Life, lately [picture post]

People can bash smartphone cameras and Instagram all they want, but it allows me to capture all those little private moments I truly savor and want to remember — the satisfaction of whipping up a delicious new recipe, the pleasure of updating a house style/grammar guide (oh, that’s just me?), the colors of fallen autumn leaves beneath my feet, the book quote that made me catch my breath. A picture is worth a thousand words, right?

So here’s my life from mid-October to the present.

Traveling:

Tacos, avocados everything, endless coastlines, sunshine rays, sunglasses, sunscreen, sundresses. California is good for the soul. I also befriended a cat, a dog, and a couple of horses.

Commuting:

My first Monday back from our West Coast Trip, I waited for the fifth train to get home because they were all so packed. I kept going up and down from the local platform to the express. An exercise in patience.

Working:

“Touchscreen” is one word, kids. “Selfie” is the Oxford English Dictionary word of the year. Aren’t you glad there are people out there like me who care about these things? Grammar Queen status!

Concerting:

A year ago, the Scottish band Frightened Rabbit gave me the best 23rd birthday present a girl could ask for: the best concert ever. EVER. You can’t recreate the crowd and the interaction with the band of that night. Trust me, we’ve tried. We went to our fourth FR concert a few weeks ago. Always a wonderful show, but never as magical as my 23rd birthday. I still listen to their music basically every day. Check these guys out:

Leaf-ing:

Best season of the year! My birthday! Pumpkin everything! Leaves! Boots! Scarves! Sweater weather! Halloween! Thanksgiving! Don’t even try to argue with me.

Cheering:

…on the marathon runners, of course! Human beings are amazing.

Volunteering:

I’m still volunteering with Anjellicle Cats Rescue, and loving it. I have made a number of sweet friends through this organization, and not just the feline kind!

I also started volunteering with a second group, PAWS NY (Pets Are Wonderful Support), which I actually found out about through a fellow rescue cat volunteer! This group provides free pet care to elderly and/or disabled NYC residents who are in financial need. This way, they can maintain the wonderfully beneficial bond with their pet. I’ve been walking little Charlie here, for a sweet lady and her bedridden sister who live a couple of blocks away. I’m becoming a dog person! What is happening?

Ali-stalking:

Because you didn’t really think I’d forget about my No. 1 fur baby, could you?

Discovering:

Serendipity is stumbling across the Breakfast At Tiffany’s apartment building on a stroll around the neighborhood. This, after stumbling across Cafe Lallo (yes, the one in You’ve Got Mail) in the Upper West Side the night before.

Exploring:

I wish I could live in Central Park. As long as Ali could come with me.

Holiday-ing:

Too soon, Tiffany’s. Too soon.

Reading:

No pictures for this one. But I do have recommendations! The Art of Racing in the Rain (for animal lovers), Bel Canto (for music lovers), and The Night Circus (for escapists). Currently exploring Mount Everest with Into Thin Air, to up my nonfiction ante.

Onwards to the next adventure! Tomorrow is a post-work happy hour with office friends, and Wednesday is “An Evening with David Sedaris” at Carnegie Hall. Thursday is rescue cats because I have to keep my coolness-to-nerdiness ratio in check.

Being a grown-up: Baby’s first work trip

On Monday night I got back from my first-ever work trip. I went to Palm Beach, Fla., (check out that AP style!) to help copy edit/layout a daily publication for a major industry conference. It was kind of like making a mini yearbook everyday for grownups because it was mostly pictures and the names of people in said pictures. People like to see pictures of themselves with important people (CEOS, VPs and the like), I guess.

The above picture summarizes my experience. Staring at a computer with stuff EVERYWHERE on a too-small hotel dining table, not seeing the light of the Florida sun. Which I really appreciated when I did get to experience it, because it was 32 degrees in New York when I went into the office on Tuesday. Yikes!

And yes, we did put the iMac through airport security. I still contend we should have plugged it in at the airport terminal instead of my boss’s laptop to give everybody a giggle while we completed some work for our website.

All in all, it was a good trip. I got to know everyone else who went much, much better and understand them as human beings instead of people who give me a long list of things to do or to edit. My managing editor (my direct supervisor/boss) and EIC (fancy newsroom speak for “editor in chief”) both complimented me everyday about how well I was did and how they were proud of me. It was like pleasing my Newsroom Mom & Dad. They even offered to buy me dessert as a reward! Gee, golly.

I also enjoyed the concept of living off the company’s bill for a few days. I ate much pricier meals than I usually do and even charged a pint of Blue Bell cookies ‘n cream ice cream from Publix to the company account (my boss said it was OK, anything goes, we’re just glad you’re here).

This last choice turned out to a mistake, as now my EIC is telling everyone back in the NYC office that he walked in on me “stress-eating ice cream the way some people chain-smoke.”

This is usually accompanied by him pantomiming a person ravenously scarfing down ice cream like a wild animal. I think he’s exaggerating, just a little.

Stress-eating ice cream was necessary because our flight out of JFK got delayed an hour by a crazy woman who had to be escorted off the plane by NYPD. Then we found out our printer broke in the mail, so we had to go on a crazed shopping trip at the nearest Staples in Florida for an affordable printer AND CMYK ink cartridges (it turned out to be very difficult to find a printer and cartridges that were compatible all of 15 minutes before the store closed).

As it would turn out, our flight back to NYC would be delayed four hours due to the air traffic control furloughs.

Trust me, you do not want to to get on a plane with a bunch of New Yorkers when they find out their flight has been delayed another two hours. We did get free movies and extra snacks both flights courtesy of the airlines due to the various delays. (JetBlue won over my heart.) Although apparently the passenger sitting next to the managing editor threw a hissy fit when he found out his gin and tonic would not be free, despite the grueling delay.

New Yorkers, I tell ya. They don’t put up with anything.

Speaking of which, one night for dinner my EIC ordered a small pizza for the table to share as an appetizer and loudly instructed the waitress to make sure it was, “extra crispy, because we’re from New York, and WE know how to do pizza.” I know he’s a born-and-bred, lifelong New Yorker (and an Italian Jew, so the ultimate New Yorker, at that), but I still just about crawled under my chair with the garlic bread for comfort. And you know, to stress-eat. Because apparently that’s what I do.

The crowning moment of the trip was when we were out really late for dinner on Saturday because we worked until 9-ish, and in addition to a themed 4:20 party going on, the whole restaurant — which was otherwise a nice seafood place — had become a bit of a bar/nightlife scene.

A group of scantily clad 20-something girls came over to ask said-EIC to take their group’s photo (dare I mention that he is old enough to be their father? that he made fun of me for being born in the ’80s, although I narrowly missed the ’90s by a few months? that he was the only male at the table of friendly-looking women?).

And he replied, “Oh, but I’ve been wanting to take your photo all night. I thought you’d never ask.” And then proceeded to remove his glasses in grandfatherly fashion. If only he’d acted frustrated by their smartphones and demanded to know what “button” to push on the touchscreens.

As he approached the group of short-skirted, low-necklined girls, two girls in Daisy Dukes and midriff-revealing tops approached with trays of free shots, I kid you not. I desperately wanted to take a picture of this scene. It was so absurd.

The managing editor and I laughed so hard we cried. We might have had one too many Diet Cokes that day.

Even now, it takes a lot of willpower to not laugh aloud.

You know what else makes me laugh? My kitchen envy of my hotel suite:

It came with a dishwasher AND microwave! Not to mention more floor space than my apartment. Actually, the patio of the suite was approximately the size of my whole Manhattan apartment.

I could die from the irony.

(I’m a bit delirious though.

Tomorrow will be my 12th day in a row of work. Today in the office, the EIC tried to give me instructions for something that is going to be tedious and un-fun to do, and I just started giggling nervously. And when I get in a giggling fit, I can’t stop.

He then proceeded to ask me if he needed to run out and get me another pint of ice cream…)

P.S. If you can’t tell, I’m blessed to work in a very supportive and familial work environment. I couldn’t have gotten luckier in this crazy, dog-eat-dog city.

P.P.S. Did you know it costs $70 for cab fare (plus tip and tax) to get from Manhattan to JFK airport? Seriously! So, so glad I didn’t pay that out of my personal bank account.

How Our Cat Became Human (or at least SHE thinks she is)

Hello, all! Today we have a guest blog from resident house cat, Ali. No, that makes me sound crazy.

This is me imagining what goes through Ali’s head in her supremely blessed little life. (Because that sounds sane, right?)

Hey, friends! This is me and my subservient human. She thinks we’re besties, but really, I am her master. I am the cute one on your right. I tend to hog photographs because I am so adorable. I can’t help that all my cuteness got concentrated in one big patch on the right side of my face.

When no one is home, I take glamourous selfies of myself making seductive eyes on the couch. Look at my white belly fur! Me-OW, am I right? That’s what I call tortitude.

When people are home, I prefer to make this face of determined desperation to trick them into doting on me. I will stare them down until they give in. If the staring alone doesn’t work, I throw in a few screeching, plaintive meows too. They practically chase after me to hang out at that point.

As you know, I am very adorable, so I get a lot of fan email. I usually get distracted by bubble screensaver or YouTube videos of birds before I get around to responding to any of them, but I appreciate my human admirers.

I tried reading some of my human’s “literature,” but gosh, it’s just soooooo boooooring. I like naps better. But I will always keep one eye half open to keep watch of my humans. You never know when they will escape.

Napping in the humans’ bed is my favorite. I like to get my many colors of fur all around so they can always have a little of me with them wherever they go. Now they can sleep on the couch, muahahahaha!

Sometimes (well, like everyday) my humans are rude and forget to invite me to breakfast or dinner. The girl human even sits in my chair. Ugh. So I sit on this armchair — they never use these armrests enough — and stare them down until they dote on me again.

Here I am at cat headquarters. This is where I distract my male human from doing his “work” by — what else? –staring him down until he dotes at me. I also love the printer. I love to sit on it and make it do loud beeping noises in the middle of the night. Music to my ears!

And sometimes I just like to sit out of reach on the tall window, playing with a stained glass maple leaf to annoy the humans and contemplating my eventual world domination by way of cuteness.

—

Ah, the men in white jackets are coming to take me away now…

(Seriously though. Ali is SO MUCH CAT for one kitty. We love her. I think she loves us, too. And her photos are too cute not to share here and there.)

How can you tell when an introvert likes you?

When you see her looking at YOUR shoes instead of her own! 🙂 (This joke also works with accountants and engineers.)

Last night I finished reading yet another non-fiction book, one that really struck a chord with me, Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking by Susan Cain.

I know it sounds really self-helpy, but this book has gotten a lot of hype and praise lately, and as an introvert myself, I couldn’t help but want to check it out. The book does offer some advice for introverts — and the extroverts that live with, work with, and love them — but it is primarily a wealth of knowledge on the psychology and even the physiology — neuroscience, you know? — behind introversion.

For instance, researchers in a scientific study were able to accurately predict whether infants would grow up to be introverted or extroverted based on their reactions to various stimuli, like the sound of popping balloons or photos of strangers’ faces. The loud, whiny, flailing babies? Those were your future classic introverted cases. The calm, smiling babies would grow up to be your stereotypical class clowns, jocks, and cheerleaders. It sounds counter-intuitive, but as it turns out that those of us who are introverted have brains wired in such a way that they are easily overstimulated. That’s why new experiences, especially meeting new people, can be very overwhelming to introverts.

Sounds like my kind of party.

Learning more about why I am introverted and how much of it is actually in my control was so empowering. I loved learning about how different cultures, and even our own American culture of the past, value the ideals associated with introversion, like reflection and focus. Anyway, I won’t go into too much detail because you should really read the book yourself, but I think the best piece of advice Cain offers is to introverts is to basically, embrace who you are and stop trying to change yourself to fit others expectations. But more concretely, set a number of social gatherings you’re willing to attend, whether that be one or two a week or just one a month, and then NOT feel guilty about turning others down for a quiet evening on your couch unwinding with a book.

Extroverts energize and thrive off social gatherings; for introverts, these gatherings can be enjoyable, but are very draining. I wish someone had told me it was OK not to feel guilty about wanting to be alone rather than around other people years ago. (This is not to say I don’t love making new friends and value the relationships in my life. It’s just I am much, much more of a one-on-one conversation, warm-up-to-you-slowly-after-I-test-the-waters kind of girl.)

I also thought it was interesting how Cain puts up a critical mirror to contemporary work life, specifically how common open floor plans are in office areas. Research has shown these open formats can cause stress and decrease work productivity in employees, especially the introverts. People become paranoid about making phone calls when everyone can hear them, and what people are seeing on their clearly visible computer screen — even if they are hardworking employees doing no wrong.

I totally get this. I mean, I share a giant cubicle with TWO other people. I rarely EVER have a private moment at work. We have all been praised and scolded by our boss in front of one another, so at this point, it’s all been a bit of a bonding experience. We also share a communal chocolate drawer, so there’s that little perk, too.

At least I genuinely enjoy the company of my two cubicle-mates and the nature of our work is often collaborative. We also have an unspoken rule that if you need to get a lot done individually or just need some “space” (however metaphorical that term might be in actuality), you just pop in your ear buds and listen to some music. It’s kind of like the avoiding eye contact on the crowded subway trick. You know everyone is still there, but they don’t seem quite so present.

But there are some things I’ll never fully get over about the open format of an office: you always know what everyone else is having for lunch (and vice versa), you can hear people getting fussed at by their superiors, you can hear a salesperson anxiously making a pitch on the phone, you know when such-and-such is NOT happy with their nanny. You always, always have the sense someone is looking over your shoulder, monitoring your every move. You learn to tolerate it, but who dictated that work has to be this way? And why did they think it was a good or fair idea? Cain explores the answer to this very question.

All in all, I hope that everyone who reads this book, introverts and extroverts alike, walks away with a greater appreciation for the fact that this world is made up of a whole lot of very different individuals. We all work and think and feel a little differently, but we all have something worthwhile to bring to the table. Sounds cheesy, but it’s true.

Rory Gilmore, a champion for introverted, bookish girls everywhere.

My personal advice to fellow introverts is to practice striking up conversations with new individuals you meet. You might not ever be the life of the party — at least, not without sweating through your shirt and your sweater first — but you can learn how to be the one to initiate a relationship. I personally challenged myself to make at least one new friend in every class I took in college. I found it a lot easier to meet people one-on-one, so I never felt overwhelmed or like I was competing to participate. I met so many interesting, wonderful people by this random process, and I never had to worry about registering for courses just to have it with a friend. I even made a friend on my bus route this way! (Technically, he was my downstairs neighbor, and he later came forward as a “secret admirer” type, but whatever. I still count our briefly lived friendship as an introvert-success.) I was able to hold several leadership positions by my senior year. When people recognized my picture in the college newspaper, I was able to resist the urge to crawl under my desk, and rock back-and-forth while assuming the fetal position.

I used to get super-nervous just ordering food at restaurants or making customer service calls without writing down or rehearsing in my head exactly what I wanted to say. I used to turn beet red every time I answered a question in class (which was a lot, weirdly enough). But after working really hard at learning not to be so intimidated by strangers in college, I was able to work as a local newspaper reporter for a year after graduating. I made cold calls every single day and met with strangers for long conversations in coffee shops. It helped to have a real reason for talking to them, but GUYS. I DID IT!!! So you can, too.

(P.S. Participating in public performance-like activities, like playing the clarinet and ballet, helped me too. Sometimes you need something that involves a lot of behind-the-scenes repetition before you “go public” with it to make you learn how to handle putting yourself in front of crowds.)

Facebook-stalking my cat

Yes, this is possible.

As part of my work with Anjellicle Cats Rescue, I started posting new photos of cats from weekend adoption events to the cat listings on AdoptaPet.com. As I was looking through the Facebook album from this past weekend (where we pull the photos from for the other website listings), I thought, “Hmmm, I wonder if there are any pics of Ali on here from when she was up for adoption?!?”

And guys, there were total professional-quality glamour shots of her!

*model face*

Would it be weird if I got these printed and framed and hung one in a giant blown-up version above my fireplace? How come people can have paintings of their DOGS displayed in their homes, and this is very regal and aristocratic, but if you did it with your cats, it’s just plain weird?

OK, so on Saturday night I did see a man walking his cat on a leash in our neighborhood. And I feel so bad because the words, “Oh. My. God.” escaped from my mouth before I could stop them, and the man kind of gave me a look like, “What is your problem?!?” And I wanted to tell him, “Oh, no, this is amazing. I LOVE cats! My cat won’t even let me hug her properly, and your cat is outside! That is wonderful. What a feat.”

But I mean, if you are walking your cat on a leash in a very public place on a Saturday night, you’ve gotta know you’re going to get some funny looks. Especially if your cat wanders off into the doorway of a bar, as this cat was doing, getting laughter from a lot of drunk people stepping out for a cigarette break.

The cat seemed quite content and unphased by the whole ordeal, by the way.

Anyway, cats are awesome — on leashes or off of them. And I am so glad to have Ali-girl/Miss Kitty/Cuddlebug/other-embarrassing-names-I-call-my-cat-when-no-one-is-around in my life!

I’d adopt you again in a heartbeat, cat-daughter.

OK. I’ll stop.

Spring organization

Earlier this evening, after a Sunday of much cleaning and a Monday of working late, I guess I got really caught up in a bout of productivity and stopped by The Container Store on my way home. I wish I hadn’t.

It’s two floors of products for your every organizational need — even those you didn’t think you had. It’s a place of doom for the wallets of perfectionists. I managed to escape with only three items. Mainly because one was a bulky canvas container and the other was a long box containing a two-tiered shoe rack and I was going to tote them all home on public transportation. Because in addition to being a perfectionist, I am also incredibly frugal.

Yes, I was that girl everyone gave death stares when she carried on her Santa Claus-worthy sack of home organization goods onto the 6 train. And into the CVS pharmacy line. But whatever. I GOT ORGANIZED.

I came home, and assembled the shoe rack by myself. Then I re-organized the bottom of our closet, gaining at least two square feet of storage space “beneath” our closet. I re-folded all of the towels in the linen closet, and placed all of my kitchen towels and washcloths in a snazzy new container. I emptied out the only real drawer in my kitchen, my kitchen cart drawer (above), and organized all my culinary gizmos and gadgets.

I am very pleased with my de-cluttered spaces.

Now I am envisioning a fully re-organized apartment, with little compartments and crannies for everything, from paper clips to old birthday cards. Whole empty, spacious rooms will spring up from nowhere, giving our little home infinite possibilities.

Did I mention that The Container Store is only two blocks away from my office? Oh, dear me.

High school, a story.

Against my better judgment and Sean’s taunting, I’ve been watching the second season of Glee on Netflix out of desire to watch a TV show that is still “new” to me. If you’ve seen Glee, then you know an ongoing gag in the show is the members of the Glee Club get “slushie facials” from the bullies of the school — in short, they get ice cold, unnaturally colored beverages thrown in their faces.

This never makes sense to me because at my high school, the closest thing we had to Glee Club was Opus, our most selective choir group, and they were like superstars at our school. We band kids should have been getting the slushie facials. There is nothing cool about hats with plumes or memorizing arpeggios. Being able to sing and dance is kind of awesome.

Anyway, all this fictional depiction of bullying made me think about a really great feature I read in New York magazine last month, “Why You Never Truly Leave High School.” In short, this article details the long-lasting psychological effects being the bullied nerd — or alternatively, the ruling Queen Bee — while in high school can have upon a person. Kind of depressing stuff. Get this: the kids who were nerds were painfully aware of it and never forgot. The kids that other kids deemed “popular” always thought someone else was more popular than them. In short, no one is ever happy with their social status. Or so this article says.

Of course, we all know the ultimate Queen Bee is Regina George.

While I never felt bullied in high school, the way I saw other kids were, I felt the worst I was ever treated was completely ignored. I distinctly remember one “group” assignment in my freshman English class, in which by some horrible fate of luck, I was stuck in a group of three with two Queen Bees. I studiously began flipping through my novel and working on the assignment right away. One girl looked at the other and said, as if I was a chair and not a human being, “Looks like she’ll take care of it.” And then the two proceeded to gossip away.

While that isn’t a fun memory by any means, I was happy to have formed friendships with other hard-working, ambitious peers. We had pizza study parties with our history teacher on speed dial and exchanged calculus notes on long marching band trips. Our lives were not the glamorous making of teen movies, but most of us got college scholarships, and a few are in medical school now, so I think we did OK for ourselves in the end.

But there is one incident from high school that I will never forget. It makes me crack up now, but at the time, not so much.

You know that part in The Princess Diaries? “Someone sat on me again”? That actually happened to me. I’m not even joking.

You see, it all started in the eighth grade. I had just moved from rural Southern Maryland to Northwestern Florida. I spent my first lunch there in tears, missing my childhood friends from up north so much I thought I would be sick to my stomach. (FYI, I do not recommend doing this on your first day at a new school. It’s not so great for making new friends.)

So there was that, and then this boy in my algebra class had developed an inexplicable fixation with me. Every time I went to answer a question on the white board — and I’m a nerd, so this was often — he would watch with rapt attention. After class, he’d follow me down the sidewalk (Florida schools tend to lack hallways, going for more of an outdoorsy approach that everyone scorns on rainy days), and we’d have incredibly deep conversations like this:

Him: Hi.

Me: Hi.

Him: You’re new here. Where are you from?

Me: Maryland.

Him: Cool.

Me: …

Him: You’re so quiet.

Me: …

Him: But I like you. You’re cute.

Me: …………………….

Him: Bye.

Me: Bye.

My painful shyness did not help these conversations as you can see. But let me tell you a little more about my eighth-grade admirer. He was on the football team. He had long, swoopy hair like every other Florida boy. He wore a blue Hurley hoodie every day. He “surfed” (still not sure how this is quite possible on Florida waves). He was one of those kids who had somehow, at 13, managed to show up at school smelling faintly of pot, with the telltale bloodshot eyes. So, yeah, basically “dreamboat” by stereotypical Florida middle school standards. If you like potheads and prime community college material, I guess.

Let me tell you about me in the eighth-grade. I had bangs and glasses. I made my mom drive me to the public library once a week. I was obsessed with the Disney Channel. I coveted all things Limited Too. My crush was young Christian Bale in Little Women (oh wait, this is still true):

So you’ll have to excuse me if I was a little flustered one day at lunch, as I applied ranch dressing to my salad, when this fellow — who deserves no identity protection, so we’ll just call him like it is, Micah — shouted “Hey! Hey, you, Rebecca!”

I turn.

“Will you go out with me?”

I turn beet red. All of his swoopy-haired, “surfer” dude-friend are staring at me. I want to dissolve into the economy-size tub of ranch dressing. I am 13. What does that even mean? Will you go out with me? Why me? Why is this happening?!?

I bite my lip, scrunch my nose, shake my head.

“ARE YOU SERIOUS?!?”

The friends are laughing, and I nod, and dart away in a beet-red flurry.

It is only later that I realize that it was the day before a much-anticipated field trip to Mobile, Alabama, a good two- or three-hour drive away by bus. We got to choose our bus-buddies. Micah obviously was planning ahead. You see, the ultimate in eighth-grade “relationships” is hand-holding. Field trips are good for that.

The rest of eighth-grade algebra was uneventful. Micah by and large ignored me. By spring semester, he was switched to another algebra period because his schedule changed as football season became baseball season. My face glued to the white board, I hardly noticed.

Fast-forward to sophomore year of high school, the first day of classes. English II Honors. I snag a seat near a friend, and stare in horror as none other than 15-year-old Micah strolls in. I am even more horrified as we are re-seated in alphabetical horror, placing Micah C. directly behind me, Rebecca B.

I ultimately decide I am being stupid. Micah C., member of the JV football team, has forgotten about his fleeting eighth-grade affections and my rejection of him. Besides, I love English. He was not going to ruin this class for me.

Me, in high school, minus the poofy hair.

I was so wrong.

Over the next few weeks, Micah developed a reputation as the class clown. His favorite prank was calling the classroom phone number on his cell, and then hanging up as soon as our teacher made it over. He also would steal her dry erase markers when she wasn’t looking upon entering the classroom, then roll them across the floor in the middle of her lectures, completely perplexing our somewhat senile instructor. (Charming guy, huh?)

Then one day, he dropped his pencil on the floor. On accident, I think. It rolled to the side of my desk. I was about to fetch it for him, like a nice person, when he strolled up out of his desk, bent over to grab his pencil…and then SAT ON ME. Like, actually, physically sat on me to reach his pencil.

After, he jumped up in fake-surprise and exclaimed, “Wow, I didn’t even see you there!”

Some of the Queen Bees who were smitten with his antics started snickering. I felt the beet-red come to my cheeks, and stared determinedly at my notebook for the rest of class. I still have no clue how I made it through the rest of the year with that jerk sitting behind me.

Looking back, I think it’s ridiculous I still remember this incident. It’s not like I was shoved into a locker, had nasty things written about me in the ladies’ room, was stood up for prom or any of the stereotypical teenage torments you see in movie. Probably everyone else in that one class of 25 students, save Micah and myself, forgot about the incident by lunch break that day. I know that.

But I haven’t forgotten in eight years.

So yeah, that New York magazine article? Scary accurate.

I’m not looking for any sympathy because it was such a minor incidence, and it makes me laugh now. If you’re wondering, Micah didn’t even make it through community college. Looking at his life versus mine now, I think I am entitled to the last laugh (again, see the New York mag article, or look at Mark Zuckerberg’s life, for the geeks shall inherit the earth). But it is annoying, you know, how the littlest things are intensified emotionally by five million when you’re an adolescent, searing such little embarrassing instances on your brain forever.

My advice is to be nice to everyone. Even the girls who don’t want to sit next to you on the field trip bus.

Did anything awful happen to you in high school? Please tell me I’m not the only one who got sat on, hahaha.

P.S. Second-most-awful high school incidence: The time my own homeroom teacher gave me detention for forgetting my student ID at home. Student IDs were no longer enforced two weeks later. There is nothing more comical than a high school salutatorian trying to remain invisible in after-school detention.

Being a Professional Grammar Queen

I realize I haven’t written much of anything about my job since when I accepted the position in August. It’s hard to believe it’s already been six months, as of yesterday, since my start date! The time has passed quickly, but it’s also astounding to me just how much I’ve learned in that short period of time.

When I meet new people and they ask me what I do for a job, I usually reply, “I’m a copy editor for a trade magazine.” Short, sweet, and simple. To some people — accountants, mainly — this sounds really cool. I avoid using my technical title, “desk editor,” because that is even more vague to the outside world. But does anyone know what copy editors do, really?

I certainly didn’t know what a copy editor was when I was high school, which is the age when you are most likely to be asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I received plenty of suggestions from my teachers: go to medical school (from my biology teacher, unaware of how embarrassingly squeamish I am), be a female engineer (from my calculus teacher, who sadly did not realize that I am a word- and not a numbers-person), be this, be that. But no one ever suggested copy editing!

Which is too bad, really, because copy editing is a job that was developed just for people like me.

I get to read stuff all day (news stories, continuing education lessons, whooo!) and wield my Grammar Queen Red Pen of Power. JK, I do almost all editing on the computer. And if that weren’t enough to delight this little bookworm/news junkie, I get to do page design, too.

Page design is my favorite. It’s a combination of creativity and precision. I get to choose arrangements and colors that are pleasing to the eye, and I also get to do really finicky things like make sure everything is lined up juuuust right and that the spaces between, say, two articles is the ideal amount (if anyone is wondering, it’s one pica, or 1/6 of an inch). There’s rulers and grids and color palettes and FONTS, so many fonts involved. Adobe InDesign is my happy place.

In short, my job is to take information the reporters have gathered and present it to the reader in a way that is accessible, organized, and appealing. You could also say I put words and pictures on pieces of paper. Ha.

I also get to do other stuff that while not necessarily fun, still surprises me that I get to do for a job and get paid for it. Things like (I kid you not) wading through hundreds of photos to pick the prettiest ones, then processing them through Photoshop. Sometimes I make slideshow photo galleries for our website. I can assemble digital editions of the magazine that allow you to click on a specific article on the table of contents, and flip directly to that page. Sometimes I use a special computer program so that when readers scan a certain logo in the magazine with their smartphones, an additional video, podcast, or photo gallery will pop up. (That last one is actually really cool. I always triple-check anything I’ve programmed for scanning, mainly to relive the coolness again and again.)

I’ve learned how to use iMovie at a very, very basic level, and how to tag items in InDesign with XML so they can be easily uploaded to our website. I can make infographics and charts galore in Illustrator. I think I’ve finally figured out most of the Apple keyboard shortcuts for Adobe Creative Suite. Or at least the ones I feel the need to know.

And I know I will keep learning new things.

I love working in media/journalism/publishing because it’s such a dynamic industry. Yes, print is dying, but publications are not. News and current events will never cease to be important There are so many innovative ways to redesign the traditional print publication into something paperless and interactive. I can’t wait to see what will be thought up next.

(If you, too, are a professional interested in the changing mass media industry or are just a consumer who is curious about how news is made, I suggest the NY Times‘ blog Media Decoder, as well as mediabistro’s daily e-newsletter. Also, if you have Netflix, watch the documentary Page One. Throw in The September Issue and Helvetica for more fun info about the publication production process and typography/graphic design, respectively. You’re welcome.)

I love getting to work in an industry that is in some ways a little antiquated — I’ve always yearned for the bygone years of my favorite classical novels — but also exceedingly modern. As a liberal arts major, I know how invaluable it is to have so many hard skills and proficiency in numerous computer programs. I like the confident, valued feeling of knowing I have the ability to do something that not everyone else can, that I do something much more than fix misplaced commas and write headlines. (But believe me, writing headlines takes skill like you would not believe. Writing headlines is the bane of my existence.)

So, all in all, everything with my job is going really well. Is it my “dream job”? No. But my dream job is something like getting paid millions to recommend my favorite books to customers in a bookstore while drinking lattes and petting cats all day. Or, OK, working for a newsy consumer magazine, like Time or New York. Or maaaayyybeeee Martha Stewart Living or Real Simple.

But my current job is a good stepping stone, with lots of responsibility and potential for growth during my time here.

Other perks: lovely coworkers, short commute on public transportation (less than 30 minutes), K-Cup machine, casual dress code. Getting to work on a Mac at a desk with a window view (you know, of another building and pigeons) isn’t so bad either.

I will never cease to be grateful for the opportunities given to me. I’m not going to pretend like I didn’t work insanely hard to land two full-time, salaried journalism jobs in the first two years out of undergrad. But I do know at least part of the reason I’m here is luck, and for that, I am forever grateful.

Television ‘comfort food’

With the snow here, I’ve been nostalgic for Gilmore Girls, probably because it seems like it is always winter in Stars Hollow, Connecticut. This show is also the chicken soup for my soul.

Sean always makes fun of me for cycling through the seasons for the millionth time since high school, but I can’t help it. Something about the familiar cast of eccentric characters, the quirky small town setting, the witty banter, it just makes me feel warm and cozy inside.

And every time I watch the show, I seem to get a few more of the literary and pop culture references (my favorite, from Paris during her college daily editor-in-chief days: “Journalism is an art form, and the best art is created under repression, like Stalin’s Gulag. You think Solzhenitsyn could’ve written ‘One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich’ on a yoga retreat?”). So it’s never quite the same, you see.

As I watch the second season, and Jess is first introduced to the show, I’m reminded so much of how much I loved the relationship between him and Rory. It is the ultimate romance for book-lovers. Take this scene centered around Rory’s copy of Howl:

RORY: You stole my book.

JESS: Nope, borrowed it.

RORY: Okay, that’s not called a trick, that’s called a felony.

JESS: I just wanted to put some notes in the margins for you.

RORY: What? [looks through the book] You’ve read this before.

JESS: About forty times.

RORY: I thought you said you didn’t read much.

JESS: Well, what is much? Goodnight, Rory.

RORY: Goodnight, Dodger.

JESS: Dodger?

RORY: Figure it out.

JESS: Oliver Twist.

—

Ugh, so good. Jess is every bookworm’s dream boyfriend. Also, he’s from New York, so he’s super-cool, OK?

Did you know there’s actually a Rory Gilmore Reading Challenge list of all the books referenced or shown in the television series? It always makes me feel pleased with myself when they reference a book I’ve read (“Just call me Ponyboy.” in reference to The Outsiders, or “My mother, the Howard Roark of Stars Hollow.” in reference to The Fountainhead).

Rory has always been one of my favorite fictional characters because I liked that especially in the early seasons, she was very shy and studious — which made her sooo much more relateable for me than anyone on other teen shows of my high school years like The O.C. or One Tree Hill.

Fun fact: Rory and I also have the same birthday (October 8) and college major (English). We’re also both from small towns with funny names (Stars Hollow, Niceville) that host annual events (like the Boggy Bayou Mullet Festival in Niceville). We both were editors at our college newspapers and got our first “grown-up” jobs as reporters. We also both had our long-term college boyfriends propose to us shortly before college graduation, although we gave different answers. We’re basically twins. Except I don’t have wealthy New England grandparents who sent me to Yale or a mom who had me at 16, but that’s OK.

Do you have a favorite TV show that always makes you feel a little happier than before you started watching it? I feel more relaxed as soon as the opening credits of Gilmore Girls come on.

Hello, Winter.

It snowed a beautiful snow Friday evening. Glittery, dry powdery snow that didn’t melt on the heavily salted sidewalks, but formed a soft carpet that looked like it belonged in a miniature Christmas village display on someone’s mantle. Snow like this snow makes New York a magical, quiet place. Fewer people go out to begin with, and the footsteps of those who do wander about are muffled. Even the noisy, ceaseless traffic sounds seem to fade away.

Don’t get me wrong though. It has been very cold here. The kind of cold that stings the face and causes the legs to go numb. The kind of sub-freezing temperatures that make a person ponder if it is possible to suffer hypothermia of the eyes. Thank God for cashmere-lined leather gloves, down-filled parkas, and fleece scarves. There will forever remain little to be done about the nose, unfortunately.

We warmed ourselves up on Friday with a Sri Lankan dinner at one of our favorite hole-in-the-wall places, Sigiri. Full of fragrant spices and clear-your-sinuses heat, our stomachs were warm all the way home, full of kottu roti, a popular roadside dish in Sri Lanka (I am 99.9% certain Sigiri is the “cramped restaurant squashed between two obnoxiously iridescent, LED-lacquered Indian restaurants” mentioned anonymously in the linked article).

When we got home, I put on my new moccasin-style slippers (faux fur-lined, mmmm!) and made a steaming hot pot of hot cocoa on the stovetop.

The next natural thing to do was, of course, curl up with my favorite feel-good movie, You’ve Got Mail. Sigh. Don’t even get me started. Meg Ryan’s character has my dream life: adorable Upper West Side apartment, classic wardrobe, charming neighborhood children’s bookstore, butterfly-on-the-subway sightings. And Tom Hanks is impossibly charming in this film. The Pride & Prejudice references! The NYC scenery (H&H Bagels, Grey’s Papaya, Riverside Park, etc.)! The not-quite-quotable, but oh-so-true lines: “The whole purpose of places like Starbucks is for people with no decision-making ability whatsoever to make six decisions just to buy one cup of coffee. […] So people who don’t know what the hell they’re doing or who on earth they are can, for only $2.95, get not just a cup of coffee but an absolutely defining sense of self: Tall! Decaf! Cappuccino!”

We spent the vast majority of the weekend inside, although we did brave the cold to get a couple of scones to-go from Alice’s Tea Cup, Chapter III  and coffees from Oren’s Daily Roast for cheap and delicious brunch. (I wish every meal could be brunch. Brunch is the best. Brunch needs to be a thing everywhere, to the extent that it is a thing in New York.)

I also journeyed through Middle-earth a lot with Frodo and the gang, and their hardships made my winter coldness hardships seem a lot more bearable.

In other winter news, I finally put the microfleece blanket we got as a wedding gift on our bed, right between the T-shirt sheets and the fluffy comforter, officially transforming our bed into the most comfortable bed of all time. If only I could master Ali’s level of lethargy, and sleep 18+ hours a day without ever feeling much more energized.

Here’s a Winter-song for you: