Contemplating my first Skyperview

I've been on quite a few interviews in the past several weeks. Luckily, there's no shortage of tips, tricks, musings and even in-depth reports full of stats on how to knock it out of the park in a phone or face-to-face interview. I know all the buzz questions. I can recite my resume in my sleep—in fact, my boyfriend says I do. I've perfected my just-firm-enough handshake. And my mom keeps asking me why I always answer her phone calls with, “Hello, this is Caitlin.”

But tomorrow morning, I will experience a first. A long-distance interview over Skype. I'm excited by the novelty, but can't help but wonder what kind of Internet-iquitte I should be aware of. What's the Skype equivalent of a handshake? Is it weird that the first time these people see me, it will be in my bedroom? If one of my cats jumps up on my lap is that kind of like a cute ice-breaker or a sign of un-professionalism? (That reminds me—I need to change my Skype name. Right now it's Grizabella, after my first cat.)

And then there's the clothing. An in-person interview almost always requires a suit, no questions asked. But I'd feel pretty silly putting on my business attire, just to sit in front of my computer. And what about the all-important eye contact? Do I look into the camera or at the faces on the screen?

Most (ok, ALL) of my Skype experiences are with my parents, half of which are usually spent with frozen screens as a result of the $20 web cam we bought them as a gift, and the other half with one of us putting our eyeballs up super close to the camera lens.

But the more I think about it, the Skype interview may just been the perfect balance of the impersonal phone interview and the high-stakes face-to-face. It's uncharted territory for me, but at least I don't have to worry about having bad breath or sweaty palms. My gut tells me to just tidy my room, put on a nice sweater and follow the interviewer's lead.

To all of my 16 followers, I'd love to hear your experiences and thoughts. I'll let ya know how it goes.

How I tried to hate Starbucks, but just couldn't

With afternoons suddenly free for job searching, I made a goal to try a new coffee shop each day. Why fuel the giant Starbucks fire when I can support Sayid, the African-native and owner of La Citadelle on 16th who woos the ladies with his "bonjours" and "au revoirs," and works overtime all the time so he can one day bring his struggling family here to join him?

Why use my hard-earned dollars to support those bastardized, sugar-laden signature concoctions they call coffee when I can mosey down to 12th Street Espresso where the smell of the beans wafts for blocks and they paint picturesque designs with the foam atop your latte?

The choice seems clear. But it isn't always that simple. From a marketing perspective, the Starbucks brand is gold. Immaculately consistent communications with cult-like consumer loyalty--I can't help but respect that.

One day I found myself cashless. Starbucks takes debit with no minimum charge. I had a book to read. Starbucks has the largest dining area. And so, last Sunday I broke my clean streak. I'd been to the Bucks at 15th and Latimer many times in the past, mostly to feed my Sunday Times addiction and before I moved to my moral high ground. I recognized many faces there, but none well enough to know any names.

The barista position, like many other hospitality jobs, often attracts 20- and 30-somethings who aspire to do more, but aren't having the best of luck. So when a mild mannered employee approached me to ask if I'd participate in a quick quality assurance survey, I welcomed him to my table and we chatted for a few minutes. He asked me pre-formulated questions about my visit and jotted some required notes, but we quickly moved on to other topics. Like me, he was looking for a job. I told him I used to be a barista and he congratulated me on "getting out." He told me his name was James and handed me a coupon for a free drink at my next visit.

During my short time as a Starbucks barista, there were times when everyone in the cafe fell silent. Some stared out the windows. Some buried their noses in books. Some tapped their feet faintly to the beat of their iPod. There was magic in those brief and infrequent moments. During them, I liked what I did and I knew I was doing something good. Doing what a coffee shop was meant to do--be a peaceful, cozy haven for people of all kinds. And that's what my local Starbucks was last Sunday. Quiet except for the pssst of the milk steamer and tinkle of the coffee cascading into the paper cups.

I guess it's that, and the connection I feel to the employees with whom I've been in the same boat, that I just can't stay away.

Of course, during those golden moments, it was never long before a gaggle of giggling high school girls poured in, demanding foamy, whipped, quadruple choco-mocha caramel crap. Or before a very important businessman burst in screaming into his bluetooth, stopping only to bark an order and throw a twenty dollar bill in your face. That's when I went back to hating the job and everything about the fact that I worked there.

So save for their coffee monopoly, Starbucks has its moments. It has some great employees. It's a really well executed brand. And for those reasons, I will alternate between Starbucks and my other favorite, but independently-owned coffee shops.

Sorry Sayid, I tried.

When second best is best

When I was laid off from my job, my dad immediately said, "that's the second best thing that could've happened." Naturally, I was pissed. Minutes after being escorted out of my now former workplace, I wanted pity, not a reality check. It took a few weeks, but finally I realized that the old job wasn't the best fit for me anyway, and I was excited about what might be next for me.

I'd almost forgotten about my dad's comment when my close friend found out some unsavory news. I was heartbroken for her. I thought the words, but didn't say them out loud: it was the second best thing that could have happened. Had she found out much later, the damage could have been worse. Still, I was surprised at how calm and collected she was. Perhaps she already had the wisdom of my dad's words, and didn't even know it yet.

My friend and I have different views on life, but I think we could agree that it's less about how bad something seems, and more how much worse it could have been. It's more than a silver lining. It's not just making the most of a bad situation. It's deciding that you actually lucked out.

Now, don't think I'm getting all philosophical on you. When people say "everything happens for a reason," or "it was meant to be," they're usually referring to some sort of divine plan or pre-set path our lives are headed for that's out of our own control. But me, I'm pretty sure we're all just flying by the seat of our pants on this ride. Does everything happens for a reason? Well, sure. It happened because of the thing that caused it. Somehow, this actually comforts me quite a bit. Just to know that in whatever weird and random order these events occur, we're all in it together, just taking it day by day in this mysterious and complex song and dance called life.

How being laid off is like being broken up with

I've been dumped between three and five times in my life. The first two breakups remain in question as to who ended it, because we were both in 5th grade at the time and simply stopped talking/forgot each other existed.

I've been laid off once. Five days ago. The experience, still in progress, sent me reeling right back to those high school and college days when each of those three pimply faced, khaki-wearing dudes who couldn't grow beards told me that it just wasn't working out...

The breakup/layoff starts even before it begins. You notice your boss/boyfriend is acting distant. Acting strange and not talking about your future anymore. Not involving you in activities/projects as much as he/she used to. In both cases, you're probably in denial.

Then the day comes. You're happily working in your office/watching TV in your shared apartment. All of the sudden, your boss/boyfriend says, "I need to talk to you."

They tell you some form of "it's not you, it's me,"/"it's not you, it's the economy." They tell you they want you out NOW, and if you're lucky they even give you a box. Then you're forced out of the place where you've spent most of your time for the past however many years, without as much as a chance to say goodbye to your coworkers/your boyfriend's dog. You get angry and say things you don't mean. You realize that they've already changed the lock/closed your email account. You ask how long ago they made the decision and no matter what the answer is, it makes you feel worse.

You wonder if your boss will offer to let you keep the book you borrowed/ if your boyfriend will let you keep the Ikea couch you went splitsies on--it's more your style, anyway. You obsessively check Facebook/LinkedIn to see if they've changed their status to "single"/changed their company employee information.

When you tell your friends and family, any of the following metaphors can be used to describe either situation equally well: Getting the boot, being kicked to the curb, being taken out with the trash, getting sandbagged.

Both make you want to drink, binge eat, punch somebody, write angry and passive-aggressive Facebook posts. And both elicit the same responses from friends, family and acquaintances alike: "it's a blessing in disguise," "you'll find something/someone better," "he/that job wasn't good for you, anyway," and, of course the go-to, "when one door closes..."

The advice, trite as it sounds to you at the time, is spot-on. The end of a personal or business relationship is the perfect time to start fresh and upgrade your life. And one day, you'll cross paths with the person or people involved again and hopefully you'll have great news to tell them. And secretly you hope they don't.

I've always thought the only way to get over an ex is to find someone new. I haven't found another job yet, but I'm hoping the same is true for both.

But neither one, I imagine, gets any easier the more times it happens.

Three small words

Have you ever read or heard a phrase for the first time and immediately knew you'd never forget it? Happens to me often. But recently, something I heard on an NPR news story stayed with me in a stronger way than anything has in a while.

Memoir author Marion Roach Smith was talking to callers about their own stories turned memoirs. It just so happens it was my uncle Victor who called in and told Marion about his memoir when she said the phrase that struck me so deeply. Vic explained his memoir in progress about his lifelong battle of depression that climaxed with a survived suicide attempt. Marion immediately asked him what made him survive. What kept him hanging on during those dark moments. The human pilot light, she said, is what keeps us surviving in even the darkest of times.

Something clicked for me when I heard those words. As a writer, the idea of empathy has been a re-occurring theme throughout my life. It was there when I wrote short stories in elementary school, poetry in middle school, literary analyses in high school, editorials in college, and now professional advertising. The human pilot light puts so perfectly into words exactly what drives me to write. The quest to find not just what makes people tick, but what keeps them living--literally and figuratively. Physically and emotionally.

Ever since then, I often wonder what keeps the pilot light burning of the hundreds of people I see each day on my way to and from work. What does the homeless man who sleeps in the alley think when he wakes each morning that carries him through another day?

Maybe it's nothing more than a simple animalistic instinct. I'd like to think all our pilot lights are the single thread that connects us all. At the same time, I think each person's is as unique as their fingerprint. But then again, I really just don't know the answer at all.

The question astounds, confuses, delights and intrigues me all at the same time. But I know that where ever my writing takes me, I want to spend my life answering it.

Not a stranger on the train

There's an unspoken rule among most train commuters in the morning: don't talk to me, I won't talk to you, and we can all rest or read in relative peace while we wake up on our way to work.

Most early morning blabber mouths are met with flustered glances or evil stares. But when a partially blind, 85-year-old WWII vet with an honorary MBA from Stanford sat beside me the other morning, he couldn't see the other passengers' annoyed expressions.

He was a small man with white hair, dressed in khaki shorts and a while polo shirt. He wore large, think-lensed darkly tinted sunglasses, which was the only indication of his disability. The way he made his way around the car, you'd hardly know he had less than half his vision left.

He had hardly finished hoisting his bag onto the overhead shelf before commencing our intense and mostly one-sided conversation:

"I'm from California and you wouldn't believe how much harder is it to get around here on the east coast," he continued with a story about getting stuck in an elevator in a Philadelphia hotel after receiving inadequate instructions on how to use some sort of special keycard.

Next he told me about his frequent guest appearances at Stanford where he gave talks on business strategy. He was always met with unbridled, ardent praise from students.

"They tell me, every time, that they learn more from me in an hour and a half than they do in a whole year of business school," he said, "and you know why?"

"No?"

"Now, my dear, I don't have a lick of formal business training from a school, but I have experience. I managed people for years. And that's matters. Experience. You'll learn more actually doing than you will reading, no matter what it is you do."

Of the several other stories he managed to squeeze into into my 35 minute ride, (including how a doctor botched his cataract surgery and left his vision where it is today and how and why Texas is the only state in the nation with a stable economy) two things stood out:

"What do you think is more important," he asked, "working on the right thing, or doing the work right?"

It was like talking to a much older and more conservative Seth Godin.

"Doing it right?" I offered.

"Wrong!" He nudged me with his arm. In my defense, my head was still spinning from last night's margaritas.

"That's what most people think. But if you're doing a great job at the wrong thing, you're not getting anywhere!"

Naturally, he gave the example of how President Obama worked on the wrong thing by taking on healthcare reform as his first duty as President, instead of addressing the more pressing issue, unemployment. I kept my political opinions to myself, but couldn't help but agree with the lesson behind the message.

His next question was, "is it better to concentrate on the process of the work or the people doing the work?"

I went with my gut. "The people?"

"Wrong again!" He laughed. "I'm not trying to embarrass you, just teach you something," he said. "You're a smart girl. But this is a lesson that everyone needs to know. If you have a strong process, the people will follow. The strategy is most important. The people are second."

I thought about these rules and how they apply to an ad agency. We can do great work, but if it's for the wrong clients, we lose. And we can have the smartest people in the business at our disposal, but if we're not strategic in our approach, we lose again. This could be a lesson for any business.

So when my stop came, we shook hands and wished each other luck. I don't know that I made much of an impact on him, but I will remember his words for sure. He spoke more passionately about business than I'd heard someone talk about their career in years. I don't remember his name or why he was in Philly, but I remember he reminded me a bit of my dad. The way he was so full of ardor and as my mom says, has "never met a stranger."

As I walked down the aisle, I heard him ask the woman in the next row, "do you know which stop is next?" I looked back. The woman just mumbled no, shook her head and rolled her eyes.

"Wayne is next, you still have a while to go," I called back as I departed the car. He turned his head from side to side. Then I remembered he couldn't see me.

Not for the weak of stomach.

It's almost time for the Broad Street Run--Philadelphia's famous ten mile race straight down Broad Street in the height of spring. It attracts runners from all over the country. They cap registration at 30,000 people, which usually happens within days of opening.

Last year, my debut on Broad Street, was a learning experience. So as I prepare for my second go, I feel it's a good time to reminisce and remember the lessons of the past...

It was May 1, 2010. I'd trained hard. I bought special socks that help prevent blisters. My playlist was all queued up. I started loading up on electrolytes 48 hours before the big day. I woke up that morning feeling invincible. There were a few butterflies in my stomach, but nothing could stop me. I ate my protein bar, grabbed my vitamin water and proudly flashed my bib to the SEPTA attendant who nodded and let me through the subway turnstile without charge.

All decked out in my spandex pants and tank top, I fit right in with the rest of the runners waiting for the next car. I decided the night before to skip the undies. Race day happened to also be the start of an unexpected heat wave, with temps in the high 80s for the first time of the season. My pants were the sweat-wicking kind and I didn't want to risk the extra layer of underwear causing any discomfort.

When I got to Olney, I was even more charged up after squeezing shoulder to shoulder with hundreds of anxious runners, all basking in our pre-race adrenalin. Herds of us lined the roads. The number 30,000 didn't mean much to me until I stood there amongst that many others all waiting to embark on a serious adventure. Thirty thousand became even more tangible to me when I turned to find a row of about twenty porta-potties, each behind a line of about a dozen people, all eventually morphed into one giant eager cluster of people waiting to use the potties.

Thirty thousand divided by twenty...assuming everyone shows up and uses a toilet at least once...minus the guys who pee in the woods is, well.... not pretty.

I figured I'd waste no time and get myself in line. After a half an hour or so, I finally got my turn. I took a big breath, squatted and finished my business as quickly as possible. And breathed. Whew. It really wasn't that bad.

I resigned to a shady spot under a tree and starting stretching. And all of the sudden, I felt a sharp pain in my abdomen. I took a deep breath, stretched...it was still there. Exhaled. The pain was quickly replaced by lurching feeling and a low grumble. My hand instinctually patted the spot on my tummy. I knew this feeling. It was roughly the same feeling I had the day after eating at the city's spiciest Chinese restaurants and far too much wine and beer.

All I could think was with such immaculate care I had put into my diet and workouts the past months, how could this be happening? But there wasn't much time for coulda-shouldas. I had to get back in line.

Start time was getting closer and the length of the line proved it. Several people ahead of me, I noticed a couple women holding what appeared to be baby wipes or paper towels. They must be germ-conscious, I thought, brining their own hand-washing materials.

I tried to hide my discomfort with a confident smile as I made idle conversation with other waiting runners. "Oh this is your first time doing Broad Street, too? Me too!" (Nervous laughter to cover my lower intestines' wail.) Until finally, a mere thirty minutes before start time, it was my turn again. Relief, even in a porta-potty, was wonderful. Until I looked to find a bare cardboard roll where the toilet paper used to be.

I froze, mid-squat, spandex around my ankles. My mind raced. I started to look frantically around for something to use as a substitute, as if I really expected to find some kind of reasonable alternative inside the portable plastic bathroom. I seriously considered using my canvas baseball cap, but could not bring myself to it. Finally, I swallowed my pride, unhinged the empty cardboard roll and did the best I could with it. Which wasn't too great.

I'm sure the shame on my face was obvious when I finally emerged from the bathroom in front of hundreds of leg-crossed runners. I darted far away from the crime scene and resumed stretching. I scanned the nearby trees for a spot secluded enough so I might be able to clean myself with a leaf, or maybe even a handful of grass. But the crowd stretched as far as I could see. I realized there was no getting rid of the remains of my bathroom debacle for at least ten more miles.

Finally, it was time to group in our corrals. There I stood, crammed like sardines with thousands of people, the morning sun scorchingly hot and bright--commando--with a mess in my pants. I was convinced those near me could smell me. Since things didn't seem like they could get any worse, I thought to myself:

Shit happens. I guess I'm just going to have to run with it.

And that I did. I finished the ten-mile race in about two hours. The low point was when some spectators sprayed the passing runners with a hose for relief from the heart--and I brought completely new meaning to the term "swamp ass." The high point was my third and final potty break at mile marker nine, where I had a second bout of what I now know is called "runner's diarrhea"--and finally found a full roll of TP.

So here's to learning (the hard way) to bring BYOTP--and to a successful race for 2011.

Waxing realistic

I confess, sometimes when I just can't seem to wrap my head around something, I give in and simply refrain from thinking about it all.

A good example, politics. Someone is always bending the truth, and I just can't justify siding with anyone whole-heartedly, so I endorse policies rather than people. (But that's problematic too, because of that thing they call pork...) I wanted to watch the recent State of the Union, but I was so distracted by the childish game of who stood and clapped at which statements, my brain exploded and I fell asleep.

Lately, too, I've been thinking long and hard about how upsetting it is that I feel helpless in the face of big problems like homelessness. I'm asked for money daily, but my crushing student loan debt and perpetually tardy utility bills usually stop me. And the inevitable conundrum of, if I help one person, must I help the next one? And the next? How do I choose who gets to eat breakfast this morning? Again, my head feels like it's overflowing and I shut down. I put on my blinders when I walk the streets.

These are bigger issues that will forever be unsolved. That's not pessimism, it's realism, and the difference can be slight.

Recently, I've learned a similar lesson about the business world. But first, some background. Most people who know me not as well might say that I'm relentlessly cheerful and friendly. As a friend once put it, "un-jaded." Those who know me a little better would agree, for the most part, but also know the part of me that is stubborn and sometimes hot-headed. I guess what I'm saying is that inside I don't always feel like the soft-spoken, blissfully-naive person I tend to appear to be. But some recent events have left me doe-eyed, realizing that, yes, I do have lots more to learn about the world. And here is what I learned this week:

When it comes to a job, you are not your integrity. You are not your work ethic. You are not your I-got-your-back coworker relationships. Those things will only get you so far. You are, actually, your billable hours. You are your productivity. You are your dollars and cents on an invoice. Somewhere, you are a sliver of a pie chart in company's budget. Party favors at office Christmas parties are nice. But they are not the bottom line.

But even in lieu of my perhaps long overdue existential epiphany, it still helps me to think that there is a way to run a business that really cares about people, where no one gets lost amongst the padded gray cubicle walls. The ones that are only five feet tall, but reach to ceiling...

Here it goes again. My mind is overwrought with thoughts of equality and humanity and it's starting to make me think about politics, so it's time to stop. And with that, I will venture on to think about something much simpler, and hope reality doesn't creep in to ruin it.

Be a good one.

There is a gentleman who stands on the corner of 16th and Market Streets each weekday morning and evening during rush hour. He wears a driver's cap, a long coat and scarf and always has a suitcase sitting by his side. He stands in the very same spot with a resolute and confident way about him. He preaches about his love for Jesus loud and proud, day after day. I pass him twice daily. He is always there.

Most people act as if he doesn't exist. I never make eye contact, but I listen. I stare straight ahead, but my ears are paying keen attention. I've become accustomed to the sound of his growly booming voice, just as I have the the squeaky brakes of the city buses and the clink-clank of the street vendors spatulas on their grills.

Sometimes he reads straight from the bible, other times he sings songs that he seems to be creating on the spot. Sometimes he seems angry, and other times he's very calm. Either way, his message is the same: be damned if you don't accept God as your savior. Be damned if you fornicate, drink alcohol, adulterate, or whatever else. His words condemn and ostracize, but otherwise, he seems a nice enough man. I've seen women and men stop to say a prayer with him or just to say hi. His reply is always, "have a blessed day." Once the men in the giant garbage truck honked and waved.

I used to seethe a bit when I passed him, offended how he thinks his way is the only way. I wrote him off as crazy, but I still couldn't (and still cannot) ever help but stretch my ears as I pass.

Then the New Year came. In typical self-actualizing fashion, I openly adopted my 2011 motto, the Abe Lincoln quote: "Whatever you are, be a good one."

And then it hit me.

I sure don't like or agree with what the crazy man on the corner says, but he does it with passion and persistence. He does it well. Rain, sleet or snow, he wakes up early each morning and returns each night, to share what he believes to be the path to an enlightened life. And even though his words are often harsh, I've seen him respectfully ignore the people who scoff as they walk by. He's completely unfettered by the fact that 99 percent of passersby completely ignore him, and, I assume, inspired by that one percent he manages to reach.

If just half the people in the world believed in something as ardently as he does, (something good, that is) then the world might be a happier place. If I can take the things I believe in and share them with nearly as much gusto as he does, then I can feel pretty good about my time here.

Junebug vs. hurricane

When I was a kid, I went through phases of obsessions with different disasters. I saw Twister and became terrified at every even slightly darkened cloud. I watched a murder thriller and lost my ability to be alone in a room. Back then, people said I had a wild imagination. It even kind of passed as cute at times. As a teen, I was "just sensitive" and "a bit of a worry wart." Nowadays, my doctor calls it "anxiety" and says Celexa may help.

So when I was faced with the potentially most devastating news of my life--like when we were told two weeks ago that my mom likely had late stage ovarian cancer--you'd probably guess that I'd pretty much just lose my shit.

And while I can't say that in the week leading up to her hysterectomy and tumor biopsy that my mind didn't entertain the most tragic outcomes, still I was somehow, almost strangely, uncharacteristically calm. Because even though my heart held an unshakable sense of utter despair and melancholy, the small everyday things that usually freak me out faded almost completely away. The sense of impending doom I became so used to waking up with was replaced with a legitimate fear. And I suddenly just didn't care so much about the orange level terror alert at the airport, any of various random, depressing statistics that pass for news headlines each morning, or even my chronic nagging sense of guilt from my bratty childhood disposition and how I feared it would come back to me one day.

And as it turned out, my mom's tumor was benign, and she's recovering from surgery quite admirably. I've since resumed my post in Philadelphia after many grueling hours in hospital waiting rooms. Things are back to normal, other than the fact that I'm going to be much more meticulous when it comes to scheduling my regular checkups and encouraging all my friends and family to do the same.

I consider myself an un-believer in miracle cures or other sappy-movie-esque life transformations, but the impact my mom's cancer scare had on my family did bring us closer. If nothing more, it was a brief intermission from our everyday stressful lives that reminded us things could be a lot worse, and that we are by far the most important things in each other's lives.

My calm in the eye of the storm felt almost like a fight-or-flight survival instinct. When stakes are high, sometimes you do things you never thought you were capable of. When you're dying of thirst, you'd do anything for water. And when someone you love may be in trouble, you do whatever it takes to get to their side as fast as you can.

Home sweet everywhere.

As I sit here in my relatively new apartment on this pleasantly warm Monday night in July, with my kitten staring up at me from my lap, I can't help but look back on my day and think about how much of my life is spent in places other than my cozy little home. And how I have so many almost-homes scattered about the city and beyond. It seems a little silly how I try to make all these places feel familiar, but I also like the thought of a second home, a third, that gives me this same, warm safe feeling that's wrapped around me right now.

First, there's my cubicle at work. Always within eyesight is an artfully done photo of none other than Jason and Grizabella, the two people (or mammals to be precise) I'm lucky enough to spend most of my time with. Among the other home-making accessories: a decorative plant of an unknown species I stole off a table at our corporate center's grill out. A couple office supplies, including a purple stapler that doesn't work, but was given to me at my internship at Sunrise Greetings. I keep it for the memory. All my writing books. I love them all, especially my grammar bible. I could read it all day. And the heart-shaped Love Boat Princess Cruises coffee mug that holds my pens and pencils. I don't like boats, but I do like hearts and love and the word princess.

And then my locker at the gym. In what I feel is the most secluded corner of the room (I'm more on the naked-shy side). I leave the extra-strong deodorant in there, along with my travel sized hair brush. And, for whatever reason, a pair of Jason's sweat bands that I will never wear in public. They just hang there, unused, but I like them there.

While most people have a third or fourth home in their very own vehicles, I settle in the second car of the R5 train each morning. Always on the window side of a three person seat with my bag snugly slid between my hip and the car wall, coffee mug in one hand, New York Times magazine in the other. Always half awaiting the welcomed vibration of my cell phone, bringing quips and conversation with friends and family via messages quickly hammered out by fingertips. Especially Emily. When I'm really lucky, I get a picture of my little "nephew" Elijah with a big smile.

In my old neighborhood, there was almost-home potential in one of the back tables at Manny Brown's, especially Thursday nights when Lagers are only $2. We haven't been back since the move last month. Still on the hunt for that new homey bar with the good specials and perfect corner booth.

There's a lot of bad news on the TV and a lot of things about my repetitive days that are really easy to complain about. But most of the time, I try to just sit back, and find those little things that make me feel like I'm right at home, where ever I am.

City-me?

The first week since my move from Society Hill to Rittenhouse was an adjustment. It even started to make me wonder if, after almost a year in the city, I may be losing some of my midwestern manners.

My first weekday morning picking up the train at Suburban Station, rather than my usual Market East Station, I arrived with plenty of time. I took a seat to relax for a moment and enjoy my orange juice. My eyes were fixed on my magazine, but I sensed a man walking timidly towards me.

"Miss? Excuse me, Miss?" I heard him say.

Now, a whole lot of panhandling goes on at Market East. I don't make a habit of carrying cash or change, so I generally turn the people down, never without at least a small twinge of guilt in my gut. I'm not proud to say it, but the more time passes, the more I feel myself becoming slightly desensitized.

Which is why, I suppose, the words "I don't have any money" spilled from my mouth before my eyes had even met his.

As soon as I said it, my heart sank. One full look at the man, tall and burly, and the small group of friends that stood behind him--and I lowered my head back down in shame. Before I could muster the courage to apologize for my hasty, heartless assumption or even try to explain myself, the men retreated.

"Money?" He said to his friends as they walked away. "Man, people are sick."

Then, the following morning on the train to work, a guy who looked about my age in a bright green polo shirt took the seat next to me. Like I'd been doing for the most of the week as I fought my way through a cold, I coughed a rattling cough and wiped my nose with a tissue.

"Not feeling well this morning, are you?" He said with a smirk.

I was half surprised, half embarrassed. No one likes being the sick person on train. I was pretty irked he felt the need to draw attention to it. "No, I'm not."

"You're not gonna get me sick too, are you?" That smirk again.

"I'm gonna try not to," I said with a sniff as I shoved a my soiled tissue into my pocket.

I knew I didn't sound too psyched to talk about the nasty germiness I was spreading around, but I didn't realize I was so standoffish that he felt the need to move a few rows back at the next station stop.

I've always thought I was well-mannered, thanks almost completely to my impeccably polite mother. I refuse to give up the old art of the thank you note and I'm proud of my promptness and perpetual smile. But I'm learning that even occasional apathy can come off harsher than you may intend.

And the more I think of it, lately, I do sometimes find it more odd than endearing when a stranger smiles or holds the door for me. On one hand, I'd like to say it's not all my fault--that the harsh and unforgiving city life is simply taking its necessary toll on me. But deep down I know that real manners apply always--not just when it's easy or when your reputation's on the line.

As it often happens, a passage from a book I'm reading seems to speak some sense to this situation:

"There was a certain satisfaction in bitterness. I courted it. It was standing outside, I invited it in. I scowled at the world. And the world scowled back. We were locked in a stare of mutual disgust...One day I woke up and said to myself: It's not too late. The first days were strange. I had to practice smiling in front of the mirror. But it came back to me. It was as if a weight had been lifted. I let go, and something let go of me." (From 'The History of Love' by Nicole Kruass)

Ode to a former shuttle driver

The first thing I noticed about Scotty wasn't his bushy gray-white eyebrows or thick tube socks that stuck out of his big white sneakers.

It was the sign he taped above the dashboard of his shuttle bus. Scrawled in thick, black ink on a plain piece of white paper was a message that read:


Hi My Name is
"SCOTTY"


The i’s were dotted with big circles. It looked like a third grader's handwriting. I wasn't sure if the quotation marks indicated a nickname, or if it wasn't really his name at all.

He never actually introduced himself by name, but he did greet me and the various, five to ten other commuters that rode on his bus from the Radnor train station to the Radnor Corporate Center each weekday with a jolly "Good morning!" He was a big, elderly man with thinning hair that peeked from underneath a baseball cap. I imagined he was recently retired and worked part-time.

On the train, people go out of their way to avoid contact of any kind with each other. But rarely could anyone help but break out of the common stranger shell when climbing aboard Scotty’s bus.

Inspired by his friendliness, I often thought about calling him Scotty but I was hesitant to assume it was his name. It wasn’t until the long, lanky twenty-something who works at the Corporate Center’s deli said, “See ya, Scotty,” for the first time before hopping off the bus that I was confident enough to do the same.

And it wasn’t long after I began greeting him by name that he donned me with the nickname “Happy.”

It began like this: “It’s great to see you, you’re always smiling, always happy,” he said as I found my seat.

I laughed, a little surprised. “I try,” I said unsurely.

I thought maybe he'd mistaken the squinty face I make when I forget my sunglasses for a wholehearted, I-love-my-life kind of smile. The truth is, commuting an hour and a half to work every weekday doesn’t leave me feeling particularly jubilant.

After that day, whenever I boarded the bus he always said, “Hi, Happy, good to see you,” or “Hey, Hap, how are ya?”

Sometimes he’d yell, “YAHOO!” as I walked down from the train platform towards the curb where he always waited.

Whether or not I was really smiling before, I couldn’t help but smile after our interactions, and sometimes it lasted into the afternoon. Whether or not I was really all that happy in the morning, I was now—at least a little bit more.

One day as we approached my stop he asked me my real name.

“Caitlin,” I said as I stepped down the stairs towards building number three.

“Caitlin, huh? That’s an unusual one.”

I always thought my name was pretty common, but I just laughed and waved goodbye for the day.

A few days later, it was just me and two others on the bus. I got on first. After our usual exchange, I found my seat. Then I glanced up and saw him looking at me from the big rearview mirror that hung right under his sign.

“Caitlin, do you have a man at home that takes good care of you?”

I paused, then told him that yes, I certainly do.

“Good, I’m glad to hear it,” he said with a chuckle.

“What about you?” I asked.

“I live with a woman,” he said, “A widow. Her name is Bridget. We’ve lived together for ten years.”

“Wow, that’s a long time.”

“We like to go to car shows together on the weekends,” he said as he made his way out of the parking lot. He told me he’d bring in a picture of the vintage car he fixed up to show me.

I pictured Scotty coming home to a little red brick house in his big white sneakers and khaki shorts, lunchbox in hand—excited to see Bridget. Every now and then, I asked him how she was doing.

Then one gloomy, rainy morning I got off the train to find two shuttle buses in line instead of one. I approached the first one that looked like Scotty’s, but he wasn’t inside. A slight, middle-aged man was in his place.

“Going to the Corporate Center?” he said dully. “Which building?”

Scotty knew everyone, if not by name, by which building they worked in. I figured the change was temporary. Maybe Scotty was ill, or maybe they just altered the shuttle schedule due to the weather. He had to be coming back, I thought, because his sign still hung above the dashboard.

The dull man took his place for a few weeks or so. He rarely responded to pleasantries and made rough, abrupt stops. All the commuters continued the friendly greetings and goodbyes they’d become accustomed to, thanking him for each short ride. He remained oblivious and completely apathetic.

His somberly silent spirit was as contagious as Scotty’s glee, and the passengers’ pleasantries eventually tapered off. The shuttle felt more like the train.

Eventually, Scotty’s sign was taken down. A small scrap of one of the corners of the white paper remained, barely noticeable. It may have been the warmer weather, but fewer and fewer people showed up on the shuttle each morning.

A fellow rider and coworker of mine asked the new guy what happened to Scotty.

“He’s on vacation and stuff,” he said in his monotone voice.

For several days after that, as the train approached the Radnor station, I’d wonder if this day would be the day Scotty came back. I imaged how excited everyone would be.

Finally, another man—older, and slightly more personable—showed up in the driver’s seat one morning. He was friendly, and announced to everyone that his name was Gene and that he’d been on a leave from his position but that now he was back for good.

That was when I officially gave up hope for Scotty’s return. I was glad to have a nicer driver, but I still think often of Scotty and Bridget and wonder what they’re doing now. I think of how just a few of his words made me believe a lot more in my ability to make myself happy.

Today, before the bus began bounding across Matsonford Road, Gene told everyone to please read the sign he’d recently posted.

In bold typeface it read:


FOR YOUR SAFETY
Please remain seated until the Bus has come to a COMPLETE stop.


Below the words was a clip art image of happy commuters reading the paper and drinking coffee, all seated as requested.

I liked Scotty’s sign better.

Please please me, advertising

As far back as I can remember, the first thing I've always done before reading any magazine is remove and discard all of those subscription cards that fall into your lap. I grew up in a mute-all-TV-commercials house. I've only ever listened to NPR radio stations. Even at a young age, I found the “See, you looked!” gotcha-ads on city street benches offensive. My first instinct when my computer screen is taken over by a web banner ad has always been to divert my eyes as if it was a total eclipse of the sun--as if glancing at the interruption is letting it win. The obtrusive nature of billboards, promotional emails, and people handing out flyers on the street typically tends to make me a little angry.

And I'm a full-time copywriter at an advertising agency.

No, I'm not into self-torture and I'm not acting as a mole. Since I've started to immerse myself in the industry, I began to give ads more of a chance. I've learned to appreciate them for their clever ways of finding their way into my line of vision or earshot, and their ability to create suspense that really makes me want to click "learn more." I've learned to appreciate ads that speak right to me, to my gut or to my heart--and that show that the agency behind the ad has really done its homework. (I've also disproved my long held belief that all pop-up ads link you to porn sites.)

I feel my negative disposition to ads adds valuable insight to my agency. I equate it to a chef without a big appetite or a teacher who doesn't take instruction well. It's not that I turn my nose up at any ad that I didn't write, but rather that my highly skeptic nature drives me to create good, strong advertising. Advertising that catches your attention because it speaks to a universal truth or has an emotional tug--not simply because it's loud. Advertising that catches your eye because it's beautifully simple, not just because it's busy and bright.

If it were up to me, all ads would be understated, polite, and would tell a good human-interest story. But it's not up to me, and all I can do is bring that to the table in the work I do--and make use of the mute button and collapse link as needed.

S.O.S.

Sometimes the streets of Philadelphia can be harsh.

Nestled between Queens Village and Society Hill, seemingly worlds away from the crime-ridden streets that frame the city, I always feel pretty safe. But the busy business district through which I walk to the train station each morning has its own brand of danger.

I'm not referring to the cab driver who was shot on the corner of 11th and Market on Christmas eve, or the fight resulting in gunfire last week in Old City. No, I recently discovered that some of the most precarious situations arise from the mere presence of a sidewalk curb.

The other morning, as I hurried down 9th street, I jolted to a stop at the sight of an elderly blind woman standing still on the corner of a small cross street. She was feeling the terrain ahead with a cane, but something was obviously keeping her from forging ahead. For just a moment I thought I should leave her alone and not doubt her ability. Maybe she was waiting for someone. I guess it was my gut that said, "it never hurts to ask."

"Ma'am, can I help you cross the street?"

She did not hesitate and she was not shy. "You sure can!"

We locked arms naturally, like we were good friends. We inched down the sloped sidewalk, onto the street. An SUV halted abruptly at the stop sign in front of us, music blaring. "Is that your radio?" She asked me.

When we were almost safely back to sidewalk, I noticed her gait become slower, more timid. Then it hit me. There was no slope on this side. The curb was only a few inches high, but I warned her anyway, "we've got a little step coming up."
Her cane reached it first, then the toe of her shoe. She was slightly jostled, even in my grip.

"That's the one that tripped me last time," she confessed as she stepped up to meet me. We unlatched our arms, and said a quick goodbye.

I made a point to go down 9th again today, hoping to see her. Just to say hi, or maybe see if she needed a hand. I haven't seen her since. But every now and then she comes to mind and I imagine what it would be like to brave the city without sight. I remember how small and overwhelmed I felt when I just arrived. Every sound I heard from my bed at night, made my mind reel, imagining what it might be. I was always weary of people walking too closely behind me.

Un-slanted sidewalk curbs never crossed my mind. I guess you never know what someone might fear, until you've walked in their shoes. Or at least helped them walk in their own.

Fear and loathing in the Gap fitting room

Yesterday while waiting for Jason to try on clothes at the Gap, I overheard two employees' conversation:

"I'm feelin' it today," one said to the other, "today's the day I'm gonna punch someone in the face."
"I hear ya," the other replied, "I had to walk off the floor at one point."

It went on like that for a minute or two. I couldn't help but wonder if they thought I was cruisin' for a bruisin'. What poor taste to speak so nastily about customers who were in clear view and earshot, I thought. They should save that kind of talk for the break room. At least then people may mistake their miserable mugs for the result of a non-work-related problem.

Then I realized that's easy for me to say, now that I have a full-time writing job I thoroughly enjoy. There was a point during my brief stint as a Starbucks Barista when everything, from the sound of the coffee timer dinging to a customer's request for the bathroom key, made me want to spew expletives. At the time, I told myself I hid my loathing sufficiently. In reality, the look on my face (even behind a forced smile) probably said it all. Perhaps I might as well have been one of those Gap girls.

I've decided that enjoying my job is something I should never take for granted. And I'll always tip my Barista.

You know you've sold your soul to a corporate job when...

...you're required to do menial tasks with "fun" names, like a "lobby slide" (sweeping and tidying the store's entrance) or a "ten spin" (checking the temperature of refrigerated food items every ten minutes.)

...all of the company's ridiculously high standards for quality and customer service tend to contradict one another and cancel each other out, i.e. the impossibility of grinding beans and brewing a fresh pot of coffee every eight minutes during morning rush while taking every customer's order within 30 seconds from the time they enter the store.

...every company policy and rule boils down to one common goal: avoiding lawsuits.

...you and your coworkers are strongly encouraged to show your unique personality--while wearing identical uniforms, repeating scripted lines to customers and performing monotonous tasks for hours at a time.

...there's an acronym for everything, from how to resolve a customer complaint to how to properly clean the bathroom.

more later.

Me, myself and my network

An article in The New York Times last month said that for every job opening in the U.S. there are six job seekers.

Everyone, from my dad to the President of the E.W. Scripps Company, tells me networking is key. This idea may have exploded in the age of Facebook and Twitter, but I can remember being very young the first time I heard someone say, "it's not what you know, it's who you know."

To someone who has racked up around $100,000 in student loan debt for a Bachelor of Arts in Journalism, it's slightly disheartening. In fact, the more articles and books I read about job searching, the more I'm told to put my education section at the bottom of my resume, and highlight any impressive names on my reference page--no matter how distant my connection to that person may be.

I must admit, I've sent several resumes and cover letters via email every week since I've moved to Philadelphia, mostly to general address like jobs@companyname.com. And my only two call backs so far were from companies where I applied in person. (As it happens, they were both in food service, but that's another story.)

My most recent job-hunt read was Can I Wear My Nose Ring To The Interview?: A Crash Course In Finding, Landing, and Keeping Your First Real Job by Ellen Gordon Reeves. The chapter on cover letters was the most interesting to me. The author insisted that no self-respecting person should begin a cover letter with "hello my name is," "I'm writing in application of," or any other generic opening. Instead, she suggests an original, attention-catching first sentence. I completely agree with her on this, but the only example she gave of this must-have beginning was one in which a name was dropped.

Don't get me wrong, with the current job-to-jobless persons ratio, I think using someone's name is an often essential way to set yourself apart from the other hundreds of applicants. And I don't think my education is obsolete. No matter who you know, you most likely won't get the job without solid credentials, impressive work samples, and a good interview.

But let's say I apply for a job at company X for which I'm perfectly qualified. Then, another not-as-qualified person applies to the same job, but first sends out a mass message to his or her one thousand Facebook friends (most of whom he or she barely knows) and asks for a contact at company X. I have a sharp, concise and thoughtful cover letter. The other candidate has a cover letter with a name. We all know who gets the job.

It doesn't seem fair for employers to discriminate on a who-you-know basis. But I guess if all this name-finding hoop jumping is what it takes today, I have no choice.

Sightseeing

On the five-hundred block of South Sixth Street, we get the best of both worlds. 


Walk south and we run into South Street--famous for nightlife, restaurants, hip shops, and tourists. The sidewalks are always busy with a mosaic of pedestrians, vendors, and street musicians. Even the restaurants need bouncers late at night on South Street.


On Friday and Saturday nights after the bars close, you can usually count on a domestic dispute or two (often incited by the arrival of a tow truck), a handful of people using alleys as receptacles for the release of various bodily fluids, and a confetti-like sprinkling of discarded, greasy paper plates and other trash along the street and sidewalk.


But when you head north on Sixth Street, after a few blocks you're greeted with red brick roads, horse-drawn carriages, and lush, green parks full of people reading, relaxing, walking. The shady, winding pathways of Washington Square are a tranquil refuge in the eye of a storm of city traffic and turmoil. There are no signs posted, but there is an unspoken agreement to maintain the serenity among the habitués.


There's nothing particularly special about our block itself, other than being the dividing line between two parallel universes. We live next to a computer repair shop, a dumpy take-out pizzeria, and across the street from a gated, community park with basketball courts and a children's playground.


A couple nights ago, however, things got a little exciting.


Around 1, Jason stepped out on the front stoop for a smoke. Even though the park closes at dusk, the streetlights made two intruders quite visible. They were sitting on a bench just a few feet from the street. Exchanging sexual favors.


A male passerby stopped dead in his tracks for a few moments to view the spectacle. He eventually walked on,  but not before glancing across the street to see Jason, and flashing him a big thumbs-up.


Never one to leave a guy hanging, Jason returned the gesture with a grin.

It's raining, pasta sauce is pouring

So far, I love life in the city. So many perks--like having everything you need within walking distance, so much history and diversity...

And a few quirks:

Jason and I woke up and immediately remembered we forgot to put the trash out on the curb for collection last night. But when we dragged the bags out from the laundry room to take outside, we also dragged out a mouse. The cat couldn't catch it, but Jason's sandal did. Death, I found, (especially of an animal larger than your average bug) is particularly hard to stomach just moments after you wake up. We're guessing he found his way in through the storm cellar in the laundry room that opens up onto the sidewalk. We're also guessing he has lots of friends and family nearby.

For reasons unknown, the city didn't even end up collecting the trash on our block this morning as scheduled. The streets always smell on trash night. The streets smell surprisingly worse after everyone's trash has been sitting out overnight in the rain. Also, we had fish for dinner last night, and I just cleaned the cat litter box.

So, tonight Jason, Joe and I stopped at SuperFresh for a few dinner supplies. We just needed a jar of marinara for our soon-to-be stuffed pasta shells. The thing about grocery stores in the middle of a city is they're often small. And cramped. And sometimes when someone pushes by you in a narrow aisle when you're holding a jar of pasta sauce, it causes you to drop it. (You equals Jason in this scenario.)

The store employee who happened to be just a few feet away, kindly told us to please step back, he would clean it up. Then he kindly reminded us, along with everyone else in the store, to USE A BASKET, USE A BASKET, YOU KIDS ALWAYS THINK YOU CAN CARRY EVERYTHING IN YOUR HANDS, BUT YOU CAN'T. USE A BASKET, YOU GOTTA USE A BASKET, PLLLEEEASE. THIS WOULDN'T HAVE HAPPENED IF YOU WOULDA USED A BASKET. GO ON, GET A BASKET, NOW, ALL OF YOU!

Walking home, it started to rain again. A lady in a passing car made a point to hang the upper half of her body out the window and sing to us, tauntingly, "It's raining, it's pouring, the old man is snoring!"

I guess the joke's on her, though, because she wasn't wearing a raincoat either.