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.


7 Things That You Should Never Say On A First Date

Yes, all of these things were said to me on various first dates. Yes, I went on a second date with one of these fine suitors. Yes, I’m still embarrassed about it.tumblr_m94elwO2vx1qfgzzvo1_500

“So, I was thinking, maybe we could go back to my house after this and drink with my roommates. You know, save a little money.” GOODBYE SIR.

“Nah, I didn’t go to college. I’M SMART THOUGH!”  Okay, well I wasn’t questioning your intelligence until after you said that last bit.

“I hope my friends didn’t smoke all of my weed while we were gone.”…………………OKAY.

“Oh, no I don’t drink beer. I’ll have a hard cider.” No.

“Um, I’ll just go get myself a drink.” (I actually dropped this line, after my date ordered a refill for himself from the waiter)

“I know this really great happy hour place called ‘The Pig ‘n Whistle.’ My boy is a bartender there.” Wow, that sounds like a really lovely establishment! I can’t wait to hang out wit u nd ur boiiz.

“Could you tell me what the score of the basketball game is so that I can stop trying to read it in the reflection over your shoulder?”Annnnnnnnnnd I’m out.

A Very X-Rated Xmas

Blame it on the Merlot, or blame it on the fact that my head is permanently in the gutter, but I couldn’t help but notice how dirty the act of decorating a Christmas tree actually sounds if you close your eyes (or in my case, zone out because you tend to break more ornaments than you hang up and opt for drinking and directing instead). ‘Tis the season to be inappropriate!

Christmas tree with presents and fireplace with stockings

Image courtesy of 

“No no, take that out of there and move it down a bit.”

“I said you’ve already got the top half covered! Move down!”

“Al wants a big one in the bottom.”

“Mmmhm right there. Yeah, perfect!”

“What about the small ones?? If you always use big ones then there’s no room for the small ones.”

“Why do I feel like I’m the only one participating?”

“Wait, what are we going to do with all of these balls??”

“Phew. Glad that’s over.”

Talk Tinder To Me

Greetings blog-iverse!

It’s been far too long. The transition into big-girl life has been a bit of a bumpy ride, between every slept-through alarm, spilled coffee, and missed train—on a good week— but I’d say that I’m finally getting the hang of it.

There are many perks of working in a small office aside from not having to share a refrigerator with a multitude of intimidating higher-ups and thus, living in fear of being the intern who ate their lunch (Is this my Chobani? I can’t remember…what flavor did I bring today? Did I put it next to that fat-free, sugar-free, low-carb water bottle? Screw it…I’ll just starve).

For starters- there are far fewer people there to judge you during morning rituals, which lately have consisted of a moment of silence in front of my portable fan to mourn yet another bouncy blow-out turned sweaty pony tail during the heat wave.

The small office setting also breeds fast friendships, one of which has proven to be both detrimental to my overall office productivity and dear to my heart.

James and I were destined to be friends. Between our shared sense of style, sarcasm, and love of all things Carrie Bradshaw, I’d have to say we are a match made in New York City heaven, despite our New Jersey mailing addresses (we also share an empire state of mind that our bank accounts have yet to catch up with).

While I’d categorize both of us as “romantics,” James is definitely more proactive in his pursuit of “the one” (and by proactive I mean active on over 5 different online dating platforms). He’s constantly scolding me about my lack of online-dating presence, and after a few five dollar cosmos…I caved.

“Maybe James is right. Maybe the love of my life is just one Tinder swipe away,” I thought, as I re-downloaded the app, and gave it another go.

I mean…why not?


Here is why not. So there you have it. It’s been real, my fellow Tinderians—in a not-at-all kind of way. Consider this blog post to be my official Tinder-resignation letter.

Prince Charming, if you’re reading this, don’t be discouraged—I’m sure you’ll find me in a bar somewhere!

To Tinder or Not To Tinder…

Since I’m relatively new to the blogging game, I figured I’d allow my first post to showcase who I really am: a total weirdo/sucker for social media.  At 22 years old, I’ve always considered the foreign realm of online dating to be…well…a little bit weird.  Okay, super weird, especially if you’re under the age of forty five, which explains my involuntary brow raise when a friend of mine told me that I needed to get on this new app called Tinder (which is apparently sweeping the Rutgers campus).  Forever a skeptic, I rolled my eyes as she skipped around hugging her IPad, gloating over all of her new “matches,” but I have to admit…I was totally interested.

A self proclaimed “fun way to break the ice,” Tinder uses your location and Facebook information to create a list of potential suitors, complete with four to five display photos of their choice.  It gets better: when the image of said PS (potential suitor) pops up on your screen, you have the option to either “like” or “dislike.”  Sounds like a sure-fire way to bury someone’s self confidence six feet under, right?  Wrong!  Tinder only tells PS that you “like” them if he or she has already “liked” your account as well.  When the magic happens, Tinder informs you that “It’s A Match!” and establishes an IMessage-esque conversation box for you and PS to in engage in witty banter and fall in love.

My take on Digital Cupid?  I’m not sure I’m buying it.  As a member of the Catfish generation, I’m sure I speak for must of us when I say that relationships formed on social media networks are usually disasters waiting to happen.  However, when I (reluctantly) signed up, I realized that half of my PS list is made up of Rutgers students that I already know, or at least know of.  I’m sure that this is because I limited my matches to a ten-mile radius, but in this instance, it seems like a pretty harmless way to talk to cute boys that I’ve seen around but never actually met (tall boy from Queens last night, I’m looking at you).

If nothing else, Tinder provides us with yet another distraction from our daily tasks, and brings social media stalking to an all new high (as if I’m going to have a conversation with you without stalking your Facebook, Instagram, and any other outlet I can stalk while remaining incognito).  None the less, it gives us the ultimate opportunity to be shallow, and who doesn’t love that?