Worst Date Ever Contest Winners (and my latest man-stake)

It’s time to announce the winners of our Worst Date Ever Contest!!! And the winners are… 


Unwanted Physical

Six hour Date

Ponytailed Carnie

Congrats ladies! Your suffering has won you a tote.

Please email your mailing address to stucublog@gmail.com so we can send you some swag. We’re hoping that you’ll rock that shiz so regularly that Suri Holmes Cruise will beg us to create a line of children’s fashion. 

 And thanks again to all of our wonderful readers who shared their stories with us. And believe me when I say that your stories got us through some cold winter nights.

Speaking of cold winter nights, Momma has been feeling a lot of them recently, after breaking it off with yet another OKC bachelor. And contrary to what you may believe about me, pity parties/mini break ups involve more than whiskey. There may or may not have been some rocking out to this rather immature Avril Lavigne throwback:

Is there anyone out there besides me who DOESN’T hate this song? If so, holler at me, because we may be a match.

So, what happened? It’s really quite absurd, for so many reasons. Right around Halloween, I started messaging with a really cute 25 year old. I’ve always had a thing for younger guys. (No Mrs. Robinson jokes, please. I like to think of myself as more of a “Stacy’s Mom.”)

stacys mom

Besides, W was tall and handsome and had some solid ties to Philadelphia, my home city. While a quick read of W’s answers to OKC questions revealed that he, at most, would turn out to be a mildly intelligent jump off, I figured there was no harm in going on a date with him. At best, it’d be a Tuesday night adventure. And, if it sucked, I’d just bounce after one drink.

But here’s the thing. When we met up, it was so fun. This guy literally met every single one of the criteria that I love in a man, despite the $100 in weekly therapy and 1000 warnings I’ve received from my nearest and dearest. 

On our date, W revealed the following gems:

  • He used to manage a Dominos pizza, but quit when “management was all up in his business.”
  • He was a liquor distributor who went to work “sometimes.”
  • He hated books because they told him “what to think” and “what to do.”

But before you shake your head and tell me just how many red flags you have already found JUST BY READING THIS BLOG POST, bear with me. W made me laugh. And, in a city full of guys who take themselves wayy too seriously, he was just such a refreshing change from what I encounter on a daily basis. And I love pizza. And liquor. So we have that in common. And did I mention I am a MESS for tall slackers wearing hoodies?

So after talking for 4 hours and closing down to the bar, we went back to my place. And if I provided you with the full details I’d have to charge you 99 cents per minute. And W revealed one more detail to me:

  • He was a recovering heroin addict.

I’m sorry, what? I must have heard wrong.  Heron addict? Were you addicted to taking pictures of these water-dwelling birds?


No,  I heard properly. Heroin. The shiz that the Barksdale gang is selling on the Wire.

WMDs! Pandemic!

Now, listen. I know I sound like Yuppie McPriveledged, and while in some ways I am, in many ways I am not. I really do think everyone has a past and makes mistakes and other people’s drug use is not something I get that bent out of shape about. The heroin part was not upsetting me nearly as much as the addict part. As you may have gleaned from my previous posts, I tend to fall for addicts. In fact, I have a pretty deep history with one. And I am not gonna get all Jerry Spring/Montell Williams Special on you, but let me just say that, having a relationship with an addict is the most fun/most stressful/most ultimately consuming thing that can happen to a person. So at that moment, even though I was 100% charmed by W, I knew that I could never, ever really date him.

But yet, when he texted me the next day and said he wanted to see me again, I said yes. And we had a great time. And so I said yes again. And again. And before I knew it, I was hooked. Some might say, ADDICTED. Bah Dum Ching–even at my lowest points, friends, I never pass up an opportunity for a cheap joke. 

I knew one day it would have to end, but I convinced myself that day would be sometime next week, or after the next time we hung out. I figured, why ruin a fun thing? But the more we hung out, the more signs I started to see that the time was near. One thing that did bother me about him was that he was super flaky. I mean, he could not make plans for anything more than three hours in advance.

Exhibit A:

photo 2

Exhibit B:

photo 2

And this bothered me. Why?

1) Because I’m a busy woman! I’m not just sitting around my parents’ house, waiting for some guy to pick me up and take me to the commuter rail parking lot for some heavy petting # highschool #beentheredonethat

2) Because I thought it meant that he was just not that into me. I know that his inability to make plans could have also been explained by the fact that he was a 25  year old, barely-employed drug addict. However, I took this inability personally and thought that his flakiness was just a way of dicking me around.  And, the more attached to him I became, the more the possibility that he was just not that into me bummed me out.

So the next time he reached out to me, I decided to end it.* And, while it sucked to momentarily disappoint him, and to voluntary turn down someone whose ahem, company, I was really enjoying, I am glad I ended it.

* What actually happened is I consulted no less than four colleagues, three friends over Facetime, my therapist, my sister, and two relationship blogs, and they all implored to me stop seeing him, and finally I listened.

Anyway, after a week, I recovered from the moping and was prepared to go on with my life. And there I was, a few mornings ago, checking Tacosdelish’s messages. (This is not something I do often, because, she seriously receives 20 messages per day, 15 of which are sexual innuendos mentioning food, butts, or farts.) But when I looked in her inbox, what did I see but a message from W!!!!! 

w's message to tacos

Upon reading this, I did what anyone would do in my situation. I freaked out, ceased work, started to hyperventilate, and g-chatted S an SOS message and claimed that W was “in love with Tacosdelish”. To which she calmly responded:


:sam on tacos

S was right. This message was benign, and even if it wasn’t, who cares? It actually makes for some unbelievable blog material and a funny  ending to a somewhat depressing tale. So thank you W, for that! I hope you and Tacosdelish are very happy together. And I hope you bring a Chechen dictionary to your first date.

Sex Idiots, Jump offs and others: The Second S

Remember when I promised you that, if you suffered through my JDate hate manifesto, you’d actually get some stories about the guys I met on it? Asked and answered, friends. ONLY A MONTH SINCE THE POST. #trulysorry

I actually had a nice time with two of the guys I met on JDate, and both managed to keep me occupied through the late summer/early fall. I’ve already divulged the details of one of those flings in a nice, sobering post about being an adult and “doing the right thing.” and I figure it’s time to share a little bit about the other guy, whose story is much less savory, and much more juicy. (Ahem, mom and dad, this is where you stop reading. You’ve been warned.)

Here is what J #2 had going for him:

  • His face.
  • His smile.
  • His butt.
  • His looks.
  • His cable.
  • His name, which was S (I have a good track record with Ss). 

…andddddd that’s about it. This guy, during our first date, was so boring, that he literally recited two recipes verbatim, including an ingredient list for each. He spent the other 50% of the date just explaining, in frame by frame detail, episodes of Friday Night Lights. In a normal situation, I would have ended the date after one drink. But here’s the thing. He was super cute. And we were obviously really attracted to each other. And he was putting some pretty cute moves on me. 

So I took him back to my place (a 20-minute walk from the bar, during which, between groping me and weirdly trying to hold my hand, he detailed several episodes of “How I Met Your Mother,” told me a really really long story about no less than 12 different friends of his from camp who I did not know, and then proceeded to recite a recipe for matzah ball soup) and we did it.

This was the night when I truly discovered what it means to have a sex idiot.  

Once again, we can thank Tina Fey for another genius contribution to modern society. For those of you who didn’t click on the hyperlink above, allow me to summarize/elaborate. There is a great episode of 30 Rock where Jack and one of the many women he is dating run into each other. They’re both with other people, who turn out to be really dumb human beings who they are both keeping around for the sex only, who they refer to as “sex idiots.” God love ya, Jack Donaghy, for always reminding me there is always room to grow into a WORSE person. 

Now friends, if you can believe it, It gets even better. Because Zarina’s sex idiot is no one other than the incredible swimmer/media sensation/fashion designer, Ryan Lochte. If you’re joining me in uttering, “Yum/Yuck,” then welcome to the club. That’s a sex idiot for ya. Lust them and hate them. Fantasize about having sex with them but can’t wait to kick them out afterwards.

So back to S. If you’re looking for a visual, imagine a Jewish Ryan Lochte who is really obsessed with his mom:


(BTW,  S and D, we should really invest in Photoshop so I can do cool things like put a yarmulke on this picture of Ryan Lochte nibbling a gold medal).

After my first date/night with S, I figured I probably wouldn’t see him again. After all, we didn’t have a lot in common, and I pretty much handed him his shoes and pushed him out the door shortly after the dirty deed was over.

However, S continued to call text. And I continued to answer, and agree to hang out, as long as the plans we made maximized the sex and minimized the talking. (i.e., no meals, no day dates, hanging out exclusively at our apartments, etc).  This pattern, much to my delight, continued for a month or so.

hogwarts judging

HANG ON THERE GRYFFINDOR. Before you get on your high hippogriff, and look down on me for being a shallow user, let’s engage in a real intellectual debate here: Is it wrong to have a sex idiot?

Before fully examining this question, I think it’s important to further examine the origin and reach of sex idiots. So, I turned to three important cultural hallmarks: Sex and the City, rap music, and B-list rom coms that often appear in my Netflix cue.

1) SATC has long explored and acknowledged the concept of the sex idiot, which the lovely ladies usually refer to as a “F#@$ buddy.” They even have a whole episode dedicated to  the concept:

According to this incredibly believable scene (when was the last time you saw four people have a full on conversation during the middle of yoga class?), a F-buddy meets the following criteria:

  • The sex is great
  • They are generally available
  • You could care less about the details of their daily life
  • It is a terrible idea to actually try and date them

Now, here’s the thing. It sounds very much like these are all consensual arrangements, where each party is explicitly aware of the intentions of the other party. It’s not like these guys are begging for relationships, and all these ladies are giving is sex. If both parties are 1) informed about where they stand and 2) happy about it, then what’s the harm in having a little fun?

2) Now, let’s get even more urban (I know, what is more urban than SATC? It’s in a city, for goddsakes!) Enter, the rap song and the “jump-off.” The jump-off is a term that some of these rap kids are using to describe a lady who men use for casual sex.  Jump-offs truly penetrated the vernacular as after the 2003 release of Joe Budden’s hit single, Pump it up.

Budden describes his Jump Off:

My jump off doesn’t run off at the mouth so much
My jump off never ask why I go out so much
My jump off never has me going out of my way
And she don’t want nothing on Valentines Day
My jump off don’t argue or get rebellious
And she don’t mind hanging out wit da fellas
My jump off’s not insecure or jealous
(Uuh, uuh, uuh)

Sure, this song has misogynistic undertones (BLOG GIVEAWAY FOR ANY READER WHO JUST GOT THE HIDDEN POP CULTURE REFERENCE!)* but, at the end of the day, Joe is describing a pretty cool gal, who is low maintenance, fun, and amiable. Moreover, his description transcends race and class. He could very well be describing Carrie, Miranda, or Samantha. It sounds like not only would all these things be fine with them, but that they would  alsorevel in and appreciate the lack of communication, interest, or attention from their F-buddy until the desired time to F.

So far, so good. Sex idiots are not only perfectly fine to have, but they are also recognized by HBO and the same label that produced Jay-Z. Sounds legit and ethical to me!

3) However, the string of B-list rom coms I’ve seen suggests that the sex idiot/F-buddy/jump off concept has a fatal flaw. And that flaw is, if one party is interested in any more than sex (their opinions being heard, the life details being shared, a gift on Valentine’s Day), then all bets are off and someone could really get hurt. This is what happens in the Justin Timberlake and Mila Kunis tour de force film, “Friends with Benefits,” when one of them becomes more interested than the other. (Y’all, this is movie is seriously good. If you don’t believe me, believe Rotten Tomatoes.)This central conflict repeats, though less successfully, in several films, including “Just Friends,” and “The Hook Up” Of course, at the end of each movie, the main characters find out that they are not truly one another’s sex idiots, but actually like each other, and kiss on a bridge or something while Jason Mraz plays in the background. But the main takeaway I had here was: in a true sex idiot arrangement, neither party can romantically like the other party. Or the whole thing will be a mess.

So what happened to me and S? About a month in, S suggested we go on a proper date, to DC Restaurant Week. Now, everyone knows eating dates are a huge, intimate step for me. And I was pretty panicked about what S and I were going to talk about for one hour. But, I figured there was no harm in a meal  and I obliged.

And, I actually had a decent time. After the date, we went back to his place, and he asked me to spend the night (a “no no” for jump-offs!) and we did engage in some couch cuddling and I wore his pajamas and blah blah. And you know what? After a very nice night and morning, I never heard from him again. (OK, that’s not entirely true. I hit him up a week later for some late night lovin, and he said he was tired and I never heard from him again.)

 I wasn’t that broken up about it. He was definitely not “the one,” and, truth be told, I was running out of physical cues that I could use to feign interest when he was talking. Moreover, he and I had never explicitly defined our sex idiot partnership, and therefore, it’s quite possible he wanted more/less and was sick and tired of just hanging out every time I saw a really sensual episode of the Good Wife and needed to blow off some steam. Who knows?

My point is. Pop culture is always right. Keep sex idiots around purely for sex. Don’t try to blur the lines. Unless, of course, you’re Robin Thicke featuring T.I and Pharell:

Sorry I’m not sorry readers. That song is catchy.

*The blog giveaway is NBD. When these posts get published into a book, you’ll get a free signed copy. Now all we need is an agent. Sigh.