Giving Notice

The chart sits on my screen, a web of measured colored boxes set on a field of grid. An ordered elegance that fills me with pride over the design but also makes my stomach churn by what it represents.

“This is great,” my boss says as he leans over my shoulder and glances down at the dotted lines and boxes meant to illustrate a new organizational structure. “It looks kind of like comic book art.” I highlight the teal blue box where my name would have been and type in an italicized “open.” It blinks at me, a pretty Pantone depiction of the decision I’ve just made.

I left my job this week. Barely five months since I started that position and I’ve already moved on to something new.

“I’m about to resign and I think I might throw up,” I typed to Looney the morning I gave my notice. Our weekly staff meeting had just ended and my boss had run out to grab a bagel and coffee. “Want anything?” She asked me cheerfully from my door. I shook my head and focused on the screen. “She offered to buy me a bagel. I’m about to quit and she’s offering me a bagel,” I added.

“I could go for a bagel,” he replied. “What can I say? It’s not personal; it’s just business.”

“Ugh,” I think and open up a chat box with Sara. “I’m freaking out because I’m about to quit and Looney is quoting The Godfather…”

“Ooohhh,” she types. “I know how you feel. It’s the worst, but you just have to do it.”

My boss walks back in, sipping coffee and unwrapping her bagel.

“You had something you wanted to talk about?” She asks me.

“Um, yes,” I barely squawk out. “Actually, can we talk in private?” We enter an empty office and close the door. Suddenly her demeanor changes and she leans towards me, her voice thick with concern, “Alejandra, are you OK?”

I catch my reflection in the window and realize how I look: jittery, pale, I hadn’t slept much the night before.

“Oh, I’m fine, fine,” I quickly reassure her. “It’s nothing like that. It’s just that…”

I take a deep breath and begin to stumble somewhat coherently through the speech that I’d rehearsed over and over again in my head: “Well, it's not easy to say…I’m leaving…at the end of the month…Really wasn’t looking for anything…this just kind of fell into my lap. …I really do love it here…I just can’t pass this up, though…it’s kind of my dream…”

“Oh my gosh! Of course,” she says. “This is so exciting. Of course, we’ll miss you, but this sounds like a wonderful opportunity for you.”

Her support instantly puts me at ease. Together, we tell her boss, the rest of the staff. The anxiety disappears and excitement floods in.

And just like that, I know that I’m ready.

Uncanny

I was debating whether or not to mention this, as it's a bit delicate and really difficult to discuss without falling into stereotypes, but I just had to note that I did a serious double-take when I pulled the May issue of Wired out of my mailbox this weekend. It features Masi Oka on the cover and was timed to coincide with the season return of Heroes (tonight, I'll be watching).

I’m certain that I’m not the only one who had the same reaction. The lighting , the weapon, the menacing expression—pretty unfortunate timing in light of recent events. And boy, did Masi Oka ever pick a bad time to shave his head...

I imagine there’s a bit of a buzz over at Conde Nast this week over this. Did any of you have the same reaction? (Or am I the only nerd who subscribes to Wired?)

They seem to be into chicks with glasses

I have a stat tracker that allows me to see what keywords and phrases people search to find my blog. (Yes, I know that's a little creepy.) I'm always amused by the way that odd permutations of words lead people here. I thought that I would share with you a random selection of recent Google search queries that led total strangers to dell desktop.

(I think this goes without saying, but number 2 is definitely my favorite...with 6 a close second.)

1.) "breath on me" + "subway" (I'm thinking this one might be from a song lyric. Bruce Springsteen, maybe?)

2.) "my boyfriend said talk dirty to me during sex" + "examples to say" (This is a family blog so I can't really help you with this. However, I suspect I'll be dealing with these kinds of questions a lot more in the near future...)

3.) "Hot girls with glasses" + "Republican" (I think this one is definitely Moe's fault.)

4.) "Froyd definitions of love" [sic] (You know, Froyd and Freud actually have very different definitions of love.)

5.) "Oprah interviews Robert Duvall" (I'm glad that I'm not the only one for whom this was such a memorable event. If you're searching for this, then I'm pretty sure you're looking for Mama Duvall's crab cake recipe, which he mentioned in that fateful interview back in 1999. Fortunately for you, I'm a Robert Duvall-loving crab cake enthusiast.)

6.) Do Asian parents want kids to grow up to be unsocial nerds? (I've got nothing for you on this one.)

7.) "Sexy dancing desktop girls" (Here you go. And yes, it's totally suitable for work... In college I used to a have a pair of little tango dancers who would pop up and distract me for hours at a time.)

8.) "Chainsmoking Republican" "glasses" "sexy" (Moe, again.)

9.) "Ashleigh Banfield's sexy glasses" (She does have great glasses.)

10.) "fine girls" + "glasses" (Sigh... We get the point, people.)

11.) "are glasses sexy on women?" (Well given these queries, Number 10, I can confidently say that the answer to your question is "yes.")

They do it on the daily

A response to Brunch Bird's In Praise of the Journalists Covering the Virginia Tech Shootings

I admit that I'm usually the first to take playful shots at news reporters. The movie Anchorman is actually a favorite in my home for some of the absurd stereotypes and underlying realities about news anchors and on-air reporters in general. I take issue, however, with the implication that broadcast journalism is somehow inferior to print. While I allow that yes, there is a contingency of large-headed, fake & baked pretty faces blathering on air, it's unfair to the many serious, responsible, and dedicated television reporters and anchors who are out there, working just as hard to report the news. Those stories don't just fall out of the air onto the teleprompter.

I grew up watching one of these journalists in action every day, and I can attest to the fact that the work is just as hard. I've seen my dad lose sleep working to investigate, write, and put together a story. I've watched him spend hours and hours on each and every single detail of a 30 or 60 second piece, wrestling with time and the medium to impart as complete and accurate a story as possible. I've missed him for days and weeks at a time when he's traveled to other states and other countries to cover elections, wars, or even just to report on the culture of a place that I might otherwise never see. I've watched him conduct interviews with the most frustrating of subjects and situations--politicians in the midst of scandal, average citizens with limited language capacity, spin-happy flaks, even a very stoned Mick Jagger. I've seen the stress and frustrations when the newsroom battles don't work his way. I've seen him completely deflated after a stubborn news director cancelled a story because of network concerns. I've watched him refuse over and over to compromise the integrity of any story just because it would be easier or more popular with sponsors. And on that day when those planes crashed into the towers, I heard his frightened, but dedicated voice as he refused to come home, choosing instead to stay, with his colleagues, live on-air for three commercial-free days, showing and telling and asking the questions that we all wanted to ask from home.

I've also seen the reaction and love of a community that has watched him five nights a week for nearly 25 years--and it's not because of his deep voice or pretty face or choice of tie--it's because they recognize an actual love and respect for the community that he serves. He feels a responsibility to them, to the story, to truth, and yes, to journalism itself.

Yes, there is glory associated with working on television, and as one who has actually chosen the printed word over the spoken one, I completely agree that it is unfair that so many print journalists go unrecognized, but it's important to remember that that glory was given, not demanded.

I know that I am biased because I'm his daughter, but I refuse to believe that he is the only one of his kind. Technology has changed the world. At its root, journalism simply means "daily." It's a daily account of the things that are going on in the world. And whether it's in a newspaper or on NBC or even on some blogs, it's still journalism. Are there limits to what an on-air reporter can do? Of course. Just as the print journalist is limited or the photographer or the blogger. But at the end of the day, I don't think that it's the medium that separates the journalists from the "personalities," I think it's a dedication and respect for both the craft and the story. My dad gets paid to speak into a microphone for 30 minutes at 6 and 11 pm every day. But what nobody else sees is that those 30 minutes actually start around 11 AM and rarely end before midnight. My dad is a news anchor, but if you ask him, he'll you tell that he's a journalist--and I completely agree.

This is not to say that I disagree with the underlying message--as I noted earlier, I think that reporters do need to be respected and appreciated. I have no tolerance for the sensationalists who have made that more and more difficult. And I have all the respect and admiration in the world for each and every single journalist (including the Bird's S.O.) covering the tragedy in Blacksburg right now and also for the Bird and others who are so willing to remind us of something that we might otherwise have missed.



*Oh, but I'm totally with her on the bit about Dr. Phil. He's a grandstanding quack.

All quiet on the blog front

I realize that things have been far too quiet around these parts, but I promise to be back soon to report on the latest excting development in my life. This development being the primary reason why I haven't had any time to blog lately...

In the meantime, please check out this link. As a fan of all things digital (and edible), I keep finding myself completely enthralled by this site. It's a total rabbit hole, though, so don't say that I didn't warn you...

Also, the next NY Bloggers Meetup is this Wednesday night. This time I'm switching things up by convening in the East Village and as before, all NY bloggers and blog afficionados are welcome. Click the Meetup button on the left sidebar to join or learn more details.

I definitely encourage all of you to come out as the first meetup was a blast and I'm happy to report that the group has more than doubled since last month. The first meeting brought out a bunch of very cool area bloggers [and one very clever bespectacled stalker ;)] and I expect this one to be the same--if not better.

See you there...

Sunday Morning

Here's one that I've been meaning to post for a couple weeks...

My breath fogs as I peer into the windows of the Lower East Side Tenement Museum, marveling at the way that past and present crash so elegantly in this part of town. It's Sunday morning and I'm waiting for Ilana. We have brunch together every week--decadently eating our way through NY just like we once did Washington.

"Damn," she says when I call to let her know I've arrived, 10 minutes early.

"I was counting on you being late." I point out that I was coming from Brooklyn this time, not New Jersey, and the trip took all of 20 minutes.

"OK," she tells me from the lobby of her Murray Hill apartment building. "I'm getting in a cab now."

It's freezing and I really have to use the bathroom. I don’t want to enter the restaurant yet, and choose to wander the slushy streets in search of another option. The cafes all seem a bit too earnest for my purposes, and I instead seek refuge in the stylized comfort of a Starbucks on Delancey. I stand in line, waiting for my turn to order from the green-eyed barrista with a band-aid on his neck. As he turns his head to call out a drink, I realize it's meant to hide a swollen hickey, one of several peeking out of the collar of his black Starbucks polo. It catches me by surprise—a bit of the real seeping through the crafted uniformity. They look recent and raw. I wonder if they're from a boyfriend. One who's languishing in bed right now thinking about the subtle saltiness of this green-eyed boy’s neck. More likely they’re from a stranger, met in the sweaty early hours when everything glows red and the search for right quickly declines to right now. In my mind I watch him creeping out at dawn, climbing over the snoring body, searching for his jeans, pausing momentarily to debate whether or not to leave a number before slipping out of an unfamiliar apartment into the crispness of the morning. It takes him a moment to realize what part of the city he's in before he turns and heads south.

"You can't show up at work like that," his roommate later warns when he wanders into his kitchen searching for a remedy to combat the pounding in his head. "There's juice in the fridge. Want some oatmeal?"

Paul--because that’s what I’ve decided his name is --declines and lights a cigarette instead, inhaling deep drags as he leans against the counter and studies his reflection in a dirty glass pane.

"I’m going to be late, " he mutters, as he searches for an emergency kit purchased post 9/11 by a slightly anal former roommate. He finds it and rips into two packs of generic painkillers.

“That’s supposed to be for emergencies,” his roommate says pointedly.

Paul glares at him and downs the pills with a loud gulp from the sink, gagging as the sweet coating of the caplet combines with the metallic aftertaste of city tap water.

“Can I help you?”

His impatient tone shake me out of my reverie. I want to tell him that I see past the band-aid. I want to ask him for the real story. I don’t, of course, and instead order a caramel apple cider and request the key to the bathroom. He tells me that it isn’t working in a way that makes me feel like I should have already known that.

I wonder if it’s too late to cancel my order.

There are no empty seats so I walk out and head towards the restaurant again, wrapping my exposed fingers around the steaming cup. I take the long way, splashing through the murky puddles and dodging the fat drops melting off of the fire escapes. The morning seems flooded with couples ambling through the city in a sleepy Sunday intimacy. And though I usually enjoy wandering the city alone, I feel that familiar ache and find myself wishing that cider wasn’t the only thing keeping me warm this morning.

I spot Ilana getting out of a cab as I round the corner.

“I’m sorry,” she says as we enter the crowded restaurant. “Were you waiting long?”

“Eh…no worries,” I reply, suddenly thankful for those quiet moments. “It gave me something to write about.”

A Special Blogroll Announcement

One of my favorite bloggers--and virtual friends--is Matt from Deglazed. This morning, I received a (shameless) e-mail from him letting me know that his blog has been nominated for a 2006 Best of Blogs award in the category of Best Food, Wine, and Cooking Blog.

Deglazed, if you haven't already checked it out, is a wonderful collection of stories about life in the kitchen for a new chef. Matt is incredibly clever and his posts always crack me up. He also makes sure to throw in several of his (awesome) recipes and the occasional gratuitous jab at Rachael Ray (that alone being reason enough to check it out).

Go vote and then check out his blog. Hmmm...or maybe that should be the other way around? It's up to you...

Oh, and for the record, he asked for a vote, but this plug was all me... ;)