Every Single Thought That Goes Through My Head On An Internet Date

I joke a lot about online dating and how much I do it, but the reality is I hate it. I think it's painfully awkward, and borderline depressing. At first, it was exciting. I forced myself to say yes to everyone who didn't look like a psychopath or a serial killer (though there admittedly were a lot of guys who were real-life Patrick Batemans, minus the dead hookers in the closet) and would get so excited every time at the prospect that maybe, this time, I would find a great guy.

It never happened.

Time after time after time I would meet guys who were shorter/less funny/way douchier than they claimed to be in the "About Me" sections of their profiles (in fairness, I did swipe right for a lot of guys who identified themselves as "country clubbers") and the excitement I felt walking into the bar deflated into major, major disappointment.

After the last disaster date a few weeks ago, I deleted all of my apps and vowed never to put myself through the horror that is online dating ever again.  Well, at least until I become so lonely I re-download the apps to prove to myself I won't grow old as a crazy cat lady (so like, a month or so from now). Guess I'll have to find some new stuff to write about.

Here is a recap of exactly my thought process when going on an internet date— word for tedious word. Hopefully you can't relate, but probably, you can. Especially if you, like me, swipe-right for Patrick Bateman types.

I don't want to go.

Can I cancel?

It's rude to cancel 20 minutes before a date, right?

Why did I say yes to this?

Matt said he was "kind of cool."

That's not even a little bit promising.

Oh wait. Roommate has a dinner tonight. I'll be stuck home completely alone if I cancel.

Fine. I'll go.

But I'm just going to wear what I wore to school.

Probably should have washed my hair, but I put in so much dry shampoo it should be fine.

Probably should have shaved my legs too.

Eh, there's no chance we're hooking up. It will be fine.

Wait fuck, is my hair white from the dry shampoo?

Ugh I can't tell. Damn this snapchat camera and it's bad lighting.

It's gross out. I don't want to go.

It literally only rains when I have dates.

At least he picked a bar near my apartment

He probably did it because he thinks I'll sleep with him if we're close by

No chance.

Why am I the first one here? It's 8:12.

It's annoying that he's later than I am.

I never know what to do when this happens.

Like do I wait outside? Do I wait by the hostess? Do I sit at the bar and order a drink?

I'm going to sit at the bar and order a drink.

I'll look really cool sipping a martini when he walks in.

And I'll be drunk in case he sucks.

I have no idea how to order a martini.

Is "extra straight up with a dirty twist" a thing?

Probably not, based on the weird look the bar tender gave me.

Definitely not a thing. This is disgusting.

But I feel so sexy holding it.

I wonder if he's going to be as cute as his profile picture.

Oh no. Is that him?

He's not as cute as his profile picture.

Or as tall.

And his pink shirt is fucking atrocious.

Definitely didn't need to shave my legs for this.

Oh God. He's talking about the country clubs.

And he just called his female boss a "bitch."

And now he's talking about Soul Cycle.

Wait. Did he just say "being a writer isn't a real job"??

.... Does he know who he's talking to

Aaaaaaand he just spilled wine on my white sweater.

Now he's trying to hand me cash.

This is so awkward.

I hope he can tell that even though I'm saying "no! it's ok!" that it is ABSOLUTELY not ok.

Is it rude to take out my phone and text my roommate to call me with an emergency?

Oh good, he's going to the bathroom. Now's my chance.

Can I order another drink and chug it while he's in there?

Why do I keep saying yes to these things?

I could be on my couch watching Nashville

Or One Tree Hill

Or Season One Of The OC.

.... He's been in there a really long time.

I'm actually a little tipsy.

He's back and being weirder.

I think he maybe was doing drugs in the bathroom.

Now he's asking me if I'm going to write about him.

I mean... maybe?

But being a writer isn't a real job apparently so what does it matter?

Ugh I never know how to handle taking out my card to pay for drinks.

Honestly I just want to pay for this and get the hell out of here.

Ok, he's going to pay. That's actually pretty nice.

Wait now he wants to walk me home???

What are we going to talk about for 6 blocks?

Aaaaand now he's trying to hold my hand.

Do I seem like someone who has any interest in holding hands?

Spoiler alert: I'm not.

If he tries to kiss me, I swear to G—

UGHHHHHHHH

That was SO gross.

It literally felt like I had a live eel flopping in my mouth.

I need to get inside and take a shower.

And gargle with rubbing alcohol.

And possibly jump out my window.

No dude. There is ZERO PERCENT CHANCE you are coming up to my apartment

I'm so glad I live across the street from the police department

Yeah! We should definitely do this again sometime!

Psych.

#TBT: I Had My First Kiss At Girl's Camp

Last Saturday night (ok fine, Sunday morning at around 3am), while dancing in a circle with my friends to the new Justin Bieber song, a stranger tapped me on the shoulder.

"Zoë Weiner?"
....... Yes?
"From Camp Mataponi?"
....... Yes?
"It's me! Mike* from Camp Wildwood."

Holy shit: it was the Summer Camp Hottie.

When we were 12, this kid was the dreamiest of the dreamy; The Freddie Prinze Jr./Shane West/2002 Paul Walker of camp socials. I was freaking out. The camp hottie had recognized ME?! Swoon. (He's still super cute, by the way).

Boys came on 4th of July, too, so we put on makeup.

I went to an all girl's camp, but we used to have dances a few times every summer with the boy's camp across the lake. They were the highlight of the season, and we would spend HOURS (and hours and hours and hours and hours) straightening  our hair and picking out the perfect Juicy Couture logo tee and Abercrombie jean skirt to wear. We literally skipped activities, that our parents were paying an embarrassing amount of money for, to do these things.

Then, when we got there, we would stand in a corner and whisper to each other about which boys we were going to try to flirt with. They would stand in opposite corner and whisper about sports. We naturally thought they were talking about us, but they never were. None of us had learned how to straighten the back of our hair yet (I only found out about that like, Junior year of high school) and the braces/jewish-girl-unibrow years were in full swing. It wasn't cute.

The "cool" boys wore backwards hats and Abercrombie polo shirts (Abercrombie was SO big back then. I don't get what happened.) and really developed reputations for themselves over the 5 summers we socialized with them. Before the socials, while we applied Limited Too blue eyeshadow and Smackers lipgloss, we made bets over who was going to get to dance with Mike/Jacob/Zachary/Isaac/Aaron (did I mention it was Jewish camp?). There were two really hot blonde girls (seriously — they actually were super hot when we were 11) who usually ended up pairing off with the best guys  pretty early in the night, but year after year us Unibrows still remained optimistic.

This was after me and high-school Billy started dating,
so apparently I had stopped caring AT ALL what I looked like.

The good news was, I usually got asked to dance (and "hooked up" as we so eloquently called french kissing next to the dining hall bathroom) because, as Mike so kindly reminded me the other night, I was "the first girl at summer camp with boobs!"

Mike was my best friend's first kiss circa 2004, and his best friend was mine circa 2002 (like I said, I was an early bloomer). We were standing in the slow dance line— literally, we all just lined up and tightly held each other and swayed to Kelly Clarkson's "A Moment Like This" — when our lips locked. It was magical, and I'm pretty sure I got in a lot of trouble for it the next day.

Things worked out, though. Two months later, my summer camp first kiss turned into my real-life first boyfriend — even back then, I was a pro at locking it down. One of the girls from camp Mataponi started at his school that fall, and he asked her for my phone number on their first day. She gave him the number to my private line on my home phone (I was a douchey 11 year old kid, I admit it), they three -way-called me that night, and the rest, shall we say, was history.

We spent one beautiful year in the most successful long distance relationship I've ever been in (I've weirdly been in a lot).  We talked on the phone all night, every night (thank goodness for the private line, amiright?), and spent a solid half an hour doing the whole "no you hang up first!" thing.

Every other weekend, I made my mom drive me 4 hours to visit him in Westchester, and bought a new full Abercrombie outfit before each trip. I also made her blow out my hair before I saw him (Mom, you are a saint) and drop me off at the Chappaqua Cosi so we could hold hands over a Squagle and then go makeout in the back row of the movie theatre. I don't know why I never asked her to pluck my eyebrows before these meetings, but as they say, hindsight is 20/20.

The highlight of our year together was when he took me to Bermuda for the weekend with his family on their private plane (I KNOW.  I WAS A DOUCHEY 11 YEAR OLD KID), which was awesome. I wouldn't kiss him the whole time because my mom said I wasn't allowed. Ha.

Looking back on it, I actually can't remember why we broke up. I think it was because he wanted to go to 2nd base and I "wasn't ready," so he found a blonde girl at school who was. Babe, if you're reading this and still interested, my phone number hasn't changed.

Side note: I actually went on a date with the "Summer Camp Hottie" the other night, and we ended up making out. Things really do come full circle.

*Names have been changed because real people actually apparently read this blog now 

@Boys: It's Time To Talk About Sleepovers.

As someone who has now done quite a bit of grown-up dating (so much so that apparently I'm an expert on the subject — thanks, Huffington Post) I've had my fair share co-ed sleepovers. Before you get judgmental, it's not like my apartment is a revolving door of dudes (let's be honest, most of the time it's more of a locked gate) but I've had a few boyfriends in the last few years, most of whom I've written about, and won't pretend I'm saving myself for marriage. After all, we're all adults here and its 2015. (Nana, if you're reading this, Sorry!!)

All that said, there is something I want to address: Somewhere between Hinge matching and Tinder swiping, chivalry died. WTF you guys?! It's as if our whole generation simply never learned how to act when they're left alone with women (girls? am I old enough yet to refer to myself as a "woman?"). The last few people I've had sleep over (yes, in the "adult" sense of the word) have acted like absolute animals in my apartment (not in the good way.), and haven't behaved much better in their own. Cover hogging and incessant cuddling are the least  of the problems. So, I've decided to try and do something to fix it.

These are my personal sleepover pet peeves (which after talking to friends, actually seem to be pretty universal) that I'm sharing with the internet in the hopes that at least someone will learn from them. You're welcome, ladies.

If You Sleep Here... 

Put The Toilet Seat Down

My roommate, who goes to work at 6am like a coal miner (#finance), has fallen into our toilet countless times because a guy I was dating left the seat up and she couldn't see in the dark when she got up for work. Seriously, guys, your moms would be ashamed.

DON'T Linger

There have been boys in our apartment who have stuck around sleeping for so long on a weekend morning/afternoon that I've gotten up, gone to the gym, gotten ready and MADE THEM LUNCH. Unless you're willing to watch last night's episode of Scandal with me at 9am on Saturday morning, or are going to make me breakfast, get the hell out of my home. I have stuff to do.

Make My Bed. SERIOUSLY.

I RARELY leave boys alone in my apartment; I have way too much weird stuff in my room to trust them snooping around in there. But when I do (which happened once this summer because I "had to" get up and go to the Hamptons at 7am on a Saturday morning and let the guy I was dating keep sleeping) please, please make my bed. If I'm nice enough to let you stay in my apartment after I've gone, the least you can do is put my furry throw pillows back where they belong. I PROMISE if roles were reversed, any girl would do it for you.

Don't Snoop

I'll know. Girls always know.

Leave A Note

This isn't a "must do," but it is so, so nice when guys leave a note for me to see when I get home. ESPECIALLY if they leave it on top of my made bed (I mean, this has never actually happened to me, but I can imagine it would be awesome).

If I Sleep There...

PUT THE TOILET SEAT DOWN!!! 

Seriously!!! Why does no one do this anymore?! We're ladies (no matter what kind of other weird stuff we're willing to do while we're sleeping over). Show some respect. 

Offer Me A Toothbrush 

If I've agreed to sleep at your apartment, I've already sacrificed my nightly facial routine and the chance for new contact lenses in the morning. At least give me a toothbrush so neither of us has to wakeup to my morning breath. 

... And Something To Sleep In 

Some people like sleeping naked. I, personally, hate it. Give a girl the option to throw on a t-shirt, especially if you're going to insist on trying to spoon her all night long. All that body-to-body contact is just... no. 

.... And Something To Walk Home In

As girls, walks of shame — or as I like to call them, "strides of pride" — are hard enough. It's nice when we can at least show the world that the guy we slept with liked us enough to offer up a sweatshirt he knows he'll never get back. Give me something to throw on over my "date clothes" (slutty black dress) that will make me look mildly less like a 9am streetwalker. Preferably a college lacrosse sweatshirt so I can brag to my friends that I hooked up with a guy who played for Harvard (KIDDING, though 21-year-old me would have loved that). 

... And Walk Me To The Door

There is nothing, and I mean nothing worse, than having to walk of shame by a new guy's doorman ALONE at 9am on a Saturday morning. At the very least, walk me to the door of your building. Bonus points if you help me get a cab (of everyone I've ever dated, only ONE guy has ever done this for me. Looking back on it, I really took his manners for granted. He still never put the toilet seat down, though.) and BONUS BONUS points if you take me to grab coffee. I'm not asking for a full brunch, just something to hold and focus on while I'm avoiding judgmental the stares of passersby on my walk home.

No Matter WHAT...

Kiss Me Goodbye! 

When you leave,  my apartment or yours, say goodbye. If you've offered me a toothbrush, my breath should be fine.

Text Me The Next Day

If you have a sleepover over, especially for the first time and ESPECIALLY if we had sex, you better follow up the next day. At the very least shoot over a "thank you for having me" or a "thanks for coming over," even if you never want to see the me again and especially if you do.

And Seriously... PUT THE DAMN TOILET SEAT DOWN. 

I Spent The Night Dressed Like Beyoncé, And It Was Pretty Much The Best Night Ever.

I've never really been a "Beyoncé person." I haven't seen the HBO documentary, I like some, but not all, of her music, and would never refer to myself as a member of something called the "Bey Hive." In fact, my college roommate and I have gotten into borderline friendship-ending arguments over the fact that I don't loooooove and worship "The Queen" as much as she thinks I should. 

To be clear, it's not that I don't like her; I've just never really gotten it. Yes, she's gorgeous/confident/the greatest dancer on the planet, but it never made sense to me why people were soooo obsessed with someone who once sang the lyrics "I fill the tub up halfway then I ride it with my surfboard, surfboard." (like, what does that even mean???????)

That is, until this weekend. 

At 6pm on Halloween night, I had no costume and NO plans for the evening. It was turning out to be the lamest Halloween in Halloween history. My roommate and I debated staying in and "handing out candy" (since there was zero chance any trick or treaters would make the trek to our 5th floor walkup, we really meant "staying in and eating candy we pretended to have bought for kids") but quickly realized we were young, fun and acting like big ol' losers, (and that there were no new chick flicks on Netflix). We needed to get off the couch, figure out costumes and turn things around. Fast. 

"You have the right to remain sexy, Sugar."

I've had terrible costumes and still had fun Halloweens in the past, so expectations were low when we ventured out in the cold to one of the creepy kiosks on St. Marks. I figured I would just buy some (flea-ridden) wig. throw on a slutty black dress and make something up. But then, I saw the most amazing wig on the PLANET, and was utterly inspired.

A quick trip to American Apparel to buy $90 worth of gold lamé spandex that I'll "totallllllly wear again" (yet another Halloween when I "didn't want to spend money on a costume," so I waited until the last minute and screwed myself.) and I was ready to be FOXXY CLEOPATRA, Beyoncé's character from Austin Powers: Goldmember.

I got home, covered myself in baby oil (my mom used to be obsessed with the fact that Beyoncé uses baby oil to moisturize, so I figured I would try it) and a ton gold eye/lip/face makeup, and put on my costume.

And let me just say — Holy. Shit.

I'll admit it: I'd been having a very fat-feeling, why-is-mercury-still-in-retrograde-and-messing-up-my-life, un-confident month (come on you guys, it happens to the best of us); until I put on the costume. I was a whole new woman. I stood alone in my room for a solid 15 minutes taking selfies (and sending them to cute boys) and feeling freaking amazing about myself for the first time in a while.

I'm FOXXY Cleopatra and I'm a wholeeeee lotta woman. 

The costume made me feel like I could do literally anything, so the night started to fall into place.

First, I decided that it would be  totally acceptable for me to go to a party alone, where I didn't really know anyone. So I went, talked to strangers, drank vodka/redbulls and shamelessly flirted with cute boys I knew I'd never see again. "Zoë" wouldn't do that (ok, I'd probably still drink the vodka), but Beyoncé totally would.

I also happened to run into dickpic guy on the way out (AGAIN!!!!!!!!!) and thought the universe might be trying to push us together, so considered going with him to a party uptown, but realized Beyoncé would never give someone who  showed her a picture of his penis on a first date a second chance, so I left. (Let's be honest— Zoë probably would)

I then walked (still completely alone) to a bar 10 blocks away, and have never in my life felt like such a badass hottie (not even on the hottest/baddest-ass day of my life when I got arrested in Montauk). I was winking at strangers, people were high-fiving me all over the place and SIX different groups asked to take my picture. 

I wasn't walking, I was full on strutting. In 7-inch heels, mind you. 

I got to the bar, immediately cut the line (after the bouncer told me I needed to "pull up my top because my boobs were out" ...whoops) and danced my bootylicious little gold butt off with my college friends for hours.

Later on in the night, I went to meet a friend (ok, a boy.) at TAO Downtown, once again completely alone. As someone who hasn't been to a nightclub since 2008 (it was a girl from a summer program's 18th birthday at Tenjune, naturally) I wasn't at all sure of what I was getting myself into, but had been drinking for hours and it seemed like a good idea. 

I walked (strutted) to the door, and the bouncer let me in immediately. It was the second time that night that I was allowed to cut the line, which hasn't happened since college (and that was only because we bullied one of our friends into going on a date with a bouncer so we could have line-cutting rites for life). It felt fucking awesome.

When I got inside, I couldn't find my "friend," so instead spent the night dancing with strangers and making "friends" with people who had tables. After all, who doesn't want Beyoncé at their table? ("Zoë" hasn't been at a table since 2010...)

My last memory (which must have been around 5am— thanks, Daylight Savings) is dirty-dancing with a hottie to "Trap Queen" whilst profusely sweating and swinging my wig over my head. Let met tell you: it takes a confident (or really, really drunk) woman to behave like that and still thinks she's sexy. 

The next day, it was horribly depressing to go back to being normal me after being Beyoncé for the night. After 9 hours in an afro and head-to-toe gold lamé spandex, I can honestly say I know what Queen Bey is talking about when she says "I'm feelin myself." If only I hadn't lost my wig at the nightclub.

I owned the shoes.