Working 9 to 5 (What a way to earn a living)...

Actually it's more like 8:30 to 6:30. With no lunch break save the 10 minutes it takes to go downstairs and to the deli next door. I think my endurance was pretty good for someone who hasn't worked a full office day in more than two years! (Not since Brilliant.) And yet, already  I was missing my freelance lifestyle... After one day! Hmm... Still, when I've been at home writing here, I've wished for the bustle of co-workers, somewhere to go. So each situation has its benefits.

It's not even a permanent job - just a flirtation I'm having all this week with the 9-to-5 routine. I'm a freelance copyeditor for New York magazine's website, filling in for the regular freelance copyeditor (who is apparently out-of-town or something this week). I'm filling in for a filler-in! Well, actually, that guy has a more-or-less full-time job - four days a week. Anyway, it's a nice change of routine and Hello, it's New York magazine! The original home of the New Journalism way back in the 70s. I'm passing by and corresponding with people whose stuff I've been reading for years. Today I was IMing with Jessica Coen, one of the original Gawker ingenues. (Unless you're in media, you probably have no clue what I'm talking about, but she's well-known).

I edit the blogs, and they're really funny - occasionally I have to stifle my laughter so I don't disturb the other cube-occupants around me. 

Check them out: nymag.com/daily 

The job affords some downtime - we are on hand to edit, but if there's nothing to edit, we amuse ourselves -  so I finally have time to catch up on all the other blogs I like, and g-chat with my friends. Plus, I'm basically being permitted to get on-the-job training in movable type - a popular blogging tool - and copyediting, which I've never done exclusively before. It's a good skill to have in one's pocket, as places often need copyeditors to fill in when they're closing an issue or something. A good thing to potentially mix with freelance writing.

Not that I think I'll be freelance writing for that much longer. I'm in the running for at least two wonderful jobs  - don't want to say what they are here and jinx myself - and I have a connection at a third place that has an opening appropriate for me. I've gotten a lot of good feedback from people who've seen my resume (better than I expected, actually) and I think I may have gotten a leg up by being in Austin - because I was permitted to write so much more and have much more responsibility than I would have had in New York. 

Anyway, I'm positive about the job situation, and this 9-to-5 experiment is a good warm-up for things to come!

About a couple of things

So, being a new blogger, I'm not really sure what the procedure is when  you have unrelated things you want to post about. (Nor am I really sure whether anyone is reading, but I carry on!) Is it kosher to post a few posts in immediate sequence, or should a person lump it all into one? Of course, I'm sure there's no right answer. Which is kind of why I hate blogging. (Okay fine I don't hate it).

A few things I've been thinking about:

FEET

New Yorkers have a reputation for being obsessed with getting manicures and pedicures. Now that my feet are mangled, blistered mess, I understand why. The feet take enormous wear and tear here. Within your shoe closet, it becomes immediately apparent who is friend and who is foe - and  foes get banished fast. It's not even just heels that are the problem. Even my cute, innocent-looking flats - or flip flops! - have recently wreaked havoc on my delicate appendages.

Hands, too, need upkeep here. At the end of a long day, I'll look down at my nails and see that there's grime under them! Ick. Hence the obsession.

CATCALLS

I like to joke that walking through my neighborhood serves as a good fashion barometer. I know I've got a good outfit on when I hear a lot of "Hey gorgeous" "It's a hot night and it just got hotter" - that sort of thing. If I don't get any catcalls, I figure I'm not in my best ensemble.

Usually I just smile or shrug the remarks off, sometimes I say thank you, or sometimes just ignore them (I'm really not sure of the proper etiquette, only that I don't want to get too involved). But occasionally people are aggressive, unpleasant. Crossing Broadway the other day in a skirt and tank top, someone called out of his car: "It's hot!" (It was, but he seemed to be talking about me, though I actually wasn't one hundred percent certain). I just kept walking. "Don't be stuck up!" he exclaimed angrily as he turned the corner and zoomed by. 

Leaving Adam Rio's house in Williamsburg this past Sunday morning, I passed a couple of guys on the street. "Beautiful," they assessed as I passed. As is my habit, I simply kept walking. I might have smiled - can't remember. "You could say thank you!" cried one guy with a thick New York accent. "Thank you," I said, turning around, and then I immediately felt like a fool. Why was I doing as told? It's not like I asked them to make dubiously desirable comments about me.

This whole thing is very hard to figure out. I don't ask to be commented upon, I don't want to be rude, but I also don't want to encourage these guys by being too receptive. So usually I just keep walking. Let them think I'm stuck up, I guess. 

It's funny, because ever since the stabbing I've been even more uncomfortable about associating with the neighborhood kids, so I'm even more inclined to ignore them. Yet somehow I get sucked in, because they don't ignore me. I remember talking to my old roommate Dave about this, and how he said that he would just kind of wave as he passed, if they were hanging around out front. I wish I could get away with just a wave. The problem is, if I give any encouragement, they'll want to get to know me (They already do. A whole group of them loitering outside the convenience store shouted my name the other night. I smiled weakly and said a quick hi). I don't want to get to know them, not after what happened. I wish I could be like Dave and simply be left alone. Being of WASP stock, I'm simply not culturally programmed to deal with all this attention!

Cold showers

This is the third or fourth night in a row that I've taken a cold shower before bed. It's not what you're thinking, it's just hot here! Especially in my room, whose lone window opens onto an air shaft. If you've been reading, you'll know that my apartment, like most others, lacks central air. Cold shower + a turbo fan is the only way to sleep.

Was talking to Laura Griffin, a friend of Megan's, about it. She added this: "There are two really difficult things about living in New York - finding an apartment, and then once you have the apartment, cooling it." She continued: "When I first moved here, my roommate and I had a ritual for being able to sleep in the heat. First we'd stay up extra late getting cool in front of the air conditioner in the common room. Then we'd shotgun a beer, take a cold shower and jump into bed, hoping we fell asleep before the effects of the shower and the beer wore off." 

I might have to try it! At least today was as oppressively sweltering as the last few.

Before I sleep, a word about New York food

Tonight I took my new roommate to the Half-King, a restaurant on the western edge of Chelsea, the western edge of Manhattan, the western edge of the world...

Just kidding. It's not all that exotic. In fact, it's not exotic at all - it's a pub. It may not be exotic, but it's good!

My new roommate, Jennifer, summed it up: "I'd forgotten how good New York food is."

(This is Jennifer, the actress, not to be confused with Jen, the graphic designer. (And yes, I complete the triumvirate as Jenny). She's been doing summer stock theater at a resort in Pennsylvania, which is why we're subletting her room to Matt the interior designer, who replaced the previous subletter, Dave, the comedian).

But back to the food. It was good. Delicious, wonderful, great. Food like this in Austin would be swooned over, raved over, given at least four stars by Dale Rice. And yet, here we were, this ordinary place - that's how it is in New York. Go anywhere halfway decent and the food will knock your socks off, blow the ice cubes out of your water glass, curl the tines on your cutlery.

I love it. I had been invited to try the spot through Kathy at the Statesman, who got the invite from the publicist but (for obvious reasons) couldn't go.

So we went. And ate: Caprese tower (that's the typical Italian starter of tomato, mozzarella and basil, for you non-gourmands). Wonderful summer tomatoes. Housemade mozzarella - made by the charismatic chef who came out to talk to us. His grandmother's recipe! (Grandmother-sanctioned mozzarella at a pub - can you imagine?) Fried calamari, wonderful spinach salad, the most sublime macaroni and cheese for me (three kinds of cheese, bacon, broccoli, green onions), and a buffalo burger and fries for Jennifer. Oh yeah, and the cocktails: my key lime martini tasted exactly like key lime without being too syrupy sweet.

My one regret is that we missed the literary reading in the next room. But we couldn't leave the table they'd reserved for us. So I'll go again on another Monday with a friend and get a beer and mac and cheese to split - it's big enough. That was the great part about that place - you could dress it up or down.

But high or low, it's got great food - there's no getting around that.

Did I mention I love this city?

Too Darn Hot

You can't beat the heat - and I don't mean that in a good way. I mean you can't fight it off, it cannot be conquered; it must simply be accepted.

It's funny, because Texas is probably hotter than here on the whole, but you experience it so much less. Thanks to having been developed later and on a more robust power grid, most places in Texas (okay, everyplace in Texas) has central air. Here? Not so much. Subways do (though not the stations); movie theaters do; most big office buildings do; chain-type places - grocery stores, big shops, drug stores - usually do. Though today I was in a seriously under-cooled Rite Aid. Ick. Probably some cheap ploy to sell us fans.

In Texas you go from air-conditioned house to air-conditioned car to air-conditioned supermarket or restaurant or office. Here, you walk several blocks through swampy air to the subway, descend into the sticky station, wait, as your hair and makeup melt, board a deliciously frigid train, and then emerge into the stickiness again, melting further. Even the restaurant you're headed to may not have central air. Now, how did New York get that reputation for glamour? It ain't all Sex and the City, kids. 

At the moment I'm sitting on my bed, five inches from the fan, sweating. I arrived home from dinner this evening and decided that my ensemble - tank top and above-the-knee skirt - was too much clothing. I peeled those off and settled on a sundress, which, being backless, covered less flesh and was therefore cooler. This is what it's come to.

It doesn't have to be like this, of course. Money can buy all the comforts possible for the Anna Wintours, the Trumps of the world. That's where New York gets its reputation for glamour - from the people who get driven around in cars all day, and have central air at home and at work. The people, in short, who live like Texans. Ha!

It is sort of funny to consider... And yet, even if I've downgraded in standard of living, even if I deeply miss Austin and the people there sometimes, I wouldn't trade back. Right now, at this point in my life, I wouldn't trade the exhilaration - or the perspiration - of New York. Not for anything. 

Summer in the City

This weekend was the first hot weekend of the year, two days in a row so sweltering that I finally can relate to that episode of Sex & the City where Carrie dates a guy just because he has air conditioning. When it's this hot, long subway rides are something to relish - they cool the cars veery well, but then you step out in the station and everything melts. Whatever you've spent 30 or 40 minutes doing to your hair or makeup is undone in minutes as you wait for the train. 

I don't actually mind the heat that much, though. Emerging from a cold subway car, it feels like a blanket, humid air wrapping around me to offer comfort. I know that when the humidity reaches 90 percent, like it did today, I will regret my cavalier attitude here - but I don't really mind the heat. 

The travails of heat and humidity were made easier by the fact that I didn't sleep at home either night this weekend. No, I didn't pull a Carrie and go home with some cutie to his parents' Park Avenue Penthouse, instead I spent both nights I was at my (begrudging) home away from home, Brooklyn. First at Caitlin's on Friday night after she threw a party for a friend that was in town, and then last night at Adam Rio's, in Williamsburg, on his couch, directly in front of his air conditioner. Yum. I slept in my dress and used a couch cushion as a blanket, as I actually got a little bit cold. I hadn't planned to sleep there, but Sabra and Aaron (Austinites who are visiting) were going there, and it was the easiest thing to do at 4 in the morning.

Adam has a great place and is getting a really good deal on it. It's a long, narrow, railroad layout, but it's big - probably about 600 or 700 square feet. That's big for being all his in New York. It's in a fairly lively area, only two blocks from the subway. He has the walls painted, and it has new appliances and it's very cozy. It's rent-stabilized, so he won't have to leave because his landlord raises rent by $400 to renew. That happens a lot here, but if  place is rent-stabilized landlords can only raise by a certain amount - 4 percent or something, which is perfectly fair.

We had all gone out to a gay bar in the Lower East Side - Cake Shop - to see some friends of Adam's and catch a show and take advantage of the open bar from 10-11. We each had about four drinks, but luckily they were small, and the show was great, too. A couple of bands, and the second one was really fun and campy. Adam and I went up front and danced. 

Then we headed to Bar 151, just off Essex and right by my friend brad's place. I liked that place, too, and am glad I asked Adam the name of it. There are so many places to go here that it's easy to visit spots and not know their names and that makes me feel like I'm not learning the city.

Then Caitlin came over in the early afternoon and we worked for about three hours organizing my room and building more of my IKEA stuff. It was unbearable in the apartment and poor Caitlin got overheated and her back started to hurt from bending over building things. So we left the rest of it for later and hopped a subway to Coney Island to meet up with some of Caitlin's friends - Moe, Mary and Gael.

Coney Island is a spectacle. It's a carnival atmosphere, spilling over with people - people who are not exactly the classiest sorts you've ever met. The beach is littered with garbage -despite there being (overflowing) garbage cans every 15 feet, and you shouldn't walk barefoot because there's likely broken glass. It's mad and deliciously lowbrow and I liked it, but more for the spectacle than anything else. We rode the Wonder Wheel, a ferris wheel with cars that pitch and swing. I hadn't realized the cars did that and nearly had a fit when we started swinging but then I calmed down and got used to it and wanted more when it was over.  

One month down

I can't believe it, but I've been here a month. I almost don't like to say it, since I have some internal, or maybe some perceived external, expectation that I should have everything perfectly arranged by now. That I shouldn't have IKEA things still half-built, and work coming in but somewhat piecemeal, and the occasional weekend evening looming with no plans. But then I remember that it is only a month, and there's a lot to arrange in a new place (especially New York) and I'm doing my best each day to make progress. I have to remember to be kind and patient with myself. Sometimes I give myself little pep talks. I look at my situation as a friend would and tell myself that it's okay, and it takes time, and I'm doing a great job, so chin up! I know I'm my biggest ally here, and I'll reach my goals a lot quicker if I'm focused and not freaking out.

I'm in a time of firsts, and in a city that provides its newcomers with many firsts. Last night I encountered my first $19 cocktail. I had gone to see Stephanie Klein read at Borders - she's the New Yorker-turned-Austinite blogger whose second book, Moose, I reviewed for the Statesman recently. The reading was great and after Jean Scheidnes texted me (she's the former Statesman fashion reporter) - was I there and should she come up? Apparently Stephanie had texted her. So I told her to come on up and she arrived lickety-split in a cab. When we greeted Stephanie, she invited us to the bar at the Mandarin Oriental, next door, where her friends were all meeting after for drinks. I wanted to meet Stephanie's girlfriends from her first book - Alexandra, Dulce, Smelly (needless to say, not their real names), but instead we ended up finding her fat camp friends, most of whom weren't fat. They were a pretty fun bunch, though I would have liked to have met the other girls, and then Stephanie's husband and his friends came over and we talked to them, too. It was fun, and I enjoyed my $19 cocktail. It was either that or a $9 beer, and who wants to pay $9 for a beer you could get anywhere? It may have been my first $19 cocktail, but I know it won't be my last.

Tonight had dinner with Julianne, who is family (my brother's wife's sister) and also a friend. She took me to Lupa, which is downtown, but now that I think about it, I'm not sure if it's the East Village or the West Village or NoHo - it's in that general area. It was a trattoria, as many delicious mid-priced New York restaurants seem to be. Perhaps here simple Italian food is the comfort food the way simple Tex-Mex is in Austin. We had antipasti - endive salad, prosciutto, asparagus - and then I had gnocchi with fennel and sausage. The gnocchi was fluffy and pillowy, the way I've read about gnocchi being but have never experienced (it's always been dense in the past). And in a good Italian restaurant, you can never go wrong with anything containing sausage. Yum.

Blogging back into the swing

There's been a bit of drama lately involving Austin people and me, and I couldn't decide whether or not to keep this blog up, or whether what I say in it would likely come back to bite me at some later date. But I've decided to carry on.

Had the most hilarious fun weekend, mostly hanging out with Caitlin and drinking, granted, a bit (okay a lot) too much Friday night while attending a party at the Museum of Natural History. That's right, the one with the dinosaurs. They hold these parties once a month in the planetarium area, with well known DJs, and they're out of this world! (Sorry, bad joke). Seriously, though, this one was fun. A total meat market, which always makes for comical situations. One local med student chatted with me briefly, announcing his occupation as though i were supposed to swoon, but all I could think was, "Dating a doctor? That's so 20th century!" The point was soon moot as he abruptly went back to his smug med school friends.

We had gone to a tapas restaurant beforehand (it was great - Ronda, somewhere off Columbus Av. in the mid-70s) and the sangria was REALLY strong. Before the strong sangria we had run into one of my college roommates sitting at a sidewalk cafe nearby! It was wild - I didn't even know she lived in the city, but there she was. That's the second person I've randomly bumped into on the street. Apparently it happens a lot here.

But back to the sangria. It was strong and the meal was great and not too expensive, and when we were done we sauntered up to the museum, already pretty tipsy. Once there we bought a sensible two drink tickets each. And then some guy passed us each another ticket. And then we flirted with the bartender because he was cute and he started giving us free drinks. Needless to say, we got a bit trashed, and when the party ended we exited to the street and caught a cab (one benefit of these parties being that my apartment is only about a $5 or $6 cab ride from the museum). The driver was a kindly sort, and when we told him to drop us off at a bar near my place - a cool, East Village-y place called Ding Dong's - he kindly inquired, "Wouldn't it be better just to go home?" Apparently we ignored his advice (I say apparently because I don't actually remember this part) and went to Ding Dong's, where I announced to Caitlin that I felt sick. I went into one bathroom and she went into the other, and when she came out, she thought I was still inside the room - only I wasn't. When some man came out instead of me, she figured out that I must have left. So she called me and asked where I was. "I'm at 107th and Columbus," replied the fugitive me, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I'm going home," I added.
"I want to go home, too!" cried Caitlin, who was supposed to sleep on my couch that night. Luckily when she hoofed it to my building two blocks away I was waiting for her at the door. But not before she saw my neighbors outside, and inquired whether one of the girls with them was (my roommate) Jenny, and was then treated to laugher (no one was Jenny) a group chorus of "Jenny from the block."

What a night! I didn't feel so hot the next morning, as you might imagine. And we were trying to put together my IKEA furniture. Quelle nightmare. We did get a bunch of stuff done, though, and now I have furniture. Though there's still more to build...

And yes, I know, I need to be more careful. I'm learning the ropes here, and I've been exercising more caution since that night.
But in retrospect, it was all pretty funny. Every so often the next day, Caitlin would burst out, "I want to go home too, Jenny!" Hilarious.

Saturday night was much more mellow, though not an earlier night. Caitlin invited me to a club in the West Village, a damp, dank warren of basement rooms where one of her favorite bands, Stereo Total, was playing. They were great. I caught a cab back to Brooklyn with the group when the show ended, and we all went to Caitlin's local bar, Rope, for a last drink (water for me - it was already 3:30 a.m.) and then back to her place where we talked until the sun rose and the "guilt birds" as her friend from Ohio called them, began to chirp. Then finally to bed, to sleep until noon and then bury the previous evening's sins in a "rescue bagel," as Caitlin calls them.

Last night had dinner with well known food writer John Mariani and his lovely wife, Galina. I met him in Austin during the Texas Wine & Food Festival, and he invited me to dine with him when he tries out restaurants in New York. (They invite him to eat and bring a few people, so it's all complimentary for the group). I brought Caitlin, since I figure she can get along with anybody, and we all had a great conversation - about movies, books, current news, history, travels and food. It's rare to find people who know the art of conversation anymore - who are well informed, or well read, or well enough versed in any subject to have discussions, but John and Galina are, and I hope to repeat the experience soon!

Today went downtown to the New York Magazine offices at the edge of Chinatown and took their copyediting test. I had answered an ad on their website for freelance copyeditors, and the copyeditor for nymag.com, their website, invited me to come in. It was exciting just to be there - it's a huge place - an entire floor of what's probably an old warehouse or factory, with red walls opposite the elevators and "New York" spelled out in foot-high letters. I liked it there. It hummed with activity and several people smiled or said hi as they walked by me while I waited.

I felt like I did well on the test, and a few hours later I got an email from Lori, the copyeditor: I got the job! She wants me to help her out for a week coming up, and then fill in a couple of days. Woo hoo! Granted it's only freelance, and temporary, but "New York" is my dream place to work and I'll be spending some time working there in the office! Who knows what else this could lead to...
If you're not familiar with the magazine, check out their excellent webiste: www.nymag.com