Guest Post: You attended that pool party. I found myself drowning.

It is a thrill and an honor to feature a guest post by none other than my beloved Ershley. As I’ve been hastily swiping left in the fiery hell of Tinder, my Ershley has been searching the seas for Plenty of Fish.


For those of you that have read the previous Kerm (that’s Ms. Kim Tronic to all of you) posts, you must have a hunch that I am that awful friend that proposed- well, pushed- Kerm into the Tinder waters.

I promise. It wasn’t all bad at first.


It all started back in March, just shortly after moving to Los Angeles. As a serial single at that point and not finding a glimpse of hope in sight, I did the most normal thing any other hardworking chick would do. I dove into work and my homies.

Not too long after, my friend began mentioning this new iPhone app Tinder. After leaving the iPhone party and happily moving towards the new Samsung Galaxy, I brushed it off and laughed at the thought.

I found her quickly glued to the app. It consumed her. We went out to bars. She was Tindering. We were riding in the car jammin’ to Justin Timberlake’s new jam. She was swiping RIGHT and getting matches. And finally… we were at Ralphs picking up grub and she scored her first date. Did I mention all of the above happened in a span of 24 hours? VOMIT.

Once I was home alone, drinking a glass of wine, and cooing over the beautiful French man on Brothers & Sisters (yeah – I’m a serial TV series watcher too), curiosity got the best of me and I logged onto PLAY (the iTunes store for Android). I asked myself, “Am I missing the boat here?”

After searching “Tinder,” “Dating App Swipe,” “Match Me” and any other remote dating terms… I Googled and found out that f*cking Tinder wasn’t available for my silly new phone. What gives universe?!


Before getting absolutely beside myself and worried that I was missing the Tinder party… I found an app called Plently of Fish. I briefly remember my good friend in NYC talking about how she went out on a few dates with some girls and it was pretty entertaining. Although she’s a full-blown lesbian, I gave in and agreed to all the terms and services. The POF app landed on my phone’s homepage, right next to my beloved Instagram and Twitter.

I didn’t want to enter the swim party with nothing less than my hot bikini, smoking elevator pitch, and a smooth glass of “date me.”

I spent the entire night uploading the best yet most realistic photos and crafting a story that told these dudes that 1. I’m not here for a quick bang 2. I have a lot to offer 3. I’m killing it personally 4. I’m ready to meet someone who’s ready to have some fun.

I don’t mean to sound conceited, but within minutes I was getting messages. Here were a few of them. Nothing too exciting.

  • “Hey”
  • “You’re Cute”
  • “Wanna Bang?”
  • “Meow”
  • “Hey I’m Michael. I saw your profile and it caught my eye. I have been on here for only a few months, and saw that you lived in Jacksonville. Have you ever been to Ginnie Springs? I was there for sometime in between the Marines. It was a blast. Would love to hear from you. Have a great night!”

STOP. It took a handful of messages to get something pretty unique to my profile that I labored over? Little win!

Still being a skeptic to the whole thing, I left the message sitting there like a wallflower at a high school dance. Poor kid.


A few nights later, Kerm convinced me to go out for drinks and appetizers (mostly drinks) at our favorite stomping grounds in Hollyweird – St. Felix. After 2 delicious Moscow Mules, I whipped out the app and started playing around. I even grabbed Kerm’s phone and downloaded Tinder in hopes that I could play while she was in the bathroom.  She wasn’t having it, especially after knowing it linked to her Facebook account – ERMAHGERD.

Kerm, being the little instigator that she is, found herself swiping through the 30 messages I had received over the past couple of days. We couldn’t control the laughter and the bartender confused this for sending over more Mules.

I finally got up the courage to message Mr. Michael back and we continued to message all night long. Luckily with all the effort I was putting in, he manned up and asked for my number on my drive back home and I agreed to meet with him sometime that next weekend for dinner in Santa Monica.

*fast forward one week and multiple cases of small talk*


6:45PM — I tried SO hard to be a few minutes late. The LA travel gods must have known and fast tracked me over to the west side. I arrived 15 minutes early. I strolled around the Santa Monica Pier, watching the homeless light things on fire, kids screaming at their parents that they hated the sun, and even watched a couple achieve some hardcore PDA.

7:02 PM Michael called. SHIT. I picked up and said “Hey there… I’m by the pier in a pink dress.” And before I knew it, he was tapping me on the shoulder and cradling me in a huge hug with an, “Ashley, how are you?” By the time I had a second to unclasp myself from his embrace, my mouth hit the floor. Drop…Dead… SEXY… and 6’4! This was it ladies and gents… I was going to be one of the success stories of POF that landed their future Mr. in one date.

7:05 PM — He grabbed my arm as we briskly walked to Sonoma Wine Garden for dinner. We chose a public place because I told him I was being safe just in case he was a rapist. You’re welcome mom!

7:45 PM Dinner was amazing. No awkward silences. We rambled on forever about our families, our stories, and our favorite things to do in LA. I even ran to the Ladies to text my mom and friends that I was alive. Things were smooth sailing at this point.

8:30 PM — Toward the end of dinner, he picked up the tab (after I heckled him to split it) and asked if I wanted to walk around Santa Monica for a bit. We popped into a few bars, walked along the beach… but he just couldn’t get up the nerve to kiss me. I respected that.

10:15 PM — As he walked me back to my car, he asked what I was doing for the rest of the night. I shared that I didn’t have any plans and was going to go back to Hollywood. Without skipping a beat he said, “I know it may sound forward, but I’d love to hang out and watch a movie or something at my place. Is that weird?” I went into this night saying I wasn’t going to go home with anyone. And not “go home” in that sense either. As a serial single, I’ve prided myself on only sleeping with those I’ve been in a serious relationship with. However, this date really had me excited and I wasn’t ready to go to sleep just yet. I told him “Sure why not!” Sorry mom! Then he planted the sweetest kiss ever on my cheek.

10:45 PM — I arrived at his house and we watched some mortal combat movie cuddled on the couch. He didn’t try to pull a fast one, however, a few seconds of kissing occurred and then he wrapped me back up into his big U.S. Marine arms. This repeated a few times. It was perfect knowing that there was no pressure and that there was a chance to find someone awesome here in a new city.

1:00 AM — Mr. Michael offered me his bed and like a gentleman he slept on the couch.  I accepted the offer. He had mentioned earlier in the night that he had to leave for work in Malibu at 5am so I tossed and turned all night anticipating his goodbye.

4:45 AM — Michael came into his room and got ready for work. I rolled over thinking that he would wake me up before leaving, however, a few minutes later I woke up to his Cadillac roaring out of the parking lot. WHAT? I was alone in his house. I didn’t have a key and I didn’t even get to say goodbye.


I walked out to the living room to find a note: “Ashley, I had so much fun last night. Please lock the door behind you and text me when you leave. Talk to you soon J – Michael” What a sweetheart – I wish I had taken a picture of the note. I left the house still wearing my dress from the night before, completely elated. As asked, I texted him thanking him for a smashing time and locked the door being me. Vroom Vroom back to Hollywood.

Later that day, I texted him asking how he was holding up after getting only a few hours of sleep. Nothing. I told him that I was free that following Thursday if he was in Hollywood. Nothing. Where the hell did it go wrong? Hopes, dreams, were crushed. I was completely confused that I had done something off-character. My cynical self said that he 1. Must be gay 2. Pissed, yet a gentleman, that I didn’t sleep with him 3. Was getting back with an ex.

Just as quickly as I had caught Michael, I’d lost him. Fish fried. Number deleted.


After sulking over my experience with Kerm the next few days at work… I found myself clicking through new profiles and receiving new messages. I had to stay positive. This went on for months. 5 MONTHS and nothing stood out as anything special. In all honesty, it got worse.

Here are my top 5 (never!) experiences on POF:

Case #1: NAKED MAN.

I give credit where credit is due, homie. You are stacked! But as a main profile picture? Do you have a brain in that head of yours? I’m talking about the one north of your chest….


If only you said that when you answered the phone the first time. 5 points for effort… but after seeing that you’re unemployed and your favorite pastime is “getting swoll” I nexted ya.

Case #3: THE HOMIE

Is the world really that small that you have to come across one of your best homies since 2010? Come ON!

Case #4: THE BANK

Awww – you want to pay my bills? Although I almost throw up every time I make my BMW-equivalent student loan payment, your generosity has me boggled. WTF.


This guy must not have gotten the memo from the other 1,000 tiger-huggers. Although precious, all your other pictures were with your “sister” COUGH EX GIRL FRIEND COUGH.


So final synopsis: Just like I just killed this bottle of Charles Shaw while writing this guest post, I’ve killed the POF app.

I’ve also probably killed my chances at ever writing a guest post again….

Peace, Love, + Kittens,


Kimmy The Klutz?

After tonight’s faceplant into a glass door, it was brought to my attention that I’m a wee bit accident prone. I object to this allegation. Sure, I trip on the sidewalk every now and then. I’ll fall on the stairs here and there. But am I really a big ‘ol klutz? Let’s examine the evidence, ladies and gentlemen of the jury:

Exhibit A

The above-referenced faceplant at Bevmo. I was minding my own business heading toward the exit and I approached the automatic door expecting it to open so I could glide gracefully through. Sadly, that did not happen. I yelped and everyone looked as I laughed like a maniac and scurried away.

Exhibit B

During my last Tough Mudder, I fell off the monkey bars and on the way down, cut my knee on a rock. Stupidly, I didn’t bother to check the wound and I was wearing skintight black compression pants so I didn’t notice any bleeding. Once I got back to the hotel several  hours  (and countless exposures to dirty Mudder water) later, I took off my pants and saw an alarming gaping hole across my kneecap. Luckily, it was just a small fracture and only took 6 stitches to seal up.

Exhibit C

I have an abysmal track record when it comes to cell phones. Back in 2006, I was waiting tables at the Pinot Grill and famously dropped my RAZR in the toilet during my night shift (hey, those aprons only had one giant pocket, and well, it’s just awkward trying to keep all your pens, wine key, receipts, and cell in there).  The following week I was in the same stall and my new purple RAZR ended up in the same toilet, but this time got flushed away to the ocean. I’m pretty sure that this stall is haunted by some asshole AT&T ghost that wanted to me switch from Verizon. These days I have an iPhone, but Siri has been dead since I dropped her on the sidewalk a month after I got the phone. Nicely played, AT&T apparition.

Exhibit D

My car. ‘Nuff said.


I realize that all evidence will lead you to conclude that yes, I am a klutz. But I implore you to consider other outside factors. Like alcohol. Like the fact that I’m horribly pigeon-toed. Like I never really learned how to park properly. Or run properly. Or hold a cell phone properly. Or write a blog properly.

I Totally Love It and F*cking Depise It: My Relationship With Running

I’ve been running pretty consistently since 1997. Sophomore year in high school, I got cut from the soccer team, so like all soccer rejects, I joined the cross country team. Thankfully my BFF also joined, and mostly we ran at the back of the pack, giggling about how bad we sucked. I continued to run during college, throughout my 20s, and now into my 30s. I’ve since logged countless pairs of shoes, 4 marathons, 4 half marathons, 3 Tough Mudders, and a handful of smaller road races. All of these experiences have led me to one conclusion:

Running f*cking sucks. And it’s the most amazing thing on earth. A beautiful oxymoron.

On Good Days:

  • I have cotton under my feet as I prance from cloud to cloud with a blissful invincibility coursing through my body.
  • A 3 miler turns into a 5 miler.
  • Time flies by in a blur of awesome music as the miles gloat effortlessly into space.
  • I smile at everyone I pass by, wanting some of my happy to be absorbed into them.
  • I’m pretty sure Nike is going to call and ask me to model their new shoes in a print campaign.
  • I wonder how quickly I can train for an ultra marathon.
  • I want to work at Runners World and loudly declare that running will solve all the problems in this world.
  • I’m fairly certain I could keep pace with the Kenyans in the marathon.

On Bad Days:

  • I wonder how my shoes suddenly weigh 10 pounds more today.
  • There’s an invisible forcefield that pushes me backwards while tightly grasping my thighs.
  • A 5 miler turns into a 3 miler.
  • Curse words escape my lips in rapid succession.
  • I growl at everyone I pass by, wanting them to suffer as much I am.
  • There’s a demon in my head telling me that I should just quit.
  • That demon also tells me that my ass will always be fat.
  • I wonder if I fake an ankle injury how quickly I can bum a ride back to my apartment.
  • I’m pretty sure the sidewalks keeps regenerating because I’ve been running along this same awful stretch for at least 4 hours now.

I’ve also been thinking about WHY I run. I’ll certainly never win any races or look like Jessica Biel. So what am I running toward (or away from)? Some of my friends run so they can eat whatever they want. Some do it for the endorphin rush, or because it helps clear their mind. Me, I’m not really sure why I run. But if I have to venture a guess, I would say for the free beer.

What I Thought Versus What I Am

I know that you’re not supposed to compare yourself to others. You shouldn’t be jealous of what others have, or as the Bible puts it, “Thou Shall Not Covet Thy Neighbor’s Hut” or something.  But as I’m around the corner from turning 33, and all my friends in North Andover have mortgages and a lot of babies, I can’t help but take stock of my personal inventory. So, I thought about all the things I imagined I would have by the age of 30, and I’m comparing those with what I actually have at 32:

The house I thought I would live in:

The apartment I actually live in:

The family I thought I would have:

The family I actually have:

The car I thought I would drive:

The car I actually drive:

What I thought I’d do for fun:

What I actually do for fun:

What I thought I’d be drinking:

What I’m actually drinking:

What I thought I’d be writing about:

What I’m actually writing about:


Why Ray Donovan Should Marry Me

I would make him incredibly happy. True, I can’t cook, I don’t really like children, and I would probably crash our new Audi while taking it for a test drive…but I would win him over with my biting sense of humor and give him a foot massage while he plans his next murder and cleans his guns. Here’s why I would make a wicked awesome wife:

I wouldn’t question why he disappears for days, as long as he wouldn’t question why I only eat banana peppers and hot sauce.

I love boxing, and he owns a boxing gym. I would jab my way into his heart.

I’m from Boston, and so is he. Wicked cute. We could gaze longingly into each other’s eyes over a hazelnut Dunkies while talking about the Red Sox, and how Sully is a bad-ass.

I find his arrogance and deep voice intoxicating.

I would totes become BFFs with his cute little lesbian assistant. Chick’s got crazy good style and a deliciously sassy attitude.

I’d become a solid drinking buddy for his emotionally-stunted brother. We’d enjoy cheap whiskey and I would hug him and try to help him stay on a path to fulfillment and stability.

I would try to pretend that his cheating didn’t bother me, as long as he is cool with me cuddling with his emotionally-stunted brother after too much Seagrams 7.

If I ever found a dead body in the backyard, I would stick it in the wood chipper, toss the evidence into the neighbor’s yard, then call the cops. I’m just a good wife like that.

Eye Of The Tinder Tiger

I know I’ve spent some time explaining how I started using Tinder, and then how I came to despise it.  But now it’s time to examine a very baffling phenomenon…

The guys who post photos of themselves with a tiger.

Not Tiger Woods.

A real tiger.

Maybe I don’t lead a very charmed life, but I can’t image where I would be in the presence of a tiger. I will admit that I’m SUPREMELY jealous of Princess Jasmine from Aladdin, who gets to pet and nuzzle Raja. But where do these guys go to hang out with a tiger?

Do you go to a zoo? A rescue organization? Africa? Mike Tyson’s house?

I understand that tigers represent strength. Their blood is supposed to be magical. Their teeth are sharper than a brand new Ginsu. They’re quick. They’re smooth. They’re sexy.  I suppose it makes sense that Tinder weirdos want chicks to associate them with a powerful sexy beast.

Except then the next photo is a shirtless selfie of you pursing your lips so you’ve ruined everything.

Swipe left.

Introducing The Perfect Man…Beefcake Mancat

Look, I promise, I’m not a cliche,
I know I’m kinda crazy, and all my guy friends are gay.

I like bad TV, like Housewives of Orange Skin,
And I eat too much ice cream so I’ll never be thin.

I have too many cats, and I spend lots of time alone,
And I play Bejeweled Blitz from the comfort of my phone.

But its ok, I’m happy, I found the perfect man,
He’s very, very handsome and eats food from a can.

His name is Beefcake Mancat and he’s perfect in every way,
He lives inside my house, though once he was a stray.

His pecs are solid, his biceps are buff,
And even though he purrs, he’s still pretty tough.

He’s compact and lean, and fits in a bag,
But he dresses like a jock and his jeans still sag.

His eyes are so earnest, so soulful and green,
His 6 pack is impeccable, and his deltoids glean.

He’s a great listener and he never talks back,
But he sheds like a motherf*cker so you can never wear black.

He either smells like litter, or overpriced clothes,
So go kiss his muscles, or his little wet nose.