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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.


Guest Post Wednesday: Tinder Trainwreck by Olivia Hoffing

Ice-Cream-by-Emily-Anne-Epstein03I love Tinder. I love shopping for boys–the constant ability to have instant attention at the ease of a swipe and the excitement when you sign in to see a little red dot in your message section. It was perfect for me as a true sufferer of commitment phobia. I convinced myself and my friends that I was interested in casual dating for fun but open to something more serious if it was the right person. I hadn’t been in a relationship in years and honestly out of the dating scene for quite some time. I was a Tinder sceptic, but after a few good experiences I had faith in the system.

I realized quickly that there is a method to how guys Tinder…

*Step 1: Ask a girl to drinks on a week night to see if she passes the crazy test and if she is as hot in person as her 3 individual/1 group pictures reveal.

*Step 2: Ask her to drinks part 2 on a week night and determine if this girl is a good hookup by inviting her back to your place which is conveniently close to where drinks are.

*Step 3: Maybe meet up for 2-4 additional hookups/hangouts then decide that it was “getting too serious too quickly” and find a new girl to repeat the cycle with.

As a true Type A person, I wanted to make sure that I was going to be beat guys at their own game and always be one step ahead of them in the process. I did my homework and made sure that the gents I selected to meet in person were truly worth my time. I dated hard in the spring/summer and ended up having positive Tinder experiences. I broke my own rules and ended up falling for one of the bastards in late July. I even deleted the app. Sadly, as summer ended and the Calvin Harris song was officially driving everyone nuts, my Tinder love also faded. Now I sat at the start of fall with a bruised ego and no guys on the horizon.

After a lonely and boring hungover Sunday, I decided to download Tinder for the SECOND time. I gave my profile a facelift and added new, much more attractive pictures from that month showing that I actually stuck to my summer diet. I felt so invigorated to be getting all these matches and starting the process from scratch. It was on hour 2 of Tindering that I matched with what seemed to be the adorable Kevin. Kevin seemed to be a great catch and with my stellar eye for classy men on that vulnerable Sunday, I realized it was his pictures that had me at “hey, what’s up?”

Let’s review the classic photos that every desperate Tinder girl gives into….

  • Photo holding a baby (check)
  • Photo where he looks extremely attractive compared to his friends/other people in the picture (check)
  • Photo in Europe looking very classy and cultured (check)
  • Individual photo in a suit probably from standing up in a wedding, showing that he cleans up well (check)

Sooo Kevin initiated conversation early and stated that he was in the business field and studying to get his MBA. We talked aimlessly about other insignificant details and after only 4-5 lines of conversation, Kevin asked me out. Normally I would attempt to learn more before meeting up with him to ensure that the date would be a success…however I was desperate and feeling super sorry for myself on that Sunday. So I exchanged numbers and agreed to meet up with him later in the week. I remember thinking, “Take that Summer Tinder Love, I have hot Kevin now and it only took me 2 hours to find him.”

Until this point I thought I was a genius and maybe even the Tinder whisperer…and then the Tinder gods struck me down from that pedestal quickly by giving me truly a horrific date with Kevin. The first warning sign was that Kevin asked me out to ice cream on a Tuesday at 7:30. I thought, “Awww how original. I have never been on an ice cream date in Chicago and maybe this will be special.” WRONG–the reason I have never been on an ice cream date in Chicago is because I am over the age of 12 and any dates after 5 P.M. should include alcohol NOT ice cream.

Anywho, I arrived for my ice cream date with Kevin and, to put it kindly, he was NOT cute. (Strike) He must have picked the best 4 pictures of his life, but I decided to let it go and see if he had a redeeming personality. He DID NOT. (Strike). So rather than replay every word of that 45-minute ice cream date, I will give you the highlights of why you should never swipe right to Kevin.

  • Upon arrival he mentioned that he was going to the gym immediately after ice cream because he knew this date wouldn’t last long.
  • He hates his job and is annoyed that I don’t hate mine.
  • He told me that I was too positive.
  • He explained that he used to have a girlfriend who he lived with last spring but she dumped him and now he is just lonely.
  • He hated Europe when he visited. (Who the fuck hates when they went to Europe?!?)
  • He has a predisposed genetic muscular disease that may put him in a wheelchair eventually, but don’t worry, it shouldn’t be for a while.
  • And Kevin informed me that the fact that I drink Diet Coke will kill me.

Much to your surprise I’m sure, Kevin and I did NOT work out. At the end of the date, we hugged it out with looks of mutual disgust on both of our faces.

So my word of advice…Keep Calm and Tinder ON because it only takes one swipe to find Mr. Right Now.

And never agree to go on an ice cream date. Unless you’re 12. Then it’s adorable.

[Editor’s Note: My favorite part of this is when Olivia feels justice has been served to her former Tinder flame by finding Tinder Kevin in record time. It’s just like a Jane Austen novel.] 


Bullet Point Tuesday: Pure Michigan Meets Tinder

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As I’m typing this, I’m concluding a family trip to northern Michigan to visit our Bad Ass Nana. I’m sitting in my car, stealing Internet from the public library,* which is twenty minutes from Nana’s house. One of the things … Continue reading

Bullet Point Tuesday: This One’s for the Boys

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It’s come to my attention that not only do I have a strong male readership (hey boys!), but that there’s also a major gap in what women expect from a guy in dating and what is actually happening. Of course, … Continue reading

Bullet Point Tuesday: Nashfail

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In case you’re not one of the five people who actively follow me on Twitter (shout out to @StPattysChicago!), then you may not know that my family and I went to Nashville this past weekend. Upon our arrival, I was … Continue reading

Guest Post Wednesday: An Anatomy of Two Dates by Alex Ripley

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I met the Cardiologist for the first time two weeks ago.   GENESIS We’d exchanged exactly thirteen messages via Tinder over the course of 8 days. Not exactly lightning speed responses. She was wearing a Team Zissou t-shirt in one … Continue reading

Guest Post Wednesday: The Anesthesiologist Tinder by Tinderella

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Hello, I’m Tinderella, and I write about my unfailing disappointing Tinder dates on my blog TinderellaNYC. Here’s the latest disaster…   A couple of days after I matched with Anesthesiologist Tinder, I received my first message from him:   Come … Continue reading

Bullet Point Tuesday: An Addendum

It looks like I need to make a continuation to last week’s post. Because, despite the reaffirmations from Rob Lowe, not everything really is better in California. I’m certainly not anyway. I found that I am just as drunk and as much of a hot mess in sunny Cali as Chiberia. Just when I thought changing locations would cure my drinking problem.

Here’s Why I Can’t Cut It In Cali

  • Podcast Pressure

I was really excited for my podcast feature with Marni of Wing Girl Method and Kristen Carney on the Ask Women podcast. I put on the least Midwestern dress I brought (thank you, Lexi) which was so short I was positive that the small children on the street were getting an inappropriate view. I only got lost 16 times on my way to Beverly Hills, showed up sweating, and tried continuously to pull down my dress so I wasn’t greeting these women with my vagina as I walked in. Which, actually, would have been fairly apropos considering Dr. Emily Morse, the woman ahead of me on the podcast, was there to discuss the clitoris. Really? I had to follow that act? Let’s be honest, there’s no Tinder story on Earth that can compete with that. As I waited my turn to go in, I looked down and saw that my heels–the only pair I’d packed–had busted at the seams and were sprouting material reminiscent of Michael Douglas’s nose hair. Fantastic. Now I wouldn’t only be boring but I’d look like white trash wearing old man shoes. Literally.*

  • Tinder No Mo’

My Tinder date cancelled. This may or may not have been my fault since I told him I’m from Chicago. (I know, I know…things you’re supposed to keep to yourself.) Which means he actually might be a decent guy because he wasn’t looking for a hook up. I was looking for a work connection since he said he was a writer. My brother told me that’s L.A. code for waiter. Negative forty-six, Team Chloe.

  • And When a Guy Does Hit On Me…

On Friday night we went to The Bungalow, which is L.A.’s version of…I don’t know, unless a bar is in within walking distance in Chicago I don’t go to it, so I have no real comparison. But it’s this super trendy bar that feels more like a house party. (If you’re wondering, they do glue down the lamps and decor–we checked.) My brother left to get a drink, and some homeboy, seeing an opportunity, sat down on our couch and asked us what we were talking about. We all awkwardly looked at each other until I looked back at him and said, “My period.” Just in time for my brother to come back. He was so happy to have me in California with him.

  • I Made Out With A Homeless Man

Ok, not really. I mean, he wasn’t homeless. And I didn’t make out with him. He was a guest at my friend’s wedding, and every time he photobombed a picture, everyone shouted that a homeless man was photobombing. Just to give a you a solid visual. Naturally, when such a haggard gentleman asks a lady like me to dance, I can’t refuse. And when he asks me to get some air on the balcony, I also oblige. Because I am that dumb. And did not see the faceplant of a beard coming my way.

He was later the guy on the dance floor that took his shirt off and hoisted himself on someone else’s shoulders. Any port in the California storm, ladies.

*If you want to catch the podcast, you can listen to it here then tell me how it went. I refuse to listen since the sound of my own voice makes me feel like this. Unless I’m karaoking John Mellencamp’s “Hurt So Good.”  Then my voice is perfection. 


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: Why Are You Still Single–A Response

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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.

DO YOU SEE WHAT
WE’RE DEALING WITH HERE,
PEOPLE??
  • 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.