My Week on Tinder
Am I A Whore?

(Sup? I’m still not sure I’m doing tumblr right, but I have a new blog, where I already posted this- resistingmarriage.tumblr.com - but in case ya missed it, here it is.)

I had three chances to get laid last week, and I’ll be honest- I really wanted to. I can tell, because I have three types of shower gel in my shower. One that smells like a Laura Ashley dress converted to an aroma, (good to use before a trip to Grandma’s house,) one that I only use because I got it for free, so there’s no sense in buying more soap until it’s gone, and one that smells like Raspberry AND Vanilla combined! It’s so delish. I know I want to get laid when I hop in to the shower and use that one. (Or if I hop in the shower at all.)

Obviously last week was a super bust. I think my bing bang started to build a fence around itself after that date. And I did meet up with an ex-Tinder a few days ago- I won’t tell you which one, but I can confirm he still looks like Steve Burton from General Hospital. But we’re definitely just buddies. It’s not kinky. However, I also had a date with an old friend of mine, whom I haven’t seen in ages. I’m not really sure if it was technically a date, but we definitely locked down plans to grab drinks together. I was really looking forward to it. We actually slept together a long time ago, so in the back of my mind I thought, “well… we’re both currently single… so it could happen again…” Plus, the bonus of sleeping with someone you’ve already slept with is that your numbers don’t go up. It’s a repeat offense. Deluxe. 

The “date” occurred as most Toronto “dates” do. Two people walking through the city, one pushing his/her bike, while the other person reminisces about the bike they recently had stolen. We stop at a few Bloordale bars. (Bloordale- The new Queen West.) The catch up session is going good. We discuss being single, give each other advice on what would improve our “singlehood,” all the while dropping signals that we don’t mean with each other, obvi.

We take a seat at Northwood, one of my favourite spots in the hood. Sometimes I even write there, cuz the table in the back left corner has an outlet under it. The beers are good and hoppy. My favourite kind. My “date” is flirting with the bartender, which is fine, cuz technically, this is not a date. She drops the “B” bomb, subtly bringing up the fact that she is happily taken. He still gives her his card.

Now that I am for sure friend-zoned, I’m happy to get on with normal, platonic friend bonding stuff. I begin to babble, about my horny, yet epic fail of a week. 

“I’m telling you, there’s a certain time of the month that women are horny. We can’t control it. It’s not the time of the month we’re best known for, but I’m pretty sure it’s the same time of the month chicks trying to get pregnant are really givin ‘er, ya know? It’s those middle days, right in the middle of your cycle. One week you’re fine, going to bed with Netflix as usual, the next, you wonder if it’s possible to sit on a doorknob. It’s so weird.”

And that’s when he said that one sentence that no girl wants to hear…

“That’s cuz you’re a whore.”

It hits me like a stun gun. The word paralyzes me… I guess I get it… I get why you might call me that. I don’t always make perfect choices in my personal life. I’ve been on over 50 Tinder dates in the last year and I obviously didn’t shy away from telling everyone. And I know I have a perverted sense of humour, that maybe invites people to think I can handle being called this word, but I can’t…

I have no idea how to respond to this statement… (Accusation?) I figure I have three options:

  1. Laugh it off. Maybe use proper Improv skills by “yes, and…” -ing him. “Yah, and keep your eyes open for my new show Whoreders!
  2. Get super defensive.
  3. Never hang out with someone who calls me this again.

But if you’ve ever seen me do improv, you know I can actually stutter in the moment. I’m not always sure I’m saying the right thing. So in my most earnest Elle Woods voice, I respond with,

“Umm… I don’t really think I am. I know I went out with a billion guys last year, but I barely slept with any of them, and the dudes I slept with are actually awesome. I’m quite proud of them… And just because I talk about sex openly, possibly all the time, possibly too much, doesn’t make me a whore… at least I think…”

“I was just kidding!”

Oh… that was just a joke… of course. I’m just a comedian, who’s used to being surrounded by people who write such brilliant stuff, I’m hysterically laughing. Now you come along, impairing me with this vision that people see me as a disposable vessel for a man’s penis. But to you, that’s a joke

I don’t really know why the word Whore hurts so much, but it just does. Theres other words like it, but they don’t bother me. My friends and I growing up used to call each other sluts all the time. We were all hard-core virgins at the time, so it didn’t really make any sense. Just the thought of sex made us giggle to death. My friend Tania even remodeled a Barbie and named her “Slut It Up” Barbie. Then she gave it to my cousin for Christmas. We laughed our asses off, plus we finally found a good reason to tease Barbie’s hair. Then you gotskank, hussy, ho, cum guzzler…  I hate to say it, but I can handle those ones. If I had my choice of sexually active female catcalls, I’d personally go with “Floozy.” I like that one. Kind of sounds cute, like I didn’t mean to do it. Even “Hoochy Mama” has its catchiness. (Thank you, Seinfeld.)

But Whore? I can’t… Sorry. That’s just me.

I googled “Whore,” just to be sure “Woman who loves Taylor Swift, fancy cheese, and only makes minimum payments on credit card bills, who would ideally like to have sex at least once a month” didn’t pop up. (Cuz then I’d be in trouble.) But this is what popped up:

Whore

/ho^r/     

(K, that little accent circonflexe thingy is supposed to go on top of  the “o”                     but I can’t figure out how to get it there with my keyboard.)

noun derogatory

1. a prostitute.                                  

synonyms: work as a prostitute, sell one’s body, sell oneself, on the streets

I don’t wanna burst his bubble, but I’ve never even sold jewelry on the streets. Great. Now we have women who don’t know the definition of “feminist,” we have men who don’t know the definition of “whore.” How are we ever going to perfect our compliments/insults if we can’t grasp simple English? No wonder everybody at work looks confused when I call them, “Dildos.” (I’m calling you PLEASURE PIECES, MY LOVES!)

Don’t worry. I didn’t start crying and run out of the bar. (I had a full beer.) We continued onwards with the night, but when we ran into my date’s friends, I decide to make my exit. I make an excuse that I can’t drink more because I have to bike home. (A bike can be your best wingman. Plus he’s super fun to ride at the end of the night.)

When I arrive home, he texts me his address. He wants me to come over for “fun times.”

I politely decline.

Because I’d hate for someone to call me a whore. 

Still Dating, Still Blogging!

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I’m still not sure exactly how Tumblr works, cuz I’m a facking idiot. But I started a new blog! Here’s the link. I pray it works…

It’s called “Resisting Marriage.” Still single, still loving it.

(The only people who ever understand my love for being single, are married people.)

https://www.tumblr.com/blog/resistingmarriage

My Tinder Bender Conclusion- After the Final Swipe

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In the past year, I’ve gone on 60 first dates. You thought I’d be dead in a ditch by now, didn’t you? Well, I’m alive! Pretty impressive, eh? (You can imagine how many Scene points I have.) I’ve been Screeched in, flown to Boston, and forced to eat an oyster. (Grody.) For a first time experimenting with online dating, I can honestly say I’ve learned a lot. Sixty human beings, 22 smooches, 5 or 6 sexual encounters (does the threesome count as one or two?) I feel very confident I have a better understanding of the dating world now. I’ve Tindered in Maui, Vancouver, Montreal, London, Glasgow, Halifax, Newfoundland, and of course I’ve painted a great picture of the city I live in, Toronto. (I did better with words than with actual paint, eh?)

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That’s a lot of dates for a girl who doesn’t shower every day, can’t walk in heels, wears earrings from Ardene and can out burp most men she knows. (Lucky for you, this wasn’t a Vlog.) I’ve heard the dating advice, “You’ve gotta put yourself out there!” Well, mission accomplished. My Week on Tinder accidentally turned into my year on Tinder. (I never did learn how to pimp out my Tumblr page. Sorry about that.)

My main goal when I made this wild decision to go on 50 first dates, was to prove how fun being single is. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, no matter how old you are. Don’t dread it. Own it. I know sometimes you think you’ll never be single again, but should it happen, know you’ll be okay. Nothing made me cry with joy more than getting messages from women who finally left toxic relationships because I actually made being single look fun. I’m truly flattered. I enjoyed being a landing pad for newly single people.

I’ve made some discoveries myself. I’ve gone from searching for the right man, to searching for the right person. I’ve gone from being shy or embarrassed about sex, to bonding with tons of people over it. I’ve gone from having an open mind, to an expanded one.

I’m this tender balance of horny and insecure. I like having sex, but the constant worry of what I look like naked holds me back most of the time. Maybe that’s why we all celebrated my .5 dates. Because that was me, letting go.

Tinder has been a fun experiment. Sometimes learning more about your own sexuality is done more freely with new people. (I almost called them strangers, but that word seems to have a creepy connotation.) I think we’ve all learned the old “sex ruins a friendship” lesson. It’s a lesson I wish I could engrave in my skull. There are some friendships I facking wish could go back to normal…

I really want to thank everyone who shared and liked my blog. I’ve never been a very disciplined writer. (You can see that in my old blog, blog.walkinsauce.com - hasn’t been a new entry in years…) But because you all looked forward to my Tinder Tuesdays, you motivated me. And motivating a girl with multiple pairs of slippers isn’t easy. Thank you.

Oh and thanks to everyone who found typos and let me know. You know that means a lot to me. Not ALOT though! Obvi. (Super duper kudos to Lisa Oki. Thanks girl!)

I think it’s so cute how excited everybody got when they thought I was gonna settle down. The fact is, this isn’t a movie. There is no formulaic ending to a real-life story. I’m still single, and I love that I am. I don’t think marriage (or maturity) should be rushed into. And hey, if you’re single too, cool. You might just find me out there…

I don’t know what comes to mind when you hear the word “dating.” To me, it just means, “hanging out with fellow human beings.” I love it. Sure if it leads to a kiss, sex, love, commitment and a future, you’re blessed. But I’m happy if it’s just a great night out, learning about the world one person at a time. I know I’m getting cheesy, but I’m pretty emotional over ending the biggest accidental project of my life. So on that note, I’m going out with a Lady Gaga quote. I know! You didn’t see this coming, did you? You probably thought I’d go with Taylor Swift for sure. But here it is, straight from the song Gypsy

I don’t wanna be alone forever…

But I can be tonight…

And I will be alone tonight. Can you blame me? I just spent a year on Tinder. I gotta date with my couch and some cheese tonight. (Plus, I gotta rest up for my new Christian Mingle blog. Bahahahaha! Kidding, obvi.)

Keep Calm, and Tinder On,

Christina Walkinshaw

P.S. One week today, a dream is coming true. I’m performing at the Just For Laughs comedy festival in Montreal! Hosted by BROAD CITY!! I love those chicks!! I better not FACK this up! (I don’t even know if I put this link in right.)

http://www.hahaha.com/en/show/broad-city-hosting-talk-fest

P.P.S. Oh and thanks to all these people! You were on my Tinder profile the WHOLE time! You helped me score all those dudes! Woot Woot!

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P.P.S.S. I will keep writing. I promise. Stay tuned…

My Tinder Bender Date #50, Part 2- My Final Tinder Date?

The weirdest thing happened to me the other day. I was on the beach with someone I care about, and this guy starts creeping us. At first I think he’s trying to steal my purse, since it’s just sitting in the sand as we wade in the water. Or maybe he’s trying to distract us while someone else steals it. (See how paranoid that trip to England made me?) When it becomes obvious we’re aware of him, he introduces himself. He doesn’t speak English very well, but now it’s clear he’s just taking pictures of the sunset. I ask him if he has an Instagram page, which he understands. (Apps have become a universal language, I guess.) He shows us his account. I make a mental note of his handle, and then he walks three feet into the water to get a shot of some ducks. (Asians are passionate about their photography, eh?) The next day, I was curious, so I searched him on Instagram. I open his page, and there it is. A picture of my friend and I! After a full year unsuspectingly* putting people on the Internet, it finally happened to me. It felt weird. I can’t explain it… But he definitely captured a moment I couldn’t. The picture is actually really nice, though now I officially know that I stand funny. This is the world we’re living in… we’re all watching each other… Like my friend Joel says, “Facebook is a tabloid for the second class.” And on that note, it’s time for me to finish my 50th, and final chapter in my personal tabloid…

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I’m still in Nashville, where True Religion is not just a pair of jeans you shouldn’t be wearing anymore. It’s my last night here. I’m busy babbling with a cute dude on Tinder. I feel like if you’re a witty texter, you’re probably good at Tinder too. Half the battle is fun messages. If I’m a dud, there’s no way he’s leaving his house on a Monday night. I ask him if he wants to meet for a drink. I showered today. That should be a selling point. He sends me a suggestion. (I really wish I could use his name. He has one of those names that I swear every kid in a horror movie has.)

Him: There’s a bar right around the corner. Hold on, it’s new and very indie. Kinda hipster, but it’s close and unpretentious.

Hipsters are slowly taking over the planet, people. It’s okay. I’m getting used to drinking beer out of cans in public.

Him: Tin Dog Tavern is the name of the bar… AND half priced pitchers tonight BAM!

Well, he’s speaking my language now. I tell him I’m hopping in a cab, and he recommends using LYFT. Everyone uses LYFT in Nashville. It’s cheaper than a cab. Like the Airbnb of drives. (Although I already find cabs here cheaper than home. In Toronto the meters ride up faster than a pair of shorts between my thighs.)

I grab a slice of pizza for the cab ride over. Pizza for dinner, cuz I know how to indulge on holiday. (Or save money.) The cab pulls onto one of those Loop highways. (Fun Nashville fact: There’s a circle of highways that cuddle downtown Nashville. People either live “In the Loop” or “Out of the Loop.” That’s something I never learned from watching the show!) As the cab pulls off the highway, we pass Crazy Horse strip club. How come strip clubs in America are always hidden under highways? They’re naked ladies, not trolls. Here in Toronto we put them front and centre on Yonge St. Tourists flock to them more than the CN Tower. (Well, tourists over 19.)

I walk in the bar. Oh yah, it’s a dive. And I like it. The best thing about Tindering in different cities is that your dates can at least get you off Tourist Trap Row. I spot my date, sitting at the bar wearing non other than… a Coors Light T-Shirt. Ah Jeez… But I can’t judge. In honour of my Tinder finding that many women use Marilyn Monroe quotes in their tagline, I wore a Marilyn Monroe shirt. He’s probably rolling his eyes in his head too.

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The bartender is a middle-aged hipster, with a giant beard. His name is Sigh. I’m probably not spelling that right, but the only other Sigh I know is that Gangnum Style guy, Psy? I already forget how to spell him. Sigh seems like a good name for a hipster though, eh? What could “Sigh” be short for, I wonder….

Oh right! Must focus on my date, and NOT my fascination with the bartender. Mr. #50 is very cute, despite his Coors Light t-shirt. I own at least half a dozen Guinness shirts from working (and sweating profusely through) a billion St. Patrick’s Days. 

We have a quality conversation about the perks, and annoyances of being single. Perks? Freedom, freedom and more freedom. My date rants about how his friends are always trying to set him up. He is cracking me up, all the while I agree with him.

It’s like when you try to set up your two gay friends. You can’t just assume because they’re both gay, they’re perfect for each other. Same with single people in their 30’s. Just cuz we’re both single and thirty-something, doesn’t mean we should start a relationship.

He mentions a friend of his, who can’t have kids. I respond with,

“For sure? Or is it just coke dick?”

My date laughs. Between that and my tagline, I’ve accidentally led him to believe Toronto is a party town. Ooopsies.

I keep calling him dude. He keeps reminding me it’s “bro” now. He starts talking about Pandora.

Me: “Is that an app?”

Him: “No, it’s a band.”

Me: “Is this a bad time to mention I love Maroon 5?”

He laughs. Now I’m sure he doesn’t regret going out on a Monday night. Phew. His tagline did say,

Work hard, play hard.

Only playing on the weekends is not playing hard, as far as I’m concerned. We have a few more cans of beer. I tip two dollars per can, to let the bartender know I think he’s dope. (I never use that word, but my friend Claire always does. It has a cool ring to it, eh?) Looking around the bar, I notice the pool table, cigarette machine, 80’s décor…

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I really feel like I’m in a time warp. The patio furniture looks like they shopped at a garage sale.

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Some chairs match. One drunk driver though, and this patio’s toast.

The bar’s got some charm, and so does my date, but…

This isn’t going anywhere. Obviously. This guy is lives in Nashville. I live in Canada. I know Tinder is just a hook up app, but is this getting old to me? I’m not saying I might finally be ready for a boyfriend after a solid year of first dates, but am I…?

I need energy for the long drive home to Toronto tomorrow, he has to work in the morning… it’s funny how even horny people stop sacrificing sleep for sex after a while. He calls LYFT for me. That’s right. It comes full circle. After me paying for dozens of cab rides on Tinder dates, he gets me back. When the car arrives, he kisses me goodbye.

And with that, I kiss my 50th Tinder blog goodbye.

Keep Calm and Tinder on,

Walkinsauce

*Post date #8, I did tell most of my dates I have a blog, unless they were cuckoo pants. But when you tell people you have a blog, they’re not worried. Most dudes joke, “Who reads that? Your mom?” FACK. I hope not…

P.S. OBVIOUSLY I’m going to do my “After the Rose” blog next week. I have learned a buttload. Maybe I’ll even revisit some old Tinder dates. Stay tuned…

P.P.S. Did I really go to Nashville for the finale of my blog, or did I REALLY just go for Trader Joe’s? Only I know the truth…

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My Tinder Bender Date #50! Going Down South

  

When I first started this blog, I had no idea what I was doing. You know that, right? I joined Tinder because I was basically looking for a fuck buddy. I couldn’t put that on the Internet though, obvi. I’d end up dead in a ditch. Oddly enough, searching the world for someone you’re comfortable getting naked in front of, is just as hard as finding “true love.”

My blog’s called “My Week on Tinder” because I thought I was only going to be on it for a week. Bahahahaha! Like Candy Crush. You’re only gonna try it… When I finished blogging those seven dates, people wrote me, “Keep going!” So, like Carla from the “The Chew,” I’m one of those Power of Yes people. You ask me to go to Amsterdam, I say “yes.” You ask me to go to Maui, I say “yes.” Seems like a no brainer, but do you know how many people I know that would say, “I don’t know… I probably shouldn’t… I gotta check with (insert boyfriend/husband/girlfriend/wife’s name.)” Not me. I just facking do it. 

So when you said, “keep going!” I did. I decided to go on 50 first dates, cuz it has a nice ring to it. It was a cute movie with Drew Barrymore and Adam Sandler. Only my 50 first dates will be different than the movie, cuz obviously the only memory loss I encounter is from rum. So for my 50th date, I thought I’d be equally random. I’m going to Nashville! Since Nashville is my favourite TV show, it seems fitting. Plus I’ve never been. What am I waiting for?

At work, my friend Daj makes a good point.

“You don’t have to drive to Nashville for dick. We have dick here in Toronto, you know.”

FACK! I know. But this is my LAST date! I’ve hit my goal of 50 first dates. I have to make it epic, right? This is why reality shows are actually scripted. Sometimes you can’t count on your daily life to be entertaining. It’s a good thing I have three credit cards, each with some money “left on them,” as we say in the broke people’s world.

My friend Laura comes to pick me up from my gig, just south of Barrie (my career’s on fire.) We’re on the road to Tennessee by 11:00pm. It might seem like an odd hour to take off for a road trip, but sometimes you have to make the most of the time you can afford to play with. We have no funky cord that makes your ipod work with the car stereo, so we listen to the radio for the 13 hour trip. We hear random shit, like “Walking on Sunshine” by Katrina and the Waves, and and John Legend’s “All of Me” 4389278347839758390237849027 times. We also rocked out to a whole lot of country music, since we’re Nashville bound, baby! (I’d be lying if I told you I knew anything more than Taylor Swift and Kacey Musgraves. But I’ll learn. It’s how Rayna James would want it.)

Three hours into the trip, we stop for gas. Not mine, but the car’s. For whatever reason, the car won’t start after we fuel up. Since I was pumping, I immediately get paranoid I filled Laura’s tank with diesel. What happens if you do that? Does the Pontiac Grand Am blow up? Who actually facking uses diesel? What the fack IS diesel? (Can you tell I don’t drive? It usually takes me an hour adjust the rearview mirror.) We call CAA, as I pray we still get to make this trip happen. I don’t know if I’m more excited about Tindering in Nashville, or I just really want to go to Trader Joe’s.

Forty minutes later, CAA comes, and MAGICALLY, the car starts. Yes, it’s a Tilbury miracle. But then…

We hit the U.S.A./Canada border. And guess what? They search our car. I swear the only fruit we had in the car was the dried cranberries in the trail mix. Again, I have another moment of wondering, “Is this the universe’s way of telling me this trip is NOT supposed to happen? And I finally cruising towards my “dead in a ditch” date?” But then, the border guard guy comments on the pink trailer I’ve reserved off Airbnb, and sends us on our way. This Nashville adventure, IS happening.

We drive all night, through Michigan, Ohio, Kentucky, then into Tennessee. This is one way to learn your geography. But as you know, everything comes in threes… one more thing has to go wrong…

The pink trailer I’ve rented is a disaster. And soooooo far away from town! Would you want to come to Toronto, and then stay in Mississauga? FACK! I should have mapped out the city better, but I was slightly buzzed when I reserved the pink trailer online. Just a friendly reminder, folks, to NOT drink and Airbnb. Now I’m facked! Laura has a place to stay, but I gotta figure out what I’m gonna do STAT. I think of my comedian friend Evan Desmarais who said Tinder got him places to crash all over Australia. I could Tinder for my life right now…but should I…?

Nah. I’m too much of a weiny. Plus showing up with a suitcase on a first date would probably freak a guy out more than even the creepiest guy could freak me out. All the hotels are expensive, so I go back to the Airbnb drawing board. I manage to score a room in a gorgeous house in the Five Points area. A very cool area. And finally I am ready to Tinder. I update my Tinder tagline. 

Toronto girl in Nashville. I do slightly less crack than my mayor.

(Tinder CAN’T be worse than my Airbnb experience today.)

It’s a conversation starter, at the very least. So dead tired from driving all night, I open Tinder. Let the nice southern men come my way! Look! A guy named “Thad!” Gotta swipe right to that, for the name alone. A guy posing in front of the Bluebird Café! Gotta swipe right to that too, obvi. Before you know it, I got dozens of Nashville dudes in my box. Obvi I’m just laying groundwork for a date tonight. I’ve been awake for longer than 24 hours, which is something I’m not used to cuz I don’t do those kind of drugs.

So Monday night, it’s time to score my date. I’m sitting at a local bar, called Red Door Saloon. Man I love any place with the word “saloon” or “tavern” in it. Don’t we all? And thank God it has free wi-fi, otherwise I would NOT be able to Tinder. Monday is NOT the easiest day of the week to get a dude out. Hell, it’s not even the easiest night to get ME out. I’m sure lots of people drink on Monday nights- servers, bartenders… alcoholics. I’ll find somebody. I lend the dudes beside me my portable phone charger, and they buy me a drink to thank me. People are soooooooo nice in Nashville. Things are looking up. Plus, a super cute guy messages me.

Hey Christina, how are you? Your tag line is hilarious! I think I actually laughed out loud when I read it!

Ohh, he’s using lots of exclamation marks. I like that. Shows energy on a Monday. This is what I need. We banter back and forth, and the convo is super fun. I tell him that after dressing like a tourist for two days, I’m finally back to dressing like a skid.

What’s a skid?

You know, like a dirtbag. But my bra strap is showing, so that’s kind of sexy, eh?

Also, on a side note, I had another dude in my Tinder box who was messaging me. He asked if I needed a drinking buddy for my last night in town. So I wrote,

Totes!

Then he writes me this crazy message: 

You’d rather spend your last night in town alone than hang out with me? Typical blonde bitch. Goodbye.

And then he blocked me. I watched his face vanish right before my eyes. WTF? I said “Totes!” Is this a language barrier thing? Do we all not know that “Totes” is short for “Totally?” What a moron. But after that creepy message, I’m obviously happy I didn’t meet him.  Anyways, back to the cute guy, who I’m rocking with some self-deprecating humour.

Him: What else is horrible about you?

Me: Horrible… Hmm, probably my burps. I think they’re a real show stopper tho! (I would never do one in front of you, thoJ

Him: Burpees or burps?

Me: I don’t know what a burpee is.

(Oh great. Now I’m the “Totes” guy.)

Him: It has nothing to do with burps.

Me: Oh… I’m a dumbass. I was talking real burps! Revenge of the Nerds style:)

Him: That’s an incredible talent you have!

Me: It’s pretty powerful. Not too lady like, but oh we’ll.

Me: Well! Facking auto correct!

Him: You would make the perfect girlfriend. I wouldn’t have to put you down all the bc you would do it for me lol!

Me: It’s true! I would blast through your TP tho. I pee a lot. Let me know if I’m coming on too sexy.

Him: Laughed out loud to that one! Keep it going, this is some great shit.

Me: I just burped through my nose. It’s quieter, and doesn’t disrupt the other patrons, but it makes your eyes water.

Him: Let it flow!

Me: Like the Toni Braxton song!

Him: I feel like we just really get each other…

Guys, these are my sweet moves to get a guy to go out with me. I had to put in some solid texting to drag a dude out on a Monday. And on that note, and 1652 words in, I’m just getting to the part where I’m ACTUALLY ON the date. But you know by now I like to keep my blogs to about 1500 words. It’s Canada Day! You should be outside, getting drunk anyway. So this is my TBC…

(Plus I’m getting kicked out of my hotel right now. FACKING 11:00am check-outs. I swear when I was a kid it was noon.)

See you next Tuesday,

(No offense,)

Walkinsauce:)

 

P.S. Here’s me and Laura on Broadway. Did I dress the part of Nashville, or what?

My Tinder Bender- The Lost Dates

Let’s not kid ourselves. I’m actually WAY past 50 Tinder dates, I just didn’t blog about them all. Remember classic sitcoms, like The Golden Girls, where sometimes they would do one of those clip episodes? Well, this is my clip episode. A little compilation of the eight dates I never told you about. (That’s right. I said EIGHT. I’ve been busier than you think.)

Lost Date #1- The Bitter Guy (Somewhere between date #18-22)

Oh man. I don’t know what the fack was this guy’s problemo. At least I know he won’t read this, cuz to quote him,

“Blogs are dead. Nobody reads blogs.”

Well perfect! Then I don’t need to mention mine. He also worked at Rogers. EWWWWWW. Talk about deal breaker. (Unless he could delete bills. Then I probably would have blown him.) As we sat at the Firkin in Rosedale, (which is a great place to check out dudes with hair plugs, FYI,) he ranted on about how he had been on over 200 online dates. Holy fack! I’m lagging behind. The date didn’t last long. I had a show at Vapour Central that night, which is also the reason I showed up wearing a hoody and yoga pants. (I have to plot my outfits to that room very carefully, because these clothes will obviously smell like marijuana after I leave.)

I gave him a hug goodbye. I wonder if he’s out there somewhere, on date #250…

Lost Date #2- That OTHER Hawaiian Dude (Somewhere around date #25)

I’m sure most single girls agree- a holiday is not a holiday without a successful fling. After two somewhat duds on the island, I decided I had try Tinder one more time… Don’t we all want a .5 on vacation? You don’t even have to tell anyone you had sex. When people ask how your trip was, you can just lie and say, “Great! I climbed a volcano!” Even though in your head, you’re having vivid flashbacks of some dude boning you. After my really tragic date in Maui, I thought,

“Oh man! I should have gone out with the other guy I was chatting with…”

Well, it wasn’t too late. I still had one more night left in town. And the crazy part about meeting him, is that I had been to the bar he works at before, and I totally checked him out! What a babe! He was still working when I got there, which works for me cuz I always think a dude behind the bar is sexy. He also was totally embarrassed about being on Tinder, so we made up a story about being friends from college. It’s a good thing he didn’t go to Harvard, cuz I don’t think I could have pulled that off. This guy ended up being awesome, AND an Aquarius! Bonus! Anyways, I had a great time in Maui. I climbed a Volcano!

Lost Date #3- The Guy Who Redeemed King West (Somewhere around Date #30)

Remember the end of Date #11, where I stated, “That’s three strikes, King West. You’re out.” It seemed like all the dudes from down there were total creepers. Well, this particular dude and I had been trying to meet for months. Either he was out of town, or I was out of town. Our build up to meeting reminded me of that song by The Waitresses, Christmas Wrapping. You know at the end of the song, where she’s buying cranberries on Christmas Day and she finally runs into the guy she’s been chasing all year? That’s like us! It took a while, but we did it. We finally got together. He has beers in all his profile pictures, which works for me, obvi. The night we finally met, I was feeling super lazy. He offered to pick me up, and go somewhere, but I said “No.” It’s funny when guys offer to pick you up. I know it’s chivalrous, but these days chicks react differently to that offer.

“FACK no. I don’t want you to know where I LIVE. Too creepy.”

We don’t actually say it, but we think it. So I got him to meet me at my local, The Pourhouse. When he walked in, he had great energy, and ordered a Guinness. We sat at the bar, among regulars who are quite aware of my Tindering ways. We chatted about life, love, and marriage. He was recently divorced, and although he says the process is hard, he is so happy to be free again. I understood. We also tried to talk about comedy, but when he referred to Louis CK as “CK Lewis,” I changed the subject. He had to work the next day, so it wasn’t a wild date. He did give me the double hug goodbye though. I love the double hug. It’s the signature move of shy guys. First you get your first hug. Then you exchange a few more words, and then,

“Okay, one more hug.”

You’re too cute, gentlemen:)

Lost Date #4- Mucho Plus Montreal Le Tindre! (Somewhere around the mid 40’s)

Who knows what the fack I just wrote in that title. I really do need French lessons. It was nearing 5:00pm that day. I know all the dudes in suits are about to be released from their day cages, and check into various bars to watch the Habs game. I manage to score a very impromptu date, which is one of my favourite things about Tinder. We decide to meet at the new Bier Markt, on Rene-Levesque. (I don’t know how to get those little accents above the e’s. Please pardon that, and don’t consider it a typo.) Oh, and they should really call that place the Dude Markt. DUDES! EVERYWHERE! I felt like that kid in Sleepless in Seattle, when he finally gets to the top of the Empire State Building, and goes up to all these women saying,

“Are you Annie? Are you Annie?”

I was no better. I walked up to the wrong dudes multiple times.

“Are you my Tinder date? Are you my Tinder date?”

The place was jacked with hotties. I would have settled for any of those guys. Especially the dudes drinking Erdinger Dunkell. That’s a good one. My date shows up a little late. I’ve already bonded with the bartender, so I’m comfortable sitting at the bar. This guy had a super thick accent. It was definitely hard to communicate.

Me: “This is my first time to Montreal in two years. I love it.”

Him: “So, you live here now for two years?”

Me: “Oh, no, I don’t live here. This is just my first time being here in a while.”

Him: “??????”

I did laugh a lot on this date, that’s for sure. A super sweet guy. When he had to leave, I got the usual kisses on both cheeks. Then I ran over to the Irish Embassy, to visit the cute bartender there. I stay very busy on holidays.

Lost Date #5- Girls! Girls! Girls! (Somewhere around the mid 40’s)

I matched with another girl in Ottawa. Of course by the time we actually met up, we were both so drunk, all we could do was drop our glasses of wine on the ground, and add each other on Facebook. I’m sure you were hoping for something kinky here. Sorry. (She was a facking babe, too!)

Lost Date #6- Last Call Larry (Somewhere around Date #47)

Of course his name wasn’t really Larry. Does anyone actually still know any Larry’s? Or is that name becoming extinct? I just think Three’s Company. It was 1:00am on a Monday night, and I had just finished writing my blog. I desperately wanted to celebrate with a beer. Coincidently, the dude I was talking with on Tinder that night, lives around the corner.

Pourhouse for last call?

I suggest. The Pourhouse is turning into my Tinder office. Since it’s not every Monday night/Tuesday morning that a girl asks you out, he says,

Sure.

I get there first and sit at my usual barstool- I like the one close to the kitchen door. I don’t know why, I just do. If I sit too close to the Megatouch machine, I accidentally waste a bunch of money playing Monster Mash. My date walks in, looking way more put together than me. Nice jeans, pressed shirt. Not bad for 1:00am. I hope he didn’t iron for me. It’s a little awkward of a date. He probably thinks I’m a weirdo for inviting a guy out so late. He shows me his license, which is a picture of him from back in Alberta. He used to be a big, burly bald guy. Now, he’s skinny, fit and has cute spikey brown hair. A crazy transformation. My friend Nathan shows up and has a little fun chatting with my date too. I confess to my date that I’ve been with women before. He says he’s never been with a guy before. He’s curious, but it would be very frowned upon in his hometown. I gotta say, that totally depressed me. I hate thinking there are still such ignorant towns in Canada. Can we please work on that? I let my date walk me home, and we hug it out. Another nice, but potentially lost guy. See how these can be hard to write about?

Lost Date #7- Show Me Your Teeth (Somewhere around date #46.)

I got off work earlier than I expected that day. I had been messaging this guy all day- uh… I mean, no…. I’m never on my phone at work. I’m a good employee. I swear…

From the pictures I actually thought he was gonna be a little bit of a wild guy. Too many pints in a picture lead me to believe that. Now I’m figuring out that men probably only take pictures when they’re drunk. We meet down on the Esplanade, at another one of my favourite pubs, Scotland Yard. It’s one of the last bars in town that you can still play NTN trivia at. Not that I should be playing that on a date. It will probably just lead my date to believe I’m a facking idiot.

I was scared I was gonna smell from working all day, so I stopped in at The Body Shop, so try on some testers to freshen up. Then the sales lady came over to me, and asked me if I needed help.

“Yes, I need a shower, but this will have to do.”

I feel guilty for just putting on all the tester lotions and sprays, so I decide to buy some Early-Harvest Raspberry Body Butter. When the cashier rang me up, and said,

“That’s $20.”

I almost choked on my own saliva. Twenty bucks for lotion? Fack! Would have been cheaper to hop in a cab home and take a bubble bath.*

Anyway! Back to the actual date. We meet, and he’s way more clean cut than I expected. Not the skid I was expecting at all. The only thing that was bothering me, was I never saw his teeth when he smiled. As you can tell, I’m a BIG smiler. I never saw his teeth when he smiled. Not once. What a strange thing for me to focus on, for the entire date, but I was obsessed. I even went to the bathroom and checked his profile again, to look for teeth. No teeth there either. As we shared nachos, I waited to see the teeth. Nope. He hides them very well.

My friend Lindsey ends up showing up to the bar. She immediately thinks he’s a babe. See? I’m just a weirdo. Or maybe I was a dentist in a past life. Either way, I set them up, about two weeks later.

*Let’s not kid ourselves. I haven’t had a bubble bath in 25 years.

Lost Date #8- The Dude in Crutches (Sometime during Raptors playoffs.)

I feel guilty when I get two great guys, back to back. I wanted to blog about this guy, and I know Stu from The Pump is waiting for his epic shout out- (He asked to make sure I mention how HANDSOME he is.) But this date came right after my hot sex with #45, so I knew I was gonna pull back the kinky reigns, no matter how great this guy was. He was in crutches, from a drinking and dancing accident, obviously, so we stuck to his/our hood, the Annex. (Oh and he let me try his crutches. Shockingly, I’ve never needed them before. Too bad, cuz look at how big they make my boobs look!)

He’s a very attractive dude, wearing plaid of course. I know it’s gonna be a good date right from the start. Good vibes for sure. We talk about love and relationships. He recently discovered his fiancé (Hey! How come that little accent just popped up over the “e” there, and it didn’t over Rene-Levesque? What a confusing word program.) – Sorry, where was I? Oh yah. He recently discovered his fiancé was cheating on him, via Facebook. It was one of those stories where I felt myself clutching my heart. It’s a burn that leaves someone very unready to jump into another relationship, and thus, we join Tinder…

(I also felt really bad for him, cuz all the bathrooms in Toronto bars are in basements. Getting down there in crutches must be a facking chore.)

And those are my lost dates. I know I still owe you Date #50. It’s coming, but in two weeks from now. I have to go out with a bang. (No pun intended.) And that’s exactly what I plan to do…

Keep Calm, and Tinder on,

Walkinsauce

P.S. Little email bubbles keep popping up on the right hand corner of my computer. I just got nominated for a Canadian Comedy Award! Woot Woot! This would be a good spot to put a link for people to vote for me, but I’m a facking idiot, and don’t know how to do that. So just wish me luck. That will have to do:)

(And here’s one more shot of me in my Tinder office.)

My Tinder Bender Date #49- Putting the $ in Chri$tina

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I’m back! I wish I could tell you I did something epic with my week off blogging, but if you had a week off, what would you do? Nothing? Me too! I also wish I could tell you I’m being more picky with my last two dates, but you’re gonna find out quite swiftly, I’m not…

His tagline totally made me giggle.

There’s an app for that!

Yup. That’s all it took. I wrote to him first. (I keep telling my friends how important a good tagline is. I recently ripped the phone out of a friend’s hand, deleted her Marilyn Monroe quote, and replaced it with,

Looking for a dude with no dandruff. (Preferably.)

It’s totally working for her. Maybe I can get a Ted Talks.

Also, it’s getting overwhelming how many people AREN’T posting real pics on their Tinder profiles. I get it. You wanna play the game, but you don’t want anyone to know you’re on here. FACK that shit. Show your face. I’ve recently been challenging these people. I send them messages like,

“But what if you’re a butter face?”

Then they usually respond with,

“I’ll send you pics. Do you have BBM or KIK?”

No, I don’t have BBM. I have an iphone obvi, as does anyone who works in a job where you’re not supposed to be on your phone. I don’t know what KIK is, but the storage on my phone is already so maxed I can barely take a picture. I’m at app capacity. Why ya gotta complicate Tinder, ya FACKING weirdos? Do you think we’re at the point in our relationship where I’m going to download an app for you? 

(K, I let one guy add me on Snapchat. When I finally saw the face behind the dick pic, I was like, “maybe I’ll just stick to the dick pic…”)

Now back to my date du jour- or date du semaine, as it may be. He has one of those names that always belongs to a hot dude. You probably have a name like that in your catalogue of names too. Like “Brett.” That’s a name that usually belongs to a hot dude, right? Does anybody know any hideous Brett’s? Probably not. I can’t tell you this guy’s name obvi, but it’s definitely a name that always belongs to a babe. (In my experience.) I know that’s not a lot to go on, but hey- I like astrology. What do you expect from me? (Pregnant women: If you need help with name choices for your expectant sons, DM me.)

He breaks the ice by giving me a true Guelph native compliment:

“You look like ur a real hoot!”

And I’m still into it. Don’t judge me. I’m not good at taking compliments. But I’ll take, “Hoot.”

He’s 29 and lives in Mississauga. I have my match preferences set to within 5 miles, so I don’t know how this happened. (Actually, I do. I am constantly opening Tinder in traffic. Don’t worry. I’m never the driver.) He sells furniture for a living. He used to sell wood. See, he’s totally moving up in the world!

We make plans, though he leaves me in charge of picking the venue. Honestly, as much as I don’t mind picking the spots (cuz I know what’s good), I still like when a man picks. Even if it is a shitty place, I wouldn’t even tell him. I’d just go. Do you know how many times I had the RIGHT to be a backseat driver, but just kept my mouth shut, and let the driver go in the wrong direction? I’m a very flawed human being… 

I pick Bedford Academy, cuz I’m riding my bike, and I don’t want to go too far if I’m drinking. I get there first, which is a relief cuz I don’t want him to see me with my dorky (but VERY necessary) helmet on. Plus, I’m riding with a dress on. Who knows what you can see… 

I stand by the hostess stand, and text him. While I want to sit on the patio, there is a psychotic wind blowing, cuz a storm is coming. He messages me back.

Are you wearing bright pink shoes?

Well, I don’t think they’re pink, but you know dudes and colour blindness. I see him walking towards me, in a red-checkered shirt. I get it, boys. Plaid is for winter, checkers are for summer. We say hello, and hug. He makes the executive decision to sit on the patio. We sit down and…

It’s awkward. All the fun and sassy texting we did last night is GONE. I take a week off and I’m already rusty. FACK! I order a Tankhouse, and open the menu.

Me: I’m starving. I just left the gym an hour ago.

Him: Ohhh, they have a French Onion soup. I love me some French Onion Soup.

Me: Are you gonna get one as an app?

Him: I’ll probably just have that.

Me (in my brain, but not out loud): You can’t have soup for dinner! You’re not in a highchair.

Me (back to out loud): Oh, did you already eat?

Him: Nope. But I have food at home.

So does everybody above the poverty line. That doesn’t mean we don’t order dinner at dinner-time in a restaurant. (Though possibly with thoughts of the expiring food in our fridges in the back of our brain.)

Him: I might not get anything. But I don’t care what you order. I’m having some.

Ummmm…. Excuse me! You can’t just eat everything I eat. Not unless you have VERY powerful bowels. I have friends whose pet peeve is people touching their food. They would slap this guy’s hand if it came anywhere near even one fry. I decide to postpone ordering food.

Our server comes back with our drinks. We resume exchanging Tinder stories. 

Him: Wanna hear my worst date?

Me: Of course I do!

Him: I met this girl in Guelph. Everything was going great. She was cute, we ended up making out… but at the end of the night, when I pulled out of the lot, I saw her car in the intersection, and I caught her… picking her nose…

Oh for facks sake! Who doesn’t pick their nose? Sometimes it’s boring if there’s nothing up there.

Me: So that’s it? You never called her again? 

Him: Nope. 

See, ladies. If you’re wondering why that guy you liked never called you back, it could be because of something as mundane as this. Now it’s just a countdown until I gross him out. Shouldn’t take long.

We continue to tell stories of less to moderate entertainment value. I’m freezing. The wind is blowing hard now, and my goosebumps are totally obvious. He agrees we should move inside. I love our server. She used to be my favourite bartender at the Duke of Devon. Now she’s working here. Us service industry workers are like soap opera characters, getting killed off one show, then popping up on another. So obviously I’m going to settle my tab with her, before I move inside, to someone else’s section. I’m a classy customer like that.

The bill is $31.02. We haven’t eaten yet, we’ve just had two rounds. He opens his wallet, then reaches in his pocket. There it is on the bill- $16. It’s weird, I don’t remember hearing Velcro when he opened his wallet.

I want to say…

“Uh, we can’t tip ninety-eight cents on a thirty dollar bill…”

But of course I’m ball-less, and just throw in extra money. Maybe he didn’t actually look at the bill, and just thinks beers are five bucks each, like back in Guelph. For any girl hoping for a free dinner from online dating, you should just be grateful he can cover his HALF. 

We take our beers inside, and grab a table. This place really is quite cute. I came here on date #10. At least I think it was #10. I can’t keep track anymore…

I really need to eat. I’ve been trying to eat healthier, but obviously you know what happens next….

“Wanna share nachos?”

“SURE!”

I give him my usual speech regarding nachos, and they arrive even faster than he can confess he loves Taylor Swift too. (His favourite song is 22. So at least he has that going for him.) I watch him eat the nachos. It was like feeding a homeless man. He devoured them. I’m a slow eater, so sharing with this guy is pretty much as close as I’m going to get to a diet this week. On my last date, we couldn’t finish half the plate between the two of us. This guy left one, cheese-less chip on the plate.

“Those were good nachos,”

He says, five minutes after they landed on the table. The server comes over.

“Can we get the bill?”

Oh shit. Is that it? It’s not even 9:00pm yet. I guess I will make it home in time to watch Mistresses. He just uses me for nachos, then bolts? Wow. I do like nachos though, so the pain is minimal.

The bill is $23.85. (We added guac. I’ve come to the conclusion that every good plate of nachos ends up costing $20. They should do for nacho lovers what they do for wing lovers, and start a nacho night!) This time, I see and hear the Velcro wallet. He drops two fives, two quarters and a loonie. Again, I don’t force him to leave more, because maybe he just doesn’t have it. I pick up his change (cuz I can use it as a float tomorrow,) and leave $30.

Him: Can you walk me to the subway station?

Me (in my brain, but not out loud): Sure, son.

Me (back to out loud): Sure.

This is my chance to pull one giant booger out of my nose. Runny or crusty. I’ll take whatever.

Now the French Onion Soup thing makes sense. It’s the cheapest thing on the menu. Not to discredit the French Onion Soup for not being tasty. I don’t want to get hate mail from French Onion Soup lovers. (Though you gotta admit it IS salty, and is pretty much only good until the cheese runs out.) I am not a gold digger. I don’t give a FACK if you have money. I just want to have some good conversation and a butt load of fun. (Probably shouldn’t use the phrase “butt load of fun” when blogging about Tinder dates.) Let us now reference Date #22- You know what made that guy different? He just looked right at me and said,

“I’m poor.”

I love me some straight up honesty. And when you let your pride go like that, what do I do? I buy your shit. You don’t even have to pay half. If my date had just been honest instead of faking how great everything is, he would have more quarters for the TTC right now.

We arrive at the Bedford entrance of St. George Station in minutes.

“Oh, it’s right here? It’s so close! I got off at St. George, then walked along Bloor to the big hotel, and then…”

Wow. This guy is lost. Very, very lost…

Keep Calm and Tinder on,

Walkinsauce

P.S. After I hugged him goodbye, I obviously made a U-turn right back to the Bedford Academy. I needed a nightcap and some writing time. (And a swift photo, obvi.) I’m facking stressed! #49 was a total bust! (And yes, I know I shouldn’t start a sentence with a pound sign.) Next is #50, and there doesn’t seem to be an end in sight. You better be epic, who ever you are…

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  P.S.S. Can you tell my title is an ode to Kesha?

My Tinder Bender Date #48- Busting the Blogger

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HOLY FACK! It’s FINALLY patio season! Toronto is currently losing its mind with excitement. And tragically, my toes are not ready for it. I do paint my toenails in the winter, but not that often, so only the daddy toe has polish left on it right now. (Purple, if you want to visualize.) I wake up and decide to open Tinder. I had to take a breather for a few days. I’m sure you can understand. The thing that makes me the most nervous is if dudes I’ve dated go to my profile, they can see when I was last active. “Active 5 minutes ago.” What if they think I’m their soon to be wife, and I’m still swiping new dudes? EEEEEEEK! Even George Clooney is settling down. But I’m still going. I’m the new Clooney! Woot Woot!

He’s definitely a babe. Great smile, half black, and clearly knows if you want an epic pic of the city, you gotta go to the island. He messages me first, at 10:03am. (This is my normal rising time, people.)

Him: Waffles or pancakes?

Me: Oatmeal, actually. Or just sleeping in til lunch.

(I bet you never pegged me for an Oatmeal eater.)

Him: Or breakfast at lunch. Could I interest you in either?

Holy fack! Right now?! Usually the only thing that gets me out of bed before 11 on the weekends is the thought of breakfast sandwiches no longer being available. But I’m sure if you’ve learned one thing about me by now, it’s that I love spontaneity. He writes me again.

Him: How about a patio in the waterfront

Him: On

I think what happens sometimes is that you get so excited to send your message, you don’t have the patience to proofread. At least he noticed after he sent it. I had big plans to go to the book store and buy Wheat Belly today, but I guess I can just buy that on Amazon when I’m on the can. (Last summer’s capris are NOT fitting. (Laura’s says, “Uhhh… maybe that’s a good thing. Why are you wearing capris anyway?”) But it’s Sunday Fun Day, and it’s SUNNY! I need a patio. I tell him to meet me at Starbucks at Queens Quay and York. Nothing worse than being under caffeinated for a date.

I shower, and finally cut the tag off a summer dress I thought I would have been able to wear a month ago. (Sorry about the passive voice there.) I’m on a new kick right now, where every morning I make a new playlist on my ipod. I get so sick of my music so fast, which is meant as no disrespect to Kesha. So now I make a new daily playlist, where I play all songs that start with the letter “N.” I feel like I need to tell you this, so you know why I rolled up to my date rocking out to “Neutron Dance.”

We’re both wearing turquoise.

“It’s like we coordinated.”

He says, as he hugs me hello. Ahhh…. He seems nice already. I pick up my latte- oh, I purposely ordered a hot one, even though it’s finally warm enough to get iced ones. The iced ones get all wet on the outside of the cup in the heat, and then you get drippies all over yourself.

We head down to the waterfront for a stroll- a long walk on the beach, I suppose. Often advertised, never consummated. I accidentally sprayed myself with tanning oil, instead of normal sunblock, so I’m facking greasy looking. Not fair. I actually showered today. He admits he’s a little worried, cuz he’s not wearing sunscreen.

“I look white right now, but I’ll be black by September. So I won’t be able to go to Clipper games.”

He’s funny! Since he’s half black, does that mean he’s attracted to medium sized white girls? If so, I’m in luck. As we walk along the waterfront, we discuss all the boat cruises happening to our left.

“I don’t know if I’d want to do one of those. I feel like I’d want off after ten minutes. Have you been on one?”

“Yep.”

“Do they sell booze?”

“Oh yah.”

“Well then maybe I would do one.”

We continue with boat cruise stories. I tell him we could always ride the Porter ferry back and forth if we want. Instead we decide to grab a beer at the Lakeshore Local, a bar that’s right beside the outdoor theatre that has the awesome outdoor movie series every summer. They only have two beers on tap, but sometimes that’s a good thing cuz I can never make up my mind anyway. We exchange disaster Tinder dating stories. (I went with #11, without actually referring to it as “#11.) The bathroom is slightly far away though. When I had to go, I was scared it looked like I was running away from my date. When I get back, my date says,

“Wanna share nachos?”

How do they always know the right thing to say? Sadly this place doesn’t sell nachos, so we decide to take another walk. When the bill comes, he grabs it.

“I got this.”

“No, dude. You don’t have to do that. I’ll pay my half. I’m not that kind of Tinder.”

“Did you just refer to yourself as an app?”

Hahaha! We take a stroll along the waterfront again. It’s sooooooo nice out! I ask him to take a picture of me on that little bridge thingy by Amsterdam Brewery.

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“I kind of cut off the top of the CN Tower.”

“That’s okay. People will still know it’s the CN Tower. I don’t think anyone’s gonna confuse it with a Longos.”

We decide to hit up the Watermark. There’s a wait for the patio obvi, but they just take your number and text you when the table’s ready. This makes me giggle, cuz I wouldn’t give my date my phone number this morning, but here I am giving my number to the Watermark. As we walk east along the waterfront, I ask,

“Do you ever look at other people and wonder if they’re on a first date too?”

I point at the couple in front of us.

“I mean, I doubt those people are on a first date. They’re holding hands. Nobody holds hands on a first date.”

“Wanna try it?”

He says. I laugh. Seriously? Okay, why not? My hand goes under, his goes over, right? Also, I explain to him that I don’t like the handshake style. I prefer interlocked fingers. So here we are, walking around holding hands. If anyone saw me, they’d be very confused… It actually feels more foreign than getting naked in front of a dude. That’s what the world has come to, people. 

We get our table at the Watermark, and get ordering nachos. I’m very emphatic about NO olives, extra jalapenos, but I let the sour cream slide. I figure I’m the only weirdo who doesn’t like sour cream, so I just decide I will avoid it. We decide it’s classier if we refer to our nachos as “tapas.”

We discuss our parents. I tell them how paranoid and protective my parents are. When I was a kid, and stayed in hotels, my dad would take all the towels from the bathroom and put them on the corners of the nightstand tables. He thought the corners were too sharp, and was scared my sister and me would accidentally roll off the bed in our sleep and smash our heads open.

“Yeah, I feel like I’ll be a paranoid parent too one day- UH… I mean if I decide to parent…”

Ah. That awkward moment where you accidentally bring up having kids on a first date. He squirms a little. Bahahaha! You really can’t beat me for saying dumb things on a date. I think I went on for five minutes about how I only like to eat refried beans in restaurants, cuz when I buy them for home, I feel like I’m opening a can of cat food. I get a text from my friend, hilarious comic Steve Dylan.

Are you on a Tinder date right now?

I’ve been spotted. I look around, and see him and his date. I take a trip over to his table to say hi.

“My date’s a Cancer, just like you! I knew it within the first hour. He had very strong Cancer vibes.”

“Tell him to get a cat scan.”

Hahaha! Cancers really did get a bum deal with astrological names, eh? K, swift trip to go pee, then back to my table. Now I run into my friend Amy Bell. And then ANOTHER friend sitting right behind my table, who also reads my blog. I’m like “SHHHHHHH everyone. SHHHHHHH… ” (I haven’t told my date about my blog yet.)

We decide to finish up here, since the sun is going down, and it’s getting windy. We head out on another bumble, without any real destination. It’s a great day to be a pedestrian, especially when I can see how frustrated people in their cars look right now. We walk down towards the Corus building, then up Jarvis. (Don’t worry. I’m not taking him to Hooker Harvey’s.) Underneath the Gardner, I hear, 

“Christina!”

I turn around to see another friend. She gives me a big hug, then explains to her boyfriend who I am.

“This is Christina! She’s the one going on 50 first dates and has this awesome blog! She’s on 48- you’re on 48, right?”

“Yup. I’m actually ON 48. Like right now.”

I motion at my date, with a face that says “YIKES.” We wrap up the convo, and continue walking north. I’m totally busted. My date laughs off the blog, and doesn’t seem to mind at all. I think when you tell people you have a blog they think, "Yah, but who actually reads it? Your mom?" Fack, I hope not.

“I actually have a blog too about my world in banking.”

“Yah? What’s this week’s going to be called? “The Yen Went Down On Me?”

We stroll into Betty’s and sure enough another dude says,

“Hey Tinder girl.”

FACK! I gotta rep in this town. Maybe I should try hanging north of Lawrence. We sit down in one of the cute booths, and get ready to join the rest of the bar in cheering on the Habs. We share some wings, as most of my Tinder dates involve eating like a carny. And in shocking news, I once again hear,

“You’re actually the most normal person I’ve met online.”

ME? Normal? Always makes me giggle. But I guess I am the average chick.

K, I have to wrap this up. Long blog, cuz it was a long date. (I totally cut out my busker material.) He walks me to St. Andrew Station and says goodbye with a kiss. And it was one of those kisses where you can feel something pushing up against your waist, like in the song “Too Close” by Next. Kinky. It was a fun date. Oh, and I don’t wanna brag, but I didn’t take one cab.

Keep Calm, and Tinder on,

Walkinsauce

P.S.  I HAVE to take next week off. I’ll blog again two weeks from today. Don’t worry. There are lots of other fun things to do on Tuesdays- like cheap wings at the Crown and Dragon, or drinking with Arthur Simeon. I have this unrealistic dream of the finale of my blog happening at Just For Laughs, but can I really stall until July 22nd? I hope you know I DON’T know what I’m doing. I started this blog thinking it was just going to be ONE week on Tinder. Then everybody was like “Keep going!” So I decided to go on 50 first dates, cuz it has a nice ring to it. I remember by the time I hit 15 I was like “Fack! What did I sign up for?” Now I’m almost done, and I really don’t know how to end it. I really don’t…

My Tinder Bender Date #47- Montreal et le Tindre

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You weren’t expecting a .5 date with the priest, were you? I couldn’t. I’m already going to Hell for stealing Band-Aids from the first aid kit at work. Plus I’m still walking funny from #45.

Bonjour! I’m in Montreal! Here’s my chance to date someone with a hyphenated name. Tres cool. Oh ya, moi Francais c’est tres mal. Sorry. I’m gonna have to judge people’s tag lines off how many exclamation marks they use. I’ll just look for key words, like “biere,” “vin” and “non les STI’s.” 

First off, I’d like to apologize for not knowing more French. Yes, I’m Canadian. Yes, I know who Mitsou is. But I grew up in Vancouver, where the most French you see is when you’re driving through Richmond on the way to the airport, or when you flip over a box of Kraft Dinner. (On a side note: I once busted my roommate in L.A. stealing my eye make-up remover pads. We had the same brand, but I bought mine in Canada, and she bought hers in the US. So when I busted her, I said, “Oh ya!? If these are yours, then why do they have FRENCH labeling on the back side?!” Also, that’s the bravest I’ve ever been in a conflict.) Being in Montreal makes me want to want to tackle the French language again. And what better way to start than Tinder? Or is it Le Tindre here?

I took screen shots of a bunch of taglines that hopefully someone out there can interpret. I have no idea what any of this means:

Faut en profiter, le temps passé tellement vite

Commencons par une bataille dans le Jell-O

Je veux manger ta chatte

I never ended up meeting these peeps. Did I miss out?

I’m trying to keep up with all the French, so I change my tagline to,

My favourite ABBA song is Voulez-Vous.

Pretty smooth, eh? Oh, and I throw in a “Go Habs Go!” I don’t want anyone to think I’m a Leafs fan. I match with a bunch of girls, but they’re all busy doing healthy activities, like Yoga and Muay Thai. No wonder chicks in Montreal are such babes. They know how to take care of themselves. I, of course, am just looking for a drinking buddy to join me at Hurley’s.

I finally secure a date with a super cute dude, who’s my age. I actually ask him out. He’s never been out with someone from Tinder before, so I figure he needs to see how immediate the dates can happen. Since I’m staying in a relatively tourist area, I decide to go to his hood. I love exploring new spots. Of course, when the taxi driver pulls on to the highway, I get a little nervous…. Oops. How far am I going?

I quickly look up the place on Foursquare and am happy to know the place isn’t that far, and also has a $$ rating, so can’t be too shabby. (If it’s too expensive, I’ll just stop at La Belle Province after drinks, and score one of those hot dogs with the coleslaw on top. I love those!)

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I get to Monsieur Smith before my date. I know it looks spooky on the outside, but it’s super dope inside, with really nice staff. It’s on Ontario St. I wonder if he picked that for me? It’s totally my kind of bar. Cool, non-pretentious with just a little dash of hipster. I feel like I’m on Queen West. I take a seat at the bar, and order a pint of Griffon.

My date walks in, shortly after me. He’s cute, wearing glasses, a baseball cap, and a plaid shirt. (From Simon’s, maybe?) I get up to give him a hug, but he kisses me on each cheek instead. (Just the upstairs cheeks, ya pervs.)

He shakes hands with the bartender, which I think is a good sign. I like people with good relationships amongst serving staff. He speaks perfect French to the staff, and perfect English to me. It’s pretty facking impressive. I really need to order a snack, as I’ve just risen from a siesta. You all take siestas on vacations, right? (Wake up, drink. Sleep, get up and drink again.) He recommends the poutine. It has big chunks of smoked bacon on it, so I’m sold. Plus, how do you visit Montreal and not eat poutine? image

“So, what do you do?”

I ask. Even though I hate asking that. It sounds like I’m searching for some sort of social status, which I’m not. I just want to hang out with cool people. Usually on Sunday nights, so I’m just interested to know where you’re showing up to tired tomorrow. 

“I build bars for a living.”

Holy JACKPOT, Batman! You’ve got to be kidding me. Do I know how to swipe right, or what? He builds places for us to DATE, you guys. This is important stuff.

“Cool!”

He asks me if I know what Sortilege is, which obviously, I don’t. He orders us each a shot. It’s delicious.

“What’s in that?”

“It’s a liquor made here in Quebec, with maple syrup.”

Mmmmmmmm. Can-con booze. I can get behind that. We start to talk about Tinder. How can we not? He’s already noticed the 702 notifications on my Tinder app. Just another reason NOT to put your phone on the bar during your dates. (Plus, he’s a Scorpio, so I think I scared the crap out of him.) He tells me he’s chatted with a bunch of girls, he just hasn’t met any yet. Then he tells me this piece of info, that I also got from date #45. Actually, MANY dudes have told me this. Apparently us ladies are getting hacky on Tinder. It seems MANY of us are using Marilyn Monroe quotes in our taglines. For instance,

“Give a girl the right shoes, and she can conquer the world.”

Toms maybe?

“I’m selfish, impatient, and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I’m out of control, and at times hard to handle. But if you can’t handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best.”

I’m JUST giving you the heads up, ladies. All the dudes are noticing this as a trend with chicks on Tinder. I personally think taglines are important. It’s what makes you more than a just a pretty face. (I tried to get my friend to change her tagline to, “No coke dick, please.” She didn’t go for it.)

A weird homeless man walks in, claims it’s his birthday, and starts begging for change. I’m still a little nervous from my Heathrow experience, so I throw my purse in my date’s lap.

“Guard that.”

Oh well. At least he knows I trust him, right? When that weirdo leaves, and another weirdo walks in. This one drops condoms in front of everyone, then asks for money. I gotta say, that makes more sense than the flower people, or those kids that come into my day job selling chocolate bars. The condom sales actually work in a bar. (Plus I scored a banana flavoured one.)

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The bartender gives us a shot of vodka with a pickle as a chaser. Well, a gherkin, if we’re gonna be specific. There are a lot of special things going on in this bar. I dig it.

He shows me pictures of his kid. It’s a really cute move on a date. (If you have a kid. Don’t make one up or anything.) His pride is gleaming. I bet his ex would be happy to know this, if I were the type of writer who named names, showed faces, or even did what Alanis Morissette did in the song, “Unsent.” (Remember that jam? Marcus rocked her world.)

He has to work early in the morning. He has bars to build. I understand. He asks the bartender for our bills, though in French, so I didn’t understand. This is probably the same feeling most girls get at the nail salon. The bartender hands us each a cheque. Oh fack! Was that what he was saying in French? “Separate bills, s’il vous plait.” Obvi I would have paid my half of the bill. But I get it. Some dudes are paranoid girls who online date are just looking for free shit. Not me. I blew forty bucks on cabs here and back. Plus, I don’t mind paying more for extra jalapeños. 

He waits for my cab to arrive before he leaves. It was fun to do something different in Montreal. Not that a traditional trip to Club Super Sex isn’t fun too. When my cab pulls up, I get the same as my greeting, a kiss on each cheek, true to French style. Not a kinky date, but definitely a fun one.

Garde ton calme et continue de le Tindre, 

Walkinsauce.

P.S. I’m headlining the downtown Yuk Yuk’s in Toronto this Friday May 23rd, and Saturday May 24th. Feel free to come, if you live anywhere near Toronto. If you don’t live near TO, congrats. You’re probably enjoying tennis weather.

P.S.S. I’ll be back in Montreal performing at Just For Laughs this summer! This is too facking exciting! I’m gonna pee my pants if I meet Andy Samberg.

My Tinder Bender Date #46- My Date with a Priest

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I’m back in Ottawa. Contain your jealousy. My last date here was pretty tragic. This one’s sure to be… enlightening? Because I found a PRIEST on TINDER! Holy FACK! (Should I be using the word “holy?”) There are priests on Tinder? Priests can date? Priests use the Internet? Does he know if I’ve been bad or good? (Why am I confusing priests with Santa?) I have so many questions… I’m such a moron. I didn’t even notice he was wearing one of those priest bib thingies in his profile pic. I was too distracted by his tagline:

Lover of all things Buffy

A dude Buffy fan? A priest Buffy fan? Deluxe! Plus we have a bunch of friends in common, cuz we’re both Carleton Alumnae. (Wait, am I still alum if I dropped out with one credit left to go?) We message back and forth to pick a good time for a date. He can’t do Saturday obvi, cuz that’s a school night. Oh, and this date comes at the perfect time. After last week’s kinkiness, I know it’s time to be on angelic behaviour. 

I meet him after my gig on Elgin St, at my favourite place in O-Town, The Lieutenant’s Pump. (Lieutenant is not an easy word to spell. I thank auto-correct for that.) When I lived in Ottawa, I spent tons of time here, playing Mega Touch with Jon Dore. Fun Jon Dore Fact: He’s really good at Zip 21. I rarely beat him. Even though I don’t live in Ottawa anymore, I still feel like a regular here, probably cuz Sarah is the best, and hasn’t forgot me:)

I walk in, spot my date and give Father a hug. I probably shouldn’t call my date “Father” eh? He’s wearing a Benedict Cumberbatch shirt, who ever the fack that is. Sarah gets us situated at a perfect back corner. (I don’t know why, but I decided to take a picture of the table.)

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There’s a powerful Habs game going on right now, so we’re lucky to get seating. I wonder how this date will go? Will he inspire me to live a more wholesome life? Or will I debauchurize him? Is that a word? Debaucherize? There’s definitely a red squiggle line underneath it. This reminds me of that episode of Married With Children, where Peg Bundy wins a week with Jim Gymbo. He’s supposed to whip her into perfect health, but instead, she gets him addicted to bon bons and Donahue. Then he dies. Oh fack! I hope I don’t kill the priest with booze! I don’t wanna go to hell. Oh wait, I’m blogging about a date with a priest. I’m DEF going to hell. Probably via Megabus. That bad… 

We start chatting. He’s drinking Guinness. I KNEW that was the Lord’s beer. I just knew it. I have to ask the obvious question, because as you may know by now, I’m not very religious. The only time I step in a church is to vote. (My friends all get married in Vegas.)

“So… you’re allowed to date?”

“Yes, I’m an Anglican priest. We’re not as strict as the Roman Catholic church.”

Ahhhh… I dated a Catholic dude years ago. I had to go to church with him a couple of times. I don’t know if I was supposed to take the creepy chip and wine, but I did anyway. When I finally broke and told his uncle I’m not really Catholic- my family just goes to the United Church sometimes, he said, 

“Oh. United… Just in case there’s a God.”

I didn’t mention we stopped going when I was four, because my parents believed sleeping in on a Sunday was more important than lip-syncing hymns in front of our cousins.

When we finally get over the hurdle of being a priest who dates, we actually land right back in the normal first date stuff. I think in those girly magazines, they suggest not to talk about exes. Well, I’m a total weirdo- I beg for stories of exes. I’m so curious about other people’s relationships. His story is the best:

“My ex dumped me for a dude who works at the Apple Store.”

Bahahahahaha! That’s facking hilarious! Oh, not to be insensitive, or anything. But that chick definitely has a thing for dudes with a God complex, eh? Apple employees, or anybody who can fix my computer/phone are quite the saviors in my books.

Our date continues, and I soon come to learn that this priest is actually cooler than me. He plays guitar, has tattoos (I don’t believe in tattoos- too much commitment,) plus has a nipple ring and a tongue ring! Wouldn’t he be fun to bring home to your parents? You could totally set them up for some pre-judgment, then BAM! He’s a preist! Suck on that, Judger Magoos!

(Look! He has a Buffy tattoo!) 

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 I notice on his phone there’s a hot chick as his screen saver.

“Is that your ex?”

“No, that’s Anna Stohr.”

                                                                                            CUT TO:

 Me, scratching my head. Who’s that?

 “She’s a German Bouldering Champion.”

                                                                                            CUT TO:

Me, Googling “Bouldering.”

Cool crush, bro. I expect Kate Upton or Olivia Wilde/Munn. But this Anna Stohr chick seems like she deserves more crushers. (My new term for “admirers.”)

My carny dinner of deep-fried zucchini sticks arrives. Ottawa is all about deep fried zucchini sticks, where as Toronto is more of a deep-fried pickle city. Either way, I’m sure the Lord will agree I’m a cheap date. My date brought me a priest bib to wear. (Well, at the time I called it a bib, but as it turns out, it’s really called a “dickie.”) I think I pull it off quite nicely. Maybe I’ll wear it on all my dates. (Also, a peace sign seemed like the way to go here.)

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I’m pretty impressed by how many Guinness’ my date can put away. I remember when I worked in a pub here years ago, this group used to make reservations for every Sunday evening under the name “AC/DC,” which stood for “After Church Drinking Club.” Wow. Who would have thought the bible makes you wanna get your drink on?

My friend Michelle walks in the bar, with some peeps from the show. We invite them to sit with us. They too are charmed by how cool my priest date is. Everybody takes a turn trying on the bib/dickie. You gotta admit, everyone looks good in black. And guess what else? He’s gonna mention me in his Sermon on Sunday! Woot Woot! This is a new kind of PR for me, for sure.

At the end of the night, we walk out of the bar onto Elgin St, which at this hour, is pretty much the same thing as Tinder. Drunk people everywhere, eating pizza with gravy on it. (That’s a thing here.) He hugs me good-bye, and then I walk towards my hotel. It was totally a fun night. I mean, I’m not going to church anytime soon, but my date with a priest was not as creepy as I thought it would be. Oh and I did ask him,

"What’s the craziest thing anybody’s ever confessed to you?"

But if you want scoop like that, you gotta date a priest yourself… 

Also, he paid the bill. So I guess we know where that money you put in the basket at church goes… Thanks, y’all!

Keep Calm and Tinder On, 

Walkinsauce

P.S. When I put on FB and Twitter that I was on a date with a priest, you can bet I got a LOT of inappropriate jokes. And while I laughed at all of them, I keep certain stereotypes out of my mind on dates. Every man/woman for his/her self.