One of my not-so favorite holidays is upon us. This Thursday couples everywhere will celebrate being together, while those of us that are single will weep into our bottomless glasses of wine. For the past several years I had hoped to share Valentine’s Day with that very special someone, sadly, he is still hiding from me so I’m destined to spend it alone. Usually I have excellent plans to fall back on, but this year for some reason, I’ve got squat. If I were a single guy I know exactly what I’d need for a perfect night: 6 pack of beer, porn and ESPN. We single girls are more complex than that.

In an effort to ensure that I don’t cry myself to sleep after consuming an entire quart of Dryer’s Slow Churned Cookies & Cream ice cream and a bottle of champagne, I’m gonna plan something fun. Now, which of these 4 will I go for:

Option #1: Perhaps I will choose to make Ryan Reynolds my Valentine. We can get to know one another over a bucket of buttered popcorn or way too much Coca Cola. He is dreamy and I would like to mount him like the stallion that he is.

Option #2: I suck it up and order myself some flowers and write something fabulous on the card like, “Hey there Top Single! You rock my world!” Then when they arrive at work, I’ll pretend I have no idea who sent the flowers to me and everyone will think I have a dreamy secret admirer. Then I’ll go home, order some pizza, and watch Bridget Jones’ Diary (for the bagillionth time).

Option #3: I take a half day from work. Spend the afternoon at the Seattle Art Museum. On the way home I can pick up some (notice I said ”some” and not “one”) cupcakes from Cupcake Royale and some take out from Tup Tim Thai. Then I can go home and watch some action flick where people get blown up and no one makes out.

Option #4: I mope around all day and roll my eyes when other people get flowers at work. After work, I immediately put on my pajamas and crawl into bed getting out only for the Dryer’s Slow Churned Cookies & Cream ice cream and to refill my glass of champagne. Pop in Terms of Endearment and weep the whole night long while checking my cellphone every 15 minutes in hopes that I get an invite for a last minute date.

Decisions, decisions. . .

To the smoking hot guy I saw and overheard in the cafeteria:

When you said you were skilled in ironing I wanted to jump over the 6 people sitting between us and land in your lap. I’ll pretend to ignore that you mentioned your wife and 2 small children. I know you just talk about them to make me jealous. It’s working, sailor.

In a riveting conversation with a friend yesterday, and we began pondering a very important matter. Do muffin tops have flavors?

We think they do and we went ahead and decided upon clapberry and watersmellin. Now, mine personally would be sunshine and roses, but that’s not funny. Not even a little bit. Instead, I’m going to go with a spicier more Mexican theme (seeing as how I’m Mexican and all). My muffin top flavor is Sin-namon Man-go. There you have it.

What’s your muffin top flavor?

You will never in a million years guess who wrote to me. NOT EVER!! Go ahead, take a guess then keep on reading. Bet you anything you’ll guess wrong. . .

Okay, are you ready for it?? I just got an email from my cervix. That’s right, you read it right, my cervix. Take that for skilled, bitches! My fun bits are literate!! Okay, okay, so maybe it was really my new Gynecologist office writing to me pretending it was my cervix and reminding me of my appointment next week but still. It’s not often that I get an email at work that is cervix related. Nor is it often that the words “vagina” and “clitoris” are in my emails.

Today’s a special day, kids. My cervix has graduated from grade school. I might have to take it out on the town and treat it to a good time.

What seemed like a good decision this morning is making me want to pass out and die. I can’t breathe in these jeans. Seriously, the button is digging into my skin and I’m starting to get lightheaded. It’s possible that the button will leave a permanent mark. How on earth am I going to explain that the next time I get naked? I’m not sure if I’ll make it much longer in these pants.
Last month I started to kick up the fitness/eating well routine. Things have been going pretty well and I was convinced that I had slimmed down enough to squeeze my fat lower half into my size 12 jeans that have been living in a shopping bag in my closet for 5 months. Sure, I’m wearing Spanx* and have a bit of a muffin top, but still-I can fit into them and they actually zip. With the muffin top being camouflaged, I’m convinced that it looks like the jeans fit. Then again, maybe I’m delusional because the pants are cutting off my circulation and I’m not getting enough oxygen.

Here’s a fashion tip from me: if it hurts and you can’t breathe, avoid it at all costs.

*For those of you that have never heard of Spanx, let me give you a little explanation. They are the most marvelous invention ever created-even better than white bread. They’re like footless pantyhose that suck in all your wobbly bits. You wear them under clothes (that you probably shouldn’t be wearing because you’re too fat) and help keep everything in place. I love Spanx. Oh, and never ever wear them if there’s any chance that you might hook up with someone. Nothing ruins the moment like all your junk being released into the night. Trust me, the boys will run. Also Target has a lower cost version, Assets, made by the same woman behind Spanx.

I know that they like to say they do things "big" in Texas, but there still has to be a point where common sense makes one reconsider certain outlandish ideas, such as having a life-size wedding cake made of yourself:[read all about it]












I'm not sure which is worse: her actual wedding dress which looks like she barfed up potpourri all over the front of herself, or the fact that she had it immortalized in frosting.I think the most telling image is the one where the groom is shoved into the background, forced to peer impishly over the bride's shoulder in a desperate attempt to be noticed, as if he's lucky even to be included in the photograph. It's not hard to tell who's wearing the pants in that relationship.
Yay for Texas.

Finally the church admits that Jesus loved nailin' them broads...





*cue rimshot*