How to Talk to Women Online

The trick is to talk to her as if she is a human being. Do not talk about your penis.

Speak to her as if she exists in the real world because this is, in fact, all happening in the real world. The internet is not magic, and you are no wizard. You are no one other than yourself (and honestly, yourself needs to be doing a better job). Treat her like a human being the first time.

If there’s one thing I hear way too much on the internet—aside from “nice tits” and “I bet you’re great at sucking dick”—It’s the standard apology followed by, “I’m actually a really [insert unsubstantiated, unlikely, positive attribute: nice, smart, great, funny] guy, my [minimization of substandard and gross behavior] to the contrary. But I’m here to let you know that this is not true. You are not the person you wish yourself to be on the internet; you are exactly the person you have revealed yourself as. You are not your intentions but instead your actions, the horrible garbage monster you’ve been acting like until you aren’t anymore (you can change right now…or now…still now…yup now too…honestly at any moment you could change your whole way of being and just stop treating people terribly and being ridiculous and boring and predictable and detestable. I promise). So, if you’re writing things like “DTF?” in a first message or “I want to bury myself in your body” (yes, these are super real examples), please know that that is genuinely who you are. You are not a child testing the waters, you are grown up making people uncomfortable because of how little empathy (and respect, and social awareness, etc.) you have.

I wish my advice could be as simple as “just be yourself” but apparently that’s what many men have been doing and frankly it’s not working out so great for anybody involved. So instead, my advice is to be better than your current self. I don’t know who to blame for the way you to speak to women, for the way you’ve confused harassment for honesty and the unsubstantiated sense of self-worth for quality but it has to stop.

[sidenote: if you’re a man who approaches and speaks to women in a kind and intelligent manner, well, this article obviously isn’t directed at you, but then of course you already know that.]

Do not talk about your penis. From the very first moment you noticed this cucumber of an appendage, you have loved it. It has been your best friend, your most cherished possession, and at times your greatest accomplishment. But this is an illusion. No woman will ever love your penis the way you do. Your penis is more boring than a sober academic. Not my penis! I can hear you shouting. Yes. Your penis. It’s boring and tedious and, if I’m being honest, your penis is exactly like my apartment in that we all wish it was bigger. Unless your dick is more like my student loan debt inasmuch as there’s always just way, way too much. Jokes aside, given the data on the female orgasm—something like 75% of women never reach orgasm through penetration alone, 10-15% never reach orgasm at all (omg ladies I’m so sorry!), leaving only 10-15% who have the potential to get off straight from the D (though to be clear that’s just the possibility, it might not be every time and/or with every D)—So like what are we even talking about here? How illogical do you have to be (or how totally unaware of the realities of sex) to think your dick matters? Dicks are basically worthless (not to be confused with men being worthless because obviously not). What I’m saying is that men need to stop buying into the hype that your dick is the part of you that matters. It’s only a tiny part of you, and honestly, I’d rather hear about your degree in Journalism, or your passion project, or your relationship with great Aunt Susan, or what you ate for breakfast (which should tell you a lot because I’m guessing your morning meal is pretty fucking boring).

But if not straight up dick talk, what can I say to interest her?

Interesting people are usually curious, so ask her about her life and then when she asks about yours, go ahead and tell her. Listen when she talks, act as if she may have experienced something of value or even that her very experiencing of something may have given it value. Be empathetic and kind. Don’t talk about your penis.

Try to find a common interest. Does she like wizard jokes? Does she collect Labyrinth memorabilia? Is she crushing a fantasy football league with her team “The Bad Reviews Bears”? Ask her. Have you asked her? Fucking ask her! Once you discover something in common, run with it. Even if it’s something as silly as you both like to attend Kraft Singles events (which I’ve heard are very cheesy). Turn that common thread into a conversational sweater and knit something warm together. Don’t talk about your dick.

When she asks you about yourself, be honest and self-aware (you don’t need to be your own hype man, your actions and accomplishments will speak for themselves). If, when you attend parties, people don’t congregate around you in an orbital bliss of laughter—do not claim you have an amazing sense of humor (your sense of humor is average, which isn’t amazing but it’s fine, I’m sure you have something else going for you, I mean don’t sweat it).  Don’t say things like “I’m young at heart” or “I don’t look my age” because your heart has been slowly dying since the day you were born and honey, in regards to your age, if you have to say it—you aren’t it.  You know why babies never get up in your face to tell you how youthful they are?  Because their shit filled diapers and chubby cheeks do that for them.  The same rules apply for your face.  Also, those pleated khakis already gave you away. Stop giving yourself medals for kindness (to be totally honest, we’re all varying degrees of asshole and the only thing that makes that tolerable is our ability to admit it, so rather than pretending you’re the King of Benevolence because one time you didn’t act like a total psycho when someone rejected your advances, maybe just be real about who you are). You know that cliché saying “nice guys finish last”? It’s not true at all. Nice guys finish first all the time, people fucking love those guys. Entitled jerks who lack self-awareness finish last though (those dudes are the fucking worst amirite? Yuck!).

Now, I know what you may be thinking: How on earth am I going to let her know that I’m sexually attracted to her.

If you’re contacting her on any website or app that is sex/dating related, just assume she already knows this. No one who isn’t completely ridiculous is trying to make friends over on Plenty of Fish or Tinder (and if, by some stretch of the imagination, that did happen, those people usually say it right off the bat). Men often complain (to me—why do they keep thinking I care about their gripes? Like I’m some kind of wish fountain for subpar strangers?) that women on apps like Tinder are all just looking for friends, but I’m going to keep it real with you. While that’s obviously a possibility (anything is possible, I mean we live in a world where men think saying “nice tits” might actually get them somewhere), it’s unlikely. What’s more likely is that there was a possibility of attraction (again my god! this world is so full of possibilities!! Ahhh the excitement!!) that said dude then completely smashed to bits by being unimpressive (at best) or offensive/misogynistic (at worst). So like I said, if you’re having a nice conversation with a woman online, know that she knows you’re attracted (or that it’s at least in the realm of possibilities). Save the “nice tits” talk for when you’ve managed to see them for the first time. Because that’s the thing about sexual comments, context is key. A stranger talking about your body online is creepy as fuck, a man talking about your body the first time you show it to him is delicious.

This may come as a surprise but you don’t have to dehumanize a woman to have casual sex with her (in fact, if you were any good at sex you’d likely already know that the best sex happens when people feel comfortable and relaxed enough to really be themselves and, for lack of a better phrase, let it all hang out). Also, please don’t confuse a woman wanting to have casual sex with the idea that a woman who wants casual sex will definitely want to have it with you. I love casual sex (Big Fan! Huge!) but I have to be attracted/interested in having it with someone. It’s not just a first-cum scenario. You have to be brilliant and hilarious and interesting and kind and socially/self-aware, it’s a whole fucking thing.

That said, if you’re contacting a woman on ANY other website/app, well I mean you probably shouldn’t be trying to get at her in a sexual way. I mean, would you show up at your doctor’s house for a prostate exam? No, so why would you approach a woman via Twitter where she’s trying to make a name for herself writing jokes or promoting her new startup in a sexual way? If your interest lies in her as a person than talk to her like a human being. Honestly, you could just support whatever she’s doing because it’s amazing and interests you, and you could just never impose any other desires or expectations on her, ever. I mean, you can really do that, speak to women for no other purpose than they’re doing creative and brilliant things that you find interesting. It’s okay to just support and value someone. It’s okay to just be a human being with empathy.

Language Barriers and Mis-Steps: Date #4 with France (Part One)

Deadpan texting


[dropcap]P[/dropcap]art of me wants to skip ahead to the big event.  The 4th date.  But if I do, some valuable insights might be lost.

When France first messaged me on POF, way back when (is it weird that it seems like a lifetime ago when it reality it was about 5 weeks?  It feels like my entire life has changed in that time period [not because of him just concurrently]).  But I digress, so way back when, I remember tweeting out a question to my followers.  It asked something like:

Can you really date someone when there’s a language barrier?

At the time, I had actually thought no, probably not.  However, many people thought it was no big deal.  So I gave it the old college try.  And it was a struggle, I readily admit, but then so is life isn’t it?…a struggle?

In the days that followed the “no condoms debacle of 2012” or the “France in the Pants Situation” (as I like to call it), there were quite a few moments that got lost in translation.



The time he texted this…. (y)

Was it a mistake?  A phone or technological screw up?  Some romantic hieroglyphic?  An emoticon I should be familiar with?

I tried to ask.  He ended asking if I had sent him pics.  There was a lot of ??? and ??? followed by me just texting forget it and trying to move the conversation in another direction.


The time he texted to tell me he was going to a penthouse party in Ottawa and I told him to have fun, but not too much fun I joked, and then said that I hoped the party would be filled with skinny girls *winky face* *cheeky tongue stick out* (as he was so obviously NOT into that).

He ended up responding something about how no, just a good friend.  Like he had thought I was really jealous or something.

Luckily I saved the moment when I told him I was just trying to be cute…which of course he thought was cute.


And then I thought all the mis-steps were over.  But isn’t that dating?  The mis-steps?  No?  Just dating me, you say?  Blargh.

He returned from Ottawa the next day and asked me to hang out the following night.  I said sure.  We made plans to hang out at 9pm.

But speaking of mis-steps….

The next day arrived and when no text message came, ya know, just to say hi…I started to have that feeling.  That feeling, that I have…way too fucking often if we’re being real about it.  That feeling that he would bail.  Okay, certainly I’d been given no reason thus far to think he would and given that, on our first date, we had talked about “dating pet peeves”, and I had, in no uncertain terms, expressed that my biggest pet peeve was time wasters, I had no real reason to think he would bail.  I mean, honestly, is it really that difficult not to be a total douchebag, and let someone know if you’re going to bail.  The only thing more irritating to me then a flaky person is a flaky person who makes me go to the trouble of figuring out they’re a flake.

Example 1:  You can’t make our plans tonight, you let me know the moment you know this.  Forgivable.

Example 2:  You can’t make our plans tonight, you say nothing.  You wait for me to text and double check that we are in fact still on for the evening.  Then you bail.  I literally want to stab your fucking eyes out.  I may or may not start listening to the Talking Heads Psycho Killer and plotting your demise.  Blargh.

He chose option 2.  I was not impressed.  Gave some bullshit excuse about it being a busy day, called me sweet and that was that.  Ok.  I said.

I hoped he could taste my frustration.  I hoped it tasted like drinking grapefruit juice after brushing your teeth.  In all honesty, he probably thought it was no big deal and wasn’t even phased.

We didn’t talk for 3 days.  It was over the weekend.  No big deal.  Truth is, thanks to facebook I still managed to have too much unnecessary information.  He’d waited outside all night for some limited edition Jordan’s.  It all just felt…so…being 24.  I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love a dude with a good shoe game but I also love a dude with a car, and a life, and a plan.  It all just felt so…me…at 22 or 24…fucking around buying shit I didn’t need.

That being said, what the fuck did I care what he spent his money on?  I didn’t.

And then he texted.  All was forgiven and we made plans to hang out that night.  He was going to come over at 10pm.

And then 10pm showed up.  And he did not.

10:15pm — I sent a text message are you almost here.  No response.

10:30pm — I sent another ???

11:00pm — I sent a final text.  Now I know this may make me seem naive, or like a pushover, but in general I try to assume the best and thus use a kill them with kindness approach.  The text said Hey cutie…so…um so what’s going on?  Has something happened or are you standing me up? 🙁

Gotta love that sad face.  Which was really more of a I’m going to stab you face, but whatever.  The rage was palpable.  It tasted like throwing my computer on the ground, smashing it to a million pieces and then crying in public. Or apples.  Whatever.

The only upside to the whole business was this time I HAD done my hair and makeup.  And fuck if I was going to sit around and do nothing.  So I did the obvious thing.  I took the obvious approach.  And took a bunch of narcissitic self-photos.  I mean shit, it had been forever since I’d updated my facebook profile photo.  And hadn’t I just lost like 20lbs.?!?   So in true melodramatic form, I posted on my facebook that I thought I had been stood up (at the point that thinking I’d been stood up and not having it be a real tangible thing was still realistic)…and then posted a new pic.

The response was overwhelming (Jesus! I love my friends).  They were all so bloody adorable about how awesome I looked that I was literally — this close to going out, on my own, in Montreal.  Admittedly not something outside of my wheelhouse.  But also try to remember that I’m sober.  I’m 30.  And it was already like 11:45pm at night.

And then the text showed up.  Sorry sweet, I fell asleep.  What are you doing?

This was followed by several texts of me being deadpan (can you be deadpan in a text? well, if you can…I was it), and him apologizing over and over with the explanation that because he’d spent the night before out on the street waiting for the shoes blah blah blah.

Now’s here the thing.  I know myself and if I’m pissed at you and then we have no contact…well shit…it doesn’t look good for you.  However, if I’m pissed and I see you in person, there’s a high possibility of forgiveness.  It’s that simple (well…in relation to the offense mind you).

Eventually I told him that he should come over.  His response was I’ll be there in 15.

And then he was.  Here.  At my apartment.  And I was letting him in.


Learning to Live with Uncertainty in Dating

Uncertainty in Dating


could go without underwear.

I don’t like to, but I could.

The same goes for a bra, but then I take no responsiblity if while walking down the street you get knocked through the glass window of a store because my over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder was taking a day off and the goons were out on a stroll.  My nips, however, never apologize, for anything.

I could get by without pajamas, and the super rich moisturizer I like to put on my feet in the winter.

I could survive without meat, and milk, and cheese (though the cheese would be the toughest).

I could eat fries without ketchup, I could stiff upper lip having to sit in the middle seat on an airplane.  I can carry on without air conditioning and cable and a landline, even a cell phone.

I could manage with candles instead of electricity, assuming I could get my hands on a type writer.

I could endure 2 weeks in the woods.

I can weather the storm.  I can take the beating and keep on trucking.  But what I struggle with most, what tears at my soul, itches my very being, knaws at my sanity…is a lack of answers. (which probably helps to explain my obsession with science regardless of my career centred in words)

This is particularly problematic given that dating is the soul-sucking-never-ending-black-abyss of never-knowing-anything-with-certainy.  When it comes to dating, you have to accept you might never know.  Dating is swaddled in uncertainty and you’re likely to be left in the cold without a blanket.  And you just have to accept that.

I say you but what I really mean is me.  Because dammit I have to learn.

But the answers?!?  All the answers.  I want them.  Need them.  I have to find a way to live without them even though every cell in my body is screaming for the truth, a reason, some logic, a glimpse into someone else’s reality…all I really want is an answer, all the answers, forever answers, most answers, because answers, give me the fucking answers!!!

But the truth is, they’re not coming.

And before anyone says something stupid like but the answer IS the lack of answers…go fuck yourself.  A lack of answer is not actually an answer.  (and it’s that kind of bullshit logic that is at the centre of almost everything that is wrong with our world, so knock it the fuck off and be smarter).  Sure, we might be able to draw a conclusion, hint a suggestion, hypothesize and infer but these are not concrete.  When I say answers I mean an ACTUAL FUCKING ANSWER.

Nonetheless, there are no answers coming for Come Back Charlie.

Why didn’t he call?  Maybe I was a lousy lay.

Why didn’t he text?  Maybe he just thought I was tedious or not pretty enough, maybe he didn’t like the sound of my laugh, or my smile.

Why didn’t he seem to want to hang out anymore?  Maybe his laughter was bullshit, the sweetness all fake and he was just a dude looking for a quick bang (but not interested in a second).

What had changed?  Maybe he didn’t like that I wasn’t magically in love with him or maybe he got busy with work and school.

Why didn’t he like me?  Maybe he had a girlfriend or maybe another girl came along that he simply liked better.  Or maybe even just a TV show.  Truth is, I’ll never know.

Regardless of the fact that he was the one all excited to hang out again after our second date, actually asking so when do I get to see you again?, the lines of communication fell flat.  I texted once or twice.  He texted once or twice.  He never asked me to hang out again.  He never made plans.  I asked once and when nothing came of it, didn’t ask again.  And that was that.  Come Back Charlie would be no more.

Am I sad?  Not really.

Am I hurt?  Maybe a little but still, in all honesty, not really.

Then what is this feeling, this irritation, why do I even give a shit?  Well, I’ll tell you.  Because there go the fantasties of hot (given that he could improve) stress free sex with a goddamn giant for the last few weeks before I leave for Montreal.  Because there goes the built in booty call to come home to at Christmas.  Because dammit, I don’t like when things don’t go my way.  I’m a fucking child like that.  Disappointment is a bitch.  But hey, that’s dating.  Right?

Feel the sting, absorb the punch, stand up tall, and keep walking.  No More Come Back Charlie.  Deuces.


Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

What Happens When You Give Someone a Second Chance?

Second Chances


[dropcap]W[/dropcap]hat happens when you give someone a second chance?  For me, it usually ends in regret.  I think we all see where this story is going…or do we?

The message reads something ordinary but I respond because the height on his profile reads something tall and deliciously 6’4.  He responds back with a more in-depth description of himself.  It seems all too familiar.  I know this profile.  It’s a different picture but I know this guy.  Only not really.  Because you see, we never actually met.

He first messaged back in 2009.  Before this blog was a thing.  He got my number, he even made plans.  But somehow he always managed to drop the ball.  Given that it was about 2.5 years ago I can’t remember exactly what his deal was but I do know this, he was a time waster.  He was that kind of person that said things like let’s hang out tonight but wouldn’t specify a time and me being the naive nice person that I am, I would assume that meant we were hanging out.  But for assholes boys it often has a different meaning, I gather.  And maybe it just never worked out because he meant well but was just basically a moron.  Or maybe he was purposely wasting my time.  Maybe it was a bird seed thing, an asshole thing, a stupid thing.  Didn’t really matter.  It was a thing that was happening and I wasn’t interested.  I told him to lose my number.  He did.

But he came back in 2010.  And this time I asked him what his fucking deal was.  Only, not specifically enough.  You see looking back now I should’ve asked in more detail about why the dude couldn’t fucking plan to save his life, or why planning wasn’t his thing, and knowing that it was mine, why on earth he’d want to hang out with me.  Pussy is the answer by the way.  I should’ve asked him all this.  Instead I asked what had changed.  He gave some bullshit response about having grown up.  I wasn’t impressed.  Truth was, I was busy exploring my relatively new interest in white guys and not interested in kicking it with him.  But I asked him anyway, for the reason anyone asks anything ever, because I wanted to know.  I’m weird like that.

I’m fairly certain he came back at least one more time in 2011 but as I don’t have facts (read: I didn’t find it interesting enough to write a post about and thus can’t reference it now), I can’t hardly ramble on and on about it.

That being said.  Third time’s a charm???  I mean, here I am, a mere few weeks away from Montreal and I’m trying to live it up.  I’ve barely dated in this last year what with working so hard at school and studying for the GRE and grad apps and blah blah blah and dammit, I kind of wanted to make up for it this summer.  Additionally, as much as I lament my experience with dating in Vancouver, the truth is I fucking love this place.  Sure it has it’s ups and downs and yes I want to see the rest of the world and live in as many places as possible but this is my home, it will likely always be my home and I love it dearly, flaws and all (frankly it’s my love of this place that causes me to even engage in the whole “Vancouver Dating Scene” chatters because if I didn’t care, if I wasn’t interested in trying to help it change, I wouldn’t bother saying anything).  Honestly, the idea of leaving Vancouver with a bad taste in my mouth from a year of non-existent or shitty dating is not how I want to go.  I wanted to do someonething fun before leaving.  Because what better way to leave Vancouver than swooning over a summer of torrid temptations and sultry sexcapades?

So when Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome, Mr. Atlanta, Mr. Basketball, Mr. Come Back Charlie himself messaged me again, well can you really blame me for wanting to give him a try?


Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

Dating a 23 Year Old…Not Just For 23 Year Olds Anymore (Part Two)

Hand Holding


[dropcap]I[/dropcap]t was 8:00pm.  The date had been going well? 

I had suggested, if you want, we could go catch a movie?

Seeking a friend for the end of the world.  (Sidebar: Spoiler alert…this is NOT the comedy fest the trailer had suggested but instead a die hard romance flick with all the first date negatives of an independent film–numerous parts of total silence and nobody wants to make out while the rest of the theatre groans at the slobbering lip smacking of two newbs in the back row).

He was all over it.  I, of course, had come prepared with show times.  Just because I’m not into the whole being the boss thing doesn’t mean I don’t understand the concept and given that when someone offers me a choice of three restaurants I’ll likely spend the evening debating the merits of each while we all die of starvation, I figured I should probably be prepared for the date should it take a turn for the movies.  Which it did.  Nailed it! 

Unfortunately, we only had 15 minutes till it started so the rest was a bit of a blur in rushed movements and flustered breath…and zooming cars.  His was fancy.  It was like he was a real grown up and everything.  Maybe 23 ain’t so bad after all.  (by the way, this statement is funnier because I, of course, was driving my parent’s car…given that I’m living with them for the few weeks before I book it to Montreal…and am a writer/grad student…so I’m basically just shy of homeless but well below the poverty line…but I digress…this is supposed to be about our date).

We arrive at the theatre and go in.  The place is packed, the line is lengthy.  If our skin tone was the same I might be worried people would think I was out with my son on a Friday night.  That was obviously a joke, my son wouldn’t be beige ralph lauren sweater.  We get to the counter.  I’m flustered because he doesn’t step up first.  Does he think I’m fucking paying?  I’m all for this whole cougar thing but fuck that noise, son!  Like I said, I’m a writer/grad student…so I’m basically living on hopes and dreams, I don’t even want to pay for myself.  I lean back and ask What movie are we seeing??  I fucking know what movie we’re seeing.  This is his moment to step up.  To use those long skinny 23 year old legs and bust his way to the front and order up two tickets to blah blah blah please but he doesn’t.  And there are like 500 people in line behind us.  Ugh.  Paying for my own coffee AND movie on a first date!?!?  Is this what dating a 23 year old is like because I’m not down with that.  1 for blah blah blah please I say, mortified that my date has left me to foot the bill.  And yes, I did feel the cashier judging me.  The upside…I had enough points saved up from back in the day when I had time to see and could afford movies.  So hurrah.  I got my ticket turned around and bam…he was gone…to another teller.  Which I guess is the normal thing to do but honestly it seemed weird to me, why would he just stay with me and get his ticket right after mine.  Whatever.  Best not think too deeply on it.

I ask if he wants to get any snacks.  He says that he’s fine.  He asks if I’m getting anything.  I say no, I was probably afraid he’d stand there and let me pay and then not only would I be the chubby chick with the super skinny dude looking so odd-couple, but would also be the chick whose date didn’t deem her worthy of being a gentleman.  Awesome.  No thanks.  *hunger grumble*

We get seats.  He wants to sit in the very last row.  I think this is amazing (I get nauseous if I sit too close).  We’ve been rushing around trying to get here in time to see this movie.  I’m hot, I’m mildy sweaty, I’m trying not to breathe heavily.  And then the lights dim.  Sweet, I think, now the music will drown out my breathing until I relax and cool down.  But not so, my friend (reference earlier reference to said negatives of independent-esque films).  The movie is about as fucking quiet as it gets.  No such luck.

Sidebar:  I do this moronic thing before first dates.  I barely eat.  Like somehow the not eating will make me 50 lbs. lighter and when I show up they’ll be confused and like hey…what’s this super model doing here?  And while it’s always possible my beauty blows them away upon first arrival, I think it’s safe to say not having a sandwich really doesn’t make that big of a difference to the first impression I make.  Nonetheless.  It’s a thing I do.  [Note: a thing I plan to stop fucking doing and let me tell you why].  The biggest downfall to this plan isn’t what you might think.  I don’t get light headed, there’s no cranky pants happening, and my body hasn’t given up on me quite yet.  The real problem, the real betrayer, is my stomach.  Because of course, after not eating for awhile, you’re mother fucking hungry and while I can control my brain sometimes like a wizard, my stomach is not on board with the game plan.  She has an attitude and likes to grumble till the cows come home.  And so you can just imagine me sitting there, during this borderline silent movie, terrified of the stomach grumbles that I can only imagine must be audible from Mars.  Worst.

That being said, maybe he can’t hear it because as soon as the lights dim, he’s reaching for my hand.  Which in theory, is adorable.  It’s cute.  It’s something you usually want.  But given that I still haven’t caught my breath from our hustle, you can imagine that it might get a bit clammy or at the very least that I would be terrified it would.  We continue to hold hands for awhile.  We hold hands till I spend more time thinking about the hand holding than the movie.  We hold hands till I’ve worked out 5 different disengagement scenarios.  We hold hands till I can’t fucking take it anymore.

Only I’ve left something out.

Sometime in there I can feel him looking at me.  When it comes to peripheral vision I’m basically Batman.  Or spiderman? My spidey senses are tingling.  Plus he’s only like 10 inches away from me.  It feels like he’s been looking at me for half an hour.  I would guess it’s actually about 10 or 20 seconds.  I know what’s coming.  I’m trying to decide if I want it to.  I decide you only live once and just a few weeks to Montreal and well we did have a good conversation with laughs.  I turn my head.  He kisses me.  It is not great.

In his defense, we are in the most awkward position for a first kiss.  First kisses should not happen in movie theatres.  With arm rests that don’t move.  And when you’re still kind of sweaty.  And you’re nervous.  And awkward.  That you’re on a date with a 23 year old.  Who is like 1/4 of your size.  Even if he does obviously think you’re a babe.  This is not the first kisses you want.  I kiss long enough to let him know that this was an okay thing to do, but I soon pull away.  I did after all, just pay to see this movie and dammit I’m going to see it.

The movie sucks.  My stomach grumbles.  And then it ends.  We talk about the movie.  We thought the same thing.  Almost exactly.  So that was cool.  We walk outside.  It’s dark now and pouring rain.  Neither of us have jackets, it is summer after all.  And I don’t mean a Vancouver sprinkle.  This is not casual Vancouver rain.  This is the rain of movies.  This rain is begging to be made out in.

We walk back to our cars, parked side by side, away from all the others.  We dawdle.  I sense he wants to still hang out.  But given that we’re both students living with our parents (he made a comment earlier about having to park his car on the street given that the 3 car garage in their kerrisdale home was already housing 3 of the 5 cars in his family…but no matter how big his house may be or the length of the hallway separating his parents from us there is no way I would be taking an adventure to see it and like I said I’m at home for a few weeks till I move), there was really no where to go.  Had it been warm and dry, we could’ve gone for a walk on the beach or something, but it was not.  I knew he was likely thinking we could just sit in the car and get it on talk but to be honest, I didn’t really want to.  I’d had enough talk for the first date and if he wanted more chatter, well that’s what second dates are for.  And as for the rest of it…we all know I like my stages and that shit someone always gets skipped through way too quick in a car and since I’m no longer 22 and into power sex (the sex you have simply because it’s fun and exciting and validates that you’re hot)…doing it in a car is not for me.

I want privacy, and freedom…and I really do my best work when I’m not hindered.

That being said, I wasn’t above trying it one more time, to see if his nerves had calmed down and a new position was all he needed.  I stood closer to him.  In the rain.  Said something about well maybe we should call it a night… leaned in and that was really all it took.  And this time, it was much better.  And with every moment of my gentle coaching improved even more.  Unfortunately, as sexy as making out in the rain was, I started to become all too aware of how thin he was (image…his chest was like the width of one boob, and the other one was left out there all on its own), and I could hear cars driving and even people walking and talking.  And so after a little while I pulled away.  We said our goodbyes.  Planned to do it again sometime soon.  Got in our respective cars and drove away.

And by the time I got home I had a text message that read:  Hey!  Had a great time this evening.


Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

How to Screw Yourself Out of Getting Screwed: Lessons in How To NOT Have a One Night Stand


[dropcap]T[/dropcap]he first time I tried to have a one night stand I may I repeat MAY have been rushing my young self a little fast.  You see up until that point I had only ever made out with a boy (whose attempts at fondling I’d brushed aside).  But as far as feasts or famines go, I was in the mood for a feast, or at least wanted to get stuffed and in my excitement and never having actually seen a real live grown up man penis before (and by seen I’m speaking metaphorically as the tent was a black hole of darkness…I couldn’t see anything) I was unsure of how to proceed.  And thus…in my overzealousness, squeezed a little too hard…which in turn made sure that he was not.  He suggested I suck his dick.  I was 17 and inexperienced but smart enough to know I wasn`t interested in going down on some random…in a tent…who I was only vaguely interested in…while my entire grad class partied in near pitch blackness…in the middle of the forest…of a logging road…near Harrison.  And thus my first one night stand fell flat…much like his flacid penis.

And for someone as experienced as I, as I look back now, I’ve had a surprising number of near misses, total failures and all out regrettable blunders.  It would appear that instead of being queen of the casual sex…I may in fact be its court jester.


There were times when the malfunctions were mechanical (theirs…not My machinery).  There was a fella named Doug when I was in 2nd year university.  He didn’t watch TV.  He didn’t even own one.  I should’ve known right then it would never work.  He was 30.  I was…19…barely.  And his height matched my experience…short.  And while I may have had some trepidation…the problem was really on his end…and his tiny penis…that…well…never seemed to get quite hard enough…and given that I’d maybe had sex twice before (and I’m not even talking with 2 guys…I literally mean 2 times)…well…it was not the little engine that could.  We eventually parted ways with a few shrugs, a few embarrassed smirks, and after he was on his way I’m pretty sure I made some ichiban noodles in my hot pot and watched some sex and the city in the common room, no biggie.  I imagine he went home and cried.  But that’s just me.


There were times when location became a problem.  There was the guy from Blaine who I met at the nightclub just this side of the border (for the life of me I can’t remember what it was called).  My friends and I used to frequent the bar on wednesday nights…for the hip hop…for the Americans…for the black guys.  Ironically, Spencer, was as white as white can be.  But he was cute and American and that was good enough.  Only…there were a few hiccups.  You see, Spencer lived with his parents (a fact I didn’t find out till way later and would’ve been helpful to explain the route we took).  When we left the nightclub he suggested we stop by a friend of his place because he was having a party.  Now perhaps I didn’t speak American at the time because I misunderstood party to mean party but not Spencer…to him party meant helping my friends move at 2am.  Um…what…the…fuck.  I sat on a couch.  He helped his friends move.  We ended up making out in a car later.  A makeout session he clearly didn’t deserve given the weird happenings.  But since I wasn’t interested in fucking in a car, at 4am, in Blaine, when it was freezing outside…we eventually called it a night…and I dropped him off at his parents house.  Worst.


There were times when excessive substances were an issue (like with Marcothe drug dealer…should’ve seen that coming)…there were times when the presence of a girlfriend only came up after the things had already got rolling…like with Ricky…the firefighter with a girlfriend who said “but I can still finger you”…um…no thanks…I’m all set dude…unfortunately, given that we were both sleeping over at a friend’s house there was no easy exit…so instead I just kicked his ass to the floor)…and then there were simply just those times when the dicks came out just as the dicks were coming out (like with…uh…too many to mention…but when fellas were about to get laid and just couldn’t help talking themselves out of getting some).  Worst, boys…worst.

That being said, there was definitely a time or two when the act of non-consummation was entirely my fault.  Like blatantly, hands down, no question, because of something I did.  And admittedly the thing I did was usually another guy, but there’s neither here nor there.


The Bouncer. There used to be this bouncer *cough* at Atlantis *cough* who was such a fine specimen of hot huge beefy muscley manliness that a girl could hardly be expected to be responsible for her actions.  The truth is, I barely remember what his face looked like…but years later I can still picture him in all his bouncing glory.  He’s was a black Adonis.  No question.  And while I didn’t frequent the nightclub, I had seen him more than once, maybe he freelanced, maybe I had just seen him out at the club and in my dreams but regardless, he was hot and I wanted him.

And that’s basically what I told him.  Walked right up to him…and said:

You…are taking me home.  Tonight.

To which he said, with a face chiseled in stone, give me your number, I’ll call you as soon as I’m off.  And so I did.

Unfortunately, I continued to party.  A couple friends and I headed over to the Purple Onion where we had several bouncer/bartender friends who were continuing the night after hours.  Now as far as I can remember the bouncer called pretty soon after.  I told him where I was and he said, I’ll come get you.  Yes.  I said.

Only then I got distracted.  Because you see there were other boys.  And coupled with the boozing and other illicit activities, it was really no wonder that when he showed up, I was already interested in another party with another boy.  In hindsight, I totally made the wrong choice but I was young and foolish and a bird in the hand was better than a hot bouncer in a car waiting outside for me…right?  Wrong.  Life lesson learned.  Always ALWAYS pick the hot bouncer who looks like he could take down the hulk with just a look.

And fyi (before you think…well that’s not really a story of fucking up a one night stand because she still got it on with someone…I did not, in fact, get anything on with choice number 2.  Probably because I sobered up and realized the erroneous decision I had made.  Not to mention I felt like a total dick for having lured the bouncer around to where I was, only to never go down and meet him.  See that’s the thing about being 21, you’re a moron.  And an asshole.  When Mr. Bouncer came around, I never even went down to tell him that I had made a change of plans.  I just left him out there.  In his car.  Till he presumably figured I was never coming.  Total Dick Move.  Worst.)

And those, my friends, are just a few of the many tales I have of one night stands gone awry, or really, one night stands that never even occurred at all.


Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

Flirting Fail: Instinctually Awkward

Forever Awkward
[dropcap]It[/dropcap] can be really hard to explain my relationship to flirting.  But when has that ever stopped me right?!?!

My first instinct is to say that I don’t flirt.

Except this isn’t entirely true.  Because I do flirt.

My second instinct is to say that I only flirt with purpose.  Kind of like how I wouldn’t write an essay on David Copperfield for fun, I don’t flirt just for the sake of flirting.  If I’m not being graded, it’s just valuable time that could be spent elsewhere.

Now I’m not saying that if I flirt with you that I’m taking you home whether you like it or not, I have a trunk and a dufflebag waiting.  Not at all.  What I am saying is that I don’t mindlessly flirt.  I wouldn’t flirt if I was in a relationship and I generally expect the same of others (see also: reasons I’m constantly disappointed with people).  I wouldn’t flirt with someone I felt no attraction to.  Because for me, if there’s no possibility of it going anywhere, it’s a waste.  I’m not in aimless pursuit of the fruitless flirt.  I’d rather just be normal and talk to someone.

You see, some of stems from being a dating blogger.  Because when I flirt, it takes effort.  There are all kinds of things I have to remember.  Don’t tell them what you do, just say student.  Boys don’t want to date a dating blogger.  And those that do only want to because you’re a dating blogger.  Don’t say balls.  Don’t say fuck.  Don’t tell dirty jokes.  Don’t say ‘that’s what she said’.  Don’t laugh too loud.  Be feminine.  Be cute.  Smile.  Smile.  Be demure.  Maybe don’t tell them about grad school just yet.  Don’t ask too many questions.  Don’t let the conversation lag.  Well…you get the idea.

But if we’re friends.  If we’re buddies.  If you’re just a dude at a party or a guy on the street or the bartender or the random person online.  Well then I can just be me.  I smile too big.  I laugh too loud.  I curse like a trucker.  I talk about dating.  And science.  And will debate your logic if it comes to that.  I’ll ask about your job and not worry whether or not you think I’m a gold-digger.  I’ll tell you what I do for work and school and be goddamn proud of it (but not in an obnoxious way).  I’ll ask you if you’re single, if you’re dating, tell me your stories, tell me everything, lay it on me.  My conversation will be a pair of open arms waiting to hug you.  But most importantly, I’ll be at ease.  I’ll be relaxed.  I’ll be happy.  Just being me.  No worries.

But then comes my third instinct.  Because I’m not (hopefully) as uptight as this is making me sound.  Because I can flirt.  Because I do flirt.  Because, in a controlled environment.  I’m kind of like mating pandas, the scenario is precarious, it can be hostile, but when you get it right oh oh so right well that’s how baby pandas are made and who doesn’t love baby pandas.  I mean, you get the analogy right?  I guess the point is that when I flirt, it’s usually with someone whom I already know likes me, or at least wants to do me.  And if that’s not the case, well then I’m shy.  Plus add to that fact that I was in a relationship for six years.  Not to mention I’m a little over 4 years away from my last alcoholic beverage.  And I’m chubby, in a city that doesn’t so much love chubby.  So I guess you could say, I’m officially out of practice, and thus Awkward (capital A).

And because I hate the idea of being an abstract blogger, one who simply talks about issues and neglects to relate the real life situation in which they occurred…I give you…One Day in the Life of Awkward SSDated.

Or at least I will…if you stay tuned for the next blog post.  Which I promise, won’t be nearly as far off and spread out as my posting has been lately.  What can I say, the whole school being breezy thing still hasn’t had quite yet but I’m certain any day now!


Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

Twitter, Texting, Condoms, and Bush

No Busy


[dropcap]R[/dropcap]emember when I thought dating someone from Twitter would be fucking awesome?  Well turns out there were a few glitches.

The first was obvious and universal:  I suddenly felt like I had to censor what I was saying.  Not necessarily in regards to things like balls and blowjobs but with regards to tweeting about other boys.  Should I still tweet about The Vampire even though Kevin Bacon can see?  Should I change my behavior for a boy?  What about tweeting about other boys?  What about tweeting my thoughts about Kevin Bacon himself?  What was a girl to do.

The second was Kevin Bacon specific:  He had an ex dating blogger.  And while on our first date I had recognized her name as someone who retweeted me, I wasn’t certain it was a regular thing.  For all I knew she just stumbled across my Twitter and didn’t even read the blog.  This was not the case.  The day after I wrote the Bird Seed Theory, she retweeted it.  Apparently she had liked.  And what’s not to like.  It was brilliant lol.  But seriously.  It was clear she was a regular reader.  Which in theory is fucking awesome.  But in practice, really freaked me the fuck out.  

So initially Twitter was just a problem for me.  Because it was making me uncomfortable.  And then it became a problem…well I don’t know if problem is the right word…but…it became a thing when the night before our ballgame, our second date, our Thursday night, KB asked me

Did you have a date tonight?



Busted.  Thanks twitter.



Normally if a guy asked me that I’d kind of say

none of your business…but we’ve got a bizarre 

situation with twitter and all that.  

I know. No biggee. You have research

to do.


The truth is 

it’s kind of along the lines of ‘do you really want

to know this stuff?’

Like “was your last boyfriend bigger 

than me?”


No…lol not like that…plus would any girl ever

answer that honestly?!?! Current man = always

the biggest and best 😉

Good.  On a related note, my ex texted me

to ask me to come pick up my box of extra

large condoms.


(I of course assume he’s just making a joke)

Heyyoooo *ouch* I think you just poked me in 

the eye through the phone #HUGE

Apparently the new guy didn’t fit *ouch 




Okay.  This was getting a bit weird.  So I asked.  Was he joking or did this actually happen.  Apparently it actually happened.  The conversation continued where I tried to convey that this was weird and creepy (while being nice) and he tried to convince me that this was normal and why be wasteful.  But even if the latter was the right case scenario.  Why bring it up to a girl you’re going on a second date with.  Not to mention a girl who is already skeeved out by the numerous connections to the ex and another girl.

But then we were back to the witty repartee.  It was baseball + adorable + hilarious + sexual metaphors.  And we were hitting it out of the park #SeeWhatIDidThere.  Until I changed the subject and asked about pet peeves.  Which were all pretty normal.  Until he answered Bush.  I of course clarified, the political figure or the hairstyle? and he responded both.  And we were back to…not great.  Because while I love some sexual innuendo and witty banter.  Telling a chick, you’ve never even kissed, that you don’t like a bush.  Well.  That rubs a girl the wrong way.  Not that it would actually matter as I don’t go bush au naturel but to me it feels akin to a guy saying I don’t want to know if you ever have your period either.  And immediately I’m like I’m woman hear me roar and fuck you and all that jazz.

So I changed the subject to something more neutral.  And then it was time for bed.  And tomorrow would be our second date.


Dating and Social Media: The Town Twidiot


[dropcap]I[/dropcap]f you follow me on Twitter (@SSDated) you know that I keep my identity under wraps, unlike my boobs and lips, which I tend to showcase like they’re going out of style.  I do this because I want to be a Professor one day and I’m pretty sure Harvard doesn’t hire sex bloggers.  That being said I’m all about meeting people in real life.  Showing them who I am.  Hanging out.  Chatting it up.  Laughter chuckles jokes.  Whatever.

So you can imagine that the idea of dating someone from Twitter sounded  pretty awesome.  In fact it became a thing I actively lusted after.  Because after all, this would be someone who knows me.  Someone who checks in everyday to watch me spout off about boobs and brains, boys and balls, blowjobs and baby batter.  Someone who reads the blog and thus gets access to a basic step-by-step guide of how to get laid and not frustrate the fuck out of SSDated.  I mean it’s like a roadmap.  A How-to handbook.  A who’s who of quirks and flaws, eccentricities and strengths.  An owner’s manual to well…fucking Me and even to…fucking me.  It all seemed so easy and flawless.  Or so I thought.

I mean where could it go wrong?

It would be like having an opposite sex friend who knows all about the endless slutty things I’ve done.  The time that stupid boy made me cry hurt-ego tears and the time that other boy enraged me so beyond belief I cried frustears (tears caused by frustration just in case that wasn’t super obvious).  Because I think we all know Tin Man doesn’t spill real tears over boys.  They would rust my armour.  And this said guy on Twitter would have access to all my crazy and amazing.  And of course, the key ingredient to this delicious soup.  Even after all that, he’d still want to date me.  The 80s Rom-Com practically writes itself.

Unfortunately like all pipe-dreams this whole dating someone from Twitter scheme was not without its hiccups.  Things I had neglected to register while I put on my rose coloured glasses and had a look around.  I mean.  Had I completely forgotten about my Datey-No-Facebookey rule??? (pretty self-explanatory…if we’re dating you don’t get access to my facebook…it’s simply too much information that you don’t need).  It appeared I had.  Because here’s the thing about Facebook and Twitter.  You should NOT under any circumstances I repeat!! Fucking NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES be friends with (FB) and/or following anyone (Tw) you’re dating (and vice versa).  And here’s why.

The thing about Social Media is that it’s just a shitload of information.  All the time.  Nonstop.  Fucking endless.  And while I love it.  Can’t-live-without-it type love.  Who-else-can-I-share-my-two-liners-with type love.  Where-else-would-I-post-all-my-ridiculous-inside-jokes type love.  Need-my-daily-fix-of-witty-banter type love.  Want-the-world-to-know-me-and-this-is-how type love.  Not everybody needs to be inside this love.

When you start to date someone, they really don’t need to see all your cards.  In fact it’s better if they don’t.  They don’t need to know you’re feeling lusty right away which you tweeted about.  And they don’t need to know that you’re dating 4 other guys which is what you posted as your Facebook status update…you player you.  They also don’t need to see you having flirty conversations with 10 other guys on Twitter, who by the way you couldn’t be less interested in.  But he can’t tell that.  And while everything you do may be innocent.  In fact, for all the person you’re dating knows, you actually dig them the most.  And the other 3 guys are just a way to take the pressure off and keep your options open.  Or maybe they’re not.  But either way.  It’s too much information way too fucking soon.  And you just shouldn’t be doing it.

So like I said, you should not under any circumstances ignore the Datey-no-Facebookey rule and you most certainly should not ignore the newly develop Dont-Date-Where-You-Tweet rule…especially if you’re like me and are a fucking Dating Blogger.  As it would turn out, I of course, have a problem taking my own advice.  And as the story unfolds, you’ll begin to see that I put the name Twidiot to good use.  Naive, silly little Twidiot.


Vancouver Dating Blog:  Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time

Dear Boys, Nobody Likes to Be a Sideshow


[dropcap]I[/dropcap]t’s come to my attention.  As of late.  That I’ve been dating idiots.  Now don’t get me wrong.  People are inherently beautiful and everybody has their talents and upsides.  But when it comes to dating.  These boys are fucking ridiculous.  And that could very well explain why they’re on Plenty of Fish.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that.  But these aren’t boys that are looking for a discussion.  They’re not just dating.  They’re “looking” for something.  And so if a fella is open and willing.  You have to wonder.  Why.  At 36/37/39/etc. his not finding it.  And that brings me back to the idiocy.

And the thing of the thing is.  I kind of don’t mind.  Because while I know most people read this blog for the funny business.  I have some fucking wisdom.  I swear.  To bestow on those willing to read/hear it.  And possibly the friends of those people.  Because someone has to be friends with these ridiculous boys that I’m dating.  They’re not social rejects.  Just.  Boys with maps to dating.  That haven’t been completely drawn in yet.  And so they’re guessing.  When they should be pulling over and asking directions.  And so here I am.  Waiting in the service station.  Throwing nails on the road so they’re forced to pull in to fix a flat.  Ready to guide.

And that’s why I write these Dear Boys posts.  To share the wisdom.  The small amount I have to share.  Because that slogan I came up with awhile back isn’t just a funny catch-phrase.  It’s a bit of the truth.  Mixed in for good measure.  I really am hoping.  To leave a legacy.  Of boys that have become just a little bit better.  Equipped.  More able.  Stellar.  Master daters.  Something She Dated.

Dating Vancouver a Better Place…One “Something” at a Time.  

So that’s me.  Taking one for the team.  Jumping on a grenade for you.  Ladies of Vancouver, BC.  And possibly even more widespread.  Because after all.  Boys migrate.  So you never know.  Atlanta.  Paris.  Saskatoon.  Prague.  One day you just might owe me a thank you.  But remember.  I don’t take refunds.  And I don’t offer warrantees.

So let’s get down to it, boys.  Because you’re screwing it up.  And you’re grossing me out.  And honestly, it seems obvious enough to me, but I guess I’m going to have to say it, nobody wants to be a sideshow.    Because whether you mean it as a compliment or not.  Compartmentalizing me.  Physically.  Is really insulting. And insecuring.  And ick ick icking me to death.

For example.  When you say (as a dude so recently did on you posted lovely photos (this is good) – you are simply beautiful (keep it coming!).  I truly appreciate a genuine curvy figure (umm…fuck off).  And now just to be clear.  Where the fault lies.  So that there is no doubt.  Is in the appreciation of a genuine curvy figure.  Now if he had said you’re a babe or you’re stunning or something equally clear about thinking I was attractive.  That’d be awesome.  Because I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.  I’m not a chick who can’t take compliments.  But the gross part, is three fold.

First.  I hate the curvy thing.  And I’ll explain why.  Because saying I’m curvy doesn’t convey attraction.  It conveys sideshow.  Nobody wants a chubby chaser.  Because the thing of the thing is.  I don’t want the dude who likes fat chicks.  I want the dude who likes me.  Huge difference.  And further to this.  The word curvy is a thorn in my side.  My not curvy but chubby bunny side.  Because I’ll tell you.  Every fat girl has taken enough shit from dudes (and chicks) who would criticize them for daring to call themselves curvy.  Curvy being a coke bottle shape.  Curvy being 36-24-36.  Curvy being Vida Guerra or These Models.  And I am not curvy.  I’m beautiful.  I’m adorable.  I have value and all that other stuff.  But I’m not cruvy.  I’m less Marilyn Monroe and more Beth Ditto.  But most of all, I’m just me.

Second.  The word appreciate.  Now I know I’m going to catch some flack from all of you.  Something like you’re being too critical or stop being such a word nazi or something akin to this.  But to me.  Saying he appreciates my curves is honestly a bit of a jellyfisher.  Because what he’s really saying is that he’s different.  He appreciates what I have…fill in the blank____when others do not____.  And so it becomes just another signpost that this fella wants to take a detour to chubby town.  Whether he regularly vacations there or just heard about this great special.  But either way.  It yet again.  Makes me feel like a sideshow.  Objectified.  And not in an awesome way.  But in a yellow-fever, jungle-fever, chubby chaser, freak show type of way.

And finally.  Just in a totally word-nerd kind of way.  What’s with the genuine?  Like as opposed to the other girls.  Who are fake curvy?  What the fuck does that even mean.  So my dear boys, my dear dear boys.  This is my advice to you.


Dear boys,

Ick.  To every dude who likes a chick with some meat on her bones.  Or finds himself attracted to some ethnicities over others.  Nobody Likes To Be a Sideshow.  The way to your woman’s heart.  The key to your ladies panties.  Is not by making her feel like a freak.  It’s not by making her feel like if she were a hamburger that you only ever like her beef.  She is a whole dish.  A WHOLE dish.  And if you can’t appreciate her for that.  You should damn well keep it to yourself.  And honestly for her sake and yours move on.  But don’t tell her.  Don’t fucking make it clear that you just want her for something arbitrary and out of her control.  Because she’s not a circus act.  And you won’t win her over by talking about her tightrope.  Just Sayin’ boys.  Step your game up.  She’ll appreciate you for it.

Yours Truly,
Judgey Wudgey
aka Something She Dated
aka Your boys favorite chubby bunny
aka That girl 2 treadmills over getting closer to curvy status
aka Helping boys woo their ladies one compliment at a time
aka Dating Vancouver a better place one “something” at a time

Vancouver Dating Blog: Dating Vancouver a Better Place, One “Something” at a Time