Lady Crush

So I have a MAJOR new lady crush. Seventeen has "meet and greets" between new artists and interns such as moi (though I have to pretend I'm an editorial intern and like I have some idea what they are talking about) and today's artist was the singer/songwriter Caitlin Crosby. If she's not the epitome of SoCal boho I don't know who the hell is...she almost got me thinking I could pull off an over the forehead headband! Until I looked in the mirror. Gross. She was SUPER nice, shook hands and introduced herself to all of us....

...and then I went all sorority recruitment on her ass. Oops? I quizzed her about where she was from, what L.A. was like...blah blah blah. She didn't go for my suggestion that we switch places so I could spend the rest of the winter in California and she could just live here. Weird. Note to Self: don't interview someone while they are already mid-interview. Scratch that-just refrain from speaking AT ALL TIMES. Just shut your trap! For instance, when she tells you that she went to speak at a National Girl Scout convention about body image, DON'T go on and on about your bazillion-ish years as a Girl Scout until her pretty little blue eyes glaze over and crickets are now the background music. Whatever. We are totally BFFs, and the best part is that, being from L.A. and all, she knows a ton of hot actor guys! (I didn't ask her this, we just watched her music video and she said it was all her guy friends in it.) Suh-weet!

But seriously-her music is wonderful and she is making it her personal mission to promote healthy body image for young people, which I'm all about. Click on this post's title to watch her music video!

Charmin or Angel Soft?

When deciding to become an intern in New York (doing two internships, at that) I
thought I understood that grunt work was the name of the game. Errands, coffee runs, making copies-it's called working your way up, people! And, being an almost college graduate while doing so, I hoped that I could blow those other eighteen year old wimpy interns right out of the water. Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong.

Now I must admit, I've gotten a bit spoiled at Seventeen. I've yet to go on a coffee run, have made an insignificant amount of copies, and get to run to beauty shoots and do other fun things to help out. They also tell me when I'm doing a good job and say things like "please" and "thank you". Weird right? Totally.

Enter in the two days a week I spend at my other internship. My desk is a couch, I have to feed the cat food that smells like asscrack, and as for the errands I run?

I had to buy her TOILET PAPER.

Charmin or Angel Soft? Double or single roll?
I mean, thank the lord I spent four years studying photography, or I'd never be able to keep up! She will toss returned mail at me and bark "find this current address!". I then sit in cold sweats for twenty minutes while trying to figure out WHERE I could find this address before I just ask her, and it ends up being on her computer which she has BEEN ON for the past twenty minutes. I believe this goes with the saying that sometimes it's faster to do things yourself....

The sad things is, that's not the worst part. The worst part is....we have to listen to New Age music. All. Day. Long.

I don't really even know how to qualify the sounds that come out of that stereo...the term "whale music" seems much too pleasant. It's more of a gutteral humming that builds up from silence and then makes me almost fall over my desk (I mean, couch) when the loud humming chorus rears its ugly head. Seriously. Even the cat hides from it. But maybe he's just digesting asscrack. So, life lesson learned: avoid all music with titles similar to the following: Sounds of Yanni, Kindred Spirits, Winter Mornings, Awakenings, New Awakenings, New Kindred Winter Morning Awakenings (featuring Yanni). Seriously, if we subjected Al Qaeda detainees to this crap for even a small amount of time, we would KNOW where bin Laden was by now.

That is all....

Who Moved My F*&^ing Cereal?

Something strange is happening to the young women of America:

I call it "The Hills" syndrome.

Symptoms include: talking for hours while not having anything particularly interesting to say, drinking lots of iced coffee while running about town, and going to the same bar over and over with the exact same group of people. However, you KNOW you have The Hills syndrome when you begin picking fights with your friends over absolutely nothing. at. all.

Case in point: Friday morning, after I had gotten up early to drag myself to the gym (hold the applause), I reached up to grab my cereal out of the cabinet only to palm my roommate's oh so delicious bag of prunes. (Apparently I also live with an 80 year old.) Strangely enough, my box of cereal was now UNDER THE SINK. Next to the disgusting rusty pipes and cleaning supplies. Scusi? When she awoke from her princess-like slumber, I calmly (ok, rudely) asked her why she moved my cereal, to which she rudely (ok calmly) replied "it was on my shelf."

A healthy, Hills syndrome-free person would have had a conversation somewhat like this: "Wow, I had no idea we had assigned shelves-let's divvy them up. It's so fun to be organized!" followed by a big bear hug. Instead, it was nearly time for purple tears. (See above image as reference). I went on an assigned shelf rampage. (To understand, we currently have three girls living in a two bedroom apt.-meaning I share a room with a certain cereal-moving mcgee.) "I gave you the closet in our room!" I shouted as I pointed to the living room hanging rack that holds my meager wardrobe, "and you can't let my BOX OF CEREAL on your shelf?" I mean, it was like, sooooo hurtful, you know?

Overreaction? Check.
Meaningless waste of energy? Check
Strange stares from roommate who had no idea why I was carrying on about nothing? Check check.

All in all, a CLASSIC case of "The Hills Syndrome".

Treatment: getting a life, becoming normal, letting little things slide, being a good friend, or just plain ol' getting over it.

Note to Self

1. Watching "The Tudors" online for five hours straight may induce nausea and/or bitchy, Anne Boleyn-ish facial expressions.

2. Repeatedly watching the same episode of "Millionare Matchmaker" on your TiVo is still not the same as being on a real date.

3. Accepting your roommate and her boyfriend's invitation to go to Central Park and kick around a soccer ball is always a bad idea, based on your aversion to contact sports and cute couples.

4. Also a bad idea: Central Park hot dogs.

5. Next time you are at a piano bar on a Sunday night with your sweet friend Brooksie, show a little more decorum than yelling "WHY ARE WE AT A GAY BAR?" just as a song is ending.

6. Your daily horoscope may not be accurate since it is, in fact, written for about 500 million people at a time.

Retail Therapy: Commence!

I would love to be an anthropologist, except then I would have to study people-the majority of which I can't stand anyhow. Also, most of my scientific "research" consists of eavesdropping on customer's dim conversations and then mocking them silently. Cold, hard facts-that's what I'm all about.

Whatever. Making out so feverishly in a booth that you don't even notice when you're food comes makes you a toolbag. And puts you at risk for getting a heart-shaped balloon shoved down your throat.

Also, when you come into a restaurant at 12:30am on Valentine's Day that generally closes at one, try to keep your exclamation of "DAY-UM" down when the waitress (possibly named Ensley) brings you your $40 (dinner for TWO) check and you've now made her stay until 1:30 am. Get out before I kick your DAY-UM! ass. Oh, and thanks so much for that five dollar tip!

All in all, my Valentine's consisted of 10 long hours on my feet, watching couples make kissy faces and having only Ron, the 35 year old Jewish comedian bartender to talk to.

On one hand, Valentine's Day can only get better. On the other hand, I couldn't get approved for all the credit cards it would take for retail therapy to repress these emotions.

Oh St. Valentine

So in trying to avoid being THAT GIRL-the one who bemoans Valentine's as the root of all evil, until she herself gets a boyfriend, I inevitably became HER. I don't even want to be around myself right now.

It began quite innocently. I was leaving work at the restaurant and excited to meet some friends who are in town that I haven't seen for over a year. They were on East 53rd, which should have immediately been a red flag since I'm on West 80th. If you don't live in uptown Manhattan, you probably don't realize that it takes a degree from NASA to get across town when you are a waitress/unpaid intern/everybody's bitch who doesn't want to shell out $$$ for a cab. So two out of the THREE subways into my journey, and the B/D trains are nowhere to be found. My patience was wearing thin based on my proximity to a LARGE number of highschoolers in Uggs and American Eagle sweaters, and I waited for the train for TWENTY MINUTES. Not being a smart New Yorker, I had brought neither book nor ipod, which resulted in me staring at the 'tweens for entertainment. I was hoping they would begin discussing Miley Cyrus skankaliciousness or something, but they just took the same picture of themselves with 10000 digital cameras.

When I popped out of the subway, thirty minutes after I had left, and ready for some alcohol to hit my bloodstream, I naturally had a voicemail from aformentioned "friends" saying "hey-we're home. see you tomorrow." ?? Scusi?? This led me to a few questions:

1) Who leaves a bar at 12:30 in NEW YORK, and
2) Why God, why?

Naturally frustrated, I called a few other friends who were in the same area. No. one. answered. Frustration led to anger which led to feeling completely, utterly alone, which made me realize it was almost Valentine's Day, again came the feelings of utter aloneness, which caused me to tearfully blubber like an idiot all the way home.

And no one is dating me? I'm SO shocked.
Once I was back in the privacy of my own home where blubbering could be considered appropriate, I of course snapped back to reality and realized I was being THAT GIRL. You know what also didn't help? When the PROFLOWERS delivery man dropped off a package at 2pm with the kudos "somebody likes you!" I had almost fallen into this man's trap of thinking that maybe, just maybe, somebody really DID like me...until I looked at the label. They were for my roommate. From her ex-boyfriend. Who she dumped.

Sick joke, Mr. PRO FLOWERS. Sick joke.

Sticky Fingers

I have a problem.

My name is Ensley and I'm a freebie table addict.

On a clean, white countertop in the offices of Seventeen exists my kryptonite: THE FREEBIE TABLE. This is where editors (aka people on salary) discard items they have been sent so that lowly urchins (I mean, interns) like myself can descend.

This is also my permanent hangout. I refill my water twenty times a day in order to make a quick pass. A trip to the bathroom involves taking the long way in case a new little something has arrived. I am DESPERATE for freebies...one might say I live for them. (So I'm a loser. Get over it.) Items that end up on THE TABLE include CDs, books, beauty products, clothes, bags...

...they might as well be crack rocks.

My supervisor at Seventeen knows to grab things and leave them on my desk. A day without freebies is a day lost-that's what I always say! ("Always" being a relative term.)

I've aquired quite the arsenal of goodies, some of which I might have actuallly shelled out money for in an alternate universe...maybe. I know I'll get tons of use out of my white Micheal Kors beach bag...in a few months, when the sun stays out past 5pm. And I'm REALLY excited about the $160 yummie tummie shapewear slip I picked up the other morning. Unfortunately it's an extra small (for those perfectionists who aren't content just being "small") and I almost threw up from the sheer effort of trying to put it on. But it's pretty and pink and has rhinestones on the bottom. I'm keeping it. If you're an extra small, do you REALLY need shapewear anyways? Didn't think so...

Despite all of that, I can and do excercise some occasional self-control when it comes to THE TABLE. Case in point, after squaling over cute, pink patterned dog leashes and collars for about five minutes, I realized the hiccup: I don't own a dog. As luck would have it, a cute, pink gardening apron was sitting right next to them! But alas, a garden is also lacking in my cute, pink domestic life. But maybe I should just take ONE collar...I could give it to a friend who has a dog...and maybe I WOULD garden, but haven't been able to because I have no where to put my gardening tools! Genius!

Just a minute ago, I picked up a black Gap skirt in my size! Never mind that it has some freaky drawstring on top, and I have no idea what to wear it with, IT WAS FREE. I can tear it up and use it to dust my TV if I want to! Tie it to a stick, paint on a skull, and make it into a pirate flag if I want to! Split one seam and wear it like a superhero cape if I want to! The bottom line is: I DO WHAT I WANT. With freebies.

Ciao-I'm off to make another pass.

The Diet Starts Tomorrow

I must include an except from Ashley Dannewitz (check out her amazing headshot below..whoever took that is super talented...*clears throat*) from our last email:

"more about me and how great i look. (oh wait, did i say that out loud) just KIDDING. actually, it is quite humorous because everyone was like, OMG, you are going to NY, and you don't have a car anymore, you are totally gonna lose so. much. weight.

yeah, that's bull shit.

all you do up here is explore the city, which is parks with hot dog stands, cute little restaurants, cute little bars, cute little bakeries, cute little bagels...everything has to do with food. wanna meet up? sure! lets meet for a drink! lets meet for some food! lets meet for some dessert! lets meet for some bagels! (okay, so the last one may be not what people say.) so the first two months i would get up and go for a walk in the park, go for a run around columbia, go for a run in the park, etc..etc..and then it got fucking cold. the last thing i wanted to do was to go outside."

wise words my friend, wise words. as ashley and i will tell you, without the motivation of a spring break cruise, the only time we would run is when being chased. even then, we might just call a taxi or scurry along in a speed walk.

Be Kind To Your Waitress

Just so we're clear: I am the world's worst waitress. I'm awkward, I'm clumsy, and I get bored easily. I also have a bit of a staring problem, so whether you are exceptionally good looking (or fugly) you may look up to find my eyes boring into you. Oops?

I fling pizzas off their trays, break glasses, and my response to "what is the soup of the day" is usually: "why, that's a good question!"

My customer service varies widely by the customer themself. There's a reason I wasn't a hospitality management major (besides the fact that i unapologetically mock those who are). Kissing ass? Not my strong suit. You're chicken's too dry? Your steak is too rare? Your drink is taking too long? I'm sorry.
FYI? There IS a place where food is made exactly how you like it...

....your house.

Then there are the great customers who bring out the best in me-by making LL Cool J references, doling out high-fives, or just talking to me. I still cling to the hope that my cuteness factor will win people over...causing them to open their wallets and shout "take everything!"...but let's face it, that doesn't even work with my mom, and she MADE me this cute.

Tip big!