My Week on Tinder
My Tinder Bender Date #43.5- The Full Monty


This is one of my favourite pics of the trip, even though I have no business in Harrod’s. I can barely afford Primark. It’s Monday night in London as guess who’s going on a SECOND date? ME! Woot Woot! Bloody Kitty is gone, and I’m ready for some action- well, sort of. I obviously have to hit up Boots (the drug store, not the foot wear) and get rid of some body hair. When your travels don’t involve beaches or pools, it’s really easy to let yourself go. (Or maybe it’s just me.) I can only imagine how disgusting backpacker sex is. I bought some of those DIY waxing strips, but I chickened out using them. Maybe I can just use them as a lint remover instead. (For my clothes. My bing bang doesn’t have lint. I think.) 

I get him to meet me at my favourite little pub in London, called the Queen’s Head. I found it on my last trip here, and I was determined to find it again today. I remember it’s by Sloane Square tube station. After a solid bumble, I finally stumble upon it. And they have free Wi-Fi too. If you’re travelling overseas, you really don’t have to buy data roaming packages. Everywhere has Wi-Fi. I don’t even feel like my Foursquare check-ins are slowing down.

(Notice on my .5 dates, I babble and totally stall getting to the sex part?)

Now I know it’s a well-known fact that “women can get laid whenever they want,” as dudes say. BUT- when we’re anticipating it, we can get very antsy. My biggest fear is that he’ll bail. That would suck. I’m actually really looking forward to sleeping with him. He’s sweet, cute and I feel comfortable around him. That’s all I require for a night of kinkiness. (Oh and a glass of water beside the bed, please.)

I sit in the pub, reading my book, and finally adjust to the mice running by my feet. (The barman informs me the fast one is named Hubert.) He texts me to let me know he’s almost here. That restarts my nerves, hoping he’s as cute as I remember. I Facebook message with my friend Mini, who reminds me to “Fuck him like your never gonna see him again.” Which is good advice, because technically, I’m probably not going to see him again. On the flip side, even if I suck in bed, it doesn’t matter because I’m probably never going to see him again.

He walks in, looking cute in more pinstripes. We slam a fast pint, before abandoning the mice pub, and head for my FAVOURITE restaurant in London, Ciro’s Pizza Pomodoro, in Knightsbridge. (My alternative title for this blog was “Knight Fever.”) We’re going to meet my friends Sarah and Patrick for dinner. As we walk through the posh neighbourhood, I explain how Sarah and I used to wait tables together in Beverly Hills.

“You used to live in California?”

Whenever people ask me that, I always need to clear up the fact that it was NOT a career move. At the time, I was 23 and probably only had a solid 15 minutes of material. I moved there for a guy I met in a nightclub in Las Vegas who convinced me I was his soulmate. Any 23 year-old Sagittarius living in Ottawa would do the same. I quit my stellar job at Boston Pizza, sold my car, subleted my apartment, packed two bags and moved Huntington Beach. The “relationship” lasted two weeks.

But in telling him this story, I realize how crazy I must sound. He probably thinks I’m going to do the same with him! That I’m gonna go back to Toronto, ditch my life and move to London for him. There’s probably no classy way to say,

“Don’t worry! I’m NOT gonna do that with you. I’m just gonna fack you and maybe send a quick SnapChat to my friends back home to confirm I finally scored again.”

We walk in the adorable basement restaurant. It’s plastered with framed pictures of the owner with various celebrities. The band is getting ready to play some smash hits. I introduce my date to my friends, and open the menu fully ready to carbo load. (Tortellini time, baby.) The energy of this place is the best. The table next to us even bought us a round of shots. (Which was shocking cuz they have a 12 year-old with them, and we were talking about Woody Allen during appetizers. Oops. I’m the queen of inappropriate conversations in public. Anyone else?)

Dinner is fun. Stories and wine flow. When my friends leave, my date and I start with the PDA again. There’s really no point in staying out any later. It’s time to go home… #Kinky

We snuggle on the couch, and watch some T.V. Rather virginesque behavior for thirty-somethings. I get really excited when I see my friend Katherine Ryan on a comedy show, and I make him take pictures of me in front of the T.V. 


We FINALLY hit the bedroom… Woot Woot! I never know how many details to write…. Hmm…. Maybe something like, “That Trainspotting-like slim body, but fully loaded between the legs?” Is that too kinky? The night is fun. The sex is great. And here’s the real shocker. After we do it, he says,

“Tell me a story.”

Holy FACK! A dude who wants a girl to talk after sex?! What kind of mythical creature have I discovered? And I gotta be honest. Being put on the spot like that really threw me off. I couldn’t think of anything. Finally I told stories of all the times I’ve volunteered myself off flights for free travel vouchers. One time at JFK I did it four times one day. I was ballin’ with free flights. Okay, this is probably not the most exciting story to share naked in bed with a man, but it’s all I could think of. Don’t judge me.

The next morning, he walks me to the Tube station. I thank him for a great time, and kiss him goodbye before I swipe my Oyster card. You can imagine my walk-of-shame hair is even more crazy without using a hair straightener all week. 

A vacation for a single girl is just not the same unless you have a little fling. If I was a rapper, I could have a song called “I’ve Got Beaus in Different Area Codes.”

Woot Woot! I scored again! I’m now 4-43!

Keep Calm and Tinder On,


P.S. Next week I Tinder in my ancestor’s country- Scotland! Hope I don’t accidentally do a second cousin.

My Tinder Bender Date #43.25- FACKingham Palace

I don’t think I mentioned it last week, but I am the WORST for buying hideous clothes on vacation. Things I will NEVER wear at home. This trip is no exception. I found a man in Portobello Market selling clothes for five pounds. You can find everything in this market. People on their phones, cheap clothes, photo bombers…


This place is within my budget. But then I bought four things, cuz why make this man break a 20, right? But the more I see myself in a full-length mirror, the more I think picking up in this outfit (with my messy, non-hair dried hair) will be nothing short of a miracle.

My date returns from bailing on his other Tinder date, and asks me where I’d like to go for dinner.

“Maybe somewhere Asian? I can’t seem to find any restaurants with hot sauce here. Everybody just keeps offering me mustard.”

We start to walk up to the Angel area. The weather in London is tropical compared to Toronto. It’s a nice night. He points out a bar called The Lexington.

“Let’s go in!”


The bar has high ceilings, long red curtains and Brooklyn Lager on tap. I get it! This is a New York themed bar. Makes sense, since we have a billion English theme pubs in North America. I buy us each a Brooklyn Lager, and we pick a spot near the jukebox to hang out.

“See, we didn’t have to write each other back and forth, “So, what kind of music do you like?” Instead, you can just watch me pick songs and discover I like cheesy pop music. And you guys have even more of it over here. Don’t think I don’t know about The Sugababes and Girls Aloud.”

“Well, I don’t actually mind Girls Aloud…”

(They’re total babes, you guys.) We start bonding. He asks this terribly frightening question.

“So… have you ever Googled someone you met on Tinder, then decided NOT to go on a date with them?”

FACK!!! Nope, but the opposite has happened. Hey, how did I squeak by? He tells me this hilarious story about how he almost went on a date with a girl who went on a reality show about people who get plastic surgery to look like celebrities. Apparently she was the hand crafted, doppelganger of Cheryl Cole. (Who for some reason, never got as big in North America as she did overseas. Maybe she should have gone for Shakira.)

I have to pee. I really don’t want to, cuz I hate to break a solid conversation, but obviously I can’t just go in my pants. While I’m on the can, I decide I’m totally ready to kiss this guy. I’ll even make the first move, if I have to. I thought he was gonna do it at the last place, but then he didn’t. He has been super sweet on our walk though, interlocking arms with me. Way cooler than holding hands. (Plus, less chance of feeling palm sweat.) I pump myself up in the mirror, and head back out to the bar, ready to make my move.

“So, my hands are still wet, cuz I was too impatient to wait for the hand dryer, but I was eager to get back out here because I’ve decided I want to kiss you.”

Maybe not the smoothest line in the book. Plus, now I’m wiping my hands on my pants cuz I don’t want to get the back of his shirt wet. He smiles, and agrees that he wants to kiss me too. (Woot Woot! I got permission! I’m no female rapist!) So there, by the jukebox in the Lexington, PDA style, we kiss. (Sorry if you were eating supper.)

Phew! The ice is officially broken. And it was a good kiss too. We finish our drinks and head back onto the streets to find some dinner. As we walk north (at least I think that’s what direction we’re going in,) he spots a place.

“This hotel has a good restaurant.”

I don’t know why, but the word “hotel” sets off an alarm in my brain. Not because I don’t want to sleep with him, but because I can’t sleep with him. Not tonight, anyways…

“Oh God! I have to be honest with you. I know we met on Tinder and I know it’s sort of a pick-up app, but I can’t sleep with you tonight. I have my bloody kitty, which is what I call my period. I don’t know what you guys call it here, but that’s what I call mine. And it’s Day 1, not Day 3 or 4 where you could just do it, and pray to God it will stop for an hour or so. I’m SOOOOO SORRY.”

Was that TMI? For you? For him? Yikes. I’m sure there are more subtle ways of disclosing this information, like just keeping your mouth shut and simply going home at the end of the night. That way you seem like a “good girl,” when in fact your bing bang is just on it’s monthly recess. But I can’t help but be honest. I’m totally feeling .5 vibes on this date, but I FACKING CAN’T! ARGH! I don’t know when girls in England let a guy know they’re menstruating, but apparently I do it pre-supper, on a busy sidewalk. He’s laughing at my outburst, but also a little confused as to why it happened now.

“Oh, well I got scared when you mentioned a restaurant in a hotel. I thought maybe it was already time to get kinky.”

“Oh no! I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean it like that! The restaurant really is good, and I have a Taste card that’s accepted there.”

Oops. I did jump the gun a bit. That’s like being in Toronto, and a dude going, “Wanna go to the Drake for dinner?” And me replying, “I’m not sleeping with you tonight!” I’m a FACKING IDIOT! (Wait, what’s a Taste Card? Was he just trying to use a coupon on me?)

We start laughing. What else can you do? And he doesn’t seem to be running away, which I bet most guys would do right now. In a weird way, I’m even more comfortable with him now. We’ve had our first kiss, he knows my situation… all we can do now is enjoy the night. He takes me by the arm again, and we continue our search for Sriracha sauce.

“Hey! I think I’ve been there before!”

I say, pointing at Jamie’s Italian. I went there with Ana and Lindsey last time I was in London, though I think a different location.

“You know who Jamie Oliver is, then?”

“Yup. He’s the guy on the Food Network who tells you Brits to back off the potatoes.”

It looks super fun inside, so we decide to stop and eat. There’s a long wait for tables, but we manage to score seats at the bar, which is my favourite place to be anyway. It’s a nice treat, since most of the pubs in England don’t have seats at the bar. The next two hours fly by. I like how everything we talk about is tagged with,

“I’m sure this conversation happens all over the world…”

We bond, touch each other’s knees, and have so much fun, we don’t even complain that our food never came. (Eventually we said something, and they comped it. Thanks, Jamie!) We talk about life, love, and Tinder. (He’s got the same record as me! Minus the threesome, tho.) I can definitely see how this app works well for shy men. Not that he’s shy, but exchanging stories, I realize there are a lot of confident women out there on Tinder. Even though my confidence is a little tangled up with insecurities, I’m totally proud I made the first move tonight.

He calls me “fit.” I guess that means something different in England, but I wish it meant what it does in North America. I’d be more flattered if somebody called me “athletic” over a “babe.” I call him a “babe” though, cuz it seems more natural to say than “fit.”

Exiting the restaurant, (which I did steal a napkin from- I have interesting ways of souvenir shopping,) the area is packed with bar goers. This is a pretty action packed part of town I guess. We stop for another pint, and the PDA is in full effect. (I’m drinking Fosters. Is that cool here?) I kind of want to go home with him… should I? Maybe we can share a cab, and do some more making out, a little less publicly…

“If we share a cab, is Notting Hill on your way home?”

He nearly spits out his beer, with laughter. Clearly I have no idea where I am right now.

“Nope. Not at all.”

Oops. I gotta look at a map again.

“You can sleep at my place if you want. I have a spare bedroom.”

Right. Like I’m gonna sleep in that if I go over…. I do want to sleep over though… I don’t do this all the time… Do guys actually believe us when we say that? You can at least check my blog, and check my stats. Plus, vacation flings are my fave…

A 30 quid cab ride later, we’re back at his place. Holy FACK cabs are expensive here. His place is nice. He offers me some cute plaid pajama pants, and we drink wine on his epic couch. I really gotta save money for a sectional. They’re the best.

The next morning, he offers to take me to breakfast. A total gentleman. Readers of my blog always ask me, “Don’t you ever want to go on a second date?” Today is definitely one of those days I do…

Today is also proof that you can in fact pick up in a $5 outfit.


Keep calm, and Tinder on….


P.S. I had dinner with my friends Sarah and Rhonagh the next night. I told them all about how great our date was, then Rhonagh asked,

“Did you at least give him a blow job?” 

OBVIOUSLY. I’m not twelve. 

My Tinder Bender Date #43- London Calling! My Date with Harry Potter


I almost got robbed within the first half hour of being on British soil. I was waiting in line for a cab at Heathrow, which I thought was the safe thing to do. (I could hear my dad’s voice in my head, “Just take a cab! I’ll pay for it.”) This guy in a suit came up to me, and asked where I was going.

“Notting Hill.”

“Right this way ma’am.”

I start following him, when another man in a bright yellow vest stops me and says,

“Where are you going?!!”

I explain to him that man over there is going to take me. Oh wait… He’s running away now. Yellow vest man is practically shouting at me now.

“He was going to ROB you! Why do you think he’s on the tear right now? Get back in the OFFICIAL cab queue!”

Yup. My so-called driver is now sprinting away into the parking garage. FACK! I’m a facking idiot! Yes, me, in my red Canada hoody and an airplane pillow still pinned around my neck. I couldn’t have looked more vulnerable. This is a wake-up call. I have to be careful in this country. With my belongings AND my Tindering. This is also a note to any thieves out there: You’re good. You clearly know that if you want to rip off North Americans, just offer them an alternative to the long line they’re waiting in.

I finally arrive at my friend Sarah’s flat, and relax in my lovely Notting Hill guest room. In the end, I still got robbed. The cab was 70 facking pounds! (My keyboard doesn’t have the pound symbol. The closest I could find is a small f.) Seventy pounds is about $140 Canadian money. Yikes! So ya, if you think you can beat me in a “waste money off,” please let me know.

But now I’m cozy in bed, with the Wi-Fi password all keyed into my phone, and obviously pumped to open Tinder. I can’t wait to see what’s over here. I’m predicting some gingers, some braces-worthy smiles and some taglines that include the word, “shag.” Speaking of which, I FINALLY decide to change my tagline. “It’s all on myspace,” had to go. (I can’t believe I took this long.) I change it to,

Toronto girl in the U.K. I do slightly less crack than my mayor.

If they don’t know about the Rob Ford scandal, this won’t make much more sense than my old tagline. So I start swiping. I’m being pickier than usual, cuz I don’t want any creepy fake cab drivers/ murderers/ pickpockets etc. I make about ten matches rather swiftly. The leading contender, a cute 37 year-old (I like that age!) dude, whose profile pic doesn’t seem to have a girlfriend/wife abruptly cropped out. He also includes a close-up of his smile (perfect teeth- no stereotypical Brit here.) He messages me first.

Aloha Christina x. How long have you been here for? Enjoying the English crack?

Haha! Just got here tonight, so sadly I’ve only had banana muffins.

Not found a dealer yet? I know the problem. How long are you here for? x

(Everyone here ends their texts with an “x.” Is that code for something? Is it kinky? I don’t know, but I started doing it too, just to fit in.)

Til Wednesday x.

That’s brief! Business or messing about? Got time for a little drink before you head back?

Obviously! I’m hoping to find a drinking buddy for tomorrow.

Well, maybe we can meet. Do you have whatsapp?

Oh yeah. EVERYONE over here uses whatsapp. Make sure to download it before you come here, or if you’re sexting an overseas man. He tells me he has the day off tomorrow, cuz he’s studying for an exam. WOW! He’s 37 and still in school? I know English people sound smart, but I guess they’re more committed to education than I thought. We make plans to meet at 3. I tell him I have dinner plans with a friend later, to give myself an escape route just in case. (But really I have another dude in my Tinder box who wants to take me to see some live music.)

Getting ready for my date, I’m too scared to use my hair dryer. I have the converter for the plug, but the voltage difference always scares me. I swear my hair straightener gets TOO hot overseas. What if I accidentally burn off all my hair? I’m paranoid, so I just decide to let my hair air-dry. It’s a weird combo of curls, waves and frizz. I hope it doesn’t frighten him. At least London is warm right now, unlike Toronto. I can actually leave the house with damp hair and NOT get pneumonia.

He suggests we meet at the Harry Potter store in Kings Cross Station. Since I’m a tourist, he thinks I may like it. I don’t mention that I’ve never seen any Harry Potter movies, or Lord of the Rings, or any sort of fantasy sagas. I have seen Lord of the Flies though. Any similarities?

I have no problems tubing to Kings Cross, but when I get there, I can’t find the Harry Potter store. I circle what I think is still Kings Cross, but it turns out it’s actually Pancreas Station. I ask two men drinking outside a pub where it is and they basically laugh in my face. Fair enough. I probably should have asked the parents with the Harry Potter Store bag hanging off their stroller. Know your crowd, yo.

Luckily the station has free Wi-Fi. I manage to check into The Harry Potter Store on Foursquare 15 minutes before I actually find it. When I spot the entrance of the store, he spots me and walks over. He’s super cute. I give him a hug and say,

“Yay! I’m a facking moron! I totally couldn’t find the place! Sorry!”

“Do you want to go inside?”

“Nah. I’m not gonna lie. I’ve never seen the movie.”

“Well, then. There’s a pub just up there that’s good.”

Perfect! He should have told me to meet at a pub in the first place. I have EXCELLENT bar radar, but my radar for finding children’s shops is completely disabled. As we walk by the store, there’s a bunch of kids waiting to get their pictures taken on a bike that’s crashing into a brick wall. What a bunch of idiots.

We grab a table, and he asks me what I want to drink. At first I consider a white wine spritzer, since that seems like a very British woman’s drink. (Lily Allen orders one in the song “Knock Em Out.”) But then I just decide on a Guinness. I’m glad he goes up to the bar to buy the pints- NOT because I want to score a free drink, but because I’m having guilt issues with the whole “you-don’t-have-to-tip-here thing.” FACK! I STILL feel bad!

As he takes off his jacket, I note that he’s wearing pinstripes. A lot of dudes here wear pinstripes. This must be the plaid of the U.K. We totally hit it off. The conversation is easy peasy. He laughs every time I use the word “dudes.” For some reason, dudes over here are pretty charmed by the usage of that word. I’m killing with NOTHING here! Woot Woot! But I cringe every time he uses the word, "Toilet." Can’t we use the word bathroom? "Toilet" is so visual… When we’re done our drinks, I ask,

“So, should we have another one here? Or shall we go explore?”

He agrees on exploring. He suggests a Spanish bar, Camino around the corner.

After you.

He says, moving his hand to allow me to walk first. But a few steps in, I stop, cuz I have no idea where we’re going. Then he says,

“Oh ya. You don’t know where we’re going. After ME, I guess.”

Haha! Cute:)

As we sit down in the Spanish bar, where I buy our round (I can’t let him think North American women are free riders. I must show him my feminism, in the best way I know possible: buying beer.

I take off my jacket, but hug my purse like a child because I’m so scared of thieves. Everywhere you go here, there are signs saying “Mind your belongings.” I got pickpocketed here years ago. It ain’t no joke, yo.


The bonding starts back up. He gives me an ADORABLE, yet mischievous smile and then says,

“Christina…. You seem like you’ve been on some Tinder dates before…”

BAHAHAHAHAHA! If “some” is British for “dozens,” this guy nailed it. Do I look like a pro? I burst out laughing. I ask him how he could tell.

“Well, most girls ask a billion questions before having the nerve to actually meet up. You’re here with me right now, two drinks in, and you don’t even know what I do.”

He’s right! I don’t. I guess in my more senior Tinder years, I skip all those generic online dating questions- Job? Fave movie? What do you do in your spare time? Blah Blah Blah. I don’t care. The only way to really know if I like you, is to just meet you. I’ve sort of ditched the prelims.

“Okay, fine. Let’s rewind…. So… what do you do?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“Great. Now I don’t like you anymore.”

Kidding, of course! I’m totally charmed. Maybe it’s the pinstripes. Are they capable of putting a chick under a spell? Maybe it’s the way he uses the word “loads” that constantly keeps me giggling. Did I mention I lost my virginity to an English bloke? As a North American bartender seeking tips, the accent is a total turn off. As a girl hoping to smooch a dude in a foreign country, it’s facking irresistible! I decide to give him some more Walkinsauce facts.

“I’m not gonna lie. You’re my 43rd Tinder date. I don’t care if you judge me. I’m only here for a few days anyway. No point lying to you.”

I’m almost hysterically laughing as I make this confession to him. I can’t believe I’m giving numbers here! TMI? He smiles a little.

“Oh no! Am I freaking you out? FACK! Oh no! I shouldn’t have told you that!”

He shakes his head, and laughs.

“No, it’s fine.”

“Why? How many Tinder dates have YOU been on?”

“Probably about the same! But I’m not counting…”

Or blogging. How do you think I keep count? We both burst out laughing. Is this guy my Tinder equivalent? Enjoying the unknown, meeting new people every weekend, and NOT caring about finding traditional relationships? He even says this, which I totally can relate to:

“I felt weird about meeting you on a Friday night. I don’t want you to think I don’t have friends to hang with. I do, I just like the unknown sometimes… I love my friends, but I already know what’s going to happen when I go out with them. I know who’s gonna get drunk the fastest, I know what time the married people will go home at… It’s pretty much the same night, every time. When I go out on a Tinder date, I don’t know what’s going to happen. Even when it’s shit, it’s still interesting.”

Holy FACK! This guy took the words right out of my mouth. He’s soooooo right! I wonder how many chicks he’s scored with? I’ll ask him that after drink #3. (Or 4.)

And so we set off to bar number three. I’m happy to be with him. Not just because he reminds me which way to look when crossing the street, but also because he’s fun. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m new to these surroundings, but every bar he takes me to seems the best. He even gives me some history about Kings Cross Station. Apparently it used to be a hot spot for hookers. See the way I’ve scored a date AND a tour guide? Bonus!

As we sip our third drink, he looks at me and says,

“So… what time do you have to go meet your friend?”

“What friend?”

I’m having so much fun, I totally forgot I had a back up plan, AND I told him about it.

“Ummm… I don’t really have plans. I just said that in case you sucked.”

“Hmmm… well, I made other plans too.”

FACK!!! NO! I don’t want this date to end yet! I don’t want to go out with the guy in the pink shirt making duck face anymore! See what Tinder greed has led me to? Double booking on the best date of my life! For shame!

“Do you mind if I just use my phone and cancel?”

“Not at all! Phew. I was scared you were going to ditch me.”

“No… I’m actually having a great time. I like you. But I won’t lie… My other plans were… another Tinder date.”


“So were MINE!”

All four eyebrows at the table go flying to the top of our skulls. We burst out laughing. What is happening here? Have I found my equal? A Tinder addict with a curiosity about the people of the world? Or do I just look easier than the other girls in his Tinder box? It’s not clear….

All I know is… this date is NOT ending now…

Keep Calm and Tinder on,


P.S. How come there’s not a Reality Bites store, for people who like the movies I do? I’d totally buy a Winona Ryder bobble head.

P.P.S. As per my tagline, don’t worry. (Or do.) EVERYONE here knows about Rob Ford doing crack.

My Tinder Bender Date #42- Laundry Day

I’m a sucker for a good tagline. The shorter the better. His is: 

I like girls with huge muscles and that talk a lot about themselves.

This better be a joke, cuz most of my muscles are buried under nacho fat. I write him first.

You’re tag line is hilarious.

I made a facking typo! I know! And usually if you were going to mess that up, it would be the opposite way, by using “your” when you should use “you’re.” This is what happens when you open Tinder drunk. Still, he doesn’t judge me. He responds.

Figure I should let people know what I like.

I have to call out my typo.

Me: Good call. Also, I grammatically facked up that last text…

Him: Hahaha I saw that! I’m not the biggest grammar nazi in town though.

Me: I am.

As it turns out, we’re neighbours. This works out pretty sweet, cuz I want to meet him on Sunday, but I don’t like to venture off the Dupont Strip on Sundays. That’s what the hipsters are trying to call my neighbourhood, though I don’t think it’s catching on. I’m sure if you were to get in a cab and say, “Take me to the Dupont Strip,” the driver would be totally confused. If you ask me, The Dupont Strip sounds more like a waxing pattern.

I suggest we meet at the Pourhouse around 3pm. I send him a message.

Is 3pm a weird time for a date to start? Maybe. But this way, if you think I’m gross, it’s still early enough for you to Tinder on.

He writes back.

Legit. I suppose the same goes for me. Worse case scenario, we have some beer.

Now THAT is the exact expectation we should all have on first dates. FACK finding the one. Let’s just kick it with some beers. No pressure. (And, yes, he did use the word “legit.”)

Since the Pourhouse is right beside my Laundromat, I decide I’m going to multi-task. That’s right. I may be the first girl ever to do laundry on a Tinder date. At least when it’s all done, he can sneak a peak at my undies and see what a boring ride he’s in for.

I arrive at the bar first and message him that I’ll be the girl sitting by the Megatouch machine next to the bottle of Liquid Tide. (I prefer liquid detergent over the powder. Anyone else?) I go back into my Tinder box to remind myself what he looks like. He’s not smiling in any of his pictures. How come so many dudes don’t smile in pictures? I always smile, even when I’m NOT in front of a camera. Not sure why. Maybe I watched too many game shows growing up.

He walks in and spots me sipping my Guinness. He’s wearing a t-shirt, jeans and a toque. Very Canadianna. He has big blue eyes, and speaks in a slow, surfer dude tone. Maybe he’s into the Wake n’ Bake n’ Date. He orders a Guinness, we cheers, and then… that good ol’ fashioned first date silence happens… I guess I’m the one with the Tinder date experience. I should break the ice.

“Soooooo, what do you do?”

“I work for a toy company.”

Immediately visions of Care Bears and vibrators fill my head. Coincidentally, mine all sleep in the same spot in my room. He asks what I do, and I decide to skip the whole comedian thing. It’s too predictable that he will say, “You’re a comedian? Tell me a joke.” Instead, I just mention my day job.

“I work at Fionn MacCools.”

This will be interesting. Sometimes I wonder if people laugh at things I say because they know I’m a comedian, and expect me to be funny. He doesn’t expect me to be funny. Good thing too, cuz fifteen minutes into this date, it’s clear I’m bombing. Tough crowd. Until finally, I start talking about the gym.

“I like doing cardio, but I suck at the machines. I’m one of those idiots who refuses to figure out how to adjust the seat, so I just sit on one, and if it’s not the right height for me, I just move to another machine.”

This finally makes him chuckle. He offers some help.

“My friend and I do a little outdoor boot camp, if you ever want to come out. Nothing organized, just random stuff around the hood.”

Nice offer, but the thought of outdoor exercise right now frightens me more than bedbugs. Well, maybe not that much, but close. I decide to change up my Guinness, and order a pour man’s pitcher of Tankhouse.

Look how cute it is! A pitcher for one little lady! (If you guys actually believe I’m a “lady.”) We start to discuss beers. Beer over the weather for small talk, people. He mentions that if you can find Busch beer in a bottle, it’s even better than Busch in a can. I tell him that I swear my complexion looks better the morning after drinking Creemore. These will make for very subjective Yelp reviews.

We start to talk about dorky things we collect. For me, it’s fridge magnets.

Check it out, people. Am I sentimental, or a hoarder? It’s not clear. He tells me he collects quarters. Well then, it’s his lucky day! Cuz I’m doing laundry, and guess what a have a WAD of?? QUARTERS!! Yeah! We search through my stash for cool ones, but apparently I only have one of interest to him. It’s okay, though. I’m just going to jam these down the throat of a Laundromat dryer that literally rejects almost every facking coin I give it. (If you wanna see me with rage, catch me at the Laundromat.)

I’m starving. He asks if he can take me for dinner. Since we’re at my local, we’ve already ran into my friends Erica and Craig, and my friend Julien who works at Playa Cabana. We decide to venture over there. Julien takes good care of us, as I attempt to sober up on guacamole. We play a little game of “Which tequilas do you know?” as we look up at the bar. I list off a bunch I’ve tried, then say,

“Oh and I know Avion, cuz that’s the one from Entourage.”

We bond about music, over some very deluxe Margaritas. In a strange turn of events, it turns out he doesn’t like Taylor Swift, but he DOES like Ke$ha! Holy FACK!

After supper, I’m pooped, but agree to go for one more pint back at the Pourhouse. There’s a change over in staff, but Erica and Craig are still there, and are totally aware I’m on a Tinder date. We snap a quick pic while my date’s in the bathroom. Phew! I’m getting sick of being the only one in my blog pics.


The topic of Vegas comes up. I facking LOVE Vegas! There we are, just a couple of Canadians confessing to staying at the Imperial Palace. (Which is now called The Quad.) He even tells me he once stayed at Circus Circus, which is almost a deal breaker, but I’ve stayed at the Riviera, so I can’t say shit. Whenever I meet my American friends in Vegas, they’re always like, “We’re staying at The Wynn,” or, “We’re staying at The Bellagio.” And I’m like, “Oh, I’m staying at The Excalibur.”

I get conned into having one more pint. FACK! I’m toast! This is the last one. I HAVE to go! It’s not late, but the conversation is taking a turn for the darker, as things tend to do when you have that last drink you didn’t really need. All of a sudden we’re talking about what happened to the missing airplane, and I bring up a sexual assault case that’s circulating around the comedy community. NOT light topics for a first date. Also, what do I know about comedy? I’m a WAITRESS!

I throw down money, and get up to leave. He’s still shy enough to just hug me goodbye, but he ends up giving me two hugs, which I find cute. A kiss in front of all of these people I know at the bar would be embarrassing. I’m not into PDA. (Unless it’s on Twitter.) I head home, pass out. Two days later, I’ve still not folded that laundry…

I’m gonna head over to the Pourhouse now, and find out how drunk he got after I left.

Keep Calm and Tinder on,


P.S. Why does auto-correct insist on a capital L with the word “Laundromat?” It does the same thing with “Margarita,” but that I understand.

P.P.S. Off to the U.K! Next Tinder date will be from Notting Hill! Woot Woot! Hugh Grant here I come!

P.P.S.S. This is Julien and Graham, the staff at Playa Cabana. Dudes really do have troubles smiling in pictures, don’t they…  

My Tinder Bender Date #99- The Return of Gretzky


A lot of you have been writing me in the past few months, “What’s happening with Gretzky??!!” I’m not just bringing this up to remind everyone “a lot” is two words. I’m also bringing it up because I know I’ve been ignoring these messages more than my Rogers bills. (I just don’t see the point in paying them, when I’ve BARELY been watching TV lately. I think it would be more fair if they just charged me by the hour.) It’s hard for me to write about him for two reasons:

  1. He got semi-outed recently, and now a lot of people know who he is. This is like everybody knowing Mr. Big’s name by the third season. FACK!
  2. I don’t even really know what’s going on. Whenever any of my friends ask what’s going on with him, I just say, “It’s still the same. We’re still just friends, but sometimes we sleep together. That’s it… I think…?”

We’re both busy people. I haven’t seen him in a few weeks, but tonight we have a date. We’re going to see Arcade Fire. He bought the tickets for me months ago, before we ever got kinky. I’m totally looking forward to seeing him, and to having a reasonable place to wear my pink fedora. I’m not really sure how to prep for the date. I don’t really have time to wax my bing bang, plus I fear that being over-prepared for sex will jinx it. (Doesn’t it always?) So I’ll just do some minor weed whacking, just in case.

I work all day at my bar job. True to Murphy’s Stout Law, I get sat eight tables during my last half hour of work. Obviously I’m not going to transfer them all. I’ll finish my tables, even though I might have a mild anxiety attack waiting for everyone to ask for their bills. Besides, I need the money. Gretzky bought the tickets, so I should pay for dinner and drinks.

We both get to the front door of the pub at the same time. I suggested we meet at the Duke of Devon. It’s also FACKING COLD out again, so I wanted PATH savvy access to the ACC, so we don’t have to go outside. We sit down at a table. The sounds of dozens of conversations all around us over power the music that may or may not be playing.

“Wow, a schizophrenic would go nuts in here. Are these real voices, or the ones in my head?”

He says. I laugh. It’s true! I open up the menu, even though I probably don’t need to. I’m a walking Urban Spoon app. I pretty much have it memorized. (Half price bottles of wine before 4:00pm on weekdays! This is a shout out to my day drinkers, yo. Woot Woot!) I’m debating between the fish & chips and a veggie burger. I decide on the burger, cuz for some creepy reason, I’m craving mustard.

I feel kind of hyper. Or maybe it’s nervous energy. Or maybe it’s the pink fedora. Who knows? We talk about comedy, and the normal stuff, then…

“So, bang any Tinders lately?”

Ugh. It’s a fair question, obvi, but it still stings. I let out an overly defensive,


He’s the last person I’ve slept with. Whether he knows that or not…

“I bet you’ll be pretty excited when this is all over, and you can finally delete the app, eh?”

That’s true. Only nine more dates before I’ve completed my mission of 50 first dates. It’s highly possible I may have OD’ed on dating. Then another bomb drops.

“Listen, I need to bring up something…”

Oh GOD! My whole body flinches. My arms actually go up to cover my face, like I’m trying to protect my face from a paintball.

“Ack! Is it bad? Do we have to talk about anything serious tonight? Can it wait?”

Why am I SUCH a weeny when it comes to talking about anything that might cause me emotion?

“I started seeing someone…”

Right. Of course… This should NOT come as a shock to me. I can’t be upset that he’s seeing someone else, when I’m seeing everyone else. It would be completely unreasonable for me not to be happy for him. And I am happy for him. I really am. And for the record, my eyes may have been a little watery, but they’ve been watery since I left the house this morning. The wind chill nailed me in the face so hard, I’m still trying to recover. Sarah from work can verify that I was complaining about my watery eyes all day. Let’s not get carried away thinking I’m getting emotional.

“I just wanted to let you know, cuz you’ll probably see her texting me all night, so…”

Well, texting other chicks has been a running theme of my recent dates. That I’m used to.

“How long have you guys been seeing each other?”

“A couple of weeks. I just really don’t want to screw this one up.”

Oh God! I hope he doesn’t think he screwed this up! He didn’t. If anyone screwed up, it was me. I slept with him, then basically said, “Neat! Only 18 more dudes to go!” I’m a facking idiot. The timeline of his new romance totally makes sense, though. He always retweets my blog every week, but the last two weeks he hasn’t. Oh my God. Is, “You don’t retweet me anymore,” the new “You don’t bring me flowers anymore?” This is what the world has become, folks…

Despite this minor hiccup, we still had a great time. Sex doesn’t have to ruin a friendship. In best-case scenarios, it can actually bring better inside jokes to the table. I think it’s funny how everyone is conditioned to believe I’m destined to “find the one.” The whole point of these 50 dates is to prove how fun being single is. If I actually fell in love, I would be contradicting myself. This is all happening for the best, people. Besides, this isn’t a movie. This is my REAL FACKING LIFE. Or as Gretzky calls it, my “Blogumentary.” I like that one.

If one thing is for sure here, it’s that too much time lapses between the time a band announces they’re coming to town, and the night you actually see them. So much can happen in this time. When Gretzky bought the tickets, we were just friends. Then we were kinksters. Then, back to being friends. (Oh, now I’m craving Dave Matthews Band’s, “Say Goodbye.” Coincidentally, I have tickets to that concert too. It’s in June. Luckily, I don’t think my friend Ana and I will sleep together between now and then, so I think we’re okay.) If only bands could announce their touring schedule week by week, like my schedule at work. It would be so easy to decide who to go with. Don’t these bands know half their fans have troubles staying in committed relationships? Damn you, Arcade Fire! My friend Graham Chittenden has a great joke about relationships that go on too long because of pending concert tickets. In case you’re bummed out at the outcome of the Gretzky saga, watch this. It’ll make you laugh. (It’s a few jokes in. I have no idea how to do time codes on these sorts of things. Don’t judge me…)

Basically what I’m trying to tell you all is… Gretzky got traded.

Keep calm and Tinder on,


P.S. In ten days, I’m off to the U.K. for the Glasgow Comedy Festival. I’m excited for some overseas Tindering. Get ready…

My Tinder Bender Date #41- Stop! It’s Hammer Time!


It’s International Women’s Day! And what better way to spend it than opening Tinder in Hamilton, Ontario. “The Hammer,” as they call it. (In case you’re not from around here, and thought perchance I scored a date with M.C. Hammer.) A nice, blue-collar town, so I expect to find a nice blue-collar guy. (I’m getting a Bud drinker. I just know it.)

It’s Saturday afternoon. I’m working with my buddies Kyle Radke and Dave Hemstad. As they play Mario Kart all day, I play Tinder. I show the boys the pickins’ and get their approval on my swipe right choices. At one point Dave tweets:

I’m watching @walkinsauce flip through her Tinder Box. It’s like watching Mariano Rivera warm up in the bullpen.

Let’s not kid ourselves. I obviously do not get that reference, but I’m sure guys do. Within an hour and about 52% of my phone battery, I line up a date. He’s not as “Blue-collary” as I expected. He looks more like one of those dudes who spends Sunday afternoons in the summer at the Docks. (A true 905-er.) In his main profile pic, he also looks like he’s giving the head push* to a girl. He breaks the ice first.

Hi Christina, I love your hat!

I’m wearing my pink fedora in my profile picture. That’s right, folks. I have a fedora lover on my hands. Wish me luck.


He’s asks me if I’m up the mountain or down the mountain. This is normal Hamiltonian talk, but honestly, I have no idea where I am. The same way I have no idea what people are talking about when they mention the “Jolly Cut.” Could be a short cut to get downtown, could be a kinky coif. I dunno.

We finally decide to meet up. He confirms the date with a:

Roger that.

I use Roger that too! I like it. Sometimes I use Copy that just to change it up. I think this is a side effect of being obsessed with 24. Some of us are still channeling Jack Bauer.

We decide to meet at Kyle’s local, since Kyle’s wife, Dana can drive me there. (The boys are still playing Mario Kart. We can’t disturb them.) (And by “boys” I mean “men in their late 30’s.”) I get to Ye Olde Squire first. The pub is packed with older folk enjoying some live Irish music and fish n’ chips. I sit at the bar and order a Guinness. I know I’ve been on forty dates, but I still get nervous waiting for first eye contact. He walks in, spots me at the bar and walks over.

“Hi, Christina.”

He reaches out and shakes my hand. His demeanor doesn’t seem as smarmy as I expected. (Did I mention the topless photo of him with a surfboard?) He actually seems a little shy. 

He orders a Guinness (Phew!) and we start a discussion on hats. Since I didn’t bring my pink fedora to town, I borrowed Dave’s hat instead. Dave says, “A lot of people get my hat mixed up with a fedora, but it’s actually a trilby. It has a narrower brim than a fedora.” (Whatever, Dave. It’s a fedora.) 

We discuss how we know our mutual friend. As usual, I have to dance around the fact he’s a guy I met at 2Cats once. We discuss our nicknames. His actual name is pretty fancy. Something out of a soap opera for sure. The nickname though… it has the word “dog” in it. Uh Oh. “Dog” might imply “player.” But I swear to God, I am not getting player vibes off this guy. Maybe it’s the bag pipes blaring in the background, but this guy seems too shy to be the Fonz. Maybe the “dog” nick name is equal to me and my friends in high school. We all called each other sluts and hookers, when in fact we were all virgins.

He tells me he’s a Pisces. That’s right, y’all. He brought up astrology before I did! Uh Oh. Once I tell him I’m a Sagittarius, he’s probably going to know we’re better off friends. Oh well. It’s easier this way. I mention that it’s International Women’s Day, and he says,

“Well then. Your next drink is on me.”

Sweet. Another Guinness. He missed me taking the first sips of this one. I get a serious Guinness moustache, which I like cuz it covers up my real moustache. We continue chatting. He tells me he loves comedy. I ask him who his favourites are and he says, 

“Iliza Shlesinger, Anjelah Johnson…”

Holy Fack! He went straight for the chick comics. I’m impressed, dog.

“And George Lopez. I’m from El Salvador. He makes me LAUGH. I tend to like fast comedy.”

Interesting. This guy’s good. We’re both on a bit of a time crunch though. I can clearly see he’s been getting (and responding) to a ton of texts from another girl. I don’t say anything about it though. I don’t want to seem jealous, but I am still wondering if my alpha male date from two weeks ago is right about guys on Tinder. Am I going to have to open every date with, 

“So… are you single?”

We wrap up the date, and he ends it with something I have not yet experienced on Tinder. He KISSES MY HAND! I think I actually blush. I don’t know if I’ve ever been kissed on the hand before. (Probably cuz I always have chipped nail polish on.)

“You were my first Tinder date, and I very much enjoyed myself.”

Ahhhhhhh! Sweeet.

And he was my first Tinder date too.

Well… forty-first…

Keep Calm and Tinder on,


*I’m sure you all know what the “head push” is. It’s when a guy wants you to suck his ding-dong, but instead of politely asking, he just pushes your head in that general direction. If you do that to me, I usually stop half way, then just pick out your belly button lint. Also, is it weird that I really like picking out belly button lint? I really do. The bigger, the better. Am I the only one?


P.S. It’s getting warmer! Look! I don’t even have to do up my jacket. Let’s see how Spring Fever plays out on Tinder…

My Tinder Bender Date #40- Capital Punishment


I’m in Ottawa, our nation’s capital! It’s also home of the city I lost my virginity in. (I think I left it at Boston Pizza, on St. Laurent.) I didn’t actually lose my V-card to a true Ottawatonian, though. I lost it with an exchange student from England while I was going to Carleton University. A great dude I still refer to as the “Cherry Picker.”

But in recent years, my luck with Ottawa dudes has been FACKING hideous. The last guy I had a fling with here, was a guy who bought me a drink after a show. Seemed cute enough. We ended up hanging out the next night. He bought me wine, and I stole his McDonalds coupons. (I’ve got sweet moves.) Nothing kinky happened, but when I went home to Toronto, we started texting all the time. I started to like him. So weeks later, I went back to Ottawa, to seal the deal, if you know what I mean… We ended up doing it on the couch, while he watched The Bacherlorette. (He was obsessed with Emily.) After the sex, he got up, went to the kitchen, microwaved DAY OLD poutine, ate it in front of me, and said,

“Sorry there’s not enough for you.”

EWWWW! Who eats day old poutine? Who SAVES any sort of left over poutine? What a moron. So I facked him one more time, then bolted. (Don’t judge me. I drove five hours for this.)

I also had a boyfriend from Ottawa six years ago. He came to visit me in Toronto and apparently got the city mixed up with an alcohol factory. While I was trying to sleep one night, and he was on one of his 24/7 benders, my roommate had to call the cops on him. He almost burned down our apartment after trying to light a cigarette off our stove. The relationship inevitably ended with a restraining order. If you’ve ever had that argument over whether it’s harder to be the “dumper” or the “dumpee,” I’ll tell you right now: The easiest break up is when the cops do it for you. It’s a no brainer. I wonder if he ever online stalks me. If he does, “HIEEEEEEEE!”

And you wonder why I love being single…

So I should definitely proceed with caution here in O-Town this weekend. Of course, the first thing I do when I get to town is track down a Taco Salad and immediately open Tinder. Within ten minutes, I’ve got eight dudes in my box. (Tinder box, ya pervs.) I gotta say, the messages start flying in at an insane rate. I’m gathering not a lot of chicks are on Tinder here. Or maybe there’s an uneven ratio of guys to girls here. Is Ottawa the new Alaska? It’s FACKING cold enough to be.


Het Christina. You’re my first match!! How are you?

Would you want to meet for a drink or something? Promise imm not douche..

Do you live in Ottawa?

Nothing? Why did ya sign up?

I don’t think I need to tell you, those typos are his, not mine. And why does he lash out at the end, cuz I didn’t immediately respond? Yikes.


Hey there, are you into bdsm?

Whoa, that last message was awfully creepy of me. I promise my next message won’t be creepy.

Wait for it.


I love kittens.

How is a city full of our country’s leading politicians crawling with lunatics? Wait a second…

I decide I can’t respond to any of these dudes, so I write to one who hasn’t written me yet. Maybe playing offense will have a better pay off. We start messaging. He asks me what I do for a living.

That’s privileged information:)

FACK! Shouldn’t have said that. Sounds like I’m a hooker.

Wait! But I’m not a hooker or anything! Great, now I guess I can’t ask what you do…

He responds ten minutes later.

I do masonry.

Is that like bdsm? I should Google that…. OHHHHH… a bricklayer… Last week, I learned the word “crysturbate,” this week, “masonry.” I’m going to be ready for Jeopardy after this Tinder bender.

Later in the evening, he suggests we switch numbers. I tell him I’m scared to give out my number on Tinder. He writes,

Well u can guarantee you I’m not a psycho

Hold up! The wording there… I didn’t read that properly at the time, but now I notice he never said HE could guarantee he’s not a psycho…

After my show, I meet some comics for drinks. He’s messaging to meet up, but the later it gets, the less I feel comfortable meeting him. He asks if I have booze in my hotel room.


A blatant lie. What road comic doesn’t stash an emergency bottle in her room? I finally decide I’m done for the night. Well, not totally. I ditched him for a Big Mac. I send him a message.

I’m toast. I’m here til Sunday. I’m passing out.

He writes back multiple times.


Come on

Don’t bail

Stick to the plan

So I give him an offer that I’m sure every guy is SUPER pumped to get at 1:00am.

Coffee tomorrow?

He still finds a way to be kinky back.

I do have the day off:) I’d re energize you :p

Facking :P thing again….

(Also, SORRY! I can clearly see I’m 900 words in and I haven’t technically met the guy yet. I can facking babble, eh? And this is me writing sober! I swear!)

The next day, I meet him at Bridgehead Coffee, on Elgin St. I get there first, and like most coffee shops in the world, there’s no free table. (This is why I end up writing in bars a lot.) Luckily, a table opens up before he gets there. He walks in as I’m checking in on Foursquare (a must-have app for Tinderellas.) He looks a lot different than his picture. I’m also surprised he’s wearing one of those puffy vests I describe in date #35. It’s so cold in Ottawa, he has to wear three layers under the puffy vest. Why not just try a jacket? I really don’t understand the puffy vest. I just don’t.

He orders something with ice in it. (Maybe he likes being cold.) Well, this is awkward… two sober people, in the middle of the day who have never met… I could easily hang out with Gretzky sober, but a total stranger? This is stiff stuff, folks. He finally breaks the ice.

“I don’t really like coffee.”

“Oh, sorry! It’s just I can’t drink. I have two shows tonight. Sorry!”

The date stumbles along, with lots of slow nodding, uncomfortable faces and “ummm”’s, like Rob Ford on Jimmy Kimmel last night. I finally ask him more about his job. (Because I’m SO interested in brick layering, obvi.)

“And is this what you always wanted to do?”

Yup. I’m playing the, “Do you have any hopes and dreams?” card. FACK! I can be cheesy, eh? But the anthropologist in me is always curious to discover what people want out of life, and what people are actually doing. Sadly, they usually don’t match up.

“No, I actually went to school for art. I like to sketch people. I always wanted to be one of those people who sit in the courtroom and sketch criminals and rape victims and stuff.”

Say what? Did he just drop an “R” bomb on a first date? Did I almost meet this guy at 1:00am last night? The word freezes my body more than the weather outside. The job he’s describing actually might be an interesting one, but he could have swapped out “rape victims” for “bank robbers” or something, right? Now I feel super creeped out…

The date ends quite soon after that. I don’t even stand up to say goodbye. I give him a hi-five. That was awkward. I go back into my Tinder to look at his photos again. I realize the guy I thought I was meeting was actually the guy beside him. Oops. But to be fair, I misled him too. I made him think I’m the kind of girl who insists on meeting dates at coffee shops. We all know THAT’S not true. But after today, maybe it should be…

Keep calm and Tinder on,


P.S. As much as I knock the puffy vest, I’m one of these idiots who wears gloves with holes in the finger tips so I can still use my phone.


P.P.S. Shaun: If you’re reading this, you were a great Ottawa boyfriend. But technically, you’re from Pembroke.

My Tinder Bender Date #39- One Guy, No Filter

It’s FACKING freezing out again. Just when I think it’s starting to get warmer, I go outside and get blasted with snow and that really powerful wind that makes your eyes water. My Tinder date for tonight has offered to come to my hood. While I’d love to meet at the pub closest to my house, that still seems a little too creepy for a first date, so I pick the third closest pub to my house. That’ll throw him off for sure. (I’m so smart!) 

When he first pops up on my Tinder, I notice we have a very interesting mutual friend… it’s a dude I facked in a broom closet at a fraternity formal back in university. I really hope this doesn’t come up in conversation for two reasons:

  1. I don’t want him to expect broom closet sex tonight. I’m not as easy as I was in university. (Sorry, y’all. You missed the boat.)
  2. Do you know how long it took me to shed the nickname “Walk-in-Closet?” I don’t need it making a comeback.

The good news is, it’s Monday night. I don’t think anybody expects sex on a Monday. It doesn’t feel like a very sexual day of the week. Seems like a nice, safe day to play on Tinder. I’m sure one of these days Huffington Post will come out with an article like, “Ten Reasons People Don’t Have Sex on Mondays.”

We’ve been going back and forth with Tinder messages for a few weeks now. I’ve been super busy with shows. Finally he sends this message:

Aligning with you is like trying to find a unicorn.

Bahahahaha! Unicorn. There’s that word again…

We decide to meet at the Duke of York, on Prince Arthur. He walks in, and immediately two words come to mind: ALPHA MALE. (Don’t worry. I think they like that title.) He’s tall, good build, and is wearing this t-shirt…


I have to say, I like all these first dates I’m going on, cuz I never have to worry if a guy has seen me in a particular outfit before. I compliment him on his shirt. (I know. I’m a weirdo, but I happen to have a giant tacky t-shirt collection myself.)

“Thanks. I was debating wearing another shirt that says, “I’m not a gynecologist, but I’ll take a look.”

Oh my God. That could be the official t-shirt of Tinder. Well, I guess this guy’s not shy. And even though he’s 34, there’s a good chance he still shops at Hot Topic. The good news is, he’s willing to drink on a Monday, and I respect that.

We order some nachos, which always makes me happy. As much as I love being single, you just can’t order nachos alone. (Somebody PLEASE put half orders of nachos on their menu. PLEASE!) I ask him how Tinder is treating him.

“This is my second date. My first one was with a cop, who was about ten years older than me.”

The cops are on Tinder?! Everybody run!! Just kidding. That’s awesome cops are on Tinder. Super kinky. He asks me how many dates I’ve been on. I start to laugh… how do I answer this….

Fack it. I’ll just be honest.

“I’ve been on 38 dates. But I’ve only slept with-“


“What? I’m just being honest!”

“Yes, but there’s being honest, and then there’s overshare. That’s OVERSHARE. If I ask, THEN you tell me.”

All this, coming from a man wearing a Twinkie shirt. Also, the volume at which he speaks, is VERY loud. The Asian woman behind us drinking cranberry juice must be scarred for life. We focus on the nachos for a bit. Then he says,

“I’m not sharing that sour cream with you anymore.”

“That’s okay. I don’t like sour cream. You can have it all.”

Then he makes some inappropriate jokes with the sour cream. I don’t think I need to explain this to you…

I ask him if he’s been on any other dating websites.

“I’m on all of them.”

Get ready for him, ladies. We discuss Tinder a little more. He makes an interesting statement…

“Tinder is NOT like Grindr. There will never be a Grindr for straight people, because men play offense, and women play defense. Gay guys have it made because they all play quarterback.”

I will say this. For as much as he’s terrorizing every accidental eavesdropper in the bar, he’s amusing as hell. He’s totally dominating the conversation. This is one of those dates where I’m pretty sure I’M the shy one. This doesn’t happen every day. 

Now it’s on to the part of the date where he shows me his cat memes. As you know, I’m one of the few single women uninterested in cats. (I like to avoid as many forms of responsibility as possible.) One is a picture of a cat with the caption,


Uh-Oh… Now I have to ask what “crysturbate” means…

“You know. It’s when you cry AND masturbate at the same time.” 

Remember twenty minutes ago, when it was ME being accused of TMI? Now I’m scared to tell him my favourite colour, and he’s sharing in depth jerking off stories. Oh well. Better than talking about the weather, I guess. 

After our conversation pedals through burps, farts and drugs, we finally end up in another first date conversation faux pas- marriage. I cut him off, only cuz I’m excited to get Van Wilder here into a tender spot.

“Ahhhhh… so you DO want to get married?”

“Well, yeah. Eventually. Don’t you?”

“Nope. I get why a lot of women want to. They dream of it as a little girl. It’s a special day for them to be in the spotlight. I think I don’t crave that, because as a stand up comic, I get enough spotlight moments. I don’t need that one.”

“Well, I’m sure this comes as no shock to you, but boys don’t grow up dreaming of their wedding day.”

Bahahaha! You don’t say?

I make the bartender remove the nachos. The same way my date has no filter, I have no control over myself in front of nachos. (Plus there’s no cheese left on these chips anyway.) 

I tell my date that Tinder is my first attempt at online dating.

“I like it. It’s a playground for single people. You can meet guys at parties or bars, but some of them have ways of dancing around the fact they have girlfriends. At least the guys on Tinder are single.”

He bursts out laughing.

“You think everybody online dating is single?”

“For the most part. Especially on Tinder. It’s your face AND your Facebook friends. It would be WAY too easy to be caught.”

“Guys are stupid. They don’t think about getting caught. You said you’ve been on 38 Tinder dates? I guarantee at least ten of them are in relationships.”

Again, the volume of his voice is more overpowering than the Paul Simon song playing. And I totally disagree with this guy. If you’ve been reading from the beginning, do you think any of the guys I’ve dated were in relationships? I sure as hell don’t. Am I being naïve?

He keeps pressing the topic. He’s getting irritably louder and louder, and he’s insistent that half the people online dating are cheaters. And he’s positive at least ten of my former dates are in relationships, which I can’t argue strongly enough against. (Well, maybe the threesome couple, obvi.) I finally try to yell over top of him.

“Are YOU in a relationship?”

(He does live in the beaches. Isn’t that where Torontonians go to breed?)


Hmm… he has absolutely NO examples to back up his argument… yet he’s POSITIVE he’s right about this. All of a sudden, I’m not so sure he’s single anymore. Plus, I’m feeling slightly sick right now, and have no power left to argue anymore…

“Can we have our check, please.”

I ask. He throws down his credit card, and I throw mine down on top.

“Split it.”

It’s now extremely awkward between us. I don’t think there was a winner in that extremely vocal argument, but glancing over his shoulder I can confirm I won the best tipper award.

I hug him goodbye. To be honest, I wouldn’t even call that a bad date. It was just intense. And loud. By the end of the date, every table around us had left. 

Still, you can’t eat nachos alone.

Keep Calm, and Tinder On,


P.S. If he thought that was “overshare,” good thing I didn’t tell him about the broom closet…


My Tinder Bender Date #38- The Man With No Profile Pic

HOLY FAAAAAACK! I’m on the cover of NOW magazine this week! I can’t believe it! I wrote an article for their love and sex issue, in honour of Valentine’s Day. (The editor did adjust all my “FACKING”’s to “fucking”’s, which I completely understand.) Not to sound too cheesy, but I can’t believe a creepy little blog I started turned into this. As my friend Laurie’s mother-in-law would say, “FULL BLESS!” So this week, I decided that since my face is everywhere right now, I’m going on a Tinder date with a guy whose face is nowhere. Not even on his profile.

If you’re on Tinder, I’m sure you’ve come across these people before. Either they straight up have no picture, or they have a random assortment of cartoons and inanimate objects. This particular guy’s profile pic is of Osama Bin Laden and Cookie Monster. Don’t worry guys. Osama is dead, so it can’t really be him. And to be honest, I’d facking LOVE to get a date with Cookie Monster. (Even though I’m more of a cracker girl.)   

I’m very curious to discover why someone wouldn’t put a real photo up on Tinder. I do agree that we put too much focus on appearances when we date, but I do need some sort of a lead as to how to pick you out in a bar. I figure there are three possible reasons people avoid real photos:

  1. They’re insecure. Fack that shit! I don’t look as good as my pics either. I look for people who are smiling in all their photos. I just want to have fun.
  2. They’re married. Yikes.
  3. They’re murderers. Double Yikes.

But since I’ve already swiped right on Osama, I’ll have to decipher if it safe to meet him via messaging. He messages first:

Hello Christina

(Hmmm… no smiley face, no exclamation mark, no :P thingy… I’m scared.)

Why such a creepy profile pic? Haha

Haha tinder took it from my FB profile. I really don’t do a lot of photos, trying to hold onto my soul!

(Oh I know how Tinder works…)

Not easy to do on Tinder.

A few days later, I get a new message from him.

You don’t happen to write to death row inmates…?

FACK NO!! Yikes! This isn’t very reassuring flirting.

Even with weapons of mass destruction, I gotta be careful :-P

Oh look! He did the :P thing! But with a hyphen in the middle, which I don’t usually see. Also, is the FBI on Tinder? They’d probably swipe right on this guy. I ask him if he has plans for Family Day.

Deny Deny Deny…

Hahaha! Now that makes me laugh! (Oh, and in case you don’t know, Family Day is an actual holiday in Ontario. The whole province gets the day off work to play Settlers of Catan.)

I ask him if he wants to meet for a drink on Queen Street. I have a show at the Rivoli at 9:00pm, so I suggest 7:00pm. That should be enough time to murder me.

We meet at the Friar on John St. Most of the staff there know me, so I don’t think they’ll let me get murdered. (Unless he’s a good tipper.)

He’s tall, blonde and wearing a baseball cap. Way better looking than Osama Bin Laden. He reaches out to shake my hand. We take a seat at the bar and I start off the conversation with my usual opener.

“So, how’s your life going?”

It’s a nice general question. You can take it anywhere. He responds with his head down,

“Had a rough couple of months. My dad just died.”

Oh God. I did not expect that. My heart sinks. He looks way too young to go through that. Heavy hitting topic for the first five minutes of a first date, but I understand. It’s on his mind. How could it not be? 

The bartender, Bradford, comes over and looks at me.

“Here comes trouble.”

Haha. I love this guy. He’s the perfect bartender to cheer up my date, in case I can’t do it all on my own. Plus, he makes a Caesar perfectly. He puts the vodka, Tobasco and Worcestershire in the glass before the ice. You’d be surprised how much vodka can accidentally splash out of the glass when you pour it on top of the ice. Trust me. I order a Sam Adams. My date orders an Ice Tea.

“I don’t really drink that much. I have a really low tolerance.”

I, of course, have to admit the truth.

“Well, I have the tolerance of six cows. Not that cows actually drink. But if they did get drunk, I bet it would a great YouTube video.”

I sound like a moron. Maybe we should go back to talking about death. We start to talk about Tinder. He tells me I’m his first Tinder date.

“Well, your profile picture is Osama Bin Laden! What did you expect?

“I’m really pale. I don’t photograph well!”

Haha. We’re Canadian. We’re all facking pale! He’s sweet, though shy obviously. I decide to confess something that will definitely make him feel like less of a dork than me.

“You know what show I’m obsessed with right now? Nashville! It’s soooo good.”

Bradford gives me a funny look. My date laughs.

“I watch more Sci-Fi stuff.” 

Bradford comes over and sides with my date. They go back and forth naming off shows like Dr. Who, Game of Thrones, and a whole bunch of other shows I’ve never heard of. I jump in again.

“I also watch Kelly & Michael in the morning.”

That’s right, boys. You can’t out dork me! And for the record, Nashville is a really good show.

Our conversation is flowing smoothly, and I think he’s starting to feel more comfortable. He asks me where I’m from.

“Vancouver. Well, a suburb of Vancouver. North Delta. If you know it, please don’t call it Surrey.”

“Any family out here, or are they all out west?”

“I’m the only one here. They’re all out west, which is good cuz my parents are total stalkers. It’s good to have some distance. I have my dad saved in my phone under “Daddy Again” cuz he calls so much.”

My date responds solemnly.

“Well, enjoy them while you can…”

Oh my God. I’m such an idiot. The same way I often put my foot in my mouth about having kids in front of men who have them, I just did with still having two healthy, very much alive parents, in front of someone who doesn’t. I’m so embarrassed.

I learn something on every date I go on, and tonight was no different. My parents are awesome, and I shouldn’t take that for granted.

My date tried to pay for my beer. I wouldn’t let him. Instead, I bought his Ice Tea for him. I hug him goodbye and walk towards the Rivoli. As I walk down Queen St, it’s so cold, tears start to stream down my face. I’m not even sure if it’s because of the bitter wind, or that date… It’s surprising how much strangers can effect you.

I’m gonna call my parents today. I haven’t in a while…

(Oh, but I’m still not telling them about this blog.)

Keep calm, and Tinder on,


P.S. If you want to read the article I wrote for NOW, here’s the link.

P.P.S. I’m an idiot, so I’m not sure if I just made a link right there^. Maybe you can copy and paste it? I dunno…

My Tinder Bender Date #36.5 & #37.5- Everything Comes in 3’s


(Note: if you have not read the last blog, GO BACK! This is a continuation from last week. You can’t watch Spy Who Shagged Me before you see Austin Powers.)

WARNING: This blog is KINKY. One might say “EXPLICIT.” Please ask your mom if it’s okay to read it. But don’t ask my mom. Don’t even tell her I’m on the Internet. Thanks. 


As we walk through midtown, I realize how many comedians live in this neighbourhood. Maybe as a side job, I could sell Maps of Stars Homes, like they do in L.A, but for Canadian stars. Of course, they all live in apartments and get paid in beer tickets, so don’t expect their digs to WOW you. (Don’t worry, guys. I won’t include buzz codes.)

I still can’t believe I’m going over to this couple’s place. What will happen? Am I seriously going to have my first ever threesome? Or am I going to chicken out? And if it does happen, can we make a playlist first? I picture it all going down to Lady Gaga’s “Do What U Want.” (Feat. R. Kelly.)

We walk into the apartment. It’s a bachelor, which cuts that “you wanna come join us in the bedroom” line, cuz we’re in the bedroom the second we walk into the apartment. Their couch is their bed. Also, there are no sheets on the bed. She explains, right away. 

“We have to make the bed still. We did laundry today.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to wash the sheets for me!”

(Even in threesomes, I’m super low maintenance.)

I look over and see a bottle of wine with a big yellow bow around it. Beside it, are two empty wine glasses.

 “Cute! But you guys, we need three glasses.”

“Christina, we’re students. We actually only own two glasses…”

That’s fine. I’ll probably need to drink it from a pint glass to calm my nerves any way. At least now I know what to get them for their wedding.

The girl and I sit on the bed. Not really that big of a deal, since it’s pretty much the couch too. Her boyfriend sits on the swivel chair, by the desk. (Speaking of which, I’ve been meaning to buy a swivel chair.) She’s drinking a Radler, which in case you don’t know, is only 2.5% alcohol. She means business. It has a slumber party feel so far. Nothing kinky. Until I break the kinky ice…

“So, do you own a vibrator?”

“No… HE’S my vibrator…J

BAHAHAHAHAHA! That’s what every twenty-something girl says…

I was supposed to go to my friend Monika’s place for a little shindig. It’s at this point that I decide I should send her a text letting her know I’m probably not coming. I walk over to my purse to use my phone. When I’m done, I turn around, and just like that, she’s naked. Holy FACK! I flashback to The Wolf of Wall Street, where the first time Naomi meets Jordan, she suddenly appears naked. Leonardo DiCaprio movies are teaching our youth so much. I didn’t learn that from watching him on Growing Pains.

This would be a very inappropriate time to run. The fact is, she’s beautiful. I’m nervous, but not scared. Still, I can’t help but call out my awkwardness.

“Oh my god. Sorry if I’m awkward! I’m so dorky!”

She giggles.

“How can you be the dorky one? You’re hanging out with a couple of scientists.”

Sweet Jesus. I’m in the Big Bang Theory of threesomes. FACK! Is it my move now? What do I do? If only there was a “Threesome For Dummies” book. All I know, is I feel like I’m playing Spin the Bottle, and the bottle is pointing at me…

I go back and sit on the bed. Her boyfriend is now on it too. He moves in and kisses me. I stop him.

“Wait! Shouldn’t I kiss her first? I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to kiss her first. I think that’s how it works.”

Sure. Now I’m the threesome expert. Ladies first, right? She’s quite shy, and I know she’s not going to make the first move- so I do it. I kiss her. The kiss is fun, and tender, as I guess kisses with girls are. I should probably take some clothes off. Right now she’s naked, and I have all my clothes on. I’m like one of those creepy guys who get’s a girl drunk, but then is stone cold sober. I’m a little anxious about the state of my underwear. As usual, there’s no chance my bra and underwear match, plus these underwear have holes in them. (I think I get too aggressive when ripping panty liners off.) I need to relax a little. I need to peel off some clothes. I’m 35 years old. I’m not going to dry hump my way through a threesome.

The lights are on. That’s freaking me out too. Am I old by saying I prefer them off? We’re not putting together IKEA furniture here. Can’t we at least downgrade to some candlelight? My self-consciousness is through the roof right now. I don’t need 40-watt bulbs illuminating it. I’m shy enough being naked around one person. Imagine multiplying that by two…

“Christina… you’re beautiful. Why are you nervous?”

The way she says it, makes me almost believe it. The only thing standing in between me, and enjoying this sexually liberating night, is me. I decide that this is the moment I’m going to stop focusing on me, and start focusing on her. I start to kiss her boobs. They’re small, but perfect. Oddly enough, I think my own small boobs are a curse. But on her, they look beautiful.

At this point, I only have on my bra and underwear. I (of course) ruin the sensual moment with an outburst of my neurosis.

“My underwear are staying on, okay?! Sorry! My Brazilian wax is growing back so my bing bang looks like a really pale pinecone.”

(There goes your hard-on, male readers… my apologies…) She smiles.

“Mine’s growing back too!”

I hadn’t really looked at it. It’s been visible for a good 15 minutes, but like a naked lady at the gym, I kept looking in different directions. And yes, her wax is growing back, just like mine, but her bing bang looks great anyway. Interesting how everything I’m shy about on my own body, looks totally great on her…

She’s so sweet, and is slowly making me feel more comfortable. I decide I want to go down on her. She’s so sexy and kind. Plus, as a girl who totally loves receiving oral sex, I better be able to dish it out. I have gone down on a woman before, but it’s been a while. Will I be rusty? Is it like riding a bike? Will the one-man audience throw me off? If I can’t get the job done, will he say, “may I cut in?” like a 1960’s dance?

As I’m doing my thing down there, I don’t hear anything. No moans, no “Oh yeah… that feels sooooo good!” FACK! I need a sign. A sign I’m doing alright down here. (Ladies, maybe faking a little bit for the “Go Downer” is in order. Anything. Like “Keep up the good work!) I’m so nervous, I don’t even realize I’m giving her oral sex with my glass of wine still in my left hand. The dude finally says,

“Here, do you want me to put your wine on the table?”

“No! I got this! I’m okay!”

I continue to eat her out, stopping for sips of wine in between like the classiest Real Housewife of all time. She finally claims to “come,” but I can’t tell… I’m not really sure what it would feel like on my side… I really hope she did… (I need something to brag about to my guy friends tomorrow.)

The dude pops back into play. It’s like he’s been on the bench for a while. He pleasantly asks,

“Do you mind if I fuck my girlfriend?”

“No, totally! Of course! Go for it!”

They really are quite polite. They ask permission for every little move. They want to make sure I’m comfortable, even though that might be impossible without a body double or three extra bottles of wine. I wasn’t quite sure what to do while they had sex, so I check Twitter. Just kidding. I kissed her boobs. I feel like I was helping the sex? Hopefully? I could actually hear my high school gym teacher in my head, yelling at me while I played volleyball- “HELP IT! HELP IT!” A threesome is a team sport, yo.

They enjoy each other. It’s pretty hot, to be honest. And I can’t tell if he made her come either, so maybe she’s just a quiet one. Fair enough. Keep the neighbours happy. Your landlord will never raise your rent.

Then it came time for the table to turn in the third direction. It’s time for me to get the offering for… him.

I just can’t. As confident as I might seem, getting totally naked is still something that terrifies me. I have body issues, just like most girls. And when there’s another girl in the bed next to you, it’s easy to compare yourself to her. I think she was far more beautiful than me. Also, I’m obviously paranoid about STD’s. To be fair, there were condoms next to my bottle of wine. But there was another issue. They’re a couple. I know this girl thinks she wants him to F@&# me, but after she sees it, she might not be happy. It still feels slightly weird to be here… should I be?

And last but not least, what about Gretzky? Is he going to judge me? Is this going to ruin any future with him? I thought about him the whole time. (Well, maybe not while I was going down on her. I had to focus!) I feel like I can have hetero intimacy with him, but obviously the girl sex I’m NOT going to get with him. (He’s full blown man. I checked.) Will he understand my curiosity? 

When I say good-bye to my new swinging friends, they gave me a title. They called me a “Unicorn.” They gave me a swift definition, but obviously I had to look it up on Urban Dictionary later:

Unicorn: Colloquial (NO SHIT) for Hot Bi Babe or HBB. A bisexual person, usually though not always female, who is willing to join an existing couple, and not demand anything, or do anything which might cause problems or inconvenience to that couple. A unicorn is somebody who knows they’re magical and isn’t afraid to show it. That girl you can’t catch.

They told me they’re called “Unicorns,” because most people don’t think they exist. I find this term rather flattering. And here’s what I will say to that couple:

“I had a rocky night as a stand up comic. I didn’t bomb, but I didn’t kill the way I would have liked. The confidence of a comedian is constantly up and down. You laughed at everything I said. I came in to your lives feeling weak. You made me feel funny. I came into your bed with insecurities and body issues. You made me feel beautiful. You gave me back the confidence my daily routine often strips me of.”

And for that, I thank them.

Keep Calm, and Tinder on,


P.S. I think I was the victim of a fake orgasm. This might be as close to understanding what it’s like to be a man I ever get…