SH!% My Granny Says: Part 2

Doing a deep dive into Facebook will stir up a myriad of emotions: yes, you ARE old and no, you were NOT fat in 2014, but you are now. After deleting all my photos and embarrassing inspirational quotes on finding love, the only overshared snippets I kept was every word my granny has ever said to me.

Back when this blog was less successful, I posted a few words of wisdom from my grandmother and she became an overnight celebrity, within the confines of Facebook. I would tell her about her internet fame and she would let out of one of those hearty grandmother giggles that make you happy and tearful at the same time. Since 2015, she has continued to have absolutely no filter and I have continued to record everything funny she said to me that I remembered to put on social media. And now that my Facebook account is deleted (don’t kill me Zuckerberg, I’m still on the Gram), I successfully extracted the only thing that mattered – sick burns from Ruby Jewel. Enjoy!

Shit My Granny Says

My granny tells me she’s reading a new book. When I ask her to tell me about it, she proceeds to give me an actual description of the entire book – the dog’s name, what kind a dog, where the dog came from, where he went, then where he went after that, then who he met. And then what he did the next day…
Talking to my Granny about the Superbowl…

Me: Granny, who do you want to win?
Granny: The Rams. Tom Brady needs to go sit his old behind down somewhere.

Why do I know for a fact that all older people use this phrase?
I asked my Granny if she knew what my Christmas shirt meant (it’s a Christmas tree with “LIT AF” written across the top)

Granny: When you’re lit, that means you’re high. So…Lit AND FUN?

Mom: I know, lit AND FIERY!
First granny quote from the holidays – we were talking about my mom because we enjoy ganging up on her together

Me: Granny, why are you agreeing with her?!?! She makes no sense!
Granny: That’s what you do with delusional people; just agree with them until you get to a safe place. And then you leave them there and run.
Me: Granny, this Chihuahua bit me in the park a couple days ago.

Granny: What?!?! You need to go to the hospital!

Me: It’s no big deal, it’s not like I have rabies.

Granny: You know, it takes a week for rabies to set in.

Me: How do you… know.. wait, oh nevermind.
Me: Granny, you need to learn how to use the internet.

Granny: I don’t know how to use the internet. Or the outernet. Or none of those nets.
Me: Granny, are you going to take a picture of the tree?

Granny: Yes, if I decided to stand up again.

She’s done for the day…
“He must be getting ready to retire if he went to school with you.”
talking about Frank Gore
(Granny fell asleep in a movie theater and suddenly wakes up)

Granny: Sandy, do you have the remote?

Mom: Um, no.

Granny: Well, could you turn it down a little?

Mom: I would if we weren’t in the theater.

Granny: Oh.
Granny: I need you to go find this hair product on the internet (from 1960). Go to “w…w…”

Me: That’s not enough “W”s.

Granny: It’s not??

Me: Haha, no… what do you think they stand for?

Granny: “Women wonder….woman woman?”

Me: Alright.
Granny: Do you remember when you were two and I stopped at a red light and you fell on the floor?

Me: Um, no…

Granny: That was before they had laws to put you in the back in a car seat. So many laws now.
Granny Wisdom
Me: I don’t feel well. My stomach is killing me.

Granny: Just sit there and be quiet. It’ll go away…
Granny: What are you going to do tonight?

Me: Going out with friends.

Granny: Make sure you guys don’t separate.

Granny’s friend: Stay in the light.

Me: Ok.
My granny’s comments on the National Anthem while at the Lions game

“That was the longest anthem ever.”
“Did she start over?”
“What words is she singing?”
“You know I stood up to be patriotic. But I got bad knees, and she was taking too long, they were about to give out. If it wasn’t for that bar in front of me, I think I would’ve fallen down.”


I just called my granny to see if she was sad about the Tigers missing the playoffs. She got real quiet and said yes, that she “liked Brad”, and that was she was going to write a letter to the team to “see how she could help.” But the conversation ended soon after when I told her I was getting gas- she said I couldn’t be on the phone at the gas station, and hung up on me.


Granny: I’m calling Steve Harvey to give you a makeover. Those sweatpants are too big.

Me: But they’re from Banana Republic!

(Moments later, my granny tries talking to me…)

Me: I’m still reeling from your insult.

Granny: Oh no, that was shade.


Granny discussing the NBA Finals

Me: I don’t think LeBron James is going to win another championship.

Granny: Me neither. He tried for 6 or 7 years to win in Cleveland. He was in his prime in Miami and he won two. Now he’s back in Cleveland and is just getting older and balder.

Me: Granny! That’s not nice! (while I laugh)

Granny: Well, he is! You see his head. And he is older. And he plays the whole game. Playing over 40 minutes every game, bless his heart.


Granny: how’s your love life?

Me: Ehh, not too good. It’s hard.

Granny: Well I don’t know why you don’t have a boyfriend. You’re smart, attractive, You are short though.

Me: And?

Granny: I mean that’s ok. There’s a tall man out there for you. He doesn’t even have to be dark and handsome. He can be light and handsome. He could even be white.

Me Please stop talking.


Me: Granny, what does it mean when your nose bleeds after sneezing?

Granny : That means your nose wasn’t having it!

Me: Ha ha, ok. You sound like you’re sick, too.

Granny: Yea, I’m trying to catch a cold, but I ain’t having it either.


An appearance from my mother, who tries her best

“Which player did you sleep with?”
-When I told my mom her Mother’s Day present baseball tickets were behind home plate


Even though my granny and I don’t talk every day, I still feel close to her every time I get an email notification that she’s downloaded another casino game to her Kindle.


Quotes of the Week – Thanksgiving 2016

(when discussing the Lions loss today with my granny): “They should have saved some of them touchdowns from last week.”

(Talking to my mom): “If God can find someone a job, he can find you a man.” :/


Just asked my granny what up to bat song she would come out to if she played baseball. She said “something by R. Kelly”. Her second choice was Luther Vandross.


On the phone with my grandmother and I tell her I’m taking a cab to a NYE party. She then proceeds to tell me to make sure I put my housekey around my neck.


When Keeping It Nice Goes Wrong

Let me tell you why being nice is stupid.

I started off today with therapy (we’ll save that story for 100 future blog posts) and figured the rest of the day couldn’t get any worse than me facing my feelings at 9:30am. I put on pants, headed out the door, and ran my first errand of buying overpriced cookies in Midtown. I was treating a friend to a birthday treat of cookies that would make you fight a baby. Seriously, they are that good- and expensive as hell. But completely worth it, with flavors like Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Diabetes with Guava Paste. I socially-distance delivered them to her, still warm and tempting me to steal one – it was my own fault for not buying an extra to choke on in the car. It was totally worth it, seeing the look on her face as I forced her to open the box to see the nice thing I did for her. We air hugged and I dipped, leaving behind the cookies and the freshly laundered clothes she let me borrow when I inadvertently gave myself a champagne shower in her backyard the week before (that’s a story I’ll have to tell in person).

Next on the agenda was going back to the Stone Age and returning cable equipment to the UPS store. I thanked God it wasn’t at an actual Comcast facility. That led me to recall the acute PTSD set off with a trip to some old business park, with a line of people holding remotes, ready to fight. And with the Plague of 2020 happening, at least I wouldn’t have to be near people. Well, I was wrong, as the one person who decided not to separate themselves 6 feet away from everyone stood right behind me. I didn’t want to be that person, yelling at people in a UPS store, and kept quiet because, well, I don’t know how to fight. Luckily we were in each other’s personal space for less than 30 seconds as I was called up to the counter fairly quickly. I crumpled up the receipt in my purse as the guy proclaims “you betta hold onto this in case they fake they ain’t receive it!”, and headed to my car. It had started to rain, but not enough to clean my dirty car and get a free wash from Jesus. As I hopped in the car (yes, I have to hop UP), I noticed the lady who was in front of me cowering under the awning at the Subway next door. She had taken her bandana mask off, and started to put it on her head, as it was obvious she was walking back to her house. As a fellow black woman with hair, I knew what this walk would do to her emotional stability, no matter how long or short her journey. So I said the Lord’s Prayer in my head and rolled my window down. “Hi, is your building far from here? I can give you ride if you want.” She was surprised and said that if I didn’t mind, she would love a ride. She was even courteous to ask where she should sit, in light of our current situation. She got in, and off we went.

We exchanged pleasantries as she gave me her cross streets for her building. It was a little bit further away than I anticipated, but not far enough where I thought this is where my life would end. She told me her name and to protect her identity, we’ll call her Mona. Mona told me she had walked all the way to UPS and was happy that I saved her from having to put a plastic bag on her head. We continued to engage in small talk and I found out we had some things in common- like walking and riding bikes when they worked. The conversation turned to the pandemic as we neared her apartment, and I inquired as to how she was dealing with the quarantine. Mona stated that she was doing about as well as she could, but she was surviving. I asked if she was able to work from home, and she hesitated and said “kinda.” I didn’t pry, but she slowly kept going and she said she did some typing work, and that she would do jobs when she could that paid well. I figured it was a temporary thing, didn’t think anything else, and said that it was good she could do that from home and didn’t have to worry about going into an office. Then that’s when it happened.


MONA: Truth be told, I can’t really lie to anyone’s face… I’m just gonna say it. I’m a hustler, girl.

ME: (not getting it just yet) There’s nothing wrong with that, you gotta work hard to take care of yourself. We all have to hustle, so I feel you.

(we pull up to her building)

MONA: Well, I actually have this guy, um, ok, so he’s what people would call a pimp…

ME: (internal shock and awe ensue) Uh ok, this is your boyfriend??

MONA: You could say that – boyfriend, pimp, business associate…

(thinking this blog is literally writing itself before my eyes)

ME: Oh ok, that’s cool (fact: not cool). Well, ok it was nice to meet you, Mona!

MONA: Thanks again! Hey so do you want to exchange numbers?

At this point, I didn’t want to make the interaction any weirder than where it was at that moment, so I couldn’t say absolutely not. I go all Tinder on her and ask instead if she has Instagram. Mona proceeds to tell me that she has no social media at all, I tell her she’s probably better off, and she says it would be a detriment to the fact that she’s a hustler. She says she has two phones (of course you do, Mona) and gives me her “non-business” one, whatever that means. Thank Sweet Baby Jesus she didn’t ask for mine, so I take hers, thinking this is the end of this awkward Uber ride. Before Mona exits the car, she decides to keep the conversation going:

MONA: So yea, you should give me a call if you want to party or whatever, or just chill and walk and ride bikes.

ME: Haha, yea sounds good.

MONA: Because if you like to party, that would be cool too…

ME: …

MONA: ‘Cuz we all gotta get our hustle on. If you’re interested, just let me know. My business partner is real cool, and we could do some business. I mean, I saw those eyes, very beautiful.

ME: Hahahaha, uh, thanks…

MONA: And I see you with the light skin – they would love that! I don’t know what your body is like…

(weird panic sets in)

ME: Ah, haha, ok I hear you ( I proceed to make some joke about it not mattering what my body looks like to men, hoping she should get out the car).

MONA: I know that’s right, girl! But you would kill it! I see them thick legs poking out. Ok thighs!

(who knew I was going to get a confidence boost, on a Monday, from someone who wanted me to be a prostitute?)

ME: Hahaha…thanks.

MONA: Ok, well thanks again for the ride. God Bless.

Perfect way to end a proposition to join someone’s stable. Moral of the story: you don’t have to be nice to everybody. And you don’t have to run errands, either.



Well, this last week has been the longest year of my life.

So much has happened since last week, and in my hood, people are still twerking on yachts and getting $15 bagels delivered, so we’re not on total lockdown yet. After one week of working from home and invading the dog’s personal space, here are my personal observations after being semi-quarantined for seven days:

  • Now that I don’t spend most of my days buying takeout, I literally have no idea what to do. Am I really supposed to cook all of my meals? In the last week, I’ve loaded the dishwasher 72 times. The week before? 2.
  • The dog is not with this AT ALL. I thought she would want to play toss while I edited copy and pretended to know HTML, but no. Instead, she just lounges around, giving me the stink eye. I know she’s pissed that she can’t nap on the dining room table and pee on the carpet in peace.
  • One would think I’d be sick of watching television, but I’m not. If anything, my capacity to stream has become stronger. This weekend, I watched an entire season of Criminal Minds, post- Shemar Moore- and I had already worked out before that! Just keep your “Narcos: Mexico” watching to daytime hours – I dreamt I was murdered in Felix Gallardo’s office Friday night.
  • I spend 3-4 hours per day thinking I have the Coronavirus. It does not help that I’ve had actual cold symptoms every day since Wednesday that completely disappear within 2 hours. Soooo, my anxiety has been fantastic.
  • I’ve never punched elevator buttons with my knuckles so hard and so frequently in my life. Forearms, towels, you name it- I ain’t using my fingers. And according to the notice in the elevator, I am also prohibited from hugging, kissing, or hi-fiving the staff. And don’t you try to workout or party in the dog park – that’s a safe space for the puppies!
  • Just when I was about to get it together, they decide to close the gym. Now where am I supposed to pretend I was going?? Oh, the pool was shut down as well – so you’re going to see pale Michelle on the other side of this thing. My apologies in advance.
  • I spend 94% of my day looking like in-game Joakim Noah.
  • I’m scared of my snacks. Someone on social media forced me to search for these ridiculous dark-chocloate Oreos . I can only eat one at a time – I’ve only had 4.
  • STILL HAVEN’T READ A BOOK. But I did make a faux-gourmet grilled cheese on Thursday.
  • All I know is this better not interfere with football. We can let Lebron-ball and baseball slide, but if this goes past August, we’re gonna have a serious problem.
  • This new update on my phone just happened to coincide with my decision to stay indoors. The phone alerts me to how many steps I’ve taken so far in the day, and I can’t seem to clear the notification. So my minute amount of steps are on my home screen all day long. Talk about a guilt trip. “You’ve taken 265 steps today – your goal is 10,000. Keep moving!” At 7am, it asks me if I want to go for a walk. “You haven’t recorded any steps – you should take a stroll” -bitch, I’m asleep!
  • Many people have expressed frustration on all the emails they’re receiving emails from companies that they have relationships with, like banks and flower shops discussing the coronavirus. It makes no sense – like yes, I feel so much better that the laser hair removal spa is concerned about my bikini line during this difficult time.
  • And don’t worry, that chest pain you’re having has nothing to do with the coronavirus- it’s probably just a fart.


Bacon and Oreos

Sooooooooo, what have you all been up to lately?

Unless you are one of the Amish people who haven’t been told yet, we’re dealing with a nasty situation in the form of the Coronavirus, and that has nothing to do with getting sick on Cinco De Mayo. In all seriousness, I pray that we come out of this global pandemic a stronger, more resilient people, and I’m sending good vibes all across the Earth. They say laughter is the best medicine, and since there is no cure yet, let’s have a good laugh. We’re going to need a lot of giggles to get through this – and if you don’t think I’m funny, just don’t say it to my face (I’m totally ok with you talking behind my back).

I thought I would share my musings about the hot mess that is the Grocery Store Apocalypse. While my fellow Americans have been battling over 100-roll packs of toilet paper at Costco, I was simply wondering how I could get my regular grocery shopping done. I hate confrontation AND waiting, so after seeing fights on the news at Walmart, I decided I would go to my local grocery at the crack of dawn and get it out of the way. I could get my bacon and Oreos, maybe some EVOO, and be back in my apartment in less than 30 minutes if I tried really hard. My Publix opened at 7am, so when I arrived, it was still dark outside – it eerily felt like Black Friday. There were already around 20 people waiting to go in. I wondered if they were crazy or just wanted to ruin their diets and get out of there quickly like I did.

As I started to peruse the store in ease, I thought, YES, THESE ARE MY PEOPLE. No one was acting a fool. No yelling, no screaming, no fighting- even at the deli counter (if you know Publix, this could happen at any time). Everyone was cordial, the staff was friendly, and all seemed well. So well, that I decide to go ahead and wrap up my shopping for my niece, who’s scheduled to come down for her Spring Break. I was going to be the parent of a 20-year old for a week, and shopped like a hungover frat boy. What do those things eat? I decided to err on the side of caution and get all of the Gatorade and nuggies a millennial could possibly desire. After buying more crap than I should, I made several key observations about odd sold-out items:

  • REGULAR ASS CHEERIOS: Who knew there were more alternate flavors besides Honey Nut?! They were BOGO (buy one get one free), but your choices were blueberry, frosted, fruity, super fruity and tree bark. Where were the boring ones that I used to pour sugar on like a normal human? I got two boxes, just in case the millennial eats frosted ones…
  • VINTAGE OREOS: Now that creating new flavors is a thing, I was disgusted at seeing orange creamsicle and lemon flavors. Now I was in search for a dark chocolate flavor (again this all, um, for my niece), but still, where did these flavors come from? Did too many people win a contest?

As I expected, there was absolutely no paper products. No tissue, no napkins, just paper plates. How much toilet paper do you need, Susan? How many spills are you going to clean up with 45 rolls of Viva? And even if everyone were to get quarantined at the same time, you live alone, so you need to limit yourself. And don’t get me started on hand sanitizer. Did you all hear about the guy who bought a million bottles and tried to price gouge on Amazon? Sir, $200 for Dollar General hand sani? Does anyone remember what we used before Bath and Body works gave us a mixture of alcohol and glitter? Yea, SOAP and WATER. So please sir, spare me – I hope you get diarrhea on the side of a highway and all you have is a Family Dollar paper plate to clean yourself.

I finally get all my items and worked my way to the 2 lanes that are open. Since it’s early, I didn’t have the energy to go all Karen in the store and ask to speak to a manager to free up some more lanes. I’m usually very passive aggressive about it, speaking out loud to anyone with a name tag. I’m also not in the express lane, where I have no issue telling your grandpa he has too many items. So I just daydreamed about Cheerios, as the lady behind me passionately exclaimed ” NADA CARNE, NADA POLLO!”. I know, girl, I know. After I finally get through the line, I look at my phone and it’s only 7:45, which I consider a huge win, under the current circumstances. As I leave, a young lady strolls in with a friend and sings out “GETTING READY FOR THE QUARANTINE, BABAAAAAY”, and starts picking up huge bags of Doritos. Man, I’m so glad I got all those Oreos, just to be safe…


Pee Aggressive

Like Ice Cube didn’t say, today started off as a good day…

I purposely ate a blueberry bagel for breakfast, in case nothing else exciting happened while I was at work. I crossed three things off my current to-do list of 347 items, which is a huge deal. And yet the work day kept giving me huge gems, as I was able to successfully stalk someone at work to complete a project task. I started to really feel myself, and cleaned my desk before leaving the office, compiling several piles of paper into one, just to end on a good note.

I continued on to the Loop, a beautiful 3-mile path around the University of Miami, where one can encounter runners, joggers, and an occasional  crocodile. Being an avid non-speedwalker, I shuffled around the campus as I listened to my “Dale!” Spotify playlist, humming to songs that I could barely understand. My plantar fasciitis kicked in high gear, so I knew I had already hit my 11,00 steps for the day. Even with a FitGear watch pieced together with UM duct tape and a burning foot, I was feeling pretty damn good. I reached my car with no parking ticket, gave an air high-five to Jesus, and took a huge swig from my water jug. I emptied it out and thought, I just drank my daily requirement of H20 – did I just have the perfect, adult day?

I set off down Useless-1, on my usual 30-minute ride home from work. Not too far into the trip, I felt as if I had to use the bathroom. Completely normal, as I just drank a ton of water, and it runs through me like Taco Bell most of the time. I wasn’t too concerned until I hit I-95, and thought something was amiss. It was then that I knew that I was not going to make it home and needed to stop somewhere. LIKE NOW. My first instinct  was to go to Publix, so I flew into the parking lot, only to lose the last open space to a loud-ass Honda Civic. Frustrated, I peeled out of the lot with my building in my eyesight, less than half a mile away. I had to drive through Little Havana’s version of Skid Row, and became aware that I may have to resort to relieving myself in public.

*OK, SO I LITERALLY HAVE TO PEE RIGHT NOW… IS THIS 40????? I can only describe what happens to me now when I need to go as a violent act. I can go from “Oooh, let me go take a quick little break to the bathroom” to “IT’S HAPPENING” in a matter of seconds…

What about the abandoned road by the empty River Yacht Club? I could drive down there, and take care of my business. But what about crack? What if there’s crack down there? Will I see crack for the first time as I squat where valet used to park Diddy’s Rolls Royce? Am I willing to take that risk so I don’t pee in my Jeep?

No, I’m going to go home. I squeezed my legs together as tight as I could, and sped around the remaining blocks to my apartment. I get to my building and race up the parking ramp, not smart enough to know if the Kegel exercises I did were helping me to hold it in.  When I jumped out of the car and ran to the elevator, I thought something slipped out. The blood drained from my face as I knew I was going to pee in the elevator, just like one of these rogue dogs. I get in the elevator, and I don’t have enough fight in me to even do the dance. At one point, I’m pretty sure I grabbed myself between the legs, praying nothing would happen and assured that I was giving Alejandro at the front desk quite a show on the security cameras. Of course, I’m on the 149th floor, so it felt like an eternity reaching my apartment. I go from thinking I’m going to ruin the elevator to peeing in the hallway in front of one of my neighbors. And they do CrossFit, so this would be pretty embarrassing. I managed to open my front door, missing the light switch, dropping everything on the floor, and it starts to happen. I know I’m crying, yet no tears are streaming down my face. Instead, it’s all coming down my leg. And yet, I see nothing. The gust of wind that entered my bathroom as I burst in causes the toilet lid to close, in what felt like slow motion. But I haven’t stopped going, and still I see nothing. I know I’m peeing, but where is it? Nothing in the threshold of the doorway, not the kitchen floor, not the bathroom tile – nowhere. I then realized my yoga pants were acting like a ShamWow. But no clean up would be necessary, as I was LITERALLY peeing on MYSELF. I fought between trying to pull off my wet spandex and the damn toilet lid that kept closing. By the time I was assume the proper position, my bladder was 94% empty. All I could do then was throw everything into the washer like someone on Dateline hiding evidence and take a 45-minute shame shower. That’s it – that’s the story.


Neither Fast Nor Furious

Last week, my friend thought it would be a good idea to invite me to a speed dating event. She slid the invitation in my DMs with no explanation. Did she think I would benefit from such an outing? What was her end game? I became suspicious when her husband hit me up the next day with the same invitation to embarrass myself. After realizing he had sent me an invite to a completely different event, I felt a conspiracy coming on. I asked him if they really wanted to see me happy, to which he responded “I’m interested in you finding happiness…if in your quest for said happiness you experience moments that inspire you to provide me with comedic happiness then so be it.” What a nice couple.

I wanted to try to speed dating a few years ago, but the event was cancelled the day of, due to low ticket sales. I cannot say I’m surprised – who in their right mind would want to do this? I assume speed dating of today is not the affair that it was once was when an LA rabbi founded the idea in the late 90s. It’s no longer a plethora of men in suits, advertising their MDs and JDs to beautiful coeds. No it’s more the “40-Year-Old Virgin” version, where a masculine woman named “Gina”, pronounced “jy-na”, wants her date to put on a little rouge. I decide to conduct some research, reluctantly deciding to attend at least one, as it would give me built-in material for the upcoming week. Speed Dating Party #1 was on a Thursday, only $10 bucks, and sponsored by a reputable magazine. It was also on South Beach. Being the crabby old lady I am, I immediately thought of traffic and decided against it. Speed Dating Party #2 was further south, being held at a brewery, and FREE. Oh, and it was being put on by a group of people who got together monthly to trade vintage video games and sell handmade scrunchies. And the winner is… the group with the Sega Genesis console for sale!

I sent a message to the event organizer and inquired on sign up. There was an application I needed to fill out, which is detailed below, in its long-form glory:

First Name: Michelle Bee (I’m in the process of a rebranding)

Gender: Female

Age: 4…0

Sexual Orientation: It took me a while to figure out what to write, as usually it’s a bubble you fill out. And with people being so sensitive, I couldn’t remember if I could still say “Straight.” Is that offensive? Does the term imply that others are crooked? Was I supposed to put “heterosexual”, or did I not want to sound like a ancient artifact?

Interests: Sports, concerts, and lemondade

Dislikes: Being late, rudeness, and hair gel

Oh, and did I mention the event was on Valentine’s Day?  I asked my friend to join me, and she immediately asks if any lesbians would be there. How was I supposed to know? Wasn’t she supposed to be aware of the gay agenda that everyone keeps talking about- shouldn’t you know the social calendar? I told her about the application, and suggested she also might meet someone there. She refuses, but says she’ll come along for moral support. In her words, “If other lesbians are there, we’ll find each other.”

Fast forward to V-Day night, and I start to get ready. I plan to not get too dressed up, but enough that I shaved my leg slightly above the knee (just in case). I also have this thing where I want to wear my contacts when I go out, but the universe decided that wasn’t going to happen because they proceed to fall in the toilet. I become slightly more enraged than expected, and contemplated fishing it out the bowl. Ok, I totally did, then realized that this is my life, and flushed it and washed my hands for 5 minutes. I put on a dab of clown makeup, danlgy earrings, and polished up my glasses as best I could. Alright, let’s go humiliate ourselves in the name of love!

The place was buzzing when I arrived, but mostly because of the vintage vinyl records and t-shirts for sale. I spot my friend, who immediately said we needed beer. After getting our drinks at the bar, I scanned the room, not seeing anyone who appeared to be ready for speed dating. After playing some Mario Brothers and Duck Hunt like a gangster (directly on the tv screen, of course), we run into the organizer. I find out that my application means nothing, and speed dating would go as follows: there was a long picnic table where the ladies would sit on one side, and the men would rotate on the other, with each of “date” lasting three minutes.  I scanned the room and wondered where the men were, because I swore I was at a youth group party night. My friend was also right, as the lesbians swooped in on us, with the organizer being part of the clan. I told her my friend was hesitant to sign up, and she said “oh yeah, there’s only like 4 of us here, so that would’ve been awkward.” I was then approached by a woman I’m pretty was named Criss Angel, who went into detail as to how I could make a good impression on my impending dates. She said that if she was a “straight woman” ( yes, I can still say it!) with eyes like mine, I should take a sip of my beer, look down but somehow still keep eye contact and wink. It seemed like a pretty solid plan.

Ready to get this shit show started, I start to get antsy and wonder aloud when the dating would start. No more than a few seconds later, Lesbian #3 gets on the microphone, yelling “Yo, lonely motherfuckers, keep your panties on! Speed dating will start after the band!” The band was the 305 version of Dashboard Confessional, with a nice backdrop of “Titanic”playing  on the wall behind their amp. Very ominous for what was about to happen.

Finally, it’s race time! I sit down to the picnic table in front of a guy who was trying so hard not to look at me. As I studied his demeanor, I realized his nervous tick was not about me, but more about being near humans. He finally turns to me and says “I guess we should talk right?” After the nerves died down ( 1 minute gone), he said he studied the ancient art of karaoke, so my ears perked up a bit. We then realized at 2:45 minutes in that we both loved to spout Eminem lyrics in public, but he quickly let out a crazy laugh and jumped to the next girl. The next young lad was very young indeed, and I as I heard “twenteeeeeee” pass through his lips, I lost my ability to hear anything else he said.. He mumbled something about college credits, internship, psychology – it was all a blur. I am not opposed to dating a younger man, but sir, you can barely drink in Canada. A rundown  of some of the other “dates” that stood out:

  • Gentleman who had the handshake of a cold fish asked me what college I went to. I kindly told him I was in college 20 years ago, and his face filled with bewilderment. I’m convinced he was wondering if college existed two decades ago.
  • My one and only possible match was a guy who said he was forced to come by his buddy, who thought it was hilarious. The subject of birthdays came up and I told him mine was last week. After I told him I was 40, and he just stared at me, saying I could not be serious. As I tried to explain the concept of black not cracking, our time was up. He winked at me and I said “Chris, right?”, with a smile, to which he laughed and says “Ah, no – it’s Tony.” Good job girl!
  • The next guy was just as cute and funny, so of course it was Chris/Tony’s friend.
  • One young man gave me a dissertation on the merits of “moshing.” He then asked me “does that interest you? Getting hurt for music? The physicality of it?” Um, what?

INTERMISSION: Just as I thought it was over, they let us know that more men signed up than the women, so we had one more round of dudes to peruse. My friend has just sat down in front of me to ask if I had met anyone when a girl blurts out “there’s a lesbian at the table, is this the lesbian table now?”, in the worst hushed tone ever. My friend agreed, and hopped up to go see what the tarot reader thought she was talking about. She should’ve stayed:

  • I met a guy who wore a Freddy Krueger sweatshirt, clearly ready to find the love of his life. I tried to talk to him about horror movies and when I told him I could not watch Child’s Play to this day, he looks legitimately looked disgusted and stopped making eye contact. You would’ve thought I told him Blair Witch Project was my favorite thriller.
  • This one lad didn’t even ask me any questions, and instead showed me all of the vintage vinyl he just purchased.
  • After I told another I was in the marketing field, he gleefully proclaims he’s taking a CLASS right now! Am I at the MDC Friday night mixer??
  •  A particularly giggly man explained to me that he couldn’t believe he was there. I then asked him who told him about the event, and he couldn’t tell me. I later found him in the parking lot, friendless, leaned up against his car, and hugging himself. I hope he knows where he is now.

As the dating portion commenced, it was never clear how people would even be matched. Chris/Tony was nowhere to be found, and I was trying to hide from Freddy Krueger and Vinyl Man. Realizing I only had IPA for dinner, I decided to make my exit, since there was no clear direction on what to do next except go talk shit in the parking lot. I thanked my friend for being a real one, and promised to never put her through this again. Until next week, and any other subsequent weeks after that, until I find Chris/Tony.



This is 40

40 is being reluctant to look at your online dating profile (YES, I STILL HAVE ONE) the first day there’s a 4 in front of your age. I was always hesitant to date guys who were 40+ because they were too damn old, now I’M too damn old. Shouldn’t my profile automatically deactivate at this point? Do I unlock special features since I’m still putting myself out there? If you’re still willing to date on the internet after turning 20×2, all subscriptions should be free and include weekly Uber credits (for rides or wings, depending on where the night takes you).

40 is waking up in bed with what you believe to be a dislocated knee, without even exerting any type of actual energy the previous evening. And no, a drunken two-step for 3 hours at the bar does not count – all you did was get your 10,000 steps in. Then you remember the last time someone had a dislocated knee in this bed and recalling that the events that led up to said injury was much more exciting than this current ailment.

40 is also realizing the most important thing in your life now is getting those 10,000 steps in. The steps that you clocked on your refurbished FitBit that was superglued back together because you’re not paying anymore money on a watch that reminds your lazy ass to get up and stretch every 50 minutes.

40 is crying throughout the day about nonsensical things. Unable to blame it on hormones, being sad, missing someone, or cramps, the waterworks come on for no reason. You start by crying in the deli when “Shallow” floats through the speakers, because Lady Gaga can sang and man, this song is beautiful. You follow it up by going to get a massage, only to start tearing up during the reflexology portion because it feels good to just SIT DOWN. You round up your day by crying at various Sportscenter Instagram posts- because all JV basketball managers deserve to play one game and then get rushed by the entire gym when they foul out and make a free throw in under 5 minutes.

40 is falling asleep after the aforementioned massage, rendering yourself useless for the rest of the day. The only other time you move around is to cook your own birthday dinner because you were being annoying deciding on what to eat. After drinking rose’ on a Monday, you pass out again, because ADULTHOOD.

40 is getting a birthday candle intended for positive energy for the coming year, only to focus that burning energy wishing for salacious items and an improved curl pattern.

40 is gleefully telling the guy in the elevator in your building that the drain cleaner in his hand is ABSOLUTELY FABULOUS. 40 is also telling him that this cleaner will work better than anything he’s ever used, and that you know he got it from Home Depot. You then feel very good about yourself, thinking that you just shared some wonderful household tip with a neighbor, forgetting that you were not involved in his purchase whatsoever.

40 is Googling “how old do you have to be in order to be a cougar?” and realizing that you’re not there yet. It then sinks in that you just Googled the age restrictions on a made-up term in which older women date 25 year olds, enticing them with good meals and car insurance. Not really sure how to let that sink in, you shrug and realize you’re blessed with dependable Wi-Fi and can also do whatever you want.

40 is acknowledging you are a semi-fit (can’t confidently say “strong”) independent woman, who is still open to the idea of having a sugar daddy. Understanding that your sugar options are smaller than that of your Instagram model counterparts, you begin extensive research on “hot 70-year-old actors”, as well as local divorced cardiologists.

40 is the final level of nap achievement- you can no longer be questioned about when you feel like sleeping. There are no more questions on your energy levels, stamina, workload, stress, responsibilities, or even familial obligations- doesn’t matter. You can pass out whenever you want and wherever you want, and not be harassed about your personal decision. If all you do is wake up on Saturday and eat some bacon, girl you better get ready for that pre-lunch nap because hey, you’ve done enough. You are not allowed to be interrupted by your KIDS, your hubby, your boyfriend, or a fire alarm- keep napping, boo. And sure, you have the freedom to take these baby naps in your car for 30 minutes at lunchtime if you choose to do so. But you want to flex your adult muscles and show the world what you’re really made of? Just remember that you are now 40- a nap is 2 hours minimum at this point. Do what you want- you’ve earned that drooled on pillow. Having six pillows now makes sense. Oh, and you will always be tired.

40 is ultimately whatever you want it to be. You want to call yourself old, do it. So what, who cares? Feel free to not correct people in the office that think you’re 32. Be comfortable lying to young guys hitting on you and telling them that you’re 45 so they can’t function. Know that you can always get out of anything by telling people that you’re just too tired, because 97% of time this will be an accurate statement. Go ahead and rebrand yourself at the office, even if your friends think personal renaming is concerning. Don’t feel obligated to do anything you don’t want to do. Please feel comfortable asking to speak to a manager in any situation that you feel you can win. And did I mention you will always be tired?


$30 Steak

It’s no secret that I love meat.

Steak is my favorite food of all time. I love philly cheesesteaks, and I consider myself a connoisseur. I’ve tried all of the sandwiches, from your neighborhood Chili’s ( I stopped going there once it was taken off the menu), to Pat’s in the city of brotherly love. I like your T-bone variety (before I knew you didn’t have to burn your steak to eat it), and the finer cuts, like a good ribeye or N.Y. strip. Ok, now I’m hungry.

So when one of my besties invited me over to celebrate New Year’s Eve with her and her peeps because her fiance would be grilling steaks, my mouth started to water. But the strength of my laziness is undeniable, and I thought, I don’t want to go anywhere, but I could get myself one for dinner. I decided I would go pick up a goos steak, maybe some “fri-tays”, and settle into a lovely evening on my balcony with free fireworks, Trader Joe’s champagne, yachts blasting Cardi B, and chilling with my dog niece.

On my way home from work, I stopped at the fancy grocery store, where “family-owned market” means your cheese is going to be at least $2 more expensive. As I neared the meat market, I slid past the packaged steaks, and thought I would be an adult and go up to the counter. Oh, yes, I thought I would be uppity today, and not pick through all the strip steaks, to find the $9.78 over the $9.97. I had to take a number and everything. When homeboy called my number, I waved my hand, and everyone ignored me. I thought, how do rich people do this? Are you supposed to yell out? Ring a bell? Clap your hands? So I spoke up, as the guy proceeded to the next number, and I was still muffled by the sounds of suburbanites reaching for their money clips. Finally, the guy sees me and apologizes, saying he was deaf in one ear. We laugh at that, and now I realize I’m reenacting a Whole Foods commercial, actually interacting with my butcher.

I proceed to tell Meat Man that I am looking for a really good cut of steak, with some prime, marbley fat. My mind starts to wander back in time to when I went to Chicago and had the best steak of my life at Michael Jordan Steakhouse on Michigan Avenue. The meat fell apart like butter, and the only stain on the meal was that someone ordered duck fat rice because it was the closest thing to Chinese food, but I’m not here to talk about the past. After hearing my request, Meat Man gets a gleam in his eye and says “Oh, well you need to go with our famous ribeye here”, as he waves his hand across several cuts of steak that had what seemed like 45 “2”s floating above it. When I cleared my head, I realize I was looking at the price of the steak, which was $22.27 per pound. What in the what?

I responded with a cool “Oh ok”, so as not to unveil my fear that I was about to buy the most expensive steak in my life. As he asked me which one I wanted, I kept him moving from cut to cut, until he hovered over what I thought was the smallest yet respectable choice. As he slapped it down on the scale, he yelled out “Ok, that’s going to be about $23.99, at 1.03 pounds, is that ok?” I said sure, just trying to end the trauma as fast as possible. Next thing I hear is “Ok, that’s $28.89.” Huh? Had I heard him wrong the entire time? He said it was a little over a pound, so why isn’t it less that $24? Is there a rich tax I don’t know about? Do fancy people not care? Oh, maybe there’s included gratuity and it’s inherent, so I shouldn’t say anything.

So I thanked Meat Man for my $30 steak, and he kept gushing over the fact that the steak would be so good on the grill. Ah, yes, sounds yummy, I’m very excited, I think I said, knowing good and well this thing was going into a skillet my granny sent me from QVC. I get home and cook the steak the way Gordon Ramsey instructed me to on Facebook, and seriously, the steak was freaking amazing. It may have actually been worth the money, and I kept this in mind as I took 5 minutes to eat every bite. No sauces needed, as it tasted like champagne on the top shelf, and cut from a cow who came from a two-parent vegan household. Knowing this would never happen again, I relished the last few moments of wonder what life would be like if I was Mariah Carey.


A Hot Mess in London

My Ravens playing at Wembley Stadium couldn’t get me to the UK. Single Idris Elba could not persuade me to get across the pond. But a cheap ass ticket in July did – I finally made it to England, ya’ll!

I’ve been wanting to visit London for over five years now – the culture, the accents, the tube, the tall men, and lots of history. Because I never know when to pull the trigger, I would longingly look at tickets every year, and end up finding a reason not to go – no vacation time, no one to go with, no MONEY- you know, absurd reasons. But everyone keeps telling me to carpe diem, live every day like it’s your last, keep Tinder on your phone, etc., so I decided to make a move. So I went to work sick to save up vacation (sorry ya’ll who got the flu!), told my trainer to kick rocks (love you Geo!), and bought a ticket for the last week of October. I was going to an NFL game, sitting in a middle seat, and staying in a hotel room with no windows, but hey, I was GOING.

There is no way I can tell the story of the best trip of my life in any proper order, so I just have to share various moments of hilarity and observations of the people of London in their natural habitat:


Friendliness is an overarching trait of the typical London citizen, and the inebriated are no exception. The first night I was in town, I was finishing up some chips in Shake Shack when a lovely gentleman plopped down the stool next to me, clearly with a few pints in his system. He asked how my night was going, and after I spoke, he displays a Cheshire cat-size smile and says ” I hear an American accent. Are you from the States?” I replied yes, to which he replied “Bet you don’t see much of THIS there, eh?”, as he does a slow sweep of his frame with his hand. I obliged him and said no, and he took this liberty to eat my leftovers, as he muttered about having to work in the morning. We actually chatted for a bout 20 minutes before he asked if I could walk him home. Surprisingly, this display was overshadowed by another friendly act of intoxication I witnessed on the way back to my hotel. As I prepared to cross the street, a fellow who was at least 5 feet away from me, stumbled and collapsed to the ground. I asked him if he needed help, but he kept apologizing to me, as if he was ashamed that he fell in front of a lady. He continued to refuse my help, as I watched him attempt to get up from the wet cobblestone for a full 45 seconds.


Seriously, we need all the help we can get. I felt that all of the instructions on the tube and the street were all created in preparation for my arrival to London. Please mind the gap. Be very careful on the train. There’s space on the first car, you must come sit up here and talk and make new friends. Even when ordering us around, London remained friendly. Which is more that I can say for their comrades here in Miami. When you’re on the train in London, the tube announcer is telling you to “please stay clear of the doors and be careful.” In the 305, you get a ” TRAIN CAN’T MOVE IF YO BELONGINGS ARE IN THE DOOR. MOOOOOOVE!”


The nicest surprise was the commentary provided on American tv shows and movies. As if people couldn’t understand the English the actors spoke, the commentary replaced subtitles and somehow explained each scene in better English. I was treated to a lovely description of a scene in Scarface that stated “Elvira looks up from snorting cocaine to look at Tony in disgust, as he sits in the bathtub. Tony tell her that she is clearly enjoying the fruits of his labor as he continues to climb up the ladder of the drug dealing business.” Oh, and the all the commentary was done in a whisper.


Many comment that anything a Londoner says sounds polite because of their accent. This is 100% true. I tried so hard to not blurt out ” I HATE Uncle Jamie!” in my best accent, and caught myself a few times switching up my voice. The best were the children, mostly because they sounded like tiny adults. I was on the tube one afternoon and there was a kid playing with his dad, who was pretending to eat his ear (kids are so gullible). At one point, little Charlie blurted out “Daddy, don’t eat my ear, I’m not a potato!” Ladies, the way this little guy said “po-tae-toe”, I cried a little as my ovaries burst into flames. And although I probably should have been offended, I also chuckled at the way people made fun of American accents. There was a young lady who was from Malibu ( everyone on the train knew this because she mentioned it 5,000 times in a matter of 3 minutes), who kept yelling loudly that Kanye West had a new album out. Several London blokes kept eggging her on, asking her to repeat herself, just to witness her voice reach the upper echelon of nasal passages and the highest level of Kardashian. Even her boyfriend was embarrassed, and tried to stifle giggles.


Since I couldn’t see my Ravens play in London, I went with the next best thing: the 1-69 Cincinnati Bengals and the Los Angeles Rams. I really didn’t care who won, and apparently a lot of people felt the same way. Yes, it was considered a Rams home game, so I got a cool flag to flick in people’s faces, but there was literally a jersey being represented from every NFL team and several colleges. The most awesome thing was to hear how many of the fans in the UK became a fan of their team. One lady told me she went to Miami once, and now she’s a Dolphin fan (sorry woman). Her husband was a Derby County Ram, so he’s a Rams fan. A guy I met in a bar was a Lions fan because his fantasy football opponent one year said Calvin Johnson was cool. From then on, they are absolute ride or die. Win or lose, jerseys are being purchased, and they have a permanent seat on the wagon, even when it’s broke.


I was surprised at the fact that everyone was obsessed with Kentucky Fried Chicken. Looking at the history of blandness in London cuisine, maybe I shouldn’t have been, but come on, KFC? Do we need to teach you about diabetes? Obviously, Church’s is not a good franchise option for the UK ( it should be illegal here in the States as well), but was Popeye’s even a choice on the fried chicken ballot? You guys went with the Kentucky choice, you could’ve at least thought about Boston, for a more dignified menu. When London nightlife was buzzing, people were spilling out of pubs and going to get $5 Fill-ups. It was one of the most asinine things I’ve ever seen. But this atrocity was upstaged by the fact that London still had dine-in Pizza Huts! They’ve been able to remain civil and maintain the establishments that were taken from American years ago. This is most likely due to the fact that we don’t know how to treat a pizza buffet. Now we’re relegated to hard-ass breadsticks from inside a  Target.


I tried to immerse myself into the full English tea experience, but ended up looking like an idiot. I even tried the low-budget option, with 2 scones and a sandwich. First of all, they gave me three contraptions I was supposed to operate: a pot of water, the tea leaves, a little teacup with no handle, and a strainer. I thought, that’s weird- I have to keep straining tea into this little cup and then try pouring this hot-ass water into my cup? No one wonder this is expensive, you need patience. However, the recurring theme that common sense escapes me surfaced, and I soon realized that the strainer was supposed to go OVER my cup, as I poured the water through the strainer. Again, so glad I was alone to escape ridicule. Though there was this kid looking at me weird. Mind your business, fool…


I wanted to take a nap all the time. I’m already tired, but even the tiny 5-hour time difference had me all messed up. Trying to get up to go to mass at 8am, knowing it was 3am in my head was almost impossible. Only the Lord could get me up that early. There were also the random times I was getting lit at 2am, thinking I’m a millennial, but it was really 9pm, and it sunk in that I’m still just a pre-grandma. Oh, and all the doors in my hotel locked hella early, so when I would returned at what was actually 11pm, I was relegated to navigating through a maze of closed doors, which was a nightmare for a drunk person. And they were all push, with one pull at the end, throwing me completely off.


Disposable Swipes

I was all set to share with you the hilariousness of my London trip, but when a man calls you a dude because you won’t sleep with him, you have to tell that story first.

I began messaging with a gentleman, we’ll call him Cray, who said he was fairly new to Miami. We appeared to have many things in common, including football, live music, and meeting strangers on the internet. Cray stated in his profile that he was looking to meet new people, and ultimately someone he could have a long-term relationship with. Where have I heard that before…

To even attempt to narrate this exchange would be impossible. I will let our wonderful text exchange speak for itself:

Cray: Send me a photo of you

Me: Is there something wrong with the photos from the app? LOL ( I have a plethora on my profile, and I hate when men do this, but I tried to keep it light)

Cray: I’m lazy

Me: Lmao. I don’t like lazy 🙂

Me (again): Hey I just noticed your profile is gone. Did you just delete it? lol

Cray: Yes

Me: Why did you do that? (Answer = girlfriend)

Cray: I needed to refresh my options

Me: Please elaborate

Cray: Please send photos. Sorry. I don’t have them of you

(this is where I would drop out of the race, but everyone says I’m too stringent, so I let it continue)

Me: You’re something else. I can send you one.

Cray: Thanks

Cray (after seeing pics): Ok I don’t remember you because we didn’t talk

Me: Yea. I sent two because one has straight hair and one curly- sometimes people get confused 🙂

Cray: I like it straight

Me: Thanks 🙂

Me: (I begin to type) So you said you were looking for…


Me: (backspace/backspace/backspace/backspace) I was just about to ask you again what you were looking for…now I know lol

Cray: See your answer is typical liberal BS. You’re on Tinder! This is why dating in the US is very stupid

(First of all, I swore this guy was from Chicago… now you’re a conservative gent from overseas?!)

Me: Wow ok. So because I’m on Tinder I shouldn’t even consider that someone would actually want to date? Trust me, I know the majority want something casual, but there are people like myself who want more. But you don’t care.

(and because I believe in transparency, I got a little feisty after this and swore a lot, so I warned you…)

Me: So go fuck yourself because I am sure no one else will, hence your anger. And thanks for the compliment they’re fucking fantastic, asshole.

Cray: Oh you mad??? Don’t be rude. See why you’re single? You’re trying to compete in Miami acting  like that? Haha

Me: (trying to redeem myself after I remembered Jesus knows my heart) Have a blessed day

Cray: Also, as you know, you’re trying to compete in Miami agains VERY pretty women. Good luck my dude.

Me: Hahaha you’re right.

SoI went from someone who had boobs you liked to a dude that you have no interest in because I’m a liberal American? Ok, cool. My unsolicited advice for everyone I know who’s married, engaged, or been with their annoying girlfriend for two years: STAY. Figure it out. Work through the fights. The fact that he watches football for 10 hours straight on a Sunday is not that serious. I know secondhand that relationships are hard work, and no one should ever stay in a relationship if they are truly not happy. But if you’re considering breaking up a seven-year marriage because she can’t stop shopping at HomeGoods, MAKE A BUDGET. Go to counseling. Start at Ross and have her work her way up. As an expert single person, I beg all my friends and loved ones to keep it together.  Because the alternative in this culture of constant gratification and the internet is so much worse. And I just thought of yet another reason why: now everyone has access to hit on you and act a fool. And they will call you a man if you don’t want to have sex with them.

Oh, and yeah, I’m on Tinder, so what? Whenever I brush across this topic of internet dating, someone always has to bring up their Captain Obvious opinion, like Mr. Liberal BS – that I’m on a dating app where most people want to hook up, so I should not be surprised that men are going to come at me and inquire on what my body parts look like in person. Reiterated newsflash: I know this. I know many, if not the majority of people on Tinder want to hook up, and I can respect that, but it’s ultimately not what I want. Guess what? Those same people are also lurking on OkCupid, Fishbowl (or whatever it’s called), Hinge, Bumble, Coffee Meets Bagel, and 100% of Grindr. But I know of people who have met girlfriends, boyfriends, husbands, AND wives, on these same apps, and this is why a lot of people looking for relationships continue to maintain profiles: to keep their options open in hopes that they may make a similar connection. I may not be looking for a one-night stand with you, but I do expect decency. I have spoken to numerous men who tell me they want something casual, and I tell them I am not. We cordially agree to disagree, sometimes even wish each other good luck on our endeavors, and continue on to the next swipe. Unfortunately, a lot of men ( and some women) aren’t so friendly and get downright nasty with you if you dare say you don’t want to see their junk on a first date.

Internet dating is a gift and a curse, but mostly a curse. My closest friends in the universe have dating apps to thank for their spouses and partners, and for that I am grateful. I have also dated several people I met online, some I’m still close to. But I’ve also been hit on from prison, from the living room of a man who shared said living room with his wife, and around 72 men who have eagerly mentioned that they’ve never been with a “black chick”, and oh, would I like a unsolicited picture of their penis? Yes, please.

When getting to know a man or a woman was restricted to in-person, random encounters in the local sports bar, you could get a good first impression of someone, that influenced whether you wanted to go out with them or not. Let’s say you actually meet someone at said bar who’s cute, funny, and is clearly into you. You then would make a smart decision to ask them out, and hope all goes well. You may very well go on 1st dates with other people, but if you have a connection, you might make the smart decision to see how things develop.

Today? I, along with everyone else, can just swipe right on 30 people straight, maybe match with 15, actually exchange messages with 7, and attempt to go out with 2. Can’t do that in a bar. I wish I could walk around Buffalo Wild Wings and just tap 30 dudes on the shoulder, and talk to 20 of them, and go out with 5. Actually I probably wouldn’t, because it sounds exhausting. And of those 30 men, I assume not all are even remotely a good match for me, so I likely wouldn’t even have conversations with all of them. I hate to say it, but “back in the day”, you made your connections count. Now I’m stuck talking to all 30 people, 27 of which I would never give them time of day if I met them on the street. I will never be one  to say that there are no good people out in the world to date. I know there are, I might unearth one for myself. I just have to weed through a bunch of questionable photographs and propositions to meet him.