Tip Our Hat: Guys That Embrace My Flaws

As totally hot lady-types, we’re used to having our assets called to attention by men. We know you dig our dumps like a truck, killer gams and luscious racks (or at least, that's what rap songs tell me.)

So it takes a special gem to hone in on my uneven teeth and the chicken pox scar sitting next to my nose. Truth be told, I’m a little flummoxed that my foxy dress and the new eye shadow that’s supposed to bring out the green in my eyes wasn’t enough to distract you from those things. But I kind of dig that I don’t have to pretend like my flaws are not there.

While these parts of me top my list of “Things I Would Pay to Have Fixed/Hidden If I Had Mariah Carey's Airbrusher” you find them cute. Better still, you like them because they make me me.

Like Jewel’s snaggletooth or Paris Hilton’s lazy eye, these special quirks apparently set me apart from the other ladies you’ve lusted after. Thanks for letting me know that you not only don’t mind that I’m not perfect, but that you actually like it.

Tip Our Hat: Guys That Embrace My Flaws

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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.

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

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Tip Our Hats: Boys Who Fix Computers

Before we started dating, my last boyfriend had an unconventional way of trying to ease his way into my good graces: He attempted to fix my computer. I invited him to my apartment several times under the impression that he was trying to rid my dumpy Dell of its several persistent viruses. His technical efforts were in vain as the machine ultimately went kaput, but they did get him the girl (i.e. me).

So maybe that’s why I found myself swooning over the a boy behind the Geek Squad counter at Best Buy a few weeks ago. He might not have turned my head had I passed him on the street, but I cocked my eyebrow watching his confidence swell as he talked shop about video cards and driver updates to a customer. Without missing a beat, he nimbly tapped the keyboard to unfreeze another customer's laptop. I found myself staring at him. Hard.

Geek squaders, genius bar jockeys, whatever: A man who fixes--or at least tries to fix--a computer lets us know that he’s a problem solver who can focus his attention on something for more than five minutes. He's like a car mechanic sans the sleaze and exorbitant fees and he’s not afraid to get down and dirty to fix whatever’s wrong. Boys who fix my computer, you can scold me for not having enough RAM in my laptop any day of the week. Roll up those sleeves, furrow that brow, upgrade my browser and download my heart.

Tip Our Hats: Boys Who Fix Computers

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Bonerkiller: Obvious Activity Announcers

You’ve been eyeing me from the corner since you stepped into the party with your homeboy. Your head turns as I shimmy and shake, mix and mingle and play pranks on the party hostess, who has already passed out. You're clearly interested, but instead of coming over to make intelligent conversation, you feel compelled to call out my every move like you’re a sports announcer.

Like when the drunken munchies hit at midnight and I grab some snacks, you yell, "Damn, someone's hungry!" No, really?! When I’m dancing, you holler, "She's dancing! Look at her get low!" And when I spit out the entire rap to Tupac's "I Get Around," you remark, "Oh man, she knows all the words," when actually I made some of them up on the spot. Thanks for the play-by-play, Harry Kalas. People are starting to stare at you strangely, but you keep announcing what I'm doing as I'm doing it to the point where I stop doing anything so you'll just shut the hell up.

Only at the end of the night as I’m slithering into my jacket do you speak directly to me: “You leaving?” Nope, darlin', I'm just cold. Too bad that you could have been the one to warm me up had you not been so unbelievably awkward.

Bonerkiller: Obvious Activity Announcers

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Bonerkiller: Guys with Limp Handshakes

You’re a tall, strapping lad with a baritone that rivals Barry White’s. So please tell me that the appendage you just extended to me was a cold piece of flounder you had in your pocket and not your hand because really, from where I'm standing, there isn't a discernible difference between the two. In case you couldn't tell by my wincing, I hate your handshake. It was just a mess from the start to the awkward, clammy finish.

There’s no way a man’s man like you could command a grip so lifeless; it makes mine feel like the Incredible Hulk’s in comparison. Your weak handshake shows a lack of assertiveness on your part. I mean, would you shake the President’s hand that way? It's like I'm meeting Bernie from Weekend at Bernies. Does Andrew McCarthy need to prop you up to meet me? Are you wearing Bermuda shorts?

Your gentle grasp also tells me you probably couldn’t handle a woman like me. How can I expect you to protect me from grizzly bears when we go camping if you receive my hand like it might be infected with MRSA or monkey pox? Hell, how can I even trust you to hand the pizza guy money with a palm so pathetically paltry? Get a grip on your grip, homeboy, because an assured shake would go a long way with me.

[Update: Yes, this applies to girls too. They are not immune from this criticism. I've reconsidered friendships over limp handshakes. Who wants to hang out with a limp handshake giver? NO ONE, that's who.]

Bonerkiller: Guys with Limp Handshakes

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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.

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

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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.

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

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