Lessons Learned by SG at strip clubs

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.)

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Cheetos are beautiful. For so many, many reasons.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good to know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ugh. Push-ups.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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.

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

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

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!

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.

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 …

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

(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?