This guy I went out with once, on our first date, told me he used to be addicted to meth and was actually a meth dealer for a while, plus he dated a stripper.

Awesome, I thought to myself. Please don’t come near me without a hazmat suit on.

Who the HELL would reveal that on a first date?

Newsflash: you’re supposed to be as appealing as possible on a first date, like a dog up for adoption at the pound. 

(i.e. don’t be annoying until you get to your new home.)


(Wait…this sounds familiar.) 

I’ve written about a lot of bad first dates, but when I heard about how this douche William behaved on a date with my friend Kelli, my jaw dropped.

She WISHED he had been a meth dealer.


Just kidding mom.

Even though they met on the horrible dating website (they’re all horrible, really) Tinder, he was cute, had a proper job and he suggested they meet at a cool new hot spot in town.

Kelli stalked his Facebook page (research!) before their date and his pictures were fun, happy—48 likes on a profile picture! Hello Mr. Popular!!!

(Second newsflash: Facebook is not reality.)

Kelli said the minute she saw him, she got excited. 

But then the minute he started talking, she wanted to slam her head against the beautiful copper bar top. 

If I were the editor of Urban Dictionary, his picture would be under the definition for “douche.”

First, over a bottle of wine that SHE PAID THE BILL FOR (I can’t even), he asked her about her religion, which is a DON’T on a first date.

But Kelli responded anyway, saying she was raised Catholic and went to Catholic School, like most people in New Orleans.

William wasn’t a good listener.

“So, are you Jewish?” he asked her TEN minutes later.


Oy vey.

William then decided to show off his sensitive side by telling her that he was with his ex-girlfriend for too long because right when he wanted to break up with her, her dad “dropped dead” and man, TIMING SUCKS.
Uhhh that’s not the only thing that sucks.

Newsflash #34729342895: Worse than talking about religion on a first date is talking about parents dying, because IT’S REAL, YA’LL.

And it just so happened that Kelli’s mom had passed away the previous year, and she was heartbroken.

“Yea, so her dad DROPPED DEAD and I had to go with her to the FUNERAL,” William said.

“I hated having to be NICE to her because I really couldn’t stand her.”

What an insensitive prick.

Kelli said William kept using the phrase “dropped dead.”
It was gross.


Kelli tried to keep it together, but all she could think about was her own mom’s death and going to her own mom’s funeral and thinking about the guy she was dating at the time and she teared up right there at the bar.

“I’m sorry, I have to leave,” Kelli said. 

It was then that William finally got around to paying attention to her, and saw she was upset.

Did he care?

No, he didn’t care.

Movie scene time!!!!!


“I’m sorry, I have to leave,” Kelli said.

“Good, see ya, I ran into another ex-girlfriend before our date and we are going out tomorrow and I’m still in love with her,” he responded.




(Ed note: Yea right. That’s probably what he says to every girl who walks away from him.)
William didn’t even ask her if she was OK!

Or even ask her what was wrong!


Who DOES that??!?

48 Facebook DISLIKES!!

I mean, were there hidden cameras somewhere?

Did she really pay $30 to sit at a bar with a douche who made her cry?


“Do you want the number for the former meth dealer?” I offered.


Oy vey.



“You don’t tell guys you date about your Toolbag Tuesday blog, do you? 
Because I can see how that would be a little intimidating.”
I was asked this question by a guy friend recently.
The answer is no, and I try really hard to keep it under wraps as long as possible.
For example, if I become friends on Facebook with a new guy, I will tirelessly hide each and every Tuesday post going back months and months. 

(If he wants to stalk me all the way back to last August, then he’s asking for it.)
Of course, I tell the guys I like who matter about my blog…but only after enough time has gone by so they don’t think I’m just this man-hating A-hole.
Also, I write OTHER things on this blog, too, which leaves me wide open to scrutiny from guys who don’t know how really charming I am in real life. (ha)
I don’t know, maybe some guys who read my blog might find it attractive that I can write full sentences and know the difference between “then” and “than.”
But I was thinking about that initial question lately – Do you tell guys you date about your blog? – And then I got to thinking about karma.

Especially because I’m single and will hopefully meet someone awesome soon. 

But will I meet anyone awesome if every week I write about hating on men? 

Is that negative energy surrounding me like a duderepellant???
I mean, two guys I’ve dated have actually said, “you’re not going to write about me in Toolbag Tuesday!”…so there’s that.
SO…after several minutes of deliberation, as a social experiment, I’m giving up Toolbag Tuesday for Lent.
Yes, Lent.
Silly Catholics.
But don’t worry, reader from Australia who keeps Google searching“Toolbag Tuesday!!!!!!” 

It’s just for 40 days.
And I’ll still post things about life.  And Mardi Gras.
I’ll even try to post a new blog on Tuesdays.
My digital diary!!
But, since tomorrow starts Lent, I’ll leave you with a tiny little toolbag that’s relevant here today.
No proper boyfriend I’ve ever had has ever been interested in reading my blog. 

Any posts.
…Mainly because all I date are unsupportive A-holes.
I even set up my blog with one boyfriend so that anytime I posted any blog at all, it sent the post directly to his email address, body and everything.
Right there in the email! 

No clicking required!
One day I had to ASK him if he read it (because I posted a blog about HIM and Jazz Fest), to which he said no, he “didn’t have time,” without realizing that he had sent me a dumb email forward earlier that day.
Here’s to no more Toolbags!!!! 

At least until Easter.
Stay tuned.


I always find it hilarious when people in relationships say, “WHAT, YOU DON’T TRUST ME??” when they’re caught in a sketchy situation.

It’s not a matter of trust. It’s a SKETCHY situation. 

It’s the same thing as when your high school teacher found an answer key written on…your leg.
(Uh, for example.)

“What, you don’t trust me?” 


Only cheaters say that. 
Case in point: Toby, this guy my friend Sarah dated for several months.
Sarah and Toby immediately got into an intense relationship, where Toby said and did all these wonderful things from the get-go. They went on vacation together and slept at each other’s houses every night. He was pretty much perfect.

Sarah said she had never been with anyone who had been so sweet before.

But then she peeked at Toby’s phone screen when it chirped early one morning and saw a text message from a number not saved in his phone.

“Good morning!” was the message from the stranger.

After some, ahem, digging, Sarah saw Toby’s first and only text to this person: “I’ve been thinking about you all day”



A SKETCHY situation.

“Who is that??” Sarah demanded. 

And that’s when Toby went into a very involved explanation.

“It’s a girl I knew in college, who I just found out has cancer,” he said. “I was telling her that I was thinking about her.”


“Why isn’t her number saved?” Sarah asked.

“Because my fraternity brother just sent me her number.”


Could that be the explanation for an innocent situation? Sure.

But instead of proving it, or showing Sarah the messages between him and his fraternity brother, or even telling her the name of the girl, Toby became defensive.

“WHAT, YOU DON’T TRUST ME??” he asked.


And then Toby then flipped the switch from being super sweet to ignoring Sarah’s calls and texts after that.


What kind of response is that???

Sarah said Toby then disappeared completely, not answering his phone three weekends in a row and then saying he “just fell asleep.”


So basically sketchy on sketchy on sketchy.

A five-year-old could have seen right through him.



I’d say he gets an F, much like I did on my high school Spanish exam.

Wait, scratch that. Not an F. 

An S!!! S for sketchball.

Still, a fail.



Weddings can be tricky to bring a date to, especially when you don’t really have a defined relationship with said date.

Like, even though your date spends the night at your place frequently, are you allowed to hit on other other people at the reception?
Or, not tell someone hitting on YOU that you’re with a date?
Is it OK, if your date is not your proper boyfriend or girlfriend, to ignore them for a good portion of the night?
Miss Manners says you can not do any of these things at a wedding.
This isn’t a crawfish boil. This is your PLUS ONE, people. Have some respect. (Also, God is watching.)
As such, if you ARE interested in doing any of the above things, then just go to the wedding alone.
Chance, this guy my friend Marie dated, not only turned out to be a shitty wedding date, but also a shitty person. And it only took the uniting of two souls before the presence of God to figure it out.
Chance and Marie had been hooking up on-and-off for about a year and he surprised her by inviting her as his date to a wedding that he was standing in.
…If only he had gone alone.
He certainly consideredgoing alone, based on a thoughtful text to Marie the next day saying that he “debated 100 percent” about whether asking her to attend or not.
Since Chance was in the wedding, ALL EYES ON HIM, YA’LL, he frequently left Marie alone to go mingle with others, take pictures or dance with other people. During the three-hour reception, I never saw him sitting next to her once.
Marie was (somehow) fine with it, sitting at the table talking to mutual friends and getting her own drinks.
It was at the after-party, after the reception, that things got un-holy (haha).
Marie was finally looking forward to hanging out with him, yet he seemed more interested in another female guest, who had wedged herself between his bar stool and the bar so that his legs were sort of straddling her, and she was facing him.
Marie frowned.
“What are you doing?” she asked, as she pulled Chance aside. “Why are you sitting there getting hit on like that? I’m your date.”
He could have changed the course right there. He could have said, Oh, I didn’t know, whoops my bad babe let’s get you a drink.

(Oh and P.S. sorry I’ve been MIA for the whole wedding!!!!)

No. Chance didn’t agree that he was being hit on, told her it was nothing, and walked back to the bar, same spot, and proceeded to let the same thing happen again.

Not even the most casual hook up partner would have put up with that.

(I, for one, would have slapped him.)

Marie yanked him aside for the second time, and that’s when Chance told her that the REAL problem here, the REAL problem, was that “you’re just DRUNK and stealing my night away.”
Stealing your night away from what exactly?
From home girl??
A fight then ensued, in which Chance said, “you’re really stepping on my toes here.”

No, Chance, your NON-date is stepping on your toes, and you’re not doing anything to stop it.
He was almost encouraging the flirting. 
It was hurtful.
But then it got worse.
By that late hour, Chance was angry and drunk and when Marie asked him if she should just go home, he replied, “I DON’T CARE. I DON’T CARE WHETHER YOU LIVE OR DIE!”
…Coming from someone who she had been spending time wasting her time with for almost a year.

Marie took a cab home and cried.

“I’ve never been so insulted in my whole life,” she texted him the next day.
But Chance wasn’t apologizing. This wasn’t going to be his fault.

“Look I was reluctant and didn’t want a date to the wedding…guess you didn’t pick up on that,” he wrote.
(Side note: THEN DON’T ASK. )
He goes on:
“Just take what I said how you want to, you big baby,” he wrote.
(Side note: ??????#%$%##^@&#)
And the finish: “…And take responsibility for YOUR bad behavior.”


WHAT bad behavior???

Bring him back to the church!!
That guy needs a proper beating from a nun.


I had to drive Adam home at 1:30 a.m. because when I told him I didn’t want to have sex with him, he called me a bitch.


And here I thought dating had evolved since high school.

I mean, I had totally forgotten about all the lines guys try to use to get their, ahem, way.
The lines the nuns at my Catholic High School warned me about.

But here I was, practically ten years out of high school, hearing the same ridiculous phrases that turn out more candidates for the show “Teen Mom.”

“Oh, I see,” Adam said, annoyed, after I dropped the blue-ball news.
“You’re the everything BUT girl.”


“Did you really just say that? God, how old are you?” I asked, still trying to be playful.

He was 33 years old.
He was a 33-year-old bully.

“I mean, I just don’t see what the big deal is,” he said, pulling away.

Not that he deserved it, but I gave him a short list of reasons.

“Well, ONE, it’s a school night. TWO, this is our second time hanging out — ever — and THREE, it doesn’t matter what my reasons are because I don’t want to, so end of story.”

“Oh, so I get NO SAY in this??” he said.

“No,” I said.

I was hurt, because I really did like him until that moment, and now I was super pissed and wanted him to disappear forever. Certainly off my couch.

“I mean, we just met,” I said. “I like you, and I don’t want to have sex too quickly.”

He sat there.
“I don’t understand your logic,” he said.

He then jumped back into high school mode.

His next line, seriously, WORD FOR WORD was:

“I mean, I need to be able to have chemistry with someone in bed, and if we don’t have it, then I don’t know if we can go out again.”


I considered this for a moment.

“So you think people should have sex the first time they hang out to see if they’re wasting their time?” I asked.

Adam then laughed, hopefully realizing how ridiculous that statement was when said aloud.
But, because he had to prove a point, said, “Yes. I do.”

I asked him if he’d ever heard of the term “having sex too quickly” and asked if he thought there was something to be said for building it up and building it up.

“What kind of game is that?” he asked.

Then he started begging.

“Look, I don’t know how many ways I can say, ‘no,’” I said, and then I looked away.

“So don’t say no,” Adam said, trying to get close to me again.

“NO!” I said with more ‘tude in my tone. Then Adam got all bratty. Like a high schooler.

“Oh, I bet you just LOVE holding this over me,” he said. “I bet you just LOVE being a TEASE!”

I tried to remember how the nun in high school told us to respond to this tactic.
She probably would have advised the “cold shoulder” method.

“Stop being a jerk,” I said.

“Oh, I’M being a jerk?” he asked.


“Well, I think you’re being a bitch. I mean, you’re just drawing a weird boundary line and I’m just supposed to go along with it,” he said.

“OK,” I said sarcastically.

Adam then got up to go to the bathroom and I fought back tears of anger about how out of ALL THE PEOPLE in the world I could have gone on a date with and brought to my house, it had to be THIS effing loser.

“Let me call you a cab,” I said to him when he returned, water splashed on his face.

He didn’t have a car, and I had driven his ass around town all day.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I don’t want to hang out with someone who’s going to call me a bitch for not sleeping with them,” I said, matter-of-factly. He was now dead to me.

I picked up my cell phone to make the call.

“I don’t have enough money for a cab,” he said.

“It’s, like, eleven dollars,” I said, on hold. “Cabs take credit cards now,” I added.

“I still don’t have enough,” he said.

I was painfully reminded of my mother’s advice to “screen people well.”

How does a 33-year-old not have $11 to pay for a cab?
How exactly WAS he planning on getting home?

“I’ll pay for your cab,” I said hastily, never wanting someone out of my sight more.

“If you insist,” he said.

The cab company told me that I actually could NOT pay for someone else’s cab, unless I faxed over authority, which was impossible at the moment. And I didn’t have cash on me to throw at him.

It was 1:30 in the morning and I wanted Adam gone forever.
I feared that if I threw him out of my house to let him figure out his own way home, he’d linger and come knocking like a puppy an hour later telling me he was cold and hungry.

I hung up with the cab company and said, “I’m driving you home.”

And that’s how I ended up taking the most uncomfortable 20-minute drive of my life, with an empty gas tank.

Neither one of us spoke to each other, even when I got lost finding his house.
When I pulled up, I put the car in park and waited for him to exit the vehicle.

“Look,” he said, almost sad. “I think we’re both being childish here.”

“I’m not being childish,” I said. He then tried to make eye contact, although I was fixated on the blue glow of my radio.

“Look at me,” he said.
I did.

“What do you want me to say, Adam?” I asked. “Thanks for a disappointing evening? Thanks for making me feel like shit?”

“Well, I don’t think I made you feel like shit…” he started, like he wanted to hash out this issue more.
But I was out of gas, and out of patience.

“OK. Fine. I THINK it’s really late and you need to get out of my car.”

He did, and then looked sad with a puppy dog face looking back at me through the window, and he didn’t walk to his front door immediately.

I sped off and saw him still on the street, staring at my car until I made the turn off his block.

By the time I got home, I had text messages from him.

“Thanks for the ride. Dinner was nice” was the first one.

“I’m sorry we don’t see eye to eye and that makes me sad” was the second one.

“No hard feelings on my end” was the third one.

Ha! Oh, thank GOD there are no hard feelings on HIS end!!!

I didn’t respond to any of the texts, and actually hadn’t realized he sent them until later because the second I drove away, I called a girl friend and told her all about my shitty evening and exactly what happened with Adam.

We laughed and made fun of him the entire 20-minute ride home and she said she knew someone who worked with him and she’d be sure to pass along the story.

You know, just like in high school.


Life with Angela

Yes, this is a candid shot.

Aside from brief periods apart due to school and natural disasters, Angela and I have always been friends.

We first became friends in Catholic high school in New Orleans, but neither remember our first actual meeting.
We spent the majority of our time coming up with new ways to combat boredom and we’d laugh a lot, which would always get us into trouble. We were constantly in detention.

But of course, with Angela, detention had to be funny, too.
Saturday morning detention at our small, all-girls school is where we perfected our cartoons. Our longest-running cartoon starred an annoying pig-woman named Mamma Pigg and she would walk around and…insult people.

Angela and I would each take the handful of loose leaf paper and add to the cartoon during the next class and then pass it back. It lasted for a surprisingly long time; there were secondary characters and everything. I’m sure we got in trouble for it.

Detention was such a waste of time. In full school uniform on a Saturday, we had to hand copy the handbook for two hours on loose leaf paper, including the school’s mission statement.
We memorized the lines, but really learned nothing.
The worst part about detention was that we had to pay the teacher who was presiding over us $5 each to moderate. In cash. If you didn’t have it, some teachers would make you go home. Others would let you leave an “I.O.U.”

With a room of 30 girls, that’s a lot of cash to collect by just sitting there! Mentally counting the cash the teacher was making off us was definitely, definitely the most annoying part.

The problem was that detention didn’t work for Angela and me. It was not a deterrent: right up until we graduated, our whispering, note-passing, hair dyeing, not-wearing-the-school-blazer during mass, cutting-in-the-cafeteria-line little behinds were paying out a lot of $5 entrance fees.
I don’t know if she got a detention for it, but I think Angela even fell into the bayou outside the school during canoe week in P.E. Hahahahahaha
Thankfully I was not her partner, because we definitely would have both gotten detentions for that.

High school was so hilarious.
Angela and I still talk about events from high school and laugh very, very hard. Boyfriends! Mid-drifts! J.C.C. Sockhops! There’s just so much material.

Today, I am thinking about the thousands of memories we have together, since today, TODAY Jan. 20 is Angela’s birthday!!! Happy birthday Angela! Sorry you have to work! Let’s go to Mississippi and lay out on the beach!
And get lost on the way there and back.

In 2001 on this day, we must have done something special for Angela’s birthday during lunch— it was her 18th after all. Big time! We probably brought a king cake to school.
I wonder what we did that weekend to celebrate?
I’m sure we went to the exact same bars we had already been going to…only legally. Ha. Jimmy’s on Oak Street for 50-cent night? (Yes, all drinks were 50 cents). Maddigan’s? Which, uh! The horror! Changed their I.D. policy to 19 and up!!!

We probably went to The French Quarter, where we would drink hand grenades and dance in the street. And did you know 511 Bourbon Street was where the cast from The Real World hung out?? Like, for real, y’all.

Or was it Nick’s Bar? The dirty dive bar that got trendy, in the middle of a terrible neighborhood yet drew a well-to-do high school/early college crowd.
It’s where bartenders throw empty beer boxes at girls who snub them (ahem, Angela) or people drunkenly yell at a midget but didn’t realize that person was a midget because that person was sitting down (ahem, not Angela).
You know, I still don’t know what happened there.

When Joy, my twin sister, and I lived in New York in 2004 for a wonderful summer, Angela and our other high school friend Nicole came to visit, and it remains one of my favorite visits of all time.
We brought Angela and Nicole to a comedy show that Saturday night. Joy and I were really into these comedy shows in New York. There was this once place off Times Square – Ha! (that’s what it was called) — that was decently priced because the ticket got you two free drinks (and drinks were like $10 each in New York, horrible.)

But the comedy club was wonderfully New York, and we all laughed till we cried. Not necessarily at the comedy, but each other. It was just like high school.
I remember we were giggling so much at that tiny table that the lady comic on stage pointed to all four of us and made a joke about how we did drugs with her in the bathroom earlier that evening.
“These are my bitches!” she said. She was wearing combat boots.

We laughed even harder because none of what she was saying was true…we just looked like we were on drugs because we couldn’t stop laughing to even take a breath.
I don’t think we found the comedienne’s drug joke so funny as we suddenly became so uncomfortable that everyone in the club was now staring at us that we laughed even harder. And that’s when Angela laughed so hard she snorted.

Everyone lost it. I mean, she seriously snorted after that joke! It really was the best timing.
“See, ladies and gentlemen??” the comic yelled.
The whole club started laughing, me, burrowing my hands into my face, red, tears streaming. We laughed about it all night. We still do. It’ll be funny tomorrow.

The trick to our good friend foundation is having the same sense of humor. The greater gift is having a long-time friend who you can pick up right where you left off with.
We haven’t lived in the same zip code for years. We live five states away, live two different lives. Yet, we still meet in New Orleans (a gracious host for our exploits) and there’s never a mention of how long we’ve been apart or even a worry if things have changed.
Whenever, wherever, Angela and I can transform right back into our high school selves. This time though, we give our $5 to bartenders. And don’t mind one bit.


Laughing, 1999

Joy and Angela DO Mardi Gras, 1998

Laughing, 1997

Laughing, 2003