I did the thing I never thought I would do: I put a college decal sticker on the rear windshield of my car. I also attached a red lanyard to my car key, further proof of my vague sense of school spirit. I would have bought a sweatshirt from the bookstore, that pinnacle emblem of college pride, but being a grad student isn’t exactly the most lucrative career and a girl’s gotta eat. So, lanyard and sticker had to do.
Classes began last week, and it felt strange at first to see the campus so populated after having it empty to ourselves all summer. I am realizing that I didn’t actually go to Real College before. Overpriced Private University wasn’t anything like this Huge State School. There weren’t large patches of grass upon which students tossed Frisbees; there was Washington Square Park and we shared it with bums, drug dealers, old chess players, and the ghosts of the bodies buried under the pavement. Here, the sidewalks are chalked with colorful Greek letters imploring you underfoot to rush this or that sorority (entrance to which is surely based on one’s ability to write so perfectly in pink sidewalk chalk). The uniform for boys and girls is roughly the same: college/frat/sorority tshirt paired with cargo shorts/denim skirts/gym shorts and flip-flops. I stand out in my I Used to Work at a Hedge Fund attire, but that’s the point, I’m their teacher. It’s strange to feel at once like a freshman, very much new to this environment, and yet removed from them in both age and authority. On my first day of teaching English 101, I was nervous and sweaty and probably talked too fast as twenty-one pairs of eyes stared at me like I was an alien, but by the second class my nerves were calmer and I may have actually taught them something! Tomorrow we are learning about argumentation through the stases and I’m keeping my fingers crossed for a good class discussion.
Tomorrow afternoon I have my fiction workshop, my raison d’être. I left last week’s class so elated, so full of reassurance that I made the right choice in coming here and pursing this writing career. I suppose I can admit now that until that class, I wasn’t entirely convinced. I still don’t know if I’m weird or complicated or even smart enough to be enrolled in a master’s program – especially when they lump us with the English PhD kids who give new meaning to dedication to the cause – but I know for certain that I find a special brand of happiness in a creative writing workshop. And I’m making friends, the kind of friends that feel like I’ve known them forever or maybe I just wish I had, Papa Bear and A-bomb and Ramona Quimby and TJ the Worrier.
There is a sign as you drive into my apartment complex that says “Welcome Home.” I hate that sign. “This isn’t my home!” I want to yell back, but I’m slowly reaching a point where I’m less horrified by that thought. It’s not home yet, here in this unfurnished apartment, but it’s becoming a place where I have friends who will go with me to Ikea to buy a sofa. If moving taught me one thing, it’s that the friends who will carry your furniture are the ones worth having.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
It Is You She Is Holding
This past weekend I made my first of surely many return trips to New York City. On Friday afternoon I went for a long walk with cycling girlfriend A, and it felt so nice to be able to talk with her in person instead of on our marathon phone sessions. I woke up at the crack of dawn on Saturday to go for a run in Central Park while I watched QZ’s bike race. Just past 72nd street on the west side I caught up to SJ, another cycling girlfriend who was also running and cheering on her husband in the bike race. It’s amazing to have lived in a city as big as the Big Apple and still be able to bump into a dear friend at 6am in the park.
That afternoon, QZ and I drove out to the Hamptons with P&S, a pair of wildly entertaining Australian lawyers, for a weekend of sun, a bike ride out to the Montauk Lighthouse, a very posh beach party, a 3am dip in the ocean, and a lot of laughs. A diehard Jersey Shore loyalist, I never expected to love the Hamptons so much, but with clean beaches, delicious sandwiches and fun company, what’s not to love?
Back in Manhattan on Sunday evening, I tagged along for QZ’s skeeball league game in the East Village (yes, competitive skeeball), then we went out for sushi with G&MH. I miss having so many terrific restaurants just a short walk away – here in College Park, the closest thing to fine dining seems to be the Ikea food court.
On Monday while QZ was at work I went for a ride in Central Park then met up with MQ for some lunch, girlie gossip and errands around the city. She’s a new friend, really one of QZ’s good friends that I’m getting to know better whose freelance work schedule let her roam around all afternoon with me. It’s unfair that even now I’m developing friendships with wonderful people in New York and I don’t even get to live there!
I thought leaving was difficult two months ago; this time around was infinitely harder. I’ve tried to be tough about the distance and how much I miss my life there, but last night I couldn’t fight the hot tears that streamed down my face onto QZ’s chest. Here I believed that I left the Midtown Holding Pattern – I even brainstormed new blog names! – but my heart has been there with him all along.
That afternoon, QZ and I drove out to the Hamptons with P&S, a pair of wildly entertaining Australian lawyers, for a weekend of sun, a bike ride out to the Montauk Lighthouse, a very posh beach party, a 3am dip in the ocean, and a lot of laughs. A diehard Jersey Shore loyalist, I never expected to love the Hamptons so much, but with clean beaches, delicious sandwiches and fun company, what’s not to love?
Back in Manhattan on Sunday evening, I tagged along for QZ’s skeeball league game in the East Village (yes, competitive skeeball), then we went out for sushi with G&MH. I miss having so many terrific restaurants just a short walk away – here in College Park, the closest thing to fine dining seems to be the Ikea food court.
On Monday while QZ was at work I went for a ride in Central Park then met up with MQ for some lunch, girlie gossip and errands around the city. She’s a new friend, really one of QZ’s good friends that I’m getting to know better whose freelance work schedule let her roam around all afternoon with me. It’s unfair that even now I’m developing friendships with wonderful people in New York and I don’t even get to live there!
I thought leaving was difficult two months ago; this time around was infinitely harder. I’ve tried to be tough about the distance and how much I miss my life there, but last night I couldn’t fight the hot tears that streamed down my face onto QZ’s chest. Here I believed that I left the Midtown Holding Pattern – I even brainstormed new blog names! – but my heart has been there with him all along.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Suburban Stylings
Holy cow, did you guys see this? It’s like the good (er, dubious) people over at American Apparel read my mind (or my blog!) and realized that yes, what the world needs again are Hypercolor T-shirts. Sure, they’re calling them “Thermochromatic” but I know '90's fashion when I see it! Being American Apparel and thus wholly misogynistic in every way (sorry, couldn’t resist the soapbox), they’re only selling them in men’s sizes. Then again, being American Apparel, the clothes are made for scrawny, androgynous hipster men, so I will probably need, like, a large.
Oh right, I live in the suburbs of Maryland now. So I’ll have to drive to the nearest store, which the interwebs tells me is in Silver Spring, exactly four miles (14 minutes) away from my new apartment. And then they probably won’t have them because only New York City stores are receiving shipments or some shit like that and I’ll piss and moan because mere weeks ago I could just walk a few blocks from my office during lunch and then I’d be the instantly gratified owner of a ridiculous nostalgic t-shirt.
Can you tell I’m homesick?
The truth is, I don’t really miss New York City all that much yet. Sometimes it comes back to me like a knee-jerk when I realize there’s no Afghani bodyguard waiting for me downstairs, no Central Park a few blocks north, no roommate across the living room. It’s quiet here in my strange little apartment complex, and I’m not used to quiet. My lovely little Midtown apartment overlooked Ninth Avenue, whose loud traffic fed into the Lincoln Tunnel. Around the corner, QZ’s apartment is en route to a popular neighborhood gay bar. The gays, I learned, are a loud bunch – especially at 3am.
A city is a great place to be alone because you’re never really alone. There’s always someone in the next bedroom or the next barstool to keep you company if you so desire. The suburbs may be great for couples and families, and maybe it will be great for me eventually too, but right now it feels very lonely.
I’m getting there. I’m slowly finding my bearings around the area, and I haven’t gotten lost on campus since…well, yesterday. It’s a huge campus with no sensible grid whatsoever and while I can get to crucial outposts like the library and my classroom, I can’t seem to wrap my mind around the whole place. I’ve never been so good about the big picture anyway. When I get lost I start to berate myself, thinking that for a very smart person I should be able to figure out how to get to the recreation center. I could handle Manhattan, why can’t I handle College Park? For six years I could orient myself on that island just by looking at which direction the street numbers went, but now I feel like one of those rooftop weathervanes that has been spun around by a gust of wind and no longer points due north. I know I’ll get the hang of it eventually, but this is me here and haven’t I already mentioned instant gratification?
My NEW lovely little apartment is starting to come together as well, though the more boxes I unpack the more apparent it is that my living room utterly lacks furniture. I have a TV, a bookcase…and nothing else. Buying a sofa is high up on my To Do list, but it was trumped by buying a car last week. Sitting comfortably will just have to wait until I get a paycheck. In typical JackieOh fashion, I have a nice apartment in a questionable neighborhood. Okay, it’s kind of in the ghetto. But hey, I have lots of fast food restaurants to choose from! And nail salons, and cheap gas stations, and a convenient store that sells Swiss Farms Tea Cooler! What more could a girl want?
It’s funny how attached we get to our routines. All I wanted for the past two years was to escape the Midtown Holding Pattern. Now that I have landed here in Maryland pursuing my dream career, I miss it. I actually miss getting up and going to work every day; I miss the office interactions and the weighty lunch decisions. And while I don’t quite miss New York City itself (have I mentioned that I have TWO closets here?), I miss the little community I had built around myself of runners and cyclists and all-around wonderful people.
There I go now, getting all sappy.
Oh right, I live in the suburbs of Maryland now. So I’ll have to drive to the nearest store, which the interwebs tells me is in Silver Spring, exactly four miles (14 minutes) away from my new apartment. And then they probably won’t have them because only New York City stores are receiving shipments or some shit like that and I’ll piss and moan because mere weeks ago I could just walk a few blocks from my office during lunch and then I’d be the instantly gratified owner of a ridiculous nostalgic t-shirt.
Can you tell I’m homesick?
The truth is, I don’t really miss New York City all that much yet. Sometimes it comes back to me like a knee-jerk when I realize there’s no Afghani bodyguard waiting for me downstairs, no Central Park a few blocks north, no roommate across the living room. It’s quiet here in my strange little apartment complex, and I’m not used to quiet. My lovely little Midtown apartment overlooked Ninth Avenue, whose loud traffic fed into the Lincoln Tunnel. Around the corner, QZ’s apartment is en route to a popular neighborhood gay bar. The gays, I learned, are a loud bunch – especially at 3am.
A city is a great place to be alone because you’re never really alone. There’s always someone in the next bedroom or the next barstool to keep you company if you so desire. The suburbs may be great for couples and families, and maybe it will be great for me eventually too, but right now it feels very lonely.
I’m getting there. I’m slowly finding my bearings around the area, and I haven’t gotten lost on campus since…well, yesterday. It’s a huge campus with no sensible grid whatsoever and while I can get to crucial outposts like the library and my classroom, I can’t seem to wrap my mind around the whole place. I’ve never been so good about the big picture anyway. When I get lost I start to berate myself, thinking that for a very smart person I should be able to figure out how to get to the recreation center. I could handle Manhattan, why can’t I handle College Park? For six years I could orient myself on that island just by looking at which direction the street numbers went, but now I feel like one of those rooftop weathervanes that has been spun around by a gust of wind and no longer points due north. I know I’ll get the hang of it eventually, but this is me here and haven’t I already mentioned instant gratification?
My NEW lovely little apartment is starting to come together as well, though the more boxes I unpack the more apparent it is that my living room utterly lacks furniture. I have a TV, a bookcase…and nothing else. Buying a sofa is high up on my To Do list, but it was trumped by buying a car last week. Sitting comfortably will just have to wait until I get a paycheck. In typical JackieOh fashion, I have a nice apartment in a questionable neighborhood. Okay, it’s kind of in the ghetto. But hey, I have lots of fast food restaurants to choose from! And nail salons, and cheap gas stations, and a convenient store that sells Swiss Farms Tea Cooler! What more could a girl want?
It’s funny how attached we get to our routines. All I wanted for the past two years was to escape the Midtown Holding Pattern. Now that I have landed here in Maryland pursuing my dream career, I miss it. I actually miss getting up and going to work every day; I miss the office interactions and the weighty lunch decisions. And while I don’t quite miss New York City itself (have I mentioned that I have TWO closets here?), I miss the little community I had built around myself of runners and cyclists and all-around wonderful people.
There I go now, getting all sappy.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
And So Begin the Goodbyes
People always get a bit misty-eyed about Ends of Eras. Well, I might hate goodbyes more than I hate surprises, which is why I’m really glad I found out about the surprise goodbye party that Nice Hedge Fund is having for me tomorrow. That would have been a double-whammy of JackieOh awkwardness. See, goodbyes generally require hugging and everyone knows I only hug when drunk so unless they’re serving booze with that ice cream cake at 3:30PM in the conference room, don’t expect any weepy embraces from me.
Now I’m sure as shit not going to send out the obligatory Goodbye, Thanks for All the Great Work, and Here is my Contact Info Email before I clear out my collection of chapstick from my desk drawer and turn in my ID badge tomorrow. But if I were to send one, it would go something like this:
To: ALL
From: JackieOh
Subject: A Fond Farewell
Dear Nice Hedge Fund Co-workers,
It has been a pleasure working with some of you. I learned so much during my thirteen months here, mainly related to getting the most out of my $15 daily lunch allowance and which bathrooms were stocked with the best brand of tampons to steal. I have greatly enjoyed my time here, especially the times that involved make-your-own ice cream sundaes in the pantry, and I’ll always cherish the hazy memories of how embarrassingly drunk we all got at Easy’s holiday party.
Here is my personal contact information so we can pretend to keep in touch. But really, if we’re not already Facebook friends or gchat buddies, don’t expect to ever hear from me again.
All the best,
JackieOh
Now I’m sure as shit not going to send out the obligatory Goodbye, Thanks for All the Great Work, and Here is my Contact Info Email before I clear out my collection of chapstick from my desk drawer and turn in my ID badge tomorrow. But if I were to send one, it would go something like this:
To: ALL
From: JackieOh
Subject: A Fond Farewell
Dear Nice Hedge Fund Co-workers,
It has been a pleasure working with some of you. I learned so much during my thirteen months here, mainly related to getting the most out of my $15 daily lunch allowance and which bathrooms were stocked with the best brand of tampons to steal. I have greatly enjoyed my time here, especially the times that involved make-your-own ice cream sundaes in the pantry, and I’ll always cherish the hazy memories of how embarrassingly drunk we all got at Easy’s holiday party.
Here is my personal contact information so we can pretend to keep in touch. But really, if we’re not already Facebook friends or gchat buddies, don’t expect to ever hear from me again.
All the best,
JackieOh
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
The Trip to AZ with QZ
I never really imagined I’d find myself in the desert of Arizona surrounded by cacti and Native American gift shops and breath-taking red rock landscape. The FamilyOh isn't the pack-up-the-RV-and-drive-out-west type. We beach, and we don’t exactly go far to do it. But Thursday evening, there I was at JFK boarding a plane to Sedona with QZ to attend his friends’ wedding. Having grown up in San Diego, QZ was amused that cacti were exotic to me – the suburbs of Philadelphia being rather un-desert-like and all. Did you know that the saguaro cactus can live for more than 150 years? And they start growing arms around age 75 to increase their reproductive capacity, which is dependent upon the pollination by bats and whitewing dove?
Early Friday morning, we excitedly arrived at a local bike shop for a guided mountain bike adventure. Well. Our tour guide, determined to show us city roadies just what MTBing is all about, took us on an intermediate level trail. Road bike skills do NOT translate to mountain bike skills, and what he deemed “intermediate” was more like “impossible.” My scrapes and bruises from the crash at Harlem two weeks ago were just finally healing, but after a few hours of struggling and falling on this death-defying trail I’m back to looking like a human punching bag. There was blood, oh, there were tears, but sweat, not so much because I had to dismount every few minutes to walk the stupid mountain bike up some steep rock formation. The entire experience was a battle royal between my determination not to give up and my threshold for pain. Even QZ, whose bike-handling skills far surpass mine, nearly fell a few times and had to walk his bike, too. I had been hoping to love mountain biking, maybe even add another weapon to my two-wheeled arsenal, but I ended up feeling discouraged and aching everywhere.
After that disheartening introduction, Arizona was not off to a great start. We then met up with the wedding group for a very cool hike up the beautiful Cathedral Rock trail and I decided that maybe Arizona wasn’t so bad. After some margaritas by the hotel pool (mixed expertly by QZ in a bike water bottle) and a delicious Mexican dinner with another couple, the morning’s mountain bike debacle was a distant memory and I had to admit that Arizona was completely wonderful.
On Saturday morning we went back to our bike shop and this time went with what we’re best at: road bikes. Armed with a map and directions from the cool bike shop dudes, we wound our way through Red Rock State Park, past ranches and along old dirt roads, and we only had to walk our bikes once – to cross a creek! The wedding ceremony took place that afternoon outside on a ranch set at the foot of a red rock mountain and even though the rental car’s thermometer said 104 degrees, it didn’t feel too hot. We had a great time dancing at the reception, and I did not, for the record, catch the bouquet. Just saying.
We spent our last day in Arizona exploring the town a bit – on four wheels instead of two. First we took a drive up to Chapel of the Holy Cross, which is a church built right into the landscape. Then we headed into the heart of Sedona, a shopping district peppered with Southwestern art galleries and New Age gift shops. Sedona, we learned from our explorations, has a touch of the crazy. It’s really no wonder why. For starters, there isn’t all that much to do besides admire the landscape. This landscape, arid and red with huge mystical sandstone formations shooting into the atmosphere, seems to a lot of people like the kind of place Martians might land if they were looking for a home away from home. Then there are the vortexes (no, not vortices), which are believed to be spiraling concentrations of spiritual energy (no, not wind). We skipped the vortexes tour and opted instead for psychic readings at the New Age Center. Yes, really.
Now, I’ve said it before: the stars know things. For a visual-based pragmatist, I give astrology a bit more credence than I’d like to admit in intelligent company, but I have moments where I know things without knowing how I know them. Sure, I always just chalked this up to intuition, but the psychic I met with said that actually this is because I’m a “transmitter.” Go on...
Madison Morgan, the psychic from Midtown East Manhattan, started off the reading by staring intently at me while asking basic contact information questions. She did some funky math on her notepad and declared me a Five of Spades – the genius card (ha!). Somehow that corresponds to the Ten of Hearts, the promoter card, which makes me a born leader and influencer. “You don’t like people telling you what to do!” she declared most accurately. I’m listening...
She next closed her eyes and read my aura. My head color was white/red, which means “majestic,” while my body color glowed green to mean healing (perhaps she noticed the HUGE bruise on my elbow?) She moved on to my palms, and that’s when things got really interesting. I’m going to live a long life and I’ll never be without a mate (possibly because my relationships have the tendency to overlap?) and I’m going to have two children. My fortune line isn’t yet complete, but I’ll always be financially secure. Writing is a good career for me, though I should consider screen plays ("Fuck the short stories, you want to make money, right?"), and she sensed a disconnect between writing and technology for me, which explains why I usually longhand everything before typing on the computer.
“Are you in love?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I lied.
"Does he have a lot of money?"
"Um, no?" He's a journalist with a cycling habit.
According to Madison, QZ isn’t The One for me because he’s too much in his own head, and he has fears, and as a Seven of Clubs he has an addictive personality that I should watch out for.
(Her: He could even become addicted to sex. Me: That wouldn't be so bad.)
Anyway, she said I should stay open because she sees someone else is in my future, someone with a lot of money. She was really into me having money.
Well, maybe the stars don’t know everything.
I mused over everything Madison said while we got relaxing hot stone massages, and then we took a drive up the switchbacks toward Flagstaff before hitting the highway for our redeye home to New York. Now that I’m back and the jetlag has subsided, I'm left with that unmistakable feeling that I'm a tiny bit different than I was before, a little more complete for having gone on this trip with QZ. I put my regular life on hold for a few days and it made me want more of that new-exciting-experiences feeling. Maybe it really is time to let go of New York and see what the rest of the country has to offer. And maybe what Madison saw on my palm wasn't a new man in my life but a new place for me to call home.
Early Friday morning, we excitedly arrived at a local bike shop for a guided mountain bike adventure. Well. Our tour guide, determined to show us city roadies just what MTBing is all about, took us on an intermediate level trail. Road bike skills do NOT translate to mountain bike skills, and what he deemed “intermediate” was more like “impossible.” My scrapes and bruises from the crash at Harlem two weeks ago were just finally healing, but after a few hours of struggling and falling on this death-defying trail I’m back to looking like a human punching bag. There was blood, oh, there were tears, but sweat, not so much because I had to dismount every few minutes to walk the stupid mountain bike up some steep rock formation. The entire experience was a battle royal between my determination not to give up and my threshold for pain. Even QZ, whose bike-handling skills far surpass mine, nearly fell a few times and had to walk his bike, too. I had been hoping to love mountain biking, maybe even add another weapon to my two-wheeled arsenal, but I ended up feeling discouraged and aching everywhere.
After that disheartening introduction, Arizona was not off to a great start. We then met up with the wedding group for a very cool hike up the beautiful Cathedral Rock trail and I decided that maybe Arizona wasn’t so bad. After some margaritas by the hotel pool (mixed expertly by QZ in a bike water bottle) and a delicious Mexican dinner with another couple, the morning’s mountain bike debacle was a distant memory and I had to admit that Arizona was completely wonderful.
On Saturday morning we went back to our bike shop and this time went with what we’re best at: road bikes. Armed with a map and directions from the cool bike shop dudes, we wound our way through Red Rock State Park, past ranches and along old dirt roads, and we only had to walk our bikes once – to cross a creek! The wedding ceremony took place that afternoon outside on a ranch set at the foot of a red rock mountain and even though the rental car’s thermometer said 104 degrees, it didn’t feel too hot. We had a great time dancing at the reception, and I did not, for the record, catch the bouquet. Just saying.
We spent our last day in Arizona exploring the town a bit – on four wheels instead of two. First we took a drive up to Chapel of the Holy Cross, which is a church built right into the landscape. Then we headed into the heart of Sedona, a shopping district peppered with Southwestern art galleries and New Age gift shops. Sedona, we learned from our explorations, has a touch of the crazy. It’s really no wonder why. For starters, there isn’t all that much to do besides admire the landscape. This landscape, arid and red with huge mystical sandstone formations shooting into the atmosphere, seems to a lot of people like the kind of place Martians might land if they were looking for a home away from home. Then there are the vortexes (no, not vortices), which are believed to be spiraling concentrations of spiritual energy (no, not wind). We skipped the vortexes tour and opted instead for psychic readings at the New Age Center. Yes, really.
Now, I’ve said it before: the stars know things. For a visual-based pragmatist, I give astrology a bit more credence than I’d like to admit in intelligent company, but I have moments where I know things without knowing how I know them. Sure, I always just chalked this up to intuition, but the psychic I met with said that actually this is because I’m a “transmitter.” Go on...
Madison Morgan, the psychic from Midtown East Manhattan, started off the reading by staring intently at me while asking basic contact information questions. She did some funky math on her notepad and declared me a Five of Spades – the genius card (ha!). Somehow that corresponds to the Ten of Hearts, the promoter card, which makes me a born leader and influencer. “You don’t like people telling you what to do!” she declared most accurately. I’m listening...
She next closed her eyes and read my aura. My head color was white/red, which means “majestic,” while my body color glowed green to mean healing (perhaps she noticed the HUGE bruise on my elbow?) She moved on to my palms, and that’s when things got really interesting. I’m going to live a long life and I’ll never be without a mate (possibly because my relationships have the tendency to overlap?) and I’m going to have two children. My fortune line isn’t yet complete, but I’ll always be financially secure. Writing is a good career for me, though I should consider screen plays ("Fuck the short stories, you want to make money, right?"), and she sensed a disconnect between writing and technology for me, which explains why I usually longhand everything before typing on the computer.
“Are you in love?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I lied.
"Does he have a lot of money?"
"Um, no?" He's a journalist with a cycling habit.
According to Madison, QZ isn’t The One for me because he’s too much in his own head, and he has fears, and as a Seven of Clubs he has an addictive personality that I should watch out for.
(Her: He could even become addicted to sex. Me: That wouldn't be so bad.)
Anyway, she said I should stay open because she sees someone else is in my future, someone with a lot of money. She was really into me having money.
Well, maybe the stars don’t know everything.
I mused over everything Madison said while we got relaxing hot stone massages, and then we took a drive up the switchbacks toward Flagstaff before hitting the highway for our redeye home to New York. Now that I’m back and the jetlag has subsided, I'm left with that unmistakable feeling that I'm a tiny bit different than I was before, a little more complete for having gone on this trip with QZ. I put my regular life on hold for a few days and it made me want more of that new-exciting-experiences feeling. Maybe it really is time to let go of New York and see what the rest of the country has to offer. And maybe what Madison saw on my palm wasn't a new man in my life but a new place for me to call home.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
"If You Can Only Have One Great Love," 2nd Edition
Executives, regardless of self-sufficiency and perceived coolness, are a crazy breed. The JackieOh whirlwind assistant tour of Nice Hedge Fund has taken me through eight (count ‘em, eight) execs and will conclude in a few short weeks – just when things are getting interesting.
I like working for The Son of Mister Nice Hedge Fund. I should have applied for this position months ago when C left and I could have saved the HR Ladies from half a dozen Temp-induced headaches. It’s possible that I only enjoy this role because I’m so far out the door already, but I figure that if you have to be someone’s assistant you’re better off if that someone is as close to the top as possible.
So I got an email from the home assistant yesterday. The Son is in Europe for the board meeting with his family and like anyone in the history of people traveling somewhere, they forgot a few personal items. The list of oh-so-crucial forgotten items, and I quote:
Two black adult baseball caps
One bottle of pump spray sun screen
One cable for the camera
One pair of SPANX that are nude and waist high as opposed to being longer and going up past the rib cage
One regular black bra
One regular white jog bra (Champion)
Now, any normal person would, you know, head to the hotel gift shop for some sunscreen and tourist trap baseball caps. The undergarments might be a little trickier to wrangle, but SPANX? Oh honey, maybe eat a little less before trying to squeeze into that cocktail dress or work on the art of sucking in. Clearly, these aren’t normal people we’re dealing with here. These are billionaires, and they demand their own baseball caps! So the home assistant sent me their bag of crap via messenger, and I had to ask Easiest to please add it to his personal luggage. The entire exchange required nineteen emails involving five people.
I’d like to amend my Life Plan to marrying rich, but not helplessly, perspective-lessly rich.
Speaking of Life Plan, mine is finally starting to pull together. I drove down to Maryland last week and signed a lease on a nice one-bedroom apartment near campus, so that’s a huge stressy blob off my mind. Coach G decreed this past Sunday Jackie Day, and we started off the morning with yet another victory for Team Drinkin’ for the Kids in a relay biathlon. Later we went kayaking in the Hudson with a view of the Statue of Liberty and all I could think was how am I going to leave all this?
I’m leaving the Midtown Holding Pattern, and that of course raises The Break-Up Question. I don’t want to just cut off this relationship because I’m leaving – I want to say that I’ll visit whenever I can and things are going so well so don’t we owe it to each other to try the distance thing? Maybe we’ll be together again next summer, or maybe in two years after the program ends. But this is New York City I’m talking about here, and she’s a tempestuous lover. We’ve had our ups and downs these past six years, but I wouldn’t undo a single thing. (Okay, maybe I’d eliminate the robbery, or find lower rent while I’m in fantasy land, but otherwise, it's been a great relationship.) Even if it doesn’t work out while I’m four hours away at school, I hope we end up together in the future. When it’s right you know it, and feelings like these don’t just evaporate into the air above Ninth Avenue.
I like working for The Son of Mister Nice Hedge Fund. I should have applied for this position months ago when C left and I could have saved the HR Ladies from half a dozen Temp-induced headaches. It’s possible that I only enjoy this role because I’m so far out the door already, but I figure that if you have to be someone’s assistant you’re better off if that someone is as close to the top as possible.
So I got an email from the home assistant yesterday. The Son is in Europe for the board meeting with his family and like anyone in the history of people traveling somewhere, they forgot a few personal items. The list of oh-so-crucial forgotten items, and I quote:
Two black adult baseball caps
One bottle of pump spray sun screen
One cable for the camera
One pair of SPANX that are nude and waist high as opposed to being longer and going up past the rib cage
One regular black bra
One regular white jog bra (Champion)
Now, any normal person would, you know, head to the hotel gift shop for some sunscreen and tourist trap baseball caps. The undergarments might be a little trickier to wrangle, but SPANX? Oh honey, maybe eat a little less before trying to squeeze into that cocktail dress or work on the art of sucking in. Clearly, these aren’t normal people we’re dealing with here. These are billionaires, and they demand their own baseball caps! So the home assistant sent me their bag of crap via messenger, and I had to ask Easiest to please add it to his personal luggage. The entire exchange required nineteen emails involving five people.
I’d like to amend my Life Plan to marrying rich, but not helplessly, perspective-lessly rich.
Speaking of Life Plan, mine is finally starting to pull together. I drove down to Maryland last week and signed a lease on a nice one-bedroom apartment near campus, so that’s a huge stressy blob off my mind. Coach G decreed this past Sunday Jackie Day, and we started off the morning with yet another victory for Team Drinkin’ for the Kids in a relay biathlon. Later we went kayaking in the Hudson with a view of the Statue of Liberty and all I could think was how am I going to leave all this?
I’m leaving the Midtown Holding Pattern, and that of course raises The Break-Up Question. I don’t want to just cut off this relationship because I’m leaving – I want to say that I’ll visit whenever I can and things are going so well so don’t we owe it to each other to try the distance thing? Maybe we’ll be together again next summer, or maybe in two years after the program ends. But this is New York City I’m talking about here, and she’s a tempestuous lover. We’ve had our ups and downs these past six years, but I wouldn’t undo a single thing. (Okay, maybe I’d eliminate the robbery, or find lower rent while I’m in fantasy land, but otherwise, it's been a great relationship.) Even if it doesn’t work out while I’m four hours away at school, I hope we end up together in the future. When it’s right you know it, and feelings like these don’t just evaporate into the air above Ninth Avenue.
Friday, June 13, 2008
It's Not Me, It's You
So. Bike racing.
I haven’t written too much about it (yet) for several reasons. First, it’s been damningly frustrating so far. I got out of bed at 4:30AM and lined up for a race (the solitary girl in a sea of be-spandexed men) only to get dropped from the pack instantly because I couldn’t keep up. So I worked harder. I got out of bed again at 4:30AM and lined up for a race (this time in a field of beginner women like me) and felt strong, confident even, until some chick took out my back wheel on Cat Hill and ended my race. I rode home very slowly that morning with a non-functioning back brake, several broken spokes, and a bruised sense of determination. But I’m not giving up.
Second, I’ve been hesitant to abandon my runner roots. For over six years now I’ve tried to quit running, but that itch to lace up my sneakers and hit the pavement time and time again just won’t be scratched. I was a Lady Ford, then a Fighting Violet and now, a Screaming Yellow and if those team nicknames aren’t enough to make me quit this painful sport I don’t know what is. But when I injured my hip in April and it seemed like running and I were doomed for yet another breakup, cycling was there for me. It was the first time a NO RUNNING doctor’s order wasn’t accompanied by feelings of depression.
Maybe it was the bum hip that hurt when I did everything but cycle, or maybe it was the burglary that made me realize how important my bike was to me, but something changed in me and I started to feel more like JackieOh, Cyclist. I’d like to have a few words with whatever it was because cycling must be the most expensive sport on the planet and now I’m hooked. When I was home last weekend I bought a new road bike, a sexy red carbon fiber number with better components that feels like it was made just for me. Last month I fell in love with track racing at the Kissena Velodrome in Queens and bought a used Fetish fixie from one of the guys I met racing there. Gearing up for the fall season, I ordered a hideously yellow Cyclocross bike through Nice Hedge Fund’s discount program. Finally, rounding out this obsessive little buying streak, I’m trying to get my hands on a cheap beater bike for riding around the city and on campus in a few weeks. It’s a good thing I’m moving because my lovely little Midtown apartment isn’t big enough for this hobby.
After eight weeks of physical therapy, my hip has healed and I’m starting to regain pelvic strength. I can run again, so I’m told, but I just…don’t want to. I thought I’d be so excited for that post-injury run, to feel the spring in my step that can only come from taking nearly ten weeks off. Usually six or eight weeks off is all I need for my sieve of a memory to forget the pain, but not this time. Sorry, baby, I’ve taken up with someone new. He’s just different, that’s all, but my favorite part of the day is waking up to him. Cycling and I are really happy together, I hope you can understand.
I haven’t written too much about it (yet) for several reasons. First, it’s been damningly frustrating so far. I got out of bed at 4:30AM and lined up for a race (the solitary girl in a sea of be-spandexed men) only to get dropped from the pack instantly because I couldn’t keep up. So I worked harder. I got out of bed again at 4:30AM and lined up for a race (this time in a field of beginner women like me) and felt strong, confident even, until some chick took out my back wheel on Cat Hill and ended my race. I rode home very slowly that morning with a non-functioning back brake, several broken spokes, and a bruised sense of determination. But I’m not giving up.
Second, I’ve been hesitant to abandon my runner roots. For over six years now I’ve tried to quit running, but that itch to lace up my sneakers and hit the pavement time and time again just won’t be scratched. I was a Lady Ford, then a Fighting Violet and now, a Screaming Yellow and if those team nicknames aren’t enough to make me quit this painful sport I don’t know what is. But when I injured my hip in April and it seemed like running and I were doomed for yet another breakup, cycling was there for me. It was the first time a NO RUNNING doctor’s order wasn’t accompanied by feelings of depression.
Maybe it was the bum hip that hurt when I did everything but cycle, or maybe it was the burglary that made me realize how important my bike was to me, but something changed in me and I started to feel more like JackieOh, Cyclist. I’d like to have a few words with whatever it was because cycling must be the most expensive sport on the planet and now I’m hooked. When I was home last weekend I bought a new road bike, a sexy red carbon fiber number with better components that feels like it was made just for me. Last month I fell in love with track racing at the Kissena Velodrome in Queens and bought a used Fetish fixie from one of the guys I met racing there. Gearing up for the fall season, I ordered a hideously yellow Cyclocross bike through Nice Hedge Fund’s discount program. Finally, rounding out this obsessive little buying streak, I’m trying to get my hands on a cheap beater bike for riding around the city and on campus in a few weeks. It’s a good thing I’m moving because my lovely little Midtown apartment isn’t big enough for this hobby.
After eight weeks of physical therapy, my hip has healed and I’m starting to regain pelvic strength. I can run again, so I’m told, but I just…don’t want to. I thought I’d be so excited for that post-injury run, to feel the spring in my step that can only come from taking nearly ten weeks off. Usually six or eight weeks off is all I need for my sieve of a memory to forget the pain, but not this time. Sorry, baby, I’ve taken up with someone new. He’s just different, that’s all, but my favorite part of the day is waking up to him. Cycling and I are really happy together, I hope you can understand.
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