The benefits of living in Seattle, Arizona:

The woman who works next to me has such a great six-inch voice. It’s like the walls around her just suck up everything she says until all that’s left is an unintelligible, productive-sounding murmur. I, on the other hand, seemed to have missed that day in kindergarten, so my six-inch voice sounds something like HEY YOU ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE OFFICE, DID YOU HEAR EVERY AWKWARD, STUTTERING MOMENT OF MY LAST INTERVIEW INCLUDING MY APOLOGY FOR BEING LATE AND I HOPE YOU DIDN’T MISS ANYTHING THAT’S GOING ON IN MY PERSONAL LIFE. GOT THAT? NO? OK I’LL TALK A LITTLE LOUDER.

Or at least that’s what it feels like when I get off the phone.

I thought I was being paranoid. I even asked the lady with the six-inch voice if I was being too loud. She said no. I said WHAT? But she told me not to worry because she didn’t notice that I was being particularly loud. I said OK, THANKS A LOT. I JUST WANTED TO CHECK.

And made a mental note to make an appointment with my doctor to discuss how I’m going deaf.

But I felt better. The six-inch-voice lady is nice (like me!) and certainly would tell me if I were talking loudly.

But then! I was listening to the intern who sits on the other side of the cubicle wall: “HI, I WAS WONDERING IF I COULD SPEAK TO, UH, UM, MR. …YES, PLEASE? THANK YOU [NERVOUS LAUGH] [NERVOUS LAUGH] HI, UH, I WAS WONDERING, CAN I SCHEDULE A TIME TO UH, YES, INTERVIEW YOU? [NERVOUS LAUGH] OK GREAT THAT, YES, I, THAT SOUNDS GREAT! [NERVOUS LAUGH] THANK YOU SO MUCH! [NERVOUS LAUGH] I’M LOOKING FORWARD TO SPLEAKING […NERVOUS PAUSE…] UM, WITH YOU TOO! [NERVOUS LAUGH] OK! THANKS! GOODBYE TO Y-"

And I got a little more paranoid.

It’s not like she was yelling. But it was definitely …loud. It was definitely exactly what I had feared I sounded like. And it was definitely the type of thing nice six-inch-voice ladies would be nice enough not to point out.

And I’ve tried to learn from the six-inch-voice lady, believe me. I am continually awed by how her voice is so unintelligible from a distance yet so clear and normal-sounding from up close. When I try to speak quietly it sounds like I’m doing a bad impression of a porn star. I seem to have gotten the breathy whisper lesson instead of the six-inch voice lesson—which has its advantages! But I’m not sure how the president/CEO of one of the top travel business auditing companies felt about it.

Anyway, at least now that my boss is gone and the intern’s not around and the publisher is gone and the knee-high f*ck me boot-wearing vice president is gone and the salespeople are gone, there are only three people I could potentially embarrass myself in front of.

And three people who can tell me what the hell is going on when I don’t know what the hell is going on.

Awesome.

You would have to be an angel to clean out the poopstains in the office bathroom.

I salute you, poopy-toilet angel.

The very act requires a selflessness and goodwill I can’t even begin to comprehend. I mean, sure, it happens. But even if it happened on Monday and the cleaners don’t come til Saturday, there’s no way it would even cross my mind to do anything about it, even when the scrubby brush is sitting two inches from my hand. I just think, “Oh, that’s disgusting,” and move on. But some anonymous good Samaritan (likely an early riser!) actually thought to clean it, and did.

Which raises another important question: Who the hell leaves poopstains in the office bathroom on Monday and leaves it for someone else to clean!? Who DOES that?

Also: Who the hell would notice that?

Answer: Me.


Hhhhhhh.

Do you ever get the four o’clock sleepies? You know, that part of the day that has no godly purpose other than being time for a good nap? Right, employers of the world? RIGHT? Listen, do you know how much more productive I would be if you just put a little cot/plush couch in a cozy corner of the office, dedicated to letting tired workers refresh their minds and bodies? Having dedicated nap spaces could seriously improve worker productivity and boost margins marvelously! Or keep me from mindlessly f*cking around on the Internet for two hours, which would at least make me feel more productive. Oh! Oh! It would also improve my health, because instead of imbibing potentially carcinogenic diet drinks with caffeine and eating chocolate to stay awake, I would take a healthy nap and eat a carrot when I woke up.

I would, I promise! That could seriously improve my long-term working potential, because I can only imagine how heart attacks f*ck up your work schedule.

Much like having babies. Send good thoughts to my soon-to-be non-beachball boss-lady, who is giving birth at this very instant, god bless her!

She’d better be back tomorrow though. Like, hello! I’m so over having to make decisions I can be held accountable for!

By the way, even though I spend 90% of my time resting for work, driving to work, f*cking around at work (I wish), or recuperating from work, I do, in my infinite resourcefulness and fabulousness, manage to squeeze in other interesting things.

Like interviewing prospective students at my Alma Mater.

Of which more later.

*

Ug. Thunder. What’s with this rain? I’m waiting for Noah to start rounding some of us cats up.

Thanks for listening. This is R., in Seattle, Arizona.

Only an editor could have eight different writing instruments out on her desk and actually use them all. All the time. (Sorry—assISTANT EDITOR.)

I know you think I’m anal, but I really do need the big yellow highlighter for highlighting general text, the big pink highlighter for highlighting really important general text, and the fine-point purple pen for putting little stars around really important general text and underlining key phrases. And of course I need the small pink highlighter for my layout sheet. And the blue one. Equally important is the finely tuned, high-performance Pentel PD345 mechanical pencil with 0.5 lead for instances in which notes must be erasable. For instances in which they need not be erasable, my trusty Paper♥Mate medium point red pen is ready to draw clear, visible marks that are none too chubby, none too scrawny. But in case my marks need to be especially dark—for a fax, for example—I trade in my red medium point for my black uni•ball Signo Gelstick—0.7, natch.

And sometimes I use my regular no. 2 pencil with the eraser tip if I don’t need to write something very small but it needs to be erased.

And my purple uni•ball Signo Gelstick—0.7—is still in the rotation, although it fell out of favor after the magic of writing in purple wore off.

…

I won’t bore you with further details.

…

Of which there are many.

…

And not because I don’t want to. Or because they are “boring.” But because I’m suffering from carpal tunnel syndrome completely unrelated to excessive non-work e-mailing.

Completely. Un. Related.

Recorder, I hate you.

You got that?

What, you didn’t get that?

Surprise, surprise. Senile old piece of crap. Well at least tell me you got the last two interviews I did.

What’s that? It’s a little bit difficult to hear you.

You only got part of it?

…Ok, which part?

The part where I’m speaking?

Ok, what about the part where the person I’m interviewing is speaking?

…

You didn’t quite catch that?

You were napping?

I’m sorry, am I allowed to nap on the job?

Well, yes, but am I allowed to?

Ok then.

It’s an ear problem you say? I didn’t plug the cord into the right hole?

Oh, I see. So it’s not actually your fault.

You’re saying it’s my fault? I’ll have you know th-

What?

Ok.

Ok.

WHAT?

No, no. I appreciate you! Whatever you do, DO NOT MYSTERIOUSLY ERASE MY INTERVIEW WITH THE ANAL PEOPLE. YOU GOT THAT? I NEED THE INTERVIEW WITH THE ANAL PEOPLE FOR VERIFICATION PURPOSES!

…

Sorry.

I’m sorry, ok? I didn’t mean to yell.

Fine.

No. Hhhhhh. I won’t do it again.

Yes, I apologize for losing my temper. But it’s just that y-

Sorry, sorry. No, I won’t make excuses.

…

Nothing.

No, seriously, nothing.

I was just looking in your goddamn direction, ok?! It doesn’t mean I’m thinking about stepping on you repeatedly or attacking you with a stapler and distributing your innards all over the offi-

Uh. Nothing.

Nothing! Just forget it, ok? Anyway, we were talking about the interview I just did. I notice that my notes are missing as well.

Are you sure you know nothing about it?

You’re sure you’re sure?

You didn’t in a fit of peevishness tell my hard drive to erase all trace of the notes I took in case—Heaven forbid!--you, somehow, didn’t quite catch my interview?

You know nothing about that, huh?

Heh.

That’s really interesting. Because, I can’t seem to find those notes. Which means I will have to call up my interviewee and tell them I am a moron and didn’t record the interview or take notes and have the memory capacity of a paramecium.

WELL YOU SHOULD CARE! You godd*mn dim-witted non-recording doddering decrepit bulky—yes, bulky—archaic outdated inefficient imbecilic demonic Panasonic battery-operated ersatz miserable disgusting excuse for a recorder!!!!!!!!!!!! I’m going digital!!!!!!!!!! I swear I’ll do it!

…

Yes, I feel better now.

No, you’re right. It’s not in the budget.

Yes. I still hate you.

According to Mel Levine, author of Ready or Not, Here Life Comes, today’s youth is not taught serious decision-making skills.

And thank goodness, because for a while there I was thinking it was my fault.

Pursuant to my following my boyfriend around, like the good girlfriend and NICE PERSON I am, I now have three job opportunities in places he has been. And because I refuse to make a decision without agonizing at every opportunity, I am now completely stressed out over which job is my Soul-Mate Job. So I just thought I’d put it out there, in the hopes that complete strangers might know what’s best for me better than I do.

The Sure Thing:
Pro: I love my job.
Con: It’s in Arizona.
But: I already have it, which means that it requires no work to obtain.
But: It’s in Arizona.
But: It would be really mean and self-serving to leave this job after three months (…right?), especially when their Editor-in-Chief is on bed rest (…right?).
But: They just printed up my business cards. Guess what they say. “Lowly Peon of an Assistant Editor.”
But: I love my job.
But: I might love another job just as much! ...faithless job-whore that I am.

The Doggy Treat:
Pro: It’s in the Promised Land, California!
Con: Would have to leave job I love.
But: I would probably love this job too!
And: Might get doggy treats and other cool doggy accessories as employee of doggy magazine!
But: They probably want me to start before May. And, like, that doesn’t work with my boyfriend’s schedule.
And: Pay is unconscionable. Unconscionable, I tell you!
But: It’s in California.
And: The position is Associate Editor. As in, I associate with you, rather than I grovel at your feet like the unworthy assistant I am.
But: Am probably wasting valuable time worrying about a job I don’t have yet.
But: It’s a consumer magazine rather than trade, which is what I’m more interested in.
But: Editor sounded pissy on the phone when I talked to her.
But: Editor-in-Chief sounded really nice!
And: This could be the only good job in Southern California!

The Fabuleux:
Pro: I would, once again, be fabulous. Swiss Alps, here I come.
Pro: Title: Senior Writer. ‘Sup now, b*tch?
Con: Paid under the table and could be arrested by Swiss government at any time.
Pro/Con (?): Editor-in-Chief refers to me as “g-spot.” (G referring to my initials…I hope.)
Con: No waves on Lake Léman.
Pro: I and my French-speaking abilities would be fabulous, fabulous, fabulous.
Con: $$$ plane ticket to Genève, land of gorgeous countryside, delectable food, ridiculously expensive cost of living, and stores that are only open for two hours a day.

I mean, I like what I have. It treats me well. Makes me feel good about myself. Challenges me. But I’m just not sure it’s The One. You know? What if there’s another job out there that will treat me better, inspire me more, challenge me to grow and know myself better, and have great benefits? I don’t want to just settle.

So, people. What’s it gonna be?

Ever notice that the more people you want to share your fabulous writing prowess with, the less people you have to lavish your fabulous writing prowess on?

Hi Dad.

I’m telling you, it’s a problem.

Ok Dad. You don’t do or say anything interesting, and I won’t do or hear anything… .

Ok then. We’re all set.

…

Naw, I’m just kidding. Welcome to the crowd! Standing room only but I’m sure you won’t mind. Ok, topic for today: Why I am tempted to become a republican [gasps of horror, fainting, cries of indignation] even though I am pro-choice and have been known to say all republicans are self-righteous assholes…except for Alcoholic Roommie who is funny enough not to be an asshole when he’s being an asshole and to whom I hopefully will not be tempted to tout my fabulous writing prowess now that I’ve dubbed him Alcoholic Roommie.

I know this has caused you to lose a lot of sleep too, so I thought I’d share what I heard on NPR – I ♥ U 4EVR!!!! – on Thursday: Social security. There’s this big hubbub over how it’s going to be bankrupt in 2062 or ‘58 or whatever. Anyway, point is, when I will be retiring. That’s because the baby boomers are, as the commentator put it, like a pig making its way through the belly of a snake. That means they’re going to eat up a huge chunk of cash as they go through the system, so that by the time I reach the age of doddering senility (in approximately two years), there will only be about 70% of the benefits I should receive left – even though I’ve been paying in with every working dollar I earn. WTF?!

But wait, it gets better. Did it ever seem like something must be missing from the equation? Well, there is. And according to the story I heard on NPR, it’s this: during all the years the baby boomers have been paying into Social Security, they’ve been creating a huge surplus, since their generation is so much larger than the one before it. So what happened to the surplus, and more importantly, why isn’t it waiting for me? Well, the government took it, and invested it, and is using it to pay off the multi-trillion-dollar deficit caused by us wanting to prove to the world that we have big hairy balls and you’d better not f*ck with us (among other sundry factors).

WTF?!!?

Now, remember when I said I didn’t usually dabble in politics because I have no idea WTF I’m talking about? Well, that still holds in case I’m wrong/underinformed/have no idea WTF I’m talking about. But as a worker, this is why I’m so frickin’ mad: I spend a hundred thousand hours of my life – over 4,000 days – sitting in a goddamn cubicle so that the government can take that money and spend it on Halliburton?

WTF?!@???

(Please note that Halliburton is employed as a catch-all scape goat for all generally liberal-minded dissatisfication with the current political situation.)

Now, normally I’m a poster-child liberal. I think that the government should help those who are less fortunate, because for those seeped in a culture of poverty, it is that much harder to dig their way out. Especially when so many other people have a head start. And I don’t just say that because I grew up eating tofu and wearing tie die and hearing how awful our neighbor the land developer was. I say that because when I was in Nicaragua, I saw that it was true. Your cultural perimeters define your idea of what is possible. I know that it is possible for me to be a writer. I grew up in an environment where that was something people did. My friends and students in Nicaragua didn’t know what the Internet was. And I felt it myself—as a twenty-two-year-old traveler, I suddenly began to feel like an old maid. After all, everyone around me was married with two kids at my age. I began to feel incredibly, incredibly old. It was a very subtle feeling. It’s like a voice that hovers just beyond the range of human hearing, but is somehow incorporated in your psyche. Knowledge does not penetrate into areas where these people live because many of them lack the resources, time, and optimism to seek it out. Which is why I think we have to have resources to combat subcultures of poverty in our nation.

As for old people, heck, they need money too. And I’m all for the government pooling our collective risk so that everyone is guaranteed a return. But that money is our money, and should be uniquely dedicated to the purpose of supporting retired citizens. Down with big government! Isn’t that what you Republicans always say? But then again, your president did take our big fat surplus and turn it into a flabby ol’ sack of debt. You suck. Oh well, maybe I’ll just go independent and be completely disenfranchised.

...

Not to get all political and sh*t. (All biographers please note that any reproduction of this information without prior consent of the AIC Trust is unlawful and will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. By the way, what do you think about “Beginnings of Genius: R. Lavishes Her Fabulous Writing Prowess on Politics” —as a title for this chapter?)

…

How the heck did I get on this topic anyway? Next time tell me I’m ranting, already.

…

Uh. Bye Dad.

Dear Goddess of Mercy and Roadside Assistance,

Please protect me from the morons in the Phoenix metro area who hurtle down the freeway with careless disregard for slower-moving traffic. Please bless our city, which seems cursed with the blight of the monster truck driver and its attendant illusions of invincibility. Bring understanding and compassion to those who believe themselves immune to the laws of man and nature, who daily thumb their noses at those who would enforce their safety and are blind to cars moving on the road as well as those crashed off the side. Please, open our people’s eyes to the havoc they unwittingly wreak in their haste. Give somebody a goddamn clue! Enlighten the City of Phoenix so that they will not employ street sweepers after dark around blind corners going 30 miles an hour in a 75—in the fast lane. For they too are your children. Protect me from the ravages of traffic, allow me to get to work in under 37 minutes, and please cause a natural disaster to permanently cut off all residents of Scottsdale and its Buick-driving inhabitants. There is no need for these ancient creatures to venture on the highways—nor is there any need for them to ever consider the fast lane an option. While you’re at it, dear lady of mercy, please reserve your righteous wrath for people who go at or under the speed limit in the fast lane, because he who knows not that he knows not is a fool, and deserves to ride a bicycle. Also, I beseech you, let the trucker who almost ran me off the road be confined to two-lane streets in Scottsdale that go by schoolyards.

I ask for your protection in my daily sojourn across the metro area, and beg you smite those who would hinder me. Thank you oh goddess of infinite wisdom and justice.

Amen.


*


Every time I drive home I pass a big billboard for Hooters. And I think, hmm. No, gainful employment has not made me give up the idea of making $2.50 an hour while having men stare at my boobs. Quite the opposite, in fact. Now that I have a “real” job, nobody could think I was working at Hooters for the money, which as I’ve said before, I wouldn’t be. It would be purely for your entertainment, of course. And maybe Maxim’s.

Ah, the joys of wielding editorial power over other people. To be able to say “Yes! I will publish you!” and “No! I reject your literary pretensions and deem you unworthy of our publication!” ...And you thought editorial assistants were the secretaries of the publishing world. How little you know.

By the way, I would like to take this opportunity to state for the record that I am nice. And that any snarky comments contained herein reflect the thoughts and opinions that might occur to a mean, little person, and do not necessarily reflect the opinion, values or perspective of the writer. I’m nice, dammit! I’m just trying to help you see the other side, the mean, little people’s side!

Anyway, I’m over the whole contractions thing. Now it’s on to Irritated Gay Parachutist. Like, why does he have to be so irritated all the time? I ask him whether pictures are of high enough quality and he gives me this lecture about how [patronizing, self-righteous voice] “editorial should take care of which pictures to use, where to put them, and making sure they are high-quality enough to use before it gets to the art department.” Because we do not care to trouble ourselves with such mundane concerns as art. I mean, it’s not like we’re the art department! Noooo.

I mean, whatever. Just don’t give me shit because there’s a big fat chip on your shoulder due to past failings of people who have held my position! I’m new. And I’m nice! So stop being so damn irritated!

Look! Look! Like magical snow falling on a barren field: comments from people I don’t know!

I am a nano-celebrity!

No! I did not just roll over my pregnant editor's TOE! No! No! No!

It’s hard to concentrate when your editor in the cubicle next to you is having contractions. I mean, not to diss on pregnant people, because I think they’re heroic and strong and, well, larger than life, but it kind of stresses me out thinking I’m sitting a few feet away from someone whose water might imminently break.

Ok, that’s an exaggeration. She looks like she swallowed a beach ball, but I don’t think she’s due for another few weeks.

But, you know what, in spite of the fact that my boss is about to go into labor, the fact that the VP thinks I’m the Managing Editor but my e-mail signature says I’m the Assistant Editor—and not to gripe but I think there’s a difference—the fact that they don’t buy me dinner if I stay late and that I have to interact on a daily basis with a demoniacal tape recorder purchased circa 1972, not to mention the fact that I have to think all the time, which is something I’m unaccustomed to doing at work—I love my job.

Yes, there, I said it. I love my job. Demoniacal technology notwithstanding. Is that dorky? Am I a tool? I’m so used to reflexively hating it that I feel like I’m capitulating to The Man and his dehumanizing, mind-numbing corporate enslavement of human creativity if I dare to enjoy what I get paid to do. Is that a Gen X thing??

Anyhoo, I’m totally sure that I will be able run the magazine when my boss pops out the babe. But they’d better call me Managing Editor, dammit!

Although, I’m slightly worried by the fact that I get in early and stay late and bring work home. So far I haven’t allowed it to impinge upon my yoga time or TV time, but it is putting uncomfortable pressure on my doggy time and sleepy time, which I can see one day being me no happy time. Will I become one of those people who live to work? What the hell will I have to talk about if I’m not dissatisfied with my job? Or will I not care because I’m totally satisfied with what I’m doing with my life? Or will I always question whatever it is that I’m doing and thereby never achieve the peace of mind I so desperately seek?

Perhaps the latter. But nevermind that for now. I love my job! Neener, neener.

It never fails but you do the wash and you somehow manage to squirt tuna-juice on a freshly laundered sweatshirt.

Or, freshly-laundered, as my editor would say. I know, I know. I couldn’t believe she was hyphenating an adverb ending in -ly either! I just couldn’t think of a polite way of saying “Yo bitch, you’re WRONG.” I mean, it would be mean to say that to a pregnant lady, right? As always, I was the epitome of perceptiveness and tact when I mentioned that maybe things had changed since 1996, when they bought their AP Stylebook. What do I know? I just have the 2004 version. Hmph.

Anyway, I’m sure I secured her devotion by talking about how awful labor is when she took me out to lunch.

…

Can you believe I said that?

Yeah, I really do have a way with words. And time zones. I got to work an hour early to prepare for my 10 o’clock interview—my Very First Interview—oh! There’s a message. Who could have called me so early in the morning? Message from 8:10 am says: “Hi, this is Barry. It’s 10:10 right now and I was just wondering if we were still on for that interview. Call me back.” ?F!U(%$)@#? He didn’t tell me he was in that part of Canada!!

But I hear you learn much more from your mistakes than from your successes. See how much I’m learning? Choice excerpt from interview No. 2:

’Wee No. 2: Ok, let’s start going over that list.

Me: [Frantically trying to figure out what list he could possibly be talking about] Ok, um, yeah…what list was that?

’Wee: The list that…I’m sorry, what did you call me for?

Me: I…er…uh, I was going to ask you some questions about how to create buzz on the tradeshow floor? [Don’t ask.]

’Wee: Right. Well, I prepared for the call by making a list of a few things I thought you would be interested in.

Me: Oh! [40-watt bulb flickers over my head] Well, I, thank you—you were so prepared that…I was unprepared by your preparedness.

Not that I have the recollection of this mortifying conversation burned indelibly into my cerebral cortex.

SEE HOW MUCH I’M LEARNING?

I have absolutely no doubt that I will very soon be an incredibly competent and well-spoken editor, capable of dealing with unexpected situations with exceptional grace, wit, and eloquence. No doubt. None whatsoever. At all. Nope. None.

Just so long as I don’t have to talk to anyone who’s so prepared that I’m unprepared by their preparedness.