On Saturday, February 13, I found out TWO girlfriends had gotten engaged…within the same hour.  Apparently, Valentine’s weekend is a prime time to get engaged.  Who…would have thought?  In all seriousness, though, congrats to Becca and Catherine.  And, at least they were away on vacations and it wasn’t technically ON Valentine’s Day.  If their men would have proposed at some fancy restaurant on February 14, I think I would have barfed.  No offense if that’s ever happened to you.

I know I may hate on Valentine’s Day here and there, but to be honest, even though I’m single, I actually enjoy it.  It’s a great night to put on a cute outfit, go out with the girls, and mingle.  Because, chances are, the people that are out at the bars on Valentine’s Day without a significant other on their arms are single.  It’s the ideal weeding out process.  And, as Louisa and Katie put it:  “when the couples are away, the singles come out to play.” We ended up hanging out at Atkins Park until last call and while it was a fun night out, I don’t have many crazy antics to report…surprisingly.  I did, however, meet a guy that had a picture of a cat as the wallpaper on his phone.

All I can say is….meow.

Funny, that I wrote about guys with sketchy phones on this blog JUST last week, and then this happens.  This guy had a Blackberry, but I think I would have rather him had a 2002 Samsung flip phone with no wallpaper at all than a smart phone with a photo of a kitty cat on it.  Oh, you think maybe he was joking?  No.  He wasn’t.  It was his family cat, Mack.  Before Mack, there was Sneakers, who was his wallpaper ever since his first cell phone.  Needless to say, I didn’t want to spend my evening talking to this guy about his pet history, so I hinted for him to vacate the seat next to me in the booth where he had sat himself down.  He finally picked up on the hints and proceeded to tell me that he “had never been rejected so politely in his life.”  And, he wasn’t being sarcastic.  Wow. I must be losing my touch, I thought.  I had definitely never gotten THAT compliment before.

Yesterday (actual Valentine’s Day), was a day like like any other.  I had a couple invites from girlfriends to do dinner, but I chose to stay in, watch sappy movies (“Pretty Woman” and “Where the Heart Is” made the cut) and eat chocolates.  The problem was…I didn’t have any chocolates.  So, when I couldn’t resist the craving any longer, I made the drive to Kroger in my sweats at 9 p.m. to pick up a box of Russel Stover’s finest.

And, what….a selection.

Ummm….Clean-up on aisle 7 please!!  What a hot mess!  It looks like a tornado blew through here!  And by tornado, I obviously mean guys picking up last minute gifts in a hurry to make their dinner reservations.

I thought that maybe since it was 9 p.m., the Kroger folks might start putting out the 50-75% off signs on the Valentine’s gifts.  No such luck.  The box I wanted was $12 and I knew it would be $3 in the morning.  So, I tried to sweet-talk a Kroger employee into hooking me up.  Again, no such luck.

“Well ma’am, I guess Valentine’s Day ain’t over until midnight,” he politely explained.

Then, as if on cue, a man rushed by on his way to the self check-out carrying flowers.  And, not even nice flowers, which Kroger DID  still have available.  He had selected those little roses in the plastic, you know, like you get at 7-11.  What…a charmer.  I knew I had to get a picture.  I snuck up behind him at the U-scan and positioned my camera at the perfect angle to snap the roses in the grocery bag on the turnstile.  And, then he moved.  And, rushed out the door.  F*ck.

This was all I could get.

The 7-11 bouquet is RIGHT in front of his left arm.  Talk about a failed attempt.

I walked the aisles of Kroger trying to find another last-minute shopper, but with no luck.  It just wasn’t my night.  No big surprise there.

Just for the record, I’m not a big fan of extravagrant Valentine’s Day.  IF I had a Valentine, I would prefer to chill at home with wine and pizza and make fun of couples getting engaged at Bacchanalia on the “most romantic day of the year.”  But, that’s just me.  I know most girls like guys to put effort into Valentine’s Day, which is probably similar to the way I feel about my birthday.

And, I WILL say that I would have been PISSED if my boyfriend showed up at 9:30 p.m. on the night of my birthday with those busted flowers.  It would have been very obvious to me that he picked them up at a grocery store, in which case….I would have preferred a Digiorno pizza and couple pints of Ben & Jerry’s.

I’ve never been a large-chested girl, and I’m A-OK with that.  I really don’t want any body part of mine to be larger than it already is and my rack is no exception.  I’m fine with my medium B-cup, although it WAS an exciting day when I purchased a 34C once last year.  Thank you, Victoria’s Secret….for that mislabeled undergarment.

While my average-sized chest doesn’t concern me one bit, I’m no fool when it comes to dudes.  I know they prefer larger, no matter WHAT they say.  If two equally attractive girls walk into a room, one with small boobs and one with big knockers, 99% of the time,  guys will check out the girl with the knockers.  Chances are, they will hit on her first, try to get her number over the small-chester and hope to take her home later.   I mean, I get it – guys don’t have boobs, so they’re automatically intrigued, but by the same token, I don’t have a penis and I definitely don’t check dudes’ packages out the second they walk in a room, but that’s a whole different theory.

Anyway, I decided to put my investigative journalism to work and go “undercover” as a large-breasted girl last Saturday at Fado.  I even decided to take my investigation a step FURTHER and prove that guys will check out a large rack…no matter what it looks like.  Luckily, Fado had a vase full of misshapen gourds sitting on the bar for the holiday season, so I grabbed some of those and put them in my sweater.  Talk about…a cornucopia.  My friends caught on and started stuffing objects down my shirt, including a hoodie to complete the “implants.”  Take a look at my new and not-so-improved rack:

What…a senior picture.

Here’s the triple-E-cups from the front, complete with misplaced gourd nipples.

Fellas…eat your heart out.

It was time to make a lap.  I went out into the crowd on the rooftop of Fado and expected to be met with laughs and maybe even looks of repulsion.  Nope.  Exactly the opposite.  Dudes were actually checking out my rack and giving me serious once-overs.  I could barely hold back my laughter.  I took it a step further and started rubbing up against dudes from the back with an exaggeratedly sexy “excuse me.”  A couple guys even turned around, checked me out, gave me the “no, excuse ME” and then wanted to chat!  I struck up convos with a couple guys, but ended up telling most of them the truth…as if it wasn’t obvious enough.  After which, something like this usually ensued:

I never knew copping a feel on a hoodie and a couple gourds could be so orgasmic, but hey….

However, not EVERYONE was impressed, and by that, I’m referring to this charming fellow that had entirely too much hair gel in his ‘do and that Chesley ended up talking to for entirely too long:

Clearly, he could tell a REAL set of big hooters from a fake set….hence, why he chatted up Chesley.

However, with the exception of Hair Gel, the theory was proven.  Guys love big boobs….regardless of their symmetry or composition.  It still doesn’t make me wish I had bigger ones though, even though I discovered that they DO come in super handy for two important things…..

Headrest.

And cupholder.

Inbreastigation:  complete.

We’ve always known that Halloween is the number-one day of the year for girls to dress like total sluts.  However, last year, I started to get a sneaking suspicion (when I saw a straight guy dressed in a Hooters waitress ‘stume at a party), that guys take this opportunity to dress JUST as slutty.  This year, I decided to launch an all-out investigation to see if my theory proved true…using my very own guy friends as test subjects.  I EVEN went “undercover” in a slutty ‘stume myself, so I could fit in with the test subjects and observe them in their natural habitat.

We were at a pre-party at my friend Tracy’s, complete with my smashingly successful pumpkin pie martinis, and of course, plenty of other booze, when the guys slowly started to peel themselves off the couches from watching the Georgia/Florida game to get into their gear.  All the ‘stumes were in a giant black bag that reminded me of the “carrying case” the instructor brought all of her goods over in for my sex toy birthday party this past July, so I was immediately intrigued.  They began to whip out the pieces one by one:  leather chaps, cut-off jean shorts, tight leather pants with fringe, a headdress, etc.   Last I heard, the guys were going as a barbershop quartet, so this new development got me extremely excited as I realized I was thisclose to proving my theory correct.  Apparently, they decided to go as the Village People…if you can even call it that.  They all wore certain ‘stumes for a party on Friday night and were switching off for Saturday night.  Check them out in all their scantily clad glory:

Talk about…investigative journalism.  The theory was proven.  Guys dress JUST as slutty as girls do on Halloween, sometimes…even more.

Foley (my former senior prom date) was especially excited to wear the leather chaps as he had been eyeing them on Christian (the Indian) the night before.  He even had a special pair of undies for the occasion.  And by occasion, I don’t just mean Halloween…it was also Gay Pride Weekend.

Now THAT is a proud supporter.

Chesley and I dressed as Beyonce and Lady Gaga.  When I came up with these costumes, I thought they were totally original.  What…an idiot.  Apparently, they were the ‘stumes of the year.  But, we felt we pulled them off best.  Chesley kept her Poker Face on, and I had spent most of the day learning the Single Ladies dance, so we were good to go.

Off to Twisted Taco we went…in a Town Car.  Since when do you call a cab and a shiny black Town Car pulls up?  Since you’re Gaga and ‘yonce, that’s when.  Part 3 is up next…

Playboy recently conducted their 2009 College Sex Poll and I found the bulk of the results to be pretty believable.  However, ONE particular statistic glared at me amongst the percentages regarding one-night stands, sexting, grooming, etc.  The percentage of students who said they’ve done a walk-of-shame:  47%.

Not even half?!  No way. Clearly, some students didn’t understand the question.  Even walking down a flight of stairs or down the hallway in a pair of boxer shorts carrying your dress shoes (for those lucky enough to have co-ed dorms) counts as a walk-of-shame!  I find it hard to believe that JUST as many kids are admitting to having anal sex (47%) as having ever done the W.O.S.  What…a sack of shit.  ‘Fess up, kids – more than half of you have DEFINITELY slinked into your dorm room or apartment smelling like booze and cigarette smoke and missing a piece of clothing and/or your dignity.  I’m not buying it.

Image courtesy of Playboy.com.

Anyway, this compelling survey took me on my own walk of shame down memory lane.  I actually have prided myself on NOT being a serious walk-of-shame offender, but there are a few select instances that I feel are worth sharing…and not ALL of them about me.  Feel free to post your own shameful stories or message me privately if you can relate.  A good walk-of-shame story always brightens my day.

Caught in the Shacked

I went home with a guy in the beginning of one my Dewey Beach summers and we actually ended up dating for the remainder of the summer (I know, weird, right?)…but that’s beside the point.  The first time I shacked with him, I woke up and realized I had to hightail it to Father’s Day Brunch.  I couldn’t get a hold of any of my girlfriends and the dude’s car was parked at the other end of the beach so it looked like I’d be walking.  Awesome. I had worn white linen pants out the night before, so it wouldn’t have been that horrible to put those suckers back on…but we had decided to take a late night walk along the ocean the night before and somehow they had gotten soaked.  Don’t ask.  Moving right along…

I wasn’t going to wear my lacy shirt from the night before with a pair of boxers, so I made him give me a whole outfit.  A pair of plaid boxers and giant orange T-shirt it was.  I strapped on my wedges from the night before, put my clothes in random plastic bag I found somewhere and embarked on my 6-block walk back to my house, attempting to hold my head high.

I got home, changed just in time for mom and dad to scoop me up and we headed to brunch.  Per usual, I overate on my parents’ dime and came home in desperate need to put on something with an elastic waistband and take a nap.  I spotted the shack clothes in all their oversized, comfy glory…so I put them on and curled up on the couch.  An hour or so later, I heard a knock at the door and not thinking, got up and opened it…to see the dude from the night before.  F*ck. Yes, it was very cute of him to stop by and say hello…but a call would have been nice.  “Oh hey!” I said, as he clearly surveyed HIS clothes still on MY body.  “I haven’t gotten a chance to change yet,” I said…again, not thinking.

“Didn’t you go to brunch with your family?” he asked.  Buuuuuusted. I had to admit that I DID go to brunch and came home and just put the clothes back on to take a nap.  What…a confession.  He must have thought I was a total weirdo, but that didn’t stop him from dating me all summer.  And, yes, I still have the entire outfit.

Birds of a Feather Walk Together

It was Dewey Beach summer 2K5 and my BFF Cory and I had been out all night and had hit a wall.  We were on our walk home, when we realized that our beach house was another 5 or 6 blocks away (which would have felt like 5 or 6 miles in our drunken stupor), but our friend Jeremy’s house was right in front of us.  “Jeremy’s out of town this weekend – we should just go sleep in his bed,” Cory suggested (ie. slurred).

“Good call,” I slurred back and we quietly (or what we THOUGHT was quietly) let ourselves into his beach house, up to his room and into his comfy queen bed.  Not ONLY did Cory and I both have single beds in our beach house that summer (hers was even on a bottom bunk), but Jeremy had his own A/C unit in his room, so this was QUITE the luxury.  We set an alarm for 8 a.m. so we would be up and out of there before we were discovered by his roommates and so we wouldn’t have to face beachgoers in our clothes from the night before as we walked home.

But, the next morning, we just could NOT tear ourselves out of that bed.  It was perfectly chilly, it was comfy and we felt like shit.  So we silenced our alarm and stayed in bed until 11:30 a.m.  Big mistake.  We walked out into the sunlight in our outfits from the night before, shielding our eyes and looking like what I can only imagine as the scene from “Varsity Blues” when they leave the strip club at 6 a.m.  The streets were PACKED with people going to the beach.  It was mid-July and 11:30 a.m., so it was probably the most people that could ever be making their way down to the beach at a given time.

I can’t imagine what was going through people’s heads when they spotted us.  Wow, some guy just got really lucky?  Those girls must be from the same escort service?  Or just plain snickers because it was clearly a DOUBLE walk-of-shame?  What were moms telling their kids when they asked, “where are those girls’ bathing suits?” It was nice to have someone to laugh about it with, but still something I would never want to endure again.  I also don’t know if we ever told Jeremy we invaded his room that night.  Well,  Jeremy, here it is – sorry you couldn’t be there.

I have a few more of these stories to post but this entry was getting rather long, so I figured I would break it up a bit.  If you read “Caught in the Shacked” and thought “oh man, she is totally getting busted by her parents,” but then felt let down when I didn’t…stay tuned.  That’s up next.  Cheers!