Summer Internslip

You always know its going to be a good day when you’re woken up by the muddled blend of static and Evanescence’s “My Immortal.” I sat up in bed, more exhausted than usual, and slapped my alarm with enough force to warrant a restraining order. “Maybe its because I haven’t gotten up early in a while,” I thought. Alex had been in town so my weekly routine was out of whack. Drearily, I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower. Proceeding through my morning rituals, I sleepily got dressed and ate breakfast. Stumbling down to the car, I turned on the ignition and was on my way.

After a precisely calculated 30 minute drive in rush hour traffic, I arrived at my destination and parked in my usual spot. Looking at my phone to pat myself on the back for punctuality points, I realized that it was 9:30AM…not 10AM, when I’m supposed to arrive. I had apparently set my alarm a half hour earlier than necessary, preventing my dream of a paid internship from concluding itself. “Okay,” I thought, “well I’ll just use the extra half hour to nap in my car before heading in.” The sticky heat and blaring sun had other plans for me. I got out of my car in hopes that maybe someone showed up early and I could get started with my day. With a quivering hand, I reach for the door knob, hoping anxiously that it was unlocked. It was! I pushed the door open to find an abandoned room with nothing but a skateboard deck bolted to the wall. It was completely empty. I did a legitimate double-take, which cleared absolutely nothing up. The next obvious step would be to call one’s boss. And I did. It went straight to voicemail. I called again, in hopes that maybe he was calling me at the same time to say “April Fools” and remove the invisibility cloak from the office furniture. But alas, voicemail. I tried to reach the interns, but none of them were answering. I emailed everyone, asking what was going on. By this point I was sitting outside on the patio, pinching myself in attempts to wake up from this nightmare-ish dream.

Finally one of the interns texted back, “They moved offices a few doors down.” I bundled together my things and made the trek back inside, only to find every door locked without a hint of human life coming from the cracks beneath any of them. Back to the patio. After an hour, another intern replied to an email I sent letting me know that my boss was on a plane from New York and wouldn’t be back till noon. It was 11AM.  I’ve apparently yet to gain enough respect to be made aware of cross country trips and location changes.

There was no way to reach the jetsetter in the sky so I had to make an executive decision. Once again, I gathered my bags and headed back to my car.

In a couple weeks, I’ll be going to a cousin’s wedding, and I still needed a dress. Usually incredibly stubborn about driving long distances in traffic, it was a miracle that I convinced myself to head to the Beverly Center. Moreover, there’s no place I would rather be less than a mall for any given increment of time.

On my way out, I passed the LA Gun Club. I probably should have gone there to release some of my frustration, but opted out for fear that I might hijack the gun and use it on the people I deliver coffee to. As I passed, I felt a drop of sweat roll down my forehead and pushed up my sleeves. I’m convinced that the building in which I intern was previously used as a habitat for penguins and polar bears, because the temperature is always below freezing. Unfortunately (and quite logically), I left all of my winter gear in Boston, so my wardrobe options are limited and often repeated on a weekly basis. In my long-sleeved shirt, jeans, and Keds, I sat in my air-conditionless, pleather-seated Volvo for 40 minutes before arriving at the mall, sweaty and frazzled. Then came the daunting task of situating myself in this monstrosity of a structure.

Frantically I searched for what I expected to be an easy find: a simple cocktail dress. A few overpriced stores later, I was fairly distraught. In a dressing room, I indignantly hung up the dresses that would only work if I were an Armenian stripper, and proceeded to put my winter clothes back on. I put my shirt on, and then my shoes. Picking up my jeans, it took me a minute to realize that pants usually come before shoes.

The next store didn’t offer me a cocktail dress, but I found a decent sundress that I probably didn’t need. After conversing with myself in the cubicle for a moment or so, I decided I’d buy it. Again, I redressed, this time, putting on the dress I had just made the decision to purchase instead of my own clothes. Looking in the mirror, it took me longer this time to figure out what was wrong with the picture I saw.

An hour or so passed and I found myself in yet another dressing room with a dress that might have potentially satisfied my need. But I couldn’t decide. Thinking about whether it was the right dress or not, I threw my shirt, pants, and shoes on, in the right order this time. Reaching for my purse, I saw my bra strewn atop it. “Oh yeah, that,” I thought. After readjusting, I put the dress on hold in pursuit of shoes that might match the look.

Inside of Steve Madden, I found patent leather, magenta platform stilettos with an ostentatious shiny bow at the front. I asked the sales woman for my size, looking at the price after she walked away. The three numbers after the dollar sign were not what I had hoped they’d be, but I figured it would at least be fun to try the shoes on. She brought them to me and walked away, which is probably what I should have done as well. With a dropped jaw angled toward the magnificent shoes I beheld, I slipped them on and stood up…but not for long. After a slight shift in body weight, I lost my balance and fell forward on to the rack of strappy sandals in front of me, catching myself on the unstable shelving. Regaining my balance and composure with one hand on the mirror and the other on the sandal shelf, I looked around to check if anyone had noticed my awkward spill. After deciding that the pregnant woman picking her nose was my only witness, I quickly removed the stilettos and slipped back into my comfortable Keds. After this extravaganza, I was unwilling to try on any more high heels, so I logically gave up on the dress. Back to square one.

Only then did my fresh-off-the-plane boss call to nonchalantly tell me to come to the office at 1:45PM. It was 1PM. I was still dress-less. After a quick chat with Grandma, I felt pressured to find something before abandoning ship and heading back to the life of the unpaid intern. In practical hysterics, I power-walked a few more laps around the mall, which most likely looked to outsiders like I was searching for a lost child. Eventually, I splurged – well, Grandma splurged – on a pricey little number that’ll do the trick just fine. I hurried back to my sweltering Volvo and booked it out of there by 1:47PM only to sit in traffic yet again as I trekked back Downtown. From that point forward, the day worked itself out, coming to a close with my debut appearance at a Korean Barbeque joint since New York’s catastrophe. Castle Barbeque had a B rating, but that’s better than nothing!

Koreafrown

There are many reasons why I love Los Angeles, but truth be told, most of them are related to food. Though cuisine isn’t limited to fondue, my city is the quintessential melting pot of culinary culture. My favorite spot? Koreatown – specifically Soot Bull Jeep (or as Grandma calls it “Simple Jeep”). Admittedly, our phonetic spellings of the restaurant’s name would be considered offensive by most Korean-speakers, but I assure you that my butchering of the words is pronounced with the fondest appreciation.

Stepping inside, any hope of re-wearing the jeans you currently sport is lost in a cloud scented heavily with charcoal and meat. The meal is always delicious, though severely rushed by the impatient waitresses who will throw all your raw meat on the grill at once unless you use your tongs to fight back. But the risk of any server-customer hostility is miniscule compared with the delectable and all too filling meal that is devoured until the last meat-soaked grain of rice is scraped off of each metal bowl.

Visiting Koreatown is an experience that I cherish and look forward to with anxious anticipation each time I return home. But this weekend, I was informed that I wouldn’t have to wait any longer to satisfy my taste bud’s cravings.

“So, this is New York’s Koreatown,” Matt tells me. Suddenly surrounded by a significantly homogeneous crowd and a plethora of signs written in a foreign language, I take a deep breath in and am overcome with nostalgia as I smell the charcoal, the Kim Chi, and the sizzling Bulgogi. We wander from place to place, looking at the menus and pretending to understand everything on them. Not unlike most college students, we’re mainly focused on the dollar signs. After finding a few decent options, we round the corner and find ourselves back amongst affluence. The taxis are honking, the Forever 21 lights are flashing, and the gargantuan poster of Victoria’s Secret’s newest lingerie model is difficult to avoid. Somewhere far over the rainbow, I realize, we’re not in Koreatown anymore. Coming to terms with the fact that New York’s rendition of my L.A. favorite is incremental in comparison, we walk back to the hustle and bustle of the compact block of culture.

My first and last visit to New York’s Koreatown took place at “NY Kom Tang Soot Bul Kalbi.” Where one might expect to find a blue, upper case “A” or “B” there was a sign posted to the window that read, “Grade Pending.” This should have been our first signal to abandon ship and settle for a slice of the always-reliable New York pizza. But without a second thought, we walk in casually and are immediately accosted by a screeching woman who summons us toward her. Kom Tang wasn’t the most authentic, but “Soot Bul” was included in its ostentatious name, and that was enough for me.

Taking our seats in the back of the establishment, we are squished in between the bathroom and the kitchen. A meek Korean man tiptoes toward our table and waits in silence until we place our order. “What?” he asks when I order the Bulgogi. Unlike “Soot Bull Jeep,” “Bulgogi” is a word that I’ve mastered the pronunciation of with confidence. “The Bulgogi,” I repeat, pointing to the menu. He looks down and then up at me with more confusion in his glance than a baby subjected to an unfair game of Peek-A-Boo. Walking away, he watches from around the corner with fright as another waiter writes down our order. As our food arrives, the same screechy woman who drew us in comes uncomfortably close to my nether region, bending over me to turn on the barbeque’s gas. A Mexican man chatters in Spanish-accented Korean with the timid waiter who has become frazzled by the commotion of making our barbeque function. As the woman stands up and brushes her thick, curly hair against my cheek, the more aggressive waiter plops the heaping pile of meat onto the grill, not even giving us the chance for a fair fight. In moments, they are all gone, not to return until the end of our dinner.

Though the food isn’t nearly comparable with that of “Simple Jeep,” it satisfies my craving and I’m thankful for the company. After every sliver of Bulgogi is digested, Matt leans over in his apparently unstable chair and topples to the floor. With a mouth full of rice and sesame bean sprouts, I, of course, burst out in laughter (I’ve never been good at taking potentially worrisome situations seriously). Waiter number two rushes over followed by his entourage, consisting of the Korean-speaking Hispanic, the bushy-haired hostess, and our apprehensive server. They watch with consternation as Matt lifts himself up to recover from his tumble (Scarlet would be proud). Quickly scampering away, they resume their positions as if nothing had happened. With a look of utter revulsion, Matt gulps, “I don’t even want to tell you the worst part.” Still struggling to swallow due to my unhindered laughter, I ask, “Whuut?” He points down. Looking under the table I see a perfectly preserved Gregor, on his back, arms still wiggling. That’s right, Matt had landed on a cockroach. My eyes grew large. I screamed. Matt winced, “I’m gonna go wash my hands.”

I summon our second waiter and inform him of the homicide. He arrives, followed again by his posse who look down in disgust as I point out their lifeless squatter. The Mexican bus boy was assigned to clean up the mess. I’m sure he would have much preferred wiping Cow Tongue remains from tables to playing gravedigger for the goopy, pre-historic, Kafkian corpse.

Upon Matt’s return, our bashful server silently places two orange slices on our table. With feet lifted off the ground and semi-permanent furrowed brows, we look down at the shiny, fluorescent slices and push them aside. Waiter Two drops off our check, which failed to recognize our nauseating encounter.

We paid full price for our meal in attempt to evacuate in haste and hurried to the door without looking down. Finding solace in the sterile streets of New York City, we felt safe knowing that we had escaped to territory un-trampled upon by filthy vermin.

Hairassment Charges

I pay a lot of money to go to this school. Would I say it’s worth it? Absolutely. The classes are both challenging and interesting and the professors that teach them are dedicated, intelligent, and un-afraid to drop the F-Bomb on a daily basis. The food is bearable, but any lack of taste or concern for health is made up for by the charismatic staff who prepare our daily meals. I’ve become accustomed to being called “Bebe Gurl” weeknights at 7 and am consistently confident that my Saturday morning hangovers will always be mended by perfectly prepared cage free eggs. Over easy with a runny yolk, to be exact. I could go on about the innumerable idiosyncrasies that I’ve grown to love and will encourage my father to continue to support for the next few years, but that would be far too positive. This complaint has nothing to do with what this school provides. It is whom this school provides to that is the root of my dilemma.

I live in a dorm. It isn’t the nicest building on campus; the elevators are constantly broken, it has recently become the victim of a tagging fad, and the triples (specifically mine) are far from spacious, but it’s cozy. I’ve grown to love this building and call it my home. When people who live in the more up-to-date dormitories scoff at the Little Building, I stand strong and defend my territory. But because this is the only building on campus that doesn’t solely include suites, we have communal bathrooms on each floor, just like most colleges do. It has, of course, been an adjustment. The shower caddy system is far from ideal and walking to the other end of the hall in the middle of the night to use the bathroom isn’t the most convenient situation, but I accepted the lifestyle and with time, grew to embrace it. If nothing else, I’ve gained confidence in my natural appearance. Being faced with an entire tour group as I strutted down the hallway in my towel and shower sandals really did a lot for me. I suggest you all try it sometime; it’ll do you wonders.

All of these things, I can handle. But the issue arises when I step into the shower. Towel tied around my torso and shower caddy in hand, I walk into the stall and begin to set up shop. Sleepy-eyed (I’m a morning showerer), I place my shampoo, conditioner, face wash, and body wash on the ledges provided. I hang up the towel and turn the water on. The pressure isn’t ideal, but it’ll do. The water heats up quickly and I step inside. A splash to the face and I’m wide-awake. And consequently, all too aware of my surroundings.

I know that girls are not hypoallergenic poodles, and therefore shed their hair every once in a while. But I also know that maintenance cleans these things at least twice a day. How in the world did this supposed white shower stall become what appears to be the victim of a cat’s hairball infused sneeze? Long, thin, brown hairs create intricate designs on the walls. Medium lenghth’d blonde strands intertwine with them in bulky patches to create Aztec-esque patterns. Is someone here going bald, I wonder? A short, curly, black one sits on the ledge, all too close to my Pantene conditioner. I’m afraid to look again. Paralyzed, I stand motionless, arms in line with my body, afraid of interacting with these ophidian tresses. Is the long brown one dangling from my Neutrogena face wash mine, or is it the discarded filamentous biomaterial of this shower’s last constituent? With hesitation and vigilance, my arms muster up the courage to leave my side, reaching for the shampoo. As I stick my elbows out to lather up my own locks, I close my eyes to avoid acknowledging my probable interaction with the hair on the walls around me. I continue in this manner and proceed as necessary.

But the days when I shave my legs are the worst. Already an irritating chore, I’m forced to come face to face – or at least in closer quarters – with the floor. If I thought the walls were furry, the ground was shaggier than a Burmese Mountain Dog. Every time I get down there, I feel like Snow White lost in the Black Forrest. Now, I’m not a gynecologist or a trichologist, nor am I the mother of these young ladies whom I share quarters with, but did nobody ever hear of trimming? Staples must have been out of stock orientation week, because I’m pretty sure no one on this floor owns a pair of scissors.

But alas, I do not judge. To each follicle her own, but I’d prefer if we kept it that way. My time in the shower is when I am supposed to feel my cleanliest; surrounded by soap and water and isolated in a rectangular prism that is immune to the world’s grunge. But these fifteen minutes of my day are repeatedly and cyclically filled with trepidation. Is it so difficult to wipe away your discarded strands of keratin once you’ve finished bathing? Is it too much to ask that you see that your secret garden’s weeds make their way down the drain?

Maybe I’ll ask the Consuela (the maintenance lady) to coffee so that we can exchange grievances. Maybe together we can fight for justice and end this nightmare once and for all. But alas, I’ll be saying a final goodbye to group showers in a few weeks, and might become too caught up in the glory of a completely hygienic shower to bother with the past. My apologies in advance to you, Conny.

The Luck of the Irish

Saint Patrick’s Day. One of the few days of the year when public and belligerent drunkenness is both accepted and embraced. Having moved to Boston only recently, I was overjoyed to be spending the holiday in the most Irish city in these United States. Despite the sunny day, it somehow slipped my mind that a city full of drunken fools might not be the warmest environment. Moreover, I should have realized that packing 75 of these collegiate dipsomaniacs into one room of Bean Town’s notoriously undersized apartments and including my not so inebriated self into the mix, couldn’t end so well for me…or for my shoes.

As I like to do on all holidays – excluding Martin Luther King Day and usually Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day – I made it a point of dressing up. Realizing that my wardrobe wasn’t adorned in green garments, I was forced to improvise. I made due all right, but sought to dress the outfit up a little more to add an oomph of party pizzazz. In order to accomplish such a task, I put on some stockings and my favorite heels (in which I had accepted my high school diploma). They always are a showstopper and were the perfect addition to my St. Patties party suit.

As the party progressed, the room filled up. Soon enough, there wasn’t anywhere to move and a fairly sober me was squished in between sweaty, sleazy, and plastered 18 to 20 somethings in a way that was far from desirable. Escaping the masses, I found a railing and a friend. I had reached the safety zone of the apparent laser tag maze…or so I thought. A high pitched crash brought reality to its clearest point though. Someone had dropped a beer mug on the floor, causing the unconsumed alcohol to splash all over my stockings and my patent leather shoes. I was trapped between greasy sardines and a puddle of broken glass and wasted beer. For the first time in my life, I wished I was Moses, able to use my iPhone to the part the waters and cross to the other side. Maybe my aspirations would have been granted had I had enough liquor in me to believe that I had assumed such biblical powers. Instead, I checked to make sure my feet weren’t bleeding and careful tiptoed as if playing a very meticulous game of hopscotch in between the shards of glass and eventually made it to the other side. Safety!

The door to the outside was visible. I had almost reached the land of milk and honey, where I assumed the air would be sweet – not sweaty. As I reached for the door – SPLASH! A hazy-eyed man with a cigarette behind each ear, wearing a beanie and glasses looked up from the floor at me with terror in his eyes. Expecting me to sympathize with his self-inflicted loss of beverage, he let out a grunt of disappointment. Looking down to see what the fuss was about, I felt his same feelings of woe, only mine were filled with anger. He had spilled his sticky brew all over my new stockings and graduation shoes.  Had I not endured a similar incident moments ago, and had I not been trying to escape that very environment, and had my feet not immediately become freezing and sticky, I might have let it go. But since all of those experiences were a reality, I was furious. Not only that, but I recognized him as the kid from one of my classes that always showed up late and hung over, but managed to be the teachers favorite student. “You just dropped that on my feet,” I said with more frustration than I actually felt. After a slurred apology on his part, I continued to hassle him until his nervousness might have resulted in the regurgitation of his dining hall supper. Assuring him that it was fine (I didn’t want to ruin his night too) I let him go and refused his obligatory “I’m sorry” cigarettes. Proud of myself for the "beeronade" I had just made, I escaped the party feeling revitalized.

Finally arriving at the Promised Land, there was a deficit of dairy products and bee pollen, so the Moses in me was a little let down. But at least I had an acceptable amount of personal space and could actually see the people I conversed with. Making eye contact with an old friend, I walked over and introduced myself to his intoxicated buddies. Catching up with him, I was once again enjoying myself. But before I knew it, déjà vu hit me with all its might. A mixture of pressure and noise exploded beneath me, as one of my new acquaintances dropped his alcoholic disguise – a Nantucket Nectar bottle – on my feet. It shattered upon impact, this time, actually discoloring my beige shoes and scratching their patent leather surface with its glassy splinters. “Really?!” My burst of disbelief was, of course, misunderstood by the surrounding audience, as they had no knowledge of the previous torture I had endured. After flicking the glass off of my shoes and wiping the liquid off my legs, I gathered my bag and coat and, fed up with the Groundhog Day-esque evening. I trudged back to my building, wondering if I had gotten the holidays mixed up. Could it have actually been April Fools Day?

Bob Hopeless

I arrived at Burbank’s Bob Hope Airport disappointed to be leaving the sunny weather, adorable labradoodle, good food, and better company behind. After a forlorn and objectionable goodbye with my Father, I walked into the airport with a fresh breath of air. My grief toward my imminent departure was mended by the knowledge that I’d get to use my brand new iPhone 4 to board the airplane.

Finally, I had achieved my dream: landing a spot in the elite and overwhelmingly present “cool club” – for Smartphone users only. For years, I trekked back and forth to the printer from the computer, attempting desperately and repetitively to print my boarding passes. Printer jams, lack of ink, and the crushing guilt of slaying entire colonies of trees over the years were all concerns that I could now put to rest, with the simple click of a button.

Walking up to the security checkpoint, the officer cheerfully guesses my name. “Good afternoon Miss…..Tiffany?” “Tiffany! Like Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” I think, reminding me that I had forgotten the four California post cards I had just purchased in the car. Frustrated, but still polite, I say “Close! But it’s Sienna.” He chuckles. With immense pride in my eyes and satisfaction in my hand gesture, I give him my phone. “Oh, actually, we are told not to accept electronic tickets.” My heart drops. I am speechless. “Wait…really?” “Yeah, sorry ma’am,” he said with a chuckle, sensing my disappointment, “but if you go print it right over there, I’ll let you cut the line when you come back.” I could have cried. But instead, I smiled and walked away, making sure to take my apparently useless phone with me.

I get in line to have my ticket printed. Finally reaching the front, the happy go lucky and unfortunately unpleasant looking attendant asks if I am a first class member. “No.” “Oh, okay, well then you can go wait in that line and use the computer to print your ticket.” “Go stuff your face in a birthday cake,” I wanted to tell her. So I waited in line yet again and eventually came to terms with the fact that my tree murdering days would not yet, in fact, retire.

Ready to skip the line and get through security, I realize that the charming young man who laughed at my misery but also gave me his word, was nowhere to be found. Instead, a homely, pimply woman sat at the desk. So again, I waited, almost expecting her to say, “Oh, we don’t take paper tickets anymore, just solid gold ones.” She did not. So I strolled past her and onto the security line.

Per the rules, I proceeded to remove my trusty boots that had walked me all over Boston, New York, and Los Angeles for a good six months. My grandmother had been pestering me to buy new ones for a while, as she decided I looked trashy and she couldn’t stand to see me in such wretched things. But I declined her offer on the principle boot season is almost over and it would be foolish to waste money on something I’d wear for only a month. New styles would be in fashion next fall, and I’d just want another pair then. So I decided that my loyal shoes could last until I needed them no longer. Well, I unzipped the left one, careful of the area where the seam had come loose, only to break the zipper, incapacitating it for all of eternity. Walking through the metal detector, I expected to find the airport official rifling through my bags in search of some illegal object that a terrorist had slipped into my bag unbeknownst to me. Instead, the conveyer belt just spit out my broken boot and unwieldy bags. Tying the lace around the top of the zipper, I momentarily mended the dilemma, while simultaneously redefining the term “shabby chic.”

So I sit down at my terminal 20 minutes before boarding time, severely flustered and disappointed. Looking around, my only neighbor is a senile woman carrying a paisley briefcase and a plastic bag with cat food inside of it. Clearly, something was askew. So I ask the flight attendant, who tells me that the terminal has been changed. Up I get, dragging my lame shoe’d foot along behind me to the other terminal. Finally, a place to rest. Now is the time when I would have written the postcards, but clearly that was no longer an option. So for twenty minutes, I texted on my iPhone – a capability that my plain old 2008 cell phone successfully fulfilled. When they called Boarding Group 4, I morosely put my iPhone away, withdrew my paper ticket, and handed it to the real Tiff’nay, who directed me onto the aircraft. Dallas, here I come!