Your shoes, babe.

So I'm out with Gwen and Wes, our most fabulous of fabulous gay friends, and Wes whispers to me that there's some adorable dish eyeing me from across the bar.  I casually look up over the rim of my dirty dirty martini and see that indeed, there is a lovely specimen of man giving me a shy smile.  I'm sizing him up immediately (as I'm sure he's doing to me) and have yet to find anything deterring me from the approach.

Well groomed hair, nice button up shirt, perfect teeth, either whiskey or scotch on the rocks and--are those--dimples?!  I'm a lost cause at this point.

I grab my clutch and drain my 'tini and head in the direction of the bathroom to powder my nose (with the pretense of going in for the kill on my way back), and then I see them.

Below his well-pressed slacks (crease and all), his feet rest beneath his stool encased in dirty, beat up cross-trainers.

Ugh.  There goes my hard on.  I get into the bathroom to fix my makeup and tell myself that all is not lost.  He could be on his way to or from the gym.  He could have been walking to work or on his way to pick up his shoes from the cobbler (do people still go to those?!) and I'm making excuses for him before I even met him.  You may think it's judgmental, but quick judgments are an evolutionary tool that we've developed to avoid wasting our time with those less than worthy.  But I've talked myself into giving him a chance by now because of those fucking dimples, and am determined to figure out those ghastly shoes along the way.

When I leave the bathroom, he's paying his bill.  He turns to me and gives me a little wave, and walks out the door.  I get back to my seat between Gwen and Wes, and the bartender comes over to hand me a business card.

"The guy left this for you," he says.  Underneath his name, it reads Life Coach.


"Is this a joke?"  I ask the bartender.  I can't tell if it's flattering that he gave me his number or a dig that I need some kind of life coaching help.  Therapy, yes, probably, but life coaching?  Gwen and Wes are dying of laughter.  The bartender shrugs.  I toss the business card in the trash.

Wes pays for my next dirty dirty martini and takes my hands.  "You don't need a life coach," he says.  "You need to get poked.  And not by some "life coach" in bad shoes."

PilloWTF Talk

A couple of years ago, through a random series of events that I will not go into right now but probably will in the future, I was in the midst of drunken mistake sex with a guy friend of mine and he paused in the middle to declare his intentions to me.

"This doesn't mean I want you to be my girlfriend, or that we're dating."

I quoted that directly, as it was burned into my memory and will reside there until I bite the bullet.

Right after him, I dated a man who asked me to be his girlfriend while we were in bed together.

Most recently, I was dating a man who would discuss at length how our relationship was "undefinable" while we were in bed.

Above all, overwhelmingly, I want to know:  since when is the bedroom the right place to worry about if you have to change your relationship status on Facebook?

- Smashy

"...in bed."

My fortune cookie from this weekend's Chinese food/tequila binge gave me a totally shallow compliment.  Like any good woman, I ate it up.  I know I'm a smart cookie (pun half-heartedly intended, it IS Monday) and enjoy compliments about my intellect, humor and wit, but let's face it - sometimes you want some cookie to come along and tell you you're pretty and popular and lots of people like you.

I don't take compliments like a normal person because I vacillate between bracingly self-deprecating and off-puttingly confident.  Even in my mid-twenties, I'm still trying to strike the right balance between humility and self-assurance when someone says something sweet to me. 

Once, a gorgeous man told me I needed more self-esteem and I told him just because I didn't reply to every compliment with "I know, right?!  I really am hot!" didn't mean that I didn't believe it.

Do I think I'm pretty?  Yes.

Am I still going to be visibly uncomfortable and blush like a dweeb when someone tells me?  Yes.

Unless it's a cookie.

- Smashy

Dipping Your Pen In Company Ink

Everyone tells you not to do it.  Bad for the work environment and all that.  I've done it a few times and had it turn out many different ways, not always in my favor, of course.  But I feel like everyone is obviously overlooking the potential of parking garage sex on your lunch break. 

- Smashy