Bullet Point Tuesday: Pure Michigan...Not-So-Pure Tindering

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 no one tells you about Pure Michigan. Pure Isolation.

In spite of this (and being on a family vaca), I’m an opportunist, and still had hopes of perhaps meeting a homeboy or two. But by day three, though, I’d grown tired of telling the Up North Tinder guys that I have other nicknames for Mitt Romney than the “comeback kid.”

However when my cousin, Miles, suggested going to his favorite tiki bar along the river,** I began to think all hope was not lost. Who knew? Maybe I could meet some cute yachtsman. (Yacht included, of course.)

  • River Bars in Paradise
Miles took my sister, Fran, and I for a river cruise and pulled up to the bar, which consisted of docking the boat (something of which I know nothing about and almost lost a finger while pretending to help). The bar, as it turned out, was a tiki hut someone constructed on their property and a BYOB establishment. Having a cooler of Coors Light made us the classiest of the eight patrons, the other five ranging various ages in their 70s. The gal drinking Busch Light on ice in a coffee carrier mug, wearing her floral tankini with black shorts was easily my favorite person there.

Though we did not meet any yacht boys, Fran and I certainly spent some quality time with Smokey, talking about fishing (he did most of the talking) and repeatedly damning his son for not being there to meet us. (The ultimate compliment.)

Once our cooler ran dry, we were back on the river, making our way over to a bar that was described as a “knife and gun club at night—but great pizzas!” We were sold.

Within 30 seconds of walking in, our dreams of meeting an Up North man had come true. If our dreams had consisted of a greasy-haired, redneck, cage fighter. He was enamored with Fran, repeatedly holding her face in his hands in a manner reserved for a doctor…or Ryan Gosling playing the role of a doctor.  “Look at all dem angel kisses on yer face,” he said.

Not wanting to be rude, of course, he then held out his hand and introduced himself.
“I’m Ramone."
“I’m Fran. And this is my very overprotective cousin, Miles.” Miles was engrossed in a conversation with a man who smelled so potently of smoke that I was pretty sure we acquired 14% Black Lung by proximity.
I held out my hand to Ramone. “I’m Chloe.”
“That’s sure some shake you got, there.”
“Yeah,” I said, nodding my head towards Fran, “she’s my sister.”
This act of protectiveness sent Ramone into defense mode, as he proceeded on a slurry tirade about how he didn’t mean any harm and that women should be told they’re beautiful by someone other than their husbands or boyfriends. Oh, Ramone. What a giver.

“Like pregnant women. They need to be told how beautiful they are. Just the other day, I saw a woman knocked up in the store and she looked miserable.”
“Awww….so you told her she was beautiful?” Fran asked.
“Hell naw! I asked her if it was mine.”

We left shortly after Romane insisted I feel his forearm, which felt very similar to a large, steel pipe that could knock all three of us dead with a swift swipe.

  • Living on the Edge
Aside from the nights of playing Pizza Party*** until 9:30 P.M. with my niece and one heated political debate in which I shouted, “People DO have sex before they’re married!”, things were pretty tame. But not so much for the homeboys of northern Michigan. They live on two extremes. Redneck and redder neck.

Yes, please!

Because nothing is hotter than a man who slaughters Bambi.

  • Redneck Tinder Matches
My Tindering came to an abrupt and brutal halt when I came across a profile of a guy who I knew all too well. I have to say, just when you think there’s nothing more debasing than using the Tinder app, then your cousin pops up in your feed.

Because we’re both a-holes, we each sent a series of screen shots of the other’s profile, ripping it to shreds.

But I’m sure I’m not the first gal Up North to match with her cousin.

*I won’t go in because they don’t allow coffee or talking. I can live without Internet for five days, but not without those things for five minutes.

**A cousin as a wingman?  I know, sounds weird. And it is. Especially when I’m pretty sure this cousin would trade me for cocaine.  Or a case of Budweiser.

***Best. Game. Ever.

Guest Post Wednesday: Is This Real Life? by Alex Ripley

This is long overdue. So long that I’ve gotten used to the weekly emails from Chloe begging for a love life update, but I’m finally coming through on my promise to deliver.

Admittedly, I’ve been nearly 100% AWOL from tweeting my exploits over @AlexRipleyDates. Here’s why: About the same time I became single, I also took a special assignment for work. A pretty lightweight assignment that afforded me tons of free time to start Chloe-Cline-ing my exploits as a single dude in the city. Right around the time things were getting hot and heavy with the cardiologist I got back into my normal routine of being, you know…busy and stuff.

So while I haven’t been live-tweeting my inner-dating-monologue there have been some interesting developments in my love life.

The Cardiologist
Almost as quickly as things heated up with the cardiologist, they fizzled out. She was always referring to she and her co-workers as “scientist-types” and I always brushed it off. However, a few weeks in, I started to realize that I get along a little better with women who are slightly more emotionally intelligent than my sweet cardiologist. I loved her intellect, her passion for her work, and her nerdy, nervous sense of humor, but I knew in my heart (and after a very clinical HJ one evening) that it just wasn’t going to work out.

After my NYC Tinder friend visited me in Chicago, I got a little trigger shy with starting a long-distance thing. She also had too many tendencies that reminded me of my Jewish mother.

When I mentioned to her over the phone that I could tell my feelings were changing, she made a reference to my Instagram photos. She had gone ahead and interpreted some things about my last relationship from MY EFFING INSTAGRAM FEED and chalked up any trepidation I was feeling to the all-telling photo of my ex and I dressed as Mexican banditos from last Halloween. Nice try, Sherlock. Its not her, it’s you.

NYC #2
A little more than a month ago, there was a convention that brings many out-of-towners from my firm into Chicago for a long weekend. I have several friends from different work outposts across the U.S. that use that weekend as an excuse to let me be their Chicago tour guide for three days. One of those co-workers and I have had a three-year friendship that has bordered on a professional crush. We met for dinner the first night she was in town, and it moved quickly from professional crush to full on making out at the bar at Au Cheval.

What followed was a lost weekend in Chicago. We were inseparable for three days, started calling each other “baby.” I was spiraling into some weird relationshipy vortex with this girl. The day she went back to New York City, I booked a flight out to see her for a few weekends later. To be continued…

In. Real. Life. Or, IRL as people in the world of dating commentary call it means meeting someone off the grid of online dating. I’d been so engrossed with the world of OkCupid and Tinder that I forgot how great it was to meet someone IRL.

The same weekend that NYC #2 was in Chicago, I was the guest of a high-end vendor at classy gala event for AIDS research. As cocktail hour wound down, I made my way to my assigned table. I chose a random seat and started chatting with a girl seated to my right. Out of the corner of my eye I saw someone take the seat to my left. At a break in the conversation, I turned to politely introduce myself to my new seat-mate.

There are a million superlatives I could use to describe the first time I met IRL but I don’t know if they would do her justice. After introducing myself, we entered into a bubble for the rest of the evening, completely losing track of space, time, and the guy spilling his guts to the room about his work with AIDS patients. (Sorry!) We had an instant chemistry that I haven’t felt… um, ever? It was alarming for both of us. By the end of the night, we were in deep “like” with each other. We made plans to go out later that week and by the end of the evening we were already furiously texting each other with witty abandon.

The Conclusion (not a nickname for someone I slept with)
In the interim between my booked trip to visit NYC #2 I fell hard for IRL. In fact, it was a mutual feeling. We kept telling each other we wanted to take things slow with each other, seemingly only so we could laugh about how stupid-bad we wanted to spend all our time together. By the time my trip to NYC was upon us, I was head over heels for this woman.

Problem: I had booked this trip to New York to have a love rendezvous with a co-worker. Uh. Oh.

I took the trip to New York to visit my “friend” and decided that I would be honest with my co-worker. While I was staying with her, I told her that I wasn’t looking for a relationship and definitely not another one with a co-worker. She was somewhat understanding, but slightly unnerved because there was legitimate chemistry between the two of us, just not anything close to what I have with IRL. 

Here’s where I’m going with all this (I think). When I met IRL, everyone, and almost everything fell by the wayside. We instantly clicked and it felt right. All these other girls I was seeing or had been seeing were lovely people but no one that made me pause and say, “There is no one else I want but you.” Throughout the last five months of dating, there were moments where I felt bad about seeing more than a few people at once – but what else is there to do if you aren’t emotionally or physically committed to just one person? Could I have been happy with any of the nicknamed females above? Yes. Would I have ultimately been settling? Yes.

This entire time I was on a search for a person who gave me hope that I could find that loving feeling again. It’s too early to tell where things with IRL will lead but I’m getting all tingly thinking about the possibilities. When you delete all the online dating apps from your phone. You know it’s real.

Bullet Point Tuesday: This One's for the Boys

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, the guys that read this blog don't need this advice, I'm just hoping you pass it on to your counterparts, who in turn also pass it on, kinda like a dating revolution, and one day I can stop seeing guys on Tinder who are wearing spandex and latex gloves and likewise stop going on dates with dudes who think it's acceptable to dip tobacco.

For the Boys: A Do And Don't List

  • DO Go Shopping

You should not be wearing the same button downs you wore in college. We can tell, and it's not endearing. It says: I like to play video games and smoke in my free time.* Get out and buy a some new shirts, and if fashion ain't yo thang, then ask an employee for help. That's what they're there for. I promise.

  • DO Approach a Woman at Bar

I get it. The fear of rejection. Not wanting to buy every girl a drink. Tinder. But, seriously, it's super attractive when a guy has the balls to come up to a woman and start making conversation. Unfortunately, in my experience, it's often been guys like this who have some odd, inflated sense of self-confidence.

The rejection thing is a huge factor for guys. Two things about that: 1. Get over yourself. So some girl isn't interested/has a boyfriend/is a bitch. It happens. Welcome to my world. 2. Pick better women. I mean, you can usually tell what kind of woman is going to be a complete a-hole and turn you down. (If she's drinking vodka sodas, wearing 4.5 inch heels, and says things like, "juice cleanse," then take those as some solid indicators.)

I do realize I'm asking you to break away from your pack o' brahs to accomplish this task. Fly away, little bird. Fly. Away.

  • DON'T Have Pictures in Your Online Dating Profile of You Urinating/Sticking Your Tongue Out/Wearing a Leather Jacket

You are not using Tinder to impress your guy friends. We--trust me--do not find pictures of you in front of a urinal, with another woman, or blacked out attractive. Don't look like a dbag, either, who takes himself too seriously and post some A.C. Slater-backwards chair bullshit. I know, I'm asking you to walk a fine line here. Don't have many great pics to use? Make a point to get some the next time you're out. I don't care if your friends make fun of you. You can handle it.

  • DON'T Lead with Lines Like "Hey Baby"

Currently, I have 43 matches in my Tinder that are sitting without conversation. Women have been told (though, as we all know, I often don't listen) that men like the chase. So effing say something, man. You don't need a line; you don't need something clever. "How's your day going?" will suffice if you really clam up around Tinder women. You can give a compliment, but that's risking sounding cheesy and doesn't leave room for conversation. "Killer smile," only really warrants one response: "Thanks." Start a conversation, yo.

  • DO Compliment Her...Eventually

I know, now I'm getting complicated. But, as you already know, women are complicated messes.  Here's the thing: if you lead with a compliment, you sound insincere. If you start a conversation and then say something complimentary, you're gold. The more random the compliment, the better. Sounds weird, but we've heard guys say nice eyes/great smile/you look like Kate Upton alllllllll the time. So when you notice something different--that shows you were listening to the conversation--it makes us think you're truly paying attention to us. Something like, "I bet you're a really good physical therapist," OR, "You must be a good friend with the way you're looking out for them," OR, "You remind me of Kate Upton."

*Yeah, while we're here, there is truly nothing more unsexy than a "man" playing video games. Stop it. Or at least keep that shit to yourself.

Bullet Point Tuesday: This is Thirty

With the recent passing of my 30th birthday, I thought that somehow my general life skills would automatically improve in this new decade. I envisioned it kinda like Daylight Savings. You wake up, and suddenly there's more light.

This past weekend proved that I was oh-so-wrong.

This is Thirty


On the Fourth, I hopped on my bike and met my friends at North Ave beach.* Mind you, I had an entire case of PBR in my bag, so I imagine I looked like a drunk polar bear pedaling through molasses. Once I got there, my friend, Trevor, was introducing and explaining the crew to me, and added when he pointed out one guy, "And he's gay." I was super appreciative of this heads up because homeboy was smokin' hot, and I definitely would have put on my polar bear, foolproof moves.**

Apparently, I wasn't the only one to notice hottie homo because a random ass girl ran across the beach, touched his abs, and said, "I'm sorry. I just had to."

He was good natured about it, as the gays often are, and just laughed. I said, "Oh honey, don't worry, I've been wanting to do that all day."

Then his fiancé walked up. Who is not a man. Or a tranny, either, if that's where your head went. Nope, homeboy is very much betrothed to an equally beautiful woman who just watched two other women hit on him.

Aaaaand this is thirty.

Apparently, Trevor was not pointing at him, explaining his homosexuality. He was pointing at the dude in very short, very tight fitting swim trunks. Oh.

It was time for this polar bear to bike home.

We Can't Stop, We Won't Stop
My friend Marie came into town, and whenever that happens my liver does a dance. After an amazing brunch at Summer House (shout out to our bartender, LeAnn!), we spent most of the day drinking by the pool and pretending it was sunny out. Then after three bottles of proseco, a 6-pack of tallboy PBRs, a double bottle of chardonnay, and many cheese curls later, we decided it would be a great idea to get a drink on the rooftop at J. Parkers. In the rain.

Turns out J. Parkers has a death wish for me and cooks everything in peanut oil.*** So we moved down the street to some bar where I devoured nachos and mac n' cheese approximately 2.4 minutes. And, because nothing makes a woman feel sexier than inhaling 350898 calories in one, short sitting, I suddenly had the desire to go dancing at Burton's Place.

Marie asked if we could make a pit stop at Walgreens to pick up some cigarettes on the way. Because I'm a bad friend, I didn't try to stop her. When we walked in, she paused, trying to remember "what else I needed to pick up from Walgreens." Suddenly, it hit her like drunk epiphanies do and she beelined down the aisles, coming back with a pregnancy test. Totally normal.

We got to the counter and Marie put down her special purchase and then asked for a pack of Marlboro Lights. The clerk got them, put them on top of the pregnancy test, and said, "You know that's fucked up, right?"

Not to be deterred by the judgement of the Walgreens employee, we were back en route to Burton's Place. But the upstairs was roped off (because it was too early), and nobody keeps baby in the corner. We lasted about five minutes and went home.

The next day (after rejoicing in the fact that Marie does not have an alien growing inside her), we high fived for drinking all day and staying out all night, like we used to when we were super young and cray cray. Until my sister, Fran, informed us we walked in the door at 10:00 P.M.

This is thirty.

Tinder Talks
What was supposed to be a lovely day of a few casual drinks (what up AGAIN, LeAnn?!) and some meandering around with Marie and Fran turned into pitchers of margaritas and karaoke at Louie's. Three-day weekends are like death wishes for me.

Because it seemed like a genius idea, I turned all Tinder responsibilities for the day over to Trevor. Here are the conversations that ensued:

Tinder 3987
me: I've started being famous. Would you accept my autograph?
me: Would u settle for just my initials?

me: I'm allergic to the sun. Would you move into a cave with me?
T: That's a bit of a tough sell...I like my Vitamin D. What sort of amenities does this cave have, though?
me: Cave paintings, duh!?!? I'm a Neanderthal. Meet me at north ave beAch for some whale watching!
T: There are whales in Lake Michigan!? No one's told me about this before!

Tinder 4011
me: Listen, I'm going skydiving without a parachute this weekend. Want to join?
T: So now we're making suicide pacts? I didn't realize we were that close.
me: How much money do you make annually? Take a life insurance policy out on me to prove that you love me.
T: A woman after my own heart. I'll talk them into a $750k policy. Don't go dying on me now.
me: Alright, I'm making my way towards the Golden Gate bridge.
T: Turn this into an elaborate hoax and we can split the $$ and run away to South America together.
me: If you can speak two sentences in Spanish, I will commit. By the way, I'm only 12. You're going to jail dude. lololololo
T: Lo siento, nina. Porque no estas digame la verdad?

Tinder 4015
me: I have a chronic allergy to kissing. Will this make the wedding awkward?
T: lol Noooooo It will make it even better

This. Is. Thirty.

*Because if drunk teenagers don't scream patriotism, I'm not really sure what does. 

**They're not foolproof. But you knew that already.

***Yes, I've seen the Louis C.K. bit on peanut allergies. Let's make fun of people with handicaps. Hilarious.

Bullet Point Tuesday: What 30 Means

This past weekend, I went to the opening of Fig&Olive, drank beers outside at Sheffield's, sang Little Mermaid karaoke at Louie's, and hung by the pool. And did this other thing. Turned thirty.

And after years of dispensing relationship advice to my guy friends, I've heard one, reoccurring theme:

"Well, she's thirty...so you know what that means."

This always sends me into a state of confusion. What does it mean? She has a stable job? Knows what a 401K is?* Doesn't look like this anymore? What. Does. Being. Thirty. Mean.

And I always get the same answer: "That clock. It's ticking. For, you know...babies."


So for all those men** with the same fear that once a woman hits thirty, her uterus becomes a ticking baby time bomb (quite the visual, eh?), I'm here to clear a few things up. Starting with not wanting your sperm inside us to immediately reproduce your spawn.

Yes I'm Thirty And...

  • I Don't Want to Have Your Babies.

So it sounds cliche, but age truly is just a number. And I'm still the same person from a few weeks ago that passed out on her mom's kitchen island and steals Splenda from Starbucks. I haven't gone grocery shopping since it hit 80 degrees, and all you'll find in my kitchen are eggs, coffee, and Straw-ber-ritas to prove it. (The latter were donated to me from friends moving out of my building. A year ago). I just started taking vitamins regularly and I'm this close to signing up for a yoga package. I'm pretty cautious about seriously bringing a man into this shit show, much less an innocent human being, who I'm pretty sure I'd forget to take outside until it peed on the rug. Because that's how I imagine it goes.

  • I Don't Want to Do A Shot.

Back in the day, I could slam an extremely impressive/unhealthy (depending on perspective) amount of alcohol from tiny glasses and then have normal conversations, dance on tables, and do long division (just kidding, I can't do long division while sober). But now even one of those 1.5 ounce suckers deports me straight to Black Out Town. And I don't like going there. It's cold. And not in the Elsa way.

  • I Cannot Wear Clothes From Forever21.

This is more of sizing issue than an age thing. Rock this store as long as you can. I once saw an elderly woman with a Forever21 bag hanging from her walker. I bet she effing kills it in those high-waisted shorts.

  • I Will Not Wear Matching Outfits for Your Birthday, Bachelorette Party, or Any Other Bar-Related Activity.

I didn't like doing this in my 20s, but now that I'm 30, I feel like my age merits taking a stand against such conformism. WHY DO WE HAVE TO DRESS THE SAME BEFORE YOU TURN 28/GET HITCHED/CELEBRATE FLAG DAY? It's some weird throwback to grade school when girls would call each other to wear the same outfit. I stuck to my Looney Tunes denim shirt guns then, and I'll do it now.***

  • I Don't Feel Sad About Leaving My Twenties Behind.

I began my twenties thinking Crystal Light and vodka was a good idea, and I went on dates with guys who recited Chaucer and asked if I wore contact lenses (Spoiler Alert: I do). I'm certainly not suggesting that my choices in Corona Light and Tinder men are signs that I've gotten my shit together. But I think they're good indicators that I'm headed in the right direction. Kinda like when Kristin Wiig started baking again in Bridesmaids. Metaphorically, of course. Because--surprise--I don't bake. I loved my twenties, but I've got a good feeling I'll love my thirties, too. 

Gaucho pants. Now those are the only things I'll miss from my twenties. Those. Were. Da. Bomb.

*If anyone wants to give me a quick tutorial on those and how to acquire one, I've got five dollars with your name on it. 

**Yes, if you're a dude reading my blog, it's ok. I can't tell you how many guys have taken me aside to tell me--all embarrassed and tipsy--that they dig it. You are not alone. And it takes a real man to read a blog with pink accents while at work. 

***Who doesn't wish they had held onto those oversized button downs right now? The Tasmanian Devil coming out of the pocket? Classic vintage.****

****(Why I'm not a fashion blogger.)

Bullet Point Tuesday: Nashfail

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 immediately stunned/pleased/terrified with the amount of good-looking men that were walking around. Of course, I didn't put two and two together and realize they were in our hotel, meaning they were also out-of-towners.

Below chronicles my observations and experiences with the dudes in Nashville...as far as a family vaca will permit.

Exceptions to the Rules
There's a genuine, non-cliche country vibe in Nashville. And for whatever reason, this change in culture resulted in an immediate change in my perceptions and expectations of guys. Because it's just how things are down here. For example:

  • Visors: There's not a chance I'd talk to a guy in Chicago wearing a visor. But in Nashville?? It's cultural. I mean, it's sunny, it's hot...homeboy is just trying to protect himself from getting melanoma on his face, right? And for the cowboys rockin' their nighttime visors...well, you go girl. 
  • Tattoos: Certainly not all tattoos are a deterrent. But show me a guy in the Windy City with a barbed wire tattoo around his bicep, and I'll be running away faster than Elsa when she froze the city. In Nashville? These are as commonplace as "y'alls" and peanut allergies.* It's like these guys have some sort of state-mandated bad tattoo initiation and there's really no judging them for it. That's just discrimination. 
  • Gunshot wounds: You know that guy from Boardwalk Empire who wears a mask on half of his face? Yeah. Hot. 

Rules That Don't Bend
When it comes to Tinder, however, there were some things that, no matter how culturally open-minded I was trying to be, I couldn't get past.

  • I assume this is like the Chicago equivalent to putting a pic of your Divvy Bike. 

  • I don't think this has a Chicago equivalent. It's too effing scary. (Also, fun to watch my battery die for this, isn't it?)

  • I'd love to meet the lady that swipes right for this guy. 

  • I know. The plaid shorts are unforgivable.

  • I couldn't believe it, either. My phone was at 86%.

A Family That Tinders Together...
Of course everyone who has succumb to the debasement of Tinder understands the thrill of seeing something like this:

Yet when Steven (one visor pic and two barbed wire tats) asked what bar I was at, I realized there wouldn't be much room for him at a table that was already full with my brother, sister, and mom. The jig was up. I told him that I love my Obamacare and never heard from him again.

*Just kidding. No one has ever heard of a peanut allergy down there. Again, I get it. Cultural. But I seriously thought I was going to die the entire weekend. 

Bullet Point Tuesday: How to Lose a Guy in 10 Minutes

As I was bullet pointing the highlights of the past two weeks, it became painfully clear that, perhaps, there's an element of self-sabotage when it comes to my dating life. Either that, or I am truly just an effing moron. I'll admit that both are completely plausible.

Evidence That I'm a Perpetual Self-Sabatoger/Why I'm Still Single/I Love Alcohol Too Much/I'm An Idiot

  • 18-Hour Happy Hour

There's certainly nothing wrong with going to happy hour that starts at 4:00 and then ends at 8:43. Especially if that happy hour is at the East Bank Club, and this was my first time ever visiting the establishment where hot, sweaty men seem to run around like Disney characters. Of course, there is something wrong with extending said happy hour when you've received a press pass to watch the hilarious and talented Kate and Stace at 9:00 in Boystown. Needless to say, I was late and drunk, asking some kind employee to direct me to the correct theatre at Stage 773. Picture that scene from Orange is the New Black with Jimmy being escorted out.*

  • Oops, I Did It Again.

Apparently in my non-sober state, I hadn't been very clear about who I was there to see, and the kind employee that took pity on me directed me to the wrong theatre. Drunk and scared, I didn't want to get up and leave, afraid of offending the comedians on stage who were singing about dicks and swinging around fake ones.

  • And Again. 

Because clearly this night needed to continue, I decided to stop at my local watering hole and grab a nightcap by myself. Unbeknownst to me, it was karaoke night, which meant I would be getting more than just one nightcap (the credit card minimum was $10, which also had something to do with it, but that's neither here nor there). I mean, what was I going to do to? Not sing karaoke alone at a bar?

My first song was one I'd been itching to try for a few weeks...and I completely bombed it. Needing to redeem myself, I went for my typical crowd-pleasing jam, to which I think the five people in the bar truly enjoyed. Next, I was approached by a bar mate to perform a duet, but kept pissing him off because I was singing his lines.**

It was time to go home.

  • But Not to Sleep

Because why end a night that's going this well? So I called a guy who lives in my building who I was also supposed to go on a date with that weekend. Did he want to split a late night pizza? I was in luck. He did. And was also just as drunk as me. But waiting for pizza can be exhausting, and I passed out on his couch wearing my "Everyone Loves an Alpha Gam" T-shirt and floral, flannel PJ pants as we waited for my spinach pizza to come. (I swear I ordered spinach and pepperoni. Chicago Pizza felt differently.) Homeboy wanted to snuggle with me, but I was much too interested in devouring the poorly toppinged pizza instead. When I went back to my apartment, we had the following text exchange, to which I displayed my ever-so-sensitive side.

I mean, who wouldn't want to date this?

  • We Found Love in a Hopeless Place

Turns out that my pizza gobbling technique can really attract the right kind of man because Homeboy was blowing up my phone the next day. I felt bad. I already knew I wasn't into him. But when he asked to grab beers with him and his friend on the pool deck around happy hour, I obliged. Mainly because I spent too much money the night before and wanted a free beer. Not caring if I impressed Homeboy, I had on about zero make up and was still wearing my hangover face.

Of course the friend he brought happen to be gorgeous, smart, and funny as hell. Aaaaand I was in love.

  • And Lost It in an Even More Hopeless Place

It's not every day that I fall in love, so I'm pretty bad at handling it. But I always forget this. A few days later, out to dinner and wine and more wine with my girlfriends, I told them about my crush. And then, because the wine told us to, we constructed the creepiest Facebook message of all time. Don't believe me? I've included it below. You're welcome.

As you can see, he definitely read it (fifteen minutes after it was sent). And, shockingly, I never heard from him again.

  • Because More Chardonnay is the Only Way to Ease the Pain

A little, well deserved rejection never hurt anyone, and I quickly bounced back in time for my friend's birthday party at her parents'  house in the burbs. It was great. What was not great, according to my mother, was finding me passed out in her kitchen. On the island. Like whole body, snuggled up for the night with some magazines as a pillow. Apparently the idea of making it upstairs was too taxing for me, but hopping onto a four-foot countertop with cheese and potato chips at my feet was completely reasonable.

I'd like to think that my mom didn't enjoy slapping me awake, but I'm sure she did.

After having accepted that I completely suck at in-real-life dating (and possibly drinking), I've re-downloaded Tinder. And back to the pool I go.

*Real sorry if I ruined that for you.

**My singing partner has since texted me, asking to grab drinks. I somehow missed the texts, replied four days later, and never heard from him again. I think he secretly just wanted a karaoke rematch. Which I'd clearly win. 

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