What If Bridget Jones Never Meets Mark Darcy? Like EVER?

                           My life... tho I am not this picaresque. Or hanging off a tree.

                           My life... tho I am not this picaresque. Or hanging off a tree.

Here’s the thing: I’ve been single for a very long fucking time.

Before I began my POF shenanigans many many first dates ago, I was COMPLETELY girl monk for 7+ years which left me so Arctic tundra inside I wondered if I’d ever recover.

But. Then. I went online and I was seen. It was like emerging from the wings of my own dark theatre of a life into the spotlight and realizing there was a packed house of men waiting. Allll kinds of men. And I thought I was absolutely ready because girl meets bike, remembers all and lives HEA #hello I’d been with my ex for 18 years; I knew from long term relationship and I’d been fanfuckingtastic at it. How hard could it be?

Insert laugh track, set past hearty but a hair before hysterical. Just. One. Hair. Cue montage of more than 80 meet and greets interspersed with a woman in an adorable first date outfit writing her blog/ drinking red wine/ writing/ drinking/ crying/ drinking/ writing/ hugging large boned and resigned cat to breast. Much much more sobbing. And drinking. Close up on wrinkled, well worn garb and fade to black hole…

Note: This is where I direct you to the beginning of Lucy and say: dating and the madness that lays thereof are in the details. Read on, dependent on how you feel about your FB relationship status.

Here’s the thing: I was a smug married for even longer than I’ve been a singleton. I know. WHAT.

In the midst, my relationship concerns were based on the shit that comes past the honeymoon phase…like waaayyyy. Little annoyances like the inability to multitask - you HONESTLY can’t put that in the garbage on your way to the front door, dude? Like for fucking real?? - to mind bogglers like complaining he wasn’t getting enough sex WHILE we were HAVING SEX. Money. Incompatible fight stances. Laziness and complacency. Those fuckers sneak into the best of coupled up lives and you start taking for granted someone whose value should never be unremembered. Those are the minute and mordant realities of a life lived in tandem.

But. There was also all the “I’m with him, obvs” benefits like the short hand, wordless communication and daily intimacy of having someone who knows you from the guts out listen as you ramble, vent, mutter, sing – any thing and everything. Someone to be LMAO IRL x2. Your man in the dark, physically and metaphorically, in fucking fun and overweening irritation. Just yours.

And here’s the final thing: I’ve been alone for so long now that my marriage muscle memory is dead AF. I can list but I can’t feel. I am gone girl.

I now observe couples making eyes and holding hands as if I’m an alien. Basically, it’s like I’m a physical vehicle in which every romantic scenario is viewed from the wrong end of the telescope. I am “one of these things that is not like the others…one of these things just does not belong.” A fucking Martian on Sesame Street. Go, me.

In more worldly terms, I’ve been alone for so long this kind of love has become the 1% of my reality. How fucking wtf is that?

All these years of mostly unrequited dating, trying to recapture or recreate a gestalt I no longer have any ability to reconstruct emotionally…blurgh. The real question then is did dating do this to me or did I do this to dating? Am I the fucking chicken or the gd egg?

I once referred to my blogging being as relevant as “the weather hindering the Hindenburg” that was my POF experience. However, this bone deep inability to comprehend “not dying alone”? I’m thinking it could be the spark that ignited the hydrogen that took that mo fo down, do you know what I mean? Then, no matter the stage of fowl, I’ll be done like dinner.

Though I’ve felt like this for years, I haven’t seen it as a major issue…until now. Now it’s THE issue. Why? Because too long. Waaayyy. It’s deeply entrenched in my psyche and my soul and something’s gotta give, girlies.

Because what if I can’t imagine myself a citizen on Planet Partnered Up like…EVER even as I continue to go on interviews with possible candidates to move there with me? Can these two states – physically online/ emotionally unplugged – continue to co-exist? Or am I going to catch-22 myself into Miss Havisham territory? It’s contemplating this kind of rhetorical question that’s the couple's equivalent of shopping at Ikea. I will implode as well but internally, not at the intersection of the Billy bookcases and the ball room #moreprivateatleast

Usually I'm cognizant of the end of a post when I begin writing it but here I am and I still don’t know what to tell you in conclusion except I have the dubious accomplishment of having repelled many men for a very fucking long time. I am truly Teflon. From outer space.

Yet. I’m still in the station waiting for my train to stop. But. I don’t know if I have the wherewithal anymore to recognize it nor the heart to walk through that door if I did, that’s all. What if there’s just not enough track to get from Planet Me to Planet Us? What if there is no my train?

Bridget Jones 2.0, up to the tits with yet more futile queries, pretty much over and most probably out #sigh

Does anyone else out there wonder this same kind of shit? Anyone? Anyone? I could use a compatriot or to hear from another lonely leaf on the other side of the same fucking tree. Just saying.

xo Lucy

What's Good Looking When It's at Home?

                          Hometown Boy Trademarked #datingkryptonite Just. Sayin.

                          Hometown Boy Trademarked #datingkryptonite Just. Sayin.

I must confess: I’ve dated some very handsome men. According to my gfs, they’re my type – tall, dark and Texas Ranger AF.

Climbing Boy was 6’4” and LOOKED like he scaled mountains barehanded all casual like for the latest North Face catalogue. Christopher could drop my panties with a glance; hanging onto his substantial muscles in bed made me all Swoozie Kurtz #likemeltedbutter And I code named my last guy TDH because looked like Ryan fucking Reynolds, straight up.

I honestly don’t know how I end up with any guy, whether Superman or Clark Kent, which is a whole other can of POF worms. However, while I'm just as willing as the next female human to peruse well created man flesh, dating someone solely because hot isn’t my MO. I care waaayyy too much about convo. And laughing. And honesty and kindness. You know – all the real under our physical facades.

But here’s my question to you: do you believe that it’s EITHER good looking OR good character?

Now think on it because this, to me, is a fascinating area of inquiry. Everyone’s got an opinion; there's none of that Joni Mitchell both sides now shit when it comes to the looks/ character correlation.

I once had a gf tell me definitively that it was absolutely writ in stone and that she always chose the brown paper packaging, presumably as a matter reflective of her own exceptional rectitude. Huh.

Unsurprisingly, most people in my unofficial polls agreed, falling on the “um yeah obvs” side. Hard. Meaning most people feel that the more conventionally handsome or beautiful you are, the less substantial you are most likely within. The assumption is: why would anyone bother developing a moral compass or a well of compassion when they’ve already won the genetics lottery?

The shallower the world, the more prized is the immediately evident bright and shiny. You get the football captain, the better job, the richer man. You’ve got hot girls sidling up 24/7 and Starbucks’ baristas putting hearts under your name – TDH true story. Of COURSE you’re going to be an asshole about it. Who fucking wouldn’t be?

I comprehend the basis of said generalization and of course, I’ve encountered it many times in its undiluted form. I’ve totally been blinded by beautiful while being dismissed with a single “not worthy…next” glance. Who hasn’t? However, I’ve also met some hella handsomes with stellar personalities that give zero fucks about their looks. Like fuck and all. IRL and POF. To tar them all with the “they look…therefore they are not…” brush seems to be a shame as well as needlessly depriving myself of eye candy that’s also emotionally nutritious, you know?

What I’m saying is if some hunk of manhood messages me, thinking I’M hubba hubba, and seems like a cool fucking dude, I’m totally going for it and not hold it against him. Hello.

My point is, while I get the good = bad assumption, it won’t be my default judgement in the dating arena or otherwise. Why? Well, first of all – good looking men are yummy.  Secondly, my ugly duckling syndrome behooves me to never be particularly attached to how my own form is perceived. That means while compliments about my looks are always lovely, to me, inner beauty is where it’s fucking at. To be and to see. So. I choose to be drawn to substance and to a comely heart and soul, EVEN if it’s encased by a physically impressive book cover #yesimahumanitarian

Now, I’m not advocating for y’all throw a pity party for those poor gorgeous guys who are always taken at face value when they’re really the reincarnation of Ghandi or at least Einstein. I’m just saying consider giving them the same fair shake of the online dice as you would if they LOOKED like Ghandi. Or Einstein.

Now, if you were to encounter a glittering in the sun Edward, would you be Bella? For those unversed in Twilight speak, I mean would you run to or from blinding beauty? Disregarding the so done already vampire with a heart of gold plot device, oc.

Thank you as always for sharing. We at Lucy ie my two cats and me would love to know because nosy AF.

xo Lucy. And Bob. And Turtle.

ps I always use free and legal pics or those taken by myself. However, on a whim I looked for a pic of the real Ryan to see if I could find one that looked like “my” Ryan. The one I’m using from someone’s Pinterest board looks pretty much EXACTLY like TDH.

Like holy fucking shit, dude #blurgh

pps Please don't sue me, Ryan Reynolds. I live in Kits!

I Was Random But Now I Am Found

So. I’ve already written about how fucking random the whole construct of online dating is and I still stand by what I said. It’s absolutely whack. I also outed myself as being all over the map pretty much allofthetime because odd. Highly. But. When it comes to the L word, I’m weirding out now because it’s one thing to not be able to trust a man but if I don’t know and can’t trust myself then wtf?

It all bubbled up to my consciousness only recently and suddenly Susan, though I’ve been POFing on and off for fucking YEARS. Blurgh #notthesharpestknife And I know exactly the moment as well...the Sunday that Danny 3.0 intersected with E. and I didn’t call the winner.

If you follow Lucy, you’ll know I wrote three separate times about Danny after literally only four dates. What. And they were long ass posts too, dude, full of “oh Danny sigh” this and “oh Danny sigh” that. I kid you not. I was lightly but definitely invested in what I felt had been the possibility of a good gig, relationship wise, and I couldn’t for the life of me shake it so I had to address it. Repeatedly.

Now, I used to write chronologically but as time passed, I began writing more and more in the present and when I do that, it’s me revealing myself with no hindsight or foregone conclusion. At. Fucking. All. Rather, I’m lifting up the hemline of my heart and psyche and soul and we’re peeking together as it happens.

You’re fine obvs; presumably, that reveal is why you read Lucy in the first place. I, however, am like OMFG at any given time because TMI #hello There used to be that commercial with the egg and the frypan and the voice says: “this is drugs.” Then he cracks the egg and he says: “this is your brain on drugs.” I look inside while I’m in the midst of it and I’m confounded. My egg is COMPLETELY scrambled. What. I make little or no sense – to me! - and yet my emotions are so certain and tangible at the time…or are they?


Here’s what happened: when I met Danny 3.0 midway through this year, I’d already been through Climbing Boy, Fable and fucking Bourbon St. with a few singletons along the way. I’d been unceremoniously dumped, sexually objectified and then actually insulted #gome I was tired as fuck with the whole POF shitshow and men in general. I was not expecting someone as sexy and simpatico as Danny to show up like ever let alone after that run of uncommonly good luck I’d just had. We talked eagerly and effortlessly. He was into meditation Work, he could kiss and he took me to Canadian Tire. Happily. I thought: Great fucking summer, come to mama!

But. Of course. It didn’t work out quite that way. OF COURSE. So I spent the summer alone – really no dating – deep in my Ingmar Bergman interior shot ness – and still so attached to Danny that I was of no use to anyone, least of all myself. But WAS it Danny or was it just my IDEA of him?

Because that’s the crux of this whole matter, isn’t it? Truly, how can one have a genuine attachment for someone after so short an acquaintance, naked or not? And by one oc I mean me, as per usual. And is it BECAUSE naked? Is it really that continuingly facile? Or am I just a canvas for the boy of the day?

I know that the whole BMX thing was a deadly combo of my hormones and his still to be matched prowess under the sheets #notfuckingkiddinghere And I know Spanky was all about sex as well. Both of them, like Danny, took a couple of MONTHS recovery time but they were in my first year when I was a veritable teenager and I cared sooo much about getting laid. Now that I’ve gone through several phases of complete disassociation from all of that carnality, how am I STILL so susceptible to physical chemistry that I’ll mistake it for an emotional connection? Am I THAT fucking arbitrary? Or have I been dating sooo long that I no longer know what is IRL and what’s only POF real?

And why is this important now?

Because E.

Of course.

So. Danny came back, as cats and my men do, in the same week I met E. and as I’d literally been dreaming about since he did his Houdini. I’d had a great first date with E. but it was only a first date. Against Danny! How could anyone win against my dream come true?

Long story short, when I met E. later that night for a drink, he won the day handily. At the worst time in his life which was a fucking mess, E. was not. Rather, he was just so present and enjoyable and alive. On this, the crucial second meet, our chemistry and conversation was again extraordinary and effortless. NO EFFORT #fuckingA So like, when you know, you know, amiright?

But here’s the fucking thing: I thought I knew about Danny! I was still Danny forward on only the fumes of our brief connection months ago like at LUNCH TIME. And yet by bedtime and no good night kiss from E., my heart was full on with another man. Next!

And I’ve been thinking to myself ever since: Self, you’re a terrible horrible shallow example of a human being.

Or am I?

Here’s the thing: mid writing this post, I talked it over with my new gf Lana and she just laughed and said: ME TOO.


Lana said she would be sooo into a guy and then in a heartbeat, he was dead to her and she was totally into Mr. Right in Front of Her #boom And she didn’t consider it to be a lack of character but rather more like a common rite of dating. We’re all out there having intense feels if we’re lucky but if it’s not serious and he’s not the One, we drop it like it’s fucking hot and yeah, onward POF soldiers.

All righty then.

I began this post with trepidation in my heart over my own lack of inherent character and the inability to discern infatuation from love. I’m ending it with enormous gratitude for the gf wisdom that constantly surrounds and supports me, allowing me a mirror untinged by brutal self-criticism. I may be as random as the day is fucking long but I’m still open and trying; I’m still willing to allow a spectrum of emotion within myself whether the man who inspires it is worthy or not. Because finally I understand I’M worth it…and that is fucking huge, dude.

One day I may meet more than the idea of the guy who has glue. Until then, I own my inadvertent haphazardness with pride because, as per usual, whoever I date, there I am – a constant work in progress striving to be whole. Go, me!

How stalwart are you? Do you think you know who you are and who you like and it does NOT change with the fucking weather or are you a “ mad crush mad crush mad crush aaaannndd DONE” kinda girl like I apparently am? Just curious. No judgement here at DWL because me. Hello.

xo Lucy

No Obligation Dating aka I Got Stood Up on Valentine’s Day TWICE

I was recently asked in a comment on my LMDLM part two post:

“Do you find online dating has gotten better over the years or is making society more reticent to commit, due to having so many options?”

And until I ruminated on my reply, I didn’t realize I’d never really tracked it in my copious notes or my like a teenaged girl’s memory for details. However, it took about ten seconds to process and to write:

“It’s gotten a little worse every year...”

But inside I was screaming: OMFG!

It’s that fucking frog in boiling water phenomenon again in which shit happens so gradually that you’re cooked amphibian in the POF pool before you do a single let alone double take. And by you I still mean little ol’ me. Sigh.

Because the frog legs in foie gras truth here at Lucy’s date drawing board is that shitty behavior while still in your computer has gone from garden variety dropping off the messaging grid to actually time and placing it then straight up ghosting you #boom

Apparently these days, if you make a date in the online forest and no one has you in the cross hairs of a sniper gun, is it really a thing, dude?


Before, no matter how irritating and imperfect connecting used to be, when I’d gone through the email chaff of so much blah blah blah and finalized plans re: face to face, it happened. I wasn’t having to put money down on it, Vegas style, and while not old school by any means, neither was it the star in the fucking East either, you know? One presumed that someone’s electronic promissory note was still of value.


Here’s the new fad, kids: fake date making. Like keyboard Play Doh, words are used to form anything desired: a walk, a drink, a something somewhere at some time. It appears to be an actual agreement between two adults until one of them doesn’t honor it because apparently just made up, sparkly rainbow invisible friend shit. Now, if we were all in kindergarten and not on POF that would be understandable but since we’re not fucking five years old, wtf?

Is it because all forms of online communication are now the equivalent of a moral get of jail card? You can be a catfish, a troll, a no show…yippee! Virtual no accountability meet the worst side of everyone’s character then go on and cosy up in the already sketchy dating forum. Good fucking idea!

Fyi, if I’ve replied to your message – and I answer about 1 in 10 – and we set a date – another 10% chance – and then you decide to just bail without the balls to MENTION it, that my friend is your picture in the dictionary under “douchebag”. You’re found lurking in the backwaters of online dating services, waiting to underwhelm with your lack of integrity. You are not cool.

Everyone’s allowed to change their minds, fyi. Np. Just a fucking heads up would be gracious and mannerly is all I’m saying. In my outside voice.

And with this, I segue gracefully into my most recent dating debacle doubled which just happened to be on Valentine’s Day. Because only me.

The first guy was a Londoner who messaged me about WWII, one of the genuine interests I have listed on my profile. We chatted briefly and then he asked if I’d like to meet someday soon. I said sure because that’s my policy, dude. Pull off that internet Bandaid fast – IRL otherwise what’s the point?

We agreed on a drink Wed. night then he got a little nervous about it and asked if we could just do a walk? That was probably my first clue. However, since I’m not Professor fucking Plum in the library with the candlestick I just said sure AGAIN and we rebooked for Sunday. 

A couple of days later, I had a different, very quick, rather random interaction with a handsome “42yo” and it went yada yada yada then he said:

“I'm asking you out on a date - a bold move towards an incredibly attractive woman who is book smart which is making me nervous lol. Sun night and I've got the movie already picked out. Let's meet 5:30 and grab a quick bite first.”

Do you know how rare it is to have a guy be so proactive? #umsexy Though he did look younger than 42, I figured it was a FWP and I’d see soon enough.

So that was that. Easy peasy lemon squeezy because not my first double down day. Hello. I had no premonitions, no foreshadowing of any heart shaped irony in my future nor any back up plans. In hind sight I gotta say yeah… still no. Were they solid chances? What is a “solid chance” on POF? I mean, have you BEEN online dating before or read a single other one of my posts?

Long and silly story short, by noon the Londoner had not contacted me and Mr. Proactive had actually deleted our message thread so I couldn’t find him. Like holy fucking cowardly Lion shit, Batman. Seriously, dude.

It’s a good thing I don’t give a flying Cupid’s fuck about Valentine’s Day or have a sweet tooth otherwise I could have been a chocolated sobbing mess. I must say however, I’m not too fond of getting stood up though you’d think with all my PRACTICE I would be on the fucking podium of “can you believe this shit?” like allofthetime.

Note to self: google that, just in case.

But here’s the point, girlies – what I really and truly want to say in this pathetic topic of a post:

No matter the randomness of the behavior encountered or the disappointment that follows, don’t allow any of it to change how you behave, who you are or who you want to be. Do not choose to treat other people’s feelings like they’re irrelevant or disposable. And by you I DEF also mean me.

In other words: if I bail on you, I won’t be the only one who knows we’re no longer meeting. Because manners.

Note to everyone else: it’s a mo fo shame that actually has to be CLARIFIED...  

Is it easy? Fuck no. It feels like shit to be ghosted at whatever stage obvs. Luckily, I no longer take rejection personally therefore I’m acting not REacting and I’ll continue to make an effort to be considerate of others onscreen and IRL because I can,  regardless of how I'M treated.

That’s me, not becoming a bitter, cynical hag. That’s me striving to be whole, no matter the what or the who of the current craperific computer dating landscape.

So happy belated Valentine’s Day…to that me.

Has this been happening to you online lately? Anyone? Anyone? Please let me know if I’m not alone in this dodgy digital matrix that we’re calling “how to meet your bae” these days #blurgh

xo Lucy

I've Got His Number

Now we all know that our sex number is just a fact that says little or nothing about who we really are but most of us BELIEVE differently because with numbers come competition and judgement, from within and without. With numbers come allegedly quantifiable standards and comparisons. With fucking numbers, we’re suddenly Susan all Olympic athletes in the bedroom and our scores ARE who we are. What.

I’m going to let you in on a not so dirty secret: I didn’t lose my V card until I was twenty one. And a half. And I’m still inordinately sensitive about it because I couldn’t GIVE that fucker away at the time, okay? I told E., who’d lost his at FOURTEEN, and I was hella more embarrassed than he was because he was not. Like at all. Of course. He’d been starring in his own version of Skins, the explicit UK teen drama that “explores adolescent sexuality” while I was old enough to drink in the U.S. With all my clothes on. Alone #notthesameshowdude

I look back and I know without a doubt that I was a hot little number who should have been deflowered waayy before then; if not junior high, then at least the prom, for the love of God. However, I was also incredibly naïve and sheltered for my age. Add an astonishing lack of self-awareness and a negative amount of self-esteem and voila – a virgin for the fucking ages. Go, me.

E. - my own Edith Wharton -  in contrast, is confidence personified in the low key, no arrogance way that great guys are. He knows himself and his place in the world and I guaranfuckingtee you that he was that at fourteen, killing it because he could. 

Fast forward almost three decades: E. is back home and I’m here and we’re texting allofthetime. We talk about our small daily blah blah blah and we talk about big…and his number comes up.

Previously, he’d mentioned it to me in passing but with the caveat that he had only a general idea of its magnitude, I didn’t really want to know and it was something he preferred not to dwell on because chagrined. At the time, I was too busy calculating my own paltry number on my fingers and toes to press the issue. He’d been incredulous at my V card reveal; I was sincerely hoping to recall a few someones in the past years of online dating to not get THAT face again.

See what I mean about numbers? He was hiding his because he felt it was too high. I was Where’s Waldo?ing my memory so mine wouldn’t be seen as too low #fuckingwhack

Then it came up again and this time he said: “If you really want, I could give you an estimate...if it would make you feel better.” I’d been talking about him not wanting to know MY number so this didn’t really make sense but I said: “Sure. Give me a ball park.”

Well, the good news is he’s no Wilt Chamberlain, who said he’d slept with twenty THOUSAND different women in his lifetime. It’s a wonder the man had time to play any b-ball, amiright? But of course, he’s not anywhere close to me either. My approximate number is a Guinness world record for how many people can fit into a BMW mini. A fucking MINI, dude. And that was with all the extra Waldos!

Let me be clear – for E. to give me his number was no small gift. He takes no pride in it. It’s just an irrevocable piece of his past before his eleven year marriage and now it’s once again looming in his present. Does he revert to his former self or has that casual sex ship sailed?  And regardless, his number has to be revealed AGAIN to his next serious relationship. FUCK.

So then E. asked me: What’s your reaction to hearing that? I said: Surprise. But I don’t think or feel differently about you because of it. However, he didn’t believe me, saying that’s only because we’re not in a relationship and he slow walked me up to it.

And yeah, I understand the difference for sure but here’s the thing: though E. and I are “only friends”, at the same time because of my unabated attachment to him, his feelings about his number are important to me. Not the actual number itself because that can’t be changed. It is what it is. I just want to change that he thinks I give a fuck because I don’t.

The rhetorical question then is: what if I were to ever end up naked with E...unlikely as that would be now? Would all of his practice – and knowing him, I’m sure he’d be pretty fucking epic because that’s how he rolls – make me feel too Mini to be myself and just enjoy? Would I truly be too conscious of the invisible IOC committee in the corner with their numbers ready to flash? Or would I actually be in the moment not in my head because with E #justoneonone

I mean how would ANY one of us feel it that position? Kama Sutra or otherwise?

You know what, dude – I have no fucking idea. All I can say is I don’t know the E. who would hit it and quit it on repeat; I just know the guy whom I told: “Not in a serial killer way but I want to cut you open and climb inside and be all safe and cozy.” Because safe and cozy outside with him. Hello.

He’s the guy I sat in the dark talking to for hours and hours about nothing and everything. He’s the guy who just laughed, holding me to him, when I told him my “not a serial killer” confession. He’s the guy who never once complained, even though his heart was breaking. And he’s the guy who spent a dozen dates kissing me good night like a maiden aunt to protect me from himself because I am not a just a number to him.

He’s the guy I that I wanted. Very much.


We're also a missed opportunity. That. Blurgh.

So yeah, I’ve got E.’s number and it’s a lot more fucking people than can fit in my teeny tiny car but as long as when we’re together, it’s just him and me in that safe, cozy yet not murderous way we have, then I’m all good. Even if it's always gonna be clothes on #likeimavirginagainyay

As for anyone else:  let's not share and say we did because at the end of a day and a date, the only number that matters is one - the guy who's your glue.

Allison says it’s men that give a shit about numbers not women and I must say I’ve never had that discussion with any of my gfs. I mean – it’s not a thing we talk about. Is it something you talk about with your homies? And if so, does anyone give a flying fuck? Do tell.

xo Lucy

And to begin at the beginning of my epic dating journey click here.

The Baffling Yet Ultimately Heart Felt Tale of Sean Henry

So. Before I elaborate on my ongoing relationship with Edith, I’m going to wedge in Sean Henry. Though not in chronological order, emotionally this is where I divulge about a sacred contract I never even met who shifted my entire perspective of dating. Permanently.

Pre: Sean Henry, I had no conscious awareness of my true objective…well, besides more than six fucking dates with the same guy #gome Afterward, it was absolutely like opening a window where there was none before. Revelatory is not too strong a term. At. Fucking. All. 

I got my first POF message from Sean Henry a year ago at the same time I was messaging/ actually meeting Climbing Boy, a future post of his own. The irony was that they were both tall, handsome Cancers – the sign of the fucking devil for me aka BMX thank you very much and no, I do not learn from experience – that’s why I write a fucking blog, dude.

“I think I may have found the perfect woman. For me. You are jaw droppingly beautiful, over the top funny and I believe we could be the next big thing.”

Now OC this is such a line but if it’s good looking dude throwing it out there, you’ve gotta at least tug on it, yes? because that’s the very definition of online dating. And though his profile pic was a weird pose with so much Sasquatch beard, he had others and #hewasfit

I replied: “Do tell. You’re very forthcoming with the compliments which is both lovely and suspect. I’m sure you say that to all the girls but I appreciate being on your list.”

He answered: “I’m not some smarmy used car salesman; I’m a genuine guy. I play on POF rarely. I like what I like and your profile just stands out to me far above anyone else’s.” Huh.

When I commented on the fearsomeness of his facial hair; he said: “Beards can be shaved. I have other pics” and he gave me his full name to check out his FB page. To this day, Sean Henry is the only guy to do that. I thought it to be a genuine gesture of his sincerity as well as hella trusting.

We messaged for a whole day and it was really lovely. His words just evoked a very organic response from me; I felt “pre” treasured. He seemed to be a cool guy who knew what he wanted and I appeared to be it. I know that sounds silly but at the same time, my profile is VERY me and I do get the uber particular man who absolutely knows I’m his type. I had no intimation that Sean Henry was any different. Fucking false intimacy.

He took his time to ask me out; I took him to task on it and we made plans for tea the next day. When I got off work, I texted him. He said: "I’m with my grandfather in the hospital right now; I have no idea how long I’ll be.” I was like: “Omigosh, np. Just let me know.” Aaannnddd Sean Henry over and out.


Two weeks later, I wrote:

“I know I’m mourning the IDEA of Sean Henry/ a man who really does think I may be the perfect woman for him. The man who's wildly attractive and who's wildly and only attracted to ME. The man who’s waiting for me to fall madly for him as he falls madly for me. The man who likes my personality above all and thinks I’m unique and very very beautiful. The IDEA of Sean Henry and all the things he wrote to me but obviously didn’t mean is still so very difficult to let go. WHY.

I’m so sad he really was a used car salesman.”

Sean Henry faux wooed me so completely in ONE DAY that I was gutted for like over a month. How is that possible? Because he was that good and I was that ready.

I did everything right, pushing for an immediate meet and he said sooo beyond the right things and was so undaunted and so into the idea of the true me #sigh

I’m finally realizing I’ve never been actually ready or willing to fall in love/ expose all of myself until NOW because ALLTHISFUCKINGTIME the idea of falling in love really never fucking OCCURRED TO ME.”


Without going into detail, my meditation Work had always been the sticking point, the level at which most of my truest self would remain submerged and unknown. That was going to be my human lot and yeah #Igotit I thought it would be enough to love, not BE in love. That.

Then suddenly Susan for just a moment, Sean Henry became the representation of true love made manifest for ME, the one who had given up on it without even realizing.  He dynamited open a door and fuck if it will close again.

“Once I allowed hope in, it will not stop with the fucking song and I’m covered with feathers and it fucking HURTS to be let down AGAIN but I choose to have it anyway #fuckit Nothing more human than hoping for true love to find you and stick like super glue, amiright?”

Now do you see why I have Sean Henry before my second Edith post? Because Edith and I HAVE GLUE and I’m not protecting myself from it, regardless of where or how we end up #scaryboo

If that were the last of from Sean Henry, it would been have a short but clear sacred contract and I would have remembered him as the car salesman that couldn’t. Unfortunately, there’s more than one post script.

ps My gf Myriam encouraged me to text him less than eight weeks later saying: "how are you?" He pretended to NOT KNOW WHO I WAS and when I reminded him he sent me this: ??

pps Months later, Sean Henry MESSAGED ME ON POF and pretended he wasn’t a fucking douche when I texted him. He said: "I’m sorry IF YOU TOOK IT THAT WAY. If you can forgive me, I’d really appreciate it."

I did give him a second chance because Sean Fucking Henry. We made plans to meet the next day AGAIN and THIS time, he accused me of lying on my profile to get out of it. SERIOUSLY. I said to him: “I’m not sure what I did to you that you would contact me twice and TWICE stand me up. Is it some fucking past life thing?” He sent me some stupid crooked mouth face in "reply".

ppps! Not fucking kidding you but still months later, he messaged me AGAIN. “Hey babe. What’s up?" then when I didn't respond: “Hmmmm”. After that I got a “You’re so juicy” and a “Yummm” and THAT’S when I blocked the motherfucker.

How Sean Henry went from a possibly great guy to be with to someone so slimy I couldn’t bear to see his messages anymore is a whole other story and it’s not one I'll be telling because who the fuck knows? Regardless, he’ll always be my gateway to love. Whether it ever comes to me and truly sticks, I have Sean Henry to thank for opening the door that had not even been there before so at least I got that going for me #whichisnice

Have you ever encountered a Sean Henry of your own aka the man who inadvertently helped you to love even though he didn’t love you…or even fucking show up? Please share that shit because could use the company. As per usual...

xo Lucy

He Was My Edith Wharton

                      This is a self portrait of Edith though he does kinda look like an Oppenheimer here...

                      This is a self portrait of Edith though he does kinda look like an Oppenheimer here...

Just to be upfront, Edith knows about Lucy and I’ve allowed him to choose his own moniker. Spoiler: it’s not Edith. It’s Oppenheimer. Fucking OPPENHEIMER. I told him: Could you BE any nerdier? So my compromise is to call him E. For Oppenheimer. Are we all on the same page now?

So. I met E. after a completely single summer, being both Ingmar Bergman interior shot and Danny 3.0 forward. His first message combined with an artful and attractive pic was worth a reply, even though it was about my swearing. Because we know how gd annoying I usually find those fuckers. But. His was different:

“I have a hard time imagining your letting loose a string of obscenities. It would be something to see.”

And so we began.

Our online communication encompassed Russian engineers and their vodka habits, favourite names and how we both nickname; by message three, he had asked me out. It was actually very brave of E. since he was a POF virgin ( as I was twice ) and I to pop his cherry which all came out BEFORE we met. He said: “well, at least it’ll be interesting!” It turned out to be that and a fuck load more. Sigh.

It was a dream meet where a few seconds of awkwardness segued into a common cross stitch homily: strangers are just friends who haven’t yet met. That is if the strangers are on a first date and they’ve conquered the crucial hurdle of chemistry and conversation and by friends they mean two people who would be lovers or more. And E. and I fucking killed it.

I don’t even recall what we talked about besides him saying he’s shy – me too! - and telling a really un PC chicken joke which made me laugh so we’re both horrible people – check. In my notes I said E "was v attractive and lively and funny and interactive" #exactly It was effortless, flowing like that chocolate fountain I rhapsodize about in my first date convo post. I was in my own perfect example #someonetakeapicquick

We went for an hour long walk in my hood after pizza and wine, just not wanting to stop being together. Uber copacetic. Then E. asked me for a second date before he even drove me home because no games. When we said good night, WITHOUT a kiss, he told me:

"This was the nicest day I’ve had in a long time."

How fucking sweet is THAT?

However. E. was 10 years younger than me – which I prefer - and only recently separated with a young child which is as red flag as you can get online or IRL, really. I mean, on paper he was a sucker bet; in person, not so much because what would be the fucking story in that?

E. texted me the next day and the day after that and the day after that…in fact, we still text daily and I was texting him as I began this post. What. But. I’m ahead of myself. Let’s just say E. was very clear from day one that he enjoyed my company, thought I was really cool and wanted to keep hanging out. Which was very cool of E.

I, on the other hand, while sincerely enjoying our first encounter, had no idea E. would become anything significant from just that. Great first dates, while certainly not as plentiful as hand towels at a happy endings massage parlour, are still much more common than great second ones. I was naturally reserved. It’s that whole “hope” for the best/ “plan” for the worst emotional lockdown that’s my POF MO #fingerquoteit

However, we ended up meeting for wine before our scheduled lunch – a date before our date which became our pattern - and it was just as epic but even more. We kept adding to our knowledge of each other; our energy together felt so lovely and past lives connected. 

Now, a couple of things to mention: E doesn’t drink. Or should I say, E didn’t USED to drink until he met me, Miss daily fluid schedule of coffee/ water/ wine. In fact, by the end of date two he’d had three glasses of wine in like four months…all with me. Apparently, he was ripe for my corrupting influence.

The other thing is E. is a prodigy. That’s not his word, it’s mine. He went to university at a very young age and his list of accomplishments and abilities is freakishly long and absolutely absurd in its scope. Honestly, you just don’t want to know #itsridonkulous When he began telling me some of his life story at the pizzeria, it was difficult not feel intimidated, to be honest. I’m exceptionally average in most visible ways. Go, me.

But he never said anything in any kind of way that was ever irritating. At. All. E. was simply sharing, not bragging, never bragging. Because character and manners. By date two, I had to choose between either continuing to feel twinges of inferiority because of my own issues or to just let it all go and allow each of us be our true selves which were already so simpatico. So I let it go. It was very easy actually, especially after I asked him to start saying “my friend” instead. Not even kidding here.

Now here’s the thing: what civilian in their right fucking mind would CHOOSE to date a prodigy? I already often feel like an idiot just navigating my circumspect life with skills that may or may not be adequate to the task at hand at any given time #seriously But if you get one, know his things are what have shaped his life but they are not who HE IS. And if who he is matches perfectly with who you are, then you honor your sacred contract period, irrespective of respective IQs.

So. Again, we went for a walk after our wine and he told me how difficult it was for him to find work even with his visa because he’s not from these parts. He said “he may not even be able to stay here.”

My notes the next day say: “Gad. But. No point in worrying about something that may or may not happen and that may or may not even matter to me tomorrow let alone a hundred tomorrows from now.” Oh those words that are fucking made to be eaten...

Then E. walked me to my door but when I invited him up – completely innocently everybody, all right? Don’t even fucking start – he said no thank you. Then he gave me a hug and a kiss like you’d give your maiden aunt and said: “I apologize for my old fashioned manners and politeness.” And I said: “That’s no problem.” Because what was I GONNA say?

I did feel it was so adorably respectful as he continued to make it obvious he wanted to keep seeing me. What could go wrong with NOT sleeping together too soon?

Hahahaha #fuckingforeshadowing

I had no idea we had shaped a physically affectionate yet completely celibate path that would hold true for a dozen dates in three weeks while our emotional attachment set like Super Glue. Because what.

…to be continued…

Have you ever been Edith Whartoned? How did you feel and how did it go? I’m a little bit dying ( of consumption of course ) because could use the perspective and advice. Feel free to share and/ or put yourself in my place and then try to figure out how the fuck you got there like I still do.

Jesus. I can not make this shit up.

xo Lucy

Cue: Ingmar Bergman Interior Shot

Notes from three years ago:

Suddenly Susan, I’m all like I’ve been given a Novocaine shot to the heart. I just don’t give a rat’s ass...about ANYTHING. Not not dating. STILL. Not being/ becoming a nun. AGAIN. Not even about Spanky. I’m really just numb. Very ho hum pig’s bum. Like, what the fuck?

But you know what? I’m kind of into it. All this feeling this year and now I’m down to the bare bones – enjoying not feeling. Because yeah, it’s the whole Ingmar Bergman interior shot thing and I really appreciate the austere nature of nothingness. Interesting place to be. I know already there’s not much to see or do which is pretty much the point but instead of finding it bleak, I’m finding it restful.

Perhaps I woke up an existentialist and I just haven’t realized it? Hmmm, note to self: research autonomic existentialism. But I don’t think I even have the energy to be cynical and tired of life. Yeah. That. Huh.

Hahahahaha I am fucking RIDONKULOUS.

But here’s the thing, kids: I’m also hella predictable because here I am, once again. I’ve never even seen a Bergman flick and yet I feel within, I am the fucking dating embodiment of his work which, according to Wikipedia, “often dealt with death, illness, faith, betrayal, bleakness and insanity.” GO, ME.

So, after Danny 3.0 popped up and dropped out basically within a couple of weeks, I really just hit a wall and slid down it. Picture a cartoon bubble over me, holding a wine glass oc, saying:


Just fucking over it, dude.

I’m talking about the exhausting attach/ detach, attach/ detach AND repeatedness until you can do the permanent letgo with all the men who do not stick and as always when I say you… All the naked dates with men that I have not loved is wearing, I gotta fucking say. I have LIKED all of them to varying degrees from friendly to lightly but firmly obsessed, but I have not LOVED any one of them. I have not loved or been loved by any one of them.

Sex without love #fuckingoverit

And there’s where the interior of nothing as far as the inner eye can gaze at comes in. Because when I hit this part of the POF cycle, I have to just reset. I have to feel nothing for as long as it takes because feeling ANYTHING, even as I’m sooo much better at not taking shit personally, is doing fuck and all right now for me.

And I can’t care. About anything. Because honest to fucking God, I have to tell you: dating takes sooo much emotional and psychic energy it’s whack. Then you’ve got long term dating, which is a massive undertaking to just keep showing up at every first meet openhearted and trusting, with the ability to give the benefit of the doubt to each and every potential suitor.

Personally, I try to never let anything that’s hurt me to come along on a first date because that wouldn’t be fair nor would showing up wounded do anything but repel someone whole, which is who I’d like to fucking BE, let alone attract. Hello. And that takes conscious effort. That fucking shit takes ENERGY. And it doesn’t matter if I’m meeting Mr. Could Be Right or Mr. Not Even In the Same Fucking Ocean, you know? I show up #samesame then see how it goes from there and if I get any kind of energy in return or it’s another black hole where desires go to die.

But there’s only so many extraterrestrial voids one girl can navigate, amiright? And right now, I’ve hit my limit. Again! And I’m just blank space. Not the Taylor Swift filling it with the next gorgeous mistake kind, oc. Mine’s more if you imagine an endless field of nuns’ white habits instead of a soul. That.

It’s because I’m so over having a physical connection without any accompanying and worthy emotional intimacy. And I get it – it’s been my own doing and I absolutely take responsibility for how I’ve chosen and who I’ve chosen. In my defense though, I’ve honestly done the best I could do with the men who’ve appeared in my inbox and wandered through my life. I’ve honestly tried to foster the genuine connections I’ve made into something more lasting and tangible but yeah no. Well, except for the CL adventures when I didn’t want any commitment and even then, I was looking for a single FWB and again #notsomuch

And now, the sex switch, she is OFF while “coincidentally” I’m not getting any POF messages. Not a one. My twitter feed’s a fucking bore but other than that, I’m pretty much all win because I don’t have the heart right now to put my everything out there and keep getting so little in return. I’d rather be by myself in the dark with my wine and my shows because then all the expectations that are defaulted on and all the wishes left in the dust are fictional. Ftw.

There aren’t any dashed hopes on my couch either because I don’t hope anymore. In fact, I try to never hope because that’s the way to lunch bag letdown town sure as shootin’. And if I’m not happy with the latest Grey’s Anatomy, next week I cue it up again because even when it’s bad it’s so good! And I can NOT fucking say that about dating. When dating goes bad, I go Ingmar or go mad. I have to unplug myself from the inside out and just not give a shit #goodtimes

Will I move out of this shot anytime soon? I don’t know. It’s just part of the whole cycle as I’ve found in my detailed Lucy notes from back in the day so yeah, I should emotionally reboot sometime and come back to the point where dating is just lighthearted FWP fodder, you know? Ish.

Until then, it’s fields of habits, bottles of red and hours of Grey’s, Downton and the Walking Dead for me. When you think of it, it’s suddenly Susan pretty fucking filled within the bleakness that is my interior Bergman pastiche. Huh.

Who needs a working heart or sex switch anyway? It clashes with the death, betrayal and insanity that is my POF/ Ingmar collage #theartistsway

I know this reads very drama much but dude - Ingmar. Anyone else out there fucking done like dinner and all moody black and white within? Let's compare angles and habits #wtf

xo Lucy

Here You Come Again

                                                                                                      You fucking tell it like it is, Dolly.

                                                                                                      You fucking tell it like it is, Dolly.

When I write a post in real time versus years later with the keen eye of hind sight, it’s a whole other like out of body experience, dude. Just saying. Because I’m telling you as it happens and really? Who can make this fucking shit up? #notmeman

So. This is my rumination about the approximate 80% return rate of men I’ve spent any amount of time with as well as the final installation of my Danny 3.0 tryptic. Oh, how apropos.

Here’s the deal: when I wrote about my bounce back ratio with men I’d said no thank you to after the first date to no fucking avail, I didn’t really think about its corollary – the men I’d said yes please to once upon a time and how often they reappear. I’m not sure why. Maybe it just hadn’t really sunk in but now it’s clear that, like the tag line for the latest Avengers sequel, they pretty much all return #what

It was when I was both waiting for Danny to completely leave my consciousness and at the same time to hear from him. I just had a feeling it wasn’t over over. Then I realized exactly why I was being so fucking weird: because THEY COME BACK. Maybe not fully. Maybe not all of them. But.

My first and wtf example? BMfuckingX. If you’ve read any of my posts about him, you’re like WHAT. I’m like I KNOW! Six months after we first met/ four months after I finally accepted that he was GWTW, I get this text in the middle of the night:

“Hey, weirdo.” That was my nickname for him. Oc.

Well, you’ve fucking GOTTA know how gutted that made me feel. Like arrrggghhh. But you know what? I just looked at it and looked at it then I left it. I never replied because why? And honestly, it’s one of my shining POF moments to this day, dude #notkidding

Then there was Daniel who messaged me six weeks after he pulled his disappearing act, saying he missed me. Spanky also messaged me again. More than once. From the "future" post wise, Fable kept trying to boomerang back and Climbing Boy also had his regrets: "I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately. You were the best thing about POF. How are you?"

Which then segued into a brief reconnection. Oc.

I have NOT and WILL not hear from Christopher because, well he’s Christopher - Mr. Damaged/ Serial Monogamous/ Hit It & Gone Guy. Nor will Scotty ever return. Thank God.

Add up all those guys PLUS the ones I tried to get rid of the first time and it’s a fucking wonder I have the time to meet anyone I haven’t actually met already. How fucked up is THAT?

And I have no idea why. I mean, I guess because me but then it never takes because them/ because us. So. That. In other words, all those second chances have only illuminated why they didn't work in the first place.

Finally, with my latest return for deposit guy, I’m at the end of the Danny 3.0 saga that’s been unspooling recently, ripped from the headlines of my dating life. I wrote about how he was my favourite trifecta then how I still wasn’t over over him though I hadn’t once texted him to say that – TTFL. So I waited. And waited. Two months passed and I was like: Okay, just fucking LET IT GO. One week after that, I was at the end of an unsuccessful second date when I saw the notification and his profile name. I went completely still, gobsmacked. Then I had to, out of politeness, spend another hour walking and “talking” with my date while every thirty seconds or so “Danny!” would burst into my brain like a firecracker. Yup. I was fair verklempt.

Wanna try hanging out again one of these days? I don’t wanna bullshit you either – I’m mad busy these days and still doing the going away thing. I was wondering if you’d be into do the super casual thing? Since that was super fun. At least for me.

So. The man in whose absence my heart had gone to mush for was finally back and hitting me up for a FWB sitch. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, be flattered or furious. I DID know I was absolutely going to see him because, regardless of the outcome, I had to see if Danny was actually who I was remembering and if we were still as easy together as that fucking Sunday morning I’d been dreaming about all this time.

It’ll be lovely to see you.

Yes, it’ll be good to see you. We ended so weird.

I didn’t like how it ended, Danny.

My bad.

Danny at my doorstep was instantly normal as in just our fifth date…two+ months later, though I had forgotten how uber sexy he was. Holy wow. But he was still just Danny and there was neither an emotional epiphany nor resolution when I laid eyes on him, just pleasure. After all that time of wanting him sooo badly, I had him again at arms’ length and it felt ordinary. Huh.

We had a casual brunch, catching up; I saved all the hard questions for when we went back to mine. It turns out the reason he bailed was because of the STD scare he had right after date 4 and he freaked. It was DEHYDRATION not my fucking age, dude.

Long story short, we got naked and it was lovely but not in a heart breaking way. At ALL. In fact, even before our q and a, I felt relieved of all my tortuous feelings and after cuddling with Danny, I was left with only warm regard. Sure, he acted like a dick. Sure, it’s not how I imagined he’d come back or how it’d go. But. As far as POF resolutions go, this one was a fucking treat. Literally.

Will I see Danny again? Well, we have another brunch and shag date for this Sunday but since we both agreed I should keep dating, I’m on my way to date 4 in eight days with Oppenheimer who hasn’t even tried to KISS me yet. Eeks.

ps Well, Danny 3.0 went random on me, breaking our second “brunch” date and never contacting me again. Am I sad? Honestly, no. I spent the next three weeks/ twelve dates with Oppenheimer aka Edith aka E. and it was #thebestever Well. Until he went home. To the U.S. of A. But that’s a whole fucking other post. Sigh.

Have you had a Danny aka someone you would theoretically write almost as many posts about as dates you had? hahaha Please share your temporary obsessions here at Date with Little Ol' Me because random and ridiculous #always

xo Lucy

And So I Named Him Spanky

                             Spanky Grant. That was his full ( nick ) name.

                             Spanky Grant. That was his full ( nick ) name.

You know, it’s so funny to I re-read my copious notes from when I was in the very thick of whatever emotional rodeo I was participating in at the time. It’s very clear to me now how much of a teenager I was in POF years then and how much shit mattered to me. My angst and anxiety meter was never off/ often off the fucking charts. #exhausting

And by example, I present Spanky. Lord, I expended a LOT of fucking energy and all of it was completely about me, not him. At. All. Not that he was a bad guy by any means or particularly good; mostly, he was just a mirror. All the characteristics I gave him were the ones I wanted to have in someone who wanted to be with me. All the romance I attached to our connection was based on physical chemistry and alignment which, while nothing to toss aside, neither a Harlequin novel nor a whole IRL relationship does it make. Hello.

So. Spanky was right after Bill Nye the science guy and Ian the Indian; I liked his message right away because it was funny, sharp and literate. “I almost had a birthday reading your mail preferences.” Ha! It’s still one of my favourite lines and accurate – my list of do nots was pretty much everything. A girl’s gotta be careful, amiright?

"Spanky" came from a “I’ll put you over my knee and…” comment,  hence the best worst nickname ever but it didn’t stop him from asking me out for the following week.

Then for some reason, I checked him the next day and he’d put up a new pic. Holy fucking shit. I wish I could show you, dude. Seriously. When I showed Steph at work, she took one look and began laughing hysterically. I’m not even kidding. In person, Spanky was a good looking very gymed personal trainer but that PICTURE – Cary Grant handsome. 

Anyhoo! We met on the seawall for a walk n talk and really hit it off right away. He did say several times though that he was a solitary man and it suited him and when I asked him why he was on POF then, he said he wanted a LOVER. Not a partner. Not a mate.

Did I hear that? Yes. Did I fucking LISTEN? Yeah no. I wasn’t into the “be here now” vibe then, looking at my date as he was; I was into the “I feel him/ he feels me – DONE!” package that comes with its own set of descriptions for our future. Compatible! Happy! Together! POF Barbie with her own Ken doll. Finally!

We ended up at his place and he did this thing where he put his face next to mine and just…breathed. It sounds inane but it was absolutely so sexy that I jumped him right then and there. I know. Like a fucking teenage boy in his father’s Oldsmobile. Boom. Those were the days when I was literally sex starved. Now I’m #sexoverit. Shit fucking happens.

Loooonnnnggg story short, things with Spanky never progressed past a few pseudo sleep overs because he was one of those random, can’t even pin down for epic sex guys who truly was a man cave dweller as he warned me. While we had intense physical mojo and some emotional connection, when I asked him what he thought of me he said: “I try not to. You’re too distracting.” What.

The real story was not how things did or didn’t go with Spanky, it’s how I was a fucking mess because of how I thought I felt about Spanky. Oh. Lord. I. Was. Useless. Just like a moony teenager, ALL I could think about was the next naked date and I just didn’t get why it wasn’t a priority for him as well. I crammed everything into that sex box, pretending everything fit even when it patently did not. His ramblings about politics and conspiracies, his Mr. Universeness, his inability to make plans – let’s have more sex! That’ll make it all make sense!


To be fair, one of the reasons I went so gaga for Spanky in this very basic way was because it was so unusual then for me to have these amazing sexual feelings and desire for someone who felt the same about me. All those months after BMX was a whole lot of not even close to that. In fact, that’s still a fucking ongoing issue. #goodtimes So I went a little hormonally overboard, attaching emotion to what was soley an epic connection of two nether regions. Period.

But. At the time I really and truly thought it was a heart bone connected through the sex bone thing so I sleep walked through two months of hardly any dates, bereft. I wrote him two letters! But only sent one of them which oc was one fucking too many but. And then I finally sent him this text:

I miss you so much, Spanky. Still. I thought I was getting better but apparently not…It is what it is and I get it, I really do. I just hate it. Still. Just forget I sent this please. xo

Right?? Gah!

But he actually REPLIED and we finally had another date – a walk along my beloved Kits promenade where we got caught in a rainstorm and AGAIN he wouldn’t have sex with me. Pattern much?

However on this, our last date, Spanky talked and talked AND talked…a bunch of philosophical and political blah blah blah that I didn’t particularly jibe with or comprehend. Finally the other shoe dropped and I realized we had fuck and all in common. And just like that, the sexual thrall was literally doused in cold water and I was done. Now I know why they recommend cold showers for teenage boyz #justsaying

Spanky wasn’t the first sex driven “relationship” I’d have nor would he be the last but looking back to who I was then and being who I am now makes me feel I’ve gone from if not from “crayons to perfume” at least from “hormones to partial prefrontal cortex reasoning”. Ish. Or from my father’s Buick to my own home with my own bed and wine stash, waiting for the guy who actually makes sense and wants to jump ME for a fucking change #akanotaspanky

ps Found this note from right after that walk:

Spent time with Spanky, clothes on, and he began answering texts very quickly = alien Spanky phase. Disconcerting…especially when I realized we had nothing in common and he’s rather a misanthrope. I still very much wanted to fuck him though. Oc.


pps JUST saw Spanky again after fucking years and he was even more handsome than memory served. We caught up, with and without clothes, and it was fun. But. NO attachment. At. All. Just ex sex. And a reminder:

“When in the unrequited throes, remember: he too shall pass.”

Have you got a Spanky or two in your closet? At first sooo hot and sooo unavailable then eventually you're sooo over it? Remember, sharing is caring, girlies. 

xo Lucy

The Gift That Keeps Giving

So. Here’s the up to date skinny:

I am still not OVER over Danny 3.0. Though I’m not actively mourning the possibility of a real relationship with a potential kindred spirit, I’m also not NOT. Got that double negative which as we all know is actually a positive but in this case, not so much? That is to say, he’s not consciously living in my every waking moment anymore but he’s certainly still commuting in on a regular basis #hopeisafourletterworddude

While I know logically and logistically speaking that four dates in eight days is not enough time make someone/ anyone worthy of so much inner activity, emotionally speaking I can’t be that Spock. Hello. And while I keep encouraging myself to dwell only on week two Danny, who behaved like a dick, it’s awesome week one Danny that’s lodged in my replay it again Sam self. Oc. What I’m saying is it’s been two fucking months and while he’s fading, he’s far from gone and I am not whole hearted. Still. That is my truth right now.

On the maudlin date anthem front, “Wildest Dreams” by the ever epic Taylor Swift is my new “Someone Like You” and I sing it allofthefuckingtime. Cheeze Louise.

Say you’ll remember me standing in a nice dress staring at the sunset, babe.

Red lips and rosy cheeks, say you’ll see me again even if it’s just in your

Wildest dreams…oh UH ooohhh…wildest dreams…oh uh oh….

Yup. I am still more than a bit of a quiet mess.

HOWEVER, see how I qualified that? Not a hot mess. Not even a fucking mess. And certainly not a constantly oversharing, self-pity party, out loud bad girlfriend mess. And the very best of all? I am not a texting/ emailing “THAT ex” mess. And for that enduring gift I have to thank my original POF ground zero guy, BMX. #whowouldhavefuckingthought

So. If you’ve read the post in which I talked about my hit and run experience with him, this is the line that still kills me a little bit:

“Then he stopped replying and yet I still kept texting. And writing…”

That’s because when I read it, I’m transported back to that then and that me; it’s like reliving my own visceral Wiley Coyote style car crash. Every word written and sent was me aiming at a wall like it’s a fucking tunnel of love. Every time I received fuck and all in return was the car crushing in on itself in slow mo. Sloooowww fucking mooooo, dude. On. Repeat. And I could NOT STOP because I truly thought it was only a matter of a tiny bit of time and some carefully arranged words before I could reach the very heart of him and connect it to the very soul of me and we would be together again as we were meant to be. #obvs

Finally, Allison told me: “Oh sweetie, write as many letters as you want. JUST DON’T SEND THEM.” Yeah huh. That’s what we call rocket science, girlies.

Like Danny 3.0, BMX was a week of “yay!” followed by two months of “FUCK!” and I was a sopping, sobbing, couldn’t stop talking about it if my life and yours depended on it mess. Like on and on and fucking ON. My poor girlfriends. That they’re still all accounted for and, unlike many men, return my messages has saved my life on a regular ongoing basis. That no one slapped me out of my BMX self induced hysteria tells you just how much they loved me because it was really that intense, inside and out. I was a teenager in dating years, wracked by hormones and drama; I had no off button. #goodfuckingtimes

But. That was then and this is now. In between, the men came and the men went and each time, I became a little less “it’s all about FILL IN THE BLANK SPACE!” and a little bit more Chandleresque as in “hey, could it BE my life is about me?” Then I hit Gladwell’s tipping point re: rejection and these words became my mantra, engraved upon my psyche and within my heart:

“Whoever you date, there you are. Strive to be whole.”

What does that mean in practical terms and in particular to do with Danny 3.0? Well, since my completely sincere and amazingly restrained good bye text, I have not sent another. Nor have I written any letters, sent or saved. And finally, except for the first week ish when I allowed myself to mourn out loud, I no longer talk about Danny to anyone. I’m not into dissecting the pain because it doesn’t help. It is what it is. Shite.

Oc, no one asks either. I’m sure they all assume because I no longer mention his name that he’s just the latest in the POF line. And why wouldn’t they? After all, it was just four dates in eight days then he was done like dinner and as soon as that becomes MY internal reality, I’ll put the napkin down and be right the fuck out of there as well. Until then though, I’ll continue to not text and not write Danny and not talk about him to anyone except myself, in the dark.

It’s not so much a point of pride as just the knowledge that, though I have to feel the feelings until they finally let me go, all the words in the world won’t bring back someone who doesn’t want me. And in no world do I want to be with someone who doesn’t want to be with me.

The final text I sent to Danny 3.0 still holds true though:

“Shit happens. Take care, Danny.”

And all the unsent messages asking “what happened??” and “how could you do this?” and “WHY?” are right where they should be – NOT in Danny’s phone. I’m killing it in the “just say no” postdate zombie apocalypse that is my internal emotional landscape right now, dude. Just saying.

So hey, thanks again, BMX! #giftthatkeepsgiving

How are you about not "keeping in touch" with someone who does the Houdini on you? Are you all stoic like and completely incommunicado or are you a fucking messaging mess? Lord, girlies - no judgement here AT ALL because BMX. Hello.

xo Lucy

Where Dates Go When They’re With Me aka When I Killed The Sandbar

                                                                                  Granville fucking Island taken my first POF summer o' love.

                                                                                  Granville fucking Island taken my first POF summer o' love.

Once again, I travel back in time to my first POF summer when I was popular and having fun. I know #what By now, it’s like it happened to someone else tbh because I am sooo not that girl anymore.

Every year since it’s been like pulling teeth to get one decent date let alone be out every week in a tiny dress and flip flops = my summer dating uniform. Criminal. This summer I met Danny 3.0 in June who was gone by July but not before taking a small piece of my heart with him. Fuck. Then I had 3 dates in 24 hours SIX WEEKS AGO. Literally. From that day on, I’ve been solo wine and giant TVing it while avoiding guys you'd recognize from my Twitter feed– name check Fable and Keanu – I don’t want to get naked with. Climbing Boy was briefly back in the pic as a FWB but he’s still his random workaholic self so that went nowhere fast. #shocker

But. Way back in the day, after the first six months of POF hell but before the first Sahara hit late that fall, I had a few sunshiny halcyon weeks in which I had my option of suitors and the most difficult decision was where to go with them ( almost as challenging as picking something on Netflix ) I do live in Vancouver, one of the most beautiful cities in the world fyi so you’d think I’d be spoiled for choice but really, we’re all creatures of habit aren’t we? And so it was with me.

With a desire to be somewhere easy to get to and from by transit and yet also picturesque – to share and revel in or to stare at, bored to fucking tears – I had three go to spots that I use even now, oc:

                                                                                                     Granville Island again last fall #nofuckingfilter

                                                                                                     Granville Island again last fall #nofuckingfilter

Granville Island: adorable and village like under the Granville Street bridge, it’s surrounded by water and views to die for. There’s a handful of patios to choose from and a variety of foods to nosh, all within a very stroll worthy environment while getting to know one’s companion for the evening. You can get a coffee from the market and sit by the pier or you can watch the sunset with a couple bottles of wine and by you I mean I’ll be skipping the caffeine and going straight for the vino, TY v much. I’ve had more dates than I can recall on the island. Go, me!

                                                                                                             Water St. winter this year.

                                                                                                             Water St. winter this year.

Gastown: quaint cobblestones and historic buildings, all gentrified in the past decade, Gastown is GORGEOUS at night with these fancy ass lights all down Water St., the main strip. Crazytown romantic and where I went with BMX, albeit in fucking January. Also a shitload of groovy restaurants and lots to look at together or alone. ALSO more dates than I can shake a stick at down and around the Gassy Jack statue. Jesus. Pattern much?

However, I don’t recommend you walk back UP Water St. with your date if you don’t plan on seeing him again because THAT’S been fucking awkward x2 for me…

                                                                               The entrance to my beloved Kits promenade taken two summers ago.

                                                                               The entrance to my beloved Kits promenade taken two summers ago.

Kits Promenade: finally and probably my favourite bang for the buck because oc it’s absolutely gratis – and def in the summer where it’s an unparalleled vision of mountains, ocean and sand – the walk of all walks. We usually meet at the Kits Beach end and walk toward – wait for it, wait for it – GRANVILLE ISLAND then back though with Danny 3.0, we met at the Kid’s Market and walked towards Kits, had iced tea on a log with the volleyball players to our right, then walked back, talking and laughing the whole time #sigh Epic first date, kids.

However, I’ve also had crap meets there. Recently, I watched a guy drink his coffee and drone on about other women he’d dated – seriously, dude? I struggled to make conversation for 30 minutes with someone else that I knew at first glance wasn’t for me; then he opened his mouth and sealed the non deal. And I had a beach date with a CL guy that was as inspiring as watching paint dry. On sand.

So, no matter how gorgeous the locale, if you’re with a non starter, it feels like Alcatraz #obvs But if it’s going to be a terrible date, it may as well be with romantic lighting or an instagramable vista, amiright? One guy was so oblivious to social cues that I took my phone out and was taking pics while he was monologuing on because I literally had nothing better to do. What can I say? I’m a multitasking motherfucker.

But I’ve saved my very best location location location story for last:

Now, if you’ve read about my first meet with Daniel, you’ll know he took me to The Sandbar, on Granville Island! It’s been there forfuckingever and is also known as a famous cougar bar – HA! – but I’d never been before. We went up to the patio level and scored an amazing seat to watch the sunset; it was crazy beautiful and romantic and yes, I took a pic for posterity.

                                                                   The view from my first date with Daniel from the patio of Sandbar. Looks fake #sonot

                                                                   The view from my first date with Daniel from the patio of Sandbar. Looks fake #sonot

That was mid July and Daniel was gone by August. Cheez Louise. I spent a few weeks alone feeling mighty sorry for myself then my 50th birthday came along and B., who’d wavered back and forth about staying friends, decided he was in and took me out for drinks to celebrate. At The Sandbar.

This time, we got a table on the second floor right by the fucking piano player butchering easy listening tunes. Gack. I know I’m over fifty but I’m not THAT fucking old, dude. It’s actually a huge ass restaurant so I barely felt funny showing up a few weeks later with another man but I did hope we wouldn’t have the same server, not that I’d ever fucking remember.

But two weeks after THAT, with date #3 aka Bill Nye the science guy with no chin, I definitely slunk through the front door furtively and sidled up to the table, again by that damn piano! Even though I’m almost 100% sure no one recognized me, I still felt distinctly loose woman/ escort ish with my third man there in six weeks. It’s like I’d fallen into a Twilight dating Zone and everywhere I went with whomever I went, it turned into The Sandbar. It’s like a fictional pitch for a horror rom com culled straight from the non fictional archives of Date with Lucy. Welcome to my fucking world, folks.

The Sandbar became a punchline to all my gfs too as in: “Omg, don’t go to The Sandbar! It’s cursed!” Because oc, none of the guys I went with stuck. Mind you, it’s not like all the other dozens and DOZENS of dates that didn’t take me there stuck either but if we go down that road, it’ll just get pathetic. ER.

Where do you date, girlies? You’ve gotta have your go tos, right? I’ve killed a LOT more places than just The Sandbar but then I’ve been on a LOT of fucking dates. Where’s the place you’ve killed and lived to tell about it? Google map me.

xo Lucy

Compromise At First Click

Warning: if you’ve never had the unique and exceptional pleasure of personally experiencing online dating for any length of time, this phenomenon maybe a tad surprising for you. Or not. Fyi, living in a POF world, it’s a pretty big fucking bummer to write about but then, that’s my job as Lucy – to breathe and bleed intell from the front lines, just for you. You're welcome.

To be on the same page, some definitions of compromise are:

-       a settlement of differences by mutual concessions

-       something intermediate between different things

And my personal favourite:

-       to expose or make vulnerable to danger, suspicion, scandal, etc.; jeopardize

And why am I talking about compromise in the first place? Because it’s the backbone of my dating life and I’m not sure whether I’ve got scoliosis or just really poor posture but sure as shit, I’ve got SOMETHING and I don’t know what to do or feel about it. I'm jeopardizing my self worth, dude #thatsnevergood

So. Here’s what MY definition of compromise means:

-       anyone who is not the perfect trifecta of effortless chemistry, conversation and ATTRACTION.

And how many times have I encountered my holy trinity? Less than a handful. THAT’S IT. And how many dates have I had? Honestly, no fucking idea so I’ll just say: a fuck load. Now let’s do that math. 3ish/ too many to recall = 3+ years of concessions. Small. Medium. Large. It’s fun, like the stand at the ball park! Not.

Why am I writing about this right now? You got it – because I’m recovering from Danny 3.0, my latest and tbh favourite trifecta so far. Sigh. And since it’s happening during a mini POF messaging frenzy, I’m doing my best to schedule diversification after distraction after diversion. If it works for toddlers, it should work for a sad heart, right? Yeah no #fuck In fact, it’s backfiring. Badly. All I think about during the looonnngg awkward pauses is Danny. Go, me! And it makes me really question whether my constantly compromising position will be the death of me, as in bored to. Not for the first time.

Why was Danny 3.0 THE trifecta? First of all, he was handsome. Sigh. And FIT. I have a known weakness for handsome men whose hobbies include gym-ing it. Hello. We met and looked at each other and it was like: CHECK. That he also turned out to be thoughtful and sweet and fun and funny made him the trifecta of them all. Kaboom. 

We talked details and interests in a stream of shared consciousness that was as easy as Sunday morning and it was a given that we wanted to hang out again. And when we did, again – super chill, fun, talking without having to plan or fill, listening raptly instead of dutifully. Everything was enveloped in the glow of mutual desire.

Our first real kiss was in Stanley Park in the dark. Danny took me into his arms suddenly Susan and it was tres romantic and swoon worthy. I LOVED how he kissed me…and that is one compromise I’ve made sooo often and sooo sadly that when I don’t have to, I’m gobsmacked. And smitten.

I won’t go into more detail than to say we had four dates in eight days and our naked chemistry was even more intense and matching. Danny 3.0 was obviously all the way in…until he was all the way out with no apparent reason. Do I have a feeling it was because he never planned on being serious with someone so much older than him? Because he was only 36 yo. But. Danny messaged me, knowing my age and being 100% sure he never wanted children, it would appear to be a perfect match. But. Then. No #heavyheavysigh

And though it seems like I was BMXed all over again, I have to say Danny was much more easy going, much less emotionally complicated and just lovely period compared to the previous trifecta boyz. No damage. All good. Well, except for changing his mind and bailing hard.

So what’s my point? That Danny 3.0, in or out, is now the boy standard and when I look back at 98% of my dates, I can see that they ranged from maybe within arms’ reach to not even woefully close. WHAT. I mean looking back 3+years and then TWO DAYS AGO!! When I had a 1/10 first meet. And he only got that because he drove in and was on time. That. Was. It. I’m basically all giving and barely taking allofthetime.

So what I’m asking myself and y’all now, at what price compromise?

It’s not like I haven’t grappled with this before. This has existed as long as my very first POF account, the six weeks that felt like six months. I’ve talked about it in my “Wheelhouse” post. It turns out the “something intermediate between” are the dates I’ve gone on and the different things being who I’m attracted to and who’s attracted to me. Basically, I date in the name of compromise.

Now, before you think I don’t know what accommodation is, I remind you I was married for 18 years. Okay? I understand how long term relationships ebb and flow, requiring stamina and flexibility and a long game POV. That was for a relationship. With a kid.

But. Now I’m trying to meet men via computer screen. Just connecting with someone meetable and getting to a first date is a time gobbling chore. A. CHORE. Then we’re IRL and I’m carrying the conversational ball, looking at someone who’s not nearly as attractive as his profile pic and I’m doing my best to stay open but it’s fucking WORK and I’m longing for my home and my wine and yeah. Over and over and OVER again.

To compare all of that with the effortlessness of my connection with Danny 3.0 is to make me deeply question my whole fucking dating MO. Fuck open. Fuck compromising before it’s an actual relationship. Fuck having to strain at topics to ward off awkward silences. Fuck working on my days off!

I’m at the point yet again where my own company is looking and feeling better than 98% of my messages or meets. And this time, I’m going to honor that. Dating in the name of compromise is like being given a vacuum cleaner for your birthday. It sucks.

My scoliosis is killing me so fuck it; I’m just gonna raise that POF bar. If I’m not actually attracted to you, I’m not going to reply. If there’s no actual chemistry OR flowing, fun convo, I’m going to cue up Suits and enjoy my evening ALONE so if and when my next trifecta contacts me, I’ll have plenty of time to meet. And excellent posture with which to meet him.

How far have you bent over, how hard have you squinted one eye and how much have you given up in the name of dating compromise only to look and feel like the fucking witch in Disney's Snow White? I'd like to know it's not just me and her out here in POF half hearted hell.

xo Lucy

Should I Have Thrown a Block Party?

                          It's all fun and games until you have to prepare to be stalked.

                          It's all fun and games until you have to prepare to be stalked.

This is an awkward post because it’s like a long and unpleasant – mostly just for me I hope – postscript to two other posts: “Yo, Dude. I’m Not Dutch” and “Just Talk to Me; Communications 101”. It’s also embarrassing because I have to out myself AGAIN as the fucking worst when it comes to taking my own hard won advice. Times two! I pray you do as I say…

Where to begin? At so bad or equally heinous? I wrote about emotionally prioritizing Bourbon St., the one guy out of three that I’d not yet met, even though he was a high false intimacy risk, and I justified it by comparing the chemistry of conversation among them. I did end with the eerily prescient disclaimer of “and no matter what happens next with Bourbon St...” If this was a novel instead of a reality sit com, we would call that obvious foreshadowing. But because it’s my fucking LIFE, we’ll call it what turned out to be: flirting with disaster. Literally. Go, me.

And then? I accepted a second date with Bourbon St. who dutched me, RIGHT after I had just written that I would not being doing that again. Like fucking days, dude. What. And the thing is, my instincts were bang fucking on. A guy that will dutch you is not that into you, no matter what he says or how he THINKS he’s into you. #nobrainerdude

So. You find out how I connect with Bourbon St. in the Communications 101 post. When he came back from New Orleans we met, had drinks on a patio together and proceeded to talk our heads off. Did he look like his profile pic? Not much. Was he not really my type? Certainly. While the conversation flowed like a chocolate fountain, did it flow in both directions with questions and answers equally distributed? Again, not so much. Was I instantly attracted to him? No. Was it still a fun date? Yes. Until he dutched me, there was no real strong indication that I shouldn’t second date it, just to see. There’s so many factors that come into play when first meeting and I find it’s just common sense to err on the side of “why not?” when it comes to whether or not there’s a connection worth nurturing. How bad could it be? Insert OBVIOUS FORESHADOWING PART TWO HERE.

One thing I did note was that Bourbon St. drank. I drink. But I don’t drink like that. Meaning, looking back, all of his messages referred to going from drink to drink. And when he met me for a drink, he’d already been drinking. Then he had like three more. So if I even fucking noticed, then it would be a lot of drinks. And it felt like a tickle of discomfort which would soon feel like a fucking headlock. Oh yay.

But. Bourbon St. also had a puppy like energy and enthusiasm as well as being able to make me laugh so even with his casual: “Should we just split this?” when the check came, I let it go. I thought: “Maybe I’m wrong with the dutch thing.” And what was really hilarious? He was Dutch. LITERALLY. Oh the signs.

Cue the next week when, for food poisoning reasons, Bourbon St. postponed our second date but proceeded to call me, between barfing sessions, to talk. Like on the phone. Who does THAT anymore? And so we talked. For HOURS. That day and for days afterward. And when we actually met again, it felt like we knew each other much better than we actually did which is text book false intimacy, GD it. And some of the calls were clearly red flags of his behavior to come that I ignored because I hoped he would work out. I hoped he would be “the one” to take me off the meet market. I just weakly hoped. And that is dangerous shit, girlies, let me tell you.

Date two: we met at a happy hour two blocks from his place. Again, he’d already been drinking and had a bunch more. It was only like 5pm and I had two glasses of wine and felt pretty fucking loaded. We laughed a lot and this time when he AGAIN tried to dutch me – for HAPPY HOUR! – I just said no. But when he said: "Let’s go to my place then" I said yes. Thank you, wine #not

Long story short, I ended up naked with him and it wasn’t good. I just wasn’t physically attracted to him. Period. Had I been more sober, I would have eased out; instead, I ended up having mediocre sex with a drunk dad bod who was very into me and had no realization that it wasn’t even close to mutual. I got out of there ASAP and that was it for me. When he called me the next AM to say how great it had been, I had to give him the “I just like you as a friend” speech. I didn’t expect it to go well, obvs. I just didn’t expect what happened next.

Bourbon St. became very angry and told me so, with repeated texts. He called me a liar and said I’d lead him on. He would change it up periodically with an “I’m so hurt” one then roll out a nasty insult. I did reply sincerely a couple of times to the sad ones because I’m not a fucking bitch but mostly I kept my head down and prayed he would eventually wind down, especially since he knew where I worked and lived only two blocks away. I know. EPIC.

A WEEK LATER, he texted and POF messaged me asking had I ever been in a threesome? ENOUGH. I wrote:

“You have a DAUGHTER. How would you like a man to send her the texts you’ve been sending me after TWO DATES?”

His reply: “It’s your fault. You CRUSHED ME.”

Aaanddd there we have it: Nutbar qualification in a fucking nutshell. Two fucking dates, folks.

But here’s the great news! You can get a free blocking app for those pesky calls and texts from men who will not let it go. And oc, POF black out is a click away #allwin

I have to say though, it was a bit of an emotionally grueling sitch there, watching my phone like a ticking bomb for a week. Not good times. I told my gf Hanako his real name and how to access his texts in my computer, just in case. You know, of physical stalking and death. But on the up side, it took three and a half years before I had to Phone Warrior myself so that’s not bad, right? Three and a half years before a guy felt he had the right to continually harass me because I told him as nicely as possible I didn’t want to see him again #luckyme

The real lesson? Be careful what you ask for. When I went on and on about Bourbon St.’s communication skills, I didn’t realize he would turn them against me. I’m telling you, being Lucy has been a real learning experience!

ps Latest update: Bourbon St. just found me on OKC and said: JUST CURIOUS. CAN WE HANG OUT TOGETHER AS FRIENDS?

I tweeted: Stop the crack and messaging me. Once a dick, never a gf #cannotmakethisshitup

I have to ask: has this happened to you? If so, how bad was it? Because I fully understand I got off lightly, ttfl. Omg. Please share all here at Lucy’s School of Defensive Dating. FM.

xo Lucy

Just Talk To Me: POF Communications 101

So. Yesterday encompassed a “full range o’ dating” in which I messaged with my new favourite online guy Bourbon St., fancy dinnered it with the American on our second date and then sexed it up with Fable in my newly rommateless apt. All within like a 16 hour window. Honestly, even for me it was a first.

And here’s the thing: when I reviewed everyone and everything, the most enjoyable interaction, pound for pound, was with the guy I haven’t met yet.

Now, before I go any further, I”ll give you the “talk to the hand” at your “false intimacy alert!” Hello. We’ve all been here before via my TWO posts about how I cyber romanticized the shit out of an innocent POF bystander x2 and how well THAT went for me. Therefore, I know that in choosing Bourbon St. over the other IRL guys, I’m once again that girl. Or am I?

Because this time, I’m not talking about putting all your hopes and dreams into a profile sized basket to take to your first meet and oc, when I say you I absofuckinglutely mean me. I’m talking about talking. I’m talking about the Caravaggio of conversation. I’m talking about how if the guy in fucking New Orleans at a strip joint can beat out the guy in Vancouver at the super pricey Japanese joint with Nicolas fucking Cage as an extra and the guy NAKED IN MY APT. then yeah, something is DEF whack in the Lucyverse and it ain’t me. FOR ONCE!

To begin at the beginning of this suddenly Susan sitch:

For those of you who follow me on Twitter, you’ll know I’ve got a FWB right now nicknamed Fable. He and I met a couple of months ago and had a really cool, really hit-it-right-off-couldn’t-stop-talking! first date and he was very clear he was looking for a relationship. Period. Long story short: three weeks later not so much. In the meantime though, we’d begun to get naked and it was very good. As in very VERY good. So. When I noticed that his actions were no longer in alignment with his words, I told him I felt it was time I began dating again. He agreed. I said: “But if you want to keep having epic sex until I meet someone else, I’m up for it.” He agreed!

I didn’t know how it would go, emotionally speaking, but since he was adamant that he wanted to keep me in his life, with or without clothes, I thought: Why the fuck not? And it’s been, for the most part, easy and literally fucking fun until the last couple of times when Fable’s been very stingy with his words and his sharing. Basically, it’s been “wham bam, thank you ma’am” time and I don’t like it. Not one bit. Without the friend part, the even the spectacular benefits start losing their shine, tbh.

The American I met last week, surprisingly enough. He’s not my physical type and he’d messaged me three times before I carelessly replied. I’m still not sure why but then you know my sacred contracts theory, right?

To cut this one to the chase, our first date was not Fable sized but it was still fun and full of interesting and connected convo. We def had the words flowing like a chocolate fountain thing going on and he asked questions about me like Fable used to. But date two last night…not so much. I had to work to keep the awkward silences at bay; no fucking idea why. And Nic Cage was just a walk through. Also silent. MEN.

Do you see where I’m going with this, kids?

Finally, I introduce Bourbon St. who first messaged me on the weekend. I replied and we’ve been “talking” since, in brief but constant emails and it’s been uber fun. He’s fucking hilarious. So far, he’s told me about being stuck on the tarmac without any alcohol then being on Bourbon St. with a mint julep and a beer “Fuck. Ya”. Then he went on a fan boat to go alligator watching – he saw 25! – before looking for more cocktails and fried chicken. I got quoted “Forrest Gump” during the small hurricane that was shaking his hotel windows while he was again mint juleping then this jewel:

“I got dragged to a strip bar. Not my thing. But the girl climbed 40 feet up the pole.”

In between, I refused his request to text, confirmed that while he still could not call me, saying he was “black listed” was a little harsh ( not to mention overly dramatic ) and agreed to meet the day after he returns because yes, he’d have to meet me to chat with me. “IRL. That’s how I roll."

So here’s the thing: I HEART communication. I CRAVE communication. Tell me about the minutiae of your day and ask about mine and I’m fucking all yours. TALK. TO. ME. And keep talking to me! Maybe it’s all the years I’ve been single. Maybe it’s the solitary nature of writing which I love but can also be too isolating or just maybe the continual exchange of ideas and emotions and opinions with a male soul in verbal sync is what really turns me on. Like HIGH.

The American messaged me online the day after our first date and asked me out again. Sweet. Then I didn’t hear from him again for a week. Fable also went a week without a peep. I just sent him a text this am saying: “You’re no longer talky. What’s up with that?”

But Bourbon St? He was at a conference today but still messaged me first thing in the am and then again and again, asking about my plans for the day and telling me he’d worked at the old location of the bar Boo works at now. Adorable. Finally, he said:

“I sure hope we have some good chemistry. You sound like a blast.”

Now, I know comparing men online and men IRL is like comparing handcuffs and vibrators but just the same, if you’re not talking to me, engaging me, fucking making a wordy effort with me who counts conversation as queen, then maybe yeah -  you do deserve to fall behind the computer screen and eat Bourbon St.'s dust.

And that’s the scoop behind my epic full course dating yesterday. The moral of the story? You had me at hello…and then you didn’t say anything else of note so I’m fucking out of here to meet the guy who messaged me alldaylong. And no matter what happens next with Bourbon St., he legit won the day. #fyi#latergator #GoSaints

How do you feel about great conversational skills, girls? I mean, are you okay with having to pull teeth if your guy has other attributes you value equally or more or are you like me – needing it like water? And I don’t mean he can blather the day away kind of charming working the room bullshit; I mean a genuine sharer of words to express his authentic self. You know, the fucking unicorn of manhood.

Sigh. Please tell me I’m not alone in this POF cone of silence here.

xo Lucy

Yo, Dude...I’m Not Dutch

                                 We all have a type. My type is does not speak Dutch.

                                 We all have a type. My type is does not speak Dutch.

I had a weird experience times two guys just recently and I feel like I wanna share it with y’all because that’s how I roll #obvs

Now, you know I’m over 50 years old so not only does that mean I’m right next to almost fucking ancient but it also signifies that I come from a more traditional dating era. For example, just using that word is very Jane Austen of me though let’s face it, I’m actually Bridget Jones all the fucking way.

So. When a man invites me out for a date, it means he’s planning to take care of the check. Period. Whether we’re out for a drink or a meal, if you’ve asked me, that’s my understanding. And since I’m off Cougar Life for good this time – pinky swear – and I’m not replying to any of the 30 and less year olds that keep messaging me on POF, my “relationship site” – what – I’m meeting men my own age ish and so they also would be very old school re:dating etiquette, yes? It’s a generational thing and no one’s a poverty stricken student anymore. Hello.

Note: All but one of my CL dates treated. Ha!

In all the years I’ve been doing this online gig, I can remember only a few guys that ever made a move otherwise or intimated it was an issue but my memory of them is crystal fucking clear.

The guy I mentioned in my "what to say on a first date" post whose wife left him for her female ESL student? When the check arrived, he looked at it and then said to me: “I’m leaving $40.00. You can leave the rest and the tip.” Just like that. No: “I’ll take care of it”. No: “Would you mind splitting the bill?” Just. Like. That.

Did his check attitude affect how I felt about him? I cannot tell a lie: DEF. Would I have accepted the second date he wanted had he paid for me? Probably not – he was work to talk to - but if the first impression I get of you, me and money is THAT, I’m not in your cheering section,dude. Just saying.

Another guy much later on asked me: “Would you like me to pay for your glass of wine?” like it was a trick question. I said: “Umm, yes?” This was after he asked for the check without telling me the date was done. And  before he left me on the sidewalk outside in the freezing cold and dark to take transit home while he drove. But  also before he contacted me again for a second date. And told me if I said no, I could send a check for the glass of wine.

Isn’t dating AMAHZING?

The thing is, I’m the furthest girl from a gold digger you can be. I’m not looking for a sugar daddy; I can take care of myself thank you very fucking much. More dates with me and I begin making dinners and taking turns treating because that's what two people do for each other.

I AM looking for evidence that the guy who’s taking me out for the very first time is at least serious enough and interested enough to want to pay for me. Does that make sense? Right or wrong, I want someone who wants to impress me. Paying the bill is just one small thing but it IS a marker. If you’re well able to pay for my drink but you’d rather we go halfsies AND YET you also would like to see me again to do splitsville again - honestly, that doesn’t turn on my dating light. Or anything else, if you get my drift.

So the two dudes.

Music Boy was the ex of someone I used to work with, a first if you can believe it. We met in my hood after a couple of texts that were kind of “off” and had a couple of drinks. When the bill came, he simply put his share down and said something to the server like: “Servers always have cash.” Referring to me. I was like: hmmmm…but paid my share. Oc. Saying good bye outside, he didn’t offer to walk me home TWO BLOCKS AWAY yet wanted to see me again. Since we did have shit to talk about and I wanted to see if he was Dutch through and through, I said yes. And the second date was same same. By then, I realized that not paying for me was just one of his several “off” elements and I didn’t accept date three.

Mr. YVR kept me waiting OVER AN HOUR because he was coming in from way the fuck middle of nowhere and I just didn’t know whether to stay or go so I ended up staying. When he finally arrived, I had to order lunch because I was starving and he ordered a juice. When that bill came, again this one only paid for his share. Even though I was only there BECAUSE OF HIM. And then I had to ask for a ride home!

Both guys ended up being just not cool and the Dutch option was a symptom of their: “Why would I have to pay for you to bask in my company?” kind of vibe. I’m not saying all Dutch men are like that but I am saying I’ve found my own excursions into Dutch territory to be neither enlightening nor worth the fucking view.

Does every date have to have a monetary transaction? Absolutely not. I’ve killed the promenade between Kits Beach and Granville Island in Vancouver more times than I can count and yet it’s still fucking gorgeous and free of charge.

Conversely, will you gain extra points for taking me somewhere exclusive with cache up the yin yang? Honestly, no. I just had a second date at Tojo’s, the most well known and expensive Japanese restaurant in the city. I have no idea what he spent because I refused to look at the prices. Was I impressed? Honestly, no. It’s the company I want to dazzle me, not the fucking menu. In this case, not so much.

I know not everyone agrees with me. My gfs Half Pint and Hanako are particularly and vehemently against being treated, saying they don’t need a man to pay for them nor do they want him to feel like he’s being used. On the other hand, Alex and Allison are like: “Yeah….no. It’s a bad sign. Move along.”

Now we’re all adults here, though oc some of us are def adultier than others #sonotme Whether you rock a more old school dating vibe or you’re all “I am woman”ing that check  is up to you. I’m also saying we all have our litmus tests and after my experiences with Thing One and Thing Two, I’ve decided going Dutch once with me now means not going anywhere else with me ever again.

You know what they say: “Dutch me once…”

So, what’s the consensus, girls? Are you traditional or millennial when it comes time to pay the dating piper? In other words, are you pro Dutch or Dutch phobic? Sharing here at Date with Lucy means never having to worry about that shit. Or the tip #fyi

ps I know this post might piss some people off and that's ok. We all have our types...mine just don't speak Dutch.

xo Lucy

Insecurity and Nervousness Squared or Just Narcissism Much?

The next guy I’m going to tell y’all about from my first year online I nicknamed Ian the Indian even though his name wasn’t Ian. Nor was he Indian. And if you’re actually surprised about either of those sentences, I have to ask: have you read ANY of my other posts?

I met Ian after my solo 50th by which I mean I wasn’t even meeting anyone, let alone dating. After Daniel cut to black, I went through one of my periodic POF Sahara phases, with the only bright spot being a v handsome, v fit TWENTY ONE YEAR OLD who messaged me looking to hook up. I was shocked, SHOCKED because remember way back when I had morals about shit like age? But I also replied, trying to engage him in some kind of repartee so I could convince myself it was a meeting of minds. Ha! However, he refused to play and there went the one and only chance I had to give myself a 21 yo for my 50th birthday #what I tried to go to Hell, honestly.

Anyhoo. It was after that not watershed moment and Ian was one of those guys who had a profile with the approximate truth or what I like to think of it as “truth lite”. Mr. BTW wasn’t 42 nor was he divorced. Whatever. Neither was he my usual physical type but oc, that’s how I usually roll so. We met for lunch. He was dressed in beige from head to toe, and not in a good way, which I found odd and unattractive. However, he did make me laugh right away, which was a huge plus. As well, one of the first guys I told about my adjusted profile age, all he said was: “Get the fuck out of here” #nowthatswhatimtalkingabout

Sadly, along with being funny, he was also something that’s generally one of my deal breakers on a first meet: the dreaded monologist. Via “Dude: You Are Not Your Fruit Plate said the Zombie”, we know it means a man who holds forth in a constant verbal stream about he, himself and him. You are optional. As is consciousness. And so it was with Ian, who elaborated upon his own life story throughout the meal, giving unasked for yet exceptionally precise minutia about completely random events from way the fuck back that cast him in a highly flattering light. Honestly, I felt had there been an audience cue, I would have clapped obediently…having been woken up in a timely fashion, oc.

In his defense, Ian would intersperse his soliloquy with brief flashes of being interested in what I had to bring to the table so I persevered though he was a NON DRINKER. Talk about adding unasked for water to the barely existing fire…

A note about the alcohol issue: he was my first “I just don’t like to drink” guy and I was considering it to be a deal breaker on its own, just because for good or bad, a huge chunk of my socializing and relax time involves wine. If we’re out for dinner, will I feel weird with someone drinking pop, like his fucking mom or something?

But it gets better. Because it’s me, oc. We went for a walk along the water and I thoughtlessly asked: “Are you a boat person?” Why? Because I’m a fucking idiot. And right away, Ian asked: “Are YOU?” And again, me being me, I didn’t hedge my bets or bat my nonexistent eyelashes and play coy. I told the fucking truth: “I am not. In fact, I don’t even really like the water.” And BOOM, he whipped out his phone and showed me his screensaver which was a fucking boat. And I said: “You just fucking downloaded that pic to make me feel like an asshole.” And HE said: “Nope. That’s my boat.” Jesus. Dating 101, people. TV lawyers have taught ALL of us never to ask a question you don’t know the answer for; in the POFverse, don’t ask a fucking question you don’t want to answer. Hello!

The rest of the date was more of the same ratio 80/20 of Ian talking about himself and Ian making me laugh. The really funny thing is, he also appeared to be into me so when he asked me out again, I actually said OK. Not because I’m a glutton for punishment, though I often am, but because of Half Pint. 

Let’s call it Half Pint’s First Date Theory of Verbal Plumage Display. It’s based on her experience with Noah on their first date in which he talked about himself constantly and bragged and she didn’t like him very much. However, she still slept with him, they’re married now and he’s an awesome guy. SHE posits that when an insecure and/ or very nervous because he wants to impress you man likes you, he will give examples of all of his stellar qualities ad nauseam in an effort to persuade you that he’s the best peacock in the pack. Pick me! Pick me! I suppose it is a little more advanced than leaving a bison at your cave door though equally irritating. So, in consideration for Half Pint’s possibly valid reasoning, I was my own guinea pig. As per usual.

Fast forward to date two: dinghy ride from his boat – alternate Universe me LOVED it! – and once again, he talked allabouthimself with a few moments of not. Thank God. Then we had several weird awkward moments where my phone went off then he tried to kiss me and HIS phone went off. Ridonkulous. But it would have still been okay ish if he hadn’t driven me home and told me, IN EXCRUCIATING DETAIL, about a job he had IN HIGH SCHOOL. You cannot make this shit up, kids. For fucking real. To this day I just shake my head. Dude, so no game there. Hard.

Ian then went on to forget about a date he’d already made with me, was a weak ass texter – I know…when he couldn’t fucking shut up in person! – AND a non drinker. The final straw? He went away for a week. Reread my “It’s POF Time, Kids” to understand that’s like a fucking year, dude. When he returned, I’d moved on.

Postscript: Ian would much later message and eventually stand me up on a “friend date”. I would ignore his next message. I have sometimes wondered what would have happened had he made conversation not declarations. I’ll never know though because he was not my Noah. Ian 0 Guinea Pig 0. We’ll call it a fucking draw.

Have you been on a date with a droner? Or should the question be: who has NOT been on that date? #inserteyerollhere The real question is did you persevere and if so, did it work out for you like it did for Half Pint? Inquiring minds aka nosy little ol’ me would like to know.

xo Lucy

Rejection: A Dish Best Served at a Short But Intense Pity Party

I’ll be very honest with you: when Daniel disappeared, I did not take it well. I was a fucking mess, a shit show of sadness, confusion and self condemnation. Man a fucking live. I was all like: “What happened? What did I DOOOO??” I was lightly but definitely devastated. Fyi.

At that point, I’d still not been able to stick with any guy past six dates. SIX! First the Red Cross only zone that was my BMX tornado of epic sex and intense personality issues. Then B not working out because I chose Daniel who then cut to black. I looked at all the scenarios and realized I was the common factor, therefore I figured I was the fuck up, simply by being me. Jesus. Harsh. But true.

Even Allison, the boy whisperer, given my entire play by play “relationship” with Danielcouldn’t call the fatal blow. At the time, that made me feel worse, not better. At the time, fuck all made me feel better except feeling like absolute shite. Do you know what I mean?

These were the early and dark days when I bounced like a medicine ball and I took every single little fucking thing personally. EVERYTHING! I was as serious as a heart attack, dude and it was killing me. KILLING ME. The overthinking and the overfeeling of being rejected made for the very unpleasant sensation of so much negative emotion with nowhere to go but deep inside. I felt physically swollen with acute disappointment – at myself. Only me. Never at Daniel #what

I had learned a wee something by that point, though, after the two months of BMX self induced madness. I realized that it was necessary to feel all those fucking awful feelings, to just immerse in self pity and the sheer wtfness of it all, to indulge in a full on pity party…FOR A WEEK. Ish.

I mean, I didn’t binge eat. I didn’t self harm. For me, at the height of my “woe is me”ness, I drank a few more glasses of red wine and blurted out a few more diatribes against men and/ or “why am I so stupid” litanies to my long suffering gfs. My thing used to be self loathing, as you can see and I can tell you – it was fucking deeply uncool. But. That was how I rolled back then, by pointing a knife at my own heart each and every time someone didn’t work out and bitterly blaming myself. SIGH.

I also realized that being in the dating biz is a ride – up, down, sideways, barfy good, barfy bad, flung this way and that. “Oh man, it’s so great!” “Oh man, I want to get off right fucking now”.  So when I hit the “why did I get on this fucking thing anyway? I suck at this. I’m a LOSER” rotation as I did with Daniel, I knew it was time to wallow like I was being paid. In cash. But only for a week. MAX.

Then I would pull up my big girl panties, slap myself metaphorically, and do my very fucking best to let it go. My mantra at the time was: “not my train, NOT my train, NOT MY FUCKING TRAIN” As you know, I’ve since co-opted the Buddhist analogy because muttering: “sky, sky, SKY” is just more succinct. Same same though. Then I would channel my gf Lesley, my dating Terminator therapist, and bark: NEXT! To myself, obvs.

Looking back, Daniel and I were in completely different places, looking at dating and each other from completely different POVs. The fact that he tried to make sure I was okay before he cut and run, then contacted me a few months later saying he missed me speaks of our genuine connection. It hadn’t all been in my head. Or just my own heart. And I was never ever a fucking loser just because I lost Daniel, or BMX or Christopher or any of the other guys that dumped my adorable ass. Ha!

It did take fucking DOG years but I finally FINALLY began to understand that just because someone doesn’t choose you/ leaves you doesn’t mean there was something wrong with you and only you. It doesn’t mean it was something you did or didn’t do, said or didn’t say. It doesn’t mean they never really cared. It doesn’t mean it was allyourfaultandyoushouldhaveknownbetterwhatthefuckiswrongwithyou.  And by you, I mean me. As per fucking usual.

But here’s the HUGE 411 that came with that epiphany:

What if it was because there’s something about you and only you he couldn’t take anymore? What if it WAS something you said or did? What if he fucking NEVER REALLY CARED? What if, really and truly, without any awareness on your part at all, it was your fucking fault?

What if, dude?

The definition of rejection is: to refuse to accept (someone or something); rebuff.

The definition of rejection from a medical standpoint is “to have an immunological reaction against” as in:

If tissue types are not matched properly, a patient undergoing a transplant will reject the graft.

So even as brutal as being rejected is, all it proves is on both an emotional and physiological level, mismatching just doesn’t take. For whatever reason. Meaning, no matter how personal it was, you don’t have to take that shit personally. Does that make sense? Because it’s not ever just about you even if it was completely about you. As soon as you add someone else in the mix, then it’s about them and only them. Even if it’s all about you.

It’s like someone loves the color blue. But someone else hates it. Or even better, the same person that used to love it now hates it. What does it mean? That blue is fucked up and defective because it doesn’t please everyone/ anymore? Does THAT make sense? #yeahno

Years later, I still feel my feelings after I’m kicked to the curb, however irrational or nonsensical they may be at the time. I embrace my emotional alloverthemapness, drinking my wine and spilling my guts hardcore. What I do NOT do is engage in self blame, self shame or self flagellation of any kind. At. All.

Rejection, whether it be medical or emotional, completely personal or completely not, is part of the process of trying on others for size as they try on you. For you aliens out there, it’s called “dating” or if you’re super lucky, “ONLINE DATING”. Like Cinderfuckingrella – thank you, “Pretty Woman” – if the shoe fits, wear it. If it stops returning your texts and calls and literally disappears from your closet, they weren’t the shoes for you #newsflash Forget about them and try on a different style. Or ten. Whatevs. I mean, after sobbing your heart out, convinced they were the perfect fucking pair and where are you going to find another just like that and what was WRONG with your feet that the shoes just did not fit anymore…FOR A WEEK.

Rejection. It’s part of the process of dating and of life. It’s not the end of the story. Lord, not even close. If you’ve really got your shit together, you’re thankful for sooner than later and off you go, onto your next date/ match/ pair of Jimmy fucking Choos or Keds, knowing whatever you put on for however long you put them on for regardless, you KICK. ASS.

How do you deal with rejection? Is it still a concept that fills you with dread or has it become just a word to you - after a week? Please share your “I’ve been dumped” coping techniques. I certainly do.

xo Lucy

I’m a Liar Liar Pants On Fire

I’ve talked about POF truth in advertising. I’ve discussed profiles – what to say and not say, what to do and not do. Throughout, I’ve continuously advocated honesty - emotional, pictorial and otherwise. And I’ve also mentioned, more than once, that I am, in fact, a LLPOF – hahaha POF! - because I no longer give my correct age until the very end of the third act. This is where I tell you why…right after I contour my Pinocchio appendage.

BD ie before Daniel, my profile was chronologically correct and I was a spring chicken like 49. #gack. My mail settings were from 38 to 55 years old and tbh, that’s only because my gf Lesley gave me shit when I had my high end only at my own age. I, on the other hand, was still scarred from the first time I was a POF virgin and got messaged from scores of men that had “bring portable defibrillator on first date please” all over them. Oc, 15 seasons of ER and I’m sure I could crash cart the shit out of anyone but I don’t WANNA, ok? The heart wants what it wants and mine wants 5 – 10 years younger #itiswhatitisdude

Why do I prefer younger men? Well physically, unless you’re my age and look 10+ years younger, I’m not attracted to you. Period. Emotionally and energetically, I feel and act the same as most of my gfs, so late twenties/ early thirties? And I want someone with an equally youthful attitude. I’m not saying a man my age or older CAN’T be as young at heart; I’m just saying he needs to look like George fucking Clooney at the same time to get a spit take from me. That’s all.

My last “relationship” of 8 dates, Climbing Boy, was a year younger than me - an anomaly. He was big and tall and handsome as well as being easily tired, married to his job and not super flexible. Was that his personality or was it because he was 51? I dunno and I don’t want to be ageist because HELLO, I’m fucking older than him. At the same time, if and when I DO have a sex drive, it’s set on teenage boy, not Climbing Boy. I want a guy that wants me. Repeatedly.

And when I say I don’t look or act my age, I’m honestly telling you I’ve been mistaken for my son Boo’s gf or sister so many times it’s ridonkulous. I was carded at his 25th birthday brunch. At 52! I’m a fucking freak of nature and that’s all there is to it.

So. What does that have to do with my profile prevarication? Well. It was Daniel. Specifically Daniel on our last date in which, pre-ditch, he vigorously counseled me re: my posted age. He said:

“You should be dating someone 45 years old or younger and if you don’t dial your age back 5 years, you won’t be included in the searches of the men you want to be meeting. And once they see you/ meet you, it’ll be so NOT important.Everyone lies online. DO IT.” A Cancer. Bossy as the fucking day is long.

I argued with him. I said: “I don’t wanna lie! It’s not who I am or who I want to be.” He said: “Get over it.” We went back and forth on it as I recall but here’s the thing – even as I was disagreeing, I could see his point. Totally. Curses.

So. Daniel fucked off. I blamed myself, which is how I used to roll – SIGH - then redid my profile just before my 50th birthday, putting my age at 45. Daniel 2. Lucy 0.

Now, you’d think that would be that. I mean, I can’t tell you the amount of dates I’d already been on AT THAT POINT where, on the first date, men would casually throw out: “Oh, BTW…”

…I’m not 45. I’m actually 48.

…I’m not divorced. I’m actually just separated.

…I’m just pretending to be a good guy. I’m actually a fucking dick.

OK, no one owned up to the last one but some sure as shit should have.

What I’m saying is Daniel was totally correct: guys did lie aaaalll of the time and felt not one bit badly about BTWing me. I, on the other hand, felt all kinds of guilty and would always tell during messaging or when we first met. Soon after I changed it and was feeling most duplicitous, I told someone as if I was confessing to a recent hit and run. He looked at me, said and I quote:

“Well, it’s not like I’m going to be asking you to marry me.”



And before you ask, YES, I continued on with the date but no, thank God, I reneged on the second. Lord, I put up with so much fucking guff back then #seriously

My point? I’m no longer that delicate POF flower. At. All. So, when I put up my THIRD profile, I had no compunction about saying I was 44. In fact, I was considering 42 until my gf Nicolee put the kibosh on it; I figured, in for a penny, in for a decade, amirite?

I say:

Finally, if you’ve gotten this far down, I’ll let you know that I’m really 53 and I swear like a fucking sailor. If these are deal breakers for you, it’s best you know about them now. However, I look just like my pictures so you will recognize me should we meet and what can I say? I just love to swear.

I guess I could change that “finally” to BTW, huh?

Giving zero fucks about fudging my profile until the final reveal is right where I want to be and the guy who gives zero fucks about my age is exactly who I want to meet.


Any of you girls out there also wanting to go younger and rocking a “searchable number” with the true to life pics to back up your IRL? Let me know how that’s working out for y’all. You know how fucking nosy I am…hahahaha…Pinocchio joke. Who doesn’t have one of those?

xo Lucy

It’s No Big Fucking Deal Ok? I Swear

When I began Lucy many moons and first dates ago, it quickly became evident how so many of the situations, emotions and MEN I was writing about were universally accessible or known qualities. But probably not a lot of you get messages like:

The cursing older mature woman.. I love it.. hahha.. How did you spend your fuc**ing weekend? Haha”

or some witty variation thereof on a regular basis like I do because well, I’m me #sigh

I don’t know if y’all have noticed but I swear. Like, a whole fucking lot. It’s actually in my blog disclaimer along with the warning that if you’re reading me for salacious sexual exploits, you’ll be sadly and continuously disappointed. You and me both, dude, you and me both. But the thing is, I want to be able to say what I want to say how I want to say it and since my particular gift is that I write exactly how I talk, this is it. And it’s either your thing and you’re all like: you go, mofo! Or you’re like so no and then you don’t read Lucy and we’re all good. I have no desire to censure myself to try and please everyone. It’s not possible. I want to please myself first then all my tribe out there who NEEDS a foul mouthed female protagonist oversharing her dating debacles. It’s a wide woolly online world out there and room for all of us, f bombers included.

IRL, I swear because I like it. It’s as simple as that. Can I NOT swear? Oc. I’m not a fucking idiot nor do I suffer from Tourette’s. Hello. But if I’m being my real self, I just do. More than my 25 yo son and his friends. More than most of my friends. Not more than Pulp Fiction though. Maybe not LESS but not more. Probably.

It was in grade five when I discovered how liberating it was to use forbidden words. I was your typical good girl from an emotionally arid home; I was also the youngest so my voice was never heard let alone listened to. But when I swore, I heard myself. That’s the only way I can describe it – it felt so empowering. It was also so subversive for who I seemed to be yet even then it totally suited who I truly was. And it was never about swearing AT anyone. I’m not a thug. Nor do I have a limited vocabulary, unable to express myself in a more creative manner than saying fuck this, fuck that. Sooo fuck that. Some people love knitting or football or baked goods. I fucking love to swear.

But. Here’s the thing. My swearing? Is a fucking THING. In my dating life. A thing! I know. What?

Back in the bad old days of my second first time and my previous profile, I didn’t say anything about my language. Why would I? I didn’t even consider it. And then the dates began.

At first, it was just sometimes noticed and remarked upon. Not a big deal, though when someone calls me “potty mouth” I want to say are we five years old or what? It was never enough to be an issue for me. At first. But it was like a splinter. Irritating. Unnecessary. I just didn’t understand why I even had to deal with it. You know?

And I wonder how many men are made to feel inappropriate because their language is heavily salted not artificially sweetened? 

So. Maybe a year into the dating scene, I’d read many many profiles and noticed an excellent plot device, as it were, used by a few clever guys. They would put some big reveal at the very end of their “about me” and say:

“If you’ve read this far down…”

Now I don’t want to shock anyone but many people don’t read all the way down the profile. Many people DON’T READ the fucking profile at ALL. I was one of those adorable naifs who was shocked when my gf Nicolee had to tell that to ME. Lord, I was like a guppy in the POF shark pool.

Anyhoo, long story short, I totally co-opted that excellent technique and put at the bottom of mine my real age – I’d rolled it back five years because of Daniel’s advice which is a whole post in itself  – AND the fact that I swear like a fucking sailor. Perfect! Solved. Right?

Fast forward to now with my new “about me” and my old reveal. I’m not making a big deal about either of them; I’m just making clear statements. Blah, blah blah. Move on.

Well, for the love of fucking God. Probably 20% of my first messages involve swearing, often AT ME. “How the fuck are you?” is a popular one with this set. #heavysigh Or I get the “I don’t care if you swear"s that go with the “I love that you swear!"s. My faves though are the guys that ask me: “WHY do you swear?” Did I miss something? Are you my mother? My parole officer? What?

In one memorable day I got: “I’d love to meet but can you please not swear?” Are you FUCKING KIDDING me here? and “Wow, I’d love to see you swear.” Fuck off with yourself, buddy. I’m not your fucking dancing monkey.

Like, seriously? My swearing has taken on a life of its own apparently. Perhaps it should have its own profile as well since it seems to generate its own share of fucking idiots messaging about it. Oh my loony Lord.

Here’s what I’m actually looking for - the no response response. I’ve warned you. Now you know. We meet. I drop the f bomb through out. You give absolutely zero fucks. Our chemistry isn’t dependent on who swears more – and believe me, it’s pretty much always me – but as long as neither one of us cares, we’re fucking golden. Amiright?

And fyi, my last guy said I do NOT swear like a sailor…though my last name in his phone was “SwearsLikeASailor”. Ha!

Do you swear? Do you swear like me? If so, how does it fly on your first dates? Like helium or fucking lead? Share and swear away at Date with Lucy because we wear big girl panties here. Fucking bring it.

xo Lucy