Last summer, I thought I had set an all-time record for "summer job least suited to my personal talents, interests and skills" by taking a ritzy babysitting job, during which I catered to the demands of four-year-old yuppies wearing miniature ascots (I have since decided that I will not reproduce, thanks) and their horrifying parents who demanded that their little brat only be given organic soy chocolate milk and kept indoors at all times.
Please. My mom let me have the good chocolate milk and encouraged me to run around in the sprinklers and I turned out fine -- depending on who you ask.
This summer, however, I think I might be in danger of breaking my own record for mismatched employment. Somehow, instead of fulfilling my plan of moving to Key West for a summer rife with tanning, flirting and dancing on bars like Svetlana from the Real World (under the guise of working for a newspaper that plays tiki music when they put you on hold), I ended up smack dab in the middle of corporate America. After working at Forbes magazine for going on a month now, I can say with authority that it is about as far away from my tiki hut summer as I could have possibly gotten.
Those who know me may find my employment at Forbes' 5th Ave. office both amusing and confusing for a number of reasons. The first, and perhaps most disconcerting, of these reasons is that Forbes is a magazine focused rather exclusively on money, and I am a walking financial quagmire. I have burned bridges with Visa (my card is lying in tiny pieces in a landfill somewhere), MasterCard (I owe them so much I think they actually have the rights to the first born child I have opted not to have) and Bank of America (no longer allowed to use their ATMs and must confront annoyed tellers with my cash flow woes).
My lack of financial acumen tends to cause me a great deal of problems, not the least of which is that, since my name is sullied among legit credit card companies, I have to use a Discover card. If you have never had a Discover card, you are probably wondering why having one as your only credit card is a bad thing. Other unfortunate souls in my position, however, know the only thing you "discover" with a Discover card is that you can count on the fingers of one hand how many establishments accept it as payment. Don't believe me? Try starting a tab at The Virginian or Jabberwocke with your Discover and see how well your trusty "credit card" works. If you're anything like me, you will end up paying for your drinks with leftover travelers' checks and nickels. Note: It's very difficult to act suave while fishing nickels out of your purse and mumbling, "Just a second ... I just need 78 more cents."
Another glaring reason that I seem a bit ill-fitted for my internship is that it required me to relocate to New York City. Prior to this summer, I had never been to New York, nor had I ever wanted to. When I think of New York, I unfortunately do not think of "Sex in the City" or any number of the glamorous films that are set in Manhattan.
I think of "Home Alone II: Lost in New York," where poor Kevin McAllister is heckled by prostitutes (what kind of children's movie is this?), cab drivers and gang members (Bloods, I think) after he is callously thrown out of the Plaza Hotel. I won't even discuss his encounters with the Pigeon Lady -- whom I believe is not a fictional character, but is rather real and flourishing in Washington Square Park, which is tragically close to my apartment. I don't care if you have a heart of gold, Pigeon Lady, stay the hell away from me with your filthy birds.
Despite my misgivings about the city, I still had faith in New York and gave the people of Manhattan the chance to prove the stereotypes of the crotchety New Yorker wrong. The first test came my first night in the city when I was entering a rather swanky (thanks, Dad) restaurant for dinner. I was walking slightly behind a crowd of people who were going through the restaurant's front door and, naturally, I assumed one of them was going to hold the door, and I began to walk through the entrance. The un-held door then crashed into my sternum, perhaps causing vast internal injuries. Thanks for the broken ribs, New York.
This is not to say that my time in New York has been completely unpalatable. Working at Forbes has allowed me to fulfill a dream a half-decade in the making. No, I am not talking about my first legitimate paycheck or first real world byline. I am talking about meeting my idol, my hero, my influence for every ill-advised outfit I have ever tried to squeeze myself into: Paris Hilton. Our two-minute chat (almost cut short by her security guard's grip on my shoulder) completely validated my presence in New York and all of a sudden, my fear of the Pigeon Lady and other gripes against the city disappeared like my paycheck on a Friday night.
I was so inspired by my rendezvous with Miss Hilton that I even tried to show a little support and buy her perfume. Regrettably, my Discover card was declined and I sure as hell wasn't going to dig for nickels in front of Paris. I may not be a super-chic New Yorker, but I do have a little pride left in my broken sternum.
Erin can be reached at gaetz@cavalierdaily.com.
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