Open letter: To the person who robbed me

Dear Thief,

I am not stupid. I know what a robber looks like, and I know what a casing for a robbery looks like. I've traveled to 10 countries in 8 months, and I know how to protect myself and my property. This ranges from observing and tracking my surroundings to being able to throw a few punches -- I took boxing lessons from a couple of hardened ex-Marines, so don't even try it.

I am not an easy target.

That said, I congratulate you on your method. Having some random guy paw through my coat and gloves (I don't keep valuables in my pockets, jackass) in order to distract me was clever: I was too busy confronting him to notice your greasy fingers slipping into my purse. By the way, you missed my cash, my iPod, my computer, and my computer cord. Actually, why didn't you snag the whole freaking wallet?

You only got two cards. Nice job, Thief.

However, you have further ruined one of my favorite coffeeshops. Caribou Coffee reminds me of home, with its rustic, warm atmosphere and wood paneling and stonework. The last time I went to this location, though, I was harassed by a homeless person and had to threaten to call the cops. This time, willing to give it another chance, all I wanted was some peace and quiet with my book and a cup of mango tea. Not only did you ruin that, but you ruined the coffeeshop. First time I go, I get harassed. Second time, I get robbed. Third time? There will be no third time.

Also, H&M? Really? You rob me and your first stop is a clothing store? (They must not have ID'd you, and trust me, I'll be speaking with them about that. The $1000+ you charged is totally their loss.) You must have really hot-footed it there -- you stole my cards, used them, I discovered the fraud and cancelled the cards all within the span of about three hours.

Quick word of advice -- next time you get twitchy fingers, target someone who's a little more flush. Don't know if you've heard, but I'm kind of a broke intern right now.

Also, don't target someone whose small-town bank knows her well and will bend over backward for her.

And finally: You better hope that I'm not as good of a researcher as I claim on my resume, because if I ever catch you then I will prosecute you to the full extent of the law. Which in DC is a fine of up to $5000 and 10 years in prison.

But I'll settle for just punching you in the face.

Sincerely,
Pissed Off Ball of Rage formerly known as Aftan

My evil plan is working

I mentioned I have a part-time job, just something modest to sustain me during my internship. This job, while fun and pretty decent as far as part-time jobs go (more on this later), is eating up the rest of my life.

That’s one reason why I haven’t been writing. The other reason is far more exciting.

I’m slowly convincing my best friends to move to the District.

This idea sprouted sometime late senior year, when we were all talking about what to do with the rest of our lives. In between conversations about international volunteer work, journalism, IT, politics, psychology, and mid-wifery (for reals, we’re pretty awesome), we all voiced the same question, one we knew we could probably never answer in the affirmative. Guys, what if we all lived together in the same city, in the same house, somewhere down the road?

Aaah, college. Almost our entire four years, we had all lived together. We took for granted how blessed we were to share a cozy cottage (when I say “cozy”, I’m definitely not referencing the triple room, and when I say “share” I’m also not referring to the bats). Those evening dinners with Jeopardy! Those late nights with rum and spilled pizza and really bad movies.

Though I had only begun to consider moving to DC at that point, privately I thought it was the most acceptable “compromise-place” for all of us. We could all manage to do something field-related in DC. So as soon as I moved here, I took it upon myself to turn into “that annoying friend” – you know the one I mean. The one to whom something happened (“Poor Fluffy ran away!”), and now she must always preface conversations with that experience (“You know, when Fluffy ran away, I went through the same thing, so this totally relates…”)

Only my repetitive phrase involved moving to DC. You know Laynsy, there’s this job that combines IT with international relations…Hey Becks, you could do Spanish church work here, right? Court, there are lots of babies on my block, so clearly DC needs some good nannies… MirCat, public policy + international work = DC… Imma jussa sayin… Sis, we’re in the same field. Getcho butt out here.

Variations on a theme, people. I would apologize for being so annoying about it, except, well, MY FREAKING PLAN IS WORKING: LAYNSY AND THE SIS MOVED TO DC. Enter times of growth, exploration, laughter, and most importantly excessive immaturity sprinkled throughout our masquerade as real adults.

This is why I haven’t been writing. Oh, and the second-job thing. That too.

Be warned: consider my (not so) subtle brainwashing to continue.

Curing Mondays, aka The Importance of Laughing at Yourself

Just a short, quick story for you...

This morning I had a serious case of the Mondays. Okay, technically it’s a Tuesday, but after a three-day weekend my first morning back at work left me feeling lethargic and depressed. (And hungry – I need to remember to eat some breakfast!)

Needless to say, I needed coffee. And not just any coffee, because let’s face it, I still can’t drink straight black coffee. No, I needed my own special blend of black drip, LOTS of half-n-half, and half a packet of hot chocolate. WHAM BAM, instant mocha.

The coffee machine is on the fourth floor. I work on the sixth floor. Normally after creating my heaven-in-a-cup, I take the elevator back to my lonely little cubicle. Not today. Today, my friend and I took the stairs.

Bad idea.

I knew it was a bad idea when someone jostled me, and a small wave of mocha crested over the cup and onto my hand. “Shoot,” I said, “I’m already spilling.” I’m kind-of clumsy that way.

“Oh,” my friend said, “maybe we should have taken the eleva – ”

And that’s when I tripped.

And spilled my entire mocha.

Onto myself. And my friend. And the floor. But mostly myself.

In front of multiple witnesses.

Oddly, this embarrassing little incident cured my case of the Mondays. Sometimes, ya just gotta laugh at yourself. I mean, what else are you gonna do when you’ve stained your favorite pair of pants and are clutching a roll of paper towels hastily cleaning up your former dream-in-a-cup whilst franticly apologizing to your friend and the witnesses? Sorry you had to see that, guys!

In other news, I got a request for a job interview. Huzzah!

Editor's Note: Just discovered I also spilled mocha onto my hair. Hair long enough to slosh mocha on = hair needing haircut.

411 Awesome St, Big City America

I feel that after nearly 8 months of interning, job hunting, interviewing, and generally freaking out about what to do with my life, I've become well-versed enough in this process to offer a bit of unsolicited advice. So here goes.

Location, location, location.
When applying for jobs, think about your address. This might seem like the most basic and simple item to add to a resume – duh, goes right with your email and your phone number – but the address is actually a tricksy little devil. Because if you want a job in a particular city, it helps if your resume shows that you live in that city.

This is true for several reasons.

Firstly, potential employers want accessibility. They want the freedom to think, 'Hey, I like this candidate. I really want to interview her next week.' And then they want to to actually interview her next week. They don't want to think, 'Hey, I like this candidate, I really want to interview her...oh wait she lives in Raleigh, North Carolina, and I'm in Chicago. Phone interviews will only go so far. Next.'

Even worse: a potential employer in, say, Grand Rapids, MI, likes a particular candidate who he knows attends a nearby college, only to discover that the candidate's resume lists her as living in, let's say, Montana, but only because she's currently studying abroad in, oh I dunno, Scotland.

Yeah. If employers aren't too crazy about phone interviews, then I'm sure Skype interviews will just really dazzle them.  All that newfangled technology and stuff.

This brings me to my second point.

Phone interviews will only go so far.
Yes, phone (and occasionally Skype) interviews are often a crucial step along the yay-I-finally-have-something-that-will-get-me-off-the-couch road.  However, rarely will someone hire you based solely on a phone interview. If that happened for you, then congratulations – you must have really blown them away! (Good job, Sis and Laynsy!)

Fact of the matter is, though, most employers prefer in-person interviews in addition to those phone interviews. And some employers are pretty picky about this. Even if you have the qualifications and the zeal and drive and a completely stable Scottish Internet connection, some employers will simply refuse to hire you unless you can meet in person.

Which means, it would help if your resume shows that you live in reasonable proximity to the job you want.

This brings me back to my first point, which bears re-emphasizing:
LOCATION LOCATION LOCATION.

Why should an employer in DC hire someone from Montana when they have reams of other outstanding resumes whose owners all live closer?

Or, as my boss put it, "In this economy, everyone's looking for jobs. I might as well give this one to someone here who needs it. Then I can actually meet the person and make an appropriate determination."

Fair? Maybe not. That's life? Yes, get used to it.

Ah, I see that questioning expression on your face. You've discovered a flaw in my advice – "Aftan," you say, "I want this job in Chicago, but there's the slight problem that I don't actually live in Chicago. I live in Tulsa, OK."

My first response: Why do you live in Tulsa. Why.

My second response: Allow me to introduce you to...THE LOOPHOLE. (Imagine this word with little swirlies and sparkles and glitter around it, and maybe flashing in different rotating colors and stuff.)

Here's the loophole.  Find a friend who lives in that city. (This would be an opportune time to use your network.) With the friend's permission, use his or her address as yours. BAM. Problem solved. I've farmed my DC address (411 Awesome St, in case you were wondering) out to at least half a dozen people so far.

[You must be nice to your address farmer. What if a potential job sends us some mail for you? We like flowers and dark chocolate. Wink wink.]

Now, the potential problem here is what to do once your new (and very fake) address DOES grant you an interview. In that case, you must make a decision. Will you continue the ruse, bite the bullet and fly (or drive a loooong time) to the interview? Live on a couch or a floor with a friend or crash in a hostel for a few days while you wrap up the process? Or will you decline, decide that you just can't make it to the interview?

It's completely your decision. But it's a high-risk-high-reward strategy, and I think it's worth it.

Some might say it's also like your life becomes a giant game of chicken, or Russian roulette. But hey, who said those weren't fun?

Editor's note: Address farmers also like yummy beer. :)

Montana Again

I love going home.

I've been in DC for 6 months now (that long already?) but it's not yet a home. I guess these things take a while, right? Living on the East Coast, life is pretty different from what I grew up with. People wear peacoats and buy fancy umbrellas and use public transportation and just generally live at a more frenetic pace of life.

There's nothing inherently wrong with any of those things (especially the using-public-transportation thing -- it helps the environment!).  Nevertheless, sometimes all I want to see are people in their thick Carhartt coats, cowboy hat on, mud on their boots, flannel peeking out from the collar. Life back home is slower, relaxed, maybe even friendlier? Perhaps I just imagine it that way, because not too many people here in MT are concerned with unpaid internships or cutthroat career advancement or what Senator What's-His-Name did on the Hill today.

I miss the West, living in DC.

As such, I treasure up and relish any Western encounters I have in my East Coast city. When I check IDs at the liquor store (I didn't tell you? I did get that job...surprised me too), if someone hails from anywhere west of Minnesota or north of Wyoming, I have to mention my sister's college tenure in North Dakota or my trips to Washington state. I've even met a few other Montanans, and we all made plans to watch our biggest football game, UM vs. MSU. (Once someone came in with a thick Scottish brogue, and we shared a lovely few minutes abusing Aberdeen.)

I pass someone wearing cowboy boots, I secretly want to abandon my route and follow, like a creeper, because if he's wearing cowboy boots then he must be going somewhere interesting. Same with Carhartt. Seriously, boys: Carhartt is the way to this gal's lil country heart.

[Don't worry; I'm not a creeper and I've never actually followed someone.] 

I've trained my ears to listen for certain keywords -- "Montana", "horses", "West", "out West", "cowboys", "Rocky Mountains" -- and each time I hear them I relish them like candy. Too much candy all at once, too many buzzwords in a short time span, and I'm like a 4-year-old who found the bag of Sour Patch Kids.  I'll likely get all hyper and burst out, "Look at me! Look at me! I'm from the West, I know about mountains!! Let's talk about mountains, pretty please?! You people don't have them here!"

Don't worry, this doesn't happen very often. I'm usually an adult and can contain myself. Usually.

For example, on the second leg of my flight home for the holidays, everyone started talking about Northwest Montana, skiing, winter (real winter, people), and my hometown.

Instead of getting hyper (and, likely, obnoxious), I simply relaxed into my uncomfortable airplane chair, closed my eyes, and drank in the conversations around me.

Buzzwords never tasted so sweet.

When the doors are shut

The other day, I got stuck in an elevator.

I’m gonna make this relate to my last post, I swear.  Just bear with me.

I had been in a basement conference room of my think-tank, participating in an evening event.  I had left my bag and coat at my desk upstairs, on the 6^th floor, but had forgotten that the building closed at 7. Which means the elevators don’t work normally after 7. It was nearing 7:30.

Not a problem, I thought, I’ll just check in with the security guard in the lobby and he can help me out.

My friends clustered in the lobby, promising to wait while I retrieved my things. The security guard accompanied me back to the elevators and swiped an electronic passcode thingie (I’m sure that’s the technical term) to open the doors.

“Which floor?” he asked, as I stepped inside.

“The sixth.” He pressed the appropriate button and moved away. “Wait, don’t you have to come wi– ??” I started, concerned that my think-tank would let some random girl – who, after all, could be anybody – wander through the building after hours. What if there were state secrets just “lying around”?

Whatever, I shrugged to myself as the elevator started up.  Bing! First floor.

Then, the elevator shuddered to a halt. No happy little Bing – be happy, you reached the second floor! No doors sliding open. No nothing. Not even flickering lights – the elevator just stopped.

Ah, that awkward moment when you realize you are stuck in an elevator.

(Aside: Ok, SRSLY elevator? If you’re gonna trap me, at least make the lights flicker!)

Um, ok, I’m stuck in an elevator, I thought to myself, trying to keep calm. All right, none of the buttons are working…and mashing them over and over again doesn’t seem to change that. I looked for a handy red “EMERGENCY PULL” button. You know, something like this:

"Push to talk." Brilliant.

Did my elevator have one?

Nope.

Did my elevator have any red buttons at all?

Nope.

The closest thing my elevator had was a small yellow button that said “bell.”

(Aside: Um, yellow? Like my emergency doesn’t merit the color red?)

(Further aside: Um, “bell”?! How ‘bout “alarm” – anything that implies a bit more alacrity!)

Breathing heavily (read: angrily), I pressed the bell button. Let’s just say it didn’t have quite the “this is an emergency” tone I was looking for. It sounded like the bells in my high school that were used to signal the end of a class period.

I held that button down for at least several minutes. Did anyone come to my aid? Nope. They must have been too busy getting to third period calculus.

Okay, okay, I thought, pacing the small space (thank God I’m not claustrophobic).  What’s the Morse for SOS…is it long-short-long repeated three times, or short-long-short repeated three times? Dang it, where are all the Military Fellows when you need them!!

I tried both my Morse theories. They didn’t summon anyone.

I was ready to cry at this point, and probably not the most rational creature. Great, I’m gonna have to sleep here ALL NIGHT. Ugh, the floor is so gross! Why won’t this bloody box let me OUT!!

Then I grew calmer. Well, I’ll just pull an Arnold and pry the doors open. They do it on Star Trek all the time.

 I wedged my fingers into the door and heaved.

Fortunately, they sprang open as soon as I got them the first few inches apart. Turns out, the elevator had made it to the second floor and then just had a brain shut-down. Or something. I took the stairs back to the lobby.

The guard, and my friends, turned towards me. Thoroughly disgruntled, I explained what just happened. “Oh,” my friends said, “was that you making the bell sound?”

Yes, you idiots. Didn’t you hear the SOS? Does a bell going off in patterns at 7:30 at night sound AT ALL normal to you?

I still needed my bag, so the guard took me back to the elevator and re-swiped his card. Wait, I have to go back in there? I panicked. Then I mentally slapped myself and reminded myself I’m an adult.

This time the elevators operated without a hitch. I retrieved my bag and re-joined my friends.

As I lay in bed falling asleep that night, I remember thinking, Huh, I should turn this experience into a blog post. It could be a really cool metaphor for feeling stuck in life and not knowing how or where to move next…all the doors seem shut…you can either pry them open, or…or…

Or you can accept that some doors will remain shut.

I was recently turned down for an internship (a paid one! Huzzah!) that I really wanted.  Obviously, I’m disappointed – the experience would have really advanced my career and given me incredible opportunities.  But when God closes one door, he opens a window. Or, he opens another door. Or, he traps you in an elevator to teach you the value of sometimes clawing at closed doors until they open.

Does this mean I’m going to claw at that internship until I get it? Naw, probably not. Will I continue to claw at the job market until I find something? You betcha.

Because sleeping on the dirty floor of an elevator – aka, interning forever/remaining static/giving up and waitressing full-time – is simply not an option. And I know that someday, that door WILL spring open for me.  (Even if it takes a scary ride and an SOS to get there.)

For now, I’ve decided to remain at my current internship. For a variety of reasons, all carefully and prayerfully considered, I believe its benefits outweigh its cons.  And I believe it offers the most opportunity for an eventual job.

So where does that put me within my elevator analogy?

Psh, heck if I know. Sometimes an elevator is just an elevator.

Hanging in Suspense

You may have noticed another long hiatus in my writing. This is becoming a habit, so I guess I’ll quit apologizing or making excuses. Seriously, though, I’ve been too busy to write! <<<  Excuse.

The end of the fall marks a serious transition point for us interns. Our commitments slowly come to an end, and we face once again an uncertain future and a viciously competitive job market. (And the scary realization that despite the 3 months we’ve put into our internships, we still don’t have sufficient “experience” to satisfy potential employers. Really makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside, doesn’t it?)

My point is, I’ve spent the last several weeks floundering over what to do with my life. Okay, to be honest, I’ve spent the last 12 months floundering over what to do with my life – but transition times condense all that stress into one long, terrible, grey-hair-producing, frozen-pizza-and-beer-eating, somewhat-hysterical-phone-calls-home experience.  You should try it sometime. I’m sure it’s good for the heart.

My head swirled with questions, and each day saw me resolved upon a new path.

I will be a JOURNALIST! Excuse me now, I’m gonna go cover the war in Afghanistan, brb….hmmm, no, I will actually study those TOP SECRET intel reports, because I’m a policy analyst and that’s what we do…scratch that, I’m pretty much a spy, and I’m gonna private.dance it.outta here…fine, screw the job market, I’m joining the military! 

All this uncertainty really made me a productive member of society.

I had a choice. Move on to another internship (possibly on the Hill? Possibly in a different field? Possibly with a different company?) or stay where I’m at. My company offered me a continued internship into the spring, and my boss offered to help me out a bit with the job search.

What to do…what to do…

(I eventually did make a decision, but if you think I’m gonna tell you right now then you clearly don’t understand the phrase “hanging in suspense”…nor have you read any trilogies.)

(Not that this is a trilogy…given my posting regularity, do we honestly think I’m capable of that?)

(The answer is no. I’m not.)