How To Know A Meguire

You can't say you know me well unless you're aware of three things:

1.) I sometimes FREAK. And when I say freak, I mean freak the freak out. And it's usually just escalated venting. I'm usually pissed or irritated about something to the point that I just blow my top. Healthy? No. Definitely not. Is it rare? Yes. Fairly rare. It maybe happens two or three times a year.

I think the most memorable freak was when I was living with Anthony and Steve in the Ballard house. It was my senior year of college and I was in the middle of a six-month-long internship from hell (the very internship that made me realize I'd rather sever my right hand before working in the magazine industry).

Anyway, I got a call from my Managing Editor. And while I don't usually use this label in complete seriousness, she was about 98% bitch.

I drove downtown after 4 hours of class that day. On the agenda? Reading through stacks and stacks of either (exaggerated) stories or fact-check listings. You know, provide two sources that confirm the address is 123 Main Street and the website is www.ihatemyinternship.com.

There must have been something going on along the waterfront that day, some big event, because there was literally no parking. Nothing. I drove around for half an hour and couldn't find a thing. And I'm a pretty good parking-spot-finder. Sometimes I even make my own. Successfully.

And did I mention that I was putting in 20 hours a week at this UNPAID internship that I HATED? And did I mention that my hatred seeped up through the pores on my face? I have never had skin like the skin I had while working (or should we say volunteering?) at this place.

So I call my editor to see what I should do. She doesn't answer. Nor does she call me back. So I go home. I'm not going to waist another quarter tank of gas looking for parking so I can go not be paid to do something I hate. Plus I had planned to make up the hours later in the week.

But of course, I get a call from her later that night, around 6:00. After lecturing me about my work ethic and how the "no parking" excuse was completely unacceptable, she insults my intelligence and my four years of working as a waitress by asking me if I'd "ever worked a real job." She was manipulative, condescending, and 100% bitch.

I told her that yes, as a matter of a fact I've had a job since I was 13 and that, yes, I agree it was a poor decision to not come to work due to parking. I told her it wouldn't happen again and that I would be in early the next day. I hung up my phone.

AND EXPLODED.

Carly and Krissy were over that night... I think we had planned to watch The Office or something... and I LIT INTO THEM. Lit like a Banshee with her hair on fire. My entire face turned red and I was screaming... spit flying... arms flailing like the arms on those massive blow-up figures you see at car dealerships... veins in my neck & forehead popping... screaming "OH MY GOSH" and "WHAT A BITCH" and "WHO DOES SHE THINK SHE IS" and "SHE CAN'T TALK TO ME LIKE THAT" and "I'M QUITTING" at the top of my lungs. I think the people working down the street at Taco Bell heard me. Not to mention the little kiddles next door.

Not the mention Anthony, upstairs in his room, listening to me call this women almost every horrible name in the Urban Dictionary, praying that I would contain my freak to the middle floor of the house. I wouldn't be surprised if he put his chair in front of the door.

Although that probably wouldn't have helped. The amount of adrenaline running through me was enough to lift a car.

And Krissy and Carly, being the friends that they are, sat there. Watched me. Batting their eyes in disbelief (but not surprise), wiping the spit flecks off their faces. And when it was over, they agreed that yes, what a bitch. Now let's watch The Office.

They know me. Knew me at the time. They knew two crucial things about the freak:
1.) I was not yelling at them. I was just yelling because I couldn't not yell. Although I was one crazed lady screaming at them at the top of my lungs, they knew I was just mad, and not mad at them.
2.) They knew it would be over soon. They knew I just had to say my piece, LOUDLY, and that then I would calm down quite quickly, move on, and laugh at whatever Michael was doing on The Office.

And I feel I should tell you: I did not quit the internship. I made up the hours. Kept my mouth shut. And sweated through three more months of fact checking.

Although I did consider hiding poop somewhere in my Managing Editor's office. Preferable somewhere near the heating vent.

And now, two years later, I can say that not going to "work" because you can't find a parking spot is NOT valid. And had I respected the publication, had I felt respected in that office, had I not had a face covered in zits and a condescending editor in my ear, I may have made a better decision.

But live and learn, yes?

I know I said at the beginning of this post that you can't say you know me unless you're aware of three things. And I spent a little more time on number one than I thought I would, so I'll get to the other two tomorrow.

Thanks for reading. I'll try to never freak on you.

And to my dear friend Holly, who says she's had writer's block lately... try a "How to Know a Holly" (it even sounds good!) post. It may bring up some freakish memories... it did for me.