in-chief of Cosmopolitan, author of Sex and the Single Girl, general pop-culture icon. So the random woman and Helen Gurley Brown start chatting about the weather, and Helen Gurley Brown is on about how she's bundled up and wearing her fur, and she keeps saying "fur" every ten words, like yeah, Helen Gurley Brown, I get that you're wearing fur. But actually, for all the bad things you hear about her, she actually seems kind of nice. Because the random women gathering in the lobby keep treating her like she is senile and they are just humoring her, which is lame, and then the elevator comes and she says to me, "Looks like this is the one," and then the elevator doors ding open, and everyone is hanging back, including Helen Gurley Brown, so I get on and hold the door. And all the random women look at each other. And I'm like, what, are we not supposed to get on the elevator before Helen Gurley Brown? Is Helen Gurley Brown like the elevator queen? But whatever, Helen Gurley Brown just gives me this, "You poor pauper child, you don't know what you're doing," look and follows me onto the elevator, and the random women follow her, and they're all fawning over her fur coat some more. Okay, it's just a dead animal, people. We paupers see those in the road all the time! So I look back at the fur coat again, and really, Helen Gurley Brown looks exactly like every other overdressed old society lady in Manhattan. But I guess I give her credit for maintaining flair. Whatever. The point is, Helen Gurley Brown smiles at me in that "poor child" way, and the doors ding open on my floor, and I smile to everyone and make my exit without a word.

And that, my friends, is how I elevator-snubbed a legend.

Then I get off the elevator and these three lame-looking fifteen-year-old models all look at me like, "Who is the chubby girl and does she think she's going to steal a job from us?" But I'm like, whatever, models, did you not just see me on the elevator with Helen Gurley Brown? And her fur coat??? Then my editor, Jess, gets off the elevator and goes, "Nia!" and I'm like, "Wha?" and she tells me how awesome it is to see me and how I should come back to her office with her. Smell ya later, models!

As for the actual job, it seems pretty cool. I get my own desk, which I may decorate in whatever way I see fit. I am primarily responsible for creating pre-interview press packets on featured celebrities, which involves collecting the label/network bio, MTV bio, IMDb stats, past magazine articles, and past newspaper articles, with help from Lexis Nexis and Google. I am also responsible for finding the inspirational quotes on the Spy page, which involves--get this--reading Us Weekly, Entertainment Weekly, and whatever magazines I can buy at Borders with company money. I do that on my own, people! I also submit website poll question ideas along with the rest of the staff, sit in on staff meetings, and sort entertainment-related reader emails as necessary. Plus, you know, officey tasks. I don't have to check in when I arrive, or check out when I get lunch or go home, or wear anything all that professional. And I have access to a giant closet of back issues. And the bathroom has hot-pink stalls and is decorated with pictures of cute boys from the magazine. And we're allowed to play with iTunes. And there's free coffee and hot chocolate. And a table full of giveaways like CDs and soon-to-be-published books.

So anyway, Jess gave me the tour and left me alone to "play" on my Mac and maybe get started on a packet for her, if I felt "acclimated". I had an hour and a half left to go, so I played a little, and wandered off to the bathroom, and then I got to work on the packet. And finished the packet. And delivered the packet to Jess. And she was like, "Wow, you're speedy." And I was like, um, how long does it usually take people to finish a packet? I mean, this is basically all stuff I do in my free time. So it's cool. Everyone seems way nice, and a lot of the staff members are former interns so they're very excited to see the new interns, and Jess seems really committed to teaching me a lot of the practical parts of publishing. And in a month, they start production on the midsummer all-entertainment issue, which means the entertainment department has some work on every section, which means I have some work on every section, which is great. I'll be there every Monday and Friday, 10-5, and maybe some Wednesdays mornings if they have work for me.

And that's about it. Now, off to the real job.

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

2004-12-16T12:14:00.000-05:00

GUESS WHO'S OFFICIALLY AN ANONYMOUS TEEN MAGAZINE INTERN!!!

THAT'S RIGHT! IT'S ME!

Oh man. Next semester I'm going to be getting up like...in the morning.

designer pants!

2004-12-09T23:29:00.000-05:00

Ah, so much to tell you! I felt like if I talked about it, I would jinx it, so basically none of you know about this Anonymous Teen Magazine internship. Long story short: Anonymous Teen Magazine wanted an intern for their deputy editor and asked for a cover letter "in Anonymous Teen Magazine's voice," and the woman I know from Allure promised to put in a good word for me because the ATM deputy editor happens to be her best friend, and seriously 14 hours after I sent in my resume I got a call from the ATM internship coordinator saying she'd "love to speak with" me about my interests. We chatted on the phone, and it turned out they also have an entertainment internship open, so she asked me to come down and meet both the deputy editor and the entertainment editor. I agreed. And then I flipped because I had nothing to wear, went home to shop, and totally over-spent on a pair of pants mostly because a really wonderful saleswoman at Nordstrom who told me that she could have them tailored in an hour for free. (And not just hemming, either. Apparently they do full suits. If you're hard to fit and you need fancy clothes, go to Nordstrom, y'all!) And finally, today I went into Manhattan and was an official visitor of the Hearst Corporation (they gave me a little badge and everything) at the ATM offices. Which, by the way, are just like regular offices except that their lobby, bathroom, and lounge are all hot pink with cheetah-print carpeting. And their elevator doors have zebra stripes. I don't know, it was awesome, and everyone I met with was terribly nice. (Including the current intern, the former intern who's now a freelancer, the super-awesome mail-cart guy who took a break in the hot-pink armchairs, and the cute little model girl who came in with her Australian dad.) I think I clicked more with the deputy editor than the entertainment editor, mostly because I met the deputy editor second and was a little more comfortable and confident--but my skills and interests are definitely better suited to the entertainment position. So I think it could go either way, and honestly, I'm not stressing about it. I never expected to find an internship last-minute, let alone an internship at a major magazine in New York. If I get it, I'm lucky. If I don't, I'm exactly the same as I was before.

Oh, and I left myself a full three hours to get there, because I was sure I would get lost. Naturally, I didn't get lost at all. You know how I can never find Herald Square out of Penn Station even though it's literally a block away? Today I got there in like five seconds flat. And then I went in the proper subway entrance and got on the proper train and exited the station in the proper direction and was a full hour early for my interview. So before I went home I treated myself to a little shopping at H&M. :) And now I'm so completely relaxed. (And exhausted. That is one killer commute.) I'm going to read some articles, watch ER, and sleep.