Archives for category: Tinder


I recently changed my Tinder age range to be ages 28-49. I know. I’m 27. That’s absurd. But we all know I have a major thing for older men, so I thought I’d indulge it.

So when I got a message from a guy who was 46 (yes, that’s 19 years older than me, and 11 years younger than my parents, but who’s counting?), I responded.

My Tinder profile says, “I’ll never turn down an oyster.” Which is true. I love oysters. This guy messaged me saying, “Now you have me wanting oysters. When can we get some?”

If you want to buy me oysters, I am always on board. Plus he was pretty cute. Plus he had a beard. And it was gray. So I was in the bag.

We talked for a while. He seemed into the sassy Jewish American Princess type (aka, my brand). It was going well. But then I ran into an issue.

The number one problem with older men is that they often come along with kids. This guy was no exception.

“You don’t have kids, do you?” I asked.

“I do,” he responded. “One. He’s ten. He’s great. Is that a problem?”

It was a problem. But I didn’t say so. After all, it would be kind of fun to be the obscenely young step-mom that no one wants to mention at Thanksgiving. I could try to get the kid to call me “mom,” and then, one day, his father and I would have our own kids, and he’d feel alienated and like his dad had replaced him for a new, younger family. That sounds pretty fun. So maybe I do want to take on a ten-year-old.

Anyway, the Dad suggested we get oysters at Grand Central Oyster Bar (yes, please) and make use of his Yankees season tickets. That sounded like a major time commitment for a first date, but both of those activities were so tempting. I agreed.

And then I had second thoughts.

“How about we do something more casual first?” I suggested. The game wasn’t until Monday, and it was Friday. “I usually take the dog on a walk through the park on Saturdays. How about you join us?”

“Can I bring my camera?” he asked.

I forgot to mention that he was a photographer. Well, a lawyer who primarily identified as a photographer, which is one of my pet peeves – no, you’re not a photographer. You’re a lawyer. Own it. But he had sold photos, and did have a show coming up, which really made him as legitimate a photographer as I am a writer.

I told him he could bring his camera. We made plans to meet at 1 pm the next day.

“This sounds fun,” he said. “I’ll see you then.”

We met up, and he was perfectly good-looking. He was tall, which was a nice surprise – the men of online dating are usually really short. But then he talked, and he had a really annoying voice. I immediately had doubts about our future together.

We walked, we talked. I brought up the full-sour pickles I had been experimenting with for weeks, he mentioned that he really liked pickling okra. It was fine. Whatever. We went into the park. It was a nice day in the shade, although really, really hot in the sun.

Here’s the thing about taking a walk with the dog as a first date. There is literally nothing to do other than talk. Like, not even the quick respite that comes with sipping on your drink, or taking a bite of food, or going to the bathroom. It’s just all talk, all the time.

And he was the worst when he talked.

“I hate when parents reprimand their children in public,” he said.

“Really?” I replied. “So, like, what do you do when your child is kicking an elderly woman on the subway?”

Great, I thought. Another one of those awful parents who doesn’t say no to their child. Or take them out of restaurants when they’re screaming. Lovely. Ten points for this guy.

He insisted on showing me his photographs. Like, over and over and over. And sure, they were fine. A sunrise over the Brooklyn Bridge. Some artsy silhouettes of people walking through a tunnel in Central Park.

Throughout our walk (which was a long, long walk, as I got lost in the park), he kept making really, really not-funny jokes. Soon, I wasn’t even trying to laugh, or smile. I just pretended I hadn’t heard him. Because I didn’t know how to respond to his erudite commentary on people who dipped their fries into ketchup instead of putting the ketchup all over them, or people who ate M&Ms one by one instead of by the handful. It was excruciating.

“I like that we can just be here, and be quiet, and not have to talk,” he said, at one point. We had been walking and I had been ignoring him for a while, by then.

“Yeah,” I said. “I like silence.”

I was starving, and getting cranky. Or, as he said several times, “hangry.” Which wasn’t cute or funny the first time he said it. Don’t worry, though. He repeated it at least twice.

So we dropped the dog off at home and went to get food.

Why, you might ask, didn’t I just ditch him and go home by myself?

Fair question. I guess I was hoping to get a free meal out of it. I mean, the date had been so bad, didn’t I deserve some recompense?

As we were walking to get food, it started raining. Not just raining. Monsooning. It was a serious July-in-New-York thunderstorm, and those don’t mess around. By the time we got to the taco place (the closest food I could think of), I was soaked and very, very cranky. I do not like being wet. I do not like being uncomfortable.

I mentioned that to him. He said, “What? I would never have guessed,” with a clever little smile, as if he knew me inside and out and understood all my little quirks. It was annoying. I ignored it.

The only seats were outside – so rain kept blowing under the awning onto me. It took forever for my food to come. And I was already with an incredibly annoying man. I was not happy. Not. Happy. I didn’t even want to drink, and that’s a major, major red flag, for me.

While we were waiting for our food, he told me several times how much he had enjoyed himself that day, how much he liked me, blah blah. He showed me a few more photographs. I tried to smile. It was difficult.

Finally, after we’d eaten, I extricated myself. I gave him a quick awkward hug good-bye. Then I ran to buy cigarettes and go home to my dog, who never, ever says annoying things.

I sent the guy a nice text message:

“Hey,” I said. “It was nice to meet you, but I think I’m gonna cancel on Monday. I wish you the best.”

A minute later, he responded.

“Yeah, it was cool meeting you and the dog, but I didn’t really feel anything.”

Cute defensive text, dude. Especially after you had just spent half an hour telling me how great of a time you’d just had and how much you liked me.

But whatever. If defensive gets him off, that’s fine with me. As long as I didn’t have to sit through oysters and nine (or ten, or twelve, or fourteen) innings of a baseball game with that annoying ass motherfucker. Be well, dude. Be well.

I’m still kind of sad I won’t get to be the shitty stepmom to ruin his ten-year-old’s life, though. But I’m sure another lucky woman will fill the role almost as well.


So, I’ve been on Tinder and loving it. This was a nice convo I had with a man who was, obviously, pure class. To start with:


“Oh, my friend sent that to everyone.” Right. That’s like, when I had a crush on a guy in 7th grade, I’d chat with him on AIM. I’d say “I love you” or “I have a crush on you” and then say, “JK, LOL, Sorry, my brother sent that.”

Then he asked me what I was up to. Followed by:



I KNOW I shouldn’t entertain these people. But I just get such a kick out of it.

Also, does “DTF?” actually work for people? I’m all for casual sex, but at least approach me like a human being. Like, maybe say hi first?

On every dating site or app, there’s a cornucopia of really, really boring profiles.

On OKCupid, there’s a question that asks “What are the six things you could never do without?” Obviously, it’s meant to be a cute, pithy way to talk about things you like or care about. To demonstrate that you love to knit, for example, or are really passionate about craft beer.

My list, for the record:

Screen Shot 2016-06-01 at 6.43.01 PM

I figure that represents me pretty well:

I like nice things, like cashmere sweaters. I’m a heavy drinker who prefers whiskey to gin. I’m a writer, and I always keep a small notebook and a nice pen in my purse. I’m feminine, and embrace it with my love for dresses and floral patterns. And I love to read. But, most of all, I love my dog.

There you go. Me in a list.

But way, way too many people’s lists just read: “Family, friends, air, water, food, iphone.” Variations include “the internet” and “my passport.” I’d think it was obvious to any dater that this kind of list says literally nothing about you as a person. That it makes you look fucking boring. And that you care about nothing and have zero interesting shit to talk about. But apparently it works for some people.

Which leads me to the most boring thing.

“I love to travel.”

Well, no shit. Who doesn’t love to travel (full disclosure: I actually don’t, really)?

Traveling is vacation. You’re walking around somewhere unfamiliar with a refreshingly different culture, and have no responsibilities beyond exploring new places and buying handmade pottery.

Saying “I love to travel” is like saying “I enjoy naps” or “I like weekends.” It means nothing, other than that the person writing the profile has nothing more interesting to talk about than the fact that they like having time off and going somewhere new.

So, when men list “my passport” as something they can’t live without, or post pictures of them posing with sedated tigers in Bali, I take that as them saying “I am boring as fuck.” Thanks, but no. Swipe left.




Every now and then, I swipe right for someone on Tinder and pray desperately that we match.

This gentleman and I matched, and I was so excited. He was so cute. Just my type. We started messaging back and forth, and then exchanging texts. The banter was great. He seemed smart and funny and interesting. And then he sent me a message that hit all of my ego points.



It’s like he was singing a beautiful love song to my soul. And not, like, some bullshit original song. A really good sexy love song (I can’t think of any right now, so you’re gonna have to use your imagination here).

I suggested we get a drink.

His response was less than what I wanted. He told me that he was “in a time of transition,” which, when I inquired, turned out to mean that he was “in the process” of breaking up with a long-term girlfriend. As in, not broken up yet. And they’d been together for three years – so homeboy really needed at least six months before he could hit me up.

Which led to problem number two. He was also planning on moving to Montana in the fall, to teach at some university in Missoula. You might think the issue was one of character, as in, I can’t respect anyone who chooses to live in Montana. But that was secondary to the issue of, well, he won’t be here in a few months.

He apologized. With this perfect text.


And he was a class-A stalker, which I respect:


Ugh, be still my heart.

So, a potential great love was thwarted. And I call him a “great love” because motherfucker appreciated all the things I appreciate about me. An all-you-can-eat buffet for my ego.

Too bad I’ll never move to Montana.

Either I’m humorless, or he’s an asshole?

I’ve been trying, for a while now, to find some serious scum.

I feel like the blog has been suffering – I’ve just been on too many dates lately with perfectly pleasant, decent men. So I decided it was time for someone awful.

I found the musician on Tinder. His profile was basically just references to his band and links to his music. The more I dug in, I found out that he played guitar – and guitarists are always the worst. I didn’t even think he was that cute. I was sure that I had found my scum.

“I hope he mansplains music to me,” I told my friend.

We came up with some leading questions for me to ask; questions that could only be answered in an obnoxious way.

On the night we were supposed to go on our first date, he texted me to reschedule. He had to work late, he said, could we do tomorrow? I agreed. Then, the next day, he told me that he was running late. An hour and a half later, we finally met up.

“This bodes well for an awful date,” I texted my friend. “He’s already an hour and a half late.”

When I got to the bar, he was standing outside. As I walked up, he turned out to be good looking, with a sweet, gentle face. He smiled and apologized for being late. We walked into the bar, he bought me a drink, and we sat down.

Immediately, he started asking me about myself, entirely earnestly. He asked me about what I liked to read, wanted to hear why I loved cults, and clearly just liked listening to me. I even tried to turn the conversation around; to allow him to be an asshole.

“So, you’re in a band,” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Who were your influences?”

That was one of my planned questions intended to trap him into being pretentious. Instead, he turned the conversation right back to me.

“I mean, who doesn’t cite Jimi Hendrix?” he said. “Have you ever seen him play live?”

The musician looked me earnestly in the eye, waiting to hear what I had to say about the man he said had shaped his understanding of music.

The whole night, he just asked me questions – about books, about politics, about my life. All he wanted was to listen to me talk. He was enthralled. Which is something I experience, from time to time – men wanting to hear a smart girl talk about things.

So, he was a disappointment. Not an asshole at all. Just a nice guy who wanted to hear my thoughts on life.


The first line said “I’m an INTJ, too.”

And then this:



Abelard and Heloise are pretty great, though. He’d be an idiot to choose anyone else.