Cherries? Life is so much more like a bowl of unripe cantaloupe.

I hate when I order a fruit salad and I get a platter of hard melon. Cantaloupe and honeydew are filler fruits, aimed at reducing the number of strawberries, blueberries, and occasional raspberry in my seasonal side dish.

I feel like I’ve given you all the text equivalent of melon in the past two blogs. I’m in between places of employment right now. I gave notice but have yet to make the move (June 23, for those wondering).

I continue musing about my anxieties while I work like crazy writing stories and packing. Last Monday’s post can be summarized in one sentence — I’m freaked out. On Friday — yep, still freaked out.

Those cheeky Gawker kids coined the term “blogorrhea.” Or maybe they just started using it so incessantly it seems like they coined it. Either way, I will try to refrain from joining the Web-based colonic spasms and give you what you came here to read — an update on my search for employment.

Time for some real news. I have the inside scoop on a six-week research gig at a travel magazine. A contact tipped me off, a woman who came from a position at my newspaper managed to forge a magazine career in Manhattan (she’s the Deborah Harry to my Madonna) and is now an associate editor at a major publication.

Last week, she asked whether I would be interested in compiling one of their annual best-of lists. She started in this position when she made the move from our paper. After proving herself, the editor offered her an EA job and, voila, she’s on the Ed2010 path to ‘dream job’ by decade’s end.

Am I interested? If you mean that I immediately hid in our unisex bathroom and called my mom at her office to tell her about the possibility, then yes, I’m interested. I sent the contact my paperwork and now I play the waiting game to hear whether they want to meet me in person. Since I started casually applying for jobs through the typical sites a few months ago and rekindling contacts with college friends and professors, this is the first time an insider offered to set my resume on the top of the pile. I still have a smidgen of a chance, but hell, it’s a shot.

Fingers crossed,

Ed’s Girl III

Boring and comfortable vs. hectic and exciting

Nostalgia usually kicks in for me well before something ends. As a kid, I stressed out through August that summer was almost over. And I get attached to people and places just because they're familiar. Even those I don't particularly like. Mean teachers suddenly seemed quirky and misunderstood once I no longer encountered them on a regular basis.

As soon as I rented the UHaul, I began thinking about how great I have it here. I will miss this place. My first adult apartment with a park across the street. And a creepy guy next door who blasts Linkin' Park at 2 a.m. and always offers to fix the dent in the side of my car.

I might even, dare I say, miss the monotony of my routine. It has its perks. I wake up around 8:30 a.m., shower, eat my yogurt with frozen raspberries, and drive two minutes to my office (I'm not too lazy to walk, I have to cross a major intersection). Everyone else rolls in around 9:20 a.m. or so.

At about 1 p.m., I head home for lunch and catch up on the latest "All My Children" drama. What will happen to Erica Kane and the rest of Pine Valley once I move? The comas and baby thefts don't stop just because I no longer make time to witness them.

Sure, I often work until 9 p.m. on Mondays and Tuesdays. But on Thursdays, my friend from college who still lives here (note, singular friend) and I go to half-price sushi night at our favorite restaurant. Plus, the ladies at Pilates and I are pretty friendly. It's a simple existence, but one I've grown to enjoy.

I guess I want more than the convenience I've established. My stomach does the flip reserved for roller coasters and first dates whenever my future roommate and I discuss the move. Even planning the boring details, like picking out paint colors, seems exciting.

I'll take this message from my gut and assume I'm ready to trade the comfort for a new, albeit more hectic, routine.

Happy Friday,

EG III

Ask and ye shall receive

Sorry for the lapse. After giving notice last week, I overcompensated by working longer hours. Contributing extra stories made writing blogs, reading gawker, and e-mailing my sister funny cartoons during work hours difficult. I guess I should cross 'multi-tasker' off my list of attributes on job applications.

I’m back now. And I promise not to leave you again. Although this whole anonymous identity thing is throwing me into an existential upheaval. I feel like Jim Carrey in one of his serious movies.

First, I received a response from myself in 15 years. Apparently I want to procreate someday. Then, while browsing the Ed2010 job site in search of employment, I saw a line at the top that reads, “Ed's Girl on the Hunt feels your pain.” Yes, she does. I do. Wait. Huh?

I'm terrified. Afraid of the unknown, worried that this career plan sounds better in theory, and anxious about the sting of inevitable rejection.

These fears have led to an agitating case of insomnia. When I’m not buttering up contacts and sending out resumés, I lay awake planning what I will say in interviews and worrying whether I will secure them in the first place.

Last week, I interviewed a woman for a reporter position at my newspaper. The girl seemed bright. A master’s journalism student at the school where I attended undergrad. I felt like a bit of a fraud — I’m less educated and younger — interviewing her. She brought strong clips. Yet her voice shook when she spoke and she kept giggling. I sat talking to her, relaxed and calm, in my position of employment.

Then I realized it. I am her next month.

I hate selling myself. I know, everyone does. But I really detest it, partly because I’m lousy at it. At least I’m afraid I will be. The last time I asked someone to hire me I was 18 and requesting to supervise a group of children while they played kickball and made beaded necklaces. My newspaper job transitioned from an internship and I’ve never practiced convincing someone in the professional realm that my presence at her company will make life easier.

I worry that my discomfort with the whole scenario will manifest itself as manic giggling and stuttering.

My boss told me he didn’t hire someone once because she kept bouncing in her chair. When it came to two candidates, he told me, they picked the girl who “didn’t bounce the entire time.”

Now I’m racking my brain trying to figure out what irritating habits might turn editors off.

I know better than to use “like” too often. My grandmother used to recoil in horror when I slipped the word into a sentence. After 22 years, Ruth’s wince has trained me well.

Instead, I replaced “like” with “kind of.” This insertion is a byproduct of trying to discuss topics about which I am totally unfamiliar. Thumbing through an industry expert’s jargon, I often scramble to articulate a basic understanding of the topic, while the pained veteran waits to hear what the journalist ‘kind of’ wants to know.

“So sir, are you saying that the investment profit on both interest and dividends will cause a, kind of, soft market and a decrease in premiums?” Deep breath.

Now the phrase is inextricably imbedded in my vocabulary. I worry that when it comes down to it, my dream magazine will hire the girl “who didn’t say ‘kind of’ the entire time.”

These are the thoughts that keep me awake at night. And the reason why the bottle of NyQuil in my cabinet is disappearing at a questionably fast pace.

Neurotic and stressed,

Ed’s Girl the Third

It's not you. It's me.

I meant to quit my job Friday. I planned it out and pumped myself up for it all week. My boss and I are the only ones who make it until five on Fridays so I knew I could ask to speak to him alone without a roomful of workers, hiding behind cubicle walls, eavesdropping on the conversation.

I felt anxious all day. Sweaty palms. Check. Pounding chest. Check. Dull headache. Check. My feeling of dread mixed with apprehension and guilt seemed vaguely familiar. I couldn't quite pinpoint the emotion until about mid-day when I realized it is the same feeling I get when I need to end it with a guy. Only I am notorious for avoiding the "let's just be friends" conversation and opting for the mature method — screening my calls for awhile before running into him and mumbling some awkward excuse about commitment issues.

Unfortunately, my boss was one guy I couldn't dump by having him figure out on his own I planned to sever all ties. I worked hard at this job and need strong references. I want to part on amicable terms and giving plenty of notice (five weeks) seemed like a start.

I left the office for an interview around 3 p.m. and when I returned, my boss was gone for the day. Damn it. I missed my shot and now the pending conversation would loom in the back of my head all weekend.

Monday morning kick-started at 9 a.m. with an interview of a medical-billing company's 11-person executive team. Yawn. They didn't even offer me coffee. I need caffeine in order to feign interest in the nuances of outsourcing insurance-claim invoices. Ah, business reporting.

I returned to my office, ready to give this quitting thing my all. Before I could approach my boss, he came up to me in the break room, where I stood gulping down my first mug of Hazelnut–flavored goodness.

"I need to talk to you in the conference room," he said. You need to talk to me? No, I need to talk to YOU.

"Don't worry. It's good," he added. Good? What could possibly be positive about a confidential meeting request from the boss? Whatever it was, I knew this was my opportunity to give him my news.

We sat down and as soon as I saw the smile on his face, I knew what he planned to tell me.

"We'd like to give you a raise," he said. Oh man. If I didn’t feel guilty enough for leaving a two-person reporting team to fend for itself, this was the kicker. He explained how they were pleased with my progress and thought I deserved a reward. I responded with, “Thank you, but…”

I gave him the genuine explanation. I stayed here for the job. With no friends and family in proximity, I need a change. Plus this business-reporting thing isn’t for me.

He replied with the unthinkable. My boss offered to continue paying me, at a rate that included my new raise, while I look for a job in the city. Wait. What?

I am still buzzing from the news. I felt like doing that little leprechaun jump where you skip to the side and click your heels together. That leap is the actual manifestation of the euphoria I felt at that moment. Seriously.

Of course, producing the same amount of copy from a remote site while searching and interviewing for a new job seems a tricky undertaking. But no temping? No waitressing? No subjecting my body to strange yet surprisingly lucrative scientific studies?

I hope to ride this good fortune out and parlay it to a new, challenging, and rewarding position at an esteemed publication in Manhattan. Is it possible? All signs point to… maybe.

Thank you all for the posts so far. I want this to be a give-and-take situation, so keep responding. Plus, checking your comments is my new and oh-so-addicting way to avoid doing actual work at the office. If you want to hear back from me, this gig comes with a free e-mail account. Send your seething criticisms to edsgirl@ed2010.com. Friendly hellos and job offers welcome too.

Much love,

EG3

Ed's girl... predictably female

The same day I posted the introductory blog, I received my first rejection e-mail. How fitting.

To be fair, it was a long shot. This magazine usually ranks as one of the most respected and best-written political glossies in the country. But I have a connection. A former professor for whom I do research/fact-checking is an editor there and made several calls on my behalf. Plus, I spent two weeks poring over a critique required in the application.

In the managing editor’s letter, he informed me that more than 200 people applied for the position. Then he offered me a free two-month subscription. Gee, thanks. The phrase “insult to injury” comes to mind, but I know that whole cliché thing is frowned upon in publishing.

Enough griping.

In the first post, I forgot to give a salutation. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Ed III. And yes, I am a girl. Sorry folks. I know you were hoping to cut the estro-fest with a dude’s perspective, but the powers that be picked me. The third chick to bring you her struggles with the hope that a few people might empathize and maybe chuckle every once in awhile.

You might be wondering, “Is Ed’s Girl still relevant?” I feel like the third season of a hit reality show. The first season is innovative. By the second season, the premise is more familiar, yet still novel. Come season three, viewers sense that overpaid executives are trying to capitalize off a successful formula. Good thing we Edsters work pro bono, no one can accuse us of that.

There are up-sides to coming third. Anyone who finds the whole “hungry journalist struggling to make it” thing contrived has stopped reading by now. Plus, Ed III has royal sounding undertones. Unfortunately, the only king with the third in his name that comes to mind is Richard III — the Machiavellian guy who killed at random. Now, I am not a sadist. But I might be a bit of a masochist for posting the frustrations of my job search for all to read. Be kind, I bruise like a peach.

Your fuzzy friend,

Ed III

I think I can, I think I can, I think I can...

In second grade, I wrote that “20/20” was my favorite television show on one of those “About Me” questionnaires, in the shape of a handprint, that go up on the classroom wall. I remember sitting through “Family Matters,” “Full House,” “Step-by-Step,” and that show with the annoying foreign guy in anticipation. After TGIF, Hugh and Barbara came on to send their henchman John out to expose which grocery-store chain was feeding its customers rotten meat that month. I loved it.

Although I was a precocious kid, my peers eventually caught up with me. Now I’m just a grown woman with an above average interest in current events. Early in college, I decided that I wanted to write for a politics/culture magazine in NYC. I started reporting for a few student newspapers and became features editor at a campus magazine. Second semester senior year I picked up an internship at a local business newsweekly in the city where I went to school. Last March, three months before graduation, the editor offered me a full-time reporting job. So I had a choice to either A) head to Manhattan like everyone else with nothing more than a few internships and some mangled clips from college publications, or B) stay Upstate one more year and get some solid experience before trying to land an EA job at a consumer magazine in the city.

I stuck around.

Today, more than a year later and bored out of my head, I wish I had picked the former. I am a 22-year-old woman stranded in an economically depressed college town where everyone is either 40 and bald or 19 and wasted. My days consist of writing riveting stories about the square footage of the new office building on Maple Street before going home to eat leftover Chicken Voila! and bask in the glow of “Entertainment Tonight.”

A few weeks ago something happened to kick me out of my rut. I went to interview the owner of a local real-estate franchise about her agency’s plan to open some new offices. Esther, a petite woman with an Annie Lennox haircut, was one of those interviewees who acts like my new best friend. We chatted and she asked me where I went to college. Turns out, she attended the same J school. Esther told me that she majored in broadcast journalism and international relations because she wanted to cover Latin American politics. Upon graduation, she took a job in our city and planned to look for employment overseas. But she soon met her husband, and before long… baby makes three. Esther never ended up leaving.

Sure, Esther seemed happy enough and I’m sure she loves her family. But I bet she still wishes that she had been there when the U.S.’s “Plan Colombia” began displacing millions of citizens or when Lula became the first working-class president of Brazil.

Although I don’t plan to marry my current male companion, I don’t want my affinity for him or this city’s familiarity to begin to skew my original objective.

So here I sit, writing this inaugural blog, planning my escape. The countdown begins. My college roommate is moving out of her parents’ house and we found a great apartment for a fair price (by Manhattan standards) in Gramercy. The lease starts in June.

In the next month, I need to…tell my editor and publisher I am leaving their little paper after just one year, pack up my stuff, and say goodbye to the few post-college friendships I’ve managed to forge here. Oh yeah, and I need to find a magazine job while earning enough money to support myself. No easy task, judging from my predecessors’ posts.

Sure, my parents tell me that I am naïve to leave a solid reporting job and an adorable apartment that costs $450 per month for a $1,000 per-month apartment and complete employment uncertainty. I better hurry to the city now before said naivety wears off. Otherwise I’ll never go, and I’ll end up like Esther — content but always wondering “what if.” I went into journalism because I wanted to write for a reputable Manhattan–based magazine. So that’s what I plan to do. Husbands and babies and affordable housing be damned.

A New Person on the Hunt!

For those of you who've been waiting patiently for the blog to start back up again, Ed has found a new voice to share the travails of the job hunt. The posts will begin again soon!