I’m going to preface this by saying I truly wish I was making it up.

I set myself up on a blind date with a beautiful, foreign, twenty-something man last weekend after meeting him at a bar. And by meeting, I mean, chatting for two seconds while waiting for friends, leaving, then going back into the bar to pull a stunt I had abandoned since freshman year of college. I was a few drinks into my evening, and he had been amiable during our little chat before…

“I’m really sorry, I never do this–” (blatant lie… it’s just been awhile) “–but I’d really like to see you again. Could I get your number?”

Why, yes, he said, I could. High five, self! Confidence, boosted.

We ultimately decided to meet for drinks the following weekend. Why did it have to be that weekend? Oh, because of course he was MOVING TO EUROPE the following week. The night I met him had been his going away party.

Naturally, the first date I’ve been on in months would have no potential to go anywhere. But he was hot, and I thoroughly enjoyed that accent. This was a pressure-free situation, and he showed up in a suit. Screw Europe. Europe had nothing on my evening out with this guy.

Things were great… and then came a random man who approached and started chatting Date up, gesturing to me and asking, “That your girlfriend?”

Awkward. Read More »

As embarrassing as this is, I must admit, that during my four years in college I, like most college students, had my fair share of random hookups.

Of course, as this was college, these hookups were mostly–well actually–completely fueled by extreme levels of intoxication and in some cases by peer pressure, with my girls telling me, “Oh you should totally hookup with him, he’s so hot.”

It’s not that I didn’t date in college, I did. It was just that the guys who wanted to date me were well, boring. I went out on fancy dates with guys, many of whom I eventually became good pals with, that were not guys I could see myself with long term (and for me, at the time, long term meant at least three months) and more importantly, were not guys I could see myself having sex with long term. Read More »

Dear Ladies, I want you to ask yourself a question I often times ask myself on the shameful walk through an apartment which I hardly recognize on a hung over morning. The man at hand’s name is still new to me and I’ve left him snoring in his sheets. His roommates are awake and have no fucking clue who I am, so I wave awkwardly and put my boots on as quickly as possibly. I tell them to have a nice day and I just know, as I stumble down the building’s steps, one of them is asking the other:

“Wasn’t that their first date?”, chuckle, chuckle, chuckle.

So the question of doom is this, ladies:

Are you really a lady?

I’ll be the first one to rub hot wing sauce on my jeans. I can be as tomboy as they come… can’t break a nail cause I don’t have any to break…so I know that I’m not a stereotypical “lady”. But when it comes down to sex, I’m starting to see that the “Anything Goes” handbook I’ve been using for dating might not exactly be relevant anymore. Read More »

Thursday night rolls around and being ready in time for the nightly festivitives of beer pong and flip cup requires that you skip your weekly date with the doctors of Seattle Grace.

No big deal, now that you can catch it on abc.com tommorrow right?

Well, to the Writers Guild (those in charge of writing every show you watch on TV) it’s more than a big deal.

So much so that today the writers decided to do something about it… picket signs, matching t-shirts, megaphones and all that hullabaloo- everyone loves a strike!

How does this affect you? Here’s the breakdown:

The Writers Guild (all 12,000 of them) feels they deserve residual payments for movies and TV shows viewed on the internet. Why shouldn’t they get a portion of the profit now that you can watch their work on the internet post walk of shame?

Yet the producers claim that the new media is still too new to figure out a way to compenstate their writers.

So what exactly does this mean for all of us die-hard TV watchers? Read More »

It’s 10am on a Friday morning and you are walking to class, which sucks because who wants class at 10am on a Friday, but nonetheless you are walking to class.

You wonder what possible good could come from being up at 10am on a Friday (um, your education maybe?) and then you see a fellow student walk by you in the quad. Is she on her way to class? Not unless she is trying to seduce her professor for an A. Decked to the nines in a skin-tight mini dress, you (all the while admiring the dress) think to yourself “where does this girl think she’s going at this hour?”

Actually, strike that. You never think that. It never even crosses your mind; we all know where she is going at this hour. Home. Her own home that is. Smudged mascara, heels in hand, messy hair and eyes glued to her feet, this girl is a dead ringer for… you guessed it: The infamous Walk of Shame. Read More »