Manic Morning

Between the hours of 8 and 9 this morning, everything that could’ve gone wrong on the way to my interview did.

It all started after I read a post on Ed’s Message Board suggesting that I bring 10 resumes to an HR interview. I already had four on hand and several clips, so I decided to print out an extra six copies. But after the first one came out, my printer decided to run out of ink. So, I grabbed my Kinko’s card, and left at 8:15 for my interview, so I’d have time to stop by the print center on my way.

The minute I started walking, I realized what a huge mistake I had made. The pencil skirt that was part of my perfect interview outfit was so narrow that I barely made foot-long steps. I felt like it was taking twenty minutes just to cross an avenue, and I was worried that if I made my stride any wider, I might rip my skirt up the middle. So, I tried hiking it up a bit, and increased to a jog. I don’t even want to imagine what I looked like to passers-by, and frankly, I don’t care.

I arrived at Kinko’s at about 8:25. I put my card in the computer, only to find that I had $.55 left on it. I needed to put more money in, in order to print my resume, so I went to use their card machine…that was broken. So, I approached a salesperson, or rather, I yelled at a salesperson from behind the counter, as all three of them pretended not to see me.

Twenty minutes later, I had extra copies, and started towards the subway…because God knows, my pencil skirt wasn’t going to get me there fast enough. I took my MetroCard, but guess what? It was out of money too. So, I had to wait in line behind two people who had NEVER used the card machine before, and I looked on in frustration as they waited for their day passes to come out of the credit card slot.

Once I bought a MetroCard, I heard a train coming, and tried to jump on. The doors shut on me, leaving my hands with long black dirt marks, so I started licking my hands mid-transit. When I arrived at my stop, I started running again. I had fifteen minutes, but I also wanted to be there ten minutes early.

By the time I reached the building I was eight minutes ahead of schedule, but still sweating as I stepped on the elevator. It was full of staffers, and I definitely stuck out thanks to the fact that I kept blotting my head, to stop my perspiration…a hopeless task.

I arrived at the floor, and checked in with the receptionist, who handed me an application to fill out. I answered the questions, and returned it, only to have her point out the back of the page, which I had completely neglected. So, not only was I disheveled, I also looked stupid. I took back the paperwork, filled out the rest, and waited for the HR representative.

And when she came in to the lobby, I recognized her. She had been on the elevator with me this morning. She looked professional and composed, and I looked…a mess. Well, maybe she didn’t notice me, right? Right.
Then she goes, “Hey, weren’t you on the elevator with me?”

Crap.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m normally in much earlier, but my alarm didn’t go off.”

Thank God, I’m not the only one who has a bad morning every now and then.

I was in need of a fashion fix...

...so I hunted down the perfect interview outfit for my meeting with HR tomorrow.

The search got off to a rough start on Black Friday. My parents were in town, so we went to the Westchester Mall in White Plains…by train. (Never underestimate the lengths I will go to for the right ensemble.) My dad even offered to help pay. Guess he was tired of seeing my same dress pants too. (They’re actually starting to pill where my legs rub together. Ew.)

I spent an hour in Nordstrom’s, but after torturing myself in the fitting room, I came to only one conclusion: I look horrible in capris. Next, I ransacked Bebe and Arden B. These stores offer great job clothes—if you know what you’re looking for. Otherwise, you might end up with a spandex top with rhinestones emblazoned on your chest. Century 21's junior department was too early J.Lo for me, and the designer section was still stuck in summer.

So, what do you look for? For any interview, I always keep in mind the tips my acting teachers gave me for auditions.

1) Black pants are traditional, slimming, and a great if you’re not sure what to wear.
2) Wear a unique color that will help the interviewer remember you. (This doesn’t mean you have to opt for fuschia, but in New York where everyone chooses black, even a light blue will do.)
3) Avoid distracting jewelry. Wear stud earrings—nothing dangly, shiny.
4) Don’t wear jeans. There are stylish pants that don’t involve dress pant pleats, tapered legs, or large plaids…and they’re not all made of denim.
5) Pull your hair back. It helps the interviewer focus on your face, and it’s one less thing for you to worry about.
6) Don’t wear nail polish. Keep your nails clean, short, and natural.

So, after 36 hours of shopping, I finally discovered the perfect interview outfit.

My winning look started with a black skirt at H&M, with gold trim—very Sergeant Pepper without the bad facial hair and goofy hats. I knew it was perfect, because the minute I put it on, I felt professional, confident...and for less than $50, it looked designer. To top it off, I chose a crème turtleneck from Zara, completely defying my theory of on color, but I figured the skirt was so unique, I didn’t need to rely on bright hues to make an impression. I could’ve saved money by buying it at Wet Seal or Charlotte Russe, but the last thing I wanted on interview day, was to have a cheap sweater unravel.

For accessories, I found a long necklace to double-wrap from Forever 21 (seriously, the BEST place to go for jewelry). It’s black with a few gold beads—trendy, but also classic, which is perfect for the company I’m interviewing at. And on my feet I’m wearing wedge heels. Not only because they’re in style, but also because I won’t have to worry about tipping over and having a major spill on my way through security.

I plan on finishing the outfit with pearl earrings, and wearing my hair in a loose bun. Notice I said "loose." Loose means I’m professional and put together, but not so anal that I’ll snap under pressure.

And despite my dad's words of advice, I didn't once consider wearing a suit. I’m extremely fond of wearing blazers (they’re such a quick way to look polished), but I’ve never seen a suit on any of my interviews. If anything, I’m normally more dressed up than the interviewer. Sure, I feel kind of out of place if the whole office is in jeans and flip-flops, but I think it’s always better to err on the side of overdressed.

But not suits. You’ll look like you walked out of a nineties department store catalog, and although image shouldn’t be everything in this industry, it definitely helps.

I'm so money...13 ways I've scrimped and saved in NYC

Okay, so I’m sharing my secrets. Don’t be surprised if after learning the truth you feel cheap and used. But at least I'm not searching for dates to pay for my every whim...because contrary to popular belief, dating is expensive for both parties.

1. I don't spend money on breakfast...
I live in a hostel that provides meals. In the mornings, I grab breakfast downstairs in our dining hall, which definitely resembles more of a church community center than an actual cafeteria. On today's menu? Gruel. Yes, as in "Please, Sir, can I have some more?" Oliver Twist gruel. Personally, I hate anything mushy. Some girls try to dress their bowl up with bananas or sugar, but I just opt for the daily alternative of peanut butter, jelly, and toast. I normally make myself two sandwiches—one for breakfast...

2. or lunch
...another to stow for lunch. The monotony of eating the same thing throughout the day definitely gets old, but it saves money when I don't have to buy an $8 salad at the nearest soup and salad eatery.

3. or dinner.
I race back to the women's residence for supper, which is always rice and some sort of meat. (If I don't recognize the meat, then I don't ask. Better not to know.) I swear they add fatty oils to the soups, so we won't ask for more, but that's fine. That just means leftovers for me. Sometimes, I try saving half of my meal in a container for the next day's lunch. Most of the time, I'm able to go weeks without having to buy any outside food. But if I'm not able to make due, and I absolutely HAVE to buy a meal while I'm out, I'll

a) buy a hotdog. They're only $1, and even though they're not super filling, at least they're protein!
b) ask family and friends for restaurant gift certificates for birthdays, Christmas, Valentine's Day, whatever. I'm still waiting to cash in my ten-dollar card to Olive Garden. Classy.
c) work at a restaurant. I did this over the summer. I would eat pre-shift food for my dinner. And if a table decides to cancel their order after it’s already made, then it’s your lucky day!


4. I buy diet soda at a deli.
It's cheaper there than at Duane Reade. But the best option is a small vendor on 54th and 8th where bottled soda and Snapple is only $1.

5. I don't take the subway.
...well, unless I absolutely have to, in which case, I buy the $10 card, so I can get one ride for free. I live by midtown, so I can pretty much walk everywhere, even if it means trekking to Murray Hill, Chelsea, or Soho.

6. I don't go out.
Luckily, I've never been much of a partier, or a drinker (which is crazy expensive in New York). If I do go out, it's only because someone puts me on the list, meaning no cover charge, and preferably an open bar. Apartment parties are the BEST. They only cost the price of subway fare, and I like the crowd better anyways.

I don't go to the movies either, unless a friend invites me to a free screening. I never say no, even if it's the worst teen flick, with some pop star trying to go A-list. Why would I? I get to hang with my friend for free, and be entertained for a solid two hours, which is more than I can say for what I'd be doing at the women's residence.

And if none of these options are available? Then, there’s always Sex and the City reruns on TBS at 11, or The O.C. on DVD.


7. I buy 99 cent T.P., "Sofpac."
Yes, it does exist. Do not buy Charmin. And if possible, use T.P. in place of Kleenex and paper towels.

8. I split the cost of DSL with my neighbors.
$50/month for DSL service is too much to spend by myself, so my neighbors also use my service. I only pay a third of the bill!

9. I go to D'Agostino's on Mondays for their weekly discounts flier, so I can plan any ice cream craving accordingly.
I’m not going to spend $5 on Ben & Jerry's, when it's $3 with my D'AG rewards card. (Note: Apply for any and all discount cards at CVS, Duane Reade, D'AG, etc.)

10. I'm an EBAY shopper.
I bought my makeup on Ebay for $10 cheaper than the retail, and a loading dock for my iPod shuffle for half of the original price. Meanwhile, I've sold shoes, perfume, a DVD, a curling iron, and other things that were taking up room in my already tiny digs. The $150 that I've made so far won't cover a week of rent, but it will help me purchase a few Christmas gifts! (And just a question of judgement—if a friend gave me some of her old clothes, is it immoral to go behind her back and sell them for profit? Really, I want to know.)

11. I was a film extra.
There are tons of postings on Craigslist asking for film extras, and $50 for four hours of work isn't too shabby (especially considering that you're just standing around). They don't require any prior experience, and no need to go through a screening process. And they give you free food for helping out!

12. I download free music.
Every Tuesday, iTunes has a couple of free songs available to download. Sometimes, the pickings are hit or miss when it comes to good taste, but I still check it out. And if you go to download.com, several newer bands offer free downloads to gain fandom. I’ve also heard about Limewire, which is a program where you can get free music downloads from pretty much any artist. I haven’t used it myself, because frankly, I’m afraid of the word “free” when it comes to music downloads—I don’t want to be accused of piracy! But friends tell me it’s awesome. And by “friends” I really do mean my friends, not “friends.”

13. I cut my hair.
Okay, I've only tried this a couple of times with my bangs, but if it allows me to go five/six months without a haircut, so be it. Although, my recent hairdo resembles my sad attempts in childhood to cut Barbie's hair with scissors. Hopefully, mine will grow back.

Total to live in NYC for one month? Rent: $750+Caffeine habit: $20+Subway ticket: $10+Ice cream: $20=$800. (And I guess I'll make general allowances for a tube of toothpaste or shampoo.)

"Tomorrow, you're only a day away..."

I'll be the first to step up to a task. Give me a job to do, and believe me, I'm your girl. But when you give me an assignment, and then a good, say, 48 hours to sit and soak in my own questions of self-inadequacy, I start to second-guess my ability. Yes, this goes along with an earlier post about my talent for psyching myself out. It's just something I'm going to have to conquer, and I guess realizing it is half the battle (and the fact that I haven't let it stop me so far).

But I'm still beating it—especially tonight, because tomorrow bright and early is when I start subbing for an assistant while she's on vacation. Now, most of you are probably thinking, "Oh, that's nothing. So what? You transfer phone calls." Yes, this is true, but I will never be the type to belittle any task, because I believe that even the smallest job, if done right, can lead to bigger things. (And this thought of bigger things, is probably what's leading to my restless nights.) Let's just say, I do a great job. In fact, I'm the fastest phone dialer they've ever seen (once I actually learn extension numbers, that is). Well, then they might want to mention me to their friend at another magazine who just happens to be looking for an assistant.

So, tonight I'm pouring over my notes from the mini-training session the assistant gave me last week. That's right, peeps. I made notes. I am a dork. I've listed everything from passwords, to where to buy breakfast foods. I'm not necessarily worried about handling details like these. I think I'm pretty darn fantastic about multi-tasking. What I'm really panicked over is the phone.

I'm not a phone person, and not because I have improper phone etiquette. I just prefer to communicate with my friends in person or through email. (Guess, I really am one of those detached children of technology, psychologists talk about!) But email lets me be more eloquent, professional. I can prepare how to respond, check my sentence structure for flow, and perform a quick spell check. The anal perfectionist in me loves email.

The phone seems somewhat daunting. God forbid, the head of the company decides to call, and I have to transfer it. The thought of accidentally hanging up is enough to make me hive-y. And needing to interrupt my boss during a meeting? Yikes! So, I made a list of the only reasons, I'm ever able to buzz her during one of her meeting of the minds. You know, like there's a fire in the building...and would it be possible to ask that she evacuate?

Did I mention the woman I'll be working for is seriously one of the nicest editors you'll ever meet? I guess I shouldn't be so worried, because it's not like she's going to go all Devil-Wears-Prada on me, and kick my sorry tush out of her office. The thing is, I like her so much as a person, not just professionally, that I want to do an amazing job to help her out.

But her friendly demeanor aside, I'm still envisioning my frantic fingers trying to search for extension numbers, and somehow double-booking her entire calendar for the next five days.

So, if you're walking in midtown, and somehow happen to glance up to the window I'm working by, wave hi. And if you can't see me, I'm probably away from the desk, trying to ditch the phone in the nearest waste receptacle.

My two cents

I’ll keep it short, because what I’m about to say may shock you, especially considering my sometimes whiny, woe-is-me outlook.

I’m thankful.

Pessimism is overrated. Yes, at times I’m incredibly guilty of it myself, but in the end, I’m really lucky to be here. And by being “here,” I’m not referring to New York. I just mean that I’m alive and happy.

I do my share of complaining. If I didn’t complain, I wouldn’t be human, and I’d say nominate me for sainthood. But I think all of the events we’ve seen this year put things in perspective for what’s important, what’s valuable.

Consider the stories we’ve witnessed: the war overseas, the tsunami, the AIDS crisis in Africa, the London bombings, Hurricane Katrina, the bird flu.

How can I complain about guys, or finding cute clothes to wear, or searching for a job?

My griping is pathetic. At the end of the day, I’ll be okay. I have my health, and I have my family and friends.

Not only did these news stories help me recognize my blessings, but they also reassured me that this publishing/media field that I’m trying so hard to get in to—the whole battle of finding a job is worth it.

I want to be an editor who shares these stories with the rest of the world, who is able to inspire others to cause change. I think it’s amazing that journalism can ignite a call to action like we saw this past year. The minute footage from the events was on TV or in newspapers or magazines, people offered their time, their clothing, their homes. When everyone is debating about the importance of print media—whether because of a few journalists’ mistakes or the growing popularity of the Internet—it’s good to know that it played such a vital role during these events. And I want to be a part of it.

So this holiday weekend, I’m going to enjoy my turkey dinner and a heater, and keep in mind everything I’m grateful for. Maybe I’ll even carry this positive outlook in to Monday…but I’m not promising anything.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Call me crazy

I’m awful when I’m idle. Without work, I become a bum. I leave papers on my bedroom floor, I eat food at my computer and scatter crumbs all over my desk, and I even forget to open my blinds, so my room takes on a gloomy, gray hue, perfect for sulking. (Although, even with the blinds open, it doesn’t help much with a Nor’easter.)

When I’m busy, I’m just so much more organized. I have a sense of purpose. I make lists and gleefully check off each task I complete. Take on one more duty? Sure, no problem. Bring it on. I can handle anything.

I used to make up errands in college when I wasn’t working, just so I had something important to do during the day. Granted, these “important” chores were things like running to the supermarket and taking twenty minutes glancing at the pastry section. So, I’d spend twenty minutes debating whether to buy cinnamon rolls or a slice of sweet potato pie, and feel accomplished.

Now, I just stare at my cell phone, hoping to hear about a job. (I realize this passive behavior will get me nowhere, but go with me here.) And I’ve convinced myself that if I can just stop thinking about my phone ringing for one second, it might actually ring. But no, I’ve jinxed it.

I’m getting to the point where I’m starting to hear it go off in my mind, even though no one’s calling. (I need to pick a new ring tone, because I’m starting to resent the “Nutcracker Suite,” and it’s ruining the holidays for me.)

Just in case, I avoid leaving my phone alone. Going outside? Better leave it on vibrate, because the traffic might drone out its sound. Potty break? I’ll tuck it in my pocket.

When my phone does ring, chances are it’s one of friends calling about the 2 for $5 Haagen-Dazs sale at D’Agostinos, or my mother reminding me to watch Oprah at 4.

I go through the same love/hate relationship with my phone every time I apply for a job, which is just plain masochism, considering how many jobs I pursue. But it’s always when I’ve finally given up on hearing anything, that an employer actually calls me. One time, it was a month after I interviewed. I figured a month meant they went with someone else. I was right. Another time, the editor told me when he might be calling, but I was going crazy waiting for the phone to ring. So, I left it (!), and went for a walk. I thought that maybe I’d get back home, and have a great voice mail to listen to. Well, I did come back to a voice mail from him, but no, the news wasn’t good.

It’s silly, the more I think about it. These jobs aren’t the only ones out there. But just when I sell myself on this sane way of thinking, one of my friends or relatives asks me if I’ve heard anything.

Ugh.

Trust me, if I heard something, you’d know.

Doubt

There is nothing worse than an hour by yourself when you're looking for a job. I don't mind putting in extra hours in my freelance work, because it keeps my mind occupied. The danger is when I'm home, and I have a good hour to contemplate the meaning of my life.

So, after my "Best Week Ever," I had time by myself, and I woke up on Saturday with no news, no freelance things to take of, nothing. Pessimism took over. I started thinking, "Well, just because I have an interview in a couple of weeks, and just because I went on one this past week, doesn't mean that either one is going to be my big break. I could still be unemployed this time next year, and working at some retail job during holiday sales." (The thought of which made me nauseous. Have you ever tried to deal with women elbowing each other during an after-Thanksgiving Day Sale?)

Yeah, so maybe this is the worst thing I can be thinking about. How did my mindset turn around so quickly? Why did I doubt myself?

And then those thoughts led back to what I've had a couple of people tell me, "Have you considered pursuing something else?"

If you had asked me in first grade what I was going to be when I grew up, I would have told you a model. I was die-hard about it. I even wore high heels and a boa for career day. Then I wanted to be a dancer, and I donned tights and a tiara to plié to "Lady in Red." Environmental law came shortly after, spurred on by a poem I wrote in fourth grade titled, "Trees." Amazing how I can remember it, and yet I can't even recall what I ate for lunch last week.

The point is, that I've always wanted to pursue so many interests. I think that's one of the reasons I love magazine editorial. I can constantly learn about new topics and delve in to all of the things I enjoy.

But then there's also that part of me from growing up, that’s used to moving on to something new every two months. So when I'm battling to find a job in this city, it’s weird to stop and think, "Is this really it? I've finally found what I want to do?"

At this point, I’ve completely abandoned all thoughts of another career. I can’t even imagine pursuing something else. But am I stupid for shutting down my options?

Well gee, other than a modeling career, environmental law, and life of a famous film star, what else is there? I tried all of those already. (That was sarcasm, for all of you who still need your morning coffee.)

So, I wrote down anything I consider a talent: writing, singing, dancing, public speaking, editing, giving advice, an eye for good taste (does that count?).

Then I wrote down my interests: health, entertainment (music, theatre, film), human-interest stories, fashion, family, books, shopping (it fits with fashion, but I love it enough to put it twice.)

And after looking over the paper, I realized I have to keep going, because magazine editorial is what I want.

The industry's stuck with me, and so are all of you. They’ll have to do more than just telling me “No” if they want me out of town. (Note to any employers out there: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Please don’t take this last statement as me trying to challenge authority.)

So, I'm going to hold on to the lists. It's good to have a reminder of why I'm still here.

Beware the green-eyed monster

Yesterday, I interviewed someone over the phone for my freelance assignment. I wanted to do extra preliminary research on the subject before our scheduled time, but I also had to turn in copy before the end of the day. So, I chose to make my deadline, and sound like an imbecile for the interview. (Who doesn't like a little, "Haha, laugh at me, because I'm an idiot?" Jim Carrey started a whole career out of it.) Okay, so maybe the person I interviewed didn't think I was ignorant—I did manage to get in some research—but good luck ridding me of my paranoia. And the whole time, I was worried that everyone else in the office was listening. (My voice carries. I wouldn’t be surprised if the women in HR overheard me, and thought, “The rumors are true; she really is a Chatty Cathy.”)

Cubicles: they're good, they're bad, they're ugly.
Personally, I wish they were sound proof.

Were other people really judging what I said? They're probably too busy to scrutinize my every move, but that doesn't make me any less critical of myself.

In this industry where competition is so cutthroat, it's easy to blame yourself for not being perfect. Everyone else seems to have their act together, right?

I look at other job seekers, and of course, I compare. I'm wondering who's more competent, who has better experience, who's going to find a job first. I’m definitely not malicious, but I've been competitive since physical fitness tests and poetry contests in elementary school—guess which I was better at.

Yes, we should all be happy for each other when one of us succeeds, but don’t you also think, why wasn't it me?

This question used to plague me in the beginning, and it still does, because I want to believe I’m the perfect candidate for any opening. I’m not. Out of the hundreds and hundreds of magazines in publication, I have no idea how many are perfectly suited for someone like me, but I know it isn’t all of them.

When I went on my first interview for an EA spot, I was so jealous when another girl received the position instead of me. The funny thing is, I knew from the moment I walked in that office that I couldn't picture myself there. But I still tried to talk myself in to it. Why was I frustrated about someone else getting the job, when I didn't really want it in the first place?

The same thing happened right before I moved up here. My first internship interview was at a literary magazine, and if I had tried to talk myself in to belonging there, I never would have interviewed for the internship I loved.

So, I’m learning. I may go on a billion interviews before I find an EA job, but at least I’ll have figured out where I want to work, and where I don’t. I may not have the interviewing skills of a tough-as-nails news correspondent, but I’m getting the hang of it. And maybe someday, I’ll even learn to lower my voice.

The Best Week Ever

Yes, that's a blatant rip-off of VH1.

Maybe I've had such a bad streak of misfortune the past few months, that I can't recognize what's normal luck to other people. But screw it—I'm happy. My progress this week has been better than the past four months combined, so it is the Best Week EVER.

I’m not used to feeling this good, so I was a bit concerned about fitting my huge, egotistical head on my pillow last night, after my editor actually used the term "well done," in reference to the freelance work I've been doing.

I know "well done" doesn't seem like much, but she doesn't hand out compliments left and right—it wouldn’t be professional if she did—so the smallest bit of praise means so much more. And when she said it, I thought, "It's okay. I will succeed. I can make it, because I have the drive, and I may actually have talent!" (Okay, so the whole talent thing is TBD. But either way, it provided a nice little boost from my normal self-bashing.)

And then…
I had an interview today!!

(I won’t dish out the contact info, but I will tell you it's because of a meeting I had back in February. They really do keep your resume instead of throwing it in the shredder!)

It went well...I guess. Who can really tell if an editor likes them?

A straight face could mean that they:
a) like you, and are trying to hold back their immense joy
b) are bored by every word that's coming out of your mouth
c) sleeping with their eyes open, because they haven't had their Starbucks yet.

And if they do seem interested? Well, nothing's for sure. They could:
a) be feigning interest because they secretly hate you
b) do genuinely want to hear what you have to say
c) have botox so their face is frozen that way.

This time fell somewhere in between, but I know it wasn't downright awful, because I managed to stay in her office for 15/20 minutes. I wish I had been able to say more. I could've talked about the magazine for a good four hours (really, I love it that much), but hopefully, I'll be able to speak with her again, right?

And if I don't get a second chance at that spot, I still have hope, because I scheduled a meeting with HR today.

It took me ten months to get a meeting with this HR company, and if my calculations are correct, they should have four copies of my resume by now. But today they actually decided to give me a shot! I'm meeting with them in two weeks, so I'll have plenty of time to prepare—and to go shopping for a new interview outfit at H&M. (The expense is justified when your career depends on it, right?)

I guess if you meet with enough people, and put your name out there enough times, opportunities will eventually come back to you. It may take ten months, and serious moments of insanity, but that small achievement will seem so much sweeter. And hey, isn't that life?

Mary, George, and me

Here's an analogy:
Job hunt is to roller coaster, as today is to GIANT coaster with a bajillion loops and complimentary barf bags.
Wait...is that how analogies work? (Darn it, SATs—did you teach me NOTHING?!)

What I'm trying to say is, today played my emotions more than Sunday's episode of Grey's Anatomy. (Did you see it? Where the old woman has cancer?)

I was recently asked to sub for an EA while she's on vacation. I was thrilled about the offer, to say the least. (If it's any indication, I used my lunch break to call my immediate family. After which, I went skipping down the closest avenue like a bad impersonator of Mary Tyler Moore, and looked for a hat to toss in the air.)

Then, I received an email today from an editor I've met before, because she was looking for someone for a freelance assignment. I thought I had it made! I started imagining the amazing experience I'd be getting, how full my resume would look, and more importantly, how those shoes in the Nine West window would look on my feet.

The only catch was it conflicted with my promise to sub for the EA...by one week! The editor had been so nice before, and I hated to miss the opportunity to work with her, but I was not about to go back on my word. After some deep sighing, I told her about my other obligation. Needless to say, I was a little bummed.

But it wasn't meant to be right? Well, yeah. I guess. (If I had a corner to pout in, I probably would have. But I was in a cubicle, and unless I wanted to be like George Castanza and go underneath my desk, there just wasn't any room.) I really can't complain...one should only be so lucky! I would've been thrilled to have such a dilemma a month ago.

THEN, I came home tonight, and I had a message on my voice mail. (Long story short, I changed my phone service a while back, because I was receiving prank calls. But I held on to the old phone, because I wanted to intercept calls from employers who dialed my previous number.)

Well, my paranoia paid off. Someone did call my old number today. And that someone was calling about a job interview. (This time, instead of hopping down the streets, I went dancing down the halls, which got a good laugh out of the ballerinas who live in my building.)

Now, I don't want to get ahead of myself, and jump to conclusions that this is IT, but at least I'll be prepared—I have every single issue of the title from the past year. Better start studying up, right?

But before I go, I just want to say that there is movement, people! Don't give up. Sing along—“You're gonna make it after all.” (Okay, wow. Cheesy moment...and completely irrelevant for any of you peeps out there who haven't seen Nick at Nite.)

On that note, I've got some magazine reading to do.

From psychic to psyching myself out...or am I just going psycho?

I'm not stupid or incompetent…right?

Today, I sent a cover letter to a magazine. I thought, "FINALLY an opening!" But as I read it over, I went crazy—should theatre be capitalized? Would a hyphen or a comma work better there? I drove my friends insane too, by constantly asking their opinions—should I contact this person or this person? Should I send the cover letter through email or snail mail?

But before I could question what I was doing, I accidentally pressed "send," instead of "save" on the email. It was gone—I don't have AOL, so there was nothing I could do. I couldn't keep it on file for the rest of the day, rewrite it ten more times until I was satisfied, send forwards to my friends to scrutinize my every word…I was out of luck. (Plus, my friends have bigger stuff to tend to...like actual jobs.)


WHAT'S HAPPENING TO ME?

I used to think my cover letters were great, and when I'd go on interviews, I was self-assured, knowledgeable, even intelligent. But now it's like my mind has gone to mush. I reread sentences to see if I spelt your, y-o-u-r, or y-o-u (apostrophe) r-e. Did I put hear or here? There or their or they're? And if it isn't bad enough I'm having trouble with the basics, imagine how I am with actual sentence structure—am I using too many prepositions? Should I switch the order of my paragraphs?

So, I walked around with a copy of my cover letter in my bag today—not because I was going to deliver it, but because I wanted to pick it apart at opportune moments, like when I was waiting for the crosswalk sign to change, or behind an extremely slow woman at Duane Reade—and doesn't that just always happen there? (I don't own a Duane Reade card, I don't want a bag, just give me my Mountain Dew!)

breathe.

I'm not normally like this! But I psyche myself out, and by the time I do actually write my 'perfect' cover letter, they'll have already given the position to someone else!

Maybe I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown. It’s easy to get down on yourself when you don't have a job. You can't really go out with friends who have jobs, because they just remind you that they have jobs, and you don't. (Pessimistic, but true.) You can't go shopping to ease your pain (my normal form of therapy), because you can't afford it. So what do you do?

Well, do what I did at the end of today—a Baskin Robbins' chocolate ice cream with brownie pieces and fudge swirl (and perhaps the fattest thing in their case)...a kid's scoop. I may not be able to swing something from Stella's new H&M line, but I can afford a two-dollar cone.

And for the five satisfying minutes it took to eat the thing, I was at peace—no thoughts of mispunctuation or misspellings…until now, of course.

Thank God I'm not a copywriter.

Looking for signs

I ran into an old boss from back home this weekend, at a restaurant. Out of the thousands of places to eat in Manhattan, we showed up for the same Italian dinner, the night before she was flying back South. Coincidence? Perhaps. But it got me thinking about the course my life has taken, and if the path I’m following is what’s best for me.


I went to a psychic back in April—and not just some $5 cheapie you see along the streets who's available for walk-ins. This is a woman who's written a book, contributes horoscopes to magazines, and according to several friends, she’s extremely accurate.

So, what am I supposed to think when we sit down, and she starts telling me all about my married life?

I'd never really thought about marriage before, without thinking about a career first. But she went on about children and my husband and our nice home on the Upper East Side, and I thought, "Wait, Upper East Side? Like the expensive Upper East Side of museums, vintage shopping, and designer dog carriers? I must have an AMAZING career!"

Guess, she read my mind, because then she says, "Funny thing...I don't really see anything having to do with career, and I don't think you'll be in your current job long."

WHAT? Well, I was in an internship at the time, so it makes sense I wouldn't be in my current job long, but the whole reason I came to New York was to have an amazing career. And now she was saying it was hopeless?! (Well, just to prove her wrong, I'm still here—although she'd predicted I'd stick around...she really is psychic!)

Since then, I've had to file police reports for identity theft, I've been to the New York DMV three times (which is hell personified), and I got crapped on by a bird on my birthday...two weeks later, another one flew into my head. And don't forget my accumulation of rejection letters and phone calls.

So, should we pursue jobs in the magazine industry, if everything (including one woman with extraordinary powers) seems to tell us to go home?


...Gee, I was hoping you'd know.

I believe in fate. Maybe that makes me stupid—I know a lot of people believe we have control over the universe, and I do too...to some degree. But I'm also too bull-headed to give up what I want, without giving it a fair shot.

Back when I started my internship, I didn't once question, if I should be in New York. The internship sort of fell in my lap—yes, I did go after it, but ultimately, I was in the right place, at the right time. Even finding a place to live under such short notice seemed fated. Who was I to question destiny, right? But as time goes on, it's harder to see the way my course is turning, especially with the ups and downs of the job hunt. I have uncertainty at times...well, most of time. And it doesn't help that my friends and family ask...have you considered doing something else?

I'll tell you this, I'm not giving up anytime soon, until something HUGE steers me in another direction (which I'm sure the psychic knew too, seeing as how I'm a Taurus, and therefore stubborn. Know-it-all.) For now, I'm just trusting that everything will work out. Naive? Maybe. But I'd hate to have come this far, only to go home.

So, until a giant piano falls on my head and my feet are sticking out from under it, like the Wicked Witch of the East, I'll continue to tell myself I belong here. And if you see me underneath a Baby Grand or similarly large object (anvil, crate, New York Cab), do a girl a favor and pull me out, okay?

Three Reasons Why You Should NEVER Go Out When You're Freelancing/Interning/Unemployed

1. Having to answer the question, "What do you do for a living?"

According to my male friends this is the only thing New York girls ever ask their future Mr. Right or Mr. Right Now, and they say it just proves women in the city are all gold diggers. (Cue Kanye West.)

Okay, so then why does EVERYONE seem to ask me this when I go out? (Let's face it...I do not look like I'm stashin' cash.)

Try telling someone in the middle of their Soho two-bedroom loft that, yes, they heard you right—you're looking for a job. Not only are you looking for a job, but you also live with nuns. Oh yeah, and can they lend you some cab fare to get home? Your curfew is up in fifteen minutes.

It's not exactly like I fit in. When surrounded at parties by investment bankers in power suits, a trendy, teen magazine-style outfit does stick out. So maybe they’re just curious, and I’m paranoid that they want to out me as unemployed. (In my nightmares, they always say it out loud—You're UNEMPLOYED! The DJ stops playing, and the whole crowd breaks out in a roar like an eighties sitcom laugh track.)


2. It costs money...lots of it

Wondering if you somehow lost twenty bucks at the bar? Well, don't search your pockets for holes—you probably spent it somewhere between coat check, bag check, tipping the bathroom attendant for lending you spray-on deodorant, and that $5 bottle of water.

But the worst is when you go out with friends who do have money.
...Oh, don't worry about spending money on drinks, they'll get this round. Yes, but that means the next one is on you, remember?
...Late night munchies? Well, you don't want them to eat alone.
...Cab fare? You'll split it—it'll be cheap. Yes, but you say, the night's beautiful, why not walk it, and save money? It's only thirty blocks.


3. Going to work the next day

If you do go to an office the next day, you're not going to impress the editors if you fall asleep on a pile of memos, and imprint everyone's notes across the side of your face.

Your friends will call you, wanting to hear about the night before, so you'll have to invent a secret code to talk over the phone—“Tracylay hookedhay upay withtay Andrewlay?" When you're tired, you always think you're clever...you're not. (And you'll need to save whatever bit of eloquence you have left for the office emails.)


Yes, I'm a homebody—I pretty much have to be right now. But I do look forward to the day when I can drop cash at trendy restaurants, and buy the latest martini concoctions in the East Village. I'll probably be eighty by then, and way too old for the hip crowd. But at least I won't have to show ID.

Ode to the Godfather

I'd like to give a shout out to my Ed homeys who went to the raffle. Yeah, I was there...but then again, I guess you'll never know if you saw me—that place was packed! Chances are I was in a corner somewhere, looking disoriented from the plastic disco ball and trying to work my booty shakin' skills. (I always figured Ed liked Sir Elton John, instead of Sir Mix-A-Lot—who knew he was so hip?!)

Now prepare yourselves, readers, because after that heart-warming jam session, I'm feeling sentimental.

Warning: A lot of Ed lovin' ahead. Do not continue reading if you're prone to queasiness, vomiting, or sappy Oscar acceptance speeches. I’m about to rehash everything Ed’s done for me. Here comes Hallmark:

Ed helped me get all of my job interviews. Thanks to his connected posse, job postings, and snazzy resume writing tips, I’ve logged on so many times, that I’ve forgotten to eat lunch. Luckily, he repays my growling stomach with cheap beer.

Ed gave me friends in the city when I didn't know anyone. Granted my circle is small, but it's quality that counts, and Ed would never hang around Lindsey and her group of mean girls. Then, he organizes more events so I can meet more people—even if I’m so bad at remembering names that I end up reintroducing myself. (Which reminds me—Sorry about that, whatever your name is.)

Ed offered me therapy (see: blog), because he knows I can't afford health insurance or a long couch to lie on. But most importantly, he keeps me motivated through the bad times. His peeps send me emails just ‘cause they care, and his Edsters know how to make a girl feel good about her crappy attempt to compensate for a childhood void of journaling. (So, keep those nice comments coming!)

We should buy Ed a gift to thank him. Maybe, I'll cook him a nice big dinner—at his place, of course, because I don't have a kitchen—and prop his feet with a soft, fluffy pillow, so he can tell me his troubles for a change. I’ll give him a nice facial (he’s a metrosexual, you know…or is he a smoothie?), and tuck him in.

Good night, Ed.

Good Will Hunting

Yesterday, I was starting to lose all faith in my assignment. No really, I prayed about it. I had emailed and called everyone I could, but despite all of my hours of googling and gmailing, I still wasn't seeing any results. Out of a hundred contacts, only a handful of people were able to turn up any results, and each time I followed up on a lead, I'd hit a dead end.

So, I went to work today feeling somewhat dejected, a bit angry, and extremely groggy from staying up late worrying over it. I dreaded thinking of the conversation I'd have with my editor…she'd lean back in her chair, look out on Manhattan from her window view, and then we'd share a moment of silence for the pathetic work I'd turned up before security escorted me out of the building.

Driven by fear of failure, wherever I felt I was being pushy, I pushed more. I sent out more emails, left more voice mail messages, asked for more information.

Every good journalist is a pest at heart, right?

I was convinced that I was cursed. So when I noticed an email in my inbox from an old friend, I literally squealed (further proving to the editors at the office that I'm a bit off my rocker…and the pig who keeps taking baked goods from the conference room). I hadn't talked to him in months, and not only was he more than willing to help, but he also sounded genuinely happy to do it.

And then good will flooded my email account. I received great stories, photos, suggestions---all from people going above and beyond to help me out. (Okay, so maybe they thought I was annoying, and were just hoping to shut me up, but either way, I got my story!)

Positive karma is on my side. Maybe I should go plant a few trees, or something. Who knows? If things keep going my way, maybe I'll even end up employed!

Give me your tired, your poor

Lady Liberty welcomes college grads to the city.

Are we tired?

Well, it's one in the morning. I'm writing this, and I'll be up in five hours or so. Five hours should be enough to function, but when my friends back home are asleep when I call them at 1 P.M., I do feel a slight tinge of jealousy.

Poor?

Is there a question? I walk everywhere, instead of spending the $2 Metro fare. I line dry and hand-wash my clothes, so I don't have to pay for the Laundromat, and the staff at D'Agostinos knows me personally. (That's right, I'm the girl who goes in twice a day for the free ham samples.)

So, if the city that never sleeps wears us down, and the real estate is so expensive that Craigslist posters expect us to clean in our underwear for a rent discount, why do we come here?

Opportunity.

I see it all the time on the Ed Message Board…Move to New York! Luckily, I’m already here, because I’d hate to go through the uncertainty again.

I didn’t know where I’d end up when I arrived in New York, but I was determined to be in the city. I’ve always loved the island, and I also knew I wouldn’t be happy working at a small publication back home. So, I called listings in the Village Voice, or on Craigslist, and I actually considered living with people twice my age that have more animals than I have relatives. Then, I happened to find a women's residence on the very day they had a vacancy.

I share a bathroom with twenty girls, and the sisters served gizzards last night for dinner (barf). But am I lucky? Heck yeah. Would I go through the ordeal again? Absolutely. Because I knew that if I didn’t chance it, I’d always wonder, What If?

And this past week, I’ve watched a fellow Edster go through my whole process all over again. It’s frightening, because I can remember being in her place and hoping something would pull through. And it did…for both of us.

No girl is an island

I don't like relying on other people, because I've always been a perfectionist about work. Even in grade school, I remember wincing when my classmates made sloppy bubble letters, or forgot their part of the presentation at home. I was perfectly happy doing everything on my own. If my project bombed, I had no one to blame but myself—and I'd much rather blame myself than secretly resent my best friend for ruining my future of academic stars and achievement awards.

And when it comes to working on a story, I'm still in the middle of a group project, secretly worried that my partners are going to choke.

No one is as invested in your assignment as you are. They don't have to return your calls on time...if ever. You could be waiting till Christmas for them to send a photo, and just when you think they've forgotten about the eleven reminder messages you left on their voice mail, the jpeg magically appears in your email for Valentine's Day. (Print out the pic. Draw moustaches and black out a few teeth. It'll make you feel better for the stress they put you through.)

So, how do you actually get a story done?

My method for my current assignment is all about numbers—if I contact enough people, probability should dictate that at least one person will get back with me. First I sent a few emails to my extremely reliant friends, the friends I will owe BIG when I make my first million (most likely from playing Mega Millions or finding a mystical tree that grows money, like my father always lectured about). Then, I emailed everyone else.

Now, I’m not a math wiz or a psychic, but if these contacts total fifty, I can pretty much guarantee only 3 will be in the final submission I give to my editor this week. How did I come to this conclusion? Look in my crystal ball and do the calculations, Edsters:

First, I had fifty.

From this fifty, I will have to subtract at least 60%. These are the people who never get back to me. They see my email in their inbox, and despite the descriptive subject line, they choose to delete the message before opening.

Now, I'm left with twenty. From this twenty, only ten will understand the focus of the piece. The rest will suggest something irrelevant and extremely inappropriate for the audience. I'll contact them again, asking for something cleaner, more to the point. They'll never respond.

Down to ten. Of these ten, only five will be able to provide requested photo. The other five will say they don't have one. Period. Or they'll offer to send it to me...and it will get lost in the mail.

From the five who are left, I will flesh out a great story, full of candid anecdotes, and fun, colorful pictures. Then, two days before final copy circulates, two of the interviewees will call to announce they no longer wish to be included in the story, leaving me with three.

I'll flesh out the three stories, for a full article. Then I'll buy a Starbucks Espresso Brownie to celebrate, and as I'm eating, my cell phone will ring with a call from my editor. She wants to know if I can start over.

Ugh.

So, if my predictions come true, and you don't hear from me towards the end of the week, check for me along the bars on Ninth. I'll be crooning a bad rendition of "Didn't We Almost Have It All" with their karaoke machine. Bring earplugs.

And then, I'll start over, because I secretly relish hunting for the perfect story. (Just don't tell my friends—they might have me committed. Either that, or they'll never lend their help with my story assignments ever again...it's better to not feed the addiction, right?)

I am a rock, I am an island,
~Ed's Girl

So to you all the kids all across the land...

...take it from me—parents just don't understand.

Okay, so for all copyright purposes, I should probably mention that this is indeed the ingenious rap by the Fresh Prince, Mr. Will Smith. Sing it out, Edsters, because if you're like me, and aren't fortunate enough to come from magazine royalty (Darn it, Bee Schaffer!), then you've probably experienced the conversation I had with my mother today. I called her to announce that I received a freelance assignment from a men's magazine, to which she replied, “Did they pay you yet? How much?”

Now back up, Mamacita—I just told you I'd be writing an article with a 12-point byline...12-point! (Okay, so I don't know this for sure, but a girl can dream, right?) If anything, I should be paying the magazine for such an opportunity, and treat the whole office to beers at Bennigans. (Afterwards, I'll hide my invoice in the check presenter with the bill—they should be good and sloshed by then.)

My poor mother—once again, I've crushed her hopes of my having a reliable and lucrative career. Growing up, I always wanted occupations that didn't pay—a singer, a dancer, a model, and anything else made popular by MTV. Even when I considered being a lawyer, I wanted to study environmental law, and how many wealthy tree-huggers do you know? So, my parents were relieved when I chose to pursue the "stable" field of magazine editorial—poor people had no clue.

It’s hard to explain the industry to them—like why my previous magazines can’t hire me (budget), or why that magazine I interviewed with hasn’t called back (see post 2: incessant yapping). I tried describing to my mother what a blog is, and then she says to me tonight, “Guess what?! Marcy on One Life to Live also writes one!!” (Who can blame the girl? She totally needs the stress release, after her first love’s death, and the reappearance of his soul in another man’s body.) I’m just waiting for the phone conversation where my parents ask if I've met any men in the magazine industry—I live with nuns, so let's not pray for the impossible, okay?

Wailing out, Big Willie Style,
~Ed's Girl

What goes around, comes around

To be a reporter, you sometimes have to beg—and I hate asking for favors.

I received my freelance assignment today, which involves interviewing high school girls—which I love! (Blame it on my being an only child...or just a loser in high school.) But finding these girls isn't easy. I don't have younger sisters, and my youngest friend is a sophomore in college, so I have to send that dreaded mass email. I'm sure you've received one before too—chances are it was from me, my friend, my friend's friend, or my cousin's best friend's sister. And I always get nervous when I reach these people—I feel like that classmate from fourth grade, who gave me Nutty Buddy bars at snack, is going to wonder why I'm mooching off her again.

The point is that when it comes to using personal anecdotes for a story, you need people. I wish I'd known in grade school that I'd later be a journalist—I would've joined safety patrol and networked with first-graders by helping them to their mothers’ minivans. With those precious early years of contacts lost, all I can offer now is a favor for a favor. You help me, and I'll help you later. Magazine karma.

But, as one friend told me today, karma only works if you're not looking to get anything in return. This is fine by me—if there's anything I'm worse at than asking for favors, it's accepting favors. So don't send me anything, unless you're offering me a job...or the email of a teen for my freelance gig...or a contact at HR. Come to think of it, why don't you just go ahead and buy me that new Chloe Paddington bag while you're at it—I'll owe you one.

Payin’ it forward,
~Ed's Girl

What Ed's girl knows for sure...

...is just when you think you're approaching rock bottom, one phone call can change your whole outlook. Hopefully, you're awake at the time, so you sound intelligent. Then there’s me—I decided to read a book in bed…and fell asleep.

An employer could ring at four in the morning and ask for a slice of Ray's Pizza, and I'd walk in pajamas to buy one. My phone is on at all times, and I'm so attuned to hearing its chime, that I can jump up and reach for it in one motion. So, of course, I answered when it rang this afternoon, despite my sleepy fog. When the woman on the other line responded, I immediately freaked—this was an editor from my previous internship! She's so completely professional that I felt embarrassed to have been sleeping, and immediately wondered if my voice gave me away. She was calling to offer me a possible freelance assignment—not only would I get to contribute to a magazine I love, but I'd also get paid for it!

Now, to truly appreciate this phone call, you have to know the state I was in yesterday.

After my HR meeting, I went home and tackled my bank account balance—bad idea, I know. The verdict: I could pay rent through December, but unless I found temp work, that was it. I was broke—no buying Christmas gifts or birthday gifts, no New Year's parties...nothing. So, the blues set in, and I went to a friend who lives with me in the women's residence. She’s an actress, so she totally understands the frustration of finding a job, and let me wallow for a good fifteen minutes. Everyone needs a friend like her during a job search—a friend who will not only listen to you, but also let you eat her Halloween chocolate, if it makes you feel better.

And then I got that call today.

I realize the job isn't full-time, but it's changed my mind-set in twenty-four hours. First off, I must be doing something right, if the editor thought to call me months after my internship. The freelance assignment may only be for a week, but it's still more than I had yesterday. Everything can turn around within a two-minute phone call—I just have to be willing to wait for it.

Yeah, all this talk of hope is very Oprah of me—hence, the title—but I'm thinking positively today. In the job hunt, that feeling comes and goes, so I'm going to enjoy it while I can.

~Ed’s Girl