Category: Date Stories (page 2 of 9)

J: The Michelin Man

Context: First, I must make it clear that this gentleman’s pseudonym is Michelin Man NOT because he looks like a certain pillowy mascot, but rather because he took me to a Michelin Star restaurant (Tail Up Goat in Adams Morgan – SO GOOD). Now, I know what you’re thinking – Michelin Star restaurant? On a Tinder date? Slow your roll, dude. Continue reading

J: Talk Nerdy to Me

Context: I matched with ‘Programmer’ on Tinder, intrigued by his nerdy-chic glasses, and we arranged to meet for a drink after he got back from his Thanksgiving in Oregon. We met at Penn Commons at 7:30 PM on a Sunday. Continue reading

J: The taco thief

Context: I matched with ‘Thief’ on Tinder on a Tuesday, and asked him how his day was. He told me that he was pretty upset because he had not had any tacos, even though it was Taco Tuesday. We made plans to remedy this unfortunate taco situation at El Chucho on Thursday night. Continue reading

J: Let’s taco ’bout it

Context: I matched with ‘Delaware’ on Tinder, and after a short conversation, I called him out on being 100 miles away. He confessed that he was actually living in – SURPRISE! – Delaware, but was moving to DC and had been in town looking for a place. I told him to hit me up when he was back in town, and on a Sunday night, he texted me that he would be touring apartments that week. We set up a taco date for the following night at Taqueria Habanero

It is truly amazing that, after 80 first dates in the past year or so, I have never been stood up.


Have I stood guys up? Absolutely. There was that one that I was going to get drinks with at Bar Pilar, but I got far too hammered at boozy brunch, and then just unmatched so I could continue drinking with my friends…

…and then there was that one that I was supposed to meet up with, but then my roommate L had an Uber Eats coupon code, so I unmatched him so we could eat Indian food, and then he found me on Facebook* and sent me a message that he had waited at the restaurant for 30 minutes and it was very rude of me to stand him up…

…and then, of course, the guy MC and I convinced to come meet us at Chinese Disco one Wednesday night when a) Chinese Disco was closed and b) we were actually at El Centro. He went. It was closed. He wasn’t fazed and still kept trying to hang out with us. NO.

*Too much. Do SO much less.


I thought all of this was coming to an end on Monday night. There I was, standing in my kitchen drinking wine and tracking down the mouse that has taken up  residence under our oven, when I got a text.
Delaware – Hey, I’m wrapping up this apartment tour, be there in 20!

It was 7:25, and #wastehistime2016 still has a significant amount of life left in it, so I planned my trip to get me there promptly at 7:55.* I peeked inside Taqueria Habanero and couldn’t spot him in the throng of people in the very small restaurant, so I shot him a text.


LOOK AT THOSE TIME STAMPS. JUST LOOK AT THEM. Twenty minutes, Delaware? Who the fuck do you think you are?! I wouldn’t even wait for Chris Evans for that long.** Jesus.

*Ended up spending 2 minutes watching a man get arrested. Wasting more time? Perfect.
**This is a lie. I would happily wait for him for 20 minutes or hours or millennia.

Now, lest you think that I actually waited outside for this idiot to text me back, let me fill you in on the timeline of events.
7:57 – Text several friends asking them when I could leave and order Uber Eats.
7:58 – Leave and order Uber Eats. Walk to Giant to pick up beer.
8:07-8:15 – Peruse the beer section at Giant, trying fruitlessly to decide between the 789 varieties of pumpkin beer and instead deciding that I will purchase all of them and hire a homeless man to help me carry them home.
8:16 – Receive above text.

My heart was torn. The beer was already in my hand… but the STORY… but my Uber Eats was on the way… but FREE TACOS…

I had to go.


I parted ways with my beer, blowing it a kiss and reassuring it that mommy would be back later, and walked back to Taqueria (unfortunately, no arrests on this go around). I spot him as I walk in, and notice that he has eaten the full basket of chips, and is putting his coat on to get ready to leave?! What the fuck??

My annoyance and confusion no doubt came through in my forced hello, because he gave me a weird look that was dripping with spite and retorted.
D – It’s very rude of you to be this late. I was about to leave.
J – I was here 25 minutes ago and you didn’t respond to my text.
D – It’s cold outside. I wasn’t about to wait outside.

It was November 7. It was 64 degrees outside. COUNT YOUR BLESSINGS, BITCH.

I took a deep breath and tried to put this bizarre introduction behind me, but there was one thing I couldn’t get over – this guy looked like a legitimate horse. Big teeth, giant, flared nostrils and all. NOT a good look. But, I managed to restrain myself from telling him to go back to the stable from which he came, because I wanted my tacos and margarita paid for.


I tried to strike up a conversation about his search for apartments in DC, and quickly noted that he was a bit of a Negative Nancy.
J – So, what have you thought about the places you’ve looked at?
D – Too expensive. Housing in Wilmington was much cheaper.
J – …because there’s nothing in Wilmington and this is the nation’s capital, maybe…?
D – And there are too many rats, and the girl who just showed me this house was smoking a joint, and I could barely find parking.
J – Once again, it’s a city…?
D – Too many mailboxes.


I responded by stuffing an entire taco into my mouth. He took this as an invitation to continue talking.

D – Do you know why they give you two tortillas for these tacos? I really only need one. Are we supposed to split it into two tacos? Are they not aware that some people are calorie conscious, and tortillas have carbs?
J – *chugs deeply from margarita*
D – I’m 27 now, and my metabolism isn’t what it used to be. I’m not about to go spend another hour in the gym because this Mexican restaurant so rudely gave me two tortillas.
J – *blank stare*
D – By the way, do you do drugs?

I could have had Uber Eats and beer. Why do I put myself in these situations?!


J – Haha, I mean, sometimes I smoke weed when it’s presented to me, but not that often…
D – Marijuana is the devil’s lettuce.
J – Well, that’s one opinion, but I don’t think it’s harmful if you don’t become addicted…

At this point, I think he legitimately started praying for me. He’s not going to do well in Columbia Heights. I was ready to get the hell out of there, but when our waitress came by he asked for ANOTHER TACO. I didn’t want to stay for another taco. I gave him an inquisitive glance, and he responded.
D – I had to eat more tacos than you to feel like a man.



We finally got the check, he paid in cash, and we left the restaurant.
D – *pointing towards my house* I parked down this way. What way are you walking?
J – *pointing exact opposite direction* THIS WAY BYEEEE

I cut a wide circle around the block before making my way back to my house. FREEDOM. I neither wanted nor expected to hear back from him, but two days later when my roommate K asked me to show her a picture, I couldn’t find him in my Tinder. Motherfucker unmatched me! Well, two can play that game.



Oh, how I love to get the last laugh. Think he’ll still be moving to my neighborhood?


J: Players gonna play

Context: I matched with ‘Player’ on Bumble, and we talked briefly before scheduling a date for a Wednesday night. We met at Bonfire at 6:15, and I had to be at Buffalo Billiards to host trivia at 7, so I wasn’t expecting much out to come from my 45 minute date. Boy, was I wrong.

For most of my dating life, I’ve been drawn to guys who are close to my own age. Partially out of convenience – why would I strike out on a search for grad school men when some dude my own age was sitting next to me in accounting class??? – but also for the sake of being on the same timeline as someone. Because, let’s be real, guys – older men want to settle down. They want to start a family. They’re looking for LOVE.

You just keep waiting, buddy.

You just keep waiting, buddy.

Quite frankly, to anyone who starts talking about things like ‘commitment’ and ‘marriage,’ I say: That’s a very stupid subject. I’d rather discuss my big toe or your early-onset arthritis. Then I glare, hiss, and run – not walk – away from the person who has tried to suck me into such negativity. Denial is key.

Then, I went on 70-some first dates with 23ish-year-old idiots over the course of a year, and realized that the maturity gap between males and females is real. And this means a lot coming from a girl who had the following conversation at baggage claim last month:
J – But why would they call it a baggage carousel if they don’t want you to ride it?!
TSA Official – Ma’am, please collect your belongings and exit the premises.

I’m a catch, I’m telling you.


Plus, there’s a little thing called a ‘salary’ that dictates how much shit a dude is going to buy me. If he’s older, he’s less likely to be a #4 Broke Grad Student and actually pay for my meals and belongings and such for an extended period of time, which is really all I’ve ever wanted. So, when I came across Player on Bumble – a 28-year-old, successful lawyer with two impressive alma maters – I swiped right immediately. Sign me UP!

We chatted briefly, and set up a date for that Wednesday night. However, him being the very important lawyer that he is (swoon), he had a meeting run late. I, being the busy-bee that am, had to go host trivia. 45-minute date? Why not?


And really, it went well! Conversation was easy, he bought me a beer and himself a pink beverage called a ‘Snow Bunny,’ (which I ridiculed him endlessly for), he walked me to trivia (DID NOT STALK ME INSIDE) and we closed things out with a nice hug (NOT A HANDSHAKE). Great times.

Fast forward to the next day. I’m sitting at work, crushed with the weight of my workload but still unwilling to do anything on my to do list, when a brilliant thought crosses my mind. Why don’t I LinkedIn stalk the lawyer to find out what he’s all about?

Genius, I tell you.


With a quick Google search of his name, employer, and school (all info gleaned from his Bumble profile, FYI), I stumbled upon my handsome date. And his last name. Which sounds strangely familiar…

…maybe I had met him at a work thing…?

…maybe we knew each other in a past life…?



Ohh yes. See, a few short months ago, MC had gone on several dates with this very same gentleman, who had evidently just gotten out of a three year relationship and was back on the market. One Friday night, she texted him, as was customary.
MC – Hey! What are you up to tonight?
P – Oh, just an Arlington night with the boys! How about you?
MC – Out on 14th & U! If you end up in the area, let me know.
P – Will do!

Several hours later, MC is drunk and happy as a clam outside Lost Society, when WHO SHOULD SHE SEE but Player and his friends walking into the 14th & U McDonalds.

Okaaaaaaaay. Whatever, maybe their plans had changed. Regardless, this could wait until the next day. MC shot Player a text that afternoon:
MC – How was your night?
P – Good, just played some beer pong in Arlington with my buddies, then called it an early night! How about you?

Okay, idiot fuckboy. MC is way better than that, and should not put up with any of your shit. And neither. Should. I. Operation: Ruin Player was go.


Fast forward to my Halloween party on Friday night. I pulled me and MC’s friend Lo aside and filled her in on what was going down, as well as my elaborate scheme to ruin Player.
J – So essentially, my plan is to make him love me and then RUIN HIS LIFE

Several hours later, I found myself at Provision, three vodka sodas in front of me and a booty call from Player on my phone.
P – Hey come to this postgame it’s super fun!!
P – We’re playing beer pong and eating pizza!
J – Idk, there’s crazy surge pricing and the Uber to Arlington is super expensive…
P – I’ll buy it! Where are you?


I hopped in the Uber, made the long-ass trek across the bridge to Virginia (ew), and found myself standing outside, in the cold, not entirely sure where the house I was going to was. Panicking, I dove into a stairwell that I most definitely should not have been in. I texted Player, and we began a glorified game of Marco Polo as I chattered his name through my teeth while trying unsuccessfully to cover the 75% of my body that was exposed. It was a very fun time in my life.


He eventually found me and we began our walk to the house, taking frequent ‘rest’ breaks to make out a little (both as part of my plot to make him love me, and because I was hammered). We joined up with the postgame, and as we were getting beers from the fridge I asked him if he knew BP, since they had both graduated from the same college around the same time.
P – Yeah, I know that dude! We had a bunch of classes together. I wonder what other mutual friends we have?

Before I could say anything, Player has pulled me up on Facebook. His demeanor faltered slightly as he gazed down at our one mutual friend.
P – …How do you know MC? Are you friends from college? Maybe you’ve drifted apart? Haven’t talked to her in a while?! Ha ha hahaha ha??
J – …..I know who you are.*
P – Oh, fuck.
J – MC and I are very close. We tell each other everything.
P – So, you probably hate me…?
J – No, I won’t let your past cloud my judgment. Just know that I’m aware of what your game is, and if you try to pull that shit with me, I’ll call you the fuck out.

Then, we made out and danced in the kitchen, played no beer pong, ate no pizza, smoked some weed, and passed out fully clothed on a very small couch. COMFY.


*Never have I ever said I wasn’t super creepy, and drunk me has little to no filter.

I woke up the next morning extremely confused. Why were we on a couch? Why were we on the small couch and not the large couch next to it? Why did we not have a blanket when I was fucking FREEZING? Why were there so many paper towels on the floor?* Where even was I?!

*Player’s friend had decided to wrap Player in paper towels so that he would look like a mummy. GOOD.

Player, likely sensing my panic and confusion, woke up shortly thereafter and answered my questions. We were on a couch because this wasn’t his house (???). We were on the short couch because he’s stupid. We didn’t have a blanket because, once again, he’s stupid. But, he was willing to drive me home – so he wasn’t that stupid, I guess. And he seemed to be falling for my game, so I was pretty happy with the way things were going.


Until he ghosted.

Yep, friends, Player dropped me off at my house, and I never heard from him again. Even when I fuckboy texted him “Hawthorne” (his favorite bar) the next Friday at 1 AM. Apparently you can’t change the Player, after all.

When things like this happen, I need to remember that it doesn’t mean anything. Nothing means anything. I think I just became a nihilist with terrible grammar.


So yeah, this sucked. But I find solace that there will come a day when karma will rear its ugly head on Player and finally exact the revenge that MC deserves. And let me tell you, any man who drinks a pink beverage called a Snow Bunny on a first date and then thinks he can ghost on you has a lot of bad juju coming his way.


J: My day on Tinder Social

Context: Tinder has now hopped on the same train as apps like ‘Grouper’ and ‘Squad,’ but with a much less offensive name (A GROUPER IS JUST A FISH) and none of all the bullshit that goes along with setting up a new dating app profile, like losing all of your dignity. Not today, Satan.

Rather, Tinder has integrated the group dating functionality directly into the original app itself, allowing you and your friends to form groups and to swipe on others who also lack shame. The following tale is the story of my first experience on Tinder Social with my partner in crime, KC.

7:30 AM – Eyes open. In my own room? Check. Hungover? Check. Alone? Check. Seems like a normal Sunday. Locate phone.

“KC has added you to a group on Tinder Social”

Ah. So it’s going to be THAT kind of Sunday. Okay, I can deal with this. I swipe through groups as I laze in bed, willing my hangover to dissipate by sheer force of will (a highly effective technique).


11:45 AM – Leave bed. Throw on a dress, because my brain only has the capacity to deal with one piece of clothing right now. Throw on makeup, because I look like the crypt keeper. Depart my house to go meet up with KC and other friends at his place.

12:30 PM – Arrive at the boys’ place. There is an inflatable rubber duck sitting uninflated on the couch. I begin to blow it up because I want to show off my lung power and because I don’t know what else to do. Brain function: 10%.


12:45 PM – Receive a text from an unknown number.
John from Hinge – Hey, it’s John from Hinge.

Not really knowing or caring about this human’s identity, I source ideas for a response from the others in the room.
J – No.

1:15 PM – I find time to craft a response.
J – Howdy doody, John from Hinge! How are you doing on this fine Sunday*?!
JFH – I’m good, having brunch with some buddies.

I’m just about ready to hit him with a ‘cool story bro’ gif when he comes back and redeems his conversational skills.
JFH – How’s your Sunday going?
J – About as good as it can be when you’re blowing up an inflatable duck!
JFH – Where are you going with this?
J – *Sends picture of half-inflated duck*

John from Hinge never responded.

*I’m weird as shit


1:45 PM – The duck is inflated. My lungs are broken.

2:00 PM – KC matches us with a group of two guys: H and N. They message us.
N – Read bio.
Bio – Looking to blackout with randos.
KC and I exchange glances. We’re in.
KC – We can play beer pong at my apartment if you bring beer and cups!
N – Down. Be there in 20.

We make use of KC’s balcony to stalk people who might potentially be H and N. As we peer covertly over the ledge, a Jimmy John’s promoter below spots us.
JJ – Hey, guys, I’ve been handing these sandwiches out for an hour and I’m TIRED. Will you please take the rest so I can go home?
KC/J – …um, yes?!
2:30 PM – We are the proud owners of four new sandwiches. Thank you, kind stranger.


2:45 PM – We spot N and H. N is wearing the goofiest Hawaiian shirt I’ve ever seen. H is wearing a muscle tee that shows off his hunky frame. There is a god.
2:45:30 – We decide that they don’t look like serial killers, so we head downstairs to let them in.
2:50 – Commence beer pong.
N – Yo, my friend lives across the street! Let’s see if we can see him from here!
*Commence frantic waving, J wondering if across-the-street guy could be her soulmate, fantasizing about future together*
N – He said he’s doing laundry but he’ll be over in an hour or so.

3:20 PM – I start to put things together.
J – Hey N, you said you went to school at [UNIVERSITY] and work at [CONSULTING FIRM], right? Do you know Thumb Man?
N – Yeah! That’s the guy who lives across the street who’s coming over!!!
N – How does a human look like a thumb…?
J – He doesn’t have a CHIN and his HAIR is the same color as his FACE and it’s WEIRD!!!!


3:21 PM – I begin texting my ex and invite myself to his happy hour later so I can escape Thumb Man

3:45 PM – I post a snapchat story of everyone in the room singing the National Anthem. Reason still unknown. America.
5:00 – Tinder Social boys depart. Core team meets up with KC’s parents at El Centro for happy hour. I am blackout.
5:05 – I get the hiccups.
5:05-5:59 – I make a complete fool out of myself in front of KC’s parents. They hopefully find it endearing, but I will never know. I am far too hammered to care.


6:00 PM – I am still blackout and have not eaten since my small Jimmy John’s sandwich. I call an Uber to aforementioned happy hour with my ex and his friends.
6:04 – Uber arrives.
6:04:30 – I decide that I will speak to my Uber driver solely in French for the duration of the ride.
6:04:35 – My Uber driver also speaks French.
6:04:36 – I give my Uber driver my phone number.

6:20 PM – My Uber deposits me in front of 51st state, where my ex is surprised to discover that I am blackout and hiccuping (this is, amazingly, the first time he has seen me in either of these states).
6:22 – I divulge a lifetime worth of secrets.
6:30 – I run out of secrets of my own and begin to tell other peoples’ secrets.
6:45 – I am deep into the story of my 5th grade love life when, by the mercy of God, friends arrive and take over the conversation. I distract myself with several pints of beer, which I definitely don’t need.


10:30 PM – I realize my phone is at 1%. I Irish exit the bar and call an Uber home.
10:45 – I ignore all texts asking where I went, instead ordering a pizza and eating half a slice before passing out, fully clothed, on my own bed.

I woke up the next morning to confusion, several frantic texts and calls, half a slice of pizza in my bed, and a camera roll full of pictures of an inflatable duck.


Tinder Social: 1
J: 0

Can’t wait for the next time!


J: Stop following me

Context: I matched with ‘Stalker’ on Tinder, mostly because his bio said he was interested in learning yoga, and I was willing to exchange some tips for free booze and tacos. Priorities. We chatted for a while, but when ‘yoga’ got more and more ambiguous, I stopped responding, because euphemisms are some high school shit. After a week of my ghosting, he messaged me again.
S – So, no yoga then?
J – Actually, I stopped responding because I couldn’t tell if you were using yoga as a euphemism for sex.
S – What? No! I meant yoga! I promise!
J – 
S – How about I buy you dinner, and we can discuss yoga plans?
J – 

S – Dinner can be tacos!
J – Deal.

We made plans to meet at Alero at 6 PM on a Wednesday night, before I hosted trivia.


There is a certain art to knowing when it’s time to leave a date.

Has the man paid? LEAVE.

Have you resorted to talking about the weather? GET THE FUCK OUT, BITCH.

Has he mentioned children, marriage, or ex-relationships? Run. Run, and never look back.


My date on Wednesday, unfortunately, did not know when to leave the date. And, as a result, he will never receive a second date. Let me back up.

Stalker and I were scheduled to meet at Alero at 6:00 PM. As someone who does not like to waste any time, I texted him at 4:30 to confirm that he would, in fact, be there.

No response. Fuck.


I don’t have time for guys who don’t respond, I thought. But I really love margaritas, my brain countered. You have a fuck ton of work to do, bitch, called out my responsible side. MARGARITAS AND TACOS, THOT. GET YOUR FREE SHIT FROM THIS UNSUSPECTING MAN.

My thot side always wins. Luckily, I got a confirmation from Stalker while I was on the Metro, en route to tequila paradise.
S – Sorry, work was crazy today!
J – *Running on two hours of sleep over the past three months* OH HAHAH YEAH I’M SURE IT IS THIS MUST BE SO HARD FOR YOU AHHHHHHH
S – *oblivious to my life struggle* I’m on the bench right by the entrance!

Now, there are several Aleros in DC. And there is no bench at this Alero. My left eye began to twitch. Was he at the wrong Alero? Did I interrupt my very busy very important work schedule for NOTHING?!?!?!


The good news: My date was at the correct Alero.
The bad news: My date does not know what a bench is.


Things were obviously off to a great start.


And, overall, the date was good. He was easy enough to talk to, he bought me tacos and FOUR margaritas (*heart eyes emoji*), and he didn’t seem like a serial killer. Yippee!

Everything changed at 7:15 PM.
J – Ah, look at the time! I need to head over to trivia to set up.
S – Can I come?
J – Well, most people play in teams… and it’s mostly regulars… and I can’t talk to you, because I’m hosting… but if you really want to come, I’m not going to stop you?



So, I roll up to trivia with my puppy dog in tow, trying to play it cool. I go to hand him a packet of answer sheets, and he waves me away.
S – Nah, I don’t think I’m gonna play.



What the fuck what the fuck WHAT THE FUCK.


So, for the next 2.5 hours, he sat at the bar, sucking back one gin and tonic after another, staring at me. Cool. Awesome. Stellar.

After the weirdest trivia of my life, it was finally time to leave. He walked me to the Metro, and – when I was expecting this man who STALKED ME TO MY SIDE GIG to try to eat my face – he shook my hand.



So, I went home, logged back on to my work laptop, and worked into the wee hours of the night, trying anything to get my mind off what had just happened.

The next morning, he texts me.


I’ma let you digest this for a second.
1) Of course you’re David from last night. Who the fuck else would you be? Thank you for sharing the context clues, just in case I had blacked out from that third margarita?
2) He shared with me very early into our date that, when he had texted me “I’m almost there,” it had almost autocorrected to “I’m almost heterosexual.” Same.
3) That picture is not me (thank GOD). That picture is not him. That picture is a random person whose Snapchat trust he disavowed by screenshotting it and then attempting to send it to that person. Dude, why? They know what they looked like in that snap. TBH, they probably saved it and are planning to instagram it later today with the caption “#selfie #iwokeuplikethis #willtherealGuyFieripleasestandup #DinersDriveInsandDivesfolyfe”
4) Why.

I did not respond. I will never respond, Mister Stalker.


Best of luck on your journey to full heterosexuality!


J: Watch your tongue

Context: I matched with ‘Hiker’ on Tinder, after being entranced by his various pictures in front of mountains (wow so scenic much adventure) and his job that sounded important and wallet-like. We chatted for a while, and then decided to meet at Dacha beer garden on a Friday evening.

On Thursday night, I died.

Well, maybe not died died. That would be a shame, because I have so many more things to accomplish in my life – like getting a fuckboy to fall in love with me, spend a year saving up his salary to buy me an engagement ring, and then taking the ring and running away with it to a tropical island where I will never be found and can live in luxury as pool boys fan me and feed me grapes.


What I did do is the following:
– Drink a full bottle of wine before happy hour
– Drink ALLOFTHETHINGS at happy hour
– Take 90 shots because when a senior manager buys you shots you don’t say no
– Tackle-hug every person I work with and ruin myself professionally
– Overuse the dog filter on my snapchat story
– Flirt with two guys until finding out they were Canadian, at which point I said “EW CANADA IS GROSS” and ran away
– Call an Uber for myself and another guy who lives close to me
– Immediately cancel that Uber when BP pulled up and order him to drive me home (40 minutes away)
– Copy and paste the same “you up” text to four guys because I’m a fuckboy
– Lose the keys to my house, mailbox, and car
– SOMEHOW break into my home
– Leave a fucking trail of tears of Tostitos scoops between my kitchen and my bedroom (and in my bed) (and in my pillowcases)
– Fall asleep fully clothed, shoes still on, on top of my covers
– Not hook up with anyone (BAD THOT)
– Die


So, quite the eventful Thursday! Which explains why when my date on Friday rolled around, I looked a little bit like this:


But, as they say in weird strip clubs, the show must go on. I was supposed to walk over to Dacha to meet Hiker at 7, so I did a little test run and walked my sorry ass to Giant to pick up some electrolytes. Three things of note occurred on this walk:

  1. I realized that I was fully incapable of walking even to the nearest Metro station if I did not want to end up in the hospital after taking my first sip of beer. Dacha was out. Sorry bout it, dude.
  2. Men will literally catcall at ANYTHING. This little dude was yelling out his car window at me, at the toddler in front of me, and at the 400-pound Puerto Rican woman behind me, and it took all the strength that I had (which wasn’t much, tbh) to not yell “I’VE THROWN UP EVERYTHING I’VE EATEN AND DRANK TODAY, DICKFACE! YOU THINK THAT’S SEXY?! DO YA????”
  3. I may have anger issues.


Back in bed, armed with a Powerade and still wearing my pajamas, I moved onto the next step – moving my date.
J – Hey, I really hate to do this, but I’m super hungover and I don’t think I’ll be able to make it all the way to Dacha. Would you mind meeting at The Coupe?
H – Sure, no worries! I could also reschedule, if that works better for you!
J*thinks about the 2-week business trip I’m leaving for the next day* Hmm…
*thinks about how much I love free drinks* Well…
J – *thinks about the great blog entry if I throw up on him* NOPE NOT RESCHEDULING LET’S GO TONIGHT

Do it for the stories, friends. For the stories.


And, amazingly, my date went well! I managed to down two beers over the 2.5 hours we spent at The Coupe, and one more once we migrated to Meridian Pint, and didn’t even feel sick! And he was cute! And we got along! Yippee! Romance! How grand!

…this was, until he started making out with me at Meridian Pint. And this is NOT some neighborhood-dive-turned-Friday-night-dance-club where you’re supposed to make out with another 20-something while Fetty Wap plays in the background and your friends fist pump around you and pretend not to notice. This was a nice bar, half-filled with a mix of young professionals and nice-looking couples (who I will hopefully never ever see again).


I broke away fairly quickly, informed him that we were in public, and suggested that we leave (it was now 11 PM, and I was ready for B.E.D., y’all). He closed out his tab and walked me home, where things went from bad to worse.

As we stood outside my house, he lunged at my face and started trying to find my tonsils with his tongue. NO, SIR! GET OUTTA THERE! THOSE ARE MINE! I pulled back, and he spoke.
H – So, I’m pretty fucking cool, right?
J – Yeah, I guess you’re pretty cool…?
– OH. Not pretty FUCKING cool?!
– pretty fucking cool, sure, idk?
– So, can I come inside?
J – Umm, no. This is a FIRST date, sir. I am NOT some street hussy!*
– Wow, that sure is a shame… *lunges at face again*


I ran into my house, slammed the light switch to ‘On,’ and immediately became aware of the fact that a mouse had taken up residence in my kitchen. GRAND. JUST GRAND. EVERYTHING IS GRAND.

Maybe the mouse will be my friend. Maybe I can marry the mouse. We will live happily together and eat cheese all the time.


Maybe I need to sleep.

*I TOTALLY act like a street hussy on a regular basis, but my hangover had reminded me how much I need Jesus.


Lo: Football season has begun

Guess who’s back, back again. Shady’s back, tell a friend.


…ok, you caught me. It’s not the iconic Slim Shady. It’s just me, Lo. And, while I am iconic and slim*, I am not shady. But, I am back with a story about one particularly shady motherfucker.

*A diet of tacos and margaritas keeps you slim right?? I swear I read that in a Cosmo somewhere!**
**Ok, that ‘somewhere’ may have been my dreams. It is likely the same place where I am married to my favorite Senator and am low-key running the White House, Olivia Pope style.


This is the story of the guy who stood me up. Twice.

Football* and I matched on Bumble was back in the beginning of ‘Summer of YAAAAAS.’ We quickly exchanged numbers and made plans for a dinner date at Mari Vanna** later that week. On the day of the date, I sent my usual confirmation text around 2:30 PM for our 6:30 date. And then I waited… and waited… and waited. Silence.

*Dude was an SEC football player and now has a very cool NFL-related job. Husband goals.
**Channeling my inner Karen Walker for alllll the vodka.


Right around 6, Football sends me a flurry of apologetic excuses. Something about being sent away on last minute travel for work, blah, blah, blah. Whatever. Work is work and he did seems genuine in his apology for essentially standing me up, so when he asked to reschedule, I hesitantly agreed.

And then I waited. And waited. And, YOU GUESSED IT! Waited. More silence. UGH.

Not one, not two, but THREE WEEKS later, I get a text from Football as MC and I are laying on the floor of my parents’ living room, rendered immobile by the excess of Wawa and Rose we had just consumed.


At this point, I diagnosed him with a case of textbook fuckboyery (n), chose not to respond, and continued to swipe away on my search for Prince Charming. NOBODY keeps Lo waiting.


Fast forward 2.5 months to a lovely August evening with J and MC at El Rey. I’m sipping my marg and flirting with two lovely Princeton boys when a tall, dark, and handsome gentleman approaches me.
Boy: Oh my gosh, Lo! How are you?!
Lo: Oh… uh… hi…?
B: How’s your family? Do you still love your job downtown? Aren’t you moving down the street soon? How’s your grandmother’s pet bird? Have you been back to NY?
Lo: Uh…
B: *smiling charmingly*
Lo: ……….
B: *still smiling, SO charmingly*
Lo: *trying not to melt into my margarita while simultaneously trying to figure out if I acquired an attractive stalker during a recent blackout bender*
Lo: MC! HI! *grabs MC’s arm and yanks it out of socket* This is my friend MC!
B: Hi, I’m Football!
Lo: *GASP*
MC: Ow, what the hell, my arm!
B: *Still smiling charmingly and looking more and more beautiful by the second*

Although I’m normally aware that fuckboyery is an incurable disease, I decide that perhaps my diagnosis was wrong. Perhaps behind that tall, fit, beautiful exterior and witty, charming, graceful personality, there isn’t a fuckboy! Perhaps I was too quick to judge?


He texted me the next day and invited MC and I to pregame and go out with him and his friends. We spent the evening dazzling each other with our charms and wits (have I mentioned how charming he is??) and chatting about our family, ambitions, life goals, travels, hopes and dreams, our future kids’ names, the house we will purchase, how he plans to propose… ok, so I may have a flair for the dramatic, but you get it. He then literally puts me in an Uber (opens the door, says hello to the driver), but does not give me a goodnight kiss. Instead, he makes me promise to text him when I return from a week of work travels.

I subsequently decide that I’ve met my soulmate and spend the next week trying not to gush.


Upon my return from a week on the not Best Coast, we make plans. On the day of, remembering his past as a fuckboy, I send a confirmation text around 2:30 PM. And wait… and wait… until about an hour before our date is supposed to begin. He has decided to change the location, since it’s NCAA kickoff week, and he wants to meet up with some of his alumni buddies. Not ideal for a first date, but I’m easy, breezy, beautiful, COVERGIRL, so I roll with it and banter about how much his team sucks.*

*They do. Sorry not sorry.

And, guess what, guys?! SURPRISE, SURPRISE, I end up not getting a location until 45 minutes after our date was scheduled to begin. The beautiful pedestal I had built for my soulmate came crashing down, right before my eyes. Stood up again.


Luckily, the red Cabernet I brought home from Napa Valley turned out to be the perfect cure for my bruised ego.

Football tried again twice over the long Labor Day weekend, but – as I said before – nobody keeps Lo waiting.

MORAL OF THE STORY: Fuckboyery is an incurable disease. Don’t question the diagnosis. Don’t try to cure it. Steer clear. If, like me, you fall into the trap and find yourself at a loss, I highly recommend excessive amounts of wine, dancing, cheese, and several long and frantic phone calls with your best friend.

If y’all need me in the meantime, you can find me taking shots and making out with strangers at Wonderland Ballroom.



TD Guest: J from another angle

Context: Hey readers! While I’ve been off gallivanting around the Grand Canyon, my one-time Tinder match/long-term text message correspondent Calamity James (he chose the pseudonym, clearly…) has valiantly volunteered to write a blog post about yours truly. Although we both feel that we have known each other forever due to the frequency of our written correspondence, the truth is that we have only met once – at Ted’s Bulletin on a Monday evening. Read on to hear what Mr. James thought of a date with the notorious J!

J—I suppose to maintain the anonymity of the creator/demigoddess/supervillain of this website, I need to call her “J”—was late to our date. Not that being late actually bothers me very much, I’m usually running on the later side of things myself. So while I wasn’t upset or put off, I just found it funny that after roasting plenty of unsuspecting gentlemen on the internet for being even the slightest bit tardy, the J herself left me sitting at the corner of the bar for about 20 minutes. Given the degree any inconvenience caused by first dates has catapulted guys like Beans to D-list internet fame on this website, I was damn sure to be firmly butt-placed on a bar stool by 7pm sharp.


Seriously though, her being a little late was totally okay. Men getting their man-panties in a twist over punctuality (very early on in dating, anyway) is a BIG red flag—but more than that, the Orioles game was on the rickety cable television hanging over the liquor rack. Provided I have access to alcohol (we met at a bar, so ‘check’) and baseball (the bar had baseball on TV, ‘check’…), I can’t ever be all that existentially unhappy in any given moment.

Realistically, I’m not even sure she was telling me the truth about what caused her to be late in the first place. Earlier that day, J told me she was working from home, but if memory serves correctly, “something about the office” is what held her up that night. We had texted throughout the day, as we occasionally do, just to chat: J let me know she was really hungover that morning (it was a weekday…), had coffee with an ex-lover on a whim, AND—for reasons she never quite detailed—had inflated a massive blow-up duck the day prior.

Needless to say, I was aflutter at the thought of meeting my ever-so-stable date that evening.


No matter. Charismatic and energetic as ever, J burst through the revolving doors and lit up the room at approximately 7:20pm.  Now, I haven’t read all of the articles on Tinder District*, but from the TD articles I have read I’ve gathered that J hates the proverbial “me” not waiting outside the restaurant in the event I get there first. Makes enough sense though, right? It is always a little awkward when you have to downplay the anxiety that is hoping you don’t blatantly walk past the person you’re supposed to meet—or God forbid, go up to the wrong person. “Okay, okay…” I thought to myself, doing that overly-animated nodding-effusively-in-agreement thing that everyone does, “I can understand that one.”

*Which surprised her—though in retrospect, her genuine shock that I might have an existence outside of reading her work shouldn’t have surprised me as much as it did.

The English major in me feeling smugly that I could make a “direct reference” to the text (in this case, “the text” was quite literally text messages), I informed young J that while I realized her preference was for me to wait outside, it was humid; I’d decided instead to perch myself just inside the door. I think she found it in herself to forgive me.


She was wearing a fairly thin navy dress, the kind that billows a little bit if it is breezy (or if she’s trying to motor to 10,000 steps that day on her FitBit, as she did later after declining my offer to drive her home). The color of the dress accentuated the intense crystal blues in her eyes. It was a good play to get the attention of any man who appreciates quirky, intelligent women with dark hair and bright blue eyes—which really should be every man, I think. It’s also a good play to get your food paid for, so I had to give J some dual-credit here: as one of the only dates she’s had that has been even aware of the hot literary mess that is Tinder District, I knew going in what she was actually after. As any reader of this website knows, approximately 35% of my intrinsic value to J was affording her a free fancy meal. However, even if I hadn’t been so painstakingly aware of her frugal taco desires, J’s vibrant energy and dashing blues would have convinced me to pick up the check without a second thought.


I’ve found when I try and script out how the conversation for a date is going to go, it becomes overly robotic—which provides insight as to why my high school acting career was short-lived. While it goes against my over-prepared nature to not have at least some dialogue structure in mind, I decided to throw caution to the wind, trusting that two people as ridiculous as J and myself would find plenty to ham on about.

ALSO: I ensured my “throwing caution to the wind” would be a strong conversational play by downing at least 50-some dollars-worth of adult libations during the course of our date. She claimed to be so hungover that she couldn’t touch alcohol that night, though my inner alcoholic questioned why in God’s name she would ever respond to drinking by not drinking. Frankly, if so much of this blog wasn’t devoted simply to J telling the world about how much she loves to get drunk, I probably would have followed her lead and not drank alcohol. Scratch that—I definitely would not have drank alcohol; I never drink on early dates if the good lady isn’t similarly sipping away. J is such a shining beacon for all our first dates though—a very schlumpy, drunken, shit-faced beacon—and resultantly, I still feel absolutely no reservations about legitimately getting drunk and making increasingly-dark jokes throughout the course of our time together.


She said she liked questions. Scratch that…she said *with the crazed look in her eye of a 3rd grade schoolgirl at a Beyonce concert* that she liked questions. Specifically questions about herself. I would come to find that J has a great desire to share her existential being and subsequent crises with the world. Maybe the website could and should have tipped me off about that, but the entire concept of Tinder District has been so fascinatingly….different, really, that I really wanted to get to the bottom of the question I think every guy who has read this website has thought at one point or another: is this chick for real?

For one, lads, yes. She is very much real. I can officially confirm that J is the tall, chatty, shapely-in-the-hips (DISCLAIMER: this is a good thing) brunette that her Tinder profile claims her to be. There is no catfishing here, unless you count the fact that about 25% of her conversations with you on Tinder is one of her friends, and another 40% is her toying with you over text for the amusement of the masses.


I also found out the Tinder conquest is real. Very real. Like, there really doesn’t seem to be any aspect of this little game she plays that is fabricated in any which way. Most of me respects that, or at least respects that she’s committed to the process of her (quasi-manipulative) social experiment. It’s the part of me that thought we might be going on a date that would yield any form of significant emotional connection that found itself disappointed—albeit only a tad. In actuality and real-life application, how much one man can happily enjoy time with the emotional Rubik’s cube that is J likely boils down to how much he understands that there are very non-traditional aspects of this person’s romantic process, and subsequently plays into her game accordingly.

As B-Rock Obama likes to say: “Let me be clear.”


By “romantic process”, I mean the systematic—albeit somewhat ingenious—usage of Tinder to procure free alcohol, humorous tales of relational calamity, and above all: delicious and consistent tacos that inspire wonder and awe within the soul.

And by “plays into her game accordingly”, I mean that you should probably pay, bitch. And if you don’t pick up the check, check your Venmo sooner rather than later. There’s actually a chance she will Venmo you if you don’t pay for a large portion of the date, if not all of it. And if you don’t come around like a true gentleman and quickly send her some compensation through the app, there’s a hefty interest rate the longer you avoid payment.  As appalling as that actually sounds on paper, don’t judge her too hard. This kid Beans was a real motherfucker.


I said don’t judge her too hard, not don’t judge her a little. God.

Another way you, the progressively-dejected-as-you-read-this male, can score dating points with J by way of playing into her game is to mention what a clever game you find it to be in the first place. CityGirl J does think she’s quite the intellectual acrobat, and she’s quite right to characterize herself as such. It just isn’t because she does things like trick boyz (LOL!), or drop her SAT score on a first date, or tell you where she graduated in her college class.

Well, college maybe is a little different. She did a lot of impressive things there, though she seems fairly tepid about mentioning something that could be traced back to an significant aspect of her person. I heard much more about her friends, her follies, and her exes. She’s clearly a very sociable person, and her relationships—platonic and otherwise—mean a lot to her. So while that’s legitimate and not some sort of “shallow-with-intent” façade in of itself, I’ve always wondered why someone who seems so skilled at first getting to know people doesn’t have much recourse for connecting with them past a certain point. I was taken aback by a handful of things she referenced that her most recent romantic conquest didn’t know. And this being a guy that I’ve heard her talk about more positively than any other man she’s mentioned.


This isn’t to say that J is at all relationally inept. In fact, I think she’s quite the opposite. Generally, someone who is as intelligent and emotionally literate as J is—while simultaneously being so focused on romantic relationships—seems like a good candidate to actually know quite well what she ultimately wants. It’s just that I walked away from our time together wondering how close she is to figuring out what she wants. Or, perhaps, the degree to which she knows what she wants, yet is unwilling or unable to put in the emotional effort to attain it.

Maybe this is all entirely foolish, inaccurate postulation. After all, J is terrifically enterprising, not to mention gifted at charm and being a social chameleon. Maybe that was just the mood she was in that night. Maybe she just wanted to run home and tell her life partner/spirit animal (the aforementioned blow-up duck) about how she had bamboozled yet another suitor.


Don’t think I have all the answers. I’ve just been on one date—one date where somehow, J didn’t stumble away after downing more drinks than her date that night, or even drink at all. She just had a milkshake. And I appreciate her being upfront about her past issues with some aspects of mental and emotional well-being, even sans liquid confidence. I don’t think she’s some evil, conniving woman out to take out her frustrations on MANkind by way of Tinder trickery and deceitful dinnertime conversation. Honestly, I don’t think the real J is actually all that much like the entertainer that we all get to laugh with and enjoy on this website. I think there’s a lot more to it than that.

I’ll probably need at least another date, though, to get the whole story.

Calamity James

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