Are we breaking up? And FRF comes a day early. Happy August.

For those of you who know me, you’ll know this news is huge.

For those of you who don’t, you may be able to relate.

I’m in the middle of a break up.

It’s really hard. I’m losing sleep. I’m eating too much junk food. I can’t seem to think about much else.

I have conversations with myself on the train on the way to work. I snap at people for no reason and then run to the bathroom, lock myself in the last stall and cry and cry.

Of course, I’m talking about my girlfriend, Hulu.

It’s not that I don’t love her, it’s just that I’ve realized she’s really not good for me.

I’ve been spending all of my time with her, losing track of my other friends.

I’ve found myself saying things like, “That was just like last week when I was on that canoe with Sawyer, Kate, and an unconscious Karl and Sawyer was singing while he and Kate rowed back to the main island and Kate was trying to convince Sawyer to turn around so we could rescue Jack but Sawyer said it was too dangerous because the Others would kill us …” and then realizing that never really happened to me.

When you date someone too long there’s always the danger that you will keep dating them out of habit, or nostalgia, or something, instead of doing it because it actually brings joy or meaning to your life.

I had a jarring realization that this was the kind of relationship H. and I had begun to have earlier this week when I found myself still wide awake, laptop on lap, at 2 a.m. watching episodes of My So Called Life.

That show is terrible. Claire Danes = enormous F. And yet, there I sat, episode after episode, taking it all in. Because I could. Because Hulu was there. Because it was safe and familiar.

It was the last straw. I may never get tired of listening to Dennis read Charlie’s campaign speech ("Hello fellow American. This you should vote me. I leave power. Good. Thank you, thank you. If you vote me, I'm hot. What? Taxes, they'll be lower... son. The Democratic vote is the right thing to do Philadelphia, so do.")

I also may never get tired of Kevin saying eating Pizza by Alfredo is like eating a hot circle of garbage. But I cannot spend vital moments of my life listening to Angela Chase whine through that terrible nose about how terribly terrible it is to be a teenager. And I have no one to blame but Winnie Holzman. I mean my mother. I mean, me.

I’m 30. The clock is ticking.

No more. I’m vowing to quit her. I don’t know if I can do it. I’ll need all of your support. Hold me accountable. Or just hold me.

Remind me that while I may know all of the words to the song about Jayne from the episode of Firefly where the crew returns to a planet and discovers that he's become a local folk legend, I have not seen a single episode of Entourage or Mad Men. And you have to pay for that shiz.

I know I can do this. I must be strong.

Tomorrow is Frightened Rabbit Friday, but I will be on an air-o-plane flying to see VC and many other wonderful humans. I hope to have stories to share. Ones that do not involve me falling down, crying in a cab or making new stripper friends. Nothing wrong with stripper friends. It’s just that I have so many and I’d like to broaden my horizons. Maybe get me a token accountant buddy or something.

So in honor of both my break up and FRF, I present you with this loverly video. Enjoy! I’m going back to my bathroom stall to cry it out.




(Picture Hulu with its back turned toward me and me reaching out to her and whispering “Oh Hulu …” It will make it so much better.)

My mom is on Facebook. It is awful. Let me explain ...

Anyone who knows me knows that my mother has driven me both figuratively and literally crazy over the years.

She’s my mother. I love her. But she’s insane.

Now she’s on Facebook. One of the few places I thought I would be safe from her infiltrating my life.

A few days ago I saw her leave a message for a girl that was my very best friend in the whole wide world all through middle school, junior high, and high school.

We were like sisters. We dressed alike, dyed our hair weird colors together, pierced each others ears using safety pins and ice cubes.

That girl then proceeded to date the one boy everyone in the world knew I had a crush on for my whole life, and then slept with my very first real boyfriend, who I dated after I graduated and who I gave my most precious gift to. My flower, if you will. (I’m talking about my virginity, people.)

I uninvited that girl from my life party after about a year of her hurting me and doing things that most people think are pretty unforgiveable.

So what does my mom do? Friends her on Facebook and sends her love-dovey messages about how much she misses her.

Now they’re suddenly FB Besties, messaging back and forth.

What the what?

Then I see her leave a similar message for my ex-boyfriend.

“Hey sweetie. Miss you so much. SG’s sister will be in town soon and we’d love if you could photograph her and the baby.”

Huh?

This is the woman who, when I practically divorced this guy three years ago (I say “divorce” because we had been dating nearly six years and had a house together and two dogs,) and I came to her crying and really distraught about the whole decision said, “Poor Ex Boyfriend. He must be so upset.”

Now they’re FB Friends Forever, too. I’m waiting for pictures of them wearing each other’s half heart necklaces.

And the kicker of this whole thing is that she actually posted a photo album called “My Life” and had about 20 pictures in it. My sister was there, my brother, his girlfriend, some 28-year-old girl named Bobbi Jo Sue Ann Mary or something from Wisconsin who she used to work with. Guess who wasn’t there? Me!

Some people worry about being FB friends with guys they’re dating, or friends from high school, or guys they used to date, etc. My worst FB nightmare has turned out to be my very own mother.

There are people in this world you will never quite understand. Never quite get along with, no matter how hard you try. It’s sad when one of those people is the same person who pushed you out of her vag 30 years ago. You’d think there’d be an assumed closeness that went with all of that.

I’ve been trying for a very long time to have the kind of bond with my mom that I see some of my girlfriends have with theirs. Going shopping. Getting pedis. Scrapbooking. But I don’t like those things. Well, pedis are aight.

The thing is, my mom likes Aerosmith. This just about sums up why we’re not friends. Kidding. Kind of.

Maybe some of us are just not meant to be friends with our parents. I gave it the college try. After 30 years, I think it’s OK to stop trying so hard. I’m not saying I want to be estranged or anything, I just want to not feel bad about the fact that I don’t particularly like spending a lot of time with her and I don’t want her to know the details of my life.

Is that POSSIBLE?!?

Feedback. Do any of you have rough relationships with the ’rents. How do you deal?

(P.S. Just a reminder: It is Limerick Wednesday. Keep ‘em coming  Would haikus be easier? I rock the haiku.)

This post has heavy lesbian themes

I got in trouble at work today.

I never get in trouble. Ever. For anything. I was that kid in school who went 13 years without detention and who teachers would point to as an example of how the bad kids should be behaving.

I’m a sycophant. People hate me.

It wasn’t like a lot of trouble, but my boss got really annoyed with me and raised her voice and then abruptly hung up the phone. And I just sat there kind of looking at the receiver for a full five minutes thinking “Did I just get in trouble?!” And feeling a little like I could cry.

Nice girls don’t get the corner office. But I did.

I have this really bad habit of shutting down in situations where I think people are mad at me. I usually do the tough kid thing pretty well, but there’s something about feeling like I’ve messed up that really gets to me. It’s all in my DISC profile.

So, I’m going to blog now instead of doing what I should be doing. I know this doesn’t make logical sense. I’m seeing a therapist.

I got a sort of weird amount of feedback from people with questions about my hair – What color is it? Can I see a picture? Etc.

You guys are creepy. Would you also like me to send you locks of it? Send me your address: singlegrrrlsrock@gmail.com

Since I’m at least mostly anonymous still, I didn’t want to post a picture of me. However, the first picture above is of Katie McGrath. That’s the picture I took my stylist when I said I wanted to make the switch.

Katie McGrath is my girl crush (sorry Isla Fisher. I’m fickle.) I’m hooked on Merlin and I honestly think it’s because I’m in love with Morgana. And they manage to work a scene into every episode where she’s tossing and turning in bed with that amazing hair all tussled … getting carried away and making myself and you uncomfortable. Apologies.

Although I was going for the “Katie” everyone so far has told me what I got was the “Katy.” As in Katy Perry. I Kissed A Girl. This blog has heavy lesbian themes. Again, apologies??

My hair is short and I have the whole bangs things happening, so they’re probably right. I’m working on it.

I’m taking the photo of Katie with an “ie” back to the stylist in a few weeks when I ask her to give me really good sex hair for a photo shoot I’m doing in a few weeks. It’s one more thing on the list of things I wanted to do during my 30th year on the planet: take sexy, pin-up-y photos. Check.

I’m a little nervous about it. Most of my girl friends in Phoenix are actresses and models and really comfortable in front of a camera. I’m just not.

I’ve taken film acting classes where I had to be on screen, I’ve been in a movie, I was in journalism where I had to be on camera from time to time. For Pete’s sake I even dated a photojournalist for five years who insisted on taking my picture all of the time – like when I was sleeping or getting out of the shower or had taken a little too big of a bite of enchilada and couldn’t chew with my mouth closed. Still, don’t like it.

But a close girlfriend of mine has all of these great pictures of herself and looking at them one day I thought, I would like something like that of me before I get all old and gross. So, I’m doing it. Wish me luck.

And speaking of luck, looks like I will not be the next Food Network star, as I wrote to all of you about not too long ago. Frowns and dirt kicks. I’ll get ‘em next time. I may start making my own cooking videos and post them on You Tube and go viral and be really, really famous. Move over Barefoot Contessa.

Martini did convince me to make an audition tape for The Amazing Race. I have never seen an episode. AFTER we mailed off our tape she told me a little about what it is they do on The Race, so I’m kind of hoping that doesn’t work out for us. I think I’d be about as good on that show as I would be on So You Think You Can Dance. Keep you posted.

(P.S. where have all my commenter friends gone? I know you’re reading. I have Google Analytics!)

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!

Time to clean up my messes

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

Sorry suckas. Snoozed. Losed.

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

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

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

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

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

You know what I said?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mission Let The Greek Down Easy: accomplished.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He responded.

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

What the what?

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

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

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.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, you read that correctly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No signs of forced entry. Phone. Stat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me: I just said I would!

Her: When?!?

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

Her: Yeah, well, maybe we should …

Me: (sigh) Yeah …

Sad, sad silence.

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

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

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

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

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

Shots Wednesday! meet Down and Out Revolution

The worst thing about meeting cute bartenders who are still in college is that they card you and know within seconds that you are indeed 30 and, in their adorable 22 year-old-eyes, probably qualify as a cougar. When did I get here?

Also, I do not know what the deal is with me and bartenders. They are attracted to me like gay men to plaid shorts.

I speculate it is because my pores actually ooze vodka and they can sense it. They figure if they pay attention to no one but me all night they’ll make enough money to buy Guitar Hero: Metallica and that sweet new amp (because, in my mind, all bartenders are flunky lead singers. Goes back to a failed romance I had in college.)

I’m too hungover to write much today (Wednesday Happy Hour somehow morphed into Shots Wednesday! thanks to the SG-Martini wonder duo), but I am going to get serious and leave you with these two news items that came across my desk:


Huffington Post
Executives at New York Times accept substantial bonuses, while staffers face five percent salary cuts
The New York Times has joined the club of organizations that give bonuses to their fat-cat executives, while the company slides and rank-and-file employees face pay cuts and unemployment. Here’s the scoop: top executives at the Times received substantial bonus and fringe benefit payments over and above their salaries, according to a proxy statement to the Securities and Exchange Commission released March 11. Meanwhile, employees at the paper are taking five percent salary cuts. Staff of the New York Times-owned Boston Globe face even steeper cuts if that paper even survives. Related New York Post New York Times Company has a mere $34 million in the bank—not good considering it has more than a billion dollars in debt.

Crain's Chicago Business
Chicago Tribune axes 50 newsroom jobs then asks for approval to give $13 million in bonuses to survivors
At the Chicago Tribune Wednesday, 50 newsroom employees lost their jobs as part of a restructuring that Tribune management claim will position the paper for its news-gathering future. Shortly after the layoffs, the paper’s parent, the Tribune Company, asked a bankruptcy court for approval to give 703 employees bonuses worth a total of $13 million. The company’s top ten executives are ineligible for the bonuses. Tribune Company said the bonuses are “vitally necessary” to reward employees for a difficult year and motivate them. To the victors—in this case survivors—go the spoils. Related Chicago Reader See the memo that announced the layoffs, and a list of the journalists let go. Related Riverfront Times In other dismal news about the newspaper industry, the St. Louis Post-Dispatch reporter shot while covering a city council meeting in 2008 was laid off from the paper.


This is infuriating. Seriously, how many people (I resisted the urge to use the phrase “Regular Joes” – thanks for ruining my thought process, Sarah Palin) are going to end up unemployed before we, the majority who don’t make millions, do something?

We’re a pretty apathetic group of people in the U.S., I think. I know I can be. I mean, Ashton Kutcher is the first person to reach 1 million Twitter followers. Why didn’t someone stop this? This says something about our priorities.

But when people aren’t able to afford their DVRs and iPhones I think we’re going to have a serious problem. Viva La Revolucion!

Hmmm … maybe I can find a way to bring together both of the brilliant ideas presented in this blog: Shots Wednesday! meet Down and Out Revolution. This is almost as good as my scheme to take the White House with my Liquid Lunch platform.

My 30s have made me quite the activist.