Single Grrrl

Two for one: TMI and Thankful Thursday. You're welcome.

2010-04-08T06:50:00.000-07:00

Among most of you who read my blog, it's TMI Thursday (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:

The boogers I have had since moving to Minneapolis may be killing me.

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.

There's your TMI. Meditate on it.

Now, I've decided this Thursday for me is going to be Thankful Thursday and I'm looking at you blogoverse.

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:

A.) I hate Phoenix. The city: Flat, brown, hot, and to me just not the right scene.
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.
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.
D.) I already had some friends I was looking forward to hanging out with in MN.
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.)

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.

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.

And I let on about it on Twatter. And a bit on Blip (which I lurve very much and if you don't Blip and you like music I highly recommend trying it.) And then this AMAZING 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 AWESOME thing by moving. A BRAVE thing. A thing that was going to be INCREDIBLE 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.)

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.

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.

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.

And here are my Rock stars: (If I forgot someone I'm IMMENSELY 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.)

MyLittleBecky
PlushroomSoup
Shineoutloud
RSub27
JordanAshleighF
Mariechatters
DysFuncJunc
Renee_817
LivitLuvit
rjcannon85
HeySuburban
esketches
Lbluca77
Kernheidi
garciasn
jennamariebee
albertxii
doniree
greenstarstudio

I am woman, I emote

2010-04-05T09:13:00.000-07:00

First of all, thanks to shine and Marie 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.

For my contribution, I would like to write about the word "crazy."

I feel like this is a word reserved almost entirely for women, and I think that stinks.

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.

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.

So my Women's Writes statement: Emotions do not equal crazy.

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.)

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.

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.

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.

Back to the lecture at hand (Snoop reference. YESSS.)

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.

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.

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 ...

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.

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 I WON'T EVEN KNOW WHY. 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.

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.)

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.)

So, dear bloggers, on this, the first annual Women's Writes, I ask you to say no to "crazy" and HUG IT OUT KIDS. HUG IT OUT.

In which I drive on the wrong side of the road and have trouble making friends

2010-03-30T15:35:00.000-07:00

I can't drive.

Well, I guess I technically CAN, but I hate to and it usually makes anyone else in the car with me terribly uncomfortable.

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.

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.

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.

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.

So, like anyone would, I mapquested the shiz out of it.

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:

* Drive on the wrong side of the road down a major thoroughfare
* Be lost for 15 minutes
* Be beeped at for driving too slow on the freeway
* Be beeped at for not knowing how to properly parallel park
* Run a red light
* Get lost for another 10 minutes
* Have to make no less than four u-turns because I was going the wrong way
* Park two blocks from my apartment so as to not have to attempt parallel parking again.

So, yeah ...

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.

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.

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.

So I was super excited when a friend of a friend suggested we get together.

Until the part of the conversation where she asked me what my hobbies are.

Dead Silence. Blank stare. More silence.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

This is where you come in. WHAT THE EFF SHOULD I DO WITH MY LIFE?

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.

Help me. I'm bored.

And now you have to leave! And I have to live with a boy! (but not actually.)

2010-03-09T08:53:00.000-08:00

OK kiddos. Tomorrow is the big move.

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.

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 Martini’s 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 Bad Girls Club - and then I realize I can’t do that.

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 BF – A guy I’ve “known” like three years now but never resided within 1,500 miles of.

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.

For those who have followed this blog you know she and I have been through breakups, moves, illness, broken bones, and more together.

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.)

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.

All I could think about last night was that line from Friends 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!!!”

(I won’t be living with my boy, but still!)

So enjoy this because I’ve been feeling very Gellar today. I’ll see you when I get to Minneapolis.

P.S. It's my birthday today, so ... yeah. I'm 31. When did that happen? Will I ever stop sticking my face in birthday cake?

I'm stoic. I'm patient. I'm a rock. I miss my BF!

2010-03-04T09:19:00.000-08:00

I don’t miss people.

That sounds awful to admit out loud, but it’s true.

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 PUT ME BACK IN HER LOVIN’ ARMS, DAMMIT!

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.

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.”

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 GET 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. Or this.

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.

See?? There’s no reason to miss people, right?

That being said, I miss my VC.

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 Lying. 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.)

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.

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 SAME THING 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.

Someone has taught me how to miss things. Good work guy.

I'm ready to move.

An open letter to people who post housing on Craigslist.

2010-02-11T20:25:00.000-08:00

Dear Craigslist landlord,

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.

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.

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.

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:

Post a photo of the place. Unless you’re walking around with a circa 1993 car phone, chances are, you have a camera right in your pocket. 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.

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.

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.”

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.")

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.

Thank you ever so much for your consideration. Also, do you have any units available?

xoxo,
SG

Grinning lobsters and Teeth Vomit (I have GOT to stop drinking before bed)

2010-01-26T08:45:00.001-08:00

I may have had what qualifies as the WORST DREAM EVER last night.

I should tell you I have never been a good sleeper.

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.

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…)

Now I have chronic insomnia. Which is OK because I can stay up late finding gem YouTube videos like the one above or playing Obechi and shouting things at my computer like, “Yeah bitch! Who’s a tricky little polka dot now?”

Apparently I have a lot of rage. AND I have a lot of bad dreams.

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.

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.”

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!

Awful, right?

What does this mean?? Discuss!

Work at home: Take one

2010-01-22T16:01:00.000-08:00

My office is closed today due to severe weather.

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.

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.)

I will document how this goes today.

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.

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!”

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.

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?

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.

9:07 – Realize I haven’t started working yet. Shiz. I have had A LOT of coffee, though.

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!

12:11 – Realize I never showered. Staying in for lunch. Mmmmaybe showering. Let’s not get too ambitious.

1:05 – Contemplate cocktail. Decide on getting back to work. (Still not showered).

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 …

2:30 -- Back to work. Home stretch. That I’m still not showered is increasingly annoying. Grossing myself out.

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.

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?

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.

Fellow WAH-ers, please share tips for getting it done away from the office. Please and thank you.

Inner Mean Girl Smackdown

2010-01-21T11:06:00.000-08:00

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.

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 …

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.

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?

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.

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.

Y’all know I have a BF, VC, who lives a real far way away. Well, that sucks.

Other things that suck: 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.

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.

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.

So, why couldn’t I do my job from Minneapolis?

Inner Mean Girl: 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.

Me: Your mom!

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!

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.

I’m curious about your experiences with the N-word. Are you all as scared of it as I’ve been? And what have you accomplished when you’ve pushed past that fear??

My Love Harder (re)post. And, I'll never neglect you again (maybe)

2010-01-20T11:08:00.000-08:00

So, I wouldn't be surprised if no one is really reading this blog anymore. I have been woefully neglectful of it.

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.

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?

In the meantime, I know I'm way behind, but I was inspired by Shine Out Loud today to repost this message.

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.

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.

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.

So, I think it's super awesome how the blogosphere banded together to send happy thoughts to some people who really needed them!
Please read Brandy's story below and send her and her sweetie happy thoughts! And check out Cleveland's A Plum to see some of what has happened since Brandy's December post.

My name is Brandy. And I have a blog.
And a plea.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Thank you for reading this, and if you haven’t already? Please tell someone you love them today.
I did.

And guess what? I lurve all of you, too! Write me notes! I miss you.

Long time, no blog! Missed ya.

2009-11-05T18:54:00.000-08:00

I've been tagged by the Amazing Jessica of Plushroom Soup for one of those blog meme games.

Blurgh? Nope!

Because I’ve been getting a lot of inquiries in the last few weeks about whatever happened to my blog. I took a wee break. There were injuries, illnesses, quazi-nervous breakdowns, and other things that factored in, but I think mostly I just didn’t feel like being honest or reflective for awhile, so why blog?

But I wanted to try to start writing again and this tag seemed like a good way to start. It’s my way of saying “Hi!” to those of you who’ve missed me and to introduce myself to any newbies. So, here are the rules:

* answer the questions
* replace a question that you don't like, with one by your choice
* add one more question
* tag 8 people to continue the game of tagging

What is the thing that makes you happy?
Bourbon. Besides bourbon: my dog, still lakes, snow, barren trees, quiet walks, painting, music, cheddarwurst, my friends, my favorite guy.

Coffee or tea?
Coffee. Strong coffee. In large quantities.

What’s for dinner?
Oh why am I answering this questionnaire tonight? The truth is I ate blue cheese stuffed olives, a banana and some popcorn. This isn’t typical (lies).

What was the last thing you bought?
Besides the bleach and Purell I bought at Walgreen’s yesterday to fight the Swine and my plane ticket to MN for Thanksgiving … the last actual retail purchase was the whole series of Slumber Party Massacre movies from a guy who converted them from the VHS to a DVD. Excellent.

What are you listening to right now?
I cannot stop listening to For Emma, Forever Ago. It’s been on my turntable for months. I only recently ever listened to any Regina Spektor. My brother gave me an early album and I’ve been listening to Us on the way to work every day for a week. It’s joyous. (I’m going to admit I don’t think I like most of her stuff, but what I do like, I like a lot). Oh, and the Sweater Weather 7”. So so emo.

What is your favourite piece of clothing in your own wardrobe?
I have a dress from the Bettie Page store that I think is cute on me. I have a vintage 60s mod dress I like to wear with knee highs, a chunky knit scarf and wedges, because I think if you could define my personality in an outfit, that would be it. My most worn item, however, is a pair of aqua scrubs pants that I wear around my house pretty much constantly. I’m HOT.

What is your favourite ice cream flavour?
Ice cream makes me phlegmy. I prefer popsicles. Orange ones.

What do you think of the person(s) who tagged you?
I wish we lived in the same city so we could be buddies and make crafts and drink Old Fashioneds and play Rock band. I heart her very much.

If you could go anywhere in the world for the next hour, where would you go?
I could be cheesy and say Minneapolis. Because I miss people there. And I need more sex in my life. Hee hee. Seriously, though, Mount Desert Island, Maine. My favorite place on earth. I’d have an amazing Lobster Bisque and popovers at Jordan Pond House and walk around the harbor all bundled up and happy.

Which language do you want to learn?
Mandarin. Seems very useful. I’m a language geek. I wish I was more fluent in Nihongo, too

What is your favourite colour?
Blue. Grey blues, especially.

If you had £100 now, what would you spend it on?
Probably booze. Or my new tattoo.

What is your favorite animal?
Barksdale is my favorite animal. I’m also fascinated by jellyfish. And panda bears.

Describe your personal style?
Geeky, probably. I pretty much always wear dresses. I like old-fashionedy things. I like cardigans. And lots of buttons. And scarves.

What are you going to do after this?
Look for a job. Job hunting stinks. It’s not good for my intense fear of rejection. Someone told me today it takes, on average, six to 12 months to find a new job. I sincerely hope this is not true. If you are reading this and live in the Minneapolis/St. Paul area, I am a super witty writer, meticulous editor, and dynamo social media strategist (I use words like dynamo!). And I don’t drink nearly as much as you may think after reading this …

What are your favourite movies?
Spirited Away, The Triplets of Belville, Jeux D’enfants (Love Me If You Dare), Bom yeoreum gaeul gyeoul geurigo bom (Spring, Summer, Winter, Fall … Spring), La cité des enfants perdus (City of Lost Children), Big Fish, Edward Scissorhands, The Royal Tennebaums, Rushmore, Amelie, American Splendor, Children of the Corn

What inspires you?
Music. Fo sho. My super silly and creative friends (and virtual “friends”.) My dreams. I have weird dreams. Last night I dreamt that my great grandmother was alive and lived in this huge old mansion and she was like a corpse, but she was talking to me and she was wearing an excessive amount of bright red lipstick. She was walking around, but then I realized she was actually floating. Then she got in this big old Cruella DeVille-like car and drove away. It weirded me out, but it also made me think of a great short story idea.

What is your favourite fruit?
Apples

Do you collect something?
My mother thinks I collect fairies. This came from my days of community theater when I was constantly cast as a fairy or elf due to my size. So I have a bunch of fairies in a box in my closet. In truth, too much “stuff” makes me nervous. I guess I kind of collect scarves. And I have three old, but functional, typewriters, so I kind of collect those, too. God, I do everything half-ass.

How many hours do you sleep a day?
Who knows? I have chronic insomnia. About once a week I sleep like 11 hours. The rest of the time I toss and turn and am in and out. I’d say five-ish. I really like sleeping. I wish it happened more.

How many times do you press the snooze button before you get up?
Three to four times. Unless I actually have something to do besides just routine work. Then, I wake up before the alarm. Like clockwork.

What is your favourite smell?
Fall leaves. Also, my dog’s warm belly after he’s been sleeping in the sun. The ocean. Baking cookies. My dude. (and I think it’s just him + soap. How does he smell so good?)

What is your biggest regret?
This is a hard one. Probably it would be not pursing the science career I considered as a freshman in college. I think I would have made an excellent medical researcher. Or a surgeon. I still think about it a lot.

What are you most proud of?
I think this is supposed to be a personal thing about my accomplishments, but honestly, right now, I'm most proud of my little sister. She came through an extremely difficult phase of her life to earn her psychology degree, build a very happy family, and make a peaceful life full of love and interesting things. Life could have turned out very differently for her. I love her.

Cats or dogs?
Dogs. Cats creep me out. They remind me of Pet Semetary. And I don’t trust animals that are expected to pee and poop in the house.

What’s your biggest fashion mistake?
Let’s just say there’s a picture of me in an acid-washed jean jumper skirt (with ruffles), florescent pink t-shirt, matching tube socks and a weird hat that I hope never surfaces.

What is your guilty TV pleasure?
So You Think You Can Dance. I’ve always wanted to be a dancer. I think because my whole world revolves around words, I’m really moved by expression that doesn’t involve any words at all. Also, I look like I’m convulsing when I dance so I’m jealous.

What did you want to be when you grew up?
For a while, a dancer (see above). I actually wanted to be a writer, which is what I’ve become … not sure I still want to be that.

If you could meet any person dead or alive who would it be?
Franz Kafka.

What is your biggest dream?
I like Plushroom Soup’s answer a lot: “To live simply and well, and always be surrounded by those whom I love.” I’d like to simplify a lot. I’d like a small house with a great garden somewhere where it’s cold a lot and that’s near water. To have a job that doesn’t stress me out where I get to use my creativity. To have my dog. To have someone I love who loves me. To have a lot of time to read and listen to old soul records and drink coffee and bake things for neighbors. Nothing too crazy.

What was your favorite book when you were a child?
I loved Charles Dickens as a kid. My grandmother bought me a set of his books adapted for young readers and before first grade I had read Great Expectations, Oliver Twist, A Christmas Carol, Hard Times. I’d hide under a weeping willow in her back yard and read for hours.

If today was your last day on earth what would you be doing?
Having a lot of sex. (I couldn’t resist.) If it was really my last day, I’d eat bacon at every meal, be slightly drunk probably all day, spend it with my best friends and loved ones from AZ, OH, MN and beyond, and, hopefully have a lot of sex. Not like random sex, just a lot of it with one particular person. (Let’s be honest, I’d probably cry a lot and try to find a way to hide from the inevitable.)

If you could have any super power, what would it be?
This one gets me every time! Too many choices. I like teleportation a lot these days. Then I could see all the people I want to see without airfare.

If you joined the circus, what act would you perform?
Bearded lady.

My contribution: Why did you start your blog?

I am tagging the following people (and many apologies if you hate these!) Answer them all. Answer just one. Make up your own question. Write in "Your mom." I don't care. Just do something!

I’m Tagging:

Cleveland’s A Plum
Beauty is in the Eye of the Beer Holder
Running Fashionably Late
Your Beard is Good
Live it LOVE it
My Little Becky
Shine Out Loud
Just Another Fish in the Sea

Voguing during sex: yes or no? And ... it's Limerick Wednesday

2009-08-19T11:12:00.000-07:00

I had a conversation about sex last night and I wanted to share it with all of you.

Because I overshare.

Next week I am planning a post about the color of my phlegm and how many times in my life I’ve had a UTI.

We were talking about the weekend and the topic of strippers came up – naturally.

Martini: Have you ever done that for a guy?

Me: What? Stripped? Well, duh. You kind of have to in order to get to the next part.

Martini: No … like a lap dance. Like a strip tease.

Me: No. No, no, no. I wouldn’t know what to do with my hands. I’d probably start voguing or something.

Uproarious laughter from Martini. Now, granted, she and I had just come from the world’s scariest workout with our friend A-to-the-izzo where a wee little man with chicken legs and a buzz cut forced us to jump up and down and punch things for an hour while shouting something about swatting flies and playing songs about “The Candyman.” Obviously, the only way to recover from said workout was a dinner of nachos and skinny girl margaritas at a nearby Mexican restaurant. We were dehydrated.

Martini: You’d start voguing???!!!

Me: Yeah, probably. (SG demonstrates amazingly sexy voguing skills.) Or doing the running man? Or just like pantomime or something. Like, “I’m stuck in the box. That’s right big boy. I’m in the box. You want me? Come and get me out of this box.”

More laughter.

Martini: Seriously. (Laughs.) You wouldn’t know what to do with your hands?? Oh my god. Light bulb moment. I know why you’ve been single for so long. We can fix this.

Me: Really? I mean, you don’t vogue during sex? Really?

(Actual snorts and hands slamming on the bar, causing the waitress to look over at us and consider, for a moment, stopping service.)

Me: Seriously, though, I know what to do with my hands during sex … I think. (It’s jazz hands, right? Jazz hands?) But when the spotlight is all on me, like if he was just sitting back looking at me expectantly; I’d probably go for the BJ before the strip tease. I can shake the booty, but what do you do with your hands?!?

It’s like people who go “running” down major thoroughfares. Why do they do that? They look stupid. Why? Their hands. They’re just kind of awkwardly flapping at their sides.

I warned you earlier I dance a lot like Elaine from Seinfeld. I don’t think those moves should ever be brought out in the bedroom. Ever. Well, maybe …

In all seriousness, this particular point of sexiliciousness has been a sore spot, a sort of kryptonite in my superhero-like self confidence, for some time. Maybe I should take a class. Or put a stripper pole in my bedroom. Or bring back voguing.

Or maybe not everyone is meant to have the strip tease in their arsenal. Maybe some people are better off just tying those hands to the bedpost than trying to bust out a H.O.T version of the Tootsie Roll.

What do you all think? What makes you feel awkward? Do you try or just give it a pass? Discuss.

P.S. I don’t think I need to remind you that it’s Limerick Wednesday, as it has gained unprecedented popularity. Maybe something about voguing is in order …

Are we breaking up? And FRF comes a day early. Happy August.

2009-08-13T12:50:00.001-07:00

For those of you who know me, you’ll know this news is huge.

For those of you who don’t, you may be able to relate.

I’m in the middle of a break up.

It’s really hard. I’m losing sleep. I’m eating too much junk food. I can’t seem to think about much else.

I have conversations with myself on the train on the way to work. I snap at people for no reason and then run to the bathroom, lock myself in the last stall and cry and cry.

Of course, I’m talking about my girlfriend, Hulu.

It’s not that I don’t love her, it’s just that I’ve realized she’s really not good for me.

I’ve been spending all of my time with her, losing track of my other friends.

I’ve found myself saying things like, “That was just like last week when I was on that canoe with Sawyer, Kate, and an unconscious Karl and Sawyer was singing while he and Kate rowed back to the main island and Kate was trying to convince Sawyer to turn around so we could rescue Jack but Sawyer said it was too dangerous because the Others would kill us …” and then realizing that never really happened to me.

When you date someone too long there’s always the danger that you will keep dating them out of habit, or nostalgia, or something, instead of doing it because it actually brings joy or meaning to your life.

I had a jarring realization that this was the kind of relationship H. and I had begun to have earlier this week when I found myself still wide awake, laptop on lap, at 2 a.m. watching episodes of My So Called Life.

That show is terrible. Claire Danes = enormous F. And yet, there I sat, episode after episode, taking it all in. Because I could. Because Hulu was there. Because it was safe and familiar.

It was the last straw. I may never get tired of listening to Dennis read Charlie’s campaign speech ("Hello fellow American. This you should vote me. I leave power. Good. Thank you, thank you. If you vote me, I'm hot. What? Taxes, they'll be lower... son. The Democratic vote is the right thing to do Philadelphia, so do.")

I also may never get tired of Kevin saying eating Pizza by Alfredo is like eating a hot circle of garbage. But I cannot spend vital moments of my life listening to Angela Chase whine through that terrible nose about how terribly terrible it is to be a teenager. And I have no one to blame but Winnie Holzman. I mean my mother. I mean, me.

I’m 30. The clock is ticking.

No more. I’m vowing to quit her. I don’t know if I can do it. I’ll need all of your support. Hold me accountable. Or just hold me.

Remind me that while I may know all of the words to the song about Jayne from the episode of Firefly where the crew returns to a planet and discovers that he's become a local folk legend, I have not seen a single episode of Entourage or Mad Men. And you have to pay for that shiz.

I know I can do this. I must be strong.

Tomorrow is Frightened Rabbit Friday, but I will be on an air-o-plane flying to see VC and many other wonderful humans. I hope to have stories to share. Ones that do not involve me falling down, crying in a cab or making new stripper friends. Nothing wrong with stripper friends. It’s just that I have so many and I’d like to broaden my horizons. Maybe get me a token accountant buddy or something.

So in honor of both my break up and FRF, I present you with this loverly video. Enjoy! I’m going back to my bathroom stall to cry it out.

(Picture Hulu with its back turned toward me and me reaching out to her and whispering “Oh Hulu …” It will make it so much better.)

My mom is on Facebook. It is awful. Let me explain ...

2009-08-05T11:27:00.001-07:00

Anyone who knows me knows that my mother has driven me both figuratively and literally crazy over the years.

She’s my mother. I love her. But she’s insane.

Now she’s on Facebook. One of the few places I thought I would be safe from her infiltrating my life.

A few days ago I saw her leave a message for a girl that was my very best friend in the whole wide world all through middle school, junior high, and high school.

We were like sisters. We dressed alike, dyed our hair weird colors together, pierced each others ears using safety pins and ice cubes.

That girl then proceeded to date the one boy everyone in the world knew I had a crush on for my whole life, and then slept with my very first real boyfriend, who I dated after I graduated and who I gave my most precious gift to. My flower, if you will. (I’m talking about my virginity, people.)

I uninvited that girl from my life party after about a year of her hurting me and doing things that most people think are pretty unforgiveable.

So what does my mom do? Friends her on Facebook and sends her love-dovey messages about how much she misses her.

Now they’re suddenly FB Besties, messaging back and forth.

What the what?

Then I see her leave a similar message for my ex-boyfriend.

“Hey sweetie. Miss you so much. SG’s sister will be in town soon and we’d love if you could photograph her and the baby.”

Huh?

This is the woman who, when I practically divorced this guy three years ago (I say “divorce” because we had been dating nearly six years and had a house together and two dogs,) and I came to her crying and really distraught about the whole decision said, “Poor Ex Boyfriend. He must be so upset.”

Now they’re FB Friends Forever, too. I’m waiting for pictures of them wearing each other’s half heart necklaces.

And the kicker of this whole thing is that she actually posted a photo album called “My Life” and had about 20 pictures in it. My sister was there, my brother, his girlfriend, some 28-year-old girl named Bobbi Jo Sue Ann Mary or something from Wisconsin who she used to work with. Guess who wasn’t there? Me!

Some people worry about being FB friends with guys they’re dating, or friends from high school, or guys they used to date, etc. My worst FB nightmare has turned out to be my very own mother.

There are people in this world you will never quite understand. Never quite get along with, no matter how hard you try. It’s sad when one of those people is the same person who pushed you out of her vag 30 years ago. You’d think there’d be an assumed closeness that went with all of that.

I’ve been trying for a very long time to have the kind of bond with my mom that I see some of my girlfriends have with theirs. Going shopping. Getting pedis. Scrapbooking. But I don’t like those things. Well, pedis are aight.

The thing is, my mom likes Aerosmith. This just about sums up why we’re not friends. Kidding. Kind of.

Maybe some of us are just not meant to be friends with our parents. I gave it the college try. After 30 years, I think it’s OK to stop trying so hard. I’m not saying I want to be estranged or anything, I just want to not feel bad about the fact that I don’t particularly like spending a lot of time with her and I don’t want her to know the details of my life.

Is that POSSIBLE?!?

Feedback. Do any of you have rough relationships with the ’rents. How do you deal?

(P.S. Just a reminder: It is Limerick Wednesday. Keep ‘em coming  Would haikus be easier? I rock the haiku.)

This post has heavy lesbian themes

2009-07-31T14:25:00.001-07:00

I got in trouble at work today.

I never get in trouble. Ever. For anything. I was that kid in school who went 13 years without detention and who teachers would point to as an example of how the bad kids should be behaving.

I’m a sycophant. People hate me.

It wasn’t like a lot of trouble, but my boss got really annoyed with me and raised her voice and then abruptly hung up the phone. And I just sat there kind of looking at the receiver for a full five minutes thinking “Did I just get in trouble?!” And feeling a little like I could cry.

Nice girls don’t get the corner office. But I did.

I have this really bad habit of shutting down in situations where I think people are mad at me. I usually do the tough kid thing pretty well, but there’s something about feeling like I’ve messed up that really gets to me. It’s all in my DISC profile.

So, I’m going to blog now instead of doing what I should be doing. I know this doesn’t make logical sense. I’m seeing a therapist.

I got a sort of weird amount of feedback from people with questions about my hair – What color is it? Can I see a picture? Etc.

You guys are creepy. Would you also like me to send you locks of it? Send me your address: singlegrrrlsrock@gmail.com

Since I’m at least mostly anonymous still, I didn’t want to post a picture of me. However, the first picture above is of Katie McGrath. That’s the picture I took my stylist when I said I wanted to make the switch.

Katie McGrath is my girl crush (sorry Isla Fisher. I’m fickle.) I’m hooked on Merlin and I honestly think it’s because I’m in love with Morgana. And they manage to work a scene into every episode where she’s tossing and turning in bed with that amazing hair all tussled … getting carried away and making myself and you uncomfortable. Apologies.

Although I was going for the “Katie” everyone so far has told me what I got was the “Katy.” As in Katy Perry. I Kissed A Girl. This blog has heavy lesbian themes. Again, apologies??

My hair is short and I have the whole bangs things happening, so they’re probably right. I’m working on it.

I’m taking the photo of Katie with an “ie” back to the stylist in a few weeks when I ask her to give me really good sex hair for a photo shoot I’m doing in a few weeks. It’s one more thing on the list of things I wanted to do during my 30th year on the planet: take sexy, pin-up-y photos. Check.

I’m a little nervous about it. Most of my girl friends in Phoenix are actresses and models and really comfortable in front of a camera. I’m just not.

I’ve taken film acting classes where I had to be on screen, I’ve been in a movie, I was in journalism where I had to be on camera from time to time. For Pete’s sake I even dated a photojournalist for five years who insisted on taking my picture all of the time – like when I was sleeping or getting out of the shower or had taken a little too big of a bite of enchilada and couldn’t chew with my mouth closed. Still, don’t like it.

But a close girlfriend of mine has all of these great pictures of herself and looking at them one day I thought, I would like something like that of me before I get all old and gross. So, I’m doing it. Wish me luck.

And speaking of luck, looks like I will not be the next Food Network star, as I wrote to all of you about not too long ago. Frowns and dirt kicks. I’ll get ‘em next time. I may start making my own cooking videos and post them on You Tube and go viral and be really, really famous. Move over Barefoot Contessa.

Martini did convince me to make an audition tape for The Amazing Race. I have never seen an episode. AFTER we mailed off our tape she told me a little about what it is they do on The Race, so I’m kind of hoping that doesn’t work out for us. I think I’d be about as good on that show as I would be on So You Think You Can Dance. Keep you posted.

(P.S. where have all my commenter friends gone? I know you’re reading. I have Google Analytics!)

Michael Jackson: Hangover Helper

2009-07-30T10:47:00.000-07:00

So a friend reminded me this morning that yesterday was supposed to be Limerick Wednesday, not Wine Wednesday. Tell that to the three empty bottles still sitting on my coffee table. Spanks.

Note to self: Learn moderation.

I blame fracking hot Phoenix for the headache, nausea and general malaise I am now experiencing. If it wasn’t so hot I wouldn’t be so thirsty. See? (On a side note, I’m trying to work the words “Good day” and “see” into my vocabulary more. As in “I said good day, sir. Good day.” and “That’s the problem, see?”)

If it helps I think I composed a limerick or two in between rounds of Rock Band with Martini and Favorite Poet and freaking myself out watching season two of Ghost Hunters and insisting to everyone that the ghosts were saying exactly what Grant and Jason said they were saying.

On another side note, we played Rock Band in our swimsuits (because we had been swimming, not just for the heck of it. Although … more bands should play in their swimsuits. Would be entertaining. And sometimes rather frightening. Metallica in swimsuits. Wrap your head around it.) and Martini somehow took a picture of my ass at some point. Receiving said picture in my inbox this morning has produced a renewed interest in The Shred, so brace yourself for the Jillian Michaels hate talk that will be coming soon.

I saw a hilarious video over at rs27’s blog this morning (which should be renamed
YouTube’s greatest hits. Just sayin …) and I thought if you all haven’t seen MJ’s appearance in one of my favorite games, Space Channel 5, you really should.

Enjoy while I nurse my hangover and master the art of sleeping with my eyes open at my desk. Sorry this post makes no sense. At all. Not the first, won’t be the last. Good day.

Lessons Learned by SG at strip clubs

2009-07-28T11:48:00.000-07:00

I was telling some friends recently about my last trip to Minneapolis and how I visited not one, but two, strip clubs in four days.

“Our little SG in strip clubs! I thought you hated strip clubs!!”

Not true.

Indeed, I have been hot and cold on The Club over the past years, but I actually have no problem with them. I find them to be funny and fascinating.

And seriously, if you could look me in the eye and tell me you don’t like boobs I would answer only “lying liar who lies!”

“Well, why the hell are you blogging about limerick’s when you should be writing about strippers then?!”

Touché.

I used to go to strip clubs from time to time when I was in college, because people would give me fistfuls of money if I took my shirt off, which I thought was a pretty sweet deal.

Kidding. Or am I …

I had a friend who was a stripper (she was also from Scranton, PA, of The Office fame, which I think is a much more interesting detail) so sometimes we’d stop by once we were good and drunk. It reminded me of the Soprano’s in that the girls were kind of like pretty background for your conversation. And because the place was always full of overweight Mafiosos. Holla for Youngstown! Wesssside. Home of Jim Traficant.

It’s true I went through a serious anti-stripper phase, but this was completely justified. I had a BF who would actually go there BY HIMSELF on a very regular basis and lie to me and say he was working. Why lie? I didn’t have a problem with it until he started lying. Maybe he lied because before he dated me he dated a stripper and he went to the club where she worked while I was at home cooking dinner and watching Deadliest Catch.

Creep. Yes.

I digress. The point is I had a very specific problem with strip clubs that disappeared when that hot mess was disposed of.

So, when VC mentioned there was a particularly gross strip club in Mpls where it would just happen to be amateur night when I was there, I was excited. This says something about me. I'm not sure what.

Whenever he would text in the weeks leading up to it I would tell him I was at the gym and he would say “WHY?!?” -- because we’re both sort of opposed to being sweaty -- and I would say “Got to get this bod in shape for Am Night.” Wherein he would inform me that I needed to develop a pretty serious crack habit to blend in to that scene.

I had no intention of being a participant.

Little did I know …

Let me say first, that SG started drinking – straight bourbon – at 4 p.m. that day. She had at least four, maybe five, shots with her friend Jim Beam as well as quite a few beers so that, by the time she arrived at this lovely lounge she was quite intoxicated.

At one point I got up to use the restroom meaning that I had to walk directly passed the stage – twice!

Now let me interject that this story is being relayed to you mostly through reconstruction by VC. I don’t particularly recall the details.

I do recall being absolutely transfixed by the ass of a stripper on my way back from the restroom. I felt like a lit little firefly and that girl’s backside was a bug light.

I’m kind of clumsy (if you read this blog, you know this) and I don’t really dance so much as jerk my body from side to side Elaine-style. But, that night I really wanted to learn how she made that booty bounce, and she was happy to show me.

I can only imagine what the sight was like. SG imploring the stripper to “Show me how you do that with your butt!” and her obliging. VC watching, I’m sure dismayed, at the spectacle I was making of myself.

After my lesson in the Tootsie Roll, I somehow made it back to my stool at the bar. Or kind of.

Why do they make chairs that drunk people sit in without backs? This makes no sense. Luckily, I had my new stripper friends who helped me by pushing me back onto my stool until, inevitably, I took my nightly spill.

“You’re ass touched the floor of the strip club!” VC said, with disgust, the next day.

He was equally horrified when I pull a pen that smelled like cherry-scented perfume and bubble gum emblazoned with the club’s name out of my purse. Ah … the smell of topless dancers.

There’s no lesson to be learned from this story. No life-changing insights. Except maybe that SG can make friends with anyone – be they the nun at my office or the stripper at Am Night – that I might consider drinking less in front of my new BF, and that Jim Beam makes me a hot emotional mess, but a much better dancer.

P.S. Tomorrow’s Wednesday. Just sayin’. We could take another stab at Limerick Wednesday. I feel it could go viral any day now …

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

2009-07-27T11:48:00.000-07:00

My mother called me on Saturday afternoon – very concerned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is my little drinking problem, but …

I think there are more changes on the horizon.

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

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

And there’s that second tattoo …

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

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

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

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

2009-07-22T10:22:00.001-07:00

I’m renaming today Limerick Wednesday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2009-07-14T11:37:00.001-07:00

I fall down. A lot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, basically, I’m a hot mess.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2009-07-02T10:44:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

Let’s start with the fun.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please and thank you.

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

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

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

2009-06-17T15:44:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheetos are beautiful. For so many, many reasons.

2009-06-08T12:08:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good to know.

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

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

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

2009-06-02T13:25:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ugh. Push-ups.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2009-05-29T10:10:00.000-07:00

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

Newsflash: long distance relationships are weird.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am so hot.

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

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

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

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

2009-05-27T16:29:00.000-07:00

I haven't posted in a week.

I don't know what to write.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How does Singlegrrrl become happilyinarelationshipgrrrl?

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

2009-05-22T14:25:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Time to clean up my messes

2009-05-20T15:52:00.000-07:00

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

Sorry suckas. Snoozed. Losed.

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

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

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

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

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

You know what I said?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mission Let The Greek Down Easy: accomplished.

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

You may remember I went on one date with him just before breaking my arm. It was so incredibly dull that I drank my weight in Grey Goose. I think the bill was like $100 and I didn't eat anything. Yes, TDAH, you can pick up the bill. Who says chivalry is dead?

He called and texted after that, and I attempted my blow off routine. He continued to call and text. One night I texted back, “Sorry TDAH. I’m not interested.”

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

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

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

He responded.

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

What the what?

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

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

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

2009-05-18T11:36:00.001-07:00

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

The point is, I’ve lost my edge.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friday Update and Giveaway

2009-05-15T12:34:00.001-07:00

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

Thanks to all of you who wished her well.

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

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

A rat in our midst

2009-05-13T16:00:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why I think God is punking me

2009-05-07T23:55:00.000-07:00

It started yesterday. It was day four of the Swine Flu! (wouldn't it be funny if everyone screamed every time someone said that? Like on Pee Wee Herman's Playhouse. Try it. Swine Flu!)

Anyway, it was day four of my illness and I had to return to work, but it beat the shit out of me because, well, you know how it is when you lay in bed for three days and then on the fourth day you get up and take a shower and just that wears you out but then you have to do the stuff you showered for so then you're exhausted. Or maybe that's just me. Because I'm old. And lazy.

By the time I got home I felt like poo, but I had promised myself that this was Day 1 of Back to the Gym, my latest endeavor to get ready for an upcoming trip to Vegas. I've been in a cast for six weeks and used it as an excuse to do absolutely no physical activity so I'm looking a little soft around the edges, if you know what I'm saying.

I got home, put on my kickers, some old gray sweat shorts, a t-shirt that says "I'm Cool Like That" and a headband. I'm wearing zero make up, but it's the gym, I tell myself, and I live in the gayborhood. No one (straight) will see me.

I've got to walk Little B first, so I get him suited up and ready to go and then I stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2009-05-06T12:35:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, you read that correctly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No signs of forced entry. Phone. Stat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2009-05-01T15:51:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

Me: I just said I would!

Her: When?!?

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

Her: Yeah, well, maybe we should …

Me: (sigh) Yeah …

Sad, sad silence.

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

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

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

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

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

Patient Zero

2009-04-29T16:18:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2009-04-28T11:45:00.000-07:00

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

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

I’m going bezerkers at my desk today.

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

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

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

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

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

Shots Wednesday! meet Down and Out Revolution

2009-04-23T11:46:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My 30s have made me quite the activist.

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

2009-04-22T15:14:00.000-07:00

I am very nervous.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Scale it the frack back: My Earth Day lament.

2009-04-22T11:42:00.001-07:00

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

Just a little peek into the wacky brain of SG.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2009-04-21T11:40:00.000-07:00

A couple of items of business:

1.) I used to work with this guy:

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

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

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

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

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

2009-04-20T14:38:00.001-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enter his cute friend.

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

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

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

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

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

2009-04-17T10:11:00.000-07:00

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

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

Here are a few things I’ve learned:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2009-04-15T13:52:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2009-04-14T22:04:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My slow decent into alcoholism went something like this post

2009-04-13T22:08:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wish me luck.

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

2009-04-10T09:02:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

This day is going to suck hard.

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

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

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

2009-04-08T23:19:00.000-07:00

There are many joys to living were I do.

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

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

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

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

Guess who's an auntie!?!

2009-04-07T22:12:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2009-04-06T22:48:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2009-04-03T19:13:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2009-04-02T15:14:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pondering relationships with my new friend Hydrocodone

2009-04-01T23:28:00.000-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He answered the question for me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An open letter to Ken Downing, Neiman Marcus, Fashion Office

2009-03-30T10:28:00.000-07:00

(I wrote this Friday but forgot to post with all the hullabaloo RE: my broken wing. Since typing is still a challenge, I'm glad I'm able to send in the reserves. BTW, gifts, flowers or just general well wishes are still being accepted. I'll find out tomorrow from the specialist exactly how bad I fucked it up.)

Good Day Sir,

I am writing to congratulate you because you have, indeed, fooled me again.

The first time, I was waiting anxiously for a response to a job application. I had been waiting for weeks. I was stuck at that crap sack reporter jobs for two years too long and was ready to break free, but due to my close-to-minimum-wage salary and teensy credit card debt problem, I was chained to my desk until I got a new gig.

A glorious new message popped up in my inbox. This is it. My ticket to a new life! The skies opened. Angels sang.

It was you. But it was OK because you were writing to me in this very personal e-newsletter to tell me how I would be seeing metallics everywhere that fall and that if I wanted to stay as sassy and fashionable as always I could buy all the cutest things at your place of employment for a reasonable price. You did me a solid.

Today, as I sat at my desk and saw that I had a new message in my inbox, I thought it must certainly be from my Virtual Crush (more on him soon) because he owed me one response to a quite witty and sweet e-mail I had sent this morning.

So imagine my surprise when I saw it was you and that you had only written to tell me that leggings are the “new trend alert” for this spring. NO FUCKING DUH. I could have looked out my window anytime during the last year and told you that.

So no, sir, I do not want more advice. I want you to stop toying with my emotions. When I hit refresh for the 47th time because I’m still waiting on that response that is clearly not coming today, if it is you with your banal advice ever again I am going to scream and then I am going to boycott your store (OK, the last part is probably an exaggeration, but I am going to shop there begrudgingly and not refold the sweaters I pick up.).

That is all.

Again, I bid you good day.

Best regards,

SingleGrrrl

P.S. The suit you’re wearing in your newsletter is quite smart and well fitted. Did you get that at NM?

SingleGrrrl fall down go boom

2009-03-28T14:09:00.001-07:00

I'm on heavy pain killers so apologies for the silly title and for anything I'm about to write.

This will be brief because I am typing like my pops, which is to say using only my left index finger. For the explanation of why, I will refer you to my dear friend Martini.

And the answer is, yes it is broken. A fractured radial head in my right arm to be precise (I said that to my little sis and she said, "a radiohead?")

And I chipped a bone in my knee. And I have multiple contusions (like the fancy word I learned in the ER?) And all of this when I was SUPPOSED to be staying home!!! Way to go, SG.

I've done a lot of stupid things while drinking but this may win me the Miss Hot Mess of the Universe award. I simply fell down and now I can't even pee without crying out in pain trying to pull down my pants. Stellar.

When I told the doctor I fell he said: From the third floor?

And the guy at the pharmacy told me my real story was weak and that I should make up a better one about how three really big girls jumped me and tried to steal my sweet pumas.

OK, left index finger fading. Must rest.

My Fetish: I'll have it my way, thank you very much.

2009-03-27T14:12:00.001-07:00

I am staying home tonight for the first time in ages.

I could not be more excited. I turned down a couple of invites (gladly, see here for references to both of the poor schmucks) and specifically planned a night in.

I’m going to listen to music that I found at this amazing store, Revolver Records, which I bought months ago and haven’t listened to. I’m going to work on a painting that’s been staring at me saying “You know you want to” And … wait for it … I’m planning to pick up a delightful meal -- most likely from a little fast food place south of the border, and indulge my salty, fatty side!

Yeah, I said it: I love fast food. I don’t know when it happened. I don’t know why it happened. But I seriously love me a cheesy bean and rice burrito or a, gasp, Filet-o-Fish and fries whenever possible. Obviously, this isn’t an every day event, but I get my junk food on whenever I can without feeling like a Fatty McFatstack.

This is weird on so very many levels.

First of all, I’ve been a vegetarian most of my life. I say most because I had a teenage rebellion phase where I’d eat pepperoni pizza like it was going out of style. I’d sneak in past curfew after feasting on cured pork and my pops would be all fascist and say “I know where you’ve been. I can smell it all over you.” And I’d shout back, “I learned it from watching you, OK!”

I very recently started eating a little meat from time to time (that's what she said.) Especially bacon. Bacon = bliss. If you live in the Phoenix area, or are just passing through, I highly recommend the Bacon Wrapped Basil from Sens. Johnny Chu, I Heart You.

My new meat phase (That’s what she said. Oh, again!) began after a long night of dancing and drag queens. I ended up at Gay Denny’s with some friends. I was so beat and my friend ordered sliders and offered me one. I was drunk, I was hungry, I was boogied out and I didn’t even think twice about eating that burger.

I was always a veg for political reasons -- you know, mass animal farming is bad for us, bad for animals, bad for the environment, and stuff -- so fast food should be so wrong to me – but why does it taste SO RIGHT?

I’m getting back on the wagon, though, I swear.

My FFF (Fast Food Fetish) is also weird because I’m considered something of a foodie by people who know me. I love to cook and most people say I’m darn good at it. And I love to go out to a quality restaurant and really enjoy a great meal. And I won’t be caught dead in a Crapplebee’s or anything like that.

But fast food is like a whole other beast.

Now, I’m in no way advocating that we eat this stuff every day (we are a nation of gigantic people and I think we all know it’s not due to overconsuming apples and bananas.) I mean, it is, from a nutritional standpoint, junk food. But, when I tell people I like fast food every now and then – especially the hipster and quasi-hipster 20 and 30 somethings I know, they all shudder and say things like “Gross!” or “No way.” or "I exclusively buy local, dude." (A nice dream, but you're hitting the pipe too hard if you think I believe you, Guy With No Job.)

Someone is eating this stuff. Actually, millions are eating it, so I know some of those Gross-sayers are driving through Micky Ds at 10:25 on a Saturday morning hoping they will get there before they stop serving breakfast because we all know NOTHING cures a hangover better than a bacon, egg and cheese biscuit, hashbrown and large OJ. So seriously, fess up, what’s your guilty pleasure?

If I were a boy ...

2009-03-26T14:56:00.001-07:00

I would wear these amazing cuff links from Etsy. Why is that movie soooo amazing? And what could I wear these cuff links with ...

You could easily insert me into this scene (And I'd make a way better chick KK than Hillary Swank):

Miyagi: Karate come from China, sixteenth century, called te, "hand." Hundred year later, Miyagi ancestor bring to Okinawa, call *kara*-te, "empty hand."

Daniel (played by yours truly): I thought it came from Buddhist temples and stuff like that.

Miyagi: You watch too much TV.

Classic.

Underwear? Under there.

2009-03-26T13:27:00.000-07:00

I have the most glorious little secret that has been making me smirk ever since I realized it happened.

I forgot to put on underwear this morning. I think it's one of about a half dozen times I've gone without this undergarment in my life. It feels amazing.

First thought. How does ones forget to do that?

Second thought: So what?

I know this will seem like a silly pleasure to you regular Commandos out there, but this is new territory for me and I'm relishing every moment.

You see, my mother birthed me when she was still a teenager. Tsk, tsk babies having babies (That’s my judgmental side rearing its judgy little head. It won't happen again.) I lived a childhood tugged between her concert going, pot smoking, staying out late, hating responsibility ways (A lot like me at 19 minus the kids) and the ways of my much more conservative grandmother who helped her raise me and my sibs.

Somewhere in all that mess I picked up an obsession with being fully clothed at all times. I think it had something to do with how scantily clad my moms and her friends were (nuns compared to the Gossip Girl 19-year-olds today. Wow, when did I turn 87?) and how much my grandmother disapproved. (I have mommy issues, you’ll see.) Oh, and our uber religious society that teaches girls crazy ideas about being Jeezibels and going straight to hell -- used to believe that stuff when I was a kid. Now I just believe in real things like unicorns and leprechauns.

While other babies were running around in diapers and nothing else, I was decked out in great ensembles -- I had the freaking best taste from an early age (and, yes, I've always been this modest. Thank you.) I wore sun dresses, with big floppy hats, coordinating sandals and purses. I wore jeans and t-shirts. I wore onesies. I just wore clothes. Always.

The moment I started getting boobs, which to my prepubescent mortified self was like 11, I insisted on a bra. I wore it all the time. I even slept in it.

Now, after about three decades on the planet, I’m FINALLY starting to be comfortable (enough) with my body. Don't get me wrong. You'll still find me dressed, and well at that, most of the time. And with underpants on, because I think it's probably more sanitary and well, as Bex puts it in Confessions of a Shopaholic "underwear is a basic human right." I just won't be so uptight about it.

So yeah, sitting here in my fancy schmancy office chair sans britches feels pretty darn liberating. Does anyone else know? Nope. (well, technically all of you now know. Props to my three lurrrvely followers!) Does it matter? Only to me.

Random Thought

2009-03-25T09:58:00.000-07:00

Who was the douche who coined the term “hump day?” I just know it was a dude. A dude with teeth that are a little too white, hair a little too coiffed, skin a little too tan. You know the guy I’m talking about. Hump day is misleading. We don’t get to hump all day (well I guess in some lines of work one does.) And for some reason it always makes me think of camels, which makes me think of the sun and sand, which in turn makes me think of a beach and how I’d rather be there than in my office. So it's not really a motivating phrase, it's a big, whorish tease of a phrase. Hump day. Hmph! Won’t you join me in creating a new idiom people?

Twitchy eyes and fruit flies

2009-03-24T22:58:00.000-07:00

I had all these wonderful intentions for this evening.

I created a mental checklist while I stared at my computer in my office with my fingers on the keyboard looking like I was about to write something incredible.

I was going to stop at the grocery store and stock up on healthy food since my fridge is pretty much empty, aside from two beers, some tomato juice for bloodys, three bottles of white wine and some cheese. Sings: One of these things is not like the others.

I swear I was so bored at work I spent the last hour listening to Iron and Wine -- perk of being the only "creative type" in the office is that they let me get away with stuff like listening to music for "inspiration" -- and daydreaming about the lovely beets and cucumbers I planned to buy. For realz.

Then I planned to walk the dog and hit the gym for a solid hour. While there, I was determined to ask my absolutely adorable neighbor to join me and some girlfriends and a couple other neighbors at my place for dinner this weekend.

Side note: I had this genius idea about a week ago to invite people over for a getting to know you type shindig. I'm planning something super home-y -- my red wine marinara, which is amazing by all accounts but which is made in a vat and is not practical* for this single gal, with some easy sides and apps. I figured if I had people to share all that sauce with it would be totally worth the full day of simmering.

My ulterior motive (there usually is one with me) is to figure out if Gym Guy is gay or straight. We work out at the same time most days and I always run into him. I had written him off as gay because I live in the Gayborhood and all the cute ones here are gay, but then there was excessive eye contact, and then there was the helpful pointers on my workout routine (which was missed all three times because I had my damn iPod on so loud and was jamming out and had to stare at him and say 'Huh?' each time. Yeah, I'm smooth like that) I got all excited at the possibility. So, I thought I'd leave the invitation open to bring signifant others and see what happens.

But back to my intentions for tonight. I also intended to bake banana bread to use the bananas that I never ate, which turned brown and are one day away from attracting fruit flies to my kitchen. While the company might be nice, I thought I could surprise all my co-workers with homemade baked good in the morning for brownie points. Again, ulterior motive being that they start talking about lunch from the moment they sit down at 9 a.m. and by feeding them I can perhaps not have to hear about it until 10:30, or please sweet baby Jesus, 11.

But I failed all around. Instead, I went straight home in some kind of weird daze, had pretzel rods and Crystal Light for dinner, played Persona 4 for hours and then died before I could save my progress (bastards!), and surfed the blog world. At least I remembered to walk my dog.

Sometimes I think I have a serious problem with depression. Sometimes I think I'm just terribly lazy. I'm definitely experiencing anxiety over all my dumb weekend decisions. My eye has been all twitchy for two days. Now I just need to decide if I can motivate myself to resolve the problem the healthy way by getting back into my normal, non-drinking problem routine, or resort to the Ativan. I'll keep you posted.

* I stared at this word for ages thinking "That is not right." I tried "practicle" and "practecal." See what I mean about being in a daze today?

Death by Carrots

2009-03-24T10:16:00.000-07:00

If you read my guest entry over at Blah Blah’s blog last week, you’d know that I woke up with a stranger in my bed last Thursday (don’t start shouting skank ho yet, I was on the couch with two dogs.)

Sunday, I woke up to an even stranger experience. As the sun came pouring through the amazing windows of my urbany loft apartment, I opened my eyes, disoriented, my laptop on my lap, my cell phone under my head, a mysterious black substance in my bed and … something in my mouth?

Now I know this is gross, but at 9 a.m. in the morning, groggy and still slightly drunk, I did the only thing that seemed reasonable. I retrieved whatever this was trapped between my gums and my cheeks with my tongue and I chewed it. These were my next thoughts:

“Aha, carrots!”

“Oh god, I could have died.”

I looked around. I sniffed. Apparently, I thought it would be a great idea to eat carrots dipped in some fancy Greek dressing I recently purchased when I had the drunk munchies the night before. The black stuff in my bed was oregano. After the dressing I spilled everywhere evaporated or soaked into my duvet, this was the evidence left over from my genius idea. Good job.

While the thought of choking to death on carrots in my sleep was terrifying (and slightly hilarious in a morbid way) what scared me more was the proximity of my computer and phone to this seriously hung over mess.

I spent a full five minutes just staring at my technology.

Ok, phone first. I looked at the inbox. I had messages from an unknown sender calling me “Ireland” (I tell lies when I’m drunk. I’m guessing I told him I was from Ireland. I hope I attempted a terrible accent.) He was telling me to “have fun with the short Ron Jeremy look-a-like.”

I had another message from who I am assuming was the Ron Jeremy look-a-like telling me to have fun at the next bar I was going to.

To the outbox. The first message was to a bartender at a dive I frequent telling him I have a crush on him. Delete all. DELETE ALL! I didn’t want to know the rest.

I touched the finger pad on my computer. Google. OK. That’s good. E-mail. Uh-oh. New message from Long Distance Love Interest.

It begins: “Yes of course I still like you, you crazy drunk …” I had more than oregano to clean up.

These are the things that happen after an open bar party and an evening of tequila.

Tequila=dying in your bed, alone, with carrots in your mouth.

Random Thought

2009-03-21T09:45:00.000-07:00

Random thought of the day: Are the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles really still teenagers? I mean, shouldn't they call that show Mid-20s Mutant Ninja Turtles or something like that? I'm just saying. The cast of 90210 caught a lot of flack for being like nearly 30 and playing high schoolers. Does this not apply to animation?

Please to meet you. Really, I am.

2009-03-20T21:19:00.000-07:00

So, last year was kinda crappy. I found out my (now ex) boyfriend is a drug addict who built our relationship on A LOT of lies. I had to (temporarily!) move back in with my mom. My only half paid for car completely died and I had to get another one because Phoenix is a bitch and you have to drive everywhere here, thus two car loans just when I thought I had a job that would allow me to buy sweet shoes and get out of debt. Oh, and I got a cancer diagnosis -- for the second time. Amazing.

I just turned the big 3-0 and I’m trying to get my shiz together and act all grown up and stuff. Have a fab new pad in downtown, which I heart. Have awesome friends. Have a new job so I’m making those car payments on time. Kicked that cancer hard in the sack. I'm a single girl, just trying to make her way in the world ... Blech. I digress. Seriously, I’m doing alright. Mostly.

There is the drinking … more on that later.

Anyway. I’m a writer by profession, but I never write anything fun anymore, thus this blog. You probably won’t believe someone pays me to write when you see how many typos and misplaced commas show up in this here. Oh, and I love parantheticals, so if that annoys you, run now (seriously, RUN!)

I’m not a good self editor. This applies to my life in general. I’m kind of an oversharer. (Aren’t all bloggers? Isn’t that kind of the point of blogging?) I’m not sure where exactly I’ll go with this thing, but hopefully you’ll come along for the ride. I think it might entertain you, but I may regret it later.

Now good day, sir (I've just really wanted to incorporate that phrase into my daily life more. It really doesn't fit there, huh?)

Random Thoughts

2009-03-20T21:07:00.000-07:00

Thought of the day: Why does McDonald’s coffee always have a weird film on the top of it? Almost like it’s oily. Do they put grease even in their coffee? What is that shiz???

Step away from the phone

2009-03-20T20:44:00.000-07:00

Why do I suck at texting? Like when I try to write “compliment” and it comes out “compflizent.” That’s not even a word.

I think it’s a combination of my bad typing skills and my failure to read things before pressing “send” that gets me into trouble.

And then there’s the drinking …

I tried to send my Long Distance Love Interest a text on my birthday telling him that he should send me a present (because I have no shame and I love presents) and it came out like this: “Did me send me something for me birthday?” I’m not kidding. Who am I? The Lucky Charms leprechaun? You can’t make this stuff up.

My friend Blah Blah says when she’s been out on the town drinking she immediately erases all the text messages from her phone so she can’t be embarrassed by anything she may have done (there are exceptions. I’ll explain our 2 a.m. text drinking games later. Pure Brilliance). However, I like to live in Opposite World from the more rational and sane Blah Blah. I keep all random drunk texts. A friend suggested to me once that I put that app thing on my phone to spare others from receiving these awful texts, especially in the middle of the night. But My Long Distance Love Interest gets a kick out of them. He likes to forward them back to me and say “Remember this?” To which I quickly respond, “No. I mean, of course! Wasn't that a hilarious joke? Heh heh.”

I kind of look forward to piecing together the previous evening via my in and out boxes. (Yeah, I said peicing together ... it's sad. You'll see.) Is it painful? Sometimes. Does is clear things up? Again, sometimes. Is it entertaining? Almost always. See above where I mention that I have no shame.