Some Moron Sent Me A Threatening Email

The world is made up of two kinds of people. Those who live loud and those who hide hopelessly. I was recently told to shut my trap by the latter. This person also had some suggestions as to where they would shove my cell phone. Hate to disappoint but since it's a blackberry there are no certainties it will fit there. This was done anonymously via email. Our I.T. dept have mustered their FBI skills and are still on the lookout.

Me and my friends within the office have our fingers pointed towards the obvious culprit. It doesn't take a genius. It's the ONE person in the office who doesn't know or talk to me. The complete opposite of me. Someone who regards her cubicle to be her little safety dome. A place to hide...and send silly emails to coworkers. I feel bad for her. I came close to introducing myself, smile on my face, hand extended in kindness. It would have caused a shock, I'm certain. I decided not to. I have nothing to prove and I also wouldn't be able to perform CPR on the poor thing.

I may have gotten this one bad review but my whole life I've gotten fan mail. However, when I did get dirt kicked in my face I rubbed it off. That simple. I was always the underdog so I know what its like to wear this person's shoes. At some point we all have to make the choice to take the high road or the low road. This girl who sent me the email had the same dirt kicked in her face. Was dealt the same blows. And I think we all know the road she has chosen.

Custo Barcelona...harder to enter than Barcelona.

"My BB is going bananas. I mean crazy bananas. Hello...yeah...YEAH...I'm in the middle next to the wall. I'm in the middle area behind the Grey Goose stand. Francis you're being a whore. I said A WHORE!" At this point I did what I never do and turned around and stared at her to which she immediately took her volume down three octaves. Standing in line to get into a show at fashion week is stressful but standing within three feet of this particular woman is a veritable javelin in the head. Fashion week is one big happy hour with queens of both the female and male variety. And if another male queen elbowed me in the boob I would have parked my nails in his cheeks.

Custo Barcelona was the show I attended this evening. One may ask why I put up with the crowds, the flashbulbs and the intensity of it all. I love theater and fashion. Introduce the two and you have the perfect marriage. However, strip the show of the lights, music and celeb action and you're left with the true star. The clothing. And if the clothing can't perform the show is essentially a flop. All the muscling, pushing and pulling to enter the theater leaves one to decide that if the clothes don't hold water, all of this hula-balloo would be for nothing. Just a huge waste of time.

Once we were ushered into the arena like cattle I found the five inch radius I occupied for the length of the show. Light's down. Music up. Light's up. Show starts. Models walk back and forth for three minutes and then we all go out for a night on the town.

I would describe the collection as the outcome of mixing Donatella Versace, Missoni and Mick Jagger. Not really my thing but standard attire for a provocative rock star. What made it all worth while were the mix of models employed for the show. Women of varying sizes strut the runway. Compare it to past shows and it was refreshing to see that models are now allowed to eat. Two seasons ago when I went to Ana Sui one model looked like she was in dire need of a sandwich...or at least some lettuce. Terrifying. That was the same season I told my dad about rumors that models were swallowing tissue paper to feel full without the calories. To which my wise father spoke from the bright side "at least they won't have to wipe after using the toilet". So true, Papa Shock. So true.

Super Bowl, Super Tuesday, Super Stefani!

I swore I'd never put a pic of me in my blog (with the exception of the profile shot to your right) but I've returned from the islands and I have a tan to show off. A tan that can't see the light of day in the freezing cold NYC.

I was happy and emotional to find emails asking me why I haven't been posting. Some people didn't know where I was. I was on a beach, a boat, a kayak, a raft, a couple bottles of Veuve...I was on a cloud in heaven. Have no fear. I brought the heat with me.

They call it a ticker tape parade that will be pressing it's thumb up Manhattan's spine today but you are being lied to. It's a Shock Is Back Extravaganza! There will be rejoicing gaiety the likes of which you've never seen. Men will weep with hope, children will be let from school early, falafel cooks will give discounts. All in high praise of the return of Shock.

Laying On The Fat Virgin

When Chris Columbus neared the island I am currently drinking rum on, he titled it Virgin Gorda (Fat Virgin) since it bared a striking resemblance to a large lady floating. Now, if you don't know this about me you shall now learn, I have been to almost every island in the Caribbean. All of them have their own distinct qualities but all of them share the same tourist-going element. If you ever get the chance to break away from the pack and take the two hour ferry from St. Thomas to V.G. you would be doing your soul a great service. The villa I am staying in is unbelievable. It's on the side of a mountain with a swimming pool overlooking the ocean. I spent the afternoon kayaking on another nearby island and laying in a hammock. Heaven.

*Pic to the right is NOT a postcard. That's right. It really was that unbelievable.

Beach Bum Burned My Bum!!!

I'm not joking. My whole body is a light brown tone but my ass...my ass is bright red! Probably because it was pressed up against a UV bulb for ten minutes.

Upon entering Beach Bum...ok, I should tell you why I entered Beach Bum. I'm going to the Virgin Islands this coming Friday and if I don't get my base tan on I'll have more than a burnt ass when I get back.

So, upon entering Beach Bum a nice young lady with a perfect tan (obviously) welcomed me at the door. When I approached the man behind the counter I saw an even darker tan. Then old wallet with a pulse, aka The Manager, came out of his office. The room (staff included) was every shade of the shit rainbow. Which I guess is the point.

They sold me a five visit package and sent me on my way, but not before I told all of them "if I end up on YouTube the next time you see me I'll be holding a gun."

Truth be told, I don't care for tanning parlors. However, Beach Bum is great. I'm in no way knocking them. I'm recommending them. Just make sure you cover your ass in spf #45.

Virgin Islands here I come.

Can Insecurity Die With Age? ...Depends.

Over drinks and dinner with a couple of my lady friends one of them spoke up in reference to her self-esteem...lack thereof. "I'm bigger than I once was. I can't control my ability to walk away from a Krispy Kreme. My wrinkles have wrinkles". In moments where the insecurity sets in I encourage you to look to the future for some clarity and you will find it in aisle nine next to the suppositories. Imagine that first moment of reaching for the Depends diapers. I'll tell you what will be going through your mind when that day comes. "There was a time when I was young, pretty-darn cute and I could control when I took a dump. What did I do with all that time? I complained"

My wise brother once said "the death bed is not the place to make life changing decisions". He's right. The time is now. Look, if you got a war brewing you must attack with all your amo, not a quarter of it, and focus more on the process and not the results. You'll appreciate the little things more. Like...not having to wear a diaper.

Miss Grey For A Day...or One Night With The Swayze.

This is an homage to one of the best insinuated sex scenes in movie history. The type of scene that gives you tons of mental foreplay but only pays off with a silhouette shot of the lovers kissing before the -fade out- sets in. Can we get at least one hump, people?
We’ve been dancing for weeks, Johnny Castle, when are we going to screw already? At least that’s what would be going through my mind after rowing a boat across the lake between our cabins after Jerry Orbach bitches me out for slumming with the help. The dance instructor help, that is.

Whenever I watch Dirty Dancing I demand complete silence in the TV room when Baby and Johnny dance themselves into a sexual frenzy in his hot, wood cabin. The song 'Cry To Me' swells while Jennifer Grey takes a stroll around Swayze, her hand makes a slow tour of his taut dancer's ass hidden under the ever so snug trousers perfectly tailored by a staff of Italian seamstresses...one would assume.

It was 1987 when I first saw the movie so I was only 5 years old and far too young to understand what was happening but all of a sudden I desperately wanted a more pronounced nose and a perm. Baby couldn't have been cast better. Jennifer Grey symbolized the underdog in us all. The petite, frizzy haired, pimple covered, wall-flower who still sucked her thumb but it was only because she may have had some insecurity with her affectionate side and it's not like that can't be fixed with some acutane and counseling and I'm working on it, ok?

Patrick Swayze was a shoe in for Johnny. I mean, come on. Have you seen the audition tapes? Industry insiders say the casting director had a hose handy for when things got out of control. Can you imagine if they had stayed with Stallone? It would be a completely different dance, my friend. It wouldn't be dirty anymore but something ravenous and angry. Which isn't always bad. It just depends on whether I had a long day at the office or feel a little bloated.

In the end Johnny pulled Baby out of the corner and succeeded the lift that not only inspired the camp goers to dance but allowed the working class hip thrusters to mingle with the hoy paloy in the dance hall. But inevitably, where I had the time of my life was in Johnny's cabin.

It's Ms. Shock if you're nasty!

An introduction: I live in New York City. I am currently trying to sell a screenplay and a pilot. When I'm not schlepping my talent all over the city I work as a real estate broker to pay the rent.

Yes, that's my real name. People think I made it up or that it's a pen name. I was called Shock The Monkey all through elementary school so trust me, Shock is not a name you are proud of until you reach your late twenties. As far as Stefani goes, it's pronounced Stephanie but my parents wanted to cut the time it would take to teach me how to spell it. I'm not kidding.

I am single. Let your excitement begin. You're thinking "She's single? How?" I don't know how but I'm sure I'll eventually write all about it and get compared to Carrie Bradshaw. However, my NYC dating stories would put hers to shame. Let's see, I left a date halfway through it while he wasn't looking and I told someone he's his very own cock-blocker. That was eight months ago and I'm still ignoring his emails.

I'm from Grosse Pointe, Michigan. Don't ask me about the movie Grosse Pointe Blank. It was a mediocre picture and John Cusack (past the age of 35) blows.

I went to the University of Northern Colorado. You've never heard of it. I have various reasons for choosing an ambiguous college. Having bad grades through high school being the top of the list. I'm not ashamed of going to some random school but whenever I tell people in Manhattan where I went they always give me the same -a unicorn just jumped out of your ass- expression.

Immediately after college I moved to an equally pointless place called Chicago. Within five minutes of my arrival I thought -get me the fuck out of here before I shit buffalo wings for the rest of my life-. However, I did have one of the best jobs a gal could ask for. I hosted in the VIP boxes at Wrigley Field. It was also the job that funded my move to NYC, the best amusement park in the world.

I've been here seven years and I love it so much it's all I want to write about. But since it's been said you shouldn't live here unless you're lucky I wouldn't recommend packing up the Uhaul just yet. Based on my love life whether I'm lucky or not is yet to be determined.

Love-Shock