I get to cross another thing off my list of Trivial Things to Do Before I Die!

See, I got this freelance fact-checking gig, and I didn't want to wear jeans on my first day, but it was supposed to be freezing, so I didn't want to wear a dress without tights. But the only tights I have are black, so I couldn't wear my navy or red dresses, and I had already worn my white sweater dress, and it would be really dreary if I wore black tights with my black dress, and I was kind of at a loss. I tried to make something work with this shirtdress, but (a) it needs to be tailored, and (b) it really only looked good with my Michael Kors Buckle Shoes of Death, and I didn't want to wear them, because they're suede and it was supposed to snow. So, whatever, I decided to suck it up and wear my black dress without any tights at all, and just freeze for four blocks before I got to the office. And then I remembered. I OWN LEGWARMERS.

And that, my friends, is how I finally accomplished my goal of wearing legwarmers in public.

Breaking news: Gay people fuck sheep (via Gawker).

Yesterday morning, there was a free Post guy on the same corner as a free Daily News guy, and they totally got into a fight. Tabloid wars! Daily News won, but only because the Post was too busy fucking a sheep.

I went leotard shopping at the Capezio store on Broadway and 57th, and man, do I miss ballet class. Do they have ballet class for grown-ups? I mean, grown-ups with little to no knowledge of ballet? I totally wanted to buy up every pair of pink tights and leather slippers in the store. And legwarmers. I'd like to wear legwarmers just once before I die. That's definitely going on the list.

Okay, so, I'm writing a makeover story. Relevant facts: I have written before-and-after captions before. Also, I have written features (both celeb and non) for the past six issues we've produced, I've been actively pitching stories, and for the past ten days or so I've been doing a lot of the stuff that has to get done (mailing and invoices and file updates, oh my) on top of the thankless editorial (editing syndicated articles and doing product pages). Okay? So. I'm writing this makeover story. It was sitting on my desk with a post-it from the Boss, spelling out what was needed like I was a five-year-old. ("Make it fun and exciting!") I started it on Tuesday, and finished it on Tuesday.

On Wednesday, the Boss calls me into her office all, "Can I talk to you for a minute?" We're having this very serious talk because...she wants me to rewrite the makeover story. She says it sounds too abrupt, like I rushed. Which I did. Because, by the way, this assignment was piggybacked on a packet of two other assignments, which I found lying on my keyboard Tuesday morning, and had to squeeze in on top of the things I've been trying to get done since, like, last year, but haven't been able to because people keep throwing assignments on my keyboard. So, okay. An hour later, she brings in a makeover story from a past issue for me to look at. No problem. I worked on it, added a little more "excitement," and gave it back to her Wednesday afternoon.

Thursday, nothing on the makeover story, so I think I'm done, right? (And coincidentally, Officemate and I spent some time complaining about how we hate when we think we're done with a story, and then like three days later it comes back for yet another rewrite, which is ridicuous because it's like 300 words in the first place. How many rewrites can 300 words need? At that point, it's like, “Boss, just write it yourself.” Because if a 300-word piece needs that many rewrites, either the writer is incompetent, or what you want is for the writer to write what is in your head.)

This morning, the Boss comes into my office, pulls a chair up next to my desk, and said the makeover story still needs work. And proceeds to go over it, caption by caption, and basically re-write it in front of me. Which, again, just write it yourself. So I'm just like, "Mmhmm, right, yes, good," and make a mental note that "excitement" is code for "cliches and exclamation points." And then the Boss goes, "I mean, it's good, but I need to see that you can write for our other magazines..." Me, in my head: What? I've been writing for our other magazines. I've been writing for all of our magazines. The Boss kind of hints around about how it seems like my writing is not terribly enthusiastic or creative lately, which is true, because (a) I get paid crap, (b) I have no hope of advancement and (c) any time I do come up with something creative, it gets rewritten into the same bland crap we always produce, so why bother? (Case in point: the Boss is currently in love with Lucky. She asks Officemate and I to write like Lucky, which she describes as "snappy, one-line captions." Perfect. I know Lucky. Lucky haunts my dreams. So I hand in a piece of snappy, one-line captions in perfect Lucky voice. By the time the Boss is done with it, it’s soupy, three-line, non-cohesive captions written toward middle-aged Midwesterners. Another case in point: the Boss wants a Lucky-style editors’ picks page, and we’re all really excited about that. Cool! That’s new! That’s creative! We can write in our own voices! We can talk about why we like these people! We’ll sign our names and talk a little about ourselves! I can’t wait! So we all go pick out our “hair icons” and hand them in. My personal picks: Keira Knightley and Natalie Portman, because I have relatively short hair and I’m into that becoming a trend. And the Boss and the Big Boss are like, “Yeah, but some of these people are in the magazine already. How about you do Marcia Cross instead?” Okay, fine. So I do a snappy, one-line, first-person, Lucky-style caption about…Marcia Cross. Meanwhile, Officemate and the other co-workers are doing the same about…other random celebrities. We’re all like, “Well, this is significantly less fun, but at least it’s still different.” Until we read the Boss-edited version, which is a collection of soupy, three-line, non-cohesive captions with no names attached. Whatever. More cases in point: the time my fun celeb-style quiz was edited down to yet another “questions you should ask yourself before cutting your hair” item, the time Officemate’s cool fashion piece was turned into a another “some celebrities wore some hairstyles” spread, and every title ever, because the Big Boss is under the impression that our readers cannot utilize context clues and thus a layout full of redheads must be entitled “This Article is Abut Red Hair!!!” or something similar and preferably even more wordy.)

So yeah. Anyway. The Boss hints around that my writing is not terribly creative or enthusiastic lately, and she’s like, “I don’t know if you’ve just…well, look, if I had it my way, we would hire you, but I can't have someone here to just do products and..." Excuse me? Someone to just do products? Look, lady, my memory goes back farther than ten days, so let me point out the myriad of articles—and really good articles, mind you, which prompted the Big Boss to stop by my office and tell me how good they were—I’ve written for you, which were not product pages. What the fuck is that about? Oh, and while we’re at it, she wants me to come up with a different title, too. You know, something with more words in it.