Overheard on the train last week

Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.

I commute to work every day via public transportation (read: the subway) (read: I swore I was done doing the whole subway thing) (read: misery -- but it could be worse; I could be riding the bus). I could go on at length about how much I detest public transportation, and how much I loath commuting in general, but I'll admit it's good for one thing: Eavesdropping on people's conversations. Yes, I'm one of those subway riders who will take out her pen and paper and begin transcribing, verbatim, exactly what you're saying to your friend sitting next to me (except I'm stealthily covert about it; you'd think I was writing out a grocery list if you were actually paying attention). In other words: continue talking, people. You give great fodder for characters in future books.

In fact, these conversations are one of the reasons that compelled me to buy a Droid smartphone two days ago (the other reason? I needed something for private use at work, but that's beside the point). Never, in my wildest dreams, did I think I'd ever own a smartphone. I'm not a texter, and I've always used my old-school cell phone for what it was intended for: talking. But since my handwriting looks like rabid chicken scratches when I attempt to keep up with the nearest chatter/compose any sudden story ideas I get on the way home, I needed something more stealth and streamlined.

...Something I could use to transcribe one such conversation that I overheard last week:

SCENE: 5:15pm. Subway car barrels beneath the SF Bay en route home from the city. Two college freshman (or sophomores, I wasn't sure) are seated next to me, chatting loudly about their lives and places in the world. Middle-aged men and women, peering over their opened books and Blackberrys, study them as they speak. Me: incognito next to them, wearing big black sunglasses (though we are in a tunnel), reporter's pad and pen clutched in hand, waiting for conversation to continue....

Girl 1 (dark-haired a la Bella Swan from Twilight, in hipster clothing, and insists on ending every sentence with a higher inflection, as though she'd tacked a question mark to each one of her sentences):

"...I don't know though? There are, like, a lot of negatives to wanting to be on Broadway? And, like, that's why I'm afraid of double-majoring, but, like, I know that interior design is a good fallback major. I haven't really researched it, like, that much...but, like, I think I'd like it? It, like, looks really fun? Plus we're still, like, in college so I still have, like, a couple more semesters to change my mind."

Girl 2 (blonde, in similar hipster garb, strangely shares her friend's higher-inflection-at-end-of-each-sentence syndrome):

"For our generation it's, like, so competitive? In my mom's generation just, like, going to, like, college would, like, get you a job afterward, you know? I, like, wish that was still true? They had it, like, so easy?"

Girl 1:

"Like, I envy those people who, like, knew what they wanted to do as early as high school and, like, studied it in college? Like, I wish it could just be easy like our parents' generation, you know?"

Girl 2:

"I wish I could, like, fast forward to the part in life where I already have, like, a nice car and, like, a house and everything? But I'm still not, like, sure about my major? I just, like, don't know what I want to do for the rest of my life. Like, I can't make that kind of decision. It's so...like...permanent."

Girl 1 nods and they smile at each other, sharing a moment.

At the next stop the doors opened and they stepped off, clutching their Urban Outfitters shopping bags and iPods and cotton hobo bags with witty environmental sayings printed on them. And suddenly, to all those middle-aged people in that subway car, the future seemed at once dizzying and terrifying.

First day of work (with new outfit)

Well, I'm all caffeinated up, my hair's been styled, my makeup applied...and I'm ready for my first day of work.

I have to admit that after this last year and a half of waking up and simply strolling across the living room to my "office" (a small Ikea desk a kind neighbor left me before they moved out), actually waking up at a set time, putting on an ensemble diligently chosen the night before, and heading out (with second cup of coffee in hand, of course) to commute into the city till rush hour back feels foreign. I barely remember what it felt like before...then I remember, and all those feelings of resentment get dredged up toward CEO of the Year (this is what we're alluding to him as now) and trudging to "Hell" (what my ex-coworkers and I used to call our office) in 95 degree weather with 90% humidity and I start getting a knot of anxiety in the pit of my stomach that feels like I ate a bag of patio rocks from Home Depot because I hated, HATED commuting into the city half-asleep every morning with my face pressed against some man's armpit in a crowded, stinky metro train until I remind myself:

"Crystal. This is different. You will actually enjoy this job, unlike the last. Do not be anxious. You cannot continually compare every career experience going forward to Hell and its Commander. Doing so will only wear you down before you even start. Plus, news flash: Your job before Hell (your first job that kicked off your career) was fabulous and you had a great time at that for nearly two years. Remember this. Not all jobs are alike."

And then I breathe a sigh of relief (as I'm doing now) and realize I am right. It will not be like before. The news focus is different; the people in this newsroom are different. Best of all, no matter what time of day (or how hot it is) there's never really any humidity here so I don't have to worry about completely schvitzing in my new, dry-clean-only dress before I've even stepped foot into the office. More sighs of relief.

So here's what I'm wearing for my first day outfit (please forgive the horribly tacky MySpace-ness of these pictures, but I'm in a hurry and still putting on my makeup, which would explain why I'm also headless):

I think Joan Holloway would approve and yes, that is Moneypenny in the last picture, wondering what her deranged owner is doing up so early in three-inch heels. I think I'll add a skinny red belt to the mix and head out!

A light rain on my parade of overpriced tapas

So there I was the other day, spinning in the living room with J, our joined hands the still-point of our turning world whizzing behind us in slow motion. After the spinning and the dancing and jovial pouncing was over, we made plans to celebrate my job news at a fancy restaurant, "Va De Vi", nearby (I needed a good reason to drop an unmentionable sum on duck confit, and now I had one). He resumed studying for the Bar (like he does every day) as I left to hang out (like I do every day) at The Nana's, drinking iced tea and refinishing furniture and having lunch with other sweet, old ladies (which I am definitely getting used to. My brother mentioned I'm "becoming a Golden Girl." My response: "You say that like it's a bad thing." Age is really just a number, after all.)

After a good day of lunching and antiquing and discussing how movie stars today just aren't what they used to be (hello, Paul Newman and Cary Grant), I got back to our apartment in time to shower and head to Va De Vi with J. But he had questionably good news.

I guess I should preface this part by letting you in on the fact that J was flown down to Newport Beach last week for an interview at a law firm. The firm does exactly what he wants to do (corporate litigation), all the partners and associates he met clicked with him right away, and the office -- well, from what I heard the office was magnificent (think one of the top floors in the building, all glass windows, with a full view of Newport Harbor and the Pacific Ocean). They wined and dined him (at this point all I thought of was The Firm, minus the corruption and partially cheesy action scenes), and sent him back up to the Bay Area wanting the job.

Flash forward to yesterday. Literally HOURS after I got my job offer that I'd only JUST interviewed for two business days prior, the law firm called J with good news: They wanted to hire him. The salary they offered was (how do I put this) obscene, and the bonuses and profit-sharing were clutch. All in all it was an offer he couldn't refuse. Almost.

I was happy for him but tried to hide my disappointment: a.) We were about to visit a fancy restaurant (something that's been long overdue) to celebrate the good news, but b.) How could I be happy knowing he'd be leaving soon? Which I wouldn't blame him doing -- the pay is more than good, it's exactly the type of law he wants to practice, it sounded like a great work atmosphere and the lifestyle that comes with such opportunities...let's just say they make movies about such things for a reason.

"So why wouldn't he take it?" I thought. This is exactly what we wanted. What we'd waited for. This is why he worked so hard in law school. Or was it?

As we sat at a table in the posh outdoor alleyway, peppered with hundreds of white Christmas lights and low chatter from neighboring tables, I grew even more sad. Ordering a bottle of Malbec did not help (though said Malbec was a deliciously excellent choice) and neither did thinking I saw Robert Redford (my idol) walk by (turned out it was just some older guy with good hair). I was sad not because J was leaving, or because we'd see a lot less of each other. No, I was sad because it finally dawned on me that we were never given a fighting chance as a married couple.

We got married about one month before J started law school and for three years I've waited for him, meaning waited for him to be a "normal" husband, not one who is in law school full-time. Law school has been like the "other woman" in the first three years of our marriage -- years that newlyweds usually spend setting up house apartment and traveling and enjoying being together before things like kids and mortgages start to take effect. They're supposed to be the carefree, let's-spend-time-together-and-enjoy-being-married years. My first three years were not this.

Nearly every day, every week, was taken up by the "other woman" (i.e., law journal meetings and finals and mock trial competitions and internships). There was always something and though J tried his hardest to spread himself thin and be home as much as possible, there were many, many times when he couldn't be. So I tolerated the early years of our marriage, the him-needing-to-stay-late-at-the-library nights, when I'd come home exhausted from my desk job and eat dinners alone watching reruns of Little People, Big World because this was important. He was building the foundation for his life. For our life.

The saving grace during those years, when his seat on the couch sat empty because he was out hoofing it for some DC judge or legal internship, was that there was a light at the end of the tunnel. "The three years would eventually be over," I told myself. And almost as quickly as they started, they were finished.

The final stretch of this leg of the journey is taking the Bar at the end of July and since he has about two months to study for this test that nearly 40%-50% fail their first time in the state of California, he's been studying his little butt off. Every day. Which -- again -- I'm completely fine with. I see it as the last 100 yards in this crazy legal race and (of course) I want him to pass, so all summer he's stayed home studying 10+ hours a day while I chill at The Nana's, glad to be hanging out with someone who likes classic films and Mad Men and shopping as much as I do (these are the perks of knowing someone who doesn't have to work at all).

But now that the Bar is right around the corner, I'm getting excited about being able to see my husband again. ("Again?!" she says, "was there ever a time in this marriage you could?") I know that normal is a subjective term, but I'm ready for a normal marriage (read: one where it's expected that we get to hang out together without a timer beeping when our five minutes is up). And it was looking like things were going to become...normal. I just got that job. We just got this apartment. My friend just dropped off Moneypenny so both our animals are once again under the same roof. We're finally back on the West Coast. To quote Penny Lane from Almost Famous, "It's all happening(!)..."

Then this (otherwise amazing) offer from the Newport firm happens THE SAME DAY as my offer, which by this point I'd already accepted. And nothing felt like it was happening anymore. No more Age of Aquarius or stars aligning, nope, just one, big diamond-encrusted wrench worthy of Lil Jon's toolbox, thrown into the oiled gears of our Master Plan.

But I said none of this. I hid my sadness. This was supposed to be a happy day. One filled with reams of money and pretentious restaurants and funny quips Nana had said that morning remembered over grilled asparagus with panko crusted egg that night. That light at the end of the tunnel -- that pinprick of hope that this would one day be all over and we could actually walk down to the local Farmer's Market together on any given Sunday or finally see movies in theaters again or go out to dinner just because -- it faded to black. That realization alone was enough to ruin my good news. Paper covers rock, and so on. It dawned on me that it would never just be "easy" with us. Things were not, nor did they ever in the last three years, align that way.

As we continued feasting on the tapas that were brought out as prepared, J seemed on edge. Both of us were more quiet than usual. Obviously something was bothering both of us and so he started asking questions of how I felt about it, of what I thought, and everything I just wrote prior to this paragraph began trepidatiously coming out. (I say trepidatious because I'm just happy we're back on the West Coast, close to family and friends and excellent weather. With DC in our rear-view mirror, I really have no more demands.)

Turns out I was wrong thinking he'd automatically accept the position. He shared many of my sentiments and totally saw where I was coming from. His answer back to the firm was not a given "yes", much to my surprise.

Over the next two hours we talked, laughed, drank, ate and discussed the State of Our Marriage -- our wants, expectations, standards, dreams. It all came out on the table (for a couple who communicates all feelings, much of it wasn't new, just reiteration). But many of it needed to be reiterated because, as J put it, we were at a crossroads now. Were we okay with seeing each other on errant weekends (there'd be many weekends where we wouldn't see each other: I'd want to see family and friends, or he'd be expected to network with clients on some golf course)? How would we eventually start a family in a few years if we were apart during those pivotal years leading up to such things?

At one point J and I both got misty-eyed talking about all these real-life, marital issues (confession: I cry easily, especially at those SPCA commercials on TV with Sarah McLaughlin singing in the background) and that's when he said it. On his own accord, even after I insisted this was very much his decision, that I didn't know anything about the legal field and he needed to do what he felt was right for his career.

"I can't do it," he said, pouring himself another glass of Malbec. "I feel like it's a choice between the job and money or you. The firm's offer is attractive and you're right -- it's exactly the law I want to practice. ...But a life without you is pointless."

This is why I married this man.

Later, when we got the check (brought out not in a checkfold like most restaurants, but stuck within the pages of an old book called "La Princessa" -- clever, Va De Vi, clever!), I flipped through the novel as he signed our bill. Dozens of people had signed random pages within this same book, scrawling little notes like "Happy Birthday, Jim!" or "Happy 20th Anniversary, L + M, 2009" or "Life would be perfect if I could eat at Va De Vi everyday." I laughed and pointed out the hundreds of notes left in the margins to J.

He signed his name to our check then took the book from my hands. Turning to a middle page (I believe it was page 51), he wrote "To hell with the Newport job" in the margins, stuck our check in, and closed the book, smiling.

That note said it all.

Victory is mine

Guess who got a call yesterday for that editorial job? Me! I guess the stars really have aligned. I accepted the offer without a second thought and after getting off the phone I glided into my living room to tell J the good news. It basically looked like the final scene of The 40-Year-Old Virgin, except my good news came minus the headbands and tunics and rolling hills and colorful banners (unfortunately):

Mystic crystal revelations, reader-friends.

So to recap: I'm working in news (like serious making-a-difference kind of news -- no fluff here), I'm No. 3 on the editorial totem pole in the newsroom, and I'm getting paid (well!) for said job (read: I can actually buy stuff now! Who wants an island??)

Let's welcome the sun into its new age.

The perfect day job for a writer

Lately I've been thinking about what the perfect day job for a writer could be.

Obviously it can't be a black hole for creative energy. Trudging home after a tedious day at a soul-sucking job leaves you no chutzpah (along with no time to rock out "witch yo bad self," but that's another post entirely). The last thing I want after getting home from a crap commute is to shovel lukewarm Mac & Cheese down my gaping maw (because though we love cooking, cooking takes time and time is not something we have a lot of with a day job) and spend the handful of remaining hours at home sitting at a desk, trying to be CREATIVE Goddamnit because this bestseller isn't writing itself as it teases us with its blinking cursor and why am I still on page 57 and oh hell it's already way past bedtime and I've got exactly 5.5 hours to sleep before morning hits and I have to fling myself out of bed from a deep slumber wherein I'm dreaming about having cocktails with Cary Grant and one of my novel's main characters just so I can sit at a desk again that following morning to waste another day, ghostwriting for a CEO who takes all the public credit for my words and research while I get none. Nothing. No credit. No byline. Just free espresso, the occasional $500 Amazon giftcard and the perk of having my office chair be a Herman Miller original.

Ladies and gentleman, that was a short snippet of my life as an editor/writer with a certain, unnamed company. Nope, didn't really enjoy it.

I was lucky that aforementioned job I ended up leaving last year still fell in the "journalism" (financial journalism) category, and in the beginning it was fantastic. I got to edit the hell out of all the bad writing we'd receive and work with our reporters and freelancers to make them better journalists and I'd occasionally get to write a short column and it was great. Then everyone started getting laid off except for me (ironic, isn't it? the one person who wouldn't have really minded getting laid off was one of the Last Men Standing), until finally my job description morphed from me enjoying my job to me doing more marketing/PR than journalism while ghostwriting most of our investment articles and mutual fund reports for our CEO. Like 24/7.

It doesn't matter how soft and luxurious that damned $1,300 Herman Miller chair was or how much I got paid (it was more than I expected in such a position, says the girl who wanted to be laid off), I knew it was over when I began seeing my articles show up on national websites with my 29-year-old CEO's name in the byline as though HE'D written them. That was really the last straw. Especially when he was in talks to appear on Fox Business News (for what? funding a company who made him sound smart?) and was also "writing" an investment book (which, for the record, was written by some for-hire ghostwriter -- thank God I didn't have to work on that behemoth with no credit). But I digress: this isn't meant to be a rant on my last employer (again, my first year there was amazing) or a tirade against my loved to take credit for everyone's work while he's out wine tasting on the west coast and taking month long vacations in Europe CEO. No, this isn't that.

When I realized in that job, after about 5 years of being a journalist/writer/editor, that I had actual standards for my life and career (suddenly -- poof -- I was an adult), that was it. I had reached a point of what I wasn't willing to accept in my life. I quit shortly after seeing his smiling mug next to the titles of my articles made me want to take off one of my heels and smash it through my computer monitor. Life is just too short to not have creative ownership. If you don't have that, you've got nothing. (And yes, I get that ghostwriting might not sound that bad. Many people do it professionally, but it made me feel like a sellout and a whore, plain and simple.)

Now that J and I are back on the west coast and I'm outlining my third novel, I've decided that it's time I venture out into this whole day job thing again. With J studying for the Bar and about to start a short-term clerkship with a judge in SF this August, I want to contribute to our Buick Fund (what we've decided to call our "Hopes and Dreams" fund; don't worry, we're not really buying a Buick...but then again, that would be hilarious).

So what would be the perfect day job for someone like myself? I've decided it would have to include the following:

• Journalism and/or somehow publishing-related. It doesn't have to center around writing full-time -- in fact, I would actually prefer it didn't. In an ideal world I would preserve my writing juice for other, more personal projects -- like books. The occasional article/column/blog post (with byline) at work would make me happy.

• No full-time marketing or PR. I haven't yet had to convert to the Dark Side and I hope I never will.

• Something that's intellectually stimulating. I like a challenge. Part of the problem in my last job was that aside from my convert of a PR/ghostwriting-fueled position, it wasn't fast-paced enough. In those last, tedious months it lacked the je ne sais quoi that made me want to get into news in the first place. I wanted to be Ben Bradlee in All the President's Men; instead I was Kate Hudson from How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, daydreaming about other options.

• Something that utilizes my degrees. This goes without saying. I worked hard for them and chose those fields (English Lit and Journalism) because I loved them, not because I wanted to play beer pong for four years of my life then figure out what I wanted to do in my 20s and beyond. I know the stereotype: Artists do things like wait tables to make ends meet, which is fine. But I don't want to wait tables with my resume.

• Editing. If there's one thing I love more than writing (ok, and dancing, but the latter isn't a viable career path at this point) it's editing. One of my goals was to become a managing editor before 30, which I did and loved being so in control of the content/content flow/publishing decisions/etc. It was never a dictatorship (hello? I don't run my newsrooms like Cuba), but I enjoyed improving the writing that came across my desk. To see what didn't work with news and feature stories made me a better writer, just like how reading hundreds of good books in a lifetime makes you a better scribe than one who reads nothing. As a writer I feel you learn by example and by tinkering with malleable pieces of content. I like it, find it challenging, and fit seamlessly into a newsroom environment.

Which brings me to an interview I had last week.

I got an email from a legit news outfit in SF that had been recommended my name from that one bay area publication I had to turn down last month due to the low salary offered. I was shocked at getting the email (seriously, how often does this happen??) and told them that of course I'd love to come in for an interview. Two days later I was in the office meeting with the Editor in Chief and Managing Editor -- both very polite, professional, experienced journalists (real journalists...yes, they still exist!).

The interview went well and I left wanting the job. Badly. Not only would I play a part in leading a prominent newsroom as a higher-up editor, but I'd be able to work one-on-one with budding reporters and -- get this -- work in the news niche I'd originally wanted to go into after grad school: Political and legal journalism. Is it the age of Aquarius? Have the stars aligned in their own, twisted way? I don't know, but after my horrible experience with El Company de Indecision and their three drawn-out interviews (the first of which I flew cross-country ON MY OWN DIME for) (clearly I am still very bitter about this), I figured maybe I should wait a while. See what opens up. Then this unbelievably amazing opportunity falls out of nowhere without me even having to fight to get my resume noticed out of hundreds of hopeful applicants. How do these things happen?

Anyway I got home from the interview feeling all rainbows and unicorns and found an email waiting in my inbox, thanking me for coming in and asking for references (two of which they called before Saturday). If I actually prayed, I would pray that this is a good sign. Not only is the job perfectly suited to what I'm looking for, but for a journalism position it (surprisingly!) pays bank ($60s, starting) and has lots of room for growth and creative input and chances to actually make a difference in this cray cray world we live in. I mean, they made a point to emphasize they look for quality over quantity in their news stories (what a novel idea!).

Read: This is not the kind of boring, unchallenging desk job that would lead to tired commutes home punctuated with lukewarm Mac and Cheese and sad reruns of The City that serve as (much-needed) escape from the daily grind. No, this job would be a breath of fresh air in a field most are being laid off in or leaving entirely for more lucrative options (*cough* marketing *cough*). It would engage me, it would inspire me, and best of all, it would even pay me. To quote Gollum, "We wants it, we needs it. Must have the precious."

A big fat "no"

So I wasn't going to say anything about it publicly but since I've just been passed over for the "other top candidate" I guess now it really doesn't matter: I just came thisclose to an editorial job at a well-known national website based in SF that would have paid more money than I could have ever dreamed of making as an editor, and would have allowed me to blog full-time for their website, which caters to women ages 18-34 years old. Blog posts would have included recaps of Bravo reality shows, travel tips, personal finance posts, career articles, what-to-wear-to-your-interview gems...all geared toward women in my age demographic. In short, if I had to go back to a desk job (which, believe me, I really don't want but need to do while J studies for the Bar and we figure out the next phase of our life; writing books only pays for so many bills), this would have been the dream desk job. The dream desk job that would have paid more than handsomely while still allowing me to remain a journalist (read: The Reason I Went to School And Majored in What I Did).

I'll admit, I got much closer than I expected. After applying on an absolute whim back in March, thinking they would be flooded with resumes and I'd probably hear nothing back, I not only got a call back but also got sent an editing/writing test. For the test I had to create a mock blog and write a handful of blog posts focused on topics they provided. I knew I kicked butt in creating the faux blog, but was still surprised when I got an email asking me to come in for an interview. Remember that weekend in late March when I flew out to California last-minute? Yeah, that was the reason. The interview was one of the best in interview history (I can say this with utmost assurance), and after that I heard...nothing. Nada. That whole month of April was like listening to a million crickets chirping in a symphonic hall with first-class acoustics.

Finally, though, they got back with me in early May and told me I made it to their top three. Cloud 9, people, Cloud 9. I had to speak with their managing editor in a phone interview, which I ended up conducting in the parking garage of a mall. But that, too, went well. I was told I would hear back within a week then...nothing. Again. Which I was fine with since that meant I wouldn't have to move early and would get to partake in the cross-country roadtrip J and I were excited to embark on.

Back in California I emailed them and asked what the hell was going on (okay, I didn't exactly ask that way, but had my life been a comic strip and not an actual life, herein is where they would have been illustrated as a wall-eyed, gangly chicken that I would ring the neck of and shake violently back and forth whilst demanding some sort of answer). I'm the most impatient person you will ever meet and thus have no tolerance for indecisiveness (other than when ordering off a Chinese food menu, but that's beside the point). I just wanted to know: Did I get the Godforsaken job or not? All this waiting was only building the whole thing up into a dramatic production that I was tired of having to explain to friends and family. To be honest, four weeks ago I began growing disinterested in the position since I'd already waited over two months for an answer and all that waiting had put a bad taste in my mouth. Think acrid sushi that's been left out for three days. Not good.

A week later, while I'd pretty much given up hope of ever hearing from them again, I got an another email. I was hoping it was either a "yes" or "no"; this was all getting ridiculous and what I actually wanted most was closure. But no, they were asking me to come in for a third interview. (Insert long eye rolls here.)

***BTDubs, I should probably mention that during this same week I interviewed for another editorial position for a publication in the Bay Area -- one that seemed JUST as amazing. I would have been pretty high up on the masthead leading a newsroom of designers/reporters/etc. and deciding how and when stories would be published. That interview went well and a day after I was offered the job. Squee. Though it would have been magnificent I turned it down since the pay was a little lower than what I was looking for. (I know...if the job is perfect who cares if pay isn't up to par, right? Confession: If I was single, or even in a dual-income relationship right now, I would have taken it. But right now with J not bringing in...well...any income, I can't have two people living on that kind of salary.) So I declined the offer and waited for my third interview with El Company of Indecision.***

On Monday I walked into their SF office for my third interview and it went well. Again. In fact I began to wonder why they even called me in for a third interview since I met the exact same people and they asked me the exact same questions. At this point I knew it was down to me and one other top candidate. Out of hundreds of resumes sent in it had climaxed to this. After the interview I was told I'd hear back this week. And I did. They sent a very polite, very professional email explaining that though they really liked me, they decided to go with the other candidate because she had a deeper finance background (I'm almost 100% sure she had her MBA, based on how they spoke about her.)

When I read the email, I instantly got all Regina George and this was the first thing I thought:


Then my second thought was: "Thank God. Finally. I have closure." A euphoric wave of relief crashed over me and I was okay again. No more anticipation or uncertainty. It was done; the job was off the table. Nothing about it was looming over my head like a little indecisive raincloud, following me everywhere I went for the last three months.

J actually took it harder than me. When I told him they said "no" his face immediately went white and it looked like his heart was going to fall out his butt. But I reassured him that it was all going to be fine. After all, I'd already gotten one job offer in the first two weeks of being back in the state. Plus after J's rejection from an amazing firm in Newport Beach (we found out recently they opted to go with someone who'd already passed the Bar and was out of school), I'm bulletproof when it comes to missed job offers. There was so much more on the table with that Newport job and J had gotten so far in the interview process that when we received the letter in our mailbox I felt like I'd been hit in the chest with a wrecking ball. In matters of job searches, nothing could ever top that feeling. Ever.

But you know what the worst part is about my latest job news? It isn't me not landing the job or how long they took to get back to me or the fact that in all honesty going back to a desk job -- even if it was the dream desk job -- made me a little sad since it would take time away from my writing. None of that. The worst part is having to listen to the pity I'm hearing from those close to me, telling me (repeatedly) that it's "[that employer's] loss," "they missed out on an excellent employee," etc. etc. (insert long list of cliche "well-at-least-you-got-as-far-as-you-did" phrases here.) It sickens me. I don't want to hear ANY OF IT.

I especially don't want certain people (read: my grandmother), handing me self-help books titled "Who Moved My Cheese?: An Amazing Way to Deal With Change in Your Work and Life" the next morning. (Yes, this actually happened and it further made me feel like Paul Giamatti in Sideways.) All these reaffirmations of support and sympathy make me want to vomit. Seriously. Why? Because I was over it when I got the rejection (I get over things very easily), so listening to people constantly bring it up as though I'd banked my hopes and dreams on a stupid desk job makes me feel completely misunderstood. There is nothing worse than not only feeling misunderstood, but also receiving pity for said misunderstanding.

Basically right now I feel like this:



I'm all stocked up here.

Job satisfaction

"I sit in a cubicle and update bank software for the Y2K switch. See, they wrote all this bank software, and to save space they used two digits for the date instead of four. So, like, 98 instead of 1998. So I go through these thousands of lines of code and, uh... it doesn't really matter. I don't like my job, and I don't think I'm gonna go anymore.

This "day in the life" piece comes from Dors of Whatever Works. Dors is a new bloggie friend of mine who lives in the UK and recently started a new job. I liked how brutally honest this recent post of hers was. It takes guts to be so candid and publicly admit that your new career isn't all rainbows and unicorns:

The first day of work is like your first day of school...at a new school. You are hoping you are going to like the classes, the teachers and your classmates. But in the back of your mind you know damn well that you are just going to have to study a lot of things you don't want to, that all the time that school consumes could be spent doing something so much more fun (like sleeping!) and that you're probably going to dislike a lot of people there.

Same for work, just substitute classmates for colleagues, teaches for bosses, studying for actually working.

Yes, today was my first day. I woke up at 6 am. 6 am! It should be illegal. Against human rights or something. And it is so cold in the morning I could see my own breath (come on, it's spring!), then the train, changing the train, catching the bus. And I managed to arrive there late.

Right. I spent all day long in front of the computer, with my boss by my side, guiding me through the painful process of getting to know their computer software. I was looking forward to every little break I could get. Drinking water, coffee, a blessed soul even brought donuts for everyone today. And lunch time.

It was so much to take in, and the more I did my tasks the more I got confused. So.many.little.details. My under-eye circles got deeper and darker as each hour went by. I finally finished my first daily dose of torture. I caught the bus home, then the train. I slept in the train. I never sleep on trains, buses or airplanes. But I did today, I was exhausted, I even set my alarm so I wouldn't miss my stop.

I came home at 6:30 pm. More than 12 hours of my day. Wasted.

Yes, wasted, because why the hell would my life be improved or become any more significant if I learn how to use a company's computer software? Am I really helping people the way I intended (once upon a time) by processing wine orders and organizing deliveries?

I think some people are not meant to have a boss and a routine and I am one of those. Some will say I'm lazy or spoiled, or both. However I truly think that we limit our life so much by having a stated time to even have lunch. We think of it as normal, but is it?

When I met those actors at the wine tasting I saw people brave enough to just do what they wanted. I envy them. I am a coward. I fear failure.

And if you tell me you love your job and you are extremely happy with it...Well, good for you. I hate you.

(Note: This was written out of tiredness and utter frustration. I do apologize.)

Ed. note: What about you, reader-friends? Are you satisfied with your current job? What would make it better? How important is job satisfaction to you? Have you ever asked "Is that all there is" after a 40-hour work week?

Money and I aren't speaking at the moment

A dryer full of money would do me wonders right about now. (P.S.: You absolutely must watch Breaking Bad if you haven't yet. It's amazing.)

So I'm stressing about money right now. I know, I probably don't have the right to complain since I was the one who made the decision to walk away from a steady salary last year (a decision I still don't regret), but I knew back when I made it that times would eventually get hard and now those times have come.

I feel like I'm living in some alternate dimension of the life I'm supposed to be living. Kind of like there are different variations of my life playing out all at the same time, parallel to one another, and I just ended up getting caught in this computer-glitch of a variation, the one that snarls savage orders at me that I must comply with, like "You will eat that top ramen and you will LIKE IT!!!" In this current reality glitch I live across the street from a handful of dollar stores, "checks cashed" storefronts, a suspicious bowling alley, and my building reeks of general ghetto-ness ... the kind of ghetto-ness punctuated by neighbors who allow their dogs to use our elevators as toilets. In this life I get a puerile kick out of free samples in my mailbox, I share one washer and dryer with an entire high-rise floor (which takes strategic planning if you ever want clean clothes, people), and my "check engine" light is always on, warning me of some expensive repair looming on the horizon. Who am I?

Thankfully I'm not stuck alone in it all; J is also mucho stressed out, evidenced by my increasing reminders to "stop pulling out tufts of eyebrow" -- a bad nervous habit he has when things aren't so copacetic. (He's also got the added pressure of keeping up his grades to graduate top-third in his class next month, coupled with the general stress he's under on a daily basis to find a job post-graduation. Once he takes the Bar this summer I know he'll find the job he's been looking for -- and not have to settle -- but this still doesn't seem to raise his spirits. It also doesn't help that he's reminded of it all every afternoon as he chows down on his 99-cent turkey and cheese Lunchable at school like a fifth-grader.)

Not that we don't have padding -- we're selling some stocks this week to pad out our cash situation even more -- but it's disturbing how far money doesn't go in this country. (I guess it could be worse. I could be living in parts of Europe that, though beautiful, would result in me paying out the nose for everyday things like groceries while steeped in a land of 34% unemployment.) My part-time tutoring job pays well, but the hours are somewhat erratic and the semester ends in early May so those paychecks will taper soon enough. J is currently interning for free and taking no school credits for his legal gig at the SEC three days a week, so it's not as if he could pick up part-time work between the internship and his full load of classes.

Anyway it makes me really, really uneasy when our bank account starts to ebb, even though the cushion is still there. I'm a "buffer" kind of a girl and tend to get irritable when my finances tread close to my buffer. The bills are piling up and costs in the near-future are what are really getting us down. My private health insurance, his Bar class and test fees (about $5,000 total), our moving costs to get back to California ($1,500 for a Uhaul truck, not counting gas), and little costs are quietly adding up (i.e., his graduation invitations, cap and gown, Law Journal banquet tickets - $40 each, etc.).

It would be at this point in any sane marriage that a couple would crack under financial pressure and the relationship would fall apart. Luckily we aren't sane. Whatever doesn't kill us makes us stronger, I suppose. Like I said earlier this week: "If, as newlyweds, we not only get through law school, but also our financial situation this last year, then we're bullet-proof, kid." He agreed. Right now all we can do is laugh at the current circumstances. It helps that we find the humor in these even dire situations and can make light of our misery. It really does. Because the alternative would probably end up looking like a Shakespearean tragedy.

Needless to say I've cut out most everything I enjoy doing for the sake of saving whatever funds we have. This means absolutely no more shopping (I can't remember the last article of clothing I bought), no going to the movies, no traveling, no eating out (unless it's Taco Bell), no more concerts, no more happy hours, and no more buying whatever I want at the grocery store if it isn't on sale. And yes, I've become one of those people who reads through all my weekly grocery inserts and travels to each store to get the best price for different things on my grocery list.

I guess these complaints all lead in to my 28th birthday, which is on Monday. My last couple birthdays haven't been all that amazing and for some inexplicable reason I want to try and make this one special. Obviously taking a trip is out of the question, and now I'm wondering if we should even go out to a decent dinner. (Clarification: Technically we can afford a dinner, but in the effort of saving cash would we want to drop $60-$100 for one meal? Would I even enjoy the meal as I mentally balance our checking account with each margarita?) It doesn't help that J and I are attending a Law Journal banquet of his tomorrow evening that we had to spend $80 worth of tickets on, but I totally get that networking and socializing is part of the "education" at his school, and that establishing lifelong professional relationships with classmates there is part of the whole package. Still, $80 is $80.

So, this is where I'm at. I hate worrying about finances to this degree but I'm starting to think that the only way I'll stop worrying about money is if (when?) I'm disgustingly wealthy. Until then no amount of money ever feels like enough. Anyway I feel better venting about it and I know most of my worries stem from the cost of moving slash J taking the Bar. Putting down between $5k to $10k in a one month span is never fun, especially when I'd much rather take that money and save it as a down payment on some property. Or travel. But such is the way of life. Right now nonessentials take a backseat to priorities, but my chin is up -- I know it won't be like this forever.

Now, what to plan for my birthday?...

I just don't think we...mesh well

(In slow motion): "You're ... you're crazy man. I like you, but ... you're craaaazzzzy."

Remember that part-time teaching gig I applied to back in December but couldn't interview for because I was still out in CA? Welp, I got a call from them last week needing to fill a last minute supervisor position for the semester. w00t! After an alarmingly informal interview over coffee, you're lookin' at the newest part-time district coordinator for a private academic company. P.S.: My director said she chose my application over others because she saw I had quit my last job to try my hand at writing novels. This intrigued her. (Take note, it's funny how these things work out.)

Anyway, first day on the job was today and I had to play pinch-hitter for a teacher who needed to head out of town on a family emergency. Even though teaching isn't in my job requirements (it's times like these when I have upper-management written all over me) I accepted the last-minute task...and found out on my very first day that kids are really not my forte. Don't get me wrong, they were all well-behaved and all past that point where they poo themselves for fun (we're talking 6th grade+ here), but I am just completely out of my element when it comes to kids. Think Will Farrell in the pool party scene in Old School -- just without a dart in my neck and any of the slow-motion yelling.

What's striking about this realization is that I never, well, realized it until today. Growing up with a younger brother and sister who were no more than four years younger than me made it okay for us to all be kids together (hello breaking-my-arm-in-elementary-school-by-showing-them-how-to-swandive-off-the-top-rungs-of-a-bunkbed). And the only other time I had exposure to the under-14 set was in high school when my girlfriends and I volunteered to be bunk leaders for a 6th grade outdoor camp (more for the "Yay we get to take a week off school!" factor than the "Yay...we get to hang out with a bunch of whiny 6th graders..." bit). It was at that outdoor camp where I was deemed the "coolest bunk leader" of all since I snuck pillowcases full of candy in to feed my girls late at night (a no-no), stayed up after lights out (another no-no) talking about boys and music with them, and started the one and only food fight (epic no-no) on the last day in the cafeteria, blaming that flying carrot that started it all on my arch nemesis and neighboring bunk leader, Kari. (Hey, I watched enough Salute You Shorts growing up to know that there has to be at least one token food fight. I mean...c'mon.)

Such was the way I expected it to be today, just without all the food fights and candy. But it was even more anti-climactic than I thought and it made me question whether I had issues of my own. Like when I first met the kids I automatically spoke very slowly and loudly, as though they were both mentally challenged and deaf (neither of which they were). This did not start things off on the foot I had planned, as they probably wondered what was wrong with me. I kept silently reminding myself that they were just normal kids, not mentally disabled, illiterate mutes, but it didn't matter. I kept talking slowly. Kept talking loudly. My mind was yelling at me to stop but my mouth did otherwise.

When they had questions, I gave them explanations. When the explanations didn't make sense to them I wanted to stab myself in the eye with the nearest #2 pencil. And I get it -- they can't be expected to know everything (hence why they are being tutored for Christ's sake), so what did I expect? That they had been briefed in all levels of math up to Calculus, could analyze Nietzsche and engage in a spirited and coherent health-care debate? Of course not, they're only kids. So I would re-explain things slowly. Loudly. In my head I was smacking my head continually on a pretend desk, asking myself "Who the hell are you?"

After the excruciating hour was over, I got home and asked J: "Do you think I'm bad with kids?"

He said no, but now I'm beginning to wonder. I felt like that maternal instinct in me as a woman was missing. Instead I felt like an awkward zookeeper caring for a bunch of baby chimpanzees -- they're cute and all but I found myself asking "what am I doing here?" as I went over long-hand division with them. All this makes me wonder if I'm missing that motherly gene entirely, which scares me because J and I do want kids eventually. Maybe it makes a world of difference when they're your kids and not someone else's? Is this just what people in denial say?

Ugh anyway, this is by no means a start to a new career. J and I need some extra cash these next few months and this was just a way to make a bunch of money (32 bones per hour -- which is more than I made at my desk job -- plus compensation for all travel time) while maintaining a highly flexible schedule with no set hours (I can supervise as much or as little as I want). This was the biggest perk since it definitely allows me to keep writing as my number 1 priority.

Anyway I'm overseeing (read: overseeing, not teaching) eight after-school programs and hopefully won't have to fill in for any other teachers anytime soon. If I do, next time I may come armed with candy. And a dart in my neck.

Everybody Wang-Chung tonight

"My favorite color is magenta." -- Valley Girl, best '80s movie of all time

So good news -- I got offered a freelance writing gig! This is amahzing (per Rachel Zoe), and lit.rully couldn't come at a better time. Lately J and I have given new meaning to the words "frugal living." Quite embarrassing, some of the lengths we've gone to recently, but he made me promise to never mention nor blog about our little escapades, and so they shall go unnamed. Sometimes we don't know whether to laugh or cry in the throes of our absurdity. Thankfully we can still laugh.

I don't want to reveal who I'll be freelancing for yet, but it's a news site for stock market investors, which means I'll be writing financial news articles, profiling publicly-traded companies, the broader stock market, etc. It basically sounds exactly like what I was writing on at my last job, except this time I'll be able to do all my writing in my fluffy pink bathrobe at home. Score.

My contact there is a good friend, and he also made it sound like they might have a need for a freelance editor soon. Double score. It's nothing close to what I was making at the job I left, but it's more than what most publications pay nowadays for "latest headline" articles and, well, money is money, right?

So, pros to taking the job:

• Don't have to deal with annoying co-workers in an office. Oh there were a few gems I worked with at my last job, but most irritated the hell out of me...and the rest of my office. Back then I savored in the days when I could telecommute and not deal with the petty office drama.

• I can take the work as I want it and not for eight fixed hours per day (which I wouldn't do anyway, as financial news writing is not a priority right now).

• Will keep my portfolio updated with current clips.

• Did I mention the fuzzy pink bathrobe? Yeah, it's even more appealing when it's pouring/snowing outside and I get to watch everyone else trudge to the apartment shuttle on their way to work. Muwahaha.
  

Cons:

• I love following the stock market, and I love investing in stocks. Sometimes, though, writing about finance can get a little stale (especially if mutual funds are involved). At my last job I was given lots of artistic license to be as creative as I wanted in my writing, but I'm not sure if they'll like that at this new gig. Then again, we need money. Bad. I think I can throw my qualms out the window for some pocket change. At least it's still writing and I get a byline, and not, say, ghostwriting/marketing/PR, which is what my last position quickly turned into.

You heard it here first. Now go celebrate and Wang-Chung for me.

Suddenly, a dark cloud settled over first period...

"The goddamn pen is bluuuue."

A week ago J had a preliminary interview with the Bronx district attorney's office to be a DA. Yes, I just said the Bronx. After the interview (which he said went really well), J surprised me and said he wasn't going to send them his letters of rec like they'd requested.

Me: "What? You're nearly giving yourself an ulcer finding a job. Why wouldn't you pursue this?"

J: "Because though it'd be nice, I think I can do better. That and," he said with mild sarcasm, "I don't think it'd work if we became a bi-coastal couple. I'd miss you too much." (Note: I've told J that if he decides to reside on the East Coast post-graduation, I'll split my time between the East and West coast. Maybe throw in a little extended time in Italy for good measure. No biggie, but apparently it is.)

He looked at peace with his decision (well, as much as one can be who's job hunting with $200,000 in school debt looming over his head) until two nights ago, when we were working on our laptops at Starbucks and he got a call. It was the DA's office, wanting him for a callback interview. And his immediate response when they asked if he'd want to come up and interview with the panel was ..."Yes." Why, I don't know. He didn't even know himself, and kept wondering out loud why he'd said yes. All I could do was shake my head...."this is SO not something Don Draper would do," I thought to myself. J immediately regretted his snap response and said he'd call and cancel, but I told him no.

"Just do the call back. You don't know if you've got the job. Think hard about whether you want it when you get the actual job offer. Until then don't say no," I said, espousing my oft-sage advice. He agreed ... and promptly began looking for possible apartments in the Bronx, emailing me the listings. I couldn't help but laugh out loud across the table from him when I saw the damned things in my inbox.

"No, kemosabe, I won't be living in the Bronx. You'll be," I reminded him. (Insert sad J face here.) "I'm a freebird, I don't do the Bronx...or anything that's even remotely close to Yonkers."

Now I've never actually been to Yonkers or the Bronx, but they both remind me of a particularly vile DMX song I used to "bump" in my car during my high school years as I cruised through senior parking thinking I was cool long before I actually was. (It was very Michael Bolton listening to Tupac in Office Space). Anyway before the song starts there's a crass repartee between DMX and his "honey," in which he accuses her over the phone of feigning interesting in other males' appendages and philandering with some unnamed man in Yonkers (in so many words). It will forever be burned on my brain and is now what I associate Yonkers, the Bronx ... heck most of the NYC boroughs with.

After hearing my story and laughing in my face, J thought I was being "ridiculous," and so began sending me Manhattan apartment listings instead.

"I could take the train and commute," he reasoned.

I shook my head. "Did I not just tell you I was a freebird?! Freebirds don't live in Vuh-jin-ya, like we are now, and they don't live in Manhattan either." (Confession: I so wanted to live in Manhattan when I was 21 and still overly obsessed with Sex and the City. Not so much anymore, as my new obsession is all-things Easy Rider.)

"Take me back out West, honey child. I'll even live in LA or Reno if it means we're inching our way closer." Yes, you read that correctly. I'll admit the Reno comment was desperation speaking, but it didn't seem to matter since calling J "honey child" seemed to distract him from the imminent issue.

So J has come to one of the great crossroads in life (that is if he goes through with the second interview and gets the offer): Does he settle and get paid minor ducats at a thankless job, or does he take the risk of holding out and wait for a better opportunity? Too often I think we choose the first option because it's safer and more secure, but does it lend itself favorably in long-term career advancement, or is it simply sufficing as "a job"? Personally there have been times in my career where out of sheer impatience I began blindly applying to anything I was qualified for (within the journalism realm, of course), and jumped at the first offer that came my way. It worked out okay in the first year, but my happiness began to wane the second year -- even with a 15% raise and myriad perks.

I vote he waits for something better. Not just because of my fond memories of DMX and the Bronx, but for his overall happiness and well-being.

Bob Seger saves the day

...to find out where we're moving to next June.

So it looks like my plan of avoiding both Peter Griffin and my mailbox failed. Miserably. The letter came yesterday. I didn't check my mailbox till late last night -- both J and I decided to open it as sparingly as possible this week. All I can say is damn you, curiosity. Once again, you've gotten the best of me. *Raises clenched fist to the sky.*

I was having an excellent day, singing along to the radio at the top of my lungs in the car and proudly wearing my new six-dollar eye shadow as if it was a new Dior dress. I felt hot, sassy and in control. I even chatted with Peter Griffin a bit, just to brighten his perverted day. But later all that didn't matter.

I suddenly felt sick when I opened the little aluminum door and saw the back of the single, ecru envelope sitting inside. Kind of like someone had punched me hard in the chest, or like the time I belly flopped into a pool after one too many margaritas and gotten the wind knocked out of me. I thought I was going to hurl. I took the letter to our apartment, handed it to J, then -- even though I told myself I wasn't going to cry -- shed a lone teardrop. Oh the dramatics. "Great," I thought, "now, on top of everything else, I'm carrying on like a tacky supporting character in a Lifetime movie."

And of COURSE the day the letter came was a day when we got no other mail -- not even the usual pile of junk inserts that make me feel like a semi-important person for having to sift through them. That was the salt in the wound. Is it too much to ask to somehow find a way back West? Also, whether we could go back home for Thanksgiving hinged on this job. Now that it's gone we don't want to spend our savings on $1,200 worth of plane tickets for a four-day weekend, so it looks like this will be the second year I'll have to Skype my family over turkey dinner. Someone up there must really hate me -- first the Patrick Swayze news, now this.

J took the bad news as he usually does: even-keel and stolid. The man has nerves of steel. Unlike me, things just don't get to him. I'm the hyper-emotional one; he's the rational one. If this was The Birdcage, he'd be Robin Williams and I'd be Nathan Lane, begging for my aspirins "with the little A's scratched off". So after about an hour of sitting in silence, me wondering whether it was a good time to suggest my brilliant idea of living out of a VW Bus and pretending we're hippies on a trip across America, he simply said "Well, that's that. Nothing we can do now, just keep looking." The problem, my fine-feathered friends, is that there's nothing to look for -- there are almost NO jobs!!!* Sure, I have the luxury of sleeping in a hippie bus and living off Costco samples, but that's because I have no debt. His expected debt is oppressive.

Anyway, he went on to reassure me that this doesn't mean that we won't move back to California after graduation, it just makes the search narrower and harder. This opportunity would have been a diamond in the rough. "Stupid collapsed state budget," I mumbled.

Well, after his pitiful attempt at cheering us both up, it was my turn. I put on Bob Seger's "Night Moves", cranked up the volume and opened a bottle of red for us ... the bottle we were saving to celebrate with when he got a job. Eff it, I thought. Rules were made to be broken anyway.

(Photo source.)

*Except here in good ol' DC, and I refuse ... refuse ... to stay here. I told him my "contract" was for three years -- the duration of his school's program -- and after that I'm outta here.** I've also recently added that I refuse to have babies here, so if he doesn't want a family, then he can stay.

**Realistically I cannot live without J, but reiterating this "contract" bit seems to scare him enough into not getting too comfy with the job market here. That's what he gets for marrying someone he's referred to as "slightly deranged." Muwahahaha.

Waiting to exhale

Oy, and the waiting begins.

It sounds like my husband's interview on Friday went fabulously. He met with five lawyers at the firm (two partners, three associates) and they all seemed to like the fact that he's been exposed to real-world practice during his time in law school, which would make his transition into full-time litigation easier. (Hoofing it at all those extra internships with judges and pro-bono efforts hopefully paid off.)

Now all we can do is wait to hear back from them ... and it's KILLING us!! Typically you're supposed to hear back within two weeks, so it's still early, but with every passing business day (three so far) I'm secretly getting more and more disheartened, even though I'm not showing it. I'm an impatient person, and I expect answers right away, but I guess this is a good test for me. After all, it's not like they were going to give him an answer on the spot and in-person (although that's what I expected at MY interview for my last job, and subsequently sat in the throes of agony until I got offered the job two weeks later). So reminder to self: Patience, grasshopper.

The best thing I can do for him and us is stay positive and optimistic about our future, with or without this Newport job. I'm lucky to be married to a guy who is more than positive and supportive of my career decisions (he says that he can't wait to someday say he's married to a novelist -- haha), so the least I can do is stay positive for him too, even though I'm scared.

My dad pointed out the other day on the phone that it's not the end of the world if my husband doesn't land this job, and I know it isn't. But he deserves it just as much if not more than most, what with his background and steely work ethic, and I hope he gets rewarded for the hard labor he's put in to his career.

To make him laugh and cheer him on during the wait, I ordered "The OC: Season 1" off Amazon ($6 total used!) and we had a back-to-back marathon all Sunday and Monday. I've always been a big fan of the "The OC", and thought now was the perfect excuse to educate my husband in the ways of Newport Beach and Marissa Cooper, since he'd never even seen one. flipping. episode. (Yeah, I know.) I'm happy to report that he loves the show (good man), and Season 2 has been ordered and on its way. Let's just hope all those hours of prime-time drama were for naught!

Hopeful

One of the hardest hit careers during this recession has been those in the legal field; this I know firsthand from my husband. Earlier this year there was one particular day -- I believe it was dubbed "bloody Friday" -- when over a thousand lawyers were laid off at firms big and small across the country. It was a scary thing considering that the legal community is a rather small one compared to others, but it was also more unnerving than usual since this is the year my husband finds out where he'll be starting his career after graduation in May 2010. (Cue frustration and anguish in his voice every time he talks about it, especially when he's hearing that all his friends who summered at Big Firms weren't extended job offers and so they, too, are scrambling to find jobs for post-graduation.) This NY Times story sums it up nicely.

We don't need much to live on, and I made it clear even before our wedding day that I'd rather see more of him and be poor then never see him and be rich. But he says the looming problem in needing to land a huge job after school is that he needs to pay off his law school loans, which, even though he received a $75,000 scholarship upon admittance, will still come out to about $125,000. Let's just say we worked out the numbers and it would be like paying a small mortgage off every month -- which was doable pre-recession when many law students made $160,000 their first year out of school and could pay their loans off in the first five years. Let's just that "norm" has definitely changed. Sigh.

Well, I've got some semi-good news (fingers crossed!). He's been watching his school job boards like a hawk and last week saw that a Newport Beach firm was going to be on campus the last week of August, interviewing for summer associates for next year. Turns out they also have one opening for a third year to start immediately after graduation in May. (Woot!) Instead of just submitting his paperwork to their resume call (which virtually guarantees it would have been stuck in some pile of resumes and forgotten) he personally emailed a secretary his cover letter and resume, she sent it on to one of the hiring partners who was impressed at his credentials and proactivity, and invited him to a cocktail social at the W Hotel here to meet him. The next morning they squeezed my husband in for a formal interview before their scheduled interviews ... and two days later called him back for a second interview to their Newport office!

People, this is huge. But I don't want to jinx it, as it's uber competitive out there and well...he just really want this bad. So bad he can taste it. First and foremost he won't have to stress out anymore about paying off his loans (let's face it, I'm laid back and like it when my normally mellow husband is too). Secondly, this firm pays for all relocation expenses (double woot!), covers all Bar fees (about $5,000), and pays a large living stipend during the months he'd need to study for the Bar. I'm most excited because it will be our ticket back to California, which is the highest priority for me in whatever job he takes. I belong back on the West Coast, and though I never saw myself living anywhere in Los Angeles (much less Newport Beach), I will take it over staying here. And hey, it could be marvelous. It is "The OC" after all, isn't it? ;) If all goes well, it looks like I may be hanging out with Marisa Cooper at malls like this.

So this morning I was up bright and early at 5am to take my husband to Dulles airport about 30 minutes away. They booked him a ticket flying into the Long Beach Airport and have him staying Friday night at a really nice hotel near the water. I'm jealous and wish I could go with him, but it's only one night so I'll survive. We both can't believe that all that the interview hubbub just happened last Tuesday -- it feels sooo long ago -- but like Carly Simon said "Anticipation is keepin' [us] wai-ai-ai-ting." (Carly always knew how to tell it like it was.)

I'm not one to pray, but I am *praying* that his interview goes well today. Most of you know that it's hard out there in whatever field you're in, and unfortunately his is no exception. So, this one's for you, Love. Knock it out of the park!!

The thin line between work and play

What I look like after a sleepless night. Kidding ... kind of [Source]

Lately I haven't been able to fall asleep at a normal time. And by "normal" I mean somewhere in the range of 11pm to 2am. I've always been a night owl -- I was raised without a bedtime and got to stay up late watching Jay Leno with my parents as a child -- but even with my amnesiac tendencies, I still fell asleep by 1 or 2am. Lately it's been more like 3 to 4am, and that's with waking up before 9am almost every morning.

I have a slight suspicion (that both thrills and scares me) about why I haven't been able to sleep "properly": My book is taking over my life. And now for the million dollar question: Is that really such a bad thing? Or am I slowly going to drive myself crazy and die some tragic death, anonymous and unpublished? Come to think of it -- wasn't that the inspiration for Jack Torrance's character in Stephen King's "The Shining"? Eeep.

I know I'm somewhat obsessive when it comes to hobbies and work and ...well, anything really. I obsessed about certain boys in high school (I cringe when I think back to writing "I heart boys" in blue nail polish on my school desk), certain rock bands in college (thank God I'm not a tattoo kind of girl - David Bowie's mug has better places to be than my upper back), and of course certain foods (watermelon, this one's for you).

It was -- and still is -- all or nothing when it comes to my likes and dislikes. I either love it or I hate it, adore you or despise you, without much wiggle room in between. This works great for some things, but I've known for a while that the world is not black and white, that we actually live in quite a gray sphere. So by that rational, it may be fun to be obsessive about TV shows and thin white rock stars from Britain, but it can't be healthy for the "real things" in life, say your job, can it? I believe the first step in recognizing you have a problem is admitting it, but I've never thought of it as a problem until now, when I quit my boring job and made a hobby I was obsessed with -- writing -- into my full-time career. There's no more "I can leave this at the office" or "I'll pick this up where I left off tomorrow morning", as I settle in to catch up on my Travel Channel shows.

No, not even Anthony Bourdain standing next to a glittering Eiffel Tower can distract my thoughts, which are always. thinking. about. my book. And if I'm not thinking about my characters or plot or setting or some certain passage, then I'm thinking about other novel ideas and short fiction pieces that would be so fun to write, so I jot down the ideas in my moleskin to remember them, or start braiding tendrils of story here and there but not for long because I can't wait to get back to finishing the first draft of my book manuscript, and Whew! This episode is already rolling credits? Where was I, and how did I miss everything Paris had to offer?

The same goes for when I'm having dinner with my husband (thankfully he doesn't mind listening to me banter on and on about my story arc), or when I'm listening to the Eagles in the car, or taking a shower, or shopping. You get the picture. I've created a monster that follows me around incessantly, begging for attention like my obese cat when she's craving her Iams.

The definitive line between work and play has been blurred. Writing, which was my "play" before, is now my work and therefore there is nothing else. It follows me into everything else I undertake. While I don't think it's a bad thing, I may need to set up a few boundaries before I become a full-fledged insomniac.

Take last night for example: I could only badger my husband to stay up with me for so long. At a little past 1am he started getting cranky, complaining for me to "leave him alone" because he "needed to wake up early". "So?" I yelled back, slathering moisturizer on my face. "I wake up early too. That's no excuse to go to bed right now." Then he insisted on griping that he was exhausted, and by the time I explained to him that he could "sleep all he wants when he's dead", he had already passed out. Sigh.

So I was left tossing and turning alone next to a slumbering husband, and naturally began thinking up a downright cool story idea that I began narrating to myself in my head. At one point I almost got out of bed to jot down my exact language -- I was that impressed, which doesn't come often for someone who is so self-critical about her craft -- but I couldn't muster the strength. I began to fall asleep ... by telling myself a story. This morning I wrote down as much as I could remember, but the good parts are forever banished to the land of shut eye.

So, how do you all do it? Not just the writers, but everyone? How do you find your balance?

I'm still figuring that one out, but for now I'll have another drink and reflect ...

Employed vs. unemployed (and everything in between)

Today my best friend was laid off from his tech writing job at a large company in Silicon Valley.

It's actually not as bad as it sounds. He was working under contract and had already been there a few months over his term, so he saw it coming. Plus his boss likes him and secretly warned him a month in advance that it would be happening.

I've recently spent some time with him on the phone, talking him through his current anxiety. Not about losing his job -- he's actually happy about that as it seems his work was the model for "Office Space" -- but that he really doesn't want to work for someone else anymore. He's single and in his 30s, so he's been in the workforce a while and has very little debts, but he's beginning to feel like there's got to be more to life then giving 40 hours of it every week to a job that really doesn't make a difference in the grand scheme of things, other than pay his rent.

Well he texted me yesterday with "I'm going to spend my unemployment checking out Mad Men!" Naturally I was excited, as I want him to become a devout follower, but something about the text made me pause...

Why did he refer to it as "spending his unemployment" doing something he's been looking forward to and has had time to do previously while employed? Then it dawned on me. Why do we measure our time in one of two ways: whether we're "employed" or "unemployed"? I love working hard just like the next person, but I like to think that there's more to my life than simply defining it by one of these two black and white statuses. Just because I was on salary not too long ago, for example, didn't mean I was any more content or fulfilled with anything. It just meant I whored myself out for The Man because it was socially expected.

Isn't there more to life than just one's career? Is this an American thing? Why don't other life categories, such as "happy", "depressed" or "healthy" hold as much clout as whether you're employed or unemployed?

When my friends and I talk about Europe, one of the things we love about many of the Western countries is that the people seem more at ease with their lives. They take the time to literally stop and smell the flowers, and aren't really measured by their jobs or careers. It's understood that there's more to them as human beings than what kind of car they drive, how big their house is or how much they earn every year.

I find this refreshing, and often wonder why can't it be more like that here? When I brought this up, my brother-in-law had a good explanation of why it can't: Maybe, he said, it's because most of Western Europe (like Italy) has already reached the heights of their societies ages ago, back when there were empires and renaissances. By comparison, the United States is relatively new and it's no secret that we're currently a force to be reckoned with on the world's stage. Our identities -- just like they were in the 1950s with white picket fences and finned Cadillacs parked in the driveway -- are more intertwined with our occupations and social standings.

Ok. I get it. Move over Roman Empire, the U.S. has stepped up to plate. It's our turn in history to shine. But in realizing that, we can still evaluate ourselves as individuals, and not just as Americans. So ...

Is your work just something you do, or is it who you are? Have you guys ever asked yourself this question? I suppose if you love what you do than of course your job is what you are, but many like my bff don't love what they do. Sure it's excellent money and blah blah blah, but we've all discussed to death the fact that money doesn't buy happiness. In his case, all he wants is time that belongs to him.

And maybe that's my bff's problem -- that even though he yearns to break free of the chains of 9-5, he's still subconsciously thinking about his life in terms of being "employed" or "unemployed", evidenced by his text yesterday. He's an awesome guy, and is defined by more than that to me. It's stunting his ability to truly figure out how to make "his kind" of employment work for him or take the time to find out what he loves to do, and not just go to work (again) for some giant global conglomerate, where he'll serve (again) as nothing but a cog in what Pink Floyd dubbed "the machine".

Which always brings me back to one of my key points: Figure out what you love to do, what you're passionate about, and don't settle. You won't be happy if you take that high-paying job just because the money is too good to pass up. There is more to your short life than being employed just for the sake of being employed.