Winning the Lottery

I feel like talk of this $900 kagillion lottery jackpot is all over my facebook and twitter feeds today. I even had an extended conversation with Soul Twin about what she would do if her ticket was the winning ticket. So, thought I, let me take a break from my dating-angst-filled posts to do something light-hearted. Which, being the Debbie Downer I tend to be, left me feeling not so light-hearted.

Here are the things I would do if I won $100 zillion:

1) Pay off my own student loan debt and the student loan debt of everyone I love.
2) Buy a condo in JP and a hybrid car, and adopt a dog. 
3) Pay off my parents house and all their debt and set up a fund so that my mother would never have to work again, unless she wanted to.

And then I drew a blank.

There are other things I want (mostly lots and lots and LOTS of clothes and shoes) but I often feel like if I could just have those basic things, I could be truly happy.

And I mean it.

I am resistant to the idea that money can buy happiness. We all know, in theory, that it can't. But what it can do is expunge the financial mistakes of the past. It can make them virtually disappear--like they never existed. Money swirling out of nowhere, crashing back into nowhere, and leaving something like freedom in it's wake.

It's fun to dream about, no? A financial reprieve so great it's akin to a new life. A life where no dress or apartment or vacation is too expensive. Where eating out for every meal is an option, and deciding between cage-free and not-cage-free eggs to save a dollar is a thing of the past. I feel like the question for me is less what I would do with all that money and more what would I do with myself. What would it be like to be a person with no real financial burdens?

One night last fall, I was riding my bike down Brattle Street when I passed a particularly splendid North Cambridge Home. It was huge (duh), old (most likely) and had a rainbow stained glass window inlaid in the (oversized) front door. Before I passed the house I had been talking aloud to myself, something I frequently do while riding my bicycle, discussing why I was feeling so guilty about having abandoned my homemade lunch in lieu of eating (yet another) Chipotle burrito. "I feel guilty," I believe I was saying, "because that was my last 10 dollars. What if something comes up? What if I need to go to the chiropractor? What if I need to buy tampons or toothpaste? I'm down to zero." And then I rode by that house and thought, "The person who owns that house is never down to zero." And then I cried. Crying while riding my bike is also a frequent occurrence, and I cried the remaining two miles home.

I know I have so many essential aspects of my life that could not be purchased. I have friends with whom I share my life (who share their lives with me), friends who are so much an essential part of my heart they are family. Not LIKE my family; they ARE my family. I have parents and a brother who I love and trust. The safe space in which my parents raised me allows me to remain emotionally open even in difficult situations. Not to mention being born into a middle class family, raised in a safe neighborhood, given access to healthy foods, etc. My life is good. Quite good in fact.

What would an inordinate amount of money actually bring me? It would be nice to buy any dress, go on any vacation, eat out at any restaurant, but does my happiness really hinge on those things? Of course it doesn't. OF COURSE it doesn't.

While laying in bed writing a few days ago, I began to dissect my sadness. I say I want to have more money, more clothes, more love. What do I really want?

I want to acknowledge the unearned gift that is my race, my upbringing, my education, my cushy job. Because even though I often find my life comparatively lacking, the truth is, in the history of the world, I am so, so undeservedly blessed. And in the end, I want that to be enough. I want what I have to be enough.

I wish there were a lottery for that. I would certainly buy a ticket.

Deb Loves to Crochet: Blumhofer Baby Blanket

While throwing around present ideas for my friend Becca's baby shower I all of the sudden remembered that I could crochet! Having only left myself two weeks to make a gift, I decided on a baby blanket because, being pretty much just one big square, I assumed it was most likely within my skill and time limitations. I knew I didn't want to do something traditionally pink for her soon-to-be-born baby girl, but decided to find a pattern before making a decision about color.

My friend Jan and I headed to JP Knit and Stitch that very afternoon. I explained my situation to one of the women working there who gave me three options in terms of patterns. But the minute I saw the Purl Bee Giant Granny Square (particularly after being told that the only stitches I needed to know were chaining and double crocheting) I knew it was for me, and I knew I would make a rainbow.

Now, I am a relatively new crocheter, so I had no idea about the labor intensiveness involved in crocheting a good size blanket. I ended up having to return to the store for more yarn a few times (crocheting, as I learned, eats up a lot more yarn than knitting) and had to spend every free moment of that two weeks working my hands until they ached. At 4am the morning before the shower, I decided the last two rows of purple looked like a lovely border and declared it done.

I think it turned out really well, and I hope little baby Lydia is enjoying it now that she is out of the womb and in the world. Her mom and dad are so special to me, and I can't wait to meet her!

Pattern: Purl Bee Giant Granny Square with Tutorial
Hook: 5M (H)
Yarn: Berroco Comfort - Knitting Worsted Weight
Colors: Pimpernel, KidzOrange, Primary Yellow, Turquoise, Cadet, Purple

 4 Rows in

All 7 red rows, plus first orange row

Red and Orange (14 rows) plus first yellow row

Red, Orange and Yellow  (21 rows) plus first green row

Red, Orange, Yellow, Green (28 Rows) plus first blue row

FINISHED!!!

Adventures of the Dating Impaired: Part 2

Well, friends, here it is, the long awaited part 2 of my dating adventures. Part 2 actually took place over the course of many days last week, but it has taken this beautiful sunny day and the wearing of my prettiest, flowiest, chiffoniest, pinkest skirt to give me the strength of mind to share it with all of you. So here goes...

After the debacle that was the first date, I was shocked to hear from the gentleman the DAY AFTER. Unheard of, no? He texted me to say he had a good time, and that we should do it again soon. I was floored. I immediately called Elizabeth about to hyperventilate with unadulterated terror. She had to remind me that a second date with a man who had witnessed my crazy and still wanted to hang with me was in fact a good thing. Three hours later I was calm enough to text him back something that didn't involve yelling about urination. 

In the time between dates (almost two weeks actually, due to our travel schedules), there was pretty much no contact at all. People kept saying, "So, have you guys been texting?" No. No, we were not. My brother asked, "Well, do you WANT to text him?" Oh, Brother. I have NO EFFING IDEA.

I'm sure you might have noticed that the first blog contained not a single detail about this man. I will share some of them with you now. 

The Good Things: 

Emotionally open. Warm. Easy to laugh. Smart. Natural conversationalist. Question asker.

The Not So Good Things:  

Pretty unkempt. Looked vaguely like Brother. Mustache part of beardiness grew over his upper lip, something that my brother's mustache often does and something I consistently tell him will deter any woman from wanting to kiss him.

People also kept asking if I was attracted to him. If I wanted to kiss him. To which I would respond, Oh, People. I have NO EFFING IDEA. 

But "no effing idea" is not a "no." So on a second date we went.

This is the place where I would like to say that none of the not so good things about this man were in any way deal breakers for me. I, in fact, realized that my whole deal breakers blog was complete bunk, as a man could love Catcher in the Rye, Garden State, wear a ratty hoodie, AND wear super tight pants, and I would probably still be into him if there was chemistry between us. To be honest the man I loved for 3 years loved all those things. Perhaps this explains my current aversion to them. But this is neither here nor there.

POINT: The fact that this man was unkempt phased me only slightly, and did not in any way deter me from going on a second date with him. It also did not deter me from harboring a secret hope that over the course of the two weeks we didn't see each other he had decided to trim his beard and get a haircut.

He had done neither of those things.

We had dinner at a Thai restaurant, went to another weird concert (lesson learned, friends, I peed before) and then went and got a few beers at a bar.

Overall, the date was pretty fun. I realized during the concert that I was, in fact, attracted to him, as our arms touching while we watched the musicians gave me a bit of a thrill, so that was good. We went to a nearby bar, drank beer, I sang some kareoke (because there was no wait to sing, and it was right there, and I don't want to know the person who WOULDN'T take advantage of an opportunity like that regardless of if she is on a second date with a person she hardly knows) and put on my flirting hat. As far as I knew, everything was going swimmingly until we had this conversation:

Man: So I just have to be home by 1am. I'm going on a food run with a friend of mine.

Deb: Where are you going to get food at 1am?

Man: Trader Joes.

Deb: What Trader Joes is open at 1am?

Man: None of them.

(Pause)

Deb: Then what Trader Joes are you going to if none of them are open?

(Pause)

Man: Do you really not understand what I'm saying?

(LENGTHY Pause)

Deb: No.

Man: I'm a Freegan.

Deb (confused): So you steal the food?

No, he doesn't steal the food. He gets it from dumpsters.

And STILL, my darlings, this was not a deal breaker for me. 

Here's the thing. 

I get it. I get why someone would eat/live that way. It actually makes more sense to me than liking Garden State or dieting. It isn't a way of life in which I would ever engage, but I respect it. Hence, it was not a deal breaker. Particularly because he was still the man who had all those good qualities, qualities that were, in accordance with his lifestyle, obtained for free.

So, he walked me to the bus, and we hugged goodbye. I spent all night thinking about how cool he was and eventually got up at 6:30 because I couldn't sleep. I spent the whole morning wondering when/if I should contact him. Eventually around 1pm I texted saying, "I had a nice time, let's do it again soon."

The rest of the day went by SO SLOW IT WAS INSANE. Compulsive phone and email checking abounded. There was a rush of hope each time the phone vibrated and resultant disappointment each time it was not him. By the time I got home that night, I still hadn't heard anything. And by the time I got to work the following morning, I knew I wouldn't. 

 Dear men of the world who have done this:

It's shitty. I get you don't want to be the bad guy. I get you don't want to have to say, "Your consumerist American ways lead me to believe our lifestyles would be incompatible." But please god, nut up, cause this whole, "I am saying I'm not interested by not saying anything at all," is just shitty. And it makes you look like an asshole. It makes you look like an EVEN WORSE GUY. 

I get that saying those things would be hard. I get that you don't want to hurt feelings. But welcome to the world, my friend. Sometimes, shit is hard.

But regardless of how unideal his "communication" method, I got the message. I got that he wasn't interested. And that was okay. Different strokes for different folks.

Also, could I really have legitimately dated a Freegan?

Probably not.

But it doesn't end here.

This man happens to know a friend of mine with whom I work, a friend who is a magical wood nymph of a person, who we will call Magical Wood Nymph Friend. Freegan man and Magical Wood Nymph Friend have actually been acquainted for many  years and had recently re-connected at a recreational sporting event.

On Monday morning, after 5 days of no contact, I received a text from Freegan man saying, "If [Magical Wood Nymph Friend] wants to play [recreational sport] he needs to fill out a waiver THIS MORNING. I sent him a facebook message, but can you remind him?"

YUP.

I believe I stared at my phone for a full 5 minutes before registering what was happening.

This man who had up until now been giving me the "I'm not interested" silent treatment was now ASKING ME FOR A FAVOR.

So I threw my phone across Harvard Yard.

I didn't. I love that phone. I responded, "Will do."

TO WHICH he responded, "Thanks, also give him my number if he doesn't already have it. Thanks. Want to come to a game night on Thursday?"

Uh, WHAT? 

NO. NO I DO NOT WANT TO COME TO A GAME NIGHT ON THURSDAY. 

So I threw my phone across Harvard Yard.

I didn't. I told him I had plans (which I do) and left it at that.

I arrived at work, and when my computer started realized he had also contacted me via g-chat asking the SAME EFFING FAVOR. I responded AGAIN saying I would get the message to Magical Wood Nymph Friend, at which point Freegan Man sent me a cat video.

A CAT VIDEO.

I must say, friends, I don't think I have ever in my life disliked any person as much as I disliked this man in this moment. And the dislike was ONLY FUELED by the fact that but 5 days before I was hoping to kiss him. I got to channel all my sexual energy into SHEER UNBRIDLED RAGE.

I have now recovered from my rage and would like to share something with any single men who may read this blog.

If you want to give a woman the "I'm not interested" silent treatment,  you have to, in fact, remain silent, no matter how much you want to HAVE HER FRIEND ON YOUR EFFING ULTIMATE FRISBEE TEAM.

Ah, friends. It seems in the end rage is the only true deal breaker.

Deb Loves to Crochet: My First Project

I like to think of last Thanksgiving as the day that I fell in love with my friends, Lindsey and Ian. Ian actually went to high school with my dear friend, Leah, so, when he and Lindsey moved to Boston so Ian could do post-doc work at Harvard, Ian and Lindsey were welcomed into the fold of Leah and Ben's robe of friends (I'm not sure this metaphor makes any sense, but I stand by it all the same). I met them in September, but it wasn't until Thanksgiving that I realized their base awesomeness. After that wonderful day, I kept trying to think of reasons to hang out with Lindsey. I even drafted a couple emails that I never sent, asking her to bake whoopie pies or have tea, because I got so nervous that she wouldn't want to hang out with me. But then, at a LeBen rock band party, Lindsey pulled out some crocheting supplies, and I had my in.

Around January, when things were getting really hard in my personal life, my eating disorder was flaring. Elizabeth (a veritable fount of creativity and wherewithal) suggested I take up something like crocheting in order to have something to do when at home that wasn't eating. It was only a couple weeks later where I learned Lindsey was a crocheting expert. It was Kismet, I tell you!

Lindsey is such an incredibly patient teacher and is also so encouraging. I must say I took to the crocheting with much vigor, but it was also a most excellent excuse to hang out with Lindsey and Ian and their two most awesome of cats (Genghis and Buster) and watch Archer, Arrested Development and Dance Moms. So though this first project is made of the cheapest yarn possible, it will always make me think happily of Lindsey and Ian (and the kitty boys) when they move to California in June.

Sigh. I miss them already.

Pattern: A lot of double Crochet
Hook: 5.5 M (I)
Yarn: Red Heart Super Saver Yarn from Ben Franklin Store in Belmont (2 Skeins) 

Adventures of the Dating Impaired: Part 1

Well it's Valentine's Day. What more perfect day to start chronicling my adventures as the worst dater in the history of the world. 

Let's start at the beginning.

I turn 30 in May and have been on like 4 dates in my life. I feel like that should in itself indicate to you that I am terrible at dating, but perhaps it doesn't. 

So let me elaborate.

Once a date is proposed to me (or a date is proposed by me and accepted by a man) I go through a 3 day period of debilitating anxiety and sleeplessness. I worry about a myriad of things: Will he find me attractive? Will he think I'm funny? Will he want to leave half way through the date? Will he actually leave or will I just have to watch him be unhappy? Will my hair look good? Should I mention I have 9 best friends? Should I talk about my love of the Bachelor and Justin Bieber? 

If you've never talked to me in this state, 

IMAGINEREADINGABLOGOFMINEINALLCAPSWITHNOPUNCTUATIONORSPACESTHATGOESONFORPAGESANDPAGESANDPAGES. 

That's pretty much what it's like. God bless all my friends. 

GOD BLESS THEM EVERY ONE.

Those 3 days of debilitating anxiety are followed by 3 days of fantasizing that it is going to be the best date on which any person ever went. Like, he will instantly fall in love with me. And he will say all the right things. And then we'll get married. And then I imagine how he'll propose. And what our kids will look like. And how we'll have a dog named Mortimer cause that's an awesome dog name. It's ludicrous, but I CAN'T STOP IT. I'll spend those 3 days full of hope and enamored of how funny and charming I am and how funny and charming he will be.

Then the day before the date the anxiety will return. That's when I have to be reminded that the date isn't just about ME. That he is probably nervous too. That I get to see if I like him or find him attractive. That the goal is to "have a relaxed conversation with a hetero male" (trademark EJB). Then I calm down. Well, a bit. And then I wake up in the morning and I put on my prettiest outfit, and my purplest eye makeups and I think of funny things I can talk about that aren't scary (i.e. none of the things I share here) and then off I go. Into the wild blue yonder. Or to work. Where I spend the whole day trying to figure out how to reel in at least SOME of my crazy without being boring.

So last night, I went on a date with a man I met on okcupid. It was the first internet date I've ever been on. EJB was instructed to contact me at 10:30pm with the text message, "Alive? INTERNET DATING!" if she didn't hear from me before then. 

Overall, it was a really nice evening. While eating burritos in a random MIT classroom and drinking brown bagged beer leaning on a wall outside (something I've always dreamed of doing), I kept thinking, "MAN, I am SO GOOD at this!" 

Until we went to a concert.

The plan had always been to go to a performance at MIT's Killian Hall of John Cage's Interludes for Prepared Piano. Prepared Piano means that the piano strings are full of screws, erasers, and credit cards, all of which completely alter the sound of the instrument. It was really cool. 

For about 5 minutes.

I consider myself pretty musically open minded, and I've listened to some pretty strange live music over the years. But holy crap this was NOT. MY. JAM. 

First of all, I realized I had to pee after sitting down at 7:58 when the concert started at 8pm. I thought, "It's only an hour. I can totally hold it."

Here's a tidbit of info about me: I go INSANE when my physical needs are not being met. When I am excessively hungry, tired, or need to use the bathroom, I lose it. Like LOSE IT. Oh, and I hate sitting still. Oh, and the room was super hot and the music was quiet and repetitive and there were people sitting in the aisles so even if I had decided I wanted to go pee in the middle of the concert I would've had to crawl over the two people sitting between me and the aisle and then crawl over the myriad of college students lounging in the aisle itself.

So maybe 15 minutes in I realized what a terrible idea it was to not just go pee before the concert started. Meaning for the next 45+ minutes I kept getting angrier and angrier and angrier as the moments passed. I felt angry I was on a date and had to hold in my crazy. I felt angry that I kept catching a glimpse of my date out of the corner of my eye and thinking it was my brother. I felt angry that I was not at home in my bed in my pajamas. I felt angry that the room was hot and that I couldn't move and that my shoulder kept cramping. 

SO MUCH RAGE TO KEEP IN. 

Another tidbit: when I am in a situation where my physical needs are not being met, I somehow convince myself it will NEVER END. I legitimately convinced myself I had ended up in hell and that hell was having to pee at a John Cage concert. The pianist just kept non-nonchalantly turning the pages over and over and over AND OVER. IT WAS THE PIECE THAT NEVER ENDED. And then, just as I had the thought, "IF SHE TURNS ONE MORE PAGE I AM GOING TO WALK UP TO THE STAGE AND SLAP HER ACROSS THE FACE" a miracle happened. 

The concert ended.

I told my date I was going to the bathroom, left him with most of my stuff and practically ran from the room. Now I have been to many concerts in many small venues, but this is the first concert I've ever been to where I couldn't find the bathroom. IT DEFIES LOGIC that there wouldn't be a bathroom outside of the hall, but apparently MIT's genius does not extend to pesky things like bathroom location. So I am speed walking through different hallways looking for some sign that there is a bathroom, and I keep coming across offices or exit doors. Everywhere I turned was somebody's office, or the outside. I considered peeing in both. 

I finally ran into the library and asked the front desk person about the nearest restroom.

She said, "Well, the closest ladies room is on the third floor."

At which point I yelled, "I HAVE TO WALK UP THREE FLIGHTS OF STAIRS JUST TO GET TO THE BATHROOM?"

She looked terrified. But answered in the affirmative. "You just walk past the stacks and then to the left and then to the right and then take the stairs to 2M and walk through a door and then to the right and then to the left and then the right again and the bathroom will be right there."

No joke.

All the rage I felt for the pianist was now completely directed at the person who designed this building. I speed walked through the directions, ran up the stairs, got a little lost, and then finally found the bathroom. 

It was, I believe, the most satisfying pee of my life. 

And I kept thinking, once I pee I will calm down.

I was wrong.

As I walked down the stairs and through the library I kept thinking how much I wanted to be at home in my PJs. How if I hadn't left my stuff with my date I would've just left, not because I hadn't had a good time, but because the idea of having to make small talk when all I wanted to do was scream louder than I'd ever screamed in my whole life while crazy dancing through the library was too much. 

By the time I got back to the hall, almost everyone was gone. Just like any semblance of my sanity. 

We gathered our things and walked back out to Mass Ave where I would catch the bus. I kept harping on the fact that I couldn't find the bathroom and on the poor layout of that building. I mean I COULDN'T LET IT GO. I even explained to him my thing about my physical needs being met because I couldn't hide the crazy anymore. I kept waving my arms while talking and compulsively swaying. The poor man probably thought I was actually insane, which I kind of was. Finally the bus came. We hugged without talk of a second date (oh, surprise) and I got on the bus. 

Add to all of this the fact that the bus driver on my first bus was the WORST DRIVER EVER, and that I waited for the second bus for 25 minutes, and you get ULTRA CRAZY DEB. Poor Roomie had to encounter me in this state as I desperately tried to pry off the heels I had been wearing all day (because I'm a dumbass) while still trying to control the need to scream/crazy dance.

After saying good night to Roomie, I shoved everything that was on my bed into a pile on the floor, put on my pajamas, turned on my heating pad, and ate an entire bag of rice crackers while watching American Dad. I fell asleep in my fleecey robe without washing my face, with the light on, clutching the empty cracker bag to my chest.

So that's that.

I've often used the word "quirky" to describe myself. 

I think it might be time to find a stronger word.

Things Deb Doesn't Love: Valentine's Day

Well, next week is Valentine's Day, and I feel that, as a single person, I am supposed to feel one of two things:

1) Bitterness. I am supposed to go to events called, "F*CK VALENTINE'S DAY AND F*CK LOVE AND F*CK YOU." Cause that sounds like a whole bunch of fun. Getting together with some strangers so we can share in some perceived common loneliness? Um, thanks, but no thanks.

2) Hopeful Longing. Maybe SOMEDAY I too will be able to have a partner so that I can celebrate this COMPLETELY ARBITRARY holiday invented by Big Business so that we, the consumers, will BUY MORE SHIT.

Wow. With two such great choices, February 14th must be every single person's favorite day.

But let's be real y'all.

I know I try to come off as somewhat worldly when it comes to men and singleness and marriage and all that jazz, but the fact of the matter is, OF COURSE, I want to be in a relationship. Connectivity is one of the most wonderful things about being human.

But the fact is Valentine's Day is balls. BALLS. I apologize to all my relationshiped and married friends who I might be about to offend, but it is really and truly BALLS.

TRUTH: It isn't a real holiday. It used to be a nice little day for British people to exchange cards made from ribbons and doilies. And then some dude was like, "Hey, what if I made greeting cards and people bought them," and so people did. And then some other dude was like, "Hey, chocolates go great with cards! Maybe people will buy that too!" And so they did. And then the diamond industry was like, "Hey, let's take a break from being douches and get in on this Valentine's Day crap because MAYBE if people will buy cards and chocolates they'll also buy diamonds." And, surprise, they did. Then there are clothing companies selling lingerie, restaurants racking up their prices, party stores covered in hearts. Are we seeing a common thread here? Consumption. The fat cats got together and decided to make Valentine's Day a thing so people would BUY. MORE. SHIT.

Friends, here is my advice on how to stick it to Big Business on this oh so ridiculous of "holidays."

Relationshiped and Marrieds: Love your significant other and appreciate them EVERY DAY OF THE FREAKING YEAR. Buy them gifts because you want to, whenever you want to, not because some lamesauce executive is encouraging you to. Gaze into their eyes across a candlelit dinner on March 5, because that sounds like just as good of a day on which to do it as February 14.

Singles: Resist the urge to 1) feel sorry for yourself. 2) feel bitter towards your friends in relationships. I think of singleness in the same way I think about fatness. It's a thing. Learn how to exist in it because fighting it is pointless and lame and will lead to inevitable discontent and accepting it will help you find joy and hope in tangible things and then... well, you'll have joy and hope.

TRUTH: There are worse things in the world than being alone. There are better things in the world than being married. The world is a complicated place, and the human spirit is resilient and diverse. Give yourself a break and don't let Big Business dictate how you feel about your life, good or bad.

And, for better or worse, that is my oversimplified opinion on that.

This Post Probably Explains Why I Don't Have a Boyfriend

The other day at lunch my Soul Twin, my Biscuit, my Brooke and I were discussing certain traits in men that I find unbearable. 

They are, oh surprise, many. 

*Please note, not all of these are direct experiences. 

Things Deb Loves presents...

The Dealbreakers Post!!

 If a man claims Catcher in the Rye is still one of his favorite books, that's a dealbreaker.

Look, I LOVED Catcher in the Rye. IN HIGH SCHOOL. But if a coming of age novel is still one of his favorite books, it means he thinks his white, suburban upbringing was sooooo hard and that he is a special, special snowflake (trademark, Katie Maloney), who no one will ever understand. It means he is, in short, STILL COMING OF AGE. 

Dude. You're 30. Get over it.

If the movie Garden State is one of his favorite movies, that's a dealbreaker.

I immediately start to distrust a man if I see he owns this movie. I get it, growing up rich and white and able to loaf around in your parents house into your late 20s, and overly medicate yourself with prescription drugs and marijuana until a tiny, boisterous, 20 something girl comes along and saves you from yourself, sounds like the hardest thing in the world. 

Oh, wait. It doesn't. Get a job.

If a man wears ratty hoodies on dates 1-5, that's a dealbreaker.

I dress up to go to dinner with my girlfriends. Now granted I actually take pride in my appearance, and I don't expect that of every man, but the fact that some men can't even be bothered to put on a collared shirt to go to dinner with a lady is ludicrous. Are we supposed to be impressed by your overtly non-nonchalant attitude as exhibited by your holey sweatshirt and crappy, worn jeans? 

Well, we're not. If I wanted to date a man who looks homeless I would date a homeless man. I've gotten proposed to by many of them already.

If a man tells you he's hopelessly in love with another woman before he tries to sleep with you, that's a dealbreaker.

The only way this is charming is if you are Barney Stinson on How I Met Your Mother. And then it's only charming because it's NPH. Are you NPH, man who did this to me? Oh, wait. YOU AREN'T. As a side note, before this happened, this same man tried to make out with me by a dumpster. 

A DUMPSTER.

Spoiler: I still slept with him. Because 2 years ago I had no self-respect.

If a man doesn't use proper grammar in or proofread emails (as evidenced by excessive typos), that's a dealbreaker.

This indicates two things: 

 1) He graduated from some learning institution without being able to compose a proper sentence, in which case I question the legitimacy of said "education."

2) He is lazy.

The reason we have email is so we can proofread messages before we send them. I don't expect everyone to proofread text messages, mostly because "damn you, autocorrect" is the best website ever, but don't send me something you haven't read over after writing. 

Also, unless you are using a non-smartphone, "u" is never an appropriate abbreviation for "you." 

Do you have a Qwerty keyboard on your iPhone?

Type it out, Ass.

If a man wears pants tight enough to wonder where his penis goes, that's a dealbreaker.

If his pants are that tight, his penis can't be that big. Act accordingly.