1. Concert and shift your weight continuously. Try leaning against a wall or nearby surface for a while! Notice how it gradually becomes harder to pick up your feet as the night progresses and the stickiness of the floor increases. Try not to think about having to go to the bathroom. Shift your weight toward your date, then away. Balls of the feet, then heels.
2. Sushi and become hyperaware of your fingers. Whether you eat sushi with chopsticks, use your fingers, or use your chopsticks to put sushi on your plate and then pick it up with your fingers, you’re going to be thinking about your fingers. For a break, feel free to think about and watch your date’s fingers. Knuckles are weird and wrinkly.
3. Fall foliage and nitpick. Some possible subjects of criticism to get you started: choice of music in the car, speed when exiting the freeway, the decision not to bring gloves when it’s 30 degrees out, taking pictures of everything except you, holding hands, not holding hands, checking the football score, not being allowed to check the football score, where to stop for lunch, and whether to read Yelp reviews.
1. If you feel yourself about to interrupt a woman, try not interrupting.
2. If you still feel the urge to interrupt, try biting your tongue.
3. No luck? Try eating a doughnut.
4. If none of these methods work, try duct tape over your own mouth. Or maybe painter’s tape. It’s gentler. Don’t duct tape other people’s mouths without their permission.
Frankly, I’m disappointed by the best “dream” proposals people seem able to conjure. So I’ve gussied up the standards a bit.
Instead of Paris…
My lover turns to me. (Lover is no longer an embarrassing word to use in this dream world.) Backlit by the moon, he reaches for my hand. I smile at him. I’ve never seen so many stars. That’s because we’re floating in space above Mars. Together, we turn to face a distant swirl of blue and green. “Earth looks beautiful from here,” I say.
“You’re beautiful wherever we are,” he says as he fumbles awkwardly in his space suit. He holds out a ring. “We’re the first humans to ever land on Mars. Will you do me the honor of being the first to —”
“PUT IT AWAY. IT MIGHT FLOAT INTO SPACE!” I scream. He tucks it back into his layers of neoprene coating. I say “yes” and we bump our astronaut helmets together in our attempt to kiss.
#2. The Too Much Information
SCENE: Your dad’s twin sister really restrains herself this year. She waits until grace is said and in the pause while the table is still quiet, she booms out, “How’s your love life? You know, the problem with you kids is you can’t commit!”
COMEBACK: “I ate Honeynut Cheerios on my couch last night while watching Jane the Virgin, making a PowerPoint for work, swiping on Tinder, and deleting spam messages on OKCupid. Do you want to see the twenty-minute conversation I had with a man about the differences between Corgis and Dachsunds? I made an Anthony Wiener joke and he asked if I was a Democrat and then blocked me.”
My dog ate my boyfriend.
My boyfriend ate my dog.
Did you know Goldie Hawn is still unmarried?
I’m thinking about getting my fish a bicycle.
Have you seen “Golden Girls”? So fabulous.
Waiting for Barack.
1. Never wear a dress. Knees make men crazy. You don’t want to start a frenzy.
2. Never wear makeup. Best to keep expectations low in case you never wear it again.
3. Don’t shower. You want him to smell your pheromones.
4. Don’t ask him on a second date. Don’t ask about his family. Don’t ask any questions. Don’t talk.
5. Don’t order food either. Fuel your hanger. You might need it if another woman looks at your date or if he turns out to be a serial killer or a car blocks the crosswalk.
1. Don’t shower. See if you can work construction the day of your date. You want to know if she loves the real you.
2. Do some vanity push-ups before you go. You want to look swole. Bonus points if you pop a chest button on the date.
3. Wear pants.
4. Forget your wallet. It will empower the financially independent woman.
5. Always wear a condom. Go ahead and put it on before you leave the house. Safety first.
If coupled people fantasize about dating other people, single people fantasize about dating in other cities. So in that spirit, this is my list of the nine best U.S. cities for dating, according to my imagination...
When you date in Wyoming, you don’t date a city. You date an entire state, an entire sky.
You date one rancher and cowboy after another, two-stepping your way across the landscape like a wild horse that can’t be tamed. Your butt looks great in your jeans and you know how to birth a calf, change a tire and set a dislocated shoulder. You never wait for anyone to text. You’ll either see him when the snow thaws or you won’t; either way you’ll be fine.
“I’m going to start online dating. What do I need to know?”
My sister has never online dated, and now that she’s happily married, she’s not likely to. But she’s not shy about sharing advice. “Be prepared to get rejected,” she told me.
This is what I call a truthslap.
The fact of the matter is, Uber and Lyft are not running a dating service, and passengers are not consenting to a romantic or sexual interaction when they request a ride.
Happen to get in the car with someone you find attractive, strike up a conversation and exchange numbers? Great. This has been happening in cabs, on planes, on trains since we invented public transportation.
But purposefully ride around in uberPOOL or Lyft Line at closing time on Saturday nights? Creepy.
1. Going to the gym
I talk about it excessively before working up the courage to go.
“Maybe it won’t be that bad once I get there,” I tell myself. I’m unsure of what to do once I’m there, but I’m definitely not dying. Yet. I can do this.
I look around. Someone is moving in a way I have never seen a human body move before. Someone else is grunting like a dying pig. What are all those towels for?
It’s worse than I thought. I back away into the bathroom and sit quietly in a stall to slow my breathing.
In some parallel universe, we all take perfect plus ones to every wedding. You may not be dating them, but your date for the night is definitely good-looking, funny, kind, generous, sweet to old ladies, a great dancer, and fun to flirt with for an evening. (Why aren’t you dating them and can I have their number?)
Last summer, I went to seven weddings between May and October. I didn’t take a plus one to a single one.
I also didn’t meet anyone so—according to Hollywood—I’m either dead or Daria.
It’s a warm night in Seattle. I’m sitting on my couch, flipping through Tinder. I screenshot a picture of a man whose profile says, “I’d like to meet a cool gal that’s a little bit country, a little bit rock n roll, a little bit high maintenance, a little bit gangsta, a little bit comedian, a lot of nerd, a soft voice, nice butt, down to be girly but still do badass stuff involving the outdoors every now and then.”
The profile is annoying, overly prescriptive. I’m not going to apply to be his girlfriend. I keep swiping.
“Tinder and the Dawn of the ‘Dating Apocalypse,’” by Nancy Jo Sales, from Vanity Fair’s September magazine, opens with three investment bankers swiping left and right on Tinder in a bar in a fruit fly-like desperation to mate immediately.
Cities are our greatest hope. But for cities to “go green,” we’re going to need to push the envelope and change our notions of what’s possible.
At six stories, the Bullitt Center is certified under the Living Building Challenge, the most rigorous benchmark of sustainability in the built environment.
The point of the Bullitt Center is to inspire. To challenge. Can you build something better?
Last year, I went to seven weddings from May and October. I didn’t take a date to any of them. I’m 29. Most people at those weddings were between the ages of 26 and 35 — a sea of potential matches doing the Electric Slide.
At each of these seven weddings, I danced. I talked to weird uncles and made friends with toddlers. I gave one toast, seven presents and ate more than seven pieces of cake. I did not, however, accidentally bump into a man with a crooked grin and dreamy eyes in the buffet line who turned out to be the love of my life.
1. He broke all his fingers. Texting with your nose is really hard.
2. He’s working a lot. Like, a lot. He is now an indentured servant. Also he lives in the 18th century, when indentured servitude was common and cellphones were not.
3. His dog ate his phone. He doesn’t have a dog. Okay, he adopted a dog since you last saw him, and his new dog ate his phone.
This summer, Seattle artist Dan Webb will set up shop at the Olympic Sculpture Park. In a small wooden shed, he will gradually turn a tree into a procession of carved sculptures. He will continue to carve until nothing is left but sawdust.
The ephemeral project pays tribute to the natural life cycle of the tree, which will come from the sculpture park—our chief gardener has selected one that needs to be thinned for the health of the grove. The tree’s seeds will be preserved and planted in the park.
We talked to Webb about his project—and what making art means to him.
Artist Sam Vernon’s stunning black-and-white graphics just took over the PACCAR Pavilion of the Olympic Sculpture Park. The installation, How Ghosts Sleep: Seattle, is a prelude to Disguise: Masks and Global African Art, which opens June 18 at the Seattle Art Museum.
Her project for the sculpture park’s pavilion began with a visit to see the Seattle Art Museum’s collection of African masks and the Art Deco architecture of the Asian Art Museum. Afterwards, she mixed in designs from textiles and inspiration from formal studies of leaves, trees, flowers, and animals; which she fit into a frame of bold, abstract shapes.
When we arrive at the Asian Art Museum, the Tateuchi Galleries are filled with cardboard boxes. Each room has a low tower built up in the middle, away from the walls. You can see flashes of a panda sticker on many of them, the logo of a moving company. Some of Mr.’s paintings are already hung, and a few are leaning against the walls. In a couple of places, an 8.5×11 piece of paper with a picture of a painting is taped to the wall with masking tape, giving us a clue of what will be going there.
The paintings are huge—much larger than we would have guessed—the size of entire gallery walls. We watch as four art preparators carefully lift and place one panel of three, sliding it along a rail toward the other two until you can just barely discern the seam.
My theory of the tortured artist is to be an artist, you don’t have to be tortured. But it helps.
I am in graduate school. Because I have nothing better to do, I wanted to prove my thesis. As research I observed some people and asked some questions about drinking and drugs and art. All of the people who appear in this study are of legal drinking age. Also I have changed their names. Also everything below is made up.
I began by reading Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. It was hard, difficult, and took me a couple hours. And then, to confirm my data, I watched the movie. Then I watched Pineapple Express because it’s hilarious and also about drugs.