October 12, 2011


I’m Just Giving The Dog A Bone: The Men’s Guide To Flirting

So you think you can flirt, huh? I have news for you, buddy— you can always improve on that game, and just like how you begged until your parents sent you to basketball camp in middle school so that you could improve that 3-point shot of yours, I’m here by popular demand to tell you where you’re slacking on the job while trying to pick up chicks. So, here it is, 5 quick, easy tips for sneakily getting on the better, phone-number-giving side of the fairer sex. Use them for good, my boys, not evil. After all— Gandalf is watching.

- Be Aggressive, B.E AGGRESSIVE:

This is the cautionary tale of one would-be suitor gone horrible wrong:

Sometimes, being aggressive is a good thing, like in rugby and fencing and chess and discount sales in Filene’s Basement. But sometimes, it’s not. Persistence isn’t always the best tactic. One over-enthusiastic gent tracked me down on Facebook— and Twitter. He tried friending me— 3 times in 2 days when I didn’t accept fast enough for his liking. He messaged me. He poked me. It was the electronic equivalent of a grade-school kid standing on his blue plastic chair, waving his arms over his head, screaming, “Pick me! Pick me! Pick me!” I still haven’t accepted his request. Why? Because there’s aggressive, and then there’s AGGRESSIVE. And…desperation has never been sexy. Doesn’t matter if you’re XY or XX— it’s a big NO, and the reek of it permeates everything you do. We will know when you’re desperate. Your friends, parents, coworkers, classmates, postal worker, hair dresser, and the entirety of Facebook will know when you are desperate. It shows. So get a leash on that beast. Down, boy.

- “E” Is For Effort. Also, Egotistical Eunuchs End Up Eating Alone:

I’ve had guys tell me, “Come down to see me when you’re on your break.” This is bad. If you’re the one who wants to see me, then you can come to me. A girl with options never goes out of her way for a man; she’ll let him come to her, if he wants to. Nothing tells a girl faster if a guy is really serious about her or not by how much effort he puts into seeing her. And by this age, we girls should have stopped being delusional and making excuses for lazy asses and should know how much effort shown constitutes a viable man and a viable relationship. I know. If it isn’t calling, isn’t visiting, isn’t writing, and isn’t planning, it ain’t yo’ boyfran, gurrrrrrl. And kind sirs, if you are not actively walking your ass over to see her, she’s going to find someone else who WILL, because she ain’t that desperate yet for yo’ lazy ass. Again, desperation is never sexy.

- You’re QUALITY, Not QUANTITY: 

Always remember: A little goes a long way, if your “little”— time, effort, energy, affection, money, passion— is quality. I’ve always preferred my men a little aloof— it helps keep the magic going. My last S.O waited until Date #5 to finally kiss me; the entirety of dates 1-4 I was constantly wondering what was going on, and the anticipation made me sparkle even more than the average girl trying to look good on a date does because I kept working for it. But the long-awaited kiss was so good, it was worth the wait. And you know what? All that time spent in good, intelligent conversation, learning each other’s likes and dislikes, food and movie preferences before swapping spit made us both sure that we liked the other— more than just a first date could have foreseen. They were quality dates. It was a quality first kiss. We were sure that the other was a quality person. Much better than a really awkward make-out session straddling the cup-holders in his car’s front seat post first-date beers would have been. A win all-around.

- How To Scabbard Your Sword— What Women Want:

Sorry, this isn’t about sex. I just thought that play on words would grab your attention for what will probably be for most of you the hardest concept to grasp. (Unlike grasping other things.) This is about what all women want. This is the secret that lands the nerdy guys the perfect 10s. This is the Rosetta Stone for understanding women. Cracking this is like cracking a Rubix Cube. So I don’t want to have to sit here and waits through eons of evolution for you guys to finally get it. Which is why I’m just going to come right out and say it to you:

Women just want to be saved. Or, at the very least, we want a partner in crime.

You know how in Million Dollar Baby, Hillary Swank kicked major ass? It was because Clint Eastwood was there in her corner, and he had her back. All women want a knight…white, black, red, or purple, it doesn’t matter to us. What matters is that we all want a champion— someone who is willing to go forth and do battle for us, whether it’s getting us that extra dollar off our soft pretzel at the mall that the salesgirl somehow forgot to credit us, or sticking up to other people to defend us. Because we’re worth it. As Frances Hodgson Burnett wrote, every girl is a princess, whether she looks like it or acts like it or not. If I do something, if I say something, you best believe I do it with 110% conviction, and all I want— and what I deserve— is to have someone there who will stand next to me and uphold those words and those actions.

This is where a guy riding up on his high horse comes in. I don’t need to be questioned anymore. I shouldn’t have to explain myself. What I want, what I need— what all women need— is someone as strong and courageous and faithful as I am to stand next to me and be there for me to lean on when I’m too tired to lead the charge, and have them stand up to the job. So be a stand-up guy. If you say something, follow through. Never make any promises you can’t keep; don’t lie. If you know something wrong is happening, stop it. If you see something unfair, call people on it. In return, I promise that any woman worth that title and her salt will be doing the same for you, because if you have my back, and I have yours, nothing in life will ever be able to sneak up on us and scare the crap out of us. THAT is what women find most sexy of all— reliability, safety, and partnership.

- Getting The Big N.O, or, Failure For Champions:

Then again, you could do everything right and still be turned down. It’s a woman’s prerogative to be fickle. Maybe she’s just gotten out of a bad relationship, or isn’t over her ex yet. Maybe she’s interested in someone else and doesn’t want to lead you on and waste your time. Maybe you’re just not her “type”…you can’t help that, but chances are you definitely will be someone else’s. Or maybe she’s just enjoying being single right now, and doesn’t want to think about getting involved with men or dating. But don’t let this dissuade you from trying again with a different girl— practice makes perfect, after all. Take a page from the Casanova-like diaries of the men I met while I was in Italy— with all the “ciao, bella”-ing that was going on, and all the flat-out rejections from those “bella”s, I thought it was a wonder any Italians ever managed to procreate. But as my Food and Wine professor told his class of 18 American girls, “If you say it enough times, someone is bound to say ‘ciao’ back.” That’s how he landed his American wife while she was studying abroad. See? It works. If Giancarlo could do it, I have faith that you can, too. Now, get out there, and be someone’s knight in shining armor. Or, at least, take you car through the car wash and go pay for the cute lady in front of you’s espresso at the coffee shop tomorrow morning.

Buona fortuna!

XOXO

—-

- From SATCG.

3 notes
Leave Note / Reblog
Men Men VS. Women Flirting Dating Tips Tricks & Secrets Advice Bad Habits SATCG Facebook Manners I Love My Boys

January 25, 2012


Stories I Never Needed To Hear:

Dear Men of the World,

No matter what good friends we are, I never, under ANY circumstances, need to hear any story of yours that involves the phrases “bleeding out of my ass” or alternately, “anal seepage.”

Sincerely,

The Girl Who Will Never Go Into Graphic Descriptions Of Her Period Blood Clots, OK?

XOXO

1 note
Leave Note / Reblog
Conversations Friends Men vs. Women Manners Girl Shit Eww

February 20, 2012


My great-grandmother was a Southern society lady. She lived outside of New Orleans in a plantation house, owned a yacht in Florida before it was popular, had a bevy of handsome gay friends to take her to society events so she never had to show up with the same man twice (since it wasn’t her husband’s idea of a good night), and put my mother through finishing school and ballroom dance lessons and cotillions. She always let me crawl into her designer hospital bed with her, and fed me stacks of Oreos, which I was technically NEVER allowed by my mother.
She was, apparently, by everyone’s accounts, a very formidable lady with a nasty temper and quick and clever tongue if she didn’t like you or thought you were “beneath” the family status. (Yes, I’m partially Southern blue-blood royalty, y’all. Somewhere in there under all the Jersey genes.) I was her only great-granddaughter, and thus, could do no wrong and shit solid gold. This love and acceptance did not extend to every branch of the family, it’s said, and so, I count myself as being VERY lucky to have been young and adorable and guileless while she was still alive. To this day, it’s she who gets the credit for my inherent knowledge to wear a conservative yet age-appropriate dress and cardigan when meeting a beau’s grandparents; for giving me an innate knowledge of how to judge fake pearls from the real thing just by looking at them; and for my iron-clad blue-blood society skills. Work a room? It’s mine. Chat up strangers? I got this. Impress important people? I’m damn DARLING. (Actually, that’s how an ex’s grandmother described me to her daughter when she didn’t know I was on the front lawn and could still hear her on the porch— “She’s just DARLING!”) And did I write a thank-you card afterward for that generosity? You bet your sweet ass I did. Class. You can’t always learn it, though all these lessons and more were things she taught me from the aforementioned hospital bed as we ate Oreos and played with the truly awe-inspiring Barbie collection she amassed for me. Sometimes, you have to be born with it.
My mother can’t get through a single episode of Downton Abbey without commenting on the fact that Maggie Smith’s Dowager Countess is her grandmother reincarnated. 
I am in agreement.
"I doubt you’ll see me again.""Do you promise?"
I nearly DIED at that line, and couldn’t help but having an “oh god, everything makes sense now!” moment tonight when the Dowager basically told Carlisle to his face that he was a sack of nouveau-riche shit. From now on in my life, when someone who is truly a waste of time and space threatens to exit right, this is how I will respond. Because I am 99.3% sure this is how my great-grandmother excommunicated unsavory parts of her family tree. Everything good and classy I ever learned, I got from my grandmama. And the Dowager of Downton.
XOXO

My great-grandmother was a Southern society lady. She lived outside of New Orleans in a plantation house, owned a yacht in Florida before it was popular, had a bevy of handsome gay friends to take her to society events so she never had to show up with the same man twice (since it wasn’t her husband’s idea of a good night), and put my mother through finishing school and ballroom dance lessons and cotillions. She always let me crawl into her designer hospital bed with her, and fed me stacks of Oreos, which I was technically NEVER allowed by my mother.

She was, apparently, by everyone’s accounts, a very formidable lady with a nasty temper and quick and clever tongue if she didn’t like you or thought you were “beneath” the family status. (Yes, I’m partially Southern blue-blood royalty, y’all. Somewhere in there under all the Jersey genes.) I was her only great-granddaughter, and thus, could do no wrong and shit solid gold. This love and acceptance did not extend to every branch of the family, it’s said, and so, I count myself as being VERY lucky to have been young and adorable and guileless while she was still alive. To this day, it’s she who gets the credit for my inherent knowledge to wear a conservative yet age-appropriate dress and cardigan when meeting a beau’s grandparents; for giving me an innate knowledge of how to judge fake pearls from the real thing just by looking at them; and for my iron-clad blue-blood society skills. Work a room? It’s mine. Chat up strangers? I got this. Impress important people? I’m damn DARLING. (Actually, that’s how an ex’s grandmother described me to her daughter when she didn’t know I was on the front lawn and could still hear her on the porch— “She’s just DARLING!”) And did I write a thank-you card afterward for that generosity? You bet your sweet ass I did. Class. You can’t always learn it, though all these lessons and more were things she taught me from the aforementioned hospital bed as we ate Oreos and played with the truly awe-inspiring Barbie collection she amassed for me. Sometimes, you have to be born with it.

My mother can’t get through a single episode of Downton Abbey without commenting on the fact that Maggie Smith’s Dowager Countess is her grandmother reincarnated. 

I am in agreement.

"I doubt you’ll see me again."
"Do you promise?"

I nearly DIED at that line, and couldn’t help but having an “oh god, everything makes sense now!” moment tonight when the Dowager basically told Carlisle to his face that he was a sack of nouveau-riche shit. From now on in my life, when someone who is truly a waste of time and space threatens to exit right, this is how I will respond. Because I am 99.3% sure this is how my great-grandmother excommunicated unsavory parts of her family tree. Everything good and classy I ever learned, I got from my grandmama. And the Dowager of Downton.

XOXO

946 notes
Leave Note / Reblog
Family Classy Lady Downton Abbey TV Manners Life Lessons Societal Commentary Charm School