"Well you’re like way into Black guys."
Wait? What? I mean, sure I have dated mostly Black men in the last, well, 10 years. But this statement, what exactly are you implying?
The gist: “You’re single and haven’t found the one yet, settled down, ‘cause you’re into Black men.”
I’ve heard it all.
Black men don’t like women who are overly sexual.
Black men don’t want to commit.
Black men don’t have good jobs.
Black men will date White women but not bring them home to mom.
Black men don’t like women who are more successful.
Etc., etc., etc.
I have written for the last 5 years about dating, sex, relationships (right here of course and before that at the now defunct singledoutinchicago.com). In that time, I have never overtly written about interracial relationships or the fact that most of the stars of my dating stories were Black men. But I’m doing it now, dammit.
The primary reason I’ve been in the closet about interracial dating is because I write about the challenges, the struggle, and usually not so happy endings of dating. And I never wanted my readership to declare these stories only happened because the dudes that usually ask for my number tend to be African American. And while my friends know and have met many of the men I’ve dated, and I’ve certainly implied in many of my stories, I have always strayed away from the topic of interracial dating, because that was never the point. Because we all know when two people of the same race get together there are never issues or problems (eye roll).
I didn’t make a conscious decision, and still don’t, to have a racial preference in dating. All I know is that when I started dating post college, that’s simply who talked, interacted, and did things like say hello and ask for my number. I look at the simple statistics of my OkCupid messages received from men, in which nowhere in my profile is there mention of any sort of history or who I want to be with based on skin color, and Black men are 90% of who sent me messages. (OkCupid shows some data on this.) That’s just simply who has shown interest and I’ve always been cool with that.
Do I think I subconsciously have made this decision? Sure. At a certain point we all get comfortable (probably too comfortable) with a type. Mine happens to be tall, hipstery dudes donning plaid shirts, tortoise shell glasses, and Black. When I walk into a crowded bar or scan profiles of matches, this is who I notice first.
And sure I can tell you I’ve dated all races of men, blah, blah, blah which I certainly have, but I don’t want to pretend that I don’t have a type and tell people “I don’t see color,” because I do. I just saw Taye Diggs on Seth Meyers and contemplated him naked. Idris Elba is the star of my wet dreams and I picture my future biracial children quite often.
So I may be “way into Black guys” as my half-Black ex said to me, but dude, Black men are way into me. Just like people tell me all the statements about why I am approaching 32 and single because I date Black men, they all tell me opinions on why they’re all about me. I am curvy: “You have an ass.” I have a pixie haircut: “Black men like short hair.” I am tall: “Black men like tall women.” Most of the reasons are physical, none ever having to do with the fact that I am bright, intelligent, grounded, successful, polite, caring, and sincere.
And many people imply I’m “way into a Black guys” thanks to a fetishization and over sexualized physical stereotype (in case you’re considering what I mean here— that Black dudes are well endowed). Damn people, if that’s all I was looking for, I’d just go to a sex toy shop. That’s what dildos are for.
Recently there was a Gawker piece about the realities of interracial dating written by a Black dude. Just like any personal opinion piece, there were a variety of reactions to it. One I read stating “Nobody cares that you date White girls.”
But we do. Until 1967, if I fell in love with a Black man in many states we wouldn’t have been able to get married. The story and legacy of Emmett Till is much too fresh and recent to just pretend we’re living in a post racial place where interracial relationships, the biracial children they at many times produce, and the racism, both subtle and inherent, don’t exist. I mean damn, just last year there were so many racist comments on YouTube about that Cheerios commercial that the comments had to be turned off.
It’s okay to talk about culture and our identities and how it affects all aspects of our lives- dating, sex, relationships, and otherwise- as long as we can understand the micro and macro effects and we don’t make sweeping generalizations about a community or race or people.
So yes, my boyfriend is Black. Yes, I am in an interracial relationship. Yes, I’m going to talk about it.
I know. I know. I haven’t been updating you all with my single life musings. My bad. I’ve been way too busy working on my writing and web series (read: drinking bougie beer and eating those boneless hot wings from Chicago’s Pizza)
In my time away, I’ve been given those old words of advice by nearly all of my friends:
Sam, you have to LIVE IN THE MOMENT.
Ok. Let me get on that right now. Oh but wait, I’m thinking about that moment I’m supposed to be living in so what’s going on with the moment I’m actually in? And I’m trying to clear my brain but all I can think about is how relaxed I’m going to be once my brain is clear and fuck, I messed up again, didn’t I? Ok, let’s start again. I can totally do this. This moment is being brought to you by Sam, her neurosis, unrealistic expectations on relationships that have yet to exist and, of course…daddy issues. Wait. What just happened?
Yeah, girl. By the time my brain has gone through this pretzel maze also known as the process it takes to live in the moment, it has started to hurt and I’ve resorted to just drinking all the damn beer and eating all the damn chicken.
I give up.
I gave up.
The moment has passed.
This stuff is hard, folks. So I’m taking it day by day. And it’s hard. But I gotta believe what everyone is saying, right?
Calm the fuck down and live in the moment. But calm down first.
And then just breathe.
…Right after I finish this blog entry.
Hey Melinda, where you been?
Good question. I know you’ve all missed me.
Well the short answer is I started a new job, work a 2nd and third job, been hella sick for like a month, and I’m in love.
Yep, you read correctly. I’m in love. In a relationship, like Facebook official and all that shit. Yep, it’s a true story. So writing about my dating life hasn’t been all that exciting.
But damn it’s fucking hard. We got back together. So I’m learning what’s it’s like to not be solo anymore, again.
Melinda, will you still write for this blog since you got that boyfriend?
Probably. I’ve never written this blog solely for other people. If other people read it, that’s pretty great. I still got things to say. Also, I’m going to be writing for the blog on The Tequila Tales, which is an amazing live show about love and lust, and now a blog too. I’m going to cover my transition to being in a relationship and how that all works. Because, like I said, it’s fucking hard. So Solo in the 2nd City still will be here.
And because this is my blog, I’m giving myself a shameless plug—
I’m coming back from my storytelling hibernation and reading a story tonight at Comedy Sandwich (I’m the sandwich, though my story is funny, I promise) and on Tuesday at The Seven Deadly Sins at Cafe Mustache. Come out!
The talking and f—-ing stage, where you lock yourselves in a bedroom and do it and discuss and then do it again. Where every stupid song makes you smile to yourself. Where you’ve actually forgotten for a moment about all that heartbreak and hurt and disappointment because it was all leading up to this. This is the reason!
Where he kisses you in public for the first time. When he introduces you to a friend. When he takes your hand to lead you through a crowded dance floor. When you arrive and the girl he’s talking to who you think maybe he was hitting on says, “So this is the girl you’ve been talking about?” And you feel guilty because he wasn’t hitting on her at all (and then she leans over to make out with the other dude next to her.). And you about blush yourself into a puddle but it’s dark so thank god no one can see it.
When he asks if you told your mutual friend about him, and you realize the fact that he wants you to tell your mutual friend. When he texts “I can’t wait to see you again,” and you can’t even wait to see him again so you end up seeing him later that day anyway.
When he snores so loud you want to punch him in his sleep and yell his name but he doesn’t hear you and just snores louder but you don’t care because he’s there. And there when you wake up in the morning.
And when you tell yourself to pull your shit together and not get too excited but you can’t help but get too excited. When you see him after just a few hours and somehow he looks more attractive than you remember.
So that’s where I’ve been this week.
You may have seen this article today in the Huffington Post Tech about the new dating app, Hinge. Well, new to Chicago, and that means new to me. Hinge sends you 6 matches a day, based on your larger social media network. So you’re connected to friends of friends who have also signed up for the app.
I’ve been a Hinge user for a few months. I don’t check it all the time, I only have the app on my iPad, and last night I signed on in to look at my daily matches.
So turns out Hinge is actually the creepiest goddamned dating app I’ve ever used.
It matched me with a kid I used to babysit in 1996.
A few notes on that point.
A) I’m not from Chicago. I grew up 3 hours south in a small town. There are maybe 30 people in the city from my hometown. This kid and I grew up a block away from each other. My mother has known his mother since like 1989 when she was pregnant with this kid.
B) My first… serious boyfriend… (first. serious. boyfriend. Get it?) is his cousin. They share the same last name.
So Hinge brings to me the people I know, attempting to be anti-creepy, but actually provides maybe the creepiest match I’ve ever gotten.
AND thus provides the story of my dating life.
This is how a get together, relationship, and breakup occurred within less than 36 hours.
Sunday, 4:09 PM
Browse through Tinder. Swipe right on a 24 year old, 7 years your junior, because against my better judgement, well, he’s cute. Tada! You match.
Cute kid sends a message. I insist he’s too young, he disagrees.
4:15 - 8:30 PM
Send witty Tinder messages. Exchange numbers. Send witty text messages.
“Hey it’s D—. It too late to meet up tonight?” Says he’ll be there to pick me up in 30 minutes. Arrives early, am half naked. Throw on some random outfit and run outside to his car in the rain. Head to neighborhood hotspot.
2 drinks in. Cuter than ever. Discuss music, politics, school, career. Bat eyes in the booth.
Drives me home. Kisses me in the car. Invites himself in.
Departs back to the North side.
Monday, 9:29 AM
Receive text message referring to last night’s conversation.
Add him on gchat.
Gchat friend about the kid. Explain how he has his shit together more than last ex, though is only 24 years old. Friend reminds me having his shit together more than your last ex isn’t a difficult feat. Ah yes.
10:15 AM - 5:05 PM
Spend day communicating, exchanging music recommendations, sending witty gchats. Looking at his public photos on Facebook, Googling his name.
D: I know you’re interested in me.
Me: You do huh?
8:47 - 9:41 PM
Launch texting debate/argument about empathy, social justice, and social issues. Get turned off by young Republican propaganda. Stop texting.
Text message inviting me over. Consider it, but remember parking in his yuppy neighborhood is impossible.
Reconsider and inquire about his stock in prophylactics.
Have argument about using prophylactics. Get accused of having an STI for insisting on using prophylactics.
Receive the following text message referring to opinion on safe sex:
“That’s the gayest shit I’ve ever heard in my life.”
Explain that it’s actually the straightest conversation as there was discussion of heterosexual sex.
Text: “That frat boy persona you got going on is not cute.” Block from Tinder and Google Voice. Go to sleep.
Note to self: Do not date 24 year olds and/or Republicans.
Most of my friends (male, female, gender neutral alike) have been physical with each other in some capacity. If I made a map of who’s kissed, touched, sucked, licked, flicked, tickled who in the last, let’s say, 8 years, it would be a cluster fuck of a web with lots of squiggles and dotted lines. That’s just the culture we live in. Throw in some theatre school nerds, guys with guitars and other artists and you have a recipe for Hook Up Disaster (read: Confusion)
The rules have changed people. But I’m not quite sure what they are.
How much time needs to past before you hook up with the same guy your friend used to hook up with?
And at what level of hook up is said hook up crossing the line?
Does someone get to call dibs on someone they were never really dating?
And who dates anymore anyway?
What constitutes a date? Dinner and a movie? Grabbing beers after a show? Hanging out at the theatre’s bar after rehearsal? Meeting for coffee on a Sunday afternoon?
I do all of these things on a regular with people I’d love to bang or have been banging and I’m not sure if it means anything. At all.
If you’re like me, you can quote the majority of Clueless, all of Mean Girls, and you still remember some of those Cosmopolitan quizzes your friends used to make you take. All of those beacons of adolescence tells us that you do not under any fucking circumstance ever in the world hook up with a friend’s ex.
"It’s like the rules of feminism".
But nowadays, the line of who’s dating who is so blurred that it’s hard to know what factors go in to classifying someone as your ex.
Is it the amount of time you’ve known each other?
The amount of times you’ve been inside each other?
The exchanging of those dreaded three words “I love you”
Whether or not the other person cared about you? And whether or not those feelings were mutual.
These are all honest to god questions that are ping ponging in my head. So I’m going to take it upon myself as Single Girl #2 in Chicago to set the New Rules of Girl Code in 2014.
(HINT: There’s not many)
Rule #1: Dibs doesn’t really work anymore. Like a sad stroller in a parking spot in Logan Square, people are just gonna think you’re a douche if you claim it.
Rule #2: Cosmopolitan Magazine is no longer allowed to dictate our relationship choices. EVER. AGAIN.
Rule #3: But Clueless is definitely still on the table.
So that’s where I stand so far. Any insight?
So this happened today.
I was set to have drinks tonight with a dude from a few years back. He’s popped up now and again. I was actually supposed to meet up with him the day I met the last dude I was dating, but he stood me up. I was pissed, starting dating the last one, and didn’t talk to him again.
But of course now I’m single. So I went for it, Bold Moves, and asked him out. He said yes, lovely, wonderful, we make plans.
Then at 5 pm he texts me this.
I am not interested in forgetting that point. The last exchange we had was relatively in depth about things he was interested in doing, and not just having a martini.
I didn’t respond to him suggesting to forget that point.
For years now, I have stayed friends, sometimes lovers, and drinking buddies with tons of dudes I’ve dated. For the most part, it’s been great. But it’s starting to grate on me.
I see Instagram photos of a dude I dated three times with his new girlfriend at fancy restaurants where he never took me, just a few weeks after he told me I’m the “best he ever had” (duh). I ran into another ex who was on a date at the bar where I work, the same one who a week earlier looked me up and down so hard it made my coworker about spit out her beer. I met up for drinks with one who broke my heart and who was moving out of town, only for him to ask me to come visit him in Michigan.
But never, ever, do these dudes ask me on a proper date.
And it’s my own fault. Because I keep them in my life, mostly for good reasons, but it doesn’t contribute to moving on and trying to find someone and something meaningful. These platonic, now-friends-ex-dudes, hit on me, call me when they’re lonely, and see me as their hot, sexy, cool, ex, but not someone they’re interested in actually dating or being in a relationship with.
And I’m not adding another one.
Instead, tonight, I’m going out with my dude friend who is not an ex boyfriend or anything of the sort. We’re gonna drink whiskey and I’m going to tell him about the aforementioned guy above and I’ll be happy I’m hanging out with a friend who is actually a friend.
Carly and I wrote once about the stuff left behind, by guys. But I haven’t touched on the stuff, the baggage, the things I have discarded in apartments, lost under beds, throughout a multitude of neighborhoods in this city.
I got a text from a dude who I dated for a minute saying, “You will be pleased to know I found your earrings.” (I seem to lose many a pair of earrings.)
I have not talked to this guy in at least 6 months. And just now you have found those earrings that I asked you to search for 6 months ago?
I once started something with an old flame because we met up again so he could return my stuff. Nothing all that important— a scarf, a Bears t-shirt, a hat. But he had that stuff for almost two years. I hadn’t spoke to him in over a year. He moved this random crap from apartment to apartment with that stuff still in hand, so why just now decide to give it back?
Here’s my theory:
Guys (and all people possibly) hold onto the stuff left behind until they decide they want to see you again. It’s held as a type of personal collateral for when they’re feeling lonely, bored, or undersexed, and then BAM, a solid excuse to see you. Currently, a dude is holding onto (yet another) pair of earrings and a hand knit scarf (I’m also really great at leaving scarves around town apparently). Sure, the earrings cost $3 at H&M and the scarf was a Columbia student’s art project, but damn it, I want them back. But I also know sometimes it’s just not worth it, and sometimes it’s better to cry about those super cute earrings you’ll never see again rather than cry because homedude disappointed you, yet again.
What I hadn’t considered is what people hold onto that isn’t physical stuff. The quirks that only a few people know. The intimate details of the sound of my teeth grinding while I sleep or my super ugly toenails. But deeper than that too. The knowledge of the raw details about me as a person— my fears, my scars, my insecurities.
This is the stuff, the collateral, the ransom, much more difficult to leave behind. So when your ex tells you he misses you, this is what surfaces. This is the stuff left behind that you’re not sure you ever want to share with anyone else. Why sometimes it’s easier to want to get it back and in turn, just get back with him.
I’ve evaluated this concept quite deeply today, and while it’s tempting to answer that call of “I miss you” and regain that collateral, sometimes, just like that hand knit scarf, you have to let it go and go back to H&M and buy a new $3 pair of earrings. Or in this case OkCupid and for a new dude. The new ones are more modern, sturdy, taller, shinier, exciting, supportive, and hot anyway. You may have to take some time to search, but don’t go back just to find what you thought you lost.
I know. I know. Buzzfeed has completely taken over your Facebook walls and everyone is finding ways to block the time consuming, brain killing website that overflows with cats, Mean Girl quotes, and quizzes that reveals what Saved By The Bell character you really are. I get it. But something snuck onto my wall a few days ago that I wanted to share with the fam:
So many of my “friends” (it’s Facebook, ya’ll-let’s not kid ourselves) have been sharing this link that gives you ‘23 Ways You Know You’re Not The Romantic Type’. I finally read it today and by the time I got to the 13th Way, I chose not to gag myself and instead, write about it.
(Side note: I know, I’ve been neglecting you guys. I feel horrible but life is just sooooo busy. How busy? I can give you 13 Ways You Know You’re Busy as Fuck. #1 There is a permanent drool stain on your face from the 2.5 hrs of sleep you’re averaging a night…)
But I digress.
I started reading this just as a way to fill time and I ended actually getting a little upset. The post, however in jest it may be, pretty much scoffs at romance. Because no one likes romance. Because romance is so annoying. Because romance is for LOSERS. But not just any losers, losers who have decided to couple up and become COMBO LOSERS.
Look, I get it. You’re single and your best friend comes to dinner with her boyfriend and they’re practicing their Eskimo kisses and that shit is disgusting. I understand. But think about that last time you were in a relationship (or, at least, a respectable fuck buddy partnership). You went through times when you probably wanted to gag yourself with how in love-or in lust-you were, and what’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with leaning into love and like and lust and sharing that with the person who, at least for that moment, feels exactly the same way? If you’ve ever gone through a break up, you know that time is fleeting and precious, so making fun of people who are going through it seems a bit like Hateration.
I recently had a meeting with this person in charge of a fellowship I received and she told me, after asking me what I wanted in life and making me cry a little because I thought this was just a 15 minute information session but ended up being the Most Real of Real Talks I’ve had in a while, she told me: Don’t be bashful about your wants.
That simple piece of advice resonates with me.
Of course, I think she meant about what I wanted career wise but I’m thinking this can apply in all aspects of life.
Love is good-you can want it.
Being treated nice is ok-you deserve it. (Or maybe you’re a douche and you don’t but I don’t know you personally so I’m just gonna assume good stuff)
No matter how anti-affection you are, I think everyone, deep down inside, wants a little TLC with a lover or lovers and people shouldn’t be ridiculed for it.
I want romance. I want someone I can depend on and be strong for and do stupid things in public like sit on his lap in crowded spaces and wear matching sweaters. I wanna eat, fuck and sleep in during the week. I want someone I can cook for and buy silly gifts and share dumb jokes that only we get. I’m into all of that.
And that’s ok.
But not now, of course.
No. Now, all I wanna do is bang hot-ish dudes, pass out in my shower with a bottle of wine and eat tamales in bed.
I’m a work in progress.
“Yo, what’s up wit these chicks flaking out online?”
Actual line of gchat conversation received this Tuesday morning from a friend.
So being the good dating advice giver that I am, I helped him diagnose the problem of the flaky chicks. I’ve decided to share these thoughts with you. You’re welcome.
1) Get off match.com, take that $30 a month, and buy a girl from Tinder a few drinks. My friend, being recently single, hasn’t joined the 2014, cough, or 2009, online dating scene. Stop paying for online dating people, really. Especially here in Chicago. Because if you’re on match.com, you’re also on OkCupid (free), Tinder (free), Hinge (free), Plenty of Fish (free but horrid), (even FetLife (free) if that’s your thing) and the copious amounts of other free services made for meeting people to
bang date within minutes of the Magnificent Mile.
This city is small, with not that many single people in your age/height/body type/miles range who are willing to date online. Instead, take that money and god forbid, pay for a drink or two. You don’t have to take her to the Aviary, but stop spending your time emailing and meet for drinks or coffee in person. She’ll be much more impressed with your ability to discuss your man crush on Derrick Rose rather than read your boring emails about what your dog did today.
2) Which brings me to my next point (which I have reiterated many times), stop spending six years crafting witty emails before you meet in person. This is exactly why girls be flaking. Sh*t or get off the pot, as they say. I’ve made the mistake of dreaming about my future wedding with some dude I was emailing/texting/Tinder messaging with only to meet him in person and realize I’d have more fun watching my mother check her email. You’ll spend your relationship in person, mostly, rather than communicating in writing, so just go ahead and meet in person and get used to it.
My friend explained he needs five messages before setting up a date. FIVE?! And you’re asking me why women are flaking!? He also explained he needs a screening process. In modern dating times, swiping right is the only screening process there is anymore. Get over it. If a girl is crazy, she’ll be crazy after 1 email or 5. Just get it over with.
3) If you don’t have lots of time, arrange to meet the person before another commitment. Or lie, I don’t care. If you’re worried about the time it takes to screen the ladies or gents in person, arrange a happy hour date and explain you have to volunteer at the dog shelter at 7:30 (or you have a date with a frozen pizza, your couch, and your cat), so you only can stay for a drink or two. You know when there is chemistry and when there isn’t. Remember, time, place, date, is all we need.
Give two options for a time to meet, “Does Tuesday or Wednesday at 5:30 work for you? If not, when are you free?” BOOM. Stop it with the, “Maybe next week sometime when I’m not so busy” because we’ll get ADD and move on to the next cute dude sending us messages.
If you follow all these rules and a person is still flaky, dump them and move on to the next on your feed. If they’re not actually wanting to use online dating applications, for ya know, dating, then the person isn’t worth the trouble or your time crafting all those witty emails anyway.
I read this piece a few weeks back at the fantastic show Serving the Sentence at Tow Bar in Roger’s Park. Check it out every second Sunday at 7 pm.
Jump, what’s the worst thing that can happen? After six years of being single, this is what I tell myself after confessing to an old coworker my copious crushing for him.
Even his name is perfect. Jack Summers**. He sounds like a made up character on Dawson’s Creek. And he has this smile. I can’t even pretend it doesn’t make me want to fall out of my shit. He owns his own condo. Getting his MBA. Has a good job. Works a 2nd one at Jcrew for the discount. He looks like he belongs in that damned catalogue with the skinny models and the Labrador retrievers, tall, dark, handsome and stylish in that way that looks like he isn’t trying too hard.
Damn. I haven’t seen or talked to him in months. It’s a week after my break up with the latest, right before the new year. I am unemployed, depressed, and have spent the last few days on an ambien high sleeping in my flannel scottie dog sheets, eating leftover Christmas fudge, and not showering. I’ve spent my time watching re-runs of The Wire, again, and eating random combinations of whatever I have in my sparse fridge or ordering large pizzas which I consume within a day. Shockingly, since unemployment and this break up, I’ve gained 15 lbs.
And bam! An email from Jack. Out of the goddamned blue. He gives me his number. Tells me to get back to him. SAY WHAT?! I lose my cool and text him back answering his question immediately.
We catch up a bit, and what the hell right?, I jump and confess my long time crush on him. Has god sent me him right now (nevermind I don’t usually believe in god)? Just a week after I dumped the last loser? The timing is honestly heavenly. We send each other photos, since I went redhead now, and because I just wanted to see his face. OMG. I forgot how cute he is. AND HE JUST SENT ME HIS PICTURE.
A few days later I’m still mourning and dealing with the loss of the last ex, and have let Jack’s face disappear from my daydreams. I’m on the delayed train back to Chicago about 5 inches into a 10 inch snowstorm, when my text message sound goes off. “What r u up to?”
OMG my heart flutters like I’m 13 and the boy at school is sort of paying attention to me. Dude is seriously hotter than Idris Elba.
I try to make conversation. I’m clearly the wittier of the two of us, which will work great as I continue to pursue my writing career and he does whatever dudes with MBAs do.
OMG my double chin! OMG my lack of employment! I totally had both of these issues under control when I last saw him. I was at the pinnacle of having my shit together, well, not really, but at the surface I was. Plus we were working at Jcrew together where the dress code made me wear so many accessories and cute shoes and all that shit so he probably gets an idea I like actually care about my appearance, when for the last 3 months I have solely worn leggings as pants.
"If it wasn’t horrible weather, I’d tell you to come into the city," I say, all slyly.
"Ditto," he answers. His text messages aren’t long. But all that meaning simply the word, "ditto", I think to myself.
"Snow check?" I ask. Man I AM SO witty.
"Ha," he replies. OMG He thinks I am FUNNY. I AM SO FUNNY, GUYS.
"Fo sho," he says.
Ok, Jack Summers, can you tell me when that ‘fo sho’ is gonna be? Because I’m going to need to dye my roots and buy some fresh Spanx for that day.
OMG our biracial children are so going to be fucking Jcrew models. I can feel it. I’m imaging our photo shoots with Jenna Lyons and our beautiful offspring, and he asks for my email address.
OMG WHAT WILL HE SEND ME!? Oh my god. He is so thoughtful. Sent me an article on job interviewing, as he knows I have one this week. I AM IN LOVE.
Mr. Summers, YOU WILL BE MY FUTURE HUSBAND. Let’s do this.
If you are my husband, I will stop eating Express Grill cheeseburgers at 3 am. I’ll shave my legs regularly. I’ll work out. I’ll finally read War and Peace. I’ll wash all the dishes in my sink. I’ll start sleeping 8 hours a night.
Who am I kidding? I promise, I’ll try.
A few weeks later we go on our first date. He lives in the suburbs, which you know he’s cute if I’m willing to date a dude in the ‘burbs. We meet halfway at a Glenview bar to have a few drinks. I beat him there and sit at the bar, attempting to play it cool. He walks in a few minutes later, wearing a camel overcoat and plaid scarf over a Ludlow suit and Ray Bans black rimmed glasses. We hug hello. I about die.
So here I am jumping. What is the worst that can happen?
Hmm, let me see. Humiliation, heartbreak, crying rivers after he breaks my heart.
Here’s a few examples of the worst things that happened:
"I’m a Christian," he says, emphasized at least 3 times.
"I am divorced. Just a year ago."
"We didn’t have sex until we got married."
"I don’t have any interest in moving back to the city."
The man I’m infatuated with is a celibate, suburban Christian divorcee.
This may be the worst that can happen.
But what is the best?
That question and possibility is what keeps me going. Maybe this man will or won’t be the love of my life, maybe I’ll convince him to move to the city, maybe I can put off sex for a few months.
I have to keep jumping, right? Because whatever it is that’s the best possibility will always trump what is the worst.
**not his name
By this time, we have all seen or heard about John Travolta’s Oscar Night gaffe: he not only mispronounced Broadway star Idina Menzel’s name, he made up an entirely new one: Adele Dazeem.
Now, I was all ready to jump on the “Down with Travolta” bandwagon until I took a pause from my late night pancakes and moscato and really thought about it: I’ve done worse.
If I had a dollar for every time I’ve called some dude the wrong name-in bed-I’d have a total of 8 dollars, which-I think-is about 7 bucks too many, right?
I’ve confessed my transgressions with friends and they all look at me with the same incredulous, disappointed face.
How could you do that, Sam?
Did he hear you?
Did you do it on purpose?
Do you know his name now?
I always feel bad, but there’s never anything I can do before it happens. I’m a talker in bed and after a bot of wine, 2 PBRs, and a couple of tequila shots I’m most definitely going to call you my ex-boyfriend’s name. Or the name I thought I heard you say at the bonfire we stumbled home from. I have a hard enough time remembering names when I’m sober (and I work in customer service so it’s really embarrassing when someone tells me their name and I just look at them blindly for a few heavy seconds until it actually registers in my mind) but throw in the mix anything that will alter the little activity my brain has left, and it doesn’t matter how many times you told me your name was Zach; I will continue calling you Justin until you text me the next day and I’m too ashamed to ask you your name so I just respond with a casual “Hey…dude!”
When you’re single and trying to mend a broken heart, you throw yourself out there and sometimes there’s just too many names to remember. How am I supposed to remember which one is Joey, Justin, JC, Lance or Chris?! This is a real problem.
Seriously you guys, it’s gotten so bad that I’ve introduced men by the wrong name to my friends. This scenario has happened to me exactly twice:
I’m walking down the street with a friend when John Doe comes up behind me-
John Doe: Hey Sam!
John Doe: What’s up, I haven’t seen you at [insert bougie tap room here] in awhile.
Me: Oh I know, I’ve just been so busy with rehearsals. Ughhh.
John Doe recognizes my friend.
Me: Oh, Megz this is [with as much confidence as I can muster] Dan.
John Doe: Brian.
Me: Brian. Shit. I’m sorry we were just talking about Dan. Her ex. Who beat her. Beats. He beats her. It’s really…traumatic. Ok, that’s our bus, see you later Dan.
John Doe: uh.
Me: Brian. Brian. I know that Ahhh. Text me!
We run off.
It’s horrible and I know if some guy I just banged introduced me to his friends as Tricia, all hell would break loose.
I’ve tried different tactics to combat the issue:
-Banging from behind allows your voice to be muffled
-Immediately leaving before the guy awakens so there’s no opportunity for potential slip ups.
-Only going home with guys named John.
-Making a joke out of it (this has yet to work)
This evening, John Travolta finally responded to the Idina fiasco:
"I’ve been beating myself up all day," the Be Cool star said in a statement to E! News. "Then I thought…What would Idina Menzel say? She’d say, ‘Let it go, let it go!"
Truth telling moment: I never saw Frozen. But, if Idina is telling me to let that shit go and not get hung up on something as trivial as someone’s name-then I’m going to take that advice. Because there’s very little a sense of humor can’t fix.
That, and a boyfriend with a one syllable name.
**Share your embarrassing name gaffes below. I know I can’t be the only one!
Slate ran an article last week, finally putting into words what we all knew in our guts: Facebook is Officially for Creeping and Crying.
The study, (which I’m going to paraphrase here because I haven’t mastered that copy and paste thing) pretty much shows three things:
1.) Leading up to users changing their FB status, there is a spike in FB usage (stalking)
2.) While in the relationship, FB users pretty much disappear (because, cuddling)
3.) After relationship expires, FB usage is spiked once again (stalking and crying)
We all know this, right? Facebook most definitely is for single people and the occasional baby pic. It is not for healthy, happy coupled up people WHO HAVE LIVES.
I think Facebook stalking when you’re still in the lovey phase, is actually a good thing. Hopefully, that person is just as real as you and doesn’t have any qualms about showing their ugly side: I.e. Pictures right before and after you puked from finishing the Slinger at Diner Grill.
You get to see them in their best (headshots!) and worst (hangovers!) light, and I think that’s imperative for the Crushing Phase.
As far as Facebooking While Broken goes, it is my belief that one should abort ship. Suspend that account for awhile and when you come back, promptly block the fucker who broke your heart. That took me a long time to figure out. I thought I could be the bigger person and just breeze through my feed, completely unaffected by his presence.
That was not the case. I’d fall into this rabbit hole of looking at his pictures and trying to decipher his facebook posts and whether that chick who’s liking his status is also banging him in a dressing room and then I realized that 2 hours had passed and I had a come to Jesus moment:
I said, “Bailey. Get yo Life. Block that fucker and MOVE. ON”**
So I did.
It’s much easier to act like you have a life while nursing a broken heart by drinking two buck chuck in your shower when you don’t have to see their smug faces while they’re on Rebound Vacay (which is apparently a thing that the other half indulges in).
So. I leave you with this, Singles in the City: creep away while you’re crushing, but stay away once that shit goes to pieces. Your heart will thank you.
**this is actually not true, I smoked a bowl with a friend, drank moscato and cried for a very long time and *she* told me to get my life! forced me to block him! and thus move on. But. Whatevs, it got done**