R.I.P. Our Second Date

I'm here today to say goodbye to our second date. I never got to know you, but I heard great things about you and how much fun you'd be. It's a shame that your time on this planet was cut short before we got the chance to meet.

But, he did talk about you. Oh yes, several times during our first date he excitedly said that for you, our second date, we would go miniature golfing. He raved about you, assuring me that it would happen the following Saturday. I already picked out my outfit in my head. 

After golf, he was going to take me to dinner at this little BYOB that only uses food procured from local farmer's markets. A perfect mid-summer's evening with my new man! The world was our oyster and our second date was going to be the pearl in that oyster.

You sounded lovely, second date, but I'll never feel that putter in my hand and I'll never taste those yummy organic dishes. And, I'll never know you because he never called me to schedule it.

Oh God, this is hard. I'm sorry, everyone, I promised myself that I wouldn't cry.

Maybe, second date, you were just too beautiful for this world. I hope that you're happy up there with your brother, Guys Who Joke About Marrying Me On The First Date Rarely Want To Marry Me By Our Third Date. He, too, left this earth too soon. What a tragedy.

Goodnight, my sweet prince. Every time I see a star twinkle in the night sky, I'll think of you up there, winking at me like the class act I knew you'd be. 

R.I.P. Our Second Date

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Quick Rant: Go Away, I'm Macking

I'm not sure if he has some kind of premium iPhone app for showing up when I'd least like to see him, but without fail, my ex crash lands on my fun planet at the worst times.

I'll be giggling up a storm with a dude I just met, and just when he takes my hand and asks me to dance, I'll see my ex's face staring at me through the crowd looking at me all wounded like I just ran over his cat.

Or, I'll be yelling my phone number in another guy's ear and I'll look up to see my ex leaning against a wall with his arms crossed, shaking his head. My new guy won't even notice it, but I'll feel his stony stare searing into my skull like a shitty laser.

Why does he always have to magically appear when I try to get my swerve on? Did he affix a tracking tag under my skin when I wasn't looking? Did Scotty beam him in to this club? Is he a bloodhound, following my scent around the city? (For what it's worth, I do smell pretty good.) Sometimes, this town just feels too small.

Quick Rant: Go Away, I'm Macking

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Bonerkiller: Loud Chewers

From our reader Ruby, who CAN'T STAND chew chumps:

Loud chewers are one of my biggest pet peeves, ever ever ever. Where did he learn this behavior? It's as quiet as outer space when his mom eats. Why didn't she correct him when he was a child? He's 25 now and this should've been nipped in the bud a while ago. Between the lip smacking and finger licking. the acoustics of his mouth are impressive. I can literally hear his body turning solid food into a paste. And, I get to hear what that paste sounds like as he moves it all around his mouth. It's the worst. 

It annoys me so much that I have to pause while I'm eating to see if he's chewing loudly on purpose. For the most part, he is doing it subconsciously. Sometimes he will think he's funny and do it louder to fuck with me. "Ha ha," I'll say out loud. This joke would be way funnier if it wasn't how he actually sounded. I tried gently coaxing him to be quieter, but he either gets defensive or straight-up ignores me. This is the mouth that he uses to kiss me, but watching him eat makes me want to stay far away from it. Ew, dude!

It's been two years. I've stopped leaving hair on the shower walls (because I don't want to clog the drain) and now its time for him to learn to chew quietly, a skill most 5-year-olds have mastered.

Holy shit, Ruby, my little sister says the same thing about me being loud when I eat. But, I'm not a loud chewer! I've never had ANYONE ever comment on my loud eating before, but my sister will get all intense out of nowhere and literally cover her ears while I jam on some matzah ball soup.

Personally, I think she has incredibly sensitive ears. She must be part-dog or something because I'm pretty sure she can hear frequencies undetectable to the human ear. It's like when Teen Wolf heard the dog whistle in the hardware store.

You and my sister should go out to Souper Crackers and see who stabs who first.

Bonerkiller: Loud Chewers

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Boxerdropper: I Will Think Your Crummy Car Is Kind Of Charming

Good news: I'm not a car snob. I'll hold for applause.

I'm picky about a lot of things guys do, but this is one area of his world that I'll let some serious shit slide. Sure, it's a bonus if his car is as clean and and pleasant-smelling as a box of Orbit gum but it's not mandatory. Therefore, I will be a great girlfriend because I'll never give him shit about his funky ride.

It's so cute how he bashfully apologizes that his car is wack, but I seriously don't care. I'm pumped that he even showed up to take me out, I'm not gonna quibble about how the engine rumbles or that the glove compartment won't close.

Honestly, I'll think it's cute that he has to rig up his busted ride. I'll smile at how he needs a fork to tear out tapes that get stuck in the cassette player or jiggle the door handle for my side to open.

And, as an added bonus, he'll sorta look like the Fonz when he pounds the dashboard with his fist to get the AC to work. It's pretty wild how everything needs to be coerced into working properly. As long as his car's not smelly, I'm cool. Huzzah!

Boxerdropper: I Will Think Your Crummy Car Is Kind Of Charming

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Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Kitchen Sponge

He always seems to have money for the little things in life. He doesn't blink at dropping $25 for a nice wine. He'll be the first one to pick up the next round when he's out with his friends. And, he'll spring for a cab ride home if he doesn't feel like walking. However, when it comes to his kitchen sponge, he never seems to pay more than 11 cents for the one thing responsible at making his kitchen semi-clean.

It's little and yellow, about the size of a s'more. But, I want s'less of this sponge because it is terrible at the one thing it should do: clean. It's a lightweight yellow foam square that's not absorbent; it just pushes soapy water around like a bitchy hall monitor. I think it's made out of the same material used in red clown noses which is fitting because I feel like a clown using it.

There was a thin strip of green abrasive material on the top to scrub pots and pans, but half of it has dissolved. All that's left of the (formerly) gritty side is a raggedy strip of gnarled plastic half falling off, like a bad toupee. It doesn't clean anything, much less greasy pots and pans. 

I used it once to scrub a lasagna pan and it was so ineffective I wanted to strangle it. When I asked it to get tough, grow a sac and tell that burnt cheese to fuck off, it looked at me, shrugged, and said it wasn't his problem. What kind of reaction is that? I expect my sponge to kick ass in a four-wheeled truck waving an American Flag and blasting early Metallica, not sitting around and debating Sigur Ros' back catalog whilst sipping herbal tea. This is bullshit!

When I looked under his sink for a different sponge to use--maybe something ergonomic, something with some grease-fighting heft--I saw a plastic bag containing about 15 more of the same square yellow foam jobs. It's terrible sponges for as far as the eye can see. And, that just makes me sad.

Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Kitchen Sponge

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Story Time: His Artwork Ain't Workin' For Me

Not to sound weird, but I've been in my fair share of guys' bedrooms. (Ahem.) It's always a crapshoot because who knows what kind of weird shit he'll have on his walls passing off as artwork?

Will he take his cues from Mr. Belevedere's room and affix tasteful pictures to the wall? Will his room have peeling band posters slapped up half-hazardly? Maybe something bizarre scoured from a thrift store? Maybe *gag* a framed football jersey looming large?

Maybe the walls will be bare, making me feel like I'm committed to a mental institution every time I step foot in there.

The worst artwork I've ever seen in a guy's bedroom was a Sublime poster with a black light underneath it. The Sublime poster was dorky enough, but coupled with the black light pushed the entire set-up into another realm of terrible. I made him turn on the blacklight for kicks and it felt like I was in the rave episode of Dawson's Creek.   

What's the WORST thing passing for artwork that you've seen hung up in his room? Tell me in the comments.

Story Time: His Artwork Ain't Workin' For Me

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I Love Love Love Guys Who Wear Faded '90s Indie Shirts

This guy is the real deal. You can tell by his shirt. It's faded and thin from years of wash 'n' wear. You can barely make out the Guided By Voices logo unless you squint.

The good news: he throws KILLER barbecues with tons of fancy beer in the fridge and will be more than happy to grill up veggie burgers for the non-meateaters in attendance. The bad news: he probably has long-standing commitment issues. Sad trombone noise.

He most likely played the Silver Jews on his college radio show. He probably thought Kelley Deal was hot before she had a heroin habit. He'll still talk about seeing Neutral Milk Hotel at a Merge Records showcase at CMJ. I'd bet he even went to one of the original Lollapaloozas, back when it was a sweaty freakshow traveling around the country replete with pierce tents and henna tattoo booths.

That's probably where he picked up that shirt. Or, maybe he snapped it up when the band played his hometown the summer after his sophomore year. Or maybe he ordered it from the record label and had it sent to him directly. (I used to do that.)

You can tell that it wasn't eBayed. It wasn't a hand me down. He sought this shirt out when he was a '90s indie snob and it's his favorite shirt, surviving dozens of moves and countless girlfriends. I mean, he bought that shirt before email was invented. It's practically his second skin. And, it's awesome. I can overlook his flaws because when he plays Superchunk as we make blueberry muffins from scratch on a sunny Sunday morning, it makes my heart smile.

I Love Love Love Guys Who Wear Faded '90s Indie Shirts

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Bonerkiller: Gamblers

Bet you can't guess where this is from!

I'm the exact opposite of a gambler. I can't stand slot machines, I detest roulette, and I'll crinkle my nose at blackjack. I've been to Vegas twice and I hated it both times. Atlantic City bores me. I'm yawning just thinking about Atlantic City.

There is nothing about gambling that I find appealing because I hate losing money more than I like winning money. Besides, gambling lingo confuses me. I have no idea what a spread or an over/under is and I don't care to learn. There, I said it.

So, when my new guy divulges his gambling habit, I instantly start planning an escape route. It'll never work out because dating a gambler is like dating a guy with constant PMS: he'll have mood swings, he'll be irritable, and he'll be irrational. No thanks.

He'll shush me because he's focused on the game. His eyes will glaze over because he's concentrating on his poker hand. BORING! He'll say things like, "I have money riding on this, babe." The only thing he should be riding is me. (Haha! Ew, gross.)

And, watching a guy gamble is a total turn-off. When he wins it sucks because he's hooting and hollering like an eight-year-old in a Chuck E. Cheese ballpit. And, when he loses it sucks because he'll frown and pout like a cranky preteen which will ruin our night. Who needs it?

[Contest time: The first three people to correctly identify which movie this picture is from win a prize. Email me at hi@shmittenkitten.com to toss yer chips in.]

Bonerkiller: Gamblers

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