Patient Zero

Today's been a whirlwind of meetings that have left me kind of cranky. You know that feeling like you've been go go going and accomplished nothing?

So I have just this to say: I am tired of hearing about the swine flu!

If this turns out to be the next bubonic plague, I will eat my words. Although I won’t be able to keep them down because I will be vomiting them and everything else as I die a slow, painful death. But I just don’t think that will happen.

You know what kills the most people around the world? AIDS. Heart disease. These things should cause people to panic, but they don't. I don't see people pulling kids out of schools or locking themselves in their homes or walking down the beach wearing condoms or face masks to keep the sex and cheeseburgers away.

I say we find this kid and kick his little butt for causing all this trouble (kidding. I don't advocate child violence. But we could steal his allowance or his candy or something.)

I mean who tongues a pig --wait! Do NOT answer that.

SG goes all Hollywood on yo ass (or at least in her own mind)

My work days have been packed with, well, work – boo! So there hasn’t been much time to write from my desk. And my weekend was pretty much eaten up by bad decisions and about 10 rounds with Depression in which the Big D KO’d me early Sunday.

I’m going through some big downer kind of stuff that I’ve been contemplating writing about here. Truth is, it doesn’t serve much purpose other than to bum you guys out, so I’ll probably skip it for now, but just know that when I don’t write for days it’s not you, it’s me. For realz.

I’m going bezerkers at my desk today.

Many days I think I’m simply not cut out for this work stuff and this is one of them. For one, I have a bad video game habit. Have since Atari. Right now I’m in the secret laboratory dungeon on Persona 4 and I REALLY want to fight those shadows and find out what happens next. I sit here thinking, “Would my boss really notice if I slipped out for a few hours? I must know if those teens catch the killer and return Inuba to its former quiet state!”

Also, I’m about to be the next Food Network star. Well, maybe not. But I am being considered for one of the cooking challenge shows and I have to finish writing my recipes and get them to the casting director by tomorrow! This means I need to leave work early, go shopping for all the yummy ingredients, make the dishes all one more time, invite over taste testers and quadruple check the recipes I’ve written -- all in the next 12 hours. Do I have to do this AGAIN, you may be asking. My OCD brain answers, yes! Besides, I want to win this biatch. Big cash prizes, fame, fortune, a marriage to Christian Bale, a house in the English countryside, babies that look like Harry Potter and have magical skills … whoa. Carried away. Seriously people. The Food Network changes lives. Have you seen the Rachel Ray story?

All this is to say sitting here thinking about the precise wording to use in a gift acceptance policy is not exactly enough to keep my attention right now.

I will leave you with this little gem. It’s the trailer for a “Lifetime summer movie event” (again, not Hushed Rapings.) If you watch the movie closely when it premieres on May 30, and you know what you’re looking for, you will see me and Martini. It’s going to be awesome(ly bad – but seeing me and my besties Martini and Sarah Chalke on the small screen will be great, right?)

* Dumb Lifetime will not let me embed so you'll have to click here: Maneater. It's soooooo worth it. (Not really, but if you're reading this you probably have nothing better to do ;-)

Shots Wednesday! meet Down and Out Revolution

The worst thing about meeting cute bartenders who are still in college is that they card you and know within seconds that you are indeed 30 and, in their adorable 22 year-old-eyes, probably qualify as a cougar. When did I get here?

Also, I do not know what the deal is with me and bartenders. They are attracted to me like gay men to plaid shorts.

I speculate it is because my pores actually ooze vodka and they can sense it. They figure if they pay attention to no one but me all night they’ll make enough money to buy Guitar Hero: Metallica and that sweet new amp (because, in my mind, all bartenders are flunky lead singers. Goes back to a failed romance I had in college.)

I’m too hungover to write much today (Wednesday Happy Hour somehow morphed into Shots Wednesday! thanks to the SG-Martini wonder duo), but I am going to get serious and leave you with these two news items that came across my desk:


Huffington Post
Executives at New York Times accept substantial bonuses, while staffers face five percent salary cuts
The New York Times has joined the club of organizations that give bonuses to their fat-cat executives, while the company slides and rank-and-file employees face pay cuts and unemployment. Here’s the scoop: top executives at the Times received substantial bonus and fringe benefit payments over and above their salaries, according to a proxy statement to the Securities and Exchange Commission released March 11. Meanwhile, employees at the paper are taking five percent salary cuts. Staff of the New York Times-owned Boston Globe face even steeper cuts if that paper even survives. Related New York Post New York Times Company has a mere $34 million in the bank—not good considering it has more than a billion dollars in debt.

Crain's Chicago Business
Chicago Tribune axes 50 newsroom jobs then asks for approval to give $13 million in bonuses to survivors
At the Chicago Tribune Wednesday, 50 newsroom employees lost their jobs as part of a restructuring that Tribune management claim will position the paper for its news-gathering future. Shortly after the layoffs, the paper’s parent, the Tribune Company, asked a bankruptcy court for approval to give 703 employees bonuses worth a total of $13 million. The company’s top ten executives are ineligible for the bonuses. Tribune Company said the bonuses are “vitally necessary” to reward employees for a difficult year and motivate them. To the victors—in this case survivors—go the spoils. Related Chicago Reader See the memo that announced the layoffs, and a list of the journalists let go. Related Riverfront Times In other dismal news about the newspaper industry, the St. Louis Post-Dispatch reporter shot while covering a city council meeting in 2008 was laid off from the paper.


This is infuriating. Seriously, how many people (I resisted the urge to use the phrase “Regular Joes” – thanks for ruining my thought process, Sarah Palin) are going to end up unemployed before we, the majority who don’t make millions, do something?

We’re a pretty apathetic group of people in the U.S., I think. I know I can be. I mean, Ashton Kutcher is the first person to reach 1 million Twitter followers. Why didn’t someone stop this? This says something about our priorities.

But when people aren’t able to afford their DVRs and iPhones I think we’re going to have a serious problem. Viva La Revolucion!

Hmmm … maybe I can find a way to bring together both of the brilliant ideas presented in this blog: Shots Wednesday! meet Down and Out Revolution. This is almost as good as my scheme to take the White House with my Liquid Lunch platform.

My 30s have made me quite the activist.

Does my dream guy exist? And should I have not sent that e-card?

I am very nervous.

Today Martini and I booked our plane tickets to the amazing resort destination of … Minneapolis, MN. Wait a minute. I’ve been hoodwinked.

Seriously, her BFF lives there and is pregs so she wants to visit. And said BFF is very rock and roll and fun (and I’ve always wanted to see what kind of place created the vixen that is Martini, although she’s not exactly from MN) so I told her I’d tag along.

There is another reason, however, that I am nervous/excited/popping xanax and stressing about the three pounds I’ve gained while skipping the gym due to my broken arm.

I will be meeting Virtual Crush. He’s dreamy. Cute. Intelligent. Hilarious. Great taste in music and stuff. At least I think these things are true.

On paper, VC is my perfect guy. One caveat: I’ve been “talking” to him for two years via social networking and e-mail but we’ve never been in the same state, let alone the same room.


It started when I had become friends with Martini and she said something like: “You like weird bands with names like MonkeyToadButtCrunch and dress kind of funky. You would like my friend Virtual Crush.”

She introduced us via that social networking site that is soooo 2007 (or as I refer to it in my house, The Site That Shall Not Be Named) and we started talking.

He included me in this dorky daily e-mail thing he and some friends do called Top 5 fill-in-the-blank related to music – Like Top 5 favorite band names if you had a band and what kind of music they would play. Or Top 5 songs you would have played had you been the DJ at your senior prom. Because I am the Ultimate Dork, I loved it.

This year for his birthday I had a giant presentation check delivered all Ed McMahon style to his office that said “To: Virtual Crush, Amount: Priceless, Memo: Happy Birthday!” because he once mentioned that one of his dreams was to get a “physically large check.” I’m pretty sure he swooned. He shouted me out by name in his ‘Book status. Pretty sure I swooned.

But now, after TWO years, I’m going to meet him face to face and all this stuff is going through my head: What if he thinks I’m hideous? What if he smells bad? What if he thinks I’m not funny? What if he has seriously thick back hair?

I look forward to his e-mails every day. They make me liz. I’m afraid of losing this weird little quasi relationship I have with him if one of us ends up sucking in person.

I’m also resistant to even considering the idea of a long distance relationship after how things have been going with LDLI. But I feel like there's this expectation -- like we've been talking for two years, now do we like each other or what? I'm pretty sure there has been clear flirting from both directions, especially lately.

But, VC doesn’t fly (says him: I bought the Phosphorescent album to help relax me on a gravity-defying, pagan-magic-holding-it-in-the-air aeroplane ride. I didn’t help.) so what's the point?

Part of me can't wait to meet him and part of me wants to keep this awesome little thing in a bubble where nothing can mess with it.

Lately I’m starting to think that I pick these guys that live far away from me so I can have a convenient thing to blame when it doesn’t work out. I think I’m becoming one of those cynical singles I’ve seen at movie theaters, alone, on Friday nights, throwing popcorn at Cameron Diaz as she finds true love for the 30th time.

I hope a bunch of cats aren’t next for me.

SIDE NOTE: LDLI was sick this week so I sent him a someecard.com that said something like “Since you’re sick, I think we should skip the kissing and go straight to oral sex.” I haven’t heard back from him …

Scale it the frack back: My Earth Day lament.

I woke up this morning with a little ditty in my head that went a little like this: “Earth Day, Earth Day. Earth! Earth!” to the tune of Billy Squier’s “The Stroke.”

Just a little peek into the wacky brain of SG.

Happy ED everyone! (no, not erectile dysfunction, Bob Dole – I know you’re a secret follower.)

I try to live every day like it’s Earth Day. I know a lot of shmucks say that, but it's true.

I eat very little meat. I take public transportation nearly every day. I walk places. I reuse. I get my food out of the dumpster behind Whole Foods and find many of my clothes lying around at bus stops and in public restrooms (those last two are not true, but I hear some people really do it and I won’t knock it ‘til I try it.)

I take up very little space. This last one is important to me because I live in one of the most sprawling cities in the U.S.

I used to write for a publication about home and garden design and décor. I’d go to all these houses that were just excessive. Forty miles from where they worked. Four car garage. Five bedrooms and just one person living there? What is that? As a single person I say three rooms max – one for me, one for when Christian Bale visits, and one for my imaginary friend, Ristian Chay Ale Bay.

Yes, I can afford a house with several bedrooms if I wanted one – but I don’t need one. It’s just me and Little B. We’re perfectly happy in our little loft apartment. It’s close to work. I only need to have one light on at any given time. The electric bill is $55 in the middle of summer with the air running all the time. It’s only a few steps or a good lunge from the couch to the toilet – convenient for those hangover moments.

A fellow sassy single friend of my mine was recently bemoaning the fact that she was moving from one small apartment to another. She said she had hoped her next move would be into a bigger place – maybe a condo – with multiple rooms. I think that’s a pretty normal sentiment, but I asked her, is it really what you need? It’s just more to clean anyway, right? Why would you want that? And think of all the money you could save and spend on martinis instead.

The idea behind her concern is totally understandable: What’s the balance for we 20 and early 30 something singles between dorm room and excess?

I’ve been asking myself that a lot lately. I work with some people who are well, how can I say this … snobby boob faces. We’re around people with a lot of money all the time and they want to look like they have some, too. They just can’t except that I’m completely happy in my tiny space and will stay like that until there’s a compelling reason to change it.

I’m not saying I’m perfect (if you read this blog your know Imperfection is my middle name ... or is it Vodka.?) But on days like today I like to challenge myself and others to think about ways they can scale it the frack back. How do you all keep your stiletto print (or Puma print for the gents) small? Or do you not really think about it? Just curious.

Also, this was just too cute: http://blaine.org/sevenimpossiblethings/?p=1655

It’s about creative ways to reuse stuff around the house. I actually did the old cans thing once and it’s really charming. Love this blog and love these kind of ideas!

Tales of Pulitzer Prize winners and menopausal women (neither groups include me)

A couple of items of business:

1.) I used to work with this guy:

Yesterday I found out he won the Pulitzer Prize for local reporting. I remember sitting next to him and kind of bitching because I had to pick up a lot of extra work while he was toiling away on the project he is now being honored for. I was also working on a project and I was bitter about the long hours I was putting in, the lack of resources, support, etc. I’m not in journalism anymore. I actually really came to hate it over the eight years (whoa, did I just admit that?) that I did it. Not the idea of it, the idea is great. But the actual practice sucked monkey sac, in my humble opinion.

But some people totally thrive doing it. He does and now he’s winning this awesome prize. Journalism is not for everyone. It’s thankless and tiring. People actually take time out of their day to write you letters telling you how hard you suck. They heckle you. Who else gets audibly heckled other than outfielders and comedians? People who are good at journalism should be supported. Leave this blog and read a newspaper (even if it’s just the food section, which is usually what I read)!

2.) I don’t think I will survive the summer in my office full of menopausal women. It’s only April 21 and they are already freezing me out of this place with the air turned down to like 55 degree. Doesn’t your heart stop beating at this temperature? I kid you not, I have a sweater around my legs, slippers on my feet and a blanket on my shoulders and the woman in the office next to me says she’s sweating. I only weigh like 100 pounds people – I need some heat! I actually hold hot cups of water in my hands so I can keep typing. I moved away from Ohio for a reason people.

3.) After some thought and feedback I realized that my giveaway idea was completely lame because now everyone is just going to wait to follow until No. 19 comes along. Plus, what about those early followers who stood by my side from the beginning? Will I just leave them out in the cold (or in my frigid office) with no Bible flask? Therefore, amendment: There will be a random drawing from the first 20 followers for a fantastic prize.

My life is not a movie ... or maybe a really trippy one?

Last week was a whirlwind of hustling for me and I’m finally getting a chance to breathe (Oh, Irony, you silly thing, you. I’m writing this from my desk as the “real” work continues to pile up).

I feel a little like Dolly, except I’ve been working more like 8 a.m. to 10 p.m. everyday. (Or maybe more like Ru Paul? You better work.)

I have a day job. It’s do-goodery and makes it so that I can look at myself in the mirror most mornings through puffy eyes and say “You’re OK, kid.” But, I live on the very edge of my means because I love to travel, go out, and shop, so I gots to get down and dirty entrepreneur-style from time to time.

Last week, with the help of Martini, I managed to bring in a few hundred dollars of easy money plus a Mexico Fiesta Extravaganza excursion by whoring it up, I mean, pouring vodka into the mouths of some dudes, smiling a lot, and enduring a timeshare spiel. (which they said was not a timeshare and then proceeded to tell us how they specialize in “week-long stays in luxury condominiums.” Come on. Am I wearing plaid pants, bifocals and a fedora? Fool me once …) I could not recap this as well as Martini did, so if you’re interested, see her post.

I found myself pretty much cracking up all week at how hilarious it was that I was popping the caps off of countless bottles of mini Coronas and mixing up margs with this broken arm in tow. On Friday, for the more sophisticated of the two bartending gigs, (and by sophisticated, I mean a bunch of 30 year olds in jeans and tees shooting guns, drinking Bud Light, and playing poker. Oh, how I wish this was a joke.) I actually shoved my arm into the long sleeve of a slinky black dress. This was so awesome to me because, of course, I looked super hot with my Transformer like arm at my side all night. I actually stuffed the tips from the evening into my splint as a way of holding them. Can you say class-ay? I was pulling ones from weird places all night (oh! Too easy.)

Saturday was finally for relaxing! I had been looking forward to Phoenix Pride for weeks. I love being outside, drinking, meeting new people, drag queen shows and lots of PDA, so I could think of nothing better to do with a Saturday afternoon. I wonder, though, why so many puzzled looks came my way when I said I was going. Lots of “I thought you were straight” looks and some direct lines of questioning. I thought Pride was about supporting the idea that people can love whoever they want. I’m all about that. And day drinking.

Also, I feel I know a lot about the community, but lately I’ve been exposed to all these new terms I know nothing about like “webalow” (thought that was a boy scout) and “docking” (Hoist up the John B. Sail?) There should be a manual – A Straightees Guide to the Gay Universe?

I walked around for who knows how long with my full left butt cheek sticking out of my dress until a sweet girl came over and said “Honey, I don’t know if this is on purpose or not, but your ass is hanging out.” Apparently the hem got stuck up under my purse. The best part was that I was wearing a thong and it made me look like I had Barbie crotch. In any other situation I might be embarrassed (that’s not true. I can think of lots of times when similar things have happened sans embarrassment) but since it was Pride and every other person was wearing chaps, Speedos or diapers, I felt OK with myself.

Quick wardrobe change and a martini later and we were off to a local food and wine festival (done and done). Arizona is the greatest this time of year because you can literally live outside in a sundress or swimsuit all day and night. We met up with this guy I met when I was an extra on this Lifetime movie. (and no it’s not Hushed Rapings.) He was the Assistant Director in charge of staging the extras. I blew his scene by not going on my cue. It was amazing. I think I’m in the running for an Oscar this year.

We hung out at the wrap party and I thought he was super nice. Unfortunately, he looks like a shorter, clothed version of Ron Jeremy and I wasn’t feeling the date vibe. However, his friends were a hoot and we had a blast at the festival singing and dancing all night.

Enter his cute friend.

Why do guys think they get to pee all over you and mark their territory with no regard for whether you like them back? Said cute friend told my friend he “couldn’t talk” to me because “he was already in trouble” with Ron Jeremy for flirting with me. Do I get no say? I’ve never even been on a date Mr. 70s porn.

I have been stranded out here in No Actionville for far too long to put up with this stuff. I could start riots. I could throw bags and bags of Lipton into my swimming pool. No forced celibacy without representation! (huh?)

In other news, I am now sure that my twitchy eye is directly related to my job. After a very scientific study wherein I noticed that it didn’t twitch all weekend and today it looks like my heart rests behind my right eyeball instead of in my chest cavity, I have drawn an obvious and highly data driven conclusion. It’s either this or I actually have Alcohol Withdrawal Syndrome. The latter would be more convenient because I need a job but I could drink there if I had to – you know, if it was like a medical condition or a weekday or something.

Ah, booze. Seriously. Liquid Lunch Mondays. I could campaign on that and have a much better chance of being the first woman in the White House.

I don't know much, but I know I love you ... (and a giveaway!)

Most of you know I’m relatively new to blogging. When I got here I felt all exposed and vulnerable, like that creepy New Year’s baby that has adult-like traits but still runs around with his ass showing. Kind of like this homeless guy in my neighborhood who smells of beef and cheese and sits on a throne of lies ... wait, that's Santa (dammit, I promised myself I'd stop taking cheap shots at Phoenix's homeless, and Santa. Bad, SG, bad.)

Then you all wrapped me in your loving arms and said, "Put on some clothes, weirdo" handed me a onesies, and watched what I’d do with it.

Here are a few things I’ve learned:

If you put something (Obama) about the president (Obama) in you post (Obama), you will get a lot of hits (and ... Obama).

If you write about week old news and do it such a way that people believe you forgot to take your pills, no one will comment. (Except Shine and Kellie who are very important someones. And who forget to take their pills all the time ... hee hee. Thank you for not making me feel like an actual and virtual reject).

Writing about The Ex here is cleansing, but kind of a bummer for you guys, huh? Seriously, I thought I would be talking a couple of you down off a ledge. That guy's a douche. He's not worth it. Don't jump!

Followers make me happy. I've decided to send a sweet prize to my 20th follower. Not sure what yet. Most likely from Etsy or maybe this: http://www.hipstergifts.com/cgi/redir.cgi?id=bibleflask.

Don't try to explain your anonymous blog to a very dense boy who is eat-my-own-arm-off-to-f-him gorgeous but who thinks coy is spelled koi (as is the fish?). You will have to have long text conversations about how yes, they come up from time to time but no, they can't know what their pseudonym is because then it wouldn't be anonymous.

You all like pictures and videos. And while we're on the subject, you like to say you're not going to write recaps, but EVERYBODY reads them.

When you start a blog about your single sassy self, you get offers of free mini vibrators and bottles of cheap red wine (sounds like a typical night to me) if you'll plug websites about other sad singles. I love free stuff and have no scruples (although I love the word) so look forward to your patheticsinglegirls.com ad soon.

I LOVE blogging. Almost as much as I like spending time with my real world friends (white lie) drinking (bigger lie) sex (biggest lie ever told). But at least blogging is socially acceptable and never says things to me like "Cab money's on the table."

My current events update, one week later. Or: Why, Obama, why?

Um, I know this is a little late but: WHAT?!? They killed off Kutner on House?

Why Mr. President, why pick Kal Penn for your admin? Why not this guy – he’s cute and we know that show is tanking? Or this gal – because, seriously who hasn’t wished they could do some of the stuff she does in movies? (or in bed, know what I’m saying? I don't even know what I'm saying)*

I read about this subject over at rs27’s blog almost a week ago, but I just didn’t connect that being the representative of Asian Americans everywhere would mean leaving the show! Is this really a full-time job? I want more accountability in government, darn it!

I watch the House on hulu because I’m rarely in da house by 7 p.m., which is when it’s on here. They post a new episode 8 days after it originally aired (thanks for that Fox. As always, keeping the best interest of the people in mind.) So last night I turn it on to watch what serves as the “new” episode in SG’s magical world where I can watch my programs on the special Data Box at the touch of a button (as long as I wait more than a week!)

I’m not really paying attention until I see 13’s face covered in blood and some legs kind of hanging out in the doorway. REWIND. OMG.

“NOOOOOOOOO, Not Kutner!!!” I kid you not, a tear ran down my face and I actually said these words to Little B.

Kutner was my favorite (besides that ass House and Robert Sean Leonard -- the latter because I have wanted to MARRY him since Dead Poets Society -- "Tell me why they swoon?") He was always so sweet and naive and giving and helpful, like me (only nothing like me).

Why? Why not Cutty with those ri-DONK-ulous bangs. Shudder. I would be OK with not seeing those again. Wait … not Asian … thwarted.

Also, wow, I need to pay more attention to current events.

Also, why is it that when we write words like deets (for details) or peen (for penis) -- you all do that, right? --we add an extra “e”? English is a confusing language. I wish more of my friends knew Japanese, I’d just speak to them in Nihongo, bitches. Maybe I’ll write a letter to Kal Penn regarding this matter. I am the voice of the people. Omoshiroi …

Have you seen my punkymood? I’m seriously distracted today. It’s better than depressed though.

*I have no idea what the political leanings of these people are, just that they are attractive and/or do kick butt martial arts, which is all that should really matter, right?

I come when called, I jump when you circle the cherry, I sing like a good canary

I’ve been listening to Exile in Guyville again for the last few days and it’s been hitting me hard. I think I actually started to tear up walking from the train to my office this morning with my pod on thinking “Oh my god, this is really my life.”

I didn’t really get Liz when I first listened to that album. I bought it to be cool and hang with those older kids who drank a lot and dyed their hair purple and hated their parents.

Now I’m exactly twice as old as when that album was released and I get it Liz, I feel your pain you bitch.

Saturday night I ended up hanging out with The Ex. I did not set out for this to happen. He called, I wasn’t busy. He wanted to get together. I'm an asshole. See post title.

One of the reasons me and The Ex get along so well is that we’re huge geeks who can spend the whole night playing XBOX360 and watching Hitchcock movies and be having fun. We stayed up until four. He has this amazing mancouch/chair monstrosity that isn’t a couch at all but instead two comfy recliners attached in the middle with a console and cup holders. It’d hideous. It screams “I spend entire weekends with someone’s sweaty butt perched here who is drinking cheap beer and wearing a uber cool headset so he can smack talk people in Georgia playing Soul Caliber IV.”

I haven’t gotten a decent night’s sleep in nearly three weeks because of this dumb arm and the manchair felt great. He asked me if I wanted to stay over. (And the award for person full of the most self-loathing goes to …)

He said goodnight. I thought he would go to his room. He didn’t. He lay down on the other half of the manchair. But I figured it was kind of harmless since we were separated by a pile of game controllers, remotes and glasses.

He put his hand out to grab mine. This was not unusual. We do an awkward hand squeeze thing from time to time, no big. But this time he held on and squeezed and did that thing where you rub your thumb up and down the side of the other person’s hand – you know, that thing COUPLES do!

It weirded me out. Then it felt good. Then it made me sad. Very sad.

We fell asleep like that. It was pathetic. I would have rather had sex. Sex I could have interpreted as just sex -- this felt tender and it was a huge mind fuck.

The next morning I asked him to take me home right away. I could feel the weepy stuff coming and I wanted to be out of there stat. This is when I crawled under the stinky dog blanket and stayed there for a few days.

Fast forward to today when he asked me to meet him for lunch. (Again, seriously, they should give out awards to people who clearly hate themselves and yet manage to walk among the rest of you as if life is peachy) He drops me back off at the office and I lean over to grab my purse and I say “Hugs” -- which is one way I say goodbye to people, not an invitation -- and he plants a long, soft kiss on my cheek. What the frack was that?

The problem with The Ex and I was that we never stopped doing any of the things that couples do except the physical stuff (and this was mostly because of him, not me – I didn’t know this was humanly possible until him.) We still went out, hung out at home for hours, saw each other's families, etc.

We broke up eight months ago after about two months of fighting. It was messy. We lived together. I found out he was keeping some huge secrets from me (big ones. bigger than you would probably imagine.). I freaked out but then decided to try to work it out.

I always say that he dumped me, because, in the end, he did – via text (yeah, text. Did I mention we were LIVING together and talking about getting married? I had packed a bag a few hours earlier and stormed out, but still …) but the truth is we were falling apart and both of us knew it. He was in a crazy place and he was making me crazy. News flash: two individuals with serious mental health issue do not make one sane couple.

What he’s asked of me since the breakup is terribly unfair. He wants to be my best friend but not date me. He may as well greet me every day by saying “Hey, let me be frank, you’re a hideous, stinky ogre but if I avert my eyes you’re a lot of fun to talk to.”

Needless to say, this relationship is not good for my self-esteem and when I’m being a sane person I recognize that and stay far away from him.

The problem is (get ready to groan and shake your collective blogging community head) I love his company. I’d say he’s hands down the one person on this planet that gets this big hot ball of mess called SG more than anyone. But what do I do with that? He doesn’t want to treat me the way I deserve to be treated. The mature part of me knows we make better friends anyway but every time I’m around him I just end up feeling like a lonely reject all over again. It’s like a wise blogger once said, “A martini …” No, that’s not it, oh yeah: “It’s not possible to really be friends with the ex.”

Ick. Must stay away. I need to be held accountable for this. Quick think of a promise I can make to all of you so that the next time I’m about to make a colossal mistake like this I can think again. Like I have to send you all life sized cutouts of movie stars like BWP did or I have to post really embarrassing drunk pictures (you know who you are, Kellie.)

My slow decent into alcoholism went something like this post

I've been hiding under a fleece blanket Little B usually bogarts for a bed for the last couple of days playing Persona 4, listening to Jeff Hanson and Phosphorescent and eating things like olives and cottage cheese right from the containers whenever my brain finally forces me feed it by making me exceedingly dizzy whenever I stand.

These are signals I've come to recognize over the last 15 years or so as clear signs that depressed SG is on the scene.

This awesome visit from my dear old friend chronic depression hit me out of nowhere this time since the ol' brain chemicals are pretty well regulated by my crazy pills so I'm less than thrilled.

I had all this crap I wanted to write about but the big bully part of my brain is just punching the little part down and telling me that everything I write is trite anyway and I should just go to bed because I'm so tired. I know, however, that as soon as I get in bed I'll just watch dumb stuff like "In the Line of Fire" on hulu until 4 a.m.

Compounding my problem is The Ex who keeps calling me these last few days. What does he want? What part of he dumped me does he not understand??? Of course I don't say this because that would be smart and I am a raging moron who of course will go to lunch with him tomorrow. Because that will definitely help me get out of this awesome mental state I'm in.

Anyway, this is my lame explanation of why there have been no witty posts for a few days.

Tomorrow I'm "bartending" at some party with Martini by making margaritas for a bunch of old guys who like to use the word "cunt" in their dirty jokes at a happy hour where I'm supposed to "dress Mexican" -- I'm a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, ivory skinned girl from Ohio.

Maybe the booze will help. Lots and lots of booze. Or maybe this will push me completely over the edge.

Wish me luck.

There's no cream in this (that's what she said.)

Do you ever just know a day is going to suck hard before it even starts?

This morning I got out of bed, my arm hurting so bad I had to physically lift it with my other arm, full of dread. (so dramatic. But seriously I felt that way.)

The dread was due to knowing there are more things I absolutely have to get done at work than are possible to do today. I've got 100 things to write, calls to make, meetings to attend, FOUR photo shoots to direct, and on and on. Plus the boss is out of town and so any fires that start I have to extinguish (and there are always fires.)

I got to work ready to drink my Atkins shake while I checked e-mail so I could fuel up but some butthead brought donuts. I decided to go for it thinking one treat and then let's do this. It was an eclair. I haven't indulged in one of those for years, I kid you not.

There was no cream inside. Isn't that the f-ing point of an eclair?

This day is going to suck hard.

How do you all get yourselves through days like these? (or if you have no words of wisdom, make something funny up so as I obsessively check my blog from my phone while I'm running around today I'll at least get a good laugh.)

Also, I can't believe I just wrote this with all the shit I have to do. Blogging is a sickness. And it hurts so good.

I'll be there for you, blah, blah, blah

There are many joys to living were I do.

One of my best friends lives in my building. There's a train stop directly across the street. From my balcony I can see beautiful mountains in one direction and a twinkley city skyline in the other. I have cement floors so if Little B pees it only takes a Swiffer for it to smell Fabreeze fresh again (I drop product names like bombs. Who am I? Rachel Ray ... note to self: be slightly louder and more annoying to fulfill Be Like Rachel Ray aspirations).

Another huge perk is that I live exactly three floors directly above a coffee shop (perk, coffee shop, get the word play, or pun if you will?? So. Tired. Insomnia bad.) run by delightful (clean) hippies who sell fair trade stuff.

Many mornings I wake up to the smell of fresh brewed coffee and think, "I'm going to call Phoebe and Joey and see if thet want to meet downstairs for a latte." Then I remember I'm not a member of the Friends cast (dammit! why must all my dreams be shattered?) so I go by myself to get my chai, usually still in my jammies so I can look at people in their "work clothes" like they're the weird ones. I'm a big fan of making eye contact with strangers for three seconds too long to watch what they'll do. Makes me feel like I'm on the Discovery Channel. Or that I'm Larry King.

Anyway, another awesome thing about this coffee place is that a friend of mine hosts a poetry slam there a couple times a month. Martini turned me on to slams a few years ago and now it's something I really dig. I wanted to post a video of the featured poet from tonight, Doc Luben, but I couldn't find any I really liked. So, instead I bring you a spoken word performance from a friend of mine out of Chicago who is really amazing. If you haven't given slam a chance, check this out. I think you like. (Seriously, what do you think?)

Guess who's an auntie!?!

Me!!! Check her out. She came a month early but is a healthy little nugget says the doc.

I got the call as I was leaving work today. She lives on the other side of the country, so this picture is all I get for now.

My sister is officially the model of perfection. Sweet and cute; college-educated; good looking, smart, attentive husband from a good family, with an army job; church-going; and now a perfect little girl. If I didn't love her so damn much, I'd probably hate her -- there's a fine line you know.

I was elated when I found out my sis was pregs. I dreamed of all the little outfits I'd buy her, and how I'd take her to the ballet and teach her to pick out the perfect nail polish based on the season (and some more gender neutral stuff I can't think of right now.)

I also thought it would take the pressure off of me to push my own out, but it only made people give me sad looks and start whispering when I entered the room.

I'm OK with not having that right now (LIES! LYING LIAR WHO LIES!!!) because I know it will happen if/when it should. (In all honesty, I've thought of adopting for a long time, so this will remain a no push zone.)

My sister says she always wanted an aunt who was smart, a little weird, and would travel around the world and teach her things and bring her presents (our only biological aunt is an alcoholic mess who never traveled anywhere more exotic than the drunk tank.) She says I can be that for her baby. Besides, I don't really have the patience or regulated serotonin level for a child right now.

As I started to write this post my dog was running around the apartment, whimpering in a panic, with a Beggin' Strip in his mouth trying to figure out a place to hide it and I was all "B, I swear if you don't hide that thing or swallow it right now I will hide it up your butt!"

I don't think CPS would think I was funny.

So it's auntie SG for me! I can't wait to meet her in person. And the crazy genes in my family will survive another generation.

Tighty Whities, wild dancing, baseball and The Ex round out my weekend. Really only one of those things would be OK if I had better judgement

I had planned on posting the most amazing photo I took Friday night of a small but very muscular young gentleman standing on a table outside a bar on a main thoroughfare in downtown wearing nothing but a cowboy hat, boots and tighty whities and shaking his moneymaker for dollar bills.

It was such a beautiful sight at 1 o'clock in the morning that, of course, as Martini, her Flower Guy and my Obnoxious Neighbor walked home (or rather Martini and I danced --her with shoes in hand and me with my arm in a sling -- while Flower Guy beat boxed and even the halfway house junkies stared at us like we were crazy) I screamed "Stop! Guys give me some money!" so I could stick it in those obscene underpants and take a picture for your viewing pleasure.

To my great displeasure, though, when I checked my mother fracking phone, which I've drop in everything from jello to boiling water, nothing was there. Big frown.

When I went to see the orthopedic specialist about my arm last week his instructions were pretty straight forward.

Him: Keep your splint on, go to physical therapy and no wild dancing.
Me: Do you say that to everyone, Dr. Nice Old Man, or do I look like the wild dancing kind?
Him: (dead pan)You look like the wild dancing kind.

Well, after one delicious lychee fruit vodka and mandarin orange juice cocktail, a wee bit of sake and my pain pill, when Martini suggested dancing at our favorite gay dance club (That will still let me in. Yeah, I've been banned from at least one such establishment. Something to do with hogging the stripper pole and then lifting my dress up over my head when they asked me to stop ...) who was I to argue?

Um, so, there's a reason the nice doctor said not to do that. Sometime around 5 a.m I woke up with the kind of pain I had when I first broke this dumb arm. No. More. Wild. Dancing.

Injuries are a complete drag and I'm annoyed I have one because it's completely taken over my life. I've always been a real fuddy duddy because I'm terrified of being injured. I grew up with three brothers who were always gashing something open, so I learned caution at a young age. I didn't have to have stitches until I was 26 (And then it was because I had skin cancer. Yikers!) and this is my first broken bone. I don't do dangerous things -- no dirt bikers, quads, snowboards -- I won't even let my friends jaywalk (it's very dangerous, trust me.)

Not only is the sole thing I can seem to think about this stiff appendage at my side (that's what she said) but it's all everyone around me talks about. One of the amazingly asinine middle-aged secretaries at my work actually said: I bet you wish you weren't single now. It would be a lot easier for you.

REALLY dumb lady? Do you think this is the thing that made me wish I wasn't single? Really, do you think it would be easier for me?

Then, I had this great interaction while waiting for the train to go home following the run-in with dummy-face.

Possibly Homeless Guy: What happened to your arm?
Me: I broke it.
Possibly Homeless Guy: We got to end domestic violence!
Me: Oh, no, I just fell.
Possibly Homeless Guy: That's what they all say, honey.

So would it be more trouble to be single or in a relationship?

Anyway, after Wild Dancing Night I needed the rest of the weekend to allow the swelling to go down so my right hand wouldn't look like one of the corpse bodies they find on CSI that's been floating in the water for two weeks.

Saturday afternoon I got to enjoy one of the many benefits of working for the fab place I work -- free club level tickets to see the Diamondbacks. I am such a baseball girl. Something about being outside, entertained, in a place where people bring you beer ... amazing. We lost, but it didn't count!

I'm trying to develop team loyalty. I grew up near Cleveland and am through and through a Tribe fan, so the enthusiasm is forced sometimes, but I'm getting there.

Further complicating the afternoon was the fact that I had asked The Ex to come along (friends who are reading this, I KNOW! Don't say it.) Me and The Ex are complicated, mostly because he treated me terribly and feels very guilty and wants to still be friends to atone for that and I'm a huge asshole who keeps falling for his shit and a bunch of other messed up stuff I should get into in another post when I feel like being honest because right now I'd just write a bunch of psycho babble crap I picked up from the terrible therapist I used to see. She wasn't very bright. It would all be BS. Another time ...

This girl is breaking out of her urban loft stinky cagey thing. Can I get a Whoo hoo?

I'm getting ready to do what any normal person with a broken arm, sprained wrist and busted knee cap would do on a Friday night.

I just took my pain pill with a swig of chardonnay and I'm going to walk around downtown. '

I feel this is one of those rare moments when a "whoo hoo!!!" is appropriate. First Fridays, how do I love thee?

I'm meeting some friends for dinner ( by meeting I mean in the hallway of my apartment. Still not driving anywhere) and then getting our culture on at this monthly art walk that happens literally right outside my door. I can't stand being couped up anymore. Last night I actually watched Beauty Shop (starring the Queen, who I love ... in other things.) but I was entertained because I'm seriously THAT bored! When they did "Sashay, Shantay" (however you spell that) to the hot guy with the braids who they thought was gay but really he just liked the white girl -- of boy, I laughed and laughed.

I'm sure my neighbors think I've lost it in here.

Wish me luck. I have a feeling you'll all be subject to Blogging Under the Influence from SG later.

My food snobbery bites me in the ass, or did I bite it? The snobbery, not my ass ...

This morning/afternoon (somewhere around noon, I think -- it's all one foggy, boring sameness to me right now) I utilized one of my little cooking tricks that people have actually told me was useless -- and by people I mean you Mr. Mopey Ex Naysayer Man. Haha! Don't you feel stupid now.

The skill being , drum roll please ... one-handed egg cracking. Ta-Da! For my next trick I will juice oranges using my armpit (Ew).

I have been eating pretty much microwave popcorn and ramen since The Arm Incident of 2009, except when friends buy me lunch or kind neighbors open jars for me.

I looked around my kitchen this morning with a rumbly in my tumbly and a serious jones for the pain med that must be taken with food unless I want to hurl the white foamy stuff that is strangely similar to what my dog vomits many mornings after drinking his water too fast (overshare?)

Anyway, as I stood in the small strip of space I lovingly call my kitchen, I was overwhelmed by the stuff I needed both hands to do. Freshly ground pepper, nixed. Fancy, expensive parm reggiano, can't grate it. Fresh veggies, can't chop. Jars and jars of sauces, olives, jams, can't open any of them, despite my best attempts at using my monkey feet to grip.

I couldn't even open a can because I try to be all green and have a hand-held opener. Crap sack, nut sucker, farts.

I'm on the verge of a MSG rage when it donned on me -- the incredible edible egg and SG, the One-Handed Wonder.

This injury has had the ol' seratonin hurtling toward the earth a few times this week, but each time I out smart it, I'm that much happier. We really are resilient buggers.

Pondering relationships with my new friend Hydrocodone

It's day five of Broken Arm and I'm now in this weird contraption that is part cast, part ace bandage, part sling.

I can only wear things that I can pull up over my butt or things that are way too big for me (Forgive me fashion gods! Take your wrath out on that bitch tequila, not me.) Which means for the last few days I've been wearing this enormous t-shirt Long Distance guy left for me when he was here in March.

I was starting to get really annoyed with him -- to the point where I considered uninviting him from my life -- a huge move for the all-loving SG. But I had an interesting conversation with him this week that made me realize that this is one of those people who comes into your life to teach you something (or things) about yourself that you really shouldn't take for granted.

I met Long Distance guy a few months ago in ... wait for it ... Las Vegas. I know, insert gigantic eye rolls from all of you.

It was my first trip there and I was running on zero sleep, with my sole source of nutrients being the splash of cranberry juice and lime wedge people kept insisting on adding to my vodka. But I was having an amazing time and I was really milking the ol' What Happens in Vegas philosophy.

Me and the girls I was there with were at one of the uber hip clubs, but it was early and two of the other girls weren't really feeling it because they had arrived in town a few days earlier than me and were one sip away from comas. We sat, we bobbed our heads to the music and looked around in that unaffected way that says, "We're fun, but you are boring us." One ballsy guy had the guts to approach the four Femme Fatales.

Him: What are beautiful girls like you doing sitting in the corner?
Inner Dialogue: Nice to meet you, Captain Cheesy Ball, When does the cliche cruise depart?
What I Actually said: I was just asking myself that. NO ONE puts SG in a corner! (Perplexed look from him. Dirty Dancing reference was completely missed. OK, at least he's straight.)

He asked us to join him and his friend for a drink. The way the seats were arranged I was as far away from his friend as possible, but WOW he was gorgeous. And he was staring at me. Be cool, SG, and don't fall off your seat that is supposed to be trendy but really looks and feels like a deflated basketball. And don't flash your underpants! Oh dear god, tell me you have on cute underpants!

Nutshell recap: Two friends called it an early night. One friend hit it off with his friend and he and I got very cozy. We went out on the balcony even though it was freezing. It was 50 some floors up. He kissed me. He said he wanted it to be there so we would never forget the first time we kissed. It's a line, but the perfect combination of booze and hotness make me not care! Did I mention we live 2,507 miles from each other? (I get bored at work. I MapQuested it.)

We decided to go to their room and recruit another friend for the evening. Then we hit the casinos. I was having one of the most amazing nights of my life. Then I decided to do something I have never before done. I knew I would probably never see him again, but I took him by the hand and told him we should go back to his room while everyone was otherwise occupied at the blackjack tables. It was (what I thought at the time would be) my only one-night stand and it was amazing. He asked me to stay. I knew my girlfriends would be too worried.

Around 5:30 a.m., he hailed a cab, gave the driver money and asked if he could see me the next day (or rather, after a few hours sleep) before we went home. I said sure, but didn't think he'd call. He said, "If I never see you again it will break my heart." and made me promise to call when I got to my hotel. I swooned.

Long story short, he did call the next day (we had lunch) and he called, texted, e-mailed every day for weeks. He sent flowers when I was sick and then about four weeks after meeting, he booked a flight to visit me. We had an fantastic long weekend. He cooked for me, I cooked for him, we drank during the day, we talked a lot, he met my friends. It was four days of sex, booze and bacon --could life be any better?

After he got back home, he seemed to act different. Not calling as much, not e-mailing. My girl brain went crazy -- was I not as cute as he remembered? was I boring? do I snore too loud? did I eat too much bacon in front of him??? I asked him why he wasn't calling as much, did he not like me.

Him: Stop being a crazy girl!
Me: Stop being a stupid boy!

Tongues were stuck out. Fists were waved in the air.

Then one night I called and left him a drunk message (see it referenced here.) He went on to say that he really likes me a lot and that it's confusing for him because he has no idea what he is doing with his life and I live so far away. "But it's better to like you than to not. I'm just not sure what to do about it."

Martini: He needs to sack up.
Her thought being that because we are sleeping together whenever we get together we are dating and he just needs to say so or say we are not, thus losing the sleeping with me privilege (and it is a privilege, fellas). Also there was some He's Just Not That Into You stuff peppered in that was probably spot on.

I pondered this. Maybe she's right. But is it so bad if we're not dating. I think no matter how mature or independent we are, some of us (ME!!!) just get really confused when sex gets involved. I mean me and LD had it and suddenly I wanted everything defined for me. But technically we only had two dates, and we live on opposites sides of the country. Is it so bad to have a relationship with someone that you find incredibly romantic but that you don't want to be committed to in any traditional sense? Aren't there some people who will just always be special to you but that you don't need to date to know that you are special to them, too?

He answered the question for me.

This week he called to to check on my arm and to tell me that he finally made a decision about the next big step in his life. He's going abroad for a few months to become a certified SCUBA instructor. Then he can live all over the world and have a job.

Me, and some of my friends, first reactions was "Oh, brother, LD is just so immature, childish really. That's why he'll never have a relationship."

But then I thought about it. The traveling, the interest in new people and places, his fearlessness --it's what attracted me to him. And you know what, it takes courage to do something like what he's doing. Move to a new country by yourself. Try something new. Don't we all kind of wish we were like that sometimes? I know I do.

We talk about responsibility but what responsibilities do we actually have? Some of us have spouses, children, but a lot of us just drink too much and hold down boring jobs. We say that's important, but don't we kind of have to to make our lives feel OK?

I think one of the things I like so much about LD is that he does have child-like qualities. When we call people childish we think of it as an insult -- so many of us spend our first few decades on the planet acting so grown up.

So when he told me today that whether he's in his cold, boring home state or on this new tropical island, he will miss me, I believed him. I know now that I'm important to him and that I can't be the one to say how he shows it.

And I'm not afraid to say I'll be somewhere missing him, too, while he's away -- whether it's for months or years or forever. But he says he wants me to visit, so we'll see (this time I'll go easy on the bacon just in case ...)

P.S. I'll have you know this post took hours to write with only my left hand. Boo to broken arms!