Vacation shortened and Northwest can go suck it

I am in Boise airport waiting for my flight--the only redeeming point about this airport is free wireless.

Northwest airlines in Boise, shame on you for telling me my bag was 4 pounds over the limit and making me sift through my bag in front of everyone to remove the offending 4 pounds. Or I could have paid you an additional $25...I would rather Boise see my dirty underwear than to give you guys any more of my money.

Fuck you Boise airport for having tighter security than London Heathrow and the New York airports...yes, the condoms in my bag are a fucking security risk.

Northwest, again I am in awe of how you treat your passengers by telling us "in Minneapois 30 mins is legal time to make the connection." Well with a delay leaving me with 31 minutes to make my connection, I am eager to see how a plane filled with 30 min connections will go. Disembarking will be a fucking trip.

Thank you Sun Valley Transport service or making me wait 2 hours for the bus, a trecherous 3 hours drive where I thought I was going to die several times, anfd telling me that you didn't have my credit card information.

And lastly, to the frustration of ending your vacation early because of a sick relative who you should have visited more often but recovery from hangovers, friends in town, and everything else that leaves me paralyzed during the weekends "prevented" me from doing.

I just want to be back a top of the mountain drunkenly snowboarding down and being reminded what happiness is like.

I want a hug right now.

The grinch who stole Christmas and ruined an engagement

A lot of my childhood is a blur in my mind of memories melding together: catching worms in the backyard, hiding on the top bunk bed because we were afraid of our first dog, dressing my brother up as a woman and my dad telling me that we would ‘make him gay’, and of course, Christmas morning. My father, who gets easily excited, would wake all 4 of us up at 4am, before sunrise, because he couldn’t wait until a normal hour to see our faces when we would open the presents of Barbies and Tonka trucks. Every year, Christmas morning, my parents would reverse roles and my mother, the easy-going parent, would chide us for leaving wrapping strewn all over the living room while my dad told her to ‘relax and let the kids be kids’.

In those days, we always had a wonderful Christmas morning, presents perfectly planned for us—I got Barbies and Rainbow Bright and my brothers got Ninja Turtles and board games. Dolls and action figures transcend time, my mother and father seeming like experts in the hot toys of the season.

Until adolescence and the world of electronics, gift certificates, and a huge bosom making buying clothes without having me trying them on impossible. My parents’ fared well the first few years, but as Santa Clause became revealed and my mother had to consult with us for presents that she would buy, the time that my father would wake us up became later and later, until we hit the age where it was 10am and I was telling my family to open presents without me because I wanted to sleep.

With my father away this Christmas, my brother at his fiancé’s family, only the 4 of us remained—my mother trying to make up for lack of family involvement in the form of presents. For the last few years, I’ve told my mom to give me the cash and I will buy what I want myself or to consult with me so that we don’t have the endless stream of returns Dec. 26.

“But you won’t be able to open presents with everyone else!!” she exclaims.

“Mom, every year you hype up Christmas and every year I am disappointed and offended by the presents you get me. Acknowledge that you don’t know what I like and we’ll call it a day.”

“Oh Shannon, this year I went all out.”

My sister chimes in telling me that my presents are perfect and that I will be excited.

“Could you please hyping this shit up? I am a practicing Jew now and in all seriousness, every year I get disappointed and offended and could we just end the fucking charade?”

Well with everyone telling me how perfect my Christmas presents are going to be, I started to believe that maybe, finally, they got the subtle contradictions of my personality, and got me a gift card to Barnes and Noble, a bliss spa gift certificate, and a nice pair of shoes.

I take Christmas personally, because every year I buy presents that are perfectly thought out for my recipients. This year I got my mom a Tiffany’s ring she’d been eyeing (fine, it was a returned vendor present, but still), my brother and his fiancé a gift certificate to the movies because they enjoy going but they complain how expensive it is…I know I sound like a snob at times, but I would rather have a cheap thoughtful present than the generic seven jeans my mom bought me.

So, my brother comes to my parents’ house at 10am, 2 hours later than what he originally said because his fiancé runs his life. My mother’s cursing ends when she puts on a smile to greet both of them at the door.

We all gather in the Christmas tree-less living room, around a broken fireplace, and begin to open presents. My sister got a pair of Seven jeans. My brother and his fiancé opens their present and thanks me. I open my present from them, cashmere slippers! Not that practical, but the thought counts. I move on to my second present, unwrap the present and my mother got me this:



What the fuck?!?

My mother got me a girdle for Christmas?! I know I’ve gained some weight because I have been working 12 hours a day, and going to class…but I don’t think this is the best way to tell me! And even if I didn’t mind a girdle for Christmas, it is 100% spandex. What does a woman with huge boobs need with a spandex top? Mom, I swear I am not a lesbian and really don’t think the best way of introducing me to the male species is to parade me around hoping I get raped!

I fly off the handle.

“What the fuck?!” I scream “That is the most insensitive present I have ever seen!! I know I’ve gained weight but that is just fucked up!!”

“Shannon, its all the rage right now! A woman at work told me it’s been featured in the fashion magazines”

With tears in my eyes, crying, “Buying your daughter a fucking girdle!?!? You are a sick fucker! When have I ever wore fashion magazine crap? You use Christmas to make me into the person you want, another fucking Kay!!!!”

I begin to throw the Christmas presents around the room, crying hysterically, and wail.

My brother’s fiancé is frightened, sitting on the couch cowering.

“I fucking hate you!!! How could you do this to me?! I am buying you motherfucking Slim Fast for Christmas next year!! I HATE YOU!!!!”

I take my presents and storm up the stairs, crying hysterically, exacerbated by the hormonal fluctuations of PMS.

My brother's fiance watching in horror the scene that I am making. Later I learned she is threatening to call off the wedding because she doesn't want to be part of a family that celebrates Christmas like this

I cry. My tears punctuated with running down the stairs to tell my mom how fucking insensitive she is.

Now, I know it seems like I am over-reacting, and I could have chalked this up to my mom just not thinking, but she said something very interesting on Christmas Eve, “Shannon, you are either going to love or hate one of the presents. Actually I don’t even know if it is going to fit you. HAHAAA!”

And another reason for me to begin therapy when I get back to the East Coast. Well after I join my boxing gym.

I am in Boise as I type this, waiting for my connecting flight to Sun Valley having spent the night in the Super 8, corporate discount of $3 and all. I am in desperate need of this active vacation to clear my head, and connecting me to a reality not based upon Prada, Grey Goose, and star-fucking. But instead celeb spotting, champagne drinking, and snowboarding on some fucking amazing snow.

I don’t think I will ever live in a reality.

My fear of death and a Jew's Christmas--A post dedicated to Woody Allen

I have this intense fear of anything medical: doctors, hospitals, dentists, and anything with a MD as a suffix. I start to shake, heart palpitations, panicky, and overall just want to cry. This fear stems from my fear of death; thinking that a doctors appointment will uncover some form of cancer, AIDS, multiple sclerosis, or anything else that will cause me to die slowly and painfully. Oh, and never mind the weekends where I drink myself into oblivion and then to proceed to mix alcohol with other indulgences--in my sick world, a blood test could seal my fate and not the lethal mix of large quantities of alcohol and anything else.

So for me to make a doctor’s appointment, you know I have to be on my deathbed with my vacation to Sun Valley quickly approaching; as proven since I scheduled an appt with a real doctor and not a First Med quack.


The problem with seeing a real doctor is that they will act as medical professionals and first ask about your bad habits and then proceed to counsel you—they just don’t want to treat the symptoms but the whole person. I knew I was in for a treat when I was weighed at the office and discovered that I had gained around 10 lbs from eating the contents of the lavish gastronomical delight gift baskets that get showered upon employees of the agency world, in what I like to call ‘Vendor Season’.

The doctor comes in and takes my vitals, seeing that my blood pressure is high and then proceeds to connect my smoking and belly to it.

“You know, you have high blood pressure.”

“Yes, I get nervous when I have to go to the doctor, see my hands are shaking.”

“Yes, but your blood pressure is high. You know, you are a smoker with a family history of heart problems.”

“Listen, I was in the hospital a few months back and my blood pressure was fine. I don’t know you [you don’t have much of a bedside manner] and I am nervous.”

He then jumps to the next red flag of my health history.

“You are a smoker.”

“No, I just smoke on the weekends and when I am drunk and when I am stressed (which is about every fucking day, but I won’t tell him).”

“There are three types of people, non-smokers, smokers, and former smokers. Do you want to quit smoking? It is giving you health problems and could lead to more.”

I look at him for a few seconds, and really think. Do I want to quit smoking?

“You know,” I begin, “I know this sounds horrible and I am a terrible person but, I love my cigarettes. I love the feeling of smoke filling my lungs as I inhale, and I especially love it when I am having a glass of red wine or a nice scotch.”

“Shannon, if you told me you want to kill someone, that would be horrible, but maybe you should reconsider smoking. Granted you don’t smoke a lot but you don’t know which cigarette it will be that gives you cancer.”

I sit and nod my head half listening to the anti-smoking shit. He continues:

“Next time you have a cigarette you should try to think about all the bad things that it is doing to your body and instead of associating it with pleasure, try to associate it with the health problems you will encounter.”

“Yea, too bad when I am smoking I am usually too blitzed out of my mind to form any rationale thought.”

He gives me a nod, and then proceeds to ask me if I have a problem drinking. The sad thing is, under the question asking, ‘How much do you drink a week?’ I answered how much I binge drink a weekend night. 7-8 drinks, and that weekly # that I gave him may be indicative of a problem. If my lie is too much, how bad could the truth be?

He then moves onto my sexual history, keep in mind I am in for a THROAT INFECTION. And, let’s be real, you guys have read in previous posts, my sex life is a joke. I’ve only slept with 1.5 guys this year, both British, one prob gay and the other socially inept hence he was my half. So its difficult for me to answer his sexual risk questions seriously.

“What forms of protection do you use against STDs?” the doctor asks.

“Abstinence!” I reply with a slight chuckle and the memory of my less than stellar fucks of the year.

“Do you think you should be tested for HIV? It says here that you’ve slept with 1.5? What is that .5?”

Obviously, the doctor doesn’t get my humor.

So he gives me antibiotics for my probable sinus infection. Since he is in a prescription writing mood, I tell him about my horrible fear of flying, hoping to score some Ativan off of him. His response? Tells me I should take Benedryl. Oh, I don’t think this is the doctor for me. What happened to the days where I could walk into a Dr’s office, tell him ‘I am feeling anxious’ and he’d give me a script for 60 pills and 4 refills of xanax? Most of NYC is medicated and why do I have to find the “professional” doctors.

Although he did recommend that I get this saline nasal spray, which, if I ever have to endorse a product, this shit fucking rocks! What’s even better is that at work I look like a cokehead running in and out of the bathroom from doing hits. I leave the bathroom, touching my nose, sniffling loudly, and a little jittery from taking the Herculean sniffs of saline into my nostrils.
But seriously, it fucking works like a charm, my nasal passages are clearing up and they are moisturized.

So with the medical bills piling up from my stint in the hospital, the fact that I spent almost $100 in vain on useless vitamins trying to keep this cold from turning into a sinus infection, and now having to pay the co-pay plus the script for my latest doctor’s visit, I am running out of money. Plus I just bought the cutest pair of UGGs and hot fucking snowboots too for Sun Valley. But Christmas is around the corner, and I come from a materialistic family where love is measured in how much you spent on that person for Christmas. But I am also a cheap fucker because I know those ‘gifts of love’ usually suck and I am too guilt ridden to return them for the cash/something I truly enjoy.

As I mentioned, Christmas season in the ad world is a very small but welcomed payback for the shit that we have to deal with comes in the form of vendor presents.

“Hey Kay, I got Tiffany’s from a vendor, go exchange it for something that mom would like and I’ll put your name onto the card. She won’t be the wiser and she will be stoked to receive that little turquoise box. But I don’t have a gift for dad, and none of the vendors gave me anything that he would like...,” trailing off and hinting.

“Fine, I’ll put your name onto Dad’s present. You got him a calendar with pictures of us growing up.”

“Oh wow, that is such a thoughtful present I got him. Thanks!”

“What are you getting Patrick?”

“Well 1 vendor gave me an I-tunes gift card and another gave me a Starbucks gift card, so I was going to give him that, do you want in on that?”

“Maybe, I am having a difficult time getting finding something.”

“Awesome, hey Kay, so your present, I got you tickets to see a Broadway show (awesome vendor present)”

“Oh, I was going to say, that I really can’t afford anything right now…”

“Babe, vendor present! And to be perfectly honest, you know that you would be the recipient of the second ticket regardless of the season. I really want to see Spamalot…But what was the ‘perfect present’ that you were going to get me, that you kept on talking about over and over aain?”

“A year’s subscription to the Met!”

“Kelly, how often do I go to the Met? You know, just keep your money and know that I have a nice vendor enabling me to give you such a wonderful Christmas present.”

So thanks to vendor gifts, I have spent a whopping $26 dollars on Christmas presents. That money going to my brother Michael and his fiancé (so $13 respectively) on movie passes for the two of them. These free Christmas gifts make me feel slightly less bitter about the 10-15 lbs I just gained from all of the overeating of gift baskets, drinking at Christmas parties, and from taking a hiatus from cigarette smoking.


And finally, a big thank you to the MTA for not only having the strike during finals week (yea postponed stats final) but for ending it once my stats final had to be rescheduled. Do you think the head of the MTA’s daughter just needed a postponement with her final and this was just a merely an elaborate scheme? But in all seriousness, strikers, you guys fucking rock! And for the asses who called you thugs and the lack of support from the TWU international, I think they need to read the fucking Communist Manifesto, some Taylor (he explains the managerial structure that facilitates the working man to be treated like shit), and some real life examples how collective bargaining and resistance fucking work, especially when the days of corporate responsibility and companies taking care of their employees are long gone. Moreover, if anyone bitches about the pension plan and how they shouldn’t receive on at the age of 50 or whatever, I would like to see how else the workers could raise a family, pay some of the most ridiculous housing prices in the country, put food on the table, and put money aside for retirement. If the city doesn’t pay the pension plans now, they will certainly have to deal with more people added to the ranks of the elderly and destitute. If I didn’t have to wear the yoke of capitalism, chained to my cubicle, I would be supporting them on the picket line.

And now I step off of my soap box with a realization I fucking belong as a professor at a small liberal arts school, teaching sociology to students who call me by my first name as my husband works for JP Morgan as a senior partner or whatever, living vicariously through my intellectual achievement and inability to function in the corporate world.

But, ya know, I am just saying.

It ain't easy being...

It's almost my birthday. The holidays are upon us, and of course, like every year for the past 15 years I will be probably be sick on my motherfucking bday, again. Not only do I have to compete with Jesus to celebrate my bday, but I also have to contend with an infection that only responds to anti-biotics that I should not drink while taking.

What is the point of a bday if you are not bent over a toilet vomiting cursing the day you were born?

I never considered myself a smoker until this past week, where I have had a pernicious cold, and coldeeze, airborn, ecinacea, and Vitamin C aren't helping. Yes, I know it's a sinus infection and I need to see a Dr. but, I am afraid of them. Unless they give me happy pharmies...

However, not being able to smoke because it aggravates my sinuses and throat, I have the worst case of the munchies. Like, I think I have gained 10 lbs since I put food instead of ciggs into my mouth. I really miss my ciggs...a lot. Seriously. I love you Phillip Morris.

Take a look at this article by the AP, a gardening company is firing its workers who smoke:

MARYSVILLE, Ohio - Scotts Miracle-Gro Co., looking for ways to hold down health insurance costs, will require workers who smoke to quit by October or lose their jobs.
The lawn and garden company wants workers to live healthy lifestyles, said James Hagedorn, the company's chairman and chief executive. Scotts recently opened a $5 million fitness and medical facility.
Scotts is joining other companies focusing on smokers to cut health insurance costs. Some companies make employees who smoke pay higher health insurance premiums, or don't hire them.
"Why would we admit someone into this environment when they're passing risk along to everyone else? Our view is we shouldn't and we won't," Hagedorn said.
Scotts, which made $100 million on sales of $2.3 billion in its last fiscal year, has 6,000 employees in the United States and overseas. It said it can fire smokers legally in 21 states.
"We're being as aggressive as the law will allow us, to keep our costs under control," Hagedorn said.

Yet another fucking way for big business to get into my shit. First I need to ask its permission to take my vacation time, then I watch the mutilation of the English language with HR speak infiltrating the vernacular and now, you are telling me that I can't smoke within the privacy of my own home?!

My dentist knows what my pubic hair looks like

So with the prospect of ass on the horizon for this weekend, friends coming in from out of town, and a realization that my chastity by non-Brazilian bikini wax was working too well, I decided to re-kindle my relationship with my waxer.

When it comes to getting any beauty treatments done, I tend to follow the rule of ‘the less English they speak, the better they must be’. My waxer, who is Russian, exemplifies my economic-racism, I am convinced she only speaks terse phrases of Russ-glish “Toorn ovea, sprid here, HOLD! HOLD!!” With each sharp intake of my breath punctuated with the sound of hair separating from the skin.

What do you think? Of course it fucking hurts.

Its a sick initiation into being deemed a “NY woman,” with most men who venture south expecting to find their finger tips touching something more reminiscent of a 12 yr old than a woman from 1969. But with the pain of the Brazilian comes a sense of respect and awe and wonder from non-participators.

You have to be one tough and masochistic son of a bitch to have the hair ripped out of one of your most sensitive areas for 15 mins, every month.

Of course I wear the badge of the Brazillian with honor, except for some people, they do not see it as such.

When I went for my check up to the dentist a few months ago, I learned that my 6 years of no dental insurance left me with 6 cavities that needed to be filled. I tired to make these appointments during the work week, so that I could maximize my weekend binge drinking however, with work being crazy, last minute meetings popping up, my dentist appointments have taken a back seat. After canceling my appointment for the third time I decided to suck it up, and asked the receptionist for a weekend appointment. The only appointment that she had was on the Saturday morning when my MoHos came in.

“No problem, I’ll just make it super early, so I could go to the dentist when they are sleeping.”

You know, thinking of people other than myself.

I go to the dentist wearing sweats, smugged eye-liner from the night before, and my hair in a famously messy bun. The receptionists take a look at me and start to laugh,

“Yea, dudes, I had a rough and fucked up night.” 3 bottles of Veuve Cliquot on top of a hotel bar, with an “older friend” and my MoHos.

They take me immediately, and I walk into the examining room, waiting for the dentist.

Not only was I shaking from the alcohol withdrawal, but my nerves were acting up because I have an intense fear of the dentist. Heart palputations, tears, and the shakes are routine each time I go.

I am sitting in my chair, watching NY1, and the dentist comes in and greets me. I give her a weak smile, and barely acknowledge her ‘Good Morning’ and instead concentrate on the needle that will eventually prick my gums and numb my mouth. She rubs the numbing gel along my gums and picks up the needle, ready to prep my mouth for the 3/6 cavities she will be filling that morning.

Watching her pick up the needle and bring the pointed tip to my mouth, I shut my eyes tight, and exhale heavily out of my nostrils. There are three cavities on the top of my mouth, 5 shots of Novocain go into my gums to numb so that she could begin her work.

She leaves and tells me to watch tv for a few minutes, so that the Novocain could do its job.

As soon as she leaves, my hands begin to shake violently and I go into a panic attack. The nurse walking by notices, and comes rushing in asking me if I was alright.

“I’m sorry, I am just a little nervous. I guess I am more nervous than I thought.”

She corrects me, “No, actually you are having a common reaction to the Epinephrine, some people get a little shakey and panicy.”

Excuse me?!

The dentist walks into the room and sees me shaking, on the brink of tears.

“Get this girl some water!!” She then turns to me and asks, “Do you want some Oxygen? Did you eat breakfast this morning, should we bring you some crackers?”

“No, I got kinda shitty last night, I was feeling too nauseous to eat this morning.”

And then I get the look. The look of contempt for an asshole kid in her 20’s who ignores common sense so that she could enjoy a bottomless champagne glass the night before.

The nurses lecture me, telling me how I should not go to my dentist appt still somewhat drunk from the night before, how I should eat breakfast in the morning, how Gatorade does not count as a meal, how they will mark in my chart that I react badly to Epinephrine.

7 cups of water, calmed down, the dentist comes in, ready to fill my cavities. She begins to drill, and the Epinephrine didn’t do a stellar job numbing the tooth.

“Ow!”

She stops drilling.

“Are you ok?”

“It hurts!”

“Well, I could give you more anesthetic..”

I interrupt her, “No, I’ll deal with the pain. It isn’t too bad.”

“Are you sure? I can give you something.”

“No, It’s ok, I mean, I get Brazilian waxes. If you could survive that, you could deal with anything.”

And she shoots me this look of horror, this look of ‘I do not need to know what my patient’s pubic hair looks like’.

She doesn’t respond, only tells me to lean back, and continues drilling.

But, there is truth in my statement. If a woman could deal with the bikini wax, 15-20 mins of hair ripping out of skin in some of the most sensitive/nerve rich areas of her body, we can deal with all pain. Including having a cavity filled half-anesthetized.

This is what happens when my friends come into town, my social acceptability becomes non-existent, and I am led to believe for a weekend that the world talks like frat boys. Thinking up creative pornography (Biblical porn! Seriously, think about it, ‘David and Goliath’ Adam and Eve having sex for the first time together—fuck am I going to burn in hell. Anyway, I think it would be a hug hit in the bible belt, Religion and sex, a reminder to procreate for the Lord), brunch where we detail your authors most incriminating public drunk moment loudly in a packed restaurant, and of course racist jokes.

With all that is going on in my life, I am happy for the gentle distraction that they are providing, even if one of them is a pillow hog.

PS Thanks for scrubbing my apt, it hasn’t looked this clean since I came back from the hospital and was in crazy scrubbing mode. I love my wifey and Katie.

Trouble in Pizza Paradise

I should be having hot girl sex right now with my old hook-up from my HS days, but as usual, fate has a sick sense of humor; this time in the form of punishment from my whore mongering of last weekend. The form of punishment: a cold sore (aka the herp) on my upper lip, preventing me from acting as a make-out slut that I pride myself on being. No instead, I am home, just finished a slice of pizza and am watching animal planet after searching for the Roy Horn mauling video on the internet. And yes, my old college buddies are in town.

For the last week, that rap song, “I’ve got the magic stick…” plays on repeat in my head, confirmed by the numerous messages in my myspace inbox, the old men buying me bottles of Veuve Cliquot at posh hotel bars, and of the mild sexual harassment that I received when I should have spent Thursday evening getting my dirty clothes ready for laundry drop-off.

However, this past week, I learned that Sir Isaac Newton’s second law, “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction” holds more meaning for living life than it actually does for physics. There will be consequences for my asinine behavior, repercussions that that will haunt, even 2 weeks later.

For any alcoholic in NYC, the pizza man where you procure your drunk munchies is your best friend. That little foreign born man holds much power into how your night will end. Too much cheese on your pizza or too many toppings, and you will end up passed out in a pile of your own vomit next to the commode. After a rough night of drinking, there is a delicate balance of settling the belly with salt and crap and not over doing it..

This is where you rely upon the judgment and generosity of the pizza man and why he is one of the most important people in your drinking session.

After a rough night of drinking, I usually teeter into the pizza joint at 4:30-5am, wearing booby revealing shirts, hair a mess, and make-up down to my face. After doing this 3-4 nights a week for the past few months, I have developed a relationship with my pizza guys, actually with one in particular. A sweet shy Bangladeshi man who always calls me miss and proceeds to tell me how beautiful I am, every night, including my “fat” nights.

“Dude,” drunkenly slurring, “you will not believe the fucking night I had. I have fucking had it with men. Well, ok…not all of them, I mean you don’t count, you are adorable, but I hate all fucking men.”

He then tells me how beautiful I am, asks me why I have no boyfriend and then asks me out on a date. I respond with a drunken slur of how I hate all men but how adorable he is. Never coming out and saying no, but never giving him a direct response. This works perfectly. He continues to enjoy the flirting and I get my free shit and the good pizzas.

Well, it worked perfectly until I “got the magic stick” and become whore monger extraordinaire.

Two weekends ago, my friend and I go to our favorite bar on the Upper East Side, the one filled with rich men who enjoy hitting on pretty young things. Our bartender takes care of us in the form of a bottomless wine glass, we make friends, and end up sharing a taxi downtown with a CEO of some ice cream company. Him and I are getting along, flirting wildly, he doesn’t want the night to end so he grabs a slice of pizza with us at 4:30am, coming with Lu and I to our favorite pizza place. Drunk and flirty, we begin to canoodle in front of the pizza man. As we are making out, my pizza boy mouths to Lu, “What is she doing with him?” (fine he was like 45…but come on, a CEO?! That is fucking hot!) He sulks, but we get our pizza and leave.

Last weekend an old crush from HS meets up with me, many beers later, drunkenly making out all over NYC, we end up at my pizza place at 4:30am, getting pizza and making out inside. My pizza man sees this, gives me an evil eye, and then retreats to a corner. No free pizza, garlic knots, Gatorade, nor any of the other spoils of flirtation are received. Pizza man thinks I am a whore at this point.

Go in this past weekend with Lu and Kaite, who are my college friends visiting me, walk in at 4:30am asking for my special pizza (they put this weird sauce on it just for me), and he gives me the look of death. Takes my order but doesn’t talk to me except, “we do not have any sauce” and then hands my order to his co-worker to finish off. He runs off and sulks in a corner, no flirting, no freebies, yet again.

On the walk home, Lu turns to me and says, “What the fuck did you do to him? He fucking hates you! I have never seen a look like that.”

Every action has an equal an opposite reaction. Parade around the men who I take home in front of my pizza man, and no more freebies. Eat pizza as often as I have been, see your jeans get tight. Become the make-out slut of Greenwich village, wind up with the herp on your lips, mildly flirt with a person in a position of power and you may be expected to pay the piper for what you are alluding…

As I said, this week has been crazy and of course I haven’t studied for my stats final on Wed. I am just praying for a strike…

Bless the FDNY and how I will never date again

“Hi Shannon, it’s Jennifer your landlord. Please call me back immediately, I need to speak with you to understand why the fire department was at your apartment on Friday night. Actually, thinking about it, I am really perturbed at you guys and maybe we need to discuss another living arrangement because it seems this apartment is not the right fit for you guys.”

The message, almost verbatim, left on my cell phone this afternoon, while I, instead of hearing her phone call, ran around my apartment throwing on clothes and taming the hair that curled in my sleep. Hoping that the cute boy who slept over last night sitting on my living room couch doesn’t see too much of haggard, unwashed, un-made-up Shannon, hoping that he continues to watch the movie on the Sundance channel instead of noticing me checking out my ass and making sure my PJ pants look as good as the $150 jeans that I wore when I met him at the bar.

Oh the awkward next morning when someone you actually like sleeps over, and you try to maintain the candle lit mystery in the light of day.

“Holy shit, what a fucking cunt! She wants me to move the fuck out?! Let her try” I say out loud to nobody, only wanting the sound of my words and anger to reassure myself that I will not be fucked with. My girl power moment interrupts his watching of the awful movie.

“What happened?” He asks.

“It was my fucking landlord! I am calling this crazy fuckin’ bitch back,” the words tumble out, tinged with the LI accent that slips when I get angry and drunk.

I storm away, not fully explaining anything, and go into John’s room where I hastily dial the number, with shaking hands, tired of fighting with the building’s owners.

If you are reading this on the East Coast, you know that Winter has hit NYC. The extreme cold has left its artic mark, with perpetual snow and ice covering the streets, serving as a reminder to the city’s inhabitants of the season.

John comes home on Friday night, tired after a long day of walking up and down Broadway, the faux-mall of NYC. He tells me that he is so desperate for a job that he has even hit up J Crew. Willing to sell clothes to the over-indulgent preppies in the middle of the tourist shopping center. I’m half-way to drunk when he comes home, having already started on the 6 pack in the fridge.

He walks over, to the couch, telling me about his day and interrupts his own thought process:

“You know what? I am going to finish sealing the air conditioning hole. It’s fucking cold!”

He cuts the insulation as I sit on the couch drinking beer and enjoying the reversal of roles.

With the air conditioning vent sealed better than it was before, John is filled with a sense of masculine pride that only home repairs can give a man.

“You know, my room is fucking freezing, could you help me move some of the furniture so I could turn on the heat in my room?”

I grudgingly get up, pound my fourth beer, and think to myself, ‘how is it he has gone through the middle of December without heat in his room’? With the empty beer bottle on my coffee table, I walk over to his room and help him move his bed so he can access the radiator in his room.

John takes off the grill, crouches down to the radiator’s wheel and begins to twist the heat on. Mid-twist, the wheel and the valve it was connected to come off in his hand. He stands up, with it in his hand, looks at me, and asks,

“Uhm…do you know if this is important?”

We both laugh and call the building owners slumlords. Fucking douche bags.

We decide to take out the trash, clean up the apartment, and get ready for our prospective ‘hang outs’ aka, the boys who will end up in our beds by the end of the night.

Going back to our apartment from taking out the trash, we are confronted with a putrid odor at the base of our stairs. We go up anyway, not giving the stench a thought, but noting how it intensifies as we continue up the stairs. The flight our apartment is on, we see the light haze of smoke, and smell qualifies as a stench. We open the door, and like a scene out of backdraft, smoke and steam rush out the door. We can’t see the inside of our apartment, only hear the squeal of the heater emitting steam.

“Holy fuck! We broke our radiator!!” I scream.

John runs into the room, trying to see if he could put an end to the shooting steam.

“Shannon, come in here and give me a hand!”

“No!” I rush down the stairs, “I am scared! What happens if the radiator explodes?! Open up a window!”

“I am trying but I need your help,” he says.

Hearing a rukus, the neighbor on the second floor opens her door and asks us what is wrong, as she sees the smoke and steam shoot out of the apartment.

“Should I evacuate the apartment?” she asks.

“No, we broke the valve to the radiator and the steam is shooting out. Do you know who we can call?”

“Go upstairs and grab the landlord.”

I run up the stairs, freaking out, while John is inside dealing with a rogue radiator.

I bang on the landlord’s door and of course, he isn’t home. The night when we do want him meddling in our business and he can’t fucking be home. I call the emergency numbers to the building owners and leave messages, all to no avail.

I run down the stairs to my apartment, and see John, standing with the door open, covered in a mixture of sweat and steam. “I can’t get this to turn off.” He says, with alarm filling his voice.

Tears well up in my eyes, and I am preparing to knock on all the doors in order to evacuate the residents. I think we are about to cause a major fire in my building.

The neighbor with common sense suggests that I walk over to the fire house located a block away, and go and grab a firefighter.

I throw on my sneakers, and run to the firehouse, getting there panting and out of breath. I timidly knock on the door, and then open it.

“Excuse me? Hello?”

I look around and find the dispatcher.

“Uhm, I hope I am not bothering you, but we seem to have broken my radiator and there is an incredible amount of steam and smoke filling our apartment, and if possible, could you send someone over to check it out?”

“Hold on.” He says, and rushes to find a guy.

The firefighter accompanies me back to my apartment. He goes in, walking up the stairs, expecting to find a little bit of steam, and 2 overly anxious kids.

“Holy shit! This is bad. Go back to the firehouse and get me my light and my tools.”
He says this, and then crouches down to the fire position that we are taught when we are in elementary school. Low to the ground, and try not to breathe very deeply.

I get back to the apartment with 2 more fire fighters, both of them in agreement with the first that this is a shitty situation. Actually, they have never seen anything this bad. Fire mitt, flashlights, and tools, and a little prayer, the steam is turned off.

We thank the firefighters. I call my mom, shaking, and craving a beer.

As I am on the phone the landlord comes in on call waiting.

Before I can even say ‘hello’ he raises his voice, “What do you mean that there were fire fighters at the apartment?”

We bicker back and forth,. I lose my cool. He is coming over in half an hour.

Fuck, both John and I are supposed to hang out with some boys tonight and we have Captain Kill-Ass-Gettin' coming over to lecture us.

We get ready for our dates. He comes over. John and him begin to bicker. I try to play conflict mediator, using the skills I learned when I was 11 years old and a geek giving up her lunch period, trying in vain to help my peers solve their own problems. It didn’t work when I was 11 and it sure as hell did not work tonight.

Frustrated and anxious: “Hey guys, listen up. John, you have a date at 11. My date is arriving in the next 15 mins, and I am sure you, Mr. Landlord man…well, it’s a Friday night,” I say this, dressed fucking hotly. Hair blowed dried straight, my 4” heels offsetting the satin skirt quite well. It was obvious I was looking good in the hopes of ass.

The landlord chimes in, “Yea, me too. I was going up to Westchester and she was cooking me dinner [looks down on the ground], [quickly changes subject] so about the apt...”

Mr. Landlord man, its obvious that you were not going to get ass, in the same way that me and John were slated to get ass that night. I’m sorry, someone making dinner at 10pm? You wearing slacked out cords to go to this special dinner? Stop acting like Corky (the kid from ‘Life Goes On’) and admit that you are jealous of our sex lives.

He leaves. Our respective dates come. Both of them are males, both of them sharing the same name, and both ended up in our bed the next morning.


A note to my readers:
The events listed above are 100% true. Both guys who I saw this past weekend know about the blog, although they promised not to read it (hhmmm….let’s see if that will happen). I just want you guys to know, that I am putting myself into a hole, by making it public knowledge what a quasi-virginal slut I am, and am another step closer to not being able to date in NYC. Here is a word of advice. When you exchange pics with someone off of the internet, do not send them to your myspace profile to see your pics, especially because that is where your blog link is located. Because, when push comes to shove, my journalistic/writer integrity means more than any happiness that regular non-mechanical sex could bring. Please say thank you by forwarding this link and linking me to your own blog.

"We will get through this together baby"

No this isn't what I said to a guy who wanted me to keep the baby.

I'm fucking kidding about the line up top.

Please, I am waayy to germ phobic to fuck a guy w/o a condom and like 5 back ups of birth control, including prayer. Do I need to remind you of my sex talk that my father gave me gun and all?!

Actually, those are the words I told John when he told me he was UNEMPLOYED...(yes, the guy who has the bigger bedroom in the apt)...HE NO LONGER HAS A FUCKING INCOME.

John has no employment.

So of course being a good friend, I suspend this evening of dancing with the Go-Go boys at a vendor party in a penthouse in NYC (3 blocks away from my apt too, and free booze!!) and take John out for a $150 meal to say, "We will get through this."

Yes, I did use the word 'we'. He is my gay faux-boyfriend afterall. I am prepared to go food shopping at the office pantry, filling my oversized handbags with Ramen, cup-o-soup, and other crap that he will have to eat because he is UNEMPLOYED....and we have a $2400 rent with a lease that has both of our names.

$150 will get you decently drunk, especially when yuo go to a local small restaurant, and tell the waiter your problems and the wine glass becomes bottomless.

I didn't realize how botomless that glass was until I stood outside drunk standing in a parking spot in front of our apt building, holding it for his friend who drive in from LI to prevent John from jumping out the window. John and I sang, "We shall not, we shall not be moved." Over and over, until Lucy met us at the perfectly located spot.

Suffice to say, I am drunk as I type, wanting to sleep, since I spent the night at a boy's house.

Went into work 3 hours late because I couldnt drag myself from his bed...well, and because he lived all the way uptown and I was too cold with feet tired to walk to the subway with 4'' heels on, in my walk of shame wear that doubled as office clothing.

And yes he is British...

Some women go for black men.
Others go for Latinos.
I have a British fetish...At least it isn't necrophelia or anything.

But with studying for my stats final and working during Q4 in the ad world, my posts are going to be a little infrequent from here until the middle of next week or so. I need an A so I could get into Columbia...Plus there are too many Holiday parties for me to pass up the free booze...

But I fell asleep in a strange bed last night.
Tossed and turned because I cant sleep next to anyone unless I am bombed out of my mind (yes I know I need a therapist, but I am sure you do too).
Woke up to kisses on my forehead...
And a growing realization...

The beginning of something great then I succumb to laziness

I hear a loud ruckus come up the stairs. A mixture of banging feet, a booming voice with a LI accent, and keys jangling. It approaches my doorand before I hear the key turn, I know instinctively it’s my roommate. It's his walk, his voice, and the usual thud of heavy bags falling to the floor as he picks up his cell phone's ring.

"Hello!" as he walks through the door, as I sit on the couch, answering myspace messages from friends, old haunts from the past, and a few of the big black men with babies' mommas who seem to love this busty red-headed Jew.

Talking loudly into the phone, common of LI boys, he walks over, kisses me on my cheek, and glances over to what I am writing.

"I'm dating off the internet too!" he exclaims. "Who do you have dates with?!" It becomes a show and tell of prospective dates, both of us perusing the online resumes of our potential suitors.

"I don't know about this guy. He looks hot in one photo but then he looks busted in the others," I say, looking for another answer besides the one I know.

"If he looks hot in one pic and busted in the rest, you know that one picture was on his non-busted day, with a professional photographer, and lots of photoshop."

John has learned what I have learned about the frustration of internet dating, if it is too good to be true, like eBay, it's usually a fake.

We resume shopping for men like we shop for our shoes.

His profile filled with a facebook of men he's worn and mine of those I've disgarded in frustration.

___________________________________________________

Check this out:

However, reading an industry publication I stumbled upon this and not only is it fucking hysterical, but it also symbolizes the beginning of the end time.

My personal favorite:

Good Lord please bless these sinners as they eat their dinners.

Tyson Foods has decided to venture into prayer guides to help your family give thanks. Is this their response to Bird Flu? Is this really the best marketing strategy? Align a chicken company with divine intervention in face of the bird flu?

But this leaves me asking the question that all Christians are supposed to ask themselves when confronted with a moral dilema: WWJD? What would Jesus do? I don't think Jesus would be align his name with a Chicken company, especially in the face of bird flu.

In all seriousness, so the website asks you to submit your own 'giving thanks' for their upcoming sequel. But, will this corporation really support all faiths? Will they be inclusive of everyone?

Satan, I praise you! Thank you for giving me the rationale of Human-centric thinking. I await the end times for when you, oh Angel of Darkness, will show Christ your true wrath!

Or for the scientologists:
Thank you for the food we are about to eat. Please keep the alien dust that causes my family's pain away from us...through this good food, oh powerful universe, we praise thee and await our spaceship!

Sorry, told you I'm not funny right now....this week when I find energy I will fill you in on internet dating via myspace and CL, the weekend's events, and of course finish my apology. Please continue reading though. I don't know what I would do if I started to lose fans right now. You, my readers, are all I really have...well besides a hot shoe collection, a phat apt in the village, and an alcohol problem.



Oh and a friend of mine just launched her own site. It's a collection of reader submissions on a theme she picks each week. It's cool! Just don't pass that link onto your friends without passing mine along too...unless you work with me and stumbled upon this blog accidentally. Then just keep it our little secret...

I am an asshole stalker

This isn’t Part II of my apology to all MENkind, although it is linked to my thesis, so look at this as supporting evidence…instead I though that you would rather read about how I am the biggest asshole and stalker.

There are different feelings of inebriation, varying from the oh so common ‘my nervous system is so depressed that I am going to sit here in the corner and drool’ to ‘my inhibitions are lost and I have always wanted to hook up with a member of the same sex’ to my personal favorite ‘I keep on drinking, know I am getting drunk, but the booze is giving me energy so I don’t feel drunk. I am on top of the fucking world’. Nights like those come around once every few years, the leap year of your drinking bouts, my last one like that happened when I lived in New Orleans. Like all after school specials, there comes a pivotal point in the story where the protagonist has a choice, either do the right thing and live happily ever after or in my case, blow off every single responsibility and wallow in a drunken stupor.

As you know, I have been busting my ass at work, 10 hour days are routine, and the days I need to work 11 hours, I stopped batting an eye. So when we got back from our business trip early Wed afternoon, the account director gives us the afternoon off. I had 2 choices at this point: go back to the office, catch up on emails, catch up on reports, and use the extra time to study before class that night. Or, I could go home, call my friend who gets off work at 5pm and have her meet me at my apt so we could pre-game for this that I heard about on my blogging idol’s site. However, like all things, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I didn’t mean to start drinking at 4pm in the afternoon, I only wanted to prevent an anxiety attack, not give myself an even worse one the following morning.

Sitting on my couch, I pop open a Magic Hat #9 to quell my nuttiness, while watching a little Montel Williams. Excited that I am going to meet my blogging idol tonight at the Moustace parade. I am feeling good, less anxious, it gives me permission to pop open #2.

Buzzer sounds, I jump up and let Jess in, ready to begin the light pre-game for the 9pm ‘stache parade. But light pregaming is not to be. Instead Jess brings a bottle of Champagne which I drink about 90% of it.

“Hey Jess, I’m feeling bad about your champagne, let me go buy you a six pack”

Except, I love micro-brewed beers and Jess is more of a Coors light girl. Let’s think what kind of beer I buy though, with the judgment of light inebriation.

I get back to the apt and pop-open a few magic hats, with Jess slowly sipping hers. At the apt, I think I have about 3 or 4 more beers, waiting for her friend to arrive. Once her friend has arrived, I throw back like 2 more. And I should also mention, that I have not eaten all day…so there is nothing in my belly except for a 6 pack and a bottle of champagne.

We go to the ‘stache parade, all the while I am jumping, skipping, excited that I am going to meet the only thing besides IMing my friends that puts a smile on my face at work. I owe this man what’s left of my sanity…

We get to the parade and it is like 10 people standing on a corner holding signs saying ‘Moustache Pride’ and the like. I see my idol, hiding in a corner and being anti-social. “This can’t be” I think to myself. Why would he attach his name to something this lame?

However, in my inebriation, I am also experiencing illusions of grandeur and think that only I can turn this parade around. I take a sign from one of the girls and go on a 1 woman mission to vocialize the importance of the Moustache. A camera man who is filming all this sees a busty redhead running around Union Square and doesn’t lose sight of me, making an ass, chiming in with the group the slogans “Chicks dig the ‘stache” However, as time goes by, and I get even more drunk, I decide to be a little more vocal about my convictions, “Moustaches aren’t just for pedophiles anymore!” “Beards, not just to hide your sexuality” and the camera man is eating this up. Realizing that any self-respecting person in the vicinity is going to ignore a drunk nut, I begin to pick men with moustaches out one by one and grab them. Yes, I began to grab men with moustaches.

“You! I know you want to be on tv!! Come with me!” as I accost this big black man with a moustache.

[In front of the camera]

“So, tell me, why did you begin growing a moustache?”

Big black man answers

“Uh huh, and how has the moustache become part of your identity?”

Big black man answers…

This goes on for about 4 mins. The camera, rolling away. Fuck, if this movie does come out, I am going to be the asshole on camera that everyone just laughs at.

Jess, her friend, and I decide to leave after my interview stunt because, let’s face it, 10 people standing on a street corner is fucking lame. I do not say hello to my idol, too embarrassed and shy.

We grab food and I decide that it would be a good idea at this point to get a beer with my falafel sandwich. 7 beers and a bottle of champagne…as we are leaving the restaurant, I turn to my friends and say, “Could we pass by the bar where the rally is supposed to end? It’s just I really want to meet this guy. I mean, he is my blogging idol”

We go in front of the bar and right in front of me is him…my holy grail. And my god, everything he says about himself is absolutely true! There is no comedic hyperbole.

“Hi! I just want to say, that I am a huge fan of yours. You make my work day easier to get through. And I am fucking drunk right now.”

“Thank you.”

[wait, that’s it? Fuck this, he is going to have a conversation with me]

“Yea, so I was at the ‘stache parade, and I accosted some big black man and interviewed him on camera and [insert drunk babble] yea dude, it was fucking awesome! Yea, I am so fucked up right now.”

“Yea, sounds pretty great” as he makes a slight chuckle

“You want to grab a beer?! Dude, let me buy you a beer!”

“No, that’s ok, I am waiting for my friends”

“No seriously, a quick beer! (Like I need another one at this point)” However, I am getting the point and begin to not stalk him anymore, “Ok man, thanks, seriously, you are fucking funny!”

I am disappointed. My idol didn’t think I was funny. Granted, I was fucking bombed. I go inside the bar and have another beer with Jess and her friend, and then return to my apt. Depressed that my idol just didn’t like me…and he was so…disappointing. But, I do not take rejection lightly and decide to write him an email with my moustache parade picture, telling him that I hope I didn’t scare him because I was so drunk. After the email John came home and I had 2 more beers….before I went to bed I drank for 10 hours straight.

I woke up at 6am the next morning, searing chest pains, shaking, and scared out of my mind that I wrote my blog idol hate email. Because, when I get drunk, I have a nasty habit of taking my emotions and making them into extreme behaviors. 6am, shaking for the alcohol withdrawl, I am double checking, making sure I didn’t send him a “fuck you fatso!” email or anything else that I have done in the past when people pissed me off when I was drunk. I check and double check, making sure I didn’t send anything hateful…

So far its ok, however I am wondering whether he would write anything about the drunk girl who accosted him outside a bar in the village…

But by meeting my idol and getting disappointed, I realized that blogs for a lot of people are a type of outlet. A therapy of sorts, allowing them to construct this person who they have always wanted to be, allow themselves to showcase the good, the edited-bad, and the humorous ugly.

Being incredibly insecure, I ask my friends if my blog adequately represents who I am, and whether anyone would be disappointed with me…and the response?

“Shannon, you write the way you talk, you have done every stupid hair brained scheme that you said you have…you’re an asshole. Entertaining though.”

After this encounter, I have to say, it makes me question whether my behavior is appropriate. If people represent charactertures of themselves on these blogs, and I write exactly how I talk, how I act…am I just this character come to life? There is a disconnect that I experience with social acceptability.

And my wife comes to town. Old married men bar, parties, and the cadaver exhibit on the plate for the weekend….And she wanted to tell her professor that I had a drug OD so she could get out of her Chem test on Monday morning.