Knocked Up

You know what is even worse than the regular nutty-hot model chicks gracing the covers of the bajillion magazines that get delivered to my work? FitPregnacy cover models. Not only are they superhumanly good looking to begin with, the bun in their oven doesn't even make them fat, they just look "glowing" and stoked AND they have huge knockers; the only thing I can usually one-up these broads on.

Models are already playing with a genetically stacked deck, the least they can do is have an eating disorder or an addiction to an illegal drug, the last thing I want to hear about is their wonderful husband and bundle of joy. This in no way means I want a child of my own, seeing as I can barely take care of myself and woke up last Monday morning with a 50/50 chance of not having electricity, because I forgot to open the two notices/bills they sent me. Since when does the color red stand for "warning" anyways? So yeah pregnant models, no thanks. That kid better be an accident.

In other news, I think I am going to make a pre-emptive call to Child Protective Services the next time I see someone posing for those "Lookee me! I am being Artsy whilst preg-o" awful glamour shots from one of those places you find at the mall. There is a reason people are only pregnant for nine months instead of always (unless you're Irish-Catholic) it's because that's not how you are supposed to normally look! Why would I want to cherish the memories of a time when I was obese and sober? I ate a mess of food last night in celebration of Turkey Day and I have since been avoiding mirrors at all costs, not snapping polaroids.

Musings on Chris Brown

Today, being the day before Thanksgiving, is the most boring of all boring work days. Let's see how many out of office auto replies I can get before I want to shoot myself. Or better yet, let's discuss Chris Brown!

My room mate just recently called me an old lady because last week I announced that I had finally listened to this "Chris Brown fellow" and found his music "quite good." He was previously only known to me as that dude who beat up Rihanna. I do not, I repeat DO NOT, endorse girlfriend beatings under any circumstances. I do however, endorse excellent dance routines.

Why I Don't Get Work Done

Thank God the work I am given to do takes me about four minutes, otherwise I don't know how I would ever find the time to doctor up photos like this that Andrew sends me. I have been silently crying with laughter at my desk for the past fifteen minutes.

Boner of the Day

New Moon! Or, as I like to call it, New SWOON. Seriously, me-yow. There were some hot bitches in this movie! There was one wolf in particular that caught my fancy. I did a little stalking and here he is on the right with some of the other werewolves. Also, Taylor Lautner without his shirt on? Yes please. I just found out he was born in 1992 which made me throw up in my mouth a little being that I am trying to curb my pervy, pedo ways ...but I'd still hit it.

Makin' Mama Proud

I've been reminding myself all week long that it's my momma's 50th today (yeah she's young and I'm an "accident"). Last night I decided it would be great to send her some flowers to really seal the deal that I'm one of those caring daughters. I'd just had a lot of wine and Tanqueray gimlets so coming up with the appropriate note to send with the flowers was tricksy. Here's what I came up with:

"THANK YOU!

...For being a rad mom! Happy Birthday! I love times 100 million other moms. Oh and hi Noni. Love, Shanon."

That is verbatim. Yes, I gave my grandma shout-out.

I'm Turning Into My Grandpa

9 times out of 10 I am late to work in the morning because of a shoe-related quandary. This is pretty pathetic because I basically own the same 3 pairs of shoes but in slightly different colors. This morning it was "Oh noes, do I wear the brown Wallabees or the other brown Wallabees? Or maybe the tan Wallabees?!" Seriously, this is what goes on in my head.

My grandpa used to buy at least two of everything but I always chalked this up to the fact that he was a Navy man with an identical twin. I, on the other hand, have no excuse for owning 4 pairs of Vans, 3 pairs of Clarks, 3 pairs of near identical Chukkas / dessert boots, and 4 different kinds of Oxfords. And aside from the Vans, all of my shoes are either black or brown.

To make matters worse (or more hilarious, if you will) TWO days this week I have matched shoes with a dude I work with. Yesterday we were in a meeting and one guy said "Oh hey, Roger [name has been changed], what kind of shoes are those?" And Roger goes "Well I believe they're the same shoes Shanon has on."

In short, I'm an old man trapped in a the body of a 27-year old lady. Here's what I'll look like in old age... or maybe tomorrow.

Boner of the Day

My future husband! This week's New Yorker is double-sized and all about food (cause of Turkey Day and all). It's probably my favorite issue of the whole year. I was so consumed by it on the train that I almost missed my stop, so stumbling upon this Vice "DO" first thing was like a sign from jeebus that my future will be rife with hot skindhead foodies. Yes, I just said that. (Click to enlarge).

People You Never Want To Be Hot

Dentist. When I got my wisdom teeth pulled out at NYU's house of discount dentistry, my student doctor was pretty bangin. This was problematic because he kept making all of these jokes and I couldn't laugh or even talk and then he pulled my teeth out and my face looked like the kid from "Rocky," at which point I concluded that hitting on him was futile. So I decided to make the best of the situation and hit him up for some Vicadin. Silver linings, I find them.

Gyno. This needs no further explanation.

Bodega Guy. When I lived in Little Italy, my bodega guy used to always ask me out and I never said yes and/or understood why. They see you at your absolute worst; when you're sick, when you're crazy wasted, when you haven't slept for two days, when you're too lazy to cook so you get a bag of heat peanuts and a Guiness for dinner as I did Monday, the list goes on and on. One time, around 7am, I tried to return a six-pack of frozen beer to my bodega that I hadn't even purchased from there. Took me a solid ten minutes of arguing with the dude before I figured it out. Another occasion, I had a sandwich thrown point-blank in my face. If any of these guys were even remotely attractive I would have to walk an extra three blocks to an uglier-person operated one.

Pharmacist. I had shingles a few years back, which is essentially chicken pox for grownups and who doesn't want those again. They hurt like a bitch and doctors don't know why people get them and there's really nothing you can do but wait them out. The medication they give you for this, I think just for kicks, is Valtrex. This prescription is not only really fun to get filled (since making people think you have herpes is a great conversation starter) but it also makes you want to spew everywhere I discovered! What Washington really needs to do is figure out a away to tack a No Hot Pharmacist rider onto the healthcare overhaul crap. Believe.

Cousins. I'll be honest, I have a couple of cousins that make me entertain thoughts of eloping to backwoods Kentucky, but if I ever decide to get on board the baby express, I'd rather my children have the correct amount of fingers, toes and genetic mutations. Before you put your judgy pants on and call me out for my lax incest policy, just be happy I didn't say siblings.

Bathrobes

This piece of clothing is perplexing to me. Are they even considered clothing? A lot of times they're made of terry cloth so that's half towel, right. It lives in the bathroom instead of the closet, so when my clothes get into crazy battles while I'm away at work (as everyone knows they do) it's gonna be on Team Towels and fuck my jeans and underpants up. It's probably cool with shirts though, they both have sleeves so they're like cousins I imagine. But if I was a robe I would be mad bitter about never getting to leave the house so maybe I would knife a cardigan.

And are they sexy? I can see how they should be, cause you're nekkie underneath, but people look so frumpy and un-hot in bathrobes that it makes me lose all desire to have them remove it.

Anyways, I never had a robe growing up and a few years ago I asked my then-boif for one and he ended up getting me two; a "Summer Robe" and a "Winter Robe." Summer robe is green and lightweight and really short (American Apparel at it's slutty best) and I loved it until I had a slumber party with a male friend of mine who maybe said it was hot but also called it "comically shortened." I still wear it, but always eye it suspiciously first.

I was rocking Winter Robe a few weeks ago when Blair stopped by. It was poor timing, as I had just gotten out of the shower and my nose was bleeding for reasons not involving drugs. Blair had picked up a picture of us from about five years ago and said, "Aww, you look so good here, so happy." To which I responded, "As opposed to what?" and he said, "Uh, I dunno, running around in a big frumpy white robe with a bloody nose at three in the afternoon."

So, I think I will be going back to the trusty drip dry and quietly lay my robe dreams to rest. Shanon owns four, by the way.

Addicted to Hugging

Believe it or not I am full of love. And because I am full of love I like to hug people. This is true always but especially when I'm drunk. The other week I had a bunch of clients in town (the advertising kind, not the hooker kind) and I got a bits tipsy and gave them all hugs when I said hello. As in, "Hey! Good to see you again so-and-so" then I reached in for the hug. It really seals the "I-care-about-you-as-a-client" deal, in my opinion.

Or so I thought.

The next day by boss pulled me aside after having had a meeting with said client ...to tell me that they said I hug too much! I'm not making this up! They said my hugging was making them uncomfortable. I said unless my hugging turned into humping and french-kissing their ears and nose, I have no clue how this could make anyone uncomfortable. It's a hug! You have to be a pretty miserable person to hate hugs so much that you tell said hugger's boss.

Or perhaps you're a Christian thug. My friend just sent this to me, and according to this rap I'm going straight to hell. It doesn't exist, so I'm not scurred, but honestly if it did exist I'd be going straight there for waaaay worse reasons than a hug. Enjoy.