What the hell is “Date Night” ?

March 18, 2014 § Leave a comment

What the hell is this “date night” I’ve been hearing so much about lately? It’s like a weekly or bi-monthly rotation of mandatory dining experiences paired with a splash of splurging on high priced entertainment in the hopes you might get laid by your chosen partner (yes, the partner has already been chosen years ago, legally bound in some cases). Is this an attempt to recreate the stage of butterfly swoon and initial wooing. That is… if I understand this correctly. Or perhaps a chance to pretend you live a different kind of life with the person you chose to share your life with. Isn’t that just called: role playing?


I’m perplexed by this idea because I enjoy Mister Red on mundane in-bed-by-9pm-Wednesdays as well as nights we see movies after getting tipsy at happy hour. I’m not ‘dating’ him anymore, in fact, I’m happy to not be dating him. There is a lot of pressure in dating. I usually take too long to get ready and ultimately end up wearing the wrong thing.

I don’t aim to squander the precious selected evening parents have planned to be child-free and go out to share adult time. I just want to come up with another name for it. In this case it’s not Date Night, it’s Freedom Friday, or No Drooling Night Out. How about something like: Thank-god-someone-else-is-watching-my-offspring-terrors Tuesdays. Clearly you aren’t dating your spouse, you just want to remember why you let him knock you up in the first place. You do need an evening for that, alone.

Surely another term would be fitting, especially for DINKs. DINK couples (Dual Income No Kids) have less elements to get into place in order to plan a night out accompanied by the person they LIVE. Counter parts with offspring have to deal with things like soccer practice, 3 year old tutu night, as well as finding a 13-18 year old neighbor girl who is vaguely responsible. DINKS don’t deal with all that red tape. Basically going out to eat, drink, socialize, see art, get cultured, bang like rabbits doesn’t require an e-vite three weeks in advance. Can’t these people just say, “we went out to dinner” without having to qualify it was “date night”. Who cares?! I expect that if you are both working full time, co-habitating, without kids, you probably have enough spare dough to pony up for a couple of cocktails and a nice steak. That’s the beauty of being a DINK. You can go out to dinner when you want, whenever you want, and you don’t have to answer to anybody about it. Skip the date part and just say what you were doing.

People are fishing for small talk when they start a conversation about what happened or what’s going to happen on “date night.” Either that or its some sort of humble-brag about their lover who still takes them out and even though they fight constantly about sex and dishes, but the relationship is still a strong one because they still make it a priority to spend money together. Hashtag that shit on instagram (#datenight), pictures of forced smile selfies, food half eaten, marquees and tickets, mirror shots of outfits, and lovey-dovey collages of him, her, dessert, and drinks. We are all guilty of it on occasion. But speaking to it’s excess, I think people might be trying too hard to impress the Internet. From my own experience, sometimes we get into a heated argument on nights out. It’s like the moment we have allotted to spend some much needed time with each other is the moment we got to hash out the issue with the dishes. Someone gets defensive, there is eye rolling, and if I would have held that night up to a mandatory good time, I’d be pissed. However, part of being in a relationship is airing grievances about shit that pisses you off, and if that happens to land during Date Night, well, tough cookies.

I get that sometimes we are all looking for some pre-packaged experience to carry us away from every day strife, I used to make money off of creating escapism. If you are doing something simple, the term “date night” puts shackels on an otherwise low pressure evening.

“It’s Date Night so we got to make it count.”

“GASP! Don’t bring that up right now, not on Date Night.”

“This is turning into the worst Date Night.”

“You took me to a food truck on Date Night? Gross.”

“It’s Date Night, don’t leave me on the side of the road to walk home.”

It feels a tad high maintenance.

Per usual, I like to hit my point home with a little urban dictionary. Look further for the truth.

Date night is the negotiated exchange of a night out for the lady resulting in anal sex for the man.A double entendre derived from the dried date (fruit of the date palm) resembling an anus.
M: ‘So is Wednesday night date night?
F: ‘Only if I get a three course meal, a show and we arrive in a limo.’
M: ‘Do we get to do it in the limo?’
F: ‘Throw in the best champagne on the menu and you’ve got a deal.
M: ‘I love date night.’
Never have I negotiated a ‘date night’ according to this, but maybe I should, just to see what all the fuss is about? Date Night: Unless everyone is referring to back door doings, it’s weird to call it that. Stop it.

Punctuation, Acronyms, and Emoticons

March 11, 2014 § 3 Comments

REPEAT ALERT: This post was first published on 3/9/2011 (almost 3 years ago to the day!) Recently a friend of mine was trying to dissect a few texts from a prospective lover and I thought we could all use a little reminder about textequette. Enjoy. 

Five years ago, I was against text messaging. I wasn’t alone. I was fighting the good fight along with some other people who just plain didn’t want to give the mobile companies a dime more than they had to for basic service. With the help of the Blackberry, an epidemic occurred. Our non-confrontational culture cowered behind 26 characters and a handful of punctuation marks. Text messaging, email, and whatever BBMing is joined the textual phenomenon of chat rooms and instant messaging. Texting has now evolved to include an acronym for just about any phrase, and little smiley faces to convey emotion robotically (I feel hap-py). Yet, how is it we still don’t have a sarcasm font? That’s the fatal flaw of the text.  And now, cursive has been stripped from elementary curriculum. There are 8 year olds out there who cannot write their names, but BBM faster than an executive in a company issued sexual harassment workshop. We’ve created these monsters.

I have to say texting isn’t all bad. It’s an incredible way to pass information. Addresses, phone numbers, a “hey, I’m here” and a “I can’t talk right now” are excellent examples of the usefulness of this tool. Asking a girl out via text message is an example of using it to be stupid. Talk about impersonal. Although somehow, we, the modern ladies of this world, are allowing it. Most women, if they were being honest, would really rather a phone call, and will try to condition you to do so, hinting at it whenever possible. But if you’re going to be stubborn about it, let’s lay some ground rules.

A little grammar goes a long way. You are basically writing me little love letters, spelling and punctuation count. If you’ve graduated from college it’s pretty much inexcusable. If you’ve earned your masters or above, there better be some five dollar words in there and plenty witty articulation.

You shouldn’t rely on emoticons and punctuation for your expression. We realize as a gender, you are nearly incapable of communicating your true feelings. If you are going to deny us the inflection of your voice, or reclusive body language you are going to have to try a little harder than a bold yellow face drawn with the skill level of a first grader. The over use of smiley faces and exclamation points tell me you have the vocabulary of a chimp and cannot expand your vernacular to include adjectives. Get a dictionary, there’s an app for that.

I hahaha, I do not lol. In fact, I’m pretty much oblivious to all acronyms. LMAO, DWIM, TXUL8R, BTW, OMG, WTF, ROFLOLTSDMC, and my favorite: BUDWEISER (because you deserve what every individual should ever receive). This is not, nor will ever be, the English language. You are slaughtering it.   The over use of acronyms gives you the likeness of a computer, generating a preprogrammed retort instead of a sincere reply. Flat out: texting in acronyms is annoying, call me, mister. Use your words, choose them wisely.

As a general rule, proof read your texts. Doesn’t take much. Auto correct could be the difference between and date and a slap in the face. When you assess the text and realize you have more than one unwarranted exclamation point, ellipsis or emoticon, just omit them immediately. And if you’re taking too long to compose a text, or type out an explanation, you should’ve probably just called in the first place.

You have to think about how a text reads: Hi Internet Bachelorette (wink face) it was nice to meet you (exclamation point) Let me know if we can hang out soon (exclamation point) But alone this time (El-oh-El) and (Bee-Tee-Dubs) You me and a bartender (El-em-Ess-oh) But for real (ellipsis) Give me a call (exclamation point, exclamation point, exclamation point) (smiley face) Talk soon (ellipsis) (wink face).

It doesn’t even sound human. This is not a joke, you sound like this. And why am I the one who has to call?! Are you that busy? Should I schedule a conference call with you and your mama? Is chivalry really that dead or are you just that much of a pussy? Guys, really, don’t be girls. There are enough of them, step up to the plate, be a man. Get your phone out of you pocket, go into your contacts, touch my name, hold to your ear, and listen for the ring. It’s a gamble, but you might get lucky and get my voicemail. Or you might reach me, live and have to have a conversation in real time… gasp!

Nudist If I Want To

March 4, 2014 § Leave a comment

The constant parade of innovative textiles has got me dizzy. Who exactly are the magical deciders of the acceptability of leopard print? And how much is too much? And should I be wearing it now, or 6 months from now? For the record I just purchased my first leopard print item a couple weeks ago. It’s a thong, and I’m still afraid it might be over the line.


I have constant apparel anxiety. Fear of fabrics: chiffon and terry cloth are both big triggers. Fear of accessories: I shouldn’t wear a necklace with a turtleneck, but what about a scarf? Fear of prints, patterns, and mismatching leathers: belt has to match the boots and the handbag. I’m always thinking I either look too fat, or I’m not hip enough. I’m either bland or outdated, which ultimately ends up looking like I’m either trying too hard, or not enough. Fashion walks a fine line on the catwalk.

When I step out the door I think, “fuck, am I wearing the right thing? Am I overdressed? Underdressed? Not dressed enough? Too many layers? Should I add a layer? Do I bring a coat just in case? Will it fit in my purse? Am I going to be hot? Cold? Am I wearing the correct footwear for all possible activities of the next 5-8 hours? Do I have pit-stains already!?”

Once I freak out about the functionality of my outfit I go back to the trendiness of my flare. “Too much? Too little? Too casual? Too athletic? Too slutty? Too Amish? Could this pass for maternity wear? Do I look like a doily? Is my cellulite a stand out feature from the rear? Whoa, is that my bra line!?”


Even if I was as fashion fearless as Lady Gaga, I’d still just want to wear movement clothes. I can’t be restricted. If I can’t do the splits, or break out into jumping jacks, I’m just not comfortable. Thank God for spandex. I live my life in it. I’m sorry to all the negative Nancies naysaying the legging, but it’s all I want to wear. I don’t care if you can see my camel toe, these are the only pants I don’t have to hike up before I sit down. Preventing the gaping waistband and thong song from being stuck in my head is top priority. I don’t and will never do crack. I wish to always bend over unafraid of possible plumber butt.

These days, I don’t get a lot of joy out of fashion. I like looking at clothes on the internet, sure, but actual shopping is like popping into best buy for the latest album from Dave Mathews Band. It’s just not done anymore. Even if I have money to spend and an event to parade around at, even if I just lost 10lbs (honestly, its much more fun to go into the dressing room when you’re feeling your lightest), I don’t have expendable schedule or income for this type of charade. Take off you clothes, put on the clothes, look at your ass in the clothes, consider the price, consider your ass again…. Do you feel like a sausage? Try the medium. Try the small. Try the large, just in case. Get upset because the large actually looks the best. Is this a skinny mirror? Sit down, stand up. Twirl. Marvel at the parts of your body you can never quite fully examine without a three-sided mirror. Consider your ass again. Cry. Almost strangle yourself getting out of the garment. Leave with nothing.

Although I admit to my Pintrest wish-closet, when I go to recreate these looks, I can’t handle the price tag. Always a bargain shopper, I’ll go dumpster diving for the spring’s hottest looks on a budget. However, I’m starting to learn my lesson. Forever 21 is like a fast food dollar menu. You like the price, but most of it is garbage and makes you look a little heavier. I’ll even lump H&M in there too. Most of that shit sits in my closet untouched because it’s either itchy, lopsided, or somehow hikes up to my chin when engaging in activities like walking and sitting. But I suppose, I got my money’s worth if I wore it twice. That’s the longevity of these happy meal bargain buys.

So what gives? I can’t be trendy because I can’t afford to buy a new wardrobe every 6 months. I can’t be comfortable because Cosmo is frowning upon it. I can’t give up because I work hard to maintain a certain physique not to wear flattering outfits (or let flattering outfits make up for my lack of a certain physique). I can’t win these battles. I don’t know anyone who can. Maybe the trophy wives of certain athletes?

I’m getting too old and preoccupied with other real life traumas to be worrying about wardrobe. I wonder if people judge me for wearing the same 5 things out in public? I wonder if my boyfriend judges me. But what’s wrong with 5 classy, comfortable outfits on repeat? My closet is like the last Dave Mathews album you bought with the jewel case.

I’m literally 5 outfits away from being a nudist.

Fuck fashion. I’ll be a Nudist if I want to.

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