Snuggiesutra

There's a chance you haven't heard of the abomination that is the Snuggie (I think half the haters out there secretly want one):



And just for fun, and your edification, we'll include the popular parody video, too:



Well thank the lord for the internet. Because some genius has created a new Web site, the Snuggiesutra. Because I just KNOW you were fresh out of ideas on how to integrate the Snuggie into your love life.

Here's one position called The Tablecloth:



"She lies on the table. He wears the Snuggie on his front while the bottom end covers her. It’s just not a holiday without stuffing."

If you're single, there's someting wrong with you

Katie Ett over at Unapologetically Mundane posted the following this week:

“More to Love” is my favourite/most hated show on television right now. I was torn between it and “NYC Prep” on the first Tuesday night it aired, but after watching 20 fat women cry nonstop for an hour, I knew I made the right choice, and I’ve been making it every week since.

I’m not a person who believes weight has anything to do with love. I’m not thin, and I’ve loved and been loved in return by all sorts of men, thin and not-thin themselves. (But mostly thin, because fat people are gross. (Kidding.)) These big-boned ladies all truly believe, though, that their one shot at love is this 26-year-old spike-haired real estate developer who likes to eat and doesn’t want a woman who watches her weight.

And they all cry about it throughout every episode. Their skinny friends get hit on at bars. They’ve never had serious boyfriends. They’ve never been on a single date. And there’s a reason for that.

If you’re single–if you’re perpetually single–and you don’t want to be, there’s something wrong with you. There, I said it. Don’t blame it on men being superficial. Blame it on you being a crappy date. Unless you live in the middle of smalltown Iowa, in which case I’m a little more sympathetic, but seriously, it’s probably still your fault, especially if you’re one of those assholes who scorns Internet dating. Whenever I hear some fat chick say, “I have no idea why I’m alone!”, I want to go through a laundry list for her, because it’s always so obvious. Even the guys who are willing to look past your weight can’t deal with your jacked-up face, your total lack of humor, your junior high vocabulary, and your skank clothes.

For instance, not a single one of the women in the two episodes of “More to Love” I’ve watched has said something funny. In fact, when Luke asks each of them in turn if they’ll wear the ring that signifies their staying on the show another week, each of them in turn says, “Of course.” I’ve been waiting for even just one of them to say “bitch, please” or fake like they don’t want it only to throw their arms around him and snatch it out of his hands a second later, but they’re all so worried about losing their “one” chance for “true” love that all behave like robots. Whiny, sobbing robots.

My boyfriend called the show depressing, but I really delight in watching these pathetic women mope around. None of them are actually the least bit interested in this guy specifically, as far as I can tell, and are only interested in him being interested in them. And he’s too pleased with the opportunity to grope 20 fatties to care. I mean, MAYBE the producers are hiding the parts where Luke and the ladies have deep, meaningful conversation about politics and religion, but it seems like the most intimate information the group has about Luke is the name of his dog.

I had a long-distance relationship like this once: the guy would want to talk about how interested he was in the sinking of the Titanic every single time he called me–I mean, he really, really loved the Titanic–and I just wanted to talk about how in love we were. But I realized I was using him, whereas these girls are planning their weddings.

And the worst part is that they make absolutely none of this secret to him. They tell him that they’d pursue their music careers if only they had better images. They tell him that they’re virgins. They tell him, “You’re my first second date.” And he uses these confidings as teachable moments where he gets to build their self-confidence by calling them sexy and telling them to believe in themselves. And they cry.

It’s pretty clear that in the end, Luke’s going to pick the thinnest/prettiest girl in the house regardless of her personality, and all the other girls who were using his choosing her as sole proof that there’s hope for fat girls are going to kill themselves.

I finally asked my boyfriend why I’ve been able to find love when these women haven’t, and he said, “Because you’re not psychotic.” Win.

Did you catch that part, beloved DIW readers, about perpetually single folk? It bears repeating: "If you’re single–if you’re perpetually single–and you don’t want to be, there’s something wrong with you."

That's what Katie thinks. What about you, is there something wrong with perpetually single folk?

More on being friends with exes

"The girls who work with my new girlfriend said you walked by the other day and were glaring at her."

"The girls who work with your new girlfriend know who I am?"

"I guess so."

"Huh. Why would I do that? That's stupid."

"I know."

"Did you tell them that I wasn't glaring, that that's just what my face looks like?"

"Yeah, I told her you just have sort of a scowely face."

"Thanks, dude."

Boobies

*** Editor's note: Alecia in North Carolina's a rare breed on Datingisweird.com, a guest blogger unafraid to use her real name. Take that, Anonymous! ***

So I met this guy online. We'll call him Idiot. Idiot and I spoke for a couple weeks via email, IM, phone calls and text. He seemed like a really nice guy and we had a lot of common interests. He lives about an hour away so getting together for coffee wasn't as easy as all that, but eventually we did make plans for a Friday night.

So, I get all dolled up. Black pants, sexy tank top, little make up, little perfume, I'm good to go. I waited for him to arrive with excitement and just a touch of nervousness, but I honestly just knew we were going to have a good time. Idiot arrives and gets out of the car to shake my hand and say hi. I hop in and first things first, we have to make a quick trip to Target because apparently he needed to get his nephew some birthday present. We're on our way and literally, about a whole 2 minutes into the ride Idiot looks over at me and says, "Your boobies look nice."

I'm sorry...uuhhh...what? My inner thoughts: "You're 29 years old and you still say boobies? And secondly, what the fuck dude?"

I didn't actually say these things; I just told him to shut up. Idiot laughs, "Okay, okay, sorry." So I thought to myself, oh he just had a dumb guy moment. We get to the store and everything is good. I move on, I forget for a bit that he mentioned my tits and referred to them as boobies. We arrive at dinner and Idiot orders a mass amount of food which I find not only disturbing, but also hilarious as he just got done telling me how "healthy" he was trying to be. Umm, yeah, when you order the salad, it actually stops being good for you when you pile a half a pound of cheese on it, and bacon, and chicken, croutons and a half gallon of ranch dressing. (no, I don't care that the bottle says "Light" - you're retarded) Anyway...as we sit there and I begin to munch, him shovel, I notice that Idiot's leering at me; staring at me in this very intrusive way that has me tugging at my shirt again.

Finally I look at him and I say, "What? Why the crap are you staring at me like that?"
Idiot: "You know, it's funny...out of all the girls I've dated, you're not all my type, HOWEVER, I kinda wanna do you right now."
My inner thoughts: "Do me? Did he really just tell me over my Greek salad that he wants to DO me? Awesome." The people at the table next to us gasped and choked. I felt their pain.

Me: "Can you bring me home now? No, like...right now. Stop eating, check, car. Let's go."

Signs

***Editor's note: Today's guest post is from Peaches. Thanks, Peaches! ***

You’re not sure he’s going to come over tonight, but just in case, you wait to wash off your make-up until just before you go to bed, and then fall asleep with your phone on your bedside table.

You find a shirt of his at your place. It’s dirty and sweaty, and you smell it. The smell is intoxicating.

You avoid meeting other perfectly cute, perfectly single and perfectly available people.

You send an anonymous post to Datingisweird.com, hoping he’ll read it, and leave her.

Chas

*** Editor's note: Today's guest post comes in from Louise. Thanks Louise! ***

Met Chas one summer in Moab, when I worked as a seasonal ranger in Canyonlands National Park. Ran into him at the Laundromat in town, exchanged stories, contact info. His claim to fame was that he had served as the body double for Brad Pitt during the filming of Thelma and Louise many years before. Now he was in his late thirties and beginning to show wear and tear at the edges. I was much younger.


He did in fact look remarkably like Brad Pitt in profile. Even from the front, except when he smiled - his face crinkled all the wrong ways. The weathered face and neck of someone who had stayed too long on the windy high plateau.


Soon after, he turned up at the Park just as I was getting off work. What I remember most was his cringe-inducing comment as we hiked the river path. "The park is so “sensual,” he enthused, "can't you just feel it." Later in the evening, more memorable moments. First, he assured me that he had recently been tested, undergone a health exam. Just a week ago as luck would have it, and he was STD free. Then he whipped out the paper work to confirm it. Just happened to have it on him. All the markings of a clinic certificate generated on a home computer.


Months later, curiosity kicked in. Rented Thelma and Louise CD to check out the Brad body-double bit parts to see if it was Chas. Only definitive shot was a headless camera sweep of Brad’s abdominal area in the motel scene with Thelma. Awesome abs, but prolly not Chas.

What would you do?

I recently woke to find a Canadian in my bed.

I’d met him the night previous, his name was Gus, and he was in town for some Ironman or something or other, and he was delighted to come home with me. After some rolling around, I went to the bathroom to freshen up, I washed my face just as mama always told me to do, and I brushed my teeth. But there’s a problem with brushing your teeth when you have a stranger you met at a bar in your bed.When you get back to bed, and Gus wants to kiss? No, thanks. I mean, his mouth tasted like Jim Beam and porter, and I think a few cigarettes. Oh, yeah, and we’d split an order of onion rings. Yikes.

Sorry, I digress.

The point of this story is the following morning. I woke up and looked over at him and all I wanted was for him to go the fuck away. It was a Tuesday, for shit’s sake. I had to work, I had an early morning appointment.

I wasn’t sure how to get rid of him, and looking back, I don’t think I picked the most graceful method. I got up without the morning snuggle he seemed to be leaning in for, I let out my cat, and I plopped myself down at my desk and started IMing my girlfriend, who was already at work.

(bing)
Jesus, I have some Canadian guy here, how do I get rid of him?

(bing)
Canadian? Is he hot?

(bing)
He’s OK. Beside the point. I want him gone. What do I do?

(bing)
What’s his name?

(bing)
Um, Gus, I think?

(bing)
Did he go down on you?

(bing)
Focus, dammit! How do I get rid of him? And yes, he did.

Of course, the sound of clacking and binging in the living room was all the cue he needed. He came out of my room dressed, asked directions back to his hotel, thanked me for the good time and got out of there.

So I was wondering, DIW folks. What do you do to get a one-night-stand to leave in the morning?

Funny like I'm a clown, I amuse you?

I like funny guys. Silly funny, irreverent funny, sarcastic funny, dry funny—whatever. If you can get me to laugh, you might have a good shot.

However. Jokes can be tricky.

Funny: Starting up a game of truth or dare on the first date, especially if you take my dare to borrow a cowboy hat from a dude at the end of the bar and wear said hat wile you dance a jaunty jig for me.

Less funny: You take a truth, and when I ask where you want to be in five years, you answer “I think we’ll be married, and at least have two kids. Three maybe?”

Funny: You meet my dog, who’s usually an asshole, and she’s nice to you. When I tell you I’m surprised, you shrug and say, “Kids, dogs and gay guys all love me. I don’t know what it is.”

Less funny: You tell me, while lingering at my doorway at the end of the evening, that I “feel like home.”

Funny: You text me the next morning to ask how I’m feeling, and I admit I must have hit the gin a little too hard, because I have a wee headache. You respond, “Oh, sorry, I guess I got a little aggressive with the roofies.”

Not funny: When we have coffee later, and I tell you that I really, really, don’t think we should date, at least not until your divorce is final, or, at least until you and your wife are no longer living together, you tell me multiple times that I’m “breaking your heart.” Um, we met yesterday.

Waaay not funny: At the same coffee/letdown date, you start to tell a story, then pause and say, “No, that’s a really good story. I only tell that one in exchange for sexual favors.” I respond, “Well, I guess I won’t be hearing it then.” You respond, “Really? No? Shit. There goes my plan for getting you pregnant right away.”

PBR and AC/DC really is the way to a girl's heart

Today's guest post comes in from T-bird. Thanks, T-bird.



After a night of drinks and dancing that had gone nowhere I was standing outside of the club having a smoke. Up walks a pretty blond woman looking at her cell phone, talking to herself.
"Standing by the car?!" she proclaimed "What do you mean standing by the car?!"
I felt the need to join into this conversation and added my thoughts. "No cars here... maybe around back? There are plenty of cars over there."
"No, She's in the bar. Stupid T-9 texting bullshit."
"I've watched it kill relationships before," I said truthfully.
"Me, too. Want to grab a beer?" She asked and I was shocked. I had just come out of a failed seven plus year relationship and wasn't sure how to handle being single again. I honestly got a little scared and took the fastest, safest approach I could think of.
"Sure, but I'm on my way to this kegger and need to hurry so if you want to give me a call later," I handed her a crisp new business card. "There is probably plenty to drink if you want to save yourself some money. Bring your friend too." As soon as I said it I gave myself a mental ass chewing. Three is a crowd you dumbass.
About five minutes later she calls and her and her friend are on their way to meet me at this party. Now the party was real but had been going on for hours and it was late. I was fairly sure that it would be over or at least out of beer but I hadn't really thought about that at the time. We get there and sure enough its over, there is no beer and pretty much everywhere else is closed at that point.
"I've got a sixer of PBR in my fridge if you ladies still want that beer," I offered thinking that there is no way that these two woman would go home with a stranger for a PBR and two oclock in the morning. I was wrong. Not only did they want to come over they were very excited about it. I couldnt remember if I even had a full sixer in the fridge or what state my house was even in.
We get there and the friend immidiately starts riffleing through the cd collection and pulls out some AC/DC, put it on and turns it up... loud. Luckily I did have a sixer and pass out the beers taking survey of my house. I quickely pick up some dirty clothes in my room and throw them into my walkin closet. There are a lot of dirty clothes in my walkin, some smelly.
"Take me on a tour," Cute Blond asks and procceeds to take herself on said tour.
I catch up to her standing in my closet.
"You have horrible fashion. I just want to go in here and throw all these clothes away," Blond says and she is serious. You can see it in her eyes.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," says I. "I do not, I rather like my clothes and new ones aren't cheap."
She start pawing through what is hanging up, bad mouthing every one of my favorite shirts. I step into the closet to make sure that she doesn't just start tearing them to pieces. Just then she turns around.
"You're cute," Blond whispers as she starts to pull off my belt buckle. I am at a loss. Maybe its because this is all so new to me or that I'm a little drunk but all I can seem to think about is that we are standing on and over every bit of dirty clothes from over a week.
Before I really knew what had happened we had done the nasty over my hamper full of socks. As soon as it was over she quickly said goodbye, woke her friend who had fallen asleep on my couch and left. I turned off the AC/DC that was still blaring and started a load of laundry.