When discussing a guy I’m kind of, sort of seeing (why I often have no idea whether I’m dating someone or not to be delved into in a later post), I called him by the name of where he works, which just so happens to also sound like a vending machine choice.

“What, you categorize your men now?” a coworker said.

Not exactly, though a lady friend and I do have a habit giving nicknames to guys with whom we have been acquainted. The reasons for the nicknames vary. Some serve as an alias for a romance better kept on the dl. A few were coined by friends in favor of the gentleman. But mostly, they are mnemonic devices. The defining characteristic that led to us swooning or squirming.

So, for your reading pleasure, here’s the list, in no particular order. Inquiries can be made in the comments.

This lady:

Cheesy on the Outside
The Cone
Cycling, Vegetarian, Indian-Food Lover
Vampire Larper
Micropenis
Almost Soul Mate
Stealth Dater
Neighbor
Boyfriend/Sugar-Free Tea Biscuit
Space Safari
Stroke It
Silver Fox
Silver-Not-Fox/Silver Weasel
Pretend Boyfriend
Beach Boy/Back Porch
The Professor/Naked Heavy Petter
Lawrence
Goth Steven Seagal

Lady friend:

The Viking
Plaid Shadow/Eddie
Blandy McBlanderson
Leave Britney Alone
Abercrombie
Lip Biter
Ruskie
Bon Jovi
Gun Case
Gatsby
Droll Troll
General Custer

Many thanks to the ladies and gentleman who contributed.

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Have you noticed I’ve had a lot of “don’ts” lately? Oh, be assured, I understand the potential conclusions that can be made here. Being a lady is, uh, complicated. So, what the hell, here’s one more for the list.

You should know that I’m about to get anatomical.

Penis. Yep, I said it. Penis.

Whew. Everyone still here?

Ladies probably don’t say penis, which leads me to believe that viewing them, live, in a public setting, while being fiddled, is probably some level of unladylike behavior the likes of which we have yet to see. Until now, of course. Or should I say, until Chatroulette.

For those of you unfamiliar with Chatroulette, don’t feel too bad, I only found out about it recently. When Chatroulette came up in conversation at a party, I asked a friend to explain. I don’t remember exactly what she said, but it went something like “video chat,” “strangers,” and “guys masturbating.” I’d say she pretty much hit the nail on the head. To clarify just a bit though, what puts the spin in Chatroulette is the next button, which you can click at any time to get a new, random user. Typically, a guy with his pee pee out for some voyeuristic self-service.

With those odds, how could we not turn Chatroulette into a drinking game? The rules were simple: see a dick, take a swig. Though we weren’t greeted by penis, Chatroulette did not disappoint. We chatted with a few people, were deemed uninteresting by others (they decided to take their chances somewhere else), then hit the jackpot.

By the end of the night, lady luck had left us (perhaps she was offended). No one wants to quit when they’re losing though, so we trudged ahead. Someone had the idea to up the ante by showing off his belt buckle. Another person decided to begin every chat with something to the effect of “Show us your dick so we can drink.” Turns out, guys will not whip out their genitals when solicited in every situation. They expect reciprocation. Up front. Being as none of the ladies were willing to show their cards, we had a rough go of it.

Watching a stranger diddle with his privies from various locations throughout the world is not the same as pornography. The difference here, I think, is the creep factor. Probably on both sides. Then again, Chatroulette did make for an excellent party game. See what I mean about being a lady? Complicated.


Remember when I said a lady does not drunk dial? Oh, and how I said I was good at avoiding it? Yeah, well, let me tell you friends, things change. Quickly. Particularly when you’ve had a few good hours of fascist fun playing Germany in Axis and Allies (and winning, I might add) and an Irish car bomb. To add to the old fashioned, which added to the wine. By the time my friend and I traded our bar stools for seats at a table, I had pretty much exhausted my safe list of friends to text and my brain cells.

So what do I do? I decide to text the guy I met in the same bar a couple months ago. The one who told me he didn’t think dating would be a good idea. He would want something more serious. He can’t do something serious now. Logic, sometimes it’s a bitch.

Pick up lines just come to me. I wouldn’t say they are good. Still, they work. I ask him if he’s at the bar (He clearly is not. The bar is small. I’ve been to the bathroom a time or two. I know who’s in there.) When he gives the expected answer, I go for it.

“I am. You probably should be too.”

Boys. They confuse me so. He not only says he’ll come out, he gets there within 20 minutes. Here is where I’d like to share a series dating tips from the 1930s a friend found on another blog.

Being that I was already dressed when I got to the bar, I’d say the night began pretty well.

OK, so I did pull out my lip gloss wand for want of actual chapstick at the bar, but it was before the gentleman arrived.

Thank you, former braces, for keeping at least one aspect of my dating behavior in tact.

Perhaps the problem here is that I was not on a real date. Dancing, what dancing?

I’m not exactly sure what I did in his car. I asked him to take me home. I asked him to come in to my apartment. I told him he probably thought I was loose. But I’m pretty sure I did not apply makeup in his rearview mirror. Go me!

The last time I didn’t need to wear a bra, I was 10.

I’d say I kept myself in check. In public, anyway.

Does overly sentimental include saying, “I’m kind of in love with you. Just a little bit though, it’s not a big deal.”? I was in my own apartment . . .

Headwaiter. Pfft.

Alright, guilty. I definitely asked him if he liked my new hat. Then when he claimed he’d seen it before, I accused him of stalking me. Huh.

Irish car bombs are never a good decision. Never. Silly, I’d go so far to say, is probably an understatement. Silly is when you try to tickle someone. Silly is when you tell a bad joke and laugh hysterically. Silly is not telling someone you will move with them and have all of their babies. All of five to eight of them. Silly also is not justifying yourself by saying you’d be really good at it. “I have wonderful hips!” “I’d look really cute pregnant!”

“You look a lot like my exboyfriend.” I’m not so sure if that counts or not.

Pass out from too much liquor? Don’t mind if I do. I called to apologize. I’m pretty sure I’m not going to get called back.


I can be a paranoid person in general. Like, say, when a cop car is in front of my apartment and my gut reaction is to hide in the closet (they are here to get me, I know it). Same goes for overhearing conversations. Clearly, they are talking about me. Did I not just hear someone use the feminine pronoun?

OK, so, as it happens, I, unlike Chaka Khan or Whitney Houston, am not every woman. When people do happen to be talking about me, there’s no gristle for the gossip mill. Until now, that is.

Should I give you the full story? Sure, why not.

Wednesday morning, I woke up in pain. By the afternoon, I was in so much pain, I went to the ER. I had a few ideas as to why. Worst case scenario, I would end up in the “I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant” series. Or a cyst could have cropped up on an ovary and been so happy it could just burst. Maybe the appendix. Possibly a kidney stone.

Kidney stone it is, and I get sent home with enough Oxycontin to corrupt the youth of the neighborhood and a pee strainer. That’s right. A pee strainer. A strainer for pee.

Hours pass, life goes on, for a while. Then I’m in pain again. Only this time the pain hurts a lot worse, I’m puking up what could have been supplementary income (OK, fine, last Oxycontin joke), and the kidney-stone catcher has yet to demonstrate its stated purpose. So back to the hospital with me to wait and wait and wait in the hallway, on a mobile bed, crying.

Now I’m not saying this was my most ladylike moment. I would like to point out though that given the circumstances, my well-tempered tongue was pretty impressive. I did not yell at the nurse. I did not yell at my friends. I didn’t even yell at the doctor when he heard the size of the kidney stone and called me a “wimp” before I received any pain medication. “That’s OK, we treat wimps too,” he said. I smiled. I freaking smiled.

By 12 am the next morning, I was doped up and on my way to be admitted for an overnight stay. Some sleep, a thorough health history, and another round of meds later, I was awake and, here’s where it becomes relevant, overhearing my roommate’s conversation. She was on the telephone talking about her former roommate.

“Yeah, she left yesterday around 5:30. Tried to give me her address n’ shit.”

Barely with it, sore in the throat from vomiting, and hooked up to an IV, I still know when people are about to talk about me.

“Then last night they brought this trashy white girl in here n’ shit. Yeah. She’s 26. Got glasses n’ shit. She’s fucking poor like I am.”

Glasses n’ shit?

To be fair, I am white. I’m 26. Creditors sure know I’m poor. And, yeah, I was wearing my glasses. But trashy? I had showered. My health history was a bore. No outbursts. Not one.

So here I am. Trash talked about being trashy. Which is less ladylike, I’m not exactly sure.


The makings of a good drunk dial are simple: get in your cups, stay up late, keep your phone handy. I suppose I should also mention (for those fortunate enough to be unfamiliar) that the receiving end of a drunk dial tends to be a crush or ex. As Urban Dictionary so eloquently says, “The result is often embarrassment and self-loathing for being (a) overly emotional, (b) incoherent, or (c) creepy.”

Now, I like to think I am pretty self-regulated when it comes to drunk dials, but really, I just lack the energy. More often than not, if I’ve had a few, I fall asleep. Should I stay awake, chances are I’ve misplaced my phone (or just outright lost it).

I’m not saying I don’t think about it.

Just this past Saturday I bemusedly considered expanding the bounds of drunk dialing to Facebook and calling on my neighbor. What can I say? I’m a rebel. Who says a drunk dial has to be done on the phone or made to a recent or past love interest (Well, I guess I did, but that is neither here nor there. This is about breaking down barriers, people!)? Why not use your misery for everyone’s enjoyment by posting “I miss you!” to the wall of an ex’s grandmother (overly emotional)? Or, hell, walk up stairs and see if your neighbor wants to cuddle (creepy)?

I believe the only outcome I haven’t hit here is “incoherent.” Unless you count my reasoning.

When I just so happen to have my wits and phone about me? Let me take a moment to express how grateful I am for my friends. I mentioned before that some behavior is more ladylike than others, and I think my default drunk dial alternative fits the bill. Harassing your friends in the wee hours of the morning certainly does not come with a lady seal of approval, but desperate times . . .

Should you not want to bother your friends and have an iPhone, well, there’s an app for that. A few actually. And, though I can’t recommend it for a lady, you can also call toll-free to talk to the Internet.