Fever Kvetch

Sometimes, it's a blessing that Netflix delights in sending me defective DVD's.

Last night, I sat down to watch Fever Pitch. The American version about the Red Sox. Can we just rename the movie, "Every Annoying and Oppressive Gender Stereotype, Ever?"

See, Lindsay (Drew Barrymore) is around 30 and single. Which, in this film, means she's chomping at the bit to settle down. Especially because she's the last single person in her group. In rapid order, we learn that she's single for the same reasons all movie women are single: she's too into her career, her success scares men off, her girlfriends aid her in overanalyzing every relationship, and, oh, she's too picky.

In fact, there's a whole scene where it takes hours and several trendy workouts for her friends to alternately convince her to go on a first date, or cancel, with the Jimmy Fallon character.

Could we, just once, have a movie where the woman is single because she just hasn't found the right guy yet? Or because she's focusing on other things, or, even more radically, just prefers to be alone?

Enter Jimmy Fallon, playing Jimmy Fallon. I'm sure his character has a name, I just don't remember it. So Jimmy is this goofy schoolteacher, and romance blossoms amid all the vomit (really...there's a food poisoning vomit sequence).

He goes to meet her friends. The girlfriends are all astonished that he's "still single" (at 30ish! Horrors!) and hadn't been "tagged and bagged." So they all begin to speculate on what is wrong with him. (Maybe he just hasn't met the right person?) All this movie needed was a woman saying, "All the good ones are either taken or gay."

At this point, I may have started yelling at my television.

As it turns out, he's a nerdy sports fan. And sort of immature, and he dresses like a "man-boy." Because what this movie really needed to do is remind us that all men are immature twits until some woman comes along and makes them over and forces them to grow up. And then they don't have any fun anymore, because women are harpies who press a man to commit, then suck all the joy out of his life.

Anyways, there was something about a pregnancy scare and a trip to Paris. Right then, in my Kevorkian cinematic moment, the DVD died.

So I tried to imagine the rest of the movie. In my version, Lindsay realizes she could just go to occasional games, and let Jimmy nerd out all he wants because that gives her more time to hang out with her friends. And she figures out that it's OK for a guy to dress a little schlubby, if he's nice to you and makes you laugh. And Jimmy undergoes a neurological testing, and realizes he has some sort of curable disorder that makes him all schticky and annoying. And he gets cured, and her girlfriends stop being total pills, then they all live happily ever after.

In the comments, be a script doctor for Fever Pitch.

Can You Hear My Body Talking?

Apparently, no matter how a woman positions her feet, it means she totally wants to jump your bones. In related news, this article purports to explain women's body language.*

Let's get the obvious bit out of the way: yes, the article is sexist and full of obnoxious stereotypes.

Apparently, like all women, I am a manipulative, hyperemotional weirdo who, "Say[s] "I'm fine" when [I] mean "I am about to start bawling -- and I'll never let you forget it." And you can tell by my posture that I'm "prepared to be obedient." (Unless I'm decked out in bondage gear, an apron, and am making you a sandwich, stay far away from that assumption.) Finishing the article felt like coughing up a hairball of shame in a windstorm of self-loathing.

But that's not the worst part. The worst part is that it's the most godawful advice about women I've ever seen. I was waiting to be told that when I take a special lady to the movies, I ought to yawn and then drape my arm across her shoulder.

Every pose means that the headless babe in the photos totally wants you:

Hand on neck: Trusts you, wants to jump your bones.
Hand on waist: Apparently a very aloof form of zombie, but still wants to jump your bones.
Crossed legs: Obedient (ed note: barf), will sit there forever for the opportunity to jump your bones.
Crossed legs, perched on chair: Wants to aggressively jump your bones.
Sitting up straight: Thinks she's at church, but would jump your bones at church.
One knee on chair: The other knee would like to be jumping your bones.

I could go on, but you get the idea. If this article catches on, every fidget, pose, shifting of feet or neck itch will be interpreted as a blatant come-on. The bars of America will be filled with shrieking women, hurling bar tables and pool cues at the relentless hordes of clueless men, who are just trying to attain the impromptu bone-jumpings promised to them by Asylum. Eventually, women will invent new postures to throw them off the scent, so that every sidewalk looks like an interpretive dance recital. Eventually, women will find a way to live as motionless fleshy mannequins, men will give up, and the human race will die out.

That's right, folks: We're not just looking at awkward and juvenile bad advice, we're staring into the abyss. If this article catches on, it'll be the END OF HUMANKIND.

*Hat tip Adrienne for finding this slice of Internet glory.

In the comments, tell me about your posture, and whether it means you think I'm sexy. Or tell me the plot of your dystopian film, set five years after the Asylum article is adopted as the new gospel.

Deep Thoughts on Date-Cation

I had the sort of March that left me with only two options: take April as a date-cation, or write a rock opera and sing all about it. As “Shannon the Musical” is really just about the worst idea anyone has ever had, I went with the date-cation. Man Free ‘til May! Woot!

I had this vague idea that I would learn a great deal, and turn into this saintly being who could forever lose her interest in emotionally damaged men in rumply Oxford shirts (I can fix you! I can save you! ….Daddy? Why don’t you love me?).

Well, I didn’t really learn anything at all. I don’t think I really expected to. I just figured I could use a break. Plus, I love arbitrary deadlines and self-denial. I used my time off wisely, on things like my amazing girlfriends, my awesome job, and catching up on six months’ worth of ironing.

And now I’m looking at the last week of Mancation, and wondering what’s next. The extension idea has been shot down, on the grounds that I’d probably explode all over Washington like a miniskirted supernova.

I’ve chosen to use my last week wisely, on the things that make me happy: Makers Mark and Grand Theft Auto. Somewhere in the bowels of Vice City, there's a little slice of enlightenment just waiting for me to find it.

In the comments, mock my love of failed experiments. Or, imagine the musical of your life.

TMI Thursday: Trim One for the Zipper!

I've been having nightmares about man-bush Mohawks. I'm tripping over tattooed men, freakin' cats with freakin' laser beams on their heads, and Pepto-pink Tasers. My Gmail ad is: "Explorer: Pursuing Belize’s Feathered Treasure." This can only add up to one thing: years of therapy.

Oh, wait, it means that other thing: once again, I've loaned my blog to Zipcode, and, as ever and ever shall be, she's chosen to write about pubes.

Take it away, Zip!

Its TMI Thursday and Shannon asked me to guest post with an update on manscaping. If you recall last year I did a guest post on manscaping and skeeved out half of blogger world, (Shan's note: funniest comment thread, EVER) which was damn funny.

So, Zipcode broke her own damn rules. Ya know how I preferred my man trimmed or it all shaved off. Well - ya know Satan, well he wasn't the best manscaper in the world. The whole branch in the bushes theory came with him. He advised, after much bitching on my behalf, he would trim it down. Well, its a good thing he doesn't work for a landscaping company, because he does a really bad job of trimming down things.

Seriously, I know from personal experience its no fun to dive into the bushes to find the branch and his two friends. Trim it down. That was number complaint sexually with Satan -- he didn't trim his stuff down. Buy some scissors, a razor, whatever and trim your hedges dudes!

The 2009 Great Date-Cation

There is nothing I love more than a random self-improvement project.

Among my all-time favorites: listening to every CD I own, in alphabetical order. Reading the entire dictionary. Re-memorizing the first eighteen lines of The Canterbury Tales, in the original Middle English. Making sure I take my makeup off before I go to sleep, for 30 days in a row. Emailing one friend per day just to say hello. Paying a minimum of three compliments per day.

I live at the crossroads of Zen methodology and rampant (but highly precise) self-absorption.

So, what with things getting a little dull and all, it felt like time to seek a new project. I hereby declare the launch of the 2009 Great Date-Cation. Because, let’s face it, that’s one area of my life where I’ve made no improvements whatsoever. When your most recent breakup involved changing the locks, it’s time to take a step back and draw some conclusions.

Conclusion One: I am a lousy judge of character. This is my own fault, as I am both impulsive (bad) and have a charitable and optimistic spirit (good).

Conclusion Two: Conclusion One is terribly, terribly important, and I could have figured that one out years ago if I'd just tried a little harder.

So, here we are, hangin’ at the Man Hiatus. Until May 1, when I may consider a 30-day extension.* Depending on whether I’ve grown up a little, or a lot, or I’ve moved on to eating at least one vegetable at every meal.

*I know that doesn’t sound like a terribly long break, but as I don’t really excel at long-term planning or abstract thought, it’ll do.

In the comments, tell me about your most recent dry spell, and whether or not it was self-imposed.

Amoeba Weenie: Or, Why I'll Never Scare Anyone

I’m not a Walk of Shame sort of woman. Oh sure, we’ve all had to get across town in borrowed shoes and yesterday’s makeup. But that’s just not who I am these days.

So I do more of a metaphorical Walk of Shame. I wake up on weekend mornings, steel myself with a strong cup of coffee, and review the previous evening’s outbound text messages.

They start out normal enough. “We’re at Bar X, come on down!”

Then they might turn a bit philosophical. “If I ran up and stole that guy’s dreadful hat, would I be performing a public service?”

A little later, I will start sending dirty, but sort of goofily prudish texts to my friends, generally the female ones, and most often the ones sitting at the same table. “I hope you’re wearing a thong! Rowr!”

And so begin the gibberish texts, for which I am quite famous.

However, if I pass through the gibberish phase, and am somehow still upright, things get truly weird.

Saturday, a boy my friend had been involved with behaved in such a colossally dinky way that it had to be intentional. I won't tell the story, but let's just say he deserved a wedgie. Or five. Or, possibly, ten.

I had to be somewhat forcibly restrained from going over and thumping the guy. (I don’t go psycho on my own behalf, but I’m for damn sure not going to let anyone be mean to my friends.) I also thought he ought to know he had stupid-looking hair and tragic taste in sweaters. I was given permission to send one, just one, disapproving text message.

I took a long pull of my beer, contemplated my options, and came up with something that seemed both hilarious and intimidating. We all cackled with glee.

The next morning, I slid open my phone with something that can only be called extreme dread. I expected some sort of fire-breathing mythical beast to leap out and attack me for my foolishness. I expected to be embarrassed, humiliated, run out of town on the psycho-bus, forever branded as a crazy lady.

What I did not expect was to hurt myself laughing. The text I sent was sort of like a Gypsy curse, except it involved amoebas and boy-parts and made absolutely no sense whatsoever.

"Your [unprintable] is crawling with angry slutty amoebas. Also, xxox."

So, the next time my friends decide to let me be a badass on their behalf, I will think back to the Amoeba Weenie incident, take a deep breath, and strongly consider equipping my phone with a Breathalyzer. And then I'll probably make an ass of myself all over again.

PS - When I'm not humiliating myself on behalf of my friends, I am off goading my friends into posting photos of themselves in a Snuggie. Think of it as spreading the wealth of jackassery.

Observational Stopwatch, or, Hey, Let's All Pretend I Wrote a Real Post Today

My mornings are all the same. Get up, slam a fistful of Zyrtec (I am allergic to all known vegetation), flip on the Frankenkitchen, shower, dress, name my ensemble, spackle on some Clinique, toss in a few spritzes of perfume, roll out.

(Yes, I really do name my outfits. Today is, “Woodstock Xanadu,” yesterday was, “A Scarf Turns H&M Into Prada,” Wednesday was “Doctor Who Dominatrix.”)

I have a whole Observational Stopwatch system that tells me if I’m going to be late for work. If I’m on the elevator with the Milk Slurp Twins, I’m early. If I’m on with the Overly Friendly Howdy There, Lady Neighbor, I’m late.

My walk to the Metro has another stopwatch: Fleece With a Tie Guy. He got this name because, not surprisingly, he wears a fleece over his shirt and tie. I don’t know why I find it so distressing. First off, I have very, very few opinions on male fashion (manties, man-thongs and mandals: kill me now; well-made suit: hot). Second, it’s a rather nice fleece.

If I run into him within a block of the Metro, I'm on time. But I usually have to stop and ponder as to why he doesn’t own a proper overcoat. And that always makes me a minute or two late for work. Someday, in the pursuit of punctuality, I’ll stop and ask him. “Excuse me, sir, why don’t you have an overcoat? Did your wife not buy you one?” Oh, hell, then he’ll think I’m hitting on him. How do you ask someone why they don’t have a fairly mainstream article of clothing?

Today was a little different, though. I was late because I saw a man pushing an empty stroller around, and I kept wondering if I should ask if he forgot his baby. How do you ask about that? “Does your wife have the baby?” Oh, hell, then he’ll think I’m hitting on him too, and my commute will be wall-to-wall sexual harassment lawsuits.

Lastly, I’m sad that my new job doesn’t entail the Homeless Fashion Police or One-Legged Pigeon of yesteryear. But I guess Fleece With a Tie Guy and Empty Stroller Daddy will have to do.

In the comments, tell me what you saw on your way to work today. Or tell me about those random people in the red coats who meet in Farragut Square every morning...they're kinda creepy.

Low Rollers: A Postcard from Atlantic City

I have no idea how people can gamble all day and not die of boredom.

With that in mind, here are a few suggestions regarding fun times in Atlantic City:

Freeze your ass off running down the boardwalk in monsoon conditions.

Borrow a hair dryer from the hotel so you can dry your pants while watching Antiques Roadshow.

Visit the Ripley’s Believe It Or Not Museum, argue over whether or not to believe it.

Stay at the Chelsea Pub and Inn, a former synagogue and Jewish rooming house that underwent a stunning transformation into…an adorably quirky B&B and 24-hour bar. It’s like a Denny’s for drinkers! Your room reservation includes two free drink tickets! And your room key has a bottle opener keychain, and it’s run by your friendly neighborhood crazy people, and you can solve the age-old mystery of, “Exactly who sits in a bar at noon on a Sunday?” Answer: Pensioners who ran through all their money playing video poker at the Tropicana.

Eat dinner at midnight.

Lose a dollar at the nickel slots, get bored, go elsewhere.

Lose a dollar at Skee-Ball, decide it’s a better deal than the slots.

Watch the intricate mating dance of Guidos vs. Women in Glorified Tank Tops. Recall the Law of Dressing Pretty Without Looking Like a Hooker: The higher the hemline, the lower the heel…unless you’re in Atlantic City and it’s butt-ass freezing. In which case, wear even less than what you’d put on in July. (And, yes, I’ve become the grumpy old lady who thinks girls ought to cover up a little.)

Walk past a bar, wonder if it's karaoke night, then realize that's the house band...and they're really that terrible.

Spend the drive grousing about tolls, and telling each other New Jersey should be paying YOU to visit, and not vice versa.

Wonder why, in the glorious state of New Jersey, it’s illegal to pump your own gas. Is it just to add that extra dash of suck?

Wonder why, with the lousy weather and the Jersey-ness of it all, you're really having the most wonderful time.

Chicking Up the Hooters

Saturday evening, HP and I did a terrible thing: we chicked up the Hooters. We joined FoggyDew at this pre-verbal penile paradise for an early dinner. Why Hooters? Because a former Marine and two feminists hanging out there would make for a fantastic sitcom. Also, the Carolina-Notre Dame game was on. And, most importantly, why the hell not?


In the hour we were there, HP and I managed to critique the uniform for being less than figure-flattering, get in a long discussion about favorite shades of lip gloss, and debate whether the lack of utensils meant we were supposed to use our um, chestardly bits as “really sensitive chopsticks.” (That awesome mental image you just had? You’re welcome!)

After about ten minutes, Foggy pretended he had accidentally sat down at the wrong table, and had never met these two women before in his life. Or maybe he was just watching the game.

My sojourn at the Hooters did make me contemplate some serious questions:

The Chinatown Hooters opens at 10:00 am. Who can take the sight of Day-Glo orange short-shorts before noon? And do they have a breakfast menu, or do people really eat hot wings with coffee?

Is there any footwear less flattering than bright white sneakers with poofy 80’s style white socks?

Is wearing a low-cut top to Hooters like taking coals to Newcastle? Or is it just one more lovely addition to the scenery?

Why is it so much fun to say the name, "Hooters"? Hooters hooters hooters!

And, lastly, is going to Hooters for the wings anything like reading Playboy for the articles?

Our waitress Cha-Cha rocked, and my cheese sticks were very delicious. So, squicky objectification issues aside, hooray for Hooters! Who's going with me for breakfast this weekend?

Incompetent Advice: Is this Guy for Real?

The perennially readable charlotteharris writes:

Hi Shannon,

I am about to cancel a 1st date with a guy but wondering if that would be a mistake. Here's the background:

My Match profile has (7) very recent (only weeks old) photos of me in various angles, some face only, others full length. Good representations, I think.

After emailing with "Johnny" he asked me for some additional photos, esp. if I had any in which I am wearing tank tops/flip flops. I said "oh you must have been burned before by someone who didn't look like their pics, but you don't have to worry about that because all my photos are recent, i really am a size 4, and i cannot tell a lie." I told him that if we meet and we like each other that he can have all the tank tops/flip flops photos he wants of me and was flirty about it.

He will not relent, he keeps asking me for more pics and I keep ignoring those parts of his emails because I have liked everything else about him on email and the phone, even after he (unsolicited) sent me additional photos of himself with his 2 kids. When I emailed him directly (rather than via my talkmatch address) he wanted to know why I didn't email him from my work email and I was like "oh I am a cop's kid, I can't help but be cautious about personal details."

So today he sent me this email:

"Did you ever think that maybe I wanted to do my background check on you?? There are just as many crazy women on the net as men, believe that… That's not too cool though, you even have pics of my kids!….I can understand the last name, address or home phone number but pictures?? C'mon now it's online dating for crying out loud! You trying to hide your hand with six fingers or something? The fact that you keep avoiding it makes me want to keep asking. Hey we found the first thing to disagree about…fun… Wait, you ask if I was at the Sprint in Reston, I think that's too personal of a question, you might stalk me. Let's just say I'm in Virginia…."

I know he's partly being sarcastic, but he is also kinda disrespectful, right? I am about to email him and just cancel the date and wish him the best. Or should I send him some damn pics and go on the date? I just think it's weird he wants more pics when I am confident the ones I sent are very good.

Thanks in advance!

~ charlotteharris

Dear charlotte,

OH MY GOSH. THAT GUY IS FREAKING AWESOME!!!! He’s nitpicking your lack of a flip-flop/tank top photo? Is he for real?

Tell him that not only do you have six fingers on your right hand, you have a penis, a prehensile tail and four earlobes arranged in a ridge formation across your left elbow. Plus, you sleep with a bunch of stuffed animals, and you snore.

On a slightly more serious note, if he's creating that much aggravation before you even go on one lousy coffee date, imagine what it would be like to be in a relationship with him: "Thanksgiving? With your family? I'll need a complete menu, including recipes and potential allergens, photos of your entire family in all forms of footwear, and about a dozen Haldols before I can even contemplate such a step."

It's possible he's a decent guy with an unfortunate lack of social skills, and you've just gotten the wrong end of the stick somehow...but, really, why bother? He's being weird and hostile and he's badgering a woman he’s never even met. There are three billion other men in the world, plus all sorts of high-end electronic gadgetry, so listen to your instincts and run like hell.

And for a dose of actual seriousness: Don’t ever feel guilty for listening your instincts. If your gut is telling you that something is off, don’t worry about being “nice” or sparing this guy’s feelings. He’ll get over it. You don’t need anyone’s permission or validation to say, “Thanks, but no thanks.” And if he tries to drag you into yet another stupid argument about flip-flops or extra fingers, you are under no obligation to reply to him.

Lastly, if he is starting to give you the creeps, vs. merely being annoying, I would also recommend reporting his behavior to your dating service.

What do the illustrious members of the commentariat think? Additional advice/insights welcome…with the usual caveat that an actual person, with actual feelings, wrote in. So don’t be a jerk.

Animal Behavior and the Infallibility of Fathers

I spent a few hours tottering around the zoo on Saturday. I was tottering because my next-next-next to last clean outfit only looks right with heels. (Laundry-Free September continues!)

One of my favorite zoo activities, aside from chucking small children into the gibbon enclosure, is to follow families around and eavesdrop. Because I’m creepy that way. And because I'm looking to snatch a few babies to add to my collection.

Actually, I eavesdrop because the most fascinating animal behavior happens on our side of the cage. Any visit to a zoo, museum, or cultural event is an excuse for children to ask their parents EVERY SINGLE QUESTION ANYONE HAS EVER THOUGHT OF…and a few new ones. The questions are usually pretty tame, such as, “What do pandas eat?”

Mothers will readily admit defeat. “I don't know, now eat your vegetables or your face will freeze that way.”

Fathers, however, are a whole different story. The average father cannot bear being called out as ignorant, and, moreover, has no compunction whatsoever about lying to his progeny. I think it’s the same grandiosity gene that makes dads believe they can fully assemble a bicycle in fewer than ten minutes on Christmas morning.

And if the bike isn’t ready, it’s because Santa screwed up. Not Dad. Never Dad. Fathers are by biological imperative completely omniscient, omnipotent, and wise. This is what makes them so endearing.

Anyhoo, what do pandas eat?

Mom: I don’t know. Now stop trying to shove your sister into her diaper bag.
Dad: Naughty children.
Correct answer: Bamboo. And people who don't leave comments.

In the comments, tell me the most outrageous lie your daddy ever told you. If it's good, I won't feed you to the pandas.

Who Knew Meatheads Could Be Such Poets?

Commenter Justin mentioned being unable to get through the entirety of Wednesday’s wacko-rant. Apparently, that sort of bile needs to be broken down into chewable, digestible chunks.

Even better, let’s tart up the Firehose of Meathead’s missive into poetry! Many of his insults practically arranged themselves into pentametric couplets (though not all iambic, so, overgrown English majors: most lines won’t scan, get over it). I threw in tetrameter at the end. Or possibly not. I haven't taken a poetry class in more than a decade, so I'm rusty on meter.

Without further ado (or maybe just a little more ado...), I offer my first poem in the nearly six years of this site. You're witnessing history, y'all. Weep before its beauty, and recognize yourselves as mere pebbles on the Beach of the Universe.

From the Meathead, With Love
And you are Suzy homemaker who makes
Useless fats, cheese fondue, Old Glory cakes.
My killer abs don’t come from drinking beer,
My old slobby self is my greatest fear.
Endurance training may be cynical,
I do seven miles of elliptical.
And I can pair that with a two-mile run,
So at forty-six I’m still having fun.
Vain? Me? Vain, oh baby, you’ve got that right,
Today I’m just itching for a fight.
My body and cocky-ass attitude,
A conceeded, ripped, chiseled, dago dude.
I can go for hours in the sack,
Provided there’s a mirror on your back.

I love all those useless hours in the gym, but you,
Have your American flag cake and eat it too.

Happy Friday, everyone!

Skeevy Men, Volume 3: Online Dating Edition

Hey, let's milk the "Skeevy Men" series for another post!

I love men as a general concept. But a few out there are making the rest of y'all look bad. And these guys are always cruising the Internet, seeking the vacuous thong-flinging bombshell of their pre-adolescent dreams.

Some are just annoying. And some are skeevy, gross, creepy, and potentially dangerous. As a woman madly in love with her personal safety, I don't cut any of them any slack. I know there's a big difference between a guy with no social skills and a serial rapist, but I'm not willing to bet my safety to find out.

And we're off!

Tweener Typer Guy: This guy has not yet befriended grammar, capitalization, or spelling. So, although he claims to be a 38-year-old attorney with a sailboat, he reads like a 14-year-old at a Hannah Montana concert. "Dont u wanna hook up w me? lets bounce"

Can't Close the Deal Guy: Not only can he not get to first base, he can't even set up the first date! Instead, he will spend weeks emailing with you without attempting to set up a single meetup. It's a massive time suck, so if your online amour doesn't try to meet you within 5 email exchanges, stop responding.

Would Be Better Off With a Puppy Guy: He writes about how he's looking for someone to love him unconditionally, listen, agree with him, think he's the greatest guy ever, and spend time on the couch watching his favorite sports teams. As he doesn't seem to want a woman who brings her own ideas, opinions or interests to the relationship, he'd be better off just getting a dog.

Over-Familiarity Ahoy! Guy: This guy acts like he's already known you for years. He busts your chops about your favorite movie, tells you all about how his evil harpy ex-wife took him for a ride, and wants to meet you for a drink that very minute. It's the online equivalent of a smothering slobbery bear hug from Cousin Randy...except from a complete stranger.

You Owe Me Guy: This guy is upset when you don't respond to his missives, pouty when you don't write back fast enough, and reacts not at all when you respond with politeness and enthusiasm. In his entitled, tiny little mind, if he devoted 30 seconds of his day to emailing you, then clearly you're required to gallop straight in his direction, tearing off your clothes along the way.

Gets Sexual Right Off the Bat Guy: Like, he can't hold back. At all. He has to make some sort of sex joke within the first paragraph of the introductory email. As I doubt he could hold back in nonverbal sexual arenas, he goes straight into the delete pile.

If I Wanted to Date a Chick, I'd Be a Lesbian Guy: This guy tells you he loves footrubs, shopping for housewares, Gossip Girl and fashion. While I'm not obsessed with traditional gender roles, I generally question whether I should just date a chick instead. At least that way we could wear each other's clothes.

I Know Exactly When and Where We Should Meet Guy: ...and that would be late in the evening, at a bar near his apartment. At the very best, I'm going to get pawed at by a guy trying to shovel in a quart of booze and a gallon of empty flattery. At the very worst, I'm going to wind up with a roofie hangover.

Credit Where Credit Is Due: This was inspired by Belle's and Zip's adventures online. And my girl crush Velvet weighed in on the subject today, too.

Women Are Stupid. We Get It. Whatever.

OK, straight men of America, we get it. Sarah Jessica Parker isn’t pretty. She’s horse-faced, goat-faced, hatchet-faced, skinny-legged, flat-chested, pointy-elbowed, and all-out hideous. She screeches too much, she can’t act, she dresses like a high-dollar psychedelic freakshow, and you wouldn’t have sex with her if she wore a paper bag on her head and paid you to do it. Oh, and Matthew Broderick is totally gay.

Also, guys, we do understand that Sex and the City was the stupidest show ever. Unmarried women over 30 are pathetic ugly old maids, no matter how many fancy shoes they buy. Women's expectations went haywire, as they tried to mimic the lifestyle of cruising the clubs at 40 and buying stuff they couldn’t afford. The show is shorthand for all that’s “wrong” with the women of America.

The movie was dumb, but you sure as hell didn’t go, because you have no desire to commit cinematic castration. It’s dumb that women dressed up and went in groups. And the box-office take is a sign of the Apocalypse.

Really, dude, we get it. And nobody cares what you think. It has nothing to do with you (which may be what ticks you off so much). SATC is fun and silly and girly. And that’s why women like it. We don’t consider it a new code of feminism or a roadmap for life. If anything, we think it’s anti-feminist and too man-centric. The women of America aren’t taking things half as seriously as you are. And before you use Sex and the City as a rationale to demean women, let me point out that women are not behind the success of fantasy baseball, watching poker tournaments on TV, or the odiously unfunny Dane Cook.

So can we all please just get on with our lives?

PS – I didn’t see the movie last weekend, I totally would have if I hadn’t had visitors from out of town. I just can’t get over the idea that it’s OK to tear apart the physical appearance of a fellow human being. What did SJP ever do to deserve a whole website comparing her to various horses? I also think straight guys take that show WAY more seriously than the girls and the gays ever did. Lighten up, people.

Alcohol Makes You Smarter and More Perceptive!

Frequent commenter Lemmonex, who shares my tragic love for redneck cuisine, recently said, “Gotta love the guys in bars who think they have you figured out. I once went on a date with a guy who said I had 'an obvious need to rebel.' When I asked him why he said that, it was because of my nose stud and dark grey nail polish. Man, he saw in to my SOUL.”

This got me thinking. Why does alcohol make some guys so darn perceptive? Over the years, I’ve had random drunk dudes tell me I’m a “force of nature,” I’m “unlikely to ever marry,” and that I have “obvious daddy issues.” Is a sixer of MGD a valid psychiatric credential?

I can’t figure out if it’s some sort of accelerated pickup technique, in which a lady is mocked and intruded upon until she spontaneously removes her underpants. Or it’s an unintentional lack of manners: as inhibitions get fuzzed with booze, guys start crossing lines and telling girls who they are.

Or, possibly, booze depresses testosterone production. I’ve never seen sober guys sit around psychoanalyzing and nitpicking the personalities of others, that’s mostly a girl thing. But some drunk guys will indulge in more unrepentant pop-psych than an eighth-grade mean girl.

Conclusion: Booze turns dudes into chicks. Tweener chicks.

In the comments section, tell me about that time you got pop-psyched in a bar. Or advance a cockamamie theory of your very own.

My Opinion on Perfection

When you ask a man to describe his “perfect woman,” you usually wind up with a glorified golden retriever, or Mother Teresa in a thong. Women don’t fare much better, as they usually talk about a square-jawed plastic action figure who loves to do the dishes. As with anything romantic, the clichés are pervasive and suffocating. There is too little room for quirks, flaws, or surprises.

Nobody will ever be perfect, which is a blessing. We can’t heap all of our love, needs, and passion onto one person. Soulmates are for suckers. Life is about building many, many connections, until they add up to something perfect.

But we all have times when we’re our best selves. And I'm on the record as saying that men are pretty cool. So here are a few of the “perfect” men I’ve known (mostly friends, as that’s where I’ve been the luckiest):

The man who remembered how much I love Gerber daisies, researched them on Wikipedia, and brought them to me for Valentine’s Day.

The man who talked me into bagging work for the afternoon to go play on some waterslides.

The man who could derail any staff meeting by weighing in on Asian hookers, or by washing down PopRocks with Dr. Pepper.

The man who walked around DC with me until seven in the morning, just because I was at loose ends and had worn flats that night.

The man who, despite the tough-guy sarcasm and home tattoo, sent me soup when I was sick and will always have the bail money ready.

The man who kept a SuperSoaker in the gun rack of his truck.

The man who decided to join the girls’ team, because life is just more fun that way.

The man who has spent eight years of his life listening to the same stupid story about bartering for hamburgers at Tysons Corner.

The man who flunked me for misspelling Albuquerque, because that’s where I learned that details matter.

The man whose album collection could eat Texas, and still have room for dessert.

The man who showed up at the airport with a cooler of root beer.

The man who knows everything, from GPS autodrives to why I decided to climb a tree in a dominatrix outfit, but isn't afraid to admit when he’s wrong.

All the men who have let me take care of them when they’re sick, lonely, or afraid.

The men who were everything I didn’t need: the players, the providers, the psychos, the stalkers. And the men who were exactly what I needed at the time: fun, encouraging, solid, brave, rebellious or silly.

I could go on forever, because I’ve met so many amazing men. All of my “perfect” guys are flawed, none of them will grace the cover of Vanity Fair, and I bet none of them dream of washing the dishes while massaging my feet.

Perfection has nothing to do with arbitrary ideals or conventional romance. Instead, the “Perfect Man” is one who inspires you. He makes you want to be your best self. You want to be kinder, sweeter, smarter, wiser and braver. The “perfect man” makes you wish that you could be perfect yourself.

"Perfection” comes from within. Seek out the people who turn you into your best self, and the rest will work itself out.

Craigslist: The Odds Are Good, the Goods Are Odd

No doubt, dating is a raw deal for everyone. But, in the approach stage, it’s primarily a raw deal for men. That's because approach is, fairly or no, the province of guys.

I’ve seen successful and unsuccessful approaches over the years. Generally speaking, I dig direct and funny. “Nice shoes, wanna screw?” at the very least will get you a laugh. Asking to see my hands, asking my opinion about celebrities, or other common Gamester tricks will get you nowhere. Hovering in my presence and hoping I’ll notice you is just going to give me the creeps.

The bar scene is no different than Internet dating. Craigslist is like that dirty, stanky meat market bar that occasionally turns up some real gems.

If you’re a woman and you post a personal ad, your inbox will fill up in 20 seconds flat with treatises of love, friendly hellos from nice guys, and a few weenie photos. Your odds of meeting a man are good, then again, the goods are odd. Much like the bar scene, many guys completely lock up on the approach and make fools of themselves. They're most likely to go hopelessly off the rails within the first sentence.

For your Friday enjoyment, here are some introductory sentence gems from my Craigslist date-a-thon player phase (about a year ago):

......i am starting to think that its hard to find and trust someone on here.....i guess words are meaningless.......the word love just stays a word and don,t really mean anything........just a meaningless word......

It’s like poetry. Lord Byron! Byron by way of Borat, that is.

I'm a 28 year old Ivy League professional working as a lobbyist in town... and have found it difficult to find a truly substantive and fun relationship in DC.

Possibly because you tell women right off the bat that you’re an Ivy League lobbyist? Also, please don’t use corporate killspeak like “substantive” in a pickup. His whole sentence reads like a cover letter for a job at the Shannon Corporation.

I Thought That I'd send You A small Response To Your Message ... :-)

And I Thought It would Be Best To Not Reply.

Yes, I was in a long relationship, 7 years. Don't worry, I'm over her. That was about 7 months ago.

Yeah, take THAT, ex-girlfriend! I’m movin’ on! By mentioning you as quickly as humanly possible!

PS – I am aware that I’m a deeply flawed woman, not all that, not representative of women everywhere, etc. Let it go, have a laugh.

An Imaginary Conversation with a So-Called Dating Guru

A prankster signed me up for David DeAngelo's dating newsletter. This is a newsletter intended for men. To be exact, for men who insult and offend women until they're so crushed that they put out (but DeAngelo calls it being "Cocky and Funny.") Every day, this guy offers "tricks," advice on how to have "an unfair advantage," and offers strategies on time management (aka, the juggling of multitudinous virtually identical bubbleheaded girly girls).

But now, there's a golden opportunity to learn from The Man himself:

Hey man, I'm going to be doing a one-of-a-kind, very advanced dating training program, probably starting in January. It's going to combine in-person training, home-study components, and intensive exercises...all over a period of several weeks.

There's way too much wrong with this. The mind boggles, then it scrabbles and monopolies. I'm going to zero in on the "intensive exercises." Beer can curls? One-handed bra unclasping? High-speed phone number jotting?

I had to cancel my "Ultimate Man" program because I wound up getting too busy with other projects...and now I've decided to expand it and make it far MORE powerful than it was...

So now you can be the Ultimately Ultimate Man! And fight crime with the Justice League!

Nothing like this has ever been done before, combining accelerated learning techniques, fast-track reprogramming, and my newest concepts (that will truly take you to the next level with women faster than anything you've ever experienced)... along with the top experts in the world... all in one place.

Reprogramming? Isn't that what you do to people after they've left a cult? So isn't this more of a re-deprogramming? And I'm glad something will take you to the next level with women faster than anything you've experienced...especially if all you've experienced in tequila-infused groping at Sigma Chi's fall semiformal.

Since I'm only going to be doing it this program one time (and since I haven't done any live dating programs in over two years), it's probably going sell out almost instantly.

Led Zeppelin, The Police, Hannah Montana...David DeAngelo. Wow. This guy sure has the Cocky part down, but so far I haven't seen the Funny.

If you'd be interested in enrolling in the program, then do me a quick favor...

Shoot yourself.

Take this quick survey that I've set up, and tell me what YOU would like to LEARN in a training like this one.

I'd like to learn why men feel compelled to go to intensive (and expensive) seminars when they could just talk to women like they're, y'know, people.

I'll put you on a special "early priority" list, and give you the first chance to enroll... when it opens up.

Oooh! I'm on the waitlist for the cool kids' table!

One thing: Be honest with me. I really want to know what's on your mind...

That you're a pathetic weirdo that overstates the importance of snaring the ladies?

...so I can create the best possible program for you.

Oh, I must have glossed over that part. The best possible program for me would be no program at all. I live in D.C. and we already have a surplus of egomaniacs and manipulative twits.

Again, this will only be happening ONCE... and will likely be the only live dating program I'll do in 3 years... so go take this quick 5-minute survey, and add yourself to the early-notification list:

Ultimate Man

I just can't get over the name. Ultimate Man! Superhero? Aftershave? Herbal supplement?

Also, the "quick five-minute survey" kills me. Granted, some things that take only five minutes can feel like an eternity (like sex with a DeAngelo disciple, I'd imagine). Still, it's a stupid redundancy.

I'll talk to you soon,
David D.

Not if I talk to you first!
Kisses,
Shannon

Skeevy Men, Volume 2: Nightlife Edition

Washington’s bar scene offers an amazing array of skeeviness. So, back by popular demand, we have Skeevy Men, the Sequel. And the usual disclaimer: I pretty much think that men rock. This is all meant in good fun.

Any Girl Will Do Guy: This guy will hit on your friend, realize she’s unavailable or uninterested, and move on to you. The best part is that, while he is cravenly pursuing anything with ovaries, he is utterly convinced that he is slick and that you are not even remotely on to him. Any Girl Will Do Guy, we know your shtick. We keep you around for the free drinks and to see exactly how many of us you’ll try to pick up over the course of the evening.

Nonsensical Compliment Guy: No, I am not a hand model, gymnast or standup comedian. These are my real cheekbones, I don’t do yoga, and I really, really wish you’d talk to me like I’m an actual person with feelings and ideas.

Gamester Guy: This is the guy that reads “seduction” literature and uses “techniques” to “pursue and attain” the “woman of his choice.” Now, I get that men have to hit on women, because otherwise the human race would die out. But since most of these “seduction techniques” involve creating false intimacy and the use of cheap manipulation to get women into bed, it’s skeevy.

Expert at Everything Guy: Wow, he’s smart. He knows everything you could ever possibly want to know. If you order a beer, he’ll tell you to go with a fancy specialty version instead. If you play pool, he will hover the entire time and tell you which shot to make and why. Your jukebox selections are vastly inferior, you are not wise to the ways of darts, and you don’t know enough about fine wines. Clearly, what you are supposed to do is date the Expert so some of his brilliance will rub off on you.

I’m Really Very Shy Guy: This guy pretends that he is totally out of his element, and has never been to a bar before in his life. Really, he’s hoping the wounded puppy routine will hook a few phone numbers (and perhaps unhook a few bras). He’ll also probably tell you he’s a feminist, a lesbian trapped in a man’s body, or that his last girlfriend dumped him for an alpha male meathead. After 20 minutes of I’m Really Very Shy Guy, you’ll be looking for a knuckle-dragging Neanderthal of your very own. I think I’m Really Very Shy Guy is a plant so that Gamester Guy can round up a few more conquests.

Mortgage Man: He’s not just a guy, he’s a man! And why’s that? Because he has a mortgage. And he’ll tell you about his mortgage as fast as he can, to differentiate himself from those pathetic beta male renters. After two drinks, you’ll hear about his 401(k), and if you stick around for three, you’ll learn all about his plans for early retirement. Stay until last call and he’ll rework your stock portfolio and set you up with a 529 plan for your nonexistent children.

In the comments section, tell me about the skeeviest thing you ever did in a bar. Or just pay me a really nonsensical compliment.

My Love Life Has a Driver's License

My first date was over 16 years ago. Yes, my romantic life is now old enough to drive.

Dating used to be challenging and intimidating. Does he like me? Do I like him? What’s going to happen next? How do I get through the next two hours without turning into a babbling freak or a mute bundle of nerves? In high school, I never stuck with the same guy long enough to contemplate a serious relationship. In college, I never stuck with the same guy long enough to contemplate a future. Then I was married and the future was indeed contemplated – and, in fact, mapped out year by year for the next 50 years. That didn’t work out, so I’m back at the beginning.

And I’m bored out of my mind. Seriously, it’s all the same. If I meet a guy at a bar, he’s successful and thinks I’m cool because I prefer beer to pink froofy girl drinks. If I meet a guy through friends, he’s a nice guy with a great personality. If I meet a guy online, well, that’s the most cliché-ridden, soul-deadening experience of all. He’s funny, well-traveled, a good conversationalist, and appreciative of good wine and food. It’s enough to make me want to meet a guy who has no sense of humor, has never left his basement, delivers long-winded monologues about TV shows I’ve never seen and eats nothing but Doritos and Mountain Dew. Because at least that would be different.

I guess the point is this: cynicism has set in and dating gets drearier every year. It’s a grind.

Come on, men of Washington, impress me. You can even impress me in a bad way if you want. You aren’t even creepy or self-aggrandizing anymore. You’re just playful and secure and looking to start out as friends and see where it goes. Also, you like puppies and America and rainy days, and you’re equally comfortable in jeans or a tuxedo. You never have any drama or baggage, which makes me wonder if you’ve really spent the last 20 years in a fallout shelter (if you don’t have baggage, you haven’t really lived).

And please, don’t be playful. That just makes me feel like a pedophile.