Hey Stalkers – I won’t be in town for this, but you should go anyway

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Hi loves,

I’m unfortunately going to be out of town for this event, but all the more reason you should go.  That way we’ll have something to talk about upon my return aside from my experience with trying to use the subway system and failing.

If you’ve followed the blog for long, you’ll know we’re Charlie White fans.  If you haven’t, you should have been!  Or at least you should have figured out the Charlie White connection.

Please go to this and tell me EVERYTHING about it.  I want to feel like I was there.

Thanks! – Shan

Let’s Reflect. Self Reflect.

Genius. Insane. Sad. All words that have been used to describe Listen Bitch, Inc.  So who are Shan and I? What is so right and so wrong with us at the same time? Why is it that we find an insane genius in the saddest things, a hilarious pleasure in irony, and confidence only in the face of self-debasement? To deconstruct the blog briefly, let’s take a look at the “Listen, bitch” sentence construction. “Listen” is commanding and asserts self worth and power. “Bitch” is demeaning to the listener, a put down, essentially another way to reinforce power and self assertion.  And, “Listen bitch,” is generally followed by a statement of insecurity woven into irony. “Listen bitch, this is the best I can do” and “Listen bitch, for me this is sober” are prime examples of this complex potpourri of security and insecurity, sadness and humor, acceptance and abandon. The very act of blogging is to assume self worth, to assert one’s voice.  Yet, Shan and I share a blog, asserting little more than an “I’ll go if you go” or “I want to if you want to” mentality.  Our confidence is rooted in dependence, our material in chagrin and/or humiliation, our humor in sadness, and our meaning in the banal and trite. We dress up in costumes for performance art nights on the town, yet dance alone in stairwells. We talk loudly about inappropriate subjects in public, yet cower in ordinary conversation. We co-own our own co., the communal “our” conflating with the autonomous “own.” We say things like, “this is amazing…and horrible” or “I’m just kidding… not kidding,” and mean every word.  And, I can deconstruct and analyze it and still not really fully understand it .  Is it paradoxical? Perhaps. Impossible? Certainly not.  Listen bitch, what you call pathetic/horrible/humdrum/lunacy, I call amazing/hilarious/fascinating/genius.

xoxo Janice

Bridging the gap

Listen, we keep talking about how even though we are career women, Janice and I have regressed to mall dwelling, party hopping, text lingo using teeny boppers, but I realized that we’re not exploring the other end of the spectrum.

Sure, my boss overuses ‘lol’ in his texts and my mom said “jay-kay” to me the other day, but what about the pre-pre-teens getting in on the action?

My mom always told me that you become a teenager at 16 (maybe she was ‘infantilizing’ me a bit.)  I can make a stretch and say that one’s first year of high school (9th grade = 14-15 years old) marks teenager-dom.

And listen, maybe I’m old, maybe we were this in tune with culture (ok, I’m sure I wasn’t, but maybe other kids were) and I’m just at the point in my life where I falsely claim “When I was young…things were pure!  When I was young we weren’t listening to that RAP music (ok, actually I was).”

And yes, it’s much sadder to see a woman kick off her heels and rock to Taylor Swift than it is to see a 5 year old perform the entire routine of “Single Ladies” by Beyonce, but it’s important to point out (as Janice pointed out to me earlier) that the teen years are glamorized in both directions.  That is to say that not only are WE donning Urban Decay and crushing on Justin Beiber (ok, maybe Janice isn’t) but little tiny girls are too.

Where am I going with this?  Really, I just wanted to introduce a song (excerpt) to you (produced by a once 15 year old, now 21 year old, who may or may not have been mentioned on this blog “Lawrence Grey” in collaboration with “Creative Space Kids” [my next dating pool...jk...lol...nbd])

Keep in mind that these ‘ladies’ are 8 years old.  LOVE IT.

Just listen up.

For Lawrence Grey’s “real shit” please visit: lawrencegrey.bandcamp.com

xoxo

OMG TOTES FORGOT

Totes forgot to upload part 2!  Like, we actually made it to the mall, despite my reckless driving in the rain and then things got REAL.

OH EM GEE by Janice

The modern condition is to be mired in hyperbole.  Everything is such a big deal. The post-modern dilemma was characterized by the pervasion of meaninglessness.  The advent of atomic warfare had everyone thinking that meaning was even less than a human projection or construction; meaning was merely a veil over one’s eyes, an illusion. After all, we’re just going to blow ourselves up, anyway, right? Nietzsche’s “God is dead” became “Dead is God.” Meaning was no longer an idealized thing of the past; meaning became trivialized and was debased as a child’s unlaundered security blanket or the threads that make up the emperor’s new clothes. God became equated with death, with absence, with nothingness.

But, the 90s weren’t satisfied with this existential mentality (refer to Britney Spears’s “You Drive Me Crazy” or Kurt Cobain singing about anything) and, thus we began to see the world as imbued with a whole lot of meaning – for better or for worse.  We began to permanently see the world through adolescent eyes, expressed in italicized words and hyperbolic idioms. After all, if we’re going to blow ourselves up, warm the globe to a crisp, or try to catch a ride on Haley’s comet, in the meantime, every little thing must REALLY matter.  A lot. “God is Dead” has become “Oh my God!”

“Oh My God! Did you see that dress? It’s tragic.”

“OMG! People do not know how to drive.”

“Oh My God, you are too funny!”

How anyone can be too funny or how a wardrobe choice can be tragic is beyond me.  Or is it? First words out of my mouth this morning? “Oh my God, I really need to blog.” So maybe finding life meaningful has its upsides? Maybe crying over spilled milk is just fine, or screaming “Oh My God!” over a broken nail is just dandy, or sleeping in a tent for four days just to catch a glimpse of Taylor Lautner’s squinty eyes and imagining they’re directed your way is just great.

Sorry Nietzsche and Sartre, but teenage girls  coupled with raging hormones and the accessibility of the world wide web has resurrected G-O-D with O-M-G.

OMG! God is back (and you can find him at our local retail store, on a bad hair day, in the generic love song playing on 102.7 Kiss FM, where anything is on sale, and also pretty much everywhere else).

I’m sorry

-Shan

Most mornings I wake up and immediately assess the apologies that need to be made.  I guess I do that all day as well, Sorry I only waved hello and didn’t hug you when we saw each other earlier, I was really tired or Sorry my email came off as salty, I was on the other line when I sent it…etc, but mornings after evenings out are the worst.

Sure, I think this is normal enough if you wake up dizzy and sore-throated from a long night of drinking tequila and/or champagne. It’s worse when you can’t remember what things called for an apology. This bruise, did I fall on the ground? If so, did I knock someone over on the way down? The faint memory of crying and the swollen eyes to further point to a sob session mid-party. Who do I need to contact and what for?

I like to make jokes about it, to mask my absolute insecurity about what may or may not have happened. A facebook status the morning after a party:  “I’m sorry to everyone if I hurt you in anyway last night. Dan, sorry I thought it was funny to pretend to fondle you, Ted, sorry if I knocked you down mid dance move, Jess, sorry if I locked you out of the bathroom for hours while I sobbed. JK! LOL. NBD.”

The apologies can become dangerous for so many reasons. A public mass apology can be misinterpreted by those not involved, thinking I’m actually referring to heinous acts.  If something serious happened that your mind has yet to locate in your memory, the mass apology comes off as flippant.

Individual apologies are potentially more damaging to relationships.  Sometimes they bring up forgotten moments which should have been left as such.  They also come off as insecure (which they often/usually/pretty much always are).  You apologize in order to be forgiven or in order to be told there is nothing to be worry about.  You:  I’m sorry I kissed you, I was a bit out of sorts.  Him: I was the one who kissed you. OR You: I have a sinking feeling I owe you an apology for something last night.  I just don’t remember much.  Your friend:  Are you kidding?  You were so much fun!  Sigh of relief.

The texts can also be used as conversation starters or funny ways to make sure that everyone knows that you realize you aren’t perfect.  I’m sorry none of my jokes were funny.  Those are ok.  Worthless, but usually not damaging.

It’s rare that I really need to send an apology text.  A nice “thank you for driving me home” text is totally appropriate a morning after a party, or “I had a blast last night.  I’m a bit embarrassed by my unusual dance moves, but I had a lot of fun at your house!”  Ok, that’s not awful, but the compulsive sorrys need to end.  The worst thing I usually do is embarrass myself making too many self indulgent jokes, dancing too emphatically, stuffing ice-cubes down Janice’s pants, tripping over parking spikes and scuffing my face on the pavement (while sober, mind you), lighting the wrong side of a cigarette, etc. Apologies for this behavior are only really owed to myself, but the transference of embarrassment seems to dull the humiliation on my part.

Moral of the story: Apologize for nothing. Leave the pathetic apologies for me. Or something like that.  Oh, and if you really have to apologize, grow up and dial a number, bitches.

Don’t Ask Don’t Tell

By Janice Jones

OK, so this title may be slightly if not entirely misleading, but it’s as clever as it gets for the subject “Asking for a Raise,” yet another useful topic that was somehow not covered between Foucault and The Postmodern Dilemma in the liberal arts undergraduate education.

Little did I know, this would be one of the major life hassles to conquer between getting a job and getting a face-lift. I learned it the hard way, now you can learn it the easy way (from me).

Lesson 1: Convince your boss that you are lovable and irreplaceable.

You: Hi Boss, we need to talk. To start, I’d like to say that everyone here really loves me and you’ll never find someone as awesome as me again for the position.

Your Boss: Are you quitting?

Lesson 2: Make your boss worry about what will happen if you quit.

You: No, I’m not quitting, but how much would that suck? 

Your Boss: I’m not really sure. What is this conversation about exactly?

Lesson 3: Threaten to leave the job if your demands are not met.

You: This is about you giving me a raise or facing the consequences.

Your Boss (panicked): How much do you want?!

Lesson 4: Reinforce Lesson 1, ask for way too much, and then immediately accept the next offer.

You: Being that I’m so lovable and irreplaceable, I think you should give me raise from $12/hr to $20/hr.

Your Boss: How about $14/hr?

Lesson 5: Don’t forget your manners.

You: Thanks, boss.

Listen bitch, asking for a raise ain’t easy. But when you have accessories to purchase and a cat identity on Second Life with a gambling problem to support, it’s worth it.