Thursday, 5 November 2009

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?

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

Wednesday, 19 August 2009

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 …

Thursday, 13 August 2009

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.)

Wednesday, 5 August 2009

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.”


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.)

Friday, 31 July 2009

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:

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!)

Thursday, 30 July 2009

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.

Tuesday, 28 July 2009

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?!”


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 …

Monday, 27 July 2009

SG is making changes (and resisting the urge to use Michael Jackson lyrics in this post.)

My mother called me on Saturday afternoon – very concerned.

“SG, do you think you might be having a midlife crisis?” she asked me in that really careful, quiet mom voice she uses when she doesn’t want me to get mad at her.

First of all, I am nowhere near the middle of my life. I’m 30. Life is not half over at 30, people.

Second of all … it’s possible. I guess. But I would call it more of a “reinvention” or a “makeover” than a crisis.

Or better yet, a revision. Because, at the core, I’m still me. I’ve just made some sorely needed adjustments – both in appearance and attitude.

The issue that sparked the question was that on Saturday I decided to get as close to my natural hair color as I’ve been in about 10 years – which is dark brown, not light, golden blonde. The change was pretty dramatic.

It’s true, over the last year I’ve made a lot of changes in my life, but to me they’ve all been for the better. I left journalism after eight years, I moved into the city and into my own place, I cut some toxic people out of my life, I finally got the tattoo I’ve been wanting for years. I’m looking at the hair as one more, granted superficial, step toward where I’ve wanted to go for a long time.

I felt like I got really far away from myself for a couple of years. I think it was a combination of moving to the plastic, bleach blonde land of $30,000 millionaires, going through the Big C, experiencing the Worst Relationship Ever, changing careers. A year ago today I could tell you I was feeling really lost in the world. Maybe that’s when I had this so-called crisis my mom is so worried about.

But maybe “getting away from myself” is the wrong way to think about it. Maybe we all need to go through these phases of change in order to grow? Wow. Too deep and pompous for a Monday. Forget I said that.

Right now, I feel really good about me, for realz. My life feels stable. I have hobbies that I enjoy. I have friends I love. I’m in fairly good shape. I have a new BF (although writing that just now made me realize it's not all that new anymore) who, I can honestly say, is the first guy I’ve dated in a while that makes me feel pretty darn good. And I look the way I want to look, not the way I think other people want me to look.

There is my little drinking problem, but …

I think there are more changes on the horizon.

I’ve been talking about moving a lot, and I think this is what really has my mom on edge. But I really only came to Phoenix for her and I’ve never really liked it here. It’s hot as Satan’s butthole and it’s boring (sorry Phoenixphiles) and far away from everybody but my mom and the friends I’ve made since moving here (and they are amazing friends.) It’s time for a geographic change. I didn’t get the nickname “urban gypsy” by staying put this long.

And I’ve been thinking long and hard about going back to school to get into a field that suits me better than what I do now.

And there’s that second tattoo …

A lot of people I know are on the brink of turning the big 3-0 and are dreading it. For me, I think it’s been a catalyst for ending my passive approach to life and finally doing what I want to be doing.

A co-worker told me this morning that my new hair makes me look more mischievous. That is perfect. I think the revised SG plans to get herself into a lot more trouble.

P.S. There was very low participation in Limerick Wednesday, which was a bummer, but I know, it was a lot to ask. Since only two of the four participants have blogs, and since they happen to be two of my favorites, I will be posting them in a loverly widget on my page for awhile. Thanks rs27 and Kellie!

Wednesday, 22 July 2009

It's Limerick Wednesday! Bring out your inner Irishperson.

I’m renaming today Limerick Wednesday.

I’m kind of sick of all the Wordless Wednesdays (although not Kellie’s Not So Wordless Wednesday), Music Mondays, etc. They’re getting boring to me.

Limericks are funny. And dirty. I’ve had nasty limericks I learned from the kids I hung out with when I lived for a brief while in Ireland way too many years ago stuck in my head for a few days.

It’s because I got turned on to the show Home Movies by VC while in Mpls this past weekend and there’s an episode where Coach McGuirk talks about writing one and it just cracked me up.

Anyways, I’m a bit moody and in need of cheering up, so entertain me with limericks people! I’m turning this space over to you! I made a lame stab at one below. Maybe I’ll try again later after I’m inspired by all your creativity and filthy hilariousness.

I’d make it a contest, but I don’t know what the winner would get. I’m terrible at contests. Just ask Bow Chica Bow Wow. She still hasn’t received her follower prize (Sorry! I’m the pits.)

Maybe the winner gets to have their limerick and blogsite in a special widget all their own on my page for a whiles. I know how GLAMOROUS! You know how bad you want it.

So here goes. Don’t be slackers people, I’m expecting this to be a sensation (that’s what she said):

SG is not a fan of Hump Day
And thinks it’s a misnomer anyway
She’s not getting any
Cuz her BF’s in Minne
She’s crabby and done with this workday

Tuesday, 14 July 2009

SG falls down and goes boom - AGAIN. And, a little on my neuroses.

I fall down. A lot.

Yes, sometimes I’ve been drinking when said tumbles occur. We all know about the Broken Wing Incident of 2009.

This weekend I slipped and fell at the pool. Maybe two (or five) SoCo Lime shots and two amazing keg stands had something to do with it. (And, for the record, at the ripe old age of 30, and the whopping weight of about 105 pounds, I outlasted everyone at the party. And … that’s probably not something I should be bragging about.)

But I maintain I would have fallen regardless. It was wet and slippery. That’s what she said.

Anyway, I have a rather large and unattractive abrasion/bruise the shape of the great state of Ohio on my bottom and it’s not going away anytime soon.

I also hit my head. I’m not exactly sure how that one happened. But, I have an egg on the side of my head, and I’m pretty sure I had a mild concussion most of Sunday because I spent the day talking to myself and drifting in and out of sleep where I dreamt about birthing teeth. I wish I were kidding.

Also, I went to the hairstylist on Saturday and she burned my forehead a wee bit while straightening my new thick bangs.

Yesterday I was walking Little B through the grassy area in front of my apartment and it felt like something bit my leg. I looked down and saw that my feet and ankles were covered in tiny ants that were gnawing on me like I gnaw on cheddar when I’m working on my night cheese.

I had to soak my feet in camomile lotion last night, but they’re still covered in weird red bumps. And now they smell funny and have a weird pink tinge.

So, basically, I’m a hot mess.

I see VC on Thursday for the first time in a month. (For those of you who have been e-mailing me for a status report while I take long breaks from blogging – yes things are still really awesome there.) I’m not exactly thrilled about the fact that I look like I’m returning from war (Love is a battlefield. What?)

My sister-in-law says maybe I should wear a helmet when I go out. Martini has maintained that protective gear should be involved whenever I drink – elbow pads, knee pads, the whole deal. I mentioned ice skating to her the other day and she said “No, no, no. You + ice skating = trip to the ER.” Fo sho.

I don’t know how many of you read Chelsea Talks Smack, but if you don’t, you really should. She wrote this great post last week about all our little insecurities and how they can just crash down upon you when you really like someone and you’re trying to put your best foot forward. It’s so true. I’ve been so embarrassed all week that I look like I participated in an Ultimate Fighting Championship match this weekend. I’ve been cursing myself for being such a klutz. But the truth is, clumsy is just part of who I am. I’ve always been clumsy and I always will be (and I have something of a Jim Beam problem …)

Did I tell you all how I pulled a muscle in my foot playing Rock Band and the doc told me I should “wear sneakers for now on”? I can’t help it – a girl has to bounce while she’s shredding to Aqualung.

Yesterday, a really dumb thing happened and I made a huge deal out of it even though it really wasn’t. It had to do with day-long harassment and a suicide threat via Crackhead Ex who has specifically been told about a half a dozen times to not bother me anymore --and a misdirected text response to his ludicrousness. I made that word up.

I seriously let it upset me WAY more than it should have. I was completely neurotic about it for about an hour.

A particularly loony friend of mine (I mean “loony” with much love) said to me today “SG, we just have a little crazy in us. Some people bottle it all up inside and then it just bursts and people say ‘Wow, that chick is crazy!’ We let ours trickle out and then move on.”

I think that’s probably true. Yes, I’m a little clumsy. Yes, I’m a little crazy. But I’m lots and lots of good things. And I am who I am.

What little neurosis do you all wish you could hide away from people? What do you do when the crazy trickles out at the least opportune moments?

P.S. VC suggested that since I’ve been sucking at keeping up with posting lately maybe I should just post my Rock Band scores of the day. I think there’s something to that. So, for the record, I scored 111,800- and something playing Everlong last night and I was pretty proud. And I finally got through Carry On on “hard.” And, I’m a dork

Thursday, 2 July 2009

This is why I'm always drunk. And a call for advice.

I know I haven’t written in awhile. I guess I had/have writer’s block. Or an extreme case of the lazys. Or a sense that I’d rather not have certain people who I now know are reading this know certain things I want to write about.

Also, like it always manages to do, work has sucked some of my will to live. I’ve been put in charge of all of the “emerging media” at my office – Twitter accounts, web content management, Facebook, blog. Sounds fun, but it just means that when it comes time to post something on a personal account I’m all crabby and tired of it. It’s like I always say, they don’t call it funning. It’s work.

I actually have a file on my desktop labeled “More notes for a blog post you are obviously never going to write.” That’s because I’ve started to write at least a half a dozen times and then completely nixed the idea.

Anyhow, two things inspired me to write today – one super fun and one super sad. I need your help with both.

Let’s start with the fun.

I am hosting a spectacular 4th of July extravaganza this weekend. There will be pools and food. I will show off my Rock Band skills by playing Lazy Eye on “hard” over and over again until people really hate me. And of course, there will be copious amounts of booze.

I’m making something called tequila-soaked watermelon, which is like a classed-up version of when you used to take the absolute cheapest vodka you could get someone to buy for you when you were a teenager and then cut a hole in the watermelon and pour it all in there white trash style and eat it until you were all drunk and kind of sick.

With this recipe you actually soak wedges of watermelon in tequila and triple sec, squeeze lime over it, sprinkle it with salt and enjoy. And people hate Martha Stewart … you should be thanking her.

I told my friends about this plan and they were, of course, overcome with excitement. But they also kind of laughed and said something to the effect of “Ideas like this are why you’re always drunk, SG!” And then Martini had the stroke of genius:

“We should start a blog that’s like This is Why You’re Fat only it’s This is Why You’re Always Drunk!” (BT dubs, if you haven’t read TIWYF, you are in for a disgusting treat.)

So we need ideas. Send them along. What are the things you put alcohol in? Like how I put Bailey’s (or straight whisky, whatever) in my morning coffee for a year in order to deal with the world’s craziest boss. Or how Martini makes dinner better by making “Bloody Mary Salad.” Get creative people. I think we are really on to something here.

And now, my rant. Have you all seen the commercials for the Fox show “More to Love”???

From the first moment I saw this, I was irritated. It seemed very exploitative. But then I thought, maybe I shouldn’t be so steamed. Maybe I can’t understand the dating issues of overweight people and should shut up about it.

Then I got a very upsetting e-mail from my bestie last night. She and I have been friends since we met in the summer between fifth and sixth grade when we were in Summer Stock together (I played Rapunzel and I brought down the house. Holla!) She’s the most beautiful person I know. She doesn’t have a mean bone in her body and has always gone out of her way to be generous and loving to everyone she meets.

She’s also always been overweight. In her e-mail she explained to me how lonely she is feeling and how sad she is that all of her friends are embarking on new and exciting relationships.

“I just don't feel like watching people be couples while feeling like I'm never going to be,” she wrote.

This is what she had to say about the new show: It's the bachelor but for "real women". What they mean is overweight. And the bachelor isn't some hot rich guy like he is on the regular bachelor. Because fat women can only get fat men. That's the way the world works.

It made me think a lot about dating and how do we couple. How we find someone that has all those qualities that are important to us and that is also attractive to us (and we attractive to them.) It’s a miracle, really, when you think about it.

She’s thinking about trying Match or something like that and I think she could really use some words of advice. But ya’ll know how annoying advice like this is coming from a person who is happily in a new relationship. You just really want to smack them around a little. I’ve been there. So, to all my single ladies, what do you think? Any words to live by?

Please and thank you.

And please drink responsibly this weekend! And if you don’t, please send pictures of your debauchery.

I’m off to soak my melons. Missed you all! I promise not to go away for so long again.

Wednesday, 17 June 2009

Rockin' out with your (insert four-letter word for male parts here) out. And tattoo!

I know I haven’t written in quite some time. I really have no excuse for why except I simply haven’t felt like it. I fully recognize how lazy this sounds. I’ll never be your Martha Stewart. Or your Tracy Flick. Or your beast of burden. What? Moving on.

I did promise you pictures of my tattoo, soooo if you haven’t lost interest I’ve posted the “after” above. Sweet, yes? People ask me what it’s all about, so here it is in a nutshell: I’ve had a crappy couple of years. The big C. Twice. The worst crack head, lying liar head BF ever, and some other family stuff that was really heart-breaking. I kind of shut down for a little while. I drank too much. I still do that. But then I realized, through the support of some great friends, that I am, by nature, a very loving, emotional person. I got this tat as a reminder that it’s OK to wear your heart on your sleeve because no matter what, it will always mend. So there ya go. Corny, but all mine. Forever. On my skin … forever.

I was in Minneapolis all weekend visiting VC. It’s taken until today to make my pancreas, liver and kidneys stop staging a French-style revolution inside my body. Excessive drinking: It’s the new black. (When will this post start making sense? I’ve got $5 on never.)

I met a guy in a bar the night before I left who was wearing a baseball cap that said “Rock out with your cock out.” I took a picture, of course. (This was after drinking two of something called “wondrous punch.” There is a reason for its name.) This was one of the highlights of my weekend, nay, my life. Seriously.

This is not to say the rest of the weekend was any less awesome. I’m coming to quickly love Mpls. Returning to Phoenix was the pits for plenty of reasons. As one of my new besties from MN says it is, indeed, Satan’s asshole here. Worse than the actual weather was getting to my apartment to find that my A/C had gone out and was actually blowing hot air, causing all of my plants to shrivel up and die and Little B. to greet me with his tongue hanging out and his eyes rolled back in his head (he’d only been there a few hours so don’t go calling PETA.)

So I’ve now learned a huge pitfall of the LDR is that you get to have these perfect weekends, but then you have to deal with returning to the empty house and the no BF to snuggle up to, and the absence of giggles over silly jokes. It’s like a hangover on crack.

To remedy this, Martini had me over for dinner and she, friend A. and I played dress up in her closet. Yes, we’re all around three decades old. So? Somewhere there are pictures of me in a skin tight, ass-hugging gold lame mini dress, black chiffon robe, hot pink stilettos, blue scarf and sequined flapper headband – yes, I look like a cross between a broken down Bette Midler in Beaches and an extra tanked Miss Hannigan. Meow.

I spent a few days feeling all forlorn and icky but then I realized that’s just really stupid. I’m happy. I have this great new person in my life. I’m making new friends. I’m seeing new places. There’s absolutely nothing to be sad about.

I know there are lots of you out there who’ve done the LDR – share with me your secrets of dealing with the day after because sooner or later one of these Crazy Flapper on Speed photos is going to leak out.

Monday, 8 June 2009

Cheetos are beautiful. For so many, many reasons.

I started to write this post today about finding beauty in the small stuff – in nature, the perfect symmetry of flowers, yada, yada. But then I read it and was like “Gag. Who is this hippy that’s overtaken my brain and started making me write puke worthy posts?” So I nixed it.

Seriously, though, I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been feeling really emotional and sensitive or because I’ve been drunk a little too much of the time, but I’ve been finding art in things around me a lot lately and really enjoying it.

For example, yesterday I stared at a Cheeto for about five minutes because I swear it looked like an owl to me. (Owl’s are one of the only birds I do not find completely terrifying, P.S.) Then I thought of that episode of the Simpsons with The Leader where Homer keeps seeing the Leader’s face in his lima beans and saves them on a shelf. Then I had “nana nana nana nana Leader!” in my head all day. (I’m only half joking about the above statement. This is really how my brain works.)

I actually got my film camera out for the first time in a while and spent about an hour in the late evening walking around, just observing my neighborhood from a different perspective. I think there was something about all the trauma of being with The Ex that stole away a lot of my desire for art and beauty. It’s been a year (which I just realized in talking with a friend on Saturday. That’s a long fracking time) but there’s really not an ounce of pain left over any of that. It’s amazing.

Speaking of art, I’d like you all to check out THE CUTEST thing I’ve just discovered thanks to VC. It’s a shop of a friend of his and her stuff is adorable. I know what all of my besties are getting as gifts for now on.

And, speaking of besties … I had an amazing weekend celebrating the birthday of one BFF Ms. Martini. There are stories to tell, but luckily no one fell down and broke an arm. I did, however, become fixated on dancing at the most fab gay club in our neighborhood around 2 a.m. and took off running toward it, with open arms, screaming “Amsterdam!” Good friend J. saved me from a most certain collision with the light rail, so I’m told, by slinging me over his shoulder and forcing me to come home. Good ol’ SG. Life of the party.

I relayed this story to a friend yesterday as I was pondering my bruised rib cage and he said: You always do accelerate before you hit the wall.

Good to know.

On a sad note, would you all please observe a moment of silence for a lovely human being and artist, Jeff Hanson, who passed away tragically this weekend at the all too young age of 31. For those of you who aren’t familiar with his music, listen to it. It’s incredible.

Weirdly, I had this dream about him just before this news. I was at this party and, as a surprise, I had somehow convinced Jeff Hanson to play for VC who loves him. In real life, we actually just met him a few weeks ago and I feel lucky I got to hear him play and shake his hand before this terrible accident. R.I.P.

Tuesday, 2 June 2009

Sexy, sexy tattoos, ripped arms and a contest winner! I'm exhausted just writing that

First order of business: Bow Chica Wah Wah won my followers contest. (Sorry Martini, I know you were hoping I’d rig it. Ha!) Hooray! I heart her. I heart all of you really and I have nine new followers since reaching my weird little goal, so more giveaways soon.

I will be contacting her about it and once she gets her lovely prize I will let you all know what it was. I don’t want to spoil the surprise!

Speaking of spoiling surprises, I realized that I can’t show you pictures of my tattoo because I found out that VC has read the blog and, although I am not so vain as to think he’s a regular reader now, I don’t want to spoil showing it to him by posting it here (also, in case you were wondering, he was so sweet and understanding about the whole “Yes, I write about you under a (kind of lame) false name on the internets” thing. I was hugely embarrassed when I confirmed he was reading. I have gushed a bit. And by a bit, I mean like wave pool at Six Flags kind of gushing. So for those of you whose SOs have given you a hard time about the blogging, pass it on). Anyway, finished product photos will have to wait until after I see him again in another week. (You can get a peak at all the pretty colors, as well as the instruments of torture and some gooey stuff on a stick, above.)

I finally really understand the warning some of you sent about tats being addictive. What is that? I swear I was sitting in that chair, basically allowing someone to give me the deepest, roughest rug burn ever – that did not even involved my behind and sex – and I could only think of where I might get another one.

For those of you who have never done this, it really doesn’t even hurt. When the needle first touches your skin, it’s like a shot, or a pin prick, but then, within just a few minutes it feels weirdly good. I closed my eyes, put Built to Spill on my iPod, and went to my happy place (where little people ninjas dance to big boisterous mariachi bands.) Lovely. Strangely erotic. I don’t get it.

At one point, REO Speedwagon did come on my iPod, which made me giggle, which made me nervous that the artist would go outside the lines. A cautionary tale. No REO during tatting.

Now that I have a sweet tattoo on my arm, I’m all inspired to tone up, for realz. I got the A-OK from my arm doc to actually start lifting weights and stuff again after the Great Break of 2009, so I no longer have an excuse to be lazy.

I mentioned to VC that I was planning on some sort of physical fitness endeavor and he said he and some officemates have embarked on the 100 push-up challenge.

Ugh. Push-ups.

So, I was the girl in gym class who feigned asthma so I didn’t have to run laps and was always “spraining my wrist” during volleyball (Sorry Ms. Lymber. Yeah, my gym teacher’s name was Lymber.)

I will walk on the treadmill, but only if I have music, television, and text messaging at my finger tips. And if I start sweating, I want to stop. There’s only one time this girl enjoys sweating and it’s been a long, long time since she’s partaken in that particular activity. (Sweet baby Jesus lying there in your ghost manger, do you hear me?)

I’m going to give the whole challenge thing a try though. I started last night. Let’s just say my consecutive number was much lower than I thought it would be (that’s what she said.) I’m using my still soft and weird right arm as a scapegoat.

I hope I’ll stick with this. I only lasted four days into Jillian’s 30-Day Shred, but seriously, there’s something maniacal about that woman. I’m feeling good about this plan working out. Anyone else try this? Or know another way to tone up my arms in a jiffy?

Do you guys think I write like an 87-year-old lady might speak? I mean other than blurting out “Ball Sack!” and “What the frack!”

Is it weird that I also crave tapioca pudding and chicken-fried steak? Kidding about that last part. I don’t even know what chicken-fried steak is. Although, let’s be honest, if I did, I’d probably eat it.

Friday, 29 May 2009

Relationships = hairy legs, stinky breath and One Tree Hill. Wait a minute ...

(Note on this photo: apparently the only people in the world in long distance relationships live in the northeastern U.S. and Europe, as every photo and illo I could find depicts it this way.
Newsflash: long distance relationships are weird.

I mean, you’re with this person. But how serious you get, how soon, etc. is all jacked up because each date costs an average of $300 in transportation. So you’re like, I have to be pretty serious to go on this date, right? But at the same time you’re trying to be all, “Whatever, I’m coy. I’m taking this slow.”

And let’s just be honest, you really do wish you could see them more. I mean, it’s the beginning of a relationship. It’s that time when you want to see them every day, and introduce them to everyone and spin around in circles like Elf singing “I’m in love, I’m in love and I don’t care who knows it!” (For the record: not ready for the L word over here. May be getting there … Big step for me. But “I’m in like LIKE” doesn’t have the same ring.)

So, I’m trying to focus on the positive things about dating a person who lives 1,650 miles away from you (I Mapquested). Here’s what I’ve come up with:

You don’t have to shave every day. In fact, you don’t have to shave every week. I realized this morning as I picked up my razor and promptly set it back down that I can go three entire weeks without removing any hair from my body at all. This is life-changing. Since I’m all loyal and stuffs now, I don’t even have to worry that I might get too friendly with ol’ Jose C. tonight and then, in turn, get too friendly with guy-at-the-end-of-the-bar-who-looks-younger-and-less-like-a-monkey-in-bar-light. This is excellent. I may not even tweeze. I mean, who am I impressing? Think about all the things I can do in the time I’ll be saving. I feel like women must have felt upon the advent of the washing machine when they no longer had to spend the entire day down at the river scrubbing their husband’s disgusting underpants on a rock. (Let’s be honest, I’ll probably just drink more beer and sit around in my action pants listening to records.)

You can eat all the garlic you want. You can eat all the tuna salad you want. You can eat all the hot, yummy Cheetos you want. It does not matter. No one is getting close to your mouth for weeks. I mean, I suppose I could also think about sparing my friends and co-workers from my stank breath, but I don’t really care about that. My friends will love me anyway (and I don’t usually slip them the tongue, unless, again, I’ve gotten a little too friendly with Jose.) And my co-workers have to deal with it. Besides, I deal with them keeping the air set at 47 degrees and with them making up absolutely ridiculous words, like “phrasiologies.”

They don’t ever have to know until deep into your relationship that when you told them you LOVED One Tree Hill and they gave you a weird look so you laughed like it was a joke, that really, you weren’t joking. You really do love it. And when Lucas and Peyton FINALLY got married and you thought she died that you wept like a small child who had just been told there’s no Santa Claus. You also watch way more Everybody Loves Raymond than any person under the age of 67 should watch and you laugh like it’s the first time you’ve ever heard a joke.

You have a built in excuse to turn down offers to go out “to the club,” which you always hated but felt like you had to say yes to or else people would say, “Well you’re not going to meet anyone sitting around here.” You’ve already met someone. Na Na Na Na Phoo Phoo.

And, since your boyfriend is far away, you don’t have to do anything at all on a Friday if you don’t want to. You can sit in your living room, eating hot Cheetos, with hairy legs, watching One Tree Hill and Raymond and no one is the wiser.

I am so hot.

Remember when I used to ask, “Am I going to be single forever?” After writing this, I am asking myself how the frack I ever snagged a boyfriend. Oh yeah, it’s because he lives far, far away.

What would you do, or not do, if you only saw your SO once a month?

(P.S. I’m getting my first tattoo tomorrow night. It’s three years in the making. I’m so excited. Pictures to come!)

Wednesday, 27 May 2009

Do I need to tell you I have writer's block?

I haven't posted in a week.

I don't know what to write.

I guess I should tell you all about my amazing weekend with Virtual Crush (can he still be "Virtual" now that he's oh so dreamily real?) I've been hestitating because I may or may not have been really intoxicated the first night he was in town and told him about my blog.

I had planned to do this at some point in the weekend because I really do believe that honesty is super important in a relationship. But, since I was tipsy, I just spilled the whole thing, fake name and all. Now, he may or may not be reading it, which kind of makes me feel like I can't gush or confess too much. Not that I would, mind you (I totally would!)

Anyway, I'm going to make an attempt to write about it later tonight. I cross my heart.

I guess the other thing that's been stopping me from writing is this feeling I've been overwhelmed with this week like "Who really cares about your life, SG? You don't have a single interesting thing to say." We all go through this as bloggers, right?

I mean, you all must find some mild amusement in my posts to keep coming back. And I love you all for it. Truly. Madly. Deeply.

And, I really enjoy reading about all of you, too. So why do I feel this way? I guess I need to push through it. Or is it better to just wait for something to come along to write about?

I should just be honest that there's lots going on in my life right now, but for the first time since starting this I kind of want to protect it instead of putting it out there and making fun of it, like I would if, say, it was just me and Martini drinking too much tequila and falling down. Maybe this will go away with time.

For those of you who have had this problem -- what did you do? I don't want my blog to go away. But what the fuck am I supposed to write about if I censor out a huge portion of my life?

Why did no one warn me about this ... wait, you did.

How does Singlegrrrl become happilyinarelationshipgrrrl?

Friday, 22 May 2009

The Blow Off: Sensitive or Selfish? And Virtual Crush arrives today!!!

First, I want to take care of a little housekeeping so none of you think I’m going back on my promises.

I can’t find the perfect giveaway prize, despite my best efforts, so I’ve decided to compile a little goodie bag of things for the lucky winner. I’ll be entering all of your names unless you e-mail and say you don’t want to participate – which is madness because I am an awesome gift giver! And an incredibly modest person!!! Sorry to the last five people who joined, but I did say the first 20, so 20 it is. There will be more presents in the future, I swearz.

I will not be writing a blog for at least the next three days. I plan to spend every moment of them in nerdy bliss with my new beau, showing him around Phoenix and stuff. Can’t wait. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been so excited about anything not involving booze (which is not to say there will not be obscene amounts of drinking this weekend, let’s just be honest. My refrigerator is filled with the following: beer, Slim-fast, fruit punch, cheese, film. Should I be concerned about first impressions of my place by Virtual Crush?) I’ve been watching the clock all day and it’s driving me bonkers.

In the meantime, I’ve been thinking about the excellent point rs27 raised in commenting on my last blog and I’d like to put it out there to all of you.

My last blog was meant to be slightly cheeky in the whole “heartbreaker” theme. If you read the blog regularly you probably know I’m a nerd who dates very little. I have gone out with a couple of guys that continue to call me, though, and now that I’m seeing someone, I thought I should let them know.

However, one poor schmuck had been kind of hanging on like a leech there for awhile, even though he was getting the big blow off from me and I just couldn’t bring myself to lay it out there for him.

See, in my opinion, the blow off is a gentle way of letting someone know what’s up (that’s what she said?) I, personally, don’t want to be told, “Hey, I don’t really like you” to my face, so I guess I’ve assumed others don’t either.

If someone just never calls me again, I can cushion my self-esteem with all sorts of delusions, like “Hey, maybe he met the girl of his dreams and they eloped the day after our date.” Or, “Maybe he was abducted by aliens/gypsies/ninjas/etc.” or “Maybe he was in a terrible accident and can no longer dial telephones.”

But then again, I also don’t continue to call someone who NEVER calls me back for months and months. I get the net. Apparently, others are not so quick.

I usually reserve “I’m not into you” talks for people I’m actually dating and for stalkers, like TDAH.

So my question is: Is the blow off a sensitive way to let someone down, or just a selfish way of not having to deal with someone you’ve gone out with (or, as in someone’s case, randomly made out with)? Discuss, discuss.

Wednesday, 20 May 2009

Time to clean up my messes

So, I’ve been letting any of the guys that may have been out there trying to date this hot tamale know that she officially only has eyes for one guy these days.

Sorry suckas. Snoozed. Losed.

Actually, I had just been blowing them off, as I’m prone to do with guys I’m not actually dating but maybe just went out with once or twice. I'm a Co-co-co-cold hearted, ssssssssnake.

First came The Greek. This went down yesterday outside my apartment. He had called and texted a couple of times but since we never actually went on a date, I didn’t think I owed him an awkward “Sorry dude, but I’m not going to go out with you” explanation. So I just didn’t return his calls.

I was walking B. yesterday and saw him across the street. I tried to just ignore him and act like I was super interested in picking up my dog’s poo, but I failed miserably. Darn poo! Why do you smell so bad?

He crossed the street and started asking me a series of questions about how I was doing, how work was going, yada, yada, yada. Then he laid this on me:

Him: So my friend said you’re seeing someone now. I’m glad for you, but I wish I could have gotten to know you better.

You know what I said?

Me: Did you hear about the streaker we had out here last night?

I’m such an ass. It was the first thing that came out to avoid a reply to that statement.

You see, I had an amazing experience with a streaker the night before. I was sitting in the apartment of Martini who lives a floor down from me, enjoying a glass of wine with her and our friend T. when we heard this incredible moaning sound. It sounded like someone having really loud, really rowdy sex.

Of course, we all ran to the window to see what was going on because there was no one in that room that’s been getting any action in a very long time and we kind of forgot what sex sounded like and wanted to be sure that’s what it was.

We’re all craning our necks out the window, staring into the darkness, when this buck naked man comes running around the corner, moaning and yelling. He then grabs his genitals in one hand and is trying to get in the building next door with the other hand.

Finally he manages to slip behind some unsuspecting person who, for some strange reason, wasn’t prepared to see a naked man run up to her at 9 p.m. on a Tuesday.
What seemed like two minutes later the police pull up and want to know what we saw.

I tell them we saw a naked man moaning and running down the street. He asks if we will give a statement. He wants to know exactly what I saw because, apparently, it’s a major offense for someone to show their special parts “to a minor.”

This makes me howl with laughter. I say, “A minor. I’m the oldest one in the group! I took a nap when I got home from work today.”

The next day I actually got a call from the “Victim’s Unit” of the police department. I felt like I was on an episode of Law and Order.

All this is to say that when The Greek tried to start spilling his sweet preppy guts to me all I could think to talk about was the Naked Man.

Mission Let The Greek Down Easy: accomplished.

Then today I had to write a very harsh e-mail to Tall Dark and Handsome to tell him to stop being Single White Male on me.

You may remember I went on one date with him just before breaking my arm. It was so incredibly dull that I drank my weight in Grey Goose. I think the bill was like $100 and I didn't eat anything. Yes, TDAH, you can pick up the bill. Who says chivalry is dead?
He called and texted after that, and I attempted my blow off routine. He continued to call and text. One night I texted back, “Sorry TDAH. I’m not interested.”

He thought I was drunk or something (whatever would give him that idea?) and continued to call. I never spoke to him once in all that time – more than two months.

Today he asked me to come to a party this weekend. He actually texted me this: “Bring your own booze. Swimsuits optional.” Classy guy. Classy.

So I e-mailed him and said “Dude, I’m seeing someone. I tried to let you down easy but you don’t seem to be getting it so I’m just going to be blunt. Please stop calling and texting. Get the net.” (I actually wrote that and kind of cracked myself up.)

He responded.

“You’re so sweet. Thanks for telling me. Please take care of yourself and if you need anything let me know.”

What the what?

Men always make fun of women who don’t get the hint and insist that guys like them and “just don’t know how to show it.”

Well, I think these recent events prove that some guys are just morons.

Monday, 18 May 2009

I'll sell you the whole seat, but you'll only need the edge.

I don't know what this post's title means, really. I heard it once on a Monster Truck commercial and thought it was funny.

The point is, I’ve lost my edge.

I sat down to write this post pretty much once to twice a day for the last four days but I’ve got nothing.

Ever since I met Virtual Crush I’m big, goofy-grin girl. I sit in my office chair at work and bop my head to songs that no one can hear. I hum to myself all day. I break into smiles at inappropriate times.

I have nothing sarcastic to say. I have no snide comments about dating. I smile at people on the train IN THE MORNING. What is going on???

I know you’ve asked for details, but the details are all sugary and sweet and the kind of stuff that used to make me nauseous before I met him.

If you’ve been following you know that I’ve been communicating with him via uber cool technology like e-mail and the ‘Book for years. So I really knew I would like him before I met him. I just didn’t know if there would be like a “what a cool dude” vibe happening or like a hearts and stars and electricity thing happening. It’s the latter, fo sho.

I spent the weekend before last with him, along with other amazing awesome friends, in Minneapolis, as you may know. We played Rock Band, shared ear buds as we walked in the Race for the Cure (very Lady and the Tramp. I’m the Tramp, for realz. Not that he’s the lady … this analogy went wrong somewhere.) We saw an amazing performance by The Kills (although someone kept throwing beer bottles at the stage … is this is a Minnesota thing? Not cool guys.) We went to a spectacular drag show. We drank a lot of beer. Sigh.

Now, every day I wake up with this intense feeling in my chest that I can only believe is happiness … feels strange. New. Fun. See, I told you, nauseating.

I’m the girl who wants to be all “and then, Virtual Crush said this …” to my friends and I keep stopping myself because I know the pukey feeling I used get and how I used to want to kick even my closest friends hard in the shins for that shiz.

Despite the fact that I have a blog about dating, I haven’t actually dated that much for being 30 years old. Three boyfriends. Ever. One for six years.

My first boyfriend I had nothing in common with. At all. No offense to the born agains out there (although I can’t imagine you like my blog since I like to randomly burst out with things like “balls!”) but he was from a whole family of Bible thumpers who thought women shouldn’t wear pants, or make up or cut there hair. Or speak unless spoken to. Wait, that’s children. No, I think it was women.

I could just hear whispers of Jezebel every time I walked in a room. Or was that this morning at work? Hmm … I don’t even know how we started dating except that I was young and he was cute and we started and then I just never broke up with him. When I finally did two years later I was like “Ahhhhh, finally. I’ll never do that again.”

My second boyfriend I dated for soooo long. We had some things in common. We worked together at a pretty intense job. If you’ve ever dated someone you work with you know it’s easy to do. You know all the same people, you have all the same gripes. But he was majorly outdoorsy and I am not. I walk. To the bar. To breakfast. That’s about it. I don’t hike. I don’t like things that bite or sting or maul. We ended up friends.

My last boyfriend I’ve written about briefly here before. He fooled me. He lied about everything. I thought he was cool, but alas, he was just a lying liar who lies. I’ve worked through that, I swearz.

It’s so cool thinking about starting a relationship (feels weird writing that but we did change our FB statuses, remember? Huge. That’s what she said. Hee hee) with someone who I have things in common with. And who might think I’m a nerd but thinks that’s pretty cool.

I’m happy. That’s all. He’s visiting this weekend, so I’ll let you know how it goes. In the meantime I have to think of something witty and sarcastic to say here. Preferably something that involves the words “sack” or “The Herp.”

Friday, 15 May 2009

Friday Update and Giveaway

And you thought sending it to her client was below the belt. Now it turns out someone sent Martini's blog to her boss! What the EEEFFFF! Poor Martini. Let's please all think happy thoughts. We can all go to our computers at the same time and sing a virtual round of Kumbaya. Seriously.

Thanks to all of you who wished her well.

In other news, I reached my 20th follower, soooooooooooooooooo Random Drawing Giveaway time. Woo Hoo! Bar scream! I have to find the perfect item first. I have an idea. I'll keep you posted.

I know, I know, I know. I still owe you details on Minneapolis. Let's just say a certain boy who I refer to here as Virtual Crush will be visiting me here next weekend, despite his aversion to flying. We may have gotten drunk and changed our Facebook statuses to "in a relationship" and decided not to change them back once sober. Huge. That's all I'm saying for now. More to come. I swearz.

Wednesday, 13 May 2009

A rat in our midst

I had planned to write to you today about the most stellar weekend I had in Minneapolis. In short, it was filled with friends, fun, food and booze. Could not have been better.

For those of you who have been following, meeting Virtual Crush was amazing. Better than I could have imagined. Details to come. I'm all humming to myself and smiling for no reason since I met him.

But all of this will have to wait because something terrible has happened and I need your help.

For the second time someone has outed the true identity of Martini. This time to one of her exes and to a client at work! Many of you who read this blog read hers too or read about her here so you may be wondering why her blog was shut down late last week.

Not knowing who else this person planned to send it to, she put a lock on it until she can figure some things out. She's not sure if she'll be back. This should draw frowns from all of you, as she is hilarious and helps many of us get through our sad single moments.

The poo face who did this has remained anonymous. Martini has no idea who it is. She has the e-mail address of one Shannon J. Kramer. If you're reading this "Shannon" you should know I am shaking my head and making that face Queen Latifa makes when she is right pissed at someone. It's not pretty.

To the rest of you, if you know who this is, tell her what a Ball Sack she is. If she follows your blog -- Beware. She is the pits. Period.

As for Martini, I'm sure you'll still hear about her many shenanigans here. But not with all the great vagina jokes because she's way better at those than me. Sadness. I'll keep you posted on what's happening with the hunt for Shannon Kramer.

If you have Martini's e-mail, please send her your well wishes, or any good nasty phrases she can use in future correspondence with the psycho hose beast.

I'm counting on you blog community. Don't let me down!

Thursday, 7 May 2009

Why I think God is punking me

It started yesterday. It was day four of the Swine Flu! (wouldn't it be funny if everyone screamed every time someone said that? Like on Pee Wee Herman's Playhouse. Try it. Swine Flu!)
Anyway, it was day four of my illness and I had to return to work, but it beat the shit out of me because, well, you know how it is when you lay in bed for three days and then on the fourth day you get up and take a shower and just that wears you out but then you have to do the stuff you showered for so then you're exhausted. Or maybe that's just me. Because I'm old. And lazy.
By the time I got home I felt like poo, but I had promised myself that this was Day 1 of Back to the Gym, my latest endeavor to get ready for an upcoming trip to Vegas. I've been in a cast for six weeks and used it as an excuse to do absolutely no physical activity so I'm looking a little soft around the edges, if you know what I'm saying.
I got home, put on my kickers, some old gray sweat shorts, a t-shirt that says "I'm Cool Like That" and a headband. I'm wearing zero make up, but it's the gym, I tell myself, and I live in the gayborhood. No one (straight) will see me.
I've got to walk Little B first, so I get him suited up and ready to go and then I stop.

The Greek lives in the building next door and it is 6 p.m. Prime dog walking time.

I don't remember much about the night I met The Greek but I do remember that he lives in the building next door and that he owns a dog. Just then (really just then, not for the sake of moving my story along) I get a text from Martini. "Just ran into The Greek. He's funny. I'll tell you about it later."

I say "Psyche!" to Little B. and kill about 20 minutes in my apartment to ensure that I will not run into him. Then I head out.

I'm walking happily along past all the familiar bushes and bikes B. likes to pee on when I approach this cute little bistro that just opened on the ground floor two buildings over. Standing outside is this bartender guy, who I call Vespa Guy, because I once saw him riding one down the street.

Vespa Guy works at this little hipster dive I like to hang out at when I'm in the mood to drink Chimay. Or just in the mood to drink and walk home safely. Well, mostly safely. I did break my arm walking home from this particular establishment, but that's neither here nor there. What's important is that he's cute and we've had a flirty thing going on for awhile.

I get closer. I'm smiling. His back's to me. I think, "I'll say 'hi,' and something clever like ... Hi?" Wait. I'm ugly right now. Balls. Ok, walk fast. He won't notice, he won't notice, he won't

Vespa Guy: Hey there! You're cast is off!
Me: Um, yeah
Vespa Guy: That's awesome. Does it feel good?
Me: Um, yeah
Vespa Guy: That's good. Have you eaten here?
(he gestures at the bistro.)
Me: Um, yeah. Well, kind of. I came here but they were out of food (WHY DO I SPEAK???)
Vespa Guy: Wow. Well, then, you should come back. I'm working here now, too.
Me: Um, yeah.
(What is my problem? Have I unknowingly had my frontal lobe removed?)
Vespa Guy: Well, hopefully I'll see you soon!
Me: Yeah. I mean, Yeah! Definitely.

I walk away. Fast. I turn the corner and feel a strong urge to kick myself but then someone might think I've actually lost it and call the authorities. I already sing and dance a lot in my neighborhood. Hitting myself could be the last straw.

As I round the corner to the home stretch of my walk I'm still mentally abusing myself for the Vespa Incident when I notice a black car slow down near me. Lost person or rapist? Crap.

The passenger window rolls down. A waft of very nice smelling cologne comes out. A man with a pleasant face leans over. Rapist! No. It's The Greek. I recognize him.Woo Hoo!

At first, this fact alone astounds me so much that it takes me a minute to realize he's talking.

He's saying something about running into Martini and how B. is cute and how we should get together. I don't know what I said to him. I kept looking at his face. It's a nice face. Heart all a flutter face? Not so much. But sweet. Then I look at his very neat khakis, polo shirt, belt. Conservative? Probably. Damn. Stay with the conversation SG.

He says he's afraid Martini and I think he's a creep over the whole making out thing. I say "Don't sweat it. Takes two to tango." Smooth.

Later I text him and say we really don't think he's a creep. He says I seemed uncomfortable when we spoke. I say it's because I looked like hell. He says he thought I looked pretty. LIAR! He wants to bed me. However, I think I'm intrigued enough for a date.

As I'm entering the gym, I run into Creepy Bi-Curious Guy . We haven't spoken in three months since I invited him to meet me and some friends out late one night and then proceeded to ignore him once he got there. There's a good back story. I'm not a Cold Hearted Snake. For realz. Needless to say our interaction was quick and awkward. (That's what she said.)

Tonight, hot hot hot neighbor, referred to here as Gym Guy, who I thought might be gay but now know isn't (because we ran into him out one night after Martini had had a few and she cleverly asked "Are you gay?") was at the gym.

He waited until I was at a 4 incline, going about 5 miles an hour, with The Promise Ring blaring in my earphones to come over and talk to me.

Gym Guy: (lips moving. I can't hear him)
Me: WHAT!? (in a much too loud voice. I take out my earbuds)
Gym Guy: Hey, how does it feel to have that cast off? (again with the cast. I'm going to need to wear that thing forever to give people something to talk about.)
Me: (panting) great! I'm glad to be back in the gym
Gym Guy: Your first time back? I haven't seen you here (He noticed I was gone!)
Me: No. Yesterday was. But it feels good. I'm not allowed to lift but once I can maybe you can show how to get this arm back in shape (Seriously, smooth, right?)

Then a huge drop of sweat rolled down my forehead and dropped off the tip of my nose. I swear both my eyes and his followed it as it crashed to the ground in slo-mo. Me-ow. I'm hot. Seriously boys. Come and get me.

Later I decided to attempt to go to bed early but this damn cough is seriously killing me. So I make a late night run to the nearest pharmacy for some of the strongest stuff they'll sell me.

I'm in jammie pants, my glasses (which I NEVER wear) the same black headband and again, no make up. I pull in and I kid you not there are two fire trucks and about 12 spectacular looking firefighters in the parking lot.

Can't a girl leave her house without running to all the potentials (or past potentials?) in her life?

I feel like I'm on What Not to Wear. Or like God is punking me.

Wednesday, 6 May 2009

Reflecting on why 30 is too old for a hicky while recovering from the swine flu

I’ve been MIA due to my recent bout with Swine Flu. Instant Karma.

I am now on a personal mission to find patient zero and kick his little pig-licking butt.

My weekend was about half lost to the illustrious H1N1, but I was able to squeeze in a fair amount of shame and embarrassment before Respiratory Wrath set in upon me.

The highlight of said weekend should have been watching Martini get hit on by a guy who I SWEAR said his name was Queef while trying to walk through sand in stilettos at a liquor promo we were working and then going to a dive bar in the very short skirts and low cut shirts we were asked to wear and being asked by three large and very drunk men if we were strippers.

But no. The real highlight was Saturday morning when I had to do something that I have not had do since I was, oh, maybe 18 years old. I had to cover up a hicky.

Yes, you read that correctly.

“How did this happen, SG?!?” one may ask. “You haven’t written about any dates, prospects, new pet squid.” You would be correct.

You would also be correct if you jumped to the conclusion that I am a gigantic lip slut.

You see, I woke up Saturday morning on my couch in the clothes I was wearing the night before and my neck hurt. I thought, “Crapsack! I’m getting the swine flu.” Assuming that because my glands felt swollen.

I had the worst kind of hangover so I took some ibuprofen, drank some OJ, ate some bacon (I swear, this is the best hangover helper ever) and went to my bedroom. I laid down on what seemed like a gigantic puddle.

“What the what???” I thought. And then it came back to me that I had done this same routine of laying down and realizing the bed was sopping wet the night before when I got home. That’s why I was on the couch. Upon closer examination I realized that it wasn’t dog pee, as I had feared, because it wasn’t yellow and didn’t smell like pee. They call me Drew, Nancy Drew.

My best guess is that Little B and Martini’s dog (who had partied together the night before at my pad) had Lick Fest 2009 under my covers. For some reason those two love to give each other tongue baths. I’m not a dog. Don’t ask me why.

Anyway, after deducing that it was not pee, I lay down on the other side of the bed and passed back out. This time when I got up and went to the bathroom I looked in the mirror. At first, my Bride of Frankstein hair distracted me and then “Holy ballsack, someone tried to strangle me in my sleep!” There were two marks on my neck that seriously looked like rope burn.

No signs of forced entry. Phone. Stat.

Now let me clarify here that I do remember meeting The Greek. I even remember kissing him a little too much for someone I had just met. It was at the end of a long night that involved at least three other bars, and a mix of wine, beer, vodka and shots.

We’ve been over this before – SG+copious amounts of alcohol+no boyfriend for eight months=loosy lips.

But I didn’t remember anyone sticking a vaccum like suction to my neck. This was problematic.

An unread message on my phone that arrived in my inbox at 6:15 a.m. from unidentified number read: “So glad to meet you. You’re sexy.” Yeah, super sexy with the circa 1996 scarf I have to wear around my neck for the next week.

I text Martini something like: Is everything OK? What happened last night? Had fun with Don (???)

Turns out, not his name. To his credit, he did call me the next day and asked me out. And he seems nice. And by his account and all other signs and recollections a little neckin’ is all that took place.

But I’m almost too embarrassed to accept his offer. I mean, I’m sure he told me all sorts of things about himself that I don’t even remember. Going out means enduring an endless string of “I thought I told you that Friday night” answers to my questions, I just know it.

And, while I remember generally what he looks like, if you put him in a room with several medium height, slightly built, dark-haired Greek looking guys, I’d never pick him out of a line-up.

Also, and this is my big confession, I feel like I can never date a guy I’ve made out with the first time I met him. The reason is that when I’m not completely plastered, I’m actually kind of shy and modest. But you can’t really go backward with a guy. You can’t have a Hoover-like make out session the first time you meet them and then on your first date feel uncomfortable with hand-holding.

And you can’t be plastered for every date – or can you?

The worst thing about this little mis-adventure is that it’s officially four days until the big meeting of my Virtual Crush and I’m feeling like a huge hooker. I mean, I know there’s nothing officially going on between me and either one of these guys, so I don’t know where all the guilt is coming from. I guess it just comes from wishing I wouldn’t do these dumb things anymore. And my Puritanical upbringing.

Oh well, more screw-ups by me means more stories for you.