It’s better than a mass e-mail

It’s official: I am employed.

Finally. A job. A real life, full-time, paying job.

As some of you might recall, I interviewed with a place a few weeks ago. It went great, I met everyone, and I thought I was as good as hired. But then many long anxious days pass, and a mind-scrambling back and forth ensues – give us story ideas, now make them better and gives us new ones, ok now do a test story for us, ok now sit by the phone and wait and go slowly crazy, ok now be patient because we are going through budget talks and we’ll let you know soon.

But I kept on them, and finally yesterday they asked me to stop by the office. The editor coyly asks me how I am feeling. I say anxious. He asks me if I want to work there. I say yes, and he says, well you’re going to, and hands over an envelope with the offer letter.

Phew.

So we chat, I tell him I feel good about it, but that I need to look at the details and think it over and will call them. I took my offer letter home (tearing into the envelope before getting back to my car), bought a 12-pack and invited a friend over and proceeded to get drunk in the middle of the afternoon.

This morning, I tried my hand at a little salary negotiation, which didn’t really go as planned. I knew I’d be taking a cut going back to newspapers, but then when it became a reality and I could see the numbers on the page, I felt disappointed, a little crestfallen, and I guess a little frustrated. Sure, I had hoped for more, and I had gotten pretty comfortable this last year of freelancing for magazines and traveling and living the life of relative luxury. But it took a little reminder that this is indeed why I decided to go back to grad school and that I believe in this publication and my desire to be a part of a newspaper.

The fact that I am getting paid less, but shelling out tons more each month paying off these stinking grad school loans, stings. My father keeps saying it was an investment in my future, and it was worth it, and I wanted this and I followed it. I am hoping he’s right, and leave it to my dad to put it all into perspective.

Plus, I’m just being a baby about it. Truth is, I really wanted this job regardless and I am really excited to be doing daily reporting again.

So on Tuesday morning, I will get up and shower and dress and eat a bowl of cereal and go to work at an office. It’s been two years since I’ve done that (grad school newsroom not withstanding), and I can’t wait. I am finally and officially employed.

When I was a kid – maybe five or six years old – my dad drove an early 1970s silver-gray Gremlin. You might not remember such a car, as they apparently only made the gem for less than a decade, and stopped before I was nary a twinkle in my mother’s eye.

But my dad loved his Gremlin. I remember riding to school in the bare-bones jalopy, my dad with his burly dark beard and grey hair and my brother and I silenced in the back seat by the ever-present NPR playing on the AM/FM radio. I didn’t know any one else that owned a Gremlin, and in fact, I still have never met anyone with such a privilege.

At some point, the car was unceremoniously sold for something no doubt more practical and less memorable, but I think my dad has thought about that car from time to time for the past two decades. Little did I know, he had also recently been scanning the pages of EBay.

“I just called to tell you I am the proud owner of a 1974 lime green Gremlin.”

This was his voice mail to me this weekend. I had heard he placed a bid on the car a few days before, but my brother and I both were a little skeptical that he would follow through with the inevitable last minute bidding wars before the auction closed on Saturday morning. We assumed he’d get outbid by a Gremlin collector (there has to be a collector somewhere in the world, right?) or decide it wasn’t really worth it, and really what business did the dean of a high falootin’ school have driving around such a silly car? (I can hear the Media Relations folks now, trying to explain that they have been patient with him in the past, but this might have just pushed it passed the line of what is acceptable for academia.)

But Pops won the auction with a final bid that was more than double his opening bid (but still coming in hundreds lower than some women pay for wedding dresses). And now he is indeed the proud owner of a lime green – oh yes, lime - Gremlin, sold by a guy who called it a “fun car, old like me” and who promised to throw in a bag of M&Ms – plain, not peanut – to the buyer.

Ever since he traded in his early midlife crisis Mazda sports car for a large, sensible, white Toyota several years ago, my father has complained about the car. Under the guise of frustrations about a rattling this and shaking that, he looked for reasons to hate the car. It’s just not practical, he’d say, with all these automatic buttons and bells and whistles. He always preferred driving my 10-year-old manual-everything Toyota that doesn’t even have a radio or a hubcap to its name. But now I wonder if the only thing wrong with his car is that it isn’t a Gremlin.

I am not sure if he’s going to give up his practical, acceptable for a man of standing in academia and the community Toyota. I guess at first I assumed he’d have both cars, until I was reminded that people don’t keep a Gremlin stowed in the garage for weekend jaunts around town. I can certainly picture him driving it, 25 years later still donning a beard (although considerably less hair) and listening to NPR. Sure, it will likely attract a few stares, but he should be no stranger to that, as he and my step-mother are admirers of “found art”, a.k.a. junk (picture a “bottle tree” next to the driveway, adorned with chardonnay bottles with their labels intact) that decorates the yard.

But what else would he do with it other than ditch the conservative ride and slip comfortably back behind the wheel of a Gremlin? Either way, I hope he’ll let me drive it when I’m home next.

Here’s a shot of it I pulled from Ebay. Next, I’ll try to get one of my dad sitting happily in the driver’s seat.

The folks who run memberships at gyms know what they were doing. No matter how much information you try to drag out of them on the phone, they always insist you come down and see the gym and meet them. And despite my intentions, they always seem to rope me in, cut me a deal, and have me signing a contract.

That was the case today, when I meant to just go down there, get a feel for the atmosphere and an idea of the monthly rates. It’s nothing special. It’s a gym, has some machines, a few classes, a locker room. I am itching for some physical activity, and the aforementioned stifling heat isn’t really conducive to a mid-day jog.

But considering I don’t have a steady income and I am not sure if I’ll be getting a job anywhere near the gym, I was hesitant to sign up just yet.

Then again, if I don’t sign up today, I’ll have to pay the $150 fee when I do decide to join, the mastermind salesman tells me. I’m sure you’ll be working down here, he says. This really is the closest gym to you for the best price, he pushes. Then we start talking deals: I am shaking my head, hesitating, he’s jotting down numbers and wringing his hands. Then I am handing over my credit card.

To my credit, I was able to talk him down from a one- or two-year contract, to one for six months, in case I needed to cancel and didn’t want to pay the ridiculous fee. He also gave me the cheaper, two-year contract rate, and the first month and a half free.

Ok, I know what you are thinking: He does that for everyone; (once again) you’re not special. I guess that’s probably the case. Sure, I’m probably a sucker. But at least I didn’t sign my entire life – and life savings – away. And, I have a meeting with a personal trainer tomorrow morning. (Which, I hope is nothing like my friend’s recent trip to a trainer in her new home of Singapore, where they told this petite girl that she was obese and out of shape. Yikes!)

Just as I am getting over the Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey break-up – deciding to side with sweet, hunky, wounded Nick although I think Jessica can do no wrong – and just as the Jennifer Anniston and Brad Pitt thing hurts less – despite the residual anger at seeing Brad and Angelina Jolie together flaunting their giant, gorgeous family all around the world – now Carmen Electra and Dave Navaro split.

Devastating. I watched their engagement and wedding on MTV’s “Till Death Do Us Part” (c’mon, admit it, I know you did, too), and there was just something about them. They’re both beautiful and exotic and sexy, and together it just seemed…. right. What a loss.

***

I’ll go ahead and join the collective groan across the country about the stifling heat. Here it’s close to 100, with a heat index several degrees higher. Before you all nod your heads in agreement, testifying about how you’re sweating the second you get out of the shower or the car is a sauna, take into account that chances are you are now or at some point during the day sitting in an air conditioned office. (Granted, I don’t have to commute in shirt sleeves or a tie or pants or heels, and when I venture out it’s in minimal clothing.) I wake up to the morning sun baking the living room, which then progresses to the back of the apartment, making the place a veritable sweat box. There is little relief, save for the three-plus showers I have been taking a day. So, I just thought I’d comment on it, too.

***

In my unintentional quest to read every written word in this apartment (while looking for a job and trying to be a generally productive citizen, of course), I just read a really interesting article in the latest Wired magazine that gives me hope. It’s about a new theory that says some creative geniuses have their breakthrough early in life, where others are more methodic, “plodding along, peaking late in their careers.” I often read about people who have published a dozen books, won a Pulitzer and changed the world before their 30th birthday. It always makes me wonder what the hell I have been doing with myself and why I am not famous yet (sitting in this sweltering apartment, making my way through the Internet and writing to this blog might have a small thing to do with it).

But then, maybe I’m a late bloomer? Maybe I just need a few more years under my belt, and as the current geniuses are fading into the sunset, I’ll be standing nobly atop the float, cruising through the crowd, waving at my admirers as they throw money and flowers and acclaim my way. Just a few more years…

***

It’s such a rare occurrence that I thought I’d document it here. Last night, I had a full, restful night of sleep. Unlike the last few nights, I didn’t wake at 3 a.m. or 5:30 a.m. to workshop everything from the latest job interview to new schemes to make money. I didn’t lay open-eyed in bed, my feet twitching from restlessness, longing to make it through the night. Instead, I slept through it. It was awesome.

I’ve had kind of a one-track mind lately, my thoughts overwhelmingly dominated by the stresses of finding a job. Will they call back? Did they like my ideas? Will I ever work again, and if I do, will I remember what to do, how the phone works, how to ask questions?

Understandably, I’ve been blogging less, since as you no doubt are gathering, this can get tiring and doesn’t make for engaging discussion.

But I had to document – or reiterate, as I know I have addressed this in the past – my utter, visceral hatred for Ann Curry. Many of you likely have jobs and lives and whatnot that preclude you from sitting in front of the television in the mornings picking apart the mannerisms and characteristics of one Today show host. So allow me.

Now, first let me say that I am sure she is a nice person, means well, has a good heart, yadda yadda yadda. That said, I think she is a horrible television personality – I hesitate to use the word “reporter” for what she does. When she interviews people on sensitive topics, she contorts her face in this oh-for-shame, I-feel-for-you look that only comes across as contrived and condescending. (This reminds me of the Tyra Banks fat suit incident, where for her show she donned a fat suit for an hour, badgered people about how she expected them to react, then sat with real life fat women on her stage and cried, acting like she had any small clue what they were going through.)

Curry never looks comfortable. She has a nervous energy to her, like the nerdy kid doesn’t quite fit in, so laughs a bit too loud and whines rather than holds her own in the banter with other hosts. When Katie Couric did it, it was charming and natural.

I just watched her unabashedly fawn over Diane Lane, showering her with compliments, acting like they were best friends. Again, with Katie it felt genuine, but such charisma is lost on her replacement. On the other hand, the other Today host Natalie Morales has it. She’s calm, humble, comfortable and brings a feeling of realism to the lineup.

Why am I all of a sudden a media critic, caring about the stupid morning show? Really not sure. Why don’t you just turn off the television, Sara? Okay, I will, but it’s like a train wreck. Television in general kind of is – except for the most awesome show ever: So You Think You Can Dance, and most public television programming. Most of it makes me angry and bored and disillusioned, but despite my intense negative emotions, it’s hard for me to walk away. Perhaps because it allows me to focus on something other than the toils of finding work.