Call Me Maybe…Or Don’t, It’s Cool


“I’m not sure what time we’re supposed to meet up tonight. I’ll just call him,” I muttered to a group of friends while we were discussing a guy I was newly seeing. I glanced up from my phone to wide eyes and horrified expressions. “What?” I asked, defensively…but I knew what. I had anticipated this reaction. Boys don’t do phone calls unless you’re already dating. “Well, don’t call him, it might freak him out. Just text him,” was their unanimous decision.

When did everyone become so scared of using their phones to place actual phone calls? Did Alexander Graham Bell work his colonial ass off so that I could wait around for a text message that reads “What’s goodie?”

I may not be able to put an end to this international communication pandemic, but at the very least, I can exploit my own personal experiences with phone calls to raise awareness (because I am a woman of the people).

At 13 Years Old

Ah, the year of my own phone line. If I had to designate a period of my life as my prime, I’d have to say that this was it. I was unstoppable. Three way calls? No problem. Instant message you after school? How cute! You must not have your own private phone line equipped with your own phone number and answering machine recording that you change every other day. NEXT.

Luckily, I had my mom to serve as my personal secretary when I was out taking part in recreational activities (playing manhunt) or giving back to the community (babysitting my neighbors for free). “Tiffany, Thomas is on the phone!” she would yell if I was too tied up to get to the phone at the moment. This tactic quickly granted me the upper hand in the relationship, a point that was further proven when I received a souvenir box from his trip to Aruba with ten dollars stuffed into it. (I was advised to give the money back, but we all know I pocketed that shit). Our breakup conversation went as follows:

Me: “Hello?”

Boy: “Hi, are you still mad at me?”

Me: “Yes, Thomas, I am still mad at you because my hair still smells like whipped cream from your field day pie-contest antics and I also have a bruise from the water balloon you threw at me at Tara’s end of the yard party. I don’t think this is going to work out. Sorry.”

At 17 Years Old

At this point in life, I’d considered myself pretty seasoned when it came to relationships. After all, my Harry Potter-hybrid boyfriend had just recently broken up with me on my house phone (I can’t recall why this particular conversation didn’t take place on my cell, but I know that it seemed A LOT more personal when he told me he wanted to “do his own thing” during his senior year of high school on a line that my parents EASILY could have been listening in on.).

Fast-forward: It was at least 9 months before the Junior Prom, aka time to start shottying dates. My former-bestie-turned-arch-nemesis had already asked two of boys that I was thinking of asking (LOL #HIGHSCHOOL), so my sister and I brainstormed a list of potential prom suitors in my basement. We came up with the perfect choice, and I considered calling him, but after much deliberation settled for a text message that was straight and to the point, with a smiley face thrown in for good measure.

Me: “Hey, SO random, but, do you want to go to prom with me? Haha :)”

 Boy: “Who is this?”

Me: “…Tiffany.”

I decided then and there that I was NOT ABOUT THAT TEXT MESSAGE LIFE.

At 21 Years Old:

It’s probably not necessary for me to go into specifics here, because pretty much every conversation with any boy that year went as follows:

Me: “Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii! What are you doooooing?”

Boy: “Hey, nothing where are you”

Me: “I’m at Queeeeens taking shots– oh my god you will NOT believe what Lauren just did!”

Boy: “What did Lauren just do?”


Me: “Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii! What are you doooooing?”

At (Almost) 24 Years Old

Blame it on brunch mimosas or pure frustration, but one recent Saturday morning I decided that it was bullshit that this guy that I hadn’t seen in years was leaving heart comments on my Instagram photos and writing me 140 character love notes on Twitter, but couldn’t muster up the courage to call me on the phone and ask me to hang out.

Me: “I’m calling him.”

My friends: “Are you serious?”

Me: “Yes.”


My friends: “He’s totally staring at his phone wondering if you butt-dialed him.”

RECEIVES TEXT MESSAGE: “Hey, was that a butt dial? I’m hoping it wasn’t.”


Boy: “Hello?”

Me: “Hi, are you going to continue to stalk me on social media or are you actually going to ask me to hang out?”

It didn’t work out, for obvious reasons, BUT I WILL NOT GIVE UP HOPE. Somewhere out there lives a living and breathing male creature who won’t assume that I’m undergoing a psychotic break for returning his text message with a phone call. Until then, call me maybe…or don’t, it’s cool.


An Attempt at Buffalo Chicken Dip

I hate Sunday. And I particularly hate this Sunday, because so far all I’ve accomplished is oversleeping, regretting the amount of money I spent at the bar last night, and feigning enthusiasm over a football game—aka background noise to my Instagram scrolling sesh.

Upon realizing that this pattern of lazy-Sunday self pity is doing nothing for my life, I decided to take some time out of pretending to care about football to pretend to care about being domestic, and create this somewhat healthy version of my favorite guilty pleasure—buffalo chicken dip (or buffalo chicken anything, really).

I altered the original recipe a tad, swapping in rotisserie chicken for the canned stuff (chicken just doesn’t seem like something that should come in a can…) and cutting the amount of cheese and ranch dressing in half (‘cause I’m healthy like that). I also turned the cooking process into a one woman drinking game, for the sake of…absolutely nothing.

Step One: Arrange your ingredients in front of a fake floral arrangement because everybody knows that if you didn’t Instagram it, it didn’t happen. 


One of the perks The only perk of unemployment is that my mom still takes special grocery requests, and actually knows what Neufchatel cheese is.

  • 1 rotisserie chicken
  • 3/4 cup of Franks RedHot®
  • 1 (8 ounce) packages Neufchatel cheese, softened
  • 1/2 cup light ranch dressing
  • 1 cup reduced-fat cheddar cheese, divided

Step Two: Try and resist punting your beggar of a dog out of the kitchen as you tear the chicken off the bone and shred it into strips. 


Yeah, the whole remaining skeleton thing is kind of skeevy, but you have to pick your battles and canned chicken looks like cat food, so…

Step Three: Combine the shredded chicken and hot sauce in a large saucepan, and mix it all up for about five minutes.


I’m sure that there’s a more legitimate instruction than “mix it all up,” but culinary blogging isn’t exactly my forte—I’m much more accustomed to writing  graphic accounts of other peoples’ sex lives, so cut me some slack.

Step Four: Drink your beer and pretend to care about the game for five more minutes while your chicken soaks up all of that red hot deliciousness. 


Go Jets! Lolz

Step Five: Add in the Neufchatel cheese and the ranch, and mash it all together until you get something that resembles day-after-Thanksgiving hangover puke but smells like heaven. 


You were warned. 

Step Six: If you’re a patient person, at this point you’ll transfer the saucepan ingredients into a slow cooker for 30 minutes. If you’re me, you’ll pop it in the oven at 350 for 10 minutes, because you can’t possibly be expected to be patient AND domestic on the same day.  


Step Seven: You feast. But not before taking a picture and Instagraming the shit out of it.  #FOODPORN 

And that’s all she wrote (er—cooked). I’ll be filing this one onto my working list of reasons boys should date me, somewhere between “Nice Rack” and “Karaoke All-Star.” Now, please excuse me as I pat myself on the back for being domestic as f*ck (DAF).