Drunk and Single in Oxford

New NYC Blog

2008-02-26T07:27:00.002Z

I re-started my NYC Blog.

http://stilldrunkandsinglenyc.blogspot.com/

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

Coming 'Round the Bend

2007-06-18T18:17:00.001+01:00

This has to be brief as I’m off for a study session for exam #2.

So I sat my first Oxford exam today. I experienced the pomp and circumstance of going to the exam schools in your sub fusc (Black pants/skirt, white button down shirt, and academic gown), cramming into the reception hall with the hundreds of other nervous students, and sitting in the hallway nursing my scotch before my exam.

Yea, you heard me right. I walked into my exam a little tipsy.

Now, its not because I am an alcoholic or I wanted to be a bad ass and brag how I aced my Oxford exams drunk, no its for a much more neurotic reason—I am a terrible test taker and was crying the night before and have a habit of blanking out when I am put under pressure. A little nip (maybe a shot and half of whisky this morning, if that much), calmed my nerves and allowed me to remember all that I did.

So the result? Well, the questions I answered while under the influence, I think I did ok on those two. The one where I sobered up because it was so hot in the room I almost passed out from my waking hangover, let’s say I didn’t do too well on that exam—especially with the room spinning and I blanking on the topic because of my severely low blood sugar, and rambling about marriage delays and how my generation is really selfish.

We’ll see how I do, or else I may be an Oxford ’08 graduate.

You know it wouldn’t be the failing part that would get me, it would be returning to this fucking hell hole having to do this shit all over again.

But I showed them today: my sub fusc was a pair of sweatpants and my worn loafers that look like slippers—take that aristocratic British system from this angry American. Oh yea, and we won the war too.

I WANT MY MOMMY

2007-06-16T23:43:00.001+01:00

I should be studying right now as I sit my first exam, since I was 20, on Monday morning at 9:30am. But a caffeine, taurine, and nicotine induced headache has kept me from doing little else than scarf down chocolate and copy my notes onto notecards. Oh yea, and chain smoking Marlboro lights.

My pound a day weight loss may be coming to an end very shortly.

Well, unless I become recommitted to the neurosis cause again.

My sleep schedule is incredibly fucked up. If it isn’t the massive amounts of legal stimulants that I am pumping into my body IV-drip consistency, then it must be the panic attacks that wake me in the middle of the night, only to leave my worn body and mind in that frustratingly blurry place where sleep and coherency lay.

After a rough day of pleasure denial, fasting, and pouring over my notes in an effort to distill them into succinct two sentence synopsis of the arguments, my brain gave out. It was 11pm, and for the first time since my trip back home to NYC last week I was tired at a reasonable hour. With my computer sitting on top of my nightstand, I watch some pirated copies of Family Guy and proceed to fall asleep to Stewie’s overt homosexuality.

Now, I wish I could say that for the first time I arrived back here that my dedication to my body’s well-being won out and that it was a good decision for me to go to sleep at a reasonable hour, but come on, it’s finals week.

When I woke up, I had to pee really badly. I look over at my clock and saw that it was 1am—which meant that I got a whopping two hours of sleep. I tried to hold it in and fall back asleep, but when I felt the pain in my bladder, I knew I had to get up from my bed and go to the bathroom. I was so tired I was tempted to crawl out of bed and go to the bathroom in my underwear, but I live next door to a conservative Christian. I don’t think he could ever get over seeing me in my skivvies prancing to the bathroom at 1am.

I come back to my room, crawl back into bed and try to fall asleep.

And I can’t.

I try masturbating, and then try to fall back asleep.

But it doesn’t help.

And then my mind starts to wonder. I don’t know if any of you ever had the experience where you don’t realize what you were dreaming until you are awake for a few mins. Laying there, in my bed, I realized that my dream was really fucked up and spooky—I dreamt that I overslept my exam and then failed.

Now, when your mind starts to wonder, and it is the middle of the night and the only thing to keep you company is the dark of a Saturday night spent home, it only serves to exacerbate a person’s neurosis. Which it did to mine.

So I sat in my bed, until 7! am, trying to fall asleep to Dave Chappelle, and nursing a panic attack that held my mind hostage so I could get no other studying done.

Which brings us here.

So, long time readers, you all know that after several tries, a freak-out, and weird periods, I have finally found a birth control pill that works for me! However, it’s also the one that has been liked to STROKES in the UK—and during finals time I become a heavy (about a pack a day) smoker.

I think we all can see where this is going.

Tonight’s neurosis has been trying to figure out if my headache is from too much Red Bull and drinking a two liter bottle of Diet Coke today or, if it is a symptom of my impending brain aneurism. And no I can’t take a xanax because there is no way I could do work while I’m on it.

Having gone to bed at 7am I set the alarm for 11:30am. A bit of a later start than I would have liked, but during finals, I need at least 4 hours of sleep to be productive. Part of my ritual during finals is that since I am rubbish in the morning, I use that time to head out to the grocery store, stock up on provisions for the day’s task (Red Bull, Diet Coke, and Marks and Spencer’s prepared meals) and use that time to engage my lungs in a way that doesn’t involve poisoning them.

This morning I walk down Cornmarket street, one of the main thoroughfares of Oxford where street performs are just as common as the homeless men (where are the homeless women, btw?) selling the Big Issue. Keep in mind that I am freaking out from my dream the night before/that morning, and as I am walking down Cornmarket, I see a stand handing out pamphlets for Jesus. Ok, this isn’t that big of a deal, it’s pretty common for the die hard Jesus lovers to evangelize on a Saturday morning to the tourists. However, this morning, it seemed every religious group was out. Literally every ten feet there was another group proselytizing, including the Muslims—which I thought were like Jews, you had to seek them out yourself. Of course, neurotic, sleep deprived, food deprived, love and hug deprived Shannon starts to freak the fuck out, and think that God is sending her a message telling her that she is going to fail—the dreams were prophetic.

Which brings me back to my uber productive day.

Why wasn’t I smart and stock up on ADD meds BEFORE I left for the states? Red Bull is doing a poor job of cutting it.

Anyway, I’m going to bring my computer back to my desk. Pop open another can of Red Bull (#3 for the day), ignore the temporary pain that it causes me in my kidneys, and start memorizing arguments and outlining exam questions.

Seriously, I really want a fucking hug right now. And sex. Like seriously, whenever I’m stressed there is nothing I want more than to boink someone.

'Tis the season

2007-06-15T01:55:00.001+01:00

What was that Smashing Pumpkins song title again? “The End is the Beginning is the End”? When it first came out I used to dance around my room, in the ‘slutty’ clothes that only a 15 yr old could own (glitter mini-skirts, sequined tops that barely contained my already ample bosom, lotsa black make-up, etc.), and pretend I was in Billy Corgan’s music video.

Oh how times don’t change ten years later.

I’m doing the same thing instead my shirt is Moschino, I’m wearing Judith Lieber shoes, and am dancing to Maneater by Nelly Furtado thinking of all the boys hearts I could be out breaking if I wasn’t in this intellectual prison called my room—but at least I have my down comforter, unlike Paris. Procrastination couldn’t be more fun, especially since I sit and stare at my newly visible cheekbones—thank you redbull and Marlboro lights fast.

It’s finals time at Oxford and I forgot just how much being a student really sucks. Oh sure the lure of making your own schedule and discussing “intellectual” ideas for seven months is supposed to make it all worth it, but here I am, at the tail end of my time here and I have to say: I miss the fucking working world. The “fun” I’ve had for the past few months isn’t making up for the hell that I am currently experiencing—the anxiety brought about my excessive use of legal stimulants, the fears of failure, and of course the rampant insomnia that has completely thrown off my sleep schedule.The stress that I am going through right now trying to memorize dates and authors and who argued what and who counter-argued the other does not make up for the endless drunken nights, the sleeping until noon and all the “benefits” that being a student is supposed to grant you.

Without easy access to prescription amphetamines like back in the good ‘ol USA, I am stuck sucking down two red bulls every 12 hours, smoking a pack a day, and thinking that my best just isn’t going to be good enough. Like religious Jews who repent for their sins on Yom Kippur, not bathing and fasting in atonement for their sins, I have adopted the same idea. No showers and no real food until my last exam next Wed. Granted there is no real reason other than I would rather spend the time studying, so showers during this time become optional—I’m already on day three and I have to admit, I like the odor that I’m emitting.

But there is something about this time of year that brings all of us who are going through it closer, with the late night cigarette breaks, the finally honest chats about how we are really feeling—nobody has energy to put on the front that has characterized so many of my relationships here.

So, I’m going to finish my two liter bottle of Diet Coke, crack open the books, and pray that my penance of no sleep, not showering, subsisting on the chemicals of taurine, nicotine, and caffeine will be enough of an offer to the exam Gods.

And yes I know this isn’t brilliant writing, but at least I’ve started back up again. And its finals time, have a fucking heart.

I miss anonymity

2007-02-03T20:01:00.000Z

Makes me want to do something about it.

I.e. start a new blog...

Although I am an attention whore, I prefer writing with complete carte blanche, being able to fully voice my frustrations/observations without the constraints of guilt. Read some Nietzche and freud, its the shit that keeps us in line. Want to know why my writing was so much better in NYC? Because I had nobody to worry about offending, and didnt have to water down my writing. So, I am starting a new blog and not telling anyone about it.

No, sweetie, not even you.

Now I can fully write about my degenerative escapades.

Off to a party and looking forward to home.

I hope my horoscope is true this week

2007-01-29T01:12:00.000Z

I think we all have figured out by this point in time that when Shannon is left to her own devices for four days of unstructured time, things get a little out of hand. Absinthe drinking, three guys and me in a twin size bed, 5am Irish jig dancing, and of course the lost passport—which was underneath my bed the whole time. I guess I learned a valuable lesson, never invite three Irish men back to your dorm room for some after hour absinthe drinks.

This weekend took quite the toll on me, so much, that as I was waiting for my teammates outside of Merton College, hunched over in my hoodie with my hands in my face, that some man passes me and tells me, “Such a pity you have no money.”

Excuse me?

Oh yea, that’s right. He thought I was homeless.

“Uhm,” I laugh, “I’m actually just waiting for my friends.”

“Oh, well I would have bought you a cup of coffee.”

Exactly. Because, when I look like crap, I really look like crap.

Perhaps looking so rough that a pedestrian thought I was homeless should have told me that maybe today was not the day to revaluate my commitment to the rugby team. That perhaps, eating a big breakfast really wasn’t such a good idea, before heading off to practice on some fields that are a twenty minute walk away from my dorm, and a ten minute walk into town—with no bathroom available.

Having stomach problems, I leave practice early in search of a toilet since the bathrooms at the field were closed. I walk into a house turned into a neighborhood pub, and very meekly ask the bartender if I could use her bathroom—dressed in dirty sweats, and caked mud all of my hands (it was tackling practice today). She points in a vague direction, and I walk towards the back, and head up the stairs, where I am greeted by a large dog barking. Seems that the upstairs of the pub is their home, and I took a wrong turn.

She redirects me towards the bathroom, in the opposite corner from the staircase to her home. Now this is where it is an embarrassing moment. See, I had the post drunking shits, the loud, slightly disgusting kind. I stopped into this bar during prime Sunday Roast time, the English’s answer to the New Yorker’s brunch, where they are serving food. A lot of it.

The bathroom, only has one door, and it is right next to the dining area, no small hall way to act as a sound and smell buffer, no series of doors to act as an e-coli proof cell. No barriers.

I have to admit, that I almost decided to try another bar, but I was so desperate for a toilet, that I put my sense of shame on hold and took up residence in the bathroom for about fifteen minutes.

A very violent and noisy fifteen minutes.

They had to hear me, especially since the bathroom was in the middle of the seating area.

When I got out, I tried to fix my hair, wash my hands, make it look like that I really did not just spend fifteen minutes fighting a war with my bowels—when in fact that is what I really did.

As I was leaving I faked smiled, and ran out of the bar, only to put my cell phone to my ear and call my mommy as a distraction from my embarrassment.

Thank God the toilet flushed.

And in other news, since it looks like it is taking the college to process my student loan checks, and I drank all of my safety money, looks like I am re-master cleansing. Saving money, and losing weight! Well, and I’ll treat myself on game days to 1 quid kosher lunch on George St. Yes I know it is wrong pretending that I keep kosher for heavily subsidized lunch, and I know that I am going to hell for bringing my gentile poor student friends, but dude, 1 pound lunch! I mean, how could I not share the wealth?

But in other news, I know my posting has been erratic and crappy when I do post. First of all, as you know, this isn’t a forum for my pontifications—the school newspaper is now—but instead a way for me to let my friends know how I am doing, and tell them what life is like for a student at Oxford.

Seasonal depression has hit me once again, with me laying in my bed watching bad bootlegged movies on the internet, not doing any of my work that’s piled up, floating by because that is what I know what to do best. Hence why I have been MIA returning emails (sorry Corn), calling people, and all that fun stuff—I just can’t leave my bed. You know its bad when you are watching the Mighty Ducks and cheering on Coach Bombay. Hopefully the Master Cleanse will knock out the toxins, and fasting will create the high that helps me deal with the lack of sunshine.

This time, sans ciggs.

Try running around a rugby pitch then tackling with smokers lungs.

And I am back to reading my one book a week resolution. This week, Tropic of Cancer.

It’s so frustrating not having complete anonymity on this thing, because I really want to write about my weekend and pontificate why I am a perpetually single girl, but, it looks like it will have to wait a bit—it is far too personal for people at college to know what a relationship fuck up I really am.

Tea and Marriage

2007-01-25T02:15:00.000Z

I fucking have to stop drinking like seven cups of tea a day, or else I will not be sleeping at all this term. It’s just that this is so good—especially on a cold winter’s day, when my only makeshift winter coat is lost (forgot it in a bar, probably another reason to stop drinking) and I had to trudge through the cold that enabled snow in an unlined leather jacket. Luckily I still kept my wool sweater from first year of college, hoping that I would one day fit back into it. And in my better late than never habits, it only took me five years to drop the freshman thirty.

I celebrated by going shopping in NYC when I was there. Which, I will get to, eventually. As I mentioned, I have that nasty habit of no self-discipline and a ‘better late than never attitude’, hence why I write this at almost 2am, as the reading for my course on family sits unmarked on my nightstand. Oh, by the way ladies, if you ever want to feel even more cynical about love, sex, and relationships, study familial structure. I’ve resigned myself to auctioning off my domestic labor power to the highest bidder. As a woman, I’m fucked. I might as well be comfortable as I get the shaft from society.

It seems that so far 2007/ my twenty-fifth year on this earth has been fraught with situations that make me acknowledge my ‘maturation’, and get my head out of the sands of denial that the grown up bus is flying by. Weddings, a grad program that I can’t talk my way out of failure (I may be kicked out if I don’t pass stats—please say a silent prayer for me), in addition to cutting down on the excess—drinking, partying, my lack of self-discipline, and all the other shortcomings I need to overcome with the help of my therapist. Who has given up on me, by the way. “Shannon, these services aren’t for long term therapy.” And my favorite, “For someone who is so self-aware..” I interrupt her, “I keep on making the same mistakes, over and over again. Yes, I know this. Why do you think I continue to see you?”

I’ve noticed an interesting shifts in my relationships ever since I left the women’s commune. Back in school, and growing up all of my friends were females. Granted they were beer guzzling, girl-kissing, pranksters who got as much of a kick out of lighting a fart on fire (Spring Break—Vegas), as knocking on each other’s doors when we knew someone was having sex (again, Lauren I am really sorry about that). But then I noticed a change when I left the iron gates of wimmen power—women for the most part are bitches. Back stabey, drop you for their boyfriend, say that you look pretty when you look like crap, who whine. This is when I began my foray into amateur fag enabling, and building my rolodex with those in possession of y-chromosomes.

These were my platonic friends, and I was their little sister. They bought me beers, protected me from skeevy men in bars, and cheered me on when I danced on bars, and in exchange I offered them a female perspective to their gal/boy problems, and playfully flirted with them when their gfriend/bfriend was being an ass.

Symbiotic relationship.

Until they got married.

I have a very good friend of mine who wants to visit me in England. I really like this kid. He is smart, funny, and adorably lovable in that dorky ‘save me’ kind of way. To put it diplomatically because I know he reads it and think his wife may read it too, she and I have a strained relationship. She thinks I am trying to steal her husband, when all I want to do is hang out with him, without her.

Whether girls want to admit it, your boyfriend/husband is different hanging out with his friends than you. He is more liberal with the off-color jokes, has a propensity to drink a bit more than usual, and tends to be a lot more honest, especially when talking about you. Often times I’ve been subjected to seeing my friends leashed by the constraints of their girlfriends/boyfriends, toning down their behavior, keeping conversation neutral, and forgetting the people that made me want to be friends with them in the beginning.

So my point—I think I just needed to rant. Part of my frustration fuelled that I missed the relationship boat here, and everyone has coupled off and I am (literally) the only person in my flat who doesn’t have a boyfriend. Or maybe it is the prospect of spending an entire weekend with a person not because I want to, but because of the symbolism of the ring that sits on the third finger of one of my good friend’s left hand. Or maybe, I am just grasping for straws, since I am too lazy to be help accountable to my memory and recant the rest of my time in New York—complete with the $1000+ bar tab (thanks Geoff for sharing your bonus with my me and my friends!) and a promise to buy a drug dealer Freakonomic next time I saw him.

But those stories will have to wait. When I am more mentally adept, and haven’t had the productivity bored our of me. Try reading a few thousand pages about cross-national studies on fertility rates and its impact on women’s work, by the same three authors and then get back to me. Instead of being mature and tackling my work, knocking the shit out—I’ve reverted back to my escapist ways, and spent the last few hours of the evening dancing around my room in my hot pants listening to Madonna and watching bootlegged movies off of the internet. While I look at the unread journal articles whose pages still have not been turned yet.

And don’t bother writing in my comment box that you are frustrated by my immature behavior, and how I am blowing an opportunity. I know this. But, at least I’m squandering it away sober, instead of drunk like I did last term. See, therapy is helping!

Oh and if any women executives (presently or former) are reading this who have families, and you live in the NYC area, please email me. I am recruiting women for my thesis which examines women’s participation (or lack there of) in the labor market after having a family. Which reminds me, I need to get the ball rolling on that one.

Off to watch some more bootleg movies. I think it’s Men In Black II tonight.

I seriously need to lay off of the tea after 9pm, and/or find the motivation to do my work.

And again...

2007-01-22T21:58:00.000Z

I am not a very smart person. If I know partying makes me feel like shit, kills my mood, and keeps me bedridden for days on end, why can't I ever just say no?

Got back in from a weekend in London where master cleansing was replaced by testing the functionality of my liver--by using Guiness and wine.

Off to do the reading that I've neglected, and finish off the Chinese food I ordered in. When did drinking make me feel this bad?

Sneaking a moment

2007-01-16T08:30:00.000Z

Ah, the begining of term...Since my department was late in handing out the syllabus for my classes, I've had to cram about 1000 pages of readings into three days (with copious notes taken for about a third of those), an essay due on Friday, as well as a graded assignment for my course due on Friday.

I haven't even had time to go to rugby.

When I tell you that I have been working all day and night, I am not kidding--hours slept last night 4. And I am still not done. Sleep is a luxury at the moment.

By this weekend everything will have calmed down a bit, until then, if you are bored at work, read my old blog (which I think is so much better by the way) www.drunkandsinglenyc.com

I am going to shower right now.

I am fucked, but not in that good way

2007-01-11T14:26:00.000Z

This little entry is called ‘Why Bright Kids Fail’, an homage of sorts to the popular book that explains just because a kid doesn’t do their work, it doesn’t necessarily mean that they are dumb. Actually, quite the contrary—it could mean that they are bored by it.

I have a stats exam in about twenty-four hours, where I need to teach myself an entire term’s worth of statistical knowledge. Last night, I sat and watched bootlegged movies off of the Internet until 6am (God Bless jetlag), then proceeded to sleep until 2pm, and now am glancing over my stats book, saddened that I have to read the entire thing tonight. So much for getting a bulk of my studies done early, so I may have the remaining time to ask questions.

But come on people, it’s not like I am aiming for a perfect score here. I just need to pass.

You know, in high school and college, since my career path was so fuzzy and I didn’t believe I had any discernable talents—besides having men pay for shit—I threw myself into my studies. Afraid that if I fucked up, I would somehow end up on LI, living with a boyfriend who beat me, and a 1983 Cutlass Supreme sitting in my driveway. But, this little revelation I had over break—how I really just want to write, or maybe become an executive assistant—and knowledge that in the real world, if you are too smart, people would never want to hire you. Yea for omitting I went to Oxford when I apply for said Executive Assistant jobs—come on, do you really think that a finance boy could deal that his secretary went to a more prestigious school than he?

After working for years in advertising, market research, even a fashion showroom, I learned that my intelligence is a liability. When you interview for positions, nobody is going to ask me what my GPA is from Oxford, and to be perfectly honest, I would rather wallow in my bed, watching tv and planning the latest adventure to New Orleans.

It’s just in the grand scheme of things, I know I will never have to understand statistical analysis every again. I just want a cushy magazine job, and a book deal. And maybe a nice Jewish boy with an abnormally large penis, and an abnormally large bank account to match, British accent optional on this one.

So, yes. I know I fucked myself. I know I am possibly going to fail. But to be perfectly honest, I just don’t fucking care. Especially since I know what my strengths are, and how my grades in the everything else will prove that I am a good student—just one who is lazy and not mathematically inclined. Off to shower, and attack statistics.

But first, let me have this nap.

Wow, I really am feeling 25

2007-01-10T21:57:00.000Z

I’m sitting here in my bed severely hungover from last night’s ‘Freedom Fesitval’—a friend’s celebration of newfound singlehood and my re-commitment to getting laid at Oxford this term. Of course the festival takes place at a Gay Club, Baby Love, where I quickly learn that I no longer am the queen on the pole. I was either too drunk to pole dance or that I am seriously losing my powers, I think my shoulder muscles atrophied over my break to NYC.

Last night was a special evening, and just highlighted just how I should not be left to my own devices when I commit myself to ‘fun’—drinking four martinis at the pre-game bar, and then chugging absolute vanilla and diet cokes in between bathroom breaks to puke. I hit on the openly gay theologian at my college, who has a fetish for undergrad gay boys by the way—obviously a big breasted NYC gal just ain’t is type, by telling him that “It’s a pity your gay. You make a lot of the gals at college wish you batted for the other team.” But, in my defense, he is fucking hot. Forty something, graying hair, and a crisp British accent. And the fact that he is gay, maybe he is better in bed than his heterosexual counterparts.

Now, this behavior shouldn’t be too surprising, I mean, look at the name of this blog. But I have to say, that I am slightly ashamed of my antics, especially since I was supposed to stay in bed, read my Patterson novel, nurse the earache that has left me slightly bedridden, and be up early this morning for my doctors appointment so I could go on anti-biotics.

I didn’t make it to the doctor’s appointment at 11:30am. Actually, I didn’t even wake up until 1:30pm—just in time to walk into my review session for my exam on Friday—and then promptly walk out because I thought I was going to passout. Plus, reeking of booze, ciggs, and the stale breath that accompanies the aftermath of a night out didn’t really bode well for my teacher’s opinion of me. So much for my New Year’s commitment to take my studies seriously.

So, I’m hanging out in my bed, chugging OJ, just finishing up a pizza, getting ready for bed in a few because I really am sick and need all of my strength to teach myself an entire term’s worth of statistics by Friday at 2:30pm. Wish me luck.

Too bad I can’t flirt my way for a grade. Fucking A.

But, for the real reason you are reading, you want to know about my antics in NYC.

I have to admit, as much as I put down NYC, and said how much I couldn’t wait to get the fuck out, I was so excited to head back. First of all, home means being able to afford clothes, good food, and spa treatments. It also means sex. And, I was beginning to miss my family. I have never been away from them for more than three months, and Christmas was almost hitting the three month mark.

Flying on Christmas is an interesting experience. You have two types of airline employees that day. The first type are angry and miserable that they have to work, and the second type acknowledge it sucks to have to work, but make up for it with a jovial attitude and find camaraderie with their fellow employees who are stuck in the same shitty situation.

I got to the airport a bit early because I was trying to make a flight that was two hours earlier, so I could have some semblance of a Christmas with my family. The first guy who I spoke to at the ticketing counter was of the first school of having to work on Christmas. The asshole told me that I would have to rebuy a new ticket and treated me with disdain.

He was an asshole and I wished him coal in his stocking and that he catches mesothelioma from that coal.

When I went to check-in, I got this really sweet kid who asked me if I would like to get onto the earlier flight.

Now, this is Christmas in action!

He was nice, I prayed to God that he receives many blessings in the New Year.

As we’re taxiing to the runway, which means we had been cleared for take off, a flight attendant asks if there is a medical doctor on board.

After she made the announcement, we are no longer taxing.

And since this is Christmas, the entire plane is filled with Jews, and many hands shoot into the air.

They stop the plane, and attend to this woman who, I think, was just feeling feverish. The paramedics come on board, and the flight attendant announces that we are waiting for her to decide if she is well enough to fly.

My attitude, if you are well enough to make it to the airport, and onto the airplane, then you are well enough to sit in your seat for seven hours drinking screwdrivers and watching bad movies.

But, evidently, this woman didn’t agree with my rugged individualist theory. She asked to be removed from the airplane.

However, in the age of terrorism, you cannot just take someone off of the airplane without an investigation of sorts. After she was removed, airport security came onto the plane to check it and see if she left a bomb or something.

Which, since I am writing this, she didn’t.

And of course, I arrive into NYC only half an hour before I was originally supposed to.

My brother picks me up and takes me to Long Island, where our Christmas was relatively civil. This is not surprising since my mother didn’t get me any of her signature offensive gifts, such as a girdle.

Besides my friend Lauren coming in and surprising me for my bday, and contrary to the karmic stock I have with Bacchus, my birthday was terribly lame. I can’t drink like I used to. After having a boozy lunch at the Gramercy Tavern where our table conversation bordered on offending several of the surrounding tables, I was too tired and hungover to truly enjoy the co-birthday dinner a few hours later. Despite the many glasses of sangria, my heart just wasn’t into it. Instead of joining my friends at Henrietta Hudsons after dinner to relive the bygone days of our dabbles into bisexuality, Lauren and I found ourselves inside my friend’s apartment, watching tv and teasing him about a threesome that wouldn’t happen. Despite the shirt that came off, and accompanying back massage.

Absence and Make Good

2007-01-09T11:23:00.000Z

Ok, I know I've been quiet lately. Vacation, running around NYC, and getting drunk has kept this gal away from the computer.

Just landed back "home", and am running out for lunch and social secretary meetings. Ugh.

Will bring you all up to speed about my drinking and drugging ways in NYC--God I miss home right now.

much love,
Shannon

Prague Part Deux

2007-01-04T05:37:00.000Z

I know it’s been a while since I last brought you all up to speed. From the moment I landed in NYC, it’s been non-stop glad handing, drinks, dinners, and wallowing in misery forgetting how bad the post-party come downs really are. All I have to say is, thank God for General Tso’s chicken. I’m too much of a pussy to dip into the Xanax that is reserved to combat my fear of flying, hence, I had to deal with the come-downs the old fashion way, force feeding myself Chinese food, and watching very bad movies.

I know I owe you my New Year’s resolutions properly written out, the Prague story, and of course, a play by play description of my bday and NYE fetes. As I’m in blogger backlog right now, and with a stats assignment looming overhead, we are going to have to take this slow:

Prague Part Deux:

I’ve never understood the point of moderation. Perhaps this explains why I’m partaking in the master cleanse a second time in less than a month, and how I ended up partying until 9am on New Year’s day, and possibly can offer insight into how I woke up in a twin size bed in a youth hostel across town, on my second day in Prague. And no readers, for reasons explained later in the story, I didn’t fuck sweet Calem. Actually, we slept Lucy and Desi style, with each of us sprawling out on our own twin size bed.

When we last left the story, I agreed to meet the gals from the synagogue at ten pm at Bar and Books. Now, I know I should be trying to do that whole ‘authentic’ Czech experience but first of all, I fucking love Bar & Books in NYC and needed to check out it’s international sister, and secondly, since Prague is so over run by tourists, there is no such thing as anything being ‘authentic’. Well, for 3500 Czech crowns maybe, you can buy something or convince someone to hang out with you.

Heading over to Bar & Books, by myself, was a liberating experience. It was the fist time that I was heading to a bar by myself, unsure whether the people who I was supposed to meet were actually going to live up to their word. Familiar with B&B in NYC, I was expecting to find the bored and lonely business man, eager to exchange the power of his corporate platinum card for my company.

I got dressed up in my usual regalia of femininity: short skirt, impractical heels that defied the cobblestone paths, and a tight booby revealing shirt. Of course, hair impeccably straightened, along with make-up applied with the precision of an under-age gal trying to get into a twenty-one and over club. It’s powerful being a gal, almost enough that is makes up for the disparity in income between men and women.

I walk into the bar and take a quick survey. Unlike its NYC counterpart, it doesn’t really cater to the out of town business man, but instead touristy couples looking for an intimate place to converse and participate in the mating ritual that will lead them back to a hotel room.

I order a martini, and stare at the tv screen playing an old bond movie, and wait for my friends. I got to B&B exactly at ten, and the girls warned me that they were chronically late.

It’s that nervous energy, that makes you do things faster, hoping that your quickened movements will somehow make your time go faster. My impatience just lead me to get drunk faster.

Fifteen minutes later, I was on my second martini.

I went from looking cool and confident, a lone attractive woman sitting at a bar, to mildly pathetic, turning her head around every five minutes, seeing whether it was my friends who walked through the door.

It was ten thirty as I sat contemplating the third drink. If I had drink number three, there is no way I would be able to walk home—and with the hatred for tourists on par with NY’s hatred of walking through the Times Square area during the summer—I would get fucked in a rate. To travel about a mile and half, taxis wanted about $20.

But it was only ten thirty, and I didn’t want to go back to the hotel room and admit defeat, that the wild night in Prague that I hoped for didn’t pan out.

As I’m ordering drink number three, a young, decent looking guy walks over to the bar, and sits a few seats down. In bar patron language, this usually implies that he wants to be by himself, and has no interest in chatting to anyone. But, as lonely as I’d been feeling, sitting at a bar, by myself looking like a lost puppy for her owner each time someone came in, I was going to force this kid to be my friend—even if it was just for drink number three.

And it’s ten forty-five at this point, I’ve given up hope. So much for the traveler’s code, taking care of other fellow traveler’s, “Guys, remember, I’m going there by myself, even if you cant hang out, just stop by anyway, to make sure I wasn’t kidnapped along the way.”

Uh huh.

I find out his name is Henry, a Frenchman who is studying in Oregon, who needed to get out of his hostel, so decided to walk into the first bar he saw.

“You know,” as he’s nearing the end of his drink, “I really want to party tonight. Would you be down to go clubbing after this?”

Now, was it smart to drunkenly ask Henry if he wanted to go out ‘clubbing’, by myself, wearing a short skirt in an unfamiliar city? FUCK YES! Should I ever be trusted to go out to bars by myself? FUCK NO!

As we’re talking about which clubs we’d head out, the gals from the synagogue walk in, apologetic for being an hour late.

“We stopped off to grab some dinner, and we didn’t realize what time it was. Oooh! That drink looks good! What is it?”

I let them each have a sip of my martini, and a simple meeting point was transformed into the first place on our pub/club crawl. And since I am a fast drinker, especially with candy flavored martinis, I order martini number four. While they are on the first one.

“Hey, Shannon, I want you to meet Calem. He was the guy who I was telling you about.”

I look him up and down. My type. Tall, broad, dark hair, and a very cute smile. When he opens his mouth, he’s becomes even more endearing.

“Nice to meet you Shannon.” In a very posh, public school boy accent.

But Calem, is eighteen. He is off limits. I don’t fuck men older than my father nor younger than me.

He had a very arrogant air about him that made it difficult to remember that he was eighteen. It was reminiscent of the NYC I-banker, fueled with confidence of his over-inflated bonus.

We chat. He is in film. Tells wildly entertaining stories about being a production assistant. I tell him about the ad world in NYC. We talk about food, and as I look down to light my cigarette, I notice a pinky ring.

“Dude, what the fuck? You don’t seem like a guido. What’s up with the pinky ring?”

“It’s over one thousand years of family history.”

Oh shit, he’s one of those boys.

Since we’re in Prague, we order a round of absinthe. Now keep in mind, I’ve had four martinis and now a shot of absinthe. I’m a bit drunk.

Around midnight we decide to head over to a lounge around the block to go dancing.

And I’m still drinking. Especially when he’s buying.

“Hey, I want to check out Bombay, come with me!” He says, as he puts his arm around me.

Now, I could say that I was so drunk at this point that I forgot that he was eighteen, but I didn’t. I was playing with him. Keeping the affection going, so I could save my money.

We head over to Bombay, where he proceeds to buy me more alcohol. And where it’s just me and him dancing. But nothing happens. More chat about bullshit, more free drinkage, and a little mild flirtation.

About an hour later we head back over to the bar where everyone else is, keep in mind, I find out on the walk that he didn’t tell anyone where we were going. And of course nobody is there.

“Dude, I’m really fucked up, could you make sure I don’t go home by myself tonight?”

Now, there is a lot of wisdom in hindsight, and since he was eighteen, I didn’t expect to do anything with him because—dude, that’s kinda fucked up. I mean, I was still a virgin at eighteen.

He buys me another drink, and by the end of my vanilla vodka diet-coke, he could have told me he was sixteen, the mock sophistication, the posh accent, and the free drinks put him back onto the market. So, I meet his mild flirtation with the only way I know, dirty dancing and doling out lap dances!

Now, keep in mind, Europe doesn’t have the Spanish and Caribbean influences like the US, they do not know how to dirty dance over there. They all do the white boy Williamsburg bop. The only women who shake their hips are strippers and escorts.

He pulls me, and starts to kiss me. On the couch in this very skeevy lounge.

The place is closing, and they are telling us, not so nicely to, “get a fucking room.”

I can’t bring him back to the hotel, and to be perfectly honest, I really don’t feel like heading home yet.

It’s funny, once you cross that barrier from mutual flirtation to agreement you want to hook-up with someone, body language completely changes. I went from the dominant leader who set the tone of the conversation at B&B to the little girl, who played into the fact that some eighteen year old was able to physically dominant me. As we were leaving, he went for my hand, and I met his touch with falling against his entire body. Allowing his arms to engulf my back, as I snuggled in close.

We go to some pub, and evidently in Prague, everything that doesn’t cater to tourists closes early.

“Dude! Let’s go to a strip club!”

Now, wondering the streets of Prague, looking for a strip club, is not a wise idea. It’s about on par with asking an eighteen yr old horny public school boy on vacation to “take care of you.”

At first we seek out the information somewhat wisely.

As the barman is throwing us out, “Hey, do you know where we could find a strip club?”

Then we get the great drunken idea that, since we were close to the four seasons, maybe the concierge would know!

Let’s think about this right now. Two drunk young kids are walking into the concierge of the four seasons, looking for a strip club at about four am. And no, they had no idea.

But the best place where we asked—an unmarked Benz parked outside of the hotel. We walked up to some dude (I am assuming someone’s driver), knocked on the window—waking him up, to ask him where a strip club was.

He had no fucking clue.

Now this is where my memory gets fuzzy. I think this is where we walk back towards my hotel on Wensselar Square, foraging for food. Now, I could have gone home after the McDonalds. And after the currywurst I had because the McDonalds wasn’t filling enough (that is attractive, making out with some eighteen year old, then stealing his fries—that he bought).

Instead of going to the hotel, I wanted to watch the sunrise over the Charles Bridge. Now, doesn’t that sound romantic? Sharing a sunrise with a new friend—NOT WHEN YOU ARE DRUNK AND TASTING LIKE A QUARTER POUNDER.

It’s six am, and the sun doesn’t rise in Prague for another few hours. And it is fucking cold. I am in a short skirt, and he is dressed in a sweater. We make our way to the bridge, and it’s completely deserted. Actually, it really was a beautiful sight. Except for the fact that I was so fucking cold.

I grabbed him and started shivering into his shoulder.

He tried to kiss me. And it worked for about ten minutes where I turned to him and was like, “Get me into a fucking taxi. I am freezing.”

Surprisingly, we find a taxi within a few minutes, and he tries to act all suave and talk the taxi’s price quote down—which was actually very reasonable by the way.

“Shut the fuck up, that’s a good rate.” I tell him, not wanting to anger the nice man who had a warm car.

Much like an feral kitten, give me some place warm, relatively safe, and I calm down. Poor boy, he probably had no idea what hit him. I snuggled up next to him, and was dozing off in his arms.

The magic was broken at the Charles Bridge. Cold and sobriety can take the momentum out of any potential hook up.

We get to his hostel, and he sneaks me upstairs to his room.

“Do you have a pair of sweats I could borrow, and where is the extra bed?”

Exactly what every man wants to hear, when he brings a girl home.

Birthday and New Years

2006-12-29T20:47:00.000Z

Lu is sleeping on my sister's futon, tuckered out from last night's alcoholic festivities. She got onto an airplane at 6am so she could be in NYC to surprise me for my birthday.

With so much running around, I havent had time to finish up my blog about Prague. That's fine, with so many of you dear readers on vacation, I have a sneaking suscpicion that you will be reading all of December's entries in one huge swooping parusal anyway. So, much like everyone else I too have New Year's resolutions that I intend on keeping. With no other reason than needing a public forum to broadcast my shortcomings, here they are in no particular order:

1. Finish my fucking book. Seriously, no more false starts, I have found the voice I want to use, the characters that will be developed, and the over arching theme as well as figuring which of my antics translate into funny-book stuff.

2. Go to New Zealand and work on an organic farm. This is the year of me playing Jesus and finding a flock of sheep to herde.

3. Continue with the hot body project and keep up my weight loss.

4. Read. Not only pop fiction, but major literaray works as well.

5. Procure a real apt, with furniture and give up the refugee look. I am 25, I deserve real furniture, and not the shit made at Ikea.

6. Admit the inevitable, and move back to NYC next year, and become a writer. Seriously, spending the last few days here makes me realize that I am a NYer, and I cannot imagine my life doing anything else except for writing. I need to stop being afraid of being poor, and stop taking the safe way out with my life. Except, I only want to live on the UWS, I want a puppy and Sarah Jessica Parker's shoe collection.

Ok, off to my hair appt. And then home, a bottle of champagne, and a short skirt tonight. I am in the mood to pick up an older man, any takers?

There's no place like home

2006-12-27T13:20:00.000Z

Yes, you see the sign. God, I fucking love it here. Why did I leave again? Oh yea, something called a near nervous breakdown.

But it’s funny, as soon as I landed, and got my new cell phone number—and yes, I have the mark of the beast in my phone number, 666 is God trying to tell my something—I watched myself go back into my old habits. Walking down the street with my phone attached to my ear, not even in the city for more than six hours and already I drank half of a large carafe of wine with a friend—although, for the first time, I did get drunk under the table, God I love having lost weight—and of course, shopping and the spa.

It was weird being ‘home’, walking through my old neighborhood and feeling like I never left.

Off to the supermarket and then a run this morning to prep me for shopping today.

I turn twenty-five tomorrow. Holy fuck

Christmastime musings

2006-12-23T19:01:00.000Z

I know I am supposed to write Part II of Prague, but be on the look out for that tomorrow—the spirit is moving me in a completely different direction today. Christmas in England is a pretty big deal, with almost everyone, except for a few Chinese students, going home for the holidays. Most left last week, with the last stragglers leaving yesterday or this afternoon. Suffice to say, I am a bit lonely right now sitting in my room, waiting for my mastercleanse salt water wash to take effect and clean my bowels, because nothing makes you want to wake up each morning than knowing you are going to piss out of your asshole for a few hours each day.

I seem to be up to my same bag of tricks much like when I was living in NYC. Whenever I was lonely, or bored, or just downright depressive, I try to find my entertainment at the expense of others, i.e. craigslist. And what a glorious distraction craigslist has been for the last few lonely days! I’ve noticed several key trends: in London their casual encounters section is not as graphic as the NYC section. In New York, it seems that posting for liaisons with big dicked black men and average sized white men and thick Latino men-- well dicked men in general, have increased as the holiday approaches, while in London posting has significantly decreased over the holiday season. Yes, ladies and gentleman, this is what I am putting my Oxford degree towards—sociological analysis of online personal bulletin boards.

Craigslist is my boredom safety net because it is constantly updated, and people write some pretty fucked up things—and remember on craigslist, someone is always more fucked up than you. Which makes me feel a lot better about sitting in my room for about fourteen hours a day dreaming about food. For maximum time wasting, I tend to read most of the ads, but trying my best to skip over the one lined dick pics that say, “I want to cum” because if I wanted to see a penis, I would have downloaded porn and, it doesn’t make me feel better seeing somone’s member and knowing I haven’t had sex in a very long time. I am looking for the depths of humanity here! Not masturbatory aids in the form of digitally retouched photographs. So I look for the odd poor soul whose ad entertains me with his desperation of trying to find someone to love him, as I pass my time in Oxford like a prisoner waiting for his release date. But I have a confession, there is one ad that I am sickly intrigued by and sometimes am curious to respond to, the sugar daddy/older married man for a mutually beneficial arrangement. Now, I know that part of the reason why I am attracted to them is because of my Pretty Woman/Disney fantasies that a hot, older, dominant, man will take care of me, and financially and emotionally fund my eccentricities.

However, with my impending twenty-fifth birthday, I’m realizing a very fucked up observation—no longer am I sugar baby material! Most of these men want women who are below twenty-five, as if the mid-twenties isn’t young and sexy enough anymore. It seems once a woman hits twenty-five its assumed that if she is single she must have a lot of baggage, much like the jaded thirty something women who are still on the scene looking for their Mr. I’ll-settle-for-this-one-right-now. I wasted my early twenties being drunk and not taking advantage of the sugar daddy arrangement, and there is no way I can make up for lost time, unless I begin to lie about my age.

So, readers, I am celebrating my twenty-fourth birthday. Again! And if there are any sugar daddies reading this in the UK, I can assure you that I have the emotional maturity of a fourteen year old gal. Play your cards right, I can even look like one ‘down there’.

But perhaps I really am feeling this impending twenty-five. Since its been so cold here in the UK, I spend my days inside, perpetually cold, sipping herbal tea and trying to get some novel writing accomplished. Last night was Friday night, and instead I stayed in with my newly purchased hot water bottle and watched the Constant Gardener with the few remaining international kids before they left for their Christmas holiday. All I need are fucking knitting needles, and a pack of Parliaments and I will be my grandmother—except my slippers are much cuter, they are cashmere.

So, I am not that happy about my course. It’s not that intellectually demanding, the teaching is very different than found at an American university, and to be perfectly honest, all I am going to get out of it is another useless degree and the name ‘Oxford’ to drop at cocktail parties. As we know, dear friends—and loyal long time readers, I consider you the dearest friends of all—I get a bit self-destructive when I am unhappy. It’s enjoyable to make people squirm who are responsible for your unhappiness.

I have to do an ethnography for my qualitative methods class. Now, I know the safe answer could be to examine different religious groups (i.e what students have done in the past) or, I can be creative. To be perfectly honest, religious rituals, unless there are snakes, child sacrifices, or mutilating babies’ genitalia (thanks Jews!), are quite boring. Trust me, I’ve been members of distinctly different religious groups. So, I decided that I want to write an ethnography on something that I am very passionate and interested about—sex work. I would like to interview either a prostitute or a professional dominatrix (and if I could find a dom, then maybe I could also incorporate my own experiences and make the person reading it completely uncomfortable). Could you imagine, an old Oxford professor reading about penises being tied up and an ethnographer relaying her own personal experience what it felt like being paid to electrocute some naked man?! Genius I tell you.

So, in a fit of procrastinating the stats assignment that I still have yet to do, and the test that I still have yet to study for, I’ve been looking up Oxford escorts and BDSM dungeons (plus, maybe I could moonlight here as a dominatrix—I mean, the pound is nearly at 2:1). And you know how google has that lovely function that saves your past searches, so when you type in ‘Oxford’ for example, it will populate it with your last query—mine was escorts and BDSM. A dormmate of mine came over the other night, and was using my computer to look up Oxford movie theaters. Well, guess what came up?

Everyone thinks I am weird here anyway. Which is very true. Does someone normal allow strangers a glimpse into her fucked up mind and life?

And finally the part that I am sure you all have been waiting for—my progress on the master cleanse. First of all, I have not cheated and have lost a bit of weight. Getting over the pissing out of your ass and cravings for real food, it really isn’t that bad. Granted I am smoking like a pack a day, and read menupages.com as I am drinking my lemonade mixture, hoping that I can trick my mind that I am having the food I am looking at on the computer screen instead of the crap lemon water that I have been drinking for five straight days, but it really isn’t that bad. Plus, I am nearly into my sister’s fat jeans aka my skinny jeans. And may I say, seriously, I am looking fucking hot. I am thinking a strip club on my birthday night out.

But what I am most excited about heading home for is indulging in the things that I have not been able to do here such as champagne, dirty old men, fine food (Gramercy Tavern for my bday lunch) and partying with my gals when I am home. And when I walk off that plane, touch down onto American soil I think I may kiss the ground, thankful that I am home, of course wearing my Burberry scarf with impunity.

Prague--Part I

2006-12-20T12:02:00.000Z

You know, as much as I take the piss out of this country’s quirks and the sexual ineptitude of its inhabitants, I have to say when my plane touched down in London Heathrow my heart sang a sigh of relief. For someone whose ambition was to get her passport fully stamped before it was time to renew it (I have one more page left and 3.5 years to go), and how many times I’ve responded “I was out of the country” when my friends wondered why they couldn’t reach me, I seriously hate fucking traveling.

I am a home body. I am like an old cat, once I mark my territory, my surroundings become my home and I hate leaving. Hence my bedroom is perfectly me with clothes strewn about, my linens smell a bit from needing to be washed, and at the moment I am sitting cross legged in my college sweatshirt and a pair of PJ bottoms with my down comforter that I’ve had since I was eighteen wrapped around me. My only forms of human interaction have been at the gym getting my passcard swiped and the occasional IM conversation. And to be perfectly honest? I am fucking ecstatic. It’s why I am so hellbent on being a writer, I can’t imagine having to work in an office and wear actual pants throughout the day. Unless if I have to, I really don’t like dealing with reality and prefer the confines of my own perfectly architectured home.

But, the flip side of my personality, I’m plagued by this pesky thing called curiosity. And with the continent a short flight away, and Ryan Air banner ads filling my computer screen advertising one penny flights (not inclusive of tax and fuel surcharges), I felt compelled to leave my little self-induced bubble. Some people claim that the town of Oxford is their bubble, while I on the other hand am much more content with far less—I’ll settle for free reign of my flat whilst my roommates are away.

Berlin as I wrote was pretty uneventful, due to my fear of German beer as a result of gaining about thirty pounds from the stuff when I last lived there, and with the promise to myself that I would cut out the drinking, I wasn’t really in the mood to do any serious partying. So, I lurked on AIM messenger pretty often (you know you are having a great time on vacay when you sit on IM waiting for your friends to wake up and chat to you), I saw Casino Royale ‘ins Kino’ (in the movie theater) and walked around the city that I love but also am frustrated by. Like if they only spoke English in Germany, my ass would so be in Berlin. Except, since I am a language dilletant due to my ADD affliction, once I get to more difficult lessons than, “Hi, my name is Shannon. I come from the US. Where can I buy a martini?” I grow discouraged with the amount of time that learning a new language necessitates, so I give up. Hence, I can speak about five languages, not very well, not very fluently, about what you need to speak to the cleaning lady, “How are you, How is the family, and by the way, you missed a spot.”.

Now, I don’t know about you, but to me vacation is synonymous with booze, random hook-ups, and shopping trips. But since I didn’t really feel like a tourist in Berlin since I’d already lived there, wasn’t drinking at the moment, haven’t been into the random hook-ups for a while, and have no money to shop, I had to act like a normal human being in Berlin, hence why I was so excited for the East.

I feel Prague is a lot like the neighborhood NYC restaurant that got a great review in New York Magazine, once the rest of the world finds out no longer is it quaint and friendly—but instead begins to take on a life of its own. Prague may have been beautiful and captivating years ago, just as it emerged onto the world’s stage from years of communist rule, but I have to be honest, with the scores of North African men trying to sell me boat trip tickets in front of the Charles, souvenir shops littering the characteristic Bohemian streets, and rude fucking Czechs who don’t care whether their tourists live or die, I have to say that is wasn’t my most favorite city in Europe. Oh, and with the dollar at an all time record low, it isn’t that cheap either—especially when the Czechs try to inflate your bill and take advantage of your lackluster language skills.

Maureen (friend, travel companion, Fulbright scholar, and blogger) and I arrived into Prague’s Central station late at night—like around ten pm-ish. If Berlin was reminiscent of the East Village during the 1980’s, then Prague’s central train station was reminiscent of Port Authority during the Pre-Guilliani years. First, there were homeless people all over. Fine. Oxford has a small homeless population, and usually if you ignore them, they will leave you alone. However, Eastern European homeless are very different then the loveable-chavs who try to sell you a Big Issue in this country—Eastern Europe they look like they were caught in the Chernobyl blast. Ratty clothes, physical deformities, missing teeth, no loveable dog to humanize them a bit, they are seriously fucking scary. And Maureen and I were there around ten pm.

Having traveled a lot by myself I’ve learned, when you arrive into a new place you survey the train station and try to find the information desk. Here you can ask questions such as, “how much should a taxi cost to my hotel” (to make sure you aren’t ripped off), “how does the public transport in this country work”, etc. The information booth acts like your miniature guide, and usually they speak English.

We get off the train and look for the information booth. We follow the i-signs to this abandoned booth with a sign that read, “We speak Czech only, go downstairs for English.” Not a very good sign when you arrive into a country that an information booth only speaks Czech. We go downstairs, and first go to the hotel information desk as we wanted to know where our hotel was. Now, I know you should go to the main information desk, but most countries—especially when there isn’t a line, will answer your questions, you know because most people have been travelers and understand being two women can be a bit harrowing in an Eastern European train station at quarter after ten at night. The hotel guy tells us that we need to go to the other information booth. Fine, it wasn’t his job, no harm done.

We walk over to the other information booth—about ten feet away from the asshole hotel guy. We ask her where our hotel was, and instead of explaining the hotel’s location, she hands us a map and tells us to find it. Now, if this was NYC, where the streets are numbered and there is a logical order to the urban planning, I could understand her rationale. However, Prague, is not laid our rationally, it is an old European city with changing street names and windy paths, and mini-streets off of the main ones—if you are not familiar with the city, there is no way you would be able to figure anything out. And there are weird homeless guys in the distance.

Realizing that we weren’t going to win with her, we decide to take money out of the ATM and find a taxi. Keep in mind that our hotel is about 2 Km away from the central train station—roughly 1.5 miles, aka, if we had our bearings we could walk there. We walk over to the taxi stand and inquire about rates going towards the Wenssealar square area. Now, when a taxi driver tells you to hop in while ignoring your costing question, this is a bad sign.

“We aren’t getting in until you tell us how much money it is.”

“No, get in, get in, I can take you to your hotel.”

“How much will it be!”

He shows us this craptastic laminated sign, that quotes the cab for $40 Euros. Taking account the conversion, that is roughly $50 dollars to travel about one and half miles.

I laugh in his face and tell him that it is ridiculous, because the hotel is only about 2Km away.

“Ok, so name your price.”

“Tops, seven Euros”

He laughs in my face and tells me, “Good luck finding someone to take you for that price.”

How the fuck can he get away charging that much for going such a short distance, and then I see a Japanese woman out of the corner of my eye talking to him and then shortly, handing over her bags.

Fucking yen.

Needing to get to the hotel, but not paying forty Euros for a taxi trip, we have to find the subway. Except in the train station, the entrance to the metro isn’t marked. We wonder the train station for about twenty minutes, going on wild chases thanks to some Czechs’ sense of humor who find it funny to send the American gals in the opposite direction of where they should have been going. Hearing English, I turn around and ask some backpackers how we get to the metro, and she tells me quite efficiently in her Australlian accent, “Down the stairs and turn left.”

We find the metro station, and need to buy tickets. First of all, the machines are all in Czech with some English scrawled on top of the machine. Secondly, we both have one thousand Czech Crown notes in our wallets and no coins, and of course the machine only accepts coins. After buying an overpriced sandwich, we get the coins to buy our tickets.

Now, I know an Eastern Europe four star hotel is not the same as a New York City four star hotel—as indicated by the bell hop with a stuttering problem.

“Hey, so do you know where I can get food at this hour?” I ask.

“Iiiiittt…iiiittttss…iit…it’s o..o..oh..ohhn…on tha..tha..thaaaa..corner.”

Four minutes later, and I still have no idea what the fuck he was saying.

Maureen and I awake the following morning, while she is plotting her touristy stuff, I do my morning vitamin ritual, take water from the sink and swallow my pills, and then take advantage of the free breakfast. I get dressed for my morning run, excited to see the city in the daytime, set to the tune of “Kickass run mix” on my playlist. When I am in a new city, to me the best way to discover it is to try to get completely lost. Run in the craziest directions, and then try to find your way back. It’s so much fun because as you are worrying about how to get home, you don’t realize how far you are actually running.

I’m in my running zone, lip-syncing, day dreaming about when I will be on the today show talking about how famous I am, when suddenly I hear a rumble in my belly. I stop, thinking that it was a cramp from scarfing too much breakfast too quickly. But then the “cramp” travels down to my lower abdomen and I am in pain—and desperate to take a shit. Now, keep in mind, I can get by in five languages for directions, etc. Five languages, none of them Czech.

I walk over to an old man, “English, Deutsch?” (English, German?)

He ignores me.

I am panicking because I have no idea what the hell to do. My glorious “get lost while you run” may be costing me my panties and self-esteem any moment, and I have no idea where I can go to the bathroom, nor how far I am from my hotel.

He sees that something must be wrong, and I take out my map, and point to where I want to go, and pantomime the question “where?” with a smile as I am crossing my legs, hoping that my stomach can hold on for just a bit more. He rattles off directions to be in Czech/English and I start to run. Except, running is making it worse, so I have to downgrade to a slow walk.

And once again, I am lost.

I repeat the charade show for some old ladies, and fifteen minutes later I burst through the hotel, as Maureen is still inside the room, and run into the bathroom, and stay in there for about fifteen minutes.

Now, keep in mind that prior to this trip, I haven’t seen Maureen in about four years, so we don’t have the level of intimacy that allows girlfriends to talk freely about bowel movements. So, yes, I am very embarrassed, especially since I had to close the door to prevent the stench from wafting into the room.

Maureen is getting ready to do touristy stuff, and I decide to stay close to a toilet, and take my time showering. Later that day, I try to get myself lost in the Old City of Prague but am supposed to meet Maureen at the Old-New synagogue for services that afternoon. I’m walking around the city, trying to get a feel for it, and my body once again betrays me. Throughout the old city, I know almost all of the bathrooms there. By the way, The Grand Hotel’s was quite nice and you don’t need to pay for it in the afternoon.

I meet Maureen ten minutes late and we need to stand on the security line. You know you are a hated people, when you have to pass through a security screen in order to pray. And although I rarely make it to services, despite my New Year’s promises to do so, I was really moved by the Chanukah candle lighting. Especially since the synagogue was built in the 1200s and is one of the oldest in Europe. It was pretty fucking cool, especially since I saw how medieval Jews separated the men from the women—two feet deep of reinforced concrete with tiny slabs cut out so the women could peak through.

Maureen and I are standing around, trying to find the place where we are in the service, and I hear an East Coast accent and eavesdrop on the conversation. I interrupt, and explain that I too have no idea where we are in the services. We end up chatting, she is backpacking with her friend, and decided to go to services, much like how me and Maureen were on vacation and decided that the cheapest way to see the inside of one of Prague’s most famous synagogues was to be practicing Jews for the day. We make a few jokes about how Czech Jewish men are the only good looking men in Prague, and a friendship is forged. All of us decide to walk around the old square, visiting the Christmas markets (which are a lot of fun—mulled wine will land you on your ass), viewing the astronomical clock, and a whole host of the other Prague tourists traps. I will admit, as much as the city sucks during the day, it is breathtaking at night, as the North African men go into hiding into the alley ways trying to sell you hash and weed instead of boat trips, and the souvenir shops close.

“You know,” one of the girls tells me, “I think you’ll really get along with my friend Calem.”

“Oh? Why do you say that?”

“He’s from England too.”

Part II continued tomorrow.

At the moment, am in Oxford, putting my body through the master cleanse in an effort to look very fucking hot for when I get back to NYC. But, I must admit, pissing out of your asshole for three straight days, is not a very pleasant experience. Off to the store right now, to buy some more supplies, library to try to get some work done, and hopefully some writing this evening.

Oh yea, five fucking days until I get home. I miss my city.

I am not a kitty piddler, I swear

2006-12-15T07:45:00.000Z

I Just completed the first leg of my journey. You know, when you aren’t drinking, it makes for a very boring vacation. Like, what do you do when you aren’t spending all night in a club getting fucked up and dancing the night away? Oh, I know, internationally blog.

It was my first time back in Germany since I “studied” (using the term very very loosely) abroad there almost four years ago. At first when I arrived, I felt eerily comfortable, I somewhat understood what people were saying, I was familiar with the neighborhoods, the subways, the culture—never cross against the light, or else the police will ambush you and write you a ticket or you will be tsked and chastised by the Germans who you are standing around with. But then as my few days wore on, the feelings of “Auslander”—the German word for foreigner but literally translated means outsider, began to take hold. It’s exciting being a foreigner, hiding behind language difficulties when the homeless ask you for money, but it wears off when all you want to do is go into a pub and randomly chat up strangers.

Evidently not many people in Germany go running outside. And of the few that do, tend to be people who can speak the language.

When I go out running, it’s like a spiritual journey for me. I put on my music loud, tend to dress really poorly and a bit shady as when you have to keep warm fashion is the last thing that you are thinking about, and huff and puff for about the first ten minutes. I went running through the park by my friend’s place, getting into the zone, lip-syncing to Sean Paul, and I see a bunch of children taking a class trip through the park. They couldn’t be more than six years old, and were really cute—especially when they all turned around in unison and looked at me with a hint of fear in their eyes. As I was running a little girl drops her hat, now keep in mind I speak no German and I look a bit scary when I am exercising. I pick up the hat and run towards the girl, “Sie hatten! Sie Hatten!” Now, keep in mind that the word “hatten” I just made up, assuming that the word for hat had to sound just like its English world, but angrier. And nobody in their right mind would refer to a small child as Sie (polite you) As an aside, hatten loosely translates into have, as my friend told me later. S

As I am running towards the little girl roughly saying in my broken German, “She have, she have” the children take off and start to run, and this captures the eye of their teacher who gives me the German leer—the same nasty look when you cross against the light. I give the hat to the little girl, and the teacher looks like she is ready to pounce and prevent me from molesting her, and all I wanted to do was to giver her back her hat.

In Prague and off for my run this morning and then sightseeing. Will put up pictures, and I am safe, and didn’t drink last night. Instead I sat around on the internet in my hotel room—fucking not drinking blows.

Oh the irony

2006-12-11T22:58:00.000Z

I’m off to Berlin/Prague tonight—leaving in the middle of the night in order to get to my 6am flight on time, but for a penny, it is kinda worth it. And due to Ryan Air’s bullshit baggage restriction of 15kg (about 35 lbs) I have to wear as many of my sweaters as possible.

Hmmm, is anyone else struck by the irony? A Jewish gal leaving in the middle of the night having to wear as many of her clothes as possible as not to arouse suspicion (I’ll put it in my hand luggage once I board the aircraft).

Also, God must really not want me to get any ass, or is protecting me from my beer goggles. Possibly cute Portuguese man texted me last night, and first of all his phone number had the sign of the beast, 666. And then when I went to text him something witty back, my cell phone wouldn’t allow me to return my text.

I am taking this as a sign, and crossing him off of my “to-do” list.

But, off to my much needed vacay until Sunday. Will be bringing my computer so will try to post, at the very least pictures, but we know how those former Soviet Bloc countries could be like…

A night defined

2006-12-10T23:28:00.000Z

So, it only took me four days to forfeit the goal—I drank last night. Wait, let me rephrase that. I raced my liver’s ability to process alcohol in an effort to maintain my very very strong buzz—it worked out too well, as indicated by the sent folder box of my cell phone and the drunken IMs I wrote last night. By the way, I do miss you babe, but we both know I can be a bit excessive with my affection after I consumed about three shots of tequila, two extra large martinis, and four double vanilla absolut and diet cokes—all within a five hour window. Surprisingly, I wasn’t supposed to go out last night. I was going to sit in my room and look at the stats assignment, again, hoping that the answers would come via divine intervention instead of at the expense of having to crack open a book.

But I ended up snapping.

I don’t know if you, dear reader, have ever spent copious amounts of time in your room—so much that you’ve long crossed the threshold from being labeled as anti-social to most probably depressed, but there comes a point where you’ve had enough! No amount of staring at the stats book will get the assignment done, especially as you’ve taken to your role as social secretary with a bit too much gusto and instead spend your time plotting for bops, coming up with ball themes, and trying to rationalize as an unemployed student I deserve a pair of Manolo Blahniks to go to the ball in—I mean, it could also serve double duty and incorporate a bit of style into the white trash gown that I have to wear for the wedding that I am a bridesmaid.

At first I took my need for distraction out on my closet and my make-up, and spent a good hour trying out different looks and pouting into the mirror. And I look hot dressed up as an ‘80’s rocker, it must be my strong jaw line that is a tad reminiscent of old skool super models who reigned when neon was cool. I put up my hair in a high ponytail and arranged my bagns in a high bouffant. My eyes look a bit lacking, so I make them smokey, and then add my too pink blush to my cheeks to finish off the look. And with each addition of sparkly adornment I added to my skin, I began to feel a bit better! I then searched through my closet to find the most trashy outfit to go with my look and decided on a shirt dress, wide belt, fishnets, and leg warmers. Much like the sip of my first drink last night, I wasn’t supposed to actually go through with it, in this case walk out of my flat. But it’s just that I looked so cool, and was too lazy to exert any more effort into finding an outfit that wouldn’t look half as cute. So, I left my dorm room, dressed up to meet my friend who was working at the college bar.

Now, let me explain it like this, the college bar in Oxford is a lot like the tv show Cheers. There are about ten people who are regulars and whose lives revolve around its operating hours—you know, because it is an additional place where one can hang out besides the common room. Most people at college, however, use it to complement their social life—keeping the intended purpose of its existence. They have such full lives with friends from their programs and extra-curricular activities, that they only show up when there is something going on, such as a bop (what they call a party here) or as a pre-game destination to kick off a long evening. You then have some students who’ve never step foot in the college bar, and they are either very very cool with many friends from outside of college or are Chinese and never leave their room. And then you have people like me and my friends—a cast of characters who rival the gang at Cheers. Think of my position as a mixture of the brash talk of Rebecca Howe and the little girl naiveté of Diane Chambers. We even have our own resident Cliff Claven.

For me to show up at the college bar dressed like an advert for the totally eighties commemorative disc set took a lot of guts. Or just maybe it just acted as a testament to the lethal combination of attention whoredom and laziness. But I looked very good, and I was happy that something was able to show off my newly toned legs.

My friend was working behind the bar, and greeted me with two consecutive questions, “Hey Shannon, how are you? What are you drinking?”

And with the smug self-satisfaction of sadists with ascetic personalities I reply, “Oh, I’m not drinking. I’m staying sober until my twenty-fifth birthday.”

“Oh that’s rubbish! I don’t understand the point of self-inflicted punishment”

“I’m not punishing myself over anything, it’s just the quickest way for me to lose weight is for me to stop drinking.”

I am going back to NYC. I want to have an amazing birthday, a great New Years, and thank God for my credit card when I go shopping at Saks, Bergdorff, and Bloomies’ post Christmas sales. Plus, let’s be real here folks, the hotter you look, the more fun you have. Unfortunately for me, moderation is not a word I understand. And if it isn’t that I have such a high tolerance for alcohol that I need to consume what equals about half of bottle in order to truly “enjoy” myself, than it is the lowered inhibitions that make the kebab van’s artery clogging treats not seem that laden with calories and fat—God damn craving for chips and cheese after a hard night of drinking.

So I stick to my resolve of sobriety, until he puts a drink in front of me.

“So, what are we going to do tonight! I just want to let loose and get fucked up!”

“You know, we can go to Filth [the gay club],” my gay friend suggests.

“You’re the alcohol enabler and I’m the fag enabler,” I say motioning towards the drink he placed in front of me. “ You know, by the way, I am not drinking that shit. I have to look cute when I head home.”

Glossary of terms:
Fag-enabler: (n) A person who enables the gay man (fag) by accompanying him to the gay club and offers other support of the gay lifestyle. A pejorative term used by the Christian right to call out gay allies. Since we are so smug with our irony here at Oxford, my friends and I have appropriated it as a term of endearment and to replace the dreaded term fag-hag which implies a fat ugly woman who needs the unconditional love of a gay man. I just like gay men because I can be as affectionate as I would like without worrying about mixed signals.

My hetero friend responds, “But, I really don’t want to pay a cover charge and,” he hesitates, “I would like to pull tonight.”

I think this summarizes my life here at Oxford pretty fucking well. Everyone is on the prowl, no matter one’s sexual orientation.

The drink sits within an arm’s length, as he and my other friend are taking sips while we discuss what to do after the bar closes.

“I just want to go out,” I lament. “I’ve been cooped up in my room for the last three days and I need to let loose.”

As the conversation continues to run in circles, the drink’s pink color and fizziness become very appealing. Frustrated that this is the same conversation I’ve had throughout my life, it seems no matter how old I am, my location, nothing changes. And after spending three days locked in a room by yourself, when you see people you want it to be epic and make yourself sorry that you’ve missed out on something, anything. There is nothing more disappointing when you realize that everyone is just as lame as you. Wanting to have fun, and needing an outlet that didn’t physically exist in Oxford, I had to settle for a mediation of reality. And so I drank from the cup placed in front of me. And the weird thing? Despite drinking from a straw a very strong drink, I felt nothing.

“I really wouldn’t mind going fagging,” I say, not that convincingly.

“Oh, so now it’s a verb?” My gay friend asks, half laughing.

“Well, it makes the most sense, that is what I am enabling, you know?”

Glossary of terms:
Fagging: (v) the act of going to the gay club and dancing all night

We end up compromising, have a drink at a cocktail bar around the corner and then my gay friend and I head out fagging for the evening. Being in a gay club, there is no other way to cope than drink. A lot. We end up closing the club down.

Now, it’s a rare night when I can confidently say that, holy shit. I looked good. And perhaps it had something to do with the obscenely short dress I wore, or maybe my painted on make-up, but I was a spectacle walking home, especially since the streets were littered with drunken chavs.

On my stumble home, I pass a group of men and I hear them click and whisper “pssst!”

Drunk, and not thinking the most level headedly, I turn around and yell at them, “Go fuck yourselves and jerk each other off.”

“Oh come on, hey, pretty lady let me talk to you,” the ring leader of the pack says.

And I don’t know what possessed me, perhaps it was that I was so drunk that I was stumbling home, or the fact that a man outside of the fishbowl that is Oxford found me attractive, or maybe, I was looking for a little entertainment for the evening, and nothing can make you feel better than exchanging witticisms with strangers—you know, it explains why the beginnings of a relationship are so stimulating—but I walked towards him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean you any disrespect, it’s a compliment where I’m from”

Leave it to me to have an exchange on cultural understanding at three in the morning.

He asks me, “Where are you from?”

“New York,” as confidently and arrogantly that the name of the city implies. I continue, “Where are you from? Has to be something Latin if that is how you call women.”

“Portugal”

“Oh,” I say looking him up and down, “explains your eurotrash look.”

And so we chat for a few minutes, and in the haze of beer goggles, he seemed to be cute. But very thin. And thinking back on it, could he have been a chav—it’s easy to mistake a chav for eurotrash when you are drunk.

But, I have to admit, when I woke up this morning, I didn’t have any of the usual regrets that I normally have after I drank too much. Maybe it was because I was escaping into something rather than escaping from something, with my alcohol consumption letting me forget my stats, the unread books that sit on my shelf, and just let me enjoy my time with my friends. The goodwill extended to today where it just felt eerily like home, post drinking lunch and then hanging out with a friend. Except here Cafeteria (the Chelsea restaurant) was replaced with this organic shop and walking along the Hudson was replaced with doing rugby conditioning and tossing around the ball in the very English rain.

But much like home, after a recovery meal and kick ass run, I returned to my bed, with the same comforter I’ve had since my undergraduate days and read the Sunday Times in bed, caught up with my American tv shows, and now, chronicling the weekend’s events in the blog. There really are snippets of home to be found, I just need to work hard to find them.

25 in 19 days

2006-12-09T03:23:00.000Z

I heard today another friend of mine is planning on leaving NYC. This brings the grand total up to about ten people who have either physically or metaphorically left the city—either leaving NYC completely or just not leaving the couch in their Park Slope brownstone, a spoil of the dating war, much like how the vapid use of the terms “monogamous” and “we” become entrenched in his/her vocabulary. The sudden use of those words also magically implying ten-fifteen pounds of comfort weight and a disdain for activities they once enjoyed, such as blowing lines off of toilet seats and finding remnants of last nights fun—still in bed, fast asleep via the alcohol coma. Funny how a full-time job and a girl/boyfriend will change a person’s definition of “letting loose”.

When I heard the news, I was in the library, trying to do work, but instead checking facebook and messaging half of my buddy list. I looked over at one of my friends and told him what I just found out, “You know, when I finally make it back home, I won’t have any friends left. Either their own sense of fiscal responsibility and a desire for a quality of life has made my friends leave or they’ve been claimed by the ring, and are in the midst of planning their weddings.”

“Come on, Shannon. You aren’t that much older than me. Are all your friends really getting married?”

“You’d be surprised. It’s the age between 23-25 where people magically start finding the person who they want to settle down with. I went from having all single friends to hearing incessant chatter about engagement rings and the politics of moving in with someone—all within the span of a year.”

He looks at me as if I told him Santa really exists.

“Dude,” I say, “I am fucking serious. I can tell you don’t believe me but wait! Talk to me in a year and half on your twenty-fifth birthday and then retake the inventory on singlehood.”

You know, this birthday is psychologically damaging for me. It’s like I couldn’t wait for my twenty-first birthday—no more expired drivers licenses saying that I was a very youthful twenty-seven year old, nor having to dodge places that were busted the week before in one of Guilliani’s “safer New York” crackdowns. The age equaled freedom, from the frat parties being the only place where an under-age gal could score booze, and being able to price compare Stoli and Grey Goose vodka inside the package store, and no longer needing to rely upon one of my friends who would grab the cheapest shit off of the shelf. After the twenty-first birthday, your life is marked by other milestones. College graduation, first job, for me, having sex—that make the birthdays afterwards pale in comparison. No longer do the birthdays signify your maturation, but instead what you accomplish.

Except for the twenty-fifth birthday—the birthday is a milestone in of itself. Because, no longer could you fudge that you are in your “early-twenties” and hide behind its implications of naiveté and prolonged adolescence. You are in your mid-twenties: two years closer to the average age of marriage, usually at “mid-career” status professionally, and often already a recipient or soon-to-be of a graduate degree. It’s an age that marks being a grown up.

Although I get shafted for presents because my birthday is so close to Christmas, I do have the one luxury that I get to watch everyone else grow numerically older first. And it’s great, because for an additional twelve months, I get to feel like the youngest—except this birthday, I don’t think it will be the case. And one of my favorite people in the entire world, who made my experience in NYC, is leaving.

I was telling my mother about it on the phone this evening, my frustrations with being in a graduate program that I don’t find interesting, how all of my friends seem to be settling down, and I am stuck in this limbo—in a foreign country I am hesitant to put down roots because I know I’ll eventually go back to NYC.

“You know Shannon,” she says, about an hour before I wrote this, “who’s fault is it? If you would just stop moving around and stayed put, then maybe you would find someone.”

Thanks Jewish mom. Because we both know if I pretended to be an English rose, and actually gave a damn about assimilating into a culture in which I represent the antithesis of, that the English boys would magically stop being shitty in bed, and have enough cojones to touch my breast during a heated three hour make-out. Or at the very least stop blushing when I mention the words penis and vagina, or when I answer truthfully that I’ve fooled around with girls. Or they just think I am a whore—if only they knew I talk brazenly about sex because my vagina is like a combination lock-- you only get access if you know the code. And these boys are very far off, so far that I’ve begun to develop a pavlovian response to the accent. I haven’t been this celibate this long since my fat days in college. And at least I had my wife to share my bed with then.

But that’s what I’ve been reduced to here. A regression due to the lack of accountability, much like that plagued me during my undergraduate days. My life here is fleeting—I hopefully will be working in London within six months—and theoretically could act with behavioral carte blanche here due to my transient status, however the fish bowl that is collegiate life prevents me from doing anything more than a little dirty dancing during the bops. Try finding a non-committal fuck buddy in the land of the serial monogamists while your friends watch, and then proceed to talk behind your back about who you are hooking up with, because you have been acting awfully friendly to that boy over there... I’m craving the anonymity of city living, being able to retreat into my room undisturbed, and run to the store in my jammies and not worry if I’ll run into my crush—which inevitably happens anyway.

Oxford is a weird place. I thought I belonged here, the bastion of the old skool, where the socially inept but intellectually genius were protected by the towering gates of the college that not even Rupunzel’s rescuer would be able to scale. But the longer I stay, the more I realize that I needed this break to make me realize how much I crave reality—even if mine involved a gold card, expensive shoes, and a job where I bought inanimate ad space for legal drug pushers (aka the American pharmaceutical industry). I’m not an academic. And I’m not saying this because I am discouraged with my almost-failing status in statistics. It’s just I’m coming to realize that this is my greatest joy: sitting in my room, writing all night, with cigarette breaks interspersed throughout the creative process. Plus, I am way too social—as indicated how I was a natural nomination for social secretary of my college.

But, like my therapist told me on Thursday, I need to stop shutting down when I’m confronted with my feelings of anger and frustration. Embrace it, channel it into something productive, and since I am here, I might as well try to kick some ass. And, anyway, London is only an hour and half on the train away anyway. But seriously, I’m really excited about going home. NYC is like the gal/guy you take for granted because you met them at such an early age and had no idea of the shit that is out there.

Off to Berlin and Prague in three days, and the wanderlust in me is excited for the change of scenery.

A typical Oxford day

2006-12-07T23:30:00.000Z

I don’t think I’ve ever had as much of a love/hate relationship with a place than I do at Oxford. The days are grey, as most of us are transient our friendships are fleeting, and life as a student here is a perpetual game of Catch-22—nobody tells you what you need to know, only when you fuck up. Oh, and by the way, never tell your advisor that you don’t feel like you have enough work, especially when you are barely passing your statistics course. I knew selling my company to a lonely man for a passing grade would come back to haunt me.

But then there are days like yesterday that remind me why I came here in the first place, and why I haven’t indulged my inner-adolescent and dropped out in protest of the frustrating classes, the lack of communication, and my obvious cash-cow status--Oxford is notorious for admitting foreign students for the benjamins, much like how a whore markets her only worthwhile asset. But then there are days like yesterday that are so typical Oxford that you cannot help but be swept up in the fantasy coming to life and embrace your status as a cliché, even more so than when the Japanese tourists try to snap your picture when you are in subfusc.

If I had to pick one inanimate object that typifies Oxford it is the bicycle. Walk past any academic building and you see herds of them parked, standing upright, crammed together waiting patiently for the student to finish class and cycle home. The bike serve as a preferred mode of transportation for perpetually time crunched students, you know because we hate to be torn away from our work and not because we couldn’t get out of the bathroom because of the post-drinking…let’s say gastro-intestinal problems. It shuttles the broke grad students who live a few miles out in Cowley quickly into the city center, helps you get your groceries home in a timely and non-arm strenuous fashion, and it acts as a means of self-expression. The bohemian English (the subject not the people) students riding old fashioned ones with skirts billowing in the breeze, sans helmet (I swear this is true) and the power hungry MBA students all cycling their tricked out mountain bikes, complete with shiny headgear to protect the brains that will be earning them millions of dollars.

And of course, I refuse to get one when I arrive.

First of all, I am a rollerblader. The last time, since yesterday, I’d been on a bike was when I went backpacking through Europe my first time and decided to see the Dutch countryside in Gouda. And, in Gouda, much like my youth and the way I operate a motor vehicle, I was a renegade. I had complete disregard for hand signals, almost ran over little old ladies on the side walk, and nearly crashed it when I tried to simultaneously bike uphill and scarf a herring sandwich. Europeans treat cycling much like how they view recycling, way too fucking seriously.

If you walk around the city center of Oxford you see cyclists obeying traffic signs, signaling to cars, passing each other on the left, and sharing the road with cars. It is a pretty harmonious relationship with the exception that there are no bike lanes and every year a few people get run over.

I’ve had a license since 2003 and I still don’t understand the rules of the road—I only drive on highways. I still have difficulty crossing the street here—it takes me ages to cross the street since I make sure that traffic isn’t coming from either direction. And, I can’t even properly maintain my heels and other clothes—why would I invest in a bike—an accessory nobody would see me look cute in! And anyway, I’m a walker. With NYC as my playground for the last few years, I’ve developed this attachment to walking, the pace allows me to keep my head in the clouds and practice my speech for when I address my alma mater when I am a NY Times bestselling author. Or at the very least fantasize about sex—which I have been doing quite a lot of by the way.

But yesterday, in a very Oxfordian twist to my day’s plans of studying and completing the ego shattering statistics assignment, my friend invited me to go pick up free bikes. Evidently, there were so many unclaimed bikes at this one college that they cut off the chains and were allowing students to take them, for free! Now, I never wanted a bicycle. Hell, I think they are completely annoying. But when something is given out for free, especially when you have to eat cabbage because you’ve been priced out of buying Broccoli, you jump at the free shit. Plus, I thought joining the Oxford bike riding cult would lift my spirits—think Full Metal Jacket where the Marines say, “This is my rifle. There are many like it but this one is mine. My rifle is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life. Without me, my rifle is useless. Without my rifle I am useless.” But replace rifle with the word bicycle, and you have the Oxford cult.

My friend and I walk the few miles to pick up the bicycles and when we get there, I realize why the college wanted to get rid of the bikes, giving them free to the students. . The bikes were “condemned”. Aka that there was something seriously wrong with each of them. Either cut break lines (someone must have pissed someone off), rusted chains, structural defects that made riding them completely unsafe, or slashed tired (again, someone must have pissed someone off—is there an Italian mafia I don’t know about here?). But the girl who was showing us the bikes was a member of the bike cult.

“You know, it just needs a tune up.” She says, blatantly ignoring the cancerous rust that engulfs the bike.

Uhm, I don’t want to have to get a tetanus shot each time I take my bike for a spin, thank you very much.

“What’s wrong with this one?” She asks, after taking out her bike kit, and getting her hands dirty with grease and spider web gunk, trying to salvage one of the least condemned looking.

Oh, you mean the mold that is embedded in the handle bars?

But how do you tell someone that you don’t love her hobby as much as she, and the thought of having to repair a bike yourself actually repulses you. Nevermind that you’ve seen girls get gouged in the eyes and ligaments torn on the rugby pitch. Because, you know, that shit is cool. But anyway, I would never ask a non-rugger to play rugby. So why are they trying to convert me to the cult?

After about an hour, I settle on this white bike. A bit rusty, a tad wobbly, but the best of the bunch, and you know, it’s free! The only draw back with this bike? The chain needs to be oiled, and it was stuck on the hardest gear.

My friend and I take our bikes and begin the trek home. Trying to get into the True Oxford spirit, and not wanting to be the obvious American, I try to obey traffic signals and act like the other cyclists—except, I don’t know what is healthy rule breaking, and what is unacceptable. We cycle down the road, towards home, and we aren’t even a hundred yards away and we are confronted with our first obstacle getting home—crossing the street with a bike. Crossing the street is an intuitive thing, it’s something we’ve been socialized into since we were young. Look left, then right. When we are going at fast speeds, either via car, rollerblades, or bike, we rely upon our instincts to take over. Except my instincts can cause me to DIE since they drive on the wrong side of the road here! So, my friend and I, too scared to cross try to avoid it by staying on the same road, but then give up ten minutes later when we realize we have no idea where it is taking us.

So, we dismount, and wait for traffic to clear—on both sides of this very busy road.

Once the road is clear, we peddle, and merge with traffic and begin to try to acclimate ourselves into the cult—sharing the road side by side with the cars. Now, I want to let you in on a little secret. The reason why I am such a terrible driver is because I am petrified of sharing the road with people. I have this sick idea someone is going to sideswipe me off the road, or that I’ll lose control and side swipe them. Like seriously, ask anyone who’s driven with me, and I drive with complete concentration because I think I may be called up to battle with the wheel for my life at any moment.

Except yesterday, I didn’t have the protection of steal and plastic safeguarding my journey. Hell, I didn’t even have a bike helmet!

I’d be cycling down the street then suddenly I’d feel the breeze of exhaust and see that a double decker bus was about three feeet away from me. This caused me to cycle slowly. So slow, that an old man passed me and gave me a dirty look, thinking that I was making fun of him. Like, I don’t think you understand, cycling in this city, especially not knowing traffic laws and which way to look when crossing the street made cycling home the most harrowing experience of my life. Especially when the bike lane disappeared and turned into the bus lane, which the buses expected to share with you.

I rode as close to the sidewalk as possible, and shut my eyes each time I heard a bus pull behind me. And prayed.

So, my friend and I returned unscathed with our newly saved no longer-condemned bikes. As we are walking our bikes into college, we hear the fire alarm go off. Evidently, they were testing the fire alarms in the dorm and we were expected to vacate—or be forced to listen to the shrill pitch. By happenstance, a few of us returned home roughly the same time and decided to head out to a café. Double espressos drank, cigarettes smoked and the merits of Borat versus Brasseye debated. I need to do that more often, hang out with people outside my normal social circle, because each time I do, I am pleasantly surprised.

Afterwards my friends and I met at college for the carol services—the first time I’ve been inside a church, with the exception of weddings, as a practicing Jew. I stood silent when they recited the Lord’s prayer, yet I knew the words to Oh Come All Ye Faithful by heart, oh the joys of growing up a product of mixed marriage.

But it was so Oxford yesterday especially by ending the day by going to chapel with your friends. I felt somehow better connected to my predecessors who were forced to go to compulsory chapel and study Latin. Except I’m a Jewish woman who’s only flirtation with Lain was with two years of Italian in high school. But, let me imagine that something ties me to those who’ve come before me, besides my American check book paying nearly twice as much since I am non-EU. Dinner in Hall last night followed the Carol service, with the Master reciting Latin to us before we are permitted to sit.

It’s frustrating here. On one hand I try to balence my youthful romanticism alongside my NYC cynicism with the place. But then there are days where it lives up to every one of my expectations, once again raising the bar higher, while simultaneously making the drop to reality harder.

Oh, in other news, go fuck yourself to those who think I couldn’t stop drinking. Day 3 is creeping up and my only interaction with alcohol has been a sip of wine to try. I am going until Dec 28 sober. Especially because my waistline is on the line. Come on, you really thought I was doing it trying to be healthy? HA HA.

A birthday wish

2006-12-06T01:43:00.000Z

So, I turn 25 on Dec 28th and I was thinking, wouldn't it be poignant if I remained sober until my birthday? And had the first sip, a nice cold glass of Veuve, the day when I turn 25?

I'm just tired of having a perpetual hangover. So, no booze until Dec 28. Bets are being taken as to how long this kick will last.

Reflections on the end of term

2006-12-05T19:04:00.000Z

So, I know I’ve been on a hiatus. My blog has been empty, I barely leave my room, and have now developed a talent-crush on Greg Dulli of the Afghan Whigs and Twilight Singers—his melancholy vocals capturing exactly what life is like with six hours of sunlight a day. Even when there is a SAD lamp that sits on my desk, bottles of fish oil vitamins strewn across my room, all in quiet protest of the unopened package of prozac that sits in my top dresser drawer next to my birth control pills. I mean, if I can manage my menstrual cycle, what’s the difference of using something to help with my emotions? Except that I am so neurotic about the potential for weight gain that the blisters covering the pills remain unpopped.

To be perfectly honest, the reason why I haven’t been writing as of late is because I’ve been in hiding—both physically and emotionally. If I don’t leave my room, there is nothing to write about. And I’ve emotionally shut myself off because I’ve been fighting admitting the obvious: graduate school at Oxford is a fucking joke. Ok, maybe just my program. Instead of providing me with the intellectual challenges that I’ve been looking for since my undergraduate days, I’m left staring at the clock wishing that the girl who thinks she is always right would shut the fuck up and stop monopolizing class discussion. Except that she won’t, because there isn’t anyone else saying anything.

Maybe I went to the boot camp of undergrad institutions, where it was not uncommon to have to spend about 10 hours a day on work (nevermind the classes you had to attend), where you were the wild gal if you went out drinking on Thursday night, and a liar if you said that you never kissed a gal. And maybe I am not acclimating to the educational cultural shock that in the British system, how you are expected to be far more self-motivated than my pampered American ass would care to admit, but it seems that something is a bit amiss.

This term I have three classes: a ten person seminar that discusses key sociological debates, where we read about 500 pages of material then discuss it for an hour and half; a statistics class and lecture where I am learning how to program data and get frustrated because none of it makes sense in the book, and a research methods hour long lecture that I stopped going to after week three—because we are evaluated on the class by writing a paper in MAY on the subject matter. Even if I did go to class, I would have forgotten the material anyway. Might as well just teach it to myself when I need it. Plus I worked for a shady market research company a while back—I know how to manipulate data and research design in order to keep my clients from looking too bad.

Now, do me a favor, think back to your undergraduate days. Honestly, how much of that did you spend doing work? Now, decrease the amount of work you did in undergraduate by 75% and you have my typical day. But the funny thing is, I still managed to be busy—nursing hangovers, wasting time updating the shrine to myself on facebook, buying music off of itunes, and watching bootleg American television shows online.

As a result, I’ve become horribly boring. Everyone’s lives revolve around their own little world, but mine used to be interesting. Drinks at SoHo House, NY Fashion week tickets, getting drunk and vomiting on a Craigslist guy, dating every single unsavory character in NYC—although my life in NYC was pathetic, it was at the very least entertaining.

And with that old life, as a result from my misery, I developed escapist dreams. Thinking, as I balanced a spreadsheet, I was meant to be in academia, living on a farm in a small town, with a loving husband and some cute kids. Well, after one term at Oxford, I realized that I am not an academic type, the thought of spending years researching data sets is my ADD and dyslexic hell. Although the countryside is beautiful, I am BORED. The town is claustrophobic, people knowing who you are very quickly and I am quickly growing bored going to the same places, with the same people, talking about the same things because our lives are so similar! And the loving husband? I refuse to date English boys because of their excessive politeness that has left me kissing for hours with hands not leaving my shoulders. Yes, you read that correctly, twenty-four year olds who can’t even make it to second base. I like mean boys. And outside of NYC, I am at a loss to find them.

But that is the scariest thing for me right now. I took out $40K in loans thinking that I was one step closer pursuing my dream, and finding an Oxford husband. And, I’m not closer to either one of them—not because I can’t get them, but because I am realizing that I don’t want them.

I guess you must be asking, where the hell did all of this come from? I seemed/am happy! My biggest crisis during the days is whether to eat lunch at college, or to eat it in my room. No more crying at my desk, wishing for better things! Blame it on London. My reserved NYC where I vomit in my friends’ toilets instead of on the street, and of course drink in massive excess.

Last Sunday I hung out with my friend from college, needing emotional comfort after a hellish Saturday night. We decide to meet up around Covent Garden, for a quick lunch so that I could make it back to Oxford before nightfall. But, when you haven’t seen a friend in months, what is wrong with a bottle of wine to loosen tongues, and serve as a catalyst for better conversation? And we all know, when one bottle is opened, why not just go for the second, you know? So a quick lunch turned into a four hour booze fest that left me too inebriated to navigate the trains back to Oxford, and not fall asleep on the train and end up in Wales.

We head over to her place, taking the tube because taxis in this country are a luxury that are afforded to the employed, although at this point I needed water and a bed. Just as I’m asking her, “How far is it to your house from the station?” We run into her roommate. Who, Ankana tells me, is also a half breed Jew. Nice. Her roommate is going to a sold out show, and was wondering if we would like to go and meet up with a few of her friends for drinks before hand.

Interesting how without an invitation, the bed is a perfectly good place to be. However, once you have a place you are no longer as exhausted.

We go to the bar, have drinks, and make fun of British men, where I am told by the fortieth person that I intimidate British men with my brash talk of sex and clitorises (it’s been a lonely semester by the way). I am drunk. I spent the day drinking a bottle of wine, and have now just had two large glasses of wine.

Sarah, Ankana’s roommate, suggests that we “Blag” our way through the door, aka, pretend to be someone important and try to get a ticket.

As an aside, it is one reason why I love this country. One of my friends was asking me how I could live here, especially knowing that I would never fit in. But that is the beauty, surefire indications of someone’s status and class and personality traits don’t apply to me, as I was socialized outside their culture. People just see a NYer, who makes fun of herself, who is attending Oxford. I love it. It’s anonymous here for me—people having no idea about what it means when I tell them I went to HS on the North Shore of LI.

I love hiding behind my Americaness here. It’s unexpected, and when you play the cards right, it can be utterly charming, in that big golden retriever kinda way.

Sarah suggests that we blag our way through by saying that we work for a magazine. And since Ankana looks super young, she could pass as my intern.

Being drunk, I decide that I should make a costume change—you know, make me look cool and writer like. I hop into the bathroom, and change into what I drunkenly think a writer would wear: Uggies, jeans, a wide belt, and a cute t-shirt. Not too dressy as I am trying to impress anyone, because my talent should be enough. As I mentioned, I was trashed.

We walk out of the bar, and I am craving a cigarette but finished my last one inside. I go to the Deli with Sarah and leave Ankana with Sarah’s friend. When we come back from around the corner, Ankana has a ticket in her hand. Evidently, some dude couldn’t go to the show, and since it started he gave Ankana the ticket.

Knowing that I am the only one who needed to get in, and being so fucking drunk, I walk up the bouncer:

“Excuse me, where is the will call”

Use American expressions, so they realize that you are not one of them

“Will Call?” He responds?

“The place where you hold tickets for the press?”

He points to some woman.

I reach into my wallet and get out my Massachusetts ID. I walk up to the woman he pointed at and as I am handing her my license, “Hi, My name is Shannon [insert last name]. I’m here with the Village Voice.”

“Oh, ok. Once second.”

She comes back, “We don’t have anything for you.”

“Damn. I’m a freelancer for the Village Voice and I thought my editor confirmed everything. I am supposed to write about the band, because they are heading to NYC. You know, I don’t mind paying for the ticket, it’s just that I need to write the article”

“You shouldn’t have to pay for the ticket. One second, let me see.”

She talks to a big fat woman at the booth, and she calls over“Did you talk to a woman named Celia?”

I give an innocent look, “Honestly, I’m not sure. My editor arranged everything. I think that was it.”

“Yea, she’s ok!” The woman yells to the girl at the door.

And I’m in.

Now, when I drink, I should not be left alone. Already I am impressionable, as Ievident from “blagging” my way through the door. But, when I am left alone, I am even worse.
I was loaded when I walked through the door, and when we got inside, we all decide to go to the bar and get some beer and take some shots.

This is where my night gets fuzzy. I remember getting loaded and meeting a two seventeen year olds who I sat in the bathroom telling them to go to college. And even more surprising, she sends me a message via myspace the next day. I don’t remember giving her my name.

Then I ran around pretending to be from Vogue and telling people if I loved or hated their outfit.

But the funniest? I left the concert before the main act even got on, because I was so fucking loaded. I don’t remember if I waved to the woman who got me in or not.

I do remember the bus ride, though. I remember getting a wrap sandwich. I remember putting down my bag. But I do not remember falling asleep in my friend’s bed. Nor taking off my belt, as I spent about twenty minutes looking for it, when it was next to her bed, on the floor.

And much like my life back in NYC, I went to my group meeting on Monday morning without any sleep, reeking of booze and cigarettes, and sat in the corner, slurring my words, trying in vain to show them that I did try to do some work.

You know, it’s the drama that I thrive upon and I miss. The stressful situations. The anonymity giving you unfettered access into different worlds. And I don’t have that here. I think I am beginning to see what growing up in a small town could be like.

Oh, and another thing: don’t tell your adviser that there isn’t that much work, they really don’t take that too well. But, what the fuck do I care? It’s not like I am staying here for an extra year—my ass is heading to London next fall. And applying to journalism school that winter for the following fall. I just hate it that everyone was right.

Drunk and Uninteresting

2006-12-05T13:37:00.001Z

I've spent the last eight days drinking heavily, waking up at noon, staying in bed all day, doing no work, then drinking heavily again. I don't know why I am doing this to myself, what pleasure I find at the bottom of the glass--perhaps it is just a distraction from the routine in life at grad school. And how I am so fucking bored here. BORED BORED BORED BORED.

Oh, by the way, thanks for the notes of concern.

That's why I havent been writing, there is nothing interesting to write about--except for my London weekend, where I pretended to be a writer from Time Out NY to get into a sold out show, then proceeded to counsel these 17 yr olds in the bathroom--like, that is fucking interesting.

Drunk and Uninteresting

2006-12-05T13:37:00.000Z

SSRIs NOW...

2006-11-22T23:55:00.000Z

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

2006-11-22T23:40:00.000Z

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

2006-11-22T02:55:00.000Z

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!

2006-11-22T01:10:00.000Z

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

2006-11-22T00:08:00.000Z

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...

2006-11-19T07:27:00.000Z

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

2006-11-16T17:44:00.000Z

I just want a nice Jewish boy

2006-11-16T17:41:00.000Z

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

2006-11-15T23:39:00.000Z

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.

2006-11-14T21:18:00.000Z

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

2006-11-13T01:25:00.000Z

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

2006-11-10T13:58:00.000Z

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

I hate fucking alcohol.

WOw...

2006-11-10T10:59:00.000Z

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

2006-11-09T08:47:00.000Z

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...

2006-11-08T01:01:00.000Z

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

2006-11-05T12:16:00.000Z

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!

2006-11-01T08:54:00.000Z

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.

A word of advice

2006-10-31T19:02:00.000Z

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

2006-10-30T16:05:00.000Z

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

2006-10-30T01:56:00.000Z

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

2006-10-29T21:09:00.000Z

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

2006-10-27T20:27:00.000+01:00

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

2006-10-26T01:31:00.000+01:00

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

2006-10-25T17:55:00.000+01:00

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

2006-10-23T23:28:00.000+01:00

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

2006-10-22T18:31:00.000+01:00

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

2006-10-21T13:20:00.000+01:00

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

2006-10-20T02:03:00.000+01:00

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

2006-10-19T00:07:00.000+01:00

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

2006-10-18T19:42:00.000+01:00

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

2006-10-18T01:54:00.000+01:00

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.

2006-10-17T11:05:00.000+01:00

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

2006-10-17T08:39:00.000+01:00

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...

2006-10-17T08:13:00.000+01:00

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

2006-10-15T23:48:00.000+01:00

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...

2006-10-13T10:55:00.000+01:00

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)

2006-10-12T03:30:00.000+01:00

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

2006-10-10T22:42:00.000+01:00

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

2006-10-10T11:28:00.000+01:00

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

2006-10-10T01:57:00.000+01:00

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

2006-10-09T02:16:00.000+01:00

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

2006-10-08T12:33:00.000+01:00

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

2006-10-07T03:11:00.000+01:00

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

2006-10-06T09:46:00.000+01:00

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

2006-10-04T15:30:00.000+01:00

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.

The background

2006-09-30T09:12:00.000+01:00

There is so much to write about, and it’s only at 7am on a Saturday morning that I’ve found time to sit down and write about it. That’s the thing with these Orientation thingy’s—the powers that be know that everyone is a bit sad and homesick for their former lives that they error on the side of over-scheduling. I’ve been so busy that I haven’t had time to miss NYC and people too much. Plus settling into a new room, navigating foreign supermarkets with delicacies such as salmon paste on the shelves has been a bit overwhelming for me.

I mean, fucking salmon paste? Do I need to hop the Eurostar to Paris for some decent fucking food? It’s times like this that I miss my life as a media planner. But only because of the free awesome shit.

So I guess I’ll start at the beginning, as there is a bit to catch up on.

Part I Good-byes and the Flight:

I don’t know if most of you know, but I have a little sister. She’s not so little —she’s only eighteen months younger than me. And like most relationships, ours is quite complex. To be perfectly honest, if my sister and I weren’t related we wouldn’t be friends. Actually, there is a very good chance that we would even hate each other. She is neat organized and a tad anal and I am creative and preoccupied in my own world half the time. She can be a bit curt at times and I was cursed with the soul of a sensitive Artist. These personality differences often lead to “misunderstandings”.

And of course, right before I leave we get into this massive fight. Tears strewn outside apartments at 2am on several nights, cell phones angrily flipped shut in the middle of conversations, phone calls to our mom to help us mediate. I say this with the utmost confidence that it was the worst fight my sister and I ever had. Just to give you perspective, we were fighting in the taxi ride home from some bar and I am crying hysterically. After dropping us off on the street corner, the cabbie drives around the block looking for us, to make sure that we were ok and try to return the fare that we paid in order to brighten a dismal night.

Now imagine three days of that intense fighting.

And of course, the way life works, we manage to make up a few days later, forty-five minutes before the car service arrives to take me to the airport.

“Please let me take you to the airport?” she asks me.

In the back of the car we are having breakthroughs that I thought were only possible with Dr. Phil. We are both laughing and crying in the back seat, analyzing our relationship and ourselves—it’s fucking emotional. When I arrive at the Virgin Atlantic counter I start crying all over again because I realize how she is no longer across Central Park anymore and just how much I really am going to miss her.

It was quite nice that she came with me to the airport. And it wasn’t just because of the conversations we had to clear the air in the car but because I was in dire need of an extra set of hands. See, with the pound at record strength combined with my arrival into a culture that has no K-Mart, I had to bring as much shit as possible with me or else I really would not be able to eat—nevermind booze. I called Virgin Atlantic a few days before my departure trying to figure out baggage allowance. Evidently it’s 50 lbs per bag, with the option to pay an additional $35 for oversized luggage up to 70 lbs. There was no way that was going to happen. Guesstimating, one of my bags had to tip the scales at about 120 lbs and the other had to be about 80-90lbs. Theoretically, the airline could refuse to take my bags.

I had it all choreographed. I was going to cry, beg, even offer to buy an additional bag at one of the overpriced airport shops in order to get all my shit onto the plane with me. There was no way I was going to leave my shoes and books in NYC (btw, heels and cobblestones do not work).

On the check-in line, I became one of “those people”. My sister and I wouldn’t stop saying how much we were going to miss each other, crying in each other’s arms, it was just pitiful. I’m next and the check-in counter guy motions for me to go to him. My sis is helping me carry the other bag, I am wiping tears off of my face as I walk towards him.

We exchange the perfunctory pleasantries that usually act as a precursor to the asking of a very large favor. I put my bags on the conveyor belt, and brace for the worst. I tell myself, that I am not going to take no for an answer, I will beg, cry, and, if I have to, pay in order to get my shit onto that airplane.

I place the second bag onto the conveyor belt.

He is checking my passport against the computer.

“Here is your boarding pass and your gate is B28. Bring your bags to the screening machine over there. Have a nice flight!”

What the fuck??! Wait, no heavy baggage charge? No refusal to carry bags that weigh more than a rottweiler? He didn’t even put the sticker on that says if a bag is heavy or not.

Karma score 1.

And I looked down at my boarding pass, and saw that I didn’t get the additional screening xx’s either—despite my one way ticket. That means breeze through security.

Karma score 2.

When I arrived in the UK, I had to stand on the special visa/extended stay line—meaning that I was standing next to people like myself holding a student visa as well as people from African countries looking for political asylum. With my line they weren’t hesitating sending people into the big room.

Now, the thing with immigration officers I understand that it is their responsibility to be an asshole. It rests on them who is allowed to come into the country. And I am sure in order to maintain that air of authority they aren’t going to act as your best friend.

I was called up to the officer and she looks at my paperwork and the first question the woman asks me whether I have ever studied in the UK before. Very timidly I respond no. She then looks down at my card and sees I wrote I'm attending Oxford. She looks at me. I look back at her. Now, I could tell by her body language that she was ready to continue the line of questioning, and she looks back at me—almost incredulously—and asks, “Oxford?”

“Yes, Oxford,” I respond back nervously.

She asks me again, "Oxford?" and then hesitates and looks back at me.

"Yea, Oxford University."

I wait for her response and then add laughing, “You know, I still can’t believe it too.”

She laughs, stamps my passport and tells me to enjoy my time there.

Total conversation time: 3 minutes

Karma score 3.

When I get into the bus station at the university, I have no idea where I am going. All I know is that I am at a certain college but don't know where it is. I see a girl with a sweatshirt of a college that I know is nearby the place where I am staying so I ask her for directions. Turns out that the Christian group on campus is helping international students settle in, and she was playing ambassador for the day. Not only did she give me directions, but she also carried my bags to my room, and showed me around town.

I felt bad when I had to drop the Jew-bomb.

But, you know what, Jesus was a Jew too!

Karma score 4.

Uhm, I hope this is an indication of what there is to come for the rest of the year.

Part II: The mundane

And for the last three days I’ve been running around town trying to get settled into my room (which is much bigger than anything I’ve ever had before—I even have a window that allows sunlight in!), trying to figure out who is worth my time, and find where to snag my future ex-husband (evidently the Oxford Union and the Law society are hot!). Yesterday I saw Musharaf (the Pakistani President) speak at the Union—super charismatic by the way and was reminded that, holy fuck face, I really am at a world class university. And the kicker, he was fielding questions from the audience! I mean, how many journalists would love an opportunity in order to ask him a question?!

And last night I got wasted and befriend a cute blond gay boy and his boyfriend.

I should be studying the required stats reading, but…uhm. Yea. I still have to unpack.

As for the flatmates: MHC types. Quiet, sweet, and slightly dorky. Another reason why I guess I haven’t felt home sick yet. And I’ve decided that I am going to try to write for one of the newspapers here. Might as well try to assemble as many clips as possible.

So now that you are brought up to speed, the traditional format of self-deprecating humor and situations is going to resume. I’ve already offended a few Marshall Scholars, pissed off some sales clerks with my Americaness, and annoyed half the flat with my personality.

Chapter 1:

2006-09-28T12:16:00.000+01:00

So, I’ve landed!

I have to admit, I’ve started this blog post about four times right now, it’s almost as if the hiatus that I took hindered my ability to write instead of acting as a source of renewal. Or maybe it’s just that I am so fucking hungover right now that I am sitting in my twin sized bed, feeling the hunger gnaw in my belly with a slowly intensifing headache as the alcohol oozes out of my pores. And I know the chain smoking didn’t help at all last night.

*Cough, cough*

When we last left the story, your not-so humble protagonist Shannon was going through some very mixed emotions. The further she descended into the mental fray, the less she wrote. Plus it is incredibly difficult to write when you are super happy with your life. I cannot convey this enough, but not working ROCKED!

The emotional crisis was a result of her acceptance into Oxford. On one hand she was excited for England and to play sociologist and find a relationship with a hetero-sexual man but on the other she was scared shitless because, despite her claims how she was ready to leave NYC since her life there got stale and unchallenging, she really was going to miss the place. You know, because it is the Center of the Universe and everything.

So, that brings us here. Me writing in my twin bed, sitting crossed legged, and having just gotten off of the phone with my mother—who called me at 6am her time. Actually, 5:45am to be exact. Jewish mothers. That is all I can write about them for now or else we're looking at a forty page post.

I thought I was going to be all culture shocked and what not, but surprisingly so far it feels normal. Actually, I am doing so well that I’m afraid that I’ll have an emotional crash. But maybe my psychological well being is aided by the bottle of little white xanax pills sitting in my nightstand and knowing there is a chemical parachute should my mind leap from sanity.

I want to write more, there is so much to say but I am exhausted. The conversation with my mother took the energy reserved for writing. Sorry. Instead I am going to shower and grab lunch and make my way for my errands this morning. Ugh. Fucking errands.

But yes readers, I’ve landed safe and sound. My room is littered with half unpacked suitcases and designer jeans, and an attempt at making it a bit more welcoming than the nicotine colored walls would suggest.

If any readers know where the rich sugar daddy types hang out at Oxford, with the pound so strong, I am in dire need to be taken care of. Or, it looks like I am going to have to freelance.

ADVERTISING, people.

Fuck, that reminds me. Purely accidental, after my going away party my friend Dorothee and I ended up at Smith and Wollensky’s at 1am, drinking a $300 bottle of wine and eating fillet mignon, courteousy of a “mentor”. If you know of any such “mentors” in the Oxford area, please let me know. Photo available upon request.

Hi

2006-09-08T23:59:00.000+01:00

My new blog