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Posts Tagged ‘Dating’

Him: S’cuse me, I wondered if you could help me.
Me: Yes?
Him: I have a lactose intolerance… got milk? *stares blatantly at my breasts*
Me: *unimpressed*

There is not enough Jack Daniels in the world to make a line like that work. It’s not that I have anything against chat up lines; but perhaps in the 30 seconds it takes you to walk from your end of the bar to mine, you can think of something to talk about which doesn’t involve my bra.

The problem is any fool with a half-baked line he read on google thinks he can pull it off and I’m here to set the record straight.

Just because a few vodka-ed up girls with self-esteem issues have thrown themselves at you after you reel off some line about her dress looking great on your bedroom floor, doesn’t mean it’s going to work on me. Or in fact on anyone with an IQ above 40.

“Do you believe in love at first sight … or should I walk past again?”
For goodness sake go back to the drawing board and come back with something I haven’t heard twenty times before. There’s this thing called originality, why don’t you shock me to death and try it once in a while.

“There are 256 bones in your body! Would you like another?”
Pretty damn funny but you’re still going home alone. While I love a confident guy as much as the next girl, you don’t have to make it quite so clear that you think I look easier than a Sunday morning.

In fact this goes hand in hand with the guys that pester you to text them pictures of yourself a week after you’ve met them. “Please babe send me a picture of you in that sexy outfit” – calm down mate, you bought me a £3.99 glass of wine from Weatherspoons and now you expect a peep show? Heaven forbid you paid for a cinema ticket, who knows what you would expect from me then.

“I’m not saying this 2 impress you but, I’m batman!!!”
I’m not lying; I’d probably take this one home. What can I say; I’m a sucker for a man with a good sense of humour.

I mean there are guys who think they’re funny. Guys who look funny, guys who try so hard to be funny. But a guy who can actually string a sentence together and produce something that elicits a genuine laugh? Well ladies, if you’re reading, send that guy all the pictures he wants. He’s a dying breed and it’s our duty to do what we can to keep the species alive.

And for the gentlemen who aren’t comically inclined? Well I have a tip for you too: hit the gym. If you can’t make me laugh, then at the very least provide a Danny Cipriani-esque body to distract me from that fact.

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A first date is like roast dinner, if you follow the recipe you can’t go wrong. So call me Martha Stewart and take note.

Firstly, coming from a girl who has a naturally sultry (fine moody) looking face, believe me, a smile goes a long way. Spinach teeth syndrome aside – brush, floss, rinse please – it’s always nice to give your date a little indication you’re not inwardly singing along to Rupert Holmes Pina Colada song.

You notice the occasional dramatic pause at the end of every few sentences? He’s not waiting for you to input your opinion; he just tried to make a funny, and is waiting for your reaction. Insert smile here, or if you really like him, go all out and fake a laugh. And if the laugh is genuine? Well then lady he’s a keeper.

Physical contact is always a hard one to master. One of the most exciting parts of a first date is the sexual electricity that comes from never having touched before. In these moments, every ‘accidental’ graze of the knee and soft brush of the arm is like foreplay. Men are like little children and you are their toy; it’s not of much interest until someone tells them they’re not allowed to play with it. So in this case, less is more.

My next tip: seamless underwear. At one point in the date, you will go to the restroom. Partly because it’s nice to check your lipstick hadn’t got smeared onto your teeth from all the earlier smiling, but mostly because you want him to watch as you walk away. Work on your walk if you have to: storming off to the ladies with a walk last seen on Jurassic Park will probably mean his plans for a hot dessert, now involve something available on the menu.

For numerous reasons I will be stating shortly, I feel heels on a first date and the toilet-trip-saunter go hand in hand. A nice pair of six inchers will lift your butt, lengthen your legs and give you something to measure him by. I feel I can say this without generating offence, as I too am vertically challenged: if a man is shorter than you in heels, dump him. That’s my professional opinion and I’m sticking to it. There are exceptions I’m sure, but life’s too short for me to list them.

If your first date involves eating, I have two words for you… small bites. You’re mouth is supposed to be a desirable and sensual haven; chewing like a hyena and talking with your mouthful are qualities you want to hide from him as long as possible.

And lets be adults about this now, whether you like it or not, through the eyes of a man, your mouth is a pleasure portal. Honestly, if you allow yours to resemble a mousetrap, I assure you, his desire to run away will overpower his need for cheese.

Now time for a little mathematics: also known as, the first kiss. Not all first dates end with a kiss, sometimes the guy wants to leave you with the illusion that he respects you, other times he’s just shy. Now I don’t care if you’ve been staring lustfully at his lips all night and feel you may implode if he doesn’t press them against yours imminently.

You give him 20% – no more. That is the furthest you can lean forward without it seeming like you’re going to kiss him. You close the distance, and if he wants to kiss you, he’ll do the rest. But be careful, if he does start closing in on you, don’t jump straight for his mouth, as there’s a chance he’s just going for the cheek. I speak from experience. Poor boy seemed to think I just got lost on the way to his lips.

Infallible flirting tips aside; there is one aspect I cannot help you with. I can give you the wood to start a fire; I can give you the gasoline to douse it with, but if you don’t have a match to start the spark, don’t expect your world to catch alight. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but sometimes you need a little more than physical attraction; unfortunately great arms and a sexy smile can only get you so far.

Now when it comes to all this ‘true love’ malarkey, I’m the first to admit I’m a bit of a cynic. However, I’m ready to throw a bone to the romantics of the world and acknowledge that when you meet someone worthwhile, it feels like November 5th every day.

After all, every girl knows deep down when a guy’s worth shaving her legs for.

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Number one: do not insert your penis into any other area of any other woman. It does not matter how substantial your excuse may be, forgiveness is out of the question. Some women are insecure enough to stand by you despite your penal misdirection, but they’ll never truly forgive you.

I mean feel free to give it your best shot, and get real creative with the excuses; but it still won’t be good enough. Someone spiked your orange juice with Viagra and then you tripped over your pants and fell into her? Yawn. Better yet, you had an incurable disease and she was the only cure. I’m just not interested, and neither will she be.

Number two: Don’t always give her what she wants. Didn’t expect that one did you? Well I’m admitting that us women can be a bit of a handful, but that doesn’t mean you can’t put us back in our place (and no I’m not referring to the kitchen). Someone telling me to sit down and stop being so bloody annoying: kind of a turn on. After all, if I wanted a doormat I’d go to B&Q.

Alternatively some ladies demand a lot of presents (usually an after effect of the daddy’s girl syndrome) and while there’s nothing wrong with wanting, they should also become familiarised with the word ‘no’.  Eventually you’re going to have to decipher whom she’s planning on getting serious with: you or your credit card. And if it is the credit card, then you need to tell her to unhand the Prada and get a Saturday job.

Other girls demand a lot of time. Remember those guys you used to watch Top Gear with, the ones who used to kick your butt at Call of Duty, the ones who you’d watch every Spurs match of the season with? You know… your friends. Well they are unimpressed with the fact that every Friday night you now abandon them to be with your subsequent lover, feeding each other grapes, or whatever it is people in relationships do these days. And they will remain unimpressed four months down the line when you’ve broken up with your ball and chain and want someone to drown your sorrows with.

Number three: Don’t tell her you love her, unless you happen to mean it. Not being fully acquainted with the emotion myself, I’ll keep the advice giving at a minimum. Every girl wants to be told they’re loved. No girl wants to be told she’s loved only to find out three weeks later that what you actually loved was the fact she makes a killer hot-pot and bends like a pretzel.

Print this out if you have to, tattoo it to your foot, anything you like: stick to this guide and the chances of your past lovers torturing a miniature-voodoo-you on a weekly basis in hopes you’ll fall down the stairs and break both your arms will be significantly reduced. As the meerkat would say… simples.

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Technology is a killer. If it hadn’t somehow become an extension of me, I would take my new Kurt Gieger stiletto and drive it through the screen of my blackberry. I deleted Facebook once when it became the cause of a break-up, but eventually I went crawling back. I am a social networking junkie and I’m not afraid to admit it.

I’ve found over time that a lot of people are sarcastically challenged and getting across tone in a text message is a killer. Consider: “I can tell you miss me” and “I can tell you miss me”. One said in a jokey and playful manner, one said in arrogant and patronising one. And I doubt you can tell which is which any more than I can.

The moral of this story? Things get lost in translation, and it doesn’t take much to go from playful conversation to ‘I sent that text three hours ago why hasn’t he replied?!’

The problem is, once the ‘send’ button has been pressed, it’s game over. You can’t take your comment back, you just have to wait and hope his three brain cells manage to conduct a little power and decipher your message was a joke.

And then you sit there, desperately staring at your phone, urging it to buzz, checking to make sure you hadn’t spontaneously lost your hearing and missed the beep-beeping of a text. Looking to see if you have signal, turning your wi-fi on and off and then the ultimate desperation: calling your house phone to double check your phone hasn’t just become faulty.

Then you get annoyed with yourself, you’re a self-sufficient sophisticated woman, if he can’t tell that what you just said was a joke, then perhaps you don’t need him in your life. The self-empowerment mode never lasts long however and you shortly begin contemplating the ‘double-text’. Perhaps you should send a follow up text, to clarify you were joking. Surely that wouldn’t be such a bad idea, would it?

How can I put this mildly? Yes. Yes it bloody is. Worst idea you’ve even had.

Has it come to anyone else’s attention that you can go four days without receiving a single text from a friend or family member and then upon entering a stage of near paranoid-schizophrenia caused by phone watching, the whole world decides to call? You get through seven messages from t-mobile wanting to discuss the changes in your new price plan, beep-beep a message from your mother asking you to pick up milk and a notification from Facebook a Mr Gerald Fitzherbert (no mutual friends) wants to be your friend.

Anyways, he texts eventually, cool, calm and completely oblivious the fact you’ve been waiting by your phone for the last ten hours. And you’re so irrationally relieved that he didn’t reject you for not properly thinking out the content of your text that you forget to hate him like you intended to.

And if only the occasional in-comprehensive text was our biggest worry.

To be completely happy in a relationship, I’ve always believed you have to hold onto the lies. A little bit of delusion never did anyone any harm. If he tells you that when he went out, got drunk with his friends and came home at 6am he was actually thinking of you the whole night, why can’t we just be allowed to hold onto that?

We know that the scenario he presented us with was a complete fabrication, and he probably spent half the night buying drinks for a table of blonde Russian belly dancers. And while I’ve always been enough of a realist to live by the ‘look but don’t touch’ rule in relationships; that doesn’t mean however that I want to see 200-tagged photos of him on Facebook with Alena, Sveta and Vanya the next day.

I envy the people who lived in the pre-technology days, where people’s laptops weren’t ruining their love lives and mobile phones weren’t the cause of minor mental breakdowns.

You know it’s true what they say (and while I have no clue who exactly ‘they’ is) whoever it was who decided ‘ignorance is bliss’ deserves a beer on me, because boy was he onto something.

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Do Not Resuscitate.

You never know when something is the right decision, until you do it, and then you learn that it’s not.

Sometimes I wish I could hire someone to make all my decision for me, and then when it all goes wrong, at least I’ll have someone other than myself to blame. Other times I think a partial lobotomy would be perfect; if it was possible to erase all memory of my romantic past, then I wouldn’t have to tolerate the ‘what ifs’ and the ‘should I haves’.

The problem with refusing to let yourself be a victim to all those foolish hormones, which apparently imitate love, is that sometimes it happens without you noticing. Every now and then a guy will come along who will, for no apparent reason, get under your skin. And as my good friend sod would have it, you probably won’t realise till its over.

Ladies I warn you, a point will come, sometimes six days down the line, sometimes six months – when you wonder if you made a mistake. You wonder if you gave up too easily. You’ll start to ramble about the good old days when people used to fight for love. And you consider resuscitation.

This is the point when you need to find your most honest friend. The one who would happily tell you that your new £60 dress makes you look like a butch lesbian, not because she’s mean but because she cares. I’m lucky enough to have two such specimens. One is a tiny little thing, which compensates in volume what she lacks in height, and the other is so pale sometimes we’d invite her to sleepovers to save money on nightlights. Both are enviably beautiful, and equally harsh.

In 90% of cases, once a relationship is over, you need to slap a huge DNR on it, and move on. The problem is, a few months down the line, four or five bad dates later, you forget why it ended, and all you seem to recall is laughing together because you wrote all over him in a sharpie pen while he was asleep or him leaving cute notes all around your room to make you smile.

This, my friends, is when you need an intervention.

Most of the time, it’s not so much the specific person that you miss, more the feeling of being with someone. Also, I’ll admit not having to worry that you’ll die alone in a house full of shoes and empty vodka bottles, is also nice.

Take it from someone who refuses to buy a novel without reading the last page first: not knowing can be scary. But you know what’s even scarier? Running back into the arms of someone who probably doesn’t like you all that much. I’m wrong am I? Then why did he let you go in the first place?

I’ll admit, heartbreak can make us all a little delusional. So I suggest, we write it off as indigestion, take a nap, and forgo the drama. Sitting in bed for four hours, mascara about 6 inches lower than where it was originally applied and surrounded by soggy tissues is unlikely to get you very far.

You can type out ten different potential texts, save them all in your drafts and ponder which one he might reply to, or you could gain a little self-respect and stop being so pathetic. I feel having been in this very situation: plus one pink fluffy bathrobe, minus one dose of reality, I can be forgiven for the harshness. Criticism never seems rude when the target audience also encompasses you.

Perhaps what we need is a little pop-quiz to send out to all possible candidates who wish to be instated as lovers. Not so we can whittle down our options to the ones who brush and floss thrice a day, but so we can be clear as to how high our hopes are allowed to go.

1. Do you plan to marry me: yes, no, maybe. 2. Are you just here because you heard I’m amazing in bed: yes, no, maybe. 3. Are you likely to ever try it on with my any of friends: yes, no, maybe.

A little blunt I’ll admit, but I feel in the long run, this plan’s a definite winner.

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Gentleman’s Tip.

The first date paying war is what deciphers the boys from the men. My theory is pretty basic: you ask a girl out to dinner, you pay. You ask her out again: you pay. Third date: again you pay. After that all bets are off.

Don’t get me wrong, this is the twenty-first century and the clutch bags that were once filled with Audrey Hepburn type cigarette filters and breath mints now also home a family of girls true best friends… gold, platinum, visa, debit credit. And if at the end of each date the girl doesn’t pull out a few twenties and insist on paying her half, next time leave her at the kerb. I’m not saying she’s not the kind of girl you’ll ever marry; I’m just saying she’ll be walking down the aisle to Kanye West’s Gold-Digger.

The truth of the matter is, whilst us ladies like to pretend we are products of a modern society in which we are your equals, when it comes down to it, we want to feel special. I’m not talking about lavish spending sprees in Gucci; let me be clear, I’m talking about popcorn buying here. Don’t like it… then accept you’ll always be known as Mr. Nice-but-cheap. And when it doesn’t work out, that is how you will forever be remembered.

Despite my apparently blunt delivery of the truth (or at least, what I believe to be the truth) I understand that if you’re not a middle-aged businessman sometimes money can be a bit of an issue. So I’m going to let you in on a little secret. As long as the company’s good we don’t really care where you take us.

This isn’t a green light to take your lady of choice for a spin around McDonald’s drive through and end the night with a happy meal.

All I’m saying is, if a girl winds up at a beautiful restaurant having a lavish three-course meal with a man whose only conversational topic is golf, then the chances are she’ll contemplate accidentally impaling herself on the steak knife just to have an excuse to leave. The date in Starbuck’s involving a £4.99 coffee and muffin with the guy who makes her laugh is a much more likely winner.

Of course every woman is different, and the occasional ultra-feminist will probably find your bid to pay patronizing as opposed to gentlemanly. Though before this frightens you into leaving your wallet at home, I have some comforting news. I have never heard of a woman refusing a second date because the guy tried to pay for her white-wine-spritzer. Don’t offer and I guarantee that it will go straight to your ‘cons’ column, which she’s been constructing in her head all night.

Be it the next day, or two more dates later, either way I guarantee you will eventually be receiving a very awkward message about being busy with work and unable to find time for a relationship. Don’t believe me? Give it a go.

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Dear Idiot Man

Dear idiot man,

I write to you, and hope that you in turn pass this information on to future idiot men. Consider me the fire starter, and once I light your torch, I can only suggest that you pass on my flame. Now, allow me to be brief and explain this problem in terms you may understand.

Personally I like to think I’m an Audi R8: not quite as fast as the Veyron, not quite as cool as the Enzo, and definitely not as beautiful as the DB9. Calling myself an Audi, I’ll admit is possibly a little optimistic, but if you don’t think highly of yourself, believe me no one else will, so that’s my claim and I’m sticking to it.

Now, being a single woman in London feels a lot like being a Y-reg Vauxwagen Lupo. The kind with stiff gears and squeaky windscreen wipers – the poor mans choice. Men seem to be making the assumption that if a car hasn’t been driven for a while, it will be thrilled by the first offer to go for a ride.

You see where I’m going with this? While my friends in relationships are getting regularly serviced, the surrounding mechanics think that a little Lupo like myself would be happy with an ‘oil change’ every once in a while. Well it doesn’t quite work like that.

Don’t get me wrong; some girls will call for a little roadside assistance every now and then. Others of us however are quite happy to wait in the garage until the right scart lead comes along to jump start our battery. So remember, your key may fit the ignition, but don’t buy the car mats just yet, it doesn’t always mean the ride is yours.

Before you write Alan Day a large cheque for a new car, you’re going to want to take it for a test drive, right? Well to us girls, a date is a lot like a test drive. If I’m not happy with my trial, there’s no way I’m taking it home. So what if it looks good, if it seems healthy under the bonnet, if I turn on the sound system and Your So Vain is blaring out the speakers, you may as well forget it.

It seem like we’re asking for a lot, so on behalf of woman kind, I add that most of us just want a guy who knows how to change gears without crunching. And if this all seems a little too much for you, then perhaps you should stick to an automatic for now. I guess it’s all a matter of preference.

Yours Sincerely,
-A woman, who probably thinks she knows more about men and cars than she actually does.

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