Young Adult TV Show

As of October 24, I officially became a resident of Washington D.C., the nation’s appendix: small, doesn’t contribute to the overall functionality of the body and usually you only hear about it when it’s f**king up.

Well, the good ol 51st non-state welcomed me with open arms and a housewarming gift in the form of a $50 dollar parking ticket for legally parking right underneath one of these signs: 

History Lesson. The D.C. government was formed as our nation’s way of unnaturally lowering unemployment rates. People incapable of gainful employment? Send ‘em to DC! Tada! Economic upturn!

I joke. I  love, love LOVE my new apartment.

Here are some other (less-ranty) lessons I have learned from my first week of living on my own:

1. Hire movers/muscle-bound friends. What you spend on movers you will save on the Xanax/vodka you would have to buy after the process. The move was quick, painless, and virtually hitch-free (aside from the slight snafu of moving truck coming two hours late). Why the delay? Apparently, the moving truck had expired tags. How you can operate a business based on vehicle transportation and have an unregistered car is beyond me. That’s almost as silly as not having all your moving men be registered to live in the United States…

2. Try new things. Living alone affords new found free time which translates to more open-mindedness.  On Monday I attended “All in the Timing,” a staged reading featuring Young Adult’s very own J.W. Crump. The show was free (until my parking ticket), fun (until my parking ticket) and re-ignited my passion for theater- which I can safely say would not had happened were I at home watching the 3 hour power marathon of Family Guy.

3. Don’t settle unless you have to. Find a living situation you will want for the duration of your lease. Rent too high? Don’t discount those non-monetary benefits. Does the building have parking? A gym? Location? These things are worth a lot.

4. Getting a Made-for-Southern-Accents Apartment takes time. Here is where you should settle. If your parents have furniture they are willing to give you, take it. If not, go to…

5. Ikea! Those Swedes may not have any sort of definable/envy-inducing culture,  but I’ll be darned if they don’t know their made-to-assemble sensibly priced furniture and knick knacks. Where else can you get a 50 cent can opener?  Buy a homeless man a sandwich he eats for a day, buy him an Ikea can opener and he has a lifetime of easy access to baked beans.

(There is also Craigslist. If you’re reading this blog, you’re probably under 30. If you’re under 30 , you already know about Craigslist).

6. Recruit friends to construct everything you bought. Get it done fast and get it done drunk. It’s how the levees were made.

There is no better sense of accomplishment than having a (nearly) fully-furnished apartment by the end of your first day. Moreover, you aren’t going to want to keep unpacking throughout the week, that is the time you should spend….

7. Exploring your new neighborhood! Pick up local restaurant menus, introduce yourself to your doorman/appropriate apartment staff, give the finger to the DC parking enforcement man who is giving you a ticket, etc.

8. Learn to cook. Buy several staple easy-to-make proteins, cook ‘em on the weekend and portion them out for the rest of the week, or else you will be spending your night sitting on the floor eating tuna out of the can. Hold on a second, a hobo just showed up at my door offering me a can opener out of pity.

The first night might be weird, it’s a growing process and a step towards adulthood. Young adulthood.

Mommy wow, I’m a big kid now!

Happy Halloween everyone!

Today I am attending a cultural diversity event. It is mandated in my 2009 performance evaluation. Apparently, whether or not I am good at communications hinges on my knowledge of Puerto Rico, the Mecca of Menudo, rum and enough Hair Gel to even hold Bob McDonnell’s stance on abortion in place. And though it seems counter intuitive to force cultural sensitivity on people, I was informed that talking to our cafeteria lady does not, in fact, count.

However, in honor of this extremely productive mandate, I have decided to talk about time.

The definition of time changes drastically from college to the real world. College is a time spent acquiring all the skills that kick into hyper drive the second you hit the real world. Gone are the days of weighty decisions such as P.E. 202: Scuba vs. Media Studies 311: The impact of full frontal nudity in cinema verite (I took that class… It was kinda hard).

However, the difference between the ways you mature in college and post-college is very different. Think where you were when you graduated. Now, think where you should be in another four years. By the time we are 26 or 27, we are expected to be on the way to finding love, success and if we’re lucky, a direction in life. If you’re me, you will probably also still be hunting for an apartment and laughing at poop jokes… but some things are just timeless. And it can be scary. Some are married, a few are pregnant, a couple are divorced. If you are Britney Spears, you have been all three several times over… and she was probably even sober for some of them.

Additionally, time becomes far far far more valuable once you have graduated. No longer is it as simple as walking/stumbling to the corner bar to meet up with/stumble into friends. You actually have to “get onto” people’s calendars. It is a scary reality as people go their separate ways and their windows of availability dwindles.

In many, Young Adults and geriatrics are very much the same- up at the crack of dawn, schedule evenings around their “stories” and Lord help you if you throw off their militaristically rigid bedtime (10 pm). The happy hour is nothing but an early bird special only no clipped coupons are needed.

This blog would be remiss in not mentioning everyone’s favorite time/the holy grail: the weekend. It is a time when you can just relax, mentally check out and be completely carefree… in college the same thing exists, only there, it is called “every day.” It is the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. Unfortunately, in the working world, that tunnel is very long, dark and barricaded by red tape and not a single person could give you competent directions on how to get to the end of it. And tunnel would probably be spelled tunnal. or tunnle. or el tunel.

Because weekends are no longer the 5 day entitlements they used to be, you appreciate Friday and Saturday that much more. But to be perfectly honest, I would rather spend 48 hours with the most amazing, honest, caring, funny, amazing person in my life (yes that’s a shout out) than any 5 day stretch of dollar rails and free shots of shame in a solo cup. Oh, and I would also much rather spend 8 hours filming too (Hey JW! Did you get that this is also a shout out?)

But alas, even with the most wonderful weekends, you must still overcome the weeks…. and if you ever sat in your college apartment watching the World Federation of Competitive Eating for 3 hours and asked what am I doing with my life, please come join me in my cubicle.

Which brings me to my post-script. I have returned from “Puerto Rico: America’s cousin we don’t like to introduce to our friends” …. They had no TV to show the film on and the only attendees were me and the other obligated parties. However, when walking back from the non-event, I did see two women, a white woman in black sneakers and a black woman in white sneakers, walking together. It was like a Stevie Wonder song in live-action, which I think counts. And in the grand scheme of things, this was surprisingly, not the worst use of time in my day.

It’s football season which can only mean two things: 1. Safeways are going to start stocking up on chips, salsa and Miller Lite as if a nuclear holocaust were to render us all starving and with a potential BAC of 0.0 and 2. the Church heaves a collective sigh of relief that football and Jesus don’t compete for Neilson ratings.

Come opening game day the line is drawn in the sand between two kinds of people. There are those who actually admire football and then those who watch so they still have friends on Sundays.

The life of a non-watcher is rife with discrimination. I have even been called un-American, out of the loop, lame, an asshole, OCD, and sometimes inappropriate… though only a few of those have to do with sports watching. If you can identify with these hardships, here are four easy steps to help you navigate through the season.

Warning: you will not be fluent in Dude Football by the time you are done reading. But, at the end of the day if your man-friends don’t view you as a seat-taker with a mouth that incessantly babbles and breasts attached one foot lower, you can consider it a success. Because, unfortunately, I have learned that a woman’s sex appeal is rendered useless when compared to the kryptonite-like power of 300 pound men throwing an oblong ball and falling on each other.

Step One: Pick a team.

Root for the Redskins. This is fairly non-negotiable. We live in DC and obviously a shared hometown makes people wholly and unwaveringly attracted to our team. Thinking this fanaticism applied to all local celebs, I immediately got Marion Barry’s name painted on my chest.

However, if you aren’t rooting for the Skins (aka dating someone who roots for them), here is a fail-proof way to identify some other winners (I hope you enjoy being forced to sit on the floor).

Rule of thumb: Birds are good, animals bad, fruity nouns and adjectives are toss ups. Just look at the evidence:

Last year the Falcons, Eagles, Cardinals and Ravens were all top teams. Coincidence? More like science. The day the Woodcocks play the Blue-footed boobies is the day I learn to love football. And ornithology.

But look who did not make it into the top 15: Bears, Jaguars, Bengals, Lions… These animals are endangered for a reason: weak in the jungle and weak on the field. If you ask me, I think the teams with the really ferocious mascots are overcompensating for something… why not just call ‘em the Jersey City Giant Wangs and call it a day. Correction: THIS will be the day I learn to love football.

If the team name seemingly came from a Forrest Gump naming objects in a room- Bills, Browns, Texans, Saints- a more thorough analysis needs to be done. What are the team’s colors? How many domestic assaults does their roster have? How thrusty/coordinated are their end-zone dances? All of these are solid metrics.

Step Two: Become hardcore about key players.

How can you not love the Chargers’s Shawne Merriman, the only human capable of dating Tila Tequila and looking like the classless one? Or Plaxico Burris, a man whose name sounds like a prescription pain killer, which he ironically is probably taking after he mistook his leg for Dick Cheney’s hunting partner.

Step Three: Football Fluency.

The way I wow the Chris Bermans of the world is simple. Name drop wide receivers left and right.

Random chick: But Lauren, I would rather have Rachel Ray officiate my wedding than watch ESPN.
Lauren: Never fear! You can find 99% of the names you need on VH1, TMZ or mugshots.com! No SportsCenter watching necessary. Just repeat after me:

• If he can just suppress T.O. the showman, Terrell Owens will really bring something to the table for the Bills.
• OchoCinco has a lot of promise this year… or so says his Twitter.
• Did you see Deon SanderS’s new fur coat?

It’s almost like talking to John Madden (when he says the non-obvious stuff).

Step Four: Actually watching the game.

…I got nothing. You could read my blog, grab a beer, finish a beer, drink three more beers, sober up, pass a kidney stone, listen to Iron Butterfly, attain Nirvana, return to the game and only 3 minutes of play time will have elapsed.

For the remaining 7.5 hours of the game, I find it helps to play the sexual innuendo game. Phrases like “illegal use of hands,” “he’s good on the tight end” and “I don’t think he is supposed to stick that there” have never been more hilarious.

It’s as easy as that!

Ok, I lied. I have name dropped, joined a fantasy football league and even expressed a burning desire to own my very own pair of Bengals football pants (they are awesome pants!). But for some inexplicable reason, people don’t believe I am a legitimate  fan. So, maybe this guide won’t help you sound less girly, but at least you won’t be rooting for a team called the Texans.

There is a plague that is affecting the average 18-24 year old. I don’t mean swine flu, avian flu, unicorn flu or flue flu… no, this time the infecting culprit is Young Adult flu. The symptoms? A deadly combination of nosiness, narcissism and diarrhea of the mouth. The disease is highly contagious but luckily only spread through one avenue: social media.

Information dissemination of the useless variety has become the oral herpes of our generation. It’s annoying; it’s everywhere; you try to avoid it; you don’t want it, but you’re likely gonna get it.

No longer do we tell what’s going on in our lives by supply and demand: sharing important information with people who are important to us. We have now devolved to the point where unless your entire life is put in textual display it clearly can’t be important.

However, much like Tara Reid’s botched boob job nipples, just because they are out there, doesn’t mean people want to see our statuses.

I have taken the liberty of creating a quick formula to give you a rough estimate of how many people are actually reading what you write:

Total number of friends (let’s say 1,000… ’cause you are REALLY cool)
- number who have no idea who you are (600)
- those who know you but don’t care (340)
- those who only read your status to see if you dumped/are marrying that douche bag (55)
+ the people who can empathize that you <hate when Obama interupts Wipeout with his Town Hall meetings>  (10)
+ the three friends who think they are funny enough to quip on your status (3)
+ the commentors friends, thus repeating this mathematic cycle (6)
+ one creepy dude who makes comments on your status even though you aren’t exactly sure how you know him (1)
______________________
= 25 people

Facebook is an addictive drug. I dare you to get up from your cubicle and see how many people are on there. If the number is low, sneak up, Puma-in-the-African-bush style, and see how quickly their screens switch to an important-looking document. An addict always knows how to hide the evidence.

My general rule of thumb for statuses is that if the number of people following you < number of characters allowed in a Tweet = you are not important enough for people to care that Safeway was out of your honey baked ham. Chace Crawford, however, can tell me about his meat any day.

I have even heard people Tweeting from the toilet. Ours is the only generation to master the art of simultaneously spewing crap from both ends of the body. Multitasking at its finest.

Sharon Shlossberg: should I wear the pink or green Vera Bradley bag to the party tonight?
Sharon Shlossberg: is at the party. It’s totally bangin!
*editor’s note: does anyone think these people look awkward standing in the corners at parties updating what they would be doing if they weren’t texting?
Sharon Shlossberg: jst took tehree bttlke shots of Jaeggar! oops/yaay!
Sharon Shlossberg: is currently hooking up with a super hottie
*hottie’s note: can you use both hands please?
Sharon Shlossberg: that party last night was awesome! I think I have a UTI though
Sharon Shlossberg: is currently taking a pee test!
Sharon Shlossberg: Bad news- it was a UTI. Good news- I can take a pee test and text at the same time!!!!!

In general, there are two kinds of Facebook statuses: those that tell you something and those that don’t. The latter can further be broken down into several categories:

1. Esoteric reference/melancholy quote meant to evoke sympathy in the reader:  “‘I’ll take a quiet life/A handshake, some carbon monoxide’…. If only RadioHead could back his car into my garage of solitude”
2. Witty observation meant to evoke a laugh/subsequent comment (clearly will never be as funny as your original comment) in reader: Why do women call it a period when our hormones makes us feel like a series of exclamation marks and frowny faces?
3. Statement of the obvious: It’s Friday! Weekend starts today! (Unless you live in Australia or have been in a coma, everyone knows it’s Friday dumbass).

Ultimately, Facebook a lesson in exactly what we were taught NOT to do when we were three years old. Somehow, in the 20 years since, we have forgotten it is bad to: a) accept the requests of perfect strangers to be friends, b) poke people you don’t know that well and c) flash your naughty bits for the world to see.

And as we make fun of the unhip adults for being so out of the loop, somewhere on Facebook, statuses are being updated:

The World: is passing by
Lauren Abramson wrote on Friend’s wall: Hey did you read what The World is doing?
Friend wrote on Lauren’s wall: No, I missed it. I was updating my Twitter.

On this day, two years ago, it was reported the Senator Larry Craig was arrested for acts of indecency in a Minneapolis airport restroom. For those unlike me who don’t cherish this tale like an Aesop’s Fable, Craig was caught sticking his foot under a bathroom door, signifying he would like to stick something else somewhere else. Therefore, in honor of our noble Congressman, I dedicate this blog to “desperate things people will do to put something in their mouth.” I talk, of course, about the palate of college students.

Nothing shows our survivalist instincts more than the eating habits of the 18-22 set. In doing a Jane Goodall-style study, one can see the average college man, when left to his own devices, will inhale anything for nourishment (somewhere, Amy Winehouse puts down a rolled up dollar bill to say, “and I thought I was bad”).

It is safe to assume that 90% of the things you would find in the typical frat-fridge contain some sort of adjective boasting taste, ease or quantity: Easy Mac, Minute Rice, Hungry Man, 40 ounce…

However, the second we don the cap and gown, there is a great seismic shift in our culinary aptitude. As young adults in the “real world,” no longer is it considered flambeing something to hold a grill torch over a Tyson chicken breast to thaw it quicker. Nor can you say you have a fully stocked spice cabinet when it is made up of stolen sugar packets, salt shakers and cups from the dining hall.

The driving force behind this change is located at the intersection of:

1.Social norms: With jobs forcing people to lead very separate lives, sometimes dinner is the best, most convenient, and only time to play catch-up. Plus, try cooking brie en croute for a date using Kraft Singles and crunched up triscuits.

2. Disposable income: We might be empoyable, but for the most part, are still lazy SOBs and sometimes there just isn’t enough expendable effort to cook and watch a rerun of Top Chef.

3. Routine: Unless it’s Saturday or dollar draft night at Rock Bottom Brewery, the stumble-home-eat-a-half-jar-of-salsa-and-stale-chips meal is less frequent. Habits forms much more easily with the set schedule the working world provides.

But for those who long for the good old days, not everything has changed. Eating and drinking still go together like Nadya Suleman and fertility drugs.

However, now, instead of binge drinking half the week away like you’re about to go on a Hajj to Iraq, we have something called “Happy Hour.” You aren’t likely to find a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 or a jug of day-glo blue Boone’s Farm, but for $2 you can get a bottle of Miller Lite and if you’re lucky, some finger food- and not the kind you find mashed behind your futon that passes the smell test so it must still be good.

And even if you’re not lucky, happy hour is still the cheapest therapy you can find- a couple bucks and two glasses of house red later and you have a lovely and preceivably willing audience to listen about the stand-over-your-shoulder-won’t-shut-up-even-if-you-fake-a-kidney-rupture guy.

As a self-proclaimed foodie, I personally find the newfound freedom and choice of post-college dining to be refreshing. I love the ability to try new restaurants and will be faced with a whole new selection when I move to Cleveland Park in three weeks. (Yes, I am finally moving, for those of you who might remember my ongoing tirade from several weeks back: http://youngadulttvshow.com/blog/?p=173…. Shamless plug!)

So put on a pair of pants, wipe that cheese curl residue from your fingers, call a friend and get out there and dine… or if your friends aren’t available, stick your foot under a restroom door and see what bites.

We interrupt my regularly-scheduled government work rant for a rant-light. Now with 50% less hostility!

This week’s topic: public transportation… Right, with less hostility. I mean… Public Transportation!!!!!

When you open a single dude’s fridge you might find a jar of peanut butter, piss-water beer, a Hungryman Dinner, some rotten Chinese take-out, and an apple. It’s possible that combining this random assortment of ingredients could yield a gourmet meal, however, it is far more than likely that you are gonna wind up with a smelly hodgepodge of dissimilar, unbalanced items. Well, my friends, this is my analogy for public transportation.

Some might find the Metro to be unsavory, uncomfortable, unsanitary and other words boasting an extesive knowledge of the prefix”un-.” However, I find it to be chocked full of enough assholes, morons and weirdos to make my self-esteem rise just a bit each ride… plus the Government pays for it. And for free, I would ride a train of thought to work.

But public transportation is not just transportation, getting us from point A to point B (or if you are riding the Metro Bus to point B via points D-G then loop back to point C because the bus driver didn’t realize it was a one way street then 3 feet past point C because i-Pod jerk forgot to pull the stop cord). Oh no, it’s much, much more. It is:

1. An endless fountain of wisdom… if that fountain were littered by newspapers, condoms and tracks of weave. In fact, each step onto the Yellow Ls oine is like a chance to ride with Confucius (and no, that was not a racist pun on the word yellow there.
   

   Confucious say, "China has 1.3 billion people. Don't tell me about crowded."

2. A lesson in parenting. When trying to correct your incessantly screaming five year old, the best practice is to stare longingly at the “unwanted pregnancy” advertisement. Do nothing. Pick your nose.
3. A legalized form of prostitution. Where else can a rider who is smashed against another practically get to third base for the low low price of $2.45 ($3.60 during peak times)?
   

   I'll stop at the end of your platform.

4. A biology lesson: As one estrogen-deficiant woman overshared, “I just stopped my period and it’s makin me do all kinds of crazy things I don’t mean. And then I wake up and I don’t remember.” Screw Midol, get Father Merrin over here.

The Metro, of course, is not perfect. At one point or another, you will meet the person who would sooner have Mel Gibson perform his son’s Bar Mitzvah than give up his seat for you. And you have never truly experienced the Metro until you are positioned next to 100% pure standing stench. You will find, the more pungent the person, the greater his disregard for personal space.

Ultimately, everyone in this genetic grab-bag is just trying to commute, from the person dressed in head-to-toe night running reflectors (at 3 pm), to the MS-13 member who is an avid crossword puzzle fanatic or the small Asian (redundant?) lady carrying plant because she didn’t want to leave it in her yard where “it would get chilly.”

So, next time you are on the Metro, sit back and enjoy the people watching. Most of the passengers put their pants on, like you or me, one leg at a time. But bring your camara phone, because twenty bucks says the oddball who can’t is seated somewhere near you.

Post script. I dedicate this blog to Rosco, the kindly, if not overly forward, bus driver who taught me that every pass of the SmartTrip card is a pass at love. He was willing to cross boundaries of age, state and harassment to give our love a chance. Even if he was pushing 60, lived 2 hours away and had a wife, he wisely said,  ”Come on! You’re young and pretty! And you’re not married, so you should have some fun with me!” I never acted this chance at sextagenarian love, but I did take him up on the offer to drop me at my Metro stop… at least someone got off through this deal.

The meeting. It is about as useful as a pair of crotchless panties in Siberia.

After spending the past four years of college (and 23 years of life) learning to be independent, we are released into the world to become the proverbial Seinfeldian masters of our domain, only to be faced with the necessary evil that plagues every young adult new-to-the-real-world experience.

For the uninitiated, Webster’s dictionary defines a meeting as the official unit of measurement for time piss-awayery in an organization.* In fact, there is an inverse correlation between the number of meetings you attend and your official contribution to your organization (not to be confused with perceived or self-proclaimed contribution).

*Definition pending a collaborative meeting to discuss, analyze and approve said definition.

I suppose I can’t fault man for his incessant need to convene and exchange trivialities. We are genetically predisposed to the meeting, going back to our primate ancestors. Back in the jungles of Africa, Chimpanzees spent their free time to gather in their claimed territory, nit picking and flailing about, and when they didn’t get their way, they would piss, scream and flip a shit. This, ladies and gentleman, is where the term “even a monkey could do your job” comes from.

There are many more productive things I could be doing rather than meeting, like:
1. Not meeting
2. Actually doing the work being discussed
3. Teaching a pile of mulch to speak English

Meetings come in many lengths (long and Lord of the Rings Trilogy long); productivity levels (useless, super useless, so useless you bring other work to get done, thus looping back around to productive); and for two general reasons: Either too many people are bitching and the project in question needs to be further explained or not enough people are bitching, so it is assumed that people are confused.

Meetings can also be taxonomized by phase. There are pre-meetings, meetings, post-meetings, meetings to plan future meetings and ad-hoc spontaneous group gatherings to discuss meeting topics not addressed in meetings past. And if you hear the term “plenary session,” that is just industry jargon for extended meeting with name tags and free coffee.

How you know you have entered one of said meetings?
Clue one: you are probably reading my blog right now.

Historically, meetings predate productivity and therefore, have no need to be connected to such a concept. For generations, people have gathered to debate such important topics as the ramifications of having a colon AND a semi-colon or whether the Atomic Bomb dropped on Hiroshima should be painted red or blue.

I recently attended a meeting where 30 minutes (THIRTY!) were spent arguing the difference between a process and procedure. Ultimately, it was determined that no consensus could be reached on the two synonyms and the debate was postponed until a future meeting.

As ridiculous as that was, you have not lived until you have heard grown adults bitch that they don’t like free birthday cake at meetings. I believe it was at this time that I developed spontaneous incontinence, forcing me to take numerous bathroom breaks.

What is that you say, bright-eyed recent grad? “Surely, not all meeting make you want to pull out the revolver and play a game of Russian Roulette?” Well, that is correct!  An impromptu meeting will be called to congratulate you on your astute observations.

There are, in fact, productive ways to share thoughts. It’s called an email. It goes like this:

Dear Sir (women prefer the heightened estrogenical state fostered by a confined space),

I am working on ____________.

I have accomplished ____________.

I still need to ______________.

Sincerely,
Standardized signature block boasting a fancy-sounding title and psuedo-intellectual quote from a historically obscure person of a diverse background

But, alas, most of us aren’t so lucky, and find ourselves faced with more meetings than VH1 has “I Love New York” spin-offs.

I would expound more, but unfortunately, it is time for me to go to one of these cerebrally-stimulating gatherings. This one falls into the category of post-meeting meeting to answer questions from a previous meeting that were already answered but not heard by everyone.

Until next week,

Lauren Abramson
Management and Program Analyst
“Small minds are much distressed by little things. Great minds see them all but are not upset by them.” -Francois de La Rochefoucauld

Step one: locate your right index finger.
Step two: insert said finger in nose.

If you can do this, chances are you are smarter than 70% of the colleagues you will encounter in your career.

Perhaps I am an intellectual snob, but I feel as though I face an uphill battle against brain atrophy on a daily basis. They say that the typical recent graduate is arrogant. I say, when your colleagues consistently confuse the words “specifically” and “pacifically” they are facing more than one adversarial adverb.

If I may step onto my superiority soapbox for a minute, I would like to look at just one such type of person who will provide the pain-inducing, government-style cock blocking that has kept Dr. Kavorkian and lobotomists in business for years…

I write a newsletter as part of my job. It is strictly internal and for the enjoyment of our 100 or so employees. When I published my first edition, I included a picture and brief letter, introducing myself and my vision for the publication. It received rave reviews except from one woman.

Enter THE ASSHOLE

This harpie is not in my organization so I am not entirely sure how she even got a hold of the thing. One day she called me to her office to “have a conversation,” which, in time, you will learn is a euphemism for “yo ass is about to get tore up, son.” She told me (unsolicited of course) that what I produced was wholly unprofessional and commenced running down the list of problems that only she, the seasoned bureaucrat, would be able to point out.

Her opening statement: “First off, the use of this red and green graphic is in violation of the American Disabilities Act and discriminates against color blind people.”

Holy color schemes Batman! How does Uncle Sam have time to prosecute Bernie Madoff when there is a toddler with a burnt sienna crayon on the loose?

But the constructive critiques only got better…

I was told the newsletter resembled a People Magazine (which I took as a compliment). She also told me AND my boss that the photo I used “made me look like a prostitute with cleavage everywhere” (as an A cup, I took that as a compliment too).

Actual controversial photo used:

To emphasize the irony of the situation, I should note that as the 55 year old was calling me a whore, she herself was wearing purple fishnet stockings. Fishnets! (a sight somewhat resembling mozzarella curd straining through cheesecloth).

Not being able to afford the professional head shots I believe she thought were merited for my newsletter, I responded, “I’m sorry. I thought it was a tasteful picture.” To which she replied, “But what would a senator think!?”

<cut to Mark Foley pulling his member out of a staff member, appalled and disgusted by the photo of Lauren Abramson that appeared in an issue of her company newsletter>

But wait! To add icing to her passive aggressive frosty cake, she said a newsletter shouldn’t resemble a MySpace page. Ouch! Twist the knife. Why didn’t she go for the jugular and say it looked liked a Twitter page? Then at least she could have simultaneously insulted the layout AND  my poor spelling, improper abbreviations and promiscuous use of the exclamation point!!!!!!!

As I walked out, I humbled myself to her, thanking her for the invaluable insight and light she shed on my inferior product. I went on to say I would take all of her sage wisdom to heart and use it to bolster the journalistic integrity my college degree had miserably failed to instill in me.

So what is the take-away Young Adult experience? No matter what, you are the new kid and will be viewed as such. So appease and be tactful. Pretend to achieve some sort of enlightenment from even the most banal of critiques, because unfortunately, many of these people can have an impact on your career.

As for me, next time I  publish my newletter, I will just hand in a steaming pile of dog poo… at least it will have a disability-friendly color scheme.

If you think  telemarketers are shameless, you clearly have not experienced a dialogue with a desperate leasing agent. I cannot tell you how many times I have called simply requesting a price for 2 bedroom apartments and been faced by a 30 minute interrogation so shameless even Britney Spears would close her no-panty wearing legs and say “that’s tacky.”

Assigned staff specialist (ASS): Hi thanks for calling XXXXX, nirvana encased in vinyl siding! How can I help you?
Me: I was wondering what your starting price for two bedrooms is.
ASS: Ok, well we here at XXXXX we have myriad options to optimize your living experience in our premiere community. May I ask a few questions to find out which of our properties is best suited to your needs?
Me: (not thinking I would have to hold my bladder for the next 35 minutes) Um, ok.
ASS: Do you want a building with extra den and 1/2 bath?
Me: No thank you.
ASS: Granite or marble counter tops?
Me: No. Base price.
ASS: Organic or fair trade coffee in our lobby?
Me: I use food stamps. How much!
ASS: Yes ma’am I understand, but we really want you to appreciate all that we have to offer. French windows or bay? What type of luxuries are you looking for in your surrounding area
Me: Whore houses and Harris Teeters- for the love of God what’s the price!
ASS: Well, for the low low price of $5,600/month you can experience the double orgasm that is our property. Now, last question: View of our prize winning azaleas or our day spa?
Me: I’ll take the cardboard box with the bunson burner.

To say that I have enjoyed my apartment hunting experience would be tantamount to saying I like recreational colonoscopies with a sawed off PVC pipe.

Like many college graduates, I decided to stay home for a while and save my money and stave off meals of canned tuna and egg white omelets for a while. It would have been my dream situation to be able to save up enough money to buy a condo after a period of time. Unfortunately, 8 months in the government does not a down payment make. So I surveyed my options:

a) Live alone in a short-term sublet to get a feel for some places where I might want to buy
b) Suck it up, pay someone else’s mortgage and live with friends

Plan A: Studio 64 (that’s about how many square feet I could afford)

I know why Jamaicans are so happy. They may live in hovels made of hay, but at least they can smoke their grass huts. Here in the land of excessively inflated property values, we do not have such a luxury. What does the dollar buy? Well, for the low low price of $1,100 a month (utilities never included), I had the opportunity to rent a cozy (sized for Mary Kate Olsen), historic (condemned) studio in a building shared by some of DC’s most unwavering residents (roaches). The place smelled of asbestos and featured a half closet and room for a dresser and double bed. How do you eat in such a lovely (disgusting) place? Why, in the retro kitchen of course.

Retro kitchen. Noun. Half a wall outfitted with a mini fridge and bunson burner from circa 1970.

When I expressed my concern about the kitchen that seemed to pre-date the discovery of lead poisoning, the “leasing consultant” (woman with an apartment key, floor plan and a degree from Devry) helpfully reminded me that I would be within walking distance of all the finest restaurants. To which I replied, if I could afford Mortons every night, I certainly wouldnt be living in a building that is one cardboard wall and an RCA label away from being a homeless man’s refuge.

Plan B: For when your first option doesn’t really go your way.

Not wanting to be rent poor my first year out of college, I decided I would live with my best guy friends. Unfortunately, to make any of these even remotely affordable, you would need to fit a family of 10 in there.

Therefore, some creative configurations would be needed. We could:

1. Convert the sunroom into a bedroom. An appealing option if I want curtains to serve as both my door and a something to block out the vernal equinox. Surely no one would notice I was sleeping in the middle of the living room.
2. Live in the glorified closet known as the “den.” This room had no closet, no door and a bathroom that was downstairs. Want a door? Put up a bookcase. It would be just like living in Hogwarts with a secret passage! Open sesame room!  But hey! you could get $50 smackaroos knocked off your rent.

Perhaps I’m spoiled. Perhaps I could just go back to the life of a sorostitute and sleep on frat couches. At this point the difference seems negligible.

So what advice can you take away from this quintessentially Young Adult experience? Well, considering my hunt is still going on, not much.

Live at home for a bit if you can. Save some money. Have a Nurse Jackie-worthy dose of Prozac. Identify your top priority (I say priority singular, because you will likely have to make some concessions). Live with people who don’t have entirely competing needs… and if all else fails, you can always find someplace cheap on the Green line.

Happy hunting!

Lauren