Hungry for Love: Valentine's Day Can Suck It--Plus 8-Minute Microwave Mojito Cake

I like to think that my life is pretty cool. I get paid to see movies for free, interview incredibly talented people, make yummy food and occasionally pop up on the tube to see how much trouble my ginormous mouth can get me into.

Over the past couple of weeks, things have been sprinkled with even more fabulosity as I got to attend events like the Golden Globe and SAG Awards for NBC, started hitting the other side of the red carpet (above, Mel and I at the Ciroc OK! Magazine pre-Grammy party, below, an AP photo from the Remix Magazine launch party)...


...And even got some Twitter lovin' from Isaiah Mustafa, aka: The Old Spice Guy...


...After I semi-accosted him at both the Golden Globes and DGA Awards, drunkenly admitted I loved him "in a very deep way."

But tonight, with that usual Sunday agita sinking in, a lingering anxiety unshakable since childhood when Sunday meant the end of freedom and the imminent return to school, I feel lamer than usual. Why? Because tomorrow is Valentine's Day and I will be spending it alone.

Being 32, single and living in LA, where women past 25 are often viewed with the appeal of expired milk left out in the sun, not having a man is never a picnic, but no day makes it a buffet of misery and self-pity quite like February 14th.

I was raised by feminists, babysat by Naomi Wolf (no, really, I was), but am still well aware of the one constant women are beaten over the head with from the time we’re born; that if we don't find a man, get married and have babies, we’ve misspent our time on earth. Every pop song, sitcom, rom-com and storybook preaches it and even though I know can be happy and fulfilled without some dude to "complete me"--I'm pretty damn whole as is, thankyouverymuch--I'm always made to feel less-than if I find myself without an arrow through the heart from some diaper wearing perv with an overactive trigger finger.

But haven't we all been a little traumatized by Valentine's Day?

From grade school, a sense of V-Day doom is instilled the moment we first suffer the pressure of giving valentines to everyone in the class, even the kids you hate or the boy that puts worms in your hair. Then you get to junior high and have to pray that someone sends you one of those lame candy-grams that get announced in homeroom so you don't look like a flaming loser after everyone else's name is called and you're left sans red construction paper heart and chalky Rolaids-flavored "Be Mine" "Luv u" "U rock" hearts. Pretty soon you’re in high school and frantic for a date to the Valentine's Day dance to avoid the same shame. And, before you know it, you're old enough to be made to feel pathetic if you're dateless and having a wannabe Sex in the City girls night when Cupid's arrow should be striking.

I can't tell you how many Valentine's Days I suffered through single, feeling the panic rise as January ended, followed by depression and eventually terror, knowing the only love I'd get on February 14th would be from my mom and dad, until one year when I finally had a boyfriend to celebrate Valentine's Day with.

And you know what? It sucked!

I thought it would be all romantic and magical. Nope! Everywhere we went there were super long lines to eat and couples bickering as their blood sugar plummeted as they waited for tables and overpriced prix fixe meals, swarmed by tacky red balloons and wilting roses. It didn't feel special; it felt like enforced fun, which is the worst kind.

Now I know the best thing to do when it comes to Valentine's Day is chillax and try not to make a big deal out of it. It's just another day, one that has more marketing dollars behind it than most, but it doesn't mean I have to spend it guzzling cheap drugstore chocolate in a heart-shaped box to drown my single sorrows. Instead, I can make this quickie cake (complete with booze) if I need to eat my feelings, take a few deep breaths and know that February 15th is just around the corner.

8-Minute Microwave Mojito Cake
Serves 6-8

Now you can have you cake and drink it too! For those in need of a quickie—dessert that is—these cakes can be made in about ten minutes and come with the added bonus of a little buzz.

Mojito Cake:
2 cups cake flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup butter, softened
2 cups sugar
3 large eggs, room temperature
2 teaspoons vanilla
3/4 cup milk
1 tablespoon light rum
Zest of one lime
2 tablespoons chopped mint

Sift together flour, baking powder and salt. In a large bowl, cream together butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add eggs, one at a time, followed by vanilla. Add dry ingredients, milk, rum, lime zest and mint.

Pour batter into a large, microwavable heat-and-serve container.

Place container in microwave and heat on high for eight minutes. If your microwave doesn’t have a turn table, rotate cake every 1 ½-2 minutes.

While cake is cooking, prepare first glaze.

First Glaze:
2 tablespoons chopped mint
Zest of one lime
Juice of two limes
2 tablespoons light rum
2 cups confectioners’ sugar

Whisk together all ingredients.

Remove cake from microwave and run a knife along the edge of the cake, loosening from sides of bowl.

Pour glaze over hot cake, allowing it to run down sides and underneath.

Allow to cool slightly while preparing second glaze.

Second Glaze:
2 cups confectioners’ sugar
4 tablespoons water

Once first glaze is slightly set, pour second glaze over cake. Slice and serve.

The Top Ten Best Sex and the City Quotes

As I marked another day off my countdown calendar leading up to the release of Sex and the City 2 on May 27, “I couldn’t help but wonder,” what are the best Sex and the City quotes ever? Sure, “He’s just not that into you” has a life of its’ own now, but “I got to thinking” about the lines that made the show the truly unforgettable phenomenon it is.

During SATC’s six season run, part of the water-cooler fun was recapping each week’s OMG, Did They Just Say That? moments, courtesy of the show’s writing staff of primarily single women who were invited to air their grievances and dirty laundry on national television, much to the audiences’ delight. Samantha, Carrie, Charlotte and Miranda were always able to express, with perfect eloquence, what every woman feels and these are ten of their best lines.

10. Samantha: “You have a lot of nerve telling me to get a wax. If you were in Aruba the natives could bead your back. And it’s not just there: every time I blow you I feel like I’m flossing.”

9. Carrie: “I will never be the woman with the perfect hair, who can wear white and not spill on it.”

8. Miranda: “Sexy is the thing I try to get them to see me as after I win them over with my personality.”

7. Charlotte: “My vagina’s depressed.”

6. Miranda: “I’m dating skid-marks guy. When your boyfriend is so comfortable that he cannot be bothered to wipe his ass, there’s a problem.”

5. Carrie: “You can stay here with your boxes of shit and your shoe-eating dog and knock yourself putting on the Rogaine and the Speed Stick.”

4. Carrie: “I revealed too much too soon. I was emotionally slutty.”

3. Samantha: “I’m a try-sexual. I’ll try anything once.”

2. Carrie: “Maybe some women aren’t meant to be tamed. Maybe they just need to run free until they find someone just as wild to run with.”

1. Samantha: “You men have no idea what we’re dealing with down there. Teeth placement, and jaw stress, and suction, and gag reflex, and all the while bobbing up and down, moaning and trying to breathe through our noses. Easy? Honey, they don’t call it a job for nothin’.”

Written for SheKnows.com

Drai's: Vegas in Los Angeles, But Not in a Good Way

Last night, Rachel, Erin, Tara, Caroline and I decided we needed to hit the town for a night of dancing. With most of LA in the desert for Coachella, or, at least, all the cute, flannel-loving, hipster boys we'd normally cozy up to at Shortstop, we opted for a night of pure Hollywood, beginning with Drai's and ending at Voyeur.

With all the hype surrounding Drai's we thought we were in for quite the evening. After jumping a line that stretched all the way to Hollywood Blvd thanks to a super hot doorguy named Dan and some old friends I used to know from my nightclub days, a move Erin dubbed "some Hollywood realness," we rode the elevator up twelve floors and walked into the tackiest Vegas recreation LA has ever seen. (Apologies for no photos but we all felt so uncomfortably touristy in there, I didn't want to lose any more street cred by busting out my camera.)

I'm all about gaudy, in fact, I like to describe my personal style as "Dynasty" meets Compton, but Drai's has it all wrong.

Behind the bar, a blinged out curtain of jewels dangled over flickering candles, reminding me of the old Forty Deuce stage but with an added fire hazard and the classiness of a Kardashian. The entire place was set up for bottle service, a fad I thought went out with the Bush administration, and the crowd appeared to be comprised of sugar daddies and their 22-year-old minions, young, upwardly-mobile Asian posses, dudes in Christian Audigier trying to look like ballers, and the Newport Beach botox set having a "Sex and the City" night.

The pool area has shades of both Sky Bar and Crest, but on steroids, and while looking over the city had a certain enchantment, the bar's very "Real Housewives" clientele, the sad, bored looking go-go dancers, and the terrible DJ were quick mood killers.

Back inside the lobby bar of the W, Living Room, we decided the mirrored staircase and cascading chandelier were the best parts of entire place, Drai's included.

Erin and I also discovered the lobby's "Whisper Rooms," little curtained stalls that were clearly invented for getting into no good.

Rocking my newly altered Alexander McQueen for Target dress. It was thiiiis close to going to Goodwill until McQueen's tragic suicide last month. Now it's a collector's item that just needed a little bit of help from the tailor.

Erin in one of the two whisper room's chairs.

Deeming Drai's a bust, Erin and Caroline set off from Fred 62 while Tara, Rachel and I headed for Voyeur. Again, there are no photos (except from their inhouse photo booth which is awesome) but that's because of the club's strict no cameras policy.

It's easy to see why they'd want to keep photography out. Across the club topless dancers writhe around in assless chap-style fishnets, lace thongs and masks. Some spend the night in a bondage swing, some are in a glass booth getting nasty with a video camera, one is on a net suspended above the crowd, and a few, including one amazing girl who is my new gym-spiration, dance in between two VIP booths.

Everything that made Drai's fail, made Voyeur awesome. The music was great, the drinks were poured strong (hello, pear vodka, my new friend), the crowd was fun and all the boobs on display were real. Win!

Why See "Sex and the City 2"? Because Aidan's Back!

Let's be frank, "Sex and the City: The Movie," sucked.

I call it "The Godfather III for women" because it defiled the glory that came before and it's better if we all pretend it just doesn't exist. But I can't help but have hope for "Sex and the City 2." Especially now that the new trailer shows Aidan is returning and sparks are a'flying.