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I finally did it. I quit my job. I couldn’t be happier.  granted, i still have about three weeks left till i’m officially unemployed, but i’m so psyched, excited and optimistic about what this will mean for me.

i know, it might come as kind of a surprise after my previous fawning over my  job and declaring how i *did* want to be a corporate business woman. well, a lot has happened, and my attitude has changed a lot since those postings.  in part toward my company - although i still really do believe what in what it’s doing and think it will be a catalyst for change - but mainly toward my job, and the rest of my life.

i’ve been writing about this a lot, just not on my blog - lest somehow someone from my work accidentally stumble upon it before i had made my severance official. i’ll post those entries at some point in the future (probably after i’m actually gone), but the basic jist of it is that i am not a desk person.  this has been my first real desk job, and it has come to really grate on me in these past four months or so. i couldn’t imagine the rest of my life spent this way - even if i did climb the ladder, have more authority and more reign to do what i wanted. i couldn’t imagine that for the rest of my life, my “life” would be someone else’s property.   i realized that if a company as basically good as the one i’m at (although of *course* not with out its flaws - and i’ll post more on that later) couldn’t satisfy me, i would never be happy to work for someone else, and give them my time, my life. for what? in exchange for two weeks of PTO a year? i work weekends, nights, 12 hour days … blahblahblah … and i get TEN DAYS in exchange?!!  now i’m ranting - and it’s not a rant necesarily against my place of employment, but more against corporate America in general.  i may sound cliche - as i’m by no means the first to realize this - but it was stealing my soul.

i think that as more and more people in my generation come to the realization i have, the face of the corporate world will be forced to change to a certain extent. or at least i hope it does, for the sake of the people trapped inside.  we were brought up to know what we want and go for it, to demand nothing less than perfection from ourselves *and* our employers.

anyway, back to my original theme of it being a lot of work to be unemployed.  it’s probably obvious from my above tirade that i will not be proffering my soul to another company.  i’m going to be a freelance writer, and while i know that sounds ambitious (and also kind of cliche) i have high hopes for the future.  it’s been so much work to get to this point, because i wanted to be at a relatively good financial spot with freelance work, before i just jumped without a safety net. so i’ve been working my ass off, getting blogging jobs, article writing jobs, PR jobs, publicist jobs, researching jobs, and on and on.  i’ve been working on the weekends, at night, over my lunch break, and before i go to work in the morning to try and make this happen.  right now i’m not in love with all the jobs i’m doing, but for now they’ll pay the bills and i can refine as i go along, have more time, and become more experienced at the game.

back in the day, the reason i got into journalism was to write. and as the years have gone on, i’ve gotten further and further away from the writing aspects of my jobs until now i have absolutely no writing duties at my current job.  true, that gave me more ability to write in my spare time, but i’ve always wanted my passion to be my job, not my hobby. so that’s the road i’m going down.

i’ve enjoyed my day jobs for the most part - a few years ago i couldn’t imagine doing anything but producing news - but for now they’ve run their course.  i know myself well enough and am not naive enough to think this is it for me.  i won’t be surprised if in a year or two, i’m off to try something new, but at least i will have given this a try - which is what i’ve said about almost everything i’ve done.

ryan’s quit his job also and we have great plans for this next phase in our life.  we’re going to enjoy the sunny days instead of watching them go by from our desks.  we’re going to work from wherever the hell we want to, whenever the hell we want to - at 10 am or 3 am. we’re going to live in japan with my parents for a few months.  then maybe try house swapping (we still want to keep our home base) so we can live in some of our dream cities - new york, london.  who. frikkin. knows.  and if you know me, then you know that those three words make all these sense in the world to me.

i’m posting a blog i wrote on my (cough cough) myspace a long time ago, but it really bears re-posting - i think i covered everything that angers me pretty well.  seriously, what is the DEAL with disgusting, slovenly, creepy guys saying the first thing about you that pops into their mind. it’s infuriating, degrading, and offensive. and it’s gotten so bad that it recently forced me to say the dreaded “f word” while i was on the phone with my mom: i was in the park, on the phone with her, when this weird (probably not-quite-right), creepy, older-looking guy came up in front of me and just stood there.  he didn’t say anything but i knew he was up to no good.

“i’m on the phone,” i said - which was my was of warning him “nicely.” he still stood there, and then asked if i was single.  i told him, more forcefully this time, that i was ON THE PHONE.  he kept asking me, several times in a row, if i was single.  finally i burst out, “that’s none of your fucking business!!!”

of course, my mom on the other end was probably mortified. this is the woman who prefers i not use words like “pee” and “butt” - in fact, when i was growing up, they were completely off-limits.  now, if i say them, or other sundry “offensive” words i throw in from time to time (sucks, crap, blows, damn, hell), i just get a disappointed exclamation of my name.  which, rather to my surprise, is how she handled my f-bomb. i thought she’d flip a little more.  but i explained to her that you had to be firm, and even rude and bitchy (yes, i even said bitchy) sometimes, or people just don’t get it.

she said that you could be firm, but still be gracious and classy (oh my mother, the absolute epitome and bastion of class. i love her).   i told her my first statement - the “i’m on the phone” - *was* me being gracious and classy.  that after years of dealing with these kind of outbursts and people, i’d kind of gotten it down to a bit of a science. then she said jokingly and rather sarcastically, “yes, it must me such a burden being good looking” (like she, btw, is one to talk).  and i said, actually it is. and it’s not that i wish i wasn’t attractive, i just wish guys would learn to be respectful.

so without further adeiu, here is my original post:

i’ve had it. i’m sick of the crazy-ass people who apparently think that catcalling / grunting / commenting / leering / otherwise being a nasty prick, is somehow going to get them some positive feedback. i’m assuming, of course, that that’s what they *are* thinking - certainly they can’t be doing this for anyone’s edification, right? based on (unfortunately, disturbingly) vast experience, i’ve compiled a list of usual offenders. take note, bitches.

1. the homeless or might-as-well-be-homeless leerer: yes, i have my ipod on and i walk by like i haven’t heard anything (just like i do when you ask for money b/c yah, when it comes down to it i *am* cold and heartless … i have no choice, thanks to you), but i hear you, and i don’t understand. i mean really. i only want to know WHY WHY WHY FOR THE LOVE OF SWEET JEHOVAH WHY?! what do you think you’re going to accomplish? i’m well dressed. put together. business-looking even. i’m clearly not a crack-whore. i’m clearly walking *home* - and by home i mean a place with walls, and a roof, in a building with a concierge. not “home” to a box in a an alley. you think you have a chance? this one truly doesn’t leave me time to be *that* disgusted, b/c it makes me curious more than anything.

2. the ghetto-fabulus leerer: ahem. ok. i understand i may have that universal “look” - the cliche “tall, skinny, blonde” thing. i also understand “attraction” crosses race, economic (and even gender) boundaries — for some people. not for me, bitches. i like my men white and well-off. but i get it. you don’t know me and here i am, tall skinny and blonde, walking in your hood (i’m talking about one hood in particular, and believe me, i *wouldn’t* be there if i had a choice …). i’ve clearly put more than 5 minutes into my appearance (which is more than i can say for a lotta chickies in this area), and done more than pull some rumpled sweatpants out of the closet (again … more than i can say …). oh, and i’m not your baby mama (*again* …). i understand. you *just don’t know* what to do when you see such an uncommon sight! ok, i’ll tell you. just stop. i’m better dressed / more put together / more confident for a reason. i’m way out of your league. so again i say, stop.

3. the (sleazy) business man: (i say sleazy b/c i see *plenty* of the non-sleazy ones during my commute. a lot of them are relatively attractive. they leave me alone.) you must think you see your “equal,” b/c i look professional, independent and confidant. can you guess which statement you’re right about? apparently not, so i’ll help you out. i am professional, independent and confidant. you are not my equal. let’s put the fact that i’m married aside. (and this goes for all the above mentioned offenders:) i would never ever EVER NEVER EVER *EVER* be so flattered by your .5 seconds of attention while passing on the street that i’d feel i *must* get to know you, turn around, and run after you. i’m just trying to help out here, and since your above actions are so imbecile, i have to think you really might not know that. (ps- no other relatively attractive woman - who i’m sure you also leer at - will ever turn around and run after you. just a tip.)

4. the idiot i somehow get dragged into conversation with: i do a lot to avoid you. i’m reading, listening to an ipod, walking fast, not responding to you. yet somehow (be it in a store, a prison-like situation on a bus, in line at starbucks, whatever) i am forced into conversation with you. forced into questions like, “do you model?” (no, really, how cliche). now, i’m not a total bitch. i find it hard to just come out and say, “leave me alone.” but to me, that’s what my body language was doing already. you’re clearly stupid. so you talk, and i give one word responses if i absolutely have to. any other normal person would just leave me alone. it’s not that i’m shy, or that i’ll eventually respond to you. no. i just want you to shut the hell up.

5. the under-age gangsta-kid: ok. i look young, i know. but lord have mercy, not *that* young. so that can only mean one thing. you think older women are hot, and your (probably absentee) fathers are best described by # 2 (see above). the hope for your future is diminishing quickly. that’s all i have to say about you.

**general note**
these leering perpetrators have to know at least one thing - the girls they’re ogling are probably ogled by a decent number of other people. here’s something you must not know: we’re used to it, we hate it, and we hate you. (i’m counting out the skanky / want to be stared at / purposely dress to get attention crew.) it *doesn’t* make me feel special. this is a big city, with a lot of very attractive people. that means your leering activities must take up a lot of your time. how sad for you.

so, like i mentioned, i’ve been doing some freelance work.  one place i moonlight is waaaaay out in the boonies of the city - it takes me like an hour to get there. i’ll go out there for a couple hours after i’ve already put in 8 hours at my day job - so needless to say when i’m coming home, it’s pretty late.  fortunately there are two busses (i thought) that run as close as door-to-door as i’m going to get at 9 or 10 pm.  last week i found out there is really only *one* bus that does said door-to-door running - and it’s not the one i initially got on.  i took one bus out to this place, and i went ahead and took the same bus back when i was finished.  only problem is … it stops going as far as i need it to, once it gets past, like 7pm.  after 7, it stops in Seedy McSketchy-ville.

when we got to this point, and the bus driver kicked us all off, i briefly thought of just staying on the bus, riding it back to a safer area, getting off there and catching another bus or a cab.  then i realized, most of the area that bus drives through are sketchy. i’d have to ride it halfway back to where i’d been freelancing before i felt safe getting off in a neighborhood i didn’t know at 10 pm.

i was at least familiar with the area where i had to get off. ironic thing is, it’s actually closer, blocks-wise, to my apartment than the stop i was going to get off at.  but walking home west to east is sketchier than walking home east to west.   that’s just how it is.  one block you’re in a ritzy shopping district, the next, you’re being ushered into a porno store by a homeless crack addict.  not kidding.

so there i was - in ghetto-town, 10 pm, on the corner of meth junkie and crack whore, tall, white, blonde and alone. i wasn’t ABOUT  to walk the (mere) 6 blocks back to my building through that mess. so it took me about .25 seconds to decide to take a cab. well, since meth junkies and crack addicts aren’t known for their common use of cabs, there’s not a WHOLE lot going thru those parts.  thank GOD there was a tiny little donut shop on the corner that’s open 24 hours. i went in there to be partially safe, and call a cab.  while i was on hold with the cab company, i saw a couple taxis go by, so i decided to walk out to the bus stop and try to hail a cab from there.

after a couple seconds i got one to pull over, but he wouldn’t let me in. he asked me where i was going, and when i told him, he refused to take me.  the problem was you can’t turn toward the direction of my apartment from the street he was on - he would have had to circle the block, instead of making a direct turn. he was like, ” go walk down to X street, and catch one there.” the whole POINT of getting a cab was to avoid certain death by walking ANYWHERE.  i told him i didn’t care, he could circle the block, and tried to open the door. then, i SHIT YOU NOT, he DROVE THE FUCK AWAY!  i’m SO not even kidding. i’m a BLONDE, well dressed girl in the middle of the ghetto!  i would’ve paid you double just to let me get in the fucking cab!! but aside from that, it should have been obvious i was in distress!

so anyway, a minute later i hailed another cab, who took me around the block and didn’t bitch at all.  i looked up the website of the first cab company so i could leave feedback, but no such luck.  guess i’ll have to call my complaint in - those bitches are gonna get an earful.

Since i work in TV, and - contrary to popular belief - therefore make a relative pittance, and because I have a spa/clothing/shoe/travel addiction, I’ve been doing some freelance work.  now, like any good 20-something in a big city, i manage to get most of my jobs off of craigslist. so, since things like craigslist exist, i’m sending my resume out online, and i haven’t used a typewriter since i was a kid, i’m forced to believe it’s sometime in the 21st centry. how then, can lines like this one still exist?:

Women and persons of color are encouraged to apply.  

Really?  i mean, the job sounded so complicated, i figured only a man could do it, but then i saw this empathetic note, and wow, now i really feel empowered!  i think i WILL apply!

seriously, what the hell? ok, i get the “equal opportunity employer” thing, and maybe this is just a stipulation that goes along with that.  but it sounds so frikkin condescending. we’re “encouraging” you to apply.  you might just need that little nudge.  thanks, but i’ll apply for whatever the hell jobs i feel like. i don’t need you to give me your blessing.

32 hours.  That’s the amount of TV people in my demo (18-34) watch EACH WEEK - and surprisingly, the numbers are even higher for kids and families younger than me.  so i wanna know - how is this possible, and who are these people that have 32 hours to spare?! that’s almost an entire week of work spent just in front of the TV.  sure, i’m sure some people are skewing the results by constantly having the TV on in the background and what-not, but even if you watch eight hours of TV each weekend day, that’s still more than three hours you’d have to watch each weekday. i can see watching a DVD every now and then, or vegging out on your favorite show, but THREE HOURS is still a lot, and that’s assuming you’re spending ALL DAY saturday and sunday doing nothing but watching TV.

now, i’m probably not the person to talk to about this since i don’t even have a TV. when people find this out, they always look at me kind of dumbfounded and ALWAYS ask, “what do you DO?”  maybe these are the people watching 32 hours each week.  i’m not completely blameless, b/c we do have a computer with some of our favorite shows, and we do watch DVD’s.  but i just don’t think in terms of  flipping the TV on just to see what’s airing.  I have far too many other interests i’m always trying to find time for, TV is kind of an afterthought, like if i wanna veg for 20 minutes at the end of the day.

so what DO i do?  i write, a LOT.  some of it is for me, for projects i’m working on.  some of it is for companies i’m freelancing for - and if you think of it in terms of having an extra 32 hours a week, that’s a helluva lot of extra money from freelance jobs.  i’m a member of the junior league.  i volunteer. i read. i spend a lot of time with friends. i belong to groups that focus on things i’m interested in, like writing and producing. i go to the gym a lot.  i take yoga. and belly dance. and ballet. and at the end of the (sometimes really long) days, i feel really good about all that - which is MUCH more than i can say for myself if i’m hanging out in front of the TV.

oh, and while we’re on the subject, probably more disturbing to me - what are KIDS AND FAMILIES doing spending more than 32 hours watching TV?  i hate to be all “when-i-was-growing-up-and-we-walked-to-school-in-the-snow” but when i was growing up (i didn’t much live in places that snowed, but) i sure as hell wasn’t watching even three or two hours of TV a week.  if we did all our chores on time we were allowed to pick the 1/2 hour of TV we wanted to watch on saturday mornings.  that was it. 1/2 hour. and whatever educational programming my parents made us watch.  so i have to ask, where are these kids’ parents?? and how much TV are these kids going to be watching when THEY’RE 18-34?

i’ll just come out and say it: i tend to be judgemental. i know that i try to hold people up to *my* standards, without taking into account their lives and what they may have been through. I expect them to want to look, act, and dress similarly to the way i would want to look, act, and dress. oh, and i would also brand myself as “pretty tolerant.” but isn’t that kind of the way of things today? “tolerance” is such a buzz-word, but we really only mean that as long as people fit inside *our* boundaries, we can tolerate them. so this discrepancy is something i’m constantly slapping myself on the wrist for. i *want* to be truly tolerant. i *want* to understand people instead of judging them.

i say all this to say that i’m especially at my judging finest when i ride the bus. a whooooole bunch of people ride public transit in this city. but when i see a lot of them, the spoiled brat inside me wants to look down on them, to judge them, and be appalled by them. that’s kind of the premise of the whole “MUNI Chronicles” thing - telling the stories about ridiculous people (and sometimes events) on public transit.

so this one’s a little bit different. it actually happened to me months ago, but i have been meaning to write about it. i was on one of the more ghetto busses (there’s the spoiled brat i was talking about), going home, when a blind man got on with his seeing eye dog. he was fairly young, and the man across from him recognized him and began talking to him. apparently they’d been in a job training class together at the community college. they were talking about where they worked now (both in relatively entry-level positions - a clerk or assistant or something along those lines) and what they’d been up to since the class.

the blind guy started to tell the other guy about the trouble he was having getting government assistance for his rent and medication - all the hoops he’d had to jump through with the offices, HMO’s, etc. but he wasn’t bitching or complaining. normally when i hear people talk about how the government’s not taking good enough care of them, i immediately think - make something of yourself, stop living off my dime, and be accountable for yourself like the rest of us. but this guy’s story actually brought tears to my eyes. from the few minutes i spent listening to him, he seemed like he was doing everything right. and here was somebody the government *should* be helping, and instead it was just making life that much more difficult for him.

that day on the bus, i didn’t come away angry with the traffic, or frustrated with other people. i came away with the feeling that i have so much more than i will ever truly be able to appreciate.

i went to the gym this morning to go to a ballet class, then my yoga class.  when i got there, i realized they’d switched out the ballet class, with a class i didn’t want to go to - i didn’t feel like going home, then coming back for yoga, so i decided to wander around the area near my gym until the yoga class.   the gym is a few streets up Nob Hill from my apartment, and close to gorgeous and legendary Grace Cathedral.

i went and got some tea, then headed to the sanctuary of the cathedral.  i can’t remember the last time i was in a cathedral and the best word i can really think of to convey the feeling of granduer i got when i walked in is ” majestic.”  it was quiet for the most part, with a few people milling around, and a trio practicing an a capella liturgy - the sound carried through the marble foyer and expanded in the high ceilings.  it reminded me of the soundtrack of a movie. i sat down to let the experience reach me, and i felt something i haven’t felt in a church in a long time: awe.

i would definitely classify myself as a postmodern christian- someone who tends to shy away from the idea of organized religion, denominations, labels, structure, and the like.  this has led me to be part of more free-form churches: ones that met in schools, ones with a closer, more intimate setting, sitting on couches instead of pews, watching a dance performance as part of a service rather than repeating a liturgy.  i would say these things fulfilled my need for a communal feeling, in line with being a 20-something in a postmodern society.

but as i sat in grace cathedral i began to think of how maybe some things fell by the wayside in the journey to postmodernism  - not just the journey from modernism to today, but a decades, maybe even centuries long journey.  i’m sure this is already going on, and i’m probably coming to my personal realization a little after the fact, but i think the next step along the way (post-post modernism?) might be bringing the majesty back.

postmodernism has gone a long way toward taking some of the bullshit out of religion (although in some cases, there is still plenty to go around), simplifying it and bringing it back to a story of love, acceptance and redemption.  people are more free to express themselves in the ways that best suit them - in ways that were previously questioned by “big religion.”

i think there’s still some room for the awesome-ness of the older forms of religion.  the liturgies,  practices, cathedrals, and even sometimes the formalities of approaching something or someone that is so much bigger than we are.

here’s some of the stuff i’ve been up to.

More writing on hubpages.  The first is a four part series about what “really” happens to your resume/reel when you apply for a job at a TV station - usually they find their way quickly into the trash.  BUT , you’ll find there is HOPE!!  drawing on my (vast =) experience in the broadcasting industry, i talk about some things you can do to better the odds.

and then … in case you work in TV (or want to, or just find it somewhat interesting, or for some reason read my blog), and don’t know if you’re more of a oklahoma girl or a NYC babe, i wrote a discerning two part series on the pros and cons of starting in big market TV, vs starting in small market TV.

enjoy my expertise!!

i wrote this almost three years ago, as i was preparing to move from Italy back to the states. i came across it as i was cleaning out files on my computer and surprisingly found it somewhat good after all these years.  so i’m positing it with out any editing and re-writing. who knows, it may be a good place to use as a spring board for the stories that have followed …

If I’d known a year ago, that looking at my planner from my last year in college would make me cry, I probably would have laughed.  I’ve always been one to yes, carry my happy memories fondly with me, but to move on.  To accept what’s in front of me and work through it.  But in the last nine months there had been a lot to accept.  I came across my day timer from college as I was cleaning my new apartment out, getting ready to move again.  I had hardly used it since I graduated.  Brought it with me when I got married, but stashed it in a drawer.  Each date on every page was, to me, filled with who I used to be.  Meetings with professors, homework assignments, lunches with friends, outings with roommates.  Even meaningless things like “pay rent,” or , “do laundry,” or “meet kelli to work out” brought tears to my eyes.  They reminded me of the person I was, the person I felt like I still wanted to be, but had left behind.  I saw names I’d forgotten, events that had freeze-framed in my mind, outings that had all but faded from my memory.  Torrey conference, midnight madenss, pumpkin carving party, girls’ dinner.  They didn’t really mean anything to any one else, but to me they were footprints of myself.  I reached out to the pages of the stupid, thin notebook as if I reached back to my own personality.  It was a weird, surreal feeling.  Like I was looking through someone else’s life, but having the memories and experiences to back up what I was seeing. 

I don’t know if I would say I’d changed so much since that last year that I was a totally different person—I didn’t feel like a different person.  I felt like the same girl, but she had experienced, sometimes endured, a thousand circumstances to bring her so far from where she was that it was crazy to really look back on what had been.  Each day, pieces of the memories I now held in their tangible form had come back to me.  I thought frequently of my old roommates, fun parties we went to, crazy class schedules.  I had many fond, and probably an equal number of painful, memories.  But somehow, nine months later, standing there beside the kitchen table in my Italian apartment, flipping through a ten dollar calendar, I got a weird rush of emotion.  I was at a completely different stage in my life now, *and* I was getting ready to move on from*that* stage into something else!  I hadn’t even had a chance to come to terms with the fact that I wasn’t the day-timer girl anymore.  Somehow, over the course of almost a year, I *had* become a different person—things going on around me had forced me into it.  Sure, I’d obviously chosen to get married, but I didn’t choose the events that came with it … I had no way of seeing those events from where I was standing when I said, “I do.”  So here I was all those months later, holding day-timer girl in my hands, waiting to be finally-has-a-job-and-lives-in-the-states-again girl.  But who was I now, who had I been up until now? 

You know, I don’t know.  I don’t know where “college me” became “married me;” I don’t know where or how “married me” will become “career me.”  I figure it’s quite possible that it’s not so much a thing of becoming one thing or another, but more a thing of being.  I was and I am and I will be me—a year ago that “me” hadn’t experienced marriage, and in a year I’ll have yet another set of accomplishments under my belt.  I didn’t leave day timer girl, or “college me” behind … I grew *from* them.  Not necessarily *away* from or even *out* of them.  They are still a part of me.  A part that makes me happy, and sad, and nostalgic.  But I’m learning not to regret growing from them, but seeing that growth as another stage in life.

It’s like one of my favorite bands says:

You left before I had a chance to say goodbye

But that’s the way life usually is, it just passes you by

But you can’t hold on to regrets and you can’t look back

So I’ll just be thankful for the times that I had with you

here’s my first group of entries on HubPages:

it’s about the importance of internships in the TV/Journalism industry.

i’ll write more later …