Confessions of a not so grown up

I am 23 years old and I am a momma's girl. I call my mother like3 times a day, ask her opinion where I should go on vacation (South of France or to Italy?), and listen to her detrimental encouragement, that it is a shame that my best guy friend is gay because he is "perfect." Needless to say, I have a fucked up view on men.

Now, I don't care if your mother is a Jew by her great great great grand mother who just used to hang out at a synogogue...Jewish mothers, especially NY ones are a very special breed. They want the best for their daughter, the richest, the best educated, the best, because no matter how short/fat/skinny/tall/crooked nosed our mothers think that we are the most beautiful and the smartest, best personality. We can conquor the world.

So my mother, who works in a retail shop, accostes all the "good looking" men who go into her store...telling them about me--an over educated, cynical, traveller. I think she has even started to carry around my picture...all in the hopes that I find someone. Since I do not bring men home, she has to assume one of 2 things: 1) that I am the whore of Greenwich Village 2) a lesbian (Lu and I are awfully close, I guess sharing a bed and all is slightly absurd)

But my mother heard what every single Jewish mother hopes to hear, that our distant cousin is getting married b/c of Jdate. YEA. My eyes are rolling. The girl's mother bought her a 1 month subscription and in that subscription, she found, baited, and snagged her future (possibly-ex) husband.

Let's think what my mother is doing?

But I have given up on internet dating. It is bullshit and the guys all do it for the 1 night stands. Unless you are short, fat, ugly, and looking for a wife (ahem jdate) it is craptastic. I have had it, it is over, and bullshit. Went out on a date with someone...and I wasnt interested in him until he didnt call me. Now I am realizing that he prob just wanted a suck and/or fuck and I wasnt going to provide that on a first date.

Actually, as I was writing this he IMed me...IM?! Who the fuck IMs...uhm, does he not know how to use a phone? I hate men. I really fucking do. The good ones are homos.

I have officially hit rock bottom. It is confirmed, I am only interested in men who are not interested in me.

Remeber my Resolutions? Here's an update:

1.Find God: am taking my Jew class on Monday nights.
2. Stop drinking: I was doing real well when I was sick, but I have now been drunk since Wed. I even went into work late on Fri due to my alkie binge.
3. Volunteer: still havent done that, still a selfish cunt
4: 2 date rule b4 I hook up with someone? Uhm...I am still the kissing slut.

Putting app into CU, fell in love with the program...and I am scared that I won't get in. But I need to get in to have my sick fucked up fantasy life: SUV, Ivy-Leauge educated husband who is traditional but still fun (think Greg from Dharma and Greg), PhD from an Ivy institution in some esoteric discipline, 2 kids, and a big dog, wearing Jimmy Choos and carrying a Balenciaga bag, being mommy.

Discombobulated Thoughts

This past weekend has been so fucking eye-opening. For the second weekend in a row I have been too tired to do anything but sit and watch movies. I have been too emotionally, physically, and intellectually exhausted to even write in my fucking blog.


I also got a burst of inspitation from watching Garden State...I have not felt like that after a movie in years...completely enamoroured with the protagaonist the sexy vulnerability combined with stirrings of self-awareness and the observances of suburbia, were so on point that...anyway. You get the idea. Plus he is super cute and if I become rich and famous, then maybe we can hang out at the same Hollywood parties...and I think he is a nice Jewish boy.

Going through my own emotional journey because of someone else's creativity made me realize I forgot what kind of power words and images can elicit from the audience. I want that power. I want to take people through an emotional journey, a journey b/c the trip isnt that far from where they are comming from.

I hate movies like that. Movies that get your hopes up for finding a love that is just so fitting and special...but then you date in NYC. And you come to realize that it just doesnt fucking exist. There is a contrived way of dating, you present yourself...and after a few months, you may be able to tell each other something heartfelt. Or you just continue to receive compensation in the form of food for all of the money you spend making yourself attractive. I think I was just attracted to the vulnerability...and I know myself that if a guy opened up to me that quickly...I would run the other way. As would most women...there is somethign about wanting to be protected...and I am supposed to be the neurotic one.

That is why I love movies, it is a forum that allows you a safe place to daydream and live the life if everything was perfect...always having a happy ending, then hitting the stop button, so not to destroy

Enough about me sounding like a self-aware Bridgett Jones.

But there is something I have been missing, connecting with my writing...writing as a way for me to force myself to be more observant with the world as opposed to putting on my I-pod and distracting myself into believing I am someplace else.

Eureka! I got it..

There are a 143 hours in a week. During the industrial revolution, a time in history where workers worked like coke addicted first year I-bankers, but without the coke and cushy office with the Italian leather chairs, workers began to organized and petitioned the powers that be for, "8 hours to work, 8 hours to sleep, and 8 hours for what we will."

I work anywhere between 45-55 (occasionally, more) in a given week. So maybe laborers really didnt win the war. I can honestly say that despite the crap and how I am overworked and underpaid, I am in love with my job. Most people have to dress up "professionally" for work, I dress like a women's college student. Baggy jeans, oversized sweatshirt, hair in a messy bun and we cannot forget my favorite Men's patagonia fleece that hangs in all the wrong places. Like an American Express card, I do not leave home without it. Keeping in mind the way I dress, the way I act at work is even worse. I sing, I dance, I tell people about my emotional instability due to PMS. I act like an overgrown child. And it is ok because I cannot go bfriend/husband shopping where I work. Not because I believe in professionalism and the old adage "you dont shit where you eat," becuase if I really wanted some office booty, I have no qualms. No, I cannot go man hunting where I work because EVERYONE is either married or attached. I am the only singleton in the office. Except for the Indian tech guy.

But he is the Indian tech guy.

So let's try to understand why I am single.
143-50 (hours that I work and dress like a women's college lesbian) = 93 hours left

93-10 hours (for my commute which I am still dressed like a women's college lesbian) = 83

As of now, we see that almost half of my week is taken up by me being dressed as a women's college lesbian. And I am not longer in college and am definately not a lesbian. *After all these years wondering it is decided. I would do a threesome for the right guy though* The rational thought would be, why don't you get dressed up? So you don't always look like a women's college lesbian. The simple truth is that, unless I have a reason, the sniff test of the clothes that I will wear to work is fine. And by the way, it is bullshit when people say that they get dressed for themselves. I do not wear 6 inch stilletos for myself. Myself is happy with a pair of loafers.

So we are at 83 hours left of the week.

83-4 hours a week at the gym (especially looking like a women's college lesbian)= 79 hours.

I sleep. Although I pretend not to, I really do. Let's say about 6 hours a night (x7) where I definately look like a women's college lesbian, especially with my non-gender Teddy bear.
79-42=37 hours

There is about 48 hours in a weekend. Let's concentrate on those for a sec. As we have estabished above, during the week I look like a women's college lesbian. There will be no man who is going to sit down and talk to me, invite me to dinner, and pledge his undying love and affection to me because, I look slightly shifty. Unless you count toothless bob, the resident homeless man who asks me out in the subway station, but that was a one time only occurance. So when I go out on the weekends (and occasionally during the week, I learned the hard way not to party until 5am the night before work b/c you will be at your desk still drunk), I like to look hott. Lotsa make-up, hair funky, cool clothes, and a drink in hand. Not necessarily to get ass but I like looking well dressed with cool clothes, especially after spending the week looking like a women's college lesbian. And the nights where I am especially hott, I sometimes luck out.

But with all things, there is a shelf life with your hotness. Mine is anything before the third drink. So I have from the minute I walk out the door to drink #3 to look hott and sexy and attract my future husband. So all in all a full hour and a half. Anything after drink 3, I begin to get slightly out of control (dancing on bars, kissing boys, etc.) Also, even if we could pretend that I act like a nun on the weekends, the motives of men at bars is "sketchy" at best.

So let me re-cap, I have a whopping 1.5 hours to find, bait, and reel in a potential bfriend/future ex-husband. I really don't do much during the weekends except for RECOVER from the crazy night before. I stay in bed all day Sat and Sun recovering from the "fun" night I had.

So in a weekend, I have about 3 hours of appeal IN A WEEKEND to a "nice boy" who got dragged out with his friends, just like me, b/c I am not a bar fly (yea right). Boy do we have so much in common! The rest of the week, I dress like a women's college sudent lesbian, have a nose in a book (how to raise a Jewish family--or something like that. Men, please don't get scared off, it is more like me doing an anthro piece), and the weekend I act like the whore of Babylon who is really just the biggest cock tease on the West side of NYC. Yea. I am going to be alone for the rest of my life.

And the CL dude? Spoke to him on the phone and he sounds lkinda quiet. But I think we are goign to get together when he comes back from his vacation. Why oh why do I ever allow myself to get slightly excited. I should just be happy that I have awsome friends, a very full social life (that I distract myself with), a job where I have fun, a nutty family who puts up with me.

And, I just learned that I am going to have to stay away from the petting zoo.

Quasimodo Speaks

My boss' latetest word of wisdom from last week:
"Shannon, it is going to be very difficult for you to ever find someone to get married to"

Keep this in mind as I explain why I have been the reformed whore of Babylon/checking my email 40+ times today...

So, last Sunday night in a bout of insomnia (possibly alcohol withdrawl), I was perusing the CL M4W ads, trying to get a good laugh before the craziness of the professional week started. I came across this ad that sounded like me to the T. For those of who know me, you know that I am a very very very very unique individual (aka eccentric possibly psychotic). So I write a classically witty email that is just cute, brilliant, warm...a lot like me. We begin to exchange emails, and this guy is getting better sounding by the minute! Ivy league, social science person, market research, living in the same neighborhood (I think even within like a 3 block radius), sends me a picture and is not scarily overweight/ugly, sisters who both went to a 7 sister, he loves New England...I mean I could go on. I am excited! Especially thinking of the men I have been runnign into lately.

I was supposed to send him a pic of me on Thurs, thinking that my friend was going to send this hot pic of me all dressed up for a night on the town, etc. Well, I dont get my pic. And he sends me one, and it is Sat already, so I send him one of me where I look like myself. No make-up, huge smile, from NYE so slightly intoxicated...overall not a bad pic of me but not making me look like a supermodel either...have I heard back from him? No. Even after I gave him my IM screename (which he asked for), which alludes to a "say a quick hi, not like the pressure of an email."

So not only do I have a crappy personality (thank you for reminding me boss) but I am also busted like Quasimodo and the only time men hit on me is when I am dressed to the nines with so much make-up/have so much hairspray that I look more like Joan Jett than I look like myself. YEA...

And I don't know what has gotten into me...I think it was the petting zoo at central park. Because I used to be anti-bfriend...I think it has just been a realization. It isn't that the hook ups are bad...no b/c the last few ones I have had in the last few months have rocked. It's the lack of emotional connection...OH my God, I sound like my roomate now.

I hate all men. I am going to be alone. With 57 cats, just like Heintz ketchup varieties. And I am beginning to eerily sound a lot like Bridget Jones. Fuck, I have also lost my originality. Fuck internet dating, why havent I learned?

Becomming a friend of Bill W.

My old college roomie visited me while she was on her business trip here in NYC, and as we were walking across the Brooklyn Bridge she turned to me and said that most people don't know me...and right then and there I understood why she has remained in my life, despite the fact that we only talk about once a month/see each other once a year. She gets me. And after spending 6 months living in a city where the only person who understands me here is my sister, it was refreshing.

So, taking an inventory of my life and wanting to develop some meaning I have come up with the following resolutions:

1. STOP DRINKING. Comepletely. First of all, you want to know why I dropped a shit load of weight in Dec?! BECAUSE I WAS ON ANTI-BIOTICS AND COULDNT DRINK. I spend a shit load of money making myself look good...why am I fucking it up with alcohol? So, in an effort to make non-drinking friends, I *seriously* am considering going to AA. Why may you ask? Because my friend and I went from the club on E53rd St. to my apt in Greenwich Village to pre-game. We travelled over 50 blocks to go to my place to slam down drinks. I dont know any people who do not drink...and drinking until I am bombed, several times a week, and I am not in college, may indicate a small problem.

2. Find God. Kind of keeping with the whole AA theme, trying to give my life to a higher power...I find that I am happier when I have a form of spiritulaity in my life.

3. Volunteer. Reading my past entries of my blog, who the fuck do I think I am? SoHo House Tsunmami benefit? Fashion Week? Sun Valley?...it's all good and fun but I am letting the cool opportunities define who I am. I pretned to be this down to earth person I used to be passionate about social justice, consumerism, etc. I want to get back to that

4. *The most important* Swearing off men. I will not hook-up with a man until 2 real dates (which means it could be a loooonnngggg spell, luckily I have the wabbitt). As in we both are sitting down, eating dinner, discussing our views on Bush's proposal to remedy social security. I am sick and tired of getting meaningless ass. It is boring, old, and honestly...usually very very dissapointing.

5. Quit smoking. Went to get a facial at Bliss and the esthitician knew that I was a smoker. Did you know that smoking cloggs your pores and actually causes breakouts?!?! My skin is looking amazing and I want to keep the results as long aspossible...


I know in all of my previous posts I have been saying that I just want ass, a hot man to fuck...Blame the Catholic and Jewish guilt over sex and sexuality that I was given in large doses growing up but I just dont feel morally right. And talking to Ang over the weekend made me realize that there are people who get me...

I guess asking for a guy who understands the subtle contradictions of my personality, who is intelligent enough to challenge me, funny enough to keep me entertained, finds me just as sexy wearing a pair of sweats as I am dressed up, good looking, tall, well educated, and rich...I guess I will be celebrating this Valentine's and ALL SUBSEQUENT Valentine's day with the wabbit and other toys that I will procure in my impending sexual frustration. But I am keeping my resolutions...

The Life Unexamined

Have you ever hit the "next blog" button, trying to be a vouyer--sneaking a peak into the innermost thoughts of strangers? I wonder what people see when they read mine, a fucked up 20 something who, if the reader is older--looks fondly back on their memories but are happy to be rid of the life filled with angst induced chemical dependencies (alcohol and nicotein, perferably); and if the reader is younger--it becomes a scare straight message--get married, get a boring corporate job, settle down with permanant distractions/legacies that will hopefully live up to what you were never able to do. Hurry, accomplish all this before you are lead astray with temptation that will take you off the path to self-righteousness. And possibly do permanant damage with overdoses of cynacism.

I, unfortunately, have fell into these tempations. This blog chronicles my falls from grace for the readers entertainment. Keeping this in persepctive, I don't feel as guilty when I share the same blog server as the adolescent, "life is meaningless because I just read Neitzsche for the first time." And I don't think the world wants to hear about your crush on the boy in front of you in homeroom...maybe the your friends do, but that shit doesnt even make me laugh.

No, what really gets me are the blogs from fucking cancer patients/sufferers of alzheimers who call their blog like Carpe Diem or some shit like that. Do you know how even more superficial I sound if you are comming from a blog that is supposed to be inspirational...telling you to follow your dreams and tell the people in your life how important they are because, each day may be your last. No, instead you stumble on a blog that talks about vomming in a boys bed, who you met that night, instead of having a steamy hook-up as you intended. Going into work semi-drunk from the night before, recieving dirty text messages from a different boy who the only thing you remeber about him is that he was well dressed. (My GOD he was well dressed, and to a fag hag such as myself...that was fucking hot). Or how about me and my best friend sharing the same guy in a make-out session...

I really feel like shit when I read about these people who use blogging as a way to chronicle their chemo treatment, or to confess how afraid they are of dying.

And I want to say how it puts my my problems with my job, life, school into perspective and shit...am I a bad person for saying that it really doesnt? That I am so wrapped up in my own life, that I feel bad for 2.5 secs, think a thought or three...then go back to thinking about sex, clothes, and drinking, (ok throw in some existential philosophy)? But, I think most people are like me but are afraid to admit it, because if everyone was truly touched, there would be an overflow of Hospice volunteers, more people doing outreach to the homeless man who occupies our block, to the shut-in whose relatives conveniently forget to visit--until the will is supposed to be re-drawn. Is the world of blogging just a microcosm of the world in which we continue to build for ourselves?

Shit, that is waaaayyyy to fucking serious. Sorry, I just got back from my first sociology class where, if I may say, I kicked ass. Making the professor draw a blank when I stated the possibility that the genisis of agency/structure in modern sociological theory was so much more than just an outgrowth of criticism bouncing between two schools of thought. That one could not deny the impact of the feminist movement and feminist theory on getting rid of the idea that a person is a victim of their society/mind. Go womyn. Maybe I should start spelling woman womyn in my presentations for our corporate clients. I am sure the corporate companies want to see the remants of a raging feminist.

Can we say, that I am prob not considered the coolest person in my grad class. That is ok, I am a MoHo. We are never the coolest person in anything. Taking classes like the one I am about to embark on reminds me how thankful I am for the education that I recieved with such awsome professors who made my 4 yrs at MHC an intellectual bootcamp.

Taking a chance?

And I think I am going to meet up with the boy..worst thing? He is busted and I had my 6 cosmo goggles on. I have done worse, I am sure. This one was dressed well. Best thing? I have a fuck buddy to have hot no strings attached sex with. It is about fucking time. And if he is good looking and lives up to the hook-up, I will be a very very happy woman. And, by the way, I do not want a boyfriend. At fucking all.