Drunk and Single in NYC

New NYC Blog

2008-02-26T02:27:00.000-05:00

I re-started my NYC Blog.

http://stilldrunkandsinglenyc.blogspot.com/

Bookmark it. Love it. Pass it on to your friends.

UPDATE

2006-09-28T12:38:00.000-04:00

www.drunkandsingleinoxford.blogspot.com

Bookmark it.

Pass it on to your friends.

And of course, reading the fucking thing.

I'm here!

2006-09-27T12:37:00.000-04:00

I am here.

I am exhausted. I have xanax sitting in my top drawer for emergency use. Knowing that it is there has helped me manage my anxiety, bizarrely enough.

www.drunkandsingleinoxford.blogspot.com

And no there is no new posting, but start to check that site.

Because, thie NYC chapter is now officially over.

It's Official

2006-09-21T00:26:00.000-04:00

I decend upon England Sept 27 at 6am in the morning.

What the fuck have I gotten myself into?

The Duality of Insomnia

2006-09-18T06:50:00.000-04:00

There is something beautiful about sunrise in the city. An otherwise fast-paced hectic metropolis becomes this idyllic almost sleepy-town, slowly waking to another day. The exorexiacs are heading off to the gym—I have never seen more fit people in my neighborhood, I guess this is where they hide—the nice El Salvadorian men saying hello to me as I realize my boobs are hanging out of my tank top. Everything that characterizes this city still happens, but at a slower pace.

And then I go inside and put on the tv and realize that if I don’t want to watch news, the only alternative is Barney.

See, the reason why I am awake at 6:45am, typing away, is because I need to fight with the Ox about my student loans. It appears that there was a small problem with the mail and getting it to the place that it needs to be processed. I spent the entire weekend worried, crying all day today that I may not be able to get my student loans in time for me to apply for my student visa, because NYS has not acknowledged that they have received the paper work from the school.

In my fit of freaking out, I couldn’t sleep until I spoke to them.

So I call them, without sleep at 9am British time—4am NYC time. I got schooled this morning in a lesson in British culture.

See, I call the college and speak to the woman who deals with loans. Keep in mind I am an exuberant and emotional fucker. Little things excite me. Most people, rather most Americans, think this is adorable. I mean, how many 24yr olds jump up and down and get excited about little things. I find out from chatting to the woman that my fears are unfounded and that a paper stating that I am eligible to receive loans will be sufficient for me to get my visa, so I can leave the country next Tuesday as planned.

In my excitement, I say, which is a very Shannon-esque thing to say, “Oh my God, that is such fabulous news, I love you!”

Of course I love the woman who is telling me that I was being an emotional freak for nothing. She is taken aback and begs me to calm down.

Uhm, “calm down”? Because I told her in an exuberant manner that I was happy with the news?

They must think I am on a cocaine binge.

I wonder how that will work out when I run for social chair of the college.

A proper farewell

2006-09-15T03:37:00.000-04:00

I got my wish and went to a fashion show.

I sat five seats away from Scarlet Johansen.

And of course as I am going to take pictures of the show, my batteries die. But I did manage to get two shots of the pre-show.

I am missing NYC already

Or maybe...

2006-09-08T11:36:00.000-04:00

Maybe, the reason I've had nothing to write is because it is the end of this story. The character has become developed, she found her purpose, gave up her drinking and self-exploitative ways, and has settled down.

We had the climax of the story at the height of my depression/hating my job/applying to Oxford, and now we have resolution. I got in, am in the midst of preparing for my degree. My life reflects this contentment now. My indulgence at the moment is cheap wine (bottles under $15), BYOB restaurants, and my stripper class. My move to the UWS has cemented my lameness.

So once a story ends, it's time to begin a new one. Much like replacing the book on your night stand once you finish it. Keep an eye out for my new blog addy about being a Drunk and Single Girl at Oxford.

I know I suck

2006-09-08T02:09:00.000-04:00

With so many things on my mind, trying to get everything in order for my venture overseas, the blog postings have sucked. I'll admit it. It's just not a high priority for me at the moment, instead I'd rather chain smoke and worry whether I have enough money in my bank account to satisfy the Brits for my visa.

So, to be perfectly honest, don't bother reading for the next week or so. I'm boring when I am worried and running around. And I am tired of subjecting you to this.

Another hurdle

2006-09-07T01:09:00.000-04:00

I went to book my one way flight on orbitz, and in this world of heightened security, my flight needs to be confirmed by the airline.

So, I am flight-less as I wait for Virgin to confirm that I am not a terrorist.

On that note, let me share a funny story in Shannon history that makes me smile when I think of Virgin Atlantic:

As we all know I have a small fear of flying. The only way I can get onto a plane is if I have a bit of liquid courage. A few years back, when I was still a virgin (not the plane but hymenly challenged), and meeting a few friends for a trip around Europe, I met a bloke in the waiting area. As our flight was delayed, we decided to pass the time at the bar where we got LOADED. As luck would have it, we saw that we were sitting a few rows away from each other.

When we boarded the airplane, we asked a woman to switch seats so we could sit next to each other, to continue the conversation. We order more drinks and continue to chat. The lights in the cabin grow dim, and we are getting drunker. He puts a blanket over us and starts to lightly touch my leg. Now, I could say that I had no idea, but that would be bullshit. I wanted to see how far it would go. His hand moves up to my breast, and he begins to kiss me. Between sips of our vodka tonics, his hand ventures into my pants and he feels that I have a brazillian.

He invites me into the bathroom to join him and the mile high club. I turn him down. I was a virgin and didn't feel like losing my virginity over a toilet at 37,000 ft. He went to the bathroom, and waited for me. And returned all disapointed. I fell asleep with my head in his lap shortly after he returned to his seat.

It was one of the biggest regrets of my life. I mean, how fucking poetic would that have been? Losing my virginity on Virgin Atlantic...But that wasn't the only time I've been invited to join the mile high club.

Let's hope this trip will have the same luck.

Do the Unemployed Need a Vacation?

2006-09-05T01:16:00.000-04:00

You know the problem with health living? It’s not that it is difficult to keep up—it isn’t. Find the discipline to cut the bad shit out of your life, and once it is out of sight, it’s out of mind. However, once you find yourself out of your routine and all of your temptations that you banned from your apartment become readily available and couple that with an inability to exercise and a house that begs for you to sleep in on the $2K sheets, and sip gourmet coffee for an hour on the porch admiring the view of the Blue Ridge mountains, as the dog laps at your feet begging for attention, it is easy to find the sloth inside that you thought was buried.

And then we have the chocolate sheet cake, a dinner party that started a bit late but the appetizers already made, and a constant stream of rain that has not allowed me to leave the house—this is my vacation in Virginia. Pure decadence on every level.

I wish I had something interesting and hysterical to report, except all I’ve been doing has been sleeping, eating, playing with the dog, and watching movies with Lu and seeing the C-ville gang.

Well, and playing house.

See for us girls who have been socialized to want the beautiful house, kids and dog, housesitting a place like this is like playing “house” as a grown up. Instead of the Easy Bake Oven, we have the gourmet kitchen with the staff room on the side. Replacing Barbie’s dresses is changing the collar of the pure bred dog. And fuck the pink Corvett, there is a cherry red Porsche convertible parked out front to play with. I played lady of the house on Sunday night: dressed in a skirt and cute heels combo, I straighten out the house as the pasta dish simmered on the stove, keeping the dinner warm for when the guests arrived. Ok, fine, Lu straightened the house as I got dressed and played with the dog. Semantics, people, but you get the picture.

I’ve gotten in touch with my domestic streak this summer: clipping recipes that look interesting, tidying up the apartments I’ve lived in, and going to the gym constantly. It’s like there was this little housewife buried inside that I’ve just unleashed. All I need to do is develop an addiction to prescription drugs and learn how to make the perfect martini and I may become good enough for a low-statused Rockefeller, you know, like the distant cousin who never finished rehab Rockefeller.

I’ll be posting pics on here of my vacay and the dinner party, and of me circumcising a sausage—don’t ask. Right now, I just want to lay down on the couch in the library with the dog, and scratch these fucking bites all over my leg. I hope they aren’t venomous spider bites because I am without health insurance since Sept 1.

When you are confined to the apt

2006-09-01T14:18:00.000-04:00

I am watching a baby story.

You know, it's pretty easy to see a baby and just see the cute smile, the little hands, and the little pink or blue outfits. But, dude, we always end up blocking out the moment that it took to get there.

There is a 6-9 pound thing popping out of a woman's vag. And they showed it on a Baby Story. This woman, spread eagle, with her legs in the squatting position in the air, pushing the baby out of her vag.

I almost puked, especially when I realized that all women go through that they have children.

4am and it hits--I am going to Oxford!

2006-09-01T03:49:00.000-04:00

Those of you who know me are probably wondering why I have been afflicted with this sense of modesty when it comes talking about my admission into the Ox. It could look like to some that it is false and that I am trying to get more attention by being humble, or maybe after reading this blog you may think that it comes from self-doubt and my inability to not talk about it is really an admission that I am scared of playing with the intellectual big boys.

Well, those reasons are fucking wrong.

The real reason is that I am petrified of jinxing myself.

I am an easily excitable person. Ask me for a restaurant recc and I will say that the food there is “amazing”, ask me what I think of a person and I will say that “she is my bestie”. I have a tendency to get caught up in the excitement and use a lot of hyperbole. At first this can be annoying because it’s like being around a PR girl all the time but, like most people you eventually grow to love it because life is always exciting for me and I like to share my excitement with other people—I mean, just ask my co-workers at the Agency and they’ll tell you how I used to walk around the office serenading everyone with my renditions of Ella Fitzgerald. You know slaves used to sing in order to keep their sanity—well, the same went for me, I created my own creative outlet.

But by having this easily excitable personality comes a downfall, I am a firm believer that the “evil eye” is watching over me, ready to take away my happiness, so I end up sweeping the truly special things under the rug. Last year I bragged how I found the most amazing apartment, with the most amazing best friend in the entire world and employed by the most amazing agency, and within three weeks I was in the hospital with meningitis, crying at my desk daily, and trying to explain to my roommate that if he clogs a toilet, it should be him that uses the plunger. The evil eye has it out for me.

Like, I haven’t even told the alumnae magazine yet about me getting into school! This was a fucking secret. I am not blowing my escape. I mean, I even went as far to make appointments with doctors so that I could get a clean bill of health, you know, to ward off the cancer causing evil eye. I am covering my ass on this one, and part of that is not discussing it.

But when you choose to ignore a moment and not talk about it, it’s easy to forget that it exists. Much like me heading off to Oxford in the fall. It has been very easy for me to say “I am going to Oxford” when I didn’t know the dates of the term or when I was supposed to arrive. Like, it didn’t feel real—just something that I was going to do in the future without any commitment that I am actually going to do it, like saying that I am going to get married or going to have kids. Someday I will, but I can’t tell you when that someday will be.

However, I’ve just been jolted to reality in receiving my “induction” packet. And it motherfuckingly hit: I am going to a foreign country, 5,000 miles away from my family and friends and the only life that I have ever known—a stereotypical NYC/LI gal and throwing myself into the place that the term “old skool” refers to. I will be donning my sub fusc to take exams and have sherry before dinner and go to parties called bops.

What the fuck did I get myself into?

As if the culture shock isn’t even more astounding, I am further reminded that I am no longer in Jew York—the first day of orientation is on Yom Kippur. What school in the NYC would ever have the first day of orientation for new students on one of the most holy Jewish holidays? I might as well draw a star of david on my forehead at this point.

It just served as another reminder that I am going to a place that is completely different than anything that I have ever known. But there is an excitement in having the ability to reinvent yourself—learning from the mistakes and lessons from the past and applying them to your new circumstances. The people there are going to think I am just naturally wise instead of realizing that I have put myself in every crazy hair brained scheme imaginable all in the name of experience—and yes, I really did work as a dominatrix for a night because I was curious.

But what is even cooler, is that the Jewish community there, well from what I saw from the pics on the Jewish Student Society’s homepage, is something that I have never seen before. As a Jewish single gal in NYC, I realize that finding a nice Jewish boy is a “challenge”. So much so, that the veto power skews for the guy. Work in finance, law, or medicine and no matter how nebbishy you look, how many genital warts scars you had lasered off, fat, ugly bald, short, acne scars and you will have a half way hot gal on your arm to take home to mom for shabbos dinner. The more zeros in your salary, the hotter the girl. A direct relationship in stats speak.

It’s rough being a single Jew gal in this city. It’s a fierce competition among the participants to snag the best guy—including sabotaging each other by telling one another that those jeans don’t make our ass look big, when in fact it makes it look tremendous. We work out and munch on salad, wear our ivy education on our sleeve while highlighting our nurturing instinct, because lets face it, there is an element of truth to the premise of Jewtopia (a Christian guy wanting to marry a Jewish girl so he never has to make another decision again). We work in order to be attractive to the Jewish male species.

But over there it’s different. The power is skewed, and for once, in my favor.

The men were HOTT. Yes, I am using the word HOTT (two t’s and in caps for added emphasis) to describe the members of my tribe. Which is usually not an adjective that is thrown around to describe my people. We are known as funny, smart, good with money, a bit Japy, but as a whole you would never use the word HOT to describe Jews. Maybe Brazillians, maybe Israelis even, but definitely not the Jewish population as a whole. But what makes me excited is not that the Jews pictured were hot, but that the girls were BUSTED. I can’t even say that they “weren’t that pretty” or any other euphemism to say that someone’s face reminds you of the elephant man, a lot of these girls were unfortunate looking. And I’m not.

Maybe, just maybe, I’ll be a contender in capturing the prey and not have to take the left over scraps from the lionesses who’ve feasted first?

And maybe, just maybe, I might be able to have a normal relationship with a guy who shares a lot of my quirks, is smart, and hopefully hasn’t been with men? But I think being with men thing is less a religious thing than it is a Shannon thing. I need to break myself out of the habit of sharing the same taste in men that my crushes do.

So, yes, I am excited but also freaking out. The smoking has commenced. The late night phone calls and insomnia has begun. And my obsessive streak kicking in by me pouring over the college website and memorizing what exactly sub fusc is.

But to share with you readers my moment of irony—remember a while back how I bragged that I got my grade in my stats class because I talked to the professor, after I failed the tests, never showed up for class, nor did any of the homework? Yea, well, the evil eye actually has reared its ugly head. It seems that I need to buy a stats text book and “review” chapters 1-6, material that I should already be familiar with for my required statistics course.

Why do I think at Oxford that it will take a lot more than just dinner and out drinking my professor?

It’s funny, as soon as I got my homework assignment, I stopped romanticizing my undergrad experience. Think about it, often times we look back to the times where we were comfortable with this fondness, idealizing it because in many ways it is simpler than our present life. Undergrad is fun. Drinking all the time, your friends within a fifteen minute walk, omelets catered to your liking after a rough night drinking. In wanting to hold onto a memory, I also created a fallacy in a sense at the same time. The reality: I enjoyed college because I was drunk all the time and I had friends and my wifey to escape into. As much fun as it was, it was also an incredibly unhealthy, physically and emotionally time for me. There was a semester that I couldn’t even get out of bed because I was so depressed—instead I stayed in my room and drank jugs of Carlo Rossi wine.

We don’t remember that shit, now do we? Or rather, we choose not to remember that shit, now don’t we?

But I am incredibly excited. It’s like I feel like I am given an opportunity to take the lessons I learned thus far and apply it to this amazing experience—so I can actually take full advantage of it and not spend it drunk and doubtful about myself. It’s very symbolic for me, it’s like I am revisiting my fourteen year old self, the healthy, kinda mouthy, dark brown haired girl that somehow whose identity got muddled. It’s almost as if now I can find her, spare her the pain and frustrations of the next ten years, and let her reap the rewards of this new experience. If you think about it, we go through shit, and then somehow end up full circle from where we began. But just this time, a bit wiser having gone around the block a few times.

So yea, this is where I stand on Oxford. It’s fucking hitting me. I am off to grad school in three and half weeks. I am having a going away party in a few weeks. And I am leaving a lot behind by the month’s end. Bittersweet is too clichéd a word to describe what I am feeling right now.

And it’s almost 4am as I finish typing this. This stream of consciousness enabled by my inability to sleep due to mole removal #2. This one was on my back an I am sore sore sore. But off to VA on Sat for a few days to visit the wifey and my gay platonic soulmate.

There's a reason I eat out often

2006-08-28T02:28:00.000-04:00

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!

2006-08-28T01:49:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-27T00:26:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-25T12:39:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-23T09:13:00.000-04:00

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?

2006-08-22T00:32:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-21T01:50:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-17T10:24:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-14T04:12:00.000-04:00

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!

2006-08-11T10:45:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-10T01:52:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-09T00:49:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-07T00:51:00.000-04:00

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

2006-08-02T01:52:00.000-04:00

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.

The Times' are a changin'

2006-07-31T02:44:00.000-04:00

It’s Sunday, and I have some time on my hands, as I’m not working and packing is pretty much done. So, knowing that TV sucks on Sunday and being on this new kick to embrace the intellectualism that I’ve been hiding for the last three years, I picked up the NY Times on my way back from brunch at Silver Spur on Houston St. By the way, Waffles with ice cream and strawberries, so fucking good!

Now, I could sound all intellectual and write about how I bought the NY Times because I love the week in review section that is a hit list of the news that you shouldn’t have missed. Or I could write about the Book Review, how the Times and its writers really have a pulse on today’s great literature. But, come on. You’ve probably been reading for sometime and realize that I am way too preoccupied with my own life than to give a shit what is happening outside of my apartment. And anyway, my summer reading list is long enough and, I think a lot of their book reviews are pompous and try too hard to sound intelligent instead of just telling you whether a book is a worth while read. I also think I hold that opinion of the Book Review because the last time I read it was in ninth grade, preparing for the Verbal Section of the SATs. I only managed to get a 610. But I also drew penises all over the test booklet and (not so) politely asked them to “suck it”. Thank you ADD and to my mother who smoked cigarettes while I was in the womb.

I’m embarrassed to admit the real reason I buy the NY Times. It’s like coming clean and admitting that you aren’t the person that you pretend to be, a let down in a sense. My family has an idea of my secret, they think I buy it because of the travel section. And they are partially right, it's the second section I read. However, when I tell you the real reason why I buy a newspaper for $3.50 and throw 75% of it out, you will understand every single one of my character flaws and see the soon to be not-so-secret secret.

I am addicted to the Sunday Styles wedding announcements.

I’m embarrassed to make this admission because it showcases every single stereotype that I embody: a social climbing desperate NYC single woman.

There is a certain glamour in getting your announcement in the Times. It implies that you are special: that your wedding is newsworthy, possibly an allusion to current or a future connection to high society. In layman’s terms, that you are worth knowing.

I read it for solely aspirational purposes, on the other hand. And to look for exes of mine who may have accidentally “made it,” with Daddy’s help. Seriously, it’s one thing to glance over at the names, see if anyone who you may have lost touch with since high school, college, or the encounter off of myspace. But, why do countless women, myself included and perhaps the most guilty offender, read the announcement in its entirety when we have no idea who the hell the people are? Like, if I have never met Amanda Moore and her future husband Peter, why do I continue to read, engrossed that she went to Yale while he went to MIT?

Instead of a train wreck, I’m caught staring in jealous fascination at the superficial beauty that the announcement provides. For that split second, as you read just the highlights of a relationship, their best-of’s you become engrossed with a bizarre sense of fleeting intimacy that disappears by the write-up’s end. It’s just enough for you to give a damn as you read, until there is no more information to fuel your curiosity. There is a certain sense of hope that can be ascertained from the couples who have “made it”. Each announcement reinforcing the promise of the American dream fulfilled: play by the rules, find a good man, and see the future you can have!

However, it's similar to when you see a Lamborghini on the streets of NYC, you don’t notice the bald impotent man in the driver’s street. Or in this case, that poor Amanda is marrying an I-banker who she will never see and that sixty percent of the marriages that I read that Sunday aren’t going to last.

But for that split second, as you read about each couple, you don’t care that the announcement is as deep as the newsprint it is printed on. There is a big smiley picture and fabulous resume distracting from the fact that you can almost feel your thumb and forefinger touching each other as you hold the paper. It’s easy to get lost in the aspirational glamour of the Times’ announcements: Harvard boy meets MIT girl. Dad is Sr. VP at Goldman while mom is a homemaker. She is keeping her last name and will work for Tishman construction as a lead engineer. I wish for that, to have that glossy resume and for people to assume that I have a bright future ahead of me.

I will do anything to get my wedding announcement in the Times. Including going $40K into debt in order to ensure my fitness among the competition. And the truth of the matter is that my pedigree is not that impressive. I have to compensate using educational and professional achievement in order to make up for my families’ blue collar past.

Or so I thought.

With that degree from Oxford in hand, it looks like I am a shoe-in. Even if I marry an electrician.

I’ve begun to notice a disturbing trend. I remember the days where my mother and I used to read about the couples, excited to see the closest semblance to our family: a couple whose pedigree included a tiny New England college as opposed to the traditional Ivy. Back in the day, anything less was (almost) unheard of. Everyone was white, everyone went to Harvard or Yale, and all of the couples came from wealthy and impressive backgrounds. Unless I married a Rockefeller, I would not have made it into the Times--degreed from Oxford University or not.

Like all embarrassing addictions, sometimes you need to take a break. And with my life so crazy, I haven’t read the Sunday Times in about a few months. Now, I don’t know if it has to do with that new website redesign and they are desperate to sell more papers, or if this is a result at a growing trend towards democratization but, what the fuck? First of all, it was three full pages. When did the Times ever deem three full pages of people’s wedding announcements worthy to know about?!

Teachers, parents as insurance sales people, Queens College graduates. The announcements have been infiltrated by normal people! What has happened to my Times? Where is the aspirational inspiration that I am to derive? The bullshit promise that if I have the right educational, professional, familial, and neighborhood pedigree that I will be newsworthy and the assurance of upward mobility! That I will end up with someone successful, marry up! But it is not anymore. The NY Times has destroyed dating, revoked that promise. Because according to the Times now, everyone is special and worthy of their fifteen minutes. Meaning, I have no right to set my standards as high--if they are good enough for the Times, shouldn't they be good enough for me?

So, once again, I am back to square one. Learning that there are no guarantees for anything. Everything is in a constant state of change, including bastions of the old guard such as the wedding announcement page. But not to sound like a bitch, where am I supposed to place my wedding announcement? Like you really expect me to share the page with a Queens College graduate?

The end of shit

2006-07-28T17:07:00.000-04:00

I have to brag right now. And I am going to indulge myself because as of late there really hasn’t been that much for me to brag about. I’ve been on anti-biotics for a week—so a week without a drop of booze touching my lips. A week of me being lame, and a week without the restorative powers of getting sloshed and see what kind of shit flies out of your mouth when you stop caring about social conventions. How do you think I come up with half of this shit anyway?

And, as you readers have so eloquently pointed out, as a result of all this shit going on my writing this week has sucked. Now you understand why I will sometimes go weeks without posting anything. I have an artists soul, I am very temperamental. Or so what I’ve convinced myself so I have an excuse for being an asshole who can’t survive in real life.

So, I swear this is the last time I mention it, but, holy fucking shit. Birth Control pills (that don’t mesh well with your body) should be used as a torture device against prisoners of war. I am surprised that my government hasn’t incorporated it into their repertoire of wiping out the enemy. The last time I felt like this emotional rollercoaster was back in college when I sat on a big leather chair telling my therapist how I was afraid of [insert childhood trauma]. Seriously, if we want to end the war on terror, let’s drop some estrogen/progesterone pills into their water supply and see the drama that will ensue. Al-Queda/militants/North Korea/whoever will be so emotionally distraught that instead of building suitcase bombs they will be asking each other, “Why don’t you love me anymore?” Because, in my fit of emotional unrest, I’ve gotten nothing done. Including the inability to pack up my apartment.

Do you know how many people’s love I’ve questioned this month? I’ve called or hung out with them and asked, “why do you like me?” And just two minutes ago I almost burst into tears because Harald wouldn’t give me the passcode to get into the office. This shit motherfuckingly sucks.

In light of all this shit, and today just highlighting what I already knew, I stood over my toilet on the phone with Lauren:

“Lauren, so what would happen if I stop taking the birth control pills?”

Soliciting medical advice from my friend who is taking pre-veterinarian classes, of course as I am popping the pills out of their blisters.

“I don’t know Shannon. Maybe you should speak to your gyno about that. I don’t think that is the best thing to do, to stop the pill mid-pack.”

“Fuck it,” the pills are at the bottom of the toilet, “I am flushing these fuckers down the toilet.”

“Shannon, just call your gyno…”

The toilet flushes.

“Shannon, you just did it didn’t you?”

I laugh, that guilty admission.

“It’s like dealing with a small child. Telling them don’t don’t, and you they do it anyway.”

“Yup.”

“You know, you could have just thrown them into the trash, you did not have to flush them down the toilet.”

“But it is so much more dramatic. There is something very final about watching shit sucked down the toilet, the flush adding dramatic emphasis that you just can’t find in closing the lid of a trash can.”

“You have a point.”

Much like most of the repercussions from my impulsiveness throughout my life, I have no idea what is going to happen. I do, then deal with the consequences later.

Much like this post, I know you readers are tired of hearing about my uterus. So I promise, this is my last mention of birth control. Unless I have a funny drunk story about a glow in the dark condom and an abnormally shaped penis.

However, I would like to draw the reader’s attention to the fact that today I did not take my birth control pill. And this post is much much better than the normal shit I have posted this week. Coincidence? I think not!

Monday I move into my new apartment six blocks away from my surrogate big brother Harald. I am so fucking excited. Emotional crutch that is within walking distance!

A Writer's Process

2006-07-27T16:45:00.000-04:00

So re-reading some of my latest stuff and I am realizing that it isn't that great. It appears that I lost the voice that has taken me the last year to cultivate.

At first I was alarmed, I mean, what the fuck do I have left without my writer's voice? Some dumb drunk stories, me hyperbolizing a yuppie's life, and throwing out an "elephant in the room" question? But then I thought about what a professor of mine told me in college, she said, "It's just as you feel like you are in over your head, that you make your greatest leap of growth." And she is right.

Going back over the last week's posts my writing style has changed a bit. I am making my foray into longer form. I've tried to expand upon the story, write about other people besides myself, try to make the scenes more robust and less pontifications--all part of my growth and desire to become a writer. Some parts work, while others don't. And it's part of the process of me pushing myself. Some of my stuff is going to sink, especially as I see this blog, not as a means for talent agents to notice me, because that's like moving to NYC and hoping to get discovered on the streets of Fifth Ave, but as a forum to refine my voice and receive reader feedback. The market researcher in me rearing it's ugly head. When our powers combine...But, this is by no means a solicitation for suggestions of what to write. I am funnier on my own. Unless you are my wife, and then we are like an American female Albert & Costello. Except with booze and old men buying us shit.

So, please bear with me. Feel free to throw in some feedback, i.e. what parts do you wish I expanded upon, which parts was I too wordy-- how my posts not written with four hours of sleep are the best. You know, don't just tell me that I suck, but rather why. Hoyt, feel free to jump in on this one.

I'm excited. I'm right now doing something that I have always dreamed of doing--how many people can say that they have done that? Well, once I move out of my shit hole apartment. I haven't done a lick of writing the treatment yet. But doesn't it sound great, "I'm a writer!"

I'm a pill on "The Pill"

2006-07-26T23:47:00.000-04:00

I am a walking contradiction. I have no problem poisoning my body, with massive quantities of booze—I’ve even thrown weekend get togethers called ‘Liver Damage [Insert Year]’--or smoking so many cigarettes in a given night that I am blowing black soot out of my nose, and I would like to remind the reader my fixation with diet coke. In the name of experimentation I’ve thrown powder up my nose, pills into the back of my throat and smoked something laced with an ‘I’m not sure’. I am no stranger to putting crap into my body.

So when I sat down and spoke to my gyno a few weeks ago and told him about some girly issues (I know a majority of my readers are guys so, I’ll spare you the details) he suggested I go on birth control pills. When he said that, I balked. There was no way that I was going to put a chemical into my body that doesn't make me feel less anxious, happier, feels sexy, some how ease my stress, or make me lose weight. Secondly, I know far too many women who’ve been transformed by “The Pill”—and not in the way my feminist sisters promised of sexual revolutionaries. I’ve watched perfectly brilliant, capable, STABLE women become absolute psychos crying at the drop of a hat, engage in hypo-manic fits and heard horror stories of the weight gain. Craving an extra large Hershey’s cannot be good for you, even if it is 85% dark chocolate.

When I voiced my concerns about the weight gain issue, because let’s be real, that is the only one that actually matters, he told me that not all pills cause weight gain. And he jarred my memory. Evidently, according to the tv commercials, Yasmin is known to actually help you lose a few pounds.

All of my neo-hypocritical hippy shit went out the window. Honestly, treating my [insert girly issue] didn’t fucking matter. It’s a pain but not that bothersome. However, there is the pesky freshman fifteen that I have not managed to lose yet—and I am three years out of college. Theoretically, could I sit on my fat ass as the weight magically disappeared? Plus, wishful thinking, if I found a guy, I could actually *gasp* possibly have sex with him without a condom and not think about baby names the next day.

And, the most important reason—I would lose weight!

Fucking sign my ass up! I am going to take advantage of all that my feminist predecessors fought so hard for.

Even if I still haven’t read the Feminist Mystique.

So I went on “The Pill”.

On the first day, I was at my parent’s house and took “The Pill”. Within an hour I felt a leg cramp. Evidently, this is a common side effect from what I have been researching on the internet. I did not know this at the time.

My mother, who has no idea that I started birth control, starts to talk about a friend of the family who developed a blood clot and passed away that weekend. I immediately think to myself, “Oh my God, a good CATHOLIC woman who was probably not on birth control developed a blood clot and me, a potential whore of Babylon is taking “The Pill” which is known to increase the risks of blood clots.”

“So, she was in their home, and started to complain of a sharp pains in her leg,” my mom said.

The cramp in my leg gets even stronger.

“And she lost feeling in her leg,” she continued.

My calf begins to feel a bit numb.

“So her son told her to hop into the car, and as they were driving to the hospital, she died. Isn’t that awful, Shannon?”

My face goes white, but I can’t tell my mom why I am so freaked out.

“Mom, I have a sharp shooting pain in my leg, do you think that could be a blood clot?” I abruptly change the subject to me.

“Shannon, of course not! Stop the crap! But isn’t that such an awful way to die? Just as her son was driving her to the hospital. It’s such a pity. You will never find a nicer woman than her.”

Now readers, I would like to interject and disrupt the flow of the story to really impart the fear and anxiety that I was experiencing at that moment. Not only do I suffer from hypochondria (ask me about the sunflower seed incident and my “allergy” to nuts), and severe anxiety issues and am prone to bouts of depression when I am not in my normal manic state but, I also I have this incredible fear of sudden death. Like, when I am extra stressed, I will actually lay awake some nights, not allowing myself to go to sleep because I am afraid that I won’t wake up.

I flip out and start to pace back and forth in my living room, thinking I was going to die.

Here it is, this kind Jesus loving, altruistic, compassionate, prime example of Christian living suddenly died from a blood clot, for an undetermined reason. I, on the other hand, a harlot who renounced Jesus in college, who supposedly went on the pill for [insert girly problem] but really went on it because of a secret desire to experience condom-less sex at the Ox, had severe leg cramps. Plus I kept touching the back of my calf and pacing back and forth and thinking I had the beginning of a blood clot.

And just as I was about to launch into a panic attack, I had one of the most severe urges to take a nap that I had ever felt, overcome by pure lethargy.

I fell asleep on the couch and awoke to intense nausea.

This continues into the next day. I stay at my parent’s house overnight because being close to my mommy is the only thing that will bring relief—even though she doesn’t know the true reason why I am so clingy and want to hang out with her.

In my sick anxious world, only her presence can ward off any bad that I have coming to me.

The next day, I start to feel a bit better, and with my nerves subsiding I plan to head back into the city that night. Anyway, the real reason why I need to head back that night is that she’s starting to get on my nerves by hour number thirty-six. However, as good as I was feeling at home, thinking that the worst of it had passed, the nausea comes back (now I know why everyone loses weight—they can’t eat!). And on the train, I still feel tired, but on the bright side I am no longer afraid of the blood clots anymore. I think the Grim Reaper only had it out for non-sinners that week.

So eleven days later, I still feel like shit. Doing research to see if I am “normal” via internet chat rooms and other ill-moderated sources of (mis) information, I see a lot of my symptoms are side effects of “The Pill”. That makes me feel better. I know it isn’t just in my head or my hypochondria kicking in. However, I see a fucking disturbing trend as I am conducting my highly unscientific anecdotal research—almost all of the women comment about the side effect of lack of sex drive.

Wait a fucking minute. It has to be an anomaly, right? I mean, why the fuck would a woman go on a birth control pill that is only going to end up killing her libido?! I mean, if I am going to throw shit into my body, I want a positive affect. ORGASMS! Who the hell could live without an orgasm!? Isn’t that why women go on the pill anyway (well outside medical purposes) so they can fuck with abandon?! But oh no, it appears to be a common side effect. What kind of sick anti-woman pharmaceutical industry are we held captive by where it is a perfectly ok side effect that my libido is shot!?

But, despite the lack of wanting to fuck, the nausea, the lethargy, and overall yuckiness that I am feeling right now from this fucking revolutionary spoil, is because of the listed manufacturer’s side effect that it exacerbates depression and anxiety. After reading this, I think you understand that I have enough anxiety manufactured in my own fucked up psyche that I do not need some chemical to help induce what I already over-produce.

Especially going off to the Ox in the next two month, and the stress of all of my illusions of grandeur, there is no way that I am not going to miss that side effect. Considering how I am getting all of the other ones. Remembering the shit I went through in college how I almost had to go on meds and needing to take a semester off, I’m afraid of going through it again. Especially since my family, the only thing that grounds me, would be a seven hour flight away.

It’s just not fucking worth it. Even if the positive side effect is weight loss.

So, I am flushing my pills down the toilet.

After I talk to the doctor tomorrow about switching to a different brand.

The Iffy post is back up

2006-07-26T12:51:00.000-04:00

It’s becoming a nightly ritual for me. I listen to my body and give into the pangs of exhaustion, only to sit in my bed for three hours watching mindless TV, imprisoned once again by insomnia. I don’t know if any of you have ever suffered from it long term. To go a few nights without a good night’s sleep leaves you tired, kinda out of it, but more or less functional. You probably couldn’t go drinking with your office mates (or to the free ad world parties) after a night with literally a few hours of sleep, but the lack of sleep proves only to be an inconvenience instead of an actual health detriment. Now, the kind that I am currently afflicted with, however, isn’t your run of the mill ‘I can’t sleep so I’ll read or write out a list of what is bothering me’ bullshit. It’s more in line with fucked-upness of Fight Club, with the nights without sleep becoming consecutive jabs landing perfect shots on my already frail psyche.

I am on day number six without sleep. The most I have been able to sleep through the night has been about four hours, when I finally fell asleep at 6am on Sunday morning and awoke by 10am--that same day. I want to go to sleep in the worst possible way but I can’t.

What keeps me up at night is anxiety. Worry. The hypothetical what-ifs scenarios that could never come true, but in the world where I am currently living, somewhere between being awake and that lucid dream state, they are able to find some sort of traction. My current anxiety stems around Oxford, how I got into a shitty college and how my crap placement is going to affect my life over there. How my fabulous sexy reinvention into my version of a grown-up is being momentarily derailed because of this insomnia and addiction to Zen Soy pudding—I devoured an entire carton of four today. What can I say, it goes fucking great with Montell figuring out who’s the baby’s daddy.

All I want is to feel the same sense of comfort that my mother’s reassurance provided me when I was younger. How she was always right about everything, always knew the correct answer, and there was nothing that she couldn’t protect me from.

As I lay in bed, flipping through the channels, I ran across a rerun of Pee Wee’s playhouse. I adored that show when I was younger, so with a morbid curiosity, I watched it. I was somewhat a bit scared that by watching it as an adult I would question why I ever liked such a lamely written show, but I couldn’t resist the trip down memory lane, especially since I was in the mood for comfort.

And the show did suck. Within thirty seconds of watching it, I was ready to flip the channel to the E! but then I realized which episode it was. The French toast episode! Now, I know for a lot of you this is making no sense, but this episode taught me at an early age how I was not meant for the kitchen and also how my mother is always right, in the blind adoration that only a six year old could muster.

In the episode, with his normal gay fan fare, Pee Wee teaches the kids at home how to make French toast. When I saw that episode when I was like six or so, I remember being transfixed on the idea that soaking bread in egg and milk produces this magical soft sweet pancake like substance. I wanted French toast. Since I wanted French toast, my siblings also wanted French toast. And since Pee Wee was at the tail end of Saturday morning cartoons, aka we already ate breakfast, there was no chance for the French toast.

I never did well with structure. Even if it en parentas sanctioned.

I led my siblings into the kitchen where we went to create our own French toast. In went many slices of bread into the toaster. The ones who could walk, rummaged through the fridge on a quest for syrup and within the two minutes of the toast coming out of the toaster, all four of us had our plates piled high with toast, soaked in syrup, our version of French toast. However, biting into our creation, it didn’t taste like French toast. My siblings all looked towards me for the answer. I went to mommy.

“Shannon, you need to cook the bread not toast it. Toast doesn’t mean French toast,” explained my mom.

It was there that I discovered she had all the answers to my world.

Sitting in bed right now, anxious about the next few months, knowing that I need to clean out an apartment, debating whether I should COBRA my health insurance, sick with worry, fear, guilt and other anxieties that exist only in my head as products of my interface with the outside world. But she doesn’t have answers to these problems. And not because my maturity has taught me that she is fallible or any other pseudo Freud stuff. She doesn’t have all of the answers because I don’t tell her everything.

Like, how do you explain to your mother that you think your birth control pills are making you sick?

So I leave that part out of the story. And she gives me an answer that makes no sense, i.e. my tiredness is from stress and that I need to stop running myself ragged. Then I get snippy and tell her that she has the same response for everything, how she is always out to prove the same point, that she needs to start to treat me like a grown-up. And as my voice gets more curt from my frustration, I just wish I could tell her what is really eating away at me. What I am really worried about. How I am afraid of this little pill that I take at 12:15 every day. How dating in NYC has left me a bit nuts and with high expectations for Oxford. That my “dates” consist of make-outs in bars, no commitments, and the ignore button on my cell phone. How my life is far more complicated than I let on.

I wish I could tell her that I would love to hear her life experience because I think I could relate and find wisdom in her past, but if only she wasn’t my mother.

All I want is her comfort and yet I stand in the way because, despite my desire for her to recognize me as her adult daughter, I have to acknowledge that I am still her child.

The contradiction of being an adult.

An Observation

2006-07-26T04:34:00.000-04:00

This insomnia has to fucking go. It's affecting my writing and making me sound sad and too obvious. Below is a post from that releam. But hey, now you get an idea what I actually think.

Was going to write a funny post about the crackhead I live with, but, insomnia and moving is making it difficult for me to channel my happy, funny, yea! side.

I am so exhausted right now as I type, that I feel drunk.

Sorry for the shit posting. You know I'm trying.

Why does blogger hate me?

2006-07-25T10:35:00.001-04:00

For the last few days seems like nobody can log into my blog.

Is this still the apartment's curse??

Why does blogger hate me?

2006-07-25T10:35:00.000-04:00

For the last few days seems like nobody can log into my blog.

Is this still the apartment's curse??

An ode to the apartment I hated

2006-07-25T03:04:00.000-04:00

I have never felt more at peace in this apartment than I do right now. The bathroom is almost cleaned out, it just needs a scrub down. My hippie friends are picking up all the kitchen shit tomorrow so they can cook their happy vegan food. John is picking up the remaining furniture in a few days and my dad or brother, whoever I can guilt the easiest, is picking up the stuff that is off into storage at my parent’s house. The rest of my shit is being sold or thrown out in the next few days as well. If I play all of my cards right, I’ll be sleeping on the floor of an empty apartment by Thursday afternoon.

And it isn’t because I am strapped for cash and need to raise funds to pay for food, skim lattes and pubic hair waxing. I actually enjoy living as sparse as possible. Being a naturally messy person, the only fool proof way of me being able to keep anything clean is to have as little shit as possible. Some would say that it prevents me from being sentimental, and yes, I probably don’t have that beautifully written card that you sent me three years ago, but I could also pack up my belongings within three hours if need be. And knowing my history with moving, three-four addresses a year for the last seven years, it means a lot to me than the Hallmark card. Sorry.

To be perfectly honest, I love moving. There is nothing more soul satisfying than taking mess and clutter and throwing out 90% of crap so all that remains are two suitcases and a box, and the echo of an empty room. I love the idea that all of this crap that ties me to this place disappears and I have my freedom. Because, quoting Fight Club, after a while your stuff begins to own you.

Getting rid of 75% of my wardrobe, selling off all of my furniture, and cleaning the apartment out of anything that said I lived here is therapeutic. It means that I get a clean break from the mess of a year I’ve had and instead have a clean slate to begin anew. The fact that I am getting rid of a lot of my shit from college has a lot of significance—by holding onto that stuff of the ratty sweatshirts, the dumb t-shirts, the old CDs, I was trying to hold onto a naiveté and delay this idea of “growing up”. And much like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, I woke up somewhere between a funeral and finding out my acceptance to grad school that I’ve already been there all along this crazy journey of heartache, shitty job, friendships changing, crappy roommate and of course the over priced cursed apartment.

So, out with the ill-fitting clothes, the books that I’ve read but not really liked, a computer that I’ve had sitting around for three years because within the next few months I’m rebuilding. I want to take full advantage of the fact that I will be able to reinvent myself into the person that has been underneath all of this self-doubt, worried over the “supposed to-s”, trying to be like this ideal of “should”.

And all of this starts with me sleeping on the floor of the bedroom that is no longer mine on July 31. How fucking cool is that?

Poverty--The LI Way

2006-07-24T13:34:00.000-04:00

As much as I talked shit about my job at the agency, and complained how bored I was there, the fact is I was spoiled. Lunches at least once a week at a place I could never afford on my own (by the way Country is totally over-hyped), getting free spa treatments in the name of building relationships with vendors, and of course we can’t forget summers in the ad world—cocktail parties almost every night of the week, (yes free booze) and invites to the MSN/Yahoo/Google Hamptons summer house. The only people who live as well as media planners are the wives of I-bankers and the mistresses who will actually suck their dick without jewelry acting as an incentive.

When I quit my job to work on this “book treatment”, I knew I was giving up my salary and health insurance. But, living off of ramen and praying that I don’t get sick for a few months is worth it for me to give it a go on my quest for fame and fortune. Those of you that know me, would totally agree that I am too eccentric to live in this world without the behavioral carte blanch that celebrity brings. So, with my stereotypically Jewish overbearing mother acting as my financial guru, we came up with a plan. I would take my exotic vacation money, and spend the summer in the city writing full-time. It would mean a tight budget that I’d have to adhere to, especially since I need to buy a brand new wardrobe for the Ox, but it had to be done. I finally got to the point of growing tired of my bullshit whining, “I work too many hours to write anything!”, “I just want to be famous!!”. Like seriously, if I want this bad enough, I need to take a risk and just fucking do it already.

So, let’s see how great that experiment worked, shall we? In the saga of Shannon last week, where my true abilities were supposed to be showcased as I didn’t have a job that zapped all of my creative energy, we have my Keynesian worthy bitch about the British exchange rate. Followed by a wonderfully poignant post about the pain of my mole removal; the post was so brilliantly succinct that three sentences truly communicated the frustration of limited mobility in this modern rush rush rush world. And let’s not forget the greatest post of all time, where I ramble about how depressed I am and you get a glimpse into the crazy that I keep tucked away.

I’m fucking channeling Hemingway.

Let’s be straight up with each other about what this blog really is. I’m an exhibitionist who gets intellectually off sharing my observations about the absurdities of modern life. You are voyeurs, watching a train wreck of over indulgence that makes you the slightest bit envious of my crazy life when I am doing the cool shit (aka making fun of B list celebs to their faces) but totally relieved that you grew out of this behavior when I chronicle my fuck-ups. It’s a symbiotic relationship of emotional co-dependence—like we both know this isn’t the healthiest but nobody is really getting hurt. Well, maybe just my professional prospects, as half of my old company know about the blog by now.

But take away that excessive living, and what am I left with? If the tax codes were a bit more liberal in this country, I could probably justify the bottles of champagne, the packs of Marlboro lights, and the expensive dinners as business expenses. Because, rereading last week’s posts, I am realizing the role of those experiential distractions that filled my former life.

Without access to those experiences via money and industry perks, what the fuck do I have left to write about? Money provides access and freedom to do, to make, to create, to take time off and try to write something. Genteel poverty is only so humorous until your sister who makes just above that line takes you out for dinner. It’s by throwing back the seventh martini, dancing on the table at a strip club, watching white powder go up someone’s nose that makes me realize just how fucked up life must be if we need something to help us escape both the drudgery of our lives and of ourselves.

But I have no escape hatch in this grand plan. And once again I over estimated the strength of my character. According to the Shannon method of self-induced poverty it’s perfectly acceptable to go without health insurance while taking a twelve dollar round trip train ride to Great Neck because, “the city is stifling me”, proceed cheer myself up with manis and pedis, as my dinner from Wild Ginger digests from the night before. And of course working within three blocks of two great espresso places, I developed a four dollar a day skim latte habit that I have just not been able to shake.

It’s weird to think of myself on this tight budget, even with money in the bank and one week left of my health insurance. But my life is beginning to let me know just how the other half lives:

Medical Care: My dentist went to Harvard. My gyno teaches at NYU medical center. I have comprehensive health insurance that allows me to visit any specialist I think I may need without the referral from a MD. Basically, I’m covered pretty well with access to some pretty good doctors. The kind that would not be found at a free clinic.

I think I have touched upon the mole saga enough and you are all caught up to speed. What I didn’t mention, is how the dermatologist is not charging me for my follow up appointment to cut out the stitches and see how the wound is healing for both removals as my health insurance runs out August first, and the stitches come out on both the third and the thirteenth.

I’ve become a charity case for a dermatologist on Park Avenue.

Food: I was a burgeoning foodie before I got this job. Hanging out with older rich married/unmarried men exposed me to the high end life. Bottles of champagne, excellent restaurants, the beauty of desert wine at the end of a meal. Shit that the average asshole, such as myself, couldn’t afford on her own salary. One week into it being unemployed and living modestly, and I miss great food. I would miss excellent wine too if I didn’t have these fucking anti-biotics that I need to pop to prevent an infection. However, being a creative type with a strong sense of imagination, I found a way for me to deal. Menupages.com A website that lists menus online for most of the restaurants in NYC.

With my dinner of canned soup, I hop onto my bed. Shut off the tv. Pick a cuisine for the evening. Last night, it was Babbo. And I read the menu as I spoon healthy choice chicken noodle soup into my mouth. If you slowly read the menu and imagine every taste that the dish describes, it’s a pretty decent dining experience. Without leaving my bed I’ve “eaten” at Ivo and Lulu’s, Le Bernadin, Café Boulud, and Babbo among many others.

It’s getting to the point, however, where I can tell this isn’t going to cut it. So, my back up plan is to buy a fifteen dollar cubic zirconia ring at Icing or one of those teeny bopper jewelry stores and visit various caterers as I plan my “wedding” *nudge*wink*.

Maintenance: Nothing screams class act than walking into Mani/Pedi places in Great Neck asking them, “How much?” and walking out if they price quoted more than twenty dollars. Price comparing manis and pedis. What’s next, I begin to wax my own pubic hair?

But much like those mastercard commercials, it’s priceless that I can make up my own hours, do something that I truly love, and spend beautiful days outside. So, once I am done with my errands to clear up the Oxford fiasco (for some reason they don’t believe me when I said I had money in the bank), I’m off to Central Park to read, walk around, and let my mind wonder. Packing the apartment is on hold, because when days like today role around, you have to spend it outside.

After being held hostage by grey skies and rain for an entire weekend, ability to spend a beautiful sunny day outside in Central Park—priceless.

How I spend my day

2006-07-22T17:59:00.000-04:00

In my bordom and fit of restlessness, I walked across the Brooklyn Bridge. It's one of my favorite places in the city and at night, when it's clear, you have a spectacular view of the skyline.

The Manhattan Bridge from the Brooklyn Bridge.

The entrance to the Brooklyn Bridge.

The picture that everyone gets.

Wow, I am so fucking bored and am suffering from some of the worst writer's block I have ever encountered.

It's not going too well

2006-07-22T14:26:00.000-04:00

It seems that the summers have it out for me. Last summer I had meningitis and had a stint in hotel LIJ for a week. As if losing my life to a week of wheel chair races and rediscoveries why I can’t take any form of pain killers wasn’t enough, I wasn’t able to drink for a few weeks afterwards. Evidently the antibiotics that they give you to kill off a possible deadly bacteria fucks with your liver pretty badly. And considering that I told the doctor the truth about my drinking habits, they really didn’t believe that I understood the concept of moderation.

This summer, the curse continues.

My parent’s ancestry is on the opposite sides of Europe. While my mother’s family hid in potato baskets during the pogroms in Russia, my father’s family wished for some potatoes to eat. Dad is a fair-skinned red head and mom is a dark haired Jew. In the gene pool lottery, I got my mother’s dark hair/light eyes combo, big boobs, and cheek bones. My dad’s side gave me my drinking problem, a non-Jew nose, and, strong jaw line and my pale skin. Being that I run out of health insurance on July 31 for an indefinite period of time, I played doomsday scenario—got checked out for every little thing that may pose a health problem to me later. This landed me in the dermatologist’s chair. And of course it comes back that two of my moles are pre-cancerous.

It sounds a lot more serious than what it really is. Basically, two of my moles could become a problem for me later on. Now, how much later? Nobody really knows, it’s kind of a guessing game. As I told the dermatologist that I run out of my health insurance in about two weeks, without any plans to COBRA it nor any idea when I will be insured again, he recommended that we cut out both of the moles. Being a hypochondriac without health insurance in two weeks, I agreed with his suggestion.

One of the moles was a tiny speck underneath my armpit. Literally right on the joint. I could deal with the six shots to numb the area, being awake as he cut it out, and then smelling my skin burn as he cauterized the wound. I almost fainted, but, in the end I was a brave little soldier. In the care instructions, it comes out that I cannot move the area or else I run the risk of rupturing one of the stitches. This is difficult as I have to move out of my apartment within ten days and have become quite the exercise junkie because, heading my father’s advice, “If you drop a bit more weight, you’d definitely find a rich man at Oxford”.

So, at the moment, I am helpless and have not raised my arm since Thursday when he cut it out. My hair styles have been interesting. I’m packing up my apartment using only my right hand as I need to be out by July 31. And as I sleep completely stretched out in my bed, I’ve had to modify my sleep position. As a result I haven’t slept in about three days. Considering that my bouts of depression are triggered by lack of scheduled sleep and being away from people, I’m teetering on a very fine line. I spent Friday night calling my mother crying and telling her how I am convinced nobody loves me and how alone I feel.

I’m re-reading this blog post and realizing how shitty it is. I blame this on lack of sleep. Hence why I have not begun to work on my book treatment yet. I think it would be forty pages of reasons why I am convinced nobody loves me and other paranoid dillusional thoughts.

I am so exhausted and emotionally drained from not sleeping through the night, that I feel kinda drunk right now. Not the happy Shannon drunk where I dance, strip, and drunk dial people and tell them that I love them, but that nutty sad drunk where I walk that fine of needing anti-depressants and needing to call my friends so I could listen to them breathe so I don’t think that I am alone.

I am so tired. Anyway, so the punchline: I can’t drink for twenty days as I have to take prophylactic antibiotics to prevent an infection. And once this one heals, I have the next mole ten days later. So, no drinking for twenty days. I would be able to deal with all this if I could at least exercise. But I cant even do that. So I go on long slow meandering walks and am starving myself in the mean time.

Damn do I sound shitty right now. Ugh, no wonder why nobody is returning my phone calls.

In all seriousness, this post is better than me writing about my first period. And to my work buddies who are reading this, yea. Duh, I miss the office. I never thought I would ever say that.

I am tempted to flee. Too bad I need to pack up my apartment.

Oh my God, I am done writing for the day, I sound like a complete nut job. I mean, not even dancing around in my stripper shoes can make me feel better right now. You know it's bad.

Hurt

2006-07-20T18:18:00.000-04:00

Dr cut out a mole from my underarm today. Can't move my arm nor type.

I am in pain.

Don't expect a post until the weekend, although all i want to do is write.

Getting my God smack

2006-07-17T07:55:00.000-04:00

Readers,

Did any of you Google the exchange rate from US dollars to British pounds?

$1.831 PER FUCKING POUND.

In layman's terms: my one dollar is equal to .55 over there. So imagine NYC prices, but attach a pound sign.

I am mortgaging my future. I am mortgaging myself. After this whole thing, I will be an additional $40K in debt, in addition to my undergrad loans. And all I will have to show for it is another degree, pushed to the back of my closet and another notch added to my educational pedigree. Down girl, heel, stay, and try not to scare people off with your leftist opinions.

Off to Long Island today to go over student loan information with mommy and try to understand all the different ways that the federal government and private lenders will allow me to go into debt. YEA!!

If I don't meet my Oxford husband, I am going to be one poor angry girl, emphasis on poor people. And congratulations to my dearest friend Pete who got into Cambridge. Now I can tear up two prestigious schools and develop a reputation with all of the Eton boys! I mean, someone of the landed gentry must find a busty red head with the slightest long island accent only when she drinks sexy?

Maybe I was to quick to dismiss the boy from Wisconsin, I mean, didn't someone say that he owned his own home?

My newest obsession

2006-07-14T14:59:00.000-04:00

I have listened to this song like, literally, eight times.

I am so motherfuckingly excited about this movie.

Also, if anyone knows where I can pick up the leather jacket that she wears in the video...tell me!

A letter to my liver

2006-07-14T08:38:00.000-04:00

Dear Liver,

Fuck you.

I hope last night taught you a lesson.

Your unappreciative host,
Shannon

Summer of Eurotrash 2006

It's never too late...

2006-07-13T06:38:00.000-04:00

I'm not just writing this because I found out over drinks with my co-workers that they all know about my blog, account director included. I guess it's great that I got into the Ox, because I don't know if I ever had that promotion coming. Having co-workers know about your blog also destroys any stories that I wanted to share at the table, because they've already read about your antics the morning before.

Well, except the one about our family not getting invited to my brother's engagement party, and how the bride to be tried to kick me out of the wedding party. That was fun, sitting in a nice restaurant, drunk from the after work drinks had on an empty stomach, working on cocktail number three, as a glass of wine (great choice by the way) sits to the right of my plate, next to the twenty-nine dollar entree as I am sprinkling the "c-word" a bit too liberally and loudly. I just fucking call it like I see it. And that is a pretty cunt thing to do--not invite my family, but whatever, I digress.

I'm a bit hungover as I type this, not to the point where I will spend the morning running to the bathroom standing over the toilet, and praying that someone will not walk into the bathroom and find my feet facing the other way. But, hungover in that it was a small price to pay for such an awesome evening.

As I am getting ready to leave a job that I both loved because of the perks and prestige of working for the company yet hated because I had to be the worst assistant media planner on the planet, I learned a valuable lesson: my co-workers are pretty fucking cool. That and someone will leak the link to the account director. But I am sure that it was inevitable and think about it, don't you want someone in management knowing how you've vomited on a guy's penis? There is the guaranteed humility that is necessary when working in any industry. But, seriously, I'm sad that it took me a year of working and drinks on the night before I leave to find out that I was sitting under a goldmine of awesome people. I don't think I've laughed that much without my MoHos. Ever.

So, I like my co-workers. I am actually sad to leave my job. I probably said too much at dinner, just like everyone else. If only I had a blue shirt and khaki pants, I might pass as buying into the whole corporate thing right now.

And tonight is the good-bye extravaganza, senior management included in the good-bye festivities as well as drinks provided by a vendor until midnight. Isn't it ironic that they were trying to fire me six months ago, and now I am getting a good bye fete? It's pretty good representation of my life and relationships with people.

Prince charming's been scared off

2006-07-11T22:32:00.000-04:00

There was an interesting book review in the Atlantic about how young women aren’t saving for their retirement in the same way that men are. The book proposes, that as women take control of their finances, it’s an admission that the knight in shining armor is not coming and we have only ourselves to ensure our rescue. Hence, many women are reluctant to give up that fantasy in the form of investing in their 401K. I mean, never mind you want to create a nest egg that both you and your knight could share—but I guess that would be an admission that there is a flaw in your hero, and the fairy tale ending becomes more DreamWorks (Shrek) than Disney (Sleeping Beauty).

So in my quest for my knight, a dinner companion, hell, even someone who I don’t have to drink five martinis with in order to be their company, has left me kissing more frogs than I could imagine. Just when I get to the brink of my frustration, and I am relieved to see the semblance of a form of royalty emerge where I lay upon my kiss, I wake up and next to a warty toad. I thought he was a prince because of last night’s combination of alcohol and endorphins, as well as desperation to believe in something. I think I am getting close to that admission of defeat, but the healthy one. On par with those women who begin to deposit money into their 401K for the first time at age thirty. I mean, I have to be prepared when my prince and his horse both show up infected with hoof and mouth disease.

In my drunken social experiment that I pulled with my friend James last night, both of us so emotionally shot from the week’s events, that we needed to be reminded of the depths of depravity of the human condition. We posted an ad on craigslist, “Fuck me on Daddy’s Dime”, the tale of a rich hot ivy educated ex-Div I lacrosse player who wanted to be treated like a slut. Asking for pics, of course because she, doesn’t “fuck uglies.” Within, literally, three minutes we received about twenty responses. And as we pounded more beer, the emails kept coming. We got the requisite dick pics, and of course the ugly fat guys who wank in their basements. But that is standard. I expected the freaks to come out of hiding and proudly send me a head shot along with a dick pic. But what really got me, were the responses from guys who my mom wished I dated. The clean cut guys, smiling broadly while fishing with friends, or at the beach with their family. The “normal” guys sent over snap shots of themselves on vacation and at celebrations as they don’t need the cover of grainy web cam pics.

But, let’s think about that one for a moment, shall we? Men, with their tanned faces, smiling broadly into the camera, resembling family photos that you yourself own, proclaiming Ivy degrees and the coinciding jobs in finance, are trolling Casual Encounters and responding to an ad titled, “Fuck me on Daddy’s Dime.” These “catches” write emails telling me how they want to use their dicks in my (plural) orifices, and one randy over zealous chap offered to use my chest as a commode.

Fucking freaks.

But that’s what throws me for a loop. Honestly, if I met any of these clean cut guys who responded to the ad in a bar or at a friend’s dinner party, I would definitely accept an invitation for dinner from them. With casual encounters offering a glimpse into their seemingly normal minds, it appears that it’s more difficult to spot the guys who will secretly think about giving you a chocolate milk enema, as you trail off on a tangent about why American welfare reform policy doesn’t address the root cause of poverty—lack of access to social networks. Not only do I have to think about how I am going to woo members of the opposite sex, but now I have to be on guard and be on the look out for signs that they are worthy of being wooed. As if dating isn’t anxiety producing enough.

And our neurosis doesn’t stop at wondering if the guy who just picked up the dinner tab is secretly into sex clubs like Le Trapeze or trolls craigslist casual encounters after he drops you on your door step and kisses you goodnight. Even my friends in non-craigslist affected cities still find dating harrowing.

Take my friend, Jessica. A perpetual single girl, she resigned her desire to find mr right. “It’s either the freaks or weirdos who like me!” she would exclaim after creepy guy number forty-seven hit on her at a club. She gave up. Predictably, not long after giving up, a friendship took a turn for the romantic and she finds herself in a relationship. “This is one of the healthiest things I’ve ever been in!” She is quite proud of herself to snag such a great guy and to also have sex on a regular basis with a penis connected to a body as opposed to a remote control. This isn’t the only first that Jessica has experienced because of this relationship—she’s also recently filled a prescription for valium.

“I can’t explain it. When we are together, things are amazing, I know he likes me. It’s only where we are apart or haven’t spoken for a few days, that it somehow starts to go to shit,” Jessica confided to me. “I feel crazy when I’m not around him, what happens if he finds someone else? If in that time period we are apart, he stops being interested in me?”

It’s a common phenomena that I have been seeing with a lot of my friends, and myself included. Perhaps as products of the cell phone generation, we haven’t been able to develop our emotional self-sufficiency. And any that we learned prior to the mass-marketing of cell phones, we’ve forgotten. Modern technology has not only stunted our athletic prowess but our emotional growth as well. When I am in a crisis, I reach for my cell phone and scroll down the list of my phone book, looking for someone to call upon in my hour of emotional support need. When confronted with a relationship, the kind that consumes your thoughts and mood for the day, not only do we need immediate emotional gratification but we need it from the object of our intimacy, the counterpart to the relationship. When we are forced to go without that, anxiety occurs, meds are consumed, and the switchboard lights up—looking for anyone to act as a pacifier until the real deal becomes available.

“That fucking jerk was supposed to call me three hours ago…wait a sec.” The incoming phone number is checked, “Hey, that’s [insert guy’s name] on the other line. Thanks so much for listening to me!” As the tear is wiped from the cheek. Sniffle. Smile. Do everything, to prevent him from knowing that you just went through a touch of the crazy.

Press call waiting button to go back to the guy.

“Hi [insert guy’s name]! Oh, I was supposed to call you back? No worries, it was just a mis-communication. But hey, I am actually at a gallery opening with a friend,” walking into the Korean deli to buy a diet Snapple, “can I give you a call back later tonight?”

By kissing all of those frogs, it’s hard to disconnect their lingering slime upon our lips with what we see before our eyes. . So even if the prince does emerge, we stand in disbelief, unsure if the person there is really him or a warty toad, yet another result of the combination of endorphin high that lust brings and our own pathetic desire to believe in something. Until we know for sure, we continue to run back through the forest, consulting other stories, and trying to figure out which ending this tale will bring.

The real reason why I am single

2006-07-11T01:47:00.000-04:00

Ok, so the responses to my faux Craigslist Casual Encounter....

Some of them are hot.

Some of them I would actually date.

But they are responding to an ad called [haven't you figured it out yet?!]

Men in this city suck, well actually lick.

But seriously, this is why I am single. The hot boys are responding to CL looking for a girl on casual encounters.

I've had it. I am a lesbian.

Fun with Casual Encounters!

2006-07-11T01:17:00.000-04:00

Ever read craigslist casual encounters?! Well, a six pack and a slumber party with James of the LES, we're having fun posting!

Evidently I am a 24 yr old looking to get fucked. HA HA. If only they read on this blog how I am a cocktease :)

Reminds me when I was 13 and how my friend and I fucked around on the Night Exchange, this party line of old men looking for dates, visit the Dunkin Donuts looking for a hot 19 yr old. One night we decided to see who showed up, and Danielle and I ended up running through a parking lot at night because we were being chased by some disgruntled men. How I learned to run in heels 101--when my life and virginity depended upon it.

I fucking love prank phone calls.

Readers, try to figure which craigslist casual encounters ad I posted.

Six pack and getting drunk. It was a fucking awful day.

Summer Luvin'

2006-07-10T00:21:00.000-04:00

Rollerbladed for three hours and kyacked in the Hudson river today. Boxing class yesterday and rollerbladed up the West side of NYC. I'm tired and can barely keep my eyes open as I type.

I love feeling physcially exhausted from playing in the sun for a weekend.

Restlessness

2006-07-07T23:51:00.000-04:00

I feel that restlessness that is a result of loneliness right now. Instead of going out and slamming back alcohol and fixing my boobs in a too tight shirt all night, I threw myself a pity party, with me acting as the guest of honor and my Indian take out place catering the vegetable samosas and naan bread that went with my out-of-a-box saag paneer. By the way, cheese coming out of a box, even if it is in creamed spinach is as appealing as it sounds and does not taste the way it looked in the picture. It was one of those days that no matter how many people I made laugh, or went rollerblading with after work for a few hours, it just wasn’t enough, and it failed to provide me with a feeling of security and distraction from my emotional roller coaster week. Sitting in front of the computer for eight hours taking screen shots, didn’t help my depressed and lonely mood either.

As Friday afternoon rolled around, and although my body craved the effects from a bottle of ice cold champagne, and my mind needed a friend seated across me in an outdoor café, I realized that there wasn’t anyone who fit the mood available. Either my closest friends don’t live in the city (wifey, today totally had your name written all over it), my friends who live here are in relationships where the ass is plentiful and the Friday evening plans are assumed on the calendar, or my laziness won out and I didn’t feel like putting forth an effort to have a conversation with someone.

That’s what makes afternoons in cafes so special. You tend to want to be seated across the person or persons at the table, and the wine in front of you is there as a prop to loosen tongues instead of acting as a vehicle of social lubrication. Very few people are absolute pleasures to be around, where the friendship is so comfortable that neither one takes offense to the inevitable silence, instead the break is seen as kismet, both parties taking a break at the same time, instead of simultaneously having run out of things to say.

When I returned home, I made a few of the obligatory Friday night phone calls, feeling out the waters, testing to see if I would short change myself on what I actually wanted. Tonight, unlike many nights, I just couldn’t do it. Maybe it was because of the intense rollerblading session for over an hour and having faced death several times within that period (I almost went straight into oncoming traffic on the West Side Highway) or maybe it is because I am not just physically tired, but emotionally as well. But tonight I refused to have the see-saw conversation where each person talks at each other, listening for the sole purpose of accruing time to vent, instead of caring what the other person is saying.

With tv failing to comfort me via hollow distraction, I put on my pj pants and roamed the streets of SoHo. I had to leave my apartment. Part of me hoped that I could run away from the loneliness I felt, showing me that it was really my apartment’s fault and not my own while the more pragmatic side wished that the weekend warriors’ gregarious mood would rub off and lighten mine. After fifteen minutes of the charade, I walked back to my apartment. A lesson I would like to share: walking through the streets of SoHo in your pj pants and an old t-shirt will not make you feel better. Actually, it made me feel worse because I realized not only did I feel pathetic, but I looked the part. Especially rocking the messy side pony tail.

So instead of keeping the boast I promised my friend, telling him how tonight was going to be a night of champagne decadence—both the night and beverage being delicate, not too heavy, and leaving the slightest taste on the tongue, I am left in my bed, writing in my blog while digesting two deep fried veggie samosas. And we can’t forget the naan and the saag paneer that came out of a box.

It’s nights like tonight that remind me why I am ready to leave the city. I just hope that my homesickness won't leave me romanticizing an already strained relationship with my life in NYC. Because, a relationship that sucks, is a relationship that sucks, no matter how unsure the prospect of a new one is on the horizon.

And I'm still getting screwed

2006-07-05T15:20:00.000-04:00

Despite keeping this blog, and the outward illusion that I am open and free with details of my personal life, what I project couldn’t be further from the truth. People who are intimately acquainted with me understand that I am very private about my thoughts, feelings, personal space, and anything else that could offer a glimpse into the cracks of the carefully crafted persona that I present to the world. Which is why, I have been a complete anxious mess since giving the realtors keys to my apartment for viewing.

Part of the reason why NYC has such exhorbant rents is because of our vacancy rate. I think it hovers somewhere around .8%. For you econ geeks out there, the fact that the real estate economy operates at a ridiculous “efficiency” throws off the whole supply and demand chain for us lay people. So, you have people like me who live off of an advertising industry salary paying $2400 for an apartment within earshot of several bars, a bedroom that is about 6x6, and with a window facing a brick wall. This is all a product of “market efficiency,” courteous of Adam Smith. I thought only the third world was supposed to get shafted.

Although I make fun of my apartment, and my roommate, and my landlord, and my neighbors, and hell, even the location, the truth is, it is my home. When I climb the two flights up, step into my hovel, I relax a bit because I am home, even if I haven’t gotten a good nights sleep since I’ve moved in because of the bar two doors down. When I notified my landlord that I was going to give it all up at the end of July (I wonder the fuck why—see above paragraph) she told me that I should make arrangements with the scumbag (my word, not hers) realtor who conned (again, my word choice) me into taking the place, as he is the realtor who she is in cahoots (I mean, work) with.

As a current tenant I have two options when showing my apartment. Either I can rearrange my schedule and be ready at the drop of a dime to let prospective renters into my home or I could trust all of my worldly possessions to the con artist who duped me into taking the shit hole that I call my home.

Once again, my laziness even astonishes me. And I don’t have renters insurance. Luckily, my most valuable items are a two year old laptop and various six inch stiletto shoes.

I make arrangements to give mike the realtor my keys so he can show the apartment unencumbered by my schedule. I knew I should have questioned my choice when he started to bother me before I dropped them off. We agreed that I would give him the keys during the last week of June, so I would have time to clean up a bit and also to procrastinate the fact that my life will be on display until the landlord finds a new tenant.

I drop off the keys later in the week, surrendering my privacy with it.

Coming home one day after work, a day after I give him the keys, I notice something is amiss when I insert my key into the door where I find it unlocked. I assume that my roommate must be home, but when I walk in, her door is closed and her shoes are gone. Which means that my door is unlocked without anyone being home. I’m pissed, but I just want to get out of my sweaty clothes. I go into my room, turn on the air conditioner and change into my running shorts. Mid change, I notice how much cuter my waist line looks, and I decide to go out into the living room and check myself out in the mirror.
Damn, I am looking good! This calls for my booty shorts, and pretty bra, reserved for strip class. I begin to writhe in the air, and shake my booty, trying to impersonate Shakira.

Mid-shake, I hear the door open and turn around and see a two strange women.

“Who are you?” I ask, grabbing my boobs, but already knowing that it is the realtor.

Before she can answer, “You know you should knock.”

“I didn’t realize anyone was home.”

“Excuse me? It’s fucking six pm. People who work usually come home around now. You had no right walking into my apartment without knocking!!!!”

“You should not leave the door open. This is Manhattan.”

“Don’t tell me how to live!! I don’t like keeping my door locked. You should have knocked! I am so embarrassed, Look at what I am wearing!! Why didn’t you call before you came here?”

She then goes on the offensive, “You made your point. You don’t need to make such a big deal out of it. Drop it.”

Oh no, the bitch told me to “drop it” in my own fucking home? My hovel?!

“Don’t yell at me in front of your client! First you walk in when I am semi-nude and now you are yelling at me. Give me your bosses phone number, I am calling him.”

She ignores me, and proceeds to show the apt.

As she is discussing the merits of the location of Greenwich Village, I interrupt her.

“Give me mike’s number now. You don’t knock and now you’re being rude to me in my own home!”

She turns around and tells me to “chill” and that she will give it to me when she is ready.

This goes on for like ten minutes. I interrupt her for her bosses number, and she answers my request by telling me that I am making a big deal and she will give it to me when she is ready.

Not only is she rude to me in my own home, but she is also lying to the girl, telling her how great the landlord is, and how responsive they are to requests.

This is too much for me to handle, so as she is telling the prospective tenant about they are such wonderful people, and how they care so much about their tenants, I stand behind the realtor and shake my head mouthing the words “horrible” “Psycho”.

Fucking bitch, if you were nice to me, I would have played along with the charade. I mean, you want to earn your commission ASAP and I want to stop having my life on display.

When she leaves, I call Mike, her boss, and tell him that I expect phone calls if someone is visiting my apartment after regular business hours, and my experience with the bitch.

Like he gave a shit.

But that is the problem with letting realtors show your apartment. They don’t understand that it is almost soul baring having strangers come in and see you in your natural habitat, the one place where you aren’t governed by the shoulds, the woulds, or any other conditional phrase that forces us to act the way we do from the moment we lock the door behind us every morning at 8:55am. Strangers see you on display. The books with the perfect spines indicating that you still haven’t read them, the pile of underwear on the floor from coming in drunk the night before, even the woman who still sleeps in my bed after I left that morning. And let’s not talk about the closet and how each time I see it ajar, I rush to it and double check that my secret corner of “stuff” hasn’t been disturbed.

I can’t wait to fucking leave my shit hole.

Seriously.

LI how I love/loathe thee

2006-07-04T12:07:00.000-04:00

There is something incredibly satisfying coming back to LI. With my bright orange overnight bag in tow, ostintaseious prada emblum on my bag, I'm ready to descend upon the place that I loathed growing up but now, as a semi-adult, find some peace and tranquility once I see my tree lined street. Once again, I slept for fourteen hours. It seems I can sleep anywhere except in NYC unless someone is next to me in the bed. I wonder how grad school will work out.

Last night went to the Croxley in Franklin Square with a few old friends and realized just how much I love beer and wings. Wings and beer are great, don't get me wrong, but its the communnal nature of the wings that makes it one of my favorite meals. There are no elbows off of the table or other rules of dining room table decorum that we grew up with, we all look like six month old children learning to eat for the first time with the sauce over our hands and faces.

And of course, we were all yawning by midnight.

What the fuck is it with my friends who are passing their 25th birthdays??

My summer plans

2006-07-03T14:08:00.000-04:00

Because although unemployment will be fun, I know myself and too much free time, I will end up in rehab!

So, taking advantage that I am moving uptown in Aug to fancier digs with three homosexual men, I decided to take a cooking class!

I am going to learn how not to be afraid of the kitchen. Plus yoga. Lots, and lots of yoga to make up for the cooking class.

So, cooking class, yoga, and strip class should (hopefully) keep me out of trouble and keep me focused. Because, let's be real, I cant stay in my apt all summer writing. I would pull a Hemingway.

Oh, and the rifle range. Evidently I have a natural talent for shooting shit.

This summer will rock! Now, where is a cuddle buddy to be found??

I am really freaking out about the unemployment, especially because I am blowing my vacation money and making it stretch for six weeks. Well, there is always putting my strip class to good use. I mean, I already do it for shots...

Maybe Karl had a point

2006-07-03T11:05:00.000-04:00

"Workers of the world unite"

It's July 3 and I am at work, along with the other ten people who showed up today. Responsibility made me cut my time in DC short.

I was thinking of walking up and down the mass cubicles in my office, spouting off Karl Marx and trying to incite a riot based upon class consciousness but, I've decided to rock out to Weezer in my empty area instead.

Goal for the day: Trying to find a vendor to take me and the team out to lunch so we could kill a few hours of this boredom. However, with most of the working world chilling by their pools and drinking cold beer, that is proving to be quite the difficult endeavor.

Oh fucking well. At least I get out at 3pm. Just in time to blade and make it home to LI by dinner.

Weekend was totally dork-ville, with hanging out in DC and watching Annie Hall and drinking Sangria to the point of near sobriety. This leaves me in desperate need to rage, as we both know I can't handle routine and too much tranquility in my life.

T-11 days until I am unemployed. What the fuck was I thinking??? Me and free time do not mix well together...

Honey, I have a headache...

2006-06-30T11:58:00.000-04:00

I know I haven't posted anything of substance since Sunday night, I'm just not in the mood. Not only do I have a terrible case of writer's block but I am also suffering from extreme laziness. Not a good combo.

Maybe it's because my pole dancing class is off this week?

But seriously, I've tried writing several posts and each of them sucked. I sound sad and whiney and too contemplative. I mean, if you want depth, read an angsty teenager's blog. That's the problem with sobriety, I think too much with the spare time on my hands.

Anyway, I'm bored and tired. Hopefully LI will rejuvinate and give me lotsa funny material. At least I get to hang out with my dad. He is really cool. Like seriously, one of the most ireverent senses of humor you will ever encounter. I also think he is slightly bipolar, but, we all have our own vices.

And I finally slept through the night on Tuesday because I shared my bed. I can't sleep more than three consecutive hours if I am by myself, but if someone is next to me, not even needing to spoon me, I am out like a light and sleep like a baby.

Anyone want to play surrogate boyfriend this summer? I have an air-conditioned bedroom in the Village and dont kick in my sleep.

Excuses, Excuses

2006-06-29T11:08:00.000-04:00

"There is no excuse for my behavior, but there are many reasons"
--Some cool old actress

Been hella busy with my last few weeks at work, and have been spending my "down-time" in fits of sobriety with lotsa reading and contemplating my life.

With a clear head, I've come to an important realization. And when I heard it for the first time four years ago sitting in a leather chair with tissues in my hand, balling my eyes out, I refused to believe it. But noticing patterns of my behavior, I think it's evident and I think my therapist is correct.

I have a lot of fucking issues and really need to go into therapy. Too bad, I flee the country and the mistakes I've made for the last three years, in two and a half months.

Why is it that I always come to terms with my need for mental help when I am about to peace out of a destination?

A girl's penis size

2006-06-25T23:04:00.000-04:00

I don’t know what it is about the spring/summer. At first I had to deal with the explosion of ass—all of my friends, myself excluded (of fucking course), have either gotten some booty on a regular basis or, my friends in serious relationships, have taken the next step in adulthood and made a commitment with their current significant others. As we all know how fickle young love can be, usually these commitments last as long as the time between herpes outbreaks or just until someone becomes emotionally stable enough to face the world on their own. When we hear our friends talk obsessively about their new love we smile, nod and wait for it to pass. And it usually does. Someone fucks up, misrepresents themselves and their emotional attachment and boom, in one messy break up scene, tears shed on shoulders and the relationship ceases to exist. Over in a split second.

However, I’ve noticed a curious thing as I am getting older. When people reach their mid to late 20’s, these breakups are becoming less common and more and more I see myself congratulating my friends on their one year anniversaries and inviting their boy/girlfriend by default on our nights out together. Just as I am getting used to the idea that my friends are in stable long term relationships, the engagement period quickly befalls upon me, and once again I’m knocked out of my comfort zone. No longer are these relationships hanging on a loose thread of “emotional intimacy” and “common interests” but now there is a $5-15K ring on the table as collateral; ensuring both parties that if the other person fucks up that there will be consequences.

A guy is going to think mighty hard before he does something very stupid.

The engagement ring is much more than just an innocuous piece of jewelry for us laypeople to oogle, but, it takes on a life of its own and becomes part contract and part social barometer. We ladies yearn for the biggest rock-- our competition amongst each other acting as the female reaction to penis envy. After hearing you boys compare penis size for all of these years, an appendage of six inches that is supposed to gauge your masculinity, your virility, and sexual prowess, I want to let you in on a secret. We girls do the same thing, but instead use the ornament sitting on our left hand’s ring finger that you gave us. You boys may have had to whip it out in the locker rooms when you were fifteen, but as an adult I keep my feminine worth out in the open for the whole world to see.

The engagement ring becomes a prize that we girls work towards, and once we reach that goal of finding the rich Christian/Jewish/whatever fiancé who works in either the financial services, law, or medical fields, the ring becomes our spoil of the dating war that we won. No more battles of getting into those tight Sevens jeans, teetering on five inch stiletto heels, nor begging friends to set us up on dates. Once the ring is slipped onto our fingers, it looks like the war is won.

However, if history teaches us anything, it’s that once an old enemy is laid to rest a new one emerges. And as much of a glimpse that ring can offer us into the future with prospective good Jewish fiancé, it still cannot guarantee anything. That ring offers no protection against a broken heart, no matter how much we girls think that receiving a gold or platinum band with a diamond on top symbolizes security. The sad fact is that 60% of us who live in NYC will be calling upon our pre-nups while we sit on opposite sides of the mahogany table negotiating alimony and custody of the Ecuadorian maid.

But that doesn’t stop us from buying into the dream that the ring symbolizes, nor does it stop us for being happy for our friends who do get engaged. Because Barbie never had to fight Ken for the dream house with the aid of a divorce lawyer. And as long as we believe in the Barbie fantasy, we also believe that we are part of the 40% whose marriages will be forever. Because if we didn’t believe, then what would be the point in being excited for our friends’ engagements and hoping for that one great love ourselves?

I suck

2006-06-23T12:15:00.000-04:00

Yea, I know I have been neglecting posting and this week has just been insane. Although, I have to admit that it has been a great ego boost from you all asking me where the posting has gone.

You know, I actually am working on a very funny post, but I have been going out every night this week (Perrier the drink of choice--except for Tues, but that is another matter) and haven't had the time to editting that would take it from good to fucking fabulous--the post that you IM to your friends and say, "This shit is on fucking point!"

So, my Tuesday. I guess what my friends parents have been saying for years about me is true: I am the bad influence. Not in a let's get drugged out and fuck strangers in dark alleys bad but the fuck responsibility and let me enjoy getting fucked up. Which, you know what, at that moment it is always a great idea.

I have a theme with my friend's 25th bdays. If I am invited there is usually Dom Perignon involved and some older rich man taking care of us. And this bday was no different. Within, literally, fifteen seconds of telling my friend that we should find some rich men to finance our drinks and an excursion to the strip club, they literally fell into our table. Bottle of wine offered and accepted. Hired car for the evening. Going to Tens and stripping at the club (just went topless though) while pounding Grey Goose martinis. Fucked up a pole trick and bang up my leg. Back into the hired car to go to NY Dolls and hang out with the refugees from Eastern Europe. Consume Dom Perignon. Have hired car drop us off uptown. Eat a tuna melt bagel to absorb the alcohol and prevent a massive hangover--which it did.

Looking back onto the night, I have to comment, that night was pretty unbelieveable. Don't ask me how I manage to pull off finding the rich guys to blow money on me and my friends. It's actually something that I put a lot of thought into. I mean, I am not 5'10 and a leggy blond; I am not the standard girl that men want acting as a trophy on their arm. But somehow I end up pulling something off--having some of my hot friends in tow doesnt hurt either.

So, this is what has been on my mind lately. That question that you get when you look over at the person in the bed, laying next to you who is totally out of your league and you think to yourself, "Why did that person just fuck me?" Is it that I don't give myself enough credit in the looks department or can charisma and an attitude carry a pretty cute girl far enough? I would love to hear a guy's response to this.

Fuck, back to work.

Stripper Titties and the Faded Charm

2006-06-15T14:37:00.000-04:00

This is why expectations suck. The minute I start to hype shit up, it always goes down the tubes. The last two times I’ve been to a strip club, I’ve had a fucking awesome time. Bottle service at Scores the first time, where we got shitty and started to at first, buy each other lap dances, then later perform them for each other. A few weeks later I went to the gentleman’s club Tens at 2am with a few guy friends and my little brother. I was blitzed and rocked the pole for a while as men stuffed dollar bills into my shirt and my brother was in a corner getting lap dances. All in all, that qualifies as a fucking awesome time. Titties, booze, and dollar bills that I helped to pay for my cab ride home.

So, when the girls from my strip class wanted to check out Tens with me to see what I’ve been talking obsessively about in class, I jumped at the chance. I mean, I love to share the stripper tittie wealth, you know?

However, as soon as I got there, I realized that this night wasn’t on the same trajectory that my other run-ins with strip clubs have been like. First of all, moi, attention whore extraordinaire whose lack of inhibitions pave the way for my other more mild mannered compatriots to act out, was stuffed from vendor dinner and drinks. This is how I know I am getting old: a few months ago, I would have pulled a sorority girl and puked up dinner to make more room for my drinks but, today, I dealt with that horrible feeling of too much food and too much drink. I was craving a tums instead of a second extra dirty Grey Goose martini. As an FYI to you ladies, stuffing your face with wine and cheese then going to a strip a few hours later will not make you feel hot. Even if the girls at Tens “got back”. It doesn’t change the fact that you are bloated and your tummy “got front” over your jeans.

So, trying to be frugal, because the last time strip class went to Scores, bottle service and lap dances set us back quite a bit. Instead of plunking down a credit card, we all paid for our drinks in cash. When you have to go into your bag and take out your wallet each time you want a drink, you become aware of just how much you are drinking and how much those drinks are costing you. Hence, I didn’t make it past the two drinks that failed to make a dent in my sobriety. It just wasn’t worth the money nor the calories.

However, attention whore-dom doesn’t only come out with the aid of alcohol. As I grew up going to gay clubs where the music reigned King of the night next to the queens (well, once you take out the drugs and sex that went along with those places), I have a very hard time sitting still when I catch the beat of the music. But I didn’t feel all sexy and fun and fabulous when I made my way up onto the pole. Especially since I fucked up my pole tricks because I was wearing flip flops and a heavy meal in my belly.

IMing my friend Katie, I told her about the disappointing evening.

Shannon: Lesson from last night: strip clubs are only fun when you are blitzed

Katie: They can lose their luster in the harsh glare of sobriety

It's actually kinda true. Although, getting a tour of the champagne room, I had to say, I had some impure thoughts.

And now, I am hobbling around work because, I think I pulled a muscle.

So, let’s re-cap. I can’t drink the way I used to and I pulled a muscle because I didn’t stretch before I performed my pole tricks.

And I am going out again tonight. I need a vacation from myself.

Making up for the flimsy posts

2006-06-14T14:04:00.000-04:00

When I gave my six week notice to the Agency I had no idea the repercussions that would follow. At first it was wonderful, random people in the company would walk up to me and start to gush how proud they were of me:

"I just want to say,congratulations!! That is wonderful!"

"I don't think I have ever met anyone who is going to Oxford!!"

I relished the attention. It was like my "I told you so" moment; see, I really am smart! I swear I wasn't lying during the interview when I quoted the Harvard Business Review. I really do read shit like that in my spare time--especially when the subject deals with wide scale manipulation of people. It was like the vindication the dorky over-weight girl back in high school feels when she comes back in September after fat camp with a new wardrobe and the cool kids begin to befriend her. The validation feels great but also somewhat hollow at the same time.

And besides the daily congratulatory metaphorical pat on the back, my life stayed pretty much the same. I did my job, went to meetings where I doodled in the margins hearts and stars and I continued to work my standard fifty hour weeks. However, as I am learning, there is an additional flip side to giving a company six weeks to find your replacement as opposed to the customary two weeks notice. The problem with giving so much notice, however, is that you begin to lose your resolve to leave the company gracefully and ladylike by the end of week two. Hence, I write this blog post in the middle of the day.

I don't know if any of you have ever quit a job but usually, from the moment you formally quit you have mentally checked out. When I quit my old job last year, my two weeks were filled developing a blog crush on Jason Mulgrew, IMing sordid details from nights of partying, negotiating my salary with my current job, and taking extra long lunches. It's like parole, a two week supervised paid vacation. Check in with your boss, sit at your desk, but do whatever you want as long as you aren't breaking the law. Or reading BDSM erotica in my case.

However, as the cache of the accecptance wanes and it becomes more and more clear that I will not be here past the middle of July, I find that I am being taken off of the more interesting projects of my job. I mean, I do see a point. Why have someone involved in a major project and then when it goes to the client, "Oh, the girl who worked on this is no longer here. But, it looks great doesn't it?!"

So, my days have become increasingly similar. Eat my breakfast while checking email, going to interesting meetings have been replaced with reading various celeb gossip blogs, I'll work on a few billing discrepancies, then read more celeb gossip blogs, follow up with a vendor on the phone, take my lunch break, email my friends, and make myself a cup of Chai tea by mid afternoon. And we cannot forget the lip-syncing contest I host in my cubicle to bad chick rock. Quoting Brittany, "It's me against the music."

No really, I lip-sync to really bad chick rock like Avril all day in my cubicle. Throw in my theatrical streak, and you have a very bad drag impersonation.

And, I am actually lucky that my work is not that strenous right now because in the ever fucked up world that is my life, the stem of my new neurosis: I think I have discovered roaches in my apartment.

Now those of you who have been to my apt and stayed with me, you are probabley not all that suprised to hear that I've finally succumbed to the inevitable. With a floor divided into clean clothes section and messy clothes section, a closet stuffed with numerous boxes of shit that never got hung or cleaned as well as filled with the requisite throw backs to my more athletic days, with racquets and cleats in addition to a roomate who leaves dirty dishes on the stove and a bathroom that hasn't been cleaned in about six weeks-- this shouldn't be too much of a suprise to any of you. However, I have never had fucking roaches before and I am fucking surprised as shit!

I've lived in NYC for the last two years and before I "officially" moved back, I've had plenty of sublets here. I am accustomed to city living. I know to never keep food out, to take out the trash nightly, never to keep dishes over night in the sink. I know this and I do this, and it has always worked for me. Except now when I have only six weeks left on my lease from my final apartment in the city for, hopefully, a very long time.

I think I am going to vomit.

A few days ago, I saw roach #1 on my wall in my bedroom. I chalked finding the little critter to the string of humid days we've been having in NYC. I mean, every apartment gets a roach at one point or another. I wasn't too concerned. I killed it and went along my merry way. Albeit, a tad freaked out, but I dealt with it (chalk one up to Shannon acting like a grown up). However, when I saw roach #2 this morning, when I was getting my clothes out of the closet, I freaked the fuck out. Especially since #2 came from the dark caverns of my overstuffed closet.

I'm afraid to go back to my apartment.

I mean, I'm so neurotic that I've even contemplated burning shit so that I do not accidentally bring a roach or its eggs with me when I move to the UWS in August. Plus, we can't forget how there will always be a part of me that actually enjoys living like a refugee, having all of my possessions fit into two suitcases. When the going gets tough, or if roaches are found, pack up in fifteen minutes and move the fuck back home. Or to another roach free space. Whatever is the least mentally taxing.

But seriously, this is fucking disgusting. I am a Jewish girl from the North Shore of Long Island, and this is not a way I live. The last time I lived among roaches is when I was three years old and we were living in Bay Terrace and a roach crawled into my little brother's crib. My dad packed the family up and we moved in with grandma until my parents found more sanitary housing.

If you didn't notice, over reacting runs in the family.

So, because I am such a germ-a-phobe, especially after my meningitis scare last year, I am spending Friday night cleaning and scrubbing with chlorine bleach my entire apartment. Roach motels will be set up, Raid will be sprayed, and I will be sleeping elsewhere because I am launching a chemical attack on my apartment. And as a pre-emptive measure, I'm moving out half of the shit and delousing it in my parent's garage.

I am feeling itchy just thinking about it. Oh yea, I've started to itch myself thinking that roaches have somehow implanted eggs into my skin as I sleep. I haven't slept well in weeks, and yet another reason for me to wake up in the middle of the night. What the fuck?!

In other news, important lessons learned:

1. I am powerless over alcohol and look soo much better not hungover.
Last night I polished off a bottle of champers. I wasn't supposed to, but it tasted so good and I liked the way it made me feel. This morning I woke up, my skin amiss, exhausted from such a crappy sleep and bloated.

I am not hot today.

I really need to be more serious about this lack of drinking, like seriously. I need to learn the word M-O-D-E-R-A-T-I-O-N. Moderation. Say it, use it in a sentence, make it part of my life.

2. How I spend my days at work now:

Besides developing an addiction to celeb gossip, I am trying to plan out my book treatment in order to maximize my six weeks of writing. So I spend my days at work, staring at the computer screen, thinking about some of the most painful moments of my life for the past three years. But, they are pretty fucking funny so hopefully finding an agent shouldn't be too difficult.

And the plans for tonight, off to another strip club with the strip class. My pole routine is mother fuckingly hot, if I may say. And no, I am sooo not drinking. I dance better when I am sober anyway.

I cant stand looking at myself in the mirror the morning after drinking.

Back in the saddle again

2006-06-12T10:26:00.000-04:00

First of all, I would like to thank the endless stream of readers who have referred me to AA. Yes, I know that I do not have to do it alone; however, I am not exactly sure what "it" is. This past Friday night, my friends and I, eight of us in total, went out to that fabulously tacky Indian/Bangladeshi restaurant with all of the lights in the East Village. For the NYers who read my blog, you know exactly the place that I am talking about on first avenue. As this place is a BYOB place, my friend D decides to have a competition-- who can find the best wine under $10 to go with our meal. All eight of us brought wine, and having sampled each other's we all ended up drinking about a bottle each.

Yes readers, including myself. I drank Friday night. My teetoling ways were just not to be. I fell off the wagon, but quickly got back on. And no, sadly, I wasn't drunk. A bottle of wine over three hours with heavy Indian food just doesn't get me fucked up.

After dinner, we walk to a lounge in the East Village and as soon as we enter the place, all of us make a beeline for the bar. With a water in hand, I am watching the night begin. Drinks are ordered: shots are taken and vodka tonics are chugged. As I stand there, sipping my water with a twist of lime, it dawns on me.

I have as many issues with drinking as every other young professional. We all need to be somewhat intoxicated to "enjoy" an evening because, let's be real--bars and clubs suck when you are sober. We all run to the bar, plunk down our money, and yell over a loud and boisterous crowd our drink order to the person behind the counter. We all throw back shots and root each other on to finish the drink.

I am not that different than any of you. Only I have no problem acknowledging the absurdity of it all.

Maybe we are a generation of alcoholics. In addition to providing over-priced educations and teaching us esoteric subjects, maybe college schooled us in bad drinking habits? Or maybe our drinking is a by product of modern life, a way for us to reach an escape from our rigid lives: awake 8am, cereal at desk at 9:30am, work in cubicle ten hours, gym, catch tail end of Chappelle show, go to sleep, and start all over tomorrow morning. With lives like that, it is not wonder that so many of us abuse drugs and alcohol. We are prisoners of modern conveniences and are desperate to find a reprieve of the predictability.

And as for my drinking, let's just say that wine shouldn't count but, I am back on the wagon. I am actually enjoying sobriety. It is so great to wake up on a Sunday morning without a headache and take a long walk uptown, running errands and meeting up with friends. And as an added bonus, I can't tell you, how many people have been telling me how great and happy and glowy I look.

Another reason why I should be a hypochondriac

2006-06-10T01:08:00.000-04:00

I was making copies of a presentation and my eye felt like I got something stuck in it. I washed it out, thinking that a paper shred accidently found its way into my eye but I would eventually blink out the foreign body.

It still didn't feel better, but I had an eye brow threading appointment that I needed to keep because my eye brows have been looking a bit too Brooke Shields lately.

My eye still stung, but I was so far into denial, that I thought the paper shred in my eye feeling had to be allergies.

However, by 8pm, when I looked into the mirror, I saw a pink band around my left eye, making me look like a Jem doll. It's puffy, watery, and feels like my eye is trying to give birth to something. I want to help scratch it out. And then I think:

Yesterday my roomie was showing me her pink, puffy, watery eye. And pink eye is highly highly contagious.

I go to the offical website of hypochondriacs, WebMD, and my fears are confirmed. I have all of the symptoms.

Guess where I am spending my Saturday afternoon instead of going to my hair appt and rollerblading in Central Park with hot old boss?? My day is fucked because of the plague that is taking place in my eye. I mean, isn't this the disease of five year olds?!?

Moral of the story: I need health insurance because I am chronically having something happen to me. Memorial Day I needed a tetnus shot. Today is a field trip to the doctor for eye drops. I should bring roomie in tow.

Fuck, as I write this, the right eye is feeling scratchy.

Also, if anyone wants to pass through the village and help me put the drops in my eye, please help me. Last time I had pink eye, I was 4 and my mom had to hold me down with her knees as one hand held my arms as she put the drops into my eyes as I screamed for dear life.

I promise to be mildly better behaved. You know, I am 24 now.

The lengths for an Oxford Husband

2006-06-07T23:31:00.000-04:00

ItÂs official, my neighbors across the street must think I am a nut job, with today confirming their suspicions.

I am a terrible procrastinator, especially with household duties. It explains why my apt looks like part pig sty and part college dorm room. I get all ready to clean and put away my extensive shoe collection that sits in a corner of my living room, then suddenly I get distracted. Someone calls, I decide to go on an impromptu walk, or I decide to dance in my underwear topless. And I know we all dance around our living rooms naked. This would be fine and I would be just like all of you, except since I am a procrastinator, I have not put up curtains in my living room for the last ten and a half months Ive lived here. My neighbors see all of this. Including my naked body scampering across the living room, and my obsession with the mirror, checking myself out all the time.

As part of my no-drinking-for-thirty-days-but-am-making-an-allowance-for-when-Lu -comes-into-town-and-maybe-if-my-strip-class-goes-to-a-strip-club sober promise, I've also decided to get into shape. Hence, I've resurrected the BBA from college, the Beautiful Body Adventure. My commitment to the BBA knows no bounds and despite the fact that it was raining today and I couldn't go for a run along the Hudson, I decided to exercise in my living room. Except, my version of exercise is my strip-ilates. While wearing my seven inch platform shoes and tank top that barely covers my breasts.

So I treated my neighbors to a view of me gyrating in the middle of my living room, doing my hip shakes and pelvic thrusts into the ground. My neighbors must think that I am a sex starved stripper.

Or an attention starved girl.

And other news, lately I have been so motherfuckingly exhausted. Drinking with imagined impunity for two weeks straight will fuck with every single thing in your body. I haven't been able to get to fall asleep and stay sleeping for the last three days. I've been anxious at work. It's like I developed a physical dependence to alcohol.

Or it could be that I've cut out the ciggs too.

One thing is for certain, my system is in shock from this detox.

*********************************************************************************

And a reflection from Shannon past.

After reading this blog for anything longer than one post, it's obvious that I am an attention whore. I love being in the spotlight. What you probabley did not know, is that it actually came from somewhere, besides my mother having all four of us close in age and vying for her attention. When I was younger, I did diaper commercials. I think it was for either Luvs or Huggies. Some huge brand. Anyway, I've always harbored a grudge over my father for taking me out of showbiz because, "A baby shouldn't be under all of those bright lights." If I would have stayed in commercials I would probably be more famous than Paris Hilton.

But my mother conceded. She forced me to take all of my star power and channel it into such lovely endeavors as my church's Christmas play, the role of chorus member # 956 in my middle school musical and a whole host of other child actor reject roles.

Well, reading www.dlisted.com I ran across this on Candace Cameron's (DJ from Full House) website:

During my teenage years, I had what one would consider a very good life. I was on a hit TV show, was making lots of money and had a loving and supportive family. I also had a lot of fans that admired and looked up to me and I was considered a good role model. I traveled all over the world meeting people, fans, and other celebrities. I couldnÂt complain about anything! But, aside from my busy and exciting life, church had become more of an after thought. IÂd go when I had time, or when I wasnÂt too busy. It wasnÂt my first priority anymore.

What the fuck?! I thought to myself. Child actor stardom was wasted on her. I at the very least would have had a coke problem to keep fans entertained!!!

It's just not fair.

So instead I run around my office singing and creating pantomime for my co-worker's entertainment.

Since I've given my notice, I really do have too much time on my hands.

A letter to the woman I ran over

2006-06-07T10:52:00.000-04:00

Dear Random Woman Who I Ran Over,

A few days ago it seemed that we crossed paths. It was 7am and I was rollerblading along the Hudson River, right around the Mercantille Exchange. You were with, who I think, your co-workers--dressed neatly in your pressed suit and they in their starched khaki pants and blue button down shirt combo.

My punk music was blasting on my I-pod, I was in one of my trances. Singing along to the music, weaving in and out of pedestrian traffic and recreating my awakward adolescent years. I was doing really well, and judging how you did not get out of my way, I bet you thought I knew how to stop.

But I don't. Just like the time I ran over a squirrel in college--the bushy tailed creature thought I knew how to stop too.

I'm sorry for grabbing onto you and not letting go. Despite the fact that I don't know how to stop, I am petrified of falling. So, when we crashed into each other, and I grabbed your buttocks for dear life and would not let go until the momentum passed, it was out of fear for my own safety. It hurts like a motherfucker scraping your skin. I didn't mean for you to fall down along side of me, but thanks for breaking my fall.

Especially since I got home to change into clean clothes and you had to go straight to the office with a grass stain on your thigh.

Much love,
Shannon

Sober and Single NYC

2006-06-04T19:56:00.000-04:00

I don’t know how many of you have gone on a fourteen plus day drinking binge, but let me tell you, there is nothing glamorous about it. Even if you are having bottle service at Scores or watching “El Duque” get a lap dance. My emotions are shot. I am left with anxiety, make-up smeared across my cheek from last night, and this perpetual head ache. There is a very large part of me that just wants to crawl into my closet and cry. And I don’t know why, well actually I do. I have radically altered my brain chemistry after this two week “celebration” period with a downer by the name of Grey Goose.

I tried really hard to not drink last night, but it was my sister’s bday party and then my friends were throwing this party and it was cloudy, and I was wearing a black shirt and my “lucky” undies and the music was just so good…

There is always an excuse.

Especially when there is back to back weekends of partying. Last week we were celebrating my admission. Last weekend I was in VA celebrating seeing my old friend Rusty. And this weekend was my sister’s birthday weekend. I, unlike the rest of the world, do not understand the concept of moderation. If I am going to be partying again a few days later, why don’t I just continue the trend? I’d hate to be a good friend and all.

However, there is a lesson I learned in college that has stayed with me. I can treat my body like a trash can but once it shows in my emotional state, I have to put an end to it. Or else the results can be disastrous. And I finally have something going for me that I don’t want to inadvertently fuck up some how.

And now that end starts. It won’t be especially easy with the new summer season being welcomed with vendor parties. It’s just going to have to see my participation with a diet coke in hand, as opposed to drink # seventeen. Even if someone is picking up the tab for me to get sloshed. Too bad I am going to miss out on the wine bar party this week.

My thirty days of sobriety start today.

Alcohol withdrawl and the (lack of) creative process

2006-06-03T13:49:00.000-04:00

I woke up in my bed, after seven hours of sleep without a headache, somewhat refreshed, and ready to take on the world and begin to work on the outline for my book treatment.

I forgot what it was like being a productive member of society, sans drinking every single night for the last two weeks.

I haven't written anything of substance lately, done anything productive, well, except curse the last shot that I took the previous evening. Go to work, meet up with friends after work for drinks, get drunk, do something stupid, go to bed at some bizarre hour, wake up, and begin the process all over again. Well, some nights I didn't do anything that dumb.

But throughout this season of excess, I've come to a conclusion about myself. I really like me sober. I'm funny, smart, don't have that drugged out look in my eye, and I enjoy not having to scroll through my cell phone and see who I've drunk dialed and proclaimed my love to. I also write much better posts than the three lines of "I am drunk. Fuck. Wow." than I have been doing as of late.

That being said, I want to get more in touch with this sober girl who has been in hiding for the last few weeks. And what better way than having her play for thirty days?

So yes, readers, with the exception of when Lu comes to town (because, uhm, how can I be sober when my wife is in town ) I am not drinking for the next thirty days. And I know my little four day allowance shouldn’t be made, but, there isn’t any money on this thing. So, like, whatever.

Sober and Single NYC. Fuck, it doesnt sound as much fun. It sounds more like a Lifetime movie of the week. Oh well.

agh

2006-06-02T11:52:00.000-04:00

You know your friends are enablers when you both confess a desire to check yourself into rehab. Except, "shouldn't that be saved for our dirty thirties?"

So instead we have been looking up herbal answers to our desire for downers and other substances that make inhabitions go away. You know, because I will lose my access to medical care at the end of July. Do you think a doc would give me a year's supply of Valium to help me deal with the stress?

Once again, like this should be fucking new, I am hungover. I've been drinking heavily for the last two weeks now, with my sister's birthday dinner tonight and off to DC tomorrow.

My liver weeps. My hands shake. And I am in dire need to some sleep.

Fuckin' A

2006-06-01T01:59:00.000-04:00

Got drunk.

Fucking, I am drunk right now.

Pole danced at Scores. Gave lap dances. Another place my boobs are famous.

I even got down to my bra and panties :) As I fucked the pole like it was a massive...well, use ur imagination.

Did I tell you I was drunk right now? And kinda turned on from the lap dances.

Palm readings, pirate booty. I'm going to have 4 kids, be famous and have a very tight knit marriage.

Rehvah is sleeping in my bed.

Memorial Day Weekend

2006-05-30T22:52:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-26T00:31:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-25T07:00:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-23T02:04:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-22T00:06:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-18T00:42:00.000-04:00

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...

2006-05-17T17:29:00.000-04:00

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...

2006-05-17T08:16:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-16T08:07:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-15T00:26:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-14T00:54:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-10T11:20:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-09T00:29:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-08T15:55:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-08T10:35:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-03T01:58:00.000-04:00

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

2006-05-01T23:09:00.000-04:00

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.

What life in college was really like

2006-04-26T11:12:00.000-04:00

My friend wrote this explaining how us MoHos entertained ourselves.

With strippers.

It's nice when I have a quiet day at work!

Home Sweet Home

2006-04-26T09:50:00.000-04:00

Like a neglectful mother, I only realize how much I love this city when I leave for anything longer than a weekend. I couldn't stop talking about NYC and on more than one occasion referred to it as "the Center of the Universe". Which, if you have lived here, it totally fucking is. Give me my $2.00 bagel with eggs, sausage, and cheese to cure my hangover, the cheap taxis to chauffeur my drunk ass and my subways that smell like urine, and I am home.

However, I have to admit, I adore London. Well maybe its because when I go I stay in South Kensington, drink champagne and sleep until noon and look a lot hotter than the average English girl? But if you are an English girl reader, I am sure that you are much much hotter than your brethren. Please continue to read and pass this along to your friends :) But yea, I really like London. Now if you people only had sunlight over there.

And yes, I am back at work. Easy day since my 12 bosses are out doing client things. And I have to send thank you letters to the dept at the Ox. But yea, London was amazing. Thanks to this girl for hosting my ass.

Well, I am fucking exhausted right now. Back to IMing my friends and listening to Simon and Garfunkle. Will post more tonight.

PS. Uhm, can I say how much I love my readers?! Thanks for the well wishes and offers to take me to Anabel's. I'll prob be over there in a few months anyway. I have a small addiction to London.

Nothing for you

2006-04-21T09:33:00.000-04:00

My wine tasting class last night was a little too "liberal" with the pours and the lack of spit cup. Instead I spent the night drunk packing for London and feasting on bread products since Passover has ended.

I had a funny post on my experience with speed dating but...yea. I got too drunk to be productive.

Off to London tonight for a weekend of excess and begging.

So far no offers for Anabel's. Damn you readers. I'll fine my own fun with my friends in London. I'll try to post while I am there, but there is a ghetto internet connection where I am staying.

I am off to London! Wooohooo! I am actually excited. But seriously, I really want to go to Anabel's. Oh, and if you see a busty red head flashing passerbys around Hyde Park. Evidently that is my calling card.

This one is for the working man...

2006-04-19T01:43:00.000-04:00

“Shannon, remember, it is just as easy to marry a rich boy as it is a poor one.”

But my hyper-enthusiastic extended family forgot to mention the flipside of that shiny coin, it sure as hell ain’t as much fun to fuck him.

Growing up on the North Shore of LI, like many young pretty intelligent women, marrying a nice rich Jewish boy became an idealized prize. As soon as I shed the ripped jeans, the blue hair and Muppets lunch boxes that plagued my awkward adolescent years, my mother got in touch with the LI gossip brigade and the blind dates of friends’ of friends’ sons began. All of them rich, all of them came from “good” families and all of them were assholes.

My life has been filled with these “catches”, moneyed boys who only had to worry about disappointing mom and dad as opposed to paying for their rent. There was the heir to the automotive throne whom I was practically betrothed to at birth. Mark came from oodles of money, from a good respective family and also asked me point blank to suck his dick after he took me out to dinner at a very chic NYC restaurant.

“Hey, so, uhm…Shannon,” as he is kissing me in my living room, “Could you please suck my dick?” he whispered.

“Excuse me? What the fuck did you ask me?”

He has no game. Boys who ask, shall not receive.
I pushed him off of me.

“Who the fuck do you think I am? I am not one of the prep school sluts that is going to suck your dick because you took her out to a nice dinner! Do you kiss your mom with that mouth?”

“I..uh..” He stammers.

“Is that what you expected? How the hell would you treat me if we weren’t family friends? Throw money onto the table and skip dinner altogether?”

“Please don’t tell your mom..”

“Tell my mom?!” I interrupt, “Why would I tell her that you asked me to suck you off?”

Then there was the London fag who couldn’t find my clitoris even if I handed him a map. Evidently, he never found it important in love-making before. We have the MBA from the University of Arizona who I dated when I was 19 and he was 36. He thought it was cute that I used a fake ID and it reminded him of his summers he spent on the Vineyard. He also kissed like a lizard, pressing both of his lips tightly together as his tongue slithered between his pursed mouth.

No matter how expensive the dinners nor enticing the conversation about their parents’ wealth, their sexual ineptitude left me feinding for my vibrator by the nights end.

The white collar guy is a “great catch” by NYC standards. He makes a lot of money, his family’s connections will get your engagement announcement published in the Times, and after he sowed his wild oats by fucking half of Manhattan and having his herpes scares he will make a great father, devoted to the children that he was brought up to want. But since everything came easily to him, either via SAT prep tutors, daddy’s nepotism, or even the band new car he “earned”, these boys have never had to experience what hard work is all about. If a boy never had to get his hands dirty, how the hell does he know how in the bedroom?

Wouldn’t Karl Marx be proud. Although the blue collar man is a slave to the bourgeoisie he can still fuck better than the white collars who exploit his labor power.

My date with the CL dude brought my sweeping generalization to life. A school teacher who had none of the hand outs that my pampered ex’s had. He sat across the table from me at one of my favorite wine bars recanting stories from his childhood in the city. He told me about the fist fights. The odd jobs he worked. How he got what he had because of his charm and his confidence. As we broke every rule of the first date, talking about dating and mating and post modern feminism, I found myself inching closer to his side of the table.

His self-assurance was engaging. He grabbed the top of my thigh without the usual tentative apology for being a man who found a woman attractive. Unlike my white collar sweeties, who are too afraid to reach out and touch my leg, too afraid that their desire for sexual gratification could be construed as sexual harassment that could end in a potential lawsuit.

I mean, that is the only way I could rationalize why a boy would politely ask for a dick suck.

However none of them could be as bad as the worst case scenario. A rich kid acquaintance I know with so little game and a body that shows how he’s lived amongst excess that he’s spent the last seven years of his life paying for sex because he can’t snag a woman. Including the fat and not so attractive ones with no self-esteem. I mean, that is pretty bad. He can’t even get them to his room to disappoint them.

Looking like a porn star

2006-04-17T01:41:00.000-04:00

May I say how hot I look in my new glasses? Slightly dorky, slightly dykey, and very very smart with a wee bit of style thrown in. But since they are only prescribed for distance activities and I use them off-label when my eyes hurt from sitting in front of the computer at hour #11, I don’t wear them often enough for them to become part of my identity. So each time I slip the frame behind my ears I feel like I am playing dress up. I see myself in the mirror but an alter ego stares back. I become the embodiment of Clark Kent, my glasses acting as a mediator to the outside world for my eccentric behavior. Like a girl wearing thick framed librarian glasses can’t say the world pussy. Or maybe its use just takes on a classier more ironic twist. Like when I punctuate every sentence with the word dude as Dostoyevsky sits in my Lulu Guinness bag.

As I’ve mentioned, I got thick framed black librarian glasses. And with my big boobs, I definitely look slightly pornographic. You know, those porns where the busty ditz is interviewing for a job and some how ends up sucking some guys cock instead of explaining the strengths she will bring to the company. Being pornography, the producers of the films can’t dress up the girl to look professional, suit and button down shirt and all. So, the girl ends up wearing a figuring hugging mini skirt, tight sweater and glasses to imply that she is smart and sexy. It’s how I ended up feeling last week when I was wearing a curve hugging knee length skirt and a tight sweater with my smart girl glasses.

And as we have seen in this blog, I have a small problem with censoring the shit that I say. It’s not as interesting altering jokes just because you are in “professional” company. And yes, maybe this is yet another reason for me to quit my job and move to LA to write for sitcoms.

So my boss takes a look at me in the glasses and says how I look cute in them. I tell her that I thought I looked like a porn star:

“You know, when you see a porn and the girl is wearing these types of glasses with an outfit such as mine?”

“Uhm, no Shannon. I don’t watch porn.”

“No, you know what I mean. When they wear these outfits and the glasses and it just looks so contrived…” I wanted to explain the contradiction of femininity and intellect. How we all know that cultural reference but instead…

Insert foot in mouth. In addition to thinking that I am weirdo who hangs out with anarchists, she now thinks I am a pervert who regularly watches porn. I turned an innocent compliment into a glimpse of my sexually frustrated soul.

In other news, I don’t think I will be too sexually frustrated in the near future. Date with CL boy went fabulously. Not only did I look hot because I went for the girl next door with a twist look, but each time he went to get me a drink, another boy popped on over and started to hit on me! Thus reinforcing my hotness for the evening and inspiring a bit of jealously on his end. Especially as I chatted to the guys until he returned with my beer in hand.

“Did you know those guys Shannon?”

“No, but it is a friendly bar. Everyone chats to each other.”

“Shannon, I get up and a guy comes over and hits on you!”

*Smile* “Oh, come on! I am sure he was just being friendly. Why would a guy hit on me if it is obvious I am here talking to someone,” careful not to use the word“date” to keep him on his toes.

But, I think this one will be staying past date #1…especially if he fixes my dresser as promised as his kisses and the graze of my hand live up to my impure thoughts.
***************************************
I promise more postings this week, thanks for understanding the haitus. And a prettier site when I get back from London too.

Oh, and by the way, any readers who can get me into Anabel’s while I am there, I’ll bring you into the infamous fray with me and show you that the shit I write on here is true.

Seriously. Please. I need to feel special on someone else’s dime.

Reality of a blogger...

2006-04-11T12:50:00.000-04:00

I have this handy little thing called sitemeter on my blog. It tells me how many people visit my site on any given day in addition to how long they spend and from what company. When I had a total of five readers in the beginning, I saw a lot of DC IP addresses and NYC, places where I know my friends have settled. However, thanks to Gawker and you guys passing the word and linking me, I have noticed a very disturbing trend. This blog love has done wonders for my self esteem but may also lead to my professional demise.

Reading through where you people access my blog, I have noticed a slew of advertising agencies. Places where I can potentially interview one day. Readers who work in my industry, you know how incestuous the biz is, and chances are if you figure out that the busty red head across the interview table is me…well, it may create for some awkward moments. However, this is great fodder for me to get out my thoughts for my stand-up act, so I pass at better judgment and it is staying as a part of my life. Also, the freaks who I have met through blogging are a story in of itself. And now I am finally able to capitalize on free shit I am getting from this. So maybe professional self-sabotage isn’t that bad?

Date tomorrow night with, I think, one of the only normal people on Craigslist. Like, scarily normal. NYC special ed teacher scarily normal. And this one swears that he is 6’1. However, as my sister said, “You know Shannon special ed teachers are patient people and you need a lot of patience to deal with you.”

This is going to be a slow week in the blogging world…working on making the site look pretty. AKA begging my friends to help me make it look cool. Work is intense at the moment with deliverables due in every week until I run off to London. And Passover starts on Wed, and being the good Jew I am off to Great Neck for the first night.

Thanks for hanging in there, and I promise I will resume regular posting in the next few weeks. Just deal with these daily tidbits for now. Oh, and in two weeks I beg Oxford for admission and I need to read some articles so I seem smart for my interview.

Much love,
Shannon

PS Hoyt, if you hate my writing so much, why the fuck do you read my shit? Here is an idea, stop being so obviously either a petit man or a psycho ex of mine and just stop reading. To be perfectly honest, I’ll recruit another reader in your place. It’s one thing to comment upon what I write and another to comment upon my use of grammar and shit. I AM NOT A PROFESSIONAL WRITER. I have a job and sometimes, my writing suffers as a result of real life.

Although to be perfectly honest, I like the hate comments. It means I am ruffling someone’s feathers somehow. Even if it is just for pesky shit like grammar and syntax. Things my $120K education should have taken care of…

I was blind and I still don't see

2006-04-10T09:58:00.000-04:00

How does the Bible verse go again, "I was blind and now I can see?"

I wish I was talking about finding Jesus and religion because at this rate I think it is easier. After years of ignoring the fact that I need glasses my vision has reached the depths of a new low. It is official, I am blind as a bat. And being the hypochondriac that I am, at first I thought I had a brain tumor. Intense headaches, blurry vision, and neck pain, all symptoms of a metastic growth. The more I ignore it, the less I see.

Hence, why I have not been blogging lately I can't see the keyboard. Typing is giving me bad headaches and making me feel nauseous. Hopefully by this afternoon I'll get my new gucci's and be able to see.

Fucker, I really am getting old. First I turn 25 this year and now I need glasses...fucking A.

Frustrated

2006-04-07T01:13:00.000-04:00

My computer is fucked, I need to take it to LI and have my friend work on it.

I am pissed b/c I had a really cute post with pics of me cooking dinner and making fun of my fear of prepared food, but my computer won't let me upload it onto blogger. Grr...

My computer problem also explains my lack of spell check (I can't open another browser), too bad it doesn't account for my problematic syntax.

Hopefully it will be fixed over the weekend. Hopefully my friend will finally redesign my website as he promised. Hopefully I will get laid. Ok, fine, a nice bottle of wine will suffice.

And my apologies for the crappy posts this week. This is what happens when I force myself to write when I am not feeling up to it...Work and life have been bitches. Damn the beginning of the quarter.

London in 2 weeks. 2 weeks and 2 days, I will offer fellatio for admission. My, wouldn't my alma mater be proud.

You knew this was coming...

2006-04-05T00:57:00.000-04:00

It fucks with your psyche when you run into childhood friends that you haven’t seen since high school with the exact same face that you remember, but from the neck down looking like men and women. They wear rings on their left fingers along with loafers and Banana Republic slacks, and talk about their respective medicine and law post graduate programs.

I feel that is what life is like in my 20s. The contradictory moments where I am astounded how I find the maturity to handle a situation, and then I immediately take out my pink bedazzled cell phone to call my mom and tell her the news.

When I graduated college, I thought in addition to receiving the degree written in Latin the school would also confer the label “grown-up.” Telling me that I used up all of my get-drunk-during-the-day-and-sleep-till-noon coupons and that I was now ready to go forth and become a productive member of society. But graduation day was anti-climatic. With the degree in my hand I still wore the same ratty MHC sweatshirt as I packed my dorm room into five plastic hefty trash bags that ended up at the back of the family station wagon. The promises of how I was going to change the world falling flat when I had to move back home and couldn’t even change the rules of my parent’s house.

As my generation delays the onset of “responsibility” with postponing marriage and children and moving back home because of the sky high rents in metropolitan areas and taking extra time to “find ourselves”, when is it we earn the title of grown-up? I’m expecting the fan fare of a Bat Mitzvah, then finding a closet filled with Donna Karan business suits.

However, I am learning that I cannot define the term grown-up only along my terms. Much like all of the kids from high school who either directly or indirectly helped shape me into the person that I’ve grown into, their maturation reflects my own. Even if I am not on the path where I thought I would be at this age or acting with the social grace of Jackie O, I am growing up because the people around me are. I have no control over time. But I do have control over what I do with it.

Now, fuck these changing priorities. Why can’t I ever keep anything figured out? Just when I thought I did, I get a curve ball that makes me revaluate my assumptions. Watch, pretty soon this blog will be called “Sober! How I Found the Way With Jesus”

A Say No to Drugs Message for the New Millenium

2006-04-04T10:13:00.000-04:00

My father was an old fashioned parent. He heeded childrearing advice from the likes of Maury Povich and other daytime talk show hosts that used the “scare straight” mentality on their dysfunctional guests. Out went Dr. Spock and open dialogues and instead my youth was defined by an over reactive and over protective father. Blinded by wanting to protect his adventurous little girl from the temptations of sex and drugs, the man gave me some stern talks. Of course, being the over reactive and over protective father, he liked to use rifles as props to illustrate his points. Hence, why I didn’t touch marijuana until sophomore year of high school and other substances until late college. I was convinced the man would pop out of a bathroom stall brandishing a shotgun as he captures me mid-sniffle of coke or drag of weed.

And I don’t know if it is because of the trauma associated with the talk that my father gave me, but I never had a taste for most drugs. Any type of upper, including Red Bull gives me panic attacks, downers make me depressed and suicidal, and the wild card that is weed turns me into a fifteen year old white kid from suburbia. I’ve tried to become friends with Maryjane, but we have a contentious relationship. She makes me paranoid, hallucinate, and gives me the most intense panic attacks. Don’t try to out smoke a gravity bong because it will make you high as a kite and in turn give you one of the most intense panic attacks of your life. My anxiety was so bad, I literally almost went to the emergency room. But I didn’t go because I couldn’t find anyone sober enough to drive. But, if I had, could you imagine walking into the ER and telling the triage nurse that you think you are dying because you OD’d on marijuana???

The only time I’ve ever been able to handle smoking marijuana and actually enjoy it was when I smoked it like a forty year old ex-hippie who sold out to JP Morgan: weed mixed with lotsa tobacco along with a few glasses of an expensive red wine while sitting in a ski house in southern Vermont. When I add alcohol to the equation, my paranoia and anxiety disappear and I am left happy, mellow and chill, like a kid on tour with Phish mooching off of a trust fund. However, very rare is the marijuana smoking opportunity that presents itself with my high-end criteria. So, I haven’t smoked in years. I am too afraid that I might die from an OD.

However, a little while ago I learned that my trick to tolerate marijuana has to have those exact ingredients, or I end up a nervous wreck, thinking that I am going to die in the middle of the LES. Cheap beer cannot replace a subtle red wine, I can only smoke a joint when rolled by a European because Americans don’t use enough tobacco, and a shady apartment in the LES cannot double as a ski chalet.

My friends know my stance on marijuana. I hate being around it. It’s an unspoken rule, if they know I am coming over and they want to smoke, they either do it before I arrive or if I am there, they go into another room or sit on the fire escape and get high. Like any other Friday night during the summer, a friend of mine invited me over to his apartment to chill with him and a group of friends.

“You sure you don’t want any?” My friend asked me.

“Dude, you know I don’t smoke. It makes me act like I am a fifteen year old white kid from the suburbs. As long as we are on your roof, I don’t mind if you guys do it. I just can’t smell it.”

Twenty minutes later, like the good house guest that I am, I show up at the door bearing gifts of micro brewed beer that I picked up from my weekend in Massachusetts. My friends and I pound beers and by the end of the twelve pack, me and the two guys are engaged in drunk intellectual conversation, discussing social justice as I tell him about my job working for the devil, aka pharmaceutical market research

We finish up the beer and move onto a bottle of Stoli Raspberry leftover from my friend’s roof party last weekend. I get to the point of intoxication, where I am so drunk that I actually think I am sobering up. But really?! My frame of reference has just been massively screwed. As we are drinking, a joint is lit and passed around. You know when I am getting bombed, when I don’t leave the circle when the jay is passed to me. We drink some more vodka and the second joint is rolled and passed around. Taking his last drag before he passes it, my friend skips over me, and hands it to the person to my right.

Drunk and in one of my moods I grab it from my friend, “You know, I’m feeling really relaxed with you guys, plus I have been drinking. I’ll have a baby drag.”

A few minutes pass and I feel this slight pleasurable head rush.

“Oh now I get why everyone likes marijuana!” And the maniacal giggling begins.

The third joint is rolled. Drunk, and lightly stoned, I decide that it is the third go around to charm, and like Snoop Dog in Half Baked, I go to town on it.

“Hey Shannon, ease up, are you going to pass it?”

With the joint in my hand, I get up and begin to twirl. “Dude,” as I take anther drag, “why don’t I become a stoner? This feels fucking great! I fucking love marijuana! You know what I would love right now? Bob Marley!!”

And it continues like that, for the next thirty minutes. I act like a fifteen year old smoking pot for the first time: giggling, spouting off about social theory and getting progressively more stoned and drunk as time allows the alcohol and weed to hit my body. So far, it’s going a lot like my red wine highs back in college. Giggly, happy, and I am in love with the feeling. However, I move past the light stoned and drunk feeling to the really fucking stoned and lit feeling.

As it all hits my bloodstream full force, I feel alcohol poisoning sick. But I am also so stoned out of my mind that I begin to move in slow motion. Panic strikes. I am afraid that I won’t be able to make it to the bathroom in time because I don’t think I would be able to move fast enoug. The spins intensify. My legs have trouble working because I am so high.

What the fuck did I get myself into? I begin to panic. I convince myself that since I am high I will choke on my own vomit because everything happens in slow motion. The rationale of a drunk with the impaired facilities of a stoner. The night is progressing into my very own say no to drugs message.

As a preemptive measure I go to the bathroom and stand over the toilet. Now, I don’t know if you have ever puked when you were both drunk and high but it is one of the scariest things. I don’t recommend it. At this point I have the alcohol spins and it is combined with a very stoned state. I lean over the toilet, and proceed to vomit. As my head spins and I feel like I am lightly floating.

Normally, I don’t just puke, but I rally afterwards. If there is a party, nothing will make me miss it. However, this time, that vomit didn’t clear the sick feeling. Oh no, as soon as I walk out of the bathroom door, I run back in and vomit again. This time with nothing to vomit, I am puking bile into the toilet. Dry heaving, as I still have the spins, as my body feels like it’s floating, as I am having a panic attack.

I try passing out next to the commode, too afraid to leave it for an extended period of time. However, I panic that I puked all over his toilet, and I proceed to clean the fucker with found cleaning supplies. Momentarily taking pauses to retch into the bowl and continue cleaning. This is the glamour of drugs?!

After that night, I swore I would never smoke marijuana again. Unless I was in a ski house in Southern Vermont, with a nice glass of red wine, with 3 European girls rolling baby joints.

A Weekend of Lessons

2006-04-02T22:29:00.000-04:00

I am siting over my computer right now, thinking about running to the bathroom to vomit. Last night, over fifteen hours ago, I drank three 40's of Coors Light and smoked a pack of ciggs. I am coughing up phlegm and have a splitting headache. Now I realize why I have cut back on the drinking when the weather gets warm...I lose my motivation to do anything remotely active when I am this hungover. Plus I am off to London the third weekend of April.

How do you know it's spring in Shannon's world? I spent about $1K this weekend on the following and am heading to London in a few weeks:

1. Fligth to London: $563
2. Adorable Handbag: $270
3. Double strand Jackie O Antique pearls: $47
4. Mani and Pedi for me and my sis: $72

I feel like shit tonight.

Call me a model UN

2006-03-29T23:42:00.000-05:00

It's a double edged sword when my friends come into town. On one hand it's great having them up here sharing my bed while we bring each other into the drunken abyss. But on the flip side, I usually end up red-in-the-face embarrassed because I learn about all the stupid things I did back in college. A few weekends ago, when my friends were in town they decided to bring up the time when I got so drunk and robbed bagged meals from fasting students as they slept.

I am terrible with dates. I think it is a symptom of my ADD. I have no idea the timing of major milestones. Fuck remembering birthdays, I can't even remember religious holidays, even with all of the marketing from Hallmark.

It was a warm day in the fall semester. And like all major holidays and special days, Lu, me and the gang decide to welcome the unseasonably warm day with an alcohol session on the green. We drank all day in the warm sun. Normally this behavior is frowned upon. We only added to our stigma of "those girls" because we decide to have our "picnic" in the middle of the campus green during Ramadan, the holy time of fasting for Muslims. In my inebriation, I probablyley even waved to some Muslim students, as I was shoving food into my mouth while concealinging the open container.

We drink all day on the green and continue well into the night, pre-gaming for the big campus party. Once we get there, I am gone. Drunk, hazy memory of the evenings events. Luckily my friends pieced it together for me, so I will always remember the moment when I practiced cultural diversity.

I am so fucked up at the party from the hours of excessive drinking that I need to call it quits early in the evening. I drunkenly go up to Lu, "Dude, I am sooo fucking gone. Want to go back to my room, watch The Weather Channel, and get some food?!"

But, remember, I went to college in the middle of the woods. After midnight, there is no place to get food on campus. If I want to eat, I have to forage.

We do a quick once around at the party, seeing if anyone left any chips or food laying out. And of course, they didn't. I am jonesing. Starches, grease, something sweet. Anything at this point to relieve me of my post-drinking munchies.

We enter the dorm, and there in front of me, are rows of paper bags filled with food. And juice boxes too! I run over to the table and literally rip open a bag and begin to throw food into my mouth. Double fisting a sandwich and chips while chugging a juice box in between bites.

"DON'T SHANNON!"

Lu tries to stop me, but I don't listen. She doesn't know what to do at this point because I continue to eat, shoving more of the sandwich into my mouth.

"Shannon! It's Ramadan. Those meals are for the kids fasting! The dining halls aren't open when they can eat."

I stop and look up and see signs all over the living room that read, "DO NOT EAT THE MEALS IF YOU DID NOT SIGN UP. WE HAVE LIMITED QUANTITIES"

Oh fuck. Some Ramadan faster is going to have to go hungry because I ate her food in my drunken stupor! What do these kids get for being good Muslims and fasting? A drunkie stealing their breakfast and eating their left over dinner.

I feel guilty for one moment. And then shove the remaining food into my mouth. I mean, I did fucking open it already. I don't know what would be worse, having your entire Ramadan break fast meal eaten or finding a half eaten sandwich when you opened the bag?

Let's be real

2006-03-29T00:51:00.000-05:00

I started back with the internet dating, putting up an ad on a site and all. Whether or not I pay, is kinda up to you all.

These sites have gotten a lot more savvy with the cheapskates such as myself. Back in the glory days, as a free member of match.com, nerve.com, jdate.com etc., I was able to respond to emails that I received. It was great. Saving money and playing by The Rules online. He makes the first move and pays for the correspondence, score! However, realizing how much money they were losing to asses like myself, these internet dating companies, who by the way capitalize on my datelessness in this fair city, changed the rules around. Now I have to be a paid member in order to read and respond to emails that people send. Which sucks because internet dating is an expensive fucking hobby.

Well, I posted my ad and I got three emails. And of course, curiosity is killing me so I think I may end up breaking down and buying a three month subscription. Even though after doing an inventory of the men who subscribe, 90% of them are below 5’10 and the remaining are a little on the tubby side.

But then I was thinking…I mean, I have a whopping five readers and I am sure that they know at least a few cute guys or possibly even gals (I told you I was open minded) who would be a great fit for me.

So readers, when called upon, you gave me advice (that I am not taking) about my life. You read about my rantings and my confusion with my life and, to be honest, you guys know me just as well as my best friends. So, I am giving you the opportunity to play matchmaker. Granted the last few guys who I have met as a result of my blog were absolute psychos. But, maybe one of you guys may have the anti-nutjob.

My requirements:
If you have been reading this blog you know I do not take anything too seriously. Not my health, my career, or even myself. So with that in mind:

Personality: The guy must be smart, funny, not convicted of any felonies, heterosexual preferred. I mean, I could be ok with a bi guy, but he has to be genuinely bi and comfortable with his sexuality. I do not want to run into a situation where I find out the guy who I had been in love with/recently had sex with also fucked around with men. Especially after he vehemently denied it prior to our romp, it kinda screams closet case. Creatives are a plus. So is Bipolar or anyone who can empathize with my sharp mood swings that run from illusions of grandeur to wanting to hide in bed, all within a 15 min span.

Physical: Please be taller than 5’6 and weigh more than 130 pounds for OBVIOUS reasons. Seriously, I like my boys broad because like all women, I am incredibly insecure about my body and like to feel as tiny as possible next to a guy. This does not mean, however, that I am ok with cellulite on an ass. Mine is free of cottage cheese skin, his should be too. Dark hair is hot. Especially when I can tug on it.

The funny thing is, what I am writing right now is a hella more real than the profile that I just wrote online. “I like reading and running. I like to try to find other ways to spend my time besides drinking. The Metropolitan Museum is amazing!!” Who the fuck? I mean, but let’s be real. I wrote a humorous tongue in cheek post in my myspace profile and I have 21 year old men with babies and babies’ mommas messaging me. Moreover, who the fuck wants to date honesty? But this is my blog and you readers already know what kind of small-time, huge sense of entitlement, spoiled brat, whatever-words-you-want-to-use-describing-me. You have a much better idea of who is my ideal guy than I probably do.

Pass on the info and photos! I promise I am cute.

By the way, I know women in self-defense so no funny business.

Women are nuts

2006-03-27T00:55:00.000-05:00

I can’t tell you how many times guys tell me, “Shit! You are like the coolest girl I have ever met.” Or have even said, “I feel like I am talking to my best (male) friend. You’re one of the guys.” And, when you first meet me, I fucking am. I put men at ease with discussions on Hemingway, Bukowski, football and the merits of a good beer. I poke fun of my nutty fellow women who call too much, who can’t relax when they date guys, who expect too much from one night of sex.

“I don’t understand women, what the fuck is the point? If he’s not returning your phone call, get a fucking life and quit bothering, you know? I would never throw myself out there like that.”

It’s part of my charm. I can make anyone feel comfortable in any situation. Men start to open up to me because I give off such warm vibes, from my smile to my gentle touch, to repeating back the important lines of our conversations as I ask gently probing questions. I am so laid back and chill, that I act like a defy the stereotypes that plague women.

Or so is the façade I put forth.

Truth is, no matter how much I deny it or pretend otherwise, I am a woman. Biology programmed me to be obsessive compulsive about the men who sleep with me in my bed. It’s my instinct to find the most burly man to provide for me and my brood and to make him stick around and rear our children. Make him stop playing Johnny Appleseed, sharing himself with the rest of the species.

Rewind to my Friday night.

Tired from a hectic work week, I didn’t feel like seeing anyone that night. Instead I spent the evening having fun with one of my greatest skills: internet stalking aka “Googling someone’s ass”

I sat in front of my computer inputting the name of every single boyfriend/fling/dick suck beginning with middle school from 6pm until 9:30pm. I only stopped when one of my friends, upon hearing what I had been up to, ordered me out of my apartment to have a drink with her.

I found pictures of their recent marriages (damn did you gain weight tubby!), information about their father’s business, saw that someone’s sister got a nose job and reveled in the fact that some are still living on Long Island with the parents.

This wouldn’t be that weird if I internet stalked friends who I lost contact with, or a recent ex-boyfriend. But it just didn’t stop there. I googled people from my past YEARS (aka from Middle School) ago, their families, their friends, even their fucking cats. There is no reason to involve their families. But in my sick obsessive mind, there is.

Take a step back for a moment and let it sink in… I googled someone’s father because I couldn’t get enough information on him. I mean, let’s face it. That is fucking sick!

The scary thing is, that this level of obsessive compulsiveness is not just me sharing with my readers how I am secretly a nut job. All women, to a certain degree are like this. We talk about men incessantly and constantly over analyze the most mundane detail:

“When he said he would call me later, he didn’t until the next day! What do you think that means?”

“How did he sound? Was it flippant? Frustrated? Preoccupied?”

“His voice dipped an octave at the end of –bye…what do you think?”

Women are psychos. And watching two younger brothers deal with the female species only confirms my self-prejudice. I watch if when my brothers don’t cater to their girlfriend’s every whim that “you don’t love me enough!”

And I know where these women are coming from because I pull the same crap on the guys I date. I’ve ended things because of bad restaurant choices...so I totally relate.

Post continued tomorrow about the socialization of the male vs. female… and how that's fucked us all up.

The way life works

2006-03-24T12:56:00.000-05:00

Why is it the weeks that I am Gawkered, I am too busy to post?

Super busy this week...

If you want to read something funny may I suggest this post. Scroll down to the Grinch Who Stole Christmas. An oldie, yet goodie. And sadly so fucking true...

And you readers wonder why I joke about Bulimia.

Le Petit Man

2006-03-21T00:24:00.000-05:00

So my blog hasn’t had the usual excitement that keeps you entertained. No stories featuring me vomiting on a guy’s genitalia. I haven’t met freaks off of craigslist since December. And my drinking for the last four months has involved: me, the couch, and maybe an older married man but only if my friends were in town. Hell, I didn’t even write about my foray into the underbelly of professional BDSM. Evidently boobs and narrow hips are a hit with guys who like their junk tied up and slapped. Who knew?

Anyway, so I know you guys come here to read about my drunken navigation of the quarter-life crisis. To witness “someone who has it all” fall from grace multiple times but somehow land on her feet unscathed by reality. I know this because my only honest friend Corn told me, “Shan, to be perfectly honest, I don’t bother reading the not funny ones” when I asked her about yesterday’s introspective post.

So, in an effort to keep you entertained because I cannot deal with dwindling site meter numbers, this week’s theme: what I have learned about dating in the last 24 years. Considering that I have never had a serious relationship built upon common interests and mutual respect, surprisingly my observations are fucking dead-on.

Today’s specimen: Le Petit Man

Standing at a strapping 5’3-5’6 with a wallet that weighs more than him, typically Jewish or Italian you find him working at a hedge fund or an investment banking company such as Lehman Brothers wearing his expertly tailored clothes. It’s a common misconception that he does it because his six figure salary allows for those indulgences. This is not the case--his clothes wouldn’t fit his petite frame otherwise.

His Napoleon complex fuels his professional success and to the gold digging NYC woman, his job gives an additional foot of metaphorical height. She’ll tower over him in the Manolos he bought. I know this because I’ve contemplated dating a Le Petit Man.

And I have no problem with Le Petit Man, contrary to my playful poke at him. Growing up on the North Shore of Long Island, many Le Petit Man are my friends and have even dated some Asian friends of mine. Hell, if I wasn’t so insecure with my own self, maybe I could allow myself to fall in love with someone whose imperfection is so blatant.

What I do have a problem with, however, is when Le Petit Man applies the same professional ambition to finding a girlfriend. And we all know that the business world is filled with some unscrupulous characters. I mean, it’s how we get ahead, capitalizing on our competition’s weakness.

Dating off of the internet is always a gamble. Especially Craigslist. Now I know it’s one of the sketchiest sites out there but, being a creative type who believes how people write and present themselves is a window into their very fiber, I enjoy the unmediated posts in the M4W section. I mean, I even sound fucking normal on match.com! So how could I take that site seriously. There is no personal judgment screening process. On Match.com if you are too much of a freak, you could always check the box to describe your ideal date, and save that revelation for the in person meeting. And from personal experience, that is what happens quite often.

I answered an ad on Craigslist posted by a guy who claimed that he was 5’10, Jewish, PhD candidate. He was smart, funny…too much of a total package. I’ve learned with dating in this city, much like a business proposition if it is too good to be true, it motherfuckingly is. I wrote about how I met him and he came up to my chest in my heels that make me 5’10. I also said how he was thinner than me, how he almost gave me an eating disorder because I cannot date a man who has a smaller waist line than me. His was 24 inches. Laying next to him was like sleeping next to a dying, emaciated kitten that escaped from Auschwitz and found its way into my bed.

It got even weirder when we were hooking up. If a guy is on top of me trying to be all sexy and pin me down as he ravishes me with kisses and bites, it is so much more fun when there is an allusion of helplessness. Not if I can throw him off with one hand, as I did with this one because I wanted to see if I could. I felt like I was hooking up with a girl, honestly. Actually, I think he is thinner than my friends too...he couldn't be more than 130 pounds.

But that is Le Petit Man, treating dating like a business deal. Wooing you with the high interest (like the pun?!), and then you finally see the small print and call off the deal. What got me was how he alluded to trying to fuck as many women as possible, after I made it abundantly clear that, “eh” he just didn’t do it for me. Trying to entice me with false competition is sad. Trying to make me feel like I was a number of his wannabe harem made him pathetic.

He uses the internet to his advantage, trying to make you fall for "his inner beauty". Hoping you could look past your own "superficialness" and see him for the man he is.

It’s something I just don’t get with internet dating. There is the concept of “the other shoe dropping” but sometimes the first date isn’t appropriate for me to realize that I am not getting what I bargained for. I mean, I at least want to get dinner out my troubles of the hair dyeing, the brazillians, and the manicures—move past the requisite drinks date at some point. There is something soul satisfying about having a harmless crush, checking your voicemail to see if he called. The crush acting like a distraction from reality.

Which is why I have sworn off internet dating for the time being. Going back to old fashioned methods of meeting people. Getting blinded drunk, dancing on a bar, and having an intoxicated make-out in a dark corner of the bar.

Too bad I have sworn off alcohol in the meantime. You know, trying to drop the 15 pounds of seasonal depression weight I put on before I head out over to London in the next few weeks.

Reflections of a...

2006-03-19T16:13:00.000-05:00

Sunday was my grown up day; I cleaned the kitchen that needed cleaning, shopped for food to fill the bare pantry, and took time out for myself, going on a rollerblade along the Hudson despite the chilly winds coming off of the adjacent river. When I came home I saw that my refrigerator didn’t complement my grown up day—shelves filled with booze and liquefying vegetables. Off I went to the grocery store, filling my basket with fresh produce, yogurt, and soy products. I am ready to indulge upon this kick for as long as it will last. Especially since my future sister in law mentioned dress fittings in the next few months.

Standing on line to check out, a cute guy and I made conversation with our eyes and body language. Gesturing I asked him to watch my spot as I grabbed some whole grain crackers. I came back and he asked me for the same favor, except he forgot his salad dressing. We both shared a chuckle at our mutual forgetfulness. As the cashier rang up my order, and still seeing that he was within ear shot packing his own grocery bags, I asked her to also add a NYT to my order. The newspaper of the NYC intelligentsia. I thought his last impression of our semi-flirtatious encounter should involve the clichéd connotations of the NYT. Maybe sometime soon I would share that situation with a guy who I knew more intimately than just safeguarding each other’s spots on line. Instead we would help each other carry groceries home, both hurriedly walking back to the apartment to devour the breakfast in the plastic bags and then the Times on my couch.

The man on line finished paying for his groceries as the cashier began to ring mine up. We parted ways.

Yesterday my sister Kay, my brother Mike and his fiancé Nancy came to my apartment. Our interaction resembling a cross between a happy-family sitcom and my six year old girl fantasies of what being a grown up must be like. My sister talking about the breakfast she made them when they came over, complete with describing how she laid the food out on a glass plate. Mike and his fiancé filling my sister and me on wedding details. Half jokingly, Nancy and Kay make a pact, “let’s try to get pregnant around the same time, you know, so our kids’ll have cousins to grow up with.”

I stood in my living room feeling incredibly out of place. Simultaneously realizing my own mortality and fertility while coming to an understanding how I have a reputation in the family is being the eccentric one. With my outlandish behavior, will my siblings and their spouses restrict visitations with my future nieces and nephews?! Especially, being realistic, my younger siblings will surely have children before I do. Only my actions and drunken rants on this blog giving them insight into my character whether I would make a good babysitter, as opposed to actual experience with my own children.

Standing next to Kay, Mike and his future wife, I was hit with their maturity. No longer are my siblings the same kids who used to play with worms outside our house on Cedar Street. My sister graduates college and embarks upon her career in the next few months. My brother graduates the police academy and becomes a police officer, responsible for other people’s lives. And his high school girl friend becomes his wife and member of our family next June.

I compare their paths to my own. Working in advertising, living with a gay roommate whose relationship with me is more child-mother than friend. Never having a serious relationship in my twenty-four years of life for reasons I have yet to explore in therapy. A desire to make it big somehow in some way that I haven’t decided upon yet.

And I enter into the clutches of this fear. Compounded by the article I read in the NY Times today of single women who decide to use any means to have children—including artificial insemination using the sperm of anonymous donors. I begin to reflect upon my life again. There is a very good chance as my siblings enter this stage of their lives, embracing their responsibility as I run from mine that we may be left with even less things in common.

Our relationship further shifting. My role as the older sister holding less importance as they embark upon the lives they’re forging for themselves.

That’s the problem with having younger siblings so close in age. I knew the day would come when they would reach life’s landmarks first, knocking me off of my perch as the know-it-all. I just didn’t imagine it was going to happen so soon.