I need a vacation.
I thought a little sabbatical from the holding pattern would help, but really, not writing only further depletes my sanity. And we all know I’m always just barely hanging by a thread.
I couldn’t stay away long, lovers. As my horoscope reminded me, “it's critical that you don't withdraw or shut down. Your tendency may be to steer clear of a sticky situation, but avoidance won't solve the problem.” THE STARS KNOW THINGS.
So back to vacations, you know, to avoid sticky situations like figuring out my future. I don’t know where I’d go or when or with what money, but I’ve been thinking about going somewhere alone, just to see if I could do it. Is vacationing alone cool or pathetic? I can’t decide. Yes, these are the kinds of crazy things I dream up when I’m a) not running and b) not writing.
Yesterday was a bad day. I mean, overall it was fine, except for this one little blip when a taxicab sideswiped me on my bike and smushed me between the cab and a road divider. I managed to walk away with just a few scrapes and bruises and without any damage to my bike that I couldn’t fix with my multi-tool, but I owe the Swear Jar about twenty bucks for the words I directed at that cabbie. Still, my cussing was drowned out by the line of traffic, with the typical level of New York City compassion, laying on their horns because they were missing the green light. Don’t mind me, down here on the ground under the cab! I’ll get out of your way just as soon as I make sure nothing is broken, jerks. Maybe my bike and I just need a vacation from Manhattan drivers.
Today is a much better day. At 4:51AM my alarm clock blasted Kanye’s “Stronger,” which is a pretty appropriate song to hear before cycling at such an ungodly hour. I was a little shaken up by yesterday's incident, but I’m very glad I went because somehow after these early morning rides with the girls I feel like I can handle the day without being such a hot mess. I actually washed and dried my hair. I’m wearing my favorite shoes and a new shirt that I even ironed this morning. I am JackieOh, Nice Hedge Fund Assistant, perpetual klutz and occasional heartbreaker, and I’m ready to take on the world in my red suede d’Orsay pumps. Really, they're fantastic shoes.
Easy just limped over to my desk and handed me his business card. I had no idea what was going on for an instant. As it turns out, he pulled out his back over the weekend, and his job title is spelled wrong on the new set of cards that just came in. He is not, in fact, the Global Marco Portfolio Manager, and the game “Macro, Polo” just doesn’t have the right ring to it. Ha, whoops. I’m calling the mail room now.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
LOLBoss
It’s approaching mid-afternoon, I’ve been awake for FAR too many hours, and I’m getting a little delirious. This week I joined a group of girls who cycle in Central Park at 5:30AM on Mondays and Wednesdays and while the bags under my eyelids might tell a different story, I’m little-girl-giddy over this development. My reasons are two-fold:
1. I’m making female friends.
2. I’m making female CYCLING friends.
Let’s face it, my life was a little short in both categories. Cycling with the boys is fun, and as they’re generally faster than me so I’ve improved a lot this summer, but for the sake of my relationship, riding with girls is a probably a good idea. You know, because that whole “I do what I want” attitude only gets one so far in the dating world and then it’s time to play the “If I were in his shoes” game. But anyway. The third reason for my excitement is that they’re doing the MS Bike Tour in October and invited me along! We’ll probably do the sixty-mile race and forgo the ambitious century ride, but still, I’m pumped. I’m going to start soliciting fundraising contributions…now. Give me your money!
Work has been busier this week, in a good way. Sure the “work” I’m doing rarely extends beyond adding guest names to the security list and reserving conference rooms, but it’s better than staring blankly at my monitor and contemplating ocular damage with my letter opener (slightly). The phone was ringing off the hook this morning, which is one of the drawbacks to having four bosses.
(“And here's something else, Bob: I have eight different bosses right now.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Eight bosses.”
“Eight?”
“Eight, Bob.”)
When I started here back in June, I was replacing a woman who was moving to France to pursue her career as an opera singer. Really. She had this rare magnetic personality and the week she spent “training” me (read: chatting and generally charming the pants off of me if I swung that way) was interspersed by every single Nice Hedge Fund employee coming by to wish her good luck. They threw her a huge surprise going away party with pizza and cupcakes and ice cream. That line about having big shoes to fill felt very apropos, and like any good Admin she left a few pairs under the desk when she quit. Still, I always had this sneaking suspicion that maybe I’d bump into her on the street because maybe she didn’t move to Europe to be a singer and live with her French lover. Maybe she felt so guilty about wanting to leave Easy, Easier and Easiest after several years of devoted servitude, and the Europe excuse got her out scot-free. Then, yesterday, it happened! I was a mere two storefronts away from my apartment, on the phone with MomOh, when I saw her. Of course her story was air-tight (just here for a few days to renew her visa, blah blah) but I have to wonder…am I psychic? I kind of think so!
Apparently my predecessor was not able to impart any spelling skills on Easy. His emails read like cat macros, my current favorite being, “when is my sezxual harraament semianr” [sic, obvs].
ZOMG I can haz blakbery???!!1!!
1. I’m making female friends.
2. I’m making female CYCLING friends.
Let’s face it, my life was a little short in both categories. Cycling with the boys is fun, and as they’re generally faster than me so I’ve improved a lot this summer, but for the sake of my relationship, riding with girls is a probably a good idea. You know, because that whole “I do what I want” attitude only gets one so far in the dating world and then it’s time to play the “If I were in his shoes” game. But anyway. The third reason for my excitement is that they’re doing the MS Bike Tour in October and invited me along! We’ll probably do the sixty-mile race and forgo the ambitious century ride, but still, I’m pumped. I’m going to start soliciting fundraising contributions…now. Give me your money!
Work has been busier this week, in a good way. Sure the “work” I’m doing rarely extends beyond adding guest names to the security list and reserving conference rooms, but it’s better than staring blankly at my monitor and contemplating ocular damage with my letter opener (slightly). The phone was ringing off the hook this morning, which is one of the drawbacks to having four bosses.
(“And here's something else, Bob: I have eight different bosses right now.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Eight bosses.”
“Eight?”
“Eight, Bob.”)
When I started here back in June, I was replacing a woman who was moving to France to pursue her career as an opera singer. Really. She had this rare magnetic personality and the week she spent “training” me (read: chatting and generally charming the pants off of me if I swung that way) was interspersed by every single Nice Hedge Fund employee coming by to wish her good luck. They threw her a huge surprise going away party with pizza and cupcakes and ice cream. That line about having big shoes to fill felt very apropos, and like any good Admin she left a few pairs under the desk when she quit. Still, I always had this sneaking suspicion that maybe I’d bump into her on the street because maybe she didn’t move to Europe to be a singer and live with her French lover. Maybe she felt so guilty about wanting to leave Easy, Easier and Easiest after several years of devoted servitude, and the Europe excuse got her out scot-free. Then, yesterday, it happened! I was a mere two storefronts away from my apartment, on the phone with MomOh, when I saw her. Of course her story was air-tight (just here for a few days to renew her visa, blah blah) but I have to wonder…am I psychic? I kind of think so!
Apparently my predecessor was not able to impart any spelling skills on Easy. His emails read like cat macros, my current favorite being, “when is my sezxual harraament semianr” [sic, obvs].
ZOMG I can haz blakbery???!!1!!
Monday, September 17, 2007
I'm Changing My Work Email Address to PhatGrrrrlOh
I had an interesting weekend. Not “bad interesting” just…interesting.
M, of post-running class drinking fame, was in town for the weekend and of course, crashing on my futon. Many a house guest has stayed on that futon (it’s remarkably comfortable), but M was no ordinary visitor, partially because she lived here in New York for a little while so she didn’t need to be babysat or constantly entertained like other guests. Also, she spent the majority of the weekend traipsing around with an entourage of middle-aged German men who were in town for Oktoberfest. I met about nine of them last night at a billiards bar, each bigger than the next and all named Jan or Fritz. They were not so good at pool, caught on to shufflepuck pretty quickly, and were remarkably adept at foosball. Despite the bizarre crowd, it was a fun night and around 10:30PM R and I headed home while M and Coach G kept the party rolling with Die Deutschen.
This morning I met Cycling friend A and two of her friends for a quick ride in Central Park before work. (Sidebar: Hooray! Riding with girls!) M still hadn’t come back to the apartment. Sure enough, as I rolled up to my apartment at 6:45AM, there was M and Coach G on the front stoop, eyes bloodshot and reeking of beer. They followed me upstairs where Coach G proceeded to crawl into my bed and spoon a still-sleeping R while M curled up at their feet. (R relocated to the sofa when he realized that Coach G was not, in fact, me.) Oh, and M missed her 7AM flight this morning because they really needed those two extra hours of drinking. That about sums up the entire weekend: a fun time that I hope to never repeat.
Autumn always seems to catch me off guard, even though I know the season will inevitably breeze through every September. Still, it seems like the weather changes on a dime, that last week I wore sandals and a sundress and today its pumps and suit pants and I'm never quite ready for the cold weather. While I love New York City in the fall, I know the weather is only going to get colder and I'm not sure how many winters I have left in me here. I wonder if the University of Hawaii has a decent MFA program?
The majority of the work I’m doing right now for JDate involves scheduling interviews with candidates. Exciting stuff, I know. Anyway, JDate asked me to email a guy about coming back in for a second interview. His email address: phatguy1@somethingorother.com. Really, we’re considering a candidate who continues to use the email address he created at age fourteen? He's not even the original phatguy@somethingorother.com - he had to use a number! And can you imagine the shame of being phatguy2 or 3? Listen, Dude Bro, you’re applying for a big boy job now so it’s time to get a new address that perhaps uses some configuration of your name and an ounce of common sense. Christ. I can’t wait to meet this guy in person. JDate assures me that his email address is made even more comical by the fact that was entirely devoid of a sense of humor during their first meeting. It’s always the quiet ones who turn out to be porn stars, you know.
M, of post-running class drinking fame, was in town for the weekend and of course, crashing on my futon. Many a house guest has stayed on that futon (it’s remarkably comfortable), but M was no ordinary visitor, partially because she lived here in New York for a little while so she didn’t need to be babysat or constantly entertained like other guests. Also, she spent the majority of the weekend traipsing around with an entourage of middle-aged German men who were in town for Oktoberfest. I met about nine of them last night at a billiards bar, each bigger than the next and all named Jan or Fritz. They were not so good at pool, caught on to shufflepuck pretty quickly, and were remarkably adept at foosball. Despite the bizarre crowd, it was a fun night and around 10:30PM R and I headed home while M and Coach G kept the party rolling with Die Deutschen.
This morning I met Cycling friend A and two of her friends for a quick ride in Central Park before work. (Sidebar: Hooray! Riding with girls!) M still hadn’t come back to the apartment. Sure enough, as I rolled up to my apartment at 6:45AM, there was M and Coach G on the front stoop, eyes bloodshot and reeking of beer. They followed me upstairs where Coach G proceeded to crawl into my bed and spoon a still-sleeping R while M curled up at their feet. (R relocated to the sofa when he realized that Coach G was not, in fact, me.) Oh, and M missed her 7AM flight this morning because they really needed those two extra hours of drinking. That about sums up the entire weekend: a fun time that I hope to never repeat.
Autumn always seems to catch me off guard, even though I know the season will inevitably breeze through every September. Still, it seems like the weather changes on a dime, that last week I wore sandals and a sundress and today its pumps and suit pants and I'm never quite ready for the cold weather. While I love New York City in the fall, I know the weather is only going to get colder and I'm not sure how many winters I have left in me here. I wonder if the University of Hawaii has a decent MFA program?
The majority of the work I’m doing right now for JDate involves scheduling interviews with candidates. Exciting stuff, I know. Anyway, JDate asked me to email a guy about coming back in for a second interview. His email address: phatguy1@somethingorother.com. Really, we’re considering a candidate who continues to use the email address he created at age fourteen? He's not even the original phatguy@somethingorother.com - he had to use a number! And can you imagine the shame of being phatguy2 or 3? Listen, Dude Bro, you’re applying for a big boy job now so it’s time to get a new address that perhaps uses some configuration of your name and an ounce of common sense. Christ. I can’t wait to meet this guy in person. JDate assures me that his email address is made even more comical by the fact that was entirely devoid of a sense of humor during their first meeting. It’s always the quiet ones who turn out to be porn stars, you know.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
What's Up With You, Nice Hedge Fund?
Something is amiss here at Nice Hedge Fund.
I don’t know what’s going on. I never really know what’s going on here – I don’t even know what a hedge fund does, per se. Sure, I hear Loud Guy discussing the sale of luxury goods when he isn’t bitching to his (ex)girlfriend, and JDate is always meeting with telecom analysts, but that is the extent of my understanding of How We Make Money. There is a pervading atmosphere of unrest on the Executive Floor this week: a lot of out-of-office or behind-closed-doors meetings, a lot of please-stop-by-my-office requests. Last time they had shadeball meetings like this it was my first week and Easier had just decided that he didn’t want to come in to the office for a few months. I’m determined to get to the bottom of this. And while I’m at it, I’m determined to find out why Nice Hedge Fund insists on setting the thermostat to 55 degrees. My lips are blue and I have goosebumps and I’m wearing a turtleneck sweater with C’s jacket. People keep walking by and asking if I’m cold, then offering to switch desks because apparently everyone else is sweltering.
Really, my whole body chemistry is off this week. The weather is changing, I haven’t been working out or drinking heavily lately, and I’ve actually had to be half-cognizant during the working hours since Labor Day. I’ll get a break tomorrow and Friday because Easy and JDate will be out for the High Holy Days (duh). Hello, long lunch and leaving early!
Breaking News: Loud Guy is, at this very moment, on the phone with a girl he met last night and asking her out. Poorly, I might add, but he seems to be having some vague success. She’s French, which is perhaps her only excuse for this terrible lapse in judgment. Loud Guy, that sputtering, red-faced fool, didn’t have a place or time or even day picked out to suggest, so the actual date-planning process will now required several emails and phone calls per his MO. Instead of making tangible plans, he gave her every possible mode of contact (work phone, cell phone, work email, personal email), nailed down her complete work schedule for the rest of the week, and promised to brainstorm “fun places on the Upper West Side” where they can go. Oh, swoon.
Holy cow! Loud Guy just turned to me and C and said, “Am I the most entertaining soap opera in this office?” Holding in my laughter was the greatest test of willpower yet, and she and I haven’t been able to make eye contact since. He’s giving us intimate details about his now-over relationship that we have already gleaned from his boisterous conversations! We're advising him for his date! What’s happening here? He’s breaking the third wall! ACK!
I don’t know what’s going on. I never really know what’s going on here – I don’t even know what a hedge fund does, per se. Sure, I hear Loud Guy discussing the sale of luxury goods when he isn’t bitching to his (ex)girlfriend, and JDate is always meeting with telecom analysts, but that is the extent of my understanding of How We Make Money. There is a pervading atmosphere of unrest on the Executive Floor this week: a lot of out-of-office or behind-closed-doors meetings, a lot of please-stop-by-my-office requests. Last time they had shadeball meetings like this it was my first week and Easier had just decided that he didn’t want to come in to the office for a few months. I’m determined to get to the bottom of this. And while I’m at it, I’m determined to find out why Nice Hedge Fund insists on setting the thermostat to 55 degrees. My lips are blue and I have goosebumps and I’m wearing a turtleneck sweater with C’s jacket. People keep walking by and asking if I’m cold, then offering to switch desks because apparently everyone else is sweltering.
Really, my whole body chemistry is off this week. The weather is changing, I haven’t been working out or drinking heavily lately, and I’ve actually had to be half-cognizant during the working hours since Labor Day. I’ll get a break tomorrow and Friday because Easy and JDate will be out for the High Holy Days (duh). Hello, long lunch and leaving early!
Breaking News: Loud Guy is, at this very moment, on the phone with a girl he met last night and asking her out. Poorly, I might add, but he seems to be having some vague success. She’s French, which is perhaps her only excuse for this terrible lapse in judgment. Loud Guy, that sputtering, red-faced fool, didn’t have a place or time or even day picked out to suggest, so the actual date-planning process will now required several emails and phone calls per his MO. Instead of making tangible plans, he gave her every possible mode of contact (work phone, cell phone, work email, personal email), nailed down her complete work schedule for the rest of the week, and promised to brainstorm “fun places on the Upper West Side” where they can go. Oh, swoon.
Holy cow! Loud Guy just turned to me and C and said, “Am I the most entertaining soap opera in this office?” Holding in my laughter was the greatest test of willpower yet, and she and I haven’t been able to make eye contact since. He’s giving us intimate details about his now-over relationship that we have already gleaned from his boisterous conversations! We're advising him for his date! What’s happening here? He’s breaking the third wall! ACK!
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
The Thing That I Never Thought Would Happen, Happened
ARM actually paid me.
He sent me a check (way less than what I would have gotten if I stayed until July 31, way more than the ZERO I expected) and a note that said, “I hope your new job is going well. Are you currently running a blog I can read?” Ha, no. There it was for an instant, that glimmer of a sense of humor that kept him out of the 100% Pure Evil category and sometimes made him downright fun. Well, thank you, ARM. It won’t buy back the sanity I lost during those 365 days under your employ, but it will buy me a massage and a facial and enough booze to potentially wipe my memory clean.
What more could a girl want?
The weirdest part was when I looked at the printed return address before I opened the envelope. I recognized it without really processing that it was ARM's home address, like it was innate or perhaps my own address. It was a familiarity like the moment when you become fluent in a foreign language and can think and respond in that language without going through the steps of translation before every phrase. I cashed the check immediately and threw out the card.
I took the stupid GRE yesterday afternoon. The whole experience felt like I was being punked: the whitewashed walls, ubiquitous Dude Bros in various degrees of preppy attire (all presumably taking the GMAT) hovering by the locker area, oddball employees who seemed like it was their collective first day, and an overly chatty man from St. Lucia who both told me his scores (they were pretty bad) and asked me out for a drink (I politely declined) as we exited the testing center. At any moment I expected Ashton Kutcher to leap out from one of the cubicles, scare the shit out of me, and inform me that this was all a set-up and I'd have to take the real GRE again. I scored 100 points higher on the math section than the verbal section, which is distressing for one who wants to study creative writing. Perhaps I should reconsider that engineering career after all. Anyway, that step is done and now it’s on to begging for letters of recommendation and editing the heck out of my portfolio. Oh right, and figuring out where I want to go and how I’m going to pay for it and then praying to the Gods of Higher Education that I get in. Piece of cake.
During lunch today I went out for the MRI on my right leg. I kind of like MRIs and that sort of test. You lie down wearing big headphones and take a little midday nap while the machine makes weird clicking noises and if your leg inadvertently twitches they start the whole thing over and you can nap for even longer! Hooray!
He sent me a check (way less than what I would have gotten if I stayed until July 31, way more than the ZERO I expected) and a note that said, “I hope your new job is going well. Are you currently running a blog I can read?” Ha, no. There it was for an instant, that glimmer of a sense of humor that kept him out of the 100% Pure Evil category and sometimes made him downright fun. Well, thank you, ARM. It won’t buy back the sanity I lost during those 365 days under your employ, but it will buy me a massage and a facial and enough booze to potentially wipe my memory clean.
What more could a girl want?
The weirdest part was when I looked at the printed return address before I opened the envelope. I recognized it without really processing that it was ARM's home address, like it was innate or perhaps my own address. It was a familiarity like the moment when you become fluent in a foreign language and can think and respond in that language without going through the steps of translation before every phrase. I cashed the check immediately and threw out the card.
I took the stupid GRE yesterday afternoon. The whole experience felt like I was being punked: the whitewashed walls, ubiquitous Dude Bros in various degrees of preppy attire (all presumably taking the GMAT) hovering by the locker area, oddball employees who seemed like it was their collective first day, and an overly chatty man from St. Lucia who both told me his scores (they were pretty bad) and asked me out for a drink (I politely declined) as we exited the testing center. At any moment I expected Ashton Kutcher to leap out from one of the cubicles, scare the shit out of me, and inform me that this was all a set-up and I'd have to take the real GRE again. I scored 100 points higher on the math section than the verbal section, which is distressing for one who wants to study creative writing. Perhaps I should reconsider that engineering career after all. Anyway, that step is done and now it’s on to begging for letters of recommendation and editing the heck out of my portfolio. Oh right, and figuring out where I want to go and how I’m going to pay for it and then praying to the Gods of Higher Education that I get in. Piece of cake.
During lunch today I went out for the MRI on my right leg. I kind of like MRIs and that sort of test. You lie down wearing big headphones and take a little midday nap while the machine makes weird clicking noises and if your leg inadvertently twitches they start the whole thing over and you can nap for even longer! Hooray!
Friday, September 7, 2007
Thank Goodness It's Friday
Sentencing day. I went to the doctor on my lunch break, and it went exactly as expected. Well-worth the ten dollar co-pay for him to poke my leg in a few places (“Does it hurt when I do this?” “Yes.”), diagnose the pain as “weird” and write me a prescription for an MRI. For a little perspective, I spent the same amount of money last night after haggling with a striking taxi driver, and that at least got my drunk ass home from the bar. Ugh. And it’s not like I can just waltz out the door and get the MRI. No, first the doctor's office has to contact my insurance company for authorization, then call me to say they have the authorization, and then I get to make an appointment at an inconveniently-located imaging center. After waiting a few days for results, I have to go back to the doctor. Every time I get injured I vow to quit running entirely, but once I get better and get back into it I can’t imagine why I ever wanted to stop. Oh right, now I remember. Jumping through hoops to get a diagnosis and a few weeks of physical therapy ends up being more painful than the original injury.
On an unrelated note, do fruit tarts count as pastries? I feel like they probably do, but I can rationally squeeze them past security because it’s a pastry covered with fruit, so it’s healthy! Either way, I just ate one and it was delicious. Let’s hope it was enough to stave off any potential emotional meltdown at the hands of low blood sugar and pent-up frustration.
Last night I met up with Former Roommate La at one of our favorite bars near her new apartment. Between her expert flirtation with the hot 39-year-old bartender (he’s a whole voting-age person older than her!) and our fan club of rowdy businessmen, my vodka tonics with extra lime and her Amstels were comped all night. Normally I hate accepting a drink from a guy because then I feel obligated to talk to him, but these dudes were middle-aged, harmless, thoroughly entertaining, and running a hefty tab on a corporate card – the exact kinds of people you want to meet at a bar. Good times had by all.
Fast forward to 7:42AM. I woke up three minutes before I’m supposed to be at the office, threw on some mostly-clean khakis and my Nice Hedge Fund polo shirt that they give out at orientation and that no one ever wears, and bolted for the door. I made it to work by 8AM where I promptly applied a liberal amount of deodorant to my underarms. I keep a stick in my desk drawer for just this occasion. Oh, but it's Friday - Gods of Four-Day Work Weeks, I love you.
I need a cookie, a hug and a shower. Maybe not in that order.
On an unrelated note, do fruit tarts count as pastries? I feel like they probably do, but I can rationally squeeze them past security because it’s a pastry covered with fruit, so it’s healthy! Either way, I just ate one and it was delicious. Let’s hope it was enough to stave off any potential emotional meltdown at the hands of low blood sugar and pent-up frustration.
Last night I met up with Former Roommate La at one of our favorite bars near her new apartment. Between her expert flirtation with the hot 39-year-old bartender (he’s a whole voting-age person older than her!) and our fan club of rowdy businessmen, my vodka tonics with extra lime and her Amstels were comped all night. Normally I hate accepting a drink from a guy because then I feel obligated to talk to him, but these dudes were middle-aged, harmless, thoroughly entertaining, and running a hefty tab on a corporate card – the exact kinds of people you want to meet at a bar. Good times had by all.
Fast forward to 7:42AM. I woke up three minutes before I’m supposed to be at the office, threw on some mostly-clean khakis and my Nice Hedge Fund polo shirt that they give out at orientation and that no one ever wears, and bolted for the door. I made it to work by 8AM where I promptly applied a liberal amount of deodorant to my underarms. I keep a stick in my desk drawer for just this occasion. Oh, but it's Friday - Gods of Four-Day Work Weeks, I love you.
I need a cookie, a hug and a shower. Maybe not in that order.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
These Are Dark Times For Me
For the past I don’t know how many weeks (months, possibly), there is always a pile of unread newspapers in the vestibule of my apartment building. Anytime I walk past I think to myself, Gee, why isn’t this person reading his newspaper? On Tuesday morning I looked down and my eye locked on the delivery label: it read my name. It seems that I am an unwitting subscriber to the Wall Street Journal, and have been for some time. I don’t think I’m paying for it (I certainly hope not!) and really, why would I – of very minimal financial know-how – sign up for the WSJ in the first place? So on Tuesday I figured I might as well read it while eating my bowl of cereal at my desk. Yesterday I forgot and walked right past it (habit!) but today I remembered and read it again. Sure, I kind of skip over the Money & Investing section but maybe it wouldn’t kill me to know what’s going on with the subprime market or how the iPhone’s price cut will affect the economy. Maybe I’ll even learn a thing or two, and next thing you know I’ll be signing up for the GMATs. Can’t get enough of that standardized testing, mmmhmmm.
I went out at lunch to try to buy a pair of brown leather flats that I put on hold this morning. Some people, when they incur a sports injury, go to physical therapy. I opt for retail therapy. Putting any weight on my right leg hurts something wicked so heels are out of the question. I thought I could cheer myself up with a pair of nice work-appropriate driving mocs (as opposed to the flip-flops I’ve been sporting) but of course they were too wide for my skinny foot. Throw me a bone here, Universe, will you? These are dark times for me, and pretty new shoes will help guide me through! Come on!
I bought a shirt on sale instead. I guess I’ll pull through.
After shopping I met up with Former Intern from Private Equity Firm, who looked adorably tan and Eurotrashy in his black polo, white shorts, black trendy sneakers and aviators. He was back from his summer in Greece and wanted to meet up to give me a present before he heads off to Impressive Ivy League College. He’s come a long way since the winter when he started as my intern and ARM made me find him a dermatologist to treat of his “severe acne.” Seriously. How did I ever sleep at night while working for that man?
Anyway, tomorrow is my sentencing hearing, also knows as my orthopedist appointment. Hopefully the good doctor can tell me why I can ride 50 miles on my bike but I can’t walk without whimpering. If the verdict is NO RUNNING I’m getting a second opinion.
I went out at lunch to try to buy a pair of brown leather flats that I put on hold this morning. Some people, when they incur a sports injury, go to physical therapy. I opt for retail therapy. Putting any weight on my right leg hurts something wicked so heels are out of the question. I thought I could cheer myself up with a pair of nice work-appropriate driving mocs (as opposed to the flip-flops I’ve been sporting) but of course they were too wide for my skinny foot. Throw me a bone here, Universe, will you? These are dark times for me, and pretty new shoes will help guide me through! Come on!
I bought a shirt on sale instead. I guess I’ll pull through.
After shopping I met up with Former Intern from Private Equity Firm, who looked adorably tan and Eurotrashy in his black polo, white shorts, black trendy sneakers and aviators. He was back from his summer in Greece and wanted to meet up to give me a present before he heads off to Impressive Ivy League College. He’s come a long way since the winter when he started as my intern and ARM made me find him a dermatologist to treat of his “severe acne.” Seriously. How did I ever sleep at night while working for that man?
Anyway, tomorrow is my sentencing hearing, also knows as my orthopedist appointment. Hopefully the good doctor can tell me why I can ride 50 miles on my bike but I can’t walk without whimpering. If the verdict is NO RUNNING I’m getting a second opinion.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
How Many Dude Bros Does it Take to Pick a Lameass Fantasy Football Team?
This is Day 2 of no cookies and Day 5 of no running and I’m already knee-deep in a funk. It’s only going to get worse from here, dear readers, but I promise that if I fall within view of rock bottom I’ll limp downstairs to the deli and dive headfirst into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s.
While walking is painful and running is excruciating, cycling is relatively pain-free so I strapped on my Velcro-closured, carbon-soled, cleated shoes, pumped up my tires and met up with Cycling Friend J for a ride last night. We crossed the GW Bridge and cruised through the lovely and hilly suburbs of Bergen County, NJ. “Cruised” might not be the right word to describe it. He was cruising; I was just trying not to die, especially on a four-mile climb that nearly gave me a heart attack. Still, we agreed that it was one of the more enjoyable longer than expected, one water bottle, no food, nearly hit by a car, cramped calf muscle, caught in the dark on 9W ride either of us has had. I slept like a baby last night. And we’re doing it all over again tonight. Sweet.
I know I goof off at work as much as the next person (okay, possibly more, for lack of actual tasks), but Loud Guy is ridiculous. He’s ridiculoud. He’s been on the phone with his Dude Bros for the past two hours discussing his Fantasy Football draft. Seriously, Loud Guy, are you that inept that you can’t make your picks without a conference call? At this point, C and I are convinced that he’s never watched a game of football in his life and is just using buzz words he’s heard to fake it. You know, like how I jabber on when someone asks me how Nice Hedge Fund operates. (Quantum macro group! Trading Floor! Futures growth! Long or short assets!) I’m full of shit frequently enough to recognize it in others and your cover is blown, Loud Guy. You just mispronounced that Carolina QB’s name – it’s French you moron, the “H” is silent. Then the website he was using for his draft wasn’t working and he actually called IT to help him with what is so obviously NOT A WORK ISSUE. I can’t decide if he’s ballsy or just that clueless.
I think I’m going to call IT now and complain that porn isn’t working on my computer and could they maybe help me with that? Great, thanks.
Then he gets on the phone with his boss and says he’s “just back from a few meetings.” Right, the way “on a call with an analyst” translates to “screaming at his girlfriend for not texting him back the other night because she was having sex with someone else.”
I love football season (Go Eagles!), but it’s going to be a long five months if I have to listen to him on the phone every week with his Dude Bros lamenting the suckitude of his team.
While walking is painful and running is excruciating, cycling is relatively pain-free so I strapped on my Velcro-closured, carbon-soled, cleated shoes, pumped up my tires and met up with Cycling Friend J for a ride last night. We crossed the GW Bridge and cruised through the lovely and hilly suburbs of Bergen County, NJ. “Cruised” might not be the right word to describe it. He was cruising; I was just trying not to die, especially on a four-mile climb that nearly gave me a heart attack. Still, we agreed that it was one of the more enjoyable longer than expected, one water bottle, no food, nearly hit by a car, cramped calf muscle, caught in the dark on 9W ride either of us has had. I slept like a baby last night. And we’re doing it all over again tonight. Sweet.
I know I goof off at work as much as the next person (okay, possibly more, for lack of actual tasks), but Loud Guy is ridiculous. He’s ridiculoud. He’s been on the phone with his Dude Bros for the past two hours discussing his Fantasy Football draft. Seriously, Loud Guy, are you that inept that you can’t make your picks without a conference call? At this point, C and I are convinced that he’s never watched a game of football in his life and is just using buzz words he’s heard to fake it. You know, like how I jabber on when someone asks me how Nice Hedge Fund operates. (Quantum macro group! Trading Floor! Futures growth! Long or short assets!) I’m full of shit frequently enough to recognize it in others and your cover is blown, Loud Guy. You just mispronounced that Carolina QB’s name – it’s French you moron, the “H” is silent. Then the website he was using for his draft wasn’t working and he actually called IT to help him with what is so obviously NOT A WORK ISSUE. I can’t decide if he’s ballsy or just that clueless.
I think I’m going to call IT now and complain that porn isn’t working on my computer and could they maybe help me with that? Great, thanks.
Then he gets on the phone with his boss and says he’s “just back from a few meetings.” Right, the way “on a call with an analyst” translates to “screaming at his girlfriend for not texting him back the other night because she was having sex with someone else.”
I love football season (Go Eagles!), but it’s going to be a long five months if I have to listen to him on the phone every week with his Dude Bros lamenting the suckitude of his team.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
"I Would Send You a Bouquet of Sharpened Pencils"
Welcome back to my Midtown Holding Pattern reality. The doldrums of summer at the office are over, the bosses are back, and I’m wearing mascara. Labor Day is like the inverse relation of Memorial Day where x equals fun. (See? I’m totally ready for the GRE.)
The end of summer is always so bittersweet. Despite being out of college for over a year now, I can’t resist feeling nostalgic for the Back-to-School jitters. I’m excited for new classes that I’m not in, and new people that I won’t meet and new clothes that I’ll buy anyway because I’ve never met a J.Crew catalog I could refuse. Maybe this is the dissonance throwing my body off-kilter. Can I blame the nagging pain in my right leg on another autumn without school?
Of course it happens when I finally feel faster, when I start to see the rewards that come from paying my dues for a full year. Is this how the rest of my running life will go? Start from scratch, train hard and then harder, get better, get hurt, repeat? Every time it happens I try to convince myself that maybe I’m not really JackieOh, Runner. Maybe I’m JackieOh, Cyclist or JackieOh, C-Cup, or worse: JackieOh, Fat Girl. Somehow, because I’m too slow I guess, running catches up to me every time and I take it back all over again. Running is the abusive boyfriend that I can’t leave. You just don’t know him like I do – he’s really sweet to me when we’re alone. Oh that injury? It’s nothing, I mean, I bumped into a chair. I’m fine.
Oh, but I’m not fine and for me to admit defeat and make a doctor’s appointment means that my leg is about ready to stage a bloody coup d’etat from the rest of my body. I may have passed the point where a normal person would have stopped running about a week and a half ago. You can’t really blame me for disliking my orthopedist though – every time I go it’s the same diagnosis: NO RUNNING.
In my preparation for the NO RUNNING death sentence, I’ve vowed to eat a bit healthier and cut down on some of my carbohydrate consumption. MomOh jokingly calls my eating habits the North Beach diet - all carbs. I will NOT be JackieOh, Fat Girl. So here is my restricted list, written on a Post-It note and stuck to my computer monitor:
!!!! NO !!!!
Bagels
Muffins
Pastries
Cookies
Cake
Ice Cream
Soda
I’ll probably add to the list as I think of more indulgences, but those are my heavy-hitting gluttony favorites. My first draft included beer, but that was a bit ambitious. I figure I’ll keep beer in my diet but make more of an effort to drink more hard liquor instead! On an empty stomach! Woo hoo, drunk quicker!
Maybe this fall won’t be so bad after all.
The end of summer is always so bittersweet. Despite being out of college for over a year now, I can’t resist feeling nostalgic for the Back-to-School jitters. I’m excited for new classes that I’m not in, and new people that I won’t meet and new clothes that I’ll buy anyway because I’ve never met a J.Crew catalog I could refuse. Maybe this is the dissonance throwing my body off-kilter. Can I blame the nagging pain in my right leg on another autumn without school?
Of course it happens when I finally feel faster, when I start to see the rewards that come from paying my dues for a full year. Is this how the rest of my running life will go? Start from scratch, train hard and then harder, get better, get hurt, repeat? Every time it happens I try to convince myself that maybe I’m not really JackieOh, Runner. Maybe I’m JackieOh, Cyclist or JackieOh, C-Cup, or worse: JackieOh, Fat Girl. Somehow, because I’m too slow I guess, running catches up to me every time and I take it back all over again. Running is the abusive boyfriend that I can’t leave. You just don’t know him like I do – he’s really sweet to me when we’re alone. Oh that injury? It’s nothing, I mean, I bumped into a chair. I’m fine.
Oh, but I’m not fine and for me to admit defeat and make a doctor’s appointment means that my leg is about ready to stage a bloody coup d’etat from the rest of my body. I may have passed the point where a normal person would have stopped running about a week and a half ago. You can’t really blame me for disliking my orthopedist though – every time I go it’s the same diagnosis: NO RUNNING.
In my preparation for the NO RUNNING death sentence, I’ve vowed to eat a bit healthier and cut down on some of my carbohydrate consumption. MomOh jokingly calls my eating habits the North Beach diet - all carbs. I will NOT be JackieOh, Fat Girl. So here is my restricted list, written on a Post-It note and stuck to my computer monitor:
!!!! NO !!!!
Bagels
Muffins
Pastries
Cookies
Cake
Ice Cream
Soda
I’ll probably add to the list as I think of more indulgences, but those are my heavy-hitting gluttony favorites. My first draft included beer, but that was a bit ambitious. I figure I’ll keep beer in my diet but make more of an effort to drink more hard liquor instead! On an empty stomach! Woo hoo, drunk quicker!
Maybe this fall won’t be so bad after all.
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