Part I: An apology to the male species, the preamble

By the tail end of my Thanksgiving “vacation” I had to break camp from the seat of my parents’ couch or forever wear my ‘visiting parents’ uniform of the same sweat pants and sweater I had been living in, since I put them on Thanksgiving eve. There is something about being in my parents’ house that unleashes my dependent/depressive streak; frustrated that my mom can no longer write the “please excuse Shannon from…” letters. They work when talking to the dean of your HS about your abnormally high absence rate, not acceptable to your boss/landlord/grown-up friends/family and other people you are indebted to for an almost grown-up life.

Saturday night, I sat wallowing in self-pity watching Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, the 7th movie I rented that long weekend, as I shoveled leftovers of green bean casserole and turkey into my mouth, trying to gain motivation to change my circumstances. Wishing my dad didn’t pet my ever-growing beer belly, wishing I would stop fucking up at work, wishing my roommate and my landlord would stop fighting…wishing things that are supposed to build our character during the years of our quarter-life crisis, didn’t exist.

I stare at the tv and shove my Thanksgiving sandwich into my mouth as bits of food fall onto my lap. The phone rings. I try to ignore it, wanting instead to wallow in my depression and 3 day unwashed body. But I suck at ignoring people’s calls. Especially when I am depressed and need validation that I am well liked.

“Hey! Shannon! Some of my friends and I are going to be in your neighborhood and you should come out for a drink!”

“Oh..[pause, quick, thinking whether I want to give up listening to my mother talk about how much she saved with double coupons on groceries] I don’t know [I mean, the house is warm and double coupons are an awfully fascinating subject when you are depressed] I am actually on LI with my family”

“Oh, ok.”

[I think to myself, double coupon lectures or getting drunk in my neighborhood]

“You know what,” I respond, “fuck yea! Actually I should sleep at my own apt tonight anyway”

Even as a depressive, all it takes for me to get out of bed is the promise of an alcohol fuelled fun evening to snap me out of my melancholy coma. Or at least the promise of having enough to drink and forget the reasons that don’t let me sleep at night.

I decline my mother’s invitation of brownies, ciggs, and tv watching and instead take a cab to the train station. Inadvertently sharing a cab with the 2 50 year olds that my friend was hitting on at the Celtic the night before.
I ascend the escalator from the lower level of Penn Station to street level, relieved to see a hired vehicle that I don’t need to call an hour in advance to reserve. I hail a taxi home. I get dressed, trying on 8 shirts, hoping that one of them hides my Thanksgiving belly. Phone calls reminding me that I am late. Chug wine. Put make up on. Chug more wine in the name of pre-gaming. Put on my Manolos. Finish the wine bottle. Phone call reminding me that I am late. Grab purse, run out the door, simultaneously shoving a cigg in my mouth—trying to satisfy my nicotine craving that comes from the excitement of leaving LI and returning to my civilization. Dirty dishes, no curtains covering the windows, and lazy Greek faux son living on the couch, but there is an abusive comfort that I find in this.

I receive the fourth phone call standing on the corner of 8th and 16th St. Late, lost, and stubbing out the remnants of second cigarette that I lit off the first. About to light my third, I hear my name and realize they are right in front of me, freezing and waiting outside so the bouncer would know that I was with them.

Turns out it’s an industry party, people looking stylish but only with the padded resumes that support their lives. And of course the moment I walk up to the bar, a short Indian guy begins to talk to my friend and me.

“Hi! I’m peter, nice to meet you! How did you hear of this party?” as he looks down, away from my friends.

“Well Peter, its nice to meet you too! And my breasts would like to say hi as well, since it seems you were more pre-occupied with them.”

“Oh no! I’m so sorry. I really didn’t mean to…[he recoils, stutters] It’s just I am very shy, and I had a few drinks, and I am so sorry. I mean you no disrespect.”

And like all geeks, he pulls over his ambiguously gay friend, and begins to raise the peacock feathers of his job with Miramax, compensating for the blow I struck to his ego.
Using his job as a form of masculine currency hoping to barter my respect.

What the fuck?

It’s a trend I have come to notice from 95% of the male species (excluding the 5% who are hot and know it). An inability to call us women out on our bullshit behavior, thinking that acting like a doormat will get you laid. Like the book Reviving Ophelia, something happens to boys during the times of adolescence that makes them into pansies without masculinity, only able to barter earning potential and financial security for the pittance pussy.

I think I figured out the reasoning for the trend…

Adolescent girls who grow into neurotic women have ruined masculinity.

14 yr old boy fingers a girl for the first time without understanding the female anatomy …”Ow!” she yelps. “You’re hurting me! Could you just kiss me instead?”

16 yr old girl gives first blow job. For my gay male readers and my female ones, we all remember giving head for the first time (my hetero male readers receiving a bj from a first timer): teeth interfering, really can’t grasp the concept of suction and the simultaneous head bob, “Baby,” he says, excited he is finally getting anything, “you are the best!” As he winces in pain, thinking to himself, “did she just nip my left testicle?”

23 yr old woman having sex, on her back, glancing over her lovers shoulders to look at the time. He notices. “Are you about to cum?” he asks. “I’m just not in the mood tonight, that’s all,” she responds.

24 yr old lover having sex with the woman above, thinking to himself, “FUCK YEA! PUSSY! Oh shit! Z, Y, X, W…U…I hope I don’t cum…T, S.. I hope I don’t cum”

Ladies, we have fucked over the male species because of our un-supportive nature in bed. Think about it, how many of the guys who you know are amazing in the sack, take any of our shit? And it isn’t psychological, because psychology doesn’t know where my clitoris is…

To be continued…too tired and client meeting in a few hours.

FUCK YOU LANE BRYANT

You have to read this letter that my friend wrote them.

Evidently they are selling knock-off jeans and pricing them like they are the real thing.

LI love, my space, and better than in their underwear

LI Love

After this weekend I’ve realized that my neighborhood in LI really isn’t much different than those uncultured guido communities that I routinely pretend I am too good for. This was brought to my attention when I went to my mainstay bar back home, the Celtic, and realized that all those kids home from college who packed the joint wore too tight wife beaters, velour jumpsuits ala Tony Sopranno, and too much gel in their hair. But these kids weren’t all just ‘home from college’, I later learned but, were like many of us who grew up outside major cities, priced out of independence aka ‘rent in NYC is too expensive so I am going to live at home with mom and dad until I save—even if I am still 27 and sneaking girls home’.

Many beers later, and a friend and I were talking about the merits of having a job you hate but enabled you to live independently.

“Seriously, Jess, I am so envious at times of you and everyone else who lives at home. God forbid, if you had to, you could quit your job and not have to worry about how to pay rent on an apt that you are legally bound to vis a vis a lease.”

Fuck, I realize I should not say that to someone who has to live at home with her parents. Especially, as I uttered that sentence, the reason why I have not moved back home and gladly pay the $1200 for my apt, images of my father with a baseball bat chasing John down the street because he thought we had sex. Or when I did live at home after my stint in New Orleans, the time when my father grilled me because I came home at 5:30am when the bars closed at 4am (Oh no Daddy, I wasn’t having sex! We went back to a friend’s house to play poker!).

Maybe a little misery is worth my independence.

So the topic came up, if you are a 20 something, still living at home, how do you bring someone back to your parent’s house to get a little action from the hot make-out in the bar? Does one have to have their parents witness their walk of shame?

Jess was telling me about her friend who brought a girl home as a one night stand from the bars. The next morning she walked down the stairs past his family, and called her DAD to pick her up. As if the walk of shame isn’t bad enough, no, you have to smell like sex in front of your dad picking you up the next morning.

Our lives in our 20’s really aren’t much different from our lives in high school? When I was at MHC, at least my mom didn’t call me at 2am to make sure I got home ok (Sat night).

Myspace Vs. Friendster


I used to be strictly friendster. I had control over who could see my profile. It was less “datey” than myspace, plus it was hella more user friendly and didn’t have so many features as to confuse this ADD girl. But, in the 2 years that I had my friendster profile, only 1 person messaged me, and that was to play more of a tour guide role than for me to potentially become his Mrs. ________.

Depressed that everyone is coupling off, a desire to get notoriety for my blog, I decided to use my boobs and a dominatrix pic as a dangling carrot, hoping to entice a few more readers (fine and maybe I could find Mr. Right, or even ‘Mr. Right Now’). My boobs work in bars for free drinks, why can’t they help me procure more readers.

However, with my newfound use of myspace, I have come to realize that almost everyone whose messaged me were dateless leppers. I’ve gotten messaged by men with babies’ mommas, a goth kid who didn’t get the memo that the 80’s have been over for almost 20 years, a 20 yr old kid who I am convinced lives in his parents basement, and of course the insanely obese. Perhaps it serves me right that these people message me, I mean I did put up a picture of me holding a martini, drunk off my ass and posted is one of my dominatrix pics. Plus I mention something about a ‘boyfriend beard’—someone to have sex with me and occupy my time on Sat night without the sharing of feelings and other things that girls do when they like someone.

However, it has left me wondering, are these people ‘leppers’ because its so anti-match.com? No pre-made answers to the typical questions of who I want in someone? That without match.com’s pre-made questions and acceptability to post pics of yourself obviously drunk/dressed as a dominatrix/stealing a golf cart, that we all are dateless leppers?! In pursuit of this question, I am conducting my own little experiment (this is what happens when a sociologist is forced to be a media planner), trying to understand the power of the photograph. I am going to keep pics up for one month, and rotate it, and see what type of messages/dates I get. From nerve.com, to match.com, to craigslist, friendster, and now to myspace…I think its safe to assume I don’t have a boyfriend for a reason besides my looks…

But as much as I poke fun at myspace, and the people who message me…I have also developed a huge addiction to seeing who is on, who is friend requesting me, and who has sent me a message. I’ve checked it like 40 times today. No kidding.


The New Preoccupation at work

The old public speaking adage: “Just imagine them in their underwear” BS, doesn’t work. I’ve tried, especially when you cry at your desk and need something else to make you less nervous. I’ve started to play this game that always produces a smile to my face.

Imagine the sex faces of the people around you. Try to picture them in bed with their loved one, with a few shots in them.

This should keep you entertained for hours.

Corporate Disturbed

I was talking to a lawyer and she was telling me that stealing office supplies got so bad where she was lawyering, that the powers-that-be instituted a policy that (I swear this is true) only partners got new pencils. When the pencil broke, s/he placed it in the outbox to be sharpened and once the scretary sharpened the penicil point, it was passed on to the next person down the heirarchy. Thus, those who had the longest pencils were most important to the company.

The pencil brand had the name 'warrior' etched into its side.

You know, most of those partners are men...

hmmm...

Fucked by numbers

On the verge of greatness, yet I fuck up again.

I had this fool proof plan that was supposed to erase how I fucked up in college the first 2 years, and forgot to take math classes that have become the pre-requisites for my hopeful grad programs. I was going to cheat the system; take a few make-up classes at Hunter, ace the shit (because, let’s be real, I am a MoHo grad and my class was at some lowly public uni), become the star pupil and have the prof write a glowing recommendation for Columbia so I could have another blue and white school name added to my resume.

I have my stats test tomorrow and I ‘forgot’ to go to class for the past month.

Coming from a liberal arts degree in Critical Social Thought, I am the queen of procrastination. Routinely I ‘forgot’ to go to class and instead showed up on the last day to receive the assigned final essay. It was a system. I set up camp at the library and would read one of the class’ seminal texts, get drunk off of some micro-brewed beer and then write an A paper that was “insightful” “brilliant” and “original”. All the while causing a rukus with my friends and running around the library drunk off our asses (finals couldn’t even stop this party girl). By the way, a scavenger hunt in the library for beer is a great stress reducer.

I’ve learned the hard way that there is no ‘system’ to beat having to go to stats class. There is no bullshit that I can spew into an A, drunk and filled with self-importance that alcohol provides me.

You can’t bullshit numbers.

I fucked up, yet again and to make matters even worse, I need this class to get into grad school.

But part of this system also includes some life lessons and when you are really in the hole, pity is a wonderful mediator to compensate for your own half-assed attempt mediocrity. In college I gained weight and blamed my shitty grades on “depression”. In high school I blamed my lack of attendance on “not being challenged”. However, with a jaded public uni professor, I have come to realize that he isn’t going to fall for the standards “I am too busy” “I am depressed” “My grandma died”. Standards of the spoiled over educated kids because, lets be real, most of us don’t deal well with real life. Desperate times call for desperate measures. And I am taking a Machiavellian approach to my education, especially since his is a dick I care not to suck for an A.

I know what ever I tell him is going to have to be good. Especially considering my past experiences with him. He not caring when I was having registration issues, his continued lack of care to attempt to reschedule his extra help session because it fell on a Jewish holiday. He has a sad life and he expects us to ‘buck up and deal’, much how he deals with life, craigslist personal ad included. However, even with the most jaded people, there is always something that could get to them.

“Hi Professor Gonzalez. I am not proud of my performance, and I have always promised myself that my personal life would never interfere with my professional life however, [insert downcast eyes] I…[look up hopeful and innocent] I have been going through a lot. In addition to my new job, and other things going on..[take deep breath] I’ve been distracted and I want to work with you because my grades and my performance in class don’t reflect who I truly am [start to cry and say very quickly] I had an abortion a few weeks ago.”

Only a sick fuck would ever use the killing of an unborn child, and I am A-ok with that. Seriously, it’s fool proof! Who would ever call a woman a liar about something like that? And how could your heart not go out to that poor woman? How could you not commend her for being brave? Dealing with an abortion…especially because she couldn’t think to bring her baby into an abusive relationship. Machiavelli baby. After all these years he still has a lot to teach us…

And I just spent an hour of study time writing this…

Self-sabotaging, because if I don’t fuck it up myself, something else will.

Drunk

I am drunk.

Will write a novel tomorrow.

Tonight I am enjoying my 3 glasses of Pinot.

Weekend spent in DC: strippers, drinking for 48 straight hours, and falling asleep on the train ride home.

This weekend reminded me why I love life. Booze and Friends.

much love,
Shannon

My body may be getting old, but I still navigate that grey area of adulthood. I am a grown up because I have professional responsibilities and live without the supervision of my mother (but the 5 phone calls a day make me question whether I truly live without mommy) and the threats of remaining a virgin until my wedding day from my father. But on the other side, I can’t take care of myself, as shown whenever John and I call the Chinese food place and we are at the point in our relationship with them where they are inquiring about our families; my Chinese launderer lightly scolds me when I get stains on my clothes, and my mother had to sort out my medical bills for me because it seemed like a different language and I would forget to pay the bill.

However, I accept all this. This is part of living in New York, the place where we are all perpetual adolescents. The cabbies act as our designated drivers so that we could get blitzed and say good bye to responsible behavior, the Chinese who do my laundry, the little Mexican guy who delivers my food so I don’t have to go out in the pouring rain. With enough money, you could live in this state of limbo forever.

Although I usually partake in the luxuries that living in NYC provides, I have always remained steadfast that I would never get a cleaning person. I am responsible enough to make sure the dishes are done, the coffee table is clear of food, and the bathroom rid of my red hair that sheds a lot, right?

Yea, that’s my coffee table in my living room. A novel in French, the Matrix DVD, and 2 rolls of toilet paper, because one just isn’t enough. And you have to appreciate the dust filled candles in a dust filled bowl, that is the center piece, ironic symbolism.

I come home from rehearsal and as I sit next to John, he asks me sheepishly, “Shannon, I think we may have to get a maid.”

I think about this for a moment.

My responsibility to clean toilets is my last thread holding me to adult behavior. Each time I am hunched over the bowl with toilet scrubber in my hand, I think to myself, “I am a grown up! This is who I am! This is practice for the one day I will be able to care for lifeforms other than a plant and pet rock!”

But scroll back up to that picture of my coffee table.

I am failing as a grown up, especially because I don’t have a roommate to keep me in line. John and I drag each other down the spiral of irresponsible behavior, each one of us the same person, which is why we have been best friends since I was 16.

“John,” I say, “I fucking agree. Let me call my cousin and get the woman who he uses.”

I have to stop learning these lessons

It hit me, it’s official, I am fucking getting old. I write this Halloween night, in by 11pm, saying goodbye to Mistress Shannon and my quasi-celebrity status that wearing a corset with big boobs will bring you during the Village Halloween parade. If you see pictures floating around the internet of a big boobed dominatrix with a cheerleader, send them to me and not to my father. He would shoot you just for seeing them.

Sunday night and tonight served as a painful reminder how the days when I was 16 are long gone. Almost 6 years gone. No more partying for days without more than 4 hours of sleep (and I was drug free until college), drinking like a fish without gaining a pound, and having beautiful clear skin without the aid of Bliss facials and French face lotions.

This past weekend served to remind me that I am getting old, and the best is not yet to come, actually my hangovers are getting uglier. Especially when your boss looks at you Monday morning and asks, “Are you ok?” Oh, you mean the left over make-up under my eye with the huge bags, and the slight shake of alcohol withdrawal?! No, I am fine! The bags under the eyes from sleeping over your sister’s Sun night on the Upper Eastside because you pounded 3 vodka Red Bulls at 4am on Sunday morning. Really, contrary to popular belief, it was not the best way to celebrate the Lord’s day, as the heart palpitations, racing thoughts, and other indicators of an anxiety attack demonstrated.

Guys, I am getting old. Could my boobs me sagging too?!

However, as all nights that end with me vomiting (this time on my leather couch), there are some important lessons that I learned and want to share:

1. I need to get over British men.
Mistress Shannon goes into a bar in the LES, and hears an accent. Her ears perk up and
she walks over to the boys. Being repressed British boys who grew up on Black Adder, Benny Hill, and all other repressive spank comedies are confronted with my enormous Jew breasts (thanks Grandma!), I am the exotic. I end up pulling a boy and make-out with him. He comes home with me…And I know I need to get over my sick fantasy that some British boy will make me more culturally acceptable by rubbing his repression off on me…

2. Wearing corsets that make you look 15lbs thinner are dangerous
Talk about disappointment. What the fuck do you do, when there is a cute British boy in your apt and you have to gracefully take off the corset that makes you have the body of a porn star? Well, if you are me, you run into your bedroom that has clothes and your dirty underwear strewn all over the floor, throw on an attractive sweat shirt and loudly proclaim to your guest that you “aren’t going to fuck” him while ordering in an omelet from the diner down the block. Watching a girl lose her porn star body, stuff her face while going from sexy to sad in 30 seconds is like watching a decrepit marriage fall apart on super fast forward. We watch the Matrix, we make out…I pass out, waking to him kissing me and realizing that I am running late to go to the Breeder’s Cup (yes I had grandstand seats and hung out in the turf and field club with the owners). He gets my number, but let’s think if he is going to call me…

3. I am worse than a guy with Madonna/Whore syndrome
I want a relationship, I don’t want a relationship. I hang out in bars with boys, acting like a virginal-slut (I believe in the anti-brazillian theory, by not having one, it prevents me from becoming a whore since I am too ashamed of having outgrown pubes). However, I could meet the nicest boy, but because he got seduced by a drunken tramp, and he has shown me that he is that type of boy…I don’t want him. I don’t want to date boys who go for easy sluts. I don’t sleep with them, but how many of those other drunken tramps do? Throw in that bars are the only place where I can meet men, and…this is why I am second mate on Big Gay John’s Cruise ship.

4. Black men love a corseted dominatrix
Maybe I am too liberal, or too analytical…but doesn’t it just scream antebellum/KKK by having a white chick in a corset whip a black man for being “bad”. It just weirded the shit out of me. Also, ‘Raz’ who I met at the club, but only found out that I met you when you left me a message at 11am the next morning: please give me back my whip. Actually keep it, I don’t know what shit you did with it after I left, you seemed pretty into me spanking you. Also, as an FYI, my advice as a serial dater to you, a potential date raper: calling girls less than 6 hours later after meeting her is fucking creepy. Especially when you stole their whip and they don’t remember meeting you.

5. Vodka Red Bull needs to be Nancy Regean-ed
Just say fucking no. It fucked up my stomach so badly, today I was still experiencing heartburn, the remnants of an anxiety attack, and feeling burnt out. If I ever did massive amounts of drugs, I think this is what the come down would feel like. I almost accepted Jesus to end the pain.

And today, I have ball rehearsal. So I must don my knee length skirt, go during my lunch break for a mani, and pretend that I am socially acceptable.