There's a reason I eat out often

There seems to be a common theme in my life—whenever there is a simpler option of doing things I always opt for the more difficult. And it isn’t even because I think I have something to prove or want to give myself a challenge. Please I am too fucking lazy to want to do extra work. It’s just that I am a dreamer, an idealist in a sense. When I think of ideas, I can only see things in a big picture and ignore the details that it takes to get it accomplished. Maybe it is a symptom of my ADD or maybe, it’s just that I am usually too far into denial to realize what exactly I am getting myself into.

A few weeks ago I threw a dinner party for my sister, her boyfriend, and a few of my MoHos. With the extra free time on my hand and living on the UWS, I’ve styled myself as a budding gourmand and I get a kick out of cooking for people. For the dinner party I whipped up a horseradish encrusted salmon that went over pretty damn well. The fish ended up moist, flavorful, and the accompanying side dishes were pretty damn good—except for the collard greens, but I am white. What the fuck do you expect?

However, with being on a diet in the hopes of looking hot for the Ox, I have to cut down on those calorie splurges. Ciggs and hot tea have been pretty good at lessening any cravings—especially when I drink my tea over my computer screen salivating at the Crumbs Bake Shop web page. For ten measly calories and an active imagination, I drink my Earl Grey tea while salivating over cupcakes on the bakery’s website. So far, I’ve sampled their Oreo cookie, Pumpkin Spice, Key Lime Pie, and Caramel cupcakes.

Yes, I know this sounds like borderline eating disorder, especially with how often I work out, but I need to look hot in a matter of a couple weeks. And anyway, this beats fucking bulimia.

So, when Sheya invited me over to her place for dinner on Sunday, I immediately said that I would bake the cupcakes. First of all, when you bake it isn’t the same as eating it and secondly, as much time as I spend throughout the day reading Crumbs’ site I’ve developed a sort of fixation with it. And I know if I could make a kick ass cupcake, then maybe my obsession will be able to end.

I pick out a combination of two cupcakes that I constantly salivate over to imitate. One is their red velvet cake cup cake, and the other is their answer to a death by chocolate. I decide that I will take devil’s food cake mix, insert a chocolate ganache into the center and top with cherry butter cream whipped frosting. And this is baking, it isn’t like the horseradish encrusted salmon that I kicked ass with, I mean, how fucking difficult could it be?

I head over to Fairway to buy the ingredients. First of all, when I pick up heavy cream for the ganache, I see just how many fucking calories an innocuous dessert can have. I mean, have you ever read the caloric content for heavy cream? Fifty calories for ONE tablespoon. But, whatever, I load the shopping cart with the cream, the confectioner’s sugar, sprinkles and cupcake bottoms. When I got home I saw that I bought Barbie ones, but, whatever, who looks at the paper that they eat it out of?

When I’m on a buying spree and I think that I’ve channeled the ghost of Duncan Heintz, everything in the baking section looks pretty and nifty. The pretty sprinkles ($2.99), the pretty cherries to top the cupcake ($3.49), the Barbie cupcake holders ($2.59), there are other things that I am far too embarrassed to say that I bought in that split second of impulse buying. Let’s say though that it continues the Barbie theme, ok? But, all in all I’ve spent $35 thus far. If I would have gone to Crumbs myself, it would have cost me $21 for six cupcakes. But then I wouldn’tve had the experience and the blog post.

To be continued...the mouse is freaking me the fuck out. I just saw it again and I need to hide from it.

HOLY SHIT!

If I ever ever ever talk shit about my old apartment, come over to the UWS and shoot me. Because as bad as it was, never fucking ever did I ever fucking ever HAVE MICE!!

I HAVE MICE!!

I sit in my living room working, and all of a sudden I hear this rustle and then see a mouse scurry across the living room. I tried to scream but then remembered my roomate is asleep.

I'm shaking and about to cry. Because if you see one, there are others that you don't see.

I am so happy to be moving out of this fucking rat trap on Wed. Too bad mole #2 gets removed and I have ten days of anti-biotics and no drinking. JOY!

Oh, if I love you, keep your eyes peeled for an evite to my going away party. I think we're taking over a BYOB restaurant in the village and then going to a strip club. I mean, what better way is there to say farewell to my city, you know?

But yea, I HAVE FUCKING MICE!!! AAAGGHHHHHHH!!!

Fuck the ouija board

I am having a Bukowski evening.

Celebrating an early fall in NYC with beer on my stoop, chain smoking ciggs, and writing with the emotional clarity that alcohol provides.

It's when I am sober that I can pyscho-analyze my emotions.

Much like Mr. Bukowski himself--write through the drunken haze then edit edit edit with the aid of sobriety. Except that I never read that he had his best thoughts during his 3.5 mi runs. Yea living close to the Central Park reservoir.

Finishing beer #2 as beer #3 sits in my fridge cooling. And it's my Holyoke Dam Ale. Reminds me of my college tries. Did you know I wrote my senior project drunk and in 12 hours. I got an A on it--if only my professor knew what he started.

A Day in the Life

I know, I know, I am just rubbing it into your faces but I cannot convey to you all just how much I fucking LOVE unemployment.

Did you know that there is a whole world out there that exists between the hours of 9-6 Monday-Friday? And, it just doesn’t include sunlight??

But this unemployment streak offered me a glimpse into what my life will probably be like when I marry for money my future ex-husband. It’s a beautiful life and if anyone knows of any rich men, seriously I can suck dick like a hoover! And moreover, I would be more than happy to help you greet your day with a hummer—only payment I ask is to keep me in the lifestyle that I have grown quickly accustomed to:

10am: wake

10:15: Do bathroom ritual consisting of over priced skin cleanser, over-priced moisturizer, brush teeth, stare at boobs in mirror and wonder if they are sagging. Check out ass for cellulite.

10:30: See what is on TV, make breakfast of no fat yogurt and tea, check email, check out which exercise classes I would like to attend in the afternoon, book squash court for evening’s game

*IMing friends who have jobs is interspersed throughout the day*

1pm: Look at what I have written. Contemplate cigg to combat self-loathing and self-accusations that I have no talent

1:30pm: Grow frustrated with the creative process book a lunch with friend, or a manicure if friends are stuck at that pesky thing called a job. Tues and Thurs head to Pilates.

3pm: Come home in time for Montell Williams, cheer on the cheating spouses, make another cup of tea, check out ass for eight time today

5:30pm: Head over to gym, squash and weight training. Mon and Wed Strip class

7:30pm: make dinner and drink plans, watch Will and Grace, contemplate outfit for the evening

10pm: Showered, dressed, hair coiffed—head out to dinner with friends. Get drunk.

Midnight: Drunk text friends, end up at bar, continue getting drunk, smoke ciggs

2am: Stop off at corner deli buy Fresca and pack of ciggs. Eye the Twinkies but then feel Buddah Belly and think better.

2:10am: Come home and eat 210 calorie Lean Cuisine instead

I am fucking useless.

Opera in the Park--in Two Acts

Part I—The procurement of sustenance

So last night was Opera in the Park, one of my favorite nights in NYC. For two nights, thousands of NYers descend upon the Great Lawn and, for the first time all year, are completely quiet! What a fucking phenomena!

And maybe everyone is quiet because everyone is a tad drunk. See, part of the tradition is that you bring wine, food, and make a little picnic for yourself.

Last night after my squash game I went to the wine store to pick up a bottle of wine. I know a bit about wine, probably more than your average twenty-four year old who did not grow up in Europe and whose parents aren’t oenophiles—basically I know what grapes I like, a few producers, and styles I prefer. This is usually enough information to tell the clerk in a shop what I am looking for and get a decent bottle.

Since we were just going to nosh on some crackers and cheese (I did bring green beans and other greens in the hopes of not eating too much crap—like that fucking happened, thanks booze!), I was looking for a bottle that could stand on its own. I told the guy that I was looking for a “fun” rose—a bit fruity, something that would play on my palate, and just be a bit playful all around. Not a wine where I am chugging because it reminds me of vinegar. Traditionally the word “fun” is not really used when describing a wine, but, I am not an expert but I enjoy playing with adjectives, especially in food and wine where in the right company I have been known to say things like, “An orgasm on my tongue”, “a party in my mouth”, you get the picture.

He immediately pulled out a massive liter bottle of this pinkish hued wine.

“Oh this is a fun wine! It’s one liter and 10% alcohol, it’s like getting two bottles for the price of one!”

My alcoholism follows me, even unintentionally.

But he was right, it was a great wine. A bit fruity, and light on the palate, and I did feel it after a few plastic cups full.

Part II—The Expulsion of sustenance

Nothing screams contradiction than watching opera then using a porta-potty. A traditionally high brow form of culture, and people are lining up to pee and poop in a plastic container.

After intermission, it seemed the everyone in central park needed to “break the seal” at the same time. Usually I avoid these portable toilets like the plague because I am a germ a phobe but, being a bit drunk, and peer pressure that my friends were going, and the pressure on my bladder, I decided to chance it and go in one.

My friends and I are waiting in line, and this Eastern European woman cuts the line that is about five people deep. It may be because we are a bit drunk, or maybe that we are all secretly a bit white trash as we can only afford to see opera when it is free in a park, but this woman on line starts to go off.

“What nerve! She turned to me and told me, ‘you go next! Ok?’ and then cuts the line and walks right in. I’ve been standing here for fifteen minutes!”

“Yea, that is pretty foul,” I sympathize with her.

“Who does that! We’ve all been waiting in line.” The woman then knocks on the door of the port-potty, telling the woman inside to “hurry up.”

This solicits a few laughs from the line. But I am an attention whore, and know that I can be a bit funnier and maybe it is that I am a bit drunk and have a bit of the white trash gene in me,

I yell towards the plastic container, “Hey, this isn’t life under Stalin anymore, in this country we wait our turn.”

People laugh. This gives me a bit more courage to be a complete jerk. So I walk up to the door and knock on it, “NYPD! You just cut in line!” in my deepest bass that I could muster.

The woman who instigated all of this turns to me and slurs, “You know what? I am going to body check her when she leaves! That’ll show her!”

I think to myself, it’s one thing to poke fun at a woman and her culture and pretend to be the cops, it’s another to cause physical harm.

Instead I respond, “You know what? Go for it! She’s Eastern European, they all play hockey. I’ve seen Mighty Ducks.”

Ten minutes pass, and the woman walks out. As the woman in front of me goes to walk into the portable toilet, she holds true to her word, and body checks the woman.

When it’s my turn to go, I walk in, lock the door and see how the Eastern European chick had the last laugh out of all of us—she shat all over the toilet seat. I calmly walk out, and hold in my pee. There is no way that I am going to pee on a defiled seat, my legs are strong, but they cant hold me up that high.

Are the neighbors trying to tell me something?

I’ve let living on the UWS go to my head. Living downtown, one block away from the fashion mecca that is SoHo, there was pressure to look good. If I was going to the Korean deli on the corner, I put on my cute yoga pants with matching fitted t-shirt. Grocery shopping entailed putting a comb through my hair before I left the house.

However, moving up here, its just not the case. People routinely walk around in their dirty sweat pants, moms are pushing baby carriages with baby spit up on their shoulders, it’s like a small town nestled in the big bad city.

Now, I know how I’ve written on here how I am a jeans and t-shirt kinda gal, which is true to a certain extent. In reality, if it was up to me, I would forgo the jeans and t-shirts and spend my day in my bra and underwear. I look far better semi-naked than I ever look in clothes.

So with the relaxed unofficial dress code that embodies the Upper West Side, like most things, I try to see just how far I can take it. As I’ve taken up smoking again, and I refuse to walk a flight of stairs down to my bedroom to put on clothes to just walk outside for a quick ten minute cigarette, I’ve begun to push the limits of social acceptability—this includes me taking my cigarette breaks and running errands around the neighborhood in my booty shorts, tight stretchy tank top sans bra.

And on occasion I get the lecherous man leering at my half-naked body, but I would rather deal with that then have to run up and down the stairs to throw on a pair of pants to stand outside my door and smoke, you know?

However, this morning when I walked outside my apartment, I saw that someone left a pair of pants right at my doorstep.

Are the neighbors trying to tell me something? I mean, I think a note would have sufficed. Because at least I could have told them my size. But it was flattering to think that someone thought I was a size four.

And in other news, thanks for the Fleshbot link. Usually I call my mom all excited when I get linked by a major blog such as Gawker but, I think I am going to have to keep this one under wraps. I don’t think mom would appreciate that her daughter may have a career as an erotic novelist. It’s been hard enough to convince her that there is a market for my drunken exploits and rants.

Reunited with an old friend--Booze

By the time you reach my age, nearly 25, you are supposed to have grown out of the desire to drunk dial. It’s cute in college when you call your high school friends who are 400 miles away to say that you wish they were enjoying a beer with you, it’s getting a tad old but still appreciated when you are a young professional and you call your college friends who now live 2000 miles away to say that you wish they were enjoying a martini with you, however it is downright inexcusable to be three years out of college and still make the phone call.

No kids, we are not cute when we are slurring our words into the phone, calling people at 2am to tell them how much we love them. Nor will we be rewarded for our ability to create emotional intimacy only when helped by the Grey Goose---it is not sexy to slur into the phone the phrases, “I just wish you loved me” followed by “I want you to fuck my ass like a two dollar whore” in the same breath. Granted, your booty call will probably show up at the end of the night, but do you really want to have to explain why you want him to love you, the following morning? And in all seriousness, did you really want him to love you or was that just the Goose exacerbating already complicated emotions?

See, when I go out drinking with my close friends, they know that after drink #5 they are to confiscate the cell phone and only allow me to access it for legitimate emergencies. This works. I don’t wake up with a cold sweat in the morning questioning who I called or texted proclaiming my love to. It prevents waking my friends up at 3am on a Tues to say, “I lufff yoooh. Aye with you were heeere wiff me now.”

It also prevents that horrible habit of mine where I interrupt people’s conversations and tell them to scream “Hi” as I leave a voicemail for my victim. And with this healthy living kick, I haven’t had committed the deed in a while.

So last night, when I was properly Shannon drunk for the first time in about a few months, the phone came out. And off I hid into a corner and started to scroll down my address book. And the first few of them were light hearted—leaving playful messages saying how much I loved them. But, as I continued to sip on the (very) warm Amstel light, augmenting the effects of the two bottles of wine I consumed earlier, my mood took a note for the somber. I began the drunk dial therapy sessions, which ended with me calling my friend in California telling her about my hopes and fears about leaving for the Ox in the next few months, but then how grateful I was for her friendship.

Because, sober, I am an emotionally repressed individual. If I didn’t repress these emotions, I would be how I am drunk—a loud attention whoring gal who needs to feel constant validation all the time. And the only reason why my “exuberant” behavior is tolerable in those situations is because you are drunk too.

But why have we programmed ourselves that whatever is said during the drunk dial is ok? It’s like the permission to be an ass. “Oh well, you know, I was drunk and I called you. I’m sorry”. If I am going to tell you that I love you after five martinis and about my hopes and fears, I better be able to do that sober. And if I can’t, well then Houston, we may have a fucking problem.

If I meant all of this at 2am, shouldn’t I be able to say it at 2pm?

So, it was a great feeling getting in touch with that out of control gal that has been hiding. Because, seriously, healthy living is fucking boring! In fact, I even started smoking again.


Last week I has a physical by a real doctor for the first time since I was 17 and heading off to college. Evidently, having a physical entails a lung screening, where you puff on a tube and it tells you your lung capacity. Keeping in mind that I used to treat my body like a trashcan, I was expecting the doctor to prescribe me an inhaler and tell me how lucky I was to make the appointment when I did or I would have accidentally killed myself.

She told me the opposite:

“Wow, very good!”

Wait, my lung capacity is very good?

So, instead of taking that as a sign that all of the good work I am doing is paying off, I allowed it to give me carte blanch and take up smoking again. I mean, it appears that my lungs are pretty resilient fuckers.

So if you haven’t figured out, Saturday night I reverted back to chain smoking, alcohol guzzling, booby revealing shirt wearing Shannon. I missed her. I really have. Although I am loving this healthy living kick, and look better, am happier, feel fantastic all around and cultivating healthy relationships with people—IT ISN’T FUCKING ME. Well, it is becoming me, but I am not through the transformation yet. There are days that I crave the hangover.

Yes, I said that correctly, I have been craving a hangover ever since this whole kick began. Granted hangovers suck and make you feel like shit all night but, there’s also a symbolism, that stays with you the entire day. When you get a hangover it means you reveled in decadence for an evening. Went to excess. Let yourself and your emotions go.

And after last night, here I am on my couch watching my fourth episode of extreme makeover for the day, suppressing my desire to vomit, feeling the tar in my lungs, and nursing a headache that makes focusing on the TV difficult.

God I fucking missed this feeling. I was even able to catch up with my movie watching too. In this apt I have all of the premium movie channels. Which fucking rocks for days like this.

And with the post-drinking depression setting in, I wrote today. A little that was fucking great, and a lot that was eh (I am thinking it could get shoved in the middle), but I wrote. So now I can tell people that I am working on my first autobiographical novel. You know, I can’t call it a memoir because I don’t want people to Frey my ass.

The Brooklyn Bridge Question

Maybe I should have paid attention in tenth grade health class when Mrs. O’Brady explained sex. Being the mature young woman that I was growing into, I sat in the back, looking uncomfortable and wishing that we were discussing menstruation and talking about how Chlamydia and Gonorrhea are transmitted. Instead of taking on a matter-of-fact discussion on sexual mechanics, we veered from the curriculum a bit.

“I know you say that it can’t happen to you, but believe me when I say that when you introduce sex into a relationship, it changes everything.”

Granted, shortly after her little chat I overheard from a friend that she and her husband were embattled in a bitter divorce.

But despite the fact she was projecting, over ten years later, her point stuck with me; throughout the snickers of “yea right” adolescence, the blind fear of emotional intimacy that plagued me in my college years, and now the begrudging acceptance that yes, fuck, sex does change everything.

Having kept myself shielded in an emotional bubble for a majority of college (ok, fine, I became a fatty in college) and too shell shocked from the reality of the real world to make any meaningful friendships that could involve sex (ok, fine, emotional basketcase that took out her sexuality only when she was drunk), I never understood how surrounding friendships changed with the introduction of sex into your life. We’ve all been exposed to enough Jay-Z to know that it’s “bros before ‘hos”, and the feminist version coined in response to that misogynistic phrase that says “chicks before dicks”. But how many of ourselves have been in a situation where the friend in question did not heed to the gospel preached?

On those boring walks home from the train, work, the gym, we flip through our address books in our cell phones, looking for someone to alleviate our boredom. Each time I flip and scroll, I see names programmed into my phone of people who I haven’t spoken to in months. It’s not that I am in a fight with them or anything, it’s just that they have succumbed to the inevitable—they’ve met their best friend who they can fuck. Or, at the very least someone who is a great fuck.

Until I experienced it myself, I never understood it. I looked at friendship and such things with the naiveté of a child, you were either right or wrong, black and white, only one true answer. And if you ditched me for your boyfriend so you could go home and fuck the loser, yea I am going to be fucking angry! You are choosing something like… sex, over me?!

I guess it shows how lack of good sex can affect anyone’s judgment.

But then I fell off my mighty horse. I started to become a slave to my carnal desires. It happened slowly, at first. Talking obsessively about the intricacies a crush. And then I saw it manifest itself when I canceled brunch plans with my sister or showed up late to work, so I can sit in bed for an extra hour with a boy. I’ve blown vacations because I fell victim to lust, that feeling resulting from the fusion-inspired energy of two people who are lost in sexual tension. I’ve felt how it isn’t enough to be in a person’s presence, how I felt this need to consume every aspect of him—his words, his feelings, all culminating with sex acting as the ultimate claim onto those desires.

And conversely, I’ve watched sexual tension keeping men and women coming back for more, even when both know that the relationship is already defunct. Or in my case, an $800 flight to London to say a hearty, “go fuck yourself,” only to end up in a desolate staircase, with his hands down my pants as I drunkenly begged him to take me back to his place and fuck the shit out of me, each time our lips parted and our tongues slipped back into our mouths.

Sex has a hold over us. It makes us do the stupid and the smart. It causes us to act crazy and quit smoking, to take the advice of someone who we have known for less than three months and ignore the same advice offered by someone who we’ve known for ten years. It seems that the stakes are raised when the other person has seen us naked and invaded us with their touch.

It’s only with the wisdom of accumulated life experience that I am beginning to see that no person is immune to its effects. We will all fall from our protected perches, with some of us falling harder and more often than others. None of us are protected, even traditional shields of experience and reason unable to stave off the inevitable. Even with all of my self-awareness and ability to recognize patterns of behavior and ‘read’ people and their actions like a motherfucker, I am left unarmed and vulnerable when my clitoris is involved.

I see it as a symptom of growing up—doing things and getting into situations that we swore we would never get into. Dating (or engaged) the wrong people, turning a blind eye because we are so deep in a situation--especially in part because of the intimacy that sex brings. We see it manifest itself as a symptom of changing friendship dynamics: well, yes, there is a large part of me that would much rather be riding a some dude’s cock, panting, on the brink of orgasm than to listen to you complain how your boyfriend Charlie treats you badly. Our lustful desires coming before all else.

There comes a point in our lives where the rules that fed our ethics no longer apply. Not because they are antiquated and don’t fit in with the changing times, but that we reach a point in our lives where we feel comfortable acknowledging that we want the fun of being not-so-perfect allows. Our morality evolves into acting like this prop that we can mold with rationalization instead of being this code that we strictly adhere to. It’s just so seductive (and fun!) on the other side, that it’s too hard to resist the temptation, especially when everyone else is doing it.

And you all are making the same mistakes together.

A Bloody good time

I can’t even do something as mundane as dress shopping without some drama happening to me.

I am a shopping dynamo. You don’t call upon my powers if you need an outfit, or a stylist or a new wardrobe. My strength comes in handy when you have a very specific item in mind and you need an honest opinion and you need to find it that day.

My old roommate Tal, needed a cute black dress for a Bat Mitzvah she is going to in Israel.

“ I don’t need anything too dressy, just something cute that makes me look polished.”

With it being mid-August in NYC, and ‘tis the time of year for the end of season sales, we aim high and hit Saks.

And there we learn the very important lesson that although it is 40% off of selected items, when it is 40% off of $960, the item is still fucking expensive.

“You know,” says Tal, “why don’t we try Lord and Taylor.”

Five floors, two trips to the bathroom, and $103 later and I have two new hot lacy bras, and cute semi-matching panties. Tal still has no dress.

“You know, there is this cute dress at Urban Outfitters that I want you to check out. If I can’t find anything else, I think it’s a great back up.”

However, dresses at Urban Outfitters can’t even make Jackie-O look polished.

We end up at Express. And holding true to our lives, of course it is the dark horse that comes to our rescue. Inside we find the cute quintessential black dress. She takes it and goes into the fitting room. I try on the same dress because it is one of those dresses that every woman should own. Simple, black, and showing off a woman’s curves.

We share the same fitting room because, having lived together for a year, we have seen each other naked.

“ Tal, could you help me zip up the dress?”

She has no problem zipping it until she gets to my boobs.

“Shannon, I can’t zip it anymore”

“It’s fucking boobs! Fat tissue is malleable! Zip it, I’ll just stuff my boobs in.”

It still won’t zip up. I end up having to zip the dress, leaving it at the small of my back and then pulling it up and stuffing my boobs into it.
“Tal, I can’t breathe! Unzip me!”

As she unzips me, I hear my phone vibrate. Being a cell phone whore, I rush to see who it could be.

I step out of my dress, and topless, I sift through my bag, trying to find my cell phone. As I aimlessly shove my hand into my bag’s bottom, I feel a sharp pain in my finger, a slicing sensation. Pulling out my hand, I see blood all over my index finger.

Fuck, the safety of one of the razors sitting at the bottom of my gym bag must have come off.

Within seconds my finger is covered in blood. There is a gash in my finger. I freak out.

“Tal!” I shove my finger up into her face.

“Oh my God! What happened!!”

“I cut it on a razor.”

I am shaking, there is so much blood. In an effort to make sure the blood doesn’t get all over the fitting room, I shove my finger into my mouth and throw on my shirt.

“I think I might need to go to the hospital” My hypochondria is kicking in.

Tal is wearing a bra and underwear and I walk out of the fitting room, leaving the door wide open. Not realizing what I am doing, just operating on auto-pilot, needing to find a bathroom to see how bad the cut is.

When I see the fitting room attendant I take my finger out of my mouth, and blood seeps out of the corners of my lips.

“I need baffroom.”

“Oh my god! Are you ok!?” She gasps. “How did you cut your mouth?”

I take my finger out of my mouth, “It’s my finger, I need a bathroom. I just sliced it on a razor.”

Tal is getting dressed as I am looking for a bathroom.

“I think I might need to go to the hospital.” I tell the girl.

However, washing out the cut, I see that it is just a bad slice. I wrap it in paper towels, and hold my finger above my head, trying to stop the bleeding.

I head back downstairs and I see Tal.

“How bad is it?” she asks, Jewish mommy is kicking in.

“I think I’ll be ok.”

And the manager is at the cash register.

He turns away, “Are you ok?” he asks.

“I should be ok. I cut myself on some razors in my bag.”

“Oh my God, I can’t hear it. I’m sorry, I am afraid of blood!” He turns white, beads of sweat appear on his face. He looks like he is about to pass out.

My finger wont stop bleeding.

“Tal, I think I might need to see a doctor. I might need stitches.”

I walk outside, trying to get some air, so I can think.

Tal walks behind me, carrying the dress.

“Oh shit, I almost took this. I can put this on hold,” she said.

“No Tal, pay for it. The dress looks great on you. I think it is just my hypochondria kicking in.”

So the manager rings her up, with his head facing the floor, asking me to stand out of his line of sight.


In hindsight, that is a fucking awesome diversion to shop lift shit. Have someone cut themselves. Blood scares everyone.

Sucks you have a job!

Maybe it is a sign of my maturity, or perhaps this acceptance to grad school came at the right time, but I have to say that I am quite proud how I am spending my days as a member of the unemployed. Last year, around this time, I took a few weeks off between jobs and that was a mini-disaster: flying off to London to tell off the London fag (I did find out he was a faggot though!), drinking into oblivion most nights in the name of “sowing my final wild oats” before my career called, moping around Lincoln Center, and not engaging in the smartest decisions—because it was sensitive to race relations for me to walk through the projects at 4am, drunk, in heels, with an I-Pod blaring. Like, you know, it would be racist for me to think that a lone white girl can’t walk through the projects late at night.

Are we surprised I came down with meningitis three weeks later?

But this “break” is different. Perhaps it has something to do with timing; I am not trying to cram a shit load of partying into a short two week span? Or maybe it’s knowing that I am off to grad school, and I am realizing that I have a lot of thinking to catch up on! Three years of working have left me unable to think and speak only hr speak—the corporate version of 1984. “Let’s status so you can bring me up to speed about the current challenge with the client. Let me know if there is any push back.” Uhm, What the fuck was just said? Like, can you speak to that point?

Instead of the words of Locke, Voltaire, or discussions surrounding social construction and nation-state rolling off of my tongue, I replaced my educated vocabulary with words coined by the HR department to help facilitate a non-threatening work place. It’s no wonder I spent the past three years not fighting the mental atrophy. Being a lazy woman, it is so much easier to turn a blind eye, and let loose in a bar and unwind in front of a TV. Who the fuck wants to read Anarchy, State, and Utopia when they come home after spending ten hours managing a media plan?

But this time it is different. I am spending the next few months before grad school, feeling out whether I have the self-discipline to work as a writer. And so far, the answer is no, in case you were wondering.

Instead of writing and trying my hand at fame, with my free time, I am discovering that there is a whole world outside of the office! Imagine your weekend, not the weekend where you are so fucked up and send just as much time hungover, but the weekend where you go out and play. Kayak, run outside, go to a museum, anything other than drinking. And this is how I am filling my days! Not to sound like a cliché, but it is almost as if I am rediscovering life. It is such a wonderful feeling not to feel as if you have to live for the weekend because you spend five consecutive days frustrated, stressed, and without control.

Tuesday I went to the beach with Rachel. Yesterday I went to a baseball game. This morning I was in Central Park running at 7:30am, with complete abandon and not checking the time obsessively to make sure that exercise doesn’t run over into shower time.

And now I sit in my living room, sipping on lukewarm tea contemplating taking a nap before pilates at noon.

This fucking rocks.

So, with all of this free time on my hands, it allows me to indulge in my obsessions, one of which is really bad commercial music. As we were pulling out of the wedding ceremony, at the wedding I attended last weekend, the Panic! At the Disco song came on. Lost in the catchy tune, I only heard the words wedding and toast and champagne. I chime, “this is so apropos!” and blast the fucker. Pax, is like, “Uhm, not really.”

“No, dude, it’s so fitting. We leave a wedding, and now this song plays.”

However watching the video:

I see that yea, you really don’t want to have that song represent anything.

But the video is fucking awesome. Reminds me of the Mr. Brightside video where I developed a crush on the lead singer of the Killers because he donned make-up and acted theatrical. Let’s say I have a new crush now. I don’t know, maybe I am a closeted lesbian man, but there is something so sexy about a man in eye liner acting dramatic.

As if there were any questions how I fell in with the London fag.

Off to LI for the night, mom turns 58! Now, if only I got her a present. Any suggestions posted before 5:30 will be appreciated. Remember, she is a LI Jewish mommy, so anything with obnoxious logos plastered all over is A+ I got her Tiffany's for Christmas. And under $100. I love mommy but, I am broke.

Guess I'm Ugly

I don’t know if it’s because it’s summer and online dating is getting old for people, a man can only handle so much disappointment: instead of the smart, sarcastic, no-drama claiming, straight haired and teeth girls smiling in photos that appeared in your inbox, in front of you stands a “person” who is at least twenty pounds heavier, acne-ridden, and possibly even a midget. The bar scene is even worse, with Yuppies such as myself drinking into oblivion, even the most rank person could be hot with thick enough beer goggles. So, many of you guys out there have been craving new blood.

I bet some of you looked to your friends, family, even God (evidently there is a synagogue that I notorious on the Upper West Side as a pick up spot) to find you that special someone. That unique combination of down to earth, funny, smart, won’t take any shit, with big boobs, and confidence to match her wit. Plus, if she could be moving away in a short time, you know, to make sure that she couldn’t get clingy…that would be perfection!

Oh shit, I just described me and how I appear on my blog!

Gawker may not have given me literary agents banging down my door but it did send you boys barking up my tree!

And at first I didn’t believe it. I read an article about bloggers a while back, which said, if you are female, your readers will try to date you. Of course, I was excited about the prospect. You mean, no more awkward first emails and “winks” off of match.com and jdate? I could possibly find someone to like me for me, who finds endearment in my contradictory personality?! No more pretending until the fourth date that I was somewhat, “normal”. All the while hoping to catch the eye of a talent agent to Stephanie-Klein my ass for the seven figure book deal? The possibility of a man and fame, beautiful!

However, it took me over a full year until a brave reader contacted me. And, I still don’t know where the talent agents are hiding out.

But, keeping in mind what that article said, how although it is tempting to date a reader, most of them are nuts. They don’t understand that a blog is like a literary MTV’s Real World: everyone’s life sucks on a day-to-day basis, but, if you cut out the stuff that kinda doesn’t suck, you may have about ten minutes of humor/drama/emotion that bodes well for an audience. Which, is my life. Ok, maybe I am being a bit humble, and trying to make my life seem more normal, but you get the picture. What you read is a best-of in my life and not me on a daily basis. If I lived the way I wrote, I would have an incurable STD, cirrhosis of the liver, and a hole through my septum. I don’t. I’ve just alienated many people, including those I should have made a good impression. Whoops!

So heading the article’s advice, I didn’t meet the first few readers who inquired about having drinks. But, like most things in my life, once I fall off of the wagon, I am there for good and so, it started with meeting a guy for a drink at a book release party, as friends—which we are today. He seemed normal. And fun!

Then I began to meet other bloggers. I mean, it's like networking, right? Kinda like meeting collegues.

However, I would like to impress upon you one very important thing I learned-- all of the bloggers I met, all had a common theme, NOTHING LIKE THEIR BLOG PERSONA.

“That is what you look like?!” I thought to myself when I met one of the more prominant annonymous ones.

“Uhm, fucking say something!” I thought about another.

And once you go down that slippery slope, you might as well just finish the entire metaphorical bottle. Which I am in the process of doing, at the moment. Why just stop at meeting only well known bloggers, why don't I just meet anyone?!

Now that I do not work for the agency, and they all know about my blog anyway, I don’t care about sending readers my myspace link. Yes, I know, everything in my blog really is true. I did grow up on LI, I did go to MHC. Yes, those are my “real friends” in my top 8, who I write about. I am an accurate representation…

Or so I think.

My move out of the country has lulled me into a false sense of security. There will be no stalkers, and if there are, I will be gone before they can do anything stupid. Let the meeting begin!

“Glad that you moved up to my neighborhood! Was wondering if you want to grab a drink?” says an email I receive in my inbox.

Why the fuck not, I think to myself.

So I hit the reply button and write: “Hey! So this is my myspace link. Enjoy!”

But, then I don’t hear anything back from them.

Another reader wrote: “I am so attracted to you because of your writing.”

I send him a link to the ubiquitous myspace page. He too, magically disappears.

Evidently not attracted enough to my writing to want to continue talking to me after you see what I look like!

Being a neurotic, I call my friends and seek emotional support.

“But it makes no sense, Lu. I mean, am I ugly? Do guys need to meet me with beer goggles on? Am I a pity fuck?!” I ask, over and over again. Not understanding what is wrong with my appearance

“Shannon, you look fine!”

“Could you take a look at the pictures that I sent? I mean, I don’t want to send pictures that make me look like a supermodel, and then they would be disappointed!” Leave it to the insecure to pick out what she thinks she looks like.

I send over the pictures that I think are good: “Shannon, you look nothing like that picture!”

“Really!? What about this one?”

The process goes on. Same result, if it is a “good pic”, I look nothing like it. And if it is a “bad pic” I look nothing like it.

I don’t photograph well, especially because I am usually drunk and out of it. And my nose. I hate how my nose photographs!

In order to remedy this problem, I’ve tried to arrange photo days with my friends acting as photographers. But, I am not going to take pics when I am sober because, that blows. And if my friend is coming into the city, well then, what are a few drinks, you know?

Which leaves me with the same problem, I have no good sober shots of me. The pics where it is evident I put some effort into my appearance and look sober, not too made up not too poished. Like me going out to dinner with a few friends.

Instead, I only take pictures at the end of the wreck, forgoing an image before the train is scathed.

I guess, all bloggers are the same, huh? We will all end up disappointing because we can never live up to the highlighted fifteen minutes we show. Or how you imagine us to be.

What I have been up to

Dear ex-coworkers,

I know once I quit my job at the agency that you looked toward the blog to provide you a glimpse into how I have been and what I will be doing when my time is spent outside of that quasi-cubicle that allowed you to keep an eye on me.

My writing has been sucking since I quit my job, and I don't know why. Maybe it is because my writing comes from the frustration of my pent up creative voice? Or maybe it is because I have been doing many other things, besides writing--today I spent at the beach and last night an evening of innocent coffee turned into drinking a bottle of wine, by myself.

Anyway, my book writing is coming. Not very well or very fluid, but it is coming. And it is great running around telling people that I am off to Oxford in the fall and am taking time off to write--I sound very smart and important. Almost too good because it is distracting from the finished product.

But I am exhausted at the moment, so I am off to bed so I can make my early morning run tomorrow.

Who knew doing nothing could leave a gal this tired at the end of the day?

Hugs and Kisses,
Shannon

PS I figured that only my old co-workers are reading now since I have bored most of my readers.

Weddings: Another one bites the dust

After four days of gluttony with food, drink, and emotional stimulation my body and mind is hungover, and I am left on my couch not knowing what to do left with this void as I came back to my reality.

I had a salad for dinner, to make up for the four cookies, burrito, ice cream, and other crap I consumed over the weekend. It just took me forty-five minutes to drink my micro-beer that I smuggled back to NYC—God Bless Holyoke Dam Ale. And, the only thing that will be sharing my bed with me tonight is my teddy bear Harry. After a weekend of excess, I am feeling empty.

I miss my wifey.

I miss Pax.

I miss waking up and seeing the mountains of Western MA.

But I don’t miss feeling like shit and not being able to fit into my jeans.

You know, this healthy living kick of no booze, no ciggs, fresh food and lotsa exercise makes it just that apparent what a toll all that shit takes on you. I think I gained like ten pounds over the course of a few days, can’t breathe as well because of the ciggs consumed, and my body feels like crap right now, as I sit on my couch in my new apartment. This past morning, I spent two hours resigned to the bathroom, apologizing to my body as I struggled with at first constipation, and then later a bad case of diarrhea.

What is it when I get together with my old friends and their fabulous husbands (yes Brent, sorry I’ve become boring), that I revert back to the same behavior that really isn’t good for me? Is it knowing that I have the permission since I’ve done it before with them? Or perhaps I want to see whether it is still in me?

We were all in bed by midnight, asleep in our beds at the hotel. We even skipped out on the after party we had planed at MoHo on the green with our Asti fake champagne. Instead we swapped Pepto Bismal stories and wished each other a good night.

I am getting fucking old.

Especially taking into account my new procrastination hobby: planning my future wedding. Keep in mind that I have no idea where my groom may be hiding. But I am now a registered member of the knot, and have narrowed down the site of my wedding to either Maine or Western MA during the fall.

I'm over Greenwich Village

This is how I know I am a grown up: I prefer the Upper West Side to my old neighborhood Greenwich Village. I can’t explain it. It’s like a grown up version of the West Village. Cute bars, great restaurants, gourmet grocery stores—I live a few blocks away from Zabars, and I am steps from Central Park.

No longer do I have to deal with rastas hanging out on my doorstep smoking herb, the drunk NYU frat boy vomiting outside the building, listening to the motorcycle gang that only convenes at 4:30am on Bleecker Street, and the drunkies leaving the bar at 4am on a Tuesday night getting into verbal altercations where they say how they are going to, “Kick your fucking ass!” It got so bad one night, I walked outside in my pajamas and told people to “shut the fuck up, I have a job that I need to wake up for.” I even thought about getting a baseball bat for that little something extra for intimidation.

But, it’s totally different up here. No baseball bat nor threat of violence needed! It’s treelined and civilized and unfashionable. People walking around in baggy t-shirts, mesh shorts, unkempt hair. This isn’t my former neighborhood where I had to walk through hoards of dressed up girls from Nebraska on the prowl, feeling like the anti-ambassador as I disproved the theory that NYC is the fashion capital of the world in my usual athletic shorts and t-shirt combos. My comfortable hanging around the house look is cool up here!

So, I am digging my new neighborhood and my new two story apartment and I don’t think any of the roommates are crackheads. Which is a major departure from my last living situation where the ex-roommate would leave the house at 1am and come back around 7am, drugged out with her eyes glazed over.

Ok, I am fucking exhausted as I went rollerblading in this heat and can’t seem to get to sleep so I am going to watch South Park until I am sleepy in my new place. Ah, things will never change.