The Dbag Dating Guide to Paris


As formerly-fun-friends-turned-new-parents prepare to throw their children lavish first birthday parties, I have my own joyous occasion to celebrate – the one year anniversary of this blog that has, ironically, served as a highly effective form of birth control! To mark this momentum, I have decided to take you on a walk down memory, retracing the locales that have served as the backdrops of all my exuberant Parisian experiences over the past year.

(Guided tours available upon request.) 

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The Dbag Dating Guide to Cuffing Season


The other night, I was hanging out with my girlfriends, reenacting some sad SATC-inspired scenario comprised mainly of Mirandas, when one of the Mirandas (by way of the Bronx) enriched my jargon with a beautiful expression that I previously hadn’t heard of.

Cuffing Season (via Urban Dictionary) – During the Fall and Winter months people who would normally rather be single or promiscuous find themselves along with the rest of the world desiring to be “Cuffed” or tied down by a serious relationship. The cold weather and prolonged indoor activity causes singles to become lonely and desperate to be cuffed.

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The Story of Paul the Australian


NB: This story is one of those random discoveries that happens when a French asshole steals your phone in the supermarket (yes, hence the Instagram hiatus) and you are forced to resort to your prehistoric iPhone 4. While randomly scrolling through your old notes and feeling bad for your former ex-boyfriend-obsessed self,  you suddenly stumble across a refreshing surprise in the form of a never-before-posted DD story. Hence, here is the story of the Australian, circa my first year in Paris.

Ah, Paul. I still sigh when I think of Paul. I would like to call him “The One That Got Away”, except that in reality, I have come to realize that Paul and I never stood much of a chance.

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The Fixer Upper

DD Fixer Upper

A couple of weeks ago, I met a guy. Upon first glance, all the boxes appeared to check off: tall, cute, educated, gainfully self-employed, good family values, upper intermediate English (a coup in France). Our chemistry wasn’t suffering, and we worked in the same industry, always giving us something interesting to talk about. Considering my usual luck, or lack thereof, pas mal. 

However, as we got to know each other, the issues began to emerge. Despite his conventional upbringing, he appeared to have a very low understanding of chivalry, was still mildly obsessed with his ex, and generally presented himself as a bit of a sloppy mess. On one night, my friend and I found him around the corner from the neighboring La Perle, looking distraught. It almost seemed like he had been crying! Blinking away the tears, he refused to divulge the source of his troubles. Ten minutes later, we saw him back at the bar, blissfully flirting with two blondes, his problems seemingly forgotten. He then proceeded to follow us to another bar, where he alternated between a pensive and a bored pout, speaking only when spoken to.

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The Story of Jam Jam


Preamble: Since this story evokes a consequence of the most embarrassing events of my adult life, I have found the best analogy for it to be the Circles of Hell, inspired by Dante’s Inferno. Hence, this the manner in which I shall be presenting it.

Circle I: The Fall from Grace

Three summers ago, my girlfriend started dating a Greek shipping heir. In typical Greek shipping heir fashion, he decided to throw himself a birthday weekend that most people would rightfully mistake for a bachelor party, inviting 20+ of his mates to fly across the ocean to spend three days dropping enough cash to boost the GDP of Somalia. On the first night of the festivities, I was sitting at the Lion, pretending to commiserate about typical overprivileged Euro kid problems (boarding schools, butlers, who knows), when I heard one of the young men make a particularly bigoted statement. While I cannot recall the exact nature of this offence, I distinctly remember opening my big mouth and making some smart-ass comment that briefly shut him up.  The following day, the party team reconvened at a terrifying nightclub called Lavo, where I proceeded to tumbled down the stairs, cracking my head in a way that required five (anesthesia-free) staples to be inserted in my skull at the nearing Lenox Hill Hospital. Clearly, the proximity to this man was dangerous to my well-being. Unfortunately, this was only the beginning.

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