Tim is at class tonight so I had a dumb dinner. He really is a most excellent husband--he rang when I was on the bus to tell me how to cook frozen potstickers: throw them straight in a pan of hot oil, brown for three minutes or so, add boiling water to the pan (almost enough to cover), cook for a further five minutes, and you're done. Except I burned them, the fire alarm went off, I had to stand in the foyer fanning the smoke detector with my blazer, the pan boiled dry, I spilled half the potsticker sauce on the kitchen bench, and after all that I was still hungry. At which point I improvised with dessert: chocolate chip cookies smeared in peanut butter.
Another weird day at work today although, unlike most, it ended with champagne. One of the girls at work is getting married, hence the champagne. I edited stories about a potential biological control for fruit flies, a woman who sells accessories made from antique brocade, and an artificial nose that, when tested in Berkeley, sniffed out cocaine, meths and pot. Hence the weirdness.
Showing posts with label careers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label careers. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Of science writing, Sinbad and acceptable haircuts
Hey folks, apologies for the long absence—it’s been a bizarre couple of weeks at work. I am not going to rehash it cos I don’t want to give it any more of my energy, so let me tell you about a science writers’ function I went to on Tuesday. I went along to network—the very thought of which makes me snort—and learn a bit about alternative energy. Did you know that the technology exists to shoot small mirrors into orbit which would travel together in a clump and reflect sunlight away from the earth, thereby reducing global warming in specific regions? If China decided tomorrow to blast a bunch of mirrors into space to reduce their trapped emissions, they could do it.
I mostly wanted to meet some science writers who might be interested in writing for the science section I edit. (If anyone had said to me back when I was writing fashion copy—capelets are chicer than ever!— that I would soon be wrassling with stuff like carbon sinks, parasitic bacteria, the mating dance of the lance-tailed manakin, and thermo-organic electricity or whatever it’s called, I would have swallowed my own tongue.) But this is the situation in which I find myself, so gimme your business cards, freelance science writers!
I went along with one of our dear interns, who is a real science writer and a microbiologist to boot, and we had an hilarious time. For starters, the venue is this seedy waterfront bar called Sinbad’s which has nautical rope-trimmed bar stools, baaaad paintings of the bar as viewed from the Bay, and, inexplicably, many hanging pot plants. The food is so typical of crap buffet food that it is actually impressive. I had steak, chewy as dinosaur skin and covered in a congealing paste of canned mushrooms and brown sauce. Accompaniments included limp green beans and stale bread. The coffee was room temperature and there wasn’t enough milk. It was of the most memorable meals of my life. The man sitting next to me, a chemist with a column in some chemistry publication, got very close to my face and sent spittle droplets onto my plate. He was charming, however, and terribly worried for his daughter, who just graduated with a degree in women’s studies.
The speaker was a whiz-bang engineer from Berkeley who is one of the leading lights in the anti-carbon crowd and had an all-too-thorough Power Point presentation on the whole energy crisis—from the Kyoto Protocol to mirrors you can shoot into space. By the time we left I was hopelessly confused and yawning and deeply amused. I am half tempted to join the science writers' group so I have a legitimate reason to return to Sinbad's and watch sleazo businessmen pick up unsuitable women.
BTW: I finally screwed up my courage and got my hair cut today. I have been scared of hairdressers since the incident in February when I ended up with chunky toilet hair. I am still in budget mode, so the notion of paying $100 for a cut—not to mention color, wash, blow dry and service tip—and then loving my hair and getting sucked into paying for said procedure every 12 weeks, well it’s just not something I can consider right now. So, I went to this little place about two blocks from the apartment that Tim frequents. The turnoff for me all these months has been the big sign in the front window: Men, women, children $14. I love a deal but I spent more than that for two drinks at a rooftop bar in the Mission last night. However, things had got so bad on top of my head (I’m pretty sure I overheard the hair above my left ear telling the crown crop it was time to consider mutiny) that I threw caution to the wind and made the acquaintance of a nice Chinese lady named Daisy who sat me down and chatted at me for 45 minutes or so and—hey voila—I have decent hair again. She had an unorthodox approach to layering that made me nervous: pulling random strands of hair above my head and attacking with scissors from all different angles. A couple of times the scissors got stuck in my hair and I thought, uh oh, toilet hairstyle #2, but somehow she pulled it off.
I mostly wanted to meet some science writers who might be interested in writing for the science section I edit. (If anyone had said to me back when I was writing fashion copy—capelets are chicer than ever!— that I would soon be wrassling with stuff like carbon sinks, parasitic bacteria, the mating dance of the lance-tailed manakin, and thermo-organic electricity or whatever it’s called, I would have swallowed my own tongue.) But this is the situation in which I find myself, so gimme your business cards, freelance science writers!
I went along with one of our dear interns, who is a real science writer and a microbiologist to boot, and we had an hilarious time. For starters, the venue is this seedy waterfront bar called Sinbad’s which has nautical rope-trimmed bar stools, baaaad paintings of the bar as viewed from the Bay, and, inexplicably, many hanging pot plants. The food is so typical of crap buffet food that it is actually impressive. I had steak, chewy as dinosaur skin and covered in a congealing paste of canned mushrooms and brown sauce. Accompaniments included limp green beans and stale bread. The coffee was room temperature and there wasn’t enough milk. It was of the most memorable meals of my life. The man sitting next to me, a chemist with a column in some chemistry publication, got very close to my face and sent spittle droplets onto my plate. He was charming, however, and terribly worried for his daughter, who just graduated with a degree in women’s studies.
The speaker was a whiz-bang engineer from Berkeley who is one of the leading lights in the anti-carbon crowd and had an all-too-thorough Power Point presentation on the whole energy crisis—from the Kyoto Protocol to mirrors you can shoot into space. By the time we left I was hopelessly confused and yawning and deeply amused. I am half tempted to join the science writers' group so I have a legitimate reason to return to Sinbad's and watch sleazo businessmen pick up unsuitable women.
BTW: I finally screwed up my courage and got my hair cut today. I have been scared of hairdressers since the incident in February when I ended up with chunky toilet hair. I am still in budget mode, so the notion of paying $100 for a cut—not to mention color, wash, blow dry and service tip—and then loving my hair and getting sucked into paying for said procedure every 12 weeks, well it’s just not something I can consider right now. So, I went to this little place about two blocks from the apartment that Tim frequents. The turnoff for me all these months has been the big sign in the front window: Men, women, children $14. I love a deal but I spent more than that for two drinks at a rooftop bar in the Mission last night. However, things had got so bad on top of my head (I’m pretty sure I overheard the hair above my left ear telling the crown crop it was time to consider mutiny) that I threw caution to the wind and made the acquaintance of a nice Chinese lady named Daisy who sat me down and chatted at me for 45 minutes or so and—hey voila—I have decent hair again. She had an unorthodox approach to layering that made me nervous: pulling random strands of hair above my head and attacking with scissors from all different angles. A couple of times the scissors got stuck in my hair and I thought, uh oh, toilet hairstyle #2, but somehow she pulled it off.
Saturday, July 7, 2007
Forever young
This year I managed to spin out my birthday into a three-day celebration of m-e. I had my actual birthday off work, so we went to the SFMoMA to see the Mastisse sculpture exhibit, which was interesting if a little earthbound—he managed to make the most lithe and lovely women bulky and solid as tree trunks. I guess that was his aesthetic because he was one of those geniuses who could do whatever he pleased with his materials and if he chose to create lumpy sculptures that looked like fists then, okay, I’ll pay to look at that. I got the 4th of July off work (Go Team America!) so that turned into a Napa Valley winery picnic day. We sat under oak trees and baked while sipping a lovely white, which immediately gave me a headache, and eating deli salads with bread and cheese. We moved with the sun and marinated in our own juices. It could have been a Matisse painting, that’s how elegantly sloppy it was. Later we went up on our roof and watched the Marina fireworks show. Much of it was obscured by other apartment buildings, so we mostly got flashes of red, white and blue light with the occasional dandelion burst of loveliness. And the final birthday treat was dinner at a fancy pants restaurant a couple blocks down the road where we ate our first expensive, fine cuisine probably since we left NZ. It was nice to blow the budget and blow out the candle in my chocolate cake with ganache.
And so another year passes under the door, never to be seen again. I have been in my 30s for a wee while now, but it still takes me by surprise—not that time is passing but that it has left me virtually unchanged which doesn't seem quite fair. When do I get to be wise and unhurried? If my three-year-old self and my 15-year-old self and my current self sat down together they would laugh their asses off. They would share the same sense of humor, the same taste in clothing and books, the same love of shiny objects, the same passion for Mexican food and the beach and puppies, the same disdain for anything fussy or overblown, and the same self-defeating behavior—quietly watching other people take credit for their efforts, keeping thoughts private which should be shared, and flaring into anger quickly and without warning only to fizzle ineffectually 10 minutes later. The linear progression favored by the wildly, covetously successful hasn’t exactly happened. I mean, there’s a ton of good stuff in my life that I can feel happy about, and I do. At the same time, there is a noticeable lack of drive, career cultivation and other hallmarks of true adulthood. It’s embarrassing. I still like dollhouses, I eat peanut butter out of the jar, and I lavish affection on a pair of hamsters who would happily kill each other. (I met a 10-year-old fellow dwarf hamster caretaker last week who told me he didn’t know any other adults with hammies. This kid ate slabs of quivery raw fish without blinking and still thought I was a bit off.) I am scared of hairdressers. I check out well-dressed women on the bus and try to figure out how they did it. I chew my fingernails then hate myself for it. I actually care what happens to poor, brainwashed Katie Holmes.
I was talking to a friend about this the other week. Blessedly, I am not alone. She was faux despairing because she had just bought a pair of red, diamante-d heels which she wore around the house with trackies because…well, she lives alone and why the heck not? Seems we 70s kids ended up without some essential adult chip in our brains. Is it because we watched Three’s Company and ate too much red-dyed food? Or are we supposed to serve as an antidote to all these whippersnappers pouring out of high schools now with web-based businesses, a dozen cool and useful talents (such as decoupage and jujitsu and chocolate-making), and a gentle disdain for their 30-something aunts and uncles and parents’ friends? I'd like to think there's some useful reason for my bubblegum habit and plastic jewels.
And so another year passes under the door, never to be seen again. I have been in my 30s for a wee while now, but it still takes me by surprise—not that time is passing but that it has left me virtually unchanged which doesn't seem quite fair. When do I get to be wise and unhurried? If my three-year-old self and my 15-year-old self and my current self sat down together they would laugh their asses off. They would share the same sense of humor, the same taste in clothing and books, the same love of shiny objects, the same passion for Mexican food and the beach and puppies, the same disdain for anything fussy or overblown, and the same self-defeating behavior—quietly watching other people take credit for their efforts, keeping thoughts private which should be shared, and flaring into anger quickly and without warning only to fizzle ineffectually 10 minutes later. The linear progression favored by the wildly, covetously successful hasn’t exactly happened. I mean, there’s a ton of good stuff in my life that I can feel happy about, and I do. At the same time, there is a noticeable lack of drive, career cultivation and other hallmarks of true adulthood. It’s embarrassing. I still like dollhouses, I eat peanut butter out of the jar, and I lavish affection on a pair of hamsters who would happily kill each other. (I met a 10-year-old fellow dwarf hamster caretaker last week who told me he didn’t know any other adults with hammies. This kid ate slabs of quivery raw fish without blinking and still thought I was a bit off.) I am scared of hairdressers. I check out well-dressed women on the bus and try to figure out how they did it. I chew my fingernails then hate myself for it. I actually care what happens to poor, brainwashed Katie Holmes.
I was talking to a friend about this the other week. Blessedly, I am not alone. She was faux despairing because she had just bought a pair of red, diamante-d heels which she wore around the house with trackies because…well, she lives alone and why the heck not? Seems we 70s kids ended up without some essential adult chip in our brains. Is it because we watched Three’s Company and ate too much red-dyed food? Or are we supposed to serve as an antidote to all these whippersnappers pouring out of high schools now with web-based businesses, a dozen cool and useful talents (such as decoupage and jujitsu and chocolate-making), and a gentle disdain for their 30-something aunts and uncles and parents’ friends? I'd like to think there's some useful reason for my bubblegum habit and plastic jewels.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
It's all about the quality squirrels
I've been working on the Berkeley campus for more than three months and have finally strayed beyond the fringes of my office building by taking an official campus tour. First interesting note: the bright-eyed students who lead the tours have to walk backwards the whole time, so they can maintain eye contact and pepper guests with witty bon mots about the Blues. So I learned a lot of useless trivia, which I love, and got to watch three guys dressed in blue and yellow sportswear trying not to trip over their feet for over an hour. Fab-u-lous.
There was a lot of blah-blah Free Speech Movement, blah-blah biggest university library west of the Mississippi, blah-blah Pac-10, blah-blah Go Bears. And then there was the interesting stuff.
Best trivia snippets:
* The highest point on campus is a belltower; bones belonging to the natural history museum are stored in the tower because it maintains a near-constant temperature.
* The campus squirrels have been voted America's friendliest.
* A fountain on campus memorialises a homeless dog named Ludwig who scraped together a living by begging food from students and loved to play in the water. After his death, mourning students did the right thing and named the fountain for him, thereby claiming another honor for the campus--only American uni campus to have a fountain named for a dog. Go Bears!
* And, best of all, Berkeley has produced 20 living Nobel Prize winners, seven of whom still work on campus. Each of these seven has a car park labeled NL, for Nobel Laureate. I have seen them with my own eyesies. Apparently there have been instances when more than seven of the Nobel guys have been on campus for a function and some have gone without carparks.
While the tour did not have the desired effect, I guess, which was to make me feel misty about my association with the university (Go Bears!) it did make me think about my own alma mater and how badly I blew it. I had the grades to get into Berkeley and lived an hour away, but I chose to go study in Salt Lake City, where it snows and coffee is considered a racy stimulant and if you're not Mormon you're not worth much of anybody's time. Strangest choice of my life. And I don't recall any squirrels on that campus. Certainly not chubby, chattery, elfin comics like the ones at Berkeley.
There was a lot of blah-blah Free Speech Movement, blah-blah biggest university library west of the Mississippi, blah-blah Pac-10, blah-blah Go Bears. And then there was the interesting stuff.
Best trivia snippets:
* The highest point on campus is a belltower; bones belonging to the natural history museum are stored in the tower because it maintains a near-constant temperature.
* The campus squirrels have been voted America's friendliest.
* A fountain on campus memorialises a homeless dog named Ludwig who scraped together a living by begging food from students and loved to play in the water. After his death, mourning students did the right thing and named the fountain for him, thereby claiming another honor for the campus--only American uni campus to have a fountain named for a dog. Go Bears!
* And, best of all, Berkeley has produced 20 living Nobel Prize winners, seven of whom still work on campus. Each of these seven has a car park labeled NL, for Nobel Laureate. I have seen them with my own eyesies. Apparently there have been instances when more than seven of the Nobel guys have been on campus for a function and some have gone without carparks.
While the tour did not have the desired effect, I guess, which was to make me feel misty about my association with the university (Go Bears!) it did make me think about my own alma mater and how badly I blew it. I had the grades to get into Berkeley and lived an hour away, but I chose to go study in Salt Lake City, where it snows and coffee is considered a racy stimulant and if you're not Mormon you're not worth much of anybody's time. Strangest choice of my life. And I don't recall any squirrels on that campus. Certainly not chubby, chattery, elfin comics like the ones at Berkeley.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Sunday blahs
Sunday night is always a bit of a downer. I am not loving the job just now, so I have that "going back to boarding school" sick-tummy feeling. This is a horribly familiar sensation that was particularly acute for me from 1988 to 1991, when I was actually attending boarding school, and every holiday ended with a nauseous car/plane trip back to school and a sonic-boom fight with my parents. (Let me digress for a moment and describe my reaction to entering boarding school at 13, painfully shy and woefully unprepared for life with a mob of other adolescents, their hormones, their dangerous beauty routines, and their drugs. First, I stopped eating much, and lost about a quarter of my body weight in the first term. Then, I allowed another boarder, who had an interest in hairdressing but no discernible talent, to cut my nearly waist-length hair into a bob. The ends looked like I'd got stuck in a door and had to hack my way out. When my parents turned up for swimming sports, they didn't recognise me in the crowd.)
I had another terrible round of boarding tum when I was working for a certain start-up newspaper (the biggest professional nightmare of my life, and the only time I have consciously walked away from a bad situation instead of standing and fighting), and now I have a mild case which I am attempting to quell through strength of will and renewed physical fitness. After all, this is my birthday week, and I officially hit my mid-thirties, surely a joke. I own hamsters, speak to strange dogs in the street, and still keep track of Paris Hilton. I am not really a proper adult.
To deal to the tummy, I have sucked back a mug of spicy hot chocolate, a big serving of empty carbs, and am now working my way through a glass of Riesling. I made an inspiring list of places we may visit in the next year--Alaska, Colorado, and Montana figure strongly--and I have plans to retreat to bed early with a new book, an autobiography written by a man who grew up in San Francisco high society. It's all about his evil stepmother who sounds like a fabulous character. Horrible but fabulous.
BTW, speaking of horrible, I saw A Mighty Heart, the film about the murder of Daniel Pearl, the Wall Street Journal reporter who was abducted in Pakistan in 2002 and beheaded. It is based on the novel by his wife, Marianne, and it is really good. I was resistant because it stars Angelina Jolie, who makes me feel like biting kittens. But she manages to avoid the pouty, self-satisfied smirk which has been such a mainstay of her career and does a wonderful job of portraying an admirably strong woman in the worst possible situation.
And so to my book.
I had another terrible round of boarding tum when I was working for a certain start-up newspaper (the biggest professional nightmare of my life, and the only time I have consciously walked away from a bad situation instead of standing and fighting), and now I have a mild case which I am attempting to quell through strength of will and renewed physical fitness. After all, this is my birthday week, and I officially hit my mid-thirties, surely a joke. I own hamsters, speak to strange dogs in the street, and still keep track of Paris Hilton. I am not really a proper adult.
To deal to the tummy, I have sucked back a mug of spicy hot chocolate, a big serving of empty carbs, and am now working my way through a glass of Riesling. I made an inspiring list of places we may visit in the next year--Alaska, Colorado, and Montana figure strongly--and I have plans to retreat to bed early with a new book, an autobiography written by a man who grew up in San Francisco high society. It's all about his evil stepmother who sounds like a fabulous character. Horrible but fabulous.
BTW, speaking of horrible, I saw A Mighty Heart, the film about the murder of Daniel Pearl, the Wall Street Journal reporter who was abducted in Pakistan in 2002 and beheaded. It is based on the novel by his wife, Marianne, and it is really good. I was resistant because it stars Angelina Jolie, who makes me feel like biting kittens. But she manages to avoid the pouty, self-satisfied smirk which has been such a mainstay of her career and does a wonderful job of portraying an admirably strong woman in the worst possible situation.
And so to my book.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Wicker, big hair and moustaches
Tom Selleck is the only man in the world who can pull off a moustache without looking like he belongs on the H.M.S. Pinafore. I loved Thomas Magnum, PI as a little girl, I loved Richard on Friends, and now I'm loving Magnum again, thanks to the forever-70s-and-80s universe that is satellite television.
We watched the first-ever episode of Magnum PI this week--a two-parter that explored his tortured past in Vietnam and his bizarre caretaker role on mystery writer Robin Master's oceanfront estate. I don't think I ever got his motivation as a kid; I just liked watching him tooling around in TC's helicopter and swatting away the girls with that who-am-I-kidding grin. Anyway, I think Selleck grew into his role--or perhaps I was a generous viewer, cos the acting was pretty crapola. But I was also a devotee of The A-Team and Dukes of Hazzard. It was all about the adventure for me.
I also studied the women in these programs for clues as to what adulthood held for me. Given that the ladies were pretty much there to scream, fall for the men's charms--often against their will--and look sexy, I didn't have a lot of scope. And because I also loved the more ambitious Wonder Woman--pilot, heroine and lingerie model--I was most interested in the sexy. I developed a passion for blue eye shadow, gold chains, big fluffy hair, plastic bangles, high-heeled sandals, and deep Coppertone tans. I envisioned womanhood as involving a lot of personal maintenance (manicures, aerobics, drinking diet shakes) and afternoons spent in an apartment with an ocean view, wicker furniture and framed 1920s advertising prints on the walls, waiting for Magnum or similar to turn up and give me something to do. As I "matured" in second and third grades, I wanted to be a secretary by day/lounge singer by night, so I could wear stilettos and file important documents from 9 to 5 then, after work, don false eyelashes and sparkly dresses and drink multicolored cocktails garnished with little umbrellas and fruit skewered on plastic swords.
Life turned out very differently, of course, and thank heavens for that. I still like paper, although I collect piles of it and lose it, rather than file it. I can't wear stilettos and blue eyeshadow has been out and in and out again, but with my coloring it's just not a realistic option. My hair won't fluff and it looks stupid big. I hate wicker and own not one lounge singer-style dress. Turns out I can't sing. But I still love Magnum and my heart still speeds just a little when I hear the theme song and watch TC's helicopter swoop down over the ocean off Oahu.
And I still like the 'tache
We watched the first-ever episode of Magnum PI this week--a two-parter that explored his tortured past in Vietnam and his bizarre caretaker role on mystery writer Robin Master's oceanfront estate. I don't think I ever got his motivation as a kid; I just liked watching him tooling around in TC's helicopter and swatting away the girls with that who-am-I-kidding grin. Anyway, I think Selleck grew into his role--or perhaps I was a generous viewer, cos the acting was pretty crapola. But I was also a devotee of The A-Team and Dukes of Hazzard. It was all about the adventure for me.
I also studied the women in these programs for clues as to what adulthood held for me. Given that the ladies were pretty much there to scream, fall for the men's charms--often against their will--and look sexy, I didn't have a lot of scope. And because I also loved the more ambitious Wonder Woman--pilot, heroine and lingerie model--I was most interested in the sexy. I developed a passion for blue eye shadow, gold chains, big fluffy hair, plastic bangles, high-heeled sandals, and deep Coppertone tans. I envisioned womanhood as involving a lot of personal maintenance (manicures, aerobics, drinking diet shakes) and afternoons spent in an apartment with an ocean view, wicker furniture and framed 1920s advertising prints on the walls, waiting for Magnum or similar to turn up and give me something to do. As I "matured" in second and third grades, I wanted to be a secretary by day/lounge singer by night, so I could wear stilettos and file important documents from 9 to 5 then, after work, don false eyelashes and sparkly dresses and drink multicolored cocktails garnished with little umbrellas and fruit skewered on plastic swords.
Life turned out very differently, of course, and thank heavens for that. I still like paper, although I collect piles of it and lose it, rather than file it. I can't wear stilettos and blue eyeshadow has been out and in and out again, but with my coloring it's just not a realistic option. My hair won't fluff and it looks stupid big. I hate wicker and own not one lounge singer-style dress. Turns out I can't sing. But I still love Magnum and my heart still speeds just a little when I hear the theme song and watch TC's helicopter swoop down over the ocean off Oahu.
And I still like the 'tache
Monday, May 14, 2007
State of Blah
I’m feeling a bit tired and pathetic today, just draggy and blah. It’s a hangover from yesterday’s draggy blahness, which came out of nowhere. I think this job is stressing me out more than I realized. We went to Baker Beach, site of the cow painting, unrolled our little $1.99 grass mats, and scattered pieces of the NYT around ourselves (in a manner reminiscent to the hamsters' behaviour with nesting materials--are we taking on pet-like characteristics and, if so, have we turned into one of those sad childless couples who treat their golden labs like toddlers?) And I, after reading about how people with disabilities these days are getting on with "normal" lives, and to hell with those who might stare (right on, I say; they illustrated the story with a photograph of the amputee contestant from The Amazing Race, Sarah, dancing at a club) turned over and fell asleep. I woke up with grass mat marks pressed into my right cheek and a craving for sweets. We satisifed the craving at a German bakery run by Chinese people in Clement St, which is SF's second, smaller Chinatown. We go there a lot. I got a slice of mocha cake. And then we went home and I fell asleep on the sofa before giving in and going to bed. At 9.30pm. Am I living the big city life, or what?
In my defense, we had a busy Saturday, what with meeting the cow painting artist and all. Also, we got up before 7am to help out with the food drive at Tim's church, something we've managed just three times since we've been here. It's actually fun. There are some tough old ladies who try to sneak extra food--not because they're any hungrier than anyone else but because they can--and I actually slapped away a woman's hands when she tried to take two extra yellow squash. That sounds mean in black and white, but it wasn't. She knew she was pushing it, and I think she respected me for staying on the ball. One old guy had dressed up for the occasion, including a hat, and told Tim he used to have a job that was "clean". We think he meant he worked in an office.
Speaking of people in bad situations, I saw a man going through a rubbish bin for food as I walked to work this morning. This is not an unusual occurrence. There are people who stand outside Starbucks, watching you gulp back lattes and holding out their empty cups. There are a couple of men who sleep on the grass right near my office, are often still sleeping there when I pass. There are people who sleep under freeway overpasses, next to the train lines--I see them arranging their bedrolls from the train. The fact that none of this is unusual is what bothers me. So when I am mopey and tired and blah, it makes me feel like a jerk.
In my defense, we had a busy Saturday, what with meeting the cow painting artist and all. Also, we got up before 7am to help out with the food drive at Tim's church, something we've managed just three times since we've been here. It's actually fun. There are some tough old ladies who try to sneak extra food--not because they're any hungrier than anyone else but because they can--and I actually slapped away a woman's hands when she tried to take two extra yellow squash. That sounds mean in black and white, but it wasn't. She knew she was pushing it, and I think she respected me for staying on the ball. One old guy had dressed up for the occasion, including a hat, and told Tim he used to have a job that was "clean". We think he meant he worked in an office.
Speaking of people in bad situations, I saw a man going through a rubbish bin for food as I walked to work this morning. This is not an unusual occurrence. There are people who stand outside Starbucks, watching you gulp back lattes and holding out their empty cups. There are a couple of men who sleep on the grass right near my office, are often still sleeping there when I pass. There are people who sleep under freeway overpasses, next to the train lines--I see them arranging their bedrolls from the train. The fact that none of this is unusual is what bothers me. So when I am mopey and tired and blah, it makes me feel like a jerk.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Practically still flapping
I love sushi—the salty-sweet firmness of the fish and the bite of the ginger—but I have a bit of an issue with raw food, so I’m conflicted. I tend to go for the cheater’s sushi made from cooked chicken and loads of avocado, or the cooked eel thing that tastes a bit caramel-y and looks like a wrapped gift. So today’s lunch counts as an accomplishment. One of the interns had to deliver some magazines to a restaurant on Shattuck Ave, Berkeley’s “gourmet ghetto”, and offered to pick up some bargain sushi on her way back. It was superb, the fanciest sushi I think I’ve ever eaten, despite being composed of many jewel-like slabs of raw tuna, albacore and salmon. Oh, and eel, coiled like a centipede, wrapped in a rice blanket and sprinkled with brilliant orange fish eggs that burst when bitten. I had to close off the part of my brain screaming, ooh yucky, this hasn’t been cooked, and concentrate on the subtle flavor of the super-fresh, practically still flapping, fish, which was deeelishus. Dunking it in lots of soy sauce helped too. I gotta say, I think having interns at my disposal is going to spoil me for other jobs. I try not to abuse my position, but ,hey, who doesn’t like having someone fetch lunch for them? I guess this is why executives get off on having personal assistants.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Too mean
I'm working on a story about New Zealand identity, which has been a very interesting exercise. I am feeling more Kiwi than I do when I'm in NZ, no surprise I guess, because I feel most American when I am not here. My editors found the introductory paragraphs a bit mean, and I take their point. They have been removed from the story. But I still like them. So here they are.
"New Zealand," I answer with a tight mouth, knowing--hating--what comes next.
"Oh," she says, lazily polishing the counter on which she leans, her eyes narrowing as she mentally refers to a globe. "Where's that? Is it near Nova Scotia? No? Part of Greenland?"
"Try the Southern Hemisphere," I say, less gracious than I would like. "You know where Australia is?"
"Oh! You're that island at the bottom of Australia! The little triangle."
"No," I say, defeated, "that's Tasmania."
As my husband and I drove across the United States last autumn--from New York to San Francisco via Lisbon Falls, Maine and Tucumcari, New Mexico--we had dozens of conversations like this. They were funny at first. Then annoying. Then humiliating. Who wants to originate from a place so insubstantial as to be left off some world maps?
***
"That's an interesting accent, darlin'. Where ya from?" asks a heavily made-up woman selling Navajo jewelry and pottery at a Santa Fe boutique. She is a riot of color, a bespectacled parrot wearing a squash blossom necklace."New Zealand," I answer with a tight mouth, knowing--hating--what comes next.
"Oh," she says, lazily polishing the counter on which she leans, her eyes narrowing as she mentally refers to a globe. "Where's that? Is it near Nova Scotia? No? Part of Greenland?"
"Try the Southern Hemisphere," I say, less gracious than I would like. "You know where Australia is?"
"Oh! You're that island at the bottom of Australia! The little triangle."
"No," I say, defeated, "that's Tasmania."
As my husband and I drove across the United States last autumn--from New York to San Francisco via Lisbon Falls, Maine and Tucumcari, New Mexico--we had dozens of conversations like this. They were funny at first. Then annoying. Then humiliating. Who wants to originate from a place so insubstantial as to be left off some world maps?
***
I guess I do.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Back from the rabbit hole
Here I am. I disappeared down the rabbit hole for a while there. Just finished my first production cycle with the magazine. It doesn’t seem to matter where you are, getting a publication through the birthing process is tough—it takes longer and is much harder than it bloody needs to be. But there you are: it would be silly to complain, wouldn’t it, cos I know just how much worse it could be. We drove past the bookstore last night after a night out—dinner at a Nepalese restaurant and a function at the UC, listening to a four-star general talk about his Cold War tour of duty in Germany. (Are we geek chic, or what?) He was funny—much funnier than I thought four-star generals were allowed to be. Anyway, on our back to San Fran, we passed the bookstore, all lit up like a nuclear power plant, and realized that people would still be in there, ringing up purchases and shoving books in bags, smiling away like third runner-up in Miss Idaho Potatoes, and I just felt sick for them. Probably an over-reaction, but I was tired and had polished off a bottle of Indian beer, then been trapped in a hot auditorium with no air circulation.
We’ve spent the past couple weekends exploring our city. I really liked the Mission, after having discounted it after a tense, rainy day spent there looking for cheap furniture. (We went into a shop with secondhand household stuff and found a homeless man sleeping on one of the sofas, poor sod.) After we’d toured Mission Dolores itself, one of the 30-odd missions that form a spiritual spine up the state, we hit the pavement. Of course, I found jewelry I wanted—rings with vintage buttons as the centerpieces. Adorable. I bought one with a brass bird alighting on a branch. Then we stumbled on a bizarre gothic store selling “artful” taxidermied items. I was enchanted with a standing white mouse to which the artist had added two extra paws, so it looked like that Indian goddess. Bird skeletons were dressed in petticoats and hats and such. A wooden cabinet with many tiny drawers was stocked with oddities such as raccoon penis bones. I hate to think what one does with a raccoon penis bone but I bet it’s interesting. I felt a little ill when we walked out, but if Tim hadn’t been there I would have stayed much longer.
BTW. This morning on my way to the train I saw the guitar-strummin’ country boy with the red mohawk again. I think he’s Australian.
We’ve spent the past couple weekends exploring our city. I really liked the Mission, after having discounted it after a tense, rainy day spent there looking for cheap furniture. (We went into a shop with secondhand household stuff and found a homeless man sleeping on one of the sofas, poor sod.) After we’d toured Mission Dolores itself, one of the 30-odd missions that form a spiritual spine up the state, we hit the pavement. Of course, I found jewelry I wanted—rings with vintage buttons as the centerpieces. Adorable. I bought one with a brass bird alighting on a branch. Then we stumbled on a bizarre gothic store selling “artful” taxidermied items. I was enchanted with a standing white mouse to which the artist had added two extra paws, so it looked like that Indian goddess. Bird skeletons were dressed in petticoats and hats and such. A wooden cabinet with many tiny drawers was stocked with oddities such as raccoon penis bones. I hate to think what one does with a raccoon penis bone but I bet it’s interesting. I felt a little ill when we walked out, but if Tim hadn’t been there I would have stayed much longer.
BTW. This morning on my way to the train I saw the guitar-strummin’ country boy with the red mohawk again. I think he’s Australian.
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
Miss Bluestocking
So I'm spending a lot of time on a university campus lately -- the one where I'm working for a month until my fate is decided -- and it's like returning to the womb. I can absolutely see now why some people keep educating themselves for decades beyond the point when any reasonable person would have decided to just get a damn job already, whatever it is.
It's nice on campus. The food is cheap. No-one's in a hurry. There's lots of time for sitting around in the sunshine while your books lie abandoned in the grass. There is always something diverting to notice as you walk around. (The homeless guy who wears an Indian blanket and drinks beer in the quad, swearing at the sky; the fat red squirrels that leap across the paths at unexpected moments; protesters milling around with signs; geek types happily fulfilling their societal function by wearing high-tide pants and thick-rimmed eyeglasses.) And simply by being on campus you appear to be accomplishing something.
Every morning, after I get off the train, I stop for a takeout coffee to sip as I walk through a grove of trees, crossing a creek and passing a giant expanse of lawn before reaching the office. It's just lovely. And when I get to the office, there is time to check news sites and emails, to catch up with the world and myself before diving into the day. There is time to think, which I am cherishing.
It may sound lame, but I really do believe that this is an "improving" time for me, in the way an Agatha Christie-style bluestocking would "improve" herself. I am reading better books (Plath and Alistair Cooke) and magazines (New Yorker, Atlantic Monthly) and paying more attention. To everything.
To borrow a phrase from dear old Martha Stewart, it's a good thing.
It's nice on campus. The food is cheap. No-one's in a hurry. There's lots of time for sitting around in the sunshine while your books lie abandoned in the grass. There is always something diverting to notice as you walk around. (The homeless guy who wears an Indian blanket and drinks beer in the quad, swearing at the sky; the fat red squirrels that leap across the paths at unexpected moments; protesters milling around with signs; geek types happily fulfilling their societal function by wearing high-tide pants and thick-rimmed eyeglasses.) And simply by being on campus you appear to be accomplishing something.
Every morning, after I get off the train, I stop for a takeout coffee to sip as I walk through a grove of trees, crossing a creek and passing a giant expanse of lawn before reaching the office. It's just lovely. And when I get to the office, there is time to check news sites and emails, to catch up with the world and myself before diving into the day. There is time to think, which I am cherishing.
It may sound lame, but I really do believe that this is an "improving" time for me, in the way an Agatha Christie-style bluestocking would "improve" herself. I am reading better books (Plath and Alistair Cooke) and magazines (New Yorker, Atlantic Monthly) and paying more attention. To everything.
To borrow a phrase from dear old Martha Stewart, it's a good thing.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
All the loo breaks I want
Three days into the new job and I'm content. I have a desk with a window view, a snazzy Mac and a stupidly shallow drawer that cuts into my knees and HAS TO GO. I am being treated like an adult again, which is lovely. I get to stretch my brain a bit. But best of all are the little things -- being able to go to the loo whenever I want, not just during designated breaks; helping myself to coffee as I wish and keeping a cup full on my desk; taking a lunch break without worrying about the clock.
The last shift at the bookstore was a blessed relief. I sold one membership card (you'll save 40 percent on bestsellers, 20 percent on adult hardcovers, and 10 percent on everything else in store!), almost stuffed up a busy executive type's change and counted it back to her like a five-year-old (sheesh, American bills all look the same), helped a mum find suitable books for her voracious nine-year-old (convinced her to try Harriet the Spy by Louise Fitzburgh -- love that book), and very nearly stepped in a plate of cheesecake some slob had left under a chair near the kiddy train set. The usual.
Afterwards, a few of us went to a tiki lounge in Piedmont, a ritzy little town literally encircled by grubby old Oakland, and drank to our expanding horizons. It was the coolest place -- hula girls and velvet paintings all over the walls, taxidermied blowfish for lampshades, black sand glued to table tops. It reminded me of that Brady Bunch episode when the whole family goes to Hawaii and a tarantula climbs into Marcia's tote bag. Or was it Jan's? Cheesy, cheesy fabulousness.
The last shift at the bookstore was a blessed relief. I sold one membership card (you'll save 40 percent on bestsellers, 20 percent on adult hardcovers, and 10 percent on everything else in store!), almost stuffed up a busy executive type's change and counted it back to her like a five-year-old (sheesh, American bills all look the same), helped a mum find suitable books for her voracious nine-year-old (convinced her to try Harriet the Spy by Louise Fitzburgh -- love that book), and very nearly stepped in a plate of cheesecake some slob had left under a chair near the kiddy train set. The usual.
Afterwards, a few of us went to a tiki lounge in Piedmont, a ritzy little town literally encircled by grubby old Oakland, and drank to our expanding horizons. It was the coolest place -- hula girls and velvet paintings all over the walls, taxidermied blowfish for lampshades, black sand glued to table tops. It reminded me of that Brady Bunch episode when the whole family goes to Hawaii and a tarantula climbs into Marcia's tote bag. Or was it Jan's? Cheesy, cheesy fabulousness.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Working Girl
So, quite out the blue, I seem to have found a job. I interviewed with a local magazine six weeks ago. It was a good interview, I liked the editors a lot, I liked the office, the location, the "vibe of the thing" to quote a friend, and then. . . nothing. I reviewed the interview in my mind, playing with it like a blister -- you know you shouldn't pop it, but convince yourself it will make you feel better. What went wrong? Had I got tangled in my own sentences (something I do fairly often while speaking but can usually avoid when writing)? Had I imagined their enthusiasm? Had they taken another look at my CV and decided I wasn't serious enough?
Anyway, today I returned for a second interview and snagged a month's work as associate editor while another staff member is away and, if all goes well, I may just have stumbled on a longterm position. This is what I have been hanging out for for four months, as I dusted and stacked and reshelved and bagged and counted and smiled. This is what I kept telling myself was just around the corner. This is a gift.
I was elated for about 45 minutes. And then, as is my wont, I began to worry about it. What if I'm not up to it? What if they decide they don't like me so much after all? What if it's boring?
So bye bye bookshop, hello proper professional working life in California, train commute and all. Can't wait to see what it's like.
Anyway, today I returned for a second interview and snagged a month's work as associate editor while another staff member is away and, if all goes well, I may just have stumbled on a longterm position. This is what I have been hanging out for for four months, as I dusted and stacked and reshelved and bagged and counted and smiled. This is what I kept telling myself was just around the corner. This is a gift.
I was elated for about 45 minutes. And then, as is my wont, I began to worry about it. What if I'm not up to it? What if they decide they don't like me so much after all? What if it's boring?
So bye bye bookshop, hello proper professional working life in California, train commute and all. Can't wait to see what it's like.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
By the book
Back at work today after two days off. Tim was sick which meant we didn’t go anywhere or do much but we did manage a trip to the Palace of the Legion of Honor, a lovely museum with a notable collection of Rodin sculptures (The Thinker sits in front of the building, sending out a pensive vibe) and a small but perfectly formed array of Impressionist paintings, fine European furniture and ancient bits and bobs such as Etruscan vases. The current special exhibit is a collection of French jewelry – gorgeous, intricate enameled brooches featuring birds and butterflies, diamond necklaces and bracelets worn by socialites and movie stars, and angular 50s pieces with enamel inlay and lots of highly polished gold. I particularly liked the chunky chalcedony necklace and bracelet set commissioned by Wallis Simpson. The stones were a lovely purple blue, the size of gumdrops, and the feature element of the necklace was a large flower which could be removed and worn as a brooch. Clever and beautiful.
It was sheeting with rain when we finished at the Legion, so we came home and watched the Gilmore Girls on TV. Then Tim went to bed and I stayed up reading a book of essays about turning 30. I crossed the Rubicon nearly three years ago, but for whatever reason I am feeling the dread now. Perhaps it’s the new wrinkles around my eyes or the fact that last year I threw in a perfectly acceptable magazine job with some status and good pay to work at a bookstore while I figure myself out. I moved country, left behind my lovely little wooden house to pay exorbitant rent on an apartment, and happened to arrive in San Francisco at the same time print journalism is in its death throes. Oh, yeah, and I dragged my husband along with me, my accomplished, ambitious husband who now sells books too.
This is my third foray into the world of retail. I briefly worked at JC Penney when I was at university, selling shiteous ensembles in the Petites department. Polyester dresses gave the illusion of being “outfits” when in fact the apparent skirts, blouses and vests were one-piece wonders. Even necklaces were sewn onto these things, so the busy, diminutive businesswoman would never have to worry about accessories. I was on commission and I actually performed reasonably well – those creepy “outfits” sold like hotcakes, but then, I was living in Salt Lake City and there wasn’t much of a fashion scene.
I had worked as a journalist in New Zealand for three years when I moved to London, and already unsure that a newspaper career was what I wanted out of life, decided to bum around for a couple of years instead of try to snag some impressive writing job that would serve me well when I got back home. I was probably scared I wouldn’t be able to snag an impressive job of any type, let alone a media one, I don’t actually remember. But I ended up selling perfume at Harrods and Harvey Nichols, lovely stores both, but, for me at least, spectacularly unsatisfying places to work. At Harrods I had to dress up in a stylized sailor suit to sell the new Jean Paul Gautier men’s fragrance, and when that promotion finished, I swapped my stripes and polka dots for a purple crushed velvet dress to sell perfume that cost 1000 pounds a bottle and came in a Baccarat crystal pyramid. It smelled like patchouli and I just couldn’t get excited about it despite the promise that if I managed to sell a bottle (nigh on impossible, I would say, after customers got a whiff of the stuff) I would get a commission of 100 pounds. It was the Christmas shopping season, the store was packed at all times, but my stand with the giant display crystal pyramid was an oasis of calm. I ended up amusing myself by gift wrapping my supplies: stapler, scissors, ruler, assorted pens and pencils.
And now I am working at a bookstore. The upside is I get a good discount on books and that I actually like books and do not feel morally sullied by selling them (although I do have a problem with the get-rich-quick titles, which I don’t believe can work and to which far too many people seem to pin their hopes). There is no commission to worry about and the work is pretty low-stress unless you are unlucky enough to be assigned a shift in the children’s department, where you spend eight hours cleaning up after kids who don’t know any better and their takeout coffee-clutching parents who seem to feel entitled to treat you like a nanny. The downside is being treated like a nanny.
And then there’s the membership card. Basically it’s a discount card that gives customers an automatic 10 percent off everything in store, sometimes more. It costs $25 for a year (so of no use unless you spend more than $250 a year on books) but the real benefit to the bookstore is that membership increases foot traffic. So it's up to us to push the card on customers, and mentioning its many benefits is part of the spiel we have to reel off as we pop books in their crinkly green plastic bags. I am a hopeless card salesperson because I resent the whole system and if someone tells me they don't want a card I'm not going to push. Tim doesn't push either but he's very good at extolling the card's virtues up front, and people looooove his "cute accent". (A woman who didn't see his wedding band asked him out for a coffee around Christmas time. Not to be left out, I had a man slip me his business card a month or so ago and ask me to phone him after I'd checked out his website. How California is that? Blech.) Tim has been the store's top salesman for the past three weeks, pushing aside a rather strange older woman who makes it her life's work to be the ultimate card salesperson. When customers approach the counter she kind of whispers at them, which causes them to lean in closer and gives the impression she is sharing privileged information when she explains the way the card works. It's fascinating to watch people falling under her spell and signing up.
It was sheeting with rain when we finished at the Legion, so we came home and watched the Gilmore Girls on TV. Then Tim went to bed and I stayed up reading a book of essays about turning 30. I crossed the Rubicon nearly three years ago, but for whatever reason I am feeling the dread now. Perhaps it’s the new wrinkles around my eyes or the fact that last year I threw in a perfectly acceptable magazine job with some status and good pay to work at a bookstore while I figure myself out. I moved country, left behind my lovely little wooden house to pay exorbitant rent on an apartment, and happened to arrive in San Francisco at the same time print journalism is in its death throes. Oh, yeah, and I dragged my husband along with me, my accomplished, ambitious husband who now sells books too.
This is my third foray into the world of retail. I briefly worked at JC Penney when I was at university, selling shiteous ensembles in the Petites department. Polyester dresses gave the illusion of being “outfits” when in fact the apparent skirts, blouses and vests were one-piece wonders. Even necklaces were sewn onto these things, so the busy, diminutive businesswoman would never have to worry about accessories. I was on commission and I actually performed reasonably well – those creepy “outfits” sold like hotcakes, but then, I was living in Salt Lake City and there wasn’t much of a fashion scene.
I had worked as a journalist in New Zealand for three years when I moved to London, and already unsure that a newspaper career was what I wanted out of life, decided to bum around for a couple of years instead of try to snag some impressive writing job that would serve me well when I got back home. I was probably scared I wouldn’t be able to snag an impressive job of any type, let alone a media one, I don’t actually remember. But I ended up selling perfume at Harrods and Harvey Nichols, lovely stores both, but, for me at least, spectacularly unsatisfying places to work. At Harrods I had to dress up in a stylized sailor suit to sell the new Jean Paul Gautier men’s fragrance, and when that promotion finished, I swapped my stripes and polka dots for a purple crushed velvet dress to sell perfume that cost 1000 pounds a bottle and came in a Baccarat crystal pyramid. It smelled like patchouli and I just couldn’t get excited about it despite the promise that if I managed to sell a bottle (nigh on impossible, I would say, after customers got a whiff of the stuff) I would get a commission of 100 pounds. It was the Christmas shopping season, the store was packed at all times, but my stand with the giant display crystal pyramid was an oasis of calm. I ended up amusing myself by gift wrapping my supplies: stapler, scissors, ruler, assorted pens and pencils.
And now I am working at a bookstore. The upside is I get a good discount on books and that I actually like books and do not feel morally sullied by selling them (although I do have a problem with the get-rich-quick titles, which I don’t believe can work and to which far too many people seem to pin their hopes). There is no commission to worry about and the work is pretty low-stress unless you are unlucky enough to be assigned a shift in the children’s department, where you spend eight hours cleaning up after kids who don’t know any better and their takeout coffee-clutching parents who seem to feel entitled to treat you like a nanny. The downside is being treated like a nanny.
And then there’s the membership card. Basically it’s a discount card that gives customers an automatic 10 percent off everything in store, sometimes more. It costs $25 for a year (so of no use unless you spend more than $250 a year on books) but the real benefit to the bookstore is that membership increases foot traffic. So it's up to us to push the card on customers, and mentioning its many benefits is part of the spiel we have to reel off as we pop books in their crinkly green plastic bags. I am a hopeless card salesperson because I resent the whole system and if someone tells me they don't want a card I'm not going to push. Tim doesn't push either but he's very good at extolling the card's virtues up front, and people looooove his "cute accent". (A woman who didn't see his wedding band asked him out for a coffee around Christmas time. Not to be left out, I had a man slip me his business card a month or so ago and ask me to phone him after I'd checked out his website. How California is that? Blech.) Tim has been the store's top salesman for the past three weeks, pushing aside a rather strange older woman who makes it her life's work to be the ultimate card salesperson. When customers approach the counter she kind of whispers at them, which causes them to lean in closer and gives the impression she is sharing privileged information when she explains the way the card works. It's fascinating to watch people falling under her spell and signing up.
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