Pittsburgh Dish

Lug American Syle

A couple shares their tasty box of hell.

He Sez: No Sweat

by Joe "Mr. Dish" Miksch

As I write, I sit and stew. The calendar has just flipped over to February. The steely-eyed beast that is the 14th of the month stares me in the face; its sulfurous breath curls my nostril hairs. The time is nigh. My pants are wet. I fold up into the fetal position, weeping and wailing and shouting 'til my lungs bleed: "Damn you, St. Valentine. Damn you to hell."

But, I mean, I gave her the ring, didn't I? I know it was shockingly inexpensive. (She doesn't like diamonds. Too Liberace.) I married her. What greater proof of my love and devotion? Trinkets, baubles, shiny things that fit in small, velvety, greenish-blue boxes? Not necessary this time around, right? We're in love and it ain't about material things. I'm sure to get off easy on Valentine's Day, the most treacherous of prefab holidays.

Nobody can tell me when I need to be romantic, especially when I already got a spouse in the bag.

Au contraire, mon frere!

They can and they will, despite my aversion to lace hearts and arrow-slinging cherubs. I'm going to pay, comrades. Big time. Why must I obey the call of Hallmark? Why must I bow and scrape to the Baal of baubles? Because she says so.

My objections to this are manifold and I plead my case to you, gentle reader.

First, I hate shopping. This aversion dates back about 13 years to the time I was mixing up Orange Juliuses (Orange Julii?) in my native Western Pennsylvania's Beaver Valley Mall. There, sticky with orange juice and the mystery powder that makes the juice a Julius and standing across from the Kauffman's Department Store, I had my first panic attack. I thought I was going to die. I was mortified by the thought that the last thing I would see on this earth were the racks of ladies' clothing a few yards in front of my face.

Luckily the association of scrotum-tightening fear with women's goods wasn't so significant that I became a misogynist, or a cross-dresser. I just started hating commerce and places where commerce was transacted.

This Christmas, our first together, I went shopping. Because I had to. I wandered a boutique aimlessly, face contorted like that Munch painting everyone has a copy of hanging in his dorm room freshman year. Finding nothing, I drove back to New Haven, sat down at a bar and downed two glasses of Scotch and a beer to steel my resolve. Up and down the city's swank specialty-shop row I wandered like the guy in those fish-out-of-water movies.

I came home with a goofy, wrought-iron wine rack that cost nearly as much as the engagement ring I was to buy a couple of weeks later. I suck. But I shall justify.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I must report to you these factors that render me incompetent in the gift-buying arts and distrustful of occasions that compel me to practice them. One: I'm poor. Two: I greatly fear displeasing the lady. Three: I'm pretty damn lazy.

Relative poverty and newspaper writing go hand-in-hand. So the stuff I think she'd like, I can't afford. The stuff I can afford is crap.

Not good. This, however, dovetails nicely with my dread of purchasing inappropriate or insulting gifts. Since the nice stuff is out for financial reasons, I've got to put in some effort at gift-giving.

I can't just buy a DVD player and get it over with because a) I can't afford it; and b) she tells me things that plug in don't cut it romance-wise. Perfume? A cliché. Foxy undies? These, she says, are more for me than her and therefore are out. And such delicates aren't really my thing, anyway. Just one more layer of fabric between me and the prize of prizes. Mere window dressing.

Jewelry? A getaway weekend? A helper monkey? Didn't I tell you I don't make much money? Do you know how much it costs to train one of them cute little Capuchins?

So, I've got to think. And that's hard work, which I despise. Not that she's not worth it.

My plan is this (my plan is always this): fret, sweat, mutter, avoid, shirk, slough off, dally, weasel out of, malinger, dodge and otherwise procrastinate and evade responsibility until time forces my trembling hand.

A brief outline of the hours preceding the moment on Feb. 14 where I piss off Colleen in a significant way:

12:01 a.m.: Snuggle, mumble sweet nothings, praise her beauty, pretend to have a big plan up my sleeve. Roll over and sweat while she sleeps.

8:37 a.m.: Awaken. Dance about naked. Listen to her derisive laughter.

Most of the day: Feel shame.

5:30 p.m.: Get stuck in I-95 traffic from Stamford to New Haven. Curse self. Consider aiming Geo Metro at tractor-trailer to avoid impending fiasco.

5:31 p.m.: Pull self together a bit. Mutter. Consider buying gag gift, such as massive marital aid at one of Milford's many Post Road sex shops. Realize this would get me killed. Draft new plan.

6:02 p.m.: Pull off I-95. Buy Whitman's Sampler at Walgreen's.

6:14 p.m.: Get back in car. Eat good ones from sampler.

6:36 p.m.: Arrive home empty-handed. Wipe chocolate residue from face.

Open her gift. Be impressed. Feel low. Promise surprise.

6:37 p.m.: Retire to bathroom with phone book and cell phone. Furtively call fancy restaurants attempting to make reservations. Fail, as anyone with any brains has already made reservations. Take poo.

6:52 p.m.: Emerge from can. Confess feebleness.

6:53 p.m.: Get kicked out of house.

7:22 p.m.: Life in tatters. Hop freight train to anywhere. Live life of hobo, secure in the fact that I am unfit for human companionship. Die a broken man.

She Sez: Make Room for Daddy

By Colleen "Mrs. Dish" Van Tassell

I feel for him. So much so that I'm compelled to place a bucket next to the bed to collect the pre-Valentine's Day flopsweat that is beading upon his forehead. My guy: A hopeless romantic, master of the manly arts and a blithering idiot when it comes to gift-giving.

It's not his fault. At least on Valentine's Day. He's confederated with millions of modern men who are otherwise capable of professing their love, but who can't perform on Feb. 14. Why? Because the unsuspecting hetero male has been scared into submission by the female fantasy of what love is supposed to be.

Or what love's not.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

My theory on Valentine's Day is this: Unlike birthdays or Christmas, when we girls drop hints galore, even help them, on Feb. 14 we prefer to let our big lugs, er, the object of affection fly solo. Displaying romance falls squarely on their big, broad shoulders. Whether we admit it or not, we're testing their devotion and, more important, their taste.

For instance, this Christmas I provided Joe with the name of my favorite store and even downloaded directions from Mapquest.

First, he got lost and called me from his cell phone. I could tell by his tightened vocal cords that he would:

enter the store and, overcome by smelly soaps and bath salts, would ...

surrender after 5 minutes to the nearest bar and ...

purchase something within walking distance of said bar that requires assembly.

Not only did my gift come with directions, it clanks. (Read his version of the event in the accompanying "He Sez" story.)

It rests in a corner of the living room, a constant reminder of my fated offerings. Judging by my first Christmas gift, Joe's a bigger than a breadbox gift kind of guy. My destiny is a lifetime of presents that require taking the door off its hinges.

But that's OK. I'm a lucky girl. He cooks, cleans, takes out the garbage and sings silly songs to the cats. He reads to me and doesn't smell bad. I can forgive his less than stellar gifts.

Except on Valentine's Day.

Which brings me back to my theory, dear reader. It's not our fault that we crave the perfect hetero on Valentine's Day. We're overcome with images of the ideal mate; we envision a Robert Mitchum cocktail mixed with a dash of gay sensibility. On Valentine's Day, love means not watching him root, root, root for the home team. Rather, it's a play-by-play in front of the fireplace. It's tuxedos and roses and strawberries dipped in warm chocolate, not a lug on the couch picking potato chip crumbs off his ripped college sweatshirt. The one he caught you trying to throw out. Twice.

It's the one day of the year we can't help but want to place a pod next to their sleeping bodies, only to wake up to our dream date. A 24-hour furlough from bills, budgets and ESPN. Instead we are landlocked in a world of romance, or deep inside Fabio's hair.

Unfortunately, men usually find themselves derailed by our expectations and would rather put a gun to their heads.

Retailers recognize this fear and respond with Valentine vigor. Why say, "I love you," when a mylar balloon can say it for you? Make her an intimate dinner? Nah, let a Hallmark Kiss Kiss Bear fan the flames d'amour.

Take, for instance, the Red Envelope, a catalog for the inept lover that I recently received in the mail. Page 26: gourmet body paints, complete with two paintbrushes and edible goo modeled by a cute Caucasian couple. To test his Valentine IQ, I placed it next to the can, where I knew he'd read it. He passed.

He emerged in a cloud of Wizard room spray, holding out the catalog and proclaiming, "We don't look like these couples dear, and I can do better."

At that moment, I glanced over at his Christmas gift and thought, "Crap, I better make room for this one."

With that I placed a screwdriver within easy reach of the door frame.

Happy "Hope I Didn't Give You The Clap" Day

What's love gotta do with it?

by Yvonne Hudson, single gal reporter

My boyfriends have always managed to win my heart just after St. Patrick’s Day and serve my walking papers around Labor Day. I haven’t had a date on a major holiday since Sonny met Cher — unless you count Arbor Day and the World Series play-offs. Most of my girlfriends have collected shiny trinkets of love over the years. Gems and cameras — stuff you can hock. I’ve got a shoebox full of Pirates stubs and a bear wearing a Steelers shirt.

This New Year’s Eve I was the dateless poster girl, all dolled up in a fur stole, a black vintage dress, long gloves, Marilyn Monroe-sized rhinestone earrings and a purse covered in gold macaroni. Lauren put a gimlet in my hand and crowned me with a glittery party tiara. All I needed to complete the picture was a bubble machine and Dean Martin. I could have been sliding off a vinyl bar stool at the Pango-Pango lounge, plunking down nickel after nickel to hear “One More for the Road.”

New Year’s Eve is a pretty frightening holiday to spend alone. I mean, face it, planting a kiss on your best friend’s boyfriend at midnight in a room full of smooching couples is humiliating and, well, pathetic. But it only lasts 30 seconds at best, your pals are tipsy, and the sympathy can be cozy. In the morning, the sting of spending the evening without an escort is dulled by a sparkling wine hangover and your dress wrapped around your head.

I know: You’re already feeling sorry for me. Your mind is racing ahead to Feb. 14, to a sad vision of a dateless deb (me), washed-up and waiting for the florist’s van to pull up. Well, wipe those thoughts right out of your head, chicky. The truth is, I’d rather be single on Valentine’s Day. I’d rather twist open a Champale for one and raise a toast to that unopened box of condoms. I’d rather lock myself in the bathroom and shave my legs while making crank phone calls to ex-boyfriends than be half-a-couple on Valentine’s Day. Because love and Valentine’s Day do not go together.

Think about it: Who suffers more than couples on Valentine’s Day? It should be called Holiday for Break-Ups. It could drive a wedge between Barbie and Ken. It could make Juliet greet Romeo at the door with curlers, cold cream and the business end of a rolling pin. And it’s all because Feb. 14 is the one day of the year when American women (sensitive flowers that we are) can demand, and expect to receive, Everything We’ve Ever Wanted From Our Chosen Male.

It’s a reality vs. fantasy tug-of-war. We can’t help ourselves. When we girls get to thinking about what we really want, it’s as if someone slipped us a mickey. Our heads fill with quixotic notions of cherubs floating down from Loveland to cast spells over our men. Magically they will hate sports. They’ll know how to order wine, drizzle melted chocolate on our tongues, cha-cha. They’ll drape strands of pearls across our pillows while crooning like Mel Tormé. Awakening from our reveries we see, instead, a big lug snoring on the couch, one meaty paw wrapped around a Budweiser.

We realize that our lives aren’t lush and sexy but drab and mundane. This makes us mad. And whom do we blame? Him.

Men, in turn, aren’t really sure what they’re being accused of, but they know they’ll have to pay, and pay big, to get themselves out of it. Retailers love this. Big heart-shaped boxes of chocolates sit in storefront windows, winking at hen-pecked husbands. Jewelers cram their displays with perky little diamonds in the hopes that boys will stumble into their shops and slap down a couple of car payments in an effort to get their pouting girlfriends to speak to them again. And somewhere on the top shelf at Walgreens is a giant, poke-your-eye-out Valentine waiting to be purchased and presented with the 14 little words every girl is yearning to hear: “Honey, you know I love you — it was the biggest one in the store!”

For girls, it’s a day of disappointment. (“Dear Diary: He got me the biggest card in the store. Again. It had a picture of Garfield on it.”) For boys, it’s is a festival of guilt and shotgun sentimentality. At 8 p.m., in every town in every state, there’s a future ex-husband in an El Camino screeching into the handicap spot at Rite-Aid just as the sales clerk is shooing away the last customer and flipping out the lights. Watch our hapless hetero, beads of sweat forming on his upper lip, as he searches for anything heart-shaped, red, left. Vroom, pluck, sign, lick. Off he dashes, wagging his tail as though he’s just won a big-screen TV. “I’ll get laid fer sure,” he thinks, as he races to the finishing line.

He’s wrong, of course. His last-minute heroics, instead of being met with kisses and forgiveness, will be greeted by arctic glares and cold meatloaf. Because his honey, overcome with Valentine-induced dementia, has been dreaming of an oiled hunk who owns his own tuxedo, makes perfect martinis and has a line of credit at Cartier. The kind of man who exists only in Danielle Steele novels, or gay bars. She’s awash in a stew of dashed hopes. It’s not just the big card or the day-old roses. It’s her life: She envisions tete-a-tetes at the La Foret, but always ends up with a two-fer at The Olive Garden.

Another ride through the Tunnel of Love has turned into a four-car pile-up, and it’s all because of Valentine’s Day.

I understand all of this because 1) I’ve lived it, and 2) nobody’s more romantic than me. I’ve been known to dress up my cats as dinner dates and greet them at the door in a flimsy negligée. I’ve seen Sabrina 17 times. Red things are my life — lipstick, sloe gin fizzes, Radio Flyers, maraschino cherries. I love all gifts of the d’amour variety, even if they’re tawdry trinkets, and I especially love gifts that I haven’t had to send to myself. But I refuse to walk into the Valentine’s Day leg hold trap, that holiday disaster waiting to happen. This year, this Valentine’s Day, I’m going to be chillingly realistic about fact vs. fiction. I’m going to remember that men are not from around here, and where they’re from there aren’t any good stores. In fact, the whole month of February I plan to carry the following list in my purse (the one with the gold macaroni).

Clip it, girls, and keep it dear; it may see you through another Valentine’s Day Massacre.

On Valentine’s Day, women dream of champagne and Cary Grant. Men are glad they made the liquor store.

........................................................................................................................

What we want                                                                          What we get

Champagne                                                                            A Schaefer

Breakfast in bed                                                                    Breakfast at Eat 'n Park

“My Funny Valentine”                                                            “Highway to Hell”

A love poem                                                                          A “Love is...” clipping

A tux                                                                                     Sweats

A limo to the Met                                                                  A cab home from Deja Vu

Chet Baker on a jukebox                                                       A Michael Bolton dedication on DVE

Hand-rolled Swiss chocolates                                                 Zagnuts

Slow groovin’ to Marvin & Otis                                              Humping to Beavis & Butthead

A red cocktail dress                                                              A tee-shirt from Hooters

A one-night stand                                                                Crabs

Diamond bracelet from Harry Winston’s                                Heart-shaped keyring from Sheets

Chanel No. 5                                                                       Jean Naté Splash

A love letter                                                                      Classified in the Post-Gazette

Strolling violinists                                                               Mimes

Sports on the side: The Vikings make waves

Cruising, Minnesota style.

by Mark Weimer

The tough start to the season of the Minnesota Vikings just became a bit tougher according to most major media outlets including Yahoo! SPORTS, ESPN.com, and NFL.com. The football team, most recently heralded as stinking, has been accused of having sex. The coach refrained from commenting on the situation, but acknowledged that a public release of his football team having a sex party on board a chartered boat could possibly be a distraction. 'I'm not happy about it."

Sex, pivotal in reproduction, is most commonly practiced in private. Either on land or at sea.

Mewelde Moore, the Vikings leading rusher, either denied the allegations or sex itself. 'That's crazy. Sex? C'mon." Moore is not known for his communicative abilities and honesty.

Allegations of the incident(s) were brought forward by crew members, who claimed they had to step over and around players engaged in sexual activities. It is not clear whether contracts will be discussed with several of the crew members, whose movements through the horny team surpassed the abilities of all of the Vikings tailbacks. The coaching staff was not present to give the crew members sufficient looks.

On a brighter note, there were women involved.

It seems as though the Viking Sex Scandal, which may prove valuable in producing a good fan base, was brought on by veteran pressure. The chartering of the boat was a gift from the rookies, mimicking something like high school team initiation but with more pleasurable results. Although the entire team was not present on the boat, and not all of those on the boat were engaged in sexual activities, it is good to know that some Vikings players have reason to smile after their 1-3 start. There have been no reports of performance enhancers.

Although the crew was frightened, there was little risk of the ship sinking due to excess fluids. No injuries, barring emotional damage to the crew, were reported.

Tice hopes to bring the team together after its sexual release, as the news will cause an onslaught from media sources and will be the talk of comedians, other football teams, sports analysts, politicians, baseball teams, businessmen, teachers, janitors, electricians, dancers, scientists, health care workers, priests, and others. Tice hopes to strategically use this event to bring his players closer, though it is unknown if it can match the closeness shared on the chartered boat.

There was no list of who attended the aquatic rendezvous, but clearly those involved were a bit dense. There is no word of participation by star quarterback Daunte Culpepper, who hopefully does not take his game to the bedroom. The no-longer-decent quarterback struggled after the off-season departure of Randy Moss and has posted a 1-3 record with four touchdowns and ten interceptions. Not known for being superstitious, it is improbable that in his worst stretch since becoming a pro, Culpepper's forcing of some broad to choke may prevent himself from choking.

Although they search for ways to win, the Minnesota Vikings are finding ways to lose, even at those things at which it is difficult to be beaten.

No comments were made concerning improved playoff chances with a capsize.

Moore photo by Jeff Gross/Getty Images

For whom the belle tolls

Boys are dialing, bells are ringing.

If your teenage daughter recently purchased a Hummer and a summer home in the Hamptons, she might've answered this ad for "Phone Actress" posted in the Pittsburgh help wanted section on Craigslist.org. Note there is no age requirement.

Chloe Enterprises is in search of professional and experienced operators. Applicants must be based in the continental U.S., able to obtain toll-free 800 numbers (if needed), have dual phone/Internet access, have a quiet place to work at home and, importantly, be detail oriented. In turn, our company has been in business several years and has 36+ well-established and active sites. We offer different positions depending on experience and full time/part time availabilities. In addition, we offer a *very* generous monthly bonus program based upon total minutes. This is a serious and business opportunity and all applicants must be motivated and serious about making a top notch income.

Compensation: $1000-$8000 per month.

Dish contacted Chloe Enterprises and this is their response. Note the absence of particulars:

Dear ?,

Thank you for your email. I'd like to know which part of our business you're most interested in. We are hiring for two areas:

1. Direct dial (800) - Callers would call your 800 number and you'd process the billing and be paid $1 a min. Here is one of our sites: [icky site link]

Also with those calls you will be given call back (dispatch) calls where our dispatcher obtains the billing information and you would call the gentleman back at .75 cents per minute. So, during your work days, you have two ways of making money. Both areas pay 10-minute minimums so all calls would pay at least $10.00 or $ 7.50. We need uninhibited and motivated ladies with little or no taboos, excellent availability, an attention to detail and a strong desire to work.

2. We also have new call back only sites. The time requirements are less and if you're looking for part time only or are only interested in getting your feet wet and learning the business, this would be a good place to start. You would not need to obtain 800 numbers. This department pays .50 per minute and all calls pay a 10-minute minimum, so you would make at least $5.00 per call. These are new sites and you'd be getting in on the ground floor. They will likely be a bit slow to start, but they will become as busy as our other sites.

If you let me know which area you believe suits your desires, I will send the appropriate application.

Thanks,

Chloe

Trib reporter wussed out

An unidentified Trib reporter lost out on fame, fortune and the opportunity to stay in an awesome pad Tuesday after he arrived at a casting call for MTV's "The Real World" only to find a really long line.

The reporter allegedly intended to get all Gonzo on our ass with a first-hand account of the event but wussed out when the line snaked out the door and around the block.

"He wanted to participate in the event but the line was too long so he left," said a source close to MTV.

Bunim/Murray Productions, producers of the show, held a casting call at Bommerang's Bar & Grill in Oakland between 10 a.m. and 5 p.m. According to B/M an estimated 700 young adults with big dreams and nothing to do applied in person. At press time, the number of callbacks is unknown. Viewers will have to sit on pins and needles to see if a plucky Pittsburgher will sit on an IKEA couch all day and party like a rock star all night.

And because the Trib reporter wussed out, an important slice of Pittsburgh history is forever lost. We will never know what it was like to feel the tension, the exhilaration, the cutthroat competition and the awesomeness of an MTV casting call.

Photo: Applicants lean against building to fill out applications.

UPDATE JANUARY, 23 2008: MTV casts net again

You go girls

Psssst!

Gays go straight.

Update: No go on the gay event. Max's was Max Factor free. Darn.

…thought how cool it would be to get a bunch of your queer friends together and go somewhere new? …wondered how you ended up in the middle of the dance floor at the same queer bar dancing to the same song you danced to last week…again? …felt uncomfortable in a straight bar with your straight friends and daydreamed about running into lots of cute queer boys or girls when you got up to get a drink? …wanted to bring your queer friends and straight friends together in one place?

So have we!

On the First Friday of every month, we pick a Pittsburgh straight bar. All you have to do is get dolled up, show up, and teach the shocked straight folk how to have a blast! Join to find out about our monthly "invasions" at Pittsburgh’s straightest establishments.

--from PGHguerillaqueerbar on Yahoo Groups

(Sounds like a hoot. Max's wienerschnitzel will never be the same.)

Sweetheart Acquisition 101

Listen up singles. In another life long, long ago and for a publication far, far away, Miss Pitt (nee Miss B.) scribbled some dating tips for her Dear Reader. After much pondering, mulling, hemming and hawing, Miss P. decided to roll the dice for the sake of love. Copyright laws be damned! She hereby offers her previously published advice on dating. A few months in jail is worth a lifetime of healthy nuzzling.

And besides, she wrote it right?

(Pssst. Single lawyers out there: if Miss P.'s guidance works and you fall in love, how about a little pro bono against the Tribune Company?)

Simply put, Miss Pitt knows how to snatch a fellow, if only for as long as what a quarter will get you in a vibrating bed. Duration aside, her snare tactics are foolproof; at least that's what the carvings in her bedpost read.

So, since Miss Pitt hates to see a girl resort to kissing her best friend's boyfriend under the mistletoe, she'd like to share some of her dating tips with you, Dear Reader. (And for all you furry-legged "wymyn" who might take offense to this, a warning: This will not work for you. Instead, gas up the Dodge Ram and treat yourselves to the new Indigo Girls album.)

That said, let's proceed.

You've cabbed it to a ginmill. Through a cloud of thick smoke you see a man across the bar who looks like Farley Granger. He's drinking whiskey, as every man should. Now what? Do you ask him to buy you a drink? Do you ask the bartender to send over a refill with your phone number on a cocktail napkin?

Since the man should always buy the drink, make your you approach with the top few buttons of your blouse discreetly undone. (If necessary - tear!) And reapply perfume lightly. (The good stuff, not the toilet water you wear to the office.)

If there's a woman sitting next to him, get her out of the way. Tip the bartender to tell her she has a call, then make your move. Do not ask if the seat is taken, simply park it. Strike up a conversation. It's times like these that a gal knows a little about sports and stocks. After some witty banter, *pithy comments and your best Nancy Drew to assure there are no wife and kids, he asks you out for dinner.

Mention a couple of restaurants that are not TGIFridays and the Olive Garden so as to detect his panache and thriftiness. If he seems cheap, abort the mission and go home, change into your fuzzy slippers and regroup. Remember, you're not a free refill gal. You want a guy who owns a tuxedo and who doesn't look at the prices on a menu. A guy who's just gay enough - a man who appreciates Art Pepper but not in the bedroom. A guy who notices your new hairdo but couldn't do the job himself. A guy who can order a screwdriver, and use one.

Most of all, you want a guy who's comfortable holding your purse without commenting on the color.

A few days later he calls. (Would Miss Pitt let you down?) Check caller I.D. to make sure he's not calling from a payphone. Miss Pitt highly suggests that you not say: "It's about time." Show interest but not desperation. (That's what double A batteries are for, honey.) He should ask you where you want to go. Pick a restaurant that's not cheap, yet not a $35 entree place either. Miss Pitt suggests something in the $100 tax-and-tip-included range. Somewhere where you can wear poie de soie slides and he a suit. Somewhere with fewer than three TV's.

Now, this brings up a dicey issue: Does he pick you up or do you meet him there? If his background check has come up clean (Miss Pitt has the resources to discover prison tattoos before agreeing to dinner), then ask him to pick you up. Do not invite him in at first; meet him at the door.

Now fellas, this is your turn to shine. Depending on the restaurant, at the very least present yourself wearing a dry-cleaned all-cotton, single-thread long-sleeved shirt. Wash & vac the interior of your car. No overflowing ashtrays, candy wrappers or Sleater Kinney CDs. You want to give a polished impression, at first. Slip in some Tony Bennett or anything recorded before you were born. Open doors. Don't smoke. Park a couple blocks away so you can stroll after dinner. In short, Miss Pitt suggests you go someplace downtown so as to allow for a romantic walk and an after dinner drink.

Boys, don't be clods: allow the woman to order first. Do not attempt to steer her to lesser priced items. ("Oh, the pasta primavera looks delicious!") Ask her questions so as not to come off as a blowhard. She doesn't want to know your golf score or salary. If she's worth your time she'll steer the conversation back to you. Do not order the house wine. Do not let her pay. If she's insistent, allow her to cover the tip. If not, tip 20-25 percent. Don't double the tax; that went out of fashion with white Zinfandel.

Girls, now the floor is yours. Do not order the most expensive dish. Avoid spinach. Be animated, but not Josephine Baker. Lean in, but not too close. Make sure your breasts do not touch the filet mignon. DANGER: TAKE IT FROM MISS PITT: DO NOT MENTION EX-BOYFRIENDS. Ask questions, like: Have you taken penicillin recently? Have you been to family court? Do you know what accelerated rehabilitation is?

Do not eat candy presented with tab. Instead, offer him a fancy mint from your purse. Suggest an after-dinner drink at a place at least a block away. Avoid A) a bar where you'll run into someone you know (it interrupts the flow and invites uncomfy questions) and B) drinks like Sex on the Beach, Slippery Nipple, Red-Headed Slut. Order a scotch - it's sexy for all genders. The conversation can be more casual. Talk more about yourself, your cats (OK maybe not), a little about your childhood, yet leave out any and all creepy uncle incidents. Cuteness is more acceptable after midnight.

Girls: It's up to you to end the evening. Say, "I've got to get up early" even if you're unemployed. The walk back to the car should be leisurely, even if it's 10 below zero.

Boys: Roxy Music comes in handy now (as, of course, does bay rum).

Gals: If you like him, ask him up. Shut the door behind you and from there, darlings, you're on your own.

*Anita Loos told Earl Wilson that women often stifle their wit because men are intimidated. "When a woman turns out a witty comment, often they respond "Meow Meow," she told Wilson. "But if a man says it, other men consider it brilliant."

Miss Pitt's Dating Rules For Boys

 

Call.

Always pay.

A gentleman always lights his sweetie's cigarette first, except if using matches (it's a sulfur thing).

A gentleman does not order for a gal - it's pompous.

Buy gifts for no reason.

If your date says she likes something, make a mental note.

Know her shoe size.

Always have cash on hand - twenties, not fifties (too flashy).

Remember dates - first dates, first meeting, first kiss.

Know how to open a wine bottle.

If you're going bald, admit it. Keep your hair short.

No concert or wrestling T-shirts.

Always have toilet paper - preferably Cottonelle.

The bathroom should look like you live with your mother.

Do not live with mother, unless you're a Kennedy.

Tools - own them, use them.

Miss Pitt's Dating Rules For Girls

 

Never put out on the first date or there'll never be a second.

Books/ Authors to Have on the Shelf

 

Mickey Spillane

Damon Runyon

Pete Hamill

Hemingway

F. Scott

Jacqueline Susann

The Boston Bartender's Guide

Music to Put on the Hi-fi Should There be a Third Date

 

Bill Evans

1954-65 Sinatra

Ahmad Jamal

Miles Davis

Jerry Butler

Al Green

Bobby "Blue" Bland

Tyrone Davis

Sarah, Billie, Ella

June Christy

The Intruders

Movies on Tape (or DVD) to Have on Display

 

Sabrina

To Have and Have Not

Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid

The Graduate

The Pajama Game

The Desk Set

Sixteen Candles

Harry & Tonto

Bells Are Ringing

My Man Godfrey

Helpful Hints for Guys: Internet resources for first dates and beyond.

www.theartofshaving.com: No respectable man uses an electric razor.

www.lavenderfarm.com: Instead of flowers, bring her a box of just-picked lavender from a California farm. It comes wrapped in pretty paper.

www.eluxury.com: The place to buy Diptyque candles, the most luxurious candles on the market.

www.murphybed.com: Since 1900, the perfect bachelor bed.

www.steamertrunkmerchants.com: Vintage travel lithographs for the man who has outgrown Lakers posters.

--Miss Pitt.