A word of advice

If you are at a party, and there are pictures being taken, don't assume that they are not going to photograph you--especially if you are dressed up as a stripper. Furthermore, in this day and age of internet, don't assume that they will not put up the most uncomprosiing pictures of you.

Evidently I was even more scandelous when one sees my behavior in snap-shot form.

The best motivation

Doing statistical work is bo-ring. As I'm not smoking (you know, trying to get in shape), I needed to come up with a more productive way to reward myself: MASTURBATION.

Seriously, I've never been so focused on my work!

Stats assignment almost done, and am in the process of admitting defeat. My new motivation has definately helped lessening the blow to my wanting-a-distinction ego.

But I learned my lesson for next time, and now know how to study. Oh well, nothing I can do now about it.

I never fucking learn

I should be working on my stats assignment but once again, the subject matter is kicking my ass. And it isn’t even because I don’t understand the material—actually, I’m fairly good at the shit considering that I used to work in market research for a year and give presentations to brand managers and shit. So, it’s not that I am dumb because I am fucking up this assignment but it is because I have to use this computer program, STATA, in order to do my analysis of the work. OK, so maybe I should have started it earlier, but my social life has been kick ass this week.

First of all, isn’t ironic that my impediment to stats the first time around was the lack of computer program, and this time it’s because I am forced to use this crappy computer program—it’s like I can’t fucking win. Secondly, what is the point of learning this coding bullshit, I mean, it’s going to get outsourced to India anyway, you know?

So, I’ve been sitting at my desk for the last, literally, six hours re-inputting code, that I can’t manage to write because I am far from detail orientated and consistently forget to add the comma, or misspell something. Which, when you are working in code, it’s a fucking nightmare. Each time I don’t notice the missing comma, I spend about twenty minutes trying to figure out why I can’t get the data to output. After searching through books, the help section, and re-reading all of the commands, it comes down to a spacing issue or a capitalization error. I then spend about twenty minutes crying afterwards, wishing for a man to take care of me so I wouldn’t have to use this degree, unless absolutely necessary.

But the worst part of it all is the fucking class. The teacher doesn’t teach, instead she reads aloud from a handout and answers our questions on the material with the phrase, “If you just read the hand out…” I’m sorry, I’m not paying fucking forty grand to read a fucking hand out. You’re lucky I’m not asking you to come to the bathroom with me and read the handout aloud as I take a shit, ok?

So, if you haven’t noticed, I am fucking frustrated. I am going to fail this assignment, and there is no penis that I can exploit in giving me a second chance. Welcome to grad school, Shannon. Why the fuck did I decide to do this in the first place?

Oh, and the best part? I’m going through nicotine withdrawals as all the places where I can buy cigarettes are closed right now. I smoked all my cigarettes after chugging about fifteen drinks and humping the floor. Twenty-four hours without a cigarette and I have such a headache, in addition to the tears in my eyes.

I fucking deserve this, especially since tonight is my first sober night in five days. But, you know what, it was kinda worth it in a sick fucking way. I just keep telling myself, that in the grand scheme of things, one bad grade isn’t going to destroy my chances to graduate with a distinction, right?

The attention whore strikes again

My costume last night was scandalous: pink hot pants, leg warmers, 7” platform heels and a tight tank top. I was also striping to the music on the dance floor and won the unofficial title of best dancer.

Anyway, am in the middle of an assignment that is due tomorrow so, no long post tonight. But tomorrow, I have no plans besides rugby practice. Check back tomorrow afternoon for the US/evening for the UK for a more updated post.

Can’t wait for Halloween on Tuesday, am off to the clubs to play on the poles.

Oh, and below is a pic of me at the party. Enjoy!

Free for all

Can I just say how fucking beautiful my bed is, especially when surrounded by my down comforter, pillows, teddy bear, and sitting in my PJs with my computer on my lap? This is perfection. Too bad I’m heading out in about an hour, going out night number four, to a friend’s housewarming party. To be perfectly honest, I kinda preferred my time here when I didn’t have friends and I had time to write.

It’s funny, since I haven’t had time to keep up with it, I’m realizing just how much it is a part of me. I have several outlines for posts, but no time to flesh them out and write them. And when I do have the time, I am just so emotionally spent that I just want to sit in my bed and read. It’s the problem with this blog, some of you are my friends who read this to be kept up to date with my happenings and a lot of you are strangers who read about my life for entertainment. It’s like I feel guilty when I write free write posts like this for the latter group because I know you read this for some time of entertainment, but bear with me. I can’t keep up this schedule much longer. Tonight is night number four that I’ve been going out, and if you remember my life back home, emotionally I can’t handle drink drink drink no sleep. I’ll probably give myself a self-induced date with prince xanax to deal with the inevitable crash.

I was walking along high street today, amongst the older colleges and it hit me, I am really happy here. My classes are interesting, the people who I am getting to know are very smart and unassumingly fabulous, and I’ve found my newest addiction: rugby and squash with my Harald replacement.

But I really don’t want to go out tonight. Except that I am so emotionally spent that it is easier getting dressed to go out than to hang out in my room by myself.

It must end

Just got back from the Captains' Cup--the rugby event of the year. What I have learned:

1. Men's Rubgy players are fucking HOTT.

2. The lyrics to 'Cambridge Men'--which are fucking true. Tried looking them up online but couldnt find them.

3. Am dressed up in a school girl's uniform--fucked over my classes and my date to hang out with the rugby girls. God I fucking love the team.

4. I am so fucking drunk right now--Nina, my bad influence.

Ugh. Day off tomorrow, and I think I am "that" girl who smokes too much and parties too much...

Seriously, the Oxford Men's Rugby Team--soooo hot.

Wow, I really am drunk right now. :)

TIme...like money, there is never enough

Fucking-A. I know I am supposed to write a hysterical treatisie on dating but have been running around all day. Got rescued last night from the library, and spent the later part of the evening in a pub making playdates for xanax and wine movie watching. Don't ask.

I played my first Rugby match today, and right before I went in, I watched a girl get taken away in an ambulance--I think she broke her leg. And then I'm told to play wing. But, seriously, it's a fucking awesome game. Despite not knowing what constitutes a position, I still had fun and even caught the ball a few times! It's like playing football when I was younger, except the women are a lot scarier than my brothers who are 6'2 and 6'3 respectively. To be honest, I was fucking scared each time I got the ball--and sadly, I know how to catch so I had the ball a few times. As soon as I saw some big woman barrelling at me, I threw the ball or ran out of bounds. I like my nose, and I question the state of the surgical care in this country. But, despite my "fool proof method" I did manage to get my head knocked around, actually my neck is beginning to hurt. Fuck. But we did win--actually a massacre. And I played hungover

As I've been shit on the postings, below is a draft of the article I submitted. I know it needs to be editted, but I sent them something that wasn't perfect to make sure that the style was correct. Evidently, I am assuming, that since Fresher's week already happened like three weeks ago, it wasn't timely. So, I know it needs to be editted, but you also need to read some of my shit too. Please be gentle.

Oh, and tonight is the Captains' drinks. I'm putting on my school girl uniform and going to an open bar. I am saying I am going for two drinks, especially after last night, but with Nina involved, I may be persuaded.

So Below--An American's take on Fresher's Week

And it’s Sunday night, one week after Fresher’s week that I write this. The beer belly has subsided, the acne is disappearing, and my body is beginning to feel somewhat back to its old self—although I’ve been too afraid to try my luck at the gym yet. I think any form of exercise may propel me into an asthmatic fit, as the only air I’ve fed my lungs is when it was inhaled through a burning cigarette for the last few weeks, the vice acting as a nasty holdover from my debaucherous time . Two weeks ago today, I declared war on my body. And you know the old cliché “mind over matter”? Well, my body didn’t quite understand that. As much as I pushed my body by feeding it pints for an entire evening and then following up with the kebab van at 3am, it couldn’t make it. I couldn’t make it. So yes, there were a few nights during Fresher’s Week that I missed out on, and instead stayed in reading my trashy detective novels as the rest of you went bop hopping and brought back social and economic vitality to the city.

I just couldn’t hack it.

See, I’m not your typical Fresher who just had their first taste of freedom, reveling in the high of this whole new world of carnal delights of getting blind drunk and pulling people—all without worry that mom and dad are going to find out. I’ve been around the

metaphorical alcohol block, having taken part in such wonderful traditions as Kegs and Eggs (Beer and Breakfast), gone through my own Fresher’s week back home in the United States as an undergrad, and hell even partied my ass off during Mardi Gras when I lived in New Orleans. I know alcohol, and I know how to party.

Or so I thought.

Nothing prepared me for Fresher’s Week—seven days where, for probably the only time during term the alcohol is free, you meet the other strangers you will be living with for the next year, and the only thing that you can be completely sure of is that the other students sitting across from you share your love of Strongbow. No wonder why school sanctioned alcoholism exists. Could you imagine making your Fresher’s week friends without it? Or the real question, what about keeping your new found friends after you sober up at the end of the week. Yea, I didn’t think so either.

It’s understandable why Fresher’s Week exist. No matter what culture you come from, or if you grew up just around the block from the university, it’s still daunting walking into a building of strangers and having none of them know who you are. We’ve all experienced the awkward conversations around the bar, asking the same four questions, “What’s your name? What are you studying? What college? And where do you come from?” while smiling as you try, in vain, to remember the names that you know you will soon forget by the time the next person answers those same four questions. Alcohol, with its ability to inspire self confidence and give you best friends by the end of the night, isn’t the best antidote for lapses in memory—actually, often times it is the culprit.

So you sit around these tables, at bars, at bops, even at dinner trying to find anything in common. Just as you are about to give up hope for any inspiring conversation, that slight tipsy feeling takes hold, and the conversations suddenly get better. Now, I still haven’t figured out whether it is the beer loosening our tongues or just making whatever s/he says that much more interesting—something like beer goggles, except with conversation. And as the night wears on, more drinks are poured, the stories unfold, something in your mind clicks and you begin to think that the people seated next to you, or dancing with, are your best friends.

Or maybe they just feel like it. You know, cause you are thinking with the clearest head at that moment.

And then you start talking, reveal too much, and everyone follows suit. It only takes just one person to start the chain. As the last person finishes talking, telling the group how she cheated on her boyfriend with his best friend or some other defining moment, you are all knee deep in each other’s confidences—a purgatory of friendship status. You know too much to be considered a casual acquaintance, but you also know too much to look that person in the eye the next day.

I’ve been through this. I experienced the American version of Fresher’s week. I’ve told my fair share of embarrassing stories both here and abroad. After a while, getting drunk can get a tad boring. Even if you do drink like an American.

What’s interesting about Oxford is how orientation lasts a full week here, and all of the days end with a trip to the pub—either as a college excursion or in the form of pre-gaming for the bop that night. In the United States, universities know better than to leave American first year students to their own devices with alcohol and other such indulgences. Hence our Fresher’s Weeks tend to last three days at the most—with campus security on heightened alert, and town police making the requisite crack downs on fake IDs as to prevent you from going to the local bar and sharing a drink with your friends.

Confronted with a 21 and over alcohol law, we’ve compensated. Learned our lessons from prohibition era America, and formed elaborate rituals to enable our intoxication. . It’s a catch-22 for the American universities. As underage drinking is illegal, they are in no position to sanction the consumption of booze at parties. But they also know that it breeds this binge drinking culture. We’re forced to retreat inside our rooms, and drink as much as possible so our intoxication will last for most of the night. While ending up incredibly drunk in the process. Catch a drink with an American student on a big party night, and you’ll see our tendency to binge drink as a hold over from our under twenty-one days. We still throw back shots and pints, one after the other, not wanting to lose a moment to sobriety.

I thought I was able to leave that culture behind. I’ve graduated from university back in the states a few years ago and have acquired life experience that dictates, “you really don’t need to chug vodka cranberries, it’s ok, you can get more later.”

But, I’m finding that I did just that during Fresher’s week, reverting back to my undergraduate tendencies. Not realizing that pubs close here by midnight, and the only places left that could legally serve booze are over priced lounges. British students know this, so you’ve adjusted. You tend to start earlier evenings out, grabbing a pint or two with friends and pacing yourselves throughout the night. In the States, “going out” implies drunk, and it also implies a much later start time, especially since we’re afforded the luxury of bars being open until 2am, unlike here. So often times I’ve found myself leaving my room by almost 11pm, only having one hour of drinking time before places close. So once again I am left pounding back drinks because of an early last call, as opposed to the threat of campus police.

It’s actually a curious thing I’ve noticed. Walk the streets around Oxford at 2:30am during Fresher’s week, and you’ll see hoards of students looking for a party, drunk off their asses. I think American students have it the worst though.

This is why I stayed in on some of those nights. I drank like an American student on vacation instead of a European who grew up around it. I couldn’t imagine going out with all of these new people who I knew nothing about without the social ease that each sip of wine, or vodka coke provided.

So it’s no wonder why it can last a week here. As Europeans you are all familiar with the ropes, you already know the rules and how to abide by them—pubs by 8pm to grab a few drinks, make your way to the party at 9-10ish, and then call it a night by 2am. I see Fresher’s Week as an induction of sorts, not only to the culture of the University, but also to its laws and the culturally acceptable way to get drunk.

As I spent the week learning, like many of the international students I ended up at the Purple Turtle looking to dance at 2am, still at the height of my drunkenness as I didn’t realize I should have gotten an earlier start. But, ladies, the Oxford Brooks students are very liberal buying drinks, I’m just saying.

I’m not bashing American laws, nor saying that all American students are out of control binge drinkers and the English are civilized with their drink. Because if that was true I wouldn’t have seen a Fresher vomiting out his window at Brasenose college at 2am one night. But what I am trying to highlight is that I came over here thinking I knew better, assuming I had it all figured out since I’ve “been there, done that”. It wasn’t the case. I learned a lot Fresher’s Week, met a lot of cool people, and of course gained a cultural understanding of what it means to go out Oxford University style.

Exhausted

Falling asleep as I type this but wanted to let you know that, my ass is playing rugby!!

And what is different this time than the forty other times I tried playing?! The team is filled with people who have never played before (ok fine, and I am in much much better shape--actually, the best I've been in years, including the ciggs) and it's fun learning and fucking up together. Much more fun than having ex-olympians barrel over you and leave you with black eyes. Plus I'm in the back so it's a lot more running around and catching--so much better than the brute force positions I tried playing years ago.

I even got my first bruise today *sniffle* It's like I'm a real player. First game on Wed, and I'm stoked.

And other good news, found a meadow with cows and horses to go running--actually better than central park because I have to dodge cows on the path.

Today was an exceptional day, just had to share.

Actually had a very funny post all outlined and all, but my bed looks super comfy. Sorry guys.

But, thanks Adam. Yes, this song was fucking written for me.

My Sunday

There is something about this country that makes me, momentarily, forget my NYC roots and be able to relax and get into the slower pace of life. It’s just a bit more gentle here, something that I am relishing in instead of getting frustrated by.

Went to rugby practice today and got dirty playing in the mud—literally. I was covered head to toes in caked dirt and it was fantastic, we’ll see how long this kick lasts, though. Am in the middle of cooking for the Sunday pot luck, and decided to take a break and write a bit. On the menu: chocolate covered bananas and blue cheese covered toast drizzled in honey. When I start to get a bit SAD, I tend to hibernate and relish in taking care of people. Started vitamin and light therapy, and tomorrow I start the hard core work-outs and cutting out carbs—hopefully it’ll work and I won’t have to pop anti-depressants. I forget just how much I need sunlight.

And why for the lame post, you are probably wondering. I can do other things besides drink and pull boys in clubs. This is typical life at Oxford. After dinner I am off to my new favorite hang-out, the library. Couches, books, and quiet.

My response to anonymous

As “anonymous” left me this comment:

“had to read that entire thing to read that lame qoute at the end? Get over yourself huh? You used to write so well. Stop indulging your inadequacies and do something with yourself. You're at the best university in the world and you're writing about the cultural differences between the Brits and Americans? Is it true they spell theater theatre? That's madness!!!
And you've over used "stiff upper lip." Stop using it.”

First of all, I would like to say thank you for the constructive criticism of my writing. For you to take such a keen interest in the evolution of my style is truly touching and warms my heart. But sarcasm aside, it must’ve struck a chord with me if I am devoting a post to it—or maybe I’ve just run out of drunk stories to share. I mean, going to the Purple Turtle at 3am, stops being very interesting for both you and me—and unfortunately that is what ended up happening last night.

I know my writing has “sucked” as of late. The drunk stories aren’t very funny, I’ve stopped fleshing out my completely relatable takes on the world, I’ve become stagnant, the list goes on.

Now let me explain why: there are only twenty-four hours in a day. When I worked at the agency, I went home, didn’t leave my house, and proceeded to watch reruns of Will & Grace while blogging on my sofa. My writing was self-absorbed, sad, and filled with ‘I just want to be loved’, hence, besides my friends nobody read it. We then enter into the glory days of my blog. The Gawker mentions, everyone linking me, people sending me their own writing (uhm, if I could do something for you, I can assure you I would not have worked at the agency)—and the shit I wrote was good, if I may say so myself. I made fun of everyone, said something insightful, and made you laugh the entire time. This period of time was characterized by me saying, “Fuck you” to the agency, my bags had already been mentaly packed so I worked the bare minimum forty-five hour weeks and spent most days playing on the computer, and arranging vendor lunches. Let’s say I had loads of free time on my hands.

Now we enter into this period of my life, being a student at Oxford. Contrary to popular belief you do not go to grad school to hide. Unlike the real world, there are no minions for you to pass off your work to, no system to exploit—either you did the reading or not, and there is no metaphorical office that I can leave by five. There is so much work that it looks like I am going to spend my Christmas holiday revising for my exams. Ok enough of the violins, but this is also my reality. But we have another side of the equation as well. I know this is the last time in my life (unless I get a scholarship for next year) that I will have control over my time. For those nights when ‘the spirit moves me' I can stay up until 4am and keep writing, not worrying about being in the office at 9am. This is also the first time in my life where I really have no distractions and can lock my door and turn off my cell phone and write, without plans hanging over my head, people to call, and all of the other things in NYC that prevented me from getting in touch with myself and writing.

Besides school work, I’m trying to assemble clips and the like for my return to NYC. So, that means I’ve been submitting articles to one of the university’s newspapers, in addition to working on my own novels, and *gasp* writing for class (who would have thought?!). Unlike most bloggers, who brag that it takes them twenty minutes for a post or what ever absurd amount of time—I’m not like them. On average, my posts take me about a few hours, and if it needs extensive editing, then longer. As of late, I just haven’t had that much time to devote.

And on the point that I am at the “best university in the world”, well not quite. But thanks for the ego stroke.

So, the moral of the story: yes I know that some of the shit I post is not very good, especially at 4am. I know that it is my duty to write for you and only you, but this blog has another function: it allows me to keep in touch with my friends. And if you’ve ever hung out with me, I thrive off of race/ethnicity jokes, and the Brits are fucking funny. Especially when juxtaposed with the epitome of a neurotic NYC gal. To take you down a peg, sometimes I write thinking of my friends in mind, and since they already love me, I don’t need to impress them, just make them laugh with allusions to terrible inside jokes.

But, since I do love you all, each and every one of you, and my self-esteem is contingent upon my site meter numbers, I promise to be more attune to your needs and desires. As I am feeling pretty stretched with all of this writing and work, they may not be the longest and epic stories, but I will at least, provide fun little quips to make you chuckle and think.

Thank you anonymous, I am sure all of my readers wish to extend the same gratitude as I am right now.

Therapy--British Style

I think this exemplifies my personality: when I was living in NYC, the mecca for neurotic Woody Allen-esque Jews, where we swap psych-pharmies alongside stock tips, and there are more shrinks than [insert NYC stereotype here], I refused to see a therapist. At first I reasoned, I didn’t go because I didn’t have insurance—which, if you don’t have someone subsidizing the $150 an hour to talk about your past, it becomes a bit cost prohibitive.

And yes, I know I spent more than that at the bar in a week. But, math has never been my strong point, ok?

Then I got my job at the agency, and got health insurance—but I still refused to go. I couldn’t find one that I liked, or took my insurance for that matter. In NYC therapy is such a hot commodity that it is a therapists' market--if they are that good chances are s/he did not take insurance, as neither the five of them did when I inquired.

Funny thing is that it took me to come to the land of the stiff-upper-lip/we-don’t-talk-about-feelings, in order to seek counseling. As I’ve written here before, I define my identity in opposition of the norm. Plus it was free, the most important reason.

I have to be honest, I didn't look to speak to someone because I wanted to grow as a person or find ways to become less co-dependent on things, or even to resolve issues from my past. Oh no, I sought out mental help for purely vain reasons--I refuse to gain seasonal depression weight ever again. I thought a therapist could help me develop some behaviors that would lessen my anxiety and a strategy to keep my depression at bay. And anyway, the counseling center prides itself on “short-term” therapy. I thought I would sit down with her for an hour, tell her about my anxiety issues, and she would give me a few coping mechanisms that don’t involve chain smoking at 2am outside my dorm and then call it a cure. Especially since the website says that 60% of people need just one session.

I head over to the counseling center, and look for the building—with the address sounding very familiar to me. And when I see the building, of-fucking-course. It is located right next to the college president’s home! The same man who bonded with me over old skool Jazz music! A very old-skool stiff upper lipped Brit. Very very old skool. I made a mental note, go to therapy in sun glasses, hat, and big coat--if he sees me, I am running an errand for a 'friend'.

Now, I'm not going to lie. Granted I am from NYC, the land of neurotics and the therapists who love them, but I am still not entirely comfortable about going there. I know there is a semi-stigma, especially in this country, associated with needing a therapist. But I had no idea that the receptionist would be in on the conspiracy, as reflected by the way she spoke with me:

Me: [Pretending that this is cool and normal] Hi, I’m Shannon, I’m here for my appointment this morning.

Receptionist: [Look of pity/concern/please don’t blow me up] I need you to fill out some forms, is that ok?

Why is a woman asking me if it is ok that I fill out forms? I felt like fucking with her and saying "NO! The God Argon won't allow me to touch a pen" and then start speaking to her in tongues and ask her if she had any tin foil to block the gamma rays that allow the government to listen to my thoughts.

Me: [Non-chalantly, trying to pretend that I am not one of the real crazies] Sure!

Receptionist: Ok! [Pity smile] Here. [Look of concern] [another pity smile]

I’m thinking to myself, “I bet she’s seen a lot of shit happen here.”

It's a NYC Jew/Brit cultural divide. In NYC, at one point or another we've all seen a therapist. Chances are if you are in a therapist's office in NYC you aren't really crazy but an overly-self-indulgent twenty-something that wants to understand 'why do I run away from greatness'? Here, I guess people seek someone's guidance when shit really hits the emotional fan.

By filling out the paper work I guess I prove to the woman that I am sufficiently normal and she leaves me alone. As I'm reading my magazine, I hear someone at the door. Thinking it's my therapist and look up and see some girl trying to avoid eye contact. I don’t know if any of you have ever sought therapy in a place where, chances are you probably know the person sitting next to you in the waiting room—either at school or perhaps even at work. But it's like this unspoken admission of guilt that occurs between the two parties and this “I-hope-I-don’t-know-you-but-if-I-do-you’re-just-as-implicated-as-I-am” look is exchanged. Now, she did look vaughly familiar, but, a therapist's waiting room is not exactly the place to play the name game. I mean, what do you say? "Hey! How are you! Didn't we meet at a Fresher's Week activitiy? Oh by the way, whatcha in for?!"

Ignore the person so you don't need to acknowledge the circumstances.

It actually reminded me when I went for my free AIDS test at the health department's free STD clinic this past summer. The room was filled with mostly latino and black youths and the occasional white yuppie--all of whom sat in their seats, heads bowed, praying that nobody recognized who they were. I mean, could you imagine? You get an AIDS test for work/school/your own knowledge and you see a former partner of yours?! And in typical Shannon-fashion, being bored, I was playing the 'who-is-a-hottie' game. But then gave up when I realized that chances are, they are there because they got green shit flying out of their dick. But the girl in the waiting room exchanged the same level of eye-contact as did the people at the NYC Health Dept.

So, I'm waiting for the receptionist in this eerily tranquil place. Think Bliss Spa, but no lemon water and brownies.

She meets me downstairs and we climb four flights to get to her office. Nothing says mental health like huffing and puffing next to your therapist.

"Kind of makes me feel bad for all of those ciggs I've been smoking," I crack as we walk up the stairs.

"Uh huh," she responds.

Oh, this is going to be fun.

As I’ve done the therapy thing before in college, I’m interested to see how she’s set the room up, it will give insight into how she will conduct the session. I see that she has two chairs in the corner, sitting reasonably away from each other with a table placed next to mine. But interestingly enough, there are no tissues on the table, implying that crying must not be common place here. Weird fucking Brits. In the American system, it isn’t a good session until you’ve blamed your parents and cried for your inner child.

And our session begins and I talk. I make a few cultural Jew Woody Allen references that flies over my head, she says some insightful things, and confirms my suspicions. I am a bit more fucked up than the average person and will be needing several sessions to make me into a whole person.

And of course, I did find it incredibly helpful. I mean, it’s great listening to yourself talk for an hour. I’ve never understood therapists, I mean, how can anyone listen to someone like me talk about themselves endlessly. Either they thrive off of train wrecks or they like being in a position of emotional power. But, despite my cynicism, it provided the soundboard that I needed, validated the feelings that I’ve had, and helped to refocus me.

As I am being all fabulously proactive, I bought a light box today, some Omega-3 vitamins (to counter act seasonal depression), and cleaned my room that, to be perfectly honest, began to smell like the rotting food I’ve forgotten about.

I am feeling a lot better, refocused, recentered, and hoping to lose the belly that the late night kebab vans have given me.

But interestingly enough, I was on the phone with a Corinne and, of course, my blog came up as it is the way I stay in touch with my friends.

“You know, you’re writing’s been really stagnant lately.”

Everyone has a fucking opinion, but I guess that is what happens when I make my inner-most thoughts public.

“Oh?” I reply.

“Yea, your drinking is boring and tiresome. There should be evolution of the character.”

“Uh huh.”

Except, that I’m not a character—sometimes a caricature, but never a character.

But, after my initial defensiveness, I thought about it. Yes, you could say that I’ve regressed a bit since I’ve arrived here: the drinking, the cattiness, the attention-whorism. But then I thought about it even more, and realized that is what separates fact from fiction. We will all fall off of our metaphorical bandwagons on occasion, it’s inevitable. As human beings, we seek comfort. And when taken out of our comfort zone, we revert to the things we associate with that comfort—for me it’s drinking and false senses of emotional intimacy, for you dear reader, it may be food, drugs, finding a boyfriend, whatever. We will always fight with that part of ourselves, the little voice in the back of our head that wants us to take the easy way out, just because it is there.

It’s evolution when you regress and then catch yourself. So, to make this even more bizarre, I’m happy I fell off the bandwagon that I set-up for myself. Sometimes, for some people, it’s necessary to understand why we needed that change for ourselves to begin with, you know, kind of a recommitment to the cause in a sense.

I was IMing her as a follow up and she told me, “Shannon, you don’t seem happy.”

I replied, “No. I’m just realistic right now.”

It takes time and effort to be “happy” in a new place. I’m definitely not miserable, that’s for sure. My classes are tough and forcing me to think in ways that I am not used to, so I am no longer feeling like the intellectual top-dog as I have for so many years, and the people are different than what I am used to.

As a professor told me my first year, and it’s stayed with me ever since, “It’s when you are feeling the most tired, frustrated, and intellectually inferior—when you are out of your comfort zone—that you can expect to grow the most.” And that is where I am right now.

It's caught up with me

I am so fucking sick. No, not Irish Flu sick, but like fever, chills, dizzy, and needing to sleep with the trashcan next to my bed. Fucking country, no 24 hour pharmacies to get soup, vitamins, and the like.

Why is it, always, the day I clean up my act I get sick? Which came first, the chicken or the egg. And was going to write all about my therapy session today....seriously, was very funny. Cultural divide and all.

If anyone lives in the Oxford area, who loves me...

God I miss fucking NYC right now.

A Feminist Rant

I had an appt with the doctor today so I can start to fill my birth control pills here. I handed the prescription to the pharmacist and within five minutes he hands me a blue box. I give him and credit card and he looks at me kinda funny.

“Uhm, are you telling me it is free?” I ask in my very American accent.

A tiny smile creeps upon his face.

When I told my British flatmate about it, she too laughed at me and thought that the notion of paying for birth control is ludicrous.

Point: Brits for making birth control free and very easily accessible.

But when talking to the doctor about the availability to the HPV vaccine in this country she told me, “It’s still not approved.”

Evidently anything costly (I think the shots run almost $600) takes a very long time to be approved here. Very sad considering how many lives it can save.

Point: The American pharmaceutical industry

Anyway, my feminist rant for the day. But therapy was a blast—especially with a stiffer upper lipped Brit counseling a neurotic Jewish NYer. Brilliant! And in better news, declined an invitation for £2 all you can drink at one of the colleges. Instead am heading to the library right now. Goes to show that I am not as fucked up as I appear to be; I just need some guidance every now and then.

Diary of an AA reject

Tomorrow must start my healthy living. I can't do this anymore, the late night ciggs, the evening drinks, the kebab van runs, the catty conversations.

Tomorrow things will change. I meet my therapist and I explain to her my problem: when I am left to my own devices I seem to fall into the wrong thing, and make the wrong decisions, and how I just don't know how to say 'No' when confronted with things I know I shouldn't do.

Tomorrow I go back to my NYC ways: working out, mediation, writing, and forgetting where the bar is...

I wish I had self control and could keep myself grounded.

I am drunk right now. Ok, fine, tipsy.

I am so not built for this level of drinking. Forgot just how bad the hangovers feel like when cheap red wine is involved.

Been trying not to vomit most of the morning. Running post-poned until this evening, I am trying to first hydrate myself before I can expel more toxins.

The Art of a Hangover

It was one of those nights where when I woke up, I couldn’t even look at myself in the mirror. It’s not that I did anything despicable. It’s just I abused my body and unlike most nights where I have my elaborate rituals to try to undue the damage, when I walked in through the door at 12:30am, still in full make-up, I stripped down and plopped myself into my bed. No washing my face, no make-up remover applied, and definitely no comfy jammies. Although I did manage to brush my teeth and find my teddy Harry III, a gift from Corinne. I do have some priorities.

I had a very fitful nights sleep. I think I was up every hour from 5:30am onwards. But, let me tell you that English sunrises are fucking incredible. And then after you see about thirty second of it, standing half naked at your window reading the texts that were sent last night (which I do remember sending, btw) because you can’t get reception any place in the room, you realize that maybe you should have responded 'No' to, “Do you want to split a bottle of Chianti?” and responded an emphatic ‘fuck no!’ to, “So, my treat, who wants to order a second bottle.”

This place is very reminiscent of undergrad; not my undergrad but the experience I missed out on by going to the gay convent (affectionately nicknamed of course). There is a part of me that feels like I am making up for lost time, understanding the fun in getting dressed up for class, going to the library looking cute, and of course the dreaded—going out on a school night because, much to my demise, all of my classes start at noon or later.

It’s a struggle of what I know I should be doing and what is so much fun. I was talking to my mother yesterday telling her how I am making headway in my writing because, unlike NYC, I can close the door and nobody really knows how to find me—especially since I get no cell reception in my room. I know I should be staying in, working on my writing, doing the reading for class. It’s like I am still stuck on this vacation mentality, because, although my clothes are here and my posters adorn my walls, only my room feels like home. As long as I stay in my nicely decorated cell, I can keep those promises to myself, it’s when I leave its confines that I am forced to acknowledge, I feel more like a study abroad student than a Masters student at Oxford.

So where does that leave me? Trying to do as much work today so I can go back out tonight. My liver is weeping, my bank account is bleeding, and all I want to do at this very moment is turn over and fall back asleep. Which, I think, one hour really isn’t going to hurt, right? I need to find self-discipline and fulfill the promises of how I was going to change because, all of this is beginning to seem eerily familiar.

Last Words: Just one more...

Dinner at the masters house last night. Who knew that my love of Jazz and the fact I can sing along to Bing Crosby would put me back in his favor?

One of those nights that was supposed to entail just dinner and then back to my room to study. But then someone suggested one drink at the pub and that sounded like a good idea at the time. And then the second bottle of wine was ordered and before we knew it, we closed the place down at midnight.

With such an active social life it’s easy to forget why I am here, you know?

How to tell you are an asshole NYer: when the Greek bought us wine, my friend “felt bad”. My response? He is paying us for our time. Plus he brags how much money he makes, so it serves him right. But there is a small part of me that did feel bad too, until he leaned in and said how much money he made in the stock market (which was laughable) and how he hangs out with CEOs at company dinners. And I’ve scared off Keifer Sutherland at SoHo house, your point? But, I knocked him down several pegs. Including calling him insecure. Which I admit was mean. And that was weird because a wine drunk makes me happy (and horny).

Tonight: gay drinks and the gay club with the gay boys. After this week, I may end up having to call AA. I just can’t say no. Would skip lecture so I could catch up on my reading, but my professor is so hot. I think I may end up going to extra help. What is it with me and stats professors?! But harmless crushes are very very fun.

It’s not that the hangovers are bad, it’s the cigarettes that make you feel like shit in the morning.

One of those weekends

Have you ever had one of those weekends where you couldn't stop smirking because of the if-it-wasn't-so-funny-it-would-be-cringe-worthy moments?

When I walked to town to get my groceries for the week, I couldn't stop smiling.

Had a great fucking time this weekend. Ended up getting very drunk and dancing in a gay club while showing off my stripper moves. But it wasn't one of those self-destructive let me try to get drunk for some reason evening, it was one of those very rare nights where it was just fun.

Simple. Just fun. The alcohol providing an entry into another way to experience the moment.

In the middle of writing an article for the school newspaper so no post for you today. My creative energies are being drained at the moment. Plus I made headway on my manuscript. Like, when the writing is so personal that I don't know if I could share it--you know it has to be good. Hemingway maybe did have a point, it's creatively freeing to be away from the subject your writing.

Ugh...

Went to go see this last night. Although I am not schooled in Bri history, I have to say it was pretty good.

I then proceeded to get wasted afterwards on vodka apple juice and cheap white wine at the college bar, and then we went to a Martini place where I pounded two martinis.

Told my new found friends how I am going to see a therapist because I am a borderline headcase, and then proceeded to text everyone in my phone list. Even the people who I just met Fresher's week for a few hours.

Smoked about a pack of ciggs yesterday and have a squash game this afternoon.

Alcohol be damned, I need to find a new fucking hobby. Or just be less self-destructive when confronted with stress and anxiety. Of the school variety, I already know that I've alienated half of the students at my college and after my performance in class yesterday, a few kids in the program as well.

The Heavens are Against Me (Again)

I have to admit, I was surprised that the PhD from Cambridge didn’t call me yet. We sat on a couch talking for hours about our favorite authors, exchanged tentative (and not so tentative) kisses, and he input my phone number into his phone before any salvia was exchanged! We had the ingredients for, at the very least, him buying me a dinner. But, then I thought to myself, I did end up making out with him. I was a bit aggressive (I have a thing for biting and hair pulling when I am drunk), and he was a bit reserved (I did detect a slight look of shock in his eyes), so I chalked it up to another time when being a make-out slut didn’t present me in the most favorable light.

Oh well, like that hasn’t happened to me before.

But last night, after the dinner where I embarrassed myself in front of the Master of the college, I was supposed to do gay drinks with some buddies at the bar and then head over to Baby Love for gay night so I could dance on the pole, and show off what eight months of stripping class taught me.

But, Chad wasn’t at the bar, even though dinner ran over the time we agreed to meet up. When I spoke to him to ask him how late he was running, he told me he sent me a text message telling me he was sick and that we were going to go out another night instead.

I never got that text message.

My mind started reeling. He isn’t the only one who’s been telling me that they’ve tried calling/texting me all to no avail. Actually, numerous friends of mine can’t call my cell phone. I always thought it was because of bad reception, but even if it is bad coverage you still get the messages late when you return to the service area. So I went to the cell shop where I bought my phone to ask them, ‘what gives?!’

Evidently, what gave, is my fucking cell phone provider. Evidently Mobile World released this number with the prefix 07492 without notifying O2 and Vodaphone, two of the most popular cell phone networks. In order for me to receive phone calls from those providers my number must be uploaded into their respective systems. Until then, my phone number will not be recognized as a valid phone number to those who try to call me from Vodaphone and O2 networks. Thanks to the lack of inter-state commerce laws, there is no recourse that I can make them take.

My only option: put more money on a new sim-card so I could get a new number and keep my old one for outgoing calls only or wait it out. It sucks being poor, well actually I don’t mind it because I have no money to eat, but I really don’t want to buy a new sim card. However, waiting it out also sucks because, thanks to the lack of interstate commerce laws, Mobile World is telling me that it isn’t their problem and they have no idea when it will get fixed.

Now, if I had a job and was back in the US, I would be calling my friend Eliot Spitzer Attorney General of NY State, Consumer Affairs, and try to get on TV for my fifteen minutes of white trash fame as I asked ‘Help Me Howard’ on channel 9 news to shame the cell phone company on national tv in order to get my money back. But because I have no money (student loan check hasn’t cleared—am thinking of setting up a pay pal account actually), I am going to suck it up and not tell them to “Fuck Off”, especially since I pay only 5P a min to call the US.

So, the moral of the story. On the off night I actually met someone decent, someone who I could possibly see myself dating, he can’t call me because he probably has one of those networks. Mobile World is preventing me from getting laid. Thanks.

In other news, have one page of the three page summary I need for tomorrow. You know, the assignment where I read only 300 of the required 600 pages, skimmed the 150 of the 300 that I supposedly “read” and watched tv as I read about 50 pages. But boy do I know one of those journal articles really really well!

English to English

So, I don’t think I will ever be a member of polite society—if I’m lucky, maybe a member of the creative class. Had dinner with the Master and the other fellows of my college and of course my senior sponsor is some high ranking college official—I guess they didn’t get the memo about the lack of acculturation of my opinionated LI roots. Is there a polite way to stand as a guy comes within three inches of your chest to read (very slowly) your name?

Of course what do I steer the conversation towards, despite his research interests in environmental policy? Yes, you guessed it, how much it sucks to be a single girl in NYC. Granted I was talking about it from the perspective of a sociologist and how the concept of love has been lost but, I still alluded to my lack of ability to keep myself in a committed relationship for any period of my twenty-four (almost –five!) years and how I wouldn’t wish jdate on my worst enemy.

And then I tried to discuss the idea that cultural diffusion follows foreign investment. I guess it must be a very American idea. But I was only trying to explain the Coca-Cola phenomena, to a very prideful Brit.

My dreams to marry a member of the landed gentry have been shattered. Yea, I will never be a member of the British upper class. I mean, I couldn’t’ even hack dinner conversations in the ad world with low level brand managers and “special” vendors who were paid to kiss my ass.

So I took long gulps of my red wine, and smiled. A lot.

And evidently “smart casual” in this country doesn’t include leggings, a tunic, and a long sweater coat with a pair of four inch heels. I was a vision in SoHo chic as everyone around me was in shirts and ties, and pencil skirts and cardigans.

So not only did my dinner conversation not fly, but I was dressed like I just came from an underground Art gallery opening. Oh yea, and I was hoarding food. I’m a fucking class act.

But the high point of the day, besides the fucking HOTT stats professor, the newspaper loved my story ideas—of course I volunteered to write about my (lack of) sex life in this country. So I guess I am sacrificing my integrity in the hopes of assembling Carrie Brashaw-esque clips for my return to NYC. Let’s hope it works.

In pursuit of being fabulous

How do you know you are on the brink of an eating disorder?

Went to the gym this morning and despite my heavy drinking and late night Kebab van runs for the last week, the scale said that I lost 6 pounds. I could have sworn I gained weight, because I thought my clothes were fitting funky.

Maybe the pints just left me bloated?!

So what is going to be my afternoon activity? Finding someone who knows their weight and dragging them to the gym with me to make sure that the scale is correct. And if I cant find a willing accomplice—make the front desk woman get on the scale herself and confirm my suspicions.

Or maybe I should just suck it up when I finally buy an umbrella, throw in a scale too?

The niche that never dies

It’s kinda bizarre just how comfortable I am settling into life here at Oxford. Now that the Fresher’s week madness has died down, the beer belly is beginning to wane, the acne that magically appeared is slowly beginning to disappear and I’m slowly beginning to find my niche—of course with adorable gay boys in the center of my current affections.

And in true graduate student form I’ve read about four pages of the six hundred that I am supposed to read for class and write on the three page paper due on Thursday. And yes I know I could be doing my work, but aren’t you curious about what I have been up to?!

Life is surprisingly natural for me right now. It’s like my undergrad except with boys, and a deep rooted desire not to gain the forty pounds of depression weight. Which my current commitment to the gym and ciggs replacing late night munchies seem to be doing the trick. And with my ease with lunch time conversation topics on politics and social policy, I am beginning to realize that maybe *gasp* I wasn’t accepted to Oxford as a pity case. Maybe I really do belong here?!

Wait a min, I’ll tell you the definite answer after I read the remaining 596 pages.

But of course, you can take the girl out of Greenwich Village but you can’t take the Greenwich Village out of the girl. Went to the LGBT University meeting this evening—which was basically a meat/meet market for the gay men to check out the year’s talent. But interestingly enough, I cannot tell you how many gay boys walked up to me and asked me my sexuality.

But as you know with me, I hate any sort of commitment—even if it is pigeon-holing myself into a category that I know I fit the definition of exactly. No questions required. Yes, I am straight. I want to breed babies and use my ovaries as my get-out-of-jail-free card—the Feminine Mystique be damned! I failed at lesbianism in college—even though I tried to wear wife beaters and baggy jeans and ended up drunkenly kissing my friends. But, I also wore wife beaters, baggy jeans in college, and still have that nasty habit of drunkenly kissing my (both male and female) friends as a holdover. So, I’m straight-ish, right?

So I came to a compromise with myself, “I’m just a slut. I like to keep my options open” was the reply that came out.

But considering my performance on Saturday night, maybe it is a bit too early cluing strangers into my behavior. I mean, I don’t want a reputation. Or do I?

This makes NYC look easy

You know, I’m not going to lie. Part of the reason why I got so excited about my admission into Oxford wasn’t just because of the cache that a degree from this institution carries, or that it would provide me an opportunity to stretch myself and live in a different culture for a year. Oh no. You see, those of you who’ve read my previous blog know that I did not have the best luck with dating in NYC. I didn’t dress well enough, I need to drop about fifteen pounds to look at the height of my hotness, am too quirky, and often times have a nasty habit of putting men in their intellectual place—all in all things that do not make me competitive in the dating pool. Especially when going after the same five Jewish I-bankers/lawyers who the rest of the city went for.

So I welcomed my entrance into England. Each time I’ve come to this country the guys find my stereotypical Americaness adorable, I look much hotter than the average English girl, and I’m even thinner than her too! With a fiery personality, an American accent, and a decent wardrobe, I would be unstoppable.

Or so I thought until I landed in Oxford.

Let’s apply the laws of genetics, shall we?! If the women are busted, what would make me think that the men wouldn’t be busted too?! My only experience with English people has been in London. And let’s be real, even a busted guy looks hot in a well tailored suit through the haze of martini number four and the promises of entrance into Anabel’s.

It is slim fucking pickings here. And the off chance that a guy is good looking?! He has a girlfriend because, evidently, the British are serial monogamists. So, the short fat Greek kid who constantly hits on me is beginning to look real good at the moment. Even if the only words out of his mouth is to tell me how much Jewish girls like anal sex and the CEO’s he’s had dinner with.

I think I had a better shot with Craigslist in NYC. Even if it is filled with men with herpes looking for a quick one night stand. At least there aren’t illusions about what it really is.

And the problem that I encountered going to college in the five college area—an area with two women’s colleges and a resulting situational lesbianism problem—is beginning to rear it’s ugly head. The busted think they can get away with being jerks.

On Friday night a few friends and I were looking for a party. And because this is Oxford, and everything closes at 1am, we were finding an incredibly difficult time to find a place where we could kick back, rest our feet that had been victims of self inflicted masochism via pointy heels, and maybe meet some chill guys.

We meet up with a few friends on High street and they tell us about a party at Univ (University College). Evidently, their parties were not restricted to the 1pm curfew that plagues the poorer colleges like mine. I’m sure you’ve been in that situation before, just when you are about to give up hope and call it a night, you are saved by a divine intervention from Bacchus.

As we start to make our way over, the guys get side-tracked by the Kebab van. As an aside, the Kebab van has led to my waistline’s demise. The epitome of the post-drinking munchie, a typical order is seasoned chicken on top of a bed of fries smothered in cheese and garlic sauce. Sounds disgusting but it is soo fucking good—especially after downing a few pints of beer. However, I am not longer allowing myself to consume them as I have pants that I intend on fitting into. Very hot Theory skinny pants, but anyway.

So, we lose the guys to the Kebab van. And being polite gals who are desperate to find a place that was still serving alcohol, we wait while they order. Then we wait as they chat. And we wait as they are picking the chicken and swapping stories about the evening and Fresher’s week activities whilst stuffing fries in their mouths. It’s been about ten minutes and we’ve still been waiting.

I have a plan.

Let’s go to Univ on our own. If a party is still going on, then we will be sure to get in. I mean, I was wearing a tight tank top, and I was with two other cute girls. And a sweet German guy, but his presence really doesn’t factor into the plan. Ok, maybe to play body guard.

We walk over to the college, and sure enough we see a few guys standing around a room. Me and Erin knock on the window. The guys don’t hear us. So we knock again.

A pudgy acne kidden fifteen year old looking kid who is half-balding peaks his head out the window. Erin and I point and smile at ourselves, and motion that we want to go inside and party with him and his friends.

Now, let’s take a moment and process what is happening here, shall we?! You know, let’s play the role reversal game on this one. I am acne ridden, chubby, balding, seventeen year old and two hot obviously older women are knocking on my door asking to party with me and my hobbit looking friends.

This is the shit that porns are made out of.

Erin and I are not surprised when he motions that he is opening the door to the college. As we see him leave the room, we run over to the entrance. When we get there, Erin and I are standing front and center smiling, as I carefully allow my sweater to drop down just a bit to give him a glimpse.

“So, we hear you guys are having a party, and we’d love to party with you!” I tell him, fishing for an invite inside.

“Yea. How do I know you go here. Show me your fob [Oxford keycard]”

I fish for the keychain, and think to myself, that I am giving into a pimply troll.

I show him the fob, and it isn’t good enough.

Frustrated, I add, “You know, I think you can tell we didn’t fly from the United States to crash your party and jack shit from your room. It’s obvious we’re students.”

As I’m finishing up my sentence, the porter of the college comes over and tells the guy that he can no longer stay in the door way. It’s either in or out.

He smiles, and tells the porter, “Oh, I’ll be heading in then.” And then bids us Good night as he shuts the door in our faces.

I was rejected by a seventeen year old with an acne, weight, and thinning hair problems.

All of the students here are under the age of 23. Maybe if I am lucky, they are 24, but they haven’t had any work experience so they have no clue just how badly their souls will be crushed when they leave the ivory tower.

I have a fat Greek kid hitting on me and trying to impress me with his salary back in Boston. But much like the playground, he thinks he is winning me over by complaining how much he needs to get laid and poking fun of me.

And my only claim to anything normal was the physics PhD cum writer, but I probably ruined that by being drunk. But there was something deeply startling about how obvious repressed he was—it sucks having to play the aggressor and having someone ask permission to kiss!

But, interestingly enough, unlike NYC, I have no desire to find this boyfriend and to settle down. I am finding that the idea of a relationship repulses me more and more as I continue to meet people who just don’t measure up. Because, a relationship that sucks with someone who sucks, is still a relationship that sucks. And with advances in sex toys like the ones found here (I have a small addiction to this one), what is the point of throwing myself into something, just so I can say I have it—especially if it doesn’t make me happy?

So, back to the blog. Back to my studies, as I collapse into bed and hope with the calmer week ahead the beer belly and acne will both subside.

And what really happened

Now let me tell you what really happened following the post that touted the benefits of healthy living:

I overslept and missed the newspaper meeting, I went to the ghetto gym and worked out for twenty mins, I missed the rowing meeting because I went to the wrong boathouse, and then later that night I got so drunk that I am having a difficult time remembering anything—accept that I spent the entire night making out with a Cambridge PhD—in physics. What is it with me and physics lately?

We are supposed to play squash this week. What is it with the British and making squash dates?

And the trend is broken

I spent the entire night abstaining from alcohol and ciggs, and I never felt better.

It feels so good to go back to my old -new self. Gym tomorrow morning, and newspaper meeting right afterwards. I mean, I might as well get my name in print here, right? And then first rowing outing in the afternoon.

I have to fit in 500 pages of reading and a few chapters of stats somewhere into that.

But seriously, God I fucking love sobriety! I forgot how much fun and how cool I am when I am not a drunk whore.

When you are 3500 miles away from home

Maybe this is yet another reason why I shouldn’t drink for days in a row and eat crap food while abstaining from exercise—no good comes of it. My body feels like shit, my skin looks like shit, and I am acting like an emotional basketcase. Or maybe, I am going through the tell tale signs of culture shock: at first an enamoration with a culture and an excitement to become part of it, then frustration how it is nothing like the one you know-- the culture that is ingrained into your identity. No matter how hard I try to deny, I am confronted with my own “Americaness”. Despite my internal and external protests, acting like I am “above” this basic human emotion that desires comfort and understanding, I think I am a bit homesick right now.

That and I am a stereotypical New Yorker abroad—wait, you mean there isn’t a twenty-four hour Korean deli, a nice Chinese woman to do my laundry, my Burberry scarf isn’t the height of fashion, and cell phone usage is expensive here?! What the fuck?!

But the weird thing is, I know deep down there isn’t anything for me to be homesick for in NYC. My life was stagnant there—friendships changing with the introduction of the significant other/probable life partners, a job that I didn’t want any part of, the ending of a lease to an apartment that I hated, and a family that although I love them, I really should be cutting a few of those metaphorical apron strings as I grow into the person I know is here somewhere.

I guess you could say that I am people-sick. I miss the friendships of the people who made NYC for me—my big brother Harald and our squash games, Victor always up for a drink at 4am when the rest of the city is ready to call it a night, having my sister across the park, and Tal enabling my Tasti-D obsession as we walked along the Hudson River psycho-analyzing ourselves. Plus the few others who I newly discovered in the last months of my living there.

Instead I am now navigating the Fresher’s week chaos and hoping for some meaning to emerge. But that is the problem of graduate school. It’s transient—especially as an American abroad. Part of me wants to freely grab onto people for the wrong reasons because the friendship is serving a purpose of entertainment—wait, you like to get fucked up too!? Awesome!—and then the other part of me knows that it isn’t satisfying. I crave the interesting and fucked-up, the mind-fucks of the world who can blow my reality and make me question my assumptions, and help me make sense of life.

Because that is exactly what Fresher’s week is, human chaos. It’s like the promise of the tag-line of Real World, “What happens when you put people together and they stop being polite and start acting real” but with the same dedication to “reality”. Everyone is polite, everyone is on their best behavior, while I sit in my room craving more. Knowing full well that I had that “more” because I invested years of friendships with people back in NYC. So, what am I to do here? Throw myself into a relationship in the hopes of expediting the intimacy that I thrive upon?

Or in this case, when sex isn’t available there is the friendship that results from sharing the bottom of the glass. Often times, drink lulling me into this feeling of intimacy of finding new besties--”sometimes I just look around and I am so bored, you know?”

No, actually they don’t know. But drink number seven tells me that they understand.

I don’t like myself when I drink. Rather let me rephrase it, I love myself when I drink but hate myself in the morning. The problem being during these “Fresher’s Weeks”, there is nothing to do, no pre-established common interest, so you drink until you find one—or alienate everyone in the process.

It’s like, I feel like at nearly twenty-five I am too old to be playing the transient friendship game. Have you ever taken a step back and watched people interacting who’ve met each other for the first time? Whether or not we want to admit it, we seek out our own—in terms of attraction, personality, and cultural get-its. Like, with a fellow Jew abroad it is perfectly acceptable (and comfortable) to poke fun at the stereotypes of my people but since the college had my induction on yom kippur it’s anti-semetic, you know?

So that brings us to the question: am I lonely? I’m surrounded by people all the time. I’m always out, usually drunk by 11pm with a whole group, many of whom laugh at my jokes and self-deprecating humor. There is always something to do—well, unless alcohol isn’t involved and then, well, you’re shit out of luck. And, to be perfectly honest, having people “understand” me after I’ve consumed a few pints is hardly the friendships that I am after. I know I am not alone in this. I see all of the girls carrying cell phones texting their boyfriends back home, trying hard to make a transatlantic romance work. I’ve taken a step back and watched how everyone is socially awkward in these situations—all of us petrified of the silent look that occurs when a conversation falls flat. Everyone doing the double take at lunch trying to see which group will motion at the empty seat.

It’s like I say that I crave more than the superficial, “So what’s your name, where are you from, Which college do you attend” but then I pull my eight hour drinking marathon and only present the funny outrageous party girl. I need to cut this bullshit out but it’s just so fucking difficult. I mean, the basement of the college bar is only so interesting for the seventeenth time in a week when you are sober. It’s this catch-22 of when you are in a new situation, away from home, trying to find your place. And if you can’t remember someone’s name, college, and the town they group up in, how on earth are you going to be able to find out their philosophy on life?

And of course this post is inspired by last nights events. The result of standing around the college bar, pounding back £2 glasses of wine, only to have our boredom lead us to another bar—but this time with more expensive drinks. I should be heading over to the gym to run, but after smoking nearly a pack of cigarettes and consuming so much booze that I am afraid to look in my wallet, I decided to write this post instead.

That is the problem of not being anonymous with this blog. The last thing I want are the worried phone calls/emails asking me if everything is ok. The frustrating thing, it is ok. It’s something that we all have to navigate, there really is no escape. Ok, fine, so maybe I should cut back on the drinking, but, I still want to be social, you know?

At the bottom of that glass

How do you know that you are a Fresher at Oxford University? 90% of my caloric consumption has come from alcohol. All I have to say is Beware of Pimm’s. A subtly sweet ginger like liquor mixed with Lemonade left me in some dodgy bar dancing on an ottoman and begging 18 year olds for cigarettes by the evening’s end.

I think I was even spanking someone.

Less than a week ago, I stepped off the plane with clear glowy skin, promises that I am reformed—an alter ego of “Shannon the bore” would take shape, and a commitment to excellence (i.e. keeping my room clean). What sits in front of the key board right now is a gal who is wearing the same jeans from yesterday, greasy hair, skin that resembles a Clearasil commercial’s before picture, in a room that looks like the closet threw up onto the floor. And of course we have take-away containers adding an additional touch of class, and funkifying my room.

I am in the midst of a Fresher’s week bender.

My liver is weeping as I type. Seriously, there is a shooting pain on the upper left side of my abdomen.

What is a better way to introduce us to life at the college than a pub crawl? And of course being the semi-pretentious wannabe snob that I am, I join the pub crawl in the Jericho section of town because the pubs are supposed to be a bit more “classy”. I think I am looking hot—jeans that are suddenly a bit too big (yea not eating), a cute turtleneck, and my beloved Burberry cashmere scarf. Easy make-up, a bit of gloss, I think I am rocking, looking cute and understated.

Except, looking cute and understated does not last long when you substitute Pimm’s for dinner.

After pub #1, a bunch of us who are really hungry head off to a chips shop. Since beer is cheaper than food in Britain, I just order a small order of fries. As I am getting ready to pay, I notice on the menu under sweets or whatever shit they call it here a deep fried mars bar.

Last time I was in London, Corinne and Pete were going to make deep fried mars bars. But as they didn’t have the flour to deep fry it in, the plan got nixed and instead we drank more champagne. But ever since I heard about this ubiquitous candy bar that epitomizes the struggle against heart disease, I had to try one—you know, as a lesson in cultural diversity.

As I am in a mood of mine, I start to make fun of shit and the Brits, and the mars bar. I wish I remembered more, but…yea, it’s one of those nights. Anyway, I offer a guy who is sharing the table with my pub crawl group some of the mars bar and it breaks the ice. Turns out it’s a professor! At the internet institute! From Harvard! Who is listening to me chat about Brits with missing teeth and every other stereotype I could play up.

What a nice way to say hello to a possible future colleague of mine?

We rejoin the remaining group after the excursion to the chips shop. Now, the next few pubs kinda suck. Except, that it gave me some insight into the Brits as these weren’t the traditional student pubs.

What I have learned:

1. All Brits have fucked up teeth. Well, the ones who didn’t go to Oxford University. But seriously, of all the “every day folk” we saw in their natural habitat, each one of them had snaggled teeth. As a girl who spent three very painful adolescent years in braces, I am just in awe. In awe really.

2. Pub Quizzes are taken very seriously. I was blessed/curse with this ability to say the most fucked up thing, then smile and do a high pitch laugh and make the dumb thing cute. Think Sarah Silverman but usually more vulgar. We walk into a pub in the midst of a bar quiz—you know, trivia night for drunkards. I getting on the verge of intoxication, and the emcee calls out a question, “What is the name of the wife who fathered King Henry the VIII’s first born?” Being in a jerky mood, and also because I legitimately thought he was reading the answers and not asking the question, I shout, “ANN BOLIN!”

The entire pub is silent.

I stand there smiling, and shrug my shoulders in that cute way I always do.

The entire pub is still silent. I feel this collective glare.

The emcee announces, “Ignore the girl with the silly scarf, she obviously doesn’t know her history.”

The people I am with make a bee-line for the exit. Nobody in the pub looks pleased with me. At all.

Keep in mind, my pub crawl group is also carrying a stolen umbrella. Not just any umbrella but the kind that is part of lawn furniture. It was pretty big, and if the townsfolk were to come after me, I don’t know if we could give up the umbrella and run.

Which leaves me to my third point:

3. Evidently, Burberry Scarves are a sign of “Chavs”, and one does not want to be associated with them. What is a chav? Well, I found out after one of my British newly found alcohol induced friends explained it to me: it’s the poor who blow their welfare money on flashy things.

Now wait a second. Granted, I was not making that much money back in NYC, and I have a small label whore addiction, but surely he couldn’t mean that I fell into that category?! I am cute, I am smart, I am funny, down to earth—any fucking quality that my landed English gentry future ex-husband would desire. I mean, I would even have a threesome for the right guy!

I am not a chav!

Just a gal from Long Island.

Actually, what I gathered about the scarf fiasco is that they buy the fakes and try to pass it off as real. And buying fake designer shit is a HUGE faux pas in my book. So maybe I am not a “chap” but still…who knew my scarf was a symbol of class warfare?

More pubs, more pimm’s, and I find myself drunk enough that I am disclosing what it was like to work as a dominatrix for an evening. And electrocute men.

I can only imagine the reputation I have acquired.

More drinks, and it’s midnight and the pubs are getting ready to close. The group disperses and of course I am begging for people to hang out, to continue partying. Three remain out of a group of like ten, and we head off to this club like thing that is really more like a cave—the purple turtle. I think the name says it all.

Grab some more drinks. Blow all of my cash in my wallet. And now here I sit, starving because I have no money to eat. And the kicker? I was supposed to go to the gym and start rowing last night instead of the pub crawl. My body is craving fresh veggies, water, and non-alcohol laden sleep.

Fuck, I’m hungry right now. I should go forage for food and open a bank account.