It's your chance for a little romance or butt squeezin'

I'm not going to apologize for my lack of blog-age.  I'm blaming it on the winter.  Winter is stupid.  So I'm essentially going to hibernate it out.

Given my serious lack of male companionship, I've, once again, been toying with the idea of joining a dating website.  Woof, I know.  I've started the beginning steps several times but always get caught up on the parts where I am supposed to describe myself and my ideal mate.  I'm torn between giving a charming quip dancing around my inner demons and... well, telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.  If I were to sign up for one of the these sites and if I were to give these strangers {emphasis on the strange?} the raw, unbridled insight into the real Shannon this is what it would read:

"I have big boobs. When I eat goldfish {which I do more often than advisable} one to three of them have been known to fall into the crevice. While it's 100% okay for me to get distracted by Tia and Tamara, it is not okay for you to be wholly consumed by their presence.  A sneaking glance every now and again is completely encouraged.

My sense of humor is not unlike that of a prepubescent boy.  I will make crude jokes.  You can laugh at these but not too hard... which only means no harder than I do.  I burp and immediately rate my own burp - be it mentally or aloud.  I will forever think that fart noises are funny.  Especially at inappropriate times and in inappropriate places.  I cannot and should not be trusted with the fart app on my phone.  Because, yes, I do have a fart app on my phone.  I am amused by people that pick their nose but I will, under no circumstance, allow for you to do this in public, in the same room as me, or anywhere in my general vicinity.

My friends and I talk about poop.  A lot.

While I shower very often, I don't wash my hair with any regularity.  Sometimes I like to see how long I can go without doing it at all.  The record this year is 5 days.  It's okay if you're grossed out by this... when you realize I haven't washed my hair in a while, just look at my boobs.

I don't drink that often.  Truth be told, I don't have the means to drink as often as I'd like to.  I'm loud when I'm sober.  Multiply my loudness 10x per alcoholic beverage.  When I drink too much I can and will black out.  At this point, I'll think I can dance like Michael Jackson, sing like Whitney Houston and rap like I'm a real OG.  I will fall.  A lot.  What I'm trying to tell you is that I'm a really good time.

One of my favorite pastimes is giving nicknames.  I will give nicknames to you, your friends, your family, your pets, strangers, everyone and thing.  I will find it very hard to remember the person/place/thing's real name and will only refer to him/her/it by the new name.  I make up words almost as often as I make up nicknames.  You are expected to know the meanings of each and every word without me actually having to say it.  If you are at a loss for the technical definition, apply the word to poo or an awkward sexual situation and you're going to be on the right track 9 times out of 10.

I laugh at my own jokes.  I truly think I'm hilarious.  I'll pretend like I don't want you around but, left to my own devices, I tend to get moderately insane.

All of this aside, I am really quite a charming lady."

I'd definitely get a boyfriend with a bio like that, right?

On that note, I'm going to share with you reason #1203209537238972983473523409890342 why I'm obsessed with my friends:

Ok, T... I think Eminem is about as cool as poo-ing your pants but since you actually DO poo your pants, this song's for you sista.

This time it's personal.

Today is my favorite, and coincidentally only, brother's birthday.  I decided to try and bake him something delicious.  I found a recipe for self-frosting cupcakes.  How is this possible, you ask?  Nutella.  I firmly believe that Nutella is the answer to many problems.  For all we know it could be the secret to world peace.  Alas, here is a story:

After a delicious lunch with one of my favorite pregnant, married friends, I came home and decided to tackle this seemingly easy recipe.  "Surely, if I can make cookies and frosting from scratch then I should have no problem with cupcakes," I thought to myself.  In the recipe it tells you to add 1.5tsp nutella to the top of each cupcake and stir.  Well, recipe-lady, nutella is quite thick.  How am I supposed to fold it over enough to get it throughout each cupcake without making them look like they were thrown together by a blind, one-armed bandit?  Answer: it can't be done.  I scooped each cupcake out of their original liner into new ones, popped them in the over and prayed for the best.

Twenty five minutes later I take them out and set them on the counter.  While the aroma of baked good + nutella was quite intoxicating, my bliss was short lived.  I watched each and every fucking cupcake crumble.  It looked like they were melting into themselves.  Now, before you tell me that I took them out too soon - let me assure you that I checked each one with a toothpick.  The consistency was perfect.  I have no idea what went wrong.

Back to the drawing board.

I was going to just it be and see if they tasted good anyway but then I got pissed.  I'm not good at failing.  Especially when I tried and read directions and made sure everything was perfect.  I made the same recipe.  This time I added mashed bananas and folded the rest of the nutella into the batter.  The batter is pretty tasty.

I just realized that instead of starting the timer I decided to do a little blogging.  Fingers crossed that these turn out a lot prettier than the other ones.  Pictures to come later.

Seriously. I'm not smart.

When I posted this one second ago, I thought it was my 100th post.  I don't know how to count.  Numbers are stupid. Moving on...

Here's what I've been doing.  Kind of.

Teaching myself to apply these:

Too much of this.  Way, way, way too much of this:

Which may or may not have made me do this:

3.  Which may have lead to a little bit of this.

Doing a little bit of this:

Which makes me want to do this:

And it really makes me want to do this:

I haven't been doing any of this:

And I most certainly haven't been doing any of this:

Time to do more of the latter.  Less of the former.  So far I've been 2011's bitch and I'm not a fan.  Not a fan at all.

Happy 2011, lovers.