Thursday, January 31, 2008

Encouragement from an Asshole

I believe I've mentioned her before, but of course, she deserves many, many mentions. My favorite high school English teacher was a notorious hard ass. She would rip apart your papers and call you a "dumbass." Literally, say out loud, that you were a dumbass. Once, she told a student that she could "eat alphabet soup and crap out a better essay." Of course, I love her (as a friend). We email every now and then I was just telling her about the perils of job searching. This is what she had to tell me:

"It is all about me remember? I think anytime you are offered a job you should stop, take a deep breath, and ask yourself, "would this ultimately benefit [her name]?" If yes, then the next question is,"How much will it benefit her?" If the answer there is not "a huge amount" then you do not want the job.....I really hope that I don't need to continually explain this to you. I am glad we had this little chat. I feel better."


Wednesday, January 30, 2008

Smart Ass Homework

Okay, so the internship is going well, and the commute isn't killing me as much as last time because I get to wake up at 7am rather than 5:30am.

However, there is one thing that's bothering me. In order to receive credit for an internship at my school, you have to send the internship coordinator weekly journals, answering moronic questions like "who is your favorite person at your internship? why?" and "what are your career goals?"

Bitch, please. I am working 8 hour days, plus a 4 hour per day total commute. Don't make me answer your inane questions. Unfortunately for me, as life usually goes, I can bitch all I want, but I still have to suck it up and write the stupid journals. Also, at the end of the year, we have to write a paper on what we learned. You can read exerpts from my ridiculous paper that I turned in last time here, but read on for the journal I just submitted today. This is in response to the question "what do you expect to learn at your internship, and what are your future career goals?"

"Because I'm pompous and think that I know everything, my main goal for this internship is not to learn anything, but to make several professional contacts that I can use once I graduate and when I begin looking to trick someone into hiring me.

My career aspirations include getting a job as a lowly editorial assistant, and in no time, my superiors will notice my hard work ethic coupled with my zestful exuberance for life and promote me. By age 40, I hope to have already risen through the ranks of publishing, and my career will eventually culminate into taking over a small country."

Okay, so I know that this is totally obnoxious and crass, but you need to know the man that I am submitting these journals to, and then you'll agree that I'm putting in exactly the amount of effort he puts in to help me get internships.

Not only to Com majors have to find their internships completely on their own, they are also met with harsh criticism and a heaping dose of discouragement from our awesome internship coordinator.

When I told him that I wanted to apply for an internship at S&S, he told me to aim low, because I would never get an internship there because I wasn't qualified. I applied anyway, and got the internship. When I took the paperwork to him, he said "Well, we did the hard work, and now you got the good internship." Really? We did the hard work? Sure.

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Tuesday, January 29, 2008

An Adendum to the Previous Post

Last night, I played the DD for our weekly 25 cent wing and kareoke night, mainly because I was tired from waking up early to go into the city and working all day, but also because of my carayzee weekend. And despite the lack of alcohol coursing through my bloodstream, I actually had a fantastic time.

But with a clear head comes a some shocking revelations. Scott, my partner in crime for most of Friday's debauchery, casually mentioned how funny it was to be QUESTIONED BY THE POLICE on Friday night.

Here's my reaction: WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?

Apparently, the bar we were at was raided by the police, and because we all had more or less just turned 21, we were all too eager to show the cops our real IDs. I don't remember the police. I don't remember showing the police my ID. I also don't remember stealing money from my sleeping roommate's purse before we left, but not paying for a cab or what I ate at the diner.

Apparently, I can also add to the list of things I've forgotten from that night is my dignity and self-respect.


Saturday, January 26, 2008

The Adventures of a Memorable Friday Night (from what I can remember)

In an effort to act more like an adult, I tried to class up my Friday night. It started off dignified enough. I was drinking wine. From a bottle. With a CORK. I even ditched my usual hoodie-and-baseball uniform for a nice blazer and fancy necklace combo.

Somewhere along the line, the whole dignifed thing when straight to hell. Let's figure out what went wrong:

My friend Tim and I decide to forgo Happy Hour this week in lieu of something special. I declare that I will make salmon. I tell him to pick up a bottle of

I am cooking salmon and roasting asparagus.

Tim arrives with wine in hand.

6:43pm: I am putting the finishing touches on dinner and I heartily approve of Tim's wine selection.

We are eating salmon and asparagus and discussing the seafood department at Stop and Shop vs. the seafood department at the Amish Market.

The minute we are finished eating, Tim suggests we go get a Mini Keg of Heineken

7:20pm: We are at the beer distributor and looking into buying a quarter keg of Bud Light.

We are shocked that a quarter keg would cost so much AND require a down payment in cash. We go with the Mini Keg of Heineken.

We are back at my house, watching 30 Rock, and discussing how foxy we think Tina Fey is.

We are playing The Golden Girls Drinking Game.

Blanche is such a slut.

Scott arrives and we are impressed that he can fit and entire six pack in his Northface jacket.

The Golden Girls Drinking Game continues.

10:00pm: My housemates are getting ready to go out and recruit us to play never-have-I-ever.

Never have I ever done crack-cocaine.

We finish the Mini Keg.

We drank an entire Mini Keg and a bottle of wine and we are still not drunk enough (or so we think).

My housemate Natalie has had a bottle of Jager in the freezer for the ENTIRE time we've been back and she hasn't even drank it.

We have only been back for a week and a half.

We jack the Jager and leave Natalie this note:

Apparently, I turn gangsta when I'm drunk.

We finish an entire bottle of Jager.

The housemates depart for a ridiculous underage bar that us old folks wouldn't be caught dead at.

We call the cab to go to the bar.

Why isn't he here yet?

11:25pm: HE'S HERE!!!!

I am so drunk I don't even care that the cab is stopping to pick other people up and dropping them off at their destination first.

I announce that the cab driver should be wearing a Marist baseball hat.

I announce that I will buy him one.

11:40pm: We arrive at the bar.

11:42pm: I run into a friend and we hug even though the last time we saw each other was 7 hours ago.

I tell said friend that I like her hair.

Scott and I are standing in a corner and we are telling each other that we love each other.

[memory redacted]

[memory redacted]

[memory redacted]

We are in a cab, on the way to the diner. I did not make this decision.

We are in a booth at the diner.

Our waitress's name is Reggie. Reggie is a woman.

I order "pancakesssswith....strawberrycompote."

Scott orders a beer and I cannot believe they serve him.

Why is the food taking so long to get here?

The food arrives and we scarf it down like wild raccoons.

We are done with our food and somebody pays the bill.

Scott proudly gives Reggie a $9 tip for a $30 check.

Despite the bad tip, Reggie hugs me and asks me if I will be okay.

2:35am: I'll be okay, Reggie.

We are walking home from the diner even though we often get security alerts from campus security telling us that people have gotten mugged and beaten walking home from the diner.

Car #1 honks at us.

Car #2 honks at us.

What the fuck is up with the honking? We're just walking down the street, asshole.

I announce that I cannot wait to move to New York because no one cares enough about you to honk at you.

I am back at my house.

I somehow undress myself.

I am in bed.

So arguably, things went downhill once the Mini Keg was purchased, but I never like to blame the alcohol. That's right, I'ma blame this one on the
Golden Girls. After all, Blanche is such a slut.


Thursday, January 24, 2008

New Job Idea: Adjunct Professor at Marist

Adjunct professors are a topic that I've complained about constantly since my freshman year. As a tour guide, I'm told to play up the fact that we have so many adjunct professors because they have real-life experience, and even better, function as great contacts out in the real world. This theory is just like communism. It's great! In theory. Unfortunately, in practice, I've realized that adjunct professors (at Marist, at least) are largely a band of idiots who have no idea what the fuck they're doing. What it comes down to is, just because you're great at something, doesn't mean that you can teach it. More than half of the adjuncts I've had during my four years here had no business being in a classroom.

Exhibit A: An advertising adjunct professor, who supposedly was an advertising whiz. Really? Because if you're so great at advertising, why aren't you still doing it? Answer that. Every time we'd present the advertisements we designed, he would systematically shoot them all down, telling us ridiculous things that made no sense, like that our ads needed "more copy." Apparently, this guy hasn't looked at any ads since 1975, because nowadays ads are considered to have too much copy if they contain more than five words. Perhaps my favorite moment with this man was when he told us when designing an ad campaign for a zoo to remember that "people don't go to the zoo to see animals." Riiiiiiiight. Oh wait, I take that back. Actually, my favorite moment with this man was when he took 10 points off my final grade because of my "attitude." He said my in-class participation wasn't always in good spirit. Can you imagine that?

Exhibit B: A history professor who consistently looked like he slept in his car all semester and forced me to sing the harmony of the Erie Canal song because I was the only person in the class from Upstate who knew what he was talking about. This guy brought his crazy girlfriend to class, explaining to us that they were on a date and he was trying to impress her. On another occasion, he asked us if a Leap Frog Learning System was a good Christmas present for his 12-year-old daughter. For those of you not familiar with Leap Frog Learning Systems, they're for 3-6 year olds, you know, to help them learn HOW TO READ.

And now, we've got Exhibit C, whose class I'm currently taking. He's no older than 30 years old, an adjunct professor, and a part-time club promoter for the Real World cast members. Today in class, he didn't know what "superfluous" means or how to pronounce it, and worse, he didn't know the definition of the word "candor." You have to question the quality of your college's hiring process when your professor says at the end of class, "Have a good weekend, and if you're free on Saturday night, you should go to Hatter's (a sleazy club), because Johanna from the Real World will be there."

I'm pretty sure that I could be an adjunct professor at Marist. Right now.

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Wednesday, January 23, 2008

Guinea Pig

I started my internship today. I work at the lifestyle magazine of a popular (or as many people have told me, not-so-popular) talk show host (I'll give you one guess), and it was a fun, albeit slow day.

The hours are different from the horrid ones I had at my last internship, because although it doesn't seem like a big difference whether you're working 9-5 or 10-6, for me, it means taking the 8:05am train as opposed to the 6:17am train. This makes all of the difference in the world.

In other news, I tested three different kinds of vaccuums today, and I got to take home the one I liked the best. At a $100 value, you better believe I dragged that sucker ten city blocks, through Grand Central, and onto the train.

Is this my life?

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Tuesday, January 22, 2008

Brokeback OD

According to various news sources,
Brokeback Mountain star Heath Ledger was found dead this afternoon in his NYC apartment of an apparent drug overdose. Authorities have not yet confirmed whether or not it was an accident or suicide. He was 28. Personally, I find this very upsetting, not only because he was so young, but because he was a great actor, finally finding his footing and proving to be a great leading man.

This is a big wah wah, folks.

Sucking the Fun Out of Kareoke

Okay, I lied about spending MLK day solely watching a 14 hour marathon of America's Next Top Model. I also spent this national holiday at Kareoke Night.

Yes, Monday nights have recently become my favorite night to go out because of 25 cent wing/kareoke night at my favorite Irish pub. To a normal, non-alcoholic, non-booze-guzzling college student, a Monday night seems like a ridiculous time to go out and drink your face off, but when you're a student at Marist, virtually every night is a party night.

I think back to all of the golden weeknights of the past for going out- last year, it was Thirsty Thursdays at Darby's, sophomore year, it was Tipsy Tuesdays at The Loft, and freshman year it was I'm-going-to-stay-in-the-room-and-cry-because-all-of-my-best-friends-ditched
me-because-I-told-them-I-was-a-lesbian. Oh, memories. But now, Mondays are THE NIGHT for someone who doesn't want to deal with huge crowds but still wants to get drunk and make an ass of themself (ie: me and 90% of my friends).

However, something has been bothering me and all of my friends about Monday nights, and that thing is PJ THE DJ. As you might have guessed from his name, PJ the DJ is a DJ the bar hires to provide kareoke for all of us drunkards. Now, you'd think that because this guy's profession is to bring some fun to a party that he'd be a friendly, likable guy. Not so much. PJ the DJ is easily the grumpiest person I've ever met who is under the age of 30.

Part of the fun of kareoke is the stupid, spontenaiety of it all, but PJ gets mad if you grab the mic from him or take the sign-up sheet without permission. Hey PJ, if you don't want people to take the sign-up sheet without your permission, why don't you stop going outside to chain smoke every 5 minutes? And shouldn't you want people to sign up to sing anyway? Isn't that your job? A DJ's job is to add an element of fun to a night out at the bar and yet he acts like a douchebag constantly, yelling at us for singing the chorus of "Don't Stop Believing" too soon, and the like.

A prime example of PJ's douchebaggery happened last night, when he prefaced our rendition of "Living on a Prayer" with "HEY GUYS DON'T YOU DARE FUCKING DROP THE MIC, I'M SERIOUS ABOUT THIS." Really PJ? Have any of us dropped the mic before? My friend Tim then ever-so eloquently responded into the mic with "Um, let's just try to have some fun here..."

All I'm trying to say is, PJ, it's drunk kareoke. Let's calm the fuck down down.

Love always,

the drunk girl who always sings 3 octaves over what she should be singing.


Monday, January 21, 2008

Musings on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day

Ah, Martin Luther King Day.

What is the best way to spend this historic day in our nation's history? Going to church? Writing a treatise on injustice? Marching on Washington? BITCH PLEASE. I spent Dr. King's special day watching a 14 hour marathon on
America's Next Top Model on MTV. Wonderful.

I had never watched the show, but I was concious of the homolicious run of Kim Stolz in one season of the show, and lucky for me on the day that I had nothing to do was the day that Kim's season was being aired. ALL DAY LONG. I'm in love.

And I'm pretty sure that everyone at Marist was watching this little marathon, because virtually every TV screen at the gym was on ANTM, and more than two TV screens in our house were trained on MTV all day.

Martin Luther King would be proud.


Sunday, January 20, 2008

I Don't Hate You Cuz You're Fat, You're Fat Because I Hate You

Immediately after New Year's, there are only two types of commercials on TV: a.) those pertaining to losing weight b.) those pertaining to you finding your soul mate [creepishly online].

I don't believe in New Year's resolutions because I think it's pretty ridiculous to lie to yourself, but there is something about a new year that means a fresh start, even though you're still dealing with the same old crap you dealt with on December 31. Thus, I've been brainwashed into attempting to get back into working out. I used to work out pretty much every day, but then Capping happened, and the few hours a day I formerly allotted for physical fitness was taken up by endless meetings and crying jags. But now that I'm rid of capping and relatively unscathed, I'm going to the gym more than I ever have been before.

Part of it is because I have nothing else to do, but the other part is because of the new Expresso bikes that they have at the gym. A strange name, yes, but these bikes kick ass. They're racing bikes with computer monitors where you can ride through different terrain. Not only are the graphics awesome, you can race the person next to you, and they have awesome soundtracks built in, so there's no need to hold your iPod. You can also race against the computer, which is good motivation for someone ridiculously competitive like me (ie: My legs hurt like hell, but I'm not gonna let that asshole computer beat me!).

I'd write more about these bikes, but I'm going back for Round 2.


Friday, January 18, 2008

Life After Capping

The end of last semester was so hectic that I never even got to give you guys the final lowdown on what happened with my terrible, terrible Capping class with Christ. The long and short of it is that we survived. And not even survived, we triumphed. That's right, people. Christ gave us an A. I've never felt more validated.

But in the aftermath of Capping, it's been mighty strange. Quite honestly, I feel like I just broke up with a bitchy, controlling girlfriend. Now that Capping isn't in my life anymore, I have so much free time. I don't play "Last Resort" by Papa Roach on repeat. I don't daydream about being hit by a truck. This is what freedom tastes like.

I'm revelling in it. For at least the next few days, until I start my internship and then I'll be complaining about crazies on the train, high heels, and long commutes.



Wednesday, January 16, 2008

Thank You for Being a Drunk

So I'm back in lovely Poughkeepsie for my final round of college, and I've got two priorities: get a job and get as drunk as possible.

My schedule pretty much kicks ass this semester, and while it'll be hectic, it'll be good. I'll be in the city Mondays and Wednesdays for my internship, I have class from 5:00-10:00pm on Tuesdays, and Thursdays from 5:00-6:15pm. I have Fridays completely off. It's going to rule.

The first attempt at reaching my goal of getting smashed as much as possible occurred on Tuesday night when we played our version of the Golden Girls drinking game. At first, we wanted to drink every time the laugh track came on, but Jesus Christ, that laugh track comes on about every 30 seconds. We decided to go a little bit easier on ourselves, and drank every time:

1. Someone says something sassy
2. Rose mentions St. Olaf
3. Sofia calls Dorothy "Pussycat"

It's a good one.

Monday, January 14, 2008

Writer's Guild Association: Deal or No Deal

Last night, I was flipping through the channels and I came upon two ever-smiling, well-dressed talking heads breezily reading through Golden Globe nominees and announcing the winners. It took me a good 10 minutes to realize that this rapid read-through was taking place of the usual Golden Globes ceremony.

NBC cancelled the Golden Globes due to the on-going writer's strike. My first thought was Jesus, is this still going on? In the words of Rodney King, can't we all just get along? My second thought was what will I do without Joan and Melissa Rivers's pithy commentary about dresses? (do they even do that anymore? Is Joan Rivers still alive? Whatever.)

Of course, I support the writers, but don't you think it's been going on long enough? And is writing even really needed for the Golden Globes?
Here's what a typical introduction to an award is:

"From a 400 pound woman in Baltimore to a stupid movie about a country singer with a pet monkey, here are the nominees for best actor in a musical or comedy."

Why didn't someone call me for Christ's sakes? The show must go on, people.

This strike is ruining everybody's lives. And I'm not talking about the fact that us schmoes can't watch 30 Rock (which I am, for the record, very upset about), but it's upsetting the delicate balance of the entertainment world. Let's think about it. This strike has been going on for 2 months now and those of us at home have barely noticed it because it's been the holidays and we were too busy drinking egg nog and suffering through office parties, but there are real people who have been affected. And it's not just the actors who can't wear pretty dresses and make drawn-out acceptance speeches, but the little guys. The production assistants, the Kraft service workers, the hairdressers, the teamsters, etc. There are real people out there running the risk of being evicted or turning to a life of wanton prostitution all because some mega-corporation and a guild can't come to an agreement.

And normally, I'm not one to feel bad for celebrities, but there are also a lot of people who have been nominated for the first time and didn't get to revel in their Golden Globe glory. I take it personally that I didn't get to see my Tina Fey accept her meaningless statue for Best Actress in a Comedy Series.

This is why I'd be a terrible member of a guild. Not only am I not down with the group mentality, but I'd get bored and restless. What are you doing if you're not going to work? You're not watching TV, that's for sure.

So I've come up with a way to make everyone happy. All of the members of the WGA go on NBC's wildly successful Deal or No Deal. All of TV's favorite stars will be the suitcase holders. This way, they all get to wear the beautiful gowns that they planned on wearing to the Golden Globes. Then, the WGA is offered a deal. They can take it, or not take it, but whatever the outcome, they have to agree to go back to work and I get to swoon over Tina Fey and Mariska Hargitay just like I did before.

Deal? Okay, good.

Friday, January 11, 2008

Dear 13-Year-Old Amanda...

So I've seen this done before, but Heather wrote one that made me want to copy the idea. The idea being to write a letter to your 13-year-old self. I could go into great detail about all of the stuff I should avoid and everything, but I've really just got one thing to say to my pubescent self.

Here goes:

Dear 13-year old Amanda,

In two years, when you go to Capello's salon to get a haircut, please DO NOT get your hair cut short.

You are not Halle Berry, you are not Winona Ryder. You have a gigantic, round, pumpkinhead and will never look like anything resembling attractive with really short hair. This haircut will not only look horrendous, but it will tip everybody off to the fact that you'll avoid until you're 18. That's right, moron, YOU ARE GAY.

Love always,


Wednesday, January 09, 2008

Oh, the Humanity

I'm really cynical, which usually translates into my general disdain and hate for mankind. However, sometimes I'm caught off guard by someone being overly friendly or polite. I'm so used to the blank faces and mumbled responses we all get when we're out in the world that when someone is genuinely friendly and nice I automatically suspect them of some wrongdoing. If they're a stranger, they're going to mug me. If they're a co-worker or an aquaintence, they're going to mug me. Basically, I'm scared of getting mugged.

But really, I think it's a sad commentary that when someone actually smiles and acts friendly or goes out of their way to help you, we're all taken aback because it's such a random occurance. This is one of the things I love the most about Buffalo. In general, people tend to be friendly and personable.

Today, I was asked by my boss to go pick up lunch for the office. The order consisted of a gigantic party tray full of sandwiches, and then two 2-liter sodas (or since I'm back home, two bottles of "pop"). The cashier not only was friendly and attentive, he carried the party tray out to my car for me. This guy was not looking for a tip. He was just being nice.

I imagined being back in Poughkeepsie or anywhere else for that matter, and the situation would be vastly different. The cashier would grunt at me, take 10 minutes to ring me up, and then watch me struggle with the sodas and the tray before I inevitably dropped it on the ground outside. Not in Buffalo. Uh uh, no way. That kind of attitude and customer service comes second-nature.

Or maybe it was because I was picking up an order for "Ani DiFranco." Who knows.

Monday, January 07, 2008

Things You Didn't Need to Know About Me

1. I see the floor as one big shelf and I use it as such. Thus, everything I touch ends up on the floor at some point. My roommate doesn't like it so much.

2. The other day, I was watching "True Life: I'm Obese" on MTV and I was so grossed out that I not only stopped eating lunch but immediately went to the gym as well.

3. At work yesterday (I'm back at Righteous Babe while I'm at home), I quoted comedian Maria Bamford, saying "I think that if I were to fulfill my potential, it would really cut into my sitting around time." My co-worker responded, "I think that if you fulfilled your potential, THE UNIVERSE WOULD EXPLODE."

4. While discussing the absolute ridiculousness of Shania Twain's big hit, "Man! I Feel Like a Woman!" at work, I discovered something. The "best thing about being a woman" is not "the perogative to have a little fun," but moreso the fact that you can use ridiculous and untrue stereotypes to your advantage. Examples would include "Don't ask me, I'm just a girl! (giggle)" and "Can you carry this? It's too heavy!" In situation A, you know the answer to the question but don't want to take accountability or do work, and in situation B, you can totally carry it, but don't want to exert yourself. Man, I feel like a woman [douchebag].

Saturday, January 05, 2008

What My Mother Thinks of You

At the end of every semester, I print out my favorite photos from the months passed and put them into an album and then force my parents to look at them. Ridiculous
photos of me wasted on the floor aren't spared. My parents and I have an open relationship. So open, that it turns out that my mother had three martinis tonight and that explains why when she looked at the pictures, she didn't recognize any of my friends that she's met many times before. So after some verbal prompting, she let me know what she thinks of everyone she saw in the pictures.

"He is so handsome. Look at the two of you here. You guys would be such a cu
te couple if you weren't a LESBIAN." Then, she hedged and said, "Although, have you ever noticed that he always has red eye in pictures? LIKE HE'S THE DEVIL."

Gabe: "He's so adorable. He's a young Steven Spielberg." (I don't know what that means)

Abi: "Who the FUCK is she? She is GORGEOUS. She should be a MODEL. She is so BEAUTIFUL." (When I told her she works for some handbag designer in NYC, she told me to tell her that she's gorgeous and to get her an "orange handbag"

What my mother thinks of me: "You look terrible in yellow, why do you always wear a baseball hat, your arms are too muscular for a woman..."


Friday, January 04, 2008

Apparently "caucus" is synonymous for "ridiculous"

I've known for awhile that the Iowa Caucus is a big deal. It helps determine who will be the two major parties' front-runner in the primaries. But no one told me what a caucus actually involved. I was horrified to be an American when I saw how the Iowa caucuses are run. In LIVING ROOMS. When the candidate you're supporting doesn't get an overwhelming majority of votes, it's up to the rest of the people in the living room to convince you to switch your vote to one of the front-runners. This is when it occurred to me that I've been to a caucus before. So have you.

Remember that Saturday night at your friend's house when you reeeeeeeeeeally wanted tequila but your friends thought that you should go with beer instead (citing your proclivity towards blacking out and throwing up when you drink hard liquor). You pouted, you got belligerant (because let's face it, you already took 5 shots of vokda before you left for the party), and then finally decided to just give in and go with beer because of peer pressure.

And THAT, my friends, is what happens during the Iowa Caucuses.

Let's hear it for democracy.


Wednesday, January 02, 2008

Pretty Much

...except I don't do drugs.

Happy new year everyone! Let's never speak of 2007 again.