Friday, November 30, 2007

Tales from the Office Drones (pt. 1)

I tend to save emails, especially funny ones. The great thing about email as opposed to a blog is that I can be a lot more candid in email than on the blog because I'm paranoid that someone important is going to find my blog and I'll never get a job.

That's why I've never really written in detail about any of my internships. However, I was just going through some old emails from the summer of 2006, and some of these were just begging to be shared with the world.

Ohhh, the summer of 2006. We were 19 and my roommate Christine and I had just begun our first internships, I at a small regional magazine in Buffalo and she at a health resources publisher in New Jersey. We were so optimistic back then; bright eyed and bushy-tailed. Oh wait. No we weren't. We were actually even more sarcastic and cynical than we are now. Chalk it up to corporate training. Gotta at least be 10% PC.

The following are email chains between us from that time. I'd like to post more of these on a semi-regular basis, so be on the lookout for more.

May 14, 2006 9:32am
From: Amanda

To: Christine

Dear Christine,

How's your summer going? Mine's great! Basically, I spend my days sitting in an office, at a computer, watching the best years of my life slip away by each tick of the minute hand on the clock. Don't worry, though. It's fine.

Actually, it's not all bad. I have my own office! Most of the time, I stare out the window and laugh at the drunks that are staggering by (it's kind of a bad neighborhood).

Today I literally have nothing to do and I was thinking about telling my editor that I had a gynecologist appointment and I had to leave early. Sure, I could say a dentist appointment, but I like to make things good and awkward.

How are you?

May 14, 2006 9:46am
From: Christine
To: Amanda

Can you please not send me funny emails at work, cause its obvious that I’m not laughing at something work-related (healthcare grants, foundations, hospice news, women’s health professional, etc) and my cubicle only has one wall (aka I’m sitting in the middle of the room).

So I think I’m gonna start freelancing for this anorexia magazine I found. And I’m still trying to get a second job. I’m playing phone tag with some lady with a weird name at the bank, and I thought I should volunteer, because I told my mom I want to save the world instead of make money.

May 14, 2006 10:14am
From: Amanda
To: Christine

So I laughed out loud when I pictured you sitting in the middle of the office, laughing at me. I think the lady in the cubicle next to me hates me because I'm loud. Even my typing is loud. I'm a furious typer. The lady in the cubicle next to me works on the "Forever Young" magazine which is a magazine for old people. You should work on that, it's right up your alley. They write about things like cancer and prostates.

You wanted to save the world? You're like that person who wants to be a doctor but faints at the sight of blood. Oh wait I wrote that joke and then I realize that you faint at the sight of nothing. Way to be, Panicky McGhee. (Hey, if that was insensitive, I apologize in advance)

NOTE: Christine is known to have a panic attack or two. I'm known to react rather insensitively to them.

Stay tuned for more from the office drones, circa 2006.


Wednesday, November 28, 2007

What Am I Doing With My Life?

Were you wondering what I was up to today? I'm assuming you were, at least a little, since you're reading my blog. Oh, I was just SPEED INTERVIEWING. I've been into the city for 3 consecutive Wednesdays to interview for internships. It's starting to cost a lot of money. So, I attempted to stack them up so I could do them all in one day. Here are movements:

I started out at 30 rock, (yes, that 30 rock) interviewing at NBC and let me just tell you that even the slightest chance that I would be able to work for, around, or even in the same building as Tina Fey or Mariska Hargitay makes me want to squeal with delight and jump up and down like a six year old.

Then there was Comedy Central and let me just say it was probably the coolest office I've ever been too, from both a design standpoint and from a quick people observation stand point as well. I've always been the "funny one." Maybe it's a calling.

Anyway, it was a mad dash in between appointments especially since they were lighting the goddamn tree in Rockefeller Center and every tourist and their mother (literally, their 70-year-old mother) was wandering around aimlessly and the police were blocking off traffic. DEAR GOD, PEOPLE. GET OUT OF MY WAY. I haven't even lived there yet and I'm already such a New Yorker.

And now, my friends, I play the waiting game.

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Tuesday, November 27, 2007

My Life is Ridiculous

My roommate Christine and I have always said that we'd like to live our lives by our "what ifs." This basically means that we cook up ridiculous scenarios, usually us responding to a problem in a non-PC, unrealistic way and revel in our fantasy alter-egos doing these things. We restrain ourselves from actually doing them because a.) we don't want to get arrested and b.) you really can't go around doing and saying whatever you want (anyone who knew me from high school would be gasping right now- yes, your "Most Likely to Tell it How it Is" has gotten a little soft). And then, some of the what ifs we come up with aren't really things we would do at all, just things that if they actually happened, life would instantly be whole lot better. For example, I had to call ABC/Disney to set up a potential interview and before I called, I said to Christine, "What if I called Disney and Mickey Mouse answered the phone?" Who am I kidding, they'd never put Mickey in HR.

This whole scenario lends itself to the fact that I tend to do things based on what would be funny. As I'm moving towards an adult life, this outlook is not proving to be very wise. But come on, it's all about having a story to tell, right? Is that shallow? Who cares.

So now I'm presented with perhaps the most ridiculous situation I've ever been privy to, and what's more is that it could actually happen if we wanted it to.

My friend Kari, scarf maven extraordinaire, is dating a guy she met when she was abroad in London. This guy just happens to be in the Royal Army. This guy just happens to be attending a ball this weekend at Buckingham Palace. The Queen and both Prince William and Prince Harry will be there. WE COULD GO IF WE WANTED TO.

Let me repeat that. I could go to a ball at Buckingham Palace this weekend.

Her boyfriend's army friends need dates. Kari told me that I could definitely pull off being straight for a night, as I "totally tricked her freshman year." I have no doubt that I could pretend to be straight for an evening, what I'm more concerned about is getting a ball gown.

Wow, that's a sentence I never thought I'd write in my life. Seriously, if you know me, I consider "getting dressed up" as putting on jeans, maybe a nice sweater, and leaving the baseball hat at home. But if I'm going to a ball at Buckingham Palace, I need a ball gown. And not one from Macy's. I don't want to be that crappily dressed American. I'm already embodying the American stereotype of being loud and uncouth, I should at least look nice. I guess it's a no go.

But could you imagine if I actually went to a ball at Buckingham Palace? What if I did shots with Prince Harry? What if I lost my glass slipper? What if I had glass slippers? What if I could actually find a way to walk in glass slippers? What if I made fun of Prince William's ever-growing bald spot? What if I got kicked out of Buckingham Palace by the Queen?

I am on what if overload, people.

In my dreams, this is what would happen:

Kari, we need to book this flight.

Sunday, November 25, 2007

Something You Couldn't Get on Black Friday

When first getting to know my BFFFF Kari, I was surprised to learn two things about her.

1.) She was rated among the top 10 female golfers in the state of Connecticut
2.) She weaves things on her own personal loom

Let's think of the people you would think would have a loom. Are you thinking of them? If you're like me, you're thinking of an old lady from 1790 with gray hair and a bonnet. Even in 1790, weaving on a loom was reserved for grandmas.

So nowadays, I guess weaving on a loom is reserved for grandmas and Kari. She's started a scarf selling website and let me just say that these scarves are awesome Christmas presents. Back in the day when Kari actually got me real presents instead of gag gifts (my personal favorite was a Barbie doll in a blue gown that was supposed to represent me, the resident "Ice Queen"), she made me one of her scarves and I love it. It's soft, it's warm, and they come in a multitude of different colors. So
check 'em out and buy one for yourself and your loved ones.

And if you're on a shopping spree, mosey on over to Barnes and Noble dot com and
pick up a copy of my book. Better yet, buy two.

Saturday, November 24, 2007

Tales of the Turkey

I come from a long line of chefs. My parents owned a restaurant. My grandparents owned a restaurant. I worked in the kitchen of the local Country Club for nine years (I started when I was 14- child labor laws? What child labor laws?). Needless to say, I like to cook. It's IN MY BLOOD. Thus, there are certain things that I do when I make meals for myself. For example, I only use kosher salt. No, I'm not Jewish. Iodized salt makes food taste like salt. Kosher salt brings out the natural flavors of the food its put into. I'm not saying you're a bad person if you use iodized salt, I just think you're a simpleton (JKJKJKJK). I also refuse to buy guacamole, pesto, etc. when I can make it myself, the way I like it. That said, while I am a food snob, it's important to note that I definitely eat my fair share of microwaved Totino's pizza rolls. Regardless, my housemates are always sniffing around when I make dinner for myself, declaring everything I make "gourmet." This is the reason why I was chosen to make the turkey for our house's Thanksgiving dinner.

I had never bought or cooked a turkey before, and I was nervous. I called my father a million times and he took me through the whole process of what it would take to cook a 15 lb. turkey. I went to the store with my roommate and purchased a frozen turkey. My father instructed me to leave it out to let it thaw a few hours at a time and put it back in the fridge afterwards. So, on Friday night, I took the turkey out and went to happy hour. While at the bar, I drunkenly requested that my friends remind me to put the turkey back into the fridge. Before heading to the next bar, we made a quick stop at my house and I tended to the turkey. The next morning, I took the turkey out again for a few hours while I gave a campus tour.

Throughout this process, I was amazed with how quickly the turkey seemed to be thawing. Then, I got an interesting call from my father. It seems that he was puzzled by the fact that I said my turkey had only been thawing for a few hours and seemed to be unfrozening itself at a rapid pace.

My father: Amanda, look at the turkey you bought. Does it say FRESH on it?
Me: Yeah, so what?
My father: So what? You're thawing a THAWED TURKEY, you dumbass.

Great. I'm officially an idiot. Hoping to save face and not give everyone food poisoning, I asked my father if I would kill everyone if I served them this turkey. I mean, come on. I just met these girls a few months ago and I already freaked them out by drunkenly wandering into their room, tearing off their sheets and unplugging their computer wires (apparently, I sleepwalk. Who knew? Not my housemates, that's for sure). I'm already batting a 10 on the creepster scale, the last thing I need to do is give everyone botulism. He told me it would be fine.

The turkey cooked for a grand total of six hours on Sunday, and it came out well. And no one died. Alls well that ends well!


Monday, November 19, 2007

Gimme a Hand

About a week ago, I was taking an exam in one of my classes. As my mind was drifting, I turned to look at the girl who has sat next to me, twice a week, for the past 3 months and I noticed for the first time that this girl DOES NOT HAVE A HAND.

No hand. Not just no fingers. She has no hand. It's a wrist, and that's it. For me, it's not the fact that she has no hand that's unsettling, it's the fact that I've sat next to her for so long and didn't notice.

How could I not notice something like that? Am I that self-absorbed? Maybe so, or maybe I'm too busy ogling my gay professor (she's so dreamy). All I know is that once I noticed the girl had no hand, I completely lost any interest in the exam, and began to wonder what it would be like if I didn't have a hand.

1. Anytime anyone asked me to "give them a hand" with something, I would chastize them. "You want me to give you a hand, huh? THAT'S WHAT HAPPENED THE LAST TIME."

2. Everything I ever did would be declared that I did it single-handedly. "Here I single-handedly cooked this delicious meal!"

3. Anytime anyone who clearly has two hands declared that they did something single-handedly would be exposed for the fraud they are.

I'm going to hell. In a HANDbasket.


Friday, November 16, 2007

Annoying Interviews

Lately, I've been going on a lot of interviews for internships for the Spring, and of course, I have a lot of things to say. But I'm not going to be stupid and name names, so here's some general observations.

Usually, I don't get nervous on interviews because I got really nervous on one interview last year and almost completely blew it. Like I couldn't stop tripping over my words- that's how bad. Anyway, I thankfully recovered in time and was rewarded with the best.internship.ever. at S&S. Some people might interpret my red face and profuse sweating as a sign of nervousness, but it's really that I am wearing a full suit and I just entered a warm office from the cold and forced to talk to a stranger about my credentials.

One thing I've also learned about being interviewed is that HR people are usually only a few years older than me and they have no idea what to ask you anyway, so they ask you general canned questions that are impossible to answer.

My favorite: So, tell me about yourself.

Really? I was asked this question on Wednesday and I laughed and said, "Ummmm I like hanging out and listening to Dave Matthews." They didn't laugh, so I recovered by saying that I'm a really social person (read: I'm a drunk). It was at a major PR firm, so I'm pretty sure that being sociable is a plus, regardless of how much I suck down beer and vodka while I'm doing it.

First of all, it's insanely difficult to sum up your entire being within a few sentences. Second of all, probably the best things about you are things you don't want to tell a stranger, let alone a stranger who is going to help further your career. If a lay person were to ask me to describe myself, I would say "I'm a really funny/sarcastic lesbo control freak with an attitude problem." Wait, that's not very flattering. Oh, who cares. Actually, I don't think I have a big attitude problem, but I do want everything to be done the right way (ie: my way). My way just usually happens to coincide with other Type A personalities I've met while interning (ie: adhere to deadlines, show up on time, DO YOUR JOB, etc.).

Another favorite interview question of mine is "tell me some of your strengths and weaknesses." Of course, you could go on and on about your strengths, but what about your weaknesses? You're being interviewed for a position that you'd probably like to get, so you're never going to give an honest answer, such as "I'm really belligerant, I can't get along with anyone," or "I'm late all of the time, and I really don't give a shit about anything," etc. So the interviewer gets bullshit answers that aren't really weaknesses at all, like "I work too hard."

Basically, I suppose the main purpose of interviews is to be able to weed out the people that aren't sane enough to pretend that they're together for 20 minutes at a time.


As my father would say, I've got "a lot of lines in the water," and I'd like to think that I'm adept at tricking people into thinking that I'm not a jerk, so hopefully something will pan out. Although, I'd also like to think my jerkiness is endearing. My boss at S&S told me on my last day that she will "miss [my] sarcasm." I replied, "Yes, I am hilarious."

And modest. Never forget modest.

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Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Let's Jump off the Mid-Hudson Bridge

Just in case you guys were wondering how the whole homework thing is going...

(Note: brilliant drawing from the mind of Asher Sarlin)


My Wallet's Empty like Paris Hilton's Head

It's been said that college is the only place where you can drink five days a week and not be called an alcoholic. When you graduate and get booted out into the real world, you have to keep your partying to a minimum. In the meantime, the collegiate pursuit of the party is insatiable, especially come senior year.

Senior year is when we all freak out and realize that this is our last year to be irresponsible, make bad decisions, drink until sunrise, and eat basket after basket of Irish nachos at Darby's. We all have a sense that we're running on borrowed time, and so, we got out constantly. This is ruining my life. I'm broke.

I've been going out so often I can actually hear both my liver and my wallet pleading with me to stay in for once and give it a rest. I think it's gotten to the point where if my parents wanted to get ahold of me and I wasn't answering my cell phone, they'd call Darby O'Gills and they'd probably find me.

But all of this partying has a price. And I'm paying, all right.

I ain't got no money.

Donations would be greatly appreciated.


Monday, November 12, 2007

Attention Everyone: Facebook Can/Will Ruin Your Life

It seems like at least once a year, we get an email from Career Services, warning us about the content of our Facebook profiles. I currently have 647 photos tagged of me on my profile, and I guess I don't need to tell you how many of them show me in a sober frame of mind (maybe five). Do my future employers really want to see me dressed up as Flava Flav? I mean, if I were an employer, I would think it was funny, but I can see how they would see a ridiculously large photo journal of my drunken shenanigans as some indication of irresponsibility and incompetence.

That said, they all went to college. They know what goes on. They just want don't want to see photos of you tanked and laying on the floor as your friends draw penises all over you in permanent marker (that, for the record, hasn't happened to me- but I will admit that I helped do that to someone). Thus, Facebook made it easy to have your cake and eat it too. You can post ridiculous photos of yourself on your profile, but only your friends can see it. Then, you can create a limited profile for other people who might not want to see you surrounded my empty shot glasses and wearing a pink crown that reads "I'M 21! BUY ME DRINKS!"

My boss at Righteous Babe friended me on Facebook recently, and even though I love her dearly and feel that we have a pretty open working relationship (ie: when I posted a bulletin she asked me to write, she sent me an email that said "Amanda-
I see you got it up. HAHAHA..."), I decided that she didn't need to see my entire profile. Limited profile it is.

So with all of these privacy features at your fingertips, I think that if you're stupid enough to have a public profile that tells the entire world that you love to smoke blunts all day along with a photo montage of you engaged in various other illegal activities, you deserve to get busted.

Case-in-point: a story I stole from
Gawker that legit made me laugh out loud for a good five minutes.

Apparently, an intern at Anglo Irish Bank's American division emailed his boss, telling him he'd miss work due to a "family emergency." Well, the intern was stupid enough to either have a public profile or
worse, been Facebook friends with his boss, who saw the recently posted photo of the intern from a Halloween party he missed work to attend. The hilarious boss attached it to his reply to the intern, copying the rest of the office as he did it. The emails and the incriminating photo are below:

Cool wand indeed. I love it.

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Sunday, November 11, 2007

Top 10 Reasons Why I Can Tell I Hate You by Looking at Your MySpace

1. Your background is some big obnoxious photo that makes it impossible to read anything you have written on your page.

2. If you have excessive glitter and animation on your page. If I have a seizure upon looking at your MySpace page, can I sue you? I'm looking into it?

3. If you'd like to meet Ghandi, Che Guevera, Martin Luther King, Paris Hilton, and Britney Spears.

4. Usually, I use people's bad grammar and inability to make the proper distinctions between "your" and "you're" and then use them in the correct context as a way to discredit them, but with increased time spent on the internet, I can give people a pass because OMG I abrev a lot 2. But here's an exception: If YoU tYpE LiKe ThIs aLL tHrOuGhOuT yOuR pRoFiLe, i'M pReTtY sUrE yOu'Re a FuCkInG iDiOt.

5. If you really think that famous celebrity checks their own MySpace page.

6. If you're 36 years old and dedicate song lyrics to your significant other. You live together. Tell them yourself.

7. If your job is currently a cashier at McDonald's your claim of making $150,000 isn't fooling anyone.

8. If you leave comments with photos such as this one:

Comment Buddy
MySpace Thanks For The Add Comments
MySpace Comments

9. You're not a swinger. Stop it. Don't be ridiculous.

10. If you're not smiling in any of your pictures. Cheer up, little buddy. It'll all be okay.

Okay, so this is a little angry, and of course there are exceptions and I know that good people make mistakes, but if you said "hey, that's on my MySpace!" for more than three of these points, I'm pretty sure I hate you. Sorry.


Thursday, November 08, 2007

Kill Me Please

Freshman year, I signed up for a political science class with a man with the last name Vavrina.

I did this so I could say his name when referencing the class to my friends. When I was at class, my away messages would read "class with the vag" or something else that referenced the vagina.

Unfortunately for me, it's clear that I haven't matured since Freshman year. This is because I thought it'd be cute to sign up for a capping class with Professor Christ. Haha, I thought. I'll be judged by Christ! Literally! What fun that will be!


Note to self: Stop making major life decisions based on what will be funny.

For those of you outside of the Marist bubble, a "capping" class is basically the equivalent of a senior thesis. Every senior is required to take it in order to graduate and I really didn't understand why I always heard seniors complaining about it.

Get over it, I say! How hard can it be?
Pretty freaking hard, it turns out. We're creating a travel guide for college students and after spending an hour and a half laying out ONE PAGE, things look pretty grim.

We're gonna turn water into wine, bitches. And then drink the wine. And then get no work done.

This is going to be a disaster.

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Wednesday, November 07, 2007

I Don't Like Geraldo Rivera, but...

A video has surfaced of Anna Nicole Smith, eight months pregnant, face painted, and drugged up a month or so before she died. It's incredibly sad. That's really all I have to say. Watch for yourself:

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Monday, November 05, 2007

Poughkeepsie Hoodlums

On, Ma
rist is defined "a college in New York attended by white, preppy rich kids from New York, New Jersey, and Connecticut who were popular and social in highschool, making everyone at Marist stuck up and crazy. It's located in the sketchy town of Poughkeepsie, and a typical Marist student can be identifed as a polo shirt wearing, SUV driving partier. "Dude, my collar's popped and my ID's fake, let's go to the bar because we're Marist students!"

That, of course, is a broad characterization, but I'm not going to deny that it's basically true. I mean, I have a ton of polo shirts. In addition to this, I've discovered that on the Princeton Review people also talk trash about Marist and the surrounding Poughkeepsie area. Of course, I think Poughkeepsie is a dump, but Rhinebeck, Hyde Park, and New Paltz are awesome, so come on, people, give us a freakin' break. The local Poughkeepsie area is definitely something to be desired, and generally called home by the type of people who do their grocery shopping at the Dollar Tree.

For some unknown reason, the residents of the town of Poughkeepsie hate Marist students (probably because we're a bunch of snobs who refer to them as trash). I really don't understand this because we bring tons of money into the area. Without Marist, Vassar, and the Culinary Institute, Poughkeepsie would be in dire straits. In addition to boosting the local economy just by living here for the majority of the year, Marist organizations also do a ton of community service, because God knows this town needs it.

The most recent example of the community service Marist provides Po-Town residents is trick-or-treating. Basically, the city is so bad that residents have asked permission to bring their kids to trick-or-treat at the upperclassman townhouses. Of course, the Resident Student Council who was setting the whole thing up, came to my house and I said I didn't want to do it. All of my housemates look at me like I'm some big asshole and sign us up to give out candy. It's not that I'm a Grinch, I just don't want to be bothered.

So the trick-or-treating happens and then we get a security alert saying that a Marist student was mugged. Apparently, some high school delinquents came to all of our houses, took our candy, and then punched a student in the face and took his iPod.

Stay classy, Poughkeepsie. Stay classy.

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Sunday, November 04, 2007

Schmaltzy TV

My roommate and I have had this conversation probably a dozen times, but I just can't stop talking about this. I really can't understand why certain TV shows feel the need to have their main character do a nice little voiceover at the end of each episode to sum everything up.

Grey's Anatomy and Sex & the City are the main offenders in this phenomenon. Every episode ends with Meredith Grey or Carrie Bradshaw giving some lame ass analogy that ties the episode's events into a broad (idiotic) observation about life, pain, or shoes.

Sex & the City would end with something along these lines:

"Sometimes life is like a cute pair of shoes. You see them in the window and they look great. You think they're what you really want. But after walking around for awhile, you realize that the shoes hurt just like life hurts. Life is painful, just like a pair of really great shoes. But hey, you should look on the bright side because the grass is always greener there."

Suddenly, all of these quotes filled with cliches and meaningless platitudes are in everyone's AIM and Facebook profiles. Let me tell you this right now: life is not like shoes, people.

In my life, when I get a C+ on my paper about the significance of corn in Native American religion, there's no internal monologue telling me some crap suggesting that maybe average isn't really average. Maybe our views of being average are like an anchor, holding us down. Hell no. My internal monologue says "Oh, fuck" and then I head off to the library to rewrite the goddamn paper.

This is why I think shows that end abruptly like Nip/Tuck are more accurate portrayals of life. Observe:

Julia: Sean's not Matt's father, you are.
[cut to Christian, looking shocked and confused]
Roll credits

Beautiful. You don't have soul-searching soliloquys in life. Life happens, you complain about it, and then you go grocery shopping. In short, most people don't have time to sit around and wax poetic about everything that's happened to them. They have shit to do.

Now let me just say that I met Liz Tuccillo, one of the head writers of Sex & the City in the green room at the CBS Early Show and it was clear to me in the 10 minutes I spent with her that she was really smart and witty, so I'm pretty sure these writers know how cliche the episode ending summaries are. They're writing what we want to hear, because there's comfort in being handed a bunch of answers, no matter how empty they are.

Fun fact: Nobody has the answers. Not even Carrie Bradshaw.

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Saturday, November 03, 2007

Homos on My Tours

Okay, so it's kind of embarassing how much I've been dyking it out on this blog lately, but gay issues just keep coming up in my life. Now you're all probably saying, hey, Amanda, gay issues keep coming up in your life because you're a big lez! Yes, that is true. But I'm from the school of thought where I'm not shouting from the rooftops that I'm gay because 1.) it's obnoxious and 2.) I'm just not your rainbow flag waving, parade marching homo. I'm not Rosie O'Donnell, dammit, I'm Ellen Degeneres.

However, I feel kind of like a fraud when I'm giving campus tours to kids who are clearly gay. I mean, I think I'm clearly gay and that's probably why they end up picking me over all of the other tour guides they have to choose from. That, or my dazzling smile. Either one.

But I find myself in conflict when these kids are silently/subtly asking me if Marist is as conservative as it's reputation reports (read: "Am I gonna get my ass kicked if I come here?"). The answer isn't clear cut. Marist is a conservative campus, and there are like zero out gay people here, but that's not to say that you can't be gay at Marist and have an amazing time. I'm an example of that. But I'm weird. I don't feel the need to constantly surround myself with gay friends and I don't want to be in a relationship with someone just for the sake of not being alone. This is why Marist works for me, but it can be hard as a gaymo here if you want to have a huge gay dating pool or if you want gay people to actually be the majority in the LGSA.

So this morning, as I'm watching the prospective students and their families choose their tour guides, the typical jerk father comes up to me and this is how the conversation goes:

Dad: Bill O'Reilly went to this school. I love that guy.
Me: Yeah, I'm gonna have to say that I don't.
Dad: Oh, that's okay, you know what they say. If you're not a liberal when you're young, you have no heart. If you're not a conservative when you're old, you have no brains.
Me: Yeah, I'm gonna have to say I don't agree with that.

First of all: REALLY? I met you 30 seconds ago and you're already insulting me. This is going to be a great tour. And then I noticed his gay son, wincing in the background. Poor little guy. The best part is that the father is probably so clueless to his son's obvious sexual preference that he says crap like that all of the time, unaware that he's letting his kid know that it's not okay for him to be gay. Fantastic.

So all throughout the tour, my gay spidey sense is tingling, and I realize that this kid is trying to communicate with me. When we're touring upperclassman housing that has a bunch of posters of scantily-clad men on the walls, his father asks if this is my house. I say, "Um, definitely not." Gaymo is the only one in the group who laughs. It's a laugh of recognition. We're both homos.

Later, in the library, his father asks me if I ever go to Vassar. I say no, and Gaymo says "Yeah, it's a different kind of student that goes to Vassar, right?" I laugh, and say "right" and actually WINK at him. Who am I? Dear God.

Towards the end of the tour, we pass a kid who I know is gay, who's voice totally gives him away, who happens to be talking loudly on his cell phone. Gaymo whispers to me, "That kid is me, right?" Basically asking me, if that kid is gay. I say yes and then talk about thrifty cash and Marist Money.

After the tour, I wanted to take him aside and have a real discussion about it because it was clear he wanted to talk, but how would I actually pull that one off? What would I say? "Hey, conservative Mom and Dad, why don't you go look in the bookstore while I talk to your gay son about the odds of him getting laid at this college are?"

Instead, I say nothing.

Welcome to Marist.

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Friday, November 02, 2007

Intelligence Abound!


Thursday, November 01, 2007

Things I'm Currently Obsessed With

Katherine Brooks: I've watched the handful of so-called lesbian movies that are in existence and they're all awful at best. And all of you jerks that are my real-life friends, and want to give me shit, I'm not talking about porn, I'm talking about movies that center around lesbian characters.
Rose Troche's self-righteous Go Fish was so awful I shut it off half way through it. Then there's Bound, which was not only had a terrible, ridiculous plot, but Meg Tilly's voice is so annoying that put the movie on mute for most of it. Kissing Jessica Stein was witty enough, but oh yeah, the girl goes back to men in the end. I watched D.E.B.S. in my Women in Film class, and while Jordanna Brewster is especially attractive, the asinine plot line of a bunch of girls going to spy school to help save the world from evil put me in a quandry where I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. This was a drawn-out way of saying that lesbian film blows.

Enter writer/director Katherine Brooks. 2005's Loving Annabelle
was her first time directing anything other than reality TV and while the plot of a female teacher having an affair with her female student sounds like a porno plot, it was anything but. It was brilliant. And she's hot. And gay. She's already written another script and is about to begin shooting, and she's documenting the process via hilarious video blogs. Basically, I'm in love.

The Wishful Writer: I stumbled on this blog somehow and all I can say is that she's really really funny and I've spent the past few hours I should have been in the library reading all of her back entries.

"Present/Infant": My roommate once asked me if I thought it was weird that I have posters of my boss all over my room. Or that I wear clothes with my boss's name on them. Most people would say yes to this. But most people's boss is not Ani DiFranco. Listen, man, I was a fan first. Her new song, "Present/Infant" is awesome and I can't stop listening to it.

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