You're Nobody 'Til You're in the New York Times

Alternate title: Good Lord, Why Didn't Anyone Tell Me I Look Like Mary Poppins?

Yes, that's me. In the Times, like somebody respectable and newsworthy. And it's all thanks to my self-styled status as an etiquette vigilante.

My Sunday was pretty thrilling, what with the well-wishers, the shiny photo (taken by Andrew Councill, who was extraordinarily lovely), and the holycowI'mintheNewYorkTIMES!!!!! that managed to leak through the haze of the world's most brutal red wine hangover.

Except that I'm captioned as "It's polite to prowl." Eeeeessssshhhhh. And there's the whole cringeworthy thing where the reporter left out the repeated assertions I made that adults should not scold other adults, that lecturing others simply compounds the rudeness, and that I don't go around telling people how to act. I simply politely and calmly ask people to stop doing whatever it is that's so annoying, because most people mean well but are just oblivious to the world around them. I don't call people at home to enact petty revenge, like another person profiled in the article. (Reading that made me cringe like you would NOT believe.)

That said, what shall we do with my newfound fame as a schoolmarmy busybody scold? Market myself as an etiquette maven? Correct the posture of strangers with a ruler? Wear a "As Seen in the New York Times" t-shirt everywhere I go? Try to get into VIP rooms by showing a clip of the article and saying, "Yeah, I'm kind of a big deal"?

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?

The Tale of Happy Fun Loft

Our sophomore year of college, my roommate Hoyden and I seized upon a wild and brilliant idea. We would loft our beds! We'd maximize our floorspace! It would be completely awesome, like a treehouse with booze.

The first step was finding a loft. We rapidly procured one from an off-campus Christian collective for $40. Several "facts" were left out of this "deal."

1. The loft had been stored in some sort of medieval dungeon, and the wood was damp and warped.

2. The loft, a double, was actually the size of a small village.

3. Make that a BIG village.

4. The loft required assembly.

So, once the Christians had departed, it was time for the Stoners. See, down the hall from us, there were these two guys. They were, without a doubt, the most famous people in Alexander Dorm. (Even more famous than the guys who would stay up all night watching pornographic screensavers, and then sleep all day, mostly because the Porno Screensaver guys had all flunked out the year before.)

The Stoners were the only people on the hall with a toolkit. The toolkit was used to construct proceedingly more elaborate pot-smoking equipment. I have a theory that if one-tenth of one percent of the energy devoted to Weed Science was directed toward the other sciences, we'd have cured cancer and colonized Mars by now. They grew pot in their room, held Harvest Festivals, and still achieved GPAs that were approximately double my own.

Hoyden and I seized upon a plan: we would ply the boys with liquor, and they would help us assemble our loft! Flaws in the plan:

1. Stoner guys are not master builders.

2. Being 19-year-old girls, our drink of choice was the glorious, calcium-fortified White Russian.

3. Stoner guys drinking girl drinks are really not master builders.

The loft was eventually...aloft. Thanks to the warped wood, lack of instructions, consistent errors in spatial relations and the varying levels of sobriety involved, our loft resembled a sort of lumberyard parabola. The slightest of touches would set the whole thing quivering like a porn star gearing up for her big interracial stereo repairman scene.

We dubbed it Happy Fun Loft. Do not taunt Happy Fun Loft. Do not have any sort of active dreams while sleeping in Happy Fun Loft. Do not have any sort of, uh, active in Happy Fun Loft.

The final step was Loft Inspection. We passed with flying colors. Those flying colors being:

1. Screw that minor in Women's Studies! Time to flirt with the inspection guy!

2. Hey, that redhead from Maine thinks you're pretty cute.

3. What? She totally does!

4. We passed? Thank you! Thank you so much! (There may have been a curtsy.)

5. Hoyden, I didn't REALLY pimp you out. It was all implication. A pimplication, if you will. A pimplication for the simplification of our lives.

Happy Fun Loft survived many things. Parties. That time I stood up and vacuumed the quilts. More parties.

And, lastly, what is either the best punchline of any blog post of mine, ever, or, completely abundantly over the line of good taste (stop reading NOW, Skye! Look over here! Otters are awesome.):

I lost my virginity in Happy Fun Loft. The loft didn't wobble, not one little bit.

I spent Winter Break wondering what all the fuss was about.

If you have an even less dignified tale of virginity loss, you are welcome to post it in the comments.

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.

The Science of Being Shallow

Today, there was a bit of a kerfuffle over at DCBlogs. Not quite a brouhaha, but definitely more than a spat.

A contributing editor suggested that we bloggers make our posts more meaningful, and stop writing until we have something to say.

It was very difficult to not take that statement personally. We all know by now that I do not possess a window to the absolute. I'm not usually even in the same room as the window to the absolute. I write about falling down, newspaper theft, dating, my own stupidity, and other happy things. Then you lovely people make fun of me, and I lap up the attention like the cuddly indiscriminate narcissist I truly am. Instant validation!

But, thankfully, science has come to the rescue. My utter lack of depth, mindless chatter, and silly opinions are a weight-maintenance program! Thinking too hard fattens me up. Idiocy keeps me in my skinny jeans. My sluggish mind is cheaper than Jenny Craig, more efficient than jogging, and far more palatable than a package of rice cakes.

This is why I love science. Science has a convenient explanation for everything.

PS - I bet Luke Wilson never has to put on his fat pants! Plus, he's dreamy. Mmmm, Luke Wilson.

Excuse Me...Do I Know You? Or Do You Know Me?

There must be about a dozen of me in D.C. A little troop of doppel-Shannons. Because at least once a week, someone comes up to me, addresses me by a random name (“Rachel,” most often), and chats as if we’ve known each other for years. I never know whether to play along or gently inform them of their mistake.

And, sometimes, I wonder if I’m at fault. Perhaps I have amnesia and multiple personality disorder and I really am Rachel.

The “Rachel” dilemma is pretty much what it’s like to have this blog.

I routinely encounter or hear from those who believe, because they read my daily trainwrecks and unsolicited opinions, that we are the oldest of friends. The over-familiarity is unsettling, but I’m enough of an adult to realize I brought it on myself. I’m grateful a bunch of amusing, cool people check in daily to see what I’m up to. And I’m humbled that they’re invested enough in my narcissistic little hobby to comment, email, or want to meet me. I’ve made some lovely new friends.

But that’s the blogger version, and she’s not necessarily me. The vast majority of my real-life closest friends don’t read this site at all. They like the woman they went to school with, shared an office with, took out a few times and later befriended. They don’t need her cheap, boozy online equivalent. And, sometimes, neither do I.

That’s why I leave a lot of personal details off this site. I don’t put up photos. I don’t emotion-barf details of my private life (though a gold star to anyone who noticed what was different about the FAQ and connected the dots). I don’t talk about work, I don’t say where I live, I don’t give specific updates about what I had for lunch yesterday.

Mostly, it’s because emotion-barfs and lunch are boring subjects. And I feel my writing is best when it zips along and chucks water balloons in all directions.

But it’s also so I can achieve some privacy. That’s a pretty tenuous thing on a non-anonymous blog, but I do what I can.

So, the point…and there is one. Please email, comment, stop by. Bring your friends and neighbors and maybe even Bill from Accounting. Y’all rock, and the door is always open to you. Just please don’t assume you really know me because you heard all about the time I was too short to be a stewardess.

And, if anyone knows that Rachel woman, hook me up with an introduction.

PS – we’ll be back to our regularly scheduled goofy hijinks tomorrow. I can’t sustain multiple days of self-reflection without my tiny little brain caving in from the weight of my enormous self-esteem. And I’m not talking about anyone in particular, this is just sort of a bunch of thoughts finally falling into place.

Super-Special Guest Post: Manscaping Edition

I'd briefly considered renaming this site Pimps n' Pubes, but as commenter Dave B. points out, y'all might think I'm a priest. Also, I don't want the dreaded Not Safe For Work designation. So, instead, I'm farming out my inappropriate content.

The sassy-but-classy Zipcode, aka Capitol Hill 20210, has kindly offered to share her views on manscaping.

So, have a good day, and Trim One for the Zipper! (I know, groan.)

Zipcode's Grooming Tips for Men

Ok boys, its your turn to clean up for us. We spend countless hours experiencing pain, spending money, and getting in some interesting positions at the waxer just so you have a nice view and a good time while you are down there! Granted I do this for myself not just for you.

So let's begin with the things that are important: nose hair, underarm hair, ear hair and your lucky charms.

You should invest in a really good Personal Trimmer - you can get them at Bed Bath and Beyond for a reasonable price - that will take care of the nose and ear hair issue.

Another good investment is a hair trimmer clipper device that comes with all those tools for you to trim things down per se. If you don't want to shave the forest above your lucky charms, then at least trim it. That tool is perfect for that because you can give it a nice buzz cut - haha. As for the charms two friends that hang right under - yeah get rid of that hair as well please. There are some products that will provide some smooth sailing (pun intended) - granted they are marketed for the females, there is no shame in buying these for yourself and they aren't even pink. I highly recommend Bikini Zone Topical Analgesic Creme, awesome stuff - helps with the bumps and ingrowns. Bikini Zone Anti Bumps Shave Gel - awesome stuff - makes for an easy shave. Also - there is the stuff called Coochi - yes I know nice name - you have to get it at an adult web store like Adam and Eve or maybe the local MVC has it I don't know - but that is the best stuff ever!!!!!

So, if you decide to take the waxing plunge guys for your lucky charms - I recommend 2 Ibuprofen 30 minutes before you go to the appointment. Yes, you should go to a salon and spa to get this done, not some 10 dollar no hollar wax place that may provide a happy ending - ha. The benefits of going to high end spa i.e. Red Door, Aveda, Sugar House - they really take care of you and not make it feel so impersonal. Don't be a perv or inappropriate at these places you will get kicked out. I worked a salon in college and I believe the military guys that came in to get their goods waxed expected a happy ending. Because the waxer kicked them out. Honestly, its not that bad - I think an eyebrow wax is more painful then a bikini wax - the brazillian, well thats a whole another story.

Programming Note: Due to offsite meetings, travel, and a generally glamourous existence, no post tomorrow. I'll be pretty much offline Fri-Sun, so be good while I'm gone. And if you can't be good, be happy.

New Imaginary Friends

I've made two new imaginary friends, and they've joined the blogroll party to the right.

So go check out Darian the Vicenarian to learn about the Skittles color wheel, the "Girls at the Club," kids for breakfast, and other observations from a NoVa guy in his 20s.

And, while you're at it, learn about ED as "ethical sub-routine," the joy of cougars, and Facebook as pickup over at The New Form of Bachelor. I don't want to laugh, but...whatever, I want to laugh, it's funny. Enjoy.

Guest Blogging for Godot

Reader 1: Dude, where’s Shannon? I don’t see her around.
Reader 2: I don’t know, dude, where’s Shannon?
Reader 1: She’s kind of small, maybe she fell between the sofa cushions again.
Reader 2: Or maybe she slipped down the drain.
Reader 1: I hope she didn’t run off to South America again.
Reader 2: When was she in South America?
Reader 1: About four years and two blog titles ago.
Reader 2: Wow. Was that back when this was a 7th Heaven tribute site?
Reader 1: No, that was five years and three blog titles ago.
Reader 2: Wow, you sure know a lot about Shannon.
Reader 1: I sleep on her balcony at night and sniff her laundry while she’s at work. Do you have any idea how much crap she owns from Forever 21?
Reader 2: Well, that’s just creepy. And she needs better clothes.
Reader 1: No kidding. Anyways, where’s Shannon?
Reader 2: I don’t know, dude. (rummages around the Internet) Oh, wait, here she is! She’s guest blogging over at Life in Pink.
Reader 1: Who lives in pink?
Reader 2: My Little Ponies. Mariah Carey. And someone named Heidi. Heidi seems pretty cool.
Reader 1: What’s a quarterlife crisis?
Reader 2: No clue. Let’s go check it out. (Both readers exit stage right)

Programming Note: I’m guest blogging over at Life in Pink today, offering an excerpt from the Infamous Book. The Book is that thing no one is allowed to ask me about, because as soon as they do, I get writers’ block for two weeks. I’ll be back tomorrow, spewing the usual sarcasm.

Me, On TV

If you're watching TV tonight, try and spot me on Lehrer...supposedly we'll be in some sort of prologue on a story about the job market. Once again my hour of taping stock footage has reared its ugly head.

Ten points to whoever records this and spots me, as I will not be near a TV tonight!

I'm Neither Pregnant Nor a Teenager, But Thanks for Asking!

A week or so ago, a NewsHour crew was in my office to get some stock footage. Apparently we popped up on TV for the first time. In a story about teen pregnancy. That strikes me as totally awesomely random. Maybe next we'll show up in a story on illegal cockfighting rings or alien abductions.

No idea if I'm featured or not, but if any of my tech-savvy readers want to see if the video is available anywhere online, have at it.

My Life on the B-Roll

I'm going to be stock footage!

Yesterday, my coworker was asked if we'd allow a camera crew from a news program to film us at work. Apparently they needed some shots of women in an office for when they do segments about women and the workplace.

It was fun, which surprised me, because I'm very superstitous about cameras.

We all sat at our desks and tried to ignore the camera crew, and look both professional and determined. We also had to interact a bit and we even had a fake meeting. The camera crew were very courteous and totally impressed when I knew what "white balance" was.

So if you see me on TV, busting through the glass ceiling, wondering how to balance work and family, or fighting pregnancy discrimination, know that I'm really wondering whether it's too early to eat my sandwich.

Blog by Google

Like many bloggers, I marvel at the Google searches that bring folks to my corner of the Internet. A quick glance at my stats tells me:

I'm the Number 3 Google destination for "non confrontational Wikipedia."

I'm the Number 8 Google destination for "wedding trends 2009."

I'm the world capital, top Google destination for "Shannon Bex boyfriend."

And my absolute favorite: I'm the Number 2 Google destination for "my boyfriend thinks I'm high maintenance."

Maybe the Google Gods are trying to tell me something. Perhaps I need to devote more energy to weddings, combative online encyclopedias, and contestants from the ill-fated revival of Fame. Or worse, maybe my boyfriend really DOES think I'm high maintenance.

No, You May NOT Throw Sharp Objects at My Head

I am SUCH a hypocrite. Not twelve hours after I posted about just going about your day, I got in a confrontation with strangers. And I just had to be right. Not to mention, it was about darts.

The story: After work, I met Katie, Dorothee, and Steven for drinks and greasy snacks. The vibe at the bar was already a little off, because there was a flip cup competition going on. (People wore uniforms and sweats, like it was a real sport or something. Organized drinking games and booze-centric leagues depress me, it makes me think the younger generation is so hyper-scheduled they can't even binge drink in peace.)

There were no tables open, but one of the waiters was kind enough to pull a table out of a side room and set it up for us in an unused corner. We settled in, watched the flip-cuppers perform, ordered savory food and bad American beer, and told stories.

Until. A lady in a tight yellow top asked us to move our table smack into the flip-cuppers, so she and her guy could play darts. Well, on the plus side, she was nice about it. On the minus side, making four people move so two people can throw sharp objects in a crowded bar seems like a little much. And, just because you ask nicely doesn't mean you'll always get your way.

As Steven pointed out, it's not rude to ask people to not throw sharp things at your head. Even if we moved our table to the point we were on top of the flip-cuppers, we'd still be in range to get brained by darts. So we politely declined.

That should have been the end of it. They made a polite request, we politely declined. But in the world of beer logic, we were the biggest jerks in the universe. The girl approached us again, then began to dispatch her guy to harass us. The whole thing was obvious enough to be funny: girl would pout in our direction, rub herself against the guy, and a moment later he'd be in our faces to harass us.

It put a bit of a damper on the evening. Finally, we decided to settle up the bill, which we didn't do fast enough for the Couple of the Year. So the guy, I kid you not, started standing right over us, aiming darts over our heads as if he were about to throw them.

After a few rounds of this, I called him over, told him he was not seriously going to try that, and it wouldn't kill him to just chill until we settled our check. Since when did anyone have an urgent dart situation?

Boy, he got mad. He said we could have just moved our table by two feet, one foot, six inches, three inches (the amount got smaller the madder he got). He said he could have just thrown the darts over our heads without checking, and what would we do about it? My response was that it's a bit messed up to threaten a woman half your size, just so you can play a bar game. The confrontation droned on, until his friend dragged him off (the friend was the only person who came out of this with any dignity).

We finally settled up and got our coats on. And then there's the part I'm not proud of. On the way out, I poked my head into their circle, and told the guy he messed up our evening and should apologize (he didn't, but the girl, source of all the original trouble, did). Then I thanked the friend for having been raised proper.

Why did I do that? Oh, I know the answer. Because I was right, and therefore entitled to the last word. Ugh.

So, could I have handled this better? What would you have done?

The Buzzies, Rebutted!

http://eggsandbluecheese2.blogspot.com/