Pond Day

Yesterday evening, I went to see the family I babysit for. They'd just come back from Europe, and I still had their car keys from when I'd dropped them off at the airport a few weeks ago. The kids' sweat-soaked mother opened the door and collected the keys. As we chatted, Baby (who is now four, which makes me feel older than a redwood tree) appeared on the stairs and repeated my name like a mantra until I looked up at her.

"I went to farm camp today," she announced proudly. Her older siblings had both attended this day camp, and she'd been excited to finally go for months.

"And tomorrow is pond day," she added.

"What's pond day?" I asked.

"We're gonna catch frogs and butterflies in nets," she explained.

In that moment, I was intensely jealous of a 4-year-old. The weather this week is beautiful, despite the sweltering heat. While I love my job, I miss summers spent outside, riding bikes and foraging for slimy creatures in swamps and lakes. Baby spent her day dripping sweat and picking strands of slime off her fingers. I spent my day sitting at my desk, drinking several cups of lukewarm office coffee, stopping only to venture to the gym to ward off obesity and arthritis as best I can.

I thought being a grown-up would be more fun than this.

Writing Like It's My Job

Way back when on May 23, 2004, I started this blog.

I've been blogging since 1998. I don't know if the word "blog" even existed in 1998, but I was doing it. But my blog involved emailing a piece of my wisdom to everyone in my address book, which clogged their inbox since I was writing a lot more in 1998. I've since slowed my writing, but occasionally still have cause to share my wisdom. I hope that this will make it easier.
I hope to set up some kind of archive to illustrate the growth of my work since 1998. I also hope that some publisher will read this, realize how brilliant I am and give me a syndicated column in America's major newspapers and a sitcom based on my work.
So thanks for coming by... hopefully we can enjoy this blogging thing together.

I've come a long way, baby. I read some of my older stuff and groan, but I also read some of it and laugh my ass off at my own wit. (Yes, I'm very modest.) After more than three years of writing nearly daily here, I've had some success. I've written articles for InSite. I did the freelance piece for Boston Magazine in November. Universal Hub very kindly links to me on a fairly regular basis. One guy sent me a book. (Hi, Michael!) I have some of the very awesomest readers on the Internet who aren't afraid to disagree with me, but more often than not laugh or rage right along with me. I enjoy writing here every day.

And, amid all this good stuff, pasquinade has gotten me where I wanted it to. I've been hired as a staff writer for Boston Magazine. Yes, Dan Shaughnessy's worst nightmare is coming true: the bloggers are coming out of their parents' basements and into the hallowed halls of print publishing. Watch out, Danny boy! If you don't step it up, Basegirl's gonna have your job soon.

It was a total whirlwind process that started only a couple of weeks ago. One of the editors emailed me to ask if I'd like to come in and interview for a full-time gig. I was pretty sure I was being punked, but when I showed up and was actually allowed in the building I got really excited. After I did a couple of sample pieces for them and another harrowing phone interview, I was offered the job. Of course, I accepted. I start next week.

I'm very grateful for the opportunity that Boston Magazine is giving me. They're taking a chance on someone who is a relatively inexperienced writer just because I'm a good inexperienced writer. I'm totally up for the challenge, and I can't wait to get started. I hope to keep pasquinade up and running because I do like writing with lots of swears, and I'm probably going to have to reign that in a bit for my day job. (My writing day job. Hee. It's not old yet.) I can't tell you what I'll be writing yet, but I do hope you'll keep tabs on me in my "professional" capacity. I can only hope the sitcom deal comes through for me next.

Miss You

Sorry it's been so quiet around these parts lately. Between New Work training, which I think has actually broken my brain for reals, and not having the Internet in my home, it's been hard to keep up with the world at large and maintain my snarking. My apologies. I signed up for DSL today, so I keep the hope alive that I'll be back online soon and in good form.

I wish I had something worthwhile to say, but I do not. It's raining. My boss ordered some frozen yogurt for our department that I am psyched for. I'm going home to celebrate the birth and general awesomeness of my Mom tonight, and I'm probably going to pass out dead once I get there.

Let The Water Hold Me Down

Send help.

Everyone in my work training is married, in the process of getting married, and owns at least one house. This would be fine if these people had a good decade on me, but they don't. They're maybe two to five years older than me. How is this possible? Am I really that socially retarded? People seem to like me. My Mom says I'm pretty. I have a brain. What the hell is going on? The only people here who aren't married or buying real estate are fresh out of MIT.

People talk about their houses and kids, then look at me. It's like a family dinner, but without the people who share your blood. I smile politely, but am really thinking unpleasant thoughts. At least I don't have to have sex with the same person for the rest of my life. I can pack up and leave this place at any time. Nothing's holding me back! I have a landlord when things break in my apartment.

I still feel like a pre-schooler in a room full of college students.

King in the Castle

I am in my new office. The company I work for has expanded, and an office is finally mine. Yes, I only have it for two weeks, but hell if I'm not going to enjoy it. When I came in to find my desk with my computer on it, I was elated. In my old cubicle I faced away from the entrance, which led to my bosses sneaking up behind me while I blogged or emailed. Now I can see who's coming, and minimize any incriminating windows before they enter. And when I work, I can shut the door to all the chitter chatter.

So I came in, tossed my stuff down, and, like Borat before me, sat in the chair and chanted "King in the castle, king in the castle..." I then told people to come and visit me in my office. I unpacked all my doodads and placed them on the window to the hallway. The snowman ping-pong ball tossers that Arthur sent us for Christmas. An army guy. A paper mache heart. All the little trinkets people bring back from vacation are proudly displayed for all to see. For the next two weeks, this place is mine. I think I'll call my gynecologist and discuss my concerns about my birth control pills in great graphic detail since I can close the door and have a moment's privacy.

Waiting For Your Call Baby Night and Day

It's become apparent that job hunting is like dating. The vulnerability of making yourself available, sending out your resume to strangers you meet online, all the vital statistics of your professional self. You check your email, keep your phone on your desk, waiting for it to ring. Hoping someone, anyone, finds you worthy of a meeting.

Finally! Someone calls. You talk about yourself, wondering how much of your true crazy to let out at once. You try not to sound bitter about employers who've hurt you, try to let the past be water under the bridge. What do these people want to hear? Will they use me? Take good care of me? They say they'll be in touch again for an in-person meeting. You don't hold your breath.

Then, miracle of miracles, they call you back. They want to meet you! You eagerly say yes, yes, a thousand times yes. Then begins the worry. Will they like you? What should you wear? What says "I am a professional" and "I am a cool young woman" at the same time? Don't swear. For the love of God, don't swear. Calm down. Brush your teeth. Don't eat the poppy seed bagel on your way to meet them.

You're excited by all the potential in this new place. Four kinds of coffee! Televisions playing CNBC and a stock ticker. Men in suits. A cute receptionist who tells you to hang your coat. Leather chairs. You feel excited and intimidated. Once the first person you meet with shows up and shakes your hand, you feel at ease. You remember you don't need this job, you want this job. You meet with everyone, and they seem to like you, which puts you at ease further. You leave the strange office, feeling good, hoping you'll see each other again. You send an email, thanking them for meeting with you.

A week later, they call. They like you, but they also like someone else. Your heart begins to break. You listen to sad songs. You talk to them again, telling them how much you liked them, hearing the words and knowing that they're true. Your heart races. You hope they pick you. They say they'll call tomorrow.

Tomorrow comes, and you sit by the phone, mentally begging for it to ring. You open and close the phone on the half-hour, thinking that maybe it went right to voicemail. You think about the various problems the call could raise. Maybe they'll just break your heart right away and say they like someone prettier, someone with better clothes, someone more skilled than you. Noon comes. No call. One-thirty comes, and they say they're calling your references. Will they give you the money you need? Will the benefits be good? Where will you live? Where will you buy khakis for business-casual? You try to tell yourself you're Zen.

Finally, the phone rings. They like you. They offer you everything you wanted. Good benefits. Decent pay. Room to grow. A laptop. Business cards. Four flavors of coffee. A team to manage. You say yes, yes, a thousand times yes.

Then you realize your have to break the heart of the one you're with. You go to them with tears in your eyes, knowing that this will hurt them, even though it's what's best for you. They congratulate you, which makes the tears come up more in your eyes. One of your coworkers holds it together until you leave the room, then you hear her sobbing. "But I'm so happy for you," she says, "I'm just being selfish." You cry more. But they're happy for you, knowing it's not them, it's you and your needs that need to be met. They know you still cherish what you had with them.

So, yes, I've got a new job. No, I am not leaving because Kristen is leaving. I don't want to get into it too much, but I'll be doing editing for a technology company. I'm glad to be moving up in the world, but I'm sad to leave the good people I work with behind.

Boss Don't Mind If You Act the Fool

I don't like to talk about work on this blog. I've heard too many stories of people being shitcanned after talking smack about their boss and having those words work their way back to the smackee. It's not professional, I understand. But when I read this article, I have to talk a little about my experience in the workplace as a child of the '80s in a professional setting.

I guess the title "Corporate Curmudgeon" should have warned me I may not like what Dale Dauten had to say about people my age when they show up to work.

The work ethic is dead. Younger generations in the workforce have killed it off. If you're under 30, "work" has a different meaning than it did -- for the younger employee, work is something to do with your hands while chatting on your cellphone . . . unless it's something to do with your mouth while text messaging....
And it's nobody's fault but ours, the boomers. We're the ones who were squealing with delight if the kid drew an egg. We were the ones who said, "Johnny tried, and that's what counts." And that's why these misguided Johnnies show up and give working a try, then wonder where they find the counter where success is handed out. They see "work ethic" as "show up and shut up," and no wonder they want no part of it.

Okay. First of all, Dauten's comment that everyone under the age of thirty doesn't understand what work is is quite the carpet statement. Not everyone under the age of thirty thinks life is a scene out of Risky Business. I know that work isn't a place where I am celebrated for just being me. Nor do I sit on the phone and chat all day. Do I check my personal email? You bet. Do I read and write blogs while I'm on the clock? Yep. That's the modern-day equivalent of standing around the water cooler for ten minutes and talking about what was on TV last night or a game. If I sat at my desk working away for all eight hours, my eyeballs would fall out. Taking a short break from one's work has been proven to increase efficiency in employees. Yet even with these goof-off moments, I get my work done. I get good reviews from my supervisors. My work gets done better when I take five minutes to email someone about Idol or our plans for Friday that if my nose is to the grindstone for seven hours.

My Mom taught me that getting my work done is important. But I was also taught that if you've been a good employee for a company, they should do right by you as well. In recent years, due to the lackluster economy, companies are taking their employees for granted. In the past, people worked for a company for their entire professional careers. This was good for the employee, since they knew the company well and could expect the company to try to help them out. It was good for employers to keep the same people on board so workers could understand the company and they wouldn't have to train someone new every few years. My friends' experience has been that unless they go out and get a new job, they won't get ahead. Companies won't promote them, won't give them raises to pay the bills, chip away at healthcare and other benefits until any raise they get is negated by high co-pays. Of course, companies aren't doing this to screw with their employees-- benefits are expensive-- but the result is low morale. My friends aren't snobs. All they want is a nice apartment of their own, clothes, an occasional vacation or meal out. These things are harder to come by as money gets tighter. After being brought up hearing that if you work hard and act professionally, it's hard to deal with the idea that you're only going to be at a company for a few years until you move on to try and get ahead. It's hard to put forth a ton of effort for your job when you can barely pay your bills, never mind save money. It's exhausting. I don't know if a lack of work ethic is my generation's problem. Perhaps we suffer from unmet expectations.

Kismet

It's fate, people. I'm looking to be more creative in my work; Boston is looking for a poet laureate.

In addition to composing works about Boston, according to a proposal by Councilor John Tobin, the city's poet laureate would be charged with educating the public about the ancient art form. He or she would also compose poems for functions such as the State of the City address, swearing in municipal officials, and high school graduations.

Well, I took the infamous Forms of Poetry with Bill Knott at Emerson, and while the class nearly destroyed my will to live, I did learn quite a bit about the forms of poetry the ancients used to entertain themselves before TiVo. I have a writing degree and a rhyming dictionary. Hire me.

Writing samples? Okay. Here are some off the top of my head in the favored quickie form of the haiku. I do them 5-7-5, though the kids I babysit kick it with the 3-5-3 form. I may be counting syllables wrong. As the eight-year-old tells me, I need to work on my math skills.

Blow cold breeze
nose hairs freeze solid
I dream of sun.

Dunkin Donuts love
America runs on you,
bitter roasted beans.

A form of poetry that doesn't get nearly enough love is the clerihew. Here are a couple.

Mayor Menino
got elected by kissing bambino.
He reacted with gall to the fug City Hall
and for a new one he started to brawl.

The Departed
is a film not for the fainthearted.
It entered Scorsese into the Oscar race,
for him to lose would be a disgrace.

JD Drew
a prospect to leave Boston blue.
Us fans? We don't want him
Trot leaving still has us grim.

I mean, this is some pretty rudimentary stuff here. With the proper time and a good benefits package I could do much better, Councilor Tobin. My email's on the sidebar. I have a resume and references. I look forward to hearing from you.

Workin' 9 to 10...

Ahh, Friday. Hello Friday, my old friend. A blogger's favorite day. We can write all sorts of unrelated nonsense and nobody really minds. Friday is the day when the beer flows, I know I can sleep in and treat myself to a breakfast of frozen waffles and hard-boiled eggs rolled in salt on a great Saturday morning. (Shut up, it's delicious.)

However, this week I must reign my Friday revels in as I'm going to my friend's work Christmas party. The Workplace Christmas Party is always a tough row for this ho. It's all the glory of open bar without any of the license to act a fool. I have no problem with the social aspect of the workplace party-- I'm convinced the only reason they keep me around my company is because I'm generally good for a laugh-- but it's a fine line between "funny and maybe buzzed" and "falling down the stairs and spilling wine on Kristen and Arthur." (Sorry.) I'm excited for my friend's party-- we get dinner as well as drinks. I also plan to "network" (read: find a date). This is also good practice for my own Workplace Christmas Party next week.

In related news, I went to both Filene's Basement and H&M in Back Bay last night looking for a cute party frock. Really, I shouldn't be buying anything since I have a wedding I need to prepare for at the end of the month and very limited funds, but I figured if I saw something cute I could use it tonight, for my work party, and for the rehearsal dinner for my friend's wedding.
Sweet God, H&M, get it together. Taffeta everywhere. Polka-dotted taffeta dresses. Everywhere. Like, Cyndi Lauper would have thought these abortions "totally rad" in 1983. If it wasn't taffeta, it was some Twiggy-esque mod minidress with pearl trim, which was much too casual, and not in a good holiday color (bright blue). Filene's just had either very dowdy dresses or very cheap juniors dresses. It was disappointing. I have some wool pants with sparkly thread woven through and a black cashmere turtleneck, but I'd hoped for something a little more cute and feminine.

Last night was quiet around the homestead, with only a mouse scuttering around above my bed. The insomnia last night was caused by the late closing time at the part-time job for the holiday season. I don't get home until about 10:30, and I'm still kind of wound up from my thirteen-hour workday, so it takes me hours to get to sleep. If I can make it until after Christmas when I'm taking some much-needed time off from both my jobs without a nervous breakdown, I'll be elated.

Apparently Mitt Romney used to be sympathetic to gay people. I guess Mitt's had a rough twelve years since his 1994 interview, in which he said, "People of integrity don't force their beliefs on others, they make sure that others can live by different beliefs they may have." Exactly, stupid.

I wish Starbucks sold those cardboard carafes full of holiday lattes. My cup is empty, but I can't bring myself to throw it away in case more holiday latte magically appears. I don't care if I have to order it in Fritalian, it's delicious.

Well, I'm going to curl up under my desk and take a nap. Have a lovely weekend everybody! Keep your vajayjays in your knickers.