Hotlined and Fancy Free

(Sing this to the tune of Queen's "We Are The Champions")

We have a hotline, my friends
And, we'll keep on calling 'til the end
We have a hotline
We have a hotline
No time for losers
'Cause we have a hotline
...of the world!

Alright, that last line of the song didn't really fit but whatever. Behold:


Yup, our number is (215) 25 Dudez, ((215)-253-8339), because that's how many guys it'll take to get a party started. It's like a party minyan (that's a Jewish joke.) Could you imagine if you had 25 guys calling you? It'd be mandemonium, which is a contraction of "man" and "pandemonium" and it's what we call it when we go through some sort of monsoon season of attraction and every guy we meet seems to be interested in us. The "z" at the end is just the right amount of shade flippin' wackiness. There you go. And so, (215) 25 Dudez was born.

We signed up for this number through Google Voice last night and, truth be told, we're excited about the possibilities. Call or text us a message offering your suggestions for Tip Our Hats, Bonerkillers, Quick Rants, or anything else we usually cover. Tell us a joke. Ask us about when we're gonna announce our Speed Dating parties. [The answer: we're going to make an announcement very soon. There, we just saved you a dime.] Let us know if you're on a terrible date while you are on the date. Hell, ask us out on a date!

Drunk dial, meet (215) 25 DUDEZ. (215) 25 DUDEZ, meet drunk dialing. Whatever you do, just play nice.

Moving forward, we will use this number to give updates about our speed dating parties and any other events we might throw in the future. Maybe we'll use it to announce contests or give you sneak peeks into what we're working on. It's all fun.

(Now, say this line in your best Tobias Funke voice)
Let the great Shmitten Kitten hotline experiment begin!

9 Comments

I Shoulda Known: Velvet Crushed

So, Lora asked people to share their red flags with her last week and you guys certainly stepped up to the plate. Well, my sister and I were talking about it recently and she casually dropped some red flags that she wished she would have heeded and--I'm not kidding--they were insanely hysterical. And, the best part? She seemed clueless at how mind-bendingly outrageous these red flags were, like it didn't occur to her how strange they were until she said them out loud.

So, I've decided to illustrate her red flags of boyfriends past. It's part "Deep Thoughts With Jack Handey" and part "Right Now" aka the artsy fartsy video from Sammy Hagar-era Van Halen. Here's the first in the series.



Have your own I Shoulda Knowns? Send 'em to me at hi@shmittenkitten.com. If they make me hold my sides in laughter, I might illustrate them, too.

7 Comments

Things I’m Terrible At: Knowing When a Guy Likes Me

A while back, our reader Sabrina told us that she’s terrible at acting normal when she finds out guys like her. I stop one step short of that problem—I’m absolutely terrible at knowing when a guy likes me at all.

Despite more than a decade of dating and a subscription to Seventeen in high school, I still can’t detect the “Four Signs a Guy's into You," regardless of the magazine's quizzes, testimonials, and case studies. If he flirts, I just assume he flirts with everyone. If he stares, I think he just has something in his eye or is high. If he touches my arm, I think he’s just very tactile, like one of those people that walk around squeezing a stress ball all day.

It was like this with my first boyfriend and my last. In both cases we were friends first, so I thought nothing of their phone calls or compliments, because, you know, my girlfriends call me and give compliments, too. When they admitted their feelings, I thought they were kidding. I guess the joke’s on me.

2 Comments

Quick Rant: I Don't Care How Little Sleep You Had Last Night

It's like you're not even complaining about your lack of shut eye, but you're also bragging about it. It's a hybrid: You're compragging.

Yes, you saw the sun come up. That's so crazy! You're a crazy guy that stays up late. I get the drift. You're a tired man who likes to tell everyone we run into what little amount of sleep you're running on. As a head's up, you'd make a terrible Energizer bunny. Do you think he'd complain like this? Hell no! He'd just pop in another battery and go on his merry way.

I'll tell you what; take a nap, Sleepy McSleeperson. Naps are free and it will solve both of our problems. Ok. Rant over.

4 Comments

Reader Submission: Bonerkiller: I Eat More Than You

We received this letter from our reader, Steph. Apparently, she is not interested in dating a manorexic. We don't blame her. We dated a super skinny guy who was really into being super skinny and it made our Dairy Queen pop-ins kinda awkward. It's no fun when he orders a kiddie-sized vanilla soft serve in a cup and we'd order some insane brownie concoction in a chocolate-dipped waffle cone. He even scoffed at adding rainbow sprinkles to his boring, pitiful ice cream order. Who does that? If a guy is counting sprinkles towards his daily calorie intake, well, it's not hot. Sprinkles = fun = laughter = a warm hug from an old friend = rainbows = Care Bears = wide smiles = love. His bald little ice cream dish made us sad. We cried hot fudge tears (on the inside.)

Steph feels our pain:

I watch what I eat just as much as the next girl. I’m no Kool-Aid Man, but guys, if you get full after three bites of your burger or you’re defeated after four half-eaten wings, most likely these chicken fingers I'm jammin' on will prove to be more memorable than you.

Let me put it like this: girls love food. We think about what we’re going to eat for lunch while we’re eating breakfast. But, we also love to feel skinny. And we don’t want to sit there feeling guilty about eating a beautiful club sandwich we’d been fantasizing about for weeks just because you had five mini carrot sticks for lunch four hours ago. We don't wanna date no bunny, honey.

So if we are letting you see us eat two dollar dogs at the game, it probably means:

a) we like you
b) we expect a high five when we're done chomping
c) we want you to make an approving, "How do you manage to keep that figure and slam those hot dogs like a champ?" face at us as we lick our fingers.

While I'm on the subject, here are some phrases you should never say to us:

• Oh, I don’t really snack much
• Pizza? We just ate!
• I didn’t eat all day but I’m not really hungry
• What’s Hoagiefest?

I realize a lot of you guys need to keep your hips trim to fit in those tight jeans, but it would go a long way with me if you'd man up and finish that cheesesteak before I finish it for you.

10 Comments

Dear Shmitten Kitten: Less Caviar, More Taco Bell

Dear Shmitten Kitten,

I'm dating this awesome guy who knows a ton of people and seems to have a connection everywhere. He's always offering a hook-up or a perk, which is very generous of him--and much appreciated by me. But I'm from the mean streets of Lower Bucks County where life is not exactly fancy.

How do I politely let him know that he doesn't have to be so generous? I mean, if I don't mind sitting in section 420 at Citizen's Bank Park, let's just enjoy the game from section 420. It's cheap! I just feel like Little Orphan Annie every once in a while in his world full of Benjamins.

xoxo,
Less Caviar, More Taco Bell

Dear LCMTB,

At first, our response was a really sarcastic, "Boohoo! You have a guy that you are attracted to who treats you like a princess. That must be SO HARD." Then, we did this mocking wiping-away-a-tear gesture. Truthfully, it was pretty condescending and we're glad that you didn't see us doing it.

Now that we've got that out of our system, we can empathize with you. It's a drag when scales are imbalanced in any relationship. Usually with us, it's that we want one and he doesn't. *rimshot noise*

It sucks you can't reciprocate his generosity. We hear ya. To make an awkward postal metaphor, if he's been giving you the first class treatment, it should be fine to suggest more ground shipping activities. One of our favorite dates was when our guy--well, one of our guys--took us for drinks on the 19th Floor of the Bellvue Hotel, then to dinner at Parc, then to drinks at McGlinchy's. It was the perfect mix of high-brow and low-brow; French cuisine to pints of Porter.

Suggest going somewhere more affordable. Or, just enjoy it while you can because eventually he'll get sick of paying for you and when it's your turn to chip in, it'll be pasta night with Netflix on Demand at your place. As Milli Vanilli would say, "Girl, you know it's true."

You might ask yourself, "Shmitten Kitten, what qualifies you to give such expert advice?" Well, if you haven't heard, some random Web site we never heard of ranked us as the #1 Twitter account to give dating advice to women. Yup, our half-assed answers to your questions are considered to be fully-assed by Datingonline.org. And, that's special to us.

If you have a question, drop us a line at hi@shmittenkitten.com. We will dispense our award-winning--or at least transparently link-baiting--advice to you free of charge 'cause that's just how we roll.

3 Comments

Things I’m Terrible At: Talking to Guys in Bars

Why hello there, boy in the striped, buttoned-down shirt chatting me up at the bar. You’re cute enough, you're nice enough, and you even use proper grammar despite being seven Yuenglings deep. But even with all those charms, I’m not going to be able to let you pick me up.

You know why? It's because I'm terrible at talking to guys I meet in bars. Honestly, I have no idea what to say to you. That's great that you're trying to talk to me while a remix of the latest Lady Gaga tune is blaring away in the club, but your approach makes me want to run away. As you lean in shouting your name into my ear, I clam up and smile meekly or defer to my girlfriends.

Maybe it’s because one summer at a Jersey Shore bar, I was really friendly to one of your kind and he proceeded to grope me on the dance floor and lick my face. I’m sorry, I’m scarred. One grabby drunk ruined the lot of you for me. Maybe it’s because despite my confidence, the shy, nerdy grade-schooler in me comes out when you--a stranger who may want to sleep with me--tries to get my attention.

Although I might be wearing a low-cut little number, in reality I'm reserved. I’m more comfortable meeting guys in three circumstances: through work, school or a friend. I’ve dated one person that I met at a bar, and that’s only because we connected over an Old Dirty Bastard song. Come on, an encounter like that deserves some follow-up.

Maybe if you bought me a book instead of a Bud Light, I’d emerge from my shy cocoon and blossom into the outgoing butterfly you want to see. But it usually takes years for that to happen, so you should probably move on to the girl making out with her best friend on the bar stool over yonder.

4 Comments

Surprisingly Not a Bonerkiller: You Have A Secret Poetry Blog

No one, I repeat NO ONE is more surprised than me that I'm not turned off by your secret poetry blog. Normally I roll my eyes at "tortured soul" artist-types, but for some reason, I'm into this. I will never bring it up to you that I've seen it and I will never tell anyone else about it. I'm in on this secret world of yours and in a weird way, it makes me feel closer to you. (That's so creepy, right?)

I only found it because I was lurking on your MySpace page--because we all know it's impossible to stalk anyone on Facebook--and I dug through your old MySpace blog entries. Two and a half years ago you wrote a post about how you have a new poetry site. I clicked on the link and there they were: your poems typed into concise, neat paragraphs. You don't list your name as the author but instead you chose a wacky pseudonym like Dr. Riffraff or Professor Unlucky. I don't even mind that it's on a boring Blogspot page layout that comes as the default setting!

You haven't invested any energy into the look of the thing: no links, no pictures, no nothing. No one has ever commented on a poem, but there they are, streaming down the page like an army of marching ants.

I like that you have this secret part of the Internet. I imagine you late at night, curled up on your bed, typing your poems out for no one in particular. Reading through them is like being able to flip through the pages of your journal. It's a thrill to get a peek inside your brain. Keep it up, my little poet. I find your secret poetry blog strangely alluring. Who knew?

3 Comments

Unscientific Poll: Shoulda Woulda Coulda

Let's go down the list:

• I shoulda known it wasn't gonna work out when he returned my texts hours later, even though he's glued to his freakin iPhone.

• I shoulda known when we went out with his friends and he spent more time drinking and talking with them than with me.

• I shoulda known when he spent entire "dates" on that stupid phone, even during mini-golf! I didn't know it was possible to talk and putt at the same time!

• I definitely shoulda known when he introduced me to his grandparents as "a friend."

• And I 100% definitely shoulda known when I had dinner with his family and I ended up eating on the backyard patio--alone--since there were no seats left inside at his family's table. WTF?

Do you guys have any red flag moments you look back on and realize that you shoulda known a long time ago that this was going nowhere? Kinda like in The Wedding Singer when Julia realizes she shoulda known it wouldn't work out because Glen never gave up his window seat. Somebody make me feel better by sharing your "shoulda known" moments with the rest of us. Because I shoulda woulda coulda but didn't.

22 Comments

Things That Make Me a Bad Boyfriend: I Will Hate Your Dog

I'm sorry, but it's true.

I know how much the little guy means to you. He showers you with love and devotion 24 hours a day. He jumps up and down every time you come home from work. He'll cuddle up on your lap when you're watching television. I get it. It doesn't matter what you do, that dog is going to be blindly devoted to you FOR LIFE.

Which, for the record, is also why I hate your dog. Believe me, I've tried to like dogs. I've tried to get past the weird smell, the poor bowel control, and the fact that they like to destroy household items when left alone. I dig loyalty. I support devotion; just not from a dog.

I've done a lot of thinking about where this comes from. I never had a dog growing up, so maybe that is a big part of it. The main issue I have is this: I think a dog's love is cheap. When you come home from work, the dog jumps up and down and freaks out like it's been five years since the last time he saw you. But here's the thing, it does the same thing when I come home. It will do the same thing to the pizza delivery guy. It's bullshit!

Not to make this a cats vs. dogs thing, but when I was growing up, unless you were directly responsible for the feeding and care of the family cat, it did not give a SHIT about you. It barely registered your presence in the room. So when my cat would jump on my lap while I was watching TV, I knew I earned that shit. It was a love based on mutual respect and appreciation: I empty your litter box sometimes, you don't knock over stuff on the kitchen counter. I GET that. It makes sense to me.

So anyway, when we start dating, I will pretend to be cool with your dog. I won't be OVERLY enthusiastic about your canine friend, but I won't let on that I'm not a dog person, because I recognize that could be a pretty big dealbreaker. I will get secretly annoyed when you can't sleep over because you have to walk your dog. I will show the minimum required amount of affection towards your dog when we hang out. I will also wash my hands repeatedly to try to remove the dog smell afterwards. And lastly, I will NEVER, repeat, N-E-V-E-R pick up your dog's shit with my hands--plastic baggy or not.

If you turn out to be a keeper, then we'll just have to weigh the pros and cons: Mindblowingly amazing girl vs. dog who I will have to tolerate possibly for the rest of my life. With the right girl, I'm pretty sure I could learn to survive life as a dog owner. Who knows? Maybe your dog will grow on me. But for now, the cold hard reality of the situation is that I will hate your dog. And that makes me a bad boyfriend.

[After praising Phil for having the most perfect profile picture ever, we lassoed him into being a guest contributor. He loves illegal bonfires, Big Gulps, and Civil War history. Check him out here.]

17 Comments

Quick Rant: You Call Me At Weird Times

That's great that you're thinking of me and that you use your phone to make phone calls. I'm a fan of both of those things. I know you want to nail me down for our first date/hang out/kicking of "it," but you consistently call me at times that aren't conducive to having a conversation.

1st offense: You called me at 10 a.m. on a Monday. Dude, I'm at work. Not to be too much of a cubicle cliche, but I don't want to talk to anyone on a Monday morning. It's not the worst thing in the world, but yeah, I rejected that call.

2nd offense: You called me at 11:49 p.m. on a Wednesday. That's a little bit of a tough sell because I was already in bed. I didn't get your voicemail message until 7 a.m. when I woke up and then I was perplexed at how to respond to your, "What are you up to?" message. Um, I was sleeping! And, now I'm getting ready for work. I don't feel like explaining any of this to you using my phone.

3rd offense: You called me at 2:15 a.m. on a Saturday. DUDE! What kind of conversation are we going to have then? You said you were just hoping to catch me? You are not catching me. And, you're slurring every third word which isn't helping your situation either. I have nothing against guys that call me late at night, but I don't need to consult a Magic Eight Ball to know that you aren't going to remember our conversation tomorrow. Your drunk dialing is a bit of a letdown. You're better than that.

It's starting to make me think that you aren't interested in talking with me or making plans; you just really like dialing my number. Try and call me between 7pm-9:30pm on a weekday or 2pm-8pm on a weekend day. I like to talk on the phone with a benevolent stranger (i.e. you) during normal hours: Get the memo.

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Summer Mix Series Volume Two: Lightning's Girl Presents

This is super duper exciting for us over here. Last time, we had Joel from Rocktits! represent and now we are keeping things shakin' as one of our favorite people on this planet, Tracy Wilson aka Lightning's Girl, has crafted a mix for you guys too. It's thick with '60s girl groups and is pretty much the only thing we'll be listening to for the rest of the summer.

Tracy is a founding member of Cherry Bomb, Richmond, VA's all-female deejay collective. Those girls can throw a fierce dance party; I can testify to that. Aside from being a very talented musician and writer, she also happens to be one of my best friends. Thanks, Tracy and Kenny, for putting this together.

Stream it below and click on the ice cream cone to download the mp3. Listen to it, share it, Facebook it, Twitter it (tweet it?), love it!




Track Listing:

1. Lookin' For Boys - The Pinups
2. Boy Crazy - Little Peggy March
3. Orgasm Addict- Kyra Rubella
4. Debbie Harry - Family Fodder
5. Johnny, Are You Queer? - Josie Cotton
6. Park it Up Your Arse - The Headcoatees
7. Think (About It) - Lyn Collins
8. An Earthquake Coming - Black Velvet
9. Heavy Hips - Flamingos
10. Answer To Mother Popcorn - Speedometer
11. Down in the Basement - Etta James
12. Bumble Bee - Lavern Baker
13. Love Loves To Love Love - Lulu
14. I want you to be my Baby - Billie Davis
15. You Can Have Him - Dionne Warwick
16. Love's Gone Bad - Chris Clark
17. Hittin' on Nothin' - Irma Thomas
18. Bye Bye Charlie - Lori Burton
19. Les filles c'est fait... - Charlotte Leslie
20. 7 Heures Du Matin - Jacqueline Taieb
21. Roller Girl - Anna Karina
22. I Wanna Be A Girl - King Khan & The Shrines
23. No Matter What You Do - Lesley Gore
24. Lost Summer Love - Lorraine Silver

3 Comments

Bonerkiller: You Have The Same First Name As My Ex

Listen, you seem like a pleasant guy. I mean, you've always been cordial to me. You haven't made me pop a button laughing or anything, but you are well-regarded among our peers. That's a plus.

But, like Paula Abdul demanded in her song, I'm gonna be straight up with you: when I see your name as an incoming call, my heart jumps out of my chest until I realize that you're not the guy that killed my soul. You see, you have the same first name as my ex, the guy I'm actively trying to forget. About 60% of the reason I'm even considering dating you is to get over him, and this name thing is proving to be a battle that you may not win.

I've tried assigning you a nickname in my phone, but it's not enough because when you call, I have to say your name. I can't avoid it. When you email me, my stomach gets in knots until I see the last name and realize that it's you and not, well, him. I just don't see how this is going to work. You have the same first name as my ex! It's weird! I don't want to date a guy with the same name.

Sorry. Uh. Yeah. *backs away slowly, feeling sheepish*

8 Comments

Tip Our Hats: Guys Who Have Framed Maps On Their Bedroom Walls

Good news; I’ve been impressed enough with you to accept your invitation to go back to your house. Give yourself a pat on the back. And, you’ve proved me wrong: I expected your castle of dude-dom to smell like an unholy mixture of cat and feet. I also expected old food encrusted on any exposed surface. And, I certainly expected that there would be a run-in with some cruddy, peeling, old band posters hastily pinned on your walls in lieu of anything you could describe as art.

But, alas, I was wrong! Certainly your humble abode was not the cleanest thing I’ve ever stepped foot into, but instead of posters of rock stars hanging off pushpins, you have a map of Eastern Europe safe behind a glass frame. And what’s that next to your bed? A topographical map of South America? Wow, Map Dude, you’re really classing up this joint. It's nice to see a little bit of culture in your bedroom. It transforms the place from a flop house to a charming study. This is the kind of room Miss Scarlet would kill Colonel Mustard in with a candlestick (that's a compliment!)

It’s not just that the maps look really cool--or that I happen to love geography--but your choice of wall art lets me know you possess some maturity. I mean, not only did you go through the trouble of hanging the maps, but you even framed them to keep them clean, crisp and easy to read. You also gave me a sneak a peek at your nerdy side when you pointed out the longitude and latitude of Harare, Zimbabwe. That was just plain adorkable.

So, we’re tipping our hats to you, Map Dude. Your choice of wall decoration elevated you from scraggly guy who gives good banter at dive bars to a scraggly guy who gives good banter at dive bars and has a room that we don't totally hate. Well done.

*Oh, and we should mention that you get extra credit for having a globe on your desk. For girls like us who read the New York Times online and watch cooking shows on PBS, a globe on a desk is like catnip.

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Tip Our Hats: Your Profile Picture Is Damn Near Perfect

If there was a hall of fame for profile pictures, we are certain that this one would be mounted on the wall framed in gold. Girls, how psyched would you be to have a picnic with him? Boys, take note:

• The environment is warm and inviting. This is the picture equivalent of having a mug of apple cider on the first brisk autumn day. It feels like we are sitting on his floor, sorting through his Weezer discography with him. By the way, nice strategic placement of the Blue Album. It's like a Where's Waldo for the Pitchfork-reading set.
  

• Aside from a knit scarf, earphones are the only other hot neck accessory for a music nerd. Well played.
  

• The plaid shirt hints at possible thrifting tendencies. We can hang with that. How much fun would it be to just lay around on a Sunday afternoon getting day drunk and watching movies with him? He probably knows all the best lines to Point Break and loves to call 'em out while we watch it together. He = good times.
  

• The one-two punch of eyeglasses and a beard is a home run. It's pretty much a forgone conclusion that he's gonna be a hot dad in a few years. Could you imagine him with a baby bjorn strapped on? This picture is like porn for secretaries who shop at etsy stores during their lunch break.
  

So, who is this mystery man? His name is Phil and he's pretty much the funniest dude ever. Yup, all this and brains too. Thanks, Phil, for being such a good sport about this post. We give you and your profile picture an A++ and a gold star. Print it out and put it on your fridge.

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Tip Our Hats: Guys Who Had A Radio Show In College

Maybe we're just feeling wistful here, but guys who had radio shows in college are just plain awesome. It's cute to think about them on the air, carefully curating the songs that they play, excited to premiere a new ditty to their dozens of listeners. You have to have patience to be a radio deejay because you basically sit in the booth by yourself for hours on end. It's not that bad because sometimes you can rock out to the songs you play. Sing along as loud as you like; it's 11pm on a Tuesday night in the student center, no one can hear you. For the most part being a college deejay is a thankless labor of love, but when someone calls in and requests a song, well, it's the best feeling to know that someone out there is listening.

They've been to CMJ, they know what a PSA is, and they love to nerd out about b-sides and rare singles. That's pretty awesome. So, guys who had radio shows in college, we tip our hat to you. When you tell us about how you used to play Superchunk, Pavement, and Rocket From the Crypt, we get all fuzzy inside.

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Guys Who Don't Want To Date Me ['90s edition]: Skateboarders

For being such a puny lot, skateboarders really intimidated me growing up. It's not even that I think that they'd be fun to date. All the skaters I knew where obsessed with boring things: their deck, landing tricks, wearing baggy clothing, etc. They weren't even particularly funny. They had terrible handwriting. They had the attention span of a housefly. What's the appeal?

You know what it was? It was their attitude. Or rather, their terrible attitude. They did not give a fuck. And, I liked that. Unfortunately, they didn't seem to give a fuck about me, which I clearly didn't like. In the summer, I'd walk by Astor Place, a notorious '90s skater hang out in NYC, and I wouldn't even turn a head. Walking anywhere wearing a tank top in NYC is pretty much an open invitation for sexual harassment, so in a weird twist not receiving any attention from the skaters bummed me out. What? No takers? C'mon! Apparently, I'm skateboarder kryptonite. I even wrote for Thrasher for a spell in college, hoping to impress a skater down the line. I never even got the chance to namedrop that factoid to a guy on wheels! *shakes fist at sky*

I've never dated a skater which is a minor regret in my life. I dated an ex-skater once which was a bit of a thrill even though I never got to hear his wheels on the pavement rolling towards me. Whatever. I've learned to accept my fate. Skaters are like these mythical creatures that I will never get to observe up close, like a unicorn or a minotaur. So, skaters, I choose to reject you. I'm not interested in hearing about how you landed a front-nose-ollie-bagel-grab 960. Oh, who am I kidding? I totally want to hear about that. That actually sounds pretty awesome.

6 Comments

Little Known Fact: I will Judge You Based On What Instrument You Played In Middle School

[Warning: This post is bitchy and judgmental. I'm sorry about that. I clearly have strong opinions about this issue that you may not agree with. If I offend you about your instrument choice in middle school band, I sincerely apologize.]

Usually around the third date we ask our guy about what activities he participated in during his adolescence. If he admits to playing in his middle school band, then we can deduce a lot of information based on which instrument he chose.

As a former clarinet player, I can say with some authority that all the hot guys in band played drums, saxophone, guitar and trombone. The middle tier were the string section, trumpet players, tuba players, french horners, and the other clarinet players. At the very bottom of the band totem pole were the boy flute players. If a guy admits that he used to play the flute, well, let's just say that it would've been better if he admitted that he attended clown college.

Well, my guy admitted to playing the flute. My face couldn't hide my disappointment. I immediately thought of us as an eighth grade couple; him carting around his little purse-like black flute case and me dying my hair black, devouring issues of Spin magazine on my beanbag chair, and flipping an L7 cassette in my boombox. I hate us as an eighth grade couple. It never would've worked!

Now, every time we kiss, I think about his pre-pubescent pinky stiff in the air, dexterously maneuvering over the airholes as he huffed away on his warm-up scales. Consequently, I will never be able to take him seriously. After we break up, when I get upset that he has a new girlfriend, I'll just remind myself of his flutist ways and cackle. Could he have picked a less masculine instrument? Maybe a triangle, but that is more jokey. At least it's not a piccolo, or God forbid, a harp.

He will be known in my circle as "the Flutist." We will whisper it through the caverns of KFN: "Yo, I saw the Flutist at the Barbary last night. He was looking banged up." We'll scrawl it on the bathroom wall of the P.O.P.E. "Beware the Flutist! He's a dick." He will never live this label down, even if he wins the Nobel Peace Prize. I don't care that he has advanced college degrees, cool sneakers, a rad cat, and an appreciation for aged whiskeys, he will always be the awkward middle school flute player to me.

16 Comments

Bonerkiller: You Just Showed Me A Picture of Youself Dressed As A Woman For A Halloween Party A Few Years Ago And You Looked Like A Serial Killer

The image of you wearing a blue glitter dress, black stockings and high heels is now burned into my retinas. It's like I stared too long at the sun, but it was an ugly, freaky sun. Granted, you were in college when it was taken, but that picture has really turned me off.

You wore a cheap, ill-fitting, stringy blond wig and your red lipstick was smeared, like you'd just made out with the Joker. It looked like you got dressed in Liza Minelli's closet in the dark. And, you were sitting on a couch sipping a Cosmo crossing your legs, all lady-like. You already know how I feel about that.

Let's put it like this; you made Buffalo Bill from Silence of the Lambs look like freakin' Barbarella. Two thumbs down. Way down.

1 comments

Things That Make Us Go "Yikes": We Sometimes Go Insane If You Don't Call Us Back

Hey, we aren't above turning the tables on us. There are times when we've bugged out about the dumbest things that we'd never admit to anyone. But, we're all buddies here. We can trust you, right?

With that said, we pretty much lose all sense of decorum when a guy we like doesn't return our call. As a general rule, we never call guys anyway so when we decide to call a guy and don't hear back, we release some kind of evil force into the universe. It's like some Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark-level shit. We could probably melt a Nazi's face off with our with rage.

For the next 24 hours, we oscillate between disbelief, anger, and shock: "I can't believe he's not calling me back" to "I wanna sock him in his nose for not calling me back" to "I am really fucking shocked that this guy is not calling me back."

We try to distract ourselves by catching up on our Netflix or meeting up with our friends for a drink, but every few hours we'll remember that we are on the receiving end of a silent phone and we'll get steaming mad all over again.

Something about a guy blowing us off flips some kind of primal psycho girl switch buried deep down inside of us. It's the same switch that thinks that eating raw cookie dough is a good idea or that Jordan Catalano would be the perfect boyfriend. Newsflash: eating cookie dough will give you a tummy ache and Jordan Catalano was a douche. Damn you, psycho switch! Damn you straight to hell.

The good news: you're only allowed to be psycho about this for up to two days. At that point, you pretty much have to cut your losses and get it out of your mind. This would also be a good time to practice good phone karma by thumbing through your rolodex and returning any calls you haven't answered. Only then will harmony be restored.

Whew. That felt good to get that off our chest. Is there anything that you guys do that makes you take a step back and say "yikes"? Email us at hi@shmittenkitten.com. Confess your yikes-ing-est moments to us. It's cool.

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Things We Tell Boys We Hate But Secretly Don't: When They Threaten To Beat Someone Up On Our Behalf

What we tell you:

Whoa there, Peter Cetera, hold your horses. I get that you wanna defend my honor and all, but I didn't bring enough money on our date to bail you out of jail. It's fine; you don't need to kick his ass over this. It's not that big of a deal that some guy by the dj booth bumped into me and spilled my drink. It sucks that he wouldn't apologize but there's no need to resort to fisticuffs over it. Let's just get out of here. Fuck it. I know a great little spot down the street. We'll just go there. Come here *grab his hand and leave the bar*

What we really think:

Swoon x a million. This guy is so amped about me, he is willing to throw down. That's insane. And awesome. And hot. It's insanely awesome and hot. Hanging out with him is like having my own personal bouncer, but he doesn't have to spend his weekend nights sitting on a stool by the entrance of a rowdy bar. He listens to God Help the Girl, he wears glasses, and he would drop a guy who disrespects me in a heartbeat. I...I...I...think I love him.

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Things We Tell Boys We Hate But Secretly Don't: When You Scarf Down A Hoagie

What we tell you:

What are you, an animal? Can't you eat a sandwich like a human being? Watching you attack this hoagie is like watching a lion feed on a gazelle on the Discovery Channel. You have mustard all over you. I'm barely two bites into my sandwich and you've already wolfed yours down. You look like a caveman, all hunched over and grunting, jamming that hoagie in your mouth. Why am I dating such a pig?

What we really think:

It's kinda hot how my man has such a healthy appetite. I wonder what else he has an appetite for. Rawr. I wish I was that hoagie. His love hoagie. Did I just say the phrase, "love hoagie" in my head? Haha. Oh man, I think I just grossed myself out.

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Things We Tell Boys We Hate But Secretly Don't: When You Load The Jukebox Up With Grunge Songs

What we tell you:

Pearl Jam? Really? Why don't you just play the entire Singles soundtrack while you're at it. Wait, is this "Would?" Oh, you totally are playing the Singles soundtrack. You know, just because it's on the jukebox doesn't mean that you have to play it. Everyone in the bar is looking at you and shooting you daggers with their eyes. Well, I don't blame 'em. You're forcing them to listen to a 9 minute song called "Chloe Dancer/Crown of Thorns." If anyone asks, I don't know you.

What we really think:

Around 4 and a half minutes into this grunge opus, I saw the light. "This is my kinda love/ It's the kind that moves on/ It's unkind and leaves me alone/ Yes it does." I forgot how much I love this song and the entire bar should be thanking you for letting them hear this '90s gem for free. I think I'm going to download this song when I get home so I can rock out to it when I walk to work in the morning.

[Update: This post was partly inspired by my friend Andrew, who is known for his grunge-loving ways. Well, I just received word that he eloped with his girlfriend and my good friend, Mikki. Little known fact: I played a part in their matchmaking. Mikki confided to me that she had a crush on Andrew. One night, I blabbed to him that I knew a secret about him but that I couldn't tell him. He bought me a beer in exchange for the information, which I gladly accepted. Judas had his silver pieces, I had a Mad Elf from Johnny Brendas; we all have our price. "Mikki has a crush on you. Hit that shit, yo." With my encouragement, he made a move on her. And, they got married today. It seems that my Cupid-ness now has a proven track record. So, in a way, we all win. Congrats to the happy couple! I love you both very much.]

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Shmitten Kitten Pin-Up Girls: The Center City Chick

Here is the third girl in our Pin-up Girl series drawn by our very own Jenna Davis and seeing as how she's a downtown worker bee, she needs to hustle to run her errands on her lunch break. You can see her breezing by chugging an iced coffee, bopping into MAC to grab some more foundation powder (she knows her shade by heart).

This beauty has a real 9-5 job and she is a total weekend warrior: she starts planning her Friday night on Monday morning. Happy hour is her cat nip. She bops around from bar to bar, sippin' on fancy drinks and complaining to her friends about how all guys she meets are dbags. She loves to walk her dog in Rittenhouse Square so everyone can shower it (and her) with attention. Meet the Center City Chick. Double-click on the image to make her bigger.

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Bonerkiller: We Get The Sense That You'd Rather Date Your Bike

I get it: riding a bike is a quick, eco-friendly, and inexpensive way to get from place to place. I understand that along with these desirable attributes, you also get to have fun while in transit. But sometimes, Bike Dude, you take it a little too far.

At first I’m impressed with your passion for bike riding. "He’s so totally not lazy and he looks good on that thing," I’ll think to myself as you pedal your way around town. I’ll daydream about us cruising along together, exploring unfamiliar parts of the city that bikes make more accessible.

But the more we hang out, the more apparent your obsession becomes. You spend all your days off tending to your bike: greasing the chain, pumping up tires, and tweaking things I didn’t even know were necessary! You soup that thing up like one of those crazy car fanatics. My old cruiser is an embarrassment to you and your hip, brakeless wonder. On the occasion that we do ride together, you zoom off, leaving my little old Schwinn and me in the dust. Is it so the two of you can have more alone time? When I start to feel like you would rather spoon your fixie than spoon me, something has got to give.

Maybe that sleek paint job and those brightly colored rims really get you going, but what about your gal all dolled up in a cute summer sundress? If I had two wheels and handlebars would you be more apt to take me out for a spin? Seems like my lady-loving is of no use to you; your bike-girlfriend has got you covered.

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Unscientific Poll: Invite Confusion

Guys, bros, men: I have a question for you. When you invite a girl to your dj night/ show/ concert/ house party are you inviting them because you specifically want them there or because you just want as many bodies there as you can get?

Personally, I can never tell. If a guy I like invites me to hear his band play, I usually don't go because I don't want to seem like a groupie. In fact, I avoided this one guy's band for FOUR YEARS because I thought about how ridiculous I'd feel if I showed up and he had a line of girls waiting to talk to him after his "gig." What. am I gonna wait in line to talk to him like I'm in a Mr. Big song? Fuck that!

Is this flawed logic? Am I totally misreading it? Weigh in!

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Quick Rant: Creepy Winkers

A knowing wink can be cute, when it's from the right guy. Today a strange bearded man on a motorcycle thought he was being super suave and winked at me. I easily made the worst face on the planet at him. NOT COOL. It's the same face I make when I smell the women's restroom at Macy's on Black Friday. Sorry for that mental image, but I couldn't help it! A wink from a stranger almost always comes off as creepy. Not a new skool kind of creepy--like he's going to lurk on your blog and riddle your page with inane comments--but an old timey kind of creepy, like the last time that wink worked was when a cup of coffee cost a nickel.

Men of Philadelphia: if you aren't somehow comparable in looks to the Fonz, please do us a favor and keep both eyes open or closed simultaneously. When you wink at me, I don't feel a flutter; I reach for my mace.

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Things We Tell Boys We Hate But Secretly Don't: Getting A Hickey

What we tell you:

Great. Now I have to go to work with this huge welt on my neck. Didn't you listen? I have an important meeting with my boss tomorrow. No, dabbing concealer on it won't help. It looks like I'm in the beginning stages of leprosy. What kind of woman goes to work with a goddamn hickey on her neck? It's the summer; I can't even wear a turtleneck. Why did you do this to me? What are we, in sixth grade here? Stop laughing. It's not funny. Ugh! *huff and puff around his room as I collect my things*

What we really think as soon as we step outside of your apartment:

Smile smile smile smile smile high-five. I HAVE A HICKEY, BITCHES! It kinda looks like I got bit by a vampire or something. I'm like a True Blood outtake. I never use the word vixen because I think it's kinda corny, but I totally feel like a vixen right now. Oh man. I think I'm gonna stop and grab some ice cream to celebrate my hickeyhood. Hickeyhood! I think I just made up a word. Haha. I can't wait to check it out when I get home.

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Bonerkiller: Philly Sports Phanatic

Remember when the Phillies won the World Series? Of course you do! It will likely go down as one of the most thrilling moments in the lives of all Philadelphians. But there comes a point when you have to realize that a dream has been fulfilled and life goes back to normal. It's okay to move on, well at least until the next season (and this season is great, btdubs).

I was at Bishops Collar the other weekend and they had a rerun of Game 5 on the television. It was fun to watch and everyone cheered at their favorite moments. It was almost like watching your favorite movie for the trillionth time. Except for one group of guys. They were SOOOO into it that you would have thought they had lived under a rock for the past year and were watching the game for the first time. I mean, they were pounding their beer on the tables and kicking stuff and screaming expletives at one moment, and then going rip-roaring crazy with excitement at the next. Um, you do know the outcome, right guys? Spoiler alert: THEY WIN.

After getting an entire beer doused on me from these dudes' frantic celebration at the final pitch--complete with chest bumps and fist pumps and jumping and howling like rabid wolves--I realized that no matter how much I love the Phils, I would never want to date a die-hard fan because that takes some serious guts. And I'm not just talking about stomaching warm beers and dollar hot dogs on your "dates."

When quality time is equated with tailgating by the romantic warmth of a collapsible bbq grill and his idea of a great birthday present for you is a Chase Utley bobble head, it's time to call it quits. This is the type of guy that knows all the RBI stats since 1980, but can never remember your birthday (or your anniversary if you last long enough to have one.) He can also rattle off rosters from the past three decades, but can't remember your sister's name. Becky? Beth? Beatrice?

Oh, and your sex life? It only exists after the game...if they win...only after celebrating the win...only after he sobers up from celebrating the win. If they lose, forget about it. Besides, it's kind of hard to put the moves on a grown man who is pouting about a sports team's loss.

Don't get me wrong: I looove the Phillies. But love and batshit crazy obsession are entirely different things. On the plus side, these dudes are really easy to shop for (tickets/jerseys=love.) They have excellent commitment skills, even through the tough times and dry spells. One thing's for sure though: stick with this dude and there's a 99% chance you'll get proposed to on the Jumbotron at the ballpark. Here he is, drawn in all of his glory:

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Yay or Nay: Shmitten Kitten Monthly Speed Dating Party aka ShPeed Dating

So, we've been kicking around this idea to start a monthly speed dating party, except we'd call it ShPeed dating 'cause we'd be doing it (har har.) Each month we'd feature a different band to speed date to, like Black Sabbath, The Smiths, Lifetime, Minor Threat, the Descendents, The Cure, etc. Basically, you'd have to chat with a person for one whole song then switch. It'll be like musical chairs but with dating undertones. We'd try to organize it in different bars around the city and kick it in different neighborhoods. So, if you are opposed to dating Fishtowners, we'd be in South Philly the next month.

You could bring your friends and they can just hang out by the bar. We'd like to play hostess, but we imagine that we could rotate host duties with other Philly personalities. My question: would people be into this? Personally, I think it sounds like a ton of fun. Maybe I can have my own pool of suitors and they can all charm me in the time it takes to listen to "Rodeo Clown." At the very least, you'd meet some cool people who are into the same music as you. And, how awesome would it be to hear these bands in a bar? If we weren't running it, we'd probably show up just for that part alone. Email me your thoughts to anna@shmittenkitten.com or leave your ideas in the comments. Thanks, guys!

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Surprisingly Not a Bonerkiller: You Live In Delaware

Normally I dislike Delaware the same way I dislike guys who wear dad jeans: unconditionally. It might be because every trip I've ever taken to our nation's first state has been an absolute disaster. *Cough--remember that time I got lost in Newark at midnight by myself?--*cough. It also could have something to do with the fact that it seems like the entire state is always under construction.

As a general rule, I often steer clear of boys who don't live or work in the city. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I ditched my car for a SEPTA pass some time ago, or maybe because I found that out-of-city dating cramped my style. But you, Mr. Delawarean, you are makin' this happen. I met a nice boy finishing his master's degree at UDel, and I'm suddenly feeling less and less disdain for our nation's second smallest state.

My apologies, Delaware: you may have the longest red lights on the planet and are only the size of South Jersey, but you've somehow managed to eliminate sales tax at the Apple store and currently house, educate and employ the boy I like. So, let's take the R2 and hang the eff out.

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Things I’m Terrible At: Turning Down A Date With A Really Nice Guy I Have No Interest In

Normally, I think of myself as a pretty direct and honest lady. For the most part, I know what I want. This decisiveness usually applies where dudes are concerned too. But every now and then, a really nice guy comes along. Not just a nice guy, but a bonafide sweetheart: he opens doors, he pulls out chairs, he magically pops up at your job just to say "hi,” and he even calls his mom on the regular. This guy is a dreamboat of niceness.

But despite his sweet nature, you’re just not attracted to him. When you glance his way, instead of butterflies in your stomach and fireworks going off in your chest, you’re overcome with, well nothing. You just can’t get into Mr. Nice Guy despite your best efforts trying to convince yourself of his desirability. You look like a crazy person as you debate his finer points to yourself. "He's great with kids and he'd make a great dad," you reason. "Yeah, but for someone else's kids," you mutter under your breath.

Aaaaand right around then is when he usually asks me out on a date. Logically, my answer should always be a cut and dry, “No,” a “Sorry, I can’t” or a “Golly, I’m busy forever!” But instead, I panic. How can I turn down someone THAT nice?! Mistakenly, I think, going out with him once won’t do any harm and instead of handing out a short but sweet rejection, I say, “Sure, why not!” I end up regretting it faster than when I chug a city-wide Philly special--PBR and a shot of Jim Beam for all of you out-of-towners--on a Friday night.

Why do I feel compelled to say yes to guys who ask me out simply because they are nice? There must be some part of my brain that agrees with the backwards logic that thinks going out with him once is not leading anybody on; if anything, it's just being courteous. Once the influx of texts, calls, and Facebook messages begins after that “harmless” first (and only, I hope) date, I kick myself. I am not good at turning down dates with nice guys. In fact, I'm terrible at it.

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Dear Shmitten Kitten: He Moved Home and I'm (Surprisingly) Moved

Dear Shmitten Kitten,

I met a great guy this weekend and thought of you! It was one of those Surprisingly Not a Bonerkiller moments. We were chatting about the usual bar conversation topics and everything was going swimmingly. Then, he let it slip that he had moved back in with his parents. While this normally would have had me moving off my stool faster than a cat dropped in a full bathtub, I found myself sticking around to hear the full story. I don't know if it was his blue eyes or knowledge of early punk rock that propelled me to stay, but either way, I'm glad I did!

He recently got laid off and had to settle with a job making half of what he was before the economy tanked like a bad date. Deciding to move back home to save money for a year seemed better than ranking up some serious debt. With the economy hitting everyone hard, I would rather have a guy with who possess the capacity for forward thought then one who has big debts down the road. As long as you have actual plans and an EMOD (Estimated Move Out Day), I'll give you some leeway. Hey, everyone needs a helping hand every once in a while. Down due to the economy dudes, I'll happily give you mine. The strapped for cash cutie even sprung for a round! If you're willing to dish out some of your saved dollars for my beer, I'll gladly return the favor; preferably on date number two.

Love love love,
Ok with PBRs As Long As There Is An EMOD

We totally agree that this dude sounds radical. You kind of made us jealous that he's an old skool punk rocker because that's our soft-spot too. [As a side note, we've been meaning to do a Tip Our Hats to old skool punk rockers and you, my dear, just reminded us to get on that ASAP.] That's great that you are so understanding about his situation. It seems that he's the lucky one here.

Additionally, you make a terrific point: If the guy is watching his dollars and still buys you a beer, it means more than if he were rolling in cash and took you out to Le Bec Fin. We give him two thumbs up. Thanks for the awesome letter. Oh, and let us know if he has any hot, single ex-punk friends. We could use someone to serenade us with Descendents songs on command.

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Bonerkiller: Your Giant, Uncaged Iguana

Two minutes into this, I can tell that this isn't going to work out. You have a lot going for you: You have a cool job, we hang out at the same places and we even have some friends in common. But, I cannot overlook the fact that you have a giant iguana just chillin' on the windowsill of your living room. Dude, it's staring at us!

It's like you have a scaly, slow roommate who's shit you have to pick up around the apartment, literally. It smells like a mixture of woodchips and dried skin in here. *gag* It's just walking around the place like it's re-enacting scenes from Jurassic Park in slow motion. Why on earth is this thing not in a cage?

Next time I open a door and see this reptilian moodkiller, I'm gonna make like the Kool-Aid Man and bust out the side of the wall. Just kidding; there won't be a next time. Consider my boner murdered.

[Btdubs, this post is not one long, elaborate euphemism. There really was a freakin' lizard just hanging out like it was trying to sell me a Budweiser.]

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Flippin' Our Shades: Joe Stakun

Hubba hubba. We see a lot of rad guys around Philly. Usually we just flip our shades at 'em, all Diamond Dave-style to let 'em know that we are feelin' it. Well, we decided that we should spotlight our faves and let other girls know about them too. We know, we're nice like that. So, for our first Shade Flipper, we think that it's fitting to profile Joe Stakun. We're pretty sure if you checked his diet, he must eat 100% awesome things because they say you are what you eat and this guy is totally awesome. Did that even make sense?

When not making videos and movies, he can be found zipping around town on his bike. In fact, he just released his first feature length documentary about the BMX bike culture called I Love My Bicycle. It also helps that he's incredibly handsome. That's kind of a big part of being a Shades Flipper. Let's meet the man behind the camera.

SK: So, Joe, what have you been up to?
Ummm. I am on the tail end of a feature length documentary I've been making for the past two and a half years. It just premiered in NYC and Philadelphia. At this point, I'm looking around for distro and fine tuning the film. Hopefully it will be out on DVD before 2010. After that, I'm just going to take it easy and go back to doing more music videos.

SK: What bums you out that girls do?
Hmmm. I'm not a big fan of make-up and when girls dress up fancy every time they leave the house.

SK: What do you love that girls do?
When they are funny, cute, original, and talented.

SK: What would you wear on a first date?
Probably just jeans and a t-shirt or flannel. I'm not sure the typical first date really exists.

SK: What would you put on a mix tape for a girl that you liked?
Depends on the girl.

SK: Tell us a secret.
No secrets here.

SK: Oh man, not even one?
I don't have any secrets; I'm a pretty open book for the most part. Is this photo alright? It's quite a metro posture.

SK: Yup, this photo is just great.

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Little Known Fact: We Don't Mind A Little Bit of Back Hair On A Guy

There, we said it. In fact, we think it's kind of manly in a grunting caveman way. Hey, our ancestors used to kick it with neanderthals, right? Maybe there is some kind of evolutionary gene buried deep within our subconscious that is attracted to fuzzy wuzzies. We can't explain it, but we can't deny it either. Guys with moderate amounts of back hair are totally welcome in Casa de Shmitten Kitten.

Don't get us wrong, a full-on ape cape is still a tough sell. If we can braid your back hair into a friendship bracelet, then we are gonna have to have an uncomfortable talk with you involving the words "shave" and "it off." We ain't tryin' to get with no werewolves, but a few sprigs of hair peeking out over the top of your shirt collar are not horrible.

Guys out there with back hair, we just wanted to let you know that it's cool; you can take your shirt off poolside this summer. Don't be shy: Fly that fur flag! Strut around like the manimal you are. We dig it.

Are we crazy? Where do you guys land on the back hair debate? Is there even a debate because last we heard, no one else has talked about it.

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