Going Blue Collar—Mayo's Adventures in Construction Management

Next week, one of my nightmares is coming true. I'm going to be working for my parents's construction company.


Shocking, but not necessarily a bad thing.

For those of you who don't know, my parents run JR Construction Corp and are exclusively contracted to work for Columbia University. Much of my childhood was spent on Columbia's campus, lugging compound cans, sweeping and generally following my dad.

After high school, I focused on a career in media because I wanted nothing to do with this construction career. "Construction isn't for girls," my mom would say. I didn't need any convincing—my plan was to go to college, get my English and Journalism degree, and live in TV land.

Like so much in life, things didn't go according to plan. TV was exhausting, and then I was laid off from my web job earlier this year. All this did teach me a lot, especially that manual labor isn't so scary or so gender-specific. When my apartment had to be renovated, I was happy to pick up a drill and learn how to reinforce sub-floor. I lugged drop cloths with a smile, and hauled cans of garbage with a skip in my step. If I was going to be kicked out of one field and thrown into another, at least I could try to put on a happy face about it.

So from Thursday to Wednesday, I'll be an official construction job manager while my parents jet off to Spain. I'm going to wear the company jacket, put the walkie-talkie hook on my jeans and get some dust in my hair. I'm going to practice my Spanish with my dad's employees and do my darnedest not to get any parking ticket.

This, my friends, should be funny.

A Face That Makes You Want to Talk to It—Or At Least Ask It for Directions

Look at this face.

Sure, I'm generally cheery, friendly and nice to be around. I may look like I at least believe some of the stuff that erupts out of my mouth.

But there's one thing I can't figure out.

I can't see where on my face that it says "ASK ME ANYTHING AND EVERYTHING, AND PLEASE SHARE YOUR LIFE STORY WITH ME AT THE VERY INSTANT THAT WE MEET."


Don't get me wrong. I do NOT wish that I looked like a ripe old hag (though if you asked my husband on the wrong day...he'd say I play the part quite well). I am guessing this invisible-but-somehow-detectable neon sign on my face has been there forever, but it hasn't been so obvious as it has been these past few weeks.

Every day—without fail—I am asked for directions. Doesn't matter if I'm a block away from my house or 150 miles outside the city. It's not like I travel to tourist traps daily, and it's not like I don't get lost. But for some reason, people think I have the answer. The people asking me these questions range from born-and-raised New Yawkers to travelers just passing through town.

Friday night, I was getting off the 1 train at Canal Street. "Hey, hey, psst psst, you...," the guy barked at me. I tried to ignore it, especially since I'll be damned if I'm going to be "psst psst" at. I'm a lady. Why is "excuse me, miss" so hard?

"Hey hey, do you know where Broadway and Church are at?"

"I'm not sure, unfortunately. Let me get out my map."

"A map?" he balks. "What, you not from here?"

So this thing that can't even cordially address me for help is judging me because I need a map of Chinatown? Why did I even bother to help?

"I am, excuse you, but I'm not Rain Man and I don't have every street in the five boroughs memorized. What, are YOU not from here?"

And before he said the words, I knew what the answer would be: "Yeah I'm from here but not this area. I'm from Brooklyn."

Wonderful. I guess that can be everyone's excuse for being rude and having a bad sense of direction.

I pointed out in my trusty Manhattan Diary 2009 that Broadway and Church don't in fact meet, but he and his lady companion should start walking west on Canal. She seemed to have a clue, though she didn't say a word in this entire exchange. Yes, you can assume that he couldn't tell which direction west was, but I proceeded to my destination anyway.

Jump to Saturday morning, as I'm on my way to meet a pregnant friend to go shopping for baby shower gifts. Not half a block out of my house and I get hailed down again. "Hey you...," again with the rude salutation, but I ignore it because it's a woman with a baby. Pregnancy brain is just about the only valid excuse for starting a conversation so rudely.

"I've seen you around the neighborhood and I like your purse," she said.

"Thank you," I said. "It's so nice to talk to someone who speaks English in this neighborhood."

OK, maybe this one was my fault. By being friendly and trying to talk about the neighborhood with this woman, I opened the floodgates. In 15 minutes, I ended up learning her entire life story and part of her medical history. I won't go into details here, but let's just say I learned things that took me 10+ years to learn from other friends. She was super nice, but I was not prepared to learn about this woman's reproductive system, racial views and economic status while I was running to go buy booger suckers and nipple pads at Buy Buy Baby. The conversation ended amicably (somehow with me agreeing to start a campaign for racial sensitivity in the neighborhood) and we exchanged numbers.

I am not a misanthrope (well, not in the Larry David sense), but I do wish that I didn't appear to have SUCH an open invitation for dialogue on my face. If that were the case, then maybe I'd finally make it to my intended destination on time or get all that writing done on the subway. Until then, I'll just settle for not being mocked for using a map.

WNBC's Sue Simmons likes a liquid lunch...just like the rest of us

Maybe it's all the "Mad Men" I've been watching lately. Maybe it's the fact that I completely understand a working girl's need for a stiff one (a DRINK people...get your minds out of the gutter) during the work day. But this story about WNBC anchor Sue Simmons makes me giddy.

LX New York asked the local news legend if she would get loose after a newscast. Not only did she admit to going clubbing between shows, but she also said she used to drink. This is now the headline on Huffingtonpost.com.

Are we so sure she stopped?

This is a woman who cursed on live TV (no doubt at some stagehand who had put too many olives in her 6:05pm martini) and still kept her job. Here's the video to remind you:


This is a woman who also spent a few years with America's favorite curmudgeon, Jack Cafferty. Now, I worked with Jack Cafferty for a few years and though he's actually a very nice man in real life, he is occasionally prickly...to put it nicely.


This is also a woman who has fallen off her anchor chair...


And a woman who regularly does an impression of Punxsutawney Phil every year...


Is anyone surprised at this point that this woman likes her special sauce?

As much as I rip on news outlets focusing on the dumb stories I actually find this one amusing for one reason: It shows that news people are human. Not only human, but also sometimes not-so-great humans who need a drink like everyone else to erase the emotional sludge that accumulates from working a day job.

And if you work in local news for most of your life—-reporting on murders, rapes, fires, break-ins and car chases for 90% of your career—-there's a good chance that you just don't give a frack anymore. And that's OK.

So the next time you see Anderson Cooper or your local newsman, hand them a bottle of vodka. At least the execs won't smell it.