Tag Archives: single

The Last Bullet Point Tuesday: Chloe’s Coming Out

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • The Back Story

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

  • Why I Kept Chloe

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

  • The Big Reveals

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

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

It’s all making sense now, right?


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

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: 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: Weekend Update

I love when people try to talk to you about dating and throw all sorts of cliche phrases at you, in hopes that suddenly you’ll either be enlightened or more hopeful or less likely to polish off the almost full gallon of Eddy’s that promises to make you feel better than any boyfriend ever could.*

Some of my fave mantras that get thrown a single’s gals way are: “It’ll just happen when you least expect it.” Well what the hell, if we’re really honest here, we’re kinda always expecting it (preferably in a JLo/McConaughy way), so according to your theory, it’s never going to happen. OR: “You just can’t try. Let it happen.” Yes. Because that’s what online dating is about. Letting shit happen naturally. OR: “It’ll just start all of a sudden. You know, when it rains, it pours.”

Pours what, though, no one really specifies that part of the prophecy. Because there was some pourage this past weekend, but I don’t think it was in the way the hopeless ro’s anticipated.

  • Friday: Date #1, 5:30-7:30, Happy Hour Drinks and Appetizer

I should start recording the crestfallen looks on guys’ faces when, at the end of the date, we both stand up together for the first time and he’s looking up at me. Can you imagine the You Tube video montage that would make? Just a bunch of these. Not that I don’t empathize with these guys. I imagine it’d be to similar to standing up and realizing that, even in flats, you’re still taller than your date.

  • Saturday: Bar scene, where every couple dreams to start their love story 

I hadn’t openly hit on a guy in a long time, but last Saturday I had just enough of Lottie’s champagne** to muster up some courage to ask this homeboy to follow us to our next destination, Cortland’s Garage. He must’ve been drinking the same champagne because he mustered enough courage to come…and then talk to two hot blondes the entire time, while I chatted up his friend. So I played wingman for myself. Just one of those times I wish I wasn’t so damn good at it.

  • Sunday: Date #2, 12:00-2:00, Brunch (yes, rolling out of bed and putting on makeup before 2:00 was rough)

Dude was so sweet. So sweet. But, honey, at 34, why do you live with 5 other people you met on Craigslist? I dunno. I get that not everyone is as comfortable becoming besties with credit card debt as I am, but some for things I just encourage the splurge. Like an apartment that’s not reminiscent of the Duggars‘ household. Or Single White Female.

Some people would look at this past weekend as a failure in the Game of Love. But those are probably the people who think this is cute and do not like this. Plus, things are already looking up. Yesterday a 58-year-old suburbanite messaged me with “LOTS” of interest. I mean, when a Baby Boomer puts something in CAPS, how can a girl not be flattered?

*If my Lipsticks are reading this, I’m totally kidding. There is definitely not chocolate chunk cookie dough ice cream in my fridge. 

**What can I say? I’m classy like that.