Life Coach for Hire

I love when I’m in moods like the one I’m currently in. It usually happens with the perfect amount of coffee. It’s a slight caffeine buzz, but without the shakes.

I’ve been sitting in the same cafe for three hours now. I’ve had three 12 oz. glasses, and I plan on stopping relatively soon. Tonight I’m meeting with a cousin that I haven’t seen since I was probably 14 or 15 years old. She’s been living in New York for two years, and I’m the inexperienced, young newcomer looking for guidance.

Speaking of guidance, are you aware that life coaches actually exist? My friend Cristina once met one of these people on a plane and still keeps in close contact with the individual to this day. While it sounds a little new-age for my taste–I could be into this. I am one of the most indecisive people ever, and while a life coach would surely not help me form my own decisions, (or would they?) he or she would certainly point me in the right direction. If anyone is considering taking on life coaching professionally in the future and would like a guinea pig to practice on, I’m available.

[post notes: After publishing this post and reading it again, I can now see how coffee makes my mind go totally spastic. There is absolutely zero effort put into even attempting to form transitions from one thought to the next. Sorry folks. I will do better.]

And the search, like the beat, goes on.

Today marks day 29 on my quest to find a job. Job hunting is kind of like what I would imagine dating to be for ugly people who have too high of standards. You have that dream occupation in mind and you’re not willing to settle for less. You start off really confident. I will get that job. I am perfect for it. Then you realize that the only people that get jobs like those are the ones who “slept around” with everyone involved with the position, thus getting an in when some people who may really deserve it and are ready for such a responsibility remain as waitresses–I mean, remain unemployed. (This has nothing to do with me, obviously.) I have probably applied to over 30 jobs, had two interviews, and arranged two informational interviews. These informational interviews, while not meant for the purpose of securing employment, actually leave me the most satisfied. I’m at ease because there is no fear of rejection, and the editorial assistants that I meet are genuinely nice. I think they relate to my tales of despair in a world with too many writers and not enough writing positions.

And now, perhaps because my day of interning is over and I actually have the night off from work, optimism has decided to trickle into my prose. –A rarity to those of you familiar with the way my mind works. As cliché and romanticized as this will sound, in the back of my mind I know it’s the truth: Years from now I will be looking back at these moments of humiliation, desperation, and lack of funds as some of the most wonderful and humbling times I will ever face. A friend recently wrote to me in an e-mail, that if it were easy, everyone would move out to New York and be fabulous. How true. Honestly, I had been telling myself for nearly a year now that I would move out to New York, be poor, work really hard for a while in order to secure a position, and make life happen from there. At no point did I naively think: With my credentials, I should have no problem getting a job. So I guess this post is my way of rationally telling my mind to stop being so masochistic and punishing me for not yet having found my very own 401k plan with health benefits.

I am not an ugly person with high standards. I just haven’t slept with the right people yet.

I stare because I hate your shoes, and I’m sorry.

OK, so I think I might have a staring problem. Something tells me that I probably got this weird disorder from my mother, who has been known to stare. That’s another story for another time though. Moving on:

I’ve been thinking about this for a while, and I’m pretty sure that my staring problem increases when I’m riding the subway alone. It’s like my eyes don’t know where to look! When someone is riding the subway with you, you look at them and have a conversation. However, when I’m by myself, I just sit there with my little iPod and gawk at those around me. I don’t even necessarily stare at people I think are attractive. Most of the time its the people with a twitching problem or ugly shoes on that leave me mesmerized for seconds at a time. Then I get paranoid though because I don’t want those people to know I’m having trouble averting my glare from them–so I look away. But you know what? Ten seconds later, my eyes are right back on those twitchers and Teva-wearing passengers. It’s a disease, and I think I might just get my ass kicked for it one day.

A simple solution to this problem to anyone other than me would be to bring a book or magazine along for the ride. I have, in fact tried this before. Nonetheless, I look up and glance around me, then come back down to the book. I read a couple sentences, and I look up again! Am I alone in being a lone starer? Please say it isn’t so.

Lives of the Not-so-Rich and Not-so-Famous

This weekend some very good friends came up from DC to enjoy the 21st birthday festivities of a fellow AUer here in the city. The party was held in this beautiful old home in Brooklyn Heights overlooking the Brooklyn Bridge and Manhattan skyline. Is it sad that everyone compared the evening to an episode of Gossip Girl or Marie Antoinette as opposed to simply taking it for what it was–a well-organized, champagne infused, over the top dance party?

Call me nostalgic and cliché, but it was one of those evenings that will not soon be forgotten. Even if there was copious amounts of alcohol.

Moving on from my life where I pretend to be a socialite once every business cycle, we arrive at my day-to-day life as a commoner. There are certain cultural advantages I get to experience that those who are better off will simply never know of. Take for instance the subway. Why, just the other day I witnessed a man with a razor blade shaving his face only a mere three feet from me. Some might condemn such behavior, deeming it uncouth. If you think about it though, this lowly peasant cared enough about his outward appearance to take a moment and beautify himself prior to making it to his morning engagement.

And here’s something for all of you who enjoy a scandal. I may be relatively poor right now, but like those young, Hollywood starlets I was involved in my very first sexual harassment dispute last night! Leave it to a couple of drunk and middle-aged male customers at a “fine-dining” establishment to tap your bottom and grab your arm when asking for the check. But hey! They sure did tip well. Everyone wins.

I’m writing. You’re reading.

Writing is like a sport. Without proper training and practice, you really start to suck at it. The only type of written work I’ve completed since graduation in May has been along the lines of: “Attached you will find my resume, cover letter, and writing samples. I may provide references upon request.” I have been applying to various jobs like crazy ever since moving to New York about a month ago, which is really a full-time job in itself. It’s a tedious and winding road, but it’s also the only route to my final destination. So here I am–hopefully on my way.

For those interested in knowing (and I’m assuming you are, otherwise why would you be reading this?) I have begun my editorial internship with NYLON and have started waitressing at this quaint pizzeria in Brooklyn not far from where I live. For the moment, holding my breath, life is good. I’m busy and tired, but I deposit my singles into the bank the following day with a pride that only servers and strippers can understand. I say to myself: Bitch, I earned my money! Of course I then go and buy some frock to don. Some people, like my father, may think of this as an unnecessary expense. You’d be wrong though. It’s like I tell people, such as my father, that clothes are just little investments into my future career. More importantly though, above all else, new clothes just make me feel better. I could have a worse addiction. Am I wrong here?

I have several more things I want to talk about right now but can’t because I have to go to work in thirty minutes. I’ll give you a quick “dirt sandwich”-like preview though (only in writing and not by video): man shaving on subway, new Russians: a.k.a “my family”, one-eyed cab driver, first Brooklyn Heights experience=a good one.

It should be no surprise that this would happen to me.

Last night was the second in a row now where I have been up for no good reason until 3:30AM. What is tragic about this, besides the fact that I look like live I’ve aged thirty years from lack of sleep today, is the swift and heavy fall I took at 2AM. I was getting up from the couch to refill on water when my left leg decided to not do its job of holding me upright (naturally). I tumbled to the ground, but not without colliding into the corner of the coffee table first. A bruise on my abdomen and a skinned elbow are but a couple of souveneirs I received from my unexpected trip to the hard ground below.

It was kind of like Spring Break ‘07 in Cancun minus all the booze, man.

Last week was Spring Break. As mentioned in the previous post, it was spent with my aunt, uncle, and two little cousins outside of San Francisco in a little place called the Central Valley. Aside from there being just about as much to do in their town as there is to do in my hometown: eat, watch TV, bowl, get your nails did, walk the dog, drive nowhere–I had a wonderfully educational experience.  

You may be asking yourself–Educational? Really Jess? Please, do let me expand. First off, my aunt is quite the homemaker. She never seems to be that much older than me, until I visit her. It’s when I step into her house and notice that not a single thing is out of place, not even a crumb to be found on the kitchen counter, that I realize–Man. She IS getting old. Now, now. I jest! It’s just that my tiny one-bedroom apartment is, um, far from this level of immaculate. Most people my age tend to shower regularly, sure…but clean our apartments? Please. I would rather do something more productive with my early twenties like watch Rock of Love or Housewives of New York City while thinking about why Rumer Willis looks like that.

Another thing I learned: kids can wait. Not forever. But for the time being, I do not want ‘em. I love the tykes known as my cousins, but they require a certain level of patience I just don’t see in myself yet. Maybe patience comes with time or the desire to want children of your own like, immediately. I’ve just never been a “little kid person.” You can’t be competitive and play games with them, because they’re always supposed to win. ‘Cause if they don’twin–watch out! You’re about to see the biggest, bat shit-crazy, hissy fit of a lifetime. I was there. I know what I saw, and it was frightening. I had no idea what to do in this situation. I’m supposed to be the cool, older cousin. They are not supposed to throw tantrums with me. All I wanted to do was lie and say that he had in fact won the game. This would be followed by me throwing my Monopoly Junior money at the kid. Here. Take it. It’s not even real. What do they know? They’re just kids! I think I tend to connect more with the 9-13 year-old age group. –Not because I think they’re cute or anything, but because I don’t have to speak an octave higher in order to sound nice.

This weekend my little brother comes into town. He’s a pretty laid-back fellow who doesn’t require a squeaky clean abode to sleep comfortably when away from one’s home, nonetheless I will be fixing up the apartment in anticipation of his arrival. And if he happens to start talking to me about girls, I’ll let him in on a little story about what I see parenting really being like. It’s like my friend Michaela always says, “Abstinence is a condom for the heart.” So. True. 

It starts out on a plane.

It’s bad, really bad when you write a blog post by hand in your personal journal since no computer access exists 30,000 feet above ground. However, I’ve managed to accomplish this task with relatively little harm to my ego. Here’s what I wrote:

Well, I’m on my way to San Francisco to visit my aunt and the family for part of my last Spring Break ever. For those of you who know me, you’re aware that I’m terrified of flying…so bear with me while I waste some air time and indulge in my utter nerdiness by writing this blog post.

First things first:
1) I HIGHLY suggest flying with jetBlue. My flight began with an episode of That 70’s Show followed by movie Juno on my personal TV screen. People: I have just experienced the 21st century and…It. Is. Awesome! I have copious amounts of leg room and even decided to get one of those baby bottles of wine to encourage my self-important nature.

2) On the way to the airport today I had a cab driver offer me two very interesting rules of thumb he says he swears by:

a) Never go to the doctor’s office for a physical. This man is sixty-eight years old and apparently healthy as a horse. Mazel Tov.

b) Never wear a condom. (FYI: I did express to him that this was an over share…c’mon folks, I do have some morals!) He said that this rule keeps him faithful to his girlfriend. I don’t care to go on.—Yeesh.

There is no level of ‘uncomfortable’ that shies away from me. These types of situations often find their way into my daily routine, and I’m just going to start recording them. For instance, I’m not really sure why some cab drivers feel the need to push the envelope that extra inch and completely cross my self-imposed comfort line. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I just talk too much–you know, too nice too quickly? On my way home from work last week, the driver asked me for my number to go on a date. Great. It’s uncomfortable moments such as this one which happen on a regular basis, that make me want to crawl under a large rock and hide forever.

A similar type of uncomfortable occurred a couple weeks ago at my internship. I was going on one of my many important errands at the magazine: a coffee run. I had gone out with one of the new interns who had decided to tell me that she no longer drinks coffee due to her IBS. I did not ask her if caffeine made her irritable. I didn’t even ask the girl if she liked coffee! My only regret is that I didn’t have a good friend of mine around at this moment to share in this heightened level of ‘uncomfortable’ with me. Instead, I have resorted to sharing this intern’s digestive ailments with cyber space. I’m sorry…

I’m not worthy.

The photograph of this little, Parisian fashionista can be found on one of my new favorite blogs, Style Sightings. The people photographed for this site are stunning, so much so, that everything in my closet could basically be compared to a burlap sack when placed next to the threads these folks are donning. Sure, some of the wardrobe choices are a little too over the top, their outfits screaming, “Today, I went for more of a train-wreck look,” but I understand the appeal of wanting to see something different. In America we generally tend to go for a more, “I’ll have what she’s wearing” approach to fashion. This can get really boring, especially when you live in D.C. and the dresscode happens to be an ill-fitting business suit with tennis shoes.

A girl home alone. A romance. A recipe for contemplation.

Ah, yes. After an extremely tedious and tiring day, what better way to enjoy a quiet evening at home than by watching Under the Tuscan Sun, featuring Diane Lane? It’s amazing how happy this movie makes me. I laugh. I cry. I think, yes! Someday I will move to Italy and find happiness, love, and write the next great novel! I will stroll through the villages of Tuscany and find an amazing mansion for a reasonable price. Sure, there will be hard times. But I’ll look so good doing it all–in fact, I’ll buy a blow-dryer and do my hair. Then all the Italian men will come a runnin’!

I am a such a sucker for a good romance/coming-of-age tale. But it got me wondering…how realistic are any of these romances? Do children in Italy really run around throwing rose petals at people, as opposed to the sticks and stones American kids manage to hurl? It’s a little unsettling.

Josephine Cox, a popular British author, brings up an interesting point: Love stories may be instilling some unrealistic expectations in many of us. Here are some key arguments she poses in an article from The Daily Mail:

1) Generally, all the main characters of a love story are really good-looking. (Not the case in real life.)

2) Often enough, it’s love at first site. (For those who say they’ve never noticed someone on the metro and thought–if even for just a second–that this could be the one, you’re lying. And probably no fun at all.)

3) If it’s not love at first site, it’s a childhood friendship that has developed into much, much more.

4) The stories end when the two characters end up happily together. Forget the baby diapers, cottage cheese thighs, and “first gray hairs” that come later.

Still, at the end of all this I say that storytelling is just storytelling. If novels and films were about how Paul and Lauren met their sophomore year of college and got married after graduation, I would cry giant tears of boredom.

Under the Tuscan Sun probably made me think a little too much. But I am considering a future as a divorcee who decides to start over in Europe…I just hope I have Diane Lane’s waistline.