Ah yes, NOW I remember why I moved to New York

Okay, so despite a few big things--like say, expensive rent, transit strikes, and men who've turned to i-banking or to Chelsea--I realized several reasons why I'm happy to live in the Big Apple. Here they are in no particular order:

1.) I can wear whatever I want.
Getting ready back home took me forever! Not only was I worried about bumping in to old high school classmates, but the suburb has an unspoken dress code. Ever been to the South? The women always look polished. Forget if it's eight in the morning, they'll still have on their color coordinated shoes with full makeup. So, when I arrived at a local grocery store, mothers in the check-out lanes suspiciously eyed my knit newsboy cap, black blazer, and lace-up boots. The weeks before and after Christmas absolutely require a wardrobe of red and green, so I'm sure they thought I was one of those druggie, goth children the principal warned of at the PTA meeting. In New York, I could wear my underwear outside my jeans, and no one would think twice about it. But back home, I'd probably be looking at a jail sentence...or psych counseling.

And on the subject of shopping...

2.) H&M!
Nuff said.

3.) I don't live in my preserved, museum-like childhood bedroom.
Where's the velvet rope? My room at my parents' house is exactly how I left it. Magazine ads for Felicity and Dawson's Creek decorate my desk, a stuffed bunny from my first boyfriend sits on my bed, photos from my eighth grade graduation and middle school chorus line my shelves, and pre-millenium issues of Vogue are still stashed under my nightstand. It feels a bit nostalgic, but mostly just creepy. Yes, my current place is about a third of the size of my childhood bedroom, but how I love throwing my clothes on the floor of my New York room and looking at photos that are void of early nineties feather bangs or Glamour Shots' feather boas.

4.) I don't have to run errands for my parents.
This sounds incredibly selfish--they raised me for crying out loud--but hitting up every pet store in search of the perfect outerwear for our family dog, is not my idea of a fun way to spend a Friday. (And of course, the puppy shirt has a matching puppy baseball hat. As we know, color coordination is important.)

And not only do I not have to run errands, but...

5.) I don't have to drive!
Why did I look forward to my sixteenth birthday, anyways? Yes, getting in the car, blasting my music, and being able to go wherever my heart desired was great...for about a day. But then I had to pay for a tank of gas: $30. My car stopped in the middle of a busy intersection at 11 at night--you know, when only the crazy people are leaving their homes. Driving to my friend's apartment took 45 minutes, the mall took 30. Granted the MTA's not always, er, reliable, but it's good to know that when a subway train isn't working, I don't have to worry about getting it towed, repaired, and fueled. And I'd much rather stare at eccentrics on a New York City bus, than read another '04 political campaign sticker, plastered on the back of a bumper.

6.) No guilt trips from the parents.
Ever notice how parents love to use the words "by myself" and "never" when talking about their lives as empty-nesters? I find that these two words are the ultimate triggers they like to pull, and no matter how much I try to avoid getting sucked in to their guilt trip, the words never fail. For example:

(in the car)
Me: "Is that a new restaurant at that intersection?"
My mother: "Yes; I went there BY MYSELF seeing as how you're NEVER home anymore."

Ouch. How do you respond to that? I normally go for the I-have-no-idea-what-you're-hinting-at approach. For example:

Me: "A night to yourself! That must have been fun! I bet the food was AMAZING!!!!!!!!!!" (Putting exclamation points in your phrasing helps with avoidance.)

Now, I'm actually pretty close with my family, so I'm not trying to imply that I didn't enjoy seeing them. I'm just a creature of habit--when I have to change my lifestyle for two weeks, I complain a bit. But it was good to know that I wasn't perfectly content living at home anymore--if I had been, then why did I move to New York in the first place, right?

No more doubts. New York is where I want to be. And with my decision vindicated, I flew in to Newark last night, squished between an inflight magazine and a guy with a chronic cough. I stared out at the Manhattan skyline. New York really felt like my new home.

Health coverage is like pulling teeth

Yes, being at home has its perks, like getting a haircut and eating real food made by real chefs (not nuns),but it also means my annual trip to the dentist. I used to visit twice a year, but seeing as how I haven't been home since January, I haven't dropped in for my usual visit. I know I could've found a new dentist in New York, but my tight budget leaves little room for such trivial matters as my health (excuses, excuses). Instead, I waited till I came home. So, arriving in the dentist's office yesterday, I was picturing him shaking his head and pulling out my rotted teeth one by one. (I really should've spent my extra dollars on dental floss instead of ice cream.) But the good news was, my teeth looked great--not a single cavity! The bad news was...the bill.

When I checked in to the office, the receptionist handed me a health history form to fill out, and asked for an insurance card. I lowered my voice so the mothers reading Popular Mechanics and Highlights couldn't hear me. "Um, I don't have any insurance," I said. "NO INSURANCE!!!" she replied (so much for being discreet). "I guess you're financially responsible for yourself then." Ugh. That couldn't be good.

So..back to the bill. I was lucky enough that my dad offered to pay for it. I assured him this would be the one and only instance when I wouldn't have insurance (I'm promising him that I'll have a job by next year. Let's hope I live up to it.) But when the receptionist told me the total I almost choked--$195! That's a whole week of rent for me! Next time maybe I will wait till my teeth fall out.

I felt bad--my dad shouldn't have to cover my medical expenses. He already has me on minimal coverage in case of a major accident, and now he has to help keep my teeth pretty and clean?! But I guess that is kind of the point of family, to help you out every now and then when you hit a rough spot. And he seemed happy to lend a hand--it's not everyday I ask my dad for help. So as long as I avoid dangerous cab drivers and the office flu,I may be okay until I can cover my own insurance. Maybe next time, I won't be so hesitant about going to my dad for some help--as long as I'm not looking for money for birth control. Good luck explaining that medical expense to my father--some things I just have to work out on my own.

No Internet, no car?!...a trip to the burbs goes prehistoric

Okay, so you'll have to bear with me over the holidays, because when it comes to Internet access, I have next to nil. My parents still use an old Compaq through dial-up on Windows '98. (Although, they don't actually use it --my mother still doesn't know how to turn the darn thing on.)

I didn't let that stop me from sending an e-mail today to the magazine I interviewed with last week. (No news yet on the status of the job, but I'll keep you updated, of course.) I wanted to send several story ideas to one of the editors--either she'd love them, and I'd be in her good graces, or I'd damage any initial positive impression she had of me. Tough call, but I decided to chance it. I'd hate to find out I didn't get the job, and always wonder if I could've done more. But in order to use a computer, I had to ask my mom to drop me off at the library (which immediately brought back painful flashbacks of searching for play scripts and waiting in the lobby sophomore year).

I got a visitor's pass--thirty minutes of online access for one day. I logged on, and started typing the e-mail...until, the computer shut down on me. My time was up. Great.

So, without Internet or a car (I gave up my car and insurance when I moved to New York), I was stuck at the library for an extra hour, before my mother got off work.

I wasn't about to just sit around, so I started walking. I walked twenty minutes along the major six-lane road next to the library, lugging my bag full of research notes, hoping to locate some place with Internet access. (Walking in New York is normal, but trekking to the nearest strip mall felt completely out of the ordinary.) I found an Office Depot with a Print Center, and figured "Print Center" meant computers, but the only Internet access was on an employee computer. I was able to log on, but only after flirting with a high school guy in a red Office Depot polo. (Oh, the lengths I will go to.)Guess I'll find out soon enough if my efforts paid off.

Then, I walked along the main road again, smiling at mothers who stopped for me in areas with 55 mph speed limits (I'd forgotten what drivers were like in other parts of the country!), and headed back to the library, so "mommy" could pick me up.

Two soap operas later (and a major identity crisis with Jessica Buchanan), I received a call from my dad--Good news! I was covered under his car insurance. I could borrow the car. Hallelujah! I was more excited now than when I passed Driver's Ed. I haven't driven in a year, so I was kind of worried I'd forgotten how, but I started the engine and blasted music through the neighborhood so grandmothers walking their dogs yelled at me...it was great.

It's these little things I enjoy most while I'm home. I'm going to take advantage of niceties I haven't had in the past year. Tomorrow: manicure. Wednesday: haircut. Thursday: dinner. Yeah, I'm thinking a break from the pavement-hitting, crunch-time environment of New York is just what I need. (As long as I always have Internet access at my fingertips...Wouldn't want to completely deprive myself, would I?)

Back to the burbs

I leave for home tomorrow. No word yet about that third interview.

In the past two days, I've gone through three phases—panicked and emotional, depressed and emotional, and embarrassed and angry over letting myself act panicked and depressed and emotional. (Although, I guess "emotional" pretty much describes all of the above, right?) Acting nutso isn't going to help anything. It's only been two days since my second interview, and it is the holidays, and what with the possible MTA strike and all. (Okay, so I'm trying to sound calm, cool, and collected, so give me some credit.)

I have realized that I need to stop asking other people for their opinions. I know they mean well, but sometimes they think of awful scenarios that haven't even entered my mind. Maybe I'll just shut off my phone and wear headphones for the next few weeks until I ride this thing out.

But I am going home tomorrow, and I will kiss the big city goodbye for twelve full days of minivan suburbia. Just so I don't get caught up in the mania, I'm bringing about twenty pounds of research with me. I'm taking it in my carry-on bag, so the airline won't charge me if my checked luggage is overweight.

This is the first time I'll be going home in a year. I'm kind of nervous. I'm definitely looking forward to a bed that's not on wheels, and being able to sink my heels in wall-to-wall carpeting, but I know I'm bound to run in to at least someone from high school. Ugh. The local grocery store is kind of a hangout around the holidays, and I do tend to gravitate to the bakery section. I can just imagine standing in front of the display case with a giant box of cinnamon buns, when some guy I used to crush on during sophomore year decides to say hi.

And if I happen to run in to "that girl" from high school—the one that was never openly mean, but still managed to sneak sly remarks—I 'm telling her I work at a magazine in New York. She doesn't need to know it's not permanent right now, right? Maybe I'll even carry my portfolio with me, so I can hand her my latest clip—“Would you like a copy of my most recent work?" Then I'll smile sweetly, turn around, and wearing my skinny jeans (you know, the ones I won't be able to wear after Christmas dinner and New Year's drinks), I'll walk away to the tune of "I'm Really Hot" by Missy Elliot.

(Sigh.) I'm not that lucky, but I can dream, right?

The second interview...Will the third time be the charm?

My interview was today!

I became obsessive about preparing for it, but yesterday evening was when I really began to doubt my sanity. My room reminded me of one of those conspiracy movies, where the loony pastes newspaper clippings all over the wall with items highlighted.

That's what I did. I went through my entire supply of back issues, pulled out articles I liked, taped all of them on my wall, and scribbled comments in black pen. Maybe it wasn't necessary for today's meeting (truth be told, they didn't ask me any questions about the magazine), but it definitely helped. I needed a way to organize my thoughts, visualize the stories, see the tone. I knew exactly what points I wanted to mention if the editor asked me what I liked about an issue, and I could give concrete examples, instead of the generic, "I like everything!"

Then, I used the old stories to come up with some story ideas of my own, ten in all. I narrowed the selection down to five before my actual meeting. I didn't want to overwhelm the editor, and I figured it's better to have five solid ideas, than ten so-so ones. I put them in my portfolio—which is just a simple black binder with my clips in protective plastic sleeves—and headed over to the building.

And I was early! No sweating on the elevator for this interview. I wore the same pencil skirt, but allowed for ample walking time.

When I got to the floor, I waited about ten minutes until the editor came out. She was wearing a nice sweater with jeans, and was very relaxed and easy to talk to—so when she criticized a project I had worked on, I was completely taken aback. (She is definitely a journalist who knows how to ask the hard-hitting questions!) I've always mentioned the project in previous interviews, and I've never received this reaction before. But I recovered. I argued why the project deserves credit, and she actually seemed glad to see me stick up for it. (And her comments made me even more impressed with her, because she was opinionated, and wasn't afraid to spill her honest thoughts!...Now, that's a great editor!) Towards the end, I handed her my ideas, and she asked me to wait in the lobby until the second editor was able to meet with me (the same editor I'd previously interviewed with).

So, five minutes later, I was back in the second editor's office again. She explained how the job had been "on hold," because positions were shifting around on staff, and she wanted to see exactly what they needed the new employee to handle.

I felt more at ease with her than the first time we met, and she seemed genuinely interested in me. She even said that the other editor already told her that she liked my ideas. I talked about how I had subbed for an assistant and the new story I'm researching, and she made it sound like they're hoping to hire someone soon—so soon, in fact, that she's going to try to schedule me for a third interview for either tomorrow or Friday to meet with their Executive Editor. (I'm hitting the big time now!)

I just hope that it ends up working out, and I do get to meet with the Executive Editor. I'm still uncertain about the first editor's feelings towards me, so that could end up hurting me. But I feel like the second editor likes me—guess I needed that second interview to really win her over.

And how did I even get this second interview, you ask? Turns out, one of the editors I've worked for before, e-mailed the editor to recommend me. Let's just hope that rec, along with my passion for the magazine and insane preparation, will pay off.

Oh, and is it me, or is it weird that in all of these talks, they've never mentioned an edit test?

Moody holiday blues and an early gift from Kris Kringle

Do you ever have just one of those days, where you're feeling kind of low, and you don't know why?

I normally like to blame the mood on PMS, but I don't think that was it today. I guess with some soul-searching I might be able to pinpoint my attitude to the job hunt, dating, or the weather...or a combination of all three. Or maybe it's because I ran in to an old classmate at a party this weekend. And she's not the kind of classmate where you're like, "Oh my God, it's so good to see you!" No; she's more like the classmate who says, "What are you doing here?" and is secretly remembering the time in class when you accidentally snotted all over your desk, or came back from the bathroom with toilet paper stuck to your shoe.

Whatever the cause was, I was in a funk. I really had no reason to be. I was able to go in to an office and work on an assignment, and there is nothing better when you're unemployed than to feel needed. It's nice to walk down the hallway and have the mail guys know my name. (Although, how could they not know who I am when I'm constantly racing them to the extra socks and Dior lip glosses on the freebie table?)

But as the day was drawing to a close, I spaced on the computer, and I couldn't understand why my e-mail inbox was still empty since eight this morning. (Don't you hate it when no one writes?) My voice mail was empty, and I was alone in the so-called "intern pod," because all of the interns finished for the semester. I wasn't tired, because I slept eight hours last night. I was in a funk.

But what happened next convinces me that I'm bipolar, or just easily excited.

I found an e-mail in my inbox. At first I didn't recognize the name. The initials were the same as a friend of mine from high school, and I figured the girl from the party tipped her off about my spastic dancing on Saturday. But then I realized the e-mail's formula—it was from a magazine editor, and not just a magazine, but the same one I interviewed with three or four weeks ago. She wanted to know if I could meet with another editor...a SECOND interview!!!!

So, I did my normal song and dance: I freaked out. Began to respond. Stopped mid-sentence. Jumped up from my chair and ran to my friend on the other side of the office to tell her. We both jumped. I asked her how I should respond. Ran back to my computer. Typed an appropriate message. Reread it four times. Pushed send. Ran back to my friend to tell her I pushed send. And called my mother. (I'm going to give the poor woman a heart attack by always getting her hopes up.)

You never know. Maybe this will be it for me...and maybe not. Only one thing's for sure—it would make an amazing Christmas gift. And as you know, it was definitely on my wish list.

Getting Paid

I received TWO checks in the mail today. Granted one of them was only $60 for an extra role I did in a movie about three months ago, but the other was for the high school project I was working on. I've never received payment from a magazine so quickly before, but the moola was desperately needed.

I recently had to ask my dad to pay my December rent, and I hate, HATE asking my parents for money. I also owe my best friend $100 for a weekend trip we took to Saratoga Springs. I pay not be able to buy her a Christmas gift this year, but I will be able to pay her back. It's such a relief to know that I won't go in to debt. I can make it through my so-called financial "drought."

Now, I realize these two paychecks alone won't be able to handle every bill I have coming my way, but the great news is I have a few more checks coming my way in the mail. But not because I didn't have to push a few people. I've definitely learned through freelance that with some companies you really have to ask, and then ask again, to receive your payment. I still haven't received any money for an article I worked on a few months ago, but the magazine was going through changes, so it's somewhat understandable. Even so, I pestered their Accounting Department, to make sure it was going through. The check still hasn't arrived yet, but I've been told it's on its way. (And additional tip: always, always make certain to sign a contract and keep a copy for yourself. My other check is on hold, because they're still searching for my contract. Ugh.)

I also received a new assignment this past week!!! It wasn't official till yesterday when I met with the editor, but it's mainly a researching job for an article in their April issue. I actually love research. I feel accomplished and, dare I say it (?) smart when I find information for a story. I don't have the strong stomach needed to be a forensics expert, or the science skills for that matter, so research is my way of digging for clues, solving a mystery.

I'm extremely excited about the topic, because I think it's an idea most magazines haven't covered. (So, don't expect me to spill the details!) It feels a bit groundbreaking...or maybe that's just me getting overly excited. And even though I'd probably do the work for free, they're paying me! Gosh. If the money keeps rolling in like this I may have to get an actual bank account in New York, and stop stowing money in my underwear drawer.

This is not a race!...also known as "Everything I tell myself"

(And by "this," I mean the job hunt, job promotions, and anything else remotely related to jobs.)

Once I get this message in my stubborn skull, I may finally cure my neurosis.

Today, I heard about an EA who received a promotion to Associate Editor after six months. Everyone was buzzing about it. I admit her success story is extremely impressive, but I'm not super surprised. She just gives off a vibe. I don't know how to describe it. Confident? Driven? Maybe if I could actually decide on her hook, I might be able to snag a job of my own.

This same girl beat me out six months ago for the EA spot that skyrocketed her. At the time, I was bummed, envious, and I still am I bit. Who wouldn't want a job leap like that? But the thing is, I need to stop comparing myself to other people. (Okay, so technically, I can compare, and I do, but I definitely shouldn't.)

When I think, "this editor at this magazine got promoted before me," I start going crazy! I realize there is always going to be someone out there who is better than me, but I'm just beginning to accept it. And this business is also about being in the right place at the right time! If I was at a startup, and the publication took off, it would take me along with it. I could go through three promotions in one year. Or I might be at a great publication with a large staff, and therefore, fifth in line for EA promotions. I don't have control over something like that; it's the "fickle finger of fate," as Sweet Charity would say.

As lame as it sounds, I'm trying to learn to compete with myself. I'm trying to look more positively at new assignments, and stop dwelling on the larger issue of finding a job. Progress is still progress, right? My small strides can't compete with most of my peers, but I'll get within distance of them eventually. I'm not looking to be an EIC by the year 2010 anyways, and maybe it's my unemployment talking, but I'd be happy with just a decent salary at a magazine I can respect. (And even that seems like a lot to ask for at this point!)

As an editor once told me, it all balances out in the end. So, even during those times when I start feeling left behind at the bottom, as everyone else advances ahead, it's encouraging to know that I can catch up...eventually. It does feel like a race, I'm not denying that, but I just want to learn to be happy as a participant, instead of concentrating on winning.

And most importantly, I'm working the hardest at becoming my own cheerleader...which is really a job in itself (and tiring!). I need to stop relying on other people to pat me on the back, and I need to keep my own confidence afloat. I'm trying, but as I'm sure everyone knows, it ain't easy.*

*Yes, I realize "ain't" isn't a word. Cut me some slack. My roots are in the Deep South, okay?

Holiday cheer the Ed Girl way: eggnog, self-promotion, and blackmail

I don't want to spread rumors that Ed and I are dating, but let's just say he took me out for pizza and beer tonight. I apologize in advance for my slumbery state. Mmmm...pizza...good.

So, Ed and I got around to talking about the normal stuff...mainly how I'm unemployed. I mentioned a couple of interviews I've been on recently, and how I haven't heard anything back. Unbeknownst to me, but Ed said the end of the year is awful for hiring, so many companies won't employ new staffers until January!

If the holidays weren't already depressing enough for some of us, now we have to worry about sticking through the job search until 2006. Better put on some "Blue Christmas" and buy the extra large eggnog.

But the weird thing is, it almost doesn't phase me. I mean, what's one more month, when I've been looking for nine? My only concern is that an editor might completely forget me after a grueling staff party with open bar. I can just picture them taking my resume and cutting it into snowflakes for decorations.

I need to make sure I'm first in their minds in 2006! But how do I do this?

So far I've come up with four approaches:

1. Send them a holiday card. Something universal. I'm thinking of a card with penguins. Everyone loved March of the Penguins, right? Inside I'll scribble in festive red pen, "I'm unemployed and looking for a job. Happy Holidays!"

2. Convince Ryan Seacrest to put me on his New Year's Rockin' Eve, where I will wear an outfit on national television advertising my qualifications and my phone number. How Macy Gray of me.

3. Blackmail. I'll threaten to tell their children the truth about Santa, and use that as leverage.

4. Or I guess I could just go with the standard follow up email:
Hi TK,
Happy 2006! Hope you had a wonderful holiday. I'm still very interested in working at TK, so if anything opens up, please let me know. In the meantime, here's my updated resume. Thanks!


I know the obvious choice, but come on, at least the others would have made a lasting impression.

Today's Secret to Success and the Word of the Day

Secret to Success
Wendy's $.99 small chili. It's cheap, filling, and great for battling the winter chill. And the girl at the counter gave me three packets of saltines to fill me up! Yum.

Word of the Day
lapping
v.
to get ahead of an opponent in a race; as in, getting a job in the industry before someone who's been looking longer, or being promoted before another editor who's been in the same position longer.

In a sentence: "She's only been interviewing for a couple of months, and she completely lapped me, that [insert expletive here.]." (Hypothetical, of course.)

A truly sinful day: half-naked cover girls, dessert, and Miss Seventeen

I'm completely trained in fashion know-how, after a week with my aunt. (You know, in case Vogue ever comes calling.) Even today, I was able to name women's handbags on my way to work. I looked at my own. It's more of a carryall, than a handbag, and in transit, my extra peanut butter and jelly sandwich had oozed all over my debit card and driver's license. (Neither of which I use.) Gross.

But the day was good! I'm officially in my second week of temping, and I feel pretty comfortable manning the phones and the calendar on Lotus Notes. Although, I can't help but wonder if the permanent assistant has as many problems arranging conflicting meetings as I do. (I seriously had to send out three e-mails today to one editor, because an important meeting was on and then off again, and then back on at another time. Guess, I'll know who to go to, if I start receiving hate mail! And who would blame her?)

As I was leaving the offices I decided to stop by a newsstand, because an article I wrote a couple of months ago was being released tomorrow. And I found it early! The guy at the counter looked at me strangely when I carried three copies to the counter…partly because a cover with a scantily clad woman wearing chain mail isn't my normal subscription, but then he also told me I looked like the cover girl. I thought of the credit card commercials:

Printing an article in a national publication? $500
Getting hit on by the counter guy where you buy your magazines? Priceless.

I went to the nearest printer, and made copies to send out tomorrow. I figured sending the new article would be a nice way to follow up with any magazines I haven't heard from in a few weeks...like that HR interview. (Gotta use something to overcome my sweaty first impression.) Then I drafted a brief letter to enclose with the story's color copies, and headed home.

By this time, I was way late for dinner, and my stomach definitely told me so. My favorite grocery store was out of soup, so I settled for leftover cheesecake from the deli trip I made with my aunt yesterday. It had been sitting out on my desk since ten o'clock yesterday, so chances are it had gone bad. (If I'm puking in the office potties tomorrow, you'll know why.) But it still tasted good!

And to add to a sinful evening, I watched Miss Seventeen. I thought about what it would've been like if I was in that competition in high school, how I would've dressed: glitter grey pants, pink top, curly huge hair and black eyeliner...oh yeah, I'd fit right in. (Although with the Flock of Seagulls haircut they featured in last night's episode, maybe I would've been the perfect cover girl. Even I knew that it didn't look good.)

During the episode, I noticed an old Seventeen issue on one of the apartment walls. It was a Katie Holmes cover, from the era of Dawson's Creek. I immediately remembered the outfit she wore for the shoot, and how I had tried searching for the designer in the credits. I thought of another cover with Jordana Brewster wearing a beaded slip dress, and how I used to hide all of my issues under my nightstand, so my mother wouldn't ask me to throw them out. (Boys hide nudie mags, girls stow fashion publications.) And even though I wasn't any smarter by the end of the episode, besides that I learned to never take numbers off a client phone (oh right, that's common sense), it did serve as a nice reminder of how I've always loved magazines.

My day-to-day schedule is pretty boring compared to the Miss Seventeen girls. Life isn't all a reality television show. But Atoosa, if you're reading this, how about putting a girl up in those Miss Seventeen digs? I can be the house mom!

The Princess and the Pauper, Part Deux

I have never seen so many fur coats, as I did in the lobby of the Waldorf on Park Avenue. The entire interior was decorated with holiday lights and lush garland...and the hotel had not only one but three lobbies.

So, when my aunt told me to meet her there on Saturday, I was somewhat confused on where to go. She called to see if I could go upstairs to her room. Her boss had already written three e-mails that morning, and she was trying to take care of business matters before the shopping spree.

I traveled through the maze of hallways on the sixteenth floor until I found her room, which was larger than not only my room in New York, but also bigger than my room at home. She sat at her laptop, and talked to me about the corporate world...how her "admin" (meaning, administrative assistant) had booked the hotel, how her boss always demands insane deadlines, how she was probably going to get fired for not fulfilling his latest request.

I always admired my aunt as a child. She had gorgeous homes and traveled on exotic trips with her girlfriends. She was confident, independent, and she's lived in every great city in the United States—San Francisco, Boulder, Atlanta, Dallas. But as I watched her frantically responding to her bosses e-mails on a Saturday, I thought about all the nice luxuries she has, but wondered...at what cost?


My aunt works around the clock, and she definitely has a bank account to show for her efforts.

At Saks? She picked up a Narcisco Rodriguez suit and Burberry sweater and skirt.
At Barney's? Earrings from an exclusive designer.
At Fendi? A pair of boots, pumps, a wallet, and a handbag.

The total could've covered my rent for the year.

We ate lunch at Fred's on the seventh floor of Barney's, and I watched Mariska Hargitay, from Law and Order: SVU, eat a light salad. Meanwhile, I felt slightly inadequate in my Marshall's sweater and handbag, my $10 jeans, Forever 21 necklace, and knock-off Uggs from T.J. Maxx.

And I hated when she asked me if I’ve had any luck on the job front, and I had to admit that I was still searching. If it’s not enough to whine to friends and parents, it’s even harder to tell the truth to someone so professionally successful.

But she said to me, "You're living my dream! I always wanted to live in Manhattan when I graduated from college."

For serious? I had something, she wanted?

It made me feel great, like I was doing the right thing by hanging in, but I also thought about all the financial cutbacks I've made to afford residence in the city.

I'd like to pretend that material possessions mean nothing to me...and I'd be lying. I would love to be able to walk in Barney's and pick out a Marc Jacobs dress...someday. But I'm starting to realize more and more that the higher you climb on the corporate ladder, the more income you'll make...but you'll also have less personal time.

My mother is the opposite of my aunt. She decided to stop working when she had me, and she shops sales at Talbots (whereas my aunt hates shopping sales...too many people, she says). I know my mother regrets giving up her job, but she felt she needed to, if she wanted more time with her family. It was a trade-off she made. She's jealous of my aunt's jet-set, designer life. But at the same time, spending time with my aunt this weekend, I realized how lonely she feels. She told me she's threatened to quit work twice now, because she no longer has time to spend with anyone, or herself for that matter.

I don't know what I want. My mother insists that I'm like my aunt. I've always been very career-oriented. Even last weekend when my mother came to visit, she told me about how she saw a piece of baby furniture on sale and thought of buying it. "But the more I thought about it," she said, "I just don't think it will ever be put to use."

I know I don't date much, but gee, thanks for the vote of confidence, Mother.

I will never go the route of so many of my friends who've decided to start a family and worry about career as an afterthought. (Seeing as how I've never had a super serious boyfriend, I'm a little far behind in that department anyways.) But when I'm thinking about my aunt and my mother and which path I'd rather choose, I can't decide.

I want both...but is that possible? Can we have the lucrative career, and the personal time?

The Princess and the Pauper, Part I

My aunt visits the city this weekend. She's a corporate executive out in Cali, 5'4", and a size 0. She wraps herself in coats from Burberry and wears Manolo Blahniks...oh, and she absolutely insisted that I take her to the Fendi store on Fifth so she could buy a bag that the Rodeo Drive location no longer stocked.

So, I'm meeting her today at noon at the Waldorf, where she's staying. Yes, I guess I could've offered to board her at the women's residence where she'd get her very own roll-away bed and indoor/outdoor carpeting, but she'd probably decline the offer. Go figure.

When we were making plans for what to do, she rattled off seeing Woman in White, shopping on Park, visiting MOMA. No mention was made of who is paying for this. I started tabulating how much her mini-trip was going to cost me in my head, and my mind shut off somewhere around ninety bucks. I would've loved to stay in this vegative state until Monday when the weekend would be over, but she called me seven times at work yesterday to ask if I'd rather watch Light in the Piazza or Sweet Charity.

...whatever happened to going to Empire 25 to watch the newest flick? Yeah, their tickets can run you ten dollars, but I think I still have eight bucks left on an AMC gift card, and I can always buy a soda and snacks at the Duane Reade on the corner, if I don't want to pay for concession stand popcorn. (Plus, the Auntie Anne's on the next block sometimes gives out free samples.)

And our plans for today? Shopping, of course. To which she said, "I absolutely have to hit up Barneys, because they have the best shoe department, but don't feel like you have to buy anything there."

WHAT?! You've got to be kidding me! My dad had to offer help so I could purchase a skirt at H&M and a necklace from Forever 21, and you think I'm going to be dropping the rest of this month's rent to buy a pair of heels at Barneys?!
(Well, I didn't say it out loud, but I was thinking it.)

More to come on the weekend later...

...and every day is manic for an EIC

Dude, being an Editor-in-Chief is rough. I had NO idea just how time consuming the job is, until I had to help organize meetings for an EIC this week.

First of all, I'm the type of person who keeps a planner, but barely uses it. I typically have a pretty good memory when it comes to dates and times, especially concerning important work-related events. But there is no way anyone could keep everything an EIC does straight in his head. Between sales meetings, production meetings, staff meetings, and the multiple invitations that she receives (especially around the holidays), I keep thinking, when does this woman sleep?! As a staffer mentioned to me tonight—what does she eat for energy like that...and where can I get some?

And really, even when a schedule is set and confirmed, she never knows what might happen within the next five minutes. The day constantly changes depending on who calls.

Just a couple of days ago I received a phone call from a celebrity assistant who wanted to organize a promo spot with her boss and the EIC...for that day! Needless to say, the whole day was completely booked, so we had to plan for the following morning. But if they had been able to meet when she called, she would've been whisked away, and on video ten minutes later. God forbid you didn't like what you were wearing to work that day.

And then, it really makes me laugh when she receives calls like the one I intercepted yesterday. A mother was on the line, wanting to talk to someone about the cover. Of course, I went in to customer service mode, thinking there was something about our cover that she didn't like or found offensive. She asked who chose it. So, I started rambling about how the cover's a collaborative effort, and there's not just one person who calls all the shots. (I didn't want to name specific names!) Then she wanted to speak to the EIC. So, I said if she wanted to tell me about her inquiry, I'd be happy to relay the message. THEN, the woman goes on to tell me about how her daughter should be on the cover, how her daughter has the most gorgeous green eyes that sparkle (yes, I believe she used the term "sparkle") and an infectious laugh. It was incredibly comical, because I wanted to know just when this woman thought she'd be able to snag ten minutes to rave about her child to the EIC.

I mean seriously, check out the EIC's schedule today:

9-9:30 Meeting w/ Fashion Director
9:30-10:15 Meeting w/ Deputy Editor
10:15-11:15 Meeting w/ Publisher
11:15-12 Meeting w/ Art Director & Creative Director
12-2 Lunch Meeting
2-3 Meeting w/ 4 staffers
3:30-4:30 Meeting w/ Publisher
5-5:30 Meeting w/ Managing Editor
5:30-6 Phone interview
6:30-8 Appointment

And those thirty-minute breaks are just to allow for travel time. Then, she takes copy home with her to edit! No wonder she works out, because she needs to maintain her stamina—the whole day is like a marathon. Geesh!

It just proves to me how passionate EICs are...because God knows you have to love what you do to go through a day like that, and still have the drive to get up the next day and do the whole thing over. Not only that, but they’re constant cheerleaders for the rest of the staff, to get everyone excited about new issues and motivated during shipping...although I'm sure not all magazines are as blessed to have bosses with such positive attitudes as the one I'm at. But I wouldn't blame them for being grouchy. Chances are they didn't get any sleep last night, and were still commenting on layouts while I was at home watching the O.C. and eating Wendy's. And even though my time at the top of the masthead is a long way off, it definitely gives me something to aspire to. I better start exercising now, because I don't know if my body has the energy.