Sunday, November 27, 2005

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 No pre-made answers to the typical questions of who I want in someone? That without’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, to, 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.


At 8:16 PM, Blogger sdm said...

you are right on about myspace. it is addicting.

I'm on there & I invite you to be my friend!!

At 12:21 AM, Blogger Shandoll said...

email me and I'll give out my myapce name

I know I am going to get fired for this one...

I should not check my blog when I am drunk

At 12:18 AM, Blogger As Always said...

Loooovee MySpace :) & you!


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