Wednesday, April 9, 2014


You've found this website!  It's my secret (original) dating blog.  If you were Google searching for me, this is not my book, or the official site for 101 First Dates:  The Survival Guide For The Single Girl.  This is where it all got started; the messy purging of details of some of my dates as they happened.

Ready to be entertained?  You can read parts of my dating journey through this limited dating blog to see what it can sometimes take just to get to "the One."

If you're looking for the official site for 101 First Dates:  The Survival Guide For The Single Girl click on "for the rest of the story" link above or go to

The book gives you all 101 first date stories in a storybook style, not blog style.  And you'll get the added bonus of learning what happened with each one.

Book hits shelves (virtual and otherwise) in January 2016.


Wednesday, July 24, 2013

Found Him!

It took exactly 121 first dates, but I found him in February 2013.  He was my #121 first date, and I was his first date (after being married for 24 years).  That's right, the dating expert broke all the rules for the newly divorced guy.

And they all lived happily ever after.

Saturday, April 21, 2012

Dating Statistics

Just because I've stopped writing about my dates doesn't mean I've stopped dating. #106 but who's counting?

I'm working on my book this morning - you know, cleaning it up for the public so they don't end up with this massive brain-dump of a blog that you've been subjected to for the past few years. But as I work through the manuscript this morning, I decided to do some arithmetic.

I started writing this blog two years ago with date #51. I was crazy about him. And after that - 54 dates later - here we are. Fifty-four first dates, and of those I've had a total of six men who I thought (on the first date) might be a potential for a real match.

For women who want to find "the one" and don't like dating, I'm sorry for the bad news. It looks like one out of every 10 has potential, and then the two of you have to sort out if you have your timing right.

Not good or bad, just noteworthy.

Monday, April 9, 2012

Date #101 - Last, But Certainly Not Least

His Age: 46
His City: San Francisco
Setting: “Writers With Drinks” at the Make-Out Room, Doc’s Clock, and The Beast & The Hare -- Mission district, San Francisco.

Can we have a little appreciation and acknowledgement for what I just accomplished, people? I completed what seemed to be impossible – 101 first dates. And this one was definitely worthy of my time and attention.

Our date was set for my favorite event, “Writers With Drinks” at the Make-Out Room. You might consider it a test date. If a man can’t hang here, he probably isn’t going to be able to hang with me. The writers are irreverent, bold, edgy, and usually read their books on sex, BDSM, or lesbianism, and sometimes on lesbian BDSM sex, in the case of this evening.

On 22nd street, in front of the old marquee, I stalled to read his texts to see he was already inside, had covered my admission into the club, and had secured two seats. A minute later, a new text: “You’ll be able to spot me easily – I’m the one with the jitters.” Learning this new information began to calm my trembling hands and wobbly legs. How could this be? How could I be so nervous? I just had to remind myself, I’ve done this before (100 times already).

I spotted him holding our two coveted barstools – cute! He quickly bought me a drink, and for the first few minutes he was unnaturally quiet – it was nerves. Sweet. We both relaxed pretty quickly and started exchanging stories before the show started. I found him smart, insightful, interesting and really funny. We both laughed at the same things when often other people didn’t – always a good sign.

He looks like Hugh Laurie, my go-to crush. He is so my type I considered not even attempting a date – chemistry is like crack, after all. My saving grace is he doesn’t sound or act like Hugh or, more importantly, his character, Dr. Gregory House. Having his very own personality gave me a shot at being myself instead of some odd and contorted version of something that might resemble me.

His formative years were spent in New Jersey, which gives him an accent. It’s slight, until he gets animated in storytelling, at which point it fills out. Then he talks about this mother and I wonder if I’m not sitting in her kitchen in Hoboken.

As the show wrapped up, I made quick introductions to old friends of mine, one of which was the bar owner. And I got to say “hi” to the world’s most adorable MC, Charlie Jane, also a highlight. And as everyone poured out of the club, we realized we weren’t done with each other - not quite yet.

Our next stop, Doc’s Clock. A woman looking much like Susan Sarandon’s twin sister with a little bit of Shelly Long thrown in for good measure asked what she could get us to drink to start us on what turned out to be the storytelling portion of the evening.

As we’d stumble onto taboo topics I’d get tentative and back off. Finally, he told me to knock it off – to trust him. That maybe, just maybe he wouldn’t judge me for what I wasn’t saying. So I went for it, often. We had all kinds of treacherous first-date conversations that should have killed any potential for a second date, and it all turned out just fine.

I feel safe with him. We talk, look into each other’s eyes, and kiss, then talk, look at each other, and kiss some more. We repeat this cycle several times. I love my life. Eventually, I look at my phone to check the time. It’s 1:30 AM. In horror, I realize the parking garage I used closed at midnight. BART stopped running at midnight as well.

“Can you drive me to my friend Melissa’s house? She has four children I’ll probably wake them all up. She won’t mind.” I say.

“I could, but I’d rather you stay with me. Don’t worry – we won’t have sex. I just want more time with you.”

What’s a girl to do?

In the morning, he told me I looked pretty without makeup. No one had ever said that to me. In that moment, it felt like one of the best compliments I’d ever gotten.

He was kind enough to lend me his red Converse sneakers, because I couldn’t bear putting on my knee-high, 6-inch-heel stripper boots for the “Walk of Shame,” which we renamed the “Walk of Pride,” on a Sunday morning. So in my short black dress, black tights and borrowed red Converse, I fit right into the Mission on a late Sunday morning.

After a tasty breakfast of chicken and waffles, he walked me to my car, kissed me goodbye and we parted ways.

Broken Rule #1: We discussed taboo topics I would normally save for much, much later: Things like I lead workshops about relationships and sex; I teach dating classes; he’s first date 101; I dance on a pole at the Power Exchange.

Broken Rule #2: I stayed the night at his house – on the first date (yes, I did). Hey – I was stuck! Don’t judge, and if you do, judge how pretty I look in the morning without any makeup.

P.S. An equally if not more successful second date has already taken place. I see a very nice little friendship here.

Sunday, March 4, 2012

My Uterus Rule

22-year-old boy-man writes:

"Hi, would you be interested in taking my virginity? If you are and want to see a picture of me then reply back I will send my pic over on here. I am a college student at UC Berkeley and I am a good looking white guy but am a virgin when it comes to sex and want to get some more experience. I am messaging you because I am seeking out a woman who will be more understanding. You are really beautiful btw"

I write: "Okay, thank you so much - how completely sweet! I have this rule, though. I call it the "uterus rule" and it goes like this: If you are young enough to come out of my uterus, you don't get to put anything of yours in it.

Sorry. I am sure there are many women out there who would love that chance to connect with you. You may do better in a bar, though.

Happy hunting.


(What he doesn't know is that in my family, he could almost be my grandson.)

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

It's Just Lunch - Review

Slowly I slide my finger atop a tall stack of crisp, new one-dollar bills. I draw the first one into my palm and crush it into a small wad, as if it were a soiled Kleenex. I toss the crumpled greenback into an eagerly waiting toilet bowl. Flush. I crouch and watch with great enthusiasm as the whirlpool swirls and sucks it down. I grip the next one, crumple, crush and repeat the process again, and again, and again… two --- thousand --- six --- hundred --- times.

This fantasy is vivid in my mind. Living out this daydream would have given me more joy and satisfaction than the six-month contractual agreement I just completed with It’s Just Lunch (IJL).

I signed up for IJL upon the urging of my good friend in Seattle, who has membership there. In Seattle, IJL customers average one date a week and sometimes more. I thought this was what I was buying.

I gave them a month to get under way before letting them know I wasn’t getting my weekly date. My matchmaker did all she could not to laugh – at which point I revealed my expectations that the two IJL offices act similarly. To this day, no one at the San Francisco IJL office will admit customers have an expectation that chains or franchises operate in a similar fashion – you know, like a Big Mac in Seattle is the same as a Big Mac in San Francisco? When I tried to make this point to the General Manager, she treated me like I was a crazy person for having that point of view, and thought my expectation of chains being similar was outrageous. Huh!

People of the Bay Area, if you think the online dating sites are a waste of your time, and you’re considering It’s Just Lunch, consider this:

With IJL, a six-month membership is $2,600 and you go on five dates. That’s $520 a date.

A six-month membership is $119.94. If you’re like me and average five or six dates a month, it’s roughly $3.63 per date.

But we all know the price isn’t the problem. When spending our hard-earned money, we consider the value of the product or service, the patient and responsive customer care, and the skills and expertise of the professionals servicing us. In a matchmaking service, we hope for one that deeply understands our needs and works with us in partnership to help us find a desirable and compatible match. IJL failed miserably in all categories.

I’m not a high-maintenance woman. I originally had three requirements:
1) His age range be between 2-11 years older than me
2) His location be within 30 minutes from my house
3) His height be at least 6’ (since I’m tall and I like wearing heels)

Week 1: Nothing – crickets.

Week 2: They call with my first “match.” He’s 13 years my senior, lives 120 minutes from my house, he’s 6’ tall – um, no. I pass.

Week 3: Next Match – 6 years younger than me, lives 90 minutes from my house, and he’s 5’10”. Nope.

Week 4: Next match – same age as me, lives 115 minutes from my house, and he’s 5’10”.

I reiterate my three needs at this time, at which point I’m told that even though I stated my preferences up front, they don’t match by height. Great.

A few days later, I get another call. My next match is 14 years my senior, and lives 60 minutes away. I cave – I give up – I have them set up the date. He was the worst match ever.

After this failed date, a month after I joined, I knew I was had. I wanted to be released from the contract so I made the General Manager of IJL a very generous proposal. I offered the company $600 as compensation for the first date if they would let me go. Of course they declined. No refunds. No guarantees. No satisfaction.

IJL touts that they have professional matchmakers looking out for you. Don’t believe it! My matchmaker, while a nice person, was absent, and certainly not matching to my personality, preferences or needs. The coordinators that “take care” of clients were usually unavailable and often remiss in returning calls.

Women of the Bay Area, don’t do it – don’t be suckered in. If you’re unconvinced, and you crave more details, you can read the blow-by-blow of every date, along with a detailed scenario of dealing with this company firsthand, on my dating blog,

For a demonstration of their less than stellar customer service, be sure to read the post “It’s just a drag” (April 17, 2011).

The five IJL dates, for quick reference, are:

Date #89 - April 17, 2011
Date #90 - April 27, 2011
Date #95 - June 2, 2011
Date #99 – August 2, 2011
Date #100 – October 20, 2011

Over the past few years, I have been on exactly 100 first dates. Three out of five of my IJL dates were literally, and without exaggeration, the worst three dates of my life.

The IJL dates couldn’t have been more of a mismatch if a troop of blind, half-crazed monkeys went out into the streets to find my man. While on an IJL date, I often wondered if I was secretly appearing on an MTV dating reality show.

So, my readers, if you’re single and looking for your mate, good luck out there. I don’t know what the answer is; I’m still gathering data, but I can certainly testify that it’s not It’s Just Lunch!

If you enjoyed this review.... please forward it on.

Friday, July 29, 2011

Date #98 - Warning: X-Rated

His Age: 53
His City: San Francisco
Setting: San Francisco – A progressive date starting with dinner at Izzy’s Steakhouse

Let’s start with the disclaimer, shall we?  I recommend that if you’re my mother, my Mormon paternal grandparents or the like, you may want to skip this vignette.  For those of you who prefer your reading to stay safely in PG-13 territory, you may also want to skip.  This is at least an R rating.  Buckle up.

Date #98 contacted me a few weeks earlier, but days before we were to meet, I was bitten in the face by a dog.  The bite required eight stitches right below my right eye.  I wasn’t up for seeing anyone new.

He wanted to meet before the stitches came out, which made me love him just a little bit, but I had to say, “No way!”  I was willing to let him see a really cool-looking scar, but not eight black whiskers woven between clumps of blood with scabs poking out of my face.

One of the things that attracted me to him was his life’s work.  He owns a prestigious law firm in San Francisco, and he’s one of the good guys, representing a cause dear to my heart – the type of man I could get behind and support well.  But at date #98, the skeptic in me didn’t bother to get too overly excited until we actually met face-to-healing-face.

On the date, I discovered he was intelligent, interesting, not particularly funny, and not at all my type, but I wanted to give him a chance.

Over the three hours of dinner conversation, the top two hot topics that he repeated were his ex-wife and his ex-girlfriend.  From what I gathered, there was quite a bit of overlap.

By the conclusion of dinner, I’d learned what his favorite body parts of mine were (and neither of them happened to be my brain).  “I want to date you…” he said, “but I have a feeling you’re a real prude.”  Huh.  Cue to watch the date go sideways.  I was strangely insulted.  I was flooded with rhetorical questions I never asked him, but I will ask you.

#1. What is prude-like about a short black skirt, knee-high boots with six-inch heels, and a cleavage top?

#2. Why does it make me a prude if I won’t act sexual on a first date?

#3. Why was my “prudishness” pushed on me like a character flaw?

This date was officially over.  I thanked him for the meal and said, “This prude has to go dance at a club now.”
“Never you mind.” I said.
“Can I come watch?” he asked.
“Only if we take separate cars.  You can come, I guess.  The club doesn’t open for another hour and a half.”
“We could go get a drink,” he said.
“Fine, but only if we can go to Aunt Charlie’s,” I replied.

Aunt Charlie’s is this magnificent hole-in-the-wall, teeny-tiny dive bar catering to the LGBT crowd and featuring drag queen revues on weekends.  It’s awesome.

I arrived after my date and saw he was sitting at the far end of the bar.  Between us was a group of eight to ten gay men in their late 20s and early 30s.  I pushed my way past the boys and joined Date #98 for a quick beer while we waited.

The berating of my character due to the prude flaw continued.  He pulled at my blouse to show me how I should wear it, if I wasn’t so prudish – and as he tugged, the top of the center of my blouse fell well below my bra.  Finally, I’d had it with this guy.  I turned around to my crowd of boys (decorative bra showing and all) and announced, “It’s time for a poll.  How many of you” – I raised my hand high in the air – “think I’m a prude?”

Cutie-pie boy #1 in his queenliest voice said, “Honey.  In those boots?  You… are… NOT… a prude!”

The others quickly followed suit, commenting on my bra, my skirt, being inside Aunt Charlie’s in the middle of the Tenderloin, one of San Francisco’s seediest neighborhoods.  Yes, it was well documented; the votes were cast, and the committee had ruled that I was NOT a prude.  And on that, I said, “Thank you, my friends.  Now, this prude has to excuse herself.  She’s got to go dance on a pole at the Power Exchange.”

Something to know about me: for recreation and elation, I dance on a pole.  I’m a pole dancer.  I’m amazing at it.  I can climb, flip, spin and more.  I’m better than most of the “professionals.”

I’ll explain the Power Exchange, since I’m assuming most of you aren’t making the scene.  You might guess it’s a bar.  It’s not.  Strip club?  Na ah; that would be too classy.  Give up?

The Power Exchange is San Francisco’s sex club.  Yep, that’s right – it’s a sex club.  It’s open Thursday through Sunday, 9 p.m. to 5 a.m.  I and other women (including transgendered women) get in for free; men pay big bucks.  It’s not fair, I know.  Sorry.  I don’t own the club; I just dance there.

The living-room area of this club just so happens to be home to San Francisco’s best pole available to the public.  It’s in the center of the room at the end of a long professional runway stage that’s under-lit.  At the back part of the stage there’s a second pole for practice.

I like to go dance there on the occasional Thursday or Sunday, and I always go right at 9 p.m., when no one’s there.  In other words, I go in during the off-hours when no one is around but staff – who are fantastic, btw.  They’re similar to bartenders and bouncers, and you just know they’ve seen every single thing.  They’re jaded, friendly, and they like me because I’m friendly with them.

The pole is located in what I would call the living room.  Remember keg parties in college?  Kids may have been kissing in the living room at a keg party, but the real action always happened in the back bedrooms (or so we see in John Hughes films).  Well… it’s like that in this club.  Center stage is me on a pole (if not dancing, I’m giving some other woman a pole lesson), and what else we’ve got going on there is usually some sort of deal-making session or transaction.  In other words, the living room is mostly talk, not a lot of action.  One might see a man trying to talk two girls into a threesome, or a group trying to coordinate potential play.  I don’t listen in – it’s not my business.  I focus on the pole.

This night I walked in, greeted my friends behind the counter, and headed into the living room toward the stage with the man formerly known as my “date” trailing behind me.

Two women in their mid-20s – hipster/vintage/goth girls – leapt up and squealed when they saw me.  “Our favorite pole dancer.  Yay!”

I gave them each a big hug, and I hauled one of the girlies on stage with me.  We worked out some easy spinning tricks to get warmed up.  She was extra large and thus shy about using her full body weight on the pole, and so I worked with her for a while.  I taught; we spun; I danced.  My life was perfect.

About 30 minutes into dancing, I found myself about 15 feet up in the air, inadvertently looking eye-level at someone in the second-story seating gallery.  When I realized he’d caught my eye,  I quickly looked away.  I actually make it a point not to look at men in the club because I don’t want to accidentally start something I have zero intention of finishing with them.  It’s just protocol.

So while I was dangling 15 feet in the air – upside down, mind you – I diverted my eyes to somewhere safe.  Normally, that would be down at the empty stage below me.  This time I chose to look over to my group of girls and ex-date.

The women were gone; it was only my ex-date… naked… completely naked… even his shoes and socks were off, naked… looking up at me… and masturbating.  Nice.

All I could think was, dude.  It’s the living room.  I know it’s allowed and all, but it’s not cool.  Put your shoes on – that’s unsanitary – and put that thing away or take it to the back room.  (Further proving his point – I’m a prude.)

I lingered in the air as long as possible but eventually popped down off the pole, at which time I gathered my bag off the stage and proceed to leave.

“Wait!” he called out, erection in hand.
“Um, no.  You should stay.  Have a nice time,” I said without making eye contact – protocol.
“Wait, you can come over here and talk to me while I finish,” he remarked.
“Nope, I didn’t sign up for this.  I’m out.  Have a nice night,” I said directly, but in a monotone.

Second date? What do you think?

About Me

My photo
San Francisco, CA, United States
Who am I? I am a retired dater. I sifted through the thousands of "matches" online; met strangers for coffee, a drink or a meal when really, mostly I wanted to be napping.

On the good dates, I loved the adventure and the thrill of not knowing how it would all turn out. The daydream of a possible shared future with this human.

On the bad dates, I was willing to take one for the team – for you - for your enlightenment and entertainment.

Through my trials and tribulations, self-expression and willingness to reveal raw human experiences and vulnerabilities, this blog was created.