Single in Roma

If you read my last post you know that it took place in Florence while I was traveling abroad for a total of four months, and my next destination was Rome. I had left the safety of my travel group to meet my friend Danielle in Florence for a few days, but I was going to be traveling solo in Rome. I had three days to do whatever I wanted, and as it was my first time traveling completely by myself, I was excited but also a little nervous. This may seem like the perfect set up for a Roman holiday with a beguiling, passionate, Italian man with a sexy accent and loads of chest hair, but I’ll tell you right now that it’s not. On this holiday, I made a new friend, a fellow unaccompanied American girl, and she and I conquered Rome together.  

I had been to Rome twice before so the city wasn’t completely unfamiliar to me and I kept that in mind when choosing a first solo international visit. I booked myself a bed in an all-female room in the Yellow Hostel, which is known for young people and having a bit of a party vibe. I had a previous experience with an almost too-empty hostel in London that had completely skeeved me out, so I decided to err on the side of noisy partiers rather than a creepy, empty hostel in which I might have to share a room with just one weird stranger. 

On my first day, I booked myself a tour of the Colosseum and the Forum and headed over early in the day. I paid extra for the Colosseum tour where you get to go down below, into the maze where they used to keep the slaves and the gladiators and the hungry lions and tigers that they would sick on the gladiators. It was unreal, thinking about how old the structure was (almost 2000 years; they started building the thing in 70 AD!), how many people had passed through the exact spot I was standing; how starkly different their lives had been from mine, whether they were a slave, a gladiator (still a slave) or a starving wild animal being raised up through the floor in a giant lift. I took way too many photos as I pondered and wandered.

Once I completed my Colosseum tour, I headed out to meet up with my next tour group that would take me through the Forum. There were dozens of tour guides holding signs up in the air, herding tourists like cattle, and I had no idea how to find mine. I read my ticket over a few more times and headed towards the sign that seemed like it would be my tour. I waited a few minutes amongst other seemingly clueless tourists, until I was approached by a tour guide. 

“Oh, I already have a ticket for a tour.” I offered up, assuming he was trying to sell me a ticket. He smiled at me, and I was a little confused as to whether or not he was just a ticket selling guy or an actual guide. He looked about as Italian as I do (which, if you don’t know me, is not Italian at all), with blonde hair, blue eyes, a few extra pounds on him, some scruff, and a very casual, American-looking outfit of a t-shirt and cargo shorts. 

“Let me see your ticket” he offered. I was hesitant, but he sounded American and in the sea of foreign languages drifting around my ears, it was a bit of a relief. I showed him my ticket and confirmed that my reservation was not with him. He didn’t seem to mind. “Well, you’re welcome to join my tour group. We’re leaving now so you don’t have to wait around, and I’m a much better guide than whoever you’re supposed to have anyway.” He smiled wryly. I studied him, slightly confused, and on the defensive because we’ve all heard the stories of tourists getting swindled in heavily trafficked areas. It happened to me on my first trip to Italy and I was not going to let this guy rip me off.

“Why do you want me to join your group? I haven’t even paid you.” He smiled calmly. “I make most of my money off tips anyway, so there’s still time for that. Plus, you’re cute.” I was taken aback at his frankness and recoiled a bit more. I looked at him, questioningly. He laughed at my unease.

“I get it, you’re a woman traveling alone and you don’t want to get ripped off or taken advantage of. I promise I’m not trying to do either one of those things. I just think that you’re cute and you’d have more fun on my tour.” I smiled at him and decided to relax. It’s not like he was trying to get me to go into some dark alley alone with him, there were literally dozens of people on all sides of us. Plus, I liked his gumption and decided he’d be an entertaining tour guide. I was right about that. 

The tour was great, and he was very knowledgeable and funny. By the end of the tour, it felt like some members of our group were friends and we were talking about our plans for the rest of our trip. Our tour guide, let’s call him John because I can’t remember his real name, had the perfect answer for us. 

He offered a sunset walking drinking tour of the city, every evening at 7pm. If ever there was a tour that sounded custom made for me, this was it. Just take my money! I signed up for the tour and hurried back to my hostel, wanting to change out of my workout clothes and into something a little nicer (and cleaner). I showered and threw on a green dress and boots, grateful for the unseasonably warm April weather in Rome, and headed out for my tour. 

We met in the city near the Colosseum at a small market that sold alcohol and snacks. We all purchased our own drinks, I chose a small (ish) bottle of white wine with a screw top for convenience, and we were off. John showed us some of the smaller, less noticeable but equally as historically significant elements of the city, starting with Stumbling Stones. 

These were brass stones inlaid with the cobblestones that marked the location where Jews had lived and worked before they were taken from their homes during the Holocaust. They were small, flat, brass stones, engraved with the words “Qui Abitava”, meaning “Here Lived”, followed by their name, birth date, and death date. I would have completely missed them and walked over them on my own, and was grateful that John pointed them out and told us their story. John showed us all kinds of small things like that, pointing out statues and explaining their meaning as we went. 

One of the best things about this tour though, strolling through the beautiful streets of Rome at sunset while sipping my wine, was that I met the other solo traveler who would become my Rome buddy, and Stephanie and I spent the next three days exploring, eating, drinking, and laughing. I would have done all of those things by myself, just without the laughing and company, and this changed my entire experience in Rome. 

Stephanie and I started chatting while we purchased our drinks from the market and that’s when I found out she was traveling alone, she was from New Jersey, and she was pretty fucking cool. We bonded on the tour when we came to an open square that looked like an active archaeological dig, except that it had been inhabited by dozens of cats. John told us that these cats used to live at the Colosseum, and I remembered when I had visited on my previous trip to Rome that the colosseum had, in fact, been occupied by lots and lots of cats. They weren’t in the way or anything, mostly basking in the sunshine where the old marble seats used to be, but as you scanned the colosseum you would see cat after cat dotting the horizon.

Evidently the city officials had grown tired of this and relocated all of the cats to this square/dig site, where they appeared to be living quite contentedly.  They weren’t feral or aggressive, they just didn’t belong to any humans. Some of them would walk right up to you and pose for photos, hoping for food.  It was quite a remarkable sight to see the dig site itself as well. Mere feet below the city streets of present-day Rome lay an entire world, and this was a spot where you could bear witness to that.

As we finished up the tour, we returned back to our starting point and ended at a pub to have a drink with John. He had invited the whole group to stay but only a few of us did; the solo travelers and young folk. We sat and drank and talked and when John revealed that he had a scooter, Stephanie was thrilled. She wanted a ride on that scooter, and John was happy to oblige her. 

He took her for a quick spin around a few blocks and then returned to take me for a spin. He had helmets for both rider and passenger; the big, bulbous, goofy looking kind that were white with a red and green stripe, mimicking the Italian flag. We took pictures on the scooter and were ready to call it a night, but John was a little disappointed and clearly had been hoping for a rendezvous with one of us. 

I can see how this would work on one tourist girl after the next; a sunset walking tour with wine, followed by a scooter ride through the cobbled streets of Rome, but neither one of us was into him so we thanked him for the fun evening and headed out. I was grateful that John had goaded me into joining his tour group though, because otherwise I never would have gone on the sunset walking tour and made my new friend. Stephanie and I exchanged numbers and made plans to meet up the next day.

Our plans happened to coincide nicely, and Stephanie and I both wanted to head to the Spanish Steps, do some shopping, and just wander around the city. We made our way to the Trevi Fountain and tossed our coins over our shoulders into the water, making secret wishes to Triton and his seahorses. We visited the Pantheon and its accompanying fountain, then continued on to the Piazza Navona, a former stadium from the first century (!) that now serves as a busy marketplace lined with shops and restaurants, and featuring the Fountain of the Four Rivers in the center. This is another massive statue featuring four river gods, each representing a river from the four continents that had been reached by the Roman Catholic church; the Nile (Africa), the Danube (Europe), the Ganges (Asia), and the Rio de Plata (Americas).

We had a delicious lunch featuring the best calamari I’ve ever had, followed by gnocchi and a delicious pasta and washed down with an Aperol Spritz. Pro tip: Aperol spritzes are a great deal in Europe, as they are heavily featured during happy hour and usually run you about five Euros. We ate our meal facing the bustling square and listened to the musicians playing their violins, cellos, and stand-up bass, while children danced around them and dropped tips into their instrument cases as instructed by their parents. It could have been a pretty romantic scene, but we were both glad just to have the company of a new friend with whom to enjoy it. 

After our late lunch (we were really living like Italians) we wandered down towards the Tiber river, and on our way we stepped into a shop that featured mostly clothes and accessories, but had a glass case of what looked like marijuana. Stephanie and I saw it and exchanged a look. It was relatively inexpensive and even though we couldn’t fully communicate with the shopkeeper to get an answer as to whether or not it was, in fact, marijuana, he seemed to think that it was and it was cheap enough that we took a chance. Turns out Stephanie and I were both part time stoners who were jonesing for some weed! We took our purchase and set off to find a market that would sell rolling papers and a lighter, then found a place to sit down by the river. 

Unfortunately, Stephanie and I are both terrible at rolling joints, so after way too long we were left with a pretty lumpy, unevenly filled, puffy-ish joint. Didn’t matter, we were stoked. It was time to light it up! The papers burned so unevenly though that it would burn all the way down one side and not through the middle, the actual flowers, and we were stumped yet again. We returned to the market in search of something pre-rolled and found some pre-rolled cigarrillos. We bought a pack and emptied one out, filling it with our “weed”, and that sort of worked. 

We had also purchased a bottle of wine from the market and this time decided to sit up on the bridge over the water and watch the sunset. We sat on the wall of the stone bridge, attempting to smoke our makeshift joint, giggling, drinking our wine straight from the bottle, and just having a care-free evening. Passersby glanced at us but didn’t seem to be bothered by the open container or whatever you would call what we were attempting to smoke. The Romans were just relaxed, making their way home or to dinner, and we were greeted with smiles. 

And then one passerby stopped to talk to us. She was a beautiful blonde woman in her late 20s-early 30s, and she walked over to us to ask if we knew a good place to grab a drink nearby. Her name was Sanne, (she told us it was okay to call her Sunny once we mispronounced it a few times) and she was from Amsterdam. Stephanie and I laughed at ourselves as we explained to her that we were just tourists trying to figure out how to smoke this sad little joint and invited her to join us. Ironically, Sunny didn’t smoke, but she did share some of our wine with us. We told her we weren’t sure where to find a drink but that we were happy to wander with her until we found a watering hole, and just like that, we became a trio. One drink turned into many, and before we knew it, we were drunk and dancing at a bar, as if we had known each other for years. 

Stephanie and I had booked a tour to go to the Vatican City the next morning. You what’s not a fun place to be when you’re hungover? The Vatican. It’s crowded, it was hot, and you’re on your feet ALL DAY LONG. Of course we had booked a tour and not just walked through on our own, which had perks like skipping the line that wraps a half a mile around the street surrounding the Vatican, but also meant that we were moving much slower through the museum instead of just skimming at our own pace and sitting down whenever we saw an open spot on a bench.

By the end of the tour, we had seen all the sights; St. Peter’s Basilica, the Sistine Chapel, the Pope’s balcony. The hangovers had worn off and mostly fatigue remained. We grabbed a quick bite and then stopped by a market to grab more wine and cups and headed to a park to meet up with Sunny. Once we arrived at the Caffe del Pincio, a beautiful park up on a hill affording beautiful views of the city, we were pleasantly surprised to find an outdoor stage with an Earth Day music festival taking place, apparently free of charge. We found a spot on the grass and drank our wine, alternating sitting on the grass with dancing near the stage, watching the sunset from atop the hill, and watching fire dancers in the piazza down below attracting crowds near another architectural masterpiece in the center of the square. 

It was accidentally picturesque, and again, would have been incredibly romantic with a partner, but was honestly just as enjoyable with my newfound traveler friends. We wandered down the hill, found a restaurant, and treated ourselves to the most decadent meal I’d had yet in Rome. Fried artichoke, caprese salad, pasta, gnocchi, lamb, gelato, and tiramisu. We shared all of the dishes and a couple bottles of wine, and it ended up being a pretty perfect day. 

That was my last night in Rome, and so I parted ways with my new travel partners in crime. We stayed in touch for the next few months and I even met up with Sunny again when I visited Amsterdam a month later. Stephanie returned home to New Jersey to start her new job, resuming life as usual. We aren’t in touch much anymore, but I wouldn’t hesitate to call either one of them the next time I’m traveling, and they are both welcome in my home any time they pass through California.

Being single in a romantic city isn’t bad, especially when you find friends to share it with. This was my first time traveling completely by myself, and though I had been a little intimidated by the prospect of it at first, as I just went about my plans and sightseeing, companionship found me. It’s a unique experience traveling alone, and even though mine was short, I had more fun with my unexpected new friends and just playing it by ear than I ever could have imagined. Chalk it up to one more life experience I got to have as a single woman that I never would have had if I were coupled up. See? This single thing isn’t so bad after all. 


Wow. This week. Just, everything about it. What a time to be alive! The stock market is crashing, Coronavirus is striking fear and panic into the hearts of apparently everyone, and that obnoxious primary election is still going on. On top of that, it’s raining in Los Angeles. 

(Yes I know we need it but no I don’t like the rain. That’s why I live in Los Angeles.) I can’t help but look at my cat, basking in the sunshine, completely unaware of all of the world’s problems, and envy him.

It’s a tough time to be a person who pays attention to the news, and I don’t know about you all but I’ve been waffling between feeling like I must follow the news closely and be up to date on all of these things, and wanting to fly to Costa Rica and just bury my head in the sand forever. Balancing that fine line between my need to be informed vs. the temptation of pure, blissful ignorance. For real though, can you imagine how cheap it would be right now?! (I just checked. Roundtrip from LAX is like $200. Adios amigos!) 

Okay I’m not really going to check out and disappear to a beach somewhere, as much as I’d like to, but I don’t really know how to feel about all of this. I find it no coincidence that just as I was beginning to consider re-downloading the dating apps and getting back out there, Coronavirus struck. That’s right, I’ve been on a dating hiatus, I just didn’t tell you guys. I realized after some reflection that my attitude and expectations surrounding dating were 100% negative, and that’s no way to go into something and achieve any kind of success.

So I stepped back, deleted the apps, and have been doing a lot of personal development and introspection. More on that in another post, but the point is, I was finally ready to get back out there and then the universe was like oh, ummmm….. maybe not right now? I can’t imagine a worse time to date than in the midst of a global flu outbreak that can be transmitted by physical contact, which, if we’re being honest, is literally the main objective of dating. 

As of yet I had been mostly unaffected by Coronavirus. Of course I’ve seen the news, the memes, the fear-mongering headlines, but I hadn’t been too concerned with it myself. I’m a healthy thirty-something woman with a strong immune system, no children, and I don’t cross paths with the elderly on a regular basis, so I had no real reason for concern. But then I left my apartment and went out in public, and wow did that change my perspective. 

I needed some groceries so I took a trip to Costco. Big mistake. Do NOT go to Costco right now. First of all, the parking lot was full. I mean FULL. There are few things as disheartening as a completely full Costco parking lot (well, there are more and more now), and when I used to live nearby I would just leave and come back another time. But I had driven thirty minutes to get here, so I was committed. 

I parked way in the back and headed in. There were hardly any carts left, which was alarming by itself, but then I was greeted by an employee wearing a mask over his nose and mouth and handing out disinfectant wipes for everyone to use on the cart. As I wiped the cart down and made my way into the store, I saw another employee directing traffic straight to the back of the warehouse. 

“Water, straight back. Water, straight to the back” he kept repeating. 

It kills me a little bit every time I go to Costco and see people carting around cases of bottled water anyway, because it is so incredibly wasteful and unnecessary, but it was just compounded this trip. Almost every single person in there had two cases of water in their cart, except for the few of us who clearly had just come to Costco to do some regular shopping and were caught off guard by all of these people preparing for disaster.

But seriously, my personal feelings about single use bottled water aside (it’s a waste of money too ya know), is there a water shortage that I don’t know about? Yeah, I know, Coronavirus. But water? If we were preparing for a natural disaster like an earthquake or something that might cause an extended power outage or disrupt the availability of running water in our homes, then it makes sense to me. But, a flu? Have people forgotten that we have running water in our homes? And that we can drink that water? Brita or not, that water is drinkable. This aspect of the doomsday mentality was making no sense to me. 

I continued on into the store and to my left was a wall of workout clothing that was all on sale. Leggings, sweatpants, shorts, sweatshirts, etc. Okay Costco, I’m pickin’ up what you’re puttin’ down.  If you are going to get the flu, you might want some moisture wicking clothing to wear while you are suffering through a virus that will make you sweat your insides out. *That’s not really how it works, please don’t quote me and start telling people that Coronavirus will make you sweat your insides out. 

As I approached the back of the store, I could see that they had an assembly line of employees helping with distribution of the cases of water, which was conveniently located next to the toilet paper (or, where the toilet paper used to be.) 

Anyone else finding the irony in people bulking up on both water AND toilet paper? Just me? 

Last on my list was Emergency. I drink one every day (Coronavirus or not) and just happened to be out. I couldn’t find it. I asked an employee if they had any left and he muttered “We’ve been out for like three days,” implying that either I was an idiot for beginning my Coronavirus preparations so late, or that everyone else was an idiot for having started at all. *Cue sassy eyeroll… Oh, and there’s no one here with me to match it. 

After I left Costco, my mood was less than enthusiastic. But once I got home and had dinner with a friend and watched part I of the Bachelor finale, I felt better. Maybe not better, per say, just distracted, which I believe is exactly the point of shows with no intellectual value to them such as the Bachelor. 

Here, turn off your brain and watch this! There are no political opinions here, no references to climate change (except that the finale was taking place in Australia and I kept thinking, were they there while the wildfires were burning?), no news updates about Coronavirus, and no one telling you that the stock market is now empty.

That’s it folks! We’re completely out of stock(s)! They got cleaned out with the bottled water and toilet paper. 

The next day I ended up going to a concert with a friend. I hadn’t thought that I was worried about Coronavirus, but suddenly, sitting in that theater filled with people I didn’t know, rather, whose handwashing habits I didn’t know, I became pretty paranoid. 

We grabbed some wine from the bar and headed to our seats, and the bartender offered us lids. She said it was so that we wouldn’t spill, but once we sat down, I realized I wanted to keep the lid on mine in cases and germs happened to float through the air and land in my drink. Five minutes later, I swear I felt something spill on me. A light spray of someone’s beverage from up above? We were sitting in an upper balcony but there was one more above us, and I was certain that either; 

a) An infected person had just spilled their drink on me or 

b) An infected person had just sneezed on me from above

Either way, AAAAAAHHHH!!!

I sat there frozen for a moment, but no one else around me seemed to notice anything. I was suddenly very glad that I left the lid on my drink, as whatever it was that did (or didn’t) spray down from above could not have landed in my cup of wine. (And yes, I kept drinking my wine.)

But then I grew very conscious of not touching my face, and of course whenever you think about not touching your face you have all of those little phantom itches pop up and you just must scratch your nose, eyes, ears, etc. I was just using my knuckle or the back of my hand, trying to remember if my hands had come in contact with anything besides my wallet when I had paid for the drinks… I was suddenly glad to not be holding hands with someone, imagining the little oven that would cook up germs in the space between our sweaty palms.

Later, there was a very loud bass drop and I thought it was an earthquake for a quarter of a second. Oh no! Coronavirus AND an earthquake?! Maybe I should have stocked up on bottled water after all! Every muscle in my body tensed up as I braced myself, then I realized it was just the massive sound system and not a natural disaster and I let go of my neighbor’s hand. Sorry about that. Purell?

I don’t know about the rest of you Angelenos, but I am a little traumatized from those two earthquakes last July and whenever a big truck passes by my apartment and rumbles a bit, I brace myself and look over at my earthquake kit, waiting patiently for me by the front door, that contains enough for me and my cat, not another human, and serves as one more reminder of my eternal bachelorette-dom…

I calmed down after a few minutes; the initial paranoia passed. The show was great. (Keane was the band in case you’re wondering, and they are great live.) And now I’m back to not stressing about it. But I’m also sitting in my apartment right now, not exposed to anyone’s germs but my own. And a fair amount of cat hair, if I’m being honest, but at least I know my cat doesn’t have Coronavirus. Can animals even get Coronavirus? 


According to CNN, “There is currently no evidence that pet animals can be a source of infection of COVID-19 or that they can become sick.” Phew.

Okay, the pets are safe for now. I still can’t decide if I need to be panicked about this or if I should treat it like the regular flu. I have always been a bit of a germaphobe and washed my hands a lot, so I’m already fulfilling most of the hand-washing guidelines. I will admit it’s nice to sing myself a song every time I wash my hands though. (I’ve been using “Oops I Did It Again”) 

So far I’ve been adhering to my regularly scheduled life. But maybe I should hunker down? I feel like if I was in a relationship there’d be no question: We are going to Netflix and chill until this is all over. The only germs we’re swapping are with each other, baby! But I’m not, so it’s completely up to me. Oh! The sun just came out and now it’s a really beautiful day and all I want to do is go outside…

I’m conflicted. I’m sure some of you are too. Let’s just try and keep ourselves and each other safe. Pro Tip: I read something that said if you can’t afford to get tested for Coronavirus you can go donate blood. It’s free (obviously) and they have to test your blood before they give it to another patient, and they will inform you if you have any bloodborne illnesses. So you can feel good about helping someone in need and also confirm that you don’t have Coronavirus. Or at the very least, you don’t have to pay money to find out that you do have it… But you don’t.  

In the meantime, I’m not going to download the dating apps just yet, in case you were wondering. If this is the universe telling me to take some more time off, it’s a bit aggressive but I feel like I should listen to it. So the hiatus continues. And that’s okay! I’ve gotten quite accustomed to all of this self-care and free headspace. Besides, I should be grateful that I’m single, because that’s one less set of germs that I have to worry about…


This is the story of a symbiotic relationship. You know, a mutually beneficial agreement between two living things, who agree to exist together and perform services for the other one that they cannot perform for themselves. (Well, in this case they can, but it’s really not the same.) It started out as mutualism, where both individuals benefit, but then took a turn towards commensalism, which is where one individual benefits and the other is neither harmed nor helped. It’s all very scientific, isn’t it? Okay it’s not really I’m just talking about friends with benefits.

We met in an acting class, like probably half the FWB/failed love stories in Los Angeles. He was the new guy. I was the stage manager. Our teacher told me I should assign him to a scene to get him involved in the class. Naturally, I assigned him to mine. Partly because I was a good stage manager but mostly because he was very cute. He was about 5’11” with an athletic build, blue eyes, dirty blonde hair, and just the right amount of stubble framing his perfectly dimpled chin. I know butt chins/dimpled chins aren’t for everyone, but I’m a fan. My first “love” (or so I was convinced when I was 14) also had a very pronounced butt chin, so apparently I have a thing for them. 

My friend Fred and I were doing a scene for class from Will and Grace where Grace has taken a lover, named Daniel, and he is leaving in the morning. Naturally Will catches Grace trying to sneak Daniel out and they all exchange sarcastic pleasantries as the two men meet and Will teases Grace about her life choices. I was playing Grace, Fred was playing Will, and we just needed someone to play Daniel. It was a small part, perfect for a cute new guy. So I cast him in the role. Side note: His real name is not Daniel but I’m just going to keep calling him that for both clarity and to protect the innocent. 

We met at my place for rehearsal and I liked Daniel immediately. He was funny and easygoing, eager to learn the scene for class. In the script, Daniel kisses Grace on the cheek when he leaves, so naturally we ran that part a few times. There was chemistry, even with a cheek kiss. Ooooh that’s fun.

Fred later told me he thought that Daniel and I were going to hook up after he left rehearsal. We didn’t, but that made me chuckle. Just the idea that I could have electric chemistry with someone that was so obvious to another person made me feel like a celebrity, or some version of myself that people noticed and wanted to know more about. 

When we did the scene in class, it was well received. Laughs all around. But our teacher wanted Daniel to kiss me on the lips. 

“What is this kiss on the cheek? I want to see passion!” he implored. 

Uhh, twist my arm! I. Was. THRILLED. Also nervous though because I had to do the scene again, right there in front of the class, and actually kiss someone that I was very attracted to for the first time with an actual audience. But we did it, and it was a good kiss. I knew I wanted more kisses after that. And we got accolades for our performance, although if I’m being honest, it wasn’t ALL a performance. 

My birthday came soon after and a bunch of us went out drinking and dancing. My sister was in town and was supposed to share my bed with me, but she got kicked out by a drunk me and Daniel crashing through my bedroom door. We froze; stared at each other. I gave her that look that little sisters give their big sisters when they want them to do something for them; silently pleading with my eyes, both for her to leave the room and also not be mad at me. She of course did because she’s an amazing big sister, and as soon as she headed out to the couch and closed the door behind us, we just stared each other down, hungrily. 

I waited for him to kiss me, but he just looked at me. I laughed semi-impatiently. 

“Are you gonna kiss me or what?!”

As the uncertainty left him, he grabbed me, pulled me into him close, and kissed me hard. It was the most passionate kiss I had ever had. My only movie kiss, where we couldn’t wait to rip each other’s clothes off and devour one another. And we did. Four times. Four great times. In the morning, in the hungover sex haze, I happily rolled over to wake up to him. So we did it again, and lay there kissing until he said it; the sentence to shatter my fantasy: 

“We should probably just keep this casual, since we’re in class together and everything.” 

My heart sunk. All the butterflies flew away. I wanted to protest, to tell him that I really liked him, tell him that I hadn’t had chemistry like that with someone in a really long time, maybe ever; tell him that I’d like to give things a shot between us. But of course I didn’t. My reply was that of the passive, people pleasing 26-year-old that I was; “Oh, yeah, for sure. That’s totally fine.” 

And so it went. We became friends with benefits. Yay! Every girl’s dream!

Me secretly pining away, wanting more, but at the same time genuinely enjoying our friendship. I never resented him, never felt like he was using me, never slept with him if I didn’t want to.  We were actually very close. Neither of us really dated other people, just casual flings. We tended to come back to each other. Then he got an actual girlfriend for a while and was so uncomfortable around me he apparently forgot how to even be nice to me. We spent less time together. They broke up; we came back to each other. We were writing together, filming sketches and other projects, having fun, being productive. 

Then we stopped seeing each other (naked anyway). The last time we slept together I felt like he just half assed everything. It felt like the kind of sex that old married people who are sick of each other are supposed to have, not the kind you can justify shoving your feelings aside for the sake of a passionate rendezvous for; not the kind we had started out with. There was no effort, certainly no checking to make sure that I had been taken care of. He just took care of himself and rolled over and went to sleep, and that was the first (and last) time I would sleep with him and regret it. 

I didn’t sleep with him again after that for years. We stayed friends and fortunately it didn’t ruin anything, but I just didn’t want to sleep with him anymore. My romantic feelings had long faded and I was happy with our comfortable friendship. Then he met someone and dated her for a while. A serious girlfriend. I was happy for him but also a little sad. Maybe we never would get our shot, but did I even want us to have a shot? Wouldn’t we have tried it already if we were going to try it?

Then they broke up. I never knew her name or anything about her, just that she lived in Chicago and he went back and forth a lot to see her. After the breakup he returned to LA permanently and reached out to me, wanting to get together. I didn’t actually know what his relationship status was and assumed we were just meeting as friends. But he made sure to clear that up. 

When I saw him, he seemed different, at least in how he approached me and our time together. He treated me like his girlfriend; paying for me, inviting me to an intimate birthday dinner with his close friends, holding my hand, and having passionate, albeit drunken, amazing sex with me. Oh, we still got it…

I thought, maybe this is it? Are we giving this a real shot? I was excited but trying not to be. I hadn’t even considered the possibility of us dating in a very long time, but all of a sudden it seemed like a reality. They always say you’ll find love when you’re least expecting it…

He called me and texted me more in the next few days, both witty banter and making plans to come see my standup show at the end of the week. Then all of a sudden, radio silence. I texted him to see if he had gotten his tickets for my show yet, not wanting to sound clingy but genuinely needing to know the headcount for my show. 

His response made me cry laugh. Mostly cry, but also laugh; both at myself for letting me get my hopes up; for allowing him to make me want something that I had long since dismissed and hadn’t even wanted anymore, and at the utter finality of the situation. I just couldn’t believe my luck.

What did it say, you’re wondering?

“Hey Kel, I just found out that my ex-girlfriend is pregnant and I have to move back to Chicago.” 


Gut punch. Game over. 

My mind was spinning. What do I even say to that? Was he serious? 

Sooo, does this mean you’re not coming to my show? 



No wait, congrats?


Whew, I really dodged a bullet! 

Enjoy the Windy City?

Womp, womp, womp, another one bites the dust.

And that was the end of our symbiosis. He was never supposed to be mine. 


Ever been through a really long dry spell and made a bad judgment call as a result? Yeah me neither. Except for this one time… In consideration of the fact that my definition of a “dry spell” and your definition of a “dry spell” may be quite different in terms of actual amount of time passed without having sexual intercourse, “hooking up,” or “getting some,” I think we can all agree that dry spells are no fun, and they sometimes fuck with your head a little bit (aside from other, obvious body parts.) Well, that was me on this particular Friday. Enough time had passed that my standards had been lowered. I was going out to a bar with my girlfriend, I didn’t have anything I had to do in the morning, and I was determined to find a guy at the bar. And I did. 

His name was Ian. He was not conventionally hot, but there was something about him that I liked. He was on the thin side, with long salt and pepper hair (PS: apparently I’m going through a long-haired guy phase), a weird hat that I guess could be described as somewhere between a fedora and a boater hat; it had a brim all the way around but was flat on top. What do you call that? Anyway, he was also wearing a weird hoodie that looked like a poncho with sleeves. Yeah, it was a look. But he had this cute smile and he kept catching my eye from across the bar.

My girlfriend Steph was not a fan. I told her I thought he was cute and she chuckled, “We do have different types, don’t we?” We ended up moving around the bar and were standing closer to Ian, when an old guy approached trying to squeeze into the bar to order a drink. We helped him order and started making conversation and he said he had a single son we should meet. He just couldn’t believe we were both single (!), and looked around the bar to ask us who we wanted to talk to. Quite the wingman, if I’m being honest. Coincidentally, Ian and a friend were standing right behind our new old friend, and he tapped them and introduced us all. And bam, we were off to the races. 

Ian and I talked for a bit and I discovered that he’s a skier. So THAT’S what it is! Maybe I could tell he was a kindred spirit? Or maybe his outfit just suddenly made sense to me; he was dressed like a ski bum in LA. Idunno. But naturally, we talked about skiing for a while. He got a little competitive and arrogant though, which was annoying. He automatically assumed he was a better skier than me, even though I was practically raised on the slopes of Squaw Valley and my sister was literally a pro-skier and he was a weekend skier from SoCal. But I digress… This isn’t about skiing egos. This is about me not walking away from a guy who is clearly annoying me. 

A little while later Steph decided to call it a night. This was after she’d had two vodka martinis plus a vodka soda and I’d had two Manhattans plus a whiskey soda. She asked me if I was good to stay and I said yes. I wasn’t that into this guy, but I wasn’t necessarily out either. 

I stayed and talked with Ian for a while and then I asked him if he was staying or going. I was ready to leave. I was drunk, I had found a target, the target was seemingly interested, and I was ready to move to the next step. Why stay at the bar until 2am when you already found your contender at 10pm? He was a little weird, a bit awkward, and I had to be real straight forward with him. So I asked him point blank, “Do you want me to come home with you?” And he said “Yes.” Then he added, “I’m just going to go home and listen to old music. Do you like old music?” And I said, “Yes I do.” I didn’t realize that he meant that that was literally ALL he wanted to do. 

When we got to his place, I was a little surprised. Ian had mentioned to me at least three times each that his parents were wealthy when he was growing up and that they both had died very close together. So, I was expecting a pretty nice place. No, that’s not why I went home with him. I wasn’t planning on knowing this guy long enough to reap the benefits of his so-called wealthy deceased parents, but the expectation had been set. So when we arrived at his apartment and it was small and dark and had a bit of a weird smell, I was surprised. 

I can’t even express to you guys just how much this guy talked about his dead parents. Look, I have a dead parent, so I get it. It sucks. But he just kept bringing it up. He would mention again that they had only died a few months apart, that they both had cancer, that they were the best parents a boy could ask for, that they paid for his college and when he dropped out they weren’t even mad about him wasting their money, then they paid for him to go to music production school or something like that, and now he works as a ski boot fitter so I don’t know how he ended up there but that would have been a more interesting addition to the story than him telling me for the umpteenth time that his parents are both dead. He literally had tattoos on both of his forearms with the day, hour, minute, and second that each of his parents had died.  I’m all for honoring their memory and whatnot, but that’s a bold move, Cotton. 

When we arrived at his place Ian walked over to his wall of records and asked me what I wanted to hear. I was in no mood for trying to impress some hipster with a record collection, of which I would never have sufficient knowledge to impress him, so I just threw out some of my old favorites that my Dad used to listen to; Paul Simon,  Neil Diamond, Fleetwood Mac, Mamas and the Papas, etc. I really didn’t care. I wasn’t there for the music anyway. But boy, was Ian laboring over this music selection and slighting me in the process. He said my preferences were just like every other woman’s; based on what my dad liked, blah blah blah. I jokingly told him to stop judging me and then he got all defensive about me judging him for being judgmental. I dropped it for the time being. He put on Paul Simon and finally joined me on the couch for more backhanded comments and awkward conversation about his dead parents. 

I went to the bathroom and had a moment of reckoning; IS THIS WORTH IT?! I stared at myself in the mirror, a little disheveled and drunk but not bad. I wanted to go home. But I also really wanted to end this dry spell. I had come this far right? I looked at myself in the mirror and said (yes, outloud) “You’re staying.” Then I walked back out into the living room to join him on the couch and immediately regretted it. 

He said something else judgmental, reminding me that he was superior to me in all ways, and I told him I was just going to leave. Then he got all sad and tried to get me to stay, and I told him I’d almost left four times. “FOUR?!” he just kept repeating, shocked that his cynicism and arrogance weren’t sweeping me off my feet. He walked over to me and kissed me, and then I was really confused because he just stopped after a second and walked back around the coffee table to sit on the couch and never touch me again. I was growing impatient. Not that I had to have it right then and there because I couldn’t resist his charms, but because if we were going to do this, I wanted to get to it and either get it over with or be pleasantly surprised and actually have an orgasm that I didn’t give myself. 

It was not to be. He just stayed on the couch next to me and didn’t kiss me again. I ready to go home. Done hearing him talk about his dead parents. I had even mentioned that my dad also passed away from cancer while he was talking about it at some point, trying to connect with him, and moments later he asked me if I still had my father. “Um, no. He died of cancer. I just said that… Well, I think I’m going to go.” I pulled out my phone to call a Lyft and he smacked it out of my hands like a flirtatious 11 year old. But still, no moves were made. I was done. I picked my phone back up and called my Lyft, and Ian wanted to make a game out of trying to guess the license plate. (In case you doubted my complaints regarding the caliber of conversation we were having.) I played along, gave him hints as to each letter and number, and when I arrived at the letter ‘K’ I thought, this should be easy. 

“Okay, this is the first letter of my name.” He didn’t say anything. He sat paralyzed on the couch next to me, facing forward, not looking at me. I turned towards him and raised my eyebrows. “The first letter of my name.” Still nothing. And then, a very uncertain “L?” I didn’t say anything at first. I legitimately couldn’t tell if he was just slighting me again a la “The Game,” or if he really didn’t know my fucking name. Turns out he really didn’t know my fucking name. Not even the letter it started with. Not even like a “I know it starts with a Ka-sound, like Katie?” Nothing. 

“Do you really not know my name?” I looked at him. He was so uncomfortable I almost laughed but I was too annoyed to laugh. “Seriously?” He was racking his brain. “I did know it at one point in the night but I forgot it.” Wow. “Okay well I’m going now.” Good thing I called that Lyft already. 

“I’m so sorry, I don’t want you to be upset. I like you too much for you to be upset.” Clearly, I can tell how much you like me by the fact that you’ve been insulting me all night and you don’t know MY FUCKING NAME. He stood up and insisted on walking me out. I told him there was no need. He followed me anyway. The Lyft driver went to the wrong street, of course, dragging out this awful farewell. Ian was feigning concern over the driver’s ineptitude and saying he liked me too much to let me get in the car with someone so incapable. Once the driver arrived, I just walked away from Ian. No hug, definitely no kiss, no nothing. I saw him open his mouth and thought for a split second that he was going to ask for my number, but then again, what would he even save it under?


Valentine’s Day can be hard on a lot of single people, and even though it’s not hard on me anymore, it has been. You can’t help but wish that you had a special someone who was making secret arrangements to sweep you off your feet for the most (commercially) romantic day of the year. But just because you’re in a couple doesn’t mean you’re going to have a great Valentine’s Day. (And just because you’re not in a couple doesn’t mean you’re going to have a bad one.) I’ve been much more disappointed on Valentine’s Day when I was in a relationship than when I was not. Not all of them, but the bad ones when you’re in a relationship? Those sting the most. 

I dated my college boyfriend for almost six years. The difference between our first and last Valentine’s Day is stark. Bleak. Disheartening. Similar to the beginning and end of our relationship, our V-Days went from romantic to obligatory. 

My first Valentine’s Day with Chad was my first Valentine’s Day as someone’s girlfriend, and he made it very special. It was my sophomore year of college at UC Santa Barbara and I was 19 years old. Chad went all out; he told me what time to be ready and to dress up, but wouldn’t tell me anything else. I was giddy as I got ready at my sorority house, my friends swirling around me, handing me makeup and fixing my hair. It was like a scene from Legally Blonde, but less bougie. They knew I had never been romanced on this particular day and they also knew that whatever Chad had in store for me was going to be good.

Chad and I were “That Couple” when we were in college. We had met in the dorms and spent all of freshman year as close friends, so when we started dating at the beginning of sophomore year, there was a closeness and intimacy to our relationship that some couples don’t achieve for a long time, if ever. I didn’t have to hide my flaws from him or play down my inexperience because he had gotten to know everything about me as a friend, organically, over the course of a school year. 

He was (still is) smart and generous and well loved by all of our friends. He was in a fraternity; I was in a sorority. He was a business economics major; I was a communications major. He rode a motorcycle and would take me on cruises up in the hills of Montecito and up over route 154 into wine country. I was silly and funny and could make him laugh and loosen up. We were a fun couple that you could hang out with and not feel like a third wheel. 

When it was time to go outside and meet Chad, I had a posse of sorority sisters follow me out to the parking lot, eager to see the surprise. And Chad did not disappoint. He had rented a LIMO and was waiting in the parking lot of my sorority house, dressed in a suit, holding flowers, and smiling at me like a real-life Prince Charming. It was quite the scene. I could not believe my luck, that he was there for me! I grinned, I gasped, I giggled with my girls, and then I ran to Chad and jumped into his arms, toddler style; wrapping my legs around his waist like I was on an episode of The Bachelor and he had selected me for the one-on-one. We didn’t even have to go anywhere, honestly. He had me at the limo. 

But we did go somewhere. We went to a cute little Italian restaurant downtown on State Street. If you know me you know how much I love pasta, so this was a great choice. At dinner, he presented me with my gifts. One was a beautiful necklace. Just a perfect, modest diamond set in a platinum pendant, that suited a 19-year-old girl perfectly. He also had purchased tickets for a show for that night, and we were to go straight from dinner. 

But it wasn’t your typical show, it was perfectly tailored to me. Chad had gotten us tickets to see Colin Mochrie and Ryan Stiles from Whose Line Is It Anyway? on their live tour at the Arlington Theater! As a lover of comedy, I was thrilled to see the show, and I felt like Chad really saw me and knew what I would like. The show was fantastic and hilarious and that Valentine’s Day was everything I had hoped it would be and more. 

(Yes, I got him a present too! He had his own business and made good money so I never quite knew what to get him, so I would tell him to pick a concert or show he wanted to see and it would be my treat. This became our tradition for years to come. That’s how you buy a gift for someone who already has everything they need!)

Fast forward five years. We had graduated college and were no longer living in the same city. Chad had moved home to Ventura County and I had moved to LA. He had a successful online business he ran from home, and I was waiting tables and “pursuing acting,” but really just driving to Ventura to spend all of my spare time with him. But things had fizzled. We still cared deeply for each other, we didn’t fight, but I also felt like I was giving a lot more of my time and effort to the relationship than he was, and I didn’t really know how to address that. 

The few times that Chad did come visit me in LA were usually because the LA car show was happening, or there was a concert he wanted to see and he would stay with me afterwards. I felt like more of a crash pad when he had an activity in LA, not the actual destination. My roommate, who was also a friend of ours from college and so had seen us in the glory days of our relationship compared to now, was the one who brought to my attention the stark contrast between my efforts and his. Granted, his family was experiencing some serious issues at the time (all worked out now but no reason for me to share business that’s not mine), and so I had found ways to justify his lack of prioritizing me. 

But as it continued, I felt neglected, and any time I would ask him to do something small for me to make me feel good, he would get exasperated and treat me like I was asking for the world. One squabble we had frequently was over his stubble, which would stab me in the face and itch whenever we kissed. He wasn’t growing a beard, he just wouldn’t shave for a few days, and after sitting in an hour and a half of traffic driving to come see him, it felt like a pretty small ask for him to have shaved his face. Sometimes when I would arrive at his house he would be in the bonus room playing video games with his friends, and he would just toss out a cursory “Hey” without turning his head to even look at me, let alone pause the game, stand up, and greet me with a kiss or a hug. 

Whenever I would comment on these things he would groan and tell me I was being unreasonable, so I stopped. He would do that with just about anything that I brought up that he didn’t like, which honestly was not much. I never wanted to be “that girl” who whines and nags at her boyfriend all the time, and I think he knew that and took advantage of it to a certain degree; like on our last Valentine’s Day. 

Chad and I loved wine. We took a wine tasting class in college together and would do wine tasting tours up in the Santa Ynez Valley (where they filmed Sideways, which happened to be our favorite movie to watch together) to celebrate our anniversaries and birthdays. Suffice it to say we drank a fair amount of wine, so I had started collecting all of our wine corks over the years. I had a full gallon sized Ziploc bag of them and made him a custom bulletin board from all of the corks. I put his business logo on the bottom corner of the board, very pleased with my handiwork. It was not an expensive gift, but it was very thoughtful and took up a fair amount of time and I was excited to give it to him. 

Valentine’s Day arrived, and Chad actually came to LA to see me. I don’t remember what our plans were, but I remember that the exchanging of gifts happened at my apartment. I gave him the bulletin board, eager to see how he would react and hoping to have him tell me he couldn’t wait to hang it in his office. He liked it fine. Then it was my turn to open my gift. It was a giant gift bag and I was trying to figure out what could possibly be in there, when he started qualifying his gift. Looking back, I think it was more like pre-gaslighting me so that I wouldn’t call him out on his shitty gift, but that’s just my slightly-biased opinion. 

“This is kind of a mature gift, not a super exciting one. But it’s important, and we’re grownups, so that’s where I’m coming from” he warned. “So don’t get upset, this is a functional gift. You need this.” I half expected to pull out a tool set. It’s never a good sign when someone is telling you not to get upset BEFORE you even open your gift. 

I reached into the bag and pulled out a pillow. Like, a regular pillow, you know, for your head. I looked at him, confused. 

“That’s for you, since we’re always fighting over your good pillow when I stay here. Now I have a good pillow here too.” 

“Oh, so it’s a pillow for you…?” I confirmed. He nodded, then motioned for me to continue. Next thing I pulled out of the bag was a towel. A bath towel, to be more specific. I looked at him again, perplexed. 

“And that’s for you since your bath towels are too small for me. You know how I’m always telling you that your towels don’t fit all the way around me? But you never get new ones? So I got you a new one that will fit around me.” He looked pleased with himself. 

“Sooo, it’s a bath towel, for you…” I confirmed again. He nodded again as I looked into the bag, hoping for something more, something that was actually for me. There was nothing else in the bag. No card. That was my gift: A pillow for his head and a bath towel for his bigger-than-mine body. He knew I would be unhappy with it; he knew it wasn’t really a gift for me. That’s why he prefaced me opening it with his logical, mature relationship bullshit. 

Looking back now, I wish I had flipped out and actually called him out. But that wasn’t (still isn’t) my style. I was so determined not to be “that girl” and get upset over a gift that wasn’t good enough, to not nag him or be ungrateful, so I just said thank you and moved on. He looked at me for a moment, the way you might look at a bomb that you just attempted to diffuse, waiting to see if it will actually explode after all. But I didn’t explode. I imploded. I saved all of that disappointment for myself because I didn’t want to be unreasonable. 

I know now that it was not unreasonable of me to be disappointed with such a “functional” gift; one that wasn’t even for me. He bought himself a spare pillow and bath towel and then wrapped it up and gave it to me for Valentine’s Day. That’s not my subjective opinion, that’s literally what he did. 

I didn’t say anything that day but it really hurt my feelings and made our relationship feel completely unbalanced. I finally saw it. He had made me feel small and unimportant and confirmed to me that my apartment was only a crash pad to him, one that was now properly outfitted to suit his needs. 

That was a very disappointing Valentine’s Day for me. Another one comes to mind, when I was in another relationship, and the similarity is that I knew on that day that they didn’t care for me the way that I cared for them. And that, my friends, is the absolute worst way to feel on Valentine’s Day. 

Being single on Valentine’s Day is not sad, it’s liberating! There are no expectations and so no disappointment. Round up your other single friends (this is LA so I know you have some) and just go do something fun. Go to dinner, or dancing, or a comedy show, or watch the sunset at the beach, or just have them over and drink wine and watch movies, or play boardgames, or poker, or catch up and tell each other terrible jokes. It doesn’t matter what you do, just do something with people who make you feel loved; people you love.

Let’s reframe Valentine’s Day as a general day of love, not just romantic love. Those of you in relationships absolutely should celebrate your romantic love! And those of us who are still single should celebrate all of the other kinds of love that we have in our lives, including love for ourselves. Because we all do have love in our lives, and that should be celebrated. ❤ 

*Steps down from soapbox*

Happy Valentine’s Day!


Let me tell you guys a story about my very first online date. Ever. Of all time. Where it all began. And the rest, as they say, is history – or an endlessly frustrating path of hope, excitement, disappointment, confusion, ghosting, and just a sprinkle of creepiness. 

I cannot remember this guy’s name so I am going to call him Bob. I choose Bob because I don’t want to overlap on the names of my blog posts and it seems unlikely that I will go out with a man in his 60s who wears Hawaiian shirts and loves Jimmy Buffet. (Is that not what you guys picture when you hear the name Bob? Just me?) At least not until I’m also in my 60s, wearing a lei and drinking a margarita at a Jimmy Buffett concert alongside him. 

Anyway, Bob and I met on OKCupid. That was the first online dating website I ever signed up for and it was at my roommate’s behest. I had broken up with my college sweetheart of five years and it was time to get back out there. So I did. Reluctantly so, but I did. 

At the time I was waiting tables and worked almost every single night, so I had to set up a weekend day time date with Bob. We agreed to meet at a for breakfast on the Venice boardwalk. I was nervous for my first online date ever. I was also nervous to just get back out there in general after being in a relationship for so long, but I had to leave the nest sometime. 

And… I was late for our date. Not horrendously late, but in my twenties I was pretty much 10-15 minutes late to any social engagement, and about 5 minutes late to work. Without fail. But I was charming and an otherwise excellent employee so I always got away with it. 

I was just about to text him and let him know my adjusted ETA when he texted me, and let me know that he had arrived. 20 minutes early. 

Shit. 15 minutes late isn’t THAT bad, unless you’ve already been waiting for me for twenty minutes, then it’s like I’m 35 minutes late and that makes me feel like a stinking hot pile of garbage. 

Not the best way to start a date, with my tail between my legs, rushing around Venice trying to find parking, and hustling my ass over to the café and breaking a sweat in the process. Hi, I’m your late, sweaty date. Nice to meet you, Bob.

I think he could tell that I felt pretty badly about being late because he was kind and didn’t make any snarky remarks. But still, the dynamic felt like he had the power and I had to prove myself to him. 

I ordered as quickly as I could and we got to the small talk. Yay!

Bob worked as a tugboat captain, which I found very amusing. That’s one of those job titles I’ve only ever really heard of in cartoons, and I had some questions to ask him about it. He filled me in on his days of running the ship (literally) and towing boats in and out of Long Beach Harbor, and it turned out to be not as wild of a job as I had imagined. He just tugged boats all day. Pretty self-explanatory. We moved on to other subjects.  

Bob was a big, buff guy, so it was clear that he kept active. But he did have a bit of that top-heaviness going on. You know, when they have the legs of a gazelle holding up the pecs and arms of the Hulk? Yeah, it was like that. 

I studied personal training in college and have always been fascinated by the human body, so we got onto the subject of kinesiology and working out. He mentioned he had torn his ACL a few years back and I asked him how he did it. He did not want to tell me.  Like, really didn’t want to tell me.

I immediately thought of all the scandalous ways he could have injured his knee that he wouldn’t want to tell me on a first date. 

“Come on, tell me the story!”

“It’s not a good story” he just kept saying. 

“The more you say that the better the story gets in my mind. You should probably just tell me. “ 

He eventually acquiesced, sighed, and told me.

“I hurt it getting out of a chair.” 

“Like, you fell out of the chair while you were having sex with someone?”

“No, I was just getting up.”

“Was it a spinny office chair and somehow you lost your balance?”

“Nope. Just a regular chair. I didn’t fall down. I just stood up and tore my ACL.”

“So, you didn’t step on a marble or anything?”

He stared at me.

I blinked. He was right; that was not a good story. 

But it did explain the disproportionate top and bottom situation he had going on. 

“I told you it wasn’t a good story.”

I laughed. 

“You weren’t kidding. That’s a really boring story. You’ve got to come up with something better than that.”

He looked at me like I was crazy.

“Just make something up! Who cares? You could switch it up every time, have some fun with it! You tore it skiing in the Swiss Alps… You tore it having a silent disco outside on the beach… You tore it falling off a yacht… umm, Pirates…???”

My voice trailed off. I was not getting any implication from his body language that he was even mildly entertaining the idea of making up tall tales about injuring his knee. Swashbuckling or not. 

It’s possible he thought I was crazy starting in that moment. 

Since he wasn’t amused by my wild imagination, we moved on. Turns out he wasn’t amused by much of anything. The conversation was a bit dry, just like his knee story. 

He did seem to enjoy mansplaining to me why it was better to sit next to each other at a bar than across from each other at a table when on a first date. You see, ladies, he explained to me that we would have easier access to touch each other and invite physical chemistry if we were sitting next to each other. But since there was a table between us, our physical touch was restricted.

Uh, ya think that was an accident? You don’t have to tell me how to strategically position myself so as not to get groped by a stranger I met on the internet. Women have been utilizing the table as a pseudo-bodyguard/buffer for centuries thank you very much.

But I digress. The date went on a little longer, but it did not improve. When it was time to leave, we split the check and he walked me to my car. I was parked at a meter and we stood on the sidewalk for a moment as we bid each other farewell, forever. 

All was well and done, and then we had our awkward goodbye hug. I think it was obvious that I didn’t want a kiss from him because he didn’t try anything. I was in the clear! Until we pulled away from each other after the hug. Bob’s face suddenly contorted and he looked at me like I had punched him in the gut. 

“What was that?” he asked me.

“What was what?” I had no idea what he meant. 

“That face you made.”

“I didn’t make a face at you.” I genuinely did not make a face at him.

“You just looked at me like, ugh, eww.”

“I sure didn’t.”

He looked at me sideways; distrusting. 

“I guess that’s just my face.” I shrugged.

He stared at me for a second like he wanted to either say something more or just punch me in the face, but couldn’t because I was a woman. I took that as my cue to turn around and walk to my car. Date over. And that was my introduction to online dating.

If only he’d seen the face I made when I got into my car by myself. 


As you know, I live in Los Angeles. As you also may have heard, there was a big ass earthquake – I’m sorry, TWO big ass earthquakes – last week. One was at 10:40am on the 4thof July (6.4), and the second one was the next day at 8:20pm (7.1). And HOLY SHIT. 

I have lived in California my entire life. I have slept through most of the earthquakes in my lifetime and been awake for maybe four. Two of which happened last week. And last week, they shook me to my core (pun intended.)

Now, you might be wondering why I’m writing about earthquakes on my blog about being single and wondering why the hell this is relevant… Well, nothing reminds you just how single you really are like being home alone with no one but your cat when a big ass earthquake hits. Also, it’s my blog and I want to talk about earthquakes. 

I don’t know about you guys, but whenever something alarming happens to me, my brain goes into hyperspeed searching for answers. It’s like an unhelpful C-3PO, coming up with both the best outcomes and the worst. For example, when the first earthquake hit, I was at home, getting ready to go meet my friends at the beach. I was grabbing my beach chair, sunscreen, and Hydroflask full of Tito’s, when the shelves and paintings on my walls started to shake. 

My first thought: What the hell are my neighbors doing?

I don’t live in the most sound-proof building.

Second thought: Oh, wait it’s an earthquake.

I didn’t move. I continued standing in my dining room. 

Third thought: This will be over any second…aaaaany second…

And then the rolling started (and no, I wasn’t on Molly). I mean my entire building started swaying beneath my feet. Not violent shaking, I didn’t feel rattled or like I was going to be knocked over, but the ground was swaying beneath me. 

It felt like being on a boat. A big boat. More specifically, a cruise ship on a windy day. Maybe after a banana daiquiri or two. You’re walking down the Lido deck and this big-ass boat hits a swell, and the whole boat moves but it’s so big that it’s not harsh or abrupt. You’re still on your feet. It’s smooth, but also disconcerting. Except when it happens on land, it’s a bit more unsettling. Boats are supposed to move; buildings are not. 

At this point, I decided I should do something to make myself safer. I looked around and saw my cat, sitting on the ground staring out the sliding glass door, seemingly unfazed. 

Fourth thought: Ummm, excuse me Remi but aren’t you supposed to have like a sixth sense and alert me moments before the earthquake?! Worthless.

I walked towards my bedroom and stood in the doorway. That’s supposed to be the safest place, although it has to be weight-bearing in order to be safe, blah blah blah I had no time to check so I stood in the doorway. 

The swaying continued. I started to get a little freaked out. 

Fifth thought: Wow this is going on for a long time. At least I’m dressed and I have shoes on. Doesn’t matter, it’s about to end. 

The swaying continued. 

Sixth thought: Oh my God what if this is it? Where’s my earthquake survival kit? It’s in the closet. Okay. STILL SHAKING?! 

I started feeling slightly lightheaded.

Seventh thought: I’m all alone! What if this is the big one and I’m all alone? Should I go outside? Should I stay here? Where is my cat? What if I can’t find him afterwards? OMG he’s not wearing his collar!!!

And then the swaying stopped. The building settled back in, and all was quiet. I popped my head back out into the living room to see if Remi was okay. The damn cat was sitting in the same exact spot. He had not moved. Wasn’t looking around to see what had happened, didn’t even have his ears back in that bitchy cat way. WORTHLESS. Adorable, but worthless. 

I waited for a second, wondering if I should alter my plans or do something because of the quake, but I couldn’t think of anything so I just grabbed my stuff and headed out. There wasn’t any activity for the rest of the day that I felt.

Fast forward to the next evening. I had gone out to sushi with my friend Michelle and we came back to my apartment to watch a movie. We were sitting on the couch, fully relaxed, when Michelle jumped up. 

“Do you feel that?!”


I paused the movie and jumped up but didn’t feel anything.  

“It was just an aftershock.” Michelle reassured me. Makes sense. They say there are always lots of aftershocks happening after an earthquake. Actually, there are tiny earthquakes happening pretty much all the time. If you go to the Griffith Observatory, downstairs near the Leonard Nimoy theater and all the planet displays, they have a seismograph and a screen that shows all of the seismic activity that has occurred in Southern California over the last hour, day, week, and month. (Hot tip: it’s a lot.)

We resumed the movie. Not more than five minutes later, it happened again. 

“Do you feel THAT?!” Michelle asked me with a lot more emphasis.

Oh yeah, I felt it, even sitting on the couch. We both jumped up and did pretty much the same thing I had done the day before. We stood in the middle of my living room and waited for it to be over. When it did not end immediately, we looked at each other and started for separate doorways. I stood under mine again and Michelle was under the doorway directly across the living room from me. 

The floor started to sway again. We were on a boat in my living room for the second day in a row. I mean, I’ve always thought it would be fun to live on a boat, but come on. 

This time, Remi noticed. He hovered low to the ground and walked to the middle of the room, looking at me, then Michelle, then back at me. He was bugging out. I called him over to me but he just hunkered down even lower. Worthless.

The swaying continued for what felt like a long time. A VERY long time. I began to grow uneasy. I wouldn’t say that I panicked, but I was definitely scared. I have never been worried for my life during an earthquake, and this time I was. 

Michelle saw that I was starting to get scared. I was lightheaded again and my hands were shaking. I felt ridiculous. 

“Breathe, Kelly. Just breathe.” 

She kept me calm. We stayed in our doorways. I looked at my shoes, wondering if I should run and grab them or stay put. I thought about where my earthquake kit was in the closet. The shaking and the lightheadedness increased. 

Finally, it ended, and I realized I was crying. I was really scared. I can’t even begin to recount all of the thoughts that went through my head this time but I can tell you that they were not good. Except for one; I was so glad that Michelle was there with me! If this had been the big one, I felt infinitely better knowing that I had a friend there with me to navigate the aftermath. Not to mention, a tough, self-sufficient friend who I imagine would be a great partner to have in any disaster or apocalypse. She gave me a long hug, and it made me feel better.

And then it hit me; This is why I don’t want to be single forever. I want a partner to face the hard times with me. It’s not about needing someone to take care of me, it’s about having someone there to keep me calm when I start to freak out. Or vice versa. Because telling someone else to breathe reminds you to breathe. You can’t tell someone to calm down and then continue to freak out yourself. It’s just science. 

Once I drank some water and calmed down, I put my earthquake kit right by my front door, along with my cat’s carrier and a pair of shoes and socks. Just in case another aftershock hit that happened to be bigger than the original earthquake. I was shook. 

As I slept that night, I woke up for no reason. I sat up suddenly, and then felt my bed shaking. Or so I thought… My cat was lying on the bed next to me, dead asleep, but I think we’ve established that he’s not a reliable replacement for a seismometer. I waited a few seconds, contemplated jumping out of bed and putting on a bra, but the “shaking” stopped. I sat up for another moment, bug eyed, then decided to lay down. 

I couldn’t sleep. I now had adrenaline coursing through my veins from the activation of my fight or flight response, and since I had done neither, it took a while for my body to calm back down. Here was another moment where I wished that I had someone lying in bed next to me (other than my cat.) Even if it was a phantom earthquake, it would have been nice to have a human man wake up with me, laugh it off, and then wrap me in his arms and lull me back to sleep. Or, since we were already awake, maybe burn off that adrenaline in another way… 

Either way, it would have been nice to have someone there. 

Which brings me back to my original theme; I’m still single. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy, surrounded by wonderful friends and family, and very fulfilled. But I don’t want to be single forever. This was a stark reminder of that.  

So even though we took a slight detour this week into earthquake territory, don’t worry, next week we will be back to tedious, awkward, disastrous dating stories. I’m not giving up, because I’m not planning on navigating these fault lines all by myself. 

“Matched” Speed Dating

That’s right, I went speed dating. I know, I know, it sounds crazy. But if you’ve read my previous posts, you know it’s pretty bleak out there. Not to mention this company had been blowing up my Instagram with ads and trying to get me to an event, so I finally gave in and attended one. If nothing else, I could always write about it. (Hi.)

First, I went online and set up a profile. They made it sound like they were going to pair us up based on our interests and commonalities, but that was bullshit. They just wanted a photo so people could find each other at the event. You meet your dates by wandering aimlessly around the bar, holding up your phone, looking at a photo, and matching it to a stranger’s face in the bar. Charming.

I was disappointed to find that they didn’t reserve a separate area of the bar, so we were just wandering through all of the other patrons at the bar looking for our blind dates. As if this wasn’t awkward enough already. I had arrived at 7:00 for a “7:30 sharp!” start time to leave myself time to grab a drink. I’ll need one to get through this. We didn’t start the first date until 7:50 because a couple people were late, so the evening was off to a great start.

My first date was with Gevorg. He was Persian, relatively handsome; dark hair, tall-ish, nicely dressed. We sat outside on the patio where it was quiet and we had a nice conversation. We talked about traveling, living in LA, and that’s about all I can remember. He was nice but there were no sparks. Turned out eight minutes was just the right amount of time to find that out.

Suddenly our phones went off with a text alerting us that it was time for the next date. I opened my phone to see who I was supposed to find next but first, it asked me to rate Gevorg. While he was sitting right across from me! Seriously? Could this BE any more awkward?! There were five smiley faces, well, faces.  One was open mouthed frowning, like an appalled face; one was calmly frowning; one was neutral; one was calmly smiling; and one was grinning. So you select one of these faces as a general note, and then they want you to judge them more specifically. There are buttons you can click to specify your feelings, such as:

“Not attractive” 

“Just friends”




These buttons vary depending on which smiley face emoji you select. So I selected my emoji and subsequent judgmental buttons, and wandered off to find my next date: Marc. 

Marc had round, black glasses and dark hair. All he needed was a lightning scar on his forehead and I would have asked him to show me his magic wand. He had an unusual accent that I couldn’t place, and it turned out that he was from Hong Kong. He seemed either anxious or uncomfortable because he was fidgety and kept looking around. I honestly can’t even remember what we talked about. Like, not even one thing. It was pretty underwhelming. It felt like a while before we got the “on to the next date” text. I apparently took too long selecting the proper emoji face to summarize my feelings because it just jumped straight to the picture of my next date; Victor. I would have to judge Marc later.

Victor was my least favorite date. He just did not make anything easy. First of all, I couldn’t find him because he had posted up at a table in the corner. He wasn’t up walking around or making any sort of effort to find me. Cool cool. So I see him sitting at his table and approach. “Victor?” “Yes, Kelly.” He says, as if I should remember him from the time we met before. (We’ve never met before.) He was sitting with a beer and a big plate of fish and chips, chewing loudly, and not giving a fuck. 

Side note: Can you imagine a woman EVER doing this at a speed dating event? There’s just no way. We would feel like the fat girl in the corner if we ordered a full meal and posted up at a table when everyone else was mingling. 

Anyway, I found him, I sat down. We were on opposite sides of the table in a very loud bar. I couldn’t hear a damn word he was saying. He was from Nigeria and had an accent, which made it even more difficult. But despite me saying “What?” or “Sorry?” or just staring blankly at him, he made no effort to raise his voice or lean towards me to help the situation. So we had a strained conversation that I could barely hear. He mentioned that he was brand new to LA. I asked him how he liked it. He shrugged. Then he told me it was his birthday. OOF. This is not how I would want to spend my birthday. I did not know what to say, other than to offer him a sad Happy Birthday. We pressed on, using the awkward ice-breaker prompts on our phone provided by the dating app. That didn’t help. He offered me a French fry. I declined. I finished my wine. Finally, I got the text to move on.  

Next up was Peter. He was a tall, bald, good looking white guy. Right off the bat, we were laughing. He asked me how it was going so far and I told him about the fish and chips debacle. He joked that he had just proposed to his last date. Okay, so slightly different experiences. We laughed about the awkwardness of this whole thing and I realized that this was the first time I had laughed since the dating started. Wow I needed that. Peter was from San Francisco and was giving LA a test run to see if he wanted to move here. I’m originally from Northern California and we’re both skiers so we organically had more things to talk about. I was actually caught off guard by how quickly we got the “on to the next” text. Next up: Dwight.

In his picture Dwight was wearing a newspaper boy cap, and when I found him, he was wearing a newspaper boy cap. Thank you for making that easy on me. He was a white guy with a beard and a very friendly smile. We sat at the bar and got to talking, which was surprisingly easy with him. He just had one of those positive energies that makes you feel at ease. He works as a grip and is clearly very passionate about what he does, so he talked about that for most of our eight minutes. I didn’t talk as much on this mini date but I didn’t mind. It was nice to just have a conversation that flowed and felt relaxed. I was not attracted to Dwight, unfortunately, but I was grateful for his company and I was not anxiously waiting for the text. But of course, it came. I bid Dwight farewell and we exchanged genuine appreciation for the other’s company. Next up: Sean.

I had walked past Sean earlier and noticed him looking at me. He was a little on the short side, with longish dark hair and a friendly smile. He was also quiet, which made it difficult for me to hear him. This date felt the most like an interview out of all of them. He was just telling me what he wanted from a relationship; listing his expectations. How much trouble he had trying to date in Los Angeles. How no one here seems to want to commit to anyone. How badly HE wants to commit to someone. It was a little much. You can’t ask someone to commit to being in a relationship with you within the first five minutes. 

He was the only one of my dates who had been to one of these events before, and he said that even the women he met at these events didn’t want a committed relationship. I didn’t want to tell him that these women probably just weren’t into him… Once we got on the subject of LA dating it was downhill from there. Just ragging on past experiences and such, which is never fun. I mean, with your best friends and a bottle of rosé, yes. With someone you’re on an eight-minute date with that’s supposed to be pleasant, not so much. We all have trouble dating dude, why else would we be here?

Finally, the text came in. I looked at my phone but Sean just kept talking. He was leaning in and speaking so intensely that I felt rude checking my phone, even though I knew he just got the exact same text. Finally, my next date, Rick, came over and found me. He introduced himself and told me to come see him in his office when I was ready, motioning towards a table by the window. I chuckled and excused myself as gracefully as I could. Then I went and sat with Rick. 

Rick was fun. He had a great smile and good energy. He made me laugh right off the bat. He asked me an ice breaker question to start things off: Would you ever want to be famous? Well, yeah. I’m a comedian and actor so I wouldn’t say that being famous is my aspiration but it does go with the territory if I’m successful. He said that he’s a comedian too and we were off to the races. We talked about all things comedy and how much we love it. He said I was pretty and cool and was wondering why I wasn’t dating anyone. So basically, how are you still single? I told him I was just unlucky and diverted the conversation elsewhere. Rick told me that he liked me and he felt that we were hitting it off better than anyone else he had talked to. I wished in that moment, once again, that I was attracted to him, but he wasn’t my type physically. I know that sounds shallow but I can’t help it and neither can you! We want what we want, or, we don’t want what we don’t want. Soon enough we got the text and I bid farewell to Rick and said help to my new date, Hossam. 

Hossam was quiet and a bit shy, but he was very nice. He was Iranian, older than me, and a bit on the short side. He also was soft-spoken with an accent so the noisy bar was my nemesis once again. He worked in the car business but he was taking some time off to figure out his next move. I asked him if he was going to travel anywhere and he said no. Interesting…. To me, the best thing about taking time off is going somewhere new, but obviously not everyone thinks like me. 

This date felt longer than all of the others, and I realized that it actually was when the hosts came around and alerted us that it was the last date and we were all done. Hossam asked me if I go to Burbank often and asked me for my number. I froze and said “Umm, not right now” and immediately felt stupid. As if there would be another time I’d give him my number? He said okay and abruptly got up and left. Not in a rude way, I just think he was embarrassed. I felt bad. I didn’t want to be mean, but there was no point in me giving him my number. 

I could not wait to get out of there. They told us we could linger afterwards and talk to whoever we wanted, but I wasn’t interested in making any more small talk. I was in a sorority in college and this night reminded me of rush, only worse. On my way out I walked right past Hossam, who saw me, ducked his head down and turned the other way. Cool. Sorry bud. I felt like a real dick but I marched on and left the bar. 

I had survived the night. I was supremely disappointed, mainly because I had paid $40 for this event and not gotten so much as a glass of champagne or a cheese plate. I can’t blame the company for not finding my husband on the first try, but I did feel pretty ripped off. I assumed the $40 would include a separate area for us speed daters, plus maybe a drink and some snacks or something. There was nothing. So I have to say I would not recommend. I’m not going to put the business name in here because this is a blog and not Yelp, but if you see an ad for a similar service, you’ve been warned.  

I think a better alternative to speed dating is a singles party. I’ll invite all of my single friends and they have to bring a single friend of the opposite sex with them. And a bottle of booze. Then everyone is vetted, and if nothing else, we get drunk at my place and it doesn’t cost $40. Who’s in? 


This one time, on Hinge, I met a boy who seemed cute, funny, and a little quirky. His name was Thomas but he went by Tommy. He was tall with brown hair and brown eyes. Tommy and I made a date for 7:00 on a Thursday evening, which just so happened to be Valentine’s Day. No big deal. We were going to grab drinks at Tommy’s favorite bar in Culver City. I vaguely remembered the bar by name when he suggested it, and did not particularly want to go there. I had been once years before and was not a big fan. I tried to suggest an alternate location in Santa Monica and all he said was “This is pretty close to the west side.” Hint not received. Onward. 

I don’t live in Culver City but I was going to an open mic nearby anyway so I could just head straight to the bar afterwards. I was all set to drive to the bar when Tommy texted me. 

Hey, is it alright if we push it back to 7:30? Finishing up some work.

Cue hard eye roll. Pushing back our date thirty minutes before we’re supposed to meet up? Bad form. But I did have an errand to run so I said sure, ran my errand, and got to the bar at 7:25. I sat right by the front door and waited for 15-20 minutes. Not exactly sure how much time passed while I was re-reading the menu chalkboard but I did decide I was going to have a $5 Old Fashioned if my date ever arrived. I sat by myself, holding back yawns, jerking my head every time someone walked through the door. And then finally, cue Tommy. He walked in, looked directly at me, and as I raised my hand to acknowledge him, he continued to look around the room. I sat there and watched it happen, amused, waiting for him to circle back at me. He didn’t. I was tempted to just let him walk past me and sneak out the door but instead I said his name and he looked at me like I was a stranger. Which I guess I technically was, but still.

We hugged awkwardly and headed towards the back room. This bar was his choice so I followed his lead. I was wearing high heeled boots so naturally he chose a standing location, ignoring all of the vacant booths dotting the horizon of the mostly empty room. Easier to make a quick getaway I supposed, so I didn’t protest. Tommy went to grab drinks at the bar and I started to go with him but he set his keys and phone down on our standing table, which strongly implied to me that I should stay behind and watch his things. He returned with an Old Fashioned for me and a shot and a beer for himself. We cheers’d and he downed his shot. And so began the forced conversation that I could barely hear. 

Tommy kept mumbling things about his tech job, using jargon that I didn’t know. I asked him what he meant a couple of times and after the least helpful explanations he could muster, he kept using his tech jargon anyway. I stopped asking for clarification. I did ask “What?” at least three times because I simply couldn’t hear him over the music. After the third time he had made no effort to either speak louder or enunciate, so I just stopped listening. My feet hurt. I shifted back and forth, trying to find a more comfortable stance and also stay awake. He was droning on about work, a trip he took to Denver once, and how he hated basically everything. I would smile and nod, or roll my eyes disapprovingly at whatever subject he was judging at the moment. I figured I would ride it out and leave after my drink, but then the situation escalated. 

As he was telling me how lame something else was, he started touching his nose the way one does when they think the might have a booger hanging out. For the record, he did not have a booger hanging out. You’d think that would be a good thing but believe me it was not. Since he apparently had not yet discerned whether or not he had a booger, he decided to start rooting around in his nostril. Yes, he started picking his nose. Index finger straight in there. Not a glancing blow either, but left it in there for a few seconds AND CONTINUED TALKING. I took a sip of my drink, looked around, anything to avert my eyes. I looked back and he had finished. Phew. He was ready for another beer. Did I mention it was Valentine’s Day? Because it was. 

Off to the bar he went. I checked my phone. Only 10 minutes had passed. 

How is this possible?! I started taking bigger gulps of my Old Fashioned. Tommy came back from the bar with his beer. The “conversation” resumed. I tuned out again as he droned on some more, until I saw his hand reach for his nose again, and my senses were suddenly heightened. I had laser focus, my heart was beating faster, and I felt my armpits dampen. 

The sight of him picking his nose had triggered my fight or flight response. I was thisclose to turning around and running out of the bar without a word. But social constructs kept my feet firmly planted on the concrete floor, where I was still standing in my high heeled boots. This time there was no foreplay. He went straight in with his index finger, and looked me dead in the eye while he did it. He kept talking as if nothing weird was happening, like this was how he carried on conversations all the time. I began to wonder to myself, does he just do this? Did no one ever tell him that you pick your nose in the privacy of your own bathroom or maybe your car in a pinch?! I almost said something; “You are aware that I can see you right now, yeah?” 

Finally, he lowered his hand. Finally, I exhaled. Oh no, he only lowered his hand to his mouth. He is now picking his teeth with the same finger he picked his nose. I don’t know if that counts as picking your nose and eating it but I do know I had to get the fuck out of there. I took more gulps of my drink, checked the time, started unzipping my boots to make a run for it. He kept talking. I must have seemed eager to leave because he asked me what I was doing the rest of the night. “Going home.” “Oh. Well I just got a text from my boss.” He turned his phone to prove it to me, as if I would object to him ending this regrettable date. 

He told me he had to go home and finish some work. That’s right, the guy who pushed our date back half an hour at the last minute because he was finishing up some work, works from home. Cool. I told him it was no problem and tried to show him how genuinely not offended I was. “Let’s hang out next week though” he said. I looked at him, puzzled. He offered to walk me to my car. I protested. He insisted. I don’t know why he offered in the first place if I wasn’t allowed to decline the offer anyway. We got to my car, I gave him a cursory hug and as I pulled away, he kissed me! I had just watched this guy pick his nose and possibly eat it, so I was disenchanted to say the least. But even more so, I was ambushed! Read the room Tommy. Nothing about this date suggested that you should kiss me.  

I turned away to walk to my car and he pulled on my hand. “So let’s hang out next week, yeah?” He asked, as if there had been any semblance of joy on this date. “Um, I’m out of town until Wednesday.” I replied as coldly as I could. “Okay so Thursday or Friday? I’ll text you.” I just looked at him with a very bewildered, likely unpleasant face, and turned to go to my car for a second time. Then he kissed me AGAIN! And he would have kept kissing me had I not turned my head to give him my cheek as I unwrapped his arms from my waist and stepped off the curb directly into oncoming traffic. Just kidding. But almost. I was wearing high heels after all.

The good news? There was no traffic, I was home by 8:30, and he never texted me again. Oh, did I mention this was on Valentine’s Day?