Last night was my first night of my expensive, though (I believe), highly-regarded writing class here in NYC. Maybe I can finally learn something and fine-tune this playing around on this internet blog. We’ll see, maybe I’m just an old dog!
So anyway, I left work early, and arrived with time to spare on the correct street, before realizing that I had forgotten to bring the exact address with me. Knowing it was on this particular street and that it was held in a school, I figured it couldn’t be too difficult to find the place. Well, it was. After walking up the street and then self-consciously back again, I realized that there were a few options. There was something labeled a “seminary” which seemed to have some aspects of a school, though the people hanging outside its front doors were not children and honestly, a bit rough looking. The other option was a large and beautiful church, with a door flung wide open, making me think it was welcoming us in. I chose the church, thinking perhaps it was some sort of religious school the classes would be held in.
I walked up the stairs into a gorgeous foyer of marble-tiled floors, stained glass walls, and hanging down from the ceiling was some very large and unique chandelier, shaped somewhat like a teardrop and beautifully decorated in a rich orange-colored glass. A doorman, and another very hot man were standing there chatting. I approached slowly and asked them if the place was a school as well. “Have you come to confess your sins?” asked the cute guy. I smiled and faked offense, replying that I certainly had not. I explained to them how I was trying to find this class, and the cute guy asked if they had a website, then offered to go up to his apartment and look up the address. So, I waited down in the lobby with the chatty doorman and we talked. I should have been focused on getting more info on cute guy, but I was so enthralled with the possibility of living in a place like this (not to mention the continual opportunity to cause all sorts of horrible sins while living in a converted church). The doorman told me the apartments were gorgeous and gigantic, and a one bedroom ran $8000/month. My eyes nearly leaped out of my head in shock. I’m still wondering if that was true.
Soon, cute guy returned with the address in hand. But he didn’t stop there. Cute guy also walked me to the school, which actually turned out to be the place labeled “Seminary.” Though there were only seconds in that short walk, I was secretly screaming in my head, “Ask me out, please!” He was very kind, and definitely went out of his way (something I seem to see so seldom), and of course he was easy on the eyes. After making a comment that he would like to do something like this himself (take a writing class) sometime, my flustered and hyperbolic thank you’s, he patted me on the arm and took off back to his apartment. Nooooooo!
I know. You’re asking yourself, “Why didn’t she say anything? Do anything? Ask him out for coffee, etc.?” I know I know I know I’m an idiot. Why? Do you really want to dig into that neurotic mess? That, “I’m feeling really fat and bloated today, there’s no possible way he could be interested!” or the “Just because someone is being kind doesn’t mean they want to get into your pants.” or “I’m fooling myself/being arrogant if I think he’s interested in me,” ETC!!!!!
I’ve got issues.
Most of it has to do with my weight, which I previously have mentioned is at its all-time peak of my life. I have joined a gym and have started to go on a semi-regular basis, but the results are not quite in yet. I need about three months. In the meantime, I occasionally catch myself in the mirror and feel a slight shock at seeing myself look older/fatter than I picture myself looking during the day. Thailand gave me wrinkles and returning to America gave me fat. I’ve been ecstatically eating all this great food I haven’t seen for three years and LOTS of candy (I was a big candy eater before, now it’s worse since I’ve missed it all so much). This will all change given time. I hope.
Of course, spinning out this yarn to a small group of enthralled, female colleagues this morning, I was repeatedly told I was an idiot, had missed my chance, and, “You should’ve said ________” over and over. It’s a good way to make you feel even worse about the situation. Don’t give up on my female friends yet, they are also a great source of inspiration, and each person had their own unique way to give it another try. I think the one best suited to me in the end consists of leaving a business card (err, though I don’t technically HAVE any business cards), with the doorman who will hopefully remember me and not laugh at me (though I am dying my hair from dark brown to blonde this weekend and that may put a few kinks in the “Remember me?” approach). Let’s see if I can have an iota of courage to do this. I am hoping to do it before my next class (same time next Thursday), but if not, I was thinking, same time-same place may be the appropriate setting of action. I’ll let you know how it goes.
Saturday, April 17, 2004
Thursday, April 08, 2004
Restaurant Recommendation!
"Lima's Taste"
432 E. 13th St (between Ave. A and 1st Ave.) (212) 228-7900
According to The Economist, Peruvian food is the new, big thing. I decided to find out for myself and found this restaurant, courtesy of Zagat, right in my neighborhood! I have to tell you, this was a great experience. Typical of the best NYC restaurants, it was tiny, crowded, loud with chatter and laughter, and decorated in a charmingly gaudy fashion. But of course, what really matters is the food, and this was great!! Try the picante. A mixed seafood dish with a spicy sauce, served on rice. My roommate, kept gushing how it was "just that perfect spiciness, where it's hot, but you can still eat it and enjoy it." Despite my quest to try every small restaurant in Manhattan, we've already frequented this place three times (well, once for take-out). And oh, don't forget the sangria!! You'll be singing its praises for hours, much to others' annoyment. If you go, tell Jason the owner, that The Economist Girl sent ya!
432 E. 13th St (between Ave. A and 1st Ave.) (212) 228-7900
According to The Economist, Peruvian food is the new, big thing. I decided to find out for myself and found this restaurant, courtesy of Zagat, right in my neighborhood! I have to tell you, this was a great experience. Typical of the best NYC restaurants, it was tiny, crowded, loud with chatter and laughter, and decorated in a charmingly gaudy fashion. But of course, what really matters is the food, and this was great!! Try the picante. A mixed seafood dish with a spicy sauce, served on rice. My roommate, kept gushing how it was "just that perfect spiciness, where it's hot, but you can still eat it and enjoy it." Despite my quest to try every small restaurant in Manhattan, we've already frequented this place three times (well, once for take-out). And oh, don't forget the sangria!! You'll be singing its praises for hours, much to others' annoyment. If you go, tell Jason the owner, that The Economist Girl sent ya!
Comments...
Well, I was against adding a "comments" section on my blog for a long time. You see, I began this blog as sort of a personal diary/journal. Living in Bangkok, I knew that someday I would really WISH I had written down all the stuff I had gone through. And though it's only been about four months since I've left, I already regret that I didn't capture everything just after it happened. My memory has never been so stellar (just ask my roommate or any past beaus), and I'm afraid some great experiences will slowly fade. Even now, when once in a blue moon I look back on an old blog or email from Bangkok, I go "Wow, I had totally forgotten about that."
Finally, I put up an email address on my blog. I find it a bit unfair, and a bit cowardly to blast your strong opinions to the world and then quickly hide behind the anonymity of the web. I was shocked when I received my first email, a kind of fan letter from a very nice person. I wrote him back. He never responded. The same went for the next "fan" who wrote in. I guess if you're going to be a celebrity, you need to maintain a degree of aloofness.
I did have an author once write me when I mentioned him in a blog. I was kind of surprised since the book, though interesting, was a bit creepy to me (letters from lovesick white guys to street-savvy Thai women). He was publishing the book in the U.S. and wanted some press. I should have told him that only three people read my site including him and myself.
Glorious “Cheek,” who seems to have slowly grown a fanbase and has become a true writer all over the web, has continually pestered me to put up a comments outlet. I really haven’t been interested until lately. I guess for 1) there are such a small number of people who visit anyway, most of them through Cheek’s site. They don’t usually stay long. I have nothing shocking, extreme, outrageous, deep, and/or wonderfully amusing to say. 2) There are a million blogs about NYC. 3) I’m afraid that my comments section will be filled with vitriolic comments that will make me cry and then make me stop writing. Since I started this blog to write, capture memories, and feel good about myself, I fear the power of the "Comments!!!!!" section 4) See #3.
Alright, well, I put it up there anyway. It's accidentally squashed above the "I should move to New Zealand" phrase. It’s kind of all screwed up now since I haven’t really refined the code that is supposed to make it work. I’ll get on that later. Alright, *deep breath* I did it. Let's see what happens, if anything. Now, for me, back to the fascinating world of private banking! Wooooo!
Finally, I put up an email address on my blog. I find it a bit unfair, and a bit cowardly to blast your strong opinions to the world and then quickly hide behind the anonymity of the web. I was shocked when I received my first email, a kind of fan letter from a very nice person. I wrote him back. He never responded. The same went for the next "fan" who wrote in. I guess if you're going to be a celebrity, you need to maintain a degree of aloofness.
I did have an author once write me when I mentioned him in a blog. I was kind of surprised since the book, though interesting, was a bit creepy to me (letters from lovesick white guys to street-savvy Thai women). He was publishing the book in the U.S. and wanted some press. I should have told him that only three people read my site including him and myself.
Glorious “Cheek,” who seems to have slowly grown a fanbase and has become a true writer all over the web, has continually pestered me to put up a comments outlet. I really haven’t been interested until lately. I guess for 1) there are such a small number of people who visit anyway, most of them through Cheek’s site. They don’t usually stay long. I have nothing shocking, extreme, outrageous, deep, and/or wonderfully amusing to say. 2) There are a million blogs about NYC. 3) I’m afraid that my comments section will be filled with vitriolic comments that will make me cry and then make me stop writing. Since I started this blog to write, capture memories, and feel good about myself, I fear the power of the "Comments!!!!!" section 4) See #3.
Alright, well, I put it up there anyway. It's accidentally squashed above the "I should move to New Zealand" phrase. It’s kind of all screwed up now since I haven’t really refined the code that is supposed to make it work. I’ll get on that later. Alright, *deep breath* I did it. Let's see what happens, if anything. Now, for me, back to the fascinating world of private banking! Wooooo!
Wednesday, April 07, 2004
Mean People Suck!
So, after about five to six weeks at Barnes & Noble, I have already given them my notice (two more weeks). I don’t think I’ve ever had such an easy job that I’ve loathed so much. As I’ve mentioned before, the job is super easy, rather laid-back, and the hours are flexible. Yet, I found that every day I was dreading the shift at about the same level I dread a female pelvic exam. It’s awful, but you gotta do it, so get it over with! I’ve enjoyed and taken advantage of the 30% discount, but after NYC’s brutal 8%+ sales tax, the fringe benefit doesn’t feel so generous.
One of my biggest problems working there, besides the fact that the pay is shameful and it puts me into a state of perpetual fatigue, is the kind of people they hire. I always thought the kind of people drawn to a bookstore would be cool, well-read, interesting people. Wrong.
There are some fairly interesting people at the information desk at the main floor. They remind me of a small group of ex-hippies, (hippies typically being a group I have NEVER been found of), though I would think working at B&N would be considered selling out for them.
The majority of the rest of them though are young, young YOUNG people who think they are incredibly cool. I never thought a bookstore could be cliqueish, but OH yes it can! There are all these teenagers --> twentysomethings who know where all the books ARE, but they don’t actually KNOW the books themselves. Sometimes I feel bad that I’m not familiar with ALL the various travel guides in the travel section, because inevitably, a customer will ask you which one is best. I give my honest opinion, (i.e., “Lonely Planet is totally overrated and I think most of them suck”), but I can’t imagine talking to one of these 17 year olds who bitch and moan and don’t even seem to realize that books are kind of a wonderful thing.
There’s one of those young girls who works often with me during my shifts and she reminds me of a type of girl I once hated in middle and high school. This is a very dangerous girl. Popular, mostly though because she is mean, loud, judgmental, and conspiratorial. Because people fear her, they therefore desperately seek her approval and cling to her. It makes me want to throw up and I find myself becoming “busy” during these times, away from their little group.
Then there’s the Gorgeous Couple. A very young, very beautiful, very much “in love” couple. I believe they met on the job here at B&N and somehow managed to get all their schedules to coincide. So, as I’m busily putting books away and helping customers, I occasionally pass them, rooted somewhere between the “Weddings” and “Writing” sections, gazing into each other’s eyes.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The other problem I have with this young and slothful group, is there total lack of customer service skills. Admittedly, I believe strongly in this “customer service culture” which is so strong and healthy in the U.S. I guess it comes from spending time abroad where you really notice a difference and learn to appreciate the sing-songy, “May I help you?” of American sales people instead of the occasionally hostile or indifferent attitudes in other countries. I guess NYers kind of take something away from that culture. The longer I live here, the more depressed I get as that old stereotype of them might be true: NYers are fucking mean.
My roommate (originally from the Midwest, living here for about five years+) and I were talking about this at length on Saturday night, and his comment was that NYers aren’t rude, per se, but inconsiderate. “There’s a difference!” he said, “I don’t think they mean to be rude or maybe even aren’t aware they are. But people here are always tired and rushing around and it’s crowded….” Etc. But he did find their behavior pretty terrible.
The other day before I started my shift at B&N I strolled into the music department to ask about putting the new Solas cd on hold for myself so I could buy it on payday. I approached the young, hip, male music manager and the hot female co-worker with flowing blonde hair, the two of them deep into a pre-mating ritual of chat-ya-up! They both turned to me slowly, him looking surly at being interrupted, her giving me one of those awful, smug looks you get from women who are always competing with you on a physical level. Slowly, he answered my question with obvious reluctance. I walked away feeling a little shocked and honestly, a little hurt. I had seen him in the store a few times but never talked to him, and thought he was kind of a cute guy (so much for that). Also, I figured because I was a fellow employee, I’d get treated with some degree of friendliness and familiarity. Perhaps I am too sensitive for NYC. I fear that, like Bangkok, it will continue to harden me and make me quick to “protect myself” or “stand up for myself” which really translates to “lashing back” and “aggression” toward others.
I see it every day. People are arguing, fighting, and it’s obvious that sometimes it’s a person they know, and sometimes it’s a stranger. I think I’ve already relayed the time the woman on the subway lashed out at me for brushing against her bag as I was sitting down, and how I, pissed off at how people just constantly treat each other like dog shit, gave it right back to her. This is the problem. Anger begets anger. Aggression begets aggression. You don’t want to be the world’s doormat, so you let them know to leave you the FUCK alone! And in the end, I am afraid I will lose that piece of myself, maybe a little too sensitive for this town, but a part of me nonetheless that I cherish. Kind of makes me feel more human and less hopeless.
I guess I’m not totally immune though, the other day as I was approaching a subway entrance, I must have come upon the tail end of a typical confrontation, for as a man was descending into the station, a huffy woman shouted out, “Subway snob!” as she stomped off. I have to admit, I was dying to know what the hell that was all about. I’ve racked my brains trying to figure out what would induce her to shout out such a phrase, but I don’t come up with much.
One nice thing I got to do before I leave B&N, by the way, was submit a book for the “Staff Recommends” section. I feel very proud of that since I think the book, English Passengers by Matthew Kneale is fantastic and he’s a relatively unknown author in the U.S. I hope it sells! I hope people enjoy it and seek out more of his books as I did.
One of my biggest problems working there, besides the fact that the pay is shameful and it puts me into a state of perpetual fatigue, is the kind of people they hire. I always thought the kind of people drawn to a bookstore would be cool, well-read, interesting people. Wrong.
There are some fairly interesting people at the information desk at the main floor. They remind me of a small group of ex-hippies, (hippies typically being a group I have NEVER been found of), though I would think working at B&N would be considered selling out for them.
The majority of the rest of them though are young, young YOUNG people who think they are incredibly cool. I never thought a bookstore could be cliqueish, but OH yes it can! There are all these teenagers --> twentysomethings who know where all the books ARE, but they don’t actually KNOW the books themselves. Sometimes I feel bad that I’m not familiar with ALL the various travel guides in the travel section, because inevitably, a customer will ask you which one is best. I give my honest opinion, (i.e., “Lonely Planet is totally overrated and I think most of them suck”), but I can’t imagine talking to one of these 17 year olds who bitch and moan and don’t even seem to realize that books are kind of a wonderful thing.
There’s one of those young girls who works often with me during my shifts and she reminds me of a type of girl I once hated in middle and high school. This is a very dangerous girl. Popular, mostly though because she is mean, loud, judgmental, and conspiratorial. Because people fear her, they therefore desperately seek her approval and cling to her. It makes me want to throw up and I find myself becoming “busy” during these times, away from their little group.
Then there’s the Gorgeous Couple. A very young, very beautiful, very much “in love” couple. I believe they met on the job here at B&N and somehow managed to get all their schedules to coincide. So, as I’m busily putting books away and helping customers, I occasionally pass them, rooted somewhere between the “Weddings” and “Writing” sections, gazing into each other’s eyes.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The other problem I have with this young and slothful group, is there total lack of customer service skills. Admittedly, I believe strongly in this “customer service culture” which is so strong and healthy in the U.S. I guess it comes from spending time abroad where you really notice a difference and learn to appreciate the sing-songy, “May I help you?” of American sales people instead of the occasionally hostile or indifferent attitudes in other countries. I guess NYers kind of take something away from that culture. The longer I live here, the more depressed I get as that old stereotype of them might be true: NYers are fucking mean.
My roommate (originally from the Midwest, living here for about five years+) and I were talking about this at length on Saturday night, and his comment was that NYers aren’t rude, per se, but inconsiderate. “There’s a difference!” he said, “I don’t think they mean to be rude or maybe even aren’t aware they are. But people here are always tired and rushing around and it’s crowded….” Etc. But he did find their behavior pretty terrible.
The other day before I started my shift at B&N I strolled into the music department to ask about putting the new Solas cd on hold for myself so I could buy it on payday. I approached the young, hip, male music manager and the hot female co-worker with flowing blonde hair, the two of them deep into a pre-mating ritual of chat-ya-up! They both turned to me slowly, him looking surly at being interrupted, her giving me one of those awful, smug looks you get from women who are always competing with you on a physical level. Slowly, he answered my question with obvious reluctance. I walked away feeling a little shocked and honestly, a little hurt. I had seen him in the store a few times but never talked to him, and thought he was kind of a cute guy (so much for that). Also, I figured because I was a fellow employee, I’d get treated with some degree of friendliness and familiarity. Perhaps I am too sensitive for NYC. I fear that, like Bangkok, it will continue to harden me and make me quick to “protect myself” or “stand up for myself” which really translates to “lashing back” and “aggression” toward others.
I see it every day. People are arguing, fighting, and it’s obvious that sometimes it’s a person they know, and sometimes it’s a stranger. I think I’ve already relayed the time the woman on the subway lashed out at me for brushing against her bag as I was sitting down, and how I, pissed off at how people just constantly treat each other like dog shit, gave it right back to her. This is the problem. Anger begets anger. Aggression begets aggression. You don’t want to be the world’s doormat, so you let them know to leave you the FUCK alone! And in the end, I am afraid I will lose that piece of myself, maybe a little too sensitive for this town, but a part of me nonetheless that I cherish. Kind of makes me feel more human and less hopeless.
I guess I’m not totally immune though, the other day as I was approaching a subway entrance, I must have come upon the tail end of a typical confrontation, for as a man was descending into the station, a huffy woman shouted out, “Subway snob!” as she stomped off. I have to admit, I was dying to know what the hell that was all about. I’ve racked my brains trying to figure out what would induce her to shout out such a phrase, but I don’t come up with much.
One nice thing I got to do before I leave B&N, by the way, was submit a book for the “Staff Recommends” section. I feel very proud of that since I think the book, English Passengers by Matthew Kneale is fantastic and he’s a relatively unknown author in the U.S. I hope it sells! I hope people enjoy it and seek out more of his books as I did.
Tuesday, April 06, 2004
Poetry
Yes, as my dear friend at Cheek reminded us all with a blunt instrument to the side of the head, it’s National Poetry Month. Despite what he thinks, or maybe this just means I’m not a “real” writer, I have never been a great lover of poetry. I have tried to love it. I have read it, and written it, but find reading it can be a chore and my attention span seems to last the length of a remote control-controlling 12-year old with Attention Deficit Disorder. I have tried to read old epics, a la Homer or those of Iceland, but again, find my mind drifting. A book of Yeats poems lingered by my bedside for a year and was dutifully taken up from time to time, hoping to find those lines that would stick. During a Scandinavian Tale & Ballad class I did find myself attracted to these valkyrie-like women in the poems who were kicking ass, usually by seeking some sort of revenge for wrongdoing done upon their honor.
Admittedly, I’ve always been slightly in awe of people who suddenly recite a couple lines of poetry during a poignant moment of love, danger, reflection. Okay, you usually see this happening only in literature or in the movies, or by someone who’s English, but it still impresses me.
I have been able to get into Pablo Neruda poems though. I like to read them in Spanish and try to be all sensual and pretend I really do understand what I’m reading. I read them slowly in English trying to mock the speed and flow of Andy Garcia, who recited my very favorite Neruda poem, “Tonight I can write the saddest lines,” on the Il Postino soundtrack. And a few times in the past, during overwhelming romantic moments when I had someone to recite to, I would call up and read a stanza onto his voicemail hoping he’d find it a nice change to the usual messages one has to retrieve. I think it was probably a better idea to me than to him.
Anyway, although I might have done it before, I am now going to write out my aforementioned favorite Neruda poem, Tonight I can write the saddest lines. Now, I’m writing this is English, which is a translation of the original Spanish, so you may find slightly varying versions of this in other places. Kudos to fellow blogger, papersnow for having the version I was looking for. Enjoy.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines
Write for example, ‘The night is shattered and the blue stars shiver in the distance
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings’
Tonight I can write the saddest lines
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too
Through nights like this one I held her in my arms
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky
She loved me and sometimes I loved her too
How could one not have loved her great, still eyes?
Tonight I can write the saddest lines
To think that I do not have her, to feel that I have lost her
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her
And the verse falls to the snow like dew to the pasture
What does it matter that my love could not keep her?
The night is shattered and she is not with me
This is all
In the distance someone is singing
In the distance, my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her
My sight searches for her as if to go to her
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
The same night, whitening the same trees
We, of that time, are no longer the same
I no longer love her, that’s certain,
But how I loved her
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing
Another’s. She will be another’s.
Like my kisses before
Her bright body, her infinite eyes
I no longer love her, that’s certain
But maybe I love her
Love is so short, forgetting is so long
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
And these the last verses that I write for her.
*sniff*
Admittedly, I’ve always been slightly in awe of people who suddenly recite a couple lines of poetry during a poignant moment of love, danger, reflection. Okay, you usually see this happening only in literature or in the movies, or by someone who’s English, but it still impresses me.
I have been able to get into Pablo Neruda poems though. I like to read them in Spanish and try to be all sensual and pretend I really do understand what I’m reading. I read them slowly in English trying to mock the speed and flow of Andy Garcia, who recited my very favorite Neruda poem, “Tonight I can write the saddest lines,” on the Il Postino soundtrack. And a few times in the past, during overwhelming romantic moments when I had someone to recite to, I would call up and read a stanza onto his voicemail hoping he’d find it a nice change to the usual messages one has to retrieve. I think it was probably a better idea to me than to him.
Anyway, although I might have done it before, I am now going to write out my aforementioned favorite Neruda poem, Tonight I can write the saddest lines. Now, I’m writing this is English, which is a translation of the original Spanish, so you may find slightly varying versions of this in other places. Kudos to fellow blogger, papersnow for having the version I was looking for. Enjoy.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines
Write for example, ‘The night is shattered and the blue stars shiver in the distance
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings’
Tonight I can write the saddest lines
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too
Through nights like this one I held her in my arms
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky
She loved me and sometimes I loved her too
How could one not have loved her great, still eyes?
Tonight I can write the saddest lines
To think that I do not have her, to feel that I have lost her
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her
And the verse falls to the snow like dew to the pasture
What does it matter that my love could not keep her?
The night is shattered and she is not with me
This is all
In the distance someone is singing
In the distance, my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her
My sight searches for her as if to go to her
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
The same night, whitening the same trees
We, of that time, are no longer the same
I no longer love her, that’s certain,
But how I loved her
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing
Another’s. She will be another’s.
Like my kisses before
Her bright body, her infinite eyes
I no longer love her, that’s certain
But maybe I love her
Love is so short, forgetting is so long
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
And these the last verses that I write for her.
*sniff*
Thursday, April 01, 2004
The Eternal Pursuit of the Hot Mailroom Boy (HMB)
Let me quickly introduce again the Hot Mailroom Boy whom we shall call HMB after this for easy typing on my part. The first time I saw him here at my new job, I was totally infatuated. The sweet, shy type with dark hair and beautiful eyes. KILLS ME! He shows a striking resemblance to that sexy, brooding lead actor in the now defunct "Roswell" series. Not only that, but strangely enough, he even has nearly the same voice, that kind of soft, breathy thing. Oh man, let me take a moment away from the keyboard to get my stupid self under control.
....
...................
........................................................................!!!
Okay!
Anyway, I did something marginally immoral. Probably akin to sexual harassment. It certainly would be if a guy did this in my place. I tried to get the HMB to replace me in the job I am doing here since I?m moving into a "higher" position in the same office. How perfect! I would have him within close proximity all day everyday. How could I fail to seduce him with my sultry, feminine wiles and razor-like wit now? Okay, he?s like seven years younger than me, I think he already has a girlfriend, his flirting with me can only be considered marginal, etc. But oh well! Besides, this romantic nepotism wasn't totally without cause. Another guy who is in the same position as I was (basic administrative slave), also began as the mailboy and moved his way to the same slave position (in a different department) when an opportunity arose (though I don?t think he was promoted for potential romantic reasons. He?s nice, but a bit like a thick, piece of wood). So, it wasn't completely out of line for me to suggest the same for HMB. Alas, my boss was not as excited as I was and decided in the end to go for a new, shiny person from the temp agency. I believe the reason is that HMB is painfully shy and this position sort of calls for a perky, patient sort. I rallied for him a bit, saying he was smart, friendly, etc., but I think his ginger manner is what lost it for him. I tried! At least I still get 4-5 wild fantasy-filled, heart-thumping moments per day as he lumbers in, picking up and dropping off the mail.
I have tried almost every excuse to talk to him and am getting to the point of feeling ridiculous and obvious, as I have ordered every type of envelope, had empty boxes delivered, files taken down, courier waybills searched for, etc. etc. etc. anything to initiate contact with him. Knowing me, no one even has a clue. Normally, I wouldn't be so shy about letting someone know I like him, but the age gap, his timidity (which I can't tell if it's self-consciousness or an attempt to avoid my advances), and the fact that I work in a modest office which works like a small town in terms of gossip and know-everything-about-everyone, I just can't take the chance.
I'm terrified of the very real possibility of rejection.
Not to mention, having to sit there immersed in humiliation, trying to force a stupid grin on my visage as the guy who rejected me strides by FOUR or FIVE times a day! That's too close to some sort of Greek tragic punishment a la Sisyphus or Prometheus for me!
The thought of rejection has also been forefront in my mind since the recent "asking-out" of me by one of the security guards here. I was so stupid; I should have seen it coming when he asked me 5000 questions about myself, including the "do you have a boyfriend?" and "are you looking for anyone?" etc. One of these times when he was interrogating me in a jovial way, I thought that the HMB may JUST possibly be within earshot (we were in the basement where the HMB dwelling is), and so, speaking in a loud voice, I was secretly hoping HMB would hear all the answers to these convenient questions and POSSIBLY get some sort of encouragement or useful information from it. What I so foolishly missed was that the person actually collecting this information was the one asking it, and he in turn used it just an hour later to ask me out. In a really stupid way too. I had told him about my unbelievably massive student loan debt (nearing 70k), and this is how it went down:
*phone ringing from Security desk* Me worried about why Security might be calling me.
(all is spoken in a very rapid fashion, as both parties were nervous for different reasons)
Me: Yes?
Security guard: Oh hey, Iris
Me: *suspiciously* Yes?
Security guard: You know, I feel so sorry for you.
Me: Huh?
Security guard: Yeah, let me take you out to dinner, you know. I feel so sorry for you because you have all that debt and stuff, so let me take you to dinner.
Me: *splutter* Um?well, um. Okay. I mean, I?m really busy and?
Security guard: Can you go on Saturday?
Me: Um no, I have a second job and all so um, no, I can?t Saturday, maybe ?later. And?uhh?.
Security guard: Okay. See you later.
*click*
Me: Fuck.
Since then, with the intrepidness of a Cold War spy, I have shamefully dodged him, using alternate routes when moving from department to department where I would have previously intersected him. I felt like shit, but to outright reject him to his face seems unbelievably cruel to me. He seemed to get the message, and I eased off my cloak and dagger ways a bit. I always say hello to him and try to be cheerful and kind, but at the same time keep my distance. I know; I'm scum.
When I was in my early twenties, I was filled with confidence. I'd thinned out a bit from my jock-like teens, I had recently had my braces removed (something I?d yearned for as child but was never able to afford), and with the mass meat market of college and the occasional aid of the internet, men were easy to score. I had a great time. I had wonderful relationships. I got laid a lot.
Now, for the first time ever, I?m very conscious of my age. Men, whom at any age were always a possibility, an option, are now too green for the picking. When I found out HMB was 24, it didn't seem like a big deal, but then after a quick calculation in my head, I realized that he was SEVEN YEARS younger than I! Holy fuck! Is that even allowed if you?re not Susan Sarandon or Demi Moore and/or gorgeous and/or rich? I am neither gorgeous nor rich nor a celebrity. I'm okay looking, but need to lose weight, I have just enough money to make it each week, and the only celebrity status I'm likely to get is if I happen to fall down a well.
Back to HMB, I feel renewed in my endless, yet fantastically subtle pursuit of him. I just found out today that the reason one executive wasn?t getting an executive officer her Economist magazines in as timely a manner as I, is because HMB has been hording them in his mailroom cave in the basement, reading them, and then finally passing them on to her after he finishes. The executive, the type of person who becomes rather shrill when agitated, once again freaked out today about her MIA magazine. Due to the fact that I toss mine promptly after reading them (even if I've barely had the chance to read a few measly articles), I decided to just hand them over to HMB. Hey, it's fantastic for him, and again, it's a selfish ploy to get closer to a man I want to bed.
*A few weeks go by*
A couple weeks have gone by and the truth is, it hasn't done much for our creative non-relationship. He continues to be evasively shy, and I have begun pulling back a bit due to my reluctance to continually feel like a pathetic and eager lovelorn fool. I don't know why I'm so sensitive to show my feelings for someone in public, especially around people I know (it's a bit easier around strangers), but now that a couple people in the office know of my attraction (I have only let on to attraction, no my full-on lustfest), I am too ashamed to actually let them see me slobber in his wake. Besides, after I told one woman about my crush, she exclaimed, "Him? He's just a baby!" I blushed a deep red. They got a big kick out of that. I blush easily and deeply. My skin is as pale as a corpse, which allows maximum redness! Ohhhhh HMB. I have a feeling we will never be. Alas! Alas! Alas!
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
....
...................
........................................................................!!!
Okay!
Anyway, I did something marginally immoral. Probably akin to sexual harassment. It certainly would be if a guy did this in my place. I tried to get the HMB to replace me in the job I am doing here since I?m moving into a "higher" position in the same office. How perfect! I would have him within close proximity all day everyday. How could I fail to seduce him with my sultry, feminine wiles and razor-like wit now? Okay, he?s like seven years younger than me, I think he already has a girlfriend, his flirting with me can only be considered marginal, etc. But oh well! Besides, this romantic nepotism wasn't totally without cause. Another guy who is in the same position as I was (basic administrative slave), also began as the mailboy and moved his way to the same slave position (in a different department) when an opportunity arose (though I don?t think he was promoted for potential romantic reasons. He?s nice, but a bit like a thick, piece of wood). So, it wasn't completely out of line for me to suggest the same for HMB. Alas, my boss was not as excited as I was and decided in the end to go for a new, shiny person from the temp agency. I believe the reason is that HMB is painfully shy and this position sort of calls for a perky, patient sort. I rallied for him a bit, saying he was smart, friendly, etc., but I think his ginger manner is what lost it for him. I tried! At least I still get 4-5 wild fantasy-filled, heart-thumping moments per day as he lumbers in, picking up and dropping off the mail.
I have tried almost every excuse to talk to him and am getting to the point of feeling ridiculous and obvious, as I have ordered every type of envelope, had empty boxes delivered, files taken down, courier waybills searched for, etc. etc. etc. anything to initiate contact with him. Knowing me, no one even has a clue. Normally, I wouldn't be so shy about letting someone know I like him, but the age gap, his timidity (which I can't tell if it's self-consciousness or an attempt to avoid my advances), and the fact that I work in a modest office which works like a small town in terms of gossip and know-everything-about-everyone, I just can't take the chance.
I'm terrified of the very real possibility of rejection.
Not to mention, having to sit there immersed in humiliation, trying to force a stupid grin on my visage as the guy who rejected me strides by FOUR or FIVE times a day! That's too close to some sort of Greek tragic punishment a la Sisyphus or Prometheus for me!
The thought of rejection has also been forefront in my mind since the recent "asking-out" of me by one of the security guards here. I was so stupid; I should have seen it coming when he asked me 5000 questions about myself, including the "do you have a boyfriend?" and "are you looking for anyone?" etc. One of these times when he was interrogating me in a jovial way, I thought that the HMB may JUST possibly be within earshot (we were in the basement where the HMB dwelling is), and so, speaking in a loud voice, I was secretly hoping HMB would hear all the answers to these convenient questions and POSSIBLY get some sort of encouragement or useful information from it. What I so foolishly missed was that the person actually collecting this information was the one asking it, and he in turn used it just an hour later to ask me out. In a really stupid way too. I had told him about my unbelievably massive student loan debt (nearing 70k), and this is how it went down:
*phone ringing from Security desk* Me worried about why Security might be calling me.
(all is spoken in a very rapid fashion, as both parties were nervous for different reasons)
Me: Yes?
Security guard: Oh hey, Iris
Me: *suspiciously* Yes?
Security guard: You know, I feel so sorry for you.
Me: Huh?
Security guard: Yeah, let me take you out to dinner, you know. I feel so sorry for you because you have all that debt and stuff, so let me take you to dinner.
Me: *splutter* Um?well, um. Okay. I mean, I?m really busy and?
Security guard: Can you go on Saturday?
Me: Um no, I have a second job and all so um, no, I can?t Saturday, maybe ?later. And?uhh?.
Security guard: Okay. See you later.
*click*
Me: Fuck.
Since then, with the intrepidness of a Cold War spy, I have shamefully dodged him, using alternate routes when moving from department to department where I would have previously intersected him. I felt like shit, but to outright reject him to his face seems unbelievably cruel to me. He seemed to get the message, and I eased off my cloak and dagger ways a bit. I always say hello to him and try to be cheerful and kind, but at the same time keep my distance. I know; I'm scum.
When I was in my early twenties, I was filled with confidence. I'd thinned out a bit from my jock-like teens, I had recently had my braces removed (something I?d yearned for as child but was never able to afford), and with the mass meat market of college and the occasional aid of the internet, men were easy to score. I had a great time. I had wonderful relationships. I got laid a lot.
Now, for the first time ever, I?m very conscious of my age. Men, whom at any age were always a possibility, an option, are now too green for the picking. When I found out HMB was 24, it didn't seem like a big deal, but then after a quick calculation in my head, I realized that he was SEVEN YEARS younger than I! Holy fuck! Is that even allowed if you?re not Susan Sarandon or Demi Moore and/or gorgeous and/or rich? I am neither gorgeous nor rich nor a celebrity. I'm okay looking, but need to lose weight, I have just enough money to make it each week, and the only celebrity status I'm likely to get is if I happen to fall down a well.
Back to HMB, I feel renewed in my endless, yet fantastically subtle pursuit of him. I just found out today that the reason one executive wasn?t getting an executive officer her Economist magazines in as timely a manner as I, is because HMB has been hording them in his mailroom cave in the basement, reading them, and then finally passing them on to her after he finishes. The executive, the type of person who becomes rather shrill when agitated, once again freaked out today about her MIA magazine. Due to the fact that I toss mine promptly after reading them (even if I've barely had the chance to read a few measly articles), I decided to just hand them over to HMB. Hey, it's fantastic for him, and again, it's a selfish ploy to get closer to a man I want to bed.
*A few weeks go by*
A couple weeks have gone by and the truth is, it hasn't done much for our creative non-relationship. He continues to be evasively shy, and I have begun pulling back a bit due to my reluctance to continually feel like a pathetic and eager lovelorn fool. I don't know why I'm so sensitive to show my feelings for someone in public, especially around people I know (it's a bit easier around strangers), but now that a couple people in the office know of my attraction (I have only let on to attraction, no my full-on lustfest), I am too ashamed to actually let them see me slobber in his wake. Besides, after I told one woman about my crush, she exclaimed, "Him? He's just a baby!" I blushed a deep red. They got a big kick out of that. I blush easily and deeply. My skin is as pale as a corpse, which allows maximum redness! Ohhhhh HMB. I have a feeling we will never be. Alas! Alas! Alas!
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
Does it Count as a Promotion if You’re Just a Temp?
I’ve been working at this financial institution for nearly two months now. As I’ve mentioned before, the people are cool, the work is easy, and the pay is decent. The drawback(s)? I’m a temp and therefore have no benefits. The customers are vile and finance is a field I have zero interest in. I get paid every week, which also has its pros and cons, but I couldn’t go to a doctor even if I needed to.
After working here about four to six weeks, I was given a promotion of sorts. Really, I’m taking over for someone who will be on extended maternity leave (massive déjà vu!), though they said they would probably still need me anyway even after she returns. It involves a small pay increase, which is nice, of course. And hey, it feels good to be recognized in some way, even if the promotion is just more of a “right place at the right time” rather than stupendous merit.
I have such mixed feelings about this place and the whole situation. Damn this job market! One small light is it looks like some local. Jewish NGO is going to hire me. I’m not sure, but I’ve deftly hurdled all their little obstacles so far. The hiring process in this city is so damn complicated and drawn out. It’s totally ridiculous. MULTIPLE interviews, each one involving a small army interrogating you as if you’re an Al Queda member at Guantanamo Bay, writing samples, background checks, long lists of references checked. My god! What if you go through ALL this hassle and realize you hate your new job? It’s not worth quitting since it’s so damn hard to get hired anywhere else!
Since getting this little promotion a few weeks back, I’ve scaled back tremendously from my job search. I’m actually exhausted by my over two months of hardcore researching, applying, interviewing, and then reading rejection letters. I feel at a bit of a loss anyway. I thought I had screwed up the Jewish NGO interview. It’s one of those things where you start reflecting back on the interview and realized you said something REALLY stupid and you just gnash your teeth and think over and over, “Why why why did I say that?” Yet, they called me back again and again.
And I thought I had had an AMAZING interview at NYU. The NYU job was perfect for me, it actually matched my skills and experience (not something easy to find!). The people seemed to really like me and I was walking on air after the interview. Just yesterday I got the rejection letter with its tepid enthusiasm and read between the lines “Piss off!” message.
And in the meantime, I have my current position in the Banking industry, which more and more seems like a place I should just set down roots at and be happy I have a decent job. This is my current dilemma. Simply be happy at the fairly good job I have? Start trying to pay off bills, get settled, etc.? (I have been in the damn city for four months now!) Or do I keep going on these interviews, keep trying to get a good job, despite the fact that I may go through this and end up somewhere that doesn’t pay as much (NGO’s have shitty pay) and may turn out to just suck in general anyway? Bird in the hand…
After working here about four to six weeks, I was given a promotion of sorts. Really, I’m taking over for someone who will be on extended maternity leave (massive déjà vu!), though they said they would probably still need me anyway even after she returns. It involves a small pay increase, which is nice, of course. And hey, it feels good to be recognized in some way, even if the promotion is just more of a “right place at the right time” rather than stupendous merit.
I have such mixed feelings about this place and the whole situation. Damn this job market! One small light is it looks like some local. Jewish NGO is going to hire me. I’m not sure, but I’ve deftly hurdled all their little obstacles so far. The hiring process in this city is so damn complicated and drawn out. It’s totally ridiculous. MULTIPLE interviews, each one involving a small army interrogating you as if you’re an Al Queda member at Guantanamo Bay, writing samples, background checks, long lists of references checked. My god! What if you go through ALL this hassle and realize you hate your new job? It’s not worth quitting since it’s so damn hard to get hired anywhere else!
Since getting this little promotion a few weeks back, I’ve scaled back tremendously from my job search. I’m actually exhausted by my over two months of hardcore researching, applying, interviewing, and then reading rejection letters. I feel at a bit of a loss anyway. I thought I had screwed up the Jewish NGO interview. It’s one of those things where you start reflecting back on the interview and realized you said something REALLY stupid and you just gnash your teeth and think over and over, “Why why why did I say that?” Yet, they called me back again and again.
And I thought I had had an AMAZING interview at NYU. The NYU job was perfect for me, it actually matched my skills and experience (not something easy to find!). The people seemed to really like me and I was walking on air after the interview. Just yesterday I got the rejection letter with its tepid enthusiasm and read between the lines “Piss off!” message.
And in the meantime, I have my current position in the Banking industry, which more and more seems like a place I should just set down roots at and be happy I have a decent job. This is my current dilemma. Simply be happy at the fairly good job I have? Start trying to pay off bills, get settled, etc.? (I have been in the damn city for four months now!) Or do I keep going on these interviews, keep trying to get a good job, despite the fact that I may go through this and end up somewhere that doesn’t pay as much (NGO’s have shitty pay) and may turn out to just suck in general anyway? Bird in the hand…
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