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Caitlin lives in Brooklyn and spends her days practicing random acts of journalism while buying more albums/concert tickets than is financially prudent. She likes lemon water, ring pops, '90s radio on Spotify and tapestries. She tweets about music and being awkward at @ctrembz.
Anyone who has spent a marginal amount of time on any dating site or just dating in 2013 in general knows that sexting has become the go-to way to secure a weekend hook-up or even a potential long-term mate. Give your number out in a bar? At least half the the time you’re going to get a “Hey, met you at the bar, I’m really horny right now, what are you wearing?” (If you meet people in bars and this does not happen, I would like to hang out with you.)
I met a dude on OkCupid. We’ll call him Dudebro, because he was decidedly dudebro-y but seemed to have a great job and care about a lot of the same things I did. After a week’s worth of exchanging basic info and innocent flirtations through messages on the site, we exchanged phone numbers and decided to meet for a drink in a few days. But before we even met in person, Dudebro started sexting me in the middle of the day. While I was at work.
I didn’t answer him until I got home that night when I told him, in the spirit of honesty, that I didn’t feel comfortable sexting someone I hadn’t even met yet, not to mention that I was at work. He said he understood completely and apologized. He even said he appreciated my honesty. I was relieved and excited that I had apparently met someone who wasn’t awful on OkCupid. (Amirite?)
We continued flirty texting until our drinks date but when I went to the bar to meet him he never showed up. I texted him. I called him. Nothing. A few days later I got a message on OKC from him saying he couldn’t date a girl who wouldn’t sext.
When did refusal to sext become a dealbreaker?
I hate to cuddle. In relationships I’m a hugger not a cuddler. Is that weird? Do I get my lady card revoked? What’s the obsession with cuddling, anyway? Who placed such a high premium on being interlocked with someone else for such a long time?
I’d like to find the first person who was like “Hey, let’s just lay here and hold each other,” yank them aside by the ear and tell them they’ve ruined everything for people like me, who place an importance on personal space.
Cuddling is awful. Unless we’re about to freeze to death or tandem sky-diving I don’t want to be attached to someone else for longer than 60 seconds, tops.
Story time.
The weekend after my 19th birthday the guy I had been consistently hooking up with for about eight months asked me to spend the weekend at his house because his parents were out of town. So I did. It lasted one night. In the early morning hours of Saturday morning I got dressed and left quietly. I called my mom crying. I felt like I had somehow failed as a person because I just wanted to go sleep in my own bed, in my own space.
The guy was furious and ranted about how my stealth departure made him feel rejected. I tried to explain that I just like my own space but he wasn’t buying it, and for a while, I didn’t believe myself either.
Dear Engaged People with Single Friends,
As you embark on the exciting, yet probably headache-inducing journey that is wedding planning (I used to have cable and a reality TV addiction so I know how it goes) I implore you to consider one tiny little idea that could benefit all the single ladies (and gentlemen) that you plan to invite to your nuptials.
Assign us a date.
Please. I’m not kidding. Seriously.
Ever wonder what happened to Mark McGrath of Sugar Ray fame? I haven’t because I’ve been keeping tabs on the King of Frosted Tips. Don’t tell anyone, OK?
Mark (yes, we’re on a first name basis) seems very reluctant to let go of the late ‘90s early ‘00s, and why should he? They rocked.
Last summer Mark orchestrated the Summerland Tour with that douche-y guy from Everclear. My friends and I roadtripped to the show in Woodstock, NY and called it ‘90s Palooza because it had everything: Sugar Ray, Marcy Playground, Gin Blossoms, Lit and (sadly) Everclear.
Turns out the tour only exacerbated Mark’s obsession with the ghost of fame past because this past week he announced quite possibly the greatest thing to ever happen to anyone longing for the ‘90s and a tropical vacation.
The Mark McGrath & Friends Cruise.
Yes, CRUISE. As in on a boat. With Mark McGrath. And pretty much every other man that made an appearance in my ‘97-’03 celebrity dah (with the exception of Jared Leto).
Rooms for three days on said Boat of Wet Dreams Past start at $649 (per person) but check out this lineup: Sugar Ray, Smash Mouth, Gin Blossoms, Cracker, Spin Doctors, Vertical Horizon, The Verve Pipe and Marcy Playground.
They left Everclear at home! The only way this cruise could get better is if they also booked Semisonic and handed out $50,000 to everyone at the end of it.
It was, essentially, to just stick out my tongue at any and every boy.
One of the first pieces of fatherly advice my Dad imparted to me as a freshman in high school went something like this: “Caitlin, boys only want one thing. To get in your pants. Make sure they know that ‘no’ means ‘no,’ and if they don’t like that you kick them right in the…”
Every time my Dad would tell me that he’d have a different slang word for “balls.” “Kajoobies” is a personal favorite. He would also add: “I know this is what boys want because I was one!”
The holidays always make me realize how many great guys I have in my life–and I don’t just mean my dah. My Mom is one of my best friends but I’m a total Daddy’s girl. Not in the sense where I bat my eyelashes and get whatever I want, but in the sense that to this day, I take everything he says as the gospel truth. This complicates things when he jokes around, which is often. Same goes for my grandfathers. My Dad taught me more about love than I could have ever learned on my own by trial and error and forget all those “self-help” books.
Whenever my Dad would give me the “boys only want to get in your pants” speech it always ended the same way. When he was done instructing me on how to kick them to cause the most physical pain, he would look me in the eye and say: “Remember this. No boy, not a single one, will ever love you as much as I do.”
It’s the kind of courtship that only comes once every four years. And eventually, after all is said and done, on one fateful evening in November, that courtship turns into a four-year relationship.
The presidential election and the preceding campaign is a complex web of he-said, she-said, he did what?, Oh no he didn’ts, I wish he dids–it’s a lot like modern dating, in a way. With each candidate trying to be every guy at any given time for any given voter. Some call it “appealing to the constituency,” when in reality it’s just courtship, or whatever is we’re calling “wooing” these days. When the candidates make their stump speeches in swing states they’re really just “hey girl”-ing the crap out of undecided voters.
This is not a love story. This is not the story of a non-date or a techno-romance. This is not a post about the perils of modern dating. This isn’t even a story about my dah – because the male lead was never in my dah.
This is the story of utter stupidity and pure selfishness. This is the story about how I fucked up everything with (probably) the greatest guy I’ve ever dated.