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. 

Worst Date Ever Contest: Entry #5

Entry #5—The Chemist, or, The Time I Accidentally Went on a Date with a Ponytailed Carnie

This was a few years back so the details are fuzzy.  That and I blocked out the majority of what happened due to a) disinterest, b) horror, and c) I knew I would never date again should I have to relive this type of experience in my mind.  I assure you, readers, his profile seemed normal.  Tall and fit, short hair with a beard, a chemist.  His e-mails must have been funny — witty, even– and would have lacked the classic first messages along the lines of “hey gurll,” “damn u fine” etc.

I must have thought to myself, looks and brains?  My my, how did I get so lucky to snatch this one up?  If you ever have that thought and you’re looking at an online dating profile, the answer unequivocally is this: you’re about to be deceived, girl.  You’re about to be deceived.

We decided to meet for a drink at a bar near my apartment at the time.  He was already sitting down when I got there but I almost didn’t recognize him.  I wish it was because I needed glasses, or  because it was super crowded, or because I was blinded by the gorgeous Adonis sitting before me, waiting to smile at me and ask me for my hand in marriage.  But really, it was this: how does a tall, fit, bearded man transform before my eyes into an obese man of average height with a ponytail????

You read that right.  Ponytail.  I’d ilke to state for the record that I have not now, nor will I ever, date a sheman with a ponytail.  Probably could have posted a photo taken within the last 6 years, sheman.

He proceeded to order a beer and then explain that, while he was a chemist, his real joy was working at the carnivals every weekend making fried dough.  I’m sorry, what?!  Please repeat.  You’re a morbidly obese ponytailed carnie?  Oh, he loved him a carnival.  His friends were the carnies, and he liked smelling like fried dough.  Carnie told me all about his life at the carnival, and his recently ended nine-year relationship to a woman who came with both depression and a child.  And when I say he nursed that beer I’m telling you: he. nursed. that. beer.  He took an hour and a half to finish a single beer and when he finally took that last sip of backwash I thought to myself I did it!  The end is in sight!  I can feel it, I can touch it, I can smell it!  I excused myself to go to the bathroom and while I was in there made friends with a stranger.

I said “Girl, I’m on an absolutely horrible date, he’s seriously the worst.!”

And she gave me advice that I went on to cherish on many dates thereafter: “So say you have to go and just leave.”

Oh.  You mean, I can do that?  I can not be polite, and smile and nod, and feign a minimum of 18% interest while I try not to laugh as I’m writing haikus in my head of how bad this is going and how much you were not what I was expecting????

I went back to the table, looking for the waitress so I could surreptitiously ask her for the check or, even better, hoping he’d already asked for it so I could get the hell out of there, and run back to the safety of sweatpants, Grey’s Anatomy, and men who don’t have ponytails or work at carnivals on weekends.  I’d just gotten back to the table when he said the ugliest words in the English language: “I just ordered another beer.”


 I thought of the last hour and a half of my life, gone.  I thought of his ponytail, and his ex-lady friend, the depressed mother.  I thought of him touching any part of my body, even if clothed, and shuddered.  And then I thought of my guardian angel, my new friend from the bathroom, and I mustered the courage to say: “Oh, sorry, I actually have to go!”  I felt such joy at how refreshing it was to say these words, and refused a ride home.  The next day I got an e-mail from him, saying how much he enjoyed our date, how he really felt like we had a strong connection, and he couldn’t wait to see me again.  Sorry, ponytail, but you need to check back into the carnival.  We’re all stocked up on fried dough here.

Friends! This post concludes our first-ever, “worst date ever” contest. We are so thankful to everyone who entered, especially because we got to take a break this week from coming up with hilarious content and let our readers do it for us instead! That’s an especially good thing, since I am in full on Debbie Downer mode after ending things with the first guy I’ve really liked in a long time. (Get ready for more life lessons, and hopefully more Blerta, readers!) My misery (and the fact that I binge drank like a college freshman last night to forget about it) is preventing me from creating a poll, and the framing that would come with it.


 So while I continue to act like a sulky toddler, S, as always, has agreed to be a true pal.  She’ll be getting the poll up tomorrow.  Stay tuned!

Worst Date Ever Contest: Entry #3

Entry #3—Unwanted Physical

My online dating service of choice is OkCupid because it’s free and I’m a full-time graduate student (aka broke). I’ve found that the trade-off for using a free service is that there are a lot of guys who don’t have their shit together whatsoever. That’s why I was excited when I came across C’s profile. Seemingly funny, intelligent, educated, and driven, I was very interested. Also, he had a super endearing picture of him and his ailing grandmother, both with shaved heads – her because she had to have brain surgery, him in solidarity. I love people who love their grandmas. I sent him a message. After a few weeks of messaging, we decided to meet up. A few ideas were tossed around for our date and eventually C suggested we attend a lecture concerning alternative ways to teach the sciences to students in order to get them interested in scientific careers. Although most people I told thought this was the weirdest date idea ever, I was actually pretty impressed with the thoughtfulness behind it. C is a doctor at a very prestigious hospital in Boston and I am studying to work in education. The date seemed like a perfect blend of our interests. Plus, I’m nerdy as hell so I’m always down for a good lecture.

At the time, I lived about 50 minutes outside of Boston. So when date day arrived, I got to Boston a couple of hours early because the lecture started at the height of rush hour and I didn’t want to endure that level of stress immediately preceding this promising date. So I waited and waited and when it was finally time for us to meet, I got a text from C saying he was running late. Boo. So I waited some more and at long last, he arrived. There was food at the lecture and C asked me if I wanted anything. I declined but he loaded up a plate for himself. We found seats and chatted while waiting for the lecture to begin, except as we talked, he was also scarfing down his pile of food as though he hadn’t eaten in days. Luckily the lecture started a few minutes late because it gave C time to go back to the food table and fill up a second plate, which I also had the pleasure of watching him devour.

Oh, and the lecture hall was cramped so he had to awkwardly climb over me to go for his second helping. This provided an excellent opportunity for me to casually check out his butt…because it was pretty much on my face. The lecture got underway and after a while, C reached over and held my hand. Call me crazy, but sitting in a lecture hall in the midst of a highly intellectualized conversation about how to stimulate young minds in their physics classes doesn’t exactly light my fire. Apparently it did for C so we held hands for a little bit…meh. At the intermission, C asked if I wanted to leave and go get a bite to eat somewhere. I was exhilarated at the thought of watching C eat for a third time. In fairness, we hadn’t had much of a chance to chat thus far, so I agreed. We found a Mexican place and ordered some nachos to share and actually had some pretty great conversation. It was so great, in fact, that by the time the evening was winding down, I decided that all the prior questionableness was null and void; I liked C enough to see him again.

Except then C basically gave me a physical. By that I mean he asked me several questions about my medical history and provided me with some unsolicited general health suggestions. For example, C told me when I should start having mammograms, when I should stop taking birth control pills to avoid negative side effects, how often I should get tested for STDs and which ones I should be tested for, what vitamins to take, etc. I thanked C for his concern but informed him that my primary care physician was perfectly capable of advising me on medical matters. Yet, this interlude didn’t really bother me that much. It was definitely odd, but maybe C was trying to show off his suitability as a mate by demonstrating that I could live a long and healthy life with him by my side to look after these details.

Then, before I hopped in my car for the trek back to the ‘burbs, C kissed me. Since I could still see myself going out with C again, I went with it….until I felt his hand grab my boob (over my top) a couple of seconds later. To be clear, this was not some passionate make-out session where anyone in their right mind could construe that it would be appropriate to go for the grope. This was, I thought, a little goodnight kiss. I don’t exactly remember how I reacted except that I pulled away, removed his hand, and probably said something incoherent since my jaw was on the ground. C seemed just as surprised by my reaction as I had been to feel his hand on my boob to begin with. Then, apparently unphased, C said, “Wow, your breasts are very large. I mean, I had some idea from your photos online but I had no idea they were that big. That was more than a handful.” Thank you, C. I’m pretty sure I know how big my boobs are, but thank you for that medically-precise assessment of their size nonetheless. C was flabbergasted and couldn’t even fathom why I would be uncomfortable with him touching my boobs. So that was the end of that. I headed home. He told me to let him know the next time I was going to be in the city. Um, sure.

Later that night, in what I can only surmise was an extremely misguided attempt to rectify the situation and get me interested in a second date, C sent me several texts vividly describing how he was going to kiss my neck, nibble my ear, caress my thigh, etc. Because, you know, even though I wasn’t into it in person, I’d be wicked turned on reading about it via iMessage. Once again, C was surprised when I responded and told him I wasn’t feeling it. I wish I could say I hadn’t heard from C since then, but C is the gift that keeps on giving. He texted me a few weeks ago because he was bored in his research lab and wanted me to send him “dirty, dirty” pictures of myself. Not just dirty. Dirty, dirty.

Worst date ever contest: Entry #2

Entry #2—Cheap date

One day a few years ago I was feeling very optimistic and agreed to go on a blind date arranged by….my mother.  She had met my future date’s mother at a business meeting and once they both realized they had single kids who lived in the same city they got to plotting. They were very pleased with themselves for making such a fantastic arrangement.  He, a nice Jewish law student, and she – a sassy Irish-Danish girl from Jersey. I was, as I said, feeling optimistic, and as my mother said “What’s the worst that can happen?  You get a free meal?”  Fair point mom, fair point.  Who doesn’t like free things?  I was game.

The minute I saw my date, however, I was immediately discouraged to find out that my date had Michael J Fox’s height without any of his charm and charisma.  His short stature was topped off with a giant Jew-fro making him significantly taller yet still under 5’5″.  I decided to still push through though – onto the free dinner!  Perhaps he had a wonderful personality or was secretly going to be the Billy Joel to my Christie Brinkley.  (I do NOT actually think I am at all in Christie Brinkley’s class but my point is, that Christie and Billy’s wild discrepancy in the looks department accurately compares with the looks of myself and my awesome, awesome date).

At the bar/restaurant, my date went on to order some of the most expensive food and beers off the menu.  I had a $9 chicken cutlet and one beer.  We sat and chatted for a little bit because I could talk to a brick wall so I’m sure he thought I was having a good time (side note – I was not).  At the end of the evening the bill came and the waiter placed the check closer to my date. I saw the check and the meal was well over $60 what with his large meal of “drunken clams.” He immediately picked it up and I thought – way to go, date! – Just as that thought left my brain, he threw the check back onto the table with a $10 bill and said “This is all I have….”



I. know.  Did I just get up and tell him to have fun washing dishes then?  Or ask him where his DEBIT CARD WAS?  It was 2007 and no one walks around without some sort of plastic.  And adults do not go places without having enough money to pay for AT LEAST themselves, let alone their date. No.  No.  I was mortified and silently went into my wallet and pulled out the emergency cash I had in case I “had to go dutch.”  Little did I know I would be paying for the ENTIRE MEAL.

I left that evening and sat and cried by myself in the train station.  I immediately went home and made my mom pay me back the money for the dinner.  So at least technically, I did get a free dinner.  Thanks mom!!

The next day he sent me an email saying he had a really great time and he’d like to do it again.

Hahaha, I bet he would.  I never responded.

Worst date ever contest: Entry #1

Hi, friends. Did you wake up this morning with a post-holiday weekend case of the Mondays? Do your pants no longer fit after four days of carbo-loading? Are you still recovering from the trauma of attending your 10 year high school reunion? Or is that just me and L?

romy and michele

Never fear. We’ve got the cure here at Stucu, and that cure is other people’s misery. Schadenfreude FTW!

We LOVED reading your submissions to our ‘worst date ever’ contest: between the picture fraud, money drama, tooth issues, sexual harassment and general soul crushing awkwardness you shared, the three of us are (for once) feeling like our dating lives are not the bleakest on the planet. And for that, dear readers, we will be eternally grateful.

We’ve picked five worst date tales to share with you. We’ll post one story each day this week for your enjoyment, and on Friday when we post the last story you’ll be able to vote for your favorite. The three winners will receive some swanky Stucu swag (say that five times fast–dare you) but more importantly, the honor and glory of being pitied most grievously by their internet peers. Thanks to all who participated and happy reading!

Entry #1—Dental Drama

So when we say “worst date ever” contest, the original interpretation is quite obvious, but how about “worst date ever” when you are in fact the culprit?  Let us begin.

Years ago I went on my first date with my now husband. We went figure skating and out to a pizza place I had never tried. To provide some very important and oh-so-embarrassing context, I have tooth implants. I have two fake teeth right up front in my mouth, and at that time, I was wearing one of those Invisalign retainers with two fake teeth in them. This retainer was quite old, and if you think food didn’t get stuck between the plastic and the fake teeth, think again. This led to some pretty unique food filled smiles (I could literally write a book).

So post pizza, my nerves high and wondering if there would be a kiss, I did what any toothless gal would do and waited for my date to become preoccupied.  When he was searching around for the waiter to ask for the check (we split, #firstdatedebate), I pulled out my teeth to do an inspection. My gut was right: pasta sauce and cheese had manifested itself in my retainer in front of my teeth.  Again, thinking my date was preoccupied, I did what at the time seemed logical (missing teeth = missing part of one’s brain), and started swirling my retainer around in a glass of water on the table like it was a god damn dishwasher.

The horror and curiosity on my date’s face was unparalleled. I knew I had absolutely blown it.  It’s hard to really laugh at the whole “pulled out my dentures to clean them at the table while in a restaurant” routine, so the check came and we headed out. I was mortified at my own dental date behavior and thought that was it.  My crush that I was obsessing over for 6 months was going to walk away. But obviously, since I’ve mentioned him as my husband, this story ends well. The true moral of the story here is: go to the bathroom to deal with your teeth issues, girls!

The Art of Messaging

Here is an exhaustive list of the messages I have received in the last 48 hours:



hi how are you

jamaica soul sister

The first three messages are useless for obvious reasons.

That last message came from a guy IN Jamaica. And while it’s flattering he thinks I’m a soul sister, I can only assume that assessment is based solely on our mutual love of baking, since our profiles make it pretty clear that we have exactly nothing else in common. I already bake plenty of treats, without even factoring in my habit of stress-baking (which reached an all time high in late October/early November, 2012 when bar results were imminent). The last thing I need in my life is another baker. Also, I do not live in Jamaica, so there’s that.

I will refrain from launching into another diatribe about the sad decline of grammar, but I will say that the explosion in the number of available emoticons leaves me deeply disappointed in the world. I mean, why do we need an emoticon for waving?

jamaica soul sister 2


*Don’t forget to enter our Worst Date Ever contest! We’ve already received some hilarious submissions and there’s still time if you have a horror story to share with us (and the rest of the internet). We’re even going to extend the deadline, because we’ve received a number of requests to include regular dates in the contest. So if you’ve had a non-online dating disaster, go ahead and send it our way, we don’t discriminate! E-mail your entries to by midnight on December 1st.

100th post: Worst online date ever contest

About a month ago, S, D, and I realized that we were close to hitting our first huge blogging milestone: our 100th post! That’s right readers, between the three of us, in the last year, we’ve received literally almost 1000 messages, been out with over 40 men, and yet here we are, all still single, and still blogging. You’re welcome. The only reason we haven’t entered into functional, meaningful relationships is because this blog is too hot to stop. Just ask Reddit.

Anyway, in honor of what we are calling “The Centennial,” we wanted to do something special for you, our devoted friends and family readers. During an initial brainstorming session, I posed some preliminary ideas to S:

L: How about we each ask someone on an offline date? Like, go up to a guy on the street or in a bar, and ask him out?

S: Um…have you ever tried that? **

L: No, that’s why it would be fun.

S: Yes, because we are always bumping into really eligible, datable men, in the flesh. Who want to go out with us. Didn’t we get on the internet because we weren’t meeting any men in person?

L: You’re correct. Nevermind. (L forgot a critical part of the story and the main reason I shot this idea down: she proposed that we give ourselves a week to meet an eligible single dude in the flesh, ask him out, and go on a date. A WEEK. If you’ll recall, I was legitimately stressed about my ability to go on one date in a month, while USING AN ONLINE DATING SERVICE! Call me crazy but I thought that may have been just a slightly unrealistic goal to set for our sad selves.)

S: Any other ideas?

L: OMG. I just had a brilliant one.

S: Yes…? (Making a skeptical face and using a skeptical voice. Hrmph)

L: We go on a date, and then we only talk to our date using song lyrics. For example, he could say, “Where are you from?” and I’d say, “just a city boy, born and raised in South Detroit.”

S: You’re from New Jersey.

L: Or, he could say, “Why did you join OKCupid?” and I could say, “I want to know what love is. I want you to show me.”

S: Do you know any other song lyrics besides random 80s ballads?

L: “Like a shotgun bang. What’s up with that thang? I wanna know, how does it hang?” I CANNOT. WAIT. TO. USE. THAT. LINE.  (Laughing hysterically at her own wit. Having trouble breathing).

S: I mean, we have enough trouble meeting dudes as it is; we probably shouldn’t handicap ourselves any more with terrifying behavior like that. (L, you are making me sound like such a sourpuss! I love a Journey/Foreigner power ballad as much as the next girl and you know it. I mean, we did attend an epic Journey concert together in college, if you’ll recall. I just don’t see how speaking to our dates only in song lyrics would make us any LESS single.) (Also, I’m really terrible with lyrics. Not as bad as “the girl with colitis goes by” or “hold me closer, Tony Danza”, but closer to that extreme than I care to admit. So my execution of this kind of exercise would be comically bad/embarrassing, though potentially very endearing? A girl can dream…)

We kicked around some other less brilliant ideas for awhile, and then we had an epiphany!

OK, it wasn’t as groundbreaking as that epiphany, but it will change our lives for the next couple weeks or so. The best online dating stories we’ve heard are actually NOT our own. In fact, the best thing about having a dating blog is having semi strangers who want to be your new friends (#celebproblemz) come up to you and tell you a hilarious, terrible, soul crushing date story. So, in honor of both the amazingly bad stories we’ve heard, and the fantastic, inspiring courage and sense of humor we’ve seen people demonstrate by sharing these stories with us, we’d like to introduce…


Here are the rules to enter:

1. You must tell us about an online date (any service, from Tinder to eharmony, to Christian fucking Mingle, is fine).

2. You must change identifying details (names, website usernames, employers) or be cool with us changing them.

3. We know we can be some wordy mofos, (what do you mean, L? My posts are always succint) but since we’ll be posting multiple submissions try to keep them on the short side. 

4. The story must be true (we obviously have no way of knowing this, but we’ll assume that no one is lame enough to concoct a fake dating tale and send it to us).

5. You must submit your story to on or before Thanksgiving 2013 (November 28th). Because then we can all spend the evening being thankful we weren’t on your dates. And you can spend the evening being thankful that date is over.

UPDATE: We’ve received a lot of requests to include non-online dates, and we here at Stucu love any dating horror story (it’s always nice to know you’re not alone). Since we’re now accepting terrible date stories of all kinds, the deadline for submissions is now extended to midnight on December 1st. Keep those stories coming, we’ve been laughing WITH you since they started rolling in!

Here is how we’ll pick a winner:

1. We’ll pick our favorite submissions and post them here the first week in December. We’ll keep submissions totally anonymous,  and if needed, seek your permission to edit them down.

2. We’ll set up a poll so readers can vote on their favorite stories.

3. The top 3 submissions will receive our first ever fabulous, exciting, Stucu blog swag! What will they win, S?

stucu tote final

That’s right, readers. Three lucky winners will receive a fabulous Stucu canvas tote! Whether you’re filling it with organic kale at your local farmer’s market or stuffing it with clean undies and a toothbrush on your way to see your jump off, this tote gets the job done in style!

Okay, not the most tricked out swag ever, but we can at least all agree we’ve got Paddy’s Pub beat:

Please please please send your stories, and encourage your friends and friends of friends to send us theirs. It will (hopefully) be like one big cathartic therapy session of dating awfulness where strangers on the internet also laugh at our collective misfortune. Thanks for reading and Happy Blogaversary!


L, S and D

** Incidentally, I’ve been trying for weeks to work up the courage to do exactly this. You see, I’m hopelessly in love with a total stranger my commuter rail train conductor, who likely thinks I’m mentally challenged based on our limited interactions to date. Though I have no problem initiating contact with a guy online, I get really nervous/flustered trying to do it in person. Typically, one of two things happens: I turn into a virtual mute who openly stares and occasionally manages to string a few coherent words together; or I ramble endlessly. Thus far, my evening commute has been 98% the former (I don’t see him in the mornings until I get off at Back Bay and I either smile sheepishly at him or pretend to be really engrossed in the crossword puzzle, depending on how bold I’m feeling that day). For the entirety of my 45 minute ride home I lurk near the end of the car where he stands chatting with others, pretending to read a book and willing myself to say something, anything, to him. I rarely succeed. When I do, it’s just to say good night as I get off train. Once, before I could say good night, he said “see you in the morning” and I was so excited I almost fell off the train before I managed to squeak out “you most certainly will!”. The two times that we’ve exchanged more than just pleasantries, it was just a few minutes before my stop and he initiated the conversation. While I wasn’t completely awkward or terrible either time, I didn’t do myself any favors either. There was some rambling the first time. I don’t even know if he’s single, I only know there’s no ring. So progress is slow on this front (I would clearly have failed under L’s proposed one week rule), but I’ll keep you fine folks updated if/when the situation advances.