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.