THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE WORK

OK, so maybe that’s not exactly what Dorothy said, is it. But hey, this is the real world! And I’m coming to learn (oh so quickly) that most of life is spent in the office (if you’re fortunate enough to have a job).

For me, this has been quite the adjustment – a slap in the face, really. How is it that I spend more quality time with my co-workers (aka random people who also had well-crafted resumes, helpful connections, or superior schmoozing skills) than with my boyfriend…or friends…or family?!

When you think about it, the most significant people in your life will never truly understand what you spend the majority of your time doing. Because let’s face it – people can talk about their job and their co-workers for hours, but you can never truly know what a workplace is like without having worked there yourself.

So I guess what’s troubling me is this Great Divide between work and “life.” Of course, some people solve the problem by making work their life (and upon considering that solution, I see why the split is desirable, if not necessary). But with so much of our lives being dedicated to work, how can we truly prioritize those important people in our lives. How can we stay close when our work is worlds apart? How do we “bridge the gap”?

GLASSES...HOT OR NOT?

My contacts have been bothering me all week. And no, it’s not because I rinsed them with the “burny” solution again. It’s thanks to my college-esque decision last weekend to sleep over in my boyfriend’s co-worker’s hotel room (WITH my boyfriend…no worries). Although I hate to do it, I borrowed someone else’s contact case…ick. But it was that or claw my eyes out the next morning. I chose ick.

So long story short, I wore my glasses to work yesterday and couldn’t help but wonder whether they served to elevate or inhibit my attractiveness in the eyes of others.

The way I see it, it could go either way. Look at Miss Sarah Palin, for instance. When she ran for VP, no one cared about her stances on the issues or how many countries she could see from Alaska. It seemed all anyone ever talked about was how hot she looked in those spectacles. On the politician scale of -5 to 5, she was quite the nickel!

 (Joe Burbank/Orlando Sentinel)

But then there’s the ole’ “four eyes” joke. They say all you really need to know you learned in Kindergarten. Well I beg to differ. I think it’s middle school. Now that’s where the REAL life lessons are learned (e.g., Don’t grab a girl’s boobs without permission. Avoid teachers who throw chairs. When the chocolate chip cookies aren’t hard as a rock or posing a salmonella hazard, buy as many as you can. And last but not least: Boys don’t like girls who wear glasses.)

My boyfriend tells me he likes it when I wear glasses. And for the life of me, I can’t figure out why. Perhaps they make me look smarter, so when “dumb blonde” comments slip from my lips, people don’t think I’m a COMPLETE idiot because, “Hey, she’s got glasses on. She must have a couple brain cells in there, right?” They stop my flirt (that’s for sure) because when I wear them, I feel like an awkward turtle…flipped on its back…with a teletubby painted on its stomach. Yeah, it’s kinda like that. Not to mention, my glasses are always at least two prescriptions old, so I can’t see a thing. (“Uh, is that SportsCenter or Animal Planet?”) OK, now I see why he likes them.

Sure, beauty is subjective, but I wish I could poll the entire world and ask: “Glasses…hot or not?” Until then, it will remain a mystery.

ONE GIRL, ONE CUP

Don’t worry. This post won’t be as repulsive as its title might suggest. However, some content may be unsuitable for children (and/or adults who blush at the mention of bodily fluids – myself included).

So if you haven’t figured it out by now, this post is in response to the “pee test” I took yesterday. (I guess most normal adults refer to it as a “pre-employment drug screening” or something of the sort.) See that’s my first issue with this pee-in-a-cup business. Why not call it what it is? Trust me, euphemisms don’t make the task any less Awkward with a capital “a.”

Case in point…when I arrived, the receptionist asked me if I was “prepared to urinate at the present time.” (She clearly doesn’t know me very well. I’m always prepared to urinate at the present time.) But why the fancy language? I’d prefer they ask me, “Can you pee now?” or “Is your tank full?” or even “Ready to wiz?” At least we could get a laugh out of it.

I answered a meek, “Yes,” and suddenly felt extremely self-conscious, like when I realize the middle button on my blouse is open and have no idea how long it’s been that way.

On second thought, though, “prepared” was a good word choice. Kudos, Ms. Receptionist. And that brings me to my second issue with this pee-in-a-cup business: the tricky timing! How much liquid do you drink? And when? And how quickly? Now I used to be a cross country runner, so I understand pacing. But when you throw in the waiting room variable…ay! I’m pretty sure I only learned two variables in school: X and Y.

My biggest fear was getting in there and…nothing. But as I found out today, the other end of the spectrum might be worse.  That cup isn’t very big. That fill line isn’t very high. My bladder was bursting. You do the math.

And finally, this brings me to the worst part – my biggest issue with this pee-in-a-cup business. Wait for it…handing over the “specimen.” I cringed. I avoided eye contact. In my head, I was thinking, “Dear lord lady, I’m sorry. So sorry. This is gross.” I can’t imagine a male having to take a fertility test and hand THAT over. Now THAT would be embarrassing.

Perhaps I should grow up and realize that this is a routine procedure necessary to keep the workplace safe. But nah, that’s no fun. Awkward moments are my calling.

LOOK MA, I’M EMPLOYED!

I did it! After about a year of searching, applying and interviewing (and feeling like a pathetic, unwanted waste of life…OK sorry, a bit dramatic), I finally received a full-time job offer! And it couldn’t be more ideal. Eek, knock on wood.

It involves two of my loves: writing and editing (no, sadly not Brad Pitt and chocolate, but still). It’s a five-minute drive from my apartment. And did I mention it’s full-time?! I never thought a 401(k) plan could produce so much happiness.

Although I admit that I performed pretty spectacularly in the interviews – probably thanks to my 8:30 a.m. time slot (yes, I’m one of those morning people normal people hate) – I must give much thanks and due credit to (1) Facebook and (2) my sorority. That’s right haters. No more judging Facebook stalkers or sorority girls (ha, disregard my previous post)…apparently they can both pay off (literally)!

Let me explain. One day, I happened to see a status update from a sorority sister who graduated a couple years before me. She asked if anyone was a “somewhat decent writer” and looking for a full-time job in the area. UMM HI! THAT’S ME! It had my name written all over it. So I messaged her to find out more and sent her my resume and application materials that night. She showed them to her boss the next day, and they called me a few days later.

So here I am. I’ve accepted the offer, given my two weeks notice at my current job, and even bought some new work clothes…yippee! Now all that stands between me and a benefits package is two weeks and a pee test (I’ll let you know how that one goes…I have a lot to say on the subject).

The best part is that my mood has lifted noticeably (I mean seriously, we’re talking a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde transformation here). Before receiving the job offer, I felt like an embarrassment to my family and friends. I realized that so much of my identity was based on being a good student for the past 17 years of my life. I was full of self-doubt. And the worst part was I had nothing to look forward to.

Now, I can look forward to rebuilding my sense of self in the workplace. I can also look forward to having true colleagues (something I lack in my current position). And I’m REALLY looking forward to 23 paid days off (even though, knowing myself, I probably won’t use them).

To those of you searching for full-time employment, hang in there. Setting small, achievable goals helped me to keep my spirits up along the way. I believe now, more than ever, that it’s all about being in the right place at the right time. The more people you know, the better (I’m talking to you, Facebook de-frienders). And if you want some reassurance that the economy is recovering, head to the mall. It was packed today!

Wish me luck in my pee test tomorrow.

WHAT IS IT ABOUT SORORITY GET-TOGETHERS…

…that makes me worry about the state of the world. Actually, it’s more the female race that concerns me. Let me elaborate.

This past week, my sorority “family” got together to wish one of the girls good luck before she moved to Arizona. (In case you’re a little confused by the “family” concept, let me offer a brief explanation. When you join, you are paired with a “big” who serves as your teacher, guide, and – if you’re lucky – friend. If your big takes more than one little, you have a “twin.” And the family tree grows from there.)

I should also note before I get too far into this discussion, that joining a sorority was never something I planned to do. No one in my family (real one that is), ever went greek in college. But, being a lonely out-of-stater, I thought it would be a good way to meet people – and I was right. In fact, since I’ve left college, I’ve come to appreciate the connections even more. This little get-together, for example, was a welcome break from the monotony of my work week.

The get-together was a potluck, and although my first instinct was to bring a dessert, I "thought healthy" and sprung for a veggie tray. I’m glad I did. Once I got there, I realized that everyone else had brought the most fattening foods imaginable: pizza, bread sticks, cordon bleu balls (you better believe sorority girls had fun with that one), cheesy hash browns, pigs in a blanket, and pumpkin cookies with cream cheese frosting, to name a few.

The crazy part was that everyone there seemed to be on a diet! During the meal (which only some of them actually ate), they discussed how they were limiting their intake to 1,200 calories a day, cutting out carbs altogether, or trying to shrink their midsections down to double zeros so they could dress as sluts (the hot kind) for Halloween. So why did they all bring fattening foods? It beats me. Maybe they were indulging in their heads. Or maybe they were trying to derail their fellow dieters so they looked hotter in comparison.

But back up…1,200 calories?! That’s not even enough to sustain an itty bitty Barbie girl who doesn’t move an inch all day. Last time I checked, whole grains and fruits (which – gasp – contain carbs) make up pretty big chunks of the food pyramid (and MyPlate). And double zero? I hate to break it you darlings, but you’re no longer pre-pubescent!

Now I won’t pretend like I’ve got all this “living a healthy lifestyle” thing mastered myself (after all, my sweet tooth is the biggest one in my mouth), but I DO read a lot about nutrition and health.  I follow health magazines on Twitter, read nutrition textbooks for fun, and listen to podcasts such as Fat 2 Fit (http://www.fat2fitradio.com/), which I highly recommend. I feel like I have a good understanding of how to keep my body healthy.

Based on the knowledge I’ve acquired, I feel pretty confident saying that what these girls are doing is NOT healthy. It’s insane. Starving yourself only slows your metabolism and makes it more likely that your body will lose muscle instead of fat. Plus, you're miserable. Plus, once Halloween is over, they’ll likely gain the weight back (PLUS more). Is it really worth it?

Now I can’t say whether this behavior is more common among sorority girls than in the general female population, so I apologize for my somewhat stereotypical approach to this discussion. However, after attending this get-together, I couldn’t help but be concerned, frustrated and motivated to write about it.

Come on ladies. Let’s strive to eat healthy foods (enough of them!), to exercise regularly, and to enjoy a treat on occasion without feeling like we just committed a sin akin to adultery. After all, life is short. And I think it should be sweet, too.

WORKING OUT AT A “NORMAL PERSON” GYM

Once I moved to the ‘burbs, I pretty much gave up on outdoor running. First of all, my apartment complex is surrounded by roads with 35 mph speed limits, little to no shoulders, and plenty of squirrel pancakes. Sure I like pancakes, but I’d rather eat one than become one (the Bisquick kind – I’m not THAT weird). Second of all, as part of my rental agreement, I am able to attend a nearby gym for free…lucky me! In other words, they charge me for it monthly whether I decide to go or not. So I go.

Working out at a “normal person” gym has been an adjustment. At college, I got used to being surrounded by people just like me – same age, same T-shirts, same beer bellies. But at “normal person” gym, I feel completely out of place. My fellow gym-goers seem to fall into two categories: fit enough to sell the newest workout DVD on infomercials or large enough to qualify for the next season of The Biggest Loser.

The fit ones wear bright, skin-tight, “look-at-me” outfits and perform exercises I never encountered at my college gym (e.g., walking backwards on treadmills). What’s more, they all seem to know each other, like they’re in some muscle machine cult that gets together once a week to admire their sculpted bodies. (Maybe they don’t really know each other but have spent so much time in the gym they’ve been forced to bond over dumbbells at one time or another…yeah, that’s probably it).

The larger ones always seem to be swimming in oversized tees (which is funny because by the end of their workouts, it often looks like they actually went for a swim). Now I must pause to admit that I don’t have much room to criticize when it comes to over-sweating at the gym. In fact, my mom once told me she thinks I might have hyperhidrosis (a condition involving excessive perspiration), but that’s another story. I actually admire those “not so fit” ones for putting up with muscle machines and their “I’m hot and I know it” gym clothes. Just cover your stomachs, ladies, seriously. The only place I want to see a six-pack is on Brad Pitt or in my fridge.

But anyway, back to me and my awkwardness. So here I am – fresh out of college, not super-fit and not super-fat. I swear, they look at me like I’m a different breed of human. They’re probably thinking, “What is this blond thing with outdated sorority T-shirts, tight calves and love handles?” (The tight calves come from spontaneous speed walking contests – also another story).

When I walk in front of the treadmills to grab a cleaning wipe, I feel eyes searing into the back of my head. (I even dropped my iPod once in a moment of discomfort, calling even more attention to myself…smooth move. Then I hightailed it out of there. I still do.)


Perhaps one day I’ll find my place at the gym. Maybe I'll even be a muscle machine. Ha, or not. I guess for now I'm stuck sticking out. At least my love handles won't!

POST-GRAD DEPRESSION…

…is a very real phenomenon. I have anecdotal evidence to prove it.

One night, a 22-year-old went out to dinner with her parents (who were visiting from out of town) and her aunt and uncle (who live nearby). She listened as they spoke of her genius brother’s achievements at Princeton and the wild success that awaits him. She smiled and nodded as they commented on her cousin’s street smarts and unmatched work ethic. Surely, despite a poor GPA, he will excel in the real world, they said. Then they asked about her “new and exciting post-grad life.”

Question: “So what types of projects are you working on at your job?”

Answer: “Oh, editorial projects.” Reality: I cut and paste so often my fingers get sore. I enter data into massive spreadsheets, stuff envelopes, and – if I’m lucky – pick up lunch for meetings.

Question: “So what’s your social life like?”

Answer: “Oh, well we have happy hours for work and I try to keep up with my college friends in the area.” Reality: It’s nonexistent. I live by myself and have no friends nearby. I talk to my boyfriend on the phone, though!

As the recent grad drove home in the dark to an empty apartment, she flipped through radio stations to find a song that reflected her mood. Then she sobbed all the way home (wiping tears from her eyes as fast as she could so she didn’t total her precious Ford Taurus).

Well if you haven’t figured it out by now, the 22-year-old is me. I’ve never been an emotional person. In fact, I’ve always been inexplicably happy. But I’m pretty sure I’ve cried more in the last month than I did in my first year on this planet (and as my parents can assure, that’s saying something!)


In addition to the loneliness of living in a one-bedroom apartment, the challenges of keeping a long-distance relationship strong, and the loss of all things "college," I'm struggling with the lack of direction in my life. I had school figured out. My goal for the past 17 years of life was to get the best grades I could. And with a GPA of 3.984, I think I did pretty well (sorry to brag...I have to cling to whatever positives I can find right now).


Well it gets worse. I realized the publishing industry isn't the place for me. Since then, I've had a hard time continuing to motivate myself to pursue sales. Sure, it's a paycheck (which God knows I need). But it's nowhere near my passions: writing and editing. I thought I could suck it up and convince myself that I had a “passion for sales.” But acting has never been my strong suite. Who am I kidding? I can’t even tell a white lie to save my life.


I’m pretty sure the sales managers could see right through me. But still, they strung me along, always providing that tiny glimmer of hope. Finally, after being given a THIRD sales book to read, I got the balls to ask about my real chances of getting a sales job. There’s “a possibility,” the manager said. But he drew out the words and tilted his head to the side. He might as well have told me I didn't have a prayer. At that point, I came to the realization that my time would be better spent searching for other opportunities.

So it looks like I’m on the road again. I need a new direction. Some signage would be nice.

SAYING HELLO (AND GOODBYE) TO SHANDY…

…was the hardest thing I’ve done in a long time. Let me rewind and start from the beginning.

I’ve always been a cat lover. As mentioned in a previous post, I had planned to get a kitten the moment I got an apartment of my own. The emptiness and loneliness of living by myself made me even more sure of the decision to invest in a living, breathing companion. And from the time I laid eyes on Shandy (or Manhattan as he was originally called), I was hooked. He had sunk his little nails into my heart and was holding on tight.

I remember the excitement of driving him home. Of setting up his litter box. Of making him a toy out of pipe cleaners. When he fell asleep in my lap the first night, I thought it would be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

But I soon realized that Shandy meowed incessantly. I’ve been around quite a few cats before (and many kittens), and I’d never seen anything like this. I couldn’t even go to the bathroom without setting off a fit of cries. I fell asleep to meows and awoke to them, too. I thought surely he would lose his voice sooner or later. Surely he would adjust to his new home.

But no such respite came. I thought perhaps he would settle in over the weekend, as I was home for more extended periods of time. But no, no such luck. I called the shelter to ask if this was normal behavior of a new kitten getting adopted (I didn’t remember going through it with my childhood cat, Abbey). They told me to bring him in so they could check to make sure there wasn’t a health reason for his crying.

I waited a couple days (every time I got his carrier out to take him, he did something cute, gave me that look, and I didn’t stand a chance.). But finally I couldn’t take his meowing any longer. I had broken down to tears myself and knew that the situation wasn’t a good one for either of us.

As I drove him back to the shelter, I could barely look at him. I started crying the minute I walked through the door and struggled to catch my breath as I explained the problem. The veterinarian there took a look at him and told me that he looked healthy. She said he probably needs to be in a home with other cats because he’s been around them all his life (I really wish they would have told me that before I adopted him – before I welcomed him into my home and my heart. But in their defense, they might not have known how he would react.).

They gave me a couple minutes to think over my decision, but I knew what I had to do. I filled out the paper work releasing my ownership of him. Although they offered to let me take a different kitten home, I couldn’t bear the thought of it. All I could think about was Shandy and how terrible I felt having to return him to the shelter.

I sobbed all the way home. My tears fell into his litter box as I cleaned it up and put it into a closet. I kept his food and litter in case I decide to adopt another kitten. But for now, I will mourn the loss of a friend – a sweet baby boy with soft, golden fur and gentle eyes. I pray that he finds a loving home that makes him happy. I’ll never forget him.

SO HERE I AM IN MY NEW APARTMENT…

…In a big city, they just dropped me off (thanks T-Swift for the situation-appropriate lyrics). I should note that I’m not exactly in a big city – more like suburbia – but nevertheless, I finally have a place to myself. And it sure feels good.

Last weekend was a blur of moving boxes, packing tape and questions from my parents along the lines of “Why do you have so much stuff?” and “Are you sure your employer is taking you back?” and “How can you stand to live in this filth?” Then of course there was the lease signing and the utility calling and the renter’s insurance decision. Then the roommate goodbyes and the dreaded drive away from campus (I might have had a few tears in my eyes). Then the Walmart trips, the grocery shopping, the unpacking, the organizing, the cleaning. And the list goes on.

But I’m relieved to say I’m FINALLY settled (Huge thanks go out to my parents, especially my dad who drove a U-Haul eight hours from my hometown. A thank you is also in order for my cousin who was so hungover while helping me move that he could barely keep his eyes open.)

So far, I couldn’t be happier with my new place. Name a store or restaurant, and I can guarantee you there’s one within three miles. I live close enough to work that I can come home for lunch (which I do because I have no friends at work now that the other interns are back at school…sad face). My gym (which I’ll discuss in a future post) is five minutes away. There are really only two downsides at the moment (well three actually).

1) My apartment décor could be described as half grandma, half college student. Because my grandma recently moved from independent to assistant living, I got many of her old things. Good timing, sad situation. Let’s just say there’s a lot I’d like to do to spruce the place up when I have the money to do it. I WAS, however, pretty satisfied with my bookshelf-organizing skills. Then again what do I know. I’m no interior designer. So if anyone out there with street cred wants to critique my setup (at right), fire away.

2) I’m lonely (cue violins). I thought I’d love living by myself but I realize I miss having people around when I get home (even if they leave dirty dishes in the sink and practice musical instruments in the middle of the night…if any of my old roommates are reading this, I’m sorry. I love you.). Being the only one here has brought out the anal, borderline OCD me. I mean seriously, I caught myself straightening the remote on my coffee table. I need help. Or meds. Or a cat (which brings me to my third point).

3) I don’t have a cat. I’ve always loved cats and grew up with a gray tabby. I wanted one all through college but told myself I’d wait until I had an apartment of my own. Bam, here I am. Of course, I’ve had to endure endless “crazy cat lady” jokes from my friends. My rational boyfriend thinks I should wait a couple weeks to make sure I’ve thought it through completely (aka come to my senses and realize I shouldn't get one). My parents want me to wait until I have a full-time position lined up. But I went to the animal shelter today (oops) and I met the most PRECIOUS, most ADORABLE orange tabby kitten. I applied. They’re calling tomorrow. Oh boy.

IF LIFE IS A HIGHWAY...

…I just took a high-speed U-turn. For those of you who wish to try this at home, I offer the following warning. WARNING: Side effects may include dizziness, nausea, shortness of breath and difficulty sleeping.

As I reached the final weeks of my summer internship, I entered “panic mode.” For three months, I had worked my dress-slacks-covered-booty off. I had learned how to clear paper jams in seconds (They should make it an Olympic sport. Seriously…I’d bring home the gold.). I had copy/pasted for days at finger-numbing speed. I even begged to attend meetings so I could arrive early, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed from chugging two cups of coffee in my cubicle. Still, I couldn’t manage to secure that oh-so-elusive full-time position.  

(Here I must stop to point out the frustrating reality that most – if not all – full-time positions require at least two to three years of experience in the field. It’s quite the predicament. In fact, I’ve toyed with the idea of becoming a farmer just so I can say, “Yup, I have two years of experience in the field.” A moment of desperation at its finest.)

So as “panic mode” took over my 20-something body, I became a cover-letter-crafting, resume-primping machine. I e-mailed professors who probably couldn’t pick me out in a lineup (thanks to 400-person lectures). I spent more time searching job sites than Facebook stalking (gasp). I even scattered copies of my resume on downtown sidewalks and park benches. Just kidding about that last one. 

Well I ended up getting a few interviews (even a few second interviews), but none of them seemed like a good fit (i.e., they all rejected me or – as they so warmly stated in their automated rejection e-mails – they “decided to move forward with other candidates at this time”).

Then one night, as I lay in bed listening to the sound of corn hole and beer-guzzling out my window, I decided to apply to an AmeriCorps program. The idea seemed to come out of nowhere, and suddenly it wasn’t my upstairs neighbors playing “Satellite” by Guster on repeat that was keeping me awake. I became obsessed with the idea of breaking free from Land O’Cubicles and diving into something new and exciting.

It seemed to offer all I was looking for – a Holy Grail of a position, if you will. A cause I was passionate about? Check. The chance to live in the same city as my boyfriend? Check. Another year before I had to sell my soul to the monotony of a 9-to-5 workday? Check, check and check. I spent a weekend exploring the city and picturing my life there. I’d dedicate myself to a noble cause. I’d end hunger and poverty. I’d change the world, etc., etc.

But a couple days after my first interview, I started having second thoughts. So what did I do (other than go on a fervent cleaning spree, scream into my pillow, and chug a beer)? I tuned into Bachelor Pad to assure myself that my life could be worse.

Then I turned to my trusty pen and paper and to the one tool that helped me pick a college, decide on a major, and determine whether I preferred crunchy or creamy peanut butter (ha, kidding). Drum roll please…The Pro/Con List.

Ah The Pro/Con List. So simple yet so effective. Over time, The Pro/Con List and I have developed a love/hate relationship. Sometimes, like that chimerical angel propped on my shoulder, it tells me what I don’t want to hear. In this case, I compared the AmeriCorps program to returning to the company I interned for. And surprise, surprise, it told me what I didn’t want to hear.

(Here I should note that although the company I interned with didn’t offer me a full-time position, they offered me an extension until the end of the year. In my “panic mode” whirlwind of job apps and interviews, I had blown over this option. I was quick to turn away from it in search of a fast track, a more scenic route, something other than the slow, monotonous climb up what looked like a never-ending slope.)

But suddenly, I saw things in a new way – a more practical, logical, adult, boring (call it what you want) way. I realized that the best path to my long-term goal was to return to the company I interned for. I saw my goals scrawled on a piece of recycled printer paper, staring me in the face, daring me to return to the challenges of the office and work my way up.

I felt so certain of my decision that I turned down a second interview with AmeriCorps (yeah, I got an earful from my angel on that one). But I realized that choosing to pursue a career didn’t mean I had to cut out service altogether. In fact, I hope to make it a big part of my life.

I e-mailed my old supervisors to tell them I can start next week and began searching for a new apartment. So here I am. The road I’ve chosen is familiar (for now) but steep. I can’t see the top and I’m not even certain where it leads. There may be detours along the way and I know there will be pit stops (I have a bladder the size of a pea). But I’m ready to step on the gas and enjoy the ride. Man, I wish my car had a sunroof (Christmas present…hint hint).