Tag Archives: fun

Sunday Sunshine

Oh, Sunday morning. You sneaky little bastard. Always coming far too soon and reminding me that my only weekend accomplishments were two inappropriate hookups and one load of laundry. Damn it.

Last night, as is becoming the Saturday night norm, I ran into three former flings. This town has got to get a better variety of men, because if this pace keeps up, I’ll be on round two by July.

First, I went to a friend’s housewarming at his sweet new downtown apartment. The co-worker I hooked up with on Friday was there, which was nice and cozy since half of my office was also there. Fun times.

Interestingly enough, the building my friend moved into also houses a certain Back Alley Way Lover. Approximately 10 seconds after I posted a picture of the view, he texted me asking if I was in his building. I stopped by to “say hi” on the way out. And I mean saying hi in the sense of making out in the hallway.

Later, I ran into poor Mr. Tomato Seeds. It was good to see him because he is such a sweet guy, but it was also a little strange. Primarily because he wouldn’t stop telling me how beautiful I looked and actually stroked my face longingly at one point. He will likely feel embarrassed about this when he remembers it today.

On a note that has nothing to do with this weekend’s shenanigans, here are five bits of sunshine making my Sunday less of an asshole:

[new favorite soup from whole foods – tomato zucchini. yum.]

[my super cool austin subway style prints from etsy, dressing up my red accent wall]

[refreshing raspberry gelato, looking extra appealing in a mini martini glass]

[festive spring flowers – one of my many impulse purchases from whole foods]

[new shoes for spring. damn you, temptress that is shoedazzle.]

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Welcome to the Office Slut Club

With the exception of my steadfast determination to hook up with San Fran Crush (one of my personal favorite tales of singlehood), I have made it a general rule not to hook up with co-workers.

As of last night, so much for that.

On a side note – it has come to my attention that some of my co-workers are also closet RFTL fans. (Hi guys! Yes, I know you’re reading.) As such, I am going to have to omit a certain level of detail for the sake of professionalism. And not having a line form for the office slut now that the rule has been broken.

Keep your inquiries to yourselves, gentlemen. This is not a circus ride.

So last night, I ran into a co-worker at a bar. We have known each other for a while, but never been single at the same time. Until now. He joined my group of friends, and we all had a great time hanging out. We flirted harmlessly, but I never found myself thinking “Gee, I hope I wake up with you tomorrow! That sounds swell.”

At the end of the night, one of my girlfriends got a little too tipsy. And by tipsy, I mean physically tipping while trying to walk. To prevent her from getting date raped, mugged, or carried off by a large bird, I decided to take her back to my place and put her to bed.

As I wrapped my arm around her and limped out of the bar, it was obvious that I needed some help. Enter: co-worker. He helped me get her the two blocks back to my place, and played with my dogs as I moved the trash can next to the bed for her.

Now, let’s be clear: we were both inebriated. Had this not been the case, I doubt he would have made a move. But when I went to sit near him, things escalated quickly. What can I say, I’m a sucker for a man who strokes my arm sweetly. Such behavior deserves reward.

To be clear for the inevitable office rumors I have just inflicted upon myself, we did not have sex. We did, however, go back to his place for some surprisingly great post-bar action. So good that I would be up for it again if the situation presented itself. Which is saying a lot because that’s the highest level of commitment I give.

It was actually really nice to wake up next to someone I knew was not a serial killer or rapist for once. We’re stepping in a positive direction, people. Be proud of me.

I have absolutely no delusions that this will turn into anything more than hooking up. I very much enjoyed it, but I think we are both on the same page with just wanting some action.

I really am every douchebag’s dream right now, aren’t I?

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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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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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SXSW: The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

Many of you may wonder what kind of horrible disease I must have caught that caused me to take a 2-day hiatus from blogging. After all, what do I even have to do other than write commentary on desserts and breast size?

Well, this week has been particularly busy. Droves of tech nerds, musicians, and hipsters have invaded my fine city to take part in the epic adventure that is SXSW. And I am in people-watching heaven.

Here is a brief summary of my adventures thus far:

The Good

SXSW means many things to many people. To me, it means free everything. My friends and I were awarded these lovely passes for having breasts. Did we take offense to this? No, we took a lovely evening of open bar, free sushi, and a live show by Jimmy Cliff instead. Thanks, creepy man with a cigar for your generosity.

Not all of the parties were quite as high-class, so we switched to some good old fashioned Texas beer when the champagne selection came from a box.

The Bad

Last night was sadly the low-light of my SXSW spree. Not because of the place or people, just because I was feeling down. It began with this bag of wine and ended with a very grumpy version of me whining until I passed out in the car.

One poor soul tried to approach me and make a connection. He asked if my eyelashes were real. When that shockingly incited no conversation, he incorrectly guessed what type of cellphone I was using to try and impress me. Then, he mostly stood there and stared like a drunken zombie.

Thank you for your inquiry, sir, but I am currently not accepting applicants with IQs under 60. Should my intelligence requirement be lifted, we will be in touch. But don’t hold your breath. I also bite. Not in a sexy way.

The Ugly

The people-watching at SXSW is incomparable. I want to rip some of the outfits off of the women and run away with them until I reach my closet, which I hear is the next craze in how to shop.

Other outfits are not only less desirable, but down right vom-worthy.

Exhibit A

Home girl needs some Stacy & Clinton in her life. Or at the very least a different pair of socks.

Exhibit B

What kills me is that I actually like her shirt. Just not awkwardly layered, and with neon bra straps a’ blazing. But the shoes leave me speechless – are they rain boots? wedges? cowboy boots? I’ll just call them “ugly.”

I have nothing more to say about this photo. So in summation…. SXSW is great. I cannot say the same for all of the wardrobe selections.

And here is my fake smile.

As one of my friends always signs off… kisses and blow jobs. (think about it. xoxo?)

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