On jobs

I've mostly avoided writing about employers on here in recent years. The last time I wrote about a job, the "comments" area of my post turned into a debate, drawn out over many years, over candles. Many personal insults were flung every which way, a number of confused people tried to enter in their orders onto this site, and I still regularly get hits from people searching for bad things about that candle company.

So I don't want to get into Google-able specifics, but I feel I would be remiss if I did not note that it was just about a year ago today (it was actually a year ago yesterday, but whatever) that I packed up my stuff and left book publishing behind. Forever.

I mean, no, not forever forever for sure. Certainly, I'd at least entertain a book offer if someone were to throw large sums of cash my way. But I am done with thinking I want to be an editor.

I feel a bit bad whenever someone talks to me about wanting to work in publishing. I'm either kind of vague and just say something about how it wasn't for me, or, if I'm in the right mood, I'll unleash a torrent of angry, spurned assistant woe, the kind that make for bad chick-lit. This is probably not the appropriate way to respond to a young, idealistic book-lover who just wants to pursue her dream, but I do have a lot of good stories. (Sadly, I'm not going to tell any of them here.)

There are so many things about book publishing as an industry that irritate me, but it's really not worth going into. It's filled with people who have only the vaguest ideas about business and very little common sense. It abuses underlings mercilessly, and pays them crap for the privilege. It's an ass-backwards business, based on wildly inefficient and totally antiquated models, and yet, thousands of resumes pour in for every entry-level job opening. I have a feeling it's a lot like academia.

On my last day of work, a certain former Vice President's assistant was still calling my cell phone, hours after I'd left the office. The manuscript pages (essentially a moot point, since the book had been sent to the printer earlier that morning) hadn't arrived. And we couldn't track them down. I left messages for people, did what I could, and tried pointing out that really, the pages were not that important since it was too late to make changes. But he still kept calling, frantic to figure out What To Do.

"Maybe I didn't tell you, but --" I paused, knowing perfectly well I had, "today was my last day. I don't work there anymore."

"Right, I know, but what do we do about this?" he said. "It wasn't my fault and I know it wasn't your fault. I'll tell them that. But --"

"Tell them whatever you want, honestly. I'd like to help, but I've done what I can and I. Don't. Work. There."

Eventually, he sighed and gave up on me, clearly disappointed that I wasn't the kind of person who cared enough about my job as to spend my Friday night wringing my hands about an irrelevant delivery. But I did care a lot about my job. I worried all the time, worked very, very hard, and I know I was a damn good assistant, and would have made a damn good editor some day. Except, really, what would've been the point? Even the books we published that I thought were in some way useful or good or important felt like a lie. (For example, the pages in question that evening? All about saving the planet. A nice cause, but if you really believe it, maybe you shouldn't request that unnecessary pages be printed and driven a hundred miles to you.)

I should point out that I'm really not an idealist. I am reasonably practical and fairly cynical, and I did not leave my job because I thought that I would save the world, save the children, or even save my soul. I just wanted to NOT work for the worst person I'd ever met, and I wanted to not hate every second of my life because of a toxic boss and a miserable paycheck. It's kind of pathetic that I actually make more money now, working for a charity, than I did working for a company that purported to make money. I also do a lot more writing and editing than I did in publishing. I don't know if it's what I'll always want to do, but for now, I enjoy my work, like my colleagues, and actually get to take lunch breaks.

In the end, I am actually grateful to my old boss for making it very difficult to delude myself into thinking it was what I wanted to do.

Happy Birthday, twin

Usually on my birthday, I talk about me. How another year of my life is gone, how I'm getting older, wiser, more troubled, whatever. Normal enough, but for whatever reason, this year, I think I need to honor the other person my mother gave birth to on my birthday. My sister, Elizabeth.

People used to ask me what it was like being a twin. I guess they expect to hear about how it's so great having someone there all the time, or how I got jealous or how we could read each other's minds, but in my weirdly practical for a little kid way, I'd tell them: "How would I know? I've never not been a twin."

This is partly true. I have no idea what it's like to be a single kid, and I especially did not know for the first 18 years of my life. But also, I knew: yes, it was great to have someone I always knew wherever I went.

When we were about five, we made a "Buddy Club" for just the two of us. (In retrospect, this was probably more than just a bit mean, since our sister Katie was just two years older and totally not welcome to join. Despite our mother's pleadings, we would not make it "The Three Amigas Club".) The official Buddy Cereal was Cracklin' Oat Bran, and the Official Buddy Drink was Ocean Spray's Mauna Loa (or at least, that's what I thought it was called; I can't seem to find a reference to it on the web now, so either I don't properly recall it, or it's been discontinued. It was a Hawaiian-inspired guava-y sort of drink though.). That was about all there was to the Buddy Club: cereal and juice. But they were things we liked, and things we liked together, and apparently we were very impressionable youth.

Our grades and test scores were always neck-and-neck (we always compared to know for sure; I used to judge success in school not so much by how well I'd done, but if I'd done better than her) so we were always in the same classes. And we had the same friends. It was comforting, to have this built-in network. Even when you were the new kid, you weren't new to everyone.


And yes, I did get jealous at times. Because from the time she was little, Elizabeth knew how to work a crowd ("accidentally" rallying the preschool class to follow her on an "accidental" escape run from the playground) and make men fall in love with her (I don't know whatever happened to little Thomas who used to obsess about my sister and call her his "Kitty" until it got very creepy and the teacher told him not to, but he was really just the first in a long line of admirers). Though she wasn't comfortable or aware of her role, she was always the ringleader. It's hard to not be a little irritated by all that. Especially when she's 10 minutes younger than you.

Those feelings of resentment didn't really go away until I moved off to college and made a group of friends who never knew me as anybody's twin sister. It was nice. But it was also a bit sad, because being somebody's twin sister is a big part of who I am.

Do we read each other's minds? Well, I don't feel pain when she feels pain (at least: when she gave birth, I did not know she was in labor until my mother called). But I think we understand each other the way people do when they have known each other for as long as you possibly can know somebody. I know how her mind works and she gets mine.

Sometimes, I worry that maybe I won't really know what goes on her head, or that she won't get mine, since we don't see each other so much anymore. It's funny, how things change. Because she's turning 25 today and she's got a baby. And he's awesome. I thought it would be scary -- the one person whose life has been so totally connected to mine for so long going off on a path I was completely unprepared for myself. But when DJ came, it did not freak me out. It made me happy. And I don't know; it's nice for the family to start a new generation. I know a few years ago, I felt such doom and gloom about every holiday that involved gathering with family because things felt broken and depressing. But now there's DJ.


It's hard to look at him and think of anything but good things. Even when he makes his screechy dinosaur noises. And, I don't know where this is all going, and I know maybe our lives aren't really in sync anymore, but we still have the same birthday, so: Happy Birthday, Liz.

Growing up a doctor's kid, I don't think I ever realized how good I had it. No, I don't mean the income level I'll likely never achieve in this lifetime (certainly not on current career track, at least). I am talking about something much more important: the drugs.

Not just the drugs, but really, the access to medical care. The ability to say, "Ouch, my ear hurts" and within hours, have that kind of painful light thing stuck in my ear, some kind of diagnosis and prescription drugs to make it go away. Yes, we had a pediatrician for the more serious things, or for when my dad wasn't around to fix it, or for required things, like booster shots. But for other things, like cough syrup with codeine or Zyrtec (for free!), the medicine closet was awesome.

I no longer have that kind of access.

I really need to make some doctor friends. The closest I have right now is in someone taking post-bac classes so she can apply to med school... So, a few years from now, maybe, I'll be set. But for now, my ear hurts. And nobody is here to tell me exactly what to do about it.

(Having a doctor for a dad was not always so great, I should add. He occasionally would say totally unhelpful things like, "It looks like potatoes are growing in there!" while looking at my ears. That was his way of saying it was fine and I should stop whining. )

I know, I know, I should probably see a real doctor, but the stupid thing is I don't have a real doctor. It's one of those aspects of being a grown-up that has sort of eluded me. Or I've just ignored, because since college, I haven't been faced with any major medical issues and haven't bothered to find a primary care physician to bug with my problems. I'm not totally irresponsible with my health: I get my yearly exams and even go to the dentist twice a year. But the one time I was sure I had strep throat and needed antibiotics, I just went to the somewhat sketchy-looking rapid care clinic in my neighborhood. It took less than half an hour and I had a prescription in hand. They took my insurance and later, they sent me a bill, for $2.

I would totally hit this option up again, but a few things make me pause. First, the last time I sought medical attention for an ear infection, the super-mean and incredibly evil doctor at Student Health snapped, "I see you've been in here a lot in the last few weeks. This ear infection isn't going away on antibiotics, so I'm not giving you any more." That was that. She had no alternative cures, no other ideas, just "No drugs for you!" and I was done. I don't think I went back to student health after that, but that was pretty much the end of the year anyway. (It took a few weeks, but eventually, it stopped feeling like some awful sticky liquid was inside my head every time I swallowed. Still, I Googled the subject a lot and I know it's weird to fantasize about minor surgical procedures that involve getting plastic tubes stuck in your ears, but I am convinced they would provide sweet, sweet ventilation.)

The second reason I fear quickie medical care from neighborhood doctors stems from the fact that earlier this winter, when Jesse came down with a fever, body aches, and general misery for a few days, the doctor at the office down the street took all of 30 seconds to diagnose him with whooping cough despite the fact that Jesse barely even had any kind of cough at all and that's actually a kind of serious illness that requires you alerting, like, public health officials or something. (Now, several whoop-free months later, it seems safe to say that was not an accurate clinical diagnosis.)

The issue really is that when I don't have an immediate health issue on my hands, it does not occur to me to find a regular doctor to call my own. (I suppose I would forge this relationship by scheduling a physical? I haven't had one of those in years, but I never really understood the point.) And when I do have an illness, it seems like it's too late to call a doctor I don't know about coming in that day. And also, too much effort to find such a doctor.

So, here I am, my ear aching and no real plans in mind for dealing with it. It turned out OK in the end last time, so I have faith it'll work itself out this time. And some time, soon, I will find a doctor.

El Mundo Confusion

As those of you who know me know, I am dedicated bargain shopper. It's partly because I don't have very much money but very much enjoy nice things. But I think that even if I had unlimited amounts of money, I'd still be a thrifter.

I am one of those twisted people who gets a great thrill out of paying less -- ideally, significantly less -- than the original asking price. (Mind you, I'm not a haggler. I lack the ability to really argue at places like flea markets, even if that's what you're supposed to do. I'm all about finding the bargain, not talking someone into it.)

I also have a very good memory for things like this. You could point to any given item in my closet and I could probably give you a reasonable estimate of when I bought it and how much I paid. For example, the dress I wore to Jesse's cousin's wedding in LA? I love that dress. It's really pretty lavender-y color with beading and these cool pleats and every time I wear it (granted, I've only worn it twice; it's not the kind of thing you can take out that often) I get gushing compliments on it. It was originally $300. I know this because the original price tag was still there. I paid $27 at a little discount store on Steinway Street. It's a small, family-owned (I think?) kind of store, where clothing and linens are neatly arranged by size and (kind of quaint, I think) color. It is not the sort of place where fashionistas get into fistfights and tourists roam rampant (a la Century 21) because nobody ever knows it's there. There's also no pressure: if you're not 100% positive you love that $30 cashmere sweater, you can think about it and come back in a week and it will still be there, waiting for you to scoop it up in your arms and lovingly proclaim, "Oh cashmere sweater, what was I thinking? Of course I want you for my own!" (or, as the case may be, shrug and say "Eh, you're really not that flattering a color after all. Never mind.")

Granted, there also isn't as much new selection as I would like, and they often tend to have a bit more frump than truly cute stuff. But it's quiet and calm and I have scored a few really good items there.

I am a pretty rugged bargain shopper. In the right mood, I don't mind digging through many racks for a long time. I have often had the best luck on those 50% final clearance sections at places like Century 21, Loehmann's and TJ Maxx. Yes, a lot of it is crap, but finding a Theory jean skirt you love for $15? Worth the digging.

I used to think there was no discount store too difficult to handle. I was wrong. El Mundo Discount at Steinway and Broadway in Astoria is that store.

The store moved into an old Seaman's Furniture store last fall and did not bother to take down the Seaman's sign for many, many months. They just hung a cheap plastic banner underneath proclaiming "El Mundo Discount" and I guess that was enough for a while. That's the kind of place this is: super cheap.

I have really no retail or merchandising background, but I have to say, they do a piss-poor job of understanding that shoppers need a little space in order to see the things you are trying to sell. (OK, I guess I did spend a few weeks one summer working at Filene's Basement, but the only thing I really remember from that tenure was that one day, someone took a very big, very messy, very explosive dump. All over one of the dressing rooms.)

El Mundo Discount looks like someone took a dump all over the store, except instead of fecal matter, they expelled clothing. And shoes, and luggage, and furniture, and just about any other product you can think of, from cleaning supplies to TVs that appear to have fallen off the back of a truck.

But it is right there when I get off the subway and I'm of the mind that the best hunting grounds for bargains are the ones you can routinely check out. If you make weekly visits, you'll know what kind of things are in stock so when a new shipment comes, you won't have to waste your time looking through boring racks. You can go straight for the fresh meat. You can also keep an eye on something you like but don't like quite well enough to justify the price, so when it goes on clearance, you can snap it up right away.

I do not have the stomach to browse this store weekly. But once or twice, I've seen a selection of very fancy name shoes (Prada, YSL, etc) that were hideously ugly and still very expensive. And while I might enjoy the thrill of a fancy label, I'm not such a label whore that I'm willing to pay $200 for ugly shoes that are completely impractical. The store is mostly filled with hard-to-reach crap. Also, they don't seem to have dressing rooms (I guess that would require freeing up too much space?) and appear to have a no-returns policy, so that also makes me really hesitant to shop there.

I would have pretty much sworn off the store entirely, except a few weeks ago, I happened upon a really cute Marc Jacobs (not Marc by Marc Jacobs -- a straight up, originally $600-or-so Marc Jacobs) jacket for $30.

I didn't buy it. It was a size 2, and when it comes to super-expensive designer lines that are mostly marketed to birdlike socialites and actresses, I am probably more like a size 10. (Usually, these are referred to as "contemporary size chart" items, which really just means "at least one or two sizes smaller than you usually take, because the uber rich shun bourgeois Gap sizing.")

There were no other jackets to be found; no other Marc Jacobs pieces of any sort that I saw. But still: hope springs eternal. And so, even though I totally know better, I still find myself going back in there from time to time, in hopes of finding some kind of holy grail of bargain shopping. Someone, please stop me.

Giraffe Attack

It's Monday and I'm feeling inspired to put something up here, but I'm also suffering from Brain Mush Syndrome (it's catching), so words, properly strung together to form sentences and paragraphs, are difficult. Still, I hear tell pictures are worth thousands more and it's been ages since anything visually interesting graced this page.

So, I present the following, taken at the Bronx Zoo: