The Last Bullet Point Tuesday: Chloe’s Coming Out

Over the past seven weeks or so, I’ve received several inquiries about my status on the interweb. So first of all, thank you for your love and concern. And a big shout out to @StPattysChicago for continuing to show me unwavering and slightly creepy faith in my return. You are one, weird, anonymous Twitter personality, and I love you for it.

The truth is that I lost someone very close to me. He was my cousin, but first he was my friend. His death was sudden, unexpected to us, and thus has been quite painful for those who loved him. Which seems to be just about anyone that knew him. I, like apparently hundreds of others, was lucky enough to count him among one of my closest friends.

Strange things happen when we endure grief. There are short-term and long-term effects when it comes to mourning, and I’ve been witness and been a part of both. For the first ten days following my cousin’s death, I couldn’t make it to 1 P.M. without a drink or go to sleep at night without Advil PM. Slowly, I can now make it until 5:00 to have an adult beverage. Still need the Advil PM, though.

But perhaps more notable are the long-term effects. Since my cousin’s passing, I’ve seen those close to him do the following: quit a job, move to a new city, create music, spend more time with family, pursue their dreams, quit a job, lessen the workload in a day, take up painting, write poetry, read more, and–the favorite–quit a job.

I guess when something like this happens, it causes you to put things in perspective. Even your moderately successful dating blog.

Which brings me here, dear reader. To part with Chloe Cline.

  • The Back Story

Chloe Cline is my pen name. Well, now former pen name. I started this blog when I was high school teacher and the last thing I wanted was for my students to find it and walk into class the next day saying, “Heeeeeyyyy….read about your date last night.” So I made up a name. It worked until some students started following me on Twitter to mess with me. Which also worked.

  • Why I Kept Chloe

Post-teacher life, I wanted to keep Chloe Cline as my pen name because, well, it seemed easier than switching everything over. And I could kinda pretend Chloe was an extension of myself. My Hannah Montana, so to speak. It also made it easier for me to write about a guy without him finding it. Until that didn’t work, either.

  • The Big Reveals

So who the hell am I? Well, you’ll have to check out my new blog to see. That’s right. Shameless plug. Here’s a breakdown of who everyone else was on the blog, though:

  • Lexi: Amanda Bynes
  • Lily: Taylor Swift
  • Daisy: Beyonce
  • Elliott: David Spade
  • May: Anne Hathaway
  • Fran: Fran
Processed with Rookie

It’s all making sense now, right?


So. Thank you for partaking on this rather strange, yet hopefully entertaining, journey of dating with me. Chloe Cline certainly served a purpose for the time. Just like all my ex-boyfriends. I hope you come along with me in the next part of the odd and uncertain future. (For the five of you who are still on board, here’s the link to my new blog.)

Guest Post Wednesday: A Date With Chloe Cline by The Private Investigator

Private-InvestigatorOnline dating can often feel like you’re forced to waddle through a swampy cesspool full of leaches, crocodiles, and the occasional crazy, gun-toting “Duck Dynasty” wannabe. If you’ve been doing it long enough, you know to be cautious, and you know that feeling when a few red flags turns into too many.

Yes, there are dangerous catfish lurking in these waters.

This is technically my third go-around with online dating in approximately seven years. I’ve been on plenty of awful dates, a few good ones, and mostly have simply occupied my time and given myself the best excuse whenever I was the only groomsman at the wedding without a girlfriend/wife/life partner.[1]

My vast experience (not something I’m proud of) with online dating does mean I know when I might be getting catfished.

As readers of this blog know, Ms. Cline has quaintly outsourced her dating life to her friends. On the surface, I have to admire the brilliance of it. It is effortless dating, provided you trust your friends.[2]

Ms. Cline detailed it last week; about a week and a half ago, she met me for a date interview.[3]

But before Chloe Cline ever walked into that bar, I knew she wasn’t who her friends had made her out to be.

The red flags began appearing almost immediately. I messaged “Chloe” first after she “liked” me. Throughout our online conversations, her messages were abrupt and chock full of high-school texting language. Although this wasn’t, on its own, terribly off-putting, it was the first red flag. Either this 30-year-old woman has a teenage-like grasp of the English language, or she isn’t quite who she says she is.

Further, “Chloe’s” profile was sparsely filled out. It smirked of laziness, as if someone else was just filling out the questions in a way they thought would be enough to get people to write back. Red flag no. 2.

Yet, what really set off the klaxons in my head was how quickly “Chloe” propositioned me to get a drink. In less than a day and only a few messages, I was being asked out. This is strange for two reasons: First, it’s exceedingly rare for the girl to ask the guy to meet. Second, it’s nearly unforeseen that she would do so after only sending a few short messages.

Now I knew there was something suspicious here; there were many questions. I had no idea how spectacular the answers would be.

Prior to my current career, I was a newspaper reporter and a private investigator. I was often tasked with hunting down people who didn’t want to be found. Thankfully, Chloe wasn’t that challenging.

I didn’t time myself, but I’d estimate it took fewer than 5 minutes from the time I began my hunt to the time I stumbled upon this blog (and with it, her twitter feed). After a half an hour of reading this, I realized I was being catfished – sort of.

This was still on Sunday, the first day we had exchanged messages.

I read more of the blog – the Steve Harvey appearance, the failed dates, Lexi and Daisy – and I quickly realized I HAD to go on a date with this woman. There was no way I could resist.

The best trap is the one you know you’re walking into.

But now I had an important decision to make. I could approach this date one of three ways:

Option 1: Immediately upon meeting her, confront her with what I knew and see what happened.

Option 2: Assume a character and go overboard in such a way that I was assured to be terrifying/revolting but not quite over the top. This would have been challenging, but possible.[4] Then, at the end, perhaps drop the act, confess I was faking just to make the blog, and see what happened.

Option 3: Be myself and don’t tip my hand. At a certain point during the evening, maybe drop a backhanded comment about the blog and see what chaos ensued.

I went with Option 3.

Chloe, to her benefit, came clean almost immediately (as she detailed last week).

I was crushed. She confessed within minutes of our meeting.[5]

When I told her I knew everything and began to walk her through her own dating history (we had shaken hands only moment ago, mind you), I admit that had the biggest shit-eating grin on my face. But could you blame me? I had just turned my catfish’s face as red as her lovely nail polish.[6] For the next little while, Ms. Cline, online dating extraordinaire, laughed, giggled, blushed and occasionally stood aghast. I had successfully turned the trap on her.

Yet after all that, Chloe and I had one of the best date interviews I’ve ever had in those years of hopeless and agonizingly awkward online dating. We had a real date last week, and I intend to take her out again, now that we can honestly get to know each other.

So all’s well that ends well, or some bullshit like that.

But seriously, folks, don’t trust your friends with your online dating profile.

[1] This has happened now 9 times. Always the groomsman, never the groom.

[2] I do not trust any of my friends to do this. I tried it once; I quickly learned my friends know next-to-nothing about me.

[3] I dub the “meet-and-greet” portion of online dating – you know, the part where you first meet the person and realize all their photos were taken 4 years and 50 pounds ago – as a “date interview.” You get to see if you get a real first date or not.

[4] I actually had figured out how to begin the conversation. It involved me showing up late, a recent morgue visit, and graphic descriptions of various bodily injuries and how much they excited me. Also, this is what all my friends wanted me to do. Chloe is lucky I did not do this.

[5] I chalk this up to repressed Catholic guilt.

[6] Which can probably best be described here as “crack whore red.”

[Editor’s Note: In regards to footnote 5, there’s nothing repressed about it. It’s very out in the open. And with footnote 6, I’m not sure another date will be happening.]

Bullet Point Tuesday: The Private Investigator, Tinder, and Kramer

kramer-seinfeldSo last week, amidst the holiday craziness, I went out again with PI. If you don’t recall, or don’t read my blog regularly, or just don’t feel like scrolling back to figure out who the hell PI is, he’s the guy who I allegedly tried to catfish, only for him to use his former private investigator skills on me to, well, kinda catfish me back. I dunno. It was the oddest turn on of my life, that’s for sure. I guess I just like someone being as much of an asshole as me. And you don’t meet many of those.

So PI went on our first real date. You know, one where we weren’t pretending to be other people–I think–and relayed as much information as you’re willing to give someone on a first date without completely freaking them out. Until you hypothetically have one too many glasses of wine, say fuck it, and talk about brain tumors anyway.

So that’s going well. Which isn’t interesting. Which is why it’s a relief that Lily had one of the most tragic dates of her life so I have something to report back on.

Lily is the perfect example of what is wrong with men today. She’s the nicest person I’ve ever met (right, I don’t know why she hangs out with me, either), yet is still hilarious. I feel like nice and funny is such a unique and special combination. So many people are nice and boring. Or funny and kinda act like dicks. And then you just let them be kinda, sorta a dick because, well they make you laugh, and that’s pretty sweet. I bet that’s how Hitler rose to power. Just some solid stand up. Think about it.

Back to Lily. So she’s super sweet and really funny and has a solid, stable career and her Master’s degree. Oh, and she’s drop dead gorgeous. It’s annoying standing next to her in a pictures. We’re not allowed to have her in group photos on our Tinder or OkCupid profiles because the guys will be all like, “Um, who’s your friend?”

And this goes back to my point of what’s wrong with men today. The fact that some guy hasn’t had the cojones to snag her up is completely beyond me. How do you meet her and not want to immediately put a ring on it, dudes? [Note to Lily’s parents, who are most likely reading this and I made some questionable comments to over the summer: I realize this isn’t helping my cause about my heterosexuality. I do love your daughter. But I don’t love your daughter.]

It’s not that Lily doesn’t try, either. The effort she puts into meeting an equally nice, caring, intelligent, and funny person is quite admirable. And makes my catfishing stunt all the more shameful.

In such efforts, Lily has turned to Tinder, a warm and fuzzy friend for singles who’ve hit rock bottom everywhere. 

Upon arriving, Lily was happy to see that her date appeared like his pics: handsome, tall, and a little lanky. His dark hair set off his bright blue eyes, which shone when she walked into the Lincoln Park bar. But that was the only thing she was happy to see.

Because, when homeboy turned around, he had the ever-so-charismatic Kramer quality of jolting up to meet Lily, then turning abruptly around when he apparently heard some noise, only to turn whip back around to face Lily and greet her with a look that said, “Yo diggity dog.”

As you can imagine, dear reader, Lily’s date with Kramer went something like this:

  • In response to “So what do you do for a living?”, Kramer said: “Well, I took a nap one day. And in the dream I made urinal cakes. I woke up, and then it came true.” [long pause] “So I make urinal cakes.”
  • Seven times. Seven times Kramer went to the bathroom in 60 minutes.
  • In response to “Do you want another drink?” (which was, by the way, his own question), Kramer said, “I have a really fast metabolism, so I can drink a lot.” [Lily took a shot.]
  • “Let’s go one more bar–it’s right around the corner and everyone knows me so we won’t have to pay for anything.” I can’t decide if it was sheer boredom or curiosity, but Lily went. Into a bar that she described as the size of a closet and the median age was 76.
  • But he was right. Everyone knew him. Including the guy who came over and said this, “Hey, dude, remember the time we were in the back alley and then walked into that sex shop?”
  • Of course, this story couldn’t go untold and Kramer did a Kramer turn to Lily and continued, “Yeah, it’s seriously the best sex shop in the world. We got something there so amazing and tried it in that alley. It’s like when you’re in a shower and there’s hot water on your back. It’s like an orgasm on your face.”
  • In response to his question if he could walk Lily home: “No.”

So I’ll be going out with PI again and Lily will be back in the Tinder pool. Tune in next week to see who bombs.

Bad Ass Babes: Jillian Conley Dishes on Sex, Love & Timing

c177f2_450bf14e27824953995ec731a4e3cc27.jpg_srz_234_352_75_22_0.50_1.20_0.00_jpg_srz“My career is where it is because of the lessons I’ve learned. I failed English and that inspired me to become a writer. I failed a relationship and that inspired me to write about love, dating, timing and sex,” said author Jillian Conley as we sat at Rise Sushi, sipping on pinot grigio, shaking off the fall chill.

And write about those things she did. In her latest book, Loving Mr. Wright, Conley wraps up the novella series of Audrey Buchanan, a spunky woman who’s on the search for love.

Failing high school freshman English was a true turning point in Conley’s life. When she returned sophomore year, Conley had determination that turned into passion. “We had to read The Great Gatsby, and I decided I was going to actually read it–not just use the Cliffs Notes,” Conley said. She wore her signature black beanie cap over her long, chestnut hair. Her eyes smiled as she talked. “I absolutely fell in love with the book. There’s something about Fitzgerald’s writing and that twisted love story. And that’s when I thought, ‘I want to write something like that.'”

Conley’s Love, Sex, & Timing series could be described as twisted, but it’s more the journey of Audrey Buchanan–and her racey details–that have created such a loyal fan base.

“Audrey represents a lot of me. And so I didn’t want the series to end, which made me a hot mess finishing the book,” she says, laughing. “But I’m very confident in the ending I chose. Some fans weren’t thrilled with it. But I wanted to really let go. And give a happy ending…with a twist.”

Such a literary decision makes sense, as it reflects Conley’s own journey–one of twists and turns but ultimately leading to a life she’s carved out on her own. After working at a nine-to-five job right from college, Conley chose to make a go as a writer and published her first book, Maid of Honor. Shortly thereafter, she got into a serious relationship, which took away from her focus on writing, as she put all of her energy into building her boyfriend’s company.

“I realized I was getting depressed because all I was doing was living his dream,” she said. “Our relationship ended, and I wrote Dating Chase Walker in just over a month.”

She paused, clearly deep in memories from a lifetime ago. “I allowed myself to get lost in his world. And I think women do that a lot and they don’t realize it’s going to be the demise of the relationship.”

It’s lessons like these that Conley credits to her success. In addition to her success as an author, Conley is also the co-host of Social Chicago, a show that features the restaurants, fashion and culture of Chicago. After a solid run this past year, the show was picked up by the FAD Channel, with a scheduled December debut and national launch in early 2015.

“Our goal is to show those true Midwestern values and really bring that sweet home Chicago feel to the show,” Conley said. Between Conley and co-host Jeff Conway, the show is certain to capture that. The two have a reputation for being some of the nicest people in Chicago media.

“I wouldn’t be where I am today if I wasn’t working with Jeff. He’s so incredible. Such a professional and the most patient man you’ll ever meet,” Conley said.

But Conley’s endeavors don’t stop there. In November, she and fellow writer Ana Fernatt launched HerMonthly, a radio show dedicated to talking about “all things women.” Conley makes it very clear that the atmosphere is casual and the topics are random. “We want it to be a girl sitting at home in her bathtub, having a glass of wine and laughing with us.”

So what’s next for the multi-talented Jillian Conley?

“Everything I do is because of writing. It all comes back to that,” Conley said. She took a deep breath, “So that’s what will lead me.”


For a chance to win an autographed Jillian Conley series, click on the following link: Autographed Set of Sex, Love & Timing by Jillian Conely

Loving Mr. Wright can be purchased at

Be sure to check out HerMonthly radio show, which airs every third Monday of the month from 8:00-10:00 P.M.

Guest Post Wednesday: My Dream Man by JoEllen

John-Krasinski-Office-GIFsThe other day, a friend that I will keep anonymous, told me her ideal guy would “love to work out, dress well, and absolutely has to love to shop.”

When I was done gagging, I started eating again. Then I bitched her out for being superficial. She asked me what I looked for in a guy and it got me thinking. I know about things I DON’T like in a guy, but what DO I look for in a guy? So I made a damn list.


No Actors or Models. This doesn’t mean I think I can easily swing an actor/model, but hear me out. I live in Los Angeles. More than half of the guys I meet are “actors” which really means they are bartenders and they were in a web series once that got 257 views. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for people going for their dreams–but why can’t more men in LA dream of being a dog owner who loves blonde 23-year-olds who are poor who love pizza and Taylor Swift? I guess I’d just prefer to be hit on by an actor who actually makes a living off acting (Hellllooooo, Liam Hemsworth) not an actor who was just cast as the fat, creepy, ginger in a commercial for hemorrhoid cream (Too specific? Sorry, Paul).

No Meatheads. I recently had a guy come up to me at the gym and ask me if he could use me as a bench press. His shirt read: “Turn Down for What?”

Also, no Methheads. 

No Clingers. There is only one thing I hate more than waiting for food to microwave–someone following me around when I go out.

Don’t Be Too Cool. I like cool people. But if you are too cool to admit you like Beyonce or if you refuse to see anything but Wes Anderson movies, you can start packing everything you own in a box to the left.


Be Funny. And fun. And Funky. And Fungry when necessary.

Be Nice. It’s actually sad how far being nice can get a guy if the girl is just desperate enough. Oh, what’s that you said? You like my necklace? That’s so sweet why don’t you come over and I can show you my other jewels….

Have Friends. Please introduce me, I need more friends.

Have a Job. I’m sick and tired of falling for homeless men just because they are funny and like my necklace and have a group of friends! [Editor’s Note: Real happy at this point that I’m not the only gal out there who falls for a homeless man or two.]

Shower. Once a day. It’s not that hard and it’s not too much to ask. I’m not even going to ask you to manscape. I’ll let that be a personal decision.

Cook. This may be the most important way to a girl’s heart. This doesn’t mean making elaborate meals every night; I enjoy a good pancake from time to time. 

The more I ponder what I want in a man, the more I realize want I want is simple. I want someone who will be there for me through think and thin. I want someone who brings me warmth and joy and excitement. I want a guy who makes me giddy when I see his name pop up on my phone. I want someone who answers–no matter how late I call, no matter how drunk I am, I know he will pick up the phone.  I want a man I can trust.

My dream man is the Dominos delivery boy.

JoEllen is a hilarious writer living in LA. Read more of her blog at Do it. Like right now. 

[Final Editor’s Note: When I made this list at 23-years-old, it read “must like cheeseburgers.” Girl, you’ll find your non-hemorrhoid cream commercial, pancake-making, Liam Hemsworth lookalike one day SOON. But before that, can we please grab drinks and shop for men together? K, thanks.]

Bullet Point Tuesday: How Not to Catfish

a99103_092514-cc-fat-suit-1If you’ve read my latest blog posts, then you know that I have recently outsourced my dating life to Lexi and Daisy. They created my online profile, messaged potential guys for me, and set up dates.

So you know, catfishing.

But I didn’t think of it so much as catfishing and more of an extremely efficient way to date. After all, my friends were pretending to be me with my permission. The whole plan seemed genius.

Until your friends set you up with a former private investigator. Who, on our date, so aptly explained why the three of us are fucking morons.

Private Investigator and I met for happy hour at a bar downtown last Friday. He asked to meet at 4:30 because he had to make dinner plans. That was perfect. One of my hard and fast first date rules is to have fictional plans in order to give you an out for the date. I had just talked about this on Her Monthly radio show that week. And since homeboy already had somewhere to be, I was golden and didn’t have to produce “plans” of my own.

Before I walked into the bar, I realized I didn’t even know this guy’s name. Lexi had sent me a few screen shots of his profile, so I had that vague idea of a person you can only garner from an online dating profile. You know: favorite books, an occupation, and the six things he could never live without. But a name? Nope.

I shot Lexi a quick text while standing outside the bar, “Um, what’s his name?”

  • Lexi: idk
  • me: Shit.

But right as I was walking in, Lexi had a moment of clarity and texted me my date’s name. Which was good because he was now ten feet away from me. I was super pleased to see that PI was tall, handsome, and immediately came across as self assured. “Renee?” he asked.

Shit. Lexi had given him a fake name. This was going to be fun.

“Yup, that’s me,” I said, as I flagged down the bartender, who took an agonizing twenty minutes to take our beer order. I knew I had to come clean with this guy, but was certainly not going to do it sober.

Once our beers were in front of us, I began my awkward confession. “So, you know how you said you’re a bit apprehensive about online dating? Well….um, I suppose I am, too. And so, um, Rene isn’t really my name. It’s Chloe.”

He stared at me. “I know.”

My eyes widened.

He continued. “Yeah, and your friends Lexi and Daisy are doing a real shit job of running your online dating.”

I felt the color leave my face. And then return in a very bright, red manner.

PI then continued to tell me how it was clear from the beginning that he was being catfished. [Note: It was not until this moment that I realized I had catfished someone. I truly just thought it was just well orchestrated dating.] He also explained how before becoming an attorney, he worked as a private investigator and is “really good at finding people when they don’t want to be found.”

Well that’s comforting.

“But, there were so many red flags,” he said, smiling and clearly pleased with himself, “that I had to see how this played out.”

As my friend Marie put it when I relayed the story to her, “You were Chloe-ed.”


Where to go from here with PI was tricky. Because now he knew that he’d been lured under false pretenses, and I was aware that he knew everything about me. It was like two war generals meeting on common ground, sizing each other up, trying to decide how to proceed.

But proceed we did. Somehow into a truly wonderful first encounter. We had great conversation, laughed a lot, lost track of time. When I realized what time it was, I looked at him and said, “You don’t really have dinner plans do you?”

“Nope. Those were fictional. I hear you’re a big fan of them.”

You had to give the man credit for his research.

Four beers and four hours later, we bid our adieu, both agreeing we wanted to see each other again. 

Though it was a little unnerving to realize that my date knew more about me than any advanced Google search I’ve ever seen, I was surprised at the relief I felt. I mean, going into the date, this guy knew I write a dating blog, that I don’t take dating too seriously, I have a real and deep affinity for pizza, I think it’s unacceptable to split the bill on the first date, and that I use the f-bomb like M&Ms. All that stuff that’s awkward for me to articulate–BAM. Already out there.

Furthermore, it was refreshing to meet someone who’s company I enjoy. Not just tolerate, but enjoy. Bad dates are annoying, but mediocre dates are soul crushing. You can’t even glean a good story from a guy who was kinda nice but kinda boring. And I truly felt I was at a breaking point if I had to go on one more routine date.

And there is nothing routine about having a guy recite your dating history back to you.

So PI and I are set to go out again this week. On our first real date. Allegedly. 

Bullet Point Tuesday: When in Rome…Or BoysTown…


You know how after you’ve been immersed in a culture for awhile, you start to pick up the habits of that culture? Well, I’m especially prone to this. After a weekend in Nashville, I developed a drawl and an affinity for barbed wire bicep tattoos. After a week in London, I started putting an upward inflection at the end of my sentences and drinking beer out of larger glasses. And, after just two days in Barcelona, I was wandering around beaches topless and shouting “Olay!” (They fucking loved me there.)

I can only assume it’s my assimilation to culture that has caused the recent confusion with my sexuality as of late. Before I get in trouble with everyone, let me explain. Or just let me explain.

  • Friday

It was Elliot’s birthday, and as he is my gay husband, he is the only man I will leave my apartment past 11:00 P.M. for. Marie and I met him and his friends in BoysTown, a part of Chicago I haven’t frequented on a Friday or Saturday in quite some time. And now I remember why. Because, while BoysTown is a great time for the dancing and confetti (yes they have fucking confetti and it’s amazing), it’s a complete aquarium. Gorgeous man after gorgeous man walking in the bar and all I could do was press my face against the glass and drop fish food into the tank. Which was just more confetti. And not well received.

As you may recall, it was the start of the winter chill on Friday night, so I dressed accordingly. Accordingly to me meant leggings (re: #thisisthirty), a black sweater, boots, and black, puffy vest within sequins on the front. My sister Fran is currently shaking her head.

Our group danced in a semi-circle to the strobe light [Note: Yes! They still exist!] and a guy passed by, making conversation with one of the girls, Dionna, from our group. “Honey. You. Are. Beautiful,” he gushed.

Dionna smiled, said thanks, but homeboy went on and on about how gorgeous she is while I stood there, now feeling incredibly feminine in my vest. 

When he was done with his love fest, he turned to me. “She’s a keeper. Nice job.”

 I stared back blankly, then threw my arm around her and said, “Thanks.” 

  •  Saturday

We had a Friendsgiving, which I’ve never been to before and now I know why. Not only do I not know how to cook, but I don’t even know how to cook easy stuff. I tried to make one of the easiest appetizers of all time, but showed up with something that looked like congealed cheese and leftover tarter sauce. Thank God I know how to purchase alcohol well. 

Daisy wanted to play this game called Utter Nonsense. It’s a new game out and you have to say super weird and funny phrases using various accents. Accents range anything from British to Mime to Orgasm. So less like accents and more like ways of life.

I felt a lot of pressure to do well at this game because, well, I’m a comedian, so I should be able to be funny. Not only was I not funny, but the group determined that no matter how many accents I tried, I always came off sounding like an angry lesbian.

And I wasn’t even wearing my vest.

  • Sunday

As mentioned on last week’s blog, I’ve outsourced my dating life to Lexi and Daisy. But more to Lexi because Daisy keeps asking me if it’s ok to set me up with guys who look like serial killers.

Lexi set up a date with a guy for Sunday at 6:00. She sent me his pic, number, and the brief conversations they’d had. All I had to do was show up. Brilliant, people. 

I tried not to be too quick to judge when he first spoke and his voice was on the feminine side. But, having dated a gay guy before, I’m always a little wary. The following did not help this dude’s case:

  • “Yes, I live in BoysTown.”
  • “I was out in BoysTown on Friday, too! And Saturday.”
  • “When I lived in Cincinnati, I lived in the gay part of town then, too.”
  • “My favorite movie is Pitch Perfect. And Love Actually. But Pitch Perfect is pretty much the greatest movie of all time.”
  • “I can’t wait to get my first paycheck.”

That last comment has nothing to do with the gay factor. Just not helping any person’s cause when on a date.


So back to the dating pool I go. Or rather Lexi goes. She told me I’m not allowed to go near vests or accents. Fair enough. 

Monday Jams: “Tell Me” by Allah Las

As many of you know, my sister Fran is infinitely cooler than me, and thus she is responsible for this jam that is infinitely cooler than anything I’d ever be able to pick out without supervision. Apparently these guys are coming to Lincoln Hall on the 29th, and we’ll be seeing them there–a scene I imagine in which I’ll pull off something like this: 


Man I want that shirt. Anyway, enjoy the jam, peeps. And tune in tonight to Her Monthly radio show (8 CST) to hear me talk about the 4 Bullet Points of the First Date and other shit I’m not an expert on.

Shit To Do This Weekend!

Need something to do this weekend? Here’s where I’ll be. Which I suppose is an odd invitation for stalkers. Ok, so let me start over.

All of these things are super fun things you can do this weekend. I may or may not attend some of them. (See, stalkers thwarted.)


Saturday: So Chillfest is happening. And the fact I know about it makes me sound much cooler than I actually am. Apparently it’s this all day acoustic music fest at various locations in Bucktown. So color me hipster because one of my fave bands, The Midnight Kicks, is playing at 2:30  so I’ll be there. noon-6:00, FREE, locations vary


Saturday: MPAACT Solo Jams: Kat HerskovicI’ve seen Kat do stand up before and it is one of the best things I’ve ever experienced. Which includes the time when I saw two dogs sing “My Heart Will Go On” in harmony. Shut up, it happened. Go see this show. She’s fucking hysterical, and you’ll want to be her best friend afterwards. 11:00 P.M., Greenhouse Theatre, $12. For tix, click here.


Sunday: STACEJAMShe does improv, she does Zumba, she does puppets. And I want her to be my spirit animal. Check out Stacey Smith in STACEJAM, her solo show. 8:00 P.M., The Public House Theatre, $5.


Bullet Point Tuesday: Not Another Datervention

meangirlsSo a few days ago, I was over at Lexi and Daisy’s apartment. Just hanging out with some pizza and beer. Then they glanced at each other and gave an understanding nod.

Almost in unison, my two friends set down their beers and gave me look that said either “You’re puppy just died” or “You’re about to be roofied.” (It’s hard to tell with them. They’re sneaky. And since I don’t have a puppy, I was quite on edge.)

Lexi started. “So, have you gone on any dates recently?” Her tone was weird and soft. Almost like a high school counselor that you couldn’t tell was high or not.

I looked back at the two of them. They knew the answer to this question. And then it hit me. This is was an intervention. But I stopped drinking my beer just in case I was wrong and they had actually roofied me.

“So why haven’t you been on any dates?” Daisy asked gently.

“Um, I don’t have time,” I said and took a swig of my beer.

They looked at me with the same pity you’d give to a squirrel that had just been hit by a semi. “You need to make time,” Lexi said.

Aaaaand just like that I was in hell. Because, as a single, 30-year-old gal, I expect the dating questions at family parties or from my tax guy. (Apparently there are some tax breaks for married folk? That’s the best incentive I’ve ever heard!) But when you’re friends lure you to their house, under the guise of pizza and beer, only to kindly encourage you to “get out there”…that, dear reader, is rock bottom. (Well, if the pizza had been plain cheese it would’ve been rock bottom. It was pepperoni, so I was still winning on some accounts.)

Luckily for me, I have a mom that seems to be one of the only people who understands why I’m single. Unlike most moms, who take the ever-so-self-esteem-boosting role of encouraging their daughters to land a man, Mama Cline gets me. So much so that she had me watch a clip of an Andy Cohen interview, in which he outlined several reasons why he didn’t have a boyfriend:

“So why don’t I have a boyfriend? Pick one or two:

  • I’m shut off.
  • I’m happy as I am.
  • I’m selfish and set in my ways.
  • I put my job first.
  • I meet people that I’m more attracted physically than mentally.
  • I use my friends and job to replace a relationship.”

(Um, Mr. Cohen, can I pick more than two?)

Time is such a precious commodity in anyone’s life. (I’ve heard that money is, too. Still waiting on that one…) And the time it takes to seek out a man is just time I’m not willing to give up right now. Another friend asked if she could set me up with someone, and I was totally onboard. If getting ready is the only effort I have to put into the first date, then I’m game.

But weeding through guys on Tinder or OkCupid, only for them to say, “Wanna cum over and hang out with my D?”* I’m tired. I’m thirty. And there’s a bottle of wine and Marina Franklin** stand up calling my name.

I presented Lexi and Daisy with my case, and of course they had a solution. They are now in charge of all my online dating accounts. Finally. Personal assistants. Although I think we can all pretty much agree I’ll only be going on these dates for material. Which goes right back to Andy’s point of putting my job first. You’re welcome.

*With his dog? I can only assume that’s what he meant.

**Check out her performance on Women Who Kill on Netflix. She’s fucking hysterical.

To see Andy Cohen’s full interview, click here. It’s great.