This past January in Maine, I interned with a radio station. For reasons of - well ultimately it was awful there - I will not say the stations name. At times, I prepared on-air text and handed out promotional keychains and promotional bumper stickers branded with the radio stations name to strangers. I got to hang with awesome Make-A-Wish kids and the cast of Disney on Ice too. But most of my days involved three huge satellite vans, two feet of snow, awful defrost systems, and the local gas station as my destination. I wasn't sure that I signed up for that. But like any good intern would, I did as I was told. I didn't even complain when they turned me into a pre-schooler and made me use a glue stick and construction paper to decorate a New Kids on the Block contest box. I didn't even sweat it when they made me set up and break down the guest musician room with folding chairs and banners. No I just kept on telling myself, this is a great opportunity. This is a great opportunity. This is a - sorry, I'm not getting paid, I've turned into a truck driver and I have a 45 minute commute. I'm going to have to cut this out of my daily tasks.

                               

Which brings me to another “eh” radio story. Yesterday on the ride home I had 101.9 blaring. As I veered onto the Wantagh parkway I heard, "Caller number 9," and "Cruise to the Bahamas." I didn't hesitate to dial the number. In fact, I kept on dialing one busy signal after the other. "Ah this is my last call," I thought to myself as I heard the familiar and comforting sounds of a ring. "Hello!" the male voice on the other line said. "Hello?" I questioned him. "How's it going?" he asked. "Oh wonderfully! Are you still counting numbers?" I asked as my voice smoothly turned into an English accent. "I am!" the voice replied back with a mirrored accent. "Well what number are you on then?" I asked a bit more aggressively. "Well let me count and 1, 2, 3, divided by uuuuh times 3, and 4, 5, 6....oh yes you're number 9!" he shouted.

Normally this is where you'd get all excited. Scream a profanity. Slap the nearest person to you. Scream wildly into the phone. "Oh isn't that lovely!" I said, still in an accent. The conversation continued and he explained that I won a pre-released promotional product. The new Dave Matthews Band album. And that I was qualified for the 4 day cruise to the Bahamas with the band for an exclusive concert on an island to be chosen Friday evening. He had me say the phrase, "I'm with the Band," because it's the contests name and collected my name and address for mailing purposes. It wasn't until ten minutes later that I found out this guy was a jerk. Well, maybe not a jerk- just a cocky radio guy. He edited the sound bit and introduced me as "Some super giddy, lady" and then after I said "I'm with the band," he added that I was used to saying, "I'm with the band," for musical aaaand personal reasons. What??? So, basically he made me out to be some floozy groupie. Now I better win those damn cruise tickets.

Which brings me to another radio story where I was coerced into being an idiot. I was 16 and I can't even remember what I was caller 100 for...some concert. The radio jockey asked, "How old are you?" to which I replied, "16." The guy went on to say how I probably didn't want to go to the show since I was young and for whatever reason, I agreed. "Yeah, I don't have to go," I said. So they sent me a promotional T-shirt. A promotional tee with "Spice Girls" imprinted on the back. I'm a winner. But no worries, karma got me back when I guessed 111 dum-dum pops in a jar at a block party. Yummy. Yummy.