An Open Letter to the Guy Who Stole My Identity on Plenty of Fish


First of all, you’re kind of an asshole. By using my picture in your Catfish-esque schemes, you’ve made me feel violated, disillusioned, and only a little flattered. It’s like I’m a strange combination of an attractive person, Sandra Bullock in the forgotten nineties gem The Net, and whoever the girl was that the gay dude utilized to make Manti Te’o fall in love with him. It’s just all so weird and confusing.

But fine. I’m not that mad at you. I understand that this photo of me pretending to be good at golf is a form of bait practically guaranteed to reel in a whole host of quality guys.


Ha, ha — NOT!

If you wanted a photo of me that was going to attract hot gay dudes to your online dating profile, you should have just contacted me directly for suggestions. And then I would have told you that no such photo exists, because — believe me — I’ve tried all of them myself.

On some level, I guess I commend you. You could have stuck with the standard amateur shirtless model technique, but instead you chose to think outside the box and steal the photo of an intellectual who’s into writing, golfing, and white undershirts. Props to you for your creative efforts!

But you’ve still failed. Because no matter how you look at this situation, you’re living a lie. Speaking of lies, can we just talk about the atrocious content of the profile that you’ve paired with my picture?

Here’s a particularly painful excerpt:

“…in shape toned white males… Would prefer a masculine guy who is in good shape, thin or athletic, str8 actin…. who likes older(but not old!)guyz…. (i look like i’m in my mid 20′s … kids here to wear me out : ) I am NOT into queens (nothing personal …just cant relate) and def not terrorists!”

A few things:

  1. We get it – you’re looking for a guy with a nice body. But may I ask why you feel the need to discriminate so strongly against fat people? This is a super sensitive issue for me, a former fat kid. I’m still yet to recover from the traumatic experience of being called fat by a guy I dated last summer – so the fact that you’ve now associated my image with the shallow preoccupation with hot bodies that persists in the gay community is just not okay. (But I mean, thanks for the implication that I look thin enough in the picture to be a fat-hating jerk, I guess.)
  2. The whole “white males only” thing is hilariously ironic because the person who tipped me off to the fact your fake profile existed in the first place was my black ex-boyfriend.
  3. If the other side of my hat were visible, you’d see that it reads NYU. Yes, I have a master’s degree, and I’m pretty sure they don’t give those out to people with your grammar situation. Or to people who write things like “str8.”
  4. Speaking of straightness, why are you so prejudice against feminine-acting gay guys? I mean, your internalized homophobia is really a whole other discussion, but you’re kind of a douche bag.
  5. Oh, people tell you that you look like you’re in your twenties? That’s because I’M IN MY TWENTIES, YOU FILTHY PIECE OF HUMAN GARBAGE!

All in all, you’ve managed to create an identity around my picture that embodies the exact type of person I would strongly hate in real life. So if my letter to you seems condescending or straight up mean, that’s because it is. I’m offended and confused and hurt and even a little angry.

Listen, I understand that we’re all looking for something in this life, and the Internet makes it easy to play these weird, Catfish-y games and see “what if?” while being totally creepy and stealing others’ identities — but you should know that you stole the picture of someone who clearly has a whole host of complexities and anxiety issues himself, and it’s clear that you have many of your own, so why go there? We’re all human.

Why not just be you? Own those issues of yours that make you want to jump out of your own skin and into mine. And then work on them. Look at yourself and do something, because my skin won’t solve any of your problems or magically make you a more desirable person. It’s not any better or worse than yours.

But it is mine, and I think I at least deserve to hold on to that.


The Real Nic

P.S. One more thing about your profile content: While it’s nice that you specify that you’re not into terrorists, I’m pretty sure that goes without saying for everybody ever. Like, the fact that you actually make it a point to say “definitely no terrorists” kind of makes me suspicious that you are one yourself. Oh my God, shit — you are, aren’t you? Am I going to be viciously attacked for writing this public letter to you? You know what? I take it all back. Please feel free to keep using my picture, just don’t attack me.


I’ve Been Violated and Also Here are Some Life Updates

Um. Just when I thought the past few weeks couldn’t have been any heavier on the Internet dating absurdity, I got a text from my ex-boyfriend saying this:

  • “Hey Nic – hope your day is going well. Just wanted to give you the heads up, and I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I think someone stole your identity again. This time on Plenty of Fish.”

And then I said:


Here’s some background information:

Three years ago, when said boyfriend and I were still together, a friend of mine who lives in Chicago alerted me that he had come across a Facebook profile with some weird name that had a picture of me as the default.

I of course flipped out and reported the page to the site and overused the “Contact Us” feature and sent a strongly worded e-mail to (because what if?) but then it bounced back because I guess he went to Harvard and realizes that would just be too obvious.

Luckily, my boyfriend was there to hold my hand throughout this ordeal until the profile was removed and the world made sense again.

So when last week rolled around and that same boyfriend informed me of the fact that I’ve been reverse-Catfished yet again, I experienced an epic moment of anger, déjà vu, and major ice cream consumption.

Like seriously, WTF?

I know I’m vaguely attractive in an approachable way especially if you’re drunk, but please, crazy Catfish people – if you’re going to play these ridiculous games, DO IT LIKE A NORMAL PERSON AND STEAL THE PHOTO OF AN AMATEUR MODEL.

I won’t continue on about this, because I’ve decided that I’m going to write a piece called “An Open Letter to the Guy Who Stole My Identity on Plenty of Fish” that will tell you everything you never wanted to know about this whole situation, and I’ve already said too much.

In other news, I realize that I haven’t blogged in like, weeks – so here’s what I’ve been up to:

  • Watching the OWN Network and becoming a generally positive, self-loving, self-fulfilled person. (Feel free to read this unlikely bullet point three or more times to really let it sink in.)
  • Writing dating advice columns about closeted dudes.
  • Still slaving over a hot stove my memoir on a daily basis.

I’ve also been tweeting about everything pope-related ever.

At first I didn’t really care:


Then I was like, Okay, this smoke thing is weird, and also maybe the new pope should sashay out onto the balcony to a nineties pop hit:


And then it was all over just a little too soon:



My New Distrust of Online Daters is Becoming a Problem

It seems that my recent experience as an online creeper compounded with the success of MTV’s hit show Catfish, along with a dream I recently had about the Craigslist Killer, has all resulted in my new generalized distrust of the entire online dating community at large.

It’s bad.

For example, I had a date with a very attractive, somewhat older man scheduled for Sunday night, but ended up using “he could be a psychopath with a peeing fetish who wants to maim me” as an excuse to cancel our plans so I could stay home and eat Chinese food while live-tweeting the Oscars. (It was so worth it, P.S.)

We rescheduled for Friday, so you can imagine my astonishment on Tuesday morning when he texted me to see if I was free for a weekday glass of wine after work. Caught off guard and still a little hypnotized by his hot profile picture, I agreed.

Then I got to work and started over-analyzing the whole situation in three separate conversations with my work-wives Jenny, Lola, and Mila. (If you haven’t been following me for too long, allow me to explain: I’m a polygamist in my professional life.)

Here’s a composite, abridged version of all three discussions:

  • Nic: Why did he suddenly change from Friday to Tuesday? Is this what murderers do?!
  • Jenny: I mean… I don’t know. His picture seems like it could maybe be photoshopped, and that makes me not trust him.
  • Nic: You’re right. I’M HIS PREY.
  • Lola: Where’s this guy from originally?
  • Nic: Canada.
  • Lola: DON’T DO IT!
  • Nic: If tonight ends in tragedy and later becomes a Lifetime move, please tell me you’ll see to it that they cast a skinny actor to play me. He doesn’t even have to be that famous – I think it could actually be an exciting role for a young up-and-comer — you know? Someone with raw talent. But if it comes down to making a choice between raw talent and physical fitness, please go with the in-shape one.
  • Mila: John Krasinski will of course play you. Who will play me?
  • Nic: Wow, you’re so right. And oh yeah, you! You are totally a part of the arch of this story, since I first told you about this guy last night at the Solange concert.
  • Mila:
  • Nic: Okay, so Solange will make an appearance in the film as herself. And you… Mila Kunis! Yes, she so beyond Lifetime, but she’ll be so drawn to this story that she won’t be able to say no.
Is that a Nic bobble head or a John Krasinski bobble head? Hard to tell. (Ignore the V8... I don't even have an explanation.)

Is that a Nic bobble head or a John Krasinski bobble head? Hard to tell. (Ignore the V8… I don’t even have an explanation.)

So. I proceeded to Google the crap out of the limited information I had on this guy (first name, hometown, current city) and found pretty much nothing — except for a profile from some creepy looking dude on that had all of the same characteristics as my guy but was NOT the man from the photos. This one was scary looking and had a profile blurb that said, “I’m dissatisfied enough with real life to occasionally escape to different dimensions.

Oh. My. God – I KNOW!

I became instantly convinced that this dude was actually the guy I was talking to — because, I mean, same name, same cities, AND essentially admitting that he enjoys “playing pretend” — it was too obvious. I quickly realized that I was the target of a murderous scheme but also decided that I was too curious about the whole thing to actually cancel yet another date with him. (Plus there were no epic award shows this time to incentivize me. I mean, I guess survival would be reason enough for most people, but I apparently need to reevaluate my priorities.)

So then I thought to myself, Maybe I should have a co-worker film me engaging in conversation with someone right now so that they could later send the video to Krasinski and he could use it as “character research,” but decided against it because I figured that I was too out of sorts in the moment to really portray my natural self on camera.

So instead I spent the rest of the day answering my date’s texts in a very wary, treading-carefully-because-I’m-talking-to-a-predator kind of way, and decided that when he showed up for the date, I’d do my best to feign shock that he isn’t the guy in his pictures and then dramatically barrel out of the bar to hail a cab and have it drive me forty miles into New York and back before taking me to my real home.

And then, a few hours later, the evening finally rolled around. And I went on the date, and – thank God – I did not have to do any of the above. Because he actually was who he said he was and we hit it off and I had a fantastic time, and he wasn’t the crazy one after all — I was.

Because, of course.


OkCupid is Riddled with Psychos, and I’m One of Them


There’s no easy way to say this, so here it goes: My friend and I have a ghost OkCupid account. I know, it’s weird and we need therapy. But this fake profile has proven itself to be immensely helpful and afforded us opportunities that simply don’t exist when playing by the standard OkCupid rules – including but not limited to:

  1. Stalking people without having them know that YOU are the one visiting their profile five times per hour day.
  2. Seeing what your real profile looks like to outsiders, and if it is listed as “replies often” or “replies selectively.”
  3. Spending inordinate amounts of time browsing profiles on the site. (Doing this from your real profile would cause your “Last Online” meter to perpetually read “Online Now,” making you look like a desperate person who probably has four cats and a freezer full of ice cream/maybe eight DiGournos – and that’s just not ideal.)

The other day I logged into this secret weapon in order to check out some dude’s pictures, and inevitably ended up combing through the profiles of every gay man in Connecticut (because what else is new?).

And then I came across a page that was hilarious, well written, and actually fun to read. And – bonus! He was really cute.

Unaccustomed to such compelling content on the site, I decided it was imperative that I send him a message. I spent a good twenty minutes coming up with something that referenced the things I liked most about his profile while simultaneously introducing myself as someone who is funny, well-read, and totally worth his hand in marriage.


And then I went to check our compatibility match and saw that we were rated as 50% enemies. That’s weird, I thought, we’re so similar.


I looked to the top of my screen and came to the earth-shattering realization that I had sent the message from the ghost account! (The ghost account, mind you, is a straight man from Tennessee with no pictures.)

Unsure of whether or not to cry or laugh or scream bloody murder, I did all three.

I tried to ask myself, “What would a normal person do to fix this?” but instantly realized that a normal person would never be in this predicament to begin with. Then I tried to ask myself, “WWJD?” but realized that Jesus would never need to create a ghost account in the first place because he’s Jesus and would probably just be like “I’m the son of God and I’m going to browse anonymously right now, and you’re going to be fine with that – okay, Cupid?”

So then I evaluated my realistic options:

  1. Send the exact same message from my real account and pray that he’d just chalk up the duplicate message to a strange OkCupid glitch.
  2. Come up with a brand new message to send him from my real account – one written in a markedly different tone than the one sent from the fake account – and hope that he’d just be like, “Hm. Two guys named Nic in the same day. Weird.”
  3. Say this: Hey – I’m about to come off as the creepiest person ever, but well, my friend and I have a ghost OkCupid account for stalking purposes… and I just accidentally sent you a message from it. I know. I need therapy. But the thought of formulating a NEW message that didn’t involve anything from the sent-from-creepy-TN-profile original message was too daunting, so I’m just coming clean.

Inexplicably, I somehow decided that number three was the best option and I sent it and I KNOW – anyone on the receiving end of a message like that should absolutely be cautious that the sender is a psychopath and probably block him or her.

In the heat of the moment, though, I ridiculously expected that he would see it and be like, “Wow, I admire this guy’s honesty. He’s keeping it real. He’s also handsome and brilliant!” and then message me with something to the effect of, “Hey, thanks for the message. You seem like someone I could spend the rest of my life with, probably. Totally okay about the ghost account; I understand. Let’s meet up for a drink sometime and maybe get married?”

Instead, I got this: Haha. Well, this profile is very different from the other.

Polite, but doesn’t exactly open the floor for me to respond with anything at all. The subtext was obviously very I’ve-seen-both-messages-and-you’re-crazy-but-I’m-just-going-to-give-a-dead-end-response-now-so-that-you-don’t-continue-to-stalk-me, but really, the fact that he responded at all is probably more closure than I deserve in this whole scenario anyways, so I guess on some level I got lucky.

What did I learn from this experience? A few things:

  1. I’m the biggest contradiction ever. Like, my sending of the overly honest second message was clearly me trying present this whole, “I’m just going to be so real with you right now. I’m that kind of person – I’m impulsive and transparent and don’t care what people think. I’m just doin’ me!” vibe to him – but someone who doesn’t care what others think would never create a ghost profile in the first place, so, yeah.
  2. Sometimes, when trying to make yourself not seem like a crazy person even though you are, it’s okay and extremely necessary to lie and take the secret with you to the grave.
  3. Life would be so much easier as a non-crazy person to begin with. (But how to become one?)

Oh and also – I really, really need to stop trying so hard.

But this we knew.


God Texted Me and Was All Like, “Stop Dating A-Holes!”

Last week was so, like, sign-from-God-y.

Seriously, it was just one sign from God after another. There were so many SFGs, I feel like God and I have been texting.

Or something.

It all started on Wednesday night when I slept over one of my brothers’ houses.

(Explanatory side note: I have four older brothers/stepbrothers. Growing up, I was the fat, whiny baby of the family always seeking the most attention. Does that explain everything about Keychanges ever?)

So. During our long-overdue sleepover, we kind of killed a few bottles of wine while catching up on our mutual frustrations with life and love – and I kind of ended up texting with almost every man I had semi-seriously dated in 2012.

I woke up the next morning, eager to review all texting transcripts, and saw that my phone was permanently destroyed from water damage – thereby precluding me from EVER BEING ABLE TO SEE WHAT WAS WRITTEN THE NIGHT BEFORE.

Maybe I actually have been texting with God — I wouldn’t know. Either way, I feel like this mishap truly was His way of teaching me some kind of lesson about letting go. And communicating intentionally. And not sending drunk-texts. And the importance of buying a protective phone case. And probably a lot of other stuff, too.

The next day, after acquiring a new phone, I went on a date with a friend of a friend from near my hometown — and he was so ridiculously unavailable that it’s not even funny. I’m talking lives-far-away-in-the-first-place-and-is-in-the-closet-and-deleted-my-totally-innocent-Facebook-post-from-his-wall-the-next-morning unavailable.

On account of my low self-esteem, I actually allowed myself to like him for approximately 48 hours.

But then this happened:


Y’all, it was like the Trail of Tears.

I will say, though, that the majority of my Facebook friends and I do believe I was incredibly resourceful (and, really, genius) for coming up with that traffic solution. Also, the timing could not have been any better: It was year-end-retrospective-y. It was therapeutic. It was the springboard to my realization that most of the men I dated last year were – in their own, individual ways – totally unavailable.

Later that night, inspired by all of these happenings, I wrote a short piece that got picked up by Thought Catalog. It’s called, “2013: The Year I Officially Swear Off Unavailable Men.”

I’d like to thank God for this particular New Year’s resolution.

P.S. Did you notice how my last two posts have been all God and/or Pope-y? What the hell is going on?

P.P.S. What I realized from having my Thought Catalog piece semi-edited: I overuse italics for everything. No I don’t. Do I? I’ve been wrestling with this demon since it went live.

P.P.P.S. Can we just talk about the naked man that they paired with the article? Now every time I go to view my work, I get sexually aroused… Is this what self-love feels like?


Proven: Hurt People Hurt People

Once upon a time, an ex-boyfriend of mine told me that he loved me with all of his heart. Then he told me that no matter how much I loved him back, it would never be enough to constitute a truly healthy relationship. Because I’m just not me without my chronic discontent towards love – whether in or out of it.

I know, right?

To be fair, this happened during a fight. And I believe his actual words were, “Love is wasted on you because you’ll never let yourself be happy,” but I like mine more.

I had all but forgotten about this statement since we broke up almost three years ago – but over the past few weeks it has returned to the surface of my consciousness. And my actions keep giving it credence. And it’s pissing me off because it took me this long to realize that maybe he was right.

It would explain:

  1. why Keychanges is at its best when I’m complaining about how much it sucks being a single gay man searching for true love, but only encountering noncommittal jerks who’d prefer our relationship exist only in the bedroom; and
  2. why I broke up with a near-perfect guy last week after three months of him being the single gay man searching for true love, and me being the noncommittal jerk who’d prefer our relationship exist only in the bedroom.

I can already hear my best friends saying, “You just always want what you can’t have,” and I can already hear a therapist saying, “You have to love yourself first before you can truly love someone else,” – but dammit, it is so frustrating to know that all of my complex emotional issues can be boiled down into cliché phrases directed at issues that millions of people have already struggled with.

Why do I have to consciously love myself? Can’t I just take an alternate route to happiness? Such as finding that one man that’s going to make all of my problems go away?

That would be ideal.

But no, I have to be one of those people that can’t just let life happen without overanalyzing every errant thought and emotion of mine until I’ve effectively killed whatever magic had once existed between myself and any man I’ve ever been with. Or until they end up thinking I’m crazy and/or a waste of love.

Or, as with Awesome Guy, until I end up hurting them.

It’s never a winning scenario.

Prior to breaking up with Awesome Guy, I spent a Saturday with the above-referenced ex-boyfriend of mine – purely because I couldn’t get his three-year-old words out of my head and I wanted to confront them head on.

Sadly though, I couldn’t find the right time to bring it up. Because really, when you’re catching up with an ex, there is no right time to casually interject with, “So, remember that night back in January of 2010 when we were fighting in your Ford Explorer and you said that love is wasted on me because I’ll never let myself be happy?”

I’m sure he doesn’t remember anyways – those words were just casually flung my way in the midst of a single fight in the vast array of epic battles that defined our yearlong relationship.

Although we didn’t address the statement in question, seeing my ex again did make me remember all kinds of details from our time together that I had mostly forgotten about — such as how I picked fights all the time, made the entire relationship revolve around me rather than us, and overall, just didn’t know how to be a truly great boyfriend.

As I was leaving his house, he told me, “I want you to know that no matter what’s happened between us, a part of me will still always love you.”

And all I could think to myself was: What a waste.

And that’s when I knew I had to break things off with Mr. Awesome.

P.S. This post was a little too heavy and lugubrious (and/or I-will-probably-think-it-was-insanely-melodramatic-and-unnecessary-in-about-twelve-hours) for my liking. I apologize. But I feel like I really hurt an awesome guy’s feelings last week, and I wanted to explain myself (to the world, apparently). Because I really cared about him and I still feel bad.

P.P.S. I am slowly working on my issues. And it’s going pretty well. Except for those times when I want to jump in the faces of happily married couples and scream, “Did you both examine all of your emotional baggage and deep-rooted insecurities before getting married? NO? Then why the hell do I have to?! IT’S NOT FAIR AND PLEASE LET ME TRADE LIVES WITH YOU!”

I’m hoping those occasions become rarer with time. And therapy.


I Finally Met an Awesome Guy, and He Doesn’t Call Me Fat

Remember that time a guy named Lou called me fat and it left me scarred for life but I survived?

Well, I recently ran into him at Target while I was busy drooling over nutritionally evaluating a loaf of cinnamon swirl bread (because of course I’d have a loaf of sugary-basically-a-muffin-bread in my hand when running into the guy who called me fat) and it was awkward yet liberating.

Seeing Lou in real life for the first time since August made me extremely happy about the fact that I have been ignoring his requests to hang out for the past two months — because we really have nothing in common. And he is kind of a horrible person. Because you just don’t call someone fat. Especially when they’re NOT FAT – a fact that I had somehow let slip away from me on account of my existing body image issues and a single unsolicited opinion from a vapid gym addict who clearly has lower self-esteem than even I did during this whole debacle.

Looking back, I think I tried to excuse him at the time because one of my straight guy friends was all like, “Dude, what’s the big deal? I call people fat all the time… and so do you. Didn’t you call me fat last week?”

  • To which I responded, “You’re right, and I’m crazy,”
  • but should have instead responded, “Yes, but that’s all in good fun and I’m not trying to marry and/or raise children with you. If I were, I would never call you fat, and you calling me fat would certainly be out of the question… Don’t you have any gay friends?!”
  • To which he would have responded, “…,”

to which I would have responded, “Oh.”

I write all of the above after having spent much of the past month with a pretty awesome guy whom I have embarrassed myself in front of multiple times and who still somehow thinks I’m as awesome as he is.

Case in point:

A few weeks ago, he made some vaguely fat-related comments (including the jocular phrase “no one likes a fatty”) via text message that were rendered difficult to analyze by my low self-esteem and ridiculous neuroses. After reading them over about a hundred times like a crazy person, I considered all of the following possibilities:

  • He thinks I’m fat and was trying to make me get the hint that he’s not interested in seeing me anymore.
  • He thinks I’m fat and was trying to subliminally inspire me to go to the gym before we commit to seeing each other again.
  • He thinks I’m fat but not fat enough for him to not sleep with me. (In other words, he is Lou 2.0 and God hates me.)
  • He genuinely doesn’t like fat people and thought that I may also share in that prejudice. (The silver lining of this possible scenario was that it carried the implication that he doesn’t think I’m fat, which I found momentarily comforting.)
  • It’s not about me at all, as he was facetiously commenting on the three cheeseburgers he ate over the weekend and how mitigating the damage at the gym on Monday morning might not be a bad idea. (In retrospect, this is clearly what he actually meant.)

Because all of the above started to make my head hurt, I decided to just lay it all out on the line by saying this: “I should be frank… If a few extra pounds would be a deal-breaker for you, then this will not work out. I love beer too much.” (Go me, right?)

Then he called me skinny and said that even if I were fat, he wouldn’t care because I excel so much in the personality department. (GO HIM, right?)

His response made me contemplate whether or not replying to him with a straight-up marriage proposal would be considered apropos, but I ultimately decided against it because he’s currently in law school and probably wouldn’t have the time to go into full wedding-preparation mode without neglecting his studies, and I’m supportive of his career goals – so I just responded with, “Phew.”


P.S. I think the best thing about this whole saga is that my body dysmorphia had intensified so much that I actually not only came to believe I was truly fat, but had moved beyond my discontent with the situation and into the full-out acceptance stage – to the point where I went all “I’m fat and you can take it or leave it!” on a guy.

P.P.S. I think the actual best thing about this whole saga is that if things work out between [Awesome Guy Who Still Needs a Proper Fake Blog-Name] and me, I have documented proof that he won’t leave me when I gain those inevitable ten pounds this holiday season.

P.P.P.S. Did I mention that I’m crazy-smitten with him and he’s friends with Tom Brady? Well, okay, they’re not friends – but they totally went to college together. Fine. That’s pretty much a lie too. They did not technically go to college together. But they did go to the same school – just not at the same time. Still, it’s entirely possible that [Awesome Guy Who Still Needs a Proper Fake Blog-Name] once sat on a chair that was once sat on by Tom Brady – which is definitely something that friends do.

P.P.P.P.S.– I think these P.S.’s were longer than the actual post. Is that normal? Also, is a P.S. with four P’s even a thing?

P.P.P.P.P.S. I totally bought that loaf of cinnamon swirl bread.

        I dare you to toast a slice of this bread and not get aroused from the aroma.


How Not to Impress a Guy on a First Date

This list is comprised purely of things that I actually did on a date last week:

1. Admit to not having ever traveled outside of North America.

2. Order a burger with a yolky fried egg on top of it.

3. Have the following conversation:

  • Date: How do you not have a passport?
  • Nic: I know, it’s crazy! But I’m working on it, I swear. Moving on… Burgers with fried eggs on them are the FREAKIN’ BEST. Have you ever had one?
  • Date: No.
  • Nic: Oh! So I’ve never traveled overseas, but you‘ve never had a burger with a fried egg on it. When it comes to that whole lack-of-culture-and-world-perspective thing, we’re obviously totally even.
  • Date: I don’t agree…

4. Attempt to eat a french fry and miss your mouth entirely, thereby dropping the fry on the table in a highly embarrassing and supremely awkward fashion. (Yes, that happened, and I actually lived to tell. I’m still trying to figure out what kind of award I deserve for going through such a traumatic experience — I’m thinking it should have the words “hero” and/or “survivor” in its title.)

Later that night, I gave my date a ride back to his apartment. As he began to emerge from my vehicle, I felt compelled to reach into my backseat and pull from a bag of free samples of Tide® Pods that I obtained from a generous friend who clearly has some valuable connections. I then went into full grandma-mode and said something to the effect of, “Take some Tide® home with you for your laundry. These fancy new Pods — they’re an innovation!”

I must have really liked him, because my brain was so cloudy at the time that I actually considered this behavior to be both normal and appealing.

In retrospect, I realize that I sent my date home with laundry detergent.

“I won’t put out on the first date, but I WILL send you home with some household cleaning products!”

Alternate titles for this post: “This is Why I’m Single,” “How to Channel Your Inner Grandmother While Trying to Not Scare Off a Potential Suitor on a First Date and Totally Failing,” or “I Dropped a French Fry on a Date — and I Survived.”

P.S. But seriously, have you tried Pods yet? They’re freakin’ amazing — a stain remover, detergent, and brightener all in ONE!

P.P.S. The saddest part about this post is that I am not affiliated with or working for Tide® and/or any branch of Procter & Gamble in any way. This is all purely my own doing.


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