It used to mean a really big number

goo·gol

[goo-gawl, -gol, -guh l]
noun;
a number that is equal to 1 followed by 100 zeros and expressed as 10 to the hundreth power;

I remember learning about the word googol in 4th or 5th grade. Its origin is dated somewhere between 1935 and 1940 and was introduced by U.S. mathematician Edward Kasner (1878–1955). Allegedly his 9-year-old nephew, Milton Sirotta, invented it when asked what the biggest number he could think of was. I wonder if Kasner’s estate ever reaped any royalties from the apparent rip-off of their word. Or did it become like the words “kleenex,” or “xerox,” now in use as common terms; no longer exclusive brands that can claim copyrights.

But let’s talk about the term “google” as it applies to our current era. Like the ubiquitous terms I mentioned previously, it’s now become a word in its own right. After a quick google search for the term “Google,” Wikipedia has this to say:

“Google was founded by Larry Page and Sergey Brin while they were Ph.D. students at Stanford University. They incorporated Google as a privately held company on September 4, 1998. Its mission statement from the outset was ‘to organize the world’s information and make it universally accessible and useful’, and its unofficial slogan was ‘Don’t be evil’.”

Ah, “Don’t be evil”—who knew the evil that would be wrought. Like the proverbial Pandora’s Box, Google has made it so you can find out just about anything about anything or anybody that your stubby little fingers can type as long as your quicksilver mind can figure out the proper keywords. Which is usually pretty easy since I think it was created for even the simplest of minds to maneuver. You just have to do it.

So…

There was this one guy who’d been trying to connect with me for a few weeks. I liked his profile; certainly liked his photos—as a matter of fact he was downright gorgeous. It seemed every time I responded to his messages he never wrote back. I figured he was trolling for women; anyhow, why would someone that good-looking need this? Profile says medical profession: long hours, tough to meet people. I’ll buy that.

One evening he messaged me and we finally connected at the same time (we were both online at that moment) and I naively (20/20 hindsight) agreed to correspond via text. I told M I’d text him later so I could mull it over.

Having an old flip phone with no keyboard, the texting session was painful. Seems as if I was asking all the questions and he was giving one-word answers. Christ, why bother? Then he asked if I had any more pics. I had no idea this was code for “naked photos of myself.” So I said sure, but I’d have to e-mail them to him. Sent him a couple promo shots of me and my band. Nothing revealing, not glamorous. Just rather cool and I thought I looked pretty good in them. At least I had his full name from the e-mail address. Pretty cagey, was I.

My sister’s standard nude photo of herself

I agreed to meet him at a local Starbucks. Funny, a couple of days before that I started having the sense that he wouldn’t show up. Mostly because M seemed too good to be true and I doubted I’d keep his interest. (Ah, that little demon doubt again.) In a panic I called my sister: how much cleavage should I show? Any? A little? Her sage advice was to wear what I was comfortable in, he has to see me as who I am. Just unbutton the blouse one more button than normal.

Got myself ready regardless: hair and lips glossy, very light cologne, nonchalantly casual jeans, cobalt blue blouse for my eyes—unbuttoned one additional button. Pretty good for a woman of my advanced years. Heart pounding, I went in 5 minutes after the appointed meeting time. Nope, not there. I knew it. Got myself a cup of tea and figured I’d drink it and see what happens. Funny, the last time I was stood up I was 19 and in college waiting for my boyfriend to pick me up for a trip to Florida. I was devastated that time but now not so much. Bottom of the cup later, I texted my sister, we had a good laugh, and I took myself off to Barnes & Noble for a new sci fi novel and a sandwich. Had a lovely evening all to myself.

But wait, this doesn’t end here just yet. Out of curiosity, and most definitely too late, I Googled his name which I now know I should have done earlier—if not first thing. His name came up on a site for busybodies who can report alleged affairs. Stories of how he got scores of women to send him nude photos and how he kept them all in his phone and computer much to the ire of the girlfriend(s) du jour. I wouldn’t send anyone nude photos of myself, but if that’s what floats your boat, and it’s between consenting adults, who am I to judge? No, I’m not judging him for that. I just don’t like the rudeness of not showing up. To me that’s what’s unforgiveable.

Experience is something you get right after you need it.

I have since learned that most of the men that I’ve had e-mail conversations with have indeed googled my name, and there’s quite a bit of information about me out there in cyberspace. There’s nothing on the internet that I’m embarrassed about, most of it has to do with my profession or my music since it’s important for me to keep an online presence. The occasional personal item will show up such as my parents’ obituaries, but again, nothing there to hide. In any case, I’m not the type of person who has much to hide. Two kids, work, and former relationships like most everyone else. No arrests (yet) or even unbecoming behavior. And certainly no compromising photos!