i heart you, spotify

On Friday morning, I stumbled down the narrow stairs of my cousin’s grandmother’s beautiful Stone Harbor beach house (how’s that for distant family connections?) to the sound of something very heavy and hated dropping with a thud. “The stock market’s crashing again,” said Aunt Sylvia in a tone that indicated the depressing commonplace-ness of horrible news. All I could think of was my distant dream of one day having a job getting further and further away.

It’s a good thing I preempted the newest Dow dip by sending in a job application to Spotify, my new favorite company, nay entity, in the world. Actually application is a generous word, since it was more like a piece of fan-mail; unrestrained in a way that you would only write to Penelope Cruz or George Clooney, someone with whom you know you stand absolutely no chance.

“…I have searched for a job prospect that could make my heart beat with excitement…” Did I really write that in a cover letter?! [checks Word doc., shakes head in embarrassment].

It’s not that I don’t truly have those feelings about Spotify (just as I know your amor for Catherine Zeta-Jones is pure, deep, and true), but this is the sort of love-at-first-sight confession that just does not get you a second date. When did I get so desperate?

I think it’s the lack of feedback. These days, everyone is too busy to even give your proposals a proper rejection. “We’re sorry but due to the high volume of applications we are not able to respond to every person.” After I’ve poured my heart and soul into a cover letter and suitably tweaked my resume to exaggerate my knowledge of Drupal core, you can’t even send out an automated response that says “Sorry, good luck” ?! Maybe I didn’t go to Yale or Wharton, but I’m smart, accomplished, brave, and I’ve just laid myself bare trying to convince you to hire me. Say something.

Please?

If there is an appropriate analogy in the social sphere, it would certainly be dating-related. What happened to good old asking-someone-to-coffee… and responding? Text messaging and emailing are so impersonal that people find it easier to just blow off the invitation altogether. One of my friends never received a response to an email to a guy, though he had initiated the contact. “Oh you emailed back too soon; you should have waited a few days,” was her male friend’s advice. Seriously? At least make an excuse. At least respond to the pathetic text message thread that YOU started to say, “Sorry something came up.”

It’s almost like we’re so primed to be disappointed that it’s a race to reject the other person first. Those of us who have been applying to jobs and fellowships and schools and getting turned down, or not offered enough to even live on, might be the most vulnerable. Spotify is going to reject me, if they even go so far as to acknowledge my existence. I know this. But I’m not going to let it affect my personal life or my self-esteem. Hell, the way unemployment is looking for 20-somethings, my odds are much better scoring a coffee date than an interview. New strategy: asking Daniel Ek out for lunch.

laugh of the day

re: age is just a number; I still feel this young

age is just a number

I like that my most controversial blog to date was about hot dogs. Good job guys for caring about what really matters.

Today’s thoughts:

A funny thing happens after college… age ceases to exist. Except in the company of alumni, where class might become an indicator of social circles, the only digits usually exchanged between new acquaintances are cell phone numbers. A certain grouping into life phases seems to take priority over age: friends who are married with kids, those with serious careers or salaried jobs vs. floaters (using that word in the best way possible of course) who are still trying to figure out what, where, and who they want to be.

To cut to the chase, I’ve been telling people that I’m 25 when they ask for my age. I’ve claimed a quarter century in two separate blogs and may have even filled it out on a form of some sort. My sister Michele has been on my tail about this–”You are NOT twenty-five!”–and today my mom joined the case. “What’s with this twenty-five crap?” she asked me in a particularly vulnerable position a.k.a. trapped in the car with her driving.

me on left... how old am i?

So I’m not really 25 yet. I was born on October 18, 1986 (save it in your planners, folks) which makes me 24… and three quarters. Rounding up seems to make sense to me in the same sense that, as I explained to my mother, you wouldn’t say that something occurred 9 or 11 years ago, but a decade ago. Twenty-five is such a big number that it makes 24 seem kind of nit-picky. Mom disagrees: “Not that it’s all about me, but you being 25 makes me older you know.”

I guess I still feel like a little kid in more than a couple ways, and inflating age is one of the classic kid methods of appearing more mature (though it never works, does it?). These are such uncertain times for us in our 20s; I feel like we can’t or don’t want to follow our parents’ model, and yet don’t have a clear idea of where our own life milestones are going to land. How do we know that we’ve reached adulthood?

Added to the general confusion of being a young person in an economic recession and generational swing, I feel as though I’ve just missed out on two full years of development. Living in Indonesia helped me grow in very important personal ways, but the actual knowledge and skills that I gained there are seeming very applicable to finding a career in the U.S. Not to mention having to re-socialize to this country (biggest change: does no one talk on the phone anymore? What is with the text messaging to relay important information?!). I feel lost. Young.

When I say I’m twenty-five, and I’ve said it so many times now that I almost believe it’s true (don’t the Japanese count the day of actual birth as your first birthday?), I’m actually sticking out my chest and saying with unconvincing huffiness, “I’m an adult! I know what I’m doing. I don’t need your help.”

The thing is, it’s a lie. And not just the number. I have no idea what I’m doing and I do need all the help I can get. I guess everyone knew that already though, and I was only trying to convince myself.

the astoria express

Please Astoria Express tell me you go to Brooklyn… even the short bus would be better than 4 transfers after 11pm.

we're just special in astoria

the recession special

I’d like to start out this post by thanking my mom, Clif bars and EGGS for keeping me alive the past 3 weeks. Even though my 25-year old metabolism isn’t what it used to be, I never realized how hard it is to feed a single person on the road in America.

My mom, Clif bars and EGGS

For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been to check out my new apartment in Astoria, New York, caught up with old friends and family in Annapolis and DC, visited family in the tri-state area and been down to Lynchburg, VA as a plus-1 for a wedding. I know most people can’t stand living out of a suitcase, but I’m so excited to catch up with America that I couldn’t be happier to bop around until I have to really settle down and start working (ETD Aug 25th). Just don’t judge me for having wrinkled clothing.

On basically extended vacation, my only goals are this: to have as much fun as possible, and to not crush my bank account into oblivion. Unfortunately a good deal of having as much fun as possible involves food and drink, which in places like New York and DC can be pricey (the Bojangles in Lynchburg was not). With this in mind, I carted around a few pounds of Clif bars in my already cumbersome suitcase to tide me over between the social meals, and damn was that a great idea.

Eggs, the proverbial poor man’s lobster (just don’t try and ask me to cite the proverb), was the other life-saver. In DC, Leah and I cooked up some smokin’ breakfast sandwich concoctions… for breakfast of course. And lunch and dinner. Favorite Combo #1: sunny-side up, fresh tomato, cheddar and basil. Favorite Combo #2: sauteed onion and tomato scramble with avocado and hot sauce in tortilla. I could go on all day.

Now I know everyone’s trying to save money in this shit-hole of an economy, but I didn’t realize that eating on the cheap was so mainstreet until walking down 86th outside the Lincoln Center. At a corner hot dog stop and deli, a huge yellow and red banner shouts for miles: “The Recession Special” which was something like 4 hot dogs for 5 bucks.  I’m unsure about the quality (Yelp! is saying mixed things), but I love the spirit behind it.

From now on, everything that I do that’s cheap, I’m calling “the recession special.”  I’m gonna start by fixing up Mom’s old road bike and duck taping my lamp back together. Hit me with your suggestions and you will be rewarded… but not in cash.

things worth waiting for

Things you don’t have to wait for: my next blog entry. If you have a WordPress account, just hit subscribe at the top of this page in the tool bar and virginjournal will notify YOU when there’s a new post.

talking to strangers

One of the biggest differences between Jogja and, well, anywhere else, is that everyone talks to you on the street. It is completely normal to ask a stranger on a bus personal questions (Do you have a Javanese boyfriend yet? Is that your real nose?) and even to get into a car with complete strangers (this story will come out later… it involves a manicure and a mosquito den). I knew that this was going to be the biggest adjustment that I would have in the states, but I thought it would be quite easy; I never really liked that aspect of Javanese culture. Or so I thought.

*

Of course the first week I’m back I make a huge social faux pas. I’m out with Michele and Patricia in Bethlehem and we are sampling the homemade beer at the lovely Bethlehem brewery in historic downtown, and a gorgeous Golden Doodle walks by. Michele starts bonding with the dog and we eventually acknowledge the owner(s), a 50-ish glasses-clad semi-balding guy with a pink checked shirt and his shorter more New Jersey-mob styled buddy.  So we are talking to them and they are joking about how they have to wait for a table and we have this nice outdoor patio seating etc etc and then the tall guy says, “Unless you ladies want to invite us to sit at your table! Ha ha ha.”

Pause.

What would YOU do in this situation? We had extra room, and indeed we were taking up a whole table during dinner time just for a beer each, and yes we liked the dog, and they seemed nice enough.

So I say, “Yea, sure why not! Sit down!” Michele is shooting me dagger looks and the short mafioso man is looking really uncomfortable. “No no. No no that’s really ok,” he says, practically pulling his taller buddy by the shirt sleeve. But it’s too late; I’m way too into this invitation, thinking it’s the most normal thing in the world, and the tall guy obviously really wants outdoor seating and before we know it, they are sitting down and Michele is asking the waitress for some water for the dog.

So I get to hear about how Ben and Dave always dress up for Halloween together, and they find out that Patricia studies biology at Villanova, and after a while we go on our way and they keep the nice outdoor seating.

*

Fast-forward to the next day when we are visiting with our Uncle Larry near Wilmington.

Michele: “Get what Britt did last night [tells story].”

Cousin Christine: “You did WHAT?! No. No no no no.”

So I try to defend myself, but it boils down to the fact that I didn’t realize what I had done was really weird and kind of socially unacceptable. It is decided at this point by family consensus that I am no longer allowed to talk to strangers (a mandatory chaperone is considered as well).

I feel sad. I mean what is the harm in talking to people in a public space, while you’re with friends and a Golden Doodle? But I take what they say to heart: no more talking to strangers.

*

And then. Just an hour ago…

I’m walking from the MarketPlace in downtown Annapolis and am approached by a man I’ve never seen before. He tells me I’m beautiful and he just wants to talk to me. Which is all he does. He says he’s from Monterey and makes documentaries and is editing film right now. He asks me what I do. He says his name is Carlos. I say mine is Luna. He points to the moon. He says good-bye, nice talking to you, have fun with your family.

20 minutes ago…

I return to the Starbucks of the last blog post. The girl at the cashier recognizes me and says she likes my bag. Where did I get it? Indonesia. She was just in Cambodia, helping her sister. Angkor Wat? Beautiful. She’s thinking about doing a teaching abroad job as well. Erica. Mine is Brittany. Are there any outlets? Room for cream, thanks.

*

I realize that Jogja and Starbucks and even downtown Annapolis are different than New York, and I know I can’t talk to strangers in a big city and just trust that it’s ok. But it’s nice to know that there are friendly people here; that Americans aren’t so completely absorbed in their own worlds (as is the stereotype abroad) that they can’t say ‘hi’ to someone clearly on their own.

And anyway, we were all alive in the 90s; doesn’t anyone remember the first-day-of-school scene from Forrest Gump?

“Well now we ain’t strangers anymore.”