Tuesday, December 6, 2016


It’s hard not to complain about everything lately. There’s just so much material. 

Trump’s Twitter feed. A five-foot-tall Christmas tree costing $40. 

…The fact that my health insurance refuses to cover a typhoid vaccine from when I went to Guatemala because reimbursing customers for preventative health care is as foreign a concept as…Guatemala.

(Also, complaining about having first-world problems.)

But, in these seemingly DARK and DISMAL times, you know what is virtually impossible to complain about? 

Or…so you think.


Apparently, there are GUYS out there who complain about sex, and I don’t mean complain about NOT getting it.


I KNOW!!!!!!

My friend Margie told me this mortifying story about this guy she dated, Griffin, who was nothing but a critic. UGH.

They went out several years ago, when they both worked at a restaurant. 

Griffin didn’t exactly get a good life review himself, since we’re on the subject of assessments.

He was in his early 30s, lived at home, wasn’t in great shape and he struggled with getting customers’ orders right. 

He also spent all his free time at the restaurant bar.

But Margie thought he was fun and harmless, so they went out for a few months. 

One day, there was a throwback “drive in movie” playing somewhere and they decided to go. Margie said in typical 1950s fashion, they totally did the hanky panky, grab-ass or whatever the cool kids call it, all in the privacy of the car.

Margie said it was the first time they had ever been that physical before, and it was all very exciting as Indiana Jones played on the big screen.

And, well, she didn’t do anything that uhhhhh Monica Lewisky hasn’t done before.

No complaints from Griffin there.

Margie felt a little sheepish on the way home about it, as most teenagers in the 1950s did, I imagine.

But as she looked to Griffin for some sort of comfort about itGriffin, the guy who had absolutely ZERO going for himhe politely told her, "thanks for going out with me tonight" and then added….

“That was the eighth best B.J. I’ve ever had in my life."




I don’t know what the bigger joke was, his B.S. line or pretending like he’s had eight B.J.s before.

Regardless, it was in poor taste, the worst of the worst in poor taste, and Margie ran out of his car mortified, 5000% regretting her decision.


How about, "Baby, that was amazing, I'll never look at the Ark the same way!"?????

No, let's make up a rate system instead! Let's make the girl I'm dating feel **really good** about her life choices!!! 



Now, how can we get him to contract typhoid…..


Monday, December 5, 2016

A December to remember

My twin sister Joy said a co-worker came into her office recently and asked how to pronounce her last name.

“That’s weird,” I said. “Our last name is, like, one of the top five most common names in America. What an idiot!” (Actually Census says it's number 65)

Joy paused.

Then I paused.

"OH DUH!!!!!!"

“Of course…your ‘married’ name.” 

(For the record, her new last name isn't even in the top 1,000 most common last names in the U.S.)

(I guess that coworker wasn't an idiot haha)

It feels like only yesterday that a such a major life-changing event occurred, but in fact, it was a year ago.

One year ago EXACTLY, in fact.


I know it’s hard for most people to remember what they were doing a year ago.

(I’m not real clear about what I was doing a week ago.)

But on this day exactly a year ago, I know exactly what I was doing—getting scolded by my mom for my makeup.

“YOUR FACE LOOKS TOO ORANGE!” my mom said, across the large, airy room at a rented beach house on Folly Beach, South Carolina. “IT NEEDS TO BE BLENDED MORE!”

I took a sip of champagne (also met with displeasure by our mom haha) and apologized to the makeup artist for my whiteness.

Seven bridesmaids were all lined up to get our hair and makeup done and I felt like I was getting ready for the Academy Awards.

We all wore gorgeous matching silky robes Joy bought us and the day could have just ended right there and I would have been happy.

But then, we looked out the window and saw the group of men approaching.

All wearing matching charcoal gray suits walking up the wooden dock to the beach house, sticking out like sore thumbs against the sand and the shore.

OMG there he is!” Joy said, seeing her soon-to-be-husband for the first time that day. 

And then she teared up.


“Well of course there he is!” I said, confused. “There they all are!” 

(Some of the men included the husband/significant others of bridesmaids.)

But the married bridesmaids knew the importance of this moment. The moment you think about when you agree to say YES to someone.

And just for a second you forget about the wedding planning you've been stressing about for months and months.

Because all that matters is that there he is.

And there you are.

And there we ALL were.

(...errr some more orange than others.)

From that moment at the beach house, everything that happened on December 5, 2015 has been etched permanently into my brain.

The limo bus to the chapel, where I filled everyone glass with exactly two sips of champagne. 

Posing for every possible combination of photos for the photographer. Waiting in the “bridal suite,” at the chapel, peeking out to see all the guests arriving.

Even walking down the aisle, which felt like it was twice as long as it was the night before.

Tearing up as Joy walked down the aisle with our dad.

...And then holding her very heavy bouquet and realizing the terrible logistics of having to wipe tears from your eyes while holding a bouquet of flowers in each hand.

The entire thing was just perfect.

And then, if the day couldn’t have gotten any better, I had every single person I know and love, to hang out with for the rest of the night.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing all 130(ish) people at a party, but it’s amazing. You’re never in a corner, never at a table alone. No one turns you down for a dance. 

Everybody tells you how great you look (Lol). It was remarkable how many people I was able to catch up with in four very short hours. 

My maid of honor speech went over VERY well (thanks for asking) and after an insane amount of BEAMING from everyone on both sides of the new family, tons and tons of eating and dancing, memories and jokes, photos and singing, pans and pans of shrimp and grits later, it was time for the send-off.

I arranged a boat charter captain to meet at the dock right outside the venue so Joy and Daniel could leave the wedding on a boat. (Who needs wheels?)

We added battery-operated holiday lights on both sides of the boat, just like Cinderella’s carriage, only with…uhhh…different kind of horsepower.

And the saxophone played “When the Saints Go Marching In” and the boat puttered away into the distance, capping off the best December 5th I’ve ever had in my entire life. 

And then, just like that, everything went back to normal.

Well, except Joy’s new last name.





Tuesday, November 29, 2016


I really don’t know why toolbags just arrive in my midst, in front of my face, sitting next to me. Even internationally!

You may remember the pure delight from the Netherlands who BERATED me in a tiny shuttle in Guatemala in front a lot of people about being a “dumb American” and not having international health insurance. (No one was discussing health insurance.)

That was toolbag #1.

There’s a toolbag #2 I encountered. The same day.

I must have blocked him from my memory because I just remembered him the other night. 

He was an American, a fellow Delta Airlines passenger in the Guatemala City airport. 

I got out of the shuttle and there he was, toolbag #2, waiting at the gate.

I was reading a book, or looking at my phone, when he sat in the seat next to me and said, “We were on the same flight from Atlanta here last Thursday! I remember your hair.”

I was confused by this stranger’s opening line. I rolled my eyes up the ceiling to try and remember what day I had flown in to confirm.

He was in his 60s and relatively attractive, given the decade in which he was born. 

It was a bit odd/creepy that he remembered my hair after spending an entire week in Guatemala, but I don’t know how other people’s minds work.

His name was Barry and he was from West Virginia and had a thick accent and was very interested in chatting. 

We talked about what we each did in the past week—many different options because Guatemala is a large, wild, gorgeous place. 

Barry said he went to Tikal, one of the largest Mayan ruins, like the Cadillac of Mayan ruins. 

I knew of it, and it was discussed among my friends as a potential destination, but was too far away. Plus I don't care about ruins.

Barry then pulled up his photos of Tikal on his iPhone and handed it to me to scroll through.

“Did you go with friends?” I asked.

“No, I met a woman there,” he said.


Barry then unloaded his life on me—how for the past five years, he’s traveled to Central America every month to meet up with Guatemalan, Brazilian or Costa Rican women and pays for them all weekend long. 

He pays for hotels and meals, pays for their company and their attention.

Why he was telling me this was a mystery. 

Do I LOOK like someone who’d be interested in this information?!?!?

“I don’t even have to pay that much because of the dollar rate!!” he said, bragging. 

“I could spend as much on one nice meal in the states as I could for a whole weekend in Tikal!”


So, they’re prostitutes?” I asked in a way that sounded less harsh than that.

“NO! I don’t sleep with all of them,” he said. “They’re just grateful to have a nice guy like me spend time with them, because all the men in Central America beat their women,” he said. 


“Plus they like my blue eyes.”

It was the most bizarre conversation I’ve ever had with a stranger.

I was uncomfortably scrolling through his iPhone photos of Tikal when I saw his “woman companion,” in a photo with him at the Mayan ruins.

She was 20 years younger than him at least, an awkward photo of the two of them. She wasn’t smiling.

“Well, she’s… pretty,” I said, coming up with nothing else, handing him back his phone.

“Yea…she doesn’t have as many curves as I would have liked though,” he said, studying the photo. “You know, to feel something when you hug 'em. I like curves and a big ass.”




“I find these women on Facebook,” he told me, unprompted. “I have a friend down there who tells them who I am, and the next thing I know, they message me on Facebook."


All downward facing shots of boobs and asses and pouty lips and dark hair.

“Look at THOSE curves,” he pointed to one woman. 



“Once, I had two women fighting over me,” he laughed. “I’m telling you I’m the only nice guy they’ll ever meet.”

Barry was bragging about all this, with an air of authority like he was some sort of king. Picking out women as if they were chairs or a couch—this one is too big, this one just right. 

It was totally gross. 

And, why on Earth did he feel compelled to tell me, a female, about this operation? 

“Now this one, wow, she was so beautiful, her hair was so black it was almost blue,” he said. 

(Ew another hair reference)

“But then she showed up at the hotel with her kid. Her kid! What am I supposed to do with that?” 

I had no answer. I felt like I was being punk’d.

“And I tell you what, dental work down there is much cheaper too!” he said, ignoring my creeped-out face. 

“Look!” he pointed at his very straight, obnoxiously white teeth. “ALL CAPS. Only $600.”



“Well, that’s a very…interesting life,” I said. “I’d love to go to Central America once a month…maybe not to meet strangers though. Excuse me, I’m going to go get a bottle of water before the flight.”

I never returned and only saw Barry again when I walked through the plane to my seat. He was looking down at his phone again, no doubt trolling/scrolling/creeping.

In my mind, though, he was frantically researching how to replace his fake teeth after getting punched in the face. 

A gift from the Mayan gods.


Tuesday, November 22, 2016


I was reminiscing last night about writing term papers in college, bragging about how 18 pages was no big deal, when I remembered public speaking.

Public speaking was a really influential class for me, because it was the first time, ever, I found talking to be terrifying.

(And no, I’m not including all the terrifying conversations with bouncers RE: My fake ID, breakups, talking my way out of trouble, etc. that I experienced up to that point.)

This was just talking. About a boring, mundane topic. And it was terrifying.

I remember one poor girl in the class had a rash develop during her presentation that crept up her chest onto her face.

You could see its red, splotchy path moving up her upper body and taking over, like a storm cloud. 

I remember nothing of what she said. That’s how much the rash took over the spotlight.

“Perhaps…you can wear a turtleneck for your next presentation,” the professor concluded.

I must have completely erased my memory of that semester, because I can’t for the life of me remember what any of my three presentations were about.

All I remember is practicing my speech and being baffled by the fact that my 18 pages only accounted for SIX speaking minutes and I had another nine minutes to figure something out.

…And then when I was actually talking to the class, I spoke WAY slower than practiced, and 18 pages would have been perfect, but now I had 30 pages and therefore had too much information.



In conclusion, (haha get it) it wasn’t a class that needed any additional stress built in to it.

Which is why I remember how mortifying it was for my friend Aubry when she had to give HER speech to the class, which included the hottest college soccer player…

…who she had slept with the previous weekend after a few dates.

…Who had not called her back.


The assignment was a “persuasive” speech about any topic, and Aubry had decided to do her persuasive speech about taking the stairs instead of the elevator.

She outlined all her points about health, exercise, removing the possibility of getting stuck in a metal box and how in most cases, taking the stairs is actually faster.

And she never got a rash, so I’d say the speech was a success.

I remember walking to class, Aubry told me how embarrassed she was about the hot soccer player and how she had called and left him a message on his answering machine (haha awww) but he hadn’t called her back. And it’s been three days.

“This is the first time I’m going to see him since I left his apartment,” she said.

Aubry’s speech was the last of the class, and IN CONCLUSION, she said, there’s no reason NOT to take the stairs if you’re going less than five floors unless you are handicapped or incapacitated.

When the class filed out of the room, everyone realized that we were on the third floor.


There was a visible pregnant pause as the class considered the elevator right in front of the classroom or the stairs down the hall.

And in a show of solidarity, every person in the 20-person class moved towards the stairs. Aubry beamed.

Except hot soccer player.

“OMG,” Aubry nudged me as we made our way down the corridor. “LOOK.”

I turned around. There he was: the only person from class to take the elevator. Waiting, as he pressed the button to go down three floors. LOL


It would have been a rude move for anyone in the class who wasn't uhhhh handicapped or incapacitated, but this was especially glaring.

She dated a guy who took the elevator after her “persuasive” speech on taking the stairs.




“Maybe he’ll get stuck,” I said. "Maybe he'll develop a claustrophobic rash."

And have to wear a turtleneck.


Tuesday, November 15, 2016


Of course I’d like to write post after post about how horrible I find it that Trump won, but I know my place in Web land: I write about douchebags my friends and I have dated, not douchebags who were elected.

But I honestly believe that if you voted for Trump, you need serious therapy (AND need to travel abroad).

Because you hate people you’ve never even met.

How is that possible?

Entire groups of people who have done nothing to you and have done nothing wrong.



You just told the world—and the next generation—that that is OK.

It’s heartbreaking.

Anyway. I’m exhausted.

Do you know who else is exhausted? People who have mono.

Remember mono? Is mono is still a thing???

All I remember about mono from college is that it was embarrassing to get because it was the “kissing disease” but also beneficial because if you got it, you would lose ten pounds. 

Because you’re too tired to eat and your throat is swollen.

According to WebMD, i.e. the hypochondriac’s bible, mono is mostly found in teens and young (college age) adults. 

Or very old people who have compromised immune systems.

But, it surfaced last week in a healthy 36-year-old man!!!

…From Tinder.

Lol kissing disease.

It was a very weird encounter between Greg, the guy from Tinder with Mono, and my friend Melissa.

Greg and Melissa met online and then in real life and had a fantastic (and healthy) night together. And then Greg dropped the news that he actually lives three hours away and was only in town on business.


He agreed that they had a great night and a great connection and that he’d come back to town the following weekend so they can recreate the magic. Melissa was excited.

But after texting for two days about how he was going to book a room at a posh new boutique hotel downtown, Melissa called Greg on Wednesday to talk about the weekend details and he told her some bad news.

“I can’t make it,” he said. “I think I have mono.”

(Uhhh random self-diagnosis.)

“Oh no!” Melissa said, wondering if now SHE had mono.

Then she added, playfully, “Who have you been kissing?”

That’s when Greg went off.


“Or…except for me,” Melissa said.

Greg didn’t respond.

“Hey, woah, I was just joking…” Melissa said. “Because it’s called the ‘kissing disease…’”

(UHHH, also he’s on Tinder; let’s not pretend he’s not kissing people, possibly college girls.)

“Well I don’t think it’s very funny!” Greg said. 

Then...OMG...Melissa said he started YELLING. 

“I DON'T APPRECIATE YOU NOT BELIEVING ME!" he said. "So I’m NOT going to come in town this weekend. I’m CANCELLING THE HOTEL ROOM!”


"I don't appreciate you not believing me."

Umm. Believing what? That he got mono from his dog or that he wasn't kissing other people?

Now Melissa felt sick.

Who was this angry person who went off on a joke??? 

Was this how he acted when he was sick?

Wait...was there even a hotel room booked?

Melissa froze. “Ok, well, feel better…” she said, truly disappointed. 

She texted him a few times over the weekend with the soup emoji and everything but got no response.

Now, a month later, she hasn’t heard from Greg since.


Now, I know what you’re thinking: Maybe he died from mono-related spleen-bursting complications!!! (thanks WebMD)

No. Of course, his Tinder profile has been active since then.

Melissa’s feelings were pretty hurt when she noticed. 

WTF did she do??

Why couldn’t he have been honest??

Why couldn’t Greg have said, “Look, I’m basically a sleaze, I have no idea what I'm talking about, I yell at people for doing nothing wrong and make them feel really bad about themselves.”

I don’t know, in today’s world, that type of honesty would get him elected.


Tuesday, November 8, 2016


I normally hate making blanket statements, but do you know what 30-something females DON’T miss??

The Michael Jackson crotch grab.

You know, the one where a guy puts his hand over his pants crotch, cupping what is most likely a micro-penis??

…It’s not a good look.

I’m sorry that I’m making you remember MJ’s douche dance move, but that’s what a 50-something year-old guy did to me last week, when I was hosting bar trivia.

And there was no music playing.

Paul, a complete stranger, had been bothering me while I hosted bar trivia for about a month.

He was always at the bar by himself—a creepy sign—and he kept trying to start conversation with me while I was speaking into a microphone or trying to sort through and log teams’ answers on my laptop.

Week after week, he thought it was OK to come up to me and personally tell me the answers to the questions I asked, engaging me in conversation.

And week after week, I threw a pad of paper and pencil at him and said, “If you want to play, you’re going to have to write down your answer on a piece of paper. You can’t just tell me what you think the answer is.”

It took him a few weeks to finally tell me that he “liked me” excusing the fact that he was 20 years older than I was, at least, and excusing the fact that I told him I have a boyfriend, ThankYouVeryMuch.

But Paul continued to bother me and run up to my table every time I asked a question to whisper the answer in my ear.

But last week, he graduated to Michael Jackson CREEP.

The question I asked was, “what body part do you examine if you use an 'otoscope?'”

Answer: The ear.

Paul, who was outside on the patio at the time, came running back into the bar, a man on a mission.

“I know I know!!!!” he said to me, as usual. Then he suddenly grabbed his crotch, four feet from where I was sitting.

“YOU EXAMINE THIS!” he said, laughing.

I believe my face contorted into the look of someone who was hungover and about to puke, and who had just smelled rotten eggs.

I hated that he made me look at his crotch. 

What kind of man are you to have to trick a woman into paying attention to that part of your body????

Oh and P.S. I could have had him arrested, I'm sure.

I stopped speaking to him instead, complete cold shoulder that I learned from a police officer in fifth grade as a tactic to ignore someone who would offer you drugs, as he stood there next to my table and chair.

“The correct answer is…EAR,” I said slowly and loudly on the microphone to the 50 or so people playing bar trivia.

Then, I added, “NOT YOUR DICK, PAUL.”

And then I stared at him with my rotten egg smell face as the room got silent and he turned red and got embarrassed.

…And that’s how I got rid of Paul.

(Drops mic.)


Tuesday, October 25, 2016


There are a few teeny tiny things wrong with taking up 90 percent of your first online date with someone talking about your “bitch ex-wife.”

The obvious being, you’re not over it.

The second being, you clearly aren’t a very good judge of character.

The third being, it makes you look bad that your wife had to go out and cheat with lots of people because she wasn’t getting what she needed from you.


The fourth being, I DON’T CARE.

Now that I think about it, there really is nothing I care about LESS than hearing about the bitch ex-wife of a total stranger I met online. On a first date.

But somehow, there I was, in early 2015, eating at an Italian restaurant with Henry, who spent 40 minutes explaining to me in great detail about the time he found out that his “bitch ex wife” sold her wedding dress and engagement ring on eBay.

Who uses eBay anymore? I wondered to myself.

Henry added that “bitch” was “crazy” (aren’t ex-wives always crazy??) and even though SHE cheated on HIM, which he knew for a fact because he had her phone traced (ohhh…boyfriend material!!! JK, LOL), she's been making his life a legal hell and he needs all kinds of lawyers.

Plus she shattered his car window with a beer bottle.

I don’t really know what Henry was expecting from divulging all this information, or if he knew that I was uncomfortably darting my eyes to the door to see if there was a similarly short, blonde female pointing a gun at us.

(You know, between checking her eBay bids.)


I suppose he thought that I’d feel bad for him or something.

I hate to say it, but it wasn’t the first time a guy had unloaded to me about a messy, baggage, unattractive EX on a first date.

At least this time the ex wasn’t a legit crack whore.

(I wish I was kidding.)

But no.

At least with Henry, I didn’t need to confirm that his ex who he had been reminiscing about for the past 20 minutes, who he had lived with and SLEPT with, was actually a crack addict, and also a prostitute.

“Only a prostitute to pay for more crack!!”

Oh, well, that’s way better.





No bidding.


You might like...

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...
Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...