All posts tagged: Mobile phone

He Called Me… By Accident

And then… he planted one on me. But before I bring you all up to speed on my 51st date, I’d like to spare a few words for the subject of communication.  Honesty is important in all relationships—especially relationships that haven’t even begun.  As such, I’m slightly freaked out totally cool with the fact that Date #7 (aka the man from across the state) reads my blog. The way I see it, this cuts out the need for those awkward “So yeah, I think I like you but I also think I kind of like this other guy,” conversations.  He knows what I’m up to, he knows how I feel about him and if/when he does finally make it out to Philadelphia, he’ll know what he’s getting himself into. Chronicling one’s adventures in cyber chemistry on the internet, however, is a one way street.  Even though I see no need to stop dating other men until Date #7 and I actually meet, I wasn’t sure—until the weekend— if he felt the same way. “So, how …

Has it Really Come to THIS?

I have blog envy.  My best friend from high school has just started a new blog called Where Is My Suitcase and even though I’m happy for her (and rather proud of myself for having developed the technical know-how to answer her widget questions), I can’t escape the nagging feeling that my blog is getting b-o-r-i-n-g. I spent the entirety of last week writing pure drivel.  Case in point?  Please Step Away from the Cell Phone: 613 words of absolute nonsense on a subject entirely devoid of consequence.  I don’t know what happened.  I never set out to write about relationships.  Dating?  Yes.  Embarrassing stories?  Yes.  Erudite observations on my abject failure to secure myself a boyfriend and pseudo-ethnographic reports on being single and 20-something in Philadelphia?  Yes. But relationships? Text messages? My ill-fated attempts at playing hard to get? Puh-lease!  I’m as egocentric as they come and even I don’t find myself interesting anymore.  In fact, I’ve been overcome by an ever-increasing urge to smack my head into the wall and shout “Enough!  Stop …

You’re Asking Me?

Within the past 48 hours, I’ve had three friends come to me for relationship advice.  “I’m not exactly batting a thousand over here,” I keep telling them.  I’m hoping to meet with up PSM#3 sooner or later (now that he’s back from vacationing in the Bahamas) and both Date #1 and Date #7 keep popping back into my life but I’ve gone out with twenty different men since August!  The way I see it, I’m either sub-consciously sabotaging my new would-be relationships (which, to be honest, wouldn’t surprise me) or I am truly the world’s worst dater. (Or, quite possibly, Fate plays a greater role in all of this than I’d like to acknowledge.  Perhaps I haven’t found “The One” [or realized that I’ve found “The One”] because I’m not meant to find “The One” just yet.) Either way, I’m no closer to securing myself a reliable Plus One than I was when I first started serial dating six months ago.  But this hasn’t stopped my friends from coming to me for advice. Oddly enough, …

Not My Proudest Moment…

You know it’s bad when your mother hides your cell phone to keep you from drunk dialing your most-recently-snuffed-out-flame.  But before we proceed with the events of Sunday night, I suppose I ought to finish up with Saturday. The straw that broke the camel’s back was the text message I received from Date #17 on Saturday afternoon.  Lest you think me the sort of woman who would resort to smashing candy canes with a hammer for no good reason, I was provoked. A few hours earlier, having failed in my attempts to make sense of his convoluted voicemail, I found myself rapidly approaching the point of no return, by which I mean I no longer cared about salvaging our would-be relationship with rational behavior.  Instead, I whipped out my phone and fired off a quick text: I’m having a great hair day and I’ve shaved my legs.  Are we on for tonight or not? (And although I do sometimes exaggerate the ridiculousness of my correspondence for the sake of good blogging, this is not one …

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 …

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 …

A Secretarial Boyfriend, Please

I don’t need a boyfriend.  I need a secretary.  Would it be possible, I wonder, to find one person to fulfill both rolls?  I’m thinking something along the lines of, “Hey babe, could you grab me another cup of coffee?  And while you’re at it, please call Date #9 to confirm that I’m meeting him in Rittenhouse tomorrow night.  Thanks hon!” Then again, maybe not. I’ve been resisting the urge to create a spreadsheet to keep track of my dates (seriously, a spreadsheet?  Isn’t that just a tab dehumanizing?), but now I’m starting to think that my sticky tabs aren’t going to cut it.  Not when I’ve spent the past 48 hours arranging another first date marathon. I’m going with a nice neutral colored nail polish this time because being the mature serial dater that I am (and no, “mature serial dater” is not an oxymoron!), I’ve learned from my past mistakes. Lesson #1: If you want to end up with some seriously messed up cuticles, then by all means: go ahead and repaint your …

New Month? New Men!

You know you’ve gone a bit too public with your love life when a family friend pulls a hamburger off the grill on Labor Day and asks, “So Kat, what’s up with Date #4?” I have since decided that it’s time to commence Round Two.  I’m not exactly sure what this will entail (What is up with Date #4?  And do I tell my new “friend” across the state, “I’m sorry but this isn’t going to work?”  Should I forget all about my fairytale picnic with Date #5 and quit angling for one final Rittenhouse rendezvous before he moves to New York?)  I’m not really sure but the way I see it, it’s a new month and therefore it’s time for new men. I’m a big fan of alliteration and when I was thinking what to re-name my blog, the words “Thirty Dates in Three Months” came to mind.  Perfect!  But then I did the math and realized that I’d have to go on ten dates a month in order for this to happen, which …