Testing out my Schmoozing Legs

Tagging along to shake hands and exchange cards a post-work event is hardly my idea of a good time. But throw a free trip to the Newseum (and its beautiful rooftop deck) in the mix and you may have this news nerd on board.

In the short window of lucid memory I have of the evening (mom, I’m exaggerating here for effect) I learned a few things:

1. I will be sure to add “working” to the statement, “I’m _____________with (boss’s name)” in the future. It can be easy to forget the wives, husbands, girlfriends and ladies and gents of the night who may find their way to these things. Do not imply you are “with” your boss. It will make you feel odd for hours and days to come.

2. Those guys in the corner are just going to keep giving me wine every time I go ask and the lady with the crab cakes is going to load up again. She’ll be back. Nom.nom.nom.

3. I am not familiar with how to work the schmooze environment and that’s okay. I was having a miserable and increasingly tipsy time until I came across two similarly-wide-eyed people who appeared to have graduated in the same decade as me. They were great and shared my love of free wine, cannolis, and marveling at the fact that some people in the room had somehow made a decades-long career out of news. I am far from a full fledged professional and I shouldn’t pretend otherwise.

I fear the sad truth I walked away from the evening with was this: news ain’t what it used to be. This beautiful place with delicious food was full of hundreds of people who once got to make a living finding and sharing stories. Now it’s their job to stay away from 9 to 5 and exchange cards with other recovering journalists after work.

That sucks. It’s depressing. And it’s the way it is.

So I guess it’s time to embrace the fact that I’m fortunate to have a job that gives me a glimmer of that never-realized dream. It may involved more waiting on people’s feelings, ensuring organizational harmony and fewer shaky-handed chain smokers than news, but it’ll do for now. As long as I can get my hands on some cannolis.

An Open Letter to D.C.

Dear Washington D.C.,

I officially wish to recind and implicit or explicit contract I may have created with you entitling you to comment, gawk or freestyle rap about my posterior.

Frankly it is not only uncomfortable for me, it is downright offensive. While I cannot deny that I am, in fact, "thick," the proprietor of "dunk," and have a "fat ass," it is wholly unecssary for you to tell me this.

If you fail to cease your unsolicited commetary, please expect retribution. (e.g. You: Dannng gurwl, you got a phattt ass. Me: Yes, and I also have a home.)

Get a job, pull up your pants, and have some reverence for common decency and the English language.

Sincerely,

Tiff

P.S. Also, please stop throwing rocks at me.

Like a Stroll Down Memory Lane

Andrew left town today. He's going home for a month to spend time with his family and try though I may to begrudge him that, I can't. I would have done the same thing if I could have. If my parents spoiled me as a grown-up, if I didn't have a real job to get to, etc. etc. etc. (I just had to get my barbs in there)

But I figure since he's not around to hear my incessant musings on the day, I'd make a short list of things that happened to me today and my thoughts on the goings on.

1. After deciding I'd brave solid food at work, I went to the fridge to get my milk and coat my Honey Bunches of Oats in lacticious goodness, only to find someone drank it all. Jerk.

2. I went for a run in the rain. It felt a little like a Nike ad when I jumped in the puddles.

3. I got a flat tire. Again. I am fairly certain I paid $15 to have a flat fixed last week at the bike shop and the guys didn't take the glass or whatever had popped it in the first place out. Lame. Lame and muddy. Looks like I won't be showering until after I get that squared away.

4. I am looking forward to sitting around in my own stink for a while. Andrew's real judgy about hygiene. So screw you buddy, I'll wear stinky pants if I want.

5. I am really looking forward to some chicken-based leftovers. Enchilada or sesame?

Fake It 'Til You Make It

I've been trying to figure something out: does being a grown-up mean actually being a competent, functional member of society, or is adulthood really just perfecting the art of convincing people you are a competent, functional member of society?

In the past month I have been very fortunate to turn an internship into a bonafide job. The process was daunting and overdramatized on my part but at the end of that tunnel I found a salary, retirement plan and even real health care (the excitement I feel when I think of never having to return to Medicaid-quality doctors is unprecidented).

For the past week and two days, I've plopped down at the very same desk in the very same cubicle and felt really, really scared. The technology I'm working with is exactly the same and I have a functional knowledge of the information I'm supposed to handle, but none if it is good enough to make me feel comfortable. I am terrified someone will find out I don't have any idea what I'm tinkering with most the time. After a few hours I seem to figure things out, but right off the cuff, I have zero idea what is happening.

The emperor has no clothes.

I shared (share being a loose interpretation of an extra computer being jammed into a pre-existing office likely against the will of two photographers) an office in Alaksa with two photojournalists. One of them told me once that he just wakes up every day and does his very best to convince the world he knows what he's doing. I didn't find that news reassuring then, but it seems strangely true now.

An Ill-Equipped Population

Today I saw a guy using a leaf blower in lieu of a shovel. I'd hazard to guess that 70% of my co-workers chose to stay home because of the snow.

I'm with the president, D.C. needs to tough up.

The Internet is Not a Truck -- It is a Magical Place, Operated by Unicorns and the Jonas Brothers

Lately I've focused a lot of my energy on understanding a generational workplace divide. My fear is that this is a one-sided endeavor and 'boomers have yet to realize that my g-g-generation isn't the same as theirs.

Here's me in a nutshell:


Raised on Number Munchers, Pizza to Go and Oregon Trail, computers have never been confusing or particularly scary to me. Certainly, I'm not a whiz but I am not afraid to figure out what's keeping me from achieving my digital goals; even when that means irreversibly screwing things up for my boss to fix.

As a card-carrying member of Generation Y, I need to multitask to stay awake. As I write this I've got no fewer than 3 work-related projects open and about as many personal items online too. I care about leading a balanced life and that means home bleeding into work and work bleeding into home. If you need me at 3 a.m. on a Friday to update a work project, I'll probably do it. If my friend needs me at 11 a.m. Tuesday to consult on a life crisis, I'll probably do that as well.


I've put a lot of time and energy into learning the skills I've got (and learning how to absorb new ones). I feel entitled to more than I should, probably because I've been positively reinforced in everything I've done since birth.

A paper-less office makes more sense than mimeographs, iPods make more sense than a radio and emails make more sense than a fax ever has.

My confidence may come off as arrogance, silence disrespect. I can assure you, however, that there is little ill-will intended. I am doing my best to learn and observe how things operate in the hope that by understanding the system I can bend it to include me.

Fourbuhfours and NPR

I was thrilled to hear Cal Worthington on NPR's Morning Edition today. Unfortunately, it' wasn't great news. I think, however, a man who can comfortably pose next to a tiger will probably weather a rough economy.

I really enjoyed this piece on the NBC Page Program. Jack McBrayer (Kenneth from 30 Rock) is kind of a super stud:

At 35, Mr. McBrayer is rather long in the tooth for the page program, which is usually peopled by recent college graduates. Mr. McBrayer was not a page himself. But he has been mistaken for one.

“It happens mostly when people are delivering stuff, and there I am at a desk in my page uniform,” he said in a telephone interview. “Instead of giving the whole spiel, that I’m an actor in a fake show, I just look down at the phone list and type ‘2379, Marci Klein.’ ”

And a final note: I am giving some serious thought to riding the rails like a depression-era hobo. Do people still do that?