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.

Raindrops Keep Fallin' On My...

...Everything.

I wish I looked this cute post torrential downpour.

No, really. I've been umbrella-less for like a month, playing a dangerous game of Russian roulette that involves walking out the door every day of the week, knowing full well that it's going to rain, and just hoping to God that it doesn't between the time I walk from the subway station to work and back again.

I'd say that, for the most part, I'm doing pretty well. The rain has only beaten me, like, 4 times at the most. Granted, one time it packed quite a wallop. [Anthropologie Manager: "Uhhh, you might want to check the mirror before you go out on the floor. Your mascara is all over your face." Oops.] But for a month that is essentially a big "Eff you" to global warming disbelievers everywhere (Are the polar bears sunning themselves up there at least? That's my question...), I'd say I'm coming up even in a fight against Mother Nature that's hardly fair.

Wait. Let's pause to giggle at the idea of polar bears with sunglasses and mojitos with mini umbrellas in them. Ugh, I can't even laugh! I'm too jealous.

Unfortunately, today was one of those days that Mother Nature did NOT decide to cut me some slack and keep me dry. I wore little gladiator sandals and a dress that is, essentially, paper-thin and as cute as it is inappropriate when soaked. Which, of course, prompted a few comments during my 15 minute shower... I mean... walk to the subway after leaving my internship. And while I meandered to the subway, pausing under awnings when the downpour was simply too much to bear, I started thinking about the way the rain changes this city and the people who live in it. It's just funny how people act when they're wet.

Like me, for example. Sometimes (if it's been a bad day already) I just give in to looking downtrodden. Drowned rat. And as much as I try to tell myself I look like a goddess - Venus rising up from the sea... Bo Derek emerging from the ocean... Ariel from The Little Mermaid sparkling midair... I know it's not true. I end up looking more wet dog or floppy fish or frizzy hair. Pictures from childhood to adulthood taken at my grandparents' pool have given me stone cold proof that "wet" is never going to be my best look. I mean, Jessica Alba can dribble like a decrepit octogenarian and she ends up in GQ. Oh, the unfairness of it all.

However, this is not about Jessica Alba and her ability to make gargling sexy. (Or ridiculous. I'm not really a fan of the GQ spread, myself.) New Yorkers change when it pours. The subway station is a sad place to be, like a war zone. Like reconvening in the trenches after enemy fire has died down. Everywhere, hairdos along the platform are mussed and frizzed. Expensive suits are wrinkled and dripped on. High heels are muddied. And the funny thing is, people aren't angry. There's no typical NYC ass-kicking feistiness. They're just... sad. Today everyone mushed themselves onto the crowded downtown C train and not a single person was in a huff about being poked with an umbrella. They were all just kind of persevering, as if the musty train that smelled a little like towels that had been kept in a humid bathroom for a month was just adding insult to injury. With my face stuck in the armpit of some damp-smelling guy who looked like Lurch, I realized riding that train was like watching the straw break the camel's back, 100 times over. Poor, sad C train.

Except I wasn't really feeling sad and down. Even though I could feel my dress sticking to my legs and some stupid woman more than brushed her slimy umbrella against me, I felt kind of... primal. That's the only real word to describe it. The heavy rain breaks something in me - the desire to be perceived as a normal person with a sense of decency. Bottom line: Once my dress is see-through, who cares? Once I'm running down the street jumping puddles, I might as well jump them with style. It may have helped that between the dress and the sandals and the little braided headband I was sporting I already had a serious Flower Child vibe going on, but what I really wanted to do was take off my shoes and dance in the mud and embrace the rain. Roll in it. Splash in it. I wanted someone to sweep me off my feet in the rain and hug me and love me and enjoy how nice and cool it feels on your skin in the summer heat. That's the problem with rain in the city - you're too busy wondering if people can see your panty lines or if your shoes will be ruined to just pause and think about how good it feels. It's a race to get to the other side of the sidewalk, to the scaffolding, before the big bad rain can catch you.

While I was doing just that - racing to a piece of awning, actually - some guy walked past me with a humongous umbrella and decided that, obviously, by the state of my clothing and the fact that I was contemplating walking into the downpour, I needed some convincing. So as he walked past, Mr. Big Ass Umbrella said, "It's just water!" I, of course, answered "Can you leave me alone, please?" But as he walked away, I really just wanted to throw down my purse, remove my shoes, run after him and shove that big, stupid umbrella You Know Where. If you only know me from my blog, you may think this is a possibility considering my Rat Broiling fantasies. But if you know me in real life, you know for sure that I'm never going to be shoving people's umbrellas in places where the sun doesn't shine. (Even though, right now, places where the sun DOES shine are few and far between.) But after a few hours to contemplate Mr. Big Ass Umbrella and his obnoxious comment, I'm taking it to heart. It's just water. For the sake of looking semi-decent in the work place, I'm going to buy an umbrella. But maybe the next time it downpours I'll head outside to my backyard and sit in the rain and let it do what it does. Because hey, it's just water.

TBK2M #1

In an effort to spice things up and update my blog more often, I'm going to try to introduce some less time-consuming fare. Here's one new addition to WMWC. I call it TBK2M (which looks unsettlingly like NKOTB to me.) What does it stand for?

Thoughts Best Kept To Myself

(I put the "2" in there for the edginess factor. Since a blog named after romance and dessert needs all the "edgy" it can muster.)

Anyway, in TBK2M I'll give you insight into the brief, mostly strange, somewhat entertaining things that pop into my head. You know what I mean. Those thoughts that make you giggle out loud walking down the street because you're like "Wow, I can't believe I just thought that!" The thoughts that are best kept to yourself. The thoughts I'm going to post anyway.

Today's TBK2M?

Leaning exhaustedly against a pole on the L train today, I thought:

Hey, would rock climbing enhance my ability to pole dance? Both activities require upper body strength. Would pole dancing enhance my ability to rock climb?

Then I remembered, oh hey, I don't know HOW to pole dance.

But how hard could it be? It's basically only done by women, and we're not really known for our buff upper bodies and superhuman arm strength.

THEN I decided that the next time I'm alone in a subway car, I'm gonna give it a go. Pole dancing is one of those weird things that's still taboo in America. The kind of thing that's only okay on cringe-worthy shows like Daisy of Love or whatever. But it looks SO fun. Like a cross between sliding down a fireman's pole and playing on a swing set.

Bottom line: Next time there's a pole and no one's looking, I'm trying it.