College Candy

Valentine’s Day sure does have a way of sneaking up on me and my singleness every year. And I’m not sure how it happens, seeing as the heart-shaped candy has been out since December. But while I may be forced to cuddle up with my pup come Sunday, it turns out that most people – single or taken – would actually prefer it!

Ah, the new relationship. A time to learn everything about one another, to cuddle (a lot), to hold hands whenever you can, to have lots and lots of sex… And, apparently, to ditch your friends.

OK, Rihanna, I get it. Your music is innovative and powerful. You’re talented and beautiful. And thanks to you, I now refer to an umbrella as an “ella ella ella.” You’re classy, eloquent and inspirational; the kind of woman we can all look up to… unless we’re looking to you for fashion advice, that is.

Every fashionista knows Etsy.com is an online goldmine. Not only is everything one-of-a-kind unique, handcrafted by independent designers, but it is my personal go-to website for cutting edge accessories and unexpected finds.

My professor is a complete jerk. He talks way too fast in class and I’m always completely lost. I have a big exam coming up so I went to office hours and he refused to help me. He claimed I needed to figure it out for myself. I’ve been trying! I can’t bomb this test (its 30% of my grade) so I don’t know what else to do. Ideas?

Not only does college leave me stumped in my latest lecture, the daily grind leaves me scratching my head as well. Especially when it comes to my questionable relationships with men boys. Countless hours spent over-analyzing his latest text, the way he touched my arm in the bar, and how many days it took him to finally pitch me a Facebook message… It’s exhausting.

I know that if I don’t clock in at least thirty minutes of cardio per session, I feel like my gym outing has been a waste and a failure. And I’m always hard on myself if I leave without doing crunches, even if I’ve run a couple of miles. In short — going to the gym has become about the time clock, but according to a study published in the New York Times, I’m going about things all wrong!

• Celebrity sightings at the Super Bowl.
• Why do we eat salad?
• Oh no! Is Stabler leaving SVU?!
• Single women don’t need to survive V-day.
• He’s replacing Simon Cowell!?
• Tiger and Elin reunite!

So, who else has a mean hot wing hangover this morning? Seriously, my heartburn is out of control and I didn’t even pound Budweisers last night. In fact, I was so busy licking BBQ sauce off my finders, I couldn’t tell you who threw (kicked? passed?) the winning touchdown. I can, however, tell you the best recipe for some wings. And the best/funniest/awesomest commercials from the Super Bowl.

(Girls, watching television in the lounge.)
Girl 1: I just like Peyton and beer.
Girl 2: I’d hit Peyton. I’d hit his chin, too, if he had. one.

For us single girls, Valentine’s Day can seriously suck. Even if you love being single, all the PDA (puke), listening to what your coupled friend’s boyfriend did or (more likely) didn’t buy them, and the concerned phone call from your mom checking up on you, gets real old, real fast.

I had been seeing a boy in the Air Force. We’d hang out and make wonderful memories when he was on leave and visiting home, and then I’d be free as a bird when he had to go back. It was fun while he was here, and it was fun when he was gone.

As a foodie and aspiring chef, I pay a lot of attention to food. And in my life I’ve found that there are three kinds of cooks in the world: 1. Those who turn anything edible into sheer brilliance just from their touch. 2. Those who can follow directions pretty well and make things that taste OK….

Just last February, I was planning my 21st birthday party. Now, I’m facing 22 (or as I like to call it 21+1) straight on. Even though the last twelve months have gone by, it feels like just yesterday I was indulging in jello shots and margaritas. For my 21st. Because just yesterday I was indulging in jello shots and margaritas.

So it’s been a week since I put down the bottle of Jack. And Ketel. And Captain’s. And… well, everything. At first, it was easy. After chugging rum out of a flask last Friday night and inhaling two giant slices of pizza after a few too many margaritas on Saturday night, I was more than excited to stay away from the hooch for a little while.