Worst Intern Ever

Three simple words: Epic Coffee Fail

This morning at my internship, I went to get [really crappy] coffee at the little kitchen station when I realized both of the coffee containers were empty except for decaf... and really, who does decaf at 10 in the morning? Please. I've been sleeping like crap, mainly because it is like a humid, sticky deathtrap in my room and under my comforter and I've been watching too much Dexter - which, of course, makes me imagine that every little sound outside my windows at 2 a.m. is a sign that someone is somehow wedging themselves through the impossibly skinny spaces between the bars in order to slice me into little pieces. Nice.

Anyway, back to the coffee. I'm all alone at first, so the pressure is off - I'll just make a fresh pot, I figure. I read the directions on the coffee machine, but unfortunately I find myself in a Catch-22. How am I supposed to be able to figure out making coffee when I haven't even HAD any? I mean, I can function fine without coffee, but problem solving at 10 a.m. after a restless night without any sort of caffeinated substance is just asking for too much. That's like, superhuman.

First step: I take the little plastic bag of ground coffee out of the jar. Then, I open it. FAIL. Coffee all over the floor, all over my little red shoe. Possibly IN my little red shoe, although I haven't had a chance to check as of yet and am not looking forward to it. I give a little glance, side to side, and realize that I am still alone until a spindly redhead with an empty mug approaches. I act like, hey, there's no coffee in my shoe. No luck. "Oh!" she says. "Look at that," pointing to the spilled coffee. "Yeah," I laugh it off, "That's what happens when I try to make coffee before I have coffee!" Ha. Ha. We have a laugh.

The coffee's all ready to go, I place the coffee holder thing beneath the spout and it starts going... but not exactly into the hole, making coffee pool around the sides. I figure, why not leave it like that? Who cares? But the redhead scoots it over so that, although the holder is tipped, the drippy brown liquid is still making its way in. She has saved the day. I still look incompetent.

Redhead leaves to wait for the coffee to fill, but now there is a line of people looking forlorn, undercaffeinated, overtired. I stand by the rapidly filling coffee pot, feeling for a moment like a savior for bringing the people what they crave. A savior, that is, until it starts pooling around the hole again and dripping out of the spout... onto the counter, dangerously close to dripping down the white cabinets. "Shit!" I think, but don't say, because even my lips aren't functioning the way they will in about 10 minutes when the coffee really kicks in. I grab some paper towels, drop them, and then decide to hold up the canister so that the goddamn coffee actually GOES IN the hole. While I hold the big black cylinder up, like an idiot, a guy comes over and says, "Uh, you don't have to hold it the whole time." Oh, thank you, wise coffee master. I want to say, "I know, you greasy haired fool," but I do not. I regain composure. "It was spilling out of the spout," I say, and point to the mess that I was trying to cover up by standing close to the coffee and hoping really hard that I looked radiantly beautiful enough to distract. [Sarcasm.] The guy, who is wearing some weird button down T-shirt thing which signifies to me that he can't possibly be a member of the decorating, collecting, style, or even crafts departments (which of course leaves Food and various tech crews... and Garden, because let's be honest, Gardening people aren't known for their fashion sense) straightens out the pot and explains to me why it was spilling. I couldn't care less if there was scalding hot coffee pouring directly onto my retinas, but I act like his theory is revolutionary so that PLEASE GOD I will eventually get some coffee and get away from this table before the redhead, who has returned, realizes that I have spilled TWICE during my coffee exploits. Jesus. This is getting embarrassing.

After awkwardly making acquaintances with the man who has so graciously saved my coffee [Sarcasm Part II] and telling him I intern in the Editorial Dept. without so much as asking what part of the building he works in, the coffee sputters, drips, finishes. I put in my half and half, my skim milk, my one and a half Sweet & Lows (What? It's a very delicate procedure. Don't judge.) I stir, and I Get The Hell Out of There. But not before sweetly smiling at Mr. Button Down T-Shirt and saying, with a hint of self-deprecation, "Thanks for helping me out." Pink-lipsticked, toothy grin. I am, after all, an intern. An intern who can't make coffee. FML.

Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

I'm not generally one for zodiac astro-babble, but my NYU email home page is set up so that I get my horoscope every day and sometimes I remember to check it out.

This was today's horoscope:

Your focus for the next few days will be on one thing, and one thing only: making sure your dear ones feel warm, wonderful and, above all else, well-loved. And you'll be extremely well equipped for the job. The universe has sent several planetary envoys to help you -- but then, as fiery and determined as you are by nature, you may not need them. Defense is second only to offense on your list of specialties.

Reading that horoscope made me feel warm and fuzzy. The people I love mean a lot to me, but beyond that, I couldn't think of a better goal for a few days - or even a lifetime. I would really like to make that horoscope a reality, if only because I think it would be a worthwhile pursuit. Also, I myself have been feeling, warm, wonderful, and well-loved recently. It's weird, but nonetheless really nice. 

Plus, I always like it when my horoscopes tell me I'm "fiery." I think maybe enhancing my "fiery" nature should be next week's goal. Rar.

A Question for You

Hey readers. This is going to be a quickie post, but I really want to ask your opinions. I know you won't comment on this, but I'm hopeful that you might talk to me in real life sometime soon and help me out.

I want to write a novel.

Granted, I've wanted to write a novel for a really long time and it was one of my many goals for last summer that also included "Six Pack Abs" and "Do A Split." Obviously, I succeeded in none of those things. But recently I've been reading up a storm and thinking that I could totally write a book. Nothing grand and sweeping and epic, but something sweet and tender and romantic and funny. 

So this is where I need your help. If you read this blog, then you know the way I write at my most casual. I would probably err on the more formal side if I wrote a book because although I'm no Proust, I'm also no Lauren Conrad, and I would like any book I write to be just a teeny bit literary. So help me out:

1) What kind of book would you expect to read from me?

2) What kinds of things would you want to read in a book from someone with a writing style like mine?

3) Are there any blog entries you think I should refer to for inspiration?

4) Is there a writer you think I resemble?

5) Is there a genre I fit into? Like, should I write something fluffy and chick-lit inspired or should I try for something even just a little bit more serious?

6) Prompts. Give me something, a scenario, a character. Anything.

And finally:

7) Do I have no idea that I am actually a horrifically bad writer and I should give up all notions of ever writing a novel?

Okay, I'm hoping the answer to number 7 is a big No, but you never know. I figured I'd leave it open ended. Please give me your help and your ideas, I want some input, and I would really appreciate anything you have to say. Thanks!

Groove Is In the Heart

"Your groove I do deeply dig..." ~Deee-lite

A Scene:

Instruments are being strummed, battered, plunked, picked, or blown. A voice, maybe a few voices, are singing, amplified by modern technology. A melody, a harmony, a bass line. Tempos fluctuate as screams punctuate the chorus, improvised vocal percussion.

Now, imagine you’re peering down on the concert scene. It’s a bird’s eye view – all you can see is a teeming crowd of people, cheering and singing along and bobbing, moving, in an amoeba-like form. Arms are raised and waving, side to side, back and forth; a crowd of music lovers, not a single one distinguishable from the rest.

Zoom in on a certain prim-looking brunette in jeans and a black tank top. She’s bobbing her head, tapping her foot. She’s got rhythm, and when she hums along it’s apparent that she isn’t tone deaf. Her fingers tap the sides of her thighs, her arms are straight-jacketed to her sides by the crowd. Every now and then she claps and gives a high-pitched half-hearted “woo!”

You’d never know that she’s a total fake, a fraud, an imposter.

Or at least, she feels that way. She, of the finger tapping and the head bobbing, is Cupcake Lover. She’s at a concert, The Boyfriend’s favorite band, and of course he is next to her, looking like he just ate his favorite food, drank his favorite beverage, was magically transported to his favorite place on earth, and immediately after found out that all of his wishes for the next 50 years will come true. Here’s a word for you: Blissful. Definition? Characterized by perfect happiness. Boyfriend looks Blissful. And me? Uhh, I mean, she? Confused. Definition? Embarrassed and not knowing what to say or how to act.

That might be an overstatement. I wouldn’t say I get embarrassed at concerts, per se, but I do feel confused. I don’t know when or how it happened, but at some point I stopped being able to listen to music. I just can’t do it. I listen to technical proficiency, I listen to the bass line, I listen to contrapuntal motion, I listen with an ear to where the music fits in historically, to what movement it belongs to, to what other artists it is inspired by.

But… [here's my confession]… I just can’t groove.

And, of course, I'm dating the most Epic Groover of all. Time and time again, I’ve been in cars and bars and my kitchen and at weird outdoor barbeques where music has played and The Boyfriend has gone all… groovetastic. And then he looks to me, like I’m supposed to do something. Like, “Okay, your turn to groove.” What do I do?

Smile through my suddenly escalated heart rate and say, “I like the time signature. Did you know it’s in 7?”

Lame, I know. But you know what the worst part is? The absolute worst part? I like listening to music and I like thinking critically about it. I really, really enjoyed myself at that concert and I actually find my own bliss in other peoples’ love for listening. But when you don’t know how to groove, people think you’re not having a good time. They think you’re miserable, that it’s not your kind of music, that you’d rather be anywhere but there. But that’s just it – I like almost ALL kinds of music. I find something charming and intriguing and fascinating in almost everything I hear. But I have lost the innate human ability to subtly groove to something. I can’t play air guitar like The Boyfriend does so skillfully (on my thigh, usually, or my arm.) I’m not going to whip out my faux drumsticks and play a little beat, or close my eyes and really feel it. Because to feel music I just have to sit still and listen for a second, and think about it.

So, yeah, I’m a big fake. Any grooving I do is totally contrived and based off of what I see other people do… because I may be bad at grooving, but I sure am good at people watching. And there's no shortage of different types of Groovers to copy from. Some favorites include the Hands In the Air Like You Just Don't Care Groover, or the perennial favorite, Sway Side to Side Like You're High On Something Groover. Obvious, I've been taking on a more subtle groove flavor, what with the foot tapping and the head bopping, but I'm getting there, slowly but surely. Making my way toward music-listening normalcy one finger point at a time. Who knows? Maybe some day I'll groove with the best of them.

As American as Apple Pie, Baseball, Fireworks... and Swine Flu?

Currently, I've got a thermometer in my mouth. I don't really know why - I'm pretty sure my temperature is normal. It was like 97.5 the last two times I checked, but I think I'm just checking again because it was sitting in front me of. It's a curiosity thing. Like a less-terrifying version of "Hey, there's a scale sitting on the ground. I wonder what I weigh?" I feel like it's also a sign of adulthood, though. Owning your own thermometer. It means I don't expect Mommy to take my temperature again, or even to supply the First Aid kit.

Wow, shocker. My temperature is 98.9 degrees now. Does that mean, like, borderline fever? My mom said I should buy the thermometer because Swine Flu is going around... and then she actually named people she knew who had it. So I bought one.

Fever or no fever, I'm pretty bored. I've watched enough SportsCenter to make my HEAD explode and just can't watch the Phillies beat the Reds 22-1 anymore. I mean, it was funny to see the Not Top 10 of the Mets' dismal season, but once you've seen it twice, it falls more into the category of "depressing" instead of "hilarious."

So I decided that even though I'm all sniffly and feverish, I'd blog about my weekend and remember the days when I wasn't confined to the couch because my attempt to get off it was unsuccessful. (Note: The attempt this morning involved getting ready for work, stepping on the L train, and only making it to 3rd Avenue before I almost passed out on the crowded subway. Everything was going black and I couldn't breath. I had to escape the subway car and squat on the ground in the subway station until I could breath well enough to make it to the wooden seats. Yup, I think the couch was calling to me to take one more day off...)

I should do this quickly - SoapNet has a few episodes of the O.C. on at 3 and I have two cartons of ice cream that aren't going to eat themselves. So here goes.

Yes, that IS the new Yankee Stadium, where The Boyfriend and I went on the Fourth of July to do some of the most patriotic things a pair of hot-blooded American 20-somethings can do: Eat hot dogs and hamburgers, sing both the National Anthem AND God Bless America, and revile people for getting paid millions of dollars and failing to do their job right. (I'm talking about YOU Robinson Cano.) It was a nice time, albeit a sunny and rather long game that went into extra innings but paid off with a win for the Yanks. It was also nothing short of hilarious to accompany The Boyfriend to a baseball event, possibly our first sporting event together, and observe the different styles of baseball-watching. [Him: It's f*cking ridiculous that he didn't just lay down the bunt. Me: I love everyone! And everything! Etc...] But I got a sunburn that turned into a sun tan and felt oddly proud to be an American on the Fourth of July. Weird, right?

This is our view from the rooftop of where I intern, at Martha Stewart Living. It was basically THE perfect place to see the Macy's fireworks. The Boyfriend and I packed a picnic of pasta that we ate out of plastic cups and watched at least four different barges set off fireworks while the station on the roof was turned to the radio broadcast of totally cheesy, wonderful American music. I've never been a huge fan of fireworks - I used to plug my ears when I was young, yes I was THAT kid - but these were just amazing. And to watch them with someone I really like was pretty fantastic... a Fourth of July to remember.

But now, of course, reality sets back in. And not even the "Oh, weekend's over, back to work" kind, because I can't even make it to work in one piece. I've watched, like, fifteen episodes of 30 Rock and have decided that I want to be Liz Lemon for Halloween. I've replaced many a meal with ice cream, all while telling myself it's to "soothe my throat." And I've traipsed about my apartment making little whimpering noises that no one can hear, looking out my window at my backyard and talking to the trees, saying "I don't feel good..." Yeah, it's weird, but maybe I DO have a fever. Maybe I should check again. I mean, the thermometer's RIGHT here....

Okay, 98.6. Totally normal. But I don't feel totally normal, so I am headed back to the couch.