I'm a Jay-Z ho

December 16, 2004 - 1:37 p.m.

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Dear Chicago,

You need to shut your fucking mouth. And by “shut your mouth” I mean stop being so shitty fucking cold all the time.

Shape up, bitch, or I’ll shut your mouth for you, cuz I am SO SICK of your shit.

Fuck Ya,

Shawna Mooney

I needed a new winter coat. Something that will really keep me warm, and quiet. Less complaining.

I consulted Belle, who knows everything about girls and fashion and I know nothing.

“Um. I need to ask you something. So I saw this hoodrat on the train? And she was wearing this winter coat? And I like love it. It is like SO. It was. Dude it’s like WHITE and I mean W-W-WHITE. And there’s this fur? On the hood? And. Oh my. And then this other hoodrat? Like came onto the train? And she was like SO. Much more of a real thug than the other girl? But fatter and wearing the EXACT same jacket? And she like rolled her eyes at the fake thug? And she had pink Timberlands. And I was staring and felt like I was ten years old again because of the zipper, it was like a zipper I used to have.

“I guess what I’m trying to say here. Is that do you think I could wear a hoodrat jacket? Cuz it’s like Rocawear. Do you think they’ll kill me?”

Belle stared at me.

“Do not. Ever. Say * outside of this house.”

Because I said *, like it is a clothing line developed by Al Roker.

“I know! I know! It’s ROCK-A-WEAR! It’s ROCA FELLA! Why can’t I remember that? I promise to never talk about it outside of my house.”

* Uh. There is no such thing as html for the Long "O" sound. I made myself crazy looking for it. Them there is jpegs.

I couldn’t stop thinking about this jacket, I WANTED IT SO BAD and I can’t even explain why.

So Belle took me shopping at the hip-hop clothing stores and I bought that furry bitch at City Sports, where they seal all of their gym shoes in shrink wrap, the thick kind you can’t tear with your hands.

This is a clothing store. The sketchy broad wanted a tip for ringing up my purchase. There was no sales tax.

Notice the scary Pit bull figurine. Grrrr.

I was on the train in the middle of the night, coming home in my work clothes. Wool dress pants, high heels, Columbia ski-head-band thing, stupid white face, and a Big. Fluffy. ROCAWEAR SNORKEL JACKET. I had three thug boys staring at me, and one crack lady staring at me.

The crack lady was shivering in a thin leather coat. I felt bad, sitting there sweating in my puffy down-ness.

Staring.

Glaring.

10 minutes later I hear, “A’scyooz me. EGG S’CUSE ME? HEY. HEY YOU.”

Ignore the cracky.

“#%@HEY#&@!!”

Turn to the cracky. “Yes?”

“What kind of jacket is that?”

“Rocawear.”

“Thass whut I thot.”

I looked down and imagined a large red pool of blood forming on the front of my snow white jacket. I forgot. Wearing name brand hip-hop clothing can get you stabbed.

Dear Chicago,

Seriously. I fucking hate your ass. Why don’t we step outside cuz I am So. Ready. To throw down with you.

Tell me, Asshole. Why is it that the locals had to invent a term called Real Feel temperature – to describe the fact that 27 degrees REALLY FEELS like 4 degrees? Why the discrepancy between real and feel? If you want it to be 4 degrees, just make it 4 degrees and quit fucking with me when my thermometer says 27.

In the workplace, I can come back from lunch and someone will say, “How’s the weather out there?” And in a normal world, I might reply, “It’s about 27.”

But no, Dickhead. Here. Here I have to say, “It’s twentysevenwitharealfeeloffour.”

And the co-worker says, “What about the wind?”

“The wind is about 30 mph, NE. Lake Effect. Some flurries. Low tonight of 12. Wind chill reaching zero. Bundle up.”

(choir of moans fills the office)

Up Yours, Chicago. I resent you for making me dry, pale and ugly 9 months of the year.

See you in Hell, Bitch,

Shawna Mooney.

Another recent purchase that has made me a chipper skipper is my new (old) cruiser-type bike with one gear and a springy seat for wide asses. The best used bike shop in Illinois, hands down, is Working Bikes Cooperative. There are tons of hot guys working there but BEWARE, they work for a cooperative so you won’t be getting a Christmas or birthday gift this year, or any other year that you spend with him. I flirted with the boy/man that was helping me pick out a bike, and at first he was falling for it but then he cut me off. Oh. Maybe it’s because I mentioned something about only hipster queers ride Schwinns. So I bought a generic version of a 1960s Schwinn cruiser that I can ride to the subway every day and there isn’t a damn thing on it worth stealing. I call it my Schwing. It’s ugly, but beautiful at the same time, like everything in my life.

White fluffy coat + Red Cruiser Bike = Joy to the World, All the Boys and Girls.

Throw on some high heels, conservative office attire, mismatched mittens and scarf, stolid look on my face, and you’ve got yourself an anomaly, cuz I just ain’t pretty enough to be an enigma.

So if you see me riding down the street, white on red, jumping potholes with my Schwing, feel free to clothesline me because I probably deserve it.

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