July 21, 2014

Attention People With Dilemmas: I Can Help!

I'm not sure if you've heard, but I'm writing a NEW weekly advice column over on The Frisky called, "Make It Stop."

So far I've taken on sneaky roommates and reality TV-shaming boyfriends. And last week I put the kibosh about pesky co-workers and nosy drunkards.

Have a question you want answered? Email me: anna@shmittenkitten.com with the subject "make it stop" and I'll try my best to help you nip some shit in the bud.

July 3, 2014

I Legit LOL'ed At This Terry Richardson Spoof Video "I Stand With Dick"

My homegirl Rose Surnow wrote and directed this pitch perfect Terry Richardson-inspired video called, "I Stand With Dick." It completely captures the lunacy surrounding his fandom. Rose is a funny lady and this video did not disappoint. Just watch.

Do yourself a favor and her on Twitter @RoseSurnow.

July 1, 2014

Bonerkiller: Guys Who Won't Make a Move

You know what?  I'm exhausted.

It's July, the month of exponentially increased sweat production, exponentially increased air conditioning bills, short skirts and tube tops at all times, constant leg shaving, flip flops (but only in the park!) and afternoons that last until 9 p.m. There's a lot of daylight happening out there, kids, and I'd like to think I've been soaking it up. And that takes a lot of energy.

I'm so tired
So I hope you'll excuse me when I say: I wish he'd just make a move already.

I've been spending my summer enjoying what a friend delicately referred to as a Trampage (tramp + rampage = Trampage). I prefer calling it, "Celebrating My New Blonde Pixie Cut and Softball Tan," but her phrasing has a certain (more accurate) ring to it. And while I'm by no means averse to being the aggressor in a given encounter, I have to admit that it would be seriously dreamy if he'd just take the initiative and plant one on me.

I'm not sure when the onus shifted onto the ladies to make the first move, but I'm gonna go ahead and act my age for a minute and resent the hell out of it. Call me old fashioned. (Actually, don't, but if you want to go make me an Old Fashioned, I'll be right here waiting. Seriously. Take your time.) Call me anti-feminist. (And then run for the fucking hills, because few things make me stabbier than the implication that "feminist" and "romantic" are mutually exclusive.) Call me a dying breed. (Hell, that might even be true.) But nothing gets me hotter under the collar than that moment when a dude leans in for that first sweet, sweet kiss and all I have to do is tilt my head a little and mentally high-five myself. After all, don't we all fancy ourselves irresistible?

Don't answer that.

I hope I haven't misspoken: rapey "can't take no for an answer" dudes need not apply. But if the vibe is strong and the moment's right, nothing murders the mood more than a guy who won't go for it.

I wore my favorite red lipstick for this?
In the meantime, I'll Keep Calm and #Trampage On (Free hashtag! You're Welcome.) But come on, guy -- I'm ready, willing and able. The summer's not getting any longer. Let's do this thing.

May 21, 2014

I'm Leaving You And I'm Taking the Dive Bar With Me

I live in a city that’s all about its corner bars. I hang out with a lot of guys at corner bars. It’s what I like to do. Go on a date? Forget it. Throw this lady a beer and shot and we can bypass the rest of that pointless charade.

But when the dream is over, who takes the coveted favorite dive bar?

The answer is me.

I take the dive bar. The dive bar is mine.

I don’t mean to be selfish or immature but like all semi-shared assets in a fleeting romance, bars need to be split according to basic breakup etiquette. They know my name at the dive bar. They make my drinks the way I like them. This is where I go to dish juicy gossip over a cheap martini. I need that particular freedom of speech.

Just like toothbrushes, pets and spare keys, custody should be agreed upon upfront. Really, you’re doing each other a favor by divvying up the bar scene. You can skip awkwardly running into one another on dates. You don’t have to make small talk or fruitlessly attempt to ignore one another. You can simply just go to different bars.

But how do you divvy up the rest of the bar scene?

1. Margarita bars go to the gal pal. 
That’s just, like, the rules of feminism. Margaritas bars are a place where females go to laugh about their sexual misadventures and make eyes at the buttoned up mistake at the end of the bar. (Really, what kind of guys are you meeting at a tiki bar?) It’s only right to award this place to the gals.

2. Corner bars are divided territorially.
Whoever lives closer, gets the dive. No one should have to walk more than three blocks to “their” corner bar. It’s called a corner bar because it’s on the corner. People who live on that block go there. End of story.

"I came here to murder you!"
3. Venues and party bars are neutral territory.
You both have friends and interests here. This one is Switzerland. You’re less likely to be forced to interact with one another here. The more crowded, the better, and the easier to duck out if need be.

4. Date bars and BYOBs are at your discretion.
Hit up the Italian joint at your own risk. While I always advise against double dipping at the olive oil bowl, it’s not totally unheard of for you to want to return to a special date spot. Just remember: you do not want to be stuck at the communal four top, together.

5. “Your” bar is your bar. 
If either of you introduced the other to a particularly great bar, it belongs to the founder. It’s only fair.

Respecting your Ex-SO’s bar scene is respecting their space. The bar is a place of reflection. This is what we mean when we say that we need to respect one another’s “boundaries.” Me? I just need some space. And that space is specifically located on a corner near my house.

And if he does trample all over my triple sec parade…

May 20, 2014

Tip Our Hats: Guys Who Have Tight "Morning After" Game

Holy hell, Spring is finally in full swing. Leaves are on the trees, co-ed softball players are back in the parks, and the sidewalk cafes are open for day-drinking pink wine. Famously cranky New Yorkers are positively smirking at each other as we walk the streets: our city has transformed, virtually overnight, from a frost-bitten no man's land (as in, No. Men. Anywhere.) into a sexy, sunlit film set peopled with hippie girls in tasteful crop tops (Don't try and tell me there's no such thing!) and broad-chested fellas in t-shirts and Ray Bans. It's a veritable buffet of pheromones out there, and you better believe that this girl is strolling the streets with her knife and fork in hand. Dinner...is served.

"Twitterpated," as Thumper said
And with all of this freshly minted sin comes the age-old dilemma: what's the protocol for The Morning After? It's basically the world's most-belated audition. You've won the role. Opening Night has come and gone. But in those crucial first few minutes of next-day haze, you can make or break the reviews. And there's nothing better than finding out that Mr. Last Night has moves in the light of day too.

Once I've spent the night at his place, there are four scenarios to contend with:

1. Neither of us have anywhere to be.
Morning sex. There is only one right answer, and this is it. Extra credit for a coffee machine with a timer so I can grab a cup of joe -- and a look at his butt in morning-after shorts -- on my way out the door.

2. He has somewhere to be, and I don't.
Nothing says, "Great and careful work, partner. We should do this again," like offering to let me stay in his bed after he leaves. Please note, however, that this is a carefully laid bear trap: take him up on the offer, and he's going to assume that you stayed to snoop. Which is even more damaging if that is, in fact, what happened. (Ladies, please, don't do this.)

3. I have somewhere to be, and he doesn't.
Full marks to any guy who throws on a pair of shorts (but only shorts -- see above re: getting a look at his butt) and walks me out. I get the satisfaction of a proper good-bye; he gets to go back to bed; I get to imagine him sprawling out and curling up with a pillow once I'm gone. A happy thought for the whole day.

4. We both have somewhere to be.
I'll need 10 minutes of uninterrupted bathroom time (including at least minimal access to soap, toothpaste, running water and a towel). He gets the same. Then, the crucial moment: will he awkwardly make me leave, then follow me out the door moments later? Will he insist on leaving together, only to split on the street corner with a hasty, "See you around"? Will he walk way too fast and leave me in his dust wondering what the hell I was thinking?

But a guy who doesn't make me rush down the street in last night's heels, suggests coffee or breakfast (You got me out to *shudders* Brooklyn; at least fortify me for the journey home!), then kisses me goodbye? Game on, sir. This was a pop quiz, and you've just aced it. See me after class for extra credit.

May 13, 2014

Pics and Vids: Finally, An Honest Wedding RSVP Card

Happy wedding season, everyone!

via Someecards.com

Flippin' Our Shades at Comedian Chip Chantry

By day, Chip Chantry is a fourth grade teacher. But by night, well, he's still a fourth grade teacher, however he does stand up comedy too! He won Helium Comedy Club's Philly's Phunniest 2013 competition and his comedy album "Across from the Adonis" is out on iTunes.

Chip, being hilarious
 Here's just a tiny sample of the kind of knee-slappers he tosses out on the reg.

He consistently cracks me up on both Twitter and Facebook so I suggest you follow him immediately. Since he's playing Helium Comedy Club from Wednesday, May 14 - Saturday, May 17th, I thought I'd pin him down and ask him some questions about dating.
1. What's your idea of a perfect date?
Chip Chantry: It has to be a double date. It doesn't matter where or when. The perfect date is the double date where the general public can plainly see that you are the superior couple. 
In a perfect world, you and your date get the other couple to break up mid-date. They create a scene, but you intervene before it gets out of hand. Then, the guy speeds off in his Jetta, or better yet, Audi, screaming and crying. As he screeches out of the parking lot, he immediately gets pulled over. Then you, your date, and the girl from the other couple watch the cop issue this irate and emotionally exhausted dude a ticket as you eat frozen yogurt from across the parking lot. And the frozen yogurt place has malt AND crushed Nilla Wafers as toppings; not one or the other -- BOTH. You then drive the newly single girl back to her place. As she gets out of the car, she hugs your date, and leans in the window and whispers, with a single tear streaming down her cheek, but a smile on her face, "You guys are gonna make it." To celebrate the victory, you take your date back to your place and let her pick her favorite episode of "Arrested Development" to watch on NetFlix. But I guess that's pretty standard. 
2. What do most guys do wrong when they're out with a lady? 
Chip Chantry: Look, NO ONE wants to see photos from your appendectomy. Just go ahead and delete them from your phone so you're not even tempted to show her, man.
3. What's the worst thing a guy can do on a date?
Chip Chantry: Frame you for murder. I mean, you're having a nice dinner, the conversation is going well, you realize that you have a lot in common. And then, right before the dessert comes out, the police burst in, and she stands up, points at you and screams, "THAT'S HIM, OFFICERS!" You get hauled away, they charge you with MURDER, and you lose your job, most of your friends refuse to speak to you, and even your family thinks you're a monster. You go through an excruciating trial that lasts weeks, but finally, as there is no physical evidence that ties you to the murder scene, you are acquitted and try to put the pieces of your life back together. And the worst part? Dessert was bananas flambĂ©, and she got to eat the WHOLE THING. And you LOVE bananas flambĂ©.
4. Tell us a secret!
Chip Chantry: I worked as a stock boy at a pharmacy when I was in high school. I purposely scheduled myself to work the nights of my 9th and 10th grade semi-formal dances, because I was too scared to ask anyone to go to the dance with me. So when people asked me if I was going to the dance, I would say, "Oh, I gotta work. Yeah, they really need me," and then I would brag about getting a ten percent discount on razors and shaving cream that I barely needed. 
5. What advice would you give a younger version of yourself about dating?
Chip Chantry: Look, dude. She made you turn off Rushmore halfway through because she hated it. Break up now. Don't waste the next six months, guy. Save both of you the time and effort. And clean out your car, man. Seriously. Have some self-respect.
6. What would you put on a mixtape for a woman that you liked? 
Chip Chantry: When it comes to a mixtape, you just have to know your boundaries. Keep it centered. No matter how much you are tempted, no Elliott Smith, no Muppets. Somewhere in between. If I really wanted to wow her, I would just give her a copy of my live comedy album, "Across from the Adonis," which is now available on iTunes. (Wink.)

Lucky for us, Chip is playing a bunch of dates this summer.
May 14-17 / Helium Comedy Club / Philadelphia, PA
May 22-24 / Helium Comedy Club / Portland, OR
May 29 / Revel Casino / Atlantic City, NJ
June 19 / Revel Casino / Atlantic City, NJ
July 10-12 / Helium Comedy Club / Buffalo, NY
July 23-26 / Cap City Comedy Club / Austin, TX
July 31 / ArtsQuest Center at Steel Stacks / Bethlehem, PA
Aug 7-9 / Goodnights / Raleigh, NC
Sept 12-13 / City Steam / Hartford, CT
Go see him!

May 2, 2014

Things I'm Terrible At: Online Dating

After a brief and ill-advised stint on eHarmony several years ago, (in my defense, I was marooned in the dateless sea of khaki and receding hairlines that is Washington, D.C. and may or may not have completed the personality profile as a goof after a dinner whose primary component was Sauvignon Blanc) I recently dipped my toe back into the tepid, foaming pool of online dating.

Holy crap, am I bad at this.

Deterred by the infuriatingly intricate communications process of multiple choice questions, followed by open-ended questions, followed by open-ended chatting, followed (FINALLY) by actual communication -- and by the fact that, back in D.C., they set me up with a Tourette's patient who asked about butt sex on our first date -- I eschewed eHarmony this time in favor of everyone's favorite virtual dive bar pick-up scene: OKCupid.

Within the first 24 hours, despite what I thought was an engaging and appealing profile that neatly straddled the line between "Fun!" and "Don't you dare message me if your only thought is getting your little head wet," I had been matched with:

a) a bartender from my local watering hole whose name my friends and I precede in conversation with "Weird," because holy crap is this dude Weird, Capital W

b) my boss

c) a certain attractive gentleman who rejected my amorous advances last summer (Thanks for reminding me, OKStupid)

d) at least a dozen residents of the great state of New Jersey, sarcasm intended

e) at least another dozen married people trolling for tail

Seriously? This is what I've been missing by not online dating? I could've found these guys all by myself in any given 24-hour period with nothing more than my Facebook friends list and a trip to literally any bar in New York. I'm off this site. What's next? Tinder, you say?

Bobs OMG

Fucking Tinder? Don't get me started. I'm convinced I'm doing it wrong. After patiently weeding through heaps (HEAPS!) of pics and right-swiping with discretion and certainty, I'm currently running a roughly 95% rate of immediate "It's a Match!" success.

Among those matches, I'm currently running a roughly 20% rate of interacting beyond "It's a Match!"  Among those I've interacted with, I'm currently running a roughly 100% rate of crappy grammar and offensively lazy come-ons.

Seriously, guys, I know it's a hook-up site, but if, "yo u wanna hook up?" is the best you can do, I reserve the right to scrunch my nose in disgust and viciously left-swipe away huge chunks of the single male population. It's hard to believe that the Y chromosome you're packing is good for anything more than transforming once-adorable boys into leg-humping canines circa puberty.

At this point, I think I'm back to -- gasp -- actual dating. Meeting real humans. Face to face. If only because, honestly, it simply can't get any worse.

I hope.

Note: If you do manage to find me on Tinder or OKStupid, go ahead and say hello! Worst-case scenario for both of us is a follow-up post here. I'll totally give you a fake name that doesn't start with "weird." Just, y'know, don't be Weird, Capital W.