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.