Long time, no blog! Missed ya.

I've been tagged by the Amazing Jessica of Plushroom Soup for one of those blog meme games.

Blurgh? Nope!

Because I’ve been getting a lot of inquiries in the last few weeks about whatever happened to my blog. I took a wee break. There were injuries, illnesses, quazi-nervous breakdowns, and other things that factored in, but I think mostly I just didn’t feel like being honest or reflective for awhile, so why blog?

But I wanted to try to start writing again and this tag seemed like a good way to start. It’s my way of saying “Hi!” to those of you who’ve missed me and to introduce myself to any newbies. So, here are the rules:

* answer the questions
* replace a question that you don't like, with one by your choice
* add one more question
* tag 8 people to continue the game of tagging

What is the thing that makes you happy?
Bourbon. Besides bourbon: my dog, still lakes, snow, barren trees, quiet walks, painting, music, cheddarwurst, my friends, my favorite guy.

Coffee or tea?
Coffee. Strong coffee. In large quantities.

What’s for dinner?
Oh why am I answering this questionnaire tonight? The truth is I ate blue cheese stuffed olives, a banana and some popcorn. This isn’t typical (lies).

What was the last thing you bought?
Besides the bleach and Purell I bought at Walgreen’s yesterday to fight the Swine and my plane ticket to MN for Thanksgiving … the last actual retail purchase was the whole series of Slumber Party Massacre movies from a guy who converted them from the VHS to a DVD. Excellent.

What are you listening to right now?
I cannot stop listening to For Emma, Forever Ago. It’s been on my turntable for months. I only recently ever listened to any Regina Spektor. My brother gave me an early album and I’ve been listening to Us on the way to work every day for a week. It’s joyous. (I’m going to admit I don’t think I like most of her stuff, but what I do like, I like a lot). Oh, and the Sweater Weather 7”. So so emo.

What is your favourite piece of clothing in your own wardrobe?
I have a dress from the Bettie Page store that I think is cute on me. I have a vintage 60s mod dress I like to wear with knee highs, a chunky knit scarf and wedges, because I think if you could define my personality in an outfit, that would be it. My most worn item, however, is a pair of aqua scrubs pants that I wear around my house pretty much constantly. I’m HOT.

What is your favourite ice cream flavour?
Ice cream makes me phlegmy. I prefer popsicles. Orange ones.

What do you think of the person(s) who tagged you?
I wish we lived in the same city so we could be buddies and make crafts and drink Old Fashioneds and play Rock band. I heart her very much.

If you could go anywhere in the world for the next hour, where would you go?
I could be cheesy and say Minneapolis. Because I miss people there. And I need more sex in my life. Hee hee. Seriously, though, Mount Desert Island, Maine. My favorite place on earth. I’d have an amazing Lobster Bisque and popovers at Jordan Pond House and walk around the harbor all bundled up and happy.

Which language do you want to learn?
Mandarin. Seems very useful. I’m a language geek. I wish I was more fluent in Nihongo, too

What is your favourite colour?
Blue. Grey blues, especially.

If you had £100 now, what would you spend it on?
Probably booze. Or my new tattoo.

What is your favorite animal?
Barksdale is my favorite animal. I’m also fascinated by jellyfish. And panda bears.

Describe your personal style?
Geeky, probably. I pretty much always wear dresses. I like old-fashionedy things. I like cardigans. And lots of buttons. And scarves.

What are you going to do after this?
Look for a job. Job hunting stinks. It’s not good for my intense fear of rejection. Someone told me today it takes, on average, six to 12 months to find a new job. I sincerely hope this is not true. If you are reading this and live in the Minneapolis/St. Paul area, I am a super witty writer, meticulous editor, and dynamo social media strategist (I use words like dynamo!). And I don’t drink nearly as much as you may think after reading this …

What are your favourite movies?
Spirited Away, The Triplets of Belville, Jeux D’enfants (Love Me If You Dare), Bom yeoreum gaeul gyeoul geurigo bom (Spring, Summer, Winter, Fall … Spring), La cité des enfants perdus (City of Lost Children), Big Fish, Edward Scissorhands, The Royal Tennebaums, Rushmore, Amelie, American Splendor, Children of the Corn

What inspires you?
Music. Fo sho. My super silly and creative friends (and virtual “friends”.) My dreams. I have weird dreams. Last night I dreamt that my great grandmother was alive and lived in this huge old mansion and she was like a corpse, but she was talking to me and she was wearing an excessive amount of bright red lipstick. She was walking around, but then I realized she was actually floating. Then she got in this big old Cruella DeVille-like car and drove away. It weirded me out, but it also made me think of a great short story idea.

What is your favourite fruit?
Apples

Do you collect something?
My mother thinks I collect fairies. This came from my days of community theater when I was constantly cast as a fairy or elf due to my size. So I have a bunch of fairies in a box in my closet. In truth, too much “stuff” makes me nervous. I guess I kind of collect scarves. And I have three old, but functional, typewriters, so I kind of collect those, too. God, I do everything half-ass.

How many hours do you sleep a day?
Who knows? I have chronic insomnia. About once a week I sleep like 11 hours. The rest of the time I toss and turn and am in and out. I’d say five-ish. I really like sleeping. I wish it happened more.

How many times do you press the snooze button before you get up?
Three to four times. Unless I actually have something to do besides just routine work. Then, I wake up before the alarm. Like clockwork.

What is your favourite smell?
Fall leaves. Also, my dog’s warm belly after he’s been sleeping in the sun. The ocean. Baking cookies. My dude. (and I think it’s just him + soap. How does he smell so good?)

What is your biggest regret?
This is a hard one. Probably it would be not pursing the science career I considered as a freshman in college. I think I would have made an excellent medical researcher. Or a surgeon. I still think about it a lot.

What are you most proud of?
I think this is supposed to be a personal thing about my accomplishments, but honestly, right now, I'm most proud of my little sister. She came through an extremely difficult phase of her life to earn her psychology degree, build a very happy family, and make a peaceful life full of love and interesting things. Life could have turned out very differently for her. I love her.

Cats or dogs?
Dogs. Cats creep me out. They remind me of Pet Semetary. And I don’t trust animals that are expected to pee and poop in the house.

What’s your biggest fashion mistake?
Let’s just say there’s a picture of me in an acid-washed jean jumper skirt (with ruffles), florescent pink t-shirt, matching tube socks and a weird hat that I hope never surfaces.

What is your guilty TV pleasure?
So You Think You Can Dance. I’ve always wanted to be a dancer. I think because my whole world revolves around words, I’m really moved by expression that doesn’t involve any words at all. Also, I look like I’m convulsing when I dance so I’m jealous.

What did you want to be when you grew up?
For a while, a dancer (see above). I actually wanted to be a writer, which is what I’ve become … not sure I still want to be that.

If you could meet any person dead or alive who would it be?
Franz Kafka.

What is your biggest dream?
I like Plushroom Soup’s answer a lot: “To live simply and well, and always be surrounded by those whom I love.” I’d like to simplify a lot. I’d like a small house with a great garden somewhere where it’s cold a lot and that’s near water. To have a job that doesn’t stress me out where I get to use my creativity. To have my dog. To have someone I love who loves me. To have a lot of time to read and listen to old soul records and drink coffee and bake things for neighbors. Nothing too crazy.

What was your favorite book when you were a child?
I loved Charles Dickens as a kid. My grandmother bought me a set of his books adapted for young readers and before first grade I had read Great Expectations, Oliver Twist, A Christmas Carol, Hard Times. I’d hide under a weeping willow in her back yard and read for hours.

If today was your last day on earth what would you be doing?
Having a lot of sex. (I couldn’t resist.) If it was really my last day, I’d eat bacon at every meal, be slightly drunk probably all day, spend it with my best friends and loved ones from AZ, OH, MN and beyond, and, hopefully have a lot of sex. Not like random sex, just a lot of it with one particular person. (Let’s be honest, I’d probably cry a lot and try to find a way to hide from the inevitable.)

If you could have any super power, what would it be?
This one gets me every time! Too many choices. I like teleportation a lot these days. Then I could see all the people I want to see without airfare.

If you joined the circus, what act would you perform?
Bearded lady.

My contribution: Why did you start your blog?

I am tagging the following people (and many apologies if you hate these!) Answer them all. Answer just one. Make up your own question. Write in "Your mom." I don't care. Just do something!

I’m Tagging:

Cleveland’s A Plum
Beauty is in the Eye of the Beer Holder
Running Fashionably Late
Your Beard is Good
Live it LOVE it
My Little Becky
Shine Out Loud
Just Another Fish in the Sea

Voguing during sex: yes or no? And ... it's Limerick Wednesday

I had a conversation about sex last night and I wanted to share it with all of you.

Because I overshare.

Next week I am planning a post about the color of my phlegm and how many times in my life I’ve had a UTI.

We were talking about the weekend and the topic of strippers came up – naturally.

Martini: Have you ever done that for a guy?

Me: What? Stripped? Well, duh. You kind of have to in order to get to the next part.

Martini: No … like a lap dance. Like a strip tease.

Me: No. No, no, no. I wouldn’t know what to do with my hands. I’d probably start voguing or something.

Uproarious laughter from Martini. Now, granted, she and I had just come from the world’s scariest workout with our friend A-to-the-izzo where a wee little man with chicken legs and a buzz cut forced us to jump up and down and punch things for an hour while shouting something about swatting flies and playing songs about “The Candyman.” Obviously, the only way to recover from said workout was a dinner of nachos and skinny girl margaritas at a nearby Mexican restaurant. We were dehydrated.

Martini: You’d start voguing???!!!

Me: Yeah, probably. (SG demonstrates amazingly sexy voguing skills.) Or doing the running man? Or just like pantomime or something. Like, “I’m stuck in the box. That’s right big boy. I’m in the box. You want me? Come and get me out of this box.”

More laughter.

Martini: Seriously. (Laughs.) You wouldn’t know what to do with your hands?? Oh my god. Light bulb moment. I know why you’ve been single for so long. We can fix this.

Me: Really? I mean, you don’t vogue during sex? Really?

(Actual snorts and hands slamming on the bar, causing the waitress to look over at us and consider, for a moment, stopping service.)

Me: Seriously, though, I know what to do with my hands during sex … I think. (It’s jazz hands, right? Jazz hands?) But when the spotlight is all on me, like if he was just sitting back looking at me expectantly; I’d probably go for the BJ before the strip tease. I can shake the booty, but what do you do with your hands?!?

It’s like people who go “running” down major thoroughfares. Why do they do that? They look stupid. Why? Their hands. They’re just kind of awkwardly flapping at their sides.

I warned you earlier I dance a lot like Elaine from Seinfeld. I don’t think those moves should ever be brought out in the bedroom. Ever. Well, maybe …

In all seriousness, this particular point of sexiliciousness has been a sore spot, a sort of kryptonite in my superhero-like self confidence, for some time. Maybe I should take a class. Or put a stripper pole in my bedroom. Or bring back voguing.

Or maybe not everyone is meant to have the strip tease in their arsenal. Maybe some people are better off just tying those hands to the bedpost than trying to bust out a H.O.T version of the Tootsie Roll.

What do you all think? What makes you feel awkward? Do you try or just give it a pass? Discuss.

P.S. I don’t think I need to remind you that it’s Limerick Wednesday, as it has gained unprecedented popularity. Maybe something about voguing is in order …

Are we breaking up? And FRF comes a day early. Happy August.

For those of you who know me, you’ll know this news is huge.

For those of you who don’t, you may be able to relate.

I’m in the middle of a break up.

It’s really hard. I’m losing sleep. I’m eating too much junk food. I can’t seem to think about much else.

I have conversations with myself on the train on the way to work. I snap at people for no reason and then run to the bathroom, lock myself in the last stall and cry and cry.

Of course, I’m talking about my girlfriend, Hulu.

It’s not that I don’t love her, it’s just that I’ve realized she’s really not good for me.

I’ve been spending all of my time with her, losing track of my other friends.

I’ve found myself saying things like, “That was just like last week when I was on that canoe with Sawyer, Kate, and an unconscious Karl and Sawyer was singing while he and Kate rowed back to the main island and Kate was trying to convince Sawyer to turn around so we could rescue Jack but Sawyer said it was too dangerous because the Others would kill us …” and then realizing that never really happened to me.

When you date someone too long there’s always the danger that you will keep dating them out of habit, or nostalgia, or something, instead of doing it because it actually brings joy or meaning to your life.

I had a jarring realization that this was the kind of relationship H. and I had begun to have earlier this week when I found myself still wide awake, laptop on lap, at 2 a.m. watching episodes of My So Called Life.

That show is terrible. Claire Danes = enormous F. And yet, there I sat, episode after episode, taking it all in. Because I could. Because Hulu was there. Because it was safe and familiar.

It was the last straw. I may never get tired of listening to Dennis read Charlie’s campaign speech ("Hello fellow American. This you should vote me. I leave power. Good. Thank you, thank you. If you vote me, I'm hot. What? Taxes, they'll be lower... son. The Democratic vote is the right thing to do Philadelphia, so do.")

I also may never get tired of Kevin saying eating Pizza by Alfredo is like eating a hot circle of garbage. But I cannot spend vital moments of my life listening to Angela Chase whine through that terrible nose about how terribly terrible it is to be a teenager. And I have no one to blame but Winnie Holzman. I mean my mother. I mean, me.

I’m 30. The clock is ticking.

No more. I’m vowing to quit her. I don’t know if I can do it. I’ll need all of your support. Hold me accountable. Or just hold me.

Remind me that while I may know all of the words to the song about Jayne from the episode of Firefly where the crew returns to a planet and discovers that he's become a local folk legend, I have not seen a single episode of Entourage or Mad Men. And you have to pay for that shiz.

I know I can do this. I must be strong.

Tomorrow is Frightened Rabbit Friday, but I will be on an air-o-plane flying to see VC and many other wonderful humans. I hope to have stories to share. Ones that do not involve me falling down, crying in a cab or making new stripper friends. Nothing wrong with stripper friends. It’s just that I have so many and I’d like to broaden my horizons. Maybe get me a token accountant buddy or something.

So in honor of both my break up and FRF, I present you with this loverly video. Enjoy! I’m going back to my bathroom stall to cry it out.




(Picture Hulu with its back turned toward me and me reaching out to her and whispering “Oh Hulu …” It will make it so much better.)

My mom is on Facebook. It is awful. Let me explain ...

Anyone who knows me knows that my mother has driven me both figuratively and literally crazy over the years.

She’s my mother. I love her. But she’s insane.

Now she’s on Facebook. One of the few places I thought I would be safe from her infiltrating my life.

A few days ago I saw her leave a message for a girl that was my very best friend in the whole wide world all through middle school, junior high, and high school.

We were like sisters. We dressed alike, dyed our hair weird colors together, pierced each others ears using safety pins and ice cubes.

That girl then proceeded to date the one boy everyone in the world knew I had a crush on for my whole life, and then slept with my very first real boyfriend, who I dated after I graduated and who I gave my most precious gift to. My flower, if you will. (I’m talking about my virginity, people.)

I uninvited that girl from my life party after about a year of her hurting me and doing things that most people think are pretty unforgiveable.

So what does my mom do? Friends her on Facebook and sends her love-dovey messages about how much she misses her.

Now they’re suddenly FB Besties, messaging back and forth.

What the what?

Then I see her leave a similar message for my ex-boyfriend.

“Hey sweetie. Miss you so much. SG’s sister will be in town soon and we’d love if you could photograph her and the baby.”

Huh?

This is the woman who, when I practically divorced this guy three years ago (I say “divorce” because we had been dating nearly six years and had a house together and two dogs,) and I came to her crying and really distraught about the whole decision said, “Poor Ex Boyfriend. He must be so upset.”

Now they’re FB Friends Forever, too. I’m waiting for pictures of them wearing each other’s half heart necklaces.

And the kicker of this whole thing is that she actually posted a photo album called “My Life” and had about 20 pictures in it. My sister was there, my brother, his girlfriend, some 28-year-old girl named Bobbi Jo Sue Ann Mary or something from Wisconsin who she used to work with. Guess who wasn’t there? Me!

Some people worry about being FB friends with guys they’re dating, or friends from high school, or guys they used to date, etc. My worst FB nightmare has turned out to be my very own mother.

There are people in this world you will never quite understand. Never quite get along with, no matter how hard you try. It’s sad when one of those people is the same person who pushed you out of her vag 30 years ago. You’d think there’d be an assumed closeness that went with all of that.

I’ve been trying for a very long time to have the kind of bond with my mom that I see some of my girlfriends have with theirs. Going shopping. Getting pedis. Scrapbooking. But I don’t like those things. Well, pedis are aight.

The thing is, my mom likes Aerosmith. This just about sums up why we’re not friends. Kidding. Kind of.

Maybe some of us are just not meant to be friends with our parents. I gave it the college try. After 30 years, I think it’s OK to stop trying so hard. I’m not saying I want to be estranged or anything, I just want to not feel bad about the fact that I don’t particularly like spending a lot of time with her and I don’t want her to know the details of my life.

Is that POSSIBLE?!?

Feedback. Do any of you have rough relationships with the ’rents. How do you deal?

(P.S. Just a reminder: It is Limerick Wednesday. Keep ‘em coming  Would haikus be easier? I rock the haiku.)

This post has heavy lesbian themes

I got in trouble at work today.

I never get in trouble. Ever. For anything. I was that kid in school who went 13 years without detention and who teachers would point to as an example of how the bad kids should be behaving.

I’m a sycophant. People hate me.

It wasn’t like a lot of trouble, but my boss got really annoyed with me and raised her voice and then abruptly hung up the phone. And I just sat there kind of looking at the receiver for a full five minutes thinking “Did I just get in trouble?!” And feeling a little like I could cry.

Nice girls don’t get the corner office. But I did.

I have this really bad habit of shutting down in situations where I think people are mad at me. I usually do the tough kid thing pretty well, but there’s something about feeling like I’ve messed up that really gets to me. It’s all in my DISC profile.

So, I’m going to blog now instead of doing what I should be doing. I know this doesn’t make logical sense. I’m seeing a therapist.

I got a sort of weird amount of feedback from people with questions about my hair – What color is it? Can I see a picture? Etc.

You guys are creepy. Would you also like me to send you locks of it? Send me your address: singlegrrrlsrock@gmail.com

Since I’m at least mostly anonymous still, I didn’t want to post a picture of me. However, the first picture above is of Katie McGrath. That’s the picture I took my stylist when I said I wanted to make the switch.

Katie McGrath is my girl crush (sorry Isla Fisher. I’m fickle.) I’m hooked on Merlin and I honestly think it’s because I’m in love with Morgana. And they manage to work a scene into every episode where she’s tossing and turning in bed with that amazing hair all tussled … getting carried away and making myself and you uncomfortable. Apologies.

Although I was going for the “Katie” everyone so far has told me what I got was the “Katy.” As in Katy Perry. I Kissed A Girl. This blog has heavy lesbian themes. Again, apologies??

My hair is short and I have the whole bangs things happening, so they’re probably right. I’m working on it.

I’m taking the photo of Katie with an “ie” back to the stylist in a few weeks when I ask her to give me really good sex hair for a photo shoot I’m doing in a few weeks. It’s one more thing on the list of things I wanted to do during my 30th year on the planet: take sexy, pin-up-y photos. Check.

I’m a little nervous about it. Most of my girl friends in Phoenix are actresses and models and really comfortable in front of a camera. I’m just not.

I’ve taken film acting classes where I had to be on screen, I’ve been in a movie, I was in journalism where I had to be on camera from time to time. For Pete’s sake I even dated a photojournalist for five years who insisted on taking my picture all of the time – like when I was sleeping or getting out of the shower or had taken a little too big of a bite of enchilada and couldn’t chew with my mouth closed. Still, don’t like it.

But a close girlfriend of mine has all of these great pictures of herself and looking at them one day I thought, I would like something like that of me before I get all old and gross. So, I’m doing it. Wish me luck.

And speaking of luck, looks like I will not be the next Food Network star, as I wrote to all of you about not too long ago. Frowns and dirt kicks. I’ll get ‘em next time. I may start making my own cooking videos and post them on You Tube and go viral and be really, really famous. Move over Barefoot Contessa.

Martini did convince me to make an audition tape for The Amazing Race. I have never seen an episode. AFTER we mailed off our tape she told me a little about what it is they do on The Race, so I’m kind of hoping that doesn’t work out for us. I think I’d be about as good on that show as I would be on So You Think You Can Dance. Keep you posted.

(P.S. where have all my commenter friends gone? I know you’re reading. I have Google Analytics!)

Michael Jackson: Hangover Helper

So a friend reminded me this morning that yesterday was supposed to be Limerick Wednesday, not Wine Wednesday. Tell that to the three empty bottles still sitting on my coffee table. Spanks.

Note to self: Learn moderation.

I blame fracking hot Phoenix for the headache, nausea and general malaise I am now experiencing. If it wasn’t so hot I wouldn’t be so thirsty. See? (On a side note, I’m trying to work the words “Good day” and “see” into my vocabulary more. As in “I said good day, sir. Good day.” and “That’s the problem, see?”)

If it helps I think I composed a limerick or two in between rounds of Rock Band with Martini and Favorite Poet and freaking myself out watching season two of Ghost Hunters and insisting to everyone that the ghosts were saying exactly what Grant and Jason said they were saying.

On another side note, we played Rock Band in our swimsuits (because we had been swimming, not just for the heck of it. Although … more bands should play in their swimsuits. Would be entertaining. And sometimes rather frightening. Metallica in swimsuits. Wrap your head around it.) and Martini somehow took a picture of my ass at some point. Receiving said picture in my inbox this morning has produced a renewed interest in The Shred, so brace yourself for the Jillian Michaels hate talk that will be coming soon.

I saw a hilarious video over at rs27’s blog this morning (which should be renamed
YouTube’s greatest hits. Just sayin …) and I thought if you all haven’t seen MJ’s appearance in one of my favorite games, Space Channel 5, you really should.

Enjoy while I nurse my hangover and master the art of sleeping with my eyes open at my desk. Sorry this post makes no sense. At all. Not the first, won’t be the last. Good day.

Lessons Learned by SG at strip clubs

I was telling some friends recently about my last trip to Minneapolis and how I visited not one, but two, strip clubs in four days.

“Our little SG in strip clubs! I thought you hated strip clubs!!”

Not true.

Indeed, I have been hot and cold on The Club over the past years, but I actually have no problem with them. I find them to be funny and fascinating.

And seriously, if you could look me in the eye and tell me you don’t like boobs I would answer only “lying liar who lies!”

“Well, why the hell are you blogging about limerick’s when you should be writing about strippers then?!”

Touché.

I used to go to strip clubs from time to time when I was in college, because people would give me fistfuls of money if I took my shirt off, which I thought was a pretty sweet deal.

Kidding. Or am I …

I had a friend who was a stripper (she was also from Scranton, PA, of The Office fame, which I think is a much more interesting detail) so sometimes we’d stop by once we were good and drunk. It reminded me of the Soprano’s in that the girls were kind of like pretty background for your conversation. And because the place was always full of overweight Mafiosos. Holla for Youngstown! Wesssside. Home of Jim Traficant.

It’s true I went through a serious anti-stripper phase, but this was completely justified. I had a BF who would actually go there BY HIMSELF on a very regular basis and lie to me and say he was working. Why lie? I didn’t have a problem with it until he started lying. Maybe he lied because before he dated me he dated a stripper and he went to the club where she worked while I was at home cooking dinner and watching Deadliest Catch.

Creep. Yes.

I digress. The point is I had a very specific problem with strip clubs that disappeared when that hot mess was disposed of.

So, when VC mentioned there was a particularly gross strip club in Mpls where it would just happen to be amateur night when I was there, I was excited. This says something about me. I'm not sure what.

Whenever he would text in the weeks leading up to it I would tell him I was at the gym and he would say “WHY?!?” -- because we’re both sort of opposed to being sweaty -- and I would say “Got to get this bod in shape for Am Night.” Wherein he would inform me that I needed to develop a pretty serious crack habit to blend in to that scene.

I had no intention of being a participant.

Little did I know …

Let me say first, that SG started drinking – straight bourbon – at 4 p.m. that day. She had at least four, maybe five, shots with her friend Jim Beam as well as quite a few beers so that, by the time she arrived at this lovely lounge she was quite intoxicated.

At one point I got up to use the restroom meaning that I had to walk directly passed the stage – twice!

Now let me interject that this story is being relayed to you mostly through reconstruction by VC. I don’t particularly recall the details.

I do recall being absolutely transfixed by the ass of a stripper on my way back from the restroom. I felt like a lit little firefly and that girl’s backside was a bug light.

I’m kind of clumsy (if you read this blog, you know this) and I don’t really dance so much as jerk my body from side to side Elaine-style. But, that night I really wanted to learn how she made that booty bounce, and she was happy to show me.

I can only imagine what the sight was like. SG imploring the stripper to “Show me how you do that with your butt!” and her obliging. VC watching, I’m sure dismayed, at the spectacle I was making of myself.

After my lesson in the Tootsie Roll, I somehow made it back to my stool at the bar. Or kind of.

Why do they make chairs that drunk people sit in without backs? This makes no sense. Luckily, I had my new stripper friends who helped me by pushing me back onto my stool until, inevitably, I took my nightly spill.

“You’re ass touched the floor of the strip club!” VC said, with disgust, the next day.

He was equally horrified when I pull a pen that smelled like cherry-scented perfume and bubble gum emblazoned with the club’s name out of my purse. Ah … the smell of topless dancers.

There’s no lesson to be learned from this story. No life-changing insights. Except maybe that SG can make friends with anyone – be they the nun at my office or the stripper at Am Night – that I might consider drinking less in front of my new BF, and that Jim Beam makes me a hot emotional mess, but a much better dancer.

P.S. Tomorrow’s Wednesday. Just sayin’. We could take another stab at Limerick Wednesday. I feel it could go viral any day now …