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

Among most of you who read my blog, it's TMI Thursday (which for those of you who live underground or maybe watch too much Sarah Silverman stands for Too Much Information). So, if you need to be grossed out on this fine Thursday, here goes:

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

I don't think I've used a heater in four years. I never needed it in Phoenix. Now I have a radiator. I live in a building that has two units on my floor and the lady in the other apartment controls the thermostat and keeps it set at 85 degrees. It's April and it's unseasonably warm so I find that I'm pitty by noon every day. AND it's causing hard boogers and bloody noses every morning. People may think I have a little nose candy (which is terrible slang because that sounds delicious. I wish I could eat candy with my nose) problem the way I rub my nose constantly and it starts bleeding all of the time. It's killing me softly. No, that's his smile? His eyes? I don't know. Is it possible to die of hard boogers? If I don't write for awhile, you all know what happened. Be outraged.

There's your TMI. Meditate on it.

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

Most of you know about a month ago I moved from Phoenix to Minneapolis. I really didn't think it was going to be a big deal for a lot of reasons:

A.) I hate Phoenix. The city: Flat, brown, hot, and to me just not the right scene.
B.) Phoenix never felt like home. I'm from Ohio and I'm a Midwesterner at heart. I need hot dish and cheap beer to thrive.
C.) I'd been visiting Minneapolis almost monthly for a year and I loved it. The vibe. The weather. The people. Just the general feeling I got walking down the street.
D.) I already had some friends I was looking forward to hanging out with in MN.
E.) VC lives here and I was really wanting to spend time more regularly with him and have more of a "normal" thing happening. (LDRs are not normal even though I think we gave it an amazing go and I'm proud of us. More on this later.)

I've moved around a lot in life. Lived in lots of states. Spent a few months here and there. It's always been fun, not stressful. So, I packed up and moved with a "catch ya later, sucka" attitude. Um, yeah, that didn't really work out for me. I don't know why. Maybe it was too much all at once. Maybe I'm just really getting old and more needy of my routine.

I got here and the first few days felt like a party and it was wonderful. Then Martini (who helped drive my butt out here -- and I still owe you stories from that roadtrip) left and VC went back to work and normal life and here I was in an empty apartment (because I sold all my worldly possessions instead of moving them. I'm lazy.) feeling very alone and lost. And then I got up to go to work, except work was right here in the same empty apartment. I was sitting in my bed - because I had no couch - on my laptop all day, every day. No trip to the office kitchen for coffee. No gossip at the assistant's desk. No lunch dates with friends. I freaked out. I admit. I started second guessing my decision.

And I let on about it on Twatter. And a bit on Blip (which I lurve very much and if you don't Blip and you like music I highly recommend trying it.) And then this AMAZING thing happened. I was reminded that I wasn't alone at all. People were twatting me and writing me emails and helping me work it all out. They were helping me think through feelings and remember that I did an AWESOME thing by moving. A BRAVE thing. A thing that was going to be INCREDIBLE as soon as I adjusted. And they were all right. I'm totally settling in and loving my new home and neighborhood and my proximity to the BF (who, to his credit, was about as understanding as a boy can be through the worst of my emotional meltdown. He pretty much kicks ass as BF. Woot.)

So today I am shouting out to all of you. You're amazing people. Some of you I've met. Some of us are "in person" friends. Some of you I hope to meet some day (DC Tweet Up 2010 peeps!) But you've all been supporters of me in some way over the last year providing advice, laughter, or a just lending a friendly ear (or eye? that sounds gross) and I gots nothing but love for you babies.

Some people still don't get the power of online networking. To them, I say puh-lease. My mom met her (third) husband online 10 years ago. To quote the Greatest Movie Ever, Wayne's World: Get with the now.

I still have "real" friends - those I get to go to lunch with and stuff, but I consider you all my friends, too. There's been many a night when Jordan and I were both simultaneously drinking too much wine, surfing for kitten videos on YouTube and making jokes about it. And talking about it, just not in person, over the Twat. It's how we communicate now. And it's made my life better. So, there's your sappy from me. I hope you hug it and squeeze it and call it George.

And here are my Rock stars: (If I forgot someone I'm IMMENSELY sorry. Please don't hate me. It was a lot of linking and like I said above, I'm lazy. Purty please. I need acceptance. I'll buy you a pony. Or make you pickles. It's my new hobby.)

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

I am woman, I emote

First of all, thanks to shine and Marie for starting this blog theme and to the many people participating. Many of you ladies and gents have really gone boobs up and balls out and I say "bravo" to that.

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

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

I mean, yes, I hear it used in reference to men when like, say, some dude down in Arkansas decides to kill a bunch of kitties and make lampshades out of their skin and ends up on Dateline. But I think then it's mostly so that lazy journalists can write bad alliterate headlines like: Krazy Kitten Killer Gets Krafty.

In everyday conversation, "crazy" is used so often to describe women and it makes me sad because a lot of times I think it's just a reaction to someone trying to express their emotions.

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

How long are we going to be aware that men and women express themselves differently without being able to accept and embrace it? Yes, dear gentleman, your way of dealing with a bad day may be to drink some beers, play some video games, spank it to some illegally download porn and go to sleep early. (Uh ... I never handle a bad day like this. I swear.)

We get it. And I think (and this is based only on conversation with my immediate circle) many of us are OK with it and don't think a lot about it.

So, when I have a bad day, if I need to drink a bottle of wine, have a good cry, talk to you ad nauseum about how it all FEELS and then still need to work it out and so blog about it - I'm not acting bananas - I'm experiencing emotions. Normal ones.

Don't think this is a dude bashing post. I don't do those. I love dudes. I have one. He's super duper. He's a super duper dude. Uh ... carried away, party of one.

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

Women are just as guilty of pegging this tag on each other. Ladies! Tsk tsk and stuff. This isn't helping. Just because you're having one of those days when you have all your shit together it doesn't mean you should go all Mean Girl on the poor gal who got yelled at out work, was visited by Aunt Flo in her cute new white skirt and found donkey humping videos on her guy's computer and is now a big teary mess.

I could go real feminist on you all right now and start talking about uses of insanity in relation to women in literature and film and how grossly disproportionate it is when you look at references to men. And I could talk about how even certifiably crazy men in history are often painted as "genius" in public while women are called just plain old crazy. I mean I really could do that. I wrote a paper about it in college. I is smart. But the truth is, I don't want to go all intellectual on you. I mean, have you read this blog? I would not call this a place of higher thinking.

I'm writing this as more of an humanistic appeal. I admit. Even I am guilty of uttering "she so crazy" about people and I've often use the word to explain my own emotions. "Sorry, I was acting crazy" has been used many times because I couldn't articulate my own emotions. And I think that's a cop out for my own poor communication skills when it comes to interpersonal relationships. Whoa. Big words. Maybe this IS a place of high thinking ...

AND, let us not forget that some people truly are bat shit crazy. For those people I pledge to have a bit more sympathy. Unless they get all nutso on me and then I will shiv a hoe.

The point is, yes. I'm going to cry. A lot. Sometimes, I'm going to cry and you won't know why. Sometimes I'm going to cry and I WON'T EVEN KNOW WHY. Sometimes, I'll get really intense and stomp around and fall down on the floor like a child. And sometimes I'll just want to yell a lot and I won't want to listen to anything you have to say. And then I might get really weird and refuse to talk at all.

Will this be a moment of my most sparkly behavior? Absolutely not. But chances are, I haven't lost my mind. Odds are I don't need medication or intense psycho-therapy (although, there's an argument that we may all need a bit of that.)

What I really probably need is for someone to listen to me. Or say "Of course how you feel matters." Or maybe just give me a hug. (there's also a strong possibility I need to get sober, but that's a subject for another post. Or 12.)

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

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

I can't drive.

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

This might have something to do with how I grip the wheel until my knuckles turn white, sweat a lot, and shriek when cars pass me too fast ... or maybe not.

I feel bad about admitting this and reinforcing to anyone the Women Are Bad Drivers stereotype. I'm just one woman, yo. But, I confess, I'm one of THOSE women.

I was going to say how I don't understand why people are fearful of being in a car with me because I'm a careful driver who hasn't had an accident since she was a rookie, yada yada.

But the other day I took my first adventure out on my own in my new sparkly city of Minneapolis to meet a friend for lunch. Said lunch was in St. Paul, which is very close but where I have never driven to before.

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

Now confident in where I was going, I set out. However, there was no road labeled CR-20, my first step. So, I went where I thought I was supposed to go. Which, as it turns out, took me on a long one-way street into downtown Mpls. From there I proceeded to:

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

So, yeah ...

Phoenix is one big parking lot with six lanes in each direction. I'm adjusting to life in this big old city. But I'm loving that it's a very walkable city with better public transit than PHX. I will be hoping to keep the car parked as much as possible.

In all of that, you may have missed the point that I MADE A FRIEND and had a lovely lunch in the middle of all of this.

Being here has been a big adjustment for me. Moving from what was, essentially an adult dorm full of dozens of friends who would have dinner, play video games, drink beers any night of the week, I guess I forgot what it was like to be alone a lot.

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

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

Dead Silence. Blank stare. More silence.

See, the thing is, like anyone, I like to look good, interesting, smart even, to new people. And the things is, I think I am smart and interesting.

But I don't really have a lot of things that would qualify as "hobbies." I don't run (again, why do people run? Where are they going? They don't look cute doing it. I don't get it.) or cycle (although I enjoy me a Sunday cruise if it ends in Bloody Mary, but alas, I am, at the moment, bike-less.) I don't take any classes or do things like make jewelry or knit sweaters.

So, when people ask me about hobbies, I always draw this dumb blank. But I do have hobbies. I write this blog. I love me some Twatter. I drink a lot. Which takes careful practice.

I mean, I drink a lot. I've realized that eating and drinking had become my primary hobbies in PHX. Every night was a HH, or a dinner with a friend, or having a friend over for dinner and wine.

So, now that I don't have that kind of gig going, I'm going to need some new hobbies. I mean, I used to have hobbies -- like painting and playing music and stuff. I can get that back, right? Or is it like once the girls go south, cuz, I'm not down for surgery.

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

What's been fun for you all? I'll admit now, I'm not the most "active" person. And when I've tried to be, I get injured. So, rock climbing is probably out. Also, I'm temporarily terribly poor. So, like, diamond collecting is out. Dammit.

Help me. I'm bored.

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

OK kiddos. Tomorrow is the big move.

I’m not all the way packed. I’m certain what’s left is not going to fit in my car. Also, there is definitely no room for Barksdale who will probably have to ride in the IKEA bag with my sheets and pillowcases. Soooo, I’d say I’m pretty ready.

It hasn’t really sunk in that I’m moving. I think that will happen two weeks from now when I’m Overhunged and partied out and I just want to go home and sit on Martini’s couch and watch Celebrity Fit Club, eat tortilla soup and laugh uncontrollably when Tanisha Thomas starts screaming and runs into the desert for no reason except she just has so much anger because it’s really hard being part of the Bad Girls Club - and then I realize I can’t do that.

I mean, I’m very excited for all the “new stuff.” I’m an adventurer and an Urban Gypsy fo sho. And, I’m very excited to get to live in the same city as the BF – A guy I’ve “known” like three years now but never resided within 1,500 miles of.

Last night while lying in bed with my sometimes lover, Insomnia, I admit I did get sad about leaving Martini. I’m not ready to talk about it yet. I may never be ready. I’m much better with burying emotions behind bourbon and hot Cheetos than I am at discussing them.

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

We’ve celebrated birthdays and new pets. We’ve taken trips, made fun of famous people – to their faces, been in movies, met new boys, skinny dipped, binge ate (and drank. Maybe. Nevermind), and countless other things. Really, we’ve practically lived together for the last year. People she works with think we’re dating. Which wouldn’t be so bad (Reason No. 341 why I wish I didn’t love the peen.)

Whenever I feel real emotions that aren’t happy ones, I usually pretend I’m a character from TV or a movie and react the way they would to a situation. Yes, that’s very normal. No, I’ve never talked to a shrink about it.

All I could think about last night was that line from Friends where Rachel has to move out so Monica can live with Chandler and they get in a big fight but really it’s because they’re both so sad and then Monica cries and says “And now you have to leave and I have to live with a BOOYYY!!!”

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

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




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

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

I don’t miss people.

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

As a baby, I’m told I wouldn’t leave my mother’s arms without screaming and crying and shrieking and balling up my fists and shaking them frantically until someone PUT ME BACK IN HER LOVIN’ ARMS, DAMMIT!

But after that yellow bus came to get me on the first day of kindergarten and I saw there was a new place, with new people, and fraking fingerpaints! And delicious cookies! And glorious song singing! And Jill, with the beautiful blonde pig tails! And Joey with the giant blue eyes and weird laugh!!! – Well, I just never looked back.

It used to hurt my mom and dad’s feelings that I could go away to camp or summer stock or, you know, go live in England for awhile, and when I’d come back they’d say, “Did you miss us?” and I’d say, “Nope, because listen to all the cool stuff I did! I was too busy to miss anybody.”

I’ve lived a lot of places and visited even more and been lucky to have an incredible life full of friends all over the world. Sometimes they say they miss me. Or they get teary-eyed and frownie when I leave from a visit. And I don’t GET it. I mean, I’ll see you soon, right? Or soon enough. And in the meantime, we’ll Twat and FaceSpace and I’ll send you emails with links to kittens frolicking in flowers with Star Wars music playing in the background. Or this.

AND in that same time, I’ll be busy making new friends and squeezing all the good shit out of life and collecting stories about weird Bulgarians I partied with who had gurneys in their living room and referred to people as “Fucking Cunts” as a term of endearment and drank cheap, piss-like champagne but insisted on squeezing fresh orange juice for the vodka so that the next time we get together over beers I’ll have awesome things to tell you about.

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

That being said, I miss my VC.

In life, sometimes you say things, but you don’t really mean them. Like when I say your amorphous, hairy, drooly baby is cute. Or when I say I’d love to help you move. Or when I say I don’t know where I got The Herpe because really I’ve never put my lips on anything but my toothbrush. Wait ... that’s called Lying. My friends have been talking to me about this concept. (Oh, and I don’t have The Herpe. At least, I’m 99 percent sure of this. In case you want to make out. Which, I know you do.)

There were times during the last 10 months of this long distance gig where I said “I miss you” but what I really meant was, “I’d like to see you.” Or “I’d really like to have sex right now.” But I didn’t have a feeling of actually missing something. I didn’t even know what that feeling was because I don't think I had it before. I used to think it was about tears, and pining and all that stuff that's for the birds.

Well, now I know what it is. It’s still going to the party and still having fun but catching yourself thinking it would be more fun if that person was with you. It’s seeing that weird Bulgarian guy, wearing a shirt he’s cut the sleeves off of and drinking a drink he just found laying around and knowing that if that person were there you could just look at him in the eye and you’d both be thinking the SAME THING and that later you would sit on the couch and make endless jokes about it in bad accents. And that in the morning you’d wake up and get to have morning sex and all would be right with the world.

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

I'm ready to move.

An open letter to people who post housing on Craigslist.

Dear Craigslist landlord,

I have been frantically searching your well-crafted ads on essentially an hourly basis for the last seven days as I hunt for a suitable abode in Minneapolis.

I feel that in these seven days, I’ve become savvy with your lingo. I know that “garden level” is your way of saying I’ll be down in the creepy dark basement, nestled between the place where people store their Christmas trees and the place where people wash their dirty underpants.

I’m hip to your trickery. Like how sometimes you put things in the body of your post like “45 miles from the train that will take you to the busline that will eventually get you to Uptown” so that when I search for places in Uptown, yours comes up. EVERY time.

While I’m thankful for this free service that allows me to wade through hundreds of places that I would never even visit, let alone live, I have some tips that would make me, the Potential Future Tenant, very happy. If you are at all interested in achieving this, here is my advice:

Post a photo of the place. Unless you’re walking around with a circa 1993 car phone, chances are, you have a camera right in your pocket. Use it. Because if you don’t, the first thing I'm going to ask you is to please send a photo or 10. Because without photos, I assume the place doesn’t have a stove. Or a roof. Or that it’s under water. Or full of dead bodies. Or never even existed in the first place.

If you insist that I call you for more details, be around to answer the phone. Or maybe return a message. But also, consider this crazy thing most of us can do any time from nearly anywhere in just a few minutes time: email. I know. It’s kind of wild. But I think it’s gaining momentum. I believe my grandmother has even started using it.

Don’t say “we love pets” when what you really mean is that you will pay exactly $2,000 extra dollars if you own a pet. Because $2,000 is not really “OK” with me. $2,000 for your 500 square foot apartment that is already overpriced because it’s in the “trendy” part of town sounds like punishment. So maybe you should say something like “we’ll let you live here with your smelly little territorial mutt, but will do so grudgingly and at great cost, perhaps even peril, to you.”

And lastly, if the place has been rented, TAKE IT OFF CRAIGSLIST. It’s wasting everyone’s time if you don’t. Mine for calling. Yours for having to talk to me. (And I can be quite the talker. Especially when I'm "spite talking.")

But, if you don’t take it down and I do call, don’t act inconvenienced as if I should have magically known you rented the apartment three weeks ago to some lady with her 4 cats (that you charged her $8,000 extra for.) Because I didn’t know. I saw the ad on Craigslist and it said to call you.

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

xoxo,
SG

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

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

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

Between the ages of 8 and 13 I both walked and talked in my sleep regularly. I would scare my girlfriends by sitting up straight in the middle of the night and holding entire conversations with Abraham Lincoln with my eyes wide open.

Once, my mom looked out the window just in time to see me walking into the woods behind our house. When she got to me, I told her I was going to the Mother Ship. Then I started crying. (My grandmother filled my head with a lot of alien talk as a child. Don’t be jealous that I’m one of the “star people” chosen to leave the planet on a shiny space low-rider and lead a new planet of space people, who she always described as being something of hybrids between Lady GaGa and Noam Chomsky. No! Crazy does not run in my family…)

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

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

In this dream, I was prego. Like really gross pregs where your belly is so big and your skin is stretched so tightly it reminds you of that moment right before a marshmallow bursts because you put it in your microwave on a Saturday night because you drank too much wine and no one is calling and it seems like the only thing that can possibly fix the sadness of this situation is a s’more, but you just end up cleaning sticky sugar off of everything and sobbing a little, because really marshmallows have no business in the microwave.

Anyway, during this obvious night terror, my boss was telling me that she had talked to everyone in the department and decided that they wouldn’t be allowing me to move to Minneapolis. She was saying things like: “We just don’t see you as very valuable” and “We hate your clothes.”

And we were sitting in what I swear was a Red Lobster. And the lobsters in the tank were grinning at me. And I started crying and I couldn’t stop crying and I got up to use the restroom and kept banging this gigantic belly against tables and knocking over people’s fancy “table wine” and they would just stare at me like drones with crumbs of those delicious cheesy garlic biscuits all over their faces. And when I got to the bathroom I started throwing up teeth!

Awful, right?

What does this mean?? Discuss!