On Saturday afternoon, my apartment bore all the signs: The blinds were shut tight and the TV was off. There was a stack of dirty dishes in the sink, a pile of rumpled clothes on the floor, and I was planted face down on the couch, surrounded by a smattering of tissues -- clear evidence of a dating situation gone wrong. With my head buried ostrich-style between the cushions (because that obviously makes the real world go away), I wondered how I could have so grossly misjudged someone who was clearly not worth the space he takes up on this earth. For the next day, from that same relative position on the couch, I tried to understand how my sure-to-be-a-good-thing chef could have actually been a sure-to-be-going-straight-to-hell jerk. (I also pondered whether my dates were beginning to parallel the financial markets; the jury is still out on that one.) Finally, at some unknown hour on Sunday evening, I pulled myself up off the couch, washed the mascara stains off my cheeks, and started to clean up my disaster area of a living space. And as my pity party began to morph into a pissed-AT-him party, I did what any self-respecting baker would do: I made cupcakes.
(...and hoped that he'd accidentally shut his nether regions in the oven door.)
