I WANT A WEDDING!

I think it's really selfish that my "friend" Veronica expects me to be her bridesmaid. Way to rub the tragedy that is my life in my face. Ever since I was a little girl, I dreamed about my wedding - I had everything planned, from the proposal to the place settings. He would propose in the spring - probably during a romantic candlelit dinner at a very expensive, trendy restaurant. We would be engaged for a tasteful 14 months. I would have at least 10 bridesmaids, and they would treat me like a Princess. We would go shopping every weekend for at least two months searching for the most beautiful white wedding gown. Then, my bridesmaids would agree that they should wear shiny orange dresses so that they all looked hideous. (In my dreams, the shiny orange dresses involve a big ridiculous sash).

Instead, I accidentally got married in Vegas while on a "romantic" weekend trip with a man I had been dating for two weeks. I only went to Vegas with Ralph because I was feeling fat and vulnerable and lonely and wanted some free booze. And now Veronica is living my dream! She got the romantic proposal; she gets to torture a battalion of bridesmaids; and I get crap. No, worse - I get to waste my Saturday pretending to be excited about bridesmaid dresses.

Do you know how hard it is to pretend that you are interested in color swatches when you are secretly dying inside? Also, it's really unfair that Veronica gets to have this wedding because she is just the dumbest bride ever. She actually wants the bridesmaids to look pretty and feel comfortable in attractive dresses!

Oh, could this world be any more cruel? I am stuck with Ralph, and I do not even have the memory of a disappointing wedding. No photo album with photographs of me looking radiant and my friends looking like dog sh*t.

I tried to keep it together, but I ended up alone in a dressing room, sobbing, and wondering who would be my flower girl in the fantasy wedding that is never going to happen.

Friday Night Lament

Another crappy Friday night. This Friday night is like all other Friday nights, except it involves the Olympics. Whoop-de-effin-do. I'm still married to Ralph; I'm still leading a crap boring life; and my wardrobe is just one big disappointment.

And to make matters worse, you will not believe what happened. One of my best friends got engaged! Wait, it's worse: her fiance is a total catch - tall, handsome, smart and he even likes watching American Idol.

Wait, it gets even more depressing: I'm a bridesmaid. How am I supposed to pretend to be happy for my friend's perfect life - while wearing a shiny dress that makes me look like a fat ugly beast - when I am married to Ralph?

We're going shopping tomorrow for bridesmaid dresses. Just kill me now. If I start drinking tonight, I might be drunk enough by tomorrow morning to handle the torture.

Wendy the Painfully Nerdy Cactus

I have been having issues with my contact lenses and had to wear my glasses today. Do I look like (a) a sexy librarian, (b) a smart but sassy international spy, or (c) a painfully awkward nerd girl who knows far too much about Star Trek and likes to stay home alone on Friday nights with her cat Frodo.

Please don't answer that question.

On The Benefits of Emotional Eating

So, I'm not pregnant. I should feel relieved. But I don't. Instead, I just feel depressed - why didn't Ralph take advantage of me when I was drunk? Aren't I beautiful and sexy and desirable?

I felt alone and needy. I wanted a strong drink, but I'm still recovering from my last bender. So I turned to Snap, Crackle and Pop instead.


I hate Snap, Crackle and Pop. Look at them. They look all happy and smug. Seriously, they are GLOWING. You know what I'm talking about. They are literally GLOWING over a bowl of freaking cereal. Look, I've been celibate for longer than I care to discuss, and even I don't get that excited about a bowl of cereal. (Except for Lucky Charms. Ok, and Frosted Flakes).

I'm actually not a big cereal person. I usually skip breakfast to save on calories. ("Breakfast is the most important meal of the day" my ass). But mix in some marshmallows and butter, and hello! I am a big supporter of Emotional Eating. Did your dog just die? Order a pizza AND EAT THE ENTIRE THING. Did your best friend just get engaged to a really hot doctor? You need french fries, brownies, and margaritas. And did your husband choose Wheel of Fortune over wild drunken sex?!? Make Rice Krispies Treats and start to eat the entire tray until you get sick, and then suck it up damnit and finish the tray.


Excuse me, please go away now. I am about to share a very intimate moment with the Rice Krispies treats.

I'm Not Pregnant!

Ralph came home today from work today and, looking very serious, said he had something to tell me. I ignored him. He sat down on the couch next to me and would not go away (some men won't take a hint). Then, he said, very calmly, "Wendy, you are not pregnant."

I snorted. What? He's psychic now?

But no, for possibly the first time in his life, Ralph knew what he was talking about. He told me, "That night we were drunk, we did not make love." [make love?? gag]. He continued, "Wendy, I would not take advantage of you in that way. I love you, and I want this relationship to work." I think he said some more things about "trust" and "true love" but I tuned him out. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. We didn't have sex when I was drunk? How could he possibly resist my overwhelming beauty and sex appeal when I was helpless? What, is Ralph too good for drunken sex?

But yay, at least I'm not pregnant.

What I Will Look Like If I Am Pregnant (Hint: Obese)

I am weighing the pros and cons of pregnancy. It is for the most part easy to identify whether something is a pro or a con. Having a child with Ralph? Con. I will be the first of my friends to have a baby and they will all be uber-jealous? Pro, big pro. But I'm not so certain about the weight gain - is that a pro or a con? On the pro side, I get to eat whatever I want and it is socially acceptable to wear jeans with an elastic waistband. But what will I look like?

I asked my friend Maggie to help me visualize what I will look like when I'm 7-9 months pregnant. Maggie is very artistic (she owns markers) and considered going to medical school when she was a college freshman. Maggie imagined two scenarios.

On the right, we see the "Sexy Pregnant Mama like Angeline Jolie." I gain some weight, all in my belly. On the left, we see gross, obese, miserable Wendy. I gain a lot of weight, everywhere and become Wendy the Walrus (although it looks like I might actually have some junk in my trunk).

Is it just me, or are these drawings total crap? It looks like there's a breast growing out of the side of my face. And in the walrus scenario, my head gets fat. Ok, so my cheeks might get a little puffy but am I really supposed to believe that my head is going to be encased in a protective layer of fat?

It's probably a good thing that Maggie did not go to medical school and became a lawyer instead.

Valentine's Post-Mortem

Ralph got me a Valentine's Day present! I was so excited. So what if it was a day late? So what if he bought me a crappy discounted candy? So what if I had to have a public nervous breakdown on my blog before he realized he should maybe make a romantic gesture? I got a Valentine's present! I'm not a total loser!

I tried to be sweet and grateful, but just look at this thing. This is quite possibly the most tragic piece of Valentine's candy I have ever seen. I am gorgeous, witty and nurturing. I deserve chocolates, roses and diamonds. I might be carrying Ralph's baby, and he gets me a piece of discounted candy? I got better candy from my fifth grade boyfriend!

I might have lost my temper.

I think this crappy broken piece of discounted candy is an apt metaphor for our relationship.

Worst. Valentine's Day. Ever.

Valentine's Day, I knewyou were going to be bad . But, congratulations, you exceeded my expectations. Here is a photo of what Ralph gave me:

















It's nothing. Ralph gave me a big fat NOTHING for Valentine's Day. Let's recap: my husband is desperate for my approval and affection; we finally have a night of drunken sex; I might be pregnant with his child; and then Ralph decides to pass on the whole Valentine's Day romance thing? Are you $%#ing kidding me?

I don't want to be pregnant. I'll get fat and lose my girlish figure. Then I'll have to take care of the baby, and babies smell bad and make a lot of noise. Also, Ralph is really ugly, so if he got me knocked up, the baby will be 50% troll ugly. How can I be expected to love an ugly troll baby?

Dear Period: remember how I was complaining about how much I hate you and how I never want to have my period again? I was lying. I love you. Please come back. Love, Wendy

It's Official.

Nobody loves me. I should just eat a bucket of mud and start talking to myself in public.

I Joined Facebook!

I recently signed up for Facebook. My profile is at Wendy Thecactus. I tried to register as Wendy Cactus - because that is my name - but stupid Facebook would not recognize my last name. It said I didn't qualify for an account or something silly like that. It's like the time I was rejected by eHarmony.

So anyway, I have an account and I think you can find me if you search for my email address - wendythecactus@gmail.com. But I'm still learning this facebook thing, so I'm not one hundred percent certain about that. If you send me a friend request, I will probably confirm the request. (I reserve the right to reject the following "friends": people who are ugly; people who are boring; people who are more famous than me).

Anyway, if you haven't joined up for facebook, what are you waiting for? Facebook is very hip and edgy.

p.s. I was supposed to spend some quality time the past couple of days reflecting upon the possibility that I might be pregnant. I did not. Instead, I ate junk food, got a pedicure, and opened my facebook account.

There Is A Very Strong Possibility I Will Never Drink Alcohol Again.

I suppose I should tell you about what happened yesterday. If you have been reading my blog, you will recall that I am celibate. In order to remain celibate, I've been also trying to stay sober. But I recently realized that I just need to stay sober when I am at bars, parties, etc. - basically, any time or place that I might come into contact with a sexually desirable man.

This means that I can safely drink myself into an oblivion when I am home.


Today, I was determined to be productive. I was going to clean the blinds, vacuum and scrub the bathtub. But first, I decided to improve myself by reading some non-fiction. It's important to be well read and educated.

Did you know you can learn things from books?? I know, I was surprised as well. But in my non-fiction book, there was a recipe for the Chi Chi. I did not know such a drink existed!

I immediately wanted to try a Chi Chi, but I did not have all the ingredients on hand. I could only make a cocktail that involved alcohol, Gatorade, moldy bread and raisins. Otherwise, I just had to drink shots.

This is not a problem - I love shots! I have been told that I do silly, ill advised, borderline dangerous things after I've had 3 or 4 shots. However, I have no first hand knowledge of this allegation because I always black out after the 3rd shot. Today was no different. Do you see that photograph below? That's the last thing I remember and then ...

I woke up in bed with my husband. Holy. Crap. I did not pay much attention during 7th grade sex ed classes (I spent most of the time blushing and giggling and covertly watching the Most Popular Boy) but I do know where babies come from, and I do recall quitting the pill because it was giving me a hairy lip and I don't see a condom wrapper in the trash can...

This is very bad.

Super Bowl? More Like "Super Crap"

This year, I am watching the Super Bowl for the first time. Usually, I just go to a Super Bowl party; get drunk; flirt shamelessly with all the single men; flirt covertly with the hostess's boyfriend; and end the evening getting sick in the bathroom. God, I love Super Bowl parties!

This year, however, I did not get invited to any Super Bowl parties. I tried to invite myself to several parties, but Cynthia said her party is for singles only (bitch ho) and Geraldo said he could not invite me to his party because Ralph might tag along (yeah, I understand - Ralph is a considerable liability).

So I am at home alone, watching the Super Crap. You know, I usually joke about how I love a man in spandex ... but, I guess I never looked very closely. Look, spandex is for gymnasts, lithe ballerinas, and Prince. God did not intend fat men with saggy butts and love handles to wear spandex.



I thought a bottle of vodka would improve the game. It did - briefly - but then the halftime show started.

Is it just me, or was that the most uncomfortable halftime show ever? Whoever thought it would be a good idea to have The Who play the Super Crap halftime show should be shot and then fired. They are like 90 years old. The whole thing made me Super Anxious because I thought the singer was just going to drop dead right there on the stage. Although in retrospect, that would have been pretty cool.

My First Stalker!

Exciting news: I have a stalker! His name is Creepy Lurker and he finally posted a comment after my January 31 post (Why I Would Make An Excellent Celebrity). This is what Creepy Lurker wrote:

You are looking great in that photo.

I really enjoy the photos where

you and Jo are side by side like that.

Oh yeah.

What a thoughtful and touching comment. I have always wanted a stalker, and to be honest, I have always felt incomplete - like something important was missing from my life. I have dated a lot and had plenty of boyfriends, and a few secret admirers, and hell, I even have a husband, but I have never had a stalker. But now that Creepy Lurker has posted a comment, I feel ... I feel ... oh my god, I don't know quite how to describe this feeling. It feels like the world is full of promise and hope and sunshine; everyone looks beautiful; I don't care if there's traffic or if the old lady ahead of me on the grocery store line pays for her groceries with pocket change and coupons and argues with the cashier about the price of the chicken wings. It feels like there is a star glowing inside my chest. I know I have felt this way before, it's just been so long, it's hard to identify.

Oh my god, I remember now. I feel ... happy.

I can tell good things are going to happen! What if Creepy Lurker is my soulmate? Or, maybe Creepy Lurker is a famous television producer who is going to turn my life into a reality series. No, I wouldn't be that lucky. Creepy Lurker is probably just my soulmate.

Snazzy New Banner!

OMG look look look! I created my own banner. I failed my high school computer skills class but my god, I just figured out how to make my own blog banner. So what if it's a little fuzzy and tilted? I am still a GENIUS. Excuse me, I'm going to go eat a pint of ice cream to celebrate.

The Vampire Upstairs.

I live on the second floor of a four story apartment building. Last night, around 3:45 a.m., I came to an important conclusion: my upstairs neighbor is probably a vampire.

I don't know if the resident in Unit 314 is male or female, but I do know that s/he is nocturnal. Now that I am a pampered housewife (ok, so marriage has a few perks), I spend a lot more time in my apartment. What is the point of going outside and being productive when there is so much good t.v. that needs to be watched? When I am home watching my soaps and Ellen, I never hear a sound from Unit 314. It's as if the unit is abandoned during sunlight hours.

The noises start a little after midnight. I usually sleep with ear plugs to drown out The Vampire's cacophony, but I had to wake up by 11 a.m. today to meet some girlfriends for brunch and I was afraid that I would sleep through my alarm if I was wearing ear plugs. This is what I heard last night from Unit 314:

- Closet doors opening loudly (all the apartments have heavy sliding mirrored closet doors).
- Closet doors closing loudly.
- Vampire stalks around apartment.
- Vampire goes to bathroom. Flushes toilet 4-5 times.
- More foot pounding - maybe there are multiple vampires upstairs? How many coffins can you fit in a one bedroom apartment?
- Closet doors opening loudly...
REPEAT 97 times between midnight and 4 a.m.

Then, the Vampire takes a shower. Flushes the toilet a few more times. And then, finally, silence. I don't even want to think about the rituals going on upstairs. Something sinister must be happening because there is no other reason why anyone would open and close their closets 97 or 98 times IN THE MIDDLE OF THE G.D. NIGHT.

Alternatively, my upstairs neighbor is a college student with college student hours who has a closet door compulsion. I feel compelled to reject this theory because it is last exciting than my Vampire Hypothesis.