The sex advice Dan Savage has a book of his best columns compiled in a book. In this book, there is a section of what he’s termed the “how’d that happen.” My favorite of the entirely bizarre and just plain wrong letters is about a woman who is house sitting and wakes up to the oral pleasuring of a frisky dog which drives her onto climax. While the whole situation is ridiculous, her next statement is the stinger: “and then the next night it happened again.” I remember sitting in the dorm room lounge at the end of the hall my freshman year and passing the book around, reading the letters out loud, and giggling for hours.
Sometimes there are things in real life, though never (in my experience at least) relating to dogs and oral sex, that beg the question: how’d that happen? I asked it when I got into a college that my high school grades certainly should have restricted me from getting into (math and I were not one after my freshman year of high school!) And I asked that again when my phone rang on Thursday morning as I climbed the steps that led out of Columbia’s subterranean gym, which I had illegally infiltrated with the help of a friend’s student I.D.
Despite my complete and total flub of getting back to the D.C. non-profit organization about setting up an interview two weeks after they initially called me and even with multiple interview responses to the president and founder that could be construed by some as contentious (which would be a kind euphemism to say the least), when I picked up my cell phone, I was greeted by the organization’s executive director who happily stated, “I’d like to offer you the job.” Without hesitation, I responded, “I’d like to accept it.”
I had attained employment and the fairly impressive title of “associate director for membership and events.” No matter that I was certainly more qualified to write an academic paper about a membership department rather than actually start one.
I left New York on early Friday morning entirely tired and excited and nervous. I needed to find a place to live and I knew that I should probably go back to D.C. that weekend and start looking. But the exhaustion drew me home.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Sunday, February 18, 2007
The Gas Man on the Jersey Turnpike
The more I thought about it, the more I realized how ridiculous it was to turn right back around after my interview and drive home. I was only 4 hours from New York, so I made a couple of phone calls, climbed back into the car and was off to Gotham for the first time since I had left it nearly three months earlier.
The New Jersey Turnpike has gained a pretty foul and somewhat unwarranted reputation over the years. Sure, it is not the most picturesque road in America (many images of it are featured in a book about the world’s most boring postcards) but it does have a certain charm to it.
Though the drive from D.C. to NYC takes you through four states, the end stretch, which runs the entire length of the New Jersey Turnpike, feels like it takes 10 hours. I think it is the anticipation of being in New York City so soon that instills this feeling. It certainly isn’t because the highway, which plays host to many drivers cruising at 85 mph +, has a reputation for strict speed limit enforcement.
My car is pretty darn fuel efficient, it’s one of the reasons that I bought it. And though it could easily make it from D.C. to NYC on one tank of gas, I opted to get gas near the city so that I could get on the road quickly and easily a couple of days later. New Jersey has a long-standing law that all gas stations are full service, you can actually be ticketed for pumping your own gas. As I pulled up to the pump, an older gentleman greeted me. He asked me what kind of gas I desired and with no irony, I was actually given the opportunity to say “fill’er up.” I then climbed out of the car to stretch my legs and wash the back windshield.
I should have known that this would lead to some discussion because the whole world has something to say and I apparently seem like the girl to say it to. He noticed my Illinois license plates and began chatting about it being a long drive. Somehow this conversation turned into this man offering (I think in jest, but it was hard to tell) to trade his maroon, luxury conversion van for my compact four door sedan. I humored the guy and asked him what kind of gas mileage his van got. He told me about 16 miles/gallon to which I said, “I can’t afford to pay that much for gas.”
This exchange apparently meant that we were friends and he asked me if I had left a husband behind in Illinois. I still haven’t figured out why everyone thinks I have a husband. I’ve looked approximately 19 years old since I was 13. This guy was honestly 65 years old and within three minutes of meeting me he was asking me about my personal life. As I’ve mentioned before, though I hardly ever have an actual boyfriend, when asked by a stranger about my husband/ boyfriend/girlfriend/Malaysian slave boy, I do indeed have one about who I can gush on cue and describe in exhaustive detail. Thank God for an overactive imagination.
My tank was filled, my windshield was washed, my legs were stretched and after paying for the gas, I bid adieu to my new acquaintance and drove away.
As I zoomed down the final stretch of the Turnpike and paid the $6 toll to cross the George Washington Bridge (in true NYC fashion, they only charge you to enter, but they are so happy when you leave that it costs nothing to travel back to Jersey over the bridge) my overactive imagination went to work again. The NJ gas man had probably been doing his job for many years and I wondered if he was happy doing it, how many kids he had, if he had been able to provide for them, if some of them were gas men and women too.
The late winter, mid afternoon sun blared like a car horn as I crossed the bridge and the Manhattan skyline came into view. The scene aroused feelings of happiness and nostalgia. But, for some reason, I kept thinking about the NJ gas man.
The New Jersey Turnpike has gained a pretty foul and somewhat unwarranted reputation over the years. Sure, it is not the most picturesque road in America (many images of it are featured in a book about the world’s most boring postcards) but it does have a certain charm to it.
Though the drive from D.C. to NYC takes you through four states, the end stretch, which runs the entire length of the New Jersey Turnpike, feels like it takes 10 hours. I think it is the anticipation of being in New York City so soon that instills this feeling. It certainly isn’t because the highway, which plays host to many drivers cruising at 85 mph +, has a reputation for strict speed limit enforcement.
My car is pretty darn fuel efficient, it’s one of the reasons that I bought it. And though it could easily make it from D.C. to NYC on one tank of gas, I opted to get gas near the city so that I could get on the road quickly and easily a couple of days later. New Jersey has a long-standing law that all gas stations are full service, you can actually be ticketed for pumping your own gas. As I pulled up to the pump, an older gentleman greeted me. He asked me what kind of gas I desired and with no irony, I was actually given the opportunity to say “fill’er up.” I then climbed out of the car to stretch my legs and wash the back windshield.
I should have known that this would lead to some discussion because the whole world has something to say and I apparently seem like the girl to say it to. He noticed my Illinois license plates and began chatting about it being a long drive. Somehow this conversation turned into this man offering (I think in jest, but it was hard to tell) to trade his maroon, luxury conversion van for my compact four door sedan. I humored the guy and asked him what kind of gas mileage his van got. He told me about 16 miles/gallon to which I said, “I can’t afford to pay that much for gas.”
This exchange apparently meant that we were friends and he asked me if I had left a husband behind in Illinois. I still haven’t figured out why everyone thinks I have a husband. I’ve looked approximately 19 years old since I was 13. This guy was honestly 65 years old and within three minutes of meeting me he was asking me about my personal life. As I’ve mentioned before, though I hardly ever have an actual boyfriend, when asked by a stranger about my husband/ boyfriend/girlfriend/Malaysian slave boy, I do indeed have one about who I can gush on cue and describe in exhaustive detail. Thank God for an overactive imagination.
My tank was filled, my windshield was washed, my legs were stretched and after paying for the gas, I bid adieu to my new acquaintance and drove away.
As I zoomed down the final stretch of the Turnpike and paid the $6 toll to cross the George Washington Bridge (in true NYC fashion, they only charge you to enter, but they are so happy when you leave that it costs nothing to travel back to Jersey over the bridge) my overactive imagination went to work again. The NJ gas man had probably been doing his job for many years and I wondered if he was happy doing it, how many kids he had, if he had been able to provide for them, if some of them were gas men and women too.
The late winter, mid afternoon sun blared like a car horn as I crossed the bridge and the Manhattan skyline came into view. The scene aroused feelings of happiness and nostalgia. But, for some reason, I kept thinking about the NJ gas man.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
The Interview
I had lunch with my friend Amanda before I headed down to the office of the non-profit organization that I was interviewing at. She had a look of semi-shock when I met her near the Metro station dressed to the nines in a black suit and red shirt. My hair was even brushed.
After lunch and a shoe change in the U.S. Postal Museum which was located across the street from the office I was interviewing at, I entered the 2 employee (and one intern) office of the organization. I was interviewed by three men: the associate director, the executive director and the founder/president.
I don’t recollect everything that I said during the 45 minute question and answer session, but I immediately knew, upon meeting the president, that I didn’t like him. He was a certain type of man, a type of man that past experience had proved I didn’t like. I had friends who had fathers like him, the neurotic, obnoxious, bright Jewish man who has no sense of tact or appropriateness. Throughout the meeting, he phrased questions in such a way to garner critical, sometimes combative answers. Or maybe that was just my personality shining through.
The position I interviewed for was for an associate director of membership and events. Mr. President asked me about my ability to and experience in organizing and running events. After giving a response about being flexible and sensitive to people who are used to being coddled (a lesson that this individual had obviously never learned) he followed up with another question. He looked at me and said, “well I’m sure you do quite well with the VIP individuals, but what about the guy who is in charge of the sound system who doesn’t want to be there and isn’t doing his job.”
I don’t think I thought before I responded, but from my mouth tumbled the response, “I think your first problem would be going into a situation with the assumption that a person isn’t there to do his or her job. If you assume the worst in a person, if you don’t respect their abilities, of course they won’t do their job. I surely wouldn’t.”
I looked up at the President and recognized disdain in his face. I looked at the other two men and after a moment, a giant grin spread across the executive director’s face. Someone was in my corner.
After lunch and a shoe change in the U.S. Postal Museum which was located across the street from the office I was interviewing at, I entered the 2 employee (and one intern) office of the organization. I was interviewed by three men: the associate director, the executive director and the founder/president.
I don’t recollect everything that I said during the 45 minute question and answer session, but I immediately knew, upon meeting the president, that I didn’t like him. He was a certain type of man, a type of man that past experience had proved I didn’t like. I had friends who had fathers like him, the neurotic, obnoxious, bright Jewish man who has no sense of tact or appropriateness. Throughout the meeting, he phrased questions in such a way to garner critical, sometimes combative answers. Or maybe that was just my personality shining through.
The position I interviewed for was for an associate director of membership and events. Mr. President asked me about my ability to and experience in organizing and running events. After giving a response about being flexible and sensitive to people who are used to being coddled (a lesson that this individual had obviously never learned) he followed up with another question. He looked at me and said, “well I’m sure you do quite well with the VIP individuals, but what about the guy who is in charge of the sound system who doesn’t want to be there and isn’t doing his job.”
I don’t think I thought before I responded, but from my mouth tumbled the response, “I think your first problem would be going into a situation with the assumption that a person isn’t there to do his or her job. If you assume the worst in a person, if you don’t respect their abilities, of course they won’t do their job. I surely wouldn’t.”
I looked up at the President and recognized disdain in his face. I looked at the other two men and after a moment, a giant grin spread across the executive director’s face. Someone was in my corner.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Saturday Afternoon in Iowa City, Iowa
By the time mid-February rolled around, I had already become pretty dismayed by the job search process. Every report that I read or caught on the news claimed that the class of 2002 faced the worst job market that any group of college graduates had faced in 12 years. No one was calling me back about jobs, when I called to follow up on my resume I was often informed that the position had already been filled.
In the midst of this all, my ever-supportive parents were completely renovating the first floor of my childhood home. They had converted the basement into a saw dust covered bunker where they cooked meals on a $9.99 hot plate, a George Foreman grill and in a microwave so old it guaranteed that all the food was contaminated with carcinogens. This was a pretty bleak environment to live in. Workmen occupied the house all day and I took refuge in the den where I more than made up for many years of not watching television and continually raised the high score (eventually to somewhere around 160,000 points) on our family Gameboy version of Tetris.
I needed a break from this all, and friends who attended relatively nearby colleges were more than happy to play weekend host. One weekend, I stormed through the Tundra-like flatland of Wisconsin to visit my friend, and former co-summer camp counselor, Meg, at St. Norbert’s College in DePere (pronounced Da Pier). Why I would opt to go further north in the dead of winter is a bit beyond me.
The following weekend I headed out to Iowa City, Iowa to visit a high school friend, Carrie. As I drove into town I was immediately struck by the number of blonde people that were around me. I felt like my dark brown hair made me stand out. However, I was pleased to find that Iowa City is a surprisingly cool little town with some chill record stores, some decent rock shows, and as any Big Ten town has ample booze and obsession with college sports.
In some ways, going to college in New York (or probably any big city) denies you the opportunity to experience the conventional concept of college. Although, in Iowa City I did witness a pretty large “dykes only” game of spin-the-bottle, which probably isn’t the standard, or at least not traditional, sense of a Big Ten college town. In addition to that viewing experience, I was introduced to the offensively compelling world of “Elimidate” and I learned how to play racquetball. I was so enthusiastic about the game (racquetball, not Elimidate) that I walked around for a week proclaiming that my new life’s ambition was to become a professional racquetball player.
Saturday afternoon,, Carrie and I had reserved a court in order to do battle once again and my new favorite sport. As I was getting ready in the bathroom, I heard my cell phone ring, but I missed the call. A bit later, I picked up the phone and checked to see if the caller had left a message.
To my surprise, and soon to be chagrin, I found that not only did the caller leave a message, but that there were about 7 other messages on my voicemail dating back as far as two weeks. The one that was two weeks old was a non-profit organization in Washington, D.C. saying that they would like to set up an interview with me.
For weeks I had been moping around that no one wanted to hire me and it turned out that someone did, but I had messed up, big time. I eventually figured out that I had somehow deactivated the function that notified me when I had messages on my phone. I was frantic. I called the organization back (on Saturday afternoon, of course, no one was there) and left a frazzled message saying that I was currently out of town, but I had just received the message and I was very interested in the job.
I obsessed over the whole thing the rest of my time in Iowa City. And I waited and hoped that the organization would call me back. I hadn’t heard anything by Thursday afternoon, so I called them. I apologized profusely and explained my technical inadequacies. The guy on the other end, Rhett, relayed that they hadn’t yet filled the position, but were in the second round of interviews. He said that I had been one of the strongest candidates on paper and they would still be willing to meet with me, the only problem he foresaw was that I was in Chicago and they were in D.C.
I inquired, “when would you like to interview me?” He responded “Monday afternoon.” I replied, “that shouldn’t be a problem. Can I call you back to confirm in about an hour?” He said yes. The first thing I did when I hung up the phone was instant message my friend Chad who lived just outside of D.C. in Maryland. I asked him if I could crash on his couch for two nights. He agreed, then I ran over to AAA and got maps of the drive from Chicago to D.C. Finally, I called my parents and told them that I planned to drive out to D.C. that weekend. On Saturday morning I climbed into my car and was off.
In the midst of this all, my ever-supportive parents were completely renovating the first floor of my childhood home. They had converted the basement into a saw dust covered bunker where they cooked meals on a $9.99 hot plate, a George Foreman grill and in a microwave so old it guaranteed that all the food was contaminated with carcinogens. This was a pretty bleak environment to live in. Workmen occupied the house all day and I took refuge in the den where I more than made up for many years of not watching television and continually raised the high score (eventually to somewhere around 160,000 points) on our family Gameboy version of Tetris.
I needed a break from this all, and friends who attended relatively nearby colleges were more than happy to play weekend host. One weekend, I stormed through the Tundra-like flatland of Wisconsin to visit my friend, and former co-summer camp counselor, Meg, at St. Norbert’s College in DePere (pronounced Da Pier). Why I would opt to go further north in the dead of winter is a bit beyond me.
The following weekend I headed out to Iowa City, Iowa to visit a high school friend, Carrie. As I drove into town I was immediately struck by the number of blonde people that were around me. I felt like my dark brown hair made me stand out. However, I was pleased to find that Iowa City is a surprisingly cool little town with some chill record stores, some decent rock shows, and as any Big Ten town has ample booze and obsession with college sports.
In some ways, going to college in New York (or probably any big city) denies you the opportunity to experience the conventional concept of college. Although, in Iowa City I did witness a pretty large “dykes only” game of spin-the-bottle, which probably isn’t the standard, or at least not traditional, sense of a Big Ten college town. In addition to that viewing experience, I was introduced to the offensively compelling world of “Elimidate” and I learned how to play racquetball. I was so enthusiastic about the game (racquetball, not Elimidate) that I walked around for a week proclaiming that my new life’s ambition was to become a professional racquetball player.
Saturday afternoon,, Carrie and I had reserved a court in order to do battle once again and my new favorite sport. As I was getting ready in the bathroom, I heard my cell phone ring, but I missed the call. A bit later, I picked up the phone and checked to see if the caller had left a message.
To my surprise, and soon to be chagrin, I found that not only did the caller leave a message, but that there were about 7 other messages on my voicemail dating back as far as two weeks. The one that was two weeks old was a non-profit organization in Washington, D.C. saying that they would like to set up an interview with me.
For weeks I had been moping around that no one wanted to hire me and it turned out that someone did, but I had messed up, big time. I eventually figured out that I had somehow deactivated the function that notified me when I had messages on my phone. I was frantic. I called the organization back (on Saturday afternoon, of course, no one was there) and left a frazzled message saying that I was currently out of town, but I had just received the message and I was very interested in the job.
I obsessed over the whole thing the rest of my time in Iowa City. And I waited and hoped that the organization would call me back. I hadn’t heard anything by Thursday afternoon, so I called them. I apologized profusely and explained my technical inadequacies. The guy on the other end, Rhett, relayed that they hadn’t yet filled the position, but were in the second round of interviews. He said that I had been one of the strongest candidates on paper and they would still be willing to meet with me, the only problem he foresaw was that I was in Chicago and they were in D.C.
I inquired, “when would you like to interview me?” He responded “Monday afternoon.” I replied, “that shouldn’t be a problem. Can I call you back to confirm in about an hour?” He said yes. The first thing I did when I hung up the phone was instant message my friend Chad who lived just outside of D.C. in Maryland. I asked him if I could crash on his couch for two nights. He agreed, then I ran over to AAA and got maps of the drive from Chicago to D.C. Finally, I called my parents and told them that I planned to drive out to D.C. that weekend. On Saturday morning I climbed into my car and was off.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Giving In
I hate cell phones. Hate is not a word that I use lightly, but there is nothing I find more annoying than sitting in a lecture hall or a movie theater and hearing the familiar cackling screech of technology beckoning its owner to be readily available at all hours as I attempt to better understand Jurgen Habermas’s theories or enjoy a three dollar movie. There is nothing more rude than being stuck in close quarters, like one elevator that I had the displeasure of riding in, and listening to some hysterical 20 year old woman yelling into her cell phone at her boyfriend. Or possibly my worst experience with a cell phone was being seated next to a woman on the bus while she divulged her sexual exploits, in detail, to someone on the other end of the line.
I’ve proselytized about the evil of cell phones to my cadre of friends with little success. Most of them remind me that there are, of course, many advantages to having one: long distance calls are cheap, they make driving or late night walks home safer, they can be incredibly convenient.
During the end of January I gave in and bought a cell phone for, at least in some self-absorbed way I like to think, all the good reasons. I chose a compact, durable model that the salesman told me was made of the same plastic used in NFL players’ helmets and was popular with older folks who had trouble reading small numbers. I was psyched to have chosen the cheapest and least hip model. If I was going to give in to the cult of people who could be accessed at any given moment of any given day, I wanted to do it in the least narcissistic way possible.
Five months later, I try my best to remember all of the things I don’t like about cell phones. It’s my only phone so it works great for many a long distance call and when I’ve driving long distances, it’s certainly been functional.
But, however many ways I try and defend the decision, I know a little piece of my rebellious, idealized youthfulness died the day I entered the Sprint PCS store in Deerfield, Illinois and emerged with a Kyocera phone…a little piece of innocence I can never truly regain.
I’ve proselytized about the evil of cell phones to my cadre of friends with little success. Most of them remind me that there are, of course, many advantages to having one: long distance calls are cheap, they make driving or late night walks home safer, they can be incredibly convenient.
During the end of January I gave in and bought a cell phone for, at least in some self-absorbed way I like to think, all the good reasons. I chose a compact, durable model that the salesman told me was made of the same plastic used in NFL players’ helmets and was popular with older folks who had trouble reading small numbers. I was psyched to have chosen the cheapest and least hip model. If I was going to give in to the cult of people who could be accessed at any given moment of any given day, I wanted to do it in the least narcissistic way possible.
Five months later, I try my best to remember all of the things I don’t like about cell phones. It’s my only phone so it works great for many a long distance call and when I’ve driving long distances, it’s certainly been functional.
But, however many ways I try and defend the decision, I know a little piece of my rebellious, idealized youthfulness died the day I entered the Sprint PCS store in Deerfield, Illinois and emerged with a Kyocera phone…a little piece of innocence I can never truly regain.
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