Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Gross Carpet

From Polly Math, who is unimpressed with his shitball shag rug,

Like newborn foals on untested legs, we ascended the cracked risers to his apartment, atonally slurring "Blurred Lines" with intent. He scooped me into his arms and carried me into his bedroom. In the morning, with limbs entangled, I woke-up groggy and in need of a bathroom and a glass of water. I know; I’ll slip out and take care of business, then slip back and see what’s up. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, my feet screeching to a stop inches short of his floor. Hell no, I’m not stepping on his carpet. It’s funkier than the inside of a rented bowling shoe during a Lysol shortage. How did I never notice this before? 

Frozen, balanced awkwardly off the side of this island of springs and sheets afloat upon a veritable crime scene I wonder, where the fuck are my shoes? 

I am dehydrated. I have to pee. 

I frantically eyeball the room scanning for my silver Via Spigas. Seriously. Where are my goddamned shoes? My mojito-mangled memories from last night aren’t hocking up a clue. I mentally run through our homecoming. Oh yeah. The great Saturday Night Scooping. Was that on purpose? The horror. 

Like an oasis in the desert of a shitty Queen Village apartment, I realize the hardwood in the hallway is too far for a straight jump.  

I'd kill for a beanbag chair to jump on 

With urgency growing, it’s about now that, contrary to what I remember of last night, I realize my years of childhood gymnastics had been for nothing. The ironing board, standing as a silent witness to his filth, might have served as a balance beam from which I could have vaulted out the door, if a front handspring was still an option. Where’s McKayla Maroney when I need her? If only I could traverse his bookshelf, run Parkour off his dresser, or Spider-Man his walls. What I really need right now are some sweet Cirque du Soleil skills. 

If you want to play “Name That Stain!”, I’ve got the floor for you. Does this dude not own a vacuum? File that under “Questions I don’t ask because I can’t handle the truth.” I could die of dehydration, but this bladder won’t wait. Saints alive! What the fuck did I just step in?! Newsflash: Carpet is not supposed to be crunchy. If I wanted dog fur stuck to my foot, I’d get a dog. You couldn’t pay me to check for crawling things, but it doesn't take a genius to know we’ve entered Groupon territory. Stanley Steem what’s left of this low pile, Gomer!

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Phrases We'd Like To Stab In The Face: "It Just Happened"

From Jeanette, who is shaking her damn head at this stupid phrase:

“It just happened” is a god-awful phrase that should be stabbed right in its non-committal bullshit face. I dated this guy for a while who courted the hell out of me. He made me breakfast in bed, asked to make it official, told me he loved me before I had even considered saying it to him, and was all around sweet and seemingly waaaaaaaay into me. And so I waaaaaaaay fell for him. After spending just about every waking (and sleeping) minute together for several months, he summarily broke up with me without warning. He came over one night and explained how “he was too depressed to be in a relationship.” When I asked him why he would pursue me so fervently if that were the case, he used the responsibility-relinquishing-rage-inducingly-pathetic, “it just happened.”

Well, that should be the end of it, right? No. Oh, no. Not a month after we broke up, douchebag is suddenly, quite indiscreetly in a new, serious relationship (social media, no matter how many feeds I hide/unfollow can be a real cruel mistress, and he lives in my hood/we hang at many of the same places/ have friends in common so I can’t NOT see this unfold), so, I text him to point out his contradiction about being “too depressed to be in a relationship” and try to get an authentic answer to why we broke up. He tells me, “It wasn’t like I was looking for a relationship with this girl, it just happened.” 

Is this guy fucking serious? No, relationships and the way he pursues them DO NOT JUST HAPPEN. Conscious decisions were made! If he’s too depressed to be in a relationship, he cannot “oops” fall into one that soon. It reeks of lying, and let’s be honest, all signs point to cheating.  

All this phrase does is impotently pretend there is a lack of control where there is clearly control. It is the verbal equivalent of taking a shit on a sidewalk and then shrugging when someone asks what the hell is going on. “It just happened” is insulting, braindead lipservice. Fuck that noise. He can take that “it just happened” and shove it up his ass and then say, “Oops. It just happened.”

I don't have anything to add, but guys who start dating someone new should own that decision and not act like their relationships are the equivalent of a Costco sample of popcorn chicken that magically fell in their mouths. You reached for the popcorn chicken! You picked it out it! You had a whole tray of popcorn chicken to choose from and you chose the one that is currently in your mouth! In related news, I'm hungry.

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I Love Love Love Doodlers

From Mieko, who thinks it's hot when a guy puts pen to paper and draws something cute:

I believe there's a song that goes: "When a man loves a woman/ He shares his amazing doodling skills/ Doodles whatever she wants if she thinks that's the way it ought to be." Or something like that, maybe I misheard it. 

I have a long history digging on men once I see their artistic abilities that it’s not even a flippin’ opinion, okay? It's basically fact at this point. Don’t worry if you’re not an artist by any stretch, even in the worst-case scenario, all doodling is still somehow cute (e.g., the plethora of penis drawings in Superbad, anyone?) 

Simon, the consummate doodler

And if you're an artist, don’t worry if your overall situation is quite unattractive, your drawings will save you. While looking at a $450 all-included room for rent in Bed-Stuy (Brooklyn), I encountered the most tragic looking basement apartment I've ever seen. First, it was not converted in any way; it was literally a boiler and pipes and storage boxes with some rooms down a hallway. Secondly, there were no windows. Lastly, thrown atop the toilet tank in a filthy bathroom lay a dilapidated copy of "The Road," almost like it was planted there as a prop to emphasize the bleakness of this apartment’s inner life. 

However I considered taking this apartment because one of the rooms was occupied by a painter. Amidst the rubble of liquor bottles and food containers on his floor were dozens of canvases, all brightly, lushly painted with portraits of adorable white fluffy bunnies in button-downs. I was momentarily in love. 

If you are a guy and you doodle now and then, all I’m saying is that it really could not hurt you to translate that onto a little note or card for your ladyfriends. You will win major brownie points. Just don't start with a penis in a cowboy hat or anything though.

I can see how doodlers can make your heart swoon but man, never dump a doodler! They will channel their heartbreak in doodle-form, then post it on your Facebook page (and tag you in it!) for all the world to see. Nothing like seeing a notification alert that you've been tagged in a picture of a sobbing, stabbed kitty cat to make you re-think diddling a doodler.

Beware of the doodler, my friends. Beware.

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Bonerkiller: DJs

From Jill, who does the smirk 'n' jerk to grown men living the DJ lifestyle:

I have known many wonderful and lovely deejays but dating a DJ is the absolute worst. 

It’s all, “Let’s go to this club on a MONDAY night, even though you work 11 hours a day and you stayed up late to watch/overanalyze "Mad Men” and did I mention it’s MONDAY. 

"Also, let’s stay until closing so I can befriend this DJ. Now we have to come support him every Monday night forever because we’re friends! By the way, we have to go to a different club every night of the week because I got a guest DJ spot here and here and here and here. Finally, hooray! Success! Consistent DJ-ing gigs that generate income, but I am torn up about it because I have to play top 40 for the masses. Oh, the humanity!” 

DJ Cat Skratch Fever in the house  

Next thing you know, your Facebook feed is just one long list of event invitations so overwhelming you didn’t even notice your best friend got engaged and your brother had a baby. His happy news was swallowed by tongue-in-cheek ‘80s album covers repurposed as party fliers, links to SoundCloud mashups and so, so, so, much dubstep. 

Enjoying a quiet dinner at home while listening to your iTunes? I hope you don’t like any of those songs because he changes the song every other second to play you “something new that you will love” that you will hate. Did you ask him to find that song that you liked? Well, he knows that song but NEVER put it on your computer. Not to worry, though, he did put 1500 other songs on there. All dubstep.

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I Love Love Love When He's Not Creepy About Being Into Pop Culture Bullshit

From Dana, who'd prefer if he'd put the issue of Us Weekly down:

It’s no secret I’m a pop culture junkie. So when a guy can make a sly pop culture reference, I start rubbernecking. Do you casually ask people named Ben, Jack or Sawyer how they got off the island? Do you see an older woman out with her son and call her as Mrs. Bates? Do you dig discussions about Rubber Man, Bloody Face, and Jessica Lange? If so, I volunteer as tribute! 

But please don’t call yourself Sean Lowe when the bar is full of ladies. Sorry, but I don't want my guy to know any contestants of "The Bachelor" by name. I just don't. I expend enough brain cells on this crappy rose-giving franchise, he doesn't need to do it too. 

It's not hot when he knows who these people are!

And definitely don’t refer to yourself as Harry Styles because that makes my smile only go in One Direction: south to Frowntown. It confuses me when he knows who got kicked off "Dancing with the Stars" this week or constantly quotes "Teen Mom" (Farrah’s sex tape? Damn girl.) Nothing makes me awkwardly teeter away in my six-inch wedges faster than a guy who just knows too much about trashy tabloid pop culture shit. I know a ton about trashy tabloid pop culture shit; I have it covered for the both of us, I swear! 

But if you saw Clinton on Colbert last week or downloaded the latest TED talk on your iPhone, hit me up. I love coconut rum shots with a diet chaser, men taller than six feet tall and Grisham’s early novels. Until then please excuse me, I think I just heard someone in the corner mention Leo as Gatsby.

Not to be a dissenter, but I like it when my man can go toe-to-toe with me about the shit we see on TMZ. But I can see if he started spouting off with a ton of opinions about "Kourtney and Kim Take Miami," I'd be like, "Step away from the E! network, guy. That's my area of expertise. No need to chime in about Lord Disick's eyepatch."

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Quick Rant: Oh Jeez, Where'd He Go?

From Jackie, who wants to kick his disappearing act in the scrotum:

Like so many single, non-desperate women these days, I have ventured into the often scary world that is online dating. While there are many advantages to finding your soul mate without any branch of the government doing any extensive background checks, often times we do, in fact, stumble across those on the FBI's Most Wanted lists. 

Now, we all know those annoyingly cute, over the top lovey-dovey couples who have miraculously found each other thanks to the privilege of Neil Clark Warren of eHarmony continuously draining our bank accounts. To yours truly, this has proven costly on many levels. Since I'm both cynical and cheap, er frugal, I have resorted to experimenting on a few of the ever-present free dating sites. I can only say that I definitely have gotten my money's worth. 

I'm only speaking for the ladies here, but I've noticed a disturbing trend: Men disappear! As in completely vanish. For weeks, days or even minutes, the two of you are having stimulating correspondence about the always fascinating jet stream and barometric pressure when...nothing. 

The emails cease with no explanations or teary goodbyes full of made-up bullshit. Am I not worthy of at least some fictitious story involving aliens or his joining the Witness Protection Program? I don't know about the rest of you, but I prefer to know why I'm being rejected. It's not like I have no experience in that area! 

I do realize that many people on these sites are having simultaneous conversations with two, three or 48 other members. Heck, even I have, on rare occasions, had more than one message in my inbox. However, if you guys are having second or eighth thoughts about us, then tell us! Most of us are not crazed psycho bitches looking to forever stalk you.

But nothing is more frustrating than being ignored or stood up. And being stood up electronically is it's own annoying version of hell. 

We can only conclude that he was intimidated by the strong, smart, sexy women we are and it rendered him incapable of corresponding further. In actuality, we know that we've been replaced by the perfect woman with the irresistible combination of having both a 38EEE chest and a near-encyclopedic knowledge of astrophysics. 

Alas, the eternal optimist, buried way, way, way deep inside me is hopeful that somewhere out there is that one guy who will continue to respond to my emails and will stick around for other exciting topics beyond the rise of the stock market or fall of the unemployment numbers. Or is it the other way around? 

Regardless, I have one question: "Where the hell is he?"

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Bonerkiller: His Old, Beat Up, Plastic-y Jesus Sandals

From Sabrina in DC, who reallllly doesn't like his shitty sandals:

I was walking to meet him on our second date and giving myself a pat on the back because he’s cuter than I remembered; short hair, bedroom eyes, strong chin sitting over broad shoulders, with toned arms poking out of the Polo that’s tucked into adorably and equally preppy khakis. My first date assessment wasn’t blinded by the shots of tequila I had “for my nerrrrves darling” or the dim lighting of the restaurant. This guy was full-on attractive. 

We made small talk heading down to the Cherry Blossoms, when I got jostled by the crowd. I apologized and glanced down to make sure I hadn’t stomped on his foot and WAIT. Hold. The. Phone. Pause. The. Music. Slam. The. Brakes. 

What are those god awful, super old, raggedy plastic Jesus sandals doing on his feet? 

Did I miss something? Was he mugged on his way here and the robber stole his Topsiders and left him with these molded shards of terribleness? Is he just amazingly altruistic, exchanging his shoes with one of the homeless guys by the Washington Monument? I was trying not to look down at them, but the sheer number of people and pets was working against me and ohgodIjustlookedthey’restillthere. 

Just like that, my leading man wasn’t Ryan Gosling (preferably from Ides of March, this is DC after all), he’s Danny Devito in all his disheveled glory. 

Look. I understand frugal. I understand comfort. I understand letting your toes enjoy the first truly nice weekend of Spring. And ok, he’s got a lot of other things going for him (although while I know those attrocities are there I can’t think of a single one) so it’s not a dealbreaker. I just hope he understands that these suckers are going to end up chopped into dozens of sad plastic pieces, slowly sinking to the bottom of the Potomac.

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I Love Love Love Enthusiastic Sports Fans

From Jill, who appreciates a sports enthusiast because she needs to make new memories, people: 

I don’t care about sports but I love when the guys that I date do. Sports = guaranteed free time away from my boo. Hockey and baseball can be tricky because there seems to be a game on like every day. Still, I’d rather he watch the games with his friends, so he's not all up in my business.  

Football is the best because it’s a whole day of not hanging out with each other after brunch. I used to date this guy who always watched the Steelers game with his fellow Pittsburghians every Sunday. It was perfect. I could do whatever I wanted with my friends and then meet up with him later for smooches.  

I am aware that relationships are not prisons and regardless of my boyfriend’s sports preferences I am allowed to do whatever I want when I want but it’s a lot easier to gracefully get some alone time when a guy has his own interests or hobbies. A boyfriend who enjoys an activity that I don’t allows us to be separate without anyone getting their feelings hurt or insecurities stoked by a, “Meh, I’d rather not.”  

In college, I had an (admittedly) clingy boyfriend who took three of the same classes as me and we drove to and from school together every day. He would pout when I didn’t want to come inside and watch "The Simpsons" together.  

I finally broke down and yelled, “I need to make new memories!” Plus, if each one of you has your own interests, you can have interesting conversations and learn new things. For example, with the Pittsburgh ex, I learned a lot about the Steelers and football and he learned a lot about “America’s Next Top Model” and Tyra Banks. Disparate interests keep the love alive.

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Phrases We'd Like To Stab In The Face: "How Are You Going To Get There?"

From Gina, who'd like a ride, please: 

I hate when he asks “So how are you gonna get there?” Huh? How am I gonna get there? Man, I thought you just asked me out, doesn’t that mean you’re picking me up?  

This has happened to me one too many times, so now when I’m talking to someone, one of the first questions I ask besides what’s your name, is do you have a car or some kind of transportation or at least a license? Are you old enough to rent a car, or get your hands on one for the night? I don’t feel like that’s too much to ask for. Or at least if you have none of those options we can walk to a place by me, but there is no way that I am picking you up or taking the bus to meet you half way.   

Sorry man, I’m gonna be old school about this, but you gotta get your butt in gear, 'cause if this is going anywhere, you better be driving me somewhere, somehow because I am not chauffeuring your ass around town.   

Hopefully it's from his ass picking me up in his damn car

The last time this happened, I was too naïve to ask if he had transportation before we set up the date and made the dumb assumption that he’d pick me up. Right before we hung up his last question was, “So how are you planning on getting there? I’m taking the bus.” I had so many excuses racing through my mind on how to get out of this date but my greedy mind was only thinking about a free meal and that he might be worth it.   

I blurted out that I would pick him up. Little did I know that I should have cut it off right then because it just got worse. I picked him up from the bus that came from Jersey only for us to return to NJ to see a 3D movie. Now not only am I picking this fool up in Philly, when he just came from Jersey but he wanted to go back over! Why didn’t you just stay there and make things easier? Why didn’t I just say I got the fever all the sudden and back out of this goddam date?   

Driving to Jersey was amusing. We talked about how much he loved punk rock and that his favorite store was Spencers, and I bitched about paying the toll back to Philly and that this entire date was a dumb idea. Mind you, this is only the beginning of the date, so you can imagine how much worse it got when we arrived in Jersey (but those are stories for another time). 

Lesson learned: never go on a date with some dude who is without a car/license, loves Spencers, offers to reimburse for your driving but doesn’t pay for dinner or the movie. I say this now but my track record begs to differ.

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Bonerkiller: Guys Who Can't Navigate Around an Airport

From Melissa, who can't understand why he's a total shitshow at the airport:

He's got a great apartment and even greater hair. Obviously he's done well enough for himself to find a job that allows him to keep a nice place with a well-stocked fridge, and, even more impressively, find a hairdresser who can handle his curly hair with aplomb. So why is watching him navigate this airport like watching a baby deer learn to walk on a treadmill? It’s cute for a second, then awkward, then horrifying. 

It only takes about two minutes (or, in airport-time, one PA announcement about the dangers involved in picking up anyone’s strange bag if they ask you) to realize that there is no way we’re getting to go in the “expert travelers” line. Watching his confused face look up at that departing flights screen is like watching my mom check the Internet. 

I’m sure there are liquids and other potentially hazardous items in his carry-on not properly stored in a quart-sized Ziploc bag. I have way too much time to think about all of his potentially hazardous items while I have to wait for him to find his crumpled up boarding pass at the bottom of his bag. Get it together, guy! 

Normally he’d be the one expertly navigating while we drove somewhere, so it’s hard to process that traversing an airport carefully divided into alphabetic and numerical sections is more difficult for him to navigate than the backwoods of Pennsylvania. Can’t he orient himself by the calculating the positions of the stars and shit? Why is the addition of a few food courts, water fountains and corridors throwing him for such a loop? What’s happening here? 

To be fair, I knew he had to be bad at something or he’d have been too good to be true. He's funny, he's a good listener, and he owns a lot of tools. I guess he's just out of his element. 

Next time maybe we can lean into it; he can wear a fanny pack and pretend he's a European traveler with a poor grasp of English, and I’ll lead him around talking very slowly and using lots of hand motions to ensure I’m getting my point across. Or we’ll just limit our excursions to roadtrips.

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Oh No He Di'int Downgrade Our Date

From Tanya, who was sincerely stoked about having some bomb-ass Thai fusion but was willing to settle for a little less but not that much less:

I get it. The economy is rough. Some nights you really don’t want to go out. Occasionally, date night rolls around and you realize you’re two days away from laundry day and your best duds are at the bottom of the pile; you’ve still got clean clothes to wear but it’s not your winning outfit, and you don’t want to expose the dregs of your dresser to streetlights or restaurant glare. Sometimes you’re a grad student with nightmares about paying back that unsubsidized loan. 

I get it. 

And I can adapt. I can handle change. So when he called to ask if it was okay to ditch the vegetarian Thai fusion restaurant in favor of him cooking me dinner, I rolled with it. I set aside my hankering for funkified pad thai and made myself express excitement over the prospect of being introduced to his culinary skills. I may even get excited about said culinary skills. 

But he's got to work with me. If I’m coming all the way to his place on public transportation—I swear, I have been sat on far too many times on Septa. Do people just not see me? I’m here. I’M HERE—then I better be greeted at the door with an already poured glass of freshly-aerated Pinot Noir. Don’t wait for me to stagger into your tiny bachelor pad and then proffer an already opened bottle of questionable red yanked from your fridge. This is not how it works. 

When he changed plans, the second option better be an upgrade or, at the very least, a lateral move. Switching out drunken noodles for a bowl of steamed broccoli and a side of carrot juice? I won’t even apologize for never texting him back. I’m done with the tragic downgrades.

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Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Shitty Blank Walls

From Liz, who realllly can't stand his shitty blank walls:

There’s nothing quite like the first time you go to a guy’s place. Is he clean like the husband in Sleeping with the Enemy? Is he messy like your nightmare freshman roommate? What kind of amenities does he keep around? It doesn’t have to look like an Ikea showroom, but it’s nice to see some personality in a person’s living space. Which is why I hate when he has blank walls. 

Oof. That's a LOT of blank space, fella

Nothing makes me feel like a guy could maybe possibly be a serial killer more than when I go to his house and all the eye can see is just white, blank wall. If there’s an errant Phillies poster or two, okay, fine. He just doesn’t know how to decorate a non-college dorm, which is not attractive but at least he feels some compulsion to not leave his walls completely empty. Hell, I’d be okay with a life-size mural of Marilyn Monroe doing a keg stand in a party full of dogs playing poker if that meant that he didn’t have blank walls. 

If there’s just nothing at all, I’m really quite worried that I’m about to be stabbed in the throat and stuffed in a box. And guess what! Easy cleanup because he has NO POSSESSIONS TO SPLATTER MY BLOOD ON. 

It actually upsets me if he doesn’t feel the need to put anything up on his walls. Is he Monk? Does he have a thing about super clean spaces? If his landlord has something against nails, just go to CVS and get some sticky poster tabs! This is a simple fix! The upside to his blank walls is that without decorative distraction, his exits are completely visible. And I just remembered that I have to leave...right now. 

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I Love Love Love When a Guy Rolls Up His Button-Down Sleeves

From Samantha, who digs a rolled-up sleeve, mmkay?:

Rolled up sleeves just bellow, “I’m a business dude who also likes to kick it.” I imagine him rollin’ ‘em up while in a stressful office discussion regarding spreadsheets or this quarter’s sales reports. Or maybe we’re sitting outside some crappy bar and the sun is streaming a ray of helpful sunshine down on him and is all, “I’ve got your back, girl” and thanks to the heat, he’s forced to roll them up and give me a peek at what I’m working with: Hairy arms? Not so hairy? Strong and strapping? Floppier than cold spagetti? I’ve GOT TO KNOW.  

I'm telling you, ladies love rolled up sleeves! It's like catnip

Not to mention, I’m dutifully impressed when a dude wears a button-down when it’s hot out. Like he wants to dress to impress and you know, not just throw an old band t-shirt on for a date. And the best part is that he’s forced to roll his sleeves up, so his forearms aren’t punished in the heat. And then that just leaves me as the one sweating it out, because those forearms are making me all hot and not bothered. Oh, not at all.  

A rolled down sleeve is just a cockblock between me and those forearms. I mean sure I could just coyly squeeze his arm when he makes a "Parks and Rec" reference or says how he hopes I don’t mind his futon or whatever. 

I could even just wait until we’ve had enough beers to make it back to the bedroom, but I CANNOT STAND THE SUSPENSE. What if I get him all the way home for the big reveal and the universe says “Surprise! He shaves his arms! Gotcha, bitch!” and I have to feign being sick over too many craft beers to hide my disappointment? I can’t take that risk!

I hear ya, sister. Nothing makes me wanna fling my off Old Navy dress faster than seeing a man flex his strong-ass arms as he grips the remote control to flip to a new episode of "Chefs Wanted with Anne Burrell" or some other Food Network bullshit.

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I Love Love Love When A Guy I've Been Crushing On Admits To Also Crushing On Me

From Sarah, who loves it when a guy admits to mutually crushing on her too:

I like to obsess about boys. Specifically, I enjoy creating complex imaginary relationships starting when we first speak to when we finally go to Slam Town to when we have a serious fight and I weep angry tears to when we--Let's just say that I have a lot of time on my hands.  

The thing is, I don’t need to know him very well to enjoy a fake life of ours together. Maybe he's the petite Paul Rudd lookalike who worked in the same building as me. Maybe he's that friend of a friend who I haven’t met yet but has a promising Facebook profile. I don’t really know him yet, so our happy life together is still a strong, if far-off, possibility.  

I usually fantasize about him for an extended amount of time until our paths cross and my dream is undoubtedly ruined. He’ll wear a cellphone holster, call me unladylike for enjoying Jameson, or have paid money to see Chris Christie speak. Instead of finding ourselves in Slam Town, population: two, I'm in Frown Town, population: one. 

It would be wonderful though, wouldn’t it? If he actually were the person I imagined him to be? Our romance would be tender and civilized, not come to a crashing halt once he divulged his bullshit cigar habit or his obsession with hairless cats.  

And then it happened: I talked to the object of my affection. Sure, he wore sweatpants to our first date and he broke my toilet and he's more into Tegan and Sara than I thought was necessary, but he was better than anything I had made up in my overactive imagination.  

And the thing is, what I found out later, is that he thought about me too. He would go out of his way to walk by me. I’m not the crazy one who crushes on strangers; he did it too, about me! He daydreamed about ME. And not, as I had thought, that other girl in our group project, or as I think of her, that bitch who didn’t laugh at my wingdings joke (I’ll never get over it).  

We crushed out on each other! Huzzah!

It’s really nice to know that sometimes the person that you think about could be thinking about you too. 

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I Love Love Love When He Reads A Book I've Recommended

From Katie, who digs it when a guy can get down with her, book-wise:

Do you remember in Beauty and the Beast when the Beast gives Belle the epic library? I’m going to be honest: That scene may have caused me to wonder why I ever considered bestiality unacceptable. If I were Belle, I would have been all over that hairy/dog-boar-man-thing in thirty seconds while all the enchanted candles and clocks watched.  

I adore books and it’s my dream to have an incredible library. Basically, my books are like little pieces of me and without them I would feel super lonely. I think this stems from all the time I spent being a social outcast in school, and there are many nights when I’d rather take a hefty novel to bed than some idiot guy. I might as well get some sort of stimulation, right?  

But, there are those rare and glorious moments when a guy comes along who actually reads, and in turn wants to read a book that I recommend. When this happens I feel like Ron Swanson does when he has a glass of scotch and a giant slab of steak. I feel like everything is right in this horrible, horrible world. 

Holy shit! He read the book I told him to read!

There’s nothing quite as awesome as a dude borrowing one of my books and it’s obvious that he’s read it. I don’t even care if he hated it, because at least he took the time to try and get to know something I care about. It’s like those times I try to watch hockey with him even though I don’t understand anything about it. I am trying, and when he reads one of my books I feel like he’s trying, too.  

Don’t even get me started on those once-in-a-lifetime moments when a guy actually recommends a book to me that isn’t "The Catcher in the Rye" or some Jack London bullshit. Now, that’s some pure Disney magic I can get down with.

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Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Lack of Hand Soap

From Marielena, who just wants a convenient post-loo suds situation: 

No hand soap? Really? Really.

What? Where’s the? How do? How does he? Where’s the damn hand soap?!  

That was my thought process when I went to my guy’s house for the first time. Everything seemed to be going swimmingly: He had a good job, nice shoes, good taste in women (heyo!) and whiskey, but what was up with the no hand soap?! Maybe he just ran out and didn’t have time to get a new bottle? Ew! Dirty!

It’s always strange going home with someone you barely know or are in the process of getting to know. There's a million questions running through my head: Is his apartment gross? Is his cat friendly? Is there a Silence of the Lambs murder pit in the basement? O, the courtship dance! O, the ancient push and pull!  

Not having basic necessities like soap or, god forbid, a fresh looking toothbrush, is just one of those big red flags that screams, “I’m an adult baby!” And, real talk ladies, we all know that dirty paws + the pink = UTIs = NOPE.  

I had to keep reminding myself that he’s cool and nice and that I could do this. I ended up using some of this Dove 4 Menz body wash/shave gel/toothpaste/shampoo/ nonsense to clean my mitts and went back to drinking Laphroaig and watching “Breaking Bad” with him on his couch.  

But you can bet your bottom dollar that I made sure to save the HJ’s for the next time when we were at my place with the full arsenal of C.O. Bigelow at our disposal.

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I Love Love Love When He Orders My Drink In Advance So It's Waiting for Me When I Arrive

From Jackie, who digs a gent who makes it a point to remember her drink of choice:

I’m always late. Always. I don’t know if it’s due to an underestimation of how long it takes for me to get from my house to anywhere in the city (5 minutes, right?) or if it’s because the thought of waiting for someone alone in a bar makes me nervous, but 5-10 minutes late is my calling card.  

This usually means that on a date, the guy is waiting for me at the bar ordering a drink. This was par for the course with a guy that I was dating last summer. We had been seeing one another for a couple of weeks, which was long enough for him to know that meeting up at 9 PM meant that he’d be getting a text from me at 9 saying I’d be there “soon.”  

When I finally made it, he had ordered himself a beer and there was another drink next to him. Thinking that he probably ran into someone he knew, I headed towards the seat on the other side. Wait. No. He patted the seat with the drink and said, “I got you a drink!”  

Now the modern girl in me immediately saw this dubious drink as an affront to independent women everywhere. How dare he assume to know what I want? But as I looked a little closer, I realized that it was indeed a whiskey on the rocks. Not only is that my drink of choice, but I took a sip and it was Bulleit. And, it wasn't bourbon; it was rye!   

He knows what's up

Not only has this man remembered that I love whiskey but he remembered that I prefer RYE whiskeys AND the brand! 

Fireworks went off. Cartoon heart bubbles popped. I don’t need a guy to do this every single time we kick it, but the fact that he cared enough to remember exactly what I drink makes me realize that, contrary to popular belief, chivalry is not dead. It has just realized that drinks are more important than flowers.

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Get Out of My Face, Movie Dates as a First Date

From Sam, the kind of guy who'd much rather make first-date nervous small talk when apps and zerts are involved:

I’m not exactly sure how going to the movies became first-date fodder. Third date? Sure. Couple in a committed relationship? Great. I would be happy to be the shoulder to cry on when she finds out Mufasa isn’t just taking a post-stampede snooze in The Lion King. I’d even be willing to sit through the adventures of Sarah Jessica Parker and her non-equine counterparts traveling the world in search of the perfect pair of shoes.  

Just not on the first date.   

Getting to know someone is what a first date is all about. Not just the typical job/family/future questions, either. I need to know that she will be there with a pity laugh when I make a bad joke. I need to be sure that her reaction to seeing my tattoos isn’t, “I’m surprised you have a job.” Perhaps most importantly, I need to gauge her reaction to my borderline obsession with my awesome cat. None of these things are possible if we are both watching Angelina Jolie make her male co-star uncomfortable with a post-coital one-liner.  

If I were writing this post as a freshman in high school, I might have a different perspective. After all, going to the movies is one of the only times two awkward teenagers can swap saliva without worrying about mom coming around the corner. As an adult with a readily accessible private place for shenanigans, I’d much rather pass on a first date at the movies in favor of something that would allow my companion and me to determine if we are, in fact, the same kind of crazy.

You can't see me, but I just initiated a slow-clap while nodding my head in agreement.

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Picnic Dates, Fuck Yeah!

By Kelly, who loves picnic dates more than Dance Moms love bickering:

Spring has finally sprung! Although there are many things I enjoy about the onset of this season (daffodils, baseball, stuffing myself with Easter candy), my number one favorite thing about warm weather is the return of the picnic date.

This cute as hell

If you’ve never been on a picnic date, you’ve been robbed, my friend. A picnic date is one of the most romantic, yet simplest date ideas that exist. Done right, a picnic date can make you feel like you live in a Jane Austen novel, only way better because you don’t have to wear a corset or marry a guy for his money. Here are my five steps to the perfect picnic date:

1. Find a big ass blanket that you don’t mind getting dirty to be your picnic blanket. Offer to carry it even though you know your date will end up carrying it, because men have this thing about always carrying stuff (not that I’m complaining). Also bring a Frisbee and whatever books you and he are reading at the moment. 


2. Walk to the local market to pick out what you want to eat for lunch. Society dictates that you MUST buy a baguette, because what kind of picnic would it be without a baguette? You also need to buy the most expensive type of brie, because if you’re going to blow a week’s worth of saturated fat on one item of food, it had better be the tastiest you can get. 


3. Find a local park that isn’t overrun by children. Spread out your blanket and get to noshing. Don’t feed each other, because we’re trying to be romantic here, not act like we’re toddlers. 


4. When you’re done with eating, there is no limit to what to do next. Throw a Frisbee? Kick a ball around? Swing on the swings? The warm weather will make you giddy enough to actually enjoy exercise. (Strange concept, I know!) 


5. When you’re finally tuckered out from all of your physical activity, pull out your books and read together on your picnic blanket. Enjoy your break from the computer/cell phone/TV screen. Head home when both of you reach a lull in your books’ plotlines. 

And there you have it: the perfect mix of vitamin D, endorphins, and oozy French cheese to put the romance back into your relationship, or at least back into the idea of spending time outside. 

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I Love Love Love Guys Who Iron Their Shirts

From Abbie, who gets hot under the collar for iron men:

The dress shirt he's wearing may not be the most expensive garment in the world. Heck, it might be a poly-blend, bargain bin leftover for all I care. Because right here, right now, that is the most perfectly ironed garment I've even seen. 

When he got dressed this morning, he didn't grab some rumpled heap of fabric that's been sitting in his dryer for three days. He didn't throw on a Rolling Stones t-shirt with more wrinkles than the band itself. And he certainly didn't put a sweater vest over a crinkled Van Heusen thinking no one would notice.

No, he plugged in an iron. He set up an ironing board. He started with the collar, worked on the cuffs, and then moved on to the front and back. He finished with the sleeves and left them with a crease so sharp it could slice through room-temperature brie. Then, by golly, he let the whole thing cool down before he put it on.  

The only downside is that I can't leap into his arms and demonstrate my appreciation for his proper apparel maintaninece skills because I don't want to ruin all the effort he put in. Instead I'll just take him delicately by the arm and march him through the streets of every major metropolis in the United States. I will stop each grungy male we encounter and say, "THIS! This is how it's done! Look at the shoulders! Look at the darts! They're smoother than a baby's butt! This is what you should be doing!" 

Then I'd let him get back to whatever business meeting, church congregation, or international espionage event to which he's heading to. Well done, sir. I offer you my approval, my appreciation, and my phone number.

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