TGIF?

I will be the first to admit that the life of an intern is rarely glamorous. I accept my fate, punching numbers into a spreadsheet, filing papers, organizing endless backcopies of previous ads just to pay my dues.

However, I was lucky enough to have the task on babysitting last Friday. Now if you know me, you'll understand that this is the most glamorous thing I could hope to happen during my internship. There are many who would sooner spoon out their eyeballs than spend 8 hours with little children but for me, it was a gift from the heavens. At heart, I am still approximately six and a half so when Ronan, Luke and Gracie entered the office last Friday my heart skipped a beat. I immediately informed by boss (in a most professional manner) that I wouldn't be completing any work for the rest of the day unless building forts qualified.

And so it went. I made forts, played bowling with cups down the hall, read stories about soliders and drew pictures with highlighters. I was even informed by the twin three year old boys, that if they had to guess my age, they'd say I was about 60. Grace of course, older and more mature in her ways scoffed at them, pointing out that I certainly looked younger than 60. I was clearly 35.

Around 3 we decided it was time for a snack. Gracie grabbed some microwaveable popcorn, and the four of us raced to the kitchen. Ronan popped the bag in, Luke hit 2:00. Gracie hit START and as I complemented such effortless teamwork we walked back to read a bit more before our snack was ready.

It's common knowlege that cooking isn't one of my strong points. (Understatement of the century). So, when I smelled burning popcorn I can't say I was shocked. However, when the four of us ran back to the kitchen to see smoke billowing out of the microwave, we were all a little surprised.

I stood frozen as the children began coughing dramatically. I was about to jump into action when the fire alarms went off. Now, paralyzed by crippling embarassment, I could do nothing but stare as one by one employees peeked out of their cubicles to see what was going on. Finally, my boss sprang into action, opening the microwave and throwing the smoking bag of popcorn into the sink. When it became apparent that the fire alarm could not be silenced, most everyone resigned themselves to evacuating the building as was proper protocol.

I chatted it up with the firemen because as I'm part of a long family line of FDNYers I speak their lingo. They weren't nearly as mad as I expected which I'll thank dad's lieutenant status for. Can't yell at a brother's daughter. It's the rules. Not to mention the fact that my face was the same shade of the truck probably garnered some sympathy.

Monday morning my boss informed anyone who happened to miss the chaotic scene that I pulled out all the stops to make sure his kids had a great time. They got to read, draw, run around, and even climb on a firetruck!

While I try to figure out how to best phrase this experience to put on my resume (Responsible for motivating 12 floors of people to work together? Developed creative ways to solve a problem?) I can find comfort in the fact that while Zoom may never hire me as a copywriter, they'll certainly call when they need a babysitter. Assuming there's nothing flamable, of course.

'What if this is as good as it gets?"

The majority of my friends have at some point or another traveled abroad. They all talk about how unique their particular country of choice was; its culture, its people, all the life-altering lessons they learned while intoxicated and roaming foriegn cities with their equally as intoxicated friends. While this may surprise the two of you who read this, I too, am currently immersed in a culture very foriegn to most. I'm talking about a place with its own very specific rituals, a place where the people are unlike anyone else in the world, a place where the beer flows like wine..wait sorry, wrong place.



I'm talking about the LIRR.



For those of you not lucky enough to ever experience the phenomenon of the Penn Station switchboard, I mourn for your loss. Try to imagine hundreds of grown, supposedly mature adults, huddled together with their necks crained, staring at something vaguely reminiscent of the Wheel of Fortune board. Every train pops up here, along with the vital information of which track the train has arrived on. Jockeying for position is immediate and all consuming. In the ultimate NYC style, your age and gender matter not. Grandmothers will be shoved, young children tossed aside all in an effort to be in prime location. Far enough away from the board that it's still legible, yet close enough to the tracks that when your number blinks to life, you will be ahead of the stampede. No one dares to peel their eyes from the board. Stamina is tested. I've seen men break down thanks to a momentary mental lapse in judgement. After what seems like a decade at times, the number flashes on. I am in no way exaggerating when I say that total chaos ensues. Men in expensive power suits and women with $300 heels sprint to the dank tunnels of Penn station, never once looking back for those unfortunate souls who missed the signal. If you thought the Preakness was exciting, you'd be peeing your pants with glee.

Once in the tunnel, the commuters are in a dead sprint with one another. They weave around the disabled and slow with a grace usually uncommon in mere mortals. Once satisfied with their position these seemingly intelligent, once professional indviduals stand tightly clumped together inching as close as possible to the STILL CLOSED door of the train all the while "watching the gap" as is instructed every 3 and a half seconds or so by the ominous LIRR God. This uncomfortable little clusterf*ck (can you curse while blogging!?) lasts for a few awkward seconds, as everyone tries to pretend the guy behind them isnt literally trying to climb them.

The doors open, and 15 or so commuters attempt to get in a door meant for 3 at most. Men scramble to get the aisle seat, while most women lunge to be closest to the window. Though preferences may be different, the ultimate goal is the same. Do. Not. Sit. Bitch.

Remember when you were a kid, and no one wanted to sit middle? The youngest and/or smallest were generally defeated and silently resigned to the fact that they'd be wedged between two blood relatives. Well on the LIRR the fate of such a situation is far more serious. You will inevitably be stuck between a 500 pound man who appears to have sprinted to Penn while simultaneously jumping rope, and a Latina woman who is quite angry and on her cellphone "expressing" herself. Leg room is minimal. Arm space is non-existant, as is your dignity as you now wedge yourself against the sweaty vinyl and sit toe to toe with a perfect stranger whom you must stare at for the next hour and twenty minutes.

The rules from that point foward are simple. Do not talk on your cellphone, do not look at the laptop screen next to you, do not try to make conversation. Before the train hits sunlight again, a third of its passengers will be asleep. When the power clicks out and lights go off for the first time, another third will follow suit.

And sometimes, if you're really lucky, your 500 lb neighbor won't even drool when he finds comfort on your shoulder.