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.

Patient Zero

Today's been a whirlwind of meetings that have left me kind of cranky. You know that feeling like you've been go go going and accomplished nothing?

So I have just this to say: I am tired of hearing about the swine flu!

If this turns out to be the next bubonic plague, I will eat my words. Although I won’t be able to keep them down because I will be vomiting them and everything else as I die a slow, painful death. But I just don’t think that will happen.

You know what kills the most people around the world? AIDS. Heart disease. These things should cause people to panic, but they don't. I don't see people pulling kids out of schools or locking themselves in their homes or walking down the beach wearing condoms or face masks to keep the sex and cheeseburgers away.

I say we find this kid and kick his little butt for causing all this trouble (kidding. I don't advocate child violence. But we could steal his allowance or his candy or something.)

I mean who tongues a pig --wait! Do NOT answer that.

SG goes all Hollywood on yo ass (or at least in her own mind)

My work days have been packed with, well, work – boo! So there hasn’t been much time to write from my desk. And my weekend was pretty much eaten up by bad decisions and about 10 rounds with Depression in which the Big D KO’d me early Sunday.

I’m going through some big downer kind of stuff that I’ve been contemplating writing about here. Truth is, it doesn’t serve much purpose other than to bum you guys out, so I’ll probably skip it for now, but just know that when I don’t write for days it’s not you, it’s me. For realz.

I’m going bezerkers at my desk today.

Many days I think I’m simply not cut out for this work stuff and this is one of them. For one, I have a bad video game habit. Have since Atari. Right now I’m in the secret laboratory dungeon on Persona 4 and I REALLY want to fight those shadows and find out what happens next. I sit here thinking, “Would my boss really notice if I slipped out for a few hours? I must know if those teens catch the killer and return Inuba to its former quiet state!”

Also, I’m about to be the next Food Network star. Well, maybe not. But I am being considered for one of the cooking challenge shows and I have to finish writing my recipes and get them to the casting director by tomorrow! This means I need to leave work early, go shopping for all the yummy ingredients, make the dishes all one more time, invite over taste testers and quadruple check the recipes I’ve written -- all in the next 12 hours. Do I have to do this AGAIN, you may be asking. My OCD brain answers, yes! Besides, I want to win this biatch. Big cash prizes, fame, fortune, a marriage to Christian Bale, a house in the English countryside, babies that look like Harry Potter and have magical skills … whoa. Carried away. Seriously people. The Food Network changes lives. Have you seen the Rachel Ray story?

All this is to say sitting here thinking about the precise wording to use in a gift acceptance policy is not exactly enough to keep my attention right now.

I will leave you with this little gem. It’s the trailer for a “Lifetime summer movie event” (again, not Hushed Rapings.) If you watch the movie closely when it premieres on May 30, and you know what you’re looking for, you will see me and Martini. It’s going to be awesome(ly bad – but seeing me and my besties Martini and Sarah Chalke on the small screen will be great, right?)

* Dumb Lifetime will not let me embed so you'll have to click here: Maneater. It's soooooo worth it. (Not really, but if you're reading this you probably have nothing better to do ;-)

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.

Does my dream guy exist? And should I have not sent that e-card?

I am very nervous.

Today Martini and I booked our plane tickets to the amazing resort destination of … Minneapolis, MN. Wait a minute. I’ve been hoodwinked.

Seriously, her BFF lives there and is pregs so she wants to visit. And said BFF is very rock and roll and fun (and I’ve always wanted to see what kind of place created the vixen that is Martini, although she’s not exactly from MN) so I told her I’d tag along.

There is another reason, however, that I am nervous/excited/popping xanax and stressing about the three pounds I’ve gained while skipping the gym due to my broken arm.

I will be meeting Virtual Crush. He’s dreamy. Cute. Intelligent. Hilarious. Great taste in music and stuff. At least I think these things are true.

On paper, VC is my perfect guy. One caveat: I’ve been “talking” to him for two years via social networking and e-mail but we’ve never been in the same state, let alone the same room.


It started when I had become friends with Martini and she said something like: “You like weird bands with names like MonkeyToadButtCrunch and dress kind of funky. You would like my friend Virtual Crush.”

She introduced us via that social networking site that is soooo 2007 (or as I refer to it in my house, The Site That Shall Not Be Named) and we started talking.

He included me in this dorky daily e-mail thing he and some friends do called Top 5 fill-in-the-blank related to music – Like Top 5 favorite band names if you had a band and what kind of music they would play. Or Top 5 songs you would have played had you been the DJ at your senior prom. Because I am the Ultimate Dork, I loved it.

This year for his birthday I had a giant presentation check delivered all Ed McMahon style to his office that said “To: Virtual Crush, Amount: Priceless, Memo: Happy Birthday!” because he once mentioned that one of his dreams was to get a “physically large check.” I’m pretty sure he swooned. He shouted me out by name in his ‘Book status. Pretty sure I swooned.

But now, after TWO years, I’m going to meet him face to face and all this stuff is going through my head: What if he thinks I’m hideous? What if he smells bad? What if he thinks I’m not funny? What if he has seriously thick back hair?

I look forward to his e-mails every day. They make me liz. I’m afraid of losing this weird little quasi relationship I have with him if one of us ends up sucking in person.

I’m also resistant to even considering the idea of a long distance relationship after how things have been going with LDLI. But I feel like there's this expectation -- like we've been talking for two years, now do we like each other or what? I'm pretty sure there has been clear flirting from both directions, especially lately.

But, VC doesn’t fly (says him: I bought the Phosphorescent album to help relax me on a gravity-defying, pagan-magic-holding-it-in-the-air aeroplane ride. I didn’t help.) so what's the point?

Part of me can't wait to meet him and part of me wants to keep this awesome little thing in a bubble where nothing can mess with it.

Lately I’m starting to think that I pick these guys that live far away from me so I can have a convenient thing to blame when it doesn’t work out. I think I’m becoming one of those cynical singles I’ve seen at movie theaters, alone, on Friday nights, throwing popcorn at Cameron Diaz as she finds true love for the 30th time.

I hope a bunch of cats aren’t next for me.

SIDE NOTE: LDLI was sick this week so I sent him a someecard.com that said something like “Since you’re sick, I think we should skip the kissing and go straight to oral sex.” I haven’t heard back from him …

Scale it the frack back: My Earth Day lament.

I woke up this morning with a little ditty in my head that went a little like this: “Earth Day, Earth Day. Earth! Earth!” to the tune of Billy Squier’s “The Stroke.”

Just a little peek into the wacky brain of SG.

Happy ED everyone! (no, not erectile dysfunction, Bob Dole – I know you’re a secret follower.)

I try to live every day like it’s Earth Day. I know a lot of shmucks say that, but it's true.

I eat very little meat. I take public transportation nearly every day. I walk places. I reuse. I get my food out of the dumpster behind Whole Foods and find many of my clothes lying around at bus stops and in public restrooms (those last two are not true, but I hear some people really do it and I won’t knock it ‘til I try it.)

I take up very little space. This last one is important to me because I live in one of the most sprawling cities in the U.S.

I used to write for a publication about home and garden design and décor. I’d go to all these houses that were just excessive. Forty miles from where they worked. Four car garage. Five bedrooms and just one person living there? What is that? As a single person I say three rooms max – one for me, one for when Christian Bale visits, and one for my imaginary friend, Ristian Chay Ale Bay.

Yes, I can afford a house with several bedrooms if I wanted one – but I don’t need one. It’s just me and Little B. We’re perfectly happy in our little loft apartment. It’s close to work. I only need to have one light on at any given time. The electric bill is $55 in the middle of summer with the air running all the time. It’s only a few steps or a good lunge from the couch to the toilet – convenient for those hangover moments.

A fellow sassy single friend of my mine was recently bemoaning the fact that she was moving from one small apartment to another. She said she had hoped her next move would be into a bigger place – maybe a condo – with multiple rooms. I think that’s a pretty normal sentiment, but I asked her, is it really what you need? It’s just more to clean anyway, right? Why would you want that? And think of all the money you could save and spend on martinis instead.

The idea behind her concern is totally understandable: What’s the balance for we 20 and early 30 something singles between dorm room and excess?

I’ve been asking myself that a lot lately. I work with some people who are well, how can I say this … snobby boob faces. We’re around people with a lot of money all the time and they want to look like they have some, too. They just can’t except that I’m completely happy in my tiny space and will stay like that until there’s a compelling reason to change it.

I’m not saying I’m perfect (if you read this blog your know Imperfection is my middle name ... or is it Vodka.?) But on days like today I like to challenge myself and others to think about ways they can scale it the frack back. How do you all keep your stiletto print (or Puma print for the gents) small? Or do you not really think about it? Just curious.

Also, this was just too cute: http://blaine.org/sevenimpossiblethings/?p=1655

It’s about creative ways to reuse stuff around the house. I actually did the old cans thing once and it’s really charming. Love this blog and love these kind of ideas!