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.

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. http://www.plushroomsoup.com/. 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.

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.