No, really, it is a train wreck

Here is a math problem for you, readers:

If Shannon’s share of her apt costs $1200 a month, who she splits with her faux gay boyfriend, and she is suddenly unemployed because she may have accidentally majorly fucked up at work, please calculate the questions below:

A) Taking into account that she is busty, a red-head, nice legs, and a mouth like a Hoover with all of her teeth, how much more can Shannon ask above the going rate of $50 that a toothless crack addict charges for a blowjob? Please disregard that most men looking for their dick sucked by the pier are homos, crack addicts themselves, or are looking to take her for a test drive before they ‘pimp her out’.

B) How many dicks will Shannon have to suck in order to keep her apartment?


Guys, I think this is it. I really think that I am going to be fired tomorrow. I did not understand a set of instructions that I was given and misinterpreted them and really screwed up. AKA, your author will be fucked. Or in my case working at a retail store and sucking dick to make ends meet. And eating “Success Rice.” A rice so loaded with crap and artificial flavors, colorings, and poisons that when I saw that it boasted that its rice is a mainstay on the food pyramid, it made me laugh and forget that I have been crying ever since I left my cubicle.

Lie. Actually, I was crying before I left inside the women’s bathroom. Crying again. Had to stay late in order to rectify another mistake. Again.

In other news, my Saturday night story that I promised. Now we can move on how not only will I be having a “career change” pretty soon but that I am an alcoholic slut. Well, in a quasi-virginal cock-tease kind of way.

Saturday night I come to a very important revelation, despite my love of John, my roommate, and how he is quick to buy me a drink, pay for my admission to gay clubs, and keep me entertained at a bar, his presence has single handedly destroyed dating for me. If it isn’t a gay bar/club that we go to, then we are merged at the hip when we go out to the crappy straight ones, buying each other drinks, walking closely, and laughing at inside jokes. Oh my God, I really am Grace from ‘Will and Grace’.

Saturday night, John and I go out with his LI friends to a crappy LI-style bar in Murry Hill. Bored to tears, John and I are merged at the hip counting down the time for when we could leave. 2 champagnes (well crappy versions of), tipsy, and wanting more from the evening, we decide to leave an hour into the “party”. John wants to go to a gay club and I really do not want to go because I finally look hott and want to go out instead of staying in on Fri/Sat nights watching foreign films as I usually do.

Full pouty lips, smoky eyes, boobs hanging out, wearing a pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes, and I am not wanting to waste it on some fucking queens. Instead I call my hetero male friend. I have not mentioned him in this blog because we have a funky relationship. After meeting off of the internet about 10 months ago, he has turned into someone who I love chatting to and think he one of the nicest people going (I know you are reading this) however, we barely see each other. I say that I am always busy, and yes I am very busy, but when I hang out with him I am out of commission for DAYS because he is my satan, urging me to continue drinking when I know I shouldn’t.

I meet up with him and long story short, and a few bars in between and lotsa funny convos and me dancing on tables, he leaves with this girl who he is seeing and I am left hanging out with his friend. It’s just the 2 of us. The friend is very cool, we have a lot in common, and *surprisingly* I like talking to him! Except that I am drunk at this point. And I forgot to mention that I introduced myself to him as, “You missed me dancing on the table. I would do it again but I don’t think they’ll let me.”

Oh how attractive. Now we understand why I have never had a serious relationship in my life.

The friend and I end up leaving and going to a wine bar. Along the way, we are kissing, holding hands, talking…things that aren’t too bad. However, inside as we sit at the bar, this attractive guy (hott!!! Mediterranean looking) sits next to us and starts to hit on me. In front of the guy who I am with. Asshole me, dumbfounded that some tall dark hott lawyer would tell me how hot I am, begins to talk to the hott lawyer. (This is what being fat in college will do to you.) Lawyer invites me outside for a cigg, I follow and tell the other guy who I came with to “watch my drink”…and outside I begin to make out with hot lawyer dude. Phone # exchange in progress and the guy who was inside, comes out for a cigg. He has to know what is going on…Wracked with Jewish guilt, I begin to kiss the guy who I came with as I am saying good bye to hott lawyer dude….can I mention that I am beyond inebriation at this point?!

And yes I feel like shit as I write this, but, I was drunk! And I looked hott that night!! However, back to the story.

I invite myself over to the guy’s apt to “watch a movie” (after I made out with another dude outside) and instead pass out on his couch. In my defense, I really did want to cuddle and watch a movie with him. Waking up, however, it dawns on me that I am an asshole drunken fool, have no class and hastily, embarrassedly, leave the apt. All WITHOUT a good bye note apologizing for my asinine behavior.

Yea, I am one classy broad. One would think that should be it, I’ll never see him again, I fucked up, but I should hopefully not run into him again, right?! Not for your author!!!! Because as we have already established God/fate have a sick sense of humor with me…

Both guys (hot lawyer dude and the one who I slept over) LIVE ON MY FUCKING BLOCK!!! What the fuck is it with the Village and all of the people who could make Shannon feel uncomfortable all in the same neighborhood??!? Including London boy’s best friend/ex-gfriend, she lives 3 blocks away. Why does my neighborhood have to have fucking drama?!?!?! I walk west and could potentially run into London boy’s ex. Walk south, and I run into the guy who I fled his apt because I was so embarrassed, but who I actually liked and would have loved to have a SOBER convo over dinner. And slightly north of him is the lawyer. East is my Chinese food place for when the drama leaves me hung over and unable to fend for myself.

I think this post has established it, my life is truly a train wreck. Socially, professionally, romantically, and add another –lly. I use my intellect, charm, looks, boobs, and ballsy personality to get to an almost-achieving-perfection state, and then (usually because of booze), I fuck it up. I constantly complain/rant/blog how I want perfection, how I want to be on top of my game/do everything right have a great career, boyfriend, friends…yet, I manage to fuck it up. Right when I am on the verge of greatness….I don’t go far enough or go too far and instead fall off of that metaphorical peak of perfection. Is that what navigating your 20’s is about, knowing how to get to the top but, figuring out how to stay there?

Lazy blogging

Lazy blogging.

I am tired and instead of filling you in on my fucked up Saturday night complete with me vomiting non-stop for 8 hours on Sunday, going to sleep on some random dude’s couch, and having the short-order cook at the Korean Deli around my corner tell me after I thanked him for making me my bacon and eggs sandwich, “No, THANK YOU!” Yea, I know booby revealing shirt is a welcome sight on a Sunday morning, when you really should be thinking about Jesus Christ. Instead, I am answering one of those fucked up Q& A thingys that we all did in college as a form of procrastination. I promise, tomorrow I will fill you in how I am once again an alcoholic almost-virginal slut complete with making out with 2 boys, one of which was inside watching my drink as I was kissing the other.



1. Time of starting this: 12:28 am
2. Were you named after anyone? Yes, my father was so pissed that he married a Jew and people confused his last name as Jewish (it does sound awfully Jewish and I do get asked all the time if my dad is the Jew) that he made sure that all of his children would have strong proud Irish names. Hence, Shannon after the city and river in Ireland.
3. Do you wish on stars? You think God is going to answer my prayers for a hot man to fuck me silly and give me his credit card to buy Prada and Gucci?!
4. When did you last cry? At my desk 7 hours ago
5. Do you like your handwriting? I love my handwriting because nobody can read it except for me.
6. What is your favorite meat? I love a good hamburger with bacon and cheese…mmmm….
7. What is your most embarrassing CD on your shelf? Actually, it isnt on the shelf that is embarrassing, it’s the fact that I have a very bad habit of lip-syncing to music, especially when I am exercising along the Hudson, and it is a “fuck you song,” then I am that asshole who is running, and huffing and puffing, “Fuck you you ho, I don’t want you back” as people stare that I have mental problems. Probabley because I am so bad that all they hear is the “Fuck you, you ho!” part and think I am yelling at my imaginary friend.
9. Are you a daredevil? My friends and family will say yes, but I am too anxious to do anything real dumb.
10. How do you release anger? Throw things across the room. And yell.
11. Where is your second home? My parents house. Boy my dad is going to love hearing that one…he didn’t want me coming home sick, and now I am calling it a second home?!!
12. Do you trust others easily? I give people the benefit of the doubt, but you fuck with me or my family/friends….I get a little pissy.
13. What was your favourite toy as a child? My barbies who I made have hott lesbian relationships

Q14 was skipped.
15. Do you use sarcasm a lot? Fuck YEA!
16 Have you ever been in a Mosh pit? Oh my God! I was such an asshole growing up, that and crowd surfing!! I miss it, actually thinking about it….I think I may try to go to a show this weekend.
17. What do you look for in a girl /guy ? I could sound all deep and say intellect and a sense of humor, but let’s be real…a fucking HOMO!!
18. Would you bungee jump? Never, but maybe fucked up enough
19. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off? They are already untied. My parents never taught me how to tie my shoes (parents—do not have 4 children unless you could give them adequate love and attention or else you end up with a 23 yr old who constantly goes into emotionally deficient relationships and who cannot tie her shoes.
20. What is your favourite ice cream flavour? Fuck ice cream, Tasty-Delight all the way
21. What are your favourite colours? Cranberry.
22. What is your least favourite thing? People who are judgemental
23. How many people do you have a crush on right now? 3
24 What do you miss most right now? Vacations, Europe, I need to experience mind blowing sex.
25. What colour underwear are you wearing? Pink cotton
26. What are you listening to right now? Same old wanna be back in college crap
27. If you were a crayon, what colour would you be? Fecal Brown
28. What is the weather like right now? Muggy, but that sensual mugginess where you could feel it on your skin and the perfume/cologne is extra strong and is mixed with sweat…yes I know I am fucking weird.
29. Last person you talked to on the phone? My wife. I love her.
30. The first thing you notice about the opposite sex? Shoulders
31. Do you like the person who sent you this? Well I jacked it off my friends blog, and yes I like her.
32. How are you today? Slightly manic, as usual. I think I am going through a “high week” This is characterized by me spending lotsa money, drinking a lot, and not giving a fuck because I think I am about to become famous
33. Favourite non-alcoholic drink? Coke Zero, I live on the shit
34. Favourite alcoholic drink? Champagne!
35. Natural hair colour? Nope, haven’t had it since I was like 14/15 and I forgot what it is.
36. Eye colour? Green
37. Wear contacts? Will be soon…computers have fucked up my eyesight
38. Siblings? 2 brothers and a sister
39. Favourite month? October, I love the fall, love the foliage and Holloween in NYC is awesome.
40. Favourite food? General Tso’s chicken or Chicken Tikka Masala, but I have to be hungover
41. Last (good) movie you watched? Some foreign stuff…been really into that lately
42. Favourite day of the year? Christmas.
43. Have you ever been too shy to ask someone out? Uhm, I do not ask people out, I am a lady.
44. Scary movies or happy endings? Neither. Scary are cheesy and the happy endings are bullshit.
45. Summer or winter? Summer
46. Hugs or kisses? Kisses
47. What book/magazine are you reading? Ad Age, yes I am becoming a work-aholic

Reason # 45834598 why internet dating sucks

I have a confession to make, a confession that I have not been able to make to myself until I was so confronted with the evidence and all that I have left is the truth. And pictures do not lie.

I was fat in college.

Like double chin and wear sweat pants all the time, fat. So fat, that my dad used to poke my belly and tell me that I should lay off the beer. And as I grew bigger, the hott 19 year old who used to be the biggest cock tease in NYC, who could make any guy buy her a drink and then ravish me against the wall at some dirty club, disappeared. Instead, in her place was this not so confident, sweet-ish, girl who couldn’t get hot guy ass…unless he was incredibly drunk. And then he still wasn’t cute.

Today, weight loss, a missing chin, darker hair, and my bitchy confident streak newly found. But I feel that I am at an impass, I have reached the age where all of my friends are hooking up, finding Mr. Right and I think I need to also find him. It’s like living on a block when everyone is getting a brand new car. You never thought to get one until everyone else got one. Hell, you don’t even want the new car! You are happy with the old one…a lot like me and my singlehood. So, like all people who are ambivalent about finding Mr./Ms. Right, I am looking on the internet personals. 1 Date, no commitment and then I can bitch and say that I “really tried.”

As I may have previously wrote, I answered an ad posted about the movie Secretary. Keep in mind I was brought up Catholic with some Jewish guilt thrown in. Now, when I answered this post…I thought that I was answering an ad for a guy who was assertive, maybe some lite tying up in bed…shit that I go for. If you are a man, treat me like I am your woman…IN BED. Well, I rent the movie this weekend and see that the movie was NOTHING like my benign thoughts. It is a full on S&M flick! Spanking and peeing oneself and all!!!

Not knowing that I was getting myself into, we begin to email back and forth and we decide to meet (Yes, I know, I live to entertain my readers), so I (very cutely and cleverly) ask him “The million dollar question. After work drinks or coffee?” He responds…and I shit you not, “I have decided that we will meet at a café. The village has some great ones, I’ll pick out a place and tell you where to meet me.”

Wait a fucking min. pal.

First you tell me where to meet you, next thing I’ll be high on roofies, chained to your bed barking like a dog hoping that you let me go to the bathroom. Let’s get some shit straight. First, I am the oldest of 4 kids, I do not take orders, I gave them growing up. Secondly, my father, who could perhaps dwarf any man in the wannabe machismo category (he made bar fights cool in his day—fuck, the man still gets into them and they aren’t even cool anymore) has learned to never tell me what to do. Perhaps it is because my mother had all 4 of us in a row and I am a little rebellious, but my father has learned as all other people in my life have, if you want me to do something…you tell me to do the opposite. “Bangladesh Shannon?! Sounds great!!” And I would not have gone.

And as we IM…I have to ask him point blank…”So how tall r u?!” Well let me backtrack. I ask him how tall he is b/c it comes out that he is Jewish…and we now the male population of my species have a small height problem. Pun intended. It comes out that he is 5’7-ish. I ask him what the “–ish” means. He replies “–ish”…In the ad it said that he is AVERAGE HEIGHT. Do I need to bust out the fucking US census or whatever tracks that shit to show him that the average height for a male is like 5’10?!? Keep in mind that I am 5’6 and I routinely wear ‘come-fuck-me-heels’ that are at lease 3 inches high.

Of course it is a short Jewish guy who gets off dominating some chick, I mean what else does a short Jewish guy dominate? His mom yells at him, his boss yells at him, and to boot he is too short to make it with any women at a bar. After the height revelation, I told him about the 2 paths to Shannon. Path 1 is Advertising and then PhD and Path 2 is stand-up comedy and writing. And he was like, “Get out! Me too!!” Of fucking course pal, you are a Jew! All of our people want to either become scholars or stand up comedians.

He better be paying for our coffee, and not because I have a sense of entitlement, because that has been established a very long time ago. Men should always pay because of this one simple fact…fuck the Cosmo excuse “because women pay so much for their appearance”, because men do too and I rarely do but still expect to be treated…Men, you are forever destined to pay for our drinks/dinners/vacations to Greece/whatever we desire because, WE WILL BE CARRYING YOUR CHILDREN ONE DAY. And if it isn’t yours’ then it is some asshole friend of yours’. Each time you take a woman out, you are paying a sin tax for the time where your wife/baby’s momma can’t drink, smoke, do drugs, not have sex in the 9th month of pregnancy/carry around 25lbs of extra weight…I could go on.

So my stance on internet dating?! I work with numbers so let’s employ the same analysis that I would for a client. Let’s examine my return on investment (ROI).

Manicure: $13
Pedicure: $20
Eyebrows: $12
Hours in painful heels that make my legs look hot and my ass like a porn star’s: 4
Days can’t have ice cream or other sinfully delicious food: 14
Hours I need to spend exercising at 7am this week: 5

Let’s see what I will get out of it: a short Jewish guy who mis-represented himself and is trying to tell me what to do and when I call him out on it, defers to me like all the pansy ass guys…

The whole dom/sub thing…people who want assertiveness/to be assertive in the bedroom… It’s because the bedroom is where you can act out your fantasy. You are with a partner who either loves you or is being paid to be understanding and that allows you to escape all of the societal constraints that force you to be who you are on a daily basis. My neurotic, first-born, overly charming and getting my way, seven sister educated pompous nature makes me more submissive. I like it when someone calls me out on my shit and throws me up against the wall. You have to be careful about the men who like to be dominant because that is an indication that there is something w/i the societal construct (yes, I know I studied social theory) that does not allow them to dominate, i.e. HEIGHT! A pencil pushing job! Acting like a lacky in all aspects of their life!

Fuck it! Fuck internet dating! Fuck dating in general! I am concentrating on my writing, my desire to go into stand-up (I’ll post where I will be performing, PLEASE SEE ME…but don’t stalk me), and trying to pay my way with my 9-6 lowest man on the totem pole job and trying to get into Columbia (again)…

As much as I kid around about my disaster dating stories, I am just scared that I will never meet anyone for me. As everyone ascends up the metaphocial Noah’s Ark 2 by 2, I ask myself, “Will I always be second mate on Big Gay Al’s cruise ship?”

Clairol would be so proud

My entire life story could be marked by my haircolor. The darker and more unnatural the happier and more confident I am. And conversely the lighter and more blond, the further I deviate from the unnatural that represents the natural me. Blond hair becomes my intense desire to be anyone except for my imperfect self. Hoping that having blond hair would magically make me 3 inches taller, 30 lbs thinner, better dressed, have a great boyfriend…a clone of the women on the upper east side who appear to have everything under control, especially including their appearance, a way of controlling their own human interaction.

There is something incredibly symbolic about the return to my dark red purple hair, last night as I sat in the colorist’s chair, on the phone with my sister telling her that graduating from college is a scary endeavor but we have to become ‘responsible adults’ sometime. As the colorist applied the color, I realized I came full circle, a hair color that represented my irresponsibility, my rebellion to the UES blonds, has become my contradiction how a rebellious appearance within a norm signifies my newfound feeling of confident control over my life.

Responsibility is a lot like death, we try to avoid it at all costs and then when we are least expecting it to happen, it comes unannounced. A lot like my need to return to my dark red purple hair. But as a slightly more responsible, over 21 non-false ID, me.

The hair of my youth, the haircolor that forced me to be noticed, the haircolor that marked my entrance into bars and clubs and that now is marking my exit. My trademark. And I finally feel worthy to sport the haircolor full on; not mixed with something more natural, you know to make me stand out less or something more blond in order to blend in so I could become another character to help me forget about an uncertain career path, rejection, not having a home, and the other problems that are supposed to plague us as we navigate the grey area of being a dependent student to a self-confident independent adult.

My return to my dark red purple hair marks my settling into NYC and my satisfaction with my life. Although it isn’t perfect, like my present haircolor it is going to have to be brightened up occasionally with a little help. I, my friends, am actually happy. Not because of anything specific but because I am finally happy with myself.

The semiotics of the personal ad reply

Once again it is compounded that my single hood is a dying breed. In my research with other friends who are slightly older, I have come to learn that the early-mid 20s is a time for dating and mating. As I have written on here before, I both work and take classes, while simultaneously trying to get my writing published…it leaves a girl with no time.

Most people in my situation would use match.com. The website for the perpetually busy NYer who wants to have the relationship that they have no time for. However, the thought of match.com creeps the shit out of me because my biggest fear is that my "friends" from HS would find my profile and say things like, “she calls herself eccentric?! She is just a weirdo!!”

What else is left?! Bars? Well besides being hubs for the men who I should not date, the alcoholic frat boy types, I also only go to gay ones. Work?? The guys are all married or in serious relationships. My class at Hunter? Filled with men who are fresh off the boat and can barely speak English. I mean, I like foreign men as much as the next girl, but I do not want someone who has to translate my fucking conversations. Especially when I get excited...and then my friends who are native English speakers could barely understan me. Plus it isn't even like they are hot foreigners , they are from those poor Eastern European countries where the inhabitants need major dental work and having spent 3 years in braces I feel I can be a bitch on a nice teeth requirement. Hence, I have taken to CL, once again. And I have to admit, I like CL because it is unmitigated, there is no BS “Describe your ideal date” crap. People write what they want. You want to fuck a dog as your gfriend watches? Go for it...anonymous. Unmitiaged. In all seriousness, you are going to find out this shit about them. You might as well find it out now as opposed to later.

As I am responding to CL ads, as with all things, there is a flirtation and what you write sends signals for the other person to read. You can't come right out and say to someone that you are very hot or very fit because everyone says it. But there are signals that verify your hotness.

The Semiotics of the Answering of the Personal ad:

I guess I should preface this, and for those of you who know me, this isn’t going to be much of a shock but it will raise a few eyebrows. Although I go for pansy ass gay boys, I have a thing or assertive men who do not take my bullshit and have no problems throwing me against a wall and having their way with me. That being said, I answered an ad on CL that asked if you ever “liked the movie secretary.” Secretary is about a S&M relationship…not that I want to become someone’s slave but, I have a thing for assertive men, the type of guy who will call me out on the bullshit I have a habit of spewing. Other than a dominant side, he sounds perfect. Educated, works in finance, dark hair…my type.

This is the email I send to him (the email in bold and my comments in plain text):

I saw your ad on CL and was definitely intrigued by both the ad and that you are only 26 and "experienced and understanding." A man around my age who could potentially actually get me off?! And it isn’t mechanical?! Hot DAMN! Usually this isn't part of the standard relationship in college, holding up her legs in a keg stand, yes. This, not so much. No really, I swear I have had normal functioning relationships with an actually person. Ok fine, we didn’t have sex and the relationship was more of my best friend…but what you know won’t hurt you!!! Let’s pretend that I am normal and sane and other men have wanted to have a relationship with me. However, I must admit that I have never seen secratary but I think I got your allusion. I am down with being tied up. Ravish me!

I am a 23 yr old cute female working in advertising. I would send a pic as exhibit A (to prove my case that I am both sane and attractive) however, I would be very embarrassed if it turned out that you sit at the cubicle next to me. I am soooo not sending a pic to a guy who might be a total whack job and will instead wank off to my image. However, once we establish that we aren't in the same professional circles, I am definately open to exchanging pics. AKA, you aren’t ugly.

A bit more about me: seven sister educated and in the process of applying to grad school, (smart with goals) obsessed with rollerblading along the Hudson (my I-Pod blasting as I ride at sunset reminds me why I am in love with NYC) I swear I am not fat, I even willingly exercise on my own accord!, well versed on a variety of subjects from Art to social theory to food and wine--if I don't know much about it, I could bullshit like I do. Am fabulously charming to boot! You will want to marry me as soon as you meet me!!

Tell me more about you, what is your obsession (we all have 1) and how do you like to occupy your time? Besides wanting a girlfriend, do you do anything except for look at internet porn and post to CL? Looking forward to hearing from you. And please send a pic.

His response:

I would post it, but…that is a little low, even for me. Could you imagine?! Standing by the water cooler and your boss walks up to you and is like, “Hey, so I read this chic’s blog and there are a lot of commonalities between this loser who posts on CL and you. Are you into spanking!?!”

I will however synop it.

First paragraph he makes a cute witty comment to my keg stand comment. Ok, I think to myself. He sounds cool. Could crack a joke. And then the second paragraph is where he loses me. In all seriousness, I say how I am an alcoholic party girl, brag how I went to a 7 sisters school, and all that crap but I am actually very low key with my intelligence and accomplishments (unless I am drunk, then I also tell you how much I love you). My attitude is, I have nothing to prove to anyone, unless you are my future ex-husband, then I want to prove how I could be the mother of your children and the recipient of a hefty divorce settlement. He lists every single degree that he has and doesn’t say the name of the school, except denoting whether they were private or public. My guess, did not grow up with a lot of money and the public vs. private is a big thing for his psyche. Moreover, having a need to list your multiple masters degrees (has 1, working on his second and going to b-school or law school next year) shows that you are using pieces of paper to make up for something. Like you have something to prove. It would be one thing to phrase it as, “Right after college I went for my MA and I started working but realized that my true love is ________ hence I am on my second MA. Hey, at least I have a hobby!” Play it off…your degrees should not define you but help you reach either a personal or professional goal.

Then he goes into his obsessions, which are ‘metaphysical’ and academic. Dude, did my mention of my seven sisters education put you on the academic defensive? I mean, seriously, I was drunk for 90% of college—including when I was in class and writing my papers. Why are you proving your shit to someone who you have never met?

Like all the men who I encounter, he has issues.

Especially when they mention that they like smart and opinionated women, such as myself. I mean in all seriousness, you have to be a masochist for wanting to date someone like me, argumentative, stubborn, tries to get away with as much as you will allow me to…I am the horrible ex-girlfriend that makes men become gay or marry boring accountants (I already sent 3 of them to accountant marrying hell).

And the closing line, “Please feel free to share a pic of yourself and I will do the same.”
Who the fuck writes that way, unless he is British. Trying to hard…why cant I meet men who are secure in themselves?!

My response:

I wrote this cute, funny, charming email and was all prepared to send it to you however, my session timed out before I was able to send it. Hence it has gone to email heaven, never to be sent nor seen. Seems par for a Monday morning or perhaps punishment for trying to distract myself by emailing you. Hi! I am trying to feel you out. Your last email kind of scared me because you were trying too hard, but I am giving you a second chance because the thought of a man who will be dominant in the bedroom and not take my shit out of it is exactly what I want/need.

I want to send you a pic but it will have to wait until I get home, as I have no pics saved on my computer here, and emailing you is a nice distraction from work. I am trying to see if you are worthy of having my pic. I am using my impressive analytical skills to track down a contact...for 2 hours so far, and getting to know you is alot more interesting. I am smart but am comfortable enough to not have to say, “I am trying to impress you with how smart I am and how I work for such a prestigious company.” I know I always could snap one with my camera phone and email it but with friends in town from England, however, not drinking for 3 weeks until last night thanks to $5 cosmos...and you have a look that I care not to be associated with, homeless with really nice clothes. Yea, I am so cool and not giving a shit, I go out on Sunday nights and get wrecked. And I dress nicely. Again, I am soo fucking cool.

Have you read Atlas Shrugged? There is this great part where Francisco d'Ancostia (I think that is his name) explains his reasoning for studying philosophy, econ, the natural sciences and how it helps him become a better businessperson. I'm toiling in the ever thank-less but awesome perks ad industry for my impending PhD. How else could one understand consumerism and its impact on the construction of identity without experiencing the industry first hand? Ah, my intellectual passion. See dipshit? I too am well read but don’t need to use any big fancy words to make myself sound smart. I know I am. And well read too. This is an example of how you should try to impress people who your smarts...unassumingly. And I only wrote that to say, "Your degrees mean shit" if you did them for the wrong reason. And rollerblading is my 'keep me sane' passion. It’s not that I am not sending the pic because I am fat, I mean how many fat people do you see rollerblading?! I am not sending the pic because you seem weird.

So, degree collect much?! Trying to compensate for something pal and can’t afford a Porsche?! The public land grant school (who the fuck calls it a public land grant school?!?!?) I am going to venture to say ________ . But where did you go for the second MA? The second MA has to be from either Columbia (where I am applying for next fall for either stats or Quant methods--I am a secret #s geek) see I am soo fucking smart that I am applying to the Ivy league in some fucked up esoteric shit. He doesn’t have to know that I got rejected and that Hunter is my safety school or NYU...or at least I am assuming. If it is not one of these schools then you are the mediocre people who gt multiple degrees to make up for a lackluster education and honestly, I do not want to date someone who I could beat in an argument every single time.

Now I know that you do not spend your weekends/spare time contemplating the philisophical foundations of economics I mean, I hope not, maybe when you do your HW but that doesnt count I hope you don’t. I mean if you do, then you are a fucking loser and I should run away from you...So, what do you do on the weekends/free time? Please tell me what you like to do in your spare time, I hope it isn’t just a lusty desire to tie up busty redheads because….this is fucking over. I just finished up playing kickball and am looking for another activity to occupy my (lack of) free time I am whimsical and cute and again, NOT FAT, while trying to break into a freelance writing career I write too, I do well with #s and I write. I am like fucking Einstein. I just want the fame. I just want fame.

Well, my AIM is _______if you want to chat. It's pretty slow in the office today. Please IM me, I want to know now if you are a psycho.


Well, I’ll keep you posted and see how it goes. I mean, if his idea of a secretary relationship involves having me bark as a dog chained…I would rather find another gay boy. And btw, he hasn’t replied to my cute and charming email. Rejected by another loser off of CL.

Back off the wagon

Highlights of the weekend:

Saturday: Going to 2 fashion shows on Saturday and then as I tried to get ready for the evening’s festivities, not being able to find a suitable outfit for over 2 hours so I could look cute for Stern b-school boys. Being in the same room with models for a portion of one’s day will kill all of the body positive ‘I love myself’ vibes that my healthy living has cultivated. Especially when I came to the realization that no matter how much I spend on my hair ($150 today), personal training sessions, seven jeans, PLASTIC SURGERY, I will never ever ever look as good as they look on a bad day. Ever. And realized that every single man who I will ever date will secretly compare me to the women who I will never ever look like.

Saturday night: Listening to John call directory assistance that is outsourced to some Midwestern city asking for the phone # of “the Cock.” Suffice to say that ‘one moment while we connect you to the operator” was a lot more than just a moment. They actually disconnected us from the operator in one moment, possibly because I was laughing the entire time.

Sunday during the day: Go rollerblading along the Hudson and am reminded that it is 9/11. As someone who grew up right outside the city, it is a day that has touched us all and not only NYers, etc. My biggest pet peeve, however, is that all of the attendants at the memorial service by Ground Zero were tourists from Oklahoma who were captivated by the memorial service and stood on the bike path where I rollerblade. This would have been fine if they were aware that I do not know how to stop on rollerblades. A busty red head lip syncing to Madonna barrels down on a family who is trying to pay their respects. I clipped a toddler’s foot, I couldn’t stop on time. Afterwards Dim Sum with John at the Golden Unicorn and getting yelled at the Chinese wait staff.

Sunday: Seeing Lizzie Grubman at the AG fashion show. Great Goody bag, Lizzie. We all could really use Elle Girl magazine because the audience fit that 13-15 demographic so well. I would comment on the other stuff in the bag, but there was nothing else. But all of my pretension aside, I was in the same room as Lizzie Grubman!!! At a fashion show who she did PR for!!!

By this time it is Sunday morning, keep in mind that I have spent the ENTIRE weekend up until this point…SOBER. Did not drink Fri night, did not drink Sat night, and I did not drink any of the free booze at the shows. I even pretended to be an alcoholic in recovery because the diet cokes were meant only for the booze at one show. I was being good. I even posted a crappy blog post on Saturday that chronicled my parents’ mutual love of the sauce. (Sorry readers, I tried to make it funny but I guess reading about someone’s predisposition to a lifetime of addiction really can never be that funny.)

Now we are at Sunday night. The night where most normal, career orientated people prepare for the work week, go home and peruse the CL personal ads, and watch the Simpsons. Not that I am speaking of any personal experience. But the British contingency was in town (my friend from college Emma and her friend Pete) and they wanted their last night in NYC to go out with a bang. The end result is me Banged up: me waking up in a puddle of vomit in my bed (hoping Chinese launderers can save my white 600 thread count sheets) and going into work still drunk. With make-up down my face.

And I lost my cell phone that night but luckily some random girls found it and called me. Do you know how drunk I had to be to lose my cell phone!?!

And I got a phone # of a cute boy that we both have a lot of common interests, one of which is our mutual affinity for sucking dick. I swear, I am a magnate for gay men.

Evidently in my drunken stupor I had an entire NYC subway car laughing as I outlined how shitty my dating life is…complete with falling for gay men. I did a stand up routine on the E train at 12am, on my way to the next bar, when I was already intoxicated from the first because of $5 cosmo night.

But by coming into work drunk, I felt incredibly more comfortable with my co-workers. Granted I was so inebriated this morning that I just didn’t care, but more importantly they saw a side of me that I was trying to hide. A side of me that is so fundamentally your author. No matter what job I do, who I work for, which degrees I have from prestigious universities…I am the quintessential alcoholic party girl. I dance on bars, kiss gay boys, vomit in beds…I’ll forever act like I am 19 in a bar with a bad fake ID, despite the fact that all of my friends are in LTRs and I have nobody left to get fucked up with. (Not just drunk but incredibly fucked up as in write my name on my arm because I do not know how I am going to otherwise get home.)

What happened to me?!

Guys, I am really scared right now, I do not know what is wrong with me. I have lost my desire to party.

My mother, who in her day was a quasi-alcoholic like your author, still reminisces about the days of her single years where she used to meet my father at the bar they met (and yes I know alcoholism is hereditary) after work, pound drinks, and amaze the other men in the bar with her prowess with alcohol. Before I even existed, my mother was the alcoholic super star, lack of wooden leg and all.

This all changed after my mother had the 4 of us. Evidently after #4, altered her body chemistry and she no longer was an alcoholic superstar…she actually became an alcoholic loser. So my father, in horrible disbelief that the woman whom he vowed to spend the rest of his life with lost the ability to partake in the only commonality that they shared, he had to test her and see whether this was true. Some of my earliest memories involve my father begging my mother to have a drink and my mother dodging his requests. One day he demanded that she have a drink, his style which is a lot like Shannon style—lotsa booze. He made her a screwdriver, all the while she is whining that she doesn’t want one, how she has too much to do, etc. Keep in mind that my father knows no limits so I think he made it in a huge pint glass, and the screwdriver looked transparent. Go dad. After 3 sips, my mother ran to the bathroom and that was the only time I had ever, ever, seen her vomit. After that he gave up, his drinking buddy became the woman who would rear his 4 children.

At the age of 4 I vowed that I was not going to carry my own children, it is only now that I can articulate the reasons. It isn’t because of the the stretch marks, that my husband would never see me as a hot fuck as he used to, the pain, or even that my huge breasts would become even bigger feed my brood instead of…well, you get the idea. I am petrified because I have this fear of becoming boring and losing my desire to drink. Where would I be w/o the Grey Goose?!

But it has happened. Ever since I started my new job and got meningitis I have lost my desire to party. All this without the collateral in the form of children for a very good divorce settlement. Sure my friends who have openly told me that I have a problem and that I need to take life more seriously will be proud of me, I am becoming a grown up…but, now I am left with free time that I spend worrying about cleaning the apt, my job, and how I can become a writer so I could be famous by the age of 26.

Last night I was at the Rodarte show for fashion week, as shows in the pics.

Fashion week in NYC is Christmas for the sinners/Jews. Free Goodybags (this one filled with about $100 of Modern Organic Hair products) free chocolate at this show, and of course free booze. Of the Belvedere and Moet persuasion. Yes, my readers, Mo-fucking-et. As in champagne rocks, as in I will forever be a booze hound for champagne…

Well, guess again. I wasn’t. I had one glass then switched over to the Evian water that was provided. Last night I lost my desire to drink, champagne included. All I thought about was the empty calories, the hangover, and that I really was not feeling the taste of alcohol. I only had 1 fucking glass of champagne. Do you realize that hell must have frozen over for me to only drink 1glass of FREE champagne?!?

There is a scary commonality that is occurring because Thursday night, when I went to a photo opening at some gallery in SoHo, I had to force myself to drink the free booze. And after the drinks and dinner, instead of making out with sexually confused boys in dirty bars/clubs the usual nights, instead I was in bed at 11:30 immediately following dinner. And John took the British Contingency (my other British friends) out gay bar hopping. I slept as they partied and was up running at 7am that morning.

What is going to happen to my social life when I stop drinking?! No more liquid courage inspired make-out sessions, no more ending up in sketchy situations with contraband in office buildings, and no more interesting blog where I chronicle getting drunk making-out with sketchy men. My weekends now include writing, doing HW, sleeping, rollerblading…I sound like I just gave birth or something.


But with dreams of the NY Times engagement announcements and knowing that I could never ever advance in my present position, I have also begun taking a stats class at Hunter as to strengthen my application for Columbia. All in the hopes that I could get into their Quant methods program, so I could work in the Consumer Insights Group for an ad agency, as I live abroad with my rich dorky cute brilliant foreign husband, as my book is on the international best seller list, as I continue working because I like the “intellectual challenge” that comes along with it.

I am too exhausted to do anything. Work at shit that I am awful at, class until late, trying to get a hot gym body…I am too tired to be irresponsible. What happens if this is a trend that cannot be stopped? The proverbial slippery slope effect, where you start to worry about certain aspects such as your health so you stop eating out as often run a little more, and then you are feeling so good about yourself that you decide that you want to feel as good about your job so then that translates into being responsible and not going into the office drunk with hickeys on your neck, and then that translates into…becoming a fucking loser. Are my early 20’s the last time that I will use the sentence that had gotten me through college, “Dude, all we need is a keg and a stripper and the party will follow.” Or my favorite, “Dude, so we get a keg and a stripper..”

There are no other things that I love more than booze, strippers, and my friends with dollar bills.

But I am seeing this happen to my friends too. As they couple off, as they think of better things to do with their time instead of drinking…So my best friend Lu, who is a party girl at heart but a lot more low key about it (like you don’t see it, and then bang, she has some hot female stripper in a dorm room with body shots being consumed) she decides for her 25th birthday in Jan that she wants to go down and help the people of New Orleans. Now, I loved New Orleans, it was my paradise/demise for 6-7 months. And once it is safe, I plan on helping with the relief efforts too…but not on a bday! And especially not the last bday before “you are staring 30 in the face,” where it is no longer socially acceptable to not have a significant other/drink yourself into oblivion/be secure that if you fuck up, you still enough time to fix your fuck ups because…”I mean, we are in our early 20s.”

Not after your 25th pal. You could no longer pretend that you are in your “early 20s”

I just hope that my lame-ness is a phase that I am going through, that I will be planning a stripper party/getting into trouble soon.

On the plans tonight, fashion shows, maybe an after party, and not drinking (still do not feel like drinking)…this fucking sucks.

Furniture shopping and doing without

I ain’t gonna lie, creating a home is a lot of fucking work, something I have never needed to work at considering that I have been a nomad for the last 6 years. Since your author has (for the first time) her name on a lease, I thought that it was time for some proper furniture. I’m not talking Pottery Barn nor Crate and Barrel or any other bourgeois furniture company. No, no, I am talking about actually furnishing the apt with something more than just a bed and a TV on the floor. And like all yuppies who are cut off from their parents, I am off to Ikea to find the perfect bedroom set, one that highlights my serious yet whimsical personality, the perfect bedroom set that as soon as you walk into my bedroom, you will know that I am an educated world traveler who loves writing, and anything else that would make you love me.

I am off to the armpit of America Jersey to get my yuppie furniture.

As great as having a gay faux boyfriend who I live with (companionship, making me feel better when I am in a sour mood, a shared love of Madonna, etc.), it sucks because he is actually gay. And its not the lack of sex because Peter and Ichi keep me well entertained. It sucks because, like most gay men, he works in retail so we are never off on the same days. Such as the weekend when most people go furniture shopping. Needing furniture because my floor is covered with my clothes and my esoteric books (ex.The social construction of reality—aren’t I so fucking smart?) I decided that I have to go to Ikea ASAP. First of all, I should preface that I am horribly ADD. Big stores such as Ikea are very very dangerous for me since I get sucked into needing all the little crap that I see. Not only do I waste all of my money because I think I need the French Press coffee maker but I also waste a shit load of time because I get easily lost in thinking of various permutations and combinations with the furniture and color swatches, etc.

Just so that you understand, I loathe big stores. And, to make matters even worse, I hate the crowds that go along with them.

I devise a simple strategy. I will go online, make a specific list of things that I actually need…no making exceptions for the cute green table or whatever crap that I am known to impulse buy. Take an early bus, give myself 1.5 hours to get out of Ikea so that I could come back to NYC to go paint shopping and paint my room.

Who the fuck am I kidding?!?

As you are reading this, you must be laughing your ass off. The girl who has no self control, who won’t even curtail her drinking for the sake of her job…is going to curtail her ADD/spending/dawdling problem when she goes to the budding yuppie mecca of furniture shopping?!

So in preparation for my shopping trip, and continuing the lie to myself, I browse the website and pick out the dresser and the bookcase that I want. I add it to the list that I am “not allowed” to deviate from and begin to strategize how I could carry the crap home by myself.

“It’s Ikea!” I rationalize, “How much could this cheap crap weight? I could tuck the dresser under 1 hand and the bookcase under the other! If it is too much for me to take on the subway, I could always take a cab.”

I guess those Swedish people are doing a better job making that crap than it looks like because the dresser alone was 77 pounds! Even if I actually was going to the gym and pumping iron instead of drinking myself into oblivion…there is no way that my LI girl ass could ever pick that up with both hands, let alone one hand. To give you perspective, some airlines won’t let your bag be 77 lbs. As in the big burly bag handlers won’t even pick that shit up.

Unfortunately, I come to the realization that the dresser and the bookcase are too heavy after I spent 3 hours in Ikea, sat on the bus ride from hell complete with a bus driver who got lost and having to listen to yuppies say, “I think he is kidnapping us.”

If I was the bus driver of the Free Ikea bus to transport NYC yuppies over labor day weekend to buy a Kippan or whatever cute Sweedish word used to describe a trashcan, I too would have gotten “accidentally” lost. And I think it was “accidentally” because he “accidentally” turned off the A/C on the bus. And “accidentally” didn’t hear us after we repeatedly asked him to turn it back on.

So, as you are judging from the way the story is going, I found out that I couldn’t carry the furniture back AFTER I spent 3 hours shopping, looking at crap that I do not need/figuring out all of the furniture combinations that I could. I wasted an entire fucking day. A day of my labor day weekend because I had no friends to help me carry it home.

The ride home was far more uneventful, I was just hurt and pissed. First of all, I hate asking friends to do me a favor. But I sat there on line asking my friends and then giving them graceful outs because it sucks to help other people move and it sucks more having to drive from LI to NJ to NYC to help carry up a 77 lb unassembled dresser. And the only person who I feel comfortable asking is my gay faux boyfriend because I helped him move into his first apt at 3am in the cold rain.

So there I was, at Ikea, standing on line calling everyone who I knew to help me out and not really wanting them to help me out because that is a hella big favor to ask someone. At my wits end, I do what all well adjusted yuppies do. I call my parents and blame them for not loving me enough (I mean, shouldn’t they help their daughter move into her new apt?!?!). My mother, at first is helpful,

“Can’t you pay them to deliver?” she asks.

“No, it is $100.”

“Oh, you are right, that is too much.”

Then she gets LI mother.

“Why don’t you go to Pottery Barn and get your dresser there. I bet they have free delivery.”

“Yes mom, BECAUSE A DRESSER IS $800!”

This conversation continues as she lists every single expensive furniture shop in NYC.

That is so not what I needed after wading through crowds who spoke no English, an over-crowded store, not being able to carry home desperately needed furniture. I did not need my mom to remind me that buying a dresser in NYC is sooo much more expensive. Nor for my mom to remind me that I cant rent a car from Ikea to transport it because I am such a shitty driver (3 tries and 2 states and I am the proud owner of a MA license!!) that I would get into an accident going through NYC traffic.

Hanging up with her, and listening to Frank Sinatra on my I-Pod on the way back, I get sappy. If I had a bfriend like all of my other friends, I would not be in this predicament. First I am left alone on my Sat nights as my friends are all having sex with the guys/gals who they are like practically married to and now, I am left w/o a dresser.

Like a new car, when everyone else has one, you feel you should have one too. Especially going furniture shopping by yourself and not being able to carry a 77 lb dresser by yourself. So, readers, I am issuing a challenge to you. If you are reading this, you have to like me. Even if you can’t stand me because I am a pretentious name dropper who is filled with a false sense of self-importance, deep down, I know you care. Please help me find a boyfriend. I am not even picky anymore. I will even consider the “slightly larger than average” or whatever they call it on match.com. Midgets, missing limbs, 50+, I do not give a fuck. I just need to know that when I need to bring furniture home to my apt that there will be someone who I can call on to help me. And also someone to entertain me on Sat nights as all of my friends are out with their boyfriends. The only deal breaker are homos. I am sorry, I attract them on my own and if I wanted to spend my Sat night at a gay bar in the village, I would be hanging out with John.

Thank you in advance for your expeditious response.

What I live among

John and I were taking a walk this past week at 1am in the village and found...

Fuck wondering where Andy's Mojo is...

Where is mine?!

Ah, American Express must be so pissed. And working in advertising, I feel I can laugh.

Gives the ad campaign new meaning, huh?


And a big thank you to one of our vendors who got us tickets to the US Open on Tues. Yes, the infamous Tues where Roddick got his ass kicked by some kid from Luxembourg (out of all places) who, to add insult to injury, got kicked out of round 2, Muller. Besides that game making me want to give tennis lessons another try (the public camp that I went to when I was like 8-12 really didn’t do an adequate job teaching me how to play, especially since my parents were too cheap to buy me a racquet like all the North Shore LI kids had, damn excuse of having to buy 4 of them—one for each child. No, I don’t think my parents believed in condoms or else my mother would not have turned us out like puppies), I have officially crossed over into the bourgeois lifestyle of enjoying watching tennis.

My newfound love of tennis, however, is a massive contradiction to my blue collar LI/Queens/Brooklyn parents’ heavily thickly accented lifestyle. Those of you who are not familiar with LI/the surrounding suburbs, this is an area of new money. I shop at Loehmann’s, my parents have such thick accents that it is comical, they wanted me to take tennis lessons so I could be bourgie. But that is the area and I have to say, I love new money values of ostentation and name dropping. New money wanting to give their kids the things that they didn’t have growing up. And you know what? That, my dear friends, is the American dream in a nutshell.

Tennis with LI accents.

Or so I thought.

I thought Americans had made tennis more democratic. Especially the US Open, one of the most notoriously rude and obnoxious tournaments in the grand slam

http://www.newyorkmagazine.com/guides/usopen/12525/index.html

I mean, this article made me proud to be a NYer, occasional accent slip up included.

Imagine my surprise when I get to the open, expecting to hear my people, my fellow NYers, possibly even new money-ers, and I see that the court refs (I do not know what they fuck they are called), are BRITISH. Now I know that it is a British game, and the accents add an aura of faux-class to an otherwise obnoxious open, but…they are British.

I am not going to lie, when I heard the refs speak, all of those years that I spent, coming to terms with my LI accent, flew out the window. Are my accented people not good enough to ref the fucking US Open?! Will I always be white trash to the posh Brits (yes, who the fuck am I kidding, I shop at Loehmann’s for God sake)?! I just think that the refs should have been from the NYC area, to add a little regional flair, “Ahnd naow Dae-van-porrht ver-sus Lee”

Although, I have to admit, despite the accents the crowd owned the fucking Open. For the Men’s match, the ref gave up trying to quiet down the crowd’s cheers of "Roddick," the asses in the nose bleeds who kept on yelling how they “Love Andy Roddick!!” Even the guys were in love with Andy. I was slightly disappointed when I did not see panties being thrown into the court. NYers, like all things that we do, owned the fucking tourney. I even heard cell phones ringing.

But, interestingly, on the women’s side of things during the Davenport Vs. Li match, it wasn’t as crazy. Perhaps it is because women’s tennis is not as exciting, or, what I think, Davenport isn’t as charismatically good-looking as Roddick. Although, as Americans, and especially as NYers we are obsessed with the underdog…however, we are only obsessed with the underdog when there is beauty associated with it. That beauty being either physical (which applies in this case) or the beauty of the human spirit. Davenport just doesn’t have that, hence no cheers, no people flashing the crowd in an effort to root her on. Her story just isn’t beautiful enough for mass-consumption.

In other not so ‘woah I am soooo serious’ news, I have a confession to my readers. I have a blog crush/intrigue with http://onelifetaketwo.blogspot.com

Yes, it is a sex blog, but I am absolutely intrigued by the way he writes. And considering my track record with men, it also doesn’t hurt that he is a self proclaimed bisexual. But, what I find intriguing is how people could disconnect, having sex with someone who you like and find attractive and not inadvertently fall for them. Take away the Jewish and Catholic guilt, I wonder if I could ever be capable of partaking.

And lastly, in other news, I am fung shui-ing/putting up mizzouzas/burning sage/having someone come in and bless my new apt because ever since I moved in, I have had serious health problems. First I was in the hospital with viral meningitis and then a few days ago I was back in the ER (this time at St. Vincents) because I thought I was going into anapalastic shock since my cheek doubled in size but instead turned out to be a BLOCKED SALIVA GLAND. Who the fuck gets that?! Do you know what kind of hyper-chondriac schmuck I looked like when I went back to the office an hour later, having to tell everyone that it was a dental issue and that I wasn’t dying?! Especially when I had tears in my eyes before I ran to the hospital because I thought I was dying?!!?


Mysteriously, however, it healed itself when I went home to LI (aka fled the cursed apt). But I still have an appt with the oral surgeon (plus I need to get out my severely impacted wisdom teeth) to make sure that my cheek isn’t going to swell again. And not only am I now known as the office hypochondriac but, the dentist when he was looking at my swollen cheek was like, “It’s hard to tell because your face is so…full” Thanks. I know I have chubby cheeks. Why don’t you comment on my semi-Jew nose while you are at it?! Just when I was feeling hott from the meningitis diet.

But seriously, what the fuck could be next? Cancer? Alopecia?! I am afraid to sleep in my bedroom anymore, so I have taken to sleeping on the leather Ikea Klippan couch in the living room. Well until I Feng Shui/put up the mizzouza/burn sage/have someone come in a bless my apt.

Another fucking day.

And in better news, it is official. I have a gay boyfriend who I live with. Especially since we tell each other “I love you” before bed. And why would I ever date again?

On New Orleans...

Tomorrow I will write one of my usual funny self-depricating posts but tonight I wanted to write about one of my favorite American cities, and vent about how reading about the events down there make me want to vommit. Be forwarned, this is going to be an uber liberal political post.

Taken from a bullitein board of citizen updates:

"I have a house on Prytania and 2nd in the Garden District. We just spoke to our an employee at the house who has said that the area is stabile. No water or flooding whatsoever, a few limbs and branches down, but no significanyt damage or flooding whatsoever. Perhaps this is why it is not covered at all on the news since sometimes no news is good news!"

Let's read into the second sentence shall we?! "We just spoke to our employee" As in, my employee is still in the house on Prytania.

Let's further analyze the sentence.

An employee is at the house and since the owner called for an update, I think we can assume that they are not in the house. As in, they are probably SAFE AND EVACUATED.

Actually, the employee is faring a lot better than his/her counterparts in the CBD (Central Business District) and in the superdome, where the inhabitants would prob do better as refugees in some war torn country in Africa. At least the Africans have the UN. Where is our national guard?! Oh yea, in Iraq protecting Iraqis. Now, I do have my issues with the war in Iraq but that is not my main beef at the moment. My problem is that the national guard is supposed to protect American citizens in times of national disaster. If government is going to start a war (even if I do not believe in it), just make sure that there are enough troops to go around!!! Do not take troops that are trained/specifically supposed to help AMERICANS IN TIMES OF DISASTER! And we all wonder why there is "anarchy"

I have never read such a blatent example of government turning its back on people, acting like there is no 14th ammendment that offers equal protection. Every time I read about the 'anarchy' the 'lawlessness' and any other words that people are using to describe the people who did not have enough money to evacuate, I have never seen a more obvious form of racism/classism. If the rich white people who live on St. Charles were "looting" the stores, it would be seen as a form of survival because government does not have enough supplies to feed and maintain a displaced population.

With 20% of the city in povery, government not providing food nor water nor PLUMBING, I can only speak for myself, but I would have no problem helping myself to a donation from the super K-mart or even a new handbag at Saks (for what they have been through, the women deserve it).

I felt that I had to write about what is going on because ever since I stepped foot in that city, I have never loved a place more. Granted the 6-7 months that I lived there was not the healthiest time in my life (alcoholism and working at Banana Republic with a 7 sisters college degree), but I have yet to meet a city filled with more kind/laid back/friendly people, a place where I felt incredibly at home and happy. And my backyard was the ghetto where you could have bought crack. Some of my fondest memories involved sitting on my friends' porch, throwing back beers, and giving beers to passerbys who sat to chat us up. I miss my $500 rent for a 1 bedroom, the people, the perpetual parties, and of course a po'boy from parasols and late night at Snake and Jakes.

I know this is going to sound trite and I do not even know how many readers I have but seriously, please, get in touch with your congress person (you could find it on the internet) and tell them that you are outraged that our government is doing all that we could for fellow American citizens. Because, if you think about it, if any of this happened in a place like NYC, LA, SF, or any other city where there is not such a disparity between the haves and have nots, the blacks and the whites, our government would already have the top engineers from the Netherlands, more national guardsmen, and be flying in supplies. If I did not have such an addiction to international travel, I would burn my passport at the Italian border because at this point, I am ashamed to be associated with this government. A government who, in a city's and its citizens' hour of need, is turning their back.