You. Are. Kidding. Me.

The web is riddled with dating services, advice columns, and even products guaranteed to help me find my mate: "Lonely? Naturally increase your cup size!" (I tried this on my own by switching from 12 oz beers to 22 oz beers, and I'm happy to report it's working.)

But this--this takes the proverbial wedding cake.


Ladies and gentleman, I present to you: the "husband-hunting bra."




That's right, ladies. Let him know that you're serious about marriage by strapping a TICKING TIME BOMB to your bust. One that can only be disarmed with--you guessed it--an engagement ring.


As a singleton, I can't even count the times that I've thought about covering myself in dynamite, showing up at a crowded train station and exclaiming "SOMEONE MARRY ME OR I'LL BLOW THIS PLACE AND EVERYONE IN IT TO SHIT!!" But let's face it: C-4 is so tacky. Who's going to want to propose to a chick covered in clunky, construction-grade explosives? Honestly. It's about time someone creates a garment that's as sexy as it is explodey.

Fortunately, Triumph has released this adorable undergarment that allows you to choose your expiration date (or potential wedding date, if you're an optimist). A digital countdown clock reminds you that you are growing incrementally less attractive to the opposite sex and that your once-viable womb is becoming a more and more hostile environment for a fetus.

Here's a video about the technological breakthrough (read: most demoralizing gag gift ever invented). As you can probably guess, I don't think the bra actually explodes when time runs out. No, when time runs out, the device emits a small, undetectable electronic pulse that crushes your soul and attracts thousands of stray cats to your front door.

Joke or not, the Husband Hunter is garnering lots of attention and people are placing orders like crazy. Ever the opportunist, I've decided to launch a few other items here in the U.S. for single ladies nearing their 30's and inevitably, a lifetime of solitude.


'Til Death Do Us Part Stainless Steel Bear Trap



Especially handy if you're after the rugged, outdoors type, this bear trap will have him begging for a lifetime of marital bliss as he slips into hypovolemic shock.


The Shotgun of Love









He's sure to say "I do" with this sleek, attractive prenuptial persuasion device aimed at his heart. Also excellent for negotiating prices at the florist and wedding gown shops.


Stephanie's Wedding-Strength Ether

Ahhh, ether. The trusted solution for taking people against their will since 1275. Look for my ether-scented lingerie line to launch just in time for a lovely fall ceremony!

Editors note: every time I do a "singles" post, I get a wave of emails and articles sent to me about finding Mr. Right. Please, please know that I'm not lamenting my relationship status, but rather pointing out how ridiculous it all is. I am perfectly happy and do not need any intervention when it comes to getting a date. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some tranq guns that need loading into my unmarked van. Take care and happy hunting!

How To Stay Single From Someone Who Knows

Staying single in the peak of your success and physical attractiveness isn't easy. In fact, it takes a lot of work. Fortunately, after many years of being successful and attractive, I've gotten pretty good at warding off any potential mates who will undoubtedly just slow me down in my quest to live a fulfilling and meaningful life.

For example, when I get the sense that a gentleman is trying to pick me up, I try to find polite ways to discourage them from talking to me. The important thing is to make sure that their feelings aren't hurt in the process (after all, they can't help it if they're attracted to you.)

A great way to do this is to drone on and on about a subject they may be uncomfortable with. I've had great success with the subject of zoophilia, and more specifically, the intricacies of interspecies mating between humans and dolphins (there is a lot to discuss here and thanks to my tendency to wander aimlessly around the internet, I've picked up quite a bit of interesting information.) In 9 out of 10 cases, whoever approached you will not share your supposed zeal for doing the aquatic mammal mambo. In the rare event that they do, quickly ask the bartender if they serve mahi mahi and wait for the other person to run to the bathroom, crying.

If for some reason you're hesitant to scare off any suitors with fabricated (and frightening) personal information, there are other options. And, as some wise sage who obviously had a lot of unwanted romantic attention once said, actions speak louder than words.

The other night, I was in danger of impressing a guy with my staggering wit and enormous bosoms. Don't worry. I took care of it. Because when he explained to me that he was actually there with a date (he clearly just wanted to bring up the topic of dates so he could ask me out on a later one), I awkwardly laughed into my beer. Not a big deal, you say? Perhaps not. But the sheer aerophysical force of my laugh propelled half of my beer onto his face. Meanwhile, his quote-unquote date looked on, horrified. Without a word, he wiped the beer from his expressionless, beery face and walked away. Stephanie 1. Potential mate 0.

Yes, it's not easy. But with a lot of practice, you too can be this good at humiliating yourself out of a tight situation that could end with you losing your enviable single status. Also, dabbing a bit of cat urine on your wrists and neck really helps sell it.

Follow Me To Irrelevancy!

Well, it's official. I'm Twittering. Or Tweeting. Or Tooting? I'm still trying to get the terminology thing down. Seeing as Twitter has been around for two years now, you'd think I'd be up on this stuff. But as you know, I like to jump on things at the caboose of their social significance. This explains why I started blogging at 26, Social Networking at 27. And now Twittering, just shy of 28. I haven't bothered with Facebook yet because it is still so popular.

For those of you who are not familiar with Twitter, it's essentially a micro-blog. People "tweet" about links they stumble across, events that are happening in real time, or just funny ruminations that occur to them while they're supposed to be doing other things, like working (expect a lot of that). What attracted me to Twitter is that I can disseminate little quips and thoughts quickly and easily. Things have been so hectic at work that it's been very hard to construct a coherent sentence, let alone the poignant, eloquent, expertly-crafted entries you're used to (hah). But I still have so much to share! So please, let me share with you in a way that is less inconvenient for me.

IMPORTANT: I will still post blogs. About as often as I do now, which is...not...very...often. This Twitter business is just a bonus! So don't get wistful or start writing hate mail. If you're even remotely interested in this blog, this is great news.

To follow, you'll have to sign up for Twitter, but you can do so pretty anonymously. Just use some generic avatar like StephLover1 or WorshipSteph or WannaBSteph and you'll blend right into the masses on Twitter (NOTE: no one is following my account. You all are the first to know I'm a Twit. You're welcome.) And then you'll be able to see whenever I have a funny thought or find a funny website or smell something funny. How fun is that?

Just click here to see my Twitter (really, really perverted sounding.) And follow me. It's that easy!

It's all the snark in smaller, more digestible doses. Plus you can reply to my Tweets. This will be great for the two of you who currently comment on this blog. Yay interaction!

This move might come as a surprise to all of you. I admit that for awhile now, I've been rolling my eyes at the whole Twitter thing. I mean, how self-important are you to think that people want to know your random, worthless thoughts throughout the day?

THIS self-important.

Hope to see you all there.

Step Into Spring--And Dog Doo

It's thaw time in Cleveland. A time when human activity begins to spill back into city streets like blood returning to a waking limb. When we all toss our coats into the closet and go out in our long sleeved t-shirts, even when the forecast calls for nothing warmer than 47 degrees.

And when the smog-gray crust that was the snow finally melts away, you realize two things. One: spring is on mercifully on its way. Two: people are a-holes.

Because every three feet or so, you find a dog turd. A dog turd that's been hidden away for months between the snow, like a dirty little secret. Lying there. Biding its time. Waiting for you to break out your open-toed shoes, looking forward to being squished through the sides of your sandals like play-doh in a fun factory.

Literally, downtown Cleveland looks like it was hit by a dog turd tornado. Nuggets are strewn everywhere like small, brown, displaced mobile homes. Pedestrians appear to do the Jitter Bug as they carefully seek out feces-free areas of sidewalk to little avail. And the downtown residents are all out and about walking their dogs, demonstrably holding a plastic bag as if to say "don't look at me! Not my dog!"

But it was their dog. I know it. I know how cold and empty those streets get during the winter. No one will see if you don't duck down and scoop up your doodie. And in all of that snow! Your poor fingy-wingies could get frost-bitten! So they just leave their dogs' business, figuring that nature will conceal their crime. Fast-forward to March, and any visitor to Cleveland would think our number-one export was Labrador loaf. The whole "Cleveland Steamer" phenomena is starting to make a lot more sense. (Grandma, don't google that. Please.)

And it's not just downtown. Following the thaw, it's become apparent that my yard happens to be the preferred place of business for my neighbor's horrible hounds. I'd really like to say something, but the last time we had a conversation, she did most of the talking through a small stuffed rabbit named "Mr. Bear" (I'M NOT KIDDING.) and I'm afraid she may cast some sort of spell on me or kill me and use my skin as a sleeping bag. Perhaps I'll take the passive aggressive route and convert my small patch of grass into a broken glass and syringe garden. It will be shiny and arguably more attractive than the death and dirt I've got going on.

Fortunately, the driving rains of March and April will soon wash the turds out of sight and into our drinking water. Until then, I will be vigilantly watching the dog walkers and their decoy plastic bags. When I'm not watching my step, that is.

All I Wanted To Do Was Check My Mail

Today AOL wished me a pleasant morning by greeting me with this:



This leads me to believe that AOL is reading all of my emails and is trying to intervene with my personal life, like an aging relative that's worried they won't make it to see me bear children.

Well, maybe next year, AOL. So my date isn't going to get me flowers, but at least he gave me some sort of gift, judging from the pretty little red satin box on my lap. Or is that filled with the ashes of all of my old cremated feline dates?

Dear Budweiser....PTOOOEY!

Okay, I know this won't be a popular opinion. How do I know? Because we, the American people, voted two Budweiser commercials into the top three commercials of this year's Super Bowl. In case you missed the Super Bowl, all you need to know is the Browns didn't win. Again. Otherwise nothing really of any importance happened, aside from the fact that Anheuser Busch decided to fart out some of the cheesiest attempts to tug at our collective heartstrings ever created, and I for one am not buying it.

I realize I'm a bit of a cynic, but bear in mind that I'm in advertising. And a good commercial can make me straight-up weepy. Believe it or not, I appreciate sentimental, (air quotes) "cute" advertising just as much as the next Iowa farmer's wife on two glasses of Zin. And I am pretty tolerant of the cute animal extortion every brand seems to dabble in from time to time.

But honestly, I CAN'T BELIEVE that America thought these were among the best spots of the Super Bowl. If you missed them, take a look: Circus, Fetch, Generations.

HAHAHAHAHAH! AWWWWWW! Weren't those just a delight? You're probably thirsty for a crisp, cool, full-flavored Budweiser.

Or if you're like me, you're craving a super-sized box of Kotex to cram into your ears and sop up the blood that's seeping out of your brain. Don't be fooled, people, they're not good. There is NO idea here. None. Rather, a group of probably very talented, very constricted creatives were told they had to come up with something adorable and nipple-free that had to do with clydesdales, and this is what they delivered. And to them I say...boooooooo.

Guy throws stick. Cute dog gets stick. Handsome horse gets tree. Millions of viewers piddle themselves with glee. In thirty sappy, mindless seconds, Budweiser proudly proclaimed: THIS IS NOT THE BEER FOR YOU! Please stay tuned for one of our Bud Light ads, which has been outfitted with the appropriate number of wiener jokes for your demographic. Sorry for wasting your time.

But is the typical Budweiser drinker compelled by this type of fluff? Or should Budweiser just sell their ideas to the audiences who are more successfully reached by this type of advertising?

I kid, I kid. Well, mostly. Honestly, there wasn't a lot to choose from as far as Super Bowl-worthy advertising goes. But what about the adorable and beautifully-done Coke ad? What about the CareerBuilder ad, which made you realize how bad hating your job would be and how therapeutic it would be to punch a cute animal once in awhile?

Right now I have a hankering to punch a few horses, anyway.

I'm Having Octuplets!!

Dear Mom and Dad,

Good news! Me and my six children are moving in with you! I know you were a little bit disappointed with me when I decided to have half a dozen kids while I was busy with the whole filing-for-bankruptcy thingy. But now it’s all good because it’s going to bring us closer together! Like hella close together! Plus it will be like I'm not bankrupt anymore because I'll have access to all of your stuff!

But wait, there’s more good news! Obviously I was having some trouble conceiving since I only had 6 children in the span of 8 years, so I started getting fertility treatments. Not the weak-ass ginseng or gingko-Rocky-Balboa treatments, I’m talking full-on, baby-implants, crazy scientific stuff. And guess what? The eggs took. All eight of them!

Do you know what this means? I’m prego with eight babies! I’m going to be as famous as those spotted damnations or whatever in that one Disney movie!

It also means that you will soon get to live with me and my fourteen children! Isn’t that cool? It’s going to be just like old times, except with fourteen more kids to feed and bathe and clothe and…well, you get the idea. Don’t worry about money because I’ve seen Oprah and I know what she does for people who have lots of babies. We’ll probably get tickets to her “Favorite Things” episode for life! Last year they gave away Sub-Zero refrigerators and special-edition Crocs! You love Crocs!!

That being said, I’m really going to need you and Dad to step it up a little bit. TLC will probably want to do a show about us, so you might want to reconsider your hairstyle and update the furniture a bit. It'll be just like John and Kate Plus 8...Plus 6! Oh, and minus the dad. My husband won’t be around to help, as he’d rather do some contract work in a war-torn country than spend time with what he calls “the legion of frickin’ rugrats you insisted on crapping out.” Gosh, he makes me laugh.

FYI, you'll both probably have to take on second jobs until the freebies kick in. I'm going to focus on being a stay-at-home mom who is staying at her mom's home--LOL!! That's funny. I've also hired a contractor to build an addition on your home (Maybe Extreme Makeover Home Edition will chip in?) If we're going to beat the Duggar family in the baby count we still have a long way to go! Whelp, I think that's about it. I know this is all pretty sudden and you're going to want to process everything, but unfortunately the media crews are already setting up on your newly sodded lawn, so let's just run with it, mm?

Thanks in advance for everything!

Love bunches,
Your daughter

UPDATE: Okay, so I got some of the facts mixed up. Apparently she doesn't know who the father of either sets of babies is, and it's the grandpappy that's going to Iraq to work. That...makes more sense...? I so want to send the poor grandmother this shirt: