One more week

A week from tomorrow I get to go home. I wonder if I'll be surprised by the freshness of the air and the drastic decrease in population. It'll be a nice vacation.

This last weekend Mike, his sister, her boyfriend, and Mike's mom and stepdad and I (Whew!) had brunch and went to Rockefeller to witness the infamous tree. This year it is decorate with LED lights, making it at least 70 percent more energy efficient. This is the first time I'd actually seen the tree up close and although the size of it did not impress, I thought the LED lights were beautiful. Hooray for a smaller ecological footprint! Anyway, here are photos:

Mikey and I in front of the tree:

Scott, Jay, me and Mike across from Radio City:

It's fun to be in the city during the holiday season, surprisingly. Well, aside from wanting to punch slow-walking tourists in the back of the head... I've actually had fun doing my shopping in an outdoor market in Union Square with original artists who sell perfect gifts without ever having to set foot in a department store or feel like you're being an American consumer.

This morning I awoke to the classical music station playing Waltz of the Flowers. The Nutcracker has always been a staple for the holidays. I remember when I actually attended the ballet, wearing my too-small purple velvet dress that was reserved only for special occasions and eating my first ever hot fudge sundae (the things that really stick with us, eh?). I still have the ornaments to commemorate.

The Jan/Feb issue of the magazine came in the mail at the office today. I looked for my name in the staff box, expecting it to be under an "interns" heading. But instead, it said, "Reporters: Kristin E. Phillips, Shawn Query." Ecstatic. Even though I only have two blurbs and a book review, the title of "reporter" as opposed to "intern" just makes me feel like two-thirds of a person as opposed to half.

Mike met me for lunch today and I brought him a copy. He said, "Where are you?" wanting me to point out my articles and he read it as he walked, almost running into passersby on the sidewalk. "I'm so proud of you," he said as he gave me a peck. Wow. He has no idea how much those five little words can mean. He's proud. He's proud that I made it in this magazine, that I am his girlfriend, that I do things worthy of that phrase. I could cry.

On the way home on the subway tonight, trying to avoid a woman's butt pressed against my right arm, I thought about how accomplished I feel. If you look at my recent accomplishments in sum, it is hard to refute that I pretty much rock... I have never claimed to be modest. But then, on the MP3 player that I've had for about five years, the song "Invention for Guitar and Trumpet" arranged by Stan Kenton emerged. It made me wish I still played trumpet regularly and that I had a group to practice with. In fact, it made me sad that I am no longer active in this mode of expressing myself... music that is. So... maybe if I find a job here (god willing) and move into a normal household with some nice roommates (pretty please), I can find a community group to play with. That, I think, would make me an increasingly happy person, as I miss the opportunity to be creative through the nuances of lip buzzing, finger coordination and swing. That may sound very sexual. That's because it is.

Just watch Chet Baker or Maynard Ferguson and you'll instantly understand.


Edit: here's a video for reference


Counting down the days until my cross-country trip home,

Shawno

Snow in the Ham

I talked to my parents, Maria and Andrea today. All reported that it is snowing on the I-5 corridor, especially in Bellingham, the town where I went to school at WWU. The first snow is always such an interesting time. Mostly I just tried to figure out how I was going to get to work at Bed Bath and Beyond. Driving to work when I really shouldn't have has resulted in a car accident and losing a tire chain in the middle of the busiest street in the city. No one ever goes shopping on days when it's snowing in a town that has not added good snowplows to its infrastructure even though every year there's always the inevitable snow that debilitates the whole town for awhile.

Last year's snow in Bellingham was interesting. I decided to walk to Fred Meyer (about 5 Bellingham blocks away) to get groceries equipped with my purple and white striped soccer socks and every layer I could find that wouldn't make it hard for me to walk down the street with some groceries. On the way home I started to slip, and in a comical Three Stooges-type stumbling, crashed onto the ice and contracted the most purple bruises I've ever had. I showed them to everyone to mask how silly I felt for falling. I made a pie and sent a signal out to all who might be interested that if they could brave the storm, they could have some. And then we had the sushi party.

Jim, Andrea, Joe and Matt came over to my humble apartment, where many a good time had already taken place and all of us, bundled in layers even inside because I refused to turn on the baseboard heat, had beer and sushi and good times. This day is one of those that I could keep reliving over and over again and be completely content. The white winter wonderland outside the window, staying warm inside from the happiness emanating from each person, the laughter and the closeness of our circle of friends. Joe, Matt and I were on my white couch, doing a loosely coordinated dance:





Mostly we just all did our own crazy moves and laughed at each other.Then I fell off the couch. Or was pushed, most likely.


Then, as I often do after a couple of beers, challenged the nearest female to a wrestling match. This time it was Andrea. And I lost horribly, as is custom.Joe saw the opportunity to turn my pigtails into a dashing mustache.


This is when Andrea had hair.
And Jim took all the photos.


That winter was one where I would slip-slide down the treacherous hill to my favorite bars to sample the warmth of liquor. And I baked. Pies, cookies, chocolate covered things, rice crispie treats. I enjoyed the fact that the elements outside had limited me to the activities of drinking and baking and that was completely acceptable. But beyond that, I was glad that my home was a place of congregation for laughs, good beers and good times.

If you are reading this (you know who you are, kids), I miss you terribly. I wish we were all in Bellingham right now braving the first snow of the year with raw fish and wrestling matches. I wish we could all be the way we were that day forever.

I fly home the 20th. What say we have a sushi party at my old place (which my brother now inhabits) and try to recreate that day? Bundle up. Because I'm still not turning up the heat for you hooligans.

My First Thanksgiving Alone

This last week I was anticipating it to be a bit depressing because in the history of all Query Thanksgivings, I have never missed one. I was always there, awkward in what I was wearing (because I was most likely trying to hard to live up to the beauty of my older cousins), through the accidental times when I had nuts with dessert (I'm allergic, and once vomited all over Aunt Denise's living room as a result), to the most recent, getting a bit tipsy with my relatives, trying hard not to say anything inappropriate. But this year, I wasn't there. And it wouldn't have hurt so much if I would've been with someone's family for dinner. But, I ended up having a microwaved pot-pie and hanging out in my closet room. With a beer. Or two.

But I wasn't really upset. And I will tell you, it's because Mike cares so much that he would plan a dinner party the night before Thanksgiving with his new roommate and his friends just so I could feel like I was part of an actual Thanksgiving. He even made me a special dish (salmon with a blackberry wine reduction yum yum) so I wouldn't have to fill up on green beans and mashed potatoes, as I have for the past four years being a veggie. I love him. And the mashed potato leftovers.

On my way home on the 7 train after Mike had to go to work for rich people who go out to eat on Thanksgiving and have probably never cooked a good meal in their lives, I was annoyed by a girl in broad sunglasses and high black boots and large handbag - the quintessential New York bitch - talking on her phone loud enough for the whole car to hear. We hit one stop and all the sudden through the doors came two Latino men with a guitar and accordion. They were good! Their harmonies were right on, and although I couldn't understand much of what they were singing, I smiled because of all the people who perform on the subways for money, I think I enjoyed them more than any other I encountered. And because they were bugging New York Bitch. She, trying to carry on the conversation on her phone, had to combat the volume of the impromptu mariachi, and frustrated, she yelled "SHUT UP!" That made me laugh more than anything. Here we are on Thanksgiving, a day I would normally spend straining uptight conversation with my relatives, and I'm looking out the window of the subway with all these other schmucks thinking about how great it is that stupid NYC Bitch's conversation was foiled, and how I have a beer and an organic pot pie waiting for me at my room in Brooklyn.

I know it doesn't seem, from my blog posts, much like I hate it here. And it's because I don't. Therefore, the job search begins to find a replacement after my internship. This decision came after much contemplation. I am 22 years old. If I put myself on a 5-year plan, I get experiences here in the center of the publishing universe, move back to the Northwest as a journalism superstar at a good child-bearing age and start a family with my wonderful chef husband in a suburb of Seattle. I just think it's the smartest thing to do. It'll give me enough time to get some real journalism experience, and Mike enough time to make a real name for himself here. The hard part is that we'll both have to live in the most expensive city in America for awhile.



So, in conclusion (this is a junior high school research paper, you know), Thanksgiving wasn't as bad as I thought it might be, I want to try to make it here for awhile, and my boyfriend is the best. I think I can do this.

A good week

Why? Because on Tuesday Mike and I went to see the Rx Bandits (one of my all-time favorite bands):


Haven't been to a show in much too long, and apparently music goers in New York are much more polite than those in Seattle. I wasn't squished, pushed or knocked over like I normally am at Rx Bandits shows. I had my own space to rock out without anyone bothering me and I was pretty close to the stage.

It was the first time Mike and I had been to a music event together and because we have such similar music tastes, it was fun to kind of show him how energetic I am about my music. We hung out in the bar downstairs (one of three in the venue) and all of the sudden Matt Embree was just chilling out. Talking with everyone, totally nonchalant. I wanted to talk to him, but having just come from work to go to the show I was greasy and geeky-looking so I admired him from afar (this is why you don't see any photos of Mike and I either).

This week has also been good because the magazine is ready to close, meaning we're done with this issue and just putting the finishing touches on everything before we ship it out. It's always exciting for me to be part of this process, knowing my hard work is going into something really awesome that has my name on it (even if it is just in the 'interns' section).

I'm not going to be home for Thanksgiving, which I didn't really see as a big deal at the beginning. Being a vegetarian, it's never really been my favorite holiday because I am condemned to eat green beans and mashed potatoes (while delicious, not so nutritious). But now that it's a matter of just not being able to afford to fly across the country to see my family, it seems more unfair than ever. Plus, knowing my extended family, because I am not there, I will be gossiped about the most. Mike might have to work (really, who eats over-priced 'new American' food on Thanksgiving instead of cooking a loving meal themselves?), in which case I might try to volunteer at a local food bank. There are probably few times when I'll be able to do this, so I thought, why not? I bet no one feels more alone on the holidays than those who are really truly alone in the city.


My favorite accessory lately has been this purple scarf my mom knitted me a couple years ago. The yarn is a few shades of purple and the fringe is long. I can wrap it about three times around my neck, and it smells like winter, like home, like warmth. In the liquor store the other night, a European man commented how nice it was and I proudly announced "My mom made it!" He nodded. "Yes, it looks hand-made." I don't care what anybody says about me wearing it almost every day. It's soft and wonderful and reminds me of winter at home.

And today I committed a very strange act in the life of someone not used to spending much money on anything. I spent $200 on a bag. I know, I know.... Being from the Northwest, spending that much on one item is basically a sin, not to mention just plain stupid (you could get like, six decent bags for that price!). But, having received an unexpected check from my old adviser reimbursing me for what I spent on the journalism conference, and having an old bag that hurts my shoulders and back every day, I decided it's an OK investment. And then I came home and ate soup for dinner. Which I will be doing for the next couple of nights.

Still doing pretty damn good,

Shawno

Teary-eyed at a Tide Commercial

I'm not sure why, but every time I see this commercial, I get teary eyed.



I have some theories, however:

-"Linus and Lucy" is a nostalgic song, no matter who you are.
-That little boy looks like my older brother as a child, so white-blonde-haired, toothy and energetic
-That blanket thing really resonates with me, as I have had a few security blankets myself.

I'm sure every woman (or sensitive guy) reading this has experienced something similar, and whether it is a commercial, a song or an image that makes our hormones, biological clocks or nostalgia kick in and drives us to tears, I'd like to examine this idea.

What kind of unsuspected silly things make you cry? Are there days when looking at a cute picture of a puppy might bring the waterworks? Don't you always feel better after you've sobbed?

Please provide examples/links/stories.

A long awaited sigh of relief

I'm wearing the ugliest pair of socks I own.

They are knitted of thick yarn in squares of all the primary colors: true red, yellow, green and blue. They are also the warmest socks I own. I can't wear them with any of my regular shoes, except maybe my hiking boots because they are so unbelievably thick. I remember when I bought these socks. We were going bowling and I was (as I often am) in a perpetual state of wearing flipflops so I needed some socks. We stopped at the local Walgreens and I was determined to get the ugliest socks I could possibly find.

It was a night during the summer after I graduated high school, and I was with my best friends from that time. Just after Rhyan had made her appointment to get the tattoos on her wrist, I had decided it was a great idea to get my belly button pierced. I turned my head as the female parlor worker prepared what was likely a gigantic needle. She asked me to breathe in and hesitating, I gasped breath as she poked through my tiny belly button and inserted the metal jewelry.

I kept the damn thing for over five years. Even after I gained 20 pounds from eating the terrible cafeteria food at college, lost it and then gained it back again I looked at that little jewel in my tummy as a thing I did for me. I was never one to show it off, and my friends often forgot I even had it, but it made me feel good... not because it was pretty but because it was something I did without really thinking too hard about it, on a whim, in a time I'd always like to remember.

Last week I took out the piercing. It closed up within the day and now only a small divot and some red scar tissue remains. It's kind of a poignant commentary I guess. That part of my life is gone, but the little mark of it still remains. I did it because I'd come to think of the piercing as silly. I even had the whole "You're too old for this" conversation with myself (internally. Not outloud. That would be funny, but weird). Time for transition. Time to grow the fuck up.

This, living in New York, is the newest chapter. So, out comes the silly piercing, in comes the office clothes, sensible style, grown-up attitude and 10 to 6 job. This last week a whole bunch of my writing was posted online. If you are interested, please check out my web exclusives at...

http://magazine.audubon.org/webexclusives/seasonsGreenings.html

http://magazine.audubon.org/webexclusives/treadingLoudly.html

And my E Magazine articles at:

http://www.emagazine.com/view/?3945&src=

http://www.emagazine.com/view/?3942&src=

http://www.emagazine.com/view/?3939&src=

http://www.emagazine.com/view/?3928&src=

The last two you'll likely only be able to see in the print version. So... pick it up. I'm especially proud of the plastic bag story.

After all the frustration of not having anything to write at Audubon comes an explosion of clips, all in one week. I feel so proud and accomplished.

Last week Mike moved in to his new apartment in Sunnyside, Queens. It's very nice and I'm glad he doesn't have to sleep on his sister's couch anymore. He bought a ticket to come visit Washington Dec. 28 to Jan 2 so I guess I better plan on showing this kid a good time in my home state. I am so happy that he wants to meet the rest of my family and see where I come from.

On Saturday I went with my cousin Audra to see "Into the Wild" and catch some dinner. I highly recommend the movie, but I discourage people against the dinner conversation with my cousin. She is six years older than me. I have always viewed her as this perfect unattainable individual with whom I could never relate, and I was mostly right. We are so alike in our determination to get what we want and our outlook on relationships, but the situation and the age difference causes both of us to be uncomfortable being around each other.

Dad emailed me today about another perfect, unattainable cousin's wedding:

"Laura and Brad's wedding was very impressive. Someone forked out some big bucks. It was catered and managed. They had wine and beer and some good food. I stayed away from the alcohol because of my cold (and I was driving). But still it was fun."

I love my dad for many reasons, but one of those is because he is so unintentionally funny.

Sunday, Mike and I set out to visit the New York Pickle Guys. This hole in the wall in the East Village supposedly has the best pickles, olives, and other pickled goodies around, and I would have to agree. We bought pepperoncinis, spicy pickles, pickled carrots and pickled peppers (Peter Piper and Shawn and Mike picked a peck of pickled peppers). The store was in a very interesting part of town, where the dominating ethnicities are orthodox Jews and Chinese people, and the guy let Mike and I eat a spicy pickle for free as long as we ate it away from the barrels. Yay New York.

I <3 New York... Like the cheesy tourist shirts say.

Reflecting on Maynard Ferguson, Serge Gainsbourg and Shiraz,

Shawno

Hey, guess what? Go to hell.

This (the subject line) is what I heard one bum say to another today on my way home from work. It's not one of those jokes... "What did one bum say to another?" But rather, I guess a commentary on their culture and how rather than helping each other out, most times they are territorial and mean.

I guess this entry is a look at the culture of homeless people and my struggle with whether or not to pretend they don't exist like everyone else does.

Almost daily, no matter how hard I try to get on one of the last cars on the train, there is always someone who pipes up just after the doors sound their "bing bong" that warns you they're about to close, saying "Excuse me ladies and gentlemen..." Yes, excuse you. I got on this train to go home in peace and quiet. In fact, I can barely hear you above my mp3 player but I'm not sure if I should take out my headphones to hear you or if you're full of bullshit like the rest of them. But you're yelling too loud now, so it's a bit hard to ignore. And you look so sincere. What's that? You're looking for donations to help people who are hungry? Well, I was going to spend this change on laundry but maybe you should have it? Maybe you are lying.

It would be easy for me to give if he played the fiddle or sang some do-wop like some of them do. Pathetic pleas for change where you don't look like you're in need don't work for me! And why are you in my train car when I'm trying to zone out until I finally reach home? Why? And why is the man next to me falling asleep, and swaying as he does... he threatens to fall against me as he passes out with sleepiness. And I honestly want to punch him in the face as he gets closer, but I understand that he, like the rest of us, is tired as hell and just waiting to get home.

The conductor sounds like the Crypt Keeper as he announces each stop, the woman with one in the stroller and one in her arms still stands as people refuse to give up their seats. An ape-like man with Edward Scissor Hands fingernails picks and wipes his nose as Mikes motions to me to get closer to him to avoid the dirty bum. Above ground, a man in dirt-soaked overcoat, tattered jeans and a sheen of dust and grime protecting his skin from the judgment of shopping-bag-clad tourists blows a snot rocket into the grate where the subway train runs below, as his only belongings in a shopping cart nearby stink so people from one hundred yards away can smell the stench of poverty.

It is a thing to deal with, and it is a thing you have to painfully ignore. Every day out of work, I see the same dread-clad bum with his tattered Starbucks cup full of change, a lasting image of corporate America and its reaches. When I walk by him, his smell is not a stench. It is a familiar, non-offensive rustic musty smell and in a way I don't much mind him being there.

I don't know much to say on the issue of the homeless because I think the government has failed them and there's not much we can do for them now. But I will say that their presence around every corner makes me thankful for what I have.

"Hello , just a short note to say hi and let you know we are thinking about you. We hope all is going great for you in New York. We saw mom and dad last Saturday and got your e-mail address. We went with them to Evan and Amy's open house. Their condo is nice and they seem very happy there. It was nice to get to visit with mom and dad. Dad said you may come home for Christmas that would be nice. Grandpa is feeling much better. He has had some health issues but they seem much better now and he got a good report from his doctor today. He went in for his check-up and got his flu shot. He must be feeling better he is teasing again. He asked mom and dad if you had a boyfriend and dad said yes, you were seeing someone who is a professional chef at a restaurant in Manhattan. (grandpa was impressed) . It just seems so far away he said. Fall is really here the leaves are all gold and beautiful. However they are starting to fall so it is sort of messy. I love fall and the colors. Well honey just wanted to say hello and let you know we miss you and love you bunches…. Grandpa Carl and "Gram "Dee"

This note from my grandpa and stepgrandmother Dee brought me to absolute tears. Even now I get choked up and stuffy reading the heart-felt email from two people who really care about me. Grandpa has been having some health problems lately and gets thinner every time I see him. Before the 2008 campaign began, Grandpa always used to say that I would be the first female president. Now that Hilary is leading in the polls, he said he called her people to see if I could be part of her staff. Out of all the silly and hilarious things he says (Grandpa is quite a kidder, never censoring himself and he always tells outrageously embellished stories), I have always remembered this quip:

"Shit or get off the pot."

If ever there were words I could live by, that phrase coming out of my grandfather's toothy grin would be them. To me, it always meant if you set out to do something, really do it, and don't do it half-assed. If you're not going to do it all the way and try your best, there's no point in doing it at all. In a way, that's how I've always tried to live and lately it's getting harder and harder. After a teary discussion (really half discussion, half me getting chewed out by a mother with an exercise-induced endorphin rush) with my mom today I realized I'm not being my usual aggressive self when it comes to assignments at Audubon and I really need to start making myself more known around the office. What I'm doing is not good enough, and I'm not trying hard enough, according to Mom, and ultimately, no matter how badly it makes me feel for being intimidated by the whole situation I've been thrown into, she's right.

So I have resolved next week to pitch some really stellar ideas, get to know my editors better and show them that I can take on bigger projects.

Meanwhile, I went to an art exhibit last night to cover an "Eco-footprint" themed project. Talking to the artists ahead of time, I was particularly interested in Barbara Roux, a Long Island resident who finds what she calls "small habitat niches" to photograph her "work."

She made this image by painting a bird on a glass pane and waiting for the sun to set enough for her to hold up the glass and project the image of the bird on an oak tree. It's called "As the Crow Flies."


Her other photography is stunning, and the self-proclaimed "Conservation artist" is quite the character. At the exhibit she gave me four little books full of her photography and invited me to a talk she's doing in a couple of weeks. This one is called "The earth views the sky.":
Barbara is so charming and sincere, I just might attend her talk if not to cover it journalistically, to listen to what this woman has to say.

Today was considerably chilly, and I went outside in a tee-shirt thinking I could handle it. Hey... it's not that cold, right? Mike often makes fun of me because I told him no one in Washington uses an umbrella. Which is true!! But I said this having no idea how large the rain drops here can be. As Mom said, "it isn't the delicate drizzle of the Northwest." I figured, hey, I've got a good raincoat, never bothered me before, I'll be alright. This, my friends, is not the case! I stole a random umbrella from the cubicle I work in on Thursdays as I left last night. I'm not sure who it belongs to, but it kept me dry as I trekked to the art exhibit.

I've been doing a lot of reading lately, as the hour train to work allows. By far my favorite author lately is David Sedaris. He also contributes to NPR's "This American Life" quite frequently (check out the radio show if you haven't already). Something about his writing and his voice I completely relate to, and if I were to write something, I mean... put it in a book I guess, it would be very similar to "Me Talk Pretty One Day" and "Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim," his two latest compilations of essays. He views himself much as a rubbish collector. He takes down notes of stories in his everyday life and stories from family members and converts them into some of the most interesting, humorous writing I've ever enjoyed.

So... I live with this Vietnamese woman who I believe I've mentioned before. For the life of me, I can't remember how to pronounce her name. I've deduced that it starts with a "T," and there's probably an "A" at the end of it, but everything in the middle was hopelessly lost in the depths of my overwhelmed mind when I first met her. I've lived with her for almost a month and I can't remember her name. I feel awful. But what am I supposed to do? Just now ask her how to say her name? That would be terrible! At any rate, this woman is the most anal-retentive person I have ever met. She is obsessed with keeping the bathroom clean and tonight I made popcorn for dinner (classy, I know) and she knocked on my door to get help with her computer. She couldn't figure out why her volume control wasn't on her toolbar anymore, so after I fixed it, she tried to make small talk, all the while commenting on the "ugly" smell of popcorn. "Maybe the people downstairs made some," she said, with a scrunched, obviously dissatisfied face. "Yeah," I said. "I dunno." All the while I wanted to scream "IT WAS ME! I MADE THE POPCORN, OK?!" Upon entering my room again after she finally let me go, I made sure to squeeze in a little crack in the open door so she didn't see the full bowl of popcorn on my desk.


Things are (relatively) fine. It was a hard day, but this weekend will be better and I am determined to figure out this giant of a city.

Columbus was a fraud

Happy Columbus Day to all! Apparently here, people are so immersed in tradition that they fail to denounce Christopher Columbus, the man who deliberately brought disease and violence to natives in Central America and then claimed to have "discovered" what we now call home. Here, Columbus Day is a real holiday, celebrated with an Italian pride parade. I watched the last third of the parade on TV. The usual marching bands, ethnic dancers and flag-waving kids were pictured. Now that I think about it, this is the third parade I've witnessed since coming to New York. I mentioned the Ragamuffin Parade in my last entry, and when I told my editor Julie about it, she jokingly said, "There's always a random parade." At the time, I thought she was joking but it's truly the case. Mike and I checked out a Dominican parade for a little bit on Saturday morning, and now this Columbus Day parade. I guess the best way to celebrate your culture around here is to dress up in a silly outfit and walk down a closed-off street.

This last week at Audubon was better, but not by much. I have a few more assignments and I'm hoping to finish them and knock off some socks around the office to "prove" myself. More on that when I actually finish the pieces, I suppose. I got an email from my old editor at E, asking me how I was doing and offering me some freelance work. He was disappointed to hear that Audubon is not taking advantage a "gem in their midst" as he called me (aww shucks), and assigned me a story that should make me a few extra bucks. That said, I am now officially a "freelance journalist," and I intend to pursue other work on my days off from Audubon.

Friday night I went to midtown Manhattan to meet Mike after he was done with work. We hit up what we thought would be less "midtown classy" and more "hole in the wall," a place with Guinness on tap and the Red Sox game on a big screen. Let me tell you... I've always thought baseball was one of the most boring games to watch on television, but after watching Manny Ramirez smash it out of the park to win the game, I am a fan. And not just any fan. A Sox fan in New York. I'm watching the Yankees game on mute as I type, secretly hoping they will lose so we'll have a series without those overpaid sons of bitches for once. The score is 4 to 1 Cleveland in the top of the 4th. I hope this trend continues. Is it so wrong to hate a team because they have all the money and they pay for their talent? It's always a given for the Yankees to be in the series because they've got the cash to pay for the best players... A-Rod used to be a sweetheart when he played for the Mariners, but look at what the Yankees money did to him! Yankees, do us all a favor and lose so the series will be interesting for once!

OK, I'm done with the baseball talk.

Saturday was Mike's sister's birthday party. Her name is Jasellynne (pronounced Jays-lin), but everyone calls her Jay. She's been cutting hair for about 13 years, and has lived in New York for about seven, and it was her 30th birthday last week. Mike and I ventured to what people call the "meat packing district." What I'm realizing is that young people here seem to claim the most industrial, disgusting places in the city as their new and trendy hangouts, and then in response, expensive trendy clubs and bars are built to accommodate. We made our way to "The Brass Monkey," after getting a bit turned around and stepping over multiple pools of stagnate water in the street. I often wonder how long such pools have been there and what kind of disease I could catch if my skin actually touched the cigarette-butt-, pigeon poo-, unidentified liquid-entrenched puddles. It hasn't rained much at all this last month. I rest my case.

Anyway, we met all of Jay's friends from the salon, some of her clients and other pals. As the night went on and we approached an hour when I would normally be calling it quits-- that's when the place got the most crowded. Wall-to-wall people, all pilgrims to this strange hole in the wall at the end of the street behind trucks and storage units. I was having a lot of fun until I had to basically punch people out to get to the bathroom, then I decided it was time to catch a cab.

The next day, Mike and I went to Columbus Circle, a roundabout with a huge statue of Christopher Columbus in the middle, the Time Warner building and CNN surrounding it. We both had a hankering for pasta, and walked around until my feet were blistered, trying to find a place with some starchy goodness. We settled for a cafe that served pasta, but Mike didn't end up having any in the end.

Last night, thanks to one of Jay's clients, we went to the New York film festival to catch the premier of "Margot at the Wedding," Nicole Kidman's new movie with Jack Black and Jennifer Jason Lee. Outside the theatre, Jay spotted Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell shopping in sloppy clothes, and I was surprised to see them so dressed down and regular-looking.

Going up the elevator, I couldn't help feeling grossly under-dressed and a bit nervous, as Jay was telling me to keep my eyes open for celebrities. When we walked into the lobby, I rounded a corner and saw a familiar face taking a photo with a fan. It was Willem DeFoe, the green goblin in Spiderman, he was in Shadow of a Vampire, American Psycho, but my favorite role was Klaus in the Life Aquatic:


The film itself was amazing. The cinematography set the gloomy mood and the dialog between characters created the tone of the disfunctional family these characters lived in. Highly recommended.

Afterward, Nicole Kidman, Jennifer Jason Lee and the child actors from the film took the stage. You see these pictures of Kidman in gossip magazines, looking gorgeous with her classy style and her completely translucent skin and you think, "There's no way she actually looks like this." But she does. And her Australian accent is charming. After we filed out and caught the train back, I thought that maybe going to see films might not be a bad free-time thing to do. There are certainly enough venues here to choose from.

So, at the end of the long weekend, I grabbed a human-head-sized bagel and "coahfee" (I'm going to start saying it like that now) and headed home to Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. I walked around the neighborhood a bit but in the record-breaking 87-degree weather, it was hard to enjoy. This is OCTOBER, people!! I should be wearing wool socks by now, but noooo. I long for the cruddy, cold, rainy weather of my homeland.

I apologize for the impossibly long update, but there's just so much to write about. Tomorrow starts another work week, and another week of observing the amazing explosion of culture that is New York.

Week One

So yesterday marked a week since I officially moved to Brooklyn. My work week was a little slow. They're in between issues, wrapping up one while just starting on another one, so there's not a whole lot for me to do here. My supervising editor Julie suggested I come up with some story ideas to pitch for the primary editor I'll be working with this week, Keith Kloor. I researched, made a list and emailed him using my new fancy email (squery@audubon.org), but have since not heard anything either way. Hopefully tomorrow I can talk more with him about what he expects of me and what he's looking for with pitches.

Dad left Tuesday and I was really glad he came with me and I was able to show him around the city for his first time. Like me, he was surprised at how clean the city is. And like me, he expected all of the buildings to be intimidatingly tall, where you'd feel so closed in to the street between these structures that the thought of anything green or beautiful would be a far cry from anything you'd see here. But it's not like that (well, not everywhere in the city anyway). We took a bus tour around the city, being sure to stop in Little Italy for some good eats (three cheers for authentic gnocchi!). I bought myself some $5 knockoff sunglasses in Chinatown, we went to Central Park and generally had a great day.

The Empire State building... They built it in a little over a year. Quite an architectural marvel:
This site is called "Tiles for America." It's across the street from the hospital where the 9-11 survivors were taken and apparently children and other stood outside the hospital windows with support in the form of signs and candles but soon started making ceramic tiles to show their support. A lot of these are from around the country and it still stands as a sort of memorial.


This mirrored, sloped building made the reflection of another look like Toontown so I took a photo.
This is Strawberry Fields, located in Central Park, around the corner from where John Lennon was shot. The area is designated as a "quiet area" because so many come to pay their respects, but all I heard was bums sitting around on the benches, engaged in philosophical conversation with no one in particular.
There were some pretty good views of the skyline from the park, which Dad thought needed more open space.




When I went with Dad to drop him off at the Grand Central to head back to Connecticut. I walked him to the track and said, "Well, here it is," and gave him a big hug. He squeezed me and held on. He didn't want to let go... and then I said, "Dad, I'll be OK. I love you." That is when he started to cry. I said, "Dad, stop, you're making me cry," and I looked into his teary eyes. I can only guess at what he was thinking, but leaving your own daughter alone in one of the biggest cities in the world, knowing that she is pretty much on her own in a very big world must be very daunting. It's hard to be act brave when you know inside you're a bit scared as well.

This week at work my very young very hip editor Julie showed me a foodmart around the corner from NYU where you can get sushi by weight among other very yummy very natural foods. We hung out in the park and talked about my family, where I came from and basically how I got here. She just finished the graduate program at NYU for science writing and got hired as an assistant editor at Audubon. To be so lucky!! Come to find out most of their interns come from the science writing program so taking someone from the west coast, let alone outside of the program, let alone the east coast as an intern is very unusual for the magazine. I feel increasingly lucky to be in the position I am, even after organizing boxes of archived magazines and spending the better part of a day calling people to see which of Audubon's subscriptions to other magazines like E or National Geographic had expired and if/when they would. Lucky kid right here. And I'm getting used to riding the subway.

One thing I've discovered though is that people here think subways are one of the better ways to get a captive audience. One man, possibly a minister, yelled about the troubles of the city's homeless, saying any type of donation would help them to feed the hungry. He also reminded us that the line between being comfortable and homeless is very thin, and tragedy could strike any of us unexpectedly. Another woman on a different train, her voice wasn't as loud and didn't project as much but she announced that she and her family had become recently homeless for whatever reason. When no one paid attention or gave her any change, she got off at the next stop yelling that we should all ask ourselves why it was so hard to give to those in need. She claimed even she helped other homeless. But... in those situations I go through a very distinct though process, somewhat of an internal conflict:

"Wow, that is really sad. Should I give her a dollar?"
"No, you don't know if she's running a scam. Besides, you don't have a whole lot to spare. And she probably doesn't even try to find a job. People like that aren't down on their luck, they just don't try hard enough."
"That's not it. Stuff can happen to anyone and our government doesn't exactly make it easy for people to get back on their feet."

By the time I've finished the argument with myself, the person is already gone and I've missed my chance to chip in some change. Most of the time, though, I try to have my headphones on or bury my nose in a book to avoid the opportunity to feel compassionate. I just can't afford it.

So this weekend I was a bit lazy getting going on Saturday, called my parents and then heard some noise going on around the corner. Apparently there was a parade.



It was less of a Daffodil-elaborate -floats parade as it was a bunch of 6th grade marching bands, Tae Kwon Do , Boy Scout Troupes and kids dressed up in their Halloween costumes parade, but something told me this kind of thing was a huge tradition in the neighborhood. Everyone was out on 3rd Avenue right around the corner from my place. Italian grandpas with their pumpkin-dressed grandchildren in their laps, Latino moms with strollers wrangling their Mr. Incredibles and Spidermen little boys, and little girls dressed as princesses and Disney characters. I love this neighborhood. In the background down third, you can see the Verrazano Bridge which connects Brooklyn to Staten Island:
Five blocks away from my room there's a waterfront park. The footbridge across the freeway had some intricate designs I found interesting:


Here's the bridge again from the park:From there you can see Manhattan, including the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building in full view. If I get motivated I might run the promenade down there this week.

This here is my street. 76th :)
And this is my house. 328. It's an old-fashioned row house. The plumbing is old. My window is the one on the left with the shutters. I pretty much love it.

This weekend I went to CT to visit with Mike and his friends on his last day at his old restaurant. I drank Coors Light and Corona in the kitchen with the whole kitchen staff, just bullshitting and celebrating Mike's last day. The next day we hung out with his mom and her new husband, who both seem to like me a lot (a good thing). We rode the train into the city to Mike's sister's. He'll be staying there until he finds a place to live. Mike's sister Jay says finding an apartment in New York is like a part time job. A few places that looked like they were going to work for him didn't, and now he's stuck on an air mattress on the floor at his sister's. His first day went well and he has the weekend off so hopefully soon the whole room thing will pan out for him. Meanwhile, it's great to have him around again :)

In all, I still can't really believe I'm here and I work in Manhattan. Bizzare. I'm excited to start getting my bearings a bit more, eating at all the wonderful cuisines in my neighborhood and finding my niche somewhere in this crazy city.

Thanks for reading,

Shawno

First night in Brooklyn

Hi, I got new glasses.



Notice the change of the title of my blog. It is no longer "Shawno's CT Blog," it is now, "Treehugger in the Big City." Title is just as corny (if not more so) than the last, but now it is all being written from Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, New York (and surrounding areas). Pop and I arrived Thursday after a connection in Cincinnati, and I do believe I caught some ugly germs from another passenger. I try to dismiss the sniffles as allergies, or a reaction to the air quality, but the sore throat waking up yesterday was tell-tale. Not the most opportune time to be sick, but I suppose everything else has been going so swimmingly that it doesn't matter much.

We drove to Stamford, CT to settle in to their local Super 8 Motel and upon arrival found a bus that looked like it had been on fire not 20 minutes before, right in front of the hotel. We had to take a back way to get into the parking lot. I wanted to say, "Welcome to Connecticut, Dad!" But I thought that might scare him so I stifled my laughter as we carried our bags to the fourth floor. The whole hallway smelled like weed. I looked at my dad... He looked back at me. Neither of us were sure whether we should mention it smelled like an illegal drug (who would want to admit they knew what weed smelled like to their dad/daughter?) and finally I said, "Somebody's smoking weed," and dad agreed.

Upon the uncomfortable Super 8 beds, we crashed, having been up since 3:30 that morning to catch our flight out of Seattle. The time change went almost unnoticed. Getting up much earlier than any sane person should really helped that situation.

The next morning we caught the "breakfast" they were serving downstairs and headed to the Stamford train station. That was the day we were determined to find me a place to live in New York. On the ride to Grand Central, I pointed out to Dad the place where I had gotten lost in Harlem and finally caught the train. He wasn't too pleased. I think maybe its better not to mention all the unsafe situations I was in while interning for E. What they don't know can't hurt them, right?

So, we arrived at Grand Central and I hurried Dad onto the subway to get to Brooklyn to look at our first possible option for housing. Joe answered the door. The place was filled with dust bunnies, water damage, clutter of all kinds. Not the best place I wanted my dad to see straight off. But we said thank you and moved on.

Off the 77th street stop, we walked down this beautiful, tree-lined street to find our next destination. Kids played on the sidewalk, people smiled at us as we walked by... And then we met Susanna. She came to the gate in a lime green tee-shirt, her hair casually pulled back and smile on her face. She's Russian maybe. Eastern European for sure but sweet all the same. She showed us the room available, and although it is very small, it has everything I need and it's in the middle of everything I might want. Walk around the corner and the laundromat that does your dirty clothes themselves is right there. Seems like ten million ethnic restaurants also reside in the area. Indian, Greek, Japanese, Italian, Chinese, Vegeatarian this, bakery that.... A block and a half to Starbucks, subway around the corner, and five blocks away is a waterfront park. How could I be so lucky??? After the failed Bushwick attempt, I'm not so sure.

My roommates:
A 40 something Vietnamese woman who works in the Belgian embassy
A guy who is interning at the UN
A guy who is a database engineer for Yahoo
Ashley... working toward a medical degree
A couple of Japanese women
And others I haven't heard of nor met yet.

After seeing the place and handing over money/signing the lease, I brought Dad on a boat tour.




I took him all around the city on the subway and he kept having to look at the map every time we stopped to make sure we were where we were supposed to be. But I'm glad I got to be with my dad the first time he'd visited New York.

Today Dad and I moved my stuff in, bought some groceries at the Shop Rite (terrible CT chain), and drove to the city. I navigated pretty well, keeping my sense of direction well intact. Then we arrived, piled it all into my room and went down the street to have the BEST most AFFORDABLE sushi I have ever had. No joke. Better than Wasabee, hands down. I think I'm going to like it here.


Dad and I walked around the Promenade down by the water with clear views of Jersey, Manhattan and the bridge to Staten Island. We both decided I need to go pick up Ol' Blue, as the bike trail is perfect for getting exercise down there along the water.

Dad dropped me back the house and I headed down the the liquor store (about a half a block away) to buy some wine to celebrate my new place. The guy there was SO NICE. He said hi to me, I told him I was very new in town, he gave me a card and told me they could order anything I was looking for and welcomed me to the neighborhood, all in a very Brooklyn accent. I chose what I recognized, a Stimson merlot. After contemplated buying a corkscrew, I decided, naw, they've got to have one in the house. Guess what? They didn't. And by the time I figured that out, all the stores were closed. Plan B: Google "how to open wine without corkscrew." They suggest whacking it with a shoe until the cork came out... pliers, leather shoes strings... I stuck my pocket knife in the plastic (cheap, tacky, I know) cork. Nothing. I whacked it with my polka-dotted ballet flat. Then my brown work shoes. Nothing. I tried putting the blade of my small pocket knife down and twisting it around, thinking that even if the cork fell in, that'd be alright.

Then I tried my bike key. Twisted it down as if it were a screw and pulled out. Each time, a bit more fluffy plastic from the cork, but no wine.

I looked at my keychain. Something on here must work. I'm resourceful. What would McGyver do? Just as I was leaving the kitchen with a glass, my wine and a paring knife, my new roommate Ashley walked by... It was the first time I'd met her. Very pretty, nice, asked me if I'd just moved in. But I wasn't interested in all that. "Do you happen to have a corkscrew?" I asked, pretending to be maybe madcap, saying hi but acting like I had no time for smalltalk (on the whole, RUDE as I have deduced since then). A few more whacks with the ballet flat and I was ready to give up. Just then, I saw a black screw on the floor, left over from some electrical work they'd been doing since I moved in. If I could screw that in, then with my brute strength pull out the cork, I'd be ready to celebrate. I screwed it in. Pulled. It hurt my fingers!!! Pulled a bit more, trying to ignore the pain, but ignoring the pain almost to the point of drawing blood, I decided that was about enough.

The screw was sticking out of the cork. I looked at my keychain again. I mean, come on, there's gotta be something on this ring that can help. Then I saw my fish bottle opener. Leverage. That was my answer. I hooked the fish's metal mouth over the head of the screw, put the bottle between my bare feet and pulled. And pulled. Just when I thought it wouldn't work, the cork popped out. There I was, in my corner of a room with a plastic cork with a big ol' black screw sticking out of it, barefoot, looking for my glass. But the point is, I did it.

Coming up will be actual pics of my beautiful place and a perspective on New York from a Washingtonian. You should probably read it.

Thanks,

Shawno

Ready to leave... almost

Well.

In a little over a day I'll be headed back to good ol' Washington state. It's been a ride for sure. I've worked really hard at my internship (some of my stuff is going to show up in these next few issues) and I've been incredibly independent and dealt with everything pretty well.

This last Thursday through Sunday I took a press trip to Reno to cover their Lake Tahoe Forum and Renewable Energy Summit. I saw Bill Clinton speak, which was pretty rad. I don't think I've ever been so captivated by someone on stage. He looked so thin, almost gaunt, and aged but as he stood up there in his navy blue blazer and red polo shirt, my breath was taken away by his humor and speech.

This trip was jam packed. You have no idea how exhausting it is to get dragged around by people who want you to write a story in their favor so badly that they act like their job depends on it. Or maybe you do. But now I do too. Apparently Reno alone has like seven geothermal power plants and the most solar power per capita in the country. Who would've thunk? I thought Reno was where my grandpa, the one who has a hula lady tattooed on his forearm and a head that has been bald since his mid-twenties hangs out. The one who turns down his hearing aids so he doesn't have to listen to any of us talk. Yeah Reno with all its neon lights, smoking and gambling seems like a place to meet old ladies named Ethel with blue hair and a cup full of quarters. I actually rode the elevator with two prostitutes upon arrival. But who knew that it would also be such a renewable energy hub!

They had a wrangler for me. Her name was Erin, and they flew her out from Denver for the sole purpose of hanging out with me and paying for everything. How do people get these kind of jobs? She was blonde and polite... An ACL injury caused her to walk a bit slower than the rest of us. Her husband's name is Fran which I find absolutely charming. Not Francis. Not Frank, but Fran. Okay. She was charming, his name was charming, and she put up with me for a couple of days, so God bless her.

I talked to the geothermal man, a biodiesel expert, an algae enthusiast, a man who makes battery technology for electric cars and a big wig named Chuck who ran the whole show and bought me breakfast. Jam packed!

The whole conference made me feel like a businesswoman, like I needed a blackberry to keep up on all my emails and phone calls, like I was actually working for once. It was a good trip. I made some friends in the PR sector even though I really resent what they do. I ate a whole bite of chopped walnuts (I thought they were almonds) and my throat, lips and tongue proceeded to swell up to the point where I thought I might have to go to the ER (Woo!).

The way home was even better. I started out at 6 a.m., just missing the airport shuttle and desperate to get to the airport on time I took a cab. We followed the airport shuttle the whole way there and I felt like an idiot. If only I hadn't gone back to turn off that lamp that stayed on, maybe I would've made it. Damn my energy conservationist mind. I started at 6 that day. My flight to Denver was on time, but my flight out of Denver to NY was three and a half hours late. This was on top of a two hour layover as it was. What does one do to entertain themselves during this time? I felt like Tom Hanks in "Terminal," walking up and down the newly shampooed carpet trying to think of what I could do to occupy my time that wouldn't involve additional calories or sitting on the floor. I bought an issue of Scientific American about food consumption in America. Quite interesting but only held my interest long enough to notice my gate had been changed and the flight was even more delayed. What is someone such as myself supposed to do when all of her intellectual entertainment hasn't sustained her? Time for beer. Ah yes, the Colorado sports bar. Thank goodness. I had a couple of New Castles and by that time it was about time to board the plane.

We got on. The explanation for the delay was thunderstorms in NY, though I was informed later that it was a mere drizzle. Flew over, got in at about 10:30 and turns out my roommate, who said she would pick me up, is unable to come get me. AWESOME! NY transportation, here I come.

Took a bus they told me would go to Grand Central, where I could catch a train home. Turns out it didn't, and I got off at the last stop, somewhere in the middle of Harlem. I caught a cab. He looked like he was new, by the way he was looking at the guide to NY he pulled out after I asked him to bring me to the nearest train. He dropped me off at the 6, which i do believe does NOT go to Grand Central. I sat there clutching my bag, watching a very large rat sniff around the tracks. The handle on my bag had just broken and my thumb ring was bent from carrying my suitcase all around. The 6 finally came and I got on and headed to the Harlem train station. In tears, I waited on the platform for the New Haven train to come and I finally got on and settled in for the 45 minute ride home. It was not even five minutes into my ride when the man sitting across the aisle from me vomited on the floor. He emptied the entire contents of his stomach, and I took my ticket and moved to the next car.

Can you think of a worse travel day? Because I honestly can't. And in a little over a day I will be doing it all over again, coming in to Seattle.

What a ride it has been, here in Connecticut. If you asked someone when they were younger where they would like to end up, I bet no one would ever say CT. But now that I'm taking this Audubon internship, I may be here for longer than I expected.

Two and a half weeks left

So I know my adoring fans have been waiting for a new blog for a couple of weeks. Funny how busy I get being out here. One of the other interns, Jess, is going to be the editor and chief of the magazine called EJ at Michigan State, one of the only places they have a masters program in environmental journalism. We decided to go to Brooklyn for a day. After going the wrong way coming off the subway trying to find the museum and getting into what may have been a bad part of town and getting some Greek food, we finally asked some exuberant women with awesome accents where the hell we were going. They directed us to the Brooklyn Museum down the street. It has the biggest collection of Egyptian art anywhere, I guess. It's amazing to look at something you know is basically older than time as you know it.


Beautiful museum.

Then we decided to go to the Botanical Gardens, right near by:

Very pretty although I think we missed the prime of most of the flowers there.

After walking around outside and sweating beyond belief, we decided we needed beer. Jess had looked up this brewery called the Brooklyn Brewery. We weren't really sure how to get there, so we asked a cop at the subway. Trying to be so very helpful (I'm constantly surprised at how helpful and nice New Yorkers are), he gave us directions and we hopped on the train. We got off at the stop we were instructed to, and walked 9 blocks or so. We were expecting to find this glowing spectacle of wonderful beer and greasy food right around the corner, but instead, we were in the middle of Italian suburbia. Old women who look like my Great Aunt Bea were hanging out on their porches, Italian flags were flying and fake flowers adorned cute little patios. We asked a very tan, loud black-haired woman where we could find the place we were looking for and she looked at us like we were crazy. Defeated, we headed back to an Italian restaurant we saw on the way down that lonely road. We scoped out the menu outside and an older man with gray hair and leathery skin said, "It's delicious, you'll love it, come on in." So we followed him in, where he promptly kissed one of the managers who looked like he should be named Antony or Mario on the cheek. The tables, which we couldn't see from outside, were adorned with white tablecloths and linen napkins. We could tell our sweaty selves were under-dressed but we just didn't care. Our waitress (who was probably a co-owner, the way she talked) Marie gave us the run down of the specials. She ran down the veal, pork, pasta and then she said, "Or whateva you want, ya know? If you think of something, run it by me and we'll see what we can do." Her accent was entrancing, almost. I felt like she should be my mom's best friend or something. They would definitely get along. I got the gnocchi in a great red sauce and Jess got the standard fettucine alfredo. She's an Olive Garden fan. Nuff said.

Good pasta and a few gin and tonics/rum and cokes later, we were ready to get on the subway and get back home. Only thing was the platform going the other way was closed. Good thing there was an Asian guy there, just standing by terminal to tell us we needed to take the stairs and get on a different train. We ran up the stairs just in time to see the train we needed drive off. So we waited and took pictures and laughed while we waited for the next one.

On the train back to Grand Central I watched a couple across from us. She was reading Bridget Jones' Diary, he was listening to his ipod, but they both kept sneaking loving glances at each other and it was just too cute.

We got to Grand Central, had another drink for the rail and headed home. Mike and John called us so we decided to dupe the conductor and get off at Milford instead of Norwalk (we would've had to pay a bigger fare). Good times indeed.

This week, I am trying to finish up this huge story I'm working on that is on plastic bag bans. It should be the best piece I've done so far while being here. I'm going to Reno the 16th to 18th to cover a renewable energy summit for E and I'm super excited. I spent the last weekend with Mike, his sister and her boyfriend in the city. It was the most enjoyable of all my visits there. We went to Mesa Grill (Bobby Flay's NY restaurant for food network/bravo fans) for brunch. We saw a bum with dreadlocks riding a pink bike... and we got some Thai iced tea, and we took a boat tour from Fulton street around the river, past the statue of liberty and the Brooklyn Bridge with the tour guide's monotone voice narrating it all. It reminded me of Pike Place and it almost got me a little teary-eyed. We had some nachos and beers at a place called Heartland Brewery and I swear to you, it was the closest to Boundary Bay I've had since being here. What a great weekend. It's always so hard to go back on Mondays. Especially when people are intent on running you over, like they were today.

I've got 2.5 weeks until I get to come home. And after that, I get to move in with my parents because I don't have a job. How does someone who did so well in school end up without a job? I can't afford to go to grad school, and I bet that wouldn't even help me. It sucks when you expect it all to culminate into this amazing career and you just end up bumming off your parents like everybody else. I worked hard. I deserve more than this.

That said, I am finishing up my internship here strong, and heading to the Society of Environmental Journalists conference in September, where I hope to find a job. Meanwhile I am soooo ready to come home and be with my friends.

That week will be a lot of flying but I'll be alright and ready to celebrate. Hope you all are well. See you soon.

-Shawno