All posts tagged: Text messaging

Break Up 101: How to Dump (or Get Dumped) with Dignity

Nothing from nothing but if you’re dating a woman who writes a blog about… well… dating, you probably shouldn’t send her twenty two text messages when she finally comes to her senses about your relationship (or lack thereof) and decides to call it quits. Nor should you email her.  Or send her Facebook messages.  And you certainly shouldn’t send duplicates of the same messages just to ensure that she gets them. Trust me: she gets them.  And you’re not doing yourself any favors when you call her names and accuse her of being a drama queen.  (After all, she’s not the one who’s sent 22 text messages, now is she?) The good thing about breaking up with a man who’s made you miserable for the past six months is that the actual break up causes very little pain.  Mind you, I use the term “breakup” loosely because it’s hard to break up with a man who never wanted to be your boyfriend in the first place, but I’m proud—if somewhat mystified—to report that I shed …

It’s Not Romantic- It’s Agonizing

So, what’s with Date #7?  I’m kind of wondering the same thing.  It’s been almost three weeks since we first met and until very recently, we hadn’t even spoken.  Granted there were the 80 text messages exchanged over the course of a few minutes last week (and no I’m no exaggerating) and oh yeah—that minor love letter, plus the literary masterpiece I attempted to compose in response, but I hadn’t actually heard his voice for ages. This is because another voice—a little voice inside my head—kept telling me “Give the man some space.  You’re both freaked out.  Do NOT pick up the phone.” (Unless of course he calls you, in which picking up the phone is totally permissible.) So he did, and I did, and we spoke for the first time since we met last month. Unfortunately, for all of my dating “expertise” I turn into a bumbling five year old the minute a man calls me on the phone. And I don’t mean in the cute, giggly way.  I mean in the “I have …

Darling? Seriously?

There comes a time in every relationship when it becomes advisable—even necessary—to commence the use of terms of endearment.  I’ve answered to everything from “darling” to “my little bhabaganoush” over the years (mainly because my boyfriend at the time enjoyed teasing me about my hatred of eggplant), and I’ve doled out several ingenious creations of my own (most of which, embarrassingly enough, have been based on whichever Bath and Body Works scent I’m currently sporting).  But there’s a time and a place for such flirtatious familiarities, and a few days in to an eHarmony relationship seems just wrong. Date #4 used to call me “honey” and “sister” and a variety of things in French which I never understood but in which I nonetheless took great delight.  (Google led me to believe that they were mostly fruit-related.)  He once left me a voicemail that began, “Kat, hey honey, its So-and-so” and because he spoke with the conviction that only a sizeable collection of cufflinks can provide, I allowed him to wax poetic.  (And listened to said …

Twenty Nine Dates

Last night’s dinner with Date #17 brings the grand total up to 29 dates.  And seeing as the Man from Marshalls has already invited me to “hang out” after work, it looks as though I’ll be coming to the end of my official thirty-date experiment in just a few hours.  That said, I feel that an experiment of this magnitude deserves to end on a higher note than whatever the Man from Marshalls manages to conjure up between now and then.  (I doubt, for example, that this “hanging out” will take place anywhere fancy enough to require high heels on my part.) In the meantime, I think it’s time for me to get back to the hard science of dating.  And by “hard science” I mean numbers.  Proper social scientists always manage to cram a few charts into their reports and so, in the spirit of qualitative research, I offer the following: Number of times the Man from Marshalls has called me—actually called me, as opposed to text messaging—since the Fairmount Park Incident: 4 (Let …

Frequently Asked Questions re/ Frequent Online Dates

I’ve been getting quite a few questions about my little experiment, although seeing as I’m gearing up for my fourteenth first date since the beginning of August, “little” no longer seems like the right word.  Since I’ve have a break for the past two nights (by which I mean I’ve been working instead of dating), I thought I’d take the time to respond to your questions, and maybe figure out what the heck I’m doing in the process. (Please note that this “experiment” is a work in progress, it’s about as scientific as the “crack” cookie recipe my flat mates and I “invented” during grad school and, above all, it’s meant to be lighthearted.  If you’re looking for a highbrow meditation on modern feminism, I’d be happy to post a few of my old Oxford reading lists but something tells me that if you’re reading this, you’d rather just enjoy your morning cup of coffee with a side of humor.) Question:  What happens if someone wants a second date? Answer:  I put them through my …

My Would-be Date #14

“Longggg Legs!”  It’s 6:00am.  I’m still in bed because my alarm’s not set to go off for another half hour.  So why the heck is my phone buzzing?  Oh right.  It’s a text message.  I fumble in the darkness for my cell phone, knocking a pile of library books to the floor in the process.  “New message from Pete from Match” the screen reads.  I click “Read Now” (since I’m already awake) and there it is: Longggg Legs! Seriously Pete?  I slam the phone back onto the bookshelf that serves as my nightstand and try to go back to sleep.  But just as I close my eyes, my phone buzzes.  It’s Pete from Match again, and now he’s getting frisky. “You woke me up for that?” I pound into my phone. “U awake?” he writes back. “Thanks to you, yes.” I type. “U luv me!” Yes, Pete, that’s it.  I love you.  You can’t even formulate a complete sentence, you’ve waken me up for a completely asinine text message at 6:00am and now, although you …

Too Many Texts

I’ve received another letter.  This time, it’s not a love letter but rather an email from my younger brother who, for whatever reason, monitors our collective cell phone bills.  “You may want to upgrade your text messaging plan,” it reads.  “Because you’re 135 texts over your limit for this month.” At first I’m pretty damn proud of myself.  135 texts?  I haven’t sent 135 texts since I lived in London.  Back then, I had a proper boyfriend and something vaguely resembling an actual social life but upon returning to Philly, my text messaging went the way of, “Hey Kat, I’m hung over.  Can you cover my shift this morning?”  Since leaving The Shop, I nearly stopped texting all together but then this minor miracle occurred: I started dating again.  As for these 135 texts?  Well, they’re statistical proof that I’m back on my feet! But then I read the rest of my brother’s email.  “You’re monthly plan doesn’t re-set until September 4th so between now and then, it’s gonna cost you ten cents a text.  …