Insider Trading Tip of the Day

Sell your shares in Microsoft. Bill Gates did. See my story:

http://biz.yahoo.com/ap/070510/microsoft_insider_transactions.html?.v=1

* Note and disclaimer: I actually know nothing about finance.

Long-Awaited Milestone

It hit me on Saturday very unexpectedly: I think I am over "The Relationship."

He is back in the town where we went to college; I am here. We have plenty of miles between us, and plenty of reasons to move on, but somehow I thought it would never happen.

We both held on like we were nothing without the other, even if things between us had changed beyond recognition. He met someone a week after I moved out. He moved in with her four months later. Every part of that, even though he never spoke of her directly to me, crushed what little bit of hope I had for a reconciliation.

But I still held on, for some reason: fear of not finding someone better, fear of moving to an overwhelming and unfamiliar place, and fear of losing the one person with whom I shared a huge piece of history.

After more time passed, and after hearing from other friends about how how his new relationship was getting more serious, I tried to pull away. I stopped initiating conversations, I stopped finding reasons to send a text message or e-mail. But he kept calling, and I kept picking up.

That about sums up the last two years. Whether he realized it or not, he was pulling the strings. And I let him for a million different reasons. That relationship, the one after me, ending in cheating. The day after he moved in with her, I later found out, he read her diary and found out she had slept with a married man. Any sympathy I could possibly offer was completely overshadowed by the feeling that this situation was the best kind of karma - I felt like he fell in love with a girl that dished back everything he ever did to me. But the satisfaction came way too late.

Everyone that knows the two of us, and how long it has been since we were happy together, would undoubtedly roll their eyes at my admission that I now feel "over it." Should have made a clean break. Should have never given him so many chances. Should have never continued a friendship. Should have left it alone, and moved on. Should have never taken this much time to get over it.

So now I have finally caught up to everyone else who was begging me to leave it alone. I am even pushing to finish this blog even though I just got an e-mail from him:

"i was cleaning up my computer and found some of these pics from your rowing banquet - not sure if you had them or not

hope things at the new job are going well

I head home on friday for jenas graduation..."

And just like that, its done.
Of course my mom snapped last night when I said this, and rightly so. Its far from 'just like that' - it has taken so much out of us, it has taken me to a place where I thought I would never trust again, and I still am in a place where I am terrified of being alone.

But this correspondence feels enough like the final ties being cut that I am thinking, sigh, its finally over.

The Lesson

I have been away for a while. A long while. I blame the new job- I think the stability is stifling my creativity.

Seriously though, the past three weeks have spelled so many changes for my life and the way I perceive the future. After all, it was not that long ago that I sat at my desk at the fashion magazine and thought I would never get back to doing what I wanted for a living.

I took advantage of my life here, in this incredible city, but not in a good way - I let it fly by because I thought I deserved better than I had. Well, the thing is, everyone does. I was no different. There are countless people who are miserable in their jobs. And countless more that are miserable in their lives. And I let these wonderful places, people and opportunities get away because I let my life overcome who I really am.

Of course clarity is easy to come by now that I have the career I've always wanted. These people, my co-workers, are simply amazing journalists who I am honored to be around. The third day I was here, someone about 10 desks away won the Pulitzer Prize. These reporters provide copy for The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, and countless other major newspapers and websites, yet they are some of the most humble people I have ever met.¶
That is not to say that this place is void of the normal complaints about computer functions or office politics. That is here too. I just can't hear the noise through my own head, clambering with the joy of being here, and with people who appreciate the integrity and drama of what real journalism is.

It took a friend going through an overwhelming personal struggle to visit to first give me the proverbial slap in the face. His constant smile and optimism made me realize all that I was missing here, all around me. His appreciation for every little event throughout the day, every place we went, made me want to do more here and stop blaming a long-ago boyfriend for my social anxiety and fear of commitment.

Of course, as the days pass, the speed by which they go seems to increase. I am trying to get back in the social game. I am trying to go to some museum openings and photography expositions, and even some parties. I don't feel completely different, but I do feel more free. A recent spat over rent with a roommate would have sent me over the edge if I were in my old job. I still feel overwhelmed, but I am trying to remember that in the end, its all relative.

Better Late Than Never

Ok, a brief disclaimer: This was written exactly two months ago, when I was still fresh and new at the AP (you know, the time before you feel like your allowed to check your personal e-mail?) Anyway, I felt the need to share. Enjoy.

April 27, 2007
I went to a going away party for one of the business editors tonight. A going away party for a person I hadn't talked to, except for when we were introduced.

"This is Samantha, she comes to us from a fashion publication," my trainer said to him on my first day at the AP, with the inflection of a gate monitor at the Magic Kingdom.

His eyes rolled off to the side with what I thought was judgment.

Fashion. Why did she have to tell people? Of anything, anywhere, is there anything that could make these people take me less seriously than that?

Of course, after she said it to every one of those 40 people in my division, I wanted to crawl in a cave and die, or at least wave a white flag. I can't handle this. It's too much, too big, to intense. The confidence I had was gone now, hidden behind a nervous smile as I asked:

"I'm sorry, what was your name again?"

But the days have gone by, and through every 8 hours more questions arise, and more instructions roll through my head about how I am supposed to act. I am laughing more though. And smiling more. Feeling like myself again.

These people, my co-workers, are ridiculously nice. Coming over to my desk, one hand gently on my back, the other guiding the mouse where it is supposed to go. Instant messages blink on my computer screen from editors "just making sure I'm ok."

"Just a note to say you are doing great. It will get better and easier eventually, I promise. Take a deep breath. Hope you are having a good day."

"Samantha, how are you? I want to assign you this mover (a story about a significant stock move) -- have you done this before? Wanna take a crack at it?"

The most dramatic time in my short lived career at the AP happened when the editor I was assigned to called me over for some personal instruction. That day had been a tough one - I was on my own for the first time, with computer programs I barely knew and numbers of which I did not know the relevance.
He called me over like you would call a dog to jump in the car to go to the vet. His body stiff, I knew I was in for something. And whatever it was, it didn't seem good. Not good at all.

I lined up behind him like a child waiting to be punished. He put his fingertips together and then lifted his hands to his face. Deep breaths in and out; I watched as he contemplated his next move. I let my own eyes close gently as I let the breath out of my lungs; the calm before the inevitable storm.

His silence made me even more afraid of what he would think of this first big centerpiece story. But as I was leaning in to hear if he had any edits for me, he threw his head back and slammed his hands on the desk.
"That's what I'm talking about!" he shouts. Uh-oh. What did I do?
He says is again. I am terrified. Not only am I going to get yelled at but it's going to be loud.

"Samantha, this is great. Really great. Jesus, when you write your first book, can I have a free copy?"

Note to self: Confidence helps ease the fears of being killed by my boss.

Back in the Khakis Again

written Monday, March 26

Well, I did it. And it feels sweeter than I ever could have imagined.
Last Thursday I received the call that I could only dream would ever come. I received an offer for a financial reporting position for The Associated Press.
For the two weeks that have passed since the interview, I have spent a lot of time in my own head. A lot of time trying to visualize something this wonderful happening. A lot of time praying for it, and trying to think of reasons why I deserved it (that has been the hardest part.)
For the four days that have passed since the offer, I have spent a lot of time in my own head, too. A lot of time thinking that this could not possibly have happened to me. A lot of time replaying the conversation, trying to confirm that I, in fact, heard him right. "Congratulations," the editor said, almost bashfully, before he went into a slew of information about salary, benefits, and other things that I don't remember.
I don't remember because I was distracted with wiping the tears from my face, and feeling weak in the knees.

I know that there are a lot of things that can happen in a span of a lifetime that have a lot more weight than this. I know that there are people, lots of them in fact, that are going through the most difficult of times and yet have been there to support me every step of the way. But right now, I'm taking this in for all its worth.

Reading Between the Lines

Disclaimer: Scout realizes that she has absolutely no business posting this blog; in fact she thinks it may be seriously damaging to her career karma. But it’s just too damn funny to keep to herself. (And when did she begin referring to herself in the third person? Scout is worried.)

People have been dropping like flies in the office lately, either getting fired or finding jobs where the phones work, ceilings don’t leak, and deadlines exist for the well-being of all the cute little editorial drones.

So part of my responsibilities now include sifting through the electronic pile of crap, A.K.A. the 500 resumes we have received for a single job posting. The whole experience has made me realize exactly how competitive publishing is in this city, and how lucky I was to make to the top of at least one of these piles. But I digress.

As I sifted, one of these resumes stood out, but not for the reasons you want to stick out to a potential employer.

Of course, his name has been changed to protect him from the laughing and pointing that would surely commence when people found out what he put on his resume.

Ok, Frank, here we go.


OBJECTIVE: To obtain a position in the field of mass media.

Me: Mmm Kay.

EDUCATION: BA in Broadcasting, Telecommunications, and Mass Media. (Cum Laude)

Me: Ohh, he’s smart. This guy has potential.

SKILLS:

Me: You know, numb chuck skills, bow hunting skills, computer hacking skills….

OK, good. Wait…what the hell???

Just then I saw the reason I wouldn’t be calling poor Frank for an interview. Under a sub-head of “Transferable Skills,” This Cum Laude had listed the following:

Servant-like attitude. Concerned for the good of the workplace and the audience.

Servant-like attitude? What does that even mean? And why are you putting it on YOUR RESUME??????

Poor Frank went on to list:

Proactive, Motivated, Innovative. Works Overnights and Weekends. Ready to Learn.

He deemed the following so important he gave them separate bullet points an increased the font size to about 50.

Functions Well Under Pressure.

My head is feeling pressure.

Willing to Relocate.

Scout really hopes she doesn’t get sued for this, or she'll have to relocate. I hear South America is nice this time of year.

W.W.M.D.?

I woke up on Saturday to find no one home. With three roommates, it just doesn’t happen that often. Someone is almost always passing by, or on her way out or in.

So, to celebrate having my beloved-yet-cramped New York apartment all to myself, I left my bed head the way it was and I dragged myself out of my room to the kitchen where I made pancakes and ate very quietly as to enjoy the full depth of the experience.

I sank deeper into the sofa; I listened to the birds chirping (well actually they were pigeons, and I think they were making so much noise because they had gotten stuck in the air shaft, but this is inconsequential to the end of this blog.)

I could do anything I wanted — as long as I didn’t leave the apartment. I had staked my claim on the place, and for a few hours, I was determined it was going to be mine, and mine alone.

Should I do yoga, or clean my room? Watch a movie, or lie around and read for hours? The possibilities were running through my head as I walked into the bathroom, slammed the door, and like one of those slow-motion movie scenes, went straight for the door handle and realized I was stuck. In the bathroom. With no one home.

Not only has our bathroom door been painted and repainted so many times that it sticks shut, but last week the inside knob somehow became disconnected to the whole apparatus, and it was locking my roommates in like prisoners in solitary.

While we waited for the super to fix it, the temporary solution was to leave the door ajar while we were, ehem, in there. But this time I found myself stuck, and completely alone.

The heat in that tiny room made it feel as if the walls were closing in. So I opened the window and sat on the handy chair provided for me, complete with the frilly seat cover.

I began to think: What Would MacGyver Do?

I grabbed a hairpin out of the medicine cabinet and began to pick the lock. Nothing. Right about now I was kicking myself for not paying more attention to the MacGyver episodes my ex used to watch.

I pounded the door with frustration. Not only was I stuck, but my few precious hours of alone time were ruined.

I thought about climbing out the tiny window. But I live on the fifth floor, and concluded the chance of hurling to the ground was too great to plot escape.

I started to pick at the lock again with a decorative seashell. Still nothing.

After almost an hour, I decided the only thing that was going to get me out was either to scream like a little girl or kick the door until it broke. I did both.

The screaming got a concerned neighbor to come to the front door, only to realize she didn’t have a spare key to our apartment. So while she stood there, helpless in the hallway, I kicked the door until it split clean down the middle.

Soon after that my roommates came home. I went to my room and took a nap.

Richard Dean Anderson, I salute you.