Tag Archives: dating

Bullet Point Tuesday: Act Like a Lady

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Maybe it was because I grew up wearing Umbros and playing in the woods every day. Or because my older brother was my best friend and idol growing up, so I spent my developmental years watching Jim Carrey movies and playing whatever Mario was the game of the moment.

I found out that my mom was pretty concerned about me because, come 8th grade, I still didn’t brush my hair or give a shit about what I wore. “Do you think she’ll ever care?” she’d ask her friends with daughters, many of whom were my friends, and liked me in spite of the fact that I thought Looney Tunes high tops were acceptable.

Whatever the reason, I somehow missed the very pink, girly, and put-together boat that so many women seem to understand so effortlessly.

And it was never so clear as it was this past weekend.

My Attempts at Acting Like a Lady

  • The Chanel Make Up Counter

Until last Friday, the closest I’ve ever come to Chanel was a former student of mine, who shared the name and was so incredibly adorable that I just wanted to pinch her cheeks all the time. But she was 14, and I imagined that would embarrass her horribly, so I didn’t. Also, it’s kinda frowned upon for teachers to touch students at all, even if it’s to say, “Ohmigawd you are cuter than the golden lab puppies I saw some chick selling on Milwaukee Ave. from her backpack.” [Note: Nothing makes you want to buy a puppy more than some hippie pawning them from her North Face. Because those pups are clearly off some puppy black market. And I like my puppies like I like my maple syrup: sweet and exclusive.]

So when I heard that Chanel was offering champagne and makeovers (the brand Chanel, not my former student–that would be weird), I made appointments for Lily and me. The woman doing my make up was this super bad ass lady who likes to ski and told me one day I’d mind the creases around my eyes. She asked me what brands I use for facial moisturizer and wash. When I told her Trader Joe’s, I could see her try to hide an endearing smile. I suppose my bougie is adorable.

After my make up was applied and I’d had a few glasses of some champagne I assumed was nicer than Andre, my make up gal walked me through the list of products currently on my face. As she went down the list, I was like…Oh wait, they want me to buy something… Which I aways thought was a Mary Kay thing. See, this is why I like Walgreens. There’s no pressure.

When I asked homegirl to list off the prices with the products, I almost fell off my Chanel chair. $225 for an eye cream; $150 for moisturizer. We were not in Trader Joe’s anymore.

I settled for lipstick, because I’m a sucker and can’t just take the damn free champagne and make up and be on my merry way. It was $38.50. Which is more than I spent on groceries last week.

I’ve since returned said lipstick and spent said $38.50 on beer and pizza.* Because I’m a lady.

  • Spanx

This is by far the best invention since the women’s right to vote. But what this product has in freedom, it lacks in sexiness in any sort of way. It’s a good thing that I know that no man is going to be taking off my dress, because what he’d find underneath would require whiskey and roofies for anyone to find attractive. And a pair of pliers to remove. After which, I’m too exhausted to do anything but watch the next episode of The Black List and eat Teddy Grahams in bed.

  • Hair

I’m terrified.

I had to get headshots done on Sunday, which is a much more glamorous statement than the reality of it. But I realized that the only thing I have close to a headshot is a picture of me from two years ago, slightly tipsy, standing in front of a door with a creepy reindeer ornament hanging on the knob.

So I was a little nervous about, you know, looking like a girl because I’m completely inept when it comes to looking polished. I thought curlers sounded like a solid option to class it up a bit. Except I’ve never tried curlers. And if there’s one thing I could learn from 7th grade picture day, it’s do not try pigtails for the first time, no matter how cute Jewel looks in them.

  • Being Sexy

During the photo shoot, I was asked at some points not to smile, I think to try and be sexy, but they came out with me looking like I was about to murder someone. Probably myself.

  • Flirting

A cute guy approached me at the bar on Saturday. He said he liked my hair. I made fun of his Burberry shirt.

I went home and ordered a large pizza. It. Was. Delicious.

 

*I have not returned it. Yet. But I have plans to do so tomorrow. Which will reimburse me for said beer and pizza.

 


Guest Post Wednesday: That Fat Girl and the Online Dating World by Dana R. Griffin

tumblr_lj3b4qh5H71qhqgp8o1_400_largeAfter a divorce and then a long-term relationship that ended because: a) I got my life together; b) he was  jealous of that; and c) he had no idea who Nelson Mandela was…I unleashed myself onto the online dating world.

My point of entry was OKCupid. My life is crazy busy, and online seemed to be the best option for me. My best friend was also on “the Cupid”  and seemed to have success there, so I thought what the heck. The first person I contacted who contacted me back was great guy who just happened to have finalized his divorce one month before he met me.

After about two years of trying to feel out if this man was ever going to be ready (honestly if they want to be with you, they will and you don’t have to figure it out; men are pretty basic that way).  Needless to say, he was not ready for what I was looking for–an eventual life partner. So I went back to “the Cupid” to see who else was out there…or more accurately, I decided to passively online date. I wasn’t going to look for anyone; if someone wanted to contact me, I would go from there. But I really didn’t have time to waste looking through countless profiles, because, well, I’m busy!

One day a nice guy contacted me and he seemed OK. [Editor’s Note/Question: Pun intended?] He had two kids from a previous marriage. Had been divorced for my minimum amount of time. (About four years seems, in my experience, is an optimal time to heal…and sleep with enough people to get it out of their system so that they’re ready for an actual relationship.) [Editor’s Note: Good. To. Know. Thank you.]

We texted and talked for a couple of weeks before we actually met. We met somewhere close to my house for breakfast because he worked nights, and I had to work that day, and it was the only way to fit it into both our schedules. Unconventional perhaps, but if you can’t be adaptable in dating, you can’t be adaptable with a life partner so why even bother.

Several things were red flags to me when we met.  He felt the need to kiss me as a hello. I’m NOT a PDA girl with someone I don’t know. I am barely PDA with men I do know (at least at that point in my life…but that’s another story). Throughout the breakfast, he was trying to hold my hand before our food arrived. I told him that PDA just wasn’t me and he really needed to stop. Once that ended, I noticed something else. Something I just couldn’t believe.

He had no teeth.

When I say he had no teeth I mean NO teeth–not a ONE.

I couldn’t believe it. I almost couldn’t handle it. My parents spent thousands of dollars on making sure that, not only did I have teeth, but that they were perfectly straight. This man. This 35-year-old man had not one tooth in his head. It’s not like he was a professional hockey player or a boxer or something where he might have gotten them knocked out and then replaced with fake teeth. I could handle fake teeth, but gums? Just gums? Oh hell no.

After the date ended, he tried to kiss me some more. I just couldn’t get the image of his gums out of my head.

I called my best friend and shared my story with him. His reply was not what I expected: “I hope someone could love old, fat, bald me, but if this isn’t something you can get past, then you should put this guy out of his misery.” My response to him was, “Well at least you have teeth.”

That weekend I was headed to St. Louis for a wedding and to visit with my family who I hadn’t seen in years, and I told Mr. Gums I was going to be busy.

The weekend was filled with texts and calls that were above and beyond normal dating etiquette. So not only was this guy toothless, but he was obsessive and, well, annoying. I was going to let him down easy, but changed my mind and went for blunt and to the point. I texted him: This isn’t going work, sorry. I hope you find what you are looking for. 

A little over a month later, I met the man I am with now. In our early conversations, I said to him, “You seem perfect, but I have to know…do you have all of your teeth?” He laughed and said, “Yes. Why?” I told him, and we’ve lived happily ever after.

Now I actually enjoy PDA.

Dana is a 43-year-old, white, single mom of a biracial 13-year-old daughter. She started a new career three years ago in video production and she’s also an online radio co-host. Her background includes music, musical theater, and improv. She studied at The Second City and took a graduate class with Adam McKay at Piven Theater workshop. Name dropper? Maybe a little. For more on That Fat Girl Media, click here

[Final Editor’s Note: I pretty much fell into a deep girl crush upon meeting Dana. Can we just talk about how she called men basic? #basicboy Happened here first, folks. And in lieu of pumpkin spice lattes, Basic Boys carry Lifetime Fitness cards.]


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.)

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  • 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.


Guest Post Wednesday: What Happens Out of Town, Stays Out of Town. Unless Your Friends Are Assholes. by Dating Olivia

Canada_flag_halifax_9_-04A lot has changed in the past two years. 2012 was a different time. A simpler time really. In October 2012,  I was stuck between my hot and heavy summer with the FWB, who I was slowly falling for by the way, and the winter where he would eventually break my heart. I was in an awful dry spell (for those who don’t know me very well, I am in fact referencing the state of my vagina when speaking about dryness). And I still lived in Riverview, but I was starting to entertain the idea of moving to Lakeview, two hours away, to be “closer to my family” which was what I told myself so that I could live in denial and not believe that I was actually moving to Lakeview to be closer to FWB. 
Mind you, some things have not changed. Being that it’s October, the leaves are all orange and on the ground now, and the air has turned crisp and cool. I just recently pulled my Roughrider mittens and scarf out of the closet, and if you don’t know who the Roughriders are, then Google it, because I just can’t even with you right now. And speaking of the Riders, just like in 2012, there is uncertainty of our making the playoffs, and a run for the cup. And of course, being that I live in Canada (if you comment something with an Eh! joke or something about aboot, I will punch you square in the nuts) it’s getting cold enough that the potential for snow is making everybody cling to thoughts of summer, when they were sitting on a sun-filled beach, and actively planning trips for this coming winter. But it also has me looking back. Back to the simpler days of 2012, back to my trip to the Dominican in February of that year. I actually wrote this post in October of 2012, but I’ve reworked it for today. To read the original, check out www.datingolivia.wordpress.com
In February 2012, two of my best friends married one another, and I was in the wedding party.  The wedding was a destination wedding, which took a group of about 30 of us to the Dominican Republic. Those of you who haven’t been – go. It’s beautiful. It was my very first trip outside of Canada and the U.S., and all the saving and working two jobs I did to get there was worth every single penny.
I wasn’t expecting to meet anyone on the trip.  Sure, I’d always thought it would be a cool story, and staying at an all-inclusive resort in the Caribbean meant that there were more than enough beautiful men to go around for all of us single ladies. But I never thought it would ever actually happen. Not to me anyways.
There are three things Canadians should know when traveling to this part of the world. Now, I know that most of you reading aren’t Canadian, so I’m not sure if this information will be useful internationally, but now is as good a time as any (minus the impending doom of winter) to think about moving. Just a suggestion. 
The first thing you need to know about going to the Dominican as a Canadian is that the people there seem to think we Canadians are rich and therefore cheap as fuck when we barter, because we obviously should want to pay $60 Canadian for a trinket that we could buy at the dollar store here for $1.25. Now, I get this misconception because compared to them, we do make a fortune. But still. I had to work two jobs for well over a year, and pinch every penny to get there. 
The second thing being that our reputations as a nice nation precede us, because before we even left the airport, we had people singing our praises just for being Canadian. We were affectionately known around the resort as Punta Canadians, and there was even a Canadian flag (and only a Canadian flag) behind the bar in the main lobby. 
The third is mostly for the ladies. And I’m guessing this goes for ladies all around the world. It seems as though the combination of being rich (or looking like it), and also having a vagina makes you instantly popular with the locals. The men were big fans of ours. Our group of girls got approached more than once by local men trying to pick us up. (Granted, most of the time they were also trying to sell us shit, but still.)
The one day, I decided to fly solo.  Some of my friends were off on an excursion that day and the bride and groom were busy with wedding prep.  So I decided to take my iPod (it was 2012, I didn’t have my iPhone yet), and a book, and go chill by the beach for several hours to get my tan and afternoon all-inclusive drunk on. Even on an island far from home, I loved my solo time.  Being single as much as I had been in my adult life meant that I had become a great companion to myself.  I could hold my own. I was fine till I decided to go to the main lobby for something and bumped into a guy who my friends and I had met the day before while he was trying to sell us something.  Except this time, I was alone, and the only thing he was trying to sell me was himself.  I can’t remember his name, but he walked with me across the resort from the lobby to the beach, and then sat there on the beach with me for a half hour trying to convince me to move to the Dominican to be his girlfriend. Now don’t get me wrong. He was cute, he seemed really nice, and the idea of living in a beautiful tropical locale like that was not at all unappealing. Call me old fashioned, but I wouldn’t have been able to set up roots in a different country thousands of miles from home after only meeting this guy for a half hour.
Then, there was Jose. I think it was our first or second day there, and we had discovered that the best place for drinks was the main lobby bar. Mostly because the staff was super nice to us because they knew we were Canadians, but also because they had some really cute bartenders back there.  Jose was one of them. He was hot. So hot in fact, that if we were back at home, a guy as hot as Jose would have never even looked in my direction. And I am not an ugly girl. I think that I am an attractive woman. But back in North America, he’d be one of those “way out of my league” kind of guys.
But we weren’t in North America, we were in the Dominican. The land of my infinite beauty. So anyways, Jose made it perfectly clear that he was into me.  We’d go to the bar and order drinks and he’d stare (not creepily, just like, pay attention to me), lick his lips at me (also not as creepy as it sounds), wink, wave to me across the lobby, and tell me I was beautiful when I ordered a drink from him. I ate that shit up.
*I should note here that this trip happened two weeks after I broke up with Dave #4, the guy I lost my virginity to at 26 years old, and my first serious boyfriend. I was vulnerable and hurt and considering how often Dave ever complimented me (0 times) the whole time we were dating, I was in desperate need of male attention.  Just throwing some perspective out there, because this all makes me sound pathetic as hell once I actually type this story out.*
Jose and I flirted, and I made sure to go see him anytime I was dressed up, as well as anytime I was in my bathing suit ready to hit the beach. (See, I sound just as creepy!) I even went to go see him when I was in my bridesmaid dress, but he wasn’t working then.  That time was actually not for nothing though; we all got tons of compliments walking through the resort in our dresses, because well, of course we all looked stunning.
Then, the last night we were there, we decided to go to the disco.  With the help of one of my friends, I went and told Jose about it, and told him he should meet us there after he was done work. He said he would, and I felt giddy.  So I went back to the hotel room, got all dolled up, and then hit the bar for some liquid courage before Jose was done work.  We were hanging out in the lobby when Jose was done work, and when he came to tell me he’d see me at the disco shortly, he also took it upon himself to give the kiss I had been dying for all week.
We went to the disco, and Jose went home to change, and came back to find me.  This is where the trouble with holiday hook-ups dawned on me. We danced, and made out on the dance floor.  Cause I am a classy lady. The unfortunate thing was that he wasn’t a great kisser.  That was disappointing.  He was the hottest guy I’ve ever made out with, and he had these pillowy soft lips that look so yummy, but the kisses were not good.  It was a big letdown.  His dancing also leaved a lot to be desired.  Now, yes, I was a bit tipsy, but I was not even close to being drunk enough to find him jack-rabbit thrusting his package into my crotch on the dance floor (and not even to the beat of the music) appealing at all.
Then, in his broken English (oh yeah, forgot to mention, that he spoke very small amounts of English – I know.  Awesome right?!) he asked me to go back to his place with him.  Now, some of my more…uh…we’ll say “liberal” friends, wondered (out loud) why I didn’t go with him.  Hmm, I wonder guys? Maybe it’s because he can’t even kiss, so what if he can’t fuck?  Maybe it’s because I just met the guy less than a week ago. Maybe it’s because I had just ended the first adult relationship I was in, and I was not ready for a rebound like that. Maybe it’s because I liked someone else.  Or maybe it has something to do with the fact that we were in a different country, and he lives in a village somewhere that I don’t know, god knows how far from the resort, and oh yeah THAT’S HOW PEOPLE GET ON THE NEWS BACK HOME WHILE THEY ARE ON VACATION!!  Yeah, maybe, just maybe that last one is the best reason ever NOT to hook up while on vacation.
Oy vey. Yes, Jose was a great vacation story. I will remember him and the trip fondly for many years. But the last thing I needed was to wind up pregnant or get an STD from a man I will never see again, who barely speaks English, who probably hooks up with oodles and oodles of girls just like me who are wanting to let loose a bit while on vacation.
Making out with Jose while I was on my first tropical vacation, after ending my first serious relationship was just perfect enough.  Why make it more than that?
So the moral of the story is, if you hook-up on vacation, be safe.  And you better listen to me or I’ll tell your mom.
Clase despedido.
Adios amigos!
[Editor’s Note: Is it weird that none of this sounds creepy at all to me?]

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.  

 


Guest Post Wednesday: Online Dating vs. IRL by Hanna Wilcox

phonesThere is still a certain stigma around meeting someone online,* but I don’t get it.  It’s 2014, era of Facebook replacing class reunions, LinkedIn profiles replacing resumes, and me constantly accidentally liking my ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend’s photos on Instagram.  Tinder, OkCupid, Hinge, etc. make perfect sense. In real life (or IRL), the first thing we notice about a person is usually their face, and so many of us (even if we try not to) check whatever social media we are into with alarming frequency.  Your friends faces are probably usually illuminated with the glow of a smart phone when the couch, at the movies, at a bar or a restaurant, or a street fest.  Hell, I even watched some people on their phones while on the dance floor at a wedding last weekend.  Face + phone = great idea.

It’s the phrase “online dating” that sends me through the roof.

Dating suggests going out socially–getting to know someone in person to see if you are interested in making out with only them or bringing them to your friend’s birthday dinner or your nephew’s first communion after party. Online dating should be called online meeting or, better yet, online arranging to meet.  To say that staring at 5-7 flattering photos of people (totally filtered, and usually ranging from the years of 2008-2012) and the best one-or-two-liners someone can come up with is as equivalent to dating as ridiculous as the following conversation:

“I just re-watched [insert movie here].”

“Oh, I loooove that movie!”

“Me, too!  What’s your favorite part?”

“Well I haven’t actually seen it, but some of my friends like it and I read the Wikipedia.  It seems like something I would love.”

I’m sure that I seem like someone plenty of people would be into. There have been plenty of times that I come across a profile for someone that seems like someone I’d really like.  Maybe we have some mutual friends and interests or maybe he just appears handsome. It is the presumption that there will be (or already is**) a real life connection or chemistry that irritates me.

Let me elaborate. Pictures of Fiji look great. I would of course go to Fiji, the same as I’d of course go out on a date with an internet guy.  That said, I have never actually been to Fiji.  Maybe I’ll love it, or maybe I’ll get food poisoning and never see the beach or have a weird regional allergic reaction after a few days. Moral of the Fiji analogy: NEVER ASSUME!

Will the presumptuous potential beaus of the world wide web keep me away? Of course not. But for anyone reading this that might run into me on the net, please don’t be offended if I don’t take too much stock in whatever happens before a real-life meet up.

 

*If you’ve ever dabbled in “online dating” you’ve seen a version of the classic “We’ll tell out friends and family we met at [blank]!” at the start of an “About Me” section

**I legit had a guy introduce me as his girlfriend on our first (and last) date

[Editor’s Note: I did not realize until this moment that Wikipedia isn’t a credible answer for having seen a movie. Mind. Blown. And thank you for confirming exactly why I haven’t gone to Fiji.]


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.)

 


Guest Post Wednesday: The Stages of Online Dating Part II by Katie Roach

As a 22-shutterstock_45432064year-old recent college grad, I can safely say that most people in my general age bracket use Tinder (and other forms of online dating) as more of a game than an actual dating mechanism. While people do occasionally meet up, it has the general aura of a frat party, and guys usually message you romantic, endearing things like “sit on my face” and “nice tits.”

On the off chance that you do meet someone you kind of like, you have the opportunity to get to know them a bit before you go on the First Date, which is pretty cool. But it’s also hilarious because it takes the normal stages of dating and completely f*cks them up.The best and worst part about the virtual world is the shield of anonymity—how easy it is to say things you would never, ever say in person when you’re safe behind your cell phone.

Normal dating, for example, goes a little something like this:

  1. Meet someone somewhere IRL. Perhaps you are sober, perhaps you are not. Flirtation ensues regardless.
  2. Cute Person asks you for your phone number (or vice versa)
  3. You text each other for a few days, usually about innocent topics, such as what you’re eating for lunch and what your favorite show to binge watch on Netflix is.
  4. When texting conversation goes on for awhile before you see Cute Person next, winky faces become a thing.
  5. You go get a few drinks or dinner.
  6. You might repeat Step 5 a few times.
  7. Cute Person kisses you.
  8. The relationship progresses physically, generally as you spend more and more time in their physical presence.

And then there’s online dating.

  1. You match Cute Person online and the first message ensues. If he does not include the acronym “DTF” in his first sentence, you are surprised. This is Prince Charming, I tell you!
  2. They snag your phone number (stay with me here)
  3. You text each other for a few days, usually about entirely scandalous things like what kind of underwear you’re wearing and what your favorite position is.
  4. At some point in your virtual flirtation, Cute Person is probably jokingly going to ask you if you want to exchange pictures. They are not joking. You will laugh and say “Omg, noooooo! I’ve never even met you!”
  5. A few days pass. You exchange pictures.
  6. More sexually charged conversation happens for another week or two, occasionally interspersed with discussions about more trivial things like, you know, your career and life’s ambitions.
  7. Meet IRL. This occasionally might involve shaking the hand of someone you’ve already seen naked.
  8. Sit through a couple of hours of intense sexual tension. Drink several beers and wonder what you should do next. I mean, you’ve already hooked up. Wait, no—that’s not right, is it?

Perhaps the latter is more indicative of a demographic making a sad attempt to switch from the dating norms of one life stage to the next, but I’m not sure it’s necessarily a bad thing. While I’m certainly not advocating virtual sexy-time with every Right Swipe Gentleman Caller that comes your way, I have a friend who met a guy on Tinder, went on several great dates, and then scored in the editing room of the major TV network he works at.

It may not make the screenplay of the next Rachel McAdams movie, but if you say that’s not on your bucket list, I think you’re lying.

[Editor’s Note: I love Katie Roach. Like a lot. But I think this post distinguishes between the young guns and the old twats like myself. Rachel McAdams hopes? You. Go. Girl. Remember when we had that kind of hope? That’s now gone with our thongs and fertile eggs. But, man, I really want the deets on that editing room.]

[Editor’s Note 2: Read more of Katie here.]


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.