Mister Tinder

I was debating writing this post.

Mostly because I thought, “Ugh, I just wrote on this blog about dating.” Then I realized that my last post wasn’t actually about dating. It was about my cat. The one before it was about dating. So by taking this plunge, I have officially turned my blog into a site about being single and having a cat. This was not on my vision board.

I met a guy on a dating app. No, I don’t remember which one it was. Yes, it was Tinder. I guess “met” is the wrong word, right? “Matched” also feels a little wrong. Matched feels so formal. Like as if this was 30 years ago and I went into one of those old school video match-making places. I would meet a woman named Judy who would tell me, “Just be yourself!” My video would be me with a perm yelling a little too loudly, “HI I’M CAROLINE. A 24-YEAR-OLD CAUCASIAN FEMALE SEEKING A 24-34 YEAR OLD NONSMOKER MALE. OK YOU CAN SMOKE A LITTLE POT WHATEVER BUT I’D PREFER IF YOU AT LEAST IDENTIFIED AS A NONSMOKER.” And on my way home I would call my friend on my carphone and fret over the fact that I said “pot” when I know that the cooler word is “weed” and she would assure me that nobody would notice. Just then my call waiting would beep in and it would be Matchmaker Judy. She’d give me the news in a campy way like “I have good and bad news. Bad news, you’re about to fall in love because GOOD NEWS YOU ARE MATCHED!”

It didn’t happen like that.  I was watching TV and my phone buzzed. I looked down to find that someone who I swiped right to on my last tipsy Tinder binge had messaged me. It said:


Nobody has ever called me Caro in the history of my life, but I’ll take it. Back home, there was this one other Caroline in town and everybody called her Caro so I always felt like it was her territory. Instead, I claimed the second half of the name to assert my individuality and urged people to call me Line. Nobody did, but that’s beside the point.

After a little bit of banter back and forth, I felt comfortable giving Button Man my number so that we could text. And boy, did he text. He texted a lot. I mean: a lot, a lot. Maybe too much. Definitely too much.

I’m going to continue to show you real texts. Why? The better question is WHY NOT. The ridiculousness of it all is just too fun not to.

We moved into pet names. Well, he moved onto pet names.


We even celebrated holidays together.


And one time he asked me for a selfie. Which was weird.


These went on and on and on. He told me about his favorite spots in the city and what his favorite holidays were and his family structure and how he broke his first bone and how much he wanted to watch scary movies with me.

I thought: This is weird. I am learning way too much about this dude over the internet. We haven’t even met yet. I should stop writing back. But, let’s be honest, I’ve seen “You’ve Got Mail” way too many times to stop writing back.

One major complaint I have about any guys I’ve met online is that, as much as they are willing to message all day long, they don’t seem to have any urgent desire to actually take this shit offline. And I don’t have time to text. I’m busy.

I actually have a lot of time to text. But I would like them all to believe that I have no time to text because I am BUSY. I can fit you in next Wednesday. Or any day up until then or any day after that. I am BUSY but I will make time for you because I have no time to text.

But on we went, texting. I sent a screenshot of the conversations to my very supportive friend Natasha to see what kind of vibes she was picking up. Did she think it was too much? Too intense?


Natasha wasn’t super sure about it, but did not provide a clear answer on what she thought I should do.

Eventually, he asked if I could get drinks one night. I said I could try to make it work because, as we all know, I am super busy. When deciding on a place to meet, I offered a place. To which I received this response:

Version 2

There he goes. Calling me Caro. She doesn’t live here, buddy. Last I checked, she and her half of the name are in Oregon working at Nike. Me and my half of the name are down here writing about being single and owning cats. Keep up.

But, alas, I answered:


And then… Nothing.




I’m assuming now that he lives on the East side. And if you don’t live in Los Angeles, you might be wondering what the distance is between the West and East side. Excellent question. Allow me to use a map to answer that question:


20-28 minute drive is a stretch. It’s gonna take you at least 30 minutes.

It’s gonna take you roughly 8.5 songs.

About half a podcast.

Maybe 1/3 of a conversation with your mom.

A full episode of Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt.

What I’m trying to say here is…


I get it. Cause I sure as hell wasn’t making that drive.


3 thoughts on “Mister Tinder

  1. Wow so much packed into this one entry! Still laughing…. and never, under any circumstances, continue if they call you Karo b/c that’s corn syrup and you know how not cool that would be!

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