Siddity in the City

New York City is kicking my ass.

Last week, I unofficially moved back to the city, set up camp on a relative’s livingroom floor and went back to work in what was supposed to be a long term temp assignment.

The mission: Sr. Marketing Coordinator; coordinating the traffic of materials between marketers, lawyers, art department and proofreading marketing copy–lots and lots of marketing copy–for a law continuing ed school.

The prize: half the hourly rate of my last job, potential to go perm at closer to two-thirds the hourly rate plus benes; exciting editorialesque opportunity (at the very least, a chance to brush up my Quark skills); all the free vending machine coffee I could drink; lunch every day with the Stolinator; rubbing elbows with graphic art, marketing and legal professionals, which is, I assure you, every bit as sexy as it sounds.

The reality: I was the third employee in the position since their full-timer left. One lasted two weeks, the other five days, possibly because they were advertising for a “marketing coordinator” rather than the more appropriate “text-editing automaton.” The “Sr.” was gratuitous–there was no junior coordinator position from which to distinguish. Proofreading print and web marketing materials, emails, checking broken links.

The highlights: becoming a language and word-use nazi; expanding the names of my imaginary cats from Nix and Nox to “Sir Hyphen Nox, first URL of Panthercherry” and “The Honorable Apostrophe Nix, III” (if I only get one it will be named “The Honorable Sir Hyphen Apostrophe Nixon, Esq.” and will be shuttled around with me in a shopping trolley. Don’t ask me how I’ll get it in there. Actually, I’ll just toss it in. It’s the keeping it in I worry about.); trying to gently convince a high-flying international attorney he has no idea how to spell and use practice/practise in British or American English; pointing out that it is not my personal, lowly opinion, but that of the Chicago Manual, that has me flagging every other phrase; debating whether or not to tell the supervisor what they need is a single competent copyeditor, and then for the marketers, newsletter editors and lawyers to get the hell out of his/her way; realizing I wouldn’t mind being a copyeditor, only someplace else. Good times.

I lasted a week. I could have stayed longer, as it only required the use of about 3% of my brain to function, but on the second day they asked if I wanted to stay, and upon my reluctance to commit, decided they needed to get someone else in so that the departing staffer could “train” the new person. *blink, blink* How to operate a dictionary, perhaps, or understand a style manual? *shrug*

Next week, I proctor final exams at another law school. From 7 am-9pm. It will suck, but it’s a paycheck. One which will almost fully fund the purchase of Krickette Karolina de Koont. (Yes, it is the white version, why do you ask?) I don’t know what’s with me and the legal eagles, lately. For some reason there seems to be an abundance of legal temp jobs in this city. Maybe it’s good, and I’ll meet a newly minted member of the litigious set. Never hurts to have a hungry lawyer in your pocket or your pants! Wait, that came out wrong…

I have abandoned the apartment search for now. If a roommate opportunity presents itself, great. Otherwise, I’ll reconsider everything after the holidays.

In other news:

My mother has just gotten approval on her master’s thesis. YAY, MOM! We celebrate later.

Dear Lindsay: I’m available for tutoring. I can’t turn you into Joyce, but I can help you spell “adequate.” And help you look it up. And…just call me, ‘kay? I make a mean martini, LiLo!

Show of hands, please: who is planning to get one of those chocolate fountains being pushed this holiday season? Why? What can you do with a home chocolate fountain, aside from occasionally dunk fruit and breadstuffs into its river of delicious chocolate? It’s just gonna sit on your shelf, next to that home smores kit and the mini fondue kit and the deluxe rotating stone pizza thing you bought six after-Christmas sales ago. Save all that money and get yourself a single piece of a really good knife or cookware set.

I was SO MAD the world almost lost half of Team Sexy on Top Chef this week. No, seriously? I would have stopped watching if Cliff had gone. Maybe Sam, although he’s starting to irritate me with his hiptastic ironic tees and headband. We get it, you’re yound sexy New York. Jesus. Get a haircut. Oh, and Ilan? I don’t know how you ended up with the name of a Filipino tranny stripper. It must have been very hard for you, growing up, to reconcile your identity and sense of self with that name. I sympathize, I do. Cut that stupid hank of hair at the back of your neck, anyway. And on top. What’s going on up there?

Later: rundown of the books I just snapped up to amuse myself while proctoring, including The Dubliners, the new Neil Gaiman, some Strange Candy, a little self-reflection, and some forward-lookingspeculation.