Newsweek: The end of an era.

I received not one but two emails today about Newsweek, my very first employer. Since I'm a firm believer in the power of coincidence, I thought this was worth exploring:

1. The first was a Newsweek.com article, forwarded to me by a reader, about the power of fonts. Naturally, I loved it. Oddly enough, the article profiled the history of Gotham, a font which first appeared in GQ, my second employer. Hmm...

2. The second email was about Newsweek, itself, and the 146 employees that were just offered a retirement package. My friend Nancy was one of them.

It got me thinking... about the magazine, the amazing friends and memories I have from my four years there, and how all things must come to an end. In honor of the occasion (though apropos of basically nothing), I've resurrected the Newsweek Office Christmas Story. A lil bit of humor on the eve of the funniest day of the year. Enjoy!



Morning.

Today has been a series of struggles. I struggled to understand what the annoying beeping sound was from 7am until 8:30, when I finally got out of bed. I struggled in the shower, trying to remember what it was I was supposed to be doing in there (did I put the shampoo in already? which knob is for hot?) I struggled, yet again, with getting dressed. There was a moment of indecision, as I debated putting on dirty running socks under my knee-high leather boots or opting for the open-toe look. In the end, boots won out—not because it's mid-December, but because my toenails are so in need of a pedi that I am starting to resemble the girl from Boomerang. And, most recently, I struggled to figure out why on earth the song "Girl From Ipanema" was running over and over again in my head. And then it hit me. Now, as I struggle to form complete sentences, I'm going to try to explain my night to you. Here are the main things I can recall:

1. I left the office Christmas party at 8 to go to Bar 9. Vaguely remember a conversation in which I told the 50-year old director of operations that, unlike the sales reps, I wasn't intimidated by him whatsoever. That I knew he put his pants on "one leg at a time, just like me." And that I refused to cower in his presence. After a long, blank stare, he returned to his conversation with Katie from Atlanta and I returned to my pint of Stella.

2. Proceeded to break up a fight between Chris, the IT guy, and Carlos, the gay circ guy. The fight started when Carlos, drunk off of too many Sea Breezes, barged into my conversation with Chris to ask me, "Why is it that you don't like me? Is it because I'm LATIN?" As if that weren't enough, he then took my hand and, gazing into my eyes, stroked my palm with his index finger. Confused, since he is the gay circ guy, I turned to Chris for help. Oh, but Carlos didn't stop there. He then grabbed Chris's hand and began his palm-stroking, eye-gazing technique. Unfortunately, this did not go over quite as well with Chris as it had with me. Thankfully, a few toughies from the cafeteria staff were there to intervene before things got too ugly. Later, Chris and I shared a moment when he pulled up his shirt so I could look at his unique tribal sun tattoo on the small of his back.

3. Left Bar 9 at about 12:30 and, rather than going home, walked over to Japas 55, the sushi/karaoke bar around the corner from Newsweek. Do you remember that scene from Bridget Jones's Diary where she gets up on stage at her office Christmas party and belts out "Can't live, if livin' is without you..." Yes, well, that was me...only, instead of a beer and a cigarette in my hand, I had a vodka tonic and a few pieces of edamame that I'd taken off of someone else's plate. And instead of that song, my songs included "Africa" by Toto, "Endless Love" by Olivia Newton John, and, yes, "Girl From Ipanema," which I sang with Bill, the 55-year old head of sales development in Chicago. Our stage names were Burt and Betty (because Burt was the name I was choosing to call him all night and I was "such a Betty, ooohhh...")

4. Got home and whipped up a meal of peanut butter on 7-grain bread and carrots dipped in dressing. Not because I was trying to eat healthy, but because I got home so late that there were no pizza places open in a two-block radius. Between that and the bacon-egg-and-cheese I just scarfed down, I am feeling like a million bucks. Melanie has yet to come into work, and I'm starting to worry because last I saw her she was sitting at the bar next to a guy who was singing "Hungry Like a Wolf" by Duran Duran at 2:30 in the morning.

Carry on...