Um, I must be sicker than I thought because I just signed up to run a 10K in June. Who am I????
Tuesday, March 30
I feel like poo. I'm coughy, achy, and tiredy. People around the office have been passing the yuck around. The good news is I had so much fun last week that it's worth the cold.
Monday - Elephants
Tuesday - I don't think I did anything
Wednesday - Blind Tiger hosted a Stone event. I love Stone beers! My new favorites are the Oaked Arrogant Bastard and Stone Smoked Porter with Vanilla Bean cask. I'm heading out to California in a couple of weeks and my girl Leeks said we could check out their brewery in San Diego. So excited!
Thursday - Drinks with my department, then drinks with Chewie at the usual Company bar.
Friday - Hot Tub Time Machine (hysterical!), then drinks in my hood until about 3am.
Saturday - I went to a friend's going away party for a couple of hours. I started feeling crappy during the day, probably because I was hungover and walked around too much Friday night in 35 degree weather. My mom was right all of these years. A huge change in weather totally messes with me. That and drinking four days in a row.
Phew! This week I was booked up too, but I already had to cancel my plans for last night and tonight. Sucks. I need the rest though. I don't want to be sick for my vacation!
Written by THIGHS around 8:51 AM
Tuesday, March 23
Saturday, March 20
This afternoon I ran into my third blast from the past so far this year. I went to Bacon's friend's birthday party in Brooklyn on a whim. Her friend and I have met a few times and she's the sweetest gal, so I figured why not. It'd be fun to tagalong and celebrate her birth.
I walked into her friend's apartment and immediately made eye contact with the ginger across the room. This is completely normal considering I have red-ar. The ABnormal part was I totally knew him from somewhere. He apparently recognized me too because we both blushed and stared at each other for a good minute before saying hi.
His name is Vic. As soon as he said it I knew we definitely had met before. It turns out he grew up and still lives in New Brunswick, so I figured I must have randomly seen him around when I was at Rutgers. It took me about an hour to figure out how I knew him exactly and wouldn't you know it, he's someone I had a crush on for a little while. (Who haven't I liked???)
I met him through my friend Sorry and her boyfriend Cah. They were Phishheads who had a huge network of friends at RU. I never really listened to Phish, but I loved smoking pot and doing shrooms so I hung out with their phamily on a fairly regular basis. This is probably why I couldn't place Vic right away; I was most likely fucked up every time I was around him.
I can't remember if I asked him out on the phone or face to face (I've always had balls with guys). I sort of recall Sorry and Cah telling me he was really awkward with girls. Or maybe they said he was just awkward in general. I don't know. It's possible they were being nice because they knew Vic didn't like me or he really was just a freak. Looking back he did seem rather timid. I'm sure someone as aggressive and loud as me scared the crap out of him.
When I think about my long lost loves that got away, Vic certainly never crossed my mind. I just find it amazing I ran into him now in light of recent events. He was with his girlfriend, so it's highly doubtful there's a chance to reconnect. There is however a chance to do so with Sorry and Cah whom I lost touch with after their wedding a few years ago. I already found and emailed Sorry on Facebook, so we'll see if that's the purpose of this run in.
I'm not sure if the moment fully hit me yet. All I have to say is WOW. Wow Universe for bringing I guy I liked 10 years ago (ten!) back into my life. I don't know what it means, I don't know the impact, I don't know what you have in store for me. Maybe it's nothing, maybe it's everything. I'm game, so keep it coming.
Written by THIGHS around 9:37 PM
I'm a little drunk right now, so I hope this comes across the way I want it to rather than offending someone. A loaded preface, huh?
I met this guy on St. Patrick's Day. I'll call him Will. Will had a total Good Will Hunting thing going (hence the nickname): wicked smaht, wicked tough, wicked Irish, wicked hot. We had a fun time hanging out on Wednesday, so I gave him my number despite an uneasy feeling. First, something told me he wasn't right for me. Second, he lives right across the street and if I've learned anything in life it's you shouldn't shit where you eat.
I ignored my intuition and met him at a bar around the corner a few hours ago. It's his usual pub, so a couple of his buddies were there. I absolutely loved his friends. Born and raised Astorian blue-collar guys. Highly entertaining and I don't mean that in a condescending way. I hope I see them again soon.
Will, not so much. He is a very good looking guy and a complete contradiction. Like his namesake, Will is a Boston brawler. Thick, tough, loud, obnoxious construction worker. I seriously (and sadly) would not be surprised if he's killed someone before. The fact that I can type that without flinching is scary, which is why I know it's true. The contradictory part is he is a devout Catholic who enjoys quoting Yeats, Dostoyevsky, and pretty much everything else his apparently photographic memory has retained. It's amazing really...he's a walking Wikipedia bohunk.
What's interesting is that while I believe he's probably killed someone or at least attempted to, this is not the reason I don't want to see him again. The idea of murder, pre-meditated or not, is so far removed from my psyche that it feels almost fairy-tale-like. "Oh yes, you beat him to a fluffy bloody sparkly pulp. You are now granted three wishes." I don't know if this makes me sicker than an actual murderer, but it is what it is.
What totally turns me off about Will is the following, in no particular order:
1. He wants seven kids. He actually said day care is not an option, the mother needs to be home. When I mentioned I might not have kids he said that's "unnatural."
2. He asked if I was a yuppie, then referred to me as a "modern woman." I'm assuming this is because I support myself and don't need a man to take care of me. I want one to, just not him.
3. He kept interrupting his friends. This bothered me because I know I do it. (Sorry!)
4. He goes to church at least three times a week. He believes Catholicism is the only religion.
5. I forget what I said to make him ask this question, but instead of asking "Are you pro-choice?" he asked if I'm "pro-abortion." Weird, right? They are two completely different questions. I personally haven't and wouldn't get one at this age, but I don't give a fuck what a woman does with her own body. I think it's up to her.
6. While he says he's not racist, he is one prejudice mother. Honestly, if you feel the need to clarify you're not a racist, you are one. I haven't heard the words japs, jews, guineas, micks, spicks, and moolies (I don't even know how to spell it) since my grandfather died 13 years ago. And the worst word he used...
7. Colored. Are you fucking kidding me??? That word is awful. I don't think I've ever posted about my feelings on race. I am a blonde haired, blue eyed American. I have no idea what it's like to be judged by my skin, so I will never, ever pretend I do. When I say/write "black" I worry that I should be saying/writing "african-american" instead. I said the "n" word once when I was 20 years old and I still feel bad about it. I've called people the "n" word in my head and they weren't even black, they just scared the shit out of me. To me that word is not about race, it's about how safe I feel in the moment. Maybe it came from a place of race, but when a white homeless man gets on the train and starts screaming that we're all going to die if we don't love Jesus, well the "n" word pops into my head. Why? It's the worst word I can call anyone EVER. That's why I will never say it again. For the record, the second worst word for me is the "f" word for gay men. When I use that word I really hate someone, gay or not. If I use the "n" and the "f" word together, run like hell even if my anger isn't directed at you.
I labelled this post "Confused" because I was when I started writing it. Will walked me home and he kept asking me to come back to his place. I declined saying I didn't think we were right for each other. I said I'd like to be friends, mainly because he lives across the street from me and I want to be friends with his friends. He said, "I have enough friends. God bless." and walked away.
The confusing part was after he walked away I cried. I knew the tears weren't for him, but I didn't know why I was crying. At first I thought maybe it's because I fucking hate breaking up with someone. Yes, I've only known Will for two days so it's technically not a breakup, it's just that I don't like rejecting anyone. Who does?
After writing and sitting with this all, I know why I cried now. I'm not confused, I'm uncomfortable because I put myself and my needs first. I am not used to trusting and respecting myself and my values. I cried because I am finally starting to do so. They were good tears.
Written by THIGHS around 1:36 AM
Thursday, March 18
Lazy is not doing laundry.
Lazier is doing laundry and not immediately putting your clothes away, thus spending a good five minutes every morning trying to find the other sock at the bottom of the bag.
Laziest is dumping the clean clothes onto your bed to find said sock faster, then putting the clothes BACK into the laundry bag because you can't be bothered with finally putting them away that night.
Most laziest is doing that twice.
I am most laziest.
Written by THIGHS around 10:20 PM
Wednesday, March 17
Happy St. Patrick's Day!!!
I didn't feel complete without some head flair, so I bought myself some lovely shamrock doppelgangers. See below:
I know that's not the right word for these things, but that's what I kept calling 'em.
I wore them from about 11:30am to 9pm. It's now 10:30pm and I feel like they're still on my head. There's a dirty joke there, but I'm too drunk to sort it out...
Written by THIGHS around 10:15 PM
Tuesday, March 16
I haven't posted in a week because it's been an emotional one. Lately I've been holding back what I share because I don't want my audience (all five of you) to think I'm a broken record. Or broken in general for that matter.
That stops now. I have plenty of journals filled with "I love X. Why won't he like me???" entries, with X changing as often as my underwear. Well, maybe more considering how scrubby I can be...
My 32nd birthday was the hardest to date. I woke up last Tuesday and cried. My life flashed before my eyes and in true Thighs fashion I zoned in on the negative. I kept tearing up all day, thinking "THIS is my life??? How the fuck did this happen??"
My friend Tron tried to talk me off the ledge by saying he's sure there are plenty of thirty-two years old who would love to switch places with me. My immediate thought? "No they wouldn't. I'm a fat, bald inventory analyst."
And there you have it. Those six magic words set the tone for the rest of the week.
When I first thought this I cracked up laughing. I admit this is a ridiculous way to describe myself. Tops on the list would be "red, pale, and loud" followed by "manic-depressive giggler." Crossed off the list is "easy, drunk, nail-biter"...
The thing is, even though I knew I was being silly, the phrase "fat, bald inventory analyst" stuck in my head all week. Let's break it down:
1. Fat. I know I'm not fat, I'm unfit. I was 170 pre-Tat, now I'm back up to 177. Damn you, boyfriends and holidays.
I'm excited to keep running, but I need to do more. There are times when my body is aching for a good workout and I ignore it. I am an athlete living an unathletic lifestyle. I need to listen to myself and move.
2. Bald. Obviously I still have hair on my head. It's really thinning out, though. I didn't notice until last summer when my mom brought it up. Now it's all I think about.
3. Inventory Analyst. This is the broken record part. I'm in the same exact situation I'm always in: I'm not challenged or given enough work to do so I take on special projects. Special projects go really well, everyone loves me, except for my boss who finally decides to start managing me and decides I shouldn't be on special projects anymore. I get upset because I feel like I'm being "demoted" so I pack my things and move on. Rinse and repeat every two years.
I'm at a loss. I tried to keep my mouth shut and not ask for special projects, but that lasted a whole six months. I am not the type of person who can sit in their office checking Facebook all day. I need to work. I need to think. I need to be challenged. I need to contribute. I need to be involved. These aren't wants. I am incapable of functioning any other way. Sure I have my goof-off slacker moments, but they are to decompress and take a breather. (Why do I always want to write "decompose" first?)
My mom says I hate authority, that I feel I'm entitled to create the job I want and not listen to my boss. She's right. If Tennis or Soaps gave me work that challenged me, it would never have crossed my mind to work on special projects for their bosses.
And that's my problem. "Work that challenged me." (Do a shot for everyone quote in this post!) Once again I am expecting my boss to be something few are: a mentor, a leader, a groomer, a teacher, an empowerer. (I think I made that word up.) Basically, I expect my boss to be someone who cares about me and my future. I almost wrote that unfortunately this is not their responsibility, but it just dawned on me, it's FORTUNATE it's MY responsibility.
I took this position because I wanted a no-brainer gig so that I could take classes at night. Well, I'm not a no-brainer gig kind of girl, nor am I taking any classes. I sold myself short taking this job and I refuse to fucking do it again. I am too smart for this position.
Did you read that? I AM SMART!! You would not believe how uncomfortable that was for me to type. I always knew I was quick and bright, but I never owned being smart. When I lived in Brooklyn I was in the Delta program taking advanced classes from kindergarten through 2nd grade. In 3rd grade I moved to Jackson and placed in a class that didn't challenge me at all. What happened? I ended up doing my own thing rather than focus on the "remedial" tasks I was given thus pissing off my teacher. Sound familiar? After a while I was moved up to the 4th grade, but I got made fun of so much that I asked to go back to 3rd. Isn't that sad? It must be because I'm crying right now. I was already the new kid without any friends, the last thing I wanted was to be the nerdy new kid without any friends. My mom probably should have forced me to stay, but I'm sure she wanted me to be happy instead of challenged. I can't help but wonder how different my life would be...
From 3rd grade to college I coasted, barely trying and pulling straight A's for the most part. There were some bad grades along the way, usually based on conduct rather than schoolwork. Yes, I was a mouthy student. Again, nothing's changed.
It wasn't easy to coast in college because it was too easy to skip class. Obviously I was forced to go to high school so I'd learn by listening, maybe even osmosis. The biggest lesson I had to learn in college was if I don't manage myself (time, stress, workload), I won't succeed. I'm not quite sure if I fully learned this yet.
Where the hell was I?? Oh right, inventory analyst. I don't recall ever consciously deciding I'd dumb down in order to fit in as a kid, but I definitely ignored my intelligence. In fact, a lot of the trouble I got into at Company was because I didn't realize I was smart. I thought, if I can figure this out, why couldn't everyone else? I can now truly admit to myself I am smart, waaaay too smart for my current position. The shit with my boss is the fallout from me feeling unchallenged and useless. Bosses just want to get the work done, they don't fucking care how the work makes me feel. I'M the one who needs to take responsibility for my life and find a gig that makes me use my brain and fulfills all of my needs. I'm not the "it's just a job" type (shot!), so even when I go back to school I'll need a daytime role that makes me feel good. I don't know what the job is yet, but I'm going to find it.
I am done with being a fat, bald inventory analyst. This time next year I will be a sexy, Simba something.
Written by THIGHS around 9:13 PM
Tuesday, March 9
Sunday, March 7
Tuesday is The Day of the Space Voyager, aka my birthday. A new tradition is developing thanks to Hollywood releasing movie adaptations of my favorite books in early March. Last year was Watchmen, this year ALICE IN WONDERLAND IN IMAX 3D!! WOO HOO!! I am SUPER psyched, hence the CAPS LOCK.
I'm gearing up by rereading Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass. I watched the cartoon yesterday. I also planned on finishing my "Alice-themed" kitchen, but I never got around to it. "Alice-themed" is in quotes because there's nothing in there except the Disney dolls a friend gave me in college. The rest of my Alice stuff is in a cabinet, waiting for me to put shelves up. I think after being stored in there for six years they've probably given up...
Speaking of years, I apparently don't know how old I am. Math tells me I will be 32. My brain tells me I'm in my thirties and it doesn't seem to matter where.
The other day I told someone I will be 33. Last night I was going to bed and didn't feel like brushing my teeth. I thought to myself, "Shannon, you're 37 years old. You HAVE to brush your teeth." Then I said out loud, "What the fuck? How old am I??"
I blame my dad. Instead of saying "Happy X Birthday!" he says "Happy (X+1) Year!" He's been doing it forever. For example, on my 14th birthday he said, "Happy 15th Year!" Bah! No wonder I don't know my age.
My birthday weekend is really nice so far. I went to the usual pub on Friday. Yesterday I did nothing except watch Alice, read, go food shopping, and eat sushi. This morning I ran in Central Park again. I'm really proud of myself!! I haven't gone since January because either I was hungover, Bacon was hungover, or the weather was shitty. I haven't wanted to run on my own yet, but today I woke up and said fuck it. I almost didn't go because I got all self-conscious, thinking people will laugh at me for sucking. They didn't. No one cares! My inner critic was just fucking with me. I'm 39 years old, you'd think I'd have that bitch under wraps by now.
The rest of the day is open. I might treat myself to a mani/pedi and a new outfit. Yay!
Happy Birthday to Me!!! Happy Unbirthday to You!!!
Written by THIGHS around 2:13 PM
Saturday, March 6
The pillow I sit on at work when my tailbone hurts. I don't know where my mom got this from or when old baskets became valuable..
Me doing a Dark Helmet impression:
What the shit is this??
Steinway Street's newest hoochie boutique is taking class to a whole new level. I betcha she'd give you some Head Cheese...
Written by THIGHS around 10:19 PM
Thursday, March 4
A while ago I was in bed with this guy who is very well-endowed. Let's call him Wow. We had just woken up and I was laying down with my back toward him, yammering away about some sort of nonsense.
When I sleep on my side I tend to have my knees up to my chest in the fetal position with my ass sticking out. Since my bum was nearest to him, Wow grabbed me by the hips and yanked me closer so we could spoon. This would have been a completely adorable thing to do if Wow didn't have morning wood (morning redwood in his case) and the universe didn't enjoy putting me in ridiculous yet hysterical situations.
BAM! Wow's massive raging boner managed to ram me right in the tailbone. Two inches higher, I'd have a crushed vertebrae. Two inches lower, I'd have a second belly button and unpleasant bowel movements for life.
Wow and his lead pipe were fine. I was not. A direct blow to the tailbone is friggin' painful. I didn't feel it right away, but a few hours later it hurt to sit. The next day I had to take a two hour bus ride down to my parents' house. It's an unenjoyable ride to begin with, but that day it was unbearable as well. I tried sitting on my bookbag, kneeling on the seat, standing. It sucked. When I finally got to Jackson I had to come up with an excuse as to why I couldn't sit. I lied saying I was wrestling with Wow and caught the edge of the coffee table. Lame. I know my parents didn't believe me, but they didn't push the issue. They probably realized if I'm lying as an adult they don't want to know the truth...
The pain was manageable for the next few days, but then for some reason it got worse the following weekend. It hurt to sit down, lay down, even stand, so I went to the doctor. I lied to her by saying the remote was sticking up out of the couch and I accidentally plopped down on it. Lame again! I almost told her the truth, but I chickened out. It sounds like a failed anal attempt and I don't want anyone thinking I can't hang. Snootch.
This happened several months ago and I'm still in pain every once in a while. In fact, I'm sitting on a pillow right now. Unfortunately there's no real treatment for a tailbone injury. It's slow to heal and will probably be sensitive for a long time, especially since all I do is sit at a desk, at the bar, or on the couch.
The thing is every time it hurts I shake my head and laugh. I've had some funny shit happened to me in the past, but I never thought I'd get injured by a cock to the coccyx.
Here's an illustration:
Please note Wow is not a firecrotch, but I decided he should be.
Written by THIGHS around 7:56 PM