Worse than the total agony of being in love?

So I have been babysitting like the preteens from Connecticut, that is to say, fiendishly and frequently, and last night, I took care of a couple of children from London, based on a recommendation of one of my New York families. I had never met the kids, seeing as how they are in town from the UK, so the little girl in particular was quite curious about my American upbringing and my previous magazine experience.

The mother, based on her friend's reference and information about me (clearly, I haven't seen them in some time), passed on that I work at a magazine. "Ah, well, no more. I don't work there anymore," I said to the little girl. She did not even try to hide her disappointment; I felt like I had confirmed that the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus, Easter Bunny, et al were all FRAUDS whose money comes from sexual favors and drug smuggling (look again at that fairy "dust"). "So what do you do now?" the little girl asked.


I tried my hardest to make answering phones and wiping the spit-up from my younger charges' mouths sounds as glamorous as a weekend aboard George Clooney's yacht. I failed. So on we talked, including my trying to speak in British accent and getting the kids' feedback on its authenticity, until we circled back to the conversation about my employment, or lack of stable one at that.


Please witness the following conversation:



Girl: "What kind of job are you looking for?"



Me: "Well, I would like to work for a magazine or newspaper; I would really like to write."



G: "Why do you want to write?"



M: "I enjoy doing it."



G: "You should do something else."



M: "Like what?"



G: "You can get a different job and just write."



M: "So what do you think I should do?"



G: "You could be a rockstar, be famous, be a joker*. Instead of just sitting all day and do nothing but boring writing."

Such clarity. I think the rules of the game have changed. And to think a 5-year-old imparted such wisdom. I thought about also asking her relationship advice as she is currently juggling not one but TWO boyfriends, who are 16 and 17. But it was time for bed, and I had this to read.

*comedian

Drinking the Kool-Aid

When I was in high school, I went on a couple of trips to Ukraine to teach English. Or really, I went to snobbishly turn my nose up at their consumption of mayonnaise pizza and volunteer to be the trip "photographer" in order to avoid playing the team-building games.

Before these trips, I always stocked up on packets of Kool-Aid Pink Lemonade mix and Equal to fill up my water bottles and swallowed a lot of Pepto to protect my stress-addled stomach against any foreign entities in the water supply.

"You know, we don't even drink the water," I was later told by a Ukrainian native, mid-swig of my pink liquid.

THAT CAN'T BE GOOD.

My immediate thought: Chernobyl, of course! I fully cop to hypochondriacal tendencies, but you skeptics have to admit, picking up some radioactive elements over there is not totally out of the realm of possibility. So the radon, the fallout, it's still in me, six years later, for better or for worse, and there's nothing I can do about it.

I have been in New York for 11 months officially. My year comes up on September 21. And although I am far from a native Manhattanite, this city is in me, and I'm stuck with it, the New York essence if you will (and you will), forever.

The smells- decaying carcass (the 4, 5 at 59th St., I'm looking at you), chlorine (5th Ave. by Bendel's), or the much needed whiff of fragrant flowers outside a local neighborhood deli. The scars from pounding the pavement in unreliable shoes. The marks from mysterious bug bites. The extra girth from this, this, and sure, ok, this. New York is with me. I drank the Kool-Aid.

And I unabashedly feel like this:

I'll be headed down south in a few days for a long weekend catch up with my dear college friends. As delighted as I am for the trip, I know I will be racked with the nagging idea that I am Definitely Missing Out. 'What's going on up there?' 'What am I missing?'

Last time I visited, my friend embraced me and said, "I feel like I'm hugging a celebrity!" (And that was before this). Now I fear they are going to admonish me for my increased profanity slips and for hipchecking the undergrad in Kroger who was blocking my view of the peach Andre.

How Much Do You Want for the Golden Goose?

I was somehow voted "Most Likely to Be Famous" by members of my college graduating class. I'm still bewildered, but it seems my peers' prophecy has come true. Check it out:

photo: Chester Higgins, Jr./New York Times

Yes, that's me, and my friend, Amy. She's the super chic one in the khaki trench, and I'm the one to the left pointing out the 17 varieties of M&Ms at Economy Candy. [The toggle coat adds 25 lbs. Or rather, I am probably carrying a little extra bulk on account of my sugar intake.] But look who made the front page of the "New York Times": this girl!

We were interviewed a week ago Sunday about the increase in candy consumption during the recession. How appropriate! I seem to continually circle back to my one-sided affair with anything sugar-related on this blog.  Apparently, I'm not the only one preoccupied with my sweet teeth these days.

Theories vary on exactly why. For many, sugar lifts spirits dragged low by the languishing economy. For others, candy also provides a nostalgic reminder of better times. And not insignificantly, it is relatively cheap.

“People may indulge themselves a little bit more when times are tough,” said Jack P. Russo, an analyst with the Edward Jones retail brokerage in St. Louis. “These are low-cost items that people can afford pretty easily."

And thanks to all who have texted, emailed, gchatted, facebooked, called, harrassed, poked, telegrammed, sent a messenger owl, etc. to me to alert me of my newfound fame. As Amy said, "this must be what Angelina Jolie feels like." 

If you have any further questions, would like to inquire about public appearances, or are interested in signing me to a candy endorsement deal, then all future correspondence will here on out be directed to my publicist, Lorraine Hornswaggle.

When Economy Sours, a Tootsie Roll Can Still Soothe the Soul [New York Times]