Uh-oh, ex alert!

You run into people in the strangest places, don’t you? You’re just out minding your own business when you see someone who looks oddly familiar. Your brain scans the files of relatives, coworkers, and classmates. No matches. The person is closing in on you. You blow the dust of your cerebral “names of people I once knew” box and flit through the folders. Hurry!

It’s no use. You’re about to be reintroduced. Last-ditch effort: do the alphabet scan thing.

A – Albert: No. I would never date an Albert.

B – Brian: Hmm, I think I had a one-nighter with a Brian once.

C – Chris: He doesn’t look like a Chris. Maybe if he had lighter hair.

D – Damian: Scary.

E – Edward: My grandfather’s name was Edward. I wouldn’t have forgotten that name.

F – Oh, fuck … too late.

“Hi, Beth, how are you?”

“Fine. So nice to see you again.”

Here comes that awkward hug. Maybe I can match the scent.

“Nice to see you too.”

“Gosh, it has been so long.”

“Oh, silly, last spring isn’t that long ago.”

Time to recover. I wish my dumbass friend would introduce herself before I embarrass myself.

“To you, maybe. I’ve been so busy.”

“So, who’s your friend.”

Come on, girlfriend. God, she’s stupid. This bitch is buying the rest of the night.

“This is Allie.”

“Hi, Allie. I’m Franco. Beth and I met on eHarmony and went on a date last year.”

Fuck!

“Look at that: My glass is empty. Be right back. Anybody need one?”

It’s wise to remove yourself from the stressful situation to regroup and analyze. Search your phone. Nothing. No use signing into eHarmony here. I suggest you use humor to diffuse the situation. If that doesn’t work, lie.

“Oh, hey there, Beth. Welcome back. What are you drinking?”

“Vodka.”

“… and club soda?”

“… and more vodka.”

This is where your friend excuses herself to allow you to do some treading in the tears of your ex.

“So, I never heard back from you.”

“Um. Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“That’s OK.”

“Good.”

“I mean, I liked you and thought we were a great match.”

“Aw.”

*gulp*

“I still do, in fact.”

“You’re sweet.”

“But, you never returned my calls or text messages, so I assumed you weren’t interested.”

“Right. Well …”

“You don’t have to explain. Jeez. It’s like almost two years ago. I’m over it. No biggie.”

“Ah, OK.”

“I’m still single. How about you?”

“Kind of dating someone.”

“Is it serious?”

*gulp* I’m going to kill Allie.

“Serious enough.”

“Do you think you’ll marry him?”

“I don’t know. Gee, where did Allie go?”

“She’s over there talking to the bartender.”

“Oh, maybe she needs a hand.”

“I get it. You’re trying to ditch me. That’s OK. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“No, not at all. Look, Franco, you’re a great guy. I just wasn’t ready back then, I guess.”

“Well, if you weren’t ready you shouldn’t have been on eHarmony and you certainly shouldn’t have let me take you out.”

“Yep. You’re right.”

*gulp*

“Why don’t you make it up to me by letting me take you out tomorrow night?”

“Because I’m dating someone, remember?”

“You’re just making that up as an excuse to get away from me.”

*gulp*

“Be right back. Hey, Allie …”

As we toss bodies on the pile of exes, we’re eventually going to have to deal with the stench or find new landfills.

Are you looking to date your daddy?

Not literally, silly. Take a little inventory of your recent bedwarmers. How many of them—specifically, the ones you liked for more than their sub-sheets skills—had similar personalities to your father? Go ahead and think about it. I’ll wait.

Just got a tiny chill, didn’t you?

It’s actually not so creepy. You’re expected to love your parents and you probably developed a deep appreciation for the sacrifices they made to help create the ball of wonderfulness you currently are. Consider how many evenings your father would have rather done almost anything other than spoon feed you candied yams, pick up all the Cheerios you tossed on the floor, and change shirts stained by your projectile “stuff.” You'd damn well better appreciate it, young lady!

I exploit this tendency when I meet a potential lover. I have her describe her father. Based on that description, I know if I have a title shot or not.

“How is your relationship with your father?”

“Oh, it’s great. He’s a magnificent person.”

“So, you’re daddy’s little girl.”

“Yep. He spoiled me with gifts and hugs.”

Duly noted: Buy things and cuddle.

“Aw.”

“He always made sure I knew how proud he was of me.”

Also noted: Voice appreciation often. Emotional propping may be required.

“I’m sure he’s proud. Look how amazing you are.”

“Thank you. He maintained a positive outlook and went out of his way to help people.”

Another note: No whining about my misery and carry some spare change for the homeless.

“Well, I hope to meet the fellow someday.”

“I’m sure you two would get along famously.”

“Hey, as long as he’s not allergic to cats or a Tim Tebow fan, we’ll be tight.”

Women need a reality check, though. Not every father can be the best father ever. Some, frankly, had to suck. One easy way to see if your admiration is justified is to review your last five or so lovers and see what percentage of them were considered by most of your friends to be unworthy of you.

“What on earth did you see in Stan?”

“He’s a good guy.”

“He totally is not. He treats his ex-wife like shit.”

“Maybe that’s because she’s psycho.”

“What about his insecurity issues? He was the most jealous man I ever met.”

“That’s because he loved me so much. He couldn’t stand the thought of me with another man. It would make him crazy to consider that I loved anyone before him.”

“… and then he cheated on you.”

“I know. Well, I guess things weren’t going as well as I thought.”

“What?”

“If I gave him what he needed, he wouldn’t have cheated on me. It was momentary weakness. He apologized and promised to never do it again.”

“Wait. Didn’t he get a different girl pregnant right after you forgave him and took him back?”

“True. Well, it’s over now. He’s a good guy though.”

“Oh my god. Please stop defending him.”

This woman was obviously neglected by her “wonderful” father, as were most women who find themselves hopelessly attracted to bad boys and abusive men. She needs to meet a nice guy and change her expectations of how men should treat her. If you have a friend like this, tear her away from her father figure and guide her gently toward a gentleman.

Think about what you’re occupying.

When you want to be heard, you speak in a place where the ears you’re trying to reach can hear you. You should also have a point, not just a gripe without a proposed solution. Nobody wants to hear whining. This is what annoys me about all of the “occupy” protests going on. People are gathering in places where the intended audience spends little time. The protesters are carrying signs and chanting aimlessly. You wouldn’t pray this way.

“Dear God, I’m pissed.”

“What about?”

“Everything.”

“Well, you know where the exit is.”

“Seriously, Dude, this sucks.”

“What does?”

“For one thing, I don’t have as much money as I used to.”

“So, you think you should be paid for sitting in a tent in a park playing Angry Birds on your iPhone.”

I’ve had little luck in the romance department; that’s no secret. Would it make sense for me to plop a beach towel down in front of a hair salon? Should I chant to the ladies getting their weekly blowouts, “I lost my wife, now I got no sex life”? Ladies would step over me while delivering condescending glares. Sure, some would show pity. They’d probably toss me a porn magazine or suggest I get a puppy.

I would love to protest about this recent trend: Women give me their phone numbers, don’t answer when I call, and don’t return my message. Some take it a step further and complain the next time they see me that I didn’t pursue them sufficiently. What’s that all about? If I chase them, I’m the creepy leech guy; if I lie back, I’m the aloof low-ambition-having goof.

To protest the above mistreatment, what do you suggest?

• Don’t ask for phone numbers. Ask for Facebook friending.
• Take my shirt off so they can decide if they really want to waste a number on such a furry beast.
• Disclose my feline fancy.
• Import a bride from overseas.
• Take a yoga class wearing a T-shirt that reads, “I prefer doggie style to downward dog.”
• Scan the obituaries for emotionally unstable recent widows.
• Stuff a pool noodle in my pants.
• Go to a gay club, pose as a gay male, and infiltrate an all-girl table telling them I’m curious.
• Netflix.
• Hair coloring, chest shaving, teeth whitening, Spanx for men, elevator shoes, and trade my 401(k) for a Mercedes.
• Beg an ex to take me back.
• Aim a lot lower.
• Become a marriage counselor.
• Write about it, hoping to find the ticklish spot on a woman in a similar situation.

Don't date a dummy.

If you are a dummy, then move along. Otherwise, why would you waste your time dating someone who is as intellectually stimulating as a cold speculum? It’s like taking a class where you know more than the teacher does. Sure, it’s nice to have arm-candy, but eventually that human bracelet will open its mouth and ruin the fun.

You need to find someone who is slightly more intelligent to keep you engaged. There’s a tiny problem you’ll need to overcome due to the paradox—you’d be the dumber one. That’s where you can tout your other skills to make your ignorance tolerable. If I date an intellectually superior woman, I concentrate on my foot-rubbing, lasagna-cooking, and giggle-inducing skills. She won’t need my help completing crossword puzzles.

“I’m seeking a four-letter word for ‘An instrument of love.’”

“Cock?”

“Quit it.”

“Dong?”

“It’s not a dirty word, nimrod. This is in the New York Times.”

“Phil?”

“How self-serving.”

“Can I buy a vowel?”

“No, this isn’t Wheel of Fortune. Ah, I figured out the adjacent word. The one I need begins with R.”

“Rail?”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Thank you, I think. That is a compliment, right?”

“Not exactly.”

“Don’t be mean. I bought you roses today, remember?”

“Rose!”

“No, roses. There were twelve. I counted.”

“The word is ‘rose.’”

“Oh. Of course it is. I knew that. I was just playin’.”

See? I can cover my mental gaps with humor. Most dummies don’t understand my jokes or they take them personally. Hence, dummies don’t last. I offend them and they respond by calling me a “douche” and restricting access. Case in point: Yesterday, I posted what I thought was a clever tweet based on a trending topic.

“#iknewitwasoverwhen Adele sang.”

This created a hippo stampede of women calling me an insensitive “h8ter.” I'm actually a fan of Adele. I’ve read numerous interviews where she refers to herself as overweight and, in fact, she prides herself on not giving a shit what people think about her appearance.

“I like having my hair and face done, but I'm not going to lose weight because someone tells me to. I make music to be a musician not to be on the cover of Playboy.” – Adele

So, why am I being mean when I agree with her? Whatever.

Back to my original point: You need to date someone who inspires you. Playing the teacher role is exhausting. Dating a sexy dummy is like:

• eating microwaved filet mignon.
• drinking lukewarm espresso.
• playing catch with an iPhone 4S.
• wearing a sexy skirt with tighty whiteys.
• watching an NFL football game on the stadium TV.
• complaining about the current president although you didn’t vote.
• spraying Chanel on your cha cha.
• paying the valet although you parked your own car.
• dunking a Milano cookie in light beer.
• wearing a biker outfit on a stationary bike.
• going to the library to read comic books.
• masturbating in jet bathroom to join the Mile-High Club.
• ordering a Reuben without the meat.
• adopting a yorkie for protection.
• eating egg whites. 
• getting a spray-tan in preparation for your beach vacation.

Are you a butt girl?

When matchmakers circle around me, I’m asked typical questions. Then I wonder: Are women probed in a similar fashion? I mean, how many times has a friend asked if you’re a butt or chest woman before hooking you up with a brother, cousin, or coworker? Ladies are more concerned the three Hs: height, hair, and how much.

“So, Phil, are you a boob or butt man?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Kidding. Actually, I’m neither.”

“Impossible.”

“I’m a man who appreciates a proportionate woman, if that makes sense. I don’t like tits on a stick. I don’t like chocolate buns on a vanilla momma.”

Don’t get me wrong; I realize women like chests, arms, legs, and butts. They’re just more concerned with the firmness than the size—penis excluded, sort of.

If I describe my latest blind date to a buddy, he wants to know certain attributes excluding hair color, clothing choice, and which perfume she wears. Imagine how haywire this conversation would go:

“Tell me, studly, how did it go with Match.com date number two hundred forty-nine?”

“Fine, thank you very much.”

“And?”

“She’s got light brown hair, she’s around five-foot-four, she wore a tan cardigan over a sheer blouse with Joe’s jeans in indigo, and she was carrying a fine leather clutch from Coach.”

“OK, pull the cock out of your ass and try again.”

“She’s an aesthetician, she enjoys romance novels and walking on the beach. She ran her first half marathon this past spring.”

“Does she have hairy balls?”

“Fine, asshole. She came up to my nose, she had teardrop titties, and a delicious arch in her back. We made out a little, including some over-the-clothing play. She wore a lace thong and I’m pretty sure she dampened up a bit and will grant me a second date.”

“Much better. You can have your man card back.”

Then there’s the celebrity crush question. Most dorks respond with the usual including Kim, Halle, J-Lo, and Jessica. Not I.

“I’d have to go with Patti, Chelsea, Sandra, and Reese.”

“Interesting. Why?”

“Every woman has bumps and holes. I want one with that plus intelligence, pride, skill, and a sense of humor to tolerate playful kidding without leaving me on the sofa with a spare pillow and blanket after one of my wisecracks.”

Women are naturally concerned with how financially secure men are. I don’t care and I don’t want someone liking me for the size of the lump in the back of my pants. Ladies don’t really want sugar daddies, do they? Would some really trade all their pride and pleasure for an Amex Black? Gross!

The safest thing to say is you’re not typically attracted to men who … blah, blah … but, if there’s chemistry, who knows? That’s the truth, right? How many times have you described Mr. Perfect in your journal and then fell in love with a man who couldn’t be more different? I was married to a beautiful nurse with thick, curly hair and marshmallow lips. Will my next love be similar? Unlikely.

Don’t challenge Nature by placing constraints on yourself. Let love come and flow where it may.

Does somebody need a hug?

Sure you do. Hugs are good for you and they’re free. Make sure you deliver the proper hug. Depending on the hug-ee, you must adjust your strategy. Females need not be as concerned as males.

If you are male and the receiver is …

• your lover: This one’s simple. You can get away with almost anything here, depending on your audience and what you’ve done to piss her off lately.
• your best male friend: Unless you just won the World Series, this needs to be a handshake hug where only your right shoulders meet. It’s OK to add a quick back tap or two. If your stubbly cheeks meet, there’s a problem, unless you’re both Italian.
• an exceptionally attractive server who is twenty years your junior: Keep in mind which of the two of you is intoxicated. You can push the limit here if you’re a 20% tipper. Still, if you double clutch her butt and lift her like in the movies, you’ll probably be kneed in the kerbangers and banned for life.
• a person who is seated: This person does not want to hug you. Smile and wave instead.
• a female coworker at a company event: This is dangerous territory. The safest thing to do is follow her lead. Extend both of your arms to show your willingness, and turn your head slightly to the left (as to not give the impression you’re about to do something completely freaky, like kiss her on the lips). Then, just do what she does.
• a first date you met online, who looks nothing like her pictures: She probably won't appreciate the high-five, so be nice and shake hands. This too shall pass.
• a first date you met online, who looks better than her pictures: Congratulations on finding a unicorn. Be careful not to scare it away. Definitely go in for the full-body hug, tell her how lovely she is, and alert the media.
• an uncle: Unless you’re fed up with women and he’s a priest or coach at PSU, you shouldn’t be hugging him. Buy him a beer instead.
• a buddy’s wife: Best to be respectful here. You can embrace above the nipples but keep your hips twelve inches apart. If, by chance, your buddy took certain liberties in his hug with your woman, then one-up his ass by giving his girl a gorilla reach-around and an earlobe kiss. That’ll teach the ingrate.
• a high school senior cheerleader without proper identification: Nope.
• the bachelorette: That silly tiara, veil, and “I’m a cock gobbling slut monkey. Please show me your penis.” T-shirt she’s wearing give you permission to be as nasty as you want to be. The problem is her fullback-sized bridesmaid will be doing her blocking and tackling, so you’ll probably need to show Lori Czonka some loving before you gain access to the idiot announcing to the world that she’s about to ruin her life by strutting down the aisle with a man her parents disapprove of.
• me: I don’t want to hug you unless you’re the current president, handing me the keys to a free Ferrari, or the agent who just signed me to a million-dollar book deal.