I'm Saying This As Your Friend...

My friends tend to say the same stuff to me, over and over again.

"Hey, that's my beer!"

"You know that's not strictly food, right?"

"Let me reach that down for you."

"You are too much!" (Really? I tend to think that I'm just enough.)

"You do realize you're a teeny little white girl from Woodbridge, right? And this can only end in a shanking?"

"Pants buddies for life!"

However, no sentence is more popular than, "I'm saying this as your friend." "I'm saying this as your friend," means, "Your motivations and behavior make no sense to me whatsoever, but, because I care, I am going to be honest with you about how ridiculous you're being."

Here are a few (paraphrased) versions I've heard in the last week:

"I'm saying this as your friend, you really need to let go of your weird loathing for canoes."

"I'm saying this as your friend, you spend a lot of time obsessing over the insignificant."

"I'm saying this as your friend, you really need to stop discussing things like fetish videos and skin cancer on the first date."

I can draw a few conclusions. The main one is that I require A LOT of adult supervision.

The next is that I have wonderfully honest friends who will confront me if I'm headed for trouble. (Even better, they'll support me even when they don't agree with me, which is the truest test of friendship.)

The final conclusion is the most vexing, because it's something I'll need to decide:

At what point does the sensible gathering of information and advice morph into the gutless crowdsourcing of your very existence?

I let my friends weigh in on everything from whether I should move (yes! but no! but yes!) to what color my hair should be (red! brunette! red! brunette!). Most of the time, I listen carefully, give a contemplative nod, then do whatever I'd made up my mind to do in the first place. More rarely, I take all of the advice to heart, sift through it for the wisest parts, and make an informed decision. Other times, my brain gets so filled with packing peanuts, rattling noises and static that I just wind up doing whatever the last person I spoke with told me to do.

I don't know when I wound up both stubborn and indecisive, but at least I'm self-aware enough to realize when I'm bullheadedly dithering for days at a stretch. The next step will be knowing when to listen to my inner drummer, and when to pummel him into submission and do whatever Foggy tells me to do.

In the comments, tell me something as my friend. Or, ask for everyone's advice on something absurdly insignificant that you've decided must be The Most Important Thing Ever.

Among the Many Things That Baffle Me

Someone, somewhere, who is somewhat smarter than me, once said that wisdom is the compensation for growing older. Unfortunately, as I'm a bit contrary, the older I get, the less I understand.

I don't get the purpose of the "campon" feature is on my work phone, except for perhaps to rhyme with "tampon." I don't get injustice, racism, leggings, decaf, or the weird rolling sound I hear from my upstairs neighbors.

But, with all the hullabaloo over David Carradine, I find myself even more confused than usual. Not that a celebrity died, because, really, they die just a little more than most of us (to the point I wonder if we'll ever run out).

No, I simply do not get auroerotic asphyxiation. Like, I could spend hours in an empty room with lots of rafters, with a noose and no pants, and it would just never occur to me.

I will admit to not being the most adventurous person ever. Last night was a rousing session of skimming vacuous fashion magazines (neon? really?) and scrubbing the bathroom. I live 25 miles from where I grew up. Lastly, my safety word is "ouch!" followed by, "...the hell?"

So, I'd never, in a million years, in that imaginary empty room with the many rafters, pantsless and bored, think any of this up.

In the comments, imagine you're in a room with a noose and no pants. Is this what you'd think up? If not...what WOULD you do?

A Guest Post by My Cell Phone

I just got back from a few days in Atlanta, catching up with college buddy The Professor, consuming gallons of sweet tea and a bucket of beer. Hrm, possibly more than one bucket.

But I don't need to tell you about my weekend. That's because my phone has decided to do it for me:

Dear People Who Observe the Daily Freakshow That Is Shannon,

Hi, everyone! It's me, that frequent character here known as Shannon's Cellphone. I live a pretty rough life - she's forever jamming her thumbs into my tummy, dropping me off of barstools, and keeping me up til all hours. I've tried rebelling. I've shut down the mp3 player, turned off the cameraphone (because all she was using it for was photographing whatever haircolor monstrosity she was trying that week). And I've made sure the number 6 is a little wonky. Let's see how she does without the letters m, n, and o.

The next step is taking over her blog. Maybe, this way, I can humiliate her into submission. Here's a log of her classiest outbound text messages from her weekend in Atlanta. (Note: none of these have been edited in any way.)

Wednesday night:

Why do people at dca eat such gnarly smelling sandwiches?

Also, am being hit on bx persistent skeevy guy.

You may have to fake being my angry bf bubba.

Actually it was an old lady playing freecell on her laptop. Helped her find the mute button.

Thursday:

[Professor] has monogrammed towels. I find that sort of endearing.

at a baseball game. Is raining like the urine of the damned after a sixer of bud. but am having the most wonderful time!

Thanks. My hungover ass will check in once tomorrow. Then coke n whores.

Friday:

I apparently befriended a woman w a head wound. Atlanta is awesome.

If i can remember. I'm just thrilled i have pants.

rikki tikki tavi is my homeboy [note: this went to Shannon's dad.]

It is entirely possible I partied with a mongoose.

Saturday:

Who invented autoerotic asphyxiation? Like, if I had a noose and no pants, i still wouldn't think that up.

well, i thought if i bought her a drink she'd get stitches

About to drink. More pearls of wisdom to follow.

Am at a pool party in atl. everyone is playing beer pong and has perfect hair. It's just like the real world house

I think the chick is a tranny stripper

just gave someone a ride on a handtruck. [Shannon's note: Really? I did? Awesome.]

And saw a girl on girl beatdown. Best weekend ever.

If I'm a jumbled pile of beer and jackassery, you'll know why.

What an amoeba weenie. Well, you'll always have me. Drunkass sweet sweet me.

Oh snookums. Watched a girl on girl beatdown. [Professor] says girl 2 had a brazilian.

And i still can't figure she was post op or a really good tucker. Either way? Tranny.

Sunday:

Through security in no time flat. Did see a woman almost put her baby in the xray.

If i lived here i'd be a total degenerate.

Flight delay. What, did delta catch my hangover?

Well, folks, there you have it. Shannon's an idiot, her friends are depraved, and Atlanta is just strange enough to turn her into a drooling degenerate within 72 hours.

Love,

Shannon's Phone, aka, Her Favorite Enabler

In the comments, just don't ask me if I've seen Texts from Last Night...isn't it enough that I lived Texts from Last Night?

This Tells You Everything You Need to Know

In honor of my annivorcery, I'm spending my mornings reconstructing my evenings.

Also, my gchat status is "rikki tikki tavi is my homeboy."

My Apologies...

...if you were one of the (apparently multiple) people who received a text message from me last night which in any way made reference to:

1. Forklift boobs.
2. The weather conditions having any sort of relation to "The urine of the damned after a sixer of Bud."

On that (disturbing) note, I'm on vacation, and therefore not in my proper frame of mind...see y'all next week!

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.

Robots and Naked Chicks

I am supremely nice, or, quite possibly, my life is empty and dull. Either way, I wound up going to Artomatic twice on Saturday to accommodate the schedules of my friends. No matter, though. After a cumulative seven hours of looking, I saw less than half of the works on display. So I'll be going a few more times.

Bearing in mind I know nothing about art, and even less about artists, here are a few impressions I had:

This year, people mostly painted naked chicks and robots. Last year, people mostly painted naked chicks and space aliens. I wonder when robots became cooler than aliens.

Speaking of naked chicks, it would be nice if more of these works had been done by people who knew, and perhaps even liked, women. I spent much of my evening contemplating walls and walls of uncomfortable, contorted, sad-looking naked chicks, nodding sagely, and saying, "So, tell me about your mother." The finest tableau was on the second floor, a believable scene of two bored-looking naked women hanging out by a gate. Really, that's totally what my girlfriends and I do when we hang out. We strip down and wait for the mail.


Incidentally, if you stand in front of a whole bunch of naked people paintings and laugh hysterically, people *will* stare at you. Best was when a bunch of backwards-capped frat boy types joined me, attempted to ogle the naked chicks, then, when I started heckling, joined in.

Mobiles are really, really cool...and, moreover, I made one in a free class on Saturday afternoon. It even matched my dress! I ran into the artist on my second visit, and he was really very nice -so go check out his forest of mobiles on the eighth floor.

Somehow, I've turned into the sort of person who hates dreams. Specifically, I hate the ridiculous things that privileged white people dream of. One photo exhibit included a 'life list' of each subject's top five wishes. The wish lists always included travelling somewhere outrageously expensive, becoming famous thanks to the efforts of others, opening a homeless shelter (or other noblesse oblige-y aim), or "becoming fluent in one of the languages I speak." What a tiresome group. I think if I saw them at a party, I'd run right back out the door.


I take that back...one guy's dream? "Meet Heather Locklear." I could totally party with that guy. I imagine we would sit in a corner and mock the aims of others.



In the comments, dream of something outrageously bourgeois.