All posts tagged: Google

“Brilliant but Insufferable” (A direct quote from the man himself)

“What do you think?” Date #7 asks, his voice no more than a whisper as he slips his arm around my back. “I think I need to write a best seller,” I reply.  “Several, actually.” We’re standing atop one of the many terraces that comprise Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater, the admission to which has been my “birthday surprise” from Date #7, and I am suffering from a serious bout of rich-people envy. The desk on the third floor alone is enough to send me into a tizzy—how could one fail to write the great American novel with such a view?—and each terrace is bigger than the last. “You could host some really great parties here,” I muse. Date #7 just nods and I surmise that he’s probably not the party hosting type. At the conclusion of our tour, he leads me down the path to a clearing in the woods that offers the best view of the house.  Once I’ve snapped my fill of pictures, he hands my camera to one of the guides and …

My Claim to Fame: Indecent Exposure

Every once in a while, when I’m bored and trying not to obsess over my text messages (or lack of lack of text messages, as it were), I like to take a look the “Site Stats” on my blog.  The stats tell me all sorts of interesting things about my “public,” ranging from how they managed to find me in the first place to which days they do their most procrastinating at work (Mondays and Tuesday, judging by my early-week ratings). Writing a blog, however, is a funny thing.  According to number crunchers over at WordPress HQ, the number one search that sent would-be readers my way was (for a very long time) “public bra removal.”  I couldn’t believe it at first (seriously, bra removal?) but then I checked Google, and earlier this year, if you Googled “public bra removal,” my blog came in at number seven. Well, I thought to myself, isn’t this just dandy? I admit that I do talk rather a lot about removing my bra in public, and that I am …

My Discarded Men

So, whatever happened to the Norwegian?  I don’t know to be honest.  I’m already bored with the idea of “Reader’s Digest Mondays” (and it’s not even Monday!) but I realized that I do have a few loose ends to tie up. And so, getting back to the Norwegian.  We tried to get together after our first date but never managed to schedule a second rendezvous.  I thought about contacting him again last week but it seems like too much time has passed and in the words of my favorite British comedian, I’m simply not “bovvered.” As for the Salsa Date, I knew something was wrong when he told me he was free till noon after last week’s brunch date and I didn’t press him to stay past 11:00.  I hemmed and hawed over how to break the news and finally settled on an email. (Although the following did cross my mind…) Turns out I wasn’t the only one who wasn’t quite “feelin’ it.”  We’ve decided to remain friends and given the lack of drama involved …

Confessions of a Google Stalker

Having just written about the degradations of stalking my various love interests over the years, I would like to offer a slight clarification.  Stalking, as in staking out the campus gym or writing notes about the daily comings and goings of one’s better looking classmates, is degrading.  Not only are actions of this sort pathetic but they will also cause you to catch a cold eventually.  As such, I would advise any would-be stalkers against the stake out approach to romantic encounters. Virtual stalking, however, is an entirely different matter. A few weeks ago, an old friend came to visit me in Philadelphia.  She informed me that one of her co-workers had set her up on a blind date. I asked the obvious question.  “What does he look like?” “I don’t know!” came her incredulous reply.  “It’s a blind date!” “You mean you didn’t Google him?” “No,” she shook her head.  “I found him on Facebook but his security settings are too high to see his profile.” “Facebook?” I cried.  “Facebook is for amateurs!  You …

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 …

To Disclose or Not to Disclose?

For our second date, the Man from Marshalls and I are going to an art gallery.  An actual art gallery!  It’s an opening reception, to be exact, and just in case that wasn’t cool enough, I know the artist.  She’s a co-worker, and I have a feeling that she invited me only because she invited everyone in her address book but I still can’t quite contain myself.  I, Kat Richter, have been invited to an opening reception!  And the Man from Marshalls has agreed to come with me, which means that I’ll be going with a date!  Look out, Philadelphia, I have arrived. There’s only one problem.  The Man from Marshalls, aka Date #16, doesn’t realize that he’s Date #16. This was brought to my attention during a recent conversation with my friend in Lyon.  “He knows about the blog, right?” she asked. “Well, no,” I replied, “Not exactly.  But I gave him my card when we first met.”  It’s not my fault if he didn’t immediately run home, turn on his computer and run …