Why I Turned Down My Umpteenth Offer for an Unpaid Internship

"I got you contact information for a guy at the Metro," Chris wrote to me in a text while he was at work. The car dealership where he works is a new advertiser in the free daily paper read by commuters and Chris had spoken to the ad sales rep about his journalism student girlfriend who happens to want a paying job in journalism.

When I got home to our apartment that evening, Chris handed me the guy's card. "He said to give him a call. He said he's got jobs and internships open," Chris said.

Yippee! Maybe I'll get a part-time paid journalism gig, I thought. Stupid me to get so excited.

When I called the guy the next day, he offered to pass my resume and some clips along to an editor.

"Thank you so much!" I said.

Within minutes, I'd sent him an email with my resume, three targeted clips and the link to my online portfolio should the editor wish to see even more.

Hours later, I had a new message in my inbox. The ad sales guy apologized saying there were no jobs open, only unpaid internships.

Dagnabbit!

I thanked him once again and shot the editor, whose email address he'd included, an email. In the email, I thanked him for his consideration and apologized that I couldn't take an unpaid internship at this time. Would it be okay if I emailed him in a few months to let him know what I've been up to and to see if there are any new opportunities?

The editor never responded.

Those of you who are more experienced journalists may be shaking your heads at me. Why wouldn't I devote 15-20 hours of my week to working without compensation? Because I've written news before. I get paid $50 a piece by my local newspaper. One of the pieces I wrote for Broad Street Media appeared on the front covers of both of their weekly newspapers.

So I'm sorry, but I'm not going to work hard at something I'd adept at for no money. Just ain't happenin'.

Now maybe, if I wanted an internship in marketing, something that's a little outside my area of expertise, I'd take an unpaid internship. But at this point, I'd really just like to get paid for the things I can do and do well so that on my night off, I can go to the movies with my boyfriend -- or even just afford to buy candy at my local Wawa.

At the moment, I work my ass off at a day job at Temple, run a quarterly online magazine (for which I am paid nothing) and am trying to further my freelance career. Seriously, I'm not looking for sympathy or pity -- even though between me and my hardworking live-in boyfriend we hardly make enough money to have any fun. Nope, it's fine.

Just don't tell me that I should bow down and thank anyone willing to throw me an unpaid gig. I can make my own unpaid work. I could write a novel I'll never sell. I could start a second magazine.

So perhaps, having read this, you'll understand why a recent discussion board on a magazine group on LinkedIn pissed me off so badly.

A young guy posted a fairly innocuous question asking if all journalism internships are unpaid and if so, why. The first response got my blood boiling.

"Unfortunately, many -- even university graduates -- are not yet at a standard where they are contributing anything of value. They often take more resources than they offer. So from the company's view it is reasonable to have them work for a limited time, initially, for nothing. For many or most interns it is more 'work experience', than 'unpaid work' per se, if you take my meaning! We are doing *them* a favour by having them there as part of their skill development and progress towards a career."

This woman's response is outrageous. First of all, lots of interns will do as well as you let them. Yes, at first, there might be some instruction required but honestly? If you offer paying internships, those interns she's claiming have to be "broken in" will stick around a lot longer than one semester, meaning there's a significant return on your investment.

And "for a limited time"? Most internships -- and I've had a bunch of unpaid internships -- that start off unpaid don't ever start paying you, unless you're hired as a full-time staffer (which is by definition and entirely different gig).

As for work experience, I get that argument. And I've made it to juniors and seniors I knew who had never had a single internship. I've often said that I learned more during my internships than during any class at my journalism school. But I ask you to take a few steps back and reread the intro to this post.

If the intern or potential intern has done this kind of work before -- and employers are honest enough to admit or grant that -- then they should be paid. Maybe not as much as a staffer, but give us more $12 a day (this is the stipend I've seen on most listings at companies like Conde Nast and Hearst making a commute to New York City for an internship feel like a waste of my time and money, no matter how much I might learn by bringing Anna Wintour her coffee).

In one of my classes this past semester, which was taught by an employed journalist, the teacher and one of her guest speakers lamented that the beginning salary for a lot of journalism jobs is about $20,000. I wanted to smack their indignant, disbelieving faces. I'd be overjoyed to make that much money in a year -- especially starting off. I didn't go to journalism school expecting to come out making $60,000 a year, but I don't think an internship that pays minimum wage is too much to ask.

These companies wouldn't hire interns if there really was such a great imbalance between what the student gets out of it and what the student gives to it. Once upon a time, I knew a girl who had to paid a $50 parking ticket incurred while spending her afternoon off taking photos for a local alternative weekly's style blog. I asked her, "Can't they pay that for you?" She scoffed at me and said she'd gotten another the week before that she was told she'd have to handle.

Interns give a lot and they should be compensated fairly, especially if they've amassed a lot of relevant "work experience" at previous internships. 

Want another reason why interns should be given a dollar value? Because interns working for free devalues what paid freelancers offer to media companies. They offer valuable, viable skills that they expect to be fairly compensated for and they deserve it. I think interns do, too.

So despite the fact that the editor at the Metro never responded to my email, I'm going to follow up with him in a couple of months, attaching PDFs of more recent news stories I've written, and if he again offers nothing more than an unpaid internship, I'll wait another few months before contacting him again.

I'm not saying I know everything there is to know about journalism, but what writer or editor does? This world is constantly evolving and if media companies want to keep ahead of the curve and start building readership among young people, they ought to value their interns a little more. We're the future after all, you cynics.

Image from WeHeartIt.

On truth in fiction

Emily Dickinson's house in Amherst, Mass.

Over at Beth Kephart Books, the Dangerous Neighbors author posed the question "Truth or Fiction: Does It Matter When The Lines Get Blurred?"

For me, this is a particularly interesting question to consider, as my "fiction" is generally infused with a lot of "truth." Particularly seeing as I'm working on a new novel -- finally! -- which is the product of my experiences, those of friends, and fiction. A compost project, really. It took me a year and half since writing my last novel to come up with an idea I felt confident in.

And while Chris has said to me that he's a better fiction writer because he's much more imaginative -- which is true; he can come with anything -- I don't think that being as strongly inspired by real life makes me a bad writer. The fact of the matter is, like Kephart wrote, "The only interesting life, on the page, is the shaped life, the contemplated one, the one sifted for meaning and insight."

To be able to combine real life experiences with fictional elements in a way that gives them shape makes me, I think, at least a good fiction writer. I hope that I'm great, but I'll leave that up to the public to decide.

True love is easy

I arrived home today after spending two days snowed in with Chris, and remembered that although my Harper's Bazaar had arrived a week or two ago, I hadn't found time to read it. Sitting down to catch up on "Cougar Town" and "Castle," I flipped through the national glossy magazine, which in the recent past has seemingly only published articles about topics other than fashion if they're book excerpts.

In the February 2011 issue of HB, there is a one-page article by Alex Kuczynkski, who normally covers beauty topics and wrote a book called Beauty Junkies, about the secret to a happy marriage. That secret? Ease.

She argues that one should not have to "work" at marriage; that the love should be easy and continue to grow, not diminish. "But the notion that we ought to choose to remain in love doesn't wash with me anymore," Kuczynkski writes. "Love is a commitment, but the idea of choosing to work at your marriage sounds like a drag."

I may not be married, but I definitely agree. Love should not be hard. And drama does not a happier or more meaningful coupling make.

On mating and our expectations of the opposite sex

After I met my (new) Prince Charming on OKCupid.com, my father, who has been single since he and my mother separated, decided to create an OKC profile. Since the time he signed up, he's logged many an hour winking at attractive women within an appropriate age range, and many of these leads have led to nothing.

Maybe a week ago, Dad winked at a woman and complimented her full, wavy hair. She responded and said she thought they weren't compatible physically, which she amended by saying they were interested in different body types, and then said that my father's plans for the future didn't match hers.

Similar communiques from other women have had Dad asking me why women are responding in this way to him. I've shared with him my theory, and I think I'm truly on to something. My theory is that a good portion of middle-aged women don't take online dating, and perhaps even dating in general, seriously. By middle age, it's possible that these women have built lives that make them happy and they've only got room for a man if he's "perfect."

I wrote "On women, superficiality and the new Prince Charming," on December 17th after reading a conversation on Facebook between two guys about how superficial women are. My original thesis was that women aren't too superficial and that even if we are, it's not necessarily the fault of women that we have unrealistic expectations.

On women, superficiality and the new Prince Charming

A friend posted this question on Facebook: "Is it OK for a guy to be sensitive and caring for other people, or does that make him look like a sissy and a punk?" I was not the only one who responded to the question asked, but the dialogue quickly turned from the idea of the sensitive man to a derision of women as wholly superficial.

While I've always had a Twisted Sisterhood-type relationship with women, I don't think we're all that superficial and even if we are, it's not entirely our fault. When it comes to each other, yes, we're superficial, and, sure, we're a teensy bit superficial when it comes to guys, but I don't think it's because we're mean. We certainly don't realize that our "superficial" expectations or needs of men won't and can't be met; these preferences are bred in us from the time we are infants. Cinderella marries the handsome and perfect prince, so we're convinced from a young age that we must and will find our own Prince Charming.

It's a plight we're not exactly the creator of. The images we have of the perfect man to be with come from the media, and as much as it disgusts me, the media is largely controlled by men like Rupert Murdoch who have their own biases and, on some level, will do just about anything to sell their product. It began, I believe, when someone recognized that giving women a book or movie where the female protagonist ends up living the perfect life with the perfect man on her arm would sell a lot of those books or movies. Women are still, despite being 90 years removed from the struggle for suffrage, fighting tooth-and-nail for everything they want and it's in our nature to want everything, and as this is the case, the movies that show a successful career woman ending up with a good, kind, sensitive but strong man automatically appeal to women. The problem lies in the fact that we're now so overloaded with these images and presentations that it's hard to separate fact (that all men are imperfectly perfect and even if a guy knows what to say and when, he's probably a player) from fiction (Prince Charming).

Alas, after things like the TV show Sex and the City, which so many men defame, at least some of us have come (or are coming) to the realization that men are not perfect but that one who loves you and supports you, even if he is so strong-willed that he won't tell you when something's bothering him, is the new Prince Charming. Sure, he may sit butt-naked on your white couch or leave his used teabags all over the house, but if he makes you feel happy, even for ten seconds, every day, then you've got a winner. This, my dear readers, I am happy to say I have found.

Reticence on the subject of your relationships, or lack thereof

 Why can't we just shut our big, fat mouths about our coupledom?

It's a particularly pertinent question for a journalism student who, taking every job offered her no matter the pay, took a position writing about relationships for HOSTAGE magazine. Five posts a week means you've got a lot of material to create and as has always been my modus operandi, I turned to personal experiences for the bulk of my posts -- even when it's just a little anecdote to open a piece about a post by another writer.

What does this mean for my relationship with Chris? I've never asked specifically if he minded being written about, I guess I figured he should expect it as a fellow writer and, honestly, I was scared he'd say no. Then what the hell would I write about? I've sort of made it a rule not to disclose very personal matters -- and I stray as far from personal sex stories as humanly possible -- and I like to keep stories of whispered sweet nothings and impromptu slow dances to myself.

I'd like to think I succeed at writing Carrie Bradshaw style by relating personal experiences and those of friends to diatribes about overarching themes -- and I seek to answer questions and solve problems most people might encounter in their own relationships. See, I feel relationships are a huge part of who we are -- whether they're familial, friendly or of the romantic nature -- because we spend so much time surrounded by other people. Of course, our relationships with ourselves are majorly important as well -- and that's what I try to focus on in this blog.

So, I turned to CB for her thoughts on the matter. There's an episode in season two of the fabled TV series where my hero just can't shut up about her failed relationship with that unicorn, Mr. Big. "Really, I pity him," she says a little too emphatically before her three girlfriends launch an intervention ("[S]top her before she obsesses again," as Miranda says). It's not about the state of their relationship -- or that it's ended -- the thing is Carrie always talks about Mr. Big -- and Aidan, and Berger, and Petrovsky -- to her girlfriends and to readers in her weekly column.

When they intervene, Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte suggest a therapist. Carrie asks why she needs to pay someone when she's got them. "Look, we're as fucked up as you are. It's like the blind leading the blind," Samantha responds.

What really sparked my investigation into this topic was Lesley Dormen's article "Secrets and Lies" in the August issue of ELLE magazine. Dormen, a happily married woman for the past 14 years and obviously a writer, encountered a very similar question. "When is it okay to talk about your marriage, when isn't it, and who decides? Is privacy a trust issue, a loyalty issue, or more about context and intention--invasion of marital privacy versus lunch with your best friend?" Dormen wrote.

Further on, she wrote, "Why is marriage so determined to close the door behind itself? Are we ashamed of ourselves, of our messy married lives? What is it we're hiding? Or protecting?"

I've been guilty of invading married privacy out of curiosity. As a young person who has been in only a handful of relationships, I'm always wanting to know how marriage works. I've read that in order to help your relationships, it helps to talk to your married friends. And when one website listed the ten things every single person must do, on that list was "Talk to someone your age who is married."

It seems human nature to talk to at least our girlfriends about our relationships, writes Dormen. "The freedom to exchange private information about boys is one of the first ways we declare our independence from parents. We learn early on that boy talk is a social lubricant."

Even Drew Barrymore, cover star of ELLE's August issue isn't immune to boy talk with the girls. "I talk shit with my girlfriends, and it can get dirty."

If everyone does it, is it so wrong? Why do we do it? Is it that boy talk is one of the oldest ways of fulfilling our desire to be seen and heard, a desire so prevalent in today's reality TV obsessed culture? Is it that boy talk is the only topic everyone has an interest in and that everyone has something to say about?

Are all guys as reticent about their relationships as Dormen's husband? I know Chris asks guys at work for advice about sex things... the nature of which I won't divulge here. But how much does he tell buddies about me? He's often professed how differently he acts at work. So is he more talkative or more quiet? Who knows.

Because of popular movies and such, most women have a concept of men as vulgar pigs on the subject of sex (Barrymore said in ELLE, "In a lot of ways, I feel like I have a little bit of a dude inside me--except mine happens to be a 13-year-old boy, not a full-fledged man.") but what about the regular stuff?

In the end of "Secrets and Lies," Dormen writes about the benefits of sharing your marriage with others. "The telling," she writes, "lifts the veil from no one's eyes but your own." Producing a narrative surrounding your relationship, she says, whether to friends or in writing, helps the sharer to better understand him or herself and their partner. The pulling away actually brings you closer Dormen states.

For now, I'll continue doing what I've been doing, writing about us without delving too far. Because as Dormen writes, "for me, as for many writers, private life is my material."

(The above image is a closeup, shot by me, of a token card and tickets from Dave & Buster's at the Franklin Mills Mall where Chris and I played skee ball before seeing a movie.)

Perfection: Mission Impossible

I apologize for the rambling that was my last post. I'll have to edit it a bit. But when I posted it, from my friend's iPod Touch while on Percocets after my wisdom teeth extraction on Wednesday (all four and they were impacted). I believe you'll understand even if it kills me to not write perfectly -- at least to my usual standards.

Speaking of aiming for perfection, readers who've been with me on this journey for a while probably know how I want everything and want to do it with poise. If you're a newer reader, I've now told you (instead of showing, oops, another writing boo-boo).

Yesterday was the height of this. After a night with very little sleep -- I'd slept from 11:30 p.m. till 4:40 a.m. waking once in between time and as 5 a.m. approached, my dad turned on the light in the living room where I slept and after that, I couldn't sleep a wink -- I accompanied my dad to a surgical checkup. See, five years ago, he had bladder cancer. It's back and this checkup, the second with a month's time, was to see how bad it is.

So I went to the hospital with him and when he was back from the recovery room, they let me see him. He didn't look good. He was shaking and they'd had to leave a catheter in with a bag to collect urine. I got scared. He said they'd had to take a good deal of tissue. He started to grow perkier and he smiled even though we all knew he was in pain -- the most he'd ever had after one of these surgical checkups -- and my nurturing instincts kicked in.

When we got home, I made sure he had what he needed. Because I can't drive yet, I had to wait for Chris to get off work so I could go to a grocery store and CVS to get his prescriptions filled. But it wasn't very long and when Chris came and got me we headed to the CVS.

Of course, I sucked at directing him where to go. We found a route that was pretty quick actually and not really out of the way but it wasn't the way I normally go. And when we got there, they wouldn't fill dad's Percocet prescription because the doctor didn't put his name on it. I almost had a fit although when I called my dad he was calm about it.

Then we went to ShopRite and because I rarely ever go grocery shopping and they keep changing around the store, I had no idea where anything was. I ran around like a chicken with its head cut off. Thank goodness for Chris who helped tremendously.

When I was almost done, I realized I hadn't placed my order for seafood -- dad wanted shrimp (although I was a tad nervous in his condition) and that I'd now have to actually stand around waiting for it. To top it off, Chris was tired and ready for bed and I wanted to get done so he could go to bed.

I was a mad woman last night. Of course, after stopping at Wawa to get cigarettes and coffee for dad and Chris, we got home and brought the bags in (or should I say, my boyfriend the HULK, who did it in one trip). There I realized we'd forgotten to get the prescription.

On the way to CVS again, I realized something. I was trying to be my mom who has always been so put together, doing everything for everyone.

It's impossible to be Wonder Woman. I try. But it's impossible. I just have to come to terms with it.

Absense made me feel lucky

This weekend I spent time with my family -- my Grammy, Aunt Cindy and her husband Ed -- down in North Wildwood. This meant I was away from Chris for just about the longest we've been apart in the two months we've been together. We were going out of our minds being apart. Every phone call we made, we said a thousand times how much we missed each other. A couple times I actually felt physically ill!

I couldn't wait to get back to his arms and kisses. Still, I was almost scared by how much I missed him because the other thing his trip threw into sharp relief was how I rarely feel like I'm surrounded by people who see the real me. It worried me that I feel I have so few friends (there's Ashley and Michele but that's about it). I then told Chris that I was terrified of becoming the girl who only has her boyfriend.

I think this offended him a tiny bit but then he said something that made a shitload of sense. He said that the only difference between a boyfriend and a best friend is that you kiss -- and do other stuff with -- your boyfriend. Suddenly I realized how right he was and that I should be thankful because I've got a relationship that other girls would kill for. I'm kissing my best friend. It doesn't matter that we don't know each other's every story yet but we're happy and comfortable enough to tell each other anything.

I'm so thankful to have the few great friends I've got and I now know how lucky I am to have
boyfriend who is in my corner. I'm happy he's not the only friend I've got but I know I'd be lucky to have even just Chris.

Home isn't just a Glee episode

Yesterday, Michele and I had a conversation about our favorite Glee episodes -- yep, your favorite blogger here is far from immune to its musical pleasures -- and mine were Wheels and Home. Probably because both episodes touched on major themes or experiences I've had. The former is pretty obvious but maybe not the latter.

The thing is, for longer than I'd like to remember, I have felt out of place in the various living situations I found myself in. When I was fifteen years old my parents separated and my mom moved me and my sister to an apartment roughly a half hour from our childhood house.

Then out of the blue, she had a serious boyfriend. And quite quickly, I felt really out of place. They played his reggae music really loud and turned sporting events so loud that I couldn't hear the movie I was watching. To my eyes he was treated like a king, while she acted like his handmaiden.

I made it clear that I disliked the situation -- and him -- and I was the one who was ostracized. I spent whatever time I could in my room -- whichever makeshift room it happened to be at the moment -- and hoped for someone to rescue me. 

Every day is my birthday

Today, Chris asked me what I'd like for my birthday. Honestly? I have no clue. The only possible gift idea I've come up with being a Patricia Field for Payless Shoe Source shamrock necklace. But I thought that wasn't the right gift suggestion for my honey. All I really want for my birthday is to spend it with family and friends and possibly a trip to the beach.

Perhaps this is what it means to be a grown-up; realizing that the material things aren't so important -- and that anything you want you can buy yourself -- and that time spent relaxing with loved ones is a precious commodity.

I didn't know what to ask of my parents for Christmas either. And my last birthday? Of the few material gifts I received, I think I knew of half of them beforehand.

But that doesn't solve my problem of what to tell Chris to get me. What is a girlfriend supposed to want? Maybe I could ask him to buy me a teddy bear. Or jewelry. Or lingerie.

I honestly don't want anything more than to spend time with him. And I get that quite often. So it's kind of like every day is my birthday.

Die, you stupid Xerox machine

I'm going to say the thing that everyone is thinking but maybe doesn't want to say, maybe won't even dare admit it to themselves. I hate being a working adult. It blows.

I only work two days a week and for five hours. It's nowhere near as bad as working five or six days a week, I know. But when you're doing work that a monkey could easily handle and being treated like you're incapable of doing said work, there's nothing to do but bite down the scream clawing at your throat.

Every morning I have work, I wake up ten, maybe 20, minutes before my 9:30 a.m. alarm, worried I've missed it. I am not even sure that I don't wish I would miss it. Then I get up when my alarm rings, go to the bathroom, and hop back in bed for 11 minutes (until 9:45 a.m.).

Then that alarm goes off and I've got no choice but to force myself to throw on some clothes -- I'm supposed to follow our strict and grammatically incorrect dress code -- and grab whichever purse I need that day and run out the door. Then of course, I have a tendency to miss the 3 bus that comes at 10:12 a.m. when it comes a few minutes early and I'm about 50 feet away from the bus stop.

Then I get to work a few minutes before 11 a.m. and yet, the computer I use to log on to record my time stamp, always takes a few minutes to load -- meaning I stamp in at 11:01 a.m. and, according to my supervisor, have to wait until exactly 4:01 p.m. to log off. Because that one minute will make a difference in my pay. Christ.

I try to get through each day by remembering that working here gives me money so that I can go out with friends and Chris after work and on the weekends, etc. It's a struggle but it helps a little.

Now.. it's 1:30 p.m. I get a half-hour break for lunch and then it's two more hours till I'm on my way to Chris'. I can't wait.

Grief and prayer

A friend I graduated with lost her 3-year-old daughter on Friday. I'm speechless. Losing someone you love is hard, whoever it is and whatever your relationship. Chris said today -- about a different situation -- that grieving is a process and eventually you get over the loss. I'm not sure that you do. Another friend of mine lost his dad and he and his mother have not and say they will never get over his death.

More than that however, I question the merit of prayer. My friend who lost her daughter asked for the prayers of her friends through Facebook. And while I will pray for her because she asked, I wonder what good it will do. I guess I could pray that she "gets over it" but will she? I doubt it.

After disaster struck Haiti in January, Christians in all places were holding prayer circles for the Haitians. After hearing about one such event, I asked "What the hell is prayer gonna do?" My grandmother said, with great disappointment in her voice, "It helps, honey, it really does."

This coming from the same woman who later that week took one look at a bumper sticker that read "I'm blessed," and said, "I wonder what makes her think she's so blessed."

Clearly, my Grammy's religious beliefs are as deeply rooted as my own.

Whether prayer works or not, I hope that my friend will find a way to get through this ordeal and even if she never gets over it.

(The above image is of Susan Sarandon.)

Putting the 'merry' in 'go round'

Wednesday night I was talking with my friend Michele about life... I told her about taking my sister for a manicure and pedicure in preparation for her prom and Michele said that for all of the good I do, I don't deserve the shit that I've had to put up with. And that she thinks Chris, who is turning out to be everything I said I wanted in a guy, is just the beginning of my lucky streak. Sometimes my life feels like it circles back around to the same problems, the same crap. Here's hoping the go round gets even merrier.

(The above photo is from Le Blog de Betty.)

Learning curve

I can't hold my breath for very long underwater. This is unfortunate when your family insists on torturing you for all of your shortcomings. I can't serve a volleyball. I'm not athletic. As a kid, I was always chosen last for teams in gym. And I'm okay with this.

Except when my mother and sister take to teasing me for this inability to punch a white quilted ball at my boyfriend on the other side of the pool.

See, in celebration of Memorial Day, my family had a pool party on Sunday at my Aunt Cindy's and it was the first time I'd taken a boyfriend to meet my family. Chris held up better than I did, I'd say.

They didn't hassle him much. In fact, most of my family probably said less than 10 words to him. But everyone seemed content with belittling and teasing me in front of him. Some people -- not me -- can let this kind of thing roll off their backs. I've always held the opinions of my family members in high regard and hate that nothing ever seems good enough for them.

My Aunt Cindy and Grammy told me I need to work harder in college (I got one "C" and three "B"s this last semester) while they announced to everyone my two male cousins' very high GPAs. Not that I'm not proud of Danny and Eddie. I truly am. But there was a time when my family even questioned whether the boys would ever go to school (my cousin Danny is 26 and just concluded his first semester), so clearly their excellence in school is a delightful surprise. But for me, the girl who graduated seventeenth in her class, not only was it expected I go to college, now I'm expected to get straight A's. It's too much pressure for one person.

And this lecture from my elders on doing well in school came in front of Chris.

I've never had to worry about what my family thought of a guy -- at least not my extended family. Chris is the first guy I've ever dated to even meet my dad and now he's met the rest of my family. And all in one day he's seeing how they see me and the way I see myself in my family's funhouse mirror.

I can't even begin to imagine how bad I looked, ducking under the water to avoid the barrage of comments about my failed attempts at athleticism. I am simply embarrassed by myself. It's hard when you want to control how someone sees you because you just can't. You can only hope that they find your faults endearing and that they will appreciate you for everything you are -- and everything you aren't.

In the end, I tried following my sister's advice and sent that volleyball soaring over Chris' head at least once... But it didn't feel good as I hadn't done it on my own.

(The above picture is of Robert De Niro and Ben Stiller in Meet the Parents.)

More time than he's worth? Look again.

I wrote in April of my increased ability to maybe not forgive but certainly quickly forget boys. I had taught myself to pick apart a young man with the skill and precision of the finest surgeons in the world. With my scalpel in hand -- or eye or ear -- I had the ability to quickly decide that a guy was not what he had appeared to be and that I would be better off not wasting my time or attention on him any longer. I also predicted that this would be a dangerous thing.

Turns out I was worried for nothing. Apparently I also have the ability to pinch myself and remember that people are more than they appear and they can certainly be more than just the sum of desirable (and undesirable) parts.

My new boyfriend Chris is proof that a guy can be more than you'd ever imagined. When he took those first steps up to my house, I got worried. He wore a fitted cap; something I considered, as the result of having two male cousins who purposefully bent their brims and adjusted size of the hat with Velcro strips, odd and possibly a sign that the wearer considered himself gangster (or gangsta as I've so disdainfully been reminded by peers). I don't do gangster/a.

Despite this, I reminded myself of his mastery of words so beautifully displayed in those OKCupid messages and texts. This was a guy worth taking a closer look at.

But isn't everyone? I guess one could argue that with as busy as our world is, as much as we juggle on a daily basis, it is uneconomical to spend an hour on someone we're pretty sure, five minutes in, is all wrong for us.

I don't know. I have always sort of given guys who seem all wrong for me more time than most girls probably would. And while, for instance, learning how O.U.A.T.B. rolled was by no means a waste of time, I have certainly spent more than a few hours on guys I wish I'd never bothered with.

This is how we learn, I suppose; the way we discover what's right and what's wrong -- at least for us in terms of relationships. And who would deny themselves an opportunity for growth?

And I have grown. I have learned from every botched relationship -- some of them lessons like: the pasture isn't always greener on the other side and some guys really just like to play games without concern for the heart attached to those strings they're pulling.

Best of all, I have seen hearts of gold in people who are a little -- forgive the overused expression -- rough around the edges. And I'm a lot different from the girl who loved Ben Swann, the kindergarten heartthrob who crushed on the thumb-sucker. Amen to that.

As it turns out, Chris is far from gangster/a. He's kind of a big softy while maintaining a knack for brutal honesty. He's even self-actualized enough that, had I not seen it with girlfriends, he would have sat through Sex and the City 2 with me.

I can only hope that my family will have a good first impression -- and that my cousins don't break his back over the fitted hat.


(The above photo is of Carrie Bradshaw and Mr. Big in Sex and the City 2. The photographer is Craig Blankenhorn. Source: allmoviephoto.com)

Good things do happen

It seems as though whenever I wonder how much more I can possibly complain about things (particularly romantic endeavors), something good happens.

Yes, I've got a new beau. And boy, did I have a lot of people demanding details when I changed my relationship status on Facebook. It seems every one of my friends thought they should have been the first to know. I know my sister was shocked and awed by it.

Within the span of a few days, I went from no real romantic possibilities to having a cute guy text me first thing in the morning just to start my day off on the right foot. I too am still in disbelief. Just a little.

But I'm happy. Chris is slightly older and he's mature. He's a total cutie. He holds doors and smothers me in playful kisses. I like the way his hand hovers at my back as we walk together and how he sends me less-than-3 hearts over AIM. And I can wear high heels and don't tower over him!

Oh, and he too is a writer. He uses proper grammar. Hallelujah.

Despite outward appearances and my mother's initial reaction ("Who's that?" she whispered to me as Chris stood in the other room. "My boyfriend," I answered. "Oh boy," she said), I think I may have found a really good match for once. He's someone who wants to make time for me and I am really comfortable in his presence.

I always thought that relationships with boys are like a driver's relationship with cars. There's the car you learn to drive in -- the male equivalent lasts you a lifetime only if you're super lucky. Then there's your next car, the one you own when your parents still want to know where you're going and when. Then you get a fairly nice car that you worked for and bought and with which you're pretty much free to do what you want. You might even get to take it on a road trip.

Of course there are the cars you admire -- the ones in your neighbors' driveways and which you see only through the dealership's glass doors (think Porsche or Lamborghini). For the male equivalent, think Gerard Butler or Bradley Cooper. You can drool over him all you want but sometimes all your hard work won't even afford you a pen with which to sign on the dotted line.

Whichever kind of car I'm in now, I'm not sure. But I'm going to enjoy it before I have to make my first payment.

(The above picture is from 2004's The Notebook.)