Friday, December 29, 2006

Seriously? Hands Up for a New Rule

In keeping with my new and improved dating outlook (ie wont complain about it constantly, but rather stick to only solid, bitter recriminations intermittently), I decided to put all suggestions into play for my return flight to Los Angeles. Not only did I put on the lipstick battle armor, but the mascara and concealer. Quite clearly, I was a woman on a mission.

I even gave that positive affirmation thing a go—well, you know, mostly.

So, when fate intervened on my behalf, I was thinking this is it… I’m going in.

You see “cute boy” had a ticket for 18E. But he got mixed up and sat in 19E instead, which landed him right next to me. He could have moved when the other guy showed up, but instead the other guy just took his seat.

Fate doesn’t get clearer than this. There was practically a big neon arrow pointed to “cute boy” saying “if you don’t talk to this boy, you are officially hopeless and should just start interviewing at convents now”. Ok, it would have been a really big neon arrow to fit all that writing on it, but you get the idea.

Without even speaking to him (well, he was watching the movie and napping at first, it would have been rude to strike up a conversation right off the bat), I knew we had the potential for being very happy together.

He had the sacred set of pluses:

SSP#1: Despite him not being able to figure out the tricky plane seat numbering, the boy reads. He took out a book when he sat down. Not a “How to Shoot Your Own Girl’s Gone Wild Video” kind of book, but an honest to goodness award-winning novel. Seriously, my palms got a little sweaty when he took it out of his bag.

SSP#2: He has a job. He works for an investment bank, which means he’d understand my schedule. At least, I think he works for an investment bank. He pulled his laptop out from a bag stamped with a well-known IB’s logo. He did look young-ish, I hope it wasn’t his dad’s bag. Hmmmm Anyway, I’m going with employed.

SSP#3: Had the combo of cute and polite. He said all the appropriate please and thank you’s. Boys with manners… yum.

SSP#4: No ring. No ring tan line. Yes!

So, we shared a meal. Well, ok, he had his airplane food, and I had mine, but we were sitting right next to one another and did occasionally exchange words. This qualifies as one of my better dates, actually. In fact, it may fulfill my resolution for the year regarding dates with romantic intent. Mwhaa haa haaa

As we got closer to landing, I realized that I didn’t have much time to launch the plan. I had decided that “employed, reading, single, cute boy” was going to get one of my best moves (ok, I only have 2 moves, but work with me here).

I like to refer to this as the “clutch, and blush winningly”. Basically, I take advantage of any significant turbulence or rough landing to desperately grab my arm rest, but I miss and land somewhere on unsuspecting “employed, reading, single, cute boy”. Then, realizing my mistake, I quickly release him and blush, etc.

This has the potential for starting conversation for two reasons:

1. I am a brilliant actress, and have missed my calling.
2. I genuinely loathe flying, and tend to actually grab my armrest whenever there is turbulence anyway.

At first, I thought it wasn’t going to work—we had an unnaturally easy descent into Los Angeles. Every other time, we’re bouncing along like the wind is playing catch with the plane, but nooooooooooooooo today, smooth sailing. And you can’t just throw the move in without motivation. Then you just look like you are having a fit or something, opening yourself up to assault charges, or a serious conversation with an air marshal.

But then our landing came, and I threw the move. Success! I clutched and blushed. He laughed. I laughed. We were Mr. and Mrs. Incredibly Charming. What a great “How We Met” story for the kids.

As we taxied in, he pulled out a cell phone to let his buddy know when he’d be out. I was working on my next set of “Golly, do you work at that IB? Do you know xxxx (which would have been a completely made up name, of course)?” when he finished up his call with “See you soon. Love you, Sweetie.”

Huh? Dudes say that to other dudes, right? Could still be a buddy and not a winsome blond girl right? Right? No? Seriously??

I wasted my best move on a guy with a serious girlfriend.

There needs to be a new rule. Guys who are dating someone need to be marked in some sort of obvious way. Another kind of ring… perhaps through the nose. A tattoo on the forehead. Something obvious, and impossible to remove. No wonder he was so neat and clean—no bachelor there. I should have known. No man with that many SSPs going for him could still be in the wild roaming free.

Seriously! Hands up for the new rule!

Kate, positive dating affirmations my ass, in LA

Thursday, December 21, 2006

The Man in 9D

The Man in 9D

This blog is brought to you from high above the country somewhere. I’m headed east for the holidays, and I have hit upon another little discussed pick-up place: the cross country airplane ride.

I don’t know why I wasn’t better prepared.

I blame the new security restrictions. I was confused about whether or not my lipstick would still be considered a weapon, so I just put it in a clear plastic bag and stuffed it deep inside my computer case. Everyone knows that just a little lipstick makes everything better (and by everyone, I mean people acting like Norma Desmond calling for her close-up). Repo man comes to the door—lipstick. It just makes the experience fresher somehow ;) About to be evicted—no worries, as long as you can grab that tube of “breakfast in bed”. Seriously, I’m beginning to think it should be treated as cosmetic armor. So, if you see me whip that tube out and apply generously—look out ladies, I’m going in.

Which should in part explain why I can’t find mine, Fate is laughing, again. I wasn’t prepared to be called into battle hurtling thousands of feet in the air. My armor is buried beneath my iPOD recharger, my cell phone recharger, my blackberry recharger and the computer power cord.

(On a side note, please, someone come up with a universal recharger—I’m sick of carrying around the entire contents of radio shack every time I go somewhere. I’ll be forever grateful. Thanks!)

Anyway, the reason I need full battle dress? The man in 9D. He’s not that far away though, so I am surreptitiously observing him. In fact, it is sort of difficult to type this because if I turn in the direction where I actually have room to type and see the screen, he’d be able to see the screen. And typing straight is becoming a bit of a challenge because the woman in front of me has decided to nap in my lap. FREAKIN’ reclining seats. One of next year’s resolutions will have to be “learn how to type with breasts” since that’s the only way it is going to be possible on these flights.

(How is it that they recline a fraction of an inch, and yet the person in front of me always ends up on top of me? I’m not that big. What does a full grown person do? But I digress.)

I know—you are screaming something along the lines of “I say, now would be a strapping good time to strike up a conversation regarding political risk and currency convertibility issues, or something equally beguiling”.


But he appears to be asleep. What exactly is the protocol here? Do I subtly reach diagonally and across a row or two and nudge him? What’s the rule? I do have a business card on me. But it’s a tad tricky to get it to him with him snuggled into his sweatshirt and facing the other direction. You know, unless I drop it on him. You’re right… too subtle. Could fall to the cabin floor when he awakens.

Possibilities for a skilled social person—endless. Possibilities for me—maybe I’ll smile when we get up to deplane.

Next time, I’ll know better. Lipstick on for the return flight. Definitely.


P.S. Because I know you will kill me if I don’t tell you what happened—I did end up talking to 9D. If by talking you mean an awkward “Hi!” yelled just a touch too loud in the midst of a ton of people trying to get their carry-ons and off the plane. It wasn’t a scream exactly and not completely frightening, but it did get his attention. And the attention of pretty much everyone around him. Well done, me. But he did say “Hi” back.


Friday, December 15, 2006

LA Hotspot

At this point, we all know where at least one of the nightlife hotspots is in Los Angeles. Anyone who reads knows that Hyde, Les Deux, Shag, Mood and the Boom Boom Room (ok, I made that last one up) are the places to be for all the action. If you want to rub elbows, or anything else, with the likes of Lohan, Hilton and Richie just head to any of those locales (or apparently, the 134 freeway).

BUT there is a magical place in Los Angeles that appears to offer a fine selection of men, and you get pampered in the process. That’s right people—I’m talking about my hair salon. I sense disbelief. Tsk tsk. Would I lie to you? Sure, you’re right, I would, but in this case, not so much.

In the last six months, I’ve met two guys at the hair salon. And not necessarily metro guys either. Why? My hair stylist is determined to set me up.

Much like the priest and bartender before her, my hair stylist seems to operate a confessional, and she is determined to toss me back into the dating world.

I’ve known her for years, so she’s heard the relationship drama. She’s also a dating world convert—she met her husband on after seeing the end of her own 10 year relationship. She’s on a mission.

The first time she tried to fix me up, the timing was… well… let’s just say not optimal. It was the afternoon I caused the black-out because I found out the ex was getting married. The only thing I remember is that there was a guy coming in after me, and she wanted to introduce us. I don’t remember what he looked like. Don’t remember his name. I’m only vaguely certain that he was male. Yeah, not a whole lot of processing of new information that day.

So, she called that one a wash, and chalked it up to a bad moon.

The second time was this weekend. There was a guy in the chair before me. I was under the dryer trying to keep the hair die from dripping down my face—although I’m sure I could rock the hair dye streak face look, if I really wanted to… Again, I didn’t really pay attention to said guy. I was busy reading a fascinating article about Hillary Duff and dabbing at dye.

I’m fairly confident now that he may have had some sort of mental disorder. He told her quietly that he thought I was cute, and asked for an introduction. Cute? Is there a dripping hair dye fetish group that I’m not aware of? I’ve got a big, black drop cloth on me, my hair is mid process, and the concept of make-up was nowhere in the back of my mind. Yeah, he had to be disturbed.

Anyway, he wandered off to go do something, and we started working the magic that would make me into a supermodel (just as soon as they change those height, weight and looks restrictions, of course).

I’m at the point during the haircut where I’m sporting the “Cousin It” look, and set-up guy is back, ostensibly to pay his bill. At which point, we get introduced. He actually seemed like a very nice guy, I think, probably…yeah, I don’t actually know. He smiled and had a nice handshake. He said something like “nice haircut”, which would have been a lovely compliment—but I was still working the “Cousin It” thing (wet hair hanging entirely in front of my face). So, I laughed. And then realized he was serious. Really came out more like an awkward moment at that point than anything else.


0 for 2 so far, but I am confident that I have many more potentially embarrassing encounters to come—1 at least every 6 weeks. Good times!


Thursday, December 07, 2006


I decided to look for a wingman (or a wingman trainer).

Is it a wingman if your buddy is female? Wingwoman? Wingperson? Winged one?

Grant it, with me it's more like "wing-and-a-prayer"-man, but this could be important.

Do you audition for these? Put up a notice on Craig's list? Could I force one of my friends into training?

Right now, my friend B is my wingette. She sort of got trapped into the job.

I was looking fabulous... well, kind of hot... ok, appealing in an untamed sort of way... alright, fine.. sort of matronly. Let's not focus on me, here.

I was waiting for B to arrive at brunch when I spied a table featuring some appealing maleness. Being completely incapable of doing anything about this by myself, I turned to the time honored tradition of whispering to my friend, Wingette.

First, the key question-- does he like girls?
Wingette survey says: Yes!

Ding! Ding! Ding!

Next question, are he and his friend waiting for girlfriends, or at least female companions that are of no blood relation?


We had a brief scare when a woman with a baby stroller pulled up near the table. Let's face it-- that would be my luck. If I can choose an unavailable male, I will. But in the end stroller lady was parked at a nearby table. Whew.

Of course, all of this was being observed with the utmost of care. My frantic turns to look over my shoulder with a half body twist and tilt probably went completely unnoticed. This is where B really came in handy-- she had a nearly clear view. All she had to do was occasionally pop up like a mole to get a good look.

So, I'm tilting and twisting and she's popping, when the guys were joined by more guys. Apparently, a manly brunch was ensuing.

Excellent. All systems go. Here we go... Any moment now...

Yeah, we had no idea what to do.

Now, B is a hot blond, so I thought I'd throw her into them somehow. Of course, I wouldn't have told her this first, just for the true air of authenticity. Can't have her faking the sprawl across the table. But also, she's married. So, I figured if I send her in, they'd be crushed with disappointment that they couldn't have her, and then I could swoop in and charm them with my availability.

But in reality, I wasn't sure what I was swooping in to do exactly.

She and I decided to go for a casual, slightly saucy walk by on the way out.

So, naturally, they were gone by the time we got outside.

Yeah, we need some training.


P.S. A moment of silence to mark the passing of Max, George Clooney's beloved pet pig.