Do I look like everybody's idea of a shop assistant?
I know most people, at some point in their life, have been approached while browsing in a shop by someone and asked if they work there. To most it's happened, once, maybe twice, rarely three times. Less than the fingers on one hand for sure. But to me, IT HAPPENS ALL THE TIME!!! I can count them on one hand -- about four times over!
Just in the past two weeks, I've been approached by two people in two different stores, and asked if I work there -- and both times, it was in stores that even have uniforms. Ok, so I was wearing a blue top the second time, the same colour as the uniform. But it was a distinctly different shade of blue, and a different kind of top!
Now I know I'm not the sharpest dresser out there, and I don't always look like the elegant, sophisticated journo that I am. But still. . . that's no excuse! If you see someone wearing a handbag, clutching a box of cat food, and seriously contemplating the choice of cereals in the food section of a drug store, you DO NOT go up to them and ask if they work there!
Now I don't mean any disrespect to sales assistants, though I have my own beef with many of them; at least those in the unfriendly New York City anyway. But, if I'm unsure of whether or not someone works at a store where I'm shopping, I at least surreptitiously observe them for a few minutes before approaching them cautiously. When I get to within speaking distance, I usually stand there, staring at them, to see if they respond. If they don't, or if they look at me suspiciously and hold their shopping and their money closer, I slink away.
Why doesn't everyone do that? Surely it beats barging into someone's serious shopping experience and demanding that they help you instead!
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Thursday, August 17, 2006
A morning toe ritual
Weds and I have a little ritual we perform every morning. (I don't let him sleep in my room at night, for fear that I'll wake up the next morning minus parts of my feet, which he has a penchant for nibbling on).
I get out of bed, walk to the door, and stick my toes out through the half-inch space between the door and the floor. He sleeps just outside the door, so I know he's there. I wait only about a second before I feel a gentle furry nudge, as it dawns on him -- every day -- that the seemingly disjointed toes are actually a part of my anatomy. He excitedly prods at my toes for a bit, enjoying this unexpected diversion, before starting to nibble on them.
Some days, the ritual is slightly different. If I'm moving around in my room, it's not very long before a little white paw sneaks in under the door. I often respond by placing my foot on top of the paw, at which point, a second paw shoots out from under the door, ecstatic at having received a response to his seeking. I play footsie with the two bodiless paws for a bit, before giving in and opening the door.
In either scenario, what follows next is always the same -- the little guy is lying by the door stretched out contentedly, enjoying this game -- and he seems just as excited by it each morning, as if playing it for the first time every time. As soon as I open the door, he gets up, and trots in, rubbing himself against my legs and purring in contented glee.
And I invariably start my day in a good mood, smiling widely, always amazed by how little it takes to make the little guy happy.
I get out of bed, walk to the door, and stick my toes out through the half-inch space between the door and the floor. He sleeps just outside the door, so I know he's there. I wait only about a second before I feel a gentle furry nudge, as it dawns on him -- every day -- that the seemingly disjointed toes are actually a part of my anatomy. He excitedly prods at my toes for a bit, enjoying this unexpected diversion, before starting to nibble on them.
Some days, the ritual is slightly different. If I'm moving around in my room, it's not very long before a little white paw sneaks in under the door. I often respond by placing my foot on top of the paw, at which point, a second paw shoots out from under the door, ecstatic at having received a response to his seeking. I play footsie with the two bodiless paws for a bit, before giving in and opening the door.
In either scenario, what follows next is always the same -- the little guy is lying by the door stretched out contentedly, enjoying this game -- and he seems just as excited by it each morning, as if playing it for the first time every time. As soon as I open the door, he gets up, and trots in, rubbing himself against my legs and purring in contented glee.
And I invariably start my day in a good mood, smiling widely, always amazed by how little it takes to make the little guy happy.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
A bed. . . and a job offer!
So, after weeks of sleeping on a mattress and on the futon in the living room when the bedroom got too messy, I finally assembled my bed over the weekend.
It shouldn't have taken me 6 weeks to do it. But the person I bought it from had unassembled it, and in doing so, had made the holes the screws went into much larger. And when I tried to put them back, they just wouldn't stay in. So, I had to redrill the holes -- and my drill died about five times in the middle, and the drill bits were too small for the screws. AND, although I had about 20 different Philips and straight screw driver bits, the screws had square heads -- as in, the hole on the screw that the screwdriver head fits into was square. Who does that?!?!? So trying to put square headed screws into holes that were too small with Philips-head screw drivers turned out to be much more difficult that I'd anticipated.
But in the end, I did it! And I managed to lift the extremely heavy flat pieces of wood that the mattress rests on and put them on the frame without doing any permanent damage -- I think anyway. So, I'm just the teensiest, weensiest bit proud of myself. And I'm convinced that I'll be fine if I end up single. Geez, who needs a man when you can build your own furniture!
And, yes, the second part of that title. I got a job offer, but it's a trade magazine, and I'm about to turn it down. Coz I'm a snob, and I don't want to work at a trade magazine -- because that's what I was doing pre-Columbia, and what's the point of this past year if I just go back to doing what I was doing before? So, still no job. And still waiting for a decision from that wire I really wanted. So, everyone who's promised to cross anything, continue to keep 'em crossed!
It shouldn't have taken me 6 weeks to do it. But the person I bought it from had unassembled it, and in doing so, had made the holes the screws went into much larger. And when I tried to put them back, they just wouldn't stay in. So, I had to redrill the holes -- and my drill died about five times in the middle, and the drill bits were too small for the screws. AND, although I had about 20 different Philips and straight screw driver bits, the screws had square heads -- as in, the hole on the screw that the screwdriver head fits into was square. Who does that?!?!? So trying to put square headed screws into holes that were too small with Philips-head screw drivers turned out to be much more difficult that I'd anticipated.
But in the end, I did it! And I managed to lift the extremely heavy flat pieces of wood that the mattress rests on and put them on the frame without doing any permanent damage -- I think anyway. So, I'm just the teensiest, weensiest bit proud of myself. And I'm convinced that I'll be fine if I end up single. Geez, who needs a man when you can build your own furniture!
And, yes, the second part of that title. I got a job offer, but it's a trade magazine, and I'm about to turn it down. Coz I'm a snob, and I don't want to work at a trade magazine -- because that's what I was doing pre-Columbia, and what's the point of this past year if I just go back to doing what I was doing before? So, still no job. And still waiting for a decision from that wire I really wanted. So, everyone who's promised to cross anything, continue to keep 'em crossed!
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Eerily quiet day
I am working in ghost town today - for a week, starting today, in fact. It is the first day of "dead week," the second week after a double issue, when there's no magazine to put out for the following week. Everybody -- including my boss, my boss' boss, my psuedo-bosses (when you're at the bottom of the food chain, EVERYBODY's your boss or pseudo-boss) have all left.
Or are trying to, at any rate. This morning's bomb threats have turned the long-awaited holidays of many here into airport nightmares. My editor, always attached to the office by an invisible umbilical cord, called me this morning from the airport, to make sure everything was ok. Everything's fine, I reassured him. He wasn't so fine. He was stuck at the airport, trying to get to the south.
It's something between a lazy and a productive day. It's been pretty quiet, and, with no deadlines, I haven't been too motivated to work. But I have actually been somewhat productive - even if it's not a work-related productive. I've updated my serious blog which I'm learning is a lot of work. And I've been reading, and actually concentrating, without the usual jumble of voices around me.
Plus it's the official good bye cocktail day for the interns -- only it looks like the interns will be the only ones around. I am not leaving, so the good byes don't apply to me. But I plan to go anyway. To have some human company for the first time today. Of course, it has nothing whatsoever to do with the free drinks!
Or are trying to, at any rate. This morning's bomb threats have turned the long-awaited holidays of many here into airport nightmares. My editor, always attached to the office by an invisible umbilical cord, called me this morning from the airport, to make sure everything was ok. Everything's fine, I reassured him. He wasn't so fine. He was stuck at the airport, trying to get to the south.
It's something between a lazy and a productive day. It's been pretty quiet, and, with no deadlines, I haven't been too motivated to work. But I have actually been somewhat productive - even if it's not a work-related productive. I've updated my serious blog which I'm learning is a lot of work. And I've been reading, and actually concentrating, without the usual jumble of voices around me.
Plus it's the official good bye cocktail day for the interns -- only it looks like the interns will be the only ones around. I am not leaving, so the good byes don't apply to me. But I plan to go anyway. To have some human company for the first time today. Of course, it has nothing whatsoever to do with the free drinks!
Saturday, August 05, 2006
Return of the Internet
Dear sweet Internet. How I've missed you!And now that you've arrived, I feel as if a part of me that I'd lost has returned to me!
And so, dear reader, I've created a new blog -- mostly because I want to write more seriously and on topics of more gravity than I have been in this one. Not that I will necessarily succeed, but I want to at least try.
I created this blog because I wanted to make myself read and think and form opinions. I take in what I read, but I find that unless I make myself, I don't always think about them or form opinions. The latter especially, I find especially difficult to do.
I feel like I have not particularly succeeded in my aim with this one. And since it has taken a different direction altogether, I thought it might be easier to start again, rather than try to change course now. So my new blog, The Musings ofNichola is an attempt to awaken my brain. And, while I'm aware that I am probably not the most informed or knowledgable person on most topics, I do hope that some good will come of it, somewhere, somehow.
What about this blog, I hear you ask, betraying the sinking feeling of losing something you absolutely cannot do without:P Fear not, dear reader, this blog will still continue, as the place where I vent, where I mutter and muse (???) about my own life. So, please continue to visit. . .
And so, dear reader, I've created a new blog -- mostly because I want to write more seriously and on topics of more gravity than I have been in this one. Not that I will necessarily succeed, but I want to at least try.
I created this blog because I wanted to make myself read and think and form opinions. I take in what I read, but I find that unless I make myself, I don't always think about them or form opinions. The latter especially, I find especially difficult to do.
I feel like I have not particularly succeeded in my aim with this one. And since it has taken a different direction altogether, I thought it might be easier to start again, rather than try to change course now. So my new blog, The Musings ofNichola is an attempt to awaken my brain. And, while I'm aware that I am probably not the most informed or knowledgable person on most topics, I do hope that some good will come of it, somewhere, somehow.
What about this blog, I hear you ask, betraying the sinking feeling of losing something you absolutely cannot do without:P Fear not, dear reader, this blog will still continue, as the place where I vent, where I mutter and muse (???) about my own life. So, please continue to visit. . .
Friday, August 04, 2006
Job news jitters
If it’s not the aftermath of a mediocre date, it’s the aftermath of a mediocre job interview. The staring-at-the-phone-willing-it-to-ring scenario takes on many forms these days. The date says, “I’ll call you,” and you sit and wait, biting your fingernails, wondering if your phone has developed an aversion to ringing for some unfathomable reason. The job interviewer says “I’ll call you,” and it’s the post-mediocre-date scenario all over again.
In the past few weeks – the past many weeks actually – I’ve been waiting for my phone to ring – from a prospective employer, not a prospective love of my life – though the former might morph into the latter, given the way things are going with me. It is a financial news wire, and I want the job for several reasons – because I want to work for a wire, because I want to work on daily, or even hourly, deadlines, to better understand financial news, to work for an international news organization and one that sponsors foreign employees.
Things haven’t gone as smoothly as I expected. I had a trial and a second interview exactly a month ago tomorrow. As I thanked the interviewer after a very intense three days, I was told that they would contact me in a week. Remembering that it took them longer than that to get back to me after my first interview, I took this information with a pinch of salt.
So when the first week came and went with no news, I didn’t so much as bat an eyelid. As the second week inched to its close, though, I started to worry. The earnings season was starting, and they had warned me that it would be a busy time. I knew there would be no news for a long time after. So I called. I called the editor, her assistant, left messages and emailed both. I heard not a peep.
And then the first earnings week arrived and my faith started to ebb. I waited till the end of the week, and called again. This time I got the editor. Had they made a decision yet? Sort of. Apparently, my test had been “on the fence,” not good enough to make me a shoo-in, but not bad enough to send me off into the newswire netherworld either. “Call back in a week,” she said.
And so I did. This morning. “I’ll call you back this afternoon,” she said.
So, here I am, back to the staring-at-the-phone-willing-it-to-ring scenario all over again.
In the past few weeks – the past many weeks actually – I’ve been waiting for my phone to ring – from a prospective employer, not a prospective love of my life – though the former might morph into the latter, given the way things are going with me. It is a financial news wire, and I want the job for several reasons – because I want to work for a wire, because I want to work on daily, or even hourly, deadlines, to better understand financial news, to work for an international news organization and one that sponsors foreign employees.
Things haven’t gone as smoothly as I expected. I had a trial and a second interview exactly a month ago tomorrow. As I thanked the interviewer after a very intense three days, I was told that they would contact me in a week. Remembering that it took them longer than that to get back to me after my first interview, I took this information with a pinch of salt.
So when the first week came and went with no news, I didn’t so much as bat an eyelid. As the second week inched to its close, though, I started to worry. The earnings season was starting, and they had warned me that it would be a busy time. I knew there would be no news for a long time after. So I called. I called the editor, her assistant, left messages and emailed both. I heard not a peep.
And then the first earnings week arrived and my faith started to ebb. I waited till the end of the week, and called again. This time I got the editor. Had they made a decision yet? Sort of. Apparently, my test had been “on the fence,” not good enough to make me a shoo-in, but not bad enough to send me off into the newswire netherworld either. “Call back in a week,” she said.
And so I did. This morning. “I’ll call you back this afternoon,” she said.
So, here I am, back to the staring-at-the-phone-willing-it-to-ring scenario all over again.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
More to come soon!
Oh my poor neglected blog! Yes, I am aware that I have not blogged in a long time. But I will get Internet connection in my apartment on Saturday, and it will write lots after that!
And, I'm starting a new blog! More on that to come later! Watch this space! :)
And, I'm starting a new blog! More on that to come later! Watch this space! :)
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Bloggers v. journos
While doing some research for a story, I came across some references to the time when Wal-Mart sent out "blog releases" written in the informal language of blogs, to bloggers. Some bloggers posted these releases on their blogs without attributing them to Wal-Mart.
In the ensuing drama (it is Wal-Mart, after all), those supporting what the bloggers did said they did nothing wrong, as they had no duty to reveal their sources, just like journalists don't have to reveal their sources. And my first reaction was "What?!?!?"
Who said journalists don't have to reveal their sources? And even if journalists can hide sources, who said they don't have to reveal the sources of press releases?!?!?
We see a lot of anonymous sources used in stories, but at most publications worth their salt, journalists have to make every attempt to get something on the record, and can use anonymous sources if all else fails, i.e. 1. when the information they are getting is a fact, not opinion 2. when nobody in the know is willing to speak on the record and 3. when it can be verified by a number of (at least 3) other reliable anonymous sources.
If a journalist is sent a press release from a company, there is ABSOLUTELY NO WAY he/she can use it without saying where it came from. In most publications, a journalist cannot even use a release word for word, unless he/she makes it clear it is a direct quote and attributes the quote. And definitely not without getting other, maybe opposing, voices into the story.
The bloggers in the Wal-Mart case were simply propogating Wal-Mart's side and hiding the fact that they were doing so. They had no reason to withhold the source of the information, but they did, in the process misleading their readers. But, the thing is, bloggers have minimal responsibilities and standards, unless they are self-imposed, so they can get away with doing so. Journalists can never do the same thing that these bloggers did, unless they work for a complete rag. So to compare these bloggers to journalists who use anonymous sources is farfetched and misleading.
In the ensuing drama (it is Wal-Mart, after all), those supporting what the bloggers did said they did nothing wrong, as they had no duty to reveal their sources, just like journalists don't have to reveal their sources. And my first reaction was "What?!?!?"
Who said journalists don't have to reveal their sources? And even if journalists can hide sources, who said they don't have to reveal the sources of press releases?!?!?
We see a lot of anonymous sources used in stories, but at most publications worth their salt, journalists have to make every attempt to get something on the record, and can use anonymous sources if all else fails, i.e. 1. when the information they are getting is a fact, not opinion 2. when nobody in the know is willing to speak on the record and 3. when it can be verified by a number of (at least 3) other reliable anonymous sources.
If a journalist is sent a press release from a company, there is ABSOLUTELY NO WAY he/she can use it without saying where it came from. In most publications, a journalist cannot even use a release word for word, unless he/she makes it clear it is a direct quote and attributes the quote. And definitely not without getting other, maybe opposing, voices into the story.
The bloggers in the Wal-Mart case were simply propogating Wal-Mart's side and hiding the fact that they were doing so. They had no reason to withhold the source of the information, but they did, in the process misleading their readers. But, the thing is, bloggers have minimal responsibilities and standards, unless they are self-imposed, so they can get away with doing so. Journalists can never do the same thing that these bloggers did, unless they work for a complete rag. So to compare these bloggers to journalists who use anonymous sources is farfetched and misleading.
Monday, July 17, 2006
Overwhelmed :(
With everything that's been happening over the past few days, I've been feeling a bit overwhelmed.
For one, I didn't get a fall internship I applied for. Which is fine, because I didn't really want it in the first place. But now, I'm panicing about the other job I've applied for, which I really want, and which I was counting on when I signed a one-year lease for my apartment. And just about the general fact that I don't have a job when I finish my internship in a month, and what I will do about my apartment if I don't find something in the New York area (I know, it was a stroke of genius to move without a job lined up).
The move itself has been really draining, and this weekend, I went back to my storage unit to pick up the rest of my things. Now I have six huge boxes sitting in my living room that I have neither the energy or the inclination to unpack, mostly because I don't know what to do with the stuff in it. So I just sit there, staring at them, trying to figure out how I managed to accumulate so much in less than a year.
My finances are a complete mess, mostly because of the huge fiasco of a move that ended up costing me a lot more than I'd anticipated. And in typical Ini fashion, I haven't managed to get up the nerve to deal with it.
I picked up Wednesday yesterday and brought him home, but he's in a bit of a mess, because he did the big job on the way to my place in his pet carrier, and I need to clean him up. But for one he won't stay put long enough for me to do so, and two, I'm not really sure how to go about doing it. And I'm worried that he hasn't yet discovered his litter box, and that I'll go back home to discover. . . I won't spell it out (how WILL I deal with having kids?!?!?!)
I have a host of DIY projects piling up that I haven't dared to attempt, so I have bits and pieces of furniture in various stages of impending collapse sitting around my apartment.
And for some reason, my new address seems non-existent, and I haven't gotten any mail (except for good ol' Netflix) since I moved, despite the fact that I've changed my address both with all the credit card etc. companies and the post office. So, I'm worried that I have bad credit piling up somewhere that I'm blissfully unaware of.
And, in general, New Jersey seems a world away from my few friends, and it's lonely out there:( And, without internet access at home, I feel even more cut off from the world.
These are all silly, shallow concerns, especially in light of what's happening in the world right now. But please forgive my self-absorbedness, at least this once. Next time, you can tell me to suck it up and deal with it.
For one, I didn't get a fall internship I applied for. Which is fine, because I didn't really want it in the first place. But now, I'm panicing about the other job I've applied for, which I really want, and which I was counting on when I signed a one-year lease for my apartment. And just about the general fact that I don't have a job when I finish my internship in a month, and what I will do about my apartment if I don't find something in the New York area (I know, it was a stroke of genius to move without a job lined up).
The move itself has been really draining, and this weekend, I went back to my storage unit to pick up the rest of my things. Now I have six huge boxes sitting in my living room that I have neither the energy or the inclination to unpack, mostly because I don't know what to do with the stuff in it. So I just sit there, staring at them, trying to figure out how I managed to accumulate so much in less than a year.
My finances are a complete mess, mostly because of the huge fiasco of a move that ended up costing me a lot more than I'd anticipated. And in typical Ini fashion, I haven't managed to get up the nerve to deal with it.
I picked up Wednesday yesterday and brought him home, but he's in a bit of a mess, because he did the big job on the way to my place in his pet carrier, and I need to clean him up. But for one he won't stay put long enough for me to do so, and two, I'm not really sure how to go about doing it. And I'm worried that he hasn't yet discovered his litter box, and that I'll go back home to discover. . . I won't spell it out (how WILL I deal with having kids?!?!?!)
I have a host of DIY projects piling up that I haven't dared to attempt, so I have bits and pieces of furniture in various stages of impending collapse sitting around my apartment.
And for some reason, my new address seems non-existent, and I haven't gotten any mail (except for good ol' Netflix) since I moved, despite the fact that I've changed my address both with all the credit card etc. companies and the post office. So, I'm worried that I have bad credit piling up somewhere that I'm blissfully unaware of.
And, in general, New Jersey seems a world away from my few friends, and it's lonely out there:( And, without internet access at home, I feel even more cut off from the world.
These are all silly, shallow concerns, especially in light of what's happening in the world right now. But please forgive my self-absorbedness, at least this once. Next time, you can tell me to suck it up and deal with it.
Monday, July 10, 2006
An incident
As I was standing at the corner of 23rd Street and I Avenue, waiting for my movers to arrive last Friday, I witnessed something that horrified and shocked me -- although, knowing this city, it should have done neither.
I half saw a little old man in a wheelchair that was crisscrossed with shopping bags on the back, slowly wheeling himself along the pavement. I looked away, and, when I looked back, one of the bags, a paper one, had split under the weight of a gallon can of water. The can lay open on the ground, water splattered across the sidewalk, and the bottom of the bag gaped precariously open, ready to spill its remaining contents.
I watched him for a bit, unsure of whether to approach him and offer my help, or to pretend not to have seen him. My good side finally took over, and I inched towards him.
“Do you need help?” I asked him, stopping a few feet away.
“No, no,” he replied gruffly, looking at me suspiciously. “I don’t need help.”
He seemed so averse to the idea of anyone lending a hand that I backed off, although I continued watching him from the corner of my eye.
He painstakingly took the bag down, placed it on the pavement, and slowly proceeded to make space in his other bags for its contents. He was standing partially hidden by a telephone booth to anyone approaching from the opposite direction, but the torn brown bag was further off to his left, closer to the center of the pavement.
As I watched, a young man, probably a teenager, wearing an insolent, purposeful look on his face, walked down the sidewalk towards the man and the bag. In one swift motion, he kicked the bag, scattering its contents – a mini-TV, some crossword puzzles, various bits and pieces. The TV rolled down the pavement and came to a rest a few feet away, still within reach of his feet. He kicked it hard again, and it rolled away again.
The old man looked up at him with a blank face, almost as though he was unsurprised by what was happening. I, perhaps more naïve than the old man, who had clearly learned a lot from a harsh life in this city, gaped after the youth, my jaw hanging, too shocked to even say anything. Even if I hadn’t been so stunned, I’d probably have been too afraid to confront him, for fear that he might pull a gun on me.
The TV finally landed outside his reach, and he continued walking without so much as breaking his stride. The TV lay near me, so I picked it up and walked up to the old man, and handed it to him. “Thank you,” he said. “Maybe I do need help.”
As I tried to gather his things, another woman, wheeling a little cart, stopped. “You need another bag,” she informed the man.
“No, no,” he insisted. “I’ve plenty of bags. I’m fine.”
She fished out a bag from her cart anyway and held it out to him, but he adamantly refused to take it.
She put it back and bent down to help gather his things.
“Please, just leave me alone. I can handle it. I’m fine,” the old man insisted.
We left his few belongings in a pile and stepped away. And, as I continued watching him, and saw him slowly finish reorganizing his belongings, sit back in the wheelchair and move away, I thought back to the look on the face of the man who had so purposefully done such a small but hateful act – how uncaring it was, how hard and cold and dark. And I wondered what would make someone’s heart so black – that, in walking by, he could have either stopped to offer to help the old man, or he could have done what he did. What made him choose to do what he did?
In the large scheme of things, this is not a life-changing act, and maybe he was just having a bad day. But, his face seemed to say otherwise – he had the cold, cruel face of someone who enjoyed inflicting pain. And the person who kicks over a vulnerable person’s few possessions today might go on to take a life tomorrow. And then what?
I half saw a little old man in a wheelchair that was crisscrossed with shopping bags on the back, slowly wheeling himself along the pavement. I looked away, and, when I looked back, one of the bags, a paper one, had split under the weight of a gallon can of water. The can lay open on the ground, water splattered across the sidewalk, and the bottom of the bag gaped precariously open, ready to spill its remaining contents.
I watched him for a bit, unsure of whether to approach him and offer my help, or to pretend not to have seen him. My good side finally took over, and I inched towards him.
“Do you need help?” I asked him, stopping a few feet away.
“No, no,” he replied gruffly, looking at me suspiciously. “I don’t need help.”
He seemed so averse to the idea of anyone lending a hand that I backed off, although I continued watching him from the corner of my eye.
He painstakingly took the bag down, placed it on the pavement, and slowly proceeded to make space in his other bags for its contents. He was standing partially hidden by a telephone booth to anyone approaching from the opposite direction, but the torn brown bag was further off to his left, closer to the center of the pavement.
As I watched, a young man, probably a teenager, wearing an insolent, purposeful look on his face, walked down the sidewalk towards the man and the bag. In one swift motion, he kicked the bag, scattering its contents – a mini-TV, some crossword puzzles, various bits and pieces. The TV rolled down the pavement and came to a rest a few feet away, still within reach of his feet. He kicked it hard again, and it rolled away again.
The old man looked up at him with a blank face, almost as though he was unsurprised by what was happening. I, perhaps more naïve than the old man, who had clearly learned a lot from a harsh life in this city, gaped after the youth, my jaw hanging, too shocked to even say anything. Even if I hadn’t been so stunned, I’d probably have been too afraid to confront him, for fear that he might pull a gun on me.
The TV finally landed outside his reach, and he continued walking without so much as breaking his stride. The TV lay near me, so I picked it up and walked up to the old man, and handed it to him. “Thank you,” he said. “Maybe I do need help.”
As I tried to gather his things, another woman, wheeling a little cart, stopped. “You need another bag,” she informed the man.
“No, no,” he insisted. “I’ve plenty of bags. I’m fine.”
She fished out a bag from her cart anyway and held it out to him, but he adamantly refused to take it.
She put it back and bent down to help gather his things.
“Please, just leave me alone. I can handle it. I’m fine,” the old man insisted.
We left his few belongings in a pile and stepped away. And, as I continued watching him, and saw him slowly finish reorganizing his belongings, sit back in the wheelchair and move away, I thought back to the look on the face of the man who had so purposefully done such a small but hateful act – how uncaring it was, how hard and cold and dark. And I wondered what would make someone’s heart so black – that, in walking by, he could have either stopped to offer to help the old man, or he could have done what he did. What made him choose to do what he did?
In the large scheme of things, this is not a life-changing act, and maybe he was just having a bad day. But, his face seemed to say otherwise – he had the cold, cruel face of someone who enjoyed inflicting pain. And the person who kicks over a vulnerable person’s few possessions today might go on to take a life tomorrow. And then what?
Saturday, July 08, 2006
A nightmare move!
Hello Dear Reader,
No, I have not fallen off the planet, although I feel like I have, thanks to my lack of internet access. And coming online today after a long time, and seeing updated blogs and unread emails, I felt even more like the earth has continued spinning, leaving me alone in a far away corner. Such is our dependance on this lovely thing we call the Internet!
This week has been a crazy one. I hope this is not a sign of things to come in my new apartment.
Yes, that's right. . . I have moved into a new apartment in the (un)lovely Garden State of New Jersey. And, surprise, surprise, it was the move from hell.
I woke up ready to get out of the hole and into my relatively nicer apartment. I had unpacked very little when I moved into the hole, so I didn't have much to repack. So, when 2:00 arrived -- the time my movers were supposed to arrive -- I was all ready to go. I had made arrangements to pick up a few pieces of furniture from some people on the way, and everything was spic and span and ready to go.
Doesn't sound like me, does it? No, I didn't think so either. I was ABSOLUTELY sure that something was bound to go wrong. So, when the movers hadn't arrived at 2:02, I panicked -- this was what was to go wrong. I called the number I'd called to book them, and there was no answer. Between 2:02 and 2:15, I called four times, and got the voicemail each time.
Maybe they're coming at 2:30, I thought. 2:30 came and went, and no sign of the movers. Maybe 3:00? Nope. A few dozen more calls yielded no response.
I gave myself the luxury of sitting down and having a good cry, holding my head in my hands, alternating between "What am I going to do? What am I going to do?" praying furiously, and cursing the movers to the depths of hell.
Soon, I realized that that wasn't going to get me anywhere. I sat up, then started furiously trawling through the internet trying to find movers who'd be available at the last minute. I called about 30, and nobody was available. They all thought I was crazy, asking them to come that afternoon. "It's the end of the month," they informed me in disbelief. "You think you're going to find someone NOW?"
I persevered. Finally, the blessed words I wanted to hear. One was available. But, he said, it would take a maximum of two hours to get to Manhattan. Fine, I said, not bothering to ask where he was coming from.
I set about calling the people whom I was supposed to pick up the furniture from and telling them about my plight. One was having the same trouble, and was going to be around much later than expected. The other two had people who could let me in.
I'd told the movers to meet me at one of the places from which I was to pick up some furniture, so I headed out there early, in case the movers arrived early. Naive Ini.
At 5:00, I called the mover. Yes, I'll be there soon. When? In an hour. I sighed. OK.
6:00 -- Yes, yes, I'll be there in an hour. There's a lot of traffic.
7:00 -- Yes, yes, I'm on my way. Half an hour. I'm coming from the Hamptons. The Hamptons!?!?!? I'd thought Queens, maybe Long Island!
At 7:30, I was still naively believing that they would show up at any minute.
Yes, yes. Half an hour.
At 8:00: Almost there.
At 8:30, they finally showed up, just as the first drops of rain were starting to fall.
I looked up at the sky and had a serious word with God. "You and I, we're finished," I informed him. (Spoken in frustration, of course. We're nowhere near finished, poor God!)
We rushed in, picked up the furniture, and proceeded on our way. At the second place, the roommate of the person we were picking it up from was still there, and let us in.
As we were heading to my storage unit, the phone rang. The people at the third pick-up location were ready to leave and couldn't wait anymore. Ten minutes, I promised then. We cancelled our storage unit plan and headed back downtown to cross over from east to west. We finally reached half an hour later, but the seller had mercifully left the furniture outside and gone. Picked it up, put it in the truck and headed up to my apartment. It was too late to go to the storage unit.
Picked up my stuff, tersely cut short a fight between the two movers, engaged in some spy tactics to leave the keys to the hole for its next inhabitant who hadn't shown up yet, and headed off to Jersey.
So far so good. On our way to Jersey, predictably, we got lost. This, after the mover spent half an hour intensely meditating on Mapquest directions. After driving for at least two hours -- by this time, my utter exhaustion had made me lose all concept of time -- we finally arrived at the apartment.
In my daze, as we were bumping along the NJ Turnpike, I remember one thought that occured to me: that the perfect hell would be eternal moving. Imagine dying and going to hell, and being told that you're going to spend forever moving. It's enough to make anyone behave themselves!
A bit of wrestling to get the sofa in through the window, and dumping all the other stuff in the apartment, and the movers were gone.
I stood in the middle of the clutter, smiled -- a little deliriously -- and told myself, "Welcome home, Ini. You are NEVER moving again. You will DIE in this apartment!"
And so I will, even if it kills me!
No, I have not fallen off the planet, although I feel like I have, thanks to my lack of internet access. And coming online today after a long time, and seeing updated blogs and unread emails, I felt even more like the earth has continued spinning, leaving me alone in a far away corner. Such is our dependance on this lovely thing we call the Internet!
This week has been a crazy one. I hope this is not a sign of things to come in my new apartment.
Yes, that's right. . . I have moved into a new apartment in the (un)lovely Garden State of New Jersey. And, surprise, surprise, it was the move from hell.
I woke up ready to get out of the hole and into my relatively nicer apartment. I had unpacked very little when I moved into the hole, so I didn't have much to repack. So, when 2:00 arrived -- the time my movers were supposed to arrive -- I was all ready to go. I had made arrangements to pick up a few pieces of furniture from some people on the way, and everything was spic and span and ready to go.
Doesn't sound like me, does it? No, I didn't think so either. I was ABSOLUTELY sure that something was bound to go wrong. So, when the movers hadn't arrived at 2:02, I panicked -- this was what was to go wrong. I called the number I'd called to book them, and there was no answer. Between 2:02 and 2:15, I called four times, and got the voicemail each time.
Maybe they're coming at 2:30, I thought. 2:30 came and went, and no sign of the movers. Maybe 3:00? Nope. A few dozen more calls yielded no response.
I gave myself the luxury of sitting down and having a good cry, holding my head in my hands, alternating between "What am I going to do? What am I going to do?" praying furiously, and cursing the movers to the depths of hell.
Soon, I realized that that wasn't going to get me anywhere. I sat up, then started furiously trawling through the internet trying to find movers who'd be available at the last minute. I called about 30, and nobody was available. They all thought I was crazy, asking them to come that afternoon. "It's the end of the month," they informed me in disbelief. "You think you're going to find someone NOW?"
I persevered. Finally, the blessed words I wanted to hear. One was available. But, he said, it would take a maximum of two hours to get to Manhattan. Fine, I said, not bothering to ask where he was coming from.
I set about calling the people whom I was supposed to pick up the furniture from and telling them about my plight. One was having the same trouble, and was going to be around much later than expected. The other two had people who could let me in.
I'd told the movers to meet me at one of the places from which I was to pick up some furniture, so I headed out there early, in case the movers arrived early. Naive Ini.
At 5:00, I called the mover. Yes, I'll be there soon. When? In an hour. I sighed. OK.
6:00 -- Yes, yes, I'll be there in an hour. There's a lot of traffic.
7:00 -- Yes, yes, I'm on my way. Half an hour. I'm coming from the Hamptons. The Hamptons!?!?!? I'd thought Queens, maybe Long Island!
At 7:30, I was still naively believing that they would show up at any minute.
Yes, yes. Half an hour.
At 8:00: Almost there.
At 8:30, they finally showed up, just as the first drops of rain were starting to fall.
I looked up at the sky and had a serious word with God. "You and I, we're finished," I informed him. (Spoken in frustration, of course. We're nowhere near finished, poor God!)
We rushed in, picked up the furniture, and proceeded on our way. At the second place, the roommate of the person we were picking it up from was still there, and let us in.
As we were heading to my storage unit, the phone rang. The people at the third pick-up location were ready to leave and couldn't wait anymore. Ten minutes, I promised then. We cancelled our storage unit plan and headed back downtown to cross over from east to west. We finally reached half an hour later, but the seller had mercifully left the furniture outside and gone. Picked it up, put it in the truck and headed up to my apartment. It was too late to go to the storage unit.
Picked up my stuff, tersely cut short a fight between the two movers, engaged in some spy tactics to leave the keys to the hole for its next inhabitant who hadn't shown up yet, and headed off to Jersey.
So far so good. On our way to Jersey, predictably, we got lost. This, after the mover spent half an hour intensely meditating on Mapquest directions. After driving for at least two hours -- by this time, my utter exhaustion had made me lose all concept of time -- we finally arrived at the apartment.
In my daze, as we were bumping along the NJ Turnpike, I remember one thought that occured to me: that the perfect hell would be eternal moving. Imagine dying and going to hell, and being told that you're going to spend forever moving. It's enough to make anyone behave themselves!
A bit of wrestling to get the sofa in through the window, and dumping all the other stuff in the apartment, and the movers were gone.
I stood in the middle of the clutter, smiled -- a little deliriously -- and told myself, "Welcome home, Ini. You are NEVER moving again. You will DIE in this apartment!"
And so I will, even if it kills me!
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
First press briefing!
I went to my first press briefing today as a bonafide member of the New York press corps. It was a relatively laidback event, and not even something we would do a story on. I knew what it was about, but I took it pretty lightly, and sauntered over to the place which was just a few blocks from where I work.
I reached there and made it up to the room where the briefing was. Standing in the elevator, I realized there was another reporter in the elevator with me. As we introduced ourselves and said which magazines we were from, a wave of panic hit me. "OMG," I thought. "That magazine has sent a real reporter, and my magazine sent ME? The Rock should have come! What was he thinking!?!?!?"
I calmed down somewhat, but as each real reporter walked in, I sank just a little more in my chair. Then another wave of panic. "OMG, I have to ask questions at the end. I have to establish that I'm a serious journalist. The whole reputation of my magazine is at stake here. If I don't ask questions, they'll all think of my magazine as the one that sent that stupid intern who didn't know anything and didn't ask any questions."
I was convinced that I wouldn't even be able to follow the presentation, and in an attempt to avert such tragedy, I kept my eyes glued to the presenter, taking them off only to jot down notes, as if by boring my eyes into her, I could absorb what she was thinking and saying by sheer osmosis, if by nothing else. She finished her presentation, and I realized that I had understood most of what she'd been talking about -- maybe not to confidently write a story about it, if I had to, but in my mind her message was clear. I didn't ask questions, but neither did some of the other reporters there, so I felt a load lift -- if I wasn't the only one that didn't ask questions, then they wouldn't remember just me, I convinced myself.
Then came the dreaded socializing. I was tempted to just leave under the pretext of moving apartments in a couple of days and needed to pack, but forced myself to stay, telling myself sternly that I needed to make contacts. And I was hungry. So I helped myself to some food and drink and moved out onto the rooftop.
And I was pleasantly surprised to find the whole small talk thing much easier than I did about two years ago when I endured multiple excruciating social events, sometimes for days when I was covering conferences, feeling like a complete wallflower and wishing almost without exception that I could disappear. I am still not very good in group situations, but I realized that I wasn't questioning myself a dozen times before making a simple comment or contributing to the general flow of the conversation. I even stayed longer than I'd intended to!
So, my first press briefing went pretty well. And I realized that, while in moments of panic, I might question my decision to leave a mediocre job in London, where I was, nevertheless, happy and move to New York, doing so did give me opportunities I'd never have had -- because now, I am a very tiny fish in a huge pond, nay, in an ocean, but better that than to be a big fish, even the ONLY fish, in a tiny pond. Because a big fish in a tiny pond isn't going anywhere unless it leaves the pond, but a tiny fish in an ocean has plenty of room to grow.
I reached there and made it up to the room where the briefing was. Standing in the elevator, I realized there was another reporter in the elevator with me. As we introduced ourselves and said which magazines we were from, a wave of panic hit me. "OMG," I thought. "That magazine has sent a real reporter, and my magazine sent ME? The Rock should have come! What was he thinking!?!?!?"
I calmed down somewhat, but as each real reporter walked in, I sank just a little more in my chair. Then another wave of panic. "OMG, I have to ask questions at the end. I have to establish that I'm a serious journalist. The whole reputation of my magazine is at stake here. If I don't ask questions, they'll all think of my magazine as the one that sent that stupid intern who didn't know anything and didn't ask any questions."
I was convinced that I wouldn't even be able to follow the presentation, and in an attempt to avert such tragedy, I kept my eyes glued to the presenter, taking them off only to jot down notes, as if by boring my eyes into her, I could absorb what she was thinking and saying by sheer osmosis, if by nothing else. She finished her presentation, and I realized that I had understood most of what she'd been talking about -- maybe not to confidently write a story about it, if I had to, but in my mind her message was clear. I didn't ask questions, but neither did some of the other reporters there, so I felt a load lift -- if I wasn't the only one that didn't ask questions, then they wouldn't remember just me, I convinced myself.
Then came the dreaded socializing. I was tempted to just leave under the pretext of moving apartments in a couple of days and needed to pack, but forced myself to stay, telling myself sternly that I needed to make contacts. And I was hungry. So I helped myself to some food and drink and moved out onto the rooftop.
And I was pleasantly surprised to find the whole small talk thing much easier than I did about two years ago when I endured multiple excruciating social events, sometimes for days when I was covering conferences, feeling like a complete wallflower and wishing almost without exception that I could disappear. I am still not very good in group situations, but I realized that I wasn't questioning myself a dozen times before making a simple comment or contributing to the general flow of the conversation. I even stayed longer than I'd intended to!
So, my first press briefing went pretty well. And I realized that, while in moments of panic, I might question my decision to leave a mediocre job in London, where I was, nevertheless, happy and move to New York, doing so did give me opportunities I'd never have had -- because now, I am a very tiny fish in a huge pond, nay, in an ocean, but better that than to be a big fish, even the ONLY fish, in a tiny pond. Because a big fish in a tiny pond isn't going anywhere unless it leaves the pond, but a tiny fish in an ocean has plenty of room to grow.
Monday, June 19, 2006
Anonymity. . .
It's absolutely shocking what a little anonymity can do to people. It brings out the little devils inside them full force and unleashes them in all their fury. And the result. . . people turn nasty and horrible and racist and nationalist, just because they cannot be held to account for what they say.
Part of the scut work of my otherwise fabulous internship -- actually, I don't mind it so much, since it gives me some insight into humanity and also allows me to get an idea of what our stories are without reading each one everyday -- is to go through the magazine's web site and approve (or not, as the case may be) readers' comments in response to the stories we publish online. And boy can people be nasty. Because we don't ask them to give us their real identities or email addresses before they can appear on the site, people are absolutely horrible. Some swear, some call each other names, some call the people of certain countries incompetent, lazy, and worse names.
When I see these venomous comments, I just sigh and shake my head and think, "This could very well be some corporate executive sitting in a plush corner office somewhere, spouting poison, just because it can't come back to him." And how awful is that? If you have a point of view, fine. Say it. But why hide behind the anonymity of the internet to let loose all your pent up anger and hatred? Why do you have so much hatred in the first place?
It reminds me of another incident. I had a friend, an Uzbek journalist, who was in my master's program. She was covering the Andijan massacre last May before coming here, and was shot at. She survived because she had a book in her pocket that stopped the bullet from hitting her (I know, sounds like a movie, but absolutely true). She has been banned from entering Uzbekistan, because of her courageous reporting of the massacre, and she wrote an article criticizing the government and the massacre that was posted on a site. The article was, in turn, picked up by a pro-government forum -- and she was critisized and abused by many on the forum for her views. They are absolutely entitled to their views. But these are people who would probably not have been able to even have an intelligent discussion about the massacre with her. But, they had no problem spewing filth on her, safely hiding beyond the anonymity afforded by the internet. Anyone who supported her were also subjected to the same verbal abuse.
I sit in front of my computer, at work reporting a story, and wonder many times how we survived before the Internet came about. But sometimes, I wonder how the world manages to survive and function with it.
Part of the scut work of my otherwise fabulous internship -- actually, I don't mind it so much, since it gives me some insight into humanity and also allows me to get an idea of what our stories are without reading each one everyday -- is to go through the magazine's web site and approve (or not, as the case may be) readers' comments in response to the stories we publish online. And boy can people be nasty. Because we don't ask them to give us their real identities or email addresses before they can appear on the site, people are absolutely horrible. Some swear, some call each other names, some call the people of certain countries incompetent, lazy, and worse names.
When I see these venomous comments, I just sigh and shake my head and think, "This could very well be some corporate executive sitting in a plush corner office somewhere, spouting poison, just because it can't come back to him." And how awful is that? If you have a point of view, fine. Say it. But why hide behind the anonymity of the internet to let loose all your pent up anger and hatred? Why do you have so much hatred in the first place?
It reminds me of another incident. I had a friend, an Uzbek journalist, who was in my master's program. She was covering the Andijan massacre last May before coming here, and was shot at. She survived because she had a book in her pocket that stopped the bullet from hitting her (I know, sounds like a movie, but absolutely true). She has been banned from entering Uzbekistan, because of her courageous reporting of the massacre, and she wrote an article criticizing the government and the massacre that was posted on a site. The article was, in turn, picked up by a pro-government forum -- and she was critisized and abused by many on the forum for her views. They are absolutely entitled to their views. But these are people who would probably not have been able to even have an intelligent discussion about the massacre with her. But, they had no problem spewing filth on her, safely hiding beyond the anonymity afforded by the internet. Anyone who supported her were also subjected to the same verbal abuse.
I sit in front of my computer, at work reporting a story, and wonder many times how we survived before the Internet came about. But sometimes, I wonder how the world manages to survive and function with it.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
It's my genes' fault!
Today's New York Times had an article titled "That Wild Streak? Maybe It Runs in the Family". It was about. . . you guessed it. If you have urges to go climb mountains. . . or to smoke cigarettes. . . or throw yourself off a cliff, it's because of your genes.
As I read it, I found myself shaking my head. Because, while I'm sure there's some truth to it, it just seemed to me a way of science giving us naturally lazy humans an excuse to continue our bad habits guilt-free. If I'm overweight, it's because of my genes, and so I don't need to feel bad about it. If I drink too much, it's my parents' fault. If I can't quit smoking, it's because my parents, and their parents, and their parents, were smokers too.
It might not even stop with those aspects that could be affected by genes. The excuse-making could spill over to every part of our lives -- I can't get a good job because of my genes, I make other people's lives miserable because of my genes, I don't wash the dishes or clean my apartment because it's in my genes.
There's a flip side to this as well -- we start to think that we can't take credit for our success -- because we were genetically programmed to succeed, our achievements have nothing to do with our own efforts or accomplishments.
What a sad world it would be if these tests were commercially available -- the lazy ones blaming their DNA for their failings and the hard working ones letting their genes take the credit for their hard work.
Note: This post is somewhat tongue-in-cheek -- because I do realize that, for some people, no matter how hard they work towards a certain goal, e.g. quit smoking, it's much more difficult than for others, because of their genetic make-up.
As I read it, I found myself shaking my head. Because, while I'm sure there's some truth to it, it just seemed to me a way of science giving us naturally lazy humans an excuse to continue our bad habits guilt-free. If I'm overweight, it's because of my genes, and so I don't need to feel bad about it. If I drink too much, it's my parents' fault. If I can't quit smoking, it's because my parents, and their parents, and their parents, were smokers too.
It might not even stop with those aspects that could be affected by genes. The excuse-making could spill over to every part of our lives -- I can't get a good job because of my genes, I make other people's lives miserable because of my genes, I don't wash the dishes or clean my apartment because it's in my genes.
There's a flip side to this as well -- we start to think that we can't take credit for our success -- because we were genetically programmed to succeed, our achievements have nothing to do with our own efforts or accomplishments.
What a sad world it would be if these tests were commercially available -- the lazy ones blaming their DNA for their failings and the hard working ones letting their genes take the credit for their hard work.
Note: This post is somewhat tongue-in-cheek -- because I do realize that, for some people, no matter how hard they work towards a certain goal, e.g. quit smoking, it's much more difficult than for others, because of their genetic make-up.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
The September song. . . or just plain knuckles?
I was reading This Fish's post today, in which she writes that she has to sing the September days song to remember how many days each month has. And I realized that my way of figuring out how many days each month has is slightly different. And I'm not sure if it's something that most people are familiar with -- or if it's just a quirky thing that we do in my village or in Sri Lanka or South Asia.
I make a fist with my hand, and assign the bone of my index finger to January. Then the pit beside the bone is February. Then back up to the bone of the middle finger. That's March. . . and so on. When you get to the bone of the little finger, you return to the index finger and continue. All the months for the raised bones have 31 days, and all the months in the pits have 30 days (except for February, of course, but if you need a method to figure that out, you've got other problems). Anyway, you do it this way, and lo and behold, you get 31 days for both July and August, the only two consecutive months that have 31 days. Because of this, when I was little, I used to think that people who decided the days and months and all did it using their knuckles, and that's why they let July and August have 31 days -- because when you get to the last raised bone, you have to come back to the first raised one! It just made sense.
PS: I am annoyed -- I just called Nev to see if this is actually quite a common practice and I'm making a hoopla about something that everybody knows about. I asked him how he figures out how many days there are in each month, and he said he uses the September song. Then I asked him if he knew the other way, and he vehemently said no.
So I started trying to explain it to him, but every time I started talking, he'd interrupt me with a very abrupt "I don't know what you're talking about," the way he does when he thinks I'm being a "FOB" (that's "fresh off the boat" to anyone who doesn't know desi-talk, as in people who aren't cool or westernized enough).
Finally, exasperated, I said, "Well, that's why I'm trying to explain it to you."
To which, he replied, "Well, I know what it is."
"Then why did you keep saying that you didn't know what I was talking about?" I retorted.
"Well, I know what it is, but I use the September song," he said.
I hung up.
I make a fist with my hand, and assign the bone of my index finger to January. Then the pit beside the bone is February. Then back up to the bone of the middle finger. That's March. . . and so on. When you get to the bone of the little finger, you return to the index finger and continue. All the months for the raised bones have 31 days, and all the months in the pits have 30 days (except for February, of course, but if you need a method to figure that out, you've got other problems). Anyway, you do it this way, and lo and behold, you get 31 days for both July and August, the only two consecutive months that have 31 days. Because of this, when I was little, I used to think that people who decided the days and months and all did it using their knuckles, and that's why they let July and August have 31 days -- because when you get to the last raised bone, you have to come back to the first raised one! It just made sense.
PS: I am annoyed -- I just called Nev to see if this is actually quite a common practice and I'm making a hoopla about something that everybody knows about. I asked him how he figures out how many days there are in each month, and he said he uses the September song. Then I asked him if he knew the other way, and he vehemently said no.
So I started trying to explain it to him, but every time I started talking, he'd interrupt me with a very abrupt "I don't know what you're talking about," the way he does when he thinks I'm being a "FOB" (that's "fresh off the boat" to anyone who doesn't know desi-talk, as in people who aren't cool or westernized enough).
Finally, exasperated, I said, "Well, that's why I'm trying to explain it to you."
To which, he replied, "Well, I know what it is."
"Then why did you keep saying that you didn't know what I was talking about?" I retorted.
"Well, I know what it is, but I use the September song," he said.
I hung up.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Time to go "home"
I hate my apartment -- yes, that would be the apartment I moved into 10 days ago . . . there, I've said it, and now, it's official. I feel bad about it, and have been trying to quash my feelings of angst and irritability, but they've welled over now, and now have a life of their own. I feel sufficiently guilty about it -- I know I should be grateful to have a roof over my head, that I managed to find a place to move into when Columbia unceremoniously kicked us out on May 31. But, but, but. . . that doesn't seem to make me feel any less impatient about wanting to find my own place, come hell or high water.
I think that is the problem -- I'm going through a nesting phase. I look for my own apartment and furniture almost everyday. I picture what my apartment is going to look like, what furniture it will have, what kinds of lamps, what paintings on the walls. And living in an old, tiny, stinky, grimy apartment in a somewhat seedy neighborhood isn't helping my intense need to have a "home," not just an apartment. I've gone through most of life, living in temporary housing, and I can't take another month and a half of it. And sitting down in front of the TV after a long day at work, only to have my extremely vociferous roommate sermonize to me about wrestling and boxing and statistics and math, and our other roommate whom he can't stand, in the middle of ordering me to get paper towels and soap has pushed me over the edge.
My solution: to obsessively trawl through Craigslist, trying to find some innocent soul to take over my sublet, and to find an apartment that I can move into as soon as I find someone to take over. To that end, I went to see one apartment today. Unfortunately, it didn't fit in with my dreams of my ideal apartment. Three more viewings have been set up over the course of the coming week, along with several emails sent to potential subletters.
Now to sit back and wait -- the most painful part of all.
I think that is the problem -- I'm going through a nesting phase. I look for my own apartment and furniture almost everyday. I picture what my apartment is going to look like, what furniture it will have, what kinds of lamps, what paintings on the walls. And living in an old, tiny, stinky, grimy apartment in a somewhat seedy neighborhood isn't helping my intense need to have a "home," not just an apartment. I've gone through most of life, living in temporary housing, and I can't take another month and a half of it. And sitting down in front of the TV after a long day at work, only to have my extremely vociferous roommate sermonize to me about wrestling and boxing and statistics and math, and our other roommate whom he can't stand, in the middle of ordering me to get paper towels and soap has pushed me over the edge.
My solution: to obsessively trawl through Craigslist, trying to find some innocent soul to take over my sublet, and to find an apartment that I can move into as soon as I find someone to take over. To that end, I went to see one apartment today. Unfortunately, it didn't fit in with my dreams of my ideal apartment. Three more viewings have been set up over the course of the coming week, along with several emails sent to potential subletters.
Now to sit back and wait -- the most painful part of all.
Friday, June 02, 2006
On the job. . .
We have all established by now that if I handle any life-changing event the way most normal people would -- with careful preparation -- then something is not right. So it is not at all surprising -- in fact, expected -- that I showed up to my first day at my much cherised and hard-won internship without my work authorization document.
Well, the truth is that it hadn't arrived, although the government agency's web site stated very positively that my application had been approved. In any case, I was starting on June 5, so off I went to my first day, armed with the print out stating that I had been approved and my passport -- but no authorization document, none the less. I needn't have worried. Because everyhing was fine. They didn't even ask me for it until the second day. When they did ask, I managed to convince them that I would get it any day now and avert any uncomfortable escortage to the door.
But anyway, I have been at my internship for three days now. And in that time, I have gone to meetings galore -- meetings about the front of the magazine, the back of the magazine, the middle of the magazine, the international section, art meetings, photo meetings. I have two wonderful editors, who bend over backwards to include me in everything -- even unexpectedly introducing me to the editor-in-chief, which left me a tad speechless -- I'm sure I made a great first impression with that.
When I am not accompanying my editors to meetings, I've been editing some columns and readers' comments and looking at stories in various stages of production to see how they change throughout the process.
Of course, every intern feverishly wants to be writing at least for the magazine's web site, if not for the print version, and I am no different. So, when I received an invite to an event that seemed like it might be of interest to the magazine, I suggested to my editor that I might write it up. He kindly declined, informing me that it was too small to cover, even on the web site, but encouraged me to pitch my own story ideas. So now, I'm going to be racking my brains, and engaging in fits of panic as I try to come up with suitable ideas that will earn me more than an incredulous laugh when I pitch them. Any ideas are most welcome!
But in the meantime, I'll keep going to more meetings and doing more editing and immersing myself in the mag -- and sucking up to the boss man!
Well, the truth is that it hadn't arrived, although the government agency's web site stated very positively that my application had been approved. In any case, I was starting on June 5, so off I went to my first day, armed with the print out stating that I had been approved and my passport -- but no authorization document, none the less. I needn't have worried. Because everyhing was fine. They didn't even ask me for it until the second day. When they did ask, I managed to convince them that I would get it any day now and avert any uncomfortable escortage to the door.
But anyway, I have been at my internship for three days now. And in that time, I have gone to meetings galore -- meetings about the front of the magazine, the back of the magazine, the middle of the magazine, the international section, art meetings, photo meetings. I have two wonderful editors, who bend over backwards to include me in everything -- even unexpectedly introducing me to the editor-in-chief, which left me a tad speechless -- I'm sure I made a great first impression with that.
When I am not accompanying my editors to meetings, I've been editing some columns and readers' comments and looking at stories in various stages of production to see how they change throughout the process.
Of course, every intern feverishly wants to be writing at least for the magazine's web site, if not for the print version, and I am no different. So, when I received an invite to an event that seemed like it might be of interest to the magazine, I suggested to my editor that I might write it up. He kindly declined, informing me that it was too small to cover, even on the web site, but encouraged me to pitch my own story ideas. So now, I'm going to be racking my brains, and engaging in fits of panic as I try to come up with suitable ideas that will earn me more than an incredulous laugh when I pitch them. Any ideas are most welcome!
But in the meantime, I'll keep going to more meetings and doing more editing and immersing myself in the mag -- and sucking up to the boss man!
Ho hum. . .
Ini hath not blogged in a long time, and Ini needeth to blog. . . but Ini's brain functioneth not -- after lugging way too much stuff from one apartment to another, Ini's brain and body are tres fatigue. So forgive me, dear reader. . .
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Change of perspective
Tonight is my last night in the apartment across the street from the "Seinfeld restaurant." The funny thing is, when I first moved in, every time I saw the restaurant, I'd think, "OMG, there's the 'Seinfeld restaurant.'" Now, when I watch Seinfeld and I see the restaurant sign, I think, "OMG, there's the restaurant I live across from."
Monday, May 29, 2006
Mr. Wednesday has left the building :(
Wednesday has moved to Yale University, New Haven, Connecticut. He was supposed to go to Japan with Okia, so I guess New Haven isn't so bad. Plus, he's going to come live with me after two months!
Okia didn't realize that Weds needed some shots and a test that has to be done six months after the shots before the Japanese authorities will let him in. I offered to take him for that time, but it turns out, one of my roommates for the summer is allergic to cats. So, after appealing to the entire J-school, and getting no commitments, she sent Weds home with a friend of hers who happened to be visiting from Yale at the time when all this unraveled.
So, Weds has gone from one Ivy to another and, when I move out of my summer apartment and into my own place afterwards, God-willing, he'll be my roommate until January. After which, he will head off for new adventures in Tokyo.
Okia didn't realize that Weds needed some shots and a test that has to be done six months after the shots before the Japanese authorities will let him in. I offered to take him for that time, but it turns out, one of my roommates for the summer is allergic to cats. So, after appealing to the entire J-school, and getting no commitments, she sent Weds home with a friend of hers who happened to be visiting from Yale at the time when all this unraveled.
So, Weds has gone from one Ivy to another and, when I move out of my summer apartment and into my own place afterwards, God-willing, he'll be my roommate until January. After which, he will head off for new adventures in Tokyo.
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