We want to be generous and loving to our significant others for Valentine's Day, but honestly - we have our limits.

Giving our sweet pea a nice back rub is great and all, but after 10 minutes it's like, "Are we good here? Because my fingers hurt and I just heard the dryer buzzer go off."

AMIRITE?

So give them a coupon that says, "I'll do this for you, but I have reservations."

What more could they ask for??

Also? These coupons are totally printable, people!

If you want to make 'em laugh, CLICK HERE for a printable version of these hilarious coupons. Just right click the image and save to your computer.

Ta Da!

Sponsorship Full Disclosure

Rob cheated on me.

He cheated on me with a sexy, spicy, chipotle bacon burger. 

As if that wasn’t sick enough, he had the audacity to order a side of golden brown, delicious, crispy fries.

That selfish bastard.

While the wound is still raw, I want to share my story in case one of you finds yourself suffering from a dieting betrayal and may find comfort in my words.

It went down like this:

I woke up yesterday morning like I could conquer the world. As I cheerfully peeled back my comforter and jumped to my feet, I started to put on my work uniform: an oversized hoodie, high ponytail, boyfriend sweatpants and slippers. Bra optional.

Nothing could stop me.

I had a full day of writing ahead which meant I needed to brew 12 cups of coffee. I started humming to myself the sweet melodies of a life well lived when like a flash of lightening, the record of joy screeched to a horrifying halt. 

My mouth went dry. My pulse high. I was frozen solid. I tried to gulp air, but it felt like I was swallowing sand. No, not now, God. No. I can’t. Please. Not now.

Please.

Nyquil was out on the counter, tipped on its side. A tiny plastic cup was upside down dripping its contents. Cough drop wrappers stuck in the pool of purple goo like flies trying to break free from those weird sticky thingies people hang from the ceilings when they’re hoarders.

A man cold was in my house.

I gripped the counter, my knees trembled. I can’t have a man cold in my house. Not this week. Not ever. 

click image to send this as an as eCard

Cindy Chupack is an Emmy-winning television writer/producer (Sex and the City and Modern Family, just to name two). I was given a copy of her latest book "The Longest Date: Life as a Wife" and I laughed so hard, so many times, I had to put the book down and walk away. I'm not exaggerating. Ask my husband. He was getting annoyed because football was on.

When you're not laughing, you're crying, as she shares some of life's struggles, including infertility. It's a hilarious book that keeps it oh so real about marriage. Beautiful, messy, left the toilet seat up, marriage.

Head over to Cindy's website at http://cindychupack.com to pre-order this book. Best Christmas gift ever.

*This is not a sponsored post, just a fun collaboration.

I get some pretty quirky stuff in my inbox on a daily basis, but a Café Mom article someone forwarded me a while back is on course to set a record. The title read, "When Her Husband Dies, She Plans to Turn Him into Jewelry." Apparently, she told her husband (who hasn’t kicked the bucket yet) that she planned on having him made into a diamond after he died. His response? “How much is that going to cost?” What do you care, Tightwad Timmy? You’ll be dead. Besides, she’ll have that nice life insurance policy payout and your social security check to cover it. With plenty, I’m sure, left over to invite the buffed pool guy to join her in Aruba.

This couldn’t possibly be true, I thought. It ranks up there with Walt Disney cryogenically freezing his head, or Dale Evans stuffing her horse, Trigger. (Or was it a Roy Rogers she stuffed? I can’t remember.) So just for grins I googled “jewelry made out of cremation ashes” and sure enough countless websites popped up that educate you on the wonders of turning your dearly departed into a lovely ankle bracelet (or whatever). Here’s how it works. Since we’re carbon-based forms, that carbon turns to a pile of ash when we’re cremated. From there that ash can be pressed into jewelry the same way cubic zirconium diamonds, and even precious metals, are made. I kid you not.

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Oddly enough, my “Holy shiz, I’m locked out” face looks exactly like my “Can someone pull the shades down please? A sun beam is shooting right at me and burning my retinas” face.

It’s a face filled with shock, horror, denial and a hint of rage as I try to think of someone else I can blame. 

Walk with me as I share a tale from last Friday as I was locked out of my home. It’s a tale of shock, denial, fear, acceptance, anger, and ultimately, severe boredom ...

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My wife loves the HGTV Network. It stands for Home and Garden Television, and in our one TV household, there is nothing more deflating for me than walking into the living room on a Friday night, all set to cuddle up with the Mrs. while watching an On Demand movie and see that I am too late.

Well, it’s official. The plastic surgery phenomenon has arrived in our neighborhood. It really shouldn’t have come as such a surprise. As a group we’ve all talked about what we would have done if we could afford it. I even entered myself into one of those massive make-over shows. I purposely wore my horrible, pink muumuu for the extra horror factor. I never heard back. At first, I took this as a good sign. Apparently my problems weren’t severe enough to warrant a televised make-over event. Then I began to worry. Maybe my problems were so serious that the show wrote me off as a lost cause.

They say to never trust a man in a kitchen. Or at least I think they said that up until the turn of the century or something like that. I'm not entirely sure. History was never my strong suit.

I learned not to trust my husband in the kitchen and WebMD in the same night...