SSRIs NOW...

Listening to this song:




And of course when I hear the lyrics:

There's a plane at JFK
to fly you back from far away
all those dark and frantic
transatlantic miles

I get a bit sad for home. Ok, a lot sad, and I just think of the imposing 777 jets that routinely fly the JFK-LHR route. There is something almost romantic about the jet with a bit of rain on it, getting ready to taxi down the runway, ready to take you home.

This is why I need fucking anti-depressants. I feel like a fucking midol commercial.

Rugby Reflection

I hobbled up the stairs to my room today after the match, which we won by the way. I was going in for a tackle and my knee slammed into the other girl’s knee, as she was trying to run past me at full speed. I think she unloaded the ball, but I really can’t remember. There were so many plays, attempts where I was trying to fling my body into someone else’s all in the name of ball possession.

Funny what people will do with their free time in modern society, in the absence of fields to plow and socks for the family to darn. Granted, on the cusp of twenty-five, I’d be considered an old maid. And my over-education and tendency to showcase it in the right company? I’d be shunned as marriage material. Thinking about it, I probably would have done well as a courtesan, the intellectual and sexual play thing of older men, back in the day.

I have to admit, part of the reason why I decided to play rugby is because I want to stay fit—get into the skinny jeans, have men oogle my ass, and if I’m lucky, maybe earn a free drink for my troubles. I rationalized, if I had a team to hold myself accountable to, I would refrain from my excessive behaviors (e.g. drinking and smoking), ensure that I keep up my running schedule so I that I could be a productive member of the team, and worst came to worst, when I alienate members of my college, I’d have a social safety net. But, dear readers, I don’t want you to miss the irony: I joined rugby so that I would be fit for husband shopping here in the Ox. Nevermind that it has left me covered in bruises, and I am seriously worried about looking like a battered wife in my strapless formal dress for Feast on Friday. And for all of this work, there aren’t even boys who I would even contemplate dating here and reap the fruits of my labor. Politeness just isn’t hot in the bedroom—hell, it’s prevented them from fucking seeing it!

So, why am I sounding like a fucking JAP right now? Well, the girls who we played against were large. Not in the “Oh my God I need to shop at Lane Bryant for my clothes” large, but fucking HUGE. Their thighs were the size of tree trunks. And of course, as we were showering after the game, a few of us girls were snickering, comparing the opposition to large objects found in nature that do not move, i.e. a redwood. But then I said, half seriously, half kidding around—but come on, there is always an element of truth in our jokes—how are those girls ever going to date?

Let’s forget the FUPA (Fat in the Upper Pussy Area) that could get in the way of any form of coitus, or the lack of stamina on the pitch had to be indicative of their ability in the bedroom to, uhm…well, you know, it does take a lot of effort when you are on top.

When I posed the question, my teammates were silent. It’s one thing to make jokes about their appearances, it’s quite another to comment about the effect that it has on their lives! Leave it to Shannon to take the joking around a bit too far. And of course, someone responded, “they date each other.” But come on, other fat women can only overlook a fault just so much. But perhaps my quip fell flat because it struck just too close to home. Yes, in the dating game, it is a sick competition. If not against other women, then against ourselves—trying to present the best possible person that we are, in the hopes that we attract someone likeminded and bodied.

Then another responded, “Well, you know some guys go for that.”

Oh, you mean a type? A Chubby chaser?

Or for me after an English boy starts to talk to me, “You know, my last [insert large number] of girlfriends were American!” Now, why are you telling me that? Is it because you are trying to tell me that I fit neatly into your type? That you’ve exhausted your Bush bashing jokes? Or am I exotic to you, a brash talking, busty NYgal who likes to talk openly about sex and her quirks? Am I just the recipient of chubby chasers for the bizarre personalities?

But, thinking about that, I don’t know why I said that about those girls today. I guess it just touched upon my own fears. Like, it scares me that I’ve gained SAD weight, and feel out of control when it comes to my desire to hibernate and not leave my room.

So, for today: picking up Kelly from the airport, hopefully in a Porsche, Kelly comes to class, and then pot-luck this evening. I even invited the rugby gals. Seriously, I really like my teammates a lot.

Off to have a cigarette, the only thing that is preventing me from eating the other half of white bread for the bread pudding that I am making tomorrow. And, yea, I’m fitting in my school work somewhere in there.

Diary of an Insomniac

It's almost 3am and I am still wide awake. Plus, I've eaten even more bread.

This fucking sucks.

After facebooking everyone who I've known since I was four, and lost touch with, what else is there to do??

Masturbate? But even that has turned into a cruel fucking joke.

So I'm seasonally depressed and in dire need of sex...YEA Oxford!

This describes my relationship with NYC perfectly. On one hand the men don't apologize for touching my leg, yet on the other hand, NYC men are all like this.

Oh, and BTW, Stereo, sooo bridge and tunnel crowd--even during this past summer, I can only imagine what it is like now.

Fucking losers.

Refelctions on Thanksgiving

How do you know when your self-treatment of SAD is not going well? When you are sitting at your desk drinking your third drink (fifth alcohol unit) in an effort to try to get some sleep before three am, trying to do anything to make it unlike the past week. Plus I think this self-induced hibernation is not going well for my BBA—beautiful body adventure. My belly is hanging over my new skinny jeans. Ugh! At this rate, I’ll only be fucking my fingers and be assless when I make my decent upon NYC for two weeks—I mean, what fun is NYC when you have to pay for your own Dom and expensive dinners?

One second as I grab my fourth drink of the night, a Guinness.

Now that I’m settled in:

First of all, I would like to say, just how much I fucking love Thanksgiving. I know for a lot of people Christmas or even Halloween rank much higher in the fall/winter holiday likeability index, however hear me out.

Unlike it’s more popular holiday compatriots, Thanksgiving is a day that celebrates only gluttony. No dressing up in denial that there is a birth of a savior, nor finding the ‘perfect’ gift for people in name of celebrating that savior. It’s nothing like Halloween in that, unless you are seriously sick in the head, you aren’t getting ass. There is no need to squeeze yourself in your skinny jeans and stilettos, hoping for that man who will buy you Dom or Vintage Vueve. It is a holiday where your only means for a proper celebration is to stuff your face silly with your family and then later in the evening meet up with your friends—not the college ones who’ve known you only since you’ve been cool, but the ones who saw you in braces and watched your awkward first kiss over a spin the bottle. It is the perfect fucking holiday. No pretension, lots of booze, and gluttony with naps interspersed with a great game of football—nevermind that in my family the game is punctuated with my dad yelling because he has $50 riding on the game. But, you know what, in a sick way, it puts me in the holiday spirit, much like hitting up the stores with my mom at 5am and standing online to save $15 on the new electronic of the season.

So, of course as I’m abroad I’m sad that I am missing NYC for Thanksgiving. Especially since there is no pumpkin pie filling, nor French fried onions for a green bean casserole, and definitely nobody here to understand that you party fucking hard on Wed night—sowing those wild oates that will have to remain suppressed for the 48 hours as you pretend to be your parents ideal child, not the asshole who yells at his subordinates in the office and blows lines of coke in the cab en route to the newest spot in Chelsea.

But my concession: my sister and a friend from the US will be in London for the weekend. My friend here to provide the requisite company that I will not have to explain my nasty habit of self-deprecation and why I am a bit too free with my personal details—NYers understand that there is a Woody Allen in us all. And my sister, Kelly, to bring over those hard to find groceries that the British will never understand such as yellow cake mix, canned pumpkin, and cartons of duty free cigarettes for $25.

Suffice to say, I am motherfuckingly excited. Not only is it my favorite holiday, but also my best friend, my sister, will be arriving in like 48 hours. And for those who are a bit too acquainted with me and my excessive nature, know that I’ve already begun to go overboard in my quest for duplicating the Thanksgiving experience here. As it is a pot luck, we are only supposed to bring one dish.

Let’s guess how many I’m bringing?

Four.

It’s just, for me, it isn’t Thanksgiving unless there is bread pudding, or corn pudding, or a pumpkin dessert. And then playing on food network I saw this recipe that, I had to try because, fuck it, I am a bit drunk right now, so I can be honest. It’s just I fucking love entertaining and throwing dinner parties. I pretend that I am a horrible domestic, but, seriously, it’s like my dream! I secretly love it. And much like many of my relationships, it’s just that once I love something, I tend to go a bit overboard.

So, I spent the day shopping and acting all soccer mom, planning just how exactly I am going to manage picking my sister up from the airport, class, a group meeting, and having only two hours to act as a gourmand. I feel embarrassed to admit, but I find it exhilarating! So, like a soccer mom, there will be lotsa prep tomorrow night and zip lock bags to segregate the ingredients for each dish. God I am a fucking dork.

Just keep in mind, this is all contingent that I am not injured in my rugby game tomorrow. Because, if I am, I don’t know how I am going to get to the airport nor cook four dishes.

But in more serious news, so, those who’ve been lifelong readers of this blog know that I am prone to bad seasonal depression. I think my behavior at the moment is offering a glimpse into it: drinking beer in an effort to get to sleep after eating about a half a loaf of bread. I’ve tried natural means. Running, the SAD lamp, the fish oil. And they worked, up until the last few weeks. But, there really hasn’t been sunlight, like at fucking all for more than a few hours here a day. So, not because I am afraid of a bad depression ruining my school work, or making me act like a nutjob to my new friends here, but more because I am deathly afraid of weight gain (which I think I have gained like 5-6 pounds), I am talking to my GP about meds. But, for my close friends who read this, it’s not that I am like MHC depressed, because I still have the pictures, and that was bad. I still look cute! This is just an early catch down my slide. Because, if it wasn’t for rugby, I really wouldn’t have a reason to leave my room. And it’s freaking me out that the last game of the term is next Wed. Plus, you know, it’s like free here. Why the fuck not?

So, since I am a bit tipsy, I’ll let you guys into a secret. I can only write when I am depressed and well, tonight it’s nice being able to sit in front of my computer and have the words just flow. There is a part of me that wants to take my depression, and run with it. See how much of it I can squeeze for my book. I know that is so fucked up, a so adolescent tortured artist but, it’s just, when I am happy, I’m not as cognizant of my own feelings. I don’t have the need to delve into my psyche and understand just why I am so miserable.

But, whatever, you all know I am a freak anyway.

Super excited for the rugby game tomorrow. And there is 200 more pages of reading to be done before Thursday. Luckily, I studied this shit before in my modern architecture class—thank God for a liberal Arts education. It’s made Oxford a fucking cake walk.

Or maybe not...

Couldnt get to sleep, so just spent the last few hours online shopping. As much fun as it is being a poor student, I miss an income. The big question: how long shall I stay in Oxford?

Off to meet up with my first year college roomie at Windsor Castle, as she has a ten hour layover and decided to spend it with me. So in need of this injection of old friends at the moment. If my sis wasn't coming on Thursday for Thanksgiving, my ass would totally be on a plane to NYC.

Pictures of my newest obsession

I just want a nice Jewish boy

A friend of mine linked me to this today, which only serves to reinforce why I want a Jewish man:

"The Jewish bachelors of the United States are definitely more likely to be rich, according to the National Jewish Population Survey: more than 60 percent of all employed Jews are in one of the three highest status job categories: professional (41 percent), management and executive (13 percent), and business and finance (7 percent). In contrast, 46 percent of all Americans work in these three high status areas. Rather than hang on to their money, they all seem pretty keen on meeting someone special. JDate – the world’s largest Jewish online dating site – has over 600,000 members worldwide, with approximately 300,000 in the USA alone. Over half (52 percent) of these are male. While only 16 percent of all members are in my 16-24 year age group, an encouragingly large proportion (35 percent) is aged between 25 and 35 – the marriage-desiring cohort, I would imagine. A quick nosey through the JDate profiles also proves that a lot of these young, single men do not resemble Quasimodo in the slightest, and are actually quite attractive."

For the entire acticle click here

It's that good hurt

Just got in from the rugby match and I am fucking knackered (like my apropriation of Brit words?). We didn't win but, I got over my fear of tackling. And since I've stopped being afraid, I am in love with the fucking game.

When I got in and took off my clothes, I noticed brusies all over my body. If I didn't admit that I was a little psyched about them, I'd be lying. It's like my batle wounds. And trash talking on the field, "You're mine bitch" really brings my love of the game to a whole new level.

As is tradition, we drank on the four hour bus ride home. I brought along a 3/4 empty bottle of port wine and then picked up some cheese and crackers at the rest stop's supermarket. Leave it to Oxford rugby to have port with cheese and crackers.

I have to write an essay and work on a project, but will fit it in tomorrow. Right now, I just want to sleep and watch some Comedy Central Motherload.

On the walk home from practice one night, a teammate was telling me, “You know, your country gets a bad rep. When I went traveling and stayed in hostels, I befriended a lot of Americans and most of them who I met were really friendly and…”

I interject, “warm?”

“Yea.”

“You know,” I explain, “what most people don’t realize is that we’re the golden retriever of nationalities. Kinda big, dumb, occasionally getting into mischief, but all in all really friendly and sweet, albeit a bit misunderstood at times.”

I like to think of myself as a cultural ambassador.

In happier news, my ass is flying home. I have to spend Christmas Day in Heathrow but, I am getting home. No matter how hard I try to assimilate into this life in the UK, I know I will never fully be able to—especially if it would ever entail missing out on Christmas at home.

Working on my stats assignment tonight because I have a rugby game tomorrow that is like four hours away. Looking at my week, I'm realizing my life revolves around school work, rugby, and pretty soon acting as social chair for my college. No wonder why I'm excited about the prospect of staying here for an extra year.

The Ex-Pat Life

There’s this fence that you sit upon when you are an ex-pat living abroad. On one side of this fence is this desire to be apart of the life that you’ve elected—adopting the mores of the new culture via new friends with strange accents, discovering that blood sausage isn’t as bad as it sounds, even trying to snag a foreign beau. All of these things symbolizing permanence, and cementing the belief that you made the right decision to sell off any tangible artifacts from your previous life and make the reverse journey in six and half hours that took your forefathers almost a month.

It’s easy to believe in your lame attempt at assimilating; I mean, your friends are all new, you haven’t heard from your old ones, and you’ve made out with enough boys that you’ve practically broken up with your boyfriend back home—even if you conveniently forget to tell him. But then one day, you look around and see that you really didn’t hop over that fence. Hell, your in the exact place as you were when you landed the first day—an American in a foreign country. It’s easy to be lulled into a false sense of immersion when you hang out with other Americans, still drink your fav extra-dirty Grey Goose martinis—even if it is at the studenty college-bar, and revert back to your old antics from under grad of getting so wasted that you spend the entire weekend recovering from a ‘civilized’ wine tasting.

I realized this past weekend just how I’m really stuck on that fence, especially when navigating the highly politicized Christmas break visit.

Just to give you some background: I am a homebody. Now I know some of my new friends at Oxford who are reading this must think, “Yea fucking right, that girl is always out and drunk or at least acting like she is drunk!” Uhm, yea…get to know me for a while, or live with me in my flat and you too will realize that when I come home, the last thing I want to do is talk to anyone. Give me my room, my fav pair of sweatpants and my computer, and I am incredibly happy. Even happier when I can just be by myself, with myself. Every single time in my life, I’ve always gotten wicked homesick if I’ve been away from my fam/friends/bed for anything more than a few days. College was a nightmare—I was home every weekend the first few years. My stint in Berlin was a nightmare as I flew home after three months for a ‘surprise’ visit, aka I needed to see mommy or else I would have drunk myself into a coma-like stupor. Even my move into Greenwich Village was hell, as I still spoke to mommy like 2-3 times a day, and took the half an hour train ride home monthly just because I had to see my fam.

Suffice to say, I was expecting the worst here. Hence, I thought that I would be spending my six weeks off between terms back in NYC, hanging out with my old friends, doing the same stupid shit that I did back home—drinking, eating out, shopping, and pretending to write my novel. And so the promises were made, “Dude, Christmas break will be off the fucking hook!” “I can’t wait to see you, baby!” “My birthday is going to rival Paris Hilton’s: NYC, Idaho, London, Oxford, FUCK YEA!”

Uhh, huh. Oh what a wonderful fantasy world we can build for ourselves when there is money in the bank.

Those of you who remember my ability to hop on planes, shop with impunity, buy bottles of champagne at SoHo House (actually $75 isn’t really that bad when split amongst three friends), should be laughing with that “I told you fucking so” smugness that is reserved for when the beautiful and famous’ marriages break up, or MC Hammer loses his fortune. When I say the following words: I AM BROKE, I don’t mean it in the “Oh my God, I can’t afford Manolos” or “I can’t afford to take the trip out west to Sun Valley this year”. I mean, if I knew where the soup kitchen was located in Oxford, my ass would be eating soup there.

I HAVE NO INCOME.

None. Zip. Zero. I am fully reliant upon my student loans. And as the pounds’ power increases, and you smart foreign currency arbitragers are making a quick buck, know that I have to economize by downgrading from Knorr instant soup mix for £1.39 for a package of five to the Sainsbury brand at £1.09 for a package of eight—even though it kinda gives me gas.

And as I am learning the ways of the poverty stricken, which includes planning far in advance for plane tickets and buying them out of NYC in order to make the dollar stretch further, my Christmas plans have to become more realistic. So to my friends who I promised to see in December—I lied. And you have George Bush and his foreign policy to thank. But seriously, I can’t afford the trip. Especially since it will inevitably include an appointment with my hair dresser, my esthetician, my Korean nail gal, and of course post-Christmas sales at NYC’s shopping meccas: Saks, Bergdorff, Barneys, and Bloomies. Plus, I know when I am there I will want to go out to dinner with each and every one of you, and drink champagne—just because it is so much cheaper home, and then we have the DC crowd who I would need to see, and the Boston buddies, and well, let’s just throw in my friends in fucking Toronto…honestly, a few weeks in NYC, and I’ve blown my entire budget for about two months.

Hence, a more realistic option: spend Christmas, my bday, and New Years with old and new friends, and pop on over sometime in January for a quick long weekend—especially since I need to get my dress fitted for my brother’s wedding.

But, that’s the thing. It’s like I thought I was fine embracing my status as a resident in a foreign country, I mean, I am even trying to spend my holidays abroad, when I thought it was just an option and not out of necessity. But then I read what Corinne wrote about NYC, and see pics of my friends back home, and I’m reminded of my status on the fence. Not quite home here, and definitely not apart of what is happening over there, especially as you see everyone continuing with the life you were once apart of.

It’s weekends like this where I am a bit homesick. Wishing that the distance I have to straddle just wasn’t so great. And wishing I had American tv to distract me from my numerous thoughts—one of which, just how trashed I was on Thursday night. But that comes with territory of life on the fence, it’s home but it’s not.

If my sister wasn’t coming in the next ten days, my ass would so be on a plane home—even if I had to eat frozen veggies for three weeks straight.

update

I am still severly hungover and stood over the toilet, about to vomit.

I hate fucking alcohol.

WOw...

I have a small problem. See, I really like to drink. Especially wine. I fucking love wine. Last night there was a wine tasting at college and well, I learned that perhaps *maybe* I should have spit and not chugged the wine my friends' didn't want. Then there were shots. Then there was port wine back in my room.

I woke up in my clothes with my scout (the housekeeper who cleans my room) knocking on my door. I have never had this bad of a hangover before. LIke seriously, I am really ill right now. I am contemplating vomiting so I wouldn't have to deal with the pain as it leaves my system.

A few observations

1. I am the world's greatest amateur travel agent as I am managing to get my ticket to NYC and another round trip ticket home for about $800. Granted I will probably have to fly on Christmas but, I'm Jewish, so I really don't care.

2. I have to start writing again. At the moment I'm struggling through a three page paper that used to take me about two hours. Granted I haven't done all of the reading, but that never mattered before. Looks like my skills are sharply declining because I'm not practicing. So, I promise you, giving you my word, that I am going to start writing again. Tirades about people, dating, me trying to find a friends with benefits situation here. Like seriously, it's been far too fucking long since I've had sex. And by the way, anyone good at designing web sites?

3. Yesterday was my second rugby game. I didn't get to play because the other team wouldn't allow unlimited subs and since I go to 1/3 practices we have a week, I completely understand. Moreover, we played against an agricultural college, the girls were fucking large. I turned around to the coach and was like, "listen, it's ok if you don't want to put me in. I don't want to get killed out there." I really need to get over my fear of being tackled. But my lesson learned, do not fucking drink on the bus ride home and then play a game of "Never have I ever" because I am a huge slut, evidently. Or maybe just sexually curious, but my coach exclaimed, "What haven't you done!" Uhm, at the moment, having sex?

4. I'm really excited about the election for social secretary. I should be a shoe-in. And if I'm not, I could always go on the campaign trail wearing my stripper outfit.

5. So my sister comes to Oxford for Thanksgiving and I am super excited. But the coolest part? My birth control pill pack ends the day she arrives, so it's like my pill pack has become an advent calendar of sorts! Ok, I know that was lame, but, I am fucking hungover.

But all in all, guys, I am fucking super happy here. Like, I really enjoy being a student. So much, that I am thinking about staying here an extra year, getting my MPhil and trying to make my mark with some cool research. And then I just found out about a new scheme that gives one year work permits to foreign nationals (like me!) who get their advanced degree from a British university. So, uhm, it looks like I'll be here for another two and half years--at least.

And with my 25th birthday on the horizon, I cannot but help to think, and then what?! It's like I am confronted with this question all over again, "What do I want to be when I grow up?" Fuck, back to the paper, and I need a damn nap.

Fuck the exchange rate...

Pricing flights, it comes to about $1K for me to fly home for the holidays.

This means:
1. No post-Christmas sales at Bergdorf
2. No Christmas presents for anyone
3. Living like a pauper when I hijack my sis' apt for two weeks
4. Thanking God for student loans.

I think I am going to put a pay-pal up and make a call for donations--send Shannon home.

I'm not above begging, ok?

How the other half lives

It’s funny about this weekend: I drank a maximum of like three drinks per night, was in bed before midnight, and slept until noon. I’m also staying in my practically married friends’ home: complete with cats, a mortgage, and kitchen appliances—so maybe that has something to do with it?

That’s the trouble with being a student, it’s so easy to forget that there is a life outside of books, dumb committees, club sports, and esoteric conversations that, to be quite frank, really wouldn’t past muster at most cocktail parties. You become self-absorbed into this contrived life, except, there really is no way for you to make your mark, as with every year the group leaves and a new one replaces, once again with the same archetypes: party girls, the socially awkward, stoner crowd, jocks—all of them having some part of themselves that wishes to recreate an undergrad experience they feel they missed out on.

For me? I just want to be smart.

When I landed in Oxford a little over a month ago, I was so tired with the “real world” that I jumped at the chance to regress to the last time I felt as free, my undergrad days—except this time with boys, alcohol, and no seasonal depression weight gain. I slid into life quite easy here: dress up like a slut at the appropriate parties, developed behavior that showed no regard for social norms or polite society, and adopted the attitude that the only thing that matters is my work. You know, thinking about it, I guess not unlike many I-banker friends I know, money providing this freedom to do what you want. Except my I-banker friends pay with their time and I pay by signing my life away to the US government.

But it was great getting out of Oxford and being exposed to the life that I am missing out on right now: one filled with responsibility, long-term relationships, and other forms of permanence. Sitting around the restaurant at my friend’s twenty-seventh birthday, feeling the one-glass-of-wine-too-many drunk instead of the seven shots of vanilla Stoli in thirty minutes drunk, reminded me of just how different my life is here than in NY. And also how there is a part of me that feels slightly uneasy, being reminded that I’m really not feeling bad for “missing-out” on it either.

So I got to play dress-up for the weekend, sit amongst the three cats who are making me sick, sip tea, and watch cable television—and tomorrow I re-submerse myself into life as a student: complete with irrelevant books, rugby practice, and a train ride where I get to pontificate on the future when I ask myself, once again, what is it exactly do I want to be when I grow up?

And by the way, did you know I am deathly allergic to cats? I am dying right now. I’m going back to bed in my sealed off area, that is supposedly cat free. Except, by sitting in the living room, my clothes are a magnet for cat hair—hence I’m fucked once again.

I've been found!

Now that people who I go to school with are reading this, I think I need to exert just a tad bit more of effort into my writing, because, now this can be fun.

Now, I know I told a few people about my blog, but I don't think everyone, or did I?

Happy Holloween, Shannon!

I spent last night downing vanilla stoli and diet coke, dancing on a pole, and proceeded to fall down in my seven inch platform shoes all over Oxford.

But, seriously, why do I do this to myself? Like I look like shit this morning, have bruising, and my throat hurts in ways I never thought possible.

Anyway, I am going back to bed. Fuck this.