In case you haven’t been following my mess of an Instagram feed, I recently spent 10 days in Japan, unveiling a world so far removed from the Western hemisphere that it would be take me days of waxing poetic lyrics to depict all my observations. As a key takeaway, however, comes an innate admiration for the impeccable etiquette of this country’s inhabitants, a phenomena reflected in each mutually respective interaction. While I was wary to investigate the dating scene, this particular dissonance with the Western world inadvertently triggered me to reflect on the etiquette of dating, a rapidly demising concept within itself. Additionally, I was traveling with two Latin-American boys who had zero romantic interest in me, and yet were brought up to treat women in a way that made me feel like (insert eye roll) a princess, at least as much of a princess as one can be in a never-ending chain of bullet trains and Capsule hotels. Combined with my Russian upbringing, which evokes a similar set of courtesy codes that I struggle to find elsewhere, I am left questioning whether a certain lack of chivalry is an issue particularly pertinent to the European and American cultures, perhaps a downside to the fight for gender equality?
In any case, I would like to do the world a small favor by offering Little Mr. Manners book for men that will allow them to re-discover a few basic ground rules of courtship, and for us women to justly barometer what we should actually expect. Read More
Ever since moving to Europe three years ago, and particularly since launching this male-objectifying exercise of a blog, I have been repeatedly advised – no, instructed – to go to Scandinavia. I’m talking about friends, coworkers, readers, you name it, all promising me some sort of cathartic experience in the land of herring and Ikea, complete with the discovery of my own 7-foot tall Bjorn Ironside with superpowers in the sack.
Editor’s Note: This post is brought to you by Jordan Nadler, a fellow NYC expat and hilariously brilliant individual who who contacted me a few months back with a promise of bizarre stories to rival my own. Although I didn’t believe her at first (you should see her – the girl is a put-together knockout), she has earned my trust with a series of disasters that I’ve had the honor to bear witness to. In her first article for Dbag Dating, Jordan depicts her experience of visiting a french gynecologist who teaches her the joys of la petite mort. For more entertainment, follow Jordan on Twitter here!
“Do you orgasm every time you have sex?” asks my elderly Parisian gynecologist with a straight face and a heavy French accent. I wait for the punch line, but it doesn’t come.
“I’m a woman,” I state.
She stares at me blankly. I guess I will have to elaborate:
She sits back in her chair, folds her hands, and nods gravely.
It is relatively common knowledge that the French have transformed doing nothing into an art form, one that takes on a whole new meaning once the summer rolls around. Weekends are long, workdays are short, and the office entrance is blocked by a small mountain of overnight duffel bags come Friday morning. Around 5:00 p.m., the scramble to make it to the next TGV train down South begins in a shift all too reminiscent of New Yorkers’ collective race to the Jitney.
Read more HERE!
Once in awhile, I get a (worrisome) sign from God that I’m progressively becoming French. This time around it came in the form of the Backstreet Boy, a character who merited his nickname via his fly Mohawk and tight, cuffed Levis that took you straight back to the days when 5 man-children would croon “I want it that way” through your Discman headphones. Anyway, more on his formidable style later. Lets start with how we met.
When I was little girl and didn’t know that I would be one day meeting men on Tinder, I always dreamed of meeting the love of my life on an airplane. Exhausted after a business trip to an exotic locale (my vision of the future also involved a career as an international diplomat), I would slip into my first class seat, only discover a Don Draper lookalike ready to divulge his innermost secrets over dirty martinis. Granted, we would be an item by the time the plane touched the ground.