How to date a woman.

Men. I understand, based on a previous post or two, that you've all probably become pretty accustomed to me guiding you through the rough waters of grown-up dating. You're quite welcome. Let me see what more I can do for you.

First off, if you're reading this, it's not about you. I know a couple of you aren't going to believe that. A couple of you are going to read something here and think, "I'll be damned. She's talking about me." First, get over yourself. And then believe me when I say that it's really, really not about you. And if you still don't believe me, fine, then just suck it up and try to learn something. Because, let's be honest, I'm probably talking about you.

Step one. The ask.
Guys, I'm so serious about this I'm going to say something I don't think I've ever said before. Ready? Here goes...
I am thirty seven years old.
Know what that means? It means it is inappropriate, in every sense of the word, to ask me out via text. That thing your finger is jabbing away at? Yeah, it doubles as a phone. You want to ask me out, ask. With your hopefully really sexy, manly voice. If you sound like a small woodland creature, chances are we aren't going to make it anyway.

About the ask. Every girl likes to be pursued. All of us. Who wouldn't? It feels nice to feel wanted. But, alas, wanted and stalked are not the same thing. So if I've never met you, or if I haven't seen you in like twenty years, please stop telling me how great I am or that we're soulmates. You sound crazy, boy. You sound like a ring-hungry girl. Get to know me. Find out how I feel about the world and that I'm actually batshit crazy and that I look every single minute of my 37 years in the morning and then ask me on another date anyway. 

And we've got some time constraints that need to be addressed. If I hear from you between the hours of 11:47pm and 5:36am, nothing you say/text counts. That is all. 

Step two. The bill.
Yes, I skipped a couple steps. Just trying to hit the high points. The bill. Pay it. Shut up, man up, and pay it. I promise that, should you see me for follow up dates, I will do my part. I will pay my share. I will put out. But if I'm here because you asked me to be and you're douchebag enough to stare at the bill when the waitress (or - seriously? - bartender) sets it down, you deserve to get your hand stuck to your junk.

Step three. The action.
Remember a few steps ago when I said to call me the first time you ask me out? I meant it. It doesn't mean I'm not a modern woman. I will sext the shit out of you if you flirt right. I'm not really sure how this is a step, I guess I just didn't want anyone who's still reading to think I'm a prude. Basically, here it is. Anything that doesn't follow the first two steps is not a date. It's a booty call. I like a good booty call. But you know if a girl actually responds, you're never going to take her seriously. Girls, it's virtually impossible to shift the mindset of even the nicest guy out of booty call brain. So if you cave, it's on you. Not him. But guys, no one wants to hear you bitch and whine that you can't meet a nice girl when you can't pick up your damn phone to ask a nice girl out to a dinner that you will pay for, when all you're doing is drunk dialing random chicks post-midnight. You know who answers those calls? Skanks. So don't indulge in skank-attracting activities and then get pissy when nice girls spit at you.

So, boys and girls alike, if you are even remotely interested in anything more than probably drunk half-assed, half-mast sex, follow the steps. It is that simple. 

Again, you are welcome. 

Sock bun in the oven.

I’ve known a lot of pregnant people. And while I’ve always understood why it might make them uncomfortable when perfect strangers start fondling their bellies in the grocery store or something, I have never understood what the problem was when I, little old me, a dear friend and faithful companion, wanted to rub the baby. Or talk to it, super close up. Or bite it a little. Through their stomach. Okay, it sounds weird when I’m saying it out loud like that, but I assure you, in the moment – totally normal. To me.

Now I get it.

I was at a baby shower Sunday for one of the world’s most adorable pregnant people ever. Like a party trick, it seemed that most of her other guests were also incredibly, impossibly pregnant. Like going-on-13-months kind of pregnant. And I kept my hands (and mouth) to myself. I’m respectable. Respectful.

Let me just say this: it was not reciprocated.

Those women were manhandling me. Four, five of them at once. I walked out of there looking like I’d been on a three-day bender, I was so disheveled.

I had a sock bun on my head and you would have thought I was growing a kid from my scalp. Granted, it was adorable. It was soft and squishy and just the right amount of messy but still sweet and charming. And they could not keep their hands off of it. Just walking right up and touching it, like just because it sticks out it’s available for all to grope. I’m telling you, it was pretty close to violating.

People, hear me now: just because a woman has a sock bun does not give you license to poke at her, run your hands over her, get all up in her head to figure out how exactly it works and because you just can’t believe – can’t believe! – there aren’t any bobby pins in there.

I should be allowed to wear my sock bun proudly, without “asking for it.” Just keep that in mind, please, people, especially pregnant people who should really know better.