Tag Archives: Bullet Point Tuesday

Bullet Point Tuesday: Talk Like a Lady

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So it’s been pointed out to me that maybe I don’t have the best dating practices. When described by my male counterparts, I’ve heard adjectives thrown around like “intimidating,” “abrasive,” “big feet,” and “tall” (the latter being just a nicer way of … Continue reading

Bullet Point Tuesday: Sex, Drugs, & Pancakes

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So the Homeless Man returned into my life this weekend. Apparently sometimes he needs a place to crash and a generous soul extends an apartment to him for the weekend. It should be noted that his visit coincided with my … Continue reading

Bullet Point Tuesday: Revenge of the Nerds

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In efforts to expand my dating search beyond homeless men and drug addicts, I recently made a conscientious decision to date smarter. Literally. And thus began my search for a guy that perhaps knows the difference between their, they’re, and … Continue reading

Bullet Point Tuesday: Because Sometimes Funny Dog Videos Are the Only Way to Explain Your Life

I discovered that my weekend can best be portrayed in this short video. Particularly at: 0:56 3:26 3:34 3:56 and 5:40* Enjoy. And Happy Tuesday, everyone. *Just kidding. I didn’t go anywhere near a vacuum.

Bullet Point Tuesday: Even Tinder is Better in California

I know that during these past few months, anyone east of the Louisiana Purchase has talked about packing up and leaving behind our less-than-desirable climate to head somewhere that has double AND positive digits in its zip code. And after just a few days of California living, I’m going to confirm that not only does this need to happen so we can forever shed the our long johns and Sorels*, but also because the dating scene is also sunnier, warmer, and doesn’t require a snow shovel. 

4 Reasons to Move to California (just in case you needed more)

  • Judgey Wudgey Was a Bear
I’m so much less judgey. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m in temperatures above 6 degrees, but I noticed this going through my Tinder feed. Deep V? Professional head shots? No teeth smile? No prob! It’s California. You’re allowed to do those things here. Be free, you tanned, toned, and bleached spirits! 

  • Well, Hello…
Everyone looks better. I don’t mean more attractive. But just…better. Maybe it’s because they don’t live in a place where it hurts your face to walk outside. There’s this enviable glow in everyone’s faces that can’t be just from Vitamin D alone. Don’t worry, I’m bottling up their water and bringing it back for us. Actually nevermind. That’s not drinkable. One point, Chicago. 

  • And They’re Everywhere…
While sitting outside (I know, this is just getting borderline obnoxious here. But, People. Live. Like. This.) at a coffee shop, I scoped several cute guys also enjoying some sunny, coffee and computer time. I thought about hitting this one dude, you know, Friends style, until I overheard him say, “Yeah, I just really hate alcohol.” 

  • Even on Tinder…
After a few minutes of Tindering, I matched with EVERY right swipe. Now, this may surprise you, but this is something new for me. Apparently the Cali guys dig a girl holding a beer and standing next to a Judge Mathis cardboard cut out. The Chicago guys, apparently, are tired of that same old song and dance. And yes, I have a date set up for this week. Bam. Cali guys don’t play yo. 

*Yes, I wear long johns. And, yes, they are a hand-me-down pair from some male in my family, as noted by the intentionally placed hole in the crotch. Also, I know we try to convince ourselves that Sorels are super cute. They are not. Don’t get me wrong, snow boots are necessary, and we might as well try to convince ourselves that we’re being fashionable. But gold, sparkly pumps are cute. Sorels are just necessity masquerading as fashion.**

**I’ve been inundated with hate mail and hate texts about the Sorel thing (which, yes, I know I initially spelled wrong). I’m sorry. Your Sorels are beautiful. They are the winter version of gold, sparkly pumps. You. Go. Girl. 

Bullet Point Tuesday: Surgeries and Slushies

I went on two dates last week. The first was horrendous and the second ended with slushies at a gay bar.

Because I hadn’t been on a date since before Christmas and was running the risk of writing a “men as socks” post, I was strongly encouraged by my reading audience (hi, Lexi) to give dating another go. So back to Tinder it was. I even threw in the new Hinge app, just in case I wasn’t sure if I’d hit rock bottom.

The first date of the week was at Cafe Babareeba (love that place), and I was pretty impressed by the fact Tinder Guy #456 took the time to make a reservation. (Note: This is when you know your expectations have sunk to Lindsay Lohan levels. When reservations become the equivalent to flowers, jewelry, and running out to get McDonald’s breakfast.)

And if you’re wondering how slushie-gay-bar date could’ve outdone Mr. Reservations, let me break it down for you:

  • 20 Questions

I started to tally the amount of questions Res asked me. By the end of the night, my estimation was four…and a half. (He started one, and then reverted the conversation back to himself. Again.) By the end of the night, I could’ve written, casted, and directed this guy’s Lifetime movie, and he had no clue what I do for a living.

Aware of my habit to sometimes ask a million questions like Guiliana Rancic (shut up, I’m totally like her), and not give my date opportunities to get a few in of his own, I left ample room for Res to reciprocate with some questions. I allowed pauses to infiltrate the conversation. I asked questions that could easily have had a “How about you?” follow-up. I dropped that I used to teach at least four times. I mean, I was TEEING HIM UP. What did you teach? How long? Where? What was it like? Why did you leave? If nothing else, I have to say my former profession always made rockstar cocktail party conversation. (People think they’re so creative when they call you Hilary Swank.)

He did ask me if I’d had any surgeries. So there was that.

  • Battle Scars

After Res detailed the last conversation he had with his grandmother before she died, he also shared that he was born with two sets of wisdom teeth. Looking down, he solemnly explained that this meant he had to have wisdom teeth surgery. Twice.

I told him that’s just like when I was diagnosed with my brain tumor. Oh wait. Did you say wisdom teeth?

  • I Do What I Want…Yo

Since I wasn’t talking, I got to do my fair share of eating, which was awesome because tapas have a lot of bacon. I was really full, but Res insisted, in a slightly 1950s-esque manner, that I get a dessert: “Order something.” Not like a playful suggestion, but like a direction. I shrugged, saw there was butterscotch on the menu, and went for it. Yolo…or something.

I was nearing the end of my butterscotch, listening to Res talk about his high school GPA when he looked at me and said, “Finish it.”* An image of Betty Draper flashed through my mind. And then I flung my spoon at his head. No, I didn’t. For fear of hitting his teeth and jostling the war wounds.

  • I Will Become a Nun for You to Leave Me Alone

Aside from the surgery inquiry, Res also asked if I’m “really religious.” Totally not a loaded question at all. The former teacher in me responded with a question back, asking him why he wanted to know. Res explained that this had been an issue for other women in the past and he “didn’t want to waste anyone’s time.”

Honey, this religion factor isn’t going to waste anyone’s time. But, of course, he never asked.

*For anyone who remembers what it was like being told to brush their teeth or

values their self-respect, I don’t like being ordered around. I crossed my arms and began filing my nails.**

**Not really. But that, or walking out would’ve been pretty bad ass. 

Bullet Point Tuesday: Dairy Farmer Dating

This past weekend, my girls and I trekked up to Wisconsin for some spa time, cheap beer, and cheese curds. (All of which, by the way, you can get at any gas station, should you so desire.) And we also figured that, during our stay in a state where it’s socially acceptable to eat fried chicken for breakfast, we were bound to meet a Bounty Man or at least a cute diary farmer at the bar.

These expectations just go to show how little I know about this state and its culture. So let me impart what I learned.

5 Problems With Trying to Date in Wisconsin

  • Babies at the Bar
Nope, not infants. Man babies. We were astounded at the young crowd that swarmed the bar. And then once we’d find a cute one that we could possibly pretend was 27, there was the left hand check. Yup, wedding band. We quickly started scanning. They were everywhere. Babies in wedding bands had taken over the bar. Thank God we had another round of fried chicken coming. 
  • Speaking of God…
So there was a Jesus convention at our same resort that weekend. Nothing makes you feel less like hitting on dudes than a Jesus convention. Oddly enough, nothing makes you feel more like hitting on dudes, either. It’s not that I don’t like Jesus. Big fan. But for some reason, when large groups of people get together for the weekend to discuss him and then have an ice cream sundae pajama party, it makes me want to put my head down, say a Hail Mary, and then prank call their rooms as John the Apostle.*

    Top Left: my killer dance moves
    Bottom Left: going to hell
    Right: I have no idea
  • The Oldies

Back to the bar. Since none of us were interested in corrupting a 19-year-old married manchild, this left us with the oldies at the bar. Every man 45 and over was sporting snowmobile gear and, of course, a wedding band. We couldn’t even find a nice divorced guy in Wisconsin. But we were on vacation, so we chatted with Bob and Bobby (yes, that’s real, and yes they’re best friends), met their wives, and listened to how much better their lives were now that they lived away from Chicago. 

  • Mixed Signals 
As we continued to be social and let go of any hopes of meeting a cute dairy farmer, I came across Barb and her group of lady friends. They were also super friendly and also in snowmobile gear. Barb, a 7th grade teacher, and I bonded over the joys and perils of teaching, as I reminisced on the old days. Then suddenly Barb’s hand was on my leg. And it was time to go. 
  • No Service for You 
Since we weren’t having much luck at the first bar, we decided to use the old adage: change location, change your life. (Shut up, that’s how it goes.) I quickly went to our contingency plan: Tinder. I tried to right swipe (that means I “liked” him, for all of those who don’t have to succumb to the debasement of this dating app) every guy in my feed. But since we might as well have been in Thoreau’s backyard, I was getting no service and only a few hits. I woke up the next day with 27 new Tinder matches and 18 messages from some guy named Dank. 

*I did not, in fact, do this. There might have been some late night confiscation of Jesus convention name tags. Please see above collage for reference. Also, if you’re not familiar with Catholic Guilt, or the after effects of being raised in it, may I suggest reading pages 26-27 of Jim Gaffigan’s book, Dad is Fat. Other than that, I can’t explain this phenomenon.

Bullet Point Tuesday: Accepting Admin Applications

After enduring a three-day migraine* this weekend, I learned two things: 1. I need a boyfriend…or a (male) secretary to get me things. But the secretary would probably organize my finances as well, so I’ll take the latter. 2. Teddy Grahams, Gatorade, and codeine solve everything.

My apologies on the short post, but anyone who’s had a migraine understands that even after you remove from your cave**, there’s still this lingering feeling that you’ve been strapped to a horse in the desert for days. While forced to listen to Justin Bieber. But don’t worry, I’ve provided ample reading material.

3 Must-Reads for the Week

  • The HingeApp Launch Party

Perhaps this was the cause of my migraine. When I walked in, the Hinge rep at the door was checking everyone’s phone to make sure they’d downloaded the app. “Eww, Tinder?” she said. Really, honey? Might want to reserve that judgement since all the left-swipes found themselves at your “mixer.”

Two other members of the Secret Lives of Chicago Singles also attended. And, like the assholes we are, we live-tweeted the entire event. Please see Lisa’s recap of the night. I promise you won’t be disappointed. Unless you were hoping to hear something positive about Hinge.

  • Still Need VDay Plans?

My girls and I are headed to Wisconsin for a spa weekend. (Let’s be honest, I’m in it for the cheap Wisconsin beer.) But if you are in Chicago, here’s a rather hilarious–yet legit–list of things to do this dreaded weekend. Also brought to you by SCLC.

  • Shameless Plug

Just in case you didn’t know about my gay boyfriend, read this.

*A migraine is not a headache. And it’s certainly not a hangover. I can function with those. Probably a little too well. And I understand that if you’ve never had a migraine or gotten hit by a truck, you don’t really get it. But telling a person with a migraine that you hope their headache is better is like when my sister, Fran, had an epileptic seizure and her professor said he understood because his cat, Mr. Barboa, also has seizures. Mr. Barboa = headache. Got it now? Thanks. 

**This is quite literal. I took a pillow and blanket into my bathroom and laid there during the day because it’s the only place away from the light. I felt like a vampire, just without the 6-pack abs. Just kidding. I totally have those. 

Bullet Point Tuesday: The Anti-Anti-Valentine’s Day Season (I’m the hipster of Valentine’s Day)

I’m sure that everyone expects my Valentine’s Season post to be some sort of snarky and sarcastic rant about the demonic marketing that goes into this time of year (it began January 1, btw), prompting singles everywhere to freak out that they do not, in fact, have a Valentine to hold onto the 14th of February. Nevermind any other day of the year. But when red, white, and pink are blasted into our faces with an incredible force that even Leonardo DiCaprio’s hair would fall out of place, suddenly we lose all rationale and make out with the closest living, breathing human in our vicinity on a sticky bar floor.

Saying Valentine’s Day is overhyped is like saying it’s cold outside. No shit. It’s become so cliche to hate on Valentine’s Day, so why not turn it around and love the hell out of this cheesy, Pinterest capitalizing, mind-numblingly fuzzy holiday?*

So yes, I’m doing the last thing expected and going pro-Valentine’s. Complete with Valentine’s Day Pinterest board. I’m basically the hipster of the Valentine’s world. Ironically romantic.

Should you choose to join me on this (most likely self-sabotaging) train, I’ve very lovingly written out some bullet points for how we can embrace this season together.

5 Ways to Join the Anti-Anti-Valentine’s Day Movement

  • Send Some Effing Valentines

Inside: Programmed for Fun!

Have you actually looked at the valentines at Walgreens? It’s not like a Miley Cyrus singing cat, where it’s so bad it’s good. They’re so bad they’re amazing. You can get everything from robots to one of those Duck Dynasty people saying, “Have a redneck Valentine’s Day.” Um, who wouldn’t want to get that in the mail?** Forget the stupid little bags we had in grade school with all the obligatory valentines. If you’re super cheap (and slightly cynical) like me, you can always do what I did for my Christmas cards. Make your own ecard, find a free printer, run them off on resume paper, and viola!–you’ve got a Valentine’s Day postcard. It’s the closest to DIY I’ve ever gotten. Unless you count emptying wine bottles as DIY.

  • Momma Needs a Brand New Bag

I’m a HUGE believer in buying yourself birthday and Christmas gifts. I had a mentor who once told me to buy myself something every paycheck. Which I did. For like the first paycheck I ever received, and then I realized how expensive this tradition would be. But why the hell not buy yourself a Valentine’s Day gift? I’d much rather get something I want than cross my fingers that some homeboy will get me this outfit. And while I’m at it, I may just get myself a President’s Day and belated Groundhog’s Day gift, too.

  • Get Out

It’s so easy to do a girls’ night in, or a night alone watching The Notebook and pretending Ryan Gosling is your boyfriend. Don’t. Get the eff out of the house. Here are some suggestions, brought to you by the Secret Lives of Chicago Singles.

  • Do You

Who said this holiday has to be about a dude? It’s about love, right? Show yourself some love and do something you’ve always wanted. Sign up for a class, pick up a book, or make a trip to GBoutique. Actually, the latter offers all of the above…

  • Hug Your Friends

They’re the ones that have seen you ugly cry without waterproof mascara, convinced you not to accept the drink from the toothless man, and have/will punch(ed) your ex in the balls on sight. Love and thank them for these things. Because they will more than likely be doing it again. And probably real soon. Like February 14.

*For those of you who just thought, “Oh, I bet she got a boyfriend, and that’s why she’s all about this.” Whelp, you’re wrong. In fact, quite the opposite. Yesterday I hugged my Trader Joe’s cashier just for some human contact. So…there’s that. 

**I did not include the link for these valentines to maintain some semblance of moral and literary integrity. But if you really want them, I assume you know how to operate Google. 

Bullet Point Tuesday: Why Are You Still Single–A Response

still single selfie

Recently I was asked the dreaded question that singles must deal with all time: Why are you still single? I really don’t think people understand what it’s like dating out there. So here’s the breakdown of what we’re dealing with:

  • The “Yo,Yo,Yo” Guy

He likes to get frozen yogurt (it’s, like, cultural), he likes to drink Mai Tais, and, of course, he likes to dance. He’s got you laughing all night long. But you just can’t take him seriously. And as much as you try to ignore it, the texts, the calling out, the way he greets his cat (the fact he has a cat) with a phrase that really only Jesse Pinkman could pull off: “Yo, yo, yo!”

He’s not Pinkman. He cannot pull it off.

The problem with “Yo, yo, yo!” guy is that it’s an indicator of something greater, like any combination of the following: being a fan of Kid Rock, owning camo cargo shorts, setting his Spotify to the Blink 182 station, thinking Seth MacFarlane is a god, or doing this.

  • The Ben Affleck Guy

This is the guy who initially acts very engaged and super interested in everything you have to say. He looks you in the eye, he’s charismatic, and–quite impressively–he asks a lot of questions. But then you realize that he asks these questions just so he can answer them himself, only to spend twenty minutes explaining to you his theory about the Paleo Diet. This guy is deceptively self-centered (which makes me question his title, since there’s nothing really deceptive about Ben Affleck’s narcissism).

  • The 23-Year-Old Guy

Everything is so novel for the 23-year-old guy. Oh look! Dollar fifty shots! Let’s buy 80! This is the guy that thinks everything from Wrigley to River North is the shit. He doesn’t have to be exactly 23, but just hasn’t outgrown this phase in his life that he’s so enamoured by Social 25 and Untitled, that it gets tiresome staying out at Hangge Uppe or Mothers every weekend.* A girl’s gotta sleep, yo.

  • The I Wish I Was 23-Years-Old Guy

Same as above. But mid-thirties and doesn’t dress as well.

  • “The Guy”

Did he mention that he’s got lots of money? And cars? And women? All, I presume, lined up in the garage for him to use at his disposal. And you should feel lucky that he’s chosen to spend time with you. Excuse me while I go get my apron and step back into 1950.

  • The Cliff Guy

The first date is perfect. There’s laughter, solid–but not too intimate–conversation, and talk of repeating it sometime soon. Then he’s never heard from ever again. And it’s confusing. Until you realize you can’t be mad because he clearly fell off a cliff and died on impact.

*I have an unhealthy love for both of these bars. But the infrequency of which I visit these establishments is what keeps the love alive. That, and 90s jams.