No Shopping Friday has been the topic of many blogs this week and has got me rilled. Ready for a rant? Here it goes:

While I’ve never done any shopping the day after Thanksgiving, otherwise known as Black Friday, (I hate shopping on a regular day), I almost wonder if, like many socially conscious movements, the Say No To Black Friday movement is an elitist one based on upper-middle class, suburban assumptions. (I only say “suburban” because things tend to be homogenized there, making it easy to sometimes forget that there are people unlike themselves in the world; the diversity of an urban setting makes this quite difficult for city-dwellers).

Many Americans live in a hideous cycle. Unskilled American laborers make tiny salaries; as U.S. factories close, lots of people, without the privilege of higher education, are forced into low-paid, service-sector jobs. The factory jobs that once paid unskilled American laborers a livable wage are sent overseas to malnourished children in browner countries who will work pennies. This leaves unskilled American laborers little choice but to buy those cheap, child-made goods that put them out of work or in lower income brackets in the first place. And what better time to buy them than when they are even cheaper than they usually are, on Black Friday?

Now, when people buy those cheap, child-made goods when they can afford not to, when gluttony at Thanksgiving dinner wasn’t enough and a little spending frenzy is craved: they should skip the whole feeling guilty part and just stop. (They will probably find the superior quality of socially concious products and the feelings of connectedness when buying from independently owned shops worth the higher price, if nothing else.) No Shopping Friday should be directed explicitly at these upper-middle class types. But as No Shopping Friday seems lacking in target audience, it grates on my nerves.

There are many, many people who cannot otherwise afford our culture’s holidays without Black Friday. Lots of people in my immigrant neighborhood earn modest salaries and have large families. Many were walking around on Friday with shopping bags filled with winter coats for their kids, and other necessities that are expensive when you have kids that grow all the time, both physically and mentally. These neighbors of mine are just trying to live in a societal structure that is intrinsically flawed.

I am not saying that the notion of personal responsibility that No Shopping Friday promotes should come to a screeching halt. I just feel compelled to say that instead of spending so much time fueling a movement dedicated to a surface “statement,” we might find more productivity in rekindling a revolutionary-mentality in our society.

I feel like we are in this strange era, unique to history, where instead of rising up and causing a ruckus about injustice, we are encouraged to feel guilty about it. The rampant injustices of our age are caused by a  relatively small group of people in this world run by monopolies, in this country where politicians are bankrolled by corporations. Why are we citizens not storming these fat cats with pitchforks and torches? People used to laugh in the face of jail time – change used to be something people fought for. And by fight, I mean that people were willing to die for the change they wanted to see. And most of the time, that was their fate. Why instead do we sit around blogging, “not shopping,” and comforting ourselves with cushy feelings of moral superiority?  Do we not want change enough to  sacrifice anything? Are we too comfortable – is there just too much to loose? Does it have to do with propaganda and media machines – are we afraid of being shipped off to Guantanamo just for talking about a revolution? Is our lack of citizen action due the feeling that we’re living in a country where you can be snuffed out for even thinking about change, stopped before you’ve even begun?

I don’t know the answer. And at this moment in time, I am just as complicit in my “non-action” as anybody. Or perhpas I’m being nieve and Homeland Security is on their way to my humble abode as we speak, just for my authoring of these thoughts. In any case, I refuse to feel guilty for trying to live in this oftentimes shitty world to the best of my ability; guilt is a useless emotion that encourages weakness, making me an easier person for those capitalistic monopolies to suppress.

Also, it is important to remember – especially in this information age – that sucessfull revolutions require much more than soldiers wielding pitchforks. They require teachers, lawyers, engineers, farmers and healthcare providers. They have artists and poets and writers. They have philosophers and union leaders. They have speeches and performances and discussions. They have elders and families and neighboors. They are bigger than politics. They are more akin to religion. They require, above all else, a community.

So am I supporting Black Friday? No. Am I supporting No Shopping Friday? No. Am I calling for something bigger, something bolder? Am I calling for everyone, from unskilled American laborers to cushy suburban dwellers to unite, rise up, and get their revolution on? Absolutely. I’m also calling for all of you who are building the educated, conceared community that is needed for change to stop feeling guilty and stand tall. You are doing the right thing. Now do it loud.
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Discuss.

Happy Thanksgiving, Xanga-land!

Partner and I spent the day wandering the city; it was a gorgeous Indian Summer today. Hand-in-hand, we moseyed around Central Park, caught bits of the parade, people watched, sipped cappucinos, and saw the funniest window display ever. Check it out. I’ve taken to calling it Tit Shoe.

More photos of this glorious Thanksgiving day can be found at my other blog, Naptime in the City That Never Sleeps. I know it seems strange that I keep multiple blogs, but they have their purpose.

The Loch Ness Blog was to document our European adventures last year – it was a scrapbook of sorts. Also, it was pretty tidy and censored compared to my Xanga rants, allowing me to invite readers who I might otherwise never invite to keep in touch with me via blog. Naptime in the City That Never Sleeps is built for a similar purpose.

I don’t see myself updating the Naptime very often, perhaps a monthly photo journal or essay, but it is a fun sometimes diversion. Take a peek and see my take on the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade; I’d like to think I’m a better commentator than those plastic talking heads on tv. Funnier, anyway.

Anyhow, after our long walk about town, we came home to fix some turkey cutlets, pomegranate dressing, cornbread stuffing, and chestnut/sage brussle sprouts. DELICIOUS!

Tomorrow I’m doing my last stint as an office temp before I start a full time job at a publisher of performing arts magazines on Monday. And this Thanksgiving, I am so very, very thankful for that.
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What was your favorite part of this Turkey Day?

Tuesday and Wednesday, I pretended to be a receptionist at a fancy downtown realtors office while their real switchboard maven was out with the flu. While managing a bustling switchboard of names you are entirely unfamiliar with can be a little nerve-wracking at first, once I got into the swing of things, it was actually kind of fun. My saccharin telephone greetings developed an almost sinister, predatory edge as the day wore on. Sometimes I imagined I was a film noir detective’s secretary: the kind ready to rip off her glasses after a long day of hyper-efficiency, eager to shake her shiny, long locks loose from her painfully tight bun.

After a full day of receptionist make-believe on Wednesday, I got my hair cut at Fringe Salon, an East Village hair cuttery whose very hip ads have had me salivating for a few years now, ever since I’ve subscribed to Bust Magazine where they so oftentimes appear. I hadn’t done much with my mop in ages and I had a whopping three job interviews on Thursday, so a little primping was in order. The good news is: the cut is very cute. My thick, crazy hair was thinned and trimmed into a layered lovely girly thingie. The bad news is: I got impossibly lost and turned around on my way home.

Before Wednesday, I’d managed to elude misplacing myself: I was very good about remembering to bring a map along with me at all times. But I’d somehow forgotten it at home and I’d never really been to that part of town before. While I managed to find my way to the salon alright, upon leaving it I took a call from a friend and chatted on my cell phone while happily wondering the pretty streets for a while. After about 30 minutes, I got lost in conversation and consequently lost in New York. It was getting pretty late and I hadn’t eaten properly that day. Wandering through the streets, my dull headache quickly snowballed into a raging migraine.

I don’t know about you, but when I get a migraine, it is next to impossible for me to look at lights without vomit rising in my throat.  And keeping away from bright lights in the city is next to impossible unless you really feel like taking a stroll all by your lonesome down a dark ally (with a big sandwich board strapped to you that reads: RAPE ME!). Each headlight seared into my brain, each glittery storefront was like a pick axe to my ocular cavities; soon enough, pain was reverberating right through to the roof of my mouth, like a railroad spike being driven into my skull. I was so stupidly out of it that I walked into a dog on accident, got tangled in its leash, and found myself inexplicably staring into the chest of a very surprised man. “Sorry,” I said, “I can’t look at things properly – my head…” I trailed off like a crazy woman, too afraid of dry heaving to continue.

A horrible hour later, I found my way to the subway, where after managing a transfer, I rode home with my head between my legs and my eyes clamped shut; just another public transit wacko.

After a good nights sleep, I began the next day, Thursday, with an interview in the children’s book department of a small publisher. My headache was gone, but I felt like something was just off in me. I am usually quite persuasive in an interview; I’ve never actually interviewed for a job I didn’t get. But I felt some undercurrent of discord. Not sure quite what it was; perhaps the publisher was holding interviews just for posterity and was planning on an internal promotion or something of the sort. Who knows. But I was given a children’s title and the opportunity to submit a sample press release and pitching plan, though. I sent that in today and hopefully my writing will speak for itself; I really admire this publisher in particular and the job would be very fun.

Next, I was off to a 10 am interview at a massive publishing subsidiary of a massive company owned by an evil, evil man who needs not be named explicitly but who would undoubtedly be stopped if we didn’t have such a spineless bunch in the FCC. While the job there – also, coincidentally, in children’s book publishing – would be very fun, I’m not sure if I could work for such an operation. So abhorable do I find this company’s owner, that I equate working for one of his subsidiaries to working in the cafeteria at Auschwitz. Sure, those cooks didn’t kill anyone directly, but they directly supported an organization that did. (Sorry, that was a grotesque, possibly insulting analogy that I probably shouldn’t have made – while it was the first thing to cross my mind when I uncovered the publisher’s wicked parent company, I in no way mean to equate the horror of genocide with the comparatively docile naughtiness of media monopolies. I just mean to say: this parent company is bad and I don’t think that I could, in good conscious, support it.) Anyway, I went on the interview out of curiosity. Probably won’t be offered the job. However, if I am it will be good; I’d rather not work there not because I couldn’t, but because I chose not to. God that’s vain. But true. So there it is: my inner-ugliness exposed. Moving swiftly along…

During my lunchtime stop off at the apartment for a costume change from my PR lady business suit into something a little more artsy for my 3.30 interview with the writing center, I learned that Shaun had just accepted an incredible position that morning. Come the first week of December, he’s going to be seated at a mammoth mahogany desk littered with academic journals and texts in a phat corner office overlooking the world. Needless to say, he’s more than a little excited. That lad’s earned it too.

Thursday afternoon’s writing center interview went well enough, but a few things are holding me back from being too fired up about it. First, there is no room for growth and that tends to be a real motivating factor for me. Also, they say they want a new associate who can also lend some marketing/pr expertise to the center, but when I began talking about opportunities in that vein, it seemed like they are ultra conservative in their approach to it all. I’m sure if I got the position, I’d help them find a media plan that felt right for them, but it was also mentioned that they were really looking for someone to start in the new year. I am looking to start something much sooner than that. While I’m sure I’ll be in touch to take classes from these people, I’m not so sure that the job was a good match for the big, bold ideas that make me who I am, both as a professional and a person.

Anyhow, regardless of the outcome of Thursday’s three interviews, I’ve been offered a position at the performing arts media company that I interviewed at on Monday. It’s a perfectly acceptable job, a little less creative than I’d like, but just because I’m not necessarily making money off my creativity doesn’t mean that it has to be any less a part of my life; the improv classes will still continue and I’m eager to get myself into some creative writing classes in January. When the job was offered, I told them that I’d think it over and have a final answer before Thanksgiving. I wanted to wait to hear from the other companies (at this point, mainly the small children’s book publisher) before committing entirely. If I answer “yes,” I am to start on Monday, November 26.

Crazy, eh? With so much going on the last few days, it should come as no surprise that I woke up sick as a dog this Friday morning. The flu that the realtor office receptionist had must have infested her phone and filing cabinet; after temping in her office for those two days earlier this week, the bug incubated in me and unleashed itself last night. I’m just glad it waited until I was done with all the hair cutting, getting lost, and interviewing that happened this week. Its like when I got shingles right after my Scottish design festival ended this summer. No matter how much you sanitize your hands, take loads of vitamins, and eat like a health nut, a shoddy immune system is a shoddy immune system. I’m just bummed because I was scheduled to hang out with a new friend from improv class tonight; we were all set to go to the Richard Prince exhibition at the Guggenheim during free Friday night hours. But I try to make a habit of not puking on new friends, so thankfully she took a rain check.

But all in all, this week was a big, beautiful one. Partner and I are now both gainfully employed! We’ve busted ass to make this work. And I’m so happy and proud that we did.
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How was your week?

::Random Tangent::
I’m sick of my library book. I usually like Francine Prose, but A Changed Man just isn’t doing it for me. Any recommendations? I may be in the mood to return to Oscar Hijuelos; I read The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love a few years ago and loved it. I’ve been meaning to read more of him. Any one else love him too?

Riding the subway home from a job interview in lower Manhattan this morning, I found myself in a position that I’ve never been in before: I was alone on the subway car. Now, I’ve ridden many a subway in my life – I’ve been happily car-free for six years – but never have I found myself to be the only passenger of public transit. Perhaps my hours have always been too regular – who rides the subway  uptown Monday morning at 11 am, except a job hunter like myself? 

Anyway, at 145th, everyone left in my train car alighted and no one new boarded; I was alone, swishy swaying to the rhythm of the rumbling track. When the train stopped at 175th and still no one got on my car, I knew that it was now or never. I sang. I sang loud.

“I know that you are itching to get married, Nora Lee/And I know I’m twitching for the same thing, Nora Lee/By the stars and clouds above, we could spend our lives in love/You’re a hesitating beauty, Nora Lee.”

My ipod happened to be playing Hesitating Beauty, a song on Billy Bragg & Wilco’s 1998 release, Mermaid Avenue. Swinging from subway pole to subway pole, belting it out with Mr. Bragg, felt like a little pressie from the universe, a moment of unadulterated fun for all the relentless job hunting I’ve been buried under lately. It was also funny to exit at 181st feeling as if I’d gotten away with something. I hope that whoever watches the security cameras found in my performance something to laugh about, something to make his or her morning a little more interesting.
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When did you last act like a complete nut in public?

::Random Tangent::
The job interview went extraordinarily well this morning. Not to jump the gun or anything, but I was basically offered the job. It sounds like I just have to wait until my background check goes through and they can see that I’m not a criminal. However, I still have three interviews for other jobs lined up this week, so we’ll see how it goes. If the opportunity offered this morning turns out to be the best one, I’ll go for it. Either way, I’m very excited and very relieved. Phew!
  

Friday’s temp assignment was in another branch of the same massive cosmetics company. I never realized that most of the brands you see in the department store (29 of them anyway) are all owned by the same parent company. Fascinating.

Even more fascinating was my assignment. I was told that my assignment would be swatching, “something to do with colors,” my agency rep said. This lead me to believe that I would be reviewing proof pantones and making recommendations for final approval. “Wow,” I thought, “something that actually requires half a brain and my print management skills!” I was actually a little nervous.

Boy did I need not be. For six and a half hours, I played coloring book with a bunch of “product” (aka: cruddy old makeup) and paper squares. I was creating “swatches” for department stores all across the world to review Spring 2009 blushes.

Apparently, when something is a new blush it means that Marketing has given a new name to a combination of old products mixed together. And by old, I mean expired. Seriously, there was one swatch of new color that was made of “aged” peach blush. It was all hard and streaky, but to be fair, the color was pretty cool; all the sparkly golden bits of the concoction had risen to the top, making it a bit bronzier than it might otherwise have been. I’m sure they’ll work on the texture before plopping it in an expensive mirrored case.

As the day wore on, it wasn’t the mindless, redundant activity that wore on my nerves, but the names of the new products printed on each square. Names like “Panicked Peach” and “Can’t-Say-No Cocoa”* conjured up images of a frantic woman struggling to breast-feed while on her blackberry while in a merger meeting taking place in a spinning class; this woman is constipated all the while because she can’t even find the time to take a decent shit. Whenever she actually finds herself a bathroom, she is overcome by anxiety enduced by the harrowed, goulish countenance staring back at her in the mirror. She frantically covers her dark under eyes, her colorless cheeks, and her blanched lips with makeup named to match her corrosive, exhausting life. She will hate herself for looking so old, so used up.

Coloring in square after square at the temp job, this over-worked woman haunted me. I could see her at the cosmetics counter of Lord and Taylor, swallowed by crowds and holly jolly Christmas music. She’s conferencing on her cell phone in the worlds most uncomfortable shoes and a pricey, suffocating overcoat. Her bra is itchy. She shoves a tube of “Frazzled Frappicino” at the clerk, gesturing with a wave of her wallet that she’d like to buy it. “This is ridiculous,” she barks into her phone, “entirely inexcusable.” She clicks her phone off, clenches her eyelids shut, and sighs. Three vertebrae simultaneously crack. For the first time, she speaks to the clerk ringing her up. “Throw in a tube of Migraine Magenta while you’re at it, will you? Please.” 

I am frightened by this woman. I feel bad for her. I never want to be her. And that takes careful planning and consideration. I have to know exactly who I am and be uncompromising in that. I have to do only what feels right. I have to embrace my right to laugh in the face of societal expectations. Because in a world where women can “do anything” (yes, I could argue that fact too), an ungrounded woman might feel obligated to do everything. Eff that. Do what you want, ladies. Do what you want most of all. Otherwise you’ll be stuck doing everything and not liking anything.

I have to believe that the world is changing. It is becoming a place where women are going to soon be able to negotiate work on their terms. If you play your cards right and make it clear to the world what you are and are not willing to do, it is no longer a question of work or kids. You can have both. Family can take top billing and your genious, invaluable skills can still be utilized in a paid capacity.

I have two great female role models who do exactly this: my Aunt Susan and my sister-in-law Melissa. Both are mothers of two and both are highly successful women in their careers. Both seem very comfortable with themselves, firmly rooted in who they are. They know how smart they are and they know how much their companies need them. This gives them the power to call the shots; their career accommodates their family life. Its not to say that that my aunt and sister in law are not very busy women. They are. But they convey a real sense of control over their schedules. They don’t seem like they let themselves be women lost at sea, at the whim of “powers that be.” I know the world is an unfair, misogynistic place and these two women are the exception to the rule. But I also want to be the exception to the rule. I want to one day be a living example like they are to me.

Wouldn’t it be nice if corporations didn’t glamorize the harried, ravaged woman? If they didn’t market so unabashedly to such easy prey? I guess a woman who never says no is a good one to sell blush and shit to, but could they not at least try to sell her something that might soothe her weary soul? In the meantime, I guess we just have to continue to swim our way upstream, towards a life worth living.
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Who are your role models?

*Not actual names of any product, as far as I’m aware. But you get the gist.

::Random Tangent::
You know how people always say that good things come in threes? Well, this week I landed three temping assignments (Thursday, Friday, and Saturday). I also got three calls to arrange three interviews next week for three amazing full-time jobs.

The first interview is a job that I would be completely great at, but that is the least interesting of the three. It’s print production management: all the nitty-gritty of a marketing coordinator’s job with none of the creativity.

The next interview is for a writing center: its an office manager gig with the AMAZING perk of free classes! I love working at writing centers, too. I still want to have one of my own someday.

The last interview is for a marketing gig at a children’s book publisher. I think I’d really dig this job and I really clicked with the guy I spoke with. So all of the options are good ones. Yay!

Yesterday, I temped as a Gallery Guide at the Sony Wonder Lab. If you’ve ever got kids with you in the city (elementary school kids would probably like it best), check it out. It’s a free space with lots of fun computer games and workshops. It’s open to the public and did I mention FREE? Very fun.

Anyhow, walking home from work I couldn’t help but smile. My life here is coming together, slowly but surely. Looking up to the tiny sliver of moon, I felt a simple happiness wash over me. I’m feeling a part of things at last. New York and all its craziness is becoming home.

As I told mom in an email yesterday, I’ve decided to like temping. I will like it until a real job hires me. Which for some reason is taking forever. But temping lets me into worlds I wold never otherwise find myself in, which is good for a writer.

Today I stuffed envelopes for a massive cosmetics company and picked up on some interesting industry trends. Most fascinating is the probability that if your birth certificate says “Josephie” and you work in a massive cosmetics company, you probably like to be called Jo. Samanthas are Sams. Alexandra becomes Alex. In the most misguided of shortenings, an elegant name like Veronica gets smashed down into the short, fat and surly Ronnie. In an industry that propagates unrealistic images and expectations of women to maximize profits, the ladies who rule that industry choose a male pseudonym. Is the masculization of their names a shield against their own misogyny? On the other hand, the men that I met today had names like Sandy and Lauren. Go figure.

Also while temping today, I got to thinking about how gross it is that we live in a world where corporate America pays privileged American office temps like me $15 to stuff a bleeding envelope but doesn’t value non-Anglo countries enough to pay them more than a few pennies a day in a sweat shop to create our most basic goods. I mean, I knew that. But it felt different while it was happening. And as thankful as I am for a paycheck right now, it did not feel good. It felt dirty. Temping is actually my first time working in the for-profit world. It’s weird. Really weird. I miss the clean conscious I felt after a day at the Writing Center, museum, or design festival. I need a shower.

Tomorrow I’m off to work at the same cosmetics company, different office. And after, I have a whole Netflicks disk of those witty, witty Gilmore Girls to look forward to. Wash all the corporate bad away with some good scripting paired with some strange (bad?) acting. Love it.

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Did you learn a new thing today?

::Random Tangent::

I love all the concern about my heinous wardrobe! Ha! You people are funny. And full of grand tips: thank you! Not to lessen my gratitude here by any means, but perhaps I should let you know why I’m not like all the other girls when it comes to getting dolled up.

Shopping is not a fun endeavor for someone like me. I’m WAY too tall for clothes and too broke to buy anything if by chance it did fit (rent trumps clothes). And women’s fashion sucks. You either get to be sexless and comfortable or rendered immobile by your “sexy” shoes/itchy, clingy fabric. Those ballerina flats that are all the rage now almost got it right too! If only they had thicker, water proof soles and didn’t cut into the tops of your feet and weren’t cut so that I walk out of them every 5th step. Living in the city means that you actually walk where you want to go. For blocks. For miles. Only ugly loafers are made for that and for looking “work-ish.”

Another reason I generally hate shopping is that I feel like shite buying things – like Payless Shoes – that I know have been made by starving child labor. Also, I just keep thinking about how much more fun I could have with my money if I was saving it for travel or buying books or buying concert/theater tickets or basically doing anything but spending it on clothes. I like fun, quirky, pretty things at little boutiques. But I don’t like them enough to fork over a huge chunk of paycheck. I do, however, like traveling enough to fork over a huge chunk of my paycheck. I may only have one dress in my closet, but that dress saw Europe with me.

Plus, the wardrobe situation is not all that treacherous. I have a weeks worth of snoring office wear, but just not the stuff that gets you hired into high-end fashion places. I wear the clothes of a woman who works at not-for-profit cultural organizations because, well, I am that woman. I look like a cute enough creative professional. I even own a tailored suit for interviews! We had to get rid of a lot of stuff when trying to get ourselves over an ocean, so my shoe situation is a bit sticky at the moment (hiking boots, running shoes, a pair of funny dress shoes with skulls on them, and tragic Payless loafers), but it will suffice until we get back on our feet again. And by that time, our feet will be overdue for a new pair of kicks.

Wow. What a rant. I’m such a dork. Ha! Good night world.

Opportunity knocked on the door yesterday and I answered in my underwear. Well, close enough. When getting dressed for my two temp agency  appointments yesterday, I went for a snoring kaki/cardigan combo, complete with a pair of hideous $12 Payless loafers. All clothes were purchased for their ability to be dirt cheap and function in a “I’m-a-clean-cut-office-worker” kind of way. They are in no way reflective of my personal flair for fashion, which is often decided by me unearthing a crazy patterned, completely un-practical thing and declaring,“Wow! That is ugly in just the right way!” Unfortunately, its been a few years since I’ve been able to indulge in having a personal style; other needs take financial precedence and I’m happy to let them do so.

ANYWAY!

When I was putting on my cheap but respectable get-up up in the morning, I would never have guessed in a million years that I would be sent on a same-day interview at a high end fashion house. Before I even took the typing test or demonstrated my Excel mastery, the recruiter took one look at my lanky six-foot self and decided I was what the fashion industry was talking about when they requested a “polished” temp-to-perm receptionist. Unfair? You betcha. And I would have said something to stand up for such not-so-subtle discrimination against  my fellow humans if I wasn’t so desperate for money. Instead, like a dolt, I asked, “when do they want to see me?”

An hour later, I was on my way to the garment district for the interview when I caught my reflection in the mirror. Now, I’m not sure if other people experience this, but unless I am in the bathroom getting ready in the morning, I am startled by my physical presence in mirrors. Its like, I’ve totally forgotten about my body and the fact that other people can see me. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of myself passing in a store window and think, “that girl has the same coat as me.” It takes a minute to realize that its my reflection. This is good because unless I have a massive, painful zit that demands attention, I move un-selfconciously through the world most of the time. I’m like Einstein and his same clothes for every day of the week: I don’t think about my appearance and that saves brain-space for other, more fun things. However, moving unselfconsciously through the world also means that I will interview in a high-end fashion house while wearing plastic $12 loafers, sale kakis that are too short on me (like most pants tend to be on a six-foot tall drink of water), and a sad cardigan. But I, me, the face and person beneath the clothes: she is beautiful in her own Amazonian way.

Anyhow, the interview was the shortest interview of my life. Either they saw a talented “polished” woman dressed in tragic clothes or they saw tragic clothes and had to get such a blight from their offices lest they contaminate anything. Its hard to tell. People in the fashion industry tend to have bitchy looks on their faces regardless of if they are pleased or displeased. And if I get the job, its not like I’m going to have money to go all out and splurge on cool threads. Spending loads of money on clothes just isn’t a priority for me. Plus, there’s little I hate more than shopping. So, perhaps its best that I didn’t have any time to prepare for the interview and think too hard on it – they saw what they would get. And if I did get the position, it would certainly give me some funny shit to write about, that’s for sure. I find out tomorrow, but I’m certainly not holding my breath.
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How aware are you of your physical self as you move about the world?

*4.23 Edit:
My recruiter man called to confirm that I did not get the job in high-fashion. No funny stories about fashionistas for me. Shocker, man. But fingers crossed that the PR firm he’s sending my info off to likes me. In the meantime, I’ve been busy firing off resumes. I’m getting sick of trolling MediaBistro.com every minute of the day. Sigh.

*5.25 Edit: My recruiter dude is very hard working. He sent my resume along to the PR firm, but they are dragging their feet. In the meanwhile, he set me up with a gig doing office stuffs at a big cosmetics company tomorrow. I plan on consciously looking hot and “now,” just in case it proves useful to me. Damn, do I even own anything that fits that description? I’ve got lots of pretty scarfs and some cute shoes with skulls on them. I own a handful of hip necklaces and a wooden ring that I like. I have a beautiful square locket that my grandparents gave me for my High School graduation; it has a picture of Shaun inside, clutching a flower in his teeth like a Spanish dancer. The photo was taken in 1998, at his prom and I wore it on my wedding day. I have a crazy purple polka-dotted dress (with a lime green sash!) and a real silk shirt in a pretty 1930′s cut (blue, with flowers!). I have a brown leather pencil skirt, but no matching shoes. Will any of these things prove useful? Anyhow, at very least, I am pretty good at doing myself up a bombshell face of makeup, thats for shizzle. I’ve also mastered the art of 1940′s starlet hair, which I think looks both hilarious and sexy: a winning combination! Regardless of how my primping turns out, I have a feeling that some funny stories will be forthcoming. Cosmetics. Ha!

Shaun and I had our end-of-class improv show at the Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre last night: it was a blast.

The fun began even before stage time, when we were in the greenroom trying on different names for our troupe (we wouldn’t want to go out as “Improv Class 101″, now would we?). Our troupe was torn between two names: The Butterfaces and Touched by an Uncle. For those who don’t know, a Butterface is what asshole frat boys will say about a lady when they think she has a nice body and an ugly face. And Touched by an Uncle is like that horrid show, Touched by an Angel, but  nastified for your enjoyment. Personally, I liked a combination of the two: Touched by Uncle Butterface. I think we settled on The Butterfaces, though. There’s nothing like a debate over nonsense to get your evening off to the right start.

After a few warm ups (I love the warm ups!), the Butterfaces were announced and it was time to go onstage and ask the audience for a suggestion. With the suggestion in mind, three of us went out individually and delivered related monologues. Then the group performed made-up-on-the-spot sketches based on the themes of the monologues.

During our 40 minutes of fame, Shaun was Jesus. I gave a hamster as a housewarming gift (“what a very permanent gift!”). Phoebe was barren. Michelle left her husband for the house pet. Valerie had chronic hiccups. Not all of the skits were good. It’s Improv 101! But they were fun. And that’s why we were all there in the first place.

One of my favorite sketches of the night went something like this:

Player 1 [female - aka: me] comes onstage crying. Player 2 [male] follows.
Player 2: [sympathizing] Yep, it’s Tuesday.
Player 1: It’s not that. [beat.] It happened again.
Player 2: Again?
Player 1: It had only been a few days since the last feeding!
Player 2: [Puts his arm around her, consoling.] Don’t worry, babe. We can get another.
Player 1: But I can’t possibly have another baby!
Blackout.

Ha! Perhaps you had to be there? Regardless, I get a kick out of playing Deranged Housewife/Stepford Gone Wrong. Very fun.

After the show, we all went out to a neighborhood dive bar. It was great to take time outside of class to get to know everyone better. I think I’m coming away from the class with two people that will migrate from “class friends” to “regular friends,” which is grand. Everyone in the class is goofy and fun and eager to tell stories; it was a pleasure to work with all of them. Little do they know that, during the hideous stress of October, Saturday improv class is what kept Shaun and I sane. The class forced us to set aside a block of time for laughter, creative thinking, and hanging out with hilarious people. It was exactly what was needed. And it really seemed to help with generating ideas quickly, helping us to write faster (very important when your main marketable skill is writing). Also – there’s no better confidence booster than making other people laugh. And during interviews, confident is what you need to be.

Anyhow, no news on the job front. But I’ve got a good feeling about this week.

Shaun’s got another interview lined up for next Tuesday; he should hear back soon from a different interview that he went on about a week ago. I have two appointments tomorrow with temp agencies; I need to get a better assignment than last time. No more telefundraising for me.

So, we’ll see. I’m happy to temp until I find the right fit. I just need to start on something now. For my own sanity more than anything.
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What healthy activity do you partake in to keep sane and happy?

Telemarketer [TM]: Hi! My name is [FIRST NAME LAST NAME] and I’m calling from [NAME OF ORGANIZATION] because I understand that you made the mistake of attending something of ours recently and giving us your phone number!

Innocent Person Who Answered Their Phone [IPWATP]: I’m not giving you any money.

TM: Let me assure you, this won’t take but a moment of your time we depend on the generosity of people like yourself. We do a lots of things for the community, including bullying people with phone calls!

IPWATP: I’m recovering from cancer.

TM: Really? Sorry to hear that. You’d be surprised at how much a membership to [NAME OF ORGANIZATION] might help to take your mind off your illness and get you on the road to a speedy recovery. I’m going to put you down for $3,000; that’s only $250 a month. I take all sorts of credit cards. Which one will you be using today?

IPWATP: You are soul-less.

TM: (with a laugh in voice) I sure am! Now, if that’s not the right membership for you, I’m sure we can find the right one. Like I said, our organization does a shit load of spectacular stuff and we depend on contributions from people just like you to do it.

IPWATP: Chemo patients?

TM: Thaaaaat’s right! Now, for only $100 a month you can still join at the Blah Level and to show our appreciation, we’ll send you a bunch of shit you don’t really need!

IPWATP: Don’t call me ever again.

TM: Are you sure? I just don’t want you to miss out on all the fantabulous things that our organization has to offer.

IPWATP: I’m dying.

TM: You know, we accept memoriam gifts. What better way to part this world than to leave something of yourself behind. You can’t take it with you!

IPWATP: You are a repulsive person, devoid of all humanity.

TM: I know! Desperation can really do that to a person, can’t it? [Insert light and in no way manic chuckle here.] Now, back to your death money. I can take your donation of $50,000 right now. Why bother you with it later? I don’t want to catch you at a bad time, say when you are in your deathbed.

IPWATP: I’m in it now.

TM: Then we better not waste any time! Now what’s that credit card number?

IPWATP: [Death rattle.]

TM: Hello? Hello? There wouldn’t happen to be any friends or grieving relatives at this bedside, now would there? Hello?
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I can be so reliable, so dedicated. Honestly, I can. And 99% of the time: I am! But I can never go back to this temp job. Never again. I cannot be yelled at for money. I cannot be sworn at, screamed at, and generally hated on.

Telemarketers are not supposed to be praying that the person they are calling won’t pick up. They are not supposed to stutter or feel light headed or be taking deep breaths to avoid crying. They are supposed to have nerves of steel and have the guts (or heartlessness, depending on how you look at it) to have conversations like the one above. I’m not that. And I have no clue what, other than sheer panic, lead me to believe otherwise. 

Moving to New York ain’t easy. Even when, prior to moving, you save up enough to pay the broker, pay the security deposit, pay the first month’s rent and still have enough stashed away to live on for 4 months while you piece together a life for yourself, even when you think you’ve lined up a good job prior to arriving: New York will test you every step of the way. There are sharks here; people who will exploit you without batting an eye. There are crazy people and scary people and landlords who simply do not give a shit. There are roaches. Worst of all, there is rent. Frighteningly high rent.

So why bother? Why move to an environment that can be so hostile, so difficult, so exhausting? Sure, the suburban misfits of the world (aka: me) could let their freak flag fly in any place, but there is something really appealing about doing it in New York. Maybe it has to do with the bizarre social experiment of putting the entire world on a tiny island. Or maybe because highly successful people are bound to be a bit eccentric and as a city where highly successful people do their thang, eccentricity is valued and celebrated. Or maybe us misfits just like our hot dogs to come from sidewalk carts. Who knows. Regardless, my 20-something search for home is over. In New York, there’s strangeness and story around each and every corner; I belong here. And I wasn’t expecting to.

I’ve always felt at home in the mountains, hidden away from the world, covered in sweat and mud, smiling. Shaun is a city lad, though. I know people typically think of lush, rolling hills and sheep when they think of Scotland – but we lived in Glasgow, Scotland’s largest city. Think indie-music, loud bars, fashionistas, artists, and urban grit. That’s the Scotland Shaun loved; he was just being a sweetheart when he obliged my weekend whims to hike up Scottish mountains and tromp through Scottish mud. And I am cool with living in cities – my career as a cultural not-for-profit marketer sort of depends on them (after all, museums don’t just park themselves atop rugged mountain trails). I’m happy to just pay homage to the mountains of the world while on holiday. Never would I have expected that a city as ginormous and far removed from mountains as NYC would be the place I found home in. But it is.

There are so many things about this place that make me unable to think of living elsewhere ever again: the diversity, the acceptance, the big bold beauty, the big bold horror, unbelievable people doing unbelievable things, life lived in full, an unabashed, unmitigated take it or leave it attitude. New York is loud and funny and sad and bittersweet and revolting and never, ever understated. It’s me. It’s me as a city.

Despite my love affair with the city, things have not been all daises and sunshine. The job I’d accepted prior to relocating turned out to be a very different situation than I’d imagined. I parted with the studio head on very good terms and even provided freelance services for her for a few weeks. But now that gig has dried up.

On Monday, I started a small, part-time job helping with a fundraising campaign for the largest, oldest classical music organization in the United States while I seek more suitable full-time employment. Unlike job hunts I’ve done in other cities, there is a HUGE amount of work that I would *love* to do here and that I’m actually qualified for. No longer am I the right-our-of-college kid looking to do anything. I’ve marketed two very high-profile organizations. I take a lot of pride in my work. I have been promoted in each place that I’ve worked and made friends with the people that I’ve worked with. My network is strong. I am a good catch. It’s only a matter of time. But the waiting is tough.

Shaun is also looking for work and with his masters (and a number of editorial and high-profile writing projects under his belt), he is finally qualified to apply for a handful editorial positions (for web or assistant/associate). He’s always wanted to work as an editor – it was what sparked the whole conversation about him attending grad school in the first place. So, here in New York, the heart of the publishing world, he’s already gone on a few interviews and things are looking good for him. I’d hire him – he is amazing. And able to do web and all sorts of things! In the meantime, he’s tutoring for an online company and picking up freelance assignments. His beat is comics – there’s not better city to cover that beat in than NYC.

So, we are keeping our heads above water, but full time work does need to come quickly, before our funds run dry in February. And work will come our way. Because I’m not moving anymore. Not only because New York is home, but because I’m just not able to move again. We will make this work and we won’t kill each other trying to do it.
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What move put you to the test?