Thursday, December 27, 2012

If Only In His Dreams


What this story needs is a photo and I'm sorry to say I don't have one. As soon as I saw them I knew I needed a picture.

Katia had been missing for over two weeks. Her frantic, breathy, voicemail message coupled with her thick polish accent was difficult to decipher. "So... sorry," was all I understood.

Katia is my housekeeper. In a recent blog post, Confessions of a Sexy Housekeeper, I contemplate whether or not she is a prostitute. The circumstances surrounding my suspicions are presumptuous at best. True, she is a slender, fair skinned, European beauty who's lips have doubled in volume since her employment, but I have no evidence other than the fact that she disappears from time to time, is a member of SugerDaddy.com, and drives a BMW 3 series.

Katia finally surfaced last week. And with her came the explanation.

I was six days post nipple surgery. I could barely get out of bed. When I explained my dilemma to Katia, she quickly confessed that she too was recovering from surgery.

And then she showed me hers.

All I could think of was...... Must get picture.  Must relay latest development to Boris.


Illustration by Sarah Mcllwaine

Boris is my talented, successful, single, handsome, freakishly tall, blue eyed friend whose only downfall is his attraction to emotionally unavailable blondes.

And I am Boris's Wing Woman. My job is to round up as many beauties as I can, woo them with tales of Boris's charms and then introduce them to my Adonis acquaintance.

Boris and I first met in a park over five years ago. It was a brisk, fall morning when he introduced himself. New to the neighborhood, he wore flip-flops, a beat-up patriots baseball cap, a lucky brand t-shirt and light weight sweat pants. He carried a home brewed cup of coffee - an unusual sight considering that Starbucks was less than a block away.

We were both walking our dogs - his a beautiful golden retriever and mine an adorable, 5 pound shih-tzu. Both appeared disinterested in each other and annoyed by our chatter.

To outsiders, our friendship seems mismatched but to us, we were well-suited. Boris was the first person I contacted when I was delivered the devastating blow, "you have cancer." And I knew he would respond appropriately.

"I have cancer," said I.
"I'm coming over," said Boris.

My idea of beauty includes more than the physical appearance. Women worthy of Boris must be kind, truthful, self-confident and come with a minimal amount of emotional baggage.

Despite what Boris may think, Katia does NOT fit that description so I have done my best to keep them apart. And yet, when she showed me her new breasts all I could think of was... Boris is going to love these!

"Do you think they're too big?" She asked.

Oddly, my husband and I had just caught an HBO Katie Morgan, post implant, special - so when I say, they are HUGE by porn star status, I know what I'm talking about.


"No," I lied, knowing that this is what Boris would want me to say.
"I don't like them," confessed Katia.
"Don't be silly," I assured her, "they're lovely!"

It's not every day that a women exposes her bare breasts to me. And I knew Boris would be disappointed if I didn't at least TRY to get a picture of them. So I showed her mine. Then I showed her pictures of mine in various stages - from my sunken, horrifically bruised, post mastectomy picture, to my most recent.

My implants are almost double the size of Katia's but without breast tissue they are a mere morsel compared to what Katia is carrying.

"I love your nipples," professed Katia.
"They're new," I said.
"Where is your areola?" asked Katia.
"That comes next," I assured her.

Not only had Katia had her breasts enlarged - she also had her areola reduced.

"Why did you do that?" I asked.
"Too big" she declared.

"Well, I'll be picking my size as well as my color and I only get one chance to get it right," I elaborated.

Ah...that's it! I have the perfect wing women line!

"Can I take a picture of yours so I can show my plastic surgeon?"

I couldn't go through with it. I failed as a wing woman.

I have no photo - no proof of Katia's development.

But if you dare to dream, this is Katia. Pre-implant Katia. The Katia in Boris's dreams...




xo,MOnkeyME

P.S. Katia is a NO SHOW again this week. 

For those of you entertaining the idea of dating a porn star visit

"10 Reasons You Don't Want To Date a Porn Star"


***

Tuesday, December 25, 2012

Christmas Wishes





And the Grinch, with his Grinch-feet ice cold in the snow, stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so? It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags. And he puzzled and puzzled 'till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before. What if Christmas, he thought, doesn't come from a store. What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more.  ~ Dr. Seuss



Christmas Season 2011 
with my Dad, Lindsay, Mary, Jackson, Mark & Jay

Saturday, December 22, 2012

Rock Your Cock




Earlier today I retold my "Can I shoot your cock?" story.  You know the story... where I'm standing on a street corner at Burning Man and ask random strangers if I can shoot their cock. And they oblige.

After 50 or so photO's I grow tired of the cock and put my camera down.

Three months later I photoshop cans of Spotted Dick on them.

This is my favorite cock shot...



I thought I was oh so clever... 

Until this...


photo courtesy of Bajzel Shop 
(thank you Wilma)


Ahhh... grasshopper has much to learn. 

(you've all heard this before but) I wasn't going to go AGAIN... until today. 

BURNING MAN 2013.... Costume Cocks!!! 

Can't wait. Tickets go on sale soon. May the dust stay with you.

xoMOnkeyME




Monday, December 17, 2012

Me and My Nipples




As much fun as it was announcing to total strangers, "You know... not everyone has nipples," eventually the game grew old and that's when I knew I was ready.


So, while some of you were busy Christmas caroling or dreidel spinning, I was strapped flat to an operating table. Hours later, I had my very own set of nipples. 

So far, this is what they look like, only double the size - HUGE by gorilla standards.


Some of you might be wondering, how do they make them?

Well first, they start with a liquified corn syrup base, then they add some dye, mold it into a gummy form and POOF, you've got DOTS.

Nipples are a bit more complicated. Different surgeons use different techniques. My surgeon extraordinaire, Dr. Sandra Margoles, used a technique called a CV flap. 

Isn't it adorable!

In the center of my reconstructed nipple is a slice of cadaver skin. This tiny morsel of cannibalistic goodness is used to prevent the nipple from flattening out. Believe me, the last thing I need are flat nipples. 

In addition to getting nipples, I also had some fat grafting. This process was a bit more involved. First, I had to grow the damn fat. That was time consuming. Then they needed to "harvest" the fat. Turns out fat taken from my thighs had the best chance of surviving since its been around the longest so they used that.

The down side is, now I look like this...


(I have no idea why I'm holding this orange)

Once Dr. Margoles harvested my fat, she injected it into areas surrounding my implants that needed tweaking. Implants under breast tissue (as in breast augmentation) typically look fabulous, but implants under pectoral muscle (as in breast reconstruction), with no breast tissue, tends to have some issues.

With issues now gone, lets focus on the orange. See how nice and round and plump it is... 

And this is me, four days post surgery.



On the top of my chest, by my collar bone, are two initials. An "M" is on my right and an "S" is on my left. I thought that meant righty is for Mark and lefty is for Shannon but it turns out that's medical jargon, for (Dr.) Sandra Margoles - her way of tagging me so there was no confusion as to who was operating on me. I for one am relieved - it tells me that, unlike my first surgeon (aka DICDOC), she really did do my surgery. 

I am going to make you wait a bit longer for the full unveiling - right now they're slathered in bacitracin and shielded behind what looks like water bottle tops but I'll tease you by saying that I am thrilled with the results! These nips have transformed lifeless mounds into titillating bosoms - something I seriously doubted would ever happen and if you've followed along from the beginning of my breast debacle, I'm certain you did too.

Once I'm healed, I'll travel to the top nipple/areola tattoo artist in the country, Vinnie Meyers, and get my areola and nipple tattooed a lovely shade of ... pink. Yes, as crazy as some of my design ideas have been, I'm beginning to think that "normal" might be the way to go. 


xOOx,MonkeyME 

To see how I got here visit CATSTIR the other "C" word that rhymes with Dancer

Thursday, December 6, 2012

Confessions of a Sexy Housekeeper




With a wide open weekend devoted to writing, I wasted most of it wondering if my housekeeper is a prostitute.

If you discovered your housekeeper was a prostitute would you fire her?

What if she was a stripper?

What if she was a sexy housekeeper?

Did you know there is such a thing as a sexy housekeeper?

According to Confessions of a Sexy Housekeeper, a sexy housekeeper wears sexy outfits, whether it be a french maid outfit or luscious lingerie, while performing light housework. There is erotic conversation and flirtation, without bodily contact. It's 85% visual and 15% physical.

I suppose that means scrubbing your pot is out of the question, but what about tickling you with a feather duster?

A professional sexy housekeeper arrives in plain clothes and changes into a costume of your liking. She has perfected the art of vacuuming, without bending her knees, in 6 inch stiletto heels, and can polish a wood surface using the heat of her breath and the wax-on wax-off beat of her hands.

If you're feeling hungry, she'll bend over a hot stove and cook for you. Then she'll serve you and clean up after you - gently wipe lingering morsels of gooey goodness from your mouth and chin.

If you want to be a sexy housekeeper, you must have the face and body to match a man or woman's fantasy. You must be dexterous and deft, cool under pressure, and unwilling to rest (sorry Dr. Seuss).

You must be compliant, clever, and complacent - be able to handle unruly customers who complain their flatware isn't polished enough, their carpet isn't vacuumed enough, or their marble floor isn't slick enough.

Most of these women work for all service companies and according to their desired skills and resume criteria, you need to have excellent conversation and organizational skills.

Really? Why?

There are companies in larger cities that hire "out-of-the-norms," meaning cross-dressers, transvestites, full-figured men and women. Even...dare I say it, middle-aged women. So"sexy" isn't limited to cute and perky.

Ironically, after an exhausting google search, I have yet to find a sexy housekeeper who's duties include ironing. I can't even find a royalty free photo of a sexy/hot women ironing.

Which brings me back to my first question...

Would you fire your housekeeper if you found out she was a prostitute?

What if she ironed your sheets?

I love crawling into clean, fragrantly sweet, well pressed, sheets. But as much as I love them, I'm not willing to do them and I don't want dropping them off at my dry cleaners to be one of my duties. Besides, I'd still have to put them on.

This is the main reason why I have a housekeeper. That and she talks to the cat.

So why do I think my housekeeper is a prostitute?

Besides the fact that she's a slender, fair skinned, european beauty in her mid 20's, with legs up to her ears and hair to her waist - she drives a BMW and has had more cosmetic surgeries than anyone I know and I live in a superficial city overpopulated with trophy wives who worship botox and peroxide, and spend their days flitting from the gym, to country club benefits, to squandering small fortunes at garish boutiques.

Last week, when housekeeper Katia, failed to show up I called her. It was a bit too late on a Friday night and I was on my second bowl of wine. To my surprise she answered her phone in a breathy tone.

"Helllllo, how may I help you," she moaned.

Feeling awkward, I disguised my voice and asked for Rebecca.

"Yah, tis is Rrrrebecca... what I can do for you?" she eagerly baited me.

I had no comeback, no clever retort. So I hung up.

Clearly, I have no proof, no solid evidence. And even if I did, is that grounds for dismissal?

I say YES, based on the fact that prostitution is illegal and the willingness to partake in such an act of crime alludes to a certain amount of desperation and if someone is desperate enough to sell their body, what is stopping them from selling my jewelry?

My husband, on the other hand, is intrigued by the idea/fantasy of Katia having a side job. He no longer focuses on lingering dust bunnies or complains about mismatched socks. Instead of grumbling about her shortcomings, he wonders what other chores she performs.

With each of us having a 50% stake in household decisions, we are deadlocked. So I'm turning to you my clever, insightful, devoted readers of all things monkey...

Should she stay, or should she go? 




XO,MonkeyMe
UPDATE:
Katia called my office yesterday to say that she would not be able to come this week. She said she was very sorry. It was difficult to understand her explanation. There was a lot of emotion in her voice. But it had something to do with court. This changes everything. If someone or something is struggling my natural instinct is to help. This time, all I have to do is sleep in dirty sheets. I can do that.


Wednesday, December 5, 2012

GRUMPY TOAD

Excuse me while I rant a bit, but as much as I enjoy writing, the submission side of it SUCKS ASS.

No wonder we writers are insecure.

It's the first Wednesday of the month which means it's time to link my insecurities to the INSECURE WRITER'S SUPPORT GROUP. Honestly, I wasn't going to participate this month because what good is it? We get a few more followers and a few more readers who visit once or twice, and most of the time we never see them again. And this whole process of politely commenting and following is exhausting and it takes away from my actual writing time. And yet... I cannot forget that through the INSECURE WRITER'S GROUP I found some amazing people who also write and I love their words and their spirit.

I've decided to highlight one of them because her luminosity is invigorating...


Em, please tell me what to do? You're brilliant and clever and all things publishable - surely you most know!

I am so stuck. STUCK, STUCK, STUCK...


Last night I had a dream that I died without being published. And as part of my punishment for not getting out of my own way long enough to get my work read and accepted and turned into a best selling memoir - I came back as a toad. A big, green, slimy, slippery, TOAD - with no voice. No "ribbit" not even a gulp. And none of the other toads would talk to me because... I had no voice.

I have an "agent" who does NOTHING. Absofuckinglutely NOTHING! And when I try to do the work on my own - submit to a writer's submission services such as Writer's Relief, they won't take my work because it has appeared on my blog. MY BLOG. MINE, MINE, MINE!!!

Here lies the catch 22. I develop my voice on my blog. If it wasn't for my blog I'd have nothing clever to write about. So I write about it and some of it is pretty fucking good, but if I show you I can't submit it because it's here, on my blog. That's BULLSHIT!!!


And while I'm at it, let me say that this picture is NOT FUNNY. It's not funny, it's not clever, and worst of all, it's in poor taste. Sure I'm jealous. She is, after all THE WINNER OF THE WRITER'S 2012 SHORT-STORY CONTEST, but nothing about resting on train tracks is appropriate. For the record, a picture of a person pointing a gun at their head is also not funny. Nor is a person with one foot off a 40 foot cliff... (I'll stop there, but you get the message).

And yet it worked because DAMN IT I fell prey and clicked on "find out more."

I joined opensalon.com - a writers version of facebook. It's exhausting and it loads at a snails pace, but I tried posting my work there hoping to get read enough so that the editors will notice me and publish me at salon.com.  That's the carrot they dangle in front of you. But most of the writers are fucking geniuses, and it's intimidating and I don't even feel comfortable commenting. And after 6 posts, still ... I'm invisible.

So what the FUCK is an INFLAMED INSECURE WRITER to do? Seriously. Someone please whisper me the secret to successfully submitting your work? Do it now. Do it before I run out of time.

Because we're all going to die one day and no one should have to return as a mute toad.



Incidentally, this grumpy fuck's species is called RED FOWLER TOAD. Fowler... One of my dearest friends in the world is also a Fowler. Maybe that's a sign. Maybe things will all float on okay...

Friday, November 30, 2012

Phoebe Fong - The World's Quirkiest Cat


I returned home yesterday evening and discovered that my front door was jammed shut. A large, golf umbrella, that typically rests in the corner beside the front door, had mysteriously fallen - creating a wedge that stopped the door from opening more than an inch.

How did this happen? 
All I know for certain is that the cat was involved.


Kittay, aka Miss Phoebe Fong

How do I get in? Must get cat assistance.


Did you notice that Phoebe can talk. Her vocabulary is limited but still, it's impressive. 

OUT  
I  CAN'T

She also says "YEAH" when I ask her if she wants food. 


She's clever for sure, but Phoebe lacks thumbs and front claws so this will be a difficult task. 

Can she do it? 

Come on Phoebe, you can do it!  

Say it with me.

Move... that... umbrella!


Thank you Phoebe! It was cold OUT and I really wanted to get IN so that I could make you some food.  

Phoebe is rather unusual. She enjoys going for walks with the dog. 


She's afraid of birds. She's not intimidated by dogs. She recently celebrated a birthday and of course we threw her a party! 


That is Phoebe's favorite hat. And that is Phoebe's stool. Nobody but Phoebe is allowed to sit on Phoebe's stool.  If you do, she'll MEOW at you until you get your own stool.

Phoebe knows she's not allowed on the kitchen counter so she'll sit on the newspaper that's on the counter. Or the magazine that's on the counter. Or the box that's on the counter. Or the mail that's on the counter. But never, ever, will she sit on the counter because she knows that's not allowed.

Phoebe's been known to sneak in a neighbors house and hide. The neighbor is a small, timid, asian women, who is deathly afraid of cats.

Phoebe sits on another neighbors air-conditioner unit so that she can peak in their kitchen window and watch them eat dinner.

If she's OUT and she wants to come IN, she will go to another neighbors front door and MEOW as loud as she can until the neighbor comes over and, if our door isn't locked, she'll let her in. If our door is locked, she'll get the neighbor to knock on our door.

This is one of Phoebe's favorite games, it's called, Let Me In, Let Me In, Let Me Out, Let Me Out.

Last night, the very same neighbor (who wishes to remain anonymous) recognized the cat catastrophe, and rushed to help get Phoebe OUT and me IN the house.


Another trick of Phoebe's is scaling the rooftop. She only does this on warm, sunny days and she's perfected it to the point that she typically does it when the neighboring restaurant is packed with patio patrons enjoying a leisurely meal. Someone will eventually spot her and before you know it she'll have 20 or more people watching her every step. 

This is video of the first time Phoebe scaled the rooftop. Keep in mind, she has no front claws. 


Is it just me or do you also talk to your pets? Do any of them talk back? 

For the record, Miss Lucy (adorable 5 lb Shihtzu) does not talk back but that doesn't stop me from talking to her. 


Of course, Phoebe has a facebook page. If you haven't read about it, you can find it here:


If Phoebe gets a book deal before I do, I'm going to be pissed.


I'll close with this ridiculous look at DOG vs CAT friends. 



So glad most of my friends are Monkeys. 







Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Cat on Keyboard



I've been gone a long time. And I've got a basket full of excuses. Ready? 

First I was healing from surgery number five. This time my skilled surgeon, Dr. Sandra Margoles, created an internal sling made from cadaver skin and anchored my noobs (scientific term for new boobs) symmetrically.

It was a painful and prolonged recovery process, due to an extensive amount of suturing, but hell, I'm worth it. I am now the proud owner of two, evenly placed, implants with just the right amount of droop.

My next surgery will be sometime in December. This time I'll be getting flame resistant nipples!

I wasn't sure if I wanted nipples in the beginning. Instead, I was considering imbedded jewels. But jewels are made for ooo-ing and awww-ing, not suckling and fondling, and eventually I nuzzled up to my husbands need to feed.

Four weeks post surgery, I was back in New Orleans for 8 crazy music fueled days and nights. This time I was with my kindergarten comrade, Monkey Gurl, my daughter, Ling, and her platonic playmate Pistopher.


Damn we had a good time! There is nothing like Halloween in New Orleans. Wait... yes there is. It's called Burning Man.

While we were there, hurricane Sandy hit home. I returned to mass destruction coupled with a northeastern storm that force fed us our first taste of winter.

At the tail end of all this was the election and I was worried. Worried peoples disdain would overshadow the goodness and truth of a man I respect.

But once again hope prevailed and the beauty of a democracy, lead by integrity, carried on.


In the afterglow of the election, I resurrected an affair with Stephen King.

11/22/63, what a story! What a storyteller! Prolific writers scare the cat out of me - painting scenes with such depth and clarity that I'm convinced I can't write my way out of a paper bag. 

Not only did I fall into a pit of severe writers block, after a night of mayhem at a club called "JHouse" with friends Jay and Mouse, I mimicked Stephen King drama from pages 327 and 589 and serpentined my way through a thick wall of hedges, unaware of what lurked on the other side.


To my surprise, I stumbled upon a slippery slope and tumbled five feet. 

I hurt my knee, my foot, a few knuckles, and my face. Luckily I was liquor-limber enough not to break anything.

With husband away, my devoted daughter was by my side. She cleaned my wounds, instructed me to rinse the gravel from my mouth, fed me macaroni and cheese, and tucked me into bed.

It was a three day hangover and with it came the following lessons learned:

1. Never mix Jay and Mouse with JHouse.
2. Never mix tequila, vodka, and wine on an empty stomach.
3. Never act out mysteries from a Stephen King novel.

Priorities then kept the cat, belly up, on the keyboard.

Between work, healing, and play, I have been appointed the executrix of my fathers estate and with that comes the task of finalizing his affairs. I've never been motivated by money and had little knowledge of my fathers net worth, so this endeavor has been daunting and educational.

Mainly, it illuminates peoples true colors. I think this was my fathers main reasoning behind appointing me. He knew I had to see the full force of envy and greed so that it had a lasting effect on me.

My father never spoke a negative word about anyone related to me. Instead, he allowed their actions to show me.

What a year it's been! I have a books worth of material just in the events that unfolded in 2012 and I have yet to tap into December.

As much as I've lost, I can clearly see what was found. From pain and grief came growth and gratitude.

And most important, LOVE.



xoMonkeyME


COMING SOON... 
The second and third tale of uncomfortable comedy.



Sunday, October 21, 2012

Lemon Juice - Part One in a Trilogy of Uncomfortable Comedy


“...Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding together people, citizens of distant epochs, who never knew one another. Books break the shackles of time, proof that humans can work magic.”  Carl Sagan



I have three stories that I'm itching to tell. The problem is, each has the potential to portray me in an unflattering light. They involve the following topics:

Lemon Juice 
Jazz
Hospital Beds 

They all involve men.
One involves three men.
One is embarrassing.
One is reckless.
The other is down right ridiculous.

Come to think of it, they are all embarrassing, reckless and ridiculous.

I have listed them in chronological order.

Lemon Juice took place during my late 20's.
Jazz took place last summer.
And Hospital Bed took place two weeks ago.

Before I can write a story, I tell it. Typically, I tell it more than once. My husband has heard them all a dozen or more times and, like Pavlov's dog, has learned to respond accordingly.

It's helpful to get an raw reaction. If the response is repulsive, I tone it down. If the story insights laughter at me, instead of with me, I turn it around. And if the story fails to hold the listeners attention, I let it go.

I want to tell these three stories without focusing on what you'll think of me. To accomplish this, I'm going to pretend that I'm writing fiction.




LEMON JUICE 

Part One in a Trilogy of Uncomfortable Comedy
By, Morah Murphy


To say I was insecure as a young woman is an understatement. My misconstrued mirror image confirmed that my thighs were fat. My hair was flat. I was cute, not pretty. I was witty, not smart. I had a tainted past, lacked a formal education, was not well traveled, and had no accolades I could boast about.

To counteract the compulsion of feeding my self loathing, I journaled. After purging my flaws and vowing to repent, I wrote poetry about lost love and short stories about the idiosyncrasies of a mundane existence. Writing was something I wanted to be good at and yet I lacked the desire to read or be taught. 

As a young child my mother bought the complete collection of Dr. Seuss books and I was not amused. In grade school, the only book I remember reading was Charlotte's Web. In 9th grade, we read Diary of Ann Frank, out loud, and in high school, my only required reading was Catcher in the Rye, which I never completed.  

When I moved into my first apartment I had a bookshelf in my living room and no books. Thanks to a classic novel offer from my fathers borrowed Mobil credit card, I ordered a collection of the classics that included Yeats, Faulkner, Hawthorne, Tolstoy and Twain. I never read more than a page or two, instead, I bent the binders back and forth, fanned through the chapters, and earmarked the tips of every 100 or so pages.

The books were more than decorative, I was convinced that by surround myself with the works of literary geniuses I could channel their talent. 

By the time I hit my late twenty's, my plan was to become a stay at home wife and a romance novelist. My journals revealed a deeper truth. What I wanted was to feel worthy of being loved.

I dated a lot and I wasn't picky. Everyone deserved a second glance. I had a rating system that I'd tally up on my fingers, sometimes being so bold as to jot it down on a bar napkin, in clear sight. Anyone still in a plus category after two drinks would be given my home phone number.

I was fraternizing with my best friend and coworker at our favorite haunt - the Georgetown Salon in Ridgefield, Connecticut, when a stout (-2) mousey looking man (-2) offered to buy me a drink (+1). And I accepted.

After 15 minutes, I discovered that he was British (-1), with terrible teeth (-5). He was well educated (+2) and gainfully employed (+2) as an advertising executive for J. Walter Thompson, in New York City (+4). His claim to fame was being the campaign director for French's mustard (+2). This included the wildly famous, Grey Poupon commercials (+6).

(a quick pause to watch this classic commercial is STRONGLY recommended)



"Perhaps you'd like to accompany me on a date," he asked. 
"But of course," I answered. 
And so our relationship began.

After a romantic dinner, we returned to his home - a renovated former grist mill nestled alongside the Connecticut river. After a tour of his well appointed abode, which included an extensive collection of water lily paintings and photographs, we retired to the living room where he lit a fire and poured from a bottle of what I was told was a rich, rare vintage, Russian River red that he had been saving for a special occasion.

With the fire now roaring and the bottle half empty, he clumsily steered me into his bedroom. As we rounded the corner of his four poster bed, my sweater caught the tip of a heart rimmed, rough-iron, closet door latch and it creaked open - revealing a well organized collection of women's clothing.

Cross-dresser I wondered?

The dresses were veiled in clear, dry cleaning plastic and the shoes, although primarily red, were somewhat sensible and looks two sizes too small for his burly feet.

In needed more proof. I turned towards a double wide dresser and, without asking, pulled opened the top drawer. It was filled with fine laced panties and padded bra's.

"Cross-dresser?" I questioned. This time, out loud.

"No, No, NO!" he defended.

He went on to explain the untimely death of his beloved wife. How she suffered. How he missed her. How he deliberately kept this from me in fear that I would pity him.

"How long has it been?" I asked.
"Two years," he sighed.

Quickly, I gathered my things and left vowing never to see him again.

In truth I was jealous. Sure she was dead, but I wanted a man to love me this way. To love me so much that even after two years, he couldn't bare to get rid of my things. That the mere mention of my name brought tears to his eyes. Still, always.

But he was persistent, professing that he was desperate to start over - to build a new life with a lovely, vibrant woman such as I.

To prove this to me, he would put his house on the market, and spend his time at a flat that he recently rented on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.

After hearing this, I agreed to meet him for dinner, this time in the city. Afterwards I asked to see his "flat" and he was eager to show that.

It was your typical bachelor pad - sparse, disheveled, and colorless. The closet was filled with suits, ties and starched shirts. The drawers were packed with wrinkled undershirts, shorts, sweatpants and boxers.

Because I wanted love, not sex, and was convinced that, (based on his elfin sized fingers) his paunchy appearance was linked with a petite, gherkin sized penis, I declined his advances. And because I needed to be at work by 9:00 am, and my office was an 45 minute train ride away, I declined his offer to spend the night.

This became our pattern. His advances were met with resistance and like cinderella, I'd leave before the stroke of midnight.

Eventually, my curiosity got the best of me, and after an evening that included flaming shots of tequila and a dimly lit room, I agreed to share his bed.

He was clumsy and his charms were not captivating or climactic. From above, his strained face and passion swept hair reminded me of a troll. Once, in the middle of his hog huffing, I yawned.

I sought refuge in his shower before his buttocks hit the bed sheets. Twenty minutes later I was gone.

The following morning, tucked safely in my bed, I slept through the alarm and after a forty minute shower, two cups of coffee, and four Advil, I arrived at work an hour late and was greeted by a bright yellow note on my desk.

It was an urgent message from the Troll.  I balled up the note and tossed it into the waste paper basket. Less than 10 minutes later, he called again. I declined his call. Five minutes later, he called again, this time, demanding I speak to him.

Reluctantly, I took the call.

He was angry.

"What did you give me!" he spouted.
"Give you?" I asked.
"For Christ's sake women, what did you give me!" he screamed.

I was confused and he was panicked.

"My penis is covered in spots - RED SPOTS!" he roared.
"I'm sorry to hear that," I mumbled, trying my best not to laugh.

"I'm going to the emergency room, tell me what disease you gave me so they can treat me accordingly," he pleaded.

This troll had me seeing red.

"Gave you? Gave YOU! How dare YOU!" I screamed and hung up the phone.

My office consisted of twelve women, most of whom were married longer then I had been born. After hanging up the phone I turned to find all of them huddled behind me, eager to hear the catastrophe of a twenty something single.

They did their best to hide their disapproval behind palm covered, open mouthed gasps. All of them agreed that a trip to the gynecologist was in order and that I should waste no time getting there.

"I'll drive you," offered my coworker and confident, whom I was with the night I met the troll.

Instead of going to the gyno, we went to a local pub for a greasy cheeseburger and a beer or two. We returned tipsy about three hours later.

"He called again!" yelped a coworker.
"What did your doctor say?" asked another.
"It's too early to tell," I lied.

On their insistence, I returned his call. This time he was calm and down right sheepish.

"Oh my," he confessed, "I'm so sorry to have troubled you. This whole mess is rather embarrassing."

He went on to explain how he had grown accustom to my dismissal of his sexual advances. And because of this, he had taken the matter into his own hands - literally.

To get himself in the mood, he fixed himself a bloody mary, topped it off with a limp stalk of celery, three olives and a freshly squeezed lemon. Unfortunately, he forgot to wash his hands after squeezing his lemon and before stroking his gherkin and that, coupled with a lack of lubrication, caused an irritation.

"I truly am sorry," he professed.
Without speaking a word, I hung up the phone.

The following weekend, with the sting of the troll still weighing heavily on my mind, I returned to the Georgetown Salon with my coworker and confident - intent on line dancing my cares away.

There, at a corner table, beside a roaring fire, sat a refined looking redhead and... the troll.

"He wasted no time," said my friend.

Quickly, grabbed the hostesses attention, and quizzed her on the cozy couple.

"Oh that's Mr and Mrs. Turpin," she boasted. "They're regulars here."

"Turpin?" I questioned, "Not Thompson?" I asked.
"Yes, Turpin, I'm certain" she insisted.

I marched up to the bartender and demanded clarification.

"Do you know who that is sitting with Bill?" I asked.
"Bill who?" asked the bartender.
"Bill, Bill Thompson. The man I met here. The man in the corner, with that raunchy looking redhead."

The bartender stretched his head up high, opened his eyes wide, and question, "Do you mean Bob?"

"Bob?" I asked.
"Yes, Bob. Bob Turpin"
"His names not Bill Thompson?"
"No silly," laughed the bartender.

"Who's the women with him?"
"That's his wife."
"His wi-wife!" I stammered.

"Didn't he tell you he was married," roared the bartender.

All the information I needed about the troll could have easily been uncovered, and my embarrassment could have been averted, had I taken the time to quiz the friendly, open-eared, bartender.

Turns out the trolls wife wasn't dead, she was a public relations executive for Aerosmith and often accompanied them while on tour. She had just returned from a 6 month European tour with the band and they were celebrating their reunion with a romantic dinner.

I did what any foolish, scorned woman would do - sent them over two bloody mary's, rimmed in cayenne pepper and lemon, and called it a night.






Silly Morah. A monkey would never fall for a tale as convoluted as that!


or would she???


XO,MonkeyME



 All rights reserved by Shannon E. Kennedy 2012 

Tuesday, October 9, 2012

ME and Bobby V





This is NOT a post about baseball.
This is NOT a post about the Boston Red Sox.
This is a post about Bobby Valentine, 
the recently FIRED coach of the Boston Red Sox.


I am NOT a big Red Sox fan.
I am NOT a big baseball fan.

What I am is, NOT a Bobby Valentine fan.

It has NOTHING to do with his career as a baseball player, assistant coach, or his tumultuous first year as the Red Sox coach. It has nothing to do with his bravado, his inability to earn the respect of his players and assistant coaches, his lack of critical thinking skills, or his inability to multitask (cycle and text). This is STRICTLY personal. 

 photo courtesy of Getty

Monkeys are many things - mischievous, gregarious, entertaining, engaging, but what you may not know, is that monkeys have a memory far greater than that of an elephant. Especially, when it's a monkey scorned.

Back in the early 80's, I was hired by "Bobby V" to work at his sports bar in Stamford, Connecticut. I was, as I remember it, the first east coast female bartender. I didn't just tend bar, I made it an art form.  Mind you, this was way before the movie Cocktail. This was before it was acceptable or fashionable for a women to work behind the bar. Hell, women were barely allowed to stand at a bar, unattended by a man. That's how old I am.

As a bartender, I was fast. I was funny. I was strong. I was accurate. I could hold my own against obnoxious drunks.

My style was flamboyant. I exaggerated the grace of the pour. I didn't turn to get a bottle, I twirled towards it. I did a Charo, shoulder shimmy, shimmy, martini shake. I didn't do a lot of glass and bottle tossing (ask any bartender, the last thing you want is broken glass in an ice bin) but I did whip my hair back and forth A LOT. My performance was well received and applause was not uncommon. I did all this with small, unpadded breasts, and without being provocatively dressed.

Bobby sat at the far back corner of the bar for most of my shift. I could feel him watching me. Not in a creepy way, it was more like he was scouting for talent and I knew my skills stood out. I wasn't cocky, but I was confident.

I didn't have the luxury of a bar-back, so I lugged the cases of beer by myself. I lifted 35 (?) gallon tubs of ice to fill the bins. Once, my pristine white tretorn sneakers caught the tip of an uneven rubber floor mat and down I went. Quickly I rolled to my right side, grabbed the closest thing I could find - a freshly laundered stack of bar rags - and jumped back onto my feet. It was the only time I saw Bobby smile.

At the end of my shift he called me into his office.

"You were okay kid," he said, "but your shorts need to be shorter."

It's funny. I remember exactly what I wore that day, even the way I styled my hair. I remember the hush of the crowd when I fell. I remember snacking on onion rings, getting lime juice in my eye, as I quartered them. But I don't remember what was said after ..."your shorts need to be shorter."

Was I fired?
Did I quit?
All I know for certain is that this was my first and last day working for Bobby Valentine.

Due to my limited knowledge of his professional baseball career, I cannot, in all fairness, comment on his ability to lead his team. But what I can say is that as a boss, off the field, what Bobby lacked was depth, class and respect. And that is something I will never forget.


"He who wants a rose must respect the thorn." Persian Proverb


xoMonkeyME


photo courtesy of Getty







Monday, October 8, 2012

THANK YOU!



Photo courtesy of funnymonkeysite.com 

THANK YOU to everyone who emailed, Facebook messaged, and mailed letters to Dr. Andrew Salzberg, the plastic surgeon who had sliding scale prices for breast consultations.  

Breast Augmentation consultation.... $75.00 
Breast Reduction consultation.......... $75.00 
Cancer Patients in need of Breast Reconstruction........$739.00

Today I received an apology along with a statement saying I now have a zero balance.

YOU, you who reads, loves, accepts, applauds, hugs, and emotionally supports me, EMPOWERS ME!  Again and again, and again.

I would be a wee little wimp backed monkey if it were not for YOU.

We accept the love we believe we deserve. We all deserve pure, honest, unconditional love.

Big, Happy, Monkey LOVE and Gratitude to you! 
xoxoME










Wednesday, October 3, 2012

HOW TO SUPPORT AN INSECURE, CANCER SURVIVOR, WRITER



Now, you KNOW, I know the rules. And you KNOW, I don't want to get tossed out AGAIN. And yet, I'm on a PINK crusade.

So, on this first Wednesday in the month of October - otherwise known as BREAST CANCER AWARENESS MONTH -  let me PINK out my fellow Insecure Writer's and ask for your support in my cause.

To begin with, anyone who is familiar with my writing knows I write non-fiction. Writing non-fiction leaves me, at times, feeling vulnerable especially when it comes to writing about my breast cancer.

I want to write about the realism of cancer without representing myself as a victim. I do not want breast cancer to define me.

My cancer diagnosis was coupled with the loss of my husbands job, and with it went our insurance, and the death of my father, whom I was very close too. Three big challenges, all in less than a months time.

I was hysterical. I was irrational. I would bounce between an acute state of fight-or-flight and denial.

I kept reminding myself that NOTHING, not even this, was a difficult as losing a child. I survived the loss of my son in 2002 and his loss taught me many things, mainly that I am strong.

I am also a firm believer that we sign up for our challenges before we set foot on this planet. That doesn't mean that I didn't scream, what the FUCK was I thinking, over and over again.  

To me obstacles, whether large or small, are opportunities for personal growth. With my cancer I have chosen to embrace the process and listen for the message. What can I learn from this? Where will this journey take me?

Typically, my challenges lead towards helping others but I have to remind myself that I have to heal myself first and fully before I step outside myself. Sometimes I leap outward to avoid looking at the darkest parts of me.

I also know that a well fought, good intentioned battle, fuels me. My current battle requires your help.




To those of you who would like to help me on a personal level, in a way that does NOT require a donation, only a small amount of your time and the licking of a stamp, please consider sending a letter to Dr. Andrew Salzberg.

Dr. Salzberg is guilty of charging BREAST CANCER PATIENTS $739.00 for a reconstruction consultation, and $75.00 to healthy patients who wish to consult him for breast augmentation or breast reduction.

According to New York Group for Plastic Surgery, an LLP that Dr. Salzberg works under; a consultation, whether it's for breast reconstruction, augmentation, or reduction, lasts 45 to 60 minutes, includes a review of the procedure by a member of their staff, a physical exam by Dr. Salzberg (mine lasted less than 10 minutes) and photographs which they keep.

I was recommended to Dr. Salzberg by Dr. Andrew Ashikari, a respected breast surgeon in Dobbs Ferry, New York. Dr. Ashikari accepts my insurance, and when I questioned Dr. Salzberg's office regarding insurance coverage I was told that their staff works directly with insurance companies and that typically they will approve out of network coverage because Dr. Salzberg is one of only a few doctors in my area that does direct to implants with alloderm.

This subjective rate for consultation services is wrong on many levels. To begin with, why is this not insurance fraud? Doctors will charge higher rates to reach an insurance pay out number that they deem acceptable. Because Dr. Salzberg is considered out of network by my insurance company, he charged me $739.00 for a consultation, my insurance paid him $148.00, I paid him $75.00, and he's still expecting $516.20.

Well, I'm not paying it. Not only am I not paying it, I'm going to fight it and I need your help.

Please consider sending a letter directly to Dr. Salzberg. Below is a monkey generated letter that you can copy or word in any way that you see fit.

Example of what a MONKEY POWER letter might say....


Dr. Andrew Salzberg
New York Group for Plastic Surgery, LLP
155 White Plains Road, Suite 109
Tarrytown, NY 10591
Phone: (914) 366-6139

Dear Dr. Salzberg, 
I am writing on behalf of a Shannon Kennedy regarding a bill from your office dated 6/29/2012 in the amount of $591.20. The statement shows that your office charged $739.00 for a 60 minute new patient consultation. The statement also shows that her insurance paid $147.80, and that the balance due is $591.20.

A previous statement, dated 4/30/2012, with the same account number, shows a consultation charge of $739.00, an insurance payment in the amount of $147.80, an additional insurance payment in the amount of $0.20, and a PATIENT ACCOUNT BALANCE DUE of $75.00.

Bank statements prove that the patients ACCOUNT BALANCE of $75.00 was paid in full and yet, Ms. Kennedy continues to receive letters and phone calls from the COLLECTION BUREAU OF HUDSON VALLEY, INC. stating that she owes $516.20.

My question is two part.  First, how do you justify a change in the balance due from $75.00 to $591.20? And even more importantly, how do you justify charging a BREAST CANCER PATIENT $739.00 for a consultation when a healthy patient, who receives a consultation for breast enlargement or reduction is charged $75.00? 

I look forward to your timely reply. 

Sincerely, 

Mary Monkey

Please include your name and mailing address so that they know you are real. Although, isn't Mary Monkey a lovely name!

If you are a blogger, please consider posting this to your page. The more responses he gets, the stronger we get.  

If you saw Dr. Salzberg for breast reconstruction, augmentation, or reduction, please let me know if you had a negative or positive experience and what your fee was for your initial consultation.

There is power in numbers and I believe the power behind people joined in a common cause, outweighs the power of the all mighty dollar. Help prove me right. 

xo, MonkeyME 



Thank You For Encouraging My Joy of Writing

Thank You For Encouraging My Joy of Writing
greenmonkeytales@live.com

Shannon E. Kennedy

***

Photo by Joan Harrison