Memorial Day Weekend

I am so motherfuckingly exhausted. I’ve been tired ever since I woke up Saturday morning with a splitting headache, a remnant from Fri evening’s festivities that ended with me doling out lap dances in a gay club and showing off my stripper moves on Saturday morning at 4:30am. I didn’t care that I was writhing on the floor, spreading open my legs while wearing a short skirt.

Luckily I was wearing my cute pink underwear.

Taking these stripper classes is one of the worst ideas for an exhibitionist like me. Because, before I learned the ways of women on stage, I would just get blinded drunk, do the dumb white girl drunk dance—booty shakes as I simultaneously threw my hands up in the air. Nothing terribly hot, well unless you were the recipient of me “freaking” on your thigh. Now that I have a dance routine that I learned from my strip-ilates class, it’s like Artistic carte blanch. I am no longer just an attention whore validating my attractiveness, I am a performer!

Or so I think after five drinks.

It was a whirlwind of booze and non-cuddles, with me drinking far more than appropriate and sleeping with my wifey.

And of course my attempt at being a country bumpkin got thwarted when I scraped my toe on a tractor and I ran to the Emergency room to get a tetanus shot. But I was a brave little soldier.

Ok, off to bed for me. I am hungover, dehydrated, and exhausted from the weekend. And bloated. I don’t think I ate anything that wasn’t fried the entire weekend.

God I fucking love the south.

The end of lame posts week

I am trying to pack for my trip to Virginia but, being ADD what takes the average person like thirty minutes to pack takes me about three hours. Check my email, talk on the phone, try on outfits, put a pair of jeans into the bag and repeat the whole process all over again.

Off to VA to visit Lu and the rest of the C-ville gang. I even get to ride some ponies too!!

So, yea, this has been lame posting week. I know I suck.

Highlight of the day: I get to hand in my letter of resignation! SCORE!

Celebration defined

Why is it that we "celebrate" by destroying our bodies?

Six glasses of wine and a meal at the bottom of my toilet, I still woke up with alcohol shakes. For such an expensive meal, too bad I only rented it.

I seriously need to stop drinking like this. Too bad I have an invite to another party to "celebrate" again.

The end is the beginning is the end

All is well that ends well. Or so the line goes.

I guess this is the part of the story where I appropriate Ann Frank and tell you that "despite everything I still believe that..."” Well in my case, the lesson learned is that everything works out for the best. And by the way, yes, my cynical mind still believes that people are truly good at heart.

And although I pride myself on being original and inventive, this time it seems that only a cliche is appropriate. Especially in situations like this.

I guess everyone all saw this coming except for me. What better ending to the saga of the quarter-life crisis transcribed onto paper than the author, once again, landing on her feet. Despite her antics, and what seems like, lessons ignored.

I got into grad school.

And not just any grad school. I am off to Oxford, baby.

But my mother summed it up the best:

"“I have a daughter graduating from college tomorrow, my son is graduating the police academy next month, and my daughter just got into Oxford. I guess I did well as a parent."

I don'’t know what I am more proud of at this moment, the fact that my hard work and tenacity paid off or the pride that it is bringing to my parents-- their moment to see that they really didn't fuck up, their validation that they did a great job raising all four of us. Despite everything.

So, I beg your pardon, but in lieu of a proper blog post tonight, I am going to bed, riding out my buzz and nursing my cold, celebrating that I got into grad school.

And quitting my job in the next six weeks-- —so that I can write my book treatment.

Morning After Etiquette

This past weekend’s focus group of my random sample of friends: “Morning After Etiquette”

We have all done the deed, having brought home a boy/gal or having been the invitee ourselves for a night of fun but unfortunately not many of you boys know how to end the night. Below are the rules that Emily Post would have written if she wasn’t constrained by society:

1. Do not rummage through my shit when I am still asleep
You know the question that is meant to be an ice-breaker at “get to know you” functions that asks “what are the five things that you would save if your apt caught on fire?” My response: my passport (it’s 70% filled with stamps), my thoughts notebook, and my laptop. Let the rest of the shit burn because it is all replaceable. My laptop gets saved from the inferno because it really has become an extension of myself. It has my writing, my grad apps, phone numbers, and my PORN.

Imagine my surprise when I wake up from my slumber, stumble out of my bed and find a boy rifling through my shit on my computer. Talk about the other shoe dropping, how do you explain to someone who you know for less than twelve hours why you have a variety of porn sites bookmarked under “favorites”? Especially since some of them are a little on the…shall we say interesting side?

2. Take my phone number/Ask when we are going to hang out next
We both know we do not want to see each other again. It’s polite to tell me to have a good day, it’s a boldface lie to imply that you are going to call me.

3. Take the hint/Pretend you have plans for the day
Don’t make it awkward for both of us. If I wake up, and I am shaking from alcohol withdrawal and make-up is smeared all over my pillowcase, it means that I brought you home in a fit of inebriation. Let us both save face. I don’t want to see the mistake I brought home and I am sure that you don’t want me to look over at you and ask you to leave.

4. Do not think that it is the beginning of a relationship
If I wanted a relationship from you, I would not have brought you home. Sure it sounds counter-intuitive, I mean if I was a guy and a girl was inviting me home I would think that she was smitten. WRONG. Why did I bring the teacher back to my apt during date #1? I knew I would never get into a relationship with him. If I like a boy, I pretend to be a “nice girl”, the type who he could see himself bringing home to mommy. Too bad no boy has ever taken me up on my offer to play that role.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

In other news, I am fucking sick, hence the shitty quick post. I sound like Selma from the Simpsons, my voice is scratchy and my throat feels like razor blades are cutting into me each time I swallow my own spittle. Too bad this is going to be a hell week at work.

And I still have not heard from Oxford. I think the letters went out on May 19.

Oh yea, new place for me to try to meet a nice Jewish boy: temple! Driving past a synagogue on the Upper East Side Saturday afternoon, I have never seen so many hot hot Jewish boys. Finding religion in my quest to get laid.

I am so fucking pathetic right now. Shitty blog post, long work week ahead, find out from Oxford, and my throat feels like it is imploding. No really, I think I may have to see the doctor.

London II

I don’t know if it is a symptom of “growing up” because, let’s be real, the days start to bleed into one another with so many repetitive movements; or if the karmic theme of this life is irony, but it seems that my life is running parallel with itself. I keep making the same choices and similar lapses in judgment. I’m not sure if I do this out of stubbornness: my refusal to acknowledge that a person could really live a life in a constant state of repetition, or if it’s disbelief that this is really my life.

Whenever I get into London, it’s a tradition that Corinne rounds up whoever she can and we spend the day in a café in South Kensington so I don’t fall asleep and destroy my sleep pattern for the duration of the trip. According to tradition I blow my entire budget for the trip on crappy “champagne”, aka sparkling white wine in this ghetto case, smoke about a pack of ciggs and make a complete spectacle with (loud) conversations about masturbation, my flings via internet dating, and my hairy (or hairless) pussy and what lengths I (don’t) go through to keep it in tip top form. *Claim to Shannon Fame*, last year I even got banned from a club for making such a drunken spectacle, complete with breaking champagne glasses everywhere.

This year followed tradition. The champers was flowing, my friends in London were gathered around listening to me talk about my fucked up life in NYC and rehash the blog that they only read when they are procrastinating from work and school. As I am in mid sentence, describing the writer who I “hung out” with during the winter, Corinne leans in and whispers that the kids at the next table are talking shit about us in French.

Now, normally I don’t give a shit because, yea, I am loud and obnoxious when I am with my friends. And the way I look at it, everyone is entitled to their own opinion. However, my only caveat, do NOT group my obnoxious behavior with me being a stereotypical American. I am the furthest thing from stereotypical anything (well, except Long Island Girl) and I get very angry when I am compared with people from Kansas. No offense to those living in Kansas, but come on, I bet you knew how to fire a gun before you hit puberty.

I retaliate. They think my cosmopolitan ass is in the same category as a stereotypical “American”? I love living up to expectations, especially ones based upon a fucked up pretense.

In the most Gawd awful hick accent that you could imagine, think a cross between Alabama and Oklahoma, I belt out on the top of my lungs, “Hi! This is my first time ever out of the country! This is such a Bee-u-ti-ful place! Could you please snap a picture of me and my friends! I want to remember this moment for-ever!” As I gaze at them with wild eyes and a freakishly large smile.

The French speakers stop their conversation. My friends look at me in shock but trying to hide their smirks, because they had no idea that this was coming.

One of the French kids, in perfect American English agrees to take the picture.

I am unsatisfied. He failed to get me at a flattering angle.

“Oh, I am so sorry but I look ugly in this picture. Here take it again!”

And I make him take the picture again.

He starts to talk to us in his American English and he tells us how he is really from Kentucky and is also half French. Now, let me introduce my friend called irony. The London Fag was a lot like this kid. Half French, Half English speaking country, dark hair, overweight, trying very hard to impress. I am in the exact same neighborhood that I was last year when I met him, doing the exact same thing at the exact same time, almost exactly one year to the day.

As the kid starts to talk about Kentucky, I drop the charade and pick up my drunken LI accent, “Listen, if you are from fucking Kentucky, then I am really from Kansas. Seriously, cut the bullshit. What are you an NYU kid studying aboard?”

I tell him that I am visiting friends and taking a vacation from my hectic life in New York. He tells me that his parents have a horse farm out in Kentucky, trying to impress. I shamelessly name drop that I was at the Breeders Cup watching it from the Turf and Field Club. Note to the lame, don’t try to impress me because I have done cooler shit than you and if needed, I can pull cool factor rank and make you feel like an insecure ass.

And of course, the next question is what I do for a living. I mean, it’s how we can size each other up within a sentence. Whatever I utter I know will imply a personality, a social class, an education, and possibly even familial ties.

It’s at this moment that I know I am on vacation because it is in this space that I am able to live out my fantasy. The fantasy of no work, free time and oodles of money to spend on awful “champagne” at an over-priced outdoor café. I hesitate answering his question.

The truth is, even when I am not vacationing from my reality, when I tell people that I work at The Agency as an Agency Professional, I feel like I am lying. That job title doesn’t conjure the images that I want to be associated with.

I smile at him, look him in the eye and say, “Oh, I’m a writer in NYC.” I begin to blush, “Actually, I am considered somewhat of a minor celebrity over there.”

His friends’ ears perk up. And they ask me what I write.

“Oh, I write for the Village Voice about sex and relationships.” Not missing a beat of the conversation.

It is at that moment that I realize that it could be construed that I am trying to pass myself off as Rachel Kramer Bussel, the Village Voice columnist. I was wearing the black librarian glasses, my dark hair was blow dried straight. Our similar appearance as well as a shared love of writing about sex is a sheer coincidence. I want to be a celebrity in my on right, not capitalize on someone else’s fame.

But I have to admit, it felt so natural for me to allude to myself as a minor celebrity. Granted, the eight glasses of sparkling white wine was a great lubricant for any shame that I could have felt for lying, but it felt more real for me to say that I was a writer than for me to admit that I worked at The Agency. I felt good saying it.

After I mentioned my minor celebrity, the guy who I had been talking to, pulled out a wad of paper and handed me his phone number.

“You know,” he said, acting all important, metaphorical peacock feathers sprouting from his large ass, “I am a member at this member’s only club and I would like you to be my guest.”

FUCK YEA! I think to myself. Not even in London for five hours, and I am invited to a member’s only club because I am so fucking cool and fabulous and lie so well!

“Oh, which one is it?” I'm hoping for an invite to Anabel's, Hospital, SoHo House.

“I’m a member at Coriander.”

My face froze. “Coriander?” I asked in disbelief.

Corinne, interjects, “Oh, actually our friend is a member there too.”

This half French, overweight, pompous, show-off is part of the same club as the London Fag! I got invited to the same club that the London Fag was a part of…

WHAT ARE THE FUCKING ODDS!?!?

And I would be lying to say that I wasn’t planning on going: creating a ruckus, and leave my mark complete with broken glasses and a lifetime ban, but alcoholism and my age got in the way. I fell asleep right after our late lunch and didn’t wake up until 2am, when the club was closing.

But I do wonder what would have happened if I would have gone.

And I remember, although there are coincidences, there are major differences between those two points in my life.

I just hope that this version has a better ending.

You know it's bad...

When I have to use the same joke consecutively...sorry. You guys come to my site to make yourselves feel better. Not to read the same joke over and over...Like a Bob Hope wannabe on a Cruise Ship for senior citizen's. Early bird special included!

Nothing you do could be as bad as the train wreck that is my life. And that is my responsibility to the readership to keep you entertained with shit that you would never do yourself. All five of you, readers!

Last night I sat down to write Part II of my London saga and *poof*, I had the worst case of writers block. Granted it was food coma induced but still-- it's never been that much of a problem for me before. So I sat in bed with my teddy bear Harry III (Harry I I left in Bangladesh with some children, Harry II is at my parent's house and Harry III is in my bed at my apt) and watched the Simpsons, read some of my book, and fell asleep before midnight.

It's something that I have noticed about my own writing process, I need to be close to an event in order to truly capture it's essence. Very unlike Hemingway, in "A Movable Feast" he describes his writing process and explains how he needs to be far away from an event in order to capture it. I am completely the opposite. I need to be in the moment and write my feelings without time acting as a mediator. You know our memories are really just an interpretation of events through our own subjectivity, right?

My London story I was too far away from the event. My memories and the constant rehashing have tarnished my ability to tell the story in writing. I'm going to try, but I am warning you, it may not be as funny as the irony should lend itself to be in this case.

Anyway, my respite is over. I needed to think outloud after being on the phone negotiating rates all day.

After work run and drinking myself silly. Well, if I am not too tired to go out.

Only in NYC...

Stealing a line from one of my readers, "Evidently only in NYC can bears and monkeys co-exist peacefully." Great line, btw.

But in all seriousness, when I posted yesterday morning I had no idea that the bear ate the monkey...in Amsterdam out of all places! Maybe the authorities should think of extending the red light district perhaps?!

Been hella busy and exhausted the last few days. You know when Vegas was good that you need four days to recover. My stri-pilates class came in very handy.

NYC Scares Children Again

Going out for my afternoon run, and I was creeped out by one one of the most disturbing pieces of Art that I have seen-- ever. And it is right here in our backyard in Battery Park City.

Granted I don't have a degree in Art History, however, could someone please explain this sculpture to me?

Is there significance of a dancing bear and monkey that I should understand? Is this inter-species romance symbolic of something?

My trip to London Part I

In the world of frequent fliers I am at that weird in between status. I travel more often than the average American, at least once a month domestic and on average three times a year to Europe. However, I don’t travel nearly as much as the management consultants of the world with their weekly transcontinental flights. When it comes to upgrades, I am at the end of a very long list of people who are far more deserving- even if I think that my cool demeanor should be rewarded with a seat in business class. Hence, when I went over to London on British Airways I was not surprised to find the smiles and the lies that my mother is a travel agent were in vain. I was seated in the middle of the cattle car, in that dreaded middle seat. And being how my life is all about irony, of course it was next to a girl who has been able to make her transatlantic relationship evolve into marriage.

Probably helped that her fiancé was heterosexual, unlike my tryst with the repressed London fag.

After consuming three vodka tonics, and listening with envy how this girl met her husband and the details of her English countryside wedding, an idea hit me.

What would happen if I would start to wear maternity clothes when I checked in for my flights? Tell the woman who is checking me in that my ankles are especially swollen that day and that I am meeting my boyfriend who is on a business trip over there. Un-wed mother with swollen ankles, how could anyone pass that up and not let me into business class? That would tug at the heart strings of any person, even those jaded counter chicks. And the sad truth is that my breasts are so big, that if I would wear an empire waisted shirt I would look like a woman expecting. Fourth month maximum, there is no way I could ever cop the eight month look without the aid of a pillow stuffed under my shirt, then my trick just becomes ridiculous instead of brilliant.

The only problem with that trick is that I would not be able to drink on the airplane. That would be fucked up, telling the counter girl how I am pregnant then getting loaded on the flight.

Anyway, back to the story.

I don’t know if I luck out and tend to sit next to nice people or if the average person is actually a lot kinder than what we give ourselves credit for, but when I started crying and praying very loudly because of very bad turbulence over the Atlantic, the girl seated next to me held my hand as we waited for the alcohol to take effect. But all in all, I was quite proud of myself, I only cried once and prayed to both Jesus and my Jewish God twice. My prayer time ending when vodka tonic number three hit my bloodstream and the turbulence became a fun roller coaster ride instead of the indication of impending death that I originally thought it was.

Oh and as an FYI, a travel trick that I picked up during my numerous international flights, try to fly the country’s carrier instead of an American one. Usually it’s filled with nationals going back to their home country, and you have a much shorter immigration line. Although, with a shorter immigration line, the customs officials can take a deeper interest in your trip.

Whenever I go through immigration, I always put on my smile, make sure I am wearing my Gucci loafers, and am wearing my college sweatshirt. I try to go for a look that exudes “mommy and daddy are my best friends but I have a lovely paying job back in the US so I will not be settling illegally in your country”. And traditionally it works. I always get asked the requisite two questions, “How long will you be here?” and “Why are you here?” and then the nice man smiles at my lovely middle class response, stamps my passport and then I am allowed to move onto more important matters such as flashing Gloucester rd. after twelve hours of drinking.

However, I don’t know if it was the extra short line that allowed this immigration asshole to practically Spanish Inquisition my ass or if he was alarmed at my bloodshot eyes, but he took an interest to my trip into the country.

“How long are you here for?” He asked.

“I leave Tues night.”

“Uh huh. Can I see your return flight please?”

I hand him the print out of my flight itinerary. He studies it. Despite my numerous entrances into the UK, this is the first time I am ever asked for proof when I am leaving.

“What is your business here?”

“I am visiting grad schools and my friends who are over here.” I respond with a smile.

“Four days is a very short trip.”

I look back at him, my smile quickly leaving my face and is replaced instead with the look of annoyance.

“Why are you only here for four days? Your ticket cost quite a bit,” he asks.

“As I previously said, I am visiting grad school and my friends.” Ignoring the fact that he is commenting how I spend my money.

First of all, the dude should not be counting my money. Secondly, I am not going to tell the guy how I decided to show up to Oxford to chat to a professor about his research in the hopes that it will help my application to their program. Being so superstitious, I thought that my admission would jinx the professor’s ability to keep the appointment. I told you, I am fucking neurotic.

“But your trip is very short.”

And you know, I understand that customs officials have to do their jobs. However, when it is obvious that I am an employed, that I am just in the country for a few days to visit grad school and friends, and that there are no indications that I could be a terrorist/drug dealer, I don’t understand the fucking point of this quasi-interrogation. Nor what he could hope to be getting from me. So, in a fit of frustration, I put on my smile and bitchy tone of voice.

“I know four days is a short time, however this is the only amount of time that I can take off from my job,” I say. “Do you know how much vacation time I get? Two weeks.”

He jumps in, “That is such a miserable life.”

“Well, you do what you have to do. It goes with living in NYC.”

There, I proved my point, I think to myself. I work damn hard for 49 weeks out of the year, and I do have a sense of entitlement. Don’t fuck with me when I am just trying to get out of the offices for one of those one week respites of freedom.

He looks stunned and stamps my passport, giving me a half-hearted welcome.

And I am off to collect my bag, and continue the tradition of boozey lunches and meeting over-indulgent half French show-offs in London. Invite to a members only club included.

Vegas

Brain fried.

Just got back in from Vegas.

Mommy is tending to me and making me feel better.

I love my mommy.

Diary of a binge drinker

I knew there was a reason why I stopped going into work hungover. There is no glamour running back and forth to the toilet, wishing that you didn't take that final shot of Tequila. Empty Gatorade bottles and left over bagel egg and cheese wrapping are strewn about my desk. And of course, that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Blinding headache, stomach in flip flops and I am trying to pace my bathroom visits this morning as not to arouse suspicion of last night's antics. That also included giving a birthday boy a lap dance, using my skills that I gained from my strip-ilates class. BTW, I am a hellauva lap dancer. My ass was made for grinding...well, you know.

But seriously, I want to crawl underneath my desk and nap. Or join AA. Which ever seems the least likely.

Trajectory of an evening binge drinking:

7pm: Eat sushi with old college friend. Polish off three large sakes.

8:30pm: After dropping $$ on dinner, we decide to be frugal and walk over to Astor Wine and Spririts and pick up a bottle of Nicholas Feuillatte champagne. $21.99 for a bottle. Great fucking deal. Seriously.

9:30: Finish bottle of champagne and get in touch with the birthday boy (who was cute, British, and had a posh accent) to see where they are partying for the evening. Birthday boy was my friend's friend. No, there are no new men in my life.

10:00pm: Meet at Bull McCabe's on St. Marks. Proceed to pound a SoCo and coke and a Jagger shot. One after the other.

11:30pm: After telling the girls about how great my strip-ilates class is, and how I am awesome on the pole, we are off to find a bar so I can give a demo.

11:45pm: Realizing that we will not get to the bar with a pole in time to usher in Birthday Boy's birthday at midnight,we end up at Bua. Have a SoCo and sprite. Much more light and refreshing than the SoCo and Coke counterpart.

12:45: Have another SoCo and Sprite. And these are long pours too!

1:00am: Give Birthday Boy a lapdance in the middle of the bar. Fling hair and rub my boobs in his face.

1:30am: Realize that it is my turn to by the next round, and instead decide to do a shot of tequila! Of course it's Patron.

2am: Stumble out of bar.

2:30am: Stumble into my bed with my friend in tow.

9:30am: Stumble into work with my friend in tow.

9:45am: Give friend hug and kiss, and convince her that I will make it through the day.
I don't even want to know how much alcohol I consumed. I am fighting back the bile that is rising in my throat just thinking about it.

The funny thing about binge drinking is that nobody ever plans to get royally fucked up. Well, ok, occasionally I do, but those nights end up disastrous and usually I end up either crying in a bathroom, making out with an ugly dude, or asleep by 10pm because I am getting OLD.
However, like a good binge drinking night, yesterday was completely accidental. Hence, I had fun. Especially dressed up as an Upper West Side intellectual, complete with Gucci loafers, AG Jeans, blazer, and my librarian glasses.

I want to write more but, let's be real, I can barely perform the functions of my job at the moment, nevermind write a funny and insightful blog post. Excuse me as I run to the bathroom for the fourth time this morning.

VD and Other Well Wishes

I think the heavens are trying to teach me a lesson about putting negative energy into the world.

You know that feeling where someone has caused you so much suffering, that the only recourse that you are left with is to leave it up to fate and wish them a similar emotional crisis to be bestowed upon them? We have all felt like that at one point in our lives. Perhaps it’s the Jewish guilt, or the belief that whatever energy I put into the world Karma rewards me thrice over, but I cannot wish evil on even my worst enemy. I am left, hurt, sad, but in the end “forgiving” because I am petrified what fate has in store if I wish ill onto anyone in the name of “revenge”.

But, this past year has been really hard for me. Heartbreak, rejection from grad school, friends yelling at me in the name of an “intervention”, a shitty work situation—it’s been a lot for my little over-emotional heart to handle. Maybe I sound a bit bitter but there is a part of me that wishes for fate to step in and even the score for me.

Assholes 1 - Shannon 2

But being the *secretly* incredibly nice person, I can’t wish actual bodily harm like cancer or a terrible car wreck onto anyone. That would be incredibly fucked up. But besides that being incredibly fucked up, I am fearful that Karma would bite me in the ass and give me that cancer or a terrible car wreck. So in the last few months I’ve developed a coping mechanism that I feel ok invoking in the name of Karma.

If someone fucks me over, I wish venereal disease on them. And not even the serious shit that could kill someone like AIDS or cause cancer like HPV but the simple shit that could be cured with some penicillin. Just Chlamydia, Syphilis, Gonorrhea—anything that would make their piss burn for a few days and cause embarrassment when they have to discuss their symptoms with their doctor.

I thought that this was fool proof, especially since it has been a very very very (and I do mean very) long time since I’ve had sex. However, once again fate proves to me that it has a sick sense of humor.

A few weeks ago my waxer went a bit overboard with my usual Brazillian bikini wax. Instead of leaving the “landing strip”, she took it all off and left me looking like a ten year old girl down there. My skin is incredibly sensitive, especially that area. Combine that I got my Brazillian the night before leaving for London, and while traveling I get lazy with the effort that goes into protecting against ingrown hairs, and you have that my vag right now looks like it is a battlefield. Ingrown hairs all over, scabs that resulted from picking and exfoliating the offending hairs out, and some ingrowns as I am letting nature take it’s course with the really bad ones. My vagina has experienced trauma.

When I came back, the teacher came over to visit me as I dogsat on the Upper West Side. He was in the area and decided to pop on over and help me polish off a bottle of champagne. Of course, this led to a make out. His hand ventures south. I stop him and explain, “Listen, my waxer fucked up and I have an incredible amount of ingrown hairs. It just isn’t pretty” Of course he waves my protests off, assuming that I am being neurotic. However, STD screening training has taught me that often people mistake Herpe sores for ingrown hairs and other benign bumps. I mean, if I see some weird bump on a vag or penis I plan to run and wash my hands in scalding hot water with bleach and anti-bacterial soap. But he took my word, or so it seems.

We have a hot steamy make out, but no sex because I wouldn’t feel right having sex in my friend’s house. I thought everything went well, we even fell asleep on the couch together. But he hasn’t called back since meeting up last week!

Does he think that I am a skank who hooked up with him who pretended to not have the Herp? Has my wishes of VD caught up with me in the name of bad wax jobs and sensitive skin?! Karma, is that you playing tricks with my vagina?

Or, what most likely happened, he doesn’t want to date a pretentious know it all who trampled him during a debate. I mean, I did warn him that I studied social theory in college.

This is just getting frustrating. Why can’t I ever make it past the second date with someone? Or maybe I should be asking myself, why the hell do I ever let them take it past the first?

New Domain

www.drunkandsinglenyc.com

Same site but easier domain name.

It's easier for you to pass this on to your friends.

Seriously, please. I mean, look at www.helpwinthisbet.com , you guys could do that for me! And I entertain you with my fucked up life.

Remember, the more people I have reading, the more inspiration I will have to write because I won't want to disappoint my fans.

Time Warner and my Weekend

It’s the story of my life, whenever I finally make the commitment to do something (aka write about my trip to London), the heavens fall and there is an issue. Either time, money, or this time it’s my cable provider Time Warner. Evidently my neighborhood in the village is having massive issues with our cable service. I spent the first half of the weekend without tv-- which was a blessing, by the way, I actually read, granted it was a bootleg copy of “How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild and Got a Life, but I fucking read-- and of course I am still without internet. 56 Hours later.

I’ve left several nasty messages with customer service telling them that I am a very very very minor celebrity in the blogosphere and that I need the internet to post to my growing fan base. They really didn’t seem to care. Although, using my negotiation skills I am going to try to scam a free month of HBO, I hear Entourage is fucking hysterical.

My behavior this past weekend has left me with an important realization. I am getting old. Friday night I went to a benefit for the over-priced celebrity parent school where my friend worked. It was supposed to serve a dual purpose: networking with some of these celeb parents and pre-gaming for the big quasi-rave thrown by these guys. Well, four Sangrias later, no interaction with any celebrity parents except when a screenwriter asked me as she was in the middle chatting to my friend about her son, “Do you work with children?” and I responded, “I don’t have the patience.” She turned her head and pretended that I did not exist. Is my big break going to involve me having to discuss children and how they play with the blocks?

Stumbling home in my heels, as soon as I found my bed I did not leave until Saturday afternoon. “Napping” through the quasi-rave, and my friends’ messages how it was “awesome!” and that “it’s a fucking E orgy!”

I am getting old. A few weeks ago I even declined hanging out with the Roots when they were in town because I was so fucking exhausted and I had to work the next day.

However, although my body is getting old, it seems that my sense of humor leaves me acting like a pubescent boy. Late Saturday night, drunk and in some dark hole in the wall playing pool and drinking after a wannabe frat party in Hoboken, I spot my entertainment for the evening.

“Hey, Seth, see that couple over there? I bet you any amount of money that it is their first date.”

“How could you tell?”

“Easily, look at their body language. The girl is being flirty but not obviously invading his space. And he looks like a puppy in heat.”

“No way, could you fucking tell.”

“I am serious, it’s a gift I have. I can read body language. Let’s place a bet. I am so confident that I bet you a beer that I am right.”

“How are you going to tell?”

“Walk right up to them.”

“No way!”

“Watch me.”

And I proceed to walk up to this couple.

“Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you but my friend and I have a bet going on.”

Blank stare on their part.

“How long have you been going out?”

She responds, “We just met an hour and a half ago.”

Smiling, “Thank you! I just won a beer. I bet my friend that it’s your first date.”

“How did you know?” She asked incredulously.

“Well, it’s your body language. You are trying to flirt but you aren’t allowing completely him into your personal space. He is being reactive to your gestures, trying to send you the signal that he is interested.”

I continue, “Thanks so much for the beer. I hope it all works out for you guys.”

When I return, my friend and I check out the couple. And of course they are totally awkward, now understanding how non-verbal body language reveals far more than what we communicate with our words.

As the couple gets ready to leave, I am left standing next to them because it is my shot on the pool table.

I turn around and lean in on the guy, “Hey dude, remember, wrap it up.”

And then I take my pool shot as the couple giggles nervously.

I destroyed a date and ended my night in a diner with two guys.

Who says life is fair?

And in happier news, I got a Hepa filter and now my bedroom is an allergy free zone. I slept like a baby last night. Allergy sufferers, I swear to you, the filter is worth the $200. Being able to breathe is priceless. Especially when you react badly to all allergy medications as they all put you to sleep.

Just call me a Hurry Date reject

It appeared that my fate was already sealed that evening, even before I sat down to meet prospective boyfriend #1, when I had a brief encounter with irony. Before the Hurry Date you have a chance to mingle with the other daters and have a few drinks. The quiet before the storm where you can test the waters and pursue the initial instincts of chemistry. A boy catches my eye. Not because I am overwhelmed by that feeling of attraction but because he looked incredibly familiar and I can't quite place why. I continue to stare, trying to figure out who he is. He now notices me staring, and takes my open disregard for being polite as an invitation to walk over.

As he comes closer, I think to myself that I know that I have seen his face before. He opens the conversation to introduce himself, and his accent sounds a bit bizarre. Not quite British but also not quite American.

“That is an interesting accent. It doesn’t sound like you grew up in New Jersey, where is it from?”

“Oh, my father is British. I grew up on both sides of the Atlantic.”

Of course, British. I mean, do I have a homing device for these fuckers to find me?

“My father is a pretty well known guy over there, similar to John Cleese.”

And of course this half Brit is riding on daddy’s accomplishments.

“Well, what do you do now?” I ask, trying to gather more clues see if I could figure out how I know him.

“Oh well, I am a teacher. I love working with children, they really are the light to our future” Or whatever cliché shit he said.

That is fucking original in this crowd, I think to myself. It seems like the first three guys who I spoke to during the pre-date mingling were teachers. And I would later learn those three guys who made up my impromptu sample were indicative of the overall population of the Hurry Date males.

Mid cynical thought, and then it hits me. Teacher. Half-Brit. The face. HOLY FUCKER…

This is the freak who I have seen posting on every single personal ad out there. He is on Match.com, Yahoo! personals, and posts incessantly on Craigslist—sometimes even daily for weeks on end. His picture was one of those great over the shoulder shots, where the heavens are aligned, the Gods are smiling, and he will never look like that ever again, accept on film for that spilt second in time. Which explained why I did not recognize him. He looked nothing like the confident guy who he presented in his ad. Awe, I guess he really wants a girlfriend!

And I learn why, who I originally thought seemed like an amazing catch, posted all the time. He had no social skills. Interrupting me, with nothing interesting to talk about, and he dropped the conversation like six times over the course of a very painful ten minute conversation. My empty drink provided the perfect polite out to get rid of him.

I mean as if I couldn’t fall any further into the depths of depravity between the forays with Craigslist personals, match.com, and dancing on bars to woo a male’s attention, I tried Hurry Date and come face to face with another loser from CL. At least this time I didn’t have to sit through a drink and then bore him to tears with stories of terrible exes to give him the hint that I am not interested.

A spin off of Speed Dating, it’s like the high school cafeteria meets your Jewish mother’s dream of fifteen eligible heterosexual male bachelors-- except most of them weren’t Jewish and only one out of the fifteen worked as an I-banker. You have a 5 minute “date” with each of these fine bachelors and twenty-four hours later you log into the system and see which ones liked you back. Three weeks later, I am still waiting to hear if anyone who I clicked yes to liked me back.

I guess I made quite the impression, especially after three very strong Grey Goose and tonics. To add insult to my already fragile ego, not only does the computer notify you of your matches, but it also tells you the ones who liked you that you did not like in return. So, although I got the ego boost because I saw the sad saps who liked me but that I wanted nothing to do with, it also goes both ways. I am that loser appearing in a few guys’ inboxes under “People who liked you!” and giving those guys ego boosts right back.

If only the computer knew my track record in NYC, I never knowingly show my cards and tell someone I like them. I am old ‘skool, elementary school to be exact. If I like you, I throw my house keys at you and tell you to wait for me at my apartment as I continue to party with my friends. I suffer from second grade syndrome, if I like a guy I call him names and treat him mean until he buys me a drink. Sadly, it works like a charm in this city. Well except for the guy who I told to wait at my apartment so I could continue to party with my friends. But that is another post for a different day.

As with most events in my life, there seems to be a common theme, especially when alcohol is involved. When I got my list of guys who clicked that they liked me, I met them all before Grey Goose #2 was finished. I guess this is because by Grey Goose #3 I was sitting back in my seat, slurring my words, and answering the ever so popular question, “So what do you like to do for fun?” with such honest responses as, “I blog.” “I do stand-up comedy on dating and relationships.” “I go out to bars and drink. I love a nice scotch!” To which these guys acted like they never saw the inside of a bar before that night at Hurry Date.

Funnily enough, there is a very strong truth in its advertising. When you like someone, the five minutes is never enough and when you have nothing in common, those five minutes are like going to the dentist’s office, excruciatingly painful. The Harvard Economist and I had a lovely chat about my application to Oxford (an no he did not like me back) and the time was up before he told me about his work. Later in the evening I met a phys ed teacher who looked like he saw the hard side of life but boasted how his job combined his two loves children and physical fitness.

When he mentioned his love for his job, I had a glimpse into the slot that Satan has reserved for me—a marriage with a phys ed teacher who loves his job because it combines his two loves: physical fitness and children. I mean, let’s be real. The closest thing I come to loving children is wanting them so they can act as my get out of jail (aka work) free card. And my definition of physical fitness involves dancing on bars at three am and purging when I have alcohol poisoning. Snorting white powder off of a toilet seat optional for the evening’s events. Within the first thirty seconds of the dating interview we knew that we were not compatible.

These five minute mini-interviews are supposed to offer a glimpse into future compatibility and possible soulmate-ness of the person seated across. You put on your game face and answer the same two questions for all fifteen prospective dates: “What do you do for a living?” and “What do you do for fun?” You each take turns giving mini-bios but in the end, no matter their accomplishments, it really doesn’t matter. It all comes down to that thirty second look up and down. The personality is icing on the cake, confirming what you already knew from the initial meeting. Is there chemistry for a potentially hot romp in bed?

While most of the guys weren’t good looking nor Jewish (it was during Passover) the women were smokin’. To be perfectly honest, I was in the fifty-percentile of hotness, there were several women much more attractive than me who were also a hellauva lot more open minded. They thought that it was cute that most of the guys were teachers and the woman sitting next to me reminded me why I am perpetually single. She was breathtakingly beautiful, not model gorgeous that would intimidate but that smiley wholesome girl next door look. Throughout the night I kept glancing at her card, curious to see who she found attractive. Wondering if I had been too liberal with my five yeses. I saw that she checked off most of the guys, including the ones who I refused to give the time of day, a chance to meet after the Hurry Date. How the hell could I, the cynical drunk girl compete with the sweet wholesome girl next door who believed in giving most of the guys who she met chances?

But that is the beauty of Hurry Date. Those committed to the cause will check off all that they can and try to pursue all the possibilities of compatibility. Thoughtful, reasonable expectations of what the evening is supposed to bring: a dinner with some good conversation at a later date.

My Hurry Date experience cemented what I already know about myself. Why it is perfect for someone like me who can tell a lot about a person in the first five minutes but also how I could spend thousands of dollars until I find someone who I will entertain the thought of going out for a dinner with. I am not a rational person, especially with affairs of the heart. I am passionate and I need to feel that cataclysmal crash of emotion. I crave that feeling of being so in love that you feel owned by your emotions. That space where rational thought ceases to exist, where all that matters is how you feel when you are with that person.

I, readers, contrary to what I say, am a die hard romantic.

However, until I encounter that feeling again, I am trying to keep a more open mind. This is especially helpful now that the summer is here and I am on the prowl. Despite Hurry Date introducing me to thirteen teachers and all of the guys who I liked didn’t like me back, it was worth it just to meet the dude from Craigslist. Because, of course I am sure that once of these days I would have emailed him on a boring Sunday night.

So, seeing how there was an inverse relationship to my Hurry Date luck with the amount of alcohol consumed, I am actually curious to give it another try. This time sober, with my friend Rachel, and I’ll wear tight jeans, heels, and a sweater that showcases my large boobies. Let’s see how I would do then.

I refuse to be a Hurry Date reject.

My asshole ex-Roomate

John has finally moved out and took his furniture with him. He found a nice 22 yr old Australlian girl on craigslist to take his place.


Now, I know some of my readers are not from NYC, but, I want to hear your feedback anyway. I think my readers in Kansas have more streetsmarts than he does.

John gives the girl the keys on Sunday and then tells the girl that it is ok to give him the rent money and deposit on Wednesday. She can live for three days in the apt without anything holding her financially accountable to the place. I spent 45 mins on the phone with him explaining why this is such a terrible idea. He didn't get it.

In theory, there is nothing stopping her from coming in and taking my stove, the fridge, my LAPTOP AND TV, my shoes and handbags (one bag costs over $700+ alone). I can be cleaned out. I could lose everything to this 22 yr old hippie. They hate capitalist pigs like me!

And of course, as she has the keys and we do not have her deposit, we cant get in touch with her.

I am sleeping with the front door chain on as well as a knife next to my bed. I will do anything to protect my Prada and Casadei accessories, even go third world and cut off a person's hand.

Off to sleep and reading Magical Thinking by Augusten Burroughs. I am too stressed and tired for a better post. Still recovering from the panic attack I had at work that almost made me go home to LI. Maybe it's about time I see a shrink? I really don't deal with stress easily.