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

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?

Inner Mean Girl Smackdown

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??

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

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 …

Michael Jackson: Hangover Helper

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.

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

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.

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!

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.

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

I haven't posted in a week.

I don't know what to write.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How does Singlegrrrl become happilyinarelationshipgrrrl?

Time to clean up my messes

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

Sorry suckas. Snoozed. Losed.

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

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

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

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

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

You know what I said?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mission Let The Greek Down Easy: accomplished.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He responded.

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

What the what?

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

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

Friday Update and Giveaway

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

Thanks to all of you who wished her well.

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

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

A rat in our midst

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why I think God is punking me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, you read that correctly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No signs of forced entry. Phone. Stat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: I just said I would!

Her: When?!?

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

Her: Yeah, well, maybe we should …

Me: (sigh) Yeah …

Sad, sad silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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 …

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

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.

My slow decent into alcoholism went something like this post

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.

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

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?)