It's That Time of Year

This punk needs a wedgie or a lap-dance. Or both.

There's been an influx/overflow of hourly-paid, under-aged chilluns in the office: interns. How to spot an intern? They're eager, tireless, think it's really cool that they get their own extension, and don't have dark bags under their eyes.

They don't have names. They don't have lives. You know this because instead of stealing beers from their parent's fridge, they are copy/pasting every sticky noted packet of papers you personally send their way. Just because you cannnn. Suckers.

But they are the missing link in twenty-something step ladder. If you wanna hit a stride and not a gimp, you definitely want one of these coveted internships.

Internship is pretty dumb. Say good-bye to waking up at 2pm only to lay around in your bikini for a few hours. And say hello to losing your sense of worth. Play 'real life' for three months, do grunt work tasks like filing papers that will be shredded, and act like you're 100% enthralled at the honor to be in the presence of a pissant salesman who can't spell 'orange'.

Some interns (ahem, like moi), were lucky enough to get paid for their troubles. Of course they loved me. The Office invited me back for the two following summers because I basically bent over to their every wish and command, thinking "Gee whiz, I'm really making a difference!" In retrospect. It's a waste of motivation. But at least I got to by-pass the interview come college graduation. Fast forward one year and here's Shattuck, making her twenty-something debut. With a bang.

And btw...thanks Hanks for this incredible site suggestion. Total cube veteran representing. Write this down interns. Write this down.

I'm Quitting Coffee.

I could totally go for one of these. Right. Now.

Crack Kills - An Adventure in Casual Dining

<<-- Ladies and Gentleman and Cube Inhabitants alike, here we have a serious problem. Problem because as soon as J-fizz spotted this gem there was no turning back...lie. We in fact kept turning back to check out this ass-cracking-tramp-stamped hooker. A solid score.



And yes. We made a ridiculously obvious mess of ourselves trying to capture the Kodak moment with the old "Wait! I don't have any service in here - extend arm and pretend to find a signal" trick. J-fizz, partner in crime, deserves full credit for the slick pic...fist pump.

Napkin drafting to the hot mess madame ensues:

Dear Madame,

The visual symposium of your derriere, while incredibly subtle and cache, is appalling.

For the sake of every other girl, cover the cheeks. Did you think that undergarments would
inhibit your evening experience?

For the sake of every other guy (besides the 'gentleman' with whom you are dining), you're not fooling anyone. As per Wedding Crashers, I quote, "...tattoo on the lower back? Might as well be a bulls-eye."

Ya. Dead effing give-away. If Superman walked around with his shirt half-buttoned, showing his gleaming pecs and signature "S", then EVERYBODY would know he can fly and see through walls. Should EVERYBODY know this isn't your first rodeo?

The overt expression of your "super skillz" was, however, insanely more entertaining
than screeching cat-lady (aka live singer), over by the bar. J-fizz and I were both stunned and awed (or was that the blinding sunlight?) by the fact that you didn't feel a breeze, falling crumbs, or the glaring stares directed at your ass.

Sorry to break it to you.

But then again, you take most things lying down, eh?

xoxoxo,

Nicole Lilia et al.

So how was dinner last night with some Real Human Interaction, you ask? Splendid.

Can you take me anywhere? No.

(crackkkk close-up)

RHI

As of 3:56pm today - 100 individual phone calls were placed from my telephone.

Please. I'll do anything for some Real Human Interaction.

Marky-Mark, our lil intern has been updating us on the Spain v. Portugal game. Btw. The World Cup sucks.

The head spinning game of telephone tag makes me a whore for Real Human Interaction (RHI). Hence, 5am work-outs and Barbie Dream Home. So yes. Looking forward to dinner at a local Italian bistro tonight. Preparing and pulling it together in order to adequately socialize in public.

The Underpants of Life

This is the most heart-warming story since The Life of RJ Berger (MTV - highly recommended by J-woww & Hanks. Come to 8th on Tuesdays for lunchtime viewings).

Congrats kid on your new granny ass!! If only we all had such potential to be 'some one'...then we twenty-somethings would have a little direction in life. And a shout out in the Guinness Book of World Records. Tell me how you like the view from the top of that flagpole when school starts in September.

Eminem needs to crush his ace with some lyrical licks because this is legit the skid mark on the underpants of society...new beats. Holla.
What would have made this viral video better 10-fold? If the little bugger pissed his pants.

He looks like the kid on "A Christmas Story"...

Wet tshirts and guess what...golf still sucks.

Yay for Upstate NY. Where there’s cows, rednecks, and the LPGA *gag* At least we have good wines to boast (which I so expertly tested this weekend in celebration of EEK's 23rd birthday).

But this wet t-shirt celebration looks like a regular ol’ buzz kill. Here’s why:

Chicks - dig golf only if that means our guy will give us their credit card on Sunday afternoon so we can hit the mall while he watches the Masters. Also. We love scandal…aka Tiger Woods. No way these ladies actually enjoy golfing. Either pick up a tennis racket or hit the putt-putt course. Yeah I said it, and I can because I’m a chick…and, I’m right.

Dudes - just dig golf. It’s a total booze-and-schmooze, old boys’ club for all ages of males. **Note: they do not dig golf for the modestly dressed lady pros who drive the ball a mere fraction of the range and are completely covered when bending over to pick up their putt**

Hopefully the LPGA trophy comes with a paid vacation to Panama City Beach for some spring break lessons on working the camera, taking celebratory body shots, and wet t-shirt contests. That’s where I learned my best moves. Put to practice on a regular weekend outing. Spring Break ‘09 - holler.

Sign me up for the next company tee time.

Train Wrecks and Paper Airplanes

Ah Monday.

Somebody just kamakazee-ed my cube with a paper airplane. The article on the paper was "How to Become a Priest". So subtle.

Is this my calling? Or just some cruel joke?? Perhaps it's a *hint*hint* to *pack*your*shit*. Panic!!!

One of the many awkward stories of my youth include the "Not Me Not Now" commercial casting that I did...when I was 10...years...old. I know what you're thinking, and it's: "golly, even at the budding age of 10, this chica was a role model on the rise. One to be watched; a voice to be heard."

Now as a twenty-something. I drive past Planned Parenthood every day on the way to The Office. Tell me you've heard about the school in Massachusetts that is handing out con-dams to first graders. True story. Epic train wreck of life, don't mind if we do. Didn't anyone ever tell you that abstinence is not the answer?