YUM. ME.

This is my boyfriend, Chef Robert Irvine. Now for those of you who actually happen to know Chef Robert Irvine, let me just say that he is my boyfriend only my own whacky little screwed up fantasy boyfriend kind of world. Yes, I am indeed on another planet, but it's OK. They know me here. (And if you're wondering why I do not call Chef Gordon Ramsey my boyfriend, it's because I have just discovered that he is only 30-something and I am not. Also, he throws things. Like Beef Wellington. And brussel sprouts.)

Almost exactly one year ago, I was a lonely Spinster sitting in her little house looking out the window. It was a cold and dreary day and when I looked at the calendar, I realized that it was Valentine's Day. I was very sad.

When the telephone rang, I figured it would be the Target Pharmacy automated voice mail message telling me that I had a prescription ready to pick up. Either that, or it would be a telemarketer wanting to know my opinions of the latest Jonas Brothers album. Either way, I wasn't exactly rushing to pick up the receiver and hit the "talk" button.

"Hello, my darling! I've called to wish you a Happy Valentine's Day!"

And that's when my vision went dark, I am pretty sure I peed myself, and I fell to the floor in a state of total disbelief. It was my Robert.


*****EDITED TO ADD*****
Chef Robert Irvine really DID call me on the telephone. My friend Cheryl was attending the National Builder's Show in Orlando, Florida and he was one of the guest speakers. Knowing that I am a HUGE fan of Robert's, my friend Cheryl walked right up to him (cell phone in hand) and said "My friend Coni is a HUGE fan of yours. Would you call her to wish her a Happy Valentine's Day?" So he did. (See above for darkness, peeing, falling, etc.) She also managed to get an autographed picture of him for yours truly, but alas, it has gone missing and I can only pine for it in my pitiful little way. Sniff sniff. So Robert, my love, if you read this, please send another picture for me, won't you? Bedroom wall size would be great. Thanks.
*****END OF EDIT*****

Oh, my dearest one. Won't you please call me again? I promise not to cry this time and/or babble incoherently about how you changed my life or how I know all about Absecon, New Jersey, or how my little Stewey thinks you're too sexy for your whisk.

I'll be calm. And smart. And funny and witty and charming and everything you could possibly want in a Hoosier Spinster Valentine. I won't contemplate tattooing any part of myself with anything remotely related to you and/or your corporation Irvine Thyme, LLC. I will be respectful and engaging, and I might even tell you that I can make a pretty mean cottage pie. Pastry, however, eludes me.

So be well, my dear one. I wait with breath that is bated for the day that you return to the Food Network. I promise to dutifully DVR every episode and to give them my undivided attention. In my pajamas. With a nice glass (or bottle) or Shiraz.

Oar Vwa Me A More.