Suits: Friend or Foe?

I think my generation has a seriously dysfunctional relationship with suits. And who can blame us? Suits aren’t typical attire for work (unless you’re a politician or a CEO), yet they are still expected during job interviews. At least, I think they are. I have friends that tell me suits are no longer necessary, but I’ve also talked to people higher up who say that wearing something other than a suit to an interview can be a make-or-break decision.

Which brings me to today. I had an interview. I knew that the interviewer(s) would be wearing khakis, maybe jeans, maybe even a Cosby sweater, but I felt like I should wear a suit. This was problematic for one reason, which was that I left my suit at my parents’ house in McLean, Va. Oh, and before I go on, I should mention that the interview was for an unpaid internship. I know; it’s ludicrous.

So anyway, I emailed my friend Rachies about my dilemma and asked where I could get a suit on the cheap, and this was her response. Really, I didn’t change a word:

“ann taylor loft? banana republic? you’ll spend like 300 dollars and then you will RETURN IT. yes i have done this. am i proud of it? no. but ive sat in several interviews with tags dangling on my back and no one ever knew….

…I’m totally up for suit shopping and talking you into the buy, wear, return thing. it’s practically a good luck charm.”

As you can see, Rachies is VERY convincing. So persuasive in fact that I actually considered it. But there is one thing you learn after 25 years: some people get away with this kind of thing and I’m not one of those people. I’m klutzy, forgetful and occasionally flaky. I would inevitably forget and have the tag dangling down my back on the OUTSIDE of my jacket. Rachies on the other hand is much smoother. She can get away with returning a worn suit because she looks young, sweet and innocent and no one would suspect her of the kind of nefarious behavior she’s capable of.

Anyway, for anyone who needs to buy a pantsuit they will only wear a handful of times, might I suggest H & M? Thirty dollars turned me into a really conservatively dressed woman.

On another note, I got a ridiculous call from my sister on Monday morning. She had just realized that “that bald guy” they kept showing at the Oscars was Jack Nicholson. She had wondered to herself “why do they keep showing the Commish?” For those of you who don’t remember the show, it starred Michael Chiklis, who most people would know as “that guy from The Shield.” As an aside, Johanna’s association of Chiklis with his 1991 role is much like her recognition of Joey Pantoliano. When she saw him at the White House correspondent’s dinner a few years ago, she could have said, “I loved you in The Sopranos, Memento or even Bad Boys.” But instead she said, “I loved you in the Goonies!”

Anyway, judge for yourself:

El Presidente

It appears that most people are enjoying a nice day off. How wonderful for them; meanwhile, all of my assignment due dates seem to have converged on the span of a few days, which explains my nonexistent postings as of late.

In fact, I had it all planned out. I had a story due on Friday and the second draft of my master’s project due today (eek!). After class on Friday, which generally lasts until noon or 1, I planned to finish working on my story (about diamonds. Ooh la la) and then I would have the whole weekend to work on my project. After turning in my project today, I would work on reading and critiquing my classmates’ 16 stories due in cultural affairs class at 3.

Except that when I went to class on Thursday night, I received an unexpected assignment: I had to (with a partner) find a story, shoot it (with a video camera, not a water gun), and edit the footage into a nice little 90-second package. The assignment was due at 6 on Friday, which pushed my diamond deadline back to Saturday at 6.

When I heard this news, my heart sank for a number of reasons. 1. I hate shooting video, mostly because 2. I kind of suck at it and 3. this would limit the time I could work on my master’s project.

So on Friday morning I met with my partner Lorenzo and we decided to focus on a recent news story: the new NYC condom. The contraceptives were created by the city, packaged with eye-catching subway-like logos (you know, the colorful bubbles) and distributed at different locales throughout the city. Lorenzo and I headed to one of the distribution sites, which we found out was a barbershop in Harlem.

We planned to interview the owner and intersperse the interview with shots of the inside of the store as well as close-ups of the colorfully-packaged condoms. We shot inside of the store, we shot the street corner to show where we were, we filmed the edifice of the building and we captured a very informative interview. After I had asked the owner a number of questions, I asked Lorenzo if he had anything to add. In his soft-spoken voice tinged with a bit if a Colombian accent, he queried, “ummm. do you use these condoms?”

At first, the owner didn’t seem too amused. “Well no, since I’m married and I’m faithful.” But he did give a little chuckle at the end. Lorenzo and I then shot a few more images and headed back to school to edit the footage.

Once we got back to the computer lab, we were both prepared to get things done quickly so we could work on our other daunting assignments. But as we began to capture our video onto the computer, something strange happened. We had footage of the inside of the store, which we shot before the interview and we had shots of the outside of the store, which we shot after the interview. But where was the interview?

Oh God NO! We had taped over the interview. We had rewound the tape to make sure we had gotten the full interview, but didn’t subsequently fast-forward. I told Lorenzo to fast-forward to the end of the tape to see if we caught any of the interview. In fact we had. Except only two of the owner’s answers. One was a commentary about the design of the condom packaging (“a condom is a condom. I don’t care about the packaging as long as it protects you”) and, of course, the infamous “I’m faithful” line.

In the end, we just had to go with what we had. I ended up narrating the whole thing since we no longer had the owner’s commentary. I sat in the computer lab with my best NPR voice, saying “here we are in Harlem” into the microphone of the camera. And, of course, the whole thing culminated with the interviewee's ode to his wife. We finished the assignment on time, thankfully, which allowed me to spend one rockin’ Friday night working on a story about diamonds. Such is the pathetic life of a j-school student, I suppose.

Speaking of journalists, I received some pretty amazing news from my friend Emily who writes for the Dallas Morning News. She’s going to be on the side of a bus and on billboards. Well her slightly gray visage will be at least. Here’s hoping that the bus pic doesn’t suffer any Carrie Bradshaw-esque defacement!








Our little emo is all grown up!

Do I know you?

It is so cold in New York right now that I’m actually considering buying a sleeping bag, cutting out a hole for my head and wearing it as a coat. Right now it’s 23 degrees, but feels like 13, which is actually a bit tropical compared to the last few days.

Luckily New York is a city of snugglers, so should I venture onto the subway or into a store, there will always be some good Samaritan warming me up, whether I like it or not. It’s actually something that took a lot of getting used to, especially coming from D.C. where people like to keep each other at arm’s length. On the packed orange line from D.C. to Virginia, everyone looks at the ceiling as if they are gasping for air, like they could actually drown in the surrounding bodies. In New York, I’ll get on a half-empty car, reach for the filthy, silver bar above me and some guy will inevitably curl up under my armpit. Was no one hugged as a child in this city? Why does everyone seem to crave human contact?

This “friendliness” manifests itself in other ways too. I feel like I’m constantly having a conversation with strangers, none of which I initiate, because HELLO, I’m from D.C. People in Washington actually read the newspaper or a book while they walk to work (which I don’t recommend, by the way. It’s dangerous. And really nerdy). They have no interest in the people around them.

I compared notes with another redheaded friend the other day. She confirmed that she too gets “hey there Red” about five times a week. Whenever I’m carrying groceries home from the store, someone asks me if I need help. The other day I was walking home and some man stopped me and said, “what’s that for?” pointing to the yoga mat sticking out of my bag. Once I told him, he wanted to know a lot more about yoga. At some point, I had to tell him that I was in a rush because I wasn’t in the mood to describe every last detail of my fitness regimen, but I immediately felt badly, because as I walked away he was so endearing: “well okay then. See you soon!” as if we were old friends.

Of course this strange pseudo-familiarity also has its down sides. It would seem that people will say just about anything to anyone, no matter how vulgar or inappropriate. The other day, my friend Staley was walking to work and a man who was walking past her leaned close to her ear and said something like, “hey there sexy.” Staley was more concerned with the fact that the guy was dressed normally, like he too was off to work, than the actual content of his message. Another friend wandered out of a bookstore and was confronted with another book-shopper who said, “fucking white bitch” for no apparent reason as she walked past him. Luckily this Birmingham native has a response for such comments. She simply says, “God bless ya” in her southern twang. If nothing else, I’m sure it catches the perpetrators completely off-guard.

Just last night my roommate and I were walking through a subway station on our way to her birthday dinner when a man stopped in his tracks, stared at us and bellowed “OHHHH YEAHHHHHH!” then watched us walk past as we grimaced with embarrassment. Just when I wanted to say, “I hate it here,” a guy started chasing after my roommate, yelling, “miss! Miss!”

Oh God, what now? I wondered. The man came right up next to her and set his shoe next to her high-heeled boot. I slowly realized that he was trying to detach a piece of paper (or toilet paper? or something!) that had stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

“ I didn’t want you walking around all night like that,” he told her.

“That was so nice,” I mused after he walked away. “In D.C. people would have seen the paper, watched you walk past and chuckled to themselves. Isn’t New York the greatest?”