What? HUH?

When it comes to noise, I am that girl. I watch TV at a level that most find inaudible, try to covertly turn the music down at parties, and I’ve been known to sleep with earplugs.  In all honesty, I even occasionally avoid certain people because I’m all-too aware of the volume at which they insist upon speaking, and no matter what they say, all I hear is, “I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOUR DISCOMFORT; I LIKE TO HEAR MY OWN VOICE AND INSIST THAT EVERYONE ELSE DOES AS WELL.”  And while it’s become a source of ridicule, I just can’t help it – I hate loud noises.

So maybe New York wasn’t exactly the best choice for me – or at least for my ears.

I had always heard that the city was noisy – that it audibly never slept, etc., etc.  For some reason, though, my distaste for loudness and the rumors of the city never connected for me, and arriving here, I was blown away.

Motorcycle gangs rev and race down the streets, packs of emergency vehicles get stuck in traffic, inevitably moving at about the same pace and same direction as my walking, and cliques clamor in every language, each seemingly trying to talk over everyone else.  Subway cars whiz by, screeching their brakes, and bars blast music at all hours, attempting to entice customers.

And at first, this put me, the anti-loud noises girl, constantly on edge.  I’d hear almost anything at all and my teeth would automatically clench, my back hung over, my fingers would move to my ears, and I’d glare at whatever was causing the foul sound.  And it wasn’t so much just for me; I felt like my reaction was a duty – I had to glare at whatever was imposing discomfort onto the pedestrians of NYC.

But no one else batted an eye at these volume violators.  And what’s more, even when people did notice, no one seemed to care.  They’d just carry on, talking on their blackberries, clicking their high-heeled boots, and pushing through the sea of people.

At first, I thought that there would be places to give my ears and nerves relief.  So I tried museums and galleries.  While the Slash: Paper Under the Knife exhibit at the Museum of Art and Design was mind blowing (seriously, SO cool. Look at the site), the chatter inside was almost more deafening than the traffic out.  And the Natural History Museum, while also really freaking cool, may as well have been a playground, for as much yelling as was going on.

The other day, though, I went on a walk with one of my friends.  It was a beautiful night – a big full moon -  and we went to one of my favorite places in the city: the High Line park.  It’s this very avant garde-esque park that was once an elevated freight track, newly converted by the city.  It’s one of the few places where I can feel a little removed from the hustle and bustle (so much, in fact, that once I heard a cricket there).  But as we were talking, we both realized how quiet it felt.  And upon further listening, discovered that really, it wasn’t that quiet.  It’s just that the noise of the city – the stuff that made me cringe at the beginning – has more or less faded into the background.

Yes, I still jump when a siren sneaks up on me, and the buzz of the fluorescent light in my room feels like it might leave me neurotic enough to come home with a twitch. Overall, though, I think I’ve become one of the blasé pedestrians that I was so astounded by at the beginning – or maybe it’s just my blaring ipod.

Celeb sighting of the post: Every week, a group of us has been going to see a well-known comedy troupe perform.  There is an ever-changing monologist, and then a varying group that does sketch comedy based on suggestions from the audience. Most of the time, the performers are definitely funny, but only semi-known.  Often, it includes writers from The Daily Show, Colbert Report, Comedy Central, etc, and with the occasional big name like Jack McBrayer who plays Kenneth in 30 Rock.  No matter who is there, though, I’m consistently cackling.

But last weekend was big.  First of all, Christopher McDonald (also known as Shooter McGavin from Happy Gilmore) was the monologist – he was there promoting his new movie, Splinterheads.  Sweet, right?  Wait, it gets better.

About halfway through the show, I realized that I couldn’t stop looking at this woman in front of us.  She was there with a man, clearly on a date, and they were being really cutesy as a couple (normally reason for me to make a fake vomiting action and forget about them). But she just looked so familiar, and she was so damn pretty.  At intermission, I leaned over and asked my roommate who it was.  And that’s when we realized it.

We were sitting directly behind Natalie Portman.

As hard as I tried, I couldn’t creepily take a picture on my phone – it was too dark, and they booked it out as soon as the lights came on.

But basically, it was awesome.

Wolverines in The City

My family moved to Ann Arbor when I was eight.  We shifted from a really small, very white, uber conservative suburb of Cleveland into the very liberal home of the wolverines.  And we were baffled.  When my parents would go house hunting and leave me and my sister in Ohio, they would come back with tales of this new city – houses with block Ms on the roof; rooms in which the decor was more spirited than the stadium; people of all walks of life constantly wearing hooded sweatshirts that blazed “Michigan” across their chests.  Maybe it was because Cleveland lacked both a college and a good sports team (and hence, was never exposed to the same type of spirit), but even as a little kid, I knew that these people were a different breed.

My Ohio roots didn’t last long, and to this day, I am an Ann Arborite through and through.  And aside from being a liberal, accepting marijuana, and having a distorted view of how educated America is, part of being an Ann Arborite is loving the Michigan wolverines.  While I think I’ve fully embraced this, I also never adapted the same type of fervor as some of my peers – people whose parents are alum and who have pictures of them in helmets and with pom poms as toddlers, sitting in the big house as awkward tweens, and who go on to raise their own in the same way.

Hitting New York, though, has made me more of a lover and a fan than I could have ever imagined.

I’d always heard of the whole, “You’re surrounded by people, but you’re completely alone,” thing, but the city has really brought that to life.  The area that I live is literally always packed.  New people come in and out all of the time, bringing with them their own families, friends, languages, strange looking suitcases, and even stranger clothing.  And despite my attempts to fit in as a posh New Yorker, the city can really make you feel…alone.

That is, until I see someone sporting that big block M.  They come on hats and gym shorts mostly, but occasionally I’ll spy a real Michigander donning a  sweatshirt.  I see these people, and all of a sudden, I’m not alone anymore.  This spotting fills me with an urge to start chanting, “It’s great. To be. A Michigan wol-ver-ine…” and break out into Hail to the Victors.  It’s as though this person is instantly my friend – not a jaded New Yorker, but one who knows and appreciates the glory of Ann Arbor.

Who knows if there is any truth in my romanticization of this stranger, and for that reason, I usually just settle for a fist pump and a, “Go Blue!”, generally receiving something similar in return. But these moments are, for some reason, more to me. They fill me with a strange pride and feeling of fitting in.  They make me realize that I can always find a little bit of home wandering the streets of the big city.*

Note of the post: Conde Nast recently announced that more of its magazines are shutting down, with one of them being Gourmet.  This news didn’t strike me a whole lot at first – mags have been folding left and right.  But I’ve recently been put in charge of doing the research for the Food section of my own mag, and was flipping through back issues of Gourmet for reference.  As I read, it made me really sad.  I remembered just how much I’ve enjoyed Gourmet  - not so much because I’m a foodie, but because of the way that it presents information.  And not only that, but its layout and design are incredible – definitely among my favorites.  Not that I was an avid reader, but it depresses me to see another good one go (not to mention that it makes me question my future a bit, but that’s another story).  Sigh – to Gourmet, I wish to you whatever is the opposite of bon appetite.

*Excuse me while I go vomit – although (almost embarrassingly) true, I’m a little disgusted by my own sentimentality (that actually seeped into my note, as well…).  Meh, deal with it.

My Face and My Lack of Space

I’ve never had a friendly face – or so I thought.

For my whole life, people whom I’ve gotten to know have divulged their first impressions of me.  ”You were just so intimidating,” “I thought you hated me,” and “I was afraid to come near you!” Even as an infant, people had a similar  reaction – one of my Mom’s favorite Lisa anecdotes revolves around a random woman at a grocery store insinuating that I, plopped in the seat of a cart, was “staring a hole through her.”

But this fact never bothered me a whole lot.  I knew that eventually most would realize that I wasn’t as scary as my features portray. And at the same time, I cherished my ability to intimidate (when necessary, of course).  I thought I had mastered “the look.”

But apparently something is different in New York.

The subway is a mode of transportation that I’m still getting used to.  Mass amounts of people are squished into something that I find akin to a trailer, and for a minimum of ten blocks.  It doesn’t matter your size, what you smell like,  or what is dripping from your pant leg – anyone and everyone can step into your subway car.

This is why, in this situation, I thought I would be able to use my look preemptively.   A passenger walks into my car, and BAM – one glance sends them dashing to disturb someone else’s peace.

But it seems that my appearance has lost its punch. It doesn’t matter how much I squint my eyes, purse my lips, furrow my brows, or attempt to send vaporizing rays through bodies; Someone always sits right next to me.  There could be five seats between me and the next seated person, enough for the largest hippo to sit in the empty space and leave everyone feeling comfortable. But instead, the vagrant bunks up next to me, leaving the other sitter with enough room to spread out a chaise lounge while I attempt to mold into the shape of a very skinny taco.

Just for the sake of humor, I wish that it was always the smelliest person, or the fattest.  Instead, though, it’s every run-of-the-mill New Yorker – young, old, man, woman, ugly, and …well, not quite as ugly – who finds refuge in my personal subway space.

I’m still working on intensifying my gaze with hopes that eventually I will be able to get a seat between me and the next subway goer.  Maybe harsher eye makeup will do it.  But my guess is that these people have just become immune to the judgment of others – sitting, even if it is within range of a nasty look, is all the zen that they’ll find in their day.  And, I guess that as long as they’ve bathed, for now that’s okay.

But when I come back, Midwesterners are going to turn to stone.

Quote of the post:  Most people, where I work, have never heard of Albion – and I guess I can’t blame them.  While it’s well known throughout the Midwest, it’s still a pretty small school.  When being introduced to one of the higher ups at the magazine, though, and divulging my place of study, she retorts, “Oh, well…I mean, college is college, right!”  As one person pointed out, I should have just name dropped alumnus Richard Smith, former EIC of Newsweek and a baller in the magazine world.  College is college.  Pscht!

Health Nut, Shmealth Nut

I’m still trying to figure out exactly what impact working at a health magazine is going to have on my lifestyle.  My lifestyle as in my reliance on all foods frozen and/or pasta, my love for a cold Dr. Pepper, and my mass consumption of cheese.

The thing is that I spend my time immersed in all things health, without necessarily meaning to.  While my intention is purely to be good at my job, whether I’m reading back issues (to get a better sense of the magazine and make sure that the things I hope to pitch* haven’t been covered), or surfing the net and scanning medical press releases (in hopes of finding new studies that we would report), everything that I read revolves around either disease or the lack of.  ”A new study finds that eating a diet rich in lentils may decrease risk for breast cancer;” “Workout tips to lose the belly and reduce your risk of Type II diabetes;” “Women who snore may be at a higher risk for hypertension.”  Turns out that everything, absolutely everything, that a person does either increases or decreases his or her risk of developing some crippling illness.  And while that seems obvious in some ways, a normal person does not spend the majority of the week consumed by that information.

So far, my newfound knowledge has led me to make some positive changes – I’ve made the gym a part of my daily schedule, have been incorporating more fruits and veggies into my diet, switched from pop to water and milk chocolate to dark (except for on the weekends), and am even conscious of my sodium intake.  At the same time, though, being enveloped by healthy living information has also made me…well, as one person put it, a little neurotic.

Sometimes I count the number of times that I chew a bite of food because I learned that obese people, on average, chew fewer times than someone who is a “normal” weight.  I’m consistently reading food labels and occasionally measuring out my portions.  And I’ve been freaking out about all products – everything from deodorant to lotion to shampoo and even my beloved sunblock, thanks to Skin Deep: The Cosmetic Safety Database (I refuse to look at the entries for nail polish. I love it too much to worry about what kind of cancer it’s causing), and even things from foods to soaps to sprays to air fresheners thanks to The Environmental Working Group.  The issue is that I’m too poor/cheap to buy all things organic, so instead of changing much, I just talk about the things I’ve learned and worry.

I asked the EAs if their lives changed much after their health-infused jobs began. Both laughed and told me that they were just more aware of their unhealthy habits, clearly unfazed.  Whether a similar jadedness will eventually set in or whether I’ll spiral into the realm of total health nut is yet to be determined.  I’d like to say that I’ll strike a happy middle, but…well, that’s not usually my style.

Quote of the post: One day, I was sent to a promotional event on behalf of my mag where I got to meet Jillian Michaels, the intense female trainer from The Biggest Loser .  There were a ton of women at the event – some from publications and some just with blogs.  When I struck up a conversation with one probably 50-something blogger and divulged my place of employment, she exclaimed, clearly impressed, “Oh!  So you’re like a real journalist!”  It made me laugh – not only did she have 30-some years on me, but I’m not sure if I feel like a journalist of any kind, let alone a real one.  But I guess, I sort of am?  Hmm…

*Pitches are ideas for articles – good pitches turn into articles.

Two and a half…

Well, here it is!  I guess that I’m a bit late in starting this up (two and a half weeks, to be precise), but I’m officially starting up a blog.  The purpose? For you all to keep track of me as I make the transition from the counter at Big Ten Burrito to the streets of New York City (as the URL of this blog so candidly suggests).

I’m well into my internship at a major magazine, and I’m just going to be honest – it pretty much rocks.  The low down: the mag normally has 2-3 editorial assistants (EAs) and a decent number of editors.  But, recently, a bunch of people left, leaving only 1 EA and a much smaller staff.  Thus, as of yesterday, I’ve been picking up a lot of work that would normally be delegated to someone who has a real, paid job.  I’m really excited and think that I could possibly be getting published, (!) leaving me with some great clips for post graduation.  Also, while the office is no The Office (damn sitcoms ruining my vision of reality, yet again), really strange and kind of exciting things have been happening on a fairly regular basis.  It keeps me entertained.

The house here is…good.  I mean, I live in a walk-in closet with a roommate, it’s relatively dirty, and I have to climb 3 flights of stairs to get to my kitchen, but I am in New York City.  Really, the small space just gives me incentive to stay out of the house and explore – which I’ve been doing!  I’ve trekked to Soho, Brooklyn, and all over Manhattan.  Brooklyn, I’ve decided, is the most hipster place I’ve ever seen.  ”Williamsburg is basically a parody of itself,” is what I’ve been told.  Truth.  I’ve never seen more knockoff RayBans in my life, especially paired with skinny jeans and flannel. Yeesh.

People here sometimes talk about how much they love the city – how beautiful it is.  One thing that has really struck me, though, is that the “beauty” of this city is purely architectural.  I spend half of my time with my nose in the air, gawking at how tall the buildings are, and the other half at the ground, making sure that I’m not going to step in urine or on someone else. My current problem is that I don’t really think that most of it is “beautiful” in any sense.  Maybe I was spoiled this summer, living in the woods and on the beach.  But more than just trading in my beloved BTB churros for lower quality mexican food, I think that it’s been odd trading in the trees for subway grates, crickets for honking taxi horns, and the stars for constant illumination.  I haven’t seen more than five stars since I’ve arrived.  Just different, I suppose.

Expect more soon.  Plus pictures (maybe – if I take them).  But to end this first post, my favorite/the most amusing task that I’ve been given thus far:

When handed an article that had gone through the rigorous editing process, ready to be sent back to the writer for changes: “Lisa, can you go through this and just cover up anything that’s mean.  With a piece of paper or something.  You know like this, ‘this lede* is boring.’ Cover that.”

*Lede as in the introduction to a magazine article.  It’s spelled weird – I wouldn’t mess that up!