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

I am very nervous.

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here are a few things I’ve learned:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Death by Carrots

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.