I <3 cover letters

To Whom It May Concern:

First of all, I don’t think Midwesterners, especially Minnesotans, should be put through the torture of writing cover letters. We are a modest people who frown upon the trumpeting of our achievements, instead preferring to play them down.

That said, I am pretty much the Mistress of the Universe. If you hire me, and you would be a fool not to, I can solve pretty much any problem you and newspapers around the country are currently suffering from. I will achieve beyond your wildest dreams, taking your paper from the squalor it is currently wallowing in to a golden palace of success.

That’s really all you need to know about me, but allow me to regale you with my many, many accomplishments. I was literally born with a pen in my hand (don’t ask me how it ended up in my mother’s womb; suffice to say it was my generous request muffled through the amniotic fluids for a pen rather than a pencil that saved my dear m’ma from lead poisoning), and took the occasion of my birth to do an interview with my parents about how momentous the event was for them.

I was a star student throughout my schooling days, despite the fact that I constantly peppered my teachers with questions. My gigantic well of natural curiosity was always bubbling to the surface, threatening to burst through my very being. I was in desperate need for an outlet, which is why I single-handedly founded a series of award-winning community newspapers in my hometown at the age of 5. Several give the papers credit for exposing the multitude of corruption in our city government. I was able to manipulate city data at the age of 7 that uncovered a massive money laundering scheme, which led to the resignation of no less than 34 city officials.

My accomplishments since have been widely publicized in the mainstream media, so I don’t think I need to name them here.

Let me reiterate that my work is practically dipped in gold and encrusted with diamonds, for all the magnificent profits they will bring to your foundering establishment. I will allow you to contact me for an interview (as if there is even a mote of competition! (doubt it)) at my earliest convenience.

Please feel free to contact my references, for I fear I have been far too humble in describing my incredible worth as an employee.

Love,
Nugget

A Christmas Miracle

I heard on NPR on Friday morning that approximately 1 million people were making a grand exodus from the D.C. area that day to spend the holidays with their families. Included in that million is every single one of my acquaintances here (except one of my mom's friends from the olden days with whom I will spend the actual holiday and a fellow member of the tribe with whom I will nosh on Chinese food, as we Chosen are wont to do).

One of those departing ones, an angel I will call The Blessed One, gave me the keys to her lovely apartment for my use this entire week. I walked in there this Friday after work and nearly wept with pure joy. It smelled faintly of clove, not of stale death. There was a pleasant glow from the Christmas lights instead of the harsh fluorescent glare to which I've become accustomed. The surfaces were clean and free from chunks of mystery meat. The bathroom was immaculate, instead of-- well, you know what I'm living with here.

Best of all, there was a plush couch I could stretch out on when I wanted to read or when I wanted to watch a movie. It didn't smell like homeless man.

The Blessed One has my eternal and undying thanks for giving me the very best present I could ask for: an entire week of tranquility away from the Man-Child. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

100 posts.

You've been with us through it all.


The roommate fricking, mental battles, inappropriateness, odd bathroom behavior, and creepiness.

The coworker awkwardness, getting drunk in front of your boss, and jumping contests.

The office injustices, poop smell, sick dorm food, and lunch admirers.

The occasional outfit blunder.

The strangeness of moving, using public transportation, and meeting your new craigslist roomies.

Being lonely. Being worried. Being bored. Being underutilized.

Loving our jobs. Hating our jobs. Not knowing what's coming next. Not knowing why there is underwear in the kitchen.


Thank you, dear friends, for being with us through it all. We truly this you.

And a mighty big virtual this from us to you.

My very own Bridge to Nowhere

For the past few weeks I've been trying my bestest to put away my procrastinatin' practices of the past and get to work on a year-end profile on one of our senators. Every time I open up the doc to start working my verbal magic, however, it seems like the Powers That Be at my news establishment toss another urgent assignment my way.

This morning I went in with every intention of taking that profile by its horns and shaking it every way to Sunday until it didn't know what cliche was going to hit it next, but fate had other plans for me.

A dude at the home office asked if I could assemble a spreadsheet of all the pork our delegation had requested in the 11-bill omnibus legislation Congress has been trying to squeeze out before they go home for the holidays. I had already printed off lists of earmarks on the original bills last week, when it looked like House Appropriations Chairman Dave Obey (D-Wisc.) was going to strip away all the billions of dollars for lawmakers' pet projects to bring the bill closer to the amount President Bush wanted. Facing an uproar from some very unhappy campers, Speaker Nancy Pelosi (D-Calif.) reneged. I kept all the lists just in case debate resurfaced.

(A note about earmarks: they get a lot of negative press because some of them are truly ridiculous, like Sen. Ted Steven's (R-Alaska) $315 million Bridge to Nowhere or Sen. Hillary Clinton's (D-N.Y.) much-maligned request for $1 million for a museum commemorating the Woodstock music festival. But most of them go to really worthwhile projects, like road repair or social service programs.)

Because I had all those handy lists, I thought it was going to be a breeze to plug them into a happy little database. And it was fun for this Excel geek, at least for a little while. As the day wore on, I started getting press releases from various legislators' offices enumerating the amounts they would receive for their myriad projects in the omnibus bill, amounts sometimes very different from what I had listed. Why hadn't I just looked at the omnibus bill text in the first place to pick out what I needed, you ask? My dear, silly, friend: this behemoth is thousands of pages long. And the document is unsearchable, thankyouverymuch. (I was going to link to it so you could behold its glory but 10 minutes' worth of Google searching has proved unfruitful and I'm bored with the pursuit.)

So I had to meticulously compare the press release figures with the ones I already had, going line-by-mother-freaking-line. Then the Powers That Be decided they wanted the Senate numbers in there, too... we might as well make it a "master" document, eh? Eh indeed. The House and Senate project names often vary at least slightly, so finding corresponding entries was a real treat.

After hours (upon hours... upon hours...) of increasing my susceptibility of carpal tunnel syndrome, I finally finished and chirped my relief to my coworker.

"Yeah, I don't know if we're still going to use that or need it, but I'm glad we have it! Thanks!" he said.

Editor's note: Apparently Nugget wasn't smart enough to Google search "text of omnibus bill," because if she had she would have found this right away.

This morning there was a pair of dirty boxers on the kitchen counter

Think about that for a bit.

I often tell my coworker here about my daily battles with the Man-Child and he's graciously extended an invitation to me to move into his basement on many occasions. Because he has three cats and felines make my face explode in hives and my eyes and nose explode in itchiness, though, I've had to decline.

Last week he suggested I move into the office. I'd have everything I needed there: a kitchenette, showers in the gym downstairs, a TV and computer, ample space to store my things because of all the layoffs/ buyouts... The only I was missing was a place to rest my head. The most viable option was under my desk, a quite spacious space, really. I would just need some blankets and pillows to make my nest and I'd be set.

During our office holiday party on Friday, several now-empty offices were opened up to house the nosh. In the dessert room we discovered a couch. As soon as I can figure out a way to schlep all my worldly possessions there on the Metro, I'm moving in.

Ladies' Men

Overheard on the Metro:

Fratboy 1: So today, I was, like, texting with Morgan. I was like, "I had a Caesar salad with salmon; are you proud?" And she was like, "Yeah, five points for fish." Then I was like, "So we're going to be rolling in Arlington later, you in?" And she was like, "Was that meant for me?"

Fratboy 2: Oh man... Snap.

Fratboy 1: I know, right? So I was like, "Yes it was meant for you. We're going to a party if you want to hit that."

Fratboy 2: NICE!

Fratboy 1: Yeah, so she was like, "I don't want to hook up with you if that's what you mean."

Fratboy 2: Dude, she so totally does. That girl is like horny as a toad. She totally wants to get stuffed.

Fratboy 1: Totally.

The gift that keeps on giving (to you).

Want to know how to present yourself with an endless amount of FREE presents that you are guaranteed to enjoy when you need them most? Here's exactly what you do. Listen closely.

Load your ipod or music player of choice with random, sometimes terrible, yet incredible songs. We're talking one-hit wonders, chart toppers, stuff you listened to (on the radio) when you were 13. These are the files that are in your itunes library, but you always make an excuse when someone scrolls over them, such as "oh yeah my little sister downloaded that." And don't just dump the entire artist's career onto your 'pod, but rather pick one single song, a guilty pleasure perhaps, that will make your face break out into a huge smile when the shuffle gods grant you this little slice of musical heaven.

These should be songs you think you're over, but you're totally not. For example:

• All Saints "Never ever"
• Hootie and the Blowfish "Let her cry"
• Ace of Base "The sign"
• TLC "Don't go chasin' waterfalls"

i.e. songs you shouldn't have and shouldn't enjoy, but you do...and you do.

Use me, use me, go on and use me.

The thing about being a professional intern is that you have to be prepared to be heavily underutilized.

Sometimes entire days will go by where I am not given even one task, such as a brief to write up, a meeting to attend, a staff member to observe, or even some edits to go through. A good intern will use this freedom to pitch story ideas, make up assignments for themselves, spend an entire day scouring the news, reading poynter.org and learning everything she can about journalism. But that situation isn't always applicable.

For example, you work for an organization that edits its publication a week before it gets printed, and it's almost time for the holiday break. Well you can't pitch story ideas because all the publication schedules are sewn up for the rest of the year, and the paper is tight for space as it is. The Web site editors are so busy and overwhelmed that they can't add anything else to their editing schedule. You've been reading the news for the past four hours, and frankly, that's enough.

So where does that leave me? Well, here. I think I'll start with Wuthering Heights.

Can't be trusted alone with glasses

Seeing a pair of unsuspecting spectacles just now when I ventured to the kitchen to concoct my breakfast this morning reawakened a long-dormant urge in me I thought I had kicked. I wanted to hide those glasses, either behind our faux, stunted Christmas tree or inside a box of cereal. They looked like they would be better-suited in the freezer or perhaps inside the pizza box in the fridge.

A few years ago I lived with a four-eyed fellow who could never seem to keep tabs on his lenses. He took them off at the weirdest times, like when putting away groceries. A few minutes or hours thereafter he'd need them to accurately measure a serving of tea and he'd turn the apartment upside-down to find them. Inevitably they'd be in the cupboard above the fridge, snuggled in next to flashlight batteries and duct tape.

Because I found this exercise so amusing, I took to initiating it myself. When he left his specs on the counter or coffee table, I'd surreptitiously grab them and drop them off in the fruit basket. Then I'd play dumb as he tore through the apartment seeking them. It was a fun game.

Somehow I don't think the same frivolity would occur if I did that here, so I'll just think about hiding them instead of actually doing it.

I hate goodbyes.

Most people that hate goodbyes as much as I do have trouble bidding those they love farewell because they find it depressing and emotionally difficult and they feel some sort of great loss.

I, however, just find them awkward. What do you say when you can't tack a "see you in two weeks!" on the end of it, or a "I'll catch you Saturday night, right?" I mean it's weird! I've been moving around a lot lately and I've found that it's especially difficult to say goodbye to coworkers as an intern. So not only are you leaving their organization, but you're probably never going to come back, and you're even moving of the state, so you're really not going to see them again.

Usually I regress to the classic "good luck." You say thanks so much for everything they've taught you, you thank them for their friendship, then you say "good luck with [whatever they're doing]" or "best of luck, you."

If it were up to me I would have lots of little gatherings with one or two people each and just hang out with them one last time, where you actually do something like mini golf, or dinner, or, you know, scaling a mountain. Then you have an activity to focus on, and don't have to worry that there might be someone at your gathering who doesn't know anyone else. And the best part of my small gathering plan? At the very last second, you turn around, start running away from your friend(s) as fast as you can, and scream over your shoulder "bye I'll miss you!"

Then you're done! Life would be so much easier if goodbyes could just be like bandaids.

Warning: this is quite possibly the most disgusting thing I've ever written

Alternative title: Poop goes the roommate

I want to make sure that you, my beloved readers, are adequately prepared for what you're about to read. I don't often venture into writing Tales of the Toilet, but I had to make a special exception to convey what depths of despair I experienced last night. If you're weak of stomach or faint of heart STOP READING NOW.

I came home last night after a lovely holiday party looking forward to brushing my fangs, washing my mug and slumbering. When I walked into my apartment, however, my ol' olfactorys were slapped with a pungent odor. Figuring the roommate decided to boil the intestines of a suckling pig for dinner, I shrugged it off and entered the bathroom I share with him to commence my nightly routine.

The stench was so strong in there it almost took on a shape. I then noticed the throne was filled with the soupy contents of The Thing's bowels.

Let it be known that this man-child is 29 years of age. Even accounting for the fact that he was most likely a late bloomer in terms of potty training, he still has a more than a quarter-century relationship with the toilet and that nifty lever that makes its contents magically disappear.

Assuming he left the apartment with it sitting there because the throne was in need of repair, I texted him:

"The toilet is overflowing with your shi(r)t. Did you call someone to fix it?"

I got this in reply:

"wrong number. my name is (Thing's name). No idea what ur talking bout. good luck with that."

Because I am technically squatting here-- the apartment management knows not of my existence-- I couldn't just approach the office and request service without giving away the ruse and probably getting stuck with a hefty fine.

So I steeled myself, gathered all my courage and bravery, and flushed, prepared to turn off the water should the mess reach a danger point in the bowl. To my intense relief it all went down. I lit five matches and a scented candle and opened a window to try to coax a more bearable smell into this place.

One more month one more month one more month one more month one more month.

You know you're really loved when...

A Saturday night conversation between myself and the cook that works at my dorm. Scene: I am walking through the food line.

Cook: You're new here!
Me: Nope, actually I've been here four months.
Cook: One month? That's not too long.
Me: No. Four months.
Cook: Really? Well I've never seen you.
Me [stammering]: Um, well, I guess I'm not that memorable?

You've got to love the Christian ladies dorm for really making you feel at home.

You'd think they'd let me go to the bathroom.

So we all know how much my dorm LOVES construction.

Nevermind the fact that I was woken each day this morning by deafening scraping outside of my door (a man was redoing the entire wall in the stairwell, thus preventing anyone from using the stairs for multiple days), but now, we can't even go to the bathroom without going to a different floor. And this is why:











Please observe: random bags of whatever all over the floor and mysterious canvas sacks covering each toilet. How am I supposed to go to the bathroom on top of a sac? And furthermore, why on the baby jesus's beautiful earth would they do this construction in the MORNING when people are getting ready for the day?!

I shake my fist at you, metro.

For someone that loves public transportation, I can honestly say that I am mad at it today.

First of all, the D.C. metro blasts heat out of side vents, located on each seat, even though the trains are already sweltering from the multitudes of bodies filling every crevice.

Secondly, today at least 150 of us piled onto the escalator up to Dupont Circle, standing two-by-two, only to be shocked when it stopped, mid-escalate! So our sweating bodies, about to faint from the heat of the metro, the weight of our bags, and the snug fit of our coats, hats, mittens, and scarves had to lumber up the entirety of the escalator (about 160 steps) behind a barely moving, extremely exhausted, cane-carrying senior citizen.

Metro! Please do not make an elderly man trudge up an escalator at the rate of 3 steps per minute! And while you're at it, please do not turn us into bumbling, torrid monsters with your freakish heating practices!

Confessions of an overeater.

I love my mom.

One of my favorite stories about her is that she was once invited to two Thanksgiving dinners, one at her grandmother's house and one that was to occur shortly after at her future in-laws' house. Being the sweet, adorable lady that she is, she resolved to eat two feasts, in their entirety, right in a row (so as to not offend either host). Then she did.

Let me give you the dimensions of my mother:

She's about 5'4, weighs around 125. So basically, she's a teensy little pipsqueak.



So what does this have to do with my overeating? Well my mom has always been able to pack it away. She can basically eat on command, and because she lifts weights and bikes all the time she's in great shape. Clearly, some traits I inherited from my mom and some I didn't. For example, I got her insatiable ability to eat lots and lots of food without getting full, but her devotion to exercise seemed to get left by the wayside for me.

I'm pretty much always hungry! And on the rare occasion that I get full, give it about half an hour then I'm ready to go again. I know people who get full after small portions of food, then they put their fork down and - bam - they're done with what they're eating even if it isn't gone. Then they're satisfied for hours. What the frick is up with that?

Even free makeovers come at a price

After slogging through yet another work week, my buddy Wink and I decided to have a bit of fun by going shopping. Since I had completed all my holiday shopping the previous weekend and wasn't in need of anything (except a new pair of black boots, which Ma Nugget has promised to purchase for me when I come home--thanks Ma Nugget!), I could browse carefree without the pressures of finding that perfect something something.

Our final stop of the evening was Macy's, where we were determined to get ourselves free makeovers in anticipation of the Event of the Year: Truth Pirate Slumber Party 2007. We weaved in and out of the Chanel, Estee Lauder and Clinique counters, making eyes at the bored salespeople that clearly told them we needed a makeover, stat. But no one was biting. We even went to the Bobbi Brown counter and paged through her instructional book while wondering aloud what the makeup would like like on our visages. The best we got out of that shopgirl was, "Can I help you find something?"

Yeah-- a new face! Gosh!

Admitting defeat (but not admitting to anyone what we actually wanted... which in hindsight was a bit silly), we moseyed our way through the shoe, purse and wintertime accessories sections. On our way out we decided to give it one last go and looked adoringly at the Benefit makeup counter.

A bored, emo-looking lad immediately perked up and asked us if we wanted to browse his company's catalog. We paged through them and asked which of the products he was pimping was best. Benetint, a rose-colored serum for cheeks and lips, he told us. Put this on your cheeks and everyone will wonder, "What has she been up to?" he said cheekily. During his pitch we discovered he was from a locale across the pond. Ipswitch, England, to be exact.

We also discovered his name was Mark, which prompted me to bellow, "MAHK? MAHK!" a la Elizabeth in E.R. He didn't know a titch about his own products (other than what he read off the label)... or makeup in general for that matter. There was no way this limy upstart was going to be able to give us a makeover.

Then he started telling us about how he came to be in this freedom-loving nation. He said he met a girl on MySpace and they got married, but they have since divorced. He assured us he didn't marry her for a Green Card. Then he asked if we knew the hotspots in town where single women would congregate.

Wink told him emphatically that we wouldn't know because we were both dating muscular Minnesota boys. We bid him good day and then left to try on ball gowns.