11 posts tagged “humor”

One of my all time favorite bloggers, you may have heard of her, likes to do these special posts called  "Exclaimation Point!" where she posts excerpts from all of the hatemail and shitty comments she gets.

I would now like to take this opportunity to share with you some of my favorite hatemail/comments because just keeping them to myself isn't nearly as fun as sharing them with all of you.

On Dollymix, I wrote a post about the new TV show that's like the UK's version of Laguna Beach. I'd say the name here, but these kids like to set up Google alerts on their names, and then get all their drunk coked up friends to leave me comments. Gotta love their enthusiasm.

But anyhoo. I wrote this post saying, "Oh great, another TV show about spoiled teenagers." and I got a large variety of very wise comments from some very articulate young people:

cupcake - u r obviously very jealous and actually if you think about it - you've actually taken the time to write this and go on the website and analyse.. a very jealous person

shut th hel up u snooty fckin narrowminded wallposting on th internet loser! hahahaha mate. GIMP

HaHa Cupcate got slatered!

cupcate babe,
if you watch the show, which im sure you will as im sure you have nothing better to do than sit at home all night, judging by the fact that you dont seem to care about your own appearance....
you're a fucking jealous bitch
get a life babe x

Awesome. Another young man was enraged that I had a problem with the website "My Free Implants".

Well, in response to 'cupcake's' blog, I certainly DO hope you throw your laptop out the window, and take a framing hammer to your desk-top if you have one...! Keep opinions grounded in the 1800's to yourself, my friend.

Find a cause just 'slightly' better to stand behind, like some very serious environmental issues, political concerns, SOMETHING!! And as far as the BAAPS is concerned, WHO FREAKING CARES what they think??

You REALLY need to get a life, or get laid, or stop wasting your time judging women who decide to seek help for whatever reason, and as for the men who donate their money to these same women?

grow up, get a life, get with the current century, and most of all, get off the NET - You don't belong here!!

General fuckery:

Darling, your a gas! One of your cupcake wellies is sticking out your arse. Oh sorry...it's your mouth.

So, you're one of those. And you fancy yourself all cutting edge and hilarious, right? Aren't you original!

And because racism is always fun..

You can always go back to your own country, it will be no loss for us. Are you one of these here Yankie dolls that wants to be British? God, not another one. The country is full up with people like you now, can't you go somewhere else? If you are genuinely concerned with liberating women, and it's not just a load of old vodka and tart fumes, please go to Afghanistan and get stuck in.

However, my favorite backhanded, incredibly confusing compliment(?) is...

I find you disgustingly erotic, intellectually bipolar,  and haphazardly stylish.  Therefore, I will be back for more and hope to comment on a few in the future if you don't mind, that is? 

I'm not even sure what that means, but it made my morning. Getting hateful, hurtful, and ridiculous comments has helped me grow tougher skin, as if I believed most of what people said about me, I would have surely quit my job and thrown myself out a window by now.

What's the worst comment you've ever received? (And hopefully it wasn't on Vox!)

Dear Women at the gym,

Hello. I know we haven't properly met, but I wanted to take this opportunity to reach out to you, considering we've been seeing a lot of each other lately.

(Yes, once a week is 'a lot' to me.)

 I'm sure you must know who I am, as you have spent plenty a minute observing me. See, I'm the girl on the Elliptical machine next to you only going for 10 minutes at a speed of 6.7. I know you enjoy how slow I'm going because you keep looking over to make sure you're going faster than me.

I assure you, you are. You're the fastest Ellipitcal machine rider of all time. You win.

(Plus, it's my WARM-UP!!!)

And yes, that was me next to you on the treadmill ranting to my husband that I can't, "FUCKING believe I have to come to THE GYM and then am forced to stare at some dancer's FUCKING ass JIGGLE all over the place!!! This isn't a music video! THIS IS SOFTCORE PORN!!!" in between sweaty pants as I power walk because I "don't do running."

And just because I know you heard it, yes, that was me who farted next to you while you were taking up the whole floor doing your pilates exercises. It slipped. I'm sorry.

I can imagine why this was so alarming for you because clearly, you don't have gas. That would require eating.

I also just wanted you to know that YES, that's me in the lime green bikini from Old Navy two years ago that walked past you while you were perched on the jaccuzzi wall.

And,yeah, I could totally seeing you staring at my ass in horror as I walked by.

Our eyes met when I purposely turned around to catch you staring at my ass, and I have to say I thoroughly enjoyed how startled you were that OH MY GOD THE WOMAN THAT THE ASS IS ATTACHED TO HAS EYES.

I know it must be quite alarming, that I dare turn around and catch you in your sneaky past time of staring at other women who dare display the fat on their bodies IN PUBLIC and critiquing them and reassuring yourself that No...My ass is definitely smaller. Thank God. If I ever get that fat, I'll just kill myself. Ugh.

I know I have some nerve obstructing your view of the hallway to the steam room with my stretch marks.

And my cellulite.

And that ingrown hair on my shin.

Dude, I'm totally sorry. I know.

I'm, like, tooootally nastified.

But here's the thing. I'm going to the gym for a reason. And it's probably not why you're here.

I'm here, ladies, for my mental health. I'm here, for my physical health. And yeah, I'm to stay a bit more toned so I can eat my pizza and cupcakes and not have to keep buying a bigger pair of jeans every fucking 3 months.

To the girls in the pink track suits afraid of going any faster than 3.2 on the Elliptical because you're afraid of sweating, GOD ALMIGHTY GO HOME.

If you have nothing better to do than stare at other women and their fat in the pool area, why don't you go busy yourself with a session with a personal trainer, or go suck on a popsicle?

I may not be as dedicated as you are on the Power Plate, or lifting as much weight on the abduction machine, or be afraid of walking around in my bathing suit because everyone will see my thighs jiggle but that doesn't give you any more right to be here than me.

So, ladies. I just wanted to cut you a deal.

If you happen to be one of those women talking in the steam room about the £1million home in Cobham you were just looking at and how crazy you are because you forgot to tell your husband you were going to be at Yoga until 10pm last night I'm going to make you as uncomfortable as possible.

Yes, that was me who farted in the shower. (Again. It slipped.)

That was me standing there naked as long as possible while you and your gal pal Sandy discussed preschool prices and low fat salad dressing.

It may not seem like the most clever revenge I can get on your rudeness and irritating way of breathing, but being all offensive with my size 14 ass, and my offensively large tits, and tattoo, and stretch marks, and PUBIC HAIR (because, sorry, I'm not down with some chick waxing that shit all off) is the best I can think of.

I enjoy that when I do this y'all clearly get really fucking uncomfortable with having a naked chic who clearly doesn't do Yoga at 7:30 every Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday night standing 2 feet away from you.
 
Ladies, I am comfortable with myself and comfortable with my body and CLEARLY that makes you uncomfortable.

Do me a favor and stop staring at my "flaws". If you're staring because you're impressed with my magnificent tits, than just say so. (I mean, you have every right to be. Let's be real.)

Otherwise, if you're staring at me with disgust and I catch you, you're going to get The Stare, and possibly a nipple in your eye if you happen to have a locker near mine.

You have been warned.

Kisses!!!

See you next Tuesday....

-Cate

xx

This is THE! BEST! THING! I've seen in a very, very long time.

For those of you who are offended by words such as "Penis", or "Vagina", or people talking about sex in a very frank way...or phrases such as "they penis is on fire" I highly recommend that you do not watch this video.

Just don't do it. For your sake and mine.

However, if you'd like to embark on the journey that is the Alexyss Tylor Show, and enjoy her discussions about men, 'they penises', and her theories on women, sex and relationships...please turn up your volume (or put on headphones if you're at work), and press play.

It's magical.

*Gloriously discovered at Feministing.com

I mentioned before that Iain and I were getting kicked out of our flat.

Basically, our landlord raised our rent by £200.

Um, sorry, do I have a book deal? Is Iain actually Tom from Myspace?

Fucking NO, landlord! No! <insert Amy Winehouse "Nooo Nooo NO!">

We can't afford it, so we're leaving. Which is actually good considering we live in a stroller infested borough where the Council Tax is out the ass and the cost of everything else is up the wazoo.

It's fracking expensive, just like our fracking flat However, the really awkward and shitty thing about all of this is that we feel like our landlord is sort of screwy.

First off, his name is Dragon. Yes. Dragon. Like the mythical flying character.

My first thought was,"Shit...That's frightening." And it is. It really is. To me, it sounds like a code-name. Like in Kill Bill. Which then leads me to wonder if he's friends with like Phoenix, Centaur, and their bodyguard LoMo. (Short for Loch Ness Monster)

Secondly, he's kind of weird. He has a very thick Eastern European accent and is just sort of jumpy. Kind of stand-offish.Like...like he has secrets. Like he doesn't really want to talk to you about your weekend or ask how you're doing because you might start asking him questions, even if it's just to be polite, you'll start asking him shit, and then he'd go all paranoid and while he knows deep in his heart you're just being polite, he wonders if you know something. He wonders if you asking how his kids are, if it's really just code for: "What is going on with the deal with Natasha, and where did you dump the body?" and then he might freak out and be forced to kill us.

So, we don't really talk.

If something is wrong, he'll come fix it.

And by "fix it" I mean he has Sasha come take care of it.

"Um, Dragon? The entry phone isn't working."

"Oh, okay. Yes. I'll have Electrician come take care of it."

Then he and the Electrician show up. And by Electrician, I mean his friend Sasha shows up with a tool box.

"Hi Dragon. Our boiler has stopped working. Like...we have no hot water. At all. And it's snowing outside."

"OH, I so sorry. I have Plumber come take a look at it right away."

And then Dragon shows up with the Plumber, and by Plumber of course I mean Sasha, with a tool box and an instruction manual for the boiler. Did I mention Sasha doesn't speak English?

"Dragon? Our bed is like...broken."

"Oh! I so sorry. I'll have-"

"-It's cool. We'll see you and Sasha The Bed Builder tomorrow."

So Dragon and Sasha "fixed our bed" not by buying a new one, but by bringing over two long steel rods that Dragon cut himself (probably with his freakishly sharp mythical teeth) and then proceeded to drill them into the frame of the bed.

(And I'm realizing while I'm writing this that I CAN'T BELIEVE WE'RE STILL LIVING HERE.)

Every problem, and trust us -there's been many- is solved simply with Dragon and Sasha and their tool box. But when I say "solved" I mean, they throw around some tools, bang on some pipes, ask for a screwdriver and a rag, cuss in Mysterious Eastern European Language, do a secret handshake, Sasha pees in our toilet without asking, and then Dragon will find us and go,

"I so sorry. Everything should be fine. If not. Call me. Sasha and I will come back."

Who needs proper construction workers or Electricians or Plumbers when you have SASHA.

However there are things that Sasha hasn't been able to solve..

Like the fact that our water pressure is so bad that a "shower" is just a warm, steady drool dripping out of the shower head. Sasha can't fix this because it requires Dragon to spend the money to buy us an electric pump for the shower, but he probably needs that money to help hide his Mafia friends in the country pay his bills.

I also just found out that when we moved into our apartment, it had just recently been completely refurbished...new kitchen, newly converted bedroom, ya know, the works. Well, I knew it had been refurbished, I just didn't know that SASHA, Dragon's Dad, and Dragon's brother were the ones to do all of the construction on the place.This would probably explain as to why everything appears to have been bought from Ikea, and why things that are "BRAND NEW!" are fucking breaking.

Our flat is also furnished, as we don't have any real furniture because I couldn't really fit what little furniture I had in my suitcase, and that we couldn't exactly go raid Habitat because I WAS UNEMPLOYED FOR 10 MONTHS.

I feel the best part of our decor, aside from the Magical Mint Green pastel paint color in the living room, and the Soft Lilac Breeze color in the bedroom, would be the exquisite grasshopper leg light fixture Dragon ever-so-kindly installed for us when we said, "Hey, it's kind of dark in here." and he replied, "Oh don't worry. I have lovely, perfect light fixture. It very nice. You'll like it."

But really! Aside from all of the frightening "DIY to the XTREME" stuff, and scary decor, our flat is nice. It is. We have an amazing view from both ends of the house, it's in a lovely Victorian building, with lots of room. This is why we stayed. It wasn't that bad for our situation at the time, and I got out all of my "But I want to live in the city!!" feelings, as I've found out walking home with your groceries really isn't that exciting. It actually sucks a big fat one.

So, we've obviously started looking for some place to live. The only curious thing is that we haven't heard from Dragon in 2 weeks. Now, if you were a landlord and you were waiting for your current tenants to leave so you could get the flat up on the market, and get the new tenants in, all within the next 10 days...you'd think you'd be around, wouldn't you?

You'd think you'd be making lots of phone calls to your tenants. Or perhaps even writing letters. Emails. The occasional telegram....

...But no. Nothing. We've heard zilch.

Now, we're probably just overreacting and are being completely judgemental and paranoid...

But we're maybe sort of afraid that he decided to leave the country with his Mythical Character Mafia and has taken our deposit to Amsterdam where they'll then snort our money off of the bodies of some very nice " 5 for the price of 3" Dutch hookers.

Or, maybe he's just busy.

Or maybe he'll just send Sasha round on the 30th of April to collect the keys and make sure we've gone so they can convert of Flat back to its original condition of being a office building/brothel.

We're really not sure....

Next Up: Part II - Looking for flats online, going to viewings, and why I want to shank most of the real estate agents in the Greater London area...

Here I am!

I took a little blog hiatus, as for the past couple weeks I didn't really have anything other than gratuitous amounts of bitching to offer on the internet...so I just kept my mouth shut, and my fingers far away from the Compose link.

I take myself too seriously in my own head and heart, the last thing I need to do is to puke it all up in a post, and have my inner bashing and Emo moments of shame published online.

That's what my frantic emails to my old therapist, and midnight phone calls to my imaginary friends are for.

However.

I had a lot of strange, yet utterly fantastic, things happen to Iain and I this week. I find myself either laughing hysterically or crying in disbelief that we have finally reached this point in our lives, and have actually arrived at this stage in our "Ultimate Plan To Take Over The World"™.

Last February, I was still waking up at 3:30 every single morning, making Matcha green tea lattes, and wallowing in a pit of long distance relationship despair. (I was also suffering a suspicious elbow injury which I later figured out was probably do to all those late night "special phone calls" to England, but that's beside the point.)

My head was full, my heart was heavy, and my stomach so anxiety ridden that it was constantly angry with me for only feeding it espresso, taco bell, and croissants; thus causing it to seek revenge by giving me horrible cramps and numerous fits of constipation, or its counterpart, diarreaha. (Isn't sharing fun??!!!)

Throw in a bit of sexual harassment from my customers, a boss that hated me, and the never ending fretting over how the hell I would-

A) Afford the move to England
B) Quit my job without my Boss slicing my throat and beating me to death with spoiled Frappuccino mix
C) Explain to my mother that I was moving to England...like for reals.

Never mind everyone asking me where I was going to live,

("With my Internet boyfriend! DUH!)

Where I was going to work,

"Um...I have a couple of ideas."

(...Which actually meant: "Fuck no. All I know is I'm getting the hell out of this place, and never making someone a 'Ven-tay, 'atra Crrramel  Frappachacha' ever again...ever!")

And what kind of Visa I was getting,

"Um, a Working Holiday Maker's Visa...well, I should be getting that anyway. I'm just waiting to hear back from the Consulate"

....Which I did a few days after I sent my application off:

"Dear. Miss.CupCate. Your application for Working Holiday Maker Visa was denied, as you are a US National, and are therefore NOT PART OF THE COMMON WEALTH."

What I thought 'common wealth' meant when I read over the initial application, I'll never know. My ($200) bad.

How I lived through the stress, judgement, disapproval, and disappointment from others regarding my move, I really don't know. Well, I do, actually. It was probably due to my blind faith that everything would work out, Iain's practical planning, and the fact that we could no longer be apart from each other.

We were actually at the point where if we had to be separated for one more month, we would sell all our possessions, buy a small house boat, and live along the canals of Amsterdam. By day we would juggle and recite beat poetry to tourists (Iain's mad crazy on the bongos). And by night I would do nude interpretive dances to Iain's "Afro Celt Sound System" CD in the Red Light district...

Thankfully for us, and sadly for Amsterdam, it never got to that point.

Considering that our online romance originally sparked while I was flaunting myself under the name Adzurro on MyForeignBride.com (I think it was my offer to "take in lover man who presend me apartment in spa plase of egypt" that hooked him), marriage was always in our plans. **

When I moved over to England, I had just over $1,000 in my US  bank account -er- make that £500 due to the US Dollar's incredibly astounding strength as a currency! Thanks Georgie!

Iain and I knew that until I could get a visa that allowed me to work, we would be living off of dented cans of chicken broth and boiled pots of rain water.

That's just how it was going to be.

However, the thought of financially depending on Iain, and having to ask him to buy me tampons every 28 days was so traumatic that the idea of shaving my head and assaulting innocent vehicles with golf umbrellas seemed totally plausible.

I was an independent woman! The shoes on my feet? I bought 'em! The car I was driving? I bought it! The watch I was wearing?? I bought it! Cuz I depend(ed) on me!

If I wanted to go out to dinner, buy an appetizer AND a dessert, and then go to a movie....I could totally afford it.

But no. Not any more.

The shoes on my feet? He bought 'em. The house I live in? He bought it. The clothes I'm wearing? He bought it.

Cuz I depend on him.

(All the ladies! Who are Dependent! Throw your hands up at maaaaaaeeee!)

Iain and I weren't exactly thrilled with the idea, as he's had past partners do the, "Oh I'm sorry, when you said that we would both have jobs, I thought that meant that my 'job' was to sit at home all day coloring and writing haikus about Xena ...." thing. While our poverty situation was based on the fact that I could not work because it was THE LAW, it was still difficult for me to have to depend on him, and to be draining our financial funds, rather that contributing  to them.

My god, the things we have learned about patience these past 10 months...

We've learned that you cannot force things to happen against their will, or speed time sensitive processes that are  simply that: time sensitive.

We've learned to accept our financial situation. We don't like it, as, well,  it makes EVERYTHING hard.

Not having money makes everything panicky.

Gah! The cat has fleas, we can't afford to take him to the vet!

Blarg! Does my tooth hurt? I think my tooth hurts. Holy shit. We can't afford the dentist!

And then I would lay awake at night imagining having to take our cat to some backstreet vet from Compton who's office consists of an ironing board used as a examining table and keeps his medical instruments in a tool box...or having to knock out my tooth with an ice skate like Tom Hanks in Castaway.

I think my worst moment was when my STUPID ASS FUCKING BANK (Washington Mutual) decided that July 3rd would be a good day to charge me $75 worth of "International Cash Withdrawal Fees", which depleted my account. Why is July 3rd significant? OH Washington Mutual FUNNY you should ask! July 3rd is significant because it was 2 days before Iain's BIRTHDAY and I was buying him his fucking birthday present. Needless to say, I cried in front of the cashier, all the way home, and then to the cats.

Never mind my HOME MADE birthday gifts, or Iain's self-paid Christmas gifts from me, there are also the effects it has on your own entertainment, social life, and self-esteem.

I'm almost ashamed to admit it, but one of the greatest financial obstacles I've had to overcome would be having to start a new life, make new first impressions, and try to give off my impression of who "Cate" really is to my new community....without any of the usual suspects.

For example...Starting a new year at school always involves shopping, doesn't it? Buy a new binder, new backpack, new glasses, new shoes, new tops....this is the NEW ME, and every accessory and possession must represent that.

Our accessories tend to define us, don't they?

Our appearance, our clothing, our fashion tells a story about us.

How many occasions do we run out and buy a new dress, T-shirt, or complete outfits for?

Job interviews, cocktail parties, dates, weddings, birthdays, Fridays, bad days, dinner parties, award ceremonies, meeting the parents, travel days....

I've had to go through every single one of these occasions, and let me tell you, our bank account hasn't exactly let me go shopping for them. "Recycle, re-wear, reuse!" has been my motto. And it's been fucking difficult.

I've had to make my very best impressions be about ME.

I haven't had a new manicure or haircut to make me feel empowered at a job interview.

I haven't had that new, sexy dress to surprise my husband with on his birthday.

Not even the new, posh sweater to help me "feel sassy" when walking into a room full of new people.

I've had to try and repress those, "God, I'm wearing the same jeans as I did last time I saw them, and I hate this stupid shirt that I've worn a thousand times..." feelings that I used to convince myself that I was ugly, unattractive, and therefore unworthy of everything.

Around the time I wrote my "Real Beauty" post I had a meltdown in our local Starbucks (Yes, that was me in the corner crying into my chai) because I thought I needed a hair cut. I needed new jeans. I said I needed a new shirt, a dermatologist, a gym, a house full or organic lowfat hippie food, new shirts, new underwear, a new bra, etc, etc. Basically, the message I was sending Iain was,

"Hand over your credit card and let me buy and fix everything wrong with my wardrobe, body, face, and hair. Money will fix how ugly and fat I feel."

I never actually said that. But my message was basically, "Money will fix how ugly I feel about myself." He offered to get my hair done, cut out our already limited funds so I could join a gym, take me shopping if it would make me feel better.

 I stopped crying. I looked at him. And something snapped,

"No, thank you, sweetheart...but no. If it's not my hair, it would be something else."

And it would. All of the money couldn't turn off the negative, horrible things I was telling myself.

I then told myself that if I couldn't feel pretty and good enough about myself in my old jeans, Converse, and worn out tshirts...then there's no way I could feel beautiful and worthy of love even if I were wearing the Burberry Prorsum dress of my wet dreams.

However, on the same token, I'm starting to learn that just because you're leaning on the "our credit card debt is large enough to fund a small country" side of things...doesn't mean you can't enjoy life.

Iain and I don't have a TV.

Truth be told, we'll like to have one, and will have one when we can justify spending the money on a TV license...

But we talk to each other. We go for walks, because HEY! walks are free.

We still go out for drinks, even if we can't afford it, because Iain and Cate going more than 1 week sober = getting the shakes, cold sweats, and severe hallucinations.

("Honey?...Do you hear the bagpipes? Is there a man playing bagpipes in bathroom?")

We've tried to focus on the future, and that this stint of surviving off of one income is only temporary.

However, as level headed and accepting as we've tried to be of our situation, it's caught up with me the past two weeks. Probably, because I knew the end was near.

'The end' meaning that our second round of 'Will she or won't she get deported?' would be happening in the form of our  appointment to get my Spouse visa.

This appointment was scheduled for this past Friday, and considering what a hot fucking mess our last appointment in LA was, we weren't exactly all warm and fuzzy with the idea of going in front of yet another UK government official and having him decide the fate of our lives.

However, this time, I didn't get us lost, or break out in hives, NOR did I have diarrhea! (high five!)

In fact, we were so prepared, and on time, and organized that I feel like I could now teach a "How To Stay In The UK As A Foreign Bride" class.

The whole process only took 2.5 hours, and unlike last time when they practically demanded a blood sample and pound of flesh...the only documents they asked for were my application, our passports, and our fucking marriage certificate.

That's it.

The immigration officer -who I love dearly and plan on sending a naked Christmas card to- was efficient, quick, and didn't treat me like the Ukrainian Bride Con-Artist.

Amazing.

And now, here I am, a legal UK resident who can stay for 2 years (after which I can apply for settlement) and...

I! Can! WORK!!!!

Me! I can work now! I can work and make moneys and buy things and pay bills just like a real grown up!

And I can even stay up as late as I want!

We just sat there staring at my visa.

"Dude. You're a resident, now."

"Dude. I know. I can like...work."

"You can buy things!"

"Holy fuck...I can buy my own tampons...."

Of course we're excited that I can stay here legally for the next tour years...but I CAN BUY MY OWN TAMPONS, NOW!!

The ultimate glory of all this is that I actually have my new gig all set up!

As of late, I've been doing some oober freelance  writing/blogging (I think the legal term would be 'Volunteer Writing') for the lovely folks at Shiny Media, who found me a few months ago on Vox, and were like, "Hey, do you want to write for us?" to which I was like, "Dude!  Totally!.......As long as I don't have to make you Frappuccinos!!!!...Wait, I can't actually work yet. How about I work for free for a couple months! Cool?" and then we laughed, high-fived, and did a super secret handshake.

How super neat is that?

They have saved me from said head shaving and the "umbrella on car" action I described earlier, and I like contributing to their blogs <<<<<<THIS MUCH>>>>>>>>>.

So now, I'm trying to wrap my mind around having a grown-up writing job, being a freelance writer, and now doing things like going to swanky awards ceremonies in Soho, drinking free wine, and being asked to accept a Shiny Award on behalf of Vox.

(No really, you guys will get your award. Sure it looks nice on my coffee table, but I swear! You'll get it!)

I even have BUSINESS CARDS.

Okay, I may have had business cards before, but these say "Freelance Writer"....not "Assistant Manager/Coffee Master/Espresso Wench".

The only problem is, is that basically, my brain and psyche like to do this really cool thing where I like to tell myself that I'm a horrible, undeserving, useless, worthless human being when anything good happens to me.

Hmmm, maybe this would be because ever since I was little I was given the impression from my "supportive friends" that if I did anything deemed praise worthy -such as getting all 'A's, being the lead in the school play, or never getting detention- that I didn't deserve it, must have cheated, and was an unworthy, greedy, miserable bitch.

...And that NO I wasn't going to be invited to Shannon's birthday sleepover.

Now as an adult, I have this whole "I don't deserve this" complex and can often be heard moaning, "SHANNON! INVIIIIIIIITE MEEEE?!?!?!!" in the night...

However, it's ironically getting better as my successes become greater, despite the counter affect of my "supportive friends" getting greener and faithful "out for blood" haters (kisses to y'all, by the way) become more psychotic.

The beginning of this new week, marks something wonderful. It's the end of the "emotionally trying but positively influential" prologue, and the beginning of the REAL chapter one.

Our second month of marriage, my first month of pay, and the end of dented cans of chicken broth.

And now we can finally buy the cats new shoes!

** I kid, I kid. Marriage was in our plans because I was a knocked up. I somehow convinced him it was his, so then he decided to marry me. Sucker.***

***Seriously, though. We met on MySpace. I wasn't really knocked up. But, for some reason, he really did want to marry me. Go figure.

"Be Mine!"

"Be My Valentine!"

"Kiss Me!"

"I Got You Babe!"

Just as the thought of a white, pouffy, wedding made me want to throw myself into a pit of 100,000 burning copies of Martha Stewart: Martha's Wedding Ideas...I'm guessing you can take a wild stab at my feelings toward Valentine's Day.

I was all set to write a "All of My Hilariously Disappointing Valentine's Day Experiences" post, straight Bridget Jones style, yo...

But then I came across this tit of an article, entitled: "Why I Hate Valentine's Day: 6 ways the holiday wreaks havoc".

Before reading, I was like, "Oh awesome, this should be interesting!"...

And by about half way through, I had already broken out into hives, and was desperately searching the flat for a paper bag to breathe in.

According to this article, the  "6 Reasons" that Valentine's Day is so horrible are:

1) Valentine’s Day makes people afraid to start dating someone

2) Valentine’s Day can wreak havoc for those who date around

3) Valentine’s Day can bring a couple to make-or-break status

4) Valentine’s Day can cause a relationship to linger... too long

5) Valentine’s Day ratchets up the pressure to have a perfect night

6) Valentine’s Day forces you to play Kreskin on the gift front

Some of these are just obvious, and very "OMG. Waaah. I'm single. My life is miserable." But JEEZUS, some of the things that were written in this article made me want to hunt down the writer and interviewees, beat them over the head with a copy of He's Just Not That In To You, and raid their homes for whatever "You Must Be In A Couple To Be Worthy Of Living & How To Make Your Crappy Relationship Work At Any Cost!" book that they're clutching to their bosom every night whilst they cry them self to sleep.

The article is just filled with the contradictions and the gaping holes that are in women's "logic" of what Valentine's Day and romance should be, and is just further proof that when it comes to VDay, MEN CAN'T FUCKING WIN.

One of the women interviewed, Heather, said:

“I hate seeing girls carrying home flowers that their boyfriends sent them, because I know that’s never me, even when I have a boyfriend—that’s just not how I am in a relationship. All of the expressions have just become formulaic—why bother if you know what’s coming?"

The writer (whom I'm so stoked to rip on I'm practically foaming with anticipation) went on to talk about Heather's idea of Valentine' Day and said,

"She says she’d rather her boyfriend did something nice for her unprompted than something “romantic,” just because it’s a day when he’s “supposed” to. So much focus on one little day can actually make people start to second-guess the hearts and candy they do get—is he really that into you, or did he just pick up the generic be-a-good-boyfriend package on his way home? "

So far, we've established from this article that "women" don't want their boyfriends to do anything just because they're "supposed to", but don't want to be left out and hate seeing all the "other girls" with the "formulaic" gifts such as flowers or chocolate. And if your partner does feel compelled "be a good boyfriend" and chooses to get you some flowers or whatever, you end up questioning his sentiments?

Well, what I take away from this, is that maybe women don't want the typical romantic Valentine's Day bullshit gifts, but still want effort and romance. Maybe their boyfriend can tell that, and think that he'll get her something thoughtful that she'll actually use! Ya know, not just flowers that will die, chocolate that will get eaten (probably by himself), or a necklace that will get worn once every 7 months...

The author of this column wrote about friend's boyfriend who "had a knack for giving her exactly what she needed" like, for example "a toaster, a rolling pin, a hot-glue gun". That seems thoughtful isn't it? Maybe those are things she always says she wants, but will never go buy. However, apparently these gifts had "so little romantic quotient" that her friend quite frequently ended up spending VDay night "in the bathroom sobbing". Her friend's reasoning?

“I mean really, how could I not take those gifts as a sure sign that he thought of me as a pal he happens to sleep with rather than the sexy woman who rocks his world?”

For fuck sake! Seriously? Would you rather lingerie? Oh no, I imagine that would make him out to be only interested in sex, in your body, or that he wished you looked more like the girls in FHM.

What does a boyfriend/husband get the lady of his life to make her feel like she's "the sexy woman who rocks his world" without having her in the bathroom crying over a gift.

While a toaster or a hot glue gun isn't typically romantic, I can see the thought behind it. It shows that he was listening to her when she said she wanted on. That he remembered. That he wanted to her to have something she could really use! I could understand if he bought her a useful gift that she didn't actually need, but fuck! What do you women want?!!?

I loved how the writer also used women's own blind fantasies of Valentine's Day as "proof" that this holiday is bad because it "causes" couples to "make-or-break" their status. Her proof? Sophie, a lawyer in Putnam County, New York's sad little Valentine's tale.

"'I did the whole bed and breakfast suite in the country thing—very storybook,'she says. When her honey got there, he took one look at the overwhelmingly romantic (some might say stifling) set-up and decided that he really wasn’t ready to move in with her, as they had been discussing. Everything was seeming too couple-y, too fast for him. 'Lovely timing, right by the fireplace,' she recalls."

That poor girl! Just look at what that evil St.Valentine caused her boyfriend to do! Never mind that she clearly wouldn't be able to identify a red flag if it beat her over the fucking head, or that she obviously hadn't clearly gauged her boyfriend's readiness to move in correctly, OR that they obviously had communication problems...It's that Stupid Cupid's fault. This holiday is pure evil.

Just as most weddings and engagements that are fuelled purely by the Bride/Fiancée's psychotic plans and expectations efforts; a Valentine's Day that is planned and organized only by the female half of the relationship is, clearly, not a good sign. Take more of the "proof" that Valentine's Day is evil, this time from another interviewee, Suzanne, a copy editor from Boston:

"One year, I decided to treat my guy, and I made a really fancy dinner—red, heart-shaped lobster ravioli, champagne, chocolate soufflé,” she says. For all her hard work, the one thing she skipped buying was flowers, assuming that her guy would at least pick those up out of instinct. “Nothing, nada,” she says. “Here I thought I really didn’t expect anything, because I’m not into that as a holiday, but I was still wondering if this guy even knew me or cared about me at all."

Can we all pause for a moment to reflect on the aroma of bullshit that is seeping from this quote? Who the fuck spends all day to "treat" their boyfriend by making fucking HEART-SHAPED LOBSTER RAVIOLI and MOTHER FUCKING CHOCOLATE SOUFFLÉ if they're "not into" all the Valentine's Day bullshit? Are you serious? And then to go on to say that you "didn't expect anything" is fucking bullshit! She clearly didn't get flowers to TEST her boyfriend to see if he "knew or cared" about her "at all"!

I can just picture her earlier that day, on the phone with him while she delicately cuts ravioli shells into little hearts telling him,

"No, really sweets, I don't want anything for Valentine's Day. I hate that stuff. Seriously, don't you worry! You know me, babe...Me? Oh, I'm not doing anything. I'm just reading a magazine!" ...Really babe, I'm not preparing Chocolate Soufflé or anything! And I'm definitely not secretly hoping you'll propose tonight or nothin'!

Perhaps the worst of all this, was when the author uses the excuse of "Valentine’s Day can cause a relationship to linger... too long" as one of her 6 reasons VDay sucks a big fat one.

Her proof? She once stayed with a guy who "didn’t even have a TV, for starters" but was "nice enough" and "that all my friends thought he was way hot" because she DID NOT WANT TO BE SINGLE ON VALENTINE'S DAY. She said she knew their relationship was over earlier that winter, but "obviously I wasn’t going to break things off during the holidays" and then stayed with him until after Valentine's day.

"It would have been easier to call the relationship DOA earlier rather than stretch it out unhappily in the hopes of being coupled-up on Cupid’s special day. In my case, it seems, St. Valentine's was the patron saint of emotional inertia."

Oh holy Jesus on rye. Really? Are you REALLY blaming Valentine's Day for your idiotic, pathetic relationship behavior? GAWD! I don't even know where to start with her...

However, things start to make more sense after reading the small print at the bottom of the column. The writer of the article?

Laura Gilbert.

Laura Gilbert who was once the Senior Editor for Maxim magazine. I have no idea why she left the magazine, however, all I really found was a collection of articles she wrote for Maxim while being the Senior Editor.

Articles like: " Take Her Home…Guaranteed!" where Gilbert gives advice to Maxim Men about how to trick a woman into having a one night stand,

"Whether or not we’ll admit it, a night of anonymous debauchery is often exactly what we want!"

Her "we" meaning just women in general. Obviously, her insight into the female psyche is uncanny.

Or perhaps you'll enjoy her "Sexy Coeds Confess" article where she let's Maxim readers in on how "university hotties really get down".

She's like, the nerdy looking "GV behind the curtain" who's the Queen of Female Chauvinist Pigs . Okay, maybe not the Queen...but definitely a Duchess.

So, what's my own personal take on Valentine's Day?

I used to be a Valentine's Day whore.

Prior to being with ye old idiot (aka Spencer) I had only been on one Valentine-esque date with the elf-like lead singer of my second favorite punk band at my high school.

He gave me a mixed tape, and a card, and I was like, soooo totally excited when I got home. I actually had a Valentine!

Cut to 20 minutes later when my phone rings, and it's The Punk Elf, letting me know that he got back together with his ex girlfriend, and advised me to not listen to the tape he gave me...as he had recorded San Dimas High School Footbal Rules for me, and had -so romantically- replaced the name Whitney with my name.

Awesome.

Somehow, over the years, I would manage to morph into a "bitter, single girl" every February 14th, even while I had a boyfriend. I would spend so much time fantasizing about the gifts I could receive, or what my boyfriend might have planned, that by the time the damn day actually came, anything other than a pair of glass slippers and a horse-drawn carriage would caused me to end up sobbing in the bathroom.

There is nothing wrong with wanting to be wooed, swept off your feet, or be so drunk on romance that it's a struggle to not puke on your lover.

I just think that too many women are so starved for any form of romance or happiness in love, that they use this holiday as a "sign". Like, if he can't get his shit together and be romantic enough on VALENTINE'S DAY, then he really doesn't love me.

In some cases, he won't because -you're right- he doesn't really love you.

But there's also the fact that he may really love you, and you just have your head shoved so far up Lifetime and Hallmark's ass, that you wouldn't appreciate his gifts, no matter how heartfelt or thoughtful they were.

I'm not saying that you need to settle in order to be happy...

But, at least for me, I've found that once you have the "Omg this is so great I think I'm seriously going to throw up on your shoes" love...you won't be secretly longing for gifts and heart-shaped lobster raviolis.

Iain and I are staying in. We're cooking curry, using the £14 that's left on a HMV gift card from Christmas to buy a new DVD, gettin' drunk, and maybe we'll go all the way, but we'll just leave that to drunken chance, no?

The thought of roses, or flowers, chocolate, and a candlelight table for 2 doesn't gross me out.

It's the thought of doing that stuff while every other couple in the world is, and for the same reason every one else is, just seems a bit weird.

Plus, anything that is elaborately planned out and arranged simply because of a random date on a calendar isn't nearly as romantic as going to celebrate something simply because you want to...not because it's expected.

Romance is what you make it.

The other side of this is that, when asked, "What are you doing for Valentine's Day!?!!?" you're either supposed to sob and chug wine because MY GAWD you're SINGLE ON VALENTINE'S DAY, or squeal in delight if you have a boyfriend because your man has something super duper special and neat-o planned.

BUT, if you're one of those couples who could give a heart-shaped, organic chocolate-dipped fuck about Valentine's Day...No one believes you!

Valentine's Day isn't supposed to be evil, but over the years, I think our own romance-starved relationships have fueled the wide-spread epidemic of unrealistic expectations of what Valentine's Dya is supposed to be about.

I'm not going to let it drive me nuts or  wear black and I'll even try to resist the urge to pelt every couple I see that's pretending to like one another and trying not bicker for a full 24 hours with those "Fuck You" candy hearts...

It's just a damn day.

Sure everyone is being more disgusting, and fake than usual...and it can, understandably, rub your own unpleasant romantic situation in your face..
.
But why not just take some personal responsibility for your life, and stop placing blame on half naked,arrow slinging cherubs, or on clueless boyfriends who can't read your mind and magically know that that YES YOU WOULD like him to buy you some flowers.

PLEASE do not end up crying in the bathroom tomorrow over an electric shaver your boyfriend bought you, or pointlessly slaving away over heart-shaped lobster raviolis hoping it will beguile your boyfriend into being a grateful lover, when really, romantically shaped pasta cannot, and will not ever change a miserable twat into the loving, appreciative man of your dreams.

Just say NO! to heart-shaped ravioli, this Valentine's Day....

...And just say YES! to alcohol and the possibility of going all the way.