When it rains...

Instead of recapping the chaos of the past few days in a timely fashion, I am dishing it out in one hearty chunk. Sort of like the blog equivalent of family-style dining. Eat up.

I now live in New York City. Getting to this place became an arduous process riddled with little landmines of misfortune. The stormcloud hovering directly over my head blended right in with the New York City skyline this weekend.

I'll start at the beginning. Friday afternoon, I finished up a few stories, cleaned out my cube, and walked out the door. As soon as it slammed shut, I realized I left my cell and wallet on my desk. Per usual, I was the last person to leave the office and had already returned my key. I stood at the locked door, phoneless and penniless at 5:15 p.m. on my final day of employment, with my car packed to leave town.

I walked to the pizzeria down the street and asked to use the phonebook and phone. Of course, my publisher was the only person I could find listed. I called him and asked him to drive back downtown from his house in the suburbs with his key.

“"Boy, you really don’t want to leave this place, do you?”" he joked when he arrived. Actually, I do. I gathered my things, walked out of the office and finally, after more than five years, left my adopted hometown.

After dropping off my stuff and my car at my real home Saturday, my brother-in-law took me to the airport. In my frazzled, freaked-out state (am I really moving, jobless, to Manhattan?) I handed the luggage guy two $20 bills instead of two singles — the cab money my stepfather offered when I told him I couldn't afford indulgences like taking a taxi from JFK.

I realized my accidental generosity when I opened my wallet to buy a magazine in the airport newsstand. I ran outside to beg the guy to return the money. Tasteful? No. Necessary? Yes. No matter, he was gone.

I walked back through security $40 poorer. When I arrived at my gate, a man on the loudspeaker announced our plane had yet to leave JFK and would be at least an hour-and-a-half late. A grossly inaccurate estimate. Four hours later, I departed for the city. I arrived at my new apartment after midnight Saturday and passed out. I spent Sunday unpacking and exploring my new neighborhood.

Yesterday morning, I commenced my full-time job search at the library. I spread out my binders, folders, books, and laptop and prepared to delve into the informational-interview requests and blind resumé submissions. I barely had time to write a single overly complimentary e-mail before an unwashed man sat down across from me and began mumbling expletives. I closed my binders, folders, books, and laptop, stood up, and moved to another spot far from the paranoid schizophrenic.

Later, my grandpa called to say my grandma suffered another stroke. It doesn't look good. My mom is flying to Florida tomorrow and the rest of us, pending what happens, may go later this week. Life is on hold at the moment and the EG3 blog may be forced into hiatus for a few days.

Despite the hurdles, yesterday had its ups. I contacted all the people I know from college who work at publications in which I’m interested. Most responded promptly. One, who works at a magazine targeting a specic professional group, informed me her publication is hiring and asked for my resumé.

She called later that day and asked me to come in for an interview. It's today. I know — way to bury the lede. In order to understand this positive turn of events, I wanted to explain how I filled my bad luck quota for the month.

The meeting is at 2 p.m. I'm excited but ambivalent. I'm thrilled someone asked me to come in for an interview right away but reluctant to take the offer if they present it because it aligns with my business experience. I'm afraid if I stick with this genre, I'll lose the chance of writing for something I'd choose to read for pleasure. What to do.

Until then,

Ed's Third Girl

For sale: me

Last week, I went to the career development center at my alma mater and met with the director to discuss my job search. She recommended I spend 80 percent of my time networking and only 20 percent perusing and applying off the various job sites (sorry Ed daily newsletter).

About the same time, my professor friend for whom I do research put me in touch with one of his colleagues, a former freelance fact checker, who just published a book. The guy, I’ll call him Charles, is living Upstate at his parents’ while he writes his next work.

Of course, I googled him. I discovered not only is he a prolific writer, but an artist, graphic designer, musician, draftsman, and publisher. And this book of his is one of those highbrow works that require a double reading of each sentence. Once it sinks in, however, it's revolutionary stuff.

Despite my initial intimidation, I contacted Charles and asked him to have coffee with me. He agreed. I read as much of his book as I could squeeze in two days, prepared questions, and came up with a brief, informal spiel about my plans and where I want to end up.

Yesterday afternoon, I went to meet this stranger in my first official networking meeting. A handsome man in his late 50s greeted me when I walked into the diner. He exuded the careful confidence of an intellectual who’s self-aware enough to not intimidate us small-minded mignons with too much philosophizing. He ordered a burger, I, a fruit cup (filled with strawberries, not melon, I might add).

Each time the conversation turned to centers of discourse that indicate the end of the industrial age or something equally abstract, he realized he was losing me, blushed, and changed the subject.

I held my own. I didn’t talk too much (thank God) and articulated myself as well as can be expected when faced with such intelligence.

Charles gave me sound advice on how to sell my research and reporting experience to magazines in the city. And he offered to recommend me to some of his colleagues he knows are hiring. I stressed about this casual encounter all week and left elated. All in all, the meeting was a success.

This is my future — promoting myself to superior strangers — with no end in sight. It's so tiring, I need a nap just thinking about it.

As ever,

Ed’s Girl the Third

Welcome to New York

I schlepped all my stuff to the city this weekend. The past two days might qualify as the most exhausting 48 hours of my life.

My parents and brother-in-law drove up from home to help me pack Friday. Since I donated most of my possessions, they filled about half the truck with bare necessities — a bed, a dresser, and a few bins full of outdated clothes.

Saturday we woke up at 7 a.m., ate breakfast, and started driving. Everything went smoothly until we hit the tri-state area. I forget that with dense population comes congested traffic, heavy construction, and angry drivers. It took us two hours to travel the last 30 miles of the trip.

When I arrived at my new building, I naively expected friendly hellos at the door. My roommate, a detail-oriented planner to the max, told me she left a key at the front desk and a message with the building manager to expect me Saturday afternoon.

Instead, the surly doorman quickly informed me he was too busy to let me use the freight elevator. Before I could recover from my surprise lecture, he shoved a telephone at me. A man on the line (I assume the super) starting shouting that it was too late (2:30 p.m.) and I would have to pay the doorman if I forced him to stay past five. Since I didn’t need or expect the doorman’s services in the first place, I told him the overtime was probably unnecessary. I hung up the phone and the doorman, without a word, walked away.

I guess this isn’t freshman year part two, with a beaming RA and a bag full of goodies at the door. New York greeted me with a sneer.

I waited a few minutes, in a state of confusion and shock, for someone to return. Finally, doorman number two walked into the lobby. I asked him if he, by any chance, had a key left for apartment 6B. He opened the drawer and handed me an envelope, smiled, and said, “Here you go.”

Now we’re talking. Was that so difficult? The envelope contained a key and specific move-in instructions (break down the cardboard boxes, turn on the A/C) from my Type-A-Personality roomie.

Meanwhile, my family double-parked the truck and started frantically unloading. A deliveryman behind them had unfortunate access to a loudspeaker. Over the microphone, he demanded they move. My stepfather, exhausted and terrified, begged the man.

“Please, give us five minutes,” he pleaded. The delivery guy obliged. In about three-and-a-half minutes, everything was off the truck and all my wordly possessions lay strewn on 21st Street. We carried them upstairs (without the assistance of our overworked doorman or the freight elevator) and unpacked.

Now I’m back in my college city, finishing up my last week of employment, cleaning out my apartment, and sleeping on my token friend’s futon.

Friday, I drive home and drop my car off with my parents to sell. Saturday, I fly back to the city and it’s official. I’ve arrived.

It’s all happening,

Ed’s Girl III

A minor hiccup

Last Friday, the publisher took me to lunch to discuss my departure. The meal went well, until I committed a faux pas. I ordered a shrimp and scallop salad. Gobbling down my plateful of crustaceans I realized I sat across from a conservative who keeps kosher.

In return for my gratuitous consumption of bottom dwellers, he offered me a kind gesture — an open invitation to return to the paper if I change my mind. He also mentioned the plan to keep me on board while I look for employment and they look for a new reporter. I held my breath. He said to discuss with the managing editor his level of need.

Monday, I emailed my boss (the ME) who offered to meet with me Wednesday. Bad sign number one. I always use the three-day buffer when I schedule something unpleasant. Yesterday, he e-mailed me to say he couldn’t meet at the time we planned. Fair enough, it’s publishing day. Still, bad sign number two.

At the end of the day, he came to my desk and broke the news. They hired our former intern to take my position. She starts July 10. So the whole full-timer-from-afar gig is a no go.

Not all is lost. The bulk of the paper comprises weekly special reports targeting specific industries. Each reporter has his or her special-report beats, as well as writes the weekly stories and a few special features. The new reporter won’t be able to carry this workload when she starts so he asked me to put together a few special reports during the month of July. I get $100 per story. At four to five stories per special report, I will earn about the same as my normal salary for the next couple weeks. Then I’m cut off.

It’s a good thing though. Or so I’m telling myself. I left because I wanted a change. Now I will commit myself to this new life entirely. This forces me to work retail, waitress, or temp while looking for a job. Then I’ll meet people. Who know other people. Who work at magazines. That are hiring.

Looking on the bright side,

EG3

Yeehaw!

You gotta grab life by the horns. Or so, in my drunken state on Saturday night, I told myself as I climbed on the metal steer at “Daisy Duke’s” tavern.

Sunday morning, I awoke hung over and stripped of my dignity. I realized that the barful of patrons who witnessed my sorry attempt to ride the mechanical bull were unaware the bronco, in my mind, represented the magazine industry. Its violent bucking, the ups and downs of trying to make reality a dream shared by thousands of other qualified, intelligent people.

Since Dateline switched from its weekly binge-drinking exposés to humiliating pedophiles, we rarely hear about the dangers of excess alcohol consumption. Riding the bull as a path to personal liberation is a misguided notion only an inebriated over-analyzer could conclude. Plus, it tossed me on my ass in about five seconds. So, to complete the metaphor, I will be back in my parents’ basement by September.

Instead, I think the mechanical bull is a lousy way to debut my new carefree mentality. This is an epiphanal moment in my life. I need to savor it, ditch the negativity, and look forward to the (is it possible?) fun that lies ahead.

This weekend, I move the bulk of my stuff to the city. Next week, I finish my work at the newspaper and on Saturday, June 24, I become a full-fledged Manhattan resident.

Until now, I lived vicariously through my friends. I subscribe to various music and theater list-servs, like Flavorpill and Filter, and e-mail current residents telling them to check out the free Josh Rouse concert at Joe’s Pub or follow the lady in the green trench coat at the Houston Street station to a private performance of Samuel Beckett’s “Krapp’s Last Tape.”

I’m overwhelmed thinking that in 10 days I will be able to take advantage of, debatably, the best culture (free and otherwise) this country has to offer. Plus, the opportunity in my chosen career, albeit competitive, is unparalleled. Frankly, I’m pumped.

Ready as I'll ever be,

Ed's Third Girl

Serf and the City

Someday in Manhattan, each breath will cost $1. It’s simple supply and demand. Everyone wants to live on a tiny island, thus habitation space costs a bundle. With the amount of CO2 exhaled by more than eight million people every day, oxygen is a diminishing commodity. Scarce necessities come with a price. And New Yorkers, to stay in the only place that really matters, will pay it.

I will dedicate most of my waking hours to financing my ability to eat, sleep, and draw breath in New York. I also commit to living paycheck-to-paycheck. At best. At worst, to a life of deepening debt.

Broker fees and first month’s rent consumed any discretionary income that living in a low-cost city would seemingly allow me to accumulate. I am selling my mom’s old car — a ’99, maroon mercury sable. My graduation present. The old boat has more than 100,000 miles and countless dings and cracks. Years of lousy driving by the women in my family scarred the poor thing. Optimistically, I hope to get $3,000 for it.

I went on www.homefair.com/homefair/calc/salcalc.html to see what I need to earn in Manhattan to live comparably. It came to $37,456, far higher than the typical EA starting salary. I keep reminding myself that people do it, millions of them. They make it work somehow. I’m industrious. Hardworking. Thrifty. I will figure it out.

Once a month, I sit down with a team of builders, economic-development experts, and real-estate agents to discuss the health of residential construction in our market.

I attended one of those meetings yesterday. The conversation, against my attempt to stay on track, veered to a discussion of the benefits of living in this region. The successful businessmen began telling me what a prodigious young woman I was for avoiding the lure of the big cities and choosing to stay in an area where job offers abound, wages exceed the cost-of-living, and a starter home costs about $100,000.

I felt no need to explain my life plan to these relative strangers, who would be horrified to learn the truth, so I nodded and smiled. How pre-Steinem of me.

Remember my good fortune the day I gave my five-weeks notice? How my editor offered to keep me on the payroll as a freelancer in the city? As former interns and applicants flooded in for interviews this week, I started worrying that he regrets the moment of blind generosity and now plans to send me on my way. In which case, I will be forced to revert to the original plan of temping and harvesting my eggs to make rent.

This morning, the publisher/EIC invited me to lunch to discuss my experience here and future plans. Hopefully, by later today I will know whether I’m heading to the city with the protective shield of an ongoing paycheck or diving headfirst into the chaos with nary a dime of income in sight, but endless invoices from people demanding lots of dimes from me. Thousands of them.

Doe-eyed and penniless,

EG3

The art of reduction

Ah, the pun headline. The forbidden fruit of newspaper. I can’t wait for the AP Style rule-bending world in which I am about to enter.

This week, I plan to pare down my possessions. I need to take a five-year collection of crap that fills a 700-square-foot apartment and reduce it to an amount that fits into a nine-foot by 13-foot space.

Most of my furniture dates back to freshman year. In the Ikea lifecycle, it’s time to send a few items to the furniture warehouse in the sky. I can’t see hauling to New York a TV stand that leans at a 30-degree angle. I plan to cleanse myself of all the unnecessary items and keep only the basics.

This includes purging my closetful of random Salvation Army T-shirts and worn Old Navy sweatpants. It also means coming to terms with my sorry excuse for a work wardrobe, consisting of clothes I keep hoping will come back in style. The mock turtleneck will never rebound. I know. Let it go.

Through the sifting, I realized that other than a black blazer I bought on sale at The Gap, I lack anything presentable to wear to an interview. I need to invest in a quality suit before I move. Contributing hundreds of dollars to anything other than housing or food makes me mildly nauseated at the moment.

If fitting into an office environment isn’t daunting enough, the thought of walking the streets of New York during my off-time in anything I currently own is mortifying. Upstate couture — Abercrombie & Fitch — fails to qualify as stylish in Manhattan (or so I’m warned).

This weekend, my friend Nate took me to a party with his old NYPIRG friends in my home city. The scene struck me as a microcosm of the image requirements of New York. Converse-clad hipsters with side-swept bangs and asymmetrical lip rings abounded, soaking in one another’s awesomeness. In one moment of calculated blithe, the crowd erupted in an mock sing-along to Fall Out Boy's "Sugar, We're Going Down."

Although I like to think my music tastes extend beyond what someone on MySpace told me was cool, I tune to Top 40 every once in awhile. Yet I don’t even know the words to the song (I had to Google the title just to get it right). These kids, screaming the lyrics in apparent derision, still knew every word of the song they were chiding. Their heated contempt masked a secret enjoyment of the catchy tune, thus reaffirming their ironic distance from all things mainstream.

The whole scene exhausted me. I will never be carefully disheveled and I lack the condescending distance of self-proclaimed outsiders. Nor will I ever own the proper designer items necessary to typify the stylish overachiever who, sitting in an interview, exudes the I’ll-get-your-coffee-while-greeting-sources-with-an-attractive-smile-and-writing-witty-blurbs-for-the-FOB persona. I fall into the muddled middle of the forgettable.

I refuse to see The Devil Wears Prada movie (although I admit I read the book) because it reminds me that I am a walking cliché — the fumbling outsider devoured by the strong women of Manhattan.

Please don’t eat me,

Ed's Girl III