Pardon My French

I don’t like quitting anything that I do. It’s a value that was instilled by my parents from a young age: “If you make a commitment, you must stick with it and you must try your hardest to do the best job that you can.”

But, I knew it was time to throw in the towel at my part-time job recently when I realized how crazy it was making me feel. I decided it wasn’t worth the trouble for a measly $8 an hour.

The business owners at this nameless frozen yogurt place are a couple that’s new to running a store and plan to “learn as they go” as one of them put it. They didn’t know how to make schedules, which made scheduling my own life very difficult. We were never given more than a week’s worth of scheduled information at a time and this was always emailed to me Sunday night, the evening before the start of a work week.

I always needed the first Thursday of the month off, so that I could cover local a local government meeting for the Ledger. This was a time commitment that I made clear from day 1. My boss always forgot and would put me on the schedule regardless. When I would mention the conflict, he told me that the schedule was already made and I needed to find someone to fill in for me. It was then my own problem trying to find someone who could fill in the gap.

The owners were very trigger happy with firing other employees for, what I would like to say, were not great reasons. These errors in either judgement or in protocol were mistakes that could have been corrected with a simple comment or warning to never do (blank) again. When these people were fired, they were not replaced, and all remaining employees were expected to pick up the slack.

I started working 6 days a week, sometimes for as long as 10 hours per shift. My boss started putting me in charge of training the newer employees, without any careful guidance on how this should be done. I was often afraid that I was missing something, worried that an employee would later to say to my boss “But, I was never taught that” and I would be held accountable and fired. During these training shifts, because I was left with an inexperienced worker, I wasn’t able to leave the cash register unattended and therefore couldn’t take any breaks.

I was routinely expected to make sacrifices and take on responsibility more than anyone else who worked there.
For instance, I always received shipments, ensuring that we had everything listed on the delivery forms, organized and dated product, and put it all away, usually by myself. Later, I was officially given managerial duties, but there were only select times and dates when I would receive manager pay.

More than once I received a paranoid call from the owners during a time when I was not working, asking me where missing money was. They would hint heavily that I was a key suspect, threaten to fire people if the money was found and then slam down the phone. I was never guilty of taking money, and there were cameras all over the store to prove it, but the calls were still stressful. Later, during work hours, it would casually be mentioned in passing that the money was found. It was usually never actually missing in the first place. The owners had just miscounted the money.

I was continually spoken to in a condescending manner and it was rare when I did not feel overworked, underpaid and underappreciated. I always got a sense that was time was not valuable to these people, but their time was the world.

I called it quits sometime last week after a really long and stressful day at the job. It began when my boss changed her tone of voice, I imagine, because a journalist from a local woman’s magazine, who was writing an article about her, was standing next to her. She talked to me like I was a servant, barking orders at me, yelling at me for not doing things that I have never been expected to do.

I said the words “I am going to file my two weeks notice,” but apparently, they took that to mean that my resignation went into effect immediately. I liked the concept of having a flame under my ass, two weeks to look for work while I was still employed. That, I think, is the only regret from this whole experience I have.

Since my time at this frozen yogurt shop has ended, I’ve gotten two job interviews. I’m crossing my fingers and hoping for great things.

In conclusion, I’m going to take these last few months as a learning experience, just like my dad says I should.

I saw them as ordinary words. The kind that didn’t belong to anyone in particular, used by everyone, every single day in all languages across the globe.

The words “Beautiful Stranger” were unwanted stand-bys, too cliche’ and tired to hold any kind of deep meaning. And yet, somehow, when paired with my work they took on an entirely different meaning, perfectly conveying the tone of what my journalism project is all about–a passionate person’s inside look at the real people wandering the streets of Los Angeles. That’s why I decided to adopt them as my own.

My sources expressed a fondness for the title and I grew even more attached.

That’s why I was so frustrated and disappointed when I recently had to change it.

I received an email earlier this week from a woman named Abby Wallach, the owner and founder of a website called BeautifulStranger.TV, in which she respectfully requested that I change the name of my blog and URL address.

Apparently, she owns the legal right and trademark to the full name and all variations of “Beautiful Stranger” worldwide.

I consulted with Media Law Professor in the Journalism Department at CMU, Timothy Boudreau, who told me that Wallach does have me–on a technicality. The terms of the trademark revolve around commerce–and while I am not selling anything–my website ends in dotcom. These days, anyone can have a dotcom site, whether they are a business or not, but the written rules aren’t quite caught up, yet.

I did some research and learned that the grounds for a trademark lawsuit are based on the fear of an ordinary person confusing the two websites or thinking that one is associated with the other.

Because our websites are so different (hers is a video fashion site that pushes the sales of the clothing, accessories and beauty products) and because an ordinary person would never just stumble upon my website if they didn’t already know where to look, I know there’s no way anyone could ever confuse the two.

My project is based on my passion for journalism writing and story telling. I don’t get paid in any way and I’m not attempting to sell anything.

I couldn’t help but feel that her ordering a name change was unjust and it was a bit cruel of her to single out the little guy who clearly is not in direct competition with her in any way.

I have a Google alert on the words “Beautiful Stranger”, which means that every time someone out in the blogosphere used those words, I received an email notification of the occurrence. This means tons of links were brought to my attention every single day.

This trademark happens to be the name of a popular pop song (by Madonna), is used every other day in the headlines of web news articles and is in the URL of probably 15 percent of the iGeneration’s old Myspace accounts.

The example I used with friends and family to express my frustration and confusion was that I felt that this incident is like someone naming their newborn baby daughter Tiffany and then stating that no one else on Earth can call their child by the same name.

It’s been a very challenging week for my nerves.

I’ve had to change my domain and remodify my page, changes that took weeks to get exactly how I wanted them. I again had to call on my friend, web designer Erol Ahmed to help me get everything straightened out.

Phil installed a redirect on my site so that anyone who tries to visit BeautifulStrangerLA.com will be rerouted to http://PerfectStrangerLA.com. I’ve ordered new business cards and changed my Twitter account–neither of which was a challenge. But my Facebook Fan Page was definitely a test from God.

It turns out that the Facebook Page technology isn’t advanced enough to make simple edits to the name of the page or to change the category that it falls into.

I had to remake the entire page and start my fan following over from scratch just because I needed to rename it.

After I remade it the first time, including all of the data about my project, I realized that the category the page was filed under was not correct and I had to scrap it and begin again.

When I wanted to message all friends of the “Beautiful Stranger” page, I couldn’t find the option to message all followers and so I contacted all 133 people individually. Later, when I discovered that there was such an option, my head nearly exploded.

The more I think about it, the more I feel that the name change to “Perfect Stranger L.A.” is more fitting for the project. I’ve checked online registries for Trademarks online and haven’t come upon anything with the name. I’m looking at it as though this is a fresh start with a new name and I’m excited by all of the possibilities.

I’ve vented out all of my frustration, I’ve picked up the pieces and I’m moving on. I just hope that I never have to go through anything like this ever again, as this was not only a huge inconvenience, but it also meant I lost something that I consider to be part of my identity.

First impressions count.

It’s a 101 level fact of life that showing up to the job in professional dress is very important. But, I’ve learned that the time put into appearance prior to leaving the house can potentially make the difference in whether or not sources will trust you– It increases your credibility by reassuring these people that you are a professional who cares about her work.

That’s why, since the dawn of my career, I’ve always gone with the more conservative get ups when I head out to hit the pavement.

That is, until recently.

I’m continually finding, through the Perfect Stranger project, that I have needed to make some exceptions to the normal, everyday rules in order to earn the trust of the people of Los Angeles.

While there is something very legitimate about a suit, the all business look tends to turn some people off. There are out there who have slipped through cracks in the system, whether that be failures through social work, welfare, education or economy (employment). Others have resisted it entirely. When I’m all dressed up, these people seem to think I’m mocking their differences, misfortune or life choices or they assume I’m some sort of drone of the establishment.

That’s why I’ve decided to back it down a bit. When I go out (and, mind you, I never really know when I’m going to find someone interesting), I try to dress somewhere in the middle. These clothes aren’t the ratty T-shirts and dilapidated Chuck Taylors I wore in my younger adolescence, but they’re not made of pin striped patterns or satin, either.

I’ve already noticed a difference in how I’m received.

I slept through my first earthquake.

This was slightly disappointing to me as I’m both fascinated by and terrified of earthquakes. Since we moved here, I’ve been excited to experience the ground shaking first hand. (A friend, Paul Bartunek, who also lives nearby has said on more than one occasion: “they’re actually quite fun”)

But, missing out was to be expected.

1.) I’m a heavy sleeper and the quake hit in the middle of the night and 2.) It was 4.4 in magnitude, which is relatively small.

Phil was restless, late Monday night and early into Tuesday morning. He came in shortly after the tremor hit, woke me up and asked me if I felt it. He said the room started to slowly “wobble.” It was moving, he said, but he was moving with it. It was almost as if a large truck drove by. It wasn’t violent and lasted only a few seconds.

The tremor wasn’t strong enough to knock anything over or to startle sleeping Kiwi, my on edge little cat who panics each time she is unexpectedly pet or picked up, but, it was a quake that a lot of people were reported to have felt–they said it felt like a “strong bang” that woke them from their sleep.

According to an LA Times article entitled “4.4earthquake jolts the L.A. area” (a story that would be more accurately titled “4.4 ‘magic fingers’ the LA area”) The epicenter was 10 miles southeast of downtown Los Angeles in Pico Rivera, and the quake was felt as far away as San Diego and Ventura County.

I’ve read that earthquakes with a magnitude of 4 are quite common in Southern California and can occur every month or two. But, every time I hear about an earthquake in California, paranoid whispers about “The Big One” immediately follow.

That made me wonder: should I also worry about this “Big One?” Does a small quake mean a sign that a larger one is coming? The rumbles came from right underneath Los Angeles, a very populated area– just how screwed would we be if a 6.0-something magnitude quake were to hit us?

It sounds like yes, smaller quakes have hit before devastating earthquakes, but that’s not how it works every single time. And, on the note of consistency, it’s really impossible to make any sort of predictions about earthquakes, ever.

Also, anything over 6.0 on the Richter scale is going to do some serious damage. You just gotta hope that you’re in the right place at the right time when something of the magnitude hits.

Something both interesting and awful about residential Los Angeles is that the tone drastically changes from street to street.

You can be in any given neighborhood, standing on a corner where two streets come together, and the one to your left may be dirty and potentially dangerous, while the street to the right appears to be well maintained, obviously housing residents with a higher socioeconomic status.

This is what made finding a suitable place to live so difficult.

The FOR RENT and NOW LEASING signs weren’t hard to come by and countless Craigslist ads were added to the website everyday. We had been staying with Phil’s best friend Nick Hurwitch and his roommate Josh Kade at their apartment in Silver Lake while we searched for a place to live. We woke up every morning with the goal to find a place to live and worked hard all day long, but it still took us a solid, challenging week before we found our apartment.

Despite knowing exactly which neighborhood we were interested in (Los Feliz) and even after we quickly learned the area, the search was unpredictable. We found the ads on Craigslist, called and waited for calls to be returned, scheduled appointments to meet with the property owners and real estate agents, but until we actually walked through the place, all we had to go on was based upon the description and what we saw in the attached photos. And seldom did the place look how we imagined it would.

We quickly learned that there’s a lot to learn when apartment hunting via Craigslist:
1.) Not all places in LA come with refrigerators and stoves. If the listing does not include appliances, the apartment most likely doesn’t include them.
2.) Use of the word “Clean” (usually accompanied by an asterisk) is a for sure indicator that an apartment and/or facility is NOT clean.
3.) Try to find a place that pays your utilities for you. It’s an easy way to save some money month to month.
4.) “Pedestrian Friendly” is a relative term.
5.) Ask a lot of questions, even questions that seem obvious, before you take time to go visit a place: “What kind of apartment is this?” (Studio/1Br/2Br/Etc.) “What’s the cost to rent?” “What’s the flooring like?” “Do you have any renovations?” “What is the square footage?” “Are you pet friendly?” “Do you have AC? Appliances? Closets?”
6.) “Single” is the equivelant to a studio apartment. “Bachelor” is smaller than a studio apartment.
7.) Craigslist isn’t the only website out there. There are places like MyNewPlace, Windows Live Expo, and HousingMaps (which is actually just a Craigslist-Google Maps mashup) that I never knew about until after we got settled into our apartment. Josh told us about Westside Rentals, which is a pretty thorough listing of every vacant apartment in the city. It’s a 60-day subscription for $60. (Some people apparently sell their premium on Craigslist for a cheaper price after they’ve found what they’re looking for.)
8.) Sometimes it’s just better to hit the streets. If you know what area you want to live in, look for orange and red FOR RENT signs and LEASING banners and take down the numbers of the places that look affordable.
9.) If you see a place you like, jump on it. The nice places never stay on the market for long. A lot of this is about timing and luck.

Phil told me I was being too picky. While land lords and realtors would leave the room a moment to go track down credit check papers and leasing information, I’d turn to Phil and wrinkle my nose.

“What’s wrong with this one?” he’d sigh, his wide sweeping hands, finger painting a large, imaginary canvas of frustration, shock and dissatisfaction that I hate yet, ANOTHER apartment for no real, concrete reason.

“There’s bars on the windows,” I’d point to them. “Who puts bars on their windows unless they have someone to keep out?”
Phil: “Caitlin, there are bars on EVERYONE’s windows.”
Me: “There weren’t at that one place we looked at earlier today.”

It turns out that a lot of places around here do have bars on the windows. But, that doesn’t mean it still doesn’t make me feel uncomfortable. I should also mention that my apartment doesn’t include bars on any windows and neither do any of the apartment buildings on my street.

I’m grateful that Phil was so patient with me. Looking back, I did have a ton of concerns:
-I hated all carpet. Even if i was new and not spotted with stains, the colors made the place look dingy and unwelcoming.
-If the place was “too far”, in my immediate opinion, from a local downtown, I didn’t want to live there.
-I wanted noticeable diversity in neighbors and nearby residents.

For awhile our curse was finding a really nice apartment in an iffy neighborhood followed by an iffy apartment in a really nice neighborhood.

TWICE we got lucky and found beautiful apartments that we really liked but, they were given to someone else.

In instance No. 1, his was the very first apartment that we came upon. It was a large one bedroom with brand new appliances, ceiling fans, central air, paid utilities, a newly remodeled French Normandie styled kitchen and hardwood floors throughout. It was in a gated outdoor complex and was situated beside a courtyard. Because it was the very first place that we looked at, we had no frame of reference for what apartments in Los Angeles were really like.

We ran a credit check and decided to think about it. The place had everything we wanted, except the gated parking. Off street parking was intimidating at this point. There was no guarantee that you could get a spot, it seemed, and we had fears of our cars being broken into. Phil decided to haggle with the property manager, asked him for break on rent, since parking wasn’t included.

He said he would call us right back, after he talked with the property owners, and let us know how it went. Two hours passed and we still hadn’t heard from the guy. By this time, we had looked at a few other places and had decided that we really wanted it. By the time we got a hold of him, again, he had given it to another couple, who had showed up shortly after we had attempted to haggle and paid him in cash.

The second apartment was a really heart breaking loss for me, mostly because we spent so much time waiting to hear if we got it. I fell in love with it right away. It was a cozy apartment situated over the top of a store front in a quaint little area called Atwater. It had gated parking, was pedestrian friendly, quiet and had a view of Griffith Park.

The paperwork confused us. There were very detailed questions about income and the amount of money in our bank accounts. Because we had essentially drained our accounts for our move to LA, it looked as though I didn’t have any money. I had been filling out the credit reports up until this point, because I have immaculate credit while Phil doesn’t have much, yet. But, because of the nature of this particular form, we decided to have Phil fill out the paperwork in his name, instead.

It took two days for the realtor to call us back and inform us that we didn’t get the apartment. By the this point, I had gotten very excited about this particular place and had my heart set on it. When I learned that we didn’t get it because we were outshined by another prospective renter’s credit score, I immediately jumped in let him know that I have immaculate credit.

He agreed to re-run my credit–that It took him another two days for him to finally let us know that we didn’t get the apartment–because of our cat.

I had harassed this man everyday, about whether or not a decision had been made. The Kiwi subject came up more than once. In fact, the realtor asked me every time we spoke “do you have a cat?” The facts that she is declawed and short haired were always mentioned and she was deemed in the clear. We would just have to pay a small deposit, he had said. It was apparently an issue for “the investors”, this particular realtor told us, from the get-go.

We found our apartment a few days later by walking through an open house. It’s a nice, fairly spacious one bedroom in a large apartment building called Los Feliz Club, one block away from an Ann Arbor-like stretch of coffee shops, boutiques, restaurants and bars in Los Feliz. We have central air, access to a pool and work out facility, a balcony, a rooftop view of the city, gated parking and live in a building with people who are close in our age range.