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Some women cling religiously to their daily planner. They can’t even pop into Starbucks without checking the agenda to make sure they’ve got fifteen minutes free. These super-planners also write stuff after the fact, so that their calendar functions as an ongoing journal of daily life. These super-planners might also make extensive use of some complicated system of color-coded symbols, more intricate than a Mayan calendar and more difficult to decipher than the Rosetta Stone. They use a red sad face to indicate the start of her period, a green dot to indicate a night smoking pot, and (in my personal favorite) a red heart to indicate the ultimate - penis in vagina.

Why these women need to delineate each time they get down is beyond me. Do these women look back at the end of the year - the way an accountant adds up receipts - and use all that July sex as a tax write-off? Is it a compilation of firsthand evidence, to use as proof if the boyfriend ever claims they’re not having enough sex? Is it the modern version of a reliable primary source, almost as if Abigail Adams (in addition to her letters) had kept careful track of every time she knocked boots in the White House?

I can think of no logical reason to keep track of this. In fact, you’d think that guys, in all their macho libidinousness, would be the ones keeping track, but I’ve never met a dude who kept a daily tally - counting nights of sex the way the Count of Monte Cristo counts days in prison.

Dear ladies: Why do you do this?
Tip for guys: If your girlfriend does this, be afraid.

First dates can be awkward. You’re sitting across from someone that you don’t know very well, and you’re expected to fill an inordinate amount of time with conversation. Never again will you be expected to keep a conversation afloat longer than you are on your first date.

Consequently, you discover pretty quickly that you need some fallback questions - a few tried and true convo-starters - that will jump-start the evening in case things start to get quiet. A quiet first date isn’t necessarily a dealbreaker; it’s just less desirable. The girls at TMI Weekly offered some advice on questions to ask on a first date. Here’s our list of Five Questions You Should Never Ask on a First Date:

1. When do you see yourself getting married?
Does he have an answer? Probably, but he sure as hell doesn’t want to tell you about it.
What this question really means: I really want to get married. I really want to get married. I really want to get married. I really want to get married. Do you see yourself marrying me? I really want to get married. I really want to get married. I really want to get married.

2. How do you think you’ll raise children?
Does he have an answer? He thinks he has an answer, but I guarantee it’s not as intricate or well-thought out as yours.
What this question really means: I think I’d be a great mommy. Don’t you think I’d be a great mommy? I want to have babies, babies, babies. Don’t you want babies? Don’t you want me to have your babies? Babies, babies, babies.

3. How many people have you slept with?
Does he have an answer? Yes, unless the answer is greater than fifty.
What this question really means: I kind of want to sleep with you, or I’ve at least been debating it in my mind, but I want to make sure that you’re still going to call me in the next few days. Also, I haven’t slept with very many people, and it will help complete my fairy tale image if you haven’t slept with very many people either.

4. What was your ex-girlfriend like?
Does he have an answer? Yes.
What this question really means: ???

5. Do you believe in true love?
Does he have an answer? No. If he answers the question, it’s bullshit.
What this question really means: Do you think you could love me, or are you just looking to bang? Are you gonna introduce me to your friends and family, or are you only gonna call after midnight when you couldn’t get anyone at The Rusty Nail Bar & Grill to sleep with you after a wild Tequila Tuesday?

I wish girls wrote Facebook posts like this about me.

Cheating on your wife is pretty fucked up. I admit that up front, just to avoid any confusion.

But getting revenge on your cheating husband is unforgivable. Colluding with his mistresses to trick and bind the two-timing bastard and then glue his penis to his stomach - that’s a wee bit overboard, don’t you think? Again, I’m not taking the dude’s side, but isn’t the better solution to confront him one day, tell him that you know he’s cheating, and then simply walk away? Doesn’t that solve more problems than committing multiple felonies?

Michelle Belliveau and her sister Therese Ziemann, along with Wendy Sewell and the man’s wife, did exactly that - arranging a phony meeting with the dude, then knocking him out, tying him to a motel bed, and gluing his johnson to his stomach. Not cool, ladies. Not cool.

Granted, most women never exact this extreme form of revenge, but deep within every scorned woman is a nasty revenge story, lurking in her past. She’s probably pulled it off in some way, or, at the very least, she’s got some intricate scheme of Bourne Identity proportions, and she’s just waiting for the perfect moment to pull it off.

Why the hate? Can’t we all just get along? Or, even if we can’t get along, can’t we agree to walk away non-violently?

According to some pretty smart doctors, being pregnant gives women the same type of high as hard core drugs. This explains Octomom and the Duggars, but it also makes me want to bust down the doors of an obstetrics ward and shout, “Are you all high!?”

Research doesn’t lie. Women who get pregnant a bunch of times (or bumpaholics, as Dr. Bonnie Eaker Weil calls them) are just craving for some hormones - the kind that only real-life pregnancy can provide. In addition to the chemical imbalances, there’s also a psychological imbalance. The pregnancy-fiends feel a literal and metaphorical emptiness in their lives, so they get their fix in nine-month doses.

Give me a break. I understand that everyone feels lost sometimes, but the difference between me and serial-moms is that I don’t give my life direction by putting a mini-human in my belly.

In addition to all the hormones and psychological fulfillment, pregnancy-stoners love the attention that being pregnant earns them. They love telling people how far along they are. They love the baby showers and the “glowing” compliments. They love the sense of superiority that pregnancy provides. (I.e. She’s contributing to society. What the hell are you doing with your life?)

Well, now that scientists agree on this addiction, Robert Palmer needs to re-record his hit 80’s single, Betty Ford needs to open a new clinic, and - most importantly - dudes everywhere need to be on the lookout for women with pregnancy-addictions.

Dear future hook-up,

Let me set up an analogy:

I’ve been brushing my own teeth since I was 4. I haven’t had a cavity in years. I do a pretty good job and know how to clean my own teeth. I know how much toothpaste to put on, know all the little crevices to scrub, know how long feels like a good brushing, and know how to brush my own tongue without gagging. So if someone were to brush my teeth, and try to emulate the way I’ve been doing it for years, it couldn’t possibly be as good.

Which brings me to my point:

I, as well as every other guy out there, am an expert when it comes to handjobs. So if you’re going to try and emulate my years of experience, your practice should not come from sanding a block of wood. Because nobody likes rough, dry sandpaper on their wood. So if that’s what you’re offering, sorry to be picky, but I’ll probably just pass.

I know what you’re going to say in advance. Some girls don’t want to give blowjobs, and clearly they don’t all want to bone. That’s all fine and good, but a handjob is fun for no one. It doesn’t get me in the mood for anything besides a nice, cold shower.

Thanks in advance,
Jake

Natalia K., a Russian woman, has landed herself in the hospital after getting her sixth - count ‘em, sixth - hymenoplasty to restore her virginity.

This whole vagina-brouhaha started when her newlywed husband discovered that she wasn’t a virgin. To make it up to him, she had her virginity restored for their first anniversary. (Apparently, she ditched the tradition of a paper gift for year one, and replaced it with a brand new maidenhead.) The couple enjoyed this dangerous game of “Back to the Future” so much that they replicated it for their second anniversary.

Following in the tradition of Pat Riley, they went for the three-peat, then the 4-peat, and 5-peat. With each successive trip to the surgeon, Natalia K. was warned that she was putting herself at greater and greater risk. Her husband replied each time, “If she dies, she dies.”

On her sixth trip to the surgeon, her weakened immune system rejected the re-virginization, and she’s currently in intensive care.

We hope that she recovers fully and quickly, but we also hope that she soon realizes how totally nuts this procedure is.

(via @marissaaross. If you’ve got a tip, let us know via twitter or email.)

I don’t think I’m alone when I say that I’ve never entirely understood lingerie. I get that it looks good, but it seems like the more work that goes into lingerie, the faster it’s just gonna come off. That’s why I’m a lingerie-minimalist.

You can imagine my horror and disgust at the finalists for the Triumph Inspiration Awards - the Oscars of lingerie.

Finalist #1: The Suit of Armor
Oh, great. This will fulfill a childhood fantasy of mine - to have sex with Master Shredder. Now, if I could only get James Avery to talk dirty to me, I’d be in hog heaven.

Finalist #2: Spiderwebs
If a girl wore this into the bedroom, I think I would willingly give up sex for a year. I’d rather suffer through another dry spell than know that I had sex with cobweb-vagina. I’d imagine that no guy besides Tim Burton would find this attractive.

Finalist #3: Sea Creatures
As a child, I’ll admit that I sang along gleefully to The Little Mermaid’s “Under the Sea.” But that doesn’t mean I ever wanted to grow up and have sex with that song’s ensemble. I have no desire to fornicate with an aquarium, as this piece of lingerie would suggest. It’s the underwater equivalent of a “sexy cow costume.”

Finalist #4: Frowny-Mons
These underwear just seem largely impractical, in addition to incredibly un-arousing. It’s a huge frown above the woman’s vagina. If that isn’t Freudian, then I don’t know what is.

Guys might get a lot of flack for having overly simple bedrooms. What more do you need besides a bed, a bookshelf, and a computer? But none of that simplicity ever got in the way when the mood mattered most. The bed, the bookshelf, and the desktop never got in the way of the ultimate.

Women, on the other hand, stockpile their rooms with Moodkillers - set up in a precarious maze like a life-size version of Mousetrap. The prime moodkillers:

1) The Fan
While the fan - either an overhead or a box fan - is a lifesaver during hot summer nights, it’s a mood-serial-killer when it’s time for bangarang. The breeze dries up the room like the Dust Bowl, and pretty soon, you’ve naked and un-enthused, annoyed by the wind sweeping down your plains.

2) The Cat
For Christ’s sake, put the cat outside! We don’t care if your roommate is allergic. We don’t care if the cat has slept beside you every night since you were twelve. There are few things in life as creepy and moodkilling as feline interruptus. There you are, working your horizontal magic, when a house-panther lunges onto the bed and begins licking itself. Nothing puts you in the mood like being watched and licked by a temperamental kitten.

3) The Clock
No, thank you. I do not need to be reminded of every passing second with a loud and obnoxious tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. Clocks with second-hands don’t belong in bedrooms. They belong in prisons, asylums, and Edgar Allan Poe anthologies.

4) The Chick-Rock
Sure, I like Alanis Morissette or Gwen Stefani, but that doesn’t mean I want to listen to their abrasive man-hate while I’m performing the Sisyphean task of getting us both warmed up. Please, turn off the Indigo Girls for forty-five minutes while I tend to the task at hand. Then, be my guest: You can put on the Lillith Fair playlist and rock out while I’m heading home.

…I Never Spend Any Time at My Apartment Anyway
Touché, but when you get pissed at your girlfriend (or she gets pissed at you), at least you have the luxury of putting miles of distance between you two. Keeping that back-up apartment is like keeping a jacket in your car. Sure, it’s sunny 350 days out of the year, but Jesus Christ does it come in handy for those two weeks when you need it. If your girlfriend’s complaining that she never spends any time at her apartment anymore, then the solution is not to move in together. The solution is to start doing more stuff at her apartment.

…We’ll Have More Sex
This is a Trojan Horse. Moving in together will probably yield more sex and home-cooked meals and more awesome let’s-stay-in-and-watch-TV nights. But what she isn’t telling you is that moving in together will also yield more opportunities for you to disgust her - which is going to make the window of sexual opportunity close faster than the blast doors in the Swan station. I don’t know if girlfriends are actually using this line, but I have no doubt that guys are inferring it. That’s gotta stop.

…I Love to Play House
If your girlfriend tells you this, buy her a kitchen set from Toys R Us. Wanting to move in together just to play house is like joining the army because you like to play Halo. If your girlfriend needs something to decorate, then buy her construction paper and a glue stick, but do not, under any circumstances, move in with her. Giving her the keys to the castle is the surest way to have the castle burned to the ground. Skip the middleman and strike a match.

…I’m Pregnant
Game over. You’ve already lost.

Here’s a report on the matter from The Onion: