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.