Dear Upper East Side,

I’m writing this letter with sadness in my heart and hot fudge in my hair. I’ve spent the last two months scooping your ice cream and ringing up orders and now its time for me to go home. But even though I must leave, I wanted to spend a few final moments reflecting on our time together.

Like remember all those times when you came in with your Blackberry in one hand, your Bugaboo stroller in the other, and you didn’t even look up from your phone to place your order? I always respected you for your determination to complete your conversation, even if it sometimes meant you couldn’t make eye contact with me.

Or haha, I’m cracking up about that time I gave you two cents in change and you held your hand out waiting for it so you could put it back in your Prada wallet, which you shoved into your Fendi bag instead of the tip jar. That was a great time. Read More »

So, I realize that a lot my peers have a strange fixation with this thing called “the summer hook up”. As my friend and co-blogger Sol so eloquently, (actually she just corrected me, it was belligerently) put it;

Solgurl88: IT’S THE SAME THING AS HOOKING UP IN THE WINTER
Solgurl88: how come people never say
Solgurl88: ‘winter hookup!’(?)

I added that question mark in there for ya, buddy. But poor AIM grammar aside, I have to agree with her. A hook up is a hook up, why the classification?

Well, I suppose for people who vacation in a foreign country, or somewhere other than where they normally reside, the ‘summer hook up’ symbolizes the opportunity for a no-strings attached ‘relationship’ of sorts. (Those people are not to be confused with me, I am doomed to work endless summer jobs with either all females or no attractive co-workers for all college eternity.) Read More »

I am the queen of summer jobs and internships.

I have done everything from chase kids around in nurseries to waitressing to getting covered in dirt in a greenhouse to working in a tiny cubicle in a Manhattan talent office to running errands for a crazy agent to making pizza for one day.

Looking back, there are so many things I wish I could have told my little 19 year old self during her first foray into living alone and interning in New York City. One of those things would be to never eat the coleslaw in any restaurant (they totally reuse that shit), but I would also tell her how to deal with completely psychotic bosses and why it’s okay to lie to certain part time employers. Read More »