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

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

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

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

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

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

This day is going to suck hard.

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

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

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

There are many joys to living were I do.

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

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

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

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

Guess who's an auntie!?!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pondering relationships with my new friend Hydrocodone

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He answered the question for me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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