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Walmart-ing

14 Sep

Walmart is a wonderful mecca of deals, steals (sometimes literally) and wonder, but also a hellhole. Going there on a Sunday afternoon is probably the worst decision you could ever make, because come 12pm, it turns into the official local church after-party no matter where you live. Seriously, sometimes I think that if a Walmart threw an I-Hop inside of one of its locations instead of a Subway sandwich franchise, there would literally never need to be anything else open on a Sunday–Joel Osteen would probably invest. Better yet, a church should probably just open a Walmart in the back, because move over, Taco Bell/Pizza Hut/KFC combo, a new mega trio is coming your way and it’s called The Walmart I-Hop Mega Church Center.

Anyway, Walmart. Yes, Walmart–the place once infamously confused as a store that sells walls by Paris Hilton, doesn’t actually sell walls, but they do sell legitimately everything else. This is why when it came time for me to re-organize my sneaker closet, the Walmart website was my first stop because let’s be honest–the safest way to shop at Walmart is by not physically being at Walmart. So how did I end up at Walmart then? Good question. I wanted to save the $7 shipping cost on the shoe cubby I ordered, so I opted for the in-store pickup option. A week later, I strolled through the doors of my local Walmart and wandered through aisles of camouflage hats, camouflage televisions and camouflage children until I finally found the online order center nested neatly by the Subway sandwich franchise. I worked my way around the line at the registers that seemed like it was Black Friday in the middle of September and wondered if I was missing out on something, but instead I just got in line behind several people in the online order area.

The area was small, and for some reason had its own Sunny Delight display tower, just in case you felt the need to hydrate with some sugar-water while waiting to pick up your microwave. There were 4 registers and about 10 employees, but only 2 registers were actually open. After waiting for 5 minutes and realizing the line hadn’t moved at all, I asked a sales associate if people were also in this line for general purchases, not just order pickups–“no, it’s also layaway.” Ah–layaway. Alright, no big deal. I stood there, waiting, eavesdropping on conversations about pregnancies and refrigerators, wondering if I would ever get to pick up my shoe cubby. I took a moment to take in my surroundings–there were still several associates standing behind the counter, but still only 2 stations were open. There were two Walmart employees sitting on a bench in the area, one of them was eating chicken–I am hoping she was on her break. It didn’t smell like chicken at first, but then it did…and as my hunger grew in correlation with my impatience, the smell was more apparent to me and I just wanted to know where I could get that chicken but I couldn’t get out of the line because then the vicious cycle would begin once more and I HAD SOMEWHERE TO BE, DAMMIT. And that place was a diner, because I was hungry.

FINALLY, after several texts from my mother and what seemed like the longest 20 minutes of my life, it was my turn. Once I got up to the register, it was quick and painless, but of course the box for my product was bent and damaged. I just wanted to get out of there, though, before the spell of chicken came over me and forced me to wait in yet another line. Also, I had seen a camouflage Mets hat that was quietly calling my name, so I legit had to bounce before I dropped anymore money there that day.

When I got home, after the diner, I assembled my shoe cubby, noticed one of the metal poles was damaged, took a moment to think of what a hassle it would be to try and return or exchange the item, and decided to just take the chance of it collapsing because somehow that would be more convenient to me than having to go to Walmart again.

Poetic Fist Fight

3 Dec

A few friends and I often partake in bar trivia at an establishment in Manhattan on Tuesday nights. Trivia begins at 8:30, so we usually try and arrive around 8pm to make sure we get ample seating/table space for our writing materials, beers and sometimes food. On this particular night I arrived at 7:30 because I grossly overestimated how long it would take me to get to the bar from my new office. When I arrived, there was another event going on. I walked in and saw a middle-aged woman standing up at a microphone reading some ridiculous poetry with zero passion in her voice. As a matter of fact, she sounded like a teacher reading a story about ponies to her first graders just before nap time, except her poem was about the birth of her son…it was interesting, but you can only make a cesarian section sound so poetic before it sounds like a scene straight out of a Wes Craven film.

It was clear that I had stumbled into some kind of older, open mic poetry night. Dammit. So, to kill time, I went to 7-11 for a hot chocolate. They didn’t have those mini marshmallows, though, so I left less than satisfied with a still-tasty hot chocolate in hand. I drank that in record time on my way back to the bar. During this time, I had only managed to kill 15 minutes, but that meant 15 minutes less of that poetry I’d have to hear. Well, to everyone’s dismay, including the employees at the bar and the trivia master, the poetry night ran over by 15 minutes to allow for the “Godfather” to say a few words and recite a story and poem and then sing a song…a man next to me mouthed the words along with the “Godfather” and clapped and whistled upon completion. He was super into it, I was super annoyed.

When poetry night was finally over, most of the older folks started to clear out for the turnover to trivia night which consists predominately of guys and gals ages 21-35 from what I can tell. I, along with a friend, waited for tables to clear that fit four people as we were expecting two more in our party. I scouted a table where the women who previously occupied it were preparing to leave. My friend and I hovered, patiently, as other tables opened up and were immediately occupied by trivia-goers. After about 10 minutes of continuous hovering, I decided to place my belongings down on one of the benches at a table where cesarian section woman was sitting. Her and a colleague were chatting but sitting far enough from each other that they managed to take up three tables in the process. I waited patiently, again. Finally, after the woman was now there by herself, nursing a 96% empty glass of water, she put her feet up essentially on my belongings, so I just went and took a seat next to her feet. Then, the dialogue began:

Woman: So are you taking over my table?
Me: Yeah, our trivia is about to begin and you appeared to be leaving.
Woman: Well, I wasn’t.
Me: I’m sorry, I really thought you were leaving. Your friends all got up so I thought you were too.
Woman: I wasn’t leaving. (At this point she FINALLY takes her feet off of the bench she had them resting upon) You could have asked.
Me: As I said, I am sorry, it looked like you were leaving. I can move…
Woman: You could have asked.
Me: I said I’m sorry. There’s no reason to have an attitude…
Woman: It’s not an attitude, I’m just saying you could have asked. Get some manners.
Me: (Appalled at this point) I said I am sorry and I will move.
Woman: Get some manners. (Storms off)

It was too bad she stormed off like that, I didn’t have enough time to tell her how much I resonated with her poem being a cesarian child myself. Darn. So much for that missed opportunity. Never fear, though, because I made sure multiple employees heard about it afterwards. They found it wildly entertaining…I have a feeling they’re not the biggest fans of that poetry night either.

Moral of the story? Just because you wear a purple sweater and read three sub-par poems at a monthly open mic night for middle-aged folk does not entitle you to put your feet up at a bar once your event has gone over and thus prohibited a WEEKLY event from starting on time. Talk about manners.

To The Guy Who Sold Me Fake Blink 182 Tickets…

12 Sep
Who I didn't get to see last night...

Who I didn’t get to see last night…

I met you in Union Square where you sold me what I now know are fake Blink 182 tickets. I don’t know why you do what you do, I don’t know why you did what you did but I just cannot understand it. Does it make you feel good, taking people’s money like that? Of course it does. It mustOtherwise, why would you keep doing it. I doubt anyone has a gun to your head, but if they do–duck and run!

I should have known the tickets were fake. I got a burning feeling in the pit of my stomach immediately after I bought them from you that they were. They didn’t feel quite right. They were on the thick side and somewhat glossy. The ink looked a little too bold and prevalent on the backdrop of the ticket. They were fake, but it was too late so I just told myself I was being paranoid. You had already disappeared into the crowd of street performers, coffee-drinkers and commuters. I was stuck with those tickets.

You said you were a fan. You said you wish you could go but work got in the way. I believed you because I didn’t have any reason not to.

So I showed up to the venue in Brooklyn. Nervous, but incredibly excited. My favorite band was playing and I couldn’t wait to see them go on. I passed through security and waited in a small line. The girls in front of me got turned away because their tickets wouldn’t scan. Their tickets were fake. At that moment it felt like my entire body was on fire. The burning sensation had spread and I couldn’t handle it. For at that moment my fears became a reality and I learned that people like you actually exist. Finally, it was my turn–my tickets didn’t scan. The tickets you sold to my friend and I were fake. But you knew that. You knew I would travel all the way to Brooklyn by way of the L train which I had made it my life mission never to take, but for Blink 182 it was worth it. But this would end up being for nothing but disappointment and tears. Yes, I cried. YOU made me cry.

I didn’t get to see them play any of my favorite songs–like “Stay Together for the Kids” a song about divorce which I relate to tenfold. Or “Dammit” or “Carousel” or “Man Overboard” or ANYTHING. Instead I was stuck listening to “Adam’s Song” alone in my room and any Blink fan knows how depressing that can be.

It’s not about the money. You robbed me of an experience that I will never get back.

People go to concerts for the experience–they want to feel the music they’ve listened to so many times through their headphones and car stereos. They want to see it, hear it, feel it, live it. I wanted all of that too. Yes, I’ve seen Blink 182 live several times but this show was special. It was a charity show, which makes what you did all the more disgraceful. But it wasn’t just me, it was DOZENS of fans. Dozens of people who just wanted to escape for a few hours. The bouncer told me he counted at least 50, and from the description another girl gave me of the guy who sold her fake tickets, it was you. You and a friend or a group of guys setting out to just make some money.

Sure, maybe this was my fault for not examining the tickets closer but I just never thought that this would happen. I have too much faith in humanity sometimes and my excitement for having found someone to sell me their tickets clouded my judgement. I should have known. I should have known…

I should have realized that after I was stood up two times by who I believe to be two different people I arranged to meet to buy tickets from that I wasn’t meant to go to this concert. But I wanted to so badly. Third time’s a charm, right? You were the third, so I guess that saying doesn’t always apply…

But this isn’t my fault. It’s yours. You knew I was excited to see them–otherwise why would I have sought you out? You took advantage of me. Yes, it could have been worse and you could have written the script for The Craigslist Killer Part Two, but you didn’t. So, thank you for that. But I’m still upset with you.

I’m not angry, I’m just upset. I am hurt, and I don’t even know you. You did seem like a nice guy, but I suppose that’s how con artists are, right? And don’t think for a second that’s not what you are because that is what you are.  I found myself wondering last night if your parents know what you do. Do they know when you say you’re “going to work” that it means you’re just in a basement somewhere putzing around with paper and ink, gearing up for your next fake-out? Does your mother know?

Blink 182 will come around to New York again sometime soon I’m sure and you’ll get down to business making your fake tickets again–but I hope you don’t. I hope you stop. You cheated over 50 people this week. FIFTY. Isn’t that enough? I couldn’t sleep last night knowing I had been cheated–could you sleep knowing you were the cheater

I know you’ll never see this letter and I know this letter won’t accomplish anything except for helping me get my feelings out in the open and somewhere other than my mind. I know you’ll keep manufacturing and selling fake tickets. I know you’ll spend the money in a way that makes you happy. I just hope that maybe, just maybe, some of that money you made by ripping off 50+ people will go towards something good. Maybe a charity–maybe a few dollars in a homeless man’s change cup. I must restore the same faith I had in humanity that led me to thinking no one would ever make and sell me, or anyone for that matter, a fake ticket and apply it to this scenario. I must hope that the money isn’t going towards something negative, even though it sort of already has. Wherever you are, I hope you’re happy because in the end, everyone deserves happiness, but just know that in this scenario your happiness comes at the expense of others.

Time will pass and we’ll both forget about this. It’s a new day. I’m still upset but I feel better now. I’m sure you don’t care, but I just want you to know that just because you have my money doesn’t mean you’ve won. You’ll lose at some point and maybe then you’ll finally realize what you’ve done–what you’ve been doing–is wrong.

Thanks to you, I couldn’t be that girl anyone fell in love with at the rock show last night…

An Open Letter to Justin Bieber

20 May
via Getty Images

via Getty Images

Dear Justin,

First off let me say that I enjoy your music. It’s fun, catchy and your story, however redundant it gets, is inspiring. I can even deal with your diaper-like pants but what I cannot stand are your fans.

I’m not discounting their devotion, because it’s definitely top-notch, but they’re a little over the top in the sense that they would KILL someone if that person said something negative about you. This simply is not right.

Last night I was watching the Billboard Music Awards. An hour or so before you were booed while on stage, you performed a song I’ve never heard. It wasn’t a bad song, but I noticed that you were lip syncing. Even if it wasn’t a full lip sync and you were using a backtrack to help pick up where you may have lacked in your vocals, it looked like you were lip syncing.  I understand artists do this literally all of the time, which is disappointing, but regardless of that, I tweeted about what I believed I saw.

Firstweet

A harmless observation and request

Literally seconds later I received a tweet in response…

response1

**Please note that I have blued-out the username of the girl who tweeted at me last night because this is regarding your entire fan base, she now, unfortunately, serves as the poster child for all of them.**

Now, I don’t think this is an appropriate response. Maybe I’m wrong or just naive but does tweeting that you lip synced during your performance make me a slut? Last time I checked I didn’t sleep with the founder of Twitter to send out that tweet, nor did I sleep with anyone who gave me inside information about your performance and even if I had slept with ONE person that by no means makes me a slut. Not only is calling someone a slut a form of bullying, but calling someone a slut who you don’t even know is a form of ignorance, and just cruel. Let me be clear–this didn’t anger or upset me, but had she said this to someone else, it could have drastically upset them. Luckily, she got herself into a tiff with someone who happens to have a wild sense of humor–yes, I’m talking about myself.

The conversation didn’t stop there…

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Are you alarmed yet? Have you noticed that this young fan is ONLY 11 YEARS OLD? This became an entirely different conversation once I found out she’s 11. Setting aside that she’s a crazy fan, her language is atrocious for someone her age. Are they learning slang for the male genitalia that early? What’s happening? I know you don’t curse in your songs so perhaps this isn’t your fault, but to what level do you brainwash your fans to get them to pull out all the stops when it comes to defending your honor? It’s not like I even said “Justin sucks!” or anything of that nature. I made a claim, I stand behind it 100%, and this is what I get? From someone not even following me? From someone HALF my age? I attempted to change the tone of the conversation:

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She actually admitted to taking you more seriously than school. I don’t care if you’re famous, rich, poor, performing on the street or performing in a sold out arena–education is important. Even you should know this. I saw that documentary of yours, I know you have a teacher who teaches you on the road. What’s going on here?

As you probably have heard, bullying is an epidemic. Thousands of kids and even adults are affected daily and several instances have unfortunately resulted in death, often by suicide. You teach your fans to believe, never say never and that if you were their boyfriend, you’d never let them go. Don’t you teach your fans not to bully, too? Well, that’s exactly what they do. And I bet once I tweet the link to this letter some girl who sits and stares at her phone all day, refreshing the Justin Bieber search she has permanently glued to her Twitter account will read the letter, try to define a bunch of the larger and above grade level words in it and then send me a poorly worded attack that calls me something I’m not just because I chose to speak my mind in an incredibly mild manner. Justin, I’m not expecting your fans to stop piercing eardrums with their high-pitched screams, I’m not asking you to stop making music, heck, I’m not even going to ask you to stop wearing leather drop-crotch pants because that’s your choice and doesn’t really affect others too negatively, but I will ask that you please try and control your fans to some degree. The girl who fired back at me over and over via Twitter last night actually said that she takes you more seriously than school! Like, that actually happened! Is that what you want? To have an army if uneducated and delinquent fans? Lets be honest, it’s only a matter of time before you get arrested for God knows what but until then, lead by example. Pull up your pants and teach tolerance, love and acceptance.

I’m not saying the way your fans act is your fault but they idolize you–so maybe you should take that as an opportunity to teach them to be better people, to not bully others and to not spread hate for no apparent reason. Teach them that you can fight your own battles, haters and speeding tickets. I know you’ve never asked them to help you fight a speeding ticket but explain to them that these are your battles. Not theirs. You say it should be about the music, well, encouraging them to buy your records is fine, but you need to encourage them not to be rude or disrespectful just because someone doesn’t share the same taste in music as them.

Whether you were lip syncing or not, I’m not a slut. Even if I was a slut, it would have nothing to do with you having lip synced. Your fans are so ruthless and willing to do literally anything for you that I’m worried they’re going to keep the bullying epidemic going and eventually something terrible could happen.
Please do something about this. Go on Ellen if you have too. It doesn’t matter where, but it matters when–and that time is now. You were booed on stage last night. You won that award because your fans are relentless, but clearly those who were present, people who aren’t necessarily in your fan wheelhouse, didn’t think you deserved it and also thought you were wearing too much leather and acted way too cocky with your leather and aviators. Slow down, Bieber, and control your fans–otherwise you’re going to spiral out of control and find yourself composing jingles for a Canadian restaurant chain.
Sincerely,
Allie

Had I Won That Mega Millions…

1 Apr

Yesterday was the first time I bought a lottery ticket. After asking two different strangers how to fill out the slip, I figured it out and had my ticket handy! Like most people, I knew the odds weren’t in my favor, or anyone’s for that matter, but I still had hope based off that clever slogan “Hey, you never know.” Well, most of me did know that I wouldn’t win but of course, like anyone, I had a tiny–and I mean microscopic/minuscule–glimmer of hope. So, with that hope, I decided to make a list of what I’d do with the money that I won.

First I decided to check off the box that would award the money to me across 26 annual payments as opposed to one lump sum. Why? Well, the man who explained to me how to do it suggested that for someone my age, that may be the smarter choice. My mom, however, then told me that the lump sum may have been better, God forbid something terrible happened and I didn’t survive for those 26 years after winning and then the rest of my winnings would go to no one. I explained to my mom that 1. the odds of me winning were so incredibly slim and 2. that, on the off chance I did win, I’d then also have to die before the age of 47 3. If I did win and came down with an illness or disease that would ultimately lead to that untimely death, I’d probably have enough money to ensure the best possible health care and treatment, so the the odds of me winning AND THEN dying before the age of 47 were so slim that I figured checking off the “26 annual payments” box was warranted. In the end, I didn’t win, but this was my thought process.

Here’s what I would have done with the money: (well, some of what I would have done)

-Financed a feature film that I wrote, directed and starred in and get Alec Baldwin, Rooney Mara, Meryl Streep, Emma Stone, Nick Offerman, Tina Fey and Dennis Quaid to co-star as my siblings.

-Bought out my grandmother’s apartment, along with the unit above hers, and made it into a kick-ass duplex and fill one floor with puppies and then have Miley Cyrus play at my apartment warming party.

-Donate at least $1,000,000 to Autism Speaks and the American Cancer Society.

-Build myself a walk in closet larger than my bedroom, most likely.

-Treat myself to a pair of authentic Nike “Tiffany SB” Dunks.

-Pay my way into guest starring on such TV shows as Parks and Recreation, 30 Rock, Modern Family and Pretty Little Liars until I became “that girl.”

-Finally produce my musical “Moo Shu Jew.”

-Give my mom and dad money

-Buy a neon green Lamborghini, blue Range Rover Sport and a matte black Mercedes G wagon.

I’d probably do some traveling, try that weird, ice cream sundae with the 14K gold flakes in it and some other weird stuff too, but I’d also put money away–duh!

Well, that’s some of what I would have done had I won last night. But I didn’t. So. Back to the usual life of A Ditk.

Boob Toob

23 Mar

A good friend of mine recently got breast implants as an early graduation present/right of passage in her family (both her mother and grandmother have had the procedure done as well). Now, before this procedure I’d describe her boobs as “skinny nips.” If you don’t get what I mean by that, when she’d walk around at night with just a t-shirt and no bra before bed, it really just looked like she had a matchstick where each of her breasts were supposed to be. I don’t have a problem with plastic surgery, as long as you do it for the right reasons, so I am happy for her. Before she wasn’t confident about her body and would wear bras with intense amounts of padding. Somewhere there’s a mangled therapeutic mattress labeled “hunted for bra padding.” I’m not kidding. But Allie, how do you know she did it for the right reasons? Well, it’s simple. If she wanted to be a whore and just appear more attractive to men she would have upgraded from here barely-there A cup to an eye-poking D. Instead, she went from her matchsticks to a modest B cup. She’s proud of them, she’s comfortable with them–good for her! After winter break she threw together a little gathering at her apartment–it was a coming out party for her new friends…her boobs. I’m not sure why, but the party had a Breast Cancer awareness theme to it, considering there were Hershey Kisses wrapped in pink foil, Oreos with pink filling separated into halves and dotted with pink gel coloring to resemble boobs and pink crystal light mixed with vodka. It was an evening to celebrate the girls.

Today I ran into her on the quad. We chatted for a few, and then she told me whilst at a club over spring break she was let into the VIP section. She then paused, grabbed her boobs and said “they’re already paying for themselves!” And then I contradicted this entire blog post.

 

For serious, she’s a great person, a good friend and a whole lot of fun to be around. Not to mention she got a kick-ass, prestigious job for after graduation…she’s one of the few seniors I know that’s already employed. And for those of you who are perverts, she got the job BEFORE the implants–so get your minds out of the gutter!

Conan in NYC

4 Nov

For those of you who don’t know, last fall I interned at Conan in Los Angeles while I was there for a semester. I had an incredible time, which you can read all about right here.

This past week Conan taped four shows (back where he belongs) in NYC to celebrate the first anniversary of his new show on TBS. My boss from Conan reached out to me and a few other past and present interns to help and work the show because they would need all hands on deck. Naturally, I accepted and drove home from school to work the last two NY shows on Wednesday, November 2nd and Thursday, November 3rd.

I was fortunate enough to be the costume intern for those two days, and was asked for specifically by the costume designer himself. Prior to arriving in the city, I had read online that Conan would be officiating a same-sex marriage on his show for one of his long-time staff members. It wasn’t until I arrived that I found out the costume designer, Scott, was the groom to be. I had the pleasure of working alongside Scott on the day of his wedding, and it was such an incredible experience. I also got to meet his wonderful fiance (and now husband) David. They are both such sweethearts. They truly deserve each other and a lifetime full of happiness. The wedding itself was very sweet and emotional. It was touching. Most of the staff had crowded into the aisles and doorways of the Beacon Theatre to witness the ceremony in person, and I was one of them seeing as I was working with Scott. It was truly something incredible.

Working with the Conan staff is always a blast. Not only is it a lot of fun, but it’s a great learning experience as well, and an excellent chance to build relationships and network. I got to meet some great people, and get back in touch with others. I also got to see one of my previous bosses, Andy Cohen, as he was the guest who walked Scott down the aisle to the chuppah.

I saw the Conan blimp, met Will Forte, exchanged glances with Jon Stewart and was in the theatre to witness the first same-sex marriage on television. It’s safe to say it was worth missing a few classes.

 

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