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.)


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