Everyday is Like Vaca'

Yes, I wear heels to the beach (sometimes). I don't want to look (uhhh) short. But that's besides the point -- this blog is celebratory. I spotted the first Jesus sandals of the season. Happy summer!

Dianna and I christened the onslaught of beach boys and pina coladas by hanging down in Belmar during Memorial Day Weekend. We browned on the beach (ahem, the designated surfers' section), lunched outside D'jais (shrimp cocktails, burgers, and sweet potato fries present), and partied at Bar A (well sort of -- more like made fun of tacky girls in outdated jeans and creepy boys in stupid logo tees).

We befriended some lifeguards (score! ...or so we thought), shared after-hours chicken tenders with some random loner, ran into friends of old (a la new hairstyles), and flagged down an ice cream truck. When it was all said and done, we realized, this was nothing different than the usual at all. Everyday we're not in the office or classroom is like a fun-filled outing.

The only thing that changed is we can finally dress cute (not to mention, weather-appropriate) sans jackets and scarves (unless the ensemble calls for it). I wonder how the summer of '07 will unfold. Let the games begin.

But Sir, I Must Maintain My Sexy

While I did want to visit my good friend, Anita (someone who was really there for me even after our awkward high school "falling out"), my other reason for going to the other side of the country was for a personal awakening.

It's a journey, really. I'm a journalist working as a Web master-slash-marketing coordinator-slash-graphic designer-slash-advertising assistant-slash ... I can consider myself (still) a writer because I freelance for MSN and AOL. I write about education and careers -- about how one can "succeed" at those two ventures. And I just laugh -- I'm telling people how to achieve great things when I, myself, haven't even reached my dream.

So what is my ultimate goal, you ask? I don't know. So in hoping to land something (something I love, that is) soon, I stew in the meantime.

And I just think to myself, maybe getting far away from it all (even if it's just LA for the weekend) will evoke something in me, maybe I'll get clarity, maybe it'll ignite a change, or maybe I'll just have some fun.

Well I'm back in Jersey now. And while I did have fun over the weekend -- drinking, shopping, socializing, sightseeing -- clarity was not had, change was not ignited, nothing was evoked. I did, however, perfect the formal search procedure at the airport. Why am I always flagged? They even dusted some weird solution on my Chucks, and threatened to confiscate my Proactiv! And to that, I replied, "But sir, I must maintain my sexy." That got a laugh, and they let me keep my three-step face regimen.

What'da?!

It was a Tuesday morning. I had left my house a little later than usual (and in a panic) -- I'm a stickler for being punctual, you see. And crap, I had to fill up my gas tank. I drove to the closest BP, pulled in, and waited patiently. Somewhere between waiting patiently and freaking out, I must've leered angrily into the little deli shack.

A man finally creeps out in a ghetto-fab swagger with cell phone in hand. Hours later (or at least it felt like that), he gets to my window. I hand him my gas card and say, "Fill it up, regular, please." (Even in anger, I would never forget "please.") So finally -- I have gas!

Then I thought, hey, I'm this late anyway, let me run in to get a Coffee Frapuccino for the drive. I run into the little deli shack to make my purchase. My gas attendant was inside, and he just says under his breath, "Look at this one." I then say, "Excuse me?!" Then he goes, "You'd be really pretty if you would just smile more."

I proceed to tell him off ... "I don't have to smile if I don't want to. Maybe I'm having a bad day. Maybe there are things going on in my life that don't equate a smile. Maybe ... And why am I even justifying why I don't smile to you?!" And the man goes, "Look -- I don't even work here."

I look at him dumbfounded ... "But ... why ... ?" came out of my mouth. What I meant to say was "Why on earth would you fill up my gas tank if you don't work here? Good lord!" The fellow customer then says, "You were lookin' all upset, figured you could use the help."

Quiet, my Target ballet flats just slinked right on out of there.

I chant, "I love my job ..."

When in reality, I'm not so certain. Actually, I know -- I loathe this job like I loathe the skinny jeans I can no longer fit into.

I'm not learning a damn thing at NJL. Take it from a girl who once worked under two amazing editors who have cultivated my editorial and professional prowess, this job sucks. There's a lack of respect in this office. And, the only challenging thing I encounter is dealing with a boss who obviously doesn't trust my work (even though I work my ass off), doesn't value my skills (I think she may have even forgotten that I have a degree in journalism), and on a personal level, thinks I'm below her because I don't have a trust fund.

See that picture? That's me in a slightly understanding pair of skinny jeans and my Zara ballet flats, enjoying a cup of coffee at Starbucks. I consider it my last meal before prison. I typically get a tall cup of white chocolate mocha (skim) with whipped cream. I sip it slowly on the New Hope Starbucks porch and breathe. I'm a hop, skip, and a bridge away from hell. And as I inhale and exhale, I chant, "I love my job, I love my job, I love my job," when in fact, the only thing I love at that very moment is the designer coffee I'm drinking, and the magazine's liberal dress code.