I've had some well-documented trouble getting over (and under...) Hottie McLatte. After more than two weeks of rushing to Starbucks after work, hopefully scanning the counter for his perfect face, I came up empty every time. He was really gone.
I used to love Starbucks, especially in the winter, when I would indulge in its seasonal drinks, and take shelter in its super-heated, gently lit interior. All that nostalgia is gone now. The coffee doesn't taste as good if McLatte doesn't pour it. Living in the fallout of our love affair, even the service seems less friendly.
But this morning, I was the subject of a divine intervention, orchestrated by Howard Schultz himself. He felt me slip away. He also needs to find a way to keep his customers paying $4.00 for coffee that takes 43 cents to make, all while they foreclose their houses and file for bankruptcy. So this morning, there was a girl on the corner near Copley Square, handing out $5 gift cards. At first I didn't see what she was giving away, but I smiled and made eye contact, because that's what I do. I analyze the irises of poor little creatures banished to the city streets in the name of marketing promotions. I was especially grateful when she handed me my gift card.
So this afternoon, when I left work, I decided to stop by Starbucks and treat myself to the gingersnap latte that I've been dying to try. I was delighted to find that the girl on the corner had given me not one, but two! gift cards. Double the latte, double the fun. This was a good sign. Would McLatte be back where he belongs?
It should be noted there is a Starbucks right near where my internship is, but I rarely go there, because McLatte's ghost does not linger in those walls. So, I headed to my old haunt, placed my order, and waited for the barista to make my drink. He seemed backed up, so I texted Ashley that H.M. was officially gone, never to be heard from again, and oh, woe is me, how will I ever go on?
I hit send, and McLatte LITERALLY COMES RIGHT AROUND THE CORNER. He is dressed in street clothes, and had been talking to a manager in the atrium area that adjoins the store. McLatte didn't see me, and he headed for the door. I watched him walk in the direction of the train station I go to... could McLatte be commuting, like me? He slipped away into the night before Dumby McStupid could put together my gingersnap latte. As soon as the drink was made, I ran out into the street. I don't know why, because what did I think would happen? But I guess by now, you all should know about my unreasonable amount of emotional investment in this invented friendship. Clear thinking went out the window after I got my first discount.
So I crossed the street and was walking toward the station, when I felt a cool wetness on my pants. I looked down. Poop. Bird poop, on my leg. I was pooped on. In my quest to find McLatte love, I was literally shat upon. The world is laughing at me.
There are two ways to think about this. One, that it is a final sign that McLatte and I were not McMeantToBe. Or, my mother's school of thought, which says that if you are pooped on by a bird, you should buy a lottery ticket. The poop, you see, is a good luck charm.
I am curious as to your thoughts, and if you will sit with me, here, just for a moment, and picture the torture of McLatte wandering into the dark night, out of sight, as I stood waiting impatiently for my drink. And tell me in the comments... is the poop good luck, or a death certificate for my pretend romance?
Just for good measure, I don't drive to work, but if I did... could this happen?
Showing posts with label bad luck. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bad luck. Show all posts
Monday, November 24, 2008
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Notes from the intern desk
This week was a tough week at the old internship. Mostly I was put into a sour mood by a fashion piece that took me three days to fact check, when it should have taken three hours. An utter lack of cooperation and coordination by staff members and stylists left me to pick up the pieces. It was a frustrating and time consuming endeavor to say the least. And as you can imagine, a girl begins to question her reason for living after making call after call to inquire about prices, fabrics and styles of designer duds. President-elect Obama would not be happy with me pursuing this materialistic effort instead of offering a service to my country.
However, this week did have a couple of highlights. First, after four months of unpaid, noneducational drudgery at my summer internship, they finally published one of the articles I wrote. Of course they didn't tell me. Good thing I was about to send a hateful e-mail or else I never would have logged onto the site.
The other highlight came when I was fact-checking oodles of contact information for physicians featured in an upcoming issue. Among other things, we asked them to provide a quote pertaining to another article, and as I sifted through some of their e-mails, I was rather surprised by some of what I found. First, while many did not respond to a request for a quote at all, some went so far as to exercise their literary muscles and write up a whole little paragraph, complete with accurate attribution. Such as:
Dr. Freezie McSpeculum of Boston Hospital for the Infertile says nothing is more important than a patient's sense of humor. "I tell every patient I see that they have to sit through at least five minutes of my knock knock jokes before we even start medical histories," says the doctor, who's recent book "Blonde Jokes and Emergency Medicine: An Unlikely Pairing" recently made several national best seller lists.
Granted, only a couple of docs did this, but don't they have more important things to do than to try and do a journalists's work for them?
Also, in hearing he'd be featured in our magazine, one doctor enthused that his mother would be so delighted,but his wife is harder to please (?). a) That is what we call an overshare. b) How is being published in a city magazine the pinnacle of your career? You are a renowned doctor in your field, in one of the medical Meccas of the world.
Finally, the number of doctors who answered "yes" to a multiple choice question was truly astounding. You folks made it through medical school. You can do better than that.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Confessions of a summer intern, part 1
If you've ever met me, I've probably kvetched senselessly to you at one point or another about the pitfalls of summer internships. The chief complaint being that this summer, I hemorrhaged money paying for transportation and other necessities to maintain an unpaid internship, which a lot of the time, wasn't worth the time and money spent. That, and they spelled my name wrong on the masthead. Yeah, my first name. The one that follows the most traditional spelling of a name that has been around for, oh, you know, centuries. But I should remember my place. I am, after all, a lowly intern, and in fact, am lucky to have a name at all.
In all seriousness though, my summer internship wasn't all that bad. I left with a couple of clips (sort of, that's still pending), and a few lines of credibility added to my resume. And most of all, I was grateful for the experience after reading this: The Story of The Pooping Intern.
And I thought it was embarrassing when I spilled salad dressing all over myself. That's mere child's play.
(Note: Details of the poop story have been called into question, but one thing is for sure: the intern pooped in areas of the office other than the bathroom, and that's all that matters, really.)
On a related note, reading this story on Gawker renewed my passion for the publishing industry. The fact that someone got to write that headline, and the lines "This poop story is truly nightmarish," or "Pooping intern: We salute your courage." If one day I can write things like that, and get paid for it, maybe I'm on the right path after all.
In all seriousness though, my summer internship wasn't all that bad. I left with a couple of clips (sort of, that's still pending), and a few lines of credibility added to my resume. And most of all, I was grateful for the experience after reading this: The Story of The Pooping Intern.
And I thought it was embarrassing when I spilled salad dressing all over myself. That's mere child's play.
(Note: Details of the poop story have been called into question, but one thing is for sure: the intern pooped in areas of the office other than the bathroom, and that's all that matters, really.)
On a related note, reading this story on Gawker renewed my passion for the publishing industry. The fact that someone got to write that headline, and the lines "This poop story is truly nightmarish," or "Pooping intern: We salute your courage." If one day I can write things like that, and get paid for it, maybe I'm on the right path after all.
Friday, June 13, 2008
That dirty girl
I was always jealous of the women in white dresses. No, not brides. Just any woman in a white dress, worn tastefully after Memorial Day, as she struts down sidewalks or across lawns at garden parties, cottony fabric blowing in the breeze behind her. I've always harbored a slow, burning contempt for the woman who can wear a crisp white sweater that looks brand new after six-months of heavy wear and ample washings.
Because I could never do that. I am a chronic spiller, usually spilling something at least once a day, most often on myself. All of my garments are speckled with splashes of coffee, checkered with fluorescent highlighter marks, or mapped with wandering paths of ink from mid-thigh to knee.
I kept thinking this was something I would grow out of, like a little girl grows out of sitting with her legs splayed open in public, or belching the alphabet with her brothers. But it hasn't happened. I am a refined, young woman in most other ways. I paint my toe nails with some regularity, can apply eye liner with relative precision, and usually carry just the right amount of womanly accessories in my handbag. But I will always be the girl with stains all over her clothes. I might leave the house fresh as a daisy in the morning, and make it about an hour before the train unexpectedly jerks forward, and hot tea splashes onto my khaki pencil skirt.
On Tuesday, as I ate a salad at my internship desk, I pulled open the dressing packet, and emptied some of its contents onto the fresh bed of baby spinach, feta and green beans that was eagerly awaiting digestion in my tumtum. About halfway through, I decided more raspberry vinaigrette was in order, picked up the packet, and in a split second, squirted several tablespoons of the dressing all over my pants, and onto a new t-shirt. This was no discreet stain. It looked like I had been slaughtering hogs in my cubicle for a mid-afternoon pig roast.
When I asked an associate editor for her pass card for the bathroom, I saw her lips turn up slightly, and her brow furrow while she tried not to laugh at me. That poor dirty girl with the stains all over her clothes. She took pity on me and handed me the bathroom pass, while averting her gaze from the sanguine, oily mess that was dripping from crotch to knee on my pants, and chest to hip on my t-shirt. After several minutes of fierce blotting and furious towel-wetting in the powder room, the stain was no better; in fact, it looked considerably worse.
As I stood staring hopelessly into the mirror, an image of Kelly Ripa in the Tide-to-Go commercials flooded my head. NA NA NA NA HEY HEY HEY GOOOOOOOD BYYYYEEE. This mess I made was even too big for a Tide-to-Go stick. What would Kelly say? I bet even her tiny toddlers do not make such frequent and sloppy messes.
When I got home, my mother was ready with her stain-removing arsenal. She could take the spots out of a leopard if she wanted. While the clothes were soaking, she discreetly tucked a Tide pen into my work bag, and shot me a leveling gaze that only a mother can give. The gaze that tells you instantly, "You may be fully grown, but you will always be an incompetent four-year-old who needs her mother, and what would you ever do without me?" I muttered thanks and she patted my shoulder and said "I think you'll have more use for that than I will."
Yes, mother. I think I always will.
Because I could never do that. I am a chronic spiller, usually spilling something at least once a day, most often on myself. All of my garments are speckled with splashes of coffee, checkered with fluorescent highlighter marks, or mapped with wandering paths of ink from mid-thigh to knee.
I kept thinking this was something I would grow out of, like a little girl grows out of sitting with her legs splayed open in public, or belching the alphabet with her brothers. But it hasn't happened. I am a refined, young woman in most other ways. I paint my toe nails with some regularity, can apply eye liner with relative precision, and usually carry just the right amount of womanly accessories in my handbag. But I will always be the girl with stains all over her clothes. I might leave the house fresh as a daisy in the morning, and make it about an hour before the train unexpectedly jerks forward, and hot tea splashes onto my khaki pencil skirt.
On Tuesday, as I ate a salad at my internship desk, I pulled open the dressing packet, and emptied some of its contents onto the fresh bed of baby spinach, feta and green beans that was eagerly awaiting digestion in my tumtum. About halfway through, I decided more raspberry vinaigrette was in order, picked up the packet, and in a split second, squirted several tablespoons of the dressing all over my pants, and onto a new t-shirt. This was no discreet stain. It looked like I had been slaughtering hogs in my cubicle for a mid-afternoon pig roast.
When I asked an associate editor for her pass card for the bathroom, I saw her lips turn up slightly, and her brow furrow while she tried not to laugh at me. That poor dirty girl with the stains all over her clothes. She took pity on me and handed me the bathroom pass, while averting her gaze from the sanguine, oily mess that was dripping from crotch to knee on my pants, and chest to hip on my t-shirt. After several minutes of fierce blotting and furious towel-wetting in the powder room, the stain was no better; in fact, it looked considerably worse.
As I stood staring hopelessly into the mirror, an image of Kelly Ripa in the Tide-to-Go commercials flooded my head. NA NA NA NA HEY HEY HEY GOOOOOOOD BYYYYEEE. This mess I made was even too big for a Tide-to-Go stick. What would Kelly say? I bet even her tiny toddlers do not make such frequent and sloppy messes.
When I got home, my mother was ready with her stain-removing arsenal. She could take the spots out of a leopard if she wanted. While the clothes were soaking, she discreetly tucked a Tide pen into my work bag, and shot me a leveling gaze that only a mother can give. The gaze that tells you instantly, "You may be fully grown, but you will always be an incompetent four-year-old who needs her mother, and what would you ever do without me?" I muttered thanks and she patted my shoulder and said "I think you'll have more use for that than I will."
Yes, mother. I think I always will.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Postponed until further notice
Let me offer you a piece of advice. If I ever invite you to a concert, say no. I have this awful luck which causes half the acts I have tickets to see suddenly cancel or postpone. It makes me think I shouldn't dare to see anybody who may have health problems because my ticket purchase could immediately make their conditions worse.
For example, I won't go see Melissa Etheridge. I might make her breast cancer come back. And as God as my witness, Tony Bennett is an absolute no-no because I would hate to be the reason that old man dropped dead. He has such a lovely spirit.
It all began in seventh grade. A group of my friends and one of their mom's all piled in a minivan to go see Christina Aguilera and Destiny's Child at the Tweeter Center in Mansfield, MA. Okay, forgive me, I was twelve and rather proud to know all the words to "Bugaboo."
We got there, settled down on the lawn seats, eagerly anticipating the horrendous cacophony of pop music that was about to fill our ears. "Sorry, but I don't think so," said an announcement over the loudspeakers. Ms. Aguilera had laryngitis, or some other condition that she clearly knew about much before that moment. We packed up our things, sang that horrible Nelly song, "Ride with Me," much to the horror of my friend's mother, and headed to Wal-Mart, because that was the only thing we could think to do. Oh, suburban childhood.
Fast forward a couple of years. Freshman year, Casey and I were set to go see Elton John and Billy Joel in their outrageously popular Face to Face Tour. And boy, were we excited. I had been listening non-stop to Elton John for months, and Billy too. Yes, it was somewhat unusual taste for our particular age group, but we both adored Elton and Billy. On the Saturday of the concert, at around two o'clock in the afternoon, I was showering in preparation for the event. You know, I wanted to impress the respectively gay and creepy 60-something-year-old men. Or at least, prevent them from smelling me from the third balcony.
"I don't think so," said a radio announcer on WBOS. Billy Joel was sick with something like laryngitis or some other illness that he CLEARLY could have been reported more than 5 hours before the concert. I called Casey. She thought I was kidding. Devastation and bitter anger set in. I sat outside in the rain for several hours until my mother returned home and I whined endlessly to her. In fact, I think during my sulking in the rain, I cried. So bitter was my disappointment. The good news is we did get to see Elton and Billy, but not after yet another postponement. We were originially supposed to see them in February. Not until September 20 did they get around to gracing us with their presence in the Fleet Center.
Now, this summer, my roommate Calyn and I were set to see the one and only Kelly Clarkson in Albany. The Kelly that we love. The Kelly that sings with a deep-seeded anger and bitterness that only the best of pop stars can muster. The Kelly that we drunkenly sang and screamed along with more times than I am readily willing to admit. Well guess what? Apparently Calyn and I were the only ones that bought tickets to Kelly's summer tour. Ticket sales were abysmal, and Kelly's record company didn't like the CD. TOUR CANCELLED. Kelly Clarkson, please don't take this personally, but WHAT THE HECK? But we can't really be mad at Kelly. It isn't her fault. I think Calyn said it best. "If I ever saw Kelly, you know, I think I would slap her and then say I'm sorry and give her a big hug." I feel the same. It's us and Kelly against the world.
Now, today, I was supposed to go see Hootie and the Blowfish in Hampton Beach, New Hampshire. I know what you're thinking. Who the hell goes to see Hootie and the Blowfish? Well, me and Miss Cassidy Morgan do. We make a point of going to random events and places just because it's funny or strange. We were all geared up for the event. We planned a beach day, a breakfast at Ihop; the day couldn't be more lovely.
Last night, Cassidy IMed me. "I have some bad news," she said. Oh dear God. Darius Rucker, better known as Hootie, has a staph infection. He has been dealing with it for a long time now, undergoing three recent surgeries to rid himself of the infection. YET AGAIN, something the band probably knew would be an issue much before the night of the concert. Good Lord. Do I need to define the word "forethought" for these people.
I rest my case. I have been to a few concerts. But nearly half of them have been cancelled or postponted. It is likely that I will be unable to see Hootie, because the rescheduled dates will probably fall after I return to Syracuse on August 20. And all ever I really wanted was to scream the lyrics to ''Hold my Hand" and hit on a bunch of 30-something men trying to relive their days as frat brothers in the mid-90s.
So, you know. If there is anyone you want dead or sick, let me know. I'll buy tickets for their next gig.
For example, I won't go see Melissa Etheridge. I might make her breast cancer come back. And as God as my witness, Tony Bennett is an absolute no-no because I would hate to be the reason that old man dropped dead. He has such a lovely spirit.
It all began in seventh grade. A group of my friends and one of their mom's all piled in a minivan to go see Christina Aguilera and Destiny's Child at the Tweeter Center in Mansfield, MA. Okay, forgive me, I was twelve and rather proud to know all the words to "Bugaboo."
We got there, settled down on the lawn seats, eagerly anticipating the horrendous cacophony of pop music that was about to fill our ears. "Sorry, but I don't think so," said an announcement over the loudspeakers. Ms. Aguilera had laryngitis, or some other condition that she clearly knew about much before that moment. We packed up our things, sang that horrible Nelly song, "Ride with Me," much to the horror of my friend's mother, and headed to Wal-Mart, because that was the only thing we could think to do. Oh, suburban childhood.
Fast forward a couple of years. Freshman year, Casey and I were set to go see Elton John and Billy Joel in their outrageously popular Face to Face Tour. And boy, were we excited. I had been listening non-stop to Elton John for months, and Billy too. Yes, it was somewhat unusual taste for our particular age group, but we both adored Elton and Billy. On the Saturday of the concert, at around two o'clock in the afternoon, I was showering in preparation for the event. You know, I wanted to impress the respectively gay and creepy 60-something-year-old men. Or at least, prevent them from smelling me from the third balcony.
"I don't think so," said a radio announcer on WBOS. Billy Joel was sick with something like laryngitis or some other illness that he CLEARLY could have been reported more than 5 hours before the concert. I called Casey. She thought I was kidding. Devastation and bitter anger set in. I sat outside in the rain for several hours until my mother returned home and I whined endlessly to her. In fact, I think during my sulking in the rain, I cried. So bitter was my disappointment. The good news is we did get to see Elton and Billy, but not after yet another postponement. We were originially supposed to see them in February. Not until September 20 did they get around to gracing us with their presence in the Fleet Center.
Now, this summer, my roommate Calyn and I were set to see the one and only Kelly Clarkson in Albany. The Kelly that we love. The Kelly that sings with a deep-seeded anger and bitterness that only the best of pop stars can muster. The Kelly that we drunkenly sang and screamed along with more times than I am readily willing to admit. Well guess what? Apparently Calyn and I were the only ones that bought tickets to Kelly's summer tour. Ticket sales were abysmal, and Kelly's record company didn't like the CD. TOUR CANCELLED. Kelly Clarkson, please don't take this personally, but WHAT THE HECK? But we can't really be mad at Kelly. It isn't her fault. I think Calyn said it best. "If I ever saw Kelly, you know, I think I would slap her and then say I'm sorry and give her a big hug." I feel the same. It's us and Kelly against the world.
Now, today, I was supposed to go see Hootie and the Blowfish in Hampton Beach, New Hampshire. I know what you're thinking. Who the hell goes to see Hootie and the Blowfish? Well, me and Miss Cassidy Morgan do. We make a point of going to random events and places just because it's funny or strange. We were all geared up for the event. We planned a beach day, a breakfast at Ihop; the day couldn't be more lovely.
Last night, Cassidy IMed me. "I have some bad news," she said. Oh dear God. Darius Rucker, better known as Hootie, has a staph infection. He has been dealing with it for a long time now, undergoing three recent surgeries to rid himself of the infection. YET AGAIN, something the band probably knew would be an issue much before the night of the concert. Good Lord. Do I need to define the word "forethought" for these people.
I rest my case. I have been to a few concerts. But nearly half of them have been cancelled or postponted. It is likely that I will be unable to see Hootie, because the rescheduled dates will probably fall after I return to Syracuse on August 20. And all ever I really wanted was to scream the lyrics to ''Hold my Hand" and hit on a bunch of 30-something men trying to relive their days as frat brothers in the mid-90s.
So, you know. If there is anyone you want dead or sick, let me know. I'll buy tickets for their next gig.
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