I mean, sure the 5-day old oatmeal tasted fresh enough, I’m not trying to sit here and bash eating leftovers. But it couldn’t make up for the fact that I had no co-workers, no real office, and no one believing that freelancing was a real job. So I did what any qualified writer does when she’s looking for a legitimate job: I got back on Craigslist, found the job of my dreams, and applied immediately. Unfortunately it turns out that my pre-puberty body prevents me from being an escort. Another dream crushed.

But I wouldn’t let that stop me. I found four more almost ideal jobs: babysitting an incontinent 80-year-old blind man, being a drug mule on the Mexican border, working for Coed Media Group, and having a sex change and appearing on Tyra 1-3 times to talk about the experience.

Only Coed Media called me back. For those of you who don’t spend your days Googling “but seriously, stop messing around, who really owns CollegeCandy?” you should know that Coed Media Group owns College Candy. That small fact will be a great ice-breaker and trivia question at dinner parties for years to come. I promise you that you will instantly be the life of every party if you pull that fact out. Of course, that’s assuming you only attend parties where guests are constantly asking each other about blog ownership.

Despite my slovenly appearance and my inability to answer normal interview questions like “what are your strengths and weaknesses and bra size,” they hired me. Which means two things: all my CollegeCandy blogging has paid off, and it is indeed possible to get a job in the media industry. However, I’ve had to spend the last week listening to people congratulate me on finally getting a job. As if I’ve been spending the last 6 months wandering around NYC and hitting on homeless men who openly pee on pay phones. (And come on people, everyone knows that’s a job best accomplished at night.)

But, even though this exciting new venture will bring a lot of changes to my life (trading in my slippers for shoes with laces and pulling out the ole alarm clock), the biggest change will be the reactions from those around me. Yes, instead of getting the confused eyebrow scrunch and “What exactly is it that you do?” I will now be getting the confused eyebrow scrunch and, “Wait, you’re working for a blog, but how do you make money?”

Looking forward to it.

"Tard pills? Hilarious!"

As every CollegeCandy writer knows, blog commenters can be brutal. Like, kill your self-esteem and make you question everything you’ve ever written brutal. People who you have never met will take the time to dissect your blog and tear it apart sentence by sentence. No typo goes unnoticed and no opinion goes unbashed.

I’m writing for four different blogs now so half my day is consumed with writing them and the other half is spent reading comments filled with racial slurs, homophobic comments, and sentences written in all CAPS. Nothing says “I hate the way you blog about puppies,” like a 6 paragraph comment written in caps and exclamation marks. Sometimes there are so many asterisks in a single word that I can’t even figure out what kind of motherf***ing***tard I am.

I’ve gotten so used to the negative comments that I’ve begun to crave them. It’s kinda like how many people will tell me today that I’m clearly writing from my mom’s basement (I wish…talk about cheap rent and endless things to talk about in therapy). And how many middle-aged men with usernames like DildoMongoDemento can tell me I “forgot to take my retard pills.” Note: If it was true that I forgot to take these so-called retard pills, it would be pretty amazing that I was able to successfully blog and post. Like I am Sam-meets-Forrest-Gump amazing.

However the one comment that never ceases to confuse me is “you sound fat.” I would understand if I was writing blogs titled “100 ways to eat a stick of butter” and “Why you have to order a Bacon-cheeseburger martini this weekend!” But I’m not. And it’s not like I’m blogging about male fashion trends and writing statements like “fedoras are the jelly donut of the fashion world.” If I were, I could stop describing everything with the adjective mouth-watering.

But while I may never figure out why “I sound fat,” or why people feel the need to spend their time tearing me apart, I’ll always appreciate the jaw-dropping offensive comments I receive. For one, it means people are reading what I write (and that’s the ultimate goal of a writer, isn’t it?), and it keeps my ego at a healthy low and ensures that I’m up to speed on all the many ways you can combine curse words and slurs.

I reuse Ziploc bags, I pay for my coffee with pennies, and all my jeans have holes in the crotch. I don’t pay for anything that I don’t desperately need. So even though I’ve been asked for my business card several times, I never shelled out the money to get them made. I will regret that decision for the rest of my life.

Last week CollegeCandy got invited to a Barenaked Ladies listening party and I gladly accepted the invite. I haven’t listened to new music since 1999 so they really hit the spot for me. I didn’t really know what a listening party entailed, but it sounded a lot more fun than sitting around watching Nanny reruns and eating a bag of chocolate chips.

My friend Sam and I showed up expecting to see a bunch of bloggers sitting around iPod speakers listening to Barenaked Ladies. It was better than anything I could have ever imagined. Not only were the Barenaked Ladies performing live, but there was a buffet and beer. I made a beeline for the food and cursed myself for not traveling around with plastic bags. To think of all the shrimp I could have packed into my purse!

Once I was done eating enough brie cheese to clog all my arteries, I headed to the performance area and snagged a front row seat. I was the only blogger there and I was also the only one there not keeping my cool. Everyone else was from the label and  sat there as if shrimp on sticks and live music were part of a regular Tuesday evening.

I would be lying if I said I didn’t start crying during “One Week.” I remember listening to that song in 7th grade when I still thought it was okay to go to school with oily hair and holiday-themed braces. Look at me now – a New York City girl (with cheese cubes in my purse) at a private concert.

After the concert Sam and I searched through the cooler for more beers and were about to leave when the drummer, Tyler Stewart, approached us. I blushed, I gigged, and I did my best “you’re famous, now make me famous comedy routine.” Tyler (we’re on first name basis now) fell for my good looks and charm (slash pitied how hard I was trying) and asked for my business card so he could read my blog. And of course I came up empty-handed.

If only I had a business card, I would have been hired as full-time tour blogger for Barenaked Ladies. I would probably have a record deal by the summer and a hit song with lyrics like “I spend my days blogging and warding off homeless men in the public library.”

But instead, I remain a regular ‘ole blogger with no hope of a hit record… and a stack of freshly made business cards.

Throwing a birthday party in NYC was far more challenging than any birthday party I ever threw at college. At Syracuse you only had to choose between throwing your party at one of four bars. And considering the bars were all frequented by stereotypical groups, it was usually an obvious decision.

But in the city I had to choose between one billion bars. Did I want to go to a pricey club? A dive bar? A 24-hour Chinese buffet? How could I possibly compare the  bouncers-behind-velvet-rope-experience and an endless-supply-of-General-Tso’s-Chicken-experience? I eventually chose a bar-lounge that was described as chill and uptight at the same time. Which was perfect because I was planning on wearing a skin tight dress with converse sneakers.

Not only was the party planning more difficult than ever, but the gift requesting got complicated as well. Last year I asked my parents for a miniature pony and a 100 inch flat screen installed on my ceiling. But this year I had long debates with myself about whether I should be practical (money to buy groceries) or ridiculous (money to buy a live-in maid). I alternated my practical and fantastical requests among the relatives; I’m now the proud owner of a CVS gift certificate and the heart of the ocean featured in Titanic.

However, despite all the hardships of turning 23, I’m happy to be starting a new year. While 22 was full of amazing memories, stealing stories, and walks of shame (refer to my Senioritis blogs), it was also full of unemployment, living with my grandparents, and a general feeling of loneliness (refer to my first 15 Life After College blogs).

This is a new year. I’m a writer living in NYC, blogging about my life. I’m practically Carrie Bradshaw minus the West Village apartment, high salary, designers, sex stories and the ability to start every narrative recap with “Later that day, I got to thinking.”

So while the birthday party planning might have been a little harder, I’m hoping the whole “getting older” will make living  and surviving a whole lot easier.

My ideal Friday night.

Riddle me this. Why did no one warn me that 3-day weekends don’t exist in the real world?

Maybe I was naive and in a college bubble, but I truly had no idea that people worked full days on Friday. Like it still blows me away me when my boss gives me a ten page to-do list on Friday at 4:00. By that time I’m in full weekend mode and already planning my outfit for the night. And by outfit for the night, I mean figuring out which pajamas will be the most comfortable while I drink wine alone in my bed.

I can barely get up the energy to go out on both Friday and Saturday anymore. Hell, I barely have the energy to move myself from my couch to my bed at 10 p.m. on Friday night after Ugly Betty is over. I’ve turned into a pathetic version of myself. A version that I’d be hazing and probably rolling my eyes at if I were my former cooler, drunker, college self. I actually enjoy spending my weekend nights eating cookie dough and watching deleted scenes of The Notebook. I’m one Friday-night-in away from buying matching pajama sets.

But this weekend I had a momentary lapse in judgment and forgot I’m a 40-year-old middle aged mom. I went out Friday night, Saturday night, AND Sunday afternoon. I should have quit while I was ahead. Sunday Funday (as everyone insists on calling it) is anything but fun. It’s a day drinking event that should be left to the pros — college students and David Hasseloff.

Chugging mimosas 1-3 made me feel like a champ. I felt like I was back in my prime and I even debated tattooing Sunday Funday across my forehead. However, after that it was all downhill. I got bloated, hungover, and tired before the sun even went down. It didn’t take me long to go from being a fun postgrad to being an upright corpse. I crawled home, got into my sweats, and watched a quality Lifetime movie.

As I lay in bed, willing my room not to spin, I couldn’t believe it was already Sunday, my weekend was already over and I was too drunk to actually do anything. Like laundry or grocery shopping. Those are the things you think of when the weekend comes in the real world.  Things are bleak out here and I fear I’ll never get used to this life…or such unbearably short weekends. The only thing I have to look forward to now is the day that they invent cookie dough that doesn’t come with the risk of salmonella.

Woo! $1.00 off when you buy 12 cans of expired tuna!

Being an adult means making a lot of sacrifices. It’s about saying no to a dinner party because you can’t afford to bring more than stale bread ends. It’s about turning down movie offers because it costs 5 billion dollars to buy a ticket in NYC (and god forbid you want to see IMAX…bye bye, life savings!). And most unfortunately, it’s about buying store brands because you can’t justify shelling out for brand name mustard.

When I was younger (I’m referring to just a year ago) I would throw an absolute hissy fit in the grocery store if my mother even thought about buying non-organic eggs or frozen vegetables. The horror! I logically compared her buying non-free-range chicken to her murdering me in my sleep. But now I’m the one cruising the supermarket with a fistful of coupons and determination not to spend more than necessary. And if that means buying pre-opened food, cans with puncture holes, and expired meats on a discount, so be it. Like I said, it’s all about sacrifices. Like staying in on Saturday night because you have food poisoning from eating year-old salmon.

Penny pinching is one of my least favorite activities. It falls right between having to Google pregnancy symptoms and watching previews for Cougar Town. Yet the longer I’m out of school and the longer I go without finding out I inherited a fortune from a distant relative, the stingier I get. I practically fight over pennies on the street with homeless people. And that’s a new low.

Even for me.

I’m trying really hard to work on striking up a balance for myself. Like if I eat peanut butter crackers for a week for dinner, then I can treat myself by actually going out to dinner one night. But at the same time, I’m not getting out of control. By dinner I mean a side salad, an ice water, and a complimentary mint.

If I could go back in time and tell myself one thing when I was a college senior, it would be “You’re going to be poor so spend your drink money on lottery tickets and improve your pickpocketing skills.” But I can’t go back in time, because I depleted my Time Machine Fund on a ticket to see Avatar in IMAX. So now I’m stuck here in the present time, clipping coupons and eating old meat and wearing “irregular” socks under my faux Uggs.

Fact: It's not easy working from home.

I made the terrible mistake of going home to Florida this past week to spend time with my family, see my mom’s new puppy, and get a tan. I’ve never been paler and that even includes the time that I played the Ghost of Christmas Past in a school play. Obvi, the trip was a great idea…in theory. However, things went horribly wrong from the start.

Apparently God wants people to call me Casper because Florida had record-breaking cold weather while I was home. And, of course, I packed for home like an Alaskan tourist going to Disney World for the first time. My suitcase contained 6 pairs of shorts, 3 crop tops, and 1 coconut bra. I had to dig through my high school clothing collection at home to find weather-suitable outfits. So basically I wore a soccer uniform around the city for a week. Thankfully I played the bench position so the uniform looked just like new.

Not only was I freezing the whole break, but I got little to no work done. I was all “woohoo I’m a blogger, I can work from anywhere, I’ll work from a raft in the pool” before I left NYC. It sounds great in theory. It’s impossible in reality. There was no way for me to focus on my work when my sister was watching Wife Swap on repeat and the puppy was using my laptop as a chew toy. I ended one day in true TV stay-at-home mom sitcom fashion: I yelled at my sister for making the sink a mess, yelled at the dog for eating dinner off the stove, yelled at my fat husband for pulling off crazy hijinks, and cried out of frustration.

Unfortunately, “emotional breakdown” isn’t really a legitimate excuse for not getting work done. (But if anyone knows a job where that is okay, please contact me ASAP.) I had to lock myself in my room (flashback to teenage angst) and force myself to finish my work. Or start it.  After all, I can’t afford to take a week off now that I’ll have to spend half my savings account on spray tans.

I’m packing up now to go back to NYC where apparently everyday people are turning into icicles by simply walking outside. I miraculously managed to stuff enough food for 3 weeks into my suitcase and get 23% of my work done, so all I have left to do now is put on my sexiest outfit for airport security.

Those guys work hard; I want them to get the most out of their national security/inappropriate groping.

Grad school or no grad school - that is the question.

[It's pretty obvious that the average CollegeCandy reader has some very strong opinions. Opinions that she likes to share with everyone on the site. We love a strong woman (unless she happens to be charging at us with her fists raised), so we thought we'd give her a real forum to discuss her thoughts, feelings, and perspectives. Every Friday I'll be featuring a hot topic (like taking him home for the holidays!) and leaving it up to you, the readers, to duke it out. So, read it and get your debate on in the comments section below!]

The New Year is here, and for those of you graduating in May, it’s time to start thinking about the future (insert groan here). Probably the biggest question you face down as graduation approaches is, what next? You could go out and get a job, bum around your parents’ place for a while, or you could keep the education train rolling with grad school. Applications to Masters programs have gone way up in the last few years (and they’re starting soon) - should you be joining them?

On the “pro” side of the argument, there are a lot of reasons it could be worth it to go to grad. There’s a lot more freedom in graduate study than in undergrad, which means that you get to make your own rules a bit more and you can really immerse yourself in one area of interest instead of taking all those required classes you’re never going to use again. Also, the job market still pretty much sucks (depending on your field, of course) and studies have shown that people who start jobs now (at lower pay) will continue to be paid lower even 10 years down the road – WTF? So in that respect, grad school is a really good way to buy yourself a little time and maybe a better pay check in the future. And ultimately, the truth is that a Masters degree is going to become increasingly the standard for our generation and the ones following us. For our grandparents it was a high school diploma, for our parents, a college degree and for our generation, where soooo many go to college, standing out is going to mean a Masters at least. Consider it an investment in your future.

But there are some distinct “cons” here too. To start with, you finally managed to graduate, the day you’ve been working toward since you were five, and now you’ve got to go in for at least 2 more years?! And while many grad schools are less expensive than undergrad, it’s still not exactly cheap. If you already have student loans or debt piling up, grad school may not be such a helping hand, particularly since there aren’t nearly as many scholarships or grants for grad. And while you don’t have to take those crappy required classes, grad school doesn’t allow for a lot of blow off courses either, which means an awful lot of stress. Speaking of stress, let’s not forget that most grad programs require you to take the GREs - yep, it’s like the SATs all over again. Joy! Oh, and BTW, when I mentioned up there that applications to grad school were way up, some schools have seen jumps of over 30%, so just getting in could be an issue.

Do you see yourself in grad school? Or would you rather eat your backpack than add on more school years? Will you be applying? Have you? Or do you think the whole idea of a Masters degree is just silly? Duke it out!

What's that noise? Where's Olivia Benson?!

Some days I wake up in my NYC apartment, put on my robe, and walk around with a bowl of oatmeal saying “man oh man, am I real adult or what?” I pay bills, I clip coupons, and I change my sheets on a biyearly basis. It’s kinda like I’m checking my mailbox twice a day to see if anyone has sent me an official “you’re a functioning grown-up” certificate. It’s kinda equivalent in my head to a law degree or an MBA — in the sense that all three are frame-able.

But some nights, I lay awake in my bed, heart racing, scared sh*tless that a serial killer is going to break-in to my apartment, steal my stuff, murder me, and then use double-ply toilet paper to purposefully clog the very fragile toilets. My fears get even worse when my roommates spend the weekend away and I’m stuck hypothetically protecting our apartment all by myself. I go through enough possible murder scenarios in my head before bed that I could win in a “worst ways to be killed in NYC” brainstorming competition against Law and Order SVU and Lifetime Movie Network.

And I make things worse by watching scary movies alone. I don’t know why I ever thought watching the Home Alone trilogy before bed was a good idea. After making that genius movie decision, I slept with a butter knife under my pillow and a complimentary restaurant box of matches in my hand.

I don’t get why I can be a totally real adult during the day, but a complete kindergartner at night. What is the magic adult age when you’re old enough to spend a night home alone without freaking out every time you hear a noise?

In college I always felt safe before I went to bed. Maybe it was from the dorm security guards screening every resident as if we were boarding an airplane. Or maybe it was the false sense of security that going to bed drunk gave me. Either way I always felt totally safe — and that was with my dorm door unlocked and propped open.

Basically I have two choices right now. I can either install a fourth lock on my front door or I can call Syracuse and ask them what secret-service-reject-school they use to hire their dorm security. And then get drunk with him and have a peaceful night’s rest once again.

Yeah, I’m growin’ up.

Graduating is almost like watching Paranormal Activity; it’s just plain terrifying.

Because of the current economy (read: in the toilet) many of us are making some pretty rash decisions when it comes to choosing majors and getting the ball rolling on our futures. Students are trying to do whatever they can to get ahead of their peers, often choosing majors early in order to get a head start on internships, jobs and other experiences valuable to an attractive resume. Some schools are even getting rid of their “useless” majors – like Philosophy – in favor of majors that will actually get students some jobs – like Business.

But is being so totally focused and career minded in college really the right way to go?
Some people don’t think so.

Besides specializing in “Ramen Cuisine,” college is an essential time to focus on your career. I mean, that’s why we’re here, right? It often feels that you haven’t even unpacked your bags into your tiny dorm room before your academic advisor is pressuring you to declare your major, and fast. And it makes sense; money is tight and it’s important to get moving on a path that will secure a successful job in the future.  Unless you want to live in your parents’ basement with the family pet, college is the key to jump-starting your life.  Declaring your major early gives you more experience in the field and the opportunity to rope in an internship right away. All things that will eventually make you more appealing to that HR guy in the suit.

At the same time, though, maybe this isn’t the only aspect of college we should be focusing on.

Is getting a job the only reason people get a college education? And is a business student who only knows statistics, finance and how the banking industry works really the most appealing job candidate? What happened to being well-rounded? To being multi-dimensional? That was really important during the college application process, so why not now? Even more, how are you supposed to know what you want to do if you’ve never given anything else a chance? College is a time to explore. To learn. To try new things and find your path. Not to choose the major that makes the most money and hope you can survive it.

College, if you take advantage of all the opportunities it has to offer, opens more doors than Inconsiderate Ian did for you on your last blind date.  It also happens to be the last time you’re really given the freedom to explore such a wide variety of options. I get that we’re all desperate to nab those highly coveted jobs post graduation, but that doesn’t mean we have to lock ourselves into a box just yet. Nor that doing so is the key to success.

So, what do you think? Are we wasting our time on those art and religion classes? Should we be more focused on our trade?