BOYFRIEND FOR THE NIGHT:

/’boiˌfrend/ /’fawr/ /’th-uh/ /nīt/

When you meet a boy out and that night, and that night only, you both act like you’re in a relationship. You don’t go anywhere without him. You drink at his pace. You wait in a designated spot (“I’ll be right here.”) when he goes to use the bathroom. You move over to his group of friends and, after you introduce yourself, you act as though they’re your group of friends, too. ‘Vice-versa’ applies to all. You effectively break up when you leave the bar.

• How was last night?
• It was fun. I played “boyfriend for the night.” 

NOODLE STABBER:

/ˈno͞odl/ /stab’-ur/

When you think his penis is hard enough to get in, but right when it hits, it folds.

• How was the sex last night?
• We didn’t end up having the sex. He had a noodle stabber.

BEEF STROGANOFF:

/bēf/ /ˈstrôgəˌnôf,ˈstrō-/

An ugly girl.

• Do you think he went home with that girl last night?
• I bet he didn’t. She looked like beef stroganoff.

SAM

The boy: Reed

Disclaimer: This is a pretty disgusting story, which involves a girl getting her period. Read at your own discretion. 

LAST SUMMER:

Sam was hooking up with Reed. Sam was 2 years out of college… while Reed was still in college. He was a summer intern working in the city, there for 8 weeks. The two met about halfway through Reed’s internship and he went to school on the West Coast so, at best, their relationship could last 4 weeks. It didn’t, though. Almost.

This is the story of what happened to cut Sam and Reed’s relationship short, so that it ended just shy of a month…

Sam was hesitant to hook up with someone younger than her, but Reed was genuinely really interesting and mature. So she was all like, “Ya know what? Fuckett. YOLO.”

For their first date, Reed suggests that they go to a cupcake store, which also serves wine and beer (goodie!!). It’s super adorable that Reed suggests this, but it’s also super lame. So Sam, feeling empowered because she’s older, suggests that they don’t. Also, she prefers to eat caloric treats when calories don’t matter, like when she’s drunk and alone and hardly remembers eating them.

Sam tells Reed to meet her at normal establishment that serves alcohol, a bar. She’s a few minutes away from said bar when she gets a text message from Reed.

Reed’s Text Message: “So this is kind of funny and embarrassing but I’m only 20 and I look just like my brother and his ID has worked everywhere in the city except this place apparently. First time I didn’t get in somewhere is of course when I’m going to meet a girl.”

Awwwwww!

Also, hahahahahaha.

So they try a different bar where Sam strategically approaches the bouncer first. Second-in-line, Reed doesn’t have a problem getting in with his brother’s ID. Sam remembers this strategy from college.

Strategy-from-college: The 21-year-olds always go into the bar first because if the rest of the group isn’t allowed into the bar after them, the bouncer is effectively kicking out patrons who have committed to spending money there. Also, helps if they’re hot.  

Sam and Reed have a great time that night, and continue to see each other afterwards.

3 ½ WEEKS AFTERWARDS:

Reed is subletting an apartment in the West Village. It’s in an old, quaint walk-up with a flat, unfinished rooftop, which you can climb up to with a little creativity, and a lot of hoisting. Back from going out one night, Reed and Sam are sitting on his rooftop with a 6-pack of Sam Summer.

Sam was already sufficiently drunk, and could have gone without those few extra beers. But she’s a champ and drank ‘em anyways. At the time, Sam was going through a “reckless-when-drunk phase,” so she decides that she wants to explore the rooftops of the neighboring (and thankfully adjoining) buildings. Her depth perception is quite impaired, however, so what she thinks is going to be a one-or-two-foot drop to the next building’s rooftop is really a six-or-seven-foot drop.

A dainty leap lands Sam laid-out on the rough concrete of the unexplored rooftop next-door, which she so badly wanted to get know. She’s fine, but earns a nasty, deep gash below her right knee, which is also profusely bleeding.

Drunk First Aid: Wrap knee with toilet paper and secure with duck tape. Hook up a little bit. Go to sleep naked

That night, Sam also unexpectedly and unknowingly got her period.

Yea…

THE NEXT MORNING:

While Reed is still in bed, Sam gets up to go the bathroom where she finally realizes that she got her period. She doesn’t know this, but Reed is now awake and on the other side of the bathroom door, on his hands and knees, cleaning up spots of blood left on the floor. Like, really getting in there, scraping up the dried blood with his fingernails and whatnot. He thinks it’s from her knee. It’s not.

(It’s from her vagina.)

Yea, I went there. I said it.

Sam comes out of the bathroom and is mortified when she sees Sam. Looking up from the ground, Reed earnestly asks Sam how she is feeling. He tells her that he’s very concerned because he didn’t realize just how badly she had cut open her knee the night before. “I mean, there’s also blood all over the sheets,” he says.

Um, excuse me? All over the sheets?*

Sam, discreetly of course, cranes her neck so she can see into the bedroom, and there is, in fact, a whole ‘lotta blood spots on the sheets. Sam is obviously not going to correct poor, young, naïve Reed, especially after his very intimate clean-up, so she goes along with the blood-originating-from-her-knee story.

However, having no experience with this sort of perverted lie, Sam does a bad job with the cover-up and leaves a very telling piece of evidence at Reed’s apartment- her bloody underwear.

Sam doesn’t even realize that she left her underwear at Reed’s apartment* and they continue to talk like they did before the ‘incident,’ so Sam thinks she’s gotten away with it.

*Sam was very hungover in the morning. It’s easy not to notice that you’re not wearing underwear when your head, and this case your knee as well, is pounding.

A FEW DAYS LATER:

Sam gets a text message from Reed.

• Reed: 

• Reed: “Those Chinese dry cleaners didn’t do anything. Do I need bleach?”
  • Err, or a garbage. 
• Reed: “Also, are these yours?”

• Sam: “No..”
  • Or, yes..
• Reed: “[My roommate] must have hooked up with a girl in my bed…?”
  • Sam is examining the picture, zooming in as far as possible, trying to see if there are blood stains on the pair of underwear. She can’t tell, though and she’s thinking about confessing.
  • Then Reed texts her again…
• Reed: “They are kind of big though.”
  • Yea, so now Sam’s definitely not going to confess. 
• Reed: “I literally have no idea how they got there/whose they are.”
  • Sam doesn’t either?

THE DAY AFTER “A FEW DAYS LATER”:

Reed learns 2 facts:

1. His roommate did not hook up with a girl in his room.
2. The pair of underwear does have bloodstains on it.

These 2 facts then cause Reed to come to 5 realizations:

1. The pair of underwear is Sam’s.
2. Sam lied about the pair of underwear not being Sam’s.
3. The blood on his sheets and that he was cleaning up from the floor was not from Sam’s knee.
4. Sam knew that he blood on his sheets and that he was cleaning up from the floor was not from Sam’s knee.
5. Sam’s kind of a bitch.

And finally, these 5 realizations lead Reed to 1 conclusion:

1. Sam and his relationship is over.

I blame Reed for Sam’s lie. He said that the pair of underwear was “kind of big” when asking Sam if it was hers! Obviously, she’s going to say no.

Maybe Reed would have gotten a truthful answer from Sam if he asked her something like: “Hey sexy gurl, are these bootylicious yet slinky, bloody pair of lacy panties yours?”

I mean, probably not. But maybe.

SARA

The boy: Her boyfriend

My friend Sara, the one with the 31-year-old boyfriend, recently moved in with him, into his apartment. Into his really big and new apartment in a doorman building that he owns. He owns.

This blows my mind. I’m impressed when someone tells me they don’t use their parent’s HBO Go account or have wine glasses in their apartment for more than 3 people.

Sara and her boyfriend are decorating their now-shared apartment so that it no longer looks like a barren bachelor pad. I ask her how the decorating is going. She tells me that it’s going well because the furniture they bought is really nice, and now they have more things to have sex on/against/while bent-over.

Cool. I’ll just go fuck myself, then. In my full-sized bed. Because if I sat on my kitchen table, it would break.

LUCY

The boy: Ben

Lucy went on a date with someone she met at a bar. His name was Ben. This was back in November. Since Lucy and Ben hadn’t met before, conversation started with pretty boring answers to those pretty-boring-but-you-gotta-ask-‘em-anyways, first date questions (Where are you from? What do you do? Do you have siblings? “Ohh, that’s nice!”).

Then Lucy asked Ben a question that finally ignited conversation.

Eh, not really conversation. More like a too-long and painfully-boring lecture given by Ben on the topic of Halloween.

Lucy’s question- “What project were you working on last Sunday?”

Last Sunday: Lucy was bored and didn’t have a real interest in dating Ben, so she had the balls to text him and ask if he wanted to meet her for a drink. Ben said he couldn’t because he was working on a project.

Sidenote: Lucy isn’t a terrible person for agreeing to go on a date with someone who she is pretty confident that she will not want to actually date. Sometimes you think that person will surprise you in a great way when you do go on a date with them, like look completely different.

Ben’s response- “My Halloween costume.”

During their date, Ben showed Lucy every one of the many pictures he has stored in a separate Halloween-dedicated album in his phone. She saw Ben’s Halloween costumes from the past 7 years, as well as his favorite costumes worn by friends, family members, and some celebrities.

Lucy learned, among many other things, how much money Ben has spent on each costume, how many things he has ordered from Ebay to authenticate said costumes, how to deconstructed regular cowboy boots to then reconstruct them into superhero boots, how far in advance Ben needs to start planning his costume (Nov 2nd), and how to mix different color spray paints to get the exact hue you’re looking for.

To make things even less interesting for Lucy, she didn’t know a single one of the characters any of his costumes were supposed to be. Uh, pirate? JACK SPARROW, YOU IDIOT. GOSH. 

That year for Halloween, Ben was Wolverine (Ben- “Hugh Jackman from X-Men.” Lucy- “Oh.”). He was still sporting the mutton chops that he grew for his costume on their date. Let it go, buddy. Just let it go.

IT’S ABOUT ME- FUCK IT.

The boy- Wess 

Preface: I feel like, so far, my blog sounds like I’m hating on men. The last three posts have been stories in which the guy is the loser, and the girl shines.

So I’m going to turn the tables and tell you a very embarrassing story about myself, where the guy shines and I am the loser. The (I promise!) uncharteristically, crazy loser. 

I’m 23 and single, and I’m good with it. Seriously. Like if I were sending you a text about it, I wouldn’t include a period at the end of my message, because we all know how that changes the tone…

 “I’m good” (Friendly- Seriously)

vs

“I’m good.” (Aggressive- Not Seriously) 

One of my best friends, Sara, is dating a guy who’s 31. I hang out with Sara and her boyfriend a lot, which means that I hang out with her boyfriend’s group of friends a lot… which means that I often times find myself in social situations with “mostly couples.”

New Years Eve is coming up, which is my absolute least favorite ‘holiday.’ I begged my parents to spend a stupid amount of money for all of us to go see the Billy Joel premier concert that night, just so I would have an ‘out’. My parent’s didn’t give in though, because its very obvious that I care/know very little about Billy Joel.

A list of literally every single thing I can think of that I know about Billy Joel:

• He’s gay
• He wears sequins
• He plays the piano well
• Robert Downy Jr. was in one of his music videos
• The melody to “Tiny Dancer” (Not so much the lyrics- Until very recently I thought the lyrics were “hold me close, I’m tired of dancing.” Which makes way more sense.)

*I know that is Elton John*

Because my parents don’t love me, I actually have to make New Years Eve plans…

I make plans with Sara to go to a New Years party hosted by one her boyfriend’s friend, which means that my plan is to spend the night with mostly couples. Spending a typical night with mostly couples is fine. Spending New Years Eve with mostly couples sucks. 12AM on Jan 1^st is the most polarizing time of the year. It’s either:

 “You’re kissing the person you’re going to spend the rest of the year with! Maybe even the rest of your life!!!”

or

“You’re not kissing anyone but everyone else is! You’re going to die alone!!!”

This is what’s going through my mind during the countdown, when everyone around me is preparing to kiss their significant other:

10- Fuck.
9- Oh, fuck.
8- There has to be someone.
7- Anyone?
6- COME ON.
5- Seriously?
4- Yea. Seriously.
3- Look at the floor.
2- Don’t look at the floor, that’s weird.
1- I’m single… and I suddenly care?

This party is catered (I’ve now learned from hanging out with 30+-year-olds that some of them actually make money and can afford to treat their guests to food and drink more extravagant than pretzels and generic soda). Post-12AM, after coming to the overly-dramatic (and thankfully fleeting) realization that I’m going to be single forever, I give up and I’m posted up alone by the table of food, aggressively stuffing my face with spinach and artichoke dip and pieces of California roll, when a handsome stranger comes over to me.

“FINALLY,” I think.

I have too much food in my mouth to chew and swallow in time to introduce myself, so I just shove the mayonnaisey mush into my right cheek and get out a muffled hello. I convince myself that it’s ‘cute’, what I just did. But it’s not. It’s actually pretty disgusting. Anyways, the stranger tells me that his name is Wess.

Wess and I talk for a few minutes until he politely excuses himself and walks away.

Then fucking Wess, goes over to another fucking girl, and he kisses her. HE FUCKING KISSES HER.

“HE’S PLAYING ME,” I think.  

Wess walks by me, because I’m standing by the food table located at the center of the party, and I grab his arm.

“I’M GOING TO TELL HIM OFF,” I think.

This is how my “telling him off” goes:

Meredith– HEY. I saw you kissing that girl over there.
Wess– Uh, yea…
Meredith– What? Is she your, your girlfriend?
Wess– Yes.
Meredith– But, you were talking to me before that?
Wess– Because you were standing alone for 25 minutes eating dip.
Meredith– YOU LED ME ON.
Wess– I was just trying to be nice.
Meredith– Yea. Well. WHATEVER.

“I WIN,” I think.

I’m kidding. I lost so hard. I mean, I was acting crazy. SO crazy. And I knew it, but I just didn’t care. I wanted to get mad at someone and Wess was that person. Sorry, Wess.

Moral of the (embarrassing) story- Don’t be the only single person at a party on New Year’s Eve.

Moral of my (embarrassing) post- My blog isn’t anti-male.

WHITNEY

The boy: Timothy Sykes (Note: this is not a code name, he’s a ‘public figure’)

Whitney is that kind of person who believes only in extremes, and often oscillates from one extreme to the other. She’s never somewhere in the middle.

5 (very true) Examples of Whitney’s One-Extreme-Or-The-Other Mentality:

1. Whitney’s Hunger:

“STAR.VING.”

or

Asks you to get her phone from her bedroom because she needs to ‘digest’ on the couch

2. Whitney’s Diet

She once ate bacon from the trashcan

or

On-again vegetarian

3. Whitney’s Spending Habits

Membership to Equinox

or

I wasn’t allowed to throw away a cardboard box because she used it as her iPad keyboard case

5. Whitney’s Take on Sex

Celibacy (Wearing a overly-oversized knit sweater and undies, she says, “Not worth it. My insurance doesn’t even cover my birth control.”)

or

Promiscuity (Wearing just undies and her chest covered in bruises, she says, “I made him choke me just ‘cuz I wanted to try it out.”)

Whitney goes out on a Saturday night to one of the douchiest bars in the city and meets some of the douchiest boys in the city. Not surprisingly, after leaving the bar that night, Whitney- being Whitney- believes that she will never, EVER meet a decent boy at a bar because all bars suck. And all boys that go to them do too.

Whitney gets back to her (at the time, our) apartment and she’s drunk and discouraged. She changes into her overly-oversized knit “I-give-up” sweater, then gets her laptop and a fuckin’ fork for her fuckin’ cheeseburger S’mac, and slumps into the couch.

Like most 22-year-old girls, Whitney is a big fan of Bravo (if you do not heart Andy Cohen, you are a soulless monster. See below.) And like most Bravo fans, Whitney watches, like, every show on that sometimes-asinine, yet highly addictive channel.

If you do not heart Andy Cohen, you are a soulless monster who probably hates these people/things too:

• Ellen DeGeneres
• Golden Retriever Puppies
• http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aMS0O3kknvk
• Jim + Pam’s relationship on The Office
• Buzzfeed
• Free samples
• Netflix Original Series

Whitney was especially into the Bravo show “Miss Advised” at the time, which, if you don’t remember, follows 3 single relationship experts as they give advice to other single people while trying to find love for themselves.

One of the women on the show was Amy Laurent, who is a matchmaker in NYC. Men come to her to ‘find love’ and Amy sets them up on a date with one of the women she has stored in her ‘database.’

What happens next:

1. Drunk Whitney sends in a picture and fills out an application to be entered into Amy Laurent’s ‘database.’

2. Sober Whitney reads a very-confusing-until-she-remembers-what-she-did-drunk-on-Saturday-night email at work on Monday from Amy Laurent, which says she’s been accepted into the‘database.’

3. Drunk Whitney is apparently a 27-year-old.

4. Sober Whitney is like “whaaaaa?”

In the email, Amy asks to meet Whitney, the 27-year-old girl who, from the picture, looks really good for her age. Whitney wears a blazer and real jewelry to their meeting the next day at Amy’s office. Amy tells Whitney she has a ‘great’ potential guy for her to meet. His name is Tim, and Amy can vouch for him- she knows Tim personally and he’s a “great guy”

Amy was only half-lying. Tim’s a dick. But she does know him personally. Fast forward to a few episodes of “Miss Advised” later and you’ll see that Amy went on date with Tim herself, and fucking hated him.

Whitney goes on a date with Tim and finds out for herself that he is, in fact, a dick. And apparently, a very, very successful one.

Tim invites Whitney to meet him at one of the most-expensive and fancy restaurants in NYC. Despite his wealth, it’s just “for drinks.” Whitney remembers that Tim spent most of the time talking about his personal chef, which adds insult to injury. I mean, Whitney- being Whitney- is “STAR.VING.” She also remembers that Tim told her that he can’t ski, but that he is “very into sledding.” Which is amazing.

To give you a better idea of who this guy is, I’ve done some research for you:

Timothy Syke’s Wikipedia Bio: Timothy Syke’s is an American stock trader, entrepreneur, and penny stock expert. He is best known for turning his Bar Mitzvah money into over $1 million by day trading in-between classes at Tulane University.

3 words/phrases that equals someone who sucks: Stock Trader + Bar Mitzvah Money + Tulane= you suck

More ‘3 words/phrases that equal someone who sucks’

• Paleo + Clean Eating + Never Give Up
• Actually saying the word ‘Hashtag’ + #yesplease + National (insert anything) Day
• Speakeasy + too mainstream + Ramen burger

A Few Blog Post Titles from Timothy Skye’s Blog- I would include actual quotes from the blog entries because I’m sure they are riddled with gems, but I think I would throw up if I read them.

• How to Sit Courtside at an NBA Game & Get Rich
• 64 Penny Stock Trading Rules to Honor my $164,000 Profit Week, I’m Mad you Probly Don’t Know Them, Do You?
• How to Get Mansions, Ferraris, Lamborghinis & Rolexes
• How I made $74,000 Yesterday & Will Make $100,000 Tomorrow (Seriously)
• My $12 Million Yacht Trip Photos
• Celebrating The New Year with a $35,000 Rolex Watch
• The Jew of Wall Street Reviews the Wolf of Wall Street

Some of the ‘Baller’ Pictures from Timothy Syke’s Instagram- He calls himself an “Inspirer” in his description, among other self-proclaimed, unofficial titles. I’ve also bolded a few of the especially disgusting hashtags.

This is how millionaires get our cars washed in Miami Beach #lamborghini #gallardo #lambo #carwash #miami #miamibeach #millionairefun #sexy #clean #betternow #lasucks

Thumbs up, I approve of this message #miami #stocks #beautiful #girls #rich #luxury #mylife

Which watch do you like best? My new $35,000 Gold Rolex or my $36,000 Audemars Piguet? (Hint: your answer says a lot about you) #rolex #audemars #audemarspiguet #carbonfiber #18kgold #finewatches #insarolex #watchgram #watchporn #bahamas #yachting #thisisthelife #porscheonmywrist #obnoxious #imrichbitch #dailyinspiration #rolexdaytona #royaloak #literallyoffshore #stocks #stockmarket #pennystocks #investors #finance #jewtime

#jewtime for me is enjoying a bagel and lox. And everyone knows he stole #imrichbitch from NeNe Leakes.

Anyways, you get it. He is #TheWorstPersonInTheWorld. Worried that Tim might try and contact her again through the matchmaking service, Whitney confesses to Amy that she is 22 so Amy would “reprimand her” and remove her name from the database thus, preventing communication with any of of the men in Matchmaking club.

After the date, Whitney- being Whitney- now believes that she will never, EVER be able to find a boyfriend in NYC by any means. Not by going to bars. Not by going on dates. So, Whitney moved across the country. She did meet a boy, though. So maybe she’s right?

JESS

The Boy: Tom

Jess went on a first date with a guy she met out at a bar on a Saturday night. His name was Tom. Tom saw Jess on his way out and walked over to her, clearly because he thought she was a hottie with a body. He was really good looking, too. They had a very, very brief conversation (probably something like what I’ve transcribed below) in which no connection was made.

• Tom: “What’s your name?”
• Jess: “WHAT?!”
• Tom: “WHAT’S YOUR NAME?”
• Jess: “I CAN’T HEAR YOU.”
• Tom: “WHAT. IS. YOUR. NAME.”
• Jess: “OH. JESS.”
• Tom: “JEN?”
• Jess: “JESS.”

Really, Jess and Tom could have just grunted at each other to get through this minute-long-ish formality, so they can finally get on with the business of exchanging phone numbers (‘Jess FromPianos’ / “Tom BlueSweaterLES’).

After a few texts back-and-forth the next day, Tom asks Jess out on a date to “get drinks” because that’s apparently the only way we go on first dates anymore. Seriously, if a boy asks me out to dinner as a first date now I assume either of the 2 following things:

1. He is in his thirties
2. He is so into me that he wants to skin me and make a shrine in his closet

Sidebar: “Getting drinks” is annoying because it requires the girl to plan ahead and find the right full-to-hungry balance. The goal is to have eaten enough beforehand so as not to get sloshed after a first glass of Pinot Grigio, but still have room to split a charcuterie and cheese plate if the guy decides he likes you enough to invest another $9- $12 into the date.

OK. Back to story…

Jess and Tom “get drinks” and finally have a longer and audible conversation in which, again, no connection is made. Tom talks A LOT about himself and Jess concludes he is a narcissist and loses interest, despite his good looks.

Jess wants to leave the restaurant, but Tom orders a second round of drinks without consulting her, so she’s stuck for a at least a little while longer. Jess downs her second glass of wine, thinking it may subconsciously encourage Tom to drink his beer more quickly… but it doesn’t. Tom’s now talking about his position as pledge master in his college fraternity, so he hardly pauses to take a sip of his craft beer. Jess has now put on her jacket, buttoned it all the way, and is ‘half-sitting’ on her bar stool. Finally, after another 20 minutes, with still a few centimeters of beer left in Tom’s glass, Jess lies and says she needs to wake up early for an important meeting and leaves. Tom is oblivious to Jess’s disinterest and believes her lie because he is too cocky not to.

The next day, Jess doesn’t answer Tom’s text message and usually, that’s the end of it.

Natural progression of stranger faze-out:

1. Go on a date with a stranger
2. Don’t text stranger back (I’ve encountered at most 3 unanswered text messages before stranger gets the idea)
3. Go about your life without said stranger in it

The next Saturday night, Jess sees Tom out AGAIN at another bar.

Why, Universe?

I walk more than 4 minutes out-of-the-way on my walk home from the subway on days when I think I look pretty so that I can pass by the cute-boy-from-work’s apartment and “randomly bump into him.” I have never seen him once.

I see the same crazy-ass homeless man who screams at people and sometimes even chases them down the street at least 4 times a week in various parts of the East Village.

Tom is like the crazy homeless man in this story.

Jess sees Tom and makes a very concerted, and very obvious, effort to avoid him. She is fast-walking all over the place, awkwardly zig-zagging and pivoting, always aiming to occupy whatever part of the bar is the furthest distance away from Tom. Tom sees what Jess is doing, but just doesn’t understand it. He sends her a text message later, asking why she was running away from him.

• Jess: “I’m sorry. We met for literally a minute. Then we had a get-to-know-you session. Why would I fake it and play like I’m interested?”
• Tom: “Why wouldn’t u be after getting to know me?”
• Tom: “I’m so nice”
• Tom: “And good looking and wealthy and funny and fun”
• Tom: “Like all those and more”
• Jess: “That’s exactly why.”

I call bullshit because if Tom was really wealthy, like he says he is, he would have paid for a charcuterie and cheese plate. One with assorted pickled vegetables and confit, because it sounds fancy. Girls gotta eat.

IZZY

The Boy: John

Izzy is slowly working her way up, what I call, the “Online Dating Seriousness Hierarchy”

ONLINE DATING SERIOUSNESS HIERARCHY

Grouper → Tinder → OK Cupid → Hinge → Corny shit like “Coffee Meets Bagel” and “How About We” → Match.com → Niche dating sites (i.e. JDate.com, VeganDating.org)

GROUPER

Izzy has been on a Grouper date before, which I was actually went on with her. None of us girls were interested in any of the boys on the Grouper date, but the night wasn’t a total waste. We were treated (aggressively suggested ordering and didn’t offer to pay) to a shark bowl (“LOL. Drinking with all these straws in my mouth reminds me a penis! TAKE A PIC!” ) and 2 orders of French fries, which we didn’t finish while at the bar. However, not ones to let perfectly decent fried food go to waste, my 2 female accomplices helped me sneak the 2^nd quarter-full basket of French fries under my puffy coat when leaving the bar. Looking back (sober), I realize that one does need to smuggle food that has already been paid for and there are “to-go containers.” At the time, however, I:

1. Thought I was super badass (not-actually-stealing 14 french fries, WOO!)
2. Didn’t give a shit if these boys thought I was a lady (…I’m not)
3. And my drunk subconscious probably wanted the smell of fried potato to stay with me, and on me, all night. (and throughout the night because I forgot to brush my teeth)

Also, is there nothing better than reaching into your pocket for change the next day and finding a soggy, yet still edible French fry? The hangover dream. Left overs are always better the next day, right? Before you judge me, let’s be real here. What are puffy coats good for if not hiding things and wearing pajamas underneath when running quick errands in the winter? Otherwise, you would buy a pea coat.

Important side note: This was a North Face puffy coat, not a Moncler. If I smuggled french fires wearing a Moncler, it would be the shoe-lace kind with truffle oil. Anyways, back to Izzy…

TINDER

Izzy then Tinder’ed for a while. Talked to a few decent dudes who she met through that, but most of them ended up sending her unsolicited dick pics, which are great for a few ‘giggs with your girlies’ but not ideal when looking for a potential mate.

OK CUPID

So, now Izzy is trying the next step up in the ‘Online Dating Seriousness Hierarchy’ – OK Cupid. This is the story of the first date she went on with someone she met on OK Cupid.

Izzy lives at home in a suburb outside of NYC, studying for an exam to go back to school, so she is matched with guys that live in other suburbs, sometimes a considerable distance away. Izzy agrees to meet a match, John, halfway between their houses at a restaurant- about a 25-minute drive away.

Izzy and John sit at the bar and things are going fine. Conversation isn’t great and John speaks without making eye contact. Whenever that happens to me, I just try and put my face in front of wherever that person’s eye line is being directed, even if that means a lot of jerky, neck-movement. Izzy isn’t as aggressive as I am, though, so John continues to address his few-word responses to the Goose Island tap handle slightly to his right.

About 15 minutes into the ‘date,’ John initiates conversation for the first time by asking Izzy if she wants to drive 25 minutes to his apartment, in separate cars, to ‘crack open a bottle of bourbon.” That sounds truly terrible, but nowhere near as terrible as what he actually meant by the invitation back to his apartment, so Izzy politely declines.

A few more minutes go by and John excuses himself to go to the bathroom. When he doesn’t come back 30 minutes later, Izzy texts him asking where he is he is

• Izzy: “Where are you?”
• John: “O my bad. Something came up.”
• Izzy: “Oh sorry you got your period. I could’ve given you a tampon. I have one in my bag.
  • Good effort, Izz. But the guy insulted the girl. Don’t insult the girl more by associating him with female genitalia because in this situation, and most, having the vagina means you are a better person with better morals. Next time, consult me and we’ll think of a great penis analogy.
• John: “Oh I should have been more specific. I was bored so I left.”
  • What a dick. (See!?)

I like to believe that people are good, and douchebags like John don’t actually exist. So I am going to go ahead and believe the following really happened:

John ate a too-old and thus, inedible soggy French fry from his puffy-coat pocket on the way to the restaurant and was fighting the urge to poop his pants during the entire short-lived conversation with Izzy. He was looking at the Goose Island mascot instead of Izzy so as not to reveal the dread of pooping his pants so apparent in his dead, stupid eyes. He asked Izzy to come back to his apartment so he can take an Imodium from his medicine cabinet. He really did get up to use the bathroom when he said he was going to but on the way, he shat himself. Shat himself bad. Too embarrassed to come back to Izzy with soiled undies, he faked disinterest, waited for Izzy to leave the bar, and then waddled back to his car and drove home in a terrifically gooey puddle o’ poo.