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

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.

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 ...

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!

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?