Never check your toothpaste.

If I could impart to you one packing tip, it would be never to check your toothpaste when handing over your luggage at the airport. Now, this can be impossible if your trusty tube of Crest contains more than three ounces. So if this is the case, I suggest a travel size, available for purchase at your nearest Wal-Mart, or if in New York, Duane Reade drugstore.

I wish I'd followed my own advice when making the migration home on Saturday. It just goes to show my stereotypical belief in adolescent invincibility. "Oh, I won't pack much in my carry-on," I thought confidently to myself. "We'll be home by midnight."

But unfortunately our flight initially set for 4:30 p.m. didn't actually leave the La Guardia runway until approximately 9:15. Two of those layover hours were spent stock-still on the tarmac, watching big splatters from a huge thunderstorm slap the windows outside the cabin. The poor captain kept apologizing for his/the control tower's/the weather channel's oversight in thinking the storm had held long enough to board. There I sat, listening to South-bound travelers pronounce "well" as "wheel" and discuss their love of deer hunting. No joke, the man behind me must have monopolized his neighbor's ear for well over 15 minutes about his various outdoor excursions. The only thing keeping me from slitting my wrists was the hope that maybe he'd be one of those legendary passengers who'd checked antlers!! This I still have to see first-hand.

Needless to say we missed our connecting flight in Tennessee, necessitating an overnight stay at the Memphis International Airport... with all of our luggage unchecked. "Yay," you might say at the thought of me being reunited with my toothpaste. But no, with the effort required to dig to the bottom of two months worth of luggage, leaving the bags untouched was worth the furry teeth it caused.

If you were starting to feel nauseous, be assured I have brushed my teeth countless times according to the tenets of my personal hygiene, since arriving home Sunday afternoon!

But now I'm home and won't have to suffer toothpaste withdrawls ever again. Thanks for reading from my first take-off to the last landing. I'm a little sad it's all over! But home definitely has its perks, like the fact that I no longer have to keep my toothbrush in safekeeping, hidden away from a slobby roommate (sorry, Katie).

Next stop:



Hah!

Signing off,
Meredith

America's Next Top Something

I was tallying up expenses in my checking account register Saturday when I wrote down a withdrawl made at the corner ATM. When I glanced back over the entry, I found myself wondering, "Why did I just write a charge from America's Next Top Model?" And then in utter horror I realized that my mind made the association between "ATM" written in the ledger and "ANTM," which would have been the correct acronym for the CW's ever popular runway show. Ahh! My vocab is slowly becoming not my own!

I also added a few more foreign phrases to my repertoire yesterday, such as "bottom of the ninth." Yes, yours truly got her first taste of an MLB game at Shea Stadium, home of the Mets!! My friend from Seventeen, Sarabeth, offered me an extra ticket from her family's season pass, so I rode the 7 train 45 minutes out to Queens, packed in between die-hard fans in full-on gear. And after a whopping $13.25 spent at the concessions stand (outrageous!), I was happily settled in the stands with an amateur sports-commentating couple behind me. By the time I left, I wanted to suit up with all the natives, my loyalties now fully possessed by the blue and orange. That is, if I'd had any baseball loyalties to begin with. How have I grown up as a full-blooded American without ever learning how to score a baseball game?



But I'm glad to have kicked off my last week in the city with such an Americana experience. And so commences the frenzied quest to fit in all activities I've yet to do, all before next Saturday! After work I'll be traipsing around town like a total tourist, taking pictures of everything I've put off, a task I must complete before I don the role of tour guide when my Mom arrives Tuesday! Yay!

5, 4, 3, 2...

The countdown has begun.
Less than two weeks 'til I head home. It's thrown me into a sort of panic, like, "Ahhh! There are so many more things I need to experience; so many more questions I want to ask; so many more brains I want to pick." And so I'm wasting no time making a complete annoyance out of myself, asking my superiors tons of open-ended, vague questions about how I can further my career.

Just today I sent out four e-mails to people in various design departments. Each message included, "What Web sites do you frequent for artistic inspiration?" What kind of question is that? Why didn't I ask something less stuffy like, "Are there any cool art sites you're addicted to?" That, of course, would have been much more informal, but also would have ended in a preposition. Shudder!!

While I bide my time waiting for replies, I continue to develop my budding book idea, "New York Cheap Eats: Intern Edition," inspired by newyork.citysearch.com's "cheap eats" feature and also by the freaking price of cereal in this city! Can't a girl get a bowl of Cheerios for less than $1.50? I'm serious. I bought a 15 oz. box of Golden Grahams at the market for $5.39, not including tax. Never again! I have since scoured the area and found a 20 oz. box of off-brand Raisin Bran, at a savings of more than two dollars!

I've decided, at the advice of my mother, that the best food staples to keep on hand are spaghetti, rice, eggs and soy sauce, although, the Asian flair was my idea. I even went to Chinatown to purchase a pair of $2.50 chopsticks. They make eating the rice/egg/soy sauce concoction more palatable. And studies show using them as your utensil of choice actually makes you feel full sooner. It's because it takes so dang long to shovel the food into your mouth!



But never fear. Meredith is here, bringing you the best bargains. That'll be the book's tagline... Yep, it still needs a little work.

WARNING: Flammable

I debated on whether or not to attach a visual to this entry, because in a way, it would be almost blasphemous. How do you pay homage to the hottest, most attractive person you've ever seen? Well, let me give some context here, but if you feel the need to skip ahead to the videos below, I completely understand.

My cousin, Hal, has influenced my musical repertoire extensively, most specifically with the introduction to Jon McLaughlin, a piano-playing prodigy from Indiana. So when Julie asked if I'd care to attend his Monday night concert at the Bowery Ballroom, I could hardly conceal my excitement. He had come to Shreveport a few years ago, but I wasn't old enough for the casino venue.

So, Monday, slipping in late from a movie screening, I joined two other interns on the balcony. In the midst of a crowd of 21-and-over hipsters, I felt like the third grader in a room full of older brother's football buddies - that is, if I'd had an older brother. Thankfully the opening band, George Stanford, released my nervous muscles. Maybe it was the twangy sound of his guitar that transported me back home or the smell of the club, slightly reminiscent of the cigarette smoke hanging around my family's farm - whatever it was, I loosened my grip on the banister and bobbed one shoulder in time with the beat. It's a good thing, too, because if I had bypassed this mellow precursor, I would have crashed like a plank after one look at the night's feature presentation.

"He looks like a Greek god," Bri candidly observed as Jon took the stage. I mean, I knew he was cute, but I wasn't prepared for...

1. a shirt with just the right number of undone buttons
2. a vest loosely tailored over broad shoulders
3. tapered jeans that fell in the perfect number of folds over white sneakers

Sigh. It was just too much. And he didn't just tickle the ivories; he massaged them. I felt pity for his band members - I think there were four - but they never broke my gaze from Jon. Intermittently throughout the night, Sarabeth, Bri and I would turn to each other and giggle, all the while formulating ways we could get backstage - in the name of Seventeen, of course! He was definitely "17 Buzz" worthy. But unfortunately we hadn't planned on the need for a press pass, so no backstaging for us.

But before you write me off as completely boy-crazy and devoid of all professionalism, take a look. The first is his official musical video; the second is from a concert I did not attend, but it provided similar musical stylings. Enjoy, but just remember, he's married!!

Coney Island? Like a chili-cheese coney?

This weekend my friend Leigh (also a Shreveportian) decided it was time to get out of Manhattan, so Sunday afternoon we boarded the train to Coney Island, an area directly below Brooklyn which I came to find out is like a permanent state fair, plus a beach. What ensued was a cacophony of carnivalistic activities, but I would like to present the day in light of several lawsuits waiting to happen:

No. 1 "In advance of a cut foot:" After riding the Wheel of Wonder (also known as a ferris wheel), Leigh and I traipsed through swarms of strange characters down to the water, with sand artificially colored by assorted umbrellas. We came to learn it was also strewn with a pawn shop's assortment of litter. When I stopped just short of a shard of glass, Leigh made the accurate assumption, "This has to be the dirtiest beach I've ever seen." Luckily my feet survived, slice-free.



No. 2 "In advance of a broken arm:" Amazingly we decided to stay a few hours and observe from a plot safely-distanced from canoodling couples and an encroaching tide. When we'd had enough we entered the nearest public bathroom to wash up. Water stood at least two inches high across the entire length of the floor. My sandy flip-flops struggled to stay afloat. Ick. Could have been disastrous.

No. 3 "In advance of a racist accusation:" Immediately upon exiting said restroom, we were accosted by voices from above. Normally I would ignore any attempt to get my attention, no matter the owner of the voice. But maybe the beach was eroding our Manhattan persona because we both looked up to the balcony area above. Two small boys of some ethnicity other than our own incited us to return the dodgeball that had escaped them to the sand. Um, how were we to return it from our position with more than a ten foot height disadvantage? Somehow Leigh saved the day by heaving the ball above the banister and directly into their hands. But even as it was still in the air, I could see it ending badly: collapsed facial features, a fractured skull, or even just a bloody nose. In those two seconds the boy's life and mine (from jail) flashed before my eyes. Thankfully Leigh has good aim.

No. 4 "In advance of a broken back, or face, or window:" Once again on the train, a different little boy took to making monkey bars of the interior roof of the subway car. Need I say more? Leigh attempted to shoot him an evil glare. His parents made no note of it.

And so ended our outing, and I hurried home to rinse stubborn sand from my feet... and shoulders... and legs... and practically every other available space on my body. Literally, it's as if the individual grains thought themselves pollen spores migrating on to spread their seed, hitching a ride on my exterior. When I got out of the shower I frowned at the pool of water that had collected beneath the curtain. It was in perfect position to trip my roommate coming in from a late night out. Hmm. Lawsuit No. 5?

Disclaimer- This was actually a really fun day, despite the somewhat sub-par portrayal this provides.

Feeling lost?

No, not I. But there is one personal article I wish would turn up in the "Lost and Found."



My New York instruction manual!! After maybe the second week of feeling a little overwhelmed in the Big City, I decided to conquer my fears with a trip to my trusty neighborhood Barnes and Noble. Right inside the doors is a section devoted entirely to New York: travel, dining, walking, and touristy attractions. There you'll find a book to unlock them all.

After passing an awkward amount of time comparing the jackets of at least five different books, I finally decided on two. I'm sure the employee standing guard grew weary of keeping his eye on me. But the intense time investment paid off, and now after five weeks, the books have become a little part of my NYC experience, like my own personal tour guide or day planner. But alas, no more, for this lass has lost her favorite of the pair in such a strange circumstance that she feels there must be a little tourism troll out to get her.

When aforementioned friends Ashley and Kevin came to visit, "Let's Go New York City on a Budget" was practically our Bible. It told us all the best shops, restaurants, markets, all divided by neighborhood, price range or by an alphabetical index. We're talking highly organized, highly informative. Quite a few pages were dog-eared and became ripply from my sweaty hands on the stifling subway. But as soon as the two house guests had gone, so did the book.

"Ah hah!" I thought. "Surely it somehow snuck into their luggage and is now just a UPS shipment away from a safe return." Nope. Neither Kevin nor Ashley saw any signs of the book upon their arrival in Louisiana. And to make matters even more mysterious, Kevin misplaced such a book as well! He came to New York with two titles and left with only one. Now, how do you explain that?

So be warned. Somewhere out there, lurking the streets and avenues of Gotham, is a fiendish thief with a fetish for your travel titles. I'll be passing a collection plate to fund its replacement.

Aren't you just a cutie patootie!

I'll let you in on my little game. It's called, "Pick the Cutest Guy on the Subway," and I play it every morning, although recently it's been slim pickings. Not that I have any room to talk.

Last week I squeezed into one of the few open subway seats so I could easily access my make-shift to-go container of oatmeal. But while I was scanning the vicinity for lucky winner #1, my tongue was nudging the last stubborn morsels of Quaker goodness from my molars - equaling creepy, contorted face. Yep, I'm that attractive. And so today I arrived at the realization that if I were to move to the city permanently, inevitably I'd end up dating one of those bicycle carriage drivers from Central Park, the European ones with the great calf muscles. They're not exactly on the most profitable career path, but as I rationed out my quarters today for the coin-laundry machines, I also realized I'm not exactly Trump Tower material myself.

But c'est la vie.

On a more optimistic note, I fell in love with Seventeen's art department today! At our Brown Bag Luncheon, Mike Reddy, the art director, spoke about page layout and the process of designing a magazine six months in advance of its publication date. He was kind enough to humor all my questions. My appreciation for the magazine grew immensely, and I found myself getting that really excited feeling in my stomach when I know I'm supposed to pursue something. So bordering on stalker-ism, I "Googled" his name to see if I could find any other work he's done, and at the chance of libel, I'm going to say off-the-record that I may have found his illustration Web site and blog.


If both aforementioned Mike Reddies are not one and the same, it's still cool artwork, whomever the artist, and some random Mike Reddy who doesn't work at Seventeen has earned my admiration. The end.

Movin' On Up, to the East Side

Tuesday night I went to the screening of The Wackness. Although I can say nothing for the morality of the film, Olivia Thirlby is a very talented actress, and she even signed Seventeen's Body Peace Treaty. (BTW- You'd better sign this, too! We're trying to get 1,000,000 signatures!)



The discouraging part about Thursday was an interview I had to do at noon. 12 p.m. That was exactly the time slot occupied by the highlight of my week, the thing getting me through the past three days of friend withdrawls. The band, The Afters, was coming in for a meet-and-greet and performing two songs. I did not want to miss that music, but since meet-and-greets are optional while interviews are not, I knew I had to make a silent sacrifice.

So when 11:30 rolled around, I was out in the 212 percent humidity, walking toward Park Avenue. My yellow umbrella kept hitting into store windows as I dodged pedestrians, and I could feel shin splints creeping up on me as I practically sprinted the 10 blocks to the hotel. "Not happy; missing The Afters; going to be late," were the extremely positive thoughts going through my head as I tried to avoid the pooling sludge at the crosswalks. The lining of the vintage Anna Sui dress I purchased in Brooklyn last weekend was coming too close for comfort between my sweating thighs. "This had better be one good interview," I grumbled inaudibly, and thankfully it was!

The best part was that as I scanned back into Hearst's seventeenth floor, The Afters were just emerging from the conference room. I set my stuff at my cubicle and stole a peek in the band's direction. The musicians began to file out on the other side of the filing cabinet from my desk, and maybe they saw me looking bereft, but whatever the case, one of them stopped and asked, "What's your name?" "Meredith," I said thankfully while shaking his hand. "I hate that I wasn't here," I added. "I had to be somewhere... else. I love you guys!" (Once again, ever the reserved. Hah.) "Oh! We saw the Matt Wertz poster on your desk," he said as another Matt, the band's guitarist, introduced himself to me - apparently Matt Wertz is a common bond. "Here, since you love us, take this!" And with that, I think it was Marc, the drummer, handed me a copy of their CD! Yay! So maybe being completely obsessed with Matt Wertz DID pay off after all!

Home, Sweet Home

Friday was the day I decided I want to stay here. It was the first day of the best of both worlds. My roommate from home and her cousin had flown in the night before to visit for a few days, so I was enjoying a little piece of home in my new-found surroundings. But what really led to my decision? Well, a little thing called a meet-and-greet. Matt Wertz, one of my favorite singers, showed up at our office to personally perform the single from his upcoming CD, "Under Summer Sun." When Julie told me he was on Friday's itinerary, I almost started crying. Yes, I lost all sense of decorum. No one else had a clue who this Wertz guy was, but I was on cloud nine. As soon as he waltzed into the conference room, my hand was in the air to make a request. "Marianne" or "Carolina," please. He chose the first and then played two others. I couldn't wipe the dopey grin from my face as he sat and strummed his guitar. I had butterflies the rest of the day. Check out his private concert from Seventeen's YouTube page:



But despite my being starstruck, I had so much fun with my two house guests, Ashley and Kevin. We explored Central Park (more like, got separated and couldn't find each other, resulting in more exploration than originally planned); we shopped till we dropped; and we went to the Museum of Modern Art. That's an interesting story, right there. All three of us have been in an entire year of art history courses, so we felt generally knowledgeable being able to recognize many of the masterpieces displayed there. Such as when we saw the wax statue of a man reclining on a museum bench. We knew it had to be a Duane Hanson piece because of the nature of the setting. Hanson cast his figures from live models and preferred to make sculptures of people who would not normally be represented in a gallery but are instantly familiar, such as the overweight, unattractive or badly dressed, like these found in the Modern Art Gallery:



So we figured a man uncouthly sprawled across the gallery's seating area was a shoe-in for the recognizable artist. "Go poke him," Kevin ordered me after we saw the statue twitch. I was not fooled. Of course the statue would be motorized. It was just the artist's confusion tactic, to leave you unsure of what you had seen. But, no, I was not going to lower myself to the level of having to physically examine the experiment.

It's a good thing, too, because Hanson's statue suddenly morphed into a living, breathing, large burly man who decided he'd had a long enough nap and got up and left the gallery. We didn't take the time to see where he went. We were too busy sheepishly shuffling our way out, embarrassed that we originally thought he was made of wax. And to top it off, there was no way he didn't hear us. No way. Embarrassing moment #453. Congratulations!

Just call me... what you will.

Just call me the office cow.
Miraculously, sitting in a cubicle all day has increased my metabolism significantly, to the point that I am constantly scavenging the kitchen for free-for-all food. Yesterday, for instance, when the fashion interns caused a stampede toward the freebie table for their closet rejects, I was busy picking at left-over sandwiches and cake from our editor in chief's birthday party. Hmm. Somehow that image makes me resemble the bag lady I saw picking through Broadway's trash at 2 a.m.

Speaking of street sightings, I am almost positive I saw Luke Wilson on the way to work this morning. Although I wasn't wearing my glasses, I could tell he was wearing his, sunglasses actually, paired nicely with a green and white track suit. In his hand was a cup of coffee, no doubt Starbucks since there is a franchise on every corner (also green and white). My eyes could have been deceiving me, or maybe I just had Legally Blonde on the brain (I'm still trying to get cheap tickets to the musical), but I'm going to believe it was he. Here's a pic of him in a different track suit, so it's not too hard to believe:



Finally 6 p.m. clicked over and the Hearst girls and I headed for the Hudson to a welcome party for all unpaid employees magazines like to call interns. I know I wasn't hallucinating, but I'm pretty sure I saw Rob Schneider pass me within a two inch radius, right on the corner of 58th and 8th next to that falafel stand I've been eying hungrily. The guy I saw looked just like this, wearing a hat and everything:


All of this was probably caused by left-over delirium from Monday morning. I'm trying to take advantage of all the training the company gives us and go to all the meet-and-greet lunches with the Hearst execs, so last week when Julie sent me an invite to an intern breakfast hosted by "two higher ups," of course I RSVP'd "yes!" The only problem was, come Sunday night, I couldn't remember which morning this week it would take place. "It's Monday the 16th; I know it," I told myself while setting my alarm for 7:30. "I distinctly recall seeing a 1 and a 6 on my calendar. The 16th." So when I showed up all alone to the office Monday morning, it was a surprise to see not the 16th, but the NINETEENTH typed into Thursday's itinerary. Whoops. Apparently you should just call me dyslexic.

Tomorrow's a new day: Week #3!

First of all, happy father's day! I wish my dad were here to run around town with me. I'm blessed to have parents who share the same interests as I have, so I know we'd have fun patronizing all the art museums! Daddy, I miss you!

But here's a semi-brief version of the past week:

Wednesday, a very nice, but hungover camera man, Frank, and I traversed around Union and Times squares to interview civilians for Seventeen.com's "Street Style" feature. I was instructed to accost stylish people and ask them fashion questions about their wardrobe. Apparently all the fashionable people thought I was technically going to accost them, because they avoided us like the plague. So what ended up happening was that Frank and I combed the streets for anyone not camera-shy, which gave us a wide assortment of... not very stylish people, most of whom where on vacation from Texas (it was crazy, like a Texan pandemic!) And I apologize profusely to the man on 7th Ave. whom I think I accidentally marked up with my uncapped Bic pen!

Thursday Julie and I went to the Spirit showroom to check out the newest in Halloween fashions. This was not the highlight of my week, since I normally have nothing to do with the holiday, but I did get some fresh air!

I'm not a superstitious person, but I think I might have taken a heckling spirit home with me, judging by the weirdness of the next day... Friday the 13th.

I woke up at 8:15, which is not detrimentally late, but everything took me 10x as long to accomplish. I kept looking at the clock in disbelief! 9:37 finally rolled around and I knew it was time to run out the door. Still-partially-frozen blueberry crepe in hand, I started to leave just when the breakfast filling took it upon itself to catapult down my brand new jacket and white tank top. But no time for Tide! I was off to the subway. Each morning I take the local line to 59th Street. But Friday morning, once past 79th Street, the local decided to go express on me, therefore skipping three stops and ending up in Times Square, almost 20 blocks south of Hearst. This had never happened to me before. I wasn't even aware subways could suddenly switch from one line to another. It felt like I was on the Magic School Bus, a ride that always goes awry. Luckily there was no Ms. Frizzle.



Saturday consisted of more exploring... and getting caught in the rain! But don't let the language fool you; it was not romantic in any way. I had slipped into Zabar's, the market featured in You've Got Mail, and walked out with my sushi and cheesecake and no umbrella into a full-fledged summer downpour, but not the five minute kind. With the subway construction, it was 16 blocks to the next stop, so I decided to hail a cab. It could have really frustrated me, but standing soaking wet on the corner of Broadway and 81st was somehow refreshing. My shoes dried out in front of the air conditioner while I sat devouring my dinner, propped up in front of the TV in nice dry clothes. What an evening!



This morning I went to church and met Hope's wonderful friends Lindsay and Mick over lunch at the Gramercy Cafe.



And guess what! Just four days til Ashley and Kev come to visit!!!! And I want to give a shout out: Laura, love you! I can't believe you read this! :) Haha!

My life as an errand boy

I am convinced inanimate objects are out to make me look a fool.

This morning, I got to the bottom of four flights of stairs before realizing I'd left my lunch in the freezer. I subsequently returned to collect it, but how did my shrimp thai rice repay me? By flicking itself all over my work station as if making mud pies.

Here was the progression:
1. Upon removing said rice plate from the microwave, it proceeded to wet itself all over the office kitchen counter, necessitating two more buffer plates as a diaper.

2. But apparently it needed to leak some more, because it provided a repeat performance once I strolled the four paper plates to my personal desk.

3. Then, completely eschewing all decorum, rice jumped from my fork onto the "f" key, whence I carried out damage control with my last available napkin.

4. But, oh no, playtime was not over. It had to test its limits, and when I looked up, a second stray grain of rice had somehow made its way to the computer screen, igniting a red flush across my embarrassed cheeks. By this point it was so late in the afternoon that I was the only staff member eating, and I didn't want to draw anymore attention to my heaping pile of caloric intake. But alas, it had other ideas.

5. Thinking I had silenced the devil, I went about responding to wayward e-mail messages and enjoying a few quiet minutes surfing the Web. With one last scrape of my plate, I tossed it into my cubicle's trash can, glad the whole power struggle versus my lunch was over. But then my hand brushed past my neck. What!? There, a third piece of rice had escaped unsupervised! And it had been hiding in the crook of my collar bone for the past 15 minutes. How humiliating! How many a fashionista had shot a sorry sigh my way, unbeknownst to me?



I guess I should have caught on yesterday after the elevators' conniving attack on my reputation. Whoever created the device should be prosecuted as a terrorist. Not only are elevators incubators of social discomfort (ie. the whole "I have on new underwear" routine), but as happened to me, they can point out all your insecurities and poke fun at you in front of your peers.

At Hearst, in order to rise any higher than the 28th floor, you must use the 29th as a cross platform for the rest of the tower. So on yesterday's errand, I descended to the 16th floor to pick up a DVD, went back up to the 29th, crossed out and over to the other hallway, delivered said disc up to the 41st, dropped back down to 29, out and over to the first hallway, and returned to home base on the 17th. Did I mention that my ears pop with each elevator excursion?



Oh! And the elevators must have been in cahoots with the entryways to each floor. Since we are on such tight lock-down, you are assigned an ID card which allows access only to your floor of employment. So to gain entrance into the camp of any sister station, you must hail the hall phone to contact your employee of choice.

What I still can't seem to figure out is the instructional process one must follow to render these phones functional. After pushing the 4-digit code, the person on the other line was left calling, "Hello?" with seemingly no response from me. What they didn't know was that I was futilely but forcefully returning each salutation, echoing in the corridor but making no connection across the phone lines. I resorted to scuttling through closing doors, sneaking in behind some unsuspecting native of that particular office.

And I didn't even get a tip. :)

Weekend Update

It's amazing to me that a city of over 19 million people can still feel lonely at times. But I'm so thankful for the connections I've made, and all things considered, this weekend has been full of friends and food (too much food, actually; this could end up being a syndicated blog for the Food Network if I'm not careful).

Friday, our wonderful Web editor took everyone in the department out to Serafina, an Italian restaurant right next to the Sean John offices. We kept watching for Diddy to exit into the three Escalades waiting out front, but to no avail.




Finally at 6:15 after tearing myself from my computer under Julie's prompting, I headed to the Union Square area to meet my friend Hope at a meeting for her church. It was so refreshing to be in the company of people counteracting the "striving" nature of this place.

Then Hope, her roommate, Cheryl, and I all boarded the train to their house in Queens for dinner and a movie. It was like a breath of fresh air. THERE WERE TREES! AND LITTLE SIDEWALKS! People plant flowers in their yards. What a concept. A yard. Once there, Cheryl convinced me to order Pad Thai from their neighborhood restaurant with shredded papaya substituted for the typical noodles. I'm glad to report I'm getting braver. I mean, I may never have that opportunity again, so what could a little papaya hurt?

Saturday morning, after crashing on Hope's futon, my roommate Katie and I made an outing through the weekend street market at Union Square and walked up and down 5th Ave. But the best part was once again, the food! We spotted a quaint cupcake shop called The Cupcake Cafe which is connected to a very You've-Got-Mail-esque children's book store. So fun. But why is it that the only pictures I've taken in New York have been of food?



And to top it off, Saturday night's dinner has to have been one of the most spiritual culinary experiences I've ever had thanks to Amy Ruth's Soul Food and Southern Cuisine. Hope and two of her friends took me to the edge of Harlem to prove that food can feed the soul, and feed you for the next two days! We took pics there, too, to document the spread, but they are not yet in my possession. Just trust me, the food was legendary.

I went to Hope's church, C3 Manhattan, this morning and really enjoyed it. Tonight I may be joining my newly-acquired acquaintances at some kind of SNL thing? Not sure of the details yet, but I'm eager to experience whatever I can while I'm here. Eight weeks is going to fly by.

"Celebrity looks good on you."

That's what I would have said today to the singer who stopped by the office for an informal interview... if I had been able to take any concentration off keeping my hands from shaking.

That's right. When Teddy Geiger met us in the north conference room, the circulation in my hands was non-existent and my leg crossed at the knee kept kicking uncontrollably.



I never considered myself starstruck, but that's probably because I don't have much of a track record with the rich and famous. But fortunately I was composed enough to throw in an educated question and remember his publicist's name.

Ever since he was one of very few males to make it to the cover of Seventeen, he's been an office celebrity. Fulfilling my duties as social management groupie, I've already read at least 15 comments wanting him to grace the cover again.



But even with the little blip of excitement he offered, the highlight of the day was meeting my cousin Anna. A Texas native, we joked about southerners attempting to communicate up north. Introducing me to a new subway train, she escorted me to Times Square where we ate really good brick oven pizza at Bella Vita and then trudged our already full tummies a few blocks to Roxy Delicatessen for the best cheesecake I've ever put in my mouth. We opted for the safe route and ordered cherry, but one selection on the menu inspired too much curiosity in my palate: "toffee heath bar crunch cheesecake." I'll have to go back, but the half-piece I consumed was a meal in itself.



Anna was wonderful fun, and I'm so glad to have a family member here, even though I'd never lain eyes on her before 6 p.m. today!

An Elle Woods moment...

I want to talk about eyebrow maintenance.

But before you close this window, aghast at the alacrity with which I've been consumed by a materialistic, pre-teen culture, wait. This morning while performing the daily ritual of make-up application, I had an epiphany. New experiences are like eyebrow grooming. In order for them to look manicured, you brush them backward then forward; you pluck them; you can coat them in a clear gel with a purpose akin to hairspray; none of which are pleasant processes, but the result is much less lumberjack-esque than its predecessor.

So each time I get on the wrong train or backtrack on an avenue, I'll consider it my grooming.

Today was more toe-dipping into the world of social networking as I skimmed Seventeen's MySpace page for girls eligible to be our "Friend of the Month." Here's the current month's winner:


So I was assigned to choose energetic girls with good style. "You're making some girl's dream come true," my editor told me. And after reading the readers' comments on the MySpace page about how much they love the magazine and how much they'd love to be featured, I'm starting to believe her. So many girls place so much trust and get so much affirmation from Seventeen. I never realized the responsibility it possesses.

Web is the perfect place for me because I love having contact with the readers on the site. In a strange way, I feel a part of their lives.

Social must become second nature.

"I dislike feeling at home when I am abroad." - George Bernard Shaw

He must have been a glutton for punishment because I can't imagine forsaking the desire to feel comfortable in a new environment.

Something came over me today on my way home, and the fiendish confusion convinced me it was geographically correct to take the "A" train farther downtown instead of the "1" back uptown, much to my dismay. How did that happen? Because I have yet to find my niche.

But considering it's Day #2, I think I'll get the hang of it soon. Today I learned how to work a new digital recorder, which to me, someone electronically-challenged, was a great personal victory. I transcribed two interviews.

Four hours later, with fingers much more adept at pressing the pause button, I learned the ropes of social network managing, which I guess could be considered my job title.

Tomorrow I'll field some messages, sort through friend requests and get to draft my first blog. The magazine is wanting to up its Web presence, and yours truly will be contributing to accomplish that goal, hopefully!! Check it out on www.seventeen.com and www.myspace.com/seventeen_magazine!

The New School, Day #1

Did your mother take pictures to document major milestones of your life, like the first day of school? I have distinct memories of Mom with her camera in the front yard on my first day as a second grader.

Today was the first day of a different kind of learning experience: Internship Day #1. And someone did take my picture, but not my mother. The already overworked woman at Tishman Speyer quickly snapped my mugshot at 10 a.m. with a line of other eager interns snaking behind me in desperate need of IDs.

Unlike that little second grader I used to be carrying a backpack, today I stood at the 110th Street subway stop tightly clutching my purse as I waited for the local. Instead of a sack lunch, I scooped up the largest piece of pizza I've ever seen and headed to Central Park, $3 lighter. And instead of a teacher letter to take home to my parents, I returned to the dorm with a stack of training manuals.

After four hours of content management systems tutoring, I still don't have a full grasp of what I'll be asked to perform while serving Seventeen. But luckily, I don't think it'll be the school of hard knocks. The editors were amiable and open to my questions. The two other Web interns are amazing. The building is gorgeous. I can't wait to take it all in. Ready to start Day #2!

This is my new classroom:

(we're on the 17th floor; how cute.)
photo by Michael Ficeto for businessweek.com

Bambi's at baggage claim

The plane ticket is purchased; the luggage is waiting impatiently to be packed; butterflies are hatching in my stomach. Yep, reality is setting in.

But then something so surreal pops up, I can't help but laugh. While reviewing Northwest Airlines' luggage policy, we came across this little beauty:

"Northwest accepts antlers retained as hunting trophies as checked luggage only and only for travel within/between US/PR/VI/CA. A fee of $100 USD/CAD each-way per animal rack/antler will apply. Animal racks/antlers are not included as part of the free baggage allowance.

Northwest does not accept liability for loss, damage, or delay of antlers. Excess valuation insurance may not be purchased for transport of antlers."

What a foreign concept! My biggest quandary is how to stuff a hair dryer most economically into my carry-on, but somewhere out there, some avid hunter is attempting to transport a 13-point buck home to his wood-paneled den. And Northwest is not liable if Bambi downsizes to an 8-point in the process.

I pray I'll get to see a pair of mounted antlers perched atop some Samsonite, rolling through the terminal on Sunday. I think my life would finally be complete.

True Life: I have a Southern Drawl

With one single contracted word, I have cause to second-guess my camouflagibility in the urban jungle of NYC.

"Aren't."

Why should a word on a second-grade reading level inspire such insecurity? WNYC reporter Beth Fertig's sound byte interview about recycling is responsible. Fast forward to 4:24 and just listen.



Did you hear it? She distinctly annunciated two stiff-laced syllables. "AR-ent." The sound of it shocked me out of my southern drawl. Sometimes southerners are known to insert unnecessary syllables in random monosyllabic words such as "boy," pronouncing it almost as "buoy." But in other not-so-isolated cases, those residing way beneath the Mason-Dixon line have the tendency to... slur.

ie. Normal English: "Do you want to eat?"
Southern English: "J'wanna ayte?"

So when I say, "aren't," what actually comes out of my mouth sounds sort of guttural, like maybe a German with Tourette's. Not so attractive, especially relative to the smooth-talking broadcast journalist I heard today.

I'm pretty sure native New Yorkers will react to my dialect in one of two ways:
1. They will either condescendingly ask where I'm from and make a judgment on my intelligence accordingly...

-OR-

2. They will think I am a cute "southern belle" and ask me to repeat random phrases in my mother tongue, also a bit condescending.

My conclusion: I won't be able to hide my cultural roots, no matter how many private diction lessons I could squeeze into the week prior to my departure. From what I've heard, I'm sure I will have to endure many instances of necessary repetition to communicate through the language barrier. Maybe I should pretend I'm a mute and just transcribe everything I want to say on note cards.

The first question I would scribble: "How y'all doin'?"

One step closer...

It's 4:30 a.m., and the garbage truck begins beeping its warning, picking up the dumpster behind Dudley. I'm still awake rewriting a research paper due  at noon.

Thankfully it's not often that I witness the garbage collector's debut performance at ungodly hours. But this morning, the noise becomes an overture for other sounds I wouldn't normally hear on my regular sleep schedule.

For almost another two hours, the only peep is the intermittent firings of the big air conditioner units outside.

Then, as if by a conductor's signal, the sonata begins again at 6:14 a.m. in the form of a boisterous alarm clock. Another lets loose on its snooze setting at 6:41, forming a chorus in canon.

Just as I can finally close the lid of my laptop and those of my equally exhausted eyes, my neighbor's TV clicks on.

Sigh.

The muffled murmurings of a morning announcer weasel their way in through uninsulated walls. Just this once would I prefer sleep to the voice of Early Show's Harry Smith.

This orchestration, however uninvited, has become my collegiate theme song, an anthem to all-nighters. The quarter is almost over, but summer may still sing the same tune. I'll still be living in a dorm, except not on Tech's campus.

Come June 1, I'll pack up and hop a plane to Columbia University's internship housing in New York City. Hopefully I'll be able to keep my journalist geek in check while serving on staff at Seventeen Magazine, a position I was grateful to receive thanks to Tech's very own Julie Miller. I don't think I'll be mentioning to them that their publication was almost the topic of my journalism research paper this quarter. Can we say Ugly Betty?

Unless I get sent home early for too much enthusiasm, I'm planning to camp out for nine weeks in Midtown Manhattan with an unnamed roommate I have yet to meet.

Hopefully she'll be okay waking up to Harry Smith and falling asleep to the voice of Anderson Cooper.

But for now I'm still pecking away at this paper. Procrastinating, I observe the sky jump a few notches on the color spectrum. Maybe lack of sleep has brought out my philosophical side, but I decide I should witness it more often. There's something refreshing about watching the sun arrive, something calming knowing everyone sees the same one. And although soon I'll be greeting it one hour  before a sleepy Ruston, I hope it will have the same effect one time zone away.