Reader Submission: Yo, Free Internet Dating Site, Quit Being Such A Doucher

One of our very favorite readers, Mary Beth, just sent this to us. It's hysterical because we can totally relate and this is why we are terrified of Internet dating. Read on:

I signed up on OKCupid recently and so far it has resulted in two dates with men of questionable sexual preference. (Translation: they were gay, but they didn't know it.) There weren't any other viable options, so I idly looked at who this so-far-untrustworthy site suggested I'd be interested in.

I innocently thought, "Hmm, 91% match, you say? Let's take a closer loo--No. No, no, no, no that cannot be him. Tell me that it is not HIM!" Oh, but it was. The "him" the site told me I might be interested in, was none other than the last guy to break my heart. Well, technically, the guy was never my official ex for the sole reason that he continually pulled away, came back, then pulled away again and so didn't ever come close to being my boyfriend.

I hadn't spoken to him or seen him in over a year. He's not on Facebook either, so I could pretend he didn't exist. At least until now, when I was face to face with his somewhat creepy Webcam picture. The best part? In his self summary, he openly admitted to having a habit of shutting people out. It's unfortunate that there is no algorithm to factor in "been there, done that, go away forever, please."

Being matched up with someone from our past is one of our biggest fears about signing up for any online dating sites. Also, we tried it once and it suggested we match up with one of our best guy friends. There was our profile, casual yet flirty, and there was his profile, talking about his turn-offs and the best lie he's ever told. It was awkward, like we just walked in on him dropping a deuce aka releasing the chocolate hostages aka taking the Cleveland Browns to the Superbowl. Really, I could go on but I think you get the drift. I avoid people IRL all the time; to do it IMIL (in my Internet life) is just too much.

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Things I'm Terrible At: Writing Short Emails To Guys I Like

For some reason, I am physically unable to keep emails under 500 words when I am writing an email to a guy I like. Essentially, I ramble on like Led Zeppelin.

My email is lovingly crafted with all sorts of literary devices sprinkled throughout. I write paragraphs with thematic sentences. I use exclamation points. It's the written equivalent of twirling my hair, batting my eyelashes and doing a tap dance routine. 

It's embarrassing because his emails will convey the minimal amount of information possible. He won't even use proper punctuation. No words are capitalized. His email is basically an electronic grunt. That makes me nervous. And, when I get nervous, I overcompensate which means I write even longer emails in an effort to connect with him.

By the end of the whole exchange if you compare our emails side by side, I've written The Infinite Jest and he's written less text than would appear on a standard greeting card. It's fucktarded.

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Bonerkiller: Litterbugs

Not to be too dramatic, but I find litterbugs utterly horrifying. I hate them with the intensity of a thousand middle fingers. Something about a guy who litters is so anathema to my soul, that I can't even handle it. When I see my date chuck his cigarette wrapping on the ground like the Earth is one big trashcan, I turn into that Native American with a lone tear streaming down his cheek.

What kind of guy litters? The worst kind of guy, that's who. They're right up there with guys who wear white athletic socks with squeaky new Reebok high-tops, guys who have ponytails and use massage oils, and guys who just got out of a long-term relationship and dick you around because they "don't know what they're ready for yet."

All of these men are terrible and all of these men should be shipped off the planet and sent to that fat people spaceship in Wall-E. Litterbugs, aw hell no!

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Quick Rant: Your Extreme Pocket Dialing Habit

Way to go, guy. You've given a new meaning to the term "mobile communication" with your magical ability to pocket dial me at any and all times of the day. I'll be at my desk or sitting on my bed, then I'll think of you and ring ring, just like magic, it's you! But, it's not actually you on the other end of the line. "Hello? Hello? HELLO?," I shout like a crazy woman on a street.

I check the phone again to see if I somehow imagined my phone ringing, but it's definitely you calling me--my caller ID told me that--but it's choppy and static and you're talking to someone else or, more strangely, grumbling about traffic and listening to Iron Maiden completely oblivious that I'm on the other end of the line. "Oh man," I realize, "I've just been pocket dialed. Again."

This has become a regular thing with you. Do you remember that time you called me at 4:13am and I called you back and no one answered? Then, remember how I panicked because I thought there was an emergency? And remember how it turned out that it was just your cat being a creep-a-leep and pawing your BlackBerry while you were asleep? It's like your phone really likes dialing my number.

It's a good thing I like you so much because it's not normal to receive mystery voicemails with you breathing into your phone like Darth Vader or messages that could double for a Clap Your Hands Say Yeah b-side song played underwater. Your pocket dial is like I just got an oral report about what it's like to be a dime in your pocket. Lock your keypad, darlin'. It's best for all involved.

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Bonerkiller: Fantasy Date Hope Dashers

Your future date ideas for us sound like something out of a rom-com montage: We’ll go on a hot air balloon ride around the city, we'll go to the zoo, and maybe we'll spend a weekend down at the shore because your buddy has a house down there we can use. Hell, maybe we can even hop on a plane and go to Vegas for a weekend. These dates are wonderful on your lips and in my head. The problem: they never happen for real. I mean, it's fine that they never happen, but don't get my hopes up about it. Now, you're just a hope dasher. I hate hope dashers!

Oh, ok, so we went on one or two real dates. It was nice enough. We even had an end-of-the-night kiss. And you act like you’re still interested. And you say we’ll have to do this and that, go here and there. And you sound sincere, so I believe you. But, boy am I glad that I didn't invest in a new pair of scuba fins for our magical get-a-way date to the Bahamas.

Because none of it ever happens. A week goes by, and I don’t hear from you about these whirlwind plans at all. And what’s worse is that you act like everything’s still cool. It’s not cool to leave someone hanging. It’s not cool to tell me A or B and then do Z—nothing! Just like our fantasy dream dates, I am going to start acting like you never happened.

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Tip Our Hats: Out-of-towners

In my 10+ years of living in Philadelphia, I like to think I’ve discovered some pretty neat places tucked away in weird little corners that not every run-of-the-mill resident is aware of. Of course, I’m usually wrong. I’ll think I have some ace up my sleeve to impress a girl that’s only been here for a year and a half, but when we get there, it’s always, “Oh, yeah! I know this place!” And just like that, I suddenly feel way less impressive.

But fret not, my ego, as there is help on the way: The out-of-towner. I love being able to bring you anywhere in town, knowing you’ve never been there. I’ll spend all afternoon regaling you with useless facts about everything we pass. I know deep down that you really don’t care about any of these things I’m telling you, but that you’re playing along and smiling at me when I make a bad joke about City Hall makes it all worthwhile. Even more than that, it all makes for a great excuse to keep walking and talking and not go home just yet.

And if that weren’t enough, when you realize we’re trying out some activity that even I haven’t done, your face lights up like an orphan on Christmas morning in the 3rd act of some happy-ending-type movie. The fact that there are still things here that I don’t know, and you get to do them with me for the first time; I know, that's pretty exciting.

So girls from other places that come to Philadelphia to go on a date with me, I tip my hat to you. Thanks for making me feel like I’ve got something to bring to the table here.

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Dear Shmitten Kitten: When Can I Check Out His Check Out?

Dear Shmitten Kitten,

Say, after going on some dates with a guy who is vibing you pretty hard, he falls off the face of the earth and stops contacting you. (I call this "the other Philly Special.")  Is it okay to call him on it and ask him what's up?  I don't wanna come across like a crazy female here, but I'd like to know what happened!  What do you think?

Signed,
Sick of Lame Boys

Holy moly, this is a great question. First, you came to the right place because this happens to us weekly. We know how every bone in your body wants to know the answer. Was it something you did? Was it something he did? Where did he go? Did he forget how to dial a phone? Is he rolling around in an oak tree making E.L. Fudge cookies with the other Keebler elves? Well, I have an unsexy answer to your sexy question: it depends.

The longer it's been since this happened, the greater your chances are of finding out what his deal was. If this happened two years ago, he will probably have the clarity to tell you exactly what happened. If this happened last week, chances are, he's still in the middle of figuring out whatever the hell his problem is. But, you can't force it. It has to happen naturally, like you run into him at a bar or at a party and then you can confront him about it. If you call him up and demand an answer, well, good luck with that. 

Personally, when a guy peaces out on me, I naturally assume that he developed a severe digestion problem which is causing him to let off the meanest, smelliest, and just downright insensitive farts and he couldn't bear the thought of me being around that. At least, that's the story I tell myself. It makes me feel better, like a fart-y fable. Then, I picture him farting up the room until it smells like a Bombay bazaar in the dog days of summer. Gross, right? *gag* I'm gonna assume that this fart theory is what happened until he tells me something different. And, who wants to date a frequent, flagrant farter? Not me!!

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Phrases We'd Like To Stab In The Face: "Wow! You Really Know A Lot Of Guys Here"

This is a strange thing to say to me, especially on a first date. What, exactly did he mean by that? I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me back up. I took him to a house party after a nice dinner. I introduced him to my friends as we wound our way to the kitchen. Then, after our first swig of beer, he exclaimed, "Wow! You really know a lot of guys here." I made a weird face then ignored his comment.

What I SHOULD have done is taken out a laser pointer and highlighted each guy around the room with this running commentary:

See this guy with the hat? He's my best friend's ex. He flopped around my apartment for roughly three years. This guy with the blazer? He's tall and blond and I would never date him. This guy with the motorcycle jacket? My other friend has had a crush on him for six years and I used to go to his dj night back in the day. That guy in the plaid shirt over there went out with my friend a few times and then he blew her off. For some reason, we always say hi to each other but I think he's just over-compensating because he feels bad about being mean to my friend.

Now, see that guy over there by the stereo? We did hook up but I didn't introduce you to him. He gave me a smile and a nod when we walked in. And, see that guy over by the fridge? That's a guy who I did date but we had a falling out and now he's ignoring me. I think he's here with another girl and he feels awkward about it.

The lesson? You should be more concerned with the guys I don't introduce you to. For the most part, those are the ones I have something going on with. If I do introduce you to a guy friend, I'm basically telling you that he's not a threat. Sheesh! Oh, and by the way, fuck you.

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Another Satisfied Customer: A Mix Tape Speed Dating Testimony

Imagine my delight when I received this letter in my inbox this morning:

Anna,

I just wanna let you know that since the night of October 8, when I reluctantly attended your mix tape speed dating party, I've been hanging out with the same guy that I met at your event.

After two years of bad dates and crappy short term relationships with men with egos the size of China, I have finally met a decent, kind, attractive man who has a huge heart. Who knew all I had to do was attend mix tape speed dating??? I hope you continue these events for other single people in town who have exhausted all of the rotten options in their own social circles. I owe you big time, Anna!!!!

kisses,
Jennifer

How rad is that? I TOLD you we brought some love to the city. We've taken a break from our mix tape speed dating parties for now, but we're considering starting them up again in the new year. My question: are people still interested in it? I was thinking about doing a Brit-pop night, a Wes Anderson night, a power ballad night, and maybe another '90s alternative night. I'm pretty much open to anything. If we were to do it again, would you come? What would you want to listen to if you did participate? Drop a line to me at anna@shmittenkitten.com or leave a message in the comments and let me know what you're thinking.

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Bonerkiller: You Spent Too Much Money On Our First Date

Attention Daddy Warbucks-y thousandaires: That's great that you wanted to sweep me off my feet by wining and dining me, but you blew it by dropping an insane amount of money on our first (and only) date.

You took me out for to a super fancy dinner at one of the best restaurants in town and then to fancy cocktails at a hotel as a nightcap. But, where do we go from there? Am I supposed to expect this first-class treatment on every date we go on? Put simply: I'm not a wise investment. It's only our first date. I'm still trying to figure out if I'm attracted to you and if I enjoy your company. Sorry, but this whirlwind night is putting me on edge. I feel like you're trying to wow me with all the wrong things. To paraphrase Shania Twain, this date doesn't impress me much.

By dropping, $200, $300, or even $400 dollars, you're putting waaaaay too much pressure on me. I can't enjoy this lovely wine because I'm too stressed about whether I want to kiss you at the end of this hullabaloo. And, even though you'll deny it, you are gonna expect something for the hundreds of dollars you just spent on me. You'll protest, "No! My Mom raised me this way. I'm just treating you like a lady." Yeah, a lady of the night!

Not to sound weird or ungrateful, but I see guys make this rookie mistake with me and my friends all the time. I'm not a finalist on The Bachelor. I don't need some insane production on our first date. No limos or helicopters or wild animals need to be rented. Honestly, a low-key dinner with great conversation will always be superior to a high-class date with a woefully skewed power dynamic. Besides, no one wants to date an ATM. It's not that much fun.

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Little Known Fact: I Will Judge You Based On Your Ability To Drive A Stick Shift Car

What do Indiana Jones, Batman, James Bond, and the guy who drove the tractor in Aerosmith's "Crazy" video have in common? They all (presumably) know how to drive stick shift cars. And, that's hot. Very hot. I LOVE it when I'm driving with a guy and he's downshifting on turns and zooming through the gears to get to 65 mph.

However, when a guy picks me up and I see that his car is automatic, my heart sinks a little, like I've just learned that he has a hotmail email address or that he has never lived out-of-state. He probably likes Domino's Pizza and thinks that the Transformers movies are good, too. [Wow, that was a baseless, sweeping generalization. Sorry 'bout that.]

It takes initiative to learn stick shifts. And, once you learn it, you'll see that you have more control over the vehicle and it keeps your mind sharper as you drive. Stick shift guys know that the neutral gear is your friend. And, it's always fun to just jam it into second gear once your car is in motion. First gear? Don't need it! That's what I'm talkin' about.

Honestly, I think it freaks some guys out when they see that my car is stick shift. I feel like some part of their subconscious thinks it's unfeminine perhaps? I'm not even going to get into the Freudian implications of a woman jockeying a stick shift with skill (which I'm sure there must be.) I don't know and I don't care. I love my stick shift car and all the guys that can drive it. Vroom vroom, gear shifting straight to my heart.

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Things I'm Terrible At: Remembering That I've Already Hit On You

I must be listening to Skid Row's "I Remember You" and it must be opposite day today, because I honestly do not recognize you. And, here's the embarrassing part: I've hit on you roughly once a season for the past two years. To put it in on a Britney Spears' timeline, I've been consistently hitting on you since she went insane and shaved her head.

For some reason, I never remember that I've already hit on you until you explain to me that we've met before. Then the lightbulb goes off over my head and I remember how you've already rejected me SEVERAL TIMES.

"Ahhhh! Right! We exchanged numbers two winters ago and you blew me off. Did you do something different with your hair? Did you shave your beard off? That must've been why I didn't recognize you. Yes, yes, I remember you now. Nice seeing you again!" Then, I slink off into a corner and crumple into a ball of hot, shameful tears with my fist clenched toward the sky, cursing the Gods of Hooking Up.

Ok, the first four times it happened, it was totally my fault; I'll give you that. But the last three times? That's all on you, Bucko. The more I think about it, the angrier I'm getting. You really need to start differentiating yourself for me. Have a knife fight and get some guy to slash your cheek. Get neon eyeglass frames. Get an earring. I'd totally remember a guy with an earring. Do SOMETHING so that you'll stand out. What, I'm supposed to keep track of which generically good-looking guys I mack on? I don't have time for that. Besides, I always see you in dark places and everyone knows that I have terrible night vision. Your inability to stand out coupled with my optical shortcomings are the real culprits here. 

The only good thing about all of this is that it confirms that I have a specific type because every time I see you out, I kick you game. So, there's that. Yay?

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Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Tiny, Overflowing Wastebasket

With just two Q-tips, four cotton balls, a used Kleenex, and a used disposable razor, this thing is at maximum capacity. I hate it! Even Oscar the Grouch would scoff at this thing. And, he LOVES trash! In fact, it looks like Oscar the Grouch puked up all over this bathroom after having three Sparks and dancing his ass off at Making Time. 

Since it's so small, it fills up with flotsam almost immediately. The grocery store bag he uses for the lining is too big and it slumps over the sides like it hates its life. Honestly, we don't blame it. That trash bag probably envisioned itself growing up to cart some lady's fresh groceries home from the Acme, not playing makeshift garbage bag in a guy's rank bathroom.

He never empties it, instead choosing to let it spill over onto the floor like TP droppings from the TP tree. But, the WORST is when you have your period and you have to stash your pad in this overgrown mess. You gotta try and jam it in an empty toilet paper roll like a terrible afikomen. And that just makes me sad.

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Surprisingly Not a Bonerkiller: You Talk in Your Sleep

I bolt upright in the middle of the night.You said something to me and now I'm half-awake. I hear you say something again. You're mumbling. Please tell me that this is not your way of trying to put the moves on me. What the hell, dude? I'm awake now, so enunciate for the love of God! Oh wait, you're talking but you aren't talking to me; you're just chattering away in your sleep. Awesome.

How am I just realizing now that you're a sleeptalker? I channel Yosemite Sam--or even Naomi Campbell--toward anything that wakes me before the sun is up. As a freelancer, I've worked way too hard to achieve normal REM cycles and I will defend those 7 hours of sleep like my they're my children and they're in danger of being eaten by zombies.

Surprisingly though, hearing you string together words in the middle of the night like you're slurping alphabet soup on acid is actually pretty cute. Aw, look at you happily babbling about things that make no sense! You've got bedhead. Who cares if you woke me up at 4:26am; Look how cute you are!

Hearing you laugh in your slumber is downright endearing. As long as you aren't chattering about a) weaponry b) another woman c) another dude, your snooze talk is A-OK with me.

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Tip Our Hats: Guys Who Use Funny Voices To Crack Me Up

I hold a special place in my heart for guys who talk in funny voices just to amuse me. I freakin' love it when he bellows out in his best union boss boom, "Why you gotta bust-a my stones? I've been workin' the docks all week. Cut-ta me some-a slack here." His voice is exaggeratedly low, with his hands gesturing wildly around him.

I am lapping it up. I'm rolling around on the couch, clutching my sides in laughter, and wiping the tears away from my face. "Do it again! Do it again!" I cackle, gasping for air.

I also really love when he talks like Tony Danza from Who's the Boss. "Angeler! Why is Jonathan vacuuming the curtains again? Yo, Samantha, why you gotta wear a turtleneck? Where is Mona? A-O! O-A!"

This guy is a professional funny bone tickler. Two enthusiastic thumbs up for this champ.

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Bonerkiller: Guys Who Prop Their Sunglasses on Their Head

These guys think that they look like this; a rock 'n' roll rebel who doesn't give a fuck about speed limits, a bar's closing time and whether you have a boyfriend or not. But, in reality, he looks like an old, rumpled Cabo Wabo-er with a bug-eyed, wiry tiara perched on his head.

Guys who use their shades as a fashion accessory are the same kinds of guys who think Hank Moody from Californication is a badass because he bangs college chicks and has a dusty Porche. Don't these guys know that if they just folded their shades into the collar of their shirt they'd look roughly ten thousand times better?

I might seem hypocritical because I've propped my sunglasses on my head from time to time. However, I do it because it keeps my tresses out of my face, like a functional headband. Also, I'm a WOMAN. It looks cute on me!

This look is only acceptable on a guy if he's a beach bum, a lifeguard, or a Hollywood has-been. Unfortunately, this oily bohunk before me is none of those things, so he should knock it off. Anytime I see a guy who looks like this at a party, he's usually macking on some girl that is insanely out of his league. And, if he turns his tequila-fueled attention to me and asks, "So, what are you doing after this?" I feel like he's one hard sneeze away from hurting either himself, me or both of us with his ill-secured accessory. His stupid sunglasses on his dome are both a hazard sign AND a yield sign all rolled up in one.

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Phrases We'd Like to Stab in the Face: "Hey Beautiful, Why Don't You Smile?"

Any catcall, whether it be a, “Hey, Sexy” or a more creative, “Oooh, Mommy” will irritate me. I mean really, where do you think shouting at me from the other side of the street will get you? It’s not going to get you in my bed. I hate to be the bearer of bad news here, but the truth is that it’s not going to get you anywhere near me. So when I hear your holler at me followed by the suggestion that I should smile, it makes me so angry that I could shriek...and then stab this phrase in the face repeatedly.

Who are you, random guy on the street yelling at me to flash a smile? Last time I checked, you certainly weren't my boss and oh, that’s right We've. Never. Met. I’m sorry that I don’t fulfill your requirements for girls that you yell at on the street, but I didn’t know they have to be pretty and they should definitely have some goofy grin plastered onto their faces, too. This request is outrageous! How do you know I even have anything to smile about today? Maybe my dog just died. Maybe my goldfish ran away. Maybe I’m just plain old cranky.

Get it? Sorry your toothy grin and nasty remarks don’t make me giggle and coo and that my smilelessness might have been your own personal bonerkiller, but you’re just going to have to accept that, Creep on the Street, and stop yelling stupid things at innocent girls like me.

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We've Seen A Hundred Faces...And We Rocked 'Em All!

Thank you so much to everyone who came out last night to our first ever dance party at National Mechanics. It was a total blast. It was amazing to stand on the dj riser with headphones on and watch the crowd lose their minds to Chumbawumba while Can't Hardly Wait played on the screen behind me. I could've sworn that I even saw a mosh pit swirl around during "Give It Away." I've never deejayed at a party like this before; controlling the iPod at a house party is the most I've done deejay-wise. But now I understand the appeal of it. Guys were high-fiving me, girls were giving me thumbs ups; it was awesome. And all I did was push a play button!

A huge thanks goes out to Roz, JP, and Kelani from BarCamp Philly for trusting me with the fun-ness of their after-party. A ginormous thanks goes out to DJ Jon Gill for being the Obi-Wan to my Skywalker. He was straight-up radical and I couldn't have done it without him. And, a huge thanks goes to me for having a subscription to Spin magazine during my formative years so that I could slap together a '90s alternative playlist with some authority. I can't wait to do it again soooooon.

[PS: The first person to email me at hi@shmittenkitten.com and tell me where that picture is taken from wins a free set of Shmitten Kittens pins. Good luck!]

[Update: Big ups to Samantha for correctly identifying the photo. It's from Britney's "Crazy" video. Yup, that's Melissa Joan Hart up at the dj booth with her twisty '90s hair. Well done, Sam. Your pins are in the mail.]

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After After-Party With Us At The BarCamp Philly After After-Party

Guys, we are having a free dance party on Saturday, Nov. 14th at National Mechanics. It's the official after after-party for BarCamp Philly and we'll be spinning '90s alternative music. It's gonna be insanely fun. Look for us; we'll be twirling around the middle of the dancefloor in rapture like it's our fifth birthday and we just got the Peaches 'n' Cream Barbie that we begged our Mom for. Come!!!

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Tip Our Hats: Guys Who Will Hate Someone Just Because I Hate Them, No Questions Asked

Girls like to muse about the qualities their dream man will exhibit. Maybe he'll be a humanitarian, bringing light into dim huts in faraway lands. Maybe he'll be great with kids, rolling around in the dirt, mud stains on his Dockers be damned. Maybe he'll take Thai cooking classes, learn how to make his own compost pile and/or start yoga to better himself. These are all noble things.

But, not me. I don't need a model citizen who pays his taxes on time and can speak three languages. My dream guy will hate someone for me on command. I will snarl, "I hate him!" and my dream man will say, "Well then, I hate him too." Boom! No argument, no reasons given; he will just hate someone because I hate him. And, I do have my reasons for hating someone. They might be irrational or immature, but there are definitely reasons. And, he will accept it and share in my hatred, like a true love should.

Conversely, I can't stand when a guy tries to convince me that I shouldn't hate someone. "Oh, she's not that bad," he'll counter. "You should really give her a chance." Fuck that! It's fun to hate people together. It's how we'll bond. By denying me that bond, now I just feel alienated and petty. There is clearly a wedge between us. An unsexy, too nice, too polite wedge with him on one side and mean ol' me on the other.

Yup, forget chocolates, flowers, and love letters. Screw sweet texts, blown kisses, and held hands. I know a man really loves me when he'll hate someone only because I hate them, no questions asked.

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If You Liked It Then You Shoulda Put A Pin On It

It brings us great pleasure to announce that we now have Shmitten Kitten pins in four radical flavors. These are extremely limited edition, with only 50 made of each design. Snap 'em up, yo.

Each has their own personality, kinda like the Spice Girls. We have the peppermint buzzsaw pin for the dirty sweet, the star askew pin for the starlets out there, and the heartburst one for the closet romantics. We also have the walkman for the old skoolers, which is the same image we use for our "events" page. If you look closely, you'll notice that it says Shmitten Kitten where the Sony logo should be. How cool is that? Click on the picture of the pins to order yours or just click here.

Here's the deal. All prices include postage:

$2 for one
$3 for two
$4 for three
$5 for all four AND it will come with a personal sketch and/or story by yours truly.

*Take note, I'm offering an ex-boyfriend special. Any guy who's ever dumped me gets a free pin. Hey, this site wouldn't be nearly as entertaining if they didn't disappoint me and break my heart. It's the least I can do. Just email me with "Uh, sorry I broke your heart" in the subject and you're in like pin, errr, I mean flynn.

A huge thanks goes out to Kat from Zen Kitten for makin' these babies for me. She's a local Philly girl who makes rad stuff; buy it.

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Oh, Fuck It: We're Gonna Get A Mailorder Husband

Feeling like there are no good men out there? Sick of dating scenester losers with no idea how to treat a woman? Well, have you seen MailOrderHusbands.net? Ladies, we have our veritable pick of the (cat) litter! I mean, just look at these "men." I think this guy is our favorite.

Name: Buzet
I am looking for someone who can hold my attention, keep up with me, and who knows how to dress a wound. I am attracted to a girl with a job and a car. preferably a Camarro. I like to meet big american girl.
Location: Romania

Or, maybe this guy is our favorite. See? It's so hard to choose!

Name: Bertram
Clyde seeks Bonnie to be partners in crime... I am a trouble maker! Techno-hedonist prone to psychobabble and taking stupid risks. Fun craving, riot inciting, thrill seeking geek girls preferred. Choir girls need not apply, because I plan on committing a few sins and misdemeanors in my time. I got booted off Match.com for cyber stalking but I'm better now.
Location: Manitoba, Canada

Is this site sponsored by the Greater Philadelphia Tourism Marketing Corporation or something because this is making Philly guys look like an entire city of Brad Pitts. After skimming this site for two minutes, I'd take a flaky artist with a working knowledge of the Belle & Sebastian back catalog over these wackjobs any day of the week.

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Bonerkiller: Baggy Leather Jackets

I am clearly the victim here because I agree to do things and go places with guys I don't know very well. Maybe I met him briefly at a friend's house or was introduced at a co-worker's birthday party. It's hard to get a feel for someone at an event like that, so when we exchange numbers and arrange a first date, it's like I'm settling in to watch a movie after having only seen the trailer.

So, imagine my horror when he steps out of his car wearing a baggy leather jacket. It's a sneak attack; my own personal fashion Pearl Harbor. How was I to know that he was the kind of guy to wear such an ugly garment? What is he, in a dad band? Does he smoke pot in his garage? I can't even sustain eye contact because my attraction to him has taken a kamikaze-esque nose dive. I feel betrayed, swindled even. He seemed normal enough when we met last week, how was I to know that he gets his clothes at Costco? I would've preferred if he had just showed up in a barrel and suspenders.

I hate baggy leather jackets more than I hate Zach Braff (and lord knows that I despise that puffy-lipped, weak-chinned motherfucker.) So, how do I screen for this in the future? Do I have to verbalize, "do you own a saggy leather jacket?" before I accept a date with a man? Is there a support group for girls like me? We need to band together to rid the streets of this horrible jacket atrocity.

The real question is: How can something made out of leather be so wimpy? The world may never know.

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Flippin' Our Shades: Dylan Houser

From the second we met Dylan Houser, he put a smile on our face. He basically has the best attitude ever. Sometimes, we'll be walking around bummed out about something with our head down like Charlie Brown and then we'll get a text message from Dylan out of the blue telling us that he thinks we're pretty and that he hopes that we are having a good day. HOW RAD IS THAT? It's like getting a great haircut, a pay raise, and a B-12 shot simultaneously.

The more we talked to Dylan, the more we realized how awesome he is. He's a designer for various clothing and footwear companies like Paul Frank and Puma. Here he is in a video talking about the connection between Puma sneakers and the 700 level (which is an Eagles thing, we think.) Look how cute he is talking about those kicks! Right now, he is working with the Philly band Pattern is Movement. I asked him a few questions and he gave us a few answers:

SK: So, what do you do?

DH: For work, I'm a freelance designer mostly working on on apparel and footwear. I also work with a band called Pattern is Movement. For fun, I bowl. Not well, just often.

SK: What do you like most about Philly girls?

DH: The thing I like most about Philly girls--as lame as it may sound--is their love for sports. I'm originally from San Francisco and finding a lady to yell and/or high five at a ball game was few and far between.

SK: What's your idea of a perfect Philly date?
DH: I'm pretty easy; Philly has so many food options! There isn't much that I like more than food. So if I can convince someone to go eat somewhere new, I'm generally down. I'm still on the hunt for some decent Mexican food, like how it was back home.

SK: What do most guys do wrong?
DH: I think it has something to do with baking. We, as guys, need to make more cookies or something.

SK: Haha. Well, what do most girls do wrong?
DH: If I knew the answer to this question or the last one, I'd write a book, make all kinds of money, and bowl full-time.

SK: Tell us a secret!
DH: I'm a sucker for a girl in an apron.

SK: (Blushing from his response to the last question,) um, where's the most romantic place in Philly?

DH: I really have no idea. That's why I read this blog. The idea of a picnic in Rittenhouse does sound pretty swell. I'd even bring homemade cookies!!

SK: Someone seems really hungry right now. Anyways, what would you put on a mix tape for a girl that you liked?
DH: Oh man! That's no easy task. The top five mix tape songs ever are as follows:

1. The Murder City Devils - Boom Swagger Boom
2. Devin The Dude - Too Cute
3. The Dead Milkmen - Punk Rock Girl
4. All-Time Quarterback - Sock Hop
5. The Aquabats! - Red Sweater

Cookies, bowling, and Mexican food? See? We told you that he was adorable. You can follow Dylan on Twitter @BarelyRegal.

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Things That Make Me A Bad Boyfriend: I Can't Cook For Shit

The holidays are upon us. It's the time of year when everyone in their mid-20s starts to feel domestic and cozy as the weather cools down and the Christmas commercials start airing on TV. It's also the time of year when I get invited to potlucks.

The potluck is the winter version of a cookout, except it's easy for me to fake my way through a cookout. Any jackass can throw meat on a grill and wait for it to finish cooking. I'm that jackass.

With a potluck, however, things get complicated. You're expected to bring a legit DISH with INGREDIENTS. I can't tell you the last time I bought ingredients and then used them to make a final product. If it doesn't come in a frozen box, a can, or from a menu, it's probably not mine.

Let's be honest here: years of being single and living with roommates and cooking for one has left me a culinary idiot. I hear people talking about buying organic and eating local foods and I have to laugh, because it's a miracle I'm even eating at all. Every time I open my fridge to find food, it's a little mini-celebration in my head that somehow I managed to not run out of groceries again.

So, unfortunately, that's where you come in. If I'm going to be your boyfriend, I'm sorta counting on you to save my life. It's only a matter of time before these freeze-dried processed high-sodium meals just straight-up kill me. I figure if I find a girlfriend who is a foodie, she could potentially add years to my life. At this rate, I feel like I'm probably clocking out at 65, which doesn't leave a whole lot of time. I need to make it until they at least invent flying cars.

I'm not asking for prepared meals here. This isn't the 1950s. But if we're cooking for two, and I have a co-captain of the kitchen to alert me when I accidentally mix in baking soda instead of baking powder, the whole thing is gonna go a whole lot smoother. I'm going to need a hell of a lot of training, because right now I can do scrambled eggs and that's about it.

So, if you're up for the challenge of teaching a totally inept dude how to cook for himself, then we're in business. On the other hand, if you'd be embarrassed that I have no idea how to pick out produce, am totally reckless with a kitchen knife, and consider Ritz crackers with peanut butter a legitimate meal option, then I'm afraid I'd make a bad boyfriend.

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Phrases We'd Like To Stab In The Face: "I've Learned So Much From You"

Here is a phrase our reader Keisha would like to stab in the face:

After dating a great guy for four months, I heard the first phrase I'd love to stab in the face. It started off well, things went swimmingly all summer. I showed him all of my favorite places in the city since he's from out of state. I wowed him with my impressive knowledge of cheap Thai restaurants and encyclopedic memory of random facts about my hometown. He tried foods he'd never seen before at restaurants he'd never heard of. He seemed to be genuinely interested in me and enjoyed our outings. I thought we might have been on our way to a relationship. Oh, how I was mistaken.

The semester started and while we both were working full-time, we made it a priority to see each other. We even spent our birthdays, which just happen to be on consecutive days, together. I figured if we were exchanging gifts and googly eyes for this long, I might have made some progress. Then he started pulling a Scottie Pippen-grade fade away on me. I went from hearing from him through text and phone calls at least once daily to once every few days. We started seeing each other less and I started to feel like had I lost him and should probably just give it up.

Instead, I ignored all my instincts and made one last ditch effort to see him. Needless to say, he shot me down. Two days later he follows up with a phone call telling me how his schedule with work and class has been difficult and he just couldn't give me the time I deserved. I maturely told him that I had taken the hint. Then came the phrase that I have grown to hate and imagine murdering to the tune of Michael Myers-esque theme music: "I've learned so much from you."

Really?? You learned so much from me? Well I didn't realize that all of my hard work to get you to enjoy my city (and fall head over heels for me) resulted in being reduced to your Discovery Channel tour guide. He wasted my time and I wasted my effort. And let me tell you this, I'd better not catch him at any one of my favorite spots with another girl. I learned something from him, too: guys suck.

"I've learned so much from you," I want to stab you in the face.

Holy shit! That Scottie Pippen reference was insane! Did I tell you that I met him at the mall in eighth grade? I got his autograph on the back of a Sbarro's paper plate. Growing up in Chicago, I was a huge Bulls fan. Ahhh, the Bulls. Such a great team, such tall guys.

Where was I? Oh yeah, this dude in your letter. What a creep! The worst for me is when I introduce a guy to something radical like a British sitcom or my favorite Mexican joint and then he enjoys all the cool things I exposed him too with his new girlfriend. I blow a gasket as I read her stupid blog posts about how much she loves The Mighty Boosh now and how she's so pumped that she has such a cool boyfriend with such awesome taste. My inner Biff is all, "Hey, McFly! Anybody home, McFly? I'm the one that got him into that show, so you should be thanking ME for having such awesome taste!" Awww, fuck it.

Any phrases you guys wanna stab in the face? Let us know at hi@shmittenkitten.com and take your best shot.

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Bonerkiller: Appointment TV Watchers

"Awww, I'd love to see you on Wednesday night but Lost is on then. Can we switch our date to Thursday?" I'd attribute the quote to the guy who said this but I forgot his name because I erased his number from my phone many, many moons ago.

If a guy postpones a date with me because his favorite TV show is on, well, then, I don't even know what to tell him. Not only did he admit that a TV show determined his social schedule, but he's also told me that interacting with a real, live woman with boobs comes secondary to the warm glow of his beloved boob tube. With the availability of shows online, it takes, like, zero effort to watch his precious TV show on the computer at any time. He really had to watch it the exact minute it airs? Did he bet money on the outcome or something? 

I guess I should commend his honesty, although I would've preferred if he had just lied to me. He should've said that he had to have dinner with his parents or that he had to grab drinks for his roommate's girlfriend's birthday. Hell, he could even tell me that he has a boil on his ball that needed urgent medical attention; that would make me feel better than being one-upped by a TV show.

He doesn't even have to lie; he could just finesse the truth and say, "Hey, I'm not feeling well. Can we scoot our date 'til tomorrow." Bam! Not only is he off the hook, but he has a dash of sympathy too. That's a win/win. But, he didn't do that. He'd rather me lose my respect for him than miss his show. I see.

Ten bucks says that he'll act shocked when I'm unwilling to reschedule our magical date. Um, he basically just told me that he'd rather flop around on his couch in his Umbros than see the twinkle gleamimg off my smile and the sunshine beaming off my hair. Lame!

[Confession: I was this intense about watching Dawson's Creek in college. I also never got any action in college. Coincidence? You be the judge.]

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Pics and Vids: I Have To Think That The Alliance Is Going To Frown On This

I'm gonna toss some math at you:

Red spandex + polyphonic ringtones + floppy moobs + living in your mom's basement + sending away for a magic kit in the mail + American flag = the best three and a half minutes I've spent today.

Here we are now, Magician Devlin, entertain us.




I wonder if he'd make a special appearance at our dance party on Sat., Nov. 14th at National Mechanics? I'd pay him up to $50 to do it!

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Telling Him What He Wants To Hear: This Giant Flat Screen Television Is Telling Me That You've Made It In Life

Wow. This is a huge television. I mean, it takes up an entire wall of your house. It has crystal clear resolution, it has booming sound; it's just gorgeous. But just between us, when I look around the rest of your South Philly hovel, it is painfully obvious that you live in a shack. I'm trying not to look down because your carpet has a multitude of mysterious stains and burn holes in it. (Mental note: don't EVER walk barefoot on here unless I want a gnarly mixture of cat hair, Cap'n Crunch, and Doritos crumbs all over my toesie-woesies.)

I'm not gonna look behind me because your kitchen has a lone 45 watt light bulb flickering on and off like we're in a third world gas station bathroom. And, I definitely won't go upstairs to your room where there's a sleeping bag in place of a bed and a pungent smell that can only be described as fermented sock.

But, this huge flat screen television bolted to your wall, it tells me that I shouldn't be so quick to judge. You have a big TV! You are probably Grey Poupon's target audience now. If I ignore every other thing besides what is in my direct line of vision, it is obvious that you've made it in life.

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Tip Our Hats: Guys Who Like Dinosaurs

Seeing as we have roughly the same interests as a sixth grade boy, it's no surprise that we love guys who get as psyched about dinosaurs as much as we do. For instance, we've watched Jurassic Park dozens of times. It still gives us goosebumps when they show the animation sequence about how they extracted the DNA from the amber. We've rented When Dinosaurs Roamed from Netflix and marveled at the CGI. We even watched King Kong in the theater just to see the amazing fight scene between Kong and a few badass T-Rexes. That movie sucked, but damn that fight scene was worth the price of admission.

And, our love for for our extinct homies extends beyond the screen. In fourth grade, we participated in a sleepover party at the local museum when they had their state-of-the-art animatronic dinosaur exhibit. Yes, we got to sleep with the dinos as they roared and growled with limited robotic motion. Well, we didn't get to sleep with them, but at least we got to sleep near them. It was radical.

We give props to Robert Bakker for refuting theories about dinosaurs being cold-blooded. That rules, bro. Sometimes we eat chicken and ruminate on the fact that they are dinosaur descendants. How weird is that? Attention men of Philadelphia: We dig it when you take us on a date to the Franklin Institute to marvel at the dinosaur bones. We also like it when you have a favorite dinosaur and you can tell us why in a reasonably detailed manner. Dino dudes, fuck yeah!

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Phrases We'd Like To Stab In The Face: "Cool Beans"

We hate this phrase with the intensity of a thousand stink eyes and we hate guys who say it to us. We always will. You know who says "cool beans?" Drama club kids, guys who wear socks with sandals, guys who have a turtle as a pet, missionaries, Dave Matthew Band fans and hacky sack owners. Do you know what they have in common? They are all people that we actively avoid.

Last time I checked, he wasn't some chatty girl in my freshman algebra class talking my ear off about how hot Eddie Vedder was. I was confused for a second because "cool beans" is a phrase that only girls in 1994 should say, not fully-grown men.

I mean, just look at those beans over there high-fiving. We hate them! They probably cropdust at the Barbary when they go out dancing and twitter about your date while you are on the date with them. They never bring any beers to a house party; they just jam on all the fancy ones that you brought without leaving any for you to enjoy. Fuck those smelly beans and fuck this stupid expression.

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Bonerkiller: Moldy Oldies

After complaining for the millionth time about how the latest guy has let us down in some stupid way, we decided that we should try and date older guys. How old? Like 40ish. They'd be more stable. They could afford to take us out to nice dinners, they drive nice cars, and they have nice homes. They'd be, well, nice.

We tried to keep an open mind--which we're terrible at--and dipped our toe in an older, more mature dating pool. Hey, we've read an issue of AARP magazine. Once. On an airplane. Well, we just looked at the table of contents, but whatever.

The verdict? It freakin' suuuuucks. We hate dating old dudes. For one thing, old guys all have rough, leathery hands. It's like holding hands with the crocodile in the Lubiderm commercials. Why are they so leathery? What kind of fieldwork do they do on their free time? And, they have clunky metal watches that look they they'll catch on our hair if they--God forbid--tried to make a move.

They all are pop culture illiterate and have without a doubt never heard of our favorite band or seen our favorite movie. Asking us what "kind" of music that we liked tipped us off to that. Oh, and they all say that they hate country and rap, but they like everything else but "everything else" just means Sheryl Crow and Bob Dylan.

And, they'll take our date superseriously and wear the stupidest clothes, like khakis or baggy designer denim. It's not hot! Don't they know that a pair of black jeans and Chuck Taylors would go over roughly a million times better? They'll have no idea where to take us for a cheap brunch and we'll have, like, no friends in common. When we do take them out to our favorite bar, they'll marvel at how we know everyone there. Of course we know everyone here! You saying that is just reminding us that you don't know anyone and that bums us out because you are lame. They won't stay out later than 11:30pm on weekends and if they do, they'll start yawning like crazy every two minutes as if they were a goddamn newborn baby.

And, can we talk about how his text messages are the worst? He'll use emoticons freely with no sense of discretion. The only time we seriously considered killing ourselves is when a 40 year-old suitor texted us about how his golf game went, then the letters "ttyl" followed by a smiley face emoticon. Gag!

Hey moldy oldies, we're not interested in dating you. No free meal on the planet is worth this much hassle. After about twenty minutes into our date as we listen to you rattle on about your stock portfolio, we're gonna throw ourselves at our waiter when you leave to pee because while he may not be able to afford this meal we're sharing, we have a feeling that he'd be better company.

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