Dropping it like it’s hot, or how I learned to love my booty
My friend Sonia just blogged about Booty Pop. Apparently, no longer just a plotline on Laverne & Shirley, there really are butt enhancers (and underwear! All in one! Awesome!). I find it kind of horrifying that these tiny, twig-like girls are padding themselves back into more feminine body shapes with underwear, bras, and, if need be, silicone. Just rock the body you've got, ladies.
See, I have a booty. I have a booty despite the fact that I work out, I eat healthy, and yeah, I wear a size 0, 2, or 4 (depending on the store). My booty is there no matter how great or poor shape I'm in. I used to be self-conscious about it. I always thought of it like my little pooch of a belly, something I had had since puberty and, though I should try to lose it, I was never going to, short of spending eight hours a day for the rest of my life working out with Jillian Michaels. Slowly, I started to notice that guys I dated, um, appreciated it, but I didn't really think anything of it. Just because a guy likes a girl's body part doesn't mean it's a good one. It means it's there and available.
My life changed when my friend Mary taught me how to drop it like it's hot.
Dropping it like it's hot is an incredibly empowering move. Your booty is out there. You need to like it. You need to own it. You need to be proud of every curve--even those dimples of cellulite. You know why? Because after you drop it down low, you are going to pick it up slow, and you are going to be sticking it way the heck out. (Picking it up slow also helps you keep your balance.) When you come back up, you know that everyone is going to be looking at your ass, partially because you just slapped your hands against the ground to call attention to the move, and you need to own that moment. You need to want their eyes to go there. Make them linger.
Dropping it like it's hot about 500 times in one night made me realize: I have a pretty nice ass. (Also, dropping it like it's hot kills your quads. Stretch before you go to bed.) It was so empowering to realize that I had this hot-girl feature that I never realized I had. And it was right behind me the whole time.
The point is: Ladies, find what's sexy about the body you have, and then ROCK IT! Forget this padding stuff. Just get the rolly on your arm and drink Chandon.
You can learn it too! Here's a British dude offering a very good, though long-winded, explanation:
Note: I was going to try to find an uncensored version of the Snoop Dog video, but then I thought it was super funny to have the censored one.
Mastering the art of self-sabotage
This month, I was looking forward to my band's regular gig even more than usual. See, last month, my bandmate, the hot surfer dude (who, it turns out, graduated college 10 years after I did), and I closed out the bar, which is always a fun thing to do on a Monday night. R., the surfer, is a regular there, so I was hoping I'd get to flirt with him again. I don't really think that we're a good fit, dating-wise, but ooh boy, I sure want to kiss him.
He was there, sitting at the bar with another surfer type. I saw him as I went to pour myself a beer, but he wasn't looking up. On my way back, I caught his eye. "Hey, N.," he said. "Hey, Matt," I replied, and walked backstage.
I talked to him for a second at the set break, but he was gone by the time we finished. "That was nice of R. to come. Did he leave already?" my bandmate asked.
"Oh no!!!" I said, doubling over from embarrassment. My friends asked what I was talking about. "R.!! I called him Matt!"
"You can fix that," the bartender said. "Just say Matt was your first boyfriend. He'll be bummed, though."
"Why?"
"He really enjoyed talking with you last month," he told me. "He really enjoyed talking with you."
I don't know if it's bad luck or karma or something in the universe wanting me to stay single, but during the occasional periods when I have good boy luck, it's immediately followed by some stupendous act of self-sabotage. You know, like calling a really nice guy who I genuinely enjoy hanging out with and definitely want to smooch by the wrong name.
Even worse, I did it again. My friend K. invited me to see her boyfriend, D., and a couple of other friends spin. She sent me the invitation, and I said, "Oh, I didn't know you knew B." It turns out she and D. were thinking about trying to fix me and B. up. It turns out I had a small crush on B. when I met him briefly about ten years ago. He, really, is exactly the kind of guy I should be dating.
The night of the show, my friend J. and I went out for rum drinks at a pirate-themed bar. After two exceedingly stiff drinks, I was feeling pretty good: buzzed enough to dance, sober enough to not make too much of a fool of myself. We went to the show, we ordered two more drinks, J. left early, and as I walked back in, wondering whether to stay or go, I passed B., who K. had introduced me to earlier.
"Hey," I said, touching his arm to get his attention, which I thought was a smooth move. "Have you seen K. and D.?"
"They're all the way up in the front," he said.
"Hmmm. My friend just left, and I'm trying to decide if I want to make my way all the way up there," I said. And then we started talking. It was one of those fun first conversations when there are no awkward pauses and you learn so much about each other in a short amount of time.
Maybe it wasn't such a short amount of time. At one point, D. came up and told B. that it was his turn to spin, but D. could do the set if he wanted. B. said sure.
It was loud. So loud that there was no chance of interrupting each other because when one of us would start speaking, we'd have to move our mouth to the other person's ear in that pleasantly forced-intimate way. We talked about country music and our shared admiration of the Nashville hit machine. There aren't many guys in San Francisco like that.
It ended when he had to go to the bathroom and I had to get water. After I found K. and the glow of the conversation wore off, I realized something. I had been cursing like a sailor the entire time. Eff! <=(This is how I usually curse.)
It feels like it's been so long since I've met guys who I like and who seem potentially interested in me. And it's so frustrating that I'm so woefully out of practice that I keep shooting myself in the foot instead of making a decent first impression. Argh.
“When Harry Met Sally” syndrome
When you have friends--especially good friends--of the opposite sex, the "What if?" thought is going to pass through your head. If, when you have that thought, you realize that you're attracted to the friend, it's going to become a crush. In college, I dubbed this the When Harry Met Sally syndrome. I don't think of it as a bad thing. After all, isn't this the ideal? Finding a partner who's your best friend too?
On Friday night, I went to see It's Complicated with friends, then we met up with some of the bros at a bar. They had been drinking since happy hour. We got there at midnight. A bunch of people went out to dance, and P., who I had a friend crush on earlier in our friendship, said, "Put down your things, we're dancing." I put down my coat and kept my purse on my shoulder. "Put down your bag," he said. I said, "No, it'll get stolen." He asked what would be the worst thing to lose, and I said my keys, because then, after losing everything, I wouldn't even be able to get into my house. "Hand me your keys," he said.*
"I hope you know this doesn't mean we're sleeping together tonight," he said as I handed him my keys.
Insert sound of record screeching to a stop. "What?" I said, mind racing as I turned back around to close my bag. "Where did this come from?" I wondered. But also, "FINALLY! A chance to find out if he ever liked me."
"So the thought has crossed your mind?" I asked.
"So many people have asked me why we're not dating," he slurred.
"Like who?"
"So many people," he repeated, in that frustrated tone drunk people have when they're fighting their beer-soaked brains to try to communicate something genuinely important. "I love you, N. I mean, I really love you." He gave me a huge hug, then kept one arm around me. He gets really lovey when he's bombed. "I have mad love for you. You are one of my favorite people. I want you to know my family, my friends--I don't do that with just anybody." He stopped and gave me another giant hug. "But," he began regretfully, leaning in closer, "I like Asians."
Which I knew all along, and which is why, when R. insisted that he liked me (when he was in another drunk lovey state), I knew he didn't.
At first, I was disappointed. The guys who I think would be a good fit with me either don't find me attractive or just want to hook up. But today, I woke up and saw it differently.
The three friends I've had crushes on in the past two years have a lot in common: they're all really smart, fun, thoughtful, and, in general, exceptionally good guys. But they all represent different things:
- A.: One of the smartest people I know. It can be a challenge to keep up with his brain, but it never feels like a competition. I love people like that.
- J.: There have been times when I've started to freak out about things, and he just puts his hand on my shoulder. Suddenly I feel calmer. Very subtly, he accepts where I am emotionally--without judgment--and points me in a more productive direction. He's the one who made me realize I need this kind of emotional balance in my life.
- P.: I've had deep conversations with all of these guys, but P. and I have been really honest with each other, and I love that about him. But he's also really, really fun. When he rallies people to go out, you know you're going to have a great time. He's more outgoing than me, and being around him help me be more outgoing.
Those guys' reactions to me have been equally telling:
- A.: Respects me for my intelligence and sense of humor. I feel smarter and funnier around him, and I feel safe enough to take risks, because it's OK to make a joke that bombs around him.
- J.: Totally had the hots for me. It was disappointing that that was all he felt, but I'm trying to look at the positives here. It was nice to be wanted.
- P.: Sees me for who I am and loves me for it.
So what I need, really, is these three guys rolled up into one. But the fact that I've found three great guys over the past two years who are almost perfect for me means I've figured myself out enough to know what kind of guy is going to bring out the best in me and what kind of guy I'll be the best partner for. Now, I just need to find him.
If you see this bag (only with 2 straps instead of one), please let me know
Full disclosure: This post was equally inspired by the Friday-night conversation and a Taylor Swift video that Kristin posted. Which does of course beg the question, why do I so closely identify with the emotional life of an 18-year old when I am twice her age? (That was a painful sentence to write.)
*My purse was, in fact, stolen, somehow while we were standing right in front of it. I should have trusted my instincts. If you see a bag that looks like this photo (right), but has two straps, it's mine. Seriously, no one else in San Francisco has this bag. If you can get it back, I will pay you a reward.
Coffee is for closers, aka closing the deal | Baby step #4
"I'd wish you good luck, but you wouldn't know what to do with it if you got it."
I was passing by my favorite bar tonight, so I decided to stop in for a happy hour beer. I figured if there was no one else to talk to, I could talk to my friend, who tends bar there most Mondays.
There had been a guy standing outside who looked like he could be my friend's younger brother: same surfer look, blond hair, and plaid shirt. He came back inside and sat down next to me, then immediately got up and start affixing something to the door. Me, my friend the bartender, and a couple other guys started talking about fried chicken. You know, as you do with strangers at a bar.
Hot surfer dude sat back down, and we started chatting. It turns out he's from my home state and not that far away. I think he's right out of college. (My 15-year reunion is in May.) We talked about fake IDs, he told me his foolproof method of faking the ID from our home state (a key element is having a friend who works at Blockbuster, because they use the same lamination technique), what we did for a living, NASA and rocket scientists, the cellophane he taped over the broken window in the door, other random things. Did I mention he was hot? And nice? And hot?
I realized, however, two things:
- I have no inner cougar. Some girls do, some girls don't. My friend J, who calls this kind of hot young thang a "puppy," does. I admire that. A lot. I mean, it would be kind of fun, right? It seems like it would be fun.
- I am not a closer. Even if, at some point, I thought, "I want to smooch this guy" or, perhaps, "I want to see this guy again," I have no idea how to get the conversation headed in the "exchanging phone numbers" direction.
I suppose "closing the deal" should be baby step #10 or something, but I'm really so hopeless after the eye contact thing that I don't know the proper order after that. So I apologize for the non-sequential baby steps. Expect more of the same. #22 will probably be "Introducing yourself" or something.
So how does one close the deal? Should a girl let a guy do that? If so, how does she pave the way? Thoughts?
As a sidenote: Ooh, young Alec Baldwin. So hot. So angry.
Date 7: The setup, aka Present your best self | Baby Step #3
One piece of dating advice that I think is really, really true is to be yourself, but be a better version of yourself. This isn't to say that you should mask who you really are or pretend to be something you're not in order to make a good impression (thus setting yourself and your date up for disappointment when the real you inevitably reveals itself down the line. It's to be the best you, the good you, but still the real you.
Still not buying it? Let's use an analogy. Sometimes, on weekend mornings, I leave my house with bedhead. I don't put on makeup. I wear the jeans and t-shirt I wore to the bar last night and they may still smell faintly of beer or smoke. I can't tell, because I smell faintly of beer or smoke. That's three-months-in me.
When I go on a date, especially a first date, I make sure my hair looks like how I want it, not how it ended up that day. I reapply makeup. I wear something flattering. I don't make myself look like something I'm not, but I put my best foot forward, physically. Although that's not the real me everyday, that's the real me on my best days.
It only makes sense to put your best foot forward, personality-wise, too, right? So why is that so hard to do?
A friend fixed me up on a blind date a few weeks ago. "Before you meet him, I need to brief you on O.," she said. "He's very dry. For the first few weeks I knew him, I thought he hated me, because he just didn't talk. But now he's one of my dearest friends and he talks my ear off."
Armed with this information, I met him for a beer. She was right. He was very dry. Very. I was working very hard to get him to talk and to open up. He didn't ask me many follow-up questions when I would talk about myself and seemed uninterested in what I had to say. (He didn't even seem that impressed that I was in a band, and let's be honest, if I don't wow a guy with that, the "life history" bag of tricks" is pretty damn empty.)
So I kept asking him questions. I filled the silent spaces. I made him feel comfortable, or tried to. And at the end of the night, he asked if I wanted to hang out again. I said sure.
As I thought about it after, I felt frustrated that I was working so hard. I mean, come on! It's a first date! Ask the girl some questions! Is this a sign of what's to come if we date? Am I going to have to do all the work? And I kept coming back to my friend's warning. That's what made me agree to see him again, because to be honest, it was a fine evening, but it wasn't fun. But he was opening up toward the end, and he was a nice guy. So why not?
And then I realized that as much as he wasn't being the real him, I wasn't being the real me. I was appalled at my somewhat forced laughter that night. I'm normally fine with pauses in conversation. I emphasized parts of my life that normally, I would not emphasize. I wasn't my best self. I was an annoying first date self. That helped put it all in perspective for me. I wasn't just giving him a second chance; he was giving me a second chance.
So I hope I make some progress on this step in "date" #2 (it feels like too much pressure to call the "getting to know you" evenings dates). We'll see.
Eye contact | Baby Step #2
When I read that a woman needs to make eye contact with a guy 13 times before he'll approach her, I had a dating epiphany. Though, like most of my dating epiphanies, it takes a long time for me to go from realization to implementation.
A couple of months ago, after my band played a show, I noticed a guy checking me out. I initially had to congratulate myself on recognizing that he was doing that. (My general obliviousness is my biggest dating obstacle.) But then I thought, "Wait a second! I can, with my actions, actually encourage him to come talk to me!" So I made eye contact. Twice. The second time, it was like I had sent out a homing beacon. The guy came right over. Nice!
We chatted for a bit about various things (nothing particularly memorable two months later). I don't know how old he was, but he had the awkwardness of a guy in his mid-20s, complete with goofy nervous laugh punctuating comments that weren't really funny. It's OK, though. He might have been nervous and I was nervous, and he was nice and I was nice, and it was a pleasant conversation. No sparks, though. He said he'd come see another show I was playing that Saturday, he asked if I wanted to hang out before then, I said I couldn't before but I could after. He seemed disappointed and asked for my number, which I'm sure was his way of making a graceful exit, and I was fine with that. I think we each realized, after talking to each other for about 5 minutes, that nothing was going to happen.
But the end goal wasn't the point. The point, for me, was that I made eye contact with a boy! Yes, this is stuff I should have figured out in high school, but for some reason I haven't. Baby steps.
Date weight and "hot girl" jeans
Ladies, you know what I mean by "hot girl" jeans.
Viv, over at Bread and Boys (my new favorite single-girl blog), just wrote a really great post on date weight. She writes:
But the term “date weight” takes the form of many names. Among some girls it’s also known as the “Hey baby” weight. It’s different for every girl, but it’s the size & shape you achieve when random people on the street eye you once-over and yell “Hey baby!”
Last summer, I was on fire. Well, as "on fire" as I get. Dudes were all over me, as much as dudes are ever "all over me." But I dated two guys that summer and smooched a third that year. I haven't done that well since college. I've been wondering why this year, I'm so off my game. Or rather, why I have no game. When I read Viv's post, I realized it's because I'm no longer at my "Hey baby" weight.
Like her, no one in their right mind would call me big. But I was running a lot more last year. I was fit and strong, and, probably more important, I was confident--I knew I looked pretty good.
The barometer of my "Hey baby"-ness became my pair of skinny "hot girl" jeans. When I bought them, they were like a trophy--a recognition of my physical accomplishments. I wore them out a lot last summer, and I looked gooooooood. By November, I could fit into the hot girl jeans, and they looked...fine. I wore them to a holiday party in December and kept asking my friend, "Do you really think I can pull these off? Maybe I should run home and change." (Yeah, I was that girl. Annoying.) By January, they were not to be worn in public.
And that's about where I've been ever since. Time to start hitting the pavement! I need to get my game back. Time's a-wastin'.
Photo by bluryee. CC 2.0.
Talking to Strangers | Baby Step #1
At brunch the other week, my friend KP and I started talking about dating, as we always do. She told me about a friend of hers who had just moved to Chicago from San Francisco. "You know what's different about Chicago?" he said on a recent visit back. "When you go to bars there, you don't just talk to the people you came with."
That is so true. I remember one night when KP and I were out with a group of other single girl friends. We were going to meet boys. Our friend T., who has a longtime boyfriend, found a spot where we all could sit--on the kegs in a side room--and we all rebelled. No guy is ever going to talk to us back here! But we were looking at it at too micro a level. No guy was going to talk to us, yes, but not because we were hidden away. It's because we were in San Francisco.
It's not that people here are unfriendly, it's just that it's not a "talking to strangers" culture. It's a "I go out to have a good time with my friends, and, maybe, their friends" culture.
I realized what I needed to do: I needed to learn how to talk to strangers.
Here's the other insight about dating in San Francisco that I recently gleaned from a friend: no one's got game. "You go to New York, you go to L.A., and guys know how to ask for your number," she said. "Here, all the girls are all third-wave feminist about it. They try to be interesting." At first, I wanted to disagree. But after about five seconds, I knew she was right. I try to be interesting. I talk about New Yorker articles and how effed up Iceland's economy is. That's interesting and challenging and life-partnery. But it sure isn't sexy.
So I'm starting a whole new tactic with this blog. I realized that--like sports, like learning an instrument, like anything, really--if I want to improve, I need to work on my fundamentals. I used to have OK game. Now, I have no game. I need to get game. Talking to strangers is step 1.
Tonight, after a slog of a day at work, I decided to take a detour on my way home at my friend's bar. I went in, said hi, and immediately A., a fellow musician who I've met before, said, "Sit down, have a beer." So I did. We talked about music, remote islands, pirates, the East Coast (he's from Pennsylvania). It was fun. Then he got up to start playing the house piano. Mission accomplished.
I was about three-quarters done with my beer and thinking of heading out when J. sat down. Out of the corner of my eye, he seemed kind of cute. I saw he had a hardbound book. OK, I can do this, I thought. "What are you reading?" I finally asked. We started talking about language, linguistics, where he's lived, where he lived with his ex-wife, and where I've lived. And, also, his girlfriend and her two kids. After a while, I had to head out and he had to head out, so we introduced ourselves in that oddly comfortable yet still odd way that comes at the end of a long conversation.
As I hugged my friend goodbye, he said, "Did you get that guy's number?" I told him about the girlfriend and kids. But it wasn't about that. I was pretty excited about the basic, though boring, achievement of just talking to someone I've never talked to before.
Baby steps. Next up: remembering how to flirt.
Email 19, Date 6: For real this time, I shouldn't date an engineer
Even though I had completely given up on dating in a fit of extreme frustration, I kept my OKCupid profile up. I didn't check it, I didn't even get on the site, but I figured, if someone saw it and felt inspired to email me....
N. apparently did, and he responded to my "The most private thing I'm willing to admit here" section of my profile: I have a deep, abiding affection for classic country and honky-tonk (Johnny Cash, Loretta Lynn, George Strait) -- but I don’t expect you to share my love of music that relies so heavily on tortured metaphors, melodramatic vocals, and awesomely twangy guitars.
Date: 7/14/09
Subject: HiyaWell, it's the usual story, I guess: your "profile photo" caught my eye, your other photos held my attention pretty strongly, and what you wrote about yourself sounds great, too (yeah, I do eventually get beyond the pictures). I'm definitely a collection of opposites, too, esp., now that I think about it, the ones you mention. I like your style and attitude, too, *and* you're pretty damn cute!
For what it's worth, amongst my music choices I've got a decent little collection of country music. I've got, in alphabetical order: The Carter Family, J.Cash, P.Cline, S.Earle, Lyman Enloe, Wanda Jackson [sort of counts?], Little Feat [ditto], L.Skynyrd [ditto again], T.Wynett, as well as stuff like Lucinda Williams, John Prine, Pete Droge,.... I say "hurray" for tortured metaphors! (Just not all-day/everyday, like anything else...)
So here I am. I'm intrigued -- write back if you are, too.
I was intrigued. I had seen his profile before. I may have even emailed him before. In one of his photos he was really hot: slightly chiseled features, eyes that sparkled with life, and attractively nerdy glasses. In his two other photos he was... Well, he looked 47. His age was the only reason I could think of that I hadn't emailed him. But at 47, he's young for the guys who are drawn to me online. So I, with absolutely nothing to lose, wrote a ridiculous email back, riffing on the following items:
- He wrote me on Bastille Day.
- He included a link to a Belgian website in his profile.
- Belgians and French have a rivalry.
- He admitted in his profile that he doesn't want to date people who live outside of SF.
- I genuinely admired his honesty about that, while admitting that admitting to that made me feel shallow.
- He described himself as quirky and brainy in his profile.
In his next email, he suggested we meet for a drink. In mine, I admitted that my only night free was about five days later (tonight). We made plans, exchanged a few more emails, and met up.
One could describe my attitude toward this date as pessimistic but open. One could also describe it as petulantly reluctant. In reality, it started off as the latter, then when I realized it would be cowardly to cancel, it became the former.
We didn't click. At all. But when he said that he was an engineer, that clicked.
I have nothing against engineers--two of my bros (who I love dearly) work as software engineers--but I can't date people who are engineers. My dad was an engineer. Two of my ex-boyfriends were engineers--no, actually, three. It's a way of thinking, of viewing the world as problems with single, definite solutions, that does not work well with my world-view that things are complex, that there are usually multiple good solutions, that not everything needs to be fixed. And perhaps most importantly, that I am not a problem that needs to be "fixed."
As I observed how N. took in information and processed it through an engineering mindset, I kept thinking, "This is excruciating."
To be fair, the conversation was not anywhere near excruciating. He was a really nice guy who had done a lot of really interesting things in his life. What is excruciating is that I know that I can't be with an engineer. I've learned that lesson. And yet I keep attracting them. And in times like this, when I am in desperate need of an ego boost, I entertain the thought of dating them.
So the next phase in 100 Emails, 20 Dates will be identifying things like this: patterns that have gotten me to where I am today--36 and single with zero prospects. The next phase will be fixing those problems. Expect many bumps in the road.
Email 18.1, Date 5: He’s probably not that into me
After posting about the guy who seemed happy to keep our online conversation strictly online, I worked up the nerve to see if his schedule had opened up. He responded, asking me about some things I had mentioned in my last email. He also said that he'd be in touch on Wednesday to let me know when he was free.
Ball's in his court, I thought. If he doesn't email me, then fine, he's clearly just not that into me. Wednesday night, I logged on to OKCupid -- no email. So I checked out his profile, wondering if I was really that into him.
He was online.
Now, on Match or whatever, it doesn't matter. You could completely stalk someone, and they wouldn't really know. But OKCupid pops up a little note: "[username] just checked out your profile." Caught in the act. I panicked, hastily closed the window as if that made a difference, and felt somewhat foolish.
The next day, I had an email from him. We made plans to meet for lunch, joked around a bit, and sent longer, more frequent emails to each other over the course of the next couple of days. At one point, he wrote, "You are a fantastic writer!" (He mentioned in his profile how words are important to him.)
We met for lunch, and it was immediately comfortable talking to him, though the conversation still had some of the first-meeting nervousness. He makes great eye contact. We dove right into a fascinating discussion on print and online media, ordered tacos, and talked some more. The conversation did peter out a bit, but my "I can only do an hour" lunch turned into about an hour and a half. I walked back with him to BART, and he gave me a nice hug goodbye, saying, "I had a great time. I'd love to come see your band sometime."
That, friends, is the kiss of death. If he was interested in me, he probably would have said, "Let's do this again," or something. It's sort of the musician's equivalent of hearing, "I'll call you" -- an implied continuation of the relationship without any plan to actually follow through. Wanting to be one of 50 or so people in an audience when I'm onstage at a gig that is likely to be weeks away felt like a romantic brush-off. But who knows? He does like music.
I sent him an email before I headed out of town for Memorial Day weekend reiterating that I had a fun time. We've exchanged a few emails since, but I don't really get the feeling that he's that into me. He seems like a nice guy, though.
And for those who think I'm prejudiced against short guys, he's 5'8" and I would definitely meet up with him again. So there. :)
Recent Comments
- N on About 100 emails, 20 dates
- Melinda on About 100 emails, 20 dates
- N on Two dudes review “Sex and the City 2″ and the anti-SATC apologist stance
- Liz K on Two dudes review “Sex and the City 2″ and the anti-SATC apologist stance
- E on Smartphones and other advances in dating technology
Recent Posts
- Two dudes review “Sex and the City 2″ and the anti-SATC apologist stance
- What it truly means to be lonely
- “I like you like more than friends”
- Smartphones and other advances in dating technology
- Girls are the worst wingpeople
Blogroll
- Alltop's Dating News
- Bad Online Dates
- Big Time Fancy
- Bread and Boys
- Living Flirtatiously
- Online Dating Paradox
- Ramen Advice
- The Sonia Show
- Why There Are No Girls in SF
Categories
- 100 emails
- 20 dates
- book review
- Bros Roundtable
- crazy Craigslist ads
- crushes
- dating
- douchebags
- horror stories
- me
- misadventures
- my friends
- news
- obstacles
- online dating
- podcast
- poll
- red flags
Archives
- May 2010
- April 2010
- March 2010
- February 2010
- January 2010
- December 2009
- November 2009
- October 2009
- September 2009
- August 2009
- July 2009
- June 2009
- May 2009
- April 2009
- March 2009
- February 2009
- January 2009
- December 2008
- November 2008
- October 2008
- September 2008
- August 2008
- May 2008
- April 2008
- March 2008
- February 2008
- January 2008
Copyright
100 Emails, 20 Dates is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at 100emails20dates.wordpress.com.