Category Archives: Laugh

Love, Unrequited

Last night, for the second time since my annulment, I went on a first date.

[this is the outfit I wore]

Leading up to the date, I was less than nervous. Probably because he kept sending me text messages telling me how amazing I was and how much he was looking forward to getting to know me. A normal lady might find this considerate and thoughtful, but it mildly induced my gag reflex.

An hour before the date, however, my suitor redeemed himself by prank calling me. He kept a stoic voice and accused me of already being late before cracking up and saying he’d see me soon. It was admittedly weird, but had me blushing with playful delight.

When the time came, I went to our designated meeting place by the plants in front of Whole Foods and waited for him to arrive. That’s when I spotted him. Not my date – Back Alley Way Lover. Yes, my first first date in Austin had the gall to purchase whatever bananas, eggs, and contraception he needed smack in front of the place I was meeting my new date. Plain rude if you asked me.

Being the dodger that I am, I instantly dropped about 3 feet attempting to duck behind the most robust bunch of thyme. I don’t think it worked, but my date managed to arrive before BAWL finished checking out and we walked away faster than you can say “awkward confrontation.”

[when all else fails, hide behind small foliage]

My first impression of new boy was: I should have worn flats. I know I had a lot to drink when we met, but could my depth perception have been that affected? Or had he possibly been wearing man heels? I mean we are not talking midget stature, but the man could use a lift.

About ten minutes into dinner, I had already decided things weren’t going to work out. He was a really nice guy, but just too outgoing and hyper. Look, buddy – that’s my job. There can only be one spotlight hog in a relationship, and it’s going to be the girl who blogs about her dates for attention.

That’s when he started rummaging in his pocket. “I almost forgot, I have something for you,” he said. “I couldn’t get you flowers because I knew we’d be walking around, but I know you like to cook so I got you these tomato seeds. Maybe you can give me one if you ever get around to planting them.”

[the actual tomato seeds. they can grow like our love.]

Oh Lord, I thought. This letting him down thing is going to be much more difficult than I thought.

I spent the rest of dinner sitting on my hands to prevent him from reaching for one. I don’t think he read the body language correctly. He didn’t want to end the night and I felt like a bitch telling him I was ready to go home, so we went down the street for a drink and some live music.

“I’m really glad I’m on this date with you,” he confessed.

“Thank you.” I replied.

“Aren’t you supposed to be glad, too?” he said with a wounded face, tomato seeds in hand.

Well, fuck. I’ve been caught.

Apparently that didn’t matter because he brushed off my faux pas in stride and went to get us drinks. Meanwhile, I crafted my exit strategy. Potential text messages with a firm, yet gentle let-down swirled through my head. And then a brilliant idea came to me.

I will scare him off, I thought. I will hit him with everything I’ve got, he will no longer be interested, and I don’t even have to send a break up message. How am I so fucking smart?

[muahaha, you’ll never want to date me now]

Suddenly, I was excited for his return. I couldn’t wait to share my secrets and go back to doing more interesting things, like folding laundry. It was every first date’s nightmare: not only would I bring up my ex, I would bring up my ex-husband.

I spilled the beans and waited. And then came the kicker.

Surprise! He was married before, too.

And now we’re bonding.

[they call that a backfire, folks.]

Things just went from “he’s way too into me” to “he thinks the fates have brought us together,” and I am in hell. He was so proud of me for how strong and brave I was for having the guts to tell him. We actually had a really nice conversation about our respective breakups and subsequent depression, but there was just still no spark for me.

When he finally walked me home, he gave me a hug goodnight, marveling at what an amazing time he had. Then he pulled me in for hug round two, because much like me, round one was just so special.

How do I let this sweet boy down gently? He even got a haircut just for the date.

Much like his poor little heart will soon be, I am at a loss.

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Roasted Vegetable & Avocado Medley

In a “Hail Mary” effort to fit back into my pants before tonight’s hot date, I decided to eat something mildly healthy. As an added bonus, it’s the first day of spring and this recipe just might make me look less like Rosie O’Donnell in a bathing suit when summer rolls along.

Regarding tonight’s dinner date, I have high hopes. Supporting reasons for this include:

1. My date has not yet tried to feel me up in a dark alleyway.
2. He has not yet found my blog.
3. I am 90% certain he is not secretly gay.
4. Yesterday, an ugly bird shit on my head. Apparently this is a good omen.

With any date, it’s important to detox beforehand and wear something figure flattering, but not slutty. Which is unfortunate because I may have just eaten a slice of birthday cake and forgotten to launder half of my wardrobe. So I suppose the corset will have to do.

But even when I don’t need to squeeze into a corset, I love fresh vegetables. Not as much as I love cake, but they have their moments. This little diddy that I threw together showcases all of the fresh, flavorful, juicy, creamy, and acidic flavors that nature has to offer.

I like to consider avocado a vegetable to excuse the quantities I eat it in. In this dish, the avocado almost coats everything, giving it a luscious and rich texture that it just to die for.

To make this springtime wonder, you’ll need:

  • 1 zucchini, cubed
  • 1/2 avocado, cubed
  • 2 tomatoes, cubed
  • 1/8 c mild soft cheese, cubed (I used goat’s milk mozzarella and it was a good decision. Slightly melted with the roasted veggies and gave it a tang.)
  • 1 Tbsp olive oil
  • 2 tsp lime juice
  • 2 Tbsp fresh basil, cut into strips
  • salt & pepper to taste
Heat the olive oil in a pan over medium-low heat. Add the zucchini and cook until beginning to brown, about 5 minutes. Add the tomatoes and cook until warmed through. Combine in a bowl with avocado and cheese. Add olive oil, lime juice, salt, & pepper and mix. Top with basil ribbons.

And for the record, I am not really wearing a corset. I’ll save that for the second date.

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St. Patrick’s Day Guinness & Bailey’s Cupcakes

Back when I was unpopular and sad, I shared a recipe for drunken cupcakes.  You would think one only makes such things on St. Patrick’s day, but apparently my post-divorce depression was just enough that I needed all liquids and solids I consumed to be mildly boozy.

Not only did I get rave reviews for these cupcakes around the office, but they are one of my personal favorites. I am now a firm believer that Guinness should be used in all chocolate cupcake recipes because of how deliciously moist they come out. And because I’ve become a borderline alcoholic.

I am having dramatic food envy staring at my picture of these cupcakes today. I would love nothing more than to make them again. Unfortunately, I am nearing the turning point in every woman’s life where she almost has to lay down before she can button her pants.

But if you’re looking to celebrate and actually fit into your pants, definitely try them out. You will not be disappointed.

And for some other unsolicited advice: wear true shades of green, and under no circumstances “go braugh-less,” even if your name is Erin. Nobody wants to see that.

In other news, here is some fun inspiration for a lovely St. Patty’s. Click images for source.

[pretty marble nails]

[pants i am too short for]

[traditional claddagh ring]

[pot of gold cocktail]

[sweet Irish blessing]

[baby i am going to steal]


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Are You the Same Person Online?

This morning, I read an article on Forbes about the multiple personality disorder of women (and I would argue men, too) in the digital age. It made me think long and hard about two things:

  1. The extent to which my online identities reflect who I am as a person
  2. How bitter I am that my employer didn’t buy me a SXSW badge so that I could attend this talk. It’s right down the street, you assholes.

We all know how it is. You’re posting about the awesome time you are having with awesome people drinking awesome booze at an awesome party. But in reality you are standing in a corner staring at your phone, waiting for someone to comment on all of the awesomeness.

In my experience, there are two types of avid Facebookers: the oversharer and the undersharer.

With the oversharer, you know every tiny detail about their obviously superior life. You know they got to work safe this morning, because they checked in. You know they got laid last night, because the lyrics to “Two Become One” have made a dramatic appearance on this morning’s status update. And you sincerely hope their grandmother recovers from that rash soon, because the photo just looks nasty.

I will never quite understand the oversharer. It seems so silly to act like your life is better than it really is on social media. Sure, you get lots of comments on that flattering photo; but when you run into your FB friends in real life and are still five hundred pounds, the jig is up.

Personally, I take the opposite route. I am an undersharer. You can learn exactly three things from my Facebook profile, all of which are true: I have dogs, I eat, and sometimes people agree to go places with me against their better judgment.

The undersharer uses Facebook just as frequently as the oversharer, but mostly for lurking, stalking, and judging. If only I had a penny for every time one of my Facebook frenemies made a terrible fashion decision.

The two most important social media platforms in my life are Facebook and WordPress.

Facebook is associated with my true identity. To gain access, you’d have to cross-reference my image with thousands of young single women to find my name, illegally obtain my home address, show up with baked goods (just plain courtesy), pin me to a wall, and force me to accept your friend request while holding my dogs hostage.

Ring Finger Tan Line, on the other hand, is only loosely associated with my true identity. To gain access, you need only search for something like “make me a cake bitch,” which I am told will put you on the fast track here.

In theory, “Facebook me” should be closer to reality than RFTL. It’s shared with people I kind-of know and am fairly certain are not serial killers. On the contrary, “Facebook me” sucks. I’m not even funny – I’m shy and strange and don’t want people all up in my business.

When I got an annulment, I even deleted my Facebook page entirely, because there was no way my high school nemesis was learning about my marriage fail on her damned mini feed. The only good thing I can say about “Facebook me” is that she uses proper grammar, and for that, I respect her.

In reality, I see myself so much more of myself in Ring Finger Tan Line. Funny how a cloak of anonymity can be just what you need to open up. I suppose on some level, it makes sense. Somehow it’s just easier to talk about sex toys with strangers than your parents. Go figure.

What do you think? Are you the same in real life as you are online?

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Brains for Boobs: A Fair Trade?

Buckle your seat belts (or maybe your bras), because some highly disturbing new poll results have hit the streets.

A recent British study shows that if given the choice between brains or boobs, an astounding 41% of women go for the gazongas.

A third of women would even go so far as to trade their IQ points for larger breasts, to which I say: “Please reconsider. It is women like you who need all the IQ points they can get.”

Over half of women felt that men would be more romantically attracted to a better-endowed version of themselves, while roughly a quarter claimed that larger breasts would make them intrinsically happier. Because it’s widely known that extra pillows of fat bring women such joy.

Let me tell you something about boobs, ladies. Take it from a 32E: life in the fun-bag lane is a hell of a lot less amusing than the name suggests.

Before you think about putting your IQ up for auction on the cup-size market, consider the following.

Yes, bigger-breasted women may get more attention at bars. However, upon closer inspection, you will find that the attention-givers tend to ressemble either child abductors or the host of Tales from the Crypt.

Yes, bigger breasted women can fill out clothes. They also pop out of those clothes and get confused with prostitutes for sporting a normal tank top. In addition, they must special-order very expensive bras and bathing suits with 3-4 complicated hooks from a plus-sized catalog. How’s that for a confidence-booster?

Yes, bigger breasted women get attention at the gym. But working out also becomes awkwardly sexual. I hired a personal trainer right before my wedding, and he tried to make me jump-rope in the middle of the gym. Still uncertain whether my flailing breasts or my screaming refusal to do a second set was more awkward.

images from two beans or not two beans

Yes, big breasts imply fertility. They also imply a hell of a lot of back pain and unsightly sagging at a young age.

from someecards

Women of the world, I implore you. Think long and hard before deciding if larger breasts are the real key to your happiness.

Because it seems to me Victoria’s real secrets are the boatload of back pain she is hiding and her droves of pedophiliac stalkers.

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