(500) Posts of Shannon

Welcome to my 500th post! It only took seven years, three blog titles, one involuntary shutdown, a marriage, a divorce, several breakups, about 20 posts I took down because I thought they were too mean/not very good, six apartments, several thousand Heinekens, nearly 8,000 comments, and a LOT of narcissism and jackassery to get here.

My original plan involved a parade with a float, and maybe people throwing money and going into convulsions on the sidewalk. However, that appeared to involve permits, bribes to the Taxicab Commission (because they ALWAYS need a bribe) and a trained goat. What? A parade should ALWAYS have a goat.

Instead, I asked a few friends to send guest posts and testimonials about how this blog changed their lives. Weirdly, some of them took me seriously (because, come ON, who takes me seriously?). I'll be posting these vocabu-tastic and occasionally heartfelt accolades for the rest of the week.

First up is Brett, who credits me with a failed relationship, enabling the creepiest aspects of her character, and a free cupcake. Yet, somehow, it's kind of sweet:

Cheers to Shannon's Lack of Anonymity Which Allows People to Stalk Her (And Leads to Me Stalking Others)

Disaffected Scanner Jockey is solely responsible for my last breakup. Well, no, that's a lie. But this blog is a large part of the reason I sought out the last person I dated. Let me explain...Shannon is obviously not an anonymous blogger. Nor does she go through great pains to avoid describing herself physically. Through the blog alone one could glean that she is a tiny redhead/brunette, depending on the month.

But really, we have her full name, people. You can easily pull up her picture on Facebook or G-chat. Which is exactly what one of Shannon's regular readers/fellow bloggers did. And when he later spied her from afar at Artomatic, he sent her an email from his nom de plume letting her know she'd been recognized.

He, however, was much more bashful about his anonymity, which in turn made Shannon very very curious about this mystery man. You can't very well send someone an email saying "I see you" and not reveal your own identity. So we (I?) made it our (my?) mission to out this guy. I enjoyed his writing anyway, and most bloggers I've met have turned out to be relatively normal people. And so began the Twitter brigade.

For those of you unfamiliar with the phenomenon that is tweeting, it is often the quickest and most direct way to reach someone when you don't actually know them. I reached out under the pretext of finding him a job. Soon enough, we were emailing back and forth. I had his first name and his place of employment. If you're at all familiar with Google, there's a lot you can do with that information. And I'm a pretty good detective.Still, I had to meet this guy in the flesh. I knew I'd eventually wear him down with my incessant questioning, not to mention my wit and blurred yet seductive Blogger pic.

We met for drinks, then dinner, then cupcakes, and the rest is history.It was fun while it lasted. Alas, all good things must come to an end.Yeah, I know I'm leaving out the major details that would make some smile and others cringe.

But I know that both he and our mutual friends will read this post, and that stuff is proprietary information. I will tell you this, though: if this blog is responsible for fits of frustration and making me cry, it can also take the credit for romantic picnics, coconut kisses, and the first and only time I will ever imitate a chicken in public.

And now I am seeing someone else wonderful had it not been for your lack of anonymity. So cheers to you, Ms. Scanner Jockey. You've kept my hopes high and my bed warm. And my life full of laughs and love. -Brett

The Real Reason My Mom Always Told Me to Wear Good Underwear

It has nothing to do with traffic accidents. Instead, it's based on the daily accident of being me.

Wednesday night, I was strolling along K Street, Gucci Gulch, Land of the Lost Lobbyist, when a woman on a SmartBike wheeled up and hissed something in my ear. "Check....your....dressssss."

And then, loud enough for the dudes chilling outside the strip club to hear, "Did you hear me? Check. Your! Dress!"

I paused to note her words, and the unusual breeziness of Washington in August. Oh, huh. Wait. Maybe that's what she was talking about.

A cursory examination showed that the lining of my dress had gotten caught in my underwear, offering the entirety of K Street a glorious and fairly unobstructed view of my ass.

Also, a block or two along, two well turned-out, handsome young men asked me for directions, and addressed me as "Ma'am."

Lessons Learned: moms are always right, and it's far better to flash your ass than be an old lady.

I Love a Good Bad Idea

Just ask me nicely, and I'll be happy to start a land war in Asia, or invade Russia in winter. However, in the absence of military backing or abundant vacation time, I'll have to embrace smaller, sillier concepts. Which of the following stupid things that I've done is the most fascinatingly idiotic?

1. Standing on a rolling chair to reach the top shelf
2. Marrying a near-stranger and moving to South America

3. Attempting to put away a glass bowl by tossing it onto the top shelf

4. Opening a bottle of beer with a corkscrew

5. Towing my car with control-top pantyhose

6. Sneaking a flask of bourbon into my 10-year high school reunion

7. Frying bacon while naked

I'm gonna have to go with Number Seven. Now scrub THAT mental image from your pre-caffeinated brains.

Among the Things I Regret...

I wish I hadn't given two of my neighbors an eyeful of underpants on Sunday morning. And, how I wish I hadn't said, "Hi!" to them in my best Sunday voice, and given them a friendly wave and a big-ass smile as I fumbled about in my t-shirt, struggling to cover up my hindquarters.

And I truly, to the bottom of my squishy marshmallow heart, wish these neighbors hadn't both been under the age of five.

But really, people...like any of YOU put on pants to go get the newspaper.

In the comments, tell me about the time you flashed a preschooler. Or am I the only person who does this?

There's a Reason My Doctor Only Does this Once a Year

I just went in for my annual physical. In my twisted little brain-sized universe, this is about the most fun thing ever. The reason? Doctor-patient confidentiality. No matter how poorly I behave, my doc can't rat me out.

My doctor, who I have dubbed Dr. Methuselah, is somewhere north of a hundred years old. He probably made house calls with a horse and buggy, he does consultations in a leather-chair swank sort of office, and he's adorable. It's worth it for the exam alone, as I don't think I'd ever before gotten felt up by Yoda.

Dr. Methuselah is calm in the face of my dizziness. As most of you know, a stretch of alone time with me requires heavy sedation and the patience of a saint. Today, as I disrobed, I realized I was wearing red panties and stripper heels...and not once did he think I was coming on to him! I mean, it's better than the time a doctor asked if I was sexually active, but not by much. What a classy guy.

He's also direct and deflects my insanity in a way that I really and truly need.

A few gems:

During the consultation:

"I have trouble seeing Metro signs."

Diagnosis: "You need glasses."

During the exam:

"I have a funky red mark I've been referring to as my 'Check Engine' light."

Diagnosis: "It's a new mole. It'll turn black in no time." (Sexy!)

During the blood oath portion of the exam:

"I don't have any veins. I think my blood is transported by a system of levers and pulleys."

Diagnosis: "There's one vein on your left arm. Make a fist. A real fist. Thank you."

"I think I might be a pterodactyl."
Diagnosis: "Now you're just being silly."

OK, the last one might be a joke. But, really, if I could someday meet a man that patient, I'd marry him and only impersonate a pterodactyl once every 25-30 days.

The One Trend I Never Tried

I was pretty trendy in my twenties. Platform shoes. Ecotourism. Sleek sushi restaurants. A quarterlife crisis, starter marriage, fancy beer and bootcut jeans.


Somehow, in all that inadvertent love of the Next Big Thing, I never got a tattoo. My shoulder is not adorned with the mystic Chinese symbol for strength (which is far more likely to be the mystic symbol for Egg Foo Young, lifted off a delivery menu). No roses march across my ankle, my lower back is sadly free of a sunshine or butterfly tramp stamp, and a jailhouse strip search won't reveal a fairy or daisy.

Mostly, I'm relieved. Now that mortality is a slightly more concrete concept, it is far too easy to picture myself as that saggy, tarty, inky old lady on the beach. Also, back when I was a member of the tattoo demographic, I thought red pleather pants were pretty rockin'. I had loud taste, by which I mean you could generally hear my outfit from across the room. So I'm sure I would have picked something tacky and horrid. A battleship on my breast, perhaps, which would drop anchor in a few years.

Sometimes, though, it makes me a little sad. See, I believe that one should not pick up the ink habit after age 30. It's undignified, like developing a sudden prurient interest in the Jonas Brothers or taking up binge drinking. Tattoos, jailbait and booze are all habits best carried over from our twenties, not undertaken as new journeys after blowing out those 30 candles.

So I've missed the tattoo train, and one more option in life has been taken off the table. Life sometimes feels like the constant narrowing of options. However, the saving grace of maturity is that we realize not everything is right for everyone, and that narrow worlds are fine if those are the proportions we've asked for. I don't really care what sort of body art other people have, and I'm sure most people have a very good reason for getting inked, but I'm grateful I have none of my own.

And, best of all, I've been spared the sight of my slowly reconfiguring* early-30s posterior, graced with the face of Ozzy Osbourne. So, all in all, I'll consider my inkless body a win.

In the comments, tell me about your ink. Especially if it's a good story. Or, be silly enough to take me seriously here, and call me a judgmental unfunny twit. Or, tell me why you don't have any, or...try to erase the mental image of my naked hindquarters adorned with the grimacing face of Ozzy Osbourne. Can't do it, can you?

*Yes, girls, after age thirty, stuff, uh, moves around. Not necessarily smaller, bigger, higher, or lower, just...reconfigured. Like your body has reformatted your fatty hard drives without your consent. So be ready to laugh, get over it, and go buy some new pants.

Deep Thoughts on Date-Cation

I had the sort of March that left me with only two options: take April as a date-cation, or write a rock opera and sing all about it. As “Shannon the Musical” is really just about the worst idea anyone has ever had, I went with the date-cation. Man Free ‘til May! Woot!

I had this vague idea that I would learn a great deal, and turn into this saintly being who could forever lose her interest in emotionally damaged men in rumply Oxford shirts (I can fix you! I can save you! ….Daddy? Why don’t you love me?).

Well, I didn’t really learn anything at all. I don’t think I really expected to. I just figured I could use a break. Plus, I love arbitrary deadlines and self-denial. I used my time off wisely, on things like my amazing girlfriends, my awesome job, and catching up on six months’ worth of ironing.

And now I’m looking at the last week of Mancation, and wondering what’s next. The extension idea has been shot down, on the grounds that I’d probably explode all over Washington like a miniskirted supernova.

I’ve chosen to use my last week wisely, on the things that make me happy: Makers Mark and Grand Theft Auto. Somewhere in the bowels of Vice City, there's a little slice of enlightenment just waiting for me to find it.

In the comments, mock my love of failed experiments. Or, imagine the musical of your life.

Why My Ass Can't Type

Friday was about as classy as you’d expect.

That is, I made a complete and total donkey out of myself.

Yes, I held up my offer letter in the bar and boogied in my seat. I sang, "We Are the Champions." I chucked half a glass of Malbec onto my lap, and wasn’t too worried, because, after all, red is my favorite color. I woke up with my makeup still on, and my eyeliner had migrated to my earlobes.

So, basically, I did all sorts of other immature and ridiculous things, which I hardly remember and someone better not tattle on me for.

But, sadly, the most embarrassing thing I did happened after I was already home.

I tried to do the responsible thing, as in, text Jamie to say that I’d gotten home safely. However, “Home safe. Good night!” came out as:

“Aw. Thx will b rey to crask ourpxeo.”

At this point, Jamie probably thought I’d been sold out by my cabbie and kidnapped by a gang of hand-stealing bandits, and I was tapping out a distress signal with my elbows.

Naturally, he texted back to see if I was OK. Of course I was completely and totally fine, and safe and snug in my bed (nevermind that I was, uh, still in my clothes...though, unlike a certain someone, I at least removed my coat). Which is why I responded with,

“Omg, coppl!c.tnn’”

So, at this point, the gang of bandits had sawed off my elbows, and I was sending distress signals with my nose. Or, I’d sat on the keyboard and allowed my hindquarters to type for me. Who knows?

Either way, I had to call and slurrily and sleepily report that I was, in fact, home, and had arrived in one piece. I wasn’t, however, safe from a hangover so remarkable in its scope and intensity that I was in awe of it myself.

Happy Monday, everybody.

Get Your Helmets On, I'm About to Take Myself Seriously

I always get a little introspective at the end of the year.

Maybe it’s the deluge of Christmas letters, telling me who bought a house, who changed jobs, and the progress of Little Sally’s rehab. Maybe it’s the cold, and all the corresponding time spent indoors. More likely, it’s because I realize I’ve closed out yet another year without the faintest clue what I'm doing. So things get a little sappy while I try to sort out my messy little life.

That's also because the end of the year is my blogiversary. I began this site in December 2002, as a platform to rail against the blatant sexism and haphazard plotting of 7th Heaven. Since then, it’s had four names, 380 posts, nearly 100,000 hits (since I started keeping track in '07), hundreds of comments, one forced hiatus (the Great State Shutdown of ’06), and several voluntary ones. Those 380 posts correspond to six years of a life lived in the silliest way possible: bad television, an impulse marriage, a life of empty leisure overseas, a divorce, new beginnings, several jobs, multiple breakups, amazing friendships, and busting ass in front of a Popeye’s. This site has seen me at my most self-absorbed (er, like this post), philosophical, outraged, silly, unapologetically feminist, and, of course, happiest.

I am both pleased and appalled to say that this blog is my most enduring and intimate adult relationship.

I wouldn’t be who I am without this site. Part of that is my need for a creative outlet: I doubt I want to be a professional writer, as I would find that sort of life very lonely. But I have somewhere safe to go where I can mouth off. I can try out those meaty, fun words I love so much, like “ignominious” and “gawp.” (Sad piece of Shannon trivia: as my vocabulary comes from crossword puzzles and reading, I can’t actually pronounce the majority of the big words I use here.)

I’m even more grateful for my readers. You people who click over to see what I’m up to, whether they’re friends, old classmates, random Swedes, hopping in via DC Blogs, or folks who found me by Googling, “my boyfriend thinks I’m high maintenance.” And I’m even more grateful for those of you who comment, who choose to be active participants in this site. I’m amazed by your humor, your support, and your ability to be both classy and crass all within the same sentence. I still get a little thrill every time a new comment pops up.

Moreover, some of you have hopped out of my keyboard and joined my real-life circle of friends. Thank you for enduring my bad karaoke, endless chatter, and inability to hold my tequila.

I’ve had a few trolls, some hate mails, and some dramas. I’ve dealt with some people who, frankly, suck. I’ve had to pay a price, here and there, to speak my mind and keep this little corner alive. If I had to do it all again, though, I wouldn’t change a thing.

I realize this sounds like a commencement speech, like I’m about to hang up my blog hat and bid you farewell. Fat chance. I’ll be here as long as you stop by to see me. And when you’re gone, I’ll type alone in the dark.

I am filled with gratitude and thrilled by my fantastic luck. Thank you, and I'll see you in 2009.

Me for a Day? Good Heavens, WHY?

The dog didn’t eat my password.

I haven’t been sprawled on a beach somewhere, drinking fruity girly drinks. Sweet alcohol gives me a stomachache, and I’m at high risk for skin cancer (thanks for being Australian, Mom! I’ll also have you to thank for the cataracts, the paranoia, and the Welsh inbreeding).

I haven’t been off experiencing fabulous things, just so I could brag about them later. Instead, I’ve been weathering one of the more hellishly oddball storms of my 32 years.

First, my hours (and salary) got chopped in half. Then, I got sick and my adorable 200-year-old doctor put me on Anthrax Antibiotics for ten days. Then, my dad’s cyborg surgery had complications, and I spent a week semi-planning to semi-move to North Carolina, for the semi-time being. Oh, and I woke up Sunday morning with a cold. Like the cherry on top of a bad-luck sundae, I’m hacking and sneezing and not altogether pretty right now. And, oh, I almost forgot to mention that Aunt Flo has stopped in for a visit. (TMI? Never! But, "not pregnant" is always one for the plus column.)

Of course, there are a lot of good things happening in my world. Good people, the four bottles of Champagne rattling about the bottom of my fridge, cupcakes for breakfast, the new slats on my bed, the uh...other thing going on that I'm not telling you about. Nyeah.

But, overall, my Optimism-Meter is running low, and I don't want to torture y'all with my sad-sack not-currently-amusing existence. Life needs to get a hell of a lot funnier before I'll have much to say.

Or, you people could step up and be funny. To that end, I’m recruiting guest posters, at least until I can get my act together. (Well, not COMPLETELY together, because y’all live to watch me metaphorically faceplant my way across every aspect of my life.) Or you can write me for advice - I do love telling y'all what to do. Either way, I'm outsourcing this blog for a bit. So step on up and be my Indian call center, my Malaysian child laborers, my Temp-a-Tronic no-wage workers.

Submissions should go to scannerjockey@gmail.com.

I Need to Embrace My Inner Grody-Girl

Aside from my disco nap of a marriage, I’ve spent the last decade living alone. I love it. If I ever get remarried, my husband will have to rent the apartment next to mine, and we’ll carve a doggy door into the drywall.

My décor is exactly how I like it, I don’t have to use any of the top shelves if I don’t want to, and nobody has to know how many sailors slept over last night. I can categorize my skirts by length, have bourbon for dinner, or only change the sheets upon the changing of the seasons.

But I don’t really take full advantage. I don’t know whether it's because I’m a recovering housewife, my inner Miss Priss is a domineering witch, or I've lost my ability to really grab life by the man-parts. But today’s post by Lemmonex made me think of all the living alone clichés I have yet to embrace:

I don’t walk around in my underpants. Nor do I dance around naked to Justin Timberlake. (I do dance around to "Mmmmmbop" while fully clothed.)

I don’t let the dishes pile up until they ooze their way across the entire apartment.

I don’t eat tacos over the sink.

I don’t drink milk out of the carton.

Worst of all, I CLOSE THE BATHROOM DOOR. Sometimes, I even lock it.

That last one makes me squirm with embarrassment. I am, amazingly enough, grossed out by the fact that I am not gross enough.

Does anyone have suggestions on how I can make my loner lifestyle a little more disgusting? Have you ever developed any living alone mannerisms, and exactly how icky are they? Scale of 1-10?

Warning: Post May Contain Actual Human Emotions

If there is one thing on this Earth I have a sense of humor about, it’s my height. Or, rather, the lack thereof.

During my first attempt at Algebra II, I sat next to my very lanky friend Jim. He often wore green, so we called him the Jolly Green Giant. One day I wore green, and became Sprout. That nickname stuck for umpteen many years. Also, whenever I wear that color around my sister, she'll start shaking me and demanding my pot of gold.

On the whole, I’ve learned a valuable lesson: don’t wear green.

I’ve learned another valuable lesson: know your boundaries. And communicate them, with calmness and clarity.

I’m amused and pleased when Lemmonex offers to carry me home in her purse, or when my former coworkers would stuff me into small spaces around the office to see if I’d fit. Because I know when I’m being picked on, and when it’s just adorably warped affection. I don’t expect my friends to carry around a comprehensive list of what does and does not offend me. Of course, the list of what does offend me would be ridiculously short (racism, sexism, saying something mean about someone I care about).

But one thing that drives me nuts is this: implying my figure is somehow inferior or a symbol of what’s wrong with America. I’m short, I have a small frame, these are my factory settings and they cannot be altered. I wish people would stop referring to plus-size or curvy women as “real women.” It implies women like me are somehow imaginary. All bodies are different, and it’s possible to feel good about yourself without tearing others down.

And, women, stop asking me to apologize for how I’m built. I cannot tell you how many conversations I’ve had with groups of women where they comment on my smallness as if there’s no “me” attached to any of it, then demand my dress size, measurements, and bra size. And after that, they want an apology for the grossly unfair beauty standards of twisted America. I wind up feeling picked on, belittled, and objectified.

This isn’t a cry for pity. I’m aware of how ridiculous it sounds to be all “woe is me” about life as a size 2. I wouldn't complain that my pile of pirate treasure takes up too much space, or that I can't decide which Porsche to drive. I like my body, and I wouldn't trade it for anyone else's. And, honestly, I don’t care all that much about how I look. What I do care about is being judged for it, being taken less seriously because of my appearance, or being treated like that’s the sum total of who I am.

I promise I’ll be funny tomorrow. Today I decided to have a feeling or two (in case you were wondering, blog-as-therapy is usually a sign that I have writer's block).

I Might Be Wearing a Barrel Right Now

I have no clothes.

And I don’t mean in that vain, ridiculous, staring at a full closet and yelling, “I have nothing to wear!” sense. I mean, I have no clothes. I am down to my last dress. And I own virtually every dress that has ever been made.

There’s an explanation. I live on the fifth floor. The laundry room is in the basement. My building’s elevators have been out of order for the last few weeks. And I’m weak and lazy and don’t want to carry a heavy basket of laundry up and down six flights. I might as well take my clothes down to the river and beat them with rocks.

The last time I washed clothes, FreckledK was a blonde, AIG was a solid and respectable company, and Bangkok Dangerous improbably ruled the box office.

Things are getting desperate. I may have to retrieve my wedding gown from its Shelf of Shame and wear it to work tomorrow. I may have to buy underwear on my way home tonight. I may have to recycle my grocery bags into a trendy plastic outfit. I may have to pack nothing but pajamas for my trip this weekend. I may have to suck it up and carry my laundry up and down six flights of stairs.

Heaven help me.

In the comments, tell me the longest you’ve ever gone without doing laundry, and why.