Tag Archives: Bullet Point Tuesday

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.


Bullet Point Tuesday: When in Rome…Or BoysTown…

www-sidetrackchicago-com

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. 


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. 


Bullet Point Tuesday: Bad Ass Nana, Part II

nana & me

So this past weekend, my mom, Nana, and I went to Florida. We had some business to take care of that I’m not sure I’m legally allowed to disclose, but we took care of said business on Day 1 and spent the remainder of the trip lounging, reading, and eating potato chips. I know, I’d hate me a little, too, had I spent Halloween in horizontal sleet.

I’ve always considered Nana a bad ass because, after being widowed at 47, she moved Up North by herself, reestablished an entirely new life for herself, which has involved becoming a critically acclaimed artist and living in the woods. Alone. Kinda puts every 20-something to shame who thought moving to the “Big City” was a big deal. Oh, you thought the el was scary at first? Try bears. Literal bears. In. Your. Backyard.

But this trip, I realized Nana’s badassness is multi-faceted. Because not only is she the ultimate Annie Oakley, but she’s also the ultimate lady. Every morning in Florida, Nana would come to breakfast fully dressed in a pressed cotton top, nice slacks, and a silk scarf to accent the outfit. [Note: “pressed” and “slacks” are definitely Nana words. I’m clearly not sophisticated enough for those.] I thought I was doing everyone a favor by coming to breakfast in a cami that had a built-in bra. You’re welcome.

In recent years, there’s a lot of chatter about the modern-day woman “having it all”–the career, the family, the bod. And while I don’t think Nana’s goal has ever been to “have it all,” she certainly emulates a woman of “being it all.” I’ve had so many people take me aside and tell me how elegant and graceful my Nana is. And I’ve had equal amounts of people approach me and say, “That woman has balls.”

Examples of Bad Ass Nana Being Her Bad Ass Self

  • On reading material…

me: Nana, would you like a magazine?

Nana: No, thank you. I brought the Wall Street Journal.

  • On squirrels in her shed…

Nana: I need to buy a bigger gun.

  • On my future…

Nana: Were you singing in the shower?

me: [smiling broadly] I was.

Nana: I remember when you used to do that as a kid. And I’d turn to your mom and say, “Well, she’s not going to make it in the opera.”

  • On animal cruelty…

Nana: See, the thing to do with geckos is when you see one running by, just stamp down on his tail with your foot. Not too hard, though. You don’t want to crush him–just catch him. Then just pick him up and take him outside.

  • On weather preferences…

Nana: Oh, yes, well the best is in the winter when you can turn off the heat at night and crack a window. [Note: Nana lives in Up North, close to Canada, in the woods, with wild turkeys as neighbors. That’s not a metaphor. Literally. Wild turkeys.]

[pause.]

Nana: But once it hits zero or below, I shut the window. I mean, that’s just crazy.

  • On our relationship statuses…

Nana: The three single ladies! [She would just proclaim this randomly–while we were sitting by the pool, out to dinner, at the grocery store, watching the news. It. Never. Got. Old.]

Aforementioned single ladies.

Aforementioned single ladies.

*To read Bad Ass Nana, Part I, in which she helps me weed through Tinder, click here: http://chloecline.com/bullet-point-tuesday-tindering-with-nana/


Bullet Point Tuesday: The Friend Zone…The Only Zone

82952823It was my understanding that OKCupid was the easy make-a-date for any single. The one platform where, you might not find true love, but you will find a true self-esteem boost because if you write in complete sentences and have all of your teeth, then you’re ahead of the curve.

Apparently this set of pearly whites is not enough for the gentlemen of OKC. Or maybe it’s the slew of creepy messages these poor dudes receive from me.

In the past week, here are the messages I’ve sent to guys on OKCupid that have–shockingly–gone ignored:

  • “You can make French toast, huh? That’s quite a talent! Especially coupled with bacon! How’s your week starting off?” [Note: Nothing says low standards like being impressed by French toast and bacon. WITH exclamation points.]
  • “Is the ‘bagpipes’ thing like the ‘porcupine trainer’ bit? Just seeing who will buy it?”
  • “Two questions: 1. What’s your Bloody Mary mix of choice? 2. How do you feel about the Oxford Comma?” [Note: Do not mix alcohol and grammar. Ever.]
  • “Sooooo I do ride a bike, but I’m still terrified every time I ride in the city. And I love honey mustard. If those aren’t dealbreakers, feel free to answer the following question: How was your weekend?” [Note: The fact that I would consider talking to a guy whose dealbreakers involve bike and/or condiments is a real low point. Even for me.]
  • “That’s quite an array of photos–from flashing gang signs to flashing hearts to just damn near flashing. Nice. Work. How’s your week going?”

Apparently guys don’t want to talk about their weeks. Or weekends. Or grammar technicalities. Go. Figure.

I was talking to my friend Ron about my tragic attempts to make conversation via a free internet dating platform: “I just keep sending really weird messages,” I said.

He laughed. “Why?”

“It’s not on purpose. I’m. Just. A. Moron.”

But Ron’s innocuous question got me thinking. Why am I sending these awkward messages? There’s no hint of flirtation or real interest in my words to these guys. So, um,  what’s that about?

It was funny this epiphany came when I was hanging with Ron, a recent friend I’d made to add to the list of platonic male companions I have. This past weekend, he and I went to dinner, saw a show, grabbed beers, and talked dating strategies. I’ve become this type of confidant for a few guys, and I love discussing the complicated and strategic matrix of dating with my male counterparts. It’s like crossing enemy lines to get top secret information. Except we’re all after the same goal. So less like enemy lines and more like crossing the 7th grade dance floor.

As someone who used to believe that men and women could never truly be solely platonic friends, I now have several close guy friends who’d rather see me do my 47-second keg stand than model anything from Victoria’s Secret.

“Is there anything there with [insert male friend’s name]?” one of my girlfriends will ask. And I’ll give back a look like I just ate prune and meatloaf baby food with a swig of moscato. Because, though I love and cherish my guy friends, the idea of hooking up with them is reminiscent of some sort of Geoffrey love child.

It worries me that after dating a slew of guys that think politics or animal sacrifices are acceptable first-date conversation topics, when I meet men who are kind, intelligent, compassionate, and also have all their teeth, all I can muster up is a, “Yeah buddy,” and a slug on the shoulder.

I was explaining to another girlfriend of mine how involved I am in furthering my career and how–given my experience in past relationships–I had no true desire to jump into another.

“Don’t close yourself off,” she said kindly.

Um. Oops.

Is that why I’m sending creepy messages to OKCupid guys? Is it a form self-sabotage? Or just not truly caring enough about finding someone to put in any effort, like constructing a message that illicits a response back? 

I have a feeling that it’s somewhere in between. Kinda like half-cooked pizza rolls. And no one wants those.

So, once again, I deleted my OKCupid account. Because I like my dating life like I like my pizza rolls. Fully cooked and full of cheesy goodness.  


Bullet Point Tuesday: Singles Awareness Month

kraft-singlesSo last week I was walking down Halsted on my way to one of my fave bars–Marquee–and right at the Halsted and Armitage intersection, I saw this guy on his bike totally get nailed by a car.

Naturally, I did what anyone in my situation would do. I checked his left hand for a wedding band.

He didn’t have one, so it was game on.

So I get this guy and his bike out of the street–you know, like a lady–and we’re sitting on the curb and it’s totally first date conversation. I’m like, “How many how fingers am I holding up?…Do you know where you are?….What’s the last thing you remember?”

It. Was. Magical.

Aaaaaaand then his girlfriend showed up. Who was non-too-pleased to find me soothingly rubbing her boyfriend’s back as she came upon the scene. But as soon I realized what was going on, I put an appropriate amount of distance between her man and me, even putting my arms up like I was being arrested as if to say, “I’m sorry, girl. I didn’t know. He didn’t have a band.” (Which is something sister friend might want to work on….)

It’s so weird–the wedding band thing. Because I’ve realized that when I’m out in the real world, I’ll look at a guy’s left hand before I even look at his face.

I wasn’t always this way, though–hunting for bare left ring fingers with the type of dedication reserved for Nordstrom Rack deals and bars that have Brooklyn Brown Ale on tap. I noticed that this behavior only recently picked up in the last month or so, and I couldn’t quite pin point why.

Then I read author and co-host of SoChi, Jillian Conley’s, blog post from last week, in which she described this as a time when men and women instinctively look for a partner. It’s something Jillian refers to as the “rutting period.”

Ooohhhhhhhhhhhh. So THAT’S why I restarted my OkCupid profile and put on make up to go to Trader Joe’s. I, apparently, am also on the fall hunt.

See, being single during the holidays is never something that’s bothered me. There’s so much joy and fun and alcohol from Thanksgiving to New Year’s that I don’t take note of not having a plus one while mowing down on Aunt Chele’s homemade chicken wings. The same goes for January through March, since I don’t leave the house or put on make up. And we all know that spring and summer in Chicago is one, long bender season. Who has time to be locked down?

It’s this interim time, when summer sets and fall begins, that I think we feel our soloness hit.

The other day I grabbed coffee with a girlfriend I hadn’t seen in over a month. Her first question for me was, “So–anything new on the dating front?”

This question annoyed me for two reasons: 1. I’m pretty sure my blog serves as a weekly newsletter on this exact subject. 2. It’s the one time of the year that this question feels like a sucker punch.

So since this is a critical time for your local singles, I’ve made a list of DOs and DON’Ts (and things you can request if you’re one such single) in honor of Singles Awareness Month:

Singles Awareness Month DOs and DON’Ts

  • DO NOT SEND THEM FLOWERS. Your local single will think it’s from a romantic connection, only to read the card and learn that yay, my friends pity me, and drown him or herself in Chips Ahoy and a bottle of wine. Hypothetically speaking, of course.
  • DO send them take out food. There’s nothing we love more than food in…especially when we don’t have to pay for it. [Note: This single in particular loves Pequods pizza, thin crust, extra sauce, Canadian bacon, and basil.]
  • DON’T ask them to go to one of those places where you paint pottery/canvas and drink wine. Just. Don’t.
  • DO ask them to go to places and just drink.
  • DON’T flag down a cute guy or girl at a bar, and say, “Oops, I have to go now. Ok, you two talk.”
  • DON’T send inspirational quotes found on Pinterest about love. Unless you want to be ruthlessly made fun of by singles everywhere. Behind your back, of course. We have manners.
  • DON’T let them walk out of the house pulling something like this: (And expect a completely irrational fight about it.)

1086522_1343487968634_full

  • DO support them in whatever odd endeavor he or she has recently picked up. (i.e. knitting, beer brewing, blogging,* Ancestry.com, leaf collecting, bowling league, taxidermy, or Sims).

If you don’t have the time to dedicate, singles will also accept donations. Most in the form of ChasePay.

*Yes, I see the coincidence in that this blog was born and then reborn from my singledom. You’re welcome. 


Bullet Point Tuesday: I Survived Ebola, So Cut Me Some Slack

286e02bb93d7c46e7bc41770abad7370My apologies. But I had ebola and was afraid to leave my bed. Fever, runny nose, unquenchable thirst, chipped manicure. It was totally ebola. And I totally beat it by myself. Can’t get more bad ass than that. Thank you.

After careful examination of my recent history and WebMD, I’ve determined that I ascertained said deadly virus in one of two places: Bar Deville or Taco Bell.

First of all, let me preface this with the only reason we went to Bar Deville on a Friday night was because Siri failed us miserably. When I asked her: “What are good bars to meet men at?” she unhelpfully replied with this:

photo-2

So I turned to Twitter and, when asked what bar to check out in West Town (where I hear cute guys run around like Disney characters), I was given Bar Deville from not one or two, but THREE different trusted Twitter users. And given that three is the magic number in the drunk world and that I was getting drunk just from playing this game, Lex, Lily, and I decided to go on an adventure.

  • How I Could’ve Gotten Ebola Part I: Bar Deville

Remember those Westerns when a cowboy walks in the saloon and the music stops and everyone turns around and stares? Yeah. It was like that. Except instead of gun holsters, we had on dresses from Express and Old Navy and wore pink lipstick. (In the land of hipsters, your dresses must be from thrift shops or boutiques and lipsticks shades of the red variety.)

We tried to order a beer, but didn’t recognize any of the names of the beers on tap because we are not, in fact, cool. When Lexi asked for a Miller Lite the bartender smirked at her. She ordered PBRs (in hopes to slightly redeem ourselves), which I’m quite confident he spit in. Bam. Ebola.

Lily has terrible short-term memory, which is why she has the need to document us at every bar via iPhone photography to make sure it happened. It’s not her fault. She has a problem.* When she asked the young woman sitting next to us at the bar to take our picture, the woman rolled her eyes and while taking the picture said, “I. Hate. You. All.”

She gave the phone back with a satisfied, smug grin and asked mockingly, “Is it ok? Do you want me to take another?”

I leaned over and told her that I loved her tattoo: “A peace sign? On your wrist? You. Are. So. Original.”

So I’m pretty sure she could’ve given me ebola, too. I know she wanted to, anyway.

We left shortly after, but not before having a completely necessary photo session in the bar’s photo booth.

  • How I Could’ve Gotten Ebola Part II: Taco Bell

Because what else are you supposed to do if you’re single on a Sunday except treat yourself to some delicious fast food?

As I waited for my order to be ready (I was generously picking up some TB for my girlfriends–I know. I’m a giver.), this homeboy next to me was clearly trying to put out the vibe. I looked up from my phone and he opened with the very innocuous, yet underrated, line of: “Hi.”

We chatted for a few minutes and then homeboy asked, “So what do you do?” When I told him that I’m a writer and comedian, he looked a little surprised and hesitated. I told him not to worry; I’m not like….all the scary writers you hear about. (Fuck, I’m awkward.)

“No, that’s not it,” he said. “I just would’ve guessed you were a high school gym teacher.”

Because Taco Bell has merciful gods, my order number was called just then. I grabbed my bag, to which homeboy said, “Wow, that’s a lot of food!” and I walked out.

I don’t think it was the Taco Bell that gave me ebola, but maybe the pint of ice cream I had afterwards.

*Pretty sure it’s also called Insta/FB Addiction-Fatigue Syndrome. Look it up. It’s REAL.


Bullet Point Tuesday: Online Dating (Again)…Because I’m Not a Quitter

-BridesmaidsSo this Sunday I decided to fire up the old OkCupid profile. You know, to do something nice for myself.

And enough time had passed in my online dating stints that I forgot. I forgot how depressing online dating is. Especially on Sunday.

Because…even though it’s online, it’s pretty transparent. I mean, you can see who’s viewed your profile, who’s seen a message you sent and never responded, and if you look really closely, you can see your standards–and dignity–fading fast.

I’m not sure about other sites–I’m too cheap to try them and OkCupid is free–but it just serves as a reminder of what’s really out there for you.

Exhibit A: Nicely Bearded Man, 31

After clicking on his profile, here’s what I found:

  • Works at Ace Hardware
  • Fired from Ace Hardware (so the above should be in past tense)
  • Tried nursing school, but it was “too boring”
  • Lives with his parents
  • Currently looking for roommates (maybe he got this site confused with Craigslist)
  • Looking for a trendy, good-looking woman with a “career”

But you know what–I have to give this homeboy credit for putting it out there. How many times, ladies, have we been out with a guy and it’s just this snowball of horrible information: I don’t have a job–BOOM–I’m completely unambitious with my life’s goals–BOOM–I’m going to pretend I forgot my wallet and make you pay for my negronis–BOOM–

Exhibit B: Blondie, 32

For those of you who haven’t been on OkCupid (or hit rock bottom), the service provides a space for you to fill out a self-summary. It’s super awkward because no one really knows how to talk about him/herself without sounding incredibly lame. But we all fill it out in the name of finding true, OkCupid love. Here’s how this homeboy’s went:

  • My Self-Summary: blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah blah, blah

I know. WHERE is that second-to-last comma?? Is he so lazy he can’t even correctly punctuate his “ironic” self-description? I. Can’t. Even.

Exhibit C: Too-Good-To-Be-True, 36

This guy was just a little too good-looking–like did you airbrush your photos or just step off a Ralph Lauren photo shoot?

I thought about messaging him anyway until I saw this:

  • Optimal dating age bracket: 20-31

Hold up, dude. You’re ok with dating someone who still has to bring a fake ID to the bar and you’re 36? Yeah….I’m out.

Exhibit D: the Creative Message Guy

I received the following message from this homeboy:

  • “Do you think sneakers, sandals, or flip flops look better on a guy with shorts and a T-shirt?”

First of all, unless she’s a store clerk, do not ask a woman you don’t know for fashion advice. Second of all, none of that footwear is appropriate for a grown ass man. Neither are shorts, which I imagine are of the cargo-nature. Don’t even get me started on guys who think it’s acceptable to wear concert shirts to any place other than the gym.

Just imagine if the situation was reverse. If I sent that message to a guy: “So, do you think I should wear my TOMs or clogs or Crocs with my oversized sweatpants from high school?”

Dude was from Indiana, though, so I guess I have to cut him some slack.

 

*This is just an obligatory * after the plethora of my ***** were called out last week. See, dear reader, I listen.**

**Kinda. I just had no real after-thoughts on this one.***

***See what I did there? Ok, I’ll stop.  

 


Bullet Point Tuesday: Steve Harvey, Hopping Fences, and the Music Man

Screen Shot 2014-09-23 at 10.43.09 AMSo after the airing of the my appearance on the Steve Harvey Show, it left people with one burning question. The answer: both dresses are from Bloomingdale’s. (On sale, obvi.)

And since I wasn’t able to discuss the show until after the airing, I can also now dish on the very dapper date my friends and fam chose for me. Affectionately called by so many: The Guy on the Right.

The first date went great–national television and all. Guy on the Right seems to be a person with solid values, a good sense of humor, strong sense of self, and–as noted by my mom’s friends–quite good looking. Guy on the Right and I laughed a lot and, despite the fact that cameras were on us and tourists were taking pictures of us, we had a great time and decided to do it again. But, as it happens with celebrity couples, the paparazzi was too much for us to bear. So the date never happened. Still, Guy on the Right is an incredibly stand up gentleman, and I’m very happy to have met him.*

Though Steve Harvey didn’t find me love, the experience already changed my dating life. And it’s because of the fence that Steve talked about. Not everyone was on board with the fence metaphor. I fucking loved it.** To paraphrase, Steve said that a woman needs to build a really high fence with barbed wire on top, trying to make the point that a man needs to earn a woman’s time and attention.

I like the idea of a guy having to work for my time and attention, climbing over barbed wire, knife in mouth, fending off rabid dogs just to have a shot at my heart. The problem is that the fence idea walks a fine line with “playing hard to get,” which often gets confused with playing games. Though different concepts, having high standards and playing games get grayed together in the dating world.

And this is where I’ve run into trouble with dating. I don’t play games.*** So much so that–as my family so kindly pointed out on national television–I’m often an open book. And because I don’t play them, I don’t understand them anymore. And kinda forget they exist. Just like all my ex-boyfriends.

Screen Shot 2014-09-23 at 10.29.03 AMSteve was very adamant about a the guy paying for a woman as a part of building this fence. (The picture to the right is me breaking a sweat when Steve stared me down, pointed, and said, “Don’t buy another man NUTHIN’.”) But having a high fence involves more than the good gesture of buying drinks or meals. See, when I’m in a relationship (yes, I promised it’s happened, dear reader) I’m alllllllll in. Just as some examples: I’ve worn a Nigerian headdress to a Nigerian**** wedding, I’ve spent long weekends in Indiana, and I’ve even dressed up for Halloween–so they’re not donate-your-kidney gestures, but they were big enough to mean a lot to the person I was dating and completely take me out of my comfort zone. (I fucking hate Halloween.)

I’ve always believed that you shouldn’t expect people to treat you the way you treat them. It’s my choice if I want to go the extra mile for another person and there should be zero expectation for reciprocation because that was my decision. But I’m beginning to understand that concept doesn’t–and shouldn’t–apply to intimate relationships. I’m certainly not saying that I want a quid pro quo relationship where we’re keeping score. (i.e. “I went to your cousin’s Bat Miztvah, now you’re going to go buy me tampons at CostCo.” Which actually seems like a fair trade.) But I have every right to expect a man to treat me the way I treat him. Which is like fucking golden-dipped tater tots. (I dunno, I just love tater tots and was trying to make them more valuable by dipping them in gold. Which kinda takes away the appeal. Another. Successful. Metaphor.)

So now I have a fence. And the way for a guy to get over it is through kind gestures, considerate actions, generosity of spirit, and–God help me–someone who laughs at my jokes and has a job. I just want to be held in the same priority status that I hold my partner. Without having to fight my way to be there.

Enter Music Man. You know these guys. They’re super into music–they attend all the fests, know the latest bands, blah blah blah. That’s great. Everyone needs a passion. Just don’t judge me if we don’t share the same fucking passion. There’s nothing worse than a music guy who looks at me all crookedly because I fucking love Taylor Swift’s new jam.*****

We decided on a Friday happy hour. The day came and at 1:00 I hadn’t heard from him, still didn’t know where we were going or what time we were meeting, and I was beginning to wonder if this would happen at all. At 1:42 I received a text from Music Man asking if we were still on. We volleyed text messages back and forth, and I realized that he was trying to get to a music fest that night and our date was sandwiched in between. He invited me to come with as an alternative option.

I didn’t feel like this was fence climbing.

I told Music Man not to worry about it. That he should go enjoy the fest with his friends and we’d do it another time. He was hesitant, but I insisted. We could reschedule for a time that worked better for both of us.

We never contacted each other again.

I wasn’t playing games; this wasn’t a test. But I certainly didn’t feel like this guy made our date a priority. He hadn’t planned ahead and he was trying to have me meet him at a convenient time and place so he could get to his real plans later–all signs that he wasn’t really into it. Does that make him a bad person? Yes. Just kidding. It just means that neither of us felt that strong of a connection. And I’d much rather open a bottle wine and read Jenny Lawsen than go on another mediocre date.

And that, my friends, is how to climb a fence.******

 

*That’s all true, but I’m also afraid of getting sued for saying anything else.

**My affection for the fence metaphor could also be directly correlated to my love for hopping fences. Not metaphorically. I literally love to climb them just to see if I can do it. My one pair of jeans can attest to it.

***If you want to read an amazing post about guys and girls dishing honestly on playing games, check out Fran’s post here.

****No, I don’t have a picture, and yes, it kills me that I don’t.

*****How could you not? Do you have no soul??

******I realize that ending doesn’t make a ton sense, but it’s so strong and confident that I had to keep it. But now I guess this is the real ending to this post. If you’ve made it this far, then I admire your tenacity. Let’s go fence hopping together sometime. Not metaphorically. The real kind. (Refer to ** to know what I’m talking about.)

 


Bullet Point Tuesday: So This Is Happening

Steve Harvey

My friends and family innocently look on as I realize I’m in the middle of an intervention. Note: I’m blocking Nana in this shot. Which is a shame because she looked gorgeous and really hit it off with Steve.

A few weeks ago, I was asked to be a guest on the Steve Harvey Show. For my first date tips? For my hilarious array of dating stories? For my inhuman ability to correctly combine independent and dependent clauses at a rapid rate?

No. No. And, most disappointingly, no.

This was an intervention.

I’m not sure if you’ve ever witnessed an intervention or looked it up on Wikipedia, but it generally involves loving friends and family, reassuring words, and a safe space. Or national television. Tomato tomato. (Wow, that phrase really bombs on the page. It looks like I’m just repeating random vegetables.)

So this Thursday and Friday you–and the rest of America–get to see what a dating disaster I am. Pretty sure some former dates are claiming karma right now. Zucchini zucchini.

The show airs this Thursday and Friday (9/18 & 9/19) at 2:00 P.M. CST on NBC.* If you see a bunch of drunk tweets about that time, just kindly disregard. It’s all a part of the fifteen-step plan.

 

*If you’re in the Chicago area. If not, check your local listings, yo.