don't knock it till you try it: nonconsensual friendship

One day during my freshman year of college, some random dude approached me in the cafeteria.

"Hey, you're Shannon, right?"

I confirmed that I was.

"Yeah, Jason's told me all about you." He folded his arms across his chest and stared at me, letting me imagine, I suppose, just what that might mean.

I gazed longingly at my preferred solo spot in Kagin (behind the pillar next to the dessert table) but I knew, with a sinking feeling in my heart, that today I would not have the luxury of dining alone.

My initial impressions of "Gordon" were mixed. When he first approached I assumed he was harmless--so closely did he resemble a 12-year-old boy. But then he launched into it, and he immediately established himself as one of my most despised collegiate types--the big talker. He wasted little time letting me know all about his love of Foucault and "Brit pop" (surprise, surprise, what with his soon-to-be-revealed habit of ending every conversation with a studiously offhanded "cheers").

As is often the case with these types, I noticed that he didn't bother to ask me anything about myself. Another thing I noticed was the notable discrepancy between how cool he thought he was and how cool he actually was. I mean, seriously. Those glasses! That sweatshirt! But the aura of condescension was undeniable. "Oh right," I realized. "Another dude who feels smugly superior to me."

So it can only be explained as one of life's mysteries how I ended up being friends with this guy. Unlike a traditional friendship, with a slow-ish courtship phase where you get to know each other and figure out if you're really "meant to be", Gordon was just suddenly there, like a mango fly. One minute I was minding my own business, smoking cigarettes alone on the quad, and the next, Gordon was inviting himself over to my parents' house for dinner.

"So, do you ever go visit your parents on the weekend?" (I was a townie, he was from some other state.)

"Well, yeah, um, sometimes..." I mumbled, trying to sound noncommittal.

"How about this weekend? Ask your parents if I can come over for dinner this weekend."

I did not ask my parents if Gordon could come over for dinner that weekend, but when they invited me over a few weeks later, I halfheartedly mentioned that a "friend" of mine was really eager to invite himself over. My parents were always interested in meeting my friends, so they thought this was a fine idea. A sense of creeping dread set in.

I remember nothing of the dinner, but I do remember how, shortly after we arrived at my parents' house, Gordon asked them if they had any records. (Of course he was a DJ.) They indicated that yes, they did have some records. Gordon asked where they were; my parents replied that they were in the basement. Gordon then descended straightaway into the lower level, where he remained for about 45 minutes.

He eventually re-emerged with a stack of LPs. "I'm going to borrow these," he announced.

"Um," I said, my way of protesting righteously.

"Okay, sure, you can borrow those..." said my mom, trying to be nice.

I was mortified; he took the records.

Sometime in the weeks that followed I had a falling out with Gordon that involved junior-high-girl social scheming and double crossing. I was livid. I hadn't even consented to the frienship, and now he was sabotaging it? I went over to his apartment to retrieve my parents' possessions.

After accounting for the records, I made an attempt to confront him about his actions. The exchange went something like this:

Me: "I can't believe the way you lied."

Gordon: "What are you talking about? I didn't lie about anything. I don't know what you're talking about."

Me: "You know, there's just no denying that you lied. Can't you just say you're sorry?"

Gordon: "I didn't lie about anything, you're delusional, your anger is just a 're-action' to you're white American middle-class positionality, etc. etc."

Me: "God, you're pretentious! I will never speak to you again."

And in the year that followed, I was true to my word, despite sharing at least two classes with Gordon and numerous mutual acquaintances. At the time, I was aware that my resolve was juvenile, and maybe (extremely) petty.

You would think that, with the passage of time, my take on the matter might have changed--that perhaps I would look back wistfully, wishing that my younger, less generous self had embraced the spirit of forgiveness and consented to at least make eye contact.

But plenty of time has passed, and looking back, I'm even more sure that I did the right thing. With people like that, zero tolerance is the only policy. Here's to choosing your own friends!

don't knock it till you try it: ironic fashion

"Irony is an attitude that is best expressed orally, not sartorially." --Hadley Freeman, The Meaning of Sunglasses

I'm not sure that I agree with Hadley, because I have long been a dedicated advocate of ironic style. (Can you spot the cutesy Kinks reference I so painstakingly tried to obscure?) I got started in high school, trying all the usual things, like tacky vintage dresses, polyester man pants and "I'm not fat, I'm pregnant" maternity t-shirts from the 80s. Hilarious!

Ironic fashion was pretty much a given at arts high school, so when a fellow classmate admired my "I'm Proud to be a Christian!" t-shirt I didn't think for a second that she'd taken the message seriously. "I know," I said, "isn't it great?!?" She agreed that it was, and then asked me if was interested in joining her bible study group. I declined her invitation, feeling both guilty (I tricked an earnest Christian with my shirt! I'm going to hell...) and indignant (Jesus, it's obviously a joke!).

I really hit my stride in college, where I was surrounded by peers who were also interested in making cultural statements through their wardrobes. At this point I dismissed much of my clothing from high school as "too obvious" and began to search the DAV thrift store for more subtle fare.

For example, I recall with some embarrassment my dubious obsession with the little boys' clothing department--an untapped resource, as far as I was concerned. This exploration started innocently enough (the shrunken striped polo shirts were reasonably "indie rock" and that hockey sweatshirt from Inver Grove Heights was almost acceptable) but it quickly spiraled into absurdity.

For example, I remember purchasing not one but three tiny mesh basketball jerseys during a burst of thrift-store induced mania. I was convinced that I was going to start a hilarious new trend. I remember wearing one of the jerseys to a party, believing my style to be very advanced and expecting appreciative comments. But no one said anything about it, and I started to question my motives. What was I trying to prove with my witty little outfits? Was my silly clothing an attempt to distract people from the fact that I had an underdeveloped personality? Did this have something to do with my failure to convince [_____] to date me?

Then I got another five drinks and put those questions out of my mind. I spent the greater part of my 20s wandering around thrift stores and estate sales, obsessively adding to my collection of 70s sunglasses from France, West Germany and Austria.

But at some point in the past couple years, I had to take a hard look at things. Much in the way that drunken displays that can be written off as "cute" in one's early 20s (they can, right?) turn into "sad and pathetic" as one gets a little older, it seems there comes a time when ironic fashion stops being amusing and starts heading into train-wreck territory. Personal style needs to evolve over time, I think. (And it's obvious when it doesn't. I wrote and then deleted a couple things about "aging scenesters" and "cool moms" because they seemed too mean...but you can probably imagine what I'm talking about.)

Not that I think one needs to give in and start wearing pantsuits from Ann Taylor every day (although that could be very funny!!), but merely that one needs to foster enough self-awareness to notice if one is becoming a caricature of oneself.

judge not, lest ye be judged

When I was 16, I worked at bagel shop in south Minneapolis. And despite my chronic unpopularity with boys and the indisputable fact that I was in an ugly phase that year, it someone came to my attention that "Eric," one of my teenaged colleagues, was interested in going out on a date with me.

I wasn't even the slightest bit attracted to Eric, but given my circumstances, I figured I should take what I could get. I accepted his vague invitation to "hang out" and asked what he had in mind.

"Well, I was thinking we could go the Mall of America. I mean, the mall has everything, right?"

I don't know if I sneered openly or if I merely muttered something noncommittal, but either way, the outing to the Great Mall never happened (and neither did the love match). The mall has everything? What kind of person could even say that, much less believe it? What kind of teenager thinks the mall is cool? (Now, thinking rationally, probably a pretty typical one, I suppose.) This was a turning point in the development of my personality: my desperation for male attention had given way to my burgeoning snobbery.

Okay, so it's wrong to judge people, right? I mean, I know it's a really shitty thing to do.

Like last week, when I was locking up my bike downtown and I couldn't help but overhear the conversation of a passing group of 20-something ladies: "So, you know Parasole, the company that owns Chino Latino and El Gatto? Well, they have this incredible deal where when you go to one of their restaurants you just get a stamp on this punch card and when you've got six stamps you get a free drink!"

People actually talk like this? They think these things and then say them out loud to other people? God, how boring!

Okay, so I realize these thoughts call attention to my shameful and previously unrevealed feelings of superiority. After writing so much recently about the hell that is other people, it's only fair that I finally unveil the truth--I am actually just as bad.

Take, for example, the coworker who entered the break room the other day, loudly talking to someone via an earpiece, his cell phone clipped to his pleated pants in a white-collar holster. He was wearing a tucked-in polo shirt advertising one of my company's products, and was talking about the details of his son's football practice. He set about the business of filling his water bottle with hard-nosed efficiency. In other words, he was the portrait of corporate American masculinity.

I slouched in my chair in the corner of the room, studying an eight-month-old copy of More magazine so as not to make accidental eye contact. "I am definitely a lesbian," I thought to myself.

Like my friend Mark once said, "There are good people everywhere...but they're a different kind of good people." We were on the subject of "work friends", and how when you're being held captive at a place of employment, you're not always in a position to be choosy. Whereas in college I could snob out to my heart's content ("Ugh, did you see Michael reading On the Road in the cafeteria? Plus, he wouldn't stop playing Tom Waits when he invited me back to his room..."), this position is simply not sustainable in the modern suburban workplace.

And this is how I find myself nodding in agreement as that girl from the tax department tells me about how she lost "five inches" after she started eating microwaved veggie burgers for breakfast, and listening intently as my coworker describes how much money he saves using "coupon theory", which he actually learned about in his MBA program--"You know those chocolate-flavored Teddy Grahams? Five boxes for $2.99 at Cub this week."

So you know, you get older and you start to realize that life is probably going to involve making some compromises, and that you'll probably be happier if you can convince yourself that your boss is "just fiscally conservative"...not the other kind that would require you to quit on principle.

All this makes me look at my various relationships and wonder who might be "settling" for me. "Shannon?" they might respond, when a real friend asks about their association with me. "I don't know...yeah. Work is pretty boring, and she's always up for making the drive to Pineda Tacos...so."

don't knock it till you try it: "treats" at work

I used to work as the assistant editor of a window treatment trade magazine. One day "Lisa," one of the advertising sales girls, barged into my cubicle.

"Hey Shannon, I made cookies. Do you want one?"

I didn't want one. "Okay," I said.

"They're pretty stale," she said, once I had one in hand. "They've been in my refrigerator for about a week, but I figured I'd just bring them in to work!"

This seemed wrong to me, but she probably had a point. I am frequently overcome with a sense of awe when I look at the quality and condition of the "treats" people bring in to my job, and am blown away by the speed at which they disappear. Congealed doughnuts from the Cub Foods bakery? Why not! Three-day-old banana bread from the United Way potluck? Don't mind if I do!

On the first day at my current job, my manager marked the festive occasion with a box of pastries. Since it was day one, I felt obligated to choke one down. However, just a couple days later, I was summoned to a conference room to celebrate a coworker's birthday. I declined the slice of cake. "Kathy," my manager, looked me up and down. "God, Shannon, trying to make the rest of us look bad? A little sugar wouldn't kill you!" I held my ground (but I think I've paid the price by becoming the object of her fashion scorn).

I guess what I'm saying is, you usually have to give in, or risk getting unwanted attention for being a "vegan" or "anorexic."

But in the case of Lisa's stale cookies, I thought it was safe to secretly decline. I waited until she was back at her desk, and then silently opened a desk drawer and placed the cookie inside. I knew I couldn't just throw the cookie in the basket under my desk--Lisa was the type who might actually check your garbage when you were out at lunch.

(I mean, this was the girl who, when her boyfriend--a fellow coworker at the magazine--refused to buy her a Christmas present [not forgot, refused], marched around the office, telling everyone about how she had been done wrong and encouraging all of us to hassle him about it. If my boyfriend refused to buy me a Christmas present, I'd be mortified--or more likely, would probably just reason that I didn't really deserve a present.)

So I was taking precautions. I figured that when she left for lunch I could sneak the cookie back to the break room and bury it in the communal trash can.

Then I overheard Lisa loudly explaining to a coworker how our desk drawers are actually removable. This coworker was switching desks, and Lisa was insisting that she didn't need to empty her desk drawers--she could simply pull them out and walk them over to the new desk!

A struggle ensued on the other side of the fabric walls as Lisa tried to demonstrate. "I don't think the drawers are meant to come out," said the coworker.

"No, they do!" said Lisa. "I know they do at Shannon's desk."

Before I could act, Lisa was back at my desk, frantically yanking away at my desk drawer--the one hiding her cookie--the cookie I refused to eat. She suddenly stopped yanking when she saw the cookie. She looked at me, first with confusion, then with something more like annoyance or low-grade hate. She shut the drawer and walked away.

Did I do wrong? Should I have choked the cookie down, knowing that somehow--Lisa being who she was--she would find out if I didn't consume it?

I don't think so. She wasn't my manager, so I wasn't obligated to appease her, and we were never going to be friends.

don't knock it till you try it: change your hair, change your life?

My friend Peter took issue with something I wrote in my recent post about self-loathing. (While cataloguing my various defects I made my reference to my "fatally flawed hair--neither curly nor straight".) "You can't say that," he said. "You've got great hair."

Thanks, Peter! The compliment I was fishing for has finally arrived.

But really, I was being sincere when I wrote that. Despite the fact that I have an excellent stylist (hats off to Thea) who thoroughly understands and appreciates the nature of my hair, I have to admit that I spend way too much time obsessing about the topic.

For example, the question of whether or not to cut bangs was one I debated for months. ("What would bangs 'say' about me? Will I morph into a 'Bettie Page girl'? Will I look like a Marianne Faithfull wannabe? Will they make my face look fat?")

Hair length is another subject of endless internal debate. ("Am I not truly a 'short hair' girl? Way cooler guys used to hit on me when I had short hair. What am I trying to prove by growing my hair long? Have I 'gone normal'?")

If I devoted as much time to, say, researching graduate school programs as I do to obsessing about my hair, I'd probably have an advanced degree by now (instead of plans to dye my hair back to its natural dark color, or maybe blue-black...god, I don't know!).

I think part of the deal with the hair is that some of us, no matter how rational we are in other parts of our life, have internalized the belief that changing our hair is a good way to signify some greater, more important life change. Show me a girl with a drastic new haircut and I'll show you a girl who just broke up with her boyfriend.

Likewise, whenever I start thinking about potentially uncomfortable topics ("Is a corporate writing job basically prostitution? How come I barely remember anything I learned in college? Have I squandered my youth?" etc. etc.) I often have the understandably human impulse to squash the feelings of anxiety that rise to the surface. Sometimes I opt for an ocean of wine or a night of panic-stricken insomnia. And sometimes all it takes is a google image search (Milla Jovovich, hair, layers) to keep those troubling thoughts at bay.

don't knock it till you try it: growing up Catholic

It's a funny thing, being raised Catholic. For many years, I didn't know anything different. I can't say that I "believed" in anything in particular, but the state of being Catholic (going to church every Sunday and zoning out, shuffling off to Catholic school, feeling guilty about everything) seemed somehow inevitable.

When I went to college, there were people there who grew up blissfully agnostic but mysteriously were interested in learning about all things religious. My friend "Joanna," for example, once asked me about the significance of the Virgin Mary in my upbringing as a Catholic. It was like she'd asked some gum-snapping, remedial-English sixth grader how to diagram a sentence. "Huh?" I think I responded, as my eyes glazed over. I couldn't imagine how she could be interested in something so incredibly tedious.

Because although I was raised Catholic through and through--I was baptized, delivered to church every Sunday, received my "first Communion" and was even "confirmed" into the church while in the second grade (confirmation is when you make the well-reasoned, grown-up decision to commit yourself to the Catholic church for life)--it's not like I ever really "believed" in it. When times got tough, for example, you wouldn't find me "praying to God" or anything. The fact of being a Catholic seemed like so much pomp and circumstance. I mean, my parents were probably going through the motions in order to "bring me up right" or something. And meanwhile, I was raising my eyebrows at the whole display. So what was the point?

After about 20 years of critical thought, I've determined that the point was guilt and sex--more or less in equal measures, and ideally mixed together uncomfortably. Like John Waters said, "Thank God I was raised Catholic, so sex will always be dirty." I think this is a generous and positive way at looking at the after-effects of Catholicism. In other words, there are some benefits, despite all the evidence to the contrary.

I remember being in junior high, and overhearing "Mary McDonald," one of the popular girls, earnestly explaining to someone or other how she would NEVER drink or smoke and certainly wouldn't "fool around" with any boys to prove any sort of point. Naturally, I didn't want to be anything like her. I made the mental note to define myself in opposition: "Drink, smoke and slut around."

Which is all well and good, but not necessarily when you're an awkward, unattractive and severely introverted young teenager. It was during these supremely uncomfortable years that I often reflected painfully upon the only "sex ed" conversation I ever had with my mother.

One day when I was nine years old, my mom pulled me aside for a brief sexual education discussion. "Shannon, men will say anything to get you into bed," said my mom, as my personality split into two. Her method for easing into this revelation is lost to me now, so traumatic was it to hear this at the age of nine. But she made her point--"Boys are out to get you! And it's up to you to protect your honor."

Seriously, nothing could have been further from the truth once I got "out there." I can't say that there was a steady stream of young men murmuring over-the-top compliments to lure me into the back of their Chevettes. They will say "anything"? How about finding one in the first place?

Even when I did manage to trick some young man into accompanying me into the woods next to the Minnehaha Creek, nothing was ever free and easy about it. Take my first boyfriend, for example. To my utter confusion, one romantic evening he suggested that he turn himself in for an an attempted (consensually attempted, I had assumed) sexual assault (??).

The wisdom of time has informed me that he was probably just trying to break up with me. But what if I'd agreed? Would he still be in jail, instead of designing video games in Seattle?

It's stuff like this that makes me doubtful about having kids of my own. Seriously, what ridiculous advice would I provide to my unborn daughter? "When he declares himself a rapist--call his bluff"?

To be safe, I'll probably need to send her to Catholic school, so she has something to rebel against. And I guess there you find the point of Catholicism--to have something to live in opposition to.

don't knock it till you try it: self-loathing

Today I am horrified by a variety of details related to my physical appearance, my intelligence and my basic abilities to perform the various administrative tasks that plague my daily existence.

For example, let's start with my cuticles. God, they are disgusting. Seriously, have you seen them recently? Have you noticed just how ragged they are? I don't even bite my nails or anything. They are just naturally that bad. I remember reading an article once about how to impress people during job interviews, and one woman was quoted about how she always checks a woman's manicure. Apparently, a woman with well-kept nails is a woman who deserves to be offered a job. Ravaged nails, on the other hand...clearly a sign of an unwell mind.

Manicure? Good lord.

Actually, I did get a manicure once. I casually entered the nail salon, as if "getting my nails done" was something normal for me. When I sat down across from the nail technician, she gave me a knowing look. "You don't really seem like a 'manicure' kind of girl," she said.

She was right--I'm not. But what did that mean? Was it a compliment? I tried to take it as a compliment. "Yes, I'm so confident and naturally alluring that I don't need to do stuff like this to feel okay about myself." Or did it mean something else--something else entirely? I could imagine her eying my never-laundered-since-I-bought-it-at-the-thrift-store sweater, thinking, "A little nail polish isn't going to distract from the mess that is you."

My own mind displays plenty of skill and creativity when cataloging my various faults (the ridiculous fit of my pants--"what was I thinking?", my fatally flawed hair--neither curly nor straight...), but when this is not enough, I've found that the universe will provide.

I can take it all the back to fourth grade, when I was systematically tormented by "Todd Womper" (whose real name I totally want to use, but I won't) for being hideous and unpopular, and who frequently declared that I would grow up to be a "hooker." (Which actually doesn't sound so bad right now.) I'm pretty sure he didn't mean it in the third-wave feminist, sex-positive kind of way.

Before the fourth grade, I was blissfully unaware of my own unattractiveness. The need to be physically acceptable to other people didn't even cross my mind! But this episode of harassment (well, a year-long "episode") was probably a blessing in disguise, really, in the way it helped instill a general mood of self-loathing that has encouraged me forever more to police my own appearance--reducing the need for others to monitor it for me.

But there will always be someone willing to lend a hand, right? Let's reflect for a moment on the complicated subject of other women.

I should start by saying that I like women; most of my friends are chicks. But I distrust women who don't like other women--the kind who declare that they "just get along better with men" (while pouting and jutting a hip) or who giggle and say, "I don't know, I guess I'm just intimidating to women!"

These are the ones who are dangerous--the ones who are always on hand to make a catty comment about your footwear ("Cute shoes, Shannon--I remember those from two summers ago!") or your makeup application techniques ("Have you EVER thought about using a foundation brush?").

Seriously, how are you supposed to respond to this kind of thing? I guess I could try to be empathetic--"Goodness, she's just as self-loathing as I am! We have so much in common..."--and give the offending commenter a break, right?

Or I could take solace in another cliche, that thing people always say in these situations--"She's just jealous." Is that so? As a perenially unpopular person in my youth, I don't buy that at all. "She just gets off on insulting people she perceives to be 'beneath' her." Okay, that makes sense.

Take, for example, "Nadine," the friend of this guy I once dated. When "Edgar" and I got together, Nadine was all excited about it. "God Shannon, I'm so impressed with Edgar, he's really changed," she said, pulling me aside earnestly at some party. "I mean, he used to be so concerned with being cool and having hot girlfriends. But he's totally gotten past that. I mean look at him now--he's dating you!"

I'm still trying to determine the best response to this sort of comment, which, if experiences my mom has had in recent years are any indication, are going to be lobbed my way well into my 60s. "Take the higher road" and say nothing? Back-handedly compliment in return? Sleep with her boyfriend? All are viable options, and yet none seem just right.

don't knock it till you try it: the death drive

"You know how when you're on the freeway, and you suddenly have that overwhelming urge to just yank the steering wheel to the left and crash across the median into oncoming traffic?"

My classmate stared at me. "No, I don't," she said.

This was in high school, and we'd been discussing something innocuous like our after-school jobs. Mine was at a coffee shop in south Minneapolis, and I had to drive super fast on crosstown in order to get there in time for my daily 4 p.m. shift. It was during these often-reckless drives that I started to notice my death-and-destruction fantasies. The most common one had to do with "crashing through New Jersey barriers" (I swear the fantasy preceded that Magnetic Fields song). Other times, a tire would blow as I went through a turn, sending me spiraling into a ditch. Once in awhile I'd be victimized by an idiot in a pickup truck who would cut my off, screeching to a stop in front of me, and as my car slammed into his my steering column would magnificently crash through my ribcage. (My Ford Probe didn't have an airbag.)

Maybe "fantasy" isn't the right word for these daydreams. But whatever you want to call them, they didn't seem so unusual to me. I certainly didn't think they might point to "deeper issues" (Was I secretly suicidal? Did I have a martyr complex?). On the contrary, they seemed relatively normal to me, and were oddly sort of comforting.

And as the years have passed, the fantasies have only become richer. For example, I was recently biking home in the dark on a busy street. The city had just laid down a bunch of loose gravel, so the route was a little treacherous. I could see it so clearly: my tires catching unfortunately on the gravel, sending me tipping over into traffic. My shoulder bashing into the street. A cell phone-talking blond driving her Malibu right over my neck...

Or this: I am on my lunch hour at my job, walking around a suburban lake (which of course has a highway running alongside it). As I trudge along, obsessing about the life choices (or lack thereof) that have brought me here, a passing Cadillac Escalade goes out of control, flying off the road and right into me, knocking me out of my shoes.

After all, we're all going to die someday, right?

No matter how emotionally stable I think I am at any given time, all it takes is a few moments of "mindfulness" about my thought patterns to make me realize that, more often than not, I'm actually plotting out my next horrific accident (hot tar burns and a severed Achilles tendon probably not being enough for one life). What I've been trying to figure out is--is that so bad?

The reaction of my high school classmate would indicate that it probably is. So for years I have largely kept these thoughts to myself. Then I read Foreskin's Lament by Shalom Auslander, and he described a very similar thing. The death fantasies I remember from his book primarily revolved around other people, but were very similar in tone. For example, he described being stuck in traffic when an ambulance went racing past him, off into the distance. Suddenly he was overcome with the knowledge that the ambulance was for his pregnant wife, who had just been involved in a horrible accident just up around the corner--the good life he thought he had, suddenly shattered for all time...

Reading this made me feel much better about things. After all, Shalom Auslander wrote a really great and funny book about self-loathing and death obsession--that girl from high school is probably assistant-managing a temp agency or something right now, totally feeling at ease with herself.

don't knock it till you try it: drinking obligations

Today's installment is from the archives, originally appearing to great acclaim in the Whittier Globe, sometime in 2006, I think. It's one of my favorites from the early "don't knock it" days. (In other words, I tried to write something new and original but it sucked, so this will have to do for now.)

don't knock it till you try it: keeping up with your drinking obligations

Today I woke up hungover for what I think was the 532nd time in my life. I first opened my eyes around 11:30 a.m.—way too early to be getting out of bed. I was super dehydrated, but the idea of staggering the seven feet from my mattress on the floor to the sink was overwhelming. I closed my eyes and passed out for another couple hours.

Like many other aimless young women with misdirected energy, I find myself, week after week, desperately attempting to keep up with my drinking obligations. If it’s not a happy hour for the latest person who quit their job, it’s a drinking dinner to discuss someone’s imminent divorce, or a rock show that requires the consumption of at least seven beers—because that time between bands is so tedious otherwise.

But recently, I seem to have lost the “drive” to keep up with my drinking obligations. In fact, in many cases, I am simply letting them slide. As a result, my social life has all but disappeared—which is really kind of depressing. So, in order to save my friendships and have something to write about here, I decided to once again devote myself to my drinking obligations. What follows is a review of a week spent “on the ball” (and off the wagon).

Monday: Although I managed not to drink anything the night before, I was pretty tired from restless sleep patterns due to the creeping dread that always overtakes me when the work week is about to begin. So I was already behind. I checked my messages mid-afternoon, and had one from my friend Jen. Monday is one of the few nights she has off, and she wanted to go out for dinner. Of course, I had to go—we’re usually on opposite schedules, and I hardly ever get to see her. I figured, since it’s a weeknight, I’d have “a couple glasses” of wine. Two bottles of wine, one Pernod, a beer, lots of expensive food and $120 later, I threw myself into bed, forgetting to set the alarm.

Tuesday: As if proofreading all day under fluorescent lights isn’t bad enough, this particular Tuesday I was under orders to “write copy” for a ShopNBC holiday postcard. I stuck it out until noon, at which point I lumbered out of the office to purchase something cheap and unhealthy for lunch. Poorly nourished, I came back to work and swallowed a Vicodin (left over from my Achilles tendon surgery). Painkillers are called that for a reason, you know. Did not venture out that evening.

Wednesday: Finally refreshed, I coolly and confidently accepted an invitation to a Whittier Globe “writers’ meeting” at the Red Dragon. I entered the establishment at 10:15 p.m., figuring we’d briefly discuss the upcoming issue, and I’d have “a drink or two.” Four vodka cranberrys later (cranberry has health benefits, I reasoned, and might negate some of the alcohol), I realized my contributions to the meeting were complete, and staggered back to my drafty studio apartment and the squirrels that live in my window.

Thursday: It had been awhile since I’d seen my childhood friend Katie (actually, since the night we went to Liquor Lyle’s when I had the flu, after which I couldn’t get out of bed for three days). We made plans to get together Thursday night for coffee or “maybe a drink.” We decided that coffee wouldn’t be wise (all that caffeine before bedtime is a no-no), so we arranged to meet at Café Barbette. We had lots of catching up to do, and stuck around for about four hours. I paced myself, however, and thus felt like a “together” young professional who deftly knows her limits. “Katie and I are totally growing up!” I thought to myself, with a mixture of pride and depression over behaving reasonably. This was a far cry from our college days, when we’d alienate each other’s male friends by starting fights with them at dorm parties. "Maybe I really can keep up with my drinking obligations," I thought to myself.

Friday: Though I was drained and exhausted all day Friday (despite keeping it together the night before, I didn't sleep at all, making all that temperance irrelevant), I knew there was no getting out of Friday night happy hour with Anne and Lindsay. Anne and I had both had recent birthdays, and this was to be our big celebration. I mean, I couldn’t skip my own party, right? We met at the downtown Grumpy’s for fried snack foods and beer. When a metal band started their soundcheck, we moved down the street to Maxwell’s. Eight hours later, after each of us had rebuked the drunken, smitten young man who separately proclaimed each of us “amazing” and “just what [he] was looking for,” I headed for home, confident that my friends still liked me.

Saturday: I think I told Jen I’d have breakfast with her, but I totally slept until one and didn’t hear my cell phone ringing. I should’ve called her back, but the effort was just too much for my swollen head. Then there were a couple rock shows that I’d been thinking of going to that night, but the idea of having to drink more Phillip’s vodka was enough to keep me away. And if you can’t tell, we have come full circle to the scene set at the beginning of this article.

So there you have it—a summary of a week of drinking obligations. Was it worth it? Uhh….well, the friends I saw have already called me about going out again this week! I’m doing way better at having friends now that I’ve re-resigned myself to bar life and stopped talking all that nonsense about “cutting down” and “working on my writing.” That stuff’s fine—if you want to go through life friendless and boring. My advice to all of you who have ambivalent feelings about your drinking obligations—suck it up, spend the $50 on the drinks and keep your friends happy. Or start hanging out with a group of pregnant ladies. It’s your choice.

don't knock it till you try it: office fashion

If there's one thing I hate about having a job, it's the clothes. Getting out of bed day after day to cobble together an uncomfortable, ill-fitting corporate costume is one of the mundane indignities that mars an otherwise-pretty-good life.

I just don't understand the point of it. As if seeing a bunch of thickening, middle-aged suburbanites dressed in suits instead of t-shirts will somehow distract from the brutal truth that we're all just self-serving, fearful animal-people, shuffling vacant-eyed through life.

One day I was complaining to my friend "Josie" about how oppressive office attire is, and declared my desire to work from home full time so I never had to hoist myself into another pair of sensible work pants ever again.

"You just need some nicer clothes!" she told me. "Even when I work from home, I always get at least a little dressed up. It's good for morale!"

I couldn't disagree with this more. I guess some people think that professional attire is going to make workers more productive. I suppose the idea is that playing "grown up" is going to trick us into thinking we're busy little junior executives and that we'll finish the report just that much faster.

Personally, I find dress codes condescending. I've worked in a bunch of different offices over the years, and all of them have addressed work-appropriate attire in their own way. From a low-standards code I could get behind ("All employees are expected to arrive at work in clean clothes--underwear on") to more repressive guidelines ("business professional" complete with photos illustrating dos and don'ts), I have operated under various regimes.

But never before I arrived at my current workplace had I encountered such virulent skirt bias.

A few days after starting my new job, I arrived at the office in a sweater, a black skirt, tights and boots. I didn't think twice about the outfit--it was the kind of thing I'd worn all the time at my previous corporate job.

Later that day I ran into my boss, "Kathy", in the hallway. She looked me up and down. "Well!" she said, as if she'd caught me in my hot pants and stripper heels. " I wish I had the legs to pull THAT look off!"

Ever since that I encounter I have to mentally brace myself anytime I wear not-pants in the workplace. For example, just recently I came to work in a generic brown shirt dress. Kathy spotted me immediately. "Cute dress, Shannon!" she said, setting me up. I said thanks. "You know, I have a similar one--from Ann Taylor, one of their cheaper things. I would never wear it to work, though."

I realize that interactions like this are meant to put me in my place--to indicate in no uncertain terms that I am expected to return to the office the next day in a lady-politician pantsuit. But stuff like this just encourages me. I get a juvenile thrill when I see Kathy wince at the sight of my bare knees or when her face falls after I inform her that I found the sweater she admired draped over a parking meter in downtown Minneapolis and that it was "only a little dirty."

don't knock it till you try it: bike rage

Yesterday, while riding my bike to my parents' house, I got stuck behind two middle-aged female bikers. I was on the Minnehaha Creek bike path, which is, in theory, a two-way bike lane. Of course these slow-moving ladies were riding side-by-side, preventing me from easily passing them.

I realize I could have barked, "On your left!" and cut around them rudely, but I hate it when fake-pro bikers in their Clif Bar-branded bike shirts do that, so I decided to "do unto others" and just slow down and wait it out. It was only about half a block until my turn off--there was no urgent need for me to pass them.

I can't say that I was totally Zen about the wait. Their self-absorbtion was evident as they pedaled along slowly, oblivious to their surroundings, like the lumbering mothers in the grocery store who stand gazing vacantly in front of the pasta sauce, hands on hips as their cart blocks the aisle indefinitely.

I had plenty of time to listen to bits and pieces of the biking ladies' conversation ("Yes, so Alan works for 20 hours one week, scheduled, and then the other 20 hours are on his own time--evenings or weekends, if he wants, you know, flex time?") and to take in their Midwestern lady bike uniforms (the cautious bike helmets, the sensible mauve capris, the hiking sandals).

Finally we reached the intersection. Despite the fact that the traffic light was green, the women came to a halt, continuing to block the way. Since I wanted to turn right, I carefully edged around the women. I swear I wasn't a jerk about it. Then, when I'd ridden about 15 feet away from them, I hear one of them say, "Well, I think WE'RE just going to obey the rules over here."

Despite my naturally repressed nature, this "pushed a button," so to speak. Of course they would say something like that when I was far enough away to hear their snippy little comment, but probably too far away to bother confronting them about it. Typical midwestern passive-aggression.

I slowed down and looked back at them, rolling my eyes dramatically and making an ugly, sarcastic face that might have involved me sticking out my tongue. I considered turning around to go address their complaint in person (I've done this once before in response to a different condescending comment--it was strangely exhilerating), but I held back. It took all my resources not to flip them off or invite them to "blow me" (two knee-jerk responses that I suppressed).

Then I biked on to my parents house. I didn't mention the incident to them. (If it's even a little negative, then we don't talk about it.) My mom and I had plans to get dinner at a local Mexican restaurant. While we waited for our server, a vaguely familiar-looking guy came over to the table. "Susan? Shannon? Hi, it's 'Dave Semmler'!" It was the father of this guy I went to Catholic grade school with, whose parents I had known fairly well, back then.

We made idle chit chat for a few minutes. "I'm sure 'Mindy' will come over to say hi when she gets here--she's biking with a friend."

A few minutes later Mindy arrived, who I supposedly hadn't seen in 15 years. "Hi, Susan! Oh...Shannon. Hi." She looked at me, and I looked at her. It was a classic woman-to-woman disdain festival. A Curb Your Enthusiasm moment. There she was in her mauve capri pants and hiking sandals, her helmet in hand, her law-abiding friend behind her. "It's SO good to SEE you," she said in that totally dishonest manner that only women employ. I felt a rush of adrenaline. I could do it--I could make reference to the bitchy biking encounter! I could alienate everyone gathered around our table in faux-fellowship! But I lost my nerve. I agreed it was GREAT to see her, too. I'm not proud of giving in.

don't knock it till you try it: no alcohol, no raw foods

Every now and then I remember the dietary advice I received from my acupuncture practitioner, and guiltily try to follow it in the days leading up to an appointment. This is what I've been doing for the last week or so.

The guidelines don't really promote a hedonistic approach to life. The list of "things to avoid" includes the following:

• Coffee
• Alcohol
• Sugar
• Dairy products
• Salty foods
• Spicy foods
• Raw foods
• Iced beverages
• Nicotine and other stimulants

"This isn't going to be so bad," I told myself. I went out and bought cabbage, broccoli and beets, and sipped room-temperature water while Nick drank the wine I had purchased only two days before deciding to commit to the project of deprivation.

I already knew that most of friends were booze-crazed, but the point was driven home when the daily invitations to "go out for drinks" started pouring in. "I don't need to drink to have fun," I said to myself.

I met a few friends at Joe's Garage during "gay pride" to prove my point. They ordered drink after drink, without a care in the world. "This is great," I thought. I'm totally not going to have to pay a big tab at the end of the night."

But the evening wore on. "What am I doing here?" I started to wonder after a couple hours. My friends seemed to be having fun. But without the task of drinking to distract me, I noticed that my thoughts were getting increasingly existential. "Is this all there is?" I asked myself as a girl in a sequined miniskirt, stripper heels and a clown wig walked by.

Not-drinking-at-bars wasn't working out too well for me, so the next time a friend suggested drinks, I countered with an offer to meet for lunch. We met at an Italian restaurant in the suburbs, near our corporate offices. "Do you want to share the caprese salad?" she asked.

"Um, no..." I said. I explained that I was following some Chinese medicine dietary advice, and that I was probably going to order something really bland that no one would want to share. "Karen" asked why I wouldn't have the salad. "Well, I'm trying to avoid dairy products, and raw foods.."

"You're avoiding raw foods?" she looked at me like I was crazy. Everyone knows raw foods are like the healthiest thing ever! I felt like I'd just told her that I'd joined a cult. "Don't share any more details," I told myself.

Conclusion: When I eat healthier food and avoid alcohol, I feel better physically. But without the cloud-like effects of booze it's so much easier to notice all the horror in the mudane details of daily life. Also, don't try to explain why raw foods are "bad" according to Chinese medicine; it's just not worth the scorn.

don't knock it till you try it: google-stalking your ex-boyfriends

Maybe it was the crushing boredom, or the sleep deprivation, or just my essentially pathetic existence, but today I decided it might be "fun" to google stalk my ex-boyfriends.

I started with my first boyfriend, the gamer I dated when I was 15. At the time, I didn't realize he was a gamer--I thought he was cool, and that I was lucky and privileged that he thought I was worthy of accompanying him to the Perkins in Maplewood for three-hour games of Monopoly with his best friend, that guy in the black jeans who worked at Circuit City.

Anyway, this first boyfriend of mine was super into computers, so I assumed he would be all over the Internet. "What does he look like now?" I thought to myself, all excited. "Is he devastatingly attractive, or has he devolved into hideousness?" So I googled his name, but nothing. Evidently, someone with the same name is an "American criminal" who killed his girlfriend and her lover, and who "was captured three days later outside a liquor store in Shreveport, Louisiana where he was using a pay phone while intoxicated." This was interesting, but told me nothing about my first boyfriend and whether or not he regrets the way he left for college and just totally stopped calling me.

So my first attempt was disappointing, but I was undeterred. I looked up the juvenile delinquent who worked with me at the bagel shop and whom I briefly "dated" during the summer when I was 16 and rollerbladed into hot tar. Those results were fruitless, as well. But in this case I didn't much care, because I was pretty ambivalent about that dude and wasn't even fazed when he quit the bagel shop, moved out of his foster home and completely disappeared.

I decided to change my focus to college. I stared at the screen and felt embarassed. Could anything that happened in college be interpreted as "dating"? Is it a sign that things are getting serious when a dude you've been drinking with makes out with your roommate and then tries to insult you by labeling you a "modernist"?

I looked up this guy, feeling hopeful that image results would provide evidence of alcoholic bloating and general decay. A tiny thumbnail of a totally pretentious-looking picture from Facebook came up--that must be him!--but when I clicked on it my workplace filters informed me that I was not allowed to look at something that had to do with "Dating/Relationships".

I started to feel stupid. Why am I bothering with this? I wondered. None of these guys would even think of google-stalking you, I scolded myself. And most girls probably have way more people to stalk! I lamented, feeling old and unpopular.

Conclusion: Google-stalking is largely unsatisfying, and has the added benefit of reminding you of your many mistakes, your lost youth and your inevitable death.

don't knock it till you try it: sweating in public

Tonight I attended my first Bikram yoga class at a studio in Minneapolis on Lyndale and 28th. I was a little on the fence about "hot yoga." I met someone recently who had taken a class, and she was turned off by what she described as the "boot camp" atmosphere and the constant urgings to "lock your knees!" which she interpreted to be an order to hyperextend--and everyone knows hyperextension is bad, right???

Anyway, there was also the issue of the heat. Various people told me they'd gone to a Bikram class and thought for sure they were going to vomit, pass out or weep uncontrollably, but these were not my chief concerns. Even the prospect of sweating profusely in front of others sounded reasonably okay. My main concern was with the almost-necessity of wearing shorts.

I like my legs fine until they are sticking out of a pair of sporty shorts or encased in tights and little else, a la ballet class. At these times I develop a serious case of body dysmorphic disorder (similar to the eating disorder I develop in crowded cafeterias that drives me to cower in the farthest corner, obsessing about the horrors of eating in public). Would I be able to get over my leg phobia enough to stare into a mirror while balancing on my toes and then squatting obscenely, dripping sweat from my stricken, bright-red face? It turned out the answer was yes.

At first, the level of heat seemed okay. And then suddenly, it was oppressive. I looked around the room, and virtually everyone was dripping just as much sweat as me. Were their faces quite as beet red? Perhaps not. However, virtually everyone was dressed up in little more than underwear. I congratulated myself for squelching my neurotic tendencies and wearing the damn shorts. Anything more covered up would have been excruciating.

I must say, however, that Bikram yoga is not for the scent-sensitive. If you thought the crowd at the 9/11 conspiracy documentary smelled bad, just wait until you shut yourself in a room full of 20 people sweating profusely. You know that embarrassing moment in the conference room at your job when you realize that the scent of last night's gin gimlets or garlic-marinated whatever is filling the entire room? Well, it's like that at a Bikram class, times twenty.

But overall, the class was good! It was definitely super hard. There was a lot of bending backwards, which was tough on my arthritic, 80-year-old neck. But other poses were just the right kind of challenging.

After the class, the instructor loudly congratulated me, and only me, on my "way to hang in there!" performance (I was the only person taking the class for the first time). This was a little embarrassing--I really hate being the center of attention. But it was okay, and a nice, super buff young woman bought me a popsicle and chatted with me for awhile after class.

I also confronted the instructor about the joint "locking" business. "Is the idea that we're supposed to hyperextend?" I asked, suspicious. He insisted that no, of course not, hyperextension can cause injury, etc. "Locking" really means "straightening."

So there you have it: Bikram yoga. Try it if you like intense physical experiences involving heat. Get over yourself and wear shorts. And straighten your knees, don't hyperextend them.

don't knock it till you try it: Vietnamese beer

Well, it's been almost two months since I returned from Vietnam, and I've been incredibly lazy about documenting the trip. But what's possibly even more disturbing than this lack of motivation is the fact that it's been almost two months since I returned from Vietnam, and I have still not recovered from the Vietnamese beer.

You see, the beer in Vietnam is plentiful, and it is cheap. In general, a beer costs about 50 cents. An "expensive" beer (an extra large bottle in a tourist trap) might cost as much as $1.25. Beer is basically as cheap as water. But it's not water--it's alcoholic, and it's vacation, and that means it's time to have fun! In other words, we pretty much drank Vietnamese beer all day long.

If you go to Vietnam, you will encounter many brands of beer--333, Saigon, Festival, Huda, Tiger, Hue Beer and Biere Larue are a few that come to mind. And if you are like me, you will sample them all.

I went to Vietnam thinking that it was going to be such a "healthy" trip, with all that vegetable-laden, dairy-free food and all that time spent frolicking on the beach and riding bikes around in the terrifying Vietnamese traffic.

But I was wrong. I came home and was immediately faced with the fact that I had "outgrown" virtually all of my pants. I guess that girl at Phuoc An tailor was right--only empire waists for me.

don't knock it till you try it: custom-made clothing in Hoi An

I recently returned from a trip to Vietnam. And while there were plenty of more "intense" things that I tried before knocking while I was there, I've decided to write my first entry about something relatively innocuous--the touristy activity of getting custom-made clothing in the town of Hoi An.

Before leaving on my trip, one of my friends expressed feelings of envy--she'd been dreaming of traveling to Vietnam for years, and she really wanted to get made-to-measure clothing in Hoi An.

Of course I had no idea what she was talking about, since true to form, I had barely researched the trip, preferring instead to learn about my destination from the guidebook in the hours before landing in a new place. For me, a trip never seems real until I'm in the air/on the road/whatever. Why bother researching a place and getting all excited just to have my hopes dashed when I never actually get there? This attitude seems to stem from years of travel-frustration and is obviously self-defeating, but I still have trouble reading the necessary travel books.

Eventually I wised up and started researching the trip, even setting up a meeting with my friend Kelly who traveled extensively in Vietnam a few years ago. Kelly drew me a map, told me about some of the better destinations and explained the correct pronunciation of "thank you" in Vietnamese (nothing like what I'd been "learning" from the Pimmsleur language CDs).

We talked about many things Vietnamese, including the custom-made clothing in Hoi An. I asked her if it was worthy of all the hype. Kelly gave me a "this is between you and me" kind of look. "It's crap," she said. But she admitted that the process of getting something made "just for you" is kind of fun--just that I shouldn't be expecting, like, couture on the cheap.

When we arrived in Hoi An, I was a little on the fence about the clothing. I figured I would eventually cave in to the very persistent tailor shop workers and get a dress made "for fun," but I wasn't obsessed with the idea.

Hoi An is a pretty little town, but the adorableness is somewhat tempered by the overwhelming, everywhere-ness of the tailoring scene. "Cloth shops" are crammed in next to each other all over the place, with the occasional restaurant or historic building breaking up the steady flow. Meanwhile, shop employees go to great lengths to lure you into their storefronts.

For example, on our second day in Hoi An Nick and I were accosted by a young woman on a bicycle moments after we left our hotel. Naturally, she wanted us to come with her to her shop to get some clothing made. Like a dutiful tourist, I had read my guidebook which warned the reader about various scams involving young ladies on bicycles luring you into shops, but I kept my mouth shut. Nick hates it when I demonstrate my cautious, sensible, even-keeled midwestern qualities--like when I refused to exchange my money with the old lady in the airport who promised us a better exchange rate if we'd simply "go over there" to a discreet corner with her.

So there we were in the "Lucky Number Cloth Shop", both of us getting measured for clothing we didn't really want. I gave up and asked for a simple cotton halter dress; Nick got a shirt. The girl who lured us in thanked us profusely for coming with her, and assured me that all her seams are double-stitched, everything is really good quality, etc. etc. Her shop is much better and cheaper than the shops affiliated with hotels--they get commissions! And so on.

After that, we submitted to the force of the tailoring pressure and decided to "test the waters" with two more shops. Next we went to Phuoc An--the shop associated with our hotel, getting all those sneaky commissions! But we had to go, because I really wanted to go back home and say that I got my dress at Phuoc An Tailor (F#$% Ann Taylor).

I paged through several books of photos, searching for a dress. Although it seems like it should be fun to look through a bunch of fashion magazines and then point to something and demand, "Make this for me!", for someone as indecisive as me, it was stressful. Eventually I settled on something relatively simple (sleeveless, v-neck, fitted waist), picked out a fabric and got out of there.

By the time we got to our final destination, Dong Phuong, I was getting fatigued. I took the boring, easy way out, finding a picture of a dress that looked suspiciously like one I already own and asking for it in red. And that was it for day one of custom-made clothing.

The next day we had to head back to all three shops, making the rounds to check out our new clothes. We started at Lucky Number. I tried on my dress--it fit, I guess, but it didn't look very good. Actually, it might have looked a little stupid. I checked the seams--they were not double-stitched, as the proprietress had promised--sure to fall apart after wearing for more than a couple hours.

Now, one of the "benefits" of this whole process is that the customer has the right to send a garment back for alterations. I could have pointed out the shoddy craftsmanship and the stupid cut of the dress and demanded to have it fixed. But I didn't want to deal with it, so I just accepted it as it was. Nick's shirt was pretty bad, too, but like me, he didn't have the energy to make an issue of it.

Then is was on to Dong Phuong. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the dress they made was good! It was a little too big, but the girls in the shop immediately set about to pinning it up to alter it. A couple hours later the dress returned, fitting perfectly. It was so great that I ordered another one! And Nick spontaneously ordered a suit (and he hates suits), which they somehow assembled in six hours. It turned out great, too.

Finally we went to Phuoc An to pick up the last of the stuff. The fabric of the dress was what I'd chosen, but everything else was different. The dress the salesgirl presented was a billowing thing with a scooped neck and an empire waist--way different from the sleek, simple thing in the picture. I tried to explain this to my sales girl. She smiled and shook her head, indicating that I did not want the dress that I had asked for. I tried to explain that I did. Then she patted me on the stomach, saying, "No, no! You not show this..." and then I realized that she had given me the tent dress for my own good--so that no one would have to be subjected to my giant, American gut.

Verdict: The shopping thing can be stressful if you aren't type A and you don't know what you want. It can also cause western traveler guilt when you walk down side streets and alleys at night and see all the little sweatshops cranking out designer knock-offs for plus-sized white tourists. And very thin Vietnamese women might mock your American heftiness, which could damage your self-esteem. But if you visit this town and want to take part, I would recommend Dong Phuong! But not the other two places.

Don't knock it till you try it: Lesley Gore live

Monday was my first day back from Vietnam, and in my jet-lagged state I saw in the Star Tribune that Lesley Gore, one of my favorite "girl group" singers, was performing that night at the Dakota in downtown Minneapolis.

I was exhausted and didn't really want to do anything except go home, drink wine and eat nachos, but the rational part of my brain told me I'd be disappointed in myself if I didn't drive straight to the venue after work to secure a $40 ticket to this show of the decade. Lesley Gore songs were an important part of my early music education. When I was about eight years old, my parents bought me a Fisher Price turntable which they installed in our cold, damp basement in south Minneapolis.

Without an older sibling to guide my musical choices, I relied on my dad. Every now and then he'd take me to Great American Music in Bloomington to purchase 45s. Some of the songs that I remember from this era (my "only child in the basement" era) are "Wishin' and Hopin'", "Runaround Sue" and of course, "It's My Party" and "Judy's Turn to Cry."

This early indoctrination instilled a deep appreciation of all that 60s girl group stuff. In my advanced age I now find "It's My Party" to be kind of annoying, but I truly love "Maybe I Know" ("Maybe I know that he's been a-cheatin'/Maybe I know that he's been untrue/But what can I do???") Indeed--I mean really, what can you do? 

Anyway, so I like Lesley Gore, and I rushed down to the Dakota promptly at 5:30 when the box office opened. I'd never been there before (has anyone?), so I didn't know that's it's basically a restaurant and if you buy a single ticket they're going to match you up with another single person with whom you will have to make stilted conversation for what seems like hours. No one stands around like they do at normal rock shows, so there's no escape.

I approached my seat at the two-person cocktail party feeling like a clumsy call girl. My "date" was a gentleman who seemed to be about my dad's age, or older (mid-60s). I was by far the youngest person in the place, and "Ed" pointed this out. "You're too young to remember Lesley Gore," he said. I explained the thing with my dad and the 45s. "Oh," he said. We were off to a great start.

As a personal challenge (I'm socially retarded), I attempted to make conversation about music. He was polite, but not super talkative, and I noticed that he didn't waste much time making reference to his "girlfriend." This made me paranoid. "Does he think I'm hitting on him?" I wondered. Everyone knows that girls only reference "the boyfriend" when they're trying to rebuff the advances of some pushy dude.

Maybe I was reading into it too much. Luckily, Lesley came on soon, and I was relieved of my small talk duties.

Lesley kicked off the night with a song I'd never heard--probably one of her more recent songs that could only be described as "adult contemporary." I started to feel grateful that I hadn't pressured any of my friends to come with me. (This feeling was confirmed later when she performed a "jazzy" version of that Bryan Adams song "Everything I Do...I Do it For You.")

But this is starting to sound catty. Lesley was actually really good! But there is something a little off-putting about seeing someone who looks like your mom's stylish-but-practical best friend belting out teenager pop hits from the 60s. "Maybe I should have stayed home and watched this stuff on youtube..." I started to think. But then again, what was I expecting? 

The audience loved it, however. White women in the sixties "shimmied" self-consciously in their chairs. Older men in button downs and sweaters folder their arms across their chests, occasionally tapping a foot. All in all, it was much like the scene at an indie rock show, but older.

One funny thing happened--during "It's My Party" Lesley went out in the audience to accost a particularly jubilant table of 50-something women. When the chorus came around, she shoved the microphone into the face of one of the women. (I hate it when performers do this; it's so embarrassing! But I guess it only happens when you're at a Monkees reunion show or something.) Anyway, the woman couldn't sing at all. "Well, you look good, but you sure can't sing!" said Lesley. 

After the show, I saw the bad singer in the bathroom. "Oh, you're the singer," said one of the other women in line. There was an uncomfortable pause. "Yeah," said the bad singer. "Lesley said I had a bad voice. But she apologized later and said she didn't mean it."