Sunday, December 30, 2007


It occurs to me that my love life has much in common with Cleveland sports teams. I’m always just one step away from victory before total annihilation.

The Browns were just eliminated from the playoffs. They had good intentions, but when it came down to execution, they couldn’t make it happen for themselves. They had to rely on another’s victory—and that team didn’t come through. I also have had good intentions all year long to achieve victory (ie a date with some sort of romantic promise, semi-romantic promise, any promise at all, maybe something involving a man who showers, whatever), only to fail in my execution at the last minute. I could rely on men to actually speak to me, or nod in my direction, but much like the Colts tonight—they aren’t coming through in the clutch (not that I want to be clutched… at least not right away).

My previous endeavors look more like the seasons for the Indians or Cavs this past year. There were many small victories in my past relationship and the season was long, but in the end, I couldn’t bring the title home any more than the teams could.

What worries me is it’s been a great, long while since any of the Cleveland teams have brought the trophy home. Am I like the Cleveland Browns who, unless I’m mistaken, have never even played in the Super Bowl? Or am I more like the Indians who just haven’t won the World Series since 1948?

I sincerely hope that in 2008 I will be in the big game, making some big plays, or at least getting a chance to carry the ball (ew, wait, no). In the meantime, I guess I’ll just have to look upon my love life the way many a fan looks at the Cleveland teams. There’s always next year. This could be the big one…. You know, unless it’s not… again.


Friday, December 28, 2007

New Year's Eve

It should surprise no one that I loathe New Year’s Eve.

I know what you are thinking, “it’s because you hate happy people”. And that’s obviously true. I mean, who doesn’t? Alas, that’s not the main reason.

I was once like you. I had hope for the future and something resembling a positive outlook. But then I turned 4 and knocked that off. The simple truth is, New Year’s Eve, or more specifically the festivities that are de rigueur, have nearly always been disastrous for me.

Think I’m kidding?

The best New Year’s Eve I can remember involved tear gas and a near stampede. That’s right. When I think of my best New Year’s Eve experience I think about an evening that ended with my eyes uncontrollably tearing with the air being sucked from my lungs while I tried to run away from a crowded square full of people in Germany. Ah, good times.

(By the way, belated kudos to the person who grabbed me and pulled me into that alley, as I was clueless to what had happened—a million warm and fuzzy thoughts for keeping me from getting trampled. It will make a great ending to the movie of my life if you turn out to be George Clooney, and I just couldn’t make out who you were through the tearing and wheezing).

I can’t even come up with a good second place. Is it the one that occurred two days before the Ex indicated that it was time to think about where our relationship was going (well, sure, because the previous decade obviously hadn’t provided any time for reflection)? Or was it the one when I was 17 and my date got too drunk to drive, but insisted on trying to anyway? I tried to get his keys, and he thought he’d be a smart-ass and dropped his keys down his pants. Naturally, I kneed him in the balls. Amazing how quickly your date sobers up when keys get embedded into his scrotum. Needless to say, my parents picked me up from the party, and “key-balls-boy” and I were not Meant-2-B-4-ever.

Despite this abhorrence of all things festive on Monday night, I am an absolute nut about resolutions. I can’t get enough of them. Just ask my friends—more and more of them have been sucked into my web of insanity. And there is still time to get them finished (yep, I’m looking at you LT). It’s oddly fitting for me. When most people are looking forward to champagne and finery, I’m looking forward to putting together a to do list for the coming year.

For whatever reason, the group of us has had some ripping good success at these things—and they have included some incredibly specific goals, too. For instance, “I want my first SAG job to be as an FBI agent on the series finale of The X-Files” was one of the first ones made in the group. Sure enough… Perhaps it’s something about sharing them with a group that keeps us accountable, or putting it out into the universe has actually been helpful (but let’s face it, I’ve put my prurient George Clooney desires and the “winning the lottery” yearning into the universe to no avail).

Whatever it is, I’m compelled to keep going. After all, that date with George and a publishing deal is clearly only one or two more resolutions away.


Friday, December 07, 2007

Then Again...

Then again…

Morally wrong is less morally wrong at a 30% discount. In fact, it is a direct correlation. The purchase of those boots is 30% less morally wrong—which is practically half. And half is 50/50 on the whole right/wrong scale-- which means half the time it’s totally the right the thing to do.

Justification, kneel to your master.



Monday, December 03, 2007

Bathrobe Guy

Last week’s episode of Samantha Who? was all about going on a date when you have amnesia and can’t relate fun life facts to your date (or any facts, at all). I grabbed a pad of paper and a pen because while I don’t technically have amnesia, I do have dating amnesia—as in, it’s been so long, I don’t remember how to do it.

All I can say is, I hope I have Samantha’s luck.

Not only did she not have to leave her house (Ha!), but her mother set her up with the highly delectable Eddie Cibrian. Sure, that’s the way it works in real life, too. I mean, I can’t tell you how many times people have told me to stay at home and then sent me smart, funny, hot men to entertain me. Finally, I just had to tell them to stop. My social calendar was just too full. You know how it is.

Yeah, my reality seems determined to point me more in the direction of people like “helmet man” and “bathrobe guy”.

Who is “bathrobe guy”?

“Bathrobe guy” is a gentleman I encountered on my way home from work. And when I say encountered, I mean almost killed—a small point, really. Completely his fault—obviously. If you are parked on a narrow street full of traffic, don’t fling your door wide open. And if you do that, don’t keep the door wide open while leaning into the car with your leg sticking out in the air for balance and not expect to get hit.

On the upside, if you do engage in risky parking-in-LA behavior, make sure you do it wearing something unconventional, such as reflective clothing, a feather boa, or, as was the case with this dreamboat, pajamas and a bathrobe.

Did I mention that it was about 3:30 in the afternoon?

Yeah, I don’t know, I tend to get dressed before driving around the neighborhood in the afternoon. Then again, I am really old fashioned—not really a risk taker. I mean, what would I do if my pajamas were out of season. So potentially embarrassing!

My first thought was “close your damn door,” but my next thought was “fabulous hunter green bathrobe”. Honestly, the only thing that kept me from declaring my love for him was his lack of combat helmet.

Perhaps, someday, if I am very lucky. . . .


Monday, November 26, 2007

I Have Found Him

I have found the one, and in true Los Angeles fashion, our eyes met while we were driving. I initially thought I was going to need to curse him. He cut me off, slightly, and it annoyed me. But really, being able to slam on my brakes like that gave me the opportunity to look at him more directly than if our vehicles had just gently glided to a stop.

“But you don’t know him” is what you are thinking, isn’t it?

Oh, but I do. I know that he isn’t bound by convention. I know he has a vast imagination. I know that he isn’t all about flash. And I know that, driving record aside, he values safety beyond all else.

And I know all this because he was wearing a helmet. He was wearing a helmet while driving his Toyota Tercel.

Now you are thinking—“so he just got off of a construction site, and he hadn’t yet taken off his hard hat”.

No, it wasn’t a hard hat. It was a helmet.

Now you are thinking—“maybe he has a seizure disorder, give him a break”.

No, it wasn’t a medical safety helmet, it was helmet.

A combat helmet.

He was wearing a camouflage combat helmet…and not much else.

This guy… this guy has a story.

So, if you are out there dark blue Toyota Tercel driving camo helmet wearing dude—shoot me an email. It is obvious we are meant to be.

Monday, November 19, 2007

The Bucket List

The other day I saw a trailer for the movie “The Bucket List”. It’s a movie about two men (played by Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman) who make a list of all the things they want to do before they kick the bucket—and then they force each other to do them. The trailer got me thinking about what my list would look like.

Naturally, since it was a Saturday night, I had nothing to do, and crawled into bed (it was late—probably 7:30) with my pad of paper and pen. I was determined to create my list. I’m good with lists. I like checking things off. I was comfy. I was ready. Totally ready. Ready, ready, ready to write.

Yeah, I had nothing. I’ve still got nothing. How can there be nothing? The guys in the movie trailer had things like “sky diving” on their lists. I almost wrote down groceries. Well, in all fairness, I did need them.

When I pose myself the question, “what do I want to do before I die, that I haven’t done”, I draw a blank. I suppose I could be crafty, and write down “enjoy turning 150 years old” just to hedge my bets, but it’s probably not in keeping with the spirit of the exercise.

I know what you are all thinking—Clooney! Sure, that would be nice, but if he stays a fantasy, I think I’m fine with that.

Those boots? Those boots are lovely, but it seems sort of, what’s the word…, shallow to not have loftier aspirations.

I have goals for other people. For instance, I’d like my friend Pen to meet Alex O’Loughlin from “Moonlight”. I’d also like more people to watch “Moonlight” so that Pen and Mich don’t have to deal with the woes of cancellation. I’d like more people to understand exactly how serious the situation in Pakistan is before they have to start dealing with phrases like “nuclear fall-out”. Also, I’d like Paul Walker to discover what an amazing person Chloe is and declare his love (You know, for her not for someone else while talking to her. That would just be rude). But these are little things, and not really personal goals. Ok, maybe that Pakistan one.

American Express had a list last year. It was something like “50 Things to Do Before You Die”. Naturally, most of the things were expensive enough to require a credit card. And while some of the things sounded interesting, most of them didn’t actually pique enough curiosity for me to do anything about them.

I’m either completely lacking in imagination (possible), or completely satisfied. Yeah, no, I’m not satisfied at all. So, if I’m not satisfied with my life, why can’t I come up with a list of things that I want to do? How did I go from having goals to only having complaints? At this rate, the first thing on the list will be “figure out what I want”. Of course, if I write that down, the universe (still being male) will take me out right after I finally figure it out.

What’s on your list? Is it cheating if I steal your lists? What is your number one thing to do, that you haven’t done, before you die?


Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Morally Wrong, But…

Obviously, many people mistake me for a top model. Between my near midget size and my penchant for sensible shoes, it really is no wonder. Sure, sometimes it is awkward for me—people stare. I am constantly getting questions like: “are those orthopedic shoes?” or “how did you manage to find a turtleneck in every color?” I have to just take people aside and tell them—“Hey, I’m a person, just like you—just so much more fashionable.”

Yeah. Not so much. In The Devil Wears Prada world, I am the pre-transformation Andi. Anna Wintour would never give me a nod, or even a hint of a smile. Most of the time, I feel good about that. Comfort is my guiding force.

And then I saw these: aka morally wrong.

Much like the Grinch, my small heart grew three sizes that day.

Obviously, there is no good reason to spend $1250 ($1400 if you count shipping) for boots that couldn’t touch rain or snow or pavement or grass or anything but the loving caress of angels.

And yet…oh, the sudden temptation. I’d go from weeble to umm…taller weeble. I have been relatively invisible most of my life. I’m pretty sure it’s impossible to ignore anyone wearing these boots.

But obviously morally wrong… and I don’t have anything to wear with them. Ok, one thing, but other than that these really don’t fit into my current life. Of course, they do fit into my fantasy life rather nicely. The one where my bottom is human sized, and George Clooney drops by with a pizza.

And I’m wearing these boots.

I tried to appeal to my friends—my responsible, reasonable, level-headed friends. Surely, they would present the logical arguments against this kind of frivolous, excessive purchase.

So far, not one of them has landed on the side of “don’t buy them”. In fact, I’m now keeping a record of the most inventive justifications. I think my favorite so far is “Not only would I wear them every day, but I’d wear them to bed”.

I’m opening this up to the blog community. Would you? Wouldn’t you?

Which, of course, I wouldn’t because it’s morally wrong… you know, mostly.

Monday, November 12, 2007

The Off Girl

Obviously, no one is ever going to confuse me with Elsa Maxwell. People don’t leave my home raving about my lavish and animated parties. This is largely because I live in a very small apartment—and I don’t let anyone inside.

However, on very rare occasions, I will venture outside the fortress of solitude and do something that involves socialization. This is particularly true during the holidays when office parties and friend get togethers are more frequent. Like any warrior going into battle, I am girding my loins and preparing to enter the social fray.

In my preparation, which includes watching many episodes of Sex and The City and Samantha Who?, I’ve noticed that there are two extreme types in most social situations: “The Off Girl” and “The On Girl”.

I am clearly “The Off Girl”. My social switch has not been flicked in a very, very long time. There isn’t a ficus I don’t love. My instincts are to hide, even if that means that I have to physically create a barrier with my back to anyone attempting to breach the inner circle. Even though I do acknowledge anyone who does try to talk to me, I’m unlikely to engage on my own. I’m content to chat with my friends—which means that even if I go to a party where I could meet a ton of new people, I tend to stand in the corner and talk to the one other person I already know. Luckily, after watching last week’s Samantha Who?, I’ve got the outward swivel and smile move down (swivel, smile, beckon, repeat; swivel, smile, beckon, repeat; swivel, smile, beckon, repeat). I’m working on actually caring if someone approaches me. I have a feeling that one will take more time than the beckoning hair toss.

Alas, while I think I can adapt and engage with the rest of the average party goers, I’m afraid my opposite makes me want to commit murder. Oh, you’re right, that would require effort. Fine. My opposite makes me want to wall up my apartment door and just commit to never leaving once and for all.

My opposite is “The On Girl”. This girl can actually be a lovely person. She can be smart. She can even be, in the right circumstances, fun. She can also be the most annoying person on the planet. Get one drink in this girl, and everyone around her is suddenly an extra in “The On Girl” Show (swivel, smile, beckon, I will not kill “The On Girl”, I will not kill “The On Girl”). If you are actually talking to a guy (or a girl, or the wall), she will step up and monopolize the conversation. Volume levels are raised. Giggles do not stop. She will yell across a crowded room “Did you say Oklahoma?! OMG. That’s so funny because I went to school in Utah!” She’ll take whatever topic is out there and continue with “I did that too, only when I did it, it was snowing, and I ran in heels, uphill, both ways.” She might as well be tap dancing and singing “Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better” (swivel, smile, beckon, I will not kill “The On Girl”, I will not kill “The On Girl”).

Perhaps I just wish I was more like “The On Girl”. Maybe I just wish my switch would be flicked. I could look upon these situations as valuable learning experiences. Rather than resenting her gift for insinuating herself into every conceivable conversation, I should watch her technique and strap on the tap shoes myself (swivel, smile, beckon).

Ugh. But then I’d just be annoyed with myself, and according to my Entertainment Weekly, self-loathing is so 5 minutes ago. And you know how trend conscious I am.


Saturday, November 10, 2007

A Week (or so) in Review

Clooney v. Fabio
Clearly, I fall on the side (or the front, or the back) of Clooney here. While I’ve read differing accounts of whether or not Clooney actually pushed Fabio, would anyone really be all that bummed out if Clooney had decked him? I mean, who hasn’t thought about decking Fabio at one time or another? Sure, it seems to have started over a misunderstanding, and Clooney appears to have misinterpreted something. Again, don’t care. Plus, it appears to have been a manly response without gun play (rappers take note). Points go to Clooney here regardless of irrelevant things like facts, etc.

State of California v. Wildfires
Happily, we appear to have finally won this round. Thanks to all who inquired, but we got very lucky up here—really just some ash and smoke. It looks like the southern fires are also well in hand. Let’s not do that again, shall we?

Kate v. Possible Oscar Nominations
I’m already woefully behind on seeing movies that might get nominations. Each year friends and I print out the nominations and try to see everything on the lists. And I do mean everything. This generally means that you must pay some attention early in the year just in case something hasn’t been released yet on DVD by the time of the awards.

I’ve seen two movies in the last two weeks, and oddly enough they both featured Amy Ryan. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her before, but now I’ve seen her in two movies in a row, and I understand she is also in Dan in Real Life. Good year for Amy Ryan.

The good news—Gone Baby Gone and Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead are both great movies for the actors. If you primarily go see a movie for performances, these are excellent pictures for you. Both movies present some very interesting moral dilemmas and the concept of “gray area” gets a real workout. The bad news—I’m not a big fan of violence, so I did avert my eyes a couple of times in both, so if you are really squeamish, keep that in mind. Most people probably wont flinch. Also, if the idea of watching Philip Seymour Hoffman in a very naked sex scene makes you uncomfortable, you might also want to avert your eyes from that. But damn, he’s good--- wait, I don’t mean in the sex scene (well, he appears to perform admirably, I suppose), I mean in the movie generally.

I have noticed that pacing in three of the major movies I’ve seen recently was very different from what you’d expect. For instance, in Gone Baby Gone, I actually said to myself “wait, that can’t be it”. And it wasn’t, but it felt like the movie was wrapping up. “Devil” plays with time in terms of how things are presented. Even Michael Clayton (oooh, baby) had weird pacing to it—although the end… wow, the end.

Anyway, I’m losing the battle of the numbers, but winning in that I’m seeing some great performances. But I’ve got to see a comedy soon because none of the ones I’ve seen recently have been all that warm and fuzzy. If only they would make my love life in to a comedy—now that would make you laugh until you cry. ;)

Kate v. Male Population of Los Angeles
Males seem to still be winning this one. Albert Ellis would be so disappointed in me. I was supposed to speak to 50 men—25 per month. It turned out to be far more challenging than originally planned. Apparently, my ability to turn invisible is still as keen as ever. Joy. When men do see me, my attempts at conversation seem to yield nods—not technically responses, so they don’t count. The other day I actually thought I had a live one, until I realized he was actually on his phone’s headset, and his responses were to the person on the other end. Damn Bluetooth.

The rules committee has generously allowed me to the end of this month before drastic measures will be taken. I’ve made it to 25 (and ½). I’m thinking that I might need bait in order to make this happen successfully. I need a vivacious, gorgeous, 20 year old female to reel them in. Of course, since the idea is for me to get a guy to respond to me, that might actually pose a roadblock. They might not be able to talk to me and drool over the bait, what with all their blood rushing southward and all.

Drastic measures involve me pretending to take a survey in the mall just to start conversation. It’s less likely to get me arrested than a bathing suit.

Saturday, November 03, 2007

Ah, Romance

This is the subject of an email that came to me today and is currently in my inbox:

“your new penis is here waiting for you”

I swear to you, if this is from my blind date, I'm out.


Wednesday, October 31, 2007

2nd Post- XFiles Is Official

I'm leaving for Vancouver now. It's a little early, but I need to become an established Canadian resident before I can work on this damn thing. Oh, and the new directions for their relationship better be naked directions, damn it. And I don't mean for Tooms or Pusher.

Happy Dance! Happy Dance!! Oh, and M, we never did get to Vancouver when it was actually shooting up there. I'm just saying... Ok, you need me to spell this out for you? VANCOUVER.

Kate is suddenly bouncy from more than sugar

Fox sets date for 'X-Files' sequel
Scully, Mulder return to theaters on July 25
Daily Variety

The long-awaited second "X-Files" film is finally a go, with 20th Century Fox setting a July 25, 2008 release date.

Untitled project reunites "X-Files" creator Chris Carter with thesps David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson, who will reprise their signature roles as FBI agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully.

Carter begins lensing in December in Vancouver from a script he co-wrote with Frank Spotnitz, a veteran scribe of the long-running "X-Files" television series, which became a worldwide hit in its 1993-2002 run on the Fox network. Spotnitz also co-wrote with Carter the screenplay for 1998 feature "X-Files."

Studio is keeping the film's logline under wraps, but stressed the pic is a stand-alone story and supernatural thriller that takes the complicated relationship between Mulder and Scully in new directions.

As of now, there are only two other titles skedded for July 25, both comedies. Sony unspools Will Ferrell-John C. Reilly starrer "Step Brothers," directed by Adam McKay, while MGM has bows untitled Ice Cube family laffer.

Bringing the "X-Files." sequel to the bigscreen was waylaid when Chris Carter brought a 2005 lawsuit against Fox over how the "X-Files" syndication profits were divvied up. Suit was later settled.

Earlier this year, the issue seemed to have been resolved, with Duchovny and Anderson both indicating the that the film was finally forward.

Released in 1998, feature film "The X-Files" grossed $187 million worldwide, including a domestic haul of $83.9 million and an international cume of more than $103 million.


Welcome to my mid-life crisis. My name is Kate (Hi, Kate!), and I will be your tour guide. I find myself saying “how’d that happen” all the time these days—and I don't just mean when I look at my enormous bottom on the mirror (I know how that happened—get thee back, oh evil Häagen-Dazs. Well, not that far back, that’s just taking me far too literally. Closer. Closer. Closer. Ugh. Damn you!!).

Um, anyway, other popular questions with me these days:

What happened to them? How did I go from having goals to only having complaints?

At what point am I going to discover what it is that I want to be when I grow up? When I was a teenager, I absolutely knew—Laura Holt. I wanted to be Laura Holt. Not a detective, but actually Laura Holt. I had the hats. I had the moxie. Sadly, did not have Remington Steele, but I was sure that one day I would have him or a reasonable facsimile. Yeah, still waiting on that one. At least I still have the hats, right?

Look, I’ve known a lot of wonderful, caring popular ladies. Very popular. Very, very, very, very, very popular, and I have cheered them on. But these days, the overwhelming media perception about sex is that you meet someone and you immediately have sex with them and then maybe you get to know them, maybe not. Anyone see “Big Shots” the other night? The relatively chaste about-to-be-divorced guy (played by the dreamy Michael Vartan) was lamenting the loss of old fashioned girl who waited until the third date (third date? that's his version of old fashioned?) (I think the woman he met at the party had known him all of about 20 minutes before wanting to get on with it). All of his buddies told him that he should revel in the fact that women now have sex like men. Ok. Well, if that’s your thing, congratulations, but behaving like a guy isn’t really a selling point for me. I’ve spent years complaining about the way guys treat women, and now I’m supposed to be psyched that I have the opportunity to return the favor, or that now neither of us will give a shit? This is progress? Eh. Not so much. Oooh—perhaps I have found a career goal after all—nun. Clearly, these are my people.

Something Wicked.
Ever get the feeling that really big change is coming? A couple of times a year, I seem to get this overwhelming feeling that something is coming. I don’t think it’s anything particularly psychic—it’s more likely that my subconscious is picking something up that I’m not ready to deal with in any other way. The change isn’t always bad, either, but it is usually big. And I’ve never been wrong. I’m just hoping that this time it means that George Clooney will be one of my trick or treaters tonight. And if he is, I promise to seriously reconsider my stance on the paragraph above.

Kate, seemingly the last relatively old fashioned, goal-challenged girl in the world

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Reader Mail (NSFW)

I get a ton of email every day. It’s obviously from my dear readers who have taken the time to really reflect on what has been written here over the past year. I’ve touched them. This much is clear. I feel badly that I don’t always respond immediately. Because I was working on a friend’s movie, I have been particularly remiss in not responding to reader mail in a timely fashion. So, in order to apologize properly, I think I should respond to some of it here.

Question 1: Are you good in bed?
Yes. I am very good in bed. For instance, I can sleep on my side or my back with equal comfort. While I am a blanket hog, I don’t need to sleep on any particular side of the bed. Left, right, center—it’s really all the same to me.

Question 2: Do you want a man-sized shaft?
I think the construction of this question leaves me with some scary imagery, actually. Are they literally offering me a 6 foot penis? If they are, I’ll have to politely decline. It would be like the penis that ate New York. So, thank you for the offer, but I’ll save that for some other deserving person. Of course, now I’ll be haunted that an entire city is being terrorized by a gigantic penis.

(How does a gigantic penis move, do you suppose? Does it hop? Well, that makes it much less frightening.)

Question 3: Indian man looking for American wife. Are you her?
It’s not that I doubt the obvious sincerity of this magnanimous proposal, but I’m very quirky. When I finally hear those magical words, I’d prefer it if they didn't start in an email addressed: “To Whom It May Concern”. But that’s just me. Good luck to you in all your future endeavors. P.S. Hit me up again in 6 months, and I might reconsider depending on how my blind date goes.

Question 4: I bet you look like a troll.
Playskool Weeble. Pay attention.

Question 5: We can help you with your ED problems?
Thanks! But I’m happy to report that Ed and I are getting along just fine. Really, he isn’t giving me any hassle at all these days.

Question 6: Why would anyone date someone so obviously bitter?
Please see answers to #1 and #4. How could anyone resist?

Question 7: I am a Nigerian prince. My parents were killed in a bombing, leaving me $25 million dollars that I secretly need to move to the United States. If you confidentially accept this money transfer into your bank account, I will pay you $5 million. Please click this link.
Finally, my prince has come! Let me just find that bank account info….

Yep, as you can see gets a lot of mail. For instance, I had 42 pages of thought provoking mail much along the lines of the above when I finally had a chance to look at it today. Out of curiosity—does spam work? It has to, right, otherwise why would it come in such high volumes? Has anyone ever responded back to them? I don’t mean to actually place an order for Megadik, but just for the heck of it.

I’m thinking about it. Dear Mr. Nigerian Prince…


Monday, October 15, 2007

Oh, Yeah????

Everyone who said I couldn’t meet a man by staying inside my apartment, I’d like you to pay me $10. Please feel free to send it to my email address via paypal.

I came home today to find not one, but two gentlemen inside my apartment. That’s right—they were already here. I didn’t even have to go out and bring them back. They were already here waiting for me.

Sure, that could sound creepy and dangerous—sort of like a home invasion, but they were clearly fans. In fact, I’m pretty sure one of them asked me where he could get one of my lovely products (click here for lovely products).

Fine, they were actually here because the pipe burst, and the management company thought that water flooding the downstairs apartment might be a bad thing. Whatever. I think it’s so obvious that they were fans. They even asked me for an autograph… on their work order, but that’s just because it is all they had on hand. And I totally personalized it with “thanks for all of your support” which will undoubtedly make an impression when they read it J

I don’t want to seem ungrateful in any way for the universe sending me men, but if it could give me some warning next time that would be lovely. You never know when I might have access to the lethal spork/chair combo, and I don’t really love surprises. We narrowly avoided a minor, yet completely defensible, sporking when I walked in the door to hear people in my apartment. Apparently no one saw the “Fortress of Solitude” sticker on the door. But that’s just a minor quibble.

Ooooh, also, with the whole “notice” thing—it would help quell the panic that rises along the lines of “shit, my apartment is a mess; I live alone, no one sees this but me; where did I leave that bra; no really, the jungle in my living room is because of the painting; I’m not really a slob; I swear the walls were painted that way when I got here”.

But other than those infinitesimal issues, I completely appreciate the universe stockpiling men in the hall for me. Nice work.

I have to go clean now. I understand the plasterer could be coming sometime in the next few days to repair the hole in the wall. I need to practice my “oh so casual” twirl into the room in my sweater set, a-line skirt, pumps and pearls so that it looks natural.

What do you mean I’m not Doris Day?


Saturday, October 13, 2007

Bitter Apparel

When 25 year old blond girls with big boobs and pleasant personalities cannot get dates, you know your city has fallen into a yawning relationship chasm—a chasm so dangerously deep that only bitter apparel can save it.

Because you look to me to be your date-less leader, I took it upon myself to provide you with this lifeline of clothing.

Please click here and enjoy:

I’ve already market tested the tote bag on set last week, and it certainly sparked conversation. True to form, all the women who saw it actually came over to tell me how much they agreed with it. Also true to form—the guys asked for an explanation. Literally—“what does that mean?” Not one woman asked me that question. We just know.

In addition to dating horror stories from the ladies, several of the guys offered up helpful tips on dealing with men and what men are looking for. It was actually pretty sweet.

But guys, we know what your problems are and the pitfalls of actually dating a male. We get that. The problem is, all your advice started with “when you are dating a guy”—um, yeah, you are already far ahead of where most of us are. We need the bit that starts with “go here, and you might have a shot at meaningful conversation” or “go here, and you’ll get a shot at some guy giving you a meaningful nod or glance in your direction that will go nowhere but will officially be considered progress”.

Every woman involved in the conversation on Sunday asked the question “but where do you meet people” and every guy in the conversation said “What do you mean? Everywhere. Women are everywhere.”

True. Fabulous, beautiful 21 year old women arrive in Los Angeles every day by bus, plane and train. There is an endless supply of them. And every guy here seems to know this. Why pursue a relationship with an older 30 something when you know that you can have a revolving door of girls, seemingly happy to use and be used? Guys here just need to point—“I want that one”. Ladies, all you have to do is… um…


(Stay tuned for more exciting Kate Dating t-shirt designs)

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Musings on a Ron Herman Dress

While wandering over the ATM to play the lottery (come on big money!), I was momentarily distracted by a number of dresses at the Ron Herman store. In fact, one of them was very much like this one , although there was sort of a ruffle at the bottom.

I now bring to you my musings on this dress.

Right Kate: oooooh, pretty

Left Kate: You are way too old to wear that dress.

Right Kate: oooooh, pretty

Left Kate: Between your breasts and its lack of defined waistline, you’d look pregnant in this dress—pregnant and desperate because you are obviously too old to wear this dress.

Right Kate: oooo—that was mean—pretty. Besides, if I wear it with opaque stockings or leggings, I’d look adorable.

Left Kate: You’d look like 40 year old trying to look like a 16 year old. The mannequin in the display is standing next to school books. That should be a tip right there. If you don’t have the need for an Algebra 2 book, you don’t need this dress.

Right Kate: I’m not 40 yet. Plus, I’m sure I could buy an Algebra 2 book somewhere. Look how flirty, yet studious I would appear!

Left Kate: Just because your ex married a 10 year old, does not mean you should be marketing yourself to the nearest high school football team.

Right Kate: She wasn’t 10—12 maybe, but definitely not 10. You will not distract me. I’d look like Jessica Alba in this dress.

Left Kate: Yes, you would. If she were shorter, fatter and much older. No really, maybe Ron Herman makes a mu mu, or something with a nice cardigan more befitting your style and vintage. Oooh, how about something that covers the ass that ate Manhattan?

Right Kate: It’s not that short. As long as I don’t do anything dangerous in it, I should be fine.

Left Kate: Dangerous as in bending slightly forward? God forbid you try to sit down in that thing. You’d pull a Britney.

Right Kate: No, I wouldn’t. I wear underwear.

Left Kate: Oh, right. You’d be fine then. Have a go.

But seriously—I’m too old, aren’t I? So sad.

Kate, Dating (well, shopping) in LA

Saturday, September 22, 2007

More Stuff on a Saturday

George and that Darn Motorcycle

I’ve told him time and time again to get rid of that motorcycle. Also, I’ve said “don’t pass on the right”. In addition, I’ve said “don’t date other women and take them out on the motorcycle” and “Why don’t we just elope? You could wear that Armani tux, I could wear something flowing that would make me look deceptively tall and then we could just lounge at your villa for the next decade or so”. But would he listen? No. Thankfully, he is alright. I have, of course, magnanimously offered to help in his recovery process. I have been told that I have mad sponge bath skills.

Seriously, I hope he and his friend are ok.

That Rain Thing

Ok, when I said I’d like to see rain here in California, I meant that I’d like a day where I can read curled up with my blankie while listening to the dulcet tones of rain gently pitter pattering off the tin roof above my head. What I did not mean—anything so violent that I am woken up from a sound sleep, heart pounding and grabbing my spork and chair because I think we’re under attack. That is not what I meant. You really do have to be rather specific with the universe, otherwise it takes all sorts of liberties.

I Love Spies

I love spies. James Bond—love him even though he’s often a bit of a whore. Lee Stetson (aka Scarecrow)—love him because even though he wants to be a rogue, he’s really not. Michael Vaughn—love him. Michael Westin—clearly destined for greatness. Now I realize that I’ve just described characters, and that in real life they might not be all manly and manly and manly… but I love them anyway.

Even though all these characters are fine examples of “rugged-but-look-fine-in-a-tux”-ness, I think I love them because they are so darn capable. It is blazingly obvious that I need a capable man. He needs to be able to enjoy a night (or more realistically early afternoon) out watching musical theater, and then he needs to take me home and build me something out of wood. Wait, that sounds wrong… well, not entirely wrong… uh, you get the idea.

LA, Where Dating Comes to Die

Good news! The “LA, Where Dating Comes to Die” line of merchandise should be coming soon. I’m seriously in the process of trademarking and designing. My love life is ridiculous—I should at least profit from its insanity.

Sunday, September 16, 2007

America's Next...

When you think America’s next video vixen, you think “Kate”. I mean that’s just a given. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard—“Kate, why do they even do the search? You are it. You are the vixen-ist”. I agree. I am the vixen-ist.

Shockingly, not everyone agrees with my conclusion.

I was helping out on a casting session today, and I was at a casting complex putting up signs to direct the actors. It turns out that auditions for “America’s Next Video Vixen", or something like that, were going on next door. In order to get everyone in the mood, one of the hip hop stations was spinning some groovy tunes at the entrance.

I, in my most merry way, skipped over to their main room to post a notice that our actors should head next door rather than wander into the wrong room. I opened the door, and I could almost hear the needle scratching across a record somewhere. The entire room turned to look at me—yes, the entire room. And there was an audible sigh of relief when they realized I was just posting up signs.

What? The Laura Ingalls look alike can’t get down? I wasn’t wearing booty shorts, but I had a lovely country floral shirt that could be quite provocative in some countries. And I have been known to bust a funky move in ballet class from time to time.

Sigh. They had the grooviest chic since Marcia Brady in their midst, and they didn’t even know it.


Thursday, September 13, 2007

Observations on a Thursday


My plant committed suicide.

I came home from a particularly irritating day of work to discover that the plant’s leaves/stems/stalks tried to make a run for it. Seriously, they were draped over the pot and over the edge of the counter. So close! If they had only made it all the way down to the floor, I’m sure it would have been out of here.

All I could do is look at it, and say “yeah, I hear you”.


Who are those people in Starbucks all day long? No, I don’t mean the people working the counters (obviously, Taylor, the Latte Boy makes sense), I mean the people hanging out during the week. What do they do for a living, and how can I get that job?

My current dream is to kick back in one of those chairs, or toil relentlessly by one of the window-side tables. I’m not sure what I’m doing in this dream, other than waiting for George Clooney or Rob Marciano to meet me. Perhaps I’m suddenly the world’s next Tolstoy, or the political pundit version of TMZ. Perhaps I’m having a conversation with Reese Witherspoon—who I believe I actually saw today at Starbucks. So many options, and none of them involve returning to my office.


I finally miss rain. It took years and years, but I finally understand the desire to see rain in Los Angeles. Friends of mine would talk about getting all excited at the possibility of rain, and I thought they were nuts. I mean, I’m in Los Angeles, in part, for the lack of weather. But now I get it. The other day it was sort of cloudy, and the weather smelled like rain. Lies. No such thing.

How are we supposed to get the weather hotties out here without some actual weather? Why does Texas get all the fun? I’m sure they feel like they are soggy straight through to their skivvies at this point. I’m betting they would actually like to avoid the random storm that turns to hurricane in under 24 hours.

It comes down to this-- Rob will never be out here in his adorable red slicker and baseball cap without some actual precipitation. And no—I don’t mean snow. I don’t miss snow. Snow is still an abomination.

Burn Notice

I’m watching a Burn Notice marathon right now as I compose fantasy versions of my resignation notice (cattle prod is never hyphenated, right?). I love this show. One of the best summer shows ever, and I’d very much like to continue through the year. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that Jeffrey Donovan gets better looking every episode, or that I have a thing for spies, or that I have an intellectual curiosity about whether or not cake icing can effectively substitute for C-4. Who doesn’t?

Sunday, September 09, 2007

Avenue Q

Who could have been the inspiration for the musical “Avenue Q”?

1. One of the first songs is called “It Sucks to be Me”. One of the lead characters explains that the reason it sucks to be her is that she can’t find/keep a boyfriend. Did I mention that her character’s name is Kate? Yeah. Kate Monster can’t find a man. I hear ya, babe.

2. The main character is searching for a purpose in life, and can’t possibly commit to Kate until he finds and achieves his purpose. Puppet “Princeton” even looked like my ex, minus the glasses.

3. Kate Monster and Princeton have a tragic break-up, and she laments his loss in a song called “There’s a Fine, Fine Line… between love and wasting your time.” Ha! Sing it, sister. Amen. Hallelujah. (please picture me snapping my fingers in a hip kind of way).

So, I’m not saying that someone owes me royalties, but I am curious how I inspired such genius ;)

I’ll admit I was skeptical about seeing this show because it is an adult musical involving puppets. I’m not a big puppet person. I understand I was quite the Sesame Street fan as a child, and I’ve been likened in both looks and temperament to Oscar the Grouch, but since then—not so much. But I was immediately struck by how relatable the show was—you know, since it was basically about my life ;) Oh, except the puppet had more sex. Yeah, that was disturbing. Although the puppet is hotter than I am. So, there’s that.

Google Thoughts

As an aside, anyone out there with a website ever take a look at the search terms people use to land on your pages? I did this for the first time the other day for the blogspot site. Boy, the person who ran the search "my sweaty luv dating 2007" and ended up on this blog was definitely bummed out. Also, “brad pitt capri pants” was pretty interesting, too. Especially since I think if Brad were wearing capri pants, they would technically be called “manpris” pants, but I’m no expert on Brad’s wardrobe. But most of all, I’d like to meet the person who ran the search “sweatbands uncool”. You are so, so right, whoever you are.

Who is still tapping her toes to the now classic showtune “everyone’s a little bit racist”.

Sunday, August 26, 2007

The Elevator Trap

I finally got to 6 ½ conversations—and all I had to do was trap some poor sod in an elevator to get there.

Ok, not really trap… more like confuse. You see, the elevator in my building tends to have its own strong opinions regarding which floor should be yours. So, if you want to get off on the third floor, and the elevator has other thoughts on the matter, you could end up somewhere else altogether.

Actually, it would be rather cool if it also granted wishes—such as opening the door to George Clooney’s floor instead of the laundry. Or opened the door straight into the ice cream shop across the street. Or… yeah, you get the idea.

Naturally, a young man got into the elevator on the first floor. He wanted to go up to one of the upper floors. The Rod Serling elevator decided that he should meet me on the ground floor instead. So, despite the fact that the man started on a higher level and pressed all the correct buttons, he got to enjoy a detour full of witty repartee and charm. In fact, not only did the elevator answer my call first, but it forced him to visit all the floors in between the ground and his destination just for fun.

The conversation wasn’t groundbreaking, but he did note that he appeared to be trapped in the elevator (as opposed to R Kelly’s “Trapped in the Closet”), which gave us minutes of good, clean, wholesome humor before we bid each other adieu.

I’d like to tell you that it was love at first sight (or third floor). I’d like to tell you that, but alas, I really only managed to cut myself on the box of water I was holding.

No worries, it only bled a little… bandages didn’t even soak through…probably no scarring…totally worth needing to get that tetanus shot.



Wednesday, August 22, 2007


It’s not that I’m discouraged in my quest to date, interact, talk or receive acknowledgement from the opposite sex. Ok, it is that. But allow me to spin a tale of how the social scene works for the non-famous in Hollywood.

Man flies into city for business meetings. He gets off the plane, checks into the hotel, and receives phone call from friend of a friend offering to meet him for dinner. Needless to say, love bloomed, violins played and the couple is still going strong. That’s right—the man flew into Los Angeles and within hours had a girlfriend. I don’t mean hook-up. I mean, “wow, I really like her. Maybe I should lavaliere her” (that’s right, a reference to ABC Family Channel’s “Greek” by a woman long out of college—love me).

And why wouldn’t this woman be interested—he’s a man who has a job, who showers regularly and likes girls. That is hitting the Los Angeles dating trifecta.

Basically, in order to find true love in Los Angeles, a man has to cross the border. I bet if I actually went to the border between California and one of its eastern neighbors, I would find long lines of interesting, intelligent, attractive woman waiting for the cars to cross or to tag the planes as they flew overhead.

Now, let’s examine the majority of my female friends in Los Angeles.


Well, there’s…


What about…


Yeah, I’ve got nothing.

Not only can’t I conjure a great “wow, we just clicked” story, the best date story I can think of is one that involved some dude sticking his finger into Veronica’s mouth as they were driving thinking he was pulling some sexy move on her on their second date. Oh, swoon.

I can’t even get an employed, straight, relatively clean male to pay attention when I say hello to him.

At this point, my trifecta would involve the phrase “would you like fries with that” (and the answer is “duh”).

What I need to know is—if a man gets granted a girlfriend along with his rental car keys upon arrival in this fine city, will it work for women in the opposite direction? In other words, if I arrive at Dulles will I have my own person tour guide by the time I get to Dupont circle? And if so, when is the earliest flight to DC I can take?

Again, I’m just saying…


P.S. Seriously thinking about coming out with my own line of “LA is Where Dating Comes to Die” greeting cards.

Sunday, August 19, 2007

Hey, You!

Hey, you! Yeah, you… the guy in the slate blue t-shirt (which admittedly brings out your eyes and makes you look like you work out more than you probably do… because you are probably just blessed with strong capable arms and broad… ok, stop distracting me from my completely justifiable outrage).



When a mature woman says hello to you, it will not kill you to acknowledge her. You know, it’s just polite to acknowledge another human being, and not just because she’s been challenged to talk to strange men and needs to add at least one guy per weekend so that she doesn’t end up looking like a complete social failure. Seriously, it’s not that.

Sure, I’m not the best looking woman you’ve ever seen in your life. I will also grant that I am not the best looking woman you’ve seen today, or … you know, even that hour. But in that millisecond before you glanced to the right of me and saw that really fetching homeless woman, I was looking good.

But, nooooooooo…. you just kept right on walking… leaving me desolate, alone and still stuck at 5 ½ men, ugh!

I have no other choice but to console myself with ice cream and several additional hours of weather channel viewing.



Wednesday, August 15, 2007

Tsunami Advisory

So, I’m sitting here watching weather porn—more commonly referred to as the weather channel, and a blaring warning started scrolling across the bottom of the screen. Apparently, most of the pacific coastline is under a “tsunami advisory” post Peruvian earthquake (if you have loved ones in Peru—hope that they are all ok!).

Now, I’m all for advanced warning, so I immediately called Chloe to tell her that her evening bike ride on the strand might be a bit soggier than anticipated. Logically, she inquired as to what exactly an advisory was.

Yeah, still don’t know. It sounds less dire than a warning or a watch. I understand that warnings are set off by ocean sensors when the ocean levels change. Presumably the levels all change when the actual earth moves, yes? I also understand, largely because of Chad on CNN, that there aren’t very many sensors along the Peruvian coastline, so they might not know until it is in progress that something is headed to them locally.

That’s not so much comforting.

Our advisory came from Hawaii. Hawaii is looking at being double screwed as they are facing a tropical storm from one direction and a potential tsunami from another. Talk about a bad week.

However, after reading Hawaii’s alert, I’m still not certain what this all means. Should we all be engaging in weather porn? Should I head east instead of having a casual sunset viewing party of one? Should I just watch more weather channel and CNN in hope that some of the incredibly hot meteorologists are sent out into the rain, where they will be sporting jaunting baseball caps while watching their clothes get nearly blown from their wet, dripping bodies…muscles rippling…

Wait, what was the question?

Anyway, I just think that a “tsunami advisory” should actually include advice. Otherwise, they should just call it “tsunami casual mention”.


Tuesday, August 07, 2007

Tuesday Thoughts

Tuesday Thoughts

First, the update on “The 50”:

1. Conversations with delectable Duchovny: 0
2. Game over, I have totally won conversations with George Clooney: Shockingly, also 0
3. Meaningful conversations with anyone vaguely interested in me: 0
4. Meaningless attempts at starting human interaction: 2 ½.

That’s right people, after two days, I have had attempted interaction with 2 ½ strangers of the male persuasion. This is significantly harder than I thought. Part of the rules is that the guy responds back, and while meaningful interaction is not required, some sort of acknowledgement is.

You’re curious about the ½, aren’t you? I will assure you, this is not in reference to a half man. In one case, I tried to say to a man, but a truck went past at that exact moment. He either didn’t hear me, or chose to continue walking without acknowledging me (much like the delivery guy who I just encountered in the elevator). I get minor credit for the guy on the street though, because I did make the attempt, but I was interfered with. Those of you who embrace sports the way I do, will understand that if you are interfered with, you actually do get to advance in the game. I also said “hi” and “thank you” to a man who opened the door for me, and he did respond—although he responded to the three of us going through the door, so not a direct hit there, either. Thus, each man counted as a ¼.

And they said there would be no math. ;p

Now, onto my profound thoughts for the day.

Do I do ruffles?

I realize that most of you have never seen me, but just picture someone very short and reminiscent of a weeble (yes, as in “weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down”). I think ruffles may be for perky people. I put on a shirt, which I obviously bought at some point, and noticed the bottom of it had a ruffle. I put a light sweater over it because clearly August calls for sweaters—and perhaps to hide the ruffle. I’m just not sure I’m a ruffle, or at least not anymore. Maybe on talk-like-a-pirate day, I can also wear the ruffled shirt.

But if I rule out ruffle, am I also ruling out pleats? I have pleated skirts, some that are even a little bit on the shorter side. Can a woman careening into the deep end of thirty wade back into the shallows of a kicky pleated skirt? I hope so because at the moment, much like my remote, you’ll have to pry them out of my cold, gnarled hands before I give them up entirely. I refuse to relegate them to the back of my closet, only to emerge on dress-like-Britney-when-she-used-to-have-a-career day.

Yes, that day does exist. Does so.

Interestingly enough, it coincides with leave-job-in-blaze-of-glory day.

One final thought to share, and it has to do with the upcoming television season (also known as Kate’s Nirvana). I’ve seen the pilot for Private Practice by the creators of Grey’s Anatomy. I love GA. I embrace it, warmly, and as often as possible. I’m uncertain about Private Practice. Sure, I’m naturally nervous about spin-offs, although it is seriously time to give Ari (from Entourage) his own show, but I think my reserve comes from part of the premise of the show. Addison’s character leaves Seattle to find a new life in Los Angeles.

I get leaving the ex (or in her case, exes). I even get the finding yourself in Los Angeles thing. But in the promos it sounds like she’s coming to LA to improve her romantic/social life.


LA is where dating comes to die.

I’m just saying.


Sunday, August 05, 2007

A New Plan

In honor of the upcoming anniversary of this blog, I’ve decided to ratchet up the insanity, or totally acceptable behavior depending on your temperament, of course.

My friend PT suggested that in honor of the late psychotherapist, Albert Ellis, that I undertake a new experiment. Apparently, in his youth, Dr. Ellis got over his shyness by approaching, and talking to, 100 women. It’s all part of a more confrontational approach to changing your life.

You can see where this is going, can’t you?

Over the next 2 months, starting on Monday (Aug. 6, 2007), I will make contact with 50 strange men. Ok, not strange as in drooling, preaching that aliens have landed, or ranting at invisible forces (because those things are obviously not strange at all, and yet make for an awkward initial approach), but strange as in unfamiliar to me.

Why only 50 instead of 100? I didn’t know Dr. Ellis, so I’m only bidding half respects to his plan. Plus, 100 men seems excessive and time consuming unless I’m allowed to shout to men in a crowded stadium—and at this point, that approach appears to be disallowed by the ruling committee.

Yes, I’m serious about the rules committee. You see, my friends know me well. My friend DM looked at me when I agreed to this and immediately said “we need to set up rules because I can already see the ‘how do I get out of this’ wheels turning”. She was completely wrong… almost totally wrong… largely incorrect… ahem, moving on.

I give you the “Kate Dating in LA Rules of 50” from here on known as “The 50”.

1. It doesn’t have to be a meaningful conversation, it just has to be an approach. For instance, “what time is it” is a perfectly acceptable encounter, and will count toward my total tally provided the man is a stranger.

2. If I am introduced to a man by a friend, actual conversation must take place. In this case my patented “Hey” is not enough to count. I suggested that “hey, there” with my hair toss and grimace trying to pass itself off as a smile should count because it can be flirty, but I was shot down.

3. Service industry people who are waiting on me do not count. Apparently, it is their job to talk to me, and therefore, I can’t claim credit for telling the waiter or host that I have arrived for lunch. I assume this also rules out pizza boys, cable repairmen, maintenance, etc. Although if you knew how long it took me to call to get something repaired or delivered, you might be more inclined to count the contact.

4. Men who approach me (sheyah, like that ever happens) do not count, unless I throw a hissie fit in front of the rules committee, and then they might reconsider.

5. Conversation with the delectable David Duchovny will count towards 5 men. I have met him on occasion before, so he can’t get me out of the whole experiment, but since I am generally unable to put a sentence together in front of him, actual conversation counts for more than one man. Plus, he’s dreamy and should always count as more than one man ;) On a side note—between Dexter and David’s new show “Californication”, I can finally justify having Showtime. God bless every development executive over there at that fine institution.

6. Meeting George Clooney and engaging in conversation, or whatever else I can engage him in (hee), allows me to pass go and collect $200. Also, I’m pretty sure the rules committee has to give me at least $1000 each if I have a conversation with him. They don’t know this, but as they are probably reading this now, I feel like I’ve given them ample warning :) So, should Mr. Clooney put into place an affirmative action program that requires a quota of conversation with at least one troll-like woman with an absolutely enormous bottom for every 100 supermodels, I can see this being quite successful. Or prison. Prison is also a possibility.

I don’t always have to have someone with me, but PT will be monitoring my progress over lunch. This way, she knows that at least a certain percentage of my claims are valid.

These are the basics. I start tomorrow. If any of these encounters lead to hilarity, or indictment, I’ll be sure to let you know.

0 for 50 and counting.


Sunday, July 29, 2007

Two Men—Continuous Waiting

I have an update and a confusion.

First the update. FFOM reappeared. Fabulous. As you may recall, when last we visited the joy of FFOM, I was enjoying (and by enjoying, I mean screaming in annoyance) official radio silence. He missed the movie screening, despite the fact that he was in the movie and had been looking forward to the event.

Anyway, he reappeared. He emailed me and apologized for missing the event—he was stuck working, and couldn’t escape for the screening (not to mention the 4 hour round trip from San Diego). On the upside, he gave me another email address and asked (more than once over the course of the email) for me to contact him. He even told me that this email address rolled directly to his phone, so it would be easier for him to stay in touch with me.

After careful analysis with friends (hey, I’m a girl, it’s what I do), I decided that my dance card wasn’t all that full, and that I would respond to him. So, I did. I emailed him. I was charming (as charming as I can be), and planted questions so he could feel free to discuss his work, passions, desire for me, etc.


That was three weeks ago. Once again, radio silence. I have no doubt he is really busy with work. I certainly understand that. However, I think I’m going to have to finally write him off. If it is this hard to get his attention now during the potential courting phase, actually dating him would seem to be a tricky prospect.

Now, for the confusion.

I think I was asked out. Sort of. I think. Maybe. Possibly. Oy.

I went to see the improv show of an acquaintance—a very attractive, intelligent and funny acquaintance who also happens to male. I don’t know if he’s single. I think he’s single. I’m sure he’s not married. Ok, I’m not sure of that either, but he doesn’t wear a ring, and he’s never mentioned a wife.

I arrived at the event, and immediately felt completely sick—indicating either a continuing stomach problem (most likely), or nerves that would rattle even the earthquake retrofitted buildings of LA (also entirely possible). I was feeling so bad that I was just about to turn tail and run back to my car, when he saw me. Swell—I was going to have to stick it out.

The show was fun, and he was good in it—and when it was over, I absolutely wanted to get out of there and do the “oh, woe is me” in my apartment. But I forced myself to at least talk to him afterwards. And then it happened. He said “We should go get a drink when I get back into town”. Without thinking about it, I said “Sure!”. We completed some small talk, and then I ran back to my car.

During the run back to the car, all of a sudden I thought—did he just ask me out? And this is what I am posing to you all. Did he just ask me out?

At first I thought it was just one of those things you say to someone who you sort of know, who supports your work. You know—the thing you say to people you haven’t seen in a while, but never really expect to follow through on. But then I asked a guy friend what it meant. He was impressed with the move—gleeful even on the successful employment of a male staple.

O said that the beauty of a comment like that is that it could mean interest, but it doesn’t put anything out there. Improv guy doesn’t have to commit to interest until he finds out if I’m interested. If there is interest, then there is a low pressure exploration of interest, and if there isn’t, he gets a drink with a friend.

And none of this matters all that much because Improv guy doesn’t get back into the country for another couple of weeks, at which point, he’s unlikely to remember the offer anyway.

I hate this. I am in no way cut out for this. It’s already too much work. This is what I need. I need a man to put to parchment his undying appreciation for me (both my intellect and my adorable frumpiness), and then he needs to expressly detail his intentions (which should be mostly pure and involve a sonnet). Of course, he can’t be too genteel, so I’d like him to also express his desire to build something for me out of wood after saving the world on his next secret mission.

No, I don’t think I’m asking too much. It’s nothing more than I am willing to do myself :)


Saturday, July 21, 2007

Love Those Rules!

While reading this blog, I discovered the shoes. I won’t lie. I don’t understand these shoes. I don’t know how I’d get into these shoes. I don’t know how I would walk in these shoes. And I am absolutely sure that I have nothing that would go with these shoes.

But I want these shoes.

Why? You are screaming right now that there is a reason this blogger has chosen to point out the fugly bedazzled gladiator wedges.

I understand this. I do. And even though I have a zero on the world’s scale of fashion sense, I get that these would not be a good look for me—although it might make me close to human size while standing on them, so they might be worth consideration just for that.

No, I’m not proclaiming the beauty of these shoes. I am, however, proclaiming the insanity that these shoes would evoke at work.

I work in a fairly conservative environment, and I am doing battle against the evil forces of the dress code gods. It’s not that I always lose these battles, but well… ok, I do always lose these battles. And I’m not a fashion person, but the specific rules are silly. I get that we can’t wear shorts to work. I get that we can’t wear formal/suit shorts to work. I get that we can’t wear tight knee length pants to work. I get that I can’t wear a track suit. But the Capri pants rule made me cranky.

At first it was no Capri pants—every store had them out here, but we weren’t allowed to wear them. The staff got nowhere, but some of the lawyers managed to make headway. Except now there is a length rule. Seriously. Someone had the time to ponder the appropriate length of the Capri pants. One inch above the ankle apparently means business. An inch and a half above the ankle is a scandal. I am not kidding. I got called out for a pair of Ann Taylor (you know how daring those clothes are) Capri pants because they were nearly an inch and a half above my ankle. When I’m feeling particularly persnickety, I wear them anyway. It’s like my little dare—my little attempt at rebellion.

That’s right—this is an example of my rebellion. Some people drink heavily, do drugs, do boys 20 years younger—I wear Capri pants that are an inch and half above my ankle.

Not surprisingly, there are also shoe rules. Although when first announced, I do believe the shoe rules could only be accurately interpreted by NASA scientists. There were rules about wedges, to cork or not to cork, and something diabolical involving an open toe meaning no open back, and vice versa.

People, I leave for work at around 6:15 to 6:30am. I’m lucky if my clothes don’t clash and are on right-side-out. If I have make-up on, it is a banner day. If jewelry becomes involved it should be noted on a national level—some sort of holiday or celebration involving fireworks would be most appropriate. I do not have time (nor the wits) to examine my shoes to make sure they don’t violate any of the 3,000 shoe rules on the dress code.

This brings us back to those shoes. While obviously inappropriate for all things relating to my office, they do not technically violate any written rules—good taste, perhaps, but no written rules. HA! I need to find these shoes.

Also not in the written rules—tutus. They say nothing about wearing ballet tutus to work. You know I’m done with the place the day I show up in those shoes, and pink tulle.

But for the moment, I jest. I love these rules that were clearly defined by people far smarter than I. Please don’t fire me.


Thursday, July 19, 2007

Some Fantasy

Look… I’m a single woman… very single… for a long, long, long (seemingly interminable) time. So, it’s only reasonable that occasionally a fantasy might creep into sleepy time.

Mine last night featured Brad Pitt and George Clooney. Nice.

It started like many probably do for the thousands of women who have dreamed of these two, and other men. They noticed me. I noticed them. They leave all the really famous and important people around them to come talk to me about the book I’m reading.

Yep, even in the fantasy, I’m sitting in a corner reading a book while everyone else on the planet (or at least the fantasy) is at a party.

They are dressed well, and looking good. They make their approach. Obviously, I only have eyes for George, so it’s possible that’s how I missed that in the fantasy, Brad Pitt was suddenly shorter than I am. And I’m short. Picture the shortest person you know and make them lumpy. That’s me.

So, normally attractive, fit, nearly 6 feet tall Brad has been reduced to mini-Brad. I’ve stood up to talk to him, and I actually have to look down. In fact, it seems like Brad continues to shrink throughout the conversation. But when he walks away, he’s full grown Brad size, again. Hmmmm

No matter. George is now making his approach. Everyone else is casual in the dream, but George is wearing a tux. Well, sure. I’m willing to bet that even as he’s lounging around the house he’s wearing a tux and mixing martinis. Plus, his tux explains why I am now wearing something akin to 1950’s semi-formal wear and white gloves.

And it’s magical. Sort of. I’m definitely talking to him, and he seems to be laughing with me instead of at me. But I keep sniffling. As in every time I say something to him, I’m sniffling. I mean, I’m sniffling to the point that when he introduces me to his friend he asks “have you met the sniffling girl?”

And that was it. That was the extent of the big fantasy. I had him. I had his attention, and my wildest imagination worked up that I had hayfever.



Wednesday, July 04, 2007

Strike 2

Strike 2

Strike 2 in my newly reinvigorated quest for a date in Los Angeles (or is this strike 2340? I’m losing track) came at a charity event. Apparently, Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson have cursed my luck at their baseball field. It’s incredibly disappointing because I really like them ;)

Ok, technically, they had nothing to do with it, but their baseball field did play a key role.

My friend K sent around a notice at the office saying that she was playing in a charity baseball game, and she was looking for sponsors. It’s this great charity that combines at risk kids with animals that have been rescued and need training. I decided this would be an excellent event to casually meet people, and learn more about the charity. Plus, I could torment K later if she was anywhere as bad at baseball as she claimed (she was not).

Now, you have to remember—I don’t like people, so this was a big move for me. I was willingly setting myself up for a social situation where I would know only one person. I would have to socialize, and I would have to be pleasant. Some days, this is asking a lot of me. Luckily I was feeling gamey on Saturday (as opposed to smelling gamey, which I understand is a bad thing).

As I arrived at the Tom Hanks/Rita Wilson baseball diamond, I almost made a slightly bigger entrance than originally planned. I walked up the stairs and directly into the outfield. For those of you who are not baseball fans, this is a bad thing and can involve balls flying at your head (and no, not in a good way). Luckily, I was able to duck back down the stairs and find another way up to the game before accidentally becoming a player for the wrong team.

Another benefit of a charity baseball game—lots of charitable men. You know the charmers there like animals, are pro-charity, and are at least semi-athletic. Sweet! Shortly after finding K and actually talking to the people sitting around us (I know, shocking!), I thought I spotted a gentleman I knew. Wrong. Didn’t know him, but I decided that I absolutely would like to.

So, game was seriously on. I was ready. I was prepared to be engaging, plus I was wearing a tank top. I figured if I couldn’t appeal to his sense of humor, at least I could appeal to his sense of cleavage. You have to understand—I wasn’t looking for much. All I wanted was some acknowledgement from a male that I was female, and not a horrible alternative to life he was currently leading. And if that didn’t happen, I was also willing to accept a smile, or even a polite nod in my direction.

Midway through the game, I found out the charmer was also employed. By the way he kept checking his blackberry when he came off the field, I narrowed him down to lawyer, agent, manager or studio exec. He was also one of the better players, and looking even more enticing when he began to sweat.

I smiled in his direction. He went up to bat and hit a double. I’d like to think he did it for me, but… yeah, no, I’d still like to think he did it for me. This continued throughout the game, and I managed to quiz K for all the info she knew. Ok, that was actually nothing, but she did observe that he was good friends with the guy who runs the charity. Excellent. At least there would be a source of intel.

The game ended, Charmer and K’s team won, and there was joy in mudville. Despite my ban on all eating in public, I agreed with K that joining the teams and supporters at the post-game luncheon would be a fabulous idea. We decided to walk slowly up to the buffet so that we could casually stroll up with Charmer.

But Charmer wasn’t coming with us. He was now calling into the office, and looking disturbingly like he had to go into work. Not to worry—K and I would figure out a way to talk to him. Any minute, we were going to work it out. Any… yep, any time… uh…

K and I officially had no game. Zero. Two adult females reduced to 12 year olds chatting in a corner hopping that the cute boy talks to us on his own—that was us. I blame T—she’s the one with game, and she had chosen that moment to go to the bathroom.

We lost him. He said his goodbyes and left. As he was walking away, T rejoined us, and she instantly had about 15 really good openings for me. Swell, only 2 minutes too late. But we had one more shot—the guy who runs the charity. K decided that intel gathering would be her way of making up for her lack of play.

Well, I was right, he was a lawyer. He was virtually age appropriate. He was also recently reconciled with his wife (which explains the lack of ring, I suppose), and not even a remote possibility for me.

Swing and a miss, again.

Kate, who did manage to score a sunburn, in LA

Friday, June 29, 2007


After I returned to Los Angeles, I had about 3 days to get ready for the small screening and reception that I was helping to plan. I thought that this was the best possible time to try out my new found “will date” energy. I was determined to hit the ground running. As it turned out, the ground did most of the hitting.

The plan was sound. Since I was allowed to invite people, and I knew the standing invite list, I could stack the deck in my favor. I thought there were two gentleman callers of real possibility, with a third being potentially troublesome, but worth considering.

That’s three men—all seemingly single, invited to the same event, who know me (at least a little bit), who seem pleasant. Game was on!

The first responded to the invitation, and was bringing a date. Ok, fine. I eliminated him from the potential dating pool. He was probably too young for me, anyway. Also, he was probably too good looking for me. It’s not that I don’t like great looking guys—it’s just that they don’t often look in my direction when there are hordes of 23 year old models here in LA as alternate choices.

The second responded to me, but brought a buddy. Hard to work the party, work the flirt and focus the flirt in a non-obvious way around the buddy. Plus, I was sort of banned from dating him by a mutual friend a while ago, so maybe it was for the best.

The third—here would be gold. I was sure of it. Remember this guy: ?

Fine Figure of Man was on the invite list. We’ve chatted over email periodically. He flirted a little. I flirted lamely. But still, there was some flirt precedence. When I had emailed him a month earlier, he was excited at the prospect of the screening—not a surprise, he is in the movie.

I didn’t want to leave anything to chance, though. So, when I got back into town, I emailed him just to express my pleasure that his screen debut was soon to arrive.


I monitored the invitation RSVP list.


I went back to myspace, and his last log in date was actually a couple of days before I got back to LA. Hmmmmm.

Still, not to be deterred, I figured that he would just appear at the screening, and I added him to the list as a precaution. I mean, I couldn’t have him turned away on a “not on the list” technicality. Sure, the people working the door would recognize him from the film, but I was taking no chances.

And apparently, I was taking no offers for dates either because he didn’t come. He never responded to the earlier myspace missive. Official radio silence.

There are clearly a million reasons why he didn’t come up for the screening—many, many reasons, and at least two or three that would be good enough for me. But the question now stands—do I continue to casually contact him anyway? For instance, some sort of gentle and charming inquiry such as “Where the hell were you?”

Not that I want to seem clingy, critical and demanding right away—I like to save that for the actual relationship.

What say you?

Kate’s love score: 0 for 3

Kate, feeling mildly stood up, in LA

Friday, June 22, 2007

Part 2: The Weekend

Two days before I was supposed to leave town his name showed up on the reservation list. What had been an overwhelming feeling was 100% confirmed. And I was calm. Ready. And in many ways looking forward to spending time with him, as well as our other friends, in a place where time really has stood still.

Alas, the lives of its graduates have not stood still, and suddenly I was struck with the thought—what if he isn’t alone? I mean, it isn’t unreasonable that he would want to bring his “very nearly wife” to campus with him. Sure, she’d been there before, and their wedding was coming up, but still… I was ready to say goodbye. I was ready to accept all the changes. I was ready to move to friend mode.

However, I was not ready to spend the weekend with his almost wife. I was really not ready to spend the weekend in the room next to him and his almost wife. Because you know that’s how it would work. I had just figured out that the classes closest to each other would be staying in the same building. Which meant that in an act of malfeasance, the universe would have been tapping its fingers together and saying “ah, yes, I know exactly how this should go…”

Needless to say, I sent a very quick note off to a mutual friend to find out. His reply was “he hasn’t mentioned it” and then “he doesn’t know if she’s coming”. He doesn’t know? He doesn’t know? How do you not know these things? Thankfully, our delightful mutual friend offered to change rooms with me if the worst happened.

It didn’t. He came alone.

I had been on campus for about 45 minutes, when I headed back to a lounge to wait for our mutual friend, O, to arrive. I had no idea when The Ex was getting into town, but since he typically arrived everywhere at the last minute when we were dating, I figured I had at least the evening and part of the next day.

I was wrong.

I was sitting there, and I noticed someone come through the first set of doors. I didn’t see his face. But I knew. Something about the way this man moved—his stride, demeanor, something immediately struck awareness in me. I was frozen.

And there he was.

He kept walking toward the elevators, but said hello to me in passing, as any polite individual would. I sort of laughed and said “Hi” (bringing out my big linguistic guns for this one). And then, there we were. Realizing it was me, he dropped his bags, came down into the lounge and then the music swelled. We pledged our undying love and eloped.

Yeah, nice try. In the movie of my life, that will be my choice. The reality, while not cinematic, was still something I’ll replay in moments of weakness, I’m sure. It was a hug—a totally enveloping, pick me off the floor, still feel it in the morning, hug. The Ex is almost a foot taller than I am, and while the man may have his faults, he knows how to hug.

The next sentence out of my mouth wasn’t a declaration of love, or a jump into nostalgia. It was “so, I guess this answers the question of whether or not you’re coming”. It was met with humor, and a good dose of confusion as he did not realize his presence had ever been up for debate, or a subject of concern. He was, after all, off living his life while internal drama had settled in on the west coast. Apparently, he hadn’t picked up those mind reading skills that I often wished he had when we were together.

For the next three days, The Ex, O, other friends and I played. We reminisced, and enjoyed the days like real life, work, rent and aged ovaries held no concern. At one point, before the big gala, O asked me if I was going to try to talk The Ex out of his impending marriage. The answer was no. Nor was there ever a hint of impropriety.

How about awkwardness, you ask?

Yeah. There were a couple moments of that. We didn’t discuss his almost wife for the first day, or so. I could tell that he was trying to keep that low key, presumably out of deference to my feelings. I avoided it because… well, because that’s what I do. You should probably know that he and I had never discussed her. No back and forth—ever. Contact that I’ve had with him by email over the last year has been friendly, but solely focused on his career, mine, etc.

Finally, I decided that not talking about it was getting a bit silly, and it was time for me to stop flinching. So, as we were walking ahead of the group, I said to him “I’ve been avoiding the subject because I hate the idea of you marrying someone else, but tell me about her”. And with a nod of acknowledgement, he did.

And I lived.

To be honest, I do hope he’s happy, and I hope that she is amazing. I’d be hurt if this was just a timing thing. I want her to be the best thing that is ever happened to him.

So, the weekend went on. I was never back in my room before 2 am—shocking given my penchant for being tucked in by 9pm at the latest. It was fun, and for the most part, I just let the rest go.

Memorable moments?

The weekend was full of new experiences with old friends, and lots of plans, mostly professional ones, for the future. But there was one story told by a new friend, that I have to share.

This girl, who I had never met, knew O and had met The Ex, years ago (probably 5-6 years into our relationship). I have no idea where I was, probably working, but the three of them had gone with some other friends to a baseball game. When O introduced us, she said—“wait, you’re The Ex’s Kate”? At which point, all the people there who knew him, and didn’t know that he and I had dated, figured it out fairly quickly. The girl explained that she didn’t know me, barely knew him, but by the end of the game, she knew all about The Ex’s Kate. She knew I was a dancer. She knew where I had worked. She knew what I hoped to do. She knew everything about me. And she said she was thrilled to finally put a face to a name.

I didn’t really say much, other than that was really sweet to hear. But inside, there was part of my brain that kicked in and started nudging me. I’m not sure why, but I think I had convinced myself that the relationship hadn’t meant all that much to him. I mean, he was the one who finally decided to end it. Part of my brain found it easier to accept that it hadn’t mattered rather than accept that he loved me, but didn’t think it could work. So, to realize that he had been proud enough of the relationship to talk someone’s ear off about it was a bit of surprise. I think at this point, something in me started to shift.

Of course, he is still a guy, so he nearly needed to be smacked regardless of all of his exemplary work to that point. Why do boys speak? Seriously. I can’t tell you how many times over the years when things were going along smoothly only to be derailed because he spoke.

We were walking over to a picnic (O, The Ex and I) when The Ex started telling a story involving me and some campus fun many moons ago. Just as hilarity was about to ensue, he accidentally inserted the name of his almost wife into the story instead of mine. That’s right, ladies, he called me by her name. And he didn’t notice. He just kept talking. Meanwhile, I literally gasped and put my hand over my mouth to physically stop myself from vocalizing my…um…surprise. And O looked over at me immediately to see if he had heard correctly. Actually, he had that look on his face that said – If I weren’t a white, late 30 something, straight male, I’d be yelling “Oh, no, he din’t” and snapping my fingers right now.

Naturally, I demurely refrained from interrupting the story so as not to embarrass him.

Yeah, right! In my new role of friend, rather than supportive girlfriend, I so called him on it! And he was suitably mortified and apologetic. Ha! You better be buddy, if you ….

This one slightly dicey moment aside (thank goodness I was wearing my “so dealing with it” lipstick), I loved the weekend. I saw old friends. I made new contacts, and I played, which I do so little of in my day to day life. But more than that, I got something that I somehow knew I needed—more time. I had the chance to spend three and a half more days with someone I love. I was granted days of hugs, stories and friendship, and I was granted a measure of peace. I realized after days of really listening to him that he wasn’t just important to me, but that I had been important to him.

I’m not saying there weren’t some tears when we said goodbye. But we said the things that needed to be said.

And I let him go.

Thursday, June 21, 2007

Part 1: The Decision

Wow. It has been a while. Where the hell have I been? Little Miss Anti-social had a packed calendar all of a sudden. While it did not include George Clooney (woe is me), it did include party planning, visiting family, shopping, spending every waking moment for 3 days with The Ex, a movie screening and the discovery of a fabulous new nail polish.

Whew! Busy times. So, what do you want to know about? LOL! Yeah, I know. I know. The nail polish. Ok, it is a barely there pink called “Jane”. I rarely go girlie, but it goes with almost everything.

Are those cyber-darts you are lobbing at me like mini-grenades? ;)

Remember this post ( I made months ago? It was a passing thought that for no reason that made sense to me at the time, wouldn’t leave me alone. The “what if” just kept swirling around me—coming over me at the strangest times. It was as though storm clouds were heading my way and the wind was whispering “something wicked this way comes”.

You see even though I didn’t know I’d see him, a part of me did know. In fact, apparently, a part of me knew back in October. My friend B said, in reference to the drama with The Ex: “Well, at least the drama is over—you wont ever see him again”. My response? “It’s not over”.

Sometimes you just know.

We are on opposite sides of the country. We have no mutual friends in each other’s respective states. Most of our mutual friends are already married. And I was certainly not getting an invitation to his nuptials (which are Saturday, for those of you playing along at home).

I just knew.

I can see the Greek Chorus swaying in the background shouting “why didn’t you just run?”

I tried not to go. No really, an actual try. Not a half-hearted, kind of “no, I shouldn’t” while giggling and madly packing. I even made plane reservations that would have made it impossible to attend. I was so stressed beforehand that I was practically sick. So when I made those reservations, I waited for the relief of a decision well made.

It didn’t come. Somehow the body knew that what was logical, mature and responsible was also the wrong decision.

Still struggling with my pent up lack of relief, I had a conversation with my friend Chloe, who is entirely to blame for all of this… oh yes, she is! She had the audacity to ask me the following questions: “Are you going to regret not going? Are you just going to spend the next year obsessing over what might have been, or what you missed?”

Sigh. This is why you should never be friends with people who know you well. Seriously, once someone knows you really well, you should ship them off to Iceland with no internet or phone access.

I made one last valiant attempt. I left it up to the universe. I’d like to point out that I do not believe that the universe has a plan for my love life, only a sense of humor bordering on malevolence. We flipped a coin. It did not land on the side of running away. Somehow, even the freakin coin knew. I suggested 2 out of 3, Chloe pointed out that the universe had already answered, and my additional frantic flipping wouldn’t count.

Five minutes later I changed all of my plane reservations. I wrote to my friends again and told them I was coming to the event after all. Then I waited for the panic to settle over me. It didn’t come.

None of my normal reactions kicked in. No frantic shopping sprees followed the decision. No binge dieting for an event that was just a week or so down the line. No emergency plastic surgery, honey blond hair extensions, or teeth whitening.

I was just calm. I knew that even though his name wasn’t on the RSVP list the week of the event, and we hadn’t spoken, that he would be there. I was as calm as I have ever been before getting on a plane – because I knew I would finally get a real chance to say goodbye.

(coming next: the good, the new and the “he said what?”)

Monday, May 28, 2007

Another Sign

Does anyone else here keep getting “freeze your eggs before it’s too late, which it practically is already, God, you’re old, seriously, time is not only ticking, but you’ve basically expired, your womb is heading toward arid and abandoned, I mean we’re talking about the Sahara down there” brochures in the mail?

Just me?

I swear, I get one of these brochures about once every month, or two, now. It always features an adorable baby and an older woman (which means the model is probably 22) looking happy and playful. You know there is some sort of virile, delighted male presence standing off in the shadows. Not doing any work, of course, but he’s lurking somewhere pretending to be helpful.

Here’s the funny thing—the fine print has an age limit remarkably close to my own age. In fact, I’ve already passed the optimal freezing age. So, this groundbreaking technology is almost as beyond me as the low tech options.


I never really thought about having kids. It was never a generic goal. When I was with The Ex, I thought about us as parents. When that ended, I didn’t think about it anymore.
It’s not upsetting exactly. It’s more like disconcerting. I just assumed that ultimately it would be my choice. Looks like life may end up making that choice for me instead.

The next brochure will probably be specifically for me—as in the type on the front will actually say “Kate, Congratulations on killing your prime reproductive years on Prince Waste-Your-Time and then compounding it by mourning his loss for years and choosing to spend next weekend with him and your mutual friends in the place where you met. For the low, low price of…”

Yeah. Got to love the junk mail that makes you question all of your life’s choices.


P.S. If you are thinking what I think you are thinking—I know, and it is Chloe’s fault.