5 (More) Dating Deal Breakers

Odor
It’s not that I don’t want you to smell bad – which is obviously step one – I also don’t want you to try too hard to smell good. None of that asthma-inducing cologne, please. I can handle a nicely-scented deodorant, but mostly I just want you to smell clean. Like laundry and human skin. Is that too much to ask?

Height
I’m short, so this is a completely unjustified deal breaker for me to have, but I just can’t deal with small guys. Look, I’m sorry. I wish I weren’t this way. It would be a lot easier for me to find my eternal soul mate if I could expand my love network to include those 5 foot 9’ers out there, but ya know what? It’s just not gonna happen.

Non-complimentary
I’m sure you think as a smart, employed, “together” lady, I don’t need to be buttered up with over-the-top praise… but I want it. Tell me I’m beautiful, tell me I’m effortlessly sexy, tell me I look hot in the skin-tight dress I put on with the intention of looking awesome for you, and see where it gets you. Most likely you’ll be taking off said dress.

Too nice
I want a partner-in-crime not a honey bear. I’m generally a nice enough person, but I can be a bitch when someone or something pisses me off. If you’re constantly making me feel bad about my occasional meanness, I don’t want to be around you. So, grow a pair and add some snark to the conversation. If I mention that so-and-so gained 10 lbs, your response had better be “looks more like 20”. Zing!

Wandering eyes
Yes, she has boobs. So do I. Stop mentally undressing every female in your line of sight. If you’re the kind of guy who is constantly and non-subtly checking out every tit that presents itself, I’m going to turn and run the other way - taking my fantastic rack with me. Even if you don’t act on those lustful looks, I don’t want to feel like I’m constantly competing with Girl X who’s shaped like a Barbie doll. Appreciate what you’ve got – me – or don’t be with me at all.

Who's the Other Woman - Me or You?

Hello there. We've never met, but I hated you once.

You’re like me, but better. All those important feminine features you’ve got are undeniably superior to mine.

Your hair is long and shiny, and not only in your going out photos, but in casual, everyday pics too.

Your arms look starving-model-skinny from every angle – not just the shots where you put your hand on your hip and jut out your collarbone.

You have dark hair and dark eyes and a smattering of freckles just like me, but on you it all comes together in an edgy, smoky tableau of hipster awesomeness.

And somehow you’ve mastered that sultry “I’m-gonna-suck-your-d” look without coming across as a whore. I’m impressed. You’ve got me beat.

He never told me about you, so I assumed he was mine...

THEN I found out you existed. And it’s just oh-so-clear he has a “type”. Laughable, really. I mean, look at us.

While you were moving and then job hunting and ultimately achieving greatness in Palo Alto, he xanaxed his way through a pseudo-relationship in DC.

DID YOU KNOW THAT? Would you want to know? Has he uttered my name even once?

Our six degrees of separation have ruinously collided, leaving us unfortunately intertwined, side-by-side, bed partners and kissing sisters. Zero degrees.

4 Scenarios I Imagine When You Don't Text Back

When you don’t text me back right away, I play it cool like I don’t even care. I’m all, whatever, he really likes me, it doesn’t mean anything. A little later and still no text, I’m like, ugh I have better people to be texting anywayyy. But when a few hours go by and I still don’t get a reply, four very specific scenarios go through my mind.

1. You discovered your soul mate in that weird java coding class you take on Wednesdays and you’ve swept her away to Las Vegas to consummate your love. Your phone is, of course, turned off on the airplane and reception in casino chapels is always patchy – thus creating low odds I’ll get a text back.

2. You took a shortcut through an alley on your way home from the office only to be roughed up by thugs, robbed, shanked, and left for dead. Crimson blood pours from your eyes and ears and your mangled, broken arms make it impossible to reach into your pocket for your phone. As you slip in and out of consciousness, you can only murmur Kaaa... Kaaa... in the hopes that Siri might hear your grief and place your call sans touch.

3. You have been personally invited to lead the President of the United States on a midnight Segway tour through the pentagon. Your swanky department of defense job paired with your talent for tour-giving makes you the perfect guide for POTUS to become reacquainted with the building and its slippery hallways. You’d reply, but you don’t want to offend the prezzie or anything. Plus, it’s kind of hard to text from a Segway. They have a delicate equilibrium you wouldn’t want to disrupt with frenzied thumb-tapping.

 4. I stole your charger last night to plug in my phone so yours died at work today. You make it home safe and sound with every intention of charging your mobile device, but the beer in the fridge is calling your name and the lean cuisine in your freezer isn’t going to microwave itself, so you toss your phone on the bed and go about your evening like a normal person. You heat up dinner, open an IPA, turn on ESPN, and forget about the fact that there’s a girl 2.2 miles away who maybe wants reassurance that you’re not dead in an alley or exchanging vows in an Elvis chapel.

Coming to Terms with the Ex Files

He was yours first, I suppose.

And it doesn't matter whether you dated for 10 days or 10 years because the fact of the matter is, you beat me to it. You marked your territory before I even knew there was land to be found.

Though I envy you your history and your inextricably linked lives,  I don't envy you because you lost him. You turned your back. You let what you had wilt and decay into nothing. Well, not nothing. I found some scraps, I picked up the pieces. I spotted the stomped on seedling of a heart and nurtured it and cared for it and now it's mine. And dammit, I earned it. You don't deserve him if you couldn't figure out how to keep him yours.

He kisses me like his lips were made for mine, so I can't imagine how yours compare. I want to ask him whose lips win, but I don't, because even if he chooses me, I'd rather not turn his attention back to you for even a second.

As we get older, everyone's past becomes greater. I wish you weren't so much of his.

The 6 Types of Guys You Date In Between the Good Ones

There were a few men who entered my life briefly since the demise of my last Big Relationship. Then, I found You.

I’ve dubbed these fellows: "The In-Betweeners”.

1. Ugly boy – Ugly boy happens right after a big break up. He’s just there. He’s available and persistent and desperate for vagina. Ugly boy has the intriguing effect of making you feel ugly too. Rather than feeling more attractive in comparison to him, he has the unique ability of pulling you down to his level. Not a keeper.

2. Racist boy – Racist boy is the quintessential southern republican. Of course, there’s no way of knowing such insanity lurks behind those baby blues when he buys you a drink Saturday night, but when he makes a disparaging comment about your heritage between sips of $1 Bud Light the following Thursday, it’s clear it’s time to leave.

3. Pretty boy – Pretty boy is pretty and not much else. End of story.

4. Boring boy – Boring boy (also known as “perfect on paper” boy) is cute and successful and polite and nice enough, but utterly, mind-numbingly dull. He’s the reason you got sloshed on a Tuesday. Apparently, the secret to withstanding more than 20 minutes of Boring boy is Sangria. Who knew?

5. Jobless boy – Jobless boy is always the life of the party. He’s available to do WHATever whenever because he’s unemployed and up for anything! His enthusiasm is contagious and makes you want to quit your job and travel the world. But then the money runs out. He’s stuck at home and you’re stuck with him.

6. Apathetic Jewish boy – Apathetic Jewish boy is intelligent, interesting, and handsome. He’s passionate about his government job and comes off earnest and caring to friends and family. He’s husband material. Until you learn he likes to numb himself with Valium and ejaculate on your tits.

Hurricane Sandy: The Bitch Makes Landfall

It's raining.

Unless you’ve been in a cave, or currently live in burkina faso, you’ve probably heard about the frankenstorm currently blowing her way across the east coast. I’m one of the few NOT off work today, but for my fellow hurricaners, here’s a list of five things to do when you’re stuck inside.

1. Getcho drank on. So, work’s cancelled, there are abundant road closures, and likely no cable to distract you from the mind-numbing drip of your leaking ceiling. What should you do to entertain yourself? Drink, of course. Wine makes board games, network TV, and awkward roommates instantly hilarious. Pop the cork and proceed to get crunk. Cheers to The Sandy Fachina.

2. Reheat any and all leftovers. There’s a chance your power will go out. Or perhaps it’s already made a not-so-graceful exit? Pull a Giada and create “easy ten minute meals” using whatever you can scavenge. Gorge yourself now while the fridge still works. Two-day-old lo mein tastes better with a side of peanut butter pickle sandwich anyway.

3. Obsessively track the storm at weather.com. Or, for unprecedented levels of storm excitement, check out Tom Skilling’s FB page. He's adorkably enthusiastic. Monitor national and local closure coverage and determine with meteorologist-level accuracy whether you’ll get to sleep in again tomorrow. Or, mentally prepare yourself to stumble into the office hungover and headachey from greasy food and boozey booze.

4. Do a victory dance when work is canceled. AGAIN! Break out into a one-man Zumba salsa party in your living room. Burn a calorie or two.

5. Make a hurricane baby. Or at least practice making a hurricane baby. Liquor up, pop that birth control, and have fun making whoopee.

Let's Talk About BJ's

One of my friends is a total slore (slut+whore for those of you unfamiliar with the term) and a touch anorexic. But I love her. Whatever.

Anyway, I was only a little surprised when she asked me over lunch the other day how many calories I thought there might be in a mouthful of semen. I was drinking a coconut water at the time (which, I’m sorry, totally tastes like jizz even if you’re not in the middle of a conversation about it) and proceeded to laugh/choke/spit a cloudy stream of it all over my sandwich.

Soggy bread in hand, I mulled over the possible nutritional benefits of man milk. It’s just protein, right? But, like – how much protein? Like an egg? Or a small piece of chicken?

If a vegetarian is nutrient-deficient from inadequate meat consumption, can she increase her protein intake by giving a guy head? Just how many blow jobs would it take to replenish a protein-depleted individual? Suddenly math gets interesting…

And ok. What about vegans? They shun animal products in favor of a strict plant-based diet. But …we’re animals. Should a vegan avoid performing fellatio to prevent errant spermies from slipping down her throat?

Next time you hear some activist-hippie-plant-lover yammering on about their wholesome, life-affirming diet, ask them about their sex life. If nothing else, you might get them to shut the hell up.

Oh – and in the end, I googled it. 15 calories and 150 mg of protein per mouthful. Approximately.