Never say I didn't warn you.

Recently, while on a binge-perusal of Post Secrets, I came across one with a picture of Mr. Rogers. The writing said "You never prepared me for how cruel the world can be."

This sparked a brilliant idea. What if there was a children's show that did just that? One that prepared children for the twists and turns that are inevitable parts of life, a show where the host informed youngsters of the harsh realities of the adult world. Just imagine. I immediately began formulating a list of show topics in my brain.

Episode One: Car Accidents
Episodes Two and Three: Credit Card and Student Loan Debt
Episode Four: When your boyfriend cheats
Episode Five: Unemployment
Episode Six: Health Insurance.

The options are really limitless. We've all had those moments, where you just want to yell at your parents, your teachers, anyone. YOU NEVER TOLD ME IT WAS GOING TO BE LIKE THIS. This show, while brutal and will most likely reduce viewers to tears, will solve that problem. Children will graduate pre-school well-versed in relevant topics, such as the housing crisis, war in the Middle East, and dependence on foreign oil.

Come on PBS, what do you say? Instead of having that damned trolley lead to the land of make believe, let's give those kids a nice dose of reality.

Please leave suggested titles for the program in the comments section.

Confessions of a summer intern, part 1

If you've ever met me, I've probably kvetched senselessly to you at one point or another about the pitfalls of summer internships. The chief complaint being that this summer, I hemorrhaged money paying for transportation and other necessities to maintain an unpaid internship, which a lot of the time, wasn't worth the time and money spent. That, and they spelled my name wrong on the masthead. Yeah, my first name. The one that follows the most traditional spelling of a name that has been around for, oh, you know, centuries. But I should remember my place. I am, after all, a lowly intern, and in fact, am lucky to have a name at all.

In all seriousness though, my summer internship wasn't all that bad. I left with a couple of clips (sort of, that's still pending), and a few lines of credibility added to my resume. And most of all, I was grateful for the experience after reading this: The Story of The Pooping Intern.

And I thought it was embarrassing when I spilled salad dressing all over myself. That's mere child's play.

(Note: Details of the poop story have been called into question, but one thing is for sure: the intern pooped in areas of the office other than the bathroom, and that's all that matters, really.)

On a related note, reading this story on Gawker renewed my passion for the publishing industry. The fact that someone got to write that headline, and the lines "This poop story is truly nightmarish," or "Pooping intern: We salute your courage." If one day I can write things like that, and get paid for it, maybe I'm on the right path after all.

I miss the telegram STOP

Chris O'Brien at the Idea Lab sent me into a paranoid Luddite's nightmare: examining Twitter as the newsroom of the future. His argument is a valid one though. He looks at who Tweeted about the recent California earthquake first, making information available to millions before it was published on mainstream Web sites, and even long after, when those sites were flooded with traffic.

I was mulling all of this over on my commute home this evening, and am going to offer you this doodle:






When I was doodling, I thought it was a ridiculous prospect, but I grew more depressed when I just Googled "live blogging birth" and was met with a slew of relevant results. This tale of the miracle of life via Twitter updates popped up a lot.

The only people who care enough to read minute-by-minute details of a child's birth are probably already there at the hospital. Isn't it enough to recount every boring detail of your life on your blog? Do we really need it in real time? Who do you think is reading?

But in terms of breaking news of national importance, I guess Twitter and sites like it will grow increasingly relevant. What do you think? Anyone want to read my Tweets when I get my wisdom teeth out? Didn't think so.

Comments like these are why your mother cries at night

Overheard at a Kohl's dressing room:

Mother: Honey, I think those are too small.
Daughter: Your mom's too small!
(Long pause)
Mother: I don't have a mother...
Daughter: I know. Ha. Ha. Ha.

That dirty girl

I was always jealous of the women in white dresses. No, not brides. Just any woman in a white dress, worn tastefully after Memorial Day, as she struts down sidewalks or across lawns at garden parties, cottony fabric blowing in the breeze behind her. I've always harbored a slow, burning contempt for the woman who can wear a crisp white sweater that looks brand new after six-months of heavy wear and ample washings.

Because I could never do that. I am a chronic spiller, usually spilling something at least once a day, most often on myself. All of my garments are speckled with splashes of coffee, checkered with fluorescent highlighter marks, or mapped with wandering paths of ink from mid-thigh to knee.

I kept thinking this was something I would grow out of, like a little girl grows out of sitting with her legs splayed open in public, or belching the alphabet with her brothers. But it hasn't happened. I am a refined, young woman in most other ways. I paint my toe nails with some regularity, can apply eye liner with relative precision, and usually carry just the right amount of womanly accessories in my handbag. But I will always be the girl with stains all over her clothes. I might leave the house fresh as a daisy in the morning, and make it about an hour before the train unexpectedly jerks forward, and hot tea splashes onto my khaki pencil skirt.

On Tuesday, as I ate a salad at my internship desk, I pulled open the dressing packet, and emptied some of its contents onto the fresh bed of baby spinach, feta and green beans that was eagerly awaiting digestion in my tumtum. About halfway through, I decided more raspberry vinaigrette was in order, picked up the packet, and in a split second, squirted several tablespoons of the dressing all over my pants, and onto a new t-shirt. This was no discreet stain. It looked like I had been slaughtering hogs in my cubicle for a mid-afternoon pig roast.

When I asked an associate editor for her pass card for the bathroom, I saw her lips turn up slightly, and her brow furrow while she tried not to laugh at me. That poor dirty girl with the stains all over her clothes. She took pity on me and handed me the bathroom pass, while averting her gaze from the sanguine, oily mess that was dripping from crotch to knee on my pants, and chest to hip on my t-shirt. After several minutes of fierce blotting and furious towel-wetting in the powder room, the stain was no better; in fact, it looked considerably worse.

As I stood staring hopelessly into the mirror, an image of Kelly Ripa in the Tide-to-Go commercials flooded my head. NA NA NA NA HEY HEY HEY GOOOOOOOD BYYYYEEE. This mess I made was even too big for a Tide-to-Go stick. What would Kelly say? I bet even her tiny toddlers do not make such frequent and sloppy messes.

When I got home, my mother was ready with her stain-removing arsenal. She could take the spots out of a leopard if she wanted. While the clothes were soaking, she discreetly tucked a Tide pen into my work bag, and shot me a leveling gaze that only a mother can give. The gaze that tells you instantly, "You may be fully grown, but you will always be an incompetent four-year-old who needs her mother, and what would you ever do without me?" I muttered thanks and she patted my shoulder and said "I think you'll have more use for that than I will."

Yes, mother. I think I always will.