Thursday, July 30, 2009

If I Don't Want to be Your Friend in Real Life I Don't Want to Be Your Friend on Facebook

There, I said it.

Honestly, this is the truth (save for my loyal blogger friends—xoxoxoxoxoxox!).

When Facebook started, it was only a few months into my freshman year of college, and while I was intrigued, I was still in my very high school, "I'm anti-everything and I really don't even know why" mode and boycotted it.

I couldn't see the draw.

Then it became a cultural phenomenon and I had to cave in and get it. But those were the good old days. Back when the scope of Facebook was limited. Now, I've got my creepy uncle on there and my 13-year-old cousins commenting on my photos. And I can handle that, because, hey, they're family.

But what I cannot deal with is people from high school friending me after five years of not speaking to each other. I mean, dear God, we were barely friends then, try adding half a decade of time in there and see how much I don't give a shit.

I guess it is pretty funny to see how much weight everyone has gained, how many children they have despite the fact that they're not even 25 yet, but I just find the whole thing weird.

For example, there was a girl who made fun of me all of the time in middle school. I had perfected the side part in my fabulous hairstyle, kept in place by sparkly butterfly clips and she told me that I looked like a man. This confused me, because, really, what kind of man wears butterfly clips? Also, I HATE YOU. I may or may not have cried in the girl's bathroom that day.

So imagine my surprise when she friends me on Facebook after I haven't seen her or even thought of her in over 5 years. Oh, maybe you forgot about all of the terrible things you did to me, but GUESS WHAT? I DIDN'T. But, thanks, honestly, because it's fun to see how you got knocked up two years ago and now you have a kid and you're working at a bar and living with your mom. COOL.



Wednesday, July 29, 2009

What Does Your Movie Snack Selection Say About You?

Remember when you would read magazines that had articles that could determine what type of man you're destined to marry by what type of gum you chew? Did you ever find yourself thinking, who the fuck is qualified to make these sweeping generalizations? Well, me, I guess.

Check out the August edition of Every Day With Rachael Ray magazine where I tell you what your favorite movie snack says about your personality and then suggest a movie you should see (hint: if you like chocolate, YOU SHOULD SEE A ROMANTIC COMEDY!)

BONUS: I also have an article in the same edition about how to fake sick, get out of work, and go to the beach. Which is funny, because in the year and a half that I've been employed, I've never taken a sick day. And let me tell you—I've been hungover. A LOT. Sick days are for douchebags. Oh, you had too much to drink last night? Get a bagel, some ginger ale, and DEAL WITH IT. You're employed and with that comes a responsibility. And these days, if you don't take that responsibility seriously, you'll have all the sick days you want. Because you'll be unemployed. You dig?

Anyway, if you're the type of jerk who calls in sick, I got some admittedly good advice from an acting coach on how to pull it off.

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Monday, July 20, 2009

Vacation: On a Boat Motherfuckers

Okay, so I know I've posted about 700 times today, but that's just to make up for the fact that I will not be blogging while I'm on vacation for the next week.

But, Amanda, you don't have any money! Where are you going? You may be asking.

Well, it's funny—when you go home, your parents will pay for your plane ticket. When you go to Miami, they won't.

Buffalo it is, my friends. For the legendary Regatta. I will spend the entire week I'm off eating good food, drinking Canadian beer, and sitting on a boat with my nautical themed pashmina afghan.

See you never.

Craigslist: Where the Illiterate Run Things

I'm sure you're probably all sick and tired of hearing about me trying to find a roommate or apartment, but suck it. It's comedy gold.

[Also posted on
Fucked in Park Slope]

Because I can't afford to pay the broker fees, I've started looking for one bedrooms on Craigslist. Besides the repeated, shrill screams from my mother (who watches the news but retains only the headline) about how I'm going to get clubbed over the head with a baseball bat when I go to look at an apartment, it's been really difficult to wade through all of the crap to find a decent listing, especially when all of the listings look like they were posted by Cletus the Slack-jawed Yokel from The Simpsons.

Here are some tips on how to post a good listing:

1. Attach Photos: A picture is worth 1,000 words, but not having a picture is worth three: THIS APARTMENT SUCKS. Anyone with eyes can take at least one photo of their rat-infested hovel and make it look halfway decent, so when there are no photos for me to look at at, I start getting suspicious. Suspicious, and then disinterested. Next!

2. Attach Photos OF THE APARTMENT:
Oh, so the available apartment is located just steps away from Prospect Park (i.e. 17 bocks away). Sounds great! But you know what? I know what Prospect Park looks like. Like I would take one glimpse at PP's lush greenery and say, "Oh, fuck it. Who cares if the apartment sucks. Look at the foilage! And just steps away!"

3. Is your Caps Lock Broken, or are you just illiterate?:
WhEn yOu TyPe Ur LiStInG LyKe ThIs, I doNt WaNt tO LiVe iN yOuR aPaRtMeNt aS MuCh aS I wAnT tO bUrN iT dOwN. Honestly? Why would you type like that? I just typed that sentence and it look me about three times as long because my eyes started to bleed and i had to go get tissues. This is a real title of an apartment listing on Craig's List right now: GENUINeNYCfEEL*INCREDIBLySPACIOUS*VERyWELLkEPT

A GENUINeNYCfEEL, you don't say?! Sign me up! It'd be great to have that lady with the amputated fingers from the anti-smoking signs on the subway as my landlord.

4. Don't Lie About Location: Last time I checked, Bed Stuy is not Park Slope. Also, unless you're going to work via helicopter, it does NOT take 15 minutes to get into Midtown Mahattan. I guess, if you're looking for a bunch of suckers unfamiliar with the area, you'll dazzle them: "Only 15 minutes to Times Square??!?! Wow, I can get to my favorite Italian restaurant soooo fast. Can't wait for those unlimited salads and breadsticks!" But to those who are familiar with the area, you come off like a shyster.

But even though swimming through the deep sea of illiteracy that is Craig's List is terrible, what's more terrible is having to fork over 10% of your yearly rent to some broker named Vinnie.

I'm going it alone.

Wish me luck.

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I don't even know who I am anymore

I found this written on a napkin in the bottom of my purse today.

Apparently, Abi and I were doing some brainstorming.

The top says "WAYS TO PAY THE BILLZ"

The irony is not lost that I'm thinking of selling my eggs on the heels of drinking literally $50 worth of beers.

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Why You Don't Have a Job Part 2980948

Listen, I know I can be an asshole, but the one thing I hated the most when looking for a job or an internship was consulting my college's Alumni Career Network and not getting a single response.

So when I graduated and become gainfully employed (no thanks to those ass clowns over on the alumni network), I joined with the intention of actually responding and doing my best to help if students took the initiative to email me.

Well, several have. I've taken the time out of my (employed) day to respond and offer advice. I even went as far as to set up a phone interview with a recent graduate to give him advice and offer to send his resume to our PR department.

How many of these kids have emailed me afterwards to say thank you? None.

I don't want real card with hand-drawn calligraphy. What I want is an email (that takes two seconds and costs nothing, by the way) thanking me for my time. I'm already well-aware of your unemployment status, so what the fuck are you doing that's so important that you can't take a minute to shoot off an email to someone who tried to help you?

All you have in the media industry is your name. If you're going to get someone to stick their necks out for you when you haven't even met them, you're going to need to do a little extra leg work. I think sending a thank you email is a pretty good place to start.

I mean, really. Where have the manners gone? When my boss gets me a present, the next day, there's a thank you card on her desk. Not because I want to suck up to her (oh pleaze, we're past that), but because I genuinely appreciate that she got me a gift and because it's the polite thing to do.

When you can't even put in a little extra effort while you're looking for a job, that sends a definite message that you won't be putting that much extra effort in when you're actually employed. And who wants that?

So in conclusion, send a goddamned thank you note.

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Monday, July 13, 2009

Moving into My Boss's Office

My apartment hunting/roommate finding struggles have been well-documented here, and now I've decided to move out. But I've said it before, and I'll say it again: looking for a roommate on Craig's List is like trying to talk Helen Keller through an obstacle course.

So, I've decided that I'm going to start slowly moving into my boss's office while she's in meetings.

Here's how I'll do it:

1. Propose the idea of an in-office couch Hey boss, everyone loves an in-office couch. All of the hot shots on TV shows have couches in their office. Don't you want one? You totally do. Oh, what's that? It's not in the budget? Good news. I found one that we don't even have to pay for. It's called my living room couch. It's a sectional, so it'll be great for naps.

2. Speaking of naps... You know what would go great with that couch? A bed. Certain employees here seem to sleepwalk through the day, so why not just let them lay down instead. We'll make a strict NO SNORING rule, so that when people are napping, they don't disturb you while you're trying to work. Hey—this is a place of business, after all.

3. Wardrobe changes!! We both know how stylish you are, so why not bring in a dresser for you? I mean, when I say "for you," I really mean it will be filled with my clothes, but I'm up for sharing (even though you're not my size). It's important for your IMAGE as a busy lady business woman. Think about what people will say when you have multiple "costume changes" throughout the day?! It worked for Cher, it can work for you!
We'll treat every meeting you have throughout the day like Cher would approach a different "number" onstage—a different meeting, a different outfit. Wasn't she just wearing a different shirt?, they'll say. OBVIOUSLY, because you're IMPORTANT. Come to think of it, I better bring all of my clothes from my clothes as well just so you have a lot of options (I hope you like Polo shirts and Clearance items!)

If these things don't work, I don't know what else will, besides sobbing hysterically about how I'm going to be out on the streets.

Come on, Boss—LEAVE ME MY DIGNITY, and let me move into your office.

Love always,


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Friday, July 10, 2009

The Night I Reenacted the Scene from Big (No, not that scene, the one without the piano)

All right, bitchez, listen up. Now, I'm not all for the pretentious stuff. I take the subway every day and drink Bud Light. BUT: sometimes a girl wants to party in styyyyyyyle.

After a work party down at South Street Seaport, Scott and I went for dinner and drinks at The Paris Cafe in the Financial District. Of course, we were drunk and ended up writing all over the paper they put on the table and asked the waitress if she was really Irish (our hypothesis was that she was an "actress" from Massapequa).

We decided that the subway was for suckas and decided to splurge on a cab. While trying to hail a cab, a stretch limousine comes rolling up. He pulled over.

We laughed, and asked him how much and he said "HOW MUCH YOU GOT?"

In unison, we said $30, because that's about how much it would have cost to take a cab home anyway.

He agrees and we are riding through New York City in a stretch limo, with our heads sticking out the sun roof.

I love my life.

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Thursday, July 09, 2009

The Taxonomy of "Ours"

In college, Darby O'Gills, a faux Irish pub in the middle of a mini-mall in between a sex shop and a Subway, was—hands down—our favorite bar. Of course, we were in Poughkeepsie, so it was slim pickings, but that's not the point.

One night, after my standard 287 beers and 3 jagerbombs, I declared to all of my friends that I wanted to have my funeral there.

"Put the casket on the bar, serve pitchers of Bud Light and Irish nachos," I slurred.

It really sounded like the best idea—to me and everyone there at the time.

To this day, I can't hear "Don't Stop Believin" without thinking of our stupid bar in that trashy plaza in Poughkeepsie. We were there so often that we should all be partial owners now, as all of our money we spent over four years of college seemed to be divided equally between Darby's and K&D Deli.

But after I moved to New York, I had about 2 million bars to choose from. This is why people so often move to New York and flip the fuck out—you want to experience everything and end up with a drug problem and $0 in your bank account.

As someone who knows exactly what I like and don't like (like: polo shirts, light beer, jagermeister, and TV crime documentaries; don't like: rainbow flags, Time Warner Cable, and dark beer), I find myself struggling against a pull to go somewhere I know I like and try somewhere new.

Abi and I stumbled (literally) into Dempsey's in the East Village after downing Texas-sized margaritas at our favorite secret shame, Dallas BBQ. We walked in and they were playing obscure Clash songs and we immediately knew that this was going to be our bar. They serve beer to you in buckets, for fuck's sake.

On the table, someone had carved, "What will we do with our lives?" I carved "Everything" as a response. Now as a ritual, each time we walk through the door, we need to sit at our table with our carving on it.

We go there so often for Trivia Night that we've made friends with an opposing team of very, very smart gay men (How did we know that they were gay? They were knitting). We call them "our boys" and promise each other that one day, we will team up and beat everyone in the bar.

We have the menu memorized and when we order fries, we ask the waitress to bring us aioli and not the roasted red pepper or ranch dips. Every time, our request falls on deaf ears and the roasted red pepper and ranch dips remain untouched.

Each Trivia Night, we lose, but win the pity prizes, such as Best Team Name (Trivia Newton-John and Swine Floozies) or (last night) Best Dressed (?!). Last night, the Motown-loving bartender plugged in my iPod and played my Martha & the Vandellas, Marvin Gaye, and The Temptations.

Usually, we're out of the bar after Trivia before midnight, but we ended up staying until 3am. That's an entire 8 hours in one bar.

After going to the bathroom for the 10,000th time that night, I realized that I could recite all of the bathroom graffiti word for word.

I realized that I don't spend this much time at Dempsey's because I don't have any other options, I spend so much time there because I literally love this bar.

Not to wax poetic here, but it's nice in a city where everything seems unattainable, to have a place that feels unequivocally yours. And it feels even better to have a place that feels unequivocally ours.

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Thursday, July 02, 2009

There Goes the Neighborhood

The New York Post is reporting that Sarah Jessica Parker and Matthew Broderick just bought an $8.45 million brownstone in about ummmm 7 blocks from my house.

I desperately don't want to leave my apartment/neighborhood and this just stands as a reminder why I can't afford it.

Maybe I can put in my ad for a roommate on Craig's List that all dumbass, aspiring Carrie Bradshaws only have a 10 minute walk from my apartment to SJP's stoop, where they can sit and fawn over her expensive outfits and hats with feathers on them.

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Wednesday, July 01, 2009

Things in My Fridge/Freezer


1 bottle of BBQ sauce
1 bottle of hot sauce (for Bloody Marys)
1 bottle of Worcestershire sauce
Cheddar cheese
Brie cheese
1 loaf of Bread
Baby carrots (my roommate's)
Blueberries (my roommate's)
1 onion
1 lemon
1 lime
1 pack of Old El Paso tortillas
1 bottle of Coke
1 bottle of Cranberry juice (for Vodka Cranberries)
1 bottle of V8 (for Bloody Marys)
1 bottle of Tonic (for Vodka Tonics)
Soy milk (my roommate's)
Yoplait yogurt
Roasted Garlic Hummus


1 half bottle of Jack Daniels
1 half bottle of Absolut Vodka
1 nearly full bottle of Mandarin Orange Vodka
1 full bottle of Bacardi
1 half bag of ice (leftover from Memorial Day)
Edy's Fruit Bar popsicles
2 Lean Cuisines
Frozen peas
Frozen green beans


My roommate doesn't eat and I have a drinking problem.