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!)

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?

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.

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.

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 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.

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!

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.

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.

Online dating – Why I’m seriously going to be single FOREVER

So, just for shits and giggles I decided to enter a query at one of those match making sites today (No free advertisement for them – you’ll see why in a minute.)

Martini and I had talked about it lately due to our delirium from the fact that neither one of us has had sexual relations with anyone in a very, very long time.

Her (casually, as I was cooking us dinner a few nights ago. Yes, us. We’re pretty much dating.): Would you ever consider online dating?

Me: I just said I would!

Her: When?!?

Me: The other night when we were whoring it up slinging drinks at that adult frat party surrounded by men who were all married, engaged, or ugly. I said ‘I’m signing up for Desperate.com’ and you said ‘Don’t!’

Her: Yeah, well, maybe we should …

Me: (sigh) Yeah …

Sad, sad silence.

So today, I signed on and entered some search criteria out of curiosity. My requests weren’t too crazy (at least I don’t think so.) You know, the usual must make $500,000, be ripped, and speak five languages kind of stuff.

Kidding. I’m so lack-of-sex crazed right now I basically said he could have 10 gerbils, live with mom, be 55 and dress in women’s clothes on the weekends.

Guess what came up in a metropolitan area of 6 million people? Zero returns. ZERO returns!!!

I know this will offend some of you. Trust me, I looked, so I’m not judging. And I have a best friend who found her husband on this exact site and they are very happy. But we all know those sites are populated by thousands of gigantic loser and apparently not one of them is a match for me.

I need to go home and binge eat and drink myself into a stupor. Yay Friday.