I got dumped (and lived to blog about it), Part 1


via: http://www.thatonerule.com/rule/1247

I heard this quote months ago and it really stuck with me. Not the ‘relationships are simple’ part, because that’s bullshit, but the idea that every single romantic relationship that I have in my life, aside from (hopefully) one, is inevitably going to end. Somehow, some way, it’s going to end. It’s a cynical, depressing thought, but it’s true.

It’s also what makes being in a relationship so f*cking scary: you never know when the ax is going to fall (unless, of course, you’re the one wielding it). For instance, I didn’t know when I bragged like an idiot about being “out of the dating game” on Monday that literally 24 hours later it would no longer be true. I just went about my business normally, answering questions about my boo at L’s parents’ Passover Seder on Monday night, thinking about what outfit I should wear to dinner with him on Friday (ahem, as in tonight…fielding that reservation confirmation call was a blast), and then…


via: film.com

D and I broke up. Well, correction: D broke up with me.

My co-bloggers were surprised that this post was done and ready to go so quickly after the…dumping, but honestly the only thing (aside from my wonderful, supportive friends and fam) that has made me feel better is writing. I literally sat down at my desk on Wednesday morning rocking huge sunglasses to hide my terrifying bloodshot eyes, and proceeded to word vomit this entire thing for the next hour.

This post  (which ps has quickly evolved into a two parter–you should know by now that brevity is not my strong suit) was especially weird to write because I know for a fact that D is going to read it. I mean, how completely bizarre is that? I was mildly tempted to put on a cool/aloof front and act like I DGAF about what happened/am already moving on to greener pastures, but honestly, fuck it. I don’t really care how I come off; I don’t have the energy to be anything but honest right now (and also, apparently, dramatic). A part of me also feels oddly protective of D, 1. because it’s just me here telling one side of the story and 2. as you’ll read, he didn’t do anything awful or dishonest or douchey, so I have no intention of skewering him or over-sharing at his expense. I don’t feel the righteous anger of a woman scorned like I did with J or H. I honestly just feel…sad.

debbie downer

via: http://letitrainlemonade.blogspot.com/2013/02/debbie-downer-much.html

So… where to begin? I guess I’ll start by saying that while I was shocked when it happened, I wasn’t shocked that it happened. Things had been kind of weird between me and D for a few weeks. His job was very intense and he was in a bout of working crazy long hours, but he was also just acting…strange. Distant. Off. He would insist that it was work stuff and stress and exhaustion, and I know that he wasn’t lying about those things. Something else seemed wrong to me, though, but I felt like an asshole harping on it. I was trying so hard not to be a stupid clingy girl, because no one wants to be that girl. I told myself that it was hard to maintain a relationship with crazy schedules and limited time to see each other in person. I didn’t really share my uneasiness with my friends because I couldn’t pinpoint what I was uneasy about. Then I’d see D in person and things would be fun and awesome and great again, and I’d forget about the weirdness altogether.

Last weekend, D was out of town at a wedding and I was hosting a bunch of friends for L’s birthday. We didn’t really talk the whole time, but again, I attributed it to us both having plans and doing our own thing. When D got home on Sunday, we caught up on the phone and things seemed normal and good. He asked if I was around Tuesday night and if I was free to grab a drink (news flash: “grab a drink” is obviously the universal euphemism for “get dumped”. Now you know.)

Tuesday night arrived and it was pouring rain (of course it was–although it will set the scene nicely when this story is adapted for 0ur future TV series) so D picked me up. I immediately could tell something was up and asked him what was going on. It took him a while to get the words out but he finally said:

“I think we should take a break.”

Pop quiz, early Millenials! What’s the very first thing that comes to mind when you hear that phrase?

Even though I semi blacked out, as one does in these situations, I’m pretty sure I managed to mumble, “what is this, Friends?”. As D continued, I quickly realized that by “break” he actually meant “break up” (and everyone knows how “taking a break” always ends anyway. Especially Ross and Rachel).

D told me that he had been feeling weird about us for a little while, that his feelings for me had changed, and that he couldn’t stop thinking about his ex. Oof.


via: http://justgif.com/tags/247/facepalm

I’m not a particularly jealous person, but I couldn’t help but wonder about D’s ex who he broke up with over the summer. I was the first person he seriously dated after her and it was hard not to wonder if there were still lingering feelings there, although to be honest D hadn’t given me a reason to think that there were. I knew that he had seen the ex in question at last weekend’s wedding (of their mutual friends). He insisted nothing had happened between them aside the fact that he felt a real connection with her again, and he couldn’t ignore it, and it wasn’t fair to me for him to deny it or pretend that it wasn’t happening.

D kept going, his words only partially sinking in: he really cared about me, didn’t want to lose me as a friend, felt sick about hurting me, bla bla bla. What I heard was:


via: http://blogs.houstonpress.com/hairballs/2009/12/online_stuff_you_gotta_do_afte.php

We sat in D’s car for a long time. Sometimes I talked and sometimes he talked, and sometimes it was awkwardly silent. I cried, because I don’t care what anyone says, getting dumped is completely traumatic/horrific, especially when you get dumped because your S.O. can’t stop thinking about someone else…


via: http://camphalfblood.wikia.com/wiki/File:Tumblr_md7tum00ng1rgzenuo1_500.gif

…but aside from the tears, the whole thing was strangely calm. There was no yelling. There were no alarm bells going off in my head telling me this was a mistake, that this was the right guy for me, that he was who I was supposed to end up with. I knew that while I cared about and felt close to D, my feelings for him were never that strong, and that despite having a great time with him, I couldn’t exactly picture a long term future with him either. Breaking up felt awful, but it also weirdly felt right. And that’s when I started to get mad, not at D (okay, obviously a little at D) but mostly at myself. For ignoring all the signals and not trusting my gut. For not calling D out on his weird behavior earlier. For not being honest about my feelings, with him or with myself.

So there I was, stuck in D’s car, hating myself, hating the universe, crying, my ego shot to hell, and wondering what the eff I was supposed to do next. Part of me wanted to run from that car like it was on fire; the other part of me felt glued to my seat. After we were both quiet for a bit, D assured me that he was happy to sit and talk for as long as I wanted, or still get drinks if I was up for it, or he’d take me anywhere I wanted to go. “I just need a minute,” I told him, blowing my nose pathetically. He nodded.

Finally, through the haze of emotions, I started to remember how my other relationships (and non relationships) ended in the past. And there seemed to be one common denominator: they each ended abruptly. When J broke up with me in a crowded bar I was so shocked and mortified that I literally ran out of there and never saw him or spoke to him again (well, save for a random little exchange last fall). When I ended things with H, my feelings for him were so strong that I knew in order to get over him/not get sucked back in I’d have to cut him out of my life completely. So it was the same thing; I told him it was over and essentially hung up on him. Both times I felt so unsatisfied, like there were things I wanted to say and ask but never had the chance to. If a relationship is a sentence, there were no periods at the end of those sentences (and I’m a stickler for punctuation- BADUM CHING). You know what word I’m about to use: the c word. No, not that c-word, dirty birds. Closure.

I wanted closure. I needed closure. And I decided I was going to get it.

I looked in the mirror at my ridiculously red, puffy eyes, and then over at D. “Take me somewhere dark where I won’t see anyone I know.” He nodded and started the car.

Stay tuned for the (thoroughly un-) dramatic conclusion to my break up saga next week.

Pics of the week: croptastic

In order to explain today’s pics, I need to bore you guys for a hot second. Bear with me. When you upload a profile picture onto Okcupid, you’re prompted to crop it into a smaller thumbnail version. The small version is what appears in searches and on your profile’s homepage, so logically if your photo was taken from far away or includes other people, you can choose to zoom in on just your face so people can actually see you when browsing.  Well apparently the cool thing to do these days (and I wouldn’t know because hi, rapidly approaching 30 over here)…


via: http://rednkhakirants.tumblr.com/page/3

…is to crop your profile pic like a complete asshole.

Allow me to introduce the following samples into evidence. Here’s bachelor # 1’s thumbnail picture, which appeared on my homepage:


Admittedly harmless, but gee, I wonder who that ear and partial cheek belongs to? Probably someone super interesting. I mean, how coy. How mysterious. Let’s have a looky-loo at the rest of him, shall we? Clicking on his photo reveals…


A reasonably cute guy! Except he immediately kills my vibe with a newsies cap, and I have a strict no fedoras/newsies caps/pork pie hats rule. Seriously, if you’re wearing one of those, you’d better be on your way to sell some papes, or organize a child labor union with Christian Bale:

On to our next reveal, bachelor #2’s thumbnail pic:


I mean…


via: http://rednkhakirants.tumblr.com/page/2

Let’s find out, shall we?


What did we win? Oh just a creeper in a hoodie with gross looking cuticles. Swoon. How many failed attempts do we think it took this guy before he got the positioning juuuust right? 15? 20?

This is unrelated, but it must be noted that bachelor #2’s profile lists “going to the toilet” as one of his interests.


via: http://s284.photobucket.com/user/Bigsteve87/media/Gifs/GrossedSNL_zps78c71cbb.gif.html

Obviously I’ve saved the best (i.e. most senseless) for last:


WHAT IS WITH MEN FLASHING THEIR BELLY BUTTONS?? Please, adult males, no belly buttons on online dating sites. Not now, not ever. I beg you.

Welp, we may as well take a look at the whole package, as it were. Behold, bachelor #3:


A classic ill-advised shirtless selfie. Some things never change.

Bottom line: women don’t need you to show us that you’re pseudo-creative, unique, ironic, or mysterious, or whatever else you think you are by cropping your picture in this senseless manner. If you need to express yourself creatively please, get an Instagram account and bore your friends with your filter choices like a normal person.

Also, I’m sure you think your weird thumbnail will catch our attention, and clearly these have caught mine, but the only thing I feel is annoyance at having to work to figure out what you look like. I just. want. to see. your. face. And if I can’t, for me it’s an automatic…

thumbs down

via: http://giphy.com/search/thumbs-down


Message Tuesday: a different site (and a conspiracy theorist)

You may be wondering, dear readers, what happened to Message Monday. Welp, season 2 of House of Cards happened. Sorry to keep you waiting, but Frank Underwood’s Machiavellian scheming kind of took precedence. What’s that? Tuesday’s almost over, too? Shhhh. Quiet, my pretties.

Today’s Tonight’s featured message was, in a way, a nice break from the typically offensive, insane, and generally terrifying rants that make their way into our Okc inboxes. However, it was also a first for me:

different site

Huh. I clicked on this dude’s profile and stared. He looked vaguely familiar, but nothing else about him was ringing a bell. Since I canceled my match.com subscription ages ago in a fit of rage and disgust, I had no way of checking my old messages to cross reference. 

I kept staring at his pic, and still, nothing else came to mind. Not a name, not a topic of conversation, nothing. But I did recognize him. Confused and a little creeped out that a random dude not only remembered me from so long ago on an entirely different dating website but also knew my name, I sought the advice of an expert:

L convo2

Do you like how after one (admittedly traumatic) incident, we now automatically assume every display of odd behavior in the opposite sex relates back to our blog? I mean…


Source: PandaWhale

Also, L seemed so shocked that I couldn’t vividly recall my match.com message history from over a year ago, and it made me wonder if I was being presumptuous in assuming this dude’s story was true.

L convo

That’s actually a totally fair point, L.

my bad

But now I was stressed out, too. L’s conspiracy theories continued to pour in, the last and most outrageous involving an ex of mine:

L convo3

After freaking me the eff out with her insane theories, L ended up being right, of course. NOT about the message being from an ex of mine, which was a completely wackadoo hypothesis. She was right about it not mattering. As I’ve mentioned to you lovely readers, I’m seeing someone, which means that my Okc profile is currently being used for blogging purposes only. I’m not messaging people, and I’m not replying to messages unless it’s to politely decline a request to chat. In other words, I’m not going to go out with this dude, so whether he’s an old match.com acquaintance or one of our exes trying to out the blog, it really doesn’t matter.

Conclusion: next time we’d best leave the conspiracy theories to the experts.


Celebrating our weird preoccupations: S’s musical superiority complex

To round out our fun little exploration into the idiosyncrasies of LSD, allow me to introduce mine: musical taste. Music matters to me. My dad’s a musician, and growing up my family never gave a single f*ck about sports., but we talked about and listened to music incessantly. My Okc username is a reference to a semi obscure album that I love, and I still think a mix CD is one of the most wonderful and romantic gifts you can ever receive. 

Now, let me be clear: I am not one of those insufferable music snobs who always has to be up on the latest band, or who thumbs their nose at a good old fashioned pop song. There are plenty of vintage boy band hits and Taylor Swift ballads in my musical rotation, thank you very much. I think almost anything that’s catchy and that you enjoy listening to can count as good music, with a few important exceptions. Which leads me to my first question for a potential date. This one’s actually in my profile:

How do you feel about Dave Matthews band?

I hate Dave Matthews Band. So much. Sofa king much. As in, it’s semi a non-negotiable. If we’re dating, you’re allowed to have owned a Dave CD in high school and worn a puka shell necklace to see him in concert/take some bong hits when you were 17, but that interest better not have followed you into adulthood. His voice. Uggghhhh his voice. Those awful screeching rambling excuses for songs. Shudder. I mean:


Source: Quickmeme

Now obviously, I feel very strongly about DMB, and I judge any guy who proclaims to love or even like them pretttty harshly. But this is really just a simple yes or no opinion question. There’s a right and wrong answer, for sure, but this one doesn’t require any critical thinking. My next question is multiple choice, and it’s something that my friend E and I feel very strongly about:

Who’s your favorite Beatle? And why?

You’re probably thinking, come on, it’s the Beatles! They’re all great. There is no wrong answer.


Source: MoreMaor

There are actually two unacceptable answers: John and Ringo.

John Lennon. Was he a musical genius? Totes. Prolific? Absolutely. Larger than life? Of course. Was his death completely tragic? Obviously. But.. he’s your favorite Beatle? Really? It’s just such a cliche. It shows that you have no imagination (restraining myself from inserting bad ‘Imagine’ joke here), and no appreciation for the more subtle nuances of the band and IMO, pop culture in general.

Also, I’m just going to say it: John was kind of a dick. So if you like him the best, that’s a red flag for me. Either that, or you know nothing about the Beatles and just picked the most famous/obvious one as an answer. And frankly, I’ll have so much more respect for you if you just admit that. I’ll pity and judge you, but at least you’ll get points for honesty.

Also, don’t even get me started on this bitch:

yoko ono

Now, if you’re stupid enough to give Ringo as your answer, please, spare me that ir0nic “I love Ringo because he’s so goofy and everyone else hates him” bullshit. Lookin’ at you, Zooey…


The man wrote approximately 2.5 comically simplistic songs which, because the rest of the band basically took pity on him, ended up on the same albums as some of the best music of the 20th century. He then casually hung up his drumsticks to begin his illustrious second career as the conductor of Shining Time Station.

In summary, Ringo was a lucky bastard who was along for the ride. You can think he’s funny, and you can pity him for being the one so blatantly devoid of real talent, but if he’s your favorite, I’m going to be asking some serious questions about your judgment (or lack thereof).

Answers I’ll accept: Paul and George.

Paul was obviously ridiculously talented, lovable, goofy, irreverent, and real talk, so effing cute. AMIRITE, ladies?


Anyway, so many incredible songs came out of his brain, I could write an entire post about it, but I’ll spare you all. Let’s just pick a random one and enjoy, shall we?

Also, we collectively forgive Paul the whole Wings business because, well, he’s Paul McCartney. And, did you know he wrote the melody to ‘Yesterday’ before he thought of the lyrics, so for months until he finished the song he sang ‘scrambled eggs?’ I mean, come on. Amazing.

My personal answer, though, and the one I’m most excited to hear from a guy is George Harrison, the quiet, quirky Beatle who mostly flew under the radar but also wrote some of their most beautiful and famous songs. Here Comes the Sun? Thanks, George. Something? Yup, all George. And moving past the Beatles, George did some awesome solo stuff. All Things Must Pass is one of my favorite albums ever, and if you haven’t heard it you should check it out ASAP.

In conclusion: if you pick the wrong Beatle, you may still have a chance, depending on your reasoning, but it’s going to be a serious uphill battle to win my affection and approval.

If you tell me you love Dave Matthews, though…


Source: girlsguideto.com

Pic of the week, blog award, and PSA

Before I get down to business, just a few quick announcements. First, some exciting news: Stucu was named one of the 10 Best Blogs for Dating in the City by DatingAdvice.com. Woohoo! Check out our sweet badge:


And our little write up here. Apparently, someone out there thinks our advice is “solid”. Well, shucks! That makes us feel like…

high five

Now, for the PSA portion of today’s post. For those of you who are interested, you can sign up to be notified via email whenever we publish a new post. It’s super easy, so easy even my computer illiterate mom can do it (no offense, mom, but you and I both know you’ve only just gotten the hang of Microsoft Word. Love you!)

To sign up for email notifications, do one of the following two things:

  • Scroll to the very bottom of this page to where it says ‘Follow Stucu’. Enter your email address, click ‘update me’ and voila! You’re all set.
  • Alternatively, if you see a little black ‘follow’ box at the bottom right hand corner of this page, you can also click to expand it, enter your email address, and hit ‘sign me up’. You’re golden.

If you have a WordPress account, you can also just click the ‘follow’ button at the top of the page when you’re signed in. This will add us to your blogroll but not your email. But you probably already knew this, you smart blogger, you! Also, if you’ve dated one of us and sometimes skim your blogroll at work, follow at your own risk. Heh.

I’m making this little announcement partially because our # of current followers is what some might call “sad and pathetic”, but more importantly because I was chatting with a friend recently who had no idea you could sign up for email notifications and was just coming to our site daily to check for new content. Which is wonderful! But also a pain in the ass. And if there’s one thing I value in life, it’s enabling myself (and others) to be lazy. So there you have it.

that was easy

Now, on to today’s main event, our pic of the week:


Okay then. That is… something. I know I don’t need to remind you all about my feelings re: bathroom selfies. I mean, I’ve lambasted dudes for taking a picture fully clothed while standing up in their bathrooms. Meanwhile this suitor just dropped trou, drew a bath and went straight for the money shot (God, I actually hope not, although who knows where that right hand has disappeared to…)


I’m thinking that this guy probably posted this…unique shot in the hopes that the ladies of Okcupid would gaze at his bare, hairy chest and be instantly turned on, so turned on that they would HAVE to shoot him a message in the hopes that they’d be invited into that tub. But honestly, I took one look at those outrageously fluffy bubbles and thought of one thing, and one thing only:

Proooobably not what Mr. Tub Man was going for, but there you have it. God, Sesame Street was the best.

In case you were wondering, here were the next thoughts that ran through my head, in chronological order:

  • Thought #2: Dude. We both know you’re going to drop that phone straight into the bubbly abyss, and then where will we be? Without more sensual selfies, that’s where we’ll be.
  • Thought #3: The placement of that ‘x’ is fantastic. Come on, dude nipples are funny.
  • Thought #4: Do we think he was playing a sensual jam in the background? I’d like to think that he was. And I’d like to think that it was this classic (the bath action starts at 1:55, FYI). Take it away, boys:


2nd and 3rd dates with Italian M

Before I get to my post, I just want to point out a quick blogging fail. I missed our one year blogiversary! I feel like L, D, and you wonderful readers are just sitting at home, in your pretty new dresses, waiting to be acknowledged, while I frantically scroll through Yelp ‘best ofs’ to find a last minute place to take you for a nice dinner. Basically, I’m this guy:

Well I just want to say, I’m sorry, baby. I love you. Let me make it up to you.

(Was that creepy enough for your liking? It was? Good.)

Anyway, last week I dropped a major bomb on you Stucu readers. Thanks so much for your hilarious and enthusiastic reactions, btw. You guys make it so fun to write this blog. But today I’d like to rewind a bit and talk about another guy. TO THE BEST OF MY KNOWLEDGE, the gentleman in question never found the blog, but at this point, anything is possible.

Here’s a quick refresher on M, today’s victim..err, subject: 

  1. M is a tall high school teacher from Jersey
  2. I got drunk on our first date, which I wrote about here
  3. He has a family beach house in Italy which he visits every summer. I mean… Wayne's World schwing
  4. My biggest issue with M was that he talked my ear off and barely asked me about myself on our first date.
  5. We had a second date planned that was creepily booked for the day after my birthday, which based on past experience I was a bit dubious about.

So. What happened with Italian M? I’ll break it down by date:

Second Date: Creepy Faux Birthday Dinner

At a certain point I decided to stop being weird about the birthday thing and just go with it. M asked me if I had a favorite restaurant in the city that I’d like to go to, and I picked a place that was nice, delicious, but not super fancy or expensive. It also happened to be Indian, a cuisine that, at least to some people, doesn’t scream ‘sexy second date food’. Personally, I actually get a little turned on at the words ‘samosa’, ‘naan’, and ‘biryani’, but that’s just me.

M picked me up at my apartment and presented me with flowers, which was v. thoughtful and sweet. He even said, “I figured you couldn’t yell at me if I said they were just because and not for your birthday”. Haha. Cute. Also, true. 

We had a nice dinner. M aggressively ordered basically everything on the menu (man after my own heart) and we enjoyed some lovely cocktails. Although this time around, I wisely cut myself off at 2, lest he mistake me for an alcoholic and leave me a contact card for AA (SATC reference! See #47 on this epic list).

M did ask me about myself a bit more, but still dominated most of the conversation. We flirted a bit, as much as two people can flirt with a table full of curries between them. He wanted to get drinks afterwards, but I was uncomfortably full and just wanted to curl up in the fetal position in my apartment, so I declined. After ingesting approximately 90 tic tacs and a full pack of Orbit gum each to counteract the spicy breath situation, we made out a little and said goodnight. 

One thing I liked about M was his nerdy penchant for history. I liked that like he’d decided to model his Movember ‘stache after a different president every year, even though he showed up to our first date sporting a Chester Arthur:


So, with that charming nerdiness (and let’s be honest, that Italian beach house) still fresh in my mind, I said yes to a third date. M mentioned something about cooking for me, which I was fully down with, even though that meant I’d have to go to his house in the ‘burbs which could end SUPER awkwardly. One thing I disliked about M was his excessive texting and calling habits. Homeboy was a little out of control with the extreme contact, and it was wearing on my nerves a bit. Which is probably why after we agreed on a date and time for dinner, I glossed over the rest of what he was telling me (something about lesson plans surrounding the Revolutionary War, and teaching the kids how people lived back in the 18th century, blablablawhocares.) Which leads me to…

Third Date: Colonial Cooking Lessons

Oh boy, do I wish I’d paid better attention to those inane texts. I arrived at M’s house ready to be cooked a delicious meal, only to be informed of the following:

  • The plan was actually for both of us to cook together (at this point, that sounded fine to me. I love to cook.)
  • Except we weren’t, in fact, cooking for ourselves, but for M’s history students.
  • And we weren’t just cooking a normal meal. We were cooking typical foods from the REVOLUTIONARY WAR ERA for the kids to try.
  • M had three dishes planned that had to be ready to go for an 8 am class the next day.

My face as I was being told this….oh man, my face. I’m sure it was comical. Basically, I had misunderstood. I read “come over for dinner”, and what M really meant was: “come over, we’ll order dinner, and then I’ll use you, my date, as free labor to help me complete my lesson plans FOR MY JOB.”

To be fair to M, I went back and read his texts, and he had told me about this. But you guys, the texts were INCESSANT and my patience was wearing thin, so my reading comprehension was at an all time low. As comical and bizarre as the proposed date activity was, I shrugged it off and thought, “WELP, I’m here. I’m going with it.” Honestly, I knew I’d at least get a great blog post out it of it, and I also think if the chemistry is right, two people cooking together can be super fun and sexy. Exhibit A:

So we grabbed Chinese and got to work on the (terrifying) historically accurate menu which included Brunswick Stew and something called (dead serious) chicken pudding. Chicken. Pudding.

What actually transpired couldn’t be further from the aforementioned croissant making foreplay with Meryl and Steve. First, M gave me the job of chopping four huge onions, which 1. made me weep uncontrollably, smearing my eye makeup in the process until I had basically transformed into George from the Wedding Singer:


And 2. made me REEK LIKE RAW ONIONS. Sexy, M. Really sexy.

I kept trying to turn this bizarre situation into something fun or at least funny, but to my dismay and honestly, annoyance, M was pretty humorless about the whole thing. (One of my least favorite personality characteristics EVER). I suggested he put some music on (we were literally chopping vegetables in silence) and he asked if Christmas music was okay. “Sure!” I said enthusiastically, thinking he’d be putting some fun and upbeat holiday tunes on. Instead, M proceeded to select a playlist that contained (exclusively) slow, serious, old fashioned, super religious, SOMBER Christmas hymns. So picture me, readers, in some dude’s kitchen in Jersey, dicing veggies, weeping, while Little Drummer Boy is blasting in the background. I mean. What is my life?

The other incredibly comical part of this “date” (at this point I’m using the word date VERY loosely) was that I quickly discovered M didn’t know the most basic things about cooking. He had gone on and on about learning to cook from his immigrant parents, spending every summer in Italy and cooking big meals for his friends, and watching hours upon hours of Food Network, yet he was incredibly slow and nearly clueless in the kitchen. He’d never heard of a roux (come. ON.) He tried to make the stew in a pot that was way too small. He read the directions 843029843274850 times. At this point, my patience was wearing thin and it was getting late, so I did what any bossy, type A 20-something gal would do in this situation: I took over. Yup. I cooked M’s students a colonial feast while M stood there, ostensibly being my sous chef but really just chillaxing with his dog.

Finally, FINALLY, we (I) finished the damn food and M proclaimed that we’d earned ourselves a nightcap. “Well actually, I’ve earned myself a nightcap,” I corrected. “I’m thinking you’ve earned about 1/3 of a glass.” I was teasing, but of course I was secretly dead serious. We sat down for a drink and I calculated the number of minutes before I could politely leave. Which is when, predictably, M tried to put the moves on me.

Look, I probably shouldn’t have done what I did next, given the fact that I was so totally over M at that point. But I was still attracted to him, and thinking about the fact that he was a good kisser. And I just…wanted to have a little fun after such a lame night. So we made out. M, bless his heart, tried his darnedest to continue along the baseline (yes, I’m aware this “base” talk makes me seem like I’m in 8th grade or I’m secretly Meatloaf) but I wasn’t having it.

After a few minutes of half-hearted smooching and blocking attempted passes at clothing removal, I was over it. I got up and said goodnight. M was leaving for Florida the next day to see some friends, so I was hoping this would create some distance before I needed to end it with him. EXCEPT, that conversation never happened, because M faded away. I never heard from him after that night. I was 85% thrilled at this development, because it saved me an awkward “I’m over this” conversation. But there was that other small part of me, you know, the part with the ego, that was annoyed. Like, excuse me, how dare you not be interested in me? You just bamboozled me into cooking for the 50+ kids that you teach, and I did it happily WITH A SMILE ON MY FACE, all the while being jokey, charming, and adorable, and you think you get to fade away from me? Nah. I don’t think so, bro. If I may borrow a wonderfully appropriate gif from D:


Date # 2 rating: 5.5/10. The semi high score is really due to the flowers and excellent Indian cuisine.

Date #3 rating: 2.5/10. One of the most bizarre “dates” I’ve ever been on in my life. Two points for the blog material and .5 for the sheer absurdity. 

Lessons learned: READ EVERY TEXT before agreeing to a date.

Pic of the Week: Must Love Kilts

I actually wrote this post back in October and intended it to be Halloween themed. Fast forward to this morning when I was looking through our unpublished drafts and there it was, months old and never posted. #bloggingfail.

WELP, this is going up in January because it still amuses me, seasonably inappropriate or not.

Originally the question I posed was: is this a Halloween costume pic or just a dude chillin’ in a kilt? Here, decide for yourself and I’ll meet you down below those pale, hairy legs to discuss…


So what’s the consensus? Was this guy going as Braveheart? Or is he just super Scottish or Irish and just doing his ancestral thing? As a self-proclaimed Anglophile, I appreciate pride in one’s heritage. And it’s not like I’ve never seen a dude wearing one of these in a parade; hell, I know people who asked their groomsmen to sport kilts in their weddings. Not a huge deal. Except… I didn’t crop his face out. He did. And this is the only pic this gentleman chose to share with the Okc community.

Puzzling and mysterious. But never fear, his profile provides additional clues:


Okay, so… you’re really busy, and you really like to go commando. Got it. 


Must love kilts.

Readers! A magical thing has happened. I Googled ‘must love kilts’ purely for shits and giggs, and made a glorious discovery:

must love kilrs

God bless Allie MacKay, national treasure, and God bless Angela Knight for agreeing with me. Apparently, the erotic fiction industry has a kilt niche that I was woefully unaware of. Seriously, I fell into an Amazon rabbit hole looking at these. Whose job is it to think of the titles and subtitles? Because I WANT. THAT. JOB.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go use my Amazon Prime subscription so Sins of a Highland Devil can arrive in time for the weekend. 

PS – FYI, loyal readers, I know it’s been a while since we’ve posted about any actual dates, but that’s not because we’re not going on them. (Okay, it’s maybe 60% because we’re not going on them). We do, in fact, have date tales that we’ll be dishing about in the next week, and we’ve got some other fun posts planned as well to get us all through this hellacious polar vortex of a winter. Thanks again for reading, even when we scare our own mothers with our shrill posts and they call us that night to nervously check on our mental states. Oh wait, that’s probably just me.

Message Monday: thanks, okcupid

Happy ’14, ladies and germs!

This Message Monday is brought to you not by an Okcupid user, but by Okcupid itself. I actually thought that this email was some kind of joke or that okc had been hacked when it first showed up in my inbox. I called L to see if she’d gotten it, too, and the following exchange occurred:

me: Did you get that terrifying email from Okcupid with the gross picture of the scorpion?

L: (smugly) Actually, I changed my settings so they can’t email me about anything. So I wouldn’t know.

me: Yeah, but this was not your typical ‘so and so messaged you’ kind of thing. It looked like a mass message to all their users. You didn’t get it? It’s absurd.

L: No, like I said, my privacy preferences prevent them from ever contacting me. You should try it.

Fast forward 24 hours…

okc scorpion

HA! So much for L’s magical privacy preferences. Anyway, feast your eyes on the email in question from the fine people of Humor Rainbow, Inc:

okc scorpion message

I’m sorry…


Why are you imbeciles sending me close up pictures of a scorpion and its terrifying shed skin? Yes, I have heard of molting and no, I don’t think it’s awesome. In fact, I have a PATHOLOGICAL FEAR of all things creepy crawly. Also, are you not aware that single people across this great nation just survived a harrowing holiday season? A season which included the following:

  • a parade of holiday engagement announcements on Facebook (I counted four on my news feed and I’m pretty sure that’s a low number for my age bracket)
  • obnoxious questions from nosy family members about our single status
  • smug couples EVERYWHERE posing for cutesy photo ops in front of trees and under mistletoe
  • listening with feigned interest to what so and so’s boyfriend/husband gave so and so and isn’t it SOOOOO thoughtful (meanwhile the most thoughtful thing a dude has ever given me is flowers from Wegmans. I’m serious). 
  • midnight kisses on New Year’s Eve that you have no choice but to combat by triple kissing your only other two single friends in the room (again, wish I were kidding. But it happened. Thanks, L and L!)

So, Okcupid, I ask you:


I’m just over here trying not to hang myself from my shower curtain rod because it’s Monday, January 6th, it’s raining cats and dogs, I have a hangover that was a month in the making, and essentially nothing to live for over the next three months except primetime TV and awards shows. So THANK YOU for brightening my day by comparing me to a grotesque, deadly creature that’s too disgusting and scary to even look at. And may I add, nothing puts me in the mood to “turn over a new leaf” and send some flirty messages to cute boys like staring at the dead skin of a poisonous arachnid.

Talk about insult to effing injury. Why do I even use this stupid service, again?

Oh, that’s right. Because I’m single. And also, apparently…



First Date: Drunk Girl

S here, coming at you with my last post as a 28 year old. That’s right, peeps. As of midnight tonight, the sun will officially begin to set on my 20s and I’ll be staring 30 in its mean, spinstery face. Woohoo! Also, a friendly reminder: if you haven’t already, please vote for your favorite worst date ever story here. Voting ends Friday!

Speaking of being a mature adult… do any of you loyal readers recall this lovely tale of first date tipsiness from L? Well last week, as I mentioned, I walked (or should I say stumbled) a mile in her shoes on a first date of my own. Allow me to explain, and by explain I mean post a screen shot of the text I sent D when I got home:

D prohib

It’s a testament to our friendship and to the bond we share that D a. did not bat an eyelash at the fact that I got drunk on a first date and b. was on her way to getting sauced herself after a rough day at work. Meanwhile, somewhere south of us, L was also out drinking heavily. Can you say cosmic connection?

Anyway, a little background on said date. The guy is M, a 36 year old high school teacher from Jersey. M and I had been messaging back and forth for a a few weeks. Things I liked about him: he’s an avid traveler and spends every summer at his family’s beach house in Italy, traveling all over the country and throughout Europe. Yes, you read that correctly. Summer beach house. In Italy. Um, hi. Sign me the f*ck up for that. He also teaches history, which is hot. And is 6’3. HOT. 

Things I wasn’t crazy about: he tried, from the moment we exchanged numbers, to CALL ME. There are few things I hate more than a phone conversation with a dude I’ve never met. I mean, what kind of sociopath wants to voluntarily talk on the phone with a total stranger, unless that stranger is a Comcast customer service team member and the cable is out? Even when the guy has a delicious British accent, it’s still inevitably the most awkward interaction ever. I successfully dodged the first few of M’s phone requests, hoping he’d take a hint, but he KEPT ASKING. I had to actively restrain myself from pulling a Regina George and shutting his Gretchen Weiners bullshit right down:


And then send him this insane little memo just in case he still didn’t get it:

Instead, I consented to 20 minutes of chatting the night before our date which was, AS PREDICTED, moderately awkward. I hate being right all the time. (Lies. I love it).

The night of our date rolled around, and mama was pretty grumpy. Here’s why:

  • The weird phone prelude freaked me out
  • I’d had a long ass day at work
  • the weather was disgustingly wet and humid, causing my hair to do some pretty unique things

I was just not feeling it. It was one of those days where I I wanted sooooo badly to go home and lay on my couch (aka pretty much every day), but I hate people who flake on plans last minute (ahem) so I dragged my salty self over to the bar.

How did the date go? Glad you asked. Conveniently I text-vomited a full summary to poor, unsuspecting D, which I will again post for your viewing pleasure:

d prohib 2

In case you haven’t noticed, yours truly is quite the drunk texter. I recently claimed (to no one who cared) that I live by the following motto: “When the drinks start flowin’, the fingers get goin’.” I mean, what? Also, it’s almost too easy, but…

Sorry/not sorry. Back to the date. I swear, I have never had my ear talked off by a man like I did with M. From the moment we met he was a Chatty Cathy, going on and on about his job, traveling, friends and family. This was actually a welcome development at first, since I usually have the EXACT opposite problem with dudes and have to essentially perform my own one woman show just to keep the awkward silences at bay. So honestly, up until the end of the night I truly enjoyed M’s chattiness. He was smart and interesting, not obnoxious or annoying.

It wasn’t until we arrived at the aforementioned whiskey bar and I was well on my way to being fully drunk that I realized… M had asked me almost nothing about myself. Literally almost nothing. In all fairness, I’m not exactly a shy wallflower (shocking, I know)  and can hold my own in a conversation, so there were plenty of times when I interjected with something and M listened with interest. So I guess it wasn’t that bad, just… weird. Anyway, on to my drunkenness. We had already had a flight of (delicious) beer at the first bar we went to, and then after revealing to him that I’d recently acquired a taste for whiskey, we decided to trek down the street to a whiskey bar for a “nightcap”. Except we walked in and it was like a budget remake of the Great Gatsby up in that piece. Champagne was a-flowin’. People were dressed in period garb. The normally wildly over-priced drinks were dirt cheap. You can guess what happened next…

Mama got sauced. M had to drive and is also gigantic in stature, so he was essentially fine, but I had 3 more BIG mixed drinks and a glass and a half of champagne. By the end I could hear myself slurring my words and also started to make best friends with our neighbors at the bar, something I only do when drunk. At one point the nice lesbian couple next to me discretely whispered, ‘is this a first date?’ and I practically shouted, so the entire (tiny) bar could hear, “It is a first date! Are we that obvious??” Smooth, S. Smooth.

Smart cookie that I am, I decided that we needed to go before I (further) embarrassed myself. I could at least tell through my haze that M seemed bemused rather than horrified by my antics, so I was confident that my behavior still passed for charming and hadn’t crossed over to fully obnoxious. Yet.But I calculated that I was roughly 15 minutes and half a drink away from this:


I announced that M needed to drive me home (in hindsight I was in no state to accept a ride from a strange man but hey, I obviously lived to tell about it. Calm down, mom.) M said he had a great time and would love to go out again (heard that one before!) and then went in for the kiss. It was a bold move, but drunk S was into it. It was actually a really nice first kiss, probably because we were in a warm car and I had a buzz on. But nice nonetheless.

The next morning, hungover and a little embarrassed, I went over the date in my head. And started to get annoyed by M’s apparent lack of interest in my life. I called in some experts, wondering if this was a red flag, but multiple sources told me he was probably either a. nervous (this seems most likely to me) or b. having a REALLY good time and was comfortable enough to open up. Either way, he didn’t berate me or lose his car, so I’m giving him a pass.

M and I have a second date set for Thursday. Let me tell you, there are few things more awkward than dating someone new right around your birthday. You feel like a weirdo not mentioning it at all, but you don’t want them to misunderstand your mention as a request for them to acknowledge it. I am probably ultra sensitive about this because last year I was in this very same position… I’d been seeing a guy briefly, it got out that it was my birthday, and he made a big fuss about it. Basically he INSISTED that we go out to dinner to celebrate even though I was super uncomfortable and told him ‘yeahhh we’re not seriously dating, that is sweet but really not necessary’. But again, he insisted, so I relented, thinking I’d at least get a nice dinner out of it. Then, the night of said dinner rolled around (also the day after my bday!) and this douchenozzle texts me to tell me 1. he was cancelling dinner and 2. didn’t want to see me anymore. Like I’m sorry, WHAT? I NEVER WANTED TO HAVE THIS WEIRD BIRTHDAY DINNER IN THE FIRST PLACE, YOU LUNATIC.

Anyhoodle. Clearly I have birthday date PTSD after that bullshit. So when M (very nicely) referred to this next date as my ‘birthday dinner’ I practically shouted him down in sheer alarm in distress. I just feel like I’m tempting fate by agreeing to this again, even if it is just dinner and even if I SCREAMED that I didn’t want any sort of fuss made over my birthday by someone I literally just met. Let me tell you, if M cancels, you poor readers WILL be hearing about it. Probably in all caps. 

Date rating: 7.5/10. M was a nice, interesting, smart, fun dude and a great kisser, but he talked wayyy too much.

Lesson learned: DRINK LESS. That is all.

Worst date ever contest–vote for your fave!

S here, blogging live from my couch on a Saturday night. Someone had a little too much to drink at her office holiday party last night (that someone was me) and is still recovering from a nasty hangover. IN MY DEFENSE, mom, I was a perfect, professional lady until some co-workers and I went out after the main event. Things went slightly downhill from there. Not Bridget Jones’s Diary office Christmas party karaoke level downhill….but not too far off, either.

bridget jones

PS just spent way too much of my life searching for that clip on Youtube. No dice. In addition to last night’s madness, the night before, Thursday night, I also got inexplicably toasted on a first date. Which I will 100% be telling you all about next week, so stay tuned. What I’m trying to explain to you guys is: mama’s liver needs a break. 

Never fear, though. I’m here to blow up your phones with this update while you’re all out doing really cool shit and living your lives. My neighbors upstairs, for instance, are throwing what sounds like an amazing Christmas party. Meanwhile, I’m rocking Old Navy candy cane flannel pjs (#blessed) and working towards my December goal of watching every single Hallmark Channel Original Holiday Movie of 2013.

You probably thought that was a joke. Oh ye of little faith. Here’s why these movies are so great: If ABC Family is the luxury vehicle of original Christmas programming, and Lifetime is the nice, mid-level sedan, then Hallmark Channel is like… my 2006 Hyundai Elantra. Basic, made cheaply and efficiently, and f*cking fantastic. Here’s what I’m currently enjoying:

let it snow

Oh hey, DJ Tanner. Lookin’ hot in your budget ski resort wardrobe. Good for you, girl. 

Anyway. Sad singleton cliches aside, let’s get down to business. We hope you’ve enjoyed reading this week’s worst date ever contest entries as much as we have. And now…. it’s time to vote! We shared five entries in total. Please vote for your favorite in the poll below. We will leave the poll up until Friday, the 13th (dun dun dunnnn) and announce our three winners then.

If you missed any or all of the stories, you can scroll down to read them or click here:

Thanks again for reading, participating, and making us LOL with these amazing tales of terror. Happy voting, and happy Saturday night, from me and the Hallmark Channel.