tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25324053696974382562024-03-13T09:21:48.652-07:00Single GrrrlSinglegrrrlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07806432563307131343noreply@blogger.comBlogger64125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532405369697438256.post-74926729524230870972010-04-08T06:50:00.000-07:002010-04-08T10:57:50.484-07:00Two for one: TMI and Thankful Thursday. You're welcome.<p><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/KiQzUEc_FmI&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/KiQzUEc_FmI&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />Among most of you who read my blog, it's <a href="http://www.livitluvit.com/category/tmi-thursday">TMI Thursday</a> (which for those of you who live underground or maybe watch too much Sarah Silverman stands for Too Much Information). So, if you need to be grossed out on this fine Thursday, here goes:<br /><br />The boogers I have had since moving to Minneapolis may be killing me.<br /><br />I don't think I've used a heater in four years. I never needed it in Phoenix. Now I have a radiator. I live in a building that has two units on my floor and the lady in the other apartment controls the thermostat and keeps it set at 85 degrees. It's April and it's unseasonably warm so I find that I'm pitty by noon every day. AND it's causing hard boogers and bloody noses every morning. People may think I have a little nose candy (which is terrible slang because that sounds delicious. I wish I could eat candy with my nose) problem the way I rub my nose constantly and it starts bleeding all of the time. It's killing me softly. No, that's his smile? His eyes? I don't know. Is it possible to die of hard boogers? If I don't write for awhile, you all know what happened. Be outraged.<br /><br />There's your TMI. Meditate on it.<br /><br />Now, I've decided this Thursday for me is going to be Thankful Thursday and I'm looking at you blogoverse.<br /><br />Most of you know about a month ago I moved from Phoenix to Minneapolis. I really didn't think it was going to be a big deal for a lot of reasons:<br /><br />A.) I hate Phoenix. The city: Flat, brown, hot, and to me just not the right scene.<br />B.) Phoenix never felt like home. I'm from Ohio and I'm a Midwesterner at heart. I need hot dish and cheap beer to thrive.<br />C.) I'd been visiting Minneapolis almost monthly for a year and I loved it. The vibe. The weather. The people. Just the general feeling I got walking down the street.<br />D.) I already had some friends I was looking forward to hanging out with in MN.<br />E.) VC lives here and I was really wanting to spend time more regularly with him and have more of a "normal" thing happening. (LDRs are not normal even though I think we gave it an amazing go and I'm proud of us. More on this later.)<br /><br />I've moved around a lot in life. Lived in lots of states. Spent a few months here and there. It's always been fun, not stressful. So, I packed up and moved with a "catch ya later, sucka" attitude. Um, yeah, that didn't really work out for me. I don't know why. Maybe it was too much all at once. Maybe I'm just really getting old and more needy of my routine.<br /><br />I got here and the first few days felt like a party and it was wonderful. Then Martini (who helped drive my butt out here -- and I still owe you stories from that roadtrip) left and VC went back to work and normal life and here I was in an empty apartment (because I sold all my worldly possessions instead of moving them. I'm lazy.) feeling very alone and lost. And then I got up to go to work, except work was right here in the same empty apartment. I was sitting in my bed - because I had no couch - on my laptop all day, every day. No trip to the office kitchen for coffee. No gossip at the assistant's desk. No lunch dates with friends. I freaked out. I admit. I started second guessing my decision.<br /><br />And I let on about it on <a href="http://twitter.com/singlegrrrl">Twatter</a>. And a bit on <a href="http://blip.fm/c_vanoverbeke">Blip</a> (which I lurve very much and if you don't Blip and you like music I highly recommend trying it.) And then this <strong>AMAZING</strong> thing happened. I was reminded that I wasn't alone at all. People were twatting me and writing me emails and helping me work it all out. They were helping me think through feelings and remember that I did an <strong>AWESOME</strong> thing by moving. A <strong>BRAVE</strong> thing. A thing that was going to be <strong>INCREDIBLE</strong> as soon as I adjusted. And they were all right. I'm totally settling in and loving my new home and neighborhood and my proximity to the BF (who, to his credit, was about as understanding as a boy can be through the worst of my emotional meltdown. He pretty much kicks ass as BF. Woot.)<br /><br />So today I am shouting out to all of you. You're amazing people. Some of you I've met. Some of us are "in person" friends. Some of you I hope to meet some day (DC Tweet Up 2010 peeps!) But you've all been supporters of me in some way over the last year providing advice, laughter, or a just lending a friendly ear (or eye? that sounds gross) and I gots nothing but love for you babies.<br /><br />Some people still don't get the power of online networking. To them, I say puh-lease. My mom met her (third) husband online 10 years ago. To quote the Greatest Movie Ever, Wayne's World: Get with the now.<br /><br />I still have "real" friends - those I get to go to lunch with and stuff, but I consider you all my friends, too. There's been many a night when Jordan and I were both simultaneously drinking too much wine, surfing for kitten videos on YouTube and making jokes about it. And talking about it, just not in person, over the Twat. It's how we communicate now. And it's made my life better. So, there's your sappy from me. I hope you hug it and squeeze it and call it George.<br /><br />And here are my Rock stars: (If I forgot someone I'm <strong>IMMENSELY</strong> sorry. Please don't hate me. It was a lot of linking and like I said above, I'm lazy. Purty please. I need acceptance. I'll buy you a pony. Or make you pickles. It's my new hobby.)<br /><br /><a href="http://www.plushroomsoup.com/">MyLittleBecky<br />PlushroomSoup </a><br /><a href="http://www.ishineoutloud.com/">Shineoutloud</a><br /><a href="http://twitter.com/JordanAshleighF">RSub27<br />JordanAshleighF </a><br /><a href="http://mariescafe.wordpress.com/">Mariechatters</a><br /><a href="http://www.icanhasissues.com/">DysFuncJunc</a><br /><a href="http://twitter.com/Renee_817">Renee_817<br />LivitLuvit</a><br /><a href="http://www.suburbansweetheart.com/">rjcannon85<br />HeySuburban</a><br /><a href="http://twitter.com/esketches">esketches </a><br /><a href="http://sothisismygig.wordpress.com/">Lbluca77</a><br /><a href="http://twitter.com/kernheidi">Kernheidi </a><br /><u><span style="color:#0000ff;"><a href="http://www.lazylightning.com/">garciasn</a><br /><a href="http://www.bloggedbliss.com/">jennamariebee</a></span></u><br /><a href="http://www.twitter.com/albertxii">albertxii</a><br /><a href="http://doniree.com/">doniree</a><br /><a href="http://www.greenstarstudio.com/">greenstarstudio</a><br /></p>Singlegrrrlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07806432563307131343noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532405369697438256.post-6454801151415272572010-04-05T09:13:00.000-07:002010-04-05T14:12:31.862-07:00I am woman, I emote<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgye2lJVylhsisZcckCOoX0dbv0A7gb3f6m15u827yoPggCpzKXg_wP4suI6CqyiI1f9DzkSVxrpzw9Vr8Y80JqFiIcVqmmtT9YI3g7vAupXdAiKHFWaslZVaNKOvhNKtLEObTXzZF5Y9o/s1600/ww.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 273px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456687604388782978" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgye2lJVylhsisZcckCOoX0dbv0A7gb3f6m15u827yoPggCpzKXg_wP4suI6CqyiI1f9DzkSVxrpzw9Vr8Y80JqFiIcVqmmtT9YI3g7vAupXdAiKHFWaslZVaNKOvhNKtLEObTXzZF5Y9o/s320/ww.jpg" /></a><br /><div></div><div></div><div></div><div><br />First of all, thanks to <a href="http://www.ishineoutloud.com/">shine</a> and <a href="http://mariescafe.wordpress.com/">Marie</a> for starting this blog theme and to the many people participating. Many of you ladies and gents have really gone boobs up and balls out and I say "bravo" to that.<br /><br />For my contribution, I would like to write about the word "crazy."<br /><br />I feel like this is a word reserved almost entirely for women, and I think that stinks.<br /><br />I mean, yes, I hear it used in reference to men when like, say, some dude down in Arkansas decides to kill a bunch of kitties and make lampshades out of their skin and ends up on Dateline. But I think then it's mostly so that lazy journalists can write bad alliterate headlines like: Krazy Kitten Killer Gets Krafty.<br /><br />In everyday conversation, "crazy" is used so often to describe women and it makes me sad because a lot of times I think it's just a reaction to someone trying to express their emotions.<br /><br />So my Women's Writes statement: Emotions do not equal crazy.<br /><br />How long are we going to be aware that men and women express themselves differently without being able to accept and embrace it? Yes, dear gentleman, your way of dealing with a bad day may be to drink some beers, play some video games, spank it to some illegally download porn and go to sleep early. (Uh ... I never handle a bad day like this. I swear.)<br /><br />We get it. And I think (and this is based only on conversation with my immediate circle) many of us are OK with it and don't think a lot about it.<br /><br />So, when I have a bad day, if I need to drink a bottle of wine, have a good cry, talk to you ad nauseum about how it all FEELS and then still need to work it out and so blog about it - I'm not acting bananas - I'm experiencing emotions. Normal ones.<br /><br />Don't think this is a dude bashing post. I don't do those. I love dudes. I have one. He's super duper. He's a super duper dude. Uh ... carried away, party of one.<br /><br />Back to the lecture at hand (Snoop reference. YESSS.)<br /><br />Women are just as guilty of pegging this tag on each other. Ladies! Tsk tsk and stuff. This isn't helping. Just because you're having one of those days when you have all your shit together it doesn't mean you should go all Mean Girl on the poor gal who got yelled at out work, was visited by Aunt Flo in her cute new white skirt and found donkey humping videos on her guy's computer and is now a big teary mess.<br /><br />I could go real feminist on you all right now and start talking about uses of insanity in relation to women in literature and film and how grossly disproportionate it is when you look at references to men. And I could talk about how even certifiably crazy men in history are often painted as "genius" in public while women are called just plain old crazy. I mean I really could do that. I wrote a paper about it in college. I is smart. But the truth is, I don't want to go all intellectual on you. I mean, have you read this blog? I would not call this a place of higher thinking.<br /><br />I'm writing this as more of an humanistic appeal. I admit. Even I am guilty of uttering "she so crazy" about people and I've often use the word to explain my own emotions. "Sorry, I was acting crazy" has been used many times because I couldn't articulate my own emotions. And I think that's a cop out for my own poor communication skills when it comes to interpersonal relationships. Whoa. Big words. Maybe this IS a place of high thinking ...<br /><br />AND, let us not forget that some people truly are bat shit crazy. For those people I pledge to have a bit more sympathy. Unless they get all nutso on me and then I will shiv a hoe.<br /><br />The point is, yes. I'm going to cry. A lot. Sometimes, I'm going to cry and you won't know why. Sometimes I'm going to cry and <strong>I WON'T EVEN KNOW WHY</strong>. Sometimes, I'll get really intense and stomp around and fall down on the floor like a child. And sometimes I'll just want to yell a lot and I won't want to listen to anything you have to say. And then I might get really weird and refuse to talk at all.<br /><br />Will this be a moment of my most sparkly behavior? Absolutely not. But chances are, I haven't lost my mind. Odds are I don't need medication or intense psycho-therapy (although, there's an argument that we may all need a bit of that.)<br /><br />What I really probably need is for someone to listen to me. Or say "Of course how you feel matters." Or maybe just give me a hug. (there's also a strong possibility I need to get sober, but that's a subject for another post. Or 12.)<br /><br />So, dear bloggers, on this, the first annual Women's Writes, I ask you to say no to "crazy" and <strong>HUG IT OUT KIDS. HUG IT OUT</strong>.<br /></div><div><br /></div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div></div>Singlegrrrlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07806432563307131343noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532405369697438256.post-74231109577110631342010-03-30T15:35:00.000-07:002010-03-31T10:23:07.735-07:00In which I drive on the wrong side of the road and have trouble making friends<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiko2IRHqvU8JLmpdp125nJy9AoizBHrW9n3THqoE19BrVt-GwaqgKuKEIxQtpge4NzxlLgv462-dCmmdavWGUj1Sla-tN9yPBR_IETcQISYRWZ4IemO397ilDptF-heOaDaVw0oI7_KWk/s1600/bad%2520driving.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 319px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 272px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5454561337098958994" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiko2IRHqvU8JLmpdp125nJy9AoizBHrW9n3THqoE19BrVt-GwaqgKuKEIxQtpge4NzxlLgv462-dCmmdavWGUj1Sla-tN9yPBR_IETcQISYRWZ4IemO397ilDptF-heOaDaVw0oI7_KWk/s320/bad%2520driving.jpg" /></a><br /><div>I can't drive.<br /><br />Well, I guess I technically CAN, but I hate to and it usually makes anyone else in the car with me terribly uncomfortable.<br /><br />This might have something to do with how I grip the wheel until my knuckles turn white, sweat a lot, and shriek when cars pass me too fast ... or maybe not.<br /><br />I feel bad about admitting this and reinforcing to anyone the Women Are Bad Drivers stereotype. I'm just one woman, yo. But, I confess, I'm one of THOSE women.<br /><br />I was going to say how I don't understand why people are fearful of being in a car with me because I'm a careful driver who hasn't had an accident since she was a rookie, yada yada.<br /><br />But the other day I took my first adventure out on my own in my new sparkly city of Minneapolis to meet a friend for lunch. Said lunch was in St. Paul, which is very close but where I have never driven to before.<br /><br />So, like anyone would, I mapquested the shiz out of it.<br /><br />Now confident in where I was going, I set out. However, there was no road labeled CR-20, my first step. So, I went where I thought I was supposed to go. Which, as it turns out, took me on a long one-way street into downtown Mpls. From there I proceeded to:<br /><br />* Drive on the wrong side of the road down a major thoroughfare<br />* Be lost for 15 minutes<br />* Be beeped at for driving too slow on the freeway<br />* Be beeped at for not knowing how to properly parallel park<br />* Run a red light<br />* Get lost for another 10 minutes<br />* Have to make no less than four u-turns because I was going the wrong way<br />* Park two blocks from my apartment so as to not have to attempt parallel parking again.<br /><br />So, yeah ...<br /><br />Phoenix is one big parking lot with six lanes in each direction. I'm adjusting to life in this big old city. But I'm loving that it's a very walkable city with better public transit than PHX. I will be hoping to keep the car parked as much as possible.<br /><br />In all of that, you may have missed the point that I MADE A FRIEND and had a lovely lunch in the middle of all of this.<br /><br />Being here has been a big adjustment for me. Moving from what was, essentially an adult dorm full of dozens of friends who would have dinner, play video games, drink beers any night of the week, I guess I forgot what it was like to be alone a lot.<br /><br />So I was super excited when a friend of a friend suggested we get together.<br /><br />Until the part of the conversation where she asked me what my hobbies are.<br /><br />Dead Silence. Blank stare. More silence.<br /><br />See, the thing is, like anyone, I like to look good, interesting, smart even, to new people. And the things is, I think I am smart and interesting.<br /><br />But I don't really have a lot of things that would qualify as "hobbies." I don't run (again, why do people run? Where are they going? They don't look cute doing it. I don't get it.) or cycle (although I enjoy me a Sunday cruise if it ends in Bloody Mary, but alas, I am, at the moment, bike-less.) I don't take any classes or do things like make jewelry or knit sweaters.<br /><br />So, when people ask me about hobbies, I always draw this dumb blank. But I do have hobbies. I write this blog. I love me some Twatter. I drink a lot. Which takes careful practice.<br /><br />I mean, I drink a lot. I've realized that eating and drinking had become my primary hobbies in PHX. Every night was a HH, or a dinner with a friend, or having a friend over for dinner and wine.<br /><br />So, now that I don't have that kind of gig going, I'm going to need some new hobbies. I mean, I used to have hobbies -- like painting and playing music and stuff. I can get that back, right? Or is it like once the girls go south, cuz, I'm not down for surgery.<br /><br />This is where you come in. WHAT THE EFF SHOULD I DO WITH MY LIFE?<br /><br />What's been fun for you all? I'll admit now, I'm not the most "active" person. And when I've tried to be, I get injured. So, rock climbing is probably out. Also, I'm temporarily terribly poor. So, like, diamond collecting is out. Dammit.<br /><br />Help me. I'm bored. </div>Singlegrrrlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07806432563307131343noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532405369697438256.post-42342077973500981702010-03-09T08:53:00.000-08:002010-03-09T09:14:50.074-08:00And now you have to leave! And I have to live with a boy! (but not actually.)OK kiddos. Tomorrow is the big move.<br /><br />I’m not all the way packed. I’m certain what’s left is not going to fit in my car. Also, there is definitely no room for Barksdale who will probably have to ride in the IKEA bag with my sheets and pillowcases. Soooo, I’d say I’m pretty ready.<br /><br />It hasn’t really sunk in that I’m moving. I think that will happen two weeks from now when I’m Overhunged and partied out and I just want to go home and sit on <a href="http://singlegrrrl.blogspot.com/search/label/Martini">Martini’s</a> couch and watch Celebrity Fit Club, eat tortilla soup and laugh uncontrollably when Tanisha Thomas starts screaming and runs into the desert for no reason except she just has so much anger because it’s really hard being part of the <a href="http://bad-girls-club.oxygen.com/">Bad Girls Club</a> - and then I realize I can’t do that.<br /><br />I mean, I’m very excited for all the “new stuff.” I’m an adventurer and an Urban Gypsy fo sho. And, I’m very excited to get to live in the same city as the <a href="http://singlegrrrl.blogspot.com/search/label/Virtual%20Crush">BF</a> – A guy I’ve “known” like three years now but never resided within 1,500 miles of.<br /><br />Last night while lying in bed with my sometimes lover, Insomnia, I admit I did get sad about leaving Martini. I’m not ready to talk about it yet. I may never be ready. I’m much better with burying emotions behind bourbon and hot Cheetos than I am at discussing them.<br /><br />For those who have followed this blog you know she and I have been through breakups, moves, illness, broken bones, and more together.<br /><br />We’ve celebrated birthdays and new pets. We’ve taken trips, made fun of famous people – to their faces, been in movies, met new boys, skinny dipped, binge ate (and drank. Maybe. Nevermind), and countless other things. Really, we’ve practically lived together for the last year. People she works with think we’re dating. Which wouldn’t be so bad (Reason No. 341 why I wish I didn’t love the peen.)<br /><br />Whenever I feel real emotions that aren’t happy ones, I usually pretend I’m a character from TV or a movie and react the way they would to a situation. Yes, that’s very normal. No, I’ve never talked to a shrink about it.<br /><br />All I could think about last night was that line from <em>Friends</em> where Rachel has to move out so Monica can live with Chandler and they get in a big fight but really it’s because they’re both so sad and then Monica cries and says “And now you have to leave and I have to live with a BOOYYY!!!”<br /><br />(I won’t be living with my boy, but still!)<br /><br />So enjoy this because I’ve been feeling very Gellar today. I’ll see you when I get to Minneapolis.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/oTiaWvhCXwU&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/oTiaWvhCXwU&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br /><br />P.S. It's my birthday today, so ... yeah. I'm 31. When did that happen? <a href="http://loosemarshmallow.blogspot.com/2010/03/cake-vodka-fire-sauce-and-your-face.html">Will I ever stop sticking my face in birthday cake</a>?Singlegrrrlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07806432563307131343noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532405369697438256.post-38096990725096139032010-03-04T09:19:00.000-08:002010-03-04T09:38:29.351-08:00I'm stoic. I'm patient. I'm a rock. I miss my BF!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKN-3LyayFbTgOy1VcobB0NHgiVGFG8qdYJA8nMDV68T1WhXwRUwwJb-EMyuUJruc9HqqhXYRnI1q4vxuNf86jXH3zkQXeboDCzc9JAkJaqsopt_SZytYG1ZTIuY1ROySp3mU7VWamOgY/s1600-h/Xtin+miss+you.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 306px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444833094340413170" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKN-3LyayFbTgOy1VcobB0NHgiVGFG8qdYJA8nMDV68T1WhXwRUwwJb-EMyuUJruc9HqqhXYRnI1q4vxuNf86jXH3zkQXeboDCzc9JAkJaqsopt_SZytYG1ZTIuY1ROySp3mU7VWamOgY/s320/Xtin+miss+you.jpg" /></a><br />I don’t miss people.<br /><br />That sounds awful to admit out loud, but it’s true.<br /><br />As a baby, I’m told I wouldn’t leave my mother’s arms without screaming and crying and shrieking and balling up my fists and shaking them frantically until someone <strong>PUT ME BACK IN HER LOVIN’ ARMS, DAMMIT!</strong><br /><br />But after that yellow bus came to get me on the first day of kindergarten and I saw there was a new place, with new people, and fraking fingerpaints! And delicious cookies! And glorious song singing! And Jill, with the beautiful blonde pig tails! And Joey with the giant blue eyes and weird laugh!!! – Well, I just never looked back.<br /><br />It used to hurt my mom and dad’s feelings that I could go away to camp or summer stock or, you know, go live in England for awhile, and when I’d come back they’d say, “Did you miss us?” and I’d say, “Nope, because listen to all the cool stuff I did! I was too busy to miss anybody.”<br /><br />I’ve lived a lot of places and visited even more and been lucky to have an incredible life full of friends all over the world. Sometimes they say they miss me. Or they get teary-eyed and frownie when I leave from a visit. And I don’t <strong>GET</strong> it. I mean, I’ll see you soon, right? Or soon enough. And in the meantime, we’ll Twat and FaceSpace and I’ll send you emails with links to kittens frolicking in flowers with Star Wars music playing in the background. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pBXxbsOoFr4">Or this.</a><br /><br />AND in that same time, I’ll be busy making new friends and squeezing all the good shit out of life and collecting stories about weird Bulgarians I partied with who had gurneys in their living room and referred to people as “Fucking Cunts” as a term of endearment and drank cheap, piss-like champagne but insisted on squeezing fresh orange juice for the vodka so that the next time we get together over beers I’ll have awesome things to tell you about.<br /><br />See?? There’s no reason to miss people, right?<br /><br />That being said, I miss my <a href="http://singlegrrrl.blogspot.com/2009/04/does-my-dream-guy-exist-and-should-i.html">VC</a>.<br /><br />In life, sometimes you say things, but you don’t really mean them. Like when I say your amorphous, hairy, drooly baby is cute. Or when I say I’d love to help you move. Or when I say I don’t know where I got The Herpe because really I’ve never put my lips on anything but my toothbrush. Wait ... that’s called <em>Lying</em>. My friends have been talking to me about this concept. (Oh, and I don’t have The Herpe. At least, I’m 99 percent sure of this. In case you want to make out. Which, I know you do.)<br /><br />There were times during the last 10 months of this long distance gig where I said “I miss you” but what I really meant was, “I’d like to see you.” Or “I’d really like to have sex right now.” But I didn’t have a feeling of actually missing something. I didn’t even know what that feeling was because I don't think I had it before. I used to think it was about tears, and pining and all that stuff that's for the birds.<br /><br />Well, now I know what it is. It’s still going to the party and still having fun but catching yourself thinking it would be more fun if that person was with you. It’s seeing that weird Bulgarian guy, wearing a shirt he’s cut the sleeves off of and drinking a drink he just found laying around and knowing that if that person were there you could just look at him in the eye and you’d both be thinking the <strong>SAME THING</strong> and that later you would sit on the couch and make endless jokes about it in bad accents. And that in the morning you’d wake up and get to have morning sex and all would be right with the world.<br /><br />Someone has taught me how to miss things. Good work guy.<br /><br />I'm ready to move.Singlegrrrlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07806432563307131343noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532405369697438256.post-66881359433300011722010-02-11T20:25:00.000-08:002010-02-11T21:38:51.034-08:00An open letter to people who post housing on Craigslist.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibTRuTMr9N78ILxB_5SpzEy0sIw7RvOcWnPSMjzQwyld7kIEPTrog42Ar8lTEkI1UxeG1KWiG7iruRtw-vYkMmgC7D6aJ3i6ECq4eTLor2F_qgbPLWW5qPrk8agU26VvGoC1k8mRiaE6I/s1600-h/banksy.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437214480271566850" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibTRuTMr9N78ILxB_5SpzEy0sIw7RvOcWnPSMjzQwyld7kIEPTrog42Ar8lTEkI1UxeG1KWiG7iruRtw-vYkMmgC7D6aJ3i6ECq4eTLor2F_qgbPLWW5qPrk8agU26VvGoC1k8mRiaE6I/s320/banksy.jpg" /></a><br /><div>Dear Craigslist landlord,<br /><br />I have been frantically searching your well-crafted ads on essentially an hourly basis for the last seven days as I hunt for a suitable abode in Minneapolis.<br /><br />I feel that in these seven days, I’ve become savvy with your lingo. I know that “garden level” is your way of saying I’ll be down in the creepy dark basement, nestled between the place where people store their Christmas trees and the place where people wash their dirty underpants.<br /><br />I’m hip to your trickery. Like how sometimes you put things in the body of your post like “45 miles from the train that will take you to the busline that will eventually get you to Uptown” so that when I search for places in Uptown, yours comes up. EVERY time.<br /><br />While I’m thankful for this free service that allows me to wade through hundreds of places that I would never even visit, let alone live, I have some tips that would make me, the Potential Future Tenant, very happy. If you are at all interested in achieving this, here is my advice:<br /><br />Post a photo of the place. Unless you’re walking around with a circa 1993 car phone, chances are, you have a camera <em>right in your pocket</em>. Use it. Because if you don’t, the first thing I'm going to ask you is to please send a photo or 10. Because without photos, I assume the place doesn’t have a stove. Or a roof. Or that it’s under water. Or full of dead bodies. Or never even existed in the first place.<br /><br />If you insist that I call you for more details, be around to answer the phone. Or maybe return a message. But also, consider this crazy thing most of us can do any time from nearly anywhere in just a few minutes time: email. I know. It’s kind of wild. But I think it’s gaining momentum. I believe my grandmother has even started using it.<br /><br />Don’t say “we love pets” when what you really mean is that you will pay exactly $2,000 extra dollars if you own a pet. Because $2,000 is not really “OK” with me. $2,000 for your 500 square foot apartment that is already overpriced because it’s in the “trendy” part of town sounds like punishment. So maybe you should say something like “we’ll let you live here with your smelly little territorial mutt, but will do so grudgingly and at great cost, perhaps even peril, to you.”<br /><br />And lastly, if the place has been rented, TAKE IT OFF CRAIGSLIST. It’s wasting everyone’s time if you don’t. Mine for calling. Yours for having to talk to me. (And I can be quite the talker. Especially when I'm "spite talking.")<br /><br />But, if you don’t take it down and I do call, don’t act inconvenienced as if I should have magically known you rented the apartment three weeks ago to some lady with her 4 cats (that you charged her $8,000 extra for.) Because I didn’t know. I saw the ad on Craigslist and it said to call you.<br /><br />Thank you ever so much for your consideration. Also, do you have any units available?<br /><br />xoxo,<br />SG</div>Singlegrrrlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07806432563307131343noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532405369697438256.post-72523960553291555212010-01-26T08:45:00.001-08:002010-01-26T08:54:10.883-08:00Grinning lobsters and Teeth Vomit (I have GOT to stop drinking before bed)<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/a1Y73sPHKxw&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/a1Y73sPHKxw&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />I may have had what qualifies as the WORST DREAM EVER last night. <br /><br />I should tell you I have never been a good sleeper. <br /><br />Between the ages of 8 and 13 I both walked and talked in my sleep regularly. I would scare my girlfriends by sitting up straight in the middle of the night and holding entire conversations with Abraham Lincoln with my eyes wide open.<br /><br />Once, my mom looked out the window just in time to see me walking into the woods behind our house. When she got to me, I told her I was going to the Mother Ship. Then I started crying. (My grandmother filled my head with a lot of alien talk as a child. Don’t be jealous that I’m one of the “star people” chosen to leave the planet on a shiny space low-rider and lead a new planet of space people, who she always described as being something of hybrids between Lady GaGa and Noam Chomsky. No! Crazy does not run in my family…)<br /><br />Now I have chronic insomnia. Which is OK because I can stay up late finding gem YouTube videos like the one above or playing <a href="http://www.k2xl.com/games/obechi/">Obechi</a> and shouting things at my computer like, “Yeah bitch! Who’s a tricky little polka dot now?” <br /><br />Apparently I have a lot of rage. AND I have a lot of bad dreams.<br /><br />In this dream, I was prego. Like really gross pregs where your belly is so big and your skin is stretched so tightly it reminds you of that moment right before a marshmallow bursts because you put it in your microwave on a Saturday night because you drank too much wine and no one is calling and it seems like the only thing that can possibly fix the sadness of this situation is a s’more, but you just end up cleaning sticky sugar off of everything and sobbing a little, because really marshmallows have no business in the microwave.<br /><br />Anyway, during this obvious night terror, my boss was telling me that she had talked to everyone in the department and decided that they wouldn’t be allowing me to move to Minneapolis. She was saying things like: “We just don’t see you as very valuable” and “We hate your clothes.”<br /><br />And we were sitting in what I swear was a Red Lobster. And the lobsters in the tank were grinning at me. And I started crying and I couldn’t stop crying and I got up to use the restroom and kept banging this gigantic belly against tables and knocking over people’s fancy “table wine” and they would just stare at me like drones with crumbs of those delicious cheesy garlic biscuits all over their faces. And when I got to the bathroom I started throwing up teeth!<br /><br />Awful, right?<br /><br />What does this mean?? Discuss!Singlegrrrlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07806432563307131343noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532405369697438256.post-33568243566813178082010-01-22T16:01:00.000-08:002010-01-22T16:14:39.296-08:00Work at home: Take one<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-TBMhvqwv9tn-9nOXSaB208fvPiUl5Ois1wH184VIHIFHmMRfQijwLQtVC23Aiv79-RXykPPmNZKL4rMnipHkdJvdUm0KsPlT3EXTOzoKTDdpjykX3vF1RCz9VhD1Z5ZYUHWi2_MxRhM/s1600-h/homeoffice.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 230px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-TBMhvqwv9tn-9nOXSaB208fvPiUl5Ois1wH184VIHIFHmMRfQijwLQtVC23Aiv79-RXykPPmNZKL4rMnipHkdJvdUm0KsPlT3EXTOzoKTDdpjykX3vF1RCz9VhD1Z5ZYUHWi2_MxRhM/s320/homeoffice.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5429719412170020930" /></a><br />My office is closed today due to severe weather.<br /><br />Now, I know I’m going to feel really bad when I hear that some sweet old lady got stuck in the mud for nine hours and had to eat her way out or someone’s darling Pit Bull got washed away with the flood waters, but seriously: I live in Phoenix, it rained, and they closed my office. As a gal who grew up in the Snow Belt, in a place so rainy that I could count the sunny days in a year on my fingers and toes, I just cannot wrap my head around this. If I had a nickel for every time I explained what a tornado warning was yesterday I’d have … 20 cents.<br /><br />Anyway, being the lemons to lemonade kind of girl I am (that is not true) I decided to use this day at home to prove just how productive I can be in a work remote situation. (See yesterday’s post for why.)<br /><br />I will document how this goes today.<br /><br />6:30 – Alarm. Convince myself that I don’t need to get up yet and that I wouldn’t really get up at this time even if I WAS going into the office, so I should probably sleep another hour.<br /><br />7:30 – Alarm. Again. This time I hum along to the ringtone of shmexxxy Matt Berninger singing “So Far Around the Bend,” stretch, kiss Barksdale on the head, rub his weird hairless belly for a minute, and think to myself, “Let’s do this woman!”<br /><br />8 – Make coffee. Wash face. Consider shower and clothes. Decide not showering and staying in scrub pants and Modest Mouse t-shirt is one of my benefits for working at home.<br /><br />8:30 – Start this blog post. Tell myself this will be a motivator to do something today, because how embarrassing would it be to have to admit to all of you that I ate peanut butter right out of the jar with a big spoon and watched Everybody Loves Raymond in my PJs all day?<br /><br />8:45 – Eat peanut butter right out of the jar with a big spoon. It sounded good, OK? Don’t judge me! Breakfast is the most important meal.<br /><br />9:07 – Realize I haven’t started working yet. Shiz. I have had A LOT of coffee, though.<br /><br />12:09 – Go me! Three hours working. Drafted website copy for a giving appeal I’m developing with adorable babies on Valentine’s for that upcoming nasty holiday. Check. Drafted thank you letter in anticipation of all the generous donations we will receive. Check. Checked email and responded. Posted to company Twitter and FB accounts. Check and check! Rewarding myself with lunch break out of this apartment!<br /><br />12:11 – Realize I never showered. Staying in for lunch. Mmmmaybe showering. Let’s not get too ambitious.<br /><br />1:05 – Contemplate cocktail. Decide on getting back to work. (Still not showered). <br /><br />2 – ish (yeah, that’s where we’re at with this) – Working like a good drone. Then decide that the fact that I’m still technically in bed, even though I’ve been working is making me feel like a miserable bum. This will not do. Get distracted looking at cute home office furniture online …<br /><br />2:30 -- Back to work. Home stretch. That I’m still not showered is increasingly annoying. Grossing myself out.<br /><br />4:12 – Can’t take it anymore. Shower time. Maybe bath. So I can multi-task by catching up on 30 Rock while getting’ clean. A good work at home lady knows how to juggle important tasks.<br /><br />4:42 – No longer smelly or greasy. All of my major work “to dos” were accomplished. It’s Friday, is it so bad to wrap it up early? <br /><br />So, this didn’t go so bad. I’ve learned some things. I think morning showers are still a good idea. Makes me feel more human. And a coffee or lunch break out of my bedoffice is necessary. Otherwise, there’s way more talking to myself than is acceptable, especially while I’m wearing scrub pants. I look like a mental ward patient. In all, productive day. I can do this, for sure. <br /><br />Fellow WAH-ers, please share tips for getting it done away from the office. Please and thank you.Singlegrrrlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07806432563307131343noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532405369697438256.post-13803598936083088512010-01-21T11:06:00.000-08:002010-01-21T11:13:04.767-08:00Inner Mean Girl Smackdown<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS0KNoMk5vnDtzniQdtb61hexGrQarSDcwrEqGlV0AmJjUgWJo9ZzxYWdH9eTT8M1P8y2HscSM_neuPZbNkMsMaqh5Cu57aNjSMI3-3oQiwvmB54WbfZf5I01gFVMr6JGEyeB9k4kRffs/s1600-h/girl%2520fight.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS0KNoMk5vnDtzniQdtb61hexGrQarSDcwrEqGlV0AmJjUgWJo9ZzxYWdH9eTT8M1P8y2HscSM_neuPZbNkMsMaqh5Cu57aNjSMI3-3oQiwvmB54WbfZf5I01gFVMr6JGEyeB9k4kRffs/s320/girl%2520fight.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5429271937137245522" /></a><br />I have spent a lot of my life psyching myself out of doing things I want to do because I think I can’t. Or that I’ll be a big ol’ failure. Or that people will laugh at me -- which is a ridiculous thought for a lady who falls down as much as I do. <br /><br />About two years ago, after some of those Big Moments that make the “Life is short” thing really sink in, I decided to stop that. I decided that, hell, if I wanted to join the roller derby, then dammit, I would. Yes, I’m barely pushing 5’2”. Yes, I’m barely 110 fully clothed in winter. Yes, I haven’t worn a roller skate since Red Red Wine was in heavy rotation on the radio (do people still say “radio"?) That adventure ended horribly, to be sure, but …<br /><br />I digress. It hasn’t been easy to adopt this new attitude. Anyone who has made it to 30 with something of a perfectionist outlook on life looks at the N-word as the dirtiest one there is. And I mean “No.” Get yer mind outta the gutter. <br /><br />Why is “no” such a scary word? Why can’t we just hear “no” or “I don’t agree” or “I don’t feel the same way” or “Your body will never be capable of doing that so please stop before you kill yourself,” process it and move on to the next thing? <br /><br />My friend, Martini, likes to say that we each have an Inner Mean Girl who likes to tell us “no” or to whisper sweet nothings about how we aren’t enough – pretty, skinny, funny, smart, flexible, whatever. It’s the voice that tells you you can’t without a logical reason. <br /><br />Well friends, I’ve been bitch slapping that lady around lately. This week we had our latest throwdown and I think I’m the winner. And it’s part of the big changes I hinted at yesterday.<br /><br />Y’all know I have a BF, VC, who lives a real far way away. Well, that sucks. <br /><br /><strong>Other things that suck:</strong> dirt, cactus, snakes, 127 degree weather, sweat, Scottsdale, endless suburbs, ruined high heels due to melted asphalt, astronomical rent, dry air, hipsters, $15 martinis, Ed Hardy, serious lack of decent music, people who take PTO because it might rain.<br /><br />So, I started thinking about moving eastward. Because thems my roots and I miss them. But I wasn’t very serious about it. But then, I was. That was my 20 second recap of my thought process over the last four months. You’re welcome. <br /><br />Job hunting should have been on my list of things that suck. I tried that. Again, wasn’t too serious, then was. (are we sensing a pattern?) Then I had a wild idea. I’m really good at my job. And my company really likes me. And I work on a computer and phone with so little face-to-face contact that sometimes I have whole conversations in my office WITH MYSELF and no one notices.<br /><br />So, why couldn’t I do my job from Minneapolis?<br /><br /><strong>Inner Mean Girl:</strong> Woman, that’s so crazy. Why would they do that? They’ll just find somebody else to put her lumpy butt in that chair of yours.<br /><br /><strong>Me:</strong> Your mom!<br /><br />So, after about a week of mulling it over and talking it out with my Mirror Self countless times, I went to my supe with my thoughts – AND she totally agreed. I am an asset! They would like to work something out! <br /><br />So details are being worked out and I don’t want to be premature (and I’ll keep you posted!), but I feel this is a time of triumph over NO and I’m super excited. <br /><br />I’m curious about your experiences with the N-word. Are you all as scared of it as I’ve been? <strong>And what have you accomplished when you’ve pushed past that fear??</strong>Singlegrrrlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07806432563307131343noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532405369697438256.post-22197482129571417722010-01-20T11:08:00.000-08:002010-01-20T12:24:26.045-08:00My Love Harder (re)post. And, I'll never neglect you again (maybe)So, I wouldn't be surprised if no one is really reading this blog anymore. I have been woefully neglectful of it.<br /><br />I guess the reasons I started it -- to fill up time in my sad single life, to share plain old awful dating stories, to laugh at myself so I didn't cry (too much) -- just aren't the focus of my life right now.<br /><br />I do have some big changes happening. And, after some great news on the writing front (details to come, I hope!) and a fantastic conversation with a writer friend who may not know just how much he lit a fire under this wee behind, I have made a resolution to write more. However, I think it will look really different from this existing blog. I'll probably even change the name (and I am taking suggestions!!) I hope you'll consider still reading. Purty please. With sugar and stuffs?<br /><br />In the meantime, I know I'm way behind, but I was inspired by <a href="http://www.ishineoutloud.com/shine/">Shine Out Loud</a> today to repost this message.<br /><br />I recently told someone just how much I cared about him kind of out of the blue. Well, maybe to him ... not me. Ain't that the way is works? It was nerve-wracking and I definitely had many "Oh shit, why the hell did I just do that???" moments as soon as it was out there in the universe.<br /><br />I did it for this reason: Because you never know what's going to happen tomorrow, as cliche as that saying is. It's completely true. And when we don't take the moments to tell someone how awesome they are, we might not get them back. So, please read this and tell the people in your life how swell you think they are whenever you can.<br /><br />My friends think I'm that crazy girl who sends flowers for no reason, or invites them over for impromptu dinner parties, or mails them a diorama, or whatev. But, as long as I know them, they'll never have to wonder about how I feel about them.<br /><br />So, I think it's super awesome how the blogosphere banded together to send happy thoughts to some people who really needed them!<br />Please read Brandy's story below and send her and her sweetie happy thoughts! And check out <a href=" http://www.clevelandsaplum.com/2010/01/love-harder.html">Cleveland's A Plum</a> to see some of what has happened since Brandy's December post.<br /><br /><em>My name is <a href="http://brainyjane22.wordpress.com/">Brandy</a>. And I have a blog.<br />And a plea.<br />I use my blog to showcase the crazy I meet everyday, share the stories of the kids I teach, and document my love for tequila, dairy products and the abdominal muscles of Ryan Reynolds.<br />Rarely do I talk about personal issues on my blog– as personal as the dude that I adore. But I need your help. And it involves my dude.<br />He’s a guy who made math comics for my class, so they would love learning about addition. He’s the guy who sends my friends gift cards when they are having hard times, who remembers every story I ever told him, who was the first person I celebrated with when I got a teaching job.<br />He’s the guy who sent flowers to me at school– dozens of my favourite pink roses just because he loves me. He’s a guy who has spent a year patiently explaining (and re-explaining) everything there is to know about football during the important games when silence is preferred.<br />He’s made me word puzzles and comics and stayed up late playing Scrabble with me (even though I beat him almost every time). He’s listened to me cry about school and family and jobs. He is everything I never knew I needed and everything I always knew I wanted.<br />I realize this all sounds dramatic, a Lifetime movie in the making– but this is life. Right now. And I’m throwing away any hint of ego and am humbly asking for you to pray or think kind thoughts. If you are able to pass this on, thank you.<br />This isn’t a call for sympathy or a plea for pity. It’s just one girl hoping you can think positive thoughts for the person she adores. If my current heartache provides you with anything, let it be the reminder that life is short, love is unbending and no one knows what could happen next.<br />Thank you for reading this, and if you haven’t already? Please tell someone you love them today.<br />I did.</em><br /><br />And guess what? I lurve all of you, too! Write me notes! I miss you.Singlegrrrlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07806432563307131343noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532405369697438256.post-8925665461574900452009-11-05T18:54:00.000-08:002009-11-06T08:39:03.990-08:00Long time, no blog! Missed ya.I've been tagged by the Amazing Jessica of <a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.plushroomsoup.com">Plushroom Soup</a> for one of those blog meme games.<br /><br />Blurgh? Nope!<br /><br />Because I’ve been getting a lot of inquiries in the last few weeks about whatever happened to my blog. I took a wee break. There were injuries, illnesses, quazi-nervous breakdowns, and other things that factored in, but I think mostly I just didn’t feel like being honest or reflective for awhile, so why blog?<br /><br />But I wanted to try to start writing again and this tag seemed like a good way to start. It’s my way of saying “Hi!” to those of you who’ve missed me and to introduce myself to any newbies. So, here are the rules:<br /><br />* answer the questions<br />* replace a question that you don't like, with one by your choice<br />* add one more question<br />* tag 8 people to continue the game of tagging<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc33cc;">What is the thing that makes you happy?</span><br />Bourbon. Besides bourbon: my dog, still lakes, snow, barren trees, quiet walks, painting, music, cheddarwurst, my friends, my favorite guy.<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">Coffee or tea?</span><br />Coffee. Strong coffee. In large quantities.<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">What’s for dinner?</span><br />Oh why am I answering this questionnaire tonight? The truth is I ate blue cheese stuffed olives, a banana and some popcorn. This isn’t typical (lies).<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">What was the last thing you bought?</span><br />Besides the bleach and Purell I bought at Walgreen’s yesterday to fight the Swine and my plane ticket to MN for Thanksgiving … the last actual retail purchase was the whole series of Slumber Party Massacre movies from a guy who converted them from the VHS to a DVD. Excellent.<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">What are you listening to right now?</span><br />I cannot stop listening to For Emma, Forever Ago. It’s been on my turntable for months. I only recently ever listened to any Regina Spektor. My brother gave me an early album and I’ve been listening to Us on the way to work every day for a week. It’s joyous. (I’m going to admit I don’t think I like most of her stuff, but what I do like, I like a lot). Oh, and the Sweater Weather 7”. So so emo.<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">What is your favourite piece of clothing in your own wardrobe?</span><br />I have a dress from the Bettie Page store that I think is cute on me. I have a vintage 60s mod dress I like to wear with knee highs, a chunky knit scarf and wedges, because I think if you could define my personality in an outfit, that would be it. My most worn item, however, is a pair of aqua scrubs pants that I wear around my house pretty much constantly. I’m HOT.<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">What is your favourite ice cream flavour?</span><br />Ice cream makes me phlegmy. I prefer popsicles. Orange ones.<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">What do you think of the person(s) who tagged you?</span><br />I wish we lived in the same city so we could be buddies and make crafts and drink Old Fashioneds and play Rock band. I heart her very much.<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">If you could go anywhere in the world for the next hour, where would you go?</span><br />I could be cheesy and say Minneapolis. Because I miss people there. And I need more sex in my life. Hee hee. Seriously, though, Mount Desert Island, Maine. My favorite place on earth. I’d have an amazing Lobster Bisque and popovers at Jordan Pond House and walk around the harbor all bundled up and happy.<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">Which language do you want to learn?</span><br />Mandarin. Seems very useful. I’m a language geek. I wish I was more fluent in Nihongo, too<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">What is your favourite colour?</span><br />Blue. Grey blues, especially.<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">If you had £100 now, what would you spend it on?</span><br />Probably booze. Or my new tattoo.<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">What is your favorite animal?</span><br />Barksdale is my favorite animal. I’m also fascinated by jellyfish. And panda bears.<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">Describe your personal style?</span><br />Geeky, probably. I pretty much always wear dresses. I like old-fashionedy things. I like cardigans. And lots of buttons. And scarves.<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">What are you going to do after this?</span><br />Look for a job. Job hunting stinks. It’s not good for my intense fear of rejection. Someone told me today it takes, on average, six to 12 months to find a new job. I sincerely hope this is not true. If you are reading this and live in the Minneapolis/St. Paul area, I am a super witty writer, meticulous editor, and dynamo social media strategist (I use words like dynamo!). And I don’t drink nearly as much as you may think after reading this …<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">What are your favourite movies?</span><br />Spirited Away, The Triplets of Belville, Jeux D’enfants (Love Me If You Dare), Bom yeoreum gaeul gyeoul geurigo bom (Spring, Summer, Winter, Fall … Spring), La cité des enfants perdus (City of Lost Children), Big Fish, Edward Scissorhands, The Royal Tennebaums, Rushmore, Amelie, American Splendor, Children of the Corn<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">What inspires you?</span><br />Music. Fo sho. My super silly and creative friends (and virtual “friends”.) My dreams. I have weird dreams. Last night I dreamt that my great grandmother was alive and lived in this huge old mansion and she was like a corpse, but she was talking to me and she was wearing an excessive amount of bright red lipstick. She was walking around, but then I realized she was actually floating. Then she got in this big old Cruella DeVille-like car and drove away. It weirded me out, but it also made me think of a great short story idea.<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">What is your favourite fruit?</span><br />Apples<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">Do you collect something?</span><br />My mother thinks I collect fairies. This came from my days of community theater when I was constantly cast as a fairy or elf due to my size. So I have a bunch of fairies in a box in my closet. In truth, too much “stuff” makes me nervous. I guess I kind of collect scarves. And I have three old, but functional, typewriters, so I kind of collect those, too. God, I do everything half-ass.<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">How many hours do you sleep a day?</span><br />Who knows? I have chronic insomnia. About once a week I sleep like 11 hours. The rest of the time I toss and turn and am in and out. I’d say five-ish. I really like sleeping. I wish it happened more.<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">How many times do you press the snooze button before you get up?</span><br />Three to four times. Unless I actually have something to do besides just routine work. Then, I wake up before the alarm. Like clockwork.<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">What is your favourite smell?</span><br />Fall leaves. Also, my dog’s warm belly after he’s been sleeping in the sun. The ocean. Baking cookies. My dude. (and I think it’s just him + soap. How does he smell so good?)<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">What is your biggest regret?</span><br />This is a hard one. Probably it would be not pursing the science career I considered as a freshman in college. I think I would have made an excellent medical researcher. Or a surgeon. I still think about it a lot.<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">What are you most proud of?</span><br />I think this is supposed to be a personal thing about my accomplishments, but honestly, right now, I'm most proud of my little sister. She came through an extremely difficult phase of her life to earn her psychology degree, build a very happy family, and make a peaceful life full of love and interesting things. Life could have turned out very differently for her. I love her.<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">Cats or dogs?</span><br />Dogs. Cats creep me out. They remind me of Pet Semetary. And I don’t trust animals that are expected to pee and poop in the house.<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">What’s your biggest fashion mistake?</span><br />Let’s just say there’s a picture of me in an acid-washed jean jumper skirt (with ruffles), florescent pink t-shirt, matching tube socks and a weird hat that I hope never surfaces.<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">What is your guilty TV pleasure?</span><br />So You Think You Can Dance. I’ve always wanted to be a dancer. I think because my whole world revolves around words, I’m really moved by expression that doesn’t involve any words at all. Also, I look like I’m convulsing when I dance so I’m jealous.<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">What did you want to be when you grew up?</span><br />For a while, a dancer (see above). I actually wanted to be a writer, which is what I’ve become … not sure I still want to be that.<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">If you could meet any person dead or alive who would it be?</span><br />Franz Kafka.<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">What is your biggest dream?</span><br />I like Plushroom Soup’s answer a lot: “To live simply and well, and always be surrounded by those whom I love.” I’d like to simplify a lot. I’d like a small house with a great garden somewhere where it’s cold a lot and that’s near water. To have a job that doesn’t stress me out where I get to use my creativity. To have my dog. To have someone I love who loves me. To have a lot of time to read and listen to old soul records and drink coffee and bake things for neighbors. Nothing too crazy.<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">What was your favorite book when you were a child?</span><br />I loved Charles Dickens as a kid. My grandmother bought me a set of his books adapted for young readers and before first grade I had read Great Expectations, Oliver Twist, A Christmas Carol, Hard Times. I’d hide under a weeping willow in her back yard and read for hours.<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">If today was your last day on earth what would you be doing?</span><br />Having a lot of sex. (I couldn’t resist.) If it was really my last day, I’d eat bacon at every meal, be slightly drunk probably all day, spend it with my best friends and loved ones from AZ, OH, MN and beyond, and, hopefully have a lot of sex. Not like random sex, just a lot of it with one particular person. (Let’s be honest, I’d probably cry a lot and try to find a way to hide from the inevitable.)<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">If you could have any super power, what would it be?</span><br />This one gets me every time! Too many choices. I like teleportation a lot these days. Then I could see all the people I want to see without airfare.<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">If you joined the circus, what act would you perform?</span><br />Bearded lady.<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;">My contribution: Why did you start your blog?<br /></span><br />I am tagging the following people (and many apologies if you hate these!) Answer them all. Answer just one. Make up your own question. Write in "Your mom." I don't care. Just do something!<br /><br />I’m Tagging:<br /><br /><span style="color:#cc66cc;"><a href="http://www.clevelandsaplum.com/">Cleveland’s A Plum</a><br /><a href="http://runningfashionablylate.blogspot.com/">Beauty is in the Eye of the Beer Holder<br />Running Fashionably Late</a><br /><a href="http://yourbeardisgood.blogspot.com/">Your Beard is Good<br />Live it LOVE it</a><br /><a href="http://meshealle.blogspot.com/">My Little Becky<br />Shine Out Loud</a><br /><a href="http://anotherfishinthesea.wordpress.com/">Just Another Fish in the Sea</a></span>Singlegrrrlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07806432563307131343noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532405369697438256.post-66950508900360471272009-08-19T11:12:00.000-07:002009-08-19T11:21:59.241-07:00Voguing during sex: yes or no? And ... it's Limerick Wednesday<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs5ThjmiGW-V3pOLNNH4YHNyE_9eFLXhLceIrm-rFGnYY8NSZjgV1DiF7W48bDAFw9xUb02KHOjYDs75dQPn1BRspoO_o4Hrhe1bZE-Tp8uXOeKGDNJ75ABzgRHw3p3U9Yf0vK5_qKOv0/s1600-h/vogue2.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371740842169705346" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs5ThjmiGW-V3pOLNNH4YHNyE_9eFLXhLceIrm-rFGnYY8NSZjgV1DiF7W48bDAFw9xUb02KHOjYDs75dQPn1BRspoO_o4Hrhe1bZE-Tp8uXOeKGDNJ75ABzgRHw3p3U9Yf0vK5_qKOv0/s320/vogue2.jpg" /></a><br /><div>I had a conversation about sex last night and I wanted to share it with all of you.<br /><br />Because I overshare.<br /><br />Next week I am planning a post about the color of my phlegm and how many times in my life I’ve had a UTI.<br /><br />We were talking about the weekend and the topic of strippers came up – naturally.<br /><br /><em>Martini: Have you ever done that for a guy?<br /><br />Me: What? Stripped? Well, duh. You kind of have to in order to get to the next part.<br /><br />Martini: No … like a lap dance. Like a strip tease.<br /><br />Me: No. No, no, no. I wouldn’t know what to do with my hands. I’d probably start voguing or something. </em><br /><br />Uproarious laughter from Martini. Now, granted, she and I had just come from the world’s scariest workout with our friend A-to-the-izzo where a wee little man with chicken legs and a buzz cut forced us to jump up and down and punch things for an hour while shouting something about swatting flies and playing songs about “The Candyman.” Obviously, the only way to recover from said workout was a dinner of nachos and skinny girl margaritas at a nearby Mexican restaurant. We were dehydrated.<br /><br /><em>Martini: You’d start voguing???!!!</em><br /><br /><em>Me: Yeah, probably.</em> (SG demonstrates amazingly sexy voguing skills.) <em>Or doing the running man? Or just like pantomime or something. Like, “I’m stuck in the box. That’s right big boy. I’m in the box. You want me? Come and get me out of this box.”<br /></em><br />More laughter.<br /><br /><em>Martini: Seriously.</em> (Laughs.) <em>You wouldn’t know what to do with your hands?? Oh my god. Light bulb moment. I know why you’ve been single for so long. We can fix this.<br /><br />Me: Really? I mean, you don’t vogue during sex? Really?<br /></em><br />(Actual snorts and hands slamming on the bar, causing the waitress to look over at us and consider, for a moment, stopping service.)<br /><br /><em>Me: Seriously, though, I know what to do with my hands during sex … I think.</em> (It’s jazz hands, right? Jazz hands?) <em>But when the spotlight is all on me, like if he was just sitting back looking at me expectantly; I’d probably go for the BJ before the strip tease. I can shake the booty, but what do you do with your hands?!?</em><br /><br />It’s like people who go “running” down major thoroughfares. Why do they do that? They look stupid. Why? Their hands. They’re just kind of awkwardly flapping at their sides.<br /><br />I warned you earlier I dance a lot like Elaine from Seinfeld. I don’t think those moves should ever be brought out in the bedroom. Ever. Well, maybe …<br /><br />In all seriousness, this particular point of sexiliciousness has been a sore spot, a sort of kryptonite in my superhero-like self confidence, for some time. Maybe I should take a class. Or put a stripper pole in my bedroom. Or bring back voguing.<br /><br />Or maybe not everyone is meant to have the strip tease in their arsenal. Maybe some people are better off just tying those hands to the bedpost than trying to bust out a H.O.T version of the Tootsie Roll.<br /><br />What do you all think? What makes you feel awkward? Do you try or just give it a pass? Discuss.<br /><br />P.S. I don’t think I need to remind you that it’s Limerick Wednesday, as it has gained unprecedented popularity. Maybe something about voguing is in order … </div>Singlegrrrlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07806432563307131343noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532405369697438256.post-2826877201975273652009-08-13T12:50:00.001-07:002009-08-13T14:21:33.498-07:00Are we breaking up? And FRF comes a day early. Happy August.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7N1F4p2bh4NSEs32cViDBxkd-za97jbn2sxlAaB36-GnpqLxdd_ECXXRPgBlVOTYgHbwz6zdonmEKWGzIZzVYVog7OUtZ8S_Wk37GZgqQMQTR8wjcT54FSGBcmuUlUHUJrHwWFkkbijk/s1600-h/heart.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7N1F4p2bh4NSEs32cViDBxkd-za97jbn2sxlAaB36-GnpqLxdd_ECXXRPgBlVOTYgHbwz6zdonmEKWGzIZzVYVog7OUtZ8S_Wk37GZgqQMQTR8wjcT54FSGBcmuUlUHUJrHwWFkkbijk/s320/heart.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369545049100306594" /></a><br />For those of you who know me, you’ll know this news is huge.<br /><br />For those of you who don’t, you may be able to relate.<br /><br />I’m in the middle of a break up.<br /><br />It’s really hard. I’m losing sleep. I’m eating too much junk food. I can’t seem to think about much else.<br /><br />I have conversations with myself on the train on the way to work. I snap at people for no reason and then run to the bathroom, lock myself in the last stall and cry and cry.<br /><br />Of course, I’m talking about my girlfriend, Hulu.<br /><br />It’s not that I don’t love her, it’s just that I’ve realized she’s really not good for me.<br /><br />I’ve been spending all of my time with her, losing track of my other friends.<br /><br />I’ve found myself saying things like, “That was just like last week when I was on that canoe with Sawyer, Kate, and an unconscious Karl and Sawyer was singing while he and Kate rowed back to the main island and Kate was trying to convince Sawyer to turn around so we could rescue Jack but Sawyer said it was too dangerous because the Others would kill us …” and then realizing that never really happened to me.<br /><br />When you date someone too long there’s always the danger that you will keep dating them out of habit, or nostalgia, or something, instead of doing it because it actually brings joy or meaning to your life.<br /><br />I had a jarring realization that this was the kind of relationship H. and I had begun to have earlier this week when I found myself still wide awake, laptop on lap, at 2 a.m. watching episodes of My So Called Life.<br /><br />That show is terrible. Claire Danes = enormous F. And yet, there I sat, episode after episode, taking it all in. Because I could. Because Hulu was there. Because it was safe and familiar.<br /><br />It was the last straw. I may never get tired of listening to Dennis read Charlie’s campaign speech ("Hello fellow American. This you should vote me. I leave power. Good. Thank you, thank you. If you vote me, I'm hot. What? Taxes, they'll be lower... son. The Democratic vote is the right thing to do Philadelphia, so do.")<br /><br />I also may never get tired of Kevin saying eating Pizza by Alfredo is like eating a hot circle of garbage. But I cannot spend vital moments of my life listening to Angela Chase whine through that terrible nose about how terribly terrible it is to be a teenager. And I have no one to blame but Winnie Holzman. I mean my mother. I mean, me.<br /><br />I’m 30. The clock is ticking.<br /><br />No more. I’m vowing to quit her. I don’t know if I can do it. I’ll need all of your support. Hold me accountable. Or just hold me.<br /><br />Remind me that while I may know all of the words to the song about Jayne from the episode of Firefly where the crew returns to a planet and discovers that he's become a local folk legend, I have not seen a single episode of Entourage or Mad Men. And you have to pay for that shiz.<br /><br />I know I can do this. I must be strong.<br /><br />Tomorrow is Frightened Rabbit Friday, but I will be on an air-o-plane flying to see VC and many other wonderful humans. I hope to have stories to share. Ones that do not involve me falling down, crying in a cab or making new stripper friends. Nothing wrong with stripper friends. It’s just that I have so many and I’d like to broaden my horizons. Maybe get me a token accountant buddy or something.<br /><br />So in honor of both my break up and FRF, I present you with this loverly video. Enjoy! I’m going back to my bathroom stall to cry it out.<br /><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/8OFu-ylXiRQ&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/8OFu-ylXiRQ&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />(Picture Hulu with its back turned toward me and me reaching out to her and whispering “Oh Hulu …” It will make it so much better.)Singlegrrrlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07806432563307131343noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532405369697438256.post-70247802529320606702009-08-05T11:27:00.001-07:002009-08-05T11:40:23.320-07:00My mom is on Facebook. It is awful. Let me explain ...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoqlkfUQdqsDzw3FmaeR_iWTpI2yaa4BZiVERBUA5lTtZy2Kz2HkVbsPQM68hLuc-aEU_K8YzIWAZanA93ohXRbE2v1zjcU7_7VOfIPCIDJPAf56MUnMkkSl6ri79YbWHCJrjxKYBiEDU/s1600-h/argue-seuss.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 222px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoqlkfUQdqsDzw3FmaeR_iWTpI2yaa4BZiVERBUA5lTtZy2Kz2HkVbsPQM68hLuc-aEU_K8YzIWAZanA93ohXRbE2v1zjcU7_7VOfIPCIDJPAf56MUnMkkSl6ri79YbWHCJrjxKYBiEDU/s320/argue-seuss.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366550669734596866" /></a><br />Anyone who knows me knows that my mother has driven me both figuratively and literally crazy over the years. <br /><br />She’s my mother. I love her. But she’s insane. <br /><br />Now she’s on Facebook. One of the few places I thought I would be safe from her infiltrating my life. <br /><br />A few days ago I saw her leave a message for a girl that was my very best friend in the whole wide world all through middle school, junior high, and high school. <br /><br />We were like sisters. We dressed alike, dyed our hair weird colors together, pierced each others ears using safety pins and ice cubes.<br /><br />That girl then proceeded to date the one boy everyone in the world knew I had a crush on for my whole life, and then slept with my very first real boyfriend, who I dated after I graduated and who I gave my most precious gift to. My flower, if you will. (I’m talking about my virginity, people.) <br /><br />I uninvited that girl from my life party after about a year of her hurting me and doing things that most people think are pretty unforgiveable. <br /><br />So what does my mom do? Friends her on Facebook and sends her love-dovey messages about how much she misses her.<br /><br />Now they’re suddenly FB Besties, messaging back and forth.<br /><br />What the what? <br /><br />Then I see her leave a similar message for my ex-boyfriend. <br /><br />“Hey sweetie. Miss you so much. SG’s sister will be in town soon and we’d love if you could photograph her and the baby.” <br /><br />Huh? <br /><br />This is the woman who, when I practically divorced this guy three years ago (I say “divorce” because we had been dating nearly six years and had a house together and two dogs,) and I came to her crying and really distraught about the whole decision said, “Poor Ex Boyfriend. He must be so upset.”<br /><br />Now they’re FB Friends Forever, too. I’m waiting for pictures of them wearing each other’s half heart necklaces. <br /><br />And the kicker of this whole thing is that she actually posted a photo album called “My Life” and had about 20 pictures in it. My sister was there, my brother, his girlfriend, some 28-year-old girl named Bobbi Jo Sue Ann Mary or something from Wisconsin who she used to work with. Guess who wasn’t there? Me!<br /><br />Some people worry about being FB friends with guys they’re dating, or friends from high school, or guys they used to date, etc. My worst FB nightmare has turned out to be my very own mother.<br /><br />There are people in this world you will never quite understand. Never quite get along with, no matter how hard you try. It’s sad when one of those people is the same person who pushed you out of her vag 30 years ago. You’d think there’d be an assumed closeness that went with all of that. <br /><br />I’ve been trying for a very long time to have the kind of bond with my mom that I see some of my girlfriends have with theirs. Going shopping. Getting pedis. Scrapbooking. But I don’t like those things. Well, pedis are aight. <br /><br />The thing is, my mom likes Aerosmith. This just about sums up why we’re not friends. Kidding. Kind of. <br /><br />Maybe some of us are just not meant to be friends with our parents. I gave it the college try. After 30 years, I think it’s OK to stop trying so hard. I’m not saying I want to be estranged or anything, I just want to not feel bad about the fact that I don’t particularly like spending a lot of time with her and I don’t want her to know the details of my life.<br /><br />Is that POSSIBLE?!? <br /><br />Feedback. Do any of you have rough relationships with the ’rents. How do you deal? <br /><br />(P.S. Just a reminder: It is Limerick Wednesday. Keep ‘em coming Would haikus be easier? I rock the haiku.)Singlegrrrlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07806432563307131343noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532405369697438256.post-9750554677820170622009-07-31T14:25:00.001-07:002009-07-31T14:33:38.395-07:00This post has heavy lesbian themes<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTdn4dEF-LVABHM4A690tZfM3dXAO3lduqLB6R17sqjk13GQFBpATwJZYrjgUap708vABuik5VfbL8bdLn1r-CN2N3EUBhOZoLac3FauC6sE-dp2aw4mfCaYSARkFgoAt_pZWLX2RoL2s/s1600-h/Katie.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 226px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTdn4dEF-LVABHM4A690tZfM3dXAO3lduqLB6R17sqjk13GQFBpATwJZYrjgUap708vABuik5VfbL8bdLn1r-CN2N3EUBhOZoLac3FauC6sE-dp2aw4mfCaYSARkFgoAt_pZWLX2RoL2s/s320/Katie.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364739730433304578" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAkq81D51Pm6L_-M6NN0tzd3XcY-u-8MFgwUBWApqUpengz1pmNm-WDWJ6x89lY1FttjNw4JKP3-cIkFikzVz_en0QPT7jOjnlzAg1KePn20_jYndiUViNcsjm5DQaQBaWmWAXfiNve20/s1600-h/Katy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 222px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAkq81D51Pm6L_-M6NN0tzd3XcY-u-8MFgwUBWApqUpengz1pmNm-WDWJ6x89lY1FttjNw4JKP3-cIkFikzVz_en0QPT7jOjnlzAg1KePn20_jYndiUViNcsjm5DQaQBaWmWAXfiNve20/s320/Katy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364739668433754690" /></a><br /><br /><br />I got in trouble at work today.<br /><br />I never get in trouble. Ever. For anything. I was that kid in school who went 13 years without detention and who teachers would point to as an example of how the bad kids should be behaving.<br /><br />I’m a sycophant. People hate me.<br /><br />It wasn’t like a lot of trouble, but my boss got really annoyed with me and raised her voice and then abruptly hung up the phone. And I just sat there kind of looking at the receiver for a full five minutes thinking “Did I just get in trouble?!” And feeling a little like I could cry.<br /><br />Nice girls don’t get the corner office. But I did.<br /><br />I have this really bad habit of shutting down in situations where I think people are mad at me. I usually do the tough kid thing pretty well, but there’s something about feeling like I’ve messed up that really gets to me. It’s all in my DISC profile.<br /><br />So, I’m going to blog now instead of doing what I should be doing. I know this doesn’t make logical sense. I’m seeing a therapist.<br /><br />I got a sort of weird amount of feedback from people with questions about my hair – What color is it? Can I see a picture? Etc.<br /><br />You guys are creepy. Would you also like me to send you locks of it? Send me your address: singlegrrrlsrock@gmail.com<br /><br />Since I’m at least mostly anonymous still, I didn’t want to post a picture of me. However, the first picture above is of Katie McGrath. That’s the picture I took my stylist when I said I wanted to make the switch.<br /><br />Katie McGrath is my girl crush (sorry Isla Fisher. I’m fickle.) I’m hooked on Merlin and I honestly think it’s because I’m in love with Morgana. And they manage to work a scene into every episode where she’s tossing and turning in bed with that amazing hair all tussled … getting carried away and making myself and you uncomfortable. Apologies.<br /><br />Although I was going for the “Katie” everyone so far has told me what I got was the “Katy.” As in Katy Perry. I Kissed A Girl. This blog has heavy lesbian themes. Again, apologies??<br /><br />My hair is short and I have the whole bangs things happening, so they’re probably right. I’m working on it.<br /><br />I’m taking the photo of Katie with an “ie” back to the stylist in a few weeks when I ask her to give me really good sex hair for a photo shoot I’m doing in a few weeks. It’s one more thing on the list of things I wanted to do during my 30th year on the planet: take sexy, pin-up-y photos. Check.<br /><br />I’m a little nervous about it. Most of my girl friends in Phoenix are actresses and models and really comfortable in front of a camera. I’m just not.<br /><br />I’ve taken film acting classes where I had to be on screen, I’ve been in a movie, I was in journalism where I had to be on camera from time to time. For Pete’s sake I even dated a photojournalist for five years who insisted on taking my picture all of the time – like when I was sleeping or getting out of the shower or had taken a little too big of a bite of enchilada and couldn’t chew with my mouth closed. Still, don’t like it.<br /><br />But a close girlfriend of mine has all of these great pictures of herself and looking at them one day I thought, I would like something like that of me before I get all old and gross. So, I’m doing it. Wish me luck.<br /><br />And speaking of luck, looks like I will not be the next Food Network star, as I wrote to all of you about not too long ago. Frowns and dirt kicks. I’ll get ‘em next time. I may start making my own cooking videos and post them on You Tube and go viral and be really, really famous. Move over Barefoot Contessa.<br /><br />Martini did convince me to make an audition tape for The Amazing Race. I have never seen an episode. AFTER we mailed off our tape she told me a little about what it is they do on The Race, so I’m kind of hoping that doesn’t work out for us. I think I’d be about as good on that show as I would be on So You Think You Can Dance. Keep you posted.<br /><br />(P.S. where have all my commenter friends gone? I know you’re reading. I have Google Analytics!)Singlegrrrlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07806432563307131343noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532405369697438256.post-17925903998501556742009-07-30T10:47:00.000-07:002009-07-30T10:56:58.054-07:00Michael Jackson: Hangover Helper<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/po18qslOrj0&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/po18qslOrj0&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />So a friend reminded me this morning that yesterday was supposed to be Limerick Wednesday, not Wine Wednesday. Tell that to the three empty bottles still sitting on my coffee table. Spanks.<br /><br />Note to self: Learn moderation.<br /><br />I blame fracking hot Phoenix for the headache, nausea and general malaise I am now experiencing. If it wasn’t so hot I wouldn’t be so thirsty. See? (On a side note, I’m trying to work the words “Good day” and “see” into my vocabulary more. As in “I said good day, sir. Good day.” and “That’s the problem, see?”)<br /><br />If it helps I think I composed a limerick or two in between rounds of Rock Band with Martini and Favorite Poet and freaking myself out watching season two of Ghost Hunters and insisting to everyone that the ghosts were saying exactly what Grant and Jason said they were saying.<br /><br />On another side note, we played Rock Band in our swimsuits (because we had been swimming, not just for the heck of it. Although … more bands should play in their swimsuits. Would be entertaining. And sometimes rather frightening. Metallica in swimsuits. Wrap your head around it.) and Martini somehow took a picture of my ass at some point. Receiving said picture in my inbox this morning has produced a renewed interest in The Shred, so brace yourself for the Jillian Michaels hate talk that will be coming soon.<br /><br />I saw a hilarious video over at <a href="http://yourbeardisgood.blogspot.com/2009/07/yes.html">rs27’s blog</a> this morning (which should be renamed<br />YouTube’s greatest hits. Just sayin …) and I thought if you all haven’t seen MJ’s appearance in one of my favorite games, Space Channel 5, you really should.<br /><br />Enjoy while I nurse my hangover and master the art of sleeping with my eyes open at my desk. Sorry this post makes no sense. At all. Not the first, won’t be the last. Good day.Singlegrrrlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07806432563307131343noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532405369697438256.post-12673078950386933782009-07-28T11:48:00.000-07:002009-07-28T12:04:58.744-07:00Lessons Learned by SG at strip clubsI was telling some friends recently about my last trip to Minneapolis and how I visited not one, but two, strip clubs in four days.<br /><br />“Our little SG in strip clubs! I thought you hated strip clubs!!”<br /><br />Not true.<br /><br />Indeed, I have been hot and cold on The Club over the past years, but I actually have no problem with them. I find them to be funny and fascinating.<br /><br />And seriously, if you could look me in the eye and tell me you don’t like boobs I would answer only “lying liar who lies!”<br /><br />“Well, why the hell are you blogging about limerick’s when you should be writing about strippers then?!”<br /><br />Touché.<br /><br />I used to go to strip clubs from time to time when I was in college, because people would give me fistfuls of money if I took my shirt off, which I thought was a pretty sweet deal.<br /><br />Kidding. Or am I …<br /><br />I had a friend who was a stripper (she was also from Scranton, PA, of The Office fame, which I think is a much more interesting detail) so sometimes we’d stop by once we were good and drunk. It reminded me of the Soprano’s in that the girls were kind of like pretty background for your conversation. And because the place was always full of overweight Mafiosos. Holla for Youngstown! Wesssside. Home of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_Traficant">Jim Traficant</a>.<br /><br />It’s true I went through a serious anti-stripper phase, but this was completely justified. I had a BF who would actually go there BY HIMSELF on a very regular basis and lie to me and say he was working. Why lie? I didn’t have a problem with it <em>until he started lying</em>. Maybe he lied because before he dated me he dated a stripper and he went to the club where she worked while I was at home cooking dinner and watching Deadliest Catch.<br /><br />Creep. Yes.<br /><br />I digress. The point is I had a very specific problem with strip clubs that disappeared when that hot mess was disposed of.<br /><br />So, when VC mentioned there was a particularly gross strip club in Mpls where it would just happen to be amateur night when I was there, I was excited. This says something about me. I'm not sure what.<br /><br />Whenever he would text in the weeks leading up to it I would tell him I was at the gym and he would say “WHY?!?” -- because we’re both sort of opposed to being sweaty -- and I would say “Got to get this bod in shape for Am Night.” Wherein he would inform me that I needed to develop a pretty serious crack habit to blend in to that scene.<br /><br />I had no intention of being a participant.<br /><br />Little did I know …<br /><br />Let me say first, that SG started drinking – straight bourbon – at 4 p.m. that day. She had at least four, maybe five, shots with her friend Jim Beam as well as quite a few beers so that, by the time she arrived at this lovely lounge she was quite intoxicated.<br /><br />At one point I got up to use the restroom meaning that I had to walk directly passed the stage – twice!<br /><br />Now let me interject that this story is being relayed to you mostly through reconstruction by VC. I don’t particularly recall the details.<br /><br />I do recall being absolutely transfixed by the ass of a stripper on my way back from the restroom. I felt like a lit little firefly and that girl’s backside was a bug light.<br /><br />I’m kind of clumsy (if you read this blog, you know this) and I don’t really dance so much as jerk my body from side to side Elaine-style. But, that night I really wanted to learn how she made that booty bounce, and she was happy to show me.<br /><br />I can only imagine what the sight was like. SG imploring the stripper to “Show me how you do that with your butt!” and her obliging. VC watching, I’m sure dismayed, at the spectacle I was making of myself.<br /><br />After my lesson in the Tootsie Roll, I somehow made it back to my stool at the bar. Or kind of.<br /><br />Why do they make chairs that drunk people sit in without backs? This makes no sense. Luckily, I had my new stripper friends who helped me by pushing me back onto my stool until, inevitably, I took my nightly spill.<br /><br />“You’re ass touched the floor of the strip club!” VC said, with disgust, the next day.<br /><br />He was equally horrified when I pull a pen that smelled like cherry-scented perfume and bubble gum emblazoned with the club’s name out of my purse. Ah … the smell of topless dancers.<br /><br />There’s no lesson to be learned from this story. No life-changing insights. Except maybe that SG can make friends with anyone – be they the nun at my office or the stripper at Am Night – that I might consider drinking less in front of my new BF, and that Jim Beam makes me a hot emotional mess, but a much better dancer.<br /><br />P.S. Tomorrow’s Wednesday. Just sayin’. We could take another stab at Limerick Wednesday. I feel it could go viral any day now …Singlegrrrlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07806432563307131343noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532405369697438256.post-33396716379618658402009-07-27T11:48:00.000-07:002009-07-27T13:21:38.388-07:00SG is making changes (and resisting the urge to use Michael Jackson lyrics in this post.)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTO1K-I-MvrUPcX-3eS-wOoukR3QPMlkHg35idyseHCprJ70ggMiNNGf-PJLTrQGI9wqGI3plS7Tndstdy1xESqlLPmTRQlWYoPUu6peDK1bxRP3AqC88_PQt0gDbdweUApsHfx4IXQWA/s1600-h/change.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTO1K-I-MvrUPcX-3eS-wOoukR3QPMlkHg35idyseHCprJ70ggMiNNGf-PJLTrQGI9wqGI3plS7Tndstdy1xESqlLPmTRQlWYoPUu6peDK1bxRP3AqC88_PQt0gDbdweUApsHfx4IXQWA/s320/change.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363214157732582786" /></a><br />My mother called me on Saturday afternoon – very concerned. <br /><br />“SG, do you think you might be having a midlife crisis?” she asked me in that really careful, quiet mom voice she uses when she doesn’t want me to get mad at her.<br /><br />First of all, I am nowhere near the middle of my life. I’m 30. Life is not half over at 30, people. <br /><br />Second of all … it’s possible. I guess. But I would call it more of a “reinvention” or a “makeover” than a crisis. <br /><br />Or better yet, a revision. Because, at the core, I’m still me. I’ve just made some sorely needed adjustments – both in appearance and attitude. <br /><br />The issue that sparked the question was that on Saturday I decided to get as close to my natural hair color as I’ve been in about 10 years – which is dark brown, not light, golden blonde. The change was pretty dramatic. <br /><br />It’s true, over the last year I’ve made a lot of changes in my life, but to me they’ve all been for the better. I left journalism after eight years, I moved into the city and into my own place, I cut some toxic people out of my life, I finally got the tattoo I’ve been wanting for years. I’m looking at the hair as one more, granted superficial, step toward where I’ve wanted to go for a long time.<br /><br />I felt like I got really far away from myself for a couple of years. I think it was a combination of moving to the plastic, bleach blonde land of $30,000 millionaires, going through the Big C, experiencing the Worst Relationship Ever, changing careers. A year ago today I could tell you I was feeling really lost in the world. Maybe that’s when I had this so-called crisis my mom is so worried about. <br /><br />But maybe “getting away from myself” is the wrong way to think about it. Maybe we all need to go through these phases of change in order to grow? Wow. Too deep and pompous for a Monday. Forget I said that. <br /><br />Right now, I feel really good about me, for realz. My life feels stable. I have hobbies that I enjoy. I have friends I love. I’m in fairly good shape. I have a new BF (although writing that just now made me realize it's not all that new anymore) who, I can honestly say, is the first guy I’ve dated in a while that makes me feel pretty darn good. And I look the way I want to look, not the way I think other people want me to look. <br /><br />There is my little drinking problem, but … <br /><br />I think there are more changes on the horizon. <br /><br />I’ve been talking about moving a lot, and I think this is what really has my mom on edge. But I really only came to Phoenix for her and I’ve never really liked it here. It’s hot as Satan’s butthole and it’s boring (sorry Phoenixphiles) and far away from everybody but my mom and the friends I’ve made since moving here (and they are amazing friends.) It’s time for a geographic change. I didn’t get the nickname “urban gypsy” by staying put this long.<br /><br />And I’ve been thinking long and hard about going back to school to get into a field that suits me better than what I do now. <br /><br />And there’s that second tattoo …<br /><br />A lot of people I know are on the brink of turning the big 3-0 and are dreading it. For me, I think it’s been a catalyst for ending my passive approach to life and finally doing what I want to be doing.<br /><br />A co-worker told me this morning that my new hair makes me look more mischievous. That is perfect. I think the revised SG plans to get herself into a lot more trouble. <br /><br />P.S. There was very low participation in Limerick Wednesday, which was a bummer, but I know, it was a lot to ask. Since only two of the four participants have blogs, and since they happen to be two of my favorites, I will be posting them in a loverly widget on my page for awhile. Thanks rs27 and Kellie!Singlegrrrlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07806432563307131343noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532405369697438256.post-70329831248144702052009-07-22T10:22:00.001-07:002009-07-22T11:00:24.693-07:00It's Limerick Wednesday! Bring out your inner Irishperson.I’m renaming today Limerick Wednesday.<br /><br />I’m kind of sick of all the Wordless Wednesdays (although not Kellie’s Not So Wordless Wednesday), Music Mondays, etc. They’re getting boring to me.<br /><br />Limericks are funny. And dirty. I’ve had nasty limericks I learned from the kids I hung out with when I lived for a brief while in Ireland way too many years ago stuck in my head for a few days.<br /><br />It’s because I got turned on to the show Home Movies by VC while in Mpls this past weekend and there’s an episode where Coach McGuirk talks about writing one and it just cracked me up.<br /><br />Anyways, I’m a bit moody and in need of cheering up, so entertain me with limericks people! I’m turning this space over to you! I made a lame stab at one below. Maybe I’ll try again later after I’m inspired by all your creativity and filthy hilariousness.<br /><br />I’d make it a contest, but I don’t know what the winner would get. I’m terrible at contests. Just ask Bow Chica Bow Wow. She still hasn’t received her follower prize (Sorry! I’m the pits.)<br /><br />Maybe the winner gets to have their limerick and blogsite in a special widget all their own on my page for a whiles. I know how GLAMOROUS! You know how bad you want it.<br /><br />So here goes. Don’t be slackers people, I’m expecting this to be a sensation (that’s what she said):<br /><br />SG is not a fan of Hump Day<br />And thinks it’s a misnomer anyway<br />She’s not getting any<br />Cuz her BF’s in Minne<br />She’s crabby and done with this workday<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/DmszN3GsC08&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0xcc2550&color2=0xe87a9f"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/DmszN3GsC08&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0xcc2550&color2=0xe87a9f" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Singlegrrrlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07806432563307131343noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532405369697438256.post-67679037413259877212009-07-14T11:37:00.001-07:002009-07-14T12:23:16.758-07:00SG falls down and goes boom - AGAIN. And, a little on my neuroses.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihbqak1EyYHY0_BPgRvB1y_XTI3ulHvvDMs1mFTjydFttgF-YGyuRql6sGfDSnVfADB4o-ND4z53ZL8zJfW8E9rlc2amyCCIUJqzYeVepMVw9CxRUbabA-YMlJ-zBm9p22Y-tHfmCl6pw/s1600-h/broken_bones_xrays.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358387468841825090" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 243px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihbqak1EyYHY0_BPgRvB1y_XTI3ulHvvDMs1mFTjydFttgF-YGyuRql6sGfDSnVfADB4o-ND4z53ZL8zJfW8E9rlc2amyCCIUJqzYeVepMVw9CxRUbabA-YMlJ-zBm9p22Y-tHfmCl6pw/s320/broken_bones_xrays.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>I fall down. A lot.<br /><br />Yes, sometimes I’ve been drinking when said tumbles occur. We all know about the <a href="http://singlegrrrl.blogspot.com/2009/03/singlegrrrl-fall-down-go-boom.html">Broken Wing Incident of 2009</a>.<br /><br />This weekend I slipped and fell at the pool. Maybe two (or five) SoCo Lime shots and two amazing keg stands had something to do with it. (And, for the record, at the ripe old age of 30, and the whopping weight of about 105 pounds, I outlasted everyone at the party. And … that’s probably not something I should be bragging about.)<br /><br />But I maintain I would have fallen regardless. It was wet and slippery. That’s what she said.<br /><br />Anyway, I have a rather large and unattractive abrasion/bruise the shape of the great state of Ohio on my bottom and it’s not going away anytime soon.<br /><br />I also hit my head. I’m not exactly sure how that one happened. But, I have an egg on the side of my head, and I’m pretty sure I had a mild concussion most of Sunday because I spent the day talking to myself and drifting in and out of sleep where I dreamt about birthing teeth. I wish I were kidding.<br /><br />Also, I went to the hairstylist on Saturday and she burned my forehead a wee bit while straightening my new thick bangs.<br /><br />Yesterday I was walking Little B through the grassy area in front of my apartment and it felt like something bit my leg. I looked down and saw that my feet and ankles were covered in tiny ants that were gnawing on me like I gnaw on cheddar when I’m working on my night cheese.<br /><br />I had to soak my feet in camomile lotion last night, but they’re still covered in weird red bumps. And now they smell funny and have a weird pink tinge.<br /><br />So, basically, I’m a hot mess.<br /><br />I see VC on Thursday for the first time in a month. (For those of you who have been e-mailing me for a status report while I take long breaks from blogging – yes things are still really awesome there.) I’m not exactly thrilled about the fact that I look like I’m returning from war (Love is a battlefield. What?)<br /><br />My sister-in-law says maybe I should wear a helmet when I go out. Martini has maintained that protective gear should be involved whenever I drink – elbow pads, knee pads, the whole deal. I mentioned ice skating to her the other day and she said “No, no, no. You + ice skating = trip to the ER.” Fo sho.<br /><br />I don’t know how many of you read <a href="http://chelseatalkssmack.blogspot.com/">Chelsea Talks Smack</a>, but if you don’t, you really should. She wrote this great post last week about all our little insecurities and how they can just crash down upon you when you really like someone and you’re trying to put your best foot forward. It’s so true. I’ve been so embarrassed all week that I look like I participated in an Ultimate Fighting Championship match this weekend. I’ve been cursing myself for being such a klutz. But the truth is, clumsy is just part of who I am. I’ve always been clumsy and I always will be (and I have something of a Jim Beam problem …)<br /><br />Did I tell you all how I pulled a muscle in my foot playing Rock Band and the doc told me I should “wear sneakers for now on”? I can’t help it – a girl has to bounce while she’s shredding to Aqualung.<br /><br />Yesterday, a really dumb thing happened and I made a huge deal out of it even though it really wasn’t. It had to do with day-long harassment and a suicide threat via Crackhead Ex who has specifically been told about a half a dozen times to not bother me anymore --and a misdirected text response to his ludicrousness. I made that word up.<br /><br />I seriously let it upset me WAY more than it should have. I was completely neurotic about it for about an hour.<br /><br />A particularly loony friend of mine (I mean “loony” with much love) said to me today “SG, we just have a little crazy in us. Some people bottle it all up inside and then it just bursts and people say ‘Wow, that chick is crazy!’ We let ours trickle out and then move on.”<br /><br />I think that’s probably true. Yes, I’m a little clumsy. Yes, I’m a little crazy. But I’m lots and lots of good things. And I am who I am.<br /><br />What little neurosis do you all wish you could hide away from people? What do you do when the crazy trickles out at the least opportune moments?<br /><br />P.S. VC suggested that since I’ve been sucking at keeping up with posting lately maybe I should just post my Rock Band scores of the day. I think there’s something to that. So, for the record, I scored 111,800- and something playing Everlong last night and I was pretty proud. And I finally got through Carry On on “hard.” And, I’m a dork </div>Singlegrrrlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07806432563307131343noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532405369697438256.post-25931271125189479872009-07-02T10:44:00.000-07:002009-07-02T10:57:55.440-07:00This is why I'm always drunk. And a call for advice.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWc-DGBjBtRE4ZFgLjHtmICwJ4rChMpg0qR9y3w7BblcVRAJKobICTXl-8cp9D5Ixhi2OTg6xqaSdSGMMaqA15M4Q4vrwho5siCV7F-Gijw_RD0Gn-xoTy9ud2KD_ouXxbajepX-IVVhw/s1600-h/watermelon-sm.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353921231815392034" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 284px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWc-DGBjBtRE4ZFgLjHtmICwJ4rChMpg0qR9y3w7BblcVRAJKobICTXl-8cp9D5Ixhi2OTg6xqaSdSGMMaqA15M4Q4vrwho5siCV7F-Gijw_RD0Gn-xoTy9ud2KD_ouXxbajepX-IVVhw/s320/watermelon-sm.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>I know I haven’t written in awhile. I guess I had/have writer’s block. Or an extreme case of the lazys. Or a sense that I’d rather not have certain people who I now know are reading this know certain things I want to write about.<br /><br />Also, like it always manages to do, work has sucked some of my will to live. I’ve been put in charge of all of the “emerging media” at my office – Twitter accounts, web content management, Facebook, blog. Sounds fun, but it just means that when it comes time to post something on a personal account I’m all crabby and tired of it. It’s like I always say, they don’t call it funning. It’s work.<br /><br />I actually have a file on my desktop labeled “More notes for a blog post you are obviously never going to write.” That’s because I’ve started to write at least a half a dozen times and then completely nixed the idea.<br /><br />Anyhow, two things inspired me to write today – one super fun and one super sad. I need your help with both.<br /><br />Let’s start with the fun.<br /><br />I am hosting a spectacular 4th of July extravaganza this weekend. There will be pools and food. I will show off my Rock Band skills by playing Lazy Eye on “hard” over and over again until people really hate me. And of course, there will be copious amounts of booze.<br /><br />I’m making something called tequila-soaked watermelon, which is like a classed-up version of when you used to take the absolute cheapest vodka you could get someone to buy for you when you were a teenager and then cut a hole in the watermelon and pour it all in there white trash style and eat it until you were all drunk and kind of sick.<br /><br />With this recipe you actually soak wedges of watermelon in tequila and triple sec, squeeze lime over it, sprinkle it with salt and enjoy. And people hate Martha Stewart … you should be thanking her.<br /><br />I told my friends about this plan and they were, of course, overcome with excitement. But they also kind of laughed and said something to the effect of “Ideas like this are why you’re always drunk, SG!” And then Martini had the stroke of genius:<br /><br />“We should start a blog that’s like <a href="http://thisiswhyyourefat.com/">This is Why You’re Fat</a> only it’s This is Why You’re Always Drunk!” (BT dubs, if you haven’t read TIWYF, you are in for a disgusting treat.)<br /><br />So we need ideas. Send them along. What are the things you put alcohol in? Like how I put Bailey’s (or straight whisky, whatever) in my morning coffee for a year in order to deal with the world’s craziest boss. Or how Martini makes dinner better by making “Bloody Mary Salad.” Get creative people. I think we are really on to something here.<br /><br />And now, my rant. Have you all seen the commercials for the Fox show “More to Love”???<br /><br />From the first moment I saw this, I was irritated. It seemed very exploitative. But then I thought, maybe I shouldn’t be so steamed. Maybe I can’t understand the dating issues of overweight people and should shut up about it.<br /><br />Then I got a very upsetting e-mail from my bestie last night. She and I have been friends since we met in the summer between fifth and sixth grade when we were in Summer Stock together (I played Rapunzel and I brought down the house. Holla!) She’s the most beautiful person I know. She doesn’t have a mean bone in her body and has always gone out of her way to be generous and loving to everyone she meets.<br /><br />She’s also always been overweight. In her e-mail she explained to me how lonely she is feeling and how sad she is that all of her friends are embarking on new and exciting relationships.<br /><br />“I just don't feel like watching people be couples while feeling like I'm never going to be,” she wrote.<br /><br />This is what she had to say about the new show: It's the bachelor but for "real women". What they mean is overweight. And the bachelor isn't some hot rich guy like he is on the regular bachelor. Because fat women can only get fat men. That's the way the world works.<br /><br />It made me think a lot about dating and how do we couple. How we find someone that has all those qualities that are important to us and that is also attractive to us (and we attractive to them.) It’s a miracle, really, when you think about it.<br /><br />She’s thinking about trying Match or something like that and I think she could really use some words of advice. But ya’ll know how annoying advice like this is coming from a person who is happily in a new relationship. You just really want to smack them around a little. I’ve been there. So, to all my single ladies, what do you think? Any words to live by?<br /><br />Please and thank you.<br /><br />And please drink responsibly this weekend! And if you don’t, please send pictures of your debauchery.<br /><br />I’m off to soak my melons. Missed you all! I promise not to go away for so long again. </div>Singlegrrrlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07806432563307131343noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532405369697438256.post-91731534946756863482009-06-17T15:44:00.000-07:002009-06-17T15:51:11.865-07:00Rockin' out with your (insert four-letter word for male parts here) out. And tattoo!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIKE0X9CUdepUAeNKZH_mNcFEw5qmHp0KgZ0CDqEEgJ6IK-ZFvoUVWdogy94V5YdxickIEn6qTVq345YS3y9SvWscr4R1UJQW_VLiAyfjWTUC1enBbgHOaIKmguLmYhJutrFfRYAD9Izk/s1600-h/tattoo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 256px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIKE0X9CUdepUAeNKZH_mNcFEw5qmHp0KgZ0CDqEEgJ6IK-ZFvoUVWdogy94V5YdxickIEn6qTVq345YS3y9SvWscr4R1UJQW_VLiAyfjWTUC1enBbgHOaIKmguLmYhJutrFfRYAD9Izk/s320/tattoo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348432305839779474" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.) <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.)<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br /><br />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.Singlegrrrlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07806432563307131343noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532405369697438256.post-11309233654836064392009-06-08T12:08:00.001-07:002009-06-08T12:17:01.993-07:00Cheetos are beautiful. For so many, many reasons.<object width="500" height="405"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/pXPFKaMUPnc&hl=en&fs=1&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/pXPFKaMUPnc&hl=en&fs=1&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="500" height="405"></embed></object><br /><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.)<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <a href="http://www.plushroomsoup.com/">http://www.plushroomsoup.com/</a>. I know what all of my besties are getting as gifts for now on.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Good to know.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.Singlegrrrlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07806432563307131343noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532405369697438256.post-69292314949448319292009-06-02T13:25:00.001-07:002009-06-02T13:31:59.615-07:00Sexy, sexy tattoos, ripped arms and a contest winner! I'm exhausted just writing that<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjlNqr1RugLj9PlIYtm5PPEO-Bp1ENCNkh7klEMqr6JVDnTemEbVWxCBRNdHmySrr9khMR9APGik84AU37YUkgxMUthr0gLwTPqpSQHIMxtsh_eMurl7K68Jj0hUWGFRkpxUTzw9r9npU/s1600-h/tattoo4.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342829736975360562" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 256px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjlNqr1RugLj9PlIYtm5PPEO-Bp1ENCNkh7klEMqr6JVDnTemEbVWxCBRNdHmySrr9khMR9APGik84AU37YUkgxMUthr0gLwTPqpSQHIMxtsh_eMurl7K68Jj0hUWGFRkpxUTzw9r9npU/s320/tattoo4.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>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.<br /><br />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!<br /><br />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.)<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <a href="http://singlegrrrl.blogspot.com/2009/03/singlegrrrl-fall-down-go-boom.html">Great Break of 2009</a>, so I no longer have an excuse to be lazy.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Ugh. Push-ups.<br /><br />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.)<br /><br />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?)<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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!”<br /><br />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. </div>Singlegrrrlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07806432563307131343noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2532405369697438256.post-21605544233028218642009-05-29T10:10:00.000-07:002009-05-29T10:20:05.691-07:00Relationships = hairy legs, stinky breath and One Tree Hill. Wait a minute ...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNz338Vs1TmxHtWqr-vXaVH5xluNx9SU5oZ_3RTdOMGEmTvh4SgruhvVjCAFSjgExFMpnqA0xe4iZwsUkPHs8D-LZX-eBhgRkpHKp5U6Jwp8zbEtNE-Pb44gLQ9WJNZ0VsHDD7WlDsF7M/s1600-h/long_distance_relationship.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341295452337245314" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNz338Vs1TmxHtWqr-vXaVH5xluNx9SU5oZ_3RTdOMGEmTvh4SgruhvVjCAFSjgExFMpnqA0xe4iZwsUkPHs8D-LZX-eBhgRkpHKp5U6Jwp8zbEtNE-Pb44gLQ9WJNZ0VsHDD7WlDsF7M/s320/long_distance_relationship.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>(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.</div><div> </div><div> </div><div>Newsflash: long distance relationships are weird.<br /><br />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.”<br /><br />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.)<br /><br />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:<br /><br />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.)<br /><br />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.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I am so hot.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />What would you do, or not do, if you only saw your SO once a month?<br /><br />(P.S. I’m getting my first tattoo tomorrow night. It’s three years in the making. I’m so excited. Pictures to come!)</div>Singlegrrrlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07806432563307131343noreply@blogger.com10