Two Weeks!

Our Valentine's Day dance party is two weeks from today. TWO WEEKS!

"Mess with a bull, young man, you'll get the horns."

Saturday, Feb. 13th. Upstairs at the Khyber. 9pm - 2am. Free.


*We promise to give more kisses than horns.

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Tip Our Hats: Guys That Listen to Ryan Adams

I don't care that he has a messy bedroom, that he defaulted on his student loans, or that he has an expired driver's license. I don't care that he's still baffled by how Twitter works or that he drinks all the fancy vodka that I hid in the freezer and thinks that I won't notice. (I totally do.)

I don't care about his blurry, jokey tattoos that are already half-faded because he doesn't give a shit about wearing sunscreen. I don't care that he has an overflowing ashtray next to his bed and it looks like a chalky homage to Sideshow Bob's hair.

I don't care that he's mean to his vegan roommate and his preppy brother. I don't care that he has an off-brand cell phone with a loud polyphonic ringtone that always seems to die right when I want to hear from him most. And, I don't even care that his comforter has a distinct, pungent sour smell like a french fry wrapped in a gym sock that's been buried in a basement.

Once I sink into his couch as he plays the "Heartbreaker" record over his living room stereo, I'm all his.

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Oh No He Di'int Try To Wear THAT To Meet My Parents

Remember our first date? Remember how adorable you looked in your cute plaid button-down shirt and wrinkled jeans? You were a master of messy detachment. I was not only charmed by your sweet talking but also by your Pig-Pen-goes-hipster style. Bravo.

So tell me, what happened? I laughed when you came down the stairs just now because I thought this was like the time you walked in with no pants on and said you were ready to go out but your pants weren't feeling up to it. But you're not laughing with me.

Yes, I see those are your beloved jeans, the ones you wore on our first date despite looking like they hadn't been washed since The Simpsons were funny (1989). But something is different. Do I spy floral patchwork? Oh, your mom decided to patch them up with flower print fabric? Great. I also love that you decided to run with the botanic theme by donning a paisley shirt I've definitely never seen before. Your mom got that for you too? Awesome. And I'm not even going to comment on the square-toed leather shoes.

Don't get me wrong, the outfit looks great on you but I think it might look best shoved into a plastic bag and sold at Party City along with a rainbow afro wig and purple-tinted specs. The floral explosion on your clothing might look pretty dope whipping around beneath the disco ball at a '70s costume party. But, I'm fairly certain my parents won't appreciate the irony of this outfit (if irony is even what you're going for here--is it parody?) All I can envision is my mom in stunned silence and my dad asking how you got the day off from your gig as the star of Hair.

I will say though, the one upside of your tribute to Mother Earth is that it completely distracts from the fact that you bear a striking resemblance to Macaulay Culkin's mug shot right now. I wish I could blame this outfit on you still being drunk from last night, but judging by the pride in your sleepy, swollen face, you've been planning this one for a while now. I don't have the heart to say any of this to you because you're just so adorably clueless right now. So instead I'll give you the "seriously?" look and wait for you to trudge back upstairs and put on your favorite plaid shirt. Thatta boy.

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Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Lack Of Decent Mirrors

So, let me get this straight: I'm supposed to apply my eyeliner using the back of a Pulp CD as a mirror. Riiiiiiiight. Why aren't there any decent mirrors in this place? Are you sitting shiva? Are you the Beast from Beauty and the Beast and you can't stand to see your reflection? This is nuts!

I hate putting on makeup at your house. The only mirror in here is in the bathroom and it's dusty and streaked, like Hank Moody's Porche. Not to be a diva, but this mirror situation isn't working for me.

For instance, without a full-length mirror, I can't tell if my outfit looks presentable. When I get to work and take a good look at myself in the ladies' room, I realize that I could be Shakes the Clown's understudy! My shirt is askew. My buttons are buttoned weird. One pant leg is tucked into a sock. I'm surprised no one hauled me off to a mental institution because I clearly resemble an extra from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.

As a head's up, this is totally your fault. Seriously, they have mirrors at Target. They're not expensive. Invest in one.

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I Feel I Failed To Impress You With My Cute Texts Because You Interpreted Them As Stalking

I already have trouble initiating phone contact with boys I like, but every now and then I'll feel a rush of confidence and send my homeboy some flirty texts. So, it's doubly troubling when my efforts are misconstrued. I think the problem is that you thought I was being supercreepy when I was just trying to be sweet.

For instance, I thought I was being cute when I texted you, "I'm right outside your office." I was running around doing errands downtown! I thought I'd let you know I was close to you in case you wanted to give me a smooch on your lunch break. It was innocent!

Or, the time I texted, "I'm counting the minutes until I see you again." Again, I was trying to be cute! I wasn't seriously counting the clock. That's crazy!

I think the final straw was when I texted, "I can't stop thinking about you. When can I see you again?" I WAS BEING FLIRTY! I was trying to show signals of interest to encourage you. So, when you told me that I was starting to freak you out, I was stunned. 

Now, looking back over my outbox, I see how I came off as stalker-ish. I regret that. I clearly need to hire someone to handle all of my communications with men for the rest of my life.

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Contest Time: Win A Dream Date With Shmitten Kitten!

You know how Oprah does a show every now and then where she makes someone's dream come true? Well, I'm feeling charitable. I wanna make *some Philly dude's dream come true; I wanna give him his quintessential Philly dream date. To be more specific, I want him to take me on his quintessential Philly dream date. Yup, you and me dating it up like two daters on a date. Not just any date, a dream date.

It doesn't have to be this big fancy affair. It can be something as simple as walking around Rittenhouse and grabbing lunch at Reading Terminal Market. Or, it can be tacos at La Lupe then coffee at B2 then drinks at the Pope. Really, anything! As long as it's your dream. 

*Attn. potential dream dater: You must be under 5'10. I know it's strange and cruel, but if I'm going with you on this dream date, you have to be under that height to go on this ride. Er, DATE! I mean date. Because it's with me. And, I like shorter guys. And, you have to send me a picture or a link to yer facebook or blog or twitter. I wanna see what I'm workin' with here!

If you throw your hat in the ring, here is what I promise for you as your co-dream dater:

• I will smell good
• I will wear a dress
• I will laugh at 90% of your jokes
  
• I will match you, drink for drink (five drink maximum)

Interested? Send me an email to hi@shmittenkitten.com with "dream dater" in the subject and explain what your Philly dream date is and why I should go with you. Extra points if it's iambic pentameter. Just kidding. And, if we've already gone out before, I'll consider going out with you again if you make a strong case for a do-over. Come on, Philly, let's dream this dream together.

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I Shoulda Known When You Failed the Wolverine Test

Dear Guy I've Been Seeing,

Sorry, it's not going to work out. It's not you. And it's not me.

It's the wolverine.

No, we're not talking about Hugh Jackman and his razor-defying sideburns. And wolverine isn't the nickname for my new dude. It's a metaphor. For how much you suck.

You failed the wolverine test. What's the wolverine test? A friend once told me that she liked to imagine how every guy she dated would respond if a vicious wolverine suddenly crossed her path while she was with her man. Would he run? Would he fight it? Would he protect her and their hypothetical spawn? Would he start crying? Pee his pants? Twitter about it then take a picture because, hey pics or it didn't happen?

Sadly most of the guys she dated would fail the wolverine test. Big time.

What would your reaction be? Well, you would start complaining to the wolverine. You would tell the wolverine all about how no one likes minimal techno as much as you do, how much you hate your roommates, how New York is being gentrified at an effing alarming rate, how your job bores you; and that's just in the first five minutes. The wolverine would get annoyed, maybe start yawning, checking his wolverine Swatch watch for the time. Why? Because like me, the WOLVERINE DOESN'T WANT TO HEAR IT.

I shoulda known this wasn't going to work out as soon as I visualized your response to this scenario. So I'm kicking you and your big, boring mouth out. *cue up "I Don't Wanna Hear It" by Minor Threat*

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Flippin' Our Shades: Y-Rock on XPN Dudes

Thursday, February 24, 2005 was a dark day for music lovers because Y100.3, Philly's only alternative rock radio station, went off the air. A few passionate people were determined to keep the music alive. And, after years of transition, Philly now has yrockonxpn.org, an online radio station which straight-up rocks, both literally and figuratively. As professed radio deejay admirers, we love the fact that the dudes that host the show are so pumped about the music that many of them deejay for free. And, these dudes are hot AND funny. Check out excerpts from our interview with three of 'em below:

SK: Does being a deejay/radio host impress the ladies?
Reid: Are you asking me out?
Billy: Usually they're already so impressed by my fresh-pressed slacks that by the time we get to the deejay/host topic, it's hard to tell if it does anything for them.

SK: What would you put on a mix tape for a girl?
Billy: Clearly, Peter Cetera's "Glory of Love" from the Karate Kid II soundtrack would be involved. A Philly favorite, G. Love's "Gimme Some Lovin'" would get thrown in as well. We've been spinning a track recently called "Dream About Me" by The Depreciation Guild, which would certainly stir some romantic emotions on a mixed tape for a love interest.
Reid: Jeff Buckley always finds his way on to my mix tapes. If I’m feeling nostalgic, Neutral Milk Hotel. ELO is good too.
Andre: I'd have to get a read on what she likes. Then I'd sprinkle in some Bowie.

SK: Do any female fans ever write in asking you out or try to bribe you for tickets?
Reid: We have a great fan base who enjoy the music first. As sexy as every last one of us Y-Rock deejay’s are, that hasn’t happened…yet. Now the flocks of female fans outside the studio are a different story.
Billy: My female fans are typically sooo into the music I'm playing that they are too distracted to type a write-in ask out. At least that's what I like to think.
Andre: Actually, one listener was very creative. She Photoshopped me into the poster for Eagle vs. Shark, a movie I've mentioned my love for on-air. It won her my gratitude and respect. But no tickets.

SK: Describe the perfect Philly first date.
Billy: Of course, we'd have to take that duck bus/boat thinger around. Then eat a cheesesteak and curse at a TV together while watching the Eagles lose. To top it off, I'd bring her back to my place and pop in my Fresh Prince CD. From there, anything's possible.
Reid: I'd take her to Ortlieb's because it's the perfect mix of music and conversation. They have good food too.

SK: Tell us a secret!
Reid: When I’m on air, I don’t wear pants.
Billy: I'm dating Gwen Stefani. Don't tell Gavin. He'd rip off my head and replace it with a machine.

SK: What is the biggest mistake guys make in dating?
Billy: Now, this mistake doesn't happen all too often but it is a BIG mistake that I have seen severely crush some of my friends chances in the very infancy of their relationship: Moving too fast and trying to get ultra-serious prematurely. Generally speaking, this is dating disaster and seen as a turn-off by girls.
Reid: It’s a tie: Trying to woo a girl with a mix tape / mimic something you saw in a movie, unless it’s Swingers of course. It’s money baby, every time.
Andre: Probably getting to know someone too much too soon, and also overthinking.

SK: What is the worst thing a girl can do on the first date?
Billy: For the love of everything holy, put your phone away.
Reid: Repeatedly text in front of me. Once or twice is ok, but c’mon. Aren’t you going to call your bff at the end of the night anyway?
Andre: The worst thing anyone, girl or guy can do on the first date, is to try too hard to be anything other than oneself. Otherwise, it just feels awkward and stilted.

So, there you have it! What did we learn? Don't text too much while wearing slacks sprinkled with David Bowie. Or something. You can ogle all of them here. Thanks, fellas!

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Bonerkiller: Weekend Early Risers

I will straight-up dump a guy who wakes up before 8am on a weekend, gets out of bed, tosses on a ratty sweatshirt then goes downstairs to putter around until I wake up. Sorry to try and catch some Zs on your dime, buddy. I didn't realize that by agreeing to a slumber party I'd have to scoot out of your house at the ass crack of dawn.

The worst is when he asks me the night before, "What time do you usually wake up? You're not gonna sleep in 'til 2pm, are you? 'Cause I usually wake up at around 7am." No, I'm not gonna sleep until 2pm; I'm not a depressed teenager. Sheesh. As R. Kelly sang, "it's the freakin' weekend, baby, I'm about to have me some fun." He didn't sing, "It's the freakin' weekend baby, I'm about to BOTHER THIS SLEEPING BEAUTY AND GUILT HER INTO WAKING UP BEFORE MOST PLACES ARE EVEN OPEN FOR BRUNCH."

What, are we on Wife Swap? Do I have to wake up to tend to farm animals? We are in a city in an apartment. Can't we just sleep in and get our snuggle on? Is laying around and giggling that unappealing to you? What's the rush?

Do you have to wake up because it's time to make the donuts? Do you have to deliver papers on your paper route? Do you have the early shift at Panera? Why are you up so early on a weekend? You're a cock-a-doodle-DON'T!

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Quick Rant: Facebook Chatterboxes

Chatting on Facebook is the worrrrrst. On the totem pole of flirting behavior, FB chatting hovers around the bottom near "whistling at me from across the street" and "putting the moves on me two minutes after my friend turned you down."

The site is too bright so awkwardly chatting with him is like he's trying to hit on me while I'm in line at Target. It's hard to feel sexy when there are pictures of my sister's baby and my Mom's Scrabble score streaming in the background. So, when I hear that little thud pingy sound in my browser alerting me to a new message, I brace myself. For a split second, I consider the possibilities here: Is it the guy I like? Or my best friend stopping by to say hi? Nope, most likely it's a dude. Who has a girlfriend. And is bored and wants my attention. Refer to the chart:

Seriously, the only guys who ever want to talk to me are shady dudes. I don't know why; I'm not particularly that exciting. They always breathlessly ask what I'm up to. Uh, sitting on the damn computer like you, my dear. This is what your do when your girlfriend is away/ asleep/ in the next room? Bother girls like me with boring, unfunny questions? 

I know I can turn the chat feature off, but I have to say that I secretly enjoy the mixed bag of dudes I hear from. I'm a glutton for punishment, obviously. Whatever. Honestly, I NEVER look at the list to see who's available to chat. However, these shadeball supersleuth chatterboxes somehow know the exact minute I pop in to check out the event details for my friend's house party next week. Who has time to monitor that? I know I'm wasting time being on the site in the first place, but even I have some standards about the extent of my time wasting, you know?

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SK V-Day Par-Tay

Dude! Totally! Radical! Free! Fun! Party! Um, what else? Drinks! Kisses! Rapture! Lace! Pleather! Pleasure! Mixing Business With Pleasure! Business Trips! Airline Miles! Alright, we're getting kind of weird and just doing a free association shout out at this point, so we'll stop.

But, we wanted to let you know that we're having our first ever Valentine's Day dance party and we're pretty fuckin' pumped about it (sorry to swear, but we're really excited.) Check out this wicked awesome deejay line-up:

ALXS
Mood setters

Jennacide
Fist pumpers

Goy Toy (aka me, Anna)
Lid flippers

Roland Cassard, Diamond Dealer
Brit-poppers

We'll have something for everyone. Well, most people. Who like to dance. To radical music. While drinking.

Come out. It's your shot to get a kiss from a bonafide Shmitten Kitten! Ooh-la-la.

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Oh No He Di'int Make Me Feel Bad For Wearing Heels

My best friend's fiance is a full foot taller than her. Because the average height of my beaus have clocked in around 5'8, she and another taller friend often tease me for ''dating short guys.'' At 5'4, I've never really given ''tall men'' or ''short men'' a second thought. That is, until a guy I'm seeing comments on my heels.

When you, dude of average height, make yourself involved with my footwear and decide to make it a negative issue about your height, it's on! Actually, it's off because I'm totally turned off by your height insecurity.

I've enjoyed wearing heels since the tender age of seven, when I used to steal them from my mom's closet and tap dance on our hardwood floor. She used to yell at me for doing that, but this is different! I don't need a passive aggressive dude grunting about my heels when we're out together. What's your deal?!

After a decade+ of being forced to see up people's nostrils, I'm on top of the world with an extra three inches under my feet. It's easier to scope out who has a receding hairline now, and I really like the important, clicky sound my tootsies make when I excuse myself from the table.

When I've primped for your friend's wedding /holiday party /a night on the town and I greet you in a smashing little black dress, your gaze should be fixed on my boomin' body, not my pumps. When you blubber, "Oh, you're wearing heels tonight?" you understand why I want to take them off my feet and swiftly thrust them towards a vulnerable place on your body, right?

What really gets me is that it's not some Alice in Wonderland-esque occurrence. I didn't suddenly grow 4 inches. And, it's not a permanent transformation. We're going to a dressy event and if you can't handle me being the same height as you for three hours, then I think you need more self-esteem or a shorter girlfriend.

Before you made this a stressful situation, in my eyes, we were both winners. How? This is in your favor, buddy: I'm easier to kiss when I'm taller! Technically, my boobs are closer to your face and I'm thrilled I get to pretend I'm 5'7 for two hours. Can't we call this a victory together?

So, yes, my track record states I've dated men of ''below average height.'' It also indicates that I've dated a ton of creeps, so go ahead and ask me again if I'm wearing heels, and make yourself two for two.

[Note from Anna: I had to toss in my two cents here. As a 6'1 woman who likes to date much shorter guys, I never wear heels.  It's not because I'm concerned for their feelings either. In fact, I love how they have to stand on a step to kiss me. It's one of my favorite things about life!

However, I physically cannot wear high heels. I tumble over like a newborn giraffe. I have a theory: I have really small toes and I don't think that they are capable of working in a high heel situation. They're really small, like the size of homemade gnocchi. My small toes make high heel walking impossible. (Where's my Facebook group?) All you girls that can rock pumps, go on with your bad self. I'll be in the corner standing steadily in my flats.]

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Little Known Fact: Apparently, I'm the Gateway Drug to Having a Girlfriend

You may not think you want a girlfriend now, but after you date me, I can guarantee you'll want to lock it down. How do I know? I am the gateway drug to a relationship. Like how after-school specials warn you about the dangers of weed, I will unlock the door to your relationship desires. Dating me will make you hunger for more commitment. With someone else.

While we're dating, you'll act aloof, distant and slightly morose. You'll be thinking about the last serious relationship you had i.e. the one that makes me think that you actually know how to be in one. But, whoops! It turns out that you're not completely over it! And, whoops! It took us banging for you to figure it out!

And after you explain how you're "really not ready" to go to the movies/zoo/drinks with me anymore, I'll feel mildly sorry for you. I'll think, "Geez, that last GF must have done a number on him." And then, like a docile pothead transformed into a raging crackhead, two months later we'll run into each other at the bowling alley and you'll have another girl on your arm. Suddenly you're cured of your relationship ills and you're hooked on the stuff! Oh look at you being such a devoted and charming boyfriend laughing with her friends, taking her out to nice dinners and showering her with affection. You're a full-blown relationship junkie, by the look of it.

Hey, don't say I didn't warn you. One hit of me and you'll be boyfriend material--for someone else--in no time. 

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Phrases We'd Like To Stab In The Face: I Was Late Because I Was in the Studio

Really, any musician-speak makes me roll my eyes. Demos, laying tracks, jam sessions; I'm over it. But, the worst is the studio-related excuses a guy will rattle off to explain away his bad behavior. He didn't get my text because he was in the studio. He ran late to meet me for dinner because he was in the studio. He somehow forgot how technology and time works because he was--all together now--in the studio. Got it.

I know I hear the words, "I was late because I was in the studio," but he might as well be saying, "I was late because I got my Rollerblade stuck in a Segway" because both of them are the lamest excuses I've ever heard in my life. 

Listen, I've been in a recording studio before. It's basically a smelly den with lots of comfy couches where everyone mopes around preoccupied with their cell phones. You're supposed to be dead silent when recording is in progress which gets old fast. And, there's a big board with buttons that you aren't allowed to touch. Whoop-de-freakin-do. No one even talks to each other until the pizza comes and then they go back to their spots on the couch, fiddling with their phones. Fuck the studio! Fuck anything with the word studio in it, even Studio by L'Oreal. Fuck it allllll.

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Oh No He Di'int: Make Me Feel Bad Because I Ordered A Salad

As a head's up, if we go on a date to a restaurant that has Chinese chicken salad on the menu, I'm gonna order it. It's my favorite thing to eat. You know why? It's like the culinary equivalent of Weezer's Blue Album: There's nothing on it that I don't like. Wonton noodles, bring it on! Orange segments, welcome to my world! Ginger-sesame dressing, nice to meet you, my name is Anna and I'm an Aries. I don't annoy my waitress by asking her to hold anything off my order and I don't run the risk of being disappointed with my selection. I'm thrilled with the entire arrangement.

So, when you chided me for being the kind of girl who'd order a salad on a date, it caught me off guard. Dude, I'm not one of those appletini-sipping, shrill Cosmo flippers; I genuinely enjoy this salad. Let's put it like this: If they had a magazine called Chinese Chicken Salad Monthly, I'd happily send away for a subscription. I'd probably subscribe to the online newsletter, too. If Chinese chicken salad was a Girl Scout cookie flavor, I'd order three boxes. This salad is my homie! We're tight bros from way back when.

 But, you didn't drop it after I put the order in. You kept repeating the word like it was a question. "Salad? Really? Salad? There's so much to order here and you want...a salad?" YES, I ORDERED A FUCKING SALAD. I can't think of any area of my life where someone would make me feel terrible for ordering a salad. My mom and sisters love salads too. My friends love salads. I even love Minor Threat's song, "Salad Days." That's how much I love it!

Only you would ever make me feel bad/weird about my choice. I don't care if you shove your crispy chicken sandwich in your mouth whilst washing it down with a big ol' chocolate milkshake. Go for it! I couldn't care less. No need to get squirmy when I order something as inconsequential as a freakin' salad.

Come on. Let's not fight. Put the fork down. No, seriously, put the fork down because I'm not sharing this with you.

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Quick Rant: Great, I Can Add Tightrope Walker To My Resume Now

We've been hanging out for a few weeks. You take me to dinner. I buy your drinks. We make out--in public even!--but you are soooo not my boyfriend. We are in the no man's land between hanging out casually and being in a full-on relationship; it's too early to have the DTR conversation and too late not to be a little attached. For this, I hate you. It's not a rage-y hate either, just a slow-burning resentment because, hello, you should ALREADY know you like me already.

I wish we could just skip over this soupy middle part where maybe you like me and maybe I like you, and get to the good stuff: an actual, non-stressful relationship where we hit it all the time. Let's skip the Double Jeopardy round and get to Final Jeopardy, okay?

But that's so not how this is going to go down. Instead, I will meticulously measure out my correspondence with you, careful to balance between aloofness and total infatuation. I'll make myself busy scheduling back-to-back happy hours with my buds to not appear too available. Hell, I'll even date other dudes in a concerted effort to not put my dating eggs in one dating basket (your lovely, radical, dating basket).

I'm like Johnny Cash over here walkin' the line. Damn you for doing this to me! On the plus side, with all this mental energy you're making me expend on the issue, I suppose I can now add tightrope walker to my resume now. That's something, right?

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Philly, Your Kiss Is On Our List

The ungodly amount of pink-foiled chocolates and heart balloons bombarding us at every corner drug store tipped us off: It's almost Valentine's Day. And, if you're single, that means that it's almost time to crinkle your nose as you realize that your love life is as fertile as a sand trap. You console yourself with the thought that it's just a Hallmark holiday concocted by restaurants and florists to shake couples down for cash--those capitalistic bastards!

However, if you're us, you'll see it as a time to not give a fuck and embrace your inner red hot. We're throwing a V-Day Dance Par-tay on Sat., Feb. 13th Upstairs at the Khyber. Click on the image to see the FB page.

On the 1s and 2s, we'll have:

ALXS spinnin' mood setters
Jennacide blastin' fist pumpers
Goy Toy wowing with lid flippers
Roland Cassard, Diamond Dealer swayin' with Brit-poppers

Come! Let's love love, together.

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Pics and Vids: A Friday Laff

This is my life except that my booty call dudes are the worst ones on the planet and never answer when I text. They get around to it, like, three days later when I'm doing something stupid like waiting in line at the bank. It's great to be nonchalant and all, but seriously, a little chalance (is that a word?) would go a long way, boys. I have no idea why they continue to be in my phone. They're like my own personal government employees: it'd be too much of a hassle to fire 'em and hire new ones. There's paperwork involved. I have to advertise for new recruits. I think they might be in a union, too. I don't wanna piss those guys off, you know?  

via Space Ghetto

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Things In Her House That Make Me Sad: Her Irrational Hatred of Curtains

Speaking of issues with the windows in the house of a member of the opposite sex, what is with your unreasonable hatred of letting me sleep in? I'm not even talking about really sleeping in. Just until 9am would be fine with me. But every single one of your giant, Eastern-facing windows is covered with some fragile half-doily, half-wax paper looking shred of fabric. Sure, it may appear refined according to the most recent issue of Martha Stewart Living, but holy hell, woman, sometimes I want to sleep past sun-up. What are we, Amish? I'm half-surprised you don't have a pet rooster just to complete the theme.

In the middle of the summer, the light comes beaming into my eyes with the intensity of a hot laser at something like 4:45am. I feel like I'm under a magnifying glass. I was comfortable under your blankets a few minutes ago, but now I feel like an ant that an enormous child is trying to set on fire in his backyard.

So please, have some consideration for those that don't want to wake up an hour and a half after finally getting to sleep. I've got a hangover and the last thing I want right now is a blinding brightness that penetrates my closed eyelids. Get some real curtains. It doesn't have to be the wizard-shielding variety in The Wizard of Oz/ high school play opening night-grade heft, but really, ANYTHING--even blinds--would be better than this.

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Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Drafty Windows

My teeth are chattering, my toes are little toe-shaped popsicles, and I can see my breath when I exhale in your living room. If I listen hard, I'm pretty sure that I can hear the wind rushing in through the cracks around the window sills. WHY IS IT SO COLD IN HERE?

I get that you're trying to keep your heating costs down, but couldn't you get your Home Depot on and affix plastic sheeting around your drafty windows? Throw me a winter preparedness bone, here!

A rubber glove would provide more insulation than these flimsy, drafty "windows." Are they made of Saran Wrap? I'm considering stripping down and flinging myself into a long, hot shower to warm up, but the thought of having to exist in your freezing house with wet hair makes me want to cash out my (paltry) 401k and buy a one-way ticket to somewhere tropical like in Stella Got Her Groove Back. (I've never watched the movie but I imagine that a guy's cold house might have been a component to the plot.)

I'm like Raymond BURRRRRR in Perry Mason. I own a horse named Mr. Ed and my name is WilBURRRRRRR! I'm John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever and I'm dancing to the song "BURRRRRRRRn, baby, BURRRRRRRn."

In other news, I'm still cold. And, that makes me sad. *shiver*

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Quick Rant: You're Tweeting Too Hard

I know it's hard to keep up: one minute we're all updating our MySpace profiles and saying, "thanks for the add!" And then next thing you know, everyone's packed up and moved to greener, less glittery .giffed pastures. The newest bandwagon social media site, of course, is Twitter. It's not exactly new, but it's reached that weird mainstream point where if the O.C. was still on (R.I.P.), Seth Cohen would have definitely namedropped it ad nauseum already.

So you'd think the 140-character limit would naturally impose some limitations in ways you could annoy people, but Twitter seems to be doing quite well in that regard. So, let's lay down some ground rules:

1. If you're replying to someone's tweet, keep the back-and-forth conversation to maybe two or three tweets tops, any more and you're just texting, EXCEPT WE ALL HAVE TO READ EVERY SINGLE ONE OF YOUR TEXTS. Take it offline, Champ.

2. Stop auto-tweeting. The occasional "Hey, I posted a new blog" is a good reminder, but if your twitter goes off every single time you post another Formspring question on your tumblr page or every time you check into your own house on Foursquare, it's gonna get old real quick.

3. Stop complaining. If every third tweet is about how you had to stay late at work or your coffee wasn't made "just right," just know that all your followers are moments away from making their own complaint about making the decision to follow you.

4. If you're stuck in a really boring situation and the only solution is that you have to livetweet your way through it, it's not an ideal situation for your followers, but I understand. I've been there. Just make sure that every single thing you tweet is fucking hilarious or you're doing it wrong. If you can't deliver on that promise, you're not allowed to livetweet anything.

5. Whoa whoa whoa. Careful with that re-tweet button. I realize that YOU may find all the people you follow extremely interesting, but remember that's why you're the one following them. I'm not. I don't give a shit. Use discretion.

6. Right before you press send on that tweet, just remember that even though it seems like the dashboard is your little private universe, it's not. We're all reading your tweets and judging you for them. We can see your flirtatious tweets to that boy we all know you have a crush on and your boss can see that tweet you just wrote about needing tips on updating your resume. Always think before you tweet, "Is this something I'm comfortable standing up at my cubicle and shouting to everyone in earshot?" If so, tweet away!

Hopefully this makes our twitter lives all a little easier, so I don't have to secretly unfollow you and hope you never notice. With that said, are you following Shmitten Kitten? 'Cause you should.

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Reader Submitted Math Problem (It Has To Do With Dating, Trust Us)

When we received this email from our reader, Jeff, we freaked out. His note is like if a TI-84 calculator and the VH-1 show Tough Love collided. There's A LOT of math involved, so all of you Mathletes out there, this one's for you:

Hi Shmitten Kitten!

I'm a big fan of the blog. I've been living and dating in Philly for about nine years, so it's nice to hear about things from the other side. I recently read about a guy in London, Peter Backus, who used the Drake equation to figure out how many potential girlfriends there were for him in London. As an engineering grad student, my natural reaction was to replicate this for myself using Philly census numbers. I thought you might find it interesting. Feel free to skip the math and go right to my conclusions at the end. Here comes the science:

Potential girlfriends = (C_p * C_a * C_g * C_s) * (F_e * F_h * F_o * F_p)
C_p = Population of Philadelphia = 1,448,394
C_a = Fraction of age appropriateness (25-34) = 0.148
C_g = Fraction of women = 0.535
C_s = Fraction that are single = 0.92
F_e = Fraction that are college grads = 0.2
F_h = Fraction that I find attractive = 0.07
F_o = Fraction that finds me attractive = 0.07
F_p = Fraction with a personality match = 0.1

C_a : The census reports this range and since I'm 33 it was a convenient number to use
C_g : Use 0.465 if looking for a b/f (sorry ladies). These numbers are for the entire population, likely closer to even for given age range
C_s : I couldn't find marriage numbers for age ranges so we'll go with 8% married/engaged for this age range
F_e : Since I've been in grad school forever, this seems like a reasonable criteria to set for me. The fraction of Philly with a college degree is 0.172 but it's likely higher for the given age range, so I went with 0.2. The number for a high school degree is 0.712
F_h & F_o : The original paper used 1/20 but here I'm using a number closer to 1/15, which is possibly overly optimistic.
F_p : 1/10 seems reasonable here

Plug all that in and round to an integer and it turns out that there are 10 potential girlfriends for me in all of Philadelphia. (Bonus nerd joke: if we use F_h = 0.125,F_o = 0.125 and F_p = 0.128, the answer is 42). Anyway, the point to all of this was to suggest that you should schedule some more speed dating sessions because it's rough out there and some of us need all the help we can get. Seriously, I did the math.

Whoa. Gulp. Wow. Exclamation point!

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Flippin' Our Shades: Free Energy

Free Energy's music jingles and jangles in all the right places. It's jangly. How jangly? Well, their songs could basically be an instructional audio clip about how to handclap, that's how jangly it is. We think they sound like Weezer covering Tom Petty songs and that's a compliment. We grilled singer Paul Sprangers, a Philly transplant by way of Minneapolis, about girls, Philly, and Philly girls. He squirmed a bit but we powered on. These are his answers:

SK: So, how is being in a band?
Paul: Haha. It's going great! It's everything that I thought it wouldn't be.

SK: What do you like most about Philly girls?

Paul: Their tattoos. Skulls, roses, centaurs, flying unicorns, lightning: All of it. The girls from Fishtown/ Kenzington are my favorite.

SK: Ah, those Fishtown freedom lovers. What's your idea of a perfect Philly date?
Paul: Riding bikes down to Franklin fountain then riding to Penn Treaty Park to watch a band on a Sunday night. Then boning.

SK: What do most guys do wrong?
Paul: They try to pretend that they aren't nerds.

SK: What do most girls do wrong?
Paul: Girls can do no wrong. *wink*

SK: Tell us a secret!
Paul: Uh. I'm drawing a blank on this one.

SK: Ok, we'll skip it. Where's the most romantic place in Philly?
Paul: I gotta say the Lost Bar.

SK: Really? I guess? I mean, we like dive bars too. What would you put on a mix tape for a girl that you liked?
Paul: "Push It" by Salt 'n' Pepa
"Who Let the Dogs Out" by Baha Men
"Everything I Do, I Do It For You" by Bryan Adams
"Right Here Waiting" by Richard Marx

Salt 'n' Pepa? Richard Marx? Baha Men? Those are some pretty solid choices. Thanks, Paul, for being such a great sport. Download Free Energy's Daytrotter session songs for free and be sure to check 'em out when they roll through your town.

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Tip of Our Hats: Dudes Who Go on Dates With Themselves

I know what you're probably thinking, "A guy who takes himself on a date? What a loser! How bizarre!" Maybe you'll even hum the OMC song "How Bizaare" when you hear about the concept. It's an understandable reaction. But, we think he's on to something. Everyone wants someone who will call you back right away, someone who likes the same things you do, and someone who understands you. Well the truth is, that person is most likely YOU!

When he told me how he took himself out to a nice lunch, caught a foreign film, then ran a few fun errands downtown, we knew he was onto to something. Then, after his solo man date, he headed home for a touch of home maintainance to spruce up the old pad. Cheerio, my good man!

I like this. This is really working for me. In fact, I'm starting to get jealous of the relationship he has with himself. And, honestly, he is making every boyfriend I ever had look really bad right now because he takes himself on better dates than most human males take me on.

To date yourself you must have the confidence to sit alone at a movie and say, "table for one" with a smile, because fuck it, you're in the best relationship you've ever been in (minus the obvious things.) So, we tip our hats to guys who make an effort to treat themselves well. If it was good enough for Billy Idol, it's good enough for me. Now, what am I gonna do with this cradle of love in the corner of my room? Maybe I'll put it on Craigslist.

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Real Talk: You Know I'm Going To Show All Of Your Profile Pictures To My Friends And Family, Right?

What part of your brain thought it'd be a good idea to post a picture of yourself with a pool noodle sprouting out of a Speedo, cupping a bowl of plums under your crotch? Yeah, it's funny in a Borat outtake kind of way, but dude, I'm totally going to show all of your pictures to my friends and family when they ask me about the new guy I'm seeing.

This isn't your high school locker; people who you don't know will potentially see these pictures you posted. How do I know this? Because I plan on showing it to them! They will form opinions about you based on those pictures. I will form an opinion on you based on those pictures. I feel like your high school baseball coach yelling at you to get your head in the game.

I have no idea what goes through your head when you go through the dozen or so steps it takes to upload a photo. You have several opportunities to hit the cancel button. But, you affirm at each separate stage to show the world your wacky pics. Wow. Just, wow.

Now, the burden is on me to explain to everyone I show 'em to that you're really not this fucktarded, but you are actually a nice, normal guy who happens to take silly pictures. As a head's up, that's a little hard to do when you're posting a picture of yourself gettiing a pretend blowjay from a Ronald McDonald statue.

[Huge props to my buddy Justin for letting me use a picture of him slumped in a fridge with a pizza on his head. This guy rules so hard!]

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I Feel I Failed To Impress You When I Wrote An Article For Your Favorite Magazine

In college, I had this weird quirk where I made it my personal mission to publish an article in my crush's favorite magazine. Instead of leaving a stuffed bunny head on his stove, I figured I'd weasel my way into his thoughts with my writing. It was like sprinkling an elaborate, printed love potion on him that ultimately proved ineffective.

I spent a lot of time envisioning the moment when he'd open up the latest issue, get psyched to see a piece on his favorite band then see MY NAME in the byline. I imagined him doing a double take and bringing the magazine up to his face, studying it and realizing that, yes, I was now writing for his number #1 rag. What expression would he wear? Would it be disbelief? Would it be envy? Would it be cartoon-shaped hearts that bulged from his eyes? Of course it'd be the cartoon-shaped hearts bulging from his eyes, right?

Next, I figured he'd march straight to his phone and call me up, enamored by my accomplishment. Then, he would tell me how I was the coolest girl he'd ever met and how he just had to have me. Over the course of my college career, I published articles in an armful of different magazines all in an effort to snag the objects of my affection. Punk Planet, Thrasher, Paper, even a tattoo magazine called Hardcore Ink; I wrote for all of them. It was an elaborate ruse to send a message to my intended targets that involved publicists, editors, and bands, all unaware to my true motives.

And, you know what? Nothing happened. Maybe they'd email me to say, "Wow! I saw your article. Cool." That's it? No profession of love? No cathartic moment when he'd realize that I was his true love? Honestly, I feel like my article on Hot Water Music in Heckler had failed to impress him at all. On any level. Apparently, being a music writer is not a turn-on for you. I see.

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I Feel I Failed To Impress You With My Jokey Dance Moves

Honestly, I don't know what overcame me. I'd love to blame this on the four High Lifes I downed because I was nervous being on our first date. Maybe it was because I still act like a sixth-grader in most social situations, but we both know that those are just excuses. I'm gonna have to take full responsibility for this one.*deep breath*

I thought my perfect execution of both the Cabbage Patch and the Roger Rabbit would impress you on some level. I got carried away with everything! We had a great dinner. We were at an awesome dance party, working up a bit of a sweat in on the dance floor. I think the smoke machine had just heaved a heavy fog onto the crowd. So, when the deejay spun "Informer" by Snow, something clicked in my head and I had the blurry thought, "Wait 'til he gets a load of this."

Well, you got a whole steaming load of "this" i.e. my dance moves and you were clearly not impressed. You shielding your eyes and looking the other way tipped me off. When I whipped my head around after doing a perfect Running Man and saw you making a beeline for the door, the message was clearly received. I copy that, Roger. My jokey dance moves clearly did not impress you.

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Tip Our Hats: Hot Hobby Havers

Let's be realistic here, most of us aren't going to end up dating a hot guy with a job that makes him sexier. We can dream all we want about office dalliances with Don Draper, but if we meet a rich, hot businessman, he'll probably end up being more like Patrick Bateman than our fave Mad Man.

Even if homeboy spends his days doing data entry, the best we can hope for is that he has some radical hobbies to compensate for his ho hum day job. We've dated too many dudes whose nights consist of watching sports, drinking beer, and googling dirty jokes instead of diving into an exciting, creative endeavor. Get the memo: 2010 is all about boys with hot hobbies. We are looking forward to saying things like, "Is that a DSLR camera around your neck? What did I hear you say about deejaying a '60s soul party last weekend? And, are you really on an intramural rugby team just for fun?"

Our first date might be going downhill faster than Snooki in a bar fight as you throw around words like allocate, collateral, and synergy. But as soon as you mention the art exhibition your painting will be featured at next month, our heart starts to race. Keep it up, my part-time Picasso!

So, hot hobby havers, we tip our hats to you. We love the fact that rather than practice your best Al Bundy on the couch during your downtime, you're doing what you love and making it look good.

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I Feel I Failed to Impress You With This Mix CD

I don't think I'm alone in that I prescribe wholeheartedly to the Rob Gordon school of mixtape creation. As far as I can tell, it's one of the last real mating rituals of the modern age. The song selection has been painstakingly labored over for a period of several days. Once I'm happy with that, then I trim the fat to make sure the whole thing fits comfortably onto one compact disc.

Finally, the programming. Oh, the programming. I listen to the songs repeatedly to discern what song will transition into the next in the most appropriate way. Matching theme, key, intros to outros; it can take a while. And once it's completed, I've got to listen to it in its entirety at least once to make sure I didn't miss anything important. I'm not claiming I hit the bullseye every single time, but damn if I didn't try.

Once the CD is completed, it's time to make the cover. After a few attempts, I'm reasonably happy with what I've come up with. There are enough allusions to both of us, so you'll know every time you listen to it that I made it with you specifically in mind. "This is sure to win you over," I think confidently to myself. Finally, after much finessing, I'm done. I present it to you with my chest puffed out with pride because I'm sure you'll take one look at my highly personalized gift and go weak in the knees.

You'll flash me a polite smile and say "Thanks!" with all the enthusiasm you can muster as you unceremoniously toss it into the backseat of your car. Apparently, I have miscalculated the gravity of this gesture.

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Well Played: You're Really Into Yoga

When dudes tell me they're way into yoga, I'm usually torn between batting my lashes and rolling my eyes. Why? Because men who need to carry a mat around ''to relax'' or get all pretzel-y in bed usually fall into the following sub-categories (click to enlarge):

But you, yoga guy, are a rare exception. Despite your crunchy interests, you appear to have high standards for both your health and mental well-being. After dating around Philly in a dirty dive bar, late-night Wawa hoagie bachelor wasteland, your existence makes me want to run up and down Broad Street and give high-fives to strangers.

How can I not like a boy that wakes up early just to stretch? You're clean, you eat well, you probably help old ladies cross the street, wear clean socks and like to hold hands; the same hands I am certain you will always wash after going to the bathroom.

You also get bonus points because, unlike the rest of your peers, you know that Fritos and PBR aren't their own food group. Well played, Yoga Guy. You're also in good shape and spare me the Darth Vader-y sound effects when running up my stairwell. What a dreamboat!

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Bonerkiller: The Super Emo Haircut That Was Not On Your Head The Last Time I Saw You

I don't know if I missed a memo or what, but you now have the kind of haircut I'd spot on an art student in Berlin. That's a mighty swoop of hair, my friend. WHAT HAPPENED?

The last time I saw you--almost a year ago--you looked more like a high school quarterback than an AP magazine cover star. Maybe I should've taken your new found penchant for wearing supertight Diesel jeans and too-small cardigans with buttons poised to pop off into your $2 beer as a sign of your new style direction, but this haircut is a whole new level of what-the-fuckness.

What spurred this change? Was it the new promotion at work? Your recent birthday? The condo you just bought? Make sure to snag a Morrissey t-shirt, buy the new Crystal Antlers record, and procure American Crew hair gel in bulk to complete your new "look." Oh wait, hipsters hate hair gel. Instead, they all use air, cigarette ash and natural musks to perfect their coifs, thank you very much.

Now, with your Flock of Seagulls/ Christian from Project Runway $80 haircut, you have fully committed to fly that emo flag high, not just on your lunch break but for the entire 9am to 5pm day. Yikes.

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Things That Make Me a Bad Girlfriend: I Will Hate Your Pet

I know there's been a heated controversy over who deserves more scorn, dating someone with a cat or a dog. Me? I can't stand any of 'em. Your dog jumps on the bed while we're spooning and stomps on my face. Your cat is a little dickhead that hisses at me when I try to walk in the kitchen. They both get on my nerves.

I'll take it one step further: your fish is boring. Your hamster's cage smells like urine-soaked wood. Your rabbit poos everywhere. Your bird is a squeaky motherfucker. Your pet rat freaks me out. If you have a snake, I wouldn't return your phone call, much less come over to your house to meet it. And, you already know how I feel about your giant, uncaged iguana.

The only pet I don't completely hate is a plant. All it needs is water and a little love. That you can keep.

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Bonerkiller: Your Weird Daytime Errands

It's a great feeling when we finally hook-up with a dude we've been working on for a while. However, dealing with him in the harsh light of day exposes a whole 'nother side to his character. Usually, that side has errands to run. Lots of 'em. And, they're weird. And inconvenient. And boring.

But, we cheerfully agree to go on them anyway because we're foolish. We think, "Oh, great! We're gonna spend some daytime time together LIKE A REAL COUPLE." However, after we bop around with you to the DMV to renew your expired license, to a friend's house on the other side of town to retrieve some boxes you left in their basement, and to your old job to pick up a tax form, we realize that we do not enjoy your company. At all.

The nighttime version of you was charming, carefree, and witty. The daytime version of you is unorganized, skittish, and ill-prepared. That's like some Cinderella shit right there. Your coach has just turned into a pumpkin, buddy. It's official: We hate being in your life. We think it dawned on us somewhere around the time you haggled with the DMV agent because with no birth certificate and no electric bill as proof of residence, you couldn't prove you legally existed.

And, if we were on the fence with how we felt about you up to this point, when you asked us to borrow $5 for lunch, well, that's what sealed the deal. 

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I Feel I Failed To Impress You When I Joined A Fan Club For Your Favorite Liquor Brand

I signed up online to be an ambassador to Maker's Mark, your favorite whiskey brand. I honestly thought that this would impress you that I'm not just a casual fan, but a devoted fan club member with my own fan club card and everything. As such, I now have my name carved on a barrel of Maker's Mark whiskey somewhere and I have a certificate to prove it. See?

I guess some part of my reptile brain thought it might impress you that I had limited-edition Maker's Mark swag strategically placed around my apartment for you to find. "Is that a Maker's Mark hand towel?" you'd (hopefully) ask.

After I pushed my glasses up my nose, I'd casually affirm, "Why, yes. Yes it is." I pictured your eyes growing wide with excitement that you finally found a girl to share your love of this whiskey brand with. We'd embrace and then, I don't know, drink some of it by a fireplace? I clearly didn't think this fantasy through. 

Unfortunately, that scenario never happened. I can say that you honestly did not care about my fake Maker's Mark devotion. It did not impress you by any stretch of the imagination. Whatever. Truthfully, I'm a Jameson girl anyway.

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Reader Submitted Things That Make Me a Bad Boyfriend: I Will Hate Your Cat

Buckle up, cat lovers. Our darling reader, Colin, is comin' out swinging against our furry, meowing little friends. Well, not literally. That'd be uncool. But, he definitely has some strong words for them. Let's hear what this Garfield-hater has to say:

I'll be up front: I hate cats.

"But wait!" you say. "You have a terrible allergy and that makes you biased!" It's true; I can't be in a house with a cat for more than ten minutes before I've used up all the tissues and I'm three seconds away from clawing my watering eyes out of my skull.

But, not so fast! I keep a special stash of extra-strength allergy pills that I use solely for the occasion of going to visit someone who has a cat. I even dated a girl with cats for two years. But, I still can't stand them.

This weekend there was a story in the news about a golden retriever that jumped in front of an 11-year-old boy who was being attacked by a cougar, and then the dog fought off the cougar until the Mounties came. Find me a cat that's going to do that. You can't!

Don't get me wrong, I can appreciate the adorableness of a cat. I was at a New Year's Eve party where a tiny cat was curled up on a big stack of pillows and I was even heard to say out loud, "Aw, that's adorable." But it ends there.

I'm sure your cat has a great personality. And truly, I want to hear all about how he sits in the window and stares at the squirrels all day. But, a cat is like a bad roommate: He eats all the food, he hogs the sofa, and he pisses in places where he shouldn't be pissing. You just wish he'd get up and DO something for once.

A dog is like a wingman. He's watching out for you and he's got your back. He gets you girls in the park. Cats don't do any of that. A cat makes you work for them to even acknowledge you, whereas a dog's love is unconditional.

I hate cats, and that includes your cat. And that makes me a bad boyfriend.

As cat lovers, all we have to say is:

[Previously: Things That Make Me A Bad Boyfriend: I Will Hate Your Dog]

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I Feel I Failed To Impress You With My Esoteric Star Trek TNG Joke

"So, I said to him, 'Who do you think that I am, Q?' It was too funny. Maybe you had to be there. Wait, why are you looking at me like that? Q! You know, that wily trickster guy from Star Trek: The Next Generation. The one who's always pulling Picard's pigtails. He's an omnipotent being and always arguing about how lame humans are. He's homies with the Borg. No? Nothing? You have no idea who I'm talking about, do you?"

YOU SAID YOU LIKED NERDY GIRLS! What nerd is worth his nerd salt if he doesn't know who Q is? Sorry I didn't go for the obvious Geordi La Forge joke. That guy wears a banana clip for shades. Lame, right? *nervous laughter*

Honestly, I thought my esoteric Star Trek knowledge would impress you. I now see that I have failed to do that.

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Bonerkiller: The Brooding Coffee Shop Smoker Guy

Brooding guys who hang out in coffee shops and smoke cigarettes were much cooler when I was sixteen. It was a total high to walk into the "cool" coffee shop in the neighborhood (all dressed up of course) and scope a handsome, dark-haired boy. He'd have a box of American Spirits splayed on the table next to a stained coffee cup. You could tell he'd refilled it several times in the course of the four hours he pretended to read a Bukowski novel slumped in his chair. He'd feel me staring at him and occasionally look up from his book and smile and then walk outside for a cigarette. And, yes, I'd follow him and bum one off him because even back then, I wasn't really a smoker.

I'll admit it; coffee and cigarettes do, in theory, go well together. Otis Reading wrote a song about it and Jim Jarmusch named a film after the infamous combination. But once you hit your 30s, the allure is over. You've kissed too many guys with coffee and cigarette breath with too much time on their hands camped out at a table by the front door, greeting every young lady that comes in with a twinkle in her smile. He looks like Johnny Depp's understudy. If he got in a shoving match with a bum. And lost. But, in a good way.

I no longer go to the coffee shop to hang out and see cute guys. I'm there for one of the three following reasons: because it's early in the morning and I may or may not be hungover, I ran out of beans, or I need a quick caffiene fix. I just threw on whatever clothes were close to the bed and I don't want to see a cute guy sitting by the door with his coffee and book. Dude, it's 9am. Don't you have somewhere to be? And what are you doing up this early on a cold day in January without a job? My theory is this: his home is a shithole.  It reeks of microwave burritos and Febreze and the dishes haven't been done in months. Even roaches and mice turn their nose up at it. He feels like a loser in his vacant studio apartment, so the coffee shop I like to occasionally visit before fully entering into the real world is his adopted home.

Brooding coffee shop guy, there will always be a sweet, innocent young girl out there who will fall for your mysterious ways and smooch your smoky lips despite the putrid smell, but that girl will never be me.

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Quick Rant: You're Married and You Can't Keep It In Your Pants

We saw you again this weekend. Your wife wasn't there (as usual), but you were, hitting on everything in the room with tits and a pulse. It makes us wanna throw your wedding album at your head! You're like a dog humping everyone's leg at a cocktail party. Down, boy!

We're not sure how you manage to constantly work this out, but despite being in a well-publicized long-term relationship, you still seem to think that anything and everybody is fair game. We're not sure how you get away with it and maybe you don't. Perhaps your wife knows all about your flagrant compulsions. Either way, we think your shenanigans are seriously nasty. Dude, your life is like a Zach Braff movie. That's not a good thing. 

One time, you actually had the nerve to try and justify your bad behavior to us. And after sobbing for an hour about how much you love your legally-bound better half, you tried to get us to go home with you. As if.

You think we don't hook up with you because you're married. Actually, we don't hook up with you because you suck. And, if we show up in the background shot when Joey Greco busts into this party to confront you about your cheating ways, we're gonna be seriously pissed.

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Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Crusty Tube of Toothpaste

I'm not sure if there's some secret boys' meeting where they pass out these dank toothpaste tubes to everyone with a Y chromosome, but it's alarming how often I've come across them. I'm not sure if this toothpaste tube went out drinking last night or what, but it has a serious case of cottonmouth going on. It's so crusty and dehydrated, it looks like an Ishtar extra.

It's clear that this is a communal tube. You can tell because of how haggard it looks. Honestly, it looks like a topographical study of the kid in Mask's face. Maybe a mouse uses it as a punching bag? Maybe it was in crash test dummy's pocket? Who knows? I have no clue why it's so mangled. It has more dents in it than Dom DeLuise's ass! 

Of course, it always has a twist-off cap, which is the Monopoly game piece of his bathroom; it somehow manages to get lost pretty much within 30 seconds of me touching it. Not to sound like a diva, but is it too much to ask for a flip-top cap? And, does the flavor always have to be an unappetizing flavor of pasty chalk? Can you throw me a toothpaste bone and opt for a Vanilla Mint or a Crystal Wintermint? And, it doesn't instill confidence that the ingredients are listed in Spanish. Did you fish this out of a Chinatown dumpter or did you go to an actual store and pay for this with American cash?

If I have to brush with it, I put the tiniest smudge on the outermost bristle and try to repress my gag reflex as I smear it on my teeth. Regardless, somehow my breath manages to smell worse after I've used it. I'm telling you, this toothpaste fails at the only job it has! I'm like Donald Trump at the board room: "toothpaste, you're fired!" I'm hovering over the sink yelling at a crusty tube of Crest and that just makes me sad.

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Real Talk: Shacking Up

So, you’re officially moving in together in to his house. Yes, you love your man and you’re ready to take the relationship to the next step. But let’s face it: the economy sucks and you haven’t seen a paycheck in nine months. Maybe you’re wondering if he’ll ever start using a laundry basket instead of an errant plastic shopping bag and if all of your Kiehls products will fit in his wonky medicine cabinet. This is totally normal.

Here are some helpful hints to not completely cramp your dude’s style and make his home feel like your home.

1. Draw him a diagram labeled "your room" on a napkin. Get those ideas down on paper then give him the napkin. Once he can see your vision, it’s much easier to embrace these “new ideas” such as an open floor plan, a real closet instead of boxes, and a comfortable reading chair instead of a rickety wooden stool with a missing leg. It's like trying to read while a pirate is giving you a piggyback ride and it's gotta go.

2. Take mental notes. That VHS tape of 40 Days and 40 Nights collecting an impressive collection of dust in the living room like a piece of furniture, it’s gotta go too.

3. It’s 2010, so any electrical item that no longer has use must be driven to the nearest Good Will asap (i.e. cassette tape players, misc. cords, an old vacuum that never worked, floppy disk holders, etc.)

4. Be on the dog’s good side. He loves the dog.

5. If there is a roommate involved, get the roommate on your side too. Baked treats go a long way.

6. Goggle the phrase “win a home makeover” and register him in every sweepstakes you can possibly find. Then, hope for the best.

7. Don’t sign up for the show “Clean House.” The woman who hosts it is incredibly irritating.

8. Promise a 50” flat screen TV if he helps out with the changes you want. Hope that he forgets that you promised a 50” flat screen TV if he helps out.

9. This is controversial policy, but an essential one: don’t ask don’t tell. If you see something that has been neglected, just throw it out. Don’t even ask him if he wants to keep it. It’s most likely junk that his mother didn’t want in her house and then pawned off on him.

10. Make him watch Hoarders with you. Trust me on this.

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Tip Our Hats: Dudes Who Dig Old School R&B

A surprising sound swam to me from a sports car driven by a 20-something dude the other day. It wasn’t a track from Jay-Z’s latest album or that annoying Drake song. It was none other than Tevin freakin' Campbell! I pulled a William Zabka-esque double take when it hit my ears. This dude was letting the world know he loved R&B that came out before he even learned to tie his shoes.

I heart men who aren’t ashamed to blare--or, better yet--belt out Babyface, Al B. Sure! or Jodeci. It makes me think they are a tad more in touch with their feelings than the average Nickelback-loving a-hole. I'll take the guy who croons "End of the Road" to me over the one who gives me roses any day of the week. Bonus points if he tosses in some choreography.

I am blessed to know several gents glued to this genre. Nearly all of them are a) married or about to be married and b) say they like that kind of music because it seems more “real” than today's pop drivel. Whatever the reason you give fellas, we salute you for honoring the soft stuff from the late '80s and early '90s. It's our prerogative to love you.

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Tip Our Hats: Guys That Do The Dishes Without Being Asked

Whoa! What's this? You're clearing the table, unprompted? Are you for real? When I stand to offer help, you tell me to just finish my glass of wine in the living room and relax.

When I ask, "For what do I owe this honor?" you reply, "You've worked all day. Let me take care of this." By "this" you mean the dirty dishes, pots and pans from dinner. Okey doke.

Is this a test? Or a trap? I watch you, sponge in hand, treating my Target plates like they're fine China and it's the cutest thing I've ever seen (today). So, guys who do the dishes without being asked, we love you. You're basically a Luther Vandross song personified and if feels like you're giving me a foot massage without even touching my feet.


*Okay. We mainly wrote this post to run a picture of Kenny from Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's Dead. One of the best parts of the movie is when he announces that, "The dishes are done, MAN!" It'd be rad if we found a guy to do our dishes (for free--we aren't about to hire a maid service for this shit.) But, honestly, we'd settle for a guy who just said Kenny's famous line to us when he's in the vicinity of our kitchen. If he tosses a hand towel down for full affect, we'd bust out in spontaneous applause.

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Surprisingly Not a Bonerkiller: Budweiser Beer Breath

In perhaps one of our weirdest SNABs ever, I have to confess that it's somewhat comforting to smell cheap beer on a guy's breath BUT ONLY IF HE IS AN ATTRACTIVE MAN. Disclaimer: this isn't gonna work if he is a busted NASCAR fan/ hillbilly/ carnival worker.

However, if he is hot and has cool tattoos and funny stories, his cheap beer breath smells like if all the wildest parties I've attended got together and created an orally digestible cologne. Perhaps I've kissed so many boys who've tasted like cheap beer that it's now a Pavlovian response to expect a good time? Who knows?

Like a pair of raggedy old slippers at my parents' house, his beer breath smell feels oddly comforting. Instead of whipping my head back in disgust when it hits my nostrils, I'm leaning in and not hating my life.

Who knew beer breath had that power? This guy smells like a Budweiser and I'm drinking him in. I can't believe the things guys do that I don't find repulsive. It's alarming at this point.

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