Snack Chat: Online Dating and My Tinder Criteria

Watch me talk about my OkCupid date with a guy named Scooter, (all while secretly doing some sort of Zooey Deschanel impression? So quirky!) Take it all in for your viewing pleasure, then like it, then read an old post I wrote about Tinder, below.

My Tinder Criteria

You people know about the dating app Tinder by now, right? Well, in case you just got out of a year long relationship yesterday and previously had no need to troll the internet for a butt you could bounce change off of or abs you could wash your delicates on, I’ll explain how it works.

It’s very simple- you sign in with Facebook, it shows a couple of your profile pics, and people can either “nope” you or “like” you. If you’re noped, it goes to the next person, if you’re liked and you like them back, it’s a match, and you can chat. Basically, you just judge people on whether you think they’re hot enough to potentially date. There’s also the option to see if you have mutual friends or Facebook interests and to write a small profile, but really it’s just about looks because the novelty of two people listing Friday Night Lights as their favorite show wears off quickly.


I don’t plan on messaging or meeting anyone because it all sounds to me like a death trap. A free app where you don’t even post your full name and people only pick you based on your looks just sounds like a place where really kinky serial killers go to find red heads with blue eyes so they can torture them (me) for a week then put your (my) severed fingers in a deep fryer. Regardless, reducing a human being’s worth to what they look like in 5 pictures and then choosing whether to “next” them or validate them as individuals turns out to be a strangely therapeutic way to pass the time!

I’ve already developed a quick system on how I nope people. My best advice is to have some hard and fast bottom lines on Tinder or any online dating site because you don’t have time to meet every stranger you come across. Have some personal deal breakers set up before you even get started so you can breeze through those profiles. Here are mine:

Guys wearing fedoras. I like to keep to that standard both online and in life.


Guys in front of a step-and-repeat (I’m only being shown LA guys).


Professional headshots (I’m only being shown LA guys).


Guys in tank tops.


Guys wearing tank tops in their professional headshots.


Anything featuring an instrument. 


This guy just looks like a handful.

Guys taking their own picture in the mirror. 


Pictures with kids in them (are they yours?!).

Except this guy. They look so adorable, and she’s probably his niece.


Nope, definitely this guy. He’s a monster and that little girl is a decoy.


And whatever is happening in this picture. 

pickle Predator!!! Predator!!!

What’s kind of things do you see on Tinder that makes you nope a person? A man taking a picture with two young ladies eating a phallic object Lady and the Trap style? I hope so!

Am I an Adult?

Like I said in yesterday’s post, I turned 25 this month, and it’s strange because I still feel like I’m in high school. It’s not like I’m clinging to youth or anything, in fact, I’m excited to turn 30 in the near future. I’ve found that every six months or so I become a little less of an asshole, so I’m hoping by 30 I’ll be a real hip woman in charge of her own destiny, getting her clothes tailored, not eating as much processed foods, the whole thing.


But for now, I can’t tell- am I an adult? Let’s look at the evidence:

ADULT: I have aged out of eligibility to be on The Real World because apparently 25 is too old to catch syphilis in a hot tub while you experiment with your sexuality. What if I’m a late bloomer, huh, MTV?

NON-ADULT: Still too young to be a Real Housewife. Not a girl, not yet a woman.

ADULT: I pay rent with my own money for a townhouse with a garbage disposal, yes, garbage disposal. 

NON-ADULT: I recently cashed in an animal crackers jug full of change at a Coin Star so I would have drinking money.

ADULT: I told a co-worker how old I turned on my birthday and he said, “25! You can get married now!” Isn’t that wild? I mean, at this point, if I had a kid in a high school bathroom stall no one would give me a reality show. They might call DCF because what am I doing having a baby in a high school bathroom stall? but 25 is a completely appropriate age to get married and have a child. In the Mid-West.

NON-ADULT: No matter how old I am when I have kids, always exclaiming “this is children raising children!” is a very charming thing I plan to do.

ADULT: Another thing about kids- I’m at least mature enough to know at what time a toddler should be in bed and not at the West Hollywood Halloween Carnival among half a million people. That would be all of the times. When I went this year it was after 11pm and I was very surprised at the toddler to screaming drunk people ratio.

NON-ADULT: At 8pm on a Sunday I locked my keys in my car and waited until 1am to ask AAA to get them because I was late for karaoke. Somebody, quick! Give me a baby to raise! I might accidentally lock them in the back seat, but I promise I’ll fish them out after last call!

ADULT: I got my oil changed all by myself this week!

NON-ADULT: I didn’t get my oil changed all by myself until I was 25 year old.

Welp, I am no closer to an answer, but at least I have enough self awareness to limit the amount of times I say the phrase “quarter-life crisis.” That counts for something, right?

The Story of My Roomie and Me

I asked my roommate to write about our relationship and how we got to where we are today. My perspective is in italics…

Dara and I met while pledging a sorority in college. We bonded over pillow fights, our mutual love of fro-yo, and Paul Rudd. Just kidding, I hated her.

Woah, okay…. I was just pretty indifferent towards her, I guess.

I was a sister in the sorority and Dara was a transfer student looking to meet a cool group of girls. Little did she know, these females would dislike her to no end. It was essentially a deep seeded hate for her lack-luster memorization skills and couldn’t give a shit personality.

To give you some context, in the sorority pledges had to interview each sister and then memorize every “sister fact” about their lives, which we would be verbally quizzed on every few days. I tried, but basically, I’m just more of a visual learner, you know?  

And to be clear, I don’t have a give-no-shits personality, JILL. But in this particular scenario I gave very few shits… 

I just remember pretty much everyone having a stick up their butts. We weren’t allowed to drink for almost that whole semester we pledged and we had a curfew. Then they’d make us stay in and do things like decorate paddles til 4 am when I had acting class in the morning. I needed to be fresh for that! When you’re rolling around on the floor pretending to be a cat for college credit you can’t just phone it in!

I’m just saying there wasn’t much incentive to learn every sister’s grandmother’s name when I was essentially paying $250 to get yelled at and do arts and crafts. 

Jill and Me in Santa Monica

Jill and Me in Santa Monica

I finally interacted with her my junior year because we happened to live in the same building. I always saw Dara in the latest Juicy Couture velour jogging suit, and I’m not even joking when I say she was either in that, or fashionable gym clothes 24/7. Homegirl was on a fitness mission, and I didn’t hate it! We sort of bonded at the gym.

What can I say? Little Mama likes to keep it tight. 

Then, Dara had to leave Boston in our final semester together to attend a prestigious comedy program in Chicago. Bleh, we get it. You’re talented.

I swear I didn’t write that… but yes….

I went to Los Angeles the following January and thought our paths would never cross again.

Geez…. never again? Way harsh, Tai. 

Post grad, Dara and I surprisingly kept in touch. It was mostly me fan-girling her hilarious blog, and a few texts back and fourth about unemployment depression and satirical self hate. But then, we attended a networking event together in NYC and something clicked. We had so much fun and began discussing what our life paths would be.

Jill even came to visit me in NH where we saw Magic Mike and smuggled in wine and chicken fingers. 

In late 2012, Dara and I decided to be roommates in Los Angeles.

It kind of came up like, “I want to move to LA.”

“Me too.”

“We should just live together! LOL”

For about 2 months I wasn’t sure if Jill was serious or not, and I think she felt the same way, so we were essentially in a game of roommate chicken. Then at some point we bought a membership, and it was suddenly real.

After saying yes, I took a giant step back and realized all I knew about this girl was surface stuff, but I was still willing to live with her because she’s a hoot! I have the most deductive reasoning, don’t I?

I knew very little about Jill except she thought I was a hoot which is all I care about aside from her stealing from me or bringing home guys to do it on my air mattress. So far she hasn’t done either of those things! Thanks, Jill!

We couldn’t be more different. I am completely Type A, essentially getting off on cleanliness and organization. Dara is much more relaxed and free spirited. We are the modern day odd couple, and I’m totally okay with it…For now 🙂


The Problem with My New Apartment

I have spent the last year of my life wishing I could move out of my parents house to sunny, beautiful Los Angeleez. Three weeks ago, I finally did that, but in true, miserable human being-like fashion, I have already found something to dislike about living on my own, making me miss how good I had it at home.

Now, what could I possibly have to complain about with my beautiful townhouse that includes a guest bathroom, yes, guest bathroom (with guest towels!), and a garbage disposal?

I mean, look at the beginnings of my tropical resort hotel themed bedroom. I have a succulent garden for Christsakes. What could be wrong with this set up???

I mean, look at the beginnings of my tropical resort hotel themed bedroom. I have a succulent garden for Christsakes. What could be wrong with this set up???

Well, besides a 90 year-old woman tenants call “Grandma” who speaks no English and lurks around the complex for hours on end (which, in my opinion, gives the place a quirky charm that the landlord could start charging for as a utility), basically everyone here is moderately to severely attractive, which is just enough attractive to make me want to look presentable at all times. It’s exhausting.

There is one specific person that I’d really like to impress:

About two weeks ago I had a full on Dreamweaver moment in the garage. As I was pulling out, this hunk of man, like, I mean, a real credit to the male species. If I dated him, he would clean the slate that I defaced with all those actors and stand up comedians I dated in college.

So, he gets out of his car in just some running shorts.

He walks by my car and waves, and I basically just Anne Hathway-ed a “derp, derp, derp, a-woooooga” reply to myself while my mother waved back.

Also, know that this post is getting deleted the second he and I have a real conversation because it’s only getting worse from here.

Since then, I have sat in my car pretending to set up my GPS while I waited for him to pass my car again so I could wave. And, most recently, as I was running late to my off-brand Ballet Barre class, Pop Physique, I opened my front door only to find his back turned to me, talking to a maintenance guy. Except I was in gym clothes, and not like, Lululemon lycra/spun gold blend yoga pants (that’s what they’re made of that they can charge $150 for YOGA PANTS, right?), but American Eagle men’s boxer shorts. I slam the door, and watch through the peephole until he leaves, and make my full descent into madness.

Now, why was I wearing boxer shorts when I have several pairs of perfectly adequate OLD NAVY yoga pants? Oh, well, I hadn’t done laundry in a while because I was trying to find a day when I already had both make up on and time (I won’t put make up on just to do laundry, I’m not insane). When I finally do find that time, that perfect bewitching hour, I loiter in the laundry room, then slowly make my way to the stairs, try to invent a new way to climb them where I never actually lift my feet, finally make it to the door and see how long it takes to unlock a door with my eyes closed, hoping somewhere along the way I’ll see him.

I think I now know how my favorite living ghost, my neighbor, got her start. When Grandma was but a girl, she locked eyes with a handsome personal trainer, and would lurk these corridors just for the chance to talk to him. He moved out years ago, but 65 years later, she still waits for him in her nicest black dress. Or her only black dress. I’ve only ever seen this lady in one outfit like some cartoon character.

How Mom is Adjusting to Life Without Me

Since I’m no longer on my mother’s couch watching the Jodi Arias trial when my mom gets home from work everyday (instead, I’m on my couch in LA watching the Jodi Arias trial when my roommate gets home from work everyday), I’ve been getting a lot of texts from her checking in.

You are about to read original texts from my mother, complete and uncut:

For a little background, I sent my mom home with the brand new GPS my dad bought me because I thought it was defective. Apparently, a quick once over of something called “directions” would have proven that the GPS was, in fact, completely functional.

photo 2-1 photo 3-1This next group of messages occurred after I told my mother I was going to a bar called The Den, an establishment once frequented by my confirmed (by my mother) soul mate, Jason Segel.

Please take note of the fact that it is 3 hours later than the time stamp where my mother is in NH:

 photo 1

So, besides the text I got from my brother the other day informing me that my mother was crying over my inevitable death in an earthquake, I think she’s doing okay. Until she remembers about California brush fires.

My Advice to LiLo After Moving Back With Her Mom

Lindsay, let me first preface this post by saying that as I write this, I am sitting in my childhood bedroom.

photoThis is what I’m working with right now.

I know this looks bad. And sure, I’m making myself low-calorie margaritas at my desk for dinner, and I don’t know if that qualifies me for an eating disorder or a drinking problem. And yes, I’m spending my Thursday night in New Hampshire writing in a blog that I don’t get paid for. The “I” on my keyboard is so worn out that I have to warm it up before I start  writing (I’m serous… seriiious), and I’m starting to think that when your “I” key is over-used it points to a Real Housewives level of narcism. And yet, I continue to write in this blog that nobody pays me for because there isn’t much left to do.

So, with that kind of full discloser, it may not seem like I’ve got it together enough to give you advice, but I’ve never done meth before, and like, no offense, I kinda think you have, so maybe I have some wisdom to impart. Besides the meth, I’ve also been living with my parents for about a year and a half after college, so maybe you can learn something now that you’ve moved back into your Long Island pre-Parent Trap home. 


Okay, so first, you probably feel really bad about yourself. You should. I’m not trying to be mean, but I think you need to take some responsibility for screwing up your life. You were a child star, and that definitely sets you up for some problems. Your mother was a failed show girl or something and your dad was a money-hungry coke fiend, and that’s just the perfect storm to create a… well, a you… Basically, you are the new industry standard for a screwed-up child star. No one remembers Dana Plato, anymore. It’s all you.

You’ve kind of hit rock bottom, so let this be a time of reflection. Reflect on what you’ve done wrong, and what you can do in the future to be better. Make a game plan. Take an acting class. We all saw Liz and Dick, and I’ll grant you, you had your moments, but you could use a brush-up. Take this opportunity to chill and get back to basics. Don’t worry too much about what your peers are doing. I know you must hate Jennifer Lawrence so, so much right now, but just worry about yourself and what you can do to come back swinging. There’s no shame in moving home, we’ve all been doing it. Lena Dunham did it. It’s the thing, it’s chic! This is a bad economy, and snorting your entire fortune up your nose happens to everyone. I say “everyone” with the assumption that everyone is Stevie Nicks. And look how well she turned out!!

Just remember, if Robert Downey Jr. can make a come back, so can you. He professed his friendship for Mel Gibson with a weird kiss during the Golden Globes in a room full of Jews. He cannot possibly be smarter than you.

Just know that I believe in you, Lindsay.