Bizarre Internship Chronicles: Embarassment Imminent

As if the New York City heat wave wasn’t hell-sent enough, it chose to hit at the exact moment that the air conditioning in our cluttered intern’s den became kaput. Working at this music television station had simply become one crazy story after the next.

The other day I was asked to get one of the VJ’s dogs groomed and was given an anal leakage prescription that, to my horror (this is my luck we’re talking about) got carried away by a breeze and was handed back to me by a beautiful, beautiful (somewhat queasy-looking) but beautiful boy. Anal leakage is not such a cute ‘So how’d you two meet?’ type of story. So, I bailed pronto.

Anyway that was the other day, today was today, and today I was sweating like a recovering nymphomaniac who’d accidentally stumbled into a brothel. The glory of it all was that miraculously, the AC had only died out in our small cubicle encrusted room, so no one with any actual power had any desire to get it fixed anytime soon.

Oh, the agony of a summer internship.

I was immersed in checking for evidence of the dreaded pit stain (little ones already and it was only nine, boo) when my boss Pierre came to what seemed like my rescue, informing me that I’d be working in the filming studio today. I clapped my hands together, this I’d never done before! I followed him into central air bliss (ahhh…) and away from the jealous glares of other fellow interns, suckas. Almost four weeks here now and I’d barely spoken to any of them. Talk about team morale.

Preparing to enter the world of studio cameras, bright lights, and an audience that magically looks bigger on actual TV thanks to mirrors and such (see I learned something!) I tried to pat down my hair (humidity to me is the equivalent of like, a really annoying in-law to someone else, clingy, impossible to prepare for and always unannounced) and smooth out my outfit. I had to laugh at my forced prep. Thankfully, I’d be behind the cameras. Or so I thought.

As I stepped on set, the makeup crew suddenly rushed around me pulling my shoulders down until I was propped up in one of those cool studio chairs with your name on the back. (I wondered what mine said?) Before I could say No-I’m-Just-An-Intern (officially my most overused phrase this summer) Pierre popped up in front of me and happily explained that I was to go on air that day as part of a celebrity impromptu golf tournament. Apparently, two A-listers had recently challenged each other to a game of putt putt and our station decided it was going to be great air time, snagging the challenge as a special segment on our live show. It took everything in me not to reproduce the muffin I’d gobbled earlier that morning.

‘S-so wha- do I do?’ I barely stammered. ‘You’re the caddy girl!’ Pierre chirped, clapping his hands together the same way I had unknowingly minutes before, in the fine minutes when I’d assumed the only thing on my agenda would be assisting the sound check and basking in some grade-A air conditioning. I didn’t feel so cool anymore, in fact I was sweating bullets.

Before I could even object, argue that maybe I wasn’t the right girl for the job (hell, fake an asthma attack!), I was sent to wardrobe where, to my horror, Pierre put a big sombrero-like hat on my head and wrapped a RED NAPKIN around my neck. It wasn’t until I emerged back into the studio and set my sights upon a mini golf cart adorned with red gingham fabric, like those red and white checkered picnic tablecloths, with a FAKE SHEEP and huge obnoxious plant strapped to the front hood, that I realized that my life was officially over.

I was told to say nothing. Smile, follow around the celebrities on my cart, (which I still wasn’t sure I knew how to drive as the red light on the video cameras shined) and hand out TEQUILA SHOTS if they made the hole. I don’t know what was worse, the fact that an A-list actor tried on my hat on live air and did a jig, laughing as he plopped it back on my head, or how many missed text messages and calls I had when my day of work was done, taunting me, recounting the events within those six mortifying minutes — my ex-boyfriend exclaiming happily that he got it on his TIVO.

I’m not sure what kind of shitty karma I sent out into the world to be receiving so much in return (was it that time I drunkenly stole a spatula from that frat party?), but I’ll update again when I have finally regained an ounce of dignity. Until then, please excuse me, I have a stolen bottle of tequila and it’s in need of some nursing.

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