Currently I am married to this gorgeous man.

These days Valentine’s Day is a fun affair.  This year Ben bought me flowers and chocolates and he made me a lobster dinner.  But that’s not what this is about.  No, this is about one particular horrible pre-Ben Valentine’s Day.

We have all dated someone completely embarrassing, right?  Personally, I dated about 30 embarrassing guys, but I’m kind of an overachiever.  The most cringe-worthy guy I dated was a snow board instructor/local television producer.  You read that correctly, local television producer.  He was kind of a big deal.  We’ll call him Mark.

Mark was really weird and if I hadn’t been so drunk the first few times I saw him, I would have noticed this earlier.  I met Mark at a bar in Boston .  I was with one of my girlfriends and as we walked out of the bar he stopped me and asked in I knew how to ice skate.  In my buzzed state I thought this question was hilarious, so in lieu of answering I just laughed.  He persisted, and I told him that no, I did not know how to ice skate.  Mark then asked me if I wanted to learn.  I said sure, we exchanged numbers and I went on my drunken way.

Fast forward to our first date.  It was the end of January and Mark took me ice skating at Frog Pond in Boston .  I was petrified.  The thing is, I’m terribly uncoordinated even when I’m not on ice.  I didn’t see how this could possibly end well, so I did what any other reasonable 24 year old woman would do, I got just shy of drunk before our date.  Needless to say that this did not help improve my ice skating skills.

The first date had gone well enough that, despite my inebriation and lack of skating abilities, Mark asked me out again.  This time we were going out to dinner and (get ready for it) drinks, so there was no need for me to show up to this date already half in the bag.  Or so you would think.  Well, we were meeting up later in the evening on a Friday, so rather than going back to my apartment after work and then trekking back out to Back Bay to meet up with him, I decided to stay in Back Bay and grab some drinks with co-workers before my date.  Are you keeping track?  Because I’ve now seen this guy three times, none of them sober.

Apparently I’m charming when I drink because he asked me out yet again.  For our third date, I decided to switch it up and not pregame like a Penn State frat boy.  Through the haze I always had a good time with Mark.  He was funny and cute, so I decided to actually show up to a date in my right mind.  This was a horrible idea.  I learned Mark’s funny cuteness was directly proportional to my drunkenness.  The date was going horribly.  Mark was a close talker.  And he whispered everything in a way that he seemed to think was sexy, but was actually kind of scary.  He also liked to give odd compliments, like, “You have great posture, it’s really sexy.”  I decided to remedy the situation with copious amounts of alcohol.  And sure enough, the more I drank the less he reminded me of a child molester.

But I miscalculated.  I drank too much, therefore making him too charming, therefore making me go back to his apartment, therefore resulting in this little tableau:

Mark walks into his bedroom after having gotten me a glass of water.  I am sitting on Mark’s bed.  Mark dances in front of me like a burlesque dancer.  He is totally serious.  He has his sexy face on.  Marc begins stripping his clothes off.  The dancing is now accompanied by singing.  Sexy singing.  Singing a montage of Beatle’s songs.  He gets down to his boxers which he thankfully leaves on.  He dances over to his closet where he removes black pleather pants.  Marc shimmies into the black pleather pants and starts singing an old STP song.  He continues to dance around the room, signing.  When he finally stops its to tell me that he wants to be a rock star.  Then he proceeds to show me his awesome rock star poses.  I die a little on the inside.

Before I go on, let me explain that this happened in real life.  This happened to me.  I endured this.

Right about this point I realized that there was not enough booze in the entirety of Ireland to make what had just happened sexy.  I feigned sick and left quickly.  But the story does not end here.

Fast forward to Valentine’s Day.  I walked out of my office at the end of the day and who do I find waiting for me with flowers?  Mark.  And hey, guess what else?  He smells awful.  So, yeah…  Marc walks up to me, gives me the flowers, kisses me on the cheek, and generally acts like this is completely normal.  Have you ever been in a horribly awkward situation and the awkwardness is so massive that it overwhelms and paralyzes you?  Because that is totally what happened to me.  I tried to make my brain work, screaming at it to think of a goddamned exit strategy, but all I was getting was:

What I’m trying to tell you is that I went to dinner with this guy.  After he danced in leather pants.  I did that.  And I’m not proud.  And actually it gets worse, because I kind of, sort of, kept on seeing him for a month or so after that.  And he wore the leather pants again.  On multiple occasions.  And once he asked one of my girlfriends if she had a penis.  And the smell?  Not a one time thing.

The end

This is not because I don’t love my friends deeply, this is just the way Jesus made me, and who am I to question Jesus?  My friends, however, collectively hate Jesus and refuse to accept this reasoning and as a result I end up apologizing.  A lot.  My stock apology is as follows:

I am so sorry (insert name).  I love and care about you, I’ve just been busy this last week which is why I missed your call regarding the tragic death of your family pet.  I have a lot of mental issues that require large chunks of time spent alone analyzing small and insignificant portions of my day and it doesn’t always leave time for checking my voicemail.  You look really pretty today though, have I mentioned that?  Because you do, it really can’t be overstated how pretty you look.  You should probably take your top off.

By the end of the apology my friend is frightened and disoriented, and accepts my apology simply because she’s now desperate to exit this situation.  The compliments and sexual come on work to take the focus away from the initial incident that made said friend angry, and put the focus on the current situation that is making said friend uncomfortable.  Its kind of my signature move.

This brings me to my next point.  I am also horrible at commenting on the blogs that I read.  Again, this is not because I don’t adore those blogs, its because I AM NOT INTERESTING.  I put that in all caps because I thought it added some interest to the fact that I’m not interesting.  I used to be awesome at blog comments, meaning that if I read it, I commented.  Now, I am awful.  I read a billion blogs every.single.day. and comment maybe once a month.  As a blogger I feel shitty about this.  As the kind of person who is too lazy to check her voicemail, I’ve accepted it.  Even when I used to comment, my comments were awful.  I require a lot of time to come up with offensive witticisms.  Case in point, it just took me about 20 minutes to think of the word witticism.  So, to everyone in my blogroll, an apology:

I am so sorry (insert name).  I love and care about you, I’ve just been busy reading your blog last week, which is why I ran out of the time required to think of a comment.  I have a lot of mental issues that require large chunks of time spent alone analyzing every little thing I say on your blog.  It is paralysis, by analysis.  You understand, don’t you?  You look really pretty today though, have I mentioned that?  Because you do, it really can’t be overstated how pretty you look.  You should probably take your top off.

And now onto the last item today on my List of Things at Which I Am Horrible:  You know that saying, What’s good for the gander is good for the goose?  I hate that saying.  Because, see, even though I don’t always answer Mary’s calls, my feelings get hurt when she doesn’t answer mine.  And you know how I am awful at commenting?  I get insecure when my posts don’t get comments.

In conclusion, something something something.*

*I’m also horrible at coming up with tidy endings for my posts.

1.  My first, and most enduring, crush is on Stone Phillips.

2.  My favorite color is red.  Like blood and tomatoes.

3.  I read a ton.  I generally go through a couple of books a week.

4.  I require a lot of alone time.  Mostly because I am socially awkward.  And awkwardness, while hilarious, can also be exhausting.

5.  I did pageants as a kid.  Word of advice, don’t ever, ever, EVER do this to your children.  Or if you do, please put aside money for their future therapy bills.

6.  I don’t drink.  Weird, huh?

7.  I’m not an alcoholic or a Mormon.  Even weirder, right?

8.  Ben and I met in a bar.  That was back when I was still drinking.

9.  I actually don’t drink because Jesus came to me in a dream and told me not to drink anymore.

10.  Not really, but wouldn’t that be hilarious.

So yeah, learning is fun, right?  Now the second part of blog awards involves passing the awards along to other blogs.  Small problem, I read about 20 million blogs and they’re all fucking awesome.  And way classier than this shit.  So, here is a screen shot of about an eighth of my reader:

You’re all winners of Jill Pilgrim’s Half Assed Blog Award.  Congrats!!

Introducing, my super awesome, not at all offensive, JESUS CALENDAR!

Cass won the first calendar without even trying, and if you would like to join her in Jesus calendar ownership you can purchase one here.

The calendar includes awesome graphics like this:

And this:

You should probably buy ten and pass them out at the office.  Perfect as a secret Santa gift for your boss.  Guaranteed by Jesus to get you a promotion!

As a married hag I have an endless supply of advice relating to marriage, being married, and blow jobs.  Namely, how to have a successful marriage, how to enjoy being married, and how to ensure you never give another blow job again.  Lets get started, shall we?

1.  In the week (or year, if you’re me) before your wedding ensure that you bombard your significant other with endless rants about the ineptitude of your wedding vendors.  Also, yell a lot about that bitch at the bakery who is starting to give you attitude just because you called for the fifth time to change the flavor of the top tier.  Throw in some tears where appropriate.  Then (and this is key) have lots of hot makeup sex to keep him from running away.  The sex will make him forget that you are crazy.  For now.

2.  If, by chance, your husband sees you before the ceremony in your dress, you must blind him.  Otherwise your marriage is doomed.

3.  On your wedding night you will be expected to perform certain duties.  The pressure is on my friend.  You have to do something special.  I would suggest shaving your new monogram into your bathing suit area.  It will be a nice surprise for him and will really show your attention to detail.  Also?  Is there anything at your wedding that isn’t better with a monogram?  Exactly.

4.  Once on your honeymoon, it is time to relax.  But, not really because you are expected to give blow jobs and anal on demand.  Don’t worry though, this is the last time your now husband is going to have this kind of access to your body.  Let him have his last hurrah.

5.  After the honeymoon is over, the “being married” stuff really begins.  Its now time to throw away all of that lingerie you bought for the honeymoon.

6.  As a wife you are expected to use all of those registry gifts to good use.  Make dinner for twelve, bake a million cakes, make your husband a milk shake.  In short, fatten him up to ensure that he will never leave you.

7.  It is also important to put your husband on a strict sex schedule, enough so that he still has the will to live, but not so much that he thinks he married a slut.  Remember, you’re not a single girl anymore.  Close those legs for christsake.

8.  Buy a set of nice pearls.  Clutch them whenever someone cusses or makes reference to male genitalia in your presence.

9.  Penis.  (This was a test. )

10.  Stop referring to your husband by name.  And make sure that you talk about him at least once every 20 minutes.  People will not find this at all annoying.  And remember, no names!  Just, “My husband this,” and “My husband that.”  John?  John, who?  John doesn’t exist anymore.  John’s just known as Mary’s husband now.

And that, my friends, is a little bit of wisdom from me to you.

But seriously Kari, you’re going to be gorgeous.  Congrats honey!  J is one lucky man.  Now here is my real present:

Oh, and also, Ben would like me to clarify that he does in fact still get blow jobs.  As a matter of fact he’s getting one right now.  I’m a master of multitasking.

Do you live with roommates?  Would you like to make your current living situation unbearably awkward?  Great!  I can help!  Just follow these easy steps below, and soon you will be wishing you lived in a cardboard box on the side of the road because that would be totally preferable to staying in your apartment.

Step 1:  Walk into your apartment.

Step 2:  Hear the sounds of cartoons coming from your very nerdy, very asexual roommate’s bedroom.

Step 3:  Walk into bedroom without knocking (this step is critical).

Step 4:   Discover your very nerdy, very asexual roommate masturbating to CARTOON PORN!

Step 5:  Stand in place, unable to move.

Step 6:  Make strange gurgling noise, while locked in eye contact with roommate, who incidentally is still holding his penis. 

Step 7:  Repeat Step 6 until brain function returns.

Step 8:  Mutter apology

Step 9:  Stagger out of room like a shooting victim.

Step 10:  Never look at Papa Smurf the same again.

And that, kids, is how you manage to turn your perfectly acceptable apartment into a place where you feel dirty, even in the shower.  Especially in the shower.  Because Jesus only knows what he’s doing in there with your novelty rubber ducky.

Note:  So, um, I sort of googled “smurf porn” to see if I could locate the particular piece of erotica that my roommate was pleasuring himself to, but instead I found something even more awesome.  Please note that this link is very not safe for work, but it is fucking hilarious.  Four words: live action smurf porn.  You’re welcome.