Swiping Right Into Hell

I swiped left on a man because his Bumble picture was taken in a Joe’s Crab Shack.

It was at this moment I realized I might have a problem.

And that I might also be kind of a bitch.

It happened so quickly I barely had time to register what I was doing by the time it was done. My friend, Bumbling vicariously over my shoulder, yelled out, “No! Wait! It’s not Joe’s Crab Shack it’s Joe’s Steak House!” But it was too late. By the time she got to “crab,” my fingers were already flying across the screen to shield my eyes from the horrors therein.

I’m not proud of what I did, but it was instinctual. Visceral. My ovaries, folding in on themselves at the thought of mating with someone in an “I Got Crabs At Joe’s” shirt.

It wasn’t right, but it was real. And at the very least, it got me to ask some tough questions of myself, specifically: why do I hate every dude I meet?

Like any respectable, self-centered human, I of course blame my parents. My dad, presumably scared shitless at the prospect of raising two daughters, made certain my sister and I understood two very important lessons: 1.) Men are pigs, and 2.) Everything’s a rip off.

Could it be that his warnings worked so well, too well, that they guaranteed the end of House Clark?

I think it’s likely.

I think it’s also likely – perhaps more likely – that I am the problem. When presented with the opportunity to hand-pick a mate, I turn into the monster my father groomed me to be. That is to say, I rip men to shreds. I pick apart their profiles with reckless abandon, violently swiping away those who displays signs of romance (emojis) or outright insanity (“Ask me anything you want to know 😜”). Fishing photos, boating photos, baby photos, gym photos, and any sort of Jesus or CrossFit reference are also grounds for immediate and irrevocable elimination.

Ellipses are unforgivable. But the real tragedy is now I’ll never know what sort of guys I normally attract. 

Once I’ve whittled my matches down to a small – but elite – group of sea-fearing atheists, the real work begins.

First, I test the waters with a GIF. Dwight Schrute and Buster Bluth and are my baits of choice, as both say “I’m casual, I’m hip and I’m probably a little left-leaning.”

If he responds favorably (Impossible! I hate everyone!) I find something wrong with it. If he responds unfavorably, it supports my theory that dating is dumb and why am I even on here.

I am not a nice person on Bumble.

My friends think I sabotage myself in order to prove there’s no one out there for me. I think no one gets my humor (see exhibit below), and that men are time sucks.

(On the left, Rex, the sea lion. On the right, me questioning Rex’s mortality. It’s been months and I’ve yet to receive a response.) 

I get that a lot of this stems from insecurity. Make fun of yourself before anyone else can, reject people before they can reject you, blah, blah, blah. But, still. Why am I so unwilling to give someone a chance? Why am I terrified at actually liking someone and why, for the love of God, can I not get an update on Rex?!


It’s Not You, It’s Me

I’ve decided to start dating again. Which means I’ve decided to go on one date and call it a year.

I’ve been out of the game for quite some time, but I understand it still works relatively the same: you meet at a bar, you forget meeting at a bar, you wake up to a mysterious text from “R. Dumbledore Glasses,” you exchange witty messages for weeks on end until finally someone says, “Let’s just get this over with.” So you meet.

Romance may be alive and well. But I will not stand for it.

My prep for this date begins well in advance. I spend an hour trying to make my hair look effortless. Like I totally forgot about the date (because I’m so busy and important!) that when I remembered, I yanked out my ponytail, walked into the wind and let Jesus take the wheel. I do my makeup lightly. I want him to think I’m a natural beauty. That I don’t even care about makeup. That my big, dark eyebrows are such a hassle (“Ugh! Genetics!”) and not in fact an elaborate illusion.

I imagine what I’ll say when he compliments me.

“Stop, I’m a mess!”

But I’m not a mess. I’m a masterpiece.

Next, I call my roommate into my room for the dressing portion of the program. I have no idea what to wear. My black jeans feel too fancy, my boyfriend jeans no longer fit. I’m not mad about it; I’ve always wanted an ass that won’t quit. But not having these jeans really spoils my cool/casual idea.

“What’d you wear last time you saw him?” She asks

“My Slytherin shirt,” I respond.

She nods, and tells me to wear the black jeans, a cotton t-shirt and my leather jacket. I put them on and observe.

“I look like a little dick,” I say.

“No, you don’t,” she says. “But we need to give you a waistline.”

We then attempt to tuck my shirt into my jeans in a haphazard way. Like somehow, I raised my arms, and the front, left edge of my shirt made a miraculous leap into the waist of my jeans, falling **just so**.

15 minutes later, we nail it.

5 minutes later, I have to pee and we have to start all over.

When I’m finally deemed fit for public viewing, we head to the kitchen for shots of tequila. My roommates and I started this ritual my first month in Chicago when, against all odds, all three of us had a slew of dates lined up. Before each date, we all took a shot. None of the men stuck. But the tequila did.

I meet my date at the bar and am pleased with myself for recognizing his face. It’s been over two months since we met, and the last we saw each other, I was so drunk I admitted to being a Hufflepuff.

In spite of this, our conversation flows pretty comfortably. We reintroduce ourselves, talk about work, friends and relationships. He asks if I’m on Bumble.

“I don’t have time. Wait, that’s a lie. I could make time, I just don’t want to. Dating is such a waste of mental space, you know?”

I sip my drink.

“Why? Are you on Bumble?”

He is.

Later, we exchange of pick-up line horror stories. I tell him my favorite: the time a man offered to buy me a drink because I looked “vulnerable.”

“I hate it when men offer to buy me drinks. It’s like, ‘Go away! I don’t want to talk to you!'”

We sit in silence for a moment.

“You know I’m going to buy your beers, right?”

“Yeah. Sorry. My bad.”

I sip my drink.

At the end of the date, he asks if I had a good time.

“Honestly, I can’t tell,” he says.

This shocks me. And it is at this point I realize I spent the entire date shitting on romance. I was the dating equivalent of a bad interviewer. Had our conversation actually been a job interview, it would have gone something like this:

“So, what interests you about this job?”

“Nothing really. I don’t even want to work.”

No wonder this man thinks I’m an asshole.

But I’m not an asshole. I just don’t know what I want, and, apparently, that reads loud and clear. I don’t want a boyfriend, but I enjoy the attention of men. I enjoy the attention of men, but I hate the power this gives them. This imbalance of power is a constant struggle in my life. I let everyone else dictate how I feel about myself. So when I say I don’t want to “waste the mental space on dating,” I mean I don’t want to waste time working through the self-loathing that inevitably follows.

Or as I prefer to put it, I’m just too damn busy and important!

Tax Day

“I’ve made a horrible mistake.”

This is the first thing I said to the UPS Store clerk when I walked in 15 minutes before closing on April 17.

I’d just finished my taxes. And I needed help.


I didn’t care that he wasn’t a CPA. I didn’t care that this wasn’t the post office. I needed a government official. An authority figure. And he was the closest I could find.

“I’ve made a horrible mistake,” I repeated. “Several, actually.”

He laughed. Asked me what I did, what I needed.

“I think I need to print my returns, but I’m not sure. Do you think I need to print them?”

He shrugged.

“I submitted them online, but it told me to print something and mail it in. That seems ridiculous. Do you think that seems ridiculous?”

He shrugged again.

“I feel like I’m missing something. Do you think I’m missing something?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure. I’ve never done my taxes myself,” he admitted.

While I was not attracted to this man, this struck me as an immediate turn off. I like my men independent. Self sufficient. Smart enough to do their own taxes and fuck up their own taxes like a responsible adult. Certainly, I should have never been allowed to start mine without a CPA present. But still. What a little bitch ass.

“I have a voucher. I owe a million dollars. Not a millions dollars. But a lot. This is my first time being self-employed,” I gushed. I tend to over-share when I’m nervous.

“I think you just need to mail that voucher,” he said. “Want me to print it?”

I emailed him the voucher and he handed me a blank envelope.

“Here. Start addressing this while I go print your stuff in the back,” he said.

I studied his face. At this point, I was certain I’d be going away for 10 to 15. And though I knew prison would change me, I hoped I’d be kind enough to thank his little bitch ass when I got out.

When he came back, I handed him the finished envelope.

“I spelled Cincinnati wrong. Do you think they’ll take it?”

“Yeah, probably,” he said.

“Cool,” I responded, as if the envelope didn’t include a check for my entire bank account.

He stamped my letter, dropped it in the mail bin and charged me for his services.

“Thanks for your help,” I said, picking up the credit cards, Euros and receipts I’d strewn about in the chaos.

“You’re welcome. Hey. Good luck, man,” he added ominously.

I studied his face again. He knew something, this government official.

Yeah. I’m going away for a long time.

Things I learned In Ireland

I’m home. It’s taken me a week to feel like a human again, but I’m home.

Let me be clear: I did not think I’d survive this trip. I never think I’ll survive anything that’s outside my usual routine, so this trip was huge for me. I cleaned my car before I left in case I died. I also took my diary because I didn’t want to be remembered by my sad stories and bad jokes. I started my taxes but didn’t finish them, because I can’t afford them. And that was the one thing I felt comfortable burdening my family with.

Self-employment taxes aside, it was a real treat to come home alive.

As anticipated, my journey to the airport was a shit show. I couldn’t find the bus, and when I did, I had to find coins on the ground to pay for it. The bus driver was nice enough to help me. I am, it would seem, officially out of money.

This didn’t stop me from buying a grilled cheese, coffee and two scones at the airport. I am grateful for my credit card, though I fear it will be my undoing.

While at the airport, I reflected on my trip and found myself surprisingly sad to leave. Certainly, I missed my kitties, my roommates and my weekday sobriety. But I had an amazing time. And I’ve become addicted to the record-breaking likes on my Instagram photos.

I did not write every day as promised. But I did take notes of things I learned. Thus, I give you a rambling list of Things I Learned In Ireland:

Never ask for a “ride.” Ask for a “lift.” Apparently, asking for a ride is like asking for sex. Lesson learned.

Irish people are incredibly accommodating. When I met my friend Tony’s mom, she offered me some tea. I turned it down to be polite, and somehow ended up with tea, a plate of scones, cornbread and two shots of Poitín (Irish moonshine). The next day, Tony’s sister drove me — after having just met me! — to Derry because she is amazing, and –

Easter Monday is a thing. And everything shuts down, buses included.

Guinness really is better in Ireland. Something about pasteurization, idk. But you better believe I’m gonna brag about it every time you see me. “Ummm when I was in Ireland…”

In Ireland (see? It’s happening already) you don’t order drinks for yourself, you order drinks in rounds. This was a particularly hard rule for me to follow. I hate when people buy me drinks, especially men. I like to assert my dominance, and I don’t want anyone to think I owe them a ride. But I swallowed my pride for the sake of tradition. I don’t expect it to happen again.

Converters turn hairdryers into flame throwers.

Moms are amazing. I knew this already, as I love my mom to pieces. But seeing my friend Megan in mom-mode was something I’ll never forget. Kids are insane. They ride waves of manic elation and utter despair all day, every day. One moment, they’re laughing like crazy at “rock, paper, scissors, poop!” The next, they’re sobbing because they didn’t want sausage for lunch. At one point, Owen (Megan and Tony’s youngest boy) turned to me and said, “Jojo, I like you,” and I swear to God my heart fell out of my body. How anyone rides these waves is beyond me. But Megan does it without even batting an eye. She is unreal. I’ve always said that she hit the jackpot with those kids. But after this trip, I think the kids hit the jackpot with her.

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Baby sheep look like cats from afar.




I like traveling alone. I was nervous to do this, but I’m so glad I did. I met a lot of great people and I never once felt lonely. I saw what I wanted to see, ate where I wanted to eat, slept when I wanted to sleep. I spent a lot of time sitting at bars, trying new beers, listening to music and eavesdropping on locals. It never felt weird. The only time I felt unsafe was my last day in Dublin, when some strange man approached me to tell me he liked my style (first red flag), asked if I was alone (second red flag) and kept following me after I brushed him off (all the fucking flags).

I like eating alone. I’m a monster when I eat, so it’s better this way. But I really enjoyed my fancy solo dinners.

I like being alone. Which bodes well for me, as I will be dying alone.

People hate Americans. Or maybe just me. Or maybe just Trump. Either way, next time I travel internationally, I’m wearing a Democrat lapel pin. Or Friend of The Pod shirt. Trump is the laughing stock of the world. We are the laughing stock of the world. And we should be ashamed. I know I am.

I don’t have a top lip when I smile.

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Hostels aren’t so bad. I did not – and will not – publish a sequel to Hostel –Night 1, as the details of what followed are unfit to print. I will say, though, that I met a lot of cool people from all over the world. I made a friend from Holland, an enemy from Russia, a pub advisor from Dublin, and a whiskey tasting/donut eating companion from D.C. I met a German guy who offered me a ride (no, a lift! Dammit a LIFT!) to Dublin, and a welder from I forget but somewhere in England. The three handsome Lebanese men (who were delighted to hear themselves described as such) and my two girl roommates – Lauren and Shannon – were among the highlights of my trip. Like a Week 6 Bachelor contestant, I didn’t come to make friends, but I left with some nonetheless.



Miriam, a new friend from Holland.


Sweaty Galway hostel friends in Dublin.


Scones are the shit. I could (and did) live on scones.

People think American girls are bitchy and elitist. An Irish girl told me I was “so normal for an American.” When I asked what she meant, she said a lot of people think we’re like the girls from The Hills and Laguna Beach. I laughed and assured her that I wasn’t. But deep down, I was flattered. Part of me has always wanted to be a beautiful, snooty socialite. So this was quite pleasing to hear.

Craic (pronounced “crack”) is everywhere. Good gossip is good craic. Good fun is good craic. Good sex is . . . a craic ride? Who knows. But if you want to know where the party is, you ask, “Where’s the craic?” This does not translate in America for obvious reasons. Which is why I often worry for the reputation of our dear Tony Kelly.

My hands look dead in photographs. 


From the Game of Thrones tour pamphlet: Coldhands drinks at local pub.

To tell 24-hour time, you just subtract 2 from the second number. I am impressive, I know.

All in all, it was a life changing experience. Something I never thought I would or could do. And I can’t wait to do it again in 40 years when I’ve recovered.

Hostel – Night 1

I survived my first night in a hostel. I did not sleep well, but I did sleep.

My prep began hours in advance. I tapered my dairy intake, and I treated myself to two glasses of wine at dinner to assist my descent into unconsciousness. I claimed the top bunk, thinking it’d have better, cleaner air flow. This was my first mistake.

My second mistake was putting on my PJs at 8:30. My roommates, who turned out to be quite lovely, invited me out with them. I, however, being the curmudgeon I am, wanted to make it clear that under no circumstances was I there to socialize. So, on went the Kanye tankity top, off came the bra, and up I climbed to my sleeping perch.

Not 5 minutes later, more roommates arrived. Three men. Handsome men. From Lebanon.

The girls left to go out and I hung around and talked with the guys. We got along really well, which surprised me. I hardly ever enjoy talking to strangers.

They asked why I was in bed already. I told them I was tired. They told me I was lame. I told them this was not news.

“Why don’t you want to go out?” They’d ask.

“Because I don’t want to,” I’d respond.

And so on and so forth.

Eventually, they convinced me. I buttoned my pants (I’d undone them at dinner), threw on a hoodie and joined them for some beers.

Which brings us back to my first mistake. As you may recall, I’m strictly an aisle kinda girl. This is because I like to have easy access to the bathroom. The top bunk does not allow this. And at 4 am, full of Guinness, I had to pee.

The panic began when I couldn’t find my socks. I normally sleep with them on or nearby, just in case I need to make an emergency toe touchdown. But they were nowhere to be found. I couldn’t imagine traipsing across the hostel floor barefoot. So, I sat there for 30 minutes weighing the pros and cons of a foot infection vs. a bladder infection.

How many times have they cleaned this carpet? Is there a 5-second rule for foot fungi? Is there an OTC medication for UTIs? Or would I have to go to the hospital? And if so, would my health insurance work in Galway?

I decided to brave the floor. I saw my Keds not too far from my bed, so I figured I could jump and land nearby. The trick would be landing softly enough as to not shake the floor and wake my bunk mate.

In the end, I nailed it. If my bunk mate were awake, he’d have seen a flash of a gray sweatsuit leaping from the heavens. It was some of my best work.

Night 2 was #lit. More to come. Now, I’m in Dublin, blogging from my phone at a pub some dude on the bus told me to check out.


I have arrived in Galway. I did not write every day. I’m working on a post about “things I’ve learned in Ireland,” which is basically a rambling list of things that happened over the past few days. In the meantime, here’s a status update.

I arrived in Galway about an hour ago. I took a bus from Belfast to Dublin, and a bus from Dublin to here. Considering I haven’t yet figured out Chicago’s transit system, it’s a miracle I’m not in Scotland.

The bus dropped me right near my hostel. I’m staying in a hostel. I don’t know what I was thinking staying in a hostel. When I got to my room, I found my roommates sleeping. I unpacked as best and as quietly as I could. But it was dark. And I was wearing a windbreaker. And I had to figure out how to lock up my belongings without swishing and swooshing too much.

I got out as fast as I could as to enjoy what little daylight I have left. I wandered aimlessly for about 30 minutes. Fun fact: there are no street signs here.

I landed at a pub that had space at the bar. As I walked to an open seat, a woman looked me up and down, turned to her husband and said, “American.” I blame the windbreaker. And the sneakers.

I shot the woman a scowl and ordered a pint of Guinness. The bartender promptly spilled it on me. But I’m wearing a windbreaker. So the entire pint ran right off my body and on to the floor. Because I’m fucking American 🤘🏻

Which brings us to present. I’m still at the bar, blogging from my phone and listening to a traditional Irish band. It’s good craic.

Ireland – Day 0.5

I do not travel well.

It is known.

I once traveled with a pregnant woman and felt like I’d found my tribe. We both needed bi-hourly bathroom breaks, snack breaks, nausea breaks and nap time breaks.

I get sick on trains, swing sets and sometimes while driving my own car. When I first moved to Chicago, my friends took me on a boat with a cool couple I very much wanted to impress. Within the hour, I was puking off the side of their boat.

But motion sickness isn’t my only travel problem. I’m an anxious wreck before and during trips. What if I get sick and miss the trip? What if I get sick ON the trip? And, of course, one of my greatest hits, What if I just straight up die on the trip? 

It’s thoughts like these that, for the past week, have had me waking up in the middle of the night to jot down notes like, “Look up 911 in Irish.”

You see, today begins my 10 day adventure in Ireland. My first time out of the country since I was 12. My first time traveling alone and my first time doing anything remotely adventurous.

I still can’t believe I booked this trip.

My goal is to write every day. I’ve been slacking in this department, so I hope this will be a real Eat, Pray, Love situation for me.

The first leg of my journey has been a long one. It began on the Blue Line in an elevator that smelled like pee, standing next to a woman who told me to watch out for pee. I felt like puking – not from the pee, but from nerves – so I put in my headphones and bumped my go-to de-stress music: Enya.

When I got to the airport, I met a man from Kentucky. He saw my Maker’s Mark shirt and struck up a convo. We danced around the topic of single-hood, feeling each other out with phrases like, “nothing tying me down,” and “no commitments,” etc. We talked about our seat assignments, at which point I called myself “strictly an aisle kinda girl.” I regret this very much.

When we parted ways, we didn’t shake hands. For this I was glad. My Eucerin cream was safely stowed in my checked luggage, and my hands were starting to chicken foot.

The flight was fairly uneventful. I sat next to a girl who was also traveling alone. We talked for a bit before I knocked myself out with a small bottle of champagne and two Dramamine.

“Don’t worry if I start to pale,” I said, popping in my ear plugs. “I’m nervous.”

She nodded. I wondered why I kept saying weird shit to strangers.

7.5 hours later, I landed in Dublin. I’m still at the airport, blogging over eggs, toast and coffee, while waiting for the bus to take me to Moville.

I hope I get an aisle seat.