Agent Coco's Charming Film

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Certifiable

Just be glad you aren’t in college anymore. No, I’m serious. Something about college is conducive to craziness and I don’t mean of the quirky but interesting variety. I mean that college is a breeding ground for genuine, certifiable, out-of-their-minds, crazy people. This is what I believe to be the case, at any rate. Those around me may believe that I am, in fact, a breeding ground for crazy people. That is certainly not an unjustifiably cynical opinion. I have amassed a series of remarkably bizarre roommate stories that could put the characters of most classic college movies and books to shame. In any case, whether it be the college or me that’s to blame, I feel I am owed an apology by the universe. In the case that the universe doesn’t feel up to an apology, I would accept a college-wide day in honor of my presence. Either way, I deserve something. Something pretty.

I know what you are thinking. No, I don’t live in Animal House. Our one party, held in honor of a 21st birthday, lasted 15 minutes and was proceeded by an hour of my roommates and I sitting and staring silently while holding empty champagne glasses. I don’t live in the eccentric house either. We all have some variation of our natural hair color, I’ve never seen anybody wear a black trench coat, and we read celebrity gossip like there is no tomorrow. Except for my more contemplative roommate. She doesn’t even watch TV (our pitiful 13 regular and 5 Christian channels). There are no fraternities on the campus and there are almost no Republicans either. There is nothing to explain the lot I’ve been cast in college residential life except my own bad luck and a general lack of need for crazy people that the universe seems to be punishing me for.

A recent incident has brought to light the extent of my universe-sanctioned sentence. In the past, I’ve had truly peculiar roommates. I’ve gotten pulled into knock-down drag-out fights concerning the quality of college papers in the old days due to the lack of spell-check (what is there to argue about, you might ask), exchange rates, whether their boyfriend, in his late 50s, should be staying over in our room during finals week, whether not waking someone up after having left the house constitutes neglectful and disrespectful behavior, etc. These were nothing. Simple roommate squabbles, universally accepted as the annoying sidekick to the freedom of college life. Some were a little wacky (because what were we arguing about concerning college papers in the old days or exchange rates?), but none left a bitter taste in my mouth once I had concluded that the person I was arguing with was either making sense or was less sane then myself. Or once I had concluded that I was right and they were wrong and became sad for them that they’d never really understand how right I was.

The deluge has hit, though. And who would have guessed that a simple cleaning dispute would be to blame? Among all of my slightly-less-than-sane roommates, nobody has ever shined quite so brightly as my current. In all the years of roommate lunacy, she is an inspiration in the sense that she alone has proven just how insane insanity makes you. It all started when Coco and I, partners in crime that we are, left two dishes on the table.
Then there was an ominous note.
We took down the ridiculous Ms. Crazy sanctioned chore chart in retaliation.
A meeting was called.
First order of business: The generally reserved and, dare-I-say emotionless Ms. Crazy asking, “What do you have to say for yourselves in response to the note?”
Coco’s brave reply: “I hate being treated like a child.”
An attempt to get a word in by Ms. Contemplative and then, all of a sudden, a loud bang.
A look of shock crept upon the faces of Ms. Crazy’s partners in crime as Ms. Crazy bashed her hands against the table began to spout gibberish, loudly, angrily, and fanatically. And foolishly. It was the angriest tirade I have ever heard. Our malicious intent in not cleaning our two dishes had caused her to erupt with rage in solidarity with our two other roommates, who were quietly sitting and avoiding eye contact with us. Interestingly, the issue had nothing to do with her except that its disrespectful nature had offended her. She sealed our victory in the argument, as everybody else realized how insane Ms. Crazy actually is.
The outburst quieted everybody except Coco and I, who took her on. Never one to back down from a confrontation (maybe because she’s so tall), Coco took the reigns and shouted Ms. Crazy right back down in her chair. Realizing her loss, Ms. Crazy went from insane to calm in two seconds flat. This did not stop Coco and I from continuing to tear apart her tirade.
We all pretended to end on good terms. Coco and I got everything we wanted, everybody else backed down in shame.
But as I sit here, I am still edgy from the whole experience. Will I be forced to live with certifiable crazies forever? Will I be able to fight the urge to bop Ms. Crazy over the head, thereby succumbing to her level? Probably, since I’m at least mildly in control of myself, being over the age of five, however will Ms. Crazy be able to fight the same urge? And when will Coco and I feel comfortable stopping pretending to bite people behind their backs as they walk by us? Certainly not in the lifetime of this household.

In all the nerves of finding and applying for jobs, taking difficult classes, dealing with our limited social scene, and pining away for home, nothing has ever made me want to leaving town so badly. But I’m done with this college stuff now. Ms. Crazy has just sealed the deal. I aim to rid myself of this whole roommate-peppered era. Bring on the unemployment, financial instability, insulting bosses, and boring jobs. I’m ready to get out of here. I’m waiting for my apology from the universe because I’m done with crazy people. Do me a favor and let all your potentially crazy friends know, I’m busy with homework.

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Computer Monkeys with Stemware

Do you want to become a computer monkey? As a simple but obviously not humble college senior, one that does not own a suit, let me tell you something about “corporate culture” and how to succeed. Some of this may come as a shock to some of you, however please keep in mind that if you are a participant in the corporate world, you may not be thinking straight. You may be so consumed with your suit-wearing, cocktail-swigging, 90-hour-a-week working lifestyle that you don’t have time to give it even a moment’s deliberation. So here is a scene from a Career Development Office meeting at a rather prestigious college/wanabee-finishing-school to set you straight.

Do you think your job requires perseverance, hard work, being on time, computer skills, a killer suit, and a good grasp of friendly yet impersonal greetings? Wrong, just blatantly wrong. Interview skills maybe? Nope, who needs them! Here’s what you need to get ahead in the world care of the good ole’ CDO. This is advice they gave a room full of college seniors going in for pre-interviews with some prestigious consulting firms and investment banks, as well as for a “business casual” alumni mixer. Getting ahead requires these things:
(1) A good knowledge of cocktail party etiquette is necessary. Stemware should be carried on your plate and stabilized with your thumb in order to keep one hand free for shaking hands. Frustrated students exclaimed “well I’ll just eat and then drink” after the demonstration proved that carrying an air-stemware glass and pretend plate was not adequate to explain just how this is done without spilling wine on potential networking targets.
(2) After several minutes of argument between the two CDO officers, it was agreed that a nametag MUST be worn on the right side of the chest. That way people shaking hands with you will immediately be drawn to it. There is no other way to correctly wear a nametag; if you don’t put yours on the right side you are manifestly wrong. Deal with it, because there is one right answer and that’s it. Unless you are the CDO woman, in which case you prefer to look at nametags on the left side. Fortunately, if you were said woman, you wouldn’t be as important as the CDO guy, who decides these things. So no two ways about it. The fact that the rest of the nametag wearing world, including hotel staff, waiters, people who work in law enforcement, members of the military, and sales people, all wear their nametags on their left side is besides the point and not worth bringing up because it would be disrespectful to the supreme rightness of the CDO guy.

So there it is, and boy am I glad I was there to record these priceless pieces of wisdom. Now I am officially prepared to get ahead. Except that I lack a suit and an interview. While it is true that everything you knew before was wrong, you are now caught up as well. Those are the two things necessary for getting ahead. (And in this instance by getting ahead I’m obviously referring to successfully getting a real interview after the pre-interview process in which you sit in the hot seat for half an hour and sell yourself only to be told, “well, I don’t make the decisions, but I’ll let you see the guy who does if you want to come back.”) Good luck and welcome to corporate America. Enjoy life as a computer monkey.

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Those Evil GDPs

Things I am supposed to be doing:
1. Packing for school. The problem: School is cold and snowy, so I’ve decided not to think about it until the last possible second. Then I can pack up my car the way I like to…push the stuff into the trunk with one hand while I shove the trunk door down with the other. I’m responsible that way.
2. Finishing my senior thesis. The topic: Well let’s just say it involved my making use of various indicators, including GDP. As somebody who does not believe in the existence of an “economy,” this term means very little to me and in my perspective does not seem to enhance my argument. My advisor disagrees however, and thinks that GDP is quite possibly the answer to every question ever. Therefore, I am literally making up acronyms to please him. I’ve turned the names of countries into acronyms as well, in order to confuse him into thinking that I am presenting more economic data than I am. Will update.
3. I can imagine that I am probably supposed to be writing thank you letters for something. This ultimately will not get resolved, but it is on my list.
4. Does the fact that I’m wearing pants that are two inches to short mean I should do my laundry?

Things I am doing:
1. Trying to figure out what the itunes update actually changed about itunes. So far I have found an album art window that says “drag album artwork here” and wont go away. I really shouldn’t have gotten the update. On a related note, I’m trying to figure out why one ear of my headphones is louder than the other. Lots of music issues to contend with today.
2. Searching for songs I don’t like on Limewire just in case I choose to like them in the future.
3. Sitting next to a draft of my thesis, but slowly covering it with papers, post-its, gloves, keys, magazines, etc.
4. Eating lots and lots of ice cream. My father works in the same studio as the people that do the photography for Haagen-Dazs. Today was “clean out the freezers” day, an annual “take-all-the-ice-cream-you-can-hold” celebration that involved me taking the largest shopping bag I could find and filling it with yet to be released Haagen-Dazs flavors while sampling a freshly dipped mint chocolate ice-cream bar. A great day for humanity. I have a lot of ice cream and you don’t.
5. Making a profound observation:

The recent spat of good weather in New York (which sadly, came to an end all too suddenly last weekend) brought an interesting issue to light. Coco will not be able to share in this insight with me, since she is busy soaking up the sunny weather and hanging with the blond, miniskirt-wearing, sunglasses-needing people of the West Coast. The unusual weather, however, has given me an opportunity for some serious thinking. People’s winter dressing rituals have become an object of pure fascination for me. This was something I first noticed in Greece, of all places. In about November there was a week of unseasonably cold weather during which people put layer upon layer of clothing on (we had previously been walking around in almost nothing after all). The next week it was unseasonably warm, yet people refused to stop wearing the layers. It was as if the cold weather had heralded in “winter,” and now couldn’t be stopped. It was official; nobody had a choice. They had to dress for the cold. Greeks basically don’t patronize restaurants that don’t have outdoor seating, but in this case people had to eat outside because frankly they were dressed too warmly to eat inside. Restaurants dragged out their outdoor heaters and people sat and sweated under them for weeks until the weather turned cold again. It was a disaster, especially since old Greek women would stop me in the street and admonish me for not dressing warmly enough.
Now for a while, I thought this was just a Greek thing. I figured that here in the Northeast, winter is winter. We know the difference between cold and a mild chill. We have a coat for every eventuality and we have a system. There are layers, different coats, hats, scarves, and we escalate our warmness quotient in response to the changes in weather. This turned out to be a gross misconception. If there was one thing the recent heat wave taught me, it was that I have no idea how to dress for the temperature and neither do most New Yorkers. People were bundled up in more layers than would be necessarily on artic tundra. Nobody was caught without a scarf, hat, and unnecessarily warm coat. It was madness, as we all sweated down the streets, weighed down by our responsible dressing.
So how much does temperature really affect the way we dress? Is it really the perception of temperature that is important? To avoid being a social outcast, should I dress warmly during January even if the temperature is 60 degrees? The answer is obviously yes.
Wasn’t that profound?
Maybe not, but you probably don’t have a senior thesis giving you the evil eye. Damn GDPs.

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The Egg Line

I don’t like eggs. Sometimes I eat them, but I don’t really like them. I never see other people eat them, never find occasion to buy them (although once I did make Coco eat four in one day when I accidentally did buy them and never used them), and only approve of their participation in the making of desserts. They are, however, the source of the most nagging question imaginable.

Picture the scene: It is 98 degrees; the dead middle of summer in New York. The humidity is unbearable and the city is at a standstill thanks to the fact that the first blackout in 30 years has hit in the most inconvenient weather possible. A sweaty walk over to the Farmer’s Market in Union Square replaces my usual air-conditioned sitting as an activity in the afternoon. My family and I are strolling through the market, which is notably thin in vendors, when we come across what appears to be a very slow-moving mob scene. A single file line is circling one particular stand, overlapping itself multiple times. People are arguing over their places in line, ornery from the excessive heat and tired from the late night we all had when each block/neighborhood had a barbeque to cook off all our excess frozen food. We move in closer, attempting to get a better look at what is for sale. Portable air-conditioning, perhaps? Huge blocks of ice? Excess batteries and candles? Nope. Why would people need those? It was the egg line. Apparently, people are in dire need of eggs even when the lack refrigerators to store them in. Yes, we may be living without water, sanitation services, food stores, etc., but eggs…eggs we cannot go without. People need breakfast. They need a whole dozen eggs to get through their days.

So here is the question. The question that will leave you scratching your heads and daydreaming up answers for weeks to come: Why is the egg line always so long? Even when it defies all logic, people still line up and wait long waits to get their eggs. It’s not like we suffer a catastrophic shortage of eggs in this city. It’s not as if people are lining up at the grocery store in front of the refrigerator section only to have store staff direct them en mass to the Farmer’s Market. More importantly, why are people so loyal to eggs? During the blackout, there weren’t any refrigerators. If there aren’t refrigerators, we should be buying huge masses of eggs. People were literally walking away from the egg stand with huge bags full of several cartons of eggs and I had to wonder several things:
(a) Were they planning on cooking them in a barbeque, the main mode of cooking available given the no electricity issue plaguing us at the time?
(b) How many eggs were they actually planning to eat? Can one person really eat more than a couple of eggs?
(c) Were New Yorkers so concerned about the blackout, given that we have very little experience in the area, that they were worried it would affect their nutritional intake? Did the whole city come to the realization that eggs would solve this problem?
(d) Does anybody actually like eggs, or do we all just eat them because we are supposed to? Are we programmed to stand in the egg line regardless of the situation? Do eggs and logic overlap at all?
(e) Who are the people in the egg line? Do they have families (I’d hope so with the quantities of eggs they buy)? Do they live with six roommates in a studio apartment in Alphabet City? Are they using the eggs as ammunition against their annoying noise-conscious neighbor? Is “egging” trendy these days? Perhaps TP-ing will soon follow as a common activity. Somebody will set up a toilet paper stand and people will wait in that line because it will be shorter (slightly) than the egg line and suddenly the whole city will have become one suburban-teenage-angst nightmare. Then we can all go joyriding in our SUVs, drunk driving and blasting pop/punk music out our windows. We did just get 7-11 here in Chelsea.

So there it is. I have decided to pass this question on; let it nag somebody else instead. I’ve spent my time with it and have no answers. More importantly, I hate eggs. This means I never have to stand in the egg line, so really, the egg line situation sucks for everybody but me. Because of that, I’m letting go.

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How Much Data Do We Really Need?

As a college senior working towards the very honorable goal of avoiding a total mental breakdown in the stretch after graduation, I have been eagerly searching for a job and have discovered a multitude of entry-level opportunities. The one thing these all have in common, however, is the one thing I am trying to avoid in life: they all involve data entry of some kind. As an experienced intern that has worked in a variety of environments, I detest data and the act of entering it. I've decided the only logical thing for me to do is pursue a career in anything else. Therefore, once my thesis is done (that is, once I've even looked at it), I'm going to devote my full attention to a life of non-data inputting. So far, this is looking like a challenge. Apparently, being an intern is simply preparation for being a poorly paid former college student with the same job description. People don’t hire fresh-out-of-college help for actual tasks as it turns out. They hire them to make the office environment look busy or active. Some people simply hire them in an attempt to create a hierarchy. Whatever the reason, the post of an inexperienced yet perhaps amply talented former college student always runs into one of these walls: (a) nobody is willing to trust them enough with a real task to let them do anything, or more likely (b) perhaps the whole company/office is a sham and there isn’t actually anything to do and yet there is a really overbearing boss that expects everybody to be busy at every moment (I bet Enron was like that), or (c) the company that hired them doesn’t actually do anything except enter data, or (d) people who did boring work years ago feel that other should put in their time being useless. What happens as a result? People who are fresh out of college have to enter data as a job. Brilliant thinkers and creative people are asked to put their brain cells on hold in order to be paid $25,000 a year to enter data into somebody’s database.

Now some people are boring, meaning that this state of affairs doesn’t really bother them. After all, entering data is easy. It requires minimal thought and if you are a good multitasker, can be done while talking on AIM, searching for cheap plane tickets online, and writing your memoir. (20-somethings all think they need a memoir. We lead such interesting lives after all.) The problem with entering data, however, is that it actually makes you stupider and less qualified to do a real job. In my case, it makes me angry, impatient, and unable to accomplish actual necessary tasks after work. I can’t make dinner or do dishes after entering data because everything task I face becomes a sick practical joke that everybody is in on and is aimed at making my life harder than everybody else’s.

“Well Esmee,” you are saying, “of course entering data bothers you. It bothers everybody. That’s why they make entry-level people do it.” I, however, have decided that there can't possibly be as much data to input in the world as they find to keep interns and entry-level people busy with. One single person should not be hired every year to go through your entire mailing list and rearrange people’s names and add some irrelevant fact about them to their file. That’s a ridiculous thing to do. Why not just live with the knowledge that some of the names on your mailing list don’t have Mr. And Mrs. as titles and some do. Sometimes that’s life. Why not, instead, live with the knowledge that the new person you hire will not be busy sometimes. When the copier is broken, they will not be able to make copies. When the coffee machine is broken, they wont make coffee. That’s also life. Making up data for them to enter is not necessary.

In conclusion, I believe there must be a finite amount of data...a bare minimum if you will. A small number of numbers that actually do need to be entered every day. These numbers do not need to be entered by fresh-out-of-college students, however. We already have computer skills, thank you, we don’t need that kind of experience. I do not want to be responsible for that data in the future. Hire me to do something else. I’ll even write your memoir if the price is right.

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Good Citizens

Here in New York City we’ve learned that not only is the national government spying on us, but our local police are as well. In order to do our part so that less taxpayer money is spent on the difficult task of launching surveillance operations in a city of 8 million, I suggest that likely surveillance candidates* make it easier for the police by volunteering information. Instead of using city money to go through the trouble of looking for you, when you see a policeman, consider spending a few minutes to update them as to your activities. If you rarely see policemen during your daily routine, call your local precinct or 311 (the city information line)
with updates.

Morning conversations might proceed like this:
NYer: Hello Officer ______!
Officer: Hello Miss.
NYer: I just wanted to let you know that I’m on my way to work. I might take the 2 train, but if the 1 comes faster I might get on that instead because my office really isn’t that far anyway. Then I’ll probably stop at the deli on the corner of 47th and 8th and buy a bagel. Don’t worry, if I also have a cup when I leave, it’s because I decided to buy coffee too.
Look of confusion on Officer ______. Frustrated, he begins to walk away, but NYer follows him down the street.
NYer (cont’d): Then I’ll walk down the west side of 8th for a few blocks. Are you writing this down? Now just to warn you, I might decide to walk on the east side if the lights work out that way. You know what, I’ll call the precinct on my cell phone if I decide to cross the street so don’t worry about that.
Officer _____ gives NYer a disbelieving look.
NYer (cont’d): No really, I will. Now I work till about 4:30 on Fridays, so I’ll probably hop back on the train and head home around then. I might…but don’t hold you breath…stop at Gristedes on the way home if I need some milk. But I also might not. It’s still a mystery to me at this point so I can’t give you an answer right now. If anything else changes, I’ll let the precinct know.
Grumbling, Officer ______ gives a faint smile and waves goodbye. NYer pats the officer on the shoulder.
NYer (cont’d): Have a great morning. See you tonight!
NYer gives a friendly wave.

An evening conversation might progress more like this:
The long line of people in front of Officer ______, waiting to update him about their evening plans, seems like it is not moving. NYer decides to call the precinct.
Sixth Precinct: Hello, sixth precinct. How many I help you?
NYer: Officer _____ is busy so I just wanted to let you know that I may have dinner with John tonight, but if he doesn’t call by 6pm I might just go to dinner with Tim at…
SP: Excuse me Miss, how can I help you?
NYer: …at Da Silvano’s, if we can get in. If John does call, we’ll probably go to John’s Pizza instead, since he’s a more casual kind of guy.
SP: Miss, is there something you need?
NYer: Please write this down! I told you, Officer ______ is busy right now. In any case, I’ll probably be home by about 10, and I plan to stay in for the evening after dinner. If I get a phone call…well, you’ll know if I get a phone call. But if I do, I might be persuaded to go for a drink with Jeremy, in which case please do not slip that information to John, since he doesn’t know about Jeremy. I’ll call again if there is a change of plans. Have a nice evening.
NYer hangs up her phone and waves to Officer _____ as she turns towards home.

With a system like this underway, the money the city is spending on surveillance operations can be put to good use funding the schools or giving city workers a raise. Just a helpful suggestion from a local good samaritan!

*Likely candidates would include anybody who has ever professed doubt in relation to the war in Iraq, anybody who owns a bicycle and is therefore threatening to practice environmentally friendly activities, and anybody who has lived for more than 5 years or is over the age of 40 in the following neighborhoods: Greenwich Village, the Upper West Side, Chelsea, Hell’s Kitchen, SoHo, TriBeCa, Brooklyn Heights, Park Slope, and the part of the Upper East Side that is really, really far east.

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