Wednesday, September 10, 2014

How Rachael Ray Single-Handedly Ruined My Wednesday

6 AM and I am awoken by screaming. 

And I don't mean just a little shout; I'm talking an ear-piercing, blood-curdling shriek. My immediate reaction is to jump out of bed, thinking that there's a fire or something, because what the hell could be producing such a reaction, other than a life-or-death emergency? 

The shrieking slowly begins to sound more like cheering. Maybe they put out the fire and everyone's cheering on the FDNY? Now we must remember, I'm barely awake and this seems like a perfectly logical explanation to me.

I pry apart the shades of my window and discover that my worst nightmare has been realized: my dorm is surrounded by hundreds of middle-aged women, waiting to be granted entry into the Rachael Ray show. 

The scene of the crime.

Flashback to a month ago when I thought it was super cool that Rachael Ray's studio was right outside. Sure, the massive poster appeared to stare into my soul at all hours of the day, but who doesn't love a good 30-minute meal?

That being said, a well-cooked casserole is nothing to scream about. Who knew that a bunch of 40-year-old women waving autographed copies of a cookbook could rival the noise level of One Direction fans?

So yeah, I essentially lost two hours of precious beauty sleep because of Rachael Ray and her damn "EVOO". 
The face of pure evil.

Is it drastic to say that Rachael and her delicious casseroles are my official new arch-nemesis?

Seriously, if you have the time and energy to spend your Wednesday morning camped outside to watch a woman literally do nothing except cook, I'm happy for you, I really am, but there's no need to alert the entire block.

Officially against the terms "Delish!" and "Yum-O!",

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

First Post! (About your blogger and other boring technicalities)

So I guess this is how you make a blog post?

It's been almost a month since I moved to NYC from a Connecticut suburb, and my mother (the ultimate stage-mom) has suggested I create a blog documenting what it's like to be a teen in New York. Since I have so much free time between my absurd amount of required classes, I took her up on the offer. Let's see how long this lasts.

Okay, so who am I, and why would you want to read my blog?
My name is Merrill; some people call me Mer, other people call me Blondie, and others refer to me as "That girl over there". I'll really answer to anything as long as you're looking at / pointing at me, because I'm generally way too embarrassed to correct you. I also really wanted the URL "Womanhattan", but upon researching the title, I discovered that the URL had been taken by a blog written in a language that I don't understand, which has not been updated since 2005. Alas, such is life.  

Me looking fresh in Sepia in front of this fancy-ass bridge in Brooklyn.
I'm 18 years old and a freshman at the Fashion Institute of Technology. My major is called Visual Presentation and Exhibition Design, also known as VPED, and is a mixture of various elements, which still confuses me. Since my major is so tiny, I have gotten used to trying to explain the major, and I have finally settled on saying that it is a mixture of styling, merchandising, event planning, and exhibition design, among other things. Confusing, yes, but incredibly interesting.

My classes consist of the following:
  • Design and Rendering (somewhat of an architecture class mixed with exhibition design. I'll update you all as soon as I figure out what the hell this class is about)
  • Yoga (namaste, bitch)
  • Photography
  • Professional Practices (learning about the different parts of the fashion industry)
  • Drawing
  • Product Presentation/ Studio Design (photo styling and the creation of window displays)
  • Display Graphics (a fancy way of saying Graphic Design. Still trying to figure out why they did that)

I haven't decided how often I'm going to post (I'm lazy and indecisive), but I guess we'll all find out. If you've read this far: Hey, You're awesome. Thanks for coming. 

Much love,